CHAPTER THIRTY TWO.

AN INTEREST IN LIFE.

When the tableaux at Beechgrove were over, and the girls came back to Restharrow, Amethyst, felt as if she had had enough of the Jacksons for the present. She gave herself no airs, but, fresh and unworn as were her impulses for work or study, the beauty of the season had learned to expect more from society than very amateurish acting, and boy and girl dancing and flirting of the simplest kind. She was not vain enough to enjoy indiscriminate admiration, and indeed, took it as a matter of course. She found a letter from her mother, summoning herself and Una to join her in a few days' time, to start immediately for the south of France. Lady Haredale was delighted to think that her dear girls had been having a good time. Mrs Lorrimore was the kindest of women. If Amethyst had not quite enough money for the journey to London, she had better ask her hostess to advance it. Lady Haredale was in a hurry to catch the post.

Amethyst tossed the letter into a drawer, and gave a vicious stamp with the white slippers which she had just put on, and then ran hastily down-stairs to dinner. The hall at Restharrow was the gathering-place of the company, and as Amethyst came down the stairs dressed all in white, she saw, among the guests gathered picturesquely round the fire, the slight alert figure and peculiar face of Oliver Carisbrooke. He came right up to the foot of the staircase to meet her, and greeted her with marked and eager interest.

"I am not disappointed; you are here still?" he said. "Oh, but it is good to see you."

Amethyst hardly knew how to answer. He claimed her and appropriated her, standing by her side until he was told to take her in to dinner, and then setting himself at once to talk to her in tones meant for her ear only.

"So you are here," he said; "and is it well? Have you regrets?"

"Not for London," said Amethyst, surprised at his manner.

"No," he said, "you were not born to live in a gilded cage. You couldn't have endured it long. Oh, do you know how I watched you? I did not mean to let you marry Grattan. I would have stopped you--before it was too late."

"I don't see how you could have anything to do with it, Mr Carisbrooke."

"You are angry? I am making you angry on purpose. Every word I say to you is for an end of my own. Then there was your boy lover. I was afraid of him till I saw him with you. Then I had no fears at all. But I couldn't stand the thought that you might be still bound in heart to a fellow who had had scruples about you, who cared one iota to know what you had _done_--when he knew _you_. Then there was the young poet. Of course he was in love with you, but there wasn't stuff enough in dream-love for you. I weighed them all in the balance. For you see, _I_ know you."

"Hardly well enough to say so much," said Amethyst; but he struck in--

"Ah, wait, you will not be angry with me soon. But it's time all that was over. Now we have met again, mayn't we have one of our old discussions about the value of life, and the good things of life? What is the next thing for you now? Are you going to learn Greek, or hospital nursing, or what?"

"I shall learn Greek," said Amethyst. "I mean to use my brains."

"And when the Greek is learnt?"

"Then I'll teach it."

He smiled, and suddenly changing the conversation entirely, began to talk about a new play.

Amethyst felt a little angry with him, but she was no longer dull, and she wondered much what he would do next.

Restharrow was a house where every one did as they liked, and, in the evening, the large party scattered about among the different rooms. Mr Carisbrooke came up to Amethyst, and said, "Come with me;" and, quite careless as to whether they were noticed or not, he led the way into a little morning-room and shut the door.

Amethyst felt bewildered. The room was full of firelight and red-shaded lamp-light, and Oliver Carisbrooke stood in the warm glow with his deep-set, peculiar eyes fixed full upon her.

"Amethyst," he said, "commonplace and conventional doings are not for you. I am playing a bold game, and I think--I think--I shall win it. I'm not going to pretend that I am what you call a good man, there are plenty to tell you the contrary; but I am going to tell you that, after all I have known and done, I love you passionately. Even you cannot give me a first love. What do I care? You shall love me now. I defy any one to say that I have let trifles stop me when my heart is set on a purpose. Are you thinking of your half-sister? She was too weak a creature to venture anything for my sake. But after I saw _you_, I said, Here is my fate. So I managed for my niece to join you, and I set to work on a plan. I caught your attention with talk that surprised you. No other man ever dreamed of such love for you. I soon saw that there was no chance, but by one bold stroke to tell you so. You can understand me. You know that we can give each other _life_."

"I--I don't think I am in love with you," stammered Amethyst in a broken, childish voice, and with eyes fixed, as if fascinated, on his face.

"No, darling, but you shall be. Besides, you have not yet heard what I ask of you. I don't imagine that your father would let you marry me now. I tell you plainly, I cannot marry--in a short time I shall have the means to do so. You know I have been abroad settling my affairs, and when I got back I was resolved that I would not wait a moment before letting you know that all there is of me is yours. Others may shrink from your father and brother's reputation. I care for it so little that I am not afraid to allude to it in your presence. Tell me that I don't love you in vain, tell me--Ah, you think I am mad, that I am too bold. Is that possible?"

"I cannot--answer--in a minute," said Amethyst. "I never thought you were more than a friend."

"But I was a friend?" he said, taking her hand and coming closer. "And I want to teach you what a friend can be. You need not promise, there is nothing to tell the world about at present. But we will be friends; we understand each other, we can talk and write--as friends. You can throw me over if you like, by and by. But I have laid my heart open to you, and I think--I think you have felt that the world is a dull place with no love in it."

"Oh, it is!" burst from Amethyst's lips. "My life is very dreary."

"_Your_ life dreary. Never any more, my darling; we will make each other's happiness now."

"Amethyst!"

The door was pushed open, and Una came quickly into the room. She went right up to her sister, and stood by her side.

"I had lost you," she said anxiously.

Amethyst caught hold of her hand, while Mr Carisbrooke turned upon her with a sort of fury.

"Your sister is with _me_," he said.

"Mr Carisbrooke," said Amethyst, "I cannot say a word now. You cannot take me prisoner all in a minute;" and, still holding Una's hand, she darted back to the protection of the rest of the company.

"He is a bad man, Amethyst," said Una passionately, when they were up-stairs alone. "He led Blanche, heaven knows where; and he sacrificed Carrie to Charles to get near to you. And you _know_ the tales we heard of him were true."

"Yes, he says so," said Amethyst.

"You don't love him? You don't want to marry him? You have never thought of him all this time?"

But Amethyst tossed about all night in restless excitement. Love, in a complex nature, is a complex thing, and though she was not quite in love with Oliver Carisbrooke, he had truly said that he could teach her to be so. She was fascinated by him, and, when she remembered how nearly she had sacrificed her life to worldly ambition, it is impossible to exaggerate the attraction which this heat of daring passion, this indifference to consequences, had for her.

Once again a strong appeal had been made to her to change her course of life. Sylvester had appealed to her sense of right, in utter self-forgetfulness, and had won the day. He had given her conscience strength. She heard his voice now--"I would rather see you die than do it."

This man appealed to sensation, emotion, passion, to every force within her that makes life or mars it, to that intensifying of the feelings which she had hoped Lucian might bring back to her, and which the sight of him had left cold and dead. But did she respond to the appeal? What was the feeling that drew her to him, that made her long to grant at least "the friendship" he asked for?

Suddenly back into her mind there came a day at Cleverley, and a speech of her mother's, the full meaning of which she did not then understand. Lady Haredale was reading a letter from Tony.

"You know, darling," she had said in her sweet voice, "he is devoted to me, poor fellow; and it does give an interest in life to feel one's self so necessary. It's quite a woman's vocation."

"It's the same thing," cried Amethyst to herself, starting up in bed. "_I_ want an interest in life! _I_ am like _her_!" and she shuddered from head to foot. Poor child, who feared to be like her mother!

Her clear brain came to her aid once more. It was no true love with which Oliver Carisbrooke inspired her. She wanted an interest in life, and it was in her nature to find it as her mother--and her sister--had done before her. She was clever enough to know it, noble enough to despise herself for it; but she was Lady Haredale's daughter, and she felt it. Would she have strength to resist it?

"Well," she thought, "I _had_ better die than do it."

When Una came in the next morning, full of misgivings, Amethyst was up and dressed, and held a note in her hand. The window was flung open, and the fresh cold air was blowing in. She was pale, as if she had cried all night. She showed Una the note.

"No--_never_.

"Amethyst Haredale."

"Now, give that to the servant for him," she said, "and never, never speak to me about it again. I fight awfully hard. Some day I shall be beaten."

Amethyst had no rejoicing sense of freedom in escaping from this second snare. The straight path was cold and dull, and there were pitfalls on either side. To avoid being like Lady Haredale was not quite what Mr Riddell had meant by a "great inspiration." She did not feel in the least the better for the victory she had won.

She sat down and put up her hands over her tired eyes, on which Oliver Carisbrooke's passionate face had seemed to print itself. She was too tired to think; but his words echoed in her ears--

"The young poet's was only a dream-love, not substantial enough for you."

Amethyst dropped her hands and started up.

"Oh, I am sick of lovers," she said angrily. "None of them are any good."

The sun broke out through the mist of the autumn morning, the bells from the church in the village rang a merry chime through the open window. Amethyst turned her back on the smiling prospect. The morning bells had no message of hope for her.