And the estate.  As in a map, he saw its green spreading acres, its multitude of farms, its possessions of all kind, spoilt and neglected by one man’s caprice, but easily to be restored by the prudent care of his successor.  He realized himself in the future as its owner; the inevitable place that it would give him in the political and social affairs of the north.  And the estate was not all.  Behind the estate lay the great untrammelled fortune drawn from quite other sources of wealth; how great he was only now beginning to know.

A great sigh shook him—­a sigh of decision.  What he had been listening to had been the quixotism of a tender heart, ignorant of life and affairs, and all the wider possibilities open to man’s will.  He could not yield.  In time she must be the one to yield.  And she would yield.  Let him wait, and be patient.  There were many ways in which to propitiate, to work upon her.

He looked down upon her gravely, his dark pointed face quivering a little.  Instinctively she drew back.  Her expression changed.

“I can’t do that.”  His voice was low but firm.  “I feel the call to me.  And after all, Melrose has claims on me.  To me, personally, his generosity—­has been incredible.  He is old—­and ill.  I must stay by him.”

Her mind cried out, “Yes—­but on your own terms, not his!”

But she did not say it.  Her pride came to her aid.  She sprang up, a glittering animation flashing back into her face, transforming its softness, its tenderness.

“I understand—­I quite understand.  Thank you for being so plain—­and bearing with my—­strange ideas.  Now—­I don’t think we can be of any further use to each other—­though—­” she clasped her hands involuntarily—­“I shall always hope and pray—­”

She did not finish.  He broke into a cry.

“Lydia! you send me away?”

“I don’t accept your conditions—­nor you mine.  There is no more to be said.”

He looked at her sombrely, remorse struggling with his will.  But also anger—­the anger of a naturally arrogant temperament—­that he should find her so resistant.

“If you loved me—­”

“Ah—­no,” she shook her head fiercely, the bright tears in her eyes; “don’t let’s talk of love!  That has nothing to say to it.”

She turned, and took up a piece of embroidery lying on a table near.  He accepted the indication, turning very white.  But still he lingered.

“Is there nothing I could say that would alter your mind?”

“I am afraid—­nothing.”

She gave him her hand.  He scarcely dared to press it; she had become suddenly so strong, so hostile.  Her light beauty had turned as it were to fire; one saw the flame of the spirit.

A tumult of thoughts and regrets rushed through him.  But things inexorable held him.  With a long, lingering look at her, he turned and went.

A little later, Susy entering timidly found Lydia sitting alone in a room that was nearly dark.  Some instinct guided her.  She came in, took a stool beside her sister, and leant her head against Lydia’s knee.  Lydia said nothing, but their hands joined, and for long they sat in the firelight, the only sounds, Lydia’s stifled sobbing, and the soft crackling of a dying flame.