“Harry, I’m going to tell you.  I ought to have told you more that night—­but how could I?  It was only just then I knew—­that I cared.  A little later Mr. Faversham asked me to marry him, and I refused, because—­because of this money.  I couldn’t take it—­I begged him not to.  Never mind!” She threw her head back, gulping down tears.  “He thought me unreasonable.  But—­”

“He refused—­and left you!” cried Tatham, drinking in the sweetness of her pale beauty, as Orpheus might have watched the vanishing Eurydice.

“He had such great ambitions—­as to what he’d do—­with this money,” she said, lightly brushing her wet eyes, and trying to smile.  “It wasn’t the mere fortune!  Oh, I knew that!”

Tatham was silent.  But he gently touched her hand with his own.

“You’ll stand by him?—­if he needs it?” she asked piteously.

He assured her.  Then, suddenly, raising herself on tiptoe, she kissed him on the cheek.  The blood flew into his face, and bending forward—­timidly—­he laid his lips on her soft brow.  There was a pledge in it—­and a farewell.  She drew herself away.

“The first—­and the last,” she said, smiling, and sighing.  “Now we’re comrades.  I await your news.  Tell me if I can help—­throw light?  I know the people—­the neighbourhood, well.  And when you see Mr. Faversham, greet him from me.  Tell him his friends here feel with him—­and for him.  And as to what you say—­ah, no!—­I’m not going to believe—­I can’t believe—­that any one can have such—­such vile thoughts!  The truth will soon come out!”

She held herself steadily.

“We must find the-murderer,” Tatham repeated, and took up his cap.

* * * * *

Lydia was left alone in the little breakfast-room.  Susy could be heard moving about overhead; she would be down directly.  Meanwhile the winter sunshine came broadly in; the singing of the tea-kettle, the crackle of the fire made domestic music.  But Lydia’s soul was far away.  It stood beside Faversham, exulting.

“Free!”—­she said to herself, passionately—­“free!” and then with the hyperbole of love—­“I talked and moralized—­he did it!”

A splendid pride in him possessed her; so that for long she scarcely realized the tragedy of the murder, or the horror of the slanderous suspicion now starting through the dales.  But yet, long before the day was over, she was conquered by grief and fear—­a very miserable and restless Lydia.  No word came from him; and she could not write.  These were men’s affairs, and women must hold their peace.  Yet, in spirit, as the hours passed, she gave herself wholly to the man she loved; she glorified him; she trampled on her own past doubts; she protected him against a world in arms.  The plant of love grew fast and furiously—­watered by pity—­by indignation.