But his brow contracted before she could smile.

“Some time perhaps—­some time—­not now!  Let’s forget—­for a little.  Lydia—­come away with me—­let’s be alone.  Oh, my dear!—­let’s be alone!”

She was in his arms again, calming the anguish that would recur—­of those nights in the Tower after the murder, when it had seemed to him that not Brand, but himself, was the prey that a whole world was hunting, with Hate for the huntsman.

But presently, as they clung to each other in the firelight, he roused himself to say: 

“Now, let me see your mother; and then I must go.  There is much to do.  You will get a note from Lady Tatham to-night.”

She looked up startled.  And then it came over her, that he had never really told her what he meant to do with Melrose’s money.  She had no precise idea.  Their minds jumped together, and she saw the first laugh in his dark eyes.

“I shan’t tell you!  Beloved—­be good and wait!  But you guess already.  We meet to-morrow—­at Duddon.”

She asked no question.  The thin mystery—­for her thoughts did indeed drive through it—­pleased her; especially because it seemed to please him.

Then Mrs. Penfold and Susy were brought down, and Mrs. Penfold sat amid explanations and embraces, more feather-headed and inconsequent even than usual, but happy, because Lydia caressed her, and this handsome though pale young man on the hearthrug kissed her hand and even, at command, her still pink cheek; and it seemed there was to be a marriage—­only not the marriage there should have been—­a substitution, clearly, of Threlfall for Duddon?  Lydia would live at Threlfall; would be immensely rich; and there would be no more bloodhounds in the park.

But when Faversham was gone, and realities began to sink into the little lady’s mind, as Lydia sitting at her feet, and holding her hand, tried to infuse them, dejection followed.  No coronet!—­and now, no fortune!  She did not understand these high-stepping morals, and she went sadly to bed; though never had Lydia been so sweet to her, so ready to brush her hair by the fire as long as ever she chose, so full of daughterly promises.

Susy kissed her sister when they were alone, tenderly but absently.

“You’re a rare case, Lydia—­unique, I think.  The Greeks would call you something—­I forget!  I should really like to understand the psychology of it.  It might be useful.”

Lydia bantered her a little—­rather sorely.  But the emotions of her family would always be so much “copy” to Susy; and the fact did not in the least prevent her being a warm-hearted, and, in her own way, admirable little person.

Finally, Lydia turned the tables on her, by throwing an arm round her neck, and inquiring whether Mr. Weston had not paid her a very long call the day before.  Susy quietly admitted it, and added:  “But I told him not to call again.  I’m afraid—­I’m bored with him.  There are no mysteries in his character—­no lights and shades at all.  He is too virtuous—­monotonously so.  It would be of no technical advantage to me whatever, to fall in love with him.”