"Oh, Susy, do you
know what's been going on? Lydia has been at Duddon at least six times
this last fortnight--and Lord Tatham has been here--and _nothing_
happens. And all the time Lydia keeps telling me she's not in love with
him, and doesn't mean to marry him. But what's _he_ doing?"
Susan was looking dishevelled and highly strung. She had spent the
afternoon in writing the fifth act of a tragedy on Belisarius; and it
was more than a fortnight since Mr. Weston, the young vicar of Dunscale,
had been to call. Her cheeks were sallow; her dark eyes burnt behind
their thick lashes.
"Suppose he's done it?" she said gloomily.
Mrs. Penfold gave a little shriek.
"Done what? What do you mean?"
"He's proposed--and she's said 'No.'"
"Lord Tatham! Oh, Susy!" wailed Mrs. Penfold; "you don't think that?"
"Yes, I do," said Susan, with resolution. "And now she's letting him down
gently."
"And never said a word to you or me! Oh, Susy, she couldn't be so
unkind."
Mrs. Penfold's pink and white countenance, on which age had as yet laid
so light a finger, showed the approach of tears. She and Susy were
sitting in a leafy recess of the garden; Lydia had gone after tea to see
old Dobbs and his daughter.
"That's all this _friendship_ business, she's so full of," said Susy. "If
she'd accepted him, she'd have told us, of course. Now he's plucked as a
lover, and readmitted as a friend. And one doesn't betray a friend's
secrets--even to one's relations.
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