So far she had her desire. And in her
correspondence with the two men, she had amply "played up." She had given
herself--her thoughts, feelings, imaginations--to both; in different
ways, and different degrees.
And what was happening? Simply a natural, irresistible discrimination,
which was like the slow inflooding of the tide through the river mouth
it forces. Tatham's letters were all pleasure. Not a word of wooing in
them. He had given his word, and he kept it. But the unveiling of a
character so simple, strong, and honest, to the eyes of this girl of
four-and-twenty, conveyed of itself a tribute that could not but rouse
both gratitude and affection in Lydia. She did her best to reward him;
and so far her "ideas" had worked.
Faversham's letters, on the other hand, from the governing event of the
day, had now become a pain and a distress. The exultant and exuberant
self-confidence of the earlier correspondence, the practical dreams on
paper which had stirred her enthusiasm and delight--they came, it seemed
to her, to a sudden and jarring end, somewhere about the opening of
September. The change was evidently connected with the return of Mr.
Melrose from abroad just at that time. The letters grew rambling,
evasive, contradictory. Doubt and bitterness began to appear in them.
She asked for facts about his work, and they were not given her. Instead
the figure of Melrose rose on the horizon, till he dominated the
correspondence, a harsh and fantastic task-master, to whose will and
conscience it was useless to appeal.
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