And now it was already winter. The fell-sides were red with withered
fern; their round or craggy tops showed white against a steely sky; down
the withered copses by the stream, the north wind swept; a golden oak
showered its dead leaf upon her. Gray walls, purple fells, the brown and
silver of the stream, all the mountain detail that she loved--she drew it
passionately into her soul. Nature and art--why had she been so faithless
to them--she "the earth's unwearied lover?" She was miserably, ironically
conscious of her weakness; of the gap between her spring and her autumn.
On her return, she told Susy quietly of her expected visitor. Susy raised
her eyebrows.
"I shall give him tea," said Susan, "just to save the proprieties with
Sarah." Sarah was the house parlour-maid. "But _then_ you won't need to
give me hints."
Susy had departed. Lydia and Faversham sat opposite each other in the
little drawing-room.
Lydia's first impression on seeing him had been one of dismay. He looked
much older; and a certain remoteness, a cold and nervous manner seemed to
have taken the place of the responsive ease she remembered. It began to
cost her an effort to remember the emotion of their last meeting in the
Mainstairs lane.
But when they were alone together, he drew a long breath, and leaning
forward over the table before them, his face propped on his hand, he
looked at her earnestly.
"I wonder what you have been hearing about me?"
Lydia made a brave effort, and told him.
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