Susan’s lips part in a little smile.
‘Oh, not as it is. I was only thinking of Lady Muriel ... and you—that you ought to be——’
‘Dreadfully in love? How do you know I am not—with somebody else?’
She shakes her head.
‘No, you are not,’ says she. ‘After all, I think you are just as little likely to be dreadfully in love with anyone as I am.’
‘Susan! You are growing positively profound,’ says he.
They are now drawing near to the Rectory gates, and Susan’s fingers are stealing into her pocket and out again with nervous rapidity. Oh, she must give it to him now or never! To-morrow it will be too late. One can’t give a birthday gift the day after the birthday. But it is such a ridiculous little bag, and she has seen so many of his presents up at the Hall, and all so lovely, and in such good taste. Still, to let him think, after all his kindness, that she had not even remembered his birthday——
‘Mr. Crosby,’ says she, and now the hand that comes from the pocket has something in it. ‘I—all day, I’—tremulously—‘have been wanting to give you something for your birthday. I know’—she pauses, and slowly and reluctantly, and in a very agony of shyness, now holds out to him the little silken bag filled with fragrant lavender—‘I know’—tears filling her eyes—‘after what I saw to-day ... those other gifts, that it is not worth giving, but—I made it for you.’
She holds it out to him, and Crosby, who has coloured a dark red, takes it from her, but never a word comes from him.
The dear, darling child! To think of her having done this for him!... To Susan his silence sounds fatal.