Lydia's face, as she sat on the grass at Lady Tatham's feet, looking toward the fells, was scarcely visible to her companion. Victoria could only admire the beauty of the girl's hair, as the wind played with it, and the grace of her young form.
"I am afraid he is disappointing all his friends," she said gravely.
"Is it his fault?" exclaimed Lydia. "Mr. Melrose must be mad!"
"I wonder if that excuses Mr. Faversham?"
"It's horrible for him!" said Lydia in a low, smothered voice. "He wants to put things right?"
It was on the tip of Victoria's tongue to say, "Does he too write to you every day?" but she refrained.
"If he really wants to put things right, why has he done nothing all these seven weeks?" she asked severely. "I saw Colonel Barton this morning. He and Mr. Andover are in despair. They felt such confidence in Mr. Faversham. The state of the Mainstairs village is too terrible! Everybody is crying out. The Carlisle papers this week are full of it. But there are scores of other things almost as bad. Mr. Faversham rushes about—here, there, and everywhere—but with no result, they tell us, as far as any of the real grievances are concerned. Mr. Melrose seems to be infatuated about him personally; will give him everything he wants; and pays no attention whatever to his advice. And you know the latest report?"
"No." Lydia's face was bent over the grass, as she tried to aid a bumble-bee which was lying on its back.
"It is generally believed that Mr. Melrose has made him his heir."
Lydia lifted a face of amazement, at first touched strangely with relief.
"Then—surely—he will be able to do what he wants!"