It
is on such feelings and traditions that all that is best in our still
feudal English life is reared; Tatham had known them without stint; and
in their absence he would have been merely the trivially prosperous young
man that he no doubt appeared to the Radical orators of the
neighbourhood.
The wood thinned. They emerged from it to see the Helvellyn range lying
purple under a southwest sky, and Tatham's gray mare waiting a hundred
yards away.
"You have no note?"
Tatham tapped his breast pocket.
"Rather!"
"All right--go along!" Lady Tatham came to a halt. "And Harry--don't call
too often! Is this the third visit this week?"
"Oh, but the others were such little ones!" he said eagerly.
"Don't try to go too quick." The tone was serious.
"Too quick! I make no way at all," he protested, his look clouding.
Tatham rode slowly along the Darra, the little river which skirted his
own land and made its way at last into that which flowed beneath the
Tower. He was going to Threlfall, but on his way he was to call at Green
Cottage and deliver a note from his mother.
He had seen a good deal of Lydia Penfold during the weeks since her first
appearance at Duddon. The two sisters had been induced to lunch there
once or twice; there had been a picnic in the Glendarra woods; and for
himself, in spite of his mother's attack, he thought he had been fairly
clever in contriving excuses for calls. On one occasion he had carried
with him--by his mother's suggestion--a portfolio containing a dozen
early proofs of the "Liber Studiorium," things about which he knew little
or nothing; but Lydia's eyes had sparkled when he produced them, which
was all he cared for.
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