"No"--the word came with soft decision--"no. And if I were to marry you
without--without that feeling--you have a right to--I should be doing
wrong--to you--and to myself. You see"--she looked down, the points of
her white shoe drawing circles on the grass, as though to help out her
faltering speech--"I--I'm not what I believe you think me. I've got all
sorts of hard, independent notions in my mind. I want to paint--and
study--and travel--I want to be free--"
"You should be free as air!" he interrupted passionately.
"Ah, but no!--not if I married. I shouldn't want to be free in that way,
if--"
"If you were in love? I understand. And you're not in love with me. Why
should you be?" said poor Tatham, with a new and desperate humility. "Why
on earth should you be? But I'd adore you--I'd give you anything in the
world you wanted."
Sounds of talking and footsteps emerged from the dusk behind them; the
high notes of Lady Barbara, and the answering bass of Delorme.
"Don't let them find us," said Lydia impetuously--"I've _so_ much to
say."
Tatham turned, and led the way to the pillared darkness of a pergola to
their left. One side of it was formed by a high yew hedge; on the other,
its rose-twined arches looked out upon the northern stretches of the
park, and on the garden front of Duddon. There it lay, the great house,
faintly lit; and there in front stretched its demesne, symbol of its
ancient rule and of its modern power. A natural excitement passed through
Lydia as they paused, and she caught its stately outline through the
night.
Pages:
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234