Mere propinquity would
do it. Then, when Tatham stumbled prematurely into his proposal, Victoria
might have intervened to help, but for Lydia's handling of the situation.
She had refused the natural place offered her in Harry's life--the place
of lover and wife. But she had claimed and was now holding a place only
less intimate, only less important; and Victoria felt herself disarmed
and powerless. To try and separate them was to deal a blow at her son of
which she was incapable; and at the same time there was the gnawing
anxiety lest their absurd "friendship" should stand in the way of her
boy's marriage--should "queer the pitch" for the future.
Meanwhile, day by day, Tatham's letters travelled south to Lydia, and
twice a week or thereabout, letters addressed in a clear and beautiful
handwriting arrived by an evening post from the south. And gradually
Victoria became aware of new forces and new growths in her son. "What
does she write to you about?" she had said to him once, with her
half-sarcastic smile. And after a little hesitation--silently, Tatham had
handed over to her the letter of the afternoon. "I'd like you to see it,"
he had said simply. "She makes one think a lot."
And, indeed, it was a remarkable letter, full of poetry but also full of
fun. The humours of Delorme's studio--a play she had seen in London--a
book she had read--the characteristics of a Somersetshire village--the
eager pen ran on without effort, without pretence.
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