Kit went fast, and his mood was buoyant. He had done all he agreed to do, and now he was entitled to think for himself. Since Evelyn had cheated, he was free to marry where he loved. For all that, he had not yet persuaded Alison, and in the circumstances she might hesitate. Kit banished his doubts and smiled. As a rule, where he thought he had a rather heroic part the part was humorous, but he tried to play up. Well, Alison knew his follies and extravagances, and somehow he hoped she was not daunted.
When he got to Whinnyates nobody was about. The old ash trees tossed and the shadows of their thin leaves trembled on the stones. In the background sheep climbed the broken hillside and their faint bleating was musical. A noisy beck plunged down a ghyll and vanished behind a wall.
Kit crossed the farmyard to the porch. The door was open, and by contrast with the sunshine the kitchen was dark. Mrs. Tyson occupied a rocking-chair; Tyson by the chimney stirred a big black pot. When he heard Kit’s step he turned and his eyes twinkled.
“You’re back? Weel, we’s glad t’ see you. You’ll stop for dinner?”
“Thank you,” said Kit. “You’re hospitable folk. I wonder whether you expected me?”
Tyson looked at his wife. The dalesfolk are keen, but they are cautious. Mrs. Tyson gave Kit a thoughtful glance.
“We reckoned you might come across. You kenned you’d be welcome.”
“That’s something,” said Kit. “You see, I want to marry Alison. I thought you ought to know.”
“Alison’s a fine lass. You’ll get none better, but she’s not your aunt’s sort,” Mrs. Tyson remarked.
“Her father was a statesman, but when he died farm was sold to pay his debts, and t’lass came to us,” said Tyson. “Tom Forsyth’s land was wet and sour; maybe he was a bit feckless, but his luck was bad. Alison’s her mother’s dowter, an Wythops o’ Lang Fell are canny, striving folk. Weel, my farm’s landlord’s, and when I and Kate are gone t’lass will maybe get five hundred pounds. I reckon it’s aw’.”