She was near the gate leading into Arden Park, when she heard a crackling of withered leaves, the sound of an approaching footstep. It was Mr. Granger, of course. She gave a sigh of resignation. Another evening of the pattern which had grown so familiar to her, that it seemed almost as if Mr. Granger must have been dropping in of an evening all her life. The usual talk of public matters—the leaders in that day's Times, and so on. The usual request for a little music; the usual inquiries about her recent artistic studies. It was as monotonous as the lessons she had learned at Madame Marot's seminary.
"Is my life to go on like that for ever?" she asked herself.
The step came a little nearer. Surely it was lighter and quicker than Daniel Granger's—it had a sharp martial sound; it was like a step she had learned to know very well in the gardens of Hale Castle.
"He is at Baden," she said to herself.
But the beating of her heart grew faster in spite of that tranquillizing assurance. She heard an unaccustomed hand trying the fastening of the gate, then a bolt withdrawn, the sharp light step upon the turf behind her, and in the next moment George Fairfax was by her side, among the weird shadows of the orchard trees.
He tried to draw her towards him, with the air of an accepted lover.
"My darling!" he said, "I knew I should find you here. I had a fancy that you would be here, waiting for me in the pale moonlight."
Clarissa laughed—rather an artificial little laugh—but she felt the situation could only be treated lightly. The foolish passionate heart was beating so fast all the time, and the pale face might have told so much, if the light of the new-risen moon had not been dim as yet.
"How long do you suppose I have been waiting at this spot for you, Mr.
Fairfax?" she asked lightly. "For six weeks?"
"Six weeks! Yes, it is six weeks since I saw you. It might be six years, if I were to measure the time by my own impatience. I have been at Nice, Clarissa, almost ever since that night we parted."