It was the evening of the August day on which Mrs. Walter had spoken thus to Carnation that John Charles came cottagewards slowly and gloomily. He had been thinking bitter thoughts, and at last had taken a resolve that was likely to cost him dear.
In the warm light of evening the girl, who stood at the farther side of the gap, seemed wondrously beautiful. The school-girl look had long since passed away. Only the fresh rose on the cheeks, the depths in the eyes (as if a cloud shadowed them), the lissom bend of the young body towards him were the same. But the hair was waved and plaited about the head in a larger and nobler fashion. The contours were a little fuller, and the lips, perfect as ever in shape, were stiller, and the smile on them at once more assured and more sedate.
"Carnation, I cannot hold you any longer to your promise!"
"And why not, John; are you tired of me?"
"I am not one of those who grow tired, dear," the young man's voice was so low none could hear it but the one listener. "I will never grow tired—you know that. But I waste the best years of your life. You are beautiful, and the time is passing. You might marry any one——"
"Have you any particular one in your mind?"
The question at once spurred and startled him. He moved his feet on the soft grass of the meadow with a certain embarrassment.
"Yes, Carnation; my mother was speaking to me to-night of Harry Foster of Carnsalloch. His father has told her of his love for you. She says I am keeping you from accepting him. I have come to release you from any promise, Carnation, spoken or implied."
"There is no promise, John—save that I love you, and will never marry any one else."
"But if I went away you might—you might change your mind. I am thinking of West Australia! I am making nothing of it here. All is as much my mother's as it was the day my father died! I can get her a good 'grieve' to take charge, and go in the spring!"