As soon as Mr Ridsdale and Miss Loraine found themselves alone, they seated themselves on the rustic seat lately vacated by the vicar and Dr M‘Murdo. Master Archie lighted a cigarette.
Clarice Loraine at this time had just left her nineteenth birthday behind her. She was tall and limber as any fabled nymph of the woods, with an easy, swaying grace in all her movements such as Art alone could never have taught her. She had a cloud of silky, pale-gold hair, that looked as if some sportive zephyr had ruffled it in passing; while her eyes were of the deepest and tenderest blue. Her habitual expression was one of sweet seriousness, of most gentle gravity; but when she smiled, which she did often, she smiled both with her lips and her eyes: it was like the lighting up of a beautiful landscape with a sudden flash of sunshine.
And the young man to whom she had given away her heart? Well, he was a stalwart, good-looking enough young fellow, about twenty-five years old, with dark-brown hair, and a moustache to match; with frank, clear-gazing eyes, which looked as if nothing in the world could cause them to flinch; in short, one of those manly, clear-skinned, resolute-looking young Englishmen of whom those who choose may see scores any day during the season in London town.
‘Are you sure, darling, that you are not too tired to go on the lake this evening?’ asked Archie presently.
‘I am just a little tired now; but I shall not be a bit tired when the time comes to start. To-night it will be full moon.’
Archie looked at his watch. ‘The afternoon post will be in in about half an hour. I wonder whether it will bring us anything from the pater?’
‘O Archie, if it should bring a letter from your father in which he orders you to give me up!’
‘As if I had not told you a hundred times already that I am not going to give you up for any one in the wide world!’
‘It would make me ever, ever so unhappy to think that I should come as an obstacle between your father and you.’
‘Don’t be a little goose. I’m old enough to choose a wife for myself; and I’ve chosen you, and mean to have you in spite of everybody. If the pater chooses to turn rusty about it, I can’t help it. He did the very same thing when he was a young fellow. He ran away with my mother—oh, I’ve heard all about it!—and I’m not aware that he ever had cause to regret having done so. Of course it would be pleasanter—a jolly sight pleasanter—to have his consent and good wishes and all that; but if he won’t give us them, I daresay we shall be able to get along somehow or other without them. There are worse things in the world than poverty, when two people love each other as you and I love each other, sweet one.’