So they sat and looked down upon the Vicarage till a black figure crossed the churchyard.
“There is my uncle,” said Isoline, taking up her hat. “We ought to go down and tell him.”
“Oh, not yet,” pleaded Harry, “stay a little, dear; I shall always love this place now.”
He looked up into the branches.
“Is not the cherry-blossom pretty? Before you came, I was thinking how nice it would be to have a ball-dress trimmed with it. Do you think it would suit me?”
“You’ll look lovely.”
“And you will not forget my dresses as you forget the London fashions?” She raised her eyes archly to his.
He seized her hand and kissed it, and she made no resistance, for the grass was high and the action could not be seen.
It was long before he forgot the feel of the cool greenness, the touch of soft fingers as he pressed them against his lips, and the dancing of sunlight through the leaves overhead. Poor Harry, he was happy; the heavens had stooped down to earth, and he had no misgivings. Such difficulties as he foresaw were those that would melt away before the fire of his constancy. How was it conceivable that any opposition could stand against Isoline’s beauty and sweetness? He thought of Llewellyn’s counsel and the day on which they had so nearly quarrelled by the garden door; it was strange that he—so much cleverer than himself—had taken such an extraordinary view of her character. The recollection made him quite impatient, though he told himself in his generous heart that there was no one like his brother, and that, come what might, his marriage should never in any way shadow their friendship.
Time, he was certain, and a closer experience of Isoline’s society, would convince him that he had been mistaken, and he knew Llewellyn well enough to be sure that, when such a change should come to pass, his acknowledgment of his error would be complete. It would all come right, and, meanwhile, life was bathed in an untold glory.