“What made you come home without orders?” asked Meadows, somewhat sternly.
“Why, you know as well as me, sir; you have seen them?”
“Who?”
“George Fielding and his mate.”
Meadows started. “How should I see them?”
“Sir! Why, they are come home. They gave me the slip, and got away before me. I followed them. They are here. They must be here.” Crawley, not noticing Meadows' face, went on. “Sir, when I found they had slipped out of the camp on horseback, and down to Sydney, and saw them with my own eyes go out of the harbor for England, I thought I should have died on the spot. I thought I should never have the courage to face you, but when I met you arm in arm, her eye smiling on you, I knew it was all right then. When did the event come off?”
“What event?”
“The marriage, sir—you and the lady. She is worth all the trouble she has given us.”
“You fool,” roared Meadows, “we are not married. The wedding is to be this day week!” Crawley started and gasped, “We are ruined, we are undone!”
“Hold your bawling,” cried Meadows, fiercely, “and let me think.” He buried his face in his hands; when he removed them, he was gloomy but self-possessed. “They are not in England, Crawley, or we should have seen them. They are on the road. You sailed faster than they; passed them at night, perhaps. They will soon be here. My own heart tells me they will be here before Monday. Well, I will beat them still. I will be married Thursday next.” The iron man then turned to Crawley, and sternly demanded how he had let the man slip.