She arrived at home the next day with white cheeks and red eyes, and most indistinct accounts of the wedding. A few monosyllables were extracted with difficulty, among them a “Yes” when Fordham asked whether she had seen Lucas Brownlow.
“Did he talk of his plans?”
“Not much.”
“One cannot but be sorry,” said her mother; “but, as your uncle says, his motives are to be much respected.”
“Mamma,” cried Sydney, horrified, “you wouldn’t encourage him in turning back from the defence of his country in time of war?”
“His country!” ejaculated Fordham. “Up among the hill tribes!”
“You palliating it too, Duke! Is there no sense of honour or glory left? What are you laughing at? I don’t think it a laughing matter, nor Cecil either, that he should have been led to turn his back upon all that is great and glorious!”
“That’s very fine,” said Fordham, who was in a teasing mood. “Had you not better put it into the ‘Traveller’s Joy?’”
“I shall never touch the ‘Traveller’s Joy’ again!” and Sydney’s high horse suddenly breaking down, she flew away in a flood of tears.
Her mother and brother looked at one another rather aghast, and Fordham said—