With a long sigh, Owen let the vision go. The warm, human things of life had come very near to him, but he had not known how to hold them. Some subtle, inner sense warned him that Valeria had done well to betake herself and the rich gifts of her ardent nature, to the simple and primitive life of the colonies, and the man who was offering that life to her.
He went away to make his preparations for leaving St. Gwenllian.
Valeria’s wedding, not unnaturally, provided no occasion for festivity.
The bride herself remarked in private to her sisters:
“I feel exactly as though I was one of those unfortunate girls who come to Father for him to marry them so as to ‘make honest women of them’ at the eleventh hour. You know the way that sort of wedding is hurried through, in a hole-and-corner style....”
“It’s lucky for you you’ve got a good deal of your trousseau made already,” was Lucilla’s practical reply.
“Yes, and ‘V. Q.’ embroidered on more than half of it!” cried Val hysterically.
“You can’t possibly use it,” Flora declared austerely. “Unless I can alter it for you in time.”
“Of course she can use it,” said Lucilla.