Ormsby’s patrimony was large; his family at first were disposed to receive his wife with hauteur—they were among that class of English owls who fancy themselves eagles, especially in their own county.
Ormsby took possession of his fine estate, and left the army, glad that he had been a soldier for many reasons; but, above all, because he had thus been given the means of finding a fair and happy-tempered wife in Kafirland. He made his sisters welcome to Ormsby Park, and they confessed, among their country friends, that she was to be “tolerated.”
Frankfort’s cousin, the Duchess, the former friend of Mrs Daveney, begged to be introduced to young Mrs Ormsby at a ball, and asked affectionately about her mother’s welfare. The Duchess was childless, had led “the most monotonous life in the world;” she was dying to hear of Kafirland.
“Did the people there live on the white men they killed in war time? and how was it that Marion was so fair, and would Mr and Mrs Daveney ever come to England again?” etc.
“Yes; Marion expected them to spend a year with her, and, after that, they would return; for her father and mother had many interests and occupations in Southern Africa which they would not wish to give up.”
“Interests and occupations!”—the Duchess yawned, and begged Mr Ormsby to find her carriage, and “was glad the ball was over; but it was marked by one pleasant fact, that of meeting Marion, the daughter of her old friend.”
They shook hands cordially.
“Who on earth is the Duchess of M— shaking hands with so heartily?” said the member’s wife.
“Mrs Ormsby, of Ormsby Park.”
“Oh! yes; the uncle is dead, and has left young Ormsby seven thousand a year, has he not?”