“What! Josie married?” exclaimed Mr. Stamford. “I never heard of it. You astonish me!”
“Married, indeed,” said Mrs. Grandison, who now joined them; “and a pretty match she has made of it. Not that there’s anything against the young man—he’s two or three years younger than she is—except that he’s rather stupid, and hasn’t an idea of anything, except billiards and betting, that I can discover. As he’s only a clerk in an insurance office, he has just enough to keep himself and not a penny for a wife, unless what her parents give her.”
“The sort of young fellow I never shall be able to take the slightest interest in,” said Mr. Grandison; “not bad-looking, I suppose, but quite incapable of raising himself a single step by his own exertions, or aspiring to anything beyond a sufficiency of cigars and an afternoon lounge in George Street.”
“Of course you tried to prevent the marriage,” said Mrs. Stamford; “but it’s too late now to do anything but make the best of it, for poor Josie’s sake.”
Mr. Grandison turned away his head as his wife said, in a tone of deep feeling, “The silly girl went and was married before the Registrar. She knew we could not approve of it, and took that means of being beforehand with us. Her father won’t see her yet; but of course she’ll have an allowance, and we must help them if he keeps steady. But it nearly broke our hearts, you may believe.”
“We see all these things too late,” said her husband, with a sigh, which he tried bravely to repress. “If we had brought our children up with other ideas, or placed before them higher objects of ambition, a different result might have been reached. Over and over again have I cursed the day when we left the bush for good—for good, indeed!—and came to live in this city of shams. Not worse than other places, I believe; but all this artificial town life, while not too good for older people, is ruin and destruction for young ones. What a fortunate man you’ve been, Stamford, though, in our selfish grief, I’ve forgotten to congratulate you.”
“It is the goodness of God,” he replied, warmly grasping the hand which was silently held out to him. “My children have never given me a moment’s anxiety. We have been sheltered, too, from the temptations of the world, and so far from the ‘deceitfulness of riches.’ I can never be sufficiently thankful.”
“That won’t last long,” said Mr. Grandison, with an effort to be cheerful. “People tell me that Windāhgil Downs is going to be the finest sheep property west of the Barcoo, and Hubert’s reputation as a pioneer is in everybody’s mouth now. He managed to pull the Colonel’s investment out of the fire. Well paid for it too, by all I hear! Give our love to Laura. She must live in Sydney, I suppose, now she’s married a business man. A rising fellow, Barrington Hope, and one of the smartest operators we have. Heigho! time’s up. We shall meet again some day I hope, when I have a better story to tell you.”
Mrs. Stamford was sincerely grieved to hear of this latest misfortune of the Grandison family. She could hardly forgive Josie for the insincerity and ingratitude with which she had acted. “However,” said the kindly matron in continuation, “perhaps it is not so bad as they are disposed to think. They’re dreadfully disappointed, of course. If the young man’s character is good, he may get on, and of course Mr. Grandison will help them by and by. It will do Josie good to have a house of her own to look after, and to be obliged to save and contrive. The girl’s heart is not naturally bad, I believe; but she has been spoilt by over-indulgence and extravagance ever since she was a baby. A poor marriage may be the best thing that ever happened to her. Oh! Harold, should we not be deeply grateful for the mercy of Providence in so ordering our lives that until lately we have never had any money to spare, and self-denial has been compulsory?”
“H’m,” said Mr. Stamford, musingly; “no doubt, no doubt! Too much money is one form of danger, of moral death, which the devil must regard with great, great complacency. Few people take that view, though.”