“All very well, sir,” replied Imogen, with the bright smile which irradiated her countenance like that of a joyous child, “but the ‘carrying off’ ‘hung fire’ (to return to the prose of daily life), until the princess became apprehensive, lest she might not be carried off at all, and was minded to set out to reverse the process, and carry off the knight. How would that have sounded? What a deathblow to all the legends of chivalry! The page’s dress would be rather a difficulty, wouldn’t it? Fancy me appearing amongst all those nice girls and men at Hollywood Hall! Inquiring, too, for ‘a gentleman of the name of Blount!’ I hardly did know your name then, which would have been a drawback. I am tall enough for a page, though, and could have arranged the ‘clustering ringlets, rich and rare,’ like poor Constance de Beverley. How I wept for her, when I was a school-girl, little thinking that I should have to weep bitter tears for myself in days to come.”
“And did she weep, my heart’s treasure, in her true knight’s absence?”
“Weep?” cried she, while—in the midst of her mockery and simulated grief, the true tears filled her eyes at the remembrance, “‘wept enough to extinguish a beacon light’—I took to reading dear Sir Walter Scott again in sheer desperation. Ivanhoe and Rob Roy saved my life, I really believe, when I was recovering from that—hm—‘influenza.’ Oh, how wretched I was! As the Sturt, that dear old river, flowed before my window, more than once I thought what a release it would be from all but unendurable pangs. I don’t wonder that women drown or hang themselves in such a case. I knew of one—yes—two instances—poor things!”
“Any men?”
“Yes; two also. So the numbers are even. We don’t seem to be growing cheerful, though, do we? I feel just a little tired; afternoon tea must be nearly ready. There’s nothing left for us now (as Stevenson says), ‘not even suicide, only to be good,’ a fine resolve to finish up with.”
“Let us seal the contract, those who are in favour, etc. Carried unanimously!”
The day’s post brought a letter from Mr. Tregonwell, which, like a stone thrown into a pond, disturbed the smoothness of their idyllic life. An incursion of the emissaries of Fate was imminent.
“Mr. Blount’s presence was absolutely, urgently necessary at the mine. There was industrial trouble brewing. The ‘wages men’—as those labourers at a mine are called, who are not shareholders—had increased necessarily to a large number; they wanted higher pay, the weather being bad and the discomforts considerable. The British shareholders were in a majority on the London Board and were beginning to make their power felt. No serious dispute, but better to arrange in time. Would have come himself to Hobart, but thought it imprudent at present to leave the mine. Very rich ore body just opened out. Prospects absolutely wonderful. Sorry to bother him, but business urgent.”
“What a terrible man!” moaned Imogen. “Wherever we are he will always be coming suddenly down upon us and destroying our peace of mind. I suppose, however, that he is a necessary evil.”
“He is a first-rate worker and very prudent withal, but to show the element of luck in these matters it is to my decision, not his, that we retained the share which is now likely to become a fortune.”