There for a while we may leave them, in the enjoyment of youth, health, and historic rank. If such gifts do not confer unclouded happiness, it must be admitted that but few of the elements of which it is supposed to be compounded were wanting.
Some delay in Sheila’s marriage, however, took place. The Orlando, after having been ordered to China, to the dismay of the captain, and at least two of the senior officers, who had private reasons for not desiring to explore the Flowery Land, either in peace or war, was as suddenly recalled, and the cruiser Candace ordered to take her place. The Orlando was paid off, and the Royal Alfred, with a new crew and officers put into commission, and despatched to the Australian station at short notice. A telegram from Fontenaye caused Commander Harcourt, R.N., to betake himself to that vicinity at once. He had been promoted to the rank of Commander for a dashing exploit in bringing off a boat’s crew at Guadalcanar, in the teeth of tremendous odds, and a shower of poisoned arrows. There was no need for delay now—Sheila had her trousseau ready weeks before, and the Lieutenant—I beg his pardon, the Captain—didn’t require much time to make his preparations.
So there was another entertainment at Fontenaye, of comparative splendour and more true kindness and genuine friendship. All the neighbouring gentry were bidden to the feast, as well as the brother officers of the bridegroom. Lord Fontenaye gave away the bride, and made a feeling speech at the breakfast. When Commander Harcourt, R.N., and his lovely bride—for Sheila, in a “confection” from Paris, looked beautiful exceedingly—walked down the aisle of the old Abbey church, a girl of the period said “it put her in mind of Lord Marmion and Lady Clare, only that Marmion was a soldier, and not a sailor, and (now that she remembered) he turned out badly, didn’t marry Clare after all, was killed, indeed, at Flodden, and ought to have married poor Clare, who did not do so badly, nor Lord Wilton either, after recovering his lands, his lady-love, and his position in society.”
After this momentous function, Lord Fontenaye one fine morning looked up from the Times, which, after the fashion of secure husbands, he read during breakfast, with a sudden exclamation that caused Imogen to inquire what it was about.
“The death of Mrs. Delamere, poor thing! That will make a difference.”
“Difference to whom?” inquired Imogen. “Oh! I see—now, those two can get married. Have you heard from them since they went to West Australia? Yes, I know, you showed me her letter.”
“I heard of them later on, from a man I knew, that the Colonel had bought into the ‘Golden Hoof,’ or some such name, and was likely to make a big rise out of it, as he expressed it. What a turn of the wheel it would be, wouldn’t it? He was ‘dry-blowing’ after they got to West Australia.”
“What in the world’s that?”
“A primitive way of extracting gold from auriferous earth, partly by sifting it, and then by blowing away the lighter dust particles, when the gold, if there is any, remains behind. Then, their tent caught fire one day, when she was away for an hour marketing (fancy Adeline buying soap and candles at a digging!), and everything they had in the world was burned, except what ‘they stood up in,’ as my informant phrased it.”
“But you will send them something, poor things! How I pity them. Oh! how stupid I am! You did—I know you.”