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PAGE 3

The Casual Honeymoon
by [?]

Nevertheless, I stepped into the vehicle. The postilion was off in a twinkling, as the saying is, over the roughest road in England. Conversation was impossible, for Dorothy and I were jostling like two pills in a box; and as the first observation I attempted resulted in a badly bitten tongue, I prudently held my peace.

This endured for, perhaps, a quarter of an hour, at the end of which period the post-chaise on a sudden stopped, and I assisted my companion to alight. Before us was a villa of considerable dimension, and situate, so far as I could immediately detect, in the midst of a vast and desolate moor; there was no trace of human habitation within the radius of the eye; and the house itself presented not a glimpse of tenancy or illumination.

“O Lord, madam–” I began.

“Hasten!” spoke a voice from within the Parsonage. And Dorothy drew me toward a side door, overhung with ivy, where, sure enough, a dim light burned, ‘Twas but a solitary candle stuck upon a dresser at the remoter end of a large and low-ceiled apartment; and in this flickering obscurity we found a tremulous parson in full canonicals, who had united our hands and gabbled half-way through the marriage service before I had the slightest notion of what was befalling me.

And such is the unreasonable disposition of mankind that the attainment of my most ardent desires aroused a feeling not altogether unakin to irritation. This skulking celerity, this hole-and-corner business, I thought, was in ill-accord with the respect due to a sacrament; and I could have wished my marriage to have borne a less striking resemblance to the conference of three thieves in a cellar. But ’twas over in two twos. Within scantier time than it takes to tell of it, Francis and Dorothy were made one, and I had turned to salute my wife.

She gave a shriek of intolerable anguish. “Heavens!” said she, “I have married the wrong man!”

III

Without delay I snatched up the guttering candle and held it to my wife’s countenance. You can conceive that ’twas with no pleasurable emotion I discovered I had inadvertently espoused the Dowager Marchioness of Falmouth, my adored Dorothy’s grandmother; and in frankness I can’t deny that the lady seemed equally dissatisfied: words failed us; and the newly wedded couple stared at each other in silence.

“Captain Audaine,” said she, at last, “the situation is awkward.”

“Sure, madam,” I returned, “and that is the precise thought which has just occurred to me.”

“And I am of the opinion,” she continued, “that you owe me some sort of explanation. For I had planned to elope with Mr. Vanringham–“

“Do I understand your Ladyship to allude to Mr. Francis Vanringham, the play-actor, at present the talk of Tunbridge?”

She bowed a grave response.

“This is surprising news,” said I. “And grant me leave to tell you that a woman of mature years, possessed of an abundant fortune and unassailable gentility, does not by ordinary sneak out of the kitchen door to meet a raddle-faced actor in the middle of the night. ‘Tis, indeed, a circumstance to stagger human credulity. Oh, believe me, madam, for a virtuous woman the back garden is not a fitting approach to the altar, nor is a comedian an appropriate companion there at eleven o’clock in the evening.”

“Hey, my fine fellow,” says my wife, “and what were you doing in the back garden?”

“Among all true lovers,” I returned, “it is an immemorial custom to prowl like sentinels beneath the windows of the beauteous adored. And I, madam, had the temerity to aspire toward an honorable union with your granddaughter.”

She wrung her withered hands. “That any reputable woman should have nocturnal appointments with gentlemen in the back garden, and beguile her own grandmother into an odious marriage! I protest, Captain Audaine, the degenerate world of to-day is no longer a suitable residence for a lady!”

“Look you, sir, this is a cruel bad business,” the Parson here put in. He was pacing the apartment in an altercation of dubiety and amaze. “Mr. Vanringham will be vexed.”