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‘Twas the most extraordinary sensation to note the utterly urbane and cheerful countenance with which Mr. Vanringham disclosed the meditated atrocity. This unprincipled young man was about to run me through with no more compunction than a naturalist in the act of pinning a new beetle among his collection may momentarily be aware of.

Then my quickened faculties were stirred on a sudden, and for the first time I opened my mouth. Whatever claim I had upon Vanringham, there was no need to advance it now.

“You were about to say–?” he queried.

“I was about to relieve a certain surplusage of emotion,” I retorted, “by observing that I regret to find you, sir, a chattering, lean-witted fool–a vain and improvident fool!”

“Harsh words, my Captain,” says he, with lifted eyebrows.

“O Lord, sir, but not of an undeserved asperity!” I returned, “D’ye think the Marchioness, her flighty head crammed with scraps of idiotic romance, would elope without regard for the canons of romance? Not so; depend upon it, a letter was left upon her pin-cushion announcing her removal with you, and in the most approved heroic style arraigning the obduracy of her unsympathetic grandchildren. D’ye think Gerald Allonby will not follow her? Sure, and he will; and the proof is,” I added, “that you may hear his horses yonder on the heath, as I heard them some moments ago.”

Vanringham leaped to the floor and stood thus, all tension. He raised clenched, quivering hands toward the ceiling. “O King of Jesters!” he cried, in horrid blasphemy; and then again, “O King of Jesters!”

And by this time men were shouting without, and at the door there was a prodigious and augmenting hammering. And the Parson wrung his hands and began to shake like a dish of jelly in a thunder-storm.

“Captain Audaine,” Mr. Vanringham resumed, with more tranquillity, “you are correct. Clidamira and Parthenissa would never have fled into the night without leaving a note upon the pin-cushion. The folly I kindled in your wife’s addled pate has proven my ruin. Remains to make the best of Hobson’s choice.” He unlocked the door. “Gentlemen, gentlemen!” says he, with deprecating hand, “surely this disturbance is somewhat outré, a trifle misplaced, upon the threshold of a bridal-chamber?”

Then Gerald Allonby thrust into the room, followed by Lord Humphrey Degge, [Footnote: I must in this place entreat my reader’s profound discredit of any aspersions I may rashly seem to cast upon this honest gentleman, whose friendship I to-day esteem as invaluable; but I wrote, as always, currente calamo, and the above was penned in an amorous misery, sub Venire, be it remembered; and in such cases a wrong bias is easily hung upon the mind.–F.A.] my abhorred rival for Dorothy’s affection, and two attendants.

“My grandmother!” shrieks Gerald. “Villain, what have you done with my grandmother?”

“The query were more fitly put,” Vanringham retorts, “to the lady’s husband.” And he waves his hand toward me.

Thereupon the new-comers unbound me with various exclamations of wonder. “And now,” I observed, “I would suggest that you bestow upon Mr. Vanringham and yonder blot upon the Church of England the bonds from which I have been recently manumitted, or, at the very least, keep a vigilant watch upon those more than suspicious characters, the while that I narrate the surprising events of this evening.”

VI

Subsequently I made a clean breast of affairs to Gerald and Lord Humphrey Degge. They heard me with attentive, even sympathetic, countenances; but by and by the face of Lord Humphrey brightened as he saw a not unformidable rival thus jockeyed from the field; and when I had ended, Gerald rose and with an oath struck his open palm upon the table.

“This is the most fortunate coincidence,” he swears, “that I have ever known of. I come prepared to find my grandmother the wife of a beggarly play-actor, and I discover that, to the contrary, she has contracted an alliance with a gentleman for whom I entertain sincere affection.”