“‘We are near Calcutta, dearest Lady Blanche,’ said I; ‘in a moment more we shall be no longer bound by your pledge’—do you hear me, Mr. Tramp?”
“Perfectly; but let us push along faster.”
“She was in tears, sir,—weeping. She is mine, thought I. What a night, to be sure! We drove into the grand Cassawaddy; and the door of our conveyance was wrenched open by a handsome-looking fellow, all gold and moustaches.
“‘Blanche—my dearest Blanche!’ said he.
“‘My own Charles!’ exclaimed she.”
“Her brother, I suppose, Mr. Yellowley?”
“No, sir,” screamed he, “her husband!!!”
“The artful, deceitful, designing woman had a husband!” screamed Yellowley, above the storm and the hurricane. “They had been married privately, Mr. Tramp, the day he sailed for India, and she only waited for the next ‘overland’ to follow him out; and I, sir, the miserable dupe, stood there, the witness of their joys.
“‘Don’t forget this dear old creature, Charles,’ said she: ‘he was invaluable to me on the journey!’ But I rushed from the spot, anguish-torn and almost desperate.”
“Come quickly, sir; we must catch the ebb-tide,” cried a sailor, pushing me along towards the jetty as he spoke.