A Fluttered Dovecote

by George Manville Fenn

Only to think of it!—on and on, towards London, where papa and mamma were lying calmly asleep. The thoughts of them, and their peace, and unconsciousness of what was happening, made me recall the letter I had written, and draw it from its hiding-place to hand to Achille to see that it was posted. But before I passed it over to him, I felt that I could not send it as it was. I must insert one tender word, one more kind sentence. So, taking out my pencil, I screwed up the point, and then, with very little difficulty, raised the lappel of the envelope—for really our gummed envelopes are so very insecure—while I knew that we must stop at some hotel in London where I could obtain wax or a fresh envelope. So I took out the note, and prepared to write upon the palm of my hand; but seeing what I meant to do, Achille lent me his hat, upon the crown for desk, I laid my note as, by the light of the dim lamp, I began to trace in pencil a second—let me see; no, I remember it was a fourth—loving, prayerful postscript.

Tiresome light! How terribly it began to dance about! I thought that part of the line must be much out of repair, for the carriage wobbled excessively. My eyes, too, were dim as the light, and I had to try again and again to read the postscript which met my frightened gaze:

“Mrs Fortesquieu de Blount desires her best respects and compliments, and—”

“Qu’est ce que c’est, mon ange?” murmured Achille, as I dropped the fatal letter, and nearly swooned away; for—oh, how could I have been so foolish!—I had marked the envelopes so as not to make any mistake, and yet had put in the wrong letters, sending word home that I had eloped, and giving them ample notice of my intentions.

I caught the letter up again, and tried to pass it off as nothing—only a sudden pang, for I dare not tell Achille; but who can imagine my agony as we sped on for the rest of our journey? For we could not converse, on account of the other passengers, and my brain was in a whirl.

All at once the train began to slacken, and, in the comparative quiet, I hoped and thought possible a dozen things: the letter might have miscarried, or been sent wrong; it might have been lost; papa and mamma might have been out—plenty of things might have happened in my favour; and then we drew up at another dismal station, whose bleared lights we could see through the rain spotted windows. Here the tickets were collected, and I felt sure that the ticket collector looked suspiciously at both Achille and me; while, as we waited, I could hear them clanking in the milk tins into the great wild beast cage upon wheels that they have upon the night trains of that and, I suppose, all railways. At last, just as we were about to start, the door opened again, and a wet man jumped in, and sat there staring at us all the rest of the way.

London at last, in the darkness and misery of the early morning! It was of no use to try and keep them back, the tears would come, and even the reassuring pressure of Achille’s hand was of no avail to cheer me; for, oh! it did look so very, very, very miserable in the dark, cheerless, wet time, and I hardly knew how to stand.

“This way, sir,” said a man who appeared to be one of the guards, for he was dressed just like one. “Cab all ready, sir.”

“Merci,” replied Achille; and I clung to his arm as we followed the civil guard under the long row of dismal hanging lamps, some alight and some out, past the hissing engine, with its bright light, and warm, ruddy, glowing fire; and at that moment I did so wish that I was a happy, careless engine driver, warming myself in the cheery heat—anything but what I then was; for I was dreadfully unhappy, and, I am afraid, even a little disappointed that my fears had no suite, so strange a contradiction is a woman’s heart. However, on we went to where another man was waiting by a cab, and as soon as we approached he opened the door.

Weak, faint, and miserable, I hurried in, and leaned back trembling in a corner, expecting Achille the next moment would be at my side; but, to my horror, I saw a slight scuffle take place, and Achille dragged off. The guard-like man jumped in, shut the door after him, and pulled up the glass; while at the same moment the horrid wet cab jangled off, and the creature lowered the front window and gave some instructions to the driver.