But they were not.
That very afternoon, just as we were sitting down to tea, two gentlemen drove up in the station fly, and one of them came in and asked to see the landlord.
Harry came out to him, and I followed.
“Have you had a young gentleman and lady staying here lately?”
“Yes, sir,” I said, beginning to tremble, for I expected something dreadful was coming. “Yes, sir; they came yesterday.”
“Are they here now?”
“No, sir, they left this afternoon.”
The gentleman said something—it was only one word, but it meant a good deal. He said “D——!”
“If you please, sir, is there anything wrong about them?” I asked, feeling that I must know the truth.
“Wrong? I should think there was!” the gentleman yelled out—he really did yell it. “I’m that young lady’s guardian, and she’s a ward in Chancery, and that young scoundrel’s married her without my consent—without the Lord Chancellor’s consent—and he’ll spend his honeymoon in Holloway. That’s what’s wrong.”