Now the old man, who had evidently thought better of it, came running out with a great hullabaloo, and behind him the maids, whom he had summoned, with lamps and candles. He threw himself between mother and daughter and let loose. "My dear child, if the blessing of a loving father----" She shook him off--just like a wet dog. With a jump into the carriage--I behind--off! CHAPTER VII There we were seated together. Torches flickering at the gate. Then everything dark and black. Gentlemen, that was a memorable ride! The carriage wheels splashed through the mud puddles--ss--ss--ss. The wind whistled and howled. The rain drummed on the top of the carriage--tara tata! Tara tata! "And now, what are you going to do with her?" I asked myself. She was not to be seen, heard, or felt. As if I were driving through the night absolutely by myself. It was not until we reached the woods and the light from the lanterns shone on the wet birch trees so that a gleam of light was reflected back into the carriage that I saw her cowering in the corner as though she were trying to press through the side and throw herself out. Good Heavens! Such a poor little thing! Bereft of all that made up her old existence and beholding in her new world nothing but an oldish fellow who had just been dead drunk. The devil! How ashamed of myself I felt. "Iolanthe." But, of course, I had to say something. Not a sound. "Are you afraid of me?" "Yes." "Won't you give me your hand?" "Yes." "Where is it?" "Here." Slowly--very slowly--something soft touched my sleeve. I caught it, I held it fast, I covered it up. Poor thing! Poor thing! And at the same time a kind of--I might call it "sacred fire" if I wanted to be sentimental--took possession of me. In my hour of need, I found beautiful, warm, comforting words to say to her. "You see, Iolanthe," I said, "you are now my wife. There's no changing that. And, after all, you wanted it yourself. But you mustn't suppose I shall bother you with all sorts of amorous ways and make demands. It is a true friend who is sitting here beside you--I may say a fatherly friend, if you can get any comfort out of that--because I haven't the least idea of trying to disguise the fact that I am much older than you. So, my dear, if your heart is heavy and if you want to cry to your heart's content, you'll never find a breast on which you can rest more securely. Always come to me for refuge, just come to me even if you do feel that I am the enemy from whom you are seeking refuge." That was very nicely said, wasn't it? It was inspired by my sympathy and by my pure unqualified good will. Poor old me! As if a little bit of youthful fervour were not worth a thousand times more than the deepest sympathy and all that. But at the moment the impression of what I said was so strong that I myself was frightened.