# The Red Book Magazine/Volume 11/Number 2/The Elopers

Extracted from Red Book magazine, June 1908, pp. 177–188. Accompanying illustrations by Henry Hutt may be omitted.
The Elopers
BY JACQUES FUTRELLE
Author of “The Simple Case of Susan”
I.
WEST POINT knows only two unpardonable sins, lying and stupidity. Cadet Gillmore lied, then compounded his offense by persisting in the lie after he had been caught. There really seemed nothing else for an officer and a gentleman to do, although it meant court-martial and expulsion, the ending of a military career at its dawn. There was only a slight chance that the matter would be permitted to take any other course; that he would be allowed to resign, for instance. It was rather hard, too, because it was his last year, and it all came about innocently and simply enough.
Cadet Smythe had received a box from home. Desiring to share its contents only with those fully qualified by youth and beauty really to appreciate exquisite delicacies, he called into play his notorious strategic genius, and—well, it required tactical ability of the highest order to smuggle two pretty girls past the guard-line, up a ten foot rope ladder, and through a window into Cadet Gillmore’s room, which, by the way, was only ten feet from the ground and easier of access than Cadet Smythe’s. There were reasons why Smythe did this, but they would not have satisfied, even if with decency, they could have been laid before the wooden-headed disciplinarian in charge. Cadet Gillmore was supposed to be away on a short furlough.
First, Cadet Smythe was engaged to one of the girls without her father’s knowledge, and being rigidly excluded from the house where she was visiting, he simply had to see her: second, it was impossible to make a picnic of it, because there were three inches of snow on the ground; and third, there were twenty pounds of home-made culinary disaster peculiar to Smythe’s appreciation and he had only a seven ounce appetite. There were a dozen other reasons all bearing generally on the propositions: that it would be jolly, that it was the only way for him to see the girl, and that it was nobody’s business anyway.
The girls in the case were Eleanor Phillips, whose father objected to Cadet Smythe on the broad ground that he was a “military up-start,” whatever degree of ignominy that may express; and Dorothy Langhorne, a singularly distracting young woman with amazing eyes. The mere sight of her made Cadet Gillmore’s head swim. They had met two years before. No mere words could give the faintest conception of what he thought of her.
Dorothy didn’t want to go to the revel anyway, or rather, to be precise, she realized that neither she nor Eleanor should go because—well, the proprieties. It was another tribute to Cadet Smythe’s tactical ability that she did go, and that, too, after she had sat in final judgment
“No, I really don’t think it would be nice,” she had told Eleanor.
“Oh, nothing that’s any fun is nice, said Eleanor, thus broadly generalizing a condition long recognized.
“I wont go,” said Dorothy
“Well, I’m going, whether you do or not,” said Eleanor.
Then Dorothy had to go, smearing the general disgrace of it all over three persons thinly.
Now, Cadet Gillmore didn’t know anything about the revel in his room when he returned at eleven o'clock that night. But he joined the party enthusiastically. Innocently enough, they waxed merry, and the laughter of the girls swept through the room and out into the corridor where it started sleeping echoes into sudden activity; also a somnambulent individual whose duty it was to see, so far as lay in his power, that no cadet, by any mischance, ever enjoyed himself.
This individual rapped on the door of Cadet Gillmore’s room. Inside there was instant panic, and officially listening ears were properly shocked by a slight feminine shriek, by the rustle of skirts, the hurry of feet then—silence.
The rustle and hurry meant that Cadet Smythe had leaped from the window and that Eleanor had leaped into his arms. They really were engaged, you know, whether her father liked it or not. Then Dorothy had started to climb out.
“Run,” she whispered to the two below. They ran. Then her ankle turned and she fell back into the room, almost fainting, just as the Individual rapped again, insistently.
“Quick, behind the door!” whispered Cadet Gillmore to Dorothy. “I must answer the knock. He wont come in.”
Gillmore opened the door. He was very erect in his uniform of gray, very calm, but very white about the mouth as he raised his hand in salute.
“Who is in here, Mr. Gillmore?” asked the Individual.
“No one, sir,” said Cadet Gillmore. You see, he couldn't say anything else.
“Who has been here?”
“No one,” said Gillmore
His lips closed into a thin line; he knew the consequences
“I heard a woman laugh,” said the Individual, looking at him keenly.
“You are mistaken,” said the cadet coolly.
There was the least little pause as the two men faced each other unwaveringly. Then the Individual sniffed; yes, it was a sniff.
“Do you use violet-perfume?” he demanded.
“Frequently,” said the cadet, unblushingly.
“Will you let me come in?”
“No, sir.”
“Will you say on your honor that there is not now and has not been a woman in your room?” insisted the Individual.
“On my honor,” the cadet said steadily.
There was no retreat after that.
“I shouldn't like to have you make a mistake, Mr. Gillmore,” said the Individual, not unkindly.
“I have made none, sir,” replied the cadet, still steadily.
“Very well,” and the Individual spoke sharply now. “I shall have to lay this matter before the commanding-officer. Report to him to-morrow at ten.”
“Yes, sir,” said the cadet
It was equivalent to an arrest. The Individual so intended it: the cadet so understood it. And Dorothy knew; once her father had been colonel commanding there.
The Individual passed on and Gillmore closed the door
“You lied to him,” Dorothy gasped.
It didn’t sound well from her.
“Certainly,” said Cadet Gillmore.
“You will have to leave West Point,” she went on.
“I know it,” he replied, and his lips were closely drawn.
Dorothy winced a little at the pain in her ankle, but announced her intention of going. Then Gillmore climbed down the ladder, assisted her out, and started on with her as a matter of course.
“No, no, no!” she said hurriedly. “You mustn't. It would only make it worse if we were caught. I must go alone.”
Then, limping, and without a single good-night, she ran across an open space, into the darkness.
Thus Cadet Gillmore lied. He was an officer and a gentleman. What could he have done?
II.
Cadet Gillmore awoke suddenly with the feeling that there was some one else in the room. There was. It was Cadet Smythe. He was sitting on a trunk lighting his pipe, having burglariously entered by the window. The hour was 2 a.m. For here, be it known, trivial things like rules, even West Point rules, were not made to hold Cadet Smythe.
“Hello,” said Gillmore anxiously. “Get away all right?”
“Yes,” said Smythe. “Not a soul saw us. What happened to Dorothy? We thought she was right behind us!”
Gillmore told him all about it, and Smythe listened with deep interest, his face growing more serious as the story proceeded. At its end he whistled.
“It means you leave West Point,” he said finally.
“Yes, I know,” said Gillmore.
He was wondering if Smythe would be decent about it, and he watched Smythe’s strong face curiously as that young gentleman paced back and forth, his pipe bubbling cheerfully.
“Of course I go, too,” said Smythe at last.
Gillmore felt immensely relieved. It was good to know that a fear he had had for another’s manhood had proven without foundation.
“Of course you do not,” said Gillmore.
Smythe turned on him abruptly.
“Why not?” he demanded sharply. “Now look here, Gillmore, I’m not a blamed ninny, you know. I caused all this thing and I'll take what’s coming to me. I tell you,” he said, and he spoke as if the entire matter were already settled out of hand, “I might elope with Nell—I mean Miss Phillips, and that would—but that wouldn’t do you any good would it?”
“No,” said Gillmore, quizzically, “although I dare say it would be a source of great satisfaction to you.”
“Well, it might help,” Smythe urged. “If it ever became known—her name I mean—and all that sort of thing. I—I rather think it would help.”
“Not me,” said Gillmore. “I lied, you know.”
Smythe looked curiously at this man whose career had been sacrificed upon the altar of folly and by no act of his own, but there was no trace of anger in his face, nor blame. Yet Smythe knew how he felt; he knew how any man would feel under those circumstances.
“Suppose I should go to the colonel, man to man, and tell him all about it?” he suggested. “He would understand how you were dragged in.
“That would mean nothing, Gillmore, “except perhaps we would both go,” he said
Smythe savagely kicked the box which had contained the feast; then, after a while, wandered away, disconsolate, to his room swearing roundly, and dreamed foolish dreams of Eleanor Phillips and runaway marriages and other things which should not intrude themselves into the mind of a young man who seeks a brilliant future. In his dreams somehow, it appeared that an elopement with Eleanor would settle the problem, but dreams are illogical things.
When Cadet Gillmore presented himself to the colonel at ten o'clock that morning he was received gravely; he had been thinking of it all, and the inexorable rule which applied to his case seemed for the first time a little unjust.
The colonel talked to him almost as a father, and lent hopes of permission to resign.
When Gillmore was on his way to see Dorothy an hour later, he met Smythe, who had previously heard an account of the interview with the colonel. Now, evidently, some strange, agitating thing had happened to Smythe, for he winked almost exultingly and nervously fingered several telegraph-blanks on which he had written. He passed on and handed over the blanks to an operator in the little telegraph-office. As the operator grasped the import of the messages he grinned cheerfully and Smythe blushed.
“Going to do it this afternoon, eh?” the operator asked enigmatically.
“Yes, and if you breathe a word of it I’ll wring your neck,” said Smythe fiercely. “If her father knew! Great Scott!”
Meanwhile, Gillmore saw Dorothy. The ankle was almost well again, she told him, and then she plunged into the serious matter at hand
“What is going to happen?” she asked.
“I hope, in fact I may say, that I shall be permitted to resign, on account of illness,” said Gillmore
“Permitted—to—resign,” gasped Dorothy, and disaster was in her every tone “Give up your military future?”
“I lied, you know,” said Gillmore. “And they know it.”
“But this is your last year,” she protested.
“Well, it isn’t my fault you know,” he began. Then, as she flushed: “No. I don’t mean that it’s anybody’s fault, particularly yours. I meant simply that I was not anxious to give up the career I had planned, except—”
Then Dorothy wept, frankly and copiously, and Gillmore stood helplessly by.
Suddenly, in the midst of her weeping, Dorothy straightened up and said:
“Oh!”
It might have meant almost anything. Then she smiled.
“I’ve an idea,” she bubbled.
Gillmore had, by this time, forgotten all about the evils which beset him, in contemplation of that wonderful creature, Dorothy.
“My uncle, the secretary of war!” said Dorothy, talking rapidly, and her face flushed. “He’s in Washington. He’s a sort of a—a—something; anyhow, he has an awful lot to say about what they do at West Point. We'll go to him and tell him and then he'll fix it.”
“No,” said Gillmore. “It wouldn’t be fair to you.”
“Silly,” said Dorothy, and a charming chin was uptilted defiantly. “You have nothing to say about it. I’ll tell him. He’ll believe me; he always does. I'll tell him how we happened to be in your—your room—and everything.”
Gillmore was about to protest again.
“We can take the 1:55 train together from Garrison and be in Washington late to-night, and arrange matters at once. You will go. I was the cause of it all, and now I’ll fix it. I can wind my uncle around my finger—so.”
Gillmore looked upon woman, radiant, eager, and yielded. Perhaps she might—it was no fault of his—his career, too!
“I hate to have you feel any way responsible for what happened,” he said. “And, of course, I would not say I don’t mind leaving West Point, but I’m afraid you think I behaved very badly.”
“Behaved badly?” she exclaimed. “It was splendid of you, perfectly splendid. Meet me at the 1:55 train.”
Cadet Gillmore went his way, treading on air.
III.
Telegram from Mrs. Laura Langley Ashburton, aunt of Eleanor Phillips, to Mr. Andrew Phillips, father of Eleanor Phillips:
2:30 p.m., West Point, Feb. 24.
    Mr. Andrew Phillips,
       171 Fifth Avenue, New York City.
    Eleanor has eloped with Cadet Smythe. Left Garrison’s here at 1:55 to-day, reach New York 3:25. Dine at Hector’s. Leave by Pennsylvania at 4:55 for Washington, arrive there 10:55. Probably stop with Cadet Smythe’s sister, 1111 Massylvania Ave.
Laura.
It wouldn’t be fair to tell how Mrs. Ashburton got this information. Anyway she got it, and it was the longest telegram she ever sent. She felt it was an awful waste of money.
IV.
Dorothy and Cadet Gillmore were sitting cosily side by side on the 1:55 train, half way to New York. Dorothy was still explaining—it was really a very long explanation that had to be made—and Gillmore was listening contentedly. The real purpose of the trip didn’t matter particularly just at that moment.
“You see,” Dorothy was saying, “It wouldn’t have done a bit of good to telegraph to my Uncle Secretary; and, besides, I couldn’t have put it all in ten words to save my life. And I—I just couldn’t have written it to him. It would have seemed so—seemed so—”
“Yes, it would have,” said Gillmore.
“So, the only thing to do was to go see him. He’ll be dreadfully shocked and say he wont do it; then he’ll smile and say he will.”
Thus lightly does woman speak of the abject slavery in which she holds man.
The conversation drifted into more important channels: for instance, the color of Dorothy’s hair and her eyes. But after a while she remembered something and sat up straight, suddenly.
“That’s a beautiful photograph in your room,” she observed icily.
“Yes, she is beautiful, isn’t she?” asked Gillmore.
“Perfectly exquisite,” said Dorothy coldly. “Who is it?” she asked quite casually.
“My sister,” said Gillmore.
“Oh!” said Dorothy.
For some strange reason she smiled radiantly.
After a while New York was reached, and Gillmore led the way down the long platform, conspicuous in his uniform of gray. From the carriage-stand a driver rushed forward, seized their small satchels, looked at Cadet Gillmore, grinned, then—awful fact—he winked.
“Twenty-third Street ferry,” said Cadet Gillmore, sharply.
“Oh, I understand,” said the cabby meaningly. “Jump in quick. I knew you by the uniform.”
Dorothy and the cadet stepped inside, the door was slammed, and they were about to move away. Then the door was thrown open violently and the red, excited face of an elderly gentleman with aggressive side-whiskers was thrust in. Dorothy screamed and drew back, startled.
“Oh, I beg your pardon,” said the elderly gentleman. He was startled, too. “I thought it was some one else.”
The cab rattled away toward Broadway. It drew up in front of Hector’s. The cabby jumped down and ran to the door.
“Here you are, sir,” he grinned.
“Why, it’s a restaurant.” exclaimed Dorothy, and from her tone one might have thought a restaurant was the last depth of iniquity
“Good idea,” commented Gillmore. “I’m starving. We have an hour and a half to get to the ferry.”
“Yes, sir, that’s all right,” said the cabby. “Right up those steps. Everything is waiting. It was all fixed.”
They climbed the stairs, were seized upon by an obsequious waiter and ushered into a private dining-room. There was one table, only one set for two.
“You see, we are ready, sir.” said the waiter. “You will be served immediately.”
They were. They took it as a matter of course.
It was at the entrée that the door was thrown open fiercely and an elderly gentleman with aggressive side-whiskers thrust himself in.
“How dare you, sir?” he began thunderously.
Then, looking into the amazed faces before him he blushed crimson.
“Oh, I beg your pardon,” he stammered. “I—I thought you were some one else.”
He disappeared as suddenly as he had come.
“His face seems awfully familiar to me,” said Dorothy.
“Yes, he’s the lunatic who looked in the cab,” said Gillmore. “Something seems to be troubling him.”
“I wonder what it can be?” said Dorothy.
“I can’t imagine,” said the cadet.
Dinner engrossed their attention for an hour, then they left Hector’s and the cabby appeared at their side
“Yes, sir. Twenty-third Street ferry now, sir. I understand. It’s all right, sir.”
Away they rattled. Half an hour later they were in the great depot in Jersey City, where they were eagerly seized by a grinning attendant who took their bags by force, and rushed them down the platform.
“I understand, sir,” he said, and another awful fact, he winked. “Right this way, private apartment.”
Wonderingly they were piloted into the small room and the door slammed. Dorothy gasped as she sat down.
“Did you arrange for all this?” she asked.
“No,” said Gillmore. “It’s just coming to us. But it’s what we want, so there’s no objection.”
The train moved out, and watching the hideous panorama of Jersey City through the same window they were silent for a time.
“Something is going to happen in a minute,” said Gillmore, finally.
“What?” asked Dorothy, a little startled.
An elderly gentleman with aggressive side-whiskers peered in, saw, blushed, and stammered:
“Oh, I beg your pardon. I thought you were some one else.”
Then he disappeared.
“That’s it,” said Gillmore, triumphantly.
“His face is awfully familiar to me,” Dorothy said again. “What can he want?”
“I think it’s some sort of a game,” said Gillmore easily. “He’s It.”
Newark, Philadelphia, Baltimore, and at last the lights of Washington.
“I’ll go to the Hotel Hilliard to-night where my uncle is,” said Dorothy, “and we'll see him together early to-morrow.”
The train pulled into the station and a grinning attendant rushed them to a closed carriage. They were getting quite accustomed to it; they did not ask questions nor protest. The driver of the carriage was closing the door.
“Hotel Hilliard,” Gillmore ordered.
He knew instinctively they were going there anyway.
“Lordy, suh, I knows,” and a cheerful grin spread far back in an ebony countenance. “Yas, suh. I knows all about it.”
The driver scrambled to his seat.
“Now, Mr. Side-whiskers, and we’re off,” said Gillmore. “He'll tag us again in a minute.”
Dorothy laughed a little, and as if echoing Gillmore’s remarks the ruby face of the elderly gentleman appeared in the carriage-door.
“Oh, I beg your pardon,” said Gillmore quickly. “I thought you were some one else.”
The elderly gentleman’s lips formed the words mechanically, as they were taken out of his mouth.
Then the carriage turned into Pennsylvania Avenue. Dorothy laughed again and grew a little hysterical; so much so that Gillmore had to take hold of her hand to soothe her. It was an awfully nice hand, smooth as velvet and warm and cosy. Gillmore held it all the way up Pennsylvania Avenue. She grew much better.
The carriage drew up at the side entrance of the Hilliard, and there the usual thing happened. Grinning attendants rushed them to the second floor.
“But look here—” Gillmore began, protestingly.
“Oh, we know, sir,” said an attendant. “He’s in here. Sorry, but he’s deaf as a post. The only one we could find, though.”
Dorothy and Gillmore looked about them. They were in a small parlor off the main parlor, and now approaching them was a brusquely business-like gentleman of the cloth. Just behind him was a woman, evidently an employee of the hotel; the attendant had gone.
“Join hands,” brusquely commanded the gentleman of the cloth.
Dorothy’s hand involuntarily sought Gillmore’s—and found it. It always seemed to be just where she could reach it in great emergencies like this.
“Two witnesses are needed,” said the gentleman of the cloth. “There’s only one here.”
Just at that psychological moment the door opened suddenly and an elderly gentleman with aggressive side-whiskers rushed in with hand upraised.
“I forbid—” he began.
“You'll do,” said the gentleman of the cloth. “Stand still, please.”
Then he began mumbling words as he groped uncertainly through the pages of a book he held—a black book. For one brief instant Dorothy and Gillmore stood silent, then Dorothy screamed.
“Why, he’s marrying us,” she said.
Deafly the brusque voice droned on to the “love, honor, and obey” clause, then Gillmore raised his hand imperiously.
“Stop!” he commanded.
Being absorbed in his book. and deaf, the gentleman of the cloth calmly proceeded.
“Stop! I say,” Gillmore cried again, “How dare you marry us when we are not looking?”
The droning voice went on. Quick, vigorous action was necessary.
“Run!” said Dorothy.
Hand in hand they fled from the voice which was just saying: “I pronounce you man and wife.”
Dorothy never recalled clearly what happened after that. When she fully recovered she was in the apartments of her uncle and aunt on the third floor. The secretary of war had gone down-stairs seeking a reason for her sudden appearance. In the lobby he met an elderly gentleman with aggressive side-whiskers, who was raging, positively raging.
“What's the matter, Phillips?” asked the secretary.
“Matter?” roared the elderly gentleman. “look at that confounded telegram just forwarded to me from New York.”
He extended a hand trembling with anger and the secretary took the yellow slip.
It said:
    Knowing you objected to me I ran away with Eleanor this afternoon and we were married. Intended to go to my sister’s in Washington, and later come to New York for your forgiveness, but missed train, so came to Peekskill instead. Both send love.
Smythe.
The secretary of war laughed.
“Love!” snorted Mr. Phillips.
V.
The next day the Secretary of War went out for a walk, early, and being a busy man stopped in his office to dispose of two or three trivial matters. There Dorothy and Cadet Gillmore presented themselves, blushing guiltily when the surprised eye of the Secretary focused them.
“Well?” he asked of Dorothy
He had never met the cadet.
Dorothy promptly wept—she had always found that an excellent way to begin with Uncle Secretary—then she introduced them.
“Un—uncle, this is Ca—ca—cadet Gill—Gi—Gillmore,” she said.
The secretary glared fiercely at Gillmore, whom he blamed vaguely for this sudden outburst, then he took his pretty niece in his arms to comfort her. Lucky secretary!
“There, there!” he said soothingly. “What is it?”
“Ca—ca—cadet Gill—gi—gillmore is going to be expelled from West Point,” Dorothy bubbled at last.
The secretary seemed surprised, then glanced inquiringly at the cadet.
“For lying,” said Gillmore, grimly answering the question. He was not a man to soften a fact with gentle words.
“Lying?” repeated the secretary. “Lying? But—but what has my niece to do with it?”
“He—he lied because I made said Dorothy. “I’ll—I’ll tell you when I stop cry—crying.”
There was a tense silence. The secretary led Dorothy to a chair, then took a seat at his desk, and waited with the judicial eye of a man who is about to pronounce sentence. The accused stood. At last Dorothy recovered a little.
“You see, uncle,” she began, “it wasn’t really anything. I was in Cadet Gillmore’s room last night at midnight and——”
“What?” exclaimed the secretary as he arose.
“There, I knew I'd start wrong,” Dorothy, and she wept afresh.
The secretary’s face was white now and his hands tightly clenched, but Gillmore’s eyes were unflinching.
“Perhaps Mr. Gillmore had better tell the story,” said the secretary, almost fiercely.
“No,” said Dorothy, as she stood up, suddenly calm. “No, I'll tell it. It was my fault.”
Then she told it all—and as she talked the secretary's face gradually softened, and after awhile there was even a faint glimmer of amusement in his eyes.
“I perfectly understand your motive, Mr. Gillmore,” he said at the end. “If I can do nothing in this matter you will be court-martialed, of course. Would you, in that case, adhere to the mis-statement of fact you have made?”
“I should, sir, most certainly,” was the emphatic response.
“Even if you knew it meant expulsion?”
“Even knowing that.”
There was a pause. Dorothy had done her part and sat looking with strained attention at the two men. The secretary broke the silence.
“You only ask for permission to resign, I believe?”
Cadet Gillmore’s face went white.
“That was all, sir,” he replied.
“That isn’t fair, uncle,” Dorothy burst out, passionately. “He should not—”
The secretary smiled—the smile she loved—and crossed to Cadet Gillmore.
“Mr. Gillmore.” he said, “I should like to tell you that you have acted as a gentleman should have, and I want to thank you. Your hand, sir.”
A flush flamed up in the face of the cadet. He didn’t speak because there seemed to be something in his throat, but the hand-pressure was sincere.
“Then, it’s all right?” Dorothy asked breathlessly.
“I think it may be arranged,” said the secretary.
Then he scolded his pretty niece ever so gently, until she ended it all with a smacking kiss on his lips. Finally he sent some telegrams, dreadfully long, and in that mysterious way known only to men in high positions, disposed of the matter.
“Now, that’s all,” said the secretary. “I’m busy. Both of you go now.”
But it wasn’t all at all. Dorothy looked at the cadet and the cadet looked at Dorothy.
“You ask him,” she said and she blushed.
“Please, sir,” said the cadet, “I should like to ask you if we are married?”
“What?” demanded the secretary. “What?” and again: “What?”
“Yes, uncle,” said Dorothy, “there was a ceremony, you know, but we don’t know if it took.”
“Seems to me you should be the best judges of whether or not you are married,” said the secretary. “What is all this, anyway?”
Together they told him the happenings in the little parlor of the Hilliard. He listened attentively.
“Did either of you refuse to marry the other?” he asked.
“No, sir,” said Gillmore.
“No, sir,” echoed Dorothy.
“Did he pronounce you man and wife?”
“Yes, but we were running away as fast as we could,” said Dorothy.
The secretary thought for a long time, and then:
“Well, I’m afraid you are sort of married—that is, I mean—of course—that is, I don’t know,” he ended helplessly.
“Well, what had we better do?” asked Gillmore anxiously
“Goodness, I don’t know,” replied the secretary. “What would you like to be, married or unmarried?”
“Married,” said Gillmore promptly.
“What? All sudden like that, without any proposal or anything?” demanded Dorothy.
“It does seem to me rather late for a proposal,” said the secretary, dryly, “but if—”
Then he caught a certain happy little look in Dorothy’s eyes.
“Say, you young people get out of here; tell my wife about it. Settle it to suit yourselves. I think perhaps—”
Whatever he thought is lost to history. He returned to his work in a daze as Dorothy and Gillmore went away. Solemnly they discussed the problem at the hotel, because it is a serious thing not to know whether or not you are married. Cadet Gillmore was positive that the ceremony was legal: he was even insistent on this point
“But I don’t feel married a bit,” said Dorothy.
“Perhaps this might make the illusion more complete,” said Gillmore.
He leaned suddenly forward and kissed her.
“Suppose we get married just to settle the question once for all,” he suggested. “This suspense is awful.”
“I’m sorry you find it so,” said Dorothy icily.
Really, theres no need of going into details. If you had seen Dorothy and the cadet a few minutes later you would have seen her looking at him with amazing love in her eyes and his arm about her.
VI.
The secretary of war and wife entertained two guests at dinner that evening, these being Dorothy and Cadet Gillmore. Suddenly, in the middle of the dinner, Dorothy caught sight of some one and sat up straight.
“Oh, look there,” she exclaimed. “It’s Eleanor and Cadet Smythe and the old gentleman with the whiskers. I knew I had seen him: it’s Eleanor’s father.”
After dinner there was a mass meeting.
“Well, what are you doing here?” was the simultaneous query from each side.
“We're married,” said Cadet Smythe, proudly “Yes, we eloped and came on here. Eleanor’s father met us and has forgiven us.”
He turned to the elderly gentleman.
“Mr. Phillips,” he said, “a friend of mine from West Point, Cadet Gillmore. My father-in-law, Gillmore,” he explained.
“We've met before,” said Gillmore, as he shook hands.
“Yes, frequently,” said Mr. Phillips, grimly
“When?” asked Smythe
“Oh, he was a witness at one of our weddings,” said Gillmore, easily.
“One of your what?” demanded Smythe.
“Our first marriage, wasn’t it, my dear?” and Gillmore turned to Dorothy.
“Yes, our first,” Dorothy.
Then the mass meeting explained, each side to the other
“How were the arrangements?” asked Smythe, quizzically
“Fine,” said Gillmore
“I’m glad of that,” said Smythe. “I fixed it all by wire for Eleanor and myself, but she stopped for a tooth-brush so we missed the train and went to Peekskill.”
Over in a corner Mr. Phillips was talking to the secretary of war.
“Bright chap, Smythe,” he was saying. “Awfully bright. Fooled me, all right. Sent me off chasing Gillmore and your niece and he and Eleanor went to Peekskill. He'll make a general some day.”
This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse