as too
bewildered to know. I started and looked at my new husband. He seemed
to be almost as much bewildered as I was. The same thought had, as
I believe, occurred to us both at the same moment. Was it really
possible--in spite of his mother's opposition to our marriage--that we
were Man and Wife? My aunt Starkweather settled the question by a second
tap on my shoulder.

"Take his arm!" she whispered, in the tone of a woman who had lost all
patience with me.

I took his arm.

"Follow your uncle."

Holding fast by my husband's arm, I followed my uncle and the curate who
had assisted him at the marriage.

The two clergymen led us into the vestry. The church was in one of the
dreary quarters of London, situated between the City and the West
End; the day was dull; the atmosphere was heavy and damp. We were a
melancholy little wedding party, worthy of the dreary neighborhood and
the dull day. No relatives or friends of my husband's were present; his
family, as I have already hinted, disapproved of his marriage. Except
my uncle and my aunt, no other relations appeared on my side. I had lost
both my parents, and I had but few friends. My dear father's faithful
old clerk, Benjamin, attended the wedding to "give me away," as the
phrase is. He had known me from a child, and, in my forlorn position, he
was as good as a father to me.

The last ceremony left to be performed was, as usual, the signing of the
marriage register. In the confusion of the moment (and in the absence of
any information to guide me) I committed a mistake--ominous, in my aunt
Starkweather's opinion, of evil to come. I signed my married instead of
my maiden name.

"What!" cried my uncle, in his loudest and cheeriest tones, "you have
forgotten your own name already? Well, well! let us hope you will never
repent parting with it so readily. Try again, Valeria--try again."

With trembling fingers I struck the pen through my first effort, and
wrote my maiden name, very badly indeed, as follows:

Valeria Brinton

When it came to my husband's turn I noticed, with surprise, that his
hand trembled too, and that he produced a very poor specimen of his
customary signature:

Eustace Woodville

My aunt, on being requested to sign, complied under protest. "A bad
beginning!" she said, pointing to my first unfortunate signature with
the feather end of her pen. "I hope, my dear, you may not live to regret
it."

Even then, in the days of my ignorance and my i