CHAPTER XLVI.
TOO MUCH HASTE DEFEATS ITS OBJECT.
Dumb with amazement and indignation, Cecil stood passive in the clasp of her clinging arms, while she raved on:
“Oh, Cecil, he is so terrible in his wrath! He threatened such terrible things! He swore that I should never be your wife! Oh, I am so frightened, so wretched! Would that I were dead!”
“Poor Amber! All this comes of loving me! Oh, I was wrong to accept your generosity, I was wrong to make you my betrothed; I should have known that sorrow would come of it!” exclaimed Cecil, in deep agitation and sympathy, although no throb of love stirred his heart for the beautiful girl clinging to him in such passionate love.
“No, no,” cried Amber, wildly, still holding him, though he tried to place her gently back in the chair. “No, no, dear Cecil, never say that sorrow came of our betrothal, for it is the pride and glory of my life; and I would that we might be wedded this hour that I might dismiss the haunting fears of being torn away from you by that wicked old man, my grandfather. Ah, Cecil, darling, would that you loved me well enough to make me yours to-day!”
The wild words were uttered, and she waited in sickening suspense and shame for his answer. She knew, though she dared not look up at his deathly pale face, how surprised and perhaps disgusted he must feel at her bold hints, almost entreaties, for an immediate marriage.
He was indeed silent a few minutes from surprise and trouble, then he said, gently:
“Calm yourself, dear Amber, for there is no cause for these tears. You need not fear Judge Camden, for you shall remain with us at Bonnycastle, in my mother’s charge until—until I can make arrangements for our early marriage.”
Ah, how cruelly it pained his heart, still sore and aching from Violet’s loss, to promise Amber an early marriage; but her distress wounded him, and the debt of gratitude he owed her must be paid, at any cost.
But her agitation only increased, and she cried, in anguish:
“Alas, alas, he may come at any moment to tear me from you! Oh, Cecil, dear Cecil, forgive me if I seem unmaidenly—if I speak where I ought to be silent; but I swear to you that my whole life’s happiness rests on your instant decision, and on the keeping of your faith with me!”
“What would you have me do, Amber?” he asked, in a perplexed tone, thinking to himself that although her terrors were exaggerated, it was best to humor her hysterical mood.
With a great throb of hope at her heart, she answered:
“I can never be safe from that vindictive old man until I am your wife, dear Cecil; and if you care for me, if you value my happiness at all, surely you will consent to my wish. Listen: my phaeton is at the gate waiting. Let us fly this hour to Washington and be married. Then we can return and defy my tyrannical guardian!”
There was a long pause. Amber hid her face against his shoulder, and the mother and son looked at each other, his eyes questioning, hers grave, but—affirmative.
“You cannot refuse,” her grave eyes said, sadly enough, for she was shocked and pained at the girl’s boldness.
Amber lifted her head proudly.
“I am refused. Very well, I will go,” she began, drawing back from him, but he answered, quietly:
“You are hasty, Amber; I was about to say that it should be as you wish. You will excuse me one moment while I get ready,” and he went out, soon returning wrapped in his thick fur-lined overcoat, for a long, cold drive lay before them, and the air was thick with snowflakes.
Surely never was elopement so quickly planned before, for in ten minutes they were seated in the phaeton warmly wrapped about in heavy robes, and the gray pony was skimming over the road to Washington, bearing the handsome pair—Amber thrilling with joy, Cecil heavy-hearted and miserable.
The air was keenly cold, and the snow began to fall so fast that the air was thick with whirling flakes. Amber held the reins herself, and urged the pony to his highest speed as they flew over mile after mile of the lonely road in the gloom of the wintry afternoon.
Every moment was an hour to her impatient heart until they should reach the minister’s and be made one ere Cecil learned that his fair young love, so cruelly torn away from him, was already widowed and had always been true to him at heart. Let but this knowledge reach him ere the marriage, and Amber knew that all her hopes would be overthrown.
It frightened her to think of the letter to Cecil lying hidden on her breast inside the folds of her warm sealskin jacket, and she determined to destroy it at the very first opportunity.
They were five miles on their way now, and they had come so fast that the gray pony was reeking with sweat in spite of the wintry cold. Cecil ventured to expostulate, but she turned on him with a white, reproachful face.
“One would think you were reluctant to reach Washington!” she exclaimed.
“You mistake me, dear Amber; but you will kill the poor animal if you keep up this rate of speed!”
For answer she touched the pony’s back with the whip, and the brave little animal flew forward like the wind, maintaining its high rate of speed for half a mile.
Then—perhaps from exhaustion, perhaps from some obstruction in the road—Cecil never knew which—an accident happened.
The brave pony stumbled and fell, and Cecil and Amber were both thrown violently out of the phaeton, on either side of the road into the soft white bed of snow with which Mother Nature was spreading the earth.