There would be a scene, he well knew, when he brought the young girl back to the old folks. But it would surely end by their forgiving her. They could not hold out against her very long.
"You are—sure—it—it—would be right, Mr. Ainsley?" she faltered.
"You must not call me 'mister' sweet one," he cried. "To you I shall be 'Royal' from now on to eternity. Let me manage this affair, my darling," he added.
All power of resistance seemed swallowed up by his indomitable will.
"Go to the cloak-room, my love," he whispered, "and change your attire as quickly as you can. I will meet you at the fountain nearest the entrance. Not one word to either of your friends, Ida," he said, warningly. "Promise me that!"
There was no crossing him. Indeed, the very power to even think for herself seemed to have left her.
Like one in a dream, Ida May donned her street clothes, the thought filling her mind of what Hildegarde and Lily would say when it was unmasking time and they came to look for her. How startled they would be!
Outside all was confusion. There was a great crush of carriages, the babble of coachmen and footmen, the crunching of wheels, and the calling of numbers. To the girl whom Royal Ainsley led on to so strange a fate it seemed like a dream. Some one followed with their wheels. Royal Ainsley took them from the man, and she saw him toss him several pieces of silver.
He did not tell her that he had written a note to an old minister, living two miles out of the village, asking him to remain at home to marry them. No name had been signed to the note; but he had argued to himself that the minister, who probably was sadly in need of making an extra dollar, would stay at home to perform the ceremony. If his plans matured well, all well and good; if they miscarried, well, no one would be the wiser as to who sent the letter.
He assisted her to mount her wheel, and, as if in a dream, they went speeding down the boulevard.