They had been married many years, but they were a very kindly Darby and Joan, and the wife felt as if she could not break to her husband the news that she had to tell.
“Why, Martha, what is the matter?”
“Oh, John, God help us, for something terrible has happened!”
“Don’t give way, dearie; we have borne some troubles together, and we will meet this. Tell me what it is. Is it anything about Mary?”
“Yes, it is. Mary—Mary is gone!”
“Gone where?”
“Ah, that is it! Mary has not slept in her room, and she is not in the house. No one has seen her this morning, and she is not to be found anywhere. I have questioned the servants; I have searched every room.”
Here the poor woman’s feeling quite overcame her, and Mr. Wythburn placed her on the couch and went straight to his daughter’s apartment.
It was true. The dainty little room was in perfect order, save for the wedding finery that overflowed the wardrobe and occupied some of the chairs. The bed was not disturbed, and the gas was burning as it was last night. There was not a scrap of paper anywhere to explain the strange absence of the bride; only one thing was certain—that she was gone! Vague fears took possession of the father’s mind: there must have been foul play, for surely no girl in her senses would run away from her own wedding! But what was to be done? Of course there could be no marriage without a bride, and the bridegroom must be warned. Mr. Wythburn tried to control himself, but his face was ghastly and his hands were shaking. His thoughts turned to Margaret Miller: he knew that she would keep her senses and prove reliable, and at that moment she appeared.
“What is it, Mr. Wythburn? Mary is not here. Ah! do not be unnecessarily alarmed; Mary will explain it. Nothing has happened to her.”