“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.