“I will fix things,” said this young man to himself; “I will marry my little ‘prairie flower’ here and now, and then all the fathers in creation cannot compel me to marry anybody else.”
Whereupon, he broached the subject to Miss Mabel, who—though she shrank from a secret marriage, as any pure-minded, conscientious girl would do—found that her affection for her handsome lover was stronger than her sense of filial duty, and she reluctantly yielded to young Bromley’s persuasions.
They were very quietly married on Christmas eve, and young Bromley sailed for Europe the first day of January, but promised faithfully that he would return in season to accompany his wife to her home, upon her graduation from school, the following summer, when he would bear all the responsibility of their union, and boldly claim her of her father; her mother was not living.
Letters passed between them every week, and they continued to be very happy in the knowledge of the secret tie that united them. Young Bromley found that ill health had prompted his father to summon him home, for the cares pertaining to Sir Charles Bromley’s estate had become too heavy for him, and he needed help.
The marriage with the distant cousin was broached, for the baronet earnestly wished to see his son settled in life, while, too, he had an eye to the welding of two fortunes, which would result from the union; but when he discovered his son’s opposition to such an alliance, he did not urge it, for he was no tyrant, and believed a man had the right to choose his own wife.
The old gentleman became so much better as the summer drew on apace, he consented to allow the young man to complete his interrupted tour in America, and the little wife so patiently awaiting him was finally made supremely happy by having the day fixed for his sailing.
But, alas! just the week previous to her graduation, there came a letter stating that Sir Charles had been prostrated by a stroke of paralysis, and the young husband could not leave until his father was declared out of danger.
This was a terrible blow, and at first it seemed as if she could not bear it; but her friend and confidante, Helen Atwood, wrote to Mr. Lyttleton, begging that Mabel might be allowed to remain with her during the remainder of the summer, as her parents were going abroad for three or four months, and she would be very lonely during their absence. This petition was granted, greatly to the delight of the two friends, who retired to Mr. Atwood’s country home, a few miles out of the city, to rusticate and enjoy each other’s companionship, and most earnestly hoping that Mr. Bromley would put in an appearance before the visit should come to an end.
The latter part of August there came a letter from Bromley Court, announcing the death of the baronet, after a second attack of paralysis; the next week the waiting wife received another letter, saying that, at last, her husband was free to come to her, and would sail five days later, and would be with her in a little more than a week afterward. But the steamer on which he sailed was the ill-fated Catalonia, which was wrecked the sixth day out, its few survivors being picked up the following morning by another vessel. But, alas! among the names of the passengers who were lost was that of Sir Charles Bromley.
The news of this terrible tragedy, coming, as it did, just at the moment when her cup of joy seemed full, was more than the waiting wife could bear. As her horrified glance fell upon the name of her idolized husband in the list of the dead, a shriek of agony burst from her lips, and she sank to the floor in strong convulsions, the fatal paper clutched in her rigid hands.