Part 21 (1/2)
Mrs. Mundy, who had been told of their coming, opened the door for them in dressing-gown and slippers, and piloted them up-stairs and into my sitting-room, where Madeleine, at sight of Selwyn, burst into tears and buried her face on my shoulder. But the ten minutes were not entirely lost which pa.s.sed before we understood why the venture had been decided upon at this particular time, and how hard luck had prevented its fulfilment. Tears are effective. Selwyn weakened as rapidly as I could have wished.
”I haven't seen Harrie for two weeks. Ever since I've been here he's been writing me he was sick.” Madeleine's words came stumblingly, and the corners of her handkerchief were pulled with nervous movements in between the wiping of her pretty brown eyes. ”The day after Christmas I wrote him, breaking our engagement. I've never heard from him since. I don't even know that he got my letter.”
Questioningly she looked at Selwyn, and her face, already colored, crimsoned yet more deeply.
”Neither do I.” Selwyn's voice was gentle. Indignation at his and my involvement in what was not an affair of ours seemed to have vanished. ”I redirected a number of letters to his new address, but--”
”His new address?” Madeleine looked puzzled. ”I didn't know he had a new address.”
”He is not living at home just now.” The flush in Selwyn's face deepened also. ”I have not seen him since Christmas day. But go on.
I did not mean to interrupt you.”
”Three days ago Madeleine told her mother she'd broken with Harrie and was going to marry me.” Tom was no longer to be repressed.
”She's had the devil of a time ever since, and yesterday I told her she shouldn't stand it any longer, and neither would I. Harrie has hypnotized her mother. She thinks--”
”I'm unkind and unsympathetic and hard and cruel to give him up because he is not well. It isn't that. You know it isn't that--”
Madeleine's fingers twisted in appeal and again her eyes were on Selwyn. ”You think it's dreadful in me not to marry your brother--”
”No, I don't. I think it would be much more dreadful in you if you did marry him.” Selwyn's hands made gesture. ”However, we'll leave that out. You say you told your mother you intended to marry Tom?”
Handkerchief to her lips, she nodded. ”I told her, and Tom wrote her, asking her consent. She wouldn't give it, and said I was ungrateful and had no ambition, and that if she had a stroke I'd be the cause. She's never had a stroke and is very healthy, but--”
Bursting into fresh tears, Madeleine this time hid her face in her hands, and Tom, wanting much to comfort, miserably ignorant of how to do it, and consciously awkward and restrained in the presence of witnesses, stood by her side, his hand on her shoulder, and at sight of him I reached swift decision.
”I'm glad you told her. You've been open and square and asked her consent. One can't wait indefinitely for consent to do things.” I got up and took Madeleine by the hand. ”Come in my room and take off your hat and coat. When we come back we'll talk about what is best to do.”
Five minutes later we were back and, eyes bathed and face powdered, Madeleine gave evidence of fresh injections of courage, and quickly we began to plan. The 4 A.M. train was the best to take, but for half an hour we talked of whether Shelby or Claxon was the better town to go to for the marriage ceremony, which at either place could be performed without the consent of parent or guardian, and irrespective of the age of the applicants for the same. Though preferring Shelby, Tom agreed to Claxon on my insisting on the latter place, which was the Mecca for runaway couples from our section of the state. If I were going with them--
”Going with them?” The inflection in Selwyn's voice was hardly polite. ”You don't intend--”
”Yes, I do. They've made a mess of the first try and they'll be caught and brought back if somebody isn't there to keep them from being held up. I'm going with them.”
”How do you expect to hold off--the holding up?” Selwyn was staring at me and anxiety concerning Harrie was for the time in abeyance. He needed something to distract him. ”What are you going to do?” he asked.
”I don't know--don't have to know until to-morrow--I mean later to-day.” I motioned toward the hall and, following me into it, he partly closed the door behind us. ”We'll let those children have a chance to say good night, and then please go home. And don't look at me like that! I don't approve of runaway marriages any more than you do. I'd never be a party to one, because I wouldn't marry an angel-man before I was twenty-one. Afterward running away wouldn't be necessary. Tom and Madeleine are not entirely to blame.”
”The blame for this will be put on you. Mrs. Swink will credit you with the instigation and carrying out of the whole affair. You mustn't go with them, Danny. It isn't necessary.”
”Maybe it isn't, but I'm going. I can't let a girl of Madeleine's age leave the house alone at half past three in the morning, and certainly I cannot let Tom come here for her. We will get to Claxon at ten o'clock and by that time Mrs. Swink will have finished her swooning and be working the wires. They'll certainly be held up at Claxon.”
”Then why go there? Why not go on to Shelby?”
I shook my head. ”Claxon is the better place. I don't know how it's going to be managed, but if one couldn't outmanoeuver mother Swink--.
It doesn't matter about my being blamed for helping them. Long usage has accustomed me to large shares of blame.” I held out my hand.
”I'll be back to-morrow night. Come Thursday. I think by then--”
”There are few things you will let me share with you, but the blame that will come from this I am going to share whether you let me or not. I've gotten you into it and we'll see it through together. If you are going with them, I am going also. Good night.” He dropped the hand he was holding and turned away. ”Tell Tom I'm waiting, will you?”
CHAPTER XXIV