Kidnapped at the Altar: or, The Romance of that Saucy Jessie Bain

The detective bowed himself out of her presence, and left the house, musing on the mysterious robbery, and saying to himself: "I would be far more apt to suspect the lady of the house than that young girl."

He sighed and went on his way; but all day long, while immersed in the business which usually was of such an exciting nature that he had no time for any other thought, the lovely face of Jessie Bain rose up before him.

He threw down his pen at last in despair.

"I must be bewitched," he muttered. "If I were a younger man I would certainly say that I had fallen in love. I must find out where that girl has gone, and have a little talk with her. I can not bring myself to believe that she stole that bracelet."

He put on his hat and reached for his cane.

"I can not say how long it will be before I shall return," he said to his fellow detective in charge of the office.

In the meantime, in her lonely mansion, Mrs. Varrick was writing a long letter to her son. In it she expressed the hope that he was having a pleasant time, and that he must not hurry home, but stay and attend to business thoroughly, even though it took him a little longer. But not one word did she mention of Jessie Bain. So preoccupied was she with her own thoughts that she did not know Hubert had entered the room until she heard his voice.

"I will save you the trouble of posting your letter, mother. I see it is addressed to me. You can read me the contents in person."

Chapter XIII.

"I LOVE JESSIE BAIN WITH ALL MY HEART AND SOUL!"

Mrs. Varrick started back with a low cry.

"Is it you, Hubert?"

"Yes; but upon my honor, mother, you don't seem overglad to see me."

"I thought you were to have been gone a fortnight."

"I succeeded in getting the business attended to much more speedily than you thought it could be done. I did not make any visits, as I was anxious to get home. But, mother, how white and ill you look!" he added.

"I am quite well, but I have been suffering from a nervous headache, Hubert," she answered.

"By the way," he said suddenly, "I did not forget to bring a few little souvenirs home with me," and as he spoke he drew two small velvet cases from his pocket, one of which he handed his mother, retaining the other in his hand.

Opening it, Mrs. Varrick found that it contained a magnificent diamond bracelet.

"That is to match, as near as possible, the beautiful bracelet you already have, mother," he said, carelessly.

She reeled back as though he had struck her a sudden blow, and looked at him with terror in her eyes.

"What is there in that other little velvet case?" she asked, as he made no move to hand it to her.

"It is not for you, mother," he responded. "It is for Jessie."

He pressed the little spring and the lid of the purple velvet box flew back, and there, lying on its shimmering satin bed, she beheld a beautiful little turquois ring set with tiny diamonds.

"Jessie has never had a ring in all her life," he declared, "and it will please me to be the one to present her with the first one that will ever grace her little hand. Girl-like, she is fond of such trinkets. The sparkle of the tiny diamonds will delight her as nothing else has done in her whole life."

A discordant laugh broke from Mrs. Varrick's lips.

"Ay, the glitter of diamonds pleases her. How well you know the girl!" she cried shrilly. "But for glittering diamonds she might have lived a happy enough life of it. Will people ever learn the lesson that they can not pick up girls from the depths of poverty and obscurity and transplant then into elegant surroundings and expect good to come of it?"

"This present is very inexpensive," declared Hubert. "Won't you please ring for Jessie to come to us? I am anxious to see if it is the right size. It will be fun to see her big blue eyes open and hear her exclaim in dismay: 'Oh, Mr. Varrick, is it really for me?' Girls at her age are enthusiastic, and their joy is genuine upon receiving any little token of esteem."

Again Mrs. Varrick laughed that harsh, discordant laugh.

"The ring is very pretty, Hubert," she said ironically, "but Jessie Bain would never thank you for so inexpensive a gift. That diamond bracelet is much more to her fancy."

"Girls of her age might fancy diamond bracelets, but they would never care to possess them, because they could not wear them, as they would be entirely out of place."

For the third time that harsh, shrill laugh from Mrs. Varrick's lips filled the room.

"I repeat, this bracelet would be more to her fancy," she added, grimly.

"If you will not ring for Jessie, I will do it myself," said Hubert, good-humoredly; adding: "You are just a little bit jealous, mother, and wish to keep me all to yourself, I imagine."

But ere he could reach the bell-rope she had swiftly followed him and laid a detaining hand on his arm.

She had put off the telling of her story from moment to moment, but it had to be told now.

"You need not take the trouble to ring that bell," she said, "for it would be useless – quite useless."

"Why, what do you mean?" he asked, in unfeigned astonishment, thinking that perhaps she meant to forbid him giving the girl the little ring; and he grew nettled at that thought.

He said to himself that he was over one-and-twenty, and was entitled to do as he pleased in such matters.

"Listen, Hubert; I have something to tell you, and you must hear me out. Come and sit on this sofa beside me. I can tell you better then."

"What is the meaning of all this secrecy, mother?" he cried.

"To begin with," slowly began Mrs. Varrick, "Jessie Bain is no longer under this roof."

He looked at her as though he did not fully take in the meaning of her words.

"I will tell you the whole story, my son," she said; "but promise me first that you will not interrupt me, no matter how much you may be inclined to do so, and that you will hear without comment all that I have to say."

"Do I understand you to say that Jessie Bain is not here?" he cried.

"Promise not to interrupt me and I will tell you all."

He bowed his head in acknowledgment, though he did not gratify her by saying as much in so many words.

Slowly, in a clear, shrill voice, Mrs. Varrick began the story she had so carefully rehearsed over and over again; but as the words fell from her lips she could not trust herself to meet the clear, eagle glance her son bent upon her.

In horror which no pen could fully describe, Hubert Varrick listened to the story from his mother's lips. In all her life Mrs. Varrick never saw such a face as her son turned upon her. It was fairly distorted, with great patches of red here and there upon it.

He set his teeth so hard together that they cut through his lip; then he raised his clinched hand and shook it in the air, crying in a voice of bitter rage:

"If an angel from heaven cried out trumpet-tongued that little Jessie Bain was guilty, I should not believe her – I would say that it was false. It is some plan, some deep-laid scheme to blight the life of Jessie Bain and ruin my happiness – ay, ruin my happiness, I say – for I love that girl with all my heart and soul! How dare they, fiends incarnate, attack her in my absence? And so you, my fine lady-mother, have turned her out into the street," he went on, in a rage that nothing could subdue. "Now listen to what I have to say, and heed it well: The day that has seen her turned from this roof shall witness my leaving it. You should have trusted and shielded her, no matter how dark appearances were against her. I am going to find Jessie Bain, and when I do I shall ask her to marry me!"

There was a wild shriek from Mrs. Varrick's lips at this, but Hubert did not heed it.

"I can not live without her! If ill has befallen my darling I will shoot myself through the heart, and beg with my dying breath that they bury us both in one grave!"

Chapter XIV.

"DO NOT LEAVE ME, FOR YOU ARE THE DELIGHT AND SUNSHINE OF MY LONELY LIFE!"

The scene was one of such terror for Mrs. Varrick that she never forgot it.

"I shall leave this house!" he cried again. "I will not remain another hour beneath this roof. I will find Jessie Bain, though I have to travel this wide earth over to do it!"

Suddenly he stopped short and looked at his mother; then he cried out excitedly: "Where is the woman who came here with that embroidery-work? More likely it was she who took the bracelet."

But Mrs. Varrick shook her head.

"You forget that the bracelet was found in Jessie's trunk," she said, huskily, "and that she owned up to taking it in a written confession. As for the strange embroidery woman, Miss Duncan, I paid her off and let her go. She knows next to nothing of what took place in regard to the bracelet. You must remember, too, that the girl was glad to get off so easily."

"Even though I knew she was guilty, I could find forgiveness in my heart for her, mother," he cried, huskily, "for I love her – I love her as man can love but once in his life-time. You arrayed yourself as her enemy, mother, and as such, you must be mine, until I can find little Jessie and bring her back to you."

"Oh, no, no, Hubert, darling!" cried Mrs. Varrick, striving to throw her arms about him, but almost before she was aware of his intention, he had quitted the room, strode down the corridor, and was half-way down the walk that led to the great entrance gate.

Varrick had walked a considerable distance from the house before his mind settled down to anything like rational thoughts. Suddenly it occurred to him that the quickest way to trace her would be to secure the aid of an experienced detective. It was the merest chance that led him to the office of Henry Byrne, the great detective – the very one whose services his mother had enlisted to recover her valuable bracelet.

It took but little conversation for the detective to learn that the young man was desperately in love with the pretty little girl. This gave the experienced man of the world food for thought.

He did not tell young Varrick how interested he himself was in learning the whereabouts of that pretty young girl.

After an hour or more of earnest conversation, they parted, Byrne agreeing to report what success he met at the hotel at which Hubert Varrick said he intended stopping.

Up to midnight, when they again met, Byrne could give him no definite information; he did not even tell him that he thought he had a slight clew which he intended to follow.

Thus three days passed, and not even the slightest trace of Jessie Bain could be discovered, and Hubert was beside himself with grief.

In the midst of his trouble a strange event happened.

As he was passing through the lobby of the hotel one evening, he met Harry Maillard, Gerelda Northrup's cousin.

Varrick turned quickly in an opposite direction, to avoid speaking to him, when suddenly Maillard came forward and held out his hand to him.

"I am glad to see you, old boy," he said, "and have been wondering where you kept yourself of late."

"I have been attending to business pretty closely," returned Varrick.

"Take a cigar," said Maillard, extending a weed. "Let's sit down. I have something to tell you."

Varrick followed his friend, and soon they were seated together before one of the open windows.

"I have such wonderful news for you," said Maillard. "I learned from Captain Frazier's valet, whom I met on the street, that his master had been dead some time, having been killed in a railway accident.

"Shortly after your unfortunate experience a great fire occurred in one of the islands in the St. Lawrence, and Captain Frazier was there alone, and had been alone, the man informed me. There was no lady about – of this the valet was positive, and his last message to this man, who was with him to the end, was to search for Gerelda Northrup, and tell her that with his last breath he was murmuring her name, and that he wanted to be buried on the spot where they had first met.

"That is proof positive that Gerelda was not with Captain Frazier, and that he, poor fellow, was entirely innocent of her whereabouts."

Hubert Varrick was greatly amazed at this intelligence; but before he could make any remark Maillard went on quickly:

"We received a long letter from an old nurse who used to be in Gerelda's family years ago. It was written at my cousin's dictation. She had been very ill, the letter says; and in it she goes on to tell the wonderful story of what caused her disappearance.

"She says that during your momentary absence for a glass of wine, she was abducted by a daring robber, who wished to secure the diamonds she wore, and hold her as well for a heavy ransom; that, all in an instant, while she awaited your return, she was chloroformed, a black cloak thrown over her, and the last thing she was conscious of was being borne with lightning-like rapidity down a ladder, a strong pair of burly arms encircling her.

"The night wind blowing on her face soon revived her; then she became conscious that she was in a hack, and being rapidly driven along a country road.

"'We are far enough away now,' she heard a voice say; and at that moment the vehicle came to a sudden stop. She was lifted out, the stifling folds of the cloak were withdrawn from about her, the jewels she wore were torn from her ears and breast, and from the coils of her hair the diamond arrows, which fastened her bridal-veil, and the next instant her inhuman abductor, having secured the jewels, flung her into the deep, dark, rushing river, then drove rapidly away, all heedless of her wild cries for help.

"A Canadian fisherman, happening along in his boat just when she was giving up the struggle for life rescued her. He took her to his humble cot and to his aged mother, and under that roof she lay, racked with brain-fever, for many weeks.

"With the return of consciousness, she realized all that had transpired.

"Fearing the shock to you both, she had these people take her to an old nurse who happened to live in that vicinity, and this woman soon brought her back to something like health and strength. Then Gerelda had the woman write a long letter to me, telling me all, and bidding me break the news gently to her mother and you. The letter ends by saying:

"'By the time it was received she would be at home, and bid me hasten to you with the wonderful intelligence, and bid you come to her quickly, for her heart was breaking for a sight of you – her betrothed; that she was counting the moments until she was restored to you, and once more resting safely in your dear arms.'

"I have been searching for you for some time, Hubert, to tell you our darling Gerelda is home once more. It was only by the merest chance that some one saw you enter this hotel and told me. I will be back in one minute, depend upon it," said Maillard, seizing his hat and flying out of the door without waiting for a reply. In fact, Varrick could not have made him any had his life depended on it.

In the midst of Hubert's conflicting thoughts, Maillard returned.

"This way, Varrick," he called cheerily from the door-way; and a moment later Varrick was hurried into the coupé, which had just drawn up to the curbstone, and, with Maillard seated beside him, was soon whirling in the direction of the Northrup mansion to which a servant admitted them.

Maillard thrust aside the heavy satin portières of the drawing-room, gently pushed his friend forward, and Hubert felt the heavy silken draperies close in after him. Through the half gloom he saw a slender figure flying toward him, and he heard a voice, the sound of which had been dear to him in the old days that were past and gone, crying out: "Oh, Hubert! Hubert!" and in that instant Gerelda was in his arms.

Insensibly his arms closed around her; but there was no warmth in the embrace. She held up her lovely face to be kissed, and he bent his handsome head and gave her the caress she coveted; but for him was gone all the old rapture that a kiss from those flower-like lips would have brought. By Hubert Varrick, at this moment, it was given only from a sense of duty, as love for Gerelda had died.

"Oh, Hubert, Hubert! my darling!" she cried, "is it not like heaven to be united again?"

She would not notice his coldness; for Gerelda Northrup had laid the most amazing plan that had ever entered a woman's head.

Immediately upon her dismissal from the Varrick mansion she had stolen back to the little hamlet where her old nurse lived, and had got the woman to write a letter for her as she dictated it.

She had said to herself that Hubert Varrick should be hers again, at whatever cost, and that she might as well force him by any means that lay in her power into a betrothal with herself again, as long as he was not married to another.

He should never know that she knew of his change of heart. She would meet him and greet him as her betrothed lover, whom she was soon to marry, and he would have to be a much smarter man than she took him to be if he could find any way out of it.

She had caused the nurse to write a similar letter to her mother; and when her mother read it, and realized that her daughter had not eloped, she received her back joyfully and with open arms. If an angel from heaven had told her that her daughter had stolen back to the city in disguise, and had been residing under the Varrick roof, she would have declared that it was false – a mad prevarication.

Mrs. Northrup was overjoyed to have the sunshine of her home, her darling daughter, back again.

With almost her first breath, after she had kissed her rapturously, she told her that she had seen very little of Hubert Varrick, and that he had never crossed the threshold since that fatal night on which he believed that his bride to be had eloped from him.

Chapter XV.

"HUBERT CARES FOR ME NO LONGER," SOBBED THE GIRL

It seemed to Hubert Varrick, as he clasped his arms around Gerelda, that he must be some other person than the man who had once loved this girl to idolatry. Now the clasp of her hand or the touch of her lips did not afford him an extra pulse-glow.

"Tell me, Hubert," she cried, "that you are as glad to see me as I am to see you."

"It is a great surprise to me, Gerelda," he answered, huskily, "so great that I am not quite myself just now. It will take me some little time to collect my scattered senses."

He led her to the nearest seat.

"My cousin has told you all that has happened to me from the hour that we parted until now, darling," she whispered. "Now tell me, Hubert, about yourself. Your heart must have almost broken, dear. I was fearful lest you might have pined away and died because of my untimely loss."

"Oh, Gerelda!" he cried, starting up distressedly, tears choking his voice, "do not say any more; you are unmanning me with every word you utter. I – I can not bear it!"

"Forgive me, my darling!" she muttered. "You are right. It is best not to probe fresh wounds. But, oh! Hubert, I am so thankful that the workings of fate have joined our hearts together at last!"

He could not find it in his heart to tell her the truth when she loved him so; and yet he felt that he owed it to Gerelda to tell her all; but it is hard, terribly hard to own up to being faithless; and he said to himself that he could not tell her now, in the flush of her joy at meeting him, but would break it to her later on.

"This almost seems like getting acquainted with you and falling in love with you over again," laughed Gerelda, as she talked to him in the same gay, witty manner that had once so enthralled him in the old days. "I wonder, Hubert," she said at length, "that you have not asked me to sing or play for you. You used to be so delighted to hear me sing. While lying on my sick-bed I heard my old nurse sing a song that you desired me to learn. I have learned it now for you, Hubert. Listen to it, dear."

As Gerelda spoke she picked up a mandolin, and after striking a few softly vibrating notes, commenced to sing in a low strain the tender words of his favorite song, which she knew would be sure to find an echo in his heart, if anything in this world would.

Ah! what a wondrous voice she had, so full of pathetic music and the tenderness of wonderful love!

He listened, and something very like the old love stirred his heart.

The song had moved him, as she knew it would – ay, as nothing else in this world could ever have done.

He bowed his head, and Gerelda, looking at him keenly from under her long lashes, saw that his strong hand was shaking like an oak leaf in the wind.

He leaned over and brushed back the curls caressingly from her forehead, as a brother might have done.

"You are very good to have learned that for my sake; Gerelda," he murmured. "I thank you for it."

"We must learn to sing it together," she declared.

"My voice is not what it used to be," he said, apologetically.

He lingered until the clock on the mantel struck ten; then he rose and took his departure.

To Gerelda's great chagrin, he made no offer to kiss her good-night at parting.

It was plainly evident that he wished her to understand that they were on a different footing from what they were on that memorable night when they were parted so strangely from each other.

When his footsteps had died away, Gerelda flung herself face downward on the divan, sobbing as if her heart would break; and in this position, a few minutes later, her mother surprised her.

"Why, Gerelda!" she cried. "I am shocked! What can this mean? It can not be that you and your lover have had a quarrel the very hour in which you have been restored to each other! Surely, there is no lingering doubt in his heart now, that you eloped!"

Gerelda eagerly seized upon this idea.

"There seems to be, mother," she sobbed.

Mrs. Northrup drew a cushioned chair close beside her daughter, and drew the dark, curly head into her arms.

"You must make a confidante of me, my darling, and tell me all he said," she declared. "I was quite amazed to hear the servants say that he had gone so early. I expected to be summoned every moment, to learn that your impatient lover had sent out for a minister to perform the delayed ceremony."

Gerelda raised her tear-stained face and looked at her mother.

"No; he did not even mention marriage, mother," she sobbed.

"What!" shrieked Mrs. Northrup, in dismay. "Do I understand aright – he made no mention of marriage?"

The girl sobbed. Mrs. Northrup sprang to her feet and paced up and down the floor.

"I – I do not understand it," she cried. "Tell me what he had to say; repeat the conversation that passed between you."

"It did not amount to anything," returned her daughter bitterly. "To be quite plain with you, mamma, he was very distant and cold toward me. In fact, it was almost like getting acquainted with him over again; and to add insult to injury, as he took my hand for an instant at parting, he said, 'Good-night, Miss Northrup.' Oh! what shall I do, mamma – advise me! Ought I to give him up?"

"No," said Mrs. Northrup, sternly, "that would never do. That marriage must take place!"

Chapter XVI.

WHAT OUGHT A GIRL DO IF THE MAN SHE LOVES CARES FOR ANOTHER?

"Do you hear me, Gerelda?" repeated Mrs. Northrup. "This marriage must go on! It would be the talk of the whole country if Hubert Varrick jilted you. But let me understand this matter thoroughly; did he give you any sort of a hint that he wished to break off with you? You must tell me all very plainly, and keep nothing back. I am older than you are Gerelda, and know more concerning worldly affairs. I now say this much: there must be a rival in the background. When a man has been in love with one girl, and suddenly cools off, there is a reason for it, depend on it."

"Even if there was a rival in the way, tell me what I could do, mamma, to – to win him back!"

"When a man once ceases to love you, you might as well attempt to move a mountain as to rekindle the old flame in his heart. I understand this point thoroughly. You will have to make up your mind to marry him without love."

"It takes two to make a contract to marry," sobbed Gerelda. "I am willing, but he does not seem to be."

"It is plainly evident that I shall have to take the matter in hand," said Mrs. Northrup. "When is he coming again?"