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NEDRA
by
GEORGE BARR McCUTCHEON
Author of _Beverly of Graustark_, _Brewster's Millions_, etc.
Illustrations by Harrison Fisher
1906
CONTENTS
Chapter
I The Inspiration
II The Beginning of Flight
III The First Obstacle
IV Ready for the Sea
V Mr. and Miss Ridge Sail for Manila
VI Henry Veath
VII Glum Days for Mr. Ridge
VIII The Beautiful Stranger
IX Mr. Ridegway's Amazement
X A Sharp Encounter
XI Discovered
XII The Harlequin's Errand
XIII The Confession of Veath
XIV One Love against Another
XV The Wreck of the _Tempest Queen_
XVI The Night and the Morning
XVII Was the Sea Kind?
XVIII The Wonderful Land
XIX The First Day in the Wilds
XX The Sign of Distress
XXI Gods from the Sea
XXII Flesh Succeeds Stone
XXIII The Transformation Begins
XXIV Nedra
XXV The Coming of the Enemy
XXVI On the Eve of Battle
XXVII The Lady Tennys Reserve
XXVIII To the Victor Belongs--?
XXIX The Other Surrender
XXX Where There is No Minister
XXXI The Wedding Ring
XXXII The Cruiser _Winnetka_
XXXIII Apparitions
XXXIV The Course of True Love
XXXV History Repeats Itself
ILLUSTRATIONS
Lady Tennys (Frontispiece)
Grace Vernon
"'Lady Tennys ... You do not know how I thank God you are alive'"
"'Hey, there!' he yelled. 'How are you?'"
"'They have killed you! Let them kill me!'"
CHAPTER I
THE INSPIRATION
A tall young man sped swiftly up the wide stone steps leading to the
doorway of a mansion in one of Chicago's most fashionable avenues. After
pushing the button sharply he jerked out his watch and guessed at the
time by the dull red light from the panel in the door. Then he hastily
brushed from the sleeve of his coat the telltale billiard chalk, whose
presence reminded him that a general survey might be a wise precaution.
He was rubbing a white streak from his trousers' leg when the door flew
open and the butler admitted him to the hallway. This personage relieved
him of his hat, coat and stick and announced:
"Miss Vernon is w'itin' for you, sir."
"How the devil did I happen to let eight o'clock strike nine before I
knew it?" muttered the visitor. He was at the drawing-room door as he
concluded this self-addressed reproach, extending both hands toward the
young woman who came from the fireplace to meet him.
"How late you are, Hugh," she cried, half resentfully. He bent forward
and kissed her.
"Late? It isn't late, dear. I said I couldn't come before eight, didn't
I? Well, it's eight, isn't it?"
"It's nearly seventy minutes past eight, sir. I've been waiting and
watching the hands on the clock for just sixty minutes."
"I never saw such a perfect crank about keeping time as that
grandfatherly clock of yours. It hasn't skipped a second in two
centuries, I'll swear. You see, I was playing off the odd game with
Tom Ditton."
He dropped lazily into a big arm-chair, drove his hands into his pockets
and stretched out his long legs toward the grate.
"You might have come at eight, Hugh, on this night if no other. You knew
what important things we have to consider." Miss Vernon, tall and
graceful, stood before him with her back to the fire. She was
exceedingly pretty, this girl whom Hugh had kissed.
"I'm awfully sorry, Grace; but you know how it is when a fellow's in a
close, hard game--especially with a blow-hard like Tom Ditton."
"If I forgive you again, I'm afraid you'll prove a begging husband."
"Never! Deliver me from a begging husband. I shall assert all kinds of
authority in my house, Miss Vernon, and you'll be in a constant state of
beggary yourself. You'll have to beg me to get up in the morning, beg
me to come home early every night, beg me to swear off divers things,
beg me to go to church, beg me to buy new hats for you, beg me to eat
things you cook, beg me to--"
"I suppose I shall even have to beg you to kiss me," she cried.
"Not at all. That is one thing I'll beg of you. Lean over here, do, and
kiss me, please," he said invitingly.
She placed a hand on each arm of the chair and leaned forward
obediently. Their lips met in a smile.
"You lazy thing!" she exclaimed, her face slightly flushed. Then she
seated herself on one of the big arms, resting her elbow on the back of
the chair beside his head. For a few minutes both were silent, gazing at
the bright coals before them, the smile remaining upon their lips. Hugh
had been squinting between the toes of his shoes at a lonely black chunk
in the grate for some time before he finally spoke reflectively.
"I can't afford to be lazy much longer, can I? Married men never have a
minute's rest, you know."
"We're not married."
"No; but we're going to be, let me remind you. We are to--to announce it
to-morrow night, are we not? It has come to that, you see." He did not
look very cheerful, nor did she.
"Yes, I suppose it's imperative. That is why aunt is giving her
reception,--just to tell everybody we're engaged."
"And then everybody will shake hands with us and say,
'Congratulations,' 'How lovely,' 'So surprised,' 'Howdy do,' and so
forth, and we say 'Thanks,' 'How good of you,' and more so forth. It
will be great!" Another silence and inspection of the fire, he taking an
altered aim at the black chunk. "Say!" he exclaimed, "wouldn't it do
just as well if I didn't put in an appearance to-morrow night? Your aunt
can announce the thing, as agreed, and you can tell 'em that I have a
sick uncle in Indianapolis, or have had my leg broken, or something like
that. Now, there's a good girl."
"No," she said. "We fell in love because we couldn't help it, and this
is the penalty--an announcement party."
"I'll never quite understand why _you_ fell," said he dubiously.
"I think we were both too young to know," she responded. "It seems to me
that we've been in love ever since we were babies."
"And it never hurts a baby to fall, you know," said he, with fine logic.
"Of course it may cripple 'em permanently, but they don't know how it
happened."
For some moments she caressed his brown hair in silence, the smile
lingering on her lips after it had left her eyes. His eyes closed
dreamily under the gentle touch of her fingers. "But, dear," she said,
"this is no joking matter. We have been engaged for nearly three months
and not a soul knows of it. We'll have to tell them how we managed to
keep it a secret for so long, and why,--and all that. And then
everybody will want to know who the bridesmaids are to be."
"I believe I'd like to know that myself, as long as I'm to walk out of
the church ahead of them--provided I don't get lost."
"Helen Grossman is to be the maid of honor. I believe I'll ask Jean
Robertson, Eloise Grant, Harriet Noble, Mayme McMurtrie, Ellen
Boyland--"
"Are we to have no guests?"
"--and Effa Samuels. Won't it be a pretty set of girls?"
"Couldn't be prettier."
"And now, who is to be your best man?"
"Well, I thought I'd have Tom Ditton," a trifle confusedly.
"Tom Ditton! I thought you did not approve of him," she cried. "You
certainly did not when he came to see me so frequently."
"Oh, he isn't such a bad sort, after all. I'd just as soon have him as
any one. Besides, he's an expert at it. If it was left to me, I'd much
rather sit behind the pulpit until it is all over. People won't miss me
while they've got you to look at."
"We could be married so quietly and prettily if it were not for Aunt
Elizabeth," pouted Miss Vernon. "She insists on the church wedding, the
teas and receptions and--"
"All that sort of rot," he interjected, as if fearing she might not
express herself adequately. "I like your Aunt Elizabeth, Grace, but
she's--she's an awful--"
"Don't say it, Hugh. I know what you mean, but she can't help it. She
lives for society. She's perfectly crazy on the subject. Aunt Elizabeth
made up her mind we should be married in church. I have talked myself
black in the face--for your sake, dear--but it was like trying to
convert a stone wall. She is determined. You know what that means."
"No wonder she's a widow," growled Hugh Ridgeway sourly. "Your father
served you a mighty mean trick, dear, when he gave you over to her
training. She might have spoiled you beyond redemption."
"Poor father! He loathed display, too. I've no doubt that is why he left
me in her care until I reached the age of discretion. She was not always
like this. Father's money has wrought the change. Aunty was as poor as a
church mouse until father's death put her at the head of my
household--it was mine, Hugh, even if I was only six years old. You know
we could live pretty well on forty thousand a year."
"You'll have a million or so when you're twenty-three, dear, and I'll
venture to say your aunt has saved something in all these years."
"Oh, she had at least two hundred thousand dollars by the will. It has
cost her nothing to live all these years as my guardian and trustee. We
just had to do something with my income, you know."
"I don't see why you should let this fortune stand in the way, Grace,"
growled he. "Haven't I enough of my own to take its place?" Hugh
Ridgeway had a million in his own right and he could well afford to be
unreasonable. "The will says you are not to have your father's money
until you are twenty-three years old. He evidently thought that was a
discreet age. You are not to marry before you have reached that age.
I've been waiting for two years, Grace, and there still remains
two months--"
"One month and twenty-eight days, Hugh," she corrected.
"And in the meantime we have to stay here and face all this ante-nuptial
wretchedness. It's sickening, Grace. We hate it, both of us. Don't we? I
knew you'd nod your head. That's why I can't help loving you. You've got
so much real good hard sense about things. If your confounded Aunt
Lizzie--Elizabeth, I should say--would let us get married as we
want--Hang it all, Grace, it's our affair anyhow, isn't it? Why should
we permit her to dictate? It's not her wedding. She's been married
twice; why can't she let well enough alone?"
"She loves me, Hugh, after all," gently.
"Well, so do I. I'm willing--not perfectly willing, of course--but
reasonably so, that we should wait until the twenty-third of May, but I
don't see why we should have the whole town waiting with us. Why don't
you assert yourself, dear, before it is too late? Once she pulls off
this announcement party, it's all off with peace of mind and contentment
so far as we are concerned. Of course, she'll be enjoying it, but what
of us? Are you afraid of her?"
"Don't bully me, Hugh," she pleaded. He was contrite at once and
properly so. "She has lived for this time in her life. She never has
been crossed. I can't--honestly I can't go to her now and--quarrel.
That's what it would mean--a quarrel. She would never give in."
"Well, then, all hope is lost," he lamented. For some minutes Miss
Vernon gave no response, sitting upon the arm of the chair, a perplexed
pucker on her brow and a thoughtful swing to her slippered foot.
These young people had known each other since earliest childhood. They
had played together with the same neighborly toys and they had grown up
together with the same neighborly ideals. Both had whirled in the social
swing until the sensation palled. The most exclusive set in town
regarded them as among its most popular members. It was quite natural
that their wedding should be the most brilliant and fashionable of the
year. Their position in society demanded the sacrifice, and her aunt saw
the urgent need for making it, notwithstanding the opposition of the
young people themselves.
Ridgeway was a couple of years older than his affianced bride, and she
was just short of twenty-three. She, an orphan since early childhood,
lived with her widowed aunt--the social gourmand, to quote Hugh
Ridgeway--and he made his home next door with his sister and her
husband. The two brown stone houses were almost within arm's reach of
each other. She had painted dainty water colors for his rooms and he had
thrown thousands of roses from his windows into her boudoir. It had been
a merry courtship--the courtship of modern cavalier and lady fair.
Ridgeway's parents died when he was in college, and he was left to
enlarge or despise a fortune that rated him as a millionaire and the
best catch in town--at that time.
He was a member of the Board of Trade, but he was scarcely an operator
in the strictest sense of the word. If he won he whistled, if he lost he
whistled. It mattered little. Good looking, well dressed, generous to a
fault, tainted but moderately with scandal, he was a man whom everybody
admired, but who admired few in return--a perfectly natural and proper
condition if one but stops to consider.
Miss Vernon was beautiful--of that there was no question. Tall, fair,
brown-eyed and full of the life that loves, she ruled the hearts of many
and--kept her hand for one. Her short, gay life had been one of luxury
and ease. She had known few of its cares; its vicissitudes belonged to
the charities she supported with loyal persistency. Her aunt, society
mad, was her only mentor, her only guide. A path had been made for her,
and she saw no other alternative than to travel it as designed. A
careless, buoyant heart, full of love and tenderness and warmth, allowed
itself to be tossed by all of the emotions, but always sank back safely
into the path of duty and rectitude. It was not of sufficient moment to
combat her aunt's stubborn authority; it was so much easier to do her
own sweet will without conflict and then smile down on the consequences.
Possibly it is true that she did not love her aunt. If that were the
case, she kept it well to herself. She could not have been blamed,
however, for disliking the dictator. Hugh Ridgeway was more or less
right when he said that no one in town admired the old lady. She was
hard, devoid of humor, wrapped up in her own selfishness; shrewd,
capable and resourceful. Her brother, on his deathbed, signed the
instrument which made this arrogant relative the arbiter of the girl's
future for many years to come. She was appointed guardian and trustee
until legal age was attained, and as such she was absolute in her power.
The large fortune was to be held in trust by this aunt, Mrs. Torrence,
and the Hon. Stanley Goodland, until Grace was twenty-three years of
age. The income from the investments in bonds, real estate and
high-class securities was to be handled by Mrs. Torrence as she saw fit
in the effort to better the young woman's mental and social estate. To
do her justice, she performed the duties well and honorably, even though
her measure of human nature was not full to overflowing. Grace, with a
mind and heart of her own, undertook to cultivate human nature from her
own point of view after years of tolerance, and she succeeded so well
that her aunt was none the wiser.
On one point, however, the paragon was so firm and unassailable that
Grace was obliged to confess failure to her lover, after weeks and weeks
of splendid argument. Her aunt forced an issue. The marriage of her
niece was to be brilliant to the verge of confusion and the ante-nuptial
season was to be one which the city should not forget while its promoter
lived to enjoy the emoluments. She knew she was making her niece
unhappy, but she argued that her niece was too deeply in love to
appreciate the value of opportunity. Besides, on her wedding day, Grace
Vernon would be twenty-three years of age, mistress of herself, her
fortune, and her husband's home. That day would end the reign of
Elizabeth Torrence. The arbiter was determined that the reign should end
in a blaze of glory.
As for Grace and Hugh, they were to be married. That had been decided
upon by destiny years and years ago and ratified after Hugh had reached
an age of discretion. He said that twenty-five was the year of
discretion, if not of reason.
After the first transports, each began to consider the importance of the
union, not only to themselves, but to the world at large. In their
reflective moments they realized that the marriage would be the most
wonderful event in the whole history of the homes of Vernon and
Ridgeway. Never before had a Vernon married a Ridgeway, and--vice versa.
Therefore, the whole world would visit upon such a union its undivided
attention. That is the view all engaged people take of marriage.
Miss Vernon had employed six weeks of argument in convincing Mr.
Ridgeway that a church wedding was imperative, although she admittedly
preferred the simpler form, where the minister conducts the ceremony in
the presence of two witnesses and a ring. Society demanded the
exhibition. Mr. Ridgeway warned her that he could not survive the ordeal
and would leave her a widow at the altar.
Their difficulties had at last resolved themselves into that condition
which confronts every engaged pair; and they, like others, were
preparing to inform the world of their intentions.
"There's no way out of it, Hugh," she finally sighed, "unless we decide
to give up the hope of getting married. That would break my heart," she
said, with her rarest smile.
"This would be the most delightful period of my life if it were not for
that distressing announcement, the two months of purgatory between now
and the day of the wedding, and then the--calamity. I know it will be a
calamity. I can't get through it alive."
"You poor boy! I wish we could have a quiet little Wedding. It would be
so sweet, wouldn't it, dear?" she said plaintively, wistfully.
"But instead we are to have a hippodrome. Bah!" he concluded spitefully.
"I wouldn't talk this way, dear, if I didn't know that you feel just as
I do about it. But," and here he arose wearily, "this sort of talk
isn't helping matters. It's a case of church against choice. To-morrow
night we'll tell 'em, and then we'll quit sleeping for two months."
"There's only one way out of it that I can see. We might elope," she
said laughingly, standing before him and rubbing the wrinkles from
between his eyes.
Gradually his gray eyes fell until they looked into hers of brown. A
mutual thought sprang into the eyes of each like a flash of light
plainly comprehensive. He seized her hands, still staring into her eyes,
and an exultant hope leaped to his lips, bursting forth in these words:
"By George!"
"Oh, we couldn't," she whispered, divining his thought.
"We can! By all that's good and holy, we'll elope!" Hugh's voice was
quivering with enthusiasm, his face a picture of relief.
"Honestly, do you--do you think we could?" The girl's eyes were wide
with excitement, her cheeks burning.
"Can we? What's to prevent? Will you do it, Grace--will you?" cried he.
"What will everybody say?"
"Let 'em say. What do we care? Won't it be the greatest lark that ever
happened? You're the smartest woman in the world for thinking of it."
"But I wasn't in earnest," she protested.
"But you are now--we both are. Listen: We can slip away and get married
and nobody will be the wiser and then, when we come back, we can laugh
at everybody."
"And get our pictures in the papers."
"Then, by Hokey! we won't come back for five years! How's that? That'll
fool 'em, won't it? Say, this is great! Life is worth living after all.
You'll go, won't you, Grace?"
"I'd go to the end of the world with you, Hugh, but--"
"Oh, say you'll go! Now, listen to this," he urged, leaping to his feet.
"We're going to be married anyway. We love one another. You can't be
married until the twenty-third of May. Lots of people elope--even in the
best of families. Why shouldn't we? If we stay here, we'll have to face
all the sort of thing we don't like--"
"Yes, but it won't take us two months to elope," she protested. "Sh!
Don't speak above a whisper. Aunt Elizabeth has wonderful ears."
"By Jove, darling, I believe you're two-thirds willing to try it on," he
whispered.
"We must be sensible, Hugh. You see, I can't be married until the
twenty-third of May. Well, aunt is determined to announce the engagement
to-morrow night. Don't you see we couldn't elope until the twenty-second
at best, so we're doomed for two months of it in spite of ourselves. If
we get through the two months why should we elope at all? The worst
will be over?"
"We can't escape the announcement party, I'll admit, but we can get
away from all the rest. My scheme is to elope to a place that will
require seven or eight weeks' time to reach. That's a fine way to kill
time, don't you see?"
"My goodness!"
"Why not? We can do as we like, can't we? And what a bully lark! I'd be
a downright cad to ask you to do this, Grace, if I didn't love you as I
do. We can use assumed names and all that!"
"Oh, dear, dear, doesn't it sound lovely?" she cried, her cheeks red
with excitement.
"The twenty-third of May isn't so far off after all, and it won't be
half so far if we're doing something like this. Will you go?"
"If I only could! Do you really think we--we could?"
"Whoop!" he shouted, as he seized her in his arms and rained kisses upon
her face. Then he held her off and looked into her eyes for a moment.
Then he gave another whoop, kissed her, released her and did a wild
dance about the room. She stood beside the big chair, equally as
excited, laughing unrestrainedly at his hilarity. At last he brought up
at the other side of the chair.
"But where could--I mean, shall we elope to?" she finally asked.
"Anywhere. Bombay--Australia? Let's make it a stunner, dear--let's do it
up right."
"And be married away over there? Oh, Hugh!"
"Certainly. They can marry us over there as well as anywhere. Here,
I'll write the names of ten places and we'll draw one from my hat." He
sat down before a table and feverishly wrote upon the backs of a number
of his calling cards the names of as many cities, his companion looking
over his shoulder eagerly. Without ado he tossed the cards into a
jardinière in lieu of a hat. "Draw!" he said tragically.
"Wait a minute, Hugh. What have we to elope from? There isn't the
faintest objection in the world to our marriage."
"There you go--backing out!"
"No; I'm just as willing as you, but doesn't it seem rather absurd?" Her
hand hung over the jardinière irresolutely.
"It will be the greatest wedding tour that mortals ever took. Draw!"
"Well, then, there's the card. Mercy!" she cried, dropping a card on the
table. "That's a long distance, Hugh."
He picked up the card and his face paled a little as he read:
"Manila!"
They sat down in the chair, she on the arm as before. After a moment he
glanced at her perplexed face, and asked:
"Are you afraid to go, Grace?"
"It isn't that, Hugh. I was just wondering if we could reach Manila by
the twenty-third of May. It is unlucky to change the wedding day after
it has been once selected," she said softly.
"Grace Vernon, you are an angel. I was afraid you would show the white
feather. It's a go, then--Manila! We can start next week and get there
in good time."
"Next week? Impossible!" she cried in alarm.
"Nonsense! You can get ready for a trip to New York, making your
preparations for a sea voyage secretly. I'll attend to all the details.
It will be easy. No one will ever dream of what we are doing until we
cable the news home to your aunt."
"Oh, I must tell Aunt Elizabeth!"
"Not much! That's no way to elope. We must do it correctly or not at
all. Nobody is to know until we are really married. Can you get ready
in a week?"
"If I really must."
"Can't take any more time than that if we want to reach Manila in time
for the wedding."
"Oh, Hugh! We can't go to Manila!" she cried, suddenly starting to her
feet in distress. "My Uncle Harry lives there. He is my mother's only
brother and he's been there since the close of the war. He's in the hemp
business. Oh, dear! How provoking!" she concluded almost piteously.
"It's fine!" he exclaimed jubilantly. "We can be married at his home.
I'm sure he'll be happy to have us. You can write and tell him we're
coming, dear. Lord!" with great relief in his voice, "that simplifies
matters immensely. Now we have an excuse for going to Manila. But above
all things don't cable to him. Write a nice long letter and mail it just
before we start."
She was silent a long while, staring soberly at the blaze in the grate.
"There'll be no bridesmaids and ushers over there, Hugh."
"We don't want 'em."
Silence for a few minutes.
"In a week, did you say?"
"Positively."
"Well, I'll be ready," she said solemnly.
He kissed her tenderly, lovingly, pressed her cold hand and said
encouragingly:
"We'll meet in New York next Monday afternoon. Leave everything to me,
dear. It will be much pleasanter to go by way of London and it will help
to kill a good deal of time."
"Hugh," she said, smiling faintly, "I think we're proving that father
was right. I can't possibly arrive at the age of discretion until I am
twenty-three and past."