A MOTHER'S PLEA.
"Hubert, my boy!" she murmured, tremulously.
"Mother!" he answered, embracing her; then, flinging himself on a low
hassock by her side, he caught both of her hands in his and kissed them.
"I am so glad you are come, my son," she breathed--"I am so ill!"
He tried to cheer her with his brave, bright words; but she only smiled
at him faintly, wistfully.
She brought round the subject uppermost in her mind.
"I wonder what has became of Jessie Bain?" she asked, abruptly.
"Why do you ask me, mother?" he replied, evasively, flushing to the
roots of his curling hair--and that blush betrayed to her keen eyes that
he had not as yet lost interest in the girl.
"I want you to promise me, Hubert," she whispered, "that if anything
should ever happen to me, you will not think of even searching for
Jessie Bain, in order to marry her."
He dropped the white, jeweled hands he held, and looked at her in grave
apprehension, a troubled look in his earnest eyes.
"I wish I could promise what you ask, mother," he said; "but
unfortunately, I-- I can not; it is too late! I have already searched
for Jessie Bain, and found her, and have offered her my heart and hand."
A low cry from his mother arrested the words on his lips.
"I knew it-- I feared it!" cried Mrs. Varrick, beating the air
distressedly with her jeweled hands. "But it must not be, Hubert."
"It is too late for interference now, mother; the fiat has gone forth."
Still she looked at him with dilated eyes.
"Would you marry her against my will?" she gasped, looking at him with a
gaze which he never liked to remember in the years that followed.
"Do not force me to answer at such a time, mother," he said,
distressedly. "I could not tell you a falsehood, and the truth might be
unpleasant for you to hear."
"She will not marry you!" cried Mrs. Varrick. "I know a very good reason
why she will not."
A smile curved the corners of her son's mobile lips, and he drew from
his pocket the precious missive and held it up before her.
"I do not know of any reason why I should keep anything from you,
mother," he said. "This letter is Jessie's acceptance."
A grayish pallor stole over Mrs. Varrick's face.
Even in death--for she supposed herself to be dying--the ruling passion
that had taken possession of her life, was still strong within her.
Her idolized son must never make such a _mes-alliance_ as to marry
Jessie Bain--a girl so far beneath him.
"I have not as yet read its contents," continued Hubert. "If you like,
mother, I will read it aloud to you, and upon reflection, when you see
how well we love each other, you will realize how cruel it would be to
attempt to tear our lives asunder. I am pledged to her, mother, by the
most solemn vows a man can make; and though I love you dearly, mother,
not even for your sake will I give her up. Only a craven lover would
stoop to that. A man's deepest and truest love is given to the woman
whom he would make his wife. His affection for his mother comes next."
Mrs. Varrick was too overcome for speech by the angry tempest that raged
in her soul.
By this time Hubert Varrick had broken the seal, drawn forth the letter,
and commenced reading its contents aloud. He had scarcely reached the
second page ere he stopped short, dumfounded; for there the words
confronted him which made the blood turn to ice in his veins, and his
heart to almost stop beating.
He sprung to his feet and looked at his mother.
"Mother," he cried, hoarsely, "what can this mean? Jessie refuses me,
and she says you know the reason why she must do so. What is that
reason, mother? I beg you to tell me."
"She has given me her solemn promise not to marry you. That much I may
tell you, nothing more," returned Mrs. Varrick, huskily.
"But it is my right to know, mother," he cried, sharply. "You must not
keep it from me. I tell you that my whole life lies in the issue."
"Step to my desk in the corner--the key is in it--and you will find in
the right-hand drawer a folded paper; bring it to me. This will tell you
what you want to know," she said, unsteadily, as he placed the paper in
her hand. "Open it, and read it for yourself."
This he did with trembling hands; but when his eye had traversed half
the page, he flung the note from him as though it were a viper that had
stung and mortally wounded him.
"You see it is a confession from Jessie Bain that she stole my bracelet;
it is her written acknowledgment, with her name affixed. That is the
reason why she feels there is a barrier between you. Our ancestors,
Hubert, have always been noted for being proud, high-bred men and women.
No stain has ever darkened their fair names. If you wedded this girl,
you would be the first to bring shame upon the name of Varrick."
"Not so, mother," he cried. "Despite the evidence of my own eyes, I can
not, I will not believe my darling guilty. There is some terrible
mistake--something which I do not understand. I will make it the work of
my life to clear up this mystery, and to prove to you, despite all the
evidence against my darling, that she is innocent."
"Will you make a vow to me that you will never marry her until her
innocence is proven?" she cried, seizing Hubert's hand and pressing it
spasmodically in both of hers. "Remember that I, as your mother, have a
right to demand this--you owe it to me."
For a moment Hubert Varrick hesitated.
"If you are so sure of her innocence, surely you need have no
hesitation," his mother whispered.
Hubert Varrick did not speak for an instant; a thousand tumultuous
thoughts surged through his brain.
Slowly, solemnly, he turned toward his mother.
"So sure am I that I can prove her innocence, that I will accede to your
request, mother dear," he answered, in a clear, firm voice, his eyes
meeting her own.
"I am content," murmured Mrs. Varrick, sinking back upon her pillow.
She said to herself that if he followed that condition he would never
wed Jessie Bain.
Hubert rose quickly to his feet.
"I will take you at your word, mother," he declared promptly, rising
suddenly to his feet. "You shall hear from me in regard to this within
three days' time. I am going direct to Jessie. If your symptoms should
change for the worse, telegraph me."
Kissing his mother hurriedly, and before she could make any protest to
this arrangement, Hubert hurried out of the room and out of the house.
He was barely in time to catch the train for Albany, and arrived there
just as the dusk was creeping up and the golden-hearted stars were
coming out.
He made his way with all haste to the place where he had left Jessie. He
must see her, and have a talk with her. He would not take "no" for an
answer.
The neat little maid who opened the door for him recognized the
gentleman at once.
He had placed a bill in her hand at parting, and she was not likely to
forget the handsome young man.
He was shown into the visitors' sitting-room.
"I should like to be permitted to see Miss Bain," he said. "Will you
kindly take that message for me to the matron in charge?"
The girl looked at him with something very like astonishment in her
face.
"Did you not know, sir--" she asked, somewhat curiously, as she
hesitated on the threshold.
"Know what?" he demanded, brusquely. "What is there to know, my good
girl?"
"Miss Bain has gone, sir," she replied. "She left the place for good
quite an hour ago!"
Varrick was completely astounded. He could scarcely believe the evidence
of his own senses; his ears must have deceived him.
At this juncture the matron entered. She corroborated the maid's
statement-- Miss Bain had left the place quite an hour before.
"Could you tell me where she went?" he asked.
"She intended taking the train for New York. She was very weak, by no
means able to leave here, sir. We tried to keep her; but it was of no
use; she had certainly made up her mind to go, and go she did!"
It seemed to Hubert Varrick that life was leaving his body.
How he made his way out of the place, he never afterward remembered.
There was but one other course to pursue, and that was, to go to New
York by the first outgoing train, and try to find her.
Hailing a passing cab, he sprang into it, remembering just in time that
the New York express left the depot at seven o'clock. If the man drove
sharp he might make it, but it would be as much as he could do.
He gave the man a double fare, who, whipping up his horses, fairly
whirled down the snow-packed road in the direction of the depot.
"I am afraid that I can not make the train, sir," called the driver,
hoarsely, as Hubert Varrick leaned out of the window, crying excitedly
that he would quadruple his fare if he would make the horses go faster.
Again he plied his whip to the flanks of the horses, but they could not
increase their speed, for they were doing their very best at that
moment.
Nearer and nearer sounded the shrieking whistle of the far-off train.
They reached the depot just as the train swept round the bend of the
road.
"Thank God, I am in time!" cried Hubert Varrick, as he rushed along the
platform. "If I had missed this train, I should have had to wait until
to-morrow morning. I shall have little enough time to purchase my
ticket. I--"
The rest of the sentence was never uttered. He stopped short. Standing
on the platform, watching with wistful eyes the incoming train, was
Jessie Bain!
A great cry broke from his lips. In an instant he was standing beside
her, her hands in his, crying excitedly:
"Oh! Jessie, Jessie. Thank Heaven I am in time!"
"Mr. Varrick!" she gasped, faintly. At that instant the train stopped at
the station.
"You must not go on board!" he cried, excitedly. "Jessie, you must
listen to what I have to say to you," he commanded. "You must not go to
New York."
There was a sternness in his voice that held her spell-bound for an
instant.
"Come into the waiting-room," he said. "I must speak with you."
Drawing her hand within his arm, he fairly compelled her to obey him;
and as they crossed the threshold the train thundered on again.
The room was crowded. This certainly was not the time or place to utter
the burning words that were on his lips. An idea occurred to him. He
would get a coach, drive about the city, through the park, and as they
rode, he could talk with her entirely free from interruption.
Hailing a coach that stood by the curbstone, he proceeded to assist his
companion into it. She was too overcome by emotion to exert any will of
her own.
He took his seat by her side, and a moment later they were bowling
slowly down the wide avenue through which he had driven so furiously but
a little while before.
"Now, Jessie," he began, tremulously; "listen to me, I pray you. I have
traveled all the way back to Boston for your dear sake, to see you, to
hold your hands, to speak with you, and to tell you I do not consider
the little tear-blotted note you sent me, a fitting answer to my letter.
I can not take 'no,' for an answer, Jessie, dear. You could not mean it.
When I read what you wrote me, in answer to my burning words of love, it
nearly unmanned me. You said, in that little note, that you did care for
me; you acknowledged it. Now, I ask you, why, if this be true, would you
doom me, as well as yourself, to a life of misery. You say there is a
mystery, deep and fathomless, which separates us from each other for all
time to come? This I must refuse to believe. You say it is something
which my mother knows? Will you confess to me, Jessie, my darling, my
precious one, just what you mean? Remember that the happiness of two
lives hangs upon your answer."
The girl was crying as though her heart would break, her lovely face
buried in her hands.
He sat by her side very gravely, waiting until the storm of tears should
have subsided.
He well knew that it was better that such grief, which seemed to rend
her very soul, should waste itself in tears. At length, when her sobs
grew fainter and she became calmer, he ventured to speak once more.
"I beg you to tell me, Jessie," he went on, "just what it is that holds
our two lives asunder."
He longed with all his soul to take her in his arms, pillow the golden
head on his breast, and let her weep her grief out there. But he must
not; he must control the longing that was eating his heart away.
"Be candid with me, Jessie," he said, his voice trembling and husky. "Do
not conceal anything from me. The hour has come when nothing but
frankness will answer, and I must know all, from beginning to end. What
is it, I ask again, that my mother knows which you alluded to in your
note, saying that it had the power to part us? Dear little Jessie, sweet
one, confide in me! I repeat, keep nothing from me."
Through the tears which lay trembling on her long lashes, Jessie raised
her lovely blue eyes and looked at him, her lips quivering piteously.
For an instant she could not speak, so great was her emotion; then by a
mighty effort she controlled herself, and answered in a broken voice:
"I-- I made a solemn pledge to your mother, the day I left your house,
that I would never cross your path again, that I-- I should do my best
to avoid you and steal quietly away out of your life. I-- I signed the
paper and left it in your mother's hands. That, and that alone,
satisfied her. Then I went away out of your life, though it almost broke
my heart to do so. I-- I have kept my promise to her. I meant to go away
and to never look upon your face, even though I knew that Heaven had
answered my prayer and given me your love--which I prize more than life
itself--when everything else in this world was taken from me."
As Varrick listened, a terrible whiteness had overspread his face.
"Answer me this, Jessie," he asked; in the greatest agitation: "Why did
you sign the other paper which you left with my mother that day? Answer
me, Jessie--you must!"
"I signed no other paper than that which contained the promise I have
just spoken to you about," the girl returned earnestly, puzzled as to
what he could mean.
For answer, he drew forth the note which he had taken from his mother's
writing-desk and placed in his breast pocket, and put it in Jessie's
hand.
"This note has been written by my mother," he said, "and this is your
signature, which I would know anywhere in the world, my darling," he
went on, huskily. "Oh, my love, my love! explain it to me!"
She had taken the paper from his hands, and run her eyes rapidly over
the written words. They seemed to stand out in letters of fire. Her
brain whirled around; her very senses seemed leaving her.
"Oh, Hubert! Hubert! listen to me!" she cried, forgetful of her
surroundings, as she flung herself on her knees at his feet. "This is
not the paper I signed, although the signature is so startlingly like my
own that I am bewildered. I signed a paper which said that I would never
cross your path again; but not this one--oh, not this one! I-- I never
saw this paper before. Oh, Hubert-- Mr. Varrick-- I plead with you not
to believe that I could ever have signed a paper acknowledging that I
took your mother's diamond bracelet! I have never taken anything which
did not belong to me in all my life. I would have died first--starved on
the street!"
Words can not describe what the thoughts were that coursed through
Hubert Varrick's brain as he slowly raised her.
"Tell me, Jessie," he cried, "did you read over the paper which you
signed?"
"No," she sobbed; "I did not read it. Your mother wrote it, telling me
what was in it--that I was never to cross your path again, because she
wished it so, and I signed it without reading it. Indeed, I could not
have read a line to have saved my life, my eyes were so blinded with
tears, just as they are now."
A grayish pallor spread over his face; a startling revelation had come
to him: his _mother_ had written the terrible document, every line of
which she knew to be false, relying upon the girl's agitation not to
discover its contents ere she signed it!
Yes, that was the solution of the mystery; he saw through the whole
contemptible affair.
Only his mother's illness prevented him from stopping at the first
telegraph office and sending a dispatch to her to let her know that he
had discovered all.
"You do not believe it--you will not believe that I took the bracelet?"
Jessie was sobbing out. "Speak to me, oh, I implore you, and tell me
that you believe me innocent!"
He turned suddenly and took her in his arms.
"Believe in your innocence, my darling?" he answered, suddenly. "Yes,
before Heaven I do! You are innocent--innocent as a little child. I
intend to take you directly to my mother, and this mystery shall then be
unraveled."
Despite the girl's protestations, he insisted that it must be so, and
the first outgoing train bore them on their way back to Boston.
It so happened that he found a lady acquaintance on board, an old friend
of his mother, who willingly took charge of Jessie on the journey.
"Keep up a brave heart, little Jessie," whispered Hubert, as he bid the
ladies good-night. "All will come out well. Nothing on earth shall take
you from me again."