WHAT BECAME OF GEOFFREY.
Gladys lay so long in her swoon that not only her friends but the
physician also became greatly alarmed lest she should never rally; the
shock which had caused this suspension of animation might end in death.
Everet Mapleson, too, as he sat alone in that small room back of the
drawing-room, was in a very unenviable frame of mind. He knew that if
Gladys should die her death would lie at his door; he would really have
been her murderer, and such a disastrous result of his reckless plot he
had never contemplated.
He had fondly hoped, as he told Mr. Huntress, that, in the excitement
and gayety of the evening, surrounded by friends and receiving their
congratulations, he could easily play Geoffrey’s part, and she would not
detect the imposition until they should start off alone upon their
wedding journey. He had practiced many little mannerisms that were
peculiar to Geoffrey, changing his voice, as far as he could, to imitate
his, and had not reckoned upon the keenness of love to discover the
fraud so readily.
He had expected that Gladys would be very unreconciled and unreasonable
at first, but he had hoped, when she realized that there was no help for
the deed, she might resign herself to the inevitable, and that he would
gradually win her love by the influence of his own for her and his
devotion to her. He had been wholly unprepared, however, for the
exceeding horror and loathing which she had evinced upon discovering
him, and she had thoroughly frightened him by her rigid despair and the
terrible lethargy which had followed it.
When they bore her away to her room he fain would have followed, his
anxiety was so great upon her account; but as he essayed to do so, Mr.
Huntress turned upon him in sudden fury.
“Stay where you are!” he commanded, “or, what would be better still,
leave the house altogether.”
“I shall not leave the house, sir,” the young man answered, doggedly,
and he resumed his seat, resolved to brave it out to the end, though a
sickening fear was creeping over him that the end might be such as would
make him wish he had never been born.
So the poor little bride was borne from his sight, her bridal robes were
removed, and everything done for her recovery that love could do or
professional skill could suggest.
Strange though it may seem, no one, save the physician, suspected the
cause of this sudden attack.
Mr. Huntress had confided the circumstances attending it to Doctor Hoyt,
because he felt that he ought to be informed in order that he might work
understandingly, but not even a servant dreamed that their beautiful
young mistress had been married to the wrong man.
“August, I am nearly wild about Geoffrey, as well as Gladys,” Mrs.
Huntress said, to her husband, as together they bent over the
unconscious girl, anxiously watching for some sign of returning life.
“Do you believe that wretch would dare to harm him?”
“No, indeed, dear. I feel sure that our Geoff is safe enough. I judge,
from the fellow’s words, that he has been decoyed to some place, where
he was to be detained until the wedding was well over, and Mapleson well
on the way to Boston with Gladys. Heavens! what an escape for the dear
child!” he concluded, growing white over the contemplation of the young
girl’s sad fate if Everet had succeeded in keeping up the deception
until after the steamer had sailed.
“But is it an escape?” Mrs. Huntress whispered, with quivering lips.
“Can the marriage be annulled?”
“Certainly, Alice,” her husband emphatically replied, “because we can
prove the man a scoundrel and an impostor.”
“It will make a terrible scandal,” sighed his wife.
“Better that than that our dear one should be doomed to a life of
misery. I will spend my last dollar to give her back her freedom and
punish that audacious wretch,” said Mr. Huntress, with firmly compressed
lips. “Poor Geoff!” he added, after a pause, “I wonder where he can be;
he must be in a terrible state of mind, wherever he is,” concluded Mr.
Huntress, with a weary sigh.
But they could not think of much save Gladys, while she lay in such a
critical condition, and they hung over her with white faces and sinking
hearts, while they anxiously watched the physician’s every look and
movement.
After what, to them, seemed an eternity of time, a faint sign of life
began to show itself; the heart slowly resumed its motion, the pulse
gave forth a feeble throb, a faint tinge of color flickered in the drawn
lips, and the chest began to heave with the renewed action of the lungs.
“She will weather it,” Doctor Hoyt said, under his breath, but in his
brisk, decisive way, which instantly carried conviction and comfort to
those parents’ fond hearts.
But when she did come fully to herself, and looked up into those earnest
faces above her, when reason and memory reasserted themselves, that same
look of horror came into her eyes, that rigid settling of her features
returned, and were followed by another swoon, although not so frightful
or prolonged as the first one had been.
It was ten o’clock before the physician succeeded in arresting the
tendency to fainting, and she came fully to herself.
“Geoffrey!” she moaned, as soon as she could speak, and looking around
for the dear face, while a shudder shook her from head to foot.
Doctor Hoyt shot a warning look at Mr. and Mrs. Huntress; then said, in
a reassuring tone:
“He is all right, and shall come to you when you are rather more like
yourself. Now, drink this for the sake of getting a little strength.”
He put a glass to her lips, and she drank mechanically.
Then, pushing his hand away, she struggled to a half-sitting posture,
and looked fearfully about the room.
As her glance fell upon her wedding finery, which had been hastily
thrown upon some chairs, she was seized with another violent shivering,
and fell back among her pillows, covering her eyes with her hands, as if
to shut out from sight and memory the fearful ordeal through which she
had passed a few hours previous.
But the potion which the physician had administered was a powerful
narcotic, which began almost immediately to take effect, and sleep soon
locked her senses in oblivion.
Hardly had she begun to breathe regularly, and the weary watchers about
her bed to hope that the worst was over, when the great clock in the
hall below struck the hour of midnight.
At the last stroke the door of the sick-room swung softly open, and
Geoffrey’s face, pale, haggard, and anxious, appeared in the aperture.
It required a mighty effort on the part of Mr. and Mrs. Huntress to
refrain from uttering an exclamation of joy at sight of him.
But the doctor held up a warning finger. Mrs. Huntress, who had half
started from her chair, sank back to her post beside Gladys’ pillow,
while her husband, with a look of intense relief, stole quietly from the
room.
We must now go back to the hour when the wedding party started from the
house for the church.
Geoffrey, as has been stated, left a little in advance of the others, as
he desired a few moments’ interview with the clergyman before the
ceremony.
Not a thought of foul play entered his mind as he drove away, neither
had he a suspicion that a different carriage had been substituted for
the one he had ordered, that having been suddenly and cunningly sent off
to the station for an imaginary arrival on the evening express.
He was so absorbed in his own thoughts that he did not even observe the
route the driver was taking, until he suddenly noticed that the speed of
the horses had greatly increased and he was rolling along at a
remarkable rate through quiet and almost deserted streets.
It was quite dark, but the street-lamps gave light enough to show him
that he was a long distance from the place where he wanted to go.
He tried to lower the window beside him.
It was immovable.
He tried the other, but it was as fast as the first one.
He thumped on the front of the carriage, to attract the attention of the
driver; but a crack of the whip was his only answer.
He shouted, commanding the man to stop, but the horses only went on the
faster.
Driven to desperation, Geoffrey drew back, and, with one powerful blow
from his foot, shivered one of the windows to atoms.
At the sound of the breaking glass, the coachman slackened the speed of
his steeds.
“Driver, where are you taking me?” Geoffrey shouted, thrusting his head
from the window. “I want to go to Plymouth Church.”
“Oh! _Plymouth?_” replied the man, in a tone of innocent astonishment,
as if he had been bound for some other church, and was surprised to
learn that he had made a mistake.
Geoffrey was unsuspicious enough to believe this, yet he was very much
annoyed.
He desired to see the clergyman before the ceremony, and he knew it was
already past the hour set for his marriage.
“You have no time to lose,” he shouted again to the driver. “I fear you
have made me late, as it is; get me there as quickly as you can.”
“All right, sir,” came back the answer, while the carriage suddenly
turned a corner, and the man whipped the horses to a run.
Geoffrey had no overcoat with him; he thought he should not need it, the
day had been so mild, and he would be shut into a close carriage; but
now the chill night air came in through the broken window, and he began
to suffer with the cold.
On and on the carriage went, faster and faster the horses flew, until
suddenly Geoffrey discovered, to his dismay, that he was rolling over an
open country road, while the lights of the city were gleaming far
behind.
Again he leaned forth and shouted to the driver to stop; that he was
wrong.
But this time there came no answer, save the whiz and crack of the lash,
and the sound of the horses’ hoofs upon the road.
He began to fear that the man was intoxicated.
He called, he commanded, he threatened; all to no purpose, except to
make the driver urge his horses to go faster and faster.
They were far out in the suburbs now, with the houses few and far
between, and Geoffrey was nearly in despair.
What would the wedding party think, upon reaching the church, to find no
bridegroom there? What would Gladys think? What would those hundreds of
guests say when they should discover there could be no wedding? What
would be the end of this dreadful adventure?
Could it be possible that the man who was driving was some insane
creature, carrying him to destruction?
Every possible explanation, save the right one, flashed through his mind
as he sat there, utterly powerless to help himself, yet almost crazed
with anxiety and suspense.
He shouted himself hoarse, without eliciting the slightest response or
attention.
He leaned as far out of the carriage as he was able, to look at the man
on the box, but could only dimly distinguish a figure muffled to the
ears in a huge ulster, but as motionless as a statue, except for that
periodical swing of his right arm in wielding the whip.
Geoffrey dared not leap out, even though in his desperation he was
strongly tempted to do so; he realized that such a hazardous proceeding
might result in instant death, while there was no way by which he could
climb to the top of the carriage to reach the driver; there was
_nothing_ that he could do but submit to the inevitable, and await
further developments.
So, wearied out and thoroughly chilled by the keen night air, he first
stuffed one of the cushions into the broken window, then sank back into
a corner, and surrendered himself to his fate.
For three long hours he sat there and was driven at a rapid pace,
knowing not whither he was going.
At last, to his infinite relief, the carriage stopped.
Taking instant advantage of this circumstance, Geoffrey leaped to the
ground, and turning furiously to the driver, he demanded what he meant
by bringing him there.
The man might have been a deaf mute for all the notice he took of either
the young man’s question or passion.
He neither spoke nor moved, except to quickly turn his horses about and
drive rapidly back in the direction from which he had come, leaving his
victim standing in the middle of a lonely road with not a house in
sight.
For a moment Geoffrey was so bewildered that he did not know what to do;
he had not the slightest idea where he was, only he was sure that he
must be miles and miles from Brooklyn.
But his insufficient clothing but illy protected him from the cold, and
he soon began to realize that he could not stand there long without
great danger to himself.
He began to walk rapidly, and soon found himself ascending a hill, and
upon reaching the top he saw, beneath him, the lights of a small village
gleaming through the darkness.
Quickening his steps he reached it after ten or fifteen minutes, and, to
his joy, discovered that a line of railway passed through it.
Following this he soon came to the station, where he found a
sleepy-looking agent and telegraph operator, who regarded him and his
immaculate dress suit with undisguised astonishment.
He inquired when the next train went to Brooklyn, and to his dismay
learned that this was only a branch road, and that no train was due
there for an hour. It was small comfort, too, to be told that it would
be only a freight train with a passenger car attached—that it would stop
at every station where there was freight to be delivered or taken up;
that it would be a full hour reaching the main line, where he would have
to wait another hour for a train to Brooklyn.
All this delay he knew would prevent him from reaching home before
midnight, and then there flashed upon him, for the first time, a
suspicion that he had been brought to that remote place by no
intoxicated driver’s freak, neither had he been the victim of a maniac’s
frenzy, but that his abduction had been deliberately and cunningly
planned to prevent his appearance at his own wedding—to hinder, if
possible, his marriage with Gladys.
But who could have perpetrated such a dastardly act, and what could have
been the ultimate object? It did occur to him that Everet Mapleson might
have had something to do with it, but he quickly abandoned that idea
for, much as he distrusted and disliked him, on many accounts, he could
not think anything so bad as this of him—little dreaming how much worse
he had done—while, too, he believed he had left the city more than a
week previous.
He was very cold, and he knew he could not be three hours more on the
road without a coat or wrap of some kind to protect him; but how to
procure it was a question he could not solve, for the station-master
told him there was not a clothing store in the place.
While he was hovering over the fire in the ladies’ waiting room,
shivering with the cold, and feeling inconceivably wretched, a tall,
portly woman entered, bearing a large gripsack in one hand, a heavy
shawl and waterproof in the other.
She wore a long circular of some rough cloth, which completely covered
her from her neck to her heels, a knitted hood upon her head, a pair of
brown woolen mittens on her hands, and looked so warm and comfortable
that Geoffrey shivered afresh.
His eyes fastened themselves instantly and enviously upon the shawl she
carried.
A bright idea struck him, and, addressing her courteously, he asked her
if she would sell it to him, explaining briefly that he had been on his
way to a wedding in a close carriage, when accident threw him
unprotected out into the cold.
“I will give you twenty dollars for that shawl, madame,” he said,
knowing well, however, that it was not really worth half that sum.
But she refused his offer—the shawl had belonged to a sister who had but
just died, and she could not part with it; however, she would sell him
the circular she had on, she said, for half what he had offered for the
other wrap, and wear that herself.
This proposal pleased him even better than his own, for he would be far
less conspicuous in the dark circular, and he never had felt better over
a bargain, or experienced a greater sense of personal comfort, than when
he gave up his ten dollars and wrapped himself in the shabby garment,
just as the lazy train came puffing up to the station.
He found a seat near the stove, and strove to possess his soul in
patience until he should reach the main line. The waiting at the
junction, however, was even a greater tax upon his nerves, but it was
over at last, and, boarding the Brooklyn train the moment it stopped, he
was soon rolling rapidly toward home.
He reached Brooklyn only a little before midnight, called a carriage and
arrived before his own door five minutes before the hour struck. He let
himself quietly in with his latch-key, and, fearing he hardly knew what,
stole up to Gladys’ room, where he had observed a light, and seen
shadows on the curtains before entering the house.