CHAPTER XX.
LOVE IS A POISONED ARROW IN SOME HEARTS.
Early the next morning Varrick was at the scene of the disaster, thoughhe was scarcely fit to leave his bed at the village hostelry. Most ofthe bodies had been recovered or accounted for, save that of Gerelda.
Varrick was just about to offer a large reward to any one who wouldrecover it, when two fishermen were seen making their way in a littleskiff toward the scene of the wreck.
There was some object covered over with a dark cloak in the bottom oftheir boat. They were making for the shore upon which the wreck wasstrewn.
Varrick sprung forward.
"Is it the body of a woman you have there?" he cried.
They lifted it out tenderly and uncovered the face. It was mutilatedbeyond recognition, and the clothing was so torn and soiled by theaction of the waves that scarcely enough of it remained intact, todisclose its color or texture.
There was great consternation when Hubert Varrick returned home with thebody of his bride, and more than one whispered: "Fate seems to have beenagainst that marriage from the very first! 'What is to be, will be.'These two proposed to marry, but a Higher Power decreed that they werenot for each other."
The same thought had come to Hubert Varrick as he paced wearily up anddown his own room.
It was a nine-days' subject for pity and comment, and then the publicceased to think about it, and Gerelda's fate was at last forgotten.
Hubert Varrick then arranged his business for a trip abroad, and when hesaid good-bye to his mother and Mrs. Northrup, he added that he might begone years, perhaps forever.
In the very moment that he uttered those words, how strange it was thatthe thought came over him that he might never see Jessie Bain again.
But this thought, at such a time, he put from him as unworthy to lingerin his breast. And when the "City of Paris" sailed away, among herpassengers was Hubert Varrick.
He watched the line of shore until it disappeared from his sight, and aheavy sigh throbbed on his lips as his thoughts dwelt sadly on Gerelda,his fair young bride, who lay sleeping on the hill-side just where thesetting sun glinted the marble shaft over her grave with a touch of palegold.
Let us return to the cottage home of Jessie Bain, and see what is takingplace there on this memorable day.
For a week after the unfortunate young girl was brought under that roof,carried there from the wreck, her life hung as by a single thread. Thewaves had been merciful to her, for they had balked death by washing herashore.
A handkerchief marked with the name "Margaret Moore" had been foundfloating near her, and this, they supposed, belonged to her.
How strange it is that such a little incident can change the wholecurrent of a human being's life.
The daily papers far and wide duly chronicled the rescue of MargaretMoore. No one recognized the name, no friends came to claim her. Theyhad made a pitiful discovery, however, in the interim--the poor youngcreature had become hopelessly insane, whether through fright, or bybeing struck upon the head by a piece of the wreck, they could not asyet determine.
Jessie Bain's pity for her knew no bounds. She pleaded with her unclewith all the eloquence she was capable of to allow the stranger toremain beneath that roof and in the end her pleading prevailed, andMargaret Moore was installed as a fixture in the Carr homestead.
Jessie Bain would sit and watch her by the hour, noting how soft andwhite her hands were, and how ladylike her manners. She said to herselfthat she must be a perfect lady, and to the manner born.
There was something so pathetic about her--(she was by no meansviolent)--that Jessie could not help but love her. And the words wereever upon her lips, that she was to be parted from her lover as soon asher journey ended; that he had discovered all, and now he had ceased tolove her; that twice she had nearly won him, but that fate had steppedin-between them.
Of course, Jessie knew that her words were but the outgrowth of aderanged mind, and that there had been no lover on the steamer "St.Lawrence" with Margaret Moore. All day long the girl would wring herhands and call for her lover, until it made Jessie's heart bleed to hearher.
But there was no tangible sense to any remarks that she made. She seemedso grateful to Jessie, who in turn grew very fond of her gratefulcharge. Jessie Bain was not a reader of the newspapers. She never knewthat Hubert Varrick had been on the ill-fated "St. Lawrence" on thatmemorable night, and that he had lost his bride.
Frank Moray, who had been only too glad to send Jessie the itemannouncing Hubert Varrick's marriage to another, took good care not tolet her know that Varrick was free again. So the girl dreamed of him asbeing off in Europe somewhere, happy with his beautiful bride. Ofcourse, he had forgotten her long since--that was to be expected; infact, she would not have it otherwise.
Two months had gone by since that Hallowe'en night. It had made littlechange in the Carr household. The captain still plied his trade up anddown the river, Jessie divided her time between taking care of heruncle's humble cottage and watching over poor Margaret Moore.
There were times when the girl really seemed to understand just how muchJessie was doing for her, and certainly it was gratitude that looked outof the dark, wistful eyes.
There were times too when Jessie was quite sure that Memory wasstruggling back to its vacant throne.
"Who are you?" she would whisper, earnestly, gazing into Jessie's face."And what is your name? It seems as if I had heard it and known it insome other world."
Jessie would laugh amusedly at this. Once, much to Jessie's surprise,when she questioned her as to why she was sitting in the sunshine,thinking so deeply upon some subject, Margaret Moore answered simply:
"I was thinking about love!"
There were times when Margaret Moore seemed rational enough; but herpast life was a blank to her. She always insisted that Jessie Bain'sface was the first she had ever seen in this world.
It was the first one which she had beheld when consciousness came to heras she lay on her sick-bed; and to say that she fairly idolized Jessiewas but expressing it very mildly.
The day came when she proved that devotion with a heroism that peoplenever forgot. It happened in this way:
One cold, frosty morning early in January, in tidying up Petie's cage,the door was accidently left open, and the little canary, who wasJessie's especial pride, slipped from his cage and flew out at the opendoor-way, into the bitter cold of the winter morn.
With a cry of terror, Jessie Bain sprung after her pet. Down the villagestreet he flew, making straight toward the river, Jessie following asfast as her feet could carry her, wringing her hands and calling to him.Margaret Moore followed in the rear. On the river's brink Jessie paused,and, with tears in her eyes, watched her pet in his mad flight. By thistime Margaret Moore had caught up to her.
At that instant Jessie saw the bird whirl in mid-air, spread his yellowwings, then fall headlong upon the ice that covered the river, andJessie sprang forward, and was soon making her way to where the canarylay. But the ice was not strong enough to bear her. There was a crash, acry, and in an instant Jessie Bain had disappeared. The ice had givenway beneath her weight, and the dark waters had swallowed her.
For an instant Margaret Moore stood dazed; then, with a shriek ofterror, she flew over the ice and was kneeling at the spot where Jessiehad disappeared, watching for her to come to the surface.
Once, twice, the golden hair showed for an instant; but each time iteluded the grasp of the girl who made such agonizing attempts to catchit. The third and last time it appeared. Would she be able to save her?
Margaret Moore turned her white face up to Heaven, and her lips moved;then she reached forward, plunged her right arm desperately down intothe ice-cold water, grasped at the sinking form, and caught it; but shecould not draw the body up.
"Jessie Bain! Jessie Bain!" she cried; "you will slip away from me! Ican not hold you!
"Help! help!" she shrieked, in terror. But there was no help at hand.
r /> All in vain were her pitiful cries. Margaret's hands were torn andbleeding, and slowly but surely freezing. They must soon relax theirhold, and poor Jessie Bain would slip down, down into a watery grave.
Ten, twenty minutes passed. Surely it was by a superhuman effort thatthat slender arm retained its burden; but it could not hold out muchlonger.
So intense was her terror, Margaret Moore did not realize her own greatphysical pain. By an almost superhuman effort she attempted to cry outagain.
This time she was successful. Her voice rose shrill and clear over thebarren waste of frozen ice, over the waving trees, and down the roadbeyond. It reached the ears of a man who was hurrying rapidly throughthe snow-drifts.