Chapter II: What Became of the Heroine

When the friends of Mr. Saunders, exhausted by their war-whoops and dancing, deigned to grant a little respite to their victim by opening the circle which they had pitilessly formed around him, the big man, half-crazed and breathless, sank upon a lounge, listening absently to those who were trying to console him. He not only suffered through his love, but his vanity was equally wounded, for he did not doubt that his misfortune would be known all over New York the next day, and that he would become an object of public ridicule. It seemed to him that Ada must have connived with her kidnappers, being too blind to suppose that violence had been done her. But who were those men with whom the unfaithful woman had consented to be an accomplice in the scene that covered him with ridicule? For whose benefit had this kidnapping been made? For one of her adorers, no doubt, but which one? He was so completely absorbed in his meditations and despair that he did not perceive that the guests were disappearing one by one, and only the voice of Ada’s maid brought him to himself.

He raised his eyes, the parlors were deserted, and he was left alone in the room from which the woman he loved had so strangely disappeared.

On recognizing Ada’s maid, he felt the satisfaction of a man whose anger, long restrained, can at last vent itself on some one.

“Ah! you at least can explain to me what all this means,” he cried, springing up and seizing the maid by the arm.

“I!” answered Mary, somewhat alarmed, and trying to disengage herself from Saunders’ grasp. “I! how should I know any more than you?”

“Did you not recognize those masks?”

“I saw them only while they were carrying off madam.”

“Did not Ada receive any letters during the day?”

“None whatever.”

“Nor a call?”

“You know very well that she receives only you.”

“Then you have no cause for suspicion?”

“None.”

“It is incredible. Your mistress and you are two cheats.”

Saying this, the merchant gave Mary a push, and, having arisen as quickly as his corpulence would permit, strode up and down the parlor.

At the very grotesque contrast between the disturbed face of the stout man and his Highland costume, whose short frock displayed his large bare legs, the maid could no longer restrain herself and burst into laughter, crying:

“Heavens, sir! how droll you look. If madam could see you what fun she would have.”

Made furious by this remark, which turned the dagger round and round in his wound as if with delight, Saunders approached the insolent girl to strike her; but he probably felt that he would gain nothing by threats and violence, for he suddenly softened and said:

“Come, my little Mary, be good now. Haven’t I always been kind to you? If you will tell me where madam has gone I will give you one hundred dollars.”

“If you were to give me one thousand dollars,” answered the maid saucily, “I could not give you exact information, for I know nothing myself; but give me the one hundred dollars all the same and I will tell you something that will comfort you.”

The love-sick merchant quickly drew out of the little leather bag that danced upon his stomach, from his Scotch wallet, the sum demanded, and handed it to Mary, who took it, slipped it into her corsage, and continued:

“Do you know, sir, that I have an idea that this affair was done on a wager. You know how many are in love with madam, but she loves you too much to deceive you, and has always refused the most splendid offers. Three of her admirers, therefore, wished to avenge themselves upon her and you, and so have carried her off. It won’t accomplish much, for you know madam isn’t a woman to be made to do what she does not wish. They, no doubt, have taken her into some house in the neighborhood, from which she will find a way to escape if they try to retain her by force. Before noon she will be back here.”

“Yes, you are right,” said Saunders, somewhat consoled; “that is how it will be; but I swear to you that they shall pay for this joke. Suppose I go and notify the police?”

“Are you crazy? Madam will be back before a detective can find a trace of her. I should not be astonished if Forster was at the bottom of it.”

“Colonel Edward?”

“That’s the man. He is dead in love with madam, although she never would receive him.”

“I will go to his house at once.”

“That would be absurd, for it certainly is not to his own house that he has taken Miss Ada.”

“What shall I do then?”

“Go to bed and rest, but change your dress first. You don’t intend, I suppose, to walk around in that costume all day,” and Mary, to prevent herself from laughing again, bit her lips until they bled.

“Of course not,” he answered, glancing into the mirror which gave him back his burlesque image; “but you must send me word as soon as Ada returns.”

“I promise you.”

“Then send for a carriage.”

Mary hastened to send one of the servants to the nearest carriage stand, and a few moments later, after giving a thousand commands to the young girl, the poor lover carefully wrapped in his cloak, and heaving the loudest of sighs, sank back out of sight in a corner of the carriage.

“Fool!” muttered Mary for farewell, as Saunders disappeared from sight; “if you see your lady-love to-day I shall be greatly surprised.”

And without taking notice of what was passing below-stairs, where the festivity that had been interrupted in the parlor was being noisily continued, the servant re-entered Ada Ricard’s apartments and shut herself in.

During the scenes we have just described, the landau that bore away the young woman, on leaving Twenty-third Street turned to the left, and proceeded along First Avenue toward the eastern part of the city.

The deepest silence had not ceased to prevail inside of the carriage, and it had been rolling on half an hour when the coachman suddenly stopped his horses.

The neighborhood was dark and silent.

The two Indians, who had mounted the box, sprang down upon the sidewalk, exchanged a few words with the mask, by the side of which still sat Miss Ada, and then, darting toward a neighboring narrow street, vanished in the darkness.

The landau resumed its course, and soon reached the first houses of Yorkville, a locality of bad repute, where in miserable shanties was huddled a large population, mostly composed of Irish.

It was the retreat of innumerable pickpockets, malefactors and rag-pickers of the great American city, and is attached to one side of it like an incurable leper. Honest people hardly dare venture, even in daylight, through this horrible locality, which extends to the banks of the East River, almost opposite Blackwell’s Island, where the prisons and hospitals are.

Having reached the entrance of Yorkville the carriage stopped a second time, the man who was inside alighted, bearing in his arms the young woman whom, with an oath, on account of the bad weather, he informed that they had at last arrived. He gave an order to the coachman, and the latter, turning his horses, drove back at a gallop. As for the unknown man, still laden with his precious burden, he walked rapidly to a lane a few steps distant.

The place was evidently familiar to him, for without hesitating a moment, although it was very dark, he reached a small house, the door of which was opened at his first touch, and which he quickly closed behind him.

In less than a quarter of an hour the same person reappeared in the street, wearing a large hooded cloak, which concealed his previous disguise, but he no longer carried his lady companion. She was walking at his side, choosing as well as she could in the darkness the cleanest places on the sidewalk, and drawing her furs closely around her, for the night was chilly. They walked thus in the direction of the East River without exchanging a word. Soon they reached the banks, which were deserted, there being nothing to be seen but the lights of the steamboats which ploughed its waters night and day.

The unknown descended to the edge of the water to a little boat which, no doubt, he expected to find there, jumped in first, then offered his hand to the young lady, who embarked without hesitation, and seated herself in the stern, while her companion took possession of the oars. Ten minutes later, by skilful rowing, the boat drifted along Blackwell’s Island, then, bearing to the left, moved to the opposite bank. In order to row at his ease, the amateur sailor had thrown off his cloak. The persons in this boat made a fantastic sight, being composed only of an Indian and a woman in the costume of the time of the Incas, and who at this hour of the night were crossing this arm of the sea, on which the current and darkness rendered navigation doubly dangerous.

The lady was evidently anxious, for she tried to peer through the fog that surrounded her. Unable to do so, she finally asked her companion:

“Have we long to wait?”

“Less than half an hour,” he answered, with a vigorous stroke at the oar, and pushing away from a steamer that was going to New York, at full speed, and belching forth smoke and cinders.

“What was your idea in coming this way?”

“There is no other; the colonel appointed the opposite shore, at Greenpoint.”

“Then he was quite certain that you would succeed?”

“So it seemed. Confess, however, regardless of the pride of the author, that it was a skilfully managed kidnapping.”

“Indeed, it was; but Saunders will be seeking us to-morrow, and, although you paid the coachman well, he will pay him more generously still, and the man will not hesitate to tell where he stopped his carriage.”

“That is the least of my anxieties, for when the fat imbecile discovers the house we came out of, he will find no one in it. Do you think I am going back there to wait for him?”

“Where is Colonel Forster to take me?”

“Ah! that is his affair and yours. He promised me a thousand dollars if I would carry off Ada Ricard, with whom he is madly in love.”

“Without having seen her?”

“So it seems. I have carried off Ada Ricard. I shall get my thousand dollars, and the rest does not concern me.”

“I cannot, however, remain in this costume.”

“Oh! the colonel is a perfect gentleman; he will have a complete wardrobe for you, I am certain. Look! there are the lights at Williamsburg. In ten strokes of the oar we shall arrive.”

In fact, ahead of the boat the lighted buildings of that important suburb of New York were plainly seen. The boatman bent over his oars, and in five minutes they touched the shore at Greenpoint. Before disembarking the mysterious man gave a shrill whistle, which was immediately answered by one like it.

“Come,” he said to the young woman, and jumping out on the bank he helped her to reach the ground. Then, taking her by the hand, he led her to the road, where shone the light from the lanterns of a carriage.

“Is it you?” asked a man keeping guard.

“It is I, colonel,” answered the Indian; “all has passed off well; Miss Ada has not been very dreadfully shocked.”

“Oh! madam,” said Colonel Forster eagerly, for it was he who came to meet her, “will you forgive me for this violence?”

“I cannot tell you at present, sir,” answered the young woman, “for just now I detest you. You must confess that it was a brutal proceeding, a veritable kidnapping from the midst of my guests, who, the simpletons, thought it only a carnival joke. At first I was greatly frightened, and now I am frozen.”

“Let us go at once to my coupe; later I will make my excuses and will repair all my wrongs.”

“What! your coupe. Where are we going?”

“On board of my yacht, which is waiting for us at Brooklyn; afterwards wherever you wish.”

“Excepting to my house?”

“Excepting to your house,” repeated the American officer, gallantly.

While exchanging these words all three had reached the carriage, the horses of which were stamping impatiently.

The colonel helped the pretty New Yorker to enter, and after seating himself by her side, said to the pseudo-Indian, holding out a portmonnaie:

“Here is what I promised you; remember, not a word. You know that if I have Saunders or the police at my heels, I shall be after you; whereas, if you are discreet I shall have the same sum at your disposal again.”

“Count on me, colonel,” said the stranger; “it is for my interest to be silent.”

Then, as he closed the door, he added: “Tell me, Miss Ada, have you not some commission to give me for Twenty-third Street? Your people, perhaps, are anxious.”

“No, it is useless,” answered the strange woman; “I shall write to my maid to-day to ask for what I need. I have confidence in her. Besides, I hope the colonel will not keep me a prisoner long.”

The officer protested against this supposition, looking affectionately at his companion.

“Then, all right; a pleasant journey to you,” said the Indian, finally, closing the door of the coupe, and the coachman immediately started the horses.

Quickly regaining the river, the Indian sprang into his boat, which he pushed off, and returned in the same direction by which he had come a few moments before.

Meanwhile Edward Forster’s carriage was crossing Williamsburg and moving toward Brooklyn, which it reached in less than twenty-five minutes. The colonel employed the time on the road in making a thousand protestations of love, which his companion hardly answered. When the coupe finally stopped at the Brooklyn wharf, he was ten steps off from a large yacht which was evidently waiting for passengers, for it was under steam.

“We have arrived, Miss Ada,” said Forster; “come.”

He had sprung to the ground and offered his arm to help her cross the planking between the yacht and the wharf.

“Have you the right pressure?” he asked the officer who had appeared at the coupe to receive him on board.

“Yes, colonel,” was the answer.

“Then set sail at once, and go by the way of Staten Island.”

Having given his orders, Forster gently led his victim to the stairs opening to the interior of the boat. A few moments later he escorted her to a spacious, delightfully-furnished cabin, and said to her as he knelt before her:

“Miss Ada, you are even more beautiful than I dreamed; tell me that you forgive me.”

Ada had seated herself on a lounge, and her fur cloak had fallen from her shoulders. The colonel gazed at her in admiration. He was a very handsome young man, and one could easily understand the jealousy with which he had inspired the stout Saunders. Hardly thirty-five years old, a blonde with a slender figure, both elegant and robust, he was a true representative of the Anglo-Saxon race. Besides he had a great fortune and was one of the most distinguished officers in the Union Army.

It was this, probably, which influenced her, for after a moment’s silence she decided to answer him with a smile.

“I think, colonel, it is time to come to an explanation. You have carried me off. That is a very military proceeding; now what are you going to do with me?”

“Make you the happiness of my life,” interrupted Forster. “You know that I adore you.”

“That is a matter of course; but how came you to conceive such a wild plan? It cannot be simply because I refused to receive you.”

“You had not been in New York a fortnight before I loved you, and Cornhill did all that he could to rouse everyone’s curiosity and to increase my love for you. He belonged to my club, and not a day passed that he did not talk to us about your wit and beauty. From that moment dates my first efforts to meet you; but, you remember, I hardly had an opportunity after two or three attempts to catch a glimpse of you and speak to you a few seconds. When Cornhill died I was absent from New York. I went to Louisiana on a commission, which I cursed on my return when I knew that Saunders was devoting himself to you, and to seek a quarrel with him, when he did not belong to my set in society, would have made me ridiculous.”

“You were afraid of a scandal.”

“True, not knowing what to do, for I felt that every day I was loving you more; I should certainly have committed some folly, for you did not answer my letters, and your door was pitilessly closed to me, when one morning a man whom I did not know came to propose that I should carry you off and bring you on board my yacht. I confess that I did not for an instant trouble myself as to how the man had learned of my love for you; I saw only the end to be attained. He spoke to me with such assurance that I accepted his offer: we agreed upon the condition. I promised him a certain sum if he should succeed, and the same if he would keep silent. He has succeeded; that is why we are this moment descending the East River, and why I am at your feet asking your forgiveness and begging you to forgive me.”

“We will talk about it at another time.”

“I have obtained a three months’ leave from the Secretary of War, and I have told my family that I should be absent on a trip to the South.”

“The plan is perfectly arranged; it lacks only my consent.”

“It is late to refuse me that.”

“Do you think so?”

“I hope so.”

“What of poor Saunders?”

“Oh! I beg you, don’t mention his name.”

“You know that he will kill you when he learns what has happened.”

“That would not be a misfortune unless he killed me before you make me happy by loving me.”

Ada could not resist this chivalrous sally of the colonel. She answered by holding out her two little hands, which he pressed warmly in his own.

“Well, I am conquered. We will shake hands; no one could have done more brusquely or more gallantly. But I cannot remain in this carnival dress.”

“I foresaw that,” answered the colonel, rising; “you will find there,” pointing to a cabin, the door of which was partly open, “all that you need. If anything is wanting we can send one of my men to New York for it tomorrow.”

“Really, you are charming,” answered the young woman, with a smile. “I will join you in a moment.”

“While waiting for you, I shall order supper. You must be dying of hunger.”

“Truly, I am. You forget nothing,” saying which she disappeared in the adjoining cabin.

In less than a quarter of an hour she returned, attired in a lovely robe of blue silk. They seated themselves at a table, delicately served, and Colonel Forster, as a prelude to the repast, gave an ardent toast to the beauty of his passenger.

The yacht was steaming out into the main roads, and all this time the unhappy Saunders, who had settled down in his own home and divested himself of his Highland costume, was in the depths of despair, wondering what could have become of his beloved Miss Ada Ricard.