  “After such an exhibition of foolishness, one could scarcely wonder that I can’t look upon you as a desirable mate for my talented brother,—but I am willing to make allowances for your display of temper, as I can readily understand how embarrassed you must be at the awkwardness of having no wedding—” Henrietta Webb paused as she saw the look that came over Elsie’s face. “Don’t you propose to let him out in time to get married?” the girl cried. “Oh, Henrietta, how can you be so cruel? I know you’ve done this thing,—Kimball couldn’t disappear! Nor would he go away of his own accord. But you’ve had something up your sleeve for a long time,—I saw that you had,—only I never dreamed it was anything so heartless, so awful as to stop the wedding at the last minute! Why, it’s after twelve,—and the people will begin to go to the church soon after three. Please, Henrietta, own up now! Give him up! You know you can’t prevent the wedding,—you can only postpone it; and think of the trouble you’ll make!” “Be quiet, Elsie,” said Miss Webb, a little alarmed at the girl’s excitement. “Tell her she’s all wrong, Mrs. Powell, won’t you?” “I’m not sure she is,” said the dazed mother. “I can’t take it all in,—but it seems to me Elsie has hit on the only possible explanation of Kimball’s disappearance.” “What are you people talking about?” inquired a newcomer, and Elsie’s sister came into the room. Gerty Seaman, widowed by the war and left with two tiny children, was one of those helpless, appealing women, who, having no self-reliance, lean upon any one who chances to be near. “What is the matter? Where is your brother, Miss Webb? Tell me everything,—I refuse to be kept in the dark!” But after hearing all there was to be told, Gerty took a light view of the situation. “Nonsense, Elsie,” she said, “of course Miss Webb has nothing to do with it! It’s a joke of some of those horrid men! Some people love to do such things. They’ve kidnapped him for fun, and they’ll let him loose in time for the ceremony, but not much before.” “I can’t think that,” said Henrietta, musing; “I don’t know all of Kimball’s friends, but those I do know are far above any such uncouth jests as that.” “What do you think, then?” asked Elsie, sharply. “I’d rather not say what I think.” “Oh. Well, what does your mother think?” “You know my mother’s hobby,—spiritualism. She thinks Kimball has been spirited away by supernatural powers.” “What rubbish!” exclaimed Gerty. “But there’s small use in guessing at the truth. Something has happened,—I suppose there’s no chance that he has turned up at home since you left?” “I told Hollis to telephone me here in that case.” “Well,” and Gerty spoke briskly, “we must take steps to postpone the wedding—” “I won’t!” declared Elsie, “at least, not yet. Wait, Gerty, till the last possible minute for that!” “I think it is the last minute now, dear. Or shall we wait till one o’clock?” “Two,” said Elsie, thinking hard. “Give me till two to find him. I’m going over to the Webbs’ now. Will you take me over, Henrietta?” “Come on,” said Miss Webb, briefly, and Elsie ran to get ready. “You mustn’t blame the child—” began Mrs. Powell. “I don’t,” said Henrietta, justly enough. “She is in a fearful position,—I don’t resent her saying to me what she did,—she’s really irresponsible.” “But what can be the explanation?” urged Gerty. “You needn’t imply that Kimball has hidden himself purposely, for I know that isn’t so. He is desperately in love with Elsie,—desperately—” “Of course he is,” said Elsie, coolly, as she returned, ready for the street. “Come along, Henrietta.” Not a word was spoken between the two women as they rode to the Webb house. Inquiringly, Elsie looked at Mrs. Webb, who was in the drawing room, distractedly pacing up and down. Her greeting was not affectionate; indeed, Elsie seemed to detect a shade of relief in the elder woman’s face, a satisfaction, she quickly thought, that the wedding could not take place. “Where is he?” she cried, but Mrs. Webb only shook her head, and Elsie felt herself dismissed. “Where is he?” she repeated; “I have a right to ask! I am his promised wife,—his bride! Where is my bridegroom?” “Gone!” said Mrs. Webb, in a vague, faraway tone. “Gone for ever, Elsie.” “Oh, fiddlesticks! That he isn’t! I’m going up to his room,—I want to see how he did get out.” She ran up the stairs, and found Fenn Whiting in the sitting room back of Kimball’s room. “Oh, Fenn,” cried Elsie, “I’m so glad you’re here! What does it all mean?” “There’s no explanation, Elsie; I’m crazy with trying to think it out.” “Is it a joke by some of the men?” “That’s one notion,—but an absurd one, I think. And, anyway, it all comes back to this. Whatever the reason of his disappearance, whatever the cause, how was it accomplished? You see yourself,” they had now reached the door of Kimball’s room, “there’s no way out of this room but by this hall door, and that was locked on the inside.” “So they say!” “Oh, it was. The servants say so, and look at this broken lock. Yes, that’s a true bill. You mustn’t suspect the Webbs, Elsie; it won’t do.” “I’ll suspect anybody you can suggest, if there’s the slightest reason.” “That’s just it,—I can’t suggest anybody. But what are you going to do? You must decide—” “First, I want to look around the room. Here’s his watch on the chiffonier—” “They say he went to bed, and then got up again. All the clothes he had on last evening are missing and his night things, too.” Elsie stared. “Shoes and all?” she said. “I don’t know as to that. I suppose so. Hollis said, all his clothes.” “You’ve talked with Hollis?” “Oh, yes. But, Elsie, no talking with anybody amounts to anything! What does it matter whether Kim’s shoes are here or missing? The thing is, how did he get out of this room, shoes or no shoes?” “But everything connected with the matter is important,” persisted Elsie. “It may be a clue, you know.” “Oh, clues! Well, hunt clues all you like, but remember, the hour for the wedding is not so very far away, and you must say what I am to do. As best man, it’s up to me to help all I can, but as the bride, it’s for you to dictate.” “Fenn, how can I? How could anybody know what to do?” The girl was pathetic in her distress. Her lovely face white and drawn with a fear,—all the more awful that she knew not fear of what! Truly a strange situation! Her wedding hour approaching, and no possibility of the wedding ceremony being performed, unless by some means her lover should be restored to her. Mechanically, almost unconsciously, she leaned down and with her fingertips brushed at some white marks on the plain moss-green carpet. “What’s that?” asked Whiting. “I don’t know. Chalk, it looks like.” “Oh, Elsie, dear, please don’t worry about ‘clues’ and such things just now. Listen to me. We must make some plans to follow if Kim doesn’t show up in time. If he does, there’s no harm done; but for the sake of your own dignity do think what you’ll do if he isn’t here at four o’clock. And before that! We ought to call in the invitations,—at once. You can’t have people coming to the church and going away again!” “I don’t care what they do!” she cried, passionately. “Oh, Kimball, I want you!” She flung herself into a chair and gave way to tears at last. Mrs. Webb and Henrietta came in, and seeing them, Elsie controlled herself. “You have succeeded, Henrietta,” she said with a scathing look; “you were determined I should not marry Kimball, and you have succeeded in—postponing it,—that’s all! The wedding will yet take place! You can’t keep him hidden for ever!” “Elsie! What nonsense!” exclaimed Whiting. “You know Miss Webb couldn’t have done this thing!” “Never mind that,” said Henrietta, hurriedly, “I don’t mind her raving. But I think she must notify the guests that they must not come. It is getting late, and, you see, if—if Kimball should return, they can be married just the same, but—” “But you know he will not return!” Elsie stormed at her. “You think you can calm me by saying such things, but you know he can’t return until you let him!” Miss Webb smiled, as with kindly indulgence of a disordered mind, and said, gently, “For your own sake, Elsie, meet the situation as well as you can.” “It isn’t Henrietta’s doing,” put in Mrs. Webb, solemnly, “I understand it all; I know—” “Never mind, Mrs. Webb,” Elsie stood up suddenly; “I’ll hear your theories some other time. As Henrietta says, for my own sake, I must do the best I can. I will, too. I’ve decided. I shall give myself till two o’clock,—it’s half-past one now, and if Kimball hasn’t appeared by that time, I shall telephone to my dearest friends; I shall ask you, Henrietta, to telephone to your people,—those you can reach. Fenn will look after the ushers and the church matters,—and,—I must go home now, I’ve a lot to do.” Her hearers were not surprised at this change of demeanour. Elsie’s nature was mercurial. Quick of decision and of action, she had sensed her position and had risen to the emergency. She would have time afterward for emotion, for investigation, for sorrow even, but now there was much to be done. “Will you send me home?” she asked of Henrietta, who nodded. “Come with me, Fenn,” she went on, “and, if you please, Henrietta, I want this room fastened against all comers. I must insist upon this; I have some rights, I am sure. See to it that nobody enters until after I come again.” Miss Webb looked a little rebellious at this dictation, but, fearing to rouse the girl’s anger, she promised. “That is, unless Kim comes home,” she said, but Elsie only gazed at her with an accusing eye. Alone with Elsie in the little electric brougham, Whiting made a suggestion. “You know,” he began with diffidence, “my own feelings for you, Elsie,—oh, don’t be frightened,” he added quickly, as she turned startled eyes on him. “I’m not going to shock you, only I must—I must say, if you want me to,—if you would let me,—I—” “You’d take Kim’s place as bridegroom,—is that it?” “Yes,—oh, yes!” “Well, thank you lots, and I know you mean it in the kindest way, but it won’t do.” “Don’t be offended, anyway, Elsie,—it seemed a—a way out for you.” “Yes, I know; it would be. But not a way I can take. Forgive me, Fenn, I’m not ungrateful for the kind part of your offer, but, oh,—we’ve had all this out before!” “I know it, dear, and I won’t refer to it again. But just remember, if you do want to go on with the ceremony, there’s a bridegroom ready for you.” Elsie smiled. “I don’t feel wildly hilarious,” she said, and, of a truth she was on the verge of hysterical tears, “but—your speech was funny, Fenn!” “It wasn’t meant to be,” he rejoined, stoutly; “and I stand by it,—no matter how much you laugh at me.” “Thank you,” she said, more seriously, and then they got out at her home. “Oscar,” she stopped to speak to the chauffeur, “you went into Mr. Webb’s room first this morning?” “Yes, ma’am; me and Hollis.” “Did you notice anything,—anything at all, that seemed queer or strange?” “No, ma’am; except for Mr. Kimball’s absence and the fact that his clothes were gone,—all of which you know about; there was nothing else strange.” “I didn’t suppose there was anything, but I wanted to make sure,” and Elsie sighed. “Yes’m; indeed, I wish I could help you, miss. There was a bit of a smell of bananas,—but I don’t suppose that would mean anything?” “No,” and Elsie smiled in spite of her misery. Whiting followed her into the house. He assumed a protective air which she did not resent; it was good to have somebody to rely on. Elsie lost no time in perfecting her plans. Rapidly she made lists of the most important guests, those to be notified first. “We can’t tell half the people,” she said, in despair. “They’ll have to go to the church and go away again. Oh, I wish now I hadn’t decided on a church wedding! It would have been easier at the house. Well, I shall have the minister come here anyway, and then if Kim comes at the last minute,—or later, even,—we can be married here. Fenn, we’ll wait till two o’clock,—or shall we say half-past?” She looked so wistful that Gerty cried, “Oh, do wait till three!” “No,” Elsie decided, “half-past two, and not a second later. Then, as we’ve only one telephone, and I shall use that, you take this list, Gerty, and go out somewhere, into some other apartment, I mean, and rattle them off. Mother, you take this, and do the same. Fenn, here’s yours. You see, I’ve listed the necessary names; if you think of others, follow up with them. We can’t head off the caterers, but they needn’t send the waiters—” “My dear child,” said her mother, “don’t think of those things! I’ll see to the caterer’s people.” “All right, mother,—oh, poppet, you do look so sweet!” This last was spoken to Elsie’s niece and godchild, who ran in just then, partly dressed in her wedding finery. She was to be flower-girl, and never tired of practising her rÔle. The sight of the baby figure, dancing about—upset Elsie entirely, and Gerty rose quickly and carried her daughter away. “Now,” Elsie, resumed, with a glance at the clock, “the Webbs must tell their own friends and relatives. You go and telephone Henrietta now, Fenn, that she must begin at half-past two to notify them that there will be no wedding.” The finality of this made Elsie’s voice quiver, but she went on bravely. “I’m pretty sure Kim will turn up at the last minute,—I think he’ll break loose, whoever’s holding him—” “What makes you think he’s held, Elsie?” asked Gerty, curiously. “What else could keep him?” and Elsie looked her wonderment. “Lots of things. Suppose he went somewhere,—he must have gone somewhere, you know,—and met with a fearful accident. He may be in some hospital,—” “By Jove, that’s so!” interrupted Whiting. “Shall I round ’em up, Elsie? That would make a heap better case than—mysterious disappearance.” “I don’t know,” Elsie hesitated. “Yes, Fenn, if there’s time, do that. But I’ll go right on planning our immediate schedule. I must do it,—it will save all sorts of awkwardness.” Whiting attacked the list of hospitals, and the others waited on Elsie’s will. Both Gerty and Mrs. Powell adored Elsie, and as they were at their own wits’ end, they were only too willing to be guided by her ideas. “Perhaps he had a stroke or something, and lost his mind and climbed out of a window,” suggested Gerty, who was unable to keep from surmising. “He couldn’t,” said Elsie, shortly. “His game knee wouldn’t let him get out of a window,—and his are on the third story, and they were all closed, except for a few inches at the top.” “Well, maybe he squeezed through, and injured himself so, that they took him to a hospital.” “Who took him, Gerty! What are you talking about! I never heard such nonsense.” Elsie returned to her lists. “I shall dress,” she said, looking up; “I must be ready if Kimball comes,—” “Oh, don’t!” cried her mother; “I’m sure it would be unlucky to dress for your wedding and not be married after all!” “Unlucky!” said Elsie, with a sad little smile. “I don’t think I could very well be more unlucky than I am!” “Don’t put on your wedding gown,” urged Gerty. “Put on a simple little white frock, and then, if Kim comes, be married in that.” “Yes; that’s what I’ll do,” agreed the poor little bride, her big, brown eyes sombre with sadness, and despair. “And I’ll dress now, for at half-past two, I take the telephone. After all,” she tried to speak cheerfully, “it’s no crime to postpone a wedding. It is unusual, it’s unfortunate, but nobody can blame me.” “Blame you, you poor darling, I should think not!” cried her mother, who was bearing up bravely for her child’s sake. “I wish you had kept the diamonds,” Gerty said, ruminatively. “Oh, what a speech! Gert, you are the most mercenary thing I ever knew!” Elsie scowled at her sister. “The idea of thinking of such a matter at this time!” “Well, you may as well have had them. They’re yours, by right.” “I don’t want them,—without Kim! I’m glad I didn’t keep them, it would have been one more thing for Henrietta to sneer at.” “How she hates you.” “No; she doesn’t hate me. Only she never thought I was of good enough family to marry into theirs.” “I’m sure the Powells are all right,” said Mrs. Powell, plaintively; “and as for my own family,—” “It doesn’t matter, mother, what or who we are. We’re not Bostonians, and that settles us for Henrietta Webb! It’s her fetich, that Massachusetts blood of hers! Kimball laughs at her fanaticism. You know his new play is a satire on that subject.” “Is his play finished?” asked Gerty. “No; only about three-quarters done. He expects to do up the rest quickly,—after our honeymoon.” Elsie couldn’t make herself quite realize that her honeymoon was probably destined not to occur,—at least, at present. She went away to dress, and was so expeditious that she returned just as Whiting came from the library where he had been telephoning the hospitals. “Nothing doing,” he reported; “oh, Elsie, how sweet you look!” In a dainty white house dress, with her lovely hair simply tucked up in a curly mass, and no ornaments of any sort, Elsie was exquisitely lovely. Her face was pale, but there was a dear, sweet expression that went straight to Fenn Whiting’s heart. He had loved her a long time, and it was in no way his fault that Kimball Webb had won her. “Almost two-thirty,” he said, tearing his glance away from her dear face. “Yes,” said Elsie, and with a tense, drawn expression, she sat watching the clock. No one spoke. It was an awful moment, and yet each realized there was no choice but to do as Elsie had decreed. “Don’t act as if it was a funeral!” Gerty burst out at last, unable to hold the tension longer. “I’m not!” declared Elsie, indignantly; “and it’s nothing of the sort! I’m just as sure that Kimball will come back to me as—as anything!” she finished, a little lamely. “If he only comes in time!” wailed Gerty. “He can’t,” said Whiting; “it’s half-past two now.” “I don’t mean in time for that!” Gerty said, and Elsie gave her a look of scorn that made her blush, and fairly shrivel beneath her sister’s glance of displeasure. “It is half-past,” Elsie agreed, and rose, giving herself a little shake, as if disciplining an unwilling child, and went straight to the telephone. “Every man to his post!” her clear voice rang out, and, obediently her mother and sister went out with their lists. Whiting delayed a moment. “Are you sure, dear,—” he began, but Elsie, the receiver in her hand, was already calling her maid of honour’s number. |
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