The Unseen Bridgegroom, May Agnes Fleming [ebook reader for surface pro .TXT] 📗

dressed woman, who rose with a sort of questioning courtesy upon the entrance of the young lady.

"This is Mrs. Harmen, Miss Dane," said Mrs. Slimmens. "She's the person that fixed the shroud and helped tidy up. She's to take spells with you and me watching until the funeral comes off."

"Very well," said Mollie, quietly. "Perhaps she had better go down with you for the present. I will remain here for the rest of the day."

The two women quitted the apartment, and Mollie was left alone. She removed the cloth and gazed sadly on the rigid face.

"Poor soul!" she thought, bitterly, "hers was a hard, hard life! Oh, Carl Walraven! if you could look upon your work, surely even you would feel remorse."

The entrance of Hugh Ingelow aroused her. She turned to him her pale, sweet face and earnest blue eyes.

"I want to thank you so much, Mr. Ingelow, and I can not. You are very, very, very good."

He took the hand she held out and kissed it.

"One word from you would repay me for ten times as much. May I share your watch for a couple of hours?"

"For as long as you will. I want to tell you the story she told me on her death-bed. You have been so good to me--no brother could have been more--that I can have no secrets from you. Besides, you must understand why it is I will return to Mr. Walraven's no more."

"No more?" he echoed in surprise.

"Never again. I never want to see him again in this world. I will tell you. I know the miserable secret is as safe with you as in my own breast."

If Mollie had loved Hugh Ingelow less dearly and devotedly than she did, it is doubtful if she would have revealed the dark, sad history Miriam had unfolded. But he had her heart, and must have every secret in it; so she sat and told him, simply and sadly, all her father's and mother's wrongs. Mr. Ingelow listened in horrified amaze.

"So now, you see, my friend," she concluded, "that I can never cross Carl Walraven's threshold more."

"Of course not," cried Mr. Ingelow, impetuously. "Good heavens! what a villain that man has been! They ought to hang, draw, and quarter him. The infliction of such a wife as Madame Blanche has been is but righteous retribution. You should expose him, Mollie."

"And myself? No, no, Mr. Ingelow. I leave him in higher hands. The mill of the gods grinds slow, but it grinds sure. His turn will come, be certain of that, sooner or later. All I will do is never to look upon his guilty face again."

"What do you mean to do, Mollie? But I suppose you have no plan formed yet."

He spoke in a matter-of-fact tone, looking at her askance, and Mollie sighed wearily.

"Yes, I have a plan. I intend to leave New York as soon as possible after to-morrow."

"Indeed. May I ask--to go where?"

"Mr. Ingelow, I shall join my old company again. They will be glad to have me, I know. I have always kept up a correspondence with a friend I had in the troupe, and she continually, half in jest, wholly in earnest, urges my return. They are down in Kentucky now. I will write to the manager. He will forward me the funds to join them, I know. While I wait for his answer and remittance, good Mrs. Slimmens will provide me a home."

She ceased, and rising up, walked over to the window.

Now was Mr. Ingelow's time, surely, if he cared for Mollie at all; but Mr. Ingelow spoke never a word. He sat in dead silence, looking at the little figure by the window, knowing she was crying quietly, and making no attempt to wipe away those tears by one tender word.

The afternoon wore away. As the twilight fell, Mr. Ingelow took his departure, and Mollie went down to Mrs. Slimmens' for a reviving cup of tea.

"I have everything arranged for the funeral, Mollie," Mr. Ingelow said at parting. "I will be here by nine o'clock to-morrow. Don't give yourself the least anxiety about the matter, Mollie."

The young man departed. Mollie had her toast, and returned to the death-room. She remained there until past midnight with Mrs. Harmen; then, at Mrs. Slimmens' earnest request, she retired, and that good woman took her place. At ten next day, the humble funeral _cortège_ started. Mr. Ingelow sat in the carriage with Mollie, but they spoke very little during the melancholy drive.

It was a dismal day, with ceaseless rain, and sighing wind, and leaden sky. Mollie cowered in a corner of the carriage, her pale face gleaming like a star above her black wraps, the bright blue eyes unutterably mournful.

And Hugh Ingelow watched her with an indescribable expression in his fathomless eyes, and made no effort to console her.

The sods rattled on the coffin-lid, the grave was filled up, and everybody was hurrying away out of the rain.

It was all over, like some dismal dream, and Mollie, shivering under her shawl, took one last backward look at the grave of her mother, and was hurried back to the carriage by Hugh Ingelow.

But she was so deathly white and cold, and she trembled with such nervous shivering, that the young man drew her to him in real alarm.

"You are going to be ill, Mollie," he said. "You are ill."

"Am I?" said Mollie, helplessly. "I don't know. I hope not. I want to go away so much."

"So much? To leave me, Mollie?"

Mollie lifted her heavy eyes, filled with unutterable reproach.

"You don't care," she said. "It is nothing to you. And it should be nothing," suddenly remembering herself and sitting up. "Please let me go, Mr. Ingelow. We must part, and it is better so."

Mr. Ingelow released her without a word. Mollie sat up, drew a letter from her pocket, and handed it to him. He saw it was addressed to Carl Walraven, and looked at her inquiringly.

"I wish you to read it," she said.

It was unsealed. He opened it at once, and read:

"MR. WALRAVEN,--Miriam is dead--Miriam Dane--my mother. She deceived you from first to last. I am no daughter of yours--for which I humbly thank God!--no daughter of Mary Dane. I am Miriam's child; yours died in the work-house in its babyhood. I know my own story--I know your hand is red with my father's blood. I don't forgive you, Mr. Walraven, but neither do I accuse you. I simply never will see you again. Mr. Ingelow will hand you this. He and I alone know the story. MARY DANE."

Mr. Ingelow looked up.

"Will it do?" she asked.

"Yes. Am I to deliver it?"

"If you will add that kindness to your others. I don't think he will seek me out. He knows better than that."

Her head dropped against the side of the carriage. The face usually so sparkling looked very, very pale, and worn, and sad. The young artist took her hand and held it a moment at parting.

"You intend to write to your old manager to-morrow, Mollie?"

"Yes."

"Don't do it. Postpone it another day. I am coming here to-morrow, and I have a different plan in my head that I think will suit better. Wait until to-morrow, Mollie, and trust me."

His eyes flashed with an electric fire that thrilled the girl through.

What did he mean? But Mr. Ingelow had sprung into the carriage again and was gone.


CHAPTER XXVIII.

CRICKET'S HUSBAND.

Mr. Carl Walraven sat alone in his private room in a Broadway hotel, smoking an after-breakfast cigar, and looking lazily at the stream of people hurrying up and down. It was the morning following Miriam's funeral, of which he, of course, had heard nothing. He had left the city after his interview with his wife, and had but just returned. He had not gone home, but he had notified Mr. Sardonyx of his presence in town, and signified that that gentleman was to wait upon him immediately.

Pending his arrival, Mr. Walraven sat and smoked, and stared at the passers-by, and wondered, with an internal chuckle, how Mme. Blanche felt by this time, and whether Mollie was lonely or not, shut up in the deserted mansion.

"If she'll consent, I'll take her to Europe," mused Carl Walraven. "It will be delightful to go over the old places with so fresh a companion as my sparkling little Cricket. But I'm not sure that she'll go--she's a great deal to fond of young Ingelow. Well, he's a fine fellow, and I've no objection."

Mr. Walraven's reflections were interrupted by the entrance of Mr. Sardonyx. The lawyer bowed; his employer nodded carelessly.

"How do, Sardonyx? Find a chair. I've got back, you see. And now, how's things progressing?"

"Favorably, Mr. Walraven. All goes well."

"And madame has gone packing, I hope?"

"Mrs. Walraven left for Yonkers yesterday. I accompanied her and saw her safely to her new home."

"How does she take it?"

"In sullen silence. She doesn't deign to speak to me; but with her cousin it is quite another matter. He had the hardihood to call upon her in my presence, and you should have seen her. By Jove, sir! she flew out at him like a tigress. Doctor Guy departed without standing on the order of his going, and hasn't had the courage to try it on since."

Mr. Walraven smiled grimly.

"That's as it should be. Apart, they are harmless; together, they are the devil's own. And now, how's the mother, and how's Mollie?"

"Your mother is as well as usual, I believe. As to Miss Dane," lifting his eyebrows in surprise, "have you not heard?"

"Heard what?"

"Why, that she has gone."

"Gone!" cried Carl Walraven, "gone again? What the foul fiend does the girl mean? Has she been carried off a third time?"

"Oh, dear, no! nothing of that sort. Miss Dane and Mr. Ingelow departed together late in the afternoon of the same day you left, and neither has since been heard of."

Mr. Sardonyx made this extraordinary statement with a queer smile just hovering about the corners of his legal mouth. His employer looked at him sternly.

"See here, Sardonyx," he said; "none of your insinuations. Miss Dane is my ward, remember. You are her jilted lover, I remember. Therefore, I can make allowances. But no insinuations. If Miss Dane and Mr. Ingelow left together, you know as well as I do there was no impropriety in their doing so."

"Did I say there was, Mr. Walraven? I mean to insinuate nothing. I barely state facts, told me by your servants."

"Did Mollie leave no word where she was going?"

"There was no need; they knew. This was the way of it: a ragged urchin came for her in hot haste, told her Miriam was dying, and desired her presence at once, to reveal some secret of vital importance. Miss Dane departed at once. Mr. Ingelow chanced to be at the house, and he accompanied her. Neither of them has returned."

The face of Carl Walraven turned slowly to a dead, sickly white as he heard the lawyer's words. He rose slowly and walked to one of the opposite windows, keeping his back turned to Sardonyx.

"Has there been no letter, no message of any