The Unseen Bridegroom; Or, Wedded For a Week

PRIVATE THEATRICALS.

It was broad day when Mollie awoke, the sun shining brilliantly. She started up on her elbow, bewildered, and gazed around.

She was lying on a lounge in a strange room, and Mrs. Susan Sharpe was seated in an elbow-chair before her, nodding drowsily. At Mollie's exclamation she opened her eyes.

"Where are we?" asked the young lady, still bewildered.

"In Mr. Ingelow's studio," responded Mrs. Susan Sharpe.

"Oh, Broadway! Then we are safe in New York?"

The uproar in the great thoroughfare below answered her effectually. She rose up and walked to one of the windows. Life was all astir on the noisy pave. The crowds coming and going, the rattle and clatter were unspeakably delightful, after the dead stagnation of her brief imprisonment.

"How did we come here?" asked Mollie, at length, turning round. "The last I remember I was dropping asleep in the buggy."

"And you stayed asleep—sound—all the way," replied Mrs. Sharpe. "You slept like the dead. Mr. Ingelow lifted you out and carried you up here, and you never woke. I was asleep, too; but he made no ado about rousing me up. You were quite another matter."

Mollie blushed.

"How soundly I must have slept! What's the hour, I wonder?"

"About half past eight."

"Is that all? And where is Mr. Ingelow?"

"Gone to get his breakfast and send us ours. Hadn't you better wash and comb your hair, Miss Dane? Here is the lavatory."

Miss Dane refreshed herself by a cold ablution, and combed out her beautiful, shining tresses.

As she flung them back, a quick, light step came flying upstairs, a clear voice sounded, whistling: "My Love is But a Lassie Yet."

"That's Mr. Ingelow," said Susan Sharpe, decisively.

The next instant came a light rap at the door.

"The room is thine own," said Mollie, in French. "Come in."

"Good-morning, ladies," Mr. Ingelow said, entering, handsome and radiant. "Miss Dane, I trust you feel refreshed after your journey?"

"And my long sleep? Yes, sir."

"And ready for breakfast?"

"Quite ready."

"That is well, for here it comes."

As he spoke, a colored personage in a white apron entered, staggering under the weight of a great tray.

"Breakfast for three," said Mr. Ingelow, whipping off the silver covers. "Set chairs, Sam. Now, then, ladies, I intended to breakfast down at the restaurant; but the temptation to take my matinal meal in such fair company was not to be resisted. I didn't try to resist it, and—here we are!"

Mollie sat beside him, too pretty to tell, and smiling like an angel. At Seventeen, one night is enough to make us as happy as a seraph. For golden-haired, blue-eyed Mollie earth held no greater happiness, just then, than to sit by Hugh Ingelow's side and bask in the light of his smile.

"Delightfully suggestive all this, eh?" said the artist, helping his fair neighbor bountifully.

And Mollie blushed "celestial, rosy red."

"What comes next?" she asked. "After breakfast—what then?"

"That is for Mistress Mollie to decide."

"I am not to go home until this evening?"

"Not if you wish to give unlucky Oleander his coup de gráce. Poor devil! I pity him, too. If you intend to make your entree like the ghost of Banquo at the feast, you can't appear, of course, until evening."

"Must I stay here all day?"

"Will it be so very hard?" with an eloquent glance. "I shall be here."

"No, no!" Mollie said, hastily, blushing and laughing. "It would be light penance, in any case; to spend a day here, after a fortnight down yonder. What I mean is, I might improve the time by going to see Miriam."

"If you wait, Miriam may improve the time by coming to see you."

"No! What does she know about your studio?"

"Heaps!" said Mr. Ingelow, coolly. "It isn't the first time ladies have come to my studio."

"I know; but Miriam—"

"It isn't the first time for Miriam, either."

Mollie opened wide her eyes.

"I protest, Mr. Ingelow, I didn't know you were acquainted with her at all."

"Which proves you are not au fait of all my lady acquaintances. But, to solve the riddle, it was Miriam who first came here and put me on your track."

The blue eyes opened wider.

"You see," said Mr. Ingelow, with the air of one entering upon a story, "she knew about your appointment that night, and was at the place of rendezvous, all silent and unseen. She saw you go off in the carriage with that man, and took it into her head that something was wrong. She called at Mr. Walraven's that day, and found you were missing—no tale nor tidings to be had of you. Then, what does she do but come to me?"

Mr. Ingelow looked full at the young lady as he spoke, and once more Mollie was silly enough to blush.

"I really don't know how it was," pursued Mr. Ingelow, with provoking deliberation, "but Madame Miriam had taken it into her head that I was the man you had gone to meet. Extraordinary, wasn't it? She thought so, however, and was taken all aback to find me quietly painting here."

Mollie did not dare to look up. All her saucy insouciance was gone. Her face was burning. She felt as though it would be an infinite relief to sink through the floor. The floor not being practicable for the purpose, she stole a look at Mrs. Sharpe; but Mrs. Sharpe sat with the face of a wooden figure-head, intent on the business of eating and drinking.

"Miriam and I had a long and confidential talk," the young artist continued, "and came to the conclusion that Doctor Oleander was at the bottom of the matter, and that, wherever you were, you were an unwilling prisoner. Of course, to a gentleman of my knight-errantry, that was sufficient to fire my blood. I put lance in rest, buckled on my armor, mounted my prancing charger, and set off to the ogre's castle to rescue the captive maiden! And for the rest, you know it. I came, I saw, I conquered—Doctor Oleander!"

"Which means," Mollie said, trying to laugh, "you imposed Mrs. Sharpe here upon Doctor Oleander as the nurse for his purpose, and fooled him to the top of his bent. Well, Mr. Ingelow, you have gone to a great deal of trouble on my account, and I am very much obliged to you."

"Is that all?"

"Is that not enough?"

"Hardly. I don't labor for such poor pay. As you say, I have gone to a great deal of trouble, and lost three nights' sleep running. I want something more than 'thank you' for all that."

Mollie tried to laugh—all in a flutter.

"Name your price, then, sir. Though it were half my kingdom, you shall be paid."

"And don't mind me, sir," suggested Mrs. Sharpe, demurely.

"Ah! but I do mind you," said Mr. Ingelow; "and besides, the time for payment has not yet come. Doctor Oleander's little bill must be settled first. What do you mean to do about it, Miss Dane?"

"Punish him to the utmost of my power."

"And that will be pretty severe punishment, if you appeal to the laws of our beloved country. Abductions, and forcible marriages, and illegal imprisonment don't go for nothing, I fancy. Only, unfortunately, the whole land will ring with your story, and your notoriety will be more extensive than gratifying."

Mollie made a gesture of horror.

"Oh, stop! Not that! I should die if it were known I was Guy Oleander's wife! I mean it, Hugh Ingelow. I should die of shame!"

She rose impetuously from the table and walked away to one of the windows.

"You don't know how I abhor that man—abhor, detest, hate, loathe him! There is no word in all the language strong enough to express my feeling for him. Think of it, Mr. Ingelow!"—she faced around, her eyes flashing fire—"think of tearing a bride from the very altar on her wedding-night, and compelling her to marry a man she abhorred! You, who are a brave man and an honorable gentleman, tell me what language is strong enough for so dastardly a deed."

Hugh Ingelow left his seat and faced her, very pale. Mrs. Sharpe slipped out of the room.

"Do you regret your broken marriage with Sir Roger Trajenna, Mollie?"

"No—yes—no. I don't know—I don't think I do. It isn't that. I didn't care for Sir Roger. I was mean enough and shabby enough to consent to marry him for his wealth and title. But I was such a little fool! Sir Roger was a thousand times too good for me, and he and I are both well out of that matter. But that is no excuse for such a villainous deed."

"True. Nothing can excuse it. But you must be merciful. The man loved you passionately."

"Mr. Ingelow," opening her eyes wild and wide, "are you pleading Doctor Oleander's case?"

"No, Mollie—the case of the man who loved you so madly, so recklessly, that the thought of your being another's—another's whom you did not love—drove him to insanity, and to the commission of an insane deed."

"And that man was Doctor Oleander."

"It was not!"

"Mr. Ingelow!"

"No, Mollie; never Guy Oleander. He hadn't the pluck. He never cared for you enough."

"But he did it twice."

"Once only—this last time—stung, goaded into it by the lash of Mrs. Walraven's waspish tongue. But he is not the man who married you, whoever that man may be. At least," cooling down suddenly, as he saw the full blue eyes fixed upon him with piercing intentness, "I don't believe it."

"What do you believe, then, Mr. Ingelow?" Mollie said, slowly and suspiciously.

"That when you made Miriam the confidante of your story, on a certain night in your bedroom, Mrs. Carl Walraven overheard you."

"Impossible!"

"Perhaps so; but you'll find that's the way of it. She listened and heard, and patched it up with Mr. Rashleigh's dinner-table tale, and confabulated with her cousin, and put him up to this last dodge. She saw your advertisement in the paper, and understood it as well as you did, and Doctor Oleander was there in waiting. You committed one unaccountable blunder. You appointed ten for the nocturnal interview, and were at the place of the tryst at half past nine. How do you explain that little circumstance?"

"It seems to me, Mr. Ingelow," said Mollie, "that you must be a sorcerer. How do you know all this?"

"Partly from Miriam, partly from my own inborn ingenuity, as a Yankee, in guessing. Please answer my question."

"I didn't know I was before time. It was later than half past nine by my watch when I quitted the house. I remember listening for the clocks to strike ten as I reached Fourteenth Street."

"You didn't hear them?"

"No."

"Of course not. Your watch was tampered with, and that confirms my suspicion of Mrs. Walraven. Believe me, Mollie, a trap was laid for you, and you were caught in it. You never met 'Black Mask' that night."

"If I thought so!" Mollie cried, clasping her hands.

"You will find it so," Hugh Ingelow said, very quietly. "Let that be Doctor Oleander's punishment. Make him confess his fraud—make him confess Mrs. Walraven aided and abetted him—to-night."

"How can I?"

"Simply enough. Accuse him and her before us all. There will be no one present you can not trust. Your guardian, Sir Roger, and myself know already. Sardonyx is Mr. Walraven's lawyer, and silence is a lawyer's forte."

"Well?" breathlessly.

"Accuse him—threaten him. Tell him you know his whole fraud from first to last. Accuse her! Tell him if he does not prove to your satisfaction he is the man who carried you off and married you, or if he refuses to own he is not the man, that he will go straight from the house to prison. He knows you can fulfill the threat. I think it will succeed."

"And if he confesses he is not the man who married me—if he acknowledges the fraud—what then?"

"Ah! what then? Doctor Oleander will not be your husband."

"And I will be as much in the dark as ever."

"A moment ago you were in despair because you thought he, of all men, was the man," said Hugh Ingelow. "It seems to me you are hard to satisfy."

"No," said Mollie; "if it be as you suspect, I shall be unspeakably thankful. No fate earth can have in store for me can be half so horrible as to know myself the wife of Guy Oleander."

"And if I thought you were his wife, Mollie, rest assured I should never have taken you from him," said Mr. Ingelow, decidedly. "You are no more Guy Oleander's wife than I am."

"Heaven be praised for that!" Mollie cried. "But then, I am entirely in the dark. Whose wife am I?"

Mr. Ingelow smiled.

"That question has an extraordinary sound. One doesn't hear it often in a life-time. If I were a sorcerer, as you accuse me of being, I might perhaps answer it. As it is, I leave it to your own woman's wit to discover."

"My woman's wit is completely at a loss," said Mollie, despairingly. "If ever I do find out, and I think it likely I shall, the divorce law will set me free. I must tell guardy all, and get him to help me."

"Is there no one you suspect?"

"Not one—now," Mollie replied, turning away from him.

How could Mollie Dane tell him she had ever suspected, ever hoped, it might be himself? It was evidently a matter of very little moment to him.

"And you can not forgive the love that resorts to such extreme measures, Mollie?" he asked, after a pause.

"No more than I can forgive Doctor Oleander for carrying me off and holding me captive in his dreary farmhouse," answered Mollie, steadily. "No, Mr. Ingelow, I will never forgive the man who married me against my will."

"Not even if you cared a little for him, Mollie?"

He asked the question hesitatingly, as if he had something at stake in the answer. And Mollie's eyes flashed and her cheeks flushed angry red as she heard it.

"I care for no one in that way, Mr. Ingelow," she said, in a ringing voice. "You ought to know that. If I did, I should hate him for his dastardly deed."

Dead silence fell. Mollie stood looking down at the bustle of Broadway at one window, Mr. Ingelow at the other. He was pale—she flushed indignant red. She was grieved, and hurt, and cruelly mortified. She had found out how dearly she loved him, only to find out with it he was absolutely indifferent to her; he was ready to plead another man's cause, yield her up to her bolder lover.

She could have cried with disappointment and mortification, and crying was not at all in Mollie's line. Never until now had she given up the hope that he still loved her.

"It serves me right, I dare say," she thought, bitterly. "I have been a flirt and a triller, and I refused him cruelly, heartlessly, for that old man. Oh! if the past could be but undone, what a happy, happy creature I should be!"

The oppressive silence lasted until Mrs. Sharpe re-entered with some needle-work. Then Mr. Ingelow rose and looked at his watch.

"I believe I'll take a stroll down Broadway," he said, a little coldly. "Your friend Miriam will probably be here before I return. If not, there are books yonder with which to beguile the time."

Mollie bowed, proudly silent, and Mr. Ingelow left the room for his morning constitutional. Miss Dane walked over, took a book, opened it, and held it before her face a full hour without turning a leaf. The face it screened looked darkly bitter and overcast. She was free from prison, only to find herself in a worse captivity—fettered by a love that could meet with no return.

The bright morning wore on; noon came. Two o'clock brought dinner and Mr. Ingelow, breezy from his walk.

"What!" he exclaimed, looking round, "no Miriam?"

"No Miriam," said Mollie, laying down her book. "Mrs. Sharpe and I have been quite alone—she sewing, I reading."

Mrs. Sharpe smiled to herself. She had been watching the young lady, and surmised how much she had read.

"Why, that's odd, too," Mr. Ingelow said. "She promised to be here this morning, and Miriam keeps her promises, I think. However, the afternoon may bring her. And now for dinner, mesdames."

But the afternoon did not bring her. The hours wore on—Mr. Ingelow at his easel, Mollie with her book, Susan Sharpe with her needle, conversation desultory and lagging.

Since the morning a restraint had fallen between the knight-errant and the rescued lady—a restraint Mollie saw clearly enough, but could not properly understand.

Evening came. Twilight, hazy and blue, fell like a silvery veil over the city, and the street-lamps twinkled through it like stars.

Mr. Ingelow in an inner room had made his toilet, and stood before Mollie, hat in hand, ready to depart for the Walraven mansion.

"Remain here another half hour," he was saying; "then follow and strike the conspirators dumb. It will be better than a melodrama. I saw Oleander to-day, and I know information of your escape has not yet reached him. You had better enter the house by the most private entrance, so that, all unknown, you can appear before us and scare us out of a year's growth."

"I know how to get in," said Mollie. "Trust me to play my part."

Mr. Ingelow departed, full of delightful anticipations of the fun to come. He found all the guests assembled before him. It was quite a select little family party, and Mr. Walraven and Sir Roger Trajenna were in a state of despondent gloom that had become chronic of late.

Mollie, the apple of their eye, their treasure, their darling, was not present, and the whole universe held nothing to compensate them for her loss.

Mrs. Walraven, superbly attired, and looking more like Queen Cleopatra than ever, with, a circlet of red gold in her blue-black hair, and her polished shoulders and arms gleaming like ivory against bronze in her golden-brown silk, presided like an empress. She was quite radiant to-night, and so was Dr. Guy. All their plans had succeeded admirably. Mollie was absolutely in their power. This time to-morrow scores of broad sea miles would roll between her and New York.

The conversation turned upon her ere they had been a quarter of an hour at table. Mr. Walraven never could leave the subject uppermost in his thoughts for long.

"It is altogether extraordinary," Sir Roger Trajenna said, slowly. "The first absence was unaccountable enough, but this second is more unaccountable still. Some enemy is at the bottom."

"Surely Miss Dane could have no enemies," said Hugh Ingelow. "We all know how amiable and lovable she was."

"Lovable, certainly. We know that," remarked Sardonyx, with a grim smile.

"And I adhere to my former opinion," said Dr. Oleander, with consummate coolness—"that Miss Mollie is playing tricks on her friends, to try their affection. We know what a tricksy sprite she is. Believe me, both absences were practical jokes. She has disappeared of her own free will. It was very well in the Dark Ages—this abducting young ladies and carrying them off to castle-keeps—but it won't do in New York, in the present year of grace."

"My opinion precisely, Guy," chimed in his fair cousin. "Mollie likes to create sensations. Her first absence set the avenue on the qui vive and made her a heroine, so she is resolved to try it again. If people would be guided by me," glancing significantly at her husband, "they would cease to worry themselves about her, and let her return at her own good pleasure, as she went."

"Yes, Mr. Walraven," said Dr. Oleander, flushed and triumphant, "Blanche is right. It is useless to trouble yourself so much about it. Of her own accord she will come back, and you may safely swear of her own accord she went."

"Guy Oleander, you lie!"

The voice rang silver-sweet, clear as a bugle-blast, through the room. All sprung to their feet.

"Ah-h-h-h-h!"

The wordless cry of affright came from Mrs. Carl Walraven. Dr. Oleander stood paralyzed, his eyes starting from their sockets, his face like the face of a dead man.

And there in the door-way, like a picture in a frame, like a Saxon pythoness, her golden hair falling theatrically loose, her arm upraised, her face pale, her eyes flashing, stood Mollie.

MOLLIE'S TRIUMPH.

The tableau was magnificent.

There was a dead pause of unutterable consternation. All stood rooted to the spot with staring eyes and open mouths. Before the first electric charge had subsided, Mollie Dane advanced and walked straight up to the confounded doctor, confronting him with eyes that literally blazed.

"Liar! traitor! coward! Whose turn is it now?"

Dr. Oleander fairly gasped for breath. The awful suddenness of the blow stunned him. He could not speak—he made the attempt, but his white lips failed him.

"Before all here," cried Mollie Dane, arm and hand still upraised with an action indescribably grand, "I accuse you, Guy Oleander, of high felony! I accuse you of forcibly tearing me from my home, of forcibly holding me a prisoner for nearly two weeks, and of intending to carry me off by force to-morrow to Cuba. And you, madame," turning suddenly as lightning strikes upon Mrs. Carl, "you, madame, I accuse as his aider and abettor."

There was another horrible pause. Even Hugh Ingelow thrilled through every vein.

Then Carl Walraven found voice:

"For God's sake, Mollie, what does this mean?"

Mollie turned to him and held out both hands.

"It means, guardy, that but for the direct interposition of Providence you never would have seen your poor little Cricket again."

And at last Dr. Oleander found his voice.

"That infernal nurse!" he cried between his set teeth. Mollie heard the hissing words and turned upon him like a pale little fury.

"Yes, Guy Oleander, the nurse played you false—fooled you to your face from the first. Came down from New York for no other purpose than to rescue me. And here I am, safe and sound, in spite of you; and the tables are turned, and you are in my power now. Out of this house you never stir except to go to prison."

"Mollie! Mollie! Mollie!" Mr. Carl Walraven cried in desperation, "for the Lord's sake, what do you mean? What has Doctor Oleander done?"

"Carried me off, I tell you—forcibly abducted me. Held me a prisoner for the last two weeks in a desolate old farmhouse over on Long Island. Look at him. Was ever guilt more plainly written on human face? Let him deny it if he can—or you, madame, his accomplice, either."

"I do deny it," Mme. Blanche exclaimed, boldly. "Mollie Dane, you are mad."

"You will find to your cost there is method in my madness, Mrs. Walraven. What say you, Doctor Oleander? Have you the hardihood to face me with a deliberate lie, too?"

Dr. Oleander was not deficient in a certain dog-like courage and daring. He saw his position in a moment—saw that denial would be utterly useless. His own mother would prove against him it if came to law.

There was but one avenue of escape for him—he saw it like a flash of light. Mollie would not dare publish this story of hers for her own sake, and neither would Carl Walraven for his wife's.

"He does not deny it!" cried Mollie. "He dare not. Look at his changing face. He carried me off and held me a prisoner in his mother's house, and gave out I was mad. And that is not the worst he has done. I might overlook that, now that I have safely escaped—"

Dr. Oleander suddenly interrupted her.

"That is the very worst—and you dare not publish it, even to punish me."

"What!" exclaimed the young lady, "do you deny your other tenfold greater crime—the compulsory marriage performed by the Reverend Raymond Rashleigh? Oh, if there be law or justice in the whole country, you shall suffer for that!"

"I do deny it," said the doctor, boldly. "You are no wife of mine by compulsion or otherwise. That story was trumped up to deceive you the second time."

Mollie's heart gave one great throb, and then seemed to stand still.

Mrs. Walraven turned, ghastly with fear and rage, upon her cousin.

"Guy Oleander, are you mad? What are you saying?"

"The truth, Blanche. It is too late for any other alternative now. Don't fear—Mr. Walraven will hardly allow his ward to prosecute his wife."

"Traitor and coward!" Blanche Walraven cried in fierce scorn. "I wish my tongue had blistered with the words that urged you on."

"I wish it had," returned the doctor, coolly. "I wish, as I often have wished since, that I had never listened to your tempting. It was your fault, not mine, from first to last."

It was the old story of Adam and Eve over again: "The woman tempted me, and I did eat."

"'When rogues fall out, honest men get their own.' You mean to say, Doctor Oleander, that Mrs. Walraven instigated you on?"

"How else should I know?" answered the doctor. "She overheard you telling the woman Miriam, in your chamber, the whole story. She saw and understood your advertisement and its answer. She concocted the whole scheme, even to advancing the hands of your watch half an hour. If the law punishes me, Miss Dane, it must also punish your guardian's wife."

"Coward! coward!" Blanche furiously cried. "Oh, basest of the base! If I only had the power to strike you dead at my feet!"

The doctor bore the onslaught quietly enough.

"Heroics are all very well, Blanche," he said; "but self-preservation is the first law of nature. Confession is the only avenue of escape, and I have taken it. Besides, justice is justice. You deserve it. You goaded me on. It was your fault from beginning to end."

"And you own, then, you are not the man who carried me off before?" said Mollie. "You are not the man Mr. Rashleigh married?"

"I swear I'm not!" cried the doctor, with an earnestness there was no mistaking. "And I'm very thankful I'm not. I wouldn't lead the life I've led for the past two weeks for all the women alive. I'm glad you're here, and that the whole thing is knocked in the head."

He spoke with the dogged recklessness of a man goaded to desperation. Mollie turned again to her guardian and laid her face on his shoulder.

"Send that man away, guardy. His presence in the room turns me sick to death."

"I am going, Miss Dane," said Dr. Oleander, turning moodily to the door, "and I shall not go to Cuba. I shall not quit New York. Let you or your guardian prosecute me if you dare!"

He stalked out with the last words. No one moved or spoke until the house-door banged after him.

Then Mme. Blanche, seeing all was lost, gave one horrible scream, clasped her hands over her head, and fell back in violent hysterics.

"Ring for her maid, guardy," said Mollie. "You had best take her up to her room. Sir Roger, Mr. Ingelow, please to remain. Mr. Sardonyx, excuse me, but you have heard all that it is necessary you should hear."

The lawyer became angry-red, but turned at once to go.

"I have no wish to pry into your very extraordinary secrets or escapades, Miss Dane," he said, haughtily. "Permit me to wish you good-evening."

Mr. Sardonyx departed. Mr. Walraven saw his wife safely conveyed to her room and left in charge of her maid, and then returned to the dining-room.

Mollie's first act was to hold out both hands, with infinite grace and courtesy, to Hugh Ingelow.

"Mr. Ingelow, words are poor and weak to tell you how I thank you. I have not deserved it from you. I can only ask you to try and forgive me."

The young artist lifted the fair little hands to his lips.

"I am repaid ten thousand-fold," he said, quietly. "I would give my life to serve you."

"In the name of Heaven, Mollie," cried the nearly frantic master of the house, "what does all this extraordinary mystery mean?"

"It means that a terrible crime has been committed, guardy," Mollie replied, gravely, "and that your wife and her cousin are among the chief conspirators. Sit down and I will tell you the whole story. Sir Roger Trajenna, likewise. I owe you both a full explanation. Mr. Ingelow knows already."

She sat down before them, and beginning at the beginning, told them the whole story—her forced and mysterious marriage and its very unpleasant sequel.

"That I ever escaped," she concluded, "I owe, under Providence, to Mr. Ingelow. Guardy, I would have spared you if I could; but, you see, it was impossible. Of course, we won't prosecute your wife or her cousin. I am almost satisfied, now, that I know I am not Guy Oleander's wretched wife."

"But, heavens above, Mollie Dane!" cried the bewildered Mr. Walraven, "whose wife are you?"

"Ah, guardy, I would give a great deal to know that."

"Whom do you suspect?"

"I suspect no one now."

There was a shade of sadness in her tone, and her eyes wandered wistfully over to the young artist.

"Upon my soul!" exclaimed Mr. Walraven, "I never heard or read of the like. It's perfectly astounding. Did you ever hear anything so extraordinary, Sir Roger?"

The baronet had been sitting like a man stunned by a blow. Now he turned his eyes from Mollie's for the first time, and tried to speak.

"I am utterly bewildered," he said. "The whole story sounds like an impossibility—incredible as a fairy tale."

"It is quite true, nevertheless," said Mollie.

"And you are a wedded wife?"

"I am."

"You're nothing of the sort!" burst out Carl Walraven. "You're free—free as air. It would be outrageous, it would be monstrous, to let such a marriage bind you. You are free to wed to-morrow if you choose; and let the villain come forward and dispute the marriage if he dare!"

"He speaks the truth," said Sir Roger, eagerly. "Such a marriage is no marriage. You are as free as you were before, Mollie."

"Perhaps so," said Mollie, calmly. "Nevertheless, I shall never marry."

"Never?"

It was Sir Roger's despairing voice.

"Never, Sir Roger. I never was worthy of you. I would be the basest of the base to marry you now. No; what I am to-night I will go to my grave."

She stole a glance at Hugh Ingelow, but the sphinx was never more unreadable than he. He caught her glance, however, and calmly spoke.

"And now, as Miss Mollie has had a fatiguing journey lately, and as she needs rest, we had better allow her to retire. Good-night."

He had bowed and reached the door ere the voice of Carl Walraven arrested him.

"This very unpleasant business, Mr. Ingelow—Sir Roger," he said, with evident embarrassment, "in which Mrs. Walraven is concerned—"

"Will be as though it had never been, Mr. Walraven," Hugh Ingelow said, gravely. "Once more—good-night."

He quitted the room.

Sir Roger Trajenna turned to follow, a sad, crushed old man.

Mollie shyly and wistfully held out her hand.

"Try and forget me, Sir Roger—try and forgive me. I have been a foolish, flighty girl; I am sorry for it. I can say no more."

"No more!" Sir Roger said, with emotion, kissing the little hand. "God bless you!"

He, too, was gone.

Then Mollie turned and put her arms round her guardian's neck.

"Dear old guardy, I am sorry for you. Oh, I wish you had never married that hateful Blanche Oleander, but lived free and happy with your mother and your Mollie. But it's too late now; you must forgive her, I suppose. I detest her like the mischief; but we must all keep the peace."

"I suppose so, Mollie," with a dreary sigh. "You can't wish I had never married more than I do. It's a righteous punishment upon me, I suppose. I've been the greatest villain unhung to the only woman who ever did love me, and now this is retribution."

He groaned dismally as he rose and kissed Mollie good-night.

"Go to your room, Mollie, and let us forget, if we can."

"Ah!" said Mollie, "if we can. Guardy, good-night."

MIRIAM'S MESSAGE.

Next morning, at breakfast, Mrs. Walraven did not appear. She was very ill and feverish, her maid reported, and quite unable to leave her bed.

Mr. Carl Walraven heard this sad account of his wife's health with a grimly fixed countenance. He looked as though he had passed a restless night himself, and looked worn and haggard and hollow-eyed in the bright morning sunshine.

Mollie, on the other hand, was blooming and brilliant as the goddess Hebe. Past troubles sat lightly on buoyant Mollie as dew-drops on a rose. She looked rather anxiously at her guardian as the girl quitted the breakfast-room.

"You didn't mention Blanche's illness, guardy. Tea or chocolate this morning?"

"A cup of tea. I didn't mention her illness because I wasn't aware of it. I haven't had the pleasure of seeing Madame Blanche since we parted in the dining-room last night."

"Indeed!" said Mollie, stirring her chocolate slowly.

"And what's more," pursued the master of the house, "I don't care if I never see her again."

"Dear me, guardy! Strong language, isn't it?"

"It is truthful language, Mollie. Sleeping on a thing sometimes alters its complexion materially. Last evening I concluded to let things blow over and keep up appearances before the world. This morning I am resolved to let the world go hang, and teach one of the conspirators a lesson she won't forget in a hurry."

Mollie looked alarmed.

"Not a divorce, guardy? Surely not the public scandal of a divorce? All must come out then."

"Not quite a divorce," Mr. Walraven said, coolly; "its next-door neighbor. A quiet, gentlemanly, and lady-like separation."

"Guardy Walraven," said Miss Dane, solemnly, "don't do anything rash."

"I don't intend to. I've thought the matter well over. Didn't get a wink of sleep last night for it. We won't break our hearts"—with a cynical sneer—"myself nor my gentle Blanche. I don't know why we married, exactly. Certainly not for love, and we will part without a pang."

"Speak for yourself, guardy. I dare say Blanche will be frantic."

"Frantic at leaving a house on Fifth Avenue—frantic at leaving you mistress in her place—frantic that she can't be my blooming young widow—frantic at all that, I grant you."

"Guardy, don't be dreadful," adjured Mollie, pathetically. "If I can forgive Blanche, I'm sure you may."

"No, Mollie, I can not. She has deceived me basely, wickedly. More—I dare not."

"Dare not. Now, Mr. Walraven—"

"Hear me out, Mollie. A woman who would concoct such a villainous plot would stop at nothing. Abduction would be followed by murder. I would not trust her from henceforth on her Bible oath. My life is not safe while she remains in this house."

"Guardy! guardy! how can you say such horrible things? Commit murder? You know very well she would not dare."

"Wives dare it every week if the public journals speak the truth. I tell you I would not trust her. There is Guy Oleander, a toxicologist by profession—what more easy than for him to supply her with some subtle drug, and call it catalepsy, a congestion, a disease of the heart? I tell you, Mollie, after finding them out, my life would not be worth a fillip in their hands. I could as easily live with a female gorilla as with Blanche Oleander."

"Well," said Mollie, looking a little startled, "if you feel like that, of course—When do you propose—"

She paused.

"I shall lose no time. I shall see Mrs. Walraven immediately after breakfast."

"But she is ill."

"Bosh! She's shamming. She's afraid to show her wicked, plotting face. She's lying there to concoct some new villainy. I won't spare her—she didn't spare you. I'll send her packing, bag and baggage, before the week's out."

"And if she refuses to go, guardy?"

"Then," cried Mr. Walraven, with flashing eyes, "I'll make her go. I'll have a divorce, by Heaven! She'll find she can't commit high felonies in this enlightened age and go unpunished. I'd see her boiled alive before I'd ever live with her again."

With which spirited declaration Mr. Walraven finished his breakfast and arose. His first proceeding was to ring the bell violently. One of the kitchen damsels answered.

"Go to Mrs. Walraven's room and tell her Mr. Walraven is coming to see her."

The girl, looking rather surprised, hastened to obey.

Mr. Walraven took a turn or two up and down the room, "nursing his wrath to keep it warm."

"The more I think of this infernal business, Mollie," he burst out, "the more enraged I get. If Doctor Oleander was so madly in love with you that he carried you off to prevent your marrying any one else, one might find some excuse for him. Love, we all know, is a 'short-lived madness.' But for her, a woman, to invent that diabolical scheme in cold blood, simply because she hated you! Oh, it was the work of an accursed harridan, and never to be forgiven!"

He strode from the room as he spoke, his face and eyes aflame, and stalked straight to the sleeping-room of Mme. Blanche. One loud rap; then, before the attendant could open it he had flung it wide, and he was standing, stern as Rhadamauthus, above the cowering woman in the bed.

"Do you leave the room!" he exclaimed, turning savagely upon the girl; "and mind, no eavesdropping, if you have any regard for whole bones. Be off!"

The frightened girl scampered at once. Mr. Walraven closed the door, locked it, strode back, and stood glaring down upon his wife with folded arms and fiercely shining eyes.

"Well, madame?"

"Spare me, Carl." She held up her arms in dire affright. "Forgive me, my husband."

"Never!" thundered Carl Walraven—"never! you base, plotting Jezebel! The fate you allotted to Mollie Dane shall fall upon yourself. You shall quit this house before the week ends, never to return to it more."

"Carl! Husband—"

"Silence, madame! No husband of yours, either now or at any future time! This shall be our last interview. We part to-day to meet no more."

"Carl! Carl! for pity's sake, hear me."

"Not a word, not a syllable. All the excuses in the world would not excuse you. I never loved you—now I hate you. After this hour I never want to look upon your wicked white face again."

Blanche Walraven's spirit rose with the insult. She flung down the clothes and sat erect in bed, her black eyes flashing.

"Be it so! You never loved me less than I did you! You can not hate me more than I hate you! But, for all that, I won't go!"

"You shall go—and that within this week!"

"I tell you I won't! I dare you! Do your worst!"

"Do you, madame? Then, by Heaven, I accept your challenge! The law of divorce shall set me free from the vilest wife man ever was cursed with!"

She gave a gasping cry, her face ghastly white.

"Carl Walraven, you would not dare!"

"Would I not?" with a harsh laugh. "We shall see. You don't know what Carl Walraven is capable of yet, I see."

"Wait! wait! wait!" Blanche screamed after him, in mortal terror. "Tell me what you came here to propose."

"A separation, madame—quietly, without éclat or public scandal. Accept or refuse, as you please."

"What are your terms?" sullenly.

"More liberal than you deserve. An annuity larger than anything you ever had before you married me, a house up the Hudson, and your promise never to return to New York. With my death, the annuity will cease, and you will be penniless. I don't choose to be put out of the way by you or your poisoning cousin."

Blanche Walraven's eyes flashed fury.

"You are a merciless, iron-hearted man, Carl Walraven, and I hate you! I close with your terms, because I can not help myself; but I'll have revenge yet!"

"And the very first attempt you make," said Mr. Walraven, coolly, "I'll hand you over to the law as I would the commonest vagrant that prowls the streets. Don't think to intimidate me, my lady, with your tragedy airs and fiery glances. Mr. Sardonyx will wait upon you this afternoon. If you can make it convenient to leave to-morrow, you will very much oblige me."

His last words were almost lost. Mrs. Walraven, with a hysterical scream, had fallen back among the pillows in strong convulsions. He just stopped to give one backward glance of pitiless loathing, then rang for her maid and left the room.

And so parted the ill-assorted husband and wife to meet no more. So ended one mercenary marriage.

Carl Walraven went down-stairs, and found Mollie uneasily awaiting him.

"It's all settled, Mollie," he said. "You are the little mistress of the house from this day forward, until"—looking at her earnestly—"you get married."

Mollie reddened and shook her head.

"I shall never get married, guardy."

"No? Not even to Hugh Ingelow?"

"Least of all to Hugh Ingelow. Don't let us talk about it, guardy. What did Mrs. Walraven say?"

"More than I care to repeat, Cricket. We won't talk about Mrs. Walraven, either."

"But, guardy, are you really going to send her away?"

"I really and truly am. She goes to-morrow. Now, Mollie Dane, there's no need for you to wear that pleading face. She goes—that's flat! I wouldn't live in the same house with her now for a kingdom. If you say another word about it we'll quarrel."

He strode off like a sulky lion, and Mollie, feeling as though it were all her fault, was left disconsolate and uncomfortable enough.

"I had rather they had made it up," she thought. "I don't want to be the cause of parting man and wife. She behaved atrociously, no doubt, and deserves punishment; but I wish the punishment had fallen on the man, not the woman. It's a shame to make her suffer and let that horrible doctor off scot-free."

Mr. Walraven, in his study, meantime, had written a letter to Lawyer Sardonyx, detailing in brief his wishes, and requesting him to call upon Mrs. Walraven in the course of the day. That done, he quitted the house, determined to return no more until she had left.

The afternoon brought Hugh Ingelow. Mollie was alone in her room, having a very anxious time; but when his name was announced, she dropped the book she was trying to read and made a headlong rush down-stairs. If Hugh Ingelow had seen the rosy light that leaped into her cheeks, the glad sparkle that kindled in her eyes at the sound of his name, he could hardly have been insensible to their flattering import.

Mr. Ingelow congratulated her on her bright looks as he shook hands.

"I never saw you looking better," he said, with earnest admiration.

"Looks are deceitful, then," said Mollie, shaking her early head dolefully. "I don't think I ever felt worse, even when cooped up in Doctor Oleander's prison."

"Really! What has gone wrong now?" the artist inquired.

"Everything dreadful! The most shocking tempests in tea-pots. Guardy is going to separate from his wife!"

"Indeed!" said Mr. Ingelow, coolly. "The very best thing he could do."

"Oh, Mr. Ingelow!"

"Quite true, Mollie. She's a Tartar, if ever there was a Tartar. He committed a terrible act of folly when he married her; let him show his return to wisdom by sending her adrift. I don't pity her in the least. If he forgave her this time, she would simply despise him, and begin her machinations all over again."

"No! Do you think so? Then I'm not to blame?"

"You!" Mr. Ingelow laughed. "I should think not, indeed! Set that tender little heart of yours at rest, Mollie. Blanche Walraven is big and fierce, and able to take care of herself. Let us get rid of her quietly; if we can, and be thankful."

"Mr. Sardonyx is with her now," said Mollie, "arranging matters. Oh, dear! I can't help feeling nervous and troubled about it. It's not fair to punish her and let Doctor Oleander go off scot-free."

"His punishment is his detection and your loss, Mollie. I can think of no heavier punishment than that. I met him, by the bye, in Broadway, as large as life, and as impudent as the gentleman with the cloven foot. He bowed, and I stared, and cut him dead, of course."

Before Mollie could speak, the door-bell rang. A moment later and there was the sound of an altercation in the hall.

"You can't see Miss Dane, you ragamuffin!" exclaimed the mellifluous tones of footman Wilson. "You hadn't oughter ring the door-bell! The airy's for such as you!"

"It is Miriam!" cried Mollie, running to the door. "It is surely Miriam at last!"

But it was not Miriam. It was a dirty-faced boy—a tatter-demalion of fourteen years—with sharp, knowing black eyes. Those intelligent orbs fixed on the young lady at once.

"Be you Miss Dane—Miss Mollie Dane—miss?"

"Yes," said Mollie. "Who are you?"

"Sammy Slimmens, miss. Miss Miriam sent me, miss—she did."

"Miriam? Are you sure? Why didn't she come herself?"

"Couldn't, miss," nodding sagaciously. "She's very bad, she is. Got runned over, miss."

"Run over!" Mollie cried, in horror.

"Corner Fulton Street, miss, and Broadway. Yesterday morning 'twas. I told the policeman where she lived, and he fetched her home. Won't live, they say, and she's sent for you. Got something very 'ticular to tell you, miss."

"I will go at once," Mollie said, unutterably distressed. "My poor Miriam! I might have known something had happened, or she would have been here before this."

She flew upstairs and was back again, dressed for the street, in ten minutes.

"Permit me to accompany you, Miss Dane," said Hugh Ingelow, stepping forward. "You have been entrapped before. We will be on our guard this time. Now, my man," to the hero of the rags and tatters, "lead on; we follow."

The boy darted away, and Mr. Ingelow with Mollie's hand drawn through his arm, set off after him at a rapid rate.

MIRIAM'S STORY.

A miserable attic chamber, dimly lighted by one dirty sky-light, a miserable bed in one corner, a broken chair, an old wooden chest, a rickety table, a few articles of delf, a tumble-down little cook-stove.

That was the picture Mollie Dane saw, standing on the threshold of Miriam's room.

There was no deception this time. On that wretched bed lay the broken and bruised figure of the woman Miriam, dying.

Her deep, labored breathing was painfully audible, even outside the room; her strong chest rose and fell—every breath torture.

By her side sat the mother of the ragged boy, holding a drink to her lips, and coaxing her to open her mouth and try to swallow.

In vivid contrast to all this poverty and abject wretchedness, the young girl in the door-way stood, with her fair, blooming face, her fluttering golden ringlets, her rich silken garments, and elegant air.

The woman by the bed turned round and stared for a moment; then—

"Be you the young lady as Mrs. Miriam sent my Sammy for?" she asked.

"Yes," said Mollie, coming forward. "How is she?"

"Bad as bad can be, miss. Won't never see another day, the doctor says."

"My poor Miriam—my poor Miriam!"

The slow tears gathered in her eyes as she bent above her and saw the pinched, sharpened face, with the blue tinge of coming death already dawning there.

"Be you a relation?" the woman asked, curiously. But Mollie did not answer—she was stooping over the sick woman, absorbed.

"Miriam!" she said, softly, taking the skinny hand in both her own—"Miriam, look up! Speak to me. It is I—your own Mollie."

The sound of that beloved voice penetrated the death fog already blurring every faculty. The dulled eyes opened with a sudden, joyful light of recognition.

"Mollie," she said, "my dear little Mollie. I knew you would come."

"I am very, very sorry to see you like this, Miriam. Do you suffer much pain?"

"Not now—only a dull aching from head to foot. But even that will soon be over. I am glad. My life has been nothing for the past sixteen years but one long torment. I am glad it is so nearly done. Mollie," fixing her haggard eyes solemnly on her face, "you know I will never see another sunrise."

"My poor, poor Miriam!"

"Are you sorry for poor Miriam, Mollie?"

"Sorrier than sorry! What other relative have I in the wide world but you?"

"Not one, Mollie. But I am a relative you need hardly grieve for. I have been a bad, cruel woman—the worst woman that ever lived to you, my poor little girl!"

"Miriam!"

"Ah! don't look at me with those innocent, wondering blue eyes! You shall know all. I can't die with my story untold, my secret unrevealed. Mrs. Slimmens, I have something very particular to say to this young lady. Please to leave us alone."

The woman, with a disappointed look, rose up and quitted the room.

Mollie drew up the only chair and seated herself by the bedside.

"Did you come here alone?" was Miriam's first question, when they were together.

"No," said Mollie, coloring slightly. "Mr. Ingelow came with me. He is waiting below."

"That is well. It is growing late, and the neighborhood is not a good one. He saved you, did he not?"

"He did. I owe him my life—my liberty."

"I knew he would—I knew he would! I trusted him from the first Mollie, do you know why I sent for you in my dying hour?"

"To tell me who I am."

"Yes—you would like to know?"

"More than anything else in the wide world."

"And have you no idea—no suspicion?"

Mollie hesitated.

"I have sometimes thought," reddening painfully, "that I might be Mr. Walraven's daughter."

"Ah!" said Miriam, her eyes lighting; "and he thinks so, too!"

"Miriam!"

"Yes," said Miriam, exultingly, "he thinks so—he believes so, and so does his wife. But for all that, not one drop of his blood flows in your veins!"

"Miriam!"

"Not one drop! If there did, you should not now be standing by my death bed. I would expire unrepenting and unconfessed. Mollie, you are mine—my very own—my daughter!"

She raised herself on her elbow and caught Mollie in her arms with a sudden, fierce strength. The girl stood perfectly speechless with the shock.

"My child—my child—my child! For years I have hungered and thirsted for this hour. I have desired it as the blind desire sight. My child—my child! have you no word for your dying mother?"

"Mother!"

The word broke from Mollie's white lips like a sobbing sigh. The intense surprise of the unexpected revelation stunned her.

"You believe me, then—you do believe me!" Miriam cried, holding her fast.

"You are dying," was Mollie's solemn answer. "Oh, my mother! why did you not tell me this before?"

"Because I would not disgrace you and drag you down. I loved you far too well for that. I could have done nothing for you but bespatter you with the mire in which I wallowed, and I wanted you, my beautiful one—my pearl, my lily—to be spotless as mountain snow. It can do you no harm to know when I am dead."

"And Carl Walraven is nothing to me?"

"Nothing, Mollie—less than nothing. Not one drop of his black blood flows in your veins. Are you sorry, Mollie?"

"No," said Mollie, drawing a long breath. "No!" she repeated, more decidedly. "I am glad, Miriam—mother."

"You can call me mother, then, despite all?"

"Surely," Mollie said, gravely; "and now tell me all."

"Ah, it is a long, sad story—a wicked and miserable story of shame, and sin, and suffering! It is a cruel thing to blight your young life with the record of such horrible things."

"I may surely bear what others have to endure. But, Miriam, before you begin, do you really mean to tell me Mr. Walraven thinks me his daughter?"

"He believes it as surely as he believes in Heaven. He thinks you are his child—Mary Dane's daughter."

"Who was Mary Dane?"

"Your father's sister by marriage—done to death by Carl Walraven."

Mollie turned very pale.

"Tell me all," she said. "Begin at the beginning. Here, drink this—it is wine."

She had brought a pocket-flask with her. She filled a broken tea-cup and held it to the dry, parched lips.

Miriam drained it eagerly.

"Ah!" she said, "that is new life! Sit down here by me, Mollie, where I can see you; give me your hands. Now listen:

"Mollie, you are eighteen years old, though neither you nor Carl Walraven thinks so. You are eighteen this very month. His child, whom he thinks you are, would be almost seventeen, if alive. She died when a babe of two years old.

"Eighteen years ago, Mollie, I was a happy wife and mother. Down in Devonshire, in the little village of Steeple Hill, my husband and I lived, where we had both been born, where we had courted and married, where we hoped to lay our bones at last. Alas and alas! he fills a bloody grave in the land of strangers, and I am drawing my last breath in far America. And all, Mollie—all owing to Carl Walraven."

She paused a moment. The girl held the cup of wine to her lips. A few swallows revived her, and enabled her to go on.

"There were two brothers, James and Stephen Dane. James, the elder by six years, was my husband and your father. We lived in the old Dane homestead—we three—a happy and prosperous household. We needed but your coming, my daughter, to fill our cup of joy to the very brim. No woman in all broad England was a happier wife and mother than Miriam Dane when you were laid upon my breast.

"We named our baby-girl Miriam—your father would have it so—and you grew healthful and beautiful, fair and blue-eyed, as it is in the nature of the Danes to be. I was glad you had not my black eyes and gypsy skin. I think I loved you all the more because you were your father's image.

"Ah, Mollie, I never can tell you what a blessed, peaceful household we were until you were three months old! Then the first change took place—Stephen Dane got married.

"At Wortley Manor, just without the confines of Steeple Hill, lived Sir John Wortley and his lady. They had come to spend the hot months down in the country, and my lady had brought with her a London lady's-maid, full of London airs and graces, styles and fashions. She was a pretty girl, this buxom Mary Linton, with flaxen curls, and light blue eyes, and a skin white as milk and soft as satin. She could sing like an angel, and dance like a fairy, and dress and talk like my lady herself.

"Of course, before she had been a month in the place, she had turned the heads of all the young fellows in the village, Stephen Dane's among the rest. But while she coquetted with all, she smiled most sweetly on Stephen, with his three hundred pounds laid by in bank, his broad shoulders, his lofty stature and his hearty looks. Three months after she came to Wortley Manor, she was Stephen Dane's wife.

"That marriage was the beginning of all the trouble, Mollie. They left the farm, this young pair, and set up a public-house. A public suited Mary Dane to the life. She flaunted in gay dresses and bright ribbons, and gossiped over the bar with the customers, and had all the news of the place put at her tongue's end. And Stephen, he took to drink—a little, at first, to be jovial with the customers; more and more gradually, until, at the end of the honey-moon, he was half his time on the fuddle. And Mary Dane didn't care. She laughed in her pretty way when people talked.

"'Let him take his glass, Mariam,' says she to me. 'He's fonder of me in his cups, and better-natured every way, than when he's sober. As long as my man doesn't beat me and pull the house about our heads, I'll never say him nay.'

"It was near the end of the second month that a sick traveler stopped at the Wortley Arms—so they called the inn—and lay very ill there for weeks and weeks. He had taken cold and got a fever, and he was very poorly and like to die. Mary Dane, with all her airy ways, had a tender heart and a soft head, and she turned to and nursed the sick man like a sister. They took such care of him at the Wortley Arms that he got well, and in three weeks was able to be up and about.

"This strange gentleman gave the name of Mr. Walls; and he was young and handsome, and very rich. He spent money like water; he paid the doctor and the landlord and the nurses as if he had been a prince. He had a pleasant word and jest for every one. He was hand and glove with Stephen Dane, and heaped presents on presents on his wife. He gave her silk dresses and gold rings and costly shawls and gay bonnets until people began to talk. What did he care for their talk? what did Mary Dane, either? He lingered and lingered. The talking grew louder, until, at last, it reached the ears of Stephen Dane. He took it quietly. 'It's mighty dull for the likes of you here, Mr. Walls,' he says to the gentleman, looking him full in the eye. 'It's no place for a young gentleman, in my notion. I think you had better be going.'

"'Do you?' says Mr. Walls, back again, as cool as himself. 'You are right, I dare say. I'll settle my bill to-night and be off to-morrow.'

"He did settle his bill at the bar before they parted, took a last glass with Stephen Dane, and walked up to his room, whistling. Steeple Hill never saw him more. When morning came he was far away, and Mary Dane with him."

Again Miriam paused; again Mollie held the wine-cup to her lips; again she drank and went on:

"I couldn't tell you, Mollie, if I would, the shock and the scandal that ran through Steeple Hill, and I wouldn't if I could. If it were in my power, such horrors would never reach your innocent ears. But they were gone, and Stephen Dane was like a man mad. He drank, and drank, and drank until he was blind drunk, and then, in spite of everybody, set off to go after them. Before he had got ten yards from his own doorstep he fell down in a fit, blood pouring from his month and nostrils. That night he died.

"The hour of his death, when he knew he had but a few moments to live, he turned every soul out of the room, and made his brother kneel down and take a solemn oath of vengeance.

"'I'll never rest easy in my grave, James,' said the dying man, 'and I'll never let you rest easy in your life, until you have avenged me on my wronger.'

"Your father knelt down and swore. It was a bad, bad death-bed, and a bad, bad oath. But he took it; and Stephen Dane died, with his brother's hand clasped in his, and his dying eyes fixed on his brother's face.

"They buried the dead man; and when the sods were piled above him, your father told me of the vow he had made—the vow he meant to keep. What could I say? what could I do? I wept woman's tears, I said woman's words. I pleaded, I reasoned, I entreated—all in vain. He would go, and he went.

"He followed the guilty pair, like a blood-hound, for weary months and months. For a long time it seemed as though he must give up the search as fruitless; but at last, in the open street of a French city, he met the man Walls face to face. He flew at him like a madman, grasped his throat, and held him until the man turned black in the face. But he was lithe, and young, and powerful, and he shook him off at last. Then commenced a struggle for life or death. The street was a lonely one; the time past midnight. No one was abroad; not a creature was to be seen. Walls pulled out a pistol and shot James Dane through the head. With a cry of agony, the murdered man fell forward on his face. Another instant, and Walls had fled. The dead man was alone in the deserted street.

"Next day the papers were full of the mysterious murder, but before next day Walls and Mary Dane were far away. Rewards were offered by the government, the police were set on the track, but all in vain—the murderer was not to be found.

"But there was one who knew it, and to whom the knowledge was a death-blow—guilty Mary Dane. At all times she had been more weak than wicked, and when Walls had fled home, blood-stained and ghastly, and in his first frenzy had told her all, she dropped down at his feet like a dead woman.

"Mary Dane fled with him from the scene of his crime, because his baby daughter lay on her arm, and she would not see its guilty father die a felon's death; but her heart was torn with remorse from that hour. She never held up her head again. Her wicked love turned to hatred and loathing; the very first opportunity she left him, and, like a distracted creature, made her way home.

"Walls made no effort to follow her—he thought she had gone off in a fit of remorse and misery and drowned herself. He was glad to be rid of her, and he left France at once, and wandered away over the world.

"Mary Dane came home with her child—home to die. On her death-bed she told me the story of my husband's death, and from the hour I heard it, Reason tottered on her throne. I have never been sane since my misery drove me mad.

"Mary Dane died, and I buried her. The child went to the work-house—I would not have touched it with a pair of tongs—and there it, too, died of lack and care. And so the miserable story of sin and shame ended, as all such stories must end.

"But the misery did not end here. You were left me, but I seemed to care for you no longer. I sat down, a stunned and senseless thing, and let all belonging to me go to rack and ruin. The farm went, the furniture went, the homestead went—I was left a widowed, penniless, half-crazed wretch. Thus all was gone but the clothes upon our backs—you went, too. We were starving, but for the pitying charity of others. As you sat singing by the road-side, the manager of a strolling band of players overheard you, took a fancy to your pretty looks, and ways, and voice, and made me an offer for you. I don't think I knew what I was doing half the time—I didn't then—I let you go.

"When you were gone I broke down altogether, and the authorities of the village took and shut me up in a lunatic asylum. The years I spent there—and I spent six long years—are but a dull, dead blank. My life began again when they sent me forth, as they said—cured.

"I left Steeple Hill and began my life as a tramp. I joined a band of gypsies, and took to their ways—fortune-telling, rush-weaving—anything that came up; and I was black enough and weather-beaten enough to pass for one of them. I had but one desire left in life. To hunt up the manager of the little theater, and see my daughter again. I didn't want you back. What could I, a miserable tramp, homeless, houseless, do with a young girl?—but I hungered and thirsted for the sound of your voice, for the sight of your face. I would know you anywhere—you were of the kind that do not change much. I knew I would recognize you as soon as I saw you.

"For two years I strolled about with the gypsy gang, searching in vain. Then my time came, and I saw you. It was at Liverpool, embarking on board a vessel for America. I had money—made in those two yeas wandering—hidden in my breast, more than enough for my passage. I crossed the Atlantic in the same vessel with you, and never lost sight of you since.

"But a great, a mighty shock was waiting for me this side the ocean. On the pier, as we landed, Mollie, the first person my eyes rested on was the man Walls—older, darker, sterner than when I saw him before, but my arch-enemy—the murderer Walls.

"Mollie, I let you go and I followed that man home, followed him to a mansion that was like a palace, and I heard his name—his real name. Mollie, Mollie, do you need to be told what that name is?"

"No," said Mollie, in a horror-struck voice; "it is Carl Walraven!"

"It is. Now do you know why I hate him—why I would die the death of a dog by the way-side before I would take a crust from him?"