The Unseen Bridegroom Part 60

Mollie did not faint. She lay a moment in a violent tremor and faintless, her face hidden on his shoulder; then she lifted her face, white as the dead--white as snow.

"She was my mother, Hugh," she repeated--"my own mother."

"Your mother, Mollie? And I thought Carl Walraven--"

"Oh, hus.h.!.+ not that name here. He is nothing to me--less than nothing.

I shall never see him again."

"Are you not going home?"

"I have no home," said Mollie, mournfully. "I will stay here until she is buried. After that--'sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.'

You will help me, Mr. Ingelow?" looking piteously up. "I don't know what to do."

"I will help you," he said, tenderly, "my poor little forlorn darling; but only on one condition--that you will grant me a favor."

"What?" looking at him wonderingly.

"That you will go and lie down. You need sleep--go with Mrs.

Slimmens--eat some breakfast, and try to sleep away the morning. Don't make yourself uneasy about anything--all shall be arranged as well as if you were here. You will do this for me, Mollie?"

"Anything for you, Hugh," Mollie replied, hardly knowing what she said; "but I feel as though I should never sleep again."

Nevertheless, when led away by Mrs. Slimmens, and a cup of warm tea administered, and safely tucked in a clean straw bed, Mollie's heavy eyelids closed in a deep, dreamless sleep. That blessed slumber which seals the eyes of youth, despite every trouble, wrapped her in its comforting arms for many hours.

It was high noon when Mollie awoke, refreshed in body and mind. She rose at once, bathed her face and brushed her curls, and quitted the bedroom.

Mrs. Slimmens, in the little kitchen, was bustling about the midday meal.

"Your dinner is all ready, Miss Dane," that worthy woman said, "and the young gentleman told me not on any account to allow you upstairs again until you'd had it. Sit right down here. I've got some nice broiled chicken and blancmange."

"You've never gone to all this trouble and expense for me, I hope?"

remonstrated Mollie.

"La, no; I hadn't the money. The young gentleman had 'em ordered here from the restaurant up-street. Sit right down at once."

"Dear, kind, considerate Hugh!" Mollie thought, as she took her place at the tidy table. "Where is he now, Mrs. Slimmens?"

"Gone for his own dinner, miss, or his breakfast; I don't know which, seein' he's had nothing all day but a cup of tea I gave him this morning. He's been and had the poor creeter upstairs laid out beautiful, and the room fixed up, and the undertaker's man's been here, a-measurin'

her for her coffin. She's to be buried to-morrow, you know."

"Yes, I know. Poor Miriam! poor mother!"

Mollie finished her meal and went at once upstairs. The chamber of death looked ghastly enough, draped with white sheets, which hid the smoky, blotched walls; the stove had been removed, the floor scrubbed, the window washed and flung open, and on the table stood two large and beautiful bouquets that scented the little room with sweetest odors of rose and mignonette.

On the bed, snowily draped in a white shroud, lay Miriam, her hands folded across her bosom, a linen cloth covering the dead face. By the bed a watcher sat--a decently 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 G.o.ds 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 _cortege_ 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.