The Unseen Bridegroom Part 59

"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?"

"And yet," Mollie cried in a voice of bitter anguish, "you have let me, James Dane's child, eat of his bread, drink of his cup, dwell under his roof! Oh, my mother!"

At that piercing cry of unutterable reproach, the dying woman held up her supplicating hands.

"It was because I loved you a thousand times better than myself--better than my revenge. Forgive me, Mollie--forgive me!"

"You are my mother, and you are dying," Mollie said, solemnly, bending down and kissing her. "I forgive you everything. But I will never set foot under Carl Walraven's roof again."

CHAPTER XXVII.

DEAD AND BURIED.

The twilight was falling without--the last silvery radiance of the dying day streamed through the dirty, broken attic window, and lighted, as with a pale glory, Mollie's drooping head and earnest, saddened face.

Miriam had fallen back upon the pillow, exhausted, panting, laboring for breath.

There was a long pause; then Mollie lifted her bowed head and drew closer to the dying woman.

"Finish your story," she said, softly, sadly.

"It is finished," Miriam answered, in a voice, scarcely above a whisper.

"You know the rest. I went to you, as you remember, the day after you landed, and proved to you that I was your aunt--a falsehood, Mollie, which my love and my pride begot.

"Some dim recollection of me and your childhood's days yet lingered in your breast--you believed me. You told me you were going to K----. You gave me money, and promised to write to me. You were so sweet, so gentle, so pitying, so beautiful, that I loved you tenfold more than ever. Your life was one of labor, and drudgery, and danger. If I could only make you a lady, I thought! My half-crazed brain caught at the idea, and held it fast--if I could only make you a lady!

"Like lightning there dawned upon me a plan. The man who had wronged us all so unutterably was rich and powerful--why should I not use him?

Surely, it could not be wrong--it would be a just and righteous reparation. He need not know you were my child--with that knowledge I would far sooner have seen you dead than dependent upon him--but let him think you were his very own (Mary Dane's) dead child, and where would be the obligation?

"I could neither sleep nor eat for thinking of this plot of mine. Your image, bright and beautiful in silken robes and sparkling jewels, waited upon by obedient servants, a life of ease and luxury for my darling whom I had deserted--a lady among the ladies of the land--haunted me by night and by day.

"I yielded at last. I went to Carl Walraven, and stood boldly up before him, and faced him until he quailed. Conscience makes cowards of the bravest, they say, and I suppose it was more his guilty conscience than fear of me; but the fear was there. I threatened him with exposure--I threatened to let the world know his black crimes, until he turned white as the dead before me.

"He knew and I knew, in our heart of hearts, that I could do nothing.

How could I substantiate a charge of murder done years ago in France?--how prove it? How bring it home to him? My words would be treated as the ravings of a mad-woman, and I would be locked up in a mad-house for my pains.

"But knowing all this, and knowing I knew it, he nevertheless feared me, and promised to do all I wished. He kept his word, as you know. He went to K----, and, seeing you, became as desirous of you as I would have had him. Your bright, girlish beauty, the thought that you were his daughter, did the rest. He brought you home with him, and grew to love you dearly."

"Yes," Mollie said, very sadly, "he loves me dearly. I should abhor and hate the murderer of my father, I suppose, but somehow I can not. Mr.

Walraven has been very good to me. And now, mother, tell me why you came on the day of his marriage, and strove to prevent it? You did not really think he was going to marry me?"

"I never thought so," said Miriam. "It was one of my mad freaks--an evil wish to torment him. I have been a nightmare to him ever since my first appearance. I hardly know whether he hates or fears me most. But that is all past and gone. I will never torment him again in this world. Give me more wine, Mollie--my lips are parched."

Miriam moistened her dry mouth and fell back, ghastly and breathing hard. Mollie rose from the bedside with a heavy sign.

"You will not leave me?" the dying woman whispered, in alarm, opening her gla.s.sy eyes.

"Only for a moment, mother. Mr. Ingelow is below. I must speak with him."

She glided from the room and went down-stairs.

Hugh Ingelow, leaning against the door-post, smoking a solacing cigar, and watching the new moon rise, started as she appeared. She looked so unlike herself, so like a spirit, that he dropped his cigar and stared aghast.

"Is she dead?" he asked.

"She is dying," Mollie answered. "I came to tell you I will stay to the last--I will not leave her again. You can not, need not wait longer here, Mr. Ingelow."

"I will not leave you," Mr. Ingelow said, resolutely, "if I have to stay a week. Good heavens, Mollie! what do you think I am, to leave you alone and unprotected in this beastly place?"

"I will be safe enough," Mollie said with a wan smile at his vehemence.

"I dare say the worst crime these poor people are guilty of is poverty."

"I will not leave you," Hugh Ingelow reiterated. "I will go upstairs and stay in the pa.s.sage all night if you will find me a chair. I may be needed."

"You are so kind!" raising her eloquent eyes; "but it is too much--"

"Not one whit too much. Don't let us waste words over a trifle. Let us go up."

He ran lightly up the rickety staircase, and Mollie, pausing a moment to tap at Mrs. Slimmens' door, and ask her to share her last vigil, slowly followed, and returned to the solemn chamber of death.

Mrs. Slimmens, worthy woman, saw to Mr. Ingelow's comfort. She found a chair and a little table and a pillow for the young gentleman, and fixed him as agreeably as possible on the landing. The patient artist laid the pillow upon the table and his head thereon, and slept the sleep of the just.

The long night wore on; Miriam lay, white and still, the fluttering breath just there and no more. After midnight she sunk lower and lower with every pa.s.sing hour. As day-dawn, pale and blank, gleamed dimly across the night, the everlasting day dawned for her. Sinful and suffering, she was at rest.

Only once she had spoken. Just before the last great change came, the dulled, glazed eyes opened and fixed themselves on Mollie.

"My darling--my darling!" she whispered, with a last look of unutterable love.

Then a s.h.i.+ver shook her from head to foot, the death-rattle sounded, the eyeb.a.l.l.s rolled upward, and Miriam was dead.

Mrs. Slimmens' wild cry brought Hugh Ingelow into the room. He crossed the room to where Mollie knelt, rigid and cold.

"Mollie!" he whispered, bending tenderly down; "my own dear Mollie!"

She looked up vaguely, and saw who it was.

"She was my mother, Hugh," she said, and slipped heavily backward in his arms, white and still.