In the upper apartment of a cottage standing alone by the roadside on
the outskirts of Boston, Miranda, pale and dejected, sat gazing vacantly
at the light of the solitary lamp that lit the room. The clock was
striking midnight, and the driving rain beat dismally against the
window-blinds. But one month had passed since her elopement with Philip
Searle, yet her wan cheeks and altered aspect revealed how much of
suffering can be crowded into that little space of time. She started
from her revery when the striking of the timepiece told the lateness of
the hour. Heavy footsteps sounded upon the stairway, and, while she
listened, Philip, followed by Bradshaw, entered the room abruptly.
"How is this?" asked Philip, angrily. "Why are you not in bed?"
"I did not know it was so late, Philip," she answered, in a deprecating
tone. "I was half asleep upon the rocking-chair, listening to the
storm. It's a bad night, Philip. How wet you are!"
He brushed off the hand she had laid upon his shoulder, and muttered,
with bad humor:
"I've told you a dozen times I don't want you to sit up for me. Fetch
the brandy and glasses, and go to bed."
"Oh, Philip, it is so late! Don't drink: to-night, Philip. You are wet,
and you look tired. Come to bed."
"Do as I tell you," he answered, roughly, flinging himself into a chair,
and beckoning Bradshaw to a seat. Miranda sighed, and brought the bottle
and glasses from the closet.
"Now, you go to sleep, do you hear; and don't be whining and crying all
night, like a sick girl."
The poor girl moved slowly to the door, and turned at the threshold.
"Good night, Philip."
"Oh, good night--there, get along," he cried, impatiently, without
looking at her, and gulping down a tumblerful of spirits. Miranda closed
the door and left the two men alone together.
They remained silent for a while, Bradshaw quietly sipping his liquor,
and Philip evidently disturbed and angry.
"You're sure 'twas she?" he asked at last.
"Oh, bother!" replied Bradshaw. "I'm not a mole nor a blind man. Don't I
know Moll when I see her?"
"Curse her! she'll stick to me like a leech. What could have brought her
here? Do you think she's tracked me?"
"She'd track you through fire, if she once got on the scent. Moll ain't
the gal to be fooled, and you know it."
"What's to be done?"
"Move out of this. Take the girl to Virginia. You'll be safe enough
there."
"You're right, Bradshaw. It's the best way. I ought to have done it at
first. But, hang the girl, she'll weary me to death with her sermons and
crying fits. Moll's worth two of her for that, matter--she scolds, but
at least she never would look like a stuck fawn when I came home a
little queer. For the matter of that, she don't mind a spree herself at
times." And, emptying his glass, the libertine laughed at the
remembrance of some past orgies.
While he was thus, in his half-drunken mood, consoling himself for
present perplexities by dwelling upon the bacchanalian joys of other
days, a carriage drove up the street, and stopped before the door. Soon
afterward, the hall bell was rung, and Philip, alarmed and astonished,
started from his seat.
"Who's that?" he asked, almost in a whisper.
"Don't know," replied his companion.
"She couldn't have traced me here already--unless you have betrayed me,
Bradshaw," he added suddenly, darting a suspicious glance upon his
comrade.
"You're just drunk enough to be a fool," replied Bradshaw, rising from
his seat, as a second summons, more violent than the first, echoed
through the corridors. "I'll go down and see what's the matter. Some
one's mistaken the house, I suppose. That's all."
"Let no one in, Bradshaw," cried Philip, as that worthy left the room.
He descended the stairs, opened the door, and presently afterward the
carriage drove rapidly away. Philip, who had been listening earnestly,
could hear the sound of the wheels as they whirled over the pavement.
"All right," he said, as he applied himself once more to the bottle
before him. "Some fool has mistaken his whereabouts. Curse me, but I'm
getting as nervous as an old woman."
He was in the act of lifting the glass to his lips, when the door was
flung wide open. The glass fell from his hands, and shivered upon the
floor. Moll stood before him.
She stood at the threshold with a wicked gleam in her eye, and a smile
of triumph upon her lips; then advanced into the room, closed the door
quietly, locked it, seated herself composedly in the nearest chair, and
filled herself a glass of spirits. Philip glared upon her with an
expression of mingled anger, fear and wonderment.
"Are you a devil? Where in thunder did you spring from?" he asked at
last.
"You'll make me a devil, with your tricks, Philip Searle," she said,
sipping the liquor, and looking at him wickedly over the rim of the
tumbler.
"Ha! ha! ha!" she laughed aloud, as he muttered a curse between his
clenched teeth, "I'm not the country girl, Philip dear, that I was when
you whispered your sweet nonsense in my ear. I know your game, my bully
boy, and I'll play you card for card."
"Bradshaw" shouted Philip, going to the door and striving to open it.
"It's no use," she said, "I've got the key in my pocket. Sit down. I
want to talk to you. Don't be a fool."
"Where's Bradshaw, Moll?"
"At the depot by this time, I fancy, for the carriage went off at a
deuce of a rate."
She laughed again, while he paced the room with angry strides.
"'Twas he, then, that betrayed me. The villain! I'll have his life for
that, as I'm a sinner."
"Your a great sinner; Philip Searle. Sit down, now, and be quiet.
Where's the girl?"
"What girl?"
"Miranda Ayleff. The girl you've ruined; the girl you've put in my
place, and that I've come to drive out of it. Where is she?"
"Don't speak so loud, Moll. Be quiet, can't you? See here, Moll," he
continued, drawing a chair to her side, and speaking in his old winning
way--"see here, Moll: why can't you just let this matter stand as it is,
and take your share of the plunder? You know I don't care about the
girl; so what difference does it make to you, if we allow her to think
that she's my lawful wife? Come, give us a kiss, Moll, and let's hear no
more about it."
"Honey won't catch such an old fly as I am, Philip," replied the woman,
but with a gentled tone. "Where is the girl?" she asked suddenly,
starting from the chair. "I want to see her. Is she in there?"
"No," said Philip, quickly, and rising to her passage to the door of
Miranda's chamber. "She is not there, Moll; you can't see her. Are you
crazy? You'd frighten the poor girl out of her senses."
"She's in there. I'm going in to speak with her. Yes I shall, Philip,
and you needn't stop me."
"Keep back. Keep quiet, can't you?"
"No. Don't hold me, Philip Searle. Keep your hands off me, if you know
what's good for you."
She brushed past him, and laid her hand upon the door-knob; but he
seized her violently by the arm and pulled her back. The action hurt her
wrist, and she was boiling with rage in a second. With her clenched
fist, she struck him straight in the face repeatedly, while with every
blow, she screamed out an imprecation.
"Keep quiet, you hag! Keep quiet, confound you!" said the infuriated
man. "Won't you? Take that!" and he planted his fist upon her mouth.
The woman, through her tears and sobs, howled at him curse upon curse.
With one hand upon her throat, he essayed to choke her utterance, and
thus they scuffled about the room.
"I'll cut you, Philip; I will, by ----"
Her hand, in fact, was fumbling about her pocket, and she drew forth a
small knife and thrust it into his shoulder. They were near the table,
over which Philip had thrust her down. He was wild with rage and the
brandy he had drank. His right hand instinctively grasped the heavy
bottle that by chance it came in contact with. The next instant, it
descended full upon her forehead, and with a moan of fear and pain, she
fell like lead upon the floor, and lay bleeding and motionless.
Philip, still grasping the shattered bottle, gazed aghast upon the
lifeless form. Then a cry of terror burst upon his ear. He turned, and
beheld Miranda, with dishevelled hair, pale as her night-clothes,
standing at the threshold of the open door. With a convulsive shudder,
she staggered into the room, and fainted at his feet, her white arm
stained with the blood that was sinking in little pools into the carpet.
He stood there gazing from one to the other, but without seeking to
succor either. The fumes of brandy, and the sudden revulsion from active
wrath to apathy, seemed to stupefy his brain. At last he stooped beside
the outstretched form of Molly, and, with averted face, felt in her
pocket and drew out the key. Stealthily, as if he feared that they could
hear him, he moved toward the door, opened it, and passing through,
closed it gently, as one does who would not waken a sleeping child or
invalid. Rapidly, but with soft steps, he descended the stairs, and went
out into the darkness and the storm.