MIRIAM TO THE RESCUE.
An artist stood in his studio, overlooking busy, bright Broadway. He
stood before his easel, gazing in a sort of rapture at his own work. It
was only a sketch, a sketch worthy of a master, and its name was "The
Rose Before It Bloomed." A girl's bright, sweet face, looking out of a
golden aureole of wild, loose hair; a pair of liquid, starry, azure
eyes; a mouth like a rosebud, half pouting, half smiling. An exquisite
face--rosy, dimpled, youthful as Hebe's own--the radiant face of Mollie
Dane.
The day was near its close, and was dying in regal splendor. All day the
dark, dreary rain had fallen wearily, ceaselessly; but just as twilight,
ghostly and gray, was creeping up from the horizon, there had flashed
out a sudden sunburst of indescribable glory.
The heavens seemed to open, and a glimpse of paradise to show, so grand
and glorious was the oriflamme of crimson and purple and orange and gold
that transfigured the whole firmament.
A lurid light filled the studio, and turned the floating yellow hair of
the picture to living, burnished ripples of gold.
"It is Mollie--living, breathing, lovely Mollie!" the artist said to
himself in sudden exultation--"beautiful, bewitching Mollie! Fit to sit
by a king's side and wear his crown. Come in!"
For a tap at the studio door suddenly brought our enthusiastic artist
back to earth. He flung a cloth over the sketch, and leaned gracefully
against the easel.
The figure that entered somewhat disturbed the young man's
constitutional phlegm--it was so unlike his usual run of visitors--a
remarkable figure, tall, gaunt, and bony, clad in wretched garb; a
haggard, powerful face, weather-beaten and brown, and two blazing black
eyes.
The artist opened his own handsome orbs to their widest extent.
"I wish to see Mr. Hugh Ingelow," said this singular woman in a deep
bass voice.
"I am Hugh Ingelow, madame, at your service."
The woman fixed her burning eyes on the calm, serenely handsome face.
The lazy hazel eyes of the artist met hers coolly, unflinchingly.
"I await your pleasure, madame. Will you enter and sit down?"
The woman came in, closed the door cautiously after her, but declined
the proffered seat.
"To what am I indebted for the honor of this visit?" asked the artist,
quietly. "I have not the pleasure of knowing you."
"I am Mollie Dane's aunt."
"Ah, indeed!" and Mr. Hugh Ingelow lighted up, for the first time, with
something like human interest. "Yes, yes; I remember you now. You came
to Mr. Carl Walraven's wedding and gave us a little touch of high
tragedy. Pray sit down, and tell me what I can do for you."
"I don't want to sit. I want you to answer me a question."
"One hundred, if you like."
"Do you know where Mollie Dane is?"
"Not exactly," said Mr. Ingelow, coolly. "I'm not blessed, unfortunately,
with the gift of the fairy prince in the child's tale. I can't see my
friends through walls of stone and mortar; but I take it she is at the
palatial mansion uptown."
"She is not!"
"Eh?"
"She is not!" reiterated Miriam. "I have just been there. They are in
the utmost alarm and distress--at least, Mr. Walraven appears to be.
Mollie has again disappeared."
"By Jove!" cried Mr. Ingelow, in dismay.
"She left the house late last night. One of the servants, it appears,
saw her go, and she has never been heard of or seen since."
"By Jove!" for the second time exclaimed Hugh Ingelow.
"It is supposed that she has met with foul play--been inveigled away
from home, and is in the power of a villain."
"Well," said Mr. Ingelow, drawing a long breath, "Miss Dane has the
greatest knack of causing sensations of any lady I ever knew. Pray, are
you aware this is the second time such a thing has happened?"
"I am quite aware of it. Also, that she went against her will."
"Indeed! Being so near a relative, it is natural you should be posted.
And now, may I beg to know," said the young man, with cool politeness,
"why you do me the honor to come and inform me?"
Miriam looked at him with her eagle glance--keen, side-long, searching.
Mr. Ingelow made her a slight bow.
"Well, madame?" smiling carelessly.
"Do you not know?"
"I?"--a broad stare. "Really, madame, I am at a loss--How should I
know?"
"Did you not meet Mollie last night at the corner of Broadway and
Fourteenth Street?"
"Most certainly not."
"Where were you at ten o'clock last evening?"
Again Mr. Ingelow smiled.
"Really, a raking cross-examination. Permit me to decline answering that
question."
"And you know nothing of Mollie's previous disappearance--of that
mysterious fortnight?"
"My good woman, be reasonable. I'm not an astrologer, nor a wizard,
nor yet a clairvoyant. I'm not in Miss Dane's confidence. I put it to
yourself--how should I know?"
"You shuffle--you equivocate!" cried Miriam, impatiently. "Why don't you
answer at once--yes or no?"
"My dear lady," with a deprecating wave of his shapely hand, "don't be
so dreadfully blunt. Pray tell me of what you accuse me--of forcibly
abducting Miss Dane last night at ten o'clock? With my hand on my heart,
madame, on the word of a man and brother--on the honor of an artist--I
solemnly asseverate I didn't do it!"
Miriam groaned.
"Then what has become of that unfortunate child? She thought it was you,
or she never would have gone."
The fair, refined face of the artist flushed deep red, and he was grave
in an instant.
"Madame, what do you say?"
"Oh, you know!" cried the woman, vehemently. "You surely know, else all
you men are blinder than bats. You know she loved you well."
"Oh, madame!"
The young man caught his breath.
"She told me so herself," cried Miriam, recklessly betraying this, and
wringing her hands; "and she went last night, hoping it was you."
The momentary expression of rapture had quite faded out of Mr. Ingelow's
face by this time, and, leaning against his easel, he was listening with
cool attention. But if Miriam could have known how this man's heart was
plunging against his ribs!
"I think there is a mistake somewhere," said Hugh, with _sang-froid_.
"Miss Dane refused me."
"Bah!" said Miriam, with infinite scorn; "much you know of women, to
take that for a test! But it isn't to talk of love I came here. I am
half distracted. The child has met with foul play, I am certain, since
you are here."
"Will you have the goodness to explain, my good woman," said Mr.
Ingelow, beseechingly. "Consider, I am all in the dark."
"And I can not enlighten you without telling you the whole story, and if
you are not the hero of it, I have no right, and no wish, to do that.
One question I will ask you," fixing her powerful eyes on his face: "Do
you still love Mollie Dane?"
Mr. Ingelow smiled serene as the sunset sky outside.
"A point-blank question. Forgive me if I decline answering it."
Miriam's eyes flashed fire.
"You never cared for her!" she said, in fierce impatience. "You are a
poltroon and a carpet-knight, like the rest--ready with plenty of fine
words, and nothing else! You asked her to marry you, and you don't care
whether she is living or dead!"
"Why should I?" said Mr. Ingelow, coolly. "She refused to marry me."
"And with a flighty girl's refusal your profound, and lasting, and all
enduring love dies out, like a dip-candle under an extinguisher! Oh, you
are all alike--all alike! Selfish, and mean, and cruel, and false, and
fickle to the very heart's core!"
"Hard words," said Mr. Ingelow, with infinite calm. "You make sweeping
assertions, madame, but there is just a possibility of your being
mistaken, after all."
"Words, words, words!" Miriam cried, bitterly. "Words in plenty, but no
actions! I wish my tongue had been palsied ere I uttered what I have
uttered within this hour!"
"My dear madame, softly, softly! Pray, pray do not be so impetuous.
Don't jump at such frantic conclusions! I assure you, my words are not
empty sound. I mean 'em, every one. I'll do anything in reason for you
or your charming niece."
"In reason!" said the woman, with a scornful laugh. "Oh, no doubt!
You'll take, exceeding good care to be calm and reasonable, and weigh
the pros and cons, and not get yourself into trouble to deliver the girl
you wanted to marry the other day from captivity--from death, perhaps!
She refused you, and that is quite sufficient."
"Now, now!" cried Mr. Ingelow, appealing to the four walls in
desperation. "Did ever mortal man hear the like of this?
Captivity--death! My good woman--my dear lady--can't you draw it a
little milder? Is not this New York City? And are we not in the year of
grace eighteen hundred and ninety? Pray, don't go back to the Dark Ages,
when lovers went clad in clanking suits of mail, and forcibly carried
off brides from the altar, under the priest's very nose, _à la_ Young
Lochinvar. Do be reasonable, there's a good soul!"
Miriam turned her back upon him in superb disdain.
"And this is the man Mollie preferred! This is the man I thought would
help me! Mr. Hugh Ingelow, I wish you good-evening."
"No, no." exclaimed Mr. Ingelow, starting up. "Not yet! Open the
mysteries a little before you depart. I'm willing and ready to aid you
to the best of my ability. Tell me what I'm to do, and I'll do it."
"I have nothing to tell," Miriam said, steadfastly. "I will not put you
to the trouble of helping me."
"But you must!" cried the artist, suddenly transforming himself into a
new man. "If Mollie Dane is really in danger, then I must know, and aid
her. No one has a better right, for no one on earth loves her as well as
I do."
"Ha!" exclaimed Miriam, stopping short. "We have it at last, have we? You
love her, then?"
"With all my heart, and mind, and strength; as I never have loved, and
never will love, any other earthly creature. Now, then, sit down here
and tell me, from first to last, what you came here to tell."
He wheeled forward a chair, took the woman by both shoulders, and
compelled her to be seated. His face was very pale, his eyes alight, his
statuesque mouth stern, and set, and powerful.
Miriam looked at him with dawning admiration and respect. The man that
makes them obey is the man women are pretty safe to adore.
"Now, then," he said--"now, Madame Miriam, I want you to begin at the
beginning and tell me all. If Mollie Dane is above ground, I will find
her."
The woman looked up in his handsome face, locked in grim, inflexible
resolution--an iron face now--and relaxed.
"Mollie was not deceived in you, after all. I am glad of it, I like you.
I would give a year of my life to see you safely her husband."
"Many thanks! Pity she is not of the same mind!"
"Girls change.--You never asked her but once. Suppose you try again. You
are young enough and handsome enough to win whomsoever you please."
"You are complimentary. Suppose we leave all that and proceed to
business. Tell me what you know of Miss Dane's abduction."
He seated himself before her and waited, his eyes fixed gravely on her
face.
"To make what I have to say intelligible," said Miriam, "it is necessary
to give you an insight into the mystery of her previous evanishment. She
was tricked away by artifice, carried off and forcibly held a prisoner
by a man whose masked face she never saw."
"Impossible! Mr. Walraven told me, told every one, she was with you."
"Very likely. Also, that I was dying or dead. The one part is as true as
the other. Mollie never was near me. She was forcibly detained by this
unknown man for a fortnight, then brought home. She told me the story,
and also who she suspected that man to be."
"Who?"
Miriam looked at him curiously.
"Doctor Guy Oleander, or--you!"
"Ah, you jest, madame!" haughtily.
"I do not. She was mistaken, it appears, but she really thought it might
be you. To make sure, she found means of communicating with this strange
man, and a meeting was appointed for last night, ten o'clock, corner of
Broadway and Fourteenth Street".
"Yes! Well?"
"Mollie went, still thinking--perhaps I should say hoping--it might be
you, Mr. Ingelow: and I, too, was there."
"Well?"
"Mollie did not see me. I hovered aloof. It was only half past nine when
she came--half an hour too early--but already a carriage was waiting,
and a man, disguised in hat and cloak and flowing beard, stepped forward
and accosted her at once. What he said to her I don't know, but he
persuaded her, evidently with reluctance, to enter the carriage with
him. The rain was pouring. I suppose that was why she went. In a moment
the coachman had whipped up the horses, and they were off like a flash."
Miriam paused. Mr. Ingelow sat staring at her with a face of pale amaze.
"It sounds like a scene from a melodrama. And Miss Dane has not returned
since?"
"No; and the household on Fifth Avenue are at their wits' end to
comprehend it."
"And so am I," said the artist. "From what you say, it is evident she
went willingly--of her own accord. In such a case, of course, I can do
nothing."
"She did not go willingly. I am certain she entered that carriage under
the impression she was going with you."
Mr. Ingelow's sensitive face reddened. He rose and walked to the window.
"But since it was not I, who do you suppose it may have been?"
"Doctor Oleander."
"No! He would not dare!"
"I don't know him," said Miriam; "but from what Mollie says of him, I
should judge him to be capable of anything. He loves her, and he is
madly jealous; and jealous men stop at nothing. Then, too, Mrs. Walraven
would aid him. She hates Mollie as only one woman can hate another."
"Doctor Oleander, then, must be the man who abducted her before, else
how could he keep the assignation?"
"Yes," said Miriam, "that is the worst of it. Poor Mollie! it will drive
her mad. She detests the man with all her heart. If she is in his power,
he will show her no mercy. Mr. Ingelow, can you aid her, or must I seek
her alone and unaided?"
Mr. Ingelow was standing with his back to her, looking out at the last
yellow line of the sunset streaking the twilight sky. He turned partly
around, very, very pale, as the woman, could see, and answered,
guardedly:
"You had better do nothing, I think. You had better leave the matter
altogether to me. Our game is shy, and easily scared. Leave me to deal
with him. I think, in a battle of wits, I am a match even for Guy
Oleander; and if Mollie is not home before the moon wanes, it will be
no fault of mine."
"I will trust you," Miriam said, rising and walking to the door. "You
will lose no time. The poor child is, no doubt, in utter misery."
"I will lose no time. You must give me a week. This day week come back,
if Mollie is not home, and I will meet you here."
Miriam bowed her head and opened the door.
"Mollie will thank you--I can not. Farewell!"
"Until this day week," Hugh Ingelow said, with a courteous smile and
bow.
And then Miriam Dane was gone, flitting through bustling Broadway like a
tall, haggard ghost.
Hugh Ingelow turned back to the window, his brows knit, his lips
compressed, his eyes glowing with a deep, intense fire--thinking. So he
stood while the low, yellow gleams died out of the western sky, and the
crystal stars swung in the azure arch--thinking, thinking!