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.