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 glassy 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 passage 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 passing 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 shiver shook her from head to foot, the death-rattle sounded,
the eyeballs 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.
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, hush! 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 gods 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 _cortège_
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.
And Hugh Ingelow watched her with an indescribable expression in his
fathomless eyes, and made no effort to console her.
The sods rattled on the coffin-lid, the grave was filled up, and
everybody was hurrying away out of the rain.
It was all over, like some dismal dream, and Mollie, shivering under her
shawl, took one last backward look at the grave of her mother, and was
hurried back to the carriage by Hugh Ingelow.
But she was so deathly white and cold, and she trembled with such
nervous shivering, that the young man drew her to him in real alarm.
"You are going to be ill, Mollie," he said. "You are ill."
"Am I?" said Mollie, helplessly. "I don't know. I hope not. I want to go
away so much."
"So much? To leave me, Mollie?"
Mollie lifted her heavy eyes, filled with unutterable reproach.
"You don't care," she said. "It is nothing to you. And it should be
nothing," suddenly remembering herself and sitting up. "Please let me
go, Mr. Ingelow. We must part, and it is better so."
Mr. Ingelow released her without a word. Mollie sat up, drew a letter
from her pocket, and handed it to him. He saw it was addressed to Carl
Walraven, and looked at her inquiringly.
"I wish you to read it," she said.
It was unsealed. He opened it at once, and read:
"MR. WALRAVEN,--Miriam is dead--Miriam Dane--my mother. She deceived you
from first to last. I am no daughter of yours--for which I humbly thank
God!--no daughter of Mary Dane. I am Miriam's child; yours died in the
work-house in its babyhood. I know my own story--I know your hand is red
with my father's blood. I don't forgive you, Mr. Walraven, but neither do
I accuse you. I simply never will see you again. Mr. Ingelow will hand
you this. He and I alone know the story. MARY DANE."
Mr. Ingelow looked up.
"Will it do?" she asked.
"Yes. Am I to deliver it?"
"If you will add that kindness to your others. I don't think he will
seek me out. He knows better than that."
Her head dropped against the side of the carriage. The face usually so
sparkling looked very, very pale, and worn, and sad. The young artist
took her hand and held it a moment at parting.
"You intend to write to your old manager to-morrow, Mollie?"
"Yes."
"Don't do it. Postpone it another day. I am coming here to-morrow, and
I have a different plan in my head that I think will suit better. Wait
until to-morrow, Mollie, and trust me."
His eyes flashed with an electric fire that thrilled the girl through.
What did he mean? But Mr. Ingelow had sprung into the carriage again and
was gone.