CRICKET'S HUSBAND.
Mr. Carl Walraven sat alone in his private room in a Broadway hotel,
smoking an after-breakfast cigar, and looking lazily at the stream of
people hurrying up and down. It was the morning following Miriam's
funeral, of which he, of course, had heard nothing. He had left the city
after his interview with his wife, and had but just returned. He had not
gone home, but he had notified Mr. Sardonyx of his presence in town, and
signified that that gentleman was to wait upon him immediately.
Pending his arrival, Mr. Walraven sat and smoked, and stared at the
passers-by, and wondered, with an internal chuckle, how Mme. Blanche
felt by this time, and whether Mollie was lonely or not, shut up in the
deserted mansion.
"If she'll consent, I'll take her to Europe," mused Carl Walraven. "It
will be delightful to go over the old places with so fresh a companion
as my sparkling little Cricket. But I'm not sure that she'll go--she's a
great deal to fond of young Ingelow. Well, he's a fine fellow, and I've
no objection."
Mr. Walraven's reflections were interrupted by the entrance of Mr.
Sardonyx. The lawyer bowed; his employer nodded carelessly.
"How do, Sardonyx? Find a chair. I've got back, you see. And now, how's
things progressing?"
"Favorably, Mr. Walraven. All goes well."
"And madame has gone packing, I hope?"
"Mrs. Walraven left for Yonkers yesterday. I accompanied her and saw her
safely to her new home."
"How does she take it?"
"In sullen silence. She doesn't deign to speak to me; but with her
cousin it is quite another matter. He had the hardihood to call upon her
in my presence, and you should have seen her. By Jove, sir! she flew out
at him like a tigress. Doctor Guy departed without standing on the order
of his going, and hasn't had the courage to try it on since."
Mr. Walraven smiled grimly.
"That's as it should be. Apart, they are harmless; together, they are
the devil's own. And now, how's the mother, and how's Mollie?"
"Your mother is as well as usual, I believe. As to Miss Dane," lifting
his eyebrows in surprise, "have you not heard?"
"Heard what?"
"Why, that she has gone."
"Gone!" cried Carl Walraven, "gone again? What the foul fiend does the
girl mean? Has she been carried off a third time?"
"Oh, dear, no! nothing of that sort. Miss Dane and Mr. Ingelow departed
together late in the afternoon of the same day you left, and neither has
since been heard of."
Mr. Sardonyx made this extraordinary statement with a queer smile just
hovering about the corners of his legal mouth. His employer looked at
him sternly.
"See here, Sardonyx," he said; "none of your insinuations. Miss Dane is
my ward, remember. You are her jilted lover, I remember. Therefore, I
can make allowances. But no insinuations. If Miss Dane and Mr. Ingelow
left together, you know as well as I do there was no impropriety in
their doing so."
"Did I say there was, Mr. Walraven? I mean to insinuate nothing. I
barely state facts, told me by your servants."
"Did Mollie leave no word where she was going?"
"There was no need; they knew. This was the way of it: a ragged urchin
came for her in hot haste, told her Miriam was dying, and desired her
presence at once, to reveal some secret of vital importance. Miss Dane
departed at once. Mr. Ingelow chanced to be at the house, and he
accompanied her. Neither of them has returned."
The face of Carl Walraven turned slowly to a dead, sickly white as he
heard the lawyer's words. He rose slowly and walked to one of the
opposite windows, keeping his back turned to Sardonyx.
"Has there been no letter, no message of any sort since?" he inquired,
huskily, after a pause.
"None. No one in your household knows even where this Miriam resides. As
for Mr. Ingelow, I called twice at the studio since, but each time to
find it locked."
There was a tap at the door.
"Come in," said the lawyer.
And enter a waiter, with a card for Mr. Walraven. That gentleman took it
with a start.
"Speak of the--Hugh Ingelow!" he muttered. "Sardonyx, I wish to see
Ingelow in private. I'll drop into your office in the course of the day."
Mr. Sardonyx bowed and took his hat and his departure at once.
Mr. Ingelow and he crossed each other on the threshold.
The young artist entered, his handsome face set, and grave, and stern.
Mr. Walraven saw that cold, fixed face with a sinking heart.
"Good-morning, Ingelow," he said, trying to nod and speak indifferently.
"Take a seat and tell me the news. I've been out of town, you know."
"I know," Mr. Ingelow said, availing himself of the proffered chair only
to lean lightly against it. "Thanks. No, I prefer to stand. My business
will detain you but a few minutes. I come from Miss Dane."
He spoke with cold sternness. He could not forget the horrible fact that
the man before him was a profligate and a murderer.
"Ah!" Carl Walraven said, with ashen lips. "She is well, I trust?"
"She is well. She desired me to give you this."
He held out the note. The hands of the millionaire shook as he tried to
open it.
"Where is she?" he asked.
"She is with friends. Read that note; it explains all."
"Have you read it?" Carl Walraven asked with sudden, fierce suspicion.
"I have," answered Mr. Ingelow, calmly; "by Miss Dane's express desire."
Mr. Walraven opened the note and read it slowly to the end. His face
changed from ashen gray to the livid hue of death. He lifted his eyes to
the face of the young artist, and they glowed like the burning eyes of a
hunted beast.
"Well?"
It was all he said, and he sent the word hissing hot and fierce from
between his set teeth.
"That is all my errand here, Mr. Walraven," the young man said, his cool
brown eyes looking the discovered murderer through. "I know all, and I
believe all. You have been duped from first to last. Miss Dane is no
child of yours, thank God!"
He raised his hand as he uttered the solemn thanksgiving, with a gesture
that thrilled the guilty man through.
"Your secret is safe with her and with me," pursued Hugh Ingelow, after
a pause. "You may live to the end of your life unmolested of man, for
us, but you must never look upon Mollie Dane's face more."
Carl Walraven sunk down into a chair and covered his face, with a groan.
Hugh Ingelow turned to go.
"Stop!" Mr. Walraven said, hoarsely. "What is to become of her? Are you
going to marry her, Hugh Ingelow?"
"I decline answering that question, Mr. Walraven," the artist said,
haughtily. "Miss Dane will be cared for--believe that. I wish you
good-morning."
Mr. Ingelow was very pale when he emerged into thronged Broadway, but
there was no indecision in his movements. He hailed a hack passing,
sprung in, and was driven rapidly to the east side--to the humble abode
of Mrs. Slimmens.
Mollie came forth to meet him, worn and sad, and with traces of tears,
but with a bright, glad light in her starry eyes at sight of him--the
light of sweet young love.
"I have seen him, Mollie," he said. "I gave him your letter. You would
hardly have known him, he looked so utterly aghast and confounded. He
will not try to see you, I am certain. And now, my dear girl, for that
other and better plan that I spoke of last evening. But first you must
take a drive with me--a somewhat lengthy drive."
She looked at him wonderingly, but in no fear.
"A drive," she repeated. "Where?"
"Only to Harlem--not quite out of the world," with a smile. "The
carriage is waiting. Go put on your bonnet, and come."
"It is very odd," thought Mollie.
But she obeyed implicitly, and in five minutes they were rattling along
over the stony streets.
"Won't you tell me now?" the young lady asked.
"Not yet. Let the mystery develop itself as it does in a novel. Trust to
me, and prepare for a great shock."
She gazed at him, utterly unable to comprehend. He was smiling, but he
was strangely pale.
"It is no jest, surely," Mollie said. "It is something serious. You look
as though it were."
"Heaven knows I never was more serious in my life. Don't ask any more
questions now, Mollie; but if I have ever done you the slightest
service, try to bear it in mind. You will need to remember it shortly,
and I will stand sorely in want of all your magnanimity."
He said no more, and Mollie sat in a dazed state, but still happy, as
she ever must be by his side. And on, and on, and on they rattled, and
the city was left behind, and they were driving through the quiet of
Harlem, green and pretty in its summery freshness.
The driver, obeying some directions of Mr. Ingelow, turned up a shady
green lane ending in a high gate-way.
They entered the gate-way and drove up through a long avenue of waving
trees to a square, fair mansion of gleaming white--a large wooden
structure with intensely green blinds, all closely shut.
Mollie sat and looked in speechless expectation. Mr. Ingelow,
volunteering no explanation, assisted her out, desired cabby to wait,
opened the door with a latch-key, and ushered Mollie in.
The entrance-hall was very much like any other entrance-hall; so,
likewise, was the broad stair-way; so, also, the upper landing.
It was only when Mr. Ingelow, pausing before one of the doors in the
second hall, spoke, that Mollie received her first shock.
"You will enter here, Mollie, and wait. Prepare yourself for a great
surprise--a terrible surprise, perhaps."
He bowed and left her, passing into another room, and closing the door.
All in an agitated flutter, Mollie opened her door and entered. But on
the threshold she paused, with a shrill cry of wonder, terror, and
doubt; for the padded walls and floor, the blind windows, the lighted
lamp, the bed, the furniture, were all recognized in a moment.
It was the room where she had been first imprisoned--where she had
consented to marry the masked man.
A quiet figure rose from a chair under the lamp and faced her with a
courtesy. It was the girl who had lured her from her home--Sarah Grant.
"Come in, miss," said this young person, as though they had just parted
an hour ago. "Master told me to expect you. Sit down; he'll be here in a
minute. You look fit to drop."
She felt "fit to drop." She sunk into the proffered seat, trembling
through every limb in her body, overwhelmed with a stunning
consciousness that the supreme moment of her life had come.
Sarah Grant left the room, and Mollie was alone. Her eyes turned to
the door, and fixed themselves there as if fascinated. Her head was
awhirl--her mind a blank. Something tremendous was about to
happen--what, she could not think.
The door opened slowly--the man in the black mask strode in and stood,
silent and awful, before her.
Without a word or cry, but white as death, she rose up and confronted
him with wild, dilated eyes.
"You know me, Mollie," the masked man said, addressing her, as before,
in French--"I am your husband."
"Yes," Mollie answered, her white lips scarce able to form the words.
"For God's sake, take off that mask and show me your face!"
Without a word, he unclasped the cloak and let it slip on the floor; he
removed the flowing hair and beard, and with it the mask. And uttering a
low, wailing cry, Mollie staggered back--for there before her, pale as
herself, stood the man she loved--Hugh Ingelow!