WHICH WINDS UP THE BUSINESS.
He stood before her, pale and stern, his eyes fixed upon her, as a
culprit before his judge waiting sentence of death.
But Mollie never looked. After that one brief, irrepressible cry, she
had fallen back, her face bowed and hidden in her hands.
"You shrink from me, Mollie," Hugh Ingelow said; "you will not even look
at me. I knew it would be so. I know I deserve it; but if I were never
to see you again, I must tell you the truth all the same. Yes, Mollie,
recoil from me, hate me, spurn me, for the base, unmanly part I have
acted. It is not Doctor Oleander who is the dastard, the villain, the
abductor of weak women--it is I!"
She did not speak, she did not move, she made no sign that she even
heard him.
"It will avail me little, I know," he continued, "to tell you I have
repented the dastardly deed in bitterness of spirit since. It will avail
nothing to tell you how I have hated myself for that cruel and cowardly
act that made me your husband. I think you maddened me, Mollie, with
your heartless, your insulting rejection, and I did love you
passionately. I swore, in my heart of hearts, I would be avenged, and,
Mollie, you know how I kept my vow."
Still no reply, still no movement on Mollie's part. She stood half
bowed, her head averted, her face covered by her hands.
"It drove me into a sort of frenzy, the thought of your becoming Sir
Roger Trajenna's wife. If he had been a young man, and you had loved
him, I would have bowed my head, as before a shrine, and gone my way and
tried to forgive you and wish you happiness. But I knew better. I knew
you were selling yourself for an old man's rank, for an old man's gold,
and I tried to despise and hate you. I tried to think that no base act I
could commit would be baser than the marriage you were ready to make. A
plan--mad, impracticable as my own mad love, flashed across my brain,
and, like many other things impossible in theory, I did it! It seemed an
impossiblity to tear you from the very altar, and make you my wife, all
unknown, but I did it. I had this house here, uninhabited, furnished. I
had a friend ready to help me to the death. I disguised myself like a
hero of romance, I decoyed you here, forced you to consent, I married
you!"
Still mute, still dropping, still averted, still motionless. There was a
tremor in Hugh Ingelow's steady voice when he went on.
"How hard it was for me, what a cruel, cold-blooded monster I felt
myself, how my very heart of hearts was touched by your suffering here,
I can not tell. Besides, it would seem like mockery, since all my
compassion did not make me spare you. But from the moment you set foot
here I considered it too late; and then, besides, Mollie, I was mad with
love of you. I could not let you go. You yielded--you consented to
barter yourself for freedom, as once before you consented for gold. I
brought the Reverend Raymond Rashleigh here--he married me under my
second name of Ernest--as you know."
He paused again. Still no sign, and then he went on:
"I let you go. I did not dare reveal myself, but I kept my promise. Hate
me, Mollie, as you will; despise me, as you must--but try and think how
dearly I love you. I would lay down my life for you, my darling Mollie.
That would be an easy sacrifice; it remains for me to make a greater
one. A divorce shall set you free. I myself will obtain that divorce. No
one knows of our marriage--no one ever shall know. I will leave you
free--free as the wind that blows--to go forth and make happy a more
honorable and deserving man. Only, Mollie, no man ever will love you as
I love you!" His voice failed. He turned abruptly away, and stood as if
waiting for her to speak. But she never uttered a word.
He took her silence for a token of her utter scorn and hate.
"Farewell then, Mollie," he said. "I go, and I will never molest you
more. The carriage that brought you here will fetch you home again. But
before we part forever, let me say this--if you ever want a friend, and
can so far forgive me the wrong I have done you as to call upon me for
help, then, Mollie, I will try to repair my unpardonable offense."
He walked to the door, he turned the handle, he gave one last,
despairing look--and what did he see? A little, white hand extended
imploringly, and a pathetic little voice, tremulously speaking:
"Hugh, don't go!"
He stopped, turning ghastly white.
"Mollie! For God's sake--"
"Don't--don't go, Mr. Ingelow! Don't go, for I forgive you--I love you!"
Hugh Ingelow gave one amazed cry--it was more like a shout--and in the
next ecstatic moment Miss Dane was in his arms, held there as if he
never would let her go.
"Please don't!" Mollie said, pettishly. "What do you suppose a person's
ribs are made of, to stand such bear's hugs as that? Besides, I didn't
tell you to. I only asked you not to mind the divorce--to-day!"
"Mollie, Mollie! for Heaven's sake, don't trifle with me! I am nearly
beside myself--what with remorse, despair, and now hope. Tell me--can
you ever forgive me? But I am mad to ask it, to hope for it. I know what
you said to Doctor Oleander."
"Do you?" said Mollie; "but then you're not Doctor Oleander."
"Mollie!"
"But still," said Mollie, solemnly, and disengaging herself, "when I
have time to think about it, I am sure I shall hate you like poison. I
do now, but I hate divorces more. Oh, Mr. Ingelow! how could you behave
so disgracefully?"
And then all at once and without the slightest premonitory warning, the
young lady broke out crying hysterically, and to do it the better laid
her face on Mr. Ingelow's shoulder. And, that bold buccaneer of modern
society gathered the little girl close to his heart, like the
presumptuous scoundrel he was, and let her cry her fill; and the face
he bent over her was glorified and ecstatic.
"Stop crying, Mollie," he said at last, putting back the yellow curls,
and peeping at the flushed, wet, pretty face. "Stop crying, my dear
little wife, and look up and say, 'Hugh, I forgive you.'"
"Never!" said Mollie. "You cruel, tyrannical wretch, I hate you!"
And saying it, Mollie put her arms round his neck, and laughed and cried
wildly in the same breath.
"The hysterics will do you good, my dear," said Mr. Ingelow; "only don't
keep them up too long, and redden your precious blue eyes, and swell
your dear little nose. Mollie, is it possible you love me a little,
after all?"
Mollie lifted her face again, and looked at him with solemn, shining
eyes.
"Oh, Hugh! am I really and truly--your very wife?"
"My very own--my darling Mollie--my precious little bride, as fast as
Church and State and Mr. Rashleigh can make you."
"Oh, Hugh, it was a shame!"
"I know it, Mollie--a dreadful shame! But you'll be a Christian, won't
you, and try to forgive me?"
"I'll try, but I'm afraid it is impossible. And all the time I thought
it was Doctor Oleander. Oh, Hugh, you've no idea how miserable I was."
There was a mysterious twinkle in Hugh's eyes.
"Almost as miserable as at present, Mollie?"
"Yes; more so, if such a thing be possible. It's shocking to carry off a
girl like that, and marry her against her will. Nobody in this world,
but an angel like myself, would ever forgive you."
"Which is equivalent to saying you do forgive me. Thousand thanks, Mrs.
Ingelow. Tell me, would you ever have forgiven Guy Oleander?"
"You know I wouldn't," Mollie answered, blushing beautifully at her new
name; "but, then, you're different."
"How, Mollie?"
"Well--well, you see I hate Doctor Oleander, and I don't hate you."
"You like me a little, Mollie, don't you? Ah, my darling, tell me so.
You know you never have yet."
And then Mollie put her two arms round his neck, and held up her lovely,
blushing face.
"Dear, dear Hugh! I love you with all my heart! And the happiest day of
Mollie's life is the day she finds you are Mollie's husband!"
* * * * *
They were back in the carriage, driving through the golden mist of the
sunny afternoon slowly back to the city. Side by side, as happy lovers
sit, they sat and talked, with--oh, such infinitely blissful faces!
"And now," said Mollie, "what are we going to do about it? It will never
answer to reveal this horrid little romance of ours to all the world."
"Nor shall I. The world has no right to our secrets, and the Reverend
Raymond Rashleigh will go to his grave with his little mystery unsolved.
But we will be married again, openly and before the world, and you, Mrs.
Ingelow, will be under double obligation, because you will have promised
to love, honor and obey twice."
"And we'll go and live out at Harlem, in the dear, romantic old house?"
Mollie said, with sparkling eyes.
"Yes, if you wish it. I will have it repaired and refurnished
immediately, and, while the workmen are about it, we will be enjoying
our wedding-tour. For we must be married at once, Mollie," with a
comical look.
Mollie blushed and fidgeted, and laughed a little nervous laugh.
"This day fortnight will give you ample time for all the wedding
garniture," said the young man. "You hear, Mollie--a fortnight."
Mollie sighed resignedly, "Of course, you will play the tyrant, as usual,
and carry me off willy-nilly, if I don't consent. You must have
everything your own way, I suppose. And now--I'm dying to know--tell me,
who is Sarah Grant?"
"An eminently respectable young woman, and the wife of my
foster-brother. She and her husband would do anything under the
sun for me. The husband was the coachman who drove you when you were
abducted--who witnessed the marriage, and who is driving us now. Sarah's
a trump! Didn't she outwit Oleander nicely?"
"How? Oh, Hugh," clasping her hands, "I see it all--the resemblance just
puzzled me so. Sarah Grant was Susan Sharpe."
"Of course, she was, and a capital nurse she made. Sarah's worth her
weight in gold, and you will tell her so the next time you see her. And
now, here we are at Mrs. Watson's, and so good-bye for an hour or two,
my little wife."
And Mollie went in, her face radiant, and all the world changed since
she had left.
With the "witching hour of candle-light" came Mr. Ingelow again, to
spend the evening with his lady-love. He looked a little serious, as
Mollie saw.
"What is it, Hugh?" she asked, in alarm.
"Nothing much. I was thinking of Walraven. I saw him this afternoon."
"Well?" breathlessly.
"He is off again. Back to Europe, in the steamer to-morrow, never to
return, he says. I never saw a man more cast down. So old Madame
Walraven will be monarch of all she surveys once more, and the Fifth
Avenue mansion will be the abode of darkness and desolation again. Miss
Blanche is settled at Yonkers for good."
"Did you tell him--"
"About our forthcoming nuptials? Oh, yes! He looked rather surprised,
and asked about the Mysterious Unknown in the mask. But I pooh-poohed
that matter--told him I didn't think the mysterious husband would ever
trouble us, and I don't think he will. By the bye, Sir Roger Trajenna
goes to-morrow, too, so my little girl is deserted by all, and must
cling the closer to me."
* * * * *
While Carl Walraven and Sir Roger Trajenna sailed over the wide
sea--while Blanche Walraven ground her teeth in impotent rage up at
Yonkers--while Dr. Guy Orleander pursued his business in New York, and
scowled darkly at the failure of his plans--the daily papers burst out,
one morning, with the jubilant news that Hugh Ernest Ingelow, Esq.,
and Miss Mollie Dane were one flesh. The Reverend Raymond Rashleigh
performed the ceremony, and the wedding was a very quiet affair, and the
happy pair started off at once to spend the honey-moon in a trip to the
Canadas.
So we leave Cricket--all her girlish troubles, and flirtations, and
wildness over, to settle down into the dearest, brightest, loveliest
little wife in wide America. Happy as the days are long, and bright as
the sun that shines, has Cricket been since Hugh Ingelow has been her
husband.
THE END.