The Unseen Bridgegroom by May Agnes Fleming (best free ebook reader .TXT) 📖

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,