The Unseen Bridgegroom - May Agnes Fleming (e books for reading .txt) 📗

wash on the shining strand; even the dreary Long Island farmhouse and its desolate surroundings were transfigured and glorified by the radiant moonlight.

Mrs. Susan Sharpe was an inestimable woman in her way, but neither a poet nor an artist. She gave a complacent glance at earth, and sky, and water, thankful that the benign influences, in the way of weather, were at work to aid them.

"It's a very nice night," murmured Mrs. Susan Sharpe. "Couldn't be better if they tried ever so much. It would have been dreadful awkward if it rained. How still the house is--like a tomb! Dear me, I hope there was no harm done by that drug! I must go and get ready at once."

But just at that moment she heard a sharp, shrill, prolonged whistle. She paused. An instant more and a man vaulted lightly over the high board fence.

"Lor'!" said Mrs. Sharpe, "if it isn't him already! I hope the dogs are done for."

It seemed as if they were, for, as she looked and listened, in considerable trepidation, the man approached the house in swift, swinging strides. Of course, it was the peddler. Mrs. Sharpe threw up her window and projected her head.

"Mr. Ingelow!"

"Halloo!"

The man halted and looked up.

"Where are the dogs?"

"In the dogish elysium, I hope. Dead and done for, Sarah. Come down, like a good girl, and let me in."

"I'm not sure that they're fast asleep."

"Oh, they are," said Hugh Ingelow, confidently, "if you administered the drug and they drank the tea."

"I did," said Mrs. Sharpe, "and they drank the tea and went to bed awful sleepy. If you think it's safe, I'll go down."

"All right. Come along."

Mrs. Sharpe lowered the sash and hurried down stairs. Bolts clattered, the lock creaked, but the sleepers in the house made no sign. A second or two and the nocturnal marauders were together in the hall.

"I told you it was safe," said Mr. Ingelow. "You are a woman in a thousand, Sarah, to manage so cleverly! Now, then, for Miss Dane! Upstairs, is it? Do you go in first, Sarah; but don't tell her I'm coming. I want the pleasure of surprising her myself."

Sarah smiled, and unlocked Mollie's door. The girl was sitting with an anxious, listening, expectant face. She rose up and turned around at the opening of the door.

"Is it you, nurse? Oh, I have been so uneasy! What noise was--"

She never finished the sentence--it died out in an inarticulate cry of joy. For Hugh Ingelow, his disguise torn off, stood in the door-way, smiling and serene as the god of safety himself.

Mollie Dane was a creature of impulse--she never stopped to think. One faint; suppressed cry, one bound forward, and she was in the young man's arms.

"Hugh! Hugh! Hugh!" she cried, hysterically, clinging to him, "save me! save me!"

It was the first time she had ever called him other than Mr. Ingelow. The young man's arms closed around her as if they never would open again.

"My darling, I have come to save you!"

It had all passed in five seconds, but that short interval was long enough for Mollie's womanly instincts to take the alarm. She disengaged herself, reddening violently. What would he think of her? and Mrs. Sharpe there, too!

"They have driven me nearly out of my senses!" she said, with a sort of choking sob. "I don't know what I am doing half the time, and I was so glad to see a friend's familiar face, Mr. Ingelow."

The blue eyes--the eyes of a very child--lifted themselves wistfully, deprecatingly, shining in tears. Hugh Ingelow was touched to the core of his heart.

"I know it, my poor little girl! It is enough to drive any one out of his senses. But let us see if we can't outwit the crafty Oleander. Put your bonnet on and come." Mollie paused suddenly, and looked first at him, then at Mrs. Susan Sharpe, then back again.

"Well, Miss Dane," said Mr. Ingelow, "you're not afraid to come with me?"

"Afraid?" the blue eyes turned upon him with an eloquent glance. "Oh, no! But she--Mrs. Sharpe--"

"Is coming, too, of course, to play propriety," laughed Hugh. "Mrs. Sharpe," turning to that demure lady, "put on your fixings and let us fly!"

Mrs. Sharpe nodded, and turned to go into her own room.

"There's Miss Dane's things," she said, pointing to the pegs on which they hung. "I'll be back in two minutes."

Mr. Ingelow took them down, and tenderly wrapped the long mantle about the slender, girlish figure.

"Are you sure you will be warm enough, Mollie?--I beg your pardon--Miss Dane."

"Ah, call me Mollie!" the eloquent glance once more. "How good you are to me, Mr. Ingelow!"

Hugh Ingelow winced as if she had stabbed him.

"I'm a wretch--a brute--a heartless monster! That's what I am, Mollie, and you'll think so, too, some day--that's the worst of it. Don't wear that puzzled, frightened face, my darling! Heaven knows I would die for you!"

She took his hand and kissed it. Before either had time to speak, of course Mrs. Sharpe must happen in and spoil all.

But Hugh Ingelow, strange to say, looked rather relieved. His face had flushed hotly under that innocent kiss, and then grown deathly pale. He was very white when Mrs. Sharpe came in, and Mrs. Sharpe's sharp eyes saw it. The green glasses were gone.

"You look fit to die," observed Mrs. Susan Sharpe, eying him. "What's the matter?"

Mollie looked at him, then turned away. Had she been forward? Was he mortified?

She colored painfully, then slowly petrified to marble. But the young artist only laughed.

"Pining for you, Mrs. Sharpe. I only exist in the light of your eyes. By the way, where's the green spectacles?"

"In my pocket. Come!"

Mollie had knotted her bonnet strings with nervous, trembling fingers. She was thrilling through with mortification. She had been bold, and she had disgusted his fastidious taste, and she had not meant it. She was so grateful, and she loved him so dearly, but she never would offend in that way again.

Mr. Ingelow offered her his arm, but she drew back.

"I will follow you," she said, in a low voice, shrinking painfully into herself.

He said no more, but led the way. Mrs. Sharpe went after, Miss Dane last. No sound broke the stillness of the house. They might have been in their beds for all the noise they made.

"I hope it's all right," Mrs. Sharpe said, with a very uneasy face; "but I feel scared."

"You needn't, then," answered Mr. Ingelow; "they're safe enough. They'll be all alive in two or three hours from now, and will never know what ailed them. Save your sympathy, Susan, for time of need."

They went down-stairs, out-of-doors, into the cool, bright moonlight. Mollie Dane drew a long, long breath of unspeakable thankfulness as she breathed the fresh, free air once more.

"Thank Heaven," she thought, "and--Hugh Ingelow!"

They reached the garden gate; it stood wide; they passed out, and the artist closed it securely after him.

"'Safe bind, safe find!' Now, Miss Dane, take my arm, and let us see you step out. I have a trap waiting down the road. Neat thing this in the way of moonlight, isn't it?"

Mollie essayed to laugh. He had not waited for her to decline his proffered arm this time--he had taken her hand and drawn it securely through.

"How does freedom feel, Mollie, after a week or two of close imprisonment?"

"Very delightful. You must suffer the imprisonment first, Mr. Ingelow, before you can realize it."

"I would prefer trying to realize it without. Ah, my worthy Doctor Oleander, I think I have outwitted you nicely!"

"I have been so bewildered, and so flurried, and so stunned from the first," said Mollie, "that I can not properly comprehend anything, but I should like to hear how you have brought all this about."

"Why," said Mr. Ingelow, "Mrs. Sharpe told me."

"Yes; but you sent Mrs. Sharpe here in the first place; she told me that. How did you know I was here?"

"Ah! thereby hangs a tale--too long to tell at this sharp pace. Wait until to-morrow, Miss Mollie. There's our vehicle yonder. I might tell you by the way, but the road is long, and the night is chill, and I am to be charioteer. I couldn't do proper justice to the subject, you perceive; and besides, I want you to cuddle up and go to sleep. Here we are. Pile in, Mrs. Sharpe; the back seat, if you please. Miss Dane and I will sit in front and shield you from the inclemency of the weather."

"Much obliged to you, sir," Mrs. Sharpe said, dryly, obeying orders, nevertheless.

"I'll sit back with Mrs. Sharpe," said Mollie, sensitively shrinking.

"You'll do nothing of the sort!" retorted Mr. Ingelow, authoritatively. "You'll do precisely as I tell you! You and Mrs. Sharpe are both in my power, and if you don't keep uncommonly civil and docile, I'll run off with the pair of you and start a seraglio! There, ma'am, you're comfortable, I hope? Now, the sooner you go to sleep the better."

He helped Mrs. Sharpe into the back seat of the two-seated buggy, wrapped her up, and then assisted Mollie up in front.

"A splendid night for our business," he said, getting in beside her and gathering up the reins. "Now then, off we go, over 'brake, bush and scaur,' and good-bye to Doctor Oleander and the trip to Cuba!"

Obedience was not very hard in this instance. Miss Dane snugged up nice and close to Mr. Ingelow, and felt very comfortable indeed. As for him, there was a glow of happiness about his heart like the halo round a full moon. They would have been satisfied, just then, to sit side by side and drive along in a glory of moonshine forever and ever.

"Where are we going?" Mollie asked once.

"To the city--to New York."

"Oh! I know. But where?"

"Wherever you please, Miss Mollie. That will be Mr. Walraven's, I presume?"

"But--"

Mollie hesitated.

"What?" he said, in surprise. "Don't you want to go home?"

"Very much, Mr. Ingelow. It isn't that."

"Well, what is it, then?"

"Mr. Ingelow, you'll think me very silly, I dare say; but I don't want to go up there in a matter-of-fact sort of way at day-break to-morrow morning, in this double buggy, with you and Mrs. Sharpe. I should like--how shall I say it?--a little _coup de théâtre_!"

"Oh! I understand," Mr. Ingelow laughed. "It is quite natural. I should like it myself. And, by Jove! I've got a capital idea."

Mollie looked up brightly.

"Oleander has given out that he is going to Cuba--he makes no secret of one half the story, you see--and Mr. Walraven gives a farewell dinner in honor of the mournful occasion, on Thursday--to-morrow evening. The party is select--very--on your account, you know--only Sir Roger Trajenna, Walraven's lawyer, Sardonyx, and myself. Now, when we're all assembled, discussing your absence, as I'll take care we shall be, and Oleander is telling lies by the yard, do you appear like a thunder-clap and transfix him. Guilt will be confounded, innocence triumphantly vindicated, the virtuous made happy, and the curtain will go down amid tremendous applause. Eh,