"I never thought it was you," Mollie said, in a voice of still despair.

"Oh, yes, you did. You dreaded it was me--you hoped it was that puppy, Ingelow, confound him! Why, Mollie, he doesn't care for you one t.i.the of what I do. See what I have risked for you--reputation, liberty, everything that man holds dear."

"And you shall lose them yet," Mollie said, between her clinched teeth.

"I have made myself a felon to obtain you, Mollie. I love you better than myself--than anything in the world. You are my wife--be my wife, and forgive me."

"Never!" cried Mollie pa.s.sionately, raising her arm aloft with a gesture worthy of Siddons or Ristori; "may I never be forgiven when I die if I do! I could kill you this moment, as I would a rat, if I had it in my power, and with as little compunction. I hate you--I hate you--I hate you! How I hate you words are too poor and weak to tell!"

"Of course," said the doctor, with ineffable calm: "it's perfectly natural just now. But you'll get over it, Mollie, believe me you will, and like me all the better by and by."

"Will you go?" said Mollie, her eyes beginning to blaze.

"Listen to me first," said the doctor, earnestly. "Listen to me, I implore you, Mollie! I have taken a dangerous step in fetching you here--in marrying you as I did; my very life is at stake. Do you think I will stick at trifles now? No. You must either return to New York as my wife, openly acknowledging yourself such, or--never return. Wait--wait, Mollie! Don't interrupt. You are altogether in my power. If you were hidden in a dungeon of the French Bastile you could not be more secure or secluded than here. There is no house within five miles; there is the wild sea, the wild woods, a stretch of flat, barren, marshy sea-coast--nothing more. No one ever comes here by water or land. There are iron bars to those windows, and the windows are fifteen feet from the ground. The people in this house think you mad--the more you tell them to the contrary the less they will believe you. In New York they have not the slightest clew to your whereabouts. You vanished once before and came back--they will set this down as a similar trick, and not trouble themselves about you. You are mine, Mollie, mine--mine!

There is no alternative in the wide earth."

Dr. Oleander's face flashed with triumph, his voice rang out exultantly, his form seemed to tower with victory, his eyes flashed like burning coals. He made one step toward her.

"Mine, Mollie; mine you have been, mine you will be for life. The G.o.ds have willed it so, Mollie--my wife!"

Another step nearer, triumphant, victorious, then Mollie lifted her arm with a queenly gesture and uttered one word:

"Stop!"

She was standing by the mantel, drawn up to her full height, her face whiter than snow, rigid as marble, but the blue eyes blazing blue flame.

"Back, Doctor Oleander! Not one step nearer if you value your life!" She put her hand in her bosom and drew out a glittering plaything--a curious dagger of foreign workmanship she had once taken from Carl Walraven.

"Before I left home, Doctor Oleander, I took this. I did not expect to have to use it, but I took it. Look at it; see its blue, keen glitter.

It is a pretty, little toy, but it proves you a false boaster and a liar! It leaves me one alternative--death!"

"Mollie! For G.o.d's sake!"

There was that in the girl's white, rigid face that frightened the strong man. He recoiled and looked at the little flashing serpent with horror.

"I have listened to you, Doctor Guy Oleander," said Mollie Dane, slowly, solemnly; "now listen to me. All you say may be true, but yours I never will be--never, never, never! Before you can lay one finger on me this knife can reach my heart or yours. I don't much care which, but yours if I can. If I am your wife, as you say, the sooner I am dead the better."

"Mollie, for Heaven's sake--"

But Mollie, like a tragedy queen, waved her hand and interrupted him:

"They say life is sweet--I suppose it is--but if I am your wife I have no desire to live, unless, indeed, to be revenged on you. Put a dose of a.r.s.enic in yonder coffee-cup and give me the draught. I will drink it."

Dr. Oleander grinned horribly a ghastly smile.

"I had much rather give you a love-philter, Mollie," he said, recovering from his first scare. "Unhappily, the age of love-philters seems to have pa.s.sed. And now I will leave you for the present--time will work wonders, I think. I must go back to New York; no one must suspect I have left it for an hour. I will return in a day or two, and by that time I trust you will no longer be in such a reckless frame of mind. I don't want you to die by any means; you are a great deal too pretty and piquant, and I love you far too well. Good-bye, my spirited little wife, for a couple of days."

He bowed low and left the room, locking the door carefully. And when he was gone Mollie drooped at once, leaning against the mantel, pale and trembling, her hands over her face--alone with her despair.

CHAPTER XVII.

MIRIAM TO THE RESCUE.

An artist stood in his studio, overlooking busy, bright Broadway. He stood before his easel, gazing in a sort of rapture at his own work. It was only a sketch, a sketch worthy of a master, and its name was "The Rose Before It Bloomed." A girl's bright, sweet face, looking out of a golden aureole of wild, loose hair; a pair of liquid, starry, azure eyes; a mouth like a rosebud, half pouting, half smiling. An exquisite face--rosy, dimpled, youthful as Hebe's own--the radiant face of Mollie Dane.

The day was near its close, and was dying in regal splendor. All day the dark, dreary rain had fallen wearily, ceaselessly; but just as twilight, ghostly and gray, was creeping up from the horizon, there had flashed out a sudden sunburst of indescribable glory.

The heavens seemed to open, and a glimpse of paradise to show, so grand and glorious was the oriflamme of crimson and purple and orange and gold that transfigured the whole firmament.

A lurid light filled the studio, and turned the floating yellow hair of the picture to living, burnished ripples of gold.

"It is Mollie--living, breathing, lovely Mollie!" the artist said to himself in sudden exultation--"beautiful, bewitching Mollie! Fit to sit by a king's side and wear his crown. Come in!"

For a tap at the studio door suddenly brought our enthusiastic artist back to earth. He flung a cloth over the sketch, and leaned gracefully against the easel.

The figure that entered somewhat disturbed the young man's const.i.tutional phlegm--it was so unlike his usual run of visitors--a remarkable figure, tall, gaunt, and bony, clad in wretched garb; a haggard, powerful face, weather-beaten and brown, and two blazing black eyes.

The artist opened his own handsome orbs to their widest extent.

"I wish to see Mr. Hugh Ingelow," said this singular woman in a deep ba.s.s voice.

"I am Hugh Ingelow, madame, at your service."

The woman fixed her burning eyes on the calm, serenely handsome face.

The lazy hazel eyes of the artist met hers coolly, unflinchingly.

"I await your pleasure, madame. Will you enter and sit down?"

The woman came in, closed the door cautiously after her, but declined the proffered seat.

"To what am I indebted for the honor of this visit?" asked the artist, quietly. "I have not the pleasure of knowing you."

"I am Mollie Dane's aunt."

"Ah, indeed!" and Mr. Hugh Ingelow lighted up, for the first time, with something like human interest. "Yes, yes; I remember you now. You came to Mr. Carl Walraven's wedding and gave us a little touch of high tragedy. Pray sit down, and tell me what I can do for you."

"I don't want to sit. I want you to answer me a question."

"One hundred, if you like."

"Do you know where Mollie Dane is?"

"Not exactly," said Mr. Ingelow, coolly. "I'm not blessed, unfortunately, with the gift of the fairy prince in the child's tale. I can't see my friends through walls of stone and mortar; but I take it she is at the palatial mansion uptown."

"She is not!"