Part 13 (1/2)

Arthur followed him mechanically, and like one in a dream. They stepped into the carriage and were driven rapidly away; but Arthur, as he leaned back exhausted in his seat, murmured sorrowfully:

”And poor little Mary, too! Who will befriend her now?”

CHAPTER XV.

In the upper apartment of a cottage standing alone by the roadside on the outskirts of Boston, Miranda, pale and dejected, sat gazing vacantly at the light of the solitary lamp that lit the room. The clock was striking midnight, and the driving rain beat dismally against the window-blinds. But one month had pa.s.sed since her elopement with Philip Searle, yet her wan cheeks and altered aspect revealed how much of suffering can be crowded into that little s.p.a.ce of time. She started from her revery when the striking of the timepiece told the lateness of the hour. Heavy footsteps sounded upon the stairway, and, while she listened, Philip, followed by Bradshaw, entered the room abruptly.

”How is this?” asked Philip, angrily. ”Why are you not in bed?”

”I did not know it was so late, Philip,” she answered, in a deprecating tone. ”I was half asleep upon the rocking-chair, listening to the storm. It's a bad night, Philip. How wet you are!”

He brushed off the hand she had laid upon his shoulder, and muttered, with bad humor:

”I've told you a dozen times I don't want you to sit up for me. Fetch the brandy and gla.s.ses, and go to bed.”

”Oh, Philip, it is so late! Don't drink: to-night, Philip. You are wet, and you look tired. Come to bed.”

”Do as I tell you,” he answered, roughly, flinging himself into a chair, and beckoning Bradshaw to a seat. Miranda sighed, and brought the bottle and gla.s.ses from the closet.

”Now, you go to sleep, do you hear; and don't be whining and crying all night, like a sick girl.”

The poor girl moved slowly to the door, and turned at the threshold.

”Good night, Philip.”

”Oh, good night--there, get along,” he cried, impatiently, without looking at her, and gulping down a tumblerful of spirits. Miranda closed the door and left the two men alone together.

They remained silent for a while, Bradshaw quietly sipping his liquor, and Philip evidently disturbed and angry.

”You're sure 'twas she?” he asked at last.

”Oh, bother!” replied Bradshaw. ”I'm not a mole nor a blind man. Don't I know Moll when I see her?”

”Curse her! she'll stick to me like a leech. What could have brought her here? Do you think she's tracked me?”

”She'd track you through fire, if she once got on the scent. Moll ain't the gal to be fooled, and you know it.”

”What's to be done?”

”Move out of this. Take the girl to Virginia. You'll be safe enough there.”

”You're right, Bradshaw. It's the best way. I ought to have done it at first. But, hang the girl, she'll weary me to death with her sermons and crying fits. Moll's worth two of her for that, matter--she scolds, but at least she never would look like a stuck fawn when I came home a little queer. For the matter of that, she don't mind a spree herself at times.” And, emptying his gla.s.s, the libertine laughed at the remembrance of some past orgies.

While he was thus, in his half-drunken mood, consoling himself for present perplexities by dwelling upon the baccha.n.a.lian joys of other days, a carriage drove up the street, and stopped before the door. Soon afterward, the hall bell was rung, and Philip, alarmed and astonished, started from his seat.

”Who's that?” he asked, almost in a whisper.

”Don't know,” replied his companion.