The Unseen Bridegroom | Page 3

happy
that brings me your wife, but not Blanche Oleander--not that
cold-blooded, bold-faced, overgrown grenadier."
Madame hissed out the words between a set of spiteful, false teeth, and
glared, as women do glare, upon the gray-eyed Blanche. And Carl
listened, and laughed sardonically.
"A woman without a heart. So much the better, mother; the less heart
the more head; and I like your clever, dashing women, who are big and
buxom, and able to take care of themselves. Don't forget, mother mine,
I haven't proposed to the sparkling Blanche, and I don't think I
shall--to-night. You wouldn't have me fall at the feet of those
mealy-winged moths fluttering around us, with heads softer than their
poor little hearts--you wouldn't, I hope?"
With which Mr. Walraven went straight back to Miss Oleander and
asked her to dance the lancers.
Miss Oleander, turning with ineffable calm from a bevy of rose-robed
and white-robed young ladies, said, "Yes," as if Mr. Walraven was no
more than any other man, and stood up to take his arm.
But there is many a slip. Miss Oleander and Mr. Walraven never
danced that particular set, for just then there came a ring at the
door-bell so pealing and imperious that it sounded sharply even through
the noisy ball-room.
"The Marble Guest, surely," Blanche said, "and very determined to be
heard."

Before the words were well uttered there was a sound of an altercation
in the hall--one of the tall footmen pathetically protesting, and a shrill
female voice refusing to listen to those plaintive protests. Then there
suddenly fell peace.
"After a storm there cometh a calm," Mr. Walraven said. "Miss
Oleander, shall we move on? Well, Johnson, what is it?"
For Johnson, the taller of the two tall footmen, stood before them
gazing beseechingly at his master.
"It's a woman, sir, all wet and dirty, and horrid to look at. She says she
will see you, and there she stands, and Wilson nor me we can't do
nothing with her. If you don't come she says she'll walk up here and
make you come. Them," said Johnson, plaintively, "were her own
language."
Blanche Oleander, gazing up at her companion's face, saw it changing
to a startled, dusky white.
"Some beggar--some troublesome tramp, I dare say." But he dropped
her arm abruptly as he said it. "Excuse me a moment, Miss Oleander. I
had better see her to prevent noise. Now, then, Johnson."
Mr. Johnson led the way down a grand, sweeping staircase, rich in
gilding and carving, through a paved and vaulted hall, and out into a
lofty vestibule.
There a woman stood, dripping wet and wretchedly clad, as
miserable-looking a creature as ever walked the bad city streets. The
flare of the gas-jets shone full upon her--upon a haggard face lighted up
with two blazing eyes.
"For God's sake! Miriam!"
Carl Walraven started back, as if struck by an iron hand. The woman
took a step forward and confronted him.

"Yes, Carl Walraven--Miriam! You did well to come at once. I have
something to say to you. Shall I say it here?"
That was all Messrs. Johnson and Wilson ever heard, for Mr. Walraven
opened the library door and waved her in, followed, and shut the door
again with a sounding slam.
"Now, then," he demanded, imperiously, "what do you want? I thought
you were dead and--"
"Don't say that other word, Mr. Walraven; it is too forcible. You only
hoped it. I am not dead. It's a great deal worse with me than that."
"What do you want?" Mr. Walraven repeated, steadily, though his
swarth face was dusky gray with rage or fear, or both. "What do you
come here for to-night? Has the master you serve helped you bodily,
that you follow and find me even here? Are you not afraid I will
throttle you for your pains?"
"Not the least."
She said it with a composure the best bred of his mother's guests could
not have surpassed, standing bolt upright before him, her dusky eyes of
fire burning on his face.
"I am not afraid of you, Mr. Walraven (that's your name, isn't it?--and a
very fine-sounding name it is), but you're afraid of me--afraid to the
core of your bitter, black heart. You stand there dressed like a king, and
I stand here in rags your kitchen scullions would scorn; but for all that,
Carl Walraven--for all that, you're my slave, and you know it!"
Her eyes blazed, her hands clinched, her gaunt form seemed to tower
and grow tall with the sense of her triumph and her power.
"Have you anything else to say?" inquired Mr. Walraven, sullenly,
"before I call my servants and have you turned out?"
"You dare not," retorted the woman, fiercely--"you dare not, coward!

boaster! and you know it!