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Updated: May 7, 2025
I'll be bride-maid now, and your protector from the lovely Blanche in the future." She kept her word. In spite of Miss Oleander's dislike, she was first bride-maid when the eventful day arrived. But fairer than the bride, fairest of the rosy bevy of bride-maids, shone blue-eyed Mollie Dane. A party of speechless admirers stood behind, chief among them Hugh Ingelow.
The entrance-hall was very much like any other entrance-hall; so, likewise, was the broad stair-way; so, also, the upper landing. It was only when Mr. Ingelow, pausing before one of the doors in the second hall, spoke, that Mollie received her first shock. "You will enter here, Mollie, and wait. Prepare yourself for a great surprise a terrible surprise, perhaps."
I never want to see him again in this world. I will tell you. I know the miserable secret is as safe with you as in my own breast." If Mollie had loved Hugh Ingelow less dearly and devotedly than she did, it is doubtful if she would have revealed the dark, sad history Miriam had unfolded.
The four men glared at one another vengefully, and then four pairs of eyes turned indignantly upon Miss Dane for an explanation. They had it. "Gentlemen," said Miss Dane, with her sweetest smile, "I invited you here this morning because you are very particular friends, and I wished to give you an agreeable surprise before all the avenue knows it. Doctor Oleander, Mr. Ingelow, Mr.
Ingelow, I called twice at the studio since, but each time to find it locked." There was a tap at the door. "Come in," said the lawyer. And enter a waiter, with a card for Mr. Walraven. That gentleman took it with a start. "Speak of the Hugh Ingelow!" he muttered. "Sardonyx, I wish to see Ingelow in private. I'll drop into your office in the course of the day." Mr.
Even in England, the orthodox poet has not been nonexistent. Christina Rossetti portrays such an one in her autobiographical poetry. Jean Ingelow, in Letters of Life and Morning, offers most conventional religious advice to the young poet. And in Coventry Patmore's The Angel in the House, one finds as orthodox a poet as any that the eighteenth century could afford.
Slimmens' wild cry brought Hugh Ingelow into the room. He crossed the room to where Mollie knelt, rigid and cold. "Mollie!" he whispered, bending tenderly down; "my own dear Mollie!" She looked up vaguely, and saw who it was. "She was my mother, Hugh," she said, and slipped heavily backward in his arms, white and still. Mollie did not faint.
My main impression of them now, is a pleasant sense of sitting out in the apple-trees in the wonderful Andover Junes, and "noticing" new books-with which Boston publishers kept me supplied. For whatever reason, the weeklies gave me all I could do at this sort of thing. In its course I formed some pleasant acquaintances; among others that of Jean Ingelow.
Mollie's wicked heart smote her. She liked this handsome young artist more than she was aware of, and the first twinge of remorse for her merciless coquetry filled her mind. But it was too late to pause in her mischief-making, and the fun ahead was too tempting. "Speak, Miss Dane," Mr. Ingelow implored: "for pity's sake, don't say you have led me on only to jilt me in cold blood at the last!"
Ingelow congratulated her on her bright looks as he shook hands. "I never saw you looking better," he said, with earnest admiration. "Looks are deceitful, then," said Mollie, shaking her early head dolefully. "I don't think I ever felt worse, even when cooped up in Doctor Oleander's prison." "Really! What has gone wrong now?" the artist inquired. "Everything dreadful!
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