MOLLIE'S BRIDAL.
Imagine that tableau!
For an instant there was dead silence; a bomb bursting in their midst could hardly have startled them more. Mollie dared not look in their faces, lest the inward laughter that convulsed her should burst forth.
Sir Roger Trajenna, a little surprised, yet bowed with gentlemanly ease, while the three young men sat perfectly thunder-struck.
The dead blank was broken by Dr. Oleander.
"Permit me to congratulate Sir Roger Trajenna," he said, bowing to that gentleman; "and permit me to thank Miss Dane for this exceedingly unexpected mark of preference. If it is ever in my power to return your condescension, Miss Mollie, believe me you will find my memory good. I wish you all good-morning."
His immovable face had not changed, but his gray eyes flashed one bright, fierce glance at Mollie, that said, plainly as words, "I will have revenge for this insult as sure as my name is Guy Oleander".
But saucy Mollie only answered that sinister look by her brightest glance and smile; and taking his hat, Dr. Oleander strode away.
Then Mr. Sardonyx arose. He had been sitting like a statue, but the words and departure of his fellow-victim seemed to restore consciousness.
"Am I to understand, Miss Dane, that this is the answer you meant when you invited me here to-day?" he sternly asked.
"Did I really invite you? Oh, yes! Of course, Mr. Sardonyx, it must have been. I purposely kept my engagement secret since my return from Washington in order to give you an agreeable surprise."
"I am exceedingly obliged to you. Believe me, I will prove my gratitude if ever opportunity offers."
Miss Dane bowed and smiled. Sir Roger looked hopelessly bewildered. Mr. Sardonyx took his hat.
"Farewell, Miss Dane, and many thanks."
He was gone. Hugh Ingelow alone remained—Hugh Ingelow, white and cold as a dead man. Mollie's heart smote her cruelly for the second time at sight of him. He arose as the lawyer disappeared.
"You have nothing more to say to me, Miss Dane?"
Mollie lifted her eyebrows.
"My dear Mr. Ingelow, what should I possibly have to say to you, except that we will always be most happy to see you—Sir Roger and I?"
"Always," echoed the baronet, with a stately bend.
"You are very kind. Good-day, Sir Roger Trajenna. Congratulations on so eminently suitable a match would be preposterous. Farewell, Miss Dane. I, too, know how to remember!"
With the words he passed out. Sir Roger turned with something like a frown to his bride-elect.
"What does it mean, Mollie?"
Mollie laughed—such a gay, girlish laugh!
"Can't you see, Sir Roger? They are nearly frantic with jealousy, the three of them. What fun it was to see them sitting there and scowling at one another!"
"But they threatened, did they not?" the baronet asked, still frowning.
"Did they? They said they would remember, and I think it is very likely they will. Poor fellows! It was natural, and I don't mind."
"And when am I to speak to your guardian now?"
"As soon as you please—after luncheon, if you like. I don't suppose he'll object."
"Certainly not," Sir Roger said, proudly; "and then, my dearest, when am I to have my lovely little wife?"
"Oh, I don't know! It isn't well to be in any hurry. Wait a year or two."
"A year or two!" cried Sir Roger, in much the same tone as if she had said a century or two. "Impossible—utterly impossible, Mollie!"
"Well, then, a month or two. I am not in any hurry to be married, and I don't see why you should be."
"My darling little Mollie, if you loved me half as much as I love you, you would understand. And you will really be mine in a month?"
"Or two. Yes, if you insist upon it. If I am to be Lady Trajenna first or last, it may as well be first, I suppose."
"And you will not change your mind?"
"Of course not," said Mollie, indignantly. "When Mollie Dane gives her word, the laws of the Medes and—what's their names?—are nothing to it. Don't tease, Sir Roger. When I promise a thing, it's as good as done."
Mollie danced away to the piano, and held her infatuated baronet spell-bound until luncheon time.
At table Mr. and Mrs. Walraven met them, and immediately after the meal the baronet formally requested the pleasure of a private interview.
"Can he really be going to ask for Mollie?" thought Mr. Walraven. "Upon my word, if he is, this is quite a new role for me—playing the part of venerable parent, and that to a white-haired gentleman who numbers a round score more years than myself."
He led the way to his study, followed by the baronet. And Sir Roger came to the point at once, calmly, proudly, with grave dignity.
"The disparity of years is great, I know," he said. "But if she is willing to overlook that objection, you surely may. There is no other drawback that I am aware of. A Trajenna, of Trajenna, might mate with the highest in England."
He lifted his white, erect head haughtily, and looked Carl Walraven full in the face. Mr. Walraven held out his hand and grasped the baroness's cordially.
"My dear Sir Roger, I am proud and happy beyond expression. Mollie may consider herself a fortunate girl to escape the wild young scapegraces who dangle after her, and find a husband in a man like you. She stands alone in the world, poor child, without father or mother. You, Sir Roger, must be all the world to her now."
"Heaven helping me, I will!" the old man said, earnestly.
"My whole life shall be devoted to her happiness."
"And when is it to be?" Mr. Walraven asked, with a smile. "I presume you and Mollie have settled that?"
"In two months. It will be spring then; and we can start at once for Wales. I long to show my fairy bride old Trajenna Castle."
"We shall miss her very much:" and Carl Walraven sighed in good earnest as he said it. "She has been the sunlight of our home. My poor old mother will almost break her heart: but it is for Mollie's good, and all selfish considerations must give way. You are aware, Sir Roger, she has no dower?"
"She needs none," Sir Roger said, proudly. "My fortune is princely; her settlements shall be as ample as though she were heiress to millions. I believe there is nothing more, Mr. Walraven, and so let us rejoin the ladies."
The news spread like wildfire—the avenue was electrified. Mollie Dane—little, coquettish Mollie Dane—sprung from nobody knew where, to carry off the great Welsh baronet, in spite of them all. The man must be in his dotage!
Mr. Walraven's antecedents were mysterious enough, in all conscience; but the antecedents of this wild ward of his were ten times more so. But, in spite of all, the engagement was an accomplished fact.
Every day, beneath the baleful glare of angry female eyes, Mollie Dane went riding and driving and walking with the stately, white-haired old millionaire, who bent over her as obsequiously as though she were a duchess born.
The women might go wild with envy, the men go mad with jealousy; but the days and the weeks went on, and the fairy grew more radiantly beautiful with each. And the wedding-day came, and the guests were bidden, and all was ready, on a scale of unparalleled magnificence. And who was to know the wedding would never be?
Mollie's bridal night! The big brown-stone mansion was one blaze of light. The ceremony was to take place in the lofty drawing-room, and be followed by a ball. This somewhat obsolete way of doing things was by the express desire of Sir Roger, and on the morrow they were to start by steamer for the old land. It was all one to Mollie, and Mr. and Mrs. Walraven acquiesced in every wish of the Welshman.
The hour fixed for the ceremony was ten o'clock. It was nearly nine, and up in her own room the bride stood, under the hands of her maid, robed for the sacrifice.
It was a sacrifice, though giddy Mollie had never thought it so before. Now, when it was too late, her heart began to fail her.
He was dreadfully old, this stately Sir Roger. She didn't care for him in the least, except as she might care for some nice old grandfather; and then there was Hugh Ingelow—handsome Hugh!
But at this point Cricket caught her breath and her thoughts with a gasp.
"Mollie, Mollie, Mollie! How dare you, you wicked, crazy girl! Thinking of Hugh Ingelow, when you oughtn't to remember there's another man alive but Sir Roger Trajenna! I wouldn't marry poor Hugh when he wanted me—a lucky escape for him—and I'm not going to pine away for him now, when it's high treason to do it"
"Hurry, Margaret," the bride said aloud. "Make me just as pretty as ever you can."
The three rejected suitors had been invited to the bridal hall, and, singular to relate, had come.
But their discomfiture had been so singular altogether that perhaps they thought it as well to match Mollie in coolness.
There they were at least, regarding one another in the oddest way, and Mrs. Walraven, gorgeous in amber moiré, sidled up to her cousin, and hissed venomously in his ear:
"So the vicious Guy Oleander has lost his little game, after all! Blue-eyed Mollie is destined to be 'My Lady,' in spite of his teeth."
"'There is many a slip'—you know the proverb, Madame."
It was all he said; but his sinister smile, as he moved away, said a great deal.
Hugh Ingelow, very pale, stood leaning against a marble column, all wreathed with festal roses, not as white as his own handsome face.
"What are they plotting, I wonder?" he thought. "No good to her. They hate her, as I ought to, but as I can't, poor, pitiful fool that I am! But my time may come, too. I said I would not forget, and will not."
The bride-maids, a gay group of girls, came fluttering into the "maiden bower" to see if the bride was ready.
"For the clergyman is down-stairs, and the guests are assembled, and Sir Roger is waiting, and nothing is needed but the bride."
"A very essential need," responded Mollie. "I'm not going to hurry myself; they can't get along without me. A letter, Lucy? For me? From whom, I wonder?"
The girl had entered, bearing a note in a buff envelope, addressed, in a sprawling hand, to "Miss Mollie Dane."
"The young person that brought it is waiting in the hall, miss," said Lucy. "I didn't want to take it, and I told her you was just about getting married, but it was no use. She said it was a matter of life or death, and you'd be sure to pay attention to it if you were before the altar."
But Mollie had not listened. She tore open the buff envelope, and the gazers saw her turn deathly pale as she read.
She crushed the letter in her hand and turned impetuously to the girl.
"Where is the person who brought this? I must see her at once. Bring her here; and you, young ladies, let me speak two words to her in private."
The young ladies trooped out, and the bride was left alone, paler than her snowy robes.
A moment, and Lucy was back with the bearer of the letter, a respectable-looking young person enough.
Lucy left her mistress and the girl standing together. Five minutes after the bell rang sharply. Lucy hastened back; on the threshold the bride met and stopped her, with a white, startled face.
"Tell them to postpone the ceremony for an hour, Lucy. Come back here then. For the next hour I wish to be left alone. Tell Mr. Walraven."
She shut the door in the amazed attendant's face. Lucy heard the key turn. A second she stood petrified, then she hastened off to deliver her message.
Mr. Walraven stood aghast. Lucy was plied with questions. Who was the girl? What was she like? What had she said? Where had she come from?
Sir Roger was wildly alarmed at first, but Mr. Walraven reassured him. The company waited, on the qui vive, for they knew not what. Eleven o'clock came. Lucy went up to the bride's room; the door was still fast; she knocked—there was no reply; she called—there was no answer. Then Lucy screamed, and in a twinkling a crowd was around the door. They shook it, they rapped, they called, all in vain. Dead silence reigned.
"Force the door!" exclaimed Carl Walraven, hoarsely.
Strong men forced it. There was a rush in, a recoil, a cry of consternation, for the apartment was empty; the bird had flown.
How the search began no one ever knew, but begin it did. The house was hunted from top to bottom; still in vain. Not a trace of the bride could be found.
The wedding party dispersed in wild confusion, but the search went on. Through the night it lasted; but morning broke, and still no trace. The bride had disappeared as if the earth had opened and swallowed her up!