The Unseen Bridgegroom by May Agnes Fleming (best free ebook reader .TXT) 📖

Mr. Walraven," said Mrs. Walraven, coolly, "not afraid to speak my mind, either. None but a lunatic would act as she has acted, running away on her wedding-night and coming back a fortnight after. The idea of her being forcibly abducted is all stuff and nonsense. Heaven only knows where the past two weeks have been spent!"

"Mrs. Walraven," said the Welsh baronet; with awful, suppressed passion, "you forget you speak of my future wife."

"I forget nothing, Sir Roger Trajenna. When Miss Dane gives a satisfactory explanation of her conduct it will be quite time enough to take her part. Mr. Walraven are you going to eat your breakfast, or am I to take it alone?"

Mr. Walraven seized the bell-rope and nearly tore it down. A maid-servant appeared.

"Go up to Miss Dane's room and tell her we are waiting breakfast!" roared Mr. Walraven in a stentorian voice.

The girl obeyed in dire alarm. In an instant she was back.

"Miss Dane's not up yet, and says she doesn't expect to be for some time. She says you'd better not wait for her, as you will very likely be painfully hungry if you do."

"I thought so," remarked Mrs. Carl, shortly.

Mr. Walraven bit his lip, the baronet looked like a thundercloud, but both took their places. To all but the mistress of the mansion the breakfast business was a dead failure. Mrs. Carl ate with a very good appetite, finished her meal, arose, rang the bell, and ordered the carriage to be ready in an hour.

The gentlemen adjourned to the library to smoke and wait. The hour elapsed. Mrs. Walraven departed in state, and dead calm fell upon the house. Another hour--the waiting twain were growing fidgety and nervous, crackling their newspapers and puffing at their cigars.

"I vow that mad girl is making me as hysterical as a cranky old maid!" growled Mr. Walraven. "If she doesn't appear in half an hour, I'll go up to her room and carry her down willy-nilly!"

"Would yon really be so cruel, guardy?" said a soft voice, and wheeling round, the astonished pair saw the culprit before them. "Have you no pity for your poor little Mollie, and can't you let her be as lazy as she pleases? Good-morning, Sir Roger Trajenna."

How lovely Mollie looked! The golden curls fell in a shining shower over the dainty white cashmere robe, belted with blue velvet, soft white lace and a diamond pin sparkling at the rounded throat. She came forward with a bright smile and outstretched hand to greet them.

"I was cross last night, you know," she said, "and couldn't properly speak to my friends. Traveling steadily, for goodness knows how many hours, in a bumping coach, would wear out the patience of a saint--and you know I'm not a saint!"

"No," said Mr. Walraven; "very far from it. Nearer the other thing, I suspect."

"Now, guardy," said Mollie, reproachfully, "how can you? And after I've been lost, and you've been all distracted about me, too! Oh, how I should like to have seen the fuss and the uproar, and the dismay and distraction generally! Do tell me what you all thought."

"I'll tell you nothing of the sort," said her guardian, sternly. "Have you no feeling in that flinty heart of yours, Mollie Dane?"

"Well, now, guardy, if you'll believe me, I'm not so sure I've got a heart at all. There's something that beats in here"--tapping lightly on her white bodice--"but for going frantic with love or hate, or jealousy or sorrow, or any of those hysterical things that other people's hearts seem made for, I don't believe I have. I tell you this frankly"--glancing sideways at Sir Roger Trajenna--"in order to warn you and everybody not to be too fond of me. I'm not worth it, you see, and if you take me for more than my value, and get disappointed afterward, the fault's not mine, but yours."

Mr. Walraven looked at her in surprise.

"Rather a lengthy speech, isn't it, Mollie? Suppose you leave off lecturing, and tell us where you've been for the last two weeks."

"Where do you suppose I've been?"

"We can't suppose on such a question; it is impossible. I desire you to tell us."

"And if I don't, guardy?"

She looked up at him rather defiantly--seated on a low stool, her elfish chin in her elfish hand, her pretty little rose-bloom face peeping brightly out from the scented yellow curls.

"Mollie!"

"Guardy, see here: it's of no use getting cross. I can't tell you where I've been, because I don't know myself."

"Mollie!"

"It's true as preaching, guardy. You know I don't tell fibs--except in fun. I don't know where I was, and so I can't tell you, and I'd a good deal rather you wouldn't ask me."

"Mollie!"

"Oh, what's the use of Mollieing?" cried the young lady, waxing impatient. "I was taken somewhere, and I don't know where--'pon my word and honor, I don't--and I was kept a prisoner in a nasty room, by people I don't know, to punish me for flirting, I was told; and when I was there two weeks, and punished sufficiently, Heaven knows, I was fetched home. Guardy, there's everything I know or can tell you about the matter. Now, please be good, and don't bother with tiresome questions."

Mr. Walraven stood and looked at her, a petrified gazer. Such unheard-of impudence! Sir Roger Trajenna took up the catechism.

"Your pardon, Mollie, but I must ask you a few more questions. There was a young person brought you a letter on the night we were--" His voice failed. "May I ask who was that young person, and what were the contents of that letter?"

Mollie looked up, frowning impatiently. But the baronet was so pale and troubled asking his questions that she had not the heart to refuse.

"That young person, Sir Roger, called herself Sarah Grant. The letter purported to come from a woman who knew me before I knew myself. It told me she was dying, and had important revelations to make to me--implored me to hasten at once if I would see her alive. I believed the letter, and went with Sarah. That letter, Sir Roger, was a forgery and a trap."

"Into which you fell?"

"Into which I fell headlong. The greatest ninny alive could not have been snared more easily."

"You have no idea who perpetrated this atrocity?"

"No," said Mollie, "no idea. I wish I had! If I wouldn't make him sup sorrow in spoonfuls, my name's not Mollie! There, Sir Roger, that will do. You've heard all I've got to tell, and the better way will be to ask no more questions. If you think I am not sufficiently explicit--if you think I keep anything back that you have a right to know--why, there is only one course left. You can take it, and welcome. I release you from all ties to me. I shall think you perfectly justified, and we will continue the best possible friends." She said it firmly, with an eye that flashed and a cheek that burned. "There is only one thing can make us quarrel, Sir Roger--that is, asking me questions I don't choose to answer. And I don't choose to answer in the present case."

"But I insist upon your answering, Mollie Dane!" burst out Carl Walraven. "I don't choose to be mystified and humbugged in this egregious manner. I insist upon a complete explanation."

"Do you, indeed, Mr. Walraven? And how are you going to get it?"

"From you, Mollie Dane."

"Not if I know myself--and I rather fancy I do! Oh, no, Mr. Walraven--no, you don't! I shan't say another word to you, or to any other living being, until I choose; and it's no use bullying, for you can't make me, you know. I've given Sir Roger his alternative, and I can give you yours. If you don't fancy my remaining here under a cloud, why, I can go as I came, free as the wind that blows. You've only to say the word, Guardy Walraven!"

The blue eyes flashed as Carl Walraven had never seen them flash before; the pink-tinged cheeks flamed rose-red; but her voice never rose, and she kept her quaint seat on the stool.

"Cricket! Cricket! Cricket!" was "guardy's" reproachful cry.

"You dear old thing! You wouldn't like to lose your hateful little tom-boy, would you? Well, you shan't, either. I only meant to scare you that time. You'll ask me no more nasty questions, and I'll stay and be your Cricket the same as ever, and we'll try and forget the little episode of the past two weeks. And as for you, Sir Roger, don't you do anything rash. Just think things over, and make sure you're perfectly satisfied, before you have anything to do with me, for I don't intend to explain any more than I have explained. I'm a good-for-nothing, giddy little moth, I know; but I don't really want to deceive anybody. No; don't speak on impulse, dear Sir Roger. Take a week or two, and think about it."

She kissed her hand coquettishly to the two gentlemen, and tripped out of the room.

And there they sat, looking at each other, altogether bewildered and dazed, and altogether more infatuated about her than ever.

Society was electrified at finding Miss Dane back, and looked eagerly for the sequel to this little romance. They got it from Mr. Walraven.

Mr. Walraven, bland as oil, told them his ward had received on her bridal night a summons to the bedside of a dying and very near relative. Miss Dane, ever impulsive and eccentric, had gone. She had remained with the dying relative for a fortnight, and merely for mischief--no need to tell them how mischievous his ward was--had kept the whole matter a secret. It was very provoking, certainly, but was just like provoking Mollie Dane.

Mr. Walraven related this little fable smiling sweetly, and with excellent grace. But society took the story for what it was worth, and shook its head portentously over Miss Dane and her mysteries.

Nobody knew who she was, where she came from, or what relation she bore to Mr. Walraven, and nobody believed Mr. Walraven and his little romance.

But as Mesdames Walraven, mother and wife, countenanced the extraordinary creature with the flighty way and amber curls, and as she was the ward of a millionaire, why, society smiled graciously, and welcomed Mollie back with charming sweetness.

A fortnight passed--the fortnight of probation she had given Sir Roger. There was a grand dinner-party at some commercial nabob's up the avenue, and all the Walraven family were there. There, too, was the Welsh baronet, stately and grand-seigneur-like as ever; there were Dr. Oleander, Lawyer Sardonyx, Hugh Ingelow, and the little witch who had thrown her wicked sorceries over them, brighter, more sparkling, more lovely than ever.

And at the dinner-party Mollie was destined to receive a shock; for, just before they paired off to the dining-room, there entered a late guest, announced as the "Reverend Mr. Rashleigh," and, looking in the Reverend Mr. Rashleigh's face, Mollie Dane recognized him at once.

She was standing at the instant, as it chanced, beside Hugh Ingelow, gayly helping him to satirize a magnificent "diamond wedding" they had lately attended; but at the sight of the portly, commonplace gentleman, the words seemed to freeze on her lips.

With her eyes fixed on his face, her own slowly whitening until it was blanched, Mollie stood and gazed and gazed. Hugh Ingelow looked curiously from one