MOLLIE'S CONQUEST.
There was a blank pause; every eye fixed on the towering form of the
specter-like woman.
"I forbid the marriage!" exclaimed Miriam. "Clergyman, on your peril you
unite those two!"
"The woman is mad!" cried Carl Walraven, white with rage. "Men, turn her
out!"
"Stop!" said Mollie--"stop one moment I know this woman, and will see
what she means."
No one interfered; every one gazed in breathless interest as Miss Dane
quitted her post and confronted the haggard apparition. The woman
uttered a cry at sight of her, and caught her impetuously by the arm.
"Mad girl! have you forgotten what I told you? Would you marry that
man?"
"Marry what man? What do you mean? I am not going to marry any man
to-day. It is you who have gone mad, I think."
"Why, then, do you wear those bridal robes?"
"Bride-maid robes, if you please. Gracious me, Miriam, you didn't think
I was going to marry Mr. Walraven, did you?"
Miriam passed her hand over her brow with a bewildered air.
"Whom, then, is it, if not you?"
"Miss Blanche Oleander, of course, as anyone could have told you, if
you had taken the trouble to ask before rushing in here and making a
scene."
"I only heard last night he was to be married," Miriam said, with a
bewildered face, "and took it for granted that it must be you."
"Then you must have had a poorer opinion of my taste than I should have
thought it possible for you to have. Come in and beg everybody's pardon,
and tell them it was all a shocking mistake."
"One word first: Are you well and happy?"
"Perfectly well, and happy as a queen. Come on; there is no time to
lose. People are staring dreadfully, and the bride is glaring with rage.
Quick--come!"
She flitted back to her place, and Miriam, stepping forward, addressed
the assembly:
"I ask your pardon, ladies and gentlemen. I have made a mistake. I
thought the bride was Miss Dane. I beg the ceremony will proceed."
She pulled a veil she wore down over her gaunt face, and with the last
word hurried out and disappeared. Mr. Walraven, suppressing his rage,
turned to the minister.
"Proceed!" he said, impatiently, "and make haste."
The bride, very white with anger and mortification, resumed her place;
the ceremony recommenced. This time there was no interruption, and in
ten minutes the twain were one flesh.
Half an hour later they were back at the Walraven mansion to eat the
wedding-breakfast, and then the new-made Mrs. Walraven, with an eye that
flashed and a voice that rang, turned upon her liege lord and demanded
an explanation. Mr. Walraven shrugged his shoulders deprecatingly.
"My dearest Blanche, I have none to give. The woman must be mad.
Speak to Mollie."
"Carl Walraven, do not dare to deceive me on my wedding-day. You know
more of this than you choose to say."
"Mrs. Walraven, do not raise your angel voice to such a pitch for
nothing. I said before, speak to Mollie. I say again, speak to Mollie;
and here she is."
"So she is," said Miss Dane, sauntering in. "Do you want me to allay
a post-nuptial storm already? Auspicious beginning! What is it?"
"Who was that woman?" demanded the bride.
"A very old friend of mine, madame."
"Why did she come to the church and try to stop the marriage?"
"Because she thought I was the bride. She said so, didn't she? And being
very well acquainted with me, she was moved with compassion for the
deluded man and came to warn him in time. I explained her little
mistake, as you saw, and she apologized handsomely, and--exit, Miriam.
Isn't that satisfactory?"
"Are you speaking the truth?"
Miss Dane laid her hand upon her heart, and bowed profoundly.
"Doesn't Mr. Walraven know her?"
"That is a question I can not take it upon myself to answer. Mr.
Walraven is of age. Let him speak for himself."
"I told you before," said the bridegroom, angrily. "Let us have no more
about it, Blanche, or I may chance to lose my temper."
He turned on his heel and walked off whistling, and the bride, in her
snowy robes and laces, went down to breakfast, trying vainly to clear
her stormy brow. Mollie puckered up her rosy lips into a shrill whistle.
"And this is their wedding-day! I told him how it would be, but of
course nobody ever minds what I say. Poor guardy! what ever would become
of him traveling alone with that woman! How thankful he ought to be that
he has me to go along and take care of him!"
For Mollie had made it an express stipulation, contrary to all
precedent, that she was to accompany the happy pair on their bridal
tour. Miss Oleander's ante-nuptial objections had been faint; Mrs.
Walraven, less scrupulous, turned upon her husband at the eleventh hour,
just previous to starting, and insisted that she should be left at home.
"It will be ridiculous in the extreme," exclaimed the bride, "having
your ward traveling with us! Let her remain at home with your mother."
Mr. Walraven looked his bride steadfastly in the eye for a moment, then
sat down deliberately.
"Look here, Mrs. Walraven," said Mr. Walraven, perfectly cool, "you
have made a little mistake, I fancy. Permit me to rectify it. Wearing
the breeches is a vulgar expression, I am aware, and only admissible
in low circles; still, it so forcibly expresses what I am trying to
express, that you will allow me to use it. You are trying to don the
inexpressibles, Blanche, but it won't do. My ward goes with us on our
bridal tour, or there shall be no bridal tour at all. There! you have it
in plain English, Mrs. Carl Walraven!"
Five minutes later Mr. and Mrs. Walraven descended to the carriage, Mrs.
Walraven with her veil drawn down, and making her adieus in a smothered
sort of voice. Mr. Walraven handed in his ward next, then followed; the
coachman flourished his whip and they were gone.
The happy pair were merely going to Washington. Mr. Walraven had had a
surfeit of Europe, and Washington, this sparkling winter weather, was at
its gayest and best. The Walraven party, with plethoric purses, plunged
into the midst of the gayety at once.
"I like this sort of thing," said Mollie to her guardian; "the theater,
and the opera, and a ball, and two or three parties every night. I like
dancing until broad daylight, and going to bed at six in the morning,
and getting up to breakfast at one. I like matinees at three in the
afternoon, and dinners with seventeen courses, and going to the White
House, and shaking hands with the President, and sailing around the East
Room, and having people point me out as the beauty of the season. It's
new and it's nice, and I never get tired, or pale, or limpy, like most
of the girls. I never enjoyed myself so much in my life, and you would
say the same thing, guardy, only you're in your honey-moon, and not
capable of enjoying anything."
"But, Mollie," Mr. Walraven remonstrated, "it isn't right to flirt so
much as you do. There's young Ingelow. The way you devoted yourself to
that young man last night set everybody talking."
"Let 'em talk," responded Miss Dane, loftily. "When Mr. Ingelow followed
me all the way from New York, I think it was the very least I could do
in common politeness. He found it a waste and howling wilderness without
me--yes, he did; he said so. And then, Mr. Walraven, I like him."
"You like him?"
"Yes, ever and ever so much; and I'm dreadfully sorry for him, because
I know it'll break his heart when I refuse him."
"He hasn't proposed yet, then?"
"Not yet, but I expect it shortly. I know the symptoms. He looked almost
as sheepish last night as you used to before you proposed to Miss
Oleander."
It was quite true; the handsome young artist had followed Miss Dane to
Washington. He had hardly known how much he was in love with her until
she was gone, and all young-ladydom grew flat, stale, and insipid as
dish-water.
Mr. Ingelow, of rather an indolent temperament, disposed to take things
easy and let the world slide, was astonished himself at the sudden heat
and ardor this little girl with the sunny smile had created within him.
"It isn't her beauty," thought the handsome artist, "although she is
pretty as an angel; it isn't her blue eyes and her golden hair, for I
see blue eyes and golden hair every day of my life, and never give them
a second thought; it isn't her singing or dancing, for half the girls I
know sing and dance as well; and it can't be her spirited style of
conversation, for that's not so very new, either. Then what is it?"
Mr. Ingelow, at this point, always fell into such a morass of pros and
cons that his brain grew dazed, and he gave the problem up altogether.
But the great, incontrovertible fact remained--he was headlong in love
with Mollie, and had followed her to Washington expressly to tell her
so.
"For if I wait, and she returns to New York," mused Mr. Ingelow, "I will
have Oleander and Sardonyx both neck and neck in the race. Here there is
a fair field and no favor, and here I will try my luck."
But Mr. Ingelow was mistaken, for here in his "fair field" appeared the
most formidable rival he could possibly have had--a rival who seemed
likely to eclipse himself and Oleander and Sardonyx at one fell swoop.
At the presidential levees, on public promenades and drives, Miss Dane
had noticed a tall, white-haired, aristocratic-looking gentleman
attentively watching her as if fascinated. Every place she appeared in
public this distinguished-looking gentleman hovered in the background
like her shadow.
"Who is that venerable old party," she demanded, impatiently, "that
haunts me like an uneasy ghost? Can I be a lost daughter of his, with a
strawberry mark somewhere, or do I bear an unearthly resemblance to some
lovely being he murdered in early life? Who is he?"
And the answer came, nearly taking away Cricket's breath:
"Sir Roger Trajenna, the great Welsh baronet, worth nobody knows how
many millions, and with castles by the dozen in his own land of
mountains."
It was Mr. Ingelow who gave her the information, and the occasion was
a brilliant ball. Mollie had often heard of the Welsh baronet, but this
was the first time she had encountered him at a ball or party.
"I thought that Sir Roger Trajenna never accepted invitations," she
said, opening and shutting her fan. "This is the first time I ever saw
him at a private party."
"I think I know the reason," responded Mr. Ingelow. "Rumor sets him down
as the last in Miss Dane's list of killed and wounded."
"So I have heard," said Mollie, coolly; "but it is too good to be true.
I should dearly love to be my lady and live in a Welsh castle."
"With sixty-five years and a hoary head for a husband?"
"How painfully accurate you are! With his countless millions and his
ancestral castles, what does a little disparity of years signify?"
"Miss Dane," asked Mr. Ingelow, very earnestly, "would you accept that
old man if he asked you?"
"My dear Mr. Ingelow, what a dreadfully point-blank question! So very
embarrassing! I thought you knew better!"
"I beg your pardon. But, Miss Dane, as a sincere friend, may I ask an
answer?"
"Well, then, as a friend, I can't say for certain, but I am afraid--I am
very much afraid I would say--"
"Miss Dane, permit me!" exclaimed a voice at her elbow--"Sir Roger
Trajenna, Miss Dane."
Miss Dane turned calmly round to her hostess and _the_ guest of the
evening, and graciously received the venerable baronet's profound bow.
At the same instant the music of a waltz struck up, to the jealous
artist's infinite relief.
"Now, then, Miss Dane, if you are ready," said Mr. Ingelow, rather
imperiously.
"Excuse me, Mr. Ingelow," replied Miss Dane, with infinite calm; "I am
really too much fatigued for this waltz. Sir Roger, some one is singing
yonder. I should like to hear him."
And under Mr. Ingelow's angry eyes, she took the enraptured old
baronet's arm and walked away.
"The hoary dotard!" muttered the artist, glaring and grinding his teeth;
"the sixty-five-year-old imbecile! It is the first time I ever heard her
decline a waltz under the plea of fatigue. She's a heartless coquette,
that Mollie Dane, and I am a fool to waste a second thought upon her."
Miss Dane danced no more that evening, and Sir Roger never left her
side. She talked to him until his old eyes sparkled; she smiled upon him
until his brain swam with delight.
And that was but the beginning. The torments Mr. Hugh Ingelow suffered
for the ensuing two weeks words are too weak to describe. To cap the
climax, Dr. Oleander suddenly appeared upon the scene and glowered under
bent black brows at coquettish Mollie.
"The idea of being civil to anything so commonplace as a mere doctor,"
Miss Dane said to her guardian, when taken to task for the airs she
assumed, "when Welsh baronets are ready to go down on their knees and
worship the ground I walk on! If he doesn't like the way he is treated,
he knows the way back to New York. I never sent for him to come here."
Sir Roger's devotion was inexpressible. No wonder Mollie was dazzled.
The city was on the _qui vive_. The piquant little New York beauty, whom
the men adored and the women abused, had caught the golden prize. Would
he really ask her to become Lady Trajenna, or would the glamour wear off
and leave the saucy little flirt stranded high and dry?
The last night of Mr. Walraven's stay in Washington settled that
question. They were at a grand reception, Mrs. Walraven magnificent in
moiré and diamonds, and Mollie floating about in a cloud of misty pink,
and sparkling pearls, and amber tresses. There, of course, was Sir
Roger, and there (also, of course) were Dr. Oleander and Hugh Ingelow
in a state of frantic jealousy.
It had come, long ere this, to be a settled thing that the Welsh baronet
should never leave her side, except while she was dancing. So that when,
a little before supper, they strolled out on the piazza, it was nothing
surprising or remarkable.
The winter night was windless and mild. Sir Roger's asthmatic and
rheumatic afflictions were quite safe in the warm atmosphere. Moonlight
flooded everything with its misty glory, stars spangled the sky, music
came softened by distance from the ball-room--all was conducive to love
and to love-making. Sir Roger Trajenna, inspired by the music, the
moonlight, and the charming little beauty beside him, there and then
laid name, heart, and fortune at Miss Dane's fair feet.
There was a pause. Even Mollie felt a little fluttered, now that the
time had come.
"I know the disparity of years is great," the baronet said, quite
trembling in his eagerness; "but my whole existence will be devoted to
you; every pleasure wealth can purchase shall be yours; every wish that
I can anticipate shall be anticipated. You will be my darling, my idol.
I love you passionately. Say not, then, I am too old."
"I don't," said Mollie--"I don't mind your age in the least. I rather
dislike young men; I've had such a surfeit of them."
"Then I may hope?" breathlessly.
"Oh, yes, Sir Roger, you may hope. I am not in love with anybody else
that I know of."
"And you will be my wife?"
"Ah, that's another thing! I don't seem to care about being married,
somehow. You must give me time, Sir Roger. Come, let us go in to supper.
I will tell you by and by."
"As you please, my beautiful Mollie. Only don't keep me waiting too
long, and let your answer be 'yes' when it comes."
Miss Dane partook of supper with a very good appetite, accepted Mr.
Ingelow for a waltz and Dr. Oleander for a quadrille, smiled sweetly and
graciously upon both, and took Sir Roger's arm, at the close of the
ball, for the carriage.
"Well, Miss Dane--Mollie!" the baronet said, eagerly, "have you decided?
What is it to be--yes or no?"
And Mollie looked up in his face with those starry, azure eyes, and that
bewildering smile, and answered sweetly:
"Yes!"