THE PARSON'S LITTLE STORY.
There was a dead pause; blank amazement sat on every face; no one
stirred for an instant. Then, with a great cry of joy, the Welsh baronet
sprung forward and caught his lost bride in his arms.
"My Mollie--my Mollie! My darling!"
But his darling, instead of returning his rapturous embrace, disengaged
herself with a sudden jerk.
"Pray, Sir Roger, don't make a scene! Guardy, how d'ye do? Is it after
dinner? I'm dreadfully tired and hungry!"
"Mollie! Good heavens, Mollie! is this really you?" gasped Mr. Walraven,
staring aghast.
"Now--now!" cried Miss Dane, testily; "what's the good of your asking
ridiculous questions, Guardy Walraven? Where's your eyesight? Don't you
see it's me? Will you kindly let me pass, gentlemen? or am I to stand
here all night on exhibition?"
Evidently the stray lamb had returned to the fold in shocking bad
temper. The gentlemen barring her passage instantly made way, and Mollie
turned to ascend the staircase.
"I'm going to my room, Guardy," she condescended to say, with her foot
on the first carpeted step, "and you will please send Lucy up with tea
and toast immediately. I'm a great deal too tired to offer any
explanation to-night. I feel as if I had been riding about in a
hackney-carriage for a century or two, like Peter Rugg, the missing
man--if you heard of Peter;" with which Miss Dane toiled slowly and
wearily up the grand staircase, and the group of gentlemen were left in
the hall below blankly gazing in one another's faces.
"Eminently characteristic," observed Mr. Ingelow, the first to break the
silence, with a soft laugh.
"Upon my word," said Dr. Oleander, with his death's-head smile, "Miss
Mollie's return is far more remarkable than her departure! That young
lady's _sang-froid_ requires to be seen to be believed in."
"Where can she have been?" asked Lawyer Sardonyx, helplessly taking
snuff.
The two men most interested in the young lady's return said nothing:
they were far beyond that. They could only look at each other in mute
astonishment. At last--
"The anonymous letter did speak the truth," observed Mr. Walraven.
"What anonymous letter?" asked Lawyer Sardonyx, sharply.
"Sir Roger received an anonymous letter a week ago, informing him Mollie
would be back a week after its date. We neither of us paid any attention
to it, and yet, lo! it has come true."
"Have you that letter about you, Sir Roger?" inquired the lawyer. "I
should like to see it, if you have no objection."
Mechanically Sir Roger put his hand in his pocket, and produced the
document. The lawyer glanced keenly over it.
"'One Who Knows.' Ah! 'One Who Knows' is a woman, I am certain. That's a
woman's hand, I am positive. Look here, Oleander!"
"My opinion exactly! Couldn't possibly be Miss Dane's own writing, could
it?" once more with his spectral smile.
"Sir!" cried the baronet, reddening angrily.
"I beg your pardon. But look at the case dispassionately, Sir Roger.
My previous impression that Miss Dane was not forcibly abducted is
continued by the strange manner of her return."
"Mine also," chimed in Lawyer Sardonyx.
"Suppose we all postpone forming an opinion on the subject," said the
lazy voice of the young artist, "until to-morrow, and allow Miss Dane,
when the has recovered from her present fatigue and hunger, to explain
for herself."
"Thanks, Ingelow"--Mr. Walraven turned a grateful glance upon the
lounging artist--"and, meantime, gentlemen, let us adjourn to the
drawing-room. Standing talking here I don't admire."
He led the way; the others followed--Sir Roger last of all, lost in a
maze of bewilderment that utterly spoiled his joy at his bride's return.
"What can it mean? What can it mean?" he kept perpetually asking
himself. "What is all this mystery? Surely--surely it can not be as
these men say! Mollie can not have gone off of herself!"
It was rather dull the remainder of the evening. The guests took their
departure early. Sir Roger lingered behind the rest, and when alone with
him the master of the house summoned Lucy. That handmaiden appeared, her
eyes dancing with delight in her head.
"Where is your mistress, Lucy?" Mr. Walraven asked.
"Gone to bed, sir," said Lucy, promptly.
"You brought her up supper?"
"Yes, sir."
"What did she say to you?"
"Nothing much, sir, only that she was famished, and jolted to death in
that old carriage; and then she turned me out, saying she felt as though
she could sleep a week."
"Nothing more?"
"Nothing more, sir."
Lucy was dismissed.
Mr. Walraven turned to the baronet sympathizingly.
"I feel as deeply mystified and distressed about this matter as even you
can do, my dear Sir Roger; but you perceive there is nothing for it but
to wait. Oleander was right this evening when he said the rules that
measure other women fail with Mollie. She is an original, and we must be
content to bide her time. Come early to-morrow--come to breakfast--and
doubtless all will be explained to our satisfaction."
And so Mr. Walraven thought, and he fancied he understood Mollie pretty
well; but even Mr. Walraven did not know the depth of aggravation his
flighty ward was capable of.
Sir Roger did come early on the morrow--ridiculously early, Mrs. Carl
said, sharply; but then Mrs. Carl was exasperated beyond everything at
Mollie presuming to return at all. She was sure she had got rid of her
so nicely--so sure Mistress Mollie had come to grief in some way for her
sins--that it was a little too bad to have her come walking coolly back
and taking possession again, as if nothing had happened.
Breakfast hour arrived, but Miss Dane did not arrive with it. They
waited ten minutes, when Mrs. Carl lost patience and protested angrily
she would not wait an instant longer.
"Eccentricity is a little too mild a word to apply to your ward's
actions, Mr. Walraven," she said, turning angrily upon her husband.
"Mollie Dane is either a very mad girl or a very wicked one. In either
case, she is a fit subject for a lunatic asylum, and the sooner she is
incased in a strait-jacket and her antics ended, the better."
"Madame!" thundered Mr. Walraven, furiously, while the baronet reddened
with rage to the roots of his silvery hair.
"Oh, I'm not afraid of you, 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 to the other.
"In Heaven's name, Miss Mollie, do you see the Marble Guest, or some
invisible familiar, peeping over that fat gentleman's shoulder? What do
you see? You look as though you were going to faint."
"Do you know that gentleman?" she managed to ask.
"Do I know him--Reverend Raymond Rashleigh? Better than I know myself,
Miss Dane. When I was a little chap in roundabouts they used to take me
to his church every Sunday, and keep me in wriggling torments through a
three-hours' sermon. Yes, I know him, to my sorrow."
"He is a clergyman, then?" Mollie said, slowly.
Mr. Ingelow stared at the odd question.
"I have always labored under that impression, Miss Dane, and so does the
Reverend Mr. Rashleigh himself, I fancy. If you choose, I'll present
him, and then you can cross-question him at your leisure."
"No, no!" cried Mollie, detaining him; "not for the world! I don't wish
to make his acquaintance. See, they are filing off! I fall to your lot,
I suppose."
She took her rejected suitor's arm--somehow, she was growing to like
to be with Hugh Ingelow--and they entered the dining-room together. But
Mollie was still very, very pale, and very unusually quiet.
Her face and neck gleamed against her pink dinner-dress like snow, and
her eyes wandered furtively ever and anon over to the Reverend Mr.
Rashleigh.
She listened to every word that he spoke as though they were the fabled
pearls and diamonds of the fairy tale that dropped from his lips.
"Positively, Miss Dane," Hugh Ingelow remarked in his lazy voice, "it is
love at first sight with the Reverend Raymond. Think better of it, pray;
he's fat and forty, and has one wife already."
"Hush!" said Mollie, imperiously.
And Mr. Ingelow, stroking his mustache meditatively, hushed, and
listened to a story the Reverend Mr. Rashleigh was about to relate.
"So extraordinary a story," he said, glancing around him, "that I can
hardly realize it myself or credit my own senses. It is the only
adventure of my life, and I am free to confess I wish it may remain so.
"It is about three weeks ago. I was sitting, one stormy night--Tuesday
night it was--in my study, in after-dinner mood, enjoying the luxury
of a good fire and a private clerical cigar, when a young
woman--respectable-looking young person--entered, and informed me that a
sickly relative, from whom I have expectations, was dying, and wished to
see me immediately.
"Of course I started up at once, donned hat and greatcoat, and followed
my respectable young person into a cab waiting at the door. Hardly was I
in when I was seized by some invisible personage, bound, blindfolded,
and gagged, and driven through the starry spheres, for all I know, for
hours and hours interminable.
"Presently we stopped. I was led out--led into a house, upstairs, my
uncomfortable bandages removed, and the use of my eyesight restored.
"I was in a large room, furnished very much like anybody's parlor, and
brilliantly lighted. My companion of the carriage was still at my elbow.
I turned to regard him. My friends, he was masked like a Venetian bravo,
and wore a romantic inky cloak, like a Roman toga, that swept the floor.
"I sat aghast, the cold perspiration oozing from every pore. I make
light of it now, but I could see nothing to laugh at then. Was I going
to be robbed and murdered? Why had I been decoyed here?
"My friend of the mask did not leave me long in suspense. Not death and
its horrors was to be enacted, but marriage--marriage, my friends--and I
was to perform the ceremony.
"I listened to him like a man in a dream. He himself was the bridegroom.
The bride was to appear masked, also, and I was only to hear their
Christian names--Ernest--Mary. He offered no explanations, no apologies;
he simply stated facts. I was to marry them and ask no questions, and I
was to be conveyed safely home the same night. If I refused--
"My masked gentleman paused, and left an awful hiatus for me to fill up.
I did not refuse--by no means. It has always been my way to make the
best of a bad bargain--of two evils to choose the lesser. I consented.
"The bridegroom with the black mask quitted the room, and returned with
a bride in a white mask. She was all in white, as it is right and proper
to be--flowing veil, orange wreath, trailing silk robe--everything quite
nice. But the white mask spoiled all. She was undersized and very
slender, and there was one peculiarity about her I noticed--an abundance
of bright, golden ringlets."
The reverend gentleman paused an instant to take breath.
Mollie Dane, scarcely breathing herself, listening absorbed, here
became conscious, by some sort of prescience, of the basilisk gaze her
guardian's wife had fixed upon her.
The strangest, smile sat on her arrogant face as she looked steadfastly
at Mollie's flowing yellow curls.
"I married that mysterious pair," went on the clergyman--"Ernest and
Mary. There were two witnesses--my respectable young woman and the
coachman; there was the ring--everything necessary and proper."
Mollie's left hand was on the table. A plain, thick band of gold gleamed
on the third finger. She hastily snatched it away, but not before Mrs.
Walraven's black eyes saw it.
"I was brought home," concluded the clergyman, "and left standing, as
morning broke, close to my own door, and I have never heard or seen my
mysterious masks since. There's an adventure for you!"
The ladies rose from the table. As they passed into the drawing-room,
a hand fell upon Mollie's shoulder. Glancing back, she saw the face of
Mrs. Carl Walraven, lighted with a malicious smile.
"Such a queer story, Mollie! And such an odd bride--undersized, very
slender, golden ringlets--name, Mary! My pretty Cricket, I think I know
where you passed that mysterious fortnight!"