The Unseen Bridegroom; Or, Wedded For a Week. May Agnes Fleming

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MR. WALRAVEN'S WEDDING.

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      Mollie Dane made herself very much at home at once in the magnificent Walraven mansion. The dazzle of its glories scarcely lasted beyond the first day, or, if it did, nobody saw it. Why, indeed, should she be dazzled? She, who had been Lady Macbeth, and received the Thane of Cawdor at her own gates; who had been Juliet, the heiress of all the Capulets; who had seen dukes and nobles snubbed unmercifully every night of her life by virtuous poverty, on the stage. Before the end of the first week Mollie had become the light of the house, perfectly indispensable to the happiness of its inmates.

      Miss Dane was launched into society at a dinner-party given for the express purpose by "grandmamma". Wondrously pretty looked the youthful débutante, in silvery silk and misty lace and pearls, her eyes like blue stars, her cheeks like June roses.

      In the wintery dusk of the short December days, Mrs. Walraven received her guests in the library, an imposing room, oak-paneled, crimson-draped, and filled from floor to ceiling with a noble collection of books. Great snow-flakes fluttered against the plate glass, and an icy blast howled up the avenue, but in the glittering dining-room flowers bloomed, and birds sung, and tropical fruits perfumed the air; and radiant under the gas-light, beautiful Miss Dane flashed the light of her blue eyes, and looked like some lovely little sprite from fairy-land.

      Miss Blanche Oleander, darkly majestic in maize silk and jewels, sat at Miss Dane's right hand, and eyed her coldly with jealous dislike. Mollie read her through at the first glance.

      "She hates me already," thought Mr. Walraven's ward; "and your tall women, with flashing black eyes and blue-black hair, are apt to be good haters. Very well, Miss Oleander; it shall be just as you like."

      A gentleman sat on her other hand—a handsome young artist—Mr. Hugh Ingelow, and he listened with an attentive face, while she held her own with the sarcastic Blanche, and rather got the best of the battle.

      "The little beauty is no dunce," thought Mr. Hugh Ingelow. "Miss Blanche has found a foe worthy of her best steel."

      And coming to this conclusion, Mr. Ingelow immediately began making himself agreeable to his fair neighbor. Miss Oleander was a pet aversion of his own, and this bond of union drew him and her saucy little antagonist together at once.

      "Rather a sharp set-to, Miss Dane," the artist remarked, in his lazy voice. "Miss Oleander is a clever woman, but she is matched at last. I wonder why it is? You two ought to be good friends."

      He glanced significantly at Mr. Walraven, devoting himself to Miss Oleander, and Mollie gave her white shoulders a little shrug.

      "If we ought, we never will be. Coming events cast their shadows before, and I know I shall detest a guardianess. Who is that brigandish-looking gentleman over there, Mr. Ingelow? He has been staring at me steadily for the last ten minutes."

      "Lost in speechless admiration, no doubt. That gentleman is the celebrated Doctor Oleander, own cousin to the fair Blanche."

      The gentleman in question certainly was staring, but his staring was interrupted at this moment by a general uprising and retreat to the drawing-room. Mr. Ingelow, on whose arm she leaned, led her to the piano at once.

      "You sing, I know—Mrs. Walraven has told me. Pray favor us with one song before some less gifted performer secures this vacant seat."

      "What shall it be?" Mollie asked, running her white fingers over the keys.

      "Whatever you please—whatever you like best. I shall be sure to like it."

      Mollie sung brilliantly, and sung her best now. There was dead silence; no one had expected such a glorious voice as this. Hugh Ingelow's rapt face showed what he felt as Mollie rose.

      "Miss Dane ought to go upon the stage; she would make her fortune," said a deep voice at her elbow.

      She turned sharply round and met the dark, sinister eyes and pale face of Dr. Oleander.

      "Miss Dane forgets me," he said, with a low bow, "among so many presentations. Will you kindly reintroduce me, Mr. Ingelow?"

      Mr. Ingelow obeyed with no very good grace; the sparkling, blue-eyed coquette had made wild work with his artist heart already.

      "Mrs. Walraven desired me to bring you to her for a moment," the suave doctor said, offering his arm. "May I have the honor?"

      Mr. Ingelow's eyes flashed angrily, and Mollie, seeing it, and being a born coquette, took the proffered arm at once.

      It was the merest trifle grandmamma wanted, but it served the doctor's turn—he had got the beauty of the evening, and he meant to keep her.

      Mollie listened to his endless flow of complimentary small-talk just as long as she chose, and then glided coolly away to flirt with a third adorer, the eminent young lawyer, Mr. Joseph Sardonyx.

      Mollie hovered between those three the livelong evening; now it was the handsome artist, now the polished doctor, now the witty, satirical lawyer, flirting in the most unpardonable manner.

      Even Mr. Walraven was a little shocked, and undertook, in the course of the evening, to expostulate.

      "Flirting is all very well, Mollie," he said, "but it really mustn't be carried too far. People are beginning to make remarks."

      "Are they?" said Mollie; "about which of us, pray? for really and truly, guardy, you have been flirting the worst of the two."

      "Nonsense, Mollie! You mean Miss Oleander, I suppose? That is no flirtation."

      "Indeed! then it is worse—it is serious?"

      "Yes, if asking her to marry me be serious. And she has said yes, Mollie."

      Miss Dane looked at him compassionately.

      "You poor, unfortunate guardy! And you are really going to marry Blanche Oleander! Well, one comfort is, you will be ready to blow your brains out six months after; and serve you right, too! Don't let us talk about it to-night. I am sorry for you, and if you have any sense left you will soon be sorry for yourself. Here comes Doctor Oleander, and I mean to be as fascinating as I know how, just to drive the other two to the verge of madness."

      She danced away, leaving Mr. Walraven pulling his mustache, a picture of helpless perplexity.

      "I wonder if I have put my foot in it?" he thought, as he looked across the long room to where Blanche stood, the brilliant center of a brilliant group. "She is very handsome and very clever—so clever that I don't for the life of me know whether I made love to her or she to me. It is too late now for anything but a wedding or heavy damages, and of the two evils I prefer the first."

      Mrs. Walraven's dinner-party broke up very late, and Blanche Oleander went home with her cousin.

      "A pert, forward, bold-faced minx!" Miss Oleander burst out, the moment they were alone in the carriage. "Guy, what on earth did you mean by paying her such marked attention all evening?"

      "What did Carl Walraven mean by paying you such marked attention all evening?" retorted her cousin.

      "Mr. Walraven is no flirt—he means marriage."

      "And I am no flirt—I mean marriage also."

      "Guy, are you mad? Marry that nameless, brazen creature?"

      "Blanche, be civil! Most assuredly I will marry her if she will marry me."

      "Then you will repent it all the days of your life."

      "Probably. I think I heard Miss Dane making a similar remark to your affianced about you."

      "The impertinent little wretch! Let her wait until I am Mr. Walraven's wife!"