The Unseen Bridegroom | Page 9

cab, and half an hour's
rattling over the stony streets brought them to the Walraven mansion.
Mollie Dane, accustomed all her life to dingy hotels and lodgings,
glanced up at the grand staircase and imposing hall in rapturous
surprise. Mme. Walraven stood graciously waiting to receive her.
"Here's a granddaughter for you, mother," said Mr. Walraven--"a
companion to cheer and brighten your future life. My adopted
daughter--Mollie Dane."
The stately old lady bent and kissed the bright, fresh face.

"I am very happy to welcome you, my dear, and will try heartily to
make your new home pleasant. You are tired, of course? Here,
Margaret, show Miss Dane to her room."
A spruce waiting-maid appeared at the old lady's summons, and led
Miss Dane, through carpeted corridors, into the daintiest of dainty
bed-chambers, all blue silk and white lace drapery, and rich furniture,
and exquisite pictures.
In all her life long, Mollie had never beheld anything half so beautiful,
and she caught her breath with one little cry of delight.
"Shall I help you, miss?" very respectfully asked the girl. "I'm to be
your maid, please, and luncheon will be ready by the time you are
dressed."
Miss Dane permitted her to remove her traveling-dress in ecstatic
silence, and robe her in azure silk, just a shade less blue than her eyes.
Very, very pretty she looked, with all her loose golden ringlets, and that
brilliant flush on either cheek; and so Mrs. Walraven and her son
thought when she appeared, like a radiant vision, in the dining-room.
The afternoon and evening went like a swift dream of delight in
viewing the house and its splendors. She retired early, with a kiss from
guardian and grandmamma, her head in a whirl with the events of the
day.
Margaret's tasks were very light that night; her little mistress did not
detain her ten minutes. When she had gone, and she was fairly alone,
Mollie sprung up and went whirling round the room in a dance of
delight.
"To think of it!" she cried--"to think all my wildest dreams should
come true like this, and my life go on like a fairy tale! There is Mr.
Walraven, the good genii of the story; Mrs. Walraven, the old but
well-meaning fairy godmother; and I'm Cinderella, with the tatters and
rags turned to cloth of gold, and nothing to do but wait at my ease for

the fairy prince, and marry him when he comes. Cricket! Cricket!
you're the luckiest witch's granddaughter that ever danced to her own
shadow!"

CHAPTER III.
MR. WALRAVEN'S WEDDING.
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