"And when is it to be?" Mr. Walraven asked, with a smile. "I presume you and Mollie have settled that?"

"In two months. It will be spring then; and we can start at once for Wales. I long to show my fairy bride old Trajenna Castle."

"We shall miss her very much:" and Carl Walraven sighed in good earnest as he said it. "She has been the sunlight of our home. My poor old mother will almost break her heart: but it is for Mollie's good, and all selfish considerations must give way. You are aware, Sir Roger, she has no dower?"

"She needs none," Sir Roger said, proudly. "My fortune is princely; her settlements shall be as ample as though she were heiress to millions. I believe there is nothing more, Mr. Walraven, and so let us rejoin the ladies."

The news spread like wildfire--the avenue was electrified. Mollie Dane--little, coquettish Mollie Dane--sprung from n.o.body knew where, to carry off the great Welsh baronet, in spite of them all. The man must be in his dotage!

Mr. Walraven's antecedents were mysterious enough, in all conscience; but the antecedents of this wild ward of his were ten times more so.

But, in spite of all, the engagement was an accomplished fact.

Every day, beneath the baleful glare of angry female eyes, Mollie Dane went riding and driving and walking with the stately, white-haired old millionaire, who bent over her as obsequiously as though she were a d.u.c.h.ess born.

The women might go wild with envy, the men go mad with jealousy; but the days and the weeks went on, and the fairy grew more radiantly beautiful with each. And the wedding-day came, and the guests were bidden, and all was ready, on a scale of unparalleled magnificence. And who was to know the wedding would never be?

Mollie's bridal night! The big brown-stone mansion was one blaze of light. The ceremony was to take place in the lofty drawing-room, and be followed by a ball. This somewhat obsolete way of doing things was by the express desire of Sir Roger, and on the morrow they were to start by steamer for the old land. It was all one to Mollie, and Mr. and Mrs.

Walraven acquiesced in every wish of the Welshman.

The hour fixed for the ceremony was ten o'clock. It was nearly nine, and up in her own room the bride stood, under the hands of her maid, robed for the sacrifice.

It was a sacrifice, though giddy Mollie had never thought it so before.

Now, when it was too late, her heart began to fail her.

He was dreadfully old, this stately Sir Roger. She didn't care for him in the least, except as she might care for some nice old grandfather; and then there was Hugh Ingelow--handsome Hugh!

But at this point Cricket caught her breath and her thoughts with a gasp.

"Mollie, Mollie, Mollie! How dare you, you wicked, crazy girl! Thinking of Hugh Ingelow, when you oughtn't to remember there's another man alive but Sir Roger Trajenna! I wouldn't marry poor Hugh when he wanted me--a lucky escape for him--and I'm not going to pine away for him now, when it's high treason to do it"

"Hurry, Margaret," the bride said aloud. "Make me just as pretty as ever you can."

The three rejected suitors had been invited to the bridal hall, and, singular to relate, had come.

But their discomfiture had been so singular altogether that perhaps they thought it as well to match Mollie in coolness.

There they were at least, regarding one another in the oddest way, and Mrs. Walraven, gorgeous in amber moire, sidled up to her cousin, and hissed venomously in his ear:

"So the vicious Guy Oleander has lost his little game, after all!

Blue-eyed Mollie is destined to be 'My Lady,' in spite of his teeth."

"'There is many a slip'--you know the proverb, Madame."

It was all he said; but his sinister smile, as he moved away, said a great deal.

Hugh Ingelow, very pale, stood leaning against a marble column, all wreathed with festal roses, not as white as his own handsome face.

"What are they plotting, I wonder?" he thought. "No good to her. They hate her, as I ought to, but as I can't, poor, pitiful fool that I am!

But my time may come, too. I said I would not forget, and will not."

The bride-maids, a gay group of girls, came fluttering into the "maiden bower" to see if the bride was ready.

"For the clergyman is down-stairs, and the guests are a.s.sembled, and Sir Roger is waiting, and nothing is needed but the bride."

"A very essential need," responded Mollie. "I'm not going to hurry myself; they can't get along without me. A letter, Lucy? For me? From whom, I wonder?"

The girl had entered, bearing a note in a buff envelope, addressed, in a sprawling hand, to "Miss Mollie Dane."

"The young person that brought it is waiting in the hall, miss," said Lucy. "I didn't want to take it, and I told her you was just about getting married, but it was no use. She said it was a matter of life or death, and you'd be sure to pay attention to it if you were before the altar."

But Mollie had not listened. She tore open the buff envelope, and the gazers saw her turn deathly pale as she read.

She crushed the letter in her hand and turned impetuously to the girl.

"Where is the person who brought this? I must see her at once. Bring her here; and you, young ladies, let me speak two words to her in private."

The young ladies trooped out, and the bride was left alone, paler than her snowy robes.

A moment, and Lucy was back with the bearer of the letter, a respectable-looking young person enough.

Lucy left her mistress and the girl standing together. Five minutes after the bell rang sharply. Lucy hastened back; on the threshold the bride met and stopped her, with a white, startled face.

"Tell them to postpone the ceremony for an hour, Lucy. Come back here then. For the next hour I wish to be left alone. Tell Mr. Walraven."

She shut the door in the amazed attendant's face. Lucy heard the key turn. A second she stood petrified, then she hastened off to deliver her message.

Mr. Walraven stood aghast. Lucy was plied with questions. Who was the girl? What was she like? What had she said? Where had she come from?

Sir Roger was wildly alarmed at first, but Mr. Walraven rea.s.sured him.

The company waited, on the _qui vive_, for they knew not what. Eleven o'clock came. Lucy went up to the bride's room; the door was still fast; she knocked--there was no reply; she called--there was no answer. Then Lucy screamed, and in a twinkling a crowd was around the door. They shook it, they rapped, they called, all in vain. Dead silence reigned.

"Force the door!" exclaimed Carl Walraven, hoa.r.s.ely.

Strong men forced it. There was a rush in, a recoil, a cry of consternation, for the apartment was empty; the bird had flown.

How the search began no one ever knew, but begin it did. The house was hunted from top to bottom; still in vain. Not a trace of the bride could be found.

The wedding party dispersed in wild confusion, but the search went on.

Through the night it lasted; but morning broke, and still no trace. The bride had disappeared as if the earth had opened and swallowed her up!

CHAPTER VII.

WHERE THE BRIDE WAS.

The letter in the buff envelope which had so startled Mollie was very brief. There were but eight or nine lines, wretchedly scrawled: