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Ingelow and Oleander; but every one was surprised at Sir Roger Trajenna. "Is it possible that proud old man has really fallen seriously in love with that yellow-haired, flighty child?" asked Mrs. Carl Walraven in angry surprise. "He was attentive at Washington, certainly; but I fancied his absurd old eyes were only caught for the moment.
He looked rather surprised, and asked about the Mysterious Unknown in the mask. But I pooh-poohed that matter told him I didn't think the mysterious husband would ever trouble us, and I don't think he will. By the bye, Sir Roger Trajenna goes to-morrow, too, so my little girl is deserted by all, and must cling the closer to me."
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.
It is useless; a waste of time and money. She is safe and well, and will be at home in a week, but she will never be your wife. Mr. Walraven read and reread these brief lines, and stood and stared at Sir Roger Trajenna. "Good heavens! You got this through the post-office?" "I did, an hour ago, and came here at once. Do you believe it?" "How can I tell? Let us hope it may be true.
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.
Sarah came to me early in the evening, and told me to be ready, that the clergyman would be there, and that I was to be wedded under my Christian name, Mary, alone. I still wore the wedding-robes in which I was to have been made Lady Trajenna.
Walraven gives a farewell dinner in honor of the mournful occasion, on Thursday to-morrow evening. The party is select very on your account, you know only Sir Roger Trajenna, Walraven's lawyer, Sardonyx, and myself. Now, when we're all assembled, discussing your absence, as I'll take care we shall be, and Oleander is telling lies by the yard, do you appear like a thunder-clap and transfix him.
While Carl Walraven and Sir Roger Trajenna sailed over the wide sea while Blanche Walraven ground her teeth in impotent rage up at Yonkers while Dr. Guy Orleander pursued his business in New York, and scowled darkly at the failure of his plans the daily papers burst out, one morning, with the jubilant news that Hugh Ernest Ingelow, Esq., and Miss Mollie Dane were one flesh.
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."
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.
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