Unseen Bridgegroom

Agnes Fleming May

Description

Sometimes the unintended consequences of mistakes made in youth can reach far into the future. That's the inescapable truth at the center of May Agnes Fleming's The Unseen Bridegroom. After squandering decades of his life as a carefree playboy, middle-aged Carl Walraven has returned to his ancestral home to help care for his aging mother. Soon afterwards, Walraven has an unexpected visitor who brings news that will change his life forever. Will he be able to attone for his wild past?

Sujets

• Romance

Informations

• Publié par: The Floating Press
• Date de parution: 01 mai 2014
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781776536818
• Langue: English

Extrait

THE UNSEEN BRIDGEGROOM
OR, WEDDED FOR A WEEK
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MAY AGNES FLEMING
 
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The Unseen Bridgegroom Or, Wedded for a Week First published in 1881 Epub ISBN 978-1-77653-681-8 Also available: PDF ISBN 978-1-77653-682-5 © 2013 The Floating Press and its licensors. All rights reserved. While every effort has been used to ensure the accuracy and reliability of the information contained in The Floating Press edition of this book, The Floating Press does not assume liability or responsibility for any errors or omissions in this book. The Floating Press does not accept responsibility for loss suffered as a result of reliance upon the accuracy or currency of information contained in this book. Do not use while operating a motor vehicle or heavy equipment. Many suitcases look alike. Visit www.thefloatingpress.com
Contents
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Chapter I - The Walraven Ball Chapter II - "Cricket" Chapter III - Mr. Walraven's Wedding Chapter IV - Mollie's Conquest Chapter V - Mollie's Mischief Chapter VI - Mollie's Bridal Chapter VII - Where the Bride Was Chapter VIII - The Midnight Marriage Chapter IX - One Week After Chapter X - The Parson's Little Story Chapter XI - A Midnight Tete-a-Tete Chapter XII - "Black Mask"—"White Mask" Chapter XIII - Mrs. Carl Walraven's Little Game Chapter XIV - The Spider and the Fly Chapter XV - The Man in the Mask Chapter XVI - Mollie's Despair Chapter XVII - Miriam to the Rescue Chapter XVIII - "She Only Said, 'My Life is Dreary'" Chapter XIX - Mistress Susan Sharpe Chapter XX - Hugh Ingelow Keeps His Promise Chapter XXI - Mrs. Sharpe Does Her Duty Chapter XXII - A Moonlight Flitting Chapter XXIII - Private Theatricals Chapter XXIV - Mollie's Triumph Chapter XXV - Miriam's Message Chapter XXVI - Miriam's Story Chapter XXVII - Dead and Buried Chapter XXVIII - Cricket's Husband Chapter XXIX - Which Winds up the Business
Chapter I - The Walraven Ball
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A dark November afternoon—wet, and windy, and wild. The New Yorkstreets were at their worst—sloppy, slippery, and sodden; the skylowering over those murky streets one uniform pall of inky gloom. A bad,desolate, blood-chilling November afternoon.
And yet Mrs. Walraven's ball was to come off to-night, and it was ratherhard upon Mrs. Walraven that the elements should make a dead set at herafter this fashion.
The ball was to be one of the most brilliant affairs of the season, andall Fifth Avenue was to be there in its glory.
Fifth Avenue was above caring for anything so commonplace as theweather, of course; but still it would have been pleasanter, and onlya handsome thing in the clerk of the weather, considering Mrs. Walravenhad not given a ball for twenty years before, to have burnished up thesun, and brushed away the clouds, and shut up that icy army of winterwinds, and turned out as neat an article of weather as it is possiblein the nature of November to turn out.
Of course, Mrs. Walraven dwelt on New York's stateliest avenue, in a bigbrown-stone palace that was like a palace in an Eastern story, with itsvelvet carpets, its arabesques, its filigree work, its chairs, andtables, and sofas touched up and inlaid with gold, and cushioned insilks of gorgeous dyes.
And in all Fifth Avenue, and in all New York City, there were not halfa dozen old women of sixty half so rich, half so arrogant, or half soill-tempered as Mrs. Ferdinand Walraven.
On this bad November afternoon, while the rain and sleet lashed thelofty windows, and the shrill winds whistled around the gables, Mrs.Ferdinand Walraven's only son sat in his chamber, staring out of thewindow, and smoking no end of cigars.
Fifth Avenue, in the raw and rainy twilight, is not the sprightliestspot on earth, and there was very little for Mr. Walraven to gaze atexcept the stages rattling up the pave, and some belated newsboys cryingtheir wares.
Perhaps these same little ill-clad newsboys, looking up through theslanting rain, and seeing the well-dressed gentleman behind the richdraperies, thought it must be a fine thing to be Mr. Carl Walraven, heirto a half a million of money and the handsomest house in New York.
Perhaps you might have thought so, too, glancing into that loftychamber, with its glowing hangings of ruby and gold, its exquisitepictures, its inlaid tables, its twinkling chandelier, its perfumedwarmth, and glitter, and luxury.
But Carl Walraven, lying back in a big easy-chair, in slippers anddressing-gown, smoking his costly cheroots, looked out at the dismalevening with the blackest of bitter, black scowls.
"Confound the weather!" muttered Mr. Walraven, between strong, whiteteeth. "Why the deuce does it always rain on the twenty-fifth ofNovember? Seventeen years ago, on the twenty-fifth of this horriblemonth, I was in Paris, and Miriam was—Miriam be hanged!" He stoppedabruptly, and pitched his cigar out of the window. "You've turned over anew leaf, Carl Walraven, and what the demon do you mean by going back tothe old leaves? You've come home from foreign parts to your old anddoting mother—I thought she would be in her dotage by this time—andyou're a responsible citizen, and an eminently rich and respectable man.Carl, my boy, forget the past, and behave yourself for the future; asthe copy-books say: 'Be virtuous and you will be happy.'"
He laughed to himself, a laugh unpleasant to hear, and taking up anothercigar, went on smoking.
He had been away twenty years, this Carl Walraven, over the world,nobody knew where. A reckless, self-willed, headstrong boy, he hadbroken wild and run away from home at nineteen, abruptly and withoutwarning. Abruptly and without warning he had returned home, one finemorning, twenty years after, and walking up the palatial steps, shabby,and grizzled, and weather-beaten, had strode straight to the majesticpresence of the mistress of the house, with outstretched hand and a cool"How are you, mother?"
And Mrs. Walraven knew her son. He had left her a fiery, handsome,bright-faced lad, and this man before her was gray and black-bearded andweather-beaten and brown, but she knew him. She had risen with a shrillcry of joy, and held open her arms.
"I've come back, you see, mother," Mr. Carl said, easily, "like theproverbial bad shilling. I've grown tired knocking about this big world,and now, at nine-and-thirty, with an empty purse, a light heart, aspotless conscience, and a sound digestion, I'm going to settle down andwalk in the way I should go. You are glad to have your ne'er-do-wellback again, I hope, mother?"
Glad! A widowed mother, lonely and old, glad to have an only son back!Mrs. Walraven had tightened those withered arms about him closer andcloser, with only that one shrill cry:
"Oh, Carl—my son! my son!"
"All right, mother! And now, if there's anything in this house to eat,I'll eat it, because I've been fasting since yesterday, and haven't astiver between me and eternity. By George! this isn't such a bad harborfor a shipwrecked mariner to cast anchor in. I've been over the world,mother, from Dan to—What's-her-name! I've been rich and I've been poor;I've been loved and I've been hated; I've had my fling at everythinggood and bad under the shining sun, and I come home from it all,subscribing to the doctrine: 'There's nothing new and nothing true.' Andit don't signify; it's empty as egg-shells, the whole of it."
That was the story of the prodigal son. Mrs. Walraven asked noquestions. She was a wise old woman; she took her son and was thankful.It had happened late in October, this sudden arrival, and now, late inNovember, the fatted calf was killed, and Mrs. Walraven's dear fivehundred friends bidden to the feast.
And they came. They had all heard the story of the widow's heir, so longlost, and now, dark and mysterious as Count Lara, returned to lord it inhis ancestral halls. He was a very hero of romance—a wealthy hero,too—and all the pretty man-traps on the avenue, baited with lace androses, silk and jewels, were coming to-night to angle for this dazzlingprize.
The long-silent drawing-rooms, shrouded for twenty years in holland anddarkness, were one blaze of light at last. Flowers bloomed everywhere;musicians, up in a gilded gallery, discoursed heavenly music; there wasa conservatory where alabaster lamps made a silver moonlight in amodern Garden of Eden; there was a supper-table spread and waiting, afeast for the gods and Sybarites; and there was Mrs. Walraven, in blackvelvet and point lace, upright and stately, despite her sixty years,with a diamond star of fabulous price ablaze on her breast. And there byher side, tall, and dark, and dignified, stood her only son, theprodigal, the repentant, the wealthy Carl Walraven.
"Not handsome," said Miss Blanche Oleander, raising her glass, "buteminently interesting. He looks like the hero of a sensation novel, ora modern melodrama, or one of Lord Byron's poems. Does he dance, and willhe ask me, I wonder?"
Yes, the dusky hero of the night did dance, and did ask Miss BlancheOleander. A tall, gray-eyed, imperious sort of beauty, this MissBlanche, seven-and-twenty years of age, and frightfully passée , moreyouthful belles said.
Mr. Walraven danced the very first dance with Miss Oleander, to herinfinite but perfectly concealed delight.
"If you can imagine the Corsair, whirling in a rapid redowa withMedora," Miss Oleander afterward said, "you have Mr. Walraven andmyself. There were about eighty Guinares gazing enviously on, ready toponiard me, every one of them, if they dared, and if they were not suchmiserable little fools and cowards. When they cease to smell of breadand butter, Mr. Walraven may possibly deign to look at them."
It seemed as if the dashing Blanche had waltzed herself straight intothe affections of the new-found heir, for he devoted himself to her inthe most prononcé manner for the first three hours, and afterward ledher in to supper.
Miss Blanche sailed along serene, uplifted, splendidly calm; the littlebelles in lace, and roses, and pearls, fluttered and twittered likeangry doves; and Mme. Walr