Suffered in vain : or, A plaything of fate

By Bertha M. Clay

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Title: Suffered in vain
        or, A plaything of fate

Author: Bertha M. Clay

Release date: January 18, 2025 [eBook #75137]

Language: English

Original publication: New York: Street & Smith, 1926

Credits: Demian Katz and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (Images courtesy of the Digital Library@Villanova University.)


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SUFFERED IN VAIN ***





  _NEW BERTHA CLAY LIBRARY No. 300_

  SUFFERED
  IN VAIN
  _By
  BERTHA
  M. CLAY_

  _STREET & SMITH CORPORATION
  PUBLISHERS ~ NEW YORK_

  [Illustration]




A FAVORITE OF MILLIONS

New Bertha Clay Library

ALL BY BERTHA M. CLAY

Love Stories with Plenty of Action

The Author Needs No Introduction

Countless millions of women have enjoyed the works of this author. They
are in great demand everywhere. The following list contains her best
work, and is the only authorized edition.

These stories teem with action, and what is more desirable, they are
clean from start to finish. They are love stories, but are of a type
that is wholesome and totally different from the cheap, sordid fiction
that is being published by unscrupulous publishers.

There is a surprising variety about Miss Clay’s work. Each book in this
list is sure to give satisfaction.


_ALL TITLES ALWAYS IN PRINT_

    1--In Love’s Crucible
    2--A Sinful Secret
    3--Between Two Loves
    4--A Golden Heart
    5--Redeemed by Love
    6--Between Two Hearts
    7--Lover and Husband
    8--The Broken Trust
    9--For a Woman’s Honor
   10--A Thorn in Her Heart
   11--A Nameless Sin
   12--Gladys Greye
   13--Her Second Love
   14--The Earl’s Atonement
   15--The Gypsy’s Daughter
   16--Another Woman’s Husband
   17--Two Fair Women
   18--Madolin’s Lover
   19--A Bitter Reckoning
   20--Fair But Faithless
   21--One Woman’s Sin
   22--A Mad Love
   23--Wedded and Parted
   24--A Woman’s Love Story
   25--’Twixt Love and Hate
   26--Guelda
   27--The Duke’s Secret
   28--The Mystery of Colde Fell
   29--Beyond Pardon
   30--A Hidden Terror
   31--Repented at Leisure
   32--Marjorie Deane
   33--In Shallow Waters
   34--Diana’s Discipline
   35--A Heart’s Bitterness
   36--Her Mother’s Sin
   37--Thrown on the World
   38--Lady Damer’s Secret
   39--A Fiery Ordeal
   40--A Woman’s Vengeance
   41--Thorns and Orange Blossoms
   42--Two Kisses and the Fatal Lilies
   43--A Coquette’s Conquest
   44--A Wife’s Judgment
   45--His Perfect Trust
   46--Her Martyrdom
   47--Golden Gates
   48--Evelyn’s Folly
   49--Lord Lisle’s Daughter
   50--A Woman’s Trust
   51--A Wife’s Peril
   52--Love in a Mask
   53--For a Dream’s Sake
   54--A Dream of Love
   55--The Hand Without a Wedding Ring
   56--The Paths of Love
   57--Irene’s Vow
   58--The Rival Heiresses
   59--The Squire’s Darling
   60--Her First Love
   61--Another Man’s Wife
   62--A Bitter Atonement
   63--Wedded Hands
   64--The Earl’s Error and Letty Leigh
   65--Violet Lisle
   66--A Heart’s Idol
   67--The Actor’s Ward
   68--The Belle of Lynn
   69--A Bitter Bondage
   70--Dora Thorne
   71--Claribel’s Love Story
   72--A Woman’s War
   73--A Fatal Dower
   74--A Dark Marriage Morn
   75--Hilda’s Lover
   76--One Against Many
   77--For Another’s Sin
   78--At War with Herself
   79--A Haunted Life
   80--Lady Castlemaine’s Divorce
   81--Wife in Name Only
   82--The Sin of a Lifetime
   83--The World Between Them
   84--Prince Charlie’s Daughter
   85--A Struggle for a Ring
   86--The Shadow of a Sin
   87--A Rose in Thorns
   88--The Romance of the Black Veil
   89--Lord Lynne’s Choice
   90--The Tragedy of Lime Hall
   91--James Gordon’s Wife
   92--Set in Diamonds
   93--For Life and Love
   94--How Will It End?
   95--Love’s Warfare
   96--The Burden of a Secret
   97--Griselda
   98--A Woman’s Witchery
   99--An Ideal Love
  100--Lady Marchmont’s Widowhood
  101--The Romance of a Young Girl
  102--The Price of a Bride
  103--If Love Be Love
  104--Queen of the County
  105--Lady Ethel’s Whim
  106--Weaker than a Woman
  107--A Woman’s Temptation
  108--On Her Wedding Morn
  109--A Struggle for the Right
  110--Margery Daw
  111--The Sins of the Father
  112--A Dead Heart
  113--Under a Shadow
  114--Dream Faces
  115--Lord Elesmere’s Wife
  116--Blossom and Fruit
  117--Lady Muriel’s Secret
  118--A Loving Maid
  119--Hilary’s Folly
  120--Beauty’s Marriage
  121--Lady Gwendoline’s Dream
  122--A Story of an Error
  123--The Hidden Sin
  124--Society’s Verdict
  125--The Bride from the Sea and Other Stories
  126--A Heart of Gold
  127--Addie’s Husband and Other Stories
  128--Lady Latimer’s Escape
  129--A Woman’s Error
  130--A Loveless Engagement
  131--A Queen Triumphant
  132--The Girl of His Heart
  133--The Chains of Jealousy
  134--A Heart’s Worship
  135--The Price of Love
  136--A Misguided Love
  137--A Wife’s Devotion
  138--When Love and Hate Conflict
  139--A Captive Heart
  140--A Pilgrim of Love
  141--A Purchased Love
  142--Lost for Love
  143--The Queen of His Soul
  144--Gladys’ Wedding Day
  145--An Untold Passion
  146--His Great Temptation
  147--A Fateful Passion
  148--The Sunshine of His Life
  149--On with the New Love
  150--An Evil Heart
  151--Love’s Redemption
  152--The Love of Lady Aurelia
  153--The Lost Lady of Haddon
  154--Every Inch a Queen
  155--A Maid’s Misery
  156--A Stolen Heart
  157--His Wedded Wife
  158--Lady Ona’s Sin
  159--A Tragedy of Love and Hate
  160--The White Witch
  161--Between Love and Ambition
  162--True Love’s Reward
  163--The Gambler’s Wife
  164--An Ocean of Love
  165--A Poisoned Heart
  166--For Love of Her
  167--Paying the Penalty
  168--Her Honored Name
  169--A Deceptive Lover
  170--The Old Love or New?
  171--A Coquette’s Victim
  172--The Wooing of a Maid
  173--A Bitter Courtship
  174--Love’s Debt
  175--Her Beautiful Foe
  176--A Happy Conquest
  177--A Soul Ensnared
  178--Beyond All Dreams
  179--At Her Heart’s Command
  180--A Modest Passion
  181--The Flower of Love
  182--Love’s Twilight
  183--Enchained by Passion
  184--When Woman Wills
  185--Where Love Leads
  186--A Blighted Blossom
  187--Two Men and a Maid
  188--When Love Is Kind
  189--Withered Flowers
  190--The Unbroken Vow
  191--The Love He Spurned
  192--Her Heart’s Hero
  193--For Old Love’s Sake
  194--Fair as a Lily
  195--Tender and True
  196--What It Cost Her
  197--Love Forevermore
  198--Can This Be Love?
  199--In Spite of Fate
  200--Love’s Coronet
  201--Dearer Than Life
  202--Baffled by Fate
  203--The Love that Won
  204--In Defiance of Fate
  205--A Vixen’s Love
  206--Her Bitter Sorrow
  207--By Love’s Order
  208--The Secret of Estcourt
  209--Her Heart’s Surrender
  210--Lady Viola’s Secret
  211--Strong in Her Love
  212--Tempted to Forget
  213--With Love’s Strong Bonds
  214--Love, the Avenger
  215--Under Cupid’s Seal
  216--The Love that Blinds
  217--Love’s Crown Jewel
  218--Wedded at Dawn
  219--For Her Heart’s Sake
  220--Fettered for Life
  221--Beyond the Shadow
  222--A Heart Forlorn
  223--The Bride of the Manor
  224--For Lack of Gold
  225--Sweeter than Life
  226--Loved and Lost
  227--The Tie that Binds
  228--Answered in Jest
  229--What the World Said
  230--When Hot Tears Flow
  231--In a Siren’s Web
  232--With Love at the Helm
  233--The Wiles of Love
  234--Sinner or Victim?
  235--When Cupid Frowns
  236--A Shattered Romance
  237--A Woman of Whims
  238--Love Hath Wings
  239--A Love in the Balance
  240--Two True Hearts
  241--A Daughter of Eve
  242--Love Grown Cold
  243--The Lure of the Flame
  244--A Wild Rose
  245--At Love’s Fountain
  246--An Exacting Love
  247--An Ardent Wooing
  248--Toward Love’s Goal
  249--New Love or Old?
  250--One of Love’s Slaves
  251--Hester’s Husband
  252--On Love’s Highway
  253--He Dared to Love
  254--Humbled Pride
  255--Love’s Caprice
  256--A Cruel Revenge
  257--Her Struggle with Love
  258--Her Heart’s Problem
  259--In Love’s Bondage
  260--A Child of Caprice
  261--An Elusive Lover
  262--A Captive Fairy
  263--Love’s Burden
  264--A Crown of Faith
  265--Love’s Harsh Mandate
  266--The Harvest of Sin
  267--Love’s Carnival
  268--A Secret Sorrow
  269--True to His First Love
  270--Beyond Atonement
  271--Love Finds a Way
  272--A Girl’s Awakening
  273--In Quest of Love
  274--The Hero of Her Dreams
  275--Only a Flirt
  276--The Hour of Temptation
  277--Suffered in Silence
  278--Love and the World
  279--Love’s Sweet Hour
  280--Faithful and True
  281--Sunshine and Shadow
  282--For Love or Wealth?
  283--Love of His Youth
  284--Cast Upon His Care
  285--All Else Forgot
  286--When Hearts Are Young
  287--Her Love and His
  288--Her Sacred Trust
  289--While the World Scoffed

In order that there may be no confusion, we desire to say that the
books listed below will be issued during the respective months in New
York City and vicinity. They may not reach the readers at a distance
promptly, on account of delays in transportation.


To be published In July, 1926.

  290--The Heart of His Heart
  291--With Heart and Voice


To be published in August, 1926.

  292--Outside Love’s Door
  293--For His Love’s Sake


To be published in September, 1926

  294--And This Is Love!
  295--When False Tongues Speak


To be published in October, 1926.

  296--That Plain Little Girl
  297--A Daughter of Misfortune


To be published in November, 1926.

  298--The Quest of His Heart
  299--Adrift on Love’s Tide


To be published in December, 1926.

  300--Suffered in Vain
  301--Her Heart’s Delight
  302--A Love Victorious




ROMANCES THAT PLEASE MILLIONS

The Love Story Library

ALL BY RUBY M. AYRES

_This Popular Writer’s Favorites_


There is unusual charm and fascination about the love stories of Ruby
M. Ayres that give her writings a universal appeal. Probably there
is no other romantic writer whose books are enjoyed by such a wide
audience of readers. Her stories have genuine feeling and sentiment,
and this quality makes them liked by those who appreciate the true
romantic spirit. In this low-priced series, a choice selection of Miss
Ayres’ best stories is offered.

In order that there may be no confusion, we desire to say that the
books listed below will be issued during the respective months in New
York City and vicinity. They may not reach the readers at a distance
promptly, on account of delays in transportation.


To be published in July, 1926.

  1--Is Love Worth While?                 By Ruby M. Ayres
  2--The Black Sheep                      By Ruby M. Ayres


To be published in August, 1926.

  3--The Waif’s Wedding                   By Ruby M. Ayres
  4--The Woman Hater                      By Ruby M. Ayres
  5--The Story of an Ugly Man             By Ruby M. Ayres


To be published in September, 1926.

  6--The Beggar Man                       By Ruby M. Ayres
  7--The Long Lane to Happiness           By Ruby M. Ayres


To be published in October, 1926.

  8--Dream Castles                        By Ruby M. Ayres
  9--The Highest Bidder                   By Ruby M. Ayres


To be published in November, 1926.

  10--Love and a Lie                      By Ruby M. Ayres
  11--The Love of Robert Dennison         By Ruby M. Ayres


To be published in December, 1926.

  12--A Man of His Word                   By Ruby M. Ayres
  13--The Master Man                      By Ruby M. Ayres




  SUFFERED IN VAIN

  OR,

  A PLAYTHING OF FATE

  BY
  BERTHA M. CLAY

  Whose complete works will be published in this, the
  NEW BERTHA CLAY LIBRARY

  [Illustration: S AND S NOVELS]

  Printed in the U. S. A.

  STREET & SMITH CORPORATION
  PUBLISHERS
  79-89 Seventh Avenue, New York




SUFFERED IN VAIN.




CONTENTS


  CHAPTER I. A SINGULAR WILL.
  CHAPTER II. CAPTAIN DESFRAYNE’S PERPLEXITY.
  CHAPTER III. LOIS TURQUAND’S EMBARRASSMENT.
  CHAPTER IV. LOIS TURQUAND’S ALTERED FORTUNE.
  CHAPTER V. A TRIPLE BONDAGE.
  CHAPTER VI. PAUL’S GALLING SHACKLES.
  CHAPTER VII. AN UNINTENTIONAL CUT.
  CHAPTER VIII. THE NEW VALET.
  CHAPTER IX. PLAYING AT CROSS-PURPOSES.
  CHAPTER X. BUILDING ON SAND.
  CHAPTER XI. PAUL DESFRAYNE’S WIFE.
  CHAPTER XII. THE PRIMA DONNA’S HATE.
  CHAPTER XIII. PAUL DESFRAYNE’S CONFESSION.
  CHAPTER XIV. FRANK AMBERLEY’S EXULTATION.
  CHAPTER XV. THE MISTRESS OF FLORE HALL.
  CHAPTER XVI. GILARDONI’S LOVE-GIFT.
  CHAPTER XVII. IN THE THUNDER-STORM.
  CHAPTER XVIII. PAUL DESFRAYNE’S REFLECTIONS.
  CHAPTER XIX. BLANCHE DORMER’S SURPRISE.
  CHAPTER XX. THE BREAK OF DAWN.
  CHAPTER XXI. LEONARDO GILARDONI’S STORY.
  CHAPTER XXII. A VISION OF FREEDOM.
  CHAPTER XXIII. THE EXPRESS TO LONDON.
  CHAPTER XXIV. FRANK AMBERLEY’S ADVICE.
  CHAPTER XXV. THE FIGURE ROBED IN BLACK.
  CHAPTER XXVI. LUCIA GUISCARDINI’S DIAMOND RING.
  CHAPTER XXVII. FRANK AMBERLEY’S MISSION.
  CHAPTER XXVIII. THE INLAID CABINET.
  CHAPTER XXIX. DEFIANCE, NOT DEFENSE.
  CHAPTER XXX. FREE AT LAST.
  CHAPTER XXXI. LUCIA’S TEARS.
  CHAPTER XXXII. LUCIA GUISCARDINI’S MADNESS.
  CHAPTER XXXIII. THE SOUND OF WEDDING-BELLS.




CHAPTER I.

A SINGULAR WILL.


Always more or less subdued in tone and tranquil of aspect, the
eminently genteel Square of Porchester is, perhaps, seen in its most
benign mood in the gently falling shadows of a summer’s twilight.

The tall houses begin slowly, very slowly, to twinkle with a glowworm
irradiance from the drawing-rooms to the apartments on the upper
floors as the darkness increases. From the open windows float the
glittering strains of Gounod, Offenbach, Hervé, fluttering down over
the flower-wreathed balconies into the silent street beneath, each
succession of chords tumbling like so many fairies intoxicated with the
spirit of music. At not infrequent intervals, sparkling broughams whirl
past, carrying ladies arrayed obviously for dinner-party, soirée, or
opera, in gay toilets, only half-concealed by the loose folds of soft
wraps.

At the moment the curtain rises, two persons of the drama occupy this
stage.

One is an individual of a peculiarly unattractive exterior--a man of
probably some two or three and thirty years of age--a foreigner, by his
appearance. It would have been difficult to tell whether recent illness
or absolute want had made his not unhandsome face so white and pinched,
and caused the shabby garments to hang about his tall, well-knit
figure. Seemingly, he was one of those most forlorn of creatures--a
domestic servant out of employ.

The expression on his countenance just now, as he leaned against the
iron railings of the enclosure, almost concealed behind a doctor’s
brougham which awaited its master, was not pleasant to regard.
Following the direction of his fixed stare, the eye was led to a
superbly beautiful woman, sitting half-within the French window of a
drawing-room opposite, half-out upon the balcony, among some clustering
flowers.

This woman was undoubtedly quite unconscious of the steady attention
bestowed upon her by the solitary being, only distant from her presence
by a few feet. She was a young woman of about three-and-twenty--an
Italian, judging by her general aspect--attired in a rich costume,
lavishly trimmed with black lace. A white lace shawl, lightly thrown
over her shoulders, permitted only gracious and flowing outlines
to reveal themselves; but her supremely lovely face, the masses of
coiled and plaited hair, dark as night, stray diamond stars gleaming
here and there, the glowing complexion, the sleepy, long, silk, soft
lashes, resting upon cheeks which might be described as “peachlike,”
the crimson lips, the delicately rounded chin, the perfect, shell-like
ears, made up an ensemble of haunting beauty that, once seen, could
never be forgotten.

Of the vicinity, much less of the rapt gaze of the wayfarer lingering
yonder, she was profoundly ignorant, her attention being entirely
occupied by a written sheet of paper, held between her slender white
fingers. This she was apparently studying with absorbed interest.

The loiterer clenched his fist, malignant hate wrinkling his care-worn
face, and made a gesture, betraying the most intense anger toward the
imperial creature in the amber and black draperies.

“So, Madam Lucia Guiscardini,” he muttered, under his breath, “you bask
up there, in your beauty and your finery, like some sleek, treacherous
cat! Beautiful signora, if I had a pistol now, I could shoot you dead,
without leaving you a moment to think upon your sins. Your sins! and
they say you are one of the best and noblest of women--those who do not
know your cold and cruel heart, snow-plumaged swan of Firenze! How can
it be that I could ever have loved you so wildly--that I could have
knelt down to kiss the ground upon which your dainty step had trod?
Were you the same--was I the same? Has all the world changed since
those days?

“I have suffered cold and hunger, sickness and pain, weariness of
body, anguish of mind, while you have been lapped in luxury. You have
been gently borne about in your carriage, wrapped in velvets and furs,
or satins and laces, while I--I have passed through the rain-sodden
streets with scarcely a shoe to my foot. They say you refused, in your
pride, to marry a Russian prince the other day. All the world marveled
at your insolent caprice. I wonder what you think of me, or if you ever
honor me with a flying recollection? Am I the one drop of gall in your
cup of nectar, or have you forgotten me?”

A quick, firm step startled the tranquil echoes of the square, and
made this fellow glance about with the vague sense of ever-recurring
alarm which poverty and distress engender in those unaccustomed to the
companionship of such dismal comrades.

The instant he descried the person approaching, his countenance
changed. He cast down his fierce, keen eyes, and an expression
of humility replaced the glare of vindictive bitterness that had
previously rendered his visage anything but pleasant to look upon.

This third personage of the drama was one, in appearance, worthy to
take the part of hero. He was, perhaps, about thirty years old, with a
noble presence, a fair and frank face, though one clouded by a strange
shadow of mysterious care ever brooding. The face attracted at once,
and inspired a wish to know something more of the soul looking through
those bright, half-sadly smiling violet eyes as from the windows of a
prison.

The forlorn watcher next the iron railings left his post of stealthy
observation on seeing this gentleman, and, crossing, so as to intercept
him, stood in the middle of the pavement in such a way as to abruptly
bar the passage.

The large kindly eyes, which had been cast down, as if indifferent to
all outward things, and engaged in painful introspection, were suddenly
raised with a flash of displeased surprise.

“Sir,” began the poor lounger deprecatingly, half-unconsciously
clasping his meager hands, and speaking almost in the voice of a
supplicant, “Captain Desfrayne, forgive me for daring to address you;
but----”

“You are a stranger to me, although you seem acquainted with my name,”
the gentleman said, scanning him with a keen glance. “I don’t know that
I have ever seen you before. What do you want? By your accent, you
appear to be an Italian.”

“I am so, captain. I did not know you were coming this way, nor did
I know you were in London. I have only this moment seen you, as you
turned into the square; or I--I thought--for I know you, though perhaps
you may never have noticed me--I knew of old that you have a kind and
tender heart, and I thought---- Sir, I am a bad hand at begging; but I
am sorely, bitterly in need of help.”

“Of help?” repeated Captain Desfrayne, still looking at him
attentively. “Of what kind of help?”

Those bright eyes saw, although he asked the question, that the man
required succor in any and in every shape.

“Sir, when I knew you, about three years ago, I was in the service of
the Count di Venosta, at Padua, as valet.”

“I knew the count well, though I have no recollection of you,” said
Captain Desfrayne. “Go on.”

“He died about a year and a half ago. I nursed him through his last
illness, and caught the fever of which he died. I had a little
money--my savings--to live on for a while; but all is gone now, and I
don’t know which way to turn, or whither to look for another situation.
It was with the hope of finding some friends that I came to London; I
might as well be in the Great Desert.”

“I have no doubt your story is perfectly true; but I don’t see what I
can do for you,” Captain Desfrayne said, with some pity. “However, I
will consider, and, if you like to come and see me to-morrow, perhaps
I---- What is your name?”

“Leonardo Gilardoni, sir.”

The hungry, eager eyes watched as Captain Desfrayne took a note-book
from his pocket and scribbled down the name, adding a brief memorandum
besides.

The sound of these men’s voices speaking just beneath her window had
failed to attract the attention of the beautiful creature in the
balcony. But now, when a sudden silence succeeded, she looked over from
an undefined feeling of half-unconscious interest or curiosity.

As she glanced carelessly down at the two figures, the expression on
her face utterly changed. The great eyes, the hue of black velvet,
opened widely, as if from terror, or an astonishment too stupendous to
be controlled. For a moment she seemed unable to withdraw her gaze,
fascinated, apparently.

The little white hands were fiercely clenched; and if glances could
kill, those two men would have rapidly traversed the valley of the
shadow of death.

Fortunately, glances, however baleful, fall harmless as summer
lightning; and the interlocutors remained happily ignorant of the
absorbed attention wherewith they were favored.

In a moment or two she rose, and, standing just within the room,
clutching the curtain with a half-convulsive grip, peered down
malevolently into the street.

“What can have brought these two men here together?” she muttered.
“Do they come to seek me? I did not know they were conscious of one
another’s existence. What are they doing? Why are they here? Accursed
be the day I ever saw the face of either!”

The visage, so wondrously beautiful in repose, looked almost hideous
thus distorted by fury.

She saw Captain Desfrayne put his little note-book back in his pocket,
and then heard him say:

“If you will come to me about--say, six or seven o’clock to-morrow
evening, at my chambers in”--she missed the name of the street and
the number, though she craned her white throat forward eagerly--“I
will speak further to you. Do not come before that time, as I shall be
absent all day.”

With swift, compassionate fingers he dropped a piece of gold into the
thin hand of the unhappy, friendless man before him, and then moved, as
if to continue his way.

The superb creature above craned out her head as far as she dared, to
watch the two. Captain Desfrayne, however, seemed to be the personage
she was specially desirous of following with her keen glances. To her
amazement and evident consternation, he walked up to the immediately
adjacent house, and rang the bell. The door opened, and he disappeared.

The shabby, half-slouching figure of the supplicant for help shuffled
off in the other direction, toward Westbourne Grove, and vanished from
out the square.

Releasing her grip of the draperies hanging by the window, the proud
and insolent beauty began walking up and down the room, flinging away
the paper from which she had been studying.

She looked like some handsome tigress, cramped up in a gilded cage,
as she paced to and fro, her dress trailing along the carpet in rich
and massive folds. Some almost ungovernable fit of passion appeared
to have seized upon her, and she gave way to her impulses as a hot,
undisciplined nature might yield.

There was a strange kind of contrast between the feline grace of her
movements, the faultless elegance of her perfect toilet, the splendor
of her beauty, and the untutored violence of her manner.

“What do they want here?” she asked, half-aloud. “Why do they come
here, plotting under my windows? Do they defy me? Do they hope to
crush me? What has Paul Desfrayne to complain of? I defy him, as I do
Leonardo Gilardoni! Let them do their worst! What are they going to do?
Has Leonardo Gilardoni found any--any----”

She started back and looked round with a guilty terror, as if she dared
not think out the half-spoken surmise even to herself.

“He knows nothing--he can know nothing; and he has no longer any hold
on me,” she muttered presently; “unless--unless the other has told
him; and I don’t believe he would trust a fellow like _him_: for Paul
Desfrayne is as proud as Lucifer. Oh, if I could but live my life over
again! What mistakes--what fatal mistakes I have made--mistakes which
may yet bring ruin as their fruit! I will leave England to-morrow. I
don’t care what they say, or think, or what loss it may cost to myself
or any one else. Yet, am I safer elsewhere? I know not. What would be
the consequences if they could prove I had done what I have done? I
know not; I have never had the courage to ask.”

Totally unconscious of the vicinity of this beautiful, vindictive
woman, Captain Desfrayne tranquilly passed into the house which he had
come to visit.

“Can I see Mrs. Desfrayne?” he inquired of the smart maid servant who
answered his summons.

“I will see, sir. She was at dinner, sir, and I don’t think she has
gone out yet.”

The beribboned and pretty girl, throwing open the door of a room at
hand, and ushering the visitor within, left him alone, while she
flitted off in search of the lady for whom he had asked, not, however,
without taking a sidelong glance at his handsome face before she
disappeared.

The apartment was a long dining-room, extending from the front to
the back of the house, furnished amply, yet with a certain richness,
the articles being all of old oak, carved elaborately, which lent a
somber, somewhat stately effect. It was obviously, however, a room in a
semifashionable boarding-house.

In a few minutes a lady opened the door, and entered with the joyous
eagerness of a girl.

A graceful, dignified woman, in reality seventeen years older than
Captain Desfrayne, but who looked hardly five years his senior, of
the purest type of English matronly beauty. She seemed like one of
Reynolds’ or Gainsborough’s most exquisite portraits warmed into
life, just alighted from its canvas. The soft, blond hair, the clear,
roselike complexion, the large, half-melting violet eyes, the smiling
mouth, with its dimples playing at hide-and-seek, the perfectly
chiseled nose, the dainty, rounded chin, the patrician figure, so
classically molded that it drew away attention from the fact that every
little detail of the apparently little-studied yet careful toilet was
finished to the most refined nicety--these hastily noted points could
scarce give any conception of the almost dazzling loveliness of Paul
Desfrayne’s widowed mother.

She entered with a light, quick step, and being met almost as she
crossed the threshold by her visitor, she raised her white hands,
sparkling with rings, and drew down his head with an ineffably tender
and loving touch.

“My boy--my own Paul,” she half-cooed, kissing his forehead. “This is,
indeed, an unexpected pleasure. I did not even know that you were in
London.”

For a moment the young man seemed about to return his mother’s caress;
but he did not do so.

She crossed to the window, and placing a second chair, as she seated
herself, desired Paul to take it.

There was a positive pleasure in observing the movements of this
perfectly graceful woman. She seemed the embodiment of a soft, sweet
strain of music; every gesture, every fold of her draperies was at once
so natural, yet so absolutely harmonious, that it was impossible to
suggest an alteration for the better.

“I supposed you to be settled for a time in Paris,” Mrs. Desfrayne
said, as her son did not appear inclined to take the lead in the
impending dialogue, but accepted his chair in almost moody silence.

“I should have written to you, mother; but I thought I should most
probably arrive as soon, or perhaps even precede my letter,” replied
Captain Desfrayne.

“You look anxious and a little worried. Has unpleasant business brought
you back? You have not obtained the appointment to the French embassy
for which you were looking?”

“No. I am anxious, undoubtedly; but I suppose I ought not to say I am
worried, though I find myself placed in a most remarkable, and--what
shall I say?--delicate position. Yesterday I received a letter,
and I came at once to consult you, with the hope that you might be
able to give me some good advice. I fear I have called at rather an
unreasonable hour?”

A tenderly reproachful glance seemed to assure him that no hour could
be unreasonable that brought his ever-welcome presence.

“I will advise you to the best of my ability, my dear,” Mrs. Desfrayne
smilingly said. “What has happened?”

Paul Desfrayne drew a letter from the pocket of the light coat which he
had thrown over his evening dress, and looked at it for a moment or two
in silence, as if at a loss how to introduce its evidently embarrassing
contents.

His mother watched him with undisguised anxiety, her brilliant eyes
half-veiled by the blue-veined lids.

“This letter,” Paul at length said, “is from a legal firm. It refers to
a person whom I had some difficulty in recalling to mind, and places me
in a most embarrassing position toward another person whom I have never
seen.”

“A situation certainly indicating a promise of some perplexity,” Mrs.
Desfrayne half-laughingly remarked.

“Some years ago,” Paul continued, “there lived an old man--he was an
iron-dealer originally, or something of that sort--a person in a very
humble rank of life; but somehow he contrived to make an enormous
fortune. He has, in fact, left the sum of nearly three hundred thousand
pounds.”

“To you?” demanded Mrs. Desfrayne, in a thrilling tone, not as if she
believed such to be the case; for her son’s accent scarcely warranted
such an assumption; but as if the wish was father to the thought.

Paul shook his head.

“Not to me--to some young girl he took an interest in, as far as I
can understand. I happened to render him a slight service--I hardly
remembered it now--some insignificant piece of civility or kindness. It
seems he entertained a great respect for me, and attributed the rise of
his wealth to me. This young girl--I don’t know whether she was related
to him or not--has been left the sole, or nearly the sole, inheritor of
his money, and I----”

“And you, Paul?”

“Have been nominated her trustee and sole executor by his will. I
believe he has bequeathed me some few thousands, as a remuneration for
my trouble.”

The slight tinge of pinky color on the cheeks of the beautiful Mrs.
Desfrayne deepened visibly, although she sat with her back to the
window.

“How old is the young lady?” she asked, in a subdued tone.

“Eighteen or nineteen.”

“Is she--has she any father or mother?”

“Both are dead. She is, I understand, alone in the world.”

“Have you seen her?”

“No.”

“Do you know what she is like?”

“I am as ignorant of everything concerning her, personally, as you are
yourself, mother.”

“Is she pretty?”

Paul Desfrayne’s face hardened almost to sternness and his eyes drooped.

“I have already told you, mother mine, that I know nothing whatever
about her. If you will take the trouble to glance over this letter, you
will learn as much as I know myself. I have nothing more to tell you
than what is written therein.”

The dainty fingers trembled slightly as they were quickly stretched
forth to receive the missive, which Paul took from its legal-looking
envelope.

Mrs. Desfrayne ran rapidly over the contents, and then read it through
more slowly a second time.

It purported to be from Messrs. Salmon, Joyner & Joyner, the eminent
firm of solicitors in Alderman’s Lane, and requested Captain Desfrayne
to favor them with a call at his earliest convenience, as they wished
to go over the will of Mr. Vere Gardiner, iron-founder, lately
deceased, who had appointed him--Captain Desfrayne--sole trustee to the
chief legatee, an orphan girl of nineteen, sole executor to the estate,
which was valued at about two hundred and sixty thousand pounds, and
legatee to the amount of ten thousand pounds. The letter added that Mr.
Vere Gardiner had expressed a profound respect for Captain Desfrayne,
and had several times declared that he owed his uprise in life to a
special act of kindness received from him.

“How very extraordinary!” Mrs. Desfrayne softly exclaimed, at length.
“He scarcely knew you, yet trusts this young girl and her large fortune
to your sole charge. Flattering, but, as you say, embarrassing. Two
hundred and sixty thousand pounds!” she murmured. “A girl of nineteen.
If she is a beauty”--she slightly shrugged her dimpled shoulders--“your
position will be an onerous one, indeed.”

“They might as well have asked me to play keeper to a white elephant,”
the young man said, with some acerbity. “I will have nothing to do with
it.”

“Do not be too hasty. Probably this person had good reason for what he
has done. Besides, you would be foolish to refuse so handsome a present
as you are promised; for we cannot conceal from ourselves that ten
thousand pounds would be a very acceptable gift.”

“If a free one, yes; if burdened with unpleasant conditions, why, there
might be difference of opinion. I had almost made up my mind to decline
at once and for all; but I thought it would be more prudent to consult
you first.”

“My dear Paul, I feel--I will not say flattered, but I thank you very
much for your kind estimation of my judgment. All I can say is: Go and
see what these lawyers have to say. Then, if they do not succeed in
inducing you to receive the trust, see the girl, and judge for yourself
what would be best. Perhaps she has no friend but you, and she might
run the risk of losing her fortune. Perhaps she is sorely in need of
some protector--perhaps even of money. Where does she live?”

“As I told you before,” Captain Desfrayne replied, with more asperity
than seemed at all necessary under the circumstances, “I did not know
even of her existence before receiving that letter, and I now know not
one solitary fact more than you do. I know nothing of the girl, or of
her money. I do not wish to know; I take no interest, and I don’t want
to take any interest now, or in the future.”

“But it is foolish to refuse to perform a duty when you are so entirely
ignorant of the reasons why this money has been thrown into your
keeping,” urged Mrs. Desfrayne gently.

“If I refuse, I suppose the Court of Chancery will find somebody more
capable, and certainly may easily find some one more willing than
myself,” Captain Desfrayne said, almost irritably.

“If it had been a boy, instead of a girl, would you have been so
reluctant?” asked Mrs. Desfrayne, smiling mischievously.

“That has nothing to do with it. I have to deal with the matter as it
now exists, not as it might have been.”

Mrs. Desfrayne glanced at her son from beneath the long, silken lashes
that half-concealed her great blue eyes. It seemed so strange to hear
that musical voice, which for nine-and-twenty or thirty years had been
as soft and sweet to her ears, as if incapable of one jangled note,
fall into that odd, irritable discordance.

Paul was out of sorts and out of humor, she could see. Was he telling
her _all_ the truth?

Never, in all those years of his life, most of which had passed under
her own vision, had he uttered, looked, or even seemed to harbor one
thought that he was not ready and willing for his mother to take
cognizance of. Why, then, this possible reticence, blowing across their
lifelong confidence like the bitter northeast wind ruffling over clear
water, turning its surface into a fragile veil of ice?

The young man was out of humor, for his meeting with the fellow whom he
had just encountered almost on the threshold of the house had brought
up many recollections he would fain have banished--memories of a time
he would gladly have erased from the pages of his life--a time whereof
his mother knew nothing.

Mrs. Desfrayne, however, shot very wide of the mark when she ascribed
his alteration of look and manner to some foreknowledge of the girl in
question. He spoke nothing but the truth in saying that he had never as
much as heard of her before receiving the letter that lay between his
mother’s fingers.

With the electric sympathy of strong mutual affection, Paul Desfrayne
quickly perceived the ill effect his coldness had upon his mother; and
with an effort he cleared his countenance, and assumed a shadow of
his formerly smiling aspect. He looked down, and appeared to consider.
Then, raising his eyes to those of his mother, he said, with an air of
resignation:

“I suppose it would be best to see the lawyers, and hear what they have
to say. It is a most intolerable bore. I don’t know what I have done to
merit being visited for my sins in this fashion.”

“You don’t remember what you happened to do for this eccentrically
disposed old man?”

Paul Desfrayne shrugged his shoulders.

“A remarkably simple matter, when all is said and done. I was traveling
once with him, as well as I can remember, and he began talking to me
about some wonderful invention he had just brought to perfection. He
was in what I supposed to be rather cramped circumstances, though not
an absolutely poor man, for he was traveling first-class. I should
not have thought about him at all, only, with the enthusiasm of an
inventor, he persisted in bothering me about this thing.

“I thought at the time it was deserving of notice; and when he
alighted, I happened to almost tumble into the arms of the very man who
had it in his power to get the affair into use and practise. More to
get rid of him than for any more worthy motive, I introduced the two
to each other. It was something this old Vere Gardiner had invented,
for some kind of machinery, which, if adopted by the government, would
save--I really forget how much. I recollect asking this friend, some
time after, if he had done anything about it, and he told me it would
probably make the fortune of half a dozen people. He seemed delighted
with the old man and his invention.

“This must be the service he made so much of. It was a service costing
me just five or six sentences. I did not even stop to see what
Percival, this friend, thought of old Gardiner, or what he thought of
Percival; but left them talking together in the waiting-room, for I was
in a desperate hurry to reach you, mother. I never anticipated hearing
of the affair again.”

There was a brief silence.

“This man, it is to be presumed, was of humble birth,” said Mrs.
Desfrayne. “It will be too dreadful if, with the irony of blind fate,
this girl proves unpresentable. In that case--at nineteen--it will be
too late to mend her manners, or her education. Perhaps she has some
frightfully appalling cognomen, which will render it a martyrdom to
present her in society. If she is anything of a hobgoblin, you may with
justice talk of a white elephant.”

“I suppose there is no clause in the criminal code whereby I may
be compelled to accept the trust if I do not elect voluntarily to
undertake it?” Captain Desfrayne asked, with a slight smile at his
mother’s fastidious alarm. “And if she is nineteen now, I suppose my
responsibility would cease in two years?”

“Perhaps. Some crotchety old men make very singular wills. I wonder
how it happened that he had no business friend in whom he could
confide?--why he must choose a stranger, and entrust to that stranger
such a large sum? I wish I knew what the girl’s name is, and what she
is like, and what possible position she may occupy? For if you receive
the trust, I presume I shall have the felicity of playing the part of
chaperon.”

“It is perfectly useless discussing the matter until we know something
more certain,” Captain Desfrayne said, his irritation again displaying
itself unaccountably.

“One cannot help surmising, my dearest Paul. Perhaps the girl is a
nursemaid, or a milliner’s apprentice, and misuses her aspirates, and
is a budding Malaprop,” Mrs. Desfrayne persisted. “However, we shall
see. Go with me this evening to the opera, if you have nothing better
to do. Lady Quaintree has lent me her box.”

As she was folding her opera-cloak about her youthful-looking person
the good lady said to herself:

“There is some mystery here; but of what kind? Paul is not quite his
own frank self. What has happened? He has kept something from me.
I could not help fancying something occurred during his absence in
Venice three years ago. I wonder if he knows more about this girl, the
fortunate legatee of the eccentric old iron-founder, than he chooses to
acknowledge? But he must have some most powerful reason to induce him
to hide anything from me; and he said twice most distinctly that he had
never seen her and did not know her name. I do not believe Paul could
be guilty of deceit.”




CHAPTER II.

CAPTAIN DESFRAYNE’S PERPLEXITY.


The midday sun made an abortive effort to struggle down between the
tall rows of houses on either side of busy, hurrying Alderman’s Lane,
glinting here and glancing there, showering royal largesse.

The big building devoted to the offices of Messrs. Salmon, Joyner &
Joyner was lying completely bathed in the golden radiance; for it
occupied the corner, where the opening of a street running transverse
allowed the glorious beams to descend unimpeded.

A great barracklike edifice, more like a bank than a lawyer’s city
abode. A wide flight of steps led up to a handsome swing door, on which
a brightly burnished plate blazoned forth the name of the firm. This
opened upon an oblong hall, in which were posted two doleful-looking
boys, each immured in a kind of walled-off cell; a spacious staircase
ran from this hall to a succession of small, cell-like apartments, all
furnished in as frugal a manner as was compatible with use; a long
table, covered with piles of papers of various descriptions; three or
four hard chairs; a bookcase crammed with tall books bound in vellum,
and morose-looking tin deed-boxes labeled with names.

In one of these dim, uninviting cells sat a gentleman, apparently
quite at ease, his employment at the moment the scene draws back and
reveals him to view being the leisurely perusal of the _Times_; a man
of perhaps the same age as Captain Desfrayne--a pleasant, grave-looking
gentleman, with kindly dark eyes, a carefully trimmed dark-brown beard,
a pale complexion, and a symmetrical figure.

One of the melancholy walled-in youths suddenly appeared to disturb the
half-dreamy studies of this serene personage.

Throwing open the door, he announced:

“Captain Desfrayne.”

The captain walked in, and the door was shut.

The occupant of the apartment had risen as the youth ushered in the
visitor, and advanced the few steps the limited space permitted,
smiling with a peculiarly winning expression.

“Mr. Amberley?” questioned Captain Desfrayne.

“I have called,” he went on, as the owner of that name bowed
assentingly, “in obedience to a letter received by me from Messrs.
Salmon, Joyner & Joyner.”

He threw upon the table the letter he had shown to his mother, and then
seated himself, as Mr. Amberley signed for him to do.

Mr. Amberley, in spite of the latent smile in his dark eyes, seemed to
be a man inclined to let other people save him the trouble of talking
if they felt so disposed. He took up the letter, extracted it from its
envelope, and unfolded it.

“Mr. Salmon and Mr. Willis Joyner wished to meet you, together with
myself,” he remarked, “but were obliged to attend another appointment.
In the meantime, before you can see them, I shall be happy to afford
you all necessary explanations.”

“Which I very much need, for I am unpleasantly mystified. In the first
place, I am at a loss to comprehend why this client of yours should
have selected me as the person to whom he chose to confide so vast a
trust,” Captain Desfrayne replied, in a tone almost bordering on ill
humor.

“I am quite aware of the fact that you were not a personal friend of
Mr. Vere Gardiner,” said the lawyer. “He trusted scarcely any one. I
believe he entertained a painfully low estimate of the goodness or
honesty of the majority of people. Of his particular object in giving
this property into your care, I am unable to enlighten you. I know that
he took a great interest in you; and as he frequently sojourned in the
places where you happened to be staying, I have no doubt he had every
opportunity of becoming acquainted with as much as he wished to learn
of--of---- In fact, I have no grounds beyond such observations as may
have been made before me for judging that he did take an interest in
you. If you are surprised by the circumstance of his appointing you to
such a post, I think you will probably be infinitely more so when you
hear the contents of the will.”

He rose, and took from an iron safe a piece of folded parchment, which
he spread open before him on his desk.

Captain Desfrayne said nothing, but eyed the portentous document with
an odd glance.

“The history of this will is perhaps a curious one,” Mr. Frank
Amberley resumed. “Mr. Vere Gardiner was, when a young man, very
deeply attached to a young person in his own rank of life, whom he
wished to marry. She, however, preferred another, and refused the
offers of Mr. Gardiner. He never married. In a few years she was left
a widow. He again renewed his offer, and was again refused. He was
very urgent; and, to avoid him, she changed her residence several
times. The consequence was, he lost sight of her. He became a wealthy
man, chiefly, he always declared, through your instrumentality. After
this he found this person--when he had, so to speak, become a man of
fortune--again renewed his offer of marriage, and was again refused as
firmly as before. She had one child, a daughter.”

The lawyer turned to look for some papers, which he did not succeed in
finding, and, having made a search, turned back again.

Captain Desfrayne made no remark whatever.

“He offered to do anything, or to help this Mrs. Turquand in any way
she would allow him: to put the child to school, or---- In fact, his
offers were most generous. But she persistently shunned him, and
refused to listen to anything he had to say. He lost sight of her for
some years before his death, and did not even know whether she was
living or dead.

“It was accidentally through--through me,” the lawyer continued,
speaking with a visible effort, as if somewhat overmastered by an
emotion inexplicable under the circumstances--“it was through me that
he learned of the death of the mother and the whereabouts of the
daughter.”

“The latter being, I presume, the young lady whom he has been kind
enough to commit to my care?” Captain Desfrayne asked.

Mr. Amberley twirled an ivory paper-cutter about for a moment or two
before replying.

“Precisely so. I happen to be acquainted with--with the young lady; and
he one day mentioned her name, and said how anxious he was to find her.
I volunteered to introduce her to him; but he was then ill, and the
interview was deferred. He went to Nice, the place where Mrs. Turquand
had died, and drew his last breath in the very house where she had been
staying. In accordance with his dying wishes, he was buried close by
the spot where she was laid. The will was drawn up a few weeks before
he quitted England.”

“I certainly wish he had selected any one rather than myself for this
onerous trust,” Captain Desfrayne said, with some irritation. “What is
the young lady’s name? Miss Turquand?”

Mr. Amberley hesitated, took up the will, and laid it down again; then
took it up, and placed it before Captain Desfrayne.

“If you will read that, you will learn all you require to know,” he
replied, without looking up.

He had been perfectly right in remarking that, if Captain Desfrayne had
felt surprised before, he would be doubly astonished when he came to
read Mr. Vere Gardiner’s will.

Captain Desfrayne was fairly astounded, and could scarcely believe
that he read aright. The sum of two hundred and sixty thousand pounds
was left, divided equally into two portions, but burdened largely with
restrictions.

One hundred and thirty thousand pounds was bequeathed to Lois Turquand,
a minor, spinster. Until she reached the age of twenty-one, however,
she was to receive only the annual income of two thousand pounds.

The second half--one hundred and thirty thousand pounds--was left
to Paul Desfrayne, Captain in his majesty’s One Hundred and Tenth
Regiment, he being appointed also sole trustee, in the event of his
being willing to marry the aforesaid Lois Turquand when she reached
the age of twenty-one. In case the aforesaid Lois Turquand refused to
marry him, he was to receive fifty thousand pounds; if he refused to
marry her, he was to have ten thousand pounds. If they married, the sum
of two hundred and sixty thousand pounds was to be theirs; if not, the
money forfeited by the non-compliance with this matrimonial scheme was
to be distributed in equal portions among certain London hospitals,
named one by one.

Three thousand pounds was left to be divided among the managers of
departments and persons in positions of trust in the employ of the
firm; one thousand among the clerks in the office, and five hundred
among the domestics in his service at the time of his death.

In the event of the demise of Lois Turquand before attaining the age of
twenty-one, Paul Desfrayne was to receive a clear sum of one hundred
and thirty thousand pounds; the other moiety to be divided among the
London hospitals named.

Mr. Amberley was closely regarding Captain Desfrayne as the latter read
this will--to him so singular--once, twice. When Captain Desfrayne at
length raised his head, however, Mr. Amberley’s glance was averted,
and he was gazing calmly through the murky window at the radiant blue
summer sky.

For some minutes Captain Desfrayne was unable to speak.

“It is the will of a lunatic!” he at length impatiently exclaimed.

“Of a man as fully in possession of his senses as you or I,” calmly
replied Mr. Amberley. “You do not seem to relish the manner in which he
has claimed your services.”

“I don’t know what to think--what to say. I wish he had selected any
one rather than myself, which you will say is ingratitude, seeing how
magnificently he has offered to reward me. When shall I be obliged to
go through an interview with the young lady?”

“Whenever you please--this afternoon, if convenient to you.”

Captain Desfrayne looked at the lawyer, as if startled. It almost
seemed as if he turned pale.

“When, I suppose, I am to enjoy the privilege of breaking the news?” he
demanded, with a little gasp.

“You speak as if the prospect were anything but pleasing. If you object
to the task, it will, perhaps, be all the better to get it done at
once.”

“Where does she live?”

“She is staying with Lady Quaintree, in Lowndes Square.”

Paul Desfrayne recollected, with a queer feeling of surprise, that his
mother had said the previous evening that Lady Quaintree had lent her
the opera-box which she had used. Could it be possible that his mother
already knew this girl?

“Lady Quaintree!” he repeated mechanically.

“Certainly. Miss Turquand has been living there for two or three years;
she is her ladyship’s companion. If you have no other engagement of
pressing importance, I fancy the most easy and agreeable way would be
to call at the house this evening, about eight o’clock. Lady Quaintree
is to have some sort of reception to-night, and, as I am almost one of
the household, we could see her before the people begin to arrive.”

Paul Desfrayne gave way to fate. There was no help for it, so he was
obliged to agree to this arrangement, or choose to think himself
obliged, which was worse.

Frank Amberly thought that not many men would have received with such
obvious repugnance the position of sole trustee to a beautiful girl
of eighteen, who had just become entitled to a splendid fortune,
especially when there were such provisions in his own favor.

“It is thus he receives what _I_ would have given--what would I _not_
have given?--to have obtained the trust,” he said mentally, with a keen
pang of jealous envy.

It was a strange freak of Dame Fortune--who yet must surely be a
spiteful old maid--to bring these two men, of all others, into such
communication.

Paul Desfrayne’s thoughts were in a kind of whirl, an entanglement
which was anything but conducive to clear deliberation or calm
reflection. They eddied and surged with deadly fury round one great
rock that reared its cruel black crest before him, standing there in
the midst of his life, impassive, coldly menacing.

Hitherto, with the exception of one fatal occasion, he had always
consulted his mother on all matters of difficulty or perplexity.
But now he must carefully conceal his real thoughts from that still
beloved counselor. It was useless to go to her, as of yore, for advice
as to the best course to take: he dared not tell her this miserable
secret which bound him in a viselike grip. His mother would at once,
he knew--unconscious that any link in the chain was concealed from
her--say he must be mad not to accept, without hesitation, this trust.
She would certainly urge him, for the sake of this unknown girl
herself. He must decide now: it would, perhaps, only make matters worse
if he delayed, or asked time for consideration.

Besides, if he refused, what rational reason could he assign to any one
of those concerned for declining the trust?

No; he must agree to whatever was set before him now, although by so
doing he would almost with his own hands sow what might prove to be the
most bitter harvest in the future.

He was within a maze, wherein he did not at present discern the
slightest clue to guide him to the outlet of escape. It was impossible
to explain his position to any one, yet he felt that it was next to
pitiful cowardice to march under false colors.

One thing was clear: if he could not explain his reasons for declining
to accept what, while somewhat eccentric, was a fair and apparently
tempting offer, he must be ready to take the place assigned to him. Not
only was this self-evident, but also that no matter what time he must
ask for reflection, his position could not be altered, and he could
give no plausible excuse of any kind to his mother for rejecting such
princely favors.

“This young lady is not--is not, then, acquainted with the contents of
this will?” he asked, raising his head, and speaking somewhat wearily.

“Not as yet. We thought it best to wait until you could yourself make
the communication.”

He might as well face the girl now, and have it over, as leave it to
a month, six months, a year hence. He was a soldier, yet a coward
and afraid; but he shut his eyes, as he might if ordered to fire a
train, and resolved to go through with the task, which, to any other
one--taken at random from ten thousand men--must have been a pleasant
duty.

The lawyer regarded him with surprise, but could not, of course, make
any remark. His wide experience had never supplied him with a parallel
case to this: of a man receiving such rare and costly gifts from
fortune with clouded brow and half-averted eye. The hopes, however,
which had well-nigh died within his breast, of winning the one bright
jewel he coveted, revived, if feebly.

“There is something strangely amiss,” he thought; “but she will be
doubly, trebly shielded from the slightest risk of harm.”

Captain Desfrayne--his troubled gaze still on the open parchment,
which he regarded as if it were his death-warrant--absolutely started
when Mr. Amberley addressed him, after a short silence, inviting
him to partake of some wine, which magically appeared from a dim,
dusty-looking nook.

After a little desultory conversation, having arranged the hour of
meeting and other necessary details, Frank Amberley observed, an odd
smile lurking at the corners of his handsome mouth:

“This is not the first time we have met, though you have apparently
forgotten me.”

The captain looked at him.

“I really do not remember you,” he said, with a puzzled expression.

“You do not remember a certain moonlight night in Turin, when you
shot a bandit dead, as his dagger was within five or six inches of
an Englishman’s throat? Nor an excursion which took place some weeks
previously, when you met the same compatriot in a diligence--myself,
in fact? We wrote down one another’s names, and were going to swear an
eternal friendship, when you were abruptly obliged to quit the city,
in consequence of some business call, or regimental duties.”

“The circumstances have by no means escaped my memory,” answered
Captain Desfrayne, in an indefinable tone; “though I should have
scarcely recognized you. Since then you have a little altered.”

Frank Amberley, laughingly, stroked the silken beard, which had
certainly greatly changed his aspect. But the coldness of the formerly
open, frank-hearted man, whom he had so liked three or four years ago,
struck him with deepened suspicion that something was amiss.

“I am glad to have met you,” he said. “I should be very pleased if you
could dine with me this evening at the ‘London.’ My people are going
out this evening, so I am compelled to make shift as I best can, and I
don’t relish dining alone at home.”

A brief hesitation was ended by Paul Desfrayne accepting this
free-and-easy invitation.

The two young men then shook hands and parted, with the agreement to
meet again for a six-o’clock dinner.

Truly, times, places, and things had altered since those days at Turin,
the recollection of which seemed to bring scant pleasure to Paul
Desfrayne’s weary heart.

“Some fatal secret has become ingrained with that man’s life,” said the
young lawyer, as he closed the door upon his visitor. “Great heavens!
that Lois Turquand should spurn my love, and be thrown, perhaps, into
the unwilling arms of a man like this, with such a hunted, half-guilty
look in his eyes! It shall not be--it _cannot_ be! Fate could not be so
cruel!”




CHAPTER III.

LOIS TURQUAND’S EMBARRASSMENT.


The sun, that was shut out by towering walls from the busy city,
like some intrusive idler, was lying, half-slumbrously, like some
magnificent Eastern slave arrayed in jewels and gold, among the
brilliant-hued and many-scented flowers heaped under the striped
Venetian blinds stretched over the balconies of a mansion in Lowndes
Square.

An occasional soft breeze lifted the curtains lowered over the windows,
granting a transient vision of apartments replete with luxury, glowing
under the influence of an exquisitely delicate taste.

Within the principal drawing-room sat a stately matron, with
silver-white hair, attired in full evening costume, apparently awaiting
the arrival of expected guests.

Lady Quaintree was handsome, even at sixty, with a soft, clear skin,
and a complexion girlishly brilliant; a figure full, without being
dangerously stout; a most wondrously dainty hand, on which sparkled
clusters of rings that might have formed a king’s ransom. Her ladyship
had been a beauty in her youth--not a spoiled, ill-humored beauty, but
one kind and indulgent, much flattered and loved, taking adoration
as her due, as a queen accepts all the rights and privileges of her
position.

A woman made up of mild virtues--good, though not religious; kind and
pleasant, though not benevolent, abhorring the poor, and the sick, and
the unfortunate--the very name of trouble was disagreeable to her. This
world would have been a sunny, rose-tinted Arcadia could she have had
her way; it should have been always summer.

She went regularly to church on Sunday morning with great decorum,
turning over the pages of her beautiful ivory-covered church service
at the proper time, and always put sovereigns on the plate with much
liberality when there was a collection. She gave directions to her
housekeeper in the country to deal out coats, and blankets, and all
that sort of thing, to deserving applicants. If flower-girls, or
wretched-looking beggars, crowded round her carriage when she went out
shopping, they not unfrequently received sixpences as a bribe to take
themselves and their miseries out of sight.

So that, altogether, her ladyship felt she had a reason to rely on
being defended from all adversities which might happen to the body, and
all evil thoughts which might assault and hurt the soul.

Lady Quaintree was nearly asleep when a liveried servant drew aside the
velvet portière, and announced:

“Captain Desfrayne and Mr. Amberley!”

Paul Desfrayne’s glance swept the suite of apartments, as if in search
of the girl who unconsciously held the threads of his destiny in her
hands; but, to his relief, she was not to be seen.

He allowed himself to be led up to the mistress of the house, and
went through the ceremony of introduction like one in a dream. Lady
Quaintree spoke to him, and made some smiling remarks; but he was
unable to do more than reply intelligibly in monosyllables. The
first words that broke upon his half-dazed senses with anything like
clearness were uttered by Frank Amberley.

“Not so much, my dear aunt, to pay our respects to you as to
communicate a most important matter of business to--to Miss Turquand.
I suppose we ought to have come at a proper hour in the business part
of the day, but it was my idea to, if possible, take off the--in fact,
I imagined it might be the most pleasant way of introducing Captain
Desfrayne to bring him here this evening.”

Lady Quaintree had opened her eyes at the commencement of this speech.

“A most important matter of business concerning Miss Turquand?” she
said. “What can it possibly be?”

“She certainly ought to be the first to hear it,” replied Frank
Amberley; “though, as her nearest friend, my dear aunt, you ought to
learn the facts as soon as herself.”

“You have a sufficiently mysterious air, Frank. I feel eager to hear
these wonderful tidings.”

Her ladyship felt a little piqued that her nephew did not offer at once
to give her at least some hint of what the important matter of business
might be about.

A sudden thought seemed to strike her, and she rang a tiny, silver
hand-bell with some sharpness, while an expression of anxiety crossed
her face. As she did so, a figure, so ethereal that it seemed like
an emanation of fancy, floated unexpectedly from the entrance to the
farthest room, and came down the length of the two salons beyond that
in which the little group was stationed.

For a moment it seemed as if this fairylike vision had appeared in
response to the musical tingling of the bell.

A girl of eighteen or nineteen, dressed in the familiar costume of
Undine. A figure, tall, full of a royal dignity and repose, like
that of a statue of Diana. A face surrounded by a radiant glory of
sun-bright hair, recalling those pure saints and martyrs which glow
serenely mild from the dim walls of old Italian or Spanish cathedrals.
Many faults might be found with that face, yet it was one that gained
in attraction at every glance.

The young girl advanced so rapidly down the rooms that she was standing
within a few feet of the two gentlemen before she could plan a swift
retreat.

A vivid, painful blush overspread her face, and she stood as if either
transformed into some beautiful sculptured image, or absolutely unable
to decide which would be the worst of evils--to remain or to fly.

She turned the full luster of her translucent eyes upon Captain
Desfrayne, as some lovely wild creature of the forest might gaze
dismayed at the sight of a hunter, and then recoiled.

Lady Quaintree rose, and quickly moved a few steps, as if to intercept
her, and said:

“My dear, don’t run away. Frank Amberley knows all about the tableau
for which you are obliged to prepare. I thought you would have come
down before to let me see how the dress suited; but I suppose that
abominable Lagrange has been late, as usual. My dear Lois, I am dying
with curiosity. These gentlemen--Captain Desfrayne and Mr. Frank
Amberley--have come to tell you some wonderful piece of business, and I
want to know what it is as soon as possible. Pray stop. You will only
lose time if you go to change your dress.”

“I beseech you, madam, let me go,” pleaded Lois Turquand, troubled
by her unforeseen, embarrassing situation--strangely troubled by the
steadfast gaze which Paul Desfrayne, in spite of himself, fixed upon
her.

“Nonsense! You must hear what they have to say. I feel puzzled, and
anxious to know.”

Lois vainly tried to avoid that singular, inexplicable look, which
seemed to master her. Had she not been so suddenly taken at a
disadvantage, she would have repelled it with displeasure. As it was,
she had a curious sense of being mesmerized. She ceased to urge her
entreaty for permission to depart, and stood motionless, though her
color fluctuated every instant.




CHAPTER IV.

LOIS TURQUAND’S ALTERED FORTUNE.


Frank Amberley looked at Captain Desfrayne, who drew back several
steps--for neither had seated himself, although Lady Quaintree had
signed to them to do so.

It was evident that Captain Desfrayne would not take the initiative, so
Frank Amberley was obliged to explain--more to Lady Quaintree than to
her protégée--that Miss Turquand had been left heiress to a fortune of
one hundred and thirty thousand pounds.

“To just double that sum in reality; but there are certain conditions
attached to the larger amount, which must be fulfilled, or the second
moiety is forfeited,” Mr. Amberley continued, looking down, his voice
not quite so steady as it had been when he began. “I have had a copy of
the will prepared, which Miss Turquand might like to read before seeing
the original.”

He had a folded paper, tied with red tape, in his hand, which he placed
on a table close by Lois. As he did so, his eyes rested for a moment
upon her with a strange, mingled expression of passionate love and
profound despair, at once pathetic and painful.

The young girl still stood immovable, as if in a dream. Her luminous
eyes turned upon the document; but she did not attempt to touch it, or
show in any way that she really comprehended what had been said, except
by that one swift glance of her eyes upon the paper.

“This gentleman--Captain Desfrayne--has been appointed by Mr. Gardiner,
Miss Turquand’s trustee.”

The brilliant eyes were turned for an instant to the countenance of
Captain Desfrayne, and then withdrawn; while still deeper crimson tides
flooded over the lovely face.

“How very extraordinary!” said Lady Quaintree, as if scarcely able to
understand. “How _very_ singular!” she repeated emphatically.

“I am truly glad,” she cried, pulling the cloudy figure toward her,
and kissing the fair young face. “So my little girl is a wealthy
heiress. What will you do with all your money? Go and live in ease,
and give fêtes and garden-parties, and have revels at Christmas, and
amateur theatricals, and knights and ladies gay, or devote yourself to
schools and almshouses, as a favorite hobby? Come, a silver sixpence
for your thoughts.”

Lois, standing perfectly still, leaning against the table, with her
hand resting on the carved back of her patroness’ chair, glanced at her
ladyship, at the lawyer, and at Captain Desfrayne. Then the soft, sweet
eyes drooped. She made no answer. It was impossible to tell from her
face what her feelings might be.

Lady Quaintree was greatly disappointed by this cool reception of the
marvelous news, which had thrown herself into a state of pleasurable
excitement. She turned to her nephew with eager curiosity.

“Can you tell me a few morsels of the contents of this wonderful will?”
she asked. “Who made the will? Who has left all this money to my dear
girl? What was he? and why has he been so generous?”

Lady Quaintree had been quite fond of her companion; but this sudden
access of affection was due to the delightful intelligence brought by
the lawyer.

“The will would explain more clearly than I could do all particulars,”
Frank Amberley replied.

He felt it was absolutely impossible at that moment to enter into any
elucidation whatever, or even to give an outline of the conditions of
the will.

Lois extended the document toward Lady Quaintree.

“Is it very long?” her ladyship demanded, glancing at Frank Amberley.

“It may take you five minutes to read it,” he answered.

She unfolded the paper, and ran her eye rapidly over the contents. Not
one of the others uttered a word--not one ventured to look up, but
remained as if carved out of stone.

Lois found it well-nigh impossible to analyze her sensations; but
certainly the predominant one was that she must be in a dream. She
had every reason to be happy with her protectress, who was as kind as
if the near ties of relationship bound them together; but it would
probably be quite useless to search the world for the girl of eighteen
who could hear unmoved that she had suddenly become the owner of a
large fortune, especially if that girl happened to be in a dependent
position, and to move constantly amid persons with whom money, rank,
and fashion were paramount objects of devotion.

She was the daughter of a court embroideress, who had earned about four
hundred a year by her labors and those of her assistants; but Mrs.
Turquand had never been able--or thought she had not been--to lay by
any portion of her income as a provision for her child. Lady Quaintree
had always liked Lois as a child, and at the death of her mother, three
years since, had taken her to be useful companion and agreeable company
for herself.

That Lois had any expectations from any quarter whatever, nobody ever
for a moment supposed. Everybody of Lady Quaintree’s acquaintance
knew and liked the young girl, who was so pretty, so obliging, so
sweet-tempered. That she should now be suddenly transformed into
the inheritress of great wealth was something like an incident in a
fairy-tale.

Mr. Amberley’s reflections were easily defined. He had for months
past loved this young girl, though he had never yet had sufficient
courage to declare as much, for she seemed totally unconscious of his
preference, and, while certainly not distant nor icy with him, never
gave him the slightest reason to suppose that she ever as much as
remembered him when he was absent. He had, however, the satisfaction
of feeling sure that she cared for no one else. Never even remotely
had he hinted to Lady Quaintree his secret, being well aware she would
discountenance his suit, for many reasons.

It was with the utmost bitterness of spirit that he had seen the girl
apparently removed from the possibility of his being able to pay court
to her; and at the same time not only delivered into the sole charge of
a probable rival, but bound by the most stringent injunctions to marry
a young, handsome, and in every way attractive, man--a man whom he
judged, in his own distrustful humility, much more likely to seize the
fancy of a young beauty than he himself was.

Paul Desfrayne’s thoughts were utterly confused. Since entering the
room, he had scarcely spoken three sentences, and he heartily wished
himself anywhere rather than in this softly illumined suite of rooms,
facing this beautiful girl with the angelic face, whom he had been
commanded and largely bribed to fall in love with and make his wife.

He dreaded the moment when Lady Quaintree should drop her gold-rimmed
eye-glass, and the silence should be broken. At the same time, the
thought of his mother never left him. What would she say when she
learnt the contents of this terrible will? Only too well he foresaw the
scenes he should be obliged to go through. As for this girl herself,
lovely as some poet’s vision, he resolved to see as little of her
as might be compatible with the fulfilment of his legal duties and
responsibilities toward her. What a pitiful coward he felt himself! Why
could he not tell the truth, and save so much possible future suffering?

Lady Quaintree read through the closely written document, and then,
folding it up, stared at each of the three persons before her, with
an almost comic expression of amazement upon her fair, unwrinkled
countenance.

“Captain Desfrayne,” she said, smiling as she held out her hand, “I
trust you will be pleased to remain with us this evening as long as
your inclinations or other engagements permit. I expect some very
pleasant friends--some really distinguished persons, with whom you may
either already be well acquainted, or whom you might not object to
meet.”

There was such a stately yet gracious dignity in her manner that
Captain Desfrayne caught the infection, and bowed over the delicate
white hand with almost old-fashioned chivalric courtesy.

“You will pardon my leaving you two gentlemen alone for a few minutes,”
she added. “Lois, my love, I will go with you to your room.”

Lady Quaintree quitted the salon, followed by the beautiful figure,
clad in its cloudy robes of ethereal white.

“Let us go at once to your apartment, my child,” she said, leading the
way.

Her eyes were bright with eager excitement, for she was surprised and
pleased by the totally unexpected change in her young companion’s
fortunes; and she loved the girl so much that she was rejoiced to see
her rise from her inferior station to one of wealth--to see so fair and
sunny a prospect opening before her.

She glided up the stairs with a step so alert that forty years seemed
lifted from her age; and in a minute they were within the precincts of
the pretty room which was the domain of Lois Turquand.

“My love,” Lady Quaintree said, closing the door with a careful hand,
“I am so pleased I can hardly tell you how much. You, no doubt, wish to
know the contents of this wondrous paper? My dear, it is as interesting
as a fairy-tale. You are a good girl, and deserve all the good fortune
Heaven may please to send you.”

She kissed the young girl’s forehead very kindly. Lois returned the
caress with passionate warmth, and laid her head down upon her old
friend’s shoulder.

“Lois, before I give you this to read, I want you to do something,
which, perhaps, you might feel too agitated afterward to manage.”

“What is that, dear madam?”

“You must not call me ‘madam’ or ‘my lady’ any more, pet. I want you to
change this fantastical dress for your black silk, and wear my pretty
jet ornaments, and also a pair of my white gloves, with the black silk
embroidery which I bought in Paris. I think it is a mark of respect you
owe to your benefactor. Did you ever see or hear of him?”

“Never, madam.”

“Shall I ring for Justine to help you in dressing?”

A faint smile dimpled the corners of the young girl’s lips as she shook
her head.

Lady Quaintree looked about for the bell, then laughed at her
own forgetfulness. From this little chamber--formerly a small
dressing-room--there was no communication with the servants’ domain.
Her ladyship, taking the copy of the will with her, crossed to her own
apartment, only a few steps distant.

When she returned, she was followed by her waiting-maid, who was
carrying a package of black laces; a pair of gloves; a filmy lace
handkerchief, on which was some black edging; and a black fan--one
of Lady Quaintree’s treasures, for it had once belonged to Marie
Antoinette.

In those few minutes Lois had thrown off her cloudy robes, divested
herself completely of her assumed character of Undine, and donned a
handsome black silk evening-dress.

Lady Quaintree was carrying a black-and-gold case, which she placed
upon the dressing-table and opened. It contained a complete set of jet
ornaments.

She ordered Justine to unfasten the black lace already upon Miss
Turquand’s robe, and replace it by that in her custody.

The black lace selected by Lady Quaintree was, Justine knew, very
valuable, and the richest she had; the jet ornaments, she also knew,
her ladyship prized; so, great was her secret amazement not only to see
Miss Turquand habited in black, when the blue and white she had meant
to wear was lying outspread upon a couch, but at the lively interest
displayed by Lady Quaintree in the somber metamorphosis, and perhaps,
above all, at the fact of the stately dame being in Miss Turquand’s
apartment.

The discreet Frenchwoman, however, said not one word; but, taking out
needles and thread from a “pocket-companion,” she dexterously obeyed
the orders received from her mistress.

Lois was so astounded by the news she had heard that she was incapable
of doing anything but what, in fact, she had already done, implicitly
followed directions. She permitted Lady Quaintree to clasp the jet
suite upon her neck and arms, and in her ears, and looked at the
gloves, and handkerchief, and fan with the glance of one walking in her
sleep.

Justine, wondering, though she did not utter a syllable, was dismissed,
and Lady Quaintree desired Lois to sit down.

“We have already been absent nearly twenty minutes,” she said,
consulting her tiny watch. “I wished to arrange your toilet before I
told you what is really in this will. Perhaps you think I treat you as
a child; but you are already agitated, and when you know the eccentric
nature of the conditions, you will, probably, be much startled. Pray
read it, my dear.”

Lois did so, with changing color and flashing eyes. When she finished,
she threw the paper upon the table, and, rising from her chair, walked
to and fro, as if under the influence of uncontrollable emotion. Then
she abruptly paused before Lady Quaintree, extending her hands as if in
protest.

“Why should this person,” she exclaimed, “of whom I never heard--of
whom I knew nothing till this hour--why should this stranger have left
me all this money, and why bind me with such conditions? I feel as if I
could not, ought not, to accept the gift he has given me. He must have
been a lunatic!”

“Softly, softly, softly, my dearest! You are talking at random.”

“How can I face that man again?--he must know, of course,” Lois
continued vehemently, referring to Paul Desfrayne.

“We shall see more clearly after a while, Lois. Certainly, I am
surprised by this affair; but perhaps my nephew, Amberley, may be able
to enlighten us a little more. Come, let us go down. They will wonder
if I, at least, keep them waiting much longer.”

“No--no, dear Lady Quaintree. I cannot go now. I feel as if I must
shrink into the earth rather than meet them again,” said Lois,
recoiling as Lady Quaintree offered her hand.

“Nonsense! I did not think my quiet, soft-spoken Lois was made of such
silly stuff.”

“Dear Lady Quaintree, I really _cannot_ go now. Perhaps, when the
rooms are full of people, and I can hope to escape observation, I may
venture.”

“Will you faithfully promise to come when I send for you--or, at least,
in half an hour?”

“Yes--yes, dear madam.”

Lady Quaintree was obliged to be satisfied. In her secret heart she
was sorry for the conditions which so horrified her young friend.

For a vast change had taken place in her plans since she had heard
her nephew tell his news. What she had dreaded and feared hitherto
she would now gladly see accomplished; but here were difficulties,
apparently insurmountable, placed in her way.

As she paused for a moment on the threshold, she glanced at the
statuesque figure of Lois. A curious, superstitious feeling crept over
her, and a thrill of painful presentiment passed through her heart.

The young girl had entered the room only some twenty or thirty minutes
before, arrayed like some glittering creature of light, sparkling with
diamonds, placed, by desire of Lady Quaintree, among the gauzy folds
of her semitransparent robes to represent drops of water, her superb,
sun-bright hair floating like a halo of glory about her, radiant as a
spirit.

Now she was draped in somber black, her aspect changed as by an
enchanter’s wand. Her spiritual beauty did not suffer, it is true.
She looked, if possible, more lovely thus shrouded; but--but still,
Lady Quaintree wished that the news had not involved donning signs of
mourning, and thought that people had no business to dictate terms of
love and marriage from the grave.

“An unlucky omen!” she thought, gathering up her violet skirts and
embroidered jupons.




CHAPTER V.

A TRIPLE BONDAGE.


Lady Quaintree had hoped to glean a little more information from the
two gentlemen, for she was as much excited as if she herself had been
the inheritrix of the eccentric old man’s money.

But she was disappointed. Scarcely had she returned to the principal
drawing-room, when five or six guests arrived, and from that moment
people came pouring into the salons until there was a well-bred,
well-dressed throng.

Lois did not wait to be sent for. She came in with a quiet, calm
dignity of manner, the color a shade deeper on her cheeks, and a
feverish glitter in her eyes, but otherwise self-possessed, as usual.

Her marked change of costume attracted universal attention, and many
inquiries were made. Lady Quaintree had the supreme felicity of being
able to diffuse the information just received through a dozen different
channels, whereby she was sure it would permeate to society in general.

“I should not have permitted her to appear had this been a
dancing-party,” she explained. “But it is so quiet, and I am unable to
manage without her.

“She is quite like a daughter to me,” she went on, thoroughly believing
her own enthusiastic speeches, and feeling a maternal pride swell her
bosom. A tear or so lightly brushed away by her lace handkerchief would
have added to the effect, but tears come and go at will, not at the
command of those who would summon or dismiss them.

Miss Turquand sat so tranquil in appearance, and bore the masked
battery of curious eyes so calmly, that some people who listened with
amazement were indignant. Lady Quaintree’s companion did not seem
conscious that anything unusual had happened. Two or three times
she glanced through the veil of silken lashes which fringed her
translucent gray eyes at Captain Desfrayne, but it was a glance swift
as lightning, not betraying the most transient glimpse of the strange,
mingled feelings of resentment and lively interest aroused in her heart
by the claim made upon her in behalf of the handsome young officer.

Captain Desfrayne carefully avoided looking at his beautiful charge.
He seemed to be profoundly indifferent on the subject of Mr. Vere
Gardiner’s whims and fancies, and neither approached Miss Turquand nor
evinced the slightest desire to become acquainted with her.

Frank Amberley and Lady Quaintree thought this strange, but neither
showed that they were in any way conscious of Captain Desfrayne’s cold
indifference toward the young girl.

Paul Desfrayne found some people among the crowd whom he knew, and
was introduced to some others by his hostess, or by Frank Amberley,
so he ought not to have experienced the profound sense of ennui and
oppression which made him long to be anywhere but in this brilliant
throng.

Lady Quaintree at last seized an opportunity of questioning her nephew
on the subject of the mysterious old man, and in a few words he gave
her as much information as he thought advisable.

“How extraordinary!” she said. “What a very romantic case! I have
no objection to his leaving a fine fortune to my dear little girl,
but I think he should not have hampered her with such disagreeable
conditions. He seems to have been remarkably eccentric.”

“I knew scarcely anything of him,” Mr. Amberley replied. “I think,
certainly, it was an odd thing for him to lay such an embargo on the
liberty of two young people, and I doubt not but the expression of his
wishes will most probably be the means of hindering them from----”

He abruptly paused. His aunt looked searchingly at him, anxious to
learn his secret thoughts, for more reasons than one.

“I know Lois will never be the one to love when she is ordered to
dispose of her affections,” she said, very quietly. “And I am
perfectly convinced she will never marry any one whom she does not
love.”

A most wonderfully indiscreet question--one which he knew
Lady Quaintree would not answer, but which he longed to ask,
nevertheless--trembled on the lips of the young lawyer, yet he could
not form the necessary words. He was about to ask:

“Do you think she cares for any one at present?” But Lady Quaintree was
called away before he could muster sufficient presence of mind even to
debate with himself whether it were possible to as much as hint such a
query.

Lois’ opinion of Paul Desfrayne, gathered from those fugitive glances,
was that she could never like him even as a friend. He seemed so cold,
so self-absorbed, so haughty, that her sense of antagonism deepened.
The strange, bewildering sense of magnetic attraction which had fallen
upon her during the first few moments of their unexpected meeting had
faded away, to be replaced by a firmly rooted conviction that she
could never entertain even the mildest liking for this almost stern,
melancholy looking guardian.

Paul Desfrayne’s idea of Lois--at whom he had, indeed, hardly glanced
at all--was that, while beautiful as a statue, she was as icy as if
carved from marble.

Deeper and darker grew the cloud upon the young man’s brow; and at
length, finding a favorable chance to escape unseen, he quitted
the softly illumined drawing-room, wherein he had deemed himself a
prisoner; and with a slow step he descended the wide, richly carpeted
staircase, revolving thoughts evidently not too pleasing.

He had just reached the bottom of the stairs when a figure, radiant as
Venus herself, alighted from a brougham at the door, and swept over the
threshold, in all the pride and glory of the most brilliant and latest
Parisian toilet.

It was the woman who had been sitting in the balcony in Porchester
Square the previous evening, when the weary pedestrian had stopped
Captain Desfrayne, and implored his pity.

Almost at the moment when she alighted, she was met by a young man, who
was about to enter the mansion.

This young man was Lady Quaintree’s only son--a fair, slender, rather
foppish young fellow, with a pale, interesting face, and a pretty,
graceful figure.

The attention of the resplendent creature in pink satin and white
lace was turned smilingly on this young man, who stepped eagerly
forward, and offered her his arm; otherwise she must have seen Captain
Desfrayne, who gazed at her as people are supposed to stare at specters.

A few muttered, half-broken words escaped Paul Desfrayne’s lips, and he
looked hurriedly about, with the air of an animal at bay. Then, swiftly
turning, as the two gay, laughing and flirting apparitions came up the
hall, he threw aside a crimson velvet portière, and plunged recklessly
into a room close at hand.

It was a moderate-sized sitting-room, flooded with a soft, pure light,
and deliciously cool in contrast to the heated salons above.

Paul Desfrayne was about to congratulate himself on the retired nook
into which he had managed to tumble; but almost at the instant when
he entered, he heard a silvery, musical voice, sounding so as to
evidence that the person who owned it was rapidly approaching from a
conservatory opening on the room--the voice of his mother, speaking in
animated conversation.

It was impossible to retreat, though he would gladly have avoided even
his idolized mother at that moment. Nay, she was just then the last
being he desired to see.

She would naturally be surprised to meet him here, for until this
evening he had scarcely known anything of Lord or Lady Quaintree.

The clustered lights above the doorway, half-hidden as they were by
climbing exotics trained in prodigal profusion about slender columns,
shed their glowing beams upon an animated face and superbly handsome
figure, as Mrs. Desfrayne appeared, arrayed, as was her wont, with
faultless taste. Her companion was Lord Quaintree, the famous judge--a
tall, noble old Englishman.

“I am free to confess, my lord,” she was saying, “that I do not at all
approve of the presence of these singing-women at reunions such as this
of to-night. They are very well in their proper places, these people.”
It would be impossible to give any idea of the insolent disdain with
which these words were uttered. “But they ought not to be allowed to
mix with----”

She suddenly paused, as she caught sight of Paul, and, in her
amazement, stood still, gazing upon him with an expression of blank
astonishment. Half-angry with herself for being so surprised, she felt
that she was accidentally placed in an almost ludicrous position for
the moment; yet she could not as much as speak a word.

Captain Desfrayne, for his part, could not have uttered one syllable
if his life had depended on it. He had never, in all his days, felt so
completely at a nonplus--so forlorn, so distracted, as he did at this
instant. A terrible scene he knew was at hand, and he could not tell
what might be the result.

Lord Quaintree looked with surprise from one to the other, not being
able to comprehend what was passing before his eyes. He had never seen
Captain Desfrayne, and could not guess why Mrs. Desfrayne should be
thus betrayed into so singular a display of emotion. Conscious that
probably he might be a little in the way, he yet did not know how to
move himself off the stage with his ordinary easy grace.

Mrs. Desfrayne was the first to speak. She exclaimed:

“Paul!”

Captain Desfrayne bowed.

“At your service, madam,” he said, very simply.

“I was not aware----Lord Quaintree, my son--my only son--Captain
Desfrayne.”

Lord Quaintree smiled, and held out his hand. He saw that something was
amiss, without knowing what.

“I hope to see you presently, Captain Desfrayne,” he said, with his
pleasant, urbane manner. “I must show myself up-stairs at once, or my
lady will think I have run away.”

He left the room, surmising that the two would greatly prefer being
left together. But for very shame’s sake, Paul would have caught him by
the sleeve, and detained him as a temporary shield.




CHAPTER VI.

PAUL’S GALLING SHACKLES.


“You are surprised to see me here to-night, Mimi,” Paul Desfrayne
said, using an old childish pet-name that always disarmed his mother.
“I came here with a friend to see Lady Quaintree”--he hesitated
painfully--“on--on business.”

Mrs. Desfrayne opened her big blue eyes, and looked him straight in the
face. A spasm of pique passed through her heart.

“You did not know that _I_ was acquainted with Lady Quaintree?” she
remarked, half-sarcastically, opening and shutting her fan with a
movement which he knew well of old as indicating vexation. She was
angry that he had come hither with some friend unknown to her, instead
of asking her for an introduction, and telling her of his business.

“My dear mother, I did not know until this very afternoon that I was to
come here. I remembered, when I heard the name, that you had spoken of
her. It was she who lent you the opera-box last night, was it not?”

“Well--well, it does not signify. I must not be inquisitive,” said Mrs.
Desfrayne, confident that she must learn all sooner or later. “Have
you heard or seen anything of the young lady you spoke of yesterday
evening?”

“I have.”

“You have?” cried Mrs. Desfrayne, drawing a step or two nearer to him.
“What is she like? Where does she live? Is she pretty? What is she?”

Captain Desfrayne paused for an instant, as if perplexed at such a
volley of questions.

“Her name is Lois Turquand, and she is the companion of Lady
Quaintree,” he then very quietly replied.

Mrs. Desfrayne retreated several steps, as if confounded.

“You are jesting!” she angrily exclaimed, unable to credit that she had
heard aright.

“I presume you have seen the young lady?”

“Miss Turquand!” Mrs. Desfrayne slowly repeated--“Lois Turquand! Oh, it
is impossible!”

The information did not seem to afford her much pleasure, and there was
a visible expression of blank disappointment upon her face.

The truth--or part of the truth--was that Mrs. Desfrayne had no great
liking for Lois Turquand. By nature aristocratic, proud as a duchess of
Norman descent, she cared not for persons beneath her in station, while
winning and all that was gracious to those in her own rank or above her.

To Lady Quaintree, wife of the world-famed lawyer, she had ever paid
eager court; but Miss Turquand, the daughter of an embroideress,
a penniless nobody, she had always politely ignored. When her son
had told her of the strange will which had placed him in such an
unexpectedly advantageous position, she had built, with feminine
imaginative rapidity and skill, sparkling castles in the traitorous
air. All her life she had yearned to mix freely in society--she longed
to be a leader of fashion, a star in the hemisphere of the beau monde;
but her income was limited. Her husband, a colonel in the army, had
died almost a poor man, leaving her some six hundred a year, and to
her son an equal pittance--for such she considered it, measured by her
desires and wants. She was still young and most beautiful when left a
widow, and might have married again advantageously, but her overweening
ambition had induced her to reject more than one excellent offer, and
now it was too late to retrieve these errors of judgment--though she
still had her secret plans and schemes.

Under a fair and smiling mask she hid many little feminine piques and
spites, and one of her pet “aversions” happened to be Miss Turquand.
She could hardly pardon the girl her roseate youth, her fresh, piquant
loveliness, her grace, spontaneous as that of a wood-nymph. For some
reason, unexplainable even to herself, she always experienced a
horribly galling sense of being old, and world-worn, and artificial,
in presence of Lois Turquand, and it created a small vindictive
sense of envy and spite that augured ill for any future attempt at
conciliation. Her short-lived dream of taking the young person left
in her son’s charge in hand, and shining in society by means of a
reflected light, was at an end.

She could have better endured to hear that the legatee was a plain
young woman, in a vastly inferior station. It was as if her son had
held a draft of gall and wormwood to her lips, and asked her to swallow
it.

“It is incredible!” she said, after a brief pause, during which she
kept her eyes fixed upon her son’s face.

“You have certainly surprised me,” she added, slightly shrugging her
shoulders. “Though why I should feel surprise, I cannot tell. It is
absurd, I have no doubt. So Miss Turquand has become a young woman of
property. I long ago was determined not to be astonished at anything,
and I take a fresh resolution from to-night. Was the person who left
her this money a relative?”

“No.”

“Not a relative! May I ask what----Am I indiscreet in asking for any
particulars?”

Paul Desfrayne knew that sooner or later his mother must become
acquainted with everything that the will contained. It was better to
take things with a good grace, and let her hear now, than to shrink
and keep silence, or grant half-confidences, and make bad worse, by
appearing to make a mystery of what was apparently a simple matter.

“The old gentleman of whom I was speaking to you last night--Mr. Vere
Gardiner--has left Miss Turquand one hundred and thirty thousand pounds
unconditionally. He has left me ten thousand in the same way, but----”

With an effort he rapidly told her the general contents of the will.

“You marry Miss Turquand!” almost angrily cried Mrs. Desfrayne,
flirting her fan backward and forward with a nervous movement. She had
seated herself, in her agitation, while Paul remained standing a few
steps from her.

“Such are the terms of the will. If she dies before the three years
have expired, I am to receive--I forget how many thousands.”

“Have you seen her?”

“I have.”

“How do you like her?”

“Not at all, as far as I can judge.”

A smile, almost of gratification, rippled over the fair, smooth face of
his mother at this admission. She was on the point of exclaiming: “I am
glad of it!” but checked herself, and remarked instead:

“How is it that I find you here alone?”

These words recalled Captain Desfrayne to his exact position. He felt
as if he could have given worlds to speak with the old freedom to the
woman who loved him so fondly--could he but explain to her what weighed
upon his life like a constant nightmare. But it was impossible. He was
a coward, and dared not face her inevitable anger.

“I was going away just as I saw you,” he replied, with apparent
tranquillity, though his heart for a moment had beat wildly at the
thought of making his confession. “The rooms were frightfully hot
up-stairs, and this place seemed so cool and inviting, I lingered.”

“You will take me up-stairs, however. Does Lady Quaintree know you are
my son?”

Captain Desfrayne had not thought of it.

“I have such an intolerable headache!” he pleaded, anxious to escape;
and his temples throbbed to agony. “I really cannot stay.”

“That is very unusual with you, having a headache,” said his mother.
“What is the cause of it?”

The young man shrugged his shoulders without replying in words.

His mother urged him, only half-believing in his excuse, to escort her
up-stairs. She had many reasons for desiring his company. Although it
was a little vexatious, perhaps, for so young-looking a woman to be
attended by a son who seemed nearly as old as she did herself, she
always wished for his escort. He was so handsome, so dignified, so
chivalrous, gallant, devoted, in his behavior--there was the mother’s
pride and glory to atone in a measure for the beauty’s mortified
vanity. At this moment she wished to see him with Miss Turquand, to
judge how far affairs were likely to go; she wanted to hear Lady
Quaintree’s opinion, and see how Miss Turquand carried herself beneath
the golden blaze of her new prosperity. But it was in vain she urged
him, and she was piqued by this odd refusal. He was determined to go at
once.

“Well, you must call to-morrow, Paul. I am dying with curiosity to hear
all the rest, and your opinion, and so on.”

Captain Desfrayne escaped. The balmy air cooled his fevered pulses, and
he walked rapidly away into the darkness of the summer’s night.

“Good heavens, what an escape!” he muttered. “I don’t know what
earthly inducement could have impelled me to go up-stairs. My poor
mother! What an ungrateful villain I feel in deceiving her! It was
an accursed day when that brilliant butterfly crossed my path, and
led me away as easily as ever schoolboy was lured into a mad chase on
an idle afternoon, or peasant lout drawn into pursuit of a gleaming
Jack-o’-lantern. There is no peace, no happiness for me henceforth.
I sometimes wish my mother knew all. It would be an infinite weight
lifted off my mind; and yet I dare not--I dare not tell her.”

The desire to be rid of this painful secret rose so strongly within his
breast, that when he had traversed several streets, he abruptly paused
to reflect on the advisability of going to the house in Porchester
Square, where his mother was staying, and awaiting her return, with the
object of telling her precisely how he was situated.

“No,” he at length decided. “I _cannot_ do so to-night. To-morrow,
perhaps, I shall be more courageous. If this unlucky piece of ‘good
fortune,’ as I suppose some folks would style it, had not occurred, I
might have borne my secret some few years longer--maybe forever--safe
locked within my breast, there to gnaw away my life at its ease. But
this misguided old man’s absurd whim has been the fatal means of
letting in a flood of misery now and in the future upon my most unhappy
head. It is well that the girl is cold and seemingly impassive. It is
also providential that she has powerful friends, who will render my
duties merely nominal.”

The sleepy quiet of the aristocratic street through which he was
passing with slow, undecided steps was broken by swift-rolling wheels.

The gleaming lamps of a dashing brougham threw long gleams of light
through the semiobscurity of the somber thoroughfare, and the champ of
the horses’ feet, the jingle of the silver harness, evidenced that the
vehicle belonged to some one of wealth, if not of position.

Paul Desfrayne’s glance was mechanically attracted to this handsome
equipage, unconsciously to himself.

As it passed him, the face of a woman appeared at the window--the face
of Madam Guiscardini thus coming before him like an apparition for the
second time this night.

Her face looked like some beautiful pictured head painted on a dark
background. She did not see him, but spoke to the coachman, apparently
giving him some new direction. Glancing forth like a vision, she as
rapidly vanished again, and in a moment the brougham had swept off down
one of the side streets.

Paul Desfrayne struck his hands together with a gesture of despair.

“She seems to haunt me to-night like some evil spirit,” he muttered.
“I did not know she was in London. Her face fills me with affright and
a sense of coming danger. Can it be true that I once fancied I loved
this woman, and that I let her crush my life forevermore with her cold,
pitiless hand? Can it be that I am her bond-slave--no longer free to
do more than move in the one dull round day by day, with these galling
shackles about me, forced to relinquish all the bright hopes of love
and happiness that bring sunshine about other men? Oh! fool, fool, fool
that I have been!” he cried, aloud.

Then he once more quickened his steps, as if to escape from himself.




CHAPTER VII.

AN UNINTENTIONAL CUT.


Mrs. Desfrayne then went up-stairs unattended--an arrangement not at
all to her liking, for she would fain still retain all the airs and
customs of a beauty yet in the heyday of sunshiny existence.

She swept one searching glance round the suite of crowded rooms,
seeking the unwelcome figure of Lois Turquand.

It was the work of some minutes discovering Lois. The young girl stood
a little apart from the throng, her graceful head slightly bent as she
listened to the earnest words of a stately dowager, who was probably
congratulating her upon her change of fortune.

There was a dignity and a certain consciousness in Lois’ bearing which
Mrs. Desfrayne had never noticed with her before. She reproached
herself now for having been so uniformly cold and frigid with the girl,
for she adored wealth, and she judged by herself that it was impossible
the new-made heiress could overlook or forgive all the petty slights
she had suffered from the insolent widow.

Mrs. Desfrayne was going to address Lady Quaintree, when Miss Turquand
crossed quickly, not perceiving her. She laid a detaining hand on the
young girl’s arm.

“I am delighted to hear of your good fortune, my dear,” she said, with
a little perceptible embarrassment.

Lois raised her clear eyes, and looked for a moment into the suavely
smiling face before her with an expression difficult to define. Then
she bowed: it was a perfectly gracious but decidedly icy inclination.
She did not answer in words; but, with an ambiguous smile, passed on.

Never for an instant could Mrs. Desfrayne have imagined in her wildest
fancies that the tables could have been so completely turned upon her.

It was a fine moral lesson, only, unfortunately, it fell short of
its mark; and the coldness of Miss Turquand, partly unintentional and
partly arising from habit, made the haughty woman of the world detest
yet more the girl whom she had hitherto simply ignored and noticed
as little as if she had been a piece of furniture of very ordinary
importance.

Mrs. Desfrayne turned pale with rage. She almost wished the old man who
had made the eccentric will had been sunk to the bottom of the sea ere
he had committed his money and his ridiculous desires to paper. _That
girl_ the wife of her son! Truly, she had need be radiant with the
glitter of gold before she could possess any attractions in the eyes of
this proud and ambitious, yet narrow-minded, woman.

Many mothers are quite willing to think with some complacence of
an ideal wife for their sons--a wife to be selected by themselves,
perhaps: a creature of the imagination. But when it comes to be a
matter of sober reality--when there is a real flesh-and-blood being,
not a stone ideal, set before them--why, it is a very different affair.

Mrs. Desfrayne made her way to Lady Quaintree, and promised herself
that she would arrange for a long chat on this absorbing subject, if
she could persuade her good hostess to ask for her company in a drive
round the park.

During the singing of some Italian duets by the artists who had been
gathered together for the night, she contrived to learn a good deal.

One thing she accidentally ascertained which a little modified her
vague schemes and speculations.

She discovered that hitherto Lady Quaintree had been in terror lest her
son Gerald should fall in love with Miss Turquand. Now this would be
the most desirable thing that could happen, even if the young girl were
shorn of half her newly acquired fortune.

Lady Quaintree did not know she was betraying her secret wishes, but
Mrs. Desfrayne was very quick-witted, and at the same time a pattern of
tranquil discretion.

Frank Amberley did not leave the charmed precincts of the house until
he could not stay any longer. The more the object of his passionate
attachment was withdrawn from his reach, the more mad did his longing
become to possess her. But he was an honorable man, and all should be
fair in the fight.

He had closely watched Paul Desfrayne until that young man’s departure,
and the feeling of deep mistrust against him had painfully intensified.
It was with a profound sense of relief, however, that he found neither
Captain Desfrayne nor Lois apparently disposed to cultivate any
approach to acquaintanceship.

For some time before the hour fixed for supper, he had hovered about
Lois, with the hope of being able to offer her his arm down-stairs. The
sharp eyes of Lady Quaintree were on the alert, unfortunately for the
success of his plans, and to his anger and mortification he saw Lois
assigned to a stranger.

As he flung himself wearily into a hansom, and lighted his cigar for
consolation during his journey homeward, Frank Amberley had ample
subject-matter for meditation.

Although not so bitter or remorseful, his thoughts were scarcely more
agreeable than those of Paul Desfrayne.




CHAPTER VIII.

THE NEW VALET.


Captain Desfrayne walked with hasty, irregular steps in the direction
of his own home.

The servant who admitted him said that a person was waiting up-stairs,
being earnestly desirous of an interview.

“I should not have let him wait, sir,” the man added apologetically,
“only he said he had an appointment with you for to-day, and seemed so
dreadfully disappointed because he didn’t see you.”

Captain Desfrayne had altogether forgotten that he had desired the
Italian valet to call upon him. His conscience reproached him for what
he considered selfishness, in being so engrossed; and he hurried up to
his own apartments.

The doors of the inner rooms were locked; but there was a pleasant
little antechamber, almost luxuriously furnished as a smoking-room.

This was now fully lighted from a handsome chandelier; and standing at
the table in the center of the apartment was the tall, gaunt Italian
who had claimed Captain Desfrayne’s sympathy the evening before.

The evening before! It seemed to Paul Desfrayne as if it must have been
months since he had gone through that short, half-smiling interview
with his mother.

The table was scattered over with newspapers, magazines, French novels,
and other aids to kill time agreeably and intellectually at the same
time.

As Captain Desfrayne entered, the Italian servant was looking at one of
the papers intently--so much absorbed that his left hand unconsciously
crushed it.

It was that day’s issue of an illustrated paper.

The entire page upon which the eyes of the man seemed fixed was
occupied by an oval-shaped portrait of a lady--of whom, Captain
Desfrayne could not discern.

The fellow clenched his right hand, and shook it at the mute
representation of the beautiful woman, and muttered some words in
Italian, in so low a key that their import did not reach Captain
Desfrayne.

The next moment the step of the latter made the valet start violently
and turn. He fumbled with the paper, and tried to turn over the pages,
but his hands were trembling so much that he was unable to do so; and
Captain Desfrayne was at the table before he could conceal what had so
much interested him.

It was the engraved portrait of the beautiful singer who had been
sitting in the balcony in Porchester Square the evening before.

Paul Desfrayne looked at the man, who had not had time to compose his
features. There was an expression of deadly hatred yet lingering upon
them, though he evidently tried hard to master his emotion.

For an instant Captain Desfrayne felt an almost overwhelming desire to
speak to him about the signora; but a second thought determined him to
be silent, and appear not to have noticed the little mute scene. He
resolved, however, at all hazards, to engage this man in his service;
for his curiosity, if no deeper feeling, was strongly excited.

“My good fellow,” he began, in a very kindly tone, “I am sincerely
sorry, but I totally forgot our arrangement. I had business of the
utmost importance to attend to, and so it slipped from my memory.”

Gilardoni bowed very low, dexterously turning the paper as he did so.

“I trust you will excuse the liberty I took in waiting for you, sir,”
he answered, with profound humility. “But I have no friend save you, if
I can dare to call you a friend.”

Paul Desfrayne had resolved to take the fellow into his service, if he
were anything short of an escaped galley-slave. He did not tell him so,
however, but said very quietly:

“I hope I may be able to show you some kindness, for you seem sorely in
need of it.”

Gilardoni clasped his hands, and looked at the captain.

“I will serve you truly and well, if you will let me,” he cried.

“What recommendations--what credentials have you to show?” asked
Captain Desfrayne.

The man eagerly unbuttoned his shabby, threadbare coat, and, diving his
thin fingers into an inner pocket, drew forth a bundle of letters and
papers. He chose one document, which he extended to Captain Desfrayne.

“This is a written character from my poor master, sir. You knew his
writing--you will see what he says of me.”

Captain Desfrayne took the envelope; and opening it, was about to
extract the enclosure, when a small, folded morsel of note-paper fell
out, and dropped on the table. Quick as lightning, Gilardoni snatched
it up--not rudely, but with a kind of panic expressed in his face and
in every gesture.

Captain Desfrayne’s eye had caught sight of the characters before he
was aware that he was guilty of any possible indiscretion in looking
upon them.

The blood rushed to his face, and then receded to his heart. Only too
easily did he recognize the ill-formed characters. It was the writing
of the woman who had influenced his life for evil--the beautiful
Signora Guiscardini.

With infinite presence of mind, he affected not to have particularly
observed the stray, fluttering paper, and began to read the letter of
recommendation.

More than ever, he had made up his mind to receive this man into his
service. He longed to ask him, then and there, bluntly, what the
mysterious tie might be that caused him to take so much interest in the
signora, and why he had a note written by her in his possession--a note
which he evidently feared any one else might see.

He was unable to study the man’s face; for as he read the
recommendatory letter, he was conscious that the fellow’s keen eyes
were fixed upon him with a furtive anxiety.

“When can you come to me?” he asked.

A glitter as of tears of delight gleamed in those bright, half-hungry
eyes, as Gilardoni eagerly answered:

“Any time. To-night, if you will, sir.”

“Very well. So be it.”

The little details of terms and so on were soon settled. Captain
Desfrayne unlocked the door leading to the inner apartments, and in a
very few minutes Gilardoni was occupied in noiselessly flitting about,
putting things straight with an almost womanly softness and dexterity.
Captain Desfrayne threw himself upon a sofa, lighted a cigar, and,
leaning back, watched him with a curiosity that was attaining an
uncomfortable height.

“I would give a thousand pounds, if I were so rich, to know what link
there is between this poor wretch and the star singer,” he thought.
“But I am sure to know in time, I imagine, and I must not startle him.

“Give me some of those papers that are lying on the table in the next
room,” he said, aloud.

Gilardoni obeyed his orders with nimble alacrity, and lighted a
reading-lamp that stood on a table at the head of the couch.




CHAPTER IX.

PLAYING AT CROSS-PURPOSES.


Captain Desfrayne selected a paper, and slowly turned over the pages
as he cut them. Some time elapsed before he spoke; for he could not
exactly frame words in which to put the question he meant to ask.

“What part of Italy did you come from?” he inquired carelessly,
following the spiral line of cigar-smoke, as he breathed it from his
lips.

Gilardoni looked at him with that furtive glance Captain Desfrayne had
already noticed; but replied, without seeming to hesitate:

“From Florence, sir.”

“Ah! Have you any relatives living?”

“None, sir. Not one. My father and mother died when I was a young
child, leaving me to the care of a distant relative, who has since
died, and I never had either brothers or sisters.”

The faint suspicion that had arisen in Paul Desfrayne’s mind that
the brilliant prima donna might be this fellow’s sister, was then
negatived. Probably, some humble lover of her early days, whom she had
despised, perhaps jilted? So superbly beautiful a creature, born in
an Italian village, must have had many adorers; and he knew her to be
arrogant and callous of other people’s feelings, and incredibly vain of
her own manifold attractions.

“A countrywoman of yours,” he abruptly said, with an effort at smiling,
as he turned out the large, oval engraving of Madam Guiscardini.

Gilardoni could not refuse to look; but he drew back his lips as some
animals do when in a fury. The action might pass for an affirmative
smile, but it was uglier than any frown.

“Yes,” he curtly replied.

“Did you know her?”

Gilardoni did not respond this time; but gave his attention to a tall
vase, which he seemed to find in need of being relieved of the dust
that had accumulated round the flutings.

Captain Desfrayne waited for a minute, and then repeated the question.

“Why, sir, everybody knows her--everybody all over the world,”
Gilardoni answered, only half-turning round.

He spoke with a strong effort to display indifference; but his manner
and voice both betrayed singular constraint. Paul Desfrayne was
prepared for this, and did not take any notice, but continued:

“She was but a village girl, I suppose, when you knew her? They say she
is going to marry a Russian prince.”

This time Gilardoni made a great effort, and, looking his new master
full in the face, with a vacant, uninterested expression, said:

“Do they, sir?”

There was no doubt that Gilardoni was on his guard, and would not
betray more than he could possibly help.

Paul Desfrayne would not give up yet, for that eager desire to know
what secret reason this man had for hating Madam Guiscardini so
bitterly as he seemed to do was almost unconquerable.

“They say,” he went on slowly, lowering his eyes, and taking a
tiny nail-knife from his waistcoat-pocket, to keep his glances
ostentatiously employed, “that the beautiful songstress is already
married.”

These men were playing at cross-purposes. The master would have given
all he possessed in the world to have learned the secret which was of
no value whatever to the servant. Four monosyllables would have served
to unlock those dreary prison doors, and let in the light of possible
happiness upon that poor, weary soul, who was suffering the penalty of
the one mistake of his young life.

Paul Desfrayne glanced for a swift instant at Gilardoni. The Italian’s
strong, nervous hands were clutched fast upon the top of the chair in
front of him; his face was alternately red and pale, and his eyes were
gleaming like fire.

“Who told you that?” he demanded, in a sepulchral whisper.

“I don’t know,” Captain Desfrayne answered, slightly shrugging his
shoulders. “People tell you all sorts of things about eminent singers
and public characters generally.”

Gilardoni leaned his long, thin body forward, and stared his master in
the face.

“Then where do they say her husband is?” he demanded, in the same
sibilant whisper.

The mystery seemed clearer now. He was an old lover--perhaps once a
favorite--of madam’s. It was hardly worth the trouble of talking to the
fellow; and Paul Desfrayne felt half-enraged with himself for having
done so. But now that he wished the conversation ended, or, rather,
that he had not begun it, Gilardoni seemed determined to continue it.

“Idle gossip all, I doubt not,” Captain Desfrayne said carelessly.
“You, who come from her native village, would be more likely than
anybody else to guess who the lucky individual might happen to be,
and where he might be found; for if she had married any one after she
quitted her village, it would have been somebody of importance.”

“Somebody to talk about--somebody to be proud of,” Gilardoni cried, his
eyes flashing with a strange light. “If she had married a poor man----”

He stopped suddenly; Captain Desfrayne laughed.

“Yes,” he said. “If she had married a poor man, she would have hated
and despised him. Perhaps she did marry a poor man, and is not able to
marry the Russian prince,” he added, knocking the ash carelessly from
his cigar.

“She would have hated and despised him,” Gilardoni repeated slowly,
with intense acrimony in his accent. “Do _you_ know whether she is
married or not?” he abruptly demanded, the keen, furtive, eager,
inquiring look in his eyes again.

“Come, I think we have talked enough about Madam Guiscardini,” answered
Captain Desfrayne, in almost a harsh tone, rising from his couch. “I
don’t see that there can be any particular interest for you or for me
in the subject.”

He felt quite sure now that this was some early lover, who so madly
adored the brilliant operatic star that he could not bear the thought
that she should belong to another, although she never could be his.
He felt disappointed and vexed with himself for permitting his eager
curiosity to carry him so far from his customary reserve and dignity
as to lead him into gossiping with his servant, a fellow whom until
yesterday he scarcely knew existed.

In a softer tone he dismissed his new attendant, telling him some of
the people about the house would show him the room where he was to
sleep. Gilardoni quitted the room with a profound inclination, and
Captain Desfrayne, almost to his relief, was left alone.

“The affair is very simple,” he muttered to himself, as he walked to
the window and threw it open to breathe the delicious air of the fair
June night--“very simple. These Italians are so susceptible, and so
revengeful. Probably _la_ Lucia flirted with him in her early days,
before the dawn of splendor and riches came upon her and led her to
think----Pooh! the story is commonplace to nausea--insipid. I don’t
care to know anything about her more than I already know. What good
would it do me?”

He rested his head against the framework of the window, and gazed
abstractedly into the deserted street. The moon had risen in full
majesty, and was flooding every place with silver light. A party of
young men came along the pavement arm in arm, singing, as the students
in “Faust” came along that memorable night.

Paul Desfrayne listened. The music was familiar to him; the words he
knew well, and could distinguish them.

The first time Paul Desfrayne had heard Lucia Guiscardini sing upon
the stage, she had sung those verses. They haunted him yet. They now
brought back memories steeped in pain and bitterness.

Wearied in body, sick at heart, he closed the window to shut out those
distasteful strains, and went with slow steps to his bedroom.




CHAPTER X.

BUILDING ON SAND.


Mrs. Desfrayne felt much as Alnaschar is described to have felt when
he found his radiant visions at an end. She had built up a perfect
Aladdin’s Palace of bright and fairy enjoyment, and now it had faded
completely.

She was endowed with a lively imagination, and had rapidly conjured
up dreams as charming as they were baseless, like a boarding-school
girl building up a delicious _château d’Espagne_ with enameled bits of
painted cardboard.

She had never liked the quiet, graceful girl who was such a favorite
with Lady Quaintree, and now she was in a fair way to hate her. What,
perhaps, angered her more than anything else was that this girl should,
of all others, have been selected by some one totally unknown to her to
be her son’s wife.

She had no desire that Paul should marry, though she had a vague idea
that she would be glad if he discovered some wealthy and beautiful
heiress, and was successful in his suit. Jealous of any creature
who might threaten to divide with her the affections of her beloved
child, the thought that Lois Turquand should be her rival was gall
and wormwood. But she was keenly disappointed in her airy hopes and
expectations, raised on a foundation of sand as they had been, with no
knowledge whatever of the circumstances of the case.

Like some foolish women, and also some silly men, she had a most
objectionable habit of judging and trying cases by the aid of
imagination alone, unassisted by common sense, and she was now
suffering under a result which a cooler head might have anticipated as
just possible.

The more she thought about the matter, the more angry and disappointed
she became. Indeed, she reasoned herself into the notion that she had
been badly used somehow by somebody in some way, and resented her
injuries accordingly.

Miss Turquand had possessed one friend more in the world than she
deemed herself entitled to count. She had now one enemy more since her
sudden rise to fortune.

Of Mrs. Desfrayne Miss Turquand was certainly not thinking at this
exciting period.

The young girl could scarcely realize the change in her destiny. It was
like a tale in the “Arabian Nights.” Hitherto her life had been almost
uneventful, and decidedly not unhappy. She had little occasion to look
forward to the future which lay before her, gray and shadowed, but not
dark. Her mistress, or patroness, was kind and fond of her--honestly
and truly fond, and she felt toward her as an affectionate daughter
might to an indulgent mother. Of a cheerful and contented disposition,
she had been well satisfied with her comfortable home and genial
surroundings.

Love had not touched her, though probably she had cherished her roseate
fancies and preferences, like all other girls in their teens. Unlike
many of her sisterhood, however, she was gifted with a singularly clear
insight into character, and she was easily disenchanted.

Lady Quaintree had met with her by accident, as it seemed. Mrs.
Turquand, left a widow at an early age, had turned her genius for
exquisite embroidery to account, and was able to acquire a large circle
of patrons. She was gentle, obliging, prompt; she engaged assistants,
and had made an income of about four hundred a year; but was unable to
provide for her only child, having to meet expenses large in proportion
to her earnings. By many little acts, she had pleased Lady Quaintree;
and at her death, Lois being about fourteen, her ladyship had taken the
child, who had not a relative in the world that she knew of, and from
that time the two had scarcely parted for a day, Lois being carefully
trained at home by excellent instructors.

It was a trying test just now for the girl, passing through a fiery
furnace. For a girl of eighteen, beautiful, and not quite unconscious
of her beauty--for, from the nature of her position, she had been
exposed to the open fire of admiration and gallantry hardly known to
girls of a higher rank, surrounded by as sure a fence of protection as
any Chinese or Turkish princess--it was a terrible ordeal.

The oddly devised will left Lady Quaintree in a flutter of pleasant
“bother,” for she took her protégée’s affairs in hand, and was
determined to nestle the girl under her motherly old wings more closely
than ever. The dead man’s whims interfered with a delightful little
plan which had spread into being within her constantly active brain, as
surely as they had marred Mrs. Desfrayne’s schemes.

Her daughters were all married, and it was partly a feeling of
loneliness on their quitting the paternal roof that had induced her to
take Lois as her companion.

She had one son. Mrs. Desfrayne did not adore her boy more devoutly
than Lady Quaintree worshiped the Honorable Gerald Danvers. In her eyes
he was the perfection of every manly grace. He was good-looking enough,
and he regarded himself as an absolute Adonis. He was good-natured when
his whims and fancies were not interfered with, and his great aim was
to go through life with as little trouble as possible.

Lord Quaintree left the management of his son completely in the hands
of the mother. The Honorable Gerald had bitterly disappointed his hopes
and wounded his pride. He had built up a delightful little castle in
the air during the boyhood of this only son, which had been blown to
the winds when the Honorable Gerald entered his teens.

He saw that nothing could be made of Gerald, and therefore agreed,
without a murmur, to the proposal of the mother that the youth should
become a soldier. However, he resented the denseness of this handsome,
empty pate as deeply as if it had been the poor boy’s fault instead of
his misfortune.

The old man was not only a great lawyer and an intellectual giant, but
tender-hearted and religious, and took an interest in ragged-schools,
refuges, and various kindred institutions for the benefit of tangled
bundles of patchwork clothing. If it had been possible, he would have
put his boy into the church; but Gerald was fit for nothing.

The Honorable Gerald imagined himself of a romantic turn of mind, and
he found Lois Turquand the prettiest and decidedly the most interesting
girl he had ever seen. So he took the idea into his head that he was in
love with her, and accordingly flirted in a languid manner with her, or
tried to do so. He did not pretend to have any “intentions,” and his
mother was certain there was not any particular danger.

Lois treated his advances with supreme indifference. He liked to see
her open her great, serious eyes at some of his silly compliments,
half in astonishment, half in rebuke; he liked to flatter himself with
the notion that those large, brilliant, liquid eyes would soften into
ineffable sweetness if he condescended to throw himself at her feet.
He was indeed as far in love with her as he could be with anybody but
himself.

That he should ever be so rash, so insane, as to marry her companion,
Lady Quaintree had not feared. Had he been a different kind of young
man, she might have dreaded the occasional intimate meeting between
these two. But there was no reason to be alarmed, and she sunned
herself in the bright, cheerful sweetness of the young girl’s company
without the slightest misgiving. Had she been obliged to choose any one
from love for her son’s wife, she would have gathered this charming
flower from the garden of girls. And now many would try to win Lois.
Not by birth, but by wealth, she was on a level with the sparkling
beauties about her, from whom she had hitherto been fenced off.

Lois had another lover, though scarcely an acknowledged one: Frank
Amberley, Lady Quaintree’s nephew. The affection which had crept
into his heart day by day was strong as a current flowing down from
a mountain. From the day that Lois had entered the house of Lady
Quaintree--literally from that day, for he happened to be there the
very afternoon that the young child of fourteen had come hither--he had
watched her grow up, like some fair and beautiful plant. For four years
he had deeply loved this girl as he could never, never love again, he
knew.

From the time he had discovered the state of his own feelings, he had
steadily sought to win her regard: that he had gained, but not the love
he prayed for. She liked and trusted him as a friend--nothing more--not
one atom more, he was well aware. His love shone upon her as the sun
shines upon glass or water--reflected back, it is true, but with
perfect coldness.

Lois vaguely surmised that he loved her, but he had never told her so.

Lady Quaintree ardently desired now to see Lois the wife of her beloved
son. But how about the one whom the dead old man had decreed to be the
husband of this beautiful girl? The difficulties in the way loomed
large. He certainly had not appeared very anxious the night before
to take any advantage of his position, or to seek to improve his
acquaintance with the girl thus placed under his charge.

Great was the amazement of the Honorable Gerald when he heard of the
good fortune that had befallen Lois.

“By Jove! what a crotchety old dolt!” was his exclamation. “Why
couldn’t he leave the girl untrammeled?”

But he said it to himself, for Lois was standing by.

Lady Quaintree asked her what she was going to do.

“To remain exactly as I am, dearest madam.”

“Absurd! Impossible, my love!”

“If you wish me to be happy,” Lois pleaded, “you will let me go on as I
have done for these four peaceful years. I wish for no change.”

Her ladyship glanced keenly from her son to Lois and back again, but
without perceiving the slightest sign that the desire expressed by Lois
might be dictated by some deeper feeling than affection for herself.

“Well, my dear, be it as you will. Let us make no change for the
present, if it so please you. All I bargain for is that we do a little
delightful shopping for your benefit, darling. You must shine with the
bravest. Frank asked if we could go to his office to see the original
will; but my lord has undertaken to see that everything is right, and
to save us all trouble.”

Again she glanced at Lois’ face as she pronounced the name of her
nephew; but not a ray of conscious pleasure, not a blush, betrayed a
spark of interest.

“My lord is very good and kind,” she murmured.

“And we must run down to Gloucestershire to have a peep at your Hall.”

It was thus comfortably settled that Lois should remain with the
friends who had been so kind and considerate to her.

“Does she care for anybody? or is she still heart-free?” Lady Quaintree
asked herself.

Almost unconsciously, the good lady was meditating how she could find
out without committing herself or compromising her dignity.

If wit or diplomacy could manage it, she was resolved on securing her
favorite as a wife for her son, though a couple of days before she
would not have thanked the soothsayer who might have told her that
such an event was looming in the future as a marriage between Lois and
Gerald.




CHAPTER XI.

PAUL DESFRAYNE’S WIFE.


Lady Quaintree did not let excitement interfere with her usual plans
and daily arrangements. She had settled that they should go on
Saturday--the day after that one so memorable in Lois’ life--to the
Zoological Gardens to hear the band play; and, accordingly, at about
four o’clock, she set off with Lois and her son in the carriage.

To Lois it all appeared as a dream. Everything was the same, yet how
different! Only a week ago had she attended her patroness to this gay
scene, then as her paid if esteemed and indulged dependent. Now how was
everything altered! Her very attire proclaimed that the tide of events
had swept over her. She thought to keep her head steady, to stand
unchanged, but it was difficult. It is as dangerous looking over an
abyss clothed with all the flowers of spring, illumined by the golden
rays of the morning sun, as to peer down from the black, beetling brow
of a precipice, jagged and repellent.

“Heaven!” she cried, half-shudderingly, in the depths of her heart,
“keep my soul pure and unspotted. Help me to do my duty now, even if I
have failed in the days gone by.”

It was but too sweet for a beautiful girl of eighteen to be
suddenly paid so much court, to be coaxed to drink so many a cup of
nectar-tinctured flattery.

Great was the wonderment among the large circle of Lady Quaintree’s
friends and acquaintances at the magic change in Miss Turquand’s status
in society. No one knew the stipulations in the old man’s will. It was
only known that she was now the happy possessor of a large fortune, in
lieu of being a penniless toiler in the world’s hive.

That day Lois Turquand might have commanded a dozen offers, some good,
some bad, some indifferently good. Many people speculated as to what
would happen next.

“She was sure to marry at once,” everybody said. “Her beauty, her
money, and her romantic little history would surely obtain for her the
vivid interest of some more or less eligible individual.”

The majority decided she would marry Gerald Danvers.

Lady Quaintree had mentioned the projected visit to the Zoo, in the
hearing of Frank Amberley, and he was haunting the gates when the
little party arrived.

Poor fellow! He could not resist coming, fluttering about the flame
that might end by consuming him.

Gerald objected to his company, now that he had resolved on
appropriating the beautiful Lois himself. Hitherto he had never really
noticed how often or how long Frank lingered by Miss Turquand. To-day
he swelled and fumed like some ruffled turkey-cock, as Frank persisted
in walking by the young girl’s left hand, as he displayed the grace and
elegance of his irreproachably dressed person on her right.

Lady Quaintree had meant to keep Lois near her own side, but was
obliged to loiter behind the three young people, while a dowager friend
poured some matronly confidence into her unwilling ear.

It was a lovely afternoon, and the sun glittered down his smiles on the
gay throng, sitting in flowerlike groups, or lingering over the sward.

The stroll was not a very lively one for the three somewhat ill-matched
companions. Frank Amberley’s heart was full of despairing love and
pain. Gerald Danvers was in a downright rage. Lois felt worried and
distrait. The two young men wished each other at Jericho, or the Arctic
regions, and Miss Turquand would not have been sorry to see herself
quit of their uncongenial company.

At a sudden turn they came upon Captain Desfrayne, who had just
entered the gardens. He met them so unexpectedly that Lois was taken
by surprise, and so was he. They stood for a moment staring at one
another, then Paul Desfrayne recollected himself, and lifted his hat.
Miss Turquand went through the conventional obeisance.

A few words--what they were neither knew. Captain Desfrayne exchanged
courtesies for a brief moment with Frank Amberley, and bowed to Lady
Quaintree, who was only a short way in arrear. Then he vanished as
quickly as he had appeared.

The faint tinge of rose color on Lois Turquand’s cheeks deepened
visibly as she hurriedly passed on. A strange kind of resentment rose
up in her breast, and made her eyes glitter with anger. At a second
reflection, however, reason came to her aid.

“It was not his fault,” she argued to herself, “that the kind old man
to whom I owe my good fortune made an arrangement which is probably as
distasteful to him as it is to me. I must not blame him. In fact, I am
very much obliged to him, for I feel I should only be rude to him if he
tried to talk to me. I don’t believe I ever could like him. He seems,
though, to have pleasant, kindly eyes, from the hasty glance I had.”

Paul Desfrayne moved away as if from the vicinity of the plague.

“Confound it!” he muttered, going he hardly knew whither. “What
bewitchingly lovely eyes that girl has, though she is so cold and
formal; what magnificent hair, and the grace of a queen! I wish her
better luck. Why couldn’t the old man have left his money rationally,
and not make such a silly, preposterous, aggravating muddle behind him!
Well, after all, I have nobody to blame but myself. My sins be on my
own head; only I wish nobody else had been dragged in. If it were not
for my mother, I should not care so much. Yet, after all, why need I
linger in this life of misery? Would it not be better--better to stable
my white elephant in the neighboring mews, and so let my fatal secret
out at once?”

He laughed aloud, cynically, bitterly.

Having escaped from the neighborhood of Lady Quaintree’s party, he took
a turn to ascertain if his mother was in the gardens, for she had sent
him a pressing message to ask him to meet her; but finding that she had
not, apparently, arrived, he walked listlessly away at random.

Attracted by the solitary aspect of the quarter, he roamed toward the
place where the lions and tigers lay, strode to and fro with stealthy
step, or sat with magisterial gravity.

Paul Desfrayne had walked literally into the lion’s den.

A woman, young, strikingly handsome, dressed to perfection, was
standing in front of the center compartment.

Madam Lucia Guiscardini!

Had any one of the brutes strolled out of its den, and held out a
paw of greeting, the young man’s face could scarcely have worn an
expression of greater dismay.

Had it been possible, he would have retreated. But the first sound of
his firm, light step, made the superb Italian turn.

A heavy frown darkened her perfectly beautiful countenance, and she
steadfastly gazed upon Captain Desfrayne with much the same look as the
dangerous animals at her elbow had.

Paul Desfrayne raised his hat mechanically.

Madam Guiscardini took her small hands from off the railing, where they
had been placed with an odd sort of grasp, and swept a curtsy almost
ironical in its suavity.

The young man was obliged to advance, while Madam Guiscardini would
not move an inch from the spot where she stood, continuing to gaze at
him with that disagreeable, mesmeric expression which so painfully
resembled the look of the wild beasts that made so suggestive a
background.

“Good morning, Madam Guiscardini,” said Paul Desfrayne, folding his
arms, as if to prepare himself for a stormy interview.

“Did you come here to seek me, Paul Desfrayne?” she inquired, regarding
him with a baleful light in her splendid eyes, defiance in every tone
and gesture.

“To seek you!” bitterly repeated the young man. “I would go to the end
of the world to avoid you--you who----”

“Come. It is a long time since we have met, and we may be interrupted
at any moment. If you have anything to say to me, I am willing to go
home now, and either wait for you, or let you precede me. We have not
met since----”

“Since our wedding-morning,” Paul Desfrayne said, as she paused. “Not
for three years. I suppose you have never seen me from that day until
this moment?”

“I have never seen or heard of you,” she angrily retorted, her eyes
flashing ominously with premonitory lightning. “I did not wish to
see you. I did not care to hear of you. I never asked a question
about you. I should not care if we never met again; and I should be
glad--_thankful_ to hear you were dead.”

“I thank you,” said Paul Desfrayne, again lifting his hat. “If care, if
regret, if bitter self-reproaches could have killed, I should not have
troubled you to-day. It was, indeed, by no voluntary movement that I
happened to see you this afternoon. But I believe I must have sought
you ere long, to make some endeavor to arrive at a state of things
somewhat less wearying, somewhat less wretched. My life is becoming a
burden almost too heavy to be borne.”

“You can see me any day you please to appoint,” Madam Guiscardini said
angrily. “I have no desire either to seek or to avoid you. But I do not
see what good can come of talking. Nothing can undo what has been done;
nothing could roll back the waves of that pitiless time that has swept
over you and over me.”

“It remains to be seen what can be done, Madam Guiscardini,” Captain
Desfrayne answered, moving quite close to her, and looking intently
into her eyes. “Do you happen ever to have seen, heard of, or
personally known, a man of the name of Gilardoni?”

The color faded completely from the cheeks, lips, almost from the eyes,
of the beautiful prima donna.




CHAPTER XII.

THE PRIMA DONNA’S HATE.


Lucia Guiscardini clutched at the iron bar against which she was
half-leaning, and glared into the face of her husband, as if she would
read his innermost soul.

“What does he know?” she whispered to herself. “How much does he know?”

There was a dead silence for a few seconds. The signs of emotion caused
by the name of the friendless wretch who had sought his help were not
lost upon Captain Desfrayne.

Madam Guiscardini was trying to rally her forces, and she could not
reply in words. Paul Desfrayne repeated his inquiry in another form:

“You do know him?”

The half-terrified woman looked straight into his eyes--those honest
eyes, so full of natural kindness and honor.

Fear had blanched her cheeks and lips; shame, perhaps, now drove the
roseate hues in a flood back again, as she answered, in a tolerably
steady voice:

“I do not. I have never heard of him.”

“Ah! I don’t suppose my domestic affairs can possess any interest for
you, madam. It is merely a piece of egotistical gossip to inform you
that I have taken Leonardo Gilardoni into my service.”

“Into your service?”

The words were pronounced slowly, with obvious difficulty, and in a
husky voice.

Paul Desfrayne did not evidence, by the slightest sign, any triumph at
the effect his unexpected shot had produced, but silently watched her
face.

“Why--why have you done so? I mean, why do you tell me of it?”

“I cannot help having an idea that you knew something of the poor
fellow at one time, though he has slipped from your memory,” Captain
Desfrayne said, very calmly, shrugging his shoulders.

“Has he said--has he said----”

She could not continue; the effort at control was too great.

It was impossible to tell how much this quiet, now half-smiling, man
before her might know of the terror that haunted her day and night.

“Has he said _what_?” demanded Paul Desfrayne, looking her steadily in
the face.

“Said he knew me?” Madam Guiscardini coolly replied.

But as she spoke, her fingers so convulsively twitched, as if she were
trying her utmost to curb the secret emotions of her mind, that they
snapped the delicate, carved ivory handle of her parasol.

Paul Desfrayne, who had not once removed his eyes from her face,
laughed cynically, bitterly. His laughter had in it more of menace than
an uncontrollable outburst of violent anger.

He thought: “What can be the secret between them?” But aloud he said,
affecting to ignore the accidental betrayal so direful as well as the
agitation of his wife:

“He has barely mentioned your name, and then simply in a passing way.”

“May I ask your reason for supposing I was acquainted with him?”

“I had more reasons than one. But a chief reason was that I knew
he came from your part of Italy; and in a village everybody knows
everybody else. Had he been an old friend of yours--don’t curl your
lip: you were once as lowly placed as he, perhaps more so--you might
perchance have cared to hear something of him. The poor wretch has
been in grievous adversity, it seems: without a friend, often without
a shelter, without money; so it is probably a fortunate thing for him
that he has found a friend in me.”

“I hope he will serve you well,” said Madam Guiscardini, in an ice-cold
tone. “It shows good taste on the part of Captain Desfrayne to
recall the fact that the Guiscardini was once a poor cottage girl in
poverty--in----”

Her eyes flashed, and she stopped, as if afraid of rousing her
indomitable temper did she proceed. One sentence might ruin her. She
abruptly curbed herself, and swept another curtsy.

“I have the honor to wish Captain Desfrayne good morning, and shall be
ready to receive his promised--his threatened visit----”

“On Monday afternoon,” Paul Desfrayne said sharply, as if in positive
pain. “I can endure this slavery--this horrible bondage--no longer in
silence.”

“On Monday afternoon be it. You know where to find me?”

“No, I do not.”

Madam Guiscardini looked with intent suspicion at him. She hated
this handsome young man with concentrated hate, but she respected
him profoundly, and she knew he would not utter a falsehood to gain
a kingdom. Therefore she was obliged to believe him, though she had
previously imagined that his presence in Porchester Square had been due
to some plot of which she was the object.

She carefully watched him as she gave her address. It was like a duel
to the death, each adversary narrowly eying the movements of the other.
To her further mystification, Paul Desfrayne almost sprang back in his
amazement when he heard her name the exact place where she lived.

“Where?” he demanded, as if unable to credit his ears.

She coldly repeated the name of the square and the number of the house.

“Why does he seem so astonished?” she said to herself, eying him with
a glance akin to that in the yellow orbs of the leopardess a few steps
from her. “What is the matter now?”

“On Monday afternoon, then, we will have a further explanation, Madam
Guiscardini,” Paul Desfrayne said, mastering his surprise, and raising
his hat with the ceremony he would have used to a total stranger.

He left her.

“Separated from my mother by a few layers of bricks and mortar,” he
thought. “I have appointed an interview, but what good can come of it?
None. I have made my bed--made it of thorns and briers, and must sleep
therein with what comfort I may.”

He shrugged his shoulders impatiently.

“What is to be done? It would be the best and wisest course to
immediately inform my mother of the exact state of affairs. I wish I
had done so at first. I am like those very immoral little boys in the
story-books of one’s youth, who don’t tell in time, and so the agony
goes on piling up until the culprit is next to smothered. What is to be
done with this Gordian knot? I have not the courage to cut it. I wonder
they didn’t include moral cowardice among the deadly sins. I wonder
what would be the consequences if I did summon up sufficient nerve to
inform my mother of my culpable behavior three years ago? Come, Paul
Desfrayne, it must be done. Better be brave at once, and march up to
the cannon’s mouth, than be found out ignominiously some day sooner or
later. Shall it be done to-day--this evening?”

His reverie was broken by a light, caressing touch upon his arm.
Turning round suddenly, with a strange sensation of nervous alarm, he
found his mother by his side.

Smiling, pleasant, unsuspicious, her sunny brow unclouded by a shadow
that might possibly produce a future wrinkle, she looked deliciously
happy, and perfectly confident, to all appearance, of his trust and
affection.

She started as he turned his face full upon her.

“You are pale, my dear. Are you not well?” she anxiously inquired.

“Not very well, mother. The heat--the crowd--it is such a bore
altogether, that I am weary, and I should be glad to escape.”

“My dear Paul, I have seen so little of you lately, that I grudge to
lose you when I have fairly secured a chance of your company. But”--she
glanced round at the gay, ever-moving crowd, with its lively colors,
at the faces, dotted here and there, with which she was familiar, and
a faint smile dimpled the corners of her lips--“if you will, let us go
somewhere else. Where would you like to go?”

“Anywhere. I want a little talk with you--one of our own old gossips,
mother. It is impossible to obtain the least chance of an uninterrupted
talk here.”

Yet as he spoke, his heart sank within him. It seemed as if his
confession would be more difficult to-day than ever. To make his path
more thorny, that beloved face looked so confiding, so sure that there
could not be the shadow of a secret, that it would have been a thousand
times easier to walk up to the cannon’s mouth, than to speak the few
words that must break forever the steady bond linking them together.

But for all Mrs. Desfrayne’s calm, suave looks, she was keenly watching
her son. His absence alone had hindered her from finding out long ago
that some shadow lay between them. Her practised, maternal eyes could
read him through.

“What has happened, and why is he afraid to tell me?” she meditated,
while to outward seeming engaged in regarding the pleasant scene about
her with half-childish interest.

Her brain ran swiftly over every imaginable train of events, possible
or impossible, that might have happened, seeking some clue to the
evident mystery.

Not for a moment did her mind revert to what, after all, was the most
simple and obvious explanation.

They moved to quit the gardens.

“Is not that the Guiscardini?” she asked of Paul.

“I believe so.”

Mrs. Desfrayne had put up her glass, so the look and tone with which
her inquiry was answered escaped her.

“I don’t know why,” she continued; “but I have taken an inveterate
dislike to that woman. She reminds me of a magnificent cobra. You know,
Paul, I have a foolish way of taking likes and dislikes.”

At the next step she encountered Miss Turquand.

In spite of her resolve to cultivate the young girl’s friendship, a
cold inclination of the head was all that passed between them.

A warmer salutation to Lady Quaintree followed, but Mrs. Desfrayne was
too impatient to hear what her son had to say, to be able to stop just
then for a little idle, sunshiny gossip.

Paul handed her into the brougham that was in waiting.

It was a hired one, as Mrs. Desfrayne always remembered as she was
about to enter it. She had longed for the days when either by some
brilliant matrimonial stroke on her own part, or that of her son, she
should be the happy possessor of such carriages and horses as might
please her fancy. Yet now she was secretly determined to hinder, if
possible, her son’s acceptance of a fortune that far exceeded her most
sanguine dreams.

With anxiety she regarded Paul’s face as he seated himself beside her.
He was ashy pale, and his eyes were bright with the brightness of fever.

“Home,” she said to the coachman.

Too wary to hasten the unwilling confession by ill-timed or injudicious
questions, Mrs. Desfrayne nestled back in her cozy corner, and began to
flirt her garden-fan, waiting patiently.

It is always the first step that forms the difficulty, and even yet
Paul could not resolve on precipitating himself into those cold waters
he so dreaded. Even did he take the plunge, how could he introduce the
subject?

The drive passed, therefore, in constrained silence.

It was not until they were seated in the cool, pleasant room, called by
Mrs. Desfrayne her own special retreat, that Paul could break the ice.

Mrs. Desfrayne gazed with wonderment at the handsome face of her boy,
as he sat on a low chair before her, his eyes cast down, his hands
nervously playing with the silken fringe on her dress, so unlike what
she had ever known him before.

“Paul,” she said softly, leaning toward him, “you look like a criminal.
What is the matter with you?”

The tone was mellow and tender, and yet with a tinge of gentle gaiety.

Paul raised his eyes.

“Like a criminal?” he repeated slowly. “I look like what I am. Oh! my
mother--my mother!”

He slipped from the low chair, on his knees, and bowed his face on his
mother’s hands. She felt hot tears wet her fingers, and a great terror
seized her heart, for she adored her boy.

“Paul,” she whispered, “tell me what has happened!”




CHAPTER XIII.

PAUL DESFRAYNE’S CONFESSION.


Paul Desfrayne’s weakness did not last many minutes.

Rising to his feet, he strode backward and forward half a dozen times;
then, pausing, he leaned his folded arms on the back of the low, carved
chair into which he had at first thrown himself.

“You alarm me, Paul. I beseech you, tell me the worst at once,”
implored his mother.

“You may see with what an effort I try to approach the secret which,
for three long years, has been my curse by day and by night,” answered
Paul mournfully.

Mrs. Desfrayne threw out her hands with an involuntary gesture of fear
and amazement.

“For three years!” she repeated, as if incredulous.

“What do you imagine that secret to have been?” he demanded, gazing
steadfastly at her.

“Good heavens! how can I imagine when, until this moment, I did not
know you had any concealment from me at all?” exclaimed Mrs. Desfrayne.

Her accent was indicative half of despair, half of keen reproach.

“As you are aware, I have just received a most singular offer.”

“Your troubles, then, have some reference to Lois Turquand?”

“In a measure, yes. You would wish me, if I understood you aright, to
take advantage, as far as in me lay, of this offer?”

Mrs. Desfrayne hesitated, then cried, with vehemence:

“Why do you not speak plainly at once, instead of harassing me by these
hints and half-confidences?”

“Because I am afraid of the effect upon you; because I am afraid you
may never be able to forgive me.”

“For what offense?”

“For deceit and ingratitude toward the best and kindest of mothers.”

“It is impossible to comprehend you. I must only wait for some key to
your singular self-reproaches,” said Mrs. Desfrayne, with a profound
sigh.

“Three years ago I went for a holiday tour to Italy, when you were with
some friends at Wiesbaden.”

“I recollect perfectly well. I was disappointed because you would not
join us.”

“Would to Heaven I had yielded to your wishes!”

“From that time I have scarcely seen anything of you, Paul. You have
visited me by fits and starts, and have never stayed long.”

As she spoke, an idea darted into Mrs. Desfrayne’s mind.

“After traveling about in various parts of Italy, as I kept you
informed by my letters, I reached Florence.”

His lips trembled as he pronounced the name of the city which bore so
many painful memories for him.

“Go on, my dear.”

“I remained at Florence for several weeks. While there, I went every
night to the opera.”

“A very agreeable manner of spending your evenings,” said Mrs.
Desfrayne, with assumed carelessness.

“There was an excellent company, and the operas were admirably
selected; but I did not go for the sake of either performers or pieces:
I went, drawn thither as by a lodestone, because I was under some kind
of strange hallucination that I was in love with a young girl who had
just come out there. Perhaps I may have been in love with her. It was
folly--a madness!”

There was no sign of emotion on Mrs. Desfrayne’s face. She sat almost
immovable as a statue, her hands loosely clasped as they rested in her
lap, her wide-open, glowing eyes alone betraying the painful interest
she felt in her son’s words.

“For some days and nights I blindly worshiped this dazzling star from
a distance,” Paul continued, having vainly waited for some remark from
his mother. “At last I was introduced to her. She lived with some
elderly female relative, who accompanied her to the theater every
night. By degrees--very rapid degrees, for Italian girls are very
unlike their English sisters--she made me her confidant. She did
with me as she chose. For all I knew of her real nature, she might
as well have worn a waxen mask. Through the dishonesty of the man
who had trained her, she had been sold into a species of slavery to
the manager. Unaware of her own value, she had bound herself to this
fellow’s exclusive service for the term of ten years, at a salary which
the most subordinate performer would have refused with scorn.”

“Go on,” said his mother, on whom the truth began to force itself.

“Infatuated as I was, she easily interested me in her story, although I
had at that time no intentions of any kind beyond----”

“Beyond flirting with the girl?”

“I floated with the current. I was incapable of reasoning, as much so
as any one bereft of their natural senses. One night I was behind the
scenes; the house took fire. There was a fearful panic, and hundreds
were injured--many killed. This young girl clung to me, and somehow I
carried her out of the theater by the stage-door--I believe so, for I
remembered nothing from the time I caught her up in my arms until a
moment of amazed weakness, when I woke up to find myself lying in a
strange room, this girl sitting by me. I then learned that, as I rushed
out, bearing her in my arms, a blazing beam of timber had fallen, and
dangerously wounded me.”

An exclamation escaped Mrs. Desfrayne, and she half-rose from her seat.

“What am I to hear?” she cried, as if in anguish. “And you never told
me of this illness!”

“Let me finish, now that I have begun. I had been ill for weeks in
the old home on the outskirts of Florence, where this girl lived,
with her aged attendant or relative. Unhappily--most unhappily--they
both imagined I was an English milord. I believe that my servant had
deceived them by bragging of my wealth and importance.”

“How did he dare to permit you to remain in that place instead of
having you carried to your own lodgings?” demanded Mrs. Desfrayne.

“When I fell, the girl and I were put into some kind of vehicle,
and she took me to her own home. Her object was, I believe, to have
me under the immediate pressure of her influence. When Reynolds, my
servant, heard of what had occurred, he flew to my side; but the
physician who attended me would not, or could not, hear of my removal.
Reynolds, poor soul, was seized, a day or two after, with a fever, from
which he did not recover for months.”

“I see now the drift of your history,” said Mrs. Desfrayne, in a tone
which showed that she was wounded to the depths of her heart. “It
is the hackneyed story of the young man who falls ill marrying the
handsome young woman who nurses him.”

Captain Desfrayne turned aside, and took a hasty stride to and fro;
then he returned, resuming his position.

“She was, or pretended to be, full of joy and gratitude on my recovery.
During the days of my convalescence, she spoke to me fully of her
state of bondage, her anger at the injustice done her, her desire
for liberty, and affected to make no secret of what she averred was
desperate love for myself. My sympathies were enlisted for her; my
vanity was aroused in her favor. I at length----”

“Asked her to marry you?” laughed his mother.

“No. Her agreement with the manager bound her for ten years, under a
heavy penalty. I desired that she should leave the stage, although
I felt it would be next to an impossibility to marry this girl. I
remembered your strong prejudices against stage-performers----”

“Ah! You did think of me once.”

“I rarely forgot you in my most insane moments. I thought of my
position, of the traditions of my family. I would have freed her if I
could, and then fled her presence; for I felt it would be impossible to
make this girl your daughter, though her name was stainless, and she
was superbly beautiful, and gifted with talents of a certain kind. But
I could not rescue her by money from the clutches of the old wolf who
had laid a claw upon her. It would have needed thousands, and I should
perhaps have left myself penniless, and--and looking very like a fool,”
Paul added, with a cynical laugh.

“You married the girl, then?” said Mrs. Desfrayne eagerly, anxious to
ascertain the exact position of her son, and desirous of hurrying him
to an immediate acknowledgment.

“I offered to assist her in taking flight to Paris. At least, I
believed the suggestion was mine, but later I recollected that the
entire plan was arranged by herself, under advice of the old woman who
attended her. She was restless and impatient until we had completed
every preparation to leave Florence forever, as she intended. I cannot
realize how it came about that I was like a puppet in her hands.”

Mrs. Desfrayne shrugged her shoulders with a kind of disdainful
compassion.

“We started late on a Friday, the opera being closed on that night, and
arrived safely at the frontier. Then we suddenly discovered that the
old woman had not been provided with a passport. The girl whom I had
undertaken to assist wept and sobbed with terror.”

“A preconcerted affair, my poor Paul.”

“No doubt. We agreed that there was nothing to be done but to leave
the old attendant behind with money and instructions to follow as
early as she possibly could, and then to pursue our journey. For more
than a week we continued our flight. It seemed to me then more like
a strange, fascinating dream, than an incident of my real every-day
life. I fell more and more under the spell of this beautiful siren’s
beauty and insidious charm of manner, and by the time we reached Paris
I had completely lost my senses. About three days after we reached
our destination, I made her my wife; we were married at the British
embassy.”

Paul’s mother clasped her hands with a cry. The point at which she
had desired to arrive even now electrified her. She could not have
explained her own feelings at that moment. Her brain seemed in a whirl
from the shock. The story gave her the idea that it was like one of
those fantastical dreams, where all the personages who appear perform
the most improbable tricks, and everybody apparently does the most
unlikely acts.

“May I inquire the name of this amiable young person?” she asked, and
her own voice struck her as being strange.

“It is already known to you,” answered Paul, in hollow tones. “But I
will mention it when I have finished my narration. We were married. The
ceremony over, we returned to the hotel where I had placed her, and
where I had likewise taken up my abode. Within an hour after this fatal
bond had been tied, an accidental observation on my part revealed to
her the fact that I was _not_ the rich and titled man she had supposed
me to be. I had asked her to relinquish the stage as a profession, and
she laughingly answered that as the wife of a great English milord it
would be impossible for her to continue the career to which she had
meant to devote her life. I was confounded at the mistake into which
she had so unhappily fallen, and endeavored to explain my real position
to her.”

Mrs. Desfrayne tapped her foot on the carpet with such violence that
Paul stopped.

“Go on--go on--go on!” she exclaimed.

“This girl, whom I up to that moment had had the fatuity to imagine
loved me for myself alone, went on in an ecstasy dilating on the future
splendors of her lot. I at length succeeded in inducing her to listen
to me. Then I laid before her the realities of my position, my limited
income, the quietude of the life she would be obliged to lead. I spoke
of you----”

“How dared you speak of me to a person like that?” furiously asked Mrs.
Desfrayne.

“I--well, enough. If blamelessness of life, an unspotted name, could
have atoned for other sins, even you, mother, must have granted her
absolution. Enough. She was compelled to believe that she had made a
most fearful mistake--she was like a tiger who---- My mother, it had
been well for us--for many others--if that revelation could have come
an hour before, instead of an hour after, our ill-starred union. The
scene I never can forget. Sometimes in the dead hours of the night I am
startled awake by the fancy that I am again going through it. I wonder,
after the successive shocks of those few weeks, that I now live to give
you the miserable recital.”

Again he paced to and fro, as if in almost uncontrollable emotion. This
time, on again pausing, he sank into the chair as if almost exhausted.

His mother made no sign. The bitterness of her anger and disappointment
exceeded, if that were possible, his darkest forebodings.

She continued to tap her foot on the carpet, and her jeweled fingers
twined and twisted in one another as if they must snap. This time she
addressed no inquiry to him, but sat a silent image of despair and
mortified anger.

“Let me make an end of my story as quickly as I can,” Paul said, in
subdued tones. He heartily wished now he had let it still remain untold
until such a time as he might be driven to confess it. “La Lucia, after
storming and raging, registered a mighty oath never to see my face
again if she could help herself, never to carry into effect the vows
she had made at the altar--to hold herself free as if she had never
seen me. I can hardly tell you what she said. She ironically thanked me
for having helped her to escape from one kind of slavery, though she
found herself trammeled in another, and for my care of her during the
journey, and for the consideration and delicate courtesy I had shown
her in her unprotected state, and then swept out of the room. The next
thing I heard of my lady wife was that she had carried herself and all
her belongings off from the hotel. I never heard of her again until
Europe was ringing with her name and fame.”

“Her name?” repeated Mrs. Desfrayne mechanically.

“The name I had first known her under.”

“And that was?”

“Lucia Guiscardini.”

Mrs. Desfrayne sprang from her seat, and began pacing to and fro in her
turn.

“Oh! it is too much--too much!” she cried. “Ungrateful, wicked,
unloving son, is it thus you have returned the deep, unwearying
affection I have ever cherished for you?”

“The most bitter reproaches you can level at me can never equal in
intensity those which I have heaped on my own head,” Paul replied.

“You must have been mad to let yourself be entrapped in this way,” Mrs.
Desfrayne went on. “I can scarcely believe it is true. You are, then,
really bound to this--this singing woman who cares nothing for you, who
seems to disdain you and all belonging to you. Oh! it is incredible.
And what about Miss Turquand?”

“I know not,” answered Paul wearily. “I wish to Heaven I had never seen
or heard of the eccentric old fogy who chose to imagine himself under
some debt of gratitude to me, for then----”

“Folly!” angrily interrupted his mother. “Better wish you had never
seen this woman who owns you--or that you had not been so----”

She shrugged her shoulders with an expression indescribable.

There was a brief pause.

“It would be as ridiculous as it would be undignified on my part to
display any resentment against you,” Mrs. Desfrayne resumed. “Of
course, you had a right to please yourself: though married in haste,
you are repenting at leisure. But what are you going to do?”

“In what way?”

“Good heavens! so long as that woman lives, there is not a ray of
happiness for you.”

“I know it. It is a heavy penalty to pay for those few weeks of
forgetfulness, of lunacy, of fever; but hardly so heavy to bear as
the loss of the love and esteem of the only woman in the world I ever
loved, or am likely to love.”

“Whom are you talking about?” hastily demanded Mrs. Desfrayne, a new
spasm of jealousy seizing her heart.

But Paul would not answer.

He rested his arms on the back of the chair, and laid his head on the
support thus made. This attitude brought vividly back to his mother’s
mind the days of his childhood and youth, when he had been all her
own. How often had she seen him thus, when he had been guilty of some
youthful fault or folly, and was penitent, yet half-afraid he should
not easily find pardon!

Mrs. Desfrayne’s heart was irresistibly drawn toward her boy. With a
soft, gentle touch, she laid one of her white, jeweled hands on his
head.

“Do you speak of me?” she asked. “Ah! Paul, it is ten thousand pities
that, having committed this fatal mistake, you did not confide in me
before. What a miserable future is before you; but you must not give
way. It must be borne. I do not reproach you. Nay, I will give you such
comfort as I can.”

Paul caught her hands, and covered them with kisses.

“Would that I had--would that I had told you, mother!” he cried,
looking up into her face with his open, candid eyes, from which some of
the black care had melted. “That terrible secret has stood between me
and you like some malignant black specter.”

“I dimly felt its presence now and again,” said his mother, “though I
could not believe it possible you could deceive me. But tell me, what
do you mean to do?”

“Nothing. What can I do?”

“True.”

“As for this young lady, why, I am sorry she will be driven to think
ill of me; but any explanation would be clearly impossible. She will
have a handsome fortune in any case, and probably marry some one
infinitely more to her taste than I should be. In two or three days
my leave of absence expires, and I go to rejoin my regiment near
Gloucester.”

“I no sooner see you again than you are snatched away. It is hard,
Paul.”

“Just at this juncture perhaps it will be better for me to be out of
your way. You will think more kindly of your absent son and his faults
and follies than you might of----”

“Come. Let us put away that painful subject, and not recur to it unless
necessary. Of course, it is of no earthly use your giving another
thought to this Miss Turquand.”

“I think it would be as well to confide my exact position to the lawyer
who drew up the will, and who introduced me to the young lady yesterday
evening--Amberley. I think I mentioned his name to you. He might be
able to give me a dispassionate word of advice.”

Mrs. Desfrayne considered.

“You see, my dearest mother, he would be able to look at the matter
from a mere business point of view, as he has no interest in the
affair.”

“Perhaps,” Mrs. Desfrayne slowly said, “it might be as well to consult
him. I think I have met him at Lady Quaintree’s. Yes, it would perhaps
be best to speak to him about your most unhappy position.”

Captain Desfrayne rose, and went over to his mother’s little
writing-table. As if afraid to trust to his continuance of purpose, he
sat down and wrote a few lines to Frank Amberley, asking him to make an
appointment, as he desired to consult him on a matter of importance.

He showed the note to his mother, enclosed it then in an envelope,
addressed and stamped it, leaving it on the desk ready for the post.

The ordeal he had so dreaded had been passed through. The terrible
secret had been revealed. Now he wished he had spoken of it long ago.

“You are going to Gloucester? When?”

“On Wednesday. The regiment is stationed at Holston, some miles from
Gloucester.”

“Holston? Why, is not that near the place where Flore Hall is situated?”

“Yes. I look forward to going over the old house once more as one of
the few pleasures in store for me down there. I feel thankful to get
away now.”

Neither Captain Desfrayne nor his mother knew that the old Hall in
which he had spent so many days of his childhood had been left to Lois
Turquand by her dead benefactor.

The storm had passed, leaving but little trace behind.

Mrs. Desfrayne easily persuaded her son to remain for the rest of the
evening with her.

On Wednesday Captain Desfrayne was to go to Gloucester.

On Monday he was to visit Madam Guiscardini, according to the
appointment made in the gardens, though it seemed worse than useless to
renew the pain and distress he had suffered that day.

His mother was passionately averse to his seeing the woman who had so
fatally entrapped him.

“Nay, mother; it will be best to ascertain clearly how we are to spend
our future lives,” Paul said. “We must come to a clear understanding
some way.”

On reaching home, he found a letter from Frank Amberley, dated that
morning, before his own had been written, asking if it would be
convenient for him to attend on Tuesday a meeting of the partners
of the firm, to go more fully into the details of business having
reference to Miss Turquand’s affairs.

Paul Desfrayne saw it would not be so easy to shrink from his duties
as sole trustee and executor to the beautiful Lois as he had hoped it
might be.

As he drifted into a broken, uneasy slumber that night, his last
thoughts turned upon Lois, sincerely trusting it might not be necessary
for the young girl to attend the meeting.

Why should he have this fear--this undercurrent of aversion to
encountering his beautiful charge?

He had seen her only twice. He persuaded himself she was cold and
beautiful as an antique statue. He argued to himself that a world-worn,
half-weary man of thirty could scarcely be acceptable to a young girl
of eighteen. He chose to feel certain that being dictated to in her
choice must of itself suffice to render him unwelcome.

And yet he shrank with vague terror at the chance of being again
exposed to the danger of being obliged to look into those soft,
crystal-bright eyes, of glancing even for a moment into those
untroubled depths, where lay mirrored the most perfect purity, loyalty,
and truth.




CHAPTER XIV.

FRANK AMBERLEY’S EXULTATION.


Lucia Guiscardini was determined not to come face to face again with
Paul Desfrayne if she could help it.

The evening of the day she saw him by accident at the Zoological
Gardens, she was obliged to appear at the opera.

Never, perhaps, had she performed more resplendently, yet all the time
she was meditating how to escape a second interview.

She settled the matter after her own fashion.

Ordering her maid to pack up a few necessary things, she started by the
midnight train for Paris.

“I hate him,” she said to herself, as she sank back into a dim corner
in the first-class carriage as it rattled away from Charing Cross; “and
I would kill him if I could, and if I thought nobody could find it out.
What a weak fool I must have been! But I was in too great a hurry to
secure what I rashly imagined to be a splendid prize. And to think that
I might be a princess if I were not tied by this hateful bond! Women
have crushed others before for less cause.”

The consequence was, that when Paul Desfrayne called at the house so
strangely contiguous to that in which his mother dwelt, he was informed
that madam was not in town.

“Not in town?” he repeated, with amazement.

Further inquiries elicited that madam had gone away rather
suddenly--gone to Paris, the man believed, and had not left word when
she might return.

With a sense of almost relief, Paul turned away. Just then he was glad
of a reprieve, for he felt little equal to much more violent emotion.

He was infinitely relieved, too, by finding that Miss Turquand’s
presence had not been considered necessary at the business meeting in
Alderman’s Lane.

The young lady had been taken down to the country, one of the partners
informed him, by Lady Quaintree, the day before, to visit the mansion
and grounds left by the testator.

“As you are aware, Captain Desfrayne, having read the will, all the
landed estates and house property have been left solely for the use
and benefit of Miss Turquand,” remarked Mr. Salmon, a tall, large,
white-headed gentleman, of a jovial deportment and cheerful manners.

Captain Desfrayne bowed. He had indeed seen as much in the terrible
document; but, being preoccupied by the vexatious clauses respecting
the planned union between himself and Lois Turquand, had not paid much
heed to the minor details.

“The principal country house is, I understand, a very handsome and
substantial place,” Mr. Salmon continued, jingling his seals musically.
“I think it is situated in Gloucestershire,” he added, looking at Frank
Amberley.

“Flore Hall, Holston, some miles from Gloucester,” Frank Amberley
replied.

Paul Desfrayne could scarcely credit his ears. He had congratulated
himself on the hope of escape, and now it seemed he would be driven to
walk into the very jaws of danger.

“Did I understand you to say that Miss Turquand has gone to visit Flore
Hall?” he asked of Frank Amberley.

“Certainly.”

Paul had the greatest difficulty in restraining himself from demanding
how long she would be likely to stay there.

He felt much like one of those unhappy criminals who have been immured
in a dungeon, the walls of which slowly close in and crush them.

Like one in a painful dream, he listened as affairs were laid before
him, and dry, legal questions raised and discussed.

Every moment he resolved to plainly tell these calm, legal gentlemen
how he was situated, or else to distinctly give them to understand that
he would not undertake the responsibility.

Perhaps he was chiefly deterred by a vague feeling that he might place
himself in a ridiculous position. It was one thing to kneel, as it
were, at the feet of a mother, who might display either anger or
sympathy, but would certainly be able to comprehend his wild story; but
quite another to unveil his heart-secrets to the cool, critical eyes of
those hard-headed, tranquil men of the law.

The partners, observing his wearied air, his total lack of interest,
his abstracted replies, settled each mentally that Captain Desfrayne
was not much of a man of business.

Frank Amberley alone watched him narrowly.

“He is not mercenary, that is clear,” Mr. Amberley thought. “What are
his secret motives or reasons for such strange behavior?”

The interview ended, and Paul Desfrayne had made no sign, save of
acquiescence.

Papers, memoranda of various kinds, deeds, leases, and other dry
reading had been gone through, only bringing to him a bad headache.

At last he found himself in Frank Amberley’s private room, and free
to confide as much or as little as he pleased to the man who was his
secret rival.

“You wished to consult me on important business, I believe?” Mr.
Amberley said, when they were alone.

“I did, if you will be kind enough to listen to me.”

There was a long and painful pause.

Frank Amberley had a presentiment that Captain Desfrayne was about to
give him some clue to his reasons for shunning Lois Turquand. He did
not utter a word, but began to sort some papers, to leave his visitor
free to collect his thoughts.

“The fact is,” Captain Desfrayne began slowly, “I am placed in a most
embarrassing situation. I find myself bound, in a measure, to make love
to a young, beautiful, and wealthy lady, and bribed magnificently to
try and win her, involving her in pecuniary loss if I fail to gain her
hand and heart, when----”

“You speak as if something interfered to hinder you from carrying out
the agreeable wishes of the late Mr. Vere Gardiner.”

“The strongest possible reason hinders me.”

“You would not allude to a hindrance were it not your intention to
enlighten me.”

“The hindrance is the most valid and insuperable one that could exist.
I am already married!”

Frank Amberley pushed his chair back the few inches that intervened
between him and the wall behind, and stared at Captain Desfrayne.

“Already married!” he repeated. “Impossible! You are jesting, surely?
Pardon me, I am so much surprised that I scarcely know what I am
saying. May I ask why you did not mention this important fact earlier?”

“The subject is a most painful one, for I must frankly confess to
you that my marriage has been a most unhappy one, and has never been
publicly acknowledged.”

A thrill of joy ran through Frank Amberley’s heart. Although he could
scarcely hope to win the beautiful object of his passionate love and
devotion, at least this stupendous stumbling-block was removed out of
the path.

“Am I at liberty to inform the partners of the firm of this?” he asked.

“I suppose they must learn it sooner or later,” Paul Desfrayne
answered, with a deep sigh. “Therefore, I leave the matter in your
hands. I trust in your kindness and discretion not to let it be more
fully known than may be absolutely necessary.”

“Miss Turquand ought to be informed of the state of affairs.”

“Perhaps you will be good enough to undertake the task?”

“A sufficiently unpleasant one.”

“Why so? To me it would be an impossibility; but to you----”

“It will be a mere matter of business,” Frank Amberley remarked, as
Captain Desfrayne hesitated. A slight grimace which passed over his
countenance might have served to mark the words as ironical; but it
came and went unnoticed. “Be it so. When Miss Turquand returns, I will
take care she is duly informed of the fact which you have confided to
me. She would, perhaps, be better pleased if the information came from
yourself, but as you are so averse to seeing her on the subject, why,
I must simply do as you wish.”

“The sooner she knows the better.”

“But,” said Mr. Amberley, as if another idea had occurred to him, “I
think you mentioned just now, when down-stairs, that you were about to
start for Gloucestershire, to join your regiment. I thought you told
Mr. Salmon that you were going to Holston to-morrow, if I understood
rightly?”

“Quite true.”

“I have never visited the neighborhood; but if you are anywhere near
Flore Hall”--he hesitated--“the probabilities are that you may see
Miss Turquand before I do. I have no idea how long she will remain at
Holston, and did not know a visit was contemplated: I heard of it by
accident this morning.”

Paul Desfrayne reflected. Unhappily, his meditations were neither of an
agreeable nor a profitable nature.

“True,” he slowly replied, speaking as if with difficulty. “I will not
seek Miss Turquand--I cannot; you must bear with what may seem like
culpable weakness; but if I should meet her----”

“I quite understand your situation and feelings, and I hope you will
treat me as a friend,” said Frank Amberley. “I will do what I can for
you; and, believe me, I sympathize with you. Let me know if there
should be any explanation between you and the young lady, and if you do
not find a good opportunity for speaking to her on the subject, I will
undertake to act for you.”

Paul Desfrayne looked into those kindly, truthful eyes, and held out
his hand, as if to mutely express his gratitude. Then, after a few more
words, he departed, wearily.

“Poor fellow!” Frank Amberley thought. “They may well paint fortune as
blind. Yesterday I envied him--to-day I cannot but pity him. So this,
then, is the secret. Poor soul! what a burden to bear.”

Captain Desfrayne found, on returning home, that Leonardo Gilardoni had
arranged everything perfectly, for the migration of the following day.

He wished to mention to the Italian that Madam Guiscardini had
abruptly quitted London, for the sake of observing the effect the news
might have, but he could not bring himself voluntarily to pronounce her
name.

On the Wednesday morning, he started for Holston, having bade his
mother farewell. He had spent Monday and Tuesday evening with her, and
promised to write frequently.

After all, the old links did not seem to be so broken as he had feared
they would be, and his mother still appeared as she had ever done, all
affection and maternal solicitude.

She had some friends in the neighborhood of Holston, and looked forward
to being able to obtain an invitation for some weeks there.

Captain Desfrayne mentioned the discovery that Miss Turquand had come
into possession of Flore Hall--a discovery that little gratified Mrs.
Desfrayne, for the old country-seat had belonged to one of her uncles,
who had been ruined by his extravagance.

Probably she would not have been more pleased had any wee bird
whispered to her that Lois Turquand’s mother had been lady’s-maid
within its walls to the wife of that selfsame wasteful relative. Mr.
Vere Gardiner had, in truth, purchased the house and the land belonging
to it in the hope of being able to gratify his old love by installing
her as mistress where she had once been simply a paid servant.

“There is a fate in it all,” Mrs. Desfrayne said. “How will it end?”

“How should it end, mother?” Paul replied, somewhat sharply. “I suppose
we have pretty well seen the end of these unpleasant affairs. The worst
has passed.”

Poor fellow! the most bitter draft was yet to come. The end of his
fantastical life-story was very far from view.




CHAPTER XV.

THE MISTRESS OF FLORE HALL.


Lady Quaintree had taken a fancy into her head that she should like to
see the old Hall which now owned Miss Lois Turquand as proprietress.
Therefore, she carried off the young girl, her maid, and a couple of
male servants, on a hasty expedition.

“We will not send word we are coming, my dear,” she half-suggested,
half-commanded. “It will be most advisable to seize the people who have
the care of the place by surprise.”

Her ladyship knew nothing of the fact that Mrs. Turquand had once lived
at Flore Hall in service. Lois had never heard her mother refer to
her girl days, and was equally ignorant with Lady Quaintree that the
almost elegant, proud woman she remembered as her mother had originally
occupied so obscure and humble a position as lady’s-maid to a country
squire’s wife.

“We must engage a maid for you, my love,” said Lady Quaintree. “It will
be impossible for you to manage without one.”

Lois laughed with some gaiety, but did not answer.

The journey was easily performed, without adventure. The way was as
pleasant as sunny skies, beautiful, constantly changing scenery, and
easy transit could render it.

On arriving at Holston, in the evening, Lady Quaintree found a carriage
waiting at the station, for she had sent intelligence of her advent
to some friends in the vicinity, and piqued their curiosity by hints
of the beauty and romantic history of a charming young friend she was
bringing with her.

Not only a carriage, but a very pretty girl waited the arrival of the
expected guests. This girl was the daughter of the old friends to whom
Lady Quaintree was going to pay what she had called “a flying visit.”
She was in the waiting-room, a bare, wooden-benched nook, where her
presence seemed like the veriest sunshine in a shady place.

She was watching from the window, and ran out on the platform when she
saw her old friend alight.

A tall, symmetrically formed figure, attired in a coquettish style,
a fair, laughing face, enframed in a golden shower of tangled curls,
with blue, or, rather, violet eyes, carnation lips, the most dazzlingly
white little pearly teeth, small hands, and dainty, arched feet, shod
in high-heeled shoes with gleaming buckles--such would be very crude
notes for a description of Blanche Dormer.

The train swept onward, and in a moment the platform was again silent
and deserted, leaving Miss Dormer free to indulge in her evidently
impulsive nature, by kissing and embracing Lady Quaintree in a very
ardent manner. Lady Quaintree could have pardoned her for a little less
show of affection, her ladyship being somewhat averse to being made so
free with.

“Dearest Lady Quaintree,” cried this young lady, her voice ringing like
musical bells, “I am so glad to see you! Mama would have come to meet
you, but she is not very well. Papa had to go to dine with Sir Charles
Devereux, or he would have come. I have not seen you since those
delightful days three years ago, when we had such a delicious ‘time,’
as the Americans say, at that old German _bade_.”

“My dear, I have brought you a friend--Miss Lois Turquand,” said Lady
Quaintree, with gentle dignity. “I hope you two girls will like one
another.”

The girls looked into one another’s eyes, and then simultaneously
obeyed some mysterious impulse by clasping hands.

“You two were little girls when I last saw you, Miss Blanche,” Lady
Quaintree said, as they descended the stairs to enter the carriage.

“I was sixteen, your ladyship,” protested Blanche. “I am nineteen now.”

“Ah! well. Fifteen or sixteen, I suppose, is very young and childish to
an old lady like me,” smiled her ladyship.

On their way to The Cedars, the carriage passed the barracks.

Blanche eagerly directed the attention of her companions to the place,
and informed them that the present occupants were to leave on the
morrow, and a fresh regiment was to be installed on Wednesday morning.

Lady Quaintree politely suppressed a yawn, and thought with mild
wonderment of how easily interested in small objects country people
were. Lois listened with equal indifference, studying the captivating
lights and shadows on her new friend’s face.

Neither knew that it was the regiment to which Paul Desfrayne belonged
that was expected.

Mrs. Dormer was a delightful, somewhat old-fashioned type of the
country lady. Her manners were as free and as heartily cordial as those
of her daughter, but yet, like Blanche, she was as exquisitely refined
as if all her life had been passed at court.

Having established her guests to her entire satisfaction, she began to
make a bargain with Lady Quaintree for a more extended stay than that
contemplated. She protested against their running away after a few
hours, for Lady Quaintree had settled that by the afternoon of the next
day she and Lois should drive to Flore Hall, and, if it were at all
inhabitable, stay there perhaps a day, or a couple of days.

Mrs. Dormer listened with lively interest to the romantic story of Miss
Turquand’s newly acquired riches, while Blanche coaxed the young girl
into the garden for a quiet talk.

In an hour the girls had cemented a friendship that was to last till
death should them part.

“I know Flore Hall quite well,” said Blanche, when her enthusiasm
had slightly subsided. “A dear, delicious, old-fashioned place, in
what my old nurse calls ‘apple-pie order.’ You ought to fall in love
with the house, the gardens, the plantations, the shrubberies, the
conservatories, and all the rest, at first sight.”

Blanche went on to give a minute description of the various beauties of
the Hall and its surroundings, until she made Lois feel more desirous
than she had yet been to see her new possession.

The next day, having been introduced to Squire Dormer, and shown the
house and grounds by Blanche, who did the honors, Lois, now full of
an eager interest, and Lady Quaintree, quite girllike in her gleeful
anticipation, went to Flore Hall.

There were many discussions as to how they should go, but it had
been finally decided that Miss Dormer should drive them over in her
pony-carriage.

The lanes, the meadows, the sloping uplands, speckled and dotted with
sheep and kine, an occasional gleam of sunshiny water half-hidden
by alders, clumps of willows, and long grasses, the sweet sounds
of country life, the passing jingle of the bells on a wagoner’s
horses, made the way a veritable Arcadia of summer beauty. A joyous
exhilaration filled Lois’ whole being, and she drank in the fresh, free
air as if it had been the nectar of the gods.

A tolerably smart drive of about an hour’s duration brought the
visitors--for such they considered themselves--to the massive iron
gates of the park surrounding Flore Hall.

Miss Dormer drew up her cream-colored ponies, to let the two ladies
obtain a general view of the outward walls and plantations, the pretty
lodge, and the surrounding landscape.

As Lois gazed upon the scene, she for the first time realized the
dazzling change that had taken place in her position. Her varying color
betrayed the emotions of her heart; but her companions were too much
preoccupied with their inspection to have any attention to spare.

Blanche Dormer knew the place well, but she now regarded with different
eyes the familiar spot.

Nothing whatever could be seen of the house from the gates, for the
walls were very high, and the trees grew so close together that they
formed an apparently impenetrable screen.

A profound, peaceful silence reigned over the place, and but for the
thin stream of smoke rising from the lodge chimney, it might have been
conceivable that this was like one of those palaces familiar in the old
fairy legends, where invisible spirits wait, and a spell lies over all.

The mounted servant who attended the ladies alighted and rang the
bell. The clang reverberated, and but a very few minutes elapsed before
the summons was answered.

An exceedingly pleasant-looking young rustic girl came trippingly along
the neatly kept path from the lodge to the gates, and opening a small
postern door at the side, stood, like some pretty rural figure in a
quaintly designed frame, gazing in mingled astonishment and admiration
at the visitors.

In a moment or two a smile of recognition passed over her face as she
saw Miss Dormer, and she curtsied, awaiting some explanation of the
pleasure of the ladies.

Lady Quaintree had ascertained the name of the housekeeper, and asked
if she were in the house.

“Yes, my lady,” the girl said.

“We wish to see her,” Miss Dormer said.

“Yes, miss,” the girl again said, curtsying with rustic civility at
almost every monosyllable.

“Open the gates, and let the ladies drive up to the house,” the groom
said. “Is your grandfather at home?”

“Yes,” the girl answered; but she unfastened the great iron gates
herself, and let them swing back.

Then she closed them, when the ponies had scampered through, and as
the ladies passed up the carriage-drive she ran back to the lodge, to
inform her deaf old grandfather that some visitors had arrived.

“Upon my word,” said Lady Quaintree, as they came in sight of the
stately old pile, “you are an exceedingly lucky girl, my Lois.”

Lois smiled dreamily. No fear, no foreboding, no distrust disturbed the
soft serenity of that moment.

She looked up at the house, and scanned its ivy-grown walls, its noble
turrets, and quaint old windows, its carved terraces, the profusion of
radiant flowers and stately shrubs and grand old trees, the statues
that gleamed here and there from their leafy, embowering shades, the
fountain that flung up its glittering waters in the summer sunshine;
and while she mentally agreed with her friend and patroness, she felt
that this must be some glowing, fantastical dream.




CHAPTER XVI.

GILARDONI’S LOVE-GIFT.


Flore Hall was naturally a quiet, silent place, for it had rarely been
favored by the presence of its owners since the days when it had passed
from the hands of Squire Rashleigh, whose extravagant habits had ended
in his losing a pretty, well-cultivated estate that had been in the
family since the reign of King Henry II.

The late Mr. Vere Gardiner would have settled tranquilly down into the
calm beatitude of a country gentleman’s existence, had he succeeded in
obtaining the long-yearned-for desire of his heart--had his one only
love consented to become his wife.

As a bachelor, however, he preferred the busy, changeful round of a
city or town life to the stately solitude of the grand retreat he had
purchased.

The household was left almost exclusively under the supervision of a
very capable personage--Mrs. Ormsby. This was the housekeeper whom Mr.
Gardiner had found in possession when he acquired the property, and he
did not think of displacing her.

For a short time this excellent widow had dreamed of capturing the rich
owner of Flore Hall and its desirable belongings. She was a fine woman
and clever in her way, and at first thought the wealthy yet plain Vere
Gardiner would fall an easy victim. But, after a while, she was obliged
to relinquish her ambitious hopes, for hardly any opportunity was
offered of even meeting with the master of the stately abode where she
held vice-regal sway. Then she was fain to turn her attention to the
steward--a wiry, cool-headed old bachelor, who saw her innocent little
arts clearly enough, and amused himself by laughing in his sleeve at
the sly, good-looking widow.

Due notice had been given to the housekeeper, steward, and servants of
the change of dynasty. At present, Mrs. Ormsby knew just the name of
her future mistress--no more, not even her age or social standing.

Mrs. Ormsby anticipated a very grand scene indeed when Miss Turquand
should pay her first visit to the Hall. She hardly knew whether to
feel indifferent or disgusted by the impending alterations, but wisely
determined to wait the course of events. No one could tell her anything
whatever of Miss Turquand. In her imagination, the new proprietress
seemed to be a starched old maid, who might perhaps “come and settle
here, and worry my life out,” the widow fancied. Of a charming young
girl of eighteen, she never for an instant dreamed.

When one of the few servants forming the necessarily limited household
came to inform her that three ladies wished to see her, she supposed
they were strangers, who desired permission to view the house.

She threw down her plain sewing, and quitted the morning-room in
which she was sitting--a delightful nook, half in sun, half in shade,
affording a view of the prettiest part of the garden and of the
extensive landscape beyond.

In her rich black silk and violet ribbons, she rustled along a
glass-covered way leading into the great square hall--this a curious
and fine example of quaint architecture.

The ladies were at the principal door, in the pony-carriage waiting for
her.

Mrs. Ormsby had never seen Blanche Dormer, so that the three
aristocratic-looking ladies were all equally strangers to her. She
glanced from one to the other, her eyes finally resting on Lady
Quaintree.

“Mrs. Ormsby, I believe?” said her ladyship.

The housekeeper curtsied affirmatively.

Her ladyship proceeded to explain the reason for this visit, and
directed Mrs. Ormsby’s attention to the youthful owner of the house.

Mrs. Ormsby gazed at Lois with mingled curiosity and surprise. Without
betraying any visible emotion, however, she begged the ladies to alight
and enter.

As the late Mr. Vere Gardiner had every now and then paid a totally
unexpected visit to the Hall, and gave instructions that it was to be
constantly kept in perfect order, within and without, the house and
grounds were always ready for the closest inspection.

The housekeeper preceded the ladies into the great oak-carved hall, and
threw open a door to the right.

“Miss Turquand had some idea of staying here for to-night, if not for
a couple of days,” said Lady Quaintree, gazing around through her
gold-rimmed glasses. “Would you be able to accommodate us?”

“Certainly, my lady. You would wish to dine here?”

“If it could be managed--yes,” said Lady Quaintree.

“I had better order your carriage round to the stables, then, my lady.”

“My dearest Blanche, you will surely stay till morning?” said Lady
Quaintree, who seemed far more the mistress than Lois, who had wandered
to one of the long, wide windows, and was regarding the highly
cultivated garden with pleasure and interest.

“Mama would be alarmed----”

“Nonsense! I will send word by Stephen, your groom, that your mama is
not to expect her dear Blanchette till she sees her. Come, that is
settled.”

To Blanche, who loved adventure and novelty, while her daily existence
bordered almost on monotony, the little escapade proposed was by no
means unacceptable.

With the vivid fancy of a lively young girl, she already looked forward
to a not very far-distant period, when gay revels under the auspices of
her new friend should wake this fair solitude.

Mrs. Ormsby rang the bell, and presently the ponies were seen trotting
by the windows on the side next the entrance.

After a short rest, during which Lady Quaintree gave such information
to the housekeeper as she deemed advisable, it was settled that they
should be shown over the house.

Then came dinner, most excellently planned and arranged by Mrs. Ormsby,
and after that a walk and a drive to see the gardens and plantations.

As yet, it did not seem real to Lois. Lady Quaintree and her new
friend Blanche continually asked her what she thought of this pretty
place; but her replies were very brief. The dreamy smile on her lips,
however, and within the clear depths of her eyes, answered eloquently
enough.

Every hour Lady Quaintree coveted this girl more as a wife for her son.
This retired spot had quite taken her fancy by storm, and she thought
resentfully of the man who had been selected as future owner of the
Hall and its mistress.

Her ladyship might have dismissed the faintest spark of hope. It would
have been absolutely impossible for Lois ever to have cared in the
slightest degree for the Honorable Gerald. She had not forgotten for
one moment the handsome face, the soft, half-melancholy eyes, that had
startled her on entering Lady Quaintree’s salon on that now memorable
evening of her life.

Perhaps, had Paul Desfrayne carefully planned the best course to arouse
a tender, half-piqued interest in the breast of this girl, he could
scarcely have devised one different from the one he was now following.

The more resolutely Lois tried to drive away the recollection of
her mysterious trustee, the more his image seemed to present itself
obstinately before her. She found herself speculating on the reasons he
might have for avoiding her, and behaving in so rude and cold a manner
when obliged to address her.

Only twice had she seen him, and already she was annoyed by finding
herself wondering frequently where and when she should see him again.
To her girlish mind the explanation of his coldness was easy enough.

“He loves another, and is probably annoyed as much as I can be by the
painfully embarrassing bargain made between us by the kind old man who
has been the benefactor of us both,” she thought.

It did not occur to her that perhaps Captain Desfrayne, while not base
enough to seek to win the splendid fortune in view by marrying one girl
when he loved another, might yet desire to save the part promised to
him by driving her to refuse to fulfil the contract. She might have
remembered that he was to receive fifty thousand pounds if the refusal
emanated from her, and only ten if he were the one to decline acceding
to the wishes of the dead old man.

Lois Turquand, however, was as little worldly wise as Paul Desfrayne,
and her nature inclined toward romance and sentiment.

As mistress of the house, she was consigned by Mrs. Ormsby to a
dreadfully grand, well-nigh somber state bedroom, while Lady Quaintree
and Blanche were conducted to a large, cheerful apartment, her ladyship
wishing to have her pretty country friend with her.

Lois stood gazing around the chamber for some time after she was left
alone. Then she regarded the beautiful gardens beneath, lying bathed in
a silvery flood of summer moonlight.

All seemed so tranquil, so calm, so sweet, Lois felt as if she could be
satisfied to let her life flow onward in this sylvan retreat without
desiring a change.

The morning came--the morning of the day when the soldiers in occupancy
of the barracks at Holston were to give place to others.

Lois and Blanche went out early into the grounds. The appearance of the
beautiful young owner, in so sudden and mysterious a way, had created
a profound sensation among the servants, but, although many a pair of
curious eyes darted inquisitive glances from sheltered corners, not a
soul was visible.

The bright, pleasant, laughing voices of the girls were answered or
echoed by the wild, soft warblings of innumerable birds.

Blanche was more full of delight and admiration than even on the
previous day. She led Lois down to a secluded path, which went
slopingly to a wide sheet of water, dancing and gleaming as if crested
with ten thousand diamonds.

“There is a boat somewhere about here,” said Blanche Dormer. “I
remember when we came here one day for a picnic some few years ago, we
went on the water, and crossed over to that pavilion yonder. Do you see
it?--there, by the water’s edge, yonder, nearly hidden by trees and
climbing plants.”

Lois looked across, and saw the fairylike summer-house.

“It was an odd fancy to build it so that you could not reach it without
crossing the water,” Blanche went on. “I am an excellent oar, and I
should like to cross this afternoon, while we leave Lady Quaintree to
her siesta.”

The girls returned to breakfast in the gayest of spirits. At that hour
Paul Desfrayne was being whirled down from London.

In the afternoon, Gilardoni, who had attended his new master, remarked
how pale and weary he looked.

Since the evening Gilardoni had entered Captain Desfrayne’s service,
and that very brief dialogue concerning Lucia Guiscardini had passed,
the name of the famous Italian singer had never been mentioned by
either. Neither knew that the life of the other had been blighted by
this lovely snake in woman’s form.

Paul Desfrayne seemed too languid to make any effort to rouse himself
this day.

Gilardoni, who appeared to have already formed a strong attachment
to the kindly man who had held out his hand in the hour of bitter
need--Gilardoni watched him with a strange sort of yearning pity and
sympathy.

“This is no mere physical fatigue,” the Italian said to himself. “Nor
does it look like threatening illness. There is some mental strain.”

He at length approached his master, deferentially, yet with the air of
one who intends to be heard.

“I am sure, sir, it would do you a world of good if you were to ride
out for an hour or two,” he said.

“Thanks for your attention, Gilardoni, but I feel too weary.”

“Indeed, sir, I believe if you were to have a breath of fresh air, it
would make all the difference,” Gilardoni urged. “A canter along some
of those leafy roads and lanes we saw as we passed in the train would
clear the clouds off your brain. Forgive me if I make too free, but I
think----”

“What do you think?” demanded his master, a little sharply.

“Well, sir--I hope you won’t be displeased--I think you are weary in
mind, not in body.”

Captain Desfrayne looked keenly at his servant for a moment or two,
then the expression that had almost attained a frown melted into a sad
smile.

“You are not far wrong, Gilardoni,” he said, very quietly. “I have been
very much troubled of late by--by business affairs.”

“I trust, sir, you will not consider me intrusive.”

“Certainly not, my good fellow. I think I ought to feel indebted to you
for your kindly interest. I will take your advice, and go for a canter
before mess.”

His horse was soon waiting for him--the animal being one of the few
luxuries Captain Desfrayne permitted himself out of his limited income.

The Italian attended him to the gates of the barracks, and then stood
gazing after him with the kind of interest and affection so often seen
in the eyes of a faithful, attached Newfoundland dog.

“What is the matter with him?” he thought. “Money-troubles, most
likely. He doesn’t seem the kind of man to be crossed in love--unless
the girl he wanted liked somebody else before she saw him. Perhaps that
has happened. I hope he will come back a little more cheerful.”

Gilardoni turned to go back to his master’s rooms. As he moved, a
small, folded package lying a few steps from him caught his quick eye.
He stooped and picked it up.

Before opening it, as there was nothing on the outside of the thin
tissue-paper to indicate who the owner might be, he felt it over with
his fingers.

“Feels like a small cross,” he said to himself. “I wonder if the
captain dropped it when he pulled out his handkerchief just now.”

He unfolded the paper, and displayed to view a small gold cross, such
as are worn as a pendant on the watch-chain.

Gilardoni regarded this with an air of the most unqualified amazement,
mingled with an expression that seemed to indicate rage and contending
sensations of no very agreeable kind. For several moments he remained
as if carved in stone, fixedly looking upon the trinket. It was a
comparatively inexpensive toy, made of burnished gold, set with blue
stones on one side, perfectly plain on the other.

“It is impossible,” Gilardoni murmured, at length, raising his eyes,
which wore a singularly startled expression. “Oh! it cannot be the
same. Why, they make these things by the hundred. How could it be
possible that it could come into the possession of Captain Desfrayne?
Yet--yet it _must_ be my fatal love-gift.”

He abruptly turned the cross, and looked at the nethermost point.
Thereon was very inartistically cut or engraved a tiny heart pierced by
an arrow.

“_Cielo!_” he cried, starting back. “It _is_ the same. Then has it been
dropped by the captain, or how has it come here? Am I dreaming? Am I
going mad?”

He turned slowly, and walked toward the barracks, his head sunk upon
his breast, as if he were overwhelmed by painful reflections and
memories.

“The moment the captain returns, I shall ask him if this was in his
possession, and how he came by it. Perhaps Lucia sold or lost it, and
it fell into the hands of some dealer, from whom he may have bought it.
Yes, that must be so.”

Captain Desfrayne would probably not return for a couple of hours.
Gilardoni must wait with what patience he could muster. By dint of
arguing with himself, he at length almost arrived at the conclusion
that during his tour in Italy the captain had purchased the gold cross.

That Captain Desfrayne had ever been acquainted with Lucia Guiscardini,
he did not for a moment dream.

If the thought came into his mind that the cross had been a gift
from _la_ Lucia to the young Englishman, he dismissed it as utterly
improbable.

The sudden finding of the trinket that bore so many mingled
recollections with it had made him feel faint and sick from emotion,
and as the slow minutes wore away he grew paler and paler.

“She wears diamonds now that emperors scarce could buy,” he said to
himself, contemplating that tiny love-gift, “yet I doubt if any of the
gems that cluster in her jewel-boxes have given her half the rapture of
vanity and pleasure that thrilled her false heart when I clasped this
little gewgaw about her neck. She pretended she loved me, and returned
my kiss--and I had the folly to believe her true. Folly, folly, folly!
Some day I may have her at my feet, and then--aye, then----”

He clenched his hand with frenzied rage.

And all the time Paul Desfrayne was riding, he scarce cared whither,
under the soft, genial sunshine, that made the landscape seem a
fairy-land--riding onward, the sport of fate, to rivet yet another link
in the chain of his strange, fevered life.




CHAPTER XVII.

IN THE THUNDER-STORM.


In the afternoon, fortune, deceitful, false friend that she is, favored
Blanche Dormer’s caprice for rowing across the lake to the pretty
pavilion on the other side.

Her mother, Mrs. Dormer, took a fancy for driving over to see Flore
Hall, and came about four or five o’clock.

Having been escorted over the house, she was too fatigued to go into
the grounds, and, as Lady Quaintree was not sorry for an excuse to
rest, the two matrons subsided into a pleasant, gossiping chat in what
was called the blue drawing-room, with a diminutive table between them,
whereon was set a rare tea-service of Sèvres china.

The girls readily obtained leave of absence. Blanche did not announce
her intention of going on the water, however, for she was afraid of
being forbidden to do so.

“It seems so droll to think of a girl like you being sole proprietress
of this big house and all this ground,” Blanche laughingly said, as
they tripped down from the terrace into the garden. “Mama said there
would be a storm, but I don’t believe there will be a drop of rain.”

A far-distant peal of thunder reverberated as she spoke, but it seemed
too far off to mean danger.

Blanche again proposed crossing to the summer-house on the other side.

“I am a splendid oar,” she said, smiling, “so you need not be afraid to
trust yourself to my care.”

Lois hesitated for a few moments, but the proposition was too tempting
to be resisted.

In a few minutes more they were floating pleasantly over the mirrored
surface of the waters. It was so calm, so dreamlike thus half-drifting
across, that both girls wished they were going an indefinite distance.

In half a dozen minutes they were landed at the foot of the flight of
steps leading up to the summer pavilion.

It was so quiet in this secluded spot that, to any one totally alone,
the stillness would have been oppressive. Not a breath ruffled the
leaves, not a solitary bird’s twitter broke the silence.

The pavilion was situated in the central part of a great clump of
trees, nestling amid its rich, encircling foliage like an indolent
beauty lying among velvet cushions.

Partly oppressed by the dreamlike silence, and the sultriness of the
day, the young girls ascended and seated themselves, Blanche on the
first step, Lois on one of the fragile wicker chairs.

They forgot to secure their tiny bark, nor did they observe that after
a while it began to drift beyond their reach.

Neither seemed inclined to break the silence that was partly soothing,
partly oppressive. When two people have only recently been introduced,
even if mutually desirous of extending their knowledge of one another,
it is rather difficult to start an interesting train of conversation
when the trivialities of the moment have been exhausted.

Blanche Dormer, however, was never very long at a loss. She was soon in
the midst of a rattling talk such as she enjoyed.

“Have you ever been in this part of the world before?” she asked.

“Never.”

“You have no friends in the neighborhood?”

“None whatever. I have very few friends anywhere.”

“You will have plenty soon,” Miss Dormer philosophically remarked. “I
understand you were Lady Quaintree’s companion?”

“Yes. I have been with her since I was fourteen.”

“Are you a relative?”

“Oh! dear no. My mother was--was born in quite a different station. She
was an embroideress. But she died, and Lady Quaintree was good enough
to take an interest in me, and become my protectress.”

“How kind! She is a dear, good soul. And so now you are a great
heiress. You had some rich relations, then?”

“I don’t think I had a relative in the world except my dear mother,”
said Lois, a little sadly.

Blanche Dormer opened her eyes. Miss Dormer was related to half the
wealthy commons of England.

“No relations!” she exclaimed, forgetting that she was guilty of an
outrageous breach of good manners in thus expressing surprise. “How
very strange! I thought you had inherited this place and sacks of money
from your uncle.”

Lois shook her head.

“I had no uncles that I am aware of. My father died when I was a baby,
and I never heard my mother speak of his relatives. She herself was an
only child.”

“Then why----”

Miss Dormer stopped abruptly, and blushed a little. Lois laughed as she
noticed the hesitation.

“Why did Mr. Gardiner make me a person of property?” she supplied. “I
cannot tell you, for, although I read his will, I have not seen the
slightest hint of his reasons for being so generous. To tell you the
truth, I have been puzzling over it ever since.”

“What a romantic mystery! Are you sure he was not related to you, my
dear?”

“If he had been, they would certainly have told me so.”

“Did anybody offer you any explanation of his reasons for leaving you
his property?” asked Blanche, whose curiosity was strongly excited on
the subject.

“No.”

“Did you ask? Forgive me. I am afraid you will think I am taking
unwarrantable liberties in thus cross-questioning you,” apologized Miss
Dormer.

“No, I do not think so in the least. I feel happy to think you will be
my friend,” replied Lois softly. “I did not ask any questions about Mr.
Gardiner’s will, because----”

She suddenly remembered why she had felt tongue-tied, and her face
became suffused with crimson. Blanche, who was steadily regarding her,
was much surprised by this evidence of emotion; but, although her
curiosity was still further aroused, she had sufficient delicacy to
restrain herself, and adroitly to change the subject of conversation.

She began to speak about the departure of troops from the barracks,
which were situated a couple of miles from the vicinity of her father’s
house. This gave Lois an opportunity of recovering her composure, for
which she felt grateful, although if Blanche had pressed her much
further she would have confided to her the embarrassing circumstances
to which Mr. Vere Gardiner’s will was likely to lead.

As Miss Dormer chatted gaily, heavy splashes of rain came suddenly
pattering through the clustering leaves, and a vivid flash of
lightning, followed almost instantaneously by a crashing peal of
thunder, startled the girls, and made them hurriedly retreat into the
pretty pavilion.

The day had changed as if by magic. The sky was overcast with driving
clouds like squadrons of artillery, the sun had disappeared, the whole
aspect of the bright garden and the smiling lake had altered as if by
the wave of the wand of some malicious fairy.

A summer storm had burst over the heads of these timid girls, and they
looked at each other in dismay. It was a situation likely to become
extremely unpleasant. No one knew that they were here. Even if their
screams could be heard, it would be difficult for any one to reach the
place, as the tiny wherry was drifting about, out of reach.

The waters of the lake began to foam and lash with frenzy. Every
instant the storm increased in fury. The girls clung to one another in
affright, unable to help shrieking when a blue-forked flame encircled
them, or a prolonged roar, as of besieging artillery, seemed to rend
the heavens asunder.

Each moment it seemed as if they must be slain in that fervent embrace.

A flash of lightning, more piercing than any that had preceded it,
swept in a jagged curve over the pavilion, and a peal of thunder shook
the fragile building to its foundations. Terrified almost beyond
expression, Lois clung more closely to Blanche, and then fell back
into her arms in a dead swoon.

Before Blanche could collect her thoughts, herself terror-stricken
almost to the verge of insanity, a panel, which had looked as if merely
a portion of the highly finished decorations of the airy walls, slid
back, and a gentleman suddenly faced the young girl, as she placed Lois
in a chair.

This gentleman was Paul Desfrayne.

It would be difficult to say which felt or mutely expressed the most
surprise, Miss Dormer or the stranger. They gazed at one another in
amazement for a moment or two, and then the young man, lifting his cap
with mechanical politeness, advanced.

By his military undress uniform, Blanche judged him to be one of the
newly arrived officers, but how he had appeared as if from the solid
walls, she could not conceive.

From the position of Miss Dormer, who stood partly in front of Lois,
Captain Desfrayne could not see the fainting girl’s face, but his heart
sorely misgave him as to her identity.

“Madam,” he said, looking at Blanche with surprise and compassion, “how
is it that I find you in such a perilous position?”

Blanche, in a few words, explained. Then she turned again to her
friend, and, kneeling before her, tried by every device to restore her
to consciousness.

“Good heavens, Miss Turquand!” murmured Captain Desfrayne, under his
breath.

Faint as his tones were, however, they caught the quick ear of Blanche
Dormer.

“You know her, sir?” she exclaimed, looking up in his face.

“I can scarcely claim that privilege,” he replied, with icy coldness.

He stepped quickly to the door, plucked a large, strong leaf from the
overhanging branches, which he twisted into a cup, and, filling it with
water by descending the steps and dipping it in the lake, returned, and
gave it to Blanche.

Then he stood by, gazing with an uncontrollable interest upon the
white, delicately chiseled face of the unconscious Lois.

“She has been alarmed by the storm?” he said presently, as Lois began
to show symptoms of returning life. “You must not remain here.”

“How can we escape?” demanded Blanche.

“By the way I came. It leads by a succession of corridors to a ruined
abbey, from whence again you can reach the Hall by passing through a
labyrinth of secret vaults and passages.”

Blanche turned pale. Even this place, insecure as the shelter was, did
not appear so alarming as the way of escape indicated.

Paul Desfrayne smiled--that half-melancholy, winning smile that had
such a charm of its own.

“It sounds rather terrifying,” he said gently. “But as I see you have
let your boat drift away, you cannot reach the house by way of the
lake. Even if you had your boat, the waters are too dangerous to be
trusted, and this storm may not abate for a couple of hours. Do not be
afraid. I know every turn well, for I used to come here constantly when
a boy. There is no other road to the house. I presume you have come
from the Hall?” he abruptly asked. “I was informed that Miss Turquand
had come to stay for a few days there, and so I supposed----”

“We rowed across the lake only about half an hour ago, and then the
sky looked as clear as--as if it were never going to rain any more,”
Blanche explained.

“You have no wraps of any kind?” he added, glancing with an odd sort
of half-paternal compassion at the silken draperies of Lois, and the
cloudy azure-blue and white skirts of her beautiful friend.

Before Miss Dormer could reply, if reply were needed--for nothing in
the shape of protection against bad weather, except one large sunshade,
was visible--Lois opened her eyes.

The young officer drew back slightly, but he was the first object upon
which her gaze rested.

She roused herself, and sat up.

“Are you better, dearest?” anxiously asked Blanche.

Lois did not answer, but tried to rise from her chair. She looked at
the young man who was regarding her with so much profound interest, and
a rosy blush overspread her face.

“Captain Desfrayne!” she murmured.

He advanced one step, then paused.

“You are probably surprised to see me here, Miss Turquand,” he said.
“Perhaps not more surprised than I am to find myself within these
walls, or to discover you here. I came out for a ride, and scarcely
noticed which road my horse took, until I was overtaken by the storm.
But you must not remain here. The sooner you quit this place the
better. The storm shows no signs of abating. Will you permit me to be
your guide? Are you strong enough to walk, Miss Turquand?”

Blanche put her arms about Lois to support her. Lois moved forward a
few steps; but the agitation, however pleasant, of the last few days,
the nervous trepidation caused by the storm, acting on a singularly
susceptible temperament, and the weakness induced by her fainting-fit,
proved too much for her to contend against, and she swayed again,
sinking into the arms of Blanche, who caught her.

Paul Desfrayne’s lips compressed very firmly as he looked at the young
girl thus lying helpless. For a moment he reflected.

“I must not be a coward,” he argued with himself. “What folly! It
cannot signify to me. The sooner we are out of this situation the
better.”

Then he addressed Blanche with a calm, self-possessed manner, strangely
at variance with his real feelings.

“You must allow me to be more than your guide. There is serious danger
in your remaining here. May I carry your friend?”

There was no choice but to comply. He took Lois from the arms of her
companion, and lifted her in his own strong, firm clasp. He glanced
down at the pale, statuesque face as it rested against his shoulder,
but it was impossible to even guess at his thoughts from the expression
upon his countenance, which was that of perfect impassibility, though
a certain eager interest lurked in his eyes.

Through the door by which he had so unexpectedly entered, down a long,
apparently interminable flight of somewhat steep steps, along one dim
corridor after another, until Blanche began to feel bewildered, and to
imagine herself in a dream.

She did not attempt to address a solitary remark to the friend who
had so suddenly come like a knight of old to the rescue of distressed
damsels, but followed him with implicit faith as he strode with a quick
step onward.

Once he turned his head and spoke, as if he guessed she must feel
mystified, or to break the current of his own unpleasant thoughts.

“These passages are very confusing to any one not thoroughly acquainted
with the various turnings. I believe their origin is unknown, though
the tradition still exists of many a strange legend of how cavaliers
escaped their pursuers this way, and fled to the friendly sea.”

Nothing more was said, and the strange procession moved on until the
fresh air blew in, and the dash of the sullen rain, the soughing of the
trees, told that they were near the entrance.

Left without guidance, Blanche could not have formed the most distant
idea of where she was, or which way to take. She could see nothing but
a wide expanse of rain-blotted gray-green, looking at this moment the
picture of desolation.

Paul Desfrayne did not emerge upon the wild, stormy scene without,
however. He pushed open a door apparently hewn from solid stone, and
entered a small, dimly lighted chapel. It was a circular building, half
in ruins, though the beautiful stained-glass windows were almost intact.

With the most tender care, Paul Desfrayne placed his inanimate charge
upon one of the carved oaken seats, and then stood by, watching her.

A half-sobbing sigh told that the young girl was reviving, and she
turned wildly, to seek for Blanche.

“You are safe now, if in some discomfort,” said Captain Desfrayne,
in a reassuring tone, though he partially averted his gaze. “Will
you remain here until I summon assistance? Are you afraid to stay
unprotected? There is not the slightest fear of any intrusion. If any
living being come within these walls, it will be only some country lout
seeking shelter from the storm.”

“Where are we?” asked Lois, looking about her as if still half-dazed.

“Within the walls of an old ruined abbey about three-quarters of a mile
from--from Flore Hall.” He pronounced the name of the place with some
difficulty, as if it were distasteful to him.

“But you will be obliged to go through the rain,” objected Blanche, who
was pleased by the handsome face and chivalrous bearing of the captain.

“No. If necessary, I should not hesitate to do so. My horse is waiting
for me under shelter in a ruined stable close by, and I could soon ride
the distance. But my desire to aid you will not be put to any trial.
There are rude, covered, subterranean passages from this spot to the
Hall, and I can easily traverse them, for I know every inch of the
ground.”

“What thanks do we not owe you, sir!” exclaimed Miss Dormer.

Lois remained silent, her eyes bent on the ground, her color varying
with each wave of thought that passed through her brain.

Partly rejoiced at his temporary release, partly dubious of the
propriety of quitting these timid girls, Captain Desfrayne turned to go
on his errand.

As he did so, a shuffling noise startled the three. They turned
simultaneously, in alarm, and saw a big, shock-headed country boy,
apparently shaking himself awake, rising from a seat veiled in such
dim obscurity that none of the little group had noticed the recumbent
figure.

The boy had taken refuge from the raging tempest here, and had after
a while dropped off asleep. Half-awakened by the voices, he had dimly
heard the conversation.

“Please, zur,” he said, lugging at some stray locks of red hair lying
on his freckled forehead, “do’ee want onybody to run a message to thay
Hall, zur? ’Cause, if so be ’ee do, I be main glad to do it for your
honor, zur.”

Captain Desfrayne looked at him in mingled doubt and displeasure. He
reflected for a moment or two, then said:

“How would you get to the Hall, boy?”

“Why, zur, along thay dark places with thay pillars.”

“Are you sure you know the way, my lad?”

“Zartain zure, zur. Whoy, often’s been the time when me, and Bill
Heath, and Joe Tollard, and all thay rest o’ ’em hev played hoide and
zeek in ’em. Oh! I knows thay way, zure enough.”

It would not be possible to refuse to allow this eager substitute to go
on the pressing errand he had himself contemplated. Paul Desfrayne was
compelled to let him go.

“Well, make haste, and bring somebody to take care of these young
ladies,” he said. “What is your name--Robin Roughhead?”

“No, zur--George Netherclift.”

“Well, Master George Netherclift, if ever you made haste in your life,
do so now.”

The boy--a great lumping lad of fourteen or fifteen, with a stolid,
good-humored, red-yellow face, and a thick-set figure, clad in a
smock frock and a pair of tough corduroy trousers--started on with
more nimbleness than any one would have given him credit for. In the
silence, his clattering, hob-nailed boots raised countless echoes in
the rude, vaulted passages as he trotted along.

An uncomfortable embarrassment succeeded his departure. Lois felt
ashamed of her weakness, and abashed in the presence of the tall,
handsome captain, unable to forget the secret link that in a measure
bound their lives together. Paul Desfrayne almost cursed the destiny
that had thus dragged him within those dangerous precincts he would
fain shun. Blanche Dormer caught the infection from these two, who were
acquainted with each other, yet seemed to make some mystery of the
matter, and so she remained silent.

Lois dared not lift her eyes from the ground. Paul Desfrayne stood at
some distance, viewing the rain as it plashed down, and regarding the
now more rarely recurring flashes of lightning with an absent air, as
if his real thoughts were far away.

On setting out for his ride, he had permitted his horse to take any
road that presented itself, seeing that the way led far from the
neighborhood of Flore Hall. After a while he had almost dropped the
reins on the animal’s neck, and allowed his mind to revert to the
painful subject of his most unhappy position--a subject but seldom
out of his memory. He had ridden slowly for a long distance from the
barracks when the first pattering drops of rain came splashing down.
Seeing that the sky was overcast by dense black clouds, and hearing
the distant rumbling of the thunder, he had looked about for some
convenient shelter, and then, to his great surprise, found himself
close by the ruined abbey he so well remembered.

Dismounting, he had secured his horse in an old ruined stable, and
then entered the familiar place, his feelings not all pain, yet not
all pleasure. That any one should have ventured to the summer pavilion
he did not for a moment imagine. Wishing to see as much of the spot as
possible while he could do so in safety, he had rapidly traversed the
dim corridors, and, opening the door in the paneling of the wall, had
come upon the two young girls.

For the first time now he recollected that he had left his faithful
Greyburn alone for some time, and feared that perhaps the poor animal
might have been frightened by the fury of the tempest.

“I trust you will not be alarmed if I leave you for a few moments to
look after my horse. I left him, as I think I told you, in a ruined
stable close at hand; but I should be glad to know how he fares,” said
Captain Desfrayne, as the echoes of George Netherclift’s heavy steps
died away.

“Oh! pray see him,” cried both girls.

“I shall not be gone for more than a few minutes, and I shall be within
call,” said the young man.

He went out, leaving the two young ladies together. As he departed, he
glanced for an instant at Lois.

The lovely, fathomless eyes were raised to his. He gazed as if
spellbound into the dreamy, liquid depths. Then, with an indefinable
expression of mingled emotion, he abruptly disappeared behind the angle
of the old Gothic porch.

Lois’ heart seemed to stand still for a second, then began to beat with
such rapidity that she put her hand to her side to stay its throbbing.
Then she looked at Blanche, who began to think that the mystery was
simply that the two lovers who had quarreled had unexpectedly met
again, and that pride, or the presence of a third--herself--hindered a
reconciliation.

In answer to a question from Miss Turquand, she explained how they
had come hither. A vivid flash dyed the pale cheeks of Lois when she
learned how she had been conveyed to this unknown locality.

How little had she anticipated a meeting such as this in wondering
where she should see Paul Desfrayne again! How little had she dreamed
of it on Saturday afternoon, when she had encountered him among the
gaily dressed loungers in the Zoological Gardens!

It seemed as if she had known him half a lifetime now, from some
strange affinity that made his presence, his voice, his face familiar.
And yet one short week ago she had been ignorant of his very existence.

Frank Amberley, whom she had seen almost daily for four years--the four
years that had brought her from childhood to fairest maidenhood--was
forgotten, save when actually present, and then regarded as belonging
to the most formal rank of friends. She would never, unless under
pressure of some most extraordinary difficulty, have thought of
consulting him, or seeking his aid in any way whatever.

Blanche Dormer drew out her tiny jeweled watch.

“What will mama think, do, or say?” she exclaimed. “It will be enough
to drive her crazy. Good heavens! my dearest Miss Turquand, they will
imagine we have been capsized into the lake when they see the boat
drifting about. When mama’s fright is over, I shall be in horrible
disgrace. Such a thing never happened in all the nineteen years of
my life. Lady Quaintree will be like a maniac. I shall never forgive
myself.”

Lois felt Miss Dormer was speaking the truth, and could not think of
one solitary iota of consolation.

They sat very silent, waiting for release from their exceedingly
disagreeable and irksome situation.

Blanche was partly right in her conjectures; but fortunately not so
far as her fears pictured. The two ladies, absorbed in their ancient
memories, were so occupied that they did not observe the coming storm
till the first violent roll of thunder, or rather the advanced flash
of blue, forked lightning, made one jump from her seat with a scream,
and caused the other to drop her dainty Sèvres cup with a crash on the
white bearskin at her feet.

They knew that the girls had gone for a walk in the grounds; but hoped
they had taken warning and returned. Lady Quaintree had rung with a
jerk for her maid, Justine, to demand if the young ladies had come in.

Justine said she thought they had, and went off to ascertain. But,
unhappily, she had loitered, under pretense of being frightened by the
thunder and lightning, in company with a tall footman, who professed
to be very much in love with her. Partly by his persuasion to linger,
partly from her own inclination to indulge in a stolen flirtation,
she stayed until minutes stole into an hour, and she had completely
forgotten her errand.

Finding she did not return, Lady Quaintree took it for granted the
young ladies had come in, but perhaps with drenched garments, and that
Justine was staying to help them in changing their attire.

Fully persuaded that this must be the case, the two dames resumed their
conversation, though in a more subdued key. They were not nervous or
easily frightened by the electrical influences which had so seriously
disturbed the young girls, and, Lady Quaintree having coolly drawn the
lace curtains across the windows, they sat quite contentedly. It at
length occurred to them as odd that neither Lois Turquand nor Blanche
should present herself.

Lady Quaintree rang again.

“Where is Miss Turquand?--where is Miss Dormer?” she inquired of the
domestic who appeared.

“I don’t know, my lady,” replied the man.

“Where is my maid?”

“I don’t know, my lady.”

“Find her, then, and tell her to request the young ladies to come here
directly.”

Presently the fellow came back, with the alarming information that
neither the young ladies nor Justine were to be found.

“Good heavens!” cried her ladyship, unable to credit her ears. “Not to
be found? Impossible! Nonsense! They _must_ be found! Why, my maid left
me a short time since to seek for Miss Turquand and Miss Dormer. Oh!
this is absurd!”

The man departed again on a search that proved useless. He presented
himself again, fearfully, to tell her ladyship so.

The truth about Justine was that, recollecting her message suddenly,
she had flown to Miss Turquand’s room, and then to all the probable and
even improbable places where the young ladies might be found; but, of
course, without coming on any trace of the missing ones.

Thoroughly alarmed, marveling what had become of them, and not daring
to go back to her mistress, she had darted wildly all over the house,
making inquiries of everybody she met.

Several of the domestics had seen the young ladies go out, but no one
had seen them return.

Forgetful, in her sore affright, of her nervous tremors in a storm,
Justine had rushed into the grounds, armed with a big umbrella
snatched up in passing through the entrance-hall. Thus her otherwise
unaccountable disappearance was to be explained.

In a short time the entire household was astir, alarmed by the
discovery that the young ladies were not within the Hall. If not there,
where were they? Of necessity, they must be out in the grounds, perhaps
in the porter’s lodge.

One servant ran down to the lodge, only to bring back word that the
young ladies had never been there.

Others scattered themselves over the gardens, seeking in the
conservatories and graperies, in the plantations, in every imaginable
place.

It was the gardener who came to the horrifying conclusion that the
girls had ventured on the lake in the flimsy boat, and had been
capsized.

He found Justine wandering near the borders of the water in a state of
distraction. She could not tell that the boat had been safely moored
that morning and in the early afternoon, but she had paused here.

The gardener imprudently betrayed his suspicion, and had the
satisfaction of seeing Mademoiselle Justine fall in a heap, in violent
hysterics, objurgating herself in disjointed sentences between whiles.

In a very short time, the alarming suspicion was communicated to the
whole household, except the ladies, who were awaiting the result of the
search in terrible anxiety, but not of positive fear, for they were
sure now that the girls had sought some convenient shelter, where they
were biding till the storm ceased.

A hurried consultation was held as to what should be done; but no one
could offer a suggestion that promised to be of the smallest service.

The domestics retreated into a great greenhouse, where they could
command a view of the lake, the waters of which now bore a sensational
attraction in the eyes of the terrified servants.

No one could take the direction of affairs, for they were all
subordinate servants, ignorant, and easily distracted.

It was agreed, finally, to go and consult Mrs. Ormsby, on whom the task
of breaking the tragical surmise to the ladies would fall.

Justine had been carried into a conservatory, to get her out of the
way, and left there with a couple of housemaids.

A sad procession scrambled back to the house--a somewhat noisy one, for
every one had some eager, excited remark to make, or some wondering
exclamation to utter.

Mrs. Ormsby was at the top of the broad flight of steps at the
principal entrance, watching for the earliest information. She did not
venture to remain near Lady Quaintree or Mrs. Dormer, but stood midway,
as it were, between the terrified ladies and the band of explorers. As
they approached, she could plainly see the search had been unsuccessful.

Two or three eagerly came in advance of their fellows, their mouths and
eyes wide open, their visages full of excitement.

They had not yet begun to make their story intelligible, however, when
a loud shout, in a boyish treble, made every one look round; and a
thick-set lout was seen running toward them, waving his hands in sign
that his business was of a most urgent nature, that would not brook
delay. This boy was George Netherclift.

He had, they all felt at once, come with some news of the missing ones.
But what kind of news? Were they to hear confirmation of a tragedy? Or
were the young ladies safe and sound?

George Netherclift had been running the latter part of the way, and was
considerably out of breath. As he paused, he glanced from one of the
servants to another, in doubt as to which to address.

“Well, boy,” exclaimed Mrs. Ormsby, in a sharp tone, “what do you want?
Speak quickly!”

“Zoombody to bring thay young ladies from thay ould abbey,” said the
boy. “Be quick, if ’ee please. They’ll be main tired waiting.”

“They are safe and sound, then?” cried the housekeeper. “But how in the
world did they get to the ruined abbey?”

“Doan’t know, missus. Perhaps they’ull know theysells. Will ’ee zend
zoombody quick, please?”

Of course, three or four male servants were at once ready to accompany
him. Mrs. Ormsby at first thought of sending the carriage, but the
abbey was nearly two miles off by the road.




CHAPTER XVIII.

PAUL DESFRAYNE’S REFLECTIONS.


With a heart as heavy as lead, Paul Desfrayne turned back to rejoin
the two girls, when he had ascertained that, though trembling a little
from nervous fright, his horse, Greyburn, was quite safe. He thought
what a fortunate dispensation of Providence it would have been had the
One Hundred and Tenth Regiment been ordered on foreign service--say, to
China or Timbuctoo.

How many poor fellows had been separated from all they loved best,
never to behold adored faces more this side the grave, banished into
semisolitude, while he was forced to abide within range of his dreaded
Nemesis!

When he again appeared within the little chapel, he was by no means
lively company. Cold, abstracted, silent, he seemed to make no effort
to arouse himself. He was thinking, indeed, as his eyes wandered to the
high windows through which the steady downpour of rain could be clearly
seen, what a striking emblem of his life this black, pitiless storm
might be.

Lois regarded him through her long, drooping eyelashes with mingled
feelings of admiration and pique. Her belief that his thoughts were
with another gained fresh impetus.

“Yet,” she said to herself, “why need he be so uncivil to me? Perhaps
he imagines that if he were to be ordinarily attentive, I might flatter
myself he meant to ask me to fulfil the hateful bargain. I would not
marry him if he tried to persuade me to-morrow.”

The hot blood swept in wrathful waves over her face, just now paled by
affright and her fit of syncope. Anger made her draw her slight figure
up to its full height; and when Captain Desfrayne turned and addressed
some trifling remark to her, she replied with a frigid coldness that
struck even herself as being ungrateful and ungracious.

Blanche was more than ever persuaded that there had been a stormy
quarrel, and that even yet neither chose to advance one step toward
reconciliation.

It was a relief to the three when hurrying footsteps and the sound of
excited voices showed that help was at hand.

In a few minutes several men servants, headed by the rough-pated boy
who had gone in search of them, were pressing into the chapel. One
carried shawls and wraps, and another some wine, in case the young
ladies and their deliverer should be faint.

“Oh, dear!--oh, dear!--oh, dear!” cried Blanche, with a great sigh.
“What _will_ mama and Lady Quaintree say? How I shall be scolded and
cried over! It has been my fault entirely.”

“We were both to blame,” answered Lois.

“No; I planned our escapade, and persuaded you, and forgot to make our
boat fast.”

“The boat would have been of no use to you, Miss Dormer, in such a
storm,” said Captain Desfrayne.

“True. It has been a most unlucky affair altogether,” sighed Blanche.

“I presume you are now quite safe in charge of these good people,”
said the young man. “There will be no impropriety in leaving you, I
trust--you and Miss Turquand?”

He bent his eyes on the floor, fixing them on a flat tombstone at his
feet, as if feeling half-guilty in thus wishing to desert them.

“Why do you need to leave us, Captain Desfrayne?” demanded Blanche,
in a sharp, ringing tone, indicating great surprise and a dash of
displeasure. “Are you obliged to go?”

“I--I must return to my quarters,” answered he, still avoiding her
glance.

“Oh! it will be impossible for you to go without seeing Lady Quaintree,
at least,” protested Miss Dormer. “Besides, it is nearer to the
barracks from the principal gates of the Hall. You must, at least, pass
through with us, and just see Lady Quaintree and mama.”

Paul glanced swiftly at Lois. She was standing up, the pride of a young
empress dilating her figure, displayed in the turn of her head. Her
face was half-averted, as if she would not deign to take part in the
argument, but her fingers were twitching nervously in one another.

“Why should this strange mistrust--this presentiment of deadly ill,
haunt me?” Paul asked himself. “There is no danger of my falling in
love with this girl, and as little of her honoring me with any tender
regards. Probably her heart is already fully occupied with the image of
some one else. This vague fear is simply absurd, and I must master it.
I am unwell, and my nerves are unstrung. Perhaps I may shortly find an
opportunity of explaining to her how I am really situated. It would be
better to speak to her myself than to leave the painful duty to others.”

He gave way to Blanche’s arguments, with a tolerable grace, though
alleging that he saw no reason why he should feel it necessary to see
the elder ladies.

One of the servants was directed to get his horse, and bring it round
to the front of Flore Hall; then the party moved in the direction of
the house.

Lois was determined on not giving way again, but she was faint and
giddy, and at length was compelled to accept the support of Paul
Desfrayne’s arm.

Not a word was exchanged on the way, though it seemed of a wearisome
length.

Another profound sigh escaped Blanche as they reached the end.

“I am thankful we have you, Captain Desfrayne, as a sort of shield,”
she half-laughingly exclaimed. “They cannot scold us so terribly when
you are by, and when you depart the worst will be over.”

Mrs. Ormsby had informed Lady Quaintree and Mrs. Dormer of the state of
affairs; but although aware that the girls were in safety, the ladies
had fallen into dreadful agitation.

The meeting might readily be imagined, but would baffle description.
For some minutes the elder ladies were so much absorbed by rejoicings,
tears, kisses, reproaches, that they hardly noticed the stranger.

When Lois and Blanche had managed to give some intelligible account of
their adventures, Paul Desfrayne was obliged to undergo a fresh shower
of thanks, which were most distasteful to him.

“How can I contrive to escape?” he was asking himself, when Lady
Quaintree startled him by saying:

“And we must really insist on your staying to dinner, Captain
Desfrayne. You would catch your death of cold if you were to go out
again while this heavy rain lasts.”

The young man started back.

“You are very kind, madam,” he murmured. “But I--I could not stay, I
assure you.”

“Come, sir, I must exercise an old woman’s authority, and forbid you
to leave us,” cried Lady Quaintree laughingly. “Your mother is, I may
say, an old friend of mine, and I could not answer to her if her son
met with any mishap on leaving any house where I might be supposed to
have a voice. We owe you the safety of these wilful girls, and you must
allow us to see to your welfare. If the rain does not abate, you must
not ride back, but, if you refuse to honor us by remaining under this
roof for the night, must accept the use of one of the carriages in the
coach-house.”

Lady Quaintree was playing against her own interests; but common
charity would not have permitted her to let a dog go out in that
sullen, dashing, persistent rain.

Paul Desfrayne looked at the disheartening prospect from the windows,
and resigned himself to his fate.

Without, all looked so dismal and forbidding--out _there_, where
his evil past lay crouching, ever ready to spring up and confront
him. Within here all seemed so soft and inviting with this white and
gold, and velvet couches, and flowers in rich profusion, and these
dulcet-toned, high-bred women, symbolic of the brilliant, tempting
present, which beckoned to him, sirenlike.

“You are very kind--too kind, madam,” he said, bowing low, and speaking
in a constrained, husky voice.

So it was settled he should dine with them; and the girls went away to
change their dresses.

Mama Dormer had brought a small portmanteau over in the carriage with
her, containing “a few things” required by Blanche during her brief
stay.

Lois being in black did not need much alteration in her attire, but
by means of a trained, black skirt, and a thin, high, white bodice,
and a suite of jet ornaments, she contrived to make an effective
dinner-costume.

By the time they rustled back to the drawing-room, where the little
party was to assemble for dinner, the servants were lighting the wax
tapers, causing a soft glitter to illuminate the apartment.

The rain had ceased. The sultry heat began to come back, and all the
windows had been thrown open, admitting the luscious odors of the
countless flowers in the gardens. The scent of the summer roses was
almost overcoming after the rain.

The last, dying rays of the setting sun dyed the sky, from which all
but a few floating, feathery clouds had vanished away.

Lois and Blanche looked irresistibly beautiful as they entered the
room, the one in her simple, somber attire, the other in a shimmering
green silken robe, trimmed with white lace, and frilled fine muslin.

As Lois came in, Paul Desfrayne’s eyes met hers, and by some mysterious
fascination, neither he nor she could remove their gaze.

The young girl trembled from some undefined feeling--a sense of mingled
pain and pleasure.

Paul felt as if some gauntleted hand had mercilessly compressed his
heart. He shivered as if from cold.

“I believe some malignant genius drove me out this day,” he thought.

Lois averted her eyes by a violent effort of will.

“Why does he look at me like this, when he is so cold and repellent in
his manners?” she indignantly asked herself.

Lady Quaintree caught the glance, and partly interpreted the looks of
both.

“I wish I had had the sense to stop at home,” she said mentally. “I
am afraid my Gerald’s chance will be a small one. We really must get
away to-morrow at latest. Luckily, the gallant knight errant is pinned
safely down in this remote part of the world, and I must coax Lois to
go to Switzerland, or some other comfortable place, to give my boy a
fair start in the race.”

Her ladyship kept a pretty sharp watch on the two young people--Lois
and her handsome young trustee. But, during dinner, nothing rewarded
her for her vigilance, or, to speak more correctly, she was absolutely
rewarded by observing that they did not once exchange a look, and only
noticed each other’s presence when obliged to do so by the etiquette of
the table.

This apparent mutual misunderstanding puzzled her a good deal. Captain
Desfrayne’s reserved manner with his beautiful young charge perplexed
her extremely. That he should not endeavor to improve his opportunity
of obtaining favor with the young girl seemed inexplicable; and when
she found that both were evidently resolved on steadfastly declining to
pass the ice-bound line that divided them, she marveled more and more.

“There is some undercurrent here which I do not understand,” she
thought. “It seems strange, but there is certainly some ill-will
between them. What can the matter be?”

Had not Lois been her constant companion for the last four years,
during which time the young girl had been completely ignorant of Paul
Desfrayne’s existence, Lady Quaintree might have imagined, with Blanche
Dormer, that there was a lovers’ quarrel.

After cudgeling her brains for an explanation of this mystery, a
possible solution presented itself. Lady Quaintree knew family pride to
be one of Mrs. Desfrayne’s weak points, and perhaps this peculiarity
might be magnified in her son. Remembering that if the refusal to obey
the old man’s whim came from his side, it would involve on his part
a heavy pecuniary loss, she concluded that he wished to induce Miss
Turquand to think him a very undesirable lover, and thus to cause the
refusal to come from her.

This view having presented itself, her ladyship wavered in the
resolution of at once quitting Flore Hall. If Captain Desfrayne was
determined not to profit by his advantageous position, but to drive
Miss Turquand to refuse him, would he not be an eligible ally?

Many a girl, she knew, slighted by one, eagerly if hastily accepted the
next that offered.

Yet, until she could ascertain _why_ Paul Desfrayne did not relish
the bride proposed to him, she might be playing a dangerous game in
allowing him to be too near her lovely protégée.

Lady Quaintree felt thoroughly perplexed and unsettled, in fact, and
could only arrive finally at the conclusion that the wisest plan would
be to let herself be guided by a cautious observation of the course of
events.

“I wish we could have brought Gerald down with us,” she sighed.
“However, the way must be clearer in a few days.”

At Lois’ earnest entreaty, Lady Quaintree had taken all but the actual
name of mistress in the house. She sat at the head of the table, and
played the role of hostess. Owing to her consummate tact, the dinner
did not pass so drearily as it might otherwise have done.

She gave the signal to rise, and smilingly told Captain Desfrayne he
should have half an hour’s grace to smoke a cigar if he pleased.

The ladies adjourned to the white drawing-room, where a soft glitter of
wax tapers shed a pleasant, mellow light.

Squire Dormer had arranged to come for his wife and daughter at eight
or nine o’clock. When the storm broke, Mrs. Dormer had feared she
might be obliged to stay all night, but now the sky had cleared, the
sultry heat already nearly dried up the pools of water lying on the
garden-walks, and the silver moon had risen in royal splendor.

Blanche flew to the piano--a superb instrument as far as appearance
went, but it was very decidedly out of tune. There was no music
anywhere visible, but Miss Dormer sat down and began playing morsels
and snatches of melody from recollection. Then she asked Lois to sing.

Lois had always been accustomed to so implicitly obey the wishes
of those about her, that she did not think of refusing, but took
Blanche’s seat and ran her fingers skilfully over the keys.

“I don’t feel very well,” she mildly protested. “But I will do my best.”

“Don’t overexert yourself, my love,” said Lady Quaintree.

“I should be delighted to hear you,” Mrs. Dormer remarked, almost at
the same moment.

Captain Desfrayne heard the chords of the piano from his solitary
retreat, and, being passionately fond of music, he came out on the
terrace and moved into the leafy shadow, from whence he could view the
interior of the drawing-room without being himself seen.

Lois had just seated herself as he took up this station. The mellow,
amber rays of the wax lights fell on her graceful figure and on her
stately head. From the spot where he stood, Paul Desfrayne could watch
her every movement. Unconsciously to himself, he drank in the sweet
poison of love at every glance as he observed the pure, statuesque
lines and curves of that queenly form, the rich, silken shimmer of the
lovely hair, the harmonious, suave grace of each motion.

“I will summon up courage to-night, if I can possibly find an
opportunity,” he thought, “and tell her the truth. I may have a chance
of speaking to her. After to-night, it will probably be months before
we meet again, if we ever do meet. She seems sweet and amiable; she is
undoubtedly as beautiful as a dream. Probably she will pity my unhappy
position, and sympathize with my misfortunes, even if they arise from
my own folly. What a madman I have been! Truly they say: ‘Marry in
haste, repent at leisure.’ What would I not give or do to be free once
more!”

Lois began to sing. She had thought for a minute or two, and then
struck the chords of a graceful symphony to a pathetic Irish air.

Her voice was clear and deliciously sweet--pure as that of an angel.
Thanks to Lady Quaintree, it had been most carefully trained, and the
young girl had a sensitive feeling for the words as well as the music
of what she sang.

Paul Desfrayne’s relentless memory went back to those feverish days
when he had listened, spellbound in that heated theater at Florence, to
the siren notes of the woman who had destroyed his happiness.

The contrast between Lucia Guiscardini and Lois Turquand was as great
as between darkness and light. In every respect they totally differed.
The one was a magnificent tigress, regal in beauty, haughty and
unbending in temper; the other a gentle white doe, lovely and soft.

Presently the song ceased. Blanche’s laced handkerchief stole to her
eyes for a moment, then she kissed her friend by way of thanks. There
was a little buzz of well-bred, musical voices for a minute or two, and
then the girls emerged on the upper terrace as if coming out to breathe
the fresh air.

Paul Desfrayne drew back still farther within the sheltering gloom,
rendered all the more secure by the increasing splendor of the
moonlight, which caused strange, sudden contrasts of light and shade in
the gardens. The faint scent of his cigar might have warned the girls
of his proximity, but they did not notice it. He was, however, out of
ear-shot.

For a moment he thought of ascending the short flight of steps leading
from the lower to the upper terrace, but feeling that in his present
depressed state he would be poor company, he elected to stay where he
was.

Within half an hour he resolved to take leave of his entertainers, and
ride home.

“Home!” he said to himself bitterly. “I have no home--no prospect of
home. No home, no peace, no rest. I am like a gambler who has staked
and lost a fortune at one fatal throw. And my unrest is made all the
more poignant by the tempting will-o’-the-wisp fate has sent to dance
before me, mockingly.”




CHAPTER XIX.

BLANCHE DORMER’S SURPRISE.


The peace and purity of the night indisposed Lois to talk, and Blanche
was meditating on how far the proprieties might admit of her sounding
her new friend on the subject of the supposed estrangement. So neither
spoke for several minutes.

“A night like this always reminds me of the moonlight-scene in the
‘Merchant of Venice,’” Blanche said, at length. “I was afraid the storm
would last until morning; perhaps I was also afraid mama would scold
terribly. But I think when she is really alarmed, she is too much upset
to be able to scold in proper style. I like these summer storms; the
weird lightning has such a mystic beauty of its own. I lost my head
this afternoon, but that was because we were in such a dangerous place,
and a little because I was frightened on your account, as you seemed so
terrified.”

“I am nervous in a storm, always,” Lois said deprecatingly, for she
felt ashamed of her weakness.

“I think it was a special mercy your friend, Captain Desfrayne, came to
our rescue. No doubt you were amazed when you saw him. But I suppose
you knew he was coming down to this neighborhood?”

“I know nothing of his movements or plans,” Lois replied calmly. “I
never heard his name until last Friday.”

Miss Dormer absolutely sprang back, and stared at her new friend in
speechless surprise. Her theory had been upset so precipitately that
she was at a loss for words.

“I--I thought--I fancied--that is----” she stammered, for she felt
fairly confounded, and much as if she had walked into a trap.

She heartily wished she could entirely control her amazement and
vexation at the absurdity of her mistake, but her looks and manner
betrayed her.

“What do you think?” innocently inquired Lois.

“Why--that is----”

“You hesitate, Blanche?”

“I am afraid you will be offended.”

“With you? Impossible. Pray be frank with me.”

“You promised not to be vexed?”

“I could not be vexed with you, my dear friend. What did you think?”

“Honestly, I thought you and Captain Desfrayne had had a lovers’
quarrel,” Blanche said.

Lois broke into a peal of silvery laughter, caused partly by surprise,
partly by pique and anger--not toward Blanche, but toward the unhappy
captain. She threw back her head with a little scornful gesture.

“You thought so? What could have led you to imagine such a strange
thing?”

“Because--I don’t know how I came to be so foolish, but--well, I saw
him look at you----”

“At me?”

“Aye, and you at him--come, you as good as promised not to be
cross--look and speak as if--as if--that is to say--well, in truth,
I can hardly say what caused me to jump to my odd conclusion, but I
did make the silly spring, and I find myself landed on exceedingly
unpleasant ground.”

Lois had known Blanche only two days, although she felt a strong
presentiment that the friendship just cemented would endure for
a lifetime. Blanche was the first friend she had ever possessed,
and she was sure she might be trusted, yet prudence caused her to
hesitate before entrusting Miss Dormer with the secret of her strange
relationship with Paul Desfrayne.

Blanche was fairly puzzled, and her feminine curiosity aroused. Quite
confident that Lois had spoken truly in saying that Captain Desfrayne
was almost a stranger to her, she yet could not help believing that
there was some good reason for her thinking that some more than
ordinary feeling caused a mutual interest or dislike.

Lois placed her arm caressingly round Blanche’s waist, and laid her
cheek on her shoulder.

“Blanche,” she said, “I am going to tell you something about myself and
Captain Desfrayne, which will, I have no doubt, surprise you.”

Miss Dormer shrank a little, as if she had been guilty of trying to
surprise a confidence she was not entitled to.

“I hope,” she said, “you do not think me inquisitive. I am sorry I
allowed myself to make any remarks.”

Lois smiled.

“You must let me enjoy the privileges of a friend,” she replied. “If
you will let me tell you, I think it would be a solace to me. For
although Lady Quaintree is so good and so kind, yet----”

She paused; for it would be impossible to enter into any of the
feelings which barred a perfect confidence between herself and her late
mistress. But Miss Dormer partially comprehended, and pressed her hands
warmly in token of sympathy and encouragement.

“No doubt you will wonder, knowing that my acquaintanceship with him
is of so recent a date--no doubt you will marvel to hear that I am
half-engaged to marry Captain Desfrayne,” began Lois.

“My dear!” was all Blanche could say, opening her eyes as wide as they
could expand.

“Yes. I can scarcely believe the story is real.”

Lois repeated to her the history of Mr. Vere Gardiner’s will. Blanche
listened in silent amazement.

“How extraordinary! Then, why--why----”

“Pray be as frank with me as I have been with you,” Lois entreated.

“Why does he behave in such an odd way toward you? Does the
proposition, or whatever you may call it, displease him?”

“I have had no explanation from him, nor is one likely to take place. I
am as ignorant as you are of his opinion on the matter.”

“What is your own?”

“I may truly say I feel mortified and vexed by being disposed of like a
bale of goods----”

“Not exactly, dearest girl. You are left an option.”

“I do not like Captain Desfrayne.”

“That can scarcely be wondered at, since he treats you so
coldly--almost rudely. What a strange old man this Vere Gardiner must
have been! Why should he take such a singular whim into his head?”

“I do not know. You now know as much--or as little--as I do myself.”

“It is a riddle,” said Blanche. “What does Lady Quaintree say?”

“She is very much pleased about the money and landed property--as
pleased and interested as if I were her own child; but she has not said
much about the proposition of marriage.”

“I suppose she wishes to see more of this gentleman. This afternoon,
when I first saw Captain Desfrayne, I liked him: he seemed nice, and
had such a gentle way with him, and his voice was pleasant. But now I
have taken a prejudice against him.”

At this moment, Blanche caught sight of her father, Squire Dormer, who
had just entered the drawing-room, where the elder ladies sat.

“Wait for me one moment here, dear Miss Turquand,” she said. “I will
run and ask papa if I must return to-night. Oh! I do hope he will let
me stay till to-morrow with you. Do you leave in the morning?”

“Lady Quaintree arranges everything,” answered Lois. “It will be just
as she orders.”

Blanche went back to the drawing-room. Lois remained on the terrace,
idly watching the weird shadows and sharp, silvery lights.

A step on the lower terrace for a moment alarmed her. But a glance
assured her that Captain Desfrayne was the intruder on the quiet of
that place. He was near enough to be able to address her without
raising his voice.

Not one word of the dialogue just interrupted had reached his ears.

“Are you not afraid of taking cold, Miss Turquand?” he asked, really
for want of something better to say.

“Thanks, no. It is such a lovely summer’s night. I am going back to the
drawing-room in one moment,” replied Lois.

With a quick movement, Paul Desfrayne ascended the steps leading from
the lower to the upper terrace, and in an instant was by her side.

“Miss Turquand----” he began, then his courage and the power of
expressing his scarcely formed ideas utterly failed him.

Lois’ heart throbbed painfully for a moment or two. She looked at
Captain Desfrayne, then averted her eyes without saying a word.

“I wished--I may not see you again for a long time, and I thought it
would be better to explain myself certain circumstances which it is of
paramount importance you should know than to trust others to do so, or
to endeavor to commit them to writing.”

“Circumstances?” repeated Lois. “Of what kind?”

“Circumstances connected entirely with my own history; but as--must I
say unhappily?--one who might be deemed the benefactor of us both--that
one has chosen to link our fate--your destiny and mine--together, to a
certain extent, it is your right to learn what otherwise----”

Paul felt conscious that every little speech he had attempted had
proved a wretched failure. He feared that the task he had undertaken
would prove beyond his strength or skill. What form of words should he
use? How possibly bring the subject of his marriage forward? It was
difficult enough in one way to break the seal of secrecy on the fatal
topic to his mother; with this girl of eighteen it would be a thousand
times more so.

“Miss Turquand,” he began, once again making another effort, “one chief
reason why I have not before informed you of these circumstances has
been that I really have not had the opportunity. The news that--in
fact, that is to say, the knowledge that I was to--in a word, the
contents of Mr. Vere Gardiner’s will came upon me like a thunderclap. I
did not even know your name until last Friday, when I had the pleasure
of seeing you for the first time. Why Mr. Vere Gardiner should have
seen fit to make such a singular arrangement, I cannot conceive. I
met him but once, so far as I am aware. He knew nothing of my private
affairs. No doubt he meant well. It would, perhaps, be ungrateful on my
part to find fault with his good intentions; but it is to be regretted
that he could not fix on some more worthy object of his bounty than
myself, or, at least, that he attached conditions to his munificent
gifts which it is absolutely impossible I can fulfil.”

Lois’ eyes were kindling with the varying sensations that rose in her
heart as she listened. With the swiftness of an already overexcited
brain, her imagination ran rapidly through every conceivable range of
impediments, except the one that really existed.

She looked so lovely, so graceful, so ethereal in the cross-light,
that, as Paul Desfrayne looked down upon her fair, English face and
beautiful figure, he felt a strange yearning desire to take her for
a moment in his arms, and press one kiss upon the half-open rose-bud
lips. More than ever he cursed the mad folly that had made him link
those heavy chains upon his life that might never be loosened this side
the grave.

What was he about to tell her? Lois rested her hand on the stone ledge
of the balustrade; for she felt unnerved and agitated.

Paul Desfrayne was silent for some moments. Lois had only spoken once
since he had joined her.

Blanche, having ascertained to her great satisfaction that she would be
allowed to stay all night, and partly settled a newly started scheme
for a tour of some weeks with the Quaintrees, was about to rush back
to Lois’ side. But her quick glance had discovered how her friend
was employed, and she drew back before she had made three steps. She
discreetly returned into the drawing-room, and sat down at the piano.

Lady Quaintree began to wonder greatly why Captain Desfrayne had
not come to ask for a cup of coffee, and she now missed her young
companion. It did not suit her plan of operations to let them have an
opportunity of entering into any mutual explanations of which she might
not be immediately cognizant. Therefore, observing that Blanche was
alone, she asked:

“Where is Lois, my dear?”

“I left her on the terrace, ma’am,” answered Blanche, turning round on
her music-stool.

“Alone, Blanche?”

“Yes--no. I did leave her alone; but I think she is talking to Captain
Desfrayne now.”

“Oh, indeed! They are very foolish. I am sure they will take cold,”
said my lady, with an air of careless semi-interest.

Blanche turned again to her board of black and white ivory keys, and
began running brilliant roulades. Mrs. Dormer asked her husband some
questions about the state of the roads after the deluge of rain that
had fallen, and in a few minutes Lady Quaintree found that she had an
excellent opportunity of rising almost unobserved, and moving across to
the windows, which all opened directly upon the terrace.

She moved gently, with a soft, silken rustle, from one window to
another, until she arrived at one where she could command a perfect
view of the two figures standing in the moonlight.

It thus happened that, as Paul Desfrayne spoke those words declaring
his inability to carry out any share in the dead man’s wishes, Lady
Quaintree was in the act of drawing open the window against which he
had accidentally placed himself.

Her ladyship would have disdained to play the part of eavesdropper,
for she was a woman of high principle, although she deemed herself
justified in thus interrupting what might be a critical explanation.
She, therefore, heard nothing of what the young officer had been saying.

Lois could not conceive why there should be such a tender sorrow in
Captain Desfrayne’s eyes, such a pathetic ring in his voice, such an
echo of grief and despair in his words. With an eager unrest, she
waited for the next words, which should explain the reason of the young
man’s inability to profit by the clauses in the old man’s will. But,
instead of the tender tones of his voice, the suave, well-bred accents
of Lady Quaintree sounded in her ears. With a great start, she turned
and faced her ladyship; Paul Desfrayne did the same.

“My dearest pet, you really ought not to linger here in the night air,”
said my lady. “I fancy Mrs. Dormer has been wondering where you have
vanished to. Really, however, I am not surprised, the beauty of the
night has tempted you to breathe its freshness and fragrance; it is so
close and sultry within. Give me your arm, my love; I will take just
one turn, and then we will go in and let Captain Desfrayne and Mrs.
Dormer have a little music.”

“Allow me, madam,” said the young man, offering his arm.

Lady Quaintree passed her hand lightly through the proffered support,
and, thus escorted, promenaded to and fro for about five minutes; Lois,
on her left, attending her. Her ladyship was in charming spirits, and
to any less preoccupied companions would have been most amusing.

The lively nothings she rattled off fell on dull and indifferent ears,
however, and she could extract little beyond abstracted monosyllables
from Captain Desfrayne, and an occasional languid smile or a
half-absent “yes” or “no” from Miss Turquand.

“Would it be of any use offering you shelter for the night, Captain
Desfrayne?” she asked, with a winning smile. “My dear young friend
has appointed me viceroy over her house for the present. We shall be
delighted to show you as much hospitality as our means will admit.”

“You are very kind, and I am already indebted to you for the goodness
and consideration which you have this day shown me,” answered Paul
Desfrayne. “But I really must return to my quarters to-night.”

“It will be a long and lonely ride,” objected Lady Quaintree. “Can we
order one of the carriages for your service?”

“No, thanks. I should greatly prefer riding.”

“Do you need a groom, or a guide of any kind?”

“I knew this neighborhood perfectly well when a boy, and have not
forgotten one lane or valley or hedgerow, I believe.”

Presently Lady Quaintree turned to go in, saying they must not neglect
their other guests.

She passed in first, Paul Desfrayne lingered for a moment, and
involuntarily fixed his eyes upon Lois. They were full of an unspoken
eloquence, and revealed volumes of despair, of regret, of deep and mute
feelings which rose like some troubled revelation.

Lois could not but read this glance, which perplexed her more than his
few bitter words of absolute renunciation had done.

The young man knew that this chance for an explanation was gone. When
might the next occur? He scarcely knew whether to feel relieved by the
postponement of a painful duty, or vexed by the fact that he was worse
placed than if he had remained absolutely silent.

“I can write to her to-morrow,” he thought, though he doubted if he
could nerve himself to the task.

“What can he have wished to tell me?” Lois asked herself vainly;
for although she racked her brain for an answer, none sufficiently
plausible presented itself.

They were not alone for a single moment during the remaining hour that
Paul Desfrayne lingered. The Dormers went past the barracks on their
way home, but he declined a seat in their carriage, as he preferred to
ride, he said.

He left the house with them, however, riding a short way by their
carriage, and then, putting spurs to his horse, dashed at almost a
reckless pace toward his quarters.

It might almost be imagined that a kind of second sight, some sort
of spiritual influence, was drawing him to the place where Gilardoni
awaited him.

As he took leave of Miss Turquand, he held her hand for some brief
moments, and again looked into the clear depths of her eyes.

A deep sigh escaped him as he released the hand he had
half-unconsciously retained. Lois heard the sigh, and it was echoed in
her heart.

Alas! What was the fatal impediment? Not dislike for herself--she felt
sure of that. Her pique and resentment were rapidly melting away under
the dangerous fire of love and pity.

He left her a prey to unrest, impatience, wonderment, the only solace
being that she felt confident he would take the earliest opportunity of
giving her the explanation thus vexatiously interrupted. She surmised
that a letter might possibly reach her some time the next day, or
perhaps he might call. It would be so natural for him to come, with
the object of ascertaining how she and Miss Dormer were after their
fright.

Somehow, she did not care to inform Lady Quaintree of what he had said,
nor did her ladyship make the slightest approach to an inquiry. But
when Lady Quaintree proposed to quit Flore Hall early the following
day, she eagerly desired to stay, alleging truly that she was anything
but well, as her fainting-fit and the alarm she had suffered had
unhinged her nerves.

“Just as you please, my love. I will not dictate to you in your own
house, and certainly you and dear Blanche do look very pale, so perhaps
a day’s rest will be desirable. But really I shall not be able to
remain for more than one day longer. I have so many engagements----”

And she affected to consult a dainty blue-and-gold note-book, which
assuredly did contain a sufficiently full program for the week, but
which would not have bound her if she had not found it convenient.

With Blanche, Lois was more open. Miss Dormer came for a little while
into her room, which the girls would gladly have shared, and listened
with absorbed interest to the brief account of the mysterious words
spoken on the terrace.

When Lois paused, Blanche reflected seriously.

“You have not consulted Lady Quaintree yet, since he said these
singular things?” she asked.

“No,” replied Lois, in a low, constrained voice.

“Is it too late to speak to her now?”

Lois shrank back.

“I know it would be best,” she said; “and yet--and yet I do not
like to speak to her until I have something more definite to say.
She has always been kind and good to me; but you must remember that
she has been my mistress, far above me in every respect; and I can
scarcely----I know I am wrong, ungrateful, and yet----”

Blanche smiled, and shrugged her pretty shoulders almost imperceptibly.

“I understand,” she said, very softly. “I suppose Captain Desfrayne
will explain himself to her. I wonder much he has not tried to do so
to-night. He might easily have found, or made, an opportunity. You
have told me exactly what he said?”

“Word for word. It seems imprinted on my memory, and every sentence
seems still sounding in my ears. I suppose I was so startled that it
made a particular impression on me.”

“Shall I tell you what my opinion is? Probably within a few
days--perhaps to-morrow--you will learn the truth. But may I hazard a
guess?”

“Pray tell me what you think, my dear friend.”

Blanche fixed her eyes on the pale face of Lois.

“It is my belief,” she said, very slowly, speaking as if
deliberately--“it is my firm conviction that he is secretly married.”

Lois shrank back once more. Such an idea had not occurred to her; but
she could not refuse to see the probability of the suggestion. She was
unable to speak. Somehow, ice seemed to fall upon her heart.

“Secretly married!” she at length echoed faintly. “Why should he be
ashamed or afraid to acknowledge such a thing?”

“That remains to be seen,” replied Miss Dormer. “But I believe such
to be the fact. I have read and heard of many cases where gentlemen,
handsome and proud as Captain Desfrayne, have married persons whom they
had every reason to be ashamed of. But he may not be ashamed of his
marriage, my dear. There are many reasons why people conceal that they
are married.”

Long after Blanche quitted her, Lois remained gazing from her open
window, painfully meditating. He was perhaps, then, already married?

Tired, agitated, weak from fright and from the strain on her nervous
system, the young girl rested her head upon her hands, and a few tears
trickled over her fingers. She started up.

“What folly!” she muttered. “Why do I dwell so much on the words he
spoke to-night? What does it signify? I do not care for him. He is
a stranger to me, and likely to remain such. When I have been duly
informed of the reasons why he is unable to assist me in doubling my
fortune by marrying me, there will be an end of the matter. I am
almost sorry now I did not agree to Lady Quaintree’s suggestion, and
return to London to-morrow. Probably he will send a letter to her
ladyship by his servant some time to-morrow afternoon. I do not wish to
marry him. I will never marry any one I do not love, and I have never
yet seen any one I could really care for. I will go to bed, and get to
sleep, as I ought to have done about two hours ago.”

She did go to bed; but the effort to sleep was quite an abortive one.
Feverishly she turned from side to side, unable to rid herself of the
memory of those eloquent glances, those deeply regretful broken words,
those pathetic tones.

Until at last she arrived at the conclusion that she would willingly
have forfeited her newly acquired fortune never to have heard of or
seen Paul Desfrayne.




CHAPTER XX.

THE BREAK OF DAWN.


It was with difficulty Gilardoni could curb his impatient desire for
his master’s return. Could he by any possibility have imagined in which
direction to seek for him, he would have started off in quest before
the storm was well exhausted. But he was absolutely a stranger in this
part of the world, and for aught he could tell, his master might be the
same.

He was perforce obliged to remain in Captain Desfrayne’s rooms in
absolute inaction, listening with keenly strained watchfulness to every
sound, every footfall of man or beast.

Unfortunately, the rooms did not overlook the yard through which the
young officer must enter the barracks, so Gilardoni did not enjoy the
half-irritating consolation of watching the gate by which he would come.

It was very late before there was the slightest sign of Captain
Desfrayne’s coming.

In fact, Gilardoni at length, somehow, lost count, and was only
recalled to his eager watch by a gentle touch upon his shoulder. He
sprang to his feet, unaware that he had fallen asleep.

Captain Desfrayne had come into the room quietly. At first he had
thought of letting the poor tired fellow have his sleep to the end in
peace; but, finding he needed his services, he had aroused him.

“No matter, my good Gilardoni,” he said, with that pleasant, winning,
yet sad, smile that had become habitual to him. “I have no doubt you
are tired waiting for me. I am dog-tired myself. This afternoon, I was
caught in the storm, and had the good luck”--there was an imperceptible
shade of irony in his tone--“to find shelter in a friend’s house, so
was delayed. Will you----”

The words died on his lips. Gilardoni had placed the tiny packet in the
silver tissue-paper on the table, just within the rays of the lamp,
and Paul Desfrayne’s glance happened to light on it as he spoke.

With a hasty movement, he put out his hand to take it up, but the
Italian was more swift, and with the rapidity of lightning covered the
packet with the palm of his hand, but without removing it from the
table.

The two young men looked into each other’s face for some moments. Not
a sound was heard beyond the monotonous tick-tick of the clock on the
chimneypiece.

“What is the meaning of this?” demanded Captain Desfrayne.

He recollected the night when he engaged this man as his servant--it
seemed months ago--when he had seen him clench his fist at the pictured
resemblance to Lucia Guiscardini.

Gilardoni took up the tiny gold cross in its filmy covering, and kept
it in his hand.

“Sir,” he said, “this morning you dropped this--as I supposed. I picked
it up----”

“Both self-evident facts. As it happens to belong to _me_, and you
acknowledge my proprietorship, why do you not restore it to me?” said
Captain Desfrayne. “Do you know what it is?”

Gilardoni laughed bitterly.

“I naturally opened the packet, in order to ascertain what the contents
might be,” he responded, “for I was not certain until now that it had
really been dropped by you, sir. It is----”

“What is it? A gold cross, a pendant for a watch-chain.”

“More than that.”

“What do you mean?”

“Sir, may I ask you a question?”

“A thousand, if you will let me have my own property, and be brief
enough to let me get to bed within half an hour, for I sorely need
rest.”

“Sir--my good master, to whom I owe so much kindness and charity--I am
not going to ask this question out of impertinent curiosity, but--but
from a sufficiently reasonable and strong motive.”

“Come, let us have the question without further preamble.”

“I will ask you two questions. Did you buy this cross, or was it given
to you?”

Captain Desfrayne hesitated before replying, as a man in the
witness-box might do for fear of criminating himself.

“It was given to me,” he at length replied.

“By a woman?”

Captain Desfrayne looked keenly at his questioner. The idea that he was
a former lover of the beautiful Italian prima donna’s, again occurred
to him.

“If it will afford you any gratification to know, I do not object to
admitting that it was given to me by a woman,” he said.

“By an Italian?”

“By an Italian? Yes.”

“It was a love-gift?”

An exclamation of anger escaped Gilardoni’s master, and he impatiently
stretched out his hand.

“Enough of this nonsense!” he exclaimed, with displeasure. “Give me
that packet, and get you to bed. Your wits are addled by the nap you
were betrayed into.”

Gilardoni moved a step nearer to Captain Desfrayne, and, gripping him
tightly by the wrist, looked with intent, searching earnestness into
his face, as if he would read his soul. There was nothing sinister or
menacing in his attitude, gestures, or expression. He had simply the
appearance of a man carried away by some self-absorbing desire to learn
a fact of paramount interest to himself.

“This cross,” he said, “was given to you by Lucia Guiscardini.”

“I do not understand why the fact should interest you,” answered
Paul Desfrayne. “It certainly did come from her hand. What was Lucia
Guiscardini to you, or you to Lucia Guiscardini, that the sight of her
gifts to another should cause you so much emotion?”

“Did she tell you where she had obtained this toy?” asked Gilardoni.

“I did not think of inquiring. She linked it on my watch-chain one
day, and there was an end of the affair.”

“I knew this as well as if I had been present,” muttered the Italian.
“Oh! false, wicked, traitorous serpent!”

These latter words he spoke so rapidly in his native language that his
master did not catch their import.

“If you knew, why the deuce have you put yourself to the trouble of
asking so many questions? I should be glad to know what you mean by
cross-examining me in this ridiculous manner. You apparently consider
you have no very good reason to like this same Lucia Guiscardini. Has
she done you any harm?”

“She has ruined my happiness--blighted my life--that is all. No, I have
no great reason to remember her with feelings of good-will.”

“As you have asked me some questions, I may be allowed the privilege of
retaliating. May I ask if she jilted you?”

“No. Oh! no. Would to Heaven she had done so, and saved me these years
of bitter hate and regret!”

“Is she your sister?” demanded Paul Desfrayne, startled by the
overthrow of the supposition he had so readily built up.

“No. She is the only woman I have ever loved, or can ever love again.”

“Do you still love her, or do you hate her for being so far beyond you?”

Gilardoni regarded his master with a strange, inexplicable look, and
then broke into a low, savagely bitter laugh.

“May I ask, sir,” he said, “if she jilted _you_? She was quite capable
of playing the coquette to amuse herself, and then laughing in your
face, for her soul was really steeped in ambitious desires.”

“I believe, my good fellow, ambition was her besetting sin--is still,
if what folks say be true. No, she did not jilt me. But you have not
answered my question. Be frank with me. Tell me why you hate this
woman. Why do you hate her--and yet, why do you feel anger at finding
her gifts in the possession of another?”

“This cross,” said Gilardoni, tearing it from its wrapper, and holding
it out at arm’s length, with a strange, vindictive smile, “was my gift
to her--given the day I told her I loved her, and asked her----”

“What?”

“She pretended she returned my love. Bah! Her heart was as cold as
ice. She cares for no one but herself. She was born a peasant girl,
yet never was princess of blood royal more proud, more insolent, more
resolved to stand above the common herd. I adored her. I was like one
bereft of his senses when she was near me. She had but to will, and I
obeyed like the basest slave. Bah! I made an idol and tricked it out
with all the graces of my love-smitten imagination, and fell down and
worshiped it. I believed that she was exactly what my weak, foolish
heart pictured her to be. I would have raised her from her ignoble
station, but not to the height she desired to climb. To be a Russian
princess, or the lady of some great English milord, was her dream.”

“I know it,” said Paul Desfrayne, very quietly, yet he felt that some
great revelation was at hand. That the revelation was to be to his
advantage he did not hope.

“But not at the time when I linked about her neck the chain that held
this poor little gewgaw,” cried Gilardoni excitedly. “No, no. At that
time she was barely conscious of her power to charm--just waking to
the consciousness of her dangerous charm of beauty. I was her first
victim, her first triumph. She was a girl of sixteen then; I was about
six or seven years her senior. We had been neighbors and friends
from childhood. I taught her such songs and snatches of music as I
occasionally picked up, and she loved to warble the chants and psalms
she heard at chapel. She had not discovered that she had a fortune
in her throat. If she had not found out _that_, we might have been a
happy, contented couple at this day.”

Paul Desfrayne looked at the excited face of Gilardoni in a strange,
contemplative silence for a moment or two, as the Italian paused. The
dark, foreign face was lividly pale from passion; the dark, gleaming
eyes were burning with inward fire.

“I thought you assured me just this moment,” observed the young
officer, “that Lucia Guiscardini had not jilted you. If you loved her,
and she declared she reciprocated your affection, why, it is to be
imagined that the course of true love must have run tolerably smooth.
A little hypocrisy, I believe, is supposed to be pardonable with the
feminine part of our common humanity. If she said she loved you, her
affection was next best to reality.”

“She declared she loved me. I believed her,” said Gilardoni fiercely.
“I believed her because--I supposed because I wished it to be true. I
fancied no man was ever so happy as I. For a while I walked no longer
on earth, but on roseate clouds of happiness. I despise myself when
I look back on that time. Perhaps I am not the first who has been
betrayed into folly by the arts and wiles of a beautiful, treacherous
girl,” the Italian added, shrugging his shoulders.

“You have not yet given me the slightest idea of the reason why
you so cordially dislike Madam Guiscardini, if that be her correct
designation,” said Captain Desfrayne. “You indulge in the most vehement
invectives against her, yet state no specific charge. You say you made
a fool of yourself about her, and that she laughed in her sleeve at
your declarations of affection. Certainly, very shabby on her part,
but, then, it is a thing beautiful, vain, silly women do every day. Why
should you cherish such rancor against her? I suppose she found she
could make a better market of her beauty and wonderful talents than by
disposing of them to a man who could never hope to raise her beyond the
level of, say, a wealthy farmer’s wife. Do not be too severe upon her.”

“If she had laughed at me, and left me,” cried Gilardoni, throwing out
his hands with impetuosity, “I could have forgiven her; I might have
forgotten her. It could not have been that I could ever have loved
again; but what of that? I do not believe in love _now_. But no. She
left the poison of her treacherous touch upon my life. I could kill
her, if she were within my reach.”

“Such hate must be justified by very serious provocation,” said Paul
Desfrayne. “May I ask how your love was turned to such bitter gall,
since your suit prospered in the first instance?”

“By deeds of the blackest treachery.”

“In a word, may I ask--since we are playing at the game of question
and answer--may I once more ask, why do you hate the beautiful Lucia
Guiscardini? She did not jilt you, you say--then what relationship does
she hold toward you?”

Gilardoni turned his great dark eyes upon his master, as if in
surprise, forgetting at the moment that he had not told him of the
completing point of his story. Then he said, with a vindictive
bitterness terrible to hear, because it revealed the smoldering fire
beneath:

“She is my wife!”




CHAPTER XXI.

LEONARDO GILARDONI’S STORY.


Had the earth yawned suddenly open at his feet, Paul Desfrayne could
not have expressed more utter amazement than was depicted in his face
and in his entire attitude on hearing the declaration made by Leonardo
Gilardoni. He stared as if confounded.

“Your wife!” he repeated, at length.

“Certainly. My wife,” answered the valet.

“Then--then----Great heavens, your _wife_! But it is impossible.”

“Why should it be impossible?” almost angrily demanded the Italian. “Do
you mean it is impossible that the famous star of the lyrical stage
should be the wife of a poor, penniless fellow like myself? It must
seem strange--I don’t deny it. But in her early days she was one of
the poorest and most obscure of peasant girls, and thought Leonardo
Gilardoni, with his little piece of land, and the savings bequeathed by
his father, quite a catch. No thought of English milords and Russian
princes then.”

Captain Desfrayne took a hasty turn or two, then again faced his
servant.

“You amaze me,” he said. “Then how did it happen, since you loved her,
as you say, that you came to be separated from her, and how has it come
about that you appear to be utter strangers, you two? How is it that
she contemplates--if report speak true--marriage with a Russian prince,
if she is already married, the wife of Leonardo Gilardoni?”

But as he spoke, Paul Desfrayne was thinking, with a half-dazed brain,
that if Lucia Guiscardini should prove to be the wife of this Italian
servant, her marriage with himself must have been perfectly illegal.

If she were the wife of another, why, he must be free. But it could not
be. He had yet to hear some explanation which would inevitably shut out
from view the bright vision of happy freedom conjured up for a moment
by the wild words of Gilardoni.

No; it was beyond hope that this poisonous sting could ever be taken
from out his blighted life.

The lovely, pure face of Lois Turquand, as he had seen it on the
terrace in the dim, dreamy light, rose before him, as if to reproach
him for a wrong unconsciously wrought against her by his fatal marriage.

It was evident Gilardoni knew nothing whatever of _la_ Lucia’s marriage
with Paul Desfrayne.

The Italian was watching his master’s countenance as if anxious to
discover the current of his thoughts. There was a momentary pause. Then
Gilardoni said, less excitedly:

“Why does she think of bettering her condition by a splendid marriage
with a great noble when she is the wife of a poor serving-man like
myself? Simply because she has destroyed the evidence of her unlucky
first marriage.”

In spite of his better sense, a sharp spasm of disappointment seized
the heart of Paul Desfrayne. He was, perhaps, worse placed than before.
Until now, he had given Lucia Guiscardini credit for being what
she really represented herself to be, and had imagined that balked
ambition rather than absolute wickedness had led to her vile deception
and iniquitous treachery toward himself. She had seemed a wild,
undisciplined creature, ignorant of the world and its ways, cold and
reserved except on a few occasions when she had permitted him to snatch
feverish kisses from her lips, and press her in his arms. But now, if
Gilardoni’s accusations were true, she was a crafty, evil, unscrupulous
woman, who had crushed an innocent man with the hope to step up into
wealth and power.

She was the wife of this servant, yet at any moment, did she so will,
she could claim to stand by the side of Captain Paul Desfrayne, whose
legal wife she was, until proof of a prior marriage could be obtained.
Wife of Paul Desfrayne, so proud of his untarnished family name and
descent, so adoringly fond of his mother, whose besetting sin was
family pride and love of the world’s homage.

“Destroyed the evidence of her first marriage!” Paul Desfrayne slowly
repeated. “I cannot understand you.”

“Sir, I will tell you the pitiful history. ’Tis not very long. As
children, Lucia and I were playmates. She was an imperious, overbearing
tyrant; but her beauty, her wiles, her artless ways, as they appeared
to be, gained for her complete dominion over my every thought and
action. I was some six or seven years her senior, and useful to
her--her slave, her jackall.

“She was an orphan, and lived with an old woman, some distant kind of
relation. I lost my parents when about eighteen or so, and was left my
own master. When Lucia was some ten or eleven years old, I resolved
that she, and none other, should be my wife at some future day. I told
her so many, many times, and she generally agreed, laughingly. When she
was sixteen, I found that I passionately loved her. Our future marriage
had been a kind of jest until then; but at last I discovered--or
fancied such to be the case--I took it into my head that I must obtain
her love, and make her my wife, or else my heart must break.

“I can scarcely conceive the wild state of my feelings _now_ when I
look back. I made a serious declaration of my love the day I gave
her this cross; I urged her to give me her promise, telling her how
madly I adored her, how rich I hoped to be some day by working hard,
and getting and saving money. She knew exactly how much I was worth.
She knew she would have her own way in everything--she knew how every
thought in my brain, every pulsation of my heart, was given to her.

“I was the best-circumstanced of those she had to choose from, and I
think--I believe--some beam of liking for me flickered in her cold
breast; but I don’t know. She decided to give me her promise.”

“Which she ratified?” said Paul Desfrayne, as Gilardoni paused.

“Yes. We were married within a few weeks at the nearest chapel. Some
time before our marriage, Lucia’s brother who had been brought up in
France by his mother’s uncle, and reared as a priest, had come to take
charge of our spiritual affairs. We were married by him. I believed
there had never been a happier man than myself when I led the cruel,
treacherous girl away from the little altar.”

“Go on, I beg of you.”

“For some months all went well. Lucia commanded, and I obeyed. There
was but one will in the house--hers; nothing clashed with it, and so
nothing clouded our happiness. She was very well satisfied; she had
fine clothes, a pretty house, an adoring husband, and triumphed when
she knew she was envied by some of her girl friends. Then, one day, a
famous singer came along. He was staying in the village--it was his
native place, and he roamed about all day. One morning, he was walking
near our cottage: he heard Lucia singing in the little rose-garden. I
was away at a neighboring town. He spoke to her--inflamed her ambition
by telling her she had a fortune in her throat. She did not tell him
she was married, or let him see the ring on her finger, and he told her
she might marry an emperor some day if she pleased.”

“Did she run away with him?” asked Captain Desfrayne.

“She told him she would give him an answer in a week, after she had
consulted with her friends, for he asked if she would go to Florence
with him. When I returned, she was like one crazy, her eyes all
a-glitter with joy and astonished delight. I instantly told her I
would never hear of her becoming a singer, and going on the stage. She
tried coaxing, storming, threatening, entreaties, crying, sullenness,
all to no purpose. I was inflexible. During the whole of the week the
same scenes occurred every day, from morning until night--nay, for
the twenty-four hours. The eve of the day when the signor was to come
for his answer found her as resolute as at first to follow the course
pointed out to her by his selfish hand--found me as doggedly determined
to keep her from destroying her own peace and mine.”

“You did not think you were flinging away a fortune?” said Paul
Desfrayne.

“All I thought of was that they asked me to scatter my happiness to the
winds,” replied Gilardoni. “What did we want with fortune when we had
enough for our needs? The signor came. He must have learned that this
young girl was married, but he made no sign. She was on the watch for
him, and ran to meet him before he reached the door.”

“Why did you not hinder them from speaking?”

“Pooh! Unless I could have locked her up in a cell, it would have been
utterly impossible to prevent her from communicating with him. She did
not call me, but let him depart. Then she came in and told me that he
had renewed his golden promises, that she had informed him her friends
objected to her becoming a stage singer, but that she hoped to gain
consent, and had requested him to return in three or four days. He was
resolved not to lose sight of her, and waited patiently. She tried
again to shake my determination, but in vain.

“I then thought of applying to her brother, the priest, for help in
combatting her fatal desires and intentions, but he had consented to
go to America as a missionary, and was at that time away making some
final arrangements--partly settling who should succeed him in his
humble cure. In a fortnight more he was to begin his journey. Lucia
nearly drove me frantic; but a day or two before that fixed for the
final decision, she suddenly became strangely calm and quiet, with the
horrible tranquillity of a wild beast which crouches to take its spring
upon a victim.”

All these explanations were necessary to render poor Gilardoni’s story
intelligible; but the suspense until he should arrive at the conclusive
point in his recital was almost sickening to his hearer, for whom the
facts possessed an absorbing interest, undreamed of by the narrator.

Captain Desfrayne did not utter a word when Gilardoni paused for a
moment.

“Lucia had made up her mind,” the valet continued, “to close with the
alluring offers of the stranger. How do you think she contrived to get
rid of the impediments caused by my stern obstinacy, as she considered
the opposition I raised?”

“How can I tell?”

“She made one or two faint efforts to move me that last day; then she
drugged some wine I was to drink in the evening. Having secured a fair
start, she went off with the crabbed old man who had thus torn her from
the home she had made so happy for a few short months.”

“Did she leave any clue to the place she was bound for?”

“None. A few lines scrawled on a bit of torn paper told me why she had
gone, and with whom. I found this paper the next morning when I roused
myself from my deathlike sleep. The drug left me weak in body and mind;
some days elapsed before I could gain sufficient strength to form any
plan. Then I made some careful inquiries, for I wished to avoid being
talked about and laughed at by the scandal-loving old women of the
village. I found that there was a probability of finding my wife and
her new music-master at Turin.”

Paul Desfrayne shuddered. The name of these beautiful Italian cities
always brought back feelings of pain and bitterness to his memory.

“I traveled day and night,” Gilardoni went on. “Such little property as
I had I sold, realizing a moderate sum of money, for I needed resources
in my pursuit, and knew that the pretty, happy nest could never be
the same to me again. My information, gleaned grain by grain, proved
correct. She was at Turin. Step by step, slowly, laboriously, with the
patience of an Indian, I tracked her out.

“My ardent love was then undergoing a change, and I felt deep anger
against her for her utter indifference to me, for her rank defiance
of my wishes, of my lawful authority. I discovered her living in an
obscure suburb with an old attendant. Every stratagem I used to obtain
an interview with her failed. I tried to bribe the old servant, or
duenna, or governess, and she first flung my money contemptuously in my
face, and then banged the gates. I wrote, but could not tell whether my
letters reached the cruel hands of my treacherous wife.

“I watched the doors of her house, but in vain, for I afterward found
that she rarely quitted the house, and then by a small gate at the end
of the large garden, which led into a sheltered lane little frequented.
Her singing-master entered by this gate, and as I was ignorant that
there was any way of obtaining admittance except by the iron gates in
the front of the house, I was baffled in my object of waylaying and
questioning him. By dint of inquiring ceaselessly, I found out where he
lived, and one day I went to his house, and confronted him.”

“And the result?”

“I demanded of him my wife--he laughed at me and my reproaches,
entreaties, and threats. At last he menaced me--said that if I again
annoyed him he would hand me over to the authorities as a dangerous
lunatic. He professed to know nothing of the person I asked for. In
spite of my fury, I had the sense to think that perhaps my wife had
given him a name other than her own or mine. I endeavored to reasonably
explain the circumstances of her flight. He sneered at me for an idiot,
or an impostor, and coolly showed me the door. I thank Heaven I did not
slay him in my frenzy and despair.”

“Then did you ever see the woman--your wife--again?”

“By accident, I discovered the existence of the little gate at the back
of the house. I was passing down the shaded lane, and noticed the gate
open. The idea of its belonging to the house where my wife was staying
did not occur to me at the moment. I happened to glance through, and
the wild beauty and luxuriance of the large garden attracted my eyes. I
stood for some minutes inhaling the delicious odor of the flowers, when
I heard a step, and the rustle of feminine garments.

“An instant more, and I saw--I saw my wife, Lucia, pacing slowly along
the path, her skirts trailing over the mingled flowers and weeds of
the flower-borders, her eyes cast down, her arms hanging by her side,
looking weary, and, I fancied, sad. I stood still, spellbound, as if
unable to move a step. For a second my heart melted; the mad love
I cherished rose in all its old intensity. I flattered myself that
perhaps she regretted her precipitation--I induced myself to imagine
that she was to a great extent influenced by the mercenary old dog
who had lured her away. The idea that she might welcome me with a cry
of gladness, and throw herself into my arms with tears of penitence,
unnerved me.”

“Well?”

“She drew nearer and nearer, unconscious of my presence, the shrubs
that grew about the door, or gate, serving to conceal me. As she came
close, when I could almost have touched her, she happened to raise her
eyes. She uttered one cry--a cry of fear, or surprise, or both, and
then stood perfectly still, as if turned to stone. I sprang toward her
with one long stride, and caught her by the arm, afraid that even now
she might elude me.

“I do not remember what either said--it was a repetition of what had
passed before. But I do remember that when I said I would compel her
to obey me, as my wife, and told her she could enter into no contract
without my consent, she stared at me, and broke into contemptuous
laughter--laughter of defiance. She answered that she was no wife
of mine, and acknowledged the authority of no one save her nearest
relative, her brother, the priest.

“For a moment I really thought her brain was turned. I asked her if she
could deny that her brother had joined our hands in the little chapel
of our native village. She declared I was uttering rank falsehood, or
impertinent folly. I swore I would soon prove our marriage, and bring
witnesses by the dozen. She laughed again, and said I was welcome to
indulge in my own fancies, unless they annoyed her.”

“You said she had destroyed the evidence of the marriage,” said Captain
Desfrayne, fixing his eyes on Gilardoni, as if to read his very soul.

“Thunderstruck, confounded, I knew not what to say. I thought it was
a ruse to get me to leave the garden, for perhaps she feared I might
enter the house, and then be difficult to dislodge. So I no longer
thought she had lost her senses, but that she was trying to do by
cunning what she could not hope to effect by force or persuasion. But
in the end she had her own way. It was of no earthly use arguing with
her, or threatening: she was immovable, and answered every sentence I
addressed to her by the same firm iteration of the fact that she was no
wife of mine.

“She laughed insultingly when I said the law would speedily decide
between us. Perhaps she knew it was an idle threat of mine, for what
could the law do to bring again to my arms the woman I had deluded
myself into imagining loved me? I was unable to guess what she meant by
so boldly denying she had been married to me. In brief, I left her. I
lost no time, but hurried back to obtain proof of my marriage.”




CHAPTER XXII.

A VISION OF FREEDOM.


“On my return to our native village, after an absence of some two
months,” continued Gilardoni, “I found that the priest, Lucia’s
brother, had departed. His successor--a stranger--received me very
kindly; but when I revealed to him my painful situation, and asked
his advice, he looked perfectly distressed. When I begged him to let
me have a copy of the register of my marriage, he told me, with much
agitation, that the book had been stolen.”

“Stolen!--by her?” exclaimed Paul Desfrayne.

“Without a doubt,” replied Gilardoni. “He had not arrived at the time
it was purloined. I believe that the night Lucia fled from my home she
gained access to the chapel, taking the keys from her brother’s room.
It was not until the eve of his departure that he knew anything of the
loss, for there had not been any occasion to use the book during those
last weeks.”

“She had taken this daring means to free herself from your authority,
or the legal control you might have exercised over her?” said Paul
Desfrayne. “Had she, think you, destroyed the book?”

He made the inquiry with a flutter at his heart.

“I suppose so,” answered Gilardoni. “It is impossible she would have
had the folly to preserve it. The probability--the certainty is, that
she burned it.”

“What infamy--what wickedness!” cried Paul Desfrayne.

Gilardoni shrugged his shoulders.

“Her insatiate ambition, her craving for wealth, station, luxury,
overmastered all other feelings,” he said.

“Then she was free to defy you and all the world?”

“Quite so.”

“What did you do on making this extraordinary discovery?”

“What could I do? No inquiries could enable me to glean the slightest
clue to the place whither her brother, the priest, had gone. I sought
in every direction my limited resources admitted of for information as
to his whereabouts, but, beyond the fact that he had gone to America,
could learn nothing.”

“America? What part of America?”

“I could not ascertain. Some place in South America. Afterward, when
I began to move about more freely, I might perhaps have obtained the
name of his location, but by that time I had lost all desire of even
seeing or hearing of the treacherous woman I had made my wife. I said
to myself, even if I succeeded in proving the legality of my union with
her, of what avail would it be? She would never return to me: even
if she did, she would be like another creature, not the Lucia I had
loved--the pretty, innocent girl I fancied loved me.”

“Did you see her again?”

“I made no attempt to do so. I wrote a few lines, bitterly reproaching
her for the crime she had committed--the double crime. Of that brief
letter she took no notice whatever. She continued, I believe, to study
with the Signor Ballarini, until fitted to appear on the stage. I do
not know what agreement she made with him; the only thing I know is
that she came out under her own name, not, thanks be to Providence,
under mine!”

“And then she attained her desire of becoming a star of the first
magnitude,” said Captain Desfrayne, as Gilardoni paused. “She gained
the wealth, luxury, power, all but the rank she yearned for. Did you
ever see her after that day you came on her by accident in the garden
at Turin?”

“I have at rare intervals happened to catch a glimpse of her, without
desiring to see her, driving past in her carriage, perhaps,” replied
Gilardoni. “Not even once have I had the curiosity to enter the theater
when she has been singing; the screech of some arch fiend would have
been as pleasing in my ears as her finest notes. Not once have I felt
an inclination to ask a question as to her way of life.

“People have told me that she is one of the best of women, noted for
her charity and goodness. They little knew that he to whom they spoke
had the first right to be considered in her schemes of benevolence.
I took no care of my little money, already diminished by my searches
after her unworthy self, and after her brother.

“The consequence was, I soon became reduced almost to the verge
of want. The good priest who had succeeded the Padre Josef, my
brother-in-law, obtained for me a situation as servant to a
nobleman--the Count Di Venosta--with whom I was when I first saw you,
sir. My life flowed in a dull current until his death; after that,
illness, poverty, misery, despair, until these last few days, when I
had the good fortune to meet with you, and you had compassion on my
friendless state.”

Captain Desfrayne considered for some moments. Should he reveal his
painful secret to this man who had been so frank with him? He could
not resolve to do so: the humiliation would be too great. Before he
had felt his situation most painful. These revelations rendered it
well-nigh insupportable.

That Madam Guiscardini should have the daring to plan the theft of the
marriage-register, and the nerve, the cool audacity, to carry her plot
into execution, and then refrain from the destruction of the proof she
desired to keep from all men’s eyes, was incredible. Yet a strange
thought occurred to him.

“If no proof of her marriage with you exists,” he said to the Italian,
“how do you account for the fact that she evidently fears to accept any
of the brilliant offers they say she has received?”

“Very easily,” answered Leonardo, with a savage grimace. “Although the
book is, or may be, no longer in existence, her brother may be found
any day, and he could prove her marriage. I do not care to seek him,
and if I did, my poverty restrains me. But she probably knows well that
if she dared to marry any of these infatuated nobles, who are ready to
throw their coronets at her feet, I should stand forth and denounce
her. If I declare her to be my wife, she must disprove my words. I, in
my poverty, can do nothing; but a rich man--such as she would desire to
wed--could seek for the man who could seal my words as truth.”

A thrill of hope ran through the heart of his hearer. For a moment
the impulse to tell him the bitter facts of his own share in Lucia’s
miserable history almost overmastered Paul Desfrayne’s prudence. But
he resolved to make no sign until he had consulted Frank Amberley,
to whom he looked now as his chief friend and adviser in his present
difficulties. If he could get leave of absence, he meant to go to
London for some hours the next day, in order to see the young lawyer.

“Perhaps her brother is dead,” he suggested.

“Perhaps so,” assented the other. “But she would feel secure if such
were the case, and we should soon hear of her as princess, duchess, or
some such exalted personage.”

“He might die, and make no sign. Missionary priests are sometimes slain
in obscure places, or die of hunger on toilsome journeys, and are never
heard of more,” Captain Desfrayne said.

He knew full well that it was in reality her luckless marriage with
himself that fixed the bar.

“Sir,” Leonardo said, “I think I have earned the right to ask how this
cross--my first gift to her--came from her hands into your possession.”

This was a home-thrust.

“She fancied I was the rich milord who might one day place a coronet
on her brow,” said Paul Desfrayne, very slowly. “I was one of her most
ardent admirers at Florence.”

“I understand.”

“Afterward--some time later--she discovered that I was--that I was
not the wealthy nobleman she had imagined me to be,” half-stammered
Gilardoni’s master.

“That was enough. I comprehend. That was quite enough for her. But if
she wished to entrap you, she would have dared to consent to marry you.”

“My good fellow, I wish to get to my room,” said the young officer, who
felt sick at heart, although a faint gleam of hope had come to him. “It
is almost break of dawn.”

These last words struck him with a singular sense of being familiar,
as if he had uttered them in some previous stage of existence, or had
heard some one speak them at some startling crisis.

“You must be tired out, sir.”

Gilardoni pushed the little cross toward his master without making any
remark about it.

“I don’t want the thing, Gilardoni,” said Paul Desfrayne, with a
half-contemptuous sigh. “It is yours of right, I doubt not. It can have
no value for me. I do not know why I have preserved it.”

He took up the taper which his valet had lighted, and went into his
bedroom, saying he had no need of further service from Gilardoni.

Then he closed and locked the door, and sat down on the edge of his
bed, to consider his position.

A thousand distracting thoughts ran through his brain, but above all
dominated the one idea that he must, at any hazard, try to find out
if the Padre Josef were alive or dead. If alive, he could loose these
agonizing bonds that were cutting his life-strings. If dead----

If dead, then no hope remained.

At all events, the first step would be to see Frank Amberley.

What if he essayed another interview with Lucia Guiscardini, and, armed
with his present knowledge, sought to extort some kind of confession
from her? Should he endeavor to make her tell whether she knew, or did
not know, if her brother yet lived?

With his unhappy experience of her obstinate and violent temper, he
could scarcely hope for any good result from seeing her. He had no
power or influence over her, could offer no inducement of any kind to
persuade her to admit anything. Too well he knew beforehand that she
would flatly deny her marriage with Leonardo Gilardoni--would probably
deny that she had now or ever had had a brother at all. She would
either laugh in his face, or storm with rage, as the humor suited her.

To seek out the priest would demand an immense outlay, and if, after
all, the search should prove unavailing, or he should be dead, then he,
Paul Desfrayne, would be left penniless, and possibly heavily in debt.

Would it be well to send Gilardoni on the quest? No one would seek
as he should. Each little trifle that might escape others, however
hawk-eyed, would be sure clues to his eager, vengeful glance.

“I will decide nothing now,” he at last thought. “I will be entirely
guided by Frank Amberley’s advice. He will be able to judge what is
best, and, if the search is advisable, will be capable of estimating
the probable expenses. My liberty alone would be worth ten years of my
life.”

For a moment the vision of what might be if his freedom were secured
presented itself before his mind, but he dared not indulge in the
dangerous contemplation of such a joy, and sank into troubled slumbers
as the first rays of the morning sun penetrated into the chamber.

His face looked worn and weary in the fresh morning beams, as it rested
on his arm.

The heart of his fond mother must have been melted with love and pity
had she gazed on the distressed face, and noted the restless tossing of
the wearied body, to which sleep seemed to bring no refreshment.

       *       *       *       *       *

The day came in its inevitable course.

Lady Quaintree and Lois made sure that they would see Captain Desfrayne
during the afternoon. Ordinary etiquette, if no other feeling, must
bring him to inquire how the young ladies fared after their fright.

Lady Quaintree did not attempt to induce Lois to confide in her.
Lois, on her side, did not volunteer any remark beyond a very few dry
commonplaces regarding the rescue of herself and Blanche Dormer from
their perilous situation. The young girl made no sign whereby Lady
Quaintree could judge of the state of her feelings.

Both were prepared to wait with a kind of painful uncertainty for
Captain Desfrayne’s coming. Each wished, for different reasons, that
this journey had never been undertaken.

Had any rational excuse been at hand, each would have urged an
immediate return to London.

The question was settled very unexpectedly. As the three ladies rose
from breakfast, a servant came in very hurriedly, the bearer of a
telegram directed to Lady Quaintree.

Her ladyship’s hand trembled slightly as she took the paper from the
salver, and she hesitated for a moment before breaking the envelope.

Telegrams, when unexpected, are always more or less alarming, and Lady
Quaintree could not think of any possible good reason why any one
should address one to her. She took it out, however, and, putting on
her gold-rimmed spectacles, read the curt sentences:

 “Return as soon as possible. My father ill, though not seriously so.
 He wishes for you. A train leaves Holston at 12:15; the next at 2:45.”

It was from her son Gerald.

Lady Quaintree gave the telegram to the two girls, while she inquired
if the messenger was still in waiting.

The youth who had come from the railway-station was called into the
room. Lois wrote an answer from Lady Quaintree’s dictation to the
effect that they would start by the 12:15 train, and this was sent by
the same messenger who had brought the telegram.

As the visit was simply a flying one, little preparation had been
made, and the ladies’ luggage was of the most portable description; so
Justine, who was hastily summoned, had nothing to do in the shape of
packing.

Mrs. Ormsby was sent for, and came in dignified haste.

“We are obliged to leave a day sooner than we had arranged for, Mrs.
Ormsby,” said Lady Quaintree. “Miss Turquand is not sure of what time
she may return, and it may be a long period before I come again. But we
are both well pleased with the order and arrangement of everything in
the establishment under your control.”

The housekeeper curtsied to imply her thanks and gratification. Her
ladyship requested that the carriage might be ready at once, as they
left by the 12:15 train for London.

A council of war was held as to the desirability of Blanche’s
accompanying them. No time remained for consulting her parents, so at
length Lady Quaintree settled that she should go with them.

“Even if my lord should prove more unwell than my son admits,” she
said, “you will be a great comfort to me and to our dear Lois; and if
you should find my house irksome under the circumstances, I can easily
locate you with any one of half a dozen friends, who would be delighted
to receive you, my love.”

The three were soon equipped for their journey. As the day was soft and
warm, almost threatening to be sultry and overcoming, the completion
of their toilets consisted in donning country straw hats, dainty lace
capes, and gloves. Lady Quaintree folded a soft white shawl of fine
silky wool about her, and they descended to the carriage, having
hurriedly partaken of luncheon prepared by Mrs. Ormsby.




CHAPTER XXIII.

THE EXPRESS TO LONDON.


“What messages are we to leave for Captain Desfrayne, my dear?” asked
Lady Quaintree of Lois.

They had both left his name to the last, each loath to be the one to
recall it.

Her ladyship noted, while apparently trying to master a refractory
button on her glove, that the rose tint on Lois’ cheeks deepened, and
then flowed over the rest of her face, while the long, dark lashes
drooped.

“Dear madam,” said the young girl, “that is a question I should rather
have asked you, who know so much better than I do the proper things to
be said.”

“Proper, my love,” repeated the old lady, smiling. “It is not a matter
of saying ‘proper’ or ‘civil’ things. What do you wish to say?”

The color faded from Lois’ face, and then flowed back again in a
roseate glow.

“I am sure Miss Dormer and I are both most grateful to Captain
Desfrayne for his kindness----” began Lois.

Blanche put her hands on Lois’ waist, and gave her a gentle shake, and
a glance of reproach.

“‘Miss Dormer!’ You unkind Lois!” she said. “I thought I had asked you
to call me Blanche.”

Lois felt as if she must say things worthy of smiling rebuke, whether
she willed it or not.

“Come, we must leave some message, in case the captain should happen to
call,” said Lady Quaintree.

“Mrs. Ormsby,” she continued, turning to the housekeeper, who was
following to attend them to their carriage, “if Captain Desfrayne--the
gentleman who dined here yesterday--should come during the day, will
you be good enough to inform him that we were unexpectedly summoned to
London on the most urgent affairs?”

“I will do so, my lady,” replied Mrs. Ormsby.

The carriage drove off, containing the three ladies, Justine and the
one or two other servants immediately attending them. There was no time
to send for Blanche’s maid; but it was agreed that she should be sent
for at once on their arrival at Lowndes Square.

Lois gazed at the stately Hall and its lovely grounds, with strange,
mingled feelings, as the carriage bore her swiftly away. An
uncomfortable sensation rose in her throat, as if tears of regret were
stealing from their hiding-place, as she reflected that she was in all
likelihood losing a chance of seeing Paul Desfrayne, and hearing his
promised explanation.

“He will come to-day; and I shall not be here,” she thought.

His face and form haunted her, try as she would to banish the
recollection. A dangerous longing, inexplicable to herself, rose in
her heart, just to see him once more. A wicked longing, she knew, if
he belonged to another. And the impediment which hindered him from
addressing her was evidently an insuperable one. His words, although
mystifying, left no doubt.

“I wish I had never seen or heard of him,” she said to herself. “Yet
why should I let myself think of him in this foolish, weak way. My
pride, if nothing else, should forbid my wishing even to see him. It is
enough that he has assured me he can never think of me. Why do I think
about him, except as a harassing care forced on me? I have known him
but a few days; he is a stranger, an absolute stranger to me, and yet I
continue to brood over his words, and my resentment against him seems
gone.”

The drive to the station was even pleasanter than the drive of the
day before. As yet the day was tolerably cool, and snow-white clouds
flecked a sky of purest blue.

Lady Quaintree was not sorry to be rid of the handsome claimant to her
protégée’s hand, heart, and desirable fortune, if it were only for a
while. She could not, for all her maternal pride, be blind to the fact
that Paul Desfrayne would be a formidable rival to her Gerald, unless
the latter could secure a very firm interest in the affections of the
young lady who might be addressed by both.

A polite guard chose a convenient compartment for the ladies. A smile,
a hasty uplifting of the finger to his cap as Lady Quaintree’s delicate
pearl-gray glove approached his brown palm, and then he closed the door
respectfully.

But at the last moment, and just as the guard blew his whistle, a
gentleman came rushing on the platform.

“Going by the express, sir? Here you are, sir--here you are. Not a
minute to be lost,” cried the guard.

The good fellow had intended that the ladies should have their
compartment all to themselves; but he had no time to move from the spot
where he stood. The train began to draw its snakelike body to move out
from the station. He threw open the door, and the gentleman sprang
lightly on the step, steadied himself for an instant, and then entered.

The three ladies turned their gaze simultaneously on their fellow
passengers, and the same exclamation escaped their lips at the same
moment:

“Captain Desfrayne!”

       *       *       *       *       *

Truly, Captain Desfrayne on his way to London to consult Frank
Amberley. He recognized the ladies as he balanced himself on the step
of the carriage.

Had it been possible, he would have drawn back, and gone anywhere
rather than continue this journey in Lois’ company. For a second his
eyes met hers. New hope, clouded by pain and uncertainty, beamed in
his; fear, timid reproach, inquiry, doubt, glanced from hers.

Blanche could not help exchanging a look of amazement with Lois, nor
could it escape her notice that the telltale crimson mounted to Miss
Turquand’s cheeks, just now so pale.

“Captain Desfrayne! An unexpected pleasure,” said Lady Quaintree,
extending her hand, though secretly ill pleased.

“Quite so,” answered Captain Desfrayne, himself anything but delighted.
“I had not the most distant idea you and Miss Turquand intended to quit
Flore Hall so soon.”

He could not hinder his eyes from wandering to Lois’ face. The young
girl, filled with anger at his inconsistent conduct, averted her head,
and gazed from the window. When she stole a glance at him again, he was
looking from the window on his side, his face clouded by the care and
trouble that seemed rarely absent.

Nobody said much during the journey; for subjects of conversation were
not readily found, and even Blanche had abundant matter for mental
consideration.

To Lois and Paul Desfrayne, it seemed like a dream more than reality.

The thickly clustered houses, the red-tiled roofs and chimney-pots
began to give intimation that they were nearing London.

“We may not hope, then, to see much of you this week, at any rate?”
Lady Quaintree observed, shaking herself out of a brief slumber.

He shook his head.

“I must go back to Holston as soon as I can,” he replied.

The express slackened speed, and at last rolled into the terminus.

Gerald was waiting for his mother on the platform. He assisted her
from the carriage, leaving the care of the two young girls to Captain
Desfrayne.

Lady Quaintree eagerly paused to make anxious inquiries about her
husband. She had moved on a few steps, and Captain Desfrayne felt he
must offer some kind of excuse to Lois for not affording her the clue
to his mysterious behavior he had promised. He laid a tremulous hand on
her wrist, and drew her some steps away from her friend.

“Miss Turquand,” he said eagerly, looking her full in the face, a
deeply troubled, excited expression in his eyes, “I must entreat of
you not to judge me harshly, but with mercy and kindness. I merit all
your pity. I am a most unhappy man. It would have been well if I could
have explained my position last night, as I meant to do; but this is no
time or place to end the conversation then begun and interrupted. May I
beseech you to suspend your judgment until I have been able to tell you
how I am circumstanced?”

“I have no right to judge you,” said Lois coldly. “If you are unhappy,
you have my pity.”

She felt piqued that he fixed no time for giving her the promised
explanation. He left her still mystified.

“Will you give me your promise not to condemn me until you have heard
my story?” urged Paul Desfrayne.

“I repeat, I have no right to judge you,” said Lois. “Those who have
the care of me and my affairs have the best right to hear what you have
to say.”

If her words sounded cold and repelling to her hearer, they were yet
more so to herself. She felt that she spoke harshly, and with scarcely
veiled bitterness, and, as she saw the young man droop his head, she
hastily added, with a softened tone:

“Your language, sir, is strange and perplexing to me. You allude
to some unhappy circumstances, of which, as you say, I am entirely
ignorant. If you see fit to explain these circumstances to me, I think
you may count on my sympathy. If you do not deem it necessary that I
should be further acquainted with them, let it be forgotten that you
have ever touched on them at all.”

The young girl, faint and agitated from contending feelings, put out
her hands like one who does not see her way clearly. Blanche, who had
drawn back, stepped hastily to her side, and gave her an arm to lean
upon.

“My poor darling!” whispered Blanche tenderly.

The sympathetic accents vibrated on Lois’ heart like an electric
shock. She roused herself from the momentary weakness to which she had
yielded, and extended her hand to Captain Desfrayne.

“Adieu, sir,” she said.

The young man caught her hand, and involuntarily pressed the slender
fingers within his own. He gazed for an instant into the dreamy eyes,
so pure, so frank, so truthful, so trusting, then, loosing the little
hand, turned away with a deep sigh.

As he did so, Lady Quaintree looked back, and made a signal to the
girls to accompany her to the carriage, which was in waiting. She
smiled in her own gracious way upon the young officer, though she
really wished him at Jericho.

He advanced, and lifted his hat.

“I presume, madam, I can be of no service to you?” he said, glancing
for a moment at the Honorable Gerald, who was unknown to him.

Lady Quaintree, remembering that the young men were strangers to each
other, introduced them.

“If you should happen to make a longer stay in town than you count on,”
she said, “we shall be very pleased to see you, either this evening,
or to-morrow, or at any time it may suit you to come. I find my lord’s
illness is not of so serious a nature as at first appeared.”

An interchange of civil smiles, a shake or two of the hand, some polite
valedictory salutations, and the brief whirling scene was over--past as
a dream.

“I think I was right,” murmured Blanche, in her friend’s ear, as they
drove off in Lady Quaintree’s luxurious carriage.

Lois tightly pressed the hand that tenderly sought her own; but did not
meet Blanche’s eye, which she feared for the moment.

Paul Desfrayne threw himself into a hansom.

“Alderman’s Lane,” he cried to the driver.




CHAPTER XXIV.

FRANK AMBERLEY’S ADVICE.


Captain Desfrayne was at first so eager and vehement, that Frank
Amberley found it a little difficult to disentangle the strange story
he had to tell.

The young lawyer did not find himself in an agreeable position. In the
secret depths of his heart he would have infinitely preferred that
Paul Desfrayne should remain bound. So long as his marriage was an
unalterable fact, there was no fear of his carrying off Lois. There was
scant hope for Frank himself, poor fellow; but he was asked to give
his best aid toward demolishing the great bar to her union with this
powerful rival. If she did not care for any one else--and he reflected
with a sigh that she cared little for himself--the probability was that
she would not raise any urgent objections toward fulfilling her dead
benefactor’s wishes.

But he was generous, and scorned to act a mean and dishonorable part.
The cloud was dissipated from his grave, kind face by a sad smile, and
he said:

“You wish to ask my advice and assistance how to proceed?”

“I shall be most thankful if you will give me your opinion as to how I
ought to act,” answered his visitor.

“Is there any chance of your being able to compel this--your--Madam
Guiscardini to confess whether she has or has not destroyed the stolen
register?”

“None that I can see. She is of a most stubborn nature. Even if there
were no particular object to be gained, I believe she would obstinately
refuse to do or say anything that did not suit or please her.”

“I am sincerely sorry for your cruel situation,” said Frank Amberley,
in a tone of profound feeling.

“Of that I am assured,” replied Paul Desfrayne; “and I come to you in
the full confidence that you will help me to the utmost of your power.”

“The register being, we will say, destroyed, there is no resource but
to trace out the priest who married Lucia to her peasant lover?”

“None.”

“But the expense would be something frightful. There would probably be
a great delay, and in the end perhaps the man might not be discovered.”

“Could you form any idea of what the search might cost?”

“It would necessarily depend on the persons employed. If I understood
you aright, you have not trusted your servant, Gilardoni, with the
secret of your own unhappy marriage?”

“I have not. For one reason, I could not bear to humiliate myself; for
another, I desired to consult you before moving a step or speaking a
word.”

“I am afraid you will be obliged to take him into your confidence. He
is master of the circumstances; he would have the strongest motive for
tracing out the missing person. He would probably be more economical
and more devoted than any stranger could be. Send him, and let him be
accompanied by a professional detective. Perhaps the search may not be
such a lengthened one as you fear.”

Paul Desfrayne reflected for a few moments.

“I had already resolved to abide by your advice,” he said. “Let it
be so. I would give all I have in the world to be free from the
consequences of my own mad folly. When could he set out?”

“As soon as he could make the necessary preparations. The sooner the
better, I should say.”

“What do you think the expenses would be likely to come to? It would be
a bitter disappointment should the search continue for a certain time,
and fail almost at the last for want of funds.”

“Gilardoni, having traveled a good deal on the Continent, as I
understand you have implied, and being accustomed to manage for himself
and others, would be able to give you a better estimate than I could
form. In his hands, I don’t think, after all, it would be so very
great. Say ten or fifteen pounds a week. Suppose it took him ten
months, or even fourteen or eighteen, the calculation is easy.”

“I will send him to you to-morrow, my dear friend,” said Paul
Desfrayne. “Heaven grant me a happy issue to this search. But--but the
suspense will be something unbearable.”

“Why, you will constantly hear how the affair is progressing,” urged
Frank Amberley. “Do you think I could aid you by insisting on an
interview with--with this woman?”

Paul shook his head.

“I fear it would be time wasted,” he answered. “She would, perhaps,
insult and annoy you----”

“Pshaw! Her most violent attack would only make me laugh, my dear
fellow,” interrupted Frank Amberley. “It would be amusing. In fact,
I should really like to see this lovely tigress in her own den. One
doesn’t often enjoy a chance of interviewing a beautiful fury.”

Paul Desfrayne grasped Frank’s hands, and looked earnestly into those
open, candid eyes that yet faithfully veiled the secret that their
owner was a noble, self-sacrificing hero, offering up a possible
gleam of happiness on the altar of duty. Paul saw nothing but a kind,
pleasant, genial man, who undertook a matter of business with the
genial air of a friend.

“I leave the affair entirely in your care,” he said, “knowing full well
that you will not neglect anything that may tend to free me from the
cruel burden that weighs me down.”

“You give me permission to speak as fully to this Italian valet as I
may find necessary?” asked Frank Amberley.

He lowered his gaze as he demanded this; his heart felt heavy and sad,
and he feared lest Paul Desfrayne might read his thoughts.

“Certainly. I give you carte blanche in every way.”

“You do not object to my visiting Madam Guiscardini?”

“I should be rejoiced if you undertook the unpleasant task, were it
only to hear what she has to say. It would be a very different matter
bullying a fellow like Gilardoni, and tackling a practised English
lawyer like yourself.”

“I should think so. Where is she to be found?”

“When I called at her house on Monday, I was informed that madam had
gone to Paris, and nobody knew when she would return. On consulting the
newspapers, however, I found she was advertised to appear on Friday
night----”

“To-morrow evening?”

“Yes. I have been told that she prides herself on never disappointing
the public, and that she has never failed once since her first
appearance to perform on the nights for which she is announced. Her
health is excellent, and she is passionately devoted to her art.”

“Then, if I find she refuses to see me at her house----By the way,
where does she live?”

“She did live in Porchester Square; but may change on her return, by
way of giving a little trouble to those who may want to see her when it
does not suit her to be visited. But here is the address.”

He scribbled down the number and name of the square on the back of one
of his own cards.

“Have you--did you--that is to say--I mean, has any explanation passed
between you and Miss Turquand?” inquired Frank Amberley, with some
embarrassment.

“I wished to speak to her--to tell her how unhappily I am situated,”
replied Paul Desfrayne hesitatingly.

“Did you give her any notion of the nature of this barrier?” asked
Frank Amberley.

“I scarcely know what I said; but I should imagine she could readily
guess to what I must allude. I accidentally traveled in her company
this morning.”

“Indeed! Has she returned to London?”

“Lady Quaintree received a telegram stating that her husband was
unwell----”

“Good heavens! Unwell? I must go to Lowndes Square this evening,”
exclaimed Frank, in great concern. “Do you know what is the matter with
him?”

Paul shook his head.

“Lady Quaintree was my informant, and she said that the telegram
stated simply the fact, without entering into detail.”

“I will go there directly office-hours are over. In case I see Miss
Turquand, and have any opportunity of speaking to her, is it still your
wish that I should enlighten her as to the state of your affairs?”

“It is essential that she should not be left in ignorance,” said Paul.
“It is my duty to inform her without delay, as my silence may be
injurious to her.” But he sighed heavily as he spoke.

“I will use my own discretion,” said Frank Amberley. “But I could not
take any important step without your special sanction. You will send
this Italian valet to me?”

“At once--early to-morrow morning.”

“We will set him to work directly he can make his own personal
arrangements. I will make a point of seeing madam. If I do not succeed
in obtaining an interview with her at her residence, I will endeavor to
surprise her at the opera-house. I think it best to defer engaging a
detective to accompany Gilardoni until I see him. You will not be able
to come up to-morrow?”

“I fear not. Besides, I could not endure to be present when you inform
him of my position.”

“Well, then, what I have to do is, firstly, this evening, to try to
find a chance of enlightening Miss Turquand; secondly, to-morrow
morning, to hold a consultation with and give instructions to this
Leonardo Gilardoni; thirdly, to-morrow evening, to endeavor to surprise
Madam Guiscardini into some kind of admission, and, if I do not see
her, I must make an opportunity of doing so on Saturday or Monday, or
some time next week. The way is plain enough. Whether it leads to a
happy harbor of rest remains to be seen.”

“It will be impossible for me ever to thank you sufficiently,” said
Paul Desfrayne.

“Do not speak of that,” replied Frank Amberley. “Are you obliged to
return to your quarters at once?”

“At once; yes.”

The two men clasped hands, and parted.

Lady Quaintree found that her husband’s illness was not of a seriously
alarming nature, but yet sufficiently grave to justify Gerald in
sending for her. The doctor had ordered the patient to bed; but it was
not necessary for any one to remain with him to watch. Her ladyship,
therefore, with her son and the two young ladies, was at liberty to
dine as usual.

It was not yet the hour fixed for dinner when Frank Amberley arrived at
the house.

“Mr. Gerald went out, sir, and has not come home yet, though he said
he’d be back to dinner,” the domestic said. “But the young ladies are
in the drawing-room.”

The servant threw open the door, announced Mr. Amberley, and then
retired.

Throughout the house the lamps had been lighted, but were all still
turned down to a mere spark; for the long summer days had only begun
to show signs of shortening. In the drawing-room, a soft, amber glow,
subdued and mellow, mingled its rays with the dreamy semitwilight.

At first, the profound, peaceful silence made Frank Amberley imagine
the apartment was uninhabited; but, as the door closed, a soft swish of
silken garments undeceived him.

For a moment his heart fluttered with pain and pleasure at the
thought that he was possibly alone with Lois; but instantly after the
unfamiliar figure of Blanche Dormer presented itself.

She had been reading one of the new magazines, nestling in a quiet
corner by one of the windows.

It was a sufficiently embarrassing situation, as neither knew what to
say. A formal salutation passed, and then Miss Dormer meditated for a
moment or two how she could best manage to beat a retreat.

Presently, however, these two forgot their embarrassment, and found
themselves chatting together as if they had been friends for a dozen
years.

In about ten minutes Lois appeared, and Blanche did not then think it
necessary to run away. Miss Turquand was, of course, quite unconscious
that Frank Amberley had any special communication to make, and totally
unaware that he took any particular interest in Captain Desfrayne.

When Lady Quaintree came down, she found the three young people sitting
near one of the windows, engaged in what seemingly was an agreeable and
almost lively conversation. As she stood for a moment at the door, an
odd thought struck her for the first time.

“What a charming wife for Frank Blanchette would make!” she said to
herself.

She pressed Frank to stay to dinner, and he very gladly accepted her
invitation.

Although saddened by the absence of the master of the house, the little
dinner-party was extremely pleasant. Gerald returned just in time
to meet his mother, the young ladies, and his Cousin Frank, in the
drawing-room before they went down-stairs.

As Frank was a member of the family, he had every right and excuse,
though not living in the house, to linger after dinner. He felt
loath to depart. Not only was every moment spent in the presence of
Lois exquisitely sweet to him; but it might be long before he could
conveniently obtain so favorable an opportunity for speaking to her as
he should probably find this evening. He was right in staying; for the
moment came at last.

Lady Quaintree was up-stairs, Gerald and Miss Dormer were talking
together, and there seemed no immediate fear of interruption.

Then Frank Amberley braced up his nerves, and prepared himself for the
duty he had undertaken.

He thought it best to inform Lois of the entire story, as far as he
was master thereof, withholding the name of the lady, however, and the
fact that she had been already married when she became the wife of Paul
Desfrayne. He thought that if the search for the Padre Josef should
prove unsuccessful, as it probably might do, it would not be well
either to unsettle Lois’ mind, or to fix an additional brand on Captain
Desfrayne.

Lois listened in dead silence, pulling out the lace of her handkerchief
mechanically. It was not until the close of the little history that she
made any comment. Frank ended at the stormy departure of the signora
on the morning of her marriage with Captain Desfrayne.

“It is a sad story,” she said, in a low, faint tone. “I am deeply
sorry for him; and I am--I am sorry that--that his name should have
been--been linked with mine in--in Mr. Vere Gardiner’s will.”

“I rely upon you not to let any one have a suspicion of this
unfortunate affair,” urged Frank Amberley.

Lois assured him she would keep the matter a profound secret. She
longed to get away to the solitude of her own chamber, there to reflect
on what she had heard; but could think of no excuse. A strange,
unaccountable sinking of the heart oppressed her.

“Why do I thus think about one who is a stranger to me, and can never
be aught else?” she asked herself. “I must dismiss the subject from my
mind forever after this night.”

And yet she caught herself wondering when she should again meet Paul
Desfrayne, and planning how she should behave to him.

Frank Amberley watched her face with all the eager devotion of a man
hopelessly, irretrievably in love, utterly unconscious that the bright
eyes of the pretty country girl in white muslin and blue ribbons
wandered many times his way. It was with difficulty that he restrained
a passionate, plainly worded avowal of his love and adoration, and
resisted the desire to ask Lois if there was any chance of his being
able to win the slightest return of his all-engrossing passion.

He was pretty confident that up to this time she had not cared
specially for any one, and he believed it to be perfectly impossible
that any other human being could love her as deeply, as truly as he did.

A few moments more, and he might have tempted his fate, and might have
gained some answer leading him to hope; but the door of the center
drawing-room opened, and Lady Quaintree came through the silken archway
between the two salons.

Her ladyship was ill pleased to see Lois and Frank together, and
dissatisfied to notice that Gerald appeared much taken with the
lively, piquant Blanche Dormer, who was playing with a not altogether
unskilful hand at the pleasant game of flirtation. It would not suit
the inclination of Lady Quaintree did Gerald fall in love with and
marry this young girl, even if she did carry twenty thousand pounds as
her dot.

Without appearing inhospitable--nay, she seemed to be sorry to break up
the little party--she made it apparent to Frank that it would be only
kind and considerate of him to take an early departure, in order that
the ladies might rest after their hurried journey.

Turn which way she would, Lois could not rid herself of the haunting
figure of Paul Desfrayne. When she gained her own room, she sat down at
the foot of her bed to think.

“I am glad, I know,” she whispered to herself. “Oh! I am sorry for
him, though I fear he scarcely deserves that any one should pity him,
when he was guilty of such folly. He ought to have had more sense--he
ought not to have allowed himself to be carried away by such a foolish
fancy. Yet it seems a heavy punishment for a passing folly. They say:
‘Marry in haste, repent at leisure.’ Lifelong unhappiness, poor fellow!
No wonder he seems strange, and different from other people. He is
quite different from any one I ever saw. How wicked and ungrateful this
girl must have been! It is inconceivable that any creature could have
behaved so vilely toward him. He seems so good, so kind, so----What
nonsense am I running off into, when I know nothing about him!”




CHAPTER XXV.

THE FIGURE ROBED IN BLACK.


On leaving Alderman’s Lane, Captain Desfrayne made a hurried luncheon,
and then at once returned to the station, to start therefrom back to
his quarters.

He had forgotten to ascertain the exact hour at which the train left;
the consequence was he had to wait some five-and-thirty minutes. That
delay cost a life.

When fairly seated in the train, Paul had full leisure for reflection.
His thoughts were not pleasant.

He had not dared to stay to see his mother. It had been difficult and
bitter enough to tell her the fatal secret of his unhappy marriage. To
let her know the deeper humiliation in which he found himself involved
would just now be impossible. It would be time enough to reveal this
additional misery when the search proved successful; if it failed----

If it failed!

“I fancied I could not be more wretched,” he thought. “I was mistaken.
Could it be possible to wring a confession from Guiscardini? Alas, no!
Her nature is absolutely callous. She would elect to be bound to me
rather than to my servant. How am I to face my servant--how am I to
tell my wretched story? My pride is trailed in the dust. My name, given
to my charge free from spot or taint, is stained and splashed with
shame.”

It was night before he reached Holston. Arrived there, he engaged the
last rickety old fly left within the precincts of the station, and
drove to the barracks.

The vehicle had lumbered its way almost to the gates, when Captain
Desfrayne, happening to look from the open window, to ascertain how far
it had proceeded, saw, by the long, slanting rays cast from the lamps,
a female figure, draped in black, closely veiled, hurrying along the
road toward the station.

The mien, the step, even the somber robes, seemed somehow familiar to
Paul Desfrayne. He put his hands to his forehead in horror and despair.

“Great heavens! It is impossible!” he cried. “Am I going out of my
senses? Is this figure conjured up by my disordered brain, or is
it--can it be--Lucia Guiscardini? It _cannot_ be--and yet--and yet it
is her very walk--her insolent bearing.”

The wild idea that it might be her spirit for an instant crossed his
mind--a pardonable notion in the excited state of his brain, for the
swiftly gliding form looked spectral in the blackness of the summer
night, seeming more shadowy from being draped in such dark vesture.

Recovering from the first shock, however, he hurriedly stopped the
vehicle, ordering the coachman to wait for him, and ran back in the
direction the misty form had traversed.

He looked from side to side, and even struck with his cane the bushes
that grew by the edge of the road on either hand, but no sign betrayed
that any human creature besides himself and the old man seated on the
box of the fly were within miles.

Distracted by contending feelings, he went hastily back to the spot
where he had left the vehicle. The driver, an old and stupid man, was
almost asleep, and stolidly awaited the return of his fare, without
troubling to guess why he had so suddenly alighted.

“Did you see any one pass just now?” demanded Captain Desfrayne
excitedly.

“No, sur, I can’t say I did,” replied the driver.

“Not a woman?”

“Not a soul.”

“A woman dressed in black, walking very quickly toward the station?”

“I see no one at all, sur. Be there onything wrong at all?”

“I can’t tell. I hope not. You think, if any one passed along this
road, they must go to the station?”

“Unless they stopped in the fields.”

“Is your horse very tired?”

“No--he bain’t so fresh as he moight be, but----”

“I want to return to the station for a few minutes, and after that to
resume my way to the barracks,” said Paul Desfrayne. “Drive as fast as
you can.”

So firmly persuaded was he of the reality of Lucia Guiscardini’s
appearance on this lonely spot that he was resolved to seek some
information of the clerk and porters at the railway. He reentered the
shaky old vehicle; the stolid old driver whipped the weary old horse,
and in a minute they were returning the way they came.

There was just a possibility that he might surprise her at the station.
What conceivable motive could she have had for coming hither? Probably
to see Gilardoni, her legal and legitimate husband. But why visit him
in this secret manner, when at any moment she could have commanded his
presence at a place infinitely more suitable? There was not much doubt
that her apparition boded evil.

As the fly came in sight of the station, Paul had the satisfaction of
seeing the last train for London slowly puff and snort its way along
its destined iron track.

“Wait here until I come back,” he said to the coachman, and then rushed
into the station.

“Did a lady dressed in black take a ticket here just now?” he asked of
the ticket-clerk.

“No, sir.”

Paul Desfrayne looked about for one of the porters. After a little
delay he found one half-asleep on a bench, for the last trains had
departed for the night. He shook the man by the shoulder.

“Did you see a lady dressed in black just now? I believe she must have
gone by the train to London, and must have had a return ticket.”

“I was not here when the train for London left, sir,” replied the man
respectfully. “The other porter was on duty--I was in the office.”

“Where is he?” demanded Paul Desfrayne.

He seemed destined to be baffled at every turn.

“I’m afraid he’s gone, sir.”

An inquiry resulted in proving the fear to be correct. Another inquiry
elicited the fact that he lived a mile and a half away across some
fields.

In no very enviable frame of mind, Captain Desfrayne returned to his
waiting fly, to continue his broken journey to the barracks.

“Did you find her, sur?” asked the flyman.

The young man shook his head, too much dejected, and even physically
exhausted, to be able to otherwise reply.

At length he reached his quarters, when he dismissed the vehicle in
which he had come. To-morrow he meant to seek once again for evidence
as to whether the lady dressed in black had been seen by any other than
himself.

His rooms seemed strangely silent as he approached them. Gilardoni
had hitherto contrived to make his presence cheerful, and always had
a reality as well as words of welcome for his master. A bright glow
of pleasant light, gleaming through doors ajar, a slight movement of
ever-busy feet or hands, had given under his influence a faint tinge of
_home_.

The door of the first room was ajar, though scarce perceptibly so. A
dim ray of light struggled through, as if seeking to disclose some
ghastly secret. A silence as of the grave reigned. Apparently not a
living creature was within the apartments.

Paul Desfrayne paused for a minute or two before entering. A strange,
painful foreboding seized him. What he feared he dared not admit to
himself.

What if that woman--Lucia Guiscardini--had come hither with some
sinister motive, and had slain her husband in one of her almost
ungovernable fits of passion?

But no, it could not be. What end could she hope to gain? She valued
her own safety, her own ease; she prized this beautiful and splendid
world too highly to let her temper carry her to such a dangerous
extreme.

Gilardoni had fallen asleep. The hour was late, and he was, no doubt,
weary with waiting.

Taking up the heavy lamp, Paul held it above his head as he entered the
second chamber, which was a sitting-room.

Directly opposite to the door, in an oblique direction, was a couch,
the first object on which Captain Desfrayne’s eyes rested.

At full length upon this couch, in an attitude that seemed to indicate
the young man was enjoying an easy sleep, lay Leonardo Gilardoni.

Paul Desfrayne placed the lamp on a side table, and then said rather
loudly:

“Gilardoni, my good fellow!”

The recumbent figure made no sign of awaking. Paul Desfrayne, seriously
uneasy, but still fighting with his fears, crossed the room, and placed
a hand on the sleeper’s shoulder.

“Gilardoni, awake!” he said, in a voice which, spite of his effort at
self-constraint, trembled.

Not the faintest sound issued from the pallid lips. Not a movement
showed the smallest sign of life.

Paul Desfrayne at last placed the palm of his hand upon the temples of
the apparently sleeping man. They were almost ice-cold.

The young officer caught the hands lying outstretched on either side
the silent, rigid form, and felt for the pulse, his heart throbbing so
violently as well-nigh to suffocate him.

With a groan of despair, he dropped the cold hands. Leonardo Gilardoni
was dead.

One cruel touch had sent him from the world--one touch of those
delicate waxen fingers he had loved so much and kissed with transport
so often--one little stroke from the hand of the woman he had so
fatally wasted his heart upon, the wife he had idolized, for whom he
would have laid down his life willingly in the days of his fond, blind
worship.

Only too truly did Paul Desfrayne now understand the meaning of that
woman’s mysterious presence here. But why had she come--for what reason
had she risked her very life--what advantage did she promise herself
from this horrible deed? It was absolutely impossible she could have
heard anything of the projected search for her brother. The only idea
he could conjure up was that the Padre Josef was on his way back to
Europe.




CHAPTER XXVI.

LUCIA GUISCARDINI’S DIAMOND RING.


Paul Desfrayne’s eyes had not deceived him. He had really and truly
seen Lucia Guiscardini hurrying away from the scene of her murderous
treachery.

A woman of insatiable ambition, she had resolved to let nothing stand
in the way of her advancement to the highest dignities she could hope
to reach.

Ignorant, ungovernable in her temper, resentful when any one crossed
her path, or tried to hinder her from following her own fancies, she
was at once resolute in planning schemes, and unscrupulous in carrying
them out.

During her brief flight to Paris, on escaping what she felt would be a
useless interview with Captain Desfrayne, she had reflected with all
the force of her cunning brain as to the course she should take.

It was true that a Russian prince, reputed to be of fabulous wealth,
was devoted to her, and had offered his heart, hand, royal coronet, and
vast possessions. His diamonds alone would have been a lure to her; and
neither by day nor by night could she resist the glittering, delicious
dreams conjured up by his offers.

She had not destroyed the marriage-register stolen from the charge
of her brother--not because she was withheld from the deed by any
conscientious scruple, but she did not know what the punishment for so
black a crime might be were she ever discovered.

Until she accidentally saw Leonardo Gilardoni speaking to Captain
Desfrayne, she had not for some time been aware whether he was living
or dead.

A sudden terror seized her when she found that these two men had come
together. It would have been a welcome relief if she could have been
sure they would release her from her bondage; but she knew that both
had every reason to hate her with the bitterness of men who had been
utterly ruined by her cruel hand, and she felt persuaded that they
were bent on dragging her to justice.

She kept the book she so keenly abhorred hidden in a cabinet with a
peculiar lock and several secret drawers, and, in fear lest Leonardo
should be the means of a search being made among the papers, she
thought and thought until her head ached from sheer pain and weariness
of the desirability of burning the telltale pages. But the vague dread
of the unknown penalty withheld her, even when she once took out the
parchment-covered volume, and stood contemplating it. She had but to
ignite a taper close at hand, and the deed would be accomplished in a
few minutes.

“But I dare not,” she shudderingly decided. “No; I must pursue another
plan.”

With infinite caution and craftiness, she ascertained whither Paul
Desfrayne had gone, and found for certain that he had taken Gilardoni
with him. Determined to see her husband, but afraid to send for him, or
to leave any trace that they had met, she had dressed herself in plain
dark clothes, of a very different description from those she usually
wore, and had gone down to Holston.

As the express arrived in London, the train in which she was to start
was slowly filling with passengers. From the window of the second-class
carriage, in which she had purposely seated herself, she had seen Paul
Desfrayne alight, and then linger to speak with the young lady, whose
appearance was completely unfamiliar to the Italian singer. She felt
thankful that there would be no risk of meeting him at Holston.

A porter happened to be near the door of the compartment, and she asked
him when the next train would leave London for Holston. The man went to
look at the time-table, and returned with the information that there
would not be one until 6:15. She thanked the porter with a smile.

“Good,” she thought to herself. “I shall have time enough for my little
talk.”

Arrived at Holston, she walked toward the barracks, which, unless she
could not help herself, she did not intend to enter. There was a dingy,
uninviting public house in the vicinity, and a few cottages sprinkled
about.

After a brief consideration, she went up to one of the most
decent-looking of the latter, where an old woman sat knitting by the
door.

The old dame readily allowed her to sit down, and, after a short,
desultory talk, the signora, who affected to be a very plain person
indeed, asked the woman if there was any boy about who would run on a
message to the barracks.

“I want to see my husband,” she said very simply. “You see, he and I
had a quarrel before he left London, and I am so unhappy. I believe I
was to blame; but I don’t want to go there, and be looked at by the men
there. My husband might be displeased by my coming.”

The old dame sympathized with the young wife’s feelings, and readily
found a lout of a boy, who stared with all his eyes at the beautiful
stranger in the somber garments.

Madam Guiscardini gave him a tiny note in a sealed envelope, directed
to Mr. Gilardoni, and slipped a shilling into his hand. She could not
venture to give him more, lest he should talk. The boy went, and the
signora waited, listening to the old woman’s talk, and comprehending no
more of her babble than she did of the buzzing of the bees and flies in
the neat little garden.

Within half an hour she saw, as she looked eagerly from the window, the
well-known form of Leonardo Gilardoni rapidly approaching the cottage,
accompanied by her messenger. Her note had contained only a line or
two, in Italian:

 “Leonardo, I would see you. I have something of importance to say to
 you. The bearer of this will tell you where to find me.    LUCIA.”

She was still standing by the window when he entered the diminutive
room. They had not met since that day he had surprised her in the
garden at Florence. The recollection of that day came back on both with
a rush.

Leonardo paused on the threshold. Lucia did not move.

“You have sent for me?” he said.

The signora shrugged her shoulders and smiled mockingly, it seemed to
her husband.

“Why have you sent for me?” he demanded.

She left her place by the window, and came near to him.

“What I have to say,” she answered, “I would not that other ears than
yours should hear. Will you walk a little way with me toward the
corn-fields I see yonder?” pointing from the window at the back of the
room.

“It is indifferent to me where I listen to you. It is impossible you
can have aught to say that will be pleasant for me to hear,” replied
Gilardoni bitterly.

“That remains to be seen,” she lightly replied. “Perhaps I may have
something to say that will please you very much indeed.”

For a moment he thought that perhaps she knew her brother was coming
back, and that she desired to offer some kind of compromise, or to
throw herself on his mercy. But he followed very quietly as she led
the way down the narrow path of the garden at the rear of the cottage,
brushing past the common yet sweet-smelling humble country flowers,
until they were at the bottom, and could step unimpeded into a piece of
ground that ran between the garden and the corn-field, where the golden
grain lay like a yellow sea.

Here no one could possibly overhear what passed, and presently they
would be out of sight of even the cottages that lay sprinkled about.
Then Lucia spoke. Her voice was firm and calm, her manner composed.

“Leonardo Gilardoni, I acknowledge no claim you may choose to make upon
me, but I wish to be free from any annoyance you may possibly, from
spite, think fit to bring upon me. I have received offers of marriage
from a nobleman of the highest rank, and of immense wealth. It is my
purpose to accept these offers.”

“While you are the wife of another?” exclaimed Gilardoni.

“Prove your words,” she disdainfully replied. “But that you cannot do,
be they true or false. I have not come here to bandy words with you as
to my real position. I am well aware that, although your accusations
would be totally without foundation, yet, if breathed to his highness,
they would prejudice him against me. Therefore, I wish to silence you.
If you refuse to accede to my proposition, it does not signify your
using it as an additional proof of your base calumnies, for you will
not be able to show that I ever made it.”

“Go on. Your proposition?”

“If you will agree to sign a paper, acknowledging that there is not
the slightest foundation for your assertion that I have been married
before--to you--and will further agree that on signing this paper you
will depart for America, and promise never to return, I will settle ten
thousand pounds on you. Nay, do not speak. I trust to your promise, for
I know you would not break your word, nor would you promise lightly.”

Leonardo Gilardoni broke into a bitter laugh as he folded his arms and
looked his wife steadily in the face.

She raised her hands almost in a supplicating manner, and for a moment
he idly noticed the flash and sparkle of a wonderfully brilliant ring
upon her finger.

“You mean this proposition seriously?” he asked.

A malevolent light gleamed in the lustrous eyes of Madam Guiscardini,
and a spiteful smile curled round the ruby-red lips.

“You think I love you so well that I have taken the trouble and run the
risk of secretly traveling all the way hither from London for the sake
of lightly enjoying a passing jest with you?” she sibilated.

“Accept my offer, and see if it be really meant or not. I know you to
be of a dogged, stubborn nature. I know, to my cost, that once you take
a crotchet into your head, nothing can displace it. I once appealed to
your love--a passion I neither believe in nor comprehend--I wept at
your feet, and you turned a deaf ear to my entreaties. Silence! Hear me!

“I never cared for you, and now I hate you! I appealed to your
_love_--now I appeal to your interest. Surely--surely--surely you
will not refuse a fortune. Surely your hate of me cannot lead you to
vindictively mar my brilliant prospects. Perhaps it is folly to admit
that a few injurious words from you could turn his highness against me;
but I am frank with you.

“Of course, I might laugh your accusations to scorn, but the prince
might--well, your words might hurt me, for that man is as proud as
Lucifer, although his absurd infatuation, which he calls love, induces
him to lay all his earthly possessions, all his ancient prejudices,
at the feet of a ‘singing-woman.’ With ten thousand pounds you will
be rich; you will begin a new life, be happy with some meek-spirited,
pretty Griselda, who may fly to fulfil your slightest wish or command.”

She had spoken so rapidly that, as she paused, her breath came in quick
gasps. For the first time since she had entered on this conversation,
her heart beat violently.

“You think I would sell my soul for ten thousand pounds,” Leonardo
Gilardoni slowly said--“my soul and yours, my wife? I decline.”

“You do not mean it! You say so that I may double the price!” exclaimed
the signora. “No. Speak. What sum do you ask to fall in with my wishes?”

Gilardoni looked fixedly into the luminous eyes so eagerly fastened
upon him, as if he would read the innermost thoughts they so partially
revealed.

“You know me well enough, you say, to be aware that once I have made
up my mind to what is right, nothing will turn me from it,” he coldly
replied. “I say distinctly that you are my wife, by all the laws of
Heaven and man, and while I live you cannot marry any other. I refuse
to comply with your infamous desire. I have said it. Had I the means,
I would go to South America, to seek your brother, who could prove our
marriage. What have you done with the book you stole?”

A sudden thought seized Lucia Guiscardini. Paul Desfrayne had surely
discovered her previous marriage, and was about to send Gilardoni in
search of the Padre Josef. If so, she was probably ruined. Her plan
had been to rid herself by bribery of Gilardoni, and then to make a
proposition to Paul Desfrayne, making it a matter of mutual interest to
keep the second marriage a dead secret.

Only too well she knew that once Gilardoni had said no, it would be
impossible to persuade him to say yes. If these two men--he and his
master--combined against her, adieu to her dazzling hopes. She had
trusted that Gilardoni’s evident poverty would render him a willing
accomplice to her nefarious scheme, and now she was furious at her
failure.

In the event of finding her husband utterly intractable, she had
designed another and infinitely darker course, which she resolved to
carry into execution. For a few moments she remained silent, ignoring
Gilardoni’s direct question, and then she merely said:

“Good-by, then! We shall probably never meet again. I defy you! I hope
your spite may not be able to hurt me; but I do not fear you. My offer
was made to save myself annoyance. Say what you can, the worst your
vindictive fancy may invent, your words will be but empty air. Proof
you have none. Go on your preposterous chase if you will. I care not.”

She held out her hand mockingly. As she expected, Gilardoni refused
to clasp it, and, in affected anger at his repulse, she struck him
lightly, her closed fingers passing across his wrist. Then she turned,
and, before Gilardoni had time either to speak or detain her, she had
gained the road.

The terrible deed she had contemplated being accomplished beyond
human recall, the miserable woman was seized with a kind of terror
and exhaustion. Having placed herself out of sight, she sat down by a
great tree, creeping under its shelter so as to remain unseen by any
one who might be passing. Daring to the last degree of recklessness in
plotting, she yet lacked the iron nerves that were needed to support
her in her criminal schemes. Faint and exhausted, she stayed here until
some time after nightfall, and then fled toward the station.

As Captain Desfrayne passed, she was unable to recognize him, his face
and form being shrouded in darkness within the vehicle, and when he had
alighted and pursued her, she had not dared to look back.

Gilardoni had remained motionless when she left him, immersed in
painful thoughts.

“Good Heaven!” he said aloud; “and I once loved this woman! It would
not be spite nor hate; but were she to trap any innocent man to his
ruin, it would be my duty to speak.”

He clasped his hands above his head in a transport of grief, and then,
for the first time, felt a slight pain. He glanced at his left wrist,
and found it smirched with crimson blood. The wound, he supposed, had
been inflicted by the large diamond ring he had noticed on his wife’s
finger.

Binding his handkerchief about the wrist, he turned to retrace his
steps. He would have regarded that faint scratch very differently had
he known that his life-blood was already imbued with a subtle narcotic
poison emanating from one of the stones in that ring.

As he entered his master’s rooms he was conscious of a strange
faintness and an unpleasant burning of the tongue. He had found some
difficulty in ascending the staircase, and had scarcely lighted the
lamp, when he crept into the second apartment, and threw himself on a
couch, feeling as if utterly exhausted.

“I don’t know what is the matter with me,” he muttered, passing his
hand over his forehead. “I have taken nothing that could hurt me.
I suppose it’s a reaction. That was a painful meeting with--with
my wife. May Heaven forgive her all her wickedness toward me,
though--though----Strange, this weakness seems to increase, and my
thoughts are wandering.”

The faintness grew worse, so did the burning in his mouth and throat.
The unhappy man rose, and endeavored to drink some water, but the
effort to swallow was too painful.

“May Heaven forgive _me_ all my sins!” he murmured. “I believe I am
dying. Dying!” he wildly repeated, raising himself suddenly, and
looking about distractedly, then glancing down at his hand. “Dying! She
has destroyed me. Oh, Lucia--Lucia--Lucia!”

Burning tears forced their way as he sank back. By degrees he floated
into a kind of sleep, and then he forgot everything.

And as he lay dead in the silence of that lonely room, the woman who
had so remorselessly slain him was hastening back to the great city,
there to still further shape out the path that was to conduct her----

Whither--whither?

To the almost regal chambers of her princely lover, or to the condemned
cell of the manslayer?




CHAPTER XXVII.

FRANK AMBERLEY’S MISSION.


The next morning Mr. Amberley went to his office as usual.

As he passed the door on which appeared the name of Mr. Willis
Joyner--the back room on the first floor--the dapper figure and
pleasant face of that gentleman appeared on the threshold. In spite of
his age and his gray whiskers, Mr. Willis Joyner was preferred by many
moneyed spinsters and richly jointured widows even before the grave,
handsome Mr. Amberley, who never paid any compliments, and apparently
regarded business as business, and never sweetened the sourness and
dryness of the law with the acceptable honey of soft words and smiling
glances.

“Ah! thought ’twas you, Amberley,” said Mr. Willis. “Thought I knew
your step. Want to see you when you’ve looked over your letters.”

“All right,” was Mr. Amberley’s very simple rejoinder, as he pursued
his upward course.

In ten minutes or a quarter of an hour he came back.

Mr. Willis Joyner wanted to see him about “that affair of Frampton’s,”
Frampton being a wealthy commoner who was going to marry a rich
baron’s sister, and the “affair” being one of very complicated
marriage-settlements.

Some lively talk from the said Mr. Willis Joyner of the one part,
and some quiet listening from the said Mr. Frank Amberley of the
other part, resulted in the agreement that the younger gentleman
should repair at once to Brompton, to have an interview with somebody
concerned on some knotty and disputed point.

Frank Amberley went off. About half an hour after his departure, a
youth came into the office with a telegram marked “Immediate.”

“Is there any answer wanted, do you know?” inquired the melancholy
clerk to whom he delivered it.

“No, I don’t. I’d better wait and see,” answered the messenger.

“Mr. Amberley ain’t in. I’ll ask Mr. Willis,” said the clerk.

Mr. Willis turned it over in his dainty white fingers, and said it must
be left for Mr. Amberley, who might be away for a couple of hours. It
was uncertain when he might be back.

The telegram was accordingly stuck in the rack, and the bearer went
away. It was from Captain Desfrayne, informing Frank Amberley of the
sudden death of Gilardoni, the valet.

Unconscious of the tragical revolution which had taken place in Paul
Desfrayne’s affairs, the young lawyer pursued his way, planning to
return as soon as his immediate business should have been disposed of.

It was not until he was some distance from the office, rattling
westward in a hansom, that he remembered he had left no message in case
Gilardoni should call early in the afternoon.

It would certainly be desirable to see Madam Guiscardini before fixing
any plan with the Italian valet; but could such a thing be hoped for as
obtaining an interview with this beautiful tigress, and even granting
that she condescended to let herself be spoken with, it was impossible
to hope that she would betray a scrap of evidence against herself.

After some trouble, Frank Amberley succeeded in concluding his business
with the irascible old gentleman at Blythe Villas, Brompton, to whom he
had been despatched.

Coming out from the house, he stood for several minutes on the pavement
before he reentered his waiting hansom. He consulted his watch, and
found it was yet early--only half-past twelve.

“I can but be refused,” he said to himself. “She must be at home at
this hour, I should imagine, and, by the time I reach the place, will
have about dressed, I suppose. We can do nothing until she has had the
chance of speaking, and she might give me a clue as to the place where
her brother may be found.”

Stepping into the hansom, he said:

“Porchester Square.”

On the way he laid out the sketch of one of those imaginary dialogues
which never by any possibility take place. He started by fancying
himself, after some delay, perhaps, admitted to the drawing-room of the
famous prima donna. She might or might not be there. At all events,
he would politely introduce himself by name; and then he went on to
picture the succeeding talk, ending in two ways, one conceiving her
to make fatal admissions against herself, the other supposing her to
contemptuously defy him, and laugh all his crafty advances to scorn.

The driver of the hansom shot round the angle of the square. But when
he was within a few doors of the house where Madam Guiscardini resided,
he perceived that there was already drawn up in front of the curb
facing the portico another and far more important vehicle than his
own--a splendidly appointed brougham, the gray horses attached to which
were handsomely caparisoned in gleaming silver harness. The graceful
animals stood perfectly still, except when they half-impatiently threw
up their heads, jingling their elegant appointments, or pawed the
ground, as if anxious to start off.

The cabman drove past the vehicle a few feet, and then drew up, to wait
further orders.

It instantly struck the young lawyer that this might be Madam
Guiscardini’s brougham, and that probably she was going out. He had
heard that she never attended the theater in the morning when she
was to perform in the evening, so she might not be going to the
opera-house; but, at all events, she was in all likelihood on the point
of taking a drive somewhere. He determined to wait for some moments.

“Turn the other way--right round--and then stop for a while,” he said
to the cabman. “If I should jump out very suddenly, and go into that
house, do not take any notice, but wait quietly here until I come back.”

“All right, sir,” said cabby, obeying the first part of his
instructions.

Frank thus faced the brougham, which he had seen in dashing past, and
could see the street-door, at present closed.

Had Lucia Guiscardini happened to be in her dining-room, drawing-room,
or bedroom, all of which looked out on the square, she might possibly
have descried the mysterious waiting vehicle standing opposite, or
nearly opposite, to her house, and, seeing the watchful figure with the
dark-bearded, thoughtful face, might by accident have taken an alarm,
and so countermanding her orders for the drive, and denying herself on
the score of a fit of indisposition to any stranger inquiring for her,
have temporarily escaped a dangerous interview.

But, unfortunately for herself, madam was in her dressing-room, a
dainty apartment behind her bedroom, and only separated from it
by silken and lace curtains. She was occupied in three different
ways--completing her exquisite toilet, scolding and snarling at her
French maid, and cooing over a tangled skein of floss silk, from which
peered forth an infinitesimal black snout and two bright, glittering
brown eyes.

Dress was a reigning passion with Lucia, and this day she was doubly
absorbed, in spite of the racking state of her mind consequent upon the
daring criminal step she had taken the night before.

Madam was going first to the opera-house, to excuse herself to the
manager, armed with a medical certificate to the effect that she was
incapable of singing that evening, from a painful attack of hoarseness.
This excuse was in reality not ill-founded, for she had taken a slight
chill in her hurried journey the previous night.

She felt it would be utterly impossible to sing that evening. As it
was, her hands were trembling from nervous excitement; the faintest
sound, if unexpected, made her start with trepidation; her eyes and
cheeks were aflame. Had it not been that she was remarkably abstemious,
Finette would have suspected madam to be suffering from the effects of
an overdose of champagne.

The second place to which she was bound was a garden-party, where she
had smilingly promised her princely adorer she would show herself for
at least a few minutes.

“If I go on at this rate,” the signora thought at last, “I shall be
ill. Come what may, I must brace up my nerves, and try to compose
myself. It would be ruin to my hopes if I fell ill just now.”

She shuddered as she fancied she might be seized with fever, and lose
her wits, perhaps, and betray in her wanderings the crime of which she
had been guilty within these past twenty-four hours.

At length she was arrayed, all save the right-hand glove; but she
could not stay to put that on now, lest she should be too late at the
opera-house to enable the manager to make other arrangements for the
night. The little white hands were loaded with blazing jewels, that
sparkled and flashed in the light; but she no longer wore the fatal
diamond ring that had scratched Gilardoni, the valet, on the wrist.

As she swept down the richly carpeted stairs, her movements signalized
by the soft frou-frou of her Parisian garments, she meditated chiefly
on the impending storm between herself and the director. She floated
down to the door, followed by Finette, who was carrying the tiny bundle
of floss silk, the denomination of which appeared to be Bébé.

The door was held open by a lackey, in a plain but exceedingly elegant
livery. Madam hated all the male servants in her own and other people’s
houses, for they often reminded her of the position to which had sunk
the man whose legal wife she was.

But there was nothing in the sweetly modulated accents, and in the
absent, preoccupied eyes of the beautiful mistress of the house to
betray any feeling either way toward the domestic as she said:

“I shall be home about six. Dinner at seven.”

The servant bowed, though a lightninglike glance at Finette behind the
signora’s back indicated surprise, for if madam dined at seven, she
evidently did not mean to go to the opera, at all events as a performer.

Madam put out one tiny foot to reach her brougham, but drew back with
a deep breath that narrowly escaped being a cry of alarm.

Standing just within the portico was a tall, gentlemanly-looking man, a
stranger to her, hat in hand, waiting to address her.




CHAPTER XXVIII.

THE INLAID CABINET.


The sight of any and every stranger who spoke to or even looked at
Lucia must henceforth inevitably cause her a thrill of fear.

She had never seen this handsome young man with the dark, grave,
penetrating eyes before, to her knowledge; yet he looked at her as if
he would read her very soul.

Frank, the instant the door opened, had bounded from his cab, and was
waiting for the signora to issue forth. He bowed profoundly.

“Madam Guiscardini, I believe?” he said.

He had recognized her at the first glance, having frequently seen her
at the opera, both in London and in Paris, and being furthermore made
familiar with her strikingly marked features and imperial figure by the
innumerable photographs issued by London and Parisian firms.

It was impossible for madam to deny her own identity. Frank noticed
that she grew pale--perceptibly so, and that the jeweled fingers of her
ungloved hand twitched nervously.

“My name is Guiscardini,” she replied, after a slight hesitation, and
speaking in frigid accents.

“May I beg the favor of a few moments’ private conversation with you,
madam?” asked Frank Amberley. “My business is of the utmost importance,
or I should not delay you just as you are going out.”

“Certainly not,” angrily replied the cantatrice, her lips trembling
from mingled rage and fear. She imagined that perhaps this gentlemanly
fellow, with the handsome face and urbane manners, might be a detective
in disguise. “It is impossible, my time is not my own, and I cannot
grant you even five minutes.”

She glanced at the jeweled watch that hung at her waist amid a
coruscation of enameled lockets and miscellaneous toys and trinkets.

“I am sorry to be so pressing, madam, but if you will give me ten
minutes--I promise to go by the dial of your own watch--I will not
trespass longer.”

He knew well that the business he came on could not be disposed of in
that time, but relied on the hope that she would, if persuaded to enter
on it, voluntarily extend the time.

“Who are you, and what do you want?” demanded Madam Guiscardini
sharply, looking keenly at him.

“My name, madam, is Amberley--I have the honor to belong to the firm of
Messrs. Salmon, Joyner & Joyner, who are solicitors.”

“What do you want? I will not hear you, sir! Let me pass, sir. You are
rude and unmannerly not to take a reasonable refusal. Let me pass, sir,
I say--I insist!”

She tried to push by him, in order to get to her brougham, the door of
which was held open by the powdered lackey who had been sitting beside
the coachman.

Frank Amberley laid a firm, detaining grip on her wrist as she passed
by.

“Madam Guiscardini,” he whispered in her ear, “you would consult
your own interest in consenting to hear me. I come from Captain Paul
Desfrayne, and I wish to ask you a few questions about Leonardo
Gilardoni.”

This time the signora could not restrain the scream that rose to her
lips. She stared wildly about her, and then at the enemy who had so
suddenly sprung up before her.

The idea that he was a detective became almost a certainty. He had
come to tax her with her double crime. She must be cool and quiet, she
thought the next moment, and strive not to betray herself.

Whatever he had to say, however, must not be said before these prying,
gossiping menials. With surprising quickness, she rallied her forces,
resisted the inclination to swoon, and without answering her strange
visitor, turned back to Finette.

“Put on your bonnet, girl, quick as lightning, and go to the
opera-house,” she said to her maid. “Tell Mr. Mervyn that I was on my
way to him, but was detained at the last moment, and that I shall not
be able to sing to-night. Take this medical certificate with you.”

Finette took the paper, and flew up-stairs, glad of the chance of a
pleasant drive, yet vexed that she could not stay to find out the
mystery that was going on.

Madam Guiscardini turned to Frank Amberley.

“Follow me,” she said, in harsh accents.

She glided up to the drawing-room, feeling at every step as if her
knees must yield under her. The young lawyer silently followed her,
wondering at the success which had attended his effort to obtain an
interview with her.

“Now, sir, may I ask the nature of your business with me?” madam said,
when she had closed the door, across which she pulled the silken
portière to deaden the sounds from within, for she distrusted all her
servants. She advanced to the windows, as the point farthest away from
the reach of eavesdroppers, but neither seated herself nor asked her
visitor to sit down.

“You may imagine that I have nothing very agreeable to say, judging by
the quarter from which I come,” said Frank Amberley.

“You say you come from Captain Desfrayne? What business can you have to
transact between Captain Desfrayne and myself?” asked the signora, with
an affectation of surprise and curiosity.

“You do not mention the other name.”

“What other name?”

“The name of Leonardo Gilardoni--of your husband, madam.”

The wretched woman’s hand closed on the slender inlaid back of a chair
for support. Every vestige of color faded from her face, and her eyes
looked haggard for a moment.

“I don’t know whom you mean,” she whispered, rather than said.

“That is a falsehood, madam.”

“Why should you say that? By what right or license do you come within
my house to harass--to torture me?”

Frank Amberley was almost amazed by the singular effect his few
preparatory words seemed to have, and could not reasonably account
for it. This woman’s demeanor was entirely different from what Paul
Desfrayne had yesterday prognosticated it would be. Why should she
evidence this fear--this shrinking? He felt there must be some further
mystery to solve, some new secret to unravel. Had he known the contents
of the telegram then waiting for him in Alderman’s Lane, he would have
had a clue. As it was, he was mystified.

Had Lucia Guiscardini, on the other hand, known the simple nature of
his errand, she would have entirely controlled herself. But she already
in fancy could imagine his arresting grip on her shoulder, and the odd
query rose in her mind: “Will he handcuff me?”

“By what right do I come?” Frank Amberley slowly repeated, watching
every change and variation in her agitated face. “By the right of
justice.”

“Justice? I do not understand you.”

“Oh! yes, you do. I may as well inform you that Captain Desfrayne,
the man whom you so basely, so ungratefully entrapped into an illegal
marriage--the man whose life you have blighted, whose happiness you
have ruined----”

“Well? Be brief, I beg of you, for, as I told you at first, my time is
limited, and most precious,” interrupted Madam Guiscardini.

This circumlocution, however, gave her a ray of hope that her first
fear was groundless.

“Captain Desfrayne has told me the whole miserable story of infamous
deception.”

“What story?”

“Come, madam, your affectation of ignorance is useless, and only a
waste of time. You cannot deny that while you hold Captain Desfrayne in
legal bondage, you are in reality the wife, by a prior marriage, of a
man who is in his service--one Leonardo Gilardoni.”

The words “_you are_” were like the sound of a trumpet to the unhappy
woman. It was palpable that this man did not yet know of Gilardoni’s
death. The strain upon her nerves had been so fearful that she gave way
the instant the relaxation came. She fell back on the chair by which
she stood, in violent hysterics.

Amazed by such apparently singular behavior, Frank Amberley stood by,
partly alarmed, partly resolved not to summon assistance if he could
help it, for he was determined to follow up the advantage he seemed to
have gained.

Presently Lucia Guiscardini recovered her self-command. She was glad
none of the servants had been called, though she would have welcomed
the interruption their presence would have caused.

“You are doubtless surprised, sir, that I should be thus overcome,” she
said. “But I am very unwell. I was on my way to the theater to tell
the director I could not appear, in consequence of sudden illness. My
nerves are overstrained. The subject of my marriage with the gentleman
you name is a distressing one to me, and one upon which I cannot enter
without painful emotion. Of the other person about whom you spoke
I know nothing. I have never heard his name. The person I have the
misfortune to call husband has evidently told you a false story. He has
treated me with meanness and cruelty, but I have been generous enough
not to betray him. Why does he send you to me?”

“Because he thought you might listen to me where you would only laugh
in his face.”

“What does he want of me? Let him come himself. At this moment, I wish
to see him. I have something of paramount importance to tell him.”

“You may treat me as his nearest friend and confidant in this matter,”
said the young man quietly. “What you would say to him, you can say to
me.”

“What guarantee have I that you really come from him?” demanded the
signora.

“Why should I raise a fiction of such a kind? What good could I do
myself or others by deceiving you?”

“I neither know nor care. With him I will treat--with no other.”

“I will tell him so. But you had better hear what I have to say on
the part of Captain Desfrayne. Unfortunately, we cannot prove your
marriage with this Gilardoni. Pray, madam, may I ask you one question?”

“Speak.”

“How is it that if, as you declare, you have never until this day heard
of Leonardo Gilardoni, his name causes you to shudder violently?”

“That is your fancy, sir. I have a slight attack of ague, from which I
shiver every now and then,” replied Madam Guiscardini icily.

“I do not believe you, Madam Guiscardini; but, as I was saying, we
cannot prove your first marriage, because you have stolen the original
register, and therefore----”

The young woman started from her seat in a kind of frenzy. A moment’s
reflection, however, caused her to sink back.

“Mr. Amberley,” she said, very calmly, looking him straight in the face
with an expression of candor on her own lovely visage, “every one has,
I believe, a motive for what they do. You say you come hither to-day in
the name of justice. What your object may further be I do not know, as
you have not as yet deigned to enlighten me upon the precise nature of
the demand you apparently intend making upon me. I am convinced that
you, and it may be Captain Desfrayne, are deceived by the concocted
story of a man who desires to extort money. I am supposed to be rich--I
do not deny that I have a great deal of money: I am therefore regarded
as a person to be preyed upon.

“Captain Desfrayne may be actuated by mean and cruel objects in
pursuing me, whom he has always treated in so abominable a manner--his
jealousy, his ill conduct, obliged me unwillingly to leave him, for I
desired to do my duty as a wife, though I did not love him. You and
he have, you say, listened to a story told by some man who asserts
that--that--that I was--that I was married to him. Plainly, why do you
and Captain Desfrayne lend yourselves to this infamous conspiracy? I do
not intend to tamely submit to robbery and insult, I can assure you.
Who is this man?”

“He is Captain Desfrayne’s valet,” said Frank Amberley, who had not
attempted even once to interrupt the long harangue with which he had
been favored.

“As I should have imagined,” said Madam Guiscardini, withering scorn
in her look and voice, a disdainful smile on her lips. “This man, whom
the world supposes to be a gentleman, because he wears the uniform of
an officer in the service of the King of England, puts his servant
forward to insult and harass me--will, perhaps, urge him to attack me
for money. You come to ask me--what?”

Frank Amberley, who had remained standing from the moment he entered
the room until now, slightly stooped, and, leaning forward, gazed
intently into the signora’s great, bold black eyes.

For some instants she bore this searching look; then her guilty eyes
sank, while the color flowed back to her pale face. Her hands clenched
with suppressed fury, and it was with difficulty she refrained from
giving way to a burst of rage. But she feared she might betray herself
by a word inadvertently spoken, and so remained silent.

“You know, Madam Guiscardini, that what I have asserted is perfectly
true,” said the young man sternly. “You, the wife of the Italian,
Leonardo Gilardoni, trapped my client into a marriage with you,
believing yourself safe because you had abstracted the evidence of your
first marriage. That evidence you did not dare to destroy--it still
exists.”

The signora raised her eyes, and looked at him in affright.

“What evidence?” she asked.

“The written register in the book belonging to the chapel in which your
brother married you to Gilardoni.”

“This is infamous. What do you hope by bullying me in this manner?”
exclaimed Madam Guiscardini.

“You asked what I wanted--why I had come. I will tell you: Before we
seek for your brother, the priest--the Padre Josef--I wish to know what
you have done with the registry-book?”

His keenly practised eye caught a swift glance at hers, gleaming like
an instantaneous flash.

With a strange misgiving that she was entirely betrayed--that possibly
Finette or some other servant had watched her, unseen, and reported
her secret doings--she glanced for a second at a tall cabinet standing
in a corner of the room, near the pianoforte--a curious old piece of
eighteenth-century furniture, inlaid with paintings on enamel.

Frank Amberley lowered his gaze, and appeared simply to wait for an
answer.

“They have, then, sent you upon this ridiculous errand?” said the
signora. “It is a fool’s message, undertaken by a simpleton.”

“You say this story has been hatched up by designing persons, with a
view to extort money----”

“Or by a pitiful coward who desires to harass and torment me,”
interrupted the young woman.

“Aye. As you will. I asked you where this book is concealed. I know
you have not destroyed it. You had doubtless your own motives for
preserving such a damning piece of evidence against yourself----”

“I foresee that I shall be obliged to dismiss you from the house, sir,”
again interrupted Madam Guiscardini, rising, concentrated fury blazing
in her eyes. “You shall not continue to annoy and insult me under my
own roof.”

“Pardon me, madam. I do not wish to be other than courteous in
conducting this unpleasant affair. My own interest in it is less than
nothing. Did I consult my own wishes, I should not lift a finger to
coerce you. Bear with me for a few moments longer. I said, I asked you
where this registry-book is hidden away. The question was put merely to
try you.”

“Oh, indeed! Monsieur grows more and more incomprehensible. May I hope
that this preposterous little farce is nearly played out?”

“Very nearly, madam. The terrible drama that has been performed is
also, I believe, almost at an end. I _know_ where that parchment-bound
volume is.”

“Indeed! Monsieur is, then, a magician--a juggler? This begins to be
amusing. I should like to see this wonderful tome. But I should hope
that your friends and clients and coconspirators have not been so
daring as to forge written evidence against me? That would be too
terrible, though I do not fear the worst they can do.”

“The volume is near at hand,” pursued Frank, his eyes never leaving her
face for a second. As yet, every shot had told with fatal effect.

“Near at hand,” repeated the unhappy young woman mechanically. She felt
certain now that she had been betrayed, and her suspicions fell on
Finette, the French maid, whom she had always hated and mistrusted.

“Close at hand,” the lawyer said slowly, approaching a step toward her.
“It lies in this house.”

“Do you mean to say that they have dared to place their forged papers
within my own dwelling?” demanded Lucia Guiscardini, twisting and
twining her fingers in and out of one another.

But she only spoke thus to delay the last fatal moment. Not knowing
that he was proceeding chiefly upon guesswork, guided by that one swift
gleam from her own eyes, she made sure he had certain information.

Finette had seen her open the cabinet, she thought, and had seen her
examine the suspicious-looking volume. One hope remained: the girl
might not know the secret of the spring opening the inner compartment
where the book lay crouching amid laces and filmy handkerchiefs, placed
there to deceive any casual eye that might happen to light upon the
nook so cunningly devised.

“You cannot deny that the book is in this house--that you carry it
about with you--that----”

“What?”

“That it is in this very room.”

“What more, sir? My patience, I warn you, is well-nigh exhausted.
Beware, sir--beware! My temper is not of the most angelic mold, and I
am very weary of this folly.”

“Madam Guiscardini, I ask you plainly, is not that stolen book in
yonder cabinet?” demanded the young lawyer.

It was his last throw, and he watched the result with a keen and eager
gaze.

The signora made one step, with an affrighted look, as if to take
flight. Then she paused, and drew two or three deep, sobbing breaths,
like some wild animal pressed very close by the hunters.

“You look like a gentleman,” she cried, after making some ineffectual
efforts to speak; “and you behave like a footpad. I know nothing
of the book you rave about. I have never heard of the man whose
name you have brought forward--this person in the employ of Captain
Desfrayne--I--I----”

“You have not answered my question. Can you distinctly say the book is
_not_ in that cabinet? You dare not say so.”

“If a denial will satisfy you, I can safely say no book of any kind is
within that cabinet,” said madam. “Our interview is at an end, and I
decline to receive you again on any pretense whatever.”

“You dare not open that cabinet, and let me see for myself if what you
say is true,” said Frank Amberley.

“You do not believe me, then?”

“Candidly, I do not. I say the book is there.”

“I--I refuse to gratify your curiosity----”

“I thought you would. Now, the question is, what is to be done? For I
_know_ the book is there, yet if I go to obtain a search-warrant, you
will destroy it before I am fairly out of the house.”

“You shall not have it to say that I shrank from letting you see how
preposterous your guess is,” said madam, crossing the room to the
cabinet.

With a trembling finger, she pressed the spring that unlocked the
doors, and threw the cabinet open.

A range of elaborately carved and gilded drawers appeared--a set on the
right and a set on the left.

“You are at liberty to open these drawers, sir. As I have suffered your
audacity and presumption so far, I may as well let you run on in your
silly insolence to the end.”

Frank Amberley made no reply. He availed himself of the permission to
look into the drawers, which he opened mechanically, pushing them back
without really seeing their contents.

As he drew them out one after another, Madam Guiscardini standing by
with a fast-beating heart, he was trying to recall some dim, misty
recollection of a cabinet very similar to this, which he had seen at an
old country house in Provençal during the days of his childhood.

He had a vague conception that about the middle of the double row
of drawers there was a spring which, properly moved, revealed the
existence of a secret hiding-place. The spring was a duplex one, but
how it was touched he could not remember.

It would be useless to leave the signora now, with the idea of getting
a proper warrant to search the cabinet, for even if the secret were to
be solved, or the cabinet taken to pieces, she would burn the volume
the moment she found herself alone.

Had he listened to the promptings of the Evil One, he would have made
excuses to himself, and left Lucia Guiscardini to her own devices, with
liberty to destroy the evidence that would release Paul Desfrayne, but
with sublime self-denial, he resolved to press on to the last.

“Are you satisfied, sir?” asked Madam Guiscardini sneeringly, as she
noticed his perplexed look on closing the last drawer.

“Very nearly so,” he replied, moving his fingers nervously over the
fine filigree work and gilded foliage down the sides of the cabinet.

She dreaded that he would come upon the spring, and saw plainly that he
was in search of it. With a rough hand she pushed him away, crying:

“Enough, sir--enough! Allow me to close this cabinet, for it contains
numberless articles of value, which----”

But as she pushed Frank Amberley away, his hands touched the duplex
spring, and what appeared to be two drawers slowly folded back, sliding
in thin layers, one over another, while a fresh drawer was propelled
forward in place of the two which disappeared.

A scream from Lucia Guiscardini told the lawyer that he had discovered
the object for which he sought. She caught at the filigree handle--it
remained immovable.

“Leave the house, sir! I will call my servants to fling you into the
street!” screamed Madam Guiscardini, almost beside herself.

The book once found, it would not only ruin her hopes with the prince,
but would serve as terrible evidence against her if charged with the
murder of the man Gilardoni.

She had intended, Gilardoni agreeing to leave Europe, to make a bargain
with Paul Desfrayne, by confessing to him that she had been already
married at the time of her union with him, on condition that he took an
oath never to betray her affairs to human ear, and never to seek her in
any way whatever.

“If you do not quit my house,” she exclaimed, trying to stand between
Frank Amberley and the fatal drawer, “I will send for a policeman,
and give you into custody on the charge of attempting to rifle these
drawers.”

The young man did not answer. There was no longer any doubt that the
precious volume lay within a few inches of his hand. The confused
memory of the secret spring grew more hazy--he was almost in despair.
It seemed hard to be baffled at the moment when victory smiled. Quick
as thought, he ran across to the fireplace, and caught up the bright
steel poker lying in the fender.

Before Lucia Guiscardini really knew what he meant to do, he had darted
back, and with one adroit blow smashed in the front of the drawer.

The laces and handkerchiefs were folded about the faded, ink-stained
volume, but Frank dragged them out swift as lightning, and scattered
them at his feet. The book then lay revealed, and he snatched at it.

Had the poisoned ring still been on Lucia Guiscardini’s finger, Frank
Amberley’s life would not have been worth a second’s purchase. As it
was, she for a moment, in her mad rage, measured the possibility of
matching her strength against his. But the next, the utter futility of
doing anything by force pressed upon her as she glared upon the tall,
slender, deep-chested, muscular figure before her.

With a low, moaning growl, like that of a tigress deprived of her
young, she glided half-blindly under the silken archway, into the back
room, and groped there with an uncertain hand.

Frank took advantage of this moment to rush to the window nearest. It
was partially raised, and he flung it wide open.

The cab was still in waiting, directly opposite, on the very spot where
poor Gilardoni had stood scarce more than a week since. The driver was
sitting tranquilly on the step of his vehicle, smoking a pipe. Frank
threw the book so adroitly that it fell at the man’s feet, and called
to him. The fellow caught up the dingy volume, and was under the window
in a second. Frank dropped a sovereign in his hand, and said, in a
clear, distinct tone:

“Drive with that book to eighty-six, Alderman’s Lane, and ask for
Mr. Joyner--give it to him; then wait, and if I am not back there in
a couple of hours, bring him here. Give that book to no other human
being, and tell no one else.”

The man touched his hat, and ran to his cab.

“This ’ere _is_ the very most rummiest start _I_ ever come near,” he
said to himself, as he rattled off. “I wonder whatever’s up?”

This scene passed in a moment. As the man was mounting his box, Lucia
entered, with the same creeping, tottering, dragging step. In her hand
was a tiny, silver-mounted revolver. Her brain had almost given way,
and death, disgrace, misery seemed to point at her with gibbering,
skeleton fingers. Her one dominant thought was that she must recover
that fatal volume at all hazards. She advanced toward Frank Amberley
with the aspect of a beautiful beast of prey.

His hands were empty; she glared about to see what he had done with his
prize.

“Where is it?” she hoarsely demanded, speaking as if her throat were
dry.

“In a place of safety.”

“Where is it, I say? What have you done with it?”

She suddenly noticed the open window, and ran to it. Then the truth
flashed upon her.

“You have ruined me!” she screamed, rushing toward the young lawyer.
“I have nothing but disgrace and despair to look forward to. But if I
suffer, it matters not if it be for little or much, and I will have
vengeance!”

The click of the lock of her pistol warned Frank of his imminent
danger. He sprang upon her, and tried to disarm her. But her grip was
tight, and her strength more than he had counted on, and a short,
desperate struggle for life ensued.

As he succeeded in snatching the pistol, it went off. The report
brought the servants rushing to the room. They found their mistress on
her knees, her hair floating wildly about her, her face ashy white, her
arms entwined about her visitor, who stood with the pistol in his hand,
trying to disengage himself.

“Seize him--seize him--he will kill me!” exclaimed Madam Guiscardini.
“He has robbed me, and would murder me!”




CHAPTER XXIX.

DEFIANCE, NOT DEFENSE.


As Madam Guiscardini’s servants stood gaping in amazement and affright
at the scene before them, Frank Amberley felt he had need to exercise
all the coolness and address left him. He had no desire, nor did he
believe that the mistress of the house in her more sober moments could
wish, that the police should be called in as assistants.

“Stand back!” he thundered, in authoritative tones to the scared
domestics, at the same time leveling the pistol at them. “Heaven forbid
that I should take the life of any one here, but I will shoot the first
who dares to lay a finger on me!”

The women squeaked, the men huddled back on one another. None cared to
risk the safety of limbs in the service of a mistress for whom not one
in the house cared a doit.

“Madam Guiscardini knows me,” the young lawyer continued. “She knows
where to find me, if I am wanted. She has told you a falsehood. Let me
go. Stand back, all of you.”

Her first burst of frenzied passion exhausted, Lucia Guiscardini
rapidly reviewed her position. A sullen despair succeeded her fury.
Certainly, it would not be to her interest that the police should
be called. This desperate man would probably raise a counter-charge
against her, and there would be an investigation. As he was a friend
of Paul Desfrayne’s, he must inevitably within a few hours learn the
damning fact of the death of the man Gilardoni.

“They will set people to work,” she said to herself; “and they will
find out that I was with him yesterday. Not the cleverest chemist on
earth will be able to trace the poison, but they may trap me, for all
that.”

This idea raced through her brain like lightning, so that she seemed
only to have time to unlink her arms from about Frank Amberley, place
her hands to her forehead as if in horror, and then fall back in an
admirably simulated swoon.

“Stand aside, and let me pass,” again exclaimed Frank Amberley, finding
himself thus released.

“Seize him! Don’t let him go!” faintly cried one or two in the rear of
the group in the doorway.

“Attend to your mistress, and leave my way free,” cried Frank Amberley,
still holding the deadly weapon leveled menacingly. He was as ignorant
as any one there whether the second chamber was loaded or not, but that
signified little, as he had not the most remote intention of hurting as
much as a fly.

With a quick, threatening step and determined air, he strode toward the
door.

Some of the domestics fled precipitately up-stairs, others crawled back
by another door leading into the two drawing-rooms. A whispered buzz
ran round, but no one raised a hand to stay the supposed assailant of
the mistress of the house.

Pistol in hand, he walked between the two startled groups, steadily,
with perfect sang-froid. At the top of the stairs he turned, and
went down step by step, backward, lest he should be surprised and
overpowered. No one stirred, however, though some of the women peered
over the balustrade. One of the housemaids ran and raised Madam
Guiscardini, who still remained in her convenient swoon, while the
other flew to get some water from a side table.

Arrived in the hall, Frank Amberley opened the door, laid the pistol on
the hall table, and went out.

“Thank Heaven, so far!” he exclaimed, aloud, as he found himself at
liberty in the open air.

He marveled how they had let him depart, and expected to see them
rushing after him, hallooing at the top of their voices.

A few rapid strides brought him to the corner. He had it in his heart
to take to his heels, but did not yield to the temptation. His pulses
were throbbing painfully, and he knew that much was yet to come, but he
contrived to maintain his composure.

With joy he saw a slowly crawling hansom coming toward him. The driver
hailed him, and he threw himself into the vehicle with a sense of
relief indescribable.

“Alderman’s Lane, city,” he cried.

It seemed scarcely credible that he should have succeeded in so readily
discovering the inestimable treasure which had seemed utterly beyond
reach.

On reaching his destination, the young lawyer ran lightly up the steps,
and passed into the office. As it happened, Mr. Willis Joyner was
there, reading a note which had just come for him. He looked up, and
cried out as if in surprise:

“Hello, Amberley, is that you? What have you been up to--practising a
little mild burglary, eh?”

“A cabman gave you an Italian register just now, did he not?” anxiously
inquired Frank.

“He did. I put it in my safe.”

Arrived in the chamber devoted to the use of the cheerful and
urbane Mr. Willis Joyner, Frank seized on the volume the instant
it was produced from the ponderous iron safe. In a very short
investigation--for he was an accomplished master of the Italian
language--he lighted on the register which was to set Paul Desfrayne at
liberty.

“By the way,” Mr. Willis remarked, “a telegram arrived for you directly
after you left this morning. I had forgotten.”

“A telegram? Did an Italian call for me?”

“Not that I know of.”

Frank Amberley tore open the envelope of the telegram.

“Great heavens!” he ejaculated, when he had read the few terrible lines
of the despatch.

They ran thus:

 “On my return last night, I found Leonardo Gilardoni lying dead in my
 rooms. I fear he has met with foul play. On my way, I believe I saw
 Madam G. walking at a rapid pace toward the station. I pursued; but
 when I reached the station, I found the last train had just started
 for London. I cannot help associating the fact of her presence here
 with the death of my poor servant. Pray Heaven I may be in error in
 thinking so! Inquest this afternoon.”

Agitated by the events of the morning, Frank Amberley was inexpressibly
shocked by this fatal intelligence. Dropping the paper from his
trembling fingers, he sank into a chair, as if unable to speak.

Mr. Willis Joyner hastily poured out some wine, which he offered to
Frank, and stood by with the tender sympathy of some gentle-hearted
woman.

Every one in the place loved Frank Amberley, and none probably more
than the gay, superficially selfish Willis Joyner. He saw that some
very unusual circumstances had upset the general tranquillity of the
young man; and, though he could not form the most distant guess as to
the nature of the events which had occurred, he felt grieved.

In a few minutes, Frank Amberley recovered his self-possession, and
then he gave Mr. Willis Joyner a brief, rapid outline of the strange
story, translating the register, and showing him the telegram.

The register was transferred to the iron safe in Frank Amberley’s room,
and he at once wrote a full account of the finding of the prize, which
he sent off to Paul Desfrayne by telegraph. He did not allude to Paul’s
mention of encountering Lucia Guiscardini on the road to the station,
for he felt it would not be safe to do so, but briefly said how shocked
he had been by the intelligence that poor Gilardoni was dead.

Lucia Guiscardini made no sign. She had played a desperate game, and
the numbers had turned up against her. Like most women who, innocent
or guilty, find themselves in difficulties, her chief idea was to seek
safety in flight. She dared not face Paul Desfrayne, for she could
expect no mercy at his hands. Bitterly did she curse the folly, the
cowardice, that had hindered her from destroying the evidence of her
marriage with Gilardoni. Deeply now did she deplore having run the
terrible risk of killing her real husband.

On the departure of Frank Amberley, she had sullenly cleared the room
of her attendants, and then sat down to think--or to try if it were
possible to collect her scattered wits.

Disgrace, death, were before her. But which way to turn?--whither fly?
The idea of destroying herself occurred to her disordered brain, but
then she thought _that_ resource would do when all else failed. Money
she had in plenty. Why should she give up this fair and alluring earth,
if safety could be purchased?

“Even if they fix this marriage on me,” she reflected, “and thus
ruin my hopes of becoming a wealthy princess, they may not be able
to discover that I had aught to do with the death of Gilardoni. How
could they? Even if they find out I was in the neighborhood, who is to
prove that, granting he did not die a natural death, he did not kill
himself? The excitement of a painful interview might even bring on
heart-disease. Twenty different reasons might explain and reconcile the
facts of my being there with my perfect innocence of any complicity in
his tragical fate. Shall I defy them all, and remain, or fly?”

She paced to and fro distractedly.

“I will remain here,” she at last defiantly decided. “If they accuse me
of stealing the book, I will boldly declare that those three men have
entered into a plot for extorting money from me--that _he_, Gilardoni,
was the one who took it away, and that his lawyer pretended to find it
here. No one saw him take it, though he threw it out of the window.
I will swear he brought it hither, and offered to sell it to me; and
tried to bully me with a threat of exposure as being the wife of that
low-born peasant. I will risk staying. Let them do their worst--I think
I can defy them. His highness will hasten to see me to-night, when he
finds I am not at the opera: no doubt he will urge me, as he has so
often done, to marry him, and I shall yield to his entreaties. I will
no longer keep up my pretense of coyness and reluctance, but will use
my influence over him to hurry on the marriage. Once his consort I am
safe.”




CHAPTER XXX.

FREE AT LAST.


Evil fate, which so often favors those who wish to follow the path
leading to destruction, smiled on Lucia Guiscardini now as of yore.

The inquest was held on her ill-fated husband about the hour when Frank
Amberley discovered the record of that most miserable union that had
caused his death. The inquiry was necessarily adjourned, however, to
enable the medical men to examine the body more particularly.

The emotion of Paul Desfrayne on reading the telegraphic account sent
by the friend who had so heroically sacrificed his own feelings to a
stern sense of duty may be in same measure imagined. To his overtaxed
brain, the events of these last few days began to assume the aspect of
a dream.

Free! Quit of the consequences of those few months of infatuated folly!

Oh! it could hardly be. No. Presently he must wake, and find it but a
tantalizing vision of the night, as he had awakened many times before,
thinking he had regained or had never lost his liberty.

Only too well he knew he had never loved that remorseless woman, who
would have sacrificed him for her own worldly gain, who had slain his
happiness under the influence of her mistaken conception of his wealth
and position.

He wrote back a most earnest letter to Frank Amberley. But little did
he imagine how vast was the debt of gratitude due to that noble soul.
The moment the verdict was pronounced as to the cause of Leonardo
Gilardoni’s death, he would hurry to London, he told the young lawyer.
At present it would be impossible for him to be absent. He did not
repeat the suspicions he had touched on in the telegram forwarded by
him in the morning, for that would be but to repeat an accusation he
could not in any way sustain.

The next morning he set about making cautious inquiries, in order to
find out, if possible, whether any human being had seen the figure that
had passed him like an apparition on the way to the station. But vainly.

No one had seen this woman. The porter at the railway-station whom
Captain Desfrayne had missed, remembered a woman coming hastily in
to catch the last train; but she, he declared, had worn a pale-green
dress, a black lace shawl, and had a snow-white Shetland fall over
her bonnet, concealing her face effectually as well. In effect, Lucia
Guiscardini had made a rapid change in her toilet almost as she entered
the station, by looping up her black skirt, changing her black cloak
for a lace shawl folded up in the small black leather bag she carried,
and changing her black fall for a white one. The black cloak, bought
expressly for this expedition, she had hurriedly folded up, and,
darting for a moment into the ladies’ room, dropped it on the couch,
making it look as if some one had forgotten it.

The old woman at whose cottage Madam Guiscardini had appointed to meet
Leonardo Gilardoni was away, gone to see a granddaughter, who lay dying
some ten miles off. Thus Paul Desfrayne did not find her, nor did he
know of her existence. The boy had departed with her.

No one could throw the slightest ray of light on the history of those
hours of apparent solitude which had been spent by the unhappy valet
from the departure until the return of his master on that last day of
his life. No one had seen him leave the barracks during any part of the
day--none had seen him return.

It had happened that the boy charged with Madam Guiscardini’s message
had not needed to ask for him, because Gilardoni was walking about the
yard, and to him the lad had first spoken.

The analyzing doctors found nothing to justify any suspicion of the
existence of poison. Such signs as were apparent resembled those of
apoplexy so closely that the most accurate judges might easily have
been deceived. They gave in a certificate to the effect that the cause
of death was apoplexy.

It would have been worse than useless to accuse Lucia Guiscardini. Paul
Desfrayne began to persuade himself that he must have been deluded by
his own excited imagination when he fancied he saw her on that lonely,
darksome road.

At the end of a few days he was able to run up to London. His first
visit was to Frank Amberley.

The lawyer showed him the ink-stained, vellum-covered book containing
the brief register that would restore some light and happiness to Paul
Desfrayne’s life. Paul’s heart was overflowing with gratitude to the
friend who had regained for him the liberty that seemed gone forever.

Fortune was resolved on favoring him now, however. On leaving
Alderman’s Lane, he went to the club of which he was a member.

Immersed in thought, the young man was walking at a rapid pace, when a
faint, musical exclamation, and what sounded much like his own name,
caused him to awake from his abstraction, and look up.

His eyes met those of Lois Turquand, fixed upon him with a strange,
indefinable expression that made his heart beat, while a vivid blush
overspread that beautiful face upon which he had so often meditated, to
the risk of his own peace, since he had first beheld it.

Miss Turquand was sitting in an open carriage with Blanche Dormer in
front of a large drapery establishment. They were waiting for Lady
Quaintree, who had alighted with the view of matching some silk.

It had been Miss Dormer who cried out Captain Desfrayne’s name. The
girls had hoped he might not have heard; but his looks showed that he
had done so. He lifted his hat, and came to the side of the carriage to
speak to the young ladies.

The gloomy, care-worn expression had already begun to melt from his
face, and, in a manner, he was no longer the self-restrained, cold
personage he had been since the days his misfortune had gathered upon
him.

Before she could weigh the propriety of doing so, Lois had allowed her
fingers to glide into his: and it was not until she felt a tender
pressure, scarcely meant by Paul, that she thought she should have
withheld her hand.

“He is cruel and deceitful,” she said to herself, turning away her head
to avoid the glance which at once thrilled and distressed her.

Some ordinary civilities and usual courtesies passed. A flower-girl
came to the opposite side of the carriage, and addressed Miss Dormer.
Paul took advantage of this passing distraction to say rapidly to Lois,
in a lower tone than he had used before:

“Miss Turquand, I began a story the night I saw you in the country. If
I ever have the privilege of completing it, you will find that now it
will have a very different ending.”

At this instant, Lady Quaintree issued from the shop, followed by a
shopman laden with parcels. Her ladyship had been unable to resist some
tempting novelties, and some wonderful bargains from a bankrupt’s stock.

“Captain Desfrayne!” she said. “I did not know you were in town.”

“I have only run up for a few hours on urgent business, madam,” he
replied.

“We go to Eastbourne this day week,” her ladyship continued. “My
husband has been very unwell, and the physicians have ordered change of
air.”

She added that they would be happy to see Captain Desfrayne, if he
chose to call at Lowndes Square before he left town again. Some more
civilities, and the carriage drove away.

One long look passed between Paul and Lois--a look of mingled feeling
on his side; of inquiry, of surprise, of displeasure on hers--one of
those glances that serve to link two souls together, be it for good, be
it for evil.

It left the young girl trembling, perplexed, agitated, more than any
words could have done.

It told Paul Desfrayne that he had never loved till now, despite that
one terrible caprice of fancy and flattered vanity.

But the hopes, the desires, the incipient love he had not dared
to cherish the last time he had seen this angelic creature, this
beautiful, pure English girl, who seemed to have glided across
his path to lead him from darkness and misery into light and
happiness--these feelings he might now yield to without sin.

The air seemed full of golden haze, and even the somber figure of Lucia
Guiscardini could scarce dim the brightness of the day-dream that
surrounded him.




CHAPTER XXXI.

LUCIA’S TEARS.


Lucia Guiscardini had started by the night mail for Paris.

The next morning was the one fixed for her marriage, arranged to take
place as quietly as possible at the Russian embassy.

Fatigued, nay, utterly exhausted, she slept heavily for some hours
after her arrival at her apartments in the Rue Saint Honoré.

When Finette came to arouse her, according to orders, she was lying
like one in a stupor, and it was with the greatest difficulty the girl
could wake her.

“It is almost a pity not to let her sleep as long as she may,” thought
the maid, as she stood by her, looking down at the flushed face and
uneasy attitude of her slumbering mistress.

Finette had no great reason to care much for the overbearing,
capricious prima donna, but she could perceive that she was struggling
against impending illness, and she felt sorry she should not be at her
best on her wedding-day.

“Madam!” said Finette. “Awake! It is nearly eight o’clock, and your
bath is ready.”

A shuddering sigh, and then Lucia relapsed into her lethargic state
again, though she was evidently suffering from the visitation of some
painful dream.

“Madam!” again urged Finette. “It is your wedding-day. Rouse, then. It
is a glorious day--the sunshine bright and golden, scarce a cloud in
the blue sky.”

She pressed the soft, rounded shoulder of her mistress, and shook her
with a firm yet gentle hand. For madam had given imperative orders
the preceding night that she must be awakened immediately after eight
o’clock, if not before. The entire responsibility of this lay with
Finette, for she had no other attendant with her.

A stifled scream broke from the half-parched lips of the sleeper, and
she sprang up, throwing her hands forward, as if to defend herself.

“No--no--no!” she shrieked. “No! Ah-h! You shall not take me. I have
not done it. Take your hands off----”

“Madam, it is I--Finette. Do not be alarmed. Pray calm yourself. The
people in the house will be frightened. You have been dreaming. It is
your wedding-day.”

The smooth, reassuring tones brought back the Italian’s scattered
senses, and the light of reason to her brilliant, distended eyes.
She turned her glance on the young girl standing by, and sank back,
shuddering, gasping for breath, almost on the verge of hysterics.

“I believe--I--was dreaming. Oh, Heaven! what a horrid, awful dream!”
She covered her face with her hands, with a sobbing breath. “I am
scarcely awake now. I feel so--so tired.”

“Your journey has fatigued you, madam. Why, you have had only a few
hours’ rest, though you slept a little in the train. Come, I suppose
madam must make an exertion, and rise. I will order the coffee.”

“Why do you wish me to get up? Oh! my head aches so fearfully--at the
back, Finette.”

“Madam forgets it is her wedding-day. I am sorry madam’s head is so
bad,” said Finette.

“_Bon Dieu!_ my wedding-day!” cried Lucia, again starting up. “I had
forgotten. Give me my wrapper.”

Finette gave her the richly embroidered silken wrapper, and then went
out to give directions about madam’s coffee.

Lucia threw on her wrapper, and got out of bed. A few tottering steps,
and she fell back, flinging her arms on the coverlet in blank despair.

“I believe I am going to be ill,” she cried, aloud. “But I must not be
ill until I have been made a princess. Oh! this sickening pain in my
head. But I must not give way at the last, after daring so much. What
folly! It is simply fatigue. I ought not to have stayed there till the
last moment, and then taken such a hurried flight.”

She lay in a half-stupefied state, however, making no effort to raise
herself, as if she felt it would be useless. Then hot, blinding tears
of rage and despair began to rain over her arms, on which she rested.

So absorbed was the unhappy creature by her terrors and doubts, her
feeling of physical exhaustion, her dread lest her forces should fail
her at the last, that she did not notice the return of Finette.

The girl stood on the snow-white, fleecy rug just inside the door, in
an attitude and with an expression which showed that she was utterly
confounded by the scene before her.

Madam had been in all varieties of humors--in violent, stormy frenzies
of rage, sullen, depressed, ill-humored, exhausted, wearied--but never
before like this.

Finette’s idea was natural, and yet, hitherto, undreamed of, for her
lady had seemed, if not the least in love with her handsome prince,
certainly pleased and eager to welcome him.

“She does not like him,” thought the waiting-maid, “and is only going
to marry him for his money and his title; perhaps she likes somebody
else. But it will never do for her to go on in this way.”

The girl was pleased at the prospective vision of being confidential
maid to a rich princess--the position would offer so many advantages in
addition to the increase of social dignity. It ill-suited her that the
marriage should be put off, and she was superstitious enough to regard
as most unlucky a postponement of the wedding-day.

It was not until she was close beside her that Lucia gave any sign of
being aroused.

“Come, madam’s nerves are giving way,” said Finette smilingly. “Time
is flying, and madam knows how long it takes to dress. Sit in this
great easy chair, and steady yourself, while I brush out your hair.
Come, they say people always fall into a terrible way just before they
get married, though when the dreadful words have been spoken by the
clergyman, they begin to laugh at themselves for being so silly. It is
quite proper to cry on one’s wedding-day, madam.”

She lent the support of her youthful arm to Lucia, who rose
mechanically, as if in a dream, and placed her before the
dressing-table, a fairy picture of lace, silver, carved ivory, and gold.

Then she proceeded to array the bride, who exerted herself when desired
to do so, but otherwise sat or stood like a lovely inanimate statue or
waxen figure.

Although it was to be a strictly private marriage, the only attendant
on herself being Finette, Lucia had prepared a toilet of the most
recherché quality. A pure, white silk, covered with rare and costly
laces, a hat of elfin workmanship, over which was thrown a square of
tulle, frilled and embroidered petticoats, proclaimed her bridal state.
With a great yearning, she had desired white satin and a lace veil, and
to wear some of her diamonds, but was obliged to stifle the wish.

When she was dressed, Finette left her sitting by the open window, the
balcony of which was heaped with exquisite flowers.

The girl--her only bridesmaid--went to attire herself in her own room,
which adjoined that of her mistress.

“What has happened to me?” Lucia asked herself in affright. “What means
this weakness, this sense of a sudden blank? Shall I be able to go
through my morning’s work? What will happen next? Shall I live to enjoy
my honors, my wealth, my prince’s adoration? Nay, I must strive against
this pain and depression and fear.”

Rising, she began to walk to and fro, with uncertain, wavering steps,
swaying from side to side unconsciously.

Presently Finette returned, arrayed in a really charming manner in a
cloud of pretty, fresh, embroidered muslin. In her hand was a large
bouquet of the most choice blossoms, fit for the bride of a king to
carry.

“See, madam,” she exclaimed gaily; “here are some flowers, this moment
sent. There was no name left, but you will guess from whom they have
come.”

Lucia took the flowers, and put the bouquet up to her pale face,
without making any remark.

“See how the sun shines--a happy omen!” continued the girl lightly, as
she gathered up her mistress’ handkerchief, gloves, and little ivory
fan. “The carriage waits--we shall be in good time.”

Lucia recovered her strength, and in a certain degree her spirits. They
descended to the carriage, and drove to the Russian embassy.




CHAPTER XXXII.

LUCIA GUISCARDINI’S MADNESS.


The prince was waiting impatiently the arrival of Lucia at the Russian
embassy. A tall, graceful man, some fifteen years older than his bride,
with a somber yet gentle face, jet-black eyes and beard, and dressed to
perfection.

A friend on whom he could rely was his only companion. He did not at
present wish his relatives or any one of his large circle of friends
and acquaintances to know anything about this union.

The ceremony was gone through, the necessary signatures given, and
Lucia Gilardoni, widow of the man scarce above the rank of peasant,
child of parents hardly equal to petty farmers, was the lawful wife of
this proud Russian noble on whose arm she leaned.

Exultant, yet weighed down by an inexplicable dread of approaching
evil, the newly made princess swept down the aisle of the little
chapel, on her way to his carriage. Suddenly she clutched the prince’s
arm, and drew back, as if horror-stricken. With her disengaged hand she
pointed to a dim corner, her great black eyes widely opened, the pupils
distended.

The prince looked to see what caused her overwhelming terror. Nothing
was visible, as far as he could descry.

“What is it, my dearest love?” he tenderly asked, stooping to gaze into
her pallid face.

“There--_there_!” she whispered. “He is there. They said he was dead.
They pretended I killed him. But he is there. He is not dead--or is it
his spirit?”

“Of whom do you speak, my own dear one?” asked the prince.

“My husband--Gilardoni. He stands there, and gazes at me with eyes of
fire. Is he dead or living?”

She continued to point with her finger, her arm stretched out, her
neck craned, her eyes full of a horror too great for words.

“There is no one here but ourselves,” said the prince, a vivid terror
seizing on his heart with a viselike grip.

The others regarded her with consternation, but could not venture to
obtrude themselves on her notice--the prince’s friend, and the girl
Finette.

A deathly silence succeeded. The bride dropped her pointing finger,
while retaining her clutch on her newly wedded husband’s arm, but she
continued to gaze at the phantom conjured up by her disordered fancy.

“He is gone,” she whispered, with a great, gulping sigh. “Did you not
see? He melted away into the shadows. Take me away before he returns.”

The prince hurried her to the door, then down the steps, and into his
carriage. His friend placed the girl Finette in her mistress’ carriage
and directed the coachman to take her as quickly as his horses would go
to the Hotel Fleury, in the Rue de Richelieu, where the newly married
couple were to sojourn in a magnificent suite of apartments for a
couple of days previous to starting for Switzerland.

With a fear too deep for expression the prince watched his lovely
idol as she lay trembling within his encircling arm. Her face was of
a ghastly pallor, and her eyes were fixed with an absolutely vacant
look on the opposite side of the carriage, but it was difficult to
conjecture whether she was consciously thinking or not.

Those betraying words of hers: “They said he was dead--they pretended
I had killed him--my husband--Gilardoni!” echoed in the brain of the
prince like a beating pulse. Had she, then, committed some fearful
crime, and had her reason given way under the sting of conscience?

But no--no, a thousand times no! It was impossible. With a love, a
loyalty wasted on its object, he refused to believe anything ill of his
beloved one.

“My own--my wife!” he murmured fondly.

Lucia shivered, but made no response. They drove fast, and were soon at
the gates of the stately pile where the bride was to be lodged suitably
to her rank.

The prince lifted her from the carriage, and drawing her hand once more
within his arm, led her up to the wide, richly carpeted staircase to
the suite on the first floor.

Finette had preceded her mistress by five or ten minutes, and was
waiting with the other servants near the entrance. The newly married
pair walked through the bowing files of lackeys, and passed into the
principal sitting-room--a long, lofty salon, glowing with softly
modulated colors, rare china, mirrored panels, rich draperies, and
flowers.

The prince closed the door, and sat down on a stool by the trembling
Lucia.

“My dear love,” he said, with the deepest anxiety, yet resolved on
giving her the opportunity of granting some explanation, “what happened
to you in the chapel just now?”

“I don’t know,” she vacantly replied. “What?--how?--I do not recollect.
I felt very ill.”

“You are not well now.”

“No; I am not.”

“You seem totally different from your usual self.”

“I feel so--I feel like--I cannot say how I feel--my brain is on fire.”

“What did you mean by----”

“By what?” she sharply demanded, turning on him the full gleam of her
resplendent eyes, to which the light of reason for a moment returned.

“In the chapel you fancied you saw some one.”

“I fancied? How strange! I forget,” Lucia replied, laughing gaily.
“Whom did I fancy I beheld?”

“You said some very singular words, my dear love.”

“What did I say?”

But before he could speak a word in reply, her glance became again wild
and uncertain. She shuddered as if seized with ague, and then leaned
forward, as if she again saw the phantom conjured up by her disordered
brain in the chapel.

“He is here!” she whispered, half to herself. “He has followed to
claim me. I can never escape him now. There is blood upon his wrist,
where----It is useless to struggle. I must give way to my destiny.
But I will never go with you,” she exclaimed, raising her voice.
“Never--never!”

The prince caught her hand, which she snatched away, as if terrified,
looking at him with a vacant eye, that evidently did not recognize him.

“You shall not take me,” she fiercely cried. “I did not do it--I swear
I did not! I was not there.”

The prince rose, and, approaching a table heaped with elegant and
costly trifles, rang a hand-bell sharply.

Almost instantly the violet velvet portière of the chief entrance was
raised, and an obsequious lackey stood waiting his lord’s commands.

“Send Mademoiselle Finette here,” was the brief order.

In a moment the girl had replaced her fellow servant. A brief,
searching glance showed her that something was wrong; but _what_ she
could scarcely tell.

“Come here,” said the prince.

He placed her in front of his bride, who was now leaning her head on
her hand, resting against the stool, apparently lost to all around her.

“Madam!” exclaimed the waiting-maid, in consternation at her vacant yet
wild aspect.

“What is the matter with her?” demanded the prince. “Has she ever been
like this before?”

“No, monseigneur--no, no, never. Something has happened,” replied the
trembling maid.

“Something terrible--something awful,” cried the unhappy prince, in
an agony of despairing love and fear. “Do you know if anything has
occurred to overthrow her reason?”

“I know nothing, monseigneur. Madam has always been so quiet in her
life, although perhaps a little passionate in her ways, sometimes.
Madam--madam, speak to me--to your poor Finette,” pleaded the girl,
taking the passive hand that lay in her mistress’ lap.

A dumb spirit seemed to have seized upon the miserable victim of her
own sins and crimes. With a swift glance at the maid, she averted her
head coldly, and resumed her gaze into empty space.

Some crude idea had got into her dazed brain that she would betray
herself if she spoke, and she had resolved on keeping utterly silent.
The prince she had apparently forgotten.

“Remain with her,” said he. “I shall return presently.”

He went to his own private sitting-room, and, going to a desk, wrote
a few lines to the most eminent doctor among those who devoted their
sole attention to the study of lunacy. Then he rang for his valet--an
elderly, severely respectable-looking man, with a tranquil manner.

“Do you know where to find this medical man?” the prince asked, showing
him the envelope.

“I believe, monseigneur, he lives in the Rue de Rivoli--but I can
easily find out,” answered the valet.

“Do so. Take the brougham, and do not return without him. It is a
matter of life and death for me. Do not lose a moment--but wait for him
if he should be absent.”

The doctor was not absent. He returned with the confidential servant
within a quarter of an hour, and presented himself in the sitting-room,
which the prince had not quitted, for he dared not go back to the
presence of his distraught bride.

Accustomed as the medical man was to every variety of painful case of
lunacy, his face betrayed some signs of surprise and compassion as he
listened to the story of the unhappy Lucia’s loss of reason, but he
expressed no opinion, simply bowing as he rose to obey the entreaty of
the bridegroom that he would see the princess.

“Pardon me, if I stay here until you come back to me,” said the prince,
his ashy face showing only too plainly the suffering at his heart. “I
dare not accompany you. I love my wife ardently, passionately--and----”

“Remain here,” gently replied the medical man. “I shall not keep you
long in suspense.”

The prince flung himself face downward on a lounge as his valet
conducted the doctor from the room. He began to fear that this awful
shock would end in depriving him of reason. Throbbing pulses surged
like waves in his ears, and his senses threatened to desert him.

The slow-dragging minutes went on, on, on, steadily, monotonously, and
at length the prince felt he could not remain thus supinely waiting any
longer. In reality, half an hour had elapsed from the moment he was
left alone, but it seemed like many hours.

Rising, he was about to go to the salon, but as he raised himself, the
portière was drawn aside, and the physician stood again before him.

The sad, grave face told its own tale, but the prince could not be
satisfied.

“Doctor, how have you found her? What news do you bring me?” he cried
desperately.

“The worst. Reason has utterly fled, never, I fear, to return. There
has been some fearful pressure on the brain and nervous system. It
would be as well to have a consultation, however, for sometimes these
difficult cases are deceptive.”

But his judgment was only too firmly established on further inquiry.
Lucia adhered to her crazed resolve not to utter a word, though her
frequent terror and fixed look showed that she still believed herself
closely watched by the figure she imagined she had seen in the chapel
at the Russian embassy.

But she had caused a terrible suspicion of the truth to dawn in the
mind of the last victim of her ruthless ambition. The prince reflected
upon the subject until he arrived at a tolerably correct surmise of the
facts of the case.

A man of prompt resolve and speedy action, he at once settled in his
mind the course he should pursue, when he had recovered from the
stunning effects of his first horror. For a few days Lucia was to
remain in her own apartments while the further inquiry was conducted,
then he would take her to Switzerland, and there place her in a pretty,
secluded villa among the mountains, guarded and waited upon by a
trustworthy band of servants, under the immediate direction of Finette,
who agreed to accompany her ill-fated mistress.

This was done. From time to time, the prince went to see her; but she
displayed the most utter indifference toward him, and never once gave
the slightest sign of recognition.

A strange fancy seized her after a while--that this Swiss retreat was
the villa and garden at Florence, where she had pursued her studies for
the stage, and where she had lived until she made her escape, through
the intervention of Paul Desfrayne, to Paris.

But she always remained totally dumb. Not the most strenuous effort
could induce her to break that terrible silence. Even in singing, which
she practised with the assiduity of her early student-days, she would
use no words, only the vowels employed in the chromatic and diatonic
scales. Her voice was infinitely richer, fuller, sweeter than it had
ever been, and frequently the prince would enjoy a melancholy pleasure
in listening beneath the window to the dulcet waves of birdlike melody.

She loved to deck herself with the splendor of a queen; and in this
fancy the prince freely indulged her, though he never employed the
slightest portion of her large fortune for this object. The horror
which might have crushed his love when he was forced to believe that
she might have committed the crime of which she had accused herself was
tempered by the most profound pity for her distraught state.

Happily, no other love came to make the life of this betrayed man
a burden to him, therefore the chains with which he had been so
treacherously bound did not gall as they might have done.

A few were trusted with the terrible secret of Lucia’s loss of
reason--the director of the London opera-house, and one or two others.

When the emissaries of justice came to seek for her--to accuse her of
her sacrilegious theft, they found her forever beyond the reach of
earthly law.

The Supreme Judge had seen fit to allot her a punishment before which
her accusers drew back in solemn awe and dread.

Thus ended the race upon which the lovely and gifted Lucia Guiscardini
had entered with such a high heart and iron nerve.




CHAPTER XXXIII.

THE SOUND OF WEDDING-BELLS.


It was a bright day at the seashore, and the beach was crowded.

Lord and Lady Quaintree were at Eastbourne, with the Honorable
Gerald and “the two girls,” as Lois and Blanche were affectionately
designated. Frank Amberley had come to spend his few weeks of holiday
here.

Paul, by the advice of his colonel, had seen the Italian consul in
London. The consul had looked grave, listened to his story, received
the register, and said:

“The matter shall have every attention, and in all probability we shall
communicate with you shortly respecting it.”

Some months, after all, elapsed before Captain Desfrayne received any
communication, and then he learned the painful facts of the unhappy
Lucia’s third marriage and the loss of her reason.

He made every effort to find her on settling the affair at the Italian
consulate--but vainly, and was obliged to relinquish the attempt. Then
he repaired to Eastbourne. The agitation of these last few weeks had
told terribly on his health, although he was rejoicing with unspeakable
joy over his recovered liberty.

He knew that the Quaintrees had chosen the place; indeed, that had been
the attraction for him. And Frank Amberley had seen him during his
visit to London, and mentioned his intention of coming.

Captain Desfrayne set off to pay a visit of ceremony to Lady Quaintree.

On the way, however, the scene was so bright, so alluring, so unlike
what he had been condemned to for some time, that he paused to
contemplate it.

How many minutes he lingered he did not know, but he was aroused from a
bitter-sweet day-dream by hearing some one address him by name. It was
Frank Amberley.

The young lawyer had left a party seated on the beach to come and
intercept Paul; but returned to them, followed by his treasure-trove.

Paul’s heart beat violently, for he perceived Lois Turquand, dazzlingly
beautiful as a sea-nymph. He knew not what he said, either to the
ladies or to Lord Quaintree and his son, and sat down mechanically when
Blanche moved a little to make room for him on the beach.

The remarks, the replies, the notes, and queries, were all commonplace
enough, so Paul could keep up a show of attention without betraying his
abstracted state of mind.

“Charming, indeed,” he had just returned, to an observation of Lady
Quaintree’s--Lois was absolutely silent.

Frank Amberley, too loyal to gain any advantage by treachery, would
have explained to Lois that the sad story he told her had ended less
tragically than it threatened to do; but he had not yet found any
opportunity of speaking to Miss Turquand undisturbed. He had, in fact,
preceded Captain Desfrayne by only a couple of days.

Gerald had continued to devote himself to Blanche, in spite of his
mother’s evidences of displeasure. Lady Quaintree had begun to despair
of being able to secure Lois as a daughter-in-law. Blanche was amused
by the little flirtation into which Gerald had drawn her, but she cared
not a straw for him; while the grave, handsome face, the soft, musical
accents of Frank Amberley began to dangerously haunt her dreams.

The little party rose, and Paul Desfrayne accompanied them a short way.
For part of the time he found himself lingering behind the others, with
Miss Turquand.

An almost irrepressible desire to confide in her rose in his heart;
but he crushed the wish, for this was neither the time nor place. A
few impetuous words, however, gave her an inkling of the change that
had come to him, and she glanced up at him. A look of passionate
admiration--of dawning love--made her blush deeply and avert her head,
and hurry a few steps to rejoin the others. But when they were about
to part, she gave him her hand with a little happy smile of confidence.

The tranquil, sunlit days glided by, and lengthened into weeks.

Frank Amberley, fully conscious of the risk to his peace involved by
lingering, could not tear himself away. But by degrees he discovered
the charm, the beauty, the sweetness of the innocent Blanche’s
character, so was in a fair way of being consoled. Happily for himself,
he was not one of those who love but once and forever.

Paul Desfrayne did not tell his painful story all at once, and Lois
spared him much of the distress involved in the recital, but by degrees
she became aware of all the sad details; and she gave him all the pity
and sympathy of her fresh young heart.

The Honorable Gerald found some one more appreciative and more warmly
disposed in his favor than the pretty Blanche, and transferred all the
devotion he had to offer to the more accessible divinity.

Paul was left pretty much to his own devices in winning the prize held
out to him so strangely.

It was not a difficult task. Never did wooing prosper more hopefully.

The last few days of this brief, delicious holiday were fast winging to
the dim past.

Nay, the last evening had come--a soft, cloudless, moonlit night, when
the very air seemed to breathe of love.

Gerald was away; Blanche and Lady Quaintree were taking a farewell turn
on the sands; Lord Quaintree was asleep. Lois had stayed at home, for
she had a tolerably clear idea that Paul would come, and he had looked
a hope that he might find her alone.

The young girl was sitting in the long, flower-wreathed balcony, the
mild, silvery moonbeams falling over her like a radiance, making her
look some lovely ethereal spirit.

Paul did come, as she anticipated. The dim, mysterious light did not
betray the glowing blush upon her beautiful face, the sparkling, happy
light in her eyes. She did not hear his step upon the carpet, nor see
him, but some electrical sympathy told her he was approaching.

With a soft, welcoming, trustful smile, she held out her hand, which
he took, but omitted to release. Then he sat down close to her, yet
slightly behind her chair, as if even now he scarcely dared to believe
that the promise of the future could be true.

A murmuring conversation, too low for ears less acute than those
attuned by love to hear, and then Paul gently folded Lois in his arms.
Then, after a pause, he slipped a diamond ring of betrothal upon her
finger, and she was his promised wife.

Vere Gardiner’s dying wishes had come to a happy fruition, after all.
And the story ended like the delightful old fairy-tales, with a joyous
clash of merry wedding-bells.

But this time there was no rash marrying in haste. Almost a year
elapsed, by the influence and desire of Lady Quaintree, before the
pretty bridal-party met in Flore Hall, about six weeks before the
marriage of Frank Amberley and Blanche Dormer.

The echoes of the harmonious wedding-bells sound as yet through the
wedded life of Paul and his true love. Adieu, care; farewell, sorrow,
for the inevitable cares and sorrows are shared, so fall lightly.

Sometimes a faint cloud comes over Paul’s face as he thinks of the
one act of folly which had so nearly ruined his life; but he tries to
forget the forbidding past, and to sun himself in the love and bright
smiles of his wife and two little angel-children, baby Lois, and her
elder brother, Paul.


THE END.


“Her Heart’s Delight,” by Bertha M. Clay is the title of No. 301 of the
NEW BERTHA CLAY LIBRARY. It is a story that the readers of this series
will not find lacking in the skill that Bertha Clay displays in telling
a vivid romance.




POPULAR COPYRIGHTS

New Eagle Series

_Carefully Selected Love Stories_


There is such a profusion of good books in this list, that it is an
impossibility to urge you to select any particular title or author’s
work. All that we can say is that any line that contains the complete
works of Mrs. Georgie Sheldon, Charles Garvice, Mrs. Harriet Lewis,
May Agnes Fleming, Wenona Gilman, Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller, and other
writers of the same type, is worthy of your attention.


_ALL TITLES ALWAYS IN PRINT_

    1--Queen Bess                                 By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
    2--Ruby’s Reward                              By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
    7--Two Keys                                   By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
    9--The Virginia Heiress                          By May Agnes Fleming
   12--Edrie’s Legacy                             By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
   17--Leslie’s Loyalty                                By Charles Garvice
   22--Elaine                                          By Charles Garvice
   24--A Wasted Love                                   By Charles Garvice
   41--Her Heart’s Desire                              By Charles Garvice
   44--That Dowdy                                 By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
   50--Her Ransom                                      By Charles Garvice
   55--Thrice Wedded                              By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
   66--Witch Hazel                                By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
   70--Sydney                                          By Charles Garvice
   73--The Marquis                                     By Charles Garvice
   77--Tina                                       By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
   79--Out of the Past                                 By Charles Garvice
   84--Imogene                                         By Charles Garvice
   85--Lorrie; or, Hollow Gold                         By Charles Garvice
   88--Virgie’s Inheritance                       By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
   95--A Wilful Maid                                   By Charles Garvice
   98--Claire                                          By Charles Garvice
   99--Audrey’s Recompense                        By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
  102--Sweet Cymbeline                                 By Charles Garvice
  109--Signa’s Sweetheart                              By Charles Garvice
  111--Faithful Shirley                           By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
  117--She Loved Him                                   By Charles Garvice
  119--’Twixt Smile and Tear                           By Charles Garvice
  122--Grazia’s Mistake                           By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
  130--A Passion Flower                                By Charles Garvice
  133--Max                                        By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
  136--The Unseen Bridegroom                         By May Agnes Fleming
  138--A Fatal Wooing                                By Laura Jean Libbey
  141--Lady Evelyn                                   By May Agnes Fleming
  144--Dorothy’s Jewels                           By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
  146--Magdalen’s Vow                                By May Agnes Fleming
  151--The Heiress of Glen Gower                     By May Agnes Fleming
  155--Nameless Dell                              By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
  157--Who Wins                                      By May Agnes Fleming
  166--The Masked Bridal                          By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
  168--Thrice Lost, Thrice Won                       By May Agnes Fleming
  174--His Guardian Angel                              By Charles Garvice
  177--A True Aristocrat                          By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
  181--The Baronet’s Bride                           By May Agnes Fleming
  188--Dorothy Arnold’s Escape                    By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
  199--Geoffrey’s Victory                         By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
  203--Only One Love                                   By Charles Garvice
  210--Wild Oats                                  By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
  213--The Heiress of Egremont                      By Mrs. Harriet Lewis
  215--Only a Girl’s Love                              By Charles Garvice
  219--Lost: A Pearle                             By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
  222--The Lily of Mordaunt                       By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
  223--Leola Dale’s Fortune                            By Charles Garvice
  231--The Earl’s Heir                                 By Charles Garvice
  233--Nora                                       By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
  236--Her Humble Lover                                By Charles Garvice
  242--A Wounded Heart                                 By Charles Garvice
  244--A Hoiden’s Conquest                        By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
  250--A Woman’s Soul                                  By Charles Garvice
  255--The Little Marplot                         By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
  257--A Martyred Love                                 By Charles Garvice
  266--The Welfleet Mystery                       By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
  267--Jeanne                                          By Charles Garvice
  268--Olivia; or, It Was for Her Sake                 By Charles Garvice
  272--So Fair, So False                               By Charles Garvice
  276--So Nearly Lost                                  By Charles Garvice
  277--Brownie’s Triumph                          By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
  280--Love’s Dilemma                                  By Charles Garvice
  282--The Forsaken Bride                         By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
  283--My Lady Pride                                   By Charles Garvice
  287--The Lady of Darracourt                          By Charles Garvice
  288--Sibyl’s Influence                          By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
  291--A Mysterious Wedding Ring                  By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
  292--For Her Only                                    By Charles Garvice
  296--The Heir of Vering                              By Charles Garvice
  299--Little Miss Whirlwind                      By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
  300--The Spider and the Fly                          By Charles Garvice
  303--The Queen of the Isle                         By May Agnes Fleming
  304--Stanch as a Woman                               By Charles Garvice
  305--Led by Love                                     By Charles Garvice
  309--The Heiress of Castle Cliffs                  By May Agnes Fleming
  312--Woven on Fate’s Loom, and The Snowdrift         By Charles Garvice
  315--The Dark Secret                               By May Agnes Fleming
  317--Ione                                          By Laura Jean Libbey
  318--Stanch of Heart                                 By Charles Garvice
  322--Mildred                                     By Mrs. Mary J. Holmes
  326--Parted by Fate                                By Laura Jean Libbey
  327--He Loves Me                                     By Charles Garvice
  328--He Loves Me Not                                 By Charles Garvice
  330--Aikenside                                   By Mrs. Mary J. Holmes
  333--Stella’s Fortune                                By Charles Garvice
  334--Miss McDonald                               By Mrs. Mary J. Holmes
  339--His Heart’s Queen                          By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
  340--Bad Hugh. Vol. I.                           By Mrs. Mary J. Holmes
  341--Bad Hugh. Vol. II.                          By Mrs. Mary J. Holmes
  344--Tresillian Court                             By Mrs. Harriet Lewis
  345--The Scorned Wife                             By Mrs. Harriet Lewis
  346--Guy Tresillian’s Fate                        By Mrs. Harriet Lewis
  347--The Eyes of Love                                By Charles Garvice
  348--The Hearts of Youth                             By Charles Garvice
  351--The Churchyard Betrothal                   By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
  352--Family Pride. Vol. I.                            By Mary J. Holmes
  353--Family Pride. Vol. II.                           By Mary J. Holmes
  354--A Love Comedy                                   By Charles Garvice
  360--The Ashes of Love                               By Charles Garvice
  361--A Heart Triumphant                              By Charles Garvice
  362--Stella Rosevelt                            By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
  367--The Pride of Her Life                           By Charles Garvice
  368--Won By Love’s Valor                             By Charles Garvice
  372--A Girl in a Thousand                       By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
  373--A Thorn Among Roses.
       Sequel to “A Girl In a Thousand”           By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
  380--Her Double Life                              By Mrs. Harriet Lewis
  381--The Sunshine of Love.
       Sequel to “Her Double Life”                  By Mrs. Harriet Lewis
  382--Mona                                       By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
  391--Marguerite’s Heritage                      By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
  399--Betsey’s Transformation                    By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
  407--Esther, the Fright                         By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
  415--Trixy                                      By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
  440--Edna’s Secret Marriage                          By Charles Garvice
  449--The Bailiff’s Scheme                         By Mrs. Harriet Lewis
  450--Rosamond’s Love.
       Sequel to “The Bailiff’s Scheme”             By Mrs. Harriet Lewis
  451--Helen’s Victory                            By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
  456--A Vixen’s Treachery                          By Mrs. Harriet Lewis
  457--Adrift in the World.
       Sequel to “A Vixen’s Treachery”              By Mrs. Harriet Lewis
  458--When Love Meets Love                            By Charles Garvice
  464--The Old Life’s Shadows                       By Mrs. Harriet Lewis
  465--Outside Her Eden.
       Sequel to “The Old Life’s Shadows”           By Mrs. Harriet Lewis
  474--The Belle of the Season                      By Mrs. Harriet Lewis
  475--Love Before Pride.
       Sequel to “The Belle of the Season”          By Mrs. Harriet Lewis
  481--Wedded, Yet No Wife                           By May Agnes Fleming
  489--Lucy Harding                                By Mrs. Mary J. Holmes
  495--Norine’s Revenge                              By May Agnes Fleming
  511--The Golden Key                             By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
  512--A Heritage of Love.
       Sequel to “The Golden Key”                 By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
  519--The Magic Cameo                            By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
  520--The Heatherford Fortune.
       Sequel to “The Magic Cameo”                By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
  531--Better Than Life                                By Charles Garvice
  542--Once in a Life                                  By Charles Garvice
  548--’Twas Love’s Fault                              By Charles Garvice
  553--Queen Kate                                      By Charles Garvice
  554--Step by Step                               By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
  557--In Cupid’s Chains                               By Charles Garvice
  630--The Verdict of the Heart                        By Charles Garvice
  635--A Coronet of Shame                              By Charles Garvice
  640--A Girl of Spirit                                By Charles Garvice
  645--A Jest of Fate                                  By Charles Garvice
  648--Gertrude Elliott’s Crucible                By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
  650--Diana’s Destiny                                 By Charles Garvice
  655--Linked by Fate                                  By Charles Garvice
  663--Creatures of Destiny                            By Charles Garvice
  671--When Love Is Young                              By Charles Garvice
  676--My Lady Beth                               By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
  679--Gold in the Gutter                              By Charles Garvice
  712--Love and a Lie                                  By Charles Garvice
  721--A Girl from the South                           By Charles Garvice
  730--John Hungerford’s Redemption               By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
  741--The Fatal Ruby                                  By Charles Garvice
  749--The Heart of a Maid                             By Charles Garvice
  758--The Woman in It                                 By Charles Garvice
  774--Love in a Snare                                 By Charles Garvice
  775--My Love Kitty                                   By Charles Garvice
  776--That Strange Girl                               By Charles Garvice
  777--Nellie                                          By Charles Garvice
  778--Miss Estcourt; or Olive                         By Charles Garvice
  818--The Girl Who Was True                           By Charles Garvice
  826--The Irony of Love                               By Charles Garvice
  896--A Terrible Secret                             By May Agnes Fleming
  897--When To-morrow Came                           By May Agnes Fleming
  904--A Mad Marriage                                By May Agnes Fleming
  905--A Woman Without Mercy                         By May Agnes Fleming
  912--One Night’s Mystery                           By May Agnes Fleming
  913--The Cost of a Lie                             By May Agnes Fleming
  920--Silent and True                               By May Agnes Fleming
  921--A Treasure Lost                               By May Agnes Fleming
  925--Forrest House                                    By Mary J. Holmes
  926--He Loved Her Once                                By Mary J. Holmes
  930--Kate Danton                                   By May Agnes Fleming
  931--Proud as a Queen                              By May Agnes Fleming
  935--Queenie Hetherton                                By Mary J. Holmes
  936--Mightier Than Pride                              By Mary J. Holmes
  940--The Heir of Charlton                          By May Agnes Fleming
  941--While Love Stood Waiting                      By May Agnes Fleming
  945--Gretchen                                         By Mary J. Holmes
  946--Beauty That Faded                                By Mary J. Holmes
  950--Carried by Storm                              By May Agnes Fleming
  951--Love’s Dazzling Glitter                       By May Agnes Fleming
  954--Marguerite                                       By Mary J. Holmes
  955--When Love Spurs Onward                           By Mary J. Holmes
  960--Lost for a Woman                              By May Agnes Fleming
  961--His to Love or Hate                           By May Agnes Fleming
  964--Paul Ralston’s First Love                        By Mary J. Holmes
  965--Where Love’s Shadows Lie Deep                    By Mary J. Holmes
  968--The Tracy Diamonds                               By Mary J. Holmes
  969--She Loved Another                                By Mary J. Holmes
  972--The Cromptons                                    By Mary J. Holmes
  973--Her Husband Was a Scamp                          By Mary J. Holmes
  975--The Merivale Banks                               By Mary J. Holmes
  978--The One Girl in the World                       By Charles Garvice
  979--His Priceless Jewel                             By Charles Garvice
  982--The Millionaire’s Daughter and Other Stories      By Chas. Garvice
  983--Doctor Hathern’s Daughters                       By Mary J. Holmes
  984--The Colonel’s Bride                              By Mary J. Holmes
  988--Her Ladyship’s Diamonds, and Other Stories        By Chas. Garvice
  998--Sharing Her Crime                             By May Agnes Fleming
  999--The Heiress of Sunset Hall                    By May Agnes Fleming
  1004--Maude Percy’s Secret                         By May Agnes Fleming
  1005--The Adopted Daughter                         By May Agnes Fleming
  1010--The Sisters of Torwood                       By May Agnes Fleming
  1015--A Changed Heart                              By May Agnes Fleming
  1016--Enchanted                                    By May Agnes Fleming
  1025--A Wife’s Tragedy                             By May Agnes Fleming
  1026--Brought to Reckoning                         By May Agnes Fleming
  1027--A Madcap Sweetheart                        By Emma Garrison Jones
  1028--An Unhappy Bargain                     By Effie Adelaide Rowlands
  1029--Only a Working Girl                          By Geraldine Fleming
  1030--The Unbidden Guest                    By Mrs. Alex McVeigh Miller
  1031--The Man and His Millions                       By Ida Reade Allen
  1032--Mabel’s Sacrifice                         By Charlotte M. Stanley
  1033--Was He Worth It?                             By Geraldine Fleming
  1034--Her Two Suitors                                  By Wenona Gilman
  1035--Edith Percival                               By May Agnes Fleming
  1036--Caught in the Snare                          By May Agnes Fleming
  1037--A Love Concealed                           By Emma Garrison Jones
  1038--The Price of Happiness                By Mrs. Alex McVeigh Miller
  1039--The Lucky Man                                By Geraldine Fleming
  1040--A Forced Promise                               By Ida Reade Allen
  1041--The Crime of Love                               By Barbara Howard
  1042--The Bride’s Opals                          By Emma Garrison Jones
  1043--Love That Was Cursed                         By Geraldine Fleming
  1044--Thorns of Regret                      By Mrs. Alex McVeigh Miller
  1045--Love Will Find the Way                           By Wenona Gilman
  1046--Bitterly Atoned                          By Mrs. E. Burke Collins
  1047--Told in the Twilight                           By Ida Reade Allen
  1048--A Little Barbarian                          By Charlotte Kingsley
  1049--Love’s Golden Spell                          By Geraldine Fleming
  1050--Married in Error                      By Mrs. Alex McVeigh Miller
  1051--If It Were True                                  By Wenona Gilman
  1052--Vivian’s Love Story                      By Mrs. E. Burke Collins
  1053--From Tears to Smiles                           By Ida Reade Allen
  1054--When Love Dawns                              By Adelaide Stirling
  1055--Love’s Earnest Prayer                        By Geraldine Fleming
  1056--The Strength of Love                  By Mrs. Alex McVeigh Miller
  1057--A Lost Love                                      By Wenona Gilman
  1058--The Stronger Passion                        By Lillian R. Drayton
  1059--What Love Can Cost                              By Evelyn Malcolm
  1060--At Another’s Bidding                           By Ida Reade Allen
  1061--Above All Things                             By Adelaide Stirling
  1062--The Curse of Beauty                          By Geraldine Fleming
  1063--Her Sister’s Secret                   By Mrs. Alex McVeigh Miller
  1064--Married in Haste                                 By Wenona Gilman
  1065--Fair Maid Marian                           By Emma Garrison Jones
  1066--No Man’s Wife                                  By Ida Reade Allen
  1067--A Sacrifice to Love                          By Adelaide Stirling
  1068--Her Fatal Gift                               By Geraldine Fleming
  1069--Her Life’s Burden                     By Mrs. Alex McVeigh Miller
  1070--Evelyn, the Actress                              By Wenona Gilman
  1071--Married for Money                         By Lucy Randall Comfort
  1072--A Lost Sweetheart                              By Ida Reade Allen
  1073--A Golden Sorrow                           By Charlotte M. Stanley
  1074--Her Heart’s Challenge                           By Barbara Howard
  1075--His Willing Slave                           By Lillian R. Drayton
  1076--A Freak of Fate                            By Emma Garrison Jones
  1077--Her Punishment                               By Laura Jean Libbey
  1078--The Shadow Between Them               By Mrs. Alex McVeigh Miller
  1079--No Time for Penitence                            By Wenona Gilman
  1080--Norma’s Black Fortune                          By Ida Reade Allen
  1081--A Wilful Girl                             By Lucy Randall Comfort
  1082--Love’s First Kiss                          By Emma Garrison Jones
  1083--Lola Dunbar’s Crime                             By Barbara Howard
  1084--Ethel’s Secret                            By Charlotte M. Stanley
  1085--Lynette’s Wedding                     By Mrs. Alex McVeigh Miller
  1086--A Fair Enchantress                             By Ida Reade Allen
  1087--The Tide of Fate                                 By Wenona Gilman
  1088--Her Husband’s Other Wife                   By Emma Garrison Jones
  1089--Hearts of Stone                              By Geraldine Fleming
  1090--In Love’s Springtime                         By Laura Jean Libbey
  1091--Love at the Loom                             By Geraldine Fleming
  1092--What Was She to Him?                  By Mrs. Alex McVeigh Miller
  1093--For Another’s Fault                       By Charlotte M. Stanley
  1094--Hearts and Dollars                             By Ida Reade Allan
  1095--A Wife’s Triumph                       By Effie Adelaide Rowlands
  1096--A Bachelor Girl                               By Lucy May Russell
  1097--Love and Spite                               By Adelaide Stirling
  1098--Leola’s Heart                             By Charlotte M. Stanley
  1099--The Power of Love                            By Geraldine Fleming
  1100--An Angel of Evil                       By Effie Adelaide Rowlands
  1101--True to His Bride                          By Emma Garrison Jones
  1102--The Lady of Beaufort Park                        By Wenona Gilman
  1103--A Daughter of Darkness                         By Ida Reade Allen
  1104--My Pretty Maid                        By Mrs. Alex McVeigh Miller
  1105--Master of Her Fate                           By Geraldine Fleming
  1106--A Shadowed Happiness                   By Effie Adelaide Rowlands
  1107--John Elliott’s Flirtation                     By Lucy May Russell
  1108--A Forgotten Love                             By Adelaide Stirling
  1109--Sylvia, The Forsaken                      By Charlotte M. Stanley
  1110--Her Dearest Love                             By Geraldine Fleming
  1111--Love’s Greatest Gift                   By Effie Adelaide Rowlands
  1112--Mischievous Maid Faynie                      By Laura Jean Libbey
  1113--In Love’s Name                             By Emma Garrison Jones
  1114--Love’s Clouded Dawn                              By Wenona Gilman
  1115--A Blue Grass Heroine                           By Ida Reade Allen
  1116--Only a Kiss                           By Mrs. Alex McVeigh Miller
  1117--Virgie Talcott’s Mission                      By Lucy May Russell
  1118--Her Evil Genius                              By Adelaide Stirling
  1119--In Love’s Paradise                        By Charlotte M. Stanley
  1120--Sold for Gold                                By Geraldine Fleming
  1121--Andrew Leicester’s Love                By Effie Adelaide Rowlands
  1122--Taken by Storm                             By Emma Garrison Jones
  1123--The Mills of the Gods                            By Wenona Gilman
  1124--The Breath of Slander                          By Ida Reade Allen
  1125--Loyal Unto Death                      By Mrs. Alex McVeigh Miller
  1126--A Spurned Proposal                     By Effie Adelaide Rowlands
  1127--Daredevil Betty                                 By Evelyn Malcolm
  1128--Her Life’s Dark Cloud                       By Lillian R. Drayton
  1129--True Love Endures                              By Ida Reade Allen
  1130--The Battle of Hearts                         By Geraldine Fleming
  1131--Better Than Riches                               By Wenona Gilman
  1132--Tempted By Love                        By Effie Adelaide Rowlands
  1133--Between Good and Evil                     By Charlotte M. Stanley
  1134--A Southern Princess                        By Emma Garrison Jones
  1135--The Thorns of Love                              By Evelyn Malcolm
  1136--A Married Flirt                       By Mrs. Alex McVeigh Miller
  1137--Her Priceless Love                           By Geraldine Fleming
  1138--My Own Sweetheart                                By Wenona Gilman
  1139--Love’s Harvest                           By Adelaide Fox Robinson
  1140--His Two Loves                                  By Ida Reade Allen
  1141--The Love He Sought                          By Lillian R. Drayton
  1142--A Fateful Promise                      By Effie Adelaide Rowlands
  1143--Love Surely Triumphs                    By Charlotte May Kingsley
  1144--The Haunting Past                               By Evelyn Malcolm
  1145--Sorely Tried                               By Emma Garrison Jones
  1146--Falsely Accused                              By Geraldine Fleming
  1147--Love Given in Vain                       By Adelaide Fox Robinson
  1148--No One to Help Her                             By Ida Reade Allen
  1149--Her Golden Secret                      By Effie Adelaide Rowlands
  1150--Saved From Herself                           By Adelaide Stirling
  1151--The Gypsy’s Warning                        By Emma Garrison Jones
  1152--Caught in Love’s Net                           By Ida Reade Allen
  1153--The Pride of My Heart                        By Laura Jean Libbey
  1154--A Vagabond Heiress                      By Charlotte May Kingsley
  1155--That Terrible Tomboy                         By Geraldine Fleming
  1156--The Man She Hated                     By Mrs. Alex McVeigh Miller
  1157--Her Fateful Choice                        By Charlotte M. Stanley
  1158--A Hero For Love’s Sake                 By Effie Adelaide Rowlands
  1159--A Penniless Princess                       By Emma Garrison Jones
  1160--Love’s Rugged Pathway                          By Ida Reade Allen
  1161--Had She Loved Him Less                       By Laura Jean Libbey
  1162--The Serpent and the Dove                By Charlotte May Kingsley
  1163--What Love Made Her                           By Geraldine Fleming
  1164--Love Conquers Pride                   By Mrs. Alex McVeigh Miller
  1165--His Unbounded Faith                       By Charlotte M. Stanley
  1166--A Heart’s Triumph                      By Effie Adelaide Rowlands
  1167--Stronger than Fate                         By Emma Garrison Jones
  1168--A Virginia Goddess                             By Ida Reade Allen
  1169--Love’s Young Dream                           By Laura Jean Libbey
  1170--When Fate Decrees                        By Adelaide Fox Robinson
  1171--For a Flirt’s Love                           By Geraldine Fleming
  1172--All For Love                          By Mrs. Alex McVeigh Miller
  1173--Could He Have Known                      By Charlotte May Stanley
  1174--The Girl He Loved                            By Adelaide Stirling
  1175--They Met By Chance                             By Ida Reade Allen
  1176--The Lovely Constance                         By Laura Jean Libbey
  1177--The Love That Prevailed                  By Mrs. E. Burke Collins
  1178--Trixie’s Honor                               By Geraldine Fleming
  1179--Driven from Home                                 By Wenona Gilman
  1180--The Arm of the Law                              By Evelyn Malcolm
  1181--A Will Of Her Own                              By Ida Reade Allen
  1182--Pity--Not Love                               By Laura Jean Libbey
  1183--Brave Barbara                          By Effie Adelaide Rowlands
  1184--Lady Gay’s Martyrdom                    By Charlotte May Kingsley
  1185--Barriers of Stone                                By Wenona Gilman
  1186--A Useless Sacrifice                        By Emma Garrison Jones
  1187--When We Two Parted                    By Mrs. Alex McVeigh Miller
  1188--Far Above Price                                 By Evelvn Malcolm
  1189--In Love’s Shadows                              By Ida Reade Allen
  1190--The Veiled Bride                             By Laura Jean Libbey
  1191--The Love Knot                           By Charlotte May Kingsley
  1192--She Scoffed at Love                      By Mrs. E. Burke Collins
  1193--Life’s Richest Jewel                     By Adelaide Fox Robinson
  1194--A Barrier Between Them                          By Evelyn Malcolm
  1195--Too Quickly Judged                             By Ida Reade Allen
  1196--Lotta, the Cloak Model                       By Laura Jean Libbey
  1197--Loved at Last                                By Geraldine Fleming
  1198--They Looked and Loved                 By Mrs. Alex McVeigh Miller
  1199--The Wiles of a Siren                   By Effie Adelaide Rowlands
  1200--Tricked Into Marriage                           By Evelyn Malcolm
  1201--Her Twentieth Guest                        By Emma Garrison Jones
  1202--From Dreams to Waking                    By Charlotte M. Kingsley
  1203--Sweet Kitty Clover                           By Laura Jean Libbey
  1204--Selina’s Love Story                    By Effie Adelaide Rowlands
  1205--The Cost of Pride                           By Lillian R. Drayton
  1206--Love Is a Mystery                        By Adelaide Fox Robinson
  1207--When Love Speaks                                By Evelyn Malcolm
  1208--A Siren’s Heart                        By Effie Adelaide Rowlands
  1209--Her Share of Sorrow                              By Wenona Gilman
  1210--The Other Girl’s Lover                      By Lillian R. Drayton
  1211--The Fatal Kiss                        By Mrs. Alex McVeigh Miller
  1212--A Reckless Promise                         By Emma Garrison Jones
  1213--Without Name or Wealth                         By Ida Reade Allen
  1214--At Her Father’s Bidding                      By Geraldine Fleming
  1215--The Heart of Hetta                     By Effie Adelaide Rowlands
  1216--A Dreadful Legacy                            By Geraldine Fleming

In order that there may be no confusion, we desire to say that the
books listed below will be issued during the respective months in New
York City and vicinity. They may not reach the readers at a distance
promptly, on account of delays in transportation.


To be published in July, 1926.

  1217--For Jack’s Sake                            By Emma Garrison Jones
  1218--One Man’s Evil                         By Effie Adelaide Rowlands


To be published In August, 1926.

  1219--Through the Shadows                      By Adelaide Fox Robinson
  1220--The Stolen Bride                                By Evelyn Malcolm


To be published in September, 1926.

  1221--When the Heart Hungers                    By Charlotte M. Stanley
  1222--The Love that Would Not Die                    By Ida Reade Allen


To be published in October, 1926.

  1223--A King and a Coward                    By Effie Adelaide Rowlands
  1224--A Queen of Song                              By Geraldine Fleming


To be published in November, 1926.

  1225--Shall We Forgive Her?                   By Charlotte May Kingsley
  1226--Face to Face with Love                      By Lillian R. Drayton
  1227--Long Since Forgiven                      By Mrs. E. Burke Collins


To be published In December, 1926.

  1228--As Light as Air                           By Charlotte M. Stanley
  1229--When Man Proposes                          By Emma Garrison Jones




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Therefore, the STREET & SMITH NOVEL dealer is a careful and wise
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  STREET & SMITH CORPORATION
  79 Seventh Avenue       New York City




Transcriber’s Notes:


Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected.

Table of contents has been added and placed into the public domain by
the transcriber.

Due to a typographical error, an incorrect line of text (duplicated
from an earlier page) was printed on page 36 of the book used as the
basis for this edition. This has been replaced here with the correct
phrase: “never left him. What would she say when she learnt” which was
sourced from an overseas serialization of the work under the title
_Married in Haste_, with the correct text located in the Wednesday,
April 5, 1899 issue of _The Maryborough Chronicle_ newspaper.





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