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!”