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.