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.