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.