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.