PAUL DESFRAYNE’S REFLECTIONS.
With a heart as heavy as lead, Paul Desfrayne turned back to rejoin
the two girls, when he had ascertained that, though trembling a little
from nervous fright, his horse, Greyburn, was quite safe. He thought
what a fortunate dispensation of Providence it would have been had the
One Hundred and Tenth Regiment been ordered on foreign service--say, to
China or Timbuctoo.
How many poor fellows had been separated from all they loved best,
never to behold adored faces more this side the grave, banished into
semisolitude, while he was forced to abide within range of his dreaded
Nemesis!
When he again appeared within the little chapel, he was by no means
lively company. Cold, abstracted, silent, he seemed to make no effort
to arouse himself. He was thinking, indeed, as his eyes wandered to the
high windows through which the steady downpour of rain could be clearly
seen, what a striking emblem of his life this black, pitiless storm
might be.
Lois regarded him through her long, drooping eyelashes with mingled
feelings of admiration and pique. Her belief that his thoughts were
with another gained fresh impetus.
“Yet,” she said to herself, “why need he be so uncivil to me? Perhaps
he imagines that if he were to be ordinarily attentive, I might flatter
myself he meant to ask me to fulfil the hateful bargain. I would not
marry him if he tried to persuade me to-morrow.”
The hot blood swept in wrathful waves over her face, just now paled by
affright and her fit of syncope. Anger made her draw her slight figure
up to its full height; and when Captain Desfrayne turned and addressed
some trifling remark to her, she replied with a frigid coldness that
struck even herself as being ungrateful and ungracious.
Blanche was more than ever persuaded that there had been a stormy
quarrel, and that even yet neither chose to advance one step toward
reconciliation.
It was a relief to the three when hurrying footsteps and the sound of
excited voices showed that help was at hand.
In a few minutes several men servants, headed by the rough-pated boy
who had gone in search of them, were pressing into the chapel. One
carried shawls and wraps, and another some wine, in case the young
ladies and their deliverer should be faint.
“Oh, dear!--oh, dear!--oh, dear!” cried Blanche, with a great sigh.
“What _will_ mama and Lady Quaintree say? How I shall be scolded and
cried over! It has been my fault entirely.”
“We were both to blame,” answered Lois.
“No; I planned our escapade, and persuaded you, and forgot to make our
boat fast.”
“The boat would have been of no use to you, Miss Dormer, in such a
storm,” said Captain Desfrayne.
“True. It has been a most unlucky affair altogether,” sighed Blanche.
“I presume you are now quite safe in charge of these good people,”
said the young man. “There will be no impropriety in leaving you, I
trust--you and Miss Turquand?”
He bent his eyes on the floor, fixing them on a flat tombstone at his
feet, as if feeling half-guilty in thus wishing to desert them.
“Why do you need to leave us, Captain Desfrayne?” demanded Blanche,
in a sharp, ringing tone, indicating great surprise and a dash of
displeasure. “Are you obliged to go?”
“I--I must return to my quarters,” answered he, still avoiding her
glance.
“Oh! it will be impossible for you to go without seeing Lady Quaintree,
at least,” protested Miss Dormer. “Besides, it is nearer to the
barracks from the principal gates of the Hall. You must, at least, pass
through with us, and just see Lady Quaintree and mama.”
Paul glanced swiftly at Lois. She was standing up, the pride of a young
empress dilating her figure, displayed in the turn of her head. Her
face was half-averted, as if she would not deign to take part in the
argument, but her fingers were twitching nervously in one another.
“Why should this strange mistrust--this presentiment of deadly ill,
haunt me?” Paul asked himself. “There is no danger of my falling in
love with this girl, and as little of her honoring me with any tender
regards. Probably her heart is already fully occupied with the image of
some one else. This vague fear is simply absurd, and I must master it.
I am unwell, and my nerves are unstrung. Perhaps I may shortly find an
opportunity of explaining to her how I am really situated. It would be
better to speak to her myself than to leave the painful duty to others.”
He gave way to Blanche’s arguments, with a tolerable grace, though
alleging that he saw no reason why he should feel it necessary to see
the elder ladies.
One of the servants was directed to get his horse, and bring it round
to the front of Flore Hall; then the party moved in the direction of
the house.
Lois was determined on not giving way again, but she was faint and
giddy, and at length was compelled to accept the support of Paul
Desfrayne’s arm.
Not a word was exchanged on the way, though it seemed of a wearisome
length.
Another profound sigh escaped Blanche as they reached the end.
“I am thankful we have you, Captain Desfrayne, as a sort of shield,”
she half-laughingly exclaimed. “They cannot scold us so terribly when
you are by, and when you depart the worst will be over.”
Mrs. Ormsby had informed Lady Quaintree and Mrs. Dormer of the state of
affairs; but although aware that the girls were in safety, the ladies
had fallen into dreadful agitation.
The meeting might readily be imagined, but would baffle description.
For some minutes the elder ladies were so much absorbed by rejoicings,
tears, kisses, reproaches, that they hardly noticed the stranger.
When Lois and Blanche had managed to give some intelligible account of
their adventures, Paul Desfrayne was obliged to undergo a fresh shower
of thanks, which were most distasteful to him.
“How can I contrive to escape?” he was asking himself, when Lady
Quaintree startled him by saying:
“And we must really insist on your staying to dinner, Captain
Desfrayne. You would catch your death of cold if you were to go out
again while this heavy rain lasts.”
The young man started back.
“You are very kind, madam,” he murmured. “But I--I could not stay, I
assure you.”
“Come, sir, I must exercise an old woman’s authority, and forbid you
to leave us,” cried Lady Quaintree laughingly. “Your mother is, I may
say, an old friend of mine, and I could not answer to her if her son
met with any mishap on leaving any house where I might be supposed to
have a voice. We owe you the safety of these wilful girls, and you must
allow us to see to your welfare. If the rain does not abate, you must
not ride back, but, if you refuse to honor us by remaining under this
roof for the night, must accept the use of one of the carriages in the
coach-house.”
Lady Quaintree was playing against her own interests; but common
charity would not have permitted her to let a dog go out in that
sullen, dashing, persistent rain.
Paul Desfrayne looked at the disheartening prospect from the windows,
and resigned himself to his fate.
Without, all looked so dismal and forbidding--out _there_, where
his evil past lay crouching, ever ready to spring up and confront
him. Within here all seemed so soft and inviting with this white and
gold, and velvet couches, and flowers in rich profusion, and these
dulcet-toned, high-bred women, symbolic of the brilliant, tempting
present, which beckoned to him, sirenlike.
“You are very kind--too kind, madam,” he said, bowing low, and speaking
in a constrained, husky voice.
So it was settled he should dine with them; and the girls went away to
change their dresses.
Mama Dormer had brought a small portmanteau over in the carriage with
her, containing “a few things” required by Blanche during her brief
stay.
Lois being in black did not need much alteration in her attire, but
by means of a trained, black skirt, and a thin, high, white bodice,
and a suite of jet ornaments, she contrived to make an effective
dinner-costume.
By the time they rustled back to the drawing-room, where the little
party was to assemble for dinner, the servants were lighting the wax
tapers, causing a soft glitter to illuminate the apartment.
The rain had ceased. The sultry heat began to come back, and all the
windows had been thrown open, admitting the luscious odors of the
countless flowers in the gardens. The scent of the summer roses was
almost overcoming after the rain.
The last, dying rays of the setting sun dyed the sky, from which all
but a few floating, feathery clouds had vanished away.
Lois and Blanche looked irresistibly beautiful as they entered the
room, the one in her simple, somber attire, the other in a shimmering
green silken robe, trimmed with white lace, and frilled fine muslin.
As Lois came in, Paul Desfrayne’s eyes met hers, and by some mysterious
fascination, neither he nor she could remove their gaze.
The young girl trembled from some undefined feeling--a sense of mingled
pain and pleasure.
Paul felt as if some gauntleted hand had mercilessly compressed his
heart. He shivered as if from cold.
“I believe some malignant genius drove me out this day,” he thought.
Lois averted her eyes by a violent effort of will.
“Why does he look at me like this, when he is so cold and repellent in
his manners?” she indignantly asked herself.
Lady Quaintree caught the glance, and partly interpreted the looks of
both.
“I wish I had had the sense to stop at home,” she said mentally. “I
am afraid my Gerald’s chance will be a small one. We really must get
away to-morrow at latest. Luckily, the gallant knight errant is pinned
safely down in this remote part of the world, and I must coax Lois to
go to Switzerland, or some other comfortable place, to give my boy a
fair start in the race.”
Her ladyship kept a pretty sharp watch on the two young people--Lois
and her handsome young trustee. But, during dinner, nothing rewarded
her for her vigilance, or, to speak more correctly, she was absolutely
rewarded by observing that they did not once exchange a look, and only
noticed each other’s presence when obliged to do so by the etiquette of
the table.
This apparent mutual misunderstanding puzzled her a good deal. Captain
Desfrayne’s reserved manner with his beautiful young charge perplexed
her extremely. That he should not endeavor to improve his opportunity
of obtaining favor with the young girl seemed inexplicable; and when
she found that both were evidently resolved on steadfastly declining to
pass the ice-bound line that divided them, she marveled more and more.
“There is some undercurrent here which I do not understand,” she
thought. “It seems strange, but there is certainly some ill-will
between them. What can the matter be?”
Had not Lois been her constant companion for the last four years,
during which time the young girl had been completely ignorant of Paul
Desfrayne’s existence, Lady Quaintree might have imagined, with Blanche
Dormer, that there was a lovers’ quarrel.
After cudgeling her brains for an explanation of this mystery, a
possible solution presented itself. Lady Quaintree knew family pride to
be one of Mrs. Desfrayne’s weak points, and perhaps this peculiarity
might be magnified in her son. Remembering that if the refusal to obey
the old man’s whim came from his side, it would involve on his part
a heavy pecuniary loss, she concluded that he wished to induce Miss
Turquand to think him a very undesirable lover, and thus to cause the
refusal to come from her.
This view having presented itself, her ladyship wavered in the
resolution of at once quitting Flore Hall. If Captain Desfrayne was
determined not to profit by his advantageous position, but to drive
Miss Turquand to refuse him, would he not be an eligible ally?
Many a girl, she knew, slighted by one, eagerly if hastily accepted the
next that offered.
Yet, until she could ascertain _why_ Paul Desfrayne did not relish
the bride proposed to him, she might be playing a dangerous game in
allowing him to be too near her lovely protégée.
Lady Quaintree felt thoroughly perplexed and unsettled, in fact, and
could only arrive finally at the conclusion that the wisest plan would
be to let herself be guided by a cautious observation of the course of
events.
“I wish we could have brought Gerald down with us,” she sighed.
“However, the way must be clearer in a few days.”
At Lois’ earnest entreaty, Lady Quaintree had taken all but the actual
name of mistress in the house. She sat at the head of the table, and
played the role of hostess. Owing to her consummate tact, the dinner
did not pass so drearily as it might otherwise have done.
She gave the signal to rise, and smilingly told Captain Desfrayne he
should have half an hour’s grace to smoke a cigar if he pleased.
The ladies adjourned to the white drawing-room, where a soft glitter of
wax tapers shed a pleasant, mellow light.
Squire Dormer had arranged to come for his wife and daughter at eight
or nine o’clock. When the storm broke, Mrs. Dormer had feared she
might be obliged to stay all night, but now the sky had cleared, the
sultry heat already nearly dried up the pools of water lying on the
garden-walks, and the silver moon had risen in royal splendor.
Blanche flew to the piano--a superb instrument as far as appearance
went, but it was very decidedly out of tune. There was no music
anywhere visible, but Miss Dormer sat down and began playing morsels
and snatches of melody from recollection. Then she asked Lois to sing.
Lois had always been accustomed to so implicitly obey the wishes
of those about her, that she did not think of refusing, but took
Blanche’s seat and ran her fingers skilfully over the keys.
“I don’t feel very well,” she mildly protested. “But I will do my best.”
“Don’t overexert yourself, my love,” said Lady Quaintree.
“I should be delighted to hear you,” Mrs. Dormer remarked, almost at
the same moment.
Captain Desfrayne heard the chords of the piano from his solitary
retreat, and, being passionately fond of music, he came out on the
terrace and moved into the leafy shadow, from whence he could view the
interior of the drawing-room without being himself seen.
Lois had just seated herself as he took up this station. The mellow,
amber rays of the wax lights fell on her graceful figure and on her
stately head. From the spot where he stood, Paul Desfrayne could watch
her every movement. Unconsciously to himself, he drank in the sweet
poison of love at every glance as he observed the pure, statuesque
lines and curves of that queenly form, the rich, silken shimmer of the
lovely hair, the harmonious, suave grace of each motion.
“I will summon up courage to-night, if I can possibly find an
opportunity,” he thought, “and tell her the truth. I may have a chance
of speaking to her. After to-night, it will probably be months before
we meet again, if we ever do meet. She seems sweet and amiable; she is
undoubtedly as beautiful as a dream. Probably she will pity my unhappy
position, and sympathize with my misfortunes, even if they arise from
my own folly. What a madman I have been! Truly they say: ‘Marry in
haste, repent at leisure.’ What would I not give or do to be free once
more!”
Lois began to sing. She had thought for a minute or two, and then
struck the chords of a graceful symphony to a pathetic Irish air.
Her voice was clear and deliciously sweet--pure as that of an angel.
Thanks to Lady Quaintree, it had been most carefully trained, and the
young girl had a sensitive feeling for the words as well as the music
of what she sang.
Paul Desfrayne’s relentless memory went back to those feverish days
when he had listened, spellbound in that heated theater at Florence, to
the siren notes of the woman who had destroyed his happiness.
The contrast between Lucia Guiscardini and Lois Turquand was as great
as between darkness and light. In every respect they totally differed.
The one was a magnificent tigress, regal in beauty, haughty and
unbending in temper; the other a gentle white doe, lovely and soft.
Presently the song ceased. Blanche’s laced handkerchief stole to her
eyes for a moment, then she kissed her friend by way of thanks. There
was a little buzz of well-bred, musical voices for a minute or two, and
then the girls emerged on the upper terrace as if coming out to breathe
the fresh air.
Paul Desfrayne drew back still farther within the sheltering gloom,
rendered all the more secure by the increasing splendor of the
moonlight, which caused strange, sudden contrasts of light and shade in
the gardens. The faint scent of his cigar might have warned the girls
of his proximity, but they did not notice it. He was, however, out of
ear-shot.
For a moment he thought of ascending the short flight of steps leading
from the lower to the upper terrace, but feeling that in his present
depressed state he would be poor company, he elected to stay where he
was.
Within half an hour he resolved to take leave of his entertainers, and
ride home.
“Home!” he said to himself bitterly. “I have no home--no prospect of
home. No home, no peace, no rest. I am like a gambler who has staked
and lost a fortune at one fatal throw. And my unrest is made all the
more poignant by the tempting will-o’-the-wisp fate has sent to dance
before me, mockingly.”