A VISION OF FREEDOM.
“On my return to our native village, after an absence of some two
months,” continued Gilardoni, “I found that the priest, Lucia’s
brother, had departed. His successor--a stranger--received me very
kindly; but when I revealed to him my painful situation, and asked
his advice, he looked perfectly distressed. When I begged him to let
me have a copy of the register of my marriage, he told me, with much
agitation, that the book had been stolen.”
“Stolen!--by her?” exclaimed Paul Desfrayne.
“Without a doubt,” replied Gilardoni. “He had not arrived at the time
it was purloined. I believe that the night Lucia fled from my home she
gained access to the chapel, taking the keys from her brother’s room.
It was not until the eve of his departure that he knew anything of the
loss, for there had not been any occasion to use the book during those
last weeks.”
“She had taken this daring means to free herself from your authority,
or the legal control you might have exercised over her?” said Paul
Desfrayne. “Had she, think you, destroyed the book?”
He made the inquiry with a flutter at his heart.
“I suppose so,” answered Gilardoni. “It is impossible she would have
had the folly to preserve it. The probability--the certainty is, that
she burned it.”
“What infamy--what wickedness!” cried Paul Desfrayne.
Gilardoni shrugged his shoulders.
“Her insatiate ambition, her craving for wealth, station, luxury,
overmastered all other feelings,” he said.
“Then she was free to defy you and all the world?”
“Quite so.”
“What did you do on making this extraordinary discovery?”
“What could I do? No inquiries could enable me to glean the slightest
clue to the place whither her brother, the priest, had gone. I sought
in every direction my limited resources admitted of for information as
to his whereabouts, but, beyond the fact that he had gone to America,
could learn nothing.”
“America? What part of America?”
“I could not ascertain. Some place in South America. Afterward, when
I began to move about more freely, I might perhaps have obtained the
name of his location, but by that time I had lost all desire of even
seeing or hearing of the treacherous woman I had made my wife. I said
to myself, even if I succeeded in proving the legality of my union with
her, of what avail would it be? She would never return to me: even
if she did, she would be like another creature, not the Lucia I had
loved--the pretty, innocent girl I fancied loved me.”
“Did you see her again?”
“I made no attempt to do so. I wrote a few lines, bitterly reproaching
her for the crime she had committed--the double crime. Of that brief
letter she took no notice whatever. She continued, I believe, to study
with the Signor Ballarini, until fitted to appear on the stage. I do
not know what agreement she made with him; the only thing I know is
that she came out under her own name, not, thanks be to Providence,
under mine!”
“And then she attained her desire of becoming a star of the first
magnitude,” said Captain Desfrayne, as Gilardoni paused. “She gained
the wealth, luxury, power, all but the rank she yearned for. Did you
ever see her after that day you came on her by accident in the garden
at Turin?”
“I have at rare intervals happened to catch a glimpse of her, without
desiring to see her, driving past in her carriage, perhaps,” replied
Gilardoni. “Not even once have I had the curiosity to enter the theater
when she has been singing; the screech of some arch fiend would have
been as pleasing in my ears as her finest notes. Not once have I felt
an inclination to ask a question as to her way of life.
“People have told me that she is one of the best of women, noted for
her charity and goodness. They little knew that he to whom they spoke
had the first right to be considered in her schemes of benevolence.
I took no care of my little money, already diminished by my searches
after her unworthy self, and after her brother.
“The consequence was, I soon became reduced almost to the verge
of want. The good priest who had succeeded the Padre Josef, my
brother-in-law, obtained for me a situation as servant to a
nobleman--the Count Di Venosta--with whom I was when I first saw you,
sir. My life flowed in a dull current until his death; after that,
illness, poverty, misery, despair, until these last few days, when I
had the good fortune to meet with you, and you had compassion on my
friendless state.”
Captain Desfrayne considered for some moments. Should he reveal his
painful secret to this man who had been so frank with him? He could
not resolve to do so: the humiliation would be too great. Before he
had felt his situation most painful. These revelations rendered it
well-nigh insupportable.
That Madam Guiscardini should have the daring to plan the theft of the
marriage-register, and the nerve, the cool audacity, to carry her plot
into execution, and then refrain from the destruction of the proof she
desired to keep from all men’s eyes, was incredible. Yet a strange
thought occurred to him.
“If no proof of her marriage with you exists,” he said to the Italian,
“how do you account for the fact that she evidently fears to accept any
of the brilliant offers they say she has received?”
“Very easily,” answered Leonardo, with a savage grimace. “Although the
book is, or may be, no longer in existence, her brother may be found
any day, and he could prove her marriage. I do not care to seek him,
and if I did, my poverty restrains me. But she probably knows well that
if she dared to marry any of these infatuated nobles, who are ready to
throw their coronets at her feet, I should stand forth and denounce
her. If I declare her to be my wife, she must disprove my words. I, in
my poverty, can do nothing; but a rich man--such as she would desire to
wed--could seek for the man who could seal my words as truth.”
A thrill of hope ran through the heart of his hearer. For a moment
the impulse to tell him the bitter facts of his own share in Lucia’s
miserable history almost overmastered Paul Desfrayne’s prudence. But
he resolved to make no sign until he had consulted Frank Amberley,
to whom he looked now as his chief friend and adviser in his present
difficulties. If he could get leave of absence, he meant to go to
London for some hours the next day, in order to see the young lawyer.
“Perhaps her brother is dead,” he suggested.
“Perhaps so,” assented the other. “But she would feel secure if such
were the case, and we should soon hear of her as princess, duchess, or
some such exalted personage.”
“He might die, and make no sign. Missionary priests are sometimes slain
in obscure places, or die of hunger on toilsome journeys, and are never
heard of more,” Captain Desfrayne said.
He knew full well that it was in reality her luckless marriage with
himself that fixed the bar.
“Sir,” Leonardo said, “I think I have earned the right to ask how this
cross--my first gift to her--came from her hands into your possession.”
This was a home-thrust.
“She fancied I was the rich milord who might one day place a coronet
on her brow,” said Paul Desfrayne, very slowly. “I was one of her most
ardent admirers at Florence.”
“I understand.”
“Afterward--some time later--she discovered that I was--that I was
not the wealthy nobleman she had imagined me to be,” half-stammered
Gilardoni’s master.
“That was enough. I comprehend. That was quite enough for her. But if
she wished to entrap you, she would have dared to consent to marry you.”
“My good fellow, I wish to get to my room,” said the young officer, who
felt sick at heart, although a faint gleam of hope had come to him. “It
is almost break of dawn.”
These last words struck him with a singular sense of being familiar,
as if he had uttered them in some previous stage of existence, or had
heard some one speak them at some startling crisis.
“You must be tired out, sir.”
Gilardoni pushed the little cross toward his master without making any
remark about it.
“I don’t want the thing, Gilardoni,” said Paul Desfrayne, with a
half-contemptuous sigh. “It is yours of right, I doubt not. It can have
no value for me. I do not know why I have preserved it.”
He took up the taper which his valet had lighted, and went into his
bedroom, saying he had no need of further service from Gilardoni.
Then he closed and locked the door, and sat down on the edge of his
bed, to consider his position.
A thousand distracting thoughts ran through his brain, but above all
dominated the one idea that he must, at any hazard, try to find out
if the Padre Josef were alive or dead. If alive, he could loose these
agonizing bonds that were cutting his life-strings. If dead----
If dead, then no hope remained.
At all events, the first step would be to see Frank Amberley.
What if he essayed another interview with Lucia Guiscardini, and, armed
with his present knowledge, sought to extort some kind of confession
from her? Should he endeavor to make her tell whether she knew, or did
not know, if her brother yet lived?
With his unhappy experience of her obstinate and violent temper, he
could scarcely hope for any good result from seeing her. He had no
power or influence over her, could offer no inducement of any kind to
persuade her to admit anything. Too well he knew beforehand that she
would flatly deny her marriage with Leonardo Gilardoni--would probably
deny that she had now or ever had had a brother at all. She would
either laugh in his face, or storm with rage, as the humor suited her.
To seek out the priest would demand an immense outlay, and if, after
all, the search should prove unavailing, or he should be dead, then he,
Paul Desfrayne, would be left penniless, and possibly heavily in debt.
Would it be well to send Gilardoni on the quest? No one would seek
as he should. Each little trifle that might escape others, however
hawk-eyed, would be sure clues to his eager, vengeful glance.
“I will decide nothing now,” he at last thought. “I will be entirely
guided by Frank Amberley’s advice. He will be able to judge what is
best, and, if the search is advisable, will be capable of estimating
the probable expenses. My liberty alone would be worth ten years of my
life.”
For a moment the vision of what might be if his freedom were secured
presented itself before his mind, but he dared not indulge in the
dangerous contemplation of such a joy, and sank into troubled slumbers
as the first rays of the morning sun penetrated into the chamber.
His face looked worn and weary in the fresh morning beams, as it rested
on his arm.
The heart of his fond mother must have been melted with love and pity
had she gazed on the distressed face, and noted the restless tossing of
the wearied body, to which sleep seemed to bring no refreshment.
* * * * *
The day came in its inevitable course.
Lady Quaintree and Lois made sure that they would see Captain Desfrayne
during the afternoon. Ordinary etiquette, if no other feeling, must
bring him to inquire how the young ladies fared after their fright.
Lady Quaintree did not attempt to induce Lois to confide in her.
Lois, on her side, did not volunteer any remark beyond a very few dry
commonplaces regarding the rescue of herself and Blanche Dormer from
their perilous situation. The young girl made no sign whereby Lady
Quaintree could judge of the state of her feelings.
Both were prepared to wait with a kind of painful uncertainty for
Captain Desfrayne’s coming. Each wished, for different reasons, that
this journey had never been undertaken.
Had any rational excuse been at hand, each would have urged an
immediate return to London.
The question was settled very unexpectedly. As the three ladies rose
from breakfast, a servant came in very hurriedly, the bearer of a
telegram directed to Lady Quaintree.
Her ladyship’s hand trembled slightly as she took the paper from the
salver, and she hesitated for a moment before breaking the envelope.
Telegrams, when unexpected, are always more or less alarming, and Lady
Quaintree could not think of any possible good reason why any one
should address one to her. She took it out, however, and, putting on
her gold-rimmed spectacles, read the curt sentences:
“Return as soon as possible. My father ill, though not seriously so.
He wishes for you. A train leaves Holston at 12:15; the next at 2:45.”
It was from her son Gerald.
Lady Quaintree gave the telegram to the two girls, while she inquired
if the messenger was still in waiting.
The youth who had come from the railway-station was called into the
room. Lois wrote an answer from Lady Quaintree’s dictation to the
effect that they would start by the 12:15 train, and this was sent by
the same messenger who had brought the telegram.
As the visit was simply a flying one, little preparation had been
made, and the ladies’ luggage was of the most portable description; so
Justine, who was hastily summoned, had nothing to do in the shape of
packing.
Mrs. Ormsby was sent for, and came in dignified haste.
“We are obliged to leave a day sooner than we had arranged for, Mrs.
Ormsby,” said Lady Quaintree. “Miss Turquand is not sure of what time
she may return, and it may be a long period before I come again. But we
are both well pleased with the order and arrangement of everything in
the establishment under your control.”
The housekeeper curtsied to imply her thanks and gratification. Her
ladyship requested that the carriage might be ready at once, as they
left by the 12:15 train for London.
A council of war was held as to the desirability of Blanche’s
accompanying them. No time remained for consulting her parents, so at
length Lady Quaintree settled that she should go with them.
“Even if my lord should prove more unwell than my son admits,” she
said, “you will be a great comfort to me and to our dear Lois; and if
you should find my house irksome under the circumstances, I can easily
locate you with any one of half a dozen friends, who would be delighted
to receive you, my love.”
The three were soon equipped for their journey. As the day was soft and
warm, almost threatening to be sultry and overcoming, the completion
of their toilets consisted in donning country straw hats, dainty lace
capes, and gloves. Lady Quaintree folded a soft white shawl of fine
silky wool about her, and they descended to the carriage, having
hurriedly partaken of luncheon prepared by Mrs. Ormsby.