CHAPTER III.
LOIS TURQUAND’S EMBARRASSMENT.
The sun, that was shut out by towering walls from the busy city, like some intrusive idler, was lying, half-slumbrously, like some magnificent Eastern slave arrayed in jewels and gold, among the brilliant-hued and many-scented flowers heaped under the striped Venetian blinds stretched over the balconies of a mansion in Lowndes Square.
An occasional soft breeze lifted the curtains lowered over the windows, granting a transient vision of apartments replete with luxury, glowing under the influence of an exquisitely delicate taste.
Within the principal drawing-room sat a stately matron, with silver-white hair, attired in full evening costume, apparently awaiting the arrival of expected guests.
Lady Quaintree was handsome, even at sixty, with a soft, clear skin, and a complexion girlishly brilliant; a figure full, without being dangerously stout; a most wondrously dainty hand, on which sparkled clusters of rings that might have formed a king’s ransom. Her ladyship had been a beauty in her youth—not a spoiled, ill-humored beauty, but one kind and indulgent, much flattered and loved, taking adoration as her due, as a queen accepts all the rights and privileges of her position.
A woman made up of mild virtues—good, though not religious; kind and pleasant, though not benevolent, abhorring the poor, and the sick, and the unfortunate—the very name of trouble was disagreeable to her. This world would have been a sunny, rose-tinted Arcadia could she have had her way; it should have been always summer.
She went regularly to church on Sunday morning with great decorum, turning over the pages of her beautiful ivory-covered church service at the proper time, and always put sovereigns on the plate with much liberality when there was a collection. She gave directions to her housekeeper in the country to deal out coats, and blankets,and all that sort of thing, to deserving applicants. If flower-girls, or wretched-looking beggars, crowded round her carriage when she went out shopping, they not unfrequently received sixpences as a bribe to take themselves and their miseries out of sight.
So that, altogether, her ladyship felt she had a reason to rely on being defended from all adversities which might happen to the body, and all evil thoughts which might assault and hurt the soul.
Lady Quaintree was nearly asleep when a liveried servant drew aside the velvet portière, and announced:
“Captain Desfrayne and Mr. Amberley!”
Paul Desfrayne’s glance swept the suite of apartments, as if in search of the girl who unconsciously held the threads of his destiny in her hands; but, to his relief, she was not to be seen.
He allowed himself to be led up to the mistress of the house, and went through the ceremony of introduction like one in a dream. Lady Quaintree spoke to him, and made some smiling remarks; but he was unable to do more than reply intelligibly in monosyllables. The first words that broke upon his half-dazed senses with anything like clearness were uttered by Frank Amberley.
“Not so much, my dear aunt, to pay our respects to you as to communicate a most important matter of business to—to Miss Turquand. I suppose we ought to have come at a proper hour in the business part of the day, but it was my idea to, if possible, take off the—in fact, I imagined it might be the most pleasant way of introducing Captain Desfrayne to bring him here this evening.”
Lady Quaintree had opened her eyes at the commencement of this speech.
“A most important matter of business concerning Miss Turquand?” she said. “What can it possibly be?”
“She certainly ought to be the first to hear it,” replied Frank Amberley; “though, as her nearest friend, my dear aunt, you ought to learn the facts as soon as herself.”
“You have a sufficiently mysterious air, Frank. I feel eager to hear these wonderful tidings.”
Her ladyship felt a little piqued that her nephew did not offer at once to give her at least some hint of what the important matter of business might be about.
A sudden thought seemed to strike her, and she rang a tiny, silver hand-bell with some sharpness, while an expression of anxiety crossed her face. As she did so, a figure, so ethereal that it seemed like an emanation of fancy, floated unexpectedly from the entrance to the farthest room, and came down the length of the two salons beyond that in which the little group was stationed.
For a moment it seemed as if this fairylike vision had appeared in response to the musical tingling of the bell.
A girl of eighteen or nineteen, dressed in the familiar costume of Undine. A figure, tall, full of a royal dignity and repose, like that of a statue of Diana. A face surrounded by a radiant glory of sun-bright hair, recalling those pure saints and martyrs which glow serenely mild from the dim walls of old Italian or Spanish cathedrals. Many faults might be found with that face, yet it was one that gained in attraction at every glance.
The young girl advanced so rapidly down the rooms that she was standing within a few feet of the two gentlemen before she could plan a swift retreat.
A vivid, painful blush overspread her face, and she stood as if either transformed into some beautiful sculptured image, or absolutely unable to decide which would be the worst of evils—to remain or to fly.
She turned the full luster of her translucent eyes upon Captain Desfrayne, as some lovely wild creature of the forest might gaze dismayed at the sight of a hunter, and then recoiled.
Lady Quaintree rose, and quickly moved a few steps, as if to intercept her, and said:
“My dear, don’t run away. Frank Amberley knows all about the tableau for which you are obliged to prepare. I thought you would have come down before to let me see how the dress suited; but I suppose that abominable Lagrange has been late, as usual. My dear Lois, I am dying with curiosity. These gentlemen—Captain Desfrayne and Mr. Frank Amberley—have come to tell you some wonderful piece of business, and I want toknow what it is as soon as possible. Pray stop. You will only lose time if you go to change your dress.”
“I beseech you, madam, let me go,” pleaded Lois Turquand, troubled by her unforeseen, embarrassing situation—strangely troubled by the steadfast gaze which Paul Desfrayne, in spite of himself, fixed upon her.
“Nonsense! You must hear what they have to say. I feel puzzled, and anxious to know.”
Lois vainly tried to avoid that singular, inexplicable look, which seemed to master her. Had she not been so suddenly taken at a disadvantage, she would have repelled it with displeasure. As it was, she had a curious sense of being mesmerized. She ceased to urge her entreaty for permission to depart, and stood motionless, though her color fluctuated every instant.