CHAPTER V.
A TRIPLE BONDAGE.
Lady Quaintree had hoped to glean a little more information from the two gentlemen, for she was as much excited as if she herself had been the inheritrix of the eccentric old man’s money.
But she was disappointed. Scarcely had she returned to the principal drawing-room, when five or six guests arrived, and from that moment people came pouring into the salons until there was a well-bred, well-dressed throng.
Lois did not wait to be sent for. She came in with a quiet, calm dignity of manner, the color a shade deeper on her cheeks, and a feverish glitter in her eyes, but otherwise self-possessed, as usual.
Her marked change of costume attracted universal attention, and many inquiries were made. Lady Quaintree had the supreme felicity of being able to diffuse the information just received through a dozen different channels, whereby she was sure it would permeate to society in general.
“I should not have permitted her to appear had this been a dancing-party,” she explained. “But it is so quiet, and I am unable to manage without her.
“She is quite like a daughter to me,” she went on, thoroughly believing her own enthusiastic speeches, and feeling a maternal pride swell her bosom. A tear or so lightly brushed away by her lace handkerchief would have added to the effect, but tears come and go at will, not at the command of those who would summon or dismiss them.
Miss Turquand sat so tranquil in appearance, and bore the masked battery of curious eyes so calmly, that some people who listened with amazement were indignant. Lady Quaintree’s companion did not seem conscious that anything unusual had happened. Two or three times she glanced through the veil of silken lashes which fringedher translucent gray eyes at Captain Desfrayne, but it was a glance swift as lightning, not betraying the most transient glimpse of the strange, mingled feelings of resentment and lively interest aroused in her heart by the claim made upon her in behalf of the handsome young officer.
Captain Desfrayne carefully avoided looking at his beautiful charge. He seemed to be profoundly indifferent on the subject of Mr. Vere Gardiner’s whims and fancies, and neither approached Miss Turquand nor evinced the slightest desire to become acquainted with her.
Frank Amberley and Lady Quaintree thought this strange, but neither showed that they were in any way conscious of Captain Desfrayne’s cold indifference toward the young girl.
Paul Desfrayne found some people among the crowd whom he knew, and was introduced to some others by his hostess, or by Frank Amberley, so he ought not to have experienced the profound sense of ennui and oppression which made him long to be anywhere but in this brilliant throng.
Lady Quaintree at last seized an opportunity of questioning her nephew on the subject of the mysterious old man, and in a few words he gave her as much information as he thought advisable.
“How extraordinary!” she said. “What a very romantic case! I have no objection to his leaving a fine fortune to my dear little girl, but I think he should not have hampered her with such disagreeable conditions. He seems to have been remarkably eccentric.”
“I knew scarcely anything of him,” Mr. Amberley replied. “I think, certainly, it was an odd thing for him to lay such an embargo on the liberty of two young people, and I doubt not but the expression of his wishes will most probably be the means of hindering them from——”
He abruptly paused. His aunt looked searchingly at him, anxious to learn his secret thoughts, for more reasons than one.
“I know Lois will never be the one to love when she is ordered to dispose of her affections,” she said, veryquietly. “And I am perfectly convinced she will never marry any one whom she does not love.”
A most wonderfully indiscreet question—one which he knew Lady Quaintree would not answer, but which he longed to ask, nevertheless—trembled on the lips of the young lawyer, yet he could not form the necessary words. He was about to ask:
“Do you think she cares for any one at present?” But Lady Quaintree was called away before he could muster sufficient presence of mind even to debate with himself whether it were possible to as much as hint such a query.
Lois’ opinion of Paul Desfrayne, gathered from those fugitive glances, was that she could never like him even as a friend. He seemed so cold, so self-absorbed, so haughty, that her sense of antagonism deepened. The strange, bewildering sense of magnetic attraction which had fallen upon her during the first few moments of their unexpected meeting had faded away, to be replaced by a firmly rooted conviction that she could never entertain even the mildest liking for this almost stern, melancholy looking guardian.
Paul Desfrayne’s idea of Lois—at whom he had, indeed, hardly glanced at all—was that, while beautiful as a statue, she was as icy as if carved from marble.
Deeper and darker grew the cloud upon the young man’s brow; and at length, finding a favorable chance to escape unseen, he quitted the softly illumined drawing-room, wherein he had deemed himself a prisoner; and with a slow step he descended the wide, richly carpeted staircase, revolving thoughts evidently not too pleasing.
He had just reached the bottom of the stairs when a figure, radiant as Venus herself, alighted from a brougham at the door, and swept over the threshold, in all the pride and glory of the most brilliant and latest Parisian toilet.
It was the woman who had been sitting in the balcony in Porchester Square the previous evening, when the weary pedestrian had stopped Captain Desfrayne, and implored his pity.
Almost at the moment when she alighted, she was met by a young man, who was about to enter the mansion.
This young man was Lady Quaintree’s only son—a fair, slender, rather foppish young fellow, with a pale, interesting face, and a pretty, graceful figure.
The attention of the resplendent creature in pink satin and white lace was turned smilingly on this young man, who stepped eagerly forward, and offered her his arm; otherwise she must have seen Captain Desfrayne, who gazed at her as people are supposed to stare at specters.
A few muttered, half-broken words escaped Paul Desfrayne’s lips, and he looked hurriedly about, with the air of an animal at bay. Then, swiftly turning, as the two gay, laughing and flirting apparitions came up the hall, he threw aside a crimson velvet portière, and plunged recklessly into a room close at hand.
It was a moderate-sized sitting-room, flooded with a soft, pure light, and deliciously cool in contrast to the heated salons above.
Paul Desfrayne was about to congratulate himself on the retired nook into which he had managed to tumble; but almost at the instant when he entered, he heard a silvery, musical voice, sounding so as to evidence that the person who owned it was rapidly approaching from a conservatory opening on the room—the voice of his mother, speaking in animated conversation.
It was impossible to retreat, though he would gladly have avoided even his idolized mother at that moment. Nay, she was just then the last being he desired to see.
She would naturally be surprised to meet him here, for until this evening he had scarcely known anything of Lord or Lady Quaintree.
The clustered lights above the doorway, half-hidden as they were by climbing exotics trained in prodigal profusion about slender columns, shed their glowing beams upon an animated face and superbly handsome figure, as Mrs. Desfrayne appeared, arrayed, as was her wont, with faultless taste. Her companion was Lord Quaintree, the famous judge—a tall, noble old Englishman.
“I am free to confess, my lord,” she was saying, “that I do not at all approve of the presence of these singing-women at reunions such as this of to-night. They are very well in their proper places, these people.” It wouldbe impossible to give any idea of the insolent disdain with which these words were uttered. “But they ought not to be allowed to mix with——”
She suddenly paused, as she caught sight of Paul, and, in her amazement, stood still, gazing upon him with an expression of blank astonishment. Half-angry with herself for being so surprised, she felt that she was accidentally placed in an almost ludicrous position for the moment; yet she could not as much as speak a word.
Captain Desfrayne, for his part, could not have uttered one syllable if his life had depended on it. He had never, in all his days, felt so completely at a nonplus—so forlorn, so distracted, as he did at this instant. A terrible scene he knew was at hand, and he could not tell what might be the result.
Lord Quaintree looked with surprise from one to the other, not being able to comprehend what was passing before his eyes. He had never seen Captain Desfrayne, and could not guess why Mrs. Desfrayne should be thus betrayed into so singular a display of emotion. Conscious that probably he might be a little in the way, he yet did not know how to move himself off the stage with his ordinary easy grace.
Mrs. Desfrayne was the first to speak. She exclaimed:
“Paul!”
Captain Desfrayne bowed.
“At your service, madam,” he said, very simply.
“I was not aware——Lord Quaintree, my son—my only son—Captain Desfrayne.”
Lord Quaintree smiled, and held out his hand. He saw that something was amiss, without knowing what.
“I hope to see you presently, Captain Desfrayne,” he said, with his pleasant, urbane manner. “I must show myself up-stairs at once, or my lady will think I have run away.”
He left the room, surmising that the two would greatly prefer being left together. But for very shame’s sake, Paul would have caught him by the sleeve, and detained him as a temporary shield.