CHAPTER X.
BUILDING ON SAND.
Mrs. Desfrayne felt much as Alnaschar is described to have felt when he found his radiant visions at an end. She had built up a perfect Aladdin’s Palace of bright and fairy enjoyment, and now it had faded completely.
She was endowed with a lively imagination, and had rapidly conjured up dreams as charming as they were baseless, like a boarding-school girl building up a deliciouschâteau d’Espagnewith enameled bits of painted cardboard.
She had never liked the quiet, graceful girl who was such a favorite with Lady Quaintree, and now she was in a fair way to hate her. What, perhaps, angered her more than anything else was that this girl should, of all others, have been selected by some one totally unknown to her to be her son’s wife.
She had no desire that Paul should marry, though she had a vague idea that she would be glad if he discovered some wealthy and beautiful heiress, and was successful in his suit. Jealous of any creature who might threaten to divide with her the affections of her beloved child, the thought that Lois Turquand should be her rival was gall and wormwood. But she was keenly disappointed in her airy hopes and expectations, raised on a foundation of sand as they had been, with no knowledge whatever of the circumstances of the case.
Like some foolish women, and also some silly men, she had a most objectionable habit of judging and trying cases by the aid of imagination alone, unassisted by common sense, and she was now suffering under a result which a cooler head might have anticipated as just possible.
The more she thought about the matter, the more angry and disappointed she became. Indeed, she reasoned herself into the notion that she had been badly used somehowby somebody in some way, and resented her injuries accordingly.
Miss Turquand had possessed one friend more in the world than she deemed herself entitled to count. She had now one enemy more since her sudden rise to fortune.
Of Mrs. Desfrayne Miss Turquand was certainly not thinking at this exciting period.
The young girl could scarcely realize the change in her destiny. It was like a tale in the “Arabian Nights.” Hitherto her life had been almost uneventful, and decidedly not unhappy. She had little occasion to look forward to the future which lay before her, gray and shadowed, but not dark. Her mistress, or patroness, was kind and fond of her—honestly and truly fond, and she felt toward her as an affectionate daughter might to an indulgent mother. Of a cheerful and contented disposition, she had been well satisfied with her comfortable home and genial surroundings.
Love had not touched her, though probably she had cherished her roseate fancies and preferences, like all other girls in their teens. Unlike many of her sisterhood, however, she was gifted with a singularly clear insight into character, and she was easily disenchanted.
Lady Quaintree had met with her by accident, as it seemed. Mrs. Turquand, left a widow at an early age, had turned her genius for exquisite embroidery to account, and was able to acquire a large circle of patrons. She was gentle, obliging, prompt; she engaged assistants, and had made an income of about four hundred a year; but was unable to provide for her only child, having to meet expenses large in proportion to her earnings. By many little acts, she had pleased Lady Quaintree; and at her death, Lois being about fourteen, her ladyship had taken the child, who had not a relative in the world that she knew of, and from that time the two had scarcely parted for a day, Lois being carefully trained at home by excellent instructors.
It was a trying test just now for the girl, passing through a fiery furnace. For a girl of eighteen, beautiful, and not quite unconscious of her beauty—for, fromthe nature of her position, she had been exposed to the open fire of admiration and gallantry hardly known to girls of a higher rank, surrounded by as sure a fence of protection as any Chinese or Turkish princess—it was a terrible ordeal.
The oddly devised will left Lady Quaintree in a flutter of pleasant “bother,” for she took her protégée’s affairs in hand, and was determined to nestle the girl under her motherly old wings more closely than ever. The dead man’s whims interfered with a delightful little plan which had spread into being within her constantly active brain, as surely as they had marred Mrs. Desfrayne’s schemes.
Her daughters were all married, and it was partly a feeling of loneliness on their quitting the paternal roof that had induced her to take Lois as her companion.
She had one son. Mrs. Desfrayne did not adore her boy more devoutly than Lady Quaintree worshiped the Honorable Gerald Danvers. In her eyes he was the perfection of every manly grace. He was good-looking enough, and he regarded himself as an absolute Adonis. He was good-natured when his whims and fancies were not interfered with, and his great aim was to go through life with as little trouble as possible.
Lord Quaintree left the management of his son completely in the hands of the mother. The Honorable Gerald had bitterly disappointed his hopes and wounded his pride. He had built up a delightful little castle in the air during the boyhood of this only son, which had been blown to the winds when the Honorable Gerald entered his teens.
He saw that nothing could be made of Gerald, and therefore agreed, without a murmur, to the proposal of the mother that the youth should become a soldier. However, he resented the denseness of this handsome, empty pate as deeply as if it had been the poor boy’s fault instead of his misfortune.
The old man was not only a great lawyer and an intellectual giant, but tender-hearted and religious, and took an interest in ragged-schools, refuges, and various kindred institutions for the benefit of tangled bundles ofpatchwork clothing. If it had been possible, he would have put his boy into the church; but Gerald was fit for nothing.
The Honorable Gerald imagined himself of a romantic turn of mind, and he found Lois Turquand the prettiest and decidedly the most interesting girl he had ever seen. So he took the idea into his head that he was in love with her, and accordingly flirted in a languid manner with her, or tried to do so. He did not pretend to have any “intentions,” and his mother was certain there was not any particular danger.
Lois treated his advances with supreme indifference. He liked to see her open her great, serious eyes at some of his silly compliments, half in astonishment, half in rebuke; he liked to flatter himself with the notion that those large, brilliant, liquid eyes would soften into ineffable sweetness if he condescended to throw himself at her feet. He was indeed as far in love with her as he could be with anybody but himself.
That he should ever be so rash, so insane, as to marry her companion, Lady Quaintree had not feared. Had he been a different kind of young man, she might have dreaded the occasional intimate meeting between these two. But there was no reason to be alarmed, and she sunned herself in the bright, cheerful sweetness of the young girl’s company without the slightest misgiving. Had she been obliged to choose any one from love for her son’s wife, she would have gathered this charming flower from the garden of girls. And now many would try to win Lois. Not by birth, but by wealth, she was on a level with the sparkling beauties about her, from whom she had hitherto been fenced off.
Lois had another lover, though scarcely an acknowledged one: Frank Amberley, Lady Quaintree’s nephew. The affection which had crept into his heart day by day was strong as a current flowing down from a mountain. From the day that Lois had entered the house of Lady Quaintree—literally from that day, for he happened to be there the very afternoon that the young child of fourteen had come hither—he had watched her grow up, like some fair and beautiful plant. For four years he haddeeply loved this girl as he could never, never love again, he knew.
From the time he had discovered the state of his own feelings, he had steadily sought to win her regard: that he had gained, but not the love he prayed for. She liked and trusted him as a friend—nothing more—not one atom more, he was well aware. His love shone upon her as the sun shines upon glass or water—reflected back, it is true, but with perfect coldness.
Lois vaguely surmised that he loved her, but he had never told her so.
Lady Quaintree ardently desired now to see Lois the wife of her beloved son. But how about the one whom the dead old man had decreed to be the husband of this beautiful girl? The difficulties in the way loomed large. He certainly had not appeared very anxious the night before to take any advantage of his position, or to seek to improve his acquaintance with the girl thus placed under his charge.
Great was the amazement of the Honorable Gerald when he heard of the good fortune that had befallen Lois.
“By Jove! what a crotchety old dolt!” was his exclamation. “Why couldn’t he leave the girl untrammeled?”
But he said it to himself, for Lois was standing by.
Lady Quaintree asked her what she was going to do.
“To remain exactly as I am, dearest madam.”
“Absurd! Impossible, my love!”
“If you wish me to be happy,” Lois pleaded, “you will let me go on as I have done for these four peaceful years. I wish for no change.”
Her ladyship glanced keenly from her son to Lois and back again, but without perceiving the slightest sign that the desire expressed by Lois might be dictated by some deeper feeling than affection for herself.
“Well, my dear, be it as you will. Let us make no change for the present, if it so please you. All I bargain for is that we do a little delightful shopping for your benefit, darling. You must shine with the bravest. Frank asked if we could go to his office to see the original will;but my lord has undertaken to see that everything is right, and to save us all trouble.”
Again she glanced at Lois’ face as she pronounced the name of her nephew; but not a ray of conscious pleasure, not a blush, betrayed a spark of interest.
“My lord is very good and kind,” she murmured.
“And we must run down to Gloucestershire to have a peep at your Hall.”
It was thus comfortably settled that Lois should remain with the friends who had been so kind and considerate to her.
“Does she care for anybody? or is she still heart-free?” Lady Quaintree asked herself.
Almost unconsciously, the good lady was meditating how she could find out without committing herself or compromising her dignity.
If wit or diplomacy could manage it, she was resolved on securing her favorite as a wife for her son, though a couple of days before she would not have thanked the soothsayer who might have told her that such an event was looming in the future as a marriage between Lois and Gerald.