CHAPTER XVIII.
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 hadbeen 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. “Whatwillmama 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, displayedin 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—outthere, 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 overin 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 downin 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 byhis 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 ascertainwhyPaul 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 ofrefusing, 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.”