CHAPTER XXX.
FREE AT LAST.
Evil fate, which so often favors those who wish to follow the path leading to destruction, smiled on Lucia Guiscardini now as of yore.
The inquest was held on her ill-fated husband about the hour when Frank Amberley discovered the record of that most miserable union that had caused his death. The inquiry was necessarily adjourned, however, to enable the medical men to examine the body more particularly.
The emotion of Paul Desfrayne on reading the telegraphic account sent by the friend who had so heroically sacrificed his own feelings to a stern sense of duty may be in same measure imagined. To his overtaxed brain, the events of these last few days began to assume the aspect of a dream.
Free! Quit of the consequences of those few months of infatuated folly!
Oh! it could hardly be. No. Presently he must wake, and find it but a tantalizing vision of the night, as he had awakened many times before, thinking he had regained or had never lost his liberty.
Only too well he knew he had never loved that remorseless woman, who would have sacrificed him for her own worldly gain, who had slain his happiness under the influence of her mistaken conception of his wealth and position.
He wrote back a most earnest letter to Frank Amberley. But little did he imagine how vast was the debt of gratitude due to that noble soul. The moment the verdict was pronounced as to the cause of Leonardo Gilardoni’s death, he would hurry to London, he told the young lawyer. At present it would be impossible for him to be absent. He did not repeat the suspicions he had touched on in the telegram forwarded by him in the morning, for that would be but to repeat an accusation he could not in any way sustain.
The next morning he set about making cautious inquiries, in order to find out, if possible, whether any human being had seen the figure that had passed him like an apparition on the way to the station. But vainly.
No one had seen this woman. The porter at the railway-station whom Captain Desfrayne had missed, remembered a woman coming hastily in to catch the last train; but she, he declared, had worn a pale-green dress, a black lace shawl, and had a snow-white Shetland fall over her bonnet, concealing her face effectually as well. In effect, Lucia Guiscardini had made a rapid change in her toilet almost as she entered the station, by looping up her black skirt, changing her black cloak for a lace shawl folded up in the small black leather bag she carried, and changing her black fall for a white one. The black cloak, bought expressly for this expedition, she had hurriedly folded up, and, darting for a moment into the ladies’ room, dropped it on the couch, making it look as if some one had forgotten it.
The old woman at whose cottage Madam Guiscardini had appointed to meet Leonardo Gilardoni was away, gone to see a granddaughter, who lay dying some ten miles off. Thus Paul Desfrayne did not find her, nor did he know of her existence. The boy had departed with her.
No one could throw the slightest ray of light on the history of those hours of apparent solitude which had been spent by the unhappy valet from the departure until the return of his master on that last day of his life. No one had seen him leave the barracks during any part of the day—none had seen him return.
It had happened that the boy charged with Madam Guiscardini’s message had not needed to ask for him, because Gilardoni was walking about the yard, and to him the lad had first spoken.
The analyzing doctors found nothing to justify any suspicion of the existence of poison. Such signs as were apparent resembled those of apoplexy so closely that the most accurate judges might easily have been deceived. They gave in a certificate to the effect that the cause of death was apoplexy.
It would have been worse than useless to accuse Lucia Guiscardini. Paul Desfrayne began to persuade himself that he must have been deluded by his own excited imagination when he fancied he saw her on that lonely, darksome road.
At the end of a few days he was able to run up to London. His first visit was to Frank Amberley.
The lawyer showed him the ink-stained, vellum-covered book containing the brief register that would restore some light and happiness to Paul Desfrayne’s life. Paul’s heart was overflowing with gratitude to the friend who had regained for him the liberty that seemed gone forever.
Fortune was resolved on favoring him now, however. On leaving Alderman’s Lane, he went to the club of which he was a member.
Immersed in thought, the young man was walking at a rapid pace, when a faint, musical exclamation, and what sounded much like his own name, caused him to awake from his abstraction, and look up.
His eyes met those of Lois Turquand, fixed upon him with a strange, indefinable expression that made his heart beat, while a vivid blush overspread that beautiful face upon which he had so often meditated, to the risk of his own peace, since he had first beheld it.
Miss Turquand was sitting in an open carriage with Blanche Dormer in front of a large drapery establishment. They were waiting for Lady Quaintree, who had alighted with the view of matching some silk.
It had been Miss Dormer who cried out Captain Desfrayne’s name. The girls had hoped he might not have heard; but his looks showed that he had done so. He lifted his hat, and came to the side of the carriage to speak to the young ladies.
The gloomy, care-worn expression had already begun to melt from his face, and, in a manner, he was no longer the self-restrained, cold personage he had been since the days his misfortune had gathered upon him.
Before she could weigh the propriety of doing so, Lois had allowed her fingers to glide into his: and it was notuntil she felt a tender pressure, scarcely meant by Paul, that she thought she should have withheld her hand.
“He is cruel and deceitful,” she said to herself, turning away her head to avoid the glance which at once thrilled and distressed her.
Some ordinary civilities and usual courtesies passed. A flower-girl came to the opposite side of the carriage, and addressed Miss Dormer. Paul took advantage of this passing distraction to say rapidly to Lois, in a lower tone than he had used before:
“Miss Turquand, I began a story the night I saw you in the country. If I ever have the privilege of completing it, you will find that now it will have a very different ending.”
At this instant, Lady Quaintree issued from the shop, followed by a shopman laden with parcels. Her ladyship had been unable to resist some tempting novelties, and some wonderful bargains from a bankrupt’s stock.
“Captain Desfrayne!” she said. “I did not know you were in town.”
“I have only run up for a few hours on urgent business, madam,” he replied.
“We go to Eastbourne this day week,” her ladyship continued. “My husband has been very unwell, and the physicians have ordered change of air.”
She added that they would be happy to see Captain Desfrayne, if he chose to call at Lowndes Square before he left town again. Some more civilities, and the carriage drove away.
One long look passed between Paul and Lois—a look of mingled feeling on his side; of inquiry, of surprise, of displeasure on hers—one of those glances that serve to link two souls together, be it for good, be it for evil.
It left the young girl trembling, perplexed, agitated, more than any words could have done.
It told Paul Desfrayne that he had never loved till now, despite that one terrible caprice of fancy and flattered vanity.
But the hopes, the desires, the incipient love he had not dared to cherish the last time he had seen this angelic creature, this beautiful, pure English girl, who seemedto have glided across his path to lead him from darkness and misery into light and happiness—these feelings he might now yield to without sin.
The air seemed full of golden haze, and even the somber figure of Lucia Guiscardini could scarce dim the brightness of the day-dream that surrounded him.