Suffered in vain
Date: 2025-01-18T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Inheritance and succession -- Fiction; England -- Fiction; Man-woman relationships -- Fiction; Dime novels; Popular literature

The Project Gutenberg eBook of Suffered in vain

This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.

Title: Suffered in vain
or, A plaything of fate

Author: Bertha M. Clay

Release date: January 18, 2025 [eBook #75137]

Language: English

Original publication: New York: Street & Smith, 1926

Credits: Demian Katz and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (Images courtesy of the Digital Library@Villanova University.)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SUFFERED IN VAIN ***

NEW BERTHA CLAY LIBRARY No. 300

SUFFERED
IN VAIN

By
Bertha
M. Clay

STREET & SMITH CORPORATION
PUBLISHERS ~ NEW YORK

A FAVORITE OF MILLIONS

New Bertha Clay Library

ALL BY BERTHA M. CLAY

Love Stories with Plenty of Action

The Author Needs No Introduction

Countless millions of women have enjoyed the works of this author. They are in great demand everywhere. The following list contains her best work, and is the only authorized edition.

These stories teem with action, and what is more desirable, they are clean from start to finish. They are love stories, but are of a type that is wholesome and totally different from the cheap, sordid fiction that is being published by unscrupulous publishers.

There is a surprising variety about Miss Clay’s work. Each book in this list is sure to give satisfaction.

ALL TITLES ALWAYS IN PRINT

1—In Love’s Crucible
2—A Sinful Secret
3—Between Two Loves
4—A Golden Heart
5—Redeemed by Love
6—Between Two Hearts
7—Lover and Husband
8—The Broken Trust
9—For a Woman’s Honor
10—A Thorn in Her Heart
11—A Nameless Sin
12—Gladys Greye
13—Her Second Love
14—The Earl’s Atonement
15—The Gypsy’s Daughter
16—Another Woman’s Husband
17—Two Fair Women
18—Madolin’s Lover
19—A Bitter Reckoning
20—Fair But Faithless
21—One Woman’s Sin
22—A Mad Love
23—Wedded and Parted
24—A Woman’s Love Story
25—’Twixt Love and Hate
26—Guelda
27—The Duke’s Secret
28—The Mystery of Colde Fell
29—Beyond Pardon
30—A Hidden Terror
31—Repented at Leisure
32—Marjorie Deane
33—In Shallow Waters
34—Diana’s Discipline
35—A Heart’s Bitterness
36—Her Mother’s Sin
37—Thrown on the World
38—Lady Damer’s Secret
39—A Fiery Ordeal
40—A Woman’s Vengeance
41—Thorns and Orange Blossoms
42—Two Kisses and the Fatal Lilies
43—A Coquette’s Conquest
44—A Wife’s Judgment
45—His Perfect Trust
46—Her Martyrdom
47—Golden Gates
48—Evelyn’s Folly
49—Lord Lisle’s Daughter
50—A Woman’s Trust
51—A Wife’s Peril
52—Love in a Mask
53—For a Dream’s Sake
54—A Dream of Love
55—The Hand Without a Wedding Ring
56—The Paths of Love
57—Irene’s Vow
58—The Rival Heiresses
59—The Squire’s Darling
60—Her First Love
61—Another Man’s Wife
62—A Bitter Atonement
63—Wedded Hands
64—The Earl’s Error and Letty Leigh
65—Violet Lisle
66—A Heart’s Idol
67—The Actor’s Ward
68—The Belle of Lynn
69—A Bitter Bondage
70—Dora Thorne
71—Claribel’s Love Story
72—A Woman’s War
73—A Fatal Dower
74—A Dark Marriage Morn
75—Hilda’s Lover
76—One Against Many
77—For Another’s Sin
78—At War with Herself
79—A Haunted Life
80—Lady Castlemaine’s Divorce
81—Wife in Name Only
82—The Sin of a Lifetime
83—The World Between Them
84—Prince Charlie’s Daughter
85—A Struggle for a Ring
86—The Shadow of a Sin
87—A Rose in Thorns
88—The Romance of the Black Veil
89—Lord Lynne’s Choice
90—The Tragedy of Lime Hall
91—James Gordon’s Wife
92—Set in Diamonds
93—For Life and Love
94—How Will It End?
95—Love’s Warfare
96—The Burden of a Secret
97—Griselda
98—A Woman’s Witchery
99—An Ideal Love
100—Lady Marchmont’s Widowhood
101—The Romance of a Young Girl
102—The Price of a Bride
103—If Love Be Love
104—Queen of the County
105—Lady Ethel’s Whim
106—Weaker than a Woman
107—A Woman’s Temptation
108—On Her Wedding Morn
109—A Struggle for the Right
110—Margery Daw
111—The Sins of the Father
112—A Dead Heart
113—Under a Shadow
114—Dream Faces
115—Lord Elesmere’s Wife
116—Blossom and Fruit
117—Lady Muriel’s Secret
118—A Loving Maid
119—Hilary’s Folly
120—Beauty’s Marriage
121—Lady Gwendoline’s Dream
122—A Story of an Error
123—The Hidden Sin
124—Society’s Verdict
125—The Bride from the Sea and Other Stories
126—A Heart of Gold
127—Addie’s Husband and Other Stories
128—Lady Latimer’s Escape
129—A Woman’s Error
130—A Loveless Engagement
131—A Queen Triumphant
132—The Girl of His Heart
133—The Chains of Jealousy
134—A Heart’s Worship
135—The Price of Love
136—A Misguided Love
137—A Wife’s Devotion
138—When Love and Hate Conflict
139—A Captive Heart
140—A Pilgrim of Love
141—A Purchased Love
142—Lost for Love
143—The Queen of His Soul
144—Gladys’ Wedding Day
145—An Untold Passion
146—His Great Temptation
147—A Fateful Passion
148—The Sunshine of His Life
149—On with the New Love
150—An Evil Heart
151—Love’s Redemption
152—The Love of Lady Aurelia
153—The Lost Lady of Haddon
154—Every Inch a Queen
155—A Maid’s Misery
156—A Stolen Heart
157—His Wedded Wife
158—Lady Ona’s Sin
159—A Tragedy of Love and Hate
160—The White Witch
161—Between Love and Ambition
162—True Love’s Reward
163—The Gambler’s Wife
164—An Ocean of Love
165—A Poisoned Heart
166—For Love of Her
167—Paying the Penalty
168—Her Honored Name
169—A Deceptive Lover
170—The Old Love or New?
171—A Coquette’s Victim
172—The Wooing of a Maid
173—A Bitter Courtship
174—Love’s Debt
175—Her Beautiful Foe
176—A Happy Conquest
177—A Soul Ensnared
178—Beyond All Dreams
179—At Her Heart’s Command
180—A Modest Passion
181—The Flower of Love
182—Love’s Twilight
183—Enchained by Passion
184—When Woman Wills
185—Where Love Leads
186—A Blighted Blossom
187—Two Men and a Maid
188—When Love Is Kind
189—Withered Flowers
190—The Unbroken Vow
191—The Love He Spurned
192—Her Heart’s Hero
193—For Old Love’s Sake
194—Fair as a Lily
195—Tender and True
196—What It Cost Her
197—Love Forevermore
198—Can This Be Love?
199—In Spite of Fate
200—Love’s Coronet
201—Dearer Than Life
202—Baffled by Fate
203—The Love that Won
204—In Defiance of Fate
205—A Vixen’s Love
206—Her Bitter Sorrow
207—By Love’s Order
208—The Secret of Estcourt
209—Her Heart’s Surrender
210—Lady Viola’s Secret
211—Strong in Her Love
212—Tempted to Forget
213—With Love’s Strong Bonds
214—Love, the Avenger
215—Under Cupid’s Seal
216—The Love that Blinds
217—Love’s Crown Jewel
218—Wedded at Dawn
219—For Her Heart’s Sake
220—Fettered for Life
221—Beyond the Shadow
222—A Heart Forlorn
223—The Bride of the Manor
224—For Lack of Gold
225—Sweeter than Life
226—Loved and Lost
227—The Tie that Binds
228—Answered in Jest
229—What the World Said
230—When Hot Tears Flow
231—In a Siren’s Web
232—With Love at the Helm
233—The Wiles of Love
234—Sinner or Victim?
235—When Cupid Frowns
236—A Shattered Romance
237—A Woman of Whims
238—Love Hath Wings
239—A Love in the Balance
240—Two True Hearts
241—A Daughter of Eve
242—Love Grown Cold
243—The Lure of the Flame
244—A Wild Rose
245—At Love’s Fountain
246—An Exacting Love
247—An Ardent Wooing
248—Toward Love’s Goal
249—New Love or Old?
250—One of Love’s Slaves
251—Hester’s Husband
252—On Love’s Highway
253—He Dared to Love
254—Humbled Pride
255—Love’s Caprice
256—A Cruel Revenge
257—Her Struggle with Love
258—Her Heart’s Problem
259—In Love’s Bondage
260—A Child of Caprice
261—An Elusive Lover
262—A Captive Fairy
263—Love’s Burden
264—A Crown of Faith
265—Love’s Harsh Mandate
266—The Harvest of Sin
267—Love’s Carnival
268—A Secret Sorrow
269—True to His First Love
270—Beyond Atonement
271—Love Finds a Way
272—A Girl’s Awakening
273—In Quest of Love
274—The Hero of Her Dreams
275—Only a Flirt
276—The Hour of Temptation
277—Suffered in Silence
278—Love and the World
279—Love’s Sweet Hour
280—Faithful and True
281—Sunshine and Shadow
282—For Love or Wealth?
283—Love of His Youth
284—Cast Upon His Care
285—All Else Forgot
286—When Hearts Are Young
287—Her Love and His
288—Her Sacred Trust
289—While the World Scoffed

In order that there may be no confusion, we desire to say that the books listed below will be issued during the respective months in New York City and vicinity. They may not reach the readers at a distance promptly, on account of delays in transportation.

To be published In July, 1926.

290—The Heart of His Heart
291—With Heart and Voice

To be published in August, 1926.

292—Outside Love’s Door
293—For His Love’s Sake

To be published in September, 1926

294—And This Is Love!
295—When False Tongues Speak

To be published in October, 1926.

296—That Plain Little Girl
297—A Daughter of Misfortune

To be published in November, 1926.

298—The Quest of His Heart
299—Adrift on Love’s Tide

To be published in December, 1926.

300—Suffered in Vain
301—Her Heart’s Delight
302—A Love Victorious

ROMANCES THAT PLEASE MILLIONS

The Love Story Library

ALL BY RUBY M. AYRES

This Popular Writer’s Favorites

There is unusual charm and fascination about the love stories of Ruby M. Ayres that give her writings a universal appeal. Probably there is no other romantic writer whose books are enjoyed by such a wide audience of readers. Her stories have genuine feeling and sentiment, and this quality makes them liked by those who appreciate the true romantic spirit. In this low-priced series, a choice selection of Miss Ayres’ best stories is offered.

In order that there may be no confusion, we desire to say that the books listed below will be issued during the respective months in New York City and vicinity. They may not reach the readers at a distance promptly, on account of delays in transportation.

To be published in July, 1926.

1 | — | Is Love Worth While? | By Ruby M. Ayres
2 | — | The Black Sheep | By Ruby M. Ayres

To be published in August, 1926.

3 | — | The Waif’s Wedding | By Ruby M. Ayres
4 | — | The Woman Hater | By Ruby M. Ayres
5 | — | The Story of an Ugly Man | By Ruby M. Ayres

To be published in September, 1926.

6 | — | The Beggar Man | By Ruby M. Ayres
7 | — | The Long Lane to Happiness | By Ruby M. Ayres

To be published in October, 1926.

8 | — | Dream Castles | By Ruby M. Ayres
9 | — | The Highest Bidder | By Ruby M. Ayres

To be published in November, 1926.

10 | — | Love and a Lie | By Ruby M. Ayres
11 | — | The Love of Robert Dennison | By Ruby M. Ayres

To be published in December, 1926.

12 | — | A Man of His Word | By Ruby M. Ayres
13 | — | The Master Man | By Ruby M. Ayres

SUFFERED IN VAIN

OR,

A PLAYTHING OF FATE

BY
BERTHA M. CLAY

Whose complete works will be published in this, the New Bertha Clay Library

Printed in the U. S. A.

STREET & SMITH CORPORATION
PUBLISHERS
79-89 Seventh Avenue, New York

SUFFERED IN VAIN.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER I. A SINGULAR WILL.
CHAPTER II. CAPTAIN DESFRAYNE’S PERPLEXITY.
CHAPTER III. LOIS TURQUAND’S EMBARRASSMENT.
CHAPTER IV. LOIS TURQUAND’S ALTERED FORTUNE.
CHAPTER V. A TRIPLE BONDAGE.
CHAPTER VI. PAUL’S GALLING SHACKLES.
CHAPTER VII. AN UNINTENTIONAL CUT.
CHAPTER VIII. THE NEW VALET.
CHAPTER IX. PLAYING AT CROSS-PURPOSES.
CHAPTER X. BUILDING ON SAND.
CHAPTER XI. PAUL DESFRAYNE’S WIFE.
CHAPTER XII. THE PRIMA DONNA’S HATE.
CHAPTER XIII. PAUL DESFRAYNE’S CONFESSION.
CHAPTER XIV. FRANK AMBERLEY’S EXULTATION.
CHAPTER XV. THE MISTRESS OF FLORE HALL.
CHAPTER XVI. GILARDONI’S LOVE-GIFT.
CHAPTER XVII. IN THE THUNDER-STORM.
CHAPTER XVIII. PAUL DESFRAYNE’S REFLECTIONS.
CHAPTER XIX. BLANCHE DORMER’S SURPRISE.
CHAPTER XX. THE BREAK OF DAWN.
CHAPTER XXI. LEONARDO GILARDONI’S STORY.
CHAPTER XXII. A VISION OF FREEDOM.
CHAPTER XXIII. THE EXPRESS TO LONDON.
CHAPTER XXIV. FRANK AMBERLEY’S ADVICE.
CHAPTER XXV. THE FIGURE ROBED IN BLACK.
CHAPTER XXVI. LUCIA GUISCARDINI’S DIAMOND RING.
CHAPTER XXVII. FRANK AMBERLEY’S MISSION.
CHAPTER XXVIII. THE INLAID CABINET.
CHAPTER XXIX. DEFIANCE, NOT DEFENSE.
CHAPTER XXX. FREE AT LAST.
CHAPTER XXXI. LUCIA’S TEARS.
CHAPTER XXXII. LUCIA GUISCARDINI’S MADNESS.
CHAPTER XXXIII. THE SOUND OF WEDDING-BELLS.

CHAPTER I.

A SINGULAR WILL.

Always more or less subdued in tone and tranquil of aspect, the eminently genteel Square of Porchester is, perhaps, seen in its most benign mood in the gently falling shadows of a summer’s twilight.

The tall houses begin slowly, very slowly, to twinkle with a glowworm irradiance from the drawing-rooms to the apartments on the upper floors as the darkness increases. From the open windows float the glittering strains of Gounod, Offenbach, Hervé, fluttering down over the flower-wreathed balconies into the silent street beneath, each succession of chords tumbling like so many fairies intoxicated with the spirit of music. At not infrequent intervals, sparkling broughams whirl past, carrying ladies arrayed obviously for dinner-party, soirée, or opera, in gay toilets, only half-concealed by the loose folds of soft wraps.

At the moment the curtain rises, two persons of the drama occupy this stage.

One is an individual of a peculiarly unattractive exterior—a man of probably some two or three and thirty years of age—a foreigner, by his appearance. It would have been difficult to tell whether recent illness or absolute want had made his not unhandsome face so white and pinched, and caused the shabby garments to hang about his tall, well-knit figure. Seemingly, he was one of those most forlorn of creatures—a domestic servant out of employ.

The expression on his countenance just now, as he leaned against the iron railings of the enclosure, almost concealed behind a doctor’s brougham which awaited its master, was not pleasant to regard. Following the direction of his fixed stare, the eye was led to a superbly beautiful woman, sitting half-within the French window of a drawing-room opposite, half-out upon the balcony, among some clustering flowers.

This woman was undoubtedly quite unconscious of the steady attention bestowed upon her by the solitary being, only distant from her presence by a few feet. She was a young woman of about three-and-twenty—an Italian, judging by her general aspect—attired in a rich costume, lavishly trimmed with black lace. A white lace shawl, lightly thrown over her shoulders, permitted only gracious and flowing outlines to reveal themselves; but her supremely lovely face, the masses of coiled and plaited hair, dark as night, stray diamond stars gleaming here and there, the glowing complexion, the sleepy, long, silk, soft lashes, resting upon cheeks which might be described as “peachlike,” the crimson lips, the delicately rounded chin, the perfect, shell-like ears, made up an ensemble of haunting beauty that, once seen, could never be forgotten.

Of the vicinity, much less of the rapt gaze of the wayfarer lingering yonder, she was profoundly ignorant, her attention being entirely occupied by a written sheet of paper, held between her slender white fingers. This she was apparently studying with absorbed interest.

The loiterer clenched his fist, malignant hate wrinkling his care-worn face, and made a gesture, betraying the most intense anger toward the imperial creature in the amber and black draperies.

“So, Madam Lucia Guiscardini,” he muttered, under his breath, “you bask up there, in your beauty and your finery, like some sleek, treacherous cat! Beautiful signora, if I had a pistol now, I could shoot you dead, without leaving you a moment to think upon your sins. Your sins! and they say you are one of the best and noblest of women—those who do not know your cold and cruel heart, snow-plumaged swan of Firenze! How can it be that I could ever have loved you so wildly—that I could have knelt down to kiss the ground upon which your dainty step had trod? Were you the same—was I the same? Has all the world changed since those days?

“I have suffered cold and hunger, sickness and pain, weariness of body, anguish of mind, while you have been lapped in luxury. You have been gently borne about in your carriage, wrapped in velvets and furs, or satins and laces, while I—I have passed through the rain-sodden streets with scarcely a shoe to my foot. They say you refused, in your pride, to marry a Russian prince the other day. All the world marveled at your insolent caprice. I wonder what you think of me, or if you ever honor me with a flying recollection? Am I the one drop of gall in your cup of nectar, or have you forgotten me?”

A quick, firm step startled the tranquil echoes of the square, and made this fellow glance about with the vague sense of ever-recurring alarm which poverty and distress engender in those unaccustomed to the companionship of such dismal comrades.

The instant he descried the person approaching, his countenance changed. He cast down his fierce, keen eyes, and an expression of humility replaced the glare of vindictive bitterness that had previously rendered his visage anything but pleasant to look upon.

This third personage of the drama was one, in appearance, worthy to take the part of hero. He was, perhaps, about thirty years old, with a noble presence, a fair and frank face, though one clouded by a strange shadow of mysterious care ever brooding. The face attracted at once, and inspired a wish to know something more of the soul looking through those bright, half-sadly smiling violet eyes as from the windows of a prison.

The forlorn watcher next the iron railings left his post of stealthy observation on seeing this gentleman, and, crossing, so as to intercept him, stood in the middle of the pavement in such a way as to abruptly bar the passage.

The large kindly eyes, which had been cast down, as if indifferent to all outward things, and engaged in painful introspection, were suddenly raised with a flash of displeased surprise.

“Sir,” began the poor lounger deprecatingly, half-unconsciously clasping his meager hands, and speaking almost in the voice of a supplicant, “Captain Desfrayne, forgive me for daring to address you; but——”

“You are a stranger to me, although you seem acquainted with my name,” the gentleman said, scanning him with a keen glance. “I don’t know that I have ever seen you before. What do you want? By your accent, you appear to be an Italian.”

“I am so, captain. I did not know you were coming this way, nor did I know you were in London. I have only this moment seen you, as you turned into the square; or I—I thought—for I know you, though perhaps you may never have noticed me—I knew of old that you have a kind and tender heart, and I thought—— Sir, I am a bad hand at begging; but I am sorely, bitterly in need of help.”

“Of help?” repeated Captain Desfrayne, still looking at him attentively. “Of what kind of help?”

Those bright eyes saw, although he asked the question, that the man required succor in any and in every shape.

“Sir, when I knew you, about three years ago, I was in the service of the Count di Venosta, at Padua, as valet.”

“I knew the count well, though I have no recollection of you,” said Captain Desfrayne. “Go on.”

“He died about a year and a half ago. I nursed him through his last illness, and caught the fever of which he died. I had a little money—my savings—to live on for a while; but all is gone now, and I don’t know which way to turn, or whither to look for another situation. It was with the hope of finding some friends that I came to London; I might as well be in the Great Desert.”

“I have no doubt your story is perfectly true; but I don’t see what I can do for you,” Captain Desfrayne said, with some pity. “However, I will consider, and, if you like to come and see me to-morrow, perhaps I—— What is your name?”

“Leonardo Gilardoni, sir.”

The hungry, eager eyes watched as Captain Desfrayne took a note-book from his pocket and scribbled down the name, adding a brief memorandum besides.

The sound of these men’s voices speaking just beneath her window had failed to attract the attention of the beautiful creature in the balcony. But now, when a sudden silence succeeded, she looked over from an undefined feeling of half-unconscious interest or curiosity.

As she glanced carelessly down at the two figures, the expression on her face utterly changed. The great eyes, the hue of black velvet, opened widely, as if from terror, or an astonishment too stupendous to be controlled. For a moment she seemed unable to withdraw her gaze, fascinated, apparently.

The little white hands were fiercely clenched; and if glances could kill, those two men would have rapidly traversed the valley of the shadow of death.

Fortunately, glances, however baleful, fall harmless as summer lightning; and the interlocutors remained happily ignorant of the absorbed attention wherewith they were favored.

In a moment or two she rose, and, standing just within the room, clutching the curtain with a half-convulsive grip, peered down malevolently into the street.

“What can have brought these two men here together?” she muttered. “Do they come to seek me? I did not know they were conscious of one another’s existence. What are they doing? Why are they here? Accursed be the day I ever saw the face of either!”

The visage, so wondrously beautiful in repose, looked almost hideous thus distorted by fury.

She saw Captain Desfrayne put his little note-book back in his pocket, and then heard him say:

“If you will come to me about—say, six or seven o’clock to-morrow evening, at my chambers in”—she missed the name of the street and the number, though she craned her white throat forward eagerly—“I will speak further to you. Do not come before that time, as I shall be absent all day.”

With swift, compassionate fingers he dropped a piece of gold into the thin hand of the unhappy, friendless man before him, and then moved, as if to continue his way.

The superb creature above craned out her head as far as she dared, to watch the two. Captain Desfrayne, however, seemed to be the personage she was specially desirous of following with her keen glances. To her amazement and evident consternation, he walked up to the immediately adjacent house, and rang the bell. The door opened, and he disappeared.

The shabby, half-slouching figure of the supplicant for help shuffled off in the other direction, toward Westbourne Grove, and vanished from out the square.

Releasing her grip of the draperies hanging by the window, the proud and insolent beauty began walking up and down the room, flinging away the paper from which she had been studying.

She looked like some handsome tigress, cramped up in a gilded cage, as she paced to and fro, her dress trailing along the carpet in rich and massive folds. Some almost ungovernable fit of passion appeared to have seized upon her, and she gave way to her impulses as a hot, undisciplined nature might yield.

There was a strange kind of contrast between the feline grace of her movements, the faultless elegance of her perfect toilet, the splendor of her beauty, and the untutored violence of her manner.

“What do they want here?” she asked, half-aloud. “Why do they come here, plotting under my windows? Do they defy me? Do they hope to crush me? What has Paul Desfrayne to complain of? I defy him, as I do Leonardo Gilardoni! Let them do their worst! What are they going to do? Has Leonardo Gilardoni found any—any——”

She started back and looked round with a guilty terror, as if she dared not think out the half-spoken surmise even to herself.

“He knows nothing—he can know nothing; and he has no longer any hold on me,” she muttered presently; “unless—unless the other has told him; and I don’t believe he would trust a fellow like him: for Paul Desfrayne is as proud as Lucifer. Oh, if I could but live my life over again! What mistakes—what fatal mistakes I have made—mistakes which may yet bring ruin as their fruit! I will leave England to-morrow. I don’t care what they say, or think, or what loss it may cost to myself or any one else. Yet, am I safer elsewhere? I know not. What would be the consequences if they could prove I had done what I have done? I know not; I have never had the courage to ask.”

Totally unconscious of the vicinity of this beautiful, vindictive woman, Captain Desfrayne tranquilly passed into the house which he had come to visit.

“Can I see Mrs. Desfrayne?” he inquired of the smart maid servant who answered his summons.

“I will see, sir. She was at dinner, sir, and I don’t think she has gone out yet.”

The beribboned and pretty girl, throwing open the door of a room at hand, and ushering the visitor within, left him alone, while she flitted off in search of the lady for whom he had asked, not, however, without taking a sidelong glance at his handsome face before she disappeared.

The apartment was a long dining-room, extending from the front to the back of the house, furnished amply, yet with a certain richness, the articles being all of old oak, carved elaborately, which lent a somber, somewhat stately effect. It was obviously, however, a room in a semifashionable boarding-house.

In a few minutes a lady opened the door, and entered with the joyous eagerness of a girl.

A graceful, dignified woman, in reality seventeen years older than Captain Desfrayne, but who looked hardly five years his senior, of the purest type of English matronly beauty. She seemed like one of Reynolds’ or Gainsborough’s most exquisite portraits warmed into life, just alighted from its canvas. The soft, blond hair, the clear, roselike complexion, the large, half-melting violet eyes, the smiling mouth, with its dimples playing at hide-and-seek, the perfectly chiseled nose, the dainty, rounded chin, the patrician figure, so classically molded that it drew away attention from the fact that every little detail of the apparently little-studied yet careful toilet was finished to the most refined nicety—these hastily noted points could scarce give any conception of the almost dazzling loveliness of Paul Desfrayne’s widowed mother.

She entered with a light, quick step, and being met almost as she crossed the threshold by her visitor, she raised her white hands, sparkling with rings, and drew down his head with an ineffably tender and loving touch.

“My boy—my own Paul,” she half-cooed, kissing his forehead. “This is, indeed, an unexpected pleasure. I did not even know that you were in London.”

For a moment the young man seemed about to return his mother’s caress; but he did not do so.

She crossed to the window, and placing a second chair, as she seated herself, desired Paul to take it.

There was a positive pleasure in observing the movements of this perfectly graceful woman. She seemed the embodiment of a soft, sweet strain of music; every gesture, every fold of her draperies was at once so natural, yet so absolutely harmonious, that it was impossible to suggest an alteration for the better.

“I supposed you to be settled for a time in Paris,” Mrs. Desfrayne said, as her son did not appear inclined to take the lead in the impending dialogue, but accepted his chair in almost moody silence.

“I should have written to you, mother; but I thought I should most probably arrive as soon, or perhaps even precede my letter,” replied Captain Desfrayne.

“You look anxious and a little worried. Has unpleasant business brought you back? You have not obtained the appointment to the French embassy for which you were looking?”

“No. I am anxious, undoubtedly; but I suppose I ought not to say I am worried, though I find myself placed in a most remarkable, and—what shall I say?—delicate position. Yesterday I received a letter, and I came at once to consult you, with the hope that you might be able to give me some good advice. I fear I have called at rather an unreasonable hour?”

A tenderly reproachful glance seemed to assure him that no hour could be unreasonable that brought his ever-welcome presence.

“I will advise you to the best of my ability, my dear,” Mrs. Desfrayne smilingly said. “What has happened?”

Paul Desfrayne drew a letter from the pocket of the light coat which he had thrown over his evening dress, and looked at it for a moment or two in silence, as if at a loss how to introduce its evidently embarrassing contents.

His mother watched him with undisguised anxiety, her brilliant eyes half-veiled by the blue-veined lids.

“This letter,” Paul at length said, “is from a legal firm. It refers to a person whom I had some difficulty in recalling to mind, and places me in a most embarrassing position toward another person whom I have never seen.”

“A situation certainly indicating a promise of some perplexity,” Mrs. Desfrayne half-laughingly remarked.

“Some years ago,” Paul continued, “there lived an old man—he was an iron-dealer originally, or something of that sort—a person in a very humble rank of life; but somehow he contrived to make an enormous fortune. He has, in fact, left the sum of nearly three hundred thousand pounds.”

“To you?” demanded Mrs. Desfrayne, in a thrilling tone, not as if she believed such to be the case; for her son’s accent scarcely warranted such an assumption; but as if the wish was father to the thought.

Paul shook his head.

“Not to me—to some young girl he took an interest in, as far as I can understand. I happened to render him a slight service—I hardly remembered it now—some insignificant piece of civility or kindness. It seems he entertained a great respect for me, and attributed the rise of his wealth to me. This young girl—I don’t know whether she was related to him or not—has been left the sole, or nearly the sole, inheritor of his money, and I——”

“And you, Paul?”

“Have been nominated her trustee and sole executor by his will. I believe he has bequeathed me some few thousands, as a remuneration for my trouble.”

The slight tinge of pinky color on the cheeks of the beautiful Mrs. Desfrayne deepened visibly, although she sat with her back to the window.

“How old is the young lady?” she asked, in a subdued tone.

“Eighteen or nineteen.”

“Is she—has she any father or mother?”

“Both are dead. She is, I understand, alone in the world.”

“Have you seen her?”

“No.”

“Do you know what she is like?”

“I am as ignorant of everything concerning her, personally, as you are yourself, mother.”

“Is she pretty?”

Paul Desfrayne’s face hardened almost to sternness and his eyes drooped.

“I have already told you, mother mine, that I know nothing whatever about her. If you will take the trouble to glance over this letter, you will learn as much as I know myself. I have nothing more to tell you than what is written therein.”

The dainty fingers trembled slightly as they were quickly stretched forth to receive the missive, which Paul took from its legal-looking envelope.

Mrs. Desfrayne ran rapidly over the contents, and then read it through more slowly a second time.

It purported to be from Messrs. Salmon, Joyner & Joyner, the eminent firm of solicitors in Alderman’s Lane, and requested Captain Desfrayne to favor them with a call at his earliest convenience, as they wished to go over the will of Mr. Vere Gardiner, iron-founder, lately deceased, who had appointed him—Captain Desfrayne—sole trustee to the chief legatee, an orphan girl of nineteen, sole executor to the estate, which was valued at about two hundred and sixty thousand pounds, and legatee to the amount of ten thousand pounds. The letter added that Mr. Vere Gardiner had expressed a profound respect for Captain Desfrayne, and had several times declared that he owed his uprise in life to a special act of kindness received from him.

“How very extraordinary!” Mrs. Desfrayne softly exclaimed, at length. “He scarcely knew you, yet trusts this young girl and her large fortune to your sole charge. Flattering, but, as you say, embarrassing. Two hundred and sixty thousand pounds!” she murmured. “A girl of nineteen. If she is a beauty”—she slightly shrugged her dimpled shoulders—“your position will be an onerous one, indeed.”

“They might as well have asked me to play keeper to a white elephant,” the young man said, with some acerbity. “I will have nothing to do with it.”

“Do not be too hasty. Probably this person had good reason for what he has done. Besides, you would be foolish to refuse so handsome a present as you are promised; for we cannot conceal from ourselves that ten thousand pounds would be a very acceptable gift.”

“If a free one, yes; if burdened with unpleasant conditions, why, there might be difference of opinion. I had almost made up my mind to decline at once and for all; but I thought it would be more prudent to consult you first.”

“My dear Paul, I feel—I will not say flattered, but I thank you very much for your kind estimation of my judgment. All I can say is: Go and see what these lawyers have to say. Then, if they do not succeed in inducing you to receive the trust, see the girl, and judge for yourself what would be best. Perhaps she has no friend but you, and she might run the risk of losing her fortune. Perhaps she is sorely in need of some protector—perhaps even of money. Where does she live?”

“As I told you before,” Captain Desfrayne replied, with more asperity than seemed at all necessary under the circumstances, “I did not know even of her existence before receiving that letter, and I now know not one solitary fact more than you do. I know nothing of the girl, or of her money. I do not wish to know; I take no interest, and I don’t want to take any interest now, or in the future.”

“But it is foolish to refuse to perform a duty when you are so entirely ignorant of the reasons why this money has been thrown into your keeping,” urged Mrs. Desfrayne gently.

“If I refuse, I suppose the Court of Chancery will find somebody more capable, and certainly may easily find some one more willing than myself,” Captain Desfrayne said, almost irritably.

“If it had been a boy, instead of a girl, would you have been so reluctant?” asked Mrs. Desfrayne, smiling mischievously.

“That has nothing to do with it. I have to deal with the matter as it now exists, not as it might have been.”

Mrs. Desfrayne glanced at her son from beneath the long, silken lashes that half-concealed her great blue eyes. It seemed so strange to hear that musical voice, which for nine-and-twenty or thirty years had been as soft and sweet to her ears, as if incapable of one jangled note, fall into that odd, irritable discordance.

Paul was out of sorts and out of humor, she could see. Was he telling her all the truth?

Never, in all those years of his life, most of which had passed under her own vision, had he uttered, looked, or even seemed to harbor one thought that he was not ready and willing for his mother to take cognizance of. Why, then, this possible reticence, blowing across their lifelong confidence like the bitter northeast wind ruffling over clear water, turning its surface into a fragile veil of ice?

The young man was out of humor, for his meeting with the fellow whom he had just encountered almost on the threshold of the house had brought up many recollections he would fain have banished—memories of a time he would gladly have erased from the pages of his life—a time whereof his mother knew nothing.

Mrs. Desfrayne, however, shot very wide of the mark when she ascribed his alteration of look and manner to some foreknowledge of the girl in question. He spoke nothing but the truth in saying that he had never as much as heard of her before receiving the letter that lay between his mother’s fingers.

With the electric sympathy of strong mutual affection, Paul Desfrayne quickly perceived the ill effect his coldness had upon his mother; and with an effort he cleared his countenance, and assumed a shadow of his formerly smiling aspect. He looked down, and appeared to consider. Then, raising his eyes to those of his mother, he said, with an air of resignation:

“I suppose it would be best to see the lawyers, and hear what they have to say. It is a most intolerable bore. I don’t know what I have done to merit being visited for my sins in this fashion.”

“You don’t remember what you happened to do for this eccentrically disposed old man?”

Paul Desfrayne shrugged his shoulders.

“A remarkably simple matter, when all is said and done. I was traveling once with him, as well as I can remember, and he began talking to me about some wonderful invention he had just brought to perfection. He was in what I supposed to be rather cramped circumstances, though not an absolutely poor man, for he was traveling first-class. I should not have thought about him at all, only, with the enthusiasm of an inventor, he persisted in bothering me about this thing.

“I thought at the time it was deserving of notice; and when he alighted, I happened to almost tumble into the arms of the very man who had it in his power to get the affair into use and practise. More to get rid of him than for any more worthy motive, I introduced the two to each other. It was something this old Vere Gardiner had invented, for some kind of machinery, which, if adopted by the government, would save—I really forget how much. I recollect asking this friend, some time after, if he had done anything about it, and he told me it would probably make the fortune of half a dozen people. He seemed delighted with the old man and his invention.

“This must be the service he made so much of. It was a service costing me just five or six sentences. I did not even stop to see what Percival, this friend, thought of old Gardiner, or what he thought of Percival; but left them talking together in the waiting-room, for I was in a desperate hurry to reach you, mother. I never anticipated hearing of the affair again.”

There was a brief silence.

“This man, it is to be presumed, was of humble birth,” said Mrs. Desfrayne. “It will be too dreadful if, with the irony of blind fate, this girl proves unpresentable. In that case—at nineteen—it will be too late to mend her manners, or her education. Perhaps she has some frightfully appalling cognomen, which will render it a martyrdom to present her in society. If she is anything of a hobgoblin, you may with justice talk of a white elephant.”

“I suppose there is no clause in the criminal code whereby I may be compelled to accept the trust if I do not elect voluntarily to undertake it?” Captain Desfrayne asked, with a slight smile at his mother’s fastidious alarm. “And if she is nineteen now, I suppose my responsibility would cease in two years?”

“Perhaps. Some crotchety old men make very singular wills. I wonder how it happened that he had no business friend in whom he could confide?—why he must choose a stranger, and entrust to that stranger such a large sum? I wish I knew what the girl’s name is, and what she is like, and what possible position she may occupy? For if you receive the trust, I presume I shall have the felicity of playing the part of chaperon.”

“It is perfectly useless discussing the matter until we know something more certain,” Captain Desfrayne said, his irritation again displaying itself unaccountably.

“One cannot help surmising, my dearest Paul. Perhaps the girl is a nursemaid, or a milliner’s apprentice, and misuses her aspirates, and is a budding Malaprop,” Mrs. Desfrayne persisted. “However, we shall see. Go with me this evening to the opera, if you have nothing better to do. Lady Quaintree has lent me her box.”

As she was folding her opera-cloak about her youthful-looking person the good lady said to herself:

“There is some mystery here; but of what kind? Paul is not quite his own frank self. What has happened? He has kept something from me. I could not help fancying something occurred during his absence in Venice three years ago. I wonder if he knows more about this girl, the fortunate legatee of the eccentric old iron-founder, than he chooses to acknowledge? But he must have some most powerful reason to induce him to hide anything from me; and he said twice most distinctly that he had never seen her and did not know her name. I do not believe Paul could be guilty of deceit.”

CHAPTER II.

CAPTAIN DESFRAYNE’S PERPLEXITY.

The midday sun made an abortive effort to struggle down between the tall rows of houses on either side of busy, hurrying Alderman’s Lane, glinting here and glancing there, showering royal largesse.

The big building devoted to the offices of Messrs. Salmon, Joyner & Joyner was lying completely bathed in the golden radiance; for it occupied the corner, where the opening of a street running transverse allowed the glorious beams to descend unimpeded.

A great barracklike edifice, more like a bank than a lawyer’s city abode. A wide flight of steps led up to a handsome swing door, on which a brightly burnished plate blazoned forth the name of the firm. This opened upon an oblong hall, in which were posted two doleful-looking boys, each immured in a kind of walled-off cell; a spacious staircase ran from this hall to a succession of small, cell-like apartments, all furnished in as frugal a manner as was compatible with use; a long table, covered with piles of papers of various descriptions; three or four hard chairs; a bookcase crammed with tall books bound in vellum, and morose-looking tin deed-boxes labeled with names.

In one of these dim, uninviting cells sat a gentleman, apparently quite at ease, his employment at the moment the scene draws back and reveals him to view being the leisurely perusal of the Times; a man of perhaps the same age as Captain Desfrayne—a pleasant, grave-looking gentleman, with kindly dark eyes, a carefully trimmed dark-brown beard, a pale complexion, and a symmetrical figure.

One of the melancholy walled-in youths suddenly appeared to disturb the half-dreamy studies of this serene personage.

Throwing open the door, he announced:

“Captain Desfrayne.”

The captain walked in, and the door was shut.

The occupant of the apartment had risen as the youth ushered in the visitor, and advanced the few steps the limited space permitted, smiling with a peculiarly winning expression.

“Mr. Amberley?” questioned Captain Desfrayne.

“I have called,” he went on, as the owner of that name bowed assentingly, “in obedience to a letter received by me from Messrs. Salmon, Joyner & Joyner.”

He threw upon the table the letter he had shown to his mother, and then seated himself, as Mr. Amberley signed for him to do.

Mr. Amberley, in spite of the latent smile in his dark eyes, seemed to be a man inclined to let other people save him the trouble of talking if they felt so disposed. He took up the letter, extracted it from its envelope, and unfolded it.

“Mr. Salmon and Mr. Willis Joyner wished to meet you, together with myself,” he remarked, “but were obliged to attend another appointment. In the meantime, before you can see them, I shall be happy to afford you all necessary explanations.”

“Which I very much need, for I am unpleasantly mystified. In the first place, I am at a loss to comprehend why this client of yours should have selected me as the person to whom he chose to confide so vast a trust,” Captain Desfrayne replied, in a tone almost bordering on ill humor.

“I am quite aware of the fact that you were not a personal friend of Mr. Vere Gardiner,” said the lawyer. “He trusted scarcely any one. I believe he entertained a painfully low estimate of the goodness or honesty of the majority of people. Of his particular object in giving this property into your care, I am unable to enlighten you. I know that he took a great interest in you; and as he frequently sojourned in the places where you happened to be staying, I have no doubt he had every opportunity of becoming acquainted with as much as he wished to learn of—of—— In fact, I have no grounds beyond such observations as may have been made before me for judging that he did take an interest in you. If you are surprised by the circumstance of his appointing you to such a post, I think you will probably be infinitely more so when you hear the contents of the will.”

He rose, and took from an iron safe a piece of folded parchment, which he spread open before him on his desk.

Captain Desfrayne said nothing, but eyed the portentous document with an odd glance.

“The history of this will is perhaps a curious one,” Mr. Frank Amberley resumed. “Mr. Vere Gardiner was, when a young man, very deeply attached to a young person in his own rank of life, whom he wished to marry. She, however, preferred another, and refused the offers of Mr. Gardiner. He never married. In a few years she was left a widow. He again renewed his offer, and was again refused. He was very urgent; and, to avoid him, she changed her residence several times. The consequence was, he lost sight of her. He became a wealthy man, chiefly, he always declared, through your instrumentality. After this he found this person—when he had, so to speak, become a man of fortune—again renewed his offer of marriage, and was again refused as firmly as before. She had one child, a daughter.”

The lawyer turned to look for some papers, which he did not succeed in finding, and, having made a search, turned back again.

Captain Desfrayne made no remark whatever.

“He offered to do anything, or to help this Mrs. Turquand in any way she would allow him: to put the child to school, or—— In fact, his offers were most generous. But she persistently shunned him, and refused to listen to anything he had to say. He lost sight of her for some years before his death, and did not even know whether she was living or dead.

“It was accidentally through—through me,” the lawyer continued, speaking with a visible effort, as if somewhat overmastered by an emotion inexplicable under the circumstances—“it was through me that he learned of the death of the mother and the whereabouts of the daughter.”

“The latter being, I presume, the young lady whom he has been kind enough to commit to my care?” Captain Desfrayne asked.

Mr. Amberley twirled an ivory paper-cutter about for a moment or two before replying.

“Precisely so. I happen to be acquainted with—with the young lady; and he one day mentioned her name, and said how anxious he was to find her. I volunteered to introduce her to him; but he was then ill, and the interview was deferred. He went to Nice, the place where Mrs. Turquand had died, and drew his last breath in the very house where she had been staying. In accordance with his dying wishes, he was buried close by the spot where she was laid. The will was drawn up a few weeks before he quitted England.”

“I certainly wish he had selected any one rather than myself for this onerous trust,” Captain Desfrayne said, with some irritation. “What is the young lady’s name? Miss Turquand?”

Mr. Amberley hesitated, took up the will, and laid it down again; then took it up, and placed it before Captain Desfrayne.

“If you will read that, you will learn all you require to know,” he replied, without looking up.

He had been perfectly right in remarking that, if Captain Desfrayne had felt surprised before, he would be doubly astonished when he came to read Mr. Vere Gardiner’s will.

Captain Desfrayne was fairly astounded, and could scarcely believe that he read aright. The sum of two hundred and sixty thousand pounds was left, divided equally into two portions, but burdened largely with restrictions.

One hundred and thirty thousand pounds was bequeathed to Lois Turquand, a minor, spinster. Until she reached the age of twenty-one, however, she was to receive only the annual income of two thousand pounds.

The second half—one hundred and thirty thousand pounds—was left to Paul Desfrayne, Captain in his majesty’s One Hundred and Tenth Regiment, he being appointed also sole trustee, in the event of his being willing to marry the aforesaid Lois Turquand when she reached the age of twenty-one. In case the aforesaid Lois Turquand refused to marry him, he was to receive fifty thousand pounds; if he refused to marry her, he was to have ten thousand pounds. If they married, the sum of two hundred and sixty thousand pounds was to be theirs; if not, the money forfeited by the non-compliance with this matrimonial scheme was to be distributed in equal portions among certain London hospitals, named one by one.

Three thousand pounds was left to be divided among the managers of departments and persons in positions of trust in the employ of the firm; one thousand among the clerks in the office, and five hundred among the domestics in his service at the time of his death.

In the event of the demise of Lois Turquand before attaining the age of twenty-one, Paul Desfrayne was to receive a clear sum of one hundred and thirty thousand pounds; the other moiety to be divided among the London hospitals named.

Mr. Amberley was closely regarding Captain Desfrayne as the latter read this will—to him so singular—once, twice. When Captain Desfrayne at length raised his head, however, Mr. Amberley’s glance was averted, and he was gazing calmly through the murky window at the radiant blue summer sky.

For some minutes Captain Desfrayne was unable to speak.

“It is the will of a lunatic!” he at length impatiently exclaimed.

“Of a man as fully in possession of his senses as you or I,” calmly replied Mr. Amberley. “You do not seem to relish the manner in which he has claimed your services.”

“I don’t know what to think—what to say. I wish he had selected any one rather than myself, which you will say is ingratitude, seeing how magnificently he has offered to reward me. When shall I be obliged to go through an interview with the young lady?”

“Whenever you please—this afternoon, if convenient to you.”

Captain Desfrayne looked at the lawyer, as if startled. It almost seemed as if he turned pale.

“When, I suppose, I am to enjoy the privilege of breaking the news?” he demanded, with a little gasp.

“You speak as if the prospect were anything but pleasing. If you object to the task, it will, perhaps, be all the better to get it done at once.”

“Where does she live?”

“She is staying with Lady Quaintree, in Lowndes Square.”

Paul Desfrayne recollected, with a queer feeling of surprise, that his mother had said the previous evening that Lady Quaintree had lent her the opera-box which she had used. Could it be possible that his mother already knew this girl?

“Lady Quaintree!” he repeated mechanically.

“Certainly. Miss Turquand has been living there for two or three years; she is her ladyship’s companion. If you have no other engagement of pressing importance, I fancy the most easy and agreeable way would be to call at the house this evening, about eight o’clock. Lady Quaintree is to have some sort of reception to-night, and, as I am almost one of the household, we could see her before the people begin to arrive.”

Paul Desfrayne gave way to fate. There was no help for it, so he was obliged to agree to this arrangement, or choose to think himself obliged, which was worse.

Frank Amberly thought that not many men would have received with such obvious repugnance the position of sole trustee to a beautiful girl of eighteen, who had just become entitled to a splendid fortune, especially when there were such provisions in his own favor.

“It is thus he receives what I would have given—what would I not have given?—to have obtained the trust,” he said mentally, with a keen pang of jealous envy.

It was a strange freak of Dame Fortune—who yet must surely be a spiteful old maid—to bring these two men, of all others, into such communication.

Paul Desfrayne’s thoughts were in a kind of whirl, an entanglement which was anything but conducive to clear deliberation or calm reflection. They eddied and surged with deadly fury round one great rock that reared its cruel black crest before him, standing there in the midst of his life, impassive, coldly menacing.

Hitherto, with the exception of one fatal occasion, he had always consulted his mother on all matters of difficulty or perplexity. But now he must carefully conceal his real thoughts from that still beloved counselor. It was useless to go to her, as of yore, for advice as to the best course to take: he dared not tell her this miserable secret which bound him in a viselike grip. His mother would at once, he knew—unconscious that any link in the chain was concealed from her—say he must be mad not to accept, without hesitation, this trust. She would certainly urge him, for the sake of this unknown girl herself. He must decide now: it would, perhaps, only make matters worse if he delayed, or asked time for consideration.

Besides, if he refused, what rational reason could he assign to any one of those concerned for declining the trust?

No; he must agree to whatever was set before him now, although by so doing he would almost with his own hands sow what might prove to be the most bitter harvest in the future.

He was within a maze, wherein he did not at present discern the slightest clue to guide him to the outlet of escape. It was impossible to explain his position to any one, yet he felt that it was next to pitiful cowardice to march under false colors.

One thing was clear: if he could not explain his reasons for declining to accept what, while somewhat eccentric, was a fair and apparently tempting offer, he must be ready to take the place assigned to him. Not only was this self-evident, but also that no matter what time he must ask for reflection, his position could not be altered, and he could give no plausible excuse of any kind to his mother for rejecting such princely favors.

“This young lady is not—is not, then, acquainted with the contents of this will?” he asked, raising his head, and speaking somewhat wearily.

“Not as yet. We thought it best to wait until you could yourself make the communication.”

He might as well face the girl now, and have it over, as leave it to a month, six months, a year hence. He was a soldier, yet a coward and afraid; but he shut his eyes, as he might if ordered to fire a train, and resolved to go through with the task, which, to any other one—taken at random from ten thousand men—must have been a pleasant duty.

The lawyer regarded him with surprise, but could not, of course, make any remark. His wide experience had never supplied him with a parallel case to this: of a man receiving such rare and costly gifts from fortune with clouded brow and half-averted eye. The hopes, however, which had well-nigh died within his breast, of winning the one bright jewel he coveted, revived, if feebly.

“There is something strangely amiss,” he thought; “but she will be doubly, trebly shielded from the slightest risk of harm.”

Captain Desfrayne—his troubled gaze still on the open parchment, which he regarded as if it were his death-warrant—absolutely started when Mr. Amberley addressed him, after a short silence, inviting him to partake of some wine, which magically appeared from a dim, dusty-looking nook.

After a little desultory conversation, having arranged the hour of meeting and other necessary details, Frank Amberley observed, an odd smile lurking at the corners of his handsome mouth:

“This is not the first time we have met, though you have apparently forgotten me.”

The captain looked at him.

“I really do not remember you,” he said, with a puzzled expression.

“You do not remember a certain moonlight night in Turin, when you shot a bandit dead, as his dagger was within five or six inches of an Englishman’s throat? Nor an excursion which took place some weeks previously, when you met the same compatriot in a diligence—myself, in fact? We wrote down one another’s names, and were going to swear an eternal friendship, when you were abruptly obliged to quit the city, in consequence of some business call, or regimental duties.”

“The circumstances have by no means escaped my memory,” answered Captain Desfrayne, in an indefinable tone; “though I should have scarcely recognized you. Since then you have a little altered.”

Frank Amberley, laughingly, stroked the silken beard, which had certainly greatly changed his aspect. But the coldness of the formerly open, frank-hearted man, whom he had so liked three or four years ago, struck him with deepened suspicion that something was amiss.

“I am glad to have met you,” he said. “I should be very pleased if you could dine with me this evening at the ‘London.’ My people are going out this evening, so I am compelled to make shift as I best can, and I don’t relish dining alone at home.”

A brief hesitation was ended by Paul Desfrayne accepting this free-and-easy invitation.

The two young men then shook hands and parted, with the agreement to meet again for a six-o’clock dinner.

Truly, times, places, and things had altered since those days at Turin, the recollection of which seemed to bring scant pleasure to Paul Desfrayne’s weary heart.

“Some fatal secret has become ingrained with that man’s life,” said the young lawyer, as he closed the door upon his visitor. “Great heavens! that Lois Turquand should spurn my love, and be thrown, perhaps, into the unwilling arms of a man like this, with such a hunted, half-guilty look in his eyes! It shall not be—it cannot be! Fate could not be so cruel!”

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 to know 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.

CHAPTER IV.

LOIS TURQUAND’S ALTERED FORTUNE.

Frank Amberley looked at Captain Desfrayne, who drew back several steps—for neither had seated himself, although Lady Quaintree had signed to them to do so.

It was evident that Captain Desfrayne would not take the initiative, so Frank Amberley was obliged to explain—more to Lady Quaintree than to her protégée—that Miss Turquand had been left heiress to a fortune of one hundred and thirty thousand pounds.

“To just double that sum in reality; but there are certain conditions attached to the larger amount, which must be fulfilled, or the second moiety is forfeited,” Mr. Amberley continued, looking down, his voice not quite so steady as it had been when he began. “I have had a copy of the will prepared, which Miss Turquand might like to read before seeing the original.”

He had a folded paper, tied with red tape, in his hand, which he placed on a table close by Lois. As he did so, his eyes rested for a moment upon her with a strange, mingled expression of passionate love and profound despair, at once pathetic and painful.

The young girl still stood immovable, as if in a dream. Her luminous eyes turned upon the document; but she did not attempt to touch it, or show in any way that she really comprehended what had been said, except by that one swift glance of her eyes upon the paper.

“This gentleman—Captain Desfrayne—has been appointed by Mr. Gardiner, Miss Turquand’s trustee.”

The brilliant eyes were turned for an instant to the countenance of Captain Desfrayne, and then withdrawn; while still deeper crimson tides flooded over the lovely face.

“How very extraordinary!” said Lady Quaintree, as if scarcely able to understand. “How very singular!” she repeated emphatically.

“I am truly glad,” she cried, pulling the cloudy figure toward her, and kissing the fair young face. “So my little girl is a wealthy heiress. What will you do with all your money? Go and live in ease, and give fêtes and garden-parties, and have revels at Christmas, and amateur theatricals, and knights and ladies gay, or devote yourself to schools and almshouses, as a favorite hobby? Come, a silver sixpence for your thoughts.”

Lois, standing perfectly still, leaning against the table, with her hand resting on the carved back of her patroness’ chair, glanced at her ladyship, at the lawyer, and at Captain Desfrayne. Then the soft, sweet eyes drooped. She made no answer. It was impossible to tell from her face what her feelings might be.

Lady Quaintree was greatly disappointed by this cool reception of the marvelous news, which had thrown herself into a state of pleasurable excitement. She turned to her nephew with eager curiosity.

“Can you tell me a few morsels of the contents of this wonderful will?” she asked. “Who made the will? Who has left all this money to my dear girl? What was he? and why has he been so generous?”

Lady Quaintree had been quite fond of her companion; but this sudden access of affection was due to the delightful intelligence brought by the lawyer.

“The will would explain more clearly than I could do all particulars,” Frank Amberley replied.

He felt it was absolutely impossible at that moment to enter into any elucidation whatever, or even to give an outline of the conditions of the will.

Lois extended the document toward Lady Quaintree.

“Is it very long?” her ladyship demanded, glancing at Frank Amberley.

“It may take you five minutes to read it,” he answered.

She unfolded the paper, and ran her eye rapidly over the contents. Not one of the others uttered a word—not one ventured to look up, but remained as if carved out of stone.

Lois found it well-nigh impossible to analyze her sensations; but certainly the predominant one was that she must be in a dream. She had every reason to be happy with her protectress, who was as kind as if the near ties of relationship bound them together; but it would probably be quite useless to search the world for the girl of eighteen who could hear unmoved that she had suddenly become the owner of a large fortune, especially if that girl happened to be in a dependent position, and to move constantly amid persons with whom money, rank, and fashion were paramount objects of devotion.

She was the daughter of a court embroideress, who had earned about four hundred a year by her labors and those of her assistants; but Mrs. Turquand had never been able—or thought she had not been—to lay by any portion of her income as a provision for her child. Lady Quaintree had always liked Lois as a child, and at the death of her mother, three years since, had taken her to be useful companion and agreeable company for herself.

That Lois had any expectations from any quarter whatever, nobody ever for a moment supposed. Everybody of Lady Quaintree’s acquaintance knew and liked the young girl, who was so pretty, so obliging, so sweet-tempered. That she should now be suddenly transformed into the inheritress of great wealth was something like an incident in a fairy-tale.

Mr. Amberley’s reflections were easily defined. He had for months past loved this young girl, though he had never yet had sufficient courage to declare as much, for she seemed totally unconscious of his preference, and, while certainly not distant nor icy with him, never gave him the slightest reason to suppose that she ever as much as remembered him when he was absent. He had, however, the satisfaction of feeling sure that she cared for no one else. Never even remotely had he hinted to Lady Quaintree his secret, being well aware she would discountenance his suit, for many reasons.

It was with the utmost bitterness of spirit that he had seen the girl apparently removed from the possibility of his being able to pay court to her; and at the same time not only delivered into the sole charge of a probable rival, but bound by the most stringent injunctions to marry a young, handsome, and in every way attractive, man—a man whom he judged, in his own distrustful humility, much more likely to seize the fancy of a young beauty than he himself was.

Paul Desfrayne’s thoughts were utterly confused. Since entering the room, he had scarcely spoken three sentences, and he heartily wished himself anywhere rather than in this softly illumined suite of rooms, facing this beautiful girl with the angelic face, whom he had been commanded and largely bribed to fall in love with and make his wife.

He dreaded the moment when Lady Quaintree should drop her gold-rimmed eye-glass, and the silence should be broken. At the same time, the thought of his mother never left him. What would she say when she learnt the contents of this terrible will? Only too well he foresaw the scenes he should be obliged to go through. As for this girl herself, lovely as some poet’s vision, he resolved to see as little of her as might be compatible with the fulfilment of his legal duties and responsibilities toward her. What a pitiful coward he felt himself! Why could he not tell the truth, and save so much possible future suffering?

Lady Quaintree read through the closely written document, and then, folding it up, stared at each of the three persons before her, with an almost comic expression of amazement upon her fair, unwrinkled countenance.

“Captain Desfrayne,” she said, smiling as she held out her hand, “I trust you will be pleased to remain with us this evening as long as your inclinations or other engagements permit. I expect some very pleasant friends—some really distinguished persons, with whom you may either already be well acquainted, or whom you might not object to meet.”

There was such a stately yet gracious dignity in her manner that Captain Desfrayne caught the infection, and bowed over the delicate white hand with almost old-fashioned chivalric courtesy.

“You will pardon my leaving you two gentlemen alone for a few minutes,” she added. “Lois, my love, I will go with you to your room.”

Lady Quaintree quitted the salon, followed by the beautiful figure, clad in its cloudy robes of ethereal white.

“Let us go at once to your apartment, my child,” she said, leading the way.

Her eyes were bright with eager excitement, for she was surprised and pleased by the totally unexpected change in her young companion’s fortunes; and she loved the girl so much that she was rejoiced to see her rise from her inferior station to one of wealth—to see so fair and sunny a prospect opening before her.

She glided up the stairs with a step so alert that forty years seemed lifted from her age; and in a minute they were within the precincts of the pretty room which was the domain of Lois Turquand.

“My love,” Lady Quaintree said, closing the door with a careful hand, “I am so pleased I can hardly tell you how much. You, no doubt, wish to know the contents of this wondrous paper? My dear, it is as interesting as a fairy-tale. You are a good girl, and deserve all the good fortune Heaven may please to send you.”

She kissed the young girl’s forehead very kindly. Lois returned the caress with passionate warmth, and laid her head down upon her old friend’s shoulder.

“Lois, before I give you this to read, I want you to do something, which, perhaps, you might feel too agitated afterward to manage.”

“What is that, dear madam?”

“You must not call me ‘madam’ or ‘my lady’ any more, pet. I want you to change this fantastical dress for your black silk, and wear my pretty jet ornaments, and also a pair of my white gloves, with the black silk embroidery which I bought in Paris. I think it is a mark of respect you owe to your benefactor. Did you ever see or hear of him?”

“Never, madam.”

“Shall I ring for Justine to help you in dressing?”

A faint smile dimpled the corners of the young girl’s lips as she shook her head.

Lady Quaintree looked about for the bell, then laughed at her own forgetfulness. From this little chamber—formerly a small dressing-room—there was no communication with the servants’ domain. Her ladyship, taking the copy of the will with her, crossed to her own apartment, only a few steps distant.

When she returned, she was followed by her waiting-maid, who was carrying a package of black laces; a pair of gloves; a filmy lace handkerchief, on which was some black edging; and a black fan—one of Lady Quaintree’s treasures, for it had once belonged to Marie Antoinette.

In those few minutes Lois had thrown off her cloudy robes, divested herself completely of her assumed character of Undine, and donned a handsome black silk evening-dress.

Lady Quaintree was carrying a black-and-gold case, which she placed upon the dressing-table and opened. It contained a complete set of jet ornaments.

She ordered Justine to unfasten the black lace already upon Miss Turquand’s robe, and replace it by that in her custody.

The black lace selected by Lady Quaintree was, Justine knew, very valuable, and the richest she had; the jet ornaments, she also knew, her ladyship prized; so, great was her secret amazement not only to see Miss Turquand habited in black, when the blue and white she had meant to wear was lying outspread upon a couch, but at the lively interest displayed by Lady Quaintree in the somber metamorphosis, and perhaps, above all, at the fact of the stately dame being in Miss Turquand’s apartment.

The discreet Frenchwoman, however, said not one word; but, taking out needles and thread from a “pocket-companion,” she dexterously obeyed the orders received from her mistress.

Lois was so astounded by the news she had heard that she was incapable of doing anything but what, in fact, she had already done, implicitly followed directions. She permitted Lady Quaintree to clasp the jet suite upon her neck and arms, and in her ears, and looked at the gloves, and handkerchief, and fan with the glance of one walking in her sleep.

Justine, wondering, though she did not utter a syllable, was dismissed, and Lady Quaintree desired Lois to sit down.

“We have already been absent nearly twenty minutes,” she said, consulting her tiny watch. “I wished to arrange your toilet before I told you what is really in this will. Perhaps you think I treat you as a child; but you are already agitated, and when you know the eccentric nature of the conditions, you will, probably, be much startled. Pray read it, my dear.”

Lois did so, with changing color and flashing eyes. When she finished, she threw the paper upon the table, and, rising from her chair, walked to and fro, as if under the influence of uncontrollable emotion. Then she abruptly paused before Lady Quaintree, extending her hands as if in protest.

“Why should this person,” she exclaimed, “of whom I never heard—of whom I knew nothing till this hour—why should this stranger have left me all this money, and why bind me with such conditions? I feel as if I could not, ought not, to accept the gift he has given me. He must have been a lunatic!”

“Softly, softly, softly, my dearest! You are talking at random.”

“How can I face that man again?—he must know, of course,” Lois continued vehemently, referring to Paul Desfrayne.

“We shall see more clearly after a while, Lois. Certainly, I am surprised by this affair; but perhaps my nephew, Amberley, may be able to enlighten us a little more. Come, let us go down. They will wonder if I, at least, keep them waiting much longer.”

“No—no, dear Lady Quaintree. I cannot go now. I feel as if I must shrink into the earth rather than meet them again,” said Lois, recoiling as Lady Quaintree offered her hand.

“Nonsense! I did not think my quiet, soft-spoken Lois was made of such silly stuff.”

“Dear Lady Quaintree, I really cannot go now. Perhaps, when the rooms are full of people, and I can hope to escape observation, I may venture.”

“Will you faithfully promise to come when I send for you—or, at least, in half an hour?”

“Yes—yes, dear madam.”

Lady Quaintree was obliged to be satisfied. In her secret heart she was sorry for the conditions which so horrified her young friend.

For a vast change had taken place in her plans since she had heard her nephew tell his news. What she had dreaded and feared hitherto she would now gladly see accomplished; but here were difficulties, apparently insurmountable, placed in her way.

As she paused for a moment on the threshold, she glanced at the statuesque figure of Lois. A curious, superstitious feeling crept over her, and a thrill of painful presentiment passed through her heart.

The young girl had entered the room only some twenty or thirty minutes before, arrayed like some glittering creature of light, sparkling with diamonds, placed, by desire of Lady Quaintree, among the gauzy folds of her semitransparent robes to represent drops of water, her superb, sun-bright hair floating like a halo of glory about her, radiant as a spirit.

Now she was draped in somber black, her aspect changed as by an enchanter’s wand. Her spiritual beauty did not suffer, it is true. She looked, if possible, more lovely thus shrouded; but—but still, Lady Quaintree wished that the news had not involved donning signs of mourning, and thought that people had no business to dictate terms of love and marriage from the grave.

“An unlucky omen!” she thought, gathering up her violet skirts and embroidered jupons.

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 fringed her 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, very quietly. “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 would be 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.

CHAPTER VI.

PAUL’S GALLING SHACKLES.

“You are surprised to see me here to-night, Mimi,” Paul Desfrayne said, using an old childish pet-name that always disarmed his mother. “I came here with a friend to see Lady Quaintree”—he hesitated painfully—“on—on business.”

Mrs. Desfrayne opened her big blue eyes, and looked him straight in the face. A spasm of pique passed through her heart.

“You did not know that I was acquainted with Lady Quaintree?” she remarked, half-sarcastically, opening and shutting her fan with a movement which he knew well of old as indicating vexation. She was angry that he had come hither with some friend unknown to her, instead of asking her for an introduction, and telling her of his business.

“My dear mother, I did not know until this very afternoon that I was to come here. I remembered, when I heard the name, that you had spoken of her. It was she who lent you the opera-box last night, was it not?”

“Well—well, it does not signify. I must not be inquisitive,” said Mrs. Desfrayne, confident that she must learn all sooner or later. “Have you heard or seen anything of the young lady you spoke of yesterday evening?”

“I have.”

“You have?” cried Mrs. Desfrayne, drawing a step or two nearer to him. “What is she like? Where does she live? Is she pretty? What is she?”

Captain Desfrayne paused for an instant, as if perplexed at such a volley of questions.

“Her name is Lois Turquand, and she is the companion of Lady Quaintree,” he then very quietly replied.

Mrs. Desfrayne retreated several steps, as if confounded.

“You are jesting!” she angrily exclaimed, unable to credit that she had heard aright.

“I presume you have seen the young lady?”

“Miss Turquand!” Mrs. Desfrayne slowly repeated—“Lois Turquand! Oh, it is impossible!”

The information did not seem to afford her much pleasure, and there was a visible expression of blank disappointment upon her face.

The truth—or part of the truth—was that Mrs. Desfrayne had no great liking for Lois Turquand. By nature aristocratic, proud as a duchess of Norman descent, she cared not for persons beneath her in station, while winning and all that was gracious to those in her own rank or above her.

To Lady Quaintree, wife of the world-famed lawyer, she had ever paid eager court; but Miss Turquand, the daughter of an embroideress, a penniless nobody, she had always politely ignored. When her son had told her of the strange will which had placed him in such an unexpectedly advantageous position, she had built, with feminine imaginative rapidity and skill, sparkling castles in the traitorous air. All her life she had yearned to mix freely in society—she longed to be a leader of fashion, a star in the hemisphere of the beau monde; but her income was limited. Her husband, a colonel in the army, had died almost a poor man, leaving her some six hundred a year, and to her son an equal pittance—for such she considered it, measured by her desires and wants. She was still young and most beautiful when left a widow, and might have married again advantageously, but her overweening ambition had induced her to reject more than one excellent offer, and now it was too late to retrieve these errors of judgment—though she still had her secret plans and schemes.

Under a fair and smiling mask she hid many little feminine piques and spites, and one of her pet “aversions” happened to be Miss Turquand. She could hardly pardon the girl her roseate youth, her fresh, piquant loveliness, her grace, spontaneous as that of a wood-nymph. For some reason, unexplainable even to herself, she always experienced a horribly galling sense of being old, and world-worn, and artificial, in presence of Lois Turquand, and it created a small vindictive sense of envy and spite that augured ill for any future attempt at conciliation. Her short-lived dream of taking the young person left in her son’s charge in hand, and shining in society by means of a reflected light, was at an end.

She could have better endured to hear that the legatee was a plain young woman, in a vastly inferior station. It was as if her son had held a draft of gall and wormwood to her lips, and asked her to swallow it.

“It is incredible!” she said, after a brief pause, during which she kept her eyes fixed upon her son’s face.

“You have certainly surprised me,” she added, slightly shrugging her shoulders. “Though why I should feel surprise, I cannot tell. It is absurd, I have no doubt. So Miss Turquand has become a young woman of property. I long ago was determined not to be astonished at anything, and I take a fresh resolution from to-night. Was the person who left her this money a relative?”

“No.”

“Not a relative! May I ask what——Am I indiscreet in asking for any particulars?”

Paul Desfrayne knew that sooner or later his mother must become acquainted with everything that the will contained. It was better to take things with a good grace, and let her hear now, than to shrink and keep silence, or grant half-confidences, and make bad worse, by appearing to make a mystery of what was apparently a simple matter.

“The old gentleman of whom I was speaking to you last night—Mr. Vere Gardiner—has left Miss Turquand one hundred and thirty thousand pounds unconditionally. He has left me ten thousand in the same way, but——”

With an effort he rapidly told her the general contents of the will.

“You marry Miss Turquand!” almost angrily cried Mrs. Desfrayne, flirting her fan backward and forward with a nervous movement. She had seated herself, in her agitation, while Paul remained standing a few steps from her.

“Such are the terms of the will. If she dies before the three years have expired, I am to receive—I forget how many thousands.”

“Have you seen her?”

“I have.”

“How do you like her?”

“Not at all, as far as I can judge.”

A smile, almost of gratification, rippled over the fair, smooth face of his mother at this admission. She was on the point of exclaiming: “I am glad of it!” but checked herself, and remarked instead:

“How is it that I find you here alone?”

These words recalled Captain Desfrayne to his exact position. He felt as if he could have given worlds to speak with the old freedom to the woman who loved him so fondly—could he but explain to her what weighed upon his life like a constant nightmare. But it was impossible. He was a coward, and dared not face her inevitable anger.

“I was going away just as I saw you,” he replied, with apparent tranquillity, though his heart for a moment had beat wildly at the thought of making his confession. “The rooms were frightfully hot up-stairs, and this place seemed so cool and inviting, I lingered.”

“You will take me up-stairs, however. Does Lady Quaintree know you are my son?”

Captain Desfrayne had not thought of it.

“I have such an intolerable headache!” he pleaded, anxious to escape; and his temples throbbed to agony. “I really cannot stay.”

“That is very unusual with you, having a headache,” said his mother. “What is the cause of it?”

The young man shrugged his shoulders without replying in words.

His mother urged him, only half-believing in his excuse, to escort her up-stairs. She had many reasons for desiring his company. Although it was a little vexatious, perhaps, for so young-looking a woman to be attended by a son who seemed nearly as old as she did herself, she always wished for his escort. He was so handsome, so dignified, so chivalrous, gallant, devoted, in his behavior—there was the mother’s pride and glory to atone in a measure for the beauty’s mortified vanity. At this moment she wished to see him with Miss Turquand, to judge how far affairs were likely to go; she wanted to hear Lady Quaintree’s opinion, and see how Miss Turquand carried herself beneath the golden blaze of her new prosperity. But it was in vain she urged him, and she was piqued by this odd refusal. He was determined to go at once.

“Well, you must call to-morrow, Paul. I am dying with curiosity to hear all the rest, and your opinion, and so on.”

Captain Desfrayne escaped. The balmy air cooled his fevered pulses, and he walked rapidly away into the darkness of the summer’s night.

“Good heavens, what an escape!” he muttered. “I don’t know what earthly inducement could have impelled me to go up-stairs. My poor mother! What an ungrateful villain I feel in deceiving her! It was an accursed day when that brilliant butterfly crossed my path, and led me away as easily as ever schoolboy was lured into a mad chase on an idle afternoon, or peasant lout drawn into pursuit of a gleaming Jack-o’-lantern. There is no peace, no happiness for me henceforth. I sometimes wish my mother knew all. It would be an infinite weight lifted off my mind; and yet I dare not—I dare not tell her.”

The desire to be rid of this painful secret rose so strongly within his breast, that when he had traversed several streets, he abruptly paused to reflect on the advisability of going to the house in Porchester Square, where his mother was staying, and awaiting her return, with the object of telling her precisely how he was situated.

“No,” he at length decided. “I cannot do so to-night. To-morrow, perhaps, I shall be more courageous. If this unlucky piece of ‘good fortune,’ as I suppose some folks would style it, had not occurred, I might have borne my secret some few years longer—maybe forever—safe locked within my breast, there to gnaw away my life at its ease. But this misguided old man’s absurd whim has been the fatal means of letting in a flood of misery now and in the future upon my most unhappy head. It is well that the girl is cold and seemingly impassive. It is also providential that she has powerful friends, who will render my duties merely nominal.”

The sleepy quiet of the aristocratic street through which he was passing with slow, undecided steps was broken by swift-rolling wheels.

The gleaming lamps of a dashing brougham threw long gleams of light through the semiobscurity of the somber thoroughfare, and the champ of the horses’ feet, the jingle of the silver harness, evidenced that the vehicle belonged to some one of wealth, if not of position.

Paul Desfrayne’s glance was mechanically attracted to this handsome equipage, unconsciously to himself.

As it passed him, the face of a woman appeared at the window—the face of Madam Guiscardini thus coming before him like an apparition for the second time this night.

Her face looked like some beautiful pictured head painted on a dark background. She did not see him, but spoke to the coachman, apparently giving him some new direction. Glancing forth like a vision, she as rapidly vanished again, and in a moment the brougham had swept off down one of the side streets.

Paul Desfrayne struck his hands together with a gesture of despair.

“She seems to haunt me to-night like some evil spirit,” he muttered. “I did not know she was in London. Her face fills me with affright and a sense of coming danger. Can it be true that I once fancied I loved this woman, and that I let her crush my life forevermore with her cold, pitiless hand? Can it be that I am her bond-slave—no longer free to do more than move in the one dull round day by day, with these galling shackles about me, forced to relinquish all the bright hopes of love and happiness that bring sunshine about other men? Oh! fool, fool, fool that I have been!” he cried, aloud.

Then he once more quickened his steps, as if to escape from himself.

CHAPTER VII.

AN UNINTENTIONAL CUT.

Mrs. Desfrayne then went up-stairs unattended—an arrangement not at all to her liking, for she would fain still retain all the airs and customs of a beauty yet in the heyday of sunshiny existence.

She swept one searching glance round the suite of crowded rooms, seeking the unwelcome figure of Lois Turquand.

It was the work of some minutes discovering Lois. The young girl stood a little apart from the throng, her graceful head slightly bent as she listened to the earnest words of a stately dowager, who was probably congratulating her upon her change of fortune.

There was a dignity and a certain consciousness in Lois’ bearing which Mrs. Desfrayne had never noticed with her before. She reproached herself now for having been so uniformly cold and frigid with the girl, for she adored wealth, and she judged by herself that it was impossible the new-made heiress could overlook or forgive all the petty slights she had suffered from the insolent widow.

Mrs. Desfrayne was going to address Lady Quaintree, when Miss Turquand crossed quickly, not perceiving her. She laid a detaining hand on the young girl’s arm.

“I am delighted to hear of your good fortune, my dear,” she said, with a little perceptible embarrassment.

Lois raised her clear eyes, and looked for a moment into the suavely smiling face before her with an expression difficult to define. Then she bowed: it was a perfectly gracious but decidedly icy inclination. She did not answer in words; but, with an ambiguous smile, passed on.

Never for an instant could Mrs. Desfrayne have imagined in her wildest fancies that the tables could have been so completely turned upon her.

It was a fine moral lesson, only, unfortunately, it fell short of its mark; and the coldness of Miss Turquand, partly unintentional and partly arising from habit, made the haughty woman of the world detest yet more the girl whom she had hitherto simply ignored and noticed as little as if she had been a piece of furniture of very ordinary importance.

Mrs. Desfrayne turned pale with rage. She almost wished the old man who had made the eccentric will had been sunk to the bottom of the sea ere he had committed his money and his ridiculous desires to paper. That girl the wife of her son! Truly, she had need be radiant with the glitter of gold before she could possess any attractions in the eyes of this proud and ambitious, yet narrow-minded, woman.

Many mothers are quite willing to think with some complacence of an ideal wife for their sons—a wife to be selected by themselves, perhaps: a creature of the imagination. But when it comes to be a matter of sober reality—when there is a real flesh-and-blood being, not a stone ideal, set before them—why, it is a very different affair.

Mrs. Desfrayne made her way to Lady Quaintree, and promised herself that she would arrange for a long chat on this absorbing subject, if she could persuade her good hostess to ask for her company in a drive round the park.

During the singing of some Italian duets by the artists who had been gathered together for the night, she contrived to learn a good deal.

One thing she accidentally ascertained which a little modified her vague schemes and speculations.

She discovered that hitherto Lady Quaintree had been in terror lest her son Gerald should fall in love with Miss Turquand. Now this would be the most desirable thing that could happen, even if the young girl were shorn of half her newly acquired fortune.

Lady Quaintree did not know she was betraying her secret wishes, but Mrs. Desfrayne was very quick-witted, and at the same time a pattern of tranquil discretion.

Frank Amberley did not leave the charmed precincts of the house until he could not stay any longer. The more the object of his passionate attachment was withdrawn from his reach, the more mad did his longing become to possess her. But he was an honorable man, and all should be fair in the fight.

He had closely watched Paul Desfrayne until that young man’s departure, and the feeling of deep mistrust against him had painfully intensified. It was with a profound sense of relief, however, that he found neither Captain Desfrayne nor Lois apparently disposed to cultivate any approach to acquaintanceship.

For some time before the hour fixed for supper, he had hovered about Lois, with the hope of being able to offer her his arm down-stairs. The sharp eyes of Lady Quaintree were on the alert, unfortunately for the success of his plans, and to his anger and mortification he saw Lois assigned to a stranger.

As he flung himself wearily into a hansom, and lighted his cigar for consolation during his journey homeward, Frank Amberley had ample subject-matter for meditation.

Although not so bitter or remorseful, his thoughts were scarcely more agreeable than those of Paul Desfrayne.

CHAPTER VIII.

THE NEW VALET.

Captain Desfrayne walked with hasty, irregular steps in the direction of his own home.

The servant who admitted him said that a person was waiting up-stairs, being earnestly desirous of an interview.

“I should not have let him wait, sir,” the man added apologetically, “only he said he had an appointment with you for to-day, and seemed so dreadfully disappointed because he didn’t see you.”

Captain Desfrayne had altogether forgotten that he had desired the Italian valet to call upon him. His conscience reproached him for what he considered selfishness, in being so engrossed; and he hurried up to his own apartments.

The doors of the inner rooms were locked; but there was a pleasant little antechamber, almost luxuriously furnished as a smoking-room.

This was now fully lighted from a handsome chandelier; and standing at the table in the center of the apartment was the tall, gaunt Italian who had claimed Captain Desfrayne’s sympathy the evening before.

The evening before! It seemed to Paul Desfrayne as if it must have been months since he had gone through that short, half-smiling interview with his mother.

The table was scattered over with newspapers, magazines, French novels, and other aids to kill time agreeably and intellectually at the same time.

As Captain Desfrayne entered, the Italian servant was looking at one of the papers intently—so much absorbed that his left hand unconsciously crushed it.

It was that day’s issue of an illustrated paper.

The entire page upon which the eyes of the man seemed fixed was occupied by an oval-shaped portrait of a lady—of whom, Captain Desfrayne could not discern.

The fellow clenched his right hand, and shook it at the mute representation of the beautiful woman, and muttered some words in Italian, in so low a key that their import did not reach Captain Desfrayne.

The next moment the step of the latter made the valet start violently and turn. He fumbled with the paper, and tried to turn over the pages, but his hands were trembling so much that he was unable to do so; and Captain Desfrayne was at the table before he could conceal what had so much interested him.

It was the engraved portrait of the beautiful singer who had been sitting in the balcony in Porchester Square the evening before.

Paul Desfrayne looked at the man, who had not had time to compose his features. There was an expression of deadly hatred yet lingering upon them, though he evidently tried hard to master his emotion.

For an instant Captain Desfrayne felt an almost overwhelming desire to speak to him about the signora; but a second thought determined him to be silent, and appear not to have noticed the little mute scene. He resolved, however, at all hazards, to engage this man in his service; for his curiosity, if no deeper feeling, was strongly excited.

“My good fellow,” he began, in a very kindly tone, “I am sincerely sorry, but I totally forgot our arrangement. I had business of the utmost importance to attend to, and so it slipped from my memory.”

Gilardoni bowed very low, dexterously turning the paper as he did so.

“I trust you will excuse the liberty I took in waiting for you, sir,” he answered, with profound humility. “But I have no friend save you, if I can dare to call you a friend.”

Paul Desfrayne had resolved to take the fellow into his service, if he were anything short of an escaped galley-slave. He did not tell him so, however, but said very quietly:

“I hope I may be able to show you some kindness, for you seem sorely in need of it.”

Gilardoni clasped his hands, and looked at the captain.

“I will serve you truly and well, if you will let me,” he cried.

“What recommendations—what credentials have you to show?” asked Captain Desfrayne.

The man eagerly unbuttoned his shabby, threadbare coat, and, diving his thin fingers into an inner pocket, drew forth a bundle of letters and papers. He chose one document, which he extended to Captain Desfrayne.

“This is a written character from my poor master, sir. You knew his writing—you will see what he says of me.”

Captain Desfrayne took the envelope; and opening it, was about to extract the enclosure, when a small, folded morsel of note-paper fell out, and dropped on the table. Quick as lightning, Gilardoni snatched it up—not rudely, but with a kind of panic expressed in his face and in every gesture.

Captain Desfrayne’s eye had caught sight of the characters before he was aware that he was guilty of any possible indiscretion in looking upon them.

The blood rushed to his face, and then receded to his heart. Only too easily did he recognize the ill-formed characters. It was the writing of the woman who had influenced his life for evil—the beautiful Signora Guiscardini.

With infinite presence of mind, he affected not to have particularly observed the stray, fluttering paper, and began to read the letter of recommendation.

More than ever, he had made up his mind to receive this man into his service. He longed to ask him, then and there, bluntly, what the mysterious tie might be that caused him to take so much interest in the signora, and why he had a note written by her in his possession—a note which he evidently feared any one else might see.

He was unable to study the man’s face; for as he read the recommendatory letter, he was conscious that the fellow’s keen eyes were fixed upon him with a furtive anxiety.

“When can you come to me?” he asked.

A glitter as of tears of delight gleamed in those bright, half-hungry eyes, as Gilardoni eagerly answered:

“Any time. To-night, if you will, sir.”

“Very well. So be it.”

The little details of terms and so on were soon settled. Captain Desfrayne unlocked the door leading to the inner apartments, and in a very few minutes Gilardoni was occupied in noiselessly flitting about, putting things straight with an almost womanly softness and dexterity. Captain Desfrayne threw himself upon a sofa, lighted a cigar, and, leaning back, watched him with a curiosity that was attaining an uncomfortable height.

“I would give a thousand pounds, if I were so rich, to know what link there is between this poor wretch and the star singer,” he thought. “But I am sure to know in time, I imagine, and I must not startle him.

“Give me some of those papers that are lying on the table in the next room,” he said, aloud.

Gilardoni obeyed his orders with nimble alacrity, and lighted a reading-lamp that stood on a table at the head of the couch.

CHAPTER IX.

PLAYING AT CROSS-PURPOSES.

Captain Desfrayne selected a paper, and slowly turned over the pages as he cut them. Some time elapsed before he spoke; for he could not exactly frame words in which to put the question he meant to ask.

“What part of Italy did you come from?” he inquired carelessly, following the spiral line of cigar-smoke, as he breathed it from his lips.

Gilardoni looked at him with that furtive glance Captain Desfrayne had already noticed; but replied, without seeming to hesitate:

“From Florence, sir.”

“Ah! Have you any relatives living?”

“None, sir. Not one. My father and mother died when I was a young child, leaving me to the care of a distant relative, who has since died, and I never had either brothers or sisters.”

The faint suspicion that had arisen in Paul Desfrayne’s mind that the brilliant prima donna might be this fellow’s sister, was then negatived. Probably, some humble lover of her early days, whom she had despised, perhaps jilted? So superbly beautiful a creature, born in an Italian village, must have had many adorers; and he knew her to be arrogant and callous of other people’s feelings, and incredibly vain of her own manifold attractions.

“A countrywoman of yours,” he abruptly said, with an effort at smiling, as he turned out the large, oval engraving of Madam Guiscardini.

Gilardoni could not refuse to look; but he drew back his lips as some animals do when in a fury. The action might pass for an affirmative smile, but it was uglier than any frown.

“Yes,” he curtly replied.

“Did you know her?”

Gilardoni did not respond this time; but gave his attention to a tall vase, which he seemed to find in need of being relieved of the dust that had accumulated round the flutings.

Captain Desfrayne waited for a minute, and then repeated the question.

“Why, sir, everybody knows her—everybody all over the world,” Gilardoni answered, only half-turning round.

He spoke with a strong effort to display indifference; but his manner and voice both betrayed singular constraint. Paul Desfrayne was prepared for this, and did not take any notice, but continued:

“She was but a village girl, I suppose, when you knew her? They say she is going to marry a Russian prince.”

This time Gilardoni made a great effort, and, looking his new master full in the face, with a vacant, uninterested expression, said:

“Do they, sir?”

There was no doubt that Gilardoni was on his guard, and would not betray more than he could possibly help.

Paul Desfrayne would not give up yet, for that eager desire to know what secret reason this man had for hating Madam Guiscardini so bitterly as he seemed to do was almost unconquerable.

“They say,” he went on slowly, lowering his eyes, and taking a tiny nail-knife from his waistcoat-pocket, to keep his glances ostentatiously employed, “that the beautiful songstress is already married.”

These men were playing at cross-purposes. The master would have given all he possessed in the world to have learned the secret which was of no value whatever to the servant. Four monosyllables would have served to unlock those dreary prison doors, and let in the light of possible happiness upon that poor, weary soul, who was suffering the penalty of the one mistake of his young life.

Paul Desfrayne glanced for a swift instant at Gilardoni. The Italian’s strong, nervous hands were clutched fast upon the top of the chair in front of him; his face was alternately red and pale, and his eyes were gleaming like fire.

“Who told you that?” he demanded, in a sepulchral whisper.

“I don’t know,” Captain Desfrayne answered, slightly shrugging his shoulders. “People tell you all sorts of things about eminent singers and public characters generally.”

Gilardoni leaned his long, thin body forward, and stared his master in the face.

“Then where do they say her husband is?” he demanded, in the same sibilant whisper.

The mystery seemed clearer now. He was an old lover—perhaps once a favorite—of madam’s. It was hardly worth the trouble of talking to the fellow; and Paul Desfrayne felt half-enraged with himself for having done so. But now that he wished the conversation ended, or, rather, that he had not begun it, Gilardoni seemed determined to continue it.

“Idle gossip all, I doubt not,” Captain Desfrayne said carelessly. “You, who come from her native village, would be more likely than anybody else to guess who the lucky individual might happen to be, and where he might be found; for if she had married any one after she quitted her village, it would have been somebody of importance.”

“Somebody to talk about—somebody to be proud of,” Gilardoni cried, his eyes flashing with a strange light. “If she had married a poor man——”

He stopped suddenly; Captain Desfrayne laughed.

“Yes,” he said. “If she had married a poor man, she would have hated and despised him. Perhaps she did marry a poor man, and is not able to marry the Russian prince,” he added, knocking the ash carelessly from his cigar.

“She would have hated and despised him,” Gilardoni repeated slowly, with intense acrimony in his accent. “Do you know whether she is married or not?” he abruptly demanded, the keen, furtive, eager, inquiring look in his eyes again.

“Come, I think we have talked enough about Madam Guiscardini,” answered Captain Desfrayne, in almost a harsh tone, rising from his couch. “I don’t see that there can be any particular interest for you or for me in the subject.”

He felt quite sure now that this was some early lover, who so madly adored the brilliant operatic star that he could not bear the thought that she should belong to another, although she never could be his. He felt disappointed and vexed with himself for permitting his eager curiosity to carry him so far from his customary reserve and dignity as to lead him into gossiping with his servant, a fellow whom until yesterday he scarcely knew existed.

In a softer tone he dismissed his new attendant, telling him some of the people about the house would show him the room where he was to sleep. Gilardoni quitted the room with a profound inclination, and Captain Desfrayne, almost to his relief, was left alone.

“The affair is very simple,” he muttered to himself, as he walked to the window and threw it open to breathe the delicious air of the fair June night—“very simple. These Italians are so susceptible, and so revengeful. Probably la Lucia flirted with him in her early days, before the dawn of splendor and riches came upon her and led her to think——Pooh! the story is commonplace to nausea—insipid. I don’t care to know anything about her more than I already know. What good would it do me?”

He rested his head against the framework of the window, and gazed abstractedly into the deserted street. The moon had risen in full majesty, and was flooding every place with silver light. A party of young men came along the pavement arm in arm, singing, as the students in “Faust” came along that memorable night.

Paul Desfrayne listened. The music was familiar to him; the words he knew well, and could distinguish them.

The first time Paul Desfrayne had heard Lucia Guiscardini sing upon the stage, she had sung those verses. They haunted him yet. They now brought back memories steeped in pain and bitterness.

Wearied in body, sick at heart, he closed the window to shut out those distasteful strains, and went with slow steps to his bedroom.

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 delicious château d’Espagne with 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 somehow by 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, from the 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 of patchwork 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 had deeply 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.

CHAPTER XI.

PAUL DESFRAYNE’S WIFE.

Lady Quaintree did not let excitement interfere with her usual plans and daily arrangements. She had settled that they should go on Saturday—the day after that one so memorable in Lois’ life—to the Zoological Gardens to hear the band play; and, accordingly, at about four o’clock, she set off with Lois and her son in the carriage.

To Lois it all appeared as a dream. Everything was the same, yet how different! Only a week ago had she attended her patroness to this gay scene, then as her paid if esteemed and indulged dependent. Now how was everything altered! Her very attire proclaimed that the tide of events had swept over her. She thought to keep her head steady, to stand unchanged, but it was difficult. It is as dangerous looking over an abyss clothed with all the flowers of spring, illumined by the golden rays of the morning sun, as to peer down from the black, beetling brow of a precipice, jagged and repellent.

“Heaven!” she cried, half-shudderingly, in the depths of her heart, “keep my soul pure and unspotted. Help me to do my duty now, even if I have failed in the days gone by.”

It was but too sweet for a beautiful girl of eighteen to be suddenly paid so much court, to be coaxed to drink so many a cup of nectar-tinctured flattery.

Great was the wonderment among the large circle of Lady Quaintree’s friends and acquaintances at the magic change in Miss Turquand’s status in society. No one knew the stipulations in the old man’s will. It was only known that she was now the happy possessor of a large fortune, in lieu of being a penniless toiler in the world’s hive.

That day Lois Turquand might have commanded a dozen offers, some good, some bad, some indifferently good. Many people speculated as to what would happen next.

“She was sure to marry at once,” everybody said. “Her beauty, her money, and her romantic little history would surely obtain for her the vivid interest of some more or less eligible individual.”

The majority decided she would marry Gerald Danvers.

Lady Quaintree had mentioned the projected visit to the Zoo, in the hearing of Frank Amberley, and he was haunting the gates when the little party arrived.

Poor fellow! He could not resist coming, fluttering about the flame that might end by consuming him.

Gerald objected to his company, now that he had resolved on appropriating the beautiful Lois himself. Hitherto he had never really noticed how often or how long Frank lingered by Miss Turquand. To-day he swelled and fumed like some ruffled turkey-cock, as Frank persisted in walking by the young girl’s left hand, as he displayed the grace and elegance of his irreproachably dressed person on her right.

Lady Quaintree had meant to keep Lois near her own side, but was obliged to loiter behind the three young people, while a dowager friend poured some matronly confidence into her unwilling ear.

It was a lovely afternoon, and the sun glittered down his smiles on the gay throng, sitting in flowerlike groups, or lingering over the sward.

The stroll was not a very lively one for the three somewhat ill-matched companions. Frank Amberley’s heart was full of despairing love and pain. Gerald Danvers was in a downright rage. Lois felt worried and distrait. The two young men wished each other at Jericho, or the Arctic regions, and Miss Turquand would not have been sorry to see herself quit of their uncongenial company.

At a sudden turn they came upon Captain Desfrayne, who had just entered the gardens. He met them so unexpectedly that Lois was taken by surprise, and so was he. They stood for a moment staring at one another, then Paul Desfrayne recollected himself, and lifted his hat. Miss Turquand went through the conventional obeisance.

A few words—what they were neither knew. Captain Desfrayne exchanged courtesies for a brief moment with Frank Amberley, and bowed to Lady Quaintree, who was only a short way in arrear. Then he vanished as quickly as he had appeared.

The faint tinge of rose color on Lois Turquand’s cheeks deepened visibly as she hurriedly passed on. A strange kind of resentment rose up in her breast, and made her eyes glitter with anger. At a second reflection, however, reason came to her aid.

“It was not his fault,” she argued to herself, “that the kind old man to whom I owe my good fortune made an arrangement which is probably as distasteful to him as it is to me. I must not blame him. In fact, I am very much obliged to him, for I feel I should only be rude to him if he tried to talk to me. I don’t believe I ever could like him. He seems, though, to have pleasant, kindly eyes, from the hasty glance I had.”

Paul Desfrayne moved away as if from the vicinity of the plague.

“Confound it!” he muttered, going he hardly knew whither. “What bewitchingly lovely eyes that girl has, though she is so cold and formal; what magnificent hair, and the grace of a queen! I wish her better luck. Why couldn’t the old man have left his money rationally, and not make such a silly, preposterous, aggravating muddle behind him! Well, after all, I have nobody to blame but myself. My sins be on my own head; only I wish nobody else had been dragged in. If it were not for my mother, I should not care so much. Yet, after all, why need I linger in this life of misery? Would it not be better—better to stable my white elephant in the neighboring mews, and so let my fatal secret out at once?”

He laughed aloud, cynically, bitterly.

Having escaped from the neighborhood of Lady Quaintree’s party, he took a turn to ascertain if his mother was in the gardens, for she had sent him a pressing message to ask him to meet her; but finding that she had not, apparently, arrived, he walked listlessly away at random.

Attracted by the solitary aspect of the quarter, he roamed toward the place where the lions and tigers lay, strode to and fro with stealthy step, or sat with magisterial gravity.

Paul Desfrayne had walked literally into the lion’s den.

A woman, young, strikingly handsome, dressed to perfection, was standing in front of the center compartment.

Madam Lucia Guiscardini!

Had any one of the brutes strolled out of its den, and held out a paw of greeting, the young man’s face could scarcely have worn an expression of greater dismay.

Had it been possible, he would have retreated. But the first sound of his firm, light step, made the superb Italian turn.

A heavy frown darkened her perfectly beautiful countenance, and she steadfastly gazed upon Captain Desfrayne with much the same look as the dangerous animals at her elbow had.

Paul Desfrayne raised his hat mechanically.

Madam Guiscardini took her small hands from off the railing, where they had been placed with an odd sort of grasp, and swept a curtsy almost ironical in its suavity.

The young man was obliged to advance, while Madam Guiscardini would not move an inch from the spot where she stood, continuing to gaze at him with that disagreeable, mesmeric expression which so painfully resembled the look of the wild beasts that made so suggestive a background.

“Good morning, Madam Guiscardini,” said Paul Desfrayne, folding his arms, as if to prepare himself for a stormy interview.

“Did you come here to seek me, Paul Desfrayne?” she inquired, regarding him with a baleful light in her splendid eyes, defiance in every tone and gesture.

“To seek you!” bitterly repeated the young man. “I would go to the end of the world to avoid you—you who——”

“Come. It is a long time since we have met, and we may be interrupted at any moment. If you have anything to say to me, I am willing to go home now, and either wait for you, or let you precede me. We have not met since——”

“Since our wedding-morning,” Paul Desfrayne said, as she paused. “Not for three years. I suppose you have never seen me from that day until this moment?”

“I have never seen or heard of you,” she angrily retorted, her eyes flashing ominously with premonitory lightning. “I did not wish to see you. I did not care to hear of you. I never asked a question about you. I should not care if we never met again; and I should be glad—thankful to hear you were dead.”

“I thank you,” said Paul Desfrayne, again lifting his hat. “If care, if regret, if bitter self-reproaches could have killed, I should not have troubled you to-day. It was, indeed, by no voluntary movement that I happened to see you this afternoon. But I believe I must have sought you ere long, to make some endeavor to arrive at a state of things somewhat less wearying, somewhat less wretched. My life is becoming a burden almost too heavy to be borne.”

“You can see me any day you please to appoint,” Madam Guiscardini said angrily. “I have no desire either to seek or to avoid you. But I do not see what good can come of talking. Nothing can undo what has been done; nothing could roll back the waves of that pitiless time that has swept over you and over me.”

“It remains to be seen what can be done, Madam Guiscardini,” Captain Desfrayne answered, moving quite close to her, and looking intently into her eyes. “Do you happen ever to have seen, heard of, or personally known, a man of the name of Gilardoni?”

The color faded completely from the cheeks, lips, almost from the eyes, of the beautiful prima donna.

CHAPTER XII.

THE PRIMA DONNA’S HATE.

Lucia Guiscardini clutched at the iron bar against which she was half-leaning, and glared into the face of her husband, as if she would read his innermost soul.

“What does he know?” she whispered to herself. “How much does he know?”

There was a dead silence for a few seconds. The signs of emotion caused by the name of the friendless wretch who had sought his help were not lost upon Captain Desfrayne.

Madam Guiscardini was trying to rally her forces, and she could not reply in words. Paul Desfrayne repeated his inquiry in another form:

“You do know him?”

The half-terrified woman looked straight into his eyes—those honest eyes, so full of natural kindness and honor.

Fear had blanched her cheeks and lips; shame, perhaps, now drove the roseate hues in a flood back again, as she answered, in a tolerably steady voice:

“I do not. I have never heard of him.”

“Ah! I don’t suppose my domestic affairs can possess any interest for you, madam. It is merely a piece of egotistical gossip to inform you that I have taken Leonardo Gilardoni into my service.”

“Into your service?”

The words were pronounced slowly, with obvious difficulty, and in a husky voice.

Paul Desfrayne did not evidence, by the slightest sign, any triumph at the effect his unexpected shot had produced, but silently watched her face.

“Why—why have you done so? I mean, why do you tell me of it?”

“I cannot help having an idea that you knew something of the poor fellow at one time, though he has slipped from your memory,” Captain Desfrayne said, very calmly, shrugging his shoulders.

“Has he said—has he said——”

She could not continue; the effort at control was too great.

It was impossible to tell how much this quiet, now half-smiling, man before her might know of the terror that haunted her day and night.

“Has he said what?” demanded Paul Desfrayne, looking her steadily in the face.

“Said he knew me?” Madam Guiscardini coolly replied.

But as she spoke, her fingers so convulsively twitched, as if she were trying her utmost to curb the secret emotions of her mind, that they snapped the delicate, carved ivory handle of her parasol.

Paul Desfrayne, who had not once removed his eyes from her face, laughed cynically, bitterly. His laughter had in it more of menace than an uncontrollable outburst of violent anger.

He thought: “What can be the secret between them?” But aloud he said, affecting to ignore the accidental betrayal so direful as well as the agitation of his wife:

“He has barely mentioned your name, and then simply in a passing way.”

“May I ask your reason for supposing I was acquainted with him?”

“I had more reasons than one. But a chief reason was that I knew he came from your part of Italy; and in a village everybody knows everybody else. Had he been an old friend of yours—don’t curl your lip: you were once as lowly placed as he, perhaps more so—you might perchance have cared to hear something of him. The poor wretch has been in grievous adversity, it seems: without a friend, often without a shelter, without money; so it is probably a fortunate thing for him that he has found a friend in me.”

“I hope he will serve you well,” said Madam Guiscardini, in an ice-cold tone. “It shows good taste on the part of Captain Desfrayne to recall the fact that the Guiscardini was once a poor cottage girl in poverty—in——”

Her eyes flashed, and she stopped, as if afraid of rousing her indomitable temper did she proceed. One sentence might ruin her. She abruptly curbed herself, and swept another curtsy.

“I have the honor to wish Captain Desfrayne good morning, and shall be ready to receive his promised—his threatened visit——”

“On Monday afternoon,” Paul Desfrayne said sharply, as if in positive pain. “I can endure this slavery—this horrible bondage—no longer in silence.”

“On Monday afternoon be it. You know where to find me?”

“No, I do not.”

Madam Guiscardini looked with intent suspicion at him. She hated this handsome young man with concentrated hate, but she respected him profoundly, and she knew he would not utter a falsehood to gain a kingdom. Therefore she was obliged to believe him, though she had previously imagined that his presence in Porchester Square had been due to some plot of which she was the object.

She carefully watched him as she gave her address. It was like a duel to the death, each adversary narrowly eying the movements of the other. To her further mystification, Paul Desfrayne almost sprang back in his amazement when he heard her name the exact place where she lived.

“Where?” he demanded, as if unable to credit his ears.

She coldly repeated the name of the square and the number of the house.

“Why does he seem so astonished?” she said to herself, eying him with a glance akin to that in the yellow orbs of the leopardess a few steps from her. “What is the matter now?”

“On Monday afternoon, then, we will have a further explanation, Madam Guiscardini,” Paul Desfrayne said, mastering his surprise, and raising his hat with the ceremony he would have used to a total stranger.

He left her.

“Separated from my mother by a few layers of bricks and mortar,” he thought. “I have appointed an interview, but what good can come of it? None. I have made my bed—made it of thorns and briers, and must sleep therein with what comfort I may.”

He shrugged his shoulders impatiently.

“What is to be done? It would be the best and wisest course to immediately inform my mother of the exact state of affairs. I wish I had done so at first. I am like those very immoral little boys in the story-books of one’s youth, who don’t tell in time, and so the agony goes on piling up until the culprit is next to smothered. What is to be done with this Gordian knot? I have not the courage to cut it. I wonder they didn’t include moral cowardice among the deadly sins. I wonder what would be the consequences if I did summon up sufficient nerve to inform my mother of my culpable behavior three years ago? Come, Paul Desfrayne, it must be done. Better be brave at once, and march up to the cannon’s mouth, than be found out ignominiously some day sooner or later. Shall it be done to-day—this evening?”

His reverie was broken by a light, caressing touch upon his arm. Turning round suddenly, with a strange sensation of nervous alarm, he found his mother by his side.

Smiling, pleasant, unsuspicious, her sunny brow unclouded by a shadow that might possibly produce a future wrinkle, she looked deliciously happy, and perfectly confident, to all appearance, of his trust and affection.

She started as he turned his face full upon her.

“You are pale, my dear. Are you not well?” she anxiously inquired.

“Not very well, mother. The heat—the crowd—it is such a bore altogether, that I am weary, and I should be glad to escape.”

“My dear Paul, I have seen so little of you lately, that I grudge to lose you when I have fairly secured a chance of your company. But”—she glanced round at the gay, ever-moving crowd, with its lively colors, at the faces, dotted here and there, with which she was familiar, and a faint smile dimpled the corners of her lips—“if you will, let us go somewhere else. Where would you like to go?”

“Anywhere. I want a little talk with you—one of our own old gossips, mother. It is impossible to obtain the least chance of an uninterrupted talk here.”

Yet as he spoke, his heart sank within him. It seemed as if his confession would be more difficult to-day than ever. To make his path more thorny, that beloved face looked so confiding, so sure that there could not be the shadow of a secret, that it would have been a thousand times easier to walk up to the cannon’s mouth, than to speak the few words that must break forever the steady bond linking them together.

But for all Mrs. Desfrayne’s calm, suave looks, she was keenly watching her son. His absence alone had hindered her from finding out long ago that some shadow lay between them. Her practised, maternal eyes could read him through.

“What has happened, and why is he afraid to tell me?” she meditated, while to outward seeming engaged in regarding the pleasant scene about her with half-childish interest.

Her brain ran swiftly over every imaginable train of events, possible or impossible, that might have happened, seeking some clue to the evident mystery.

Not for a moment did her mind revert to what, after all, was the most simple and obvious explanation.

They moved to quit the gardens.

“Is not that the Guiscardini?” she asked of Paul.

“I believe so.”

Mrs. Desfrayne had put up her glass, so the look and tone with which her inquiry was answered escaped her.

“I don’t know why,” she continued; “but I have taken an inveterate dislike to that woman. She reminds me of a magnificent cobra. You know, Paul, I have a foolish way of taking likes and dislikes.”

At the next step she encountered Miss Turquand.

In spite of her resolve to cultivate the young girl’s friendship, a cold inclination of the head was all that passed between them.

A warmer salutation to Lady Quaintree followed, but Mrs. Desfrayne was too impatient to hear what her son had to say, to be able to stop just then for a little idle, sunshiny gossip.

Paul handed her into the brougham that was in waiting.

It was a hired one, as Mrs. Desfrayne always remembered as she was about to enter it. She had longed for the days when either by some brilliant matrimonial stroke on her own part, or that of her son, she should be the happy possessor of such carriages and horses as might please her fancy. Yet now she was secretly determined to hinder, if possible, her son’s acceptance of a fortune that far exceeded her most sanguine dreams.

With anxiety she regarded Paul’s face as he seated himself beside her. He was ashy pale, and his eyes were bright with the brightness of fever.

“Home,” she said to the coachman.

Too wary to hasten the unwilling confession by ill-timed or injudicious questions, Mrs. Desfrayne nestled back in her cozy corner, and began to flirt her garden-fan, waiting patiently.

It is always the first step that forms the difficulty, and even yet Paul could not resolve on precipitating himself into those cold waters he so dreaded. Even did he take the plunge, how could he introduce the subject?

The drive passed, therefore, in constrained silence.

It was not until they were seated in the cool, pleasant room, called by Mrs. Desfrayne her own special retreat, that Paul could break the ice.

Mrs. Desfrayne gazed with wonderment at the handsome face of her boy, as he sat on a low chair before her, his eyes cast down, his hands nervously playing with the silken fringe on her dress, so unlike what she had ever known him before.

“Paul,” she said softly, leaning toward him, “you look like a criminal. What is the matter with you?”

The tone was mellow and tender, and yet with a tinge of gentle gaiety.

Paul raised his eyes.

“Like a criminal?” he repeated slowly. “I look like what I am. Oh! my mother—my mother!”

He slipped from the low chair, on his knees, and bowed his face on his mother’s hands. She felt hot tears wet her fingers, and a great terror seized her heart, for she adored her boy.

“Paul,” she whispered, “tell me what has happened!”

CHAPTER XIII.

PAUL DESFRAYNE’S CONFESSION.

Paul Desfrayne’s weakness did not last many minutes.

Rising to his feet, he strode backward and forward half a dozen times; then, pausing, he leaned his folded arms on the back of the low, carved chair into which he had at first thrown himself.

“You alarm me, Paul. I beseech you, tell me the worst at once,” implored his mother.

“You may see with what an effort I try to approach the secret which, for three long years, has been my curse by day and by night,” answered Paul mournfully.

Mrs. Desfrayne threw out her hands with an involuntary gesture of fear and amazement.

“For three years!” she repeated, as if incredulous.

“What do you imagine that secret to have been?” he demanded, gazing steadfastly at her.

“Good heavens! how can I imagine when, until this moment, I did not know you had any concealment from me at all?” exclaimed Mrs. Desfrayne.

Her accent was indicative half of despair, half of keen reproach.

“As you are aware, I have just received a most singular offer.”

“Your troubles, then, have some reference to Lois Turquand?”

“In a measure, yes. You would wish me, if I understood you aright, to take advantage, as far as in me lay, of this offer?”

Mrs. Desfrayne hesitated, then cried, with vehemence:

“Why do you not speak plainly at once, instead of harassing me by these hints and half-confidences?”

“Because I am afraid of the effect upon you; because I am afraid you may never be able to forgive me.”

“For what offense?”

“For deceit and ingratitude toward the best and kindest of mothers.”

“It is impossible to comprehend you. I must only wait for some key to your singular self-reproaches,” said Mrs. Desfrayne, with a profound sigh.

“Three years ago I went for a holiday tour to Italy, when you were with some friends at Wiesbaden.”

“I recollect perfectly well. I was disappointed because you would not join us.”

“Would to Heaven I had yielded to your wishes!”

“From that time I have scarcely seen anything of you, Paul. You have visited me by fits and starts, and have never stayed long.”

As she spoke, an idea darted into Mrs. Desfrayne’s mind.

“After traveling about in various parts of Italy, as I kept you informed by my letters, I reached Florence.”

His lips trembled as he pronounced the name of the city which bore so many painful memories for him.

“Go on, my dear.”

“I remained at Florence for several weeks. While there, I went every night to the opera.”

“A very agreeable manner of spending your evenings,” said Mrs. Desfrayne, with assumed carelessness.

“There was an excellent company, and the operas were admirably selected; but I did not go for the sake of either performers or pieces: I went, drawn thither as by a lodestone, because I was under some kind of strange hallucination that I was in love with a young girl who had just come out there. Perhaps I may have been in love with her. It was folly—a madness!”

There was no sign of emotion on Mrs. Desfrayne’s face. She sat almost immovable as a statue, her hands loosely clasped as they rested in her lap, her wide-open, glowing eyes alone betraying the painful interest she felt in her son’s words.

“For some days and nights I blindly worshiped this dazzling star from a distance,” Paul continued, having vainly waited for some remark from his mother. “At last I was introduced to her. She lived with some elderly female relative, who accompanied her to the theater every night. By degrees—very rapid degrees, for Italian girls are very unlike their English sisters—she made me her confidant. She did with me as she chose. For all I knew of her real nature, she might as well have worn a waxen mask. Through the dishonesty of the man who had trained her, she had been sold into a species of slavery to the manager. Unaware of her own value, she had bound herself to this fellow’s exclusive service for the term of ten years, at a salary which the most subordinate performer would have refused with scorn.”

“Go on,” said his mother, on whom the truth began to force itself.

“Infatuated as I was, she easily interested me in her story, although I had at that time no intentions of any kind beyond——”

“Beyond flirting with the girl?”

“I floated with the current. I was incapable of reasoning, as much so as any one bereft of their natural senses. One night I was behind the scenes; the house took fire. There was a fearful panic, and hundreds were injured—many killed. This young girl clung to me, and somehow I carried her out of the theater by the stage-door—I believe so, for I remembered nothing from the time I caught her up in my arms until a moment of amazed weakness, when I woke up to find myself lying in a strange room, this girl sitting by me. I then learned that, as I rushed out, bearing her in my arms, a blazing beam of timber had fallen, and dangerously wounded me.”

An exclamation escaped Mrs. Desfrayne, and she half-rose from her seat.

“What am I to hear?” she cried, as if in anguish. “And you never told me of this illness!”

“Let me finish, now that I have begun. I had been ill for weeks in the old home on the outskirts of Florence, where this girl lived, with her aged attendant or relative. Unhappily—most unhappily—they both imagined I was an English milord. I believe that my servant had deceived them by bragging of my wealth and importance.”

“How did he dare to permit you to remain in that place instead of having you carried to your own lodgings?” demanded Mrs. Desfrayne.

“When I fell, the girl and I were put into some kind of vehicle, and she took me to her own home. Her object was, I believe, to have me under the immediate pressure of her influence. When Reynolds, my servant, heard of what had occurred, he flew to my side; but the physician who attended me would not, or could not, hear of my removal. Reynolds, poor soul, was seized, a day or two after, with a fever, from which he did not recover for months.”

“I see now the drift of your history,” said Mrs. Desfrayne, in a tone which showed that she was wounded to the depths of her heart. “It is the hackneyed story of the young man who falls ill marrying the handsome young woman who nurses him.”

Captain Desfrayne turned aside, and took a hasty stride to and fro; then he returned, resuming his position.

“She was, or pretended to be, full of joy and gratitude on my recovery. During the days of my convalescence, she spoke to me fully of her state of bondage, her anger at the injustice done her, her desire for liberty, and affected to make no secret of what she averred was desperate love for myself. My sympathies were enlisted for her; my vanity was aroused in her favor. I at length——”

“Asked her to marry you?” laughed his mother.

“No. Her agreement with the manager bound her for ten years, under a heavy penalty. I desired that she should leave the stage, although I felt it would be next to an impossibility to marry this girl. I remembered your strong prejudices against stage-performers——”

“Ah! You did think of me once.”

“I rarely forgot you in my most insane moments. I thought of my position, of the traditions of my family. I would have freed her if I could, and then fled her presence; for I felt it would be impossible to make this girl your daughter, though her name was stainless, and she was superbly beautiful, and gifted with talents of a certain kind. But I could not rescue her by money from the clutches of the old wolf who had laid a claw upon her. It would have needed thousands, and I should perhaps have left myself penniless, and—and looking very like a fool,” Paul added, with a cynical laugh.

“You married the girl, then?” said Mrs. Desfrayne eagerly, anxious to ascertain the exact position of her son, and desirous of hurrying him to an immediate acknowledgment.

“I offered to assist her in taking flight to Paris. At least, I believed the suggestion was mine, but later I recollected that the entire plan was arranged by herself, under advice of the old woman who attended her. She was restless and impatient until we had completed every preparation to leave Florence forever, as she intended. I cannot realize how it came about that I was like a puppet in her hands.”

Mrs. Desfrayne shrugged her shoulders with a kind of disdainful compassion.

“We started late on a Friday, the opera being closed on that night, and arrived safely at the frontier. Then we suddenly discovered that the old woman had not been provided with a passport. The girl whom I had undertaken to assist wept and sobbed with terror.”

“A preconcerted affair, my poor Paul.”

“No doubt. We agreed that there was nothing to be done but to leave the old attendant behind with money and instructions to follow as early as she possibly could, and then to pursue our journey. For more than a week we continued our flight. It seemed to me then more like a strange, fascinating dream, than an incident of my real every-day life. I fell more and more under the spell of this beautiful siren’s beauty and insidious charm of manner, and by the time we reached Paris I had completely lost my senses. About three days after we reached our destination, I made her my wife; we were married at the British embassy.”

Paul’s mother clasped her hands with a cry. The point at which she had desired to arrive even now electrified her. She could not have explained her own feelings at that moment. Her brain seemed in a whirl from the shock. The story gave her the idea that it was like one of those fantastical dreams, where all the personages who appear perform the most improbable tricks, and everybody apparently does the most unlikely acts.

“May I inquire the name of this amiable young person?” she asked, and her own voice struck her as being strange.

“It is already known to you,” answered Paul, in hollow tones. “But I will mention it when I have finished my narration. We were married. The ceremony over, we returned to the hotel where I had placed her, and where I had likewise taken up my abode. Within an hour after this fatal bond had been tied, an accidental observation on my part revealed to her the fact that I was not the rich and titled man she had supposed me to be. I had asked her to relinquish the stage as a profession, and she laughingly answered that as the wife of a great English milord it would be impossible for her to continue the career to which she had meant to devote her life. I was confounded at the mistake into which she had so unhappily fallen, and endeavored to explain my real position to her.”

Mrs. Desfrayne tapped her foot on the carpet with such violence that Paul stopped.

“Go on—go on—go on!” she exclaimed.

“This girl, whom I up to that moment had had the fatuity to imagine loved me for myself alone, went on in an ecstasy dilating on the future splendors of her lot. I at length succeeded in inducing her to listen to me. Then I laid before her the realities of my position, my limited income, the quietude of the life she would be obliged to lead. I spoke of you——”

“How dared you speak of me to a person like that?” furiously asked Mrs. Desfrayne.

“I—well, enough. If blamelessness of life, an unspotted name, could have atoned for other sins, even you, mother, must have granted her absolution. Enough. She was compelled to believe that she had made a most fearful mistake—she was like a tiger who—— My mother, it had been well for us—for many others—if that revelation could have come an hour before, instead of an hour after, our ill-starred union. The scene I never can forget. Sometimes in the dead hours of the night I am startled awake by the fancy that I am again going through it. I wonder, after the successive shocks of those few weeks, that I now live to give you the miserable recital.”

Again he paced to and fro, as if in almost uncontrollable emotion. This time, on again pausing, he sank into the chair as if almost exhausted.

His mother made no sign. The bitterness of her anger and disappointment exceeded, if that were possible, his darkest forebodings.

She continued to tap her foot on the carpet, and her jeweled fingers twined and twisted in one another as if they must snap. This time she addressed no inquiry to him, but sat a silent image of despair and mortified anger.

“Let me make an end of my story as quickly as I can,” Paul said, in subdued tones. He heartily wished now he had let it still remain untold until such a time as he might be driven to confess it. “La Lucia, after storming and raging, registered a mighty oath never to see my face again if she could help herself, never to carry into effect the vows she had made at the altar—to hold herself free as if she had never seen me. I can hardly tell you what she said. She ironically thanked me for having helped her to escape from one kind of slavery, though she found herself trammeled in another, and for my care of her during the journey, and for the consideration and delicate courtesy I had shown her in her unprotected state, and then swept out of the room. The next thing I heard of my lady wife was that she had carried herself and all her belongings off from the hotel. I never heard of her again until Europe was ringing with her name and fame.”

“Her name?” repeated Mrs. Desfrayne mechanically.

“The name I had first known her under.”

“And that was?”

“Lucia Guiscardini.”

Mrs. Desfrayne sprang from her seat, and began pacing to and fro in her turn.

“Oh! it is too much—too much!” she cried. “Ungrateful, wicked, unloving son, is it thus you have returned the deep, unwearying affection I have ever cherished for you?”

“The most bitter reproaches you can level at me can never equal in intensity those which I have heaped on my own head,” Paul replied.

“You must have been mad to let yourself be entrapped in this way,” Mrs. Desfrayne went on. “I can scarcely believe it is true. You are, then, really bound to this—this singing woman who cares nothing for you, who seems to disdain you and all belonging to you. Oh! it is incredible. And what about Miss Turquand?”

“I know not,” answered Paul wearily. “I wish to Heaven I had never seen or heard of the eccentric old fogy who chose to imagine himself under some debt of gratitude to me, for then——”

“Folly!” angrily interrupted his mother. “Better wish you had never seen this woman who owns you—or that you had not been so——”

She shrugged her shoulders with an expression indescribable.

There was a brief pause.

“It would be as ridiculous as it would be undignified on my part to display any resentment against you,” Mrs. Desfrayne resumed. “Of course, you had a right to please yourself: though married in haste, you are repenting at leisure. But what are you going to do?”

“In what way?”

“Good heavens! so long as that woman lives, there is not a ray of happiness for you.”

“I know it. It is a heavy penalty to pay for those few weeks of forgetfulness, of lunacy, of fever; but hardly so heavy to bear as the loss of the love and esteem of the only woman in the world I ever loved, or am likely to love.”

“Whom are you talking about?” hastily demanded Mrs. Desfrayne, a new spasm of jealousy seizing her heart.

But Paul would not answer.

He rested his arms on the back of the chair, and laid his head on the support thus made. This attitude brought vividly back to his mother’s mind the days of his childhood and youth, when he had been all her own. How often had she seen him thus, when he had been guilty of some youthful fault or folly, and was penitent, yet half-afraid he should not easily find pardon!

Mrs. Desfrayne’s heart was irresistibly drawn toward her boy. With a soft, gentle touch, she laid one of her white, jeweled hands on his head.

“Do you speak of me?” she asked. “Ah! Paul, it is ten thousand pities that, having committed this fatal mistake, you did not confide in me before. What a miserable future is before you; but you must not give way. It must be borne. I do not reproach you. Nay, I will give you such comfort as I can.”

Paul caught her hands, and covered them with kisses.

“Would that I had—would that I had told you, mother!” he cried, looking up into her face with his open, candid eyes, from which some of the black care had melted. “That terrible secret has stood between me and you like some malignant black specter.”

“I dimly felt its presence now and again,” said his mother, “though I could not believe it possible you could deceive me. But tell me, what do you mean to do?”

“Nothing. What can I do?”

“True.”

“As for this young lady, why, I am sorry she will be driven to think ill of me; but any explanation would be clearly impossible. She will have a handsome fortune in any case, and probably marry some one infinitely more to her taste than I should be. In two or three days my leave of absence expires, and I go to rejoin my regiment near Gloucester.”

“I no sooner see you again than you are snatched away. It is hard, Paul.”

“Just at this juncture perhaps it will be better for me to be out of your way. You will think more kindly of your absent son and his faults and follies than you might of——”

“Come. Let us put away that painful subject, and not recur to it unless necessary. Of course, it is of no earthly use your giving another thought to this Miss Turquand.”

“I think it would be as well to confide my exact position to the lawyer who drew up the will, and who introduced me to the young lady yesterday evening—Amberley. I think I mentioned his name to you. He might be able to give me a dispassionate word of advice.”

Mrs. Desfrayne considered.

“You see, my dearest mother, he would be able to look at the matter from a mere business point of view, as he has no interest in the affair.”

“Perhaps,” Mrs. Desfrayne slowly said, “it might be as well to consult him. I think I have met him at Lady Quaintree’s. Yes, it would perhaps be best to speak to him about your most unhappy position.”

Captain Desfrayne rose, and went over to his mother’s little writing-table. As if afraid to trust to his continuance of purpose, he sat down and wrote a few lines to Frank Amberley, asking him to make an appointment, as he desired to consult him on a matter of importance.

He showed the note to his mother, enclosed it then in an envelope, addressed and stamped it, leaving it on the desk ready for the post.

The ordeal he had so dreaded had been passed through. The terrible secret had been revealed. Now he wished he had spoken of it long ago.

“You are going to Gloucester? When?”

“On Wednesday. The regiment is stationed at Holston, some miles from Gloucester.”

“Holston? Why, is not that near the place where Flore Hall is situated?”

“Yes. I look forward to going over the old house once more as one of the few pleasures in store for me down there. I feel thankful to get away now.”

Neither Captain Desfrayne nor his mother knew that the old Hall in which he had spent so many days of his childhood had been left to Lois Turquand by her dead benefactor.

The storm had passed, leaving but little trace behind.

Mrs. Desfrayne easily persuaded her son to remain for the rest of the evening with her.

On Wednesday Captain Desfrayne was to go to Gloucester.

On Monday he was to visit Madam Guiscardini, according to the appointment made in the gardens, though it seemed worse than useless to renew the pain and distress he had suffered that day.

His mother was passionately averse to his seeing the woman who had so fatally entrapped him.

“Nay, mother; it will be best to ascertain clearly how we are to spend our future lives,” Paul said. “We must come to a clear understanding some way.”

On reaching home, he found a letter from Frank Amberley, dated that morning, before his own had been written, asking if it would be convenient for him to attend on Tuesday a meeting of the partners of the firm, to go more fully into the details of business having reference to Miss Turquand’s affairs.

Paul Desfrayne saw it would not be so easy to shrink from his duties as sole trustee and executor to the beautiful Lois as he had hoped it might be.

As he drifted into a broken, uneasy slumber that night, his last thoughts turned upon Lois, sincerely trusting it might not be necessary for the young girl to attend the meeting.

Why should he have this fear—this undercurrent of aversion to encountering his beautiful charge?

He had seen her only twice. He persuaded himself she was cold and beautiful as an antique statue. He argued to himself that a world-worn, half-weary man of thirty could scarcely be acceptable to a young girl of eighteen. He chose to feel certain that being dictated to in her choice must of itself suffice to render him unwelcome.

And yet he shrank with vague terror at the chance of being again exposed to the danger of being obliged to look into those soft, crystal-bright eyes, of glancing even for a moment into those untroubled depths, where lay mirrored the most perfect purity, loyalty, and truth.

CHAPTER XIV.

FRANK AMBERLEY’S EXULTATION.

Lucia Guiscardini was determined not to come face to face again with Paul Desfrayne if she could help it.

The evening of the day she saw him by accident at the Zoological Gardens, she was obliged to appear at the opera.

Never, perhaps, had she performed more resplendently, yet all the time she was meditating how to escape a second interview.

She settled the matter after her own fashion.

Ordering her maid to pack up a few necessary things, she started by the midnight train for Paris.

“I hate him,” she said to herself, as she sank back into a dim corner in the first-class carriage as it rattled away from Charing Cross; “and I would kill him if I could, and if I thought nobody could find it out. What a weak fool I must have been! But I was in too great a hurry to secure what I rashly imagined to be a splendid prize. And to think that I might be a princess if I were not tied by this hateful bond! Women have crushed others before for less cause.”

The consequence was, that when Paul Desfrayne called at the house so strangely contiguous to that in which his mother dwelt, he was informed that madam was not in town.

“Not in town?” he repeated, with amazement.

Further inquiries elicited that madam had gone away rather suddenly—gone to Paris, the man believed, and had not left word when she might return.

With a sense of almost relief, Paul turned away. Just then he was glad of a reprieve, for he felt little equal to much more violent emotion.

He was infinitely relieved, too, by finding that Miss Turquand’s presence had not been considered necessary at the business meeting in Alderman’s Lane.

The young lady had been taken down to the country, one of the partners informed him, by Lady Quaintree, the day before, to visit the mansion and grounds left by the testator.

“As you are aware, Captain Desfrayne, having read the will, all the landed estates and house property have been left solely for the use and benefit of Miss Turquand,” remarked Mr. Salmon, a tall, large, white-headed gentleman, of a jovial deportment and cheerful manners.

Captain Desfrayne bowed. He had indeed seen as much in the terrible document; but, being preoccupied by the vexatious clauses respecting the planned union between himself and Lois Turquand, had not paid much heed to the minor details.

“The principal country house is, I understand, a very handsome and substantial place,” Mr. Salmon continued, jingling his seals musically. “I think it is situated in Gloucestershire,” he added, looking at Frank Amberley.

“Flore Hall, Holston, some miles from Gloucester,” Frank Amberley replied.

Paul Desfrayne could scarcely credit his ears. He had congratulated himself on the hope of escape, and now it seemed he would be driven to walk into the very jaws of danger.

“Did I understand you to say that Miss Turquand has gone to visit Flore Hall?” he asked of Frank Amberley.

“Certainly.”

Paul had the greatest difficulty in restraining himself from demanding how long she would be likely to stay there.

He felt much like one of those unhappy criminals who have been immured in a dungeon, the walls of which slowly close in and crush them.

Like one in a painful dream, he listened as affairs were laid before him, and dry, legal questions raised and discussed.

Every moment he resolved to plainly tell these calm, legal gentlemen how he was situated, or else to distinctly give them to understand that he would not undertake the responsibility.

Perhaps he was chiefly deterred by a vague feeling that he might place himself in a ridiculous position. It was one thing to kneel, as it were, at the feet of a mother, who might display either anger or sympathy, but would certainly be able to comprehend his wild story; but quite another to unveil his heart-secrets to the cool, critical eyes of those hard-headed, tranquil men of the law.

The partners, observing his wearied air, his total lack of interest, his abstracted replies, settled each mentally that Captain Desfrayne was not much of a man of business.

Frank Amberley alone watched him narrowly.

“He is not mercenary, that is clear,” Mr. Amberley thought. “What are his secret motives or reasons for such strange behavior?”

The interview ended, and Paul Desfrayne had made no sign, save of acquiescence.

Papers, memoranda of various kinds, deeds, leases, and other dry reading had been gone through, only bringing to him a bad headache.

At last he found himself in Frank Amberley’s private room, and free to confide as much or as little as he pleased to the man who was his secret rival.

“You wished to consult me on important business, I believe?” Mr. Amberley said, when they were alone.

“I did, if you will be kind enough to listen to me.”

There was a long and painful pause.

Frank Amberley had a presentiment that Captain Desfrayne was about to give him some clue to his reasons for shunning Lois Turquand. He did not utter a word, but began to sort some papers, to leave his visitor free to collect his thoughts.

“The fact is,” Captain Desfrayne began slowly, “I am placed in a most embarrassing situation. I find myself bound, in a measure, to make love to a young, beautiful, and wealthy lady, and bribed magnificently to try and win her, involving her in pecuniary loss if I fail to gain her hand and heart, when——”

“You speak as if something interfered to hinder you from carrying out the agreeable wishes of the late Mr. Vere Gardiner.”

“The strongest possible reason hinders me.”

“You would not allude to a hindrance were it not your intention to enlighten me.”

“The hindrance is the most valid and insuperable one that could exist. I am already married!”

Frank Amberley pushed his chair back the few inches that intervened between him and the wall behind, and stared at Captain Desfrayne.

“Already married!” he repeated. “Impossible! You are jesting, surely? Pardon me, I am so much surprised that I scarcely know what I am saying. May I ask why you did not mention this important fact earlier?”

“The subject is a most painful one, for I must frankly confess to you that my marriage has been a most unhappy one, and has never been publicly acknowledged.”

A thrill of joy ran through Frank Amberley’s heart. Although he could scarcely hope to win the beautiful object of his passionate love and devotion, at least this stupendous stumbling-block was removed out of the path.

“Am I at liberty to inform the partners of the firm of this?” he asked.

“I suppose they must learn it sooner or later,” Paul Desfrayne answered, with a deep sigh. “Therefore, I leave the matter in your hands. I trust in your kindness and discretion not to let it be more fully known than may be absolutely necessary.”

“Miss Turquand ought to be informed of the state of affairs.”

“Perhaps you will be good enough to undertake the task?”

“A sufficiently unpleasant one.”

“Why so? To me it would be an impossibility; but to you——”

“It will be a mere matter of business,” Frank Amberley remarked, as Captain Desfrayne hesitated. A slight grimace which passed over his countenance might have served to mark the words as ironical; but it came and went unnoticed. “Be it so. When Miss Turquand returns, I will take care she is duly informed of the fact which you have confided to me. She would, perhaps, be better pleased if the information came from yourself, but as you are so averse to seeing her on the subject, why, I must simply do as you wish.”

“The sooner she knows the better.”

“But,” said Mr. Amberley, as if another idea had occurred to him, “I think you mentioned just now, when down-stairs, that you were about to start for Gloucestershire, to join your regiment. I thought you told Mr. Salmon that you were going to Holston to-morrow, if I understood rightly?”

“Quite true.”

“I have never visited the neighborhood; but if you are anywhere near Flore Hall”—he hesitated—“the probabilities are that you may see Miss Turquand before I do. I have no idea how long she will remain at Holston, and did not know a visit was contemplated: I heard of it by accident this morning.”

Paul Desfrayne reflected. Unhappily, his meditations were neither of an agreeable nor a profitable nature.

“True,” he slowly replied, speaking as if with difficulty. “I will not seek Miss Turquand—I cannot; you must bear with what may seem like culpable weakness; but if I should meet her——”

“I quite understand your situation and feelings, and I hope you will treat me as a friend,” said Frank Amberley. “I will do what I can for you; and, believe me, I sympathize with you. Let me know if there should be any explanation between you and the young lady, and if you do not find a good opportunity for speaking to her on the subject, I will undertake to act for you.”

Paul Desfrayne looked into those kindly, truthful eyes, and held out his hand, as if to mutely express his gratitude. Then, after a few more words, he departed, wearily.

“Poor fellow!” Frank Amberley thought. “They may well paint fortune as blind. Yesterday I envied him—to-day I cannot but pity him. So this, then, is the secret. Poor soul! what a burden to bear.”

Captain Desfrayne found, on returning home, that Leonardo Gilardoni had arranged everything perfectly, for the migration of the following day.

He wished to mention to the Italian that Madam Guiscardini had abruptly quitted London, for the sake of observing the effect the news might have, but he could not bring himself voluntarily to pronounce her name.

On the Wednesday morning, he started for Holston, having bade his mother farewell. He had spent Monday and Tuesday evening with her, and promised to write frequently.

After all, the old links did not seem to be so broken as he had feared they would be, and his mother still appeared as she had ever done, all affection and maternal solicitude.

She had some friends in the neighborhood of Holston, and looked forward to being able to obtain an invitation for some weeks there.

Captain Desfrayne mentioned the discovery that Miss Turquand had come into possession of Flore Hall—a discovery that little gratified Mrs. Desfrayne, for the old country-seat had belonged to one of her uncles, who had been ruined by his extravagance.

Probably she would not have been more pleased had any wee bird whispered to her that Lois Turquand’s mother had been lady’s-maid within its walls to the wife of that selfsame wasteful relative. Mr. Vere Gardiner had, in truth, purchased the house and the land belonging to it in the hope of being able to gratify his old love by installing her as mistress where she had once been simply a paid servant.

“There is a fate in it all,” Mrs. Desfrayne said. “How will it end?”

“How should it end, mother?” Paul replied, somewhat sharply. “I suppose we have pretty well seen the end of these unpleasant affairs. The worst has passed.”

Poor fellow! the most bitter draft was yet to come. The end of his fantastical life-story was very far from view.

CHAPTER XV.

THE MISTRESS OF FLORE HALL.

Lady Quaintree had taken a fancy into her head that she should like to see the old Hall which now owned Miss Lois Turquand as proprietress. Therefore, she carried off the young girl, her maid, and a couple of male servants, on a hasty expedition.

“We will not send word we are coming, my dear,” she half-suggested, half-commanded. “It will be most advisable to seize the people who have the care of the place by surprise.”

Her ladyship knew nothing of the fact that Mrs. Turquand had once lived at Flore Hall in service. Lois had never heard her mother refer to her girl days, and was equally ignorant with Lady Quaintree that the almost elegant, proud woman she remembered as her mother had originally occupied so obscure and humble a position as lady’s-maid to a country squire’s wife.

“We must engage a maid for you, my love,” said Lady Quaintree. “It will be impossible for you to manage without one.”

Lois laughed with some gaiety, but did not answer.

The journey was easily performed, without adventure. The way was as pleasant as sunny skies, beautiful, constantly changing scenery, and easy transit could render it.

On arriving at Holston, in the evening, Lady Quaintree found a carriage waiting at the station, for she had sent intelligence of her advent to some friends in the vicinity, and piqued their curiosity by hints of the beauty and romantic history of a charming young friend she was bringing with her.

Not only a carriage, but a very pretty girl waited the arrival of the expected guests. This girl was the daughter of the old friends to whom Lady Quaintree was going to pay what she had called “a flying visit.” She was in the waiting-room, a bare, wooden-benched nook, where her presence seemed like the veriest sunshine in a shady place.

She was watching from the window, and ran out on the platform when she saw her old friend alight.

A tall, symmetrically formed figure, attired in a coquettish style, a fair, laughing face, enframed in a golden shower of tangled curls, with blue, or, rather, violet eyes, carnation lips, the most dazzlingly white little pearly teeth, small hands, and dainty, arched feet, shod in high-heeled shoes with gleaming buckles—such would be very crude notes for a description of Blanche Dormer.

The train swept onward, and in a moment the platform was again silent and deserted, leaving Miss Dormer free to indulge in her evidently impulsive nature, by kissing and embracing Lady Quaintree in a very ardent manner. Lady Quaintree could have pardoned her for a little less show of affection, her ladyship being somewhat averse to being made so free with.

“Dearest Lady Quaintree,” cried this young lady, her voice ringing like musical bells, “I am so glad to see you! Mama would have come to meet you, but she is not very well. Papa had to go to dine with Sir Charles Devereux, or he would have come. I have not seen you since those delightful days three years ago, when we had such a delicious ‘time,’ as the Americans say, at that old German bade.”

“My dear, I have brought you a friend—Miss Lois Turquand,” said Lady Quaintree, with gentle dignity. “I hope you two girls will like one another.”

The girls looked into one another’s eyes, and then simultaneously obeyed some mysterious impulse by clasping hands.

“You two were little girls when I last saw you, Miss Blanche,” Lady Quaintree said, as they descended the stairs to enter the carriage.

“I was sixteen, your ladyship,” protested Blanche. “I am nineteen now.”

“Ah! well. Fifteen or sixteen, I suppose, is very young and childish to an old lady like me,” smiled her ladyship.

On their way to The Cedars, the carriage passed the barracks.

Blanche eagerly directed the attention of her companions to the place, and informed them that the present occupants were to leave on the morrow, and a fresh regiment was to be installed on Wednesday morning.

Lady Quaintree politely suppressed a yawn, and thought with mild wonderment of how easily interested in small objects country people were. Lois listened with equal indifference, studying the captivating lights and shadows on her new friend’s face.

Neither knew that it was the regiment to which Paul Desfrayne belonged that was expected.

Mrs. Dormer was a delightful, somewhat old-fashioned type of the country lady. Her manners were as free and as heartily cordial as those of her daughter, but yet, like Blanche, she was as exquisitely refined as if all her life had been passed at court.

Having established her guests to her entire satisfaction, she began to make a bargain with Lady Quaintree for a more extended stay than that contemplated. She protested against their running away after a few hours, for Lady Quaintree had settled that by the afternoon of the next day she and Lois should drive to Flore Hall, and, if it were at all inhabitable, stay there perhaps a day, or a couple of days.

Mrs. Dormer listened with lively interest to the romantic story of Miss Turquand’s newly acquired riches, while Blanche coaxed the young girl into the garden for a quiet talk.

In an hour the girls had cemented a friendship that was to last till death should them part.

“I know Flore Hall quite well,” said Blanche, when her enthusiasm had slightly subsided. “A dear, delicious, old-fashioned place, in what my old nurse calls ‘apple-pie order.’ You ought to fall in love with the house, the gardens, the plantations, the shrubberies, the conservatories, and all the rest, at first sight.”

Blanche went on to give a minute description of the various beauties of the Hall and its surroundings, until she made Lois feel more desirous than she had yet been to see her new possession.

The next day, having been introduced to Squire Dormer, and shown the house and grounds by Blanche, who did the honors, Lois, now full of an eager interest, and Lady Quaintree, quite girllike in her gleeful anticipation, went to Flore Hall.

There were many discussions as to how they should go, but it had been finally decided that Miss Dormer should drive them over in her pony-carriage.

The lanes, the meadows, the sloping uplands, speckled and dotted with sheep and kine, an occasional gleam of sunshiny water half-hidden by alders, clumps of willows, and long grasses, the sweet sounds of country life, the passing jingle of the bells on a wagoner’s horses, made the way a veritable Arcadia of summer beauty. A joyous exhilaration filled Lois’ whole being, and she drank in the fresh, free air as if it had been the nectar of the gods.

A tolerably smart drive of about an hour’s duration brought the visitors—for such they considered themselves—to the massive iron gates of the park surrounding Flore Hall.

Miss Dormer drew up her cream-colored ponies, to let the two ladies obtain a general view of the outward walls and plantations, the pretty lodge, and the surrounding landscape.

As Lois gazed upon the scene, she for the first time realized the dazzling change that had taken place in her position. Her varying color betrayed the emotions of her heart; but her companions were too much preoccupied with their inspection to have any attention to spare.

Blanche Dormer knew the place well, but she now regarded with different eyes the familiar spot.

Nothing whatever could be seen of the house from the gates, for the walls were very high, and the trees grew so close together that they formed an apparently impenetrable screen.

A profound, peaceful silence reigned over the place, and but for the thin stream of smoke rising from the lodge chimney, it might have been conceivable that this was like one of those palaces familiar in the old fairy legends, where invisible spirits wait, and a spell lies over all.

The mounted servant who attended the ladies alighted and rang the bell. The clang reverberated, and but a very few minutes elapsed before the summons was answered.

An exceedingly pleasant-looking young rustic girl came trippingly along the neatly kept path from the lodge to the gates, and opening a small postern door at the side, stood, like some pretty rural figure in a quaintly designed frame, gazing in mingled astonishment and admiration at the visitors.

In a moment or two a smile of recognition passed over her face as she saw Miss Dormer, and she curtsied, awaiting some explanation of the pleasure of the ladies.

Lady Quaintree had ascertained the name of the housekeeper, and asked if she were in the house.

“Yes, my lady,” the girl said.

“We wish to see her,” Miss Dormer said.

“Yes, miss,” the girl again said, curtsying with rustic civility at almost every monosyllable.

“Open the gates, and let the ladies drive up to the house,” the groom said. “Is your grandfather at home?”

“Yes,” the girl answered; but she unfastened the great iron gates herself, and let them swing back.

Then she closed them, when the ponies had scampered through, and as the ladies passed up the carriage-drive she ran back to the lodge, to inform her deaf old grandfather that some visitors had arrived.

“Upon my word,” said Lady Quaintree, as they came in sight of the stately old pile, “you are an exceedingly lucky girl, my Lois.”

Lois smiled dreamily. No fear, no foreboding, no distrust disturbed the soft serenity of that moment.

She looked up at the house, and scanned its ivy-grown walls, its noble turrets, and quaint old windows, its carved terraces, the profusion of radiant flowers and stately shrubs and grand old trees, the statues that gleamed here and there from their leafy, embowering shades, the fountain that flung up its glittering waters in the summer sunshine; and while she mentally agreed with her friend and patroness, she felt that this must be some glowing, fantastical dream.

CHAPTER XVI.

GILARDONI’S LOVE-GIFT.

Flore Hall was naturally a quiet, silent place, for it had rarely been favored by the presence of its owners since the days when it had passed from the hands of Squire Rashleigh, whose extravagant habits had ended in his losing a pretty, well-cultivated estate that had been in the family since the reign of King Henry II.

The late Mr. Vere Gardiner would have settled tranquilly down into the calm beatitude of a country gentleman’s existence, had he succeeded in obtaining the long-yearned-for desire of his heart—had his one only love consented to become his wife.

As a bachelor, however, he preferred the busy, changeful round of a city or town life to the stately solitude of the grand retreat he had purchased.

The household was left almost exclusively under the supervision of a very capable personage—Mrs. Ormsby. This was the housekeeper whom Mr. Gardiner had found in possession when he acquired the property, and he did not think of displacing her.

For a short time this excellent widow had dreamed of capturing the rich owner of Flore Hall and its desirable belongings. She was a fine woman and clever in her way, and at first thought the wealthy yet plain Vere Gardiner would fall an easy victim. But, after a while, she was obliged to relinquish her ambitious hopes, for hardly any opportunity was offered of even meeting with the master of the stately abode where she held vice-regal sway. Then she was fain to turn her attention to the steward—a wiry, cool-headed old bachelor, who saw her innocent little arts clearly enough, and amused himself by laughing in his sleeve at the sly, good-looking widow.

Due notice had been given to the housekeeper, steward, and servants of the change of dynasty. At present, Mrs. Ormsby knew just the name of her future mistress—no more, not even her age or social standing.

Mrs. Ormsby anticipated a very grand scene indeed when Miss Turquand should pay her first visit to the Hall. She hardly knew whether to feel indifferent or disgusted by the impending alterations, but wisely determined to wait the course of events. No one could tell her anything whatever of Miss Turquand. In her imagination, the new proprietress seemed to be a starched old maid, who might perhaps “come and settle here, and worry my life out,” the widow fancied. Of a charming young girl of eighteen, she never for an instant dreamed.

When one of the few servants forming the necessarily limited household came to inform her that three ladies wished to see her, she supposed they were strangers, who desired permission to view the house.

She threw down her plain sewing, and quitted the morning-room in which she was sitting—a delightful nook, half in sun, half in shade, affording a view of the prettiest part of the garden and of the extensive landscape beyond.

In her rich black silk and violet ribbons, she rustled along a glass-covered way leading into the great square hall—this a curious and fine example of quaint architecture.

The ladies were at the principal door, in the pony-carriage waiting for her.

Mrs. Ormsby had never seen Blanche Dormer, so that the three aristocratic-looking ladies were all equally strangers to her. She glanced from one to the other, her eyes finally resting on Lady Quaintree.

“Mrs. Ormsby, I believe?” said her ladyship.

The housekeeper curtsied affirmatively.

Her ladyship proceeded to explain the reason for this visit, and directed Mrs. Ormsby’s attention to the youthful owner of the house.

Mrs. Ormsby gazed at Lois with mingled curiosity and surprise. Without betraying any visible emotion, however, she begged the ladies to alight and enter.

As the late Mr. Vere Gardiner had every now and then paid a totally unexpected visit to the Hall, and gave instructions that it was to be constantly kept in perfect order, within and without, the house and grounds were always ready for the closest inspection.

The housekeeper preceded the ladies into the great oak-carved hall, and threw open a door to the right.

“Miss Turquand had some idea of staying here for to-night, if not for a couple of days,” said Lady Quaintree, gazing around through her gold-rimmed glasses. “Would you be able to accommodate us?”

“Certainly, my lady. You would wish to dine here?”

“If it could be managed—yes,” said Lady Quaintree.

“I had better order your carriage round to the stables, then, my lady.”

“My dearest Blanche, you will surely stay till morning?” said Lady Quaintree, who seemed far more the mistress than Lois, who had wandered to one of the long, wide windows, and was regarding the highly cultivated garden with pleasure and interest.

“Mama would be alarmed——”

“Nonsense! I will send word by Stephen, your groom, that your mama is not to expect her dear Blanchette till she sees her. Come, that is settled.”

To Blanche, who loved adventure and novelty, while her daily existence bordered almost on monotony, the little escapade proposed was by no means unacceptable.

With the vivid fancy of a lively young girl, she already looked forward to a not very far-distant period, when gay revels under the auspices of her new friend should wake this fair solitude.

Mrs. Ormsby rang the bell, and presently the ponies were seen trotting by the windows on the side next the entrance.

After a short rest, during which Lady Quaintree gave such information to the housekeeper as she deemed advisable, it was settled that they should be shown over the house.

Then came dinner, most excellently planned and arranged by Mrs. Ormsby, and after that a walk and a drive to see the gardens and plantations.

As yet, it did not seem real to Lois. Lady Quaintree and her new friend Blanche continually asked her what she thought of this pretty place; but her replies were very brief. The dreamy smile on her lips, however, and within the clear depths of her eyes, answered eloquently enough.

Every hour Lady Quaintree coveted this girl more as a wife for her son. This retired spot had quite taken her fancy by storm, and she thought resentfully of the man who had been selected as future owner of the Hall and its mistress.

Her ladyship might have dismissed the faintest spark of hope. It would have been absolutely impossible for Lois ever to have cared in the slightest degree for the Honorable Gerald. She had not forgotten for one moment the handsome face, the soft, half-melancholy eyes, that had startled her on entering Lady Quaintree’s salon on that now memorable evening of her life.

Perhaps, had Paul Desfrayne carefully planned the best course to arouse a tender, half-piqued interest in the breast of this girl, he could scarcely have devised one different from the one he was now following.

The more resolutely Lois tried to drive away the recollection of her mysterious trustee, the more his image seemed to present itself obstinately before her. She found herself speculating on the reasons he might have for avoiding her, and behaving in so rude and cold a manner when obliged to address her.

Only twice had she seen him, and already she was annoyed by finding herself wondering frequently where and when she should see him again. To her girlish mind the explanation of his coldness was easy enough.

“He loves another, and is probably annoyed as much as I can be by the painfully embarrassing bargain made between us by the kind old man who has been the benefactor of us both,” she thought.

It did not occur to her that perhaps Captain Desfrayne, while not base enough to seek to win the splendid fortune in view by marrying one girl when he loved another, might yet desire to save the part promised to him by driving her to refuse to fulfil the contract. She might have remembered that he was to receive fifty thousand pounds if the refusal emanated from her, and only ten if he were the one to decline acceding to the wishes of the dead old man.

Lois Turquand, however, was as little worldly wise as Paul Desfrayne, and her nature inclined toward romance and sentiment.

As mistress of the house, she was consigned by Mrs. Ormsby to a dreadfully grand, well-nigh somber state bedroom, while Lady Quaintree and Blanche were conducted to a large, cheerful apartment, her ladyship wishing to have her pretty country friend with her.

Lois stood gazing around the chamber for some time after she was left alone. Then she regarded the beautiful gardens beneath, lying bathed in a silvery flood of summer moonlight.

All seemed so tranquil, so calm, so sweet, Lois felt as if she could be satisfied to let her life flow onward in this sylvan retreat without desiring a change.

The morning came—the morning of the day when the soldiers in occupancy of the barracks at Holston were to give place to others.

Lois and Blanche went out early into the grounds. The appearance of the beautiful young owner, in so sudden and mysterious a way, had created a profound sensation among the servants, but, although many a pair of curious eyes darted inquisitive glances from sheltered corners, not a soul was visible.

The bright, pleasant, laughing voices of the girls were answered or echoed by the wild, soft warblings of innumerable birds.

Blanche was more full of delight and admiration than even on the previous day. She led Lois down to a secluded path, which went slopingly to a wide sheet of water, dancing and gleaming as if crested with ten thousand diamonds.

“There is a boat somewhere about here,” said Blanche Dormer. “I remember when we came here one day for a picnic some few years ago, we went on the water, and crossed over to that pavilion yonder. Do you see it?—there, by the water’s edge, yonder, nearly hidden by trees and climbing plants.”

Lois looked across, and saw the fairylike summer-house.

“It was an odd fancy to build it so that you could not reach it without crossing the water,” Blanche went on. “I am an excellent oar, and I should like to cross this afternoon, while we leave Lady Quaintree to her siesta.”

The girls returned to breakfast in the gayest of spirits. At that hour Paul Desfrayne was being whirled down from London.

In the afternoon, Gilardoni, who had attended his new master, remarked how pale and weary he looked.

Since the evening Gilardoni had entered Captain Desfrayne’s service, and that very brief dialogue concerning Lucia Guiscardini had passed, the name of the famous Italian singer had never been mentioned by either. Neither knew that the life of the other had been blighted by this lovely snake in woman’s form.

Paul Desfrayne seemed too languid to make any effort to rouse himself this day.

Gilardoni, who appeared to have already formed a strong attachment to the kindly man who had held out his hand in the hour of bitter need—Gilardoni watched him with a strange sort of yearning pity and sympathy.

“This is no mere physical fatigue,” the Italian said to himself. “Nor does it look like threatening illness. There is some mental strain.”

He at length approached his master, deferentially, yet with the air of one who intends to be heard.

“I am sure, sir, it would do you a world of good if you were to ride out for an hour or two,” he said.

“Thanks for your attention, Gilardoni, but I feel too weary.”

“Indeed, sir, I believe if you were to have a breath of fresh air, it would make all the difference,” Gilardoni urged. “A canter along some of those leafy roads and lanes we saw as we passed in the train would clear the clouds off your brain. Forgive me if I make too free, but I think——”

“What do you think?” demanded his master, a little sharply.

“Well, sir—I hope you won’t be displeased—I think you are weary in mind, not in body.”

Captain Desfrayne looked keenly at his servant for a moment or two, then the expression that had almost attained a frown melted into a sad smile.

“You are not far wrong, Gilardoni,” he said, very quietly. “I have been very much troubled of late by—by business affairs.”

“I trust, sir, you will not consider me intrusive.”

“Certainly not, my good fellow. I think I ought to feel indebted to you for your kindly interest. I will take your advice, and go for a canter before mess.”

His horse was soon waiting for him—the animal being one of the few luxuries Captain Desfrayne permitted himself out of his limited income.

The Italian attended him to the gates of the barracks, and then stood gazing after him with the kind of interest and affection so often seen in the eyes of a faithful, attached Newfoundland dog.

“What is the matter with him?” he thought. “Money-troubles, most likely. He doesn’t seem the kind of man to be crossed in love—unless the girl he wanted liked somebody else before she saw him. Perhaps that has happened. I hope he will come back a little more cheerful.”

Gilardoni turned to go back to his master’s rooms. As he moved, a small, folded package lying a few steps from him caught his quick eye. He stooped and picked it up.

Before opening it, as there was nothing on the outside of the thin tissue-paper to indicate who the owner might be, he felt it over with his fingers.

“Feels like a small cross,” he said to himself. “I wonder if the captain dropped it when he pulled out his handkerchief just now.”

He unfolded the paper, and displayed to view a small gold cross, such as are worn as a pendant on the watch-chain.

Gilardoni regarded this with an air of the most unqualified amazement, mingled with an expression that seemed to indicate rage and contending sensations of no very agreeable kind. For several moments he remained as if carved in stone, fixedly looking upon the trinket. It was a comparatively inexpensive toy, made of burnished gold, set with blue stones on one side, perfectly plain on the other.

“It is impossible,” Gilardoni murmured, at length, raising his eyes, which wore a singularly startled expression. “Oh! it cannot be the same. Why, they make these things by the hundred. How could it be possible that it could come into the possession of Captain Desfrayne? Yet—yet it must be my fatal love-gift.”

He abruptly turned the cross, and looked at the nethermost point. Thereon was very inartistically cut or engraved a tiny heart pierced by an arrow.

“Cielo!” he cried, starting back. “It is the same. Then has it been dropped by the captain, or how has it come here? Am I dreaming? Am I going mad?”

He turned slowly, and walked toward the barracks, his head sunk upon his breast, as if he were overwhelmed by painful reflections and memories.

“The moment the captain returns, I shall ask him if this was in his possession, and how he came by it. Perhaps Lucia sold or lost it, and it fell into the hands of some dealer, from whom he may have bought it. Yes, that must be so.”

Captain Desfrayne would probably not return for a couple of hours. Gilardoni must wait with what patience he could muster. By dint of arguing with himself, he at length almost arrived at the conclusion that during his tour in Italy the captain had purchased the gold cross.

That Captain Desfrayne had ever been acquainted with Lucia Guiscardini, he did not for a moment dream.

If the thought came into his mind that the cross had been a gift from la Lucia to the young Englishman, he dismissed it as utterly improbable.

The sudden finding of the trinket that bore so many mingled recollections with it had made him feel faint and sick from emotion, and as the slow minutes wore away he grew paler and paler.

“She wears diamonds now that emperors scarce could buy,” he said to himself, contemplating that tiny love-gift, “yet I doubt if any of the gems that cluster in her jewel-boxes have given her half the rapture of vanity and pleasure that thrilled her false heart when I clasped this little gewgaw about her neck. She pretended she loved me, and returned my kiss—and I had the folly to believe her true. Folly, folly, folly! Some day I may have her at my feet, and then—aye, then——”

He clenched his hand with frenzied rage.

And all the time Paul Desfrayne was riding, he scarce cared whither, under the soft, genial sunshine, that made the landscape seem a fairy-land—riding onward, the sport of fate, to rivet yet another link in the chain of his strange, fevered life.

CHAPTER XVII.

IN THE THUNDER-STORM.

In the afternoon, fortune, deceitful, false friend that she is, favored Blanche Dormer’s caprice for rowing across the lake to the pretty pavilion on the other side.

Her mother, Mrs. Dormer, took a fancy for driving over to see Flore Hall, and came about four or five o’clock.

Having been escorted over the house, she was too fatigued to go into the grounds, and, as Lady Quaintree was not sorry for an excuse to rest, the two matrons subsided into a pleasant, gossiping chat in what was called the blue drawing-room, with a diminutive table between them, whereon was set a rare tea-service of Sèvres china.

The girls readily obtained leave of absence. Blanche did not announce her intention of going on the water, however, for she was afraid of being forbidden to do so.

“It seems so droll to think of a girl like you being sole proprietress of this big house and all this ground,” Blanche laughingly said, as they tripped down from the terrace into the garden. “Mama said there would be a storm, but I don’t believe there will be a drop of rain.”

A far-distant peal of thunder reverberated as she spoke, but it seemed too far off to mean danger.

Blanche again proposed crossing to the summer-house on the other side.

“I am a splendid oar,” she said, smiling, “so you need not be afraid to trust yourself to my care.”

Lois hesitated for a few moments, but the proposition was too tempting to be resisted.

In a few minutes more they were floating pleasantly over the mirrored surface of the waters. It was so calm, so dreamlike thus half-drifting across, that both girls wished they were going an indefinite distance.

In half a dozen minutes they were landed at the foot of the flight of steps leading up to the summer pavilion.

It was so quiet in this secluded spot that, to any one totally alone, the stillness would have been oppressive. Not a breath ruffled the leaves, not a solitary bird’s twitter broke the silence.

The pavilion was situated in the central part of a great clump of trees, nestling amid its rich, encircling foliage like an indolent beauty lying among velvet cushions.

Partly oppressed by the dreamlike silence, and the sultriness of the day, the young girls ascended and seated themselves, Blanche on the first step, Lois on one of the fragile wicker chairs.

They forgot to secure their tiny bark, nor did they observe that after a while it began to drift beyond their reach.

Neither seemed inclined to break the silence that was partly soothing, partly oppressive. When two people have only recently been introduced, even if mutually desirous of extending their knowledge of one another, it is rather difficult to start an interesting train of conversation when the trivialities of the moment have been exhausted.

Blanche Dormer, however, was never very long at a loss. She was soon in the midst of a rattling talk such as she enjoyed.

“Have you ever been in this part of the world before?” she asked.

“Never.”

“You have no friends in the neighborhood?”

“None whatever. I have very few friends anywhere.”

“You will have plenty soon,” Miss Dormer philosophically remarked. “I understand you were Lady Quaintree’s companion?”

“Yes. I have been with her since I was fourteen.”

“Are you a relative?”

“Oh! dear no. My mother was—was born in quite a different station. She was an embroideress. But she died, and Lady Quaintree was good enough to take an interest in me, and become my protectress.”

“How kind! She is a dear, good soul. And so now you are a great heiress. You had some rich relations, then?”

“I don’t think I had a relative in the world except my dear mother,” said Lois, a little sadly.

Blanche Dormer opened her eyes. Miss Dormer was related to half the wealthy commons of England.

“No relations!” she exclaimed, forgetting that she was guilty of an outrageous breach of good manners in thus expressing surprise. “How very strange! I thought you had inherited this place and sacks of money from your uncle.”

Lois shook her head.

“I had no uncles that I am aware of. My father died when I was a baby, and I never heard my mother speak of his relatives. She herself was an only child.”

“Then why——”

Miss Dormer stopped abruptly, and blushed a little. Lois laughed as she noticed the hesitation.

“Why did Mr. Gardiner make me a person of property?” she supplied. “I cannot tell you, for, although I read his will, I have not seen the slightest hint of his reasons for being so generous. To tell you the truth, I have been puzzling over it ever since.”

“What a romantic mystery! Are you sure he was not related to you, my dear?”

“If he had been, they would certainly have told me so.”

“Did anybody offer you any explanation of his reasons for leaving you his property?” asked Blanche, whose curiosity was strongly excited on the subject.

“No.”

“Did you ask? Forgive me. I am afraid you will think I am taking unwarrantable liberties in thus cross-questioning you,” apologized Miss Dormer.

“No, I do not think so in the least. I feel happy to think you will be my friend,” replied Lois softly. “I did not ask any questions about Mr. Gardiner’s will, because——”

She suddenly remembered why she had felt tongue-tied, and her face became suffused with crimson. Blanche, who was steadily regarding her, was much surprised by this evidence of emotion; but, although her curiosity was still further aroused, she had sufficient delicacy to restrain herself, and adroitly to change the subject of conversation.

She began to speak about the departure of troops from the barracks, which were situated a couple of miles from the vicinity of her father’s house. This gave Lois an opportunity of recovering her composure, for which she felt grateful, although if Blanche had pressed her much further she would have confided to her the embarrassing circumstances to which Mr. Vere Gardiner’s will was likely to lead.

As Miss Dormer chatted gaily, heavy splashes of rain came suddenly pattering through the clustering leaves, and a vivid flash of lightning, followed almost instantaneously by a crashing peal of thunder, startled the girls, and made them hurriedly retreat into the pretty pavilion.

The day had changed as if by magic. The sky was overcast with driving clouds like squadrons of artillery, the sun had disappeared, the whole aspect of the bright garden and the smiling lake had altered as if by the wave of the wand of some malicious fairy.

A summer storm had burst over the heads of these timid girls, and they looked at each other in dismay. It was a situation likely to become extremely unpleasant. No one knew that they were here. Even if their screams could be heard, it would be difficult for any one to reach the place, as the tiny wherry was drifting about, out of reach.

The waters of the lake began to foam and lash with frenzy. Every instant the storm increased in fury. The girls clung to one another in affright, unable to help shrieking when a blue-forked flame encircled them, or a prolonged roar, as of besieging artillery, seemed to rend the heavens asunder.

Each moment it seemed as if they must be slain in that fervent embrace.

A flash of lightning, more piercing than any that had preceded it, swept in a jagged curve over the pavilion, and a peal of thunder shook the fragile building to its foundations. Terrified almost beyond expression, Lois clung more closely to Blanche, and then fell back into her arms in a dead swoon.

Before Blanche could collect her thoughts, herself terror-stricken almost to the verge of insanity, a panel, which had looked as if merely a portion of the highly finished decorations of the airy walls, slid back, and a gentleman suddenly faced the young girl, as she placed Lois in a chair.

This gentleman was Paul Desfrayne.

It would be difficult to say which felt or mutely expressed the most surprise, Miss Dormer or the stranger. They gazed at one another in amazement for a moment or two, and then the young man, lifting his cap with mechanical politeness, advanced.

By his military undress uniform, Blanche judged him to be one of the newly arrived officers, but how he had appeared as if from the solid walls, she could not conceive.

From the position of Miss Dormer, who stood partly in front of Lois, Captain Desfrayne could not see the fainting girl’s face, but his heart sorely misgave him as to her identity.

“Madam,” he said, looking at Blanche with surprise and compassion, “how is it that I find you in such a perilous position?”

Blanche, in a few words, explained. Then she turned again to her friend, and, kneeling before her, tried by every device to restore her to consciousness.

“Good heavens, Miss Turquand!” murmured Captain Desfrayne, under his breath.

Faint as his tones were, however, they caught the quick ear of Blanche Dormer.

“You know her, sir?” she exclaimed, looking up in his face.

“I can scarcely claim that privilege,” he replied, with icy coldness.

He stepped quickly to the door, plucked a large, strong leaf from the overhanging branches, which he twisted into a cup, and, filling it with water by descending the steps and dipping it in the lake, returned, and gave it to Blanche.

Then he stood by, gazing with an uncontrollable interest upon the white, delicately chiseled face of the unconscious Lois.

“She has been alarmed by the storm?” he said presently, as Lois began to show symptoms of returning life. “You must not remain here.”

“How can we escape?” demanded Blanche.

“By the way I came. It leads by a succession of corridors to a ruined abbey, from whence again you can reach the Hall by passing through a labyrinth of secret vaults and passages.”

Blanche turned pale. Even this place, insecure as the shelter was, did not appear so alarming as the way of escape indicated.

Paul Desfrayne smiled—that half-melancholy, winning smile that had such a charm of its own.

“It sounds rather terrifying,” he said gently. “But as I see you have let your boat drift away, you cannot reach the house by way of the lake. Even if you had your boat, the waters are too dangerous to be trusted, and this storm may not abate for a couple of hours. Do not be afraid. I know every turn well, for I used to come here constantly when a boy. There is no other road to the house. I presume you have come from the Hall?” he abruptly asked. “I was informed that Miss Turquand had come to stay for a few days there, and so I supposed——”

“We rowed across the lake only about half an hour ago, and then the sky looked as clear as—as if it were never going to rain any more,” Blanche explained.

“You have no wraps of any kind?” he added, glancing with an odd sort of half-paternal compassion at the silken draperies of Lois, and the cloudy azure-blue and white skirts of her beautiful friend.

Before Miss Dormer could reply, if reply were needed—for nothing in the shape of protection against bad weather, except one large sunshade, was visible—Lois opened her eyes.

The young officer drew back slightly, but he was the first object upon which her gaze rested.

She roused herself, and sat up.

“Are you better, dearest?” anxiously asked Blanche.

Lois did not answer, but tried to rise from her chair. She looked at the young man who was regarding her with so much profound interest, and a rosy blush overspread her face.

“Captain Desfrayne!” she murmured.

He advanced one step, then paused.

“You are probably surprised to see me here, Miss Turquand,” he said. “Perhaps not more surprised than I am to find myself within these walls, or to discover you here. I came out for a ride, and scarcely noticed which road my horse took, until I was overtaken by the storm. But you must not remain here. The sooner you quit this place the better. The storm shows no signs of abating. Will you permit me to be your guide? Are you strong enough to walk, Miss Turquand?”

Blanche put her arms about Lois to support her. Lois moved forward a few steps; but the agitation, however pleasant, of the last few days, the nervous trepidation caused by the storm, acting on a singularly susceptible temperament, and the weakness induced by her fainting-fit, proved too much for her to contend against, and she swayed again, sinking into the arms of Blanche, who caught her.

Paul Desfrayne’s lips compressed very firmly as he looked at the young girl thus lying helpless. For a moment he reflected.

“I must not be a coward,” he argued with himself. “What folly! It cannot signify to me. The sooner we are out of this situation the better.”

Then he addressed Blanche with a calm, self-possessed manner, strangely at variance with his real feelings.

“You must allow me to be more than your guide. There is serious danger in your remaining here. May I carry your friend?”

There was no choice but to comply. He took Lois from the arms of her companion, and lifted her in his own strong, firm clasp. He glanced down at the pale, statuesque face as it rested against his shoulder, but it was impossible to even guess at his thoughts from the expression upon his countenance, which was that of perfect impassibility, though a certain eager interest lurked in his eyes.

Through the door by which he had so unexpectedly entered, down a long, apparently interminable flight of somewhat steep steps, along one dim corridor after another, until Blanche began to feel bewildered, and to imagine herself in a dream.

She did not attempt to address a solitary remark to the friend who had so suddenly come like a knight of old to the rescue of distressed damsels, but followed him with implicit faith as he strode with a quick step onward.

Once he turned his head and spoke, as if he guessed she must feel mystified, or to break the current of his own unpleasant thoughts.

“These passages are very confusing to any one not thoroughly acquainted with the various turnings. I believe their origin is unknown, though the tradition still exists of many a strange legend of how cavaliers escaped their pursuers this way, and fled to the friendly sea.”

Nothing more was said, and the strange procession moved on until the fresh air blew in, and the dash of the sullen rain, the soughing of the trees, told that they were near the entrance.

Left without guidance, Blanche could not have formed the most distant idea of where she was, or which way to take. She could see nothing but a wide expanse of rain-blotted gray-green, looking at this moment the picture of desolation.

Paul Desfrayne did not emerge upon the wild, stormy scene without, however. He pushed open a door apparently hewn from solid stone, and entered a small, dimly lighted chapel. It was a circular building, half in ruins, though the beautiful stained-glass windows were almost intact.

With the most tender care, Paul Desfrayne placed his inanimate charge upon one of the carved oaken seats, and then stood by, watching her.

A half-sobbing sigh told that the young girl was reviving, and she turned wildly, to seek for Blanche.

“You are safe now, if in some discomfort,” said Captain Desfrayne, in a reassuring tone, though he partially averted his gaze. “Will you remain here until I summon assistance? Are you afraid to stay unprotected? There is not the slightest fear of any intrusion. If any living being come within these walls, it will be only some country lout seeking shelter from the storm.”

“Where are we?” asked Lois, looking about her as if still half-dazed.

“Within the walls of an old ruined abbey about three-quarters of a mile from—from Flore Hall.” He pronounced the name of the place with some difficulty, as if it were distasteful to him.

“But you will be obliged to go through the rain,” objected Blanche, who was pleased by the handsome face and chivalrous bearing of the captain.

“No. If necessary, I should not hesitate to do so. My horse is waiting for me under shelter in a ruined stable close by, and I could soon ride the distance. But my desire to aid you will not be put to any trial. There are rude, covered, subterranean passages from this spot to the Hall, and I can easily traverse them, for I know every inch of the ground.”

“What thanks do we not owe you, sir!” exclaimed Miss Dormer.

Lois remained silent, her eyes bent on the ground, her color varying with each wave of thought that passed through her brain.

Partly rejoiced at his temporary release, partly dubious of the propriety of quitting these timid girls, Captain Desfrayne turned to go on his errand.

As he did so, a shuffling noise startled the three. They turned simultaneously, in alarm, and saw a big, shock-headed country boy, apparently shaking himself awake, rising from a seat veiled in such dim obscurity that none of the little group had noticed the recumbent figure.

The boy had taken refuge from the raging tempest here, and had after a while dropped off asleep. Half-awakened by the voices, he had dimly heard the conversation.

“Please, zur,” he said, lugging at some stray locks of red hair lying on his freckled forehead, “do’ee want onybody to run a message to thay Hall, zur? ’Cause, if so be ’ee do, I be main glad to do it for your honor, zur.”

Captain Desfrayne looked at him in mingled doubt and displeasure. He reflected for a moment or two, then said:

“How would you get to the Hall, boy?”

“Why, zur, along thay dark places with thay pillars.”

“Are you sure you know the way, my lad?”

“Zartain zure, zur. Whoy, often’s been the time when me, and Bill Heath, and Joe Tollard, and all thay rest o’ ’em hev played hoide and zeek in ’em. Oh! I knows thay way, zure enough.”

It would not be possible to refuse to allow this eager substitute to go on the pressing errand he had himself contemplated. Paul Desfrayne was compelled to let him go.

“Well, make haste, and bring somebody to take care of these young ladies,” he said. “What is your name—Robin Roughhead?”

“No, zur—George Netherclift.”

“Well, Master George Netherclift, if ever you made haste in your life, do so now.”

The boy—a great lumping lad of fourteen or fifteen, with a stolid, good-humored, red-yellow face, and a thick-set figure, clad in a smock frock and a pair of tough corduroy trousers—started on with more nimbleness than any one would have given him credit for. In the silence, his clattering, hob-nailed boots raised countless echoes in the rude, vaulted passages as he trotted along.

An uncomfortable embarrassment succeeded his departure. Lois felt ashamed of her weakness, and abashed in the presence of the tall, handsome captain, unable to forget the secret link that in a measure bound their lives together. Paul Desfrayne almost cursed the destiny that had thus dragged him within those dangerous precincts he would fain shun. Blanche Dormer caught the infection from these two, who were acquainted with each other, yet seemed to make some mystery of the matter, and so she remained silent.

Lois dared not lift her eyes from the ground. Paul Desfrayne stood at some distance, viewing the rain as it plashed down, and regarding the now more rarely recurring flashes of lightning with an absent air, as if his real thoughts were far away.

On setting out for his ride, he had permitted his horse to take any road that presented itself, seeing that the way led far from the neighborhood of Flore Hall. After a while he had almost dropped the reins on the animal’s neck, and allowed his mind to revert to the painful subject of his most unhappy position—a subject but seldom out of his memory. He had ridden slowly for a long distance from the barracks when the first pattering drops of rain came splashing down. Seeing that the sky was overcast by dense black clouds, and hearing the distant rumbling of the thunder, he had looked about for some convenient shelter, and then, to his great surprise, found himself close by the ruined abbey he so well remembered.

Dismounting, he had secured his horse in an old ruined stable, and then entered the familiar place, his feelings not all pain, yet not all pleasure. That any one should have ventured to the summer pavilion he did not for a moment imagine. Wishing to see as much of the spot as possible while he could do so in safety, he had rapidly traversed the dim corridors, and, opening the door in the paneling of the wall, had come upon the two young girls.

For the first time now he recollected that he had left his faithful Greyburn alone for some time, and feared that perhaps the poor animal might have been frightened by the fury of the tempest.

“I trust you will not be alarmed if I leave you for a few moments to look after my horse. I left him, as I think I told you, in a ruined stable close at hand; but I should be glad to know how he fares,” said Captain Desfrayne, as the echoes of George Netherclift’s heavy steps died away.

“Oh! pray see him,” cried both girls.

“I shall not be gone for more than a few minutes, and I shall be within call,” said the young man.

He went out, leaving the two young ladies together. As he departed, he glanced for an instant at Lois.

The lovely, fathomless eyes were raised to his. He gazed as if spellbound into the dreamy, liquid depths. Then, with an indefinable expression of mingled emotion, he abruptly disappeared behind the angle of the old Gothic porch.

Lois’ heart seemed to stand still for a second, then began to beat with such rapidity that she put her hand to her side to stay its throbbing. Then she looked at Blanche, who began to think that the mystery was simply that the two lovers who had quarreled had unexpectedly met again, and that pride, or the presence of a third—herself—hindered a reconciliation.

In answer to a question from Miss Turquand, she explained how they had come hither. A vivid flash dyed the pale cheeks of Lois when she learned how she had been conveyed to this unknown locality.

How little had she anticipated a meeting such as this in wondering where she should see Paul Desfrayne again! How little had she dreamed of it on Saturday afternoon, when she had encountered him among the gaily dressed loungers in the Zoological Gardens!

It seemed as if she had known him half a lifetime now, from some strange affinity that made his presence, his voice, his face familiar. And yet one short week ago she had been ignorant of his very existence.

Frank Amberley, whom she had seen almost daily for four years—the four years that had brought her from childhood to fairest maidenhood—was forgotten, save when actually present, and then regarded as belonging to the most formal rank of friends. She would never, unless under pressure of some most extraordinary difficulty, have thought of consulting him, or seeking his aid in any way whatever.

Blanche Dormer drew out her tiny jeweled watch.

“What will mama think, do, or say?” she exclaimed. “It will be enough to drive her crazy. Good heavens! my dearest Miss Turquand, they will imagine we have been capsized into the lake when they see the boat drifting about. When mama’s fright is over, I shall be in horrible disgrace. Such a thing never happened in all the nineteen years of my life. Lady Quaintree will be like a maniac. I shall never forgive myself.”

Lois felt Miss Dormer was speaking the truth, and could not think of one solitary iota of consolation.

They sat very silent, waiting for release from their exceedingly disagreeable and irksome situation.

Blanche was partly right in her conjectures; but fortunately not so far as her fears pictured. The two ladies, absorbed in their ancient memories, were so occupied that they did not observe the coming storm till the first violent roll of thunder, or rather the advanced flash of blue, forked lightning, made one jump from her seat with a scream, and caused the other to drop her dainty Sèvres cup with a crash on the white bearskin at her feet.

They knew that the girls had gone for a walk in the grounds; but hoped they had taken warning and returned. Lady Quaintree had rung with a jerk for her maid, Justine, to demand if the young ladies had come in.

Justine said she thought they had, and went off to ascertain. But, unhappily, she had loitered, under pretense of being frightened by the thunder and lightning, in company with a tall footman, who professed to be very much in love with her. Partly by his persuasion to linger, partly from her own inclination to indulge in a stolen flirtation, she stayed until minutes stole into an hour, and she had completely forgotten her errand.

Finding she did not return, Lady Quaintree took it for granted the young ladies had come in, but perhaps with drenched garments, and that Justine was staying to help them in changing their attire.

Fully persuaded that this must be the case, the two dames resumed their conversation, though in a more subdued key. They were not nervous or easily frightened by the electrical influences which had so seriously disturbed the young girls, and, Lady Quaintree having coolly drawn the lace curtains across the windows, they sat quite contentedly. It at length occurred to them as odd that neither Lois Turquand nor Blanche should present herself.

Lady Quaintree rang again.

“Where is Miss Turquand?—where is Miss Dormer?” she inquired of the domestic who appeared.

“I don’t know, my lady,” replied the man.

“Where is my maid?”

“I don’t know, my lady.”

“Find her, then, and tell her to request the young ladies to come here directly.”

Presently the fellow came back, with the alarming information that neither the young ladies nor Justine were to be found.

“Good heavens!” cried her ladyship, unable to credit her ears. “Not to be found? Impossible! Nonsense! They must be found! Why, my maid left me a short time since to seek for Miss Turquand and Miss Dormer. Oh! this is absurd!”

The man departed again on a search that proved useless. He presented himself again, fearfully, to tell her ladyship so.

The truth about Justine was that, recollecting her message suddenly, she had flown to Miss Turquand’s room, and then to all the probable and even improbable places where the young ladies might be found; but, of course, without coming on any trace of the missing ones.

Thoroughly alarmed, marveling what had become of them, and not daring to go back to her mistress, she had darted wildly all over the house, making inquiries of everybody she met.

Several of the domestics had seen the young ladies go out, but no one had seen them return.

Forgetful, in her sore affright, of her nervous tremors in a storm, Justine had rushed into the grounds, armed with a big umbrella snatched up in passing through the entrance-hall. Thus her otherwise unaccountable disappearance was to be explained.

In a short time the entire household was astir, alarmed by the discovery that the young ladies were not within the Hall. If not there, where were they? Of necessity, they must be out in the grounds, perhaps in the porter’s lodge.

One servant ran down to the lodge, only to bring back word that the young ladies had never been there.

Others scattered themselves over the gardens, seeking in the conservatories and graperies, in the plantations, in every imaginable place.

It was the gardener who came to the horrifying conclusion that the girls had ventured on the lake in the flimsy boat, and had been capsized.

He found Justine wandering near the borders of the water in a state of distraction. She could not tell that the boat had been safely moored that morning and in the early afternoon, but she had paused here.

The gardener imprudently betrayed his suspicion, and had the satisfaction of seeing Mademoiselle Justine fall in a heap, in violent hysterics, objurgating herself in disjointed sentences between whiles.

In a very short time, the alarming suspicion was communicated to the whole household, except the ladies, who were awaiting the result of the search in terrible anxiety, but not of positive fear, for they were sure now that the girls had sought some convenient shelter, where they were biding till the storm ceased.

A hurried consultation was held as to what should be done; but no one could offer a suggestion that promised to be of the smallest service.

The domestics retreated into a great greenhouse, where they could command a view of the lake, the waters of which now bore a sensational attraction in the eyes of the terrified servants.

No one could take the direction of affairs, for they were all subordinate servants, ignorant, and easily distracted.

It was agreed, finally, to go and consult Mrs. Ormsby, on whom the task of breaking the tragical surmise to the ladies would fall.

Justine had been carried into a conservatory, to get her out of the way, and left there with a couple of housemaids.

A sad procession scrambled back to the house—a somewhat noisy one, for every one had some eager, excited remark to make, or some wondering exclamation to utter.

Mrs. Ormsby was at the top of the broad flight of steps at the principal entrance, watching for the earliest information. She did not venture to remain near Lady Quaintree or Mrs. Dormer, but stood midway, as it were, between the terrified ladies and the band of explorers. As they approached, she could plainly see the search had been unsuccessful.

Two or three eagerly came in advance of their fellows, their mouths and eyes wide open, their visages full of excitement.

They had not yet begun to make their story intelligible, however, when a loud shout, in a boyish treble, made every one look round; and a thick-set lout was seen running toward them, waving his hands in sign that his business was of a most urgent nature, that would not brook delay. This boy was George Netherclift.

He had, they all felt at once, come with some news of the missing ones. But what kind of news? Were they to hear confirmation of a tragedy? Or were the young ladies safe and sound?

George Netherclift had been running the latter part of the way, and was considerably out of breath. As he paused, he glanced from one of the servants to another, in doubt as to which to address.

“Well, boy,” exclaimed Mrs. Ormsby, in a sharp tone, “what do you want? Speak quickly!”

“Zoombody to bring thay young ladies from thay ould abbey,” said the boy. “Be quick, if ’ee please. They’ll be main tired waiting.”

“They are safe and sound, then?” cried the housekeeper. “But how in the world did they get to the ruined abbey?”

“Doan’t know, missus. Perhaps they’ull know theysells. Will ’ee zend zoombody quick, please?”

Of course, three or four male servants were at once ready to accompany him. Mrs. Ormsby at first thought of sending the carriage, but the abbey was nearly two miles off by the road.

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 had been 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. “What will mama 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, displayed in 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—out there, 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 over in 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 down in 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 by his 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 ascertain why Paul 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 of refusing, 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.”

CHAPTER XIX.

BLANCHE DORMER’S SURPRISE.

The peace and purity of the night indisposed Lois to talk, and Blanche was meditating on how far the proprieties might admit of her sounding her new friend on the subject of the supposed estrangement. So neither spoke for several minutes.

“A night like this always reminds me of the moonlight-scene in the ‘Merchant of Venice,’” Blanche said, at length. “I was afraid the storm would last until morning; perhaps I was also afraid mama would scold terribly. But I think when she is really alarmed, she is too much upset to be able to scold in proper style. I like these summer storms; the weird lightning has such a mystic beauty of its own. I lost my head this afternoon, but that was because we were in such a dangerous place, and a little because I was frightened on your account, as you seemed so terrified.”

“I am nervous in a storm, always,” Lois said deprecatingly, for she felt ashamed of her weakness.

“I think it was a special mercy your friend, Captain Desfrayne, came to our rescue. No doubt you were amazed when you saw him. But I suppose you knew he was coming down to this neighborhood?”

“I know nothing of his movements or plans,” Lois replied calmly. “I never heard his name until last Friday.”

Miss Dormer absolutely sprang back, and stared at her new friend in speechless surprise. Her theory had been upset so precipitately that she was at a loss for words.

“I—I thought—I fancied—that is——” she stammered, for she felt fairly confounded, and much as if she had walked into a trap.

She heartily wished she could entirely control her amazement and vexation at the absurdity of her mistake, but her looks and manner betrayed her.

“What do you think?” innocently inquired Lois.

“Why—that is——”

“You hesitate, Blanche?”

“I am afraid you will be offended.”

“With you? Impossible. Pray be frank with me.”

“You promised not to be vexed?”

“I could not be vexed with you, my dear friend. What did you think?”

“Honestly, I thought you and Captain Desfrayne had had a lovers’ quarrel,” Blanche said.

Lois broke into a peal of silvery laughter, caused partly by surprise, partly by pique and anger—not toward Blanche, but toward the unhappy captain. She threw back her head with a little scornful gesture.

“You thought so? What could have led you to imagine such a strange thing?”

“Because—I don’t know how I came to be so foolish, but—well, I saw him look at you——”

“At me?”

“Aye, and you at him—come, you as good as promised not to be cross—look and speak as if—as if—that is to say—well, in truth, I can hardly say what caused me to jump to my odd conclusion, but I did make the silly spring, and I find myself landed on exceedingly unpleasant ground.”

Lois had known Blanche only two days, although she felt a strong presentiment that the friendship just cemented would endure for a lifetime. Blanche was the first friend she had ever possessed, and she was sure she might be trusted, yet prudence caused her to hesitate before entrusting Miss Dormer with the secret of her strange relationship with Paul Desfrayne.

Blanche was fairly puzzled, and her feminine curiosity aroused. Quite confident that Lois had spoken truly in saying that Captain Desfrayne was almost a stranger to her, she yet could not help believing that there was some good reason for her thinking that some more than ordinary feeling caused a mutual interest or dislike.

Lois placed her arm caressingly round Blanche’s waist, and laid her cheek on her shoulder.

“Blanche,” she said, “I am going to tell you something about myself and Captain Desfrayne, which will, I have no doubt, surprise you.”

Miss Dormer shrank a little, as if she had been guilty of trying to surprise a confidence she was not entitled to.

“I hope,” she said, “you do not think me inquisitive. I am sorry I allowed myself to make any remarks.”

Lois smiled.

“You must let me enjoy the privileges of a friend,” she replied. “If you will let me tell you, I think it would be a solace to me. For although Lady Quaintree is so good and so kind, yet——”

She paused; for it would be impossible to enter into any of the feelings which barred a perfect confidence between herself and her late mistress. But Miss Dormer partially comprehended, and pressed her hands warmly in token of sympathy and encouragement.

“No doubt you will wonder, knowing that my acquaintanceship with him is of so recent a date—no doubt you will marvel to hear that I am half-engaged to marry Captain Desfrayne,” began Lois.

“My dear!” was all Blanche could say, opening her eyes as wide as they could expand.

“Yes. I can scarcely believe the story is real.”

Lois repeated to her the history of Mr. Vere Gardiner’s will. Blanche listened in silent amazement.

“How extraordinary! Then, why—why——”

“Pray be as frank with me as I have been with you,” Lois entreated.

“Why does he behave in such an odd way toward you? Does the proposition, or whatever you may call it, displease him?”

“I have had no explanation from him, nor is one likely to take place. I am as ignorant as you are of his opinion on the matter.”

“What is your own?”

“I may truly say I feel mortified and vexed by being disposed of like a bale of goods——”

“Not exactly, dearest girl. You are left an option.”

“I do not like Captain Desfrayne.”

“That can scarcely be wondered at, since he treats you so coldly—almost rudely. What a strange old man this Vere Gardiner must have been! Why should he take such a singular whim into his head?”

“I do not know. You now know as much—or as little—as I do myself.”

“It is a riddle,” said Blanche. “What does Lady Quaintree say?”

“She is very much pleased about the money and landed property—as pleased and interested as if I were her own child; but she has not said much about the proposition of marriage.”

“I suppose she wishes to see more of this gentleman. This afternoon, when I first saw Captain Desfrayne, I liked him: he seemed nice, and had such a gentle way with him, and his voice was pleasant. But now I have taken a prejudice against him.”

At this moment, Blanche caught sight of her father, Squire Dormer, who had just entered the drawing-room, where the elder ladies sat.

“Wait for me one moment here, dear Miss Turquand,” she said. “I will run and ask papa if I must return to-night. Oh! I do hope he will let me stay till to-morrow with you. Do you leave in the morning?”

“Lady Quaintree arranges everything,” answered Lois. “It will be just as she orders.”

Blanche went back to the drawing-room. Lois remained on the terrace, idly watching the weird shadows and sharp, silvery lights.

A step on the lower terrace for a moment alarmed her. But a glance assured her that Captain Desfrayne was the intruder on the quiet of that place. He was near enough to be able to address her without raising his voice.

Not one word of the dialogue just interrupted had reached his ears.

“Are you not afraid of taking cold, Miss Turquand?” he asked, really for want of something better to say.

“Thanks, no. It is such a lovely summer’s night. I am going back to the drawing-room in one moment,” replied Lois.

With a quick movement, Paul Desfrayne ascended the steps leading from the lower to the upper terrace, and in an instant was by her side.

“Miss Turquand——” he began, then his courage and the power of expressing his scarcely formed ideas utterly failed him.

Lois’ heart throbbed painfully for a moment or two. She looked at Captain Desfrayne, then averted her eyes without saying a word.

“I wished—I may not see you again for a long time, and I thought it would be better to explain myself certain circumstances which it is of paramount importance you should know than to trust others to do so, or to endeavor to commit them to writing.”

“Circumstances?” repeated Lois. “Of what kind?”

“Circumstances connected entirely with my own history; but as—must I say unhappily?—one who might be deemed the benefactor of us both—that one has chosen to link our fate—your destiny and mine—together, to a certain extent, it is your right to learn what otherwise——”

Paul felt conscious that every little speech he had attempted had proved a wretched failure. He feared that the task he had undertaken would prove beyond his strength or skill. What form of words should he use? How possibly bring the subject of his marriage forward? It was difficult enough in one way to break the seal of secrecy on the fatal topic to his mother; with this girl of eighteen it would be a thousand times more so.

“Miss Turquand,” he began, once again making another effort, “one chief reason why I have not before informed you of these circumstances has been that I really have not had the opportunity. The news that—in fact, that is to say, the knowledge that I was to—in a word, the contents of Mr. Vere Gardiner’s will came upon me like a thunderclap. I did not even know your name until last Friday, when I had the pleasure of seeing you for the first time. Why Mr. Vere Gardiner should have seen fit to make such a singular arrangement, I cannot conceive. I met him but once, so far as I am aware. He knew nothing of my private affairs. No doubt he meant well. It would, perhaps, be ungrateful on my part to find fault with his good intentions; but it is to be regretted that he could not fix on some more worthy object of his bounty than myself, or, at least, that he attached conditions to his munificent gifts which it is absolutely impossible I can fulfil.”

Lois’ eyes were kindling with the varying sensations that rose in her heart as she listened. With the swiftness of an already overexcited brain, her imagination ran rapidly through every conceivable range of impediments, except the one that really existed.

She looked so lovely, so graceful, so ethereal in the cross-light, that, as Paul Desfrayne looked down upon her fair, English face and beautiful figure, he felt a strange yearning desire to take her for a moment in his arms, and press one kiss upon the half-open rose-bud lips. More than ever he cursed the mad folly that had made him link those heavy chains upon his life that might never be loosened this side the grave.

What was he about to tell her? Lois rested her hand on the stone ledge of the balustrade; for she felt unnerved and agitated.

Paul Desfrayne was silent for some moments. Lois had only spoken once since he had joined her.

Blanche, having ascertained to her great satisfaction that she would be allowed to stay all night, and partly settled a newly started scheme for a tour of some weeks with the Quaintrees, was about to rush back to Lois’ side. But her quick glance had discovered how her friend was employed, and she drew back before she had made three steps. She discreetly returned into the drawing-room, and sat down at the piano.

Lady Quaintree began to wonder greatly why Captain Desfrayne had not come to ask for a cup of coffee, and she now missed her young companion. It did not suit her plan of operations to let them have an opportunity of entering into any mutual explanations of which she might not be immediately cognizant. Therefore, observing that Blanche was alone, she asked:

“Where is Lois, my dear?”

“I left her on the terrace, ma’am,” answered Blanche, turning round on her music-stool.

“Alone, Blanche?”

“Yes—no. I did leave her alone; but I think she is talking to Captain Desfrayne now.”

“Oh, indeed! They are very foolish. I am sure they will take cold,” said my lady, with an air of careless semi-interest.

Blanche turned again to her board of black and white ivory keys, and began running brilliant roulades. Mrs. Dormer asked her husband some questions about the state of the roads after the deluge of rain that had fallen, and in a few minutes Lady Quaintree found that she had an excellent opportunity of rising almost unobserved, and moving across to the windows, which all opened directly upon the terrace.

She moved gently, with a soft, silken rustle, from one window to another, until she arrived at one where she could command a perfect view of the two figures standing in the moonlight.

It thus happened that, as Paul Desfrayne spoke those words declaring his inability to carry out any share in the dead man’s wishes, Lady Quaintree was in the act of drawing open the window against which he had accidentally placed himself.

Her ladyship would have disdained to play the part of eavesdropper, for she was a woman of high principle, although she deemed herself justified in thus interrupting what might be a critical explanation. She, therefore, heard nothing of what the young officer had been saying.

Lois could not conceive why there should be such a tender sorrow in Captain Desfrayne’s eyes, such a pathetic ring in his voice, such an echo of grief and despair in his words. With an eager unrest, she waited for the next words, which should explain the reason of the young man’s inability to profit by the clauses in the old man’s will. But, instead of the tender tones of his voice, the suave, well-bred accents of Lady Quaintree sounded in her ears. With a great start, she turned and faced her ladyship; Paul Desfrayne did the same.

“My dearest pet, you really ought not to linger here in the night air,” said my lady. “I fancy Mrs. Dormer has been wondering where you have vanished to. Really, however, I am not surprised, the beauty of the night has tempted you to breathe its freshness and fragrance; it is so close and sultry within. Give me your arm, my love; I will take just one turn, and then we will go in and let Captain Desfrayne and Mrs. Dormer have a little music.”

“Allow me, madam,” said the young man, offering his arm.

Lady Quaintree passed her hand lightly through the proffered support, and, thus escorted, promenaded to and fro for about five minutes; Lois, on her left, attending her. Her ladyship was in charming spirits, and to any less preoccupied companions would have been most amusing.

The lively nothings she rattled off fell on dull and indifferent ears, however, and she could extract little beyond abstracted monosyllables from Captain Desfrayne, and an occasional languid smile or a half-absent “yes” or “no” from Miss Turquand.

“Would it be of any use offering you shelter for the night, Captain Desfrayne?” she asked, with a winning smile. “My dear young friend has appointed me viceroy over her house for the present. We shall be delighted to show you as much hospitality as our means will admit.”

“You are very kind, and I am already indebted to you for the goodness and consideration which you have this day shown me,” answered Paul Desfrayne. “But I really must return to my quarters to-night.”

“It will be a long and lonely ride,” objected Lady Quaintree. “Can we order one of the carriages for your service?”

“No, thanks. I should greatly prefer riding.”

“Do you need a groom, or a guide of any kind?”

“I knew this neighborhood perfectly well when a boy, and have not forgotten one lane or valley or hedgerow, I believe.”

Presently Lady Quaintree turned to go in, saying they must not neglect their other guests.

She passed in first, Paul Desfrayne lingered for a moment, and involuntarily fixed his eyes upon Lois. They were full of an unspoken eloquence, and revealed volumes of despair, of regret, of deep and mute feelings which rose like some troubled revelation.

Lois could not but read this glance, which perplexed her more than his few bitter words of absolute renunciation had done.

The young man knew that this chance for an explanation was gone. When might the next occur? He scarcely knew whether to feel relieved by the postponement of a painful duty, or vexed by the fact that he was worse placed than if he had remained absolutely silent.

“I can write to her to-morrow,” he thought, though he doubted if he could nerve himself to the task.

“What can he have wished to tell me?” Lois asked herself vainly; for although she racked her brain for an answer, none sufficiently plausible presented itself.

They were not alone for a single moment during the remaining hour that Paul Desfrayne lingered. The Dormers went past the barracks on their way home, but he declined a seat in their carriage, as he preferred to ride, he said.

He left the house with them, however, riding a short way by their carriage, and then, putting spurs to his horse, dashed at almost a reckless pace toward his quarters.

It might almost be imagined that a kind of second sight, some sort of spiritual influence, was drawing him to the place where Gilardoni awaited him.

As he took leave of Miss Turquand, he held her hand for some brief moments, and again looked into the clear depths of her eyes.

A deep sigh escaped him as he released the hand he had half-unconsciously retained. Lois heard the sigh, and it was echoed in her heart.

Alas! What was the fatal impediment? Not dislike for herself—she felt sure of that. Her pique and resentment were rapidly melting away under the dangerous fire of love and pity.

He left her a prey to unrest, impatience, wonderment, the only solace being that she felt confident he would take the earliest opportunity of giving her the explanation thus vexatiously interrupted. She surmised that a letter might possibly reach her some time the next day, or perhaps he might call. It would be so natural for him to come, with the object of ascertaining how she and Miss Dormer were after their fright.

Somehow, she did not care to inform Lady Quaintree of what he had said, nor did her ladyship make the slightest approach to an inquiry. But when Lady Quaintree proposed to quit Flore Hall early the following day, she eagerly desired to stay, alleging truly that she was anything but well, as her fainting-fit and the alarm she had suffered had unhinged her nerves.

“Just as you please, my love. I will not dictate to you in your own house, and certainly you and dear Blanche do look very pale, so perhaps a day’s rest will be desirable. But really I shall not be able to remain for more than one day longer. I have so many engagements——”

And she affected to consult a dainty blue-and-gold note-book, which assuredly did contain a sufficiently full program for the week, but which would not have bound her if she had not found it convenient.

With Blanche, Lois was more open. Miss Dormer came for a little while into her room, which the girls would gladly have shared, and listened with absorbed interest to the brief account of the mysterious words spoken on the terrace.

When Lois paused, Blanche reflected seriously.

“You have not consulted Lady Quaintree yet, since he said these singular things?” she asked.

“No,” replied Lois, in a low, constrained voice.

“Is it too late to speak to her now?”

Lois shrank back.

“I know it would be best,” she said; “and yet—and yet I do not like to speak to her until I have something more definite to say. She has always been kind and good to me; but you must remember that she has been my mistress, far above me in every respect; and I can scarcely——I know I am wrong, ungrateful, and yet——”

Blanche smiled, and shrugged her pretty shoulders almost imperceptibly.

“I understand,” she said, very softly. “I suppose Captain Desfrayne will explain himself to her. I wonder much he has not tried to do so to-night. He might easily have found, or made, an opportunity. You have told me exactly what he said?”

“Word for word. It seems imprinted on my memory, and every sentence seems still sounding in my ears. I suppose I was so startled that it made a particular impression on me.”

“Shall I tell you what my opinion is? Probably within a few days—perhaps to-morrow—you will learn the truth. But may I hazard a guess?”

“Pray tell me what you think, my dear friend.”

Blanche fixed her eyes on the pale face of Lois.

“It is my belief,” she said, very slowly, speaking as if deliberately—“it is my firm conviction that he is secretly married.”

Lois shrank back once more. Such an idea had not occurred to her; but she could not refuse to see the probability of the suggestion. She was unable to speak. Somehow, ice seemed to fall upon her heart.

“Secretly married!” she at length echoed faintly. “Why should he be ashamed or afraid to acknowledge such a thing?”

“That remains to be seen,” replied Miss Dormer. “But I believe such to be the fact. I have read and heard of many cases where gentlemen, handsome and proud as Captain Desfrayne, have married persons whom they had every reason to be ashamed of. But he may not be ashamed of his marriage, my dear. There are many reasons why people conceal that they are married.”

Long after Blanche quitted her, Lois remained gazing from her open window, painfully meditating. He was perhaps, then, already married?

Tired, agitated, weak from fright and from the strain on her nervous system, the young girl rested her head upon her hands, and a few tears trickled over her fingers. She started up.

“What folly!” she muttered. “Why do I dwell so much on the words he spoke to-night? What does it signify? I do not care for him. He is a stranger to me, and likely to remain such. When I have been duly informed of the reasons why he is unable to assist me in doubling my fortune by marrying me, there will be an end of the matter. I am almost sorry now I did not agree to Lady Quaintree’s suggestion, and return to London to-morrow. Probably he will send a letter to her ladyship by his servant some time to-morrow afternoon. I do not wish to marry him. I will never marry any one I do not love, and I have never yet seen any one I could really care for. I will go to bed, and get to sleep, as I ought to have done about two hours ago.”

She did go to bed; but the effort to sleep was quite an abortive one. Feverishly she turned from side to side, unable to rid herself of the memory of those eloquent glances, those deeply regretful broken words, those pathetic tones.

Until at last she arrived at the conclusion that she would willingly have forfeited her newly acquired fortune never to have heard of or seen Paul Desfrayne.

CHAPTER XX.

THE BREAK OF DAWN.

It was with difficulty Gilardoni could curb his impatient desire for his master’s return. Could he by any possibility have imagined in which direction to seek for him, he would have started off in quest before the storm was well exhausted. But he was absolutely a stranger in this part of the world, and for aught he could tell, his master might be the same.

He was perforce obliged to remain in Captain Desfrayne’s rooms in absolute inaction, listening with keenly strained watchfulness to every sound, every footfall of man or beast.

Unfortunately, the rooms did not overlook the yard through which the young officer must enter the barracks, so Gilardoni did not enjoy the half-irritating consolation of watching the gate by which he would come.

It was very late before there was the slightest sign of Captain Desfrayne’s coming.

In fact, Gilardoni at length, somehow, lost count, and was only recalled to his eager watch by a gentle touch upon his shoulder. He sprang to his feet, unaware that he had fallen asleep.

Captain Desfrayne had come into the room quietly. At first he had thought of letting the poor tired fellow have his sleep to the end in peace; but, finding he needed his services, he had aroused him.

“No matter, my good Gilardoni,” he said, with that pleasant, winning, yet sad, smile that had become habitual to him. “I have no doubt you are tired waiting for me. I am dog-tired myself. This afternoon, I was caught in the storm, and had the good luck”—there was an imperceptible shade of irony in his tone—“to find shelter in a friend’s house, so was delayed. Will you——”

The words died on his lips. Gilardoni had placed the tiny packet in the silver tissue-paper on the table, just within the rays of the lamp, and Paul Desfrayne’s glance happened to light on it as he spoke.

With a hasty movement, he put out his hand to take it up, but the Italian was more swift, and with the rapidity of lightning covered the packet with the palm of his hand, but without removing it from the table.

The two young men looked into each other’s face for some moments. Not a sound was heard beyond the monotonous tick-tick of the clock on the chimneypiece.

“What is the meaning of this?” demanded Captain Desfrayne.

He recollected the night when he engaged this man as his servant—it seemed months ago—when he had seen him clench his fist at the pictured resemblance to Lucia Guiscardini.

Gilardoni took up the tiny gold cross in its filmy covering, and kept it in his hand.

“Sir,” he said, “this morning you dropped this—as I supposed. I picked it up——”

“Both self-evident facts. As it happens to belong to me, and you acknowledge my proprietorship, why do you not restore it to me?” said Captain Desfrayne. “Do you know what it is?”

Gilardoni laughed bitterly.

“I naturally opened the packet, in order to ascertain what the contents might be,” he responded, “for I was not certain until now that it had really been dropped by you, sir. It is——”

“What is it? A gold cross, a pendant for a watch-chain.”

“More than that.”

“What do you mean?”

“Sir, may I ask you a question?”

“A thousand, if you will let me have my own property, and be brief enough to let me get to bed within half an hour, for I sorely need rest.”

“Sir—my good master, to whom I owe so much kindness and charity—I am not going to ask this question out of impertinent curiosity, but—but from a sufficiently reasonable and strong motive.”

“Come, let us have the question without further preamble.”

“I will ask you two questions. Did you buy this cross, or was it given to you?”

Captain Desfrayne hesitated before replying, as a man in the witness-box might do for fear of criminating himself.

“It was given to me,” he at length replied.

“By a woman?”

Captain Desfrayne looked keenly at his questioner. The idea that he was a former lover of the beautiful Italian prima donna’s, again occurred to him.

“If it will afford you any gratification to know, I do not object to admitting that it was given to me by a woman,” he said.

“By an Italian?”

“By an Italian? Yes.”

“It was a love-gift?”

An exclamation of anger escaped Gilardoni’s master, and he impatiently stretched out his hand.

“Enough of this nonsense!” he exclaimed, with displeasure. “Give me that packet, and get you to bed. Your wits are addled by the nap you were betrayed into.”

Gilardoni moved a step nearer to Captain Desfrayne, and, gripping him tightly by the wrist, looked with intent, searching earnestness into his face, as if he would read his soul. There was nothing sinister or menacing in his attitude, gestures, or expression. He had simply the appearance of a man carried away by some self-absorbing desire to learn a fact of paramount interest to himself.

“This cross,” he said, “was given to you by Lucia Guiscardini.”

“I do not understand why the fact should interest you,” answered Paul Desfrayne. “It certainly did come from her hand. What was Lucia Guiscardini to you, or you to Lucia Guiscardini, that the sight of her gifts to another should cause you so much emotion?”

“Did she tell you where she had obtained this toy?” asked Gilardoni.

“I did not think of inquiring. She linked it on my watch-chain one day, and there was an end of the affair.”

“I knew this as well as if I had been present,” muttered the Italian. “Oh! false, wicked, traitorous serpent!”

These latter words he spoke so rapidly in his native language that his master did not catch their import.

“If you knew, why the deuce have you put yourself to the trouble of asking so many questions? I should be glad to know what you mean by cross-examining me in this ridiculous manner. You apparently consider you have no very good reason to like this same Lucia Guiscardini. Has she done you any harm?”

“She has ruined my happiness—blighted my life—that is all. No, I have no great reason to remember her with feelings of good-will.”

“As you have asked me some questions, I may be allowed the privilege of retaliating. May I ask if she jilted you?”

“No. Oh! no. Would to Heaven she had done so, and saved me these years of bitter hate and regret!”

“Is she your sister?” demanded Paul Desfrayne, startled by the overthrow of the supposition he had so readily built up.

“No. She is the only woman I have ever loved, or can ever love again.”

“Do you still love her, or do you hate her for being so far beyond you?”

Gilardoni regarded his master with a strange, inexplicable look, and then broke into a low, savagely bitter laugh.

“May I ask, sir,” he said, “if she jilted you? She was quite capable of playing the coquette to amuse herself, and then laughing in your face, for her soul was really steeped in ambitious desires.”

“I believe, my good fellow, ambition was her besetting sin—is still, if what folks say be true. No, she did not jilt me. But you have not answered my question. Be frank with me. Tell me why you hate this woman. Why do you hate her—and yet, why do you feel anger at finding her gifts in the possession of another?”

“This cross,” said Gilardoni, tearing it from its wrapper, and holding it out at arm’s length, with a strange, vindictive smile, “was my gift to her—given the day I told her I loved her, and asked her——”

“What?”

“She pretended she returned my love. Bah! Her heart was as cold as ice. She cares for no one but herself. She was born a peasant girl, yet never was princess of blood royal more proud, more insolent, more resolved to stand above the common herd. I adored her. I was like one bereft of his senses when she was near me. She had but to will, and I obeyed like the basest slave. Bah! I made an idol and tricked it out with all the graces of my love-smitten imagination, and fell down and worshiped it. I believed that she was exactly what my weak, foolish heart pictured her to be. I would have raised her from her ignoble station, but not to the height she desired to climb. To be a Russian princess, or the lady of some great English milord, was her dream.”

“I know it,” said Paul Desfrayne, very quietly, yet he felt that some great revelation was at hand. That the revelation was to be to his advantage he did not hope.

“But not at the time when I linked about her neck the chain that held this poor little gewgaw,” cried Gilardoni excitedly. “No, no. At that time she was barely conscious of her power to charm—just waking to the consciousness of her dangerous charm of beauty. I was her first victim, her first triumph. She was a girl of sixteen then; I was about six or seven years her senior. We had been neighbors and friends from childhood. I taught her such songs and snatches of music as I occasionally picked up, and she loved to warble the chants and psalms she heard at chapel. She had not discovered that she had a fortune in her throat. If she had not found out that, we might have been a happy, contented couple at this day.”

Paul Desfrayne looked at the excited face of Gilardoni in a strange, contemplative silence for a moment or two, as the Italian paused. The dark, foreign face was lividly pale from passion; the dark, gleaming eyes were burning with inward fire.

“I thought you assured me just this moment,” observed the young officer, “that Lucia Guiscardini had not jilted you. If you loved her, and she declared she reciprocated your affection, why, it is to be imagined that the course of true love must have run tolerably smooth. A little hypocrisy, I believe, is supposed to be pardonable with the feminine part of our common humanity. If she said she loved you, her affection was next best to reality.”

“She declared she loved me. I believed her,” said Gilardoni fiercely. “I believed her because—I supposed because I wished it to be true. I fancied no man was ever so happy as I. For a while I walked no longer on earth, but on roseate clouds of happiness. I despise myself when I look back on that time. Perhaps I am not the first who has been betrayed into folly by the arts and wiles of a beautiful, treacherous girl,” the Italian added, shrugging his shoulders.

“You have not yet given me the slightest idea of the reason why you so cordially dislike Madam Guiscardini, if that be her correct designation,” said Captain Desfrayne. “You indulge in the most vehement invectives against her, yet state no specific charge. You say you made a fool of yourself about her, and that she laughed in her sleeve at your declarations of affection. Certainly, very shabby on her part, but, then, it is a thing beautiful, vain, silly women do every day. Why should you cherish such rancor against her? I suppose she found she could make a better market of her beauty and wonderful talents than by disposing of them to a man who could never hope to raise her beyond the level of, say, a wealthy farmer’s wife. Do not be too severe upon her.”

“If she had laughed at me, and left me,” cried Gilardoni, throwing out his hands with impetuosity, “I could have forgiven her; I might have forgotten her. It could not have been that I could ever have loved again; but what of that? I do not believe in love now. But no. She left the poison of her treacherous touch upon my life. I could kill her, if she were within my reach.”

“Such hate must be justified by very serious provocation,” said Paul Desfrayne. “May I ask how your love was turned to such bitter gall, since your suit prospered in the first instance?”

“By deeds of the blackest treachery.”

“In a word, may I ask—since we are playing at the game of question and answer—may I once more ask, why do you hate the beautiful Lucia Guiscardini? She did not jilt you, you say—then what relationship does she hold toward you?”

Gilardoni turned his great dark eyes upon his master, as if in surprise, forgetting at the moment that he had not told him of the completing point of his story. Then he said, with a vindictive bitterness terrible to hear, because it revealed the smoldering fire beneath:

“She is my wife!”

CHAPTER XXI.

LEONARDO GILARDONI’S STORY.

Had the earth yawned suddenly open at his feet, Paul Desfrayne could not have expressed more utter amazement than was depicted in his face and in his entire attitude on hearing the declaration made by Leonardo Gilardoni. He stared as if confounded.

“Your wife!” he repeated, at length.

“Certainly. My wife,” answered the valet.

“Then—then——Great heavens, your wife! But it is impossible.”

“Why should it be impossible?” almost angrily demanded the Italian. “Do you mean it is impossible that the famous star of the lyrical stage should be the wife of a poor, penniless fellow like myself? It must seem strange—I don’t deny it. But in her early days she was one of the poorest and most obscure of peasant girls, and thought Leonardo Gilardoni, with his little piece of land, and the savings bequeathed by his father, quite a catch. No thought of English milords and Russian princes then.”

Captain Desfrayne took a hasty turn or two, then again faced his servant.

“You amaze me,” he said. “Then how did it happen, since you loved her, as you say, that you came to be separated from her, and how has it come about that you appear to be utter strangers, you two? How is it that she contemplates—if report speak true—marriage with a Russian prince, if she is already married, the wife of Leonardo Gilardoni?”

But as he spoke, Paul Desfrayne was thinking, with a half-dazed brain, that if Lucia Guiscardini should prove to be the wife of this Italian servant, her marriage with himself must have been perfectly illegal.

If she were the wife of another, why, he must be free. But it could not be. He had yet to hear some explanation which would inevitably shut out from view the bright vision of happy freedom conjured up for a moment by the wild words of Gilardoni.

No; it was beyond hope that this poisonous sting could ever be taken from out his blighted life.

The lovely, pure face of Lois Turquand, as he had seen it on the terrace in the dim, dreamy light, rose before him, as if to reproach him for a wrong unconsciously wrought against her by his fatal marriage.

It was evident Gilardoni knew nothing whatever of la Lucia’s marriage with Paul Desfrayne.

The Italian was watching his master’s countenance as if anxious to discover the current of his thoughts. There was a momentary pause. Then Gilardoni said, less excitedly:

“Why does she think of bettering her condition by a splendid marriage with a great noble when she is the wife of a poor serving-man like myself? Simply because she has destroyed the evidence of her unlucky first marriage.”

In spite of his better sense, a sharp spasm of disappointment seized the heart of Paul Desfrayne. He was, perhaps, worse placed than before. Until now, he had given Lucia Guiscardini credit for being what she really represented herself to be, and had imagined that balked ambition rather than absolute wickedness had led to her vile deception and iniquitous treachery toward himself. She had seemed a wild, undisciplined creature, ignorant of the world and its ways, cold and reserved except on a few occasions when she had permitted him to snatch feverish kisses from her lips, and press her in his arms. But now, if Gilardoni’s accusations were true, she was a crafty, evil, unscrupulous woman, who had crushed an innocent man with the hope to step up into wealth and power.

She was the wife of this servant, yet at any moment, did she so will, she could claim to stand by the side of Captain Paul Desfrayne, whose legal wife she was, until proof of a prior marriage could be obtained. Wife of Paul Desfrayne, so proud of his untarnished family name and descent, so adoringly fond of his mother, whose besetting sin was family pride and love of the world’s homage.

“Destroyed the evidence of her first marriage!” Paul Desfrayne slowly repeated. “I cannot understand you.”

“Sir, I will tell you the pitiful history. ’Tis not very long. As children, Lucia and I were playmates. She was an imperious, overbearing tyrant; but her beauty, her wiles, her artless ways, as they appeared to be, gained for her complete dominion over my every thought and action. I was some six or seven years her senior, and useful to her—her slave, her jackall.

“She was an orphan, and lived with an old woman, some distant kind of relation. I lost my parents when about eighteen or so, and was left my own master. When Lucia was some ten or eleven years old, I resolved that she, and none other, should be my wife at some future day. I told her so many, many times, and she generally agreed, laughingly. When she was sixteen, I found that I passionately loved her. Our future marriage had been a kind of jest until then; but at last I discovered—or fancied such to be the case—I took it into my head that I must obtain her love, and make her my wife, or else my heart must break.

“I can scarcely conceive the wild state of my feelings now when I look back. I made a serious declaration of my love the day I gave her this cross; I urged her to give me her promise, telling her how madly I adored her, how rich I hoped to be some day by working hard, and getting and saving money. She knew exactly how much I was worth. She knew she would have her own way in everything—she knew how every thought in my brain, every pulsation of my heart, was given to her.

“I was the best-circumstanced of those she had to choose from, and I think—I believe—some beam of liking for me flickered in her cold breast; but I don’t know. She decided to give me her promise.”

“Which she ratified?” said Paul Desfrayne, as Gilardoni paused.

“Yes. We were married within a few weeks at the nearest chapel. Some time before our marriage, Lucia’s brother who had been brought up in France by his mother’s uncle, and reared as a priest, had come to take charge of our spiritual affairs. We were married by him. I believed there had never been a happier man than myself when I led the cruel, treacherous girl away from the little altar.”

“Go on, I beg of you.”

“For some months all went well. Lucia commanded, and I obeyed. There was but one will in the house—hers; nothing clashed with it, and so nothing clouded our happiness. She was very well satisfied; she had fine clothes, a pretty house, an adoring husband, and triumphed when she knew she was envied by some of her girl friends. Then, one day, a famous singer came along. He was staying in the village—it was his native place, and he roamed about all day. One morning, he was walking near our cottage: he heard Lucia singing in the little rose-garden. I was away at a neighboring town. He spoke to her—inflamed her ambition by telling her she had a fortune in her throat. She did not tell him she was married, or let him see the ring on her finger, and he told her she might marry an emperor some day if she pleased.”

“Did she run away with him?” asked Captain Desfrayne.

“She told him she would give him an answer in a week, after she had consulted with her friends, for he asked if she would go to Florence with him. When I returned, she was like one crazy, her eyes all a-glitter with joy and astonished delight. I instantly told her I would never hear of her becoming a singer, and going on the stage. She tried coaxing, storming, threatening, entreaties, crying, sullenness, all to no purpose. I was inflexible. During the whole of the week the same scenes occurred every day, from morning until night—nay, for the twenty-four hours. The eve of the day when the signor was to come for his answer found her as resolute as at first to follow the course pointed out to her by his selfish hand—found me as doggedly determined to keep her from destroying her own peace and mine.”

“You did not think you were flinging away a fortune?” said Paul Desfrayne.

“All I thought of was that they asked me to scatter my happiness to the winds,” replied Gilardoni. “What did we want with fortune when we had enough for our needs? The signor came. He must have learned that this young girl was married, but he made no sign. She was on the watch for him, and ran to meet him before he reached the door.”

“Why did you not hinder them from speaking?”

“Pooh! Unless I could have locked her up in a cell, it would have been utterly impossible to prevent her from communicating with him. She did not call me, but let him depart. Then she came in and told me that he had renewed his golden promises, that she had informed him her friends objected to her becoming a stage singer, but that she hoped to gain consent, and had requested him to return in three or four days. He was resolved not to lose sight of her, and waited patiently. She tried again to shake my determination, but in vain.

“I then thought of applying to her brother, the priest, for help in combatting her fatal desires and intentions, but he had consented to go to America as a missionary, and was at that time away making some final arrangements—partly settling who should succeed him in his humble cure. In a fortnight more he was to begin his journey. Lucia nearly drove me frantic; but a day or two before that fixed for the final decision, she suddenly became strangely calm and quiet, with the horrible tranquillity of a wild beast which crouches to take its spring upon a victim.”

All these explanations were necessary to render poor Gilardoni’s story intelligible; but the suspense until he should arrive at the conclusive point in his recital was almost sickening to his hearer, for whom the facts possessed an absorbing interest, undreamed of by the narrator.

Captain Desfrayne did not utter a word when Gilardoni paused for a moment.

“Lucia had made up her mind,” the valet continued, “to close with the alluring offers of the stranger. How do you think she contrived to get rid of the impediments caused by my stern obstinacy, as she considered the opposition I raised?”

“How can I tell?”

“She made one or two faint efforts to move me that last day; then she drugged some wine I was to drink in the evening. Having secured a fair start, she went off with the crabbed old man who had thus torn her from the home she had made so happy for a few short months.”

“Did she leave any clue to the place she was bound for?”

“None. A few lines scrawled on a bit of torn paper told me why she had gone, and with whom. I found this paper the next morning when I roused myself from my deathlike sleep. The drug left me weak in body and mind; some days elapsed before I could gain sufficient strength to form any plan. Then I made some careful inquiries, for I wished to avoid being talked about and laughed at by the scandal-loving old women of the village. I found that there was a probability of finding my wife and her new music-master at Turin.”

Paul Desfrayne shuddered. The name of these beautiful Italian cities always brought back feelings of pain and bitterness to his memory.

“I traveled day and night,” Gilardoni went on. “Such little property as I had I sold, realizing a moderate sum of money, for I needed resources in my pursuit, and knew that the pretty, happy nest could never be the same to me again. My information, gleaned grain by grain, proved correct. She was at Turin. Step by step, slowly, laboriously, with the patience of an Indian, I tracked her out.

“My ardent love was then undergoing a change, and I felt deep anger against her for her utter indifference to me, for her rank defiance of my wishes, of my lawful authority. I discovered her living in an obscure suburb with an old attendant. Every stratagem I used to obtain an interview with her failed. I tried to bribe the old servant, or duenna, or governess, and she first flung my money contemptuously in my face, and then banged the gates. I wrote, but could not tell whether my letters reached the cruel hands of my treacherous wife.

“I watched the doors of her house, but in vain, for I afterward found that she rarely quitted the house, and then by a small gate at the end of the large garden, which led into a sheltered lane little frequented. Her singing-master entered by this gate, and as I was ignorant that there was any way of obtaining admittance except by the iron gates in the front of the house, I was baffled in my object of waylaying and questioning him. By dint of inquiring ceaselessly, I found out where he lived, and one day I went to his house, and confronted him.”

“And the result?”

“I demanded of him my wife—he laughed at me and my reproaches, entreaties, and threats. At last he menaced me—said that if I again annoyed him he would hand me over to the authorities as a dangerous lunatic. He professed to know nothing of the person I asked for. In spite of my fury, I had the sense to think that perhaps my wife had given him a name other than her own or mine. I endeavored to reasonably explain the circumstances of her flight. He sneered at me for an idiot, or an impostor, and coolly showed me the door. I thank Heaven I did not slay him in my frenzy and despair.”

“Then did you ever see the woman—your wife—again?”

“By accident, I discovered the existence of the little gate at the back of the house. I was passing down the shaded lane, and noticed the gate open. The idea of its belonging to the house where my wife was staying did not occur to me at the moment. I happened to glance through, and the wild beauty and luxuriance of the large garden attracted my eyes. I stood for some minutes inhaling the delicious odor of the flowers, when I heard a step, and the rustle of feminine garments.

“An instant more, and I saw—I saw my wife, Lucia, pacing slowly along the path, her skirts trailing over the mingled flowers and weeds of the flower-borders, her eyes cast down, her arms hanging by her side, looking weary, and, I fancied, sad. I stood still, spellbound, as if unable to move a step. For a second my heart melted; the mad love I cherished rose in all its old intensity. I flattered myself that perhaps she regretted her precipitation—I induced myself to imagine that she was to a great extent influenced by the mercenary old dog who had lured her away. The idea that she might welcome me with a cry of gladness, and throw herself into my arms with tears of penitence, unnerved me.”

“Well?”

“She drew nearer and nearer, unconscious of my presence, the shrubs that grew about the door, or gate, serving to conceal me. As she came close, when I could almost have touched her, she happened to raise her eyes. She uttered one cry—a cry of fear, or surprise, or both, and then stood perfectly still, as if turned to stone. I sprang toward her with one long stride, and caught her by the arm, afraid that even now she might elude me.

“I do not remember what either said—it was a repetition of what had passed before. But I do remember that when I said I would compel her to obey me, as my wife, and told her she could enter into no contract without my consent, she stared at me, and broke into contemptuous laughter—laughter of defiance. She answered that she was no wife of mine, and acknowledged the authority of no one save her nearest relative, her brother, the priest.

“For a moment I really thought her brain was turned. I asked her if she could deny that her brother had joined our hands in the little chapel of our native village. She declared I was uttering rank falsehood, or impertinent folly. I swore I would soon prove our marriage, and bring witnesses by the dozen. She laughed again, and said I was welcome to indulge in my own fancies, unless they annoyed her.”

“You said she had destroyed the evidence of the marriage,” said Captain Desfrayne, fixing his eyes on Gilardoni, as if to read his very soul.

“Thunderstruck, confounded, I knew not what to say. I thought it was a ruse to get me to leave the garden, for perhaps she feared I might enter the house, and then be difficult to dislodge. So I no longer thought she had lost her senses, but that she was trying to do by cunning what she could not hope to effect by force or persuasion. But in the end she had her own way. It was of no earthly use arguing with her, or threatening: she was immovable, and answered every sentence I addressed to her by the same firm iteration of the fact that she was no wife of mine.

“She laughed insultingly when I said the law would speedily decide between us. Perhaps she knew it was an idle threat of mine, for what could the law do to bring again to my arms the woman I had deluded myself into imagining loved me? I was unable to guess what she meant by so boldly denying she had been married to me. In brief, I left her. I lost no time, but hurried back to obtain proof of my marriage.”

CHAPTER XXII.

A VISION OF FREEDOM.

“On my return to our native village, after an absence of some two months,” continued Gilardoni, “I found that the priest, Lucia’s brother, had departed. His successor—a stranger—received me very kindly; but when I revealed to him my painful situation, and asked his advice, he looked perfectly distressed. When I begged him to let me have a copy of the register of my marriage, he told me, with much agitation, that the book had been stolen.”

“Stolen!—by her?” exclaimed Paul Desfrayne.

“Without a doubt,” replied Gilardoni. “He had not arrived at the time it was purloined. I believe that the night Lucia fled from my home she gained access to the chapel, taking the keys from her brother’s room. It was not until the eve of his departure that he knew anything of the loss, for there had not been any occasion to use the book during those last weeks.”

“She had taken this daring means to free herself from your authority, or the legal control you might have exercised over her?” said Paul Desfrayne. “Had she, think you, destroyed the book?”

He made the inquiry with a flutter at his heart.

“I suppose so,” answered Gilardoni. “It is impossible she would have had the folly to preserve it. The probability—the certainty is, that she burned it.”

“What infamy—what wickedness!” cried Paul Desfrayne.

Gilardoni shrugged his shoulders.

“Her insatiate ambition, her craving for wealth, station, luxury, overmastered all other feelings,” he said.

“Then she was free to defy you and all the world?”

“Quite so.”

“What did you do on making this extraordinary discovery?”

“What could I do? No inquiries could enable me to glean the slightest clue to the place whither her brother, the priest, had gone. I sought in every direction my limited resources admitted of for information as to his whereabouts, but, beyond the fact that he had gone to America, could learn nothing.”

“America? What part of America?”

“I could not ascertain. Some place in South America. Afterward, when I began to move about more freely, I might perhaps have obtained the name of his location, but by that time I had lost all desire of even seeing or hearing of the treacherous woman I had made my wife. I said to myself, even if I succeeded in proving the legality of my union with her, of what avail would it be? She would never return to me: even if she did, she would be like another creature, not the Lucia I had loved—the pretty, innocent girl I fancied loved me.”

“Did you see her again?”

“I made no attempt to do so. I wrote a few lines, bitterly reproaching her for the crime she had committed—the double crime. Of that brief letter she took no notice whatever. She continued, I believe, to study with the Signor Ballarini, until fitted to appear on the stage. I do not know what agreement she made with him; the only thing I know is that she came out under her own name, not, thanks be to Providence, under mine!”

“And then she attained her desire of becoming a star of the first magnitude,” said Captain Desfrayne, as Gilardoni paused. “She gained the wealth, luxury, power, all but the rank she yearned for. Did you ever see her after that day you came on her by accident in the garden at Turin?”

“I have at rare intervals happened to catch a glimpse of her, without desiring to see her, driving past in her carriage, perhaps,” replied Gilardoni. “Not even once have I had the curiosity to enter the theater when she has been singing; the screech of some arch fiend would have been as pleasing in my ears as her finest notes. Not once have I felt an inclination to ask a question as to her way of life.

“People have told me that she is one of the best of women, noted for her charity and goodness. They little knew that he to whom they spoke had the first right to be considered in her schemes of benevolence. I took no care of my little money, already diminished by my searches after her unworthy self, and after her brother.

“The consequence was, I soon became reduced almost to the verge of want. The good priest who had succeeded the Padre Josef, my brother-in-law, obtained for me a situation as servant to a nobleman—the Count Di Venosta—with whom I was when I first saw you, sir. My life flowed in a dull current until his death; after that, illness, poverty, misery, despair, until these last few days, when I had the good fortune to meet with you, and you had compassion on my friendless state.”

Captain Desfrayne considered for some moments. Should he reveal his painful secret to this man who had been so frank with him? He could not resolve to do so: the humiliation would be too great. Before he had felt his situation most painful. These revelations rendered it well-nigh insupportable.

That Madam Guiscardini should have the daring to plan the theft of the marriage-register, and the nerve, the cool audacity, to carry her plot into execution, and then refrain from the destruction of the proof she desired to keep from all men’s eyes, was incredible. Yet a strange thought occurred to him.

“If no proof of her marriage with you exists,” he said to the Italian, “how do you account for the fact that she evidently fears to accept any of the brilliant offers they say she has received?”

“Very easily,” answered Leonardo, with a savage grimace. “Although the book is, or may be, no longer in existence, her brother may be found any day, and he could prove her marriage. I do not care to seek him, and if I did, my poverty restrains me. But she probably knows well that if she dared to marry any of these infatuated nobles, who are ready to throw their coronets at her feet, I should stand forth and denounce her. If I declare her to be my wife, she must disprove my words. I, in my poverty, can do nothing; but a rich man—such as she would desire to wed—could seek for the man who could seal my words as truth.”

A thrill of hope ran through the heart of his hearer. For a moment the impulse to tell him the bitter facts of his own share in Lucia’s miserable history almost overmastered Paul Desfrayne’s prudence. But he resolved to make no sign until he had consulted Frank Amberley, to whom he looked now as his chief friend and adviser in his present difficulties. If he could get leave of absence, he meant to go to London for some hours the next day, in order to see the young lawyer.

“Perhaps her brother is dead,” he suggested.

“Perhaps so,” assented the other. “But she would feel secure if such were the case, and we should soon hear of her as princess, duchess, or some such exalted personage.”

“He might die, and make no sign. Missionary priests are sometimes slain in obscure places, or die of hunger on toilsome journeys, and are never heard of more,” Captain Desfrayne said.

He knew full well that it was in reality her luckless marriage with himself that fixed the bar.

“Sir,” Leonardo said, “I think I have earned the right to ask how this cross—my first gift to her—came from her hands into your possession.”

This was a home-thrust.

“She fancied I was the rich milord who might one day place a coronet on her brow,” said Paul Desfrayne, very slowly. “I was one of her most ardent admirers at Florence.”

“I understand.”

“Afterward—some time later—she discovered that I was—that I was not the wealthy nobleman she had imagined me to be,” half-stammered Gilardoni’s master.

“That was enough. I comprehend. That was quite enough for her. But if she wished to entrap you, she would have dared to consent to marry you.”

“My good fellow, I wish to get to my room,” said the young officer, who felt sick at heart, although a faint gleam of hope had come to him. “It is almost break of dawn.”

These last words struck him with a singular sense of being familiar, as if he had uttered them in some previous stage of existence, or had heard some one speak them at some startling crisis.

“You must be tired out, sir.”

Gilardoni pushed the little cross toward his master without making any remark about it.

“I don’t want the thing, Gilardoni,” said Paul Desfrayne, with a half-contemptuous sigh. “It is yours of right, I doubt not. It can have no value for me. I do not know why I have preserved it.”

He took up the taper which his valet had lighted, and went into his bedroom, saying he had no need of further service from Gilardoni.

Then he closed and locked the door, and sat down on the edge of his bed, to consider his position.

A thousand distracting thoughts ran through his brain, but above all dominated the one idea that he must, at any hazard, try to find out if the Padre Josef were alive or dead. If alive, he could loose these agonizing bonds that were cutting his life-strings. If dead——

If dead, then no hope remained.

At all events, the first step would be to see Frank Amberley.

What if he essayed another interview with Lucia Guiscardini, and, armed with his present knowledge, sought to extort some kind of confession from her? Should he endeavor to make her tell whether she knew, or did not know, if her brother yet lived?

With his unhappy experience of her obstinate and violent temper, he could scarcely hope for any good result from seeing her. He had no power or influence over her, could offer no inducement of any kind to persuade her to admit anything. Too well he knew beforehand that she would flatly deny her marriage with Leonardo Gilardoni—would probably deny that she had now or ever had had a brother at all. She would either laugh in his face, or storm with rage, as the humor suited her.

To seek out the priest would demand an immense outlay, and if, after all, the search should prove unavailing, or he should be dead, then he, Paul Desfrayne, would be left penniless, and possibly heavily in debt.

Would it be well to send Gilardoni on the quest? No one would seek as he should. Each little trifle that might escape others, however hawk-eyed, would be sure clues to his eager, vengeful glance.

“I will decide nothing now,” he at last thought. “I will be entirely guided by Frank Amberley’s advice. He will be able to judge what is best, and, if the search is advisable, will be capable of estimating the probable expenses. My liberty alone would be worth ten years of my life.”

For a moment the vision of what might be if his freedom were secured presented itself before his mind, but he dared not indulge in the dangerous contemplation of such a joy, and sank into troubled slumbers as the first rays of the morning sun penetrated into the chamber.

His face looked worn and weary in the fresh morning beams, as it rested on his arm.

The heart of his fond mother must have been melted with love and pity had she gazed on the distressed face, and noted the restless tossing of the wearied body, to which sleep seemed to bring no refreshment.

The day came in its inevitable course.

Lady Quaintree and Lois made sure that they would see Captain Desfrayne during the afternoon. Ordinary etiquette, if no other feeling, must bring him to inquire how the young ladies fared after their fright.

Lady Quaintree did not attempt to induce Lois to confide in her. Lois, on her side, did not volunteer any remark beyond a very few dry commonplaces regarding the rescue of herself and Blanche Dormer from their perilous situation. The young girl made no sign whereby Lady Quaintree could judge of the state of her feelings.

Both were prepared to wait with a kind of painful uncertainty for Captain Desfrayne’s coming. Each wished, for different reasons, that this journey had never been undertaken.

Had any rational excuse been at hand, each would have urged an immediate return to London.

The question was settled very unexpectedly. As the three ladies rose from breakfast, a servant came in very hurriedly, the bearer of a telegram directed to Lady Quaintree.

Her ladyship’s hand trembled slightly as she took the paper from the salver, and she hesitated for a moment before breaking the envelope.

Telegrams, when unexpected, are always more or less alarming, and Lady Quaintree could not think of any possible good reason why any one should address one to her. She took it out, however, and, putting on her gold-rimmed spectacles, read the curt sentences:

“Return as soon as possible. My father ill, though not seriously so. He wishes for you. A train leaves Holston at 12:15; the next at 2:45.”

It was from her son Gerald.

Lady Quaintree gave the telegram to the two girls, while she inquired if the messenger was still in waiting.

The youth who had come from the railway-station was called into the room. Lois wrote an answer from Lady Quaintree’s dictation to the effect that they would start by the 12:15 train, and this was sent by the same messenger who had brought the telegram.

As the visit was simply a flying one, little preparation had been made, and the ladies’ luggage was of the most portable description; so Justine, who was hastily summoned, had nothing to do in the shape of packing.

Mrs. Ormsby was sent for, and came in dignified haste.

“We are obliged to leave a day sooner than we had arranged for, Mrs. Ormsby,” said Lady Quaintree. “Miss Turquand is not sure of what time she may return, and it may be a long period before I come again. But we are both well pleased with the order and arrangement of everything in the establishment under your control.”

The housekeeper curtsied to imply her thanks and gratification. Her ladyship requested that the carriage might be ready at once, as they left by the 12:15 train for London.

A council of war was held as to the desirability of Blanche’s accompanying them. No time remained for consulting her parents, so at length Lady Quaintree settled that she should go with them.

“Even if my lord should prove more unwell than my son admits,” she said, “you will be a great comfort to me and to our dear Lois; and if you should find my house irksome under the circumstances, I can easily locate you with any one of half a dozen friends, who would be delighted to receive you, my love.”

The three were soon equipped for their journey. As the day was soft and warm, almost threatening to be sultry and overcoming, the completion of their toilets consisted in donning country straw hats, dainty lace capes, and gloves. Lady Quaintree folded a soft white shawl of fine silky wool about her, and they descended to the carriage, having hurriedly partaken of luncheon prepared by Mrs. Ormsby.

CHAPTER XXIII.

THE EXPRESS TO LONDON.

“What messages are we to leave for Captain Desfrayne, my dear?” asked Lady Quaintree of Lois.

They had both left his name to the last, each loath to be the one to recall it.

Her ladyship noted, while apparently trying to master a refractory button on her glove, that the rose tint on Lois’ cheeks deepened, and then flowed over the rest of her face, while the long, dark lashes drooped.

“Dear madam,” said the young girl, “that is a question I should rather have asked you, who know so much better than I do the proper things to be said.”

“Proper, my love,” repeated the old lady, smiling. “It is not a matter of saying ‘proper’ or ‘civil’ things. What do you wish to say?”

The color faded from Lois’ face, and then flowed back again in a roseate glow.

“I am sure Miss Dormer and I are both most grateful to Captain Desfrayne for his kindness——” began Lois.

Blanche put her hands on Lois’ waist, and gave her a gentle shake, and a glance of reproach.

“‘Miss Dormer!’ You unkind Lois!” she said. “I thought I had asked you to call me Blanche.”

Lois felt as if she must say things worthy of smiling rebuke, whether she willed it or not.

“Come, we must leave some message, in case the captain should happen to call,” said Lady Quaintree.

“Mrs. Ormsby,” she continued, turning to the housekeeper, who was following to attend them to their carriage, “if Captain Desfrayne—the gentleman who dined here yesterday—should come during the day, will you be good enough to inform him that we were unexpectedly summoned to London on the most urgent affairs?”

“I will do so, my lady,” replied Mrs. Ormsby.

The carriage drove off, containing the three ladies, Justine and the one or two other servants immediately attending them. There was no time to send for Blanche’s maid; but it was agreed that she should be sent for at once on their arrival at Lowndes Square.

Lois gazed at the stately Hall and its lovely grounds, with strange, mingled feelings, as the carriage bore her swiftly away. An uncomfortable sensation rose in her throat, as if tears of regret were stealing from their hiding-place, as she reflected that she was in all likelihood losing a chance of seeing Paul Desfrayne, and hearing his promised explanation.

“He will come to-day; and I shall not be here,” she thought.

His face and form haunted her, try as she would to banish the recollection. A dangerous longing, inexplicable to herself, rose in her heart, just to see him once more. A wicked longing, she knew, if he belonged to another. And the impediment which hindered him from addressing her was evidently an insuperable one. His words, although mystifying, left no doubt.

“I wish I had never seen or heard of him,” she said to herself. “Yet why should I let myself think of him in this foolish, weak way. My pride, if nothing else, should forbid my wishing even to see him. It is enough that he has assured me he can never think of me. Why do I think about him, except as a harassing care forced on me? I have known him but a few days; he is a stranger, an absolute stranger to me, and yet I continue to brood over his words, and my resentment against him seems gone.”

The drive to the station was even pleasanter than the drive of the day before. As yet the day was tolerably cool, and snow-white clouds flecked a sky of purest blue.

Lady Quaintree was not sorry to be rid of the handsome claimant to her protégée’s hand, heart, and desirable fortune, if it were only for a while. She could not, for all her maternal pride, be blind to the fact that Paul Desfrayne would be a formidable rival to her Gerald, unless the latter could secure a very firm interest in the affections of the young lady who might be addressed by both.

A polite guard chose a convenient compartment for the ladies. A smile, a hasty uplifting of the finger to his cap as Lady Quaintree’s delicate pearl-gray glove approached his brown palm, and then he closed the door respectfully.

But at the last moment, and just as the guard blew his whistle, a gentleman came rushing on the platform.

“Going by the express, sir? Here you are, sir—here you are. Not a minute to be lost,” cried the guard.

The good fellow had intended that the ladies should have their compartment all to themselves; but he had no time to move from the spot where he stood. The train began to draw its snakelike body to move out from the station. He threw open the door, and the gentleman sprang lightly on the step, steadied himself for an instant, and then entered.

The three ladies turned their gaze simultaneously on their fellow passengers, and the same exclamation escaped their lips at the same moment:

“Captain Desfrayne!”

Truly, Captain Desfrayne on his way to London to consult Frank Amberley. He recognized the ladies as he balanced himself on the step of the carriage.

Had it been possible, he would have drawn back, and gone anywhere rather than continue this journey in Lois’ company. For a second his eyes met hers. New hope, clouded by pain and uncertainty, beamed in his; fear, timid reproach, inquiry, doubt, glanced from hers.

Blanche could not help exchanging a look of amazement with Lois, nor could it escape her notice that the telltale crimson mounted to Miss Turquand’s cheeks, just now so pale.

“Captain Desfrayne! An unexpected pleasure,” said Lady Quaintree, extending her hand, though secretly ill pleased.

“Quite so,” answered Captain Desfrayne, himself anything but delighted. “I had not the most distant idea you and Miss Turquand intended to quit Flore Hall so soon.”

He could not hinder his eyes from wandering to Lois’ face. The young girl, filled with anger at his inconsistent conduct, averted her head, and gazed from the window. When she stole a glance at him again, he was looking from the window on his side, his face clouded by the care and trouble that seemed rarely absent.

Nobody said much during the journey; for subjects of conversation were not readily found, and even Blanche had abundant matter for mental consideration.

To Lois and Paul Desfrayne, it seemed like a dream more than reality.

The thickly clustered houses, the red-tiled roofs and chimney-pots began to give intimation that they were nearing London.

“We may not hope, then, to see much of you this week, at any rate?” Lady Quaintree observed, shaking herself out of a brief slumber.

He shook his head.

“I must go back to Holston as soon as I can,” he replied.

The express slackened speed, and at last rolled into the terminus.

Gerald was waiting for his mother on the platform. He assisted her from the carriage, leaving the care of the two young girls to Captain Desfrayne.

Lady Quaintree eagerly paused to make anxious inquiries about her husband. She had moved on a few steps, and Captain Desfrayne felt he must offer some kind of excuse to Lois for not affording her the clue to his mysterious behavior he had promised. He laid a tremulous hand on her wrist, and drew her some steps away from her friend.

“Miss Turquand,” he said eagerly, looking her full in the face, a deeply troubled, excited expression in his eyes, “I must entreat of you not to judge me harshly, but with mercy and kindness. I merit all your pity. I am a most unhappy man. It would have been well if I could have explained my position last night, as I meant to do; but this is no time or place to end the conversation then begun and interrupted. May I beseech you to suspend your judgment until I have been able to tell you how I am circumstanced?”

“I have no right to judge you,” said Lois coldly. “If you are unhappy, you have my pity.”

She felt piqued that he fixed no time for giving her the promised explanation. He left her still mystified.

“Will you give me your promise not to condemn me until you have heard my story?” urged Paul Desfrayne.

“I repeat, I have no right to judge you,” said Lois. “Those who have the care of me and my affairs have the best right to hear what you have to say.”

If her words sounded cold and repelling to her hearer, they were yet more so to herself. She felt that she spoke harshly, and with scarcely veiled bitterness, and, as she saw the young man droop his head, she hastily added, with a softened tone:

“Your language, sir, is strange and perplexing to me. You allude to some unhappy circumstances, of which, as you say, I am entirely ignorant. If you see fit to explain these circumstances to me, I think you may count on my sympathy. If you do not deem it necessary that I should be further acquainted with them, let it be forgotten that you have ever touched on them at all.”

The young girl, faint and agitated from contending feelings, put out her hands like one who does not see her way clearly. Blanche, who had drawn back, stepped hastily to her side, and gave her an arm to lean upon.

“My poor darling!” whispered Blanche tenderly.

The sympathetic accents vibrated on Lois’ heart like an electric shock. She roused herself from the momentary weakness to which she had yielded, and extended her hand to Captain Desfrayne.

“Adieu, sir,” she said.

The young man caught her hand, and involuntarily pressed the slender fingers within his own. He gazed for an instant into the dreamy eyes, so pure, so frank, so truthful, so trusting, then, loosing the little hand, turned away with a deep sigh.

As he did so, Lady Quaintree looked back, and made a signal to the girls to accompany her to the carriage, which was in waiting. She smiled in her own gracious way upon the young officer, though she really wished him at Jericho.

He advanced, and lifted his hat.

“I presume, madam, I can be of no service to you?” he said, glancing for a moment at the Honorable Gerald, who was unknown to him.

Lady Quaintree, remembering that the young men were strangers to each other, introduced them.

“If you should happen to make a longer stay in town than you count on,” she said, “we shall be very pleased to see you, either this evening, or to-morrow, or at any time it may suit you to come. I find my lord’s illness is not of so serious a nature as at first appeared.”

An interchange of civil smiles, a shake or two of the hand, some polite valedictory salutations, and the brief whirling scene was over—past as a dream.

“I think I was right,” murmured Blanche, in her friend’s ear, as they drove off in Lady Quaintree’s luxurious carriage.

Lois tightly pressed the hand that tenderly sought her own; but did not meet Blanche’s eye, which she feared for the moment.

Paul Desfrayne threw himself into a hansom.

“Alderman’s Lane,” he cried to the driver.

CHAPTER XXIV.

FRANK AMBERLEY’S ADVICE.

Captain Desfrayne was at first so eager and vehement, that Frank Amberley found it a little difficult to disentangle the strange story he had to tell.

The young lawyer did not find himself in an agreeable position. In the secret depths of his heart he would have infinitely preferred that Paul Desfrayne should remain bound. So long as his marriage was an unalterable fact, there was no fear of his carrying off Lois. There was scant hope for Frank himself, poor fellow; but he was asked to give his best aid toward demolishing the great bar to her union with this powerful rival. If she did not care for any one else—and he reflected with a sigh that she cared little for himself—the probability was that she would not raise any urgent objections toward fulfilling her dead benefactor’s wishes.

But he was generous, and scorned to act a mean and dishonorable part. The cloud was dissipated from his grave, kind face by a sad smile, and he said:

“You wish to ask my advice and assistance how to proceed?”

“I shall be most thankful if you will give me your opinion as to how I ought to act,” answered his visitor.

“Is there any chance of your being able to compel this—your—Madam Guiscardini to confess whether she has or has not destroyed the stolen register?”

“None that I can see. She is of a most stubborn nature. Even if there were no particular object to be gained, I believe she would obstinately refuse to do or say anything that did not suit or please her.”

“I am sincerely sorry for your cruel situation,” said Frank Amberley, in a tone of profound feeling.

“Of that I am assured,” replied Paul Desfrayne; “and I come to you in the full confidence that you will help me to the utmost of your power.”

“The register being, we will say, destroyed, there is no resource but to trace out the priest who married Lucia to her peasant lover?”

“None.”

“But the expense would be something frightful. There would probably be a great delay, and in the end perhaps the man might not be discovered.”

“Could you form any idea of what the search might cost?”

“It would necessarily depend on the persons employed. If I understood you aright, you have not trusted your servant, Gilardoni, with the secret of your own unhappy marriage?”

“I have not. For one reason, I could not bear to humiliate myself; for another, I desired to consult you before moving a step or speaking a word.”

“I am afraid you will be obliged to take him into your confidence. He is master of the circumstances; he would have the strongest motive for tracing out the missing person. He would probably be more economical and more devoted than any stranger could be. Send him, and let him be accompanied by a professional detective. Perhaps the search may not be such a lengthened one as you fear.”

Paul Desfrayne reflected for a few moments.

“I had already resolved to abide by your advice,” he said. “Let it be so. I would give all I have in the world to be free from the consequences of my own mad folly. When could he set out?”

“As soon as he could make the necessary preparations. The sooner the better, I should say.”

“What do you think the expenses would be likely to come to? It would be a bitter disappointment should the search continue for a certain time, and fail almost at the last for want of funds.”

“Gilardoni, having traveled a good deal on the Continent, as I understand you have implied, and being accustomed to manage for himself and others, would be able to give you a better estimate than I could form. In his hands, I don’t think, after all, it would be so very great. Say ten or fifteen pounds a week. Suppose it took him ten months, or even fourteen or eighteen, the calculation is easy.”

“I will send him to you to-morrow, my dear friend,” said Paul Desfrayne. “Heaven grant me a happy issue to this search. But—but the suspense will be something unbearable.”

“Why, you will constantly hear how the affair is progressing,” urged Frank Amberley. “Do you think I could aid you by insisting on an interview with—with this woman?”

Paul shook his head.

“I fear it would be time wasted,” he answered. “She would, perhaps, insult and annoy you——”

“Pshaw! Her most violent attack would only make me laugh, my dear fellow,” interrupted Frank Amberley. “It would be amusing. In fact, I should really like to see this lovely tigress in her own den. One doesn’t often enjoy a chance of interviewing a beautiful fury.”

Paul Desfrayne grasped Frank’s hands, and looked earnestly into those open, candid eyes that yet faithfully veiled the secret that their owner was a noble, self-sacrificing hero, offering up a possible gleam of happiness on the altar of duty. Paul saw nothing but a kind, pleasant, genial man, who undertook a matter of business with the genial air of a friend.

“I leave the affair entirely in your care,” he said, “knowing full well that you will not neglect anything that may tend to free me from the cruel burden that weighs me down.”

“You give me permission to speak as fully to this Italian valet as I may find necessary?” asked Frank Amberley.

He lowered his gaze as he demanded this; his heart felt heavy and sad, and he feared lest Paul Desfrayne might read his thoughts.

“Certainly. I give you carte blanche in every way.”

“You do not object to my visiting Madam Guiscardini?”

“I should be rejoiced if you undertook the unpleasant task, were it only to hear what she has to say. It would be a very different matter bullying a fellow like Gilardoni, and tackling a practised English lawyer like yourself.”

“I should think so. Where is she to be found?”

“When I called at her house on Monday, I was informed that madam had gone to Paris, and nobody knew when she would return. On consulting the newspapers, however, I found she was advertised to appear on Friday night——”

“To-morrow evening?”

“Yes. I have been told that she prides herself on never disappointing the public, and that she has never failed once since her first appearance to perform on the nights for which she is announced. Her health is excellent, and she is passionately devoted to her art.”

“Then, if I find she refuses to see me at her house——By the way, where does she live?”

“She did live in Porchester Square; but may change on her return, by way of giving a little trouble to those who may want to see her when it does not suit her to be visited. But here is the address.”

He scribbled down the number and name of the square on the back of one of his own cards.

“Have you—did you—that is to say—I mean, has any explanation passed between you and Miss Turquand?” inquired Frank Amberley, with some embarrassment.

“I wished to speak to her—to tell her how unhappily I am situated,” replied Paul Desfrayne hesitatingly.

“Did you give her any notion of the nature of this barrier?” asked Frank Amberley.

“I scarcely know what I said; but I should imagine she could readily guess to what I must allude. I accidentally traveled in her company this morning.”

“Indeed! Has she returned to London?”

“Lady Quaintree received a telegram stating that her husband was unwell——”

“Good heavens! Unwell? I must go to Lowndes Square this evening,” exclaimed Frank, in great concern. “Do you know what is the matter with him?”

Paul shook his head.

“Lady Quaintree was my informant, and she said that the telegram stated simply the fact, without entering into detail.”

“I will go there directly office-hours are over. In case I see Miss Turquand, and have any opportunity of speaking to her, is it still your wish that I should enlighten her as to the state of your affairs?”

“It is essential that she should not be left in ignorance,” said Paul. “It is my duty to inform her without delay, as my silence may be injurious to her.” But he sighed heavily as he spoke.

“I will use my own discretion,” said Frank Amberley. “But I could not take any important step without your special sanction. You will send this Italian valet to me?”

“At once—early to-morrow morning.”

“We will set him to work directly he can make his own personal arrangements. I will make a point of seeing madam. If I do not succeed in obtaining an interview with her at her residence, I will endeavor to surprise her at the opera-house. I think it best to defer engaging a detective to accompany Gilardoni until I see him. You will not be able to come up to-morrow?”

“I fear not. Besides, I could not endure to be present when you inform him of my position.”

“Well, then, what I have to do is, firstly, this evening, to try to find a chance of enlightening Miss Turquand; secondly, to-morrow morning, to hold a consultation with and give instructions to this Leonardo Gilardoni; thirdly, to-morrow evening, to endeavor to surprise Madam Guiscardini into some kind of admission, and, if I do not see her, I must make an opportunity of doing so on Saturday or Monday, or some time next week. The way is plain enough. Whether it leads to a happy harbor of rest remains to be seen.”

“It will be impossible for me ever to thank you sufficiently,” said Paul Desfrayne.

“Do not speak of that,” replied Frank Amberley. “Are you obliged to return to your quarters at once?”

“At once; yes.”

The two men clasped hands, and parted.

Lady Quaintree found that her husband’s illness was not of a seriously alarming nature, but yet sufficiently grave to justify Gerald in sending for her. The doctor had ordered the patient to bed; but it was not necessary for any one to remain with him to watch. Her ladyship, therefore, with her son and the two young ladies, was at liberty to dine as usual.

It was not yet the hour fixed for dinner when Frank Amberley arrived at the house.

“Mr. Gerald went out, sir, and has not come home yet, though he said he’d be back to dinner,” the domestic said. “But the young ladies are in the drawing-room.”

The servant threw open the door, announced Mr. Amberley, and then retired.

Throughout the house the lamps had been lighted, but were all still turned down to a mere spark; for the long summer days had only begun to show signs of shortening. In the drawing-room, a soft, amber glow, subdued and mellow, mingled its rays with the dreamy semitwilight.

At first, the profound, peaceful silence made Frank Amberley imagine the apartment was uninhabited; but, as the door closed, a soft swish of silken garments undeceived him.

For a moment his heart fluttered with pain and pleasure at the thought that he was possibly alone with Lois; but instantly after the unfamiliar figure of Blanche Dormer presented itself.

She had been reading one of the new magazines, nestling in a quiet corner by one of the windows.

It was a sufficiently embarrassing situation, as neither knew what to say. A formal salutation passed, and then Miss Dormer meditated for a moment or two how she could best manage to beat a retreat.

Presently, however, these two forgot their embarrassment, and found themselves chatting together as if they had been friends for a dozen years.

In about ten minutes Lois appeared, and Blanche did not then think it necessary to run away. Miss Turquand was, of course, quite unconscious that Frank Amberley had any special communication to make, and totally unaware that he took any particular interest in Captain Desfrayne.

When Lady Quaintree came down, she found the three young people sitting near one of the windows, engaged in what seemingly was an agreeable and almost lively conversation. As she stood for a moment at the door, an odd thought struck her for the first time.

“What a charming wife for Frank Blanchette would make!” she said to herself.

She pressed Frank to stay to dinner, and he very gladly accepted her invitation.

Although saddened by the absence of the master of the house, the little dinner-party was extremely pleasant. Gerald returned just in time to meet his mother, the young ladies, and his Cousin Frank, in the drawing-room before they went down-stairs.

As Frank was a member of the family, he had every right and excuse, though not living in the house, to linger after dinner. He felt loath to depart. Not only was every moment spent in the presence of Lois exquisitely sweet to him; but it might be long before he could conveniently obtain so favorable an opportunity for speaking to her as he should probably find this evening. He was right in staying; for the moment came at last.

Lady Quaintree was up-stairs, Gerald and Miss Dormer were talking together, and there seemed no immediate fear of interruption.

Then Frank Amberley braced up his nerves, and prepared himself for the duty he had undertaken.

He thought it best to inform Lois of the entire story, as far as he was master thereof, withholding the name of the lady, however, and the fact that she had been already married when she became the wife of Paul Desfrayne. He thought that if the search for the Padre Josef should prove unsuccessful, as it probably might do, it would not be well either to unsettle Lois’ mind, or to fix an additional brand on Captain Desfrayne.

Lois listened in dead silence, pulling out the lace of her handkerchief mechanically. It was not until the close of the little history that she made any comment. Frank ended at the stormy departure of the signora on the morning of her marriage with Captain Desfrayne.

“It is a sad story,” she said, in a low, faint tone. “I am deeply sorry for him; and I am—I am sorry that—that his name should have been—been linked with mine in—in Mr. Vere Gardiner’s will.”

“I rely upon you not to let any one have a suspicion of this unfortunate affair,” urged Frank Amberley.

Lois assured him she would keep the matter a profound secret. She longed to get away to the solitude of her own chamber, there to reflect on what she had heard; but could think of no excuse. A strange, unaccountable sinking of the heart oppressed her.

“Why do I thus think about one who is a stranger to me, and can never be aught else?” she asked herself. “I must dismiss the subject from my mind forever after this night.”

And yet she caught herself wondering when she should again meet Paul Desfrayne, and planning how she should behave to him.

Frank Amberley watched her face with all the eager devotion of a man hopelessly, irretrievably in love, utterly unconscious that the bright eyes of the pretty country girl in white muslin and blue ribbons wandered many times his way. It was with difficulty that he restrained a passionate, plainly worded avowal of his love and adoration, and resisted the desire to ask Lois if there was any chance of his being able to win the slightest return of his all-engrossing passion.

He was pretty confident that up to this time she had not cared specially for any one, and he believed it to be perfectly impossible that any other human being could love her as deeply, as truly as he did.

A few moments more, and he might have tempted his fate, and might have gained some answer leading him to hope; but the door of the center drawing-room opened, and Lady Quaintree came through the silken archway between the two salons.

Her ladyship was ill pleased to see Lois and Frank together, and dissatisfied to notice that Gerald appeared much taken with the lively, piquant Blanche Dormer, who was playing with a not altogether unskilful hand at the pleasant game of flirtation. It would not suit the inclination of Lady Quaintree did Gerald fall in love with and marry this young girl, even if she did carry twenty thousand pounds as her dot.

Without appearing inhospitable—nay, she seemed to be sorry to break up the little party—she made it apparent to Frank that it would be only kind and considerate of him to take an early departure, in order that the ladies might rest after their hurried journey.

Turn which way she would, Lois could not rid herself of the haunting figure of Paul Desfrayne. When she gained her own room, she sat down at the foot of her bed to think.

“I am glad, I know,” she whispered to herself. “Oh! I am sorry for him, though I fear he scarcely deserves that any one should pity him, when he was guilty of such folly. He ought to have had more sense—he ought not to have allowed himself to be carried away by such a foolish fancy. Yet it seems a heavy punishment for a passing folly. They say: ‘Marry in haste, repent at leisure.’ Lifelong unhappiness, poor fellow! No wonder he seems strange, and different from other people. He is quite different from any one I ever saw. How wicked and ungrateful this girl must have been! It is inconceivable that any creature could have behaved so vilely toward him. He seems so good, so kind, so——What nonsense am I running off into, when I know nothing about him!”

CHAPTER XXV.

THE FIGURE ROBED IN BLACK.

On leaving Alderman’s Lane, Captain Desfrayne made a hurried luncheon, and then at once returned to the station, to start therefrom back to his quarters.

He had forgotten to ascertain the exact hour at which the train left; the consequence was he had to wait some five-and-thirty minutes. That delay cost a life.

When fairly seated in the train, Paul had full leisure for reflection. His thoughts were not pleasant.

He had not dared to stay to see his mother. It had been difficult and bitter enough to tell her the fatal secret of his unhappy marriage. To let her know the deeper humiliation in which he found himself involved would just now be impossible. It would be time enough to reveal this additional misery when the search proved successful; if it failed——

If it failed!

“I fancied I could not be more wretched,” he thought. “I was mistaken. Could it be possible to wring a confession from Guiscardini? Alas, no! Her nature is absolutely callous. She would elect to be bound to me rather than to my servant. How am I to face my servant—how am I to tell my wretched story? My pride is trailed in the dust. My name, given to my charge free from spot or taint, is stained and splashed with shame.”

It was night before he reached Holston. Arrived there, he engaged the last rickety old fly left within the precincts of the station, and drove to the barracks.

The vehicle had lumbered its way almost to the gates, when Captain Desfrayne, happening to look from the open window, to ascertain how far it had proceeded, saw, by the long, slanting rays cast from the lamps, a female figure, draped in black, closely veiled, hurrying along the road toward the station.

The mien, the step, even the somber robes, seemed somehow familiar to Paul Desfrayne. He put his hands to his forehead in horror and despair.

“Great heavens! It is impossible!” he cried. “Am I going out of my senses? Is this figure conjured up by my disordered brain, or is it—can it be—Lucia Guiscardini? It cannot be—and yet—and yet it is her very walk—her insolent bearing.”

The wild idea that it might be her spirit for an instant crossed his mind—a pardonable notion in the excited state of his brain, for the swiftly gliding form looked spectral in the blackness of the summer night, seeming more shadowy from being draped in such dark vesture.

Recovering from the first shock, however, he hurriedly stopped the vehicle, ordering the coachman to wait for him, and ran back in the direction the misty form had traversed.

He looked from side to side, and even struck with his cane the bushes that grew by the edge of the road on either hand, but no sign betrayed that any human creature besides himself and the old man seated on the box of the fly were within miles.

Distracted by contending feelings, he went hastily back to the spot where he had left the vehicle. The driver, an old and stupid man, was almost asleep, and stolidly awaited the return of his fare, without troubling to guess why he had so suddenly alighted.

“Did you see any one pass just now?” demanded Captain Desfrayne excitedly.

“No, sur, I can’t say I did,” replied the driver.

“Not a woman?”

“Not a soul.”

“A woman dressed in black, walking very quickly toward the station?”

“I see no one at all, sur. Be there onything wrong at all?”

“I can’t tell. I hope not. You think, if any one passed along this road, they must go to the station?”

“Unless they stopped in the fields.”

“Is your horse very tired?”

“No—he bain’t so fresh as he moight be, but——”

“I want to return to the station for a few minutes, and after that to resume my way to the barracks,” said Paul Desfrayne. “Drive as fast as you can.”

So firmly persuaded was he of the reality of Lucia Guiscardini’s appearance on this lonely spot that he was resolved to seek some information of the clerk and porters at the railway. He reentered the shaky old vehicle; the stolid old driver whipped the weary old horse, and in a minute they were returning the way they came.

There was just a possibility that he might surprise her at the station. What conceivable motive could she have had for coming hither? Probably to see Gilardoni, her legal and legitimate husband. But why visit him in this secret manner, when at any moment she could have commanded his presence at a place infinitely more suitable? There was not much doubt that her apparition boded evil.

As the fly came in sight of the station, Paul had the satisfaction of seeing the last train for London slowly puff and snort its way along its destined iron track.

“Wait here until I come back,” he said to the coachman, and then rushed into the station.

“Did a lady dressed in black take a ticket here just now?” he asked of the ticket-clerk.

“No, sir.”

Paul Desfrayne looked about for one of the porters. After a little delay he found one half-asleep on a bench, for the last trains had departed for the night. He shook the man by the shoulder.

“Did you see a lady dressed in black just now? I believe she must have gone by the train to London, and must have had a return ticket.”

“I was not here when the train for London left, sir,” replied the man respectfully. “The other porter was on duty—I was in the office.”

“Where is he?” demanded Paul Desfrayne.

He seemed destined to be baffled at every turn.

“I’m afraid he’s gone, sir.”

An inquiry resulted in proving the fear to be correct. Another inquiry elicited the fact that he lived a mile and a half away across some fields.

In no very enviable frame of mind, Captain Desfrayne returned to his waiting fly, to continue his broken journey to the barracks.

“Did you find her, sur?” asked the flyman.

The young man shook his head, too much dejected, and even physically exhausted, to be able to otherwise reply.

At length he reached his quarters, when he dismissed the vehicle in which he had come. To-morrow he meant to seek once again for evidence as to whether the lady dressed in black had been seen by any other than himself.

His rooms seemed strangely silent as he approached them. Gilardoni had hitherto contrived to make his presence cheerful, and always had a reality as well as words of welcome for his master. A bright glow of pleasant light, gleaming through doors ajar, a slight movement of ever-busy feet or hands, had given under his influence a faint tinge of home.

The door of the first room was ajar, though scarce perceptibly so. A dim ray of light struggled through, as if seeking to disclose some ghastly secret. A silence as of the grave reigned. Apparently not a living creature was within the apartments.

Paul Desfrayne paused for a minute or two before entering. A strange, painful foreboding seized him. What he feared he dared not admit to himself.

What if that woman—Lucia Guiscardini—had come hither with some sinister motive, and had slain her husband in one of her almost ungovernable fits of passion?

But no, it could not be. What end could she hope to gain? She valued her own safety, her own ease; she prized this beautiful and splendid world too highly to let her temper carry her to such a dangerous extreme.

Gilardoni had fallen asleep. The hour was late, and he was, no doubt, weary with waiting.

Taking up the heavy lamp, Paul held it above his head as he entered the second chamber, which was a sitting-room.

Directly opposite to the door, in an oblique direction, was a couch, the first object on which Captain Desfrayne’s eyes rested.

At full length upon this couch, in an attitude that seemed to indicate the young man was enjoying an easy sleep, lay Leonardo Gilardoni.

Paul Desfrayne placed the lamp on a side table, and then said rather loudly:

“Gilardoni, my good fellow!”

The recumbent figure made no sign of awaking. Paul Desfrayne, seriously uneasy, but still fighting with his fears, crossed the room, and placed a hand on the sleeper’s shoulder.

“Gilardoni, awake!” he said, in a voice which, spite of his effort at self-constraint, trembled.

Not the faintest sound issued from the pallid lips. Not a movement showed the smallest sign of life.

Paul Desfrayne at last placed the palm of his hand upon the temples of the apparently sleeping man. They were almost ice-cold.

The young officer caught the hands lying outstretched on either side the silent, rigid form, and felt for the pulse, his heart throbbing so violently as well-nigh to suffocate him.

With a groan of despair, he dropped the cold hands. Leonardo Gilardoni was dead.

One cruel touch had sent him from the world—one touch of those delicate waxen fingers he had loved so much and kissed with transport so often—one little stroke from the hand of the woman he had so fatally wasted his heart upon, the wife he had idolized, for whom he would have laid down his life willingly in the days of his fond, blind worship.

Only too truly did Paul Desfrayne now understand the meaning of that woman’s mysterious presence here. But why had she come—for what reason had she risked her very life—what advantage did she promise herself from this horrible deed? It was absolutely impossible she could have heard anything of the projected search for her brother. The only idea he could conjure up was that the Padre Josef was on his way back to Europe.

CHAPTER XXVI.

LUCIA GUISCARDINI’S DIAMOND RING.

Paul Desfrayne’s eyes had not deceived him. He had really and truly seen Lucia Guiscardini hurrying away from the scene of her murderous treachery.

A woman of insatiable ambition, she had resolved to let nothing stand in the way of her advancement to the highest dignities she could hope to reach.

Ignorant, ungovernable in her temper, resentful when any one crossed her path, or tried to hinder her from following her own fancies, she was at once resolute in planning schemes, and unscrupulous in carrying them out.

During her brief flight to Paris, on escaping what she felt would be a useless interview with Captain Desfrayne, she had reflected with all the force of her cunning brain as to the course she should take.

It was true that a Russian prince, reputed to be of fabulous wealth, was devoted to her, and had offered his heart, hand, royal coronet, and vast possessions. His diamonds alone would have been a lure to her; and neither by day nor by night could she resist the glittering, delicious dreams conjured up by his offers.

She had not destroyed the marriage-register stolen from the charge of her brother—not because she was withheld from the deed by any conscientious scruple, but she did not know what the punishment for so black a crime might be were she ever discovered.

Until she accidentally saw Leonardo Gilardoni speaking to Captain Desfrayne, she had not for some time been aware whether he was living or dead.

A sudden terror seized her when she found that these two men had come together. It would have been a welcome relief if she could have been sure they would release her from her bondage; but she knew that both had every reason to hate her with the bitterness of men who had been utterly ruined by her cruel hand, and she felt persuaded that they were bent on dragging her to justice.

She kept the book she so keenly abhorred hidden in a cabinet with a peculiar lock and several secret drawers, and, in fear lest Leonardo should be the means of a search being made among the papers, she thought and thought until her head ached from sheer pain and weariness of the desirability of burning the telltale pages. But the vague dread of the unknown penalty withheld her, even when she once took out the parchment-covered volume, and stood contemplating it. She had but to ignite a taper close at hand, and the deed would be accomplished in a few minutes.

“But I dare not,” she shudderingly decided. “No; I must pursue another plan.”

With infinite caution and craftiness, she ascertained whither Paul Desfrayne had gone, and found for certain that he had taken Gilardoni with him. Determined to see her husband, but afraid to send for him, or to leave any trace that they had met, she had dressed herself in plain dark clothes, of a very different description from those she usually wore, and had gone down to Holston.

As the express arrived in London, the train in which she was to start was slowly filling with passengers. From the window of the second-class carriage, in which she had purposely seated herself, she had seen Paul Desfrayne alight, and then linger to speak with the young lady, whose appearance was completely unfamiliar to the Italian singer. She felt thankful that there would be no risk of meeting him at Holston.

A porter happened to be near the door of the compartment, and she asked him when the next train would leave London for Holston. The man went to look at the time-table, and returned with the information that there would not be one until 6:15. She thanked the porter with a smile.

“Good,” she thought to herself. “I shall have time enough for my little talk.”

Arrived at Holston, she walked toward the barracks, which, unless she could not help herself, she did not intend to enter. There was a dingy, uninviting public house in the vicinity, and a few cottages sprinkled about.

After a brief consideration, she went up to one of the most decent-looking of the latter, where an old woman sat knitting by the door.

The old dame readily allowed her to sit down, and, after a short, desultory talk, the signora, who affected to be a very plain person indeed, asked the woman if there was any boy about who would run on a message to the barracks.

“I want to see my husband,” she said very simply. “You see, he and I had a quarrel before he left London, and I am so unhappy. I believe I was to blame; but I don’t want to go there, and be looked at by the men there. My husband might be displeased by my coming.”

The old dame sympathized with the young wife’s feelings, and readily found a lout of a boy, who stared with all his eyes at the beautiful stranger in the somber garments.

Madam Guiscardini gave him a tiny note in a sealed envelope, directed to Mr. Gilardoni, and slipped a shilling into his hand. She could not venture to give him more, lest he should talk. The boy went, and the signora waited, listening to the old woman’s talk, and comprehending no more of her babble than she did of the buzzing of the bees and flies in the neat little garden.

Within half an hour she saw, as she looked eagerly from the window, the well-known form of Leonardo Gilardoni rapidly approaching the cottage, accompanied by her messenger. Her note had contained only a line or two, in Italian:

“Leonardo, I would see you. I have something of importance to say to you. The bearer of this will tell you where to find me.

Lucia.”

She was still standing by the window when he entered the diminutive room. They had not met since that day he had surprised her in the garden at Florence. The recollection of that day came back on both with a rush.

Leonardo paused on the threshold. Lucia did not move.

“You have sent for me?” he said.

The signora shrugged her shoulders and smiled mockingly, it seemed to her husband.

“Why have you sent for me?” he demanded.

She left her place by the window, and came near to him.

“What I have to say,” she answered, “I would not that other ears than yours should hear. Will you walk a little way with me toward the corn-fields I see yonder?” pointing from the window at the back of the room.

“It is indifferent to me where I listen to you. It is impossible you can have aught to say that will be pleasant for me to hear,” replied Gilardoni bitterly.

“That remains to be seen,” she lightly replied. “Perhaps I may have something to say that will please you very much indeed.”

For a moment he thought that perhaps she knew her brother was coming back, and that she desired to offer some kind of compromise, or to throw herself on his mercy. But he followed very quietly as she led the way down the narrow path of the garden at the rear of the cottage, brushing past the common yet sweet-smelling humble country flowers, until they were at the bottom, and could step unimpeded into a piece of ground that ran between the garden and the corn-field, where the golden grain lay like a yellow sea.

Here no one could possibly overhear what passed, and presently they would be out of sight of even the cottages that lay sprinkled about. Then Lucia spoke. Her voice was firm and calm, her manner composed.

“Leonardo Gilardoni, I acknowledge no claim you may choose to make upon me, but I wish to be free from any annoyance you may possibly, from spite, think fit to bring upon me. I have received offers of marriage from a nobleman of the highest rank, and of immense wealth. It is my purpose to accept these offers.”

“While you are the wife of another?” exclaimed Gilardoni.

“Prove your words,” she disdainfully replied. “But that you cannot do, be they true or false. I have not come here to bandy words with you as to my real position. I am well aware that, although your accusations would be totally without foundation, yet, if breathed to his highness, they would prejudice him against me. Therefore, I wish to silence you. If you refuse to accede to my proposition, it does not signify your using it as an additional proof of your base calumnies, for you will not be able to show that I ever made it.”

“Go on. Your proposition?”

“If you will agree to sign a paper, acknowledging that there is not the slightest foundation for your assertion that I have been married before—to you—and will further agree that on signing this paper you will depart for America, and promise never to return, I will settle ten thousand pounds on you. Nay, do not speak. I trust to your promise, for I know you would not break your word, nor would you promise lightly.”

Leonardo Gilardoni broke into a bitter laugh as he folded his arms and looked his wife steadily in the face.

She raised her hands almost in a supplicating manner, and for a moment he idly noticed the flash and sparkle of a wonderfully brilliant ring upon her finger.

“You mean this proposition seriously?” he asked.

A malevolent light gleamed in the lustrous eyes of Madam Guiscardini, and a spiteful smile curled round the ruby-red lips.

“You think I love you so well that I have taken the trouble and run the risk of secretly traveling all the way hither from London for the sake of lightly enjoying a passing jest with you?” she sibilated.

“Accept my offer, and see if it be really meant or not. I know you to be of a dogged, stubborn nature. I know, to my cost, that once you take a crotchet into your head, nothing can displace it. I once appealed to your love—a passion I neither believe in nor comprehend—I wept at your feet, and you turned a deaf ear to my entreaties. Silence! Hear me!

“I never cared for you, and now I hate you! I appealed to your love—now I appeal to your interest. Surely—surely—surely you will not refuse a fortune. Surely your hate of me cannot lead you to vindictively mar my brilliant prospects. Perhaps it is folly to admit that a few injurious words from you could turn his highness against me; but I am frank with you.

“Of course, I might laugh your accusations to scorn, but the prince might—well, your words might hurt me, for that man is as proud as Lucifer, although his absurd infatuation, which he calls love, induces him to lay all his earthly possessions, all his ancient prejudices, at the feet of a ‘singing-woman.’ With ten thousand pounds you will be rich; you will begin a new life, be happy with some meek-spirited, pretty Griselda, who may fly to fulfil your slightest wish or command.”

She had spoken so rapidly that, as she paused, her breath came in quick gasps. For the first time since she had entered on this conversation, her heart beat violently.

“You think I would sell my soul for ten thousand pounds,” Leonardo Gilardoni slowly said—“my soul and yours, my wife? I decline.”

“You do not mean it! You say so that I may double the price!” exclaimed the signora. “No. Speak. What sum do you ask to fall in with my wishes?”

Gilardoni looked fixedly into the luminous eyes so eagerly fastened upon him, as if he would read the innermost thoughts they so partially revealed.

“You know me well enough, you say, to be aware that once I have made up my mind to what is right, nothing will turn me from it,” he coldly replied. “I say distinctly that you are my wife, by all the laws of Heaven and man, and while I live you cannot marry any other. I refuse to comply with your infamous desire. I have said it. Had I the means, I would go to South America, to seek your brother, who could prove our marriage. What have you done with the book you stole?”

A sudden thought seized Lucia Guiscardini. Paul Desfrayne had surely discovered her previous marriage, and was about to send Gilardoni in search of the Padre Josef. If so, she was probably ruined. Her plan had been to rid herself by bribery of Gilardoni, and then to make a proposition to Paul Desfrayne, making it a matter of mutual interest to keep the second marriage a dead secret.

Only too well she knew that once Gilardoni had said no, it would be impossible to persuade him to say yes. If these two men—he and his master—combined against her, adieu to her dazzling hopes. She had trusted that Gilardoni’s evident poverty would render him a willing accomplice to her nefarious scheme, and now she was furious at her failure.

In the event of finding her husband utterly intractable, she had designed another and infinitely darker course, which she resolved to carry into execution. For a few moments she remained silent, ignoring Gilardoni’s direct question, and then she merely said:

“Good-by, then! We shall probably never meet again. I defy you! I hope your spite may not be able to hurt me; but I do not fear you. My offer was made to save myself annoyance. Say what you can, the worst your vindictive fancy may invent, your words will be but empty air. Proof you have none. Go on your preposterous chase if you will. I care not.”

She held out her hand mockingly. As she expected, Gilardoni refused to clasp it, and, in affected anger at his repulse, she struck him lightly, her closed fingers passing across his wrist. Then she turned, and, before Gilardoni had time either to speak or detain her, she had gained the road.

The terrible deed she had contemplated being accomplished beyond human recall, the miserable woman was seized with a kind of terror and exhaustion. Having placed herself out of sight, she sat down by a great tree, creeping under its shelter so as to remain unseen by any one who might be passing. Daring to the last degree of recklessness in plotting, she yet lacked the iron nerves that were needed to support her in her criminal schemes. Faint and exhausted, she stayed here until some time after nightfall, and then fled toward the station.

As Captain Desfrayne passed, she was unable to recognize him, his face and form being shrouded in darkness within the vehicle, and when he had alighted and pursued her, she had not dared to look back.

Gilardoni had remained motionless when she left him, immersed in painful thoughts.

“Good Heaven!” he said aloud; “and I once loved this woman! It would not be spite nor hate; but were she to trap any innocent man to his ruin, it would be my duty to speak.”

He clasped his hands above his head in a transport of grief, and then, for the first time, felt a slight pain. He glanced at his left wrist, and found it smirched with crimson blood. The wound, he supposed, had been inflicted by the large diamond ring he had noticed on his wife’s finger.

Binding his handkerchief about the wrist, he turned to retrace his steps. He would have regarded that faint scratch very differently had he known that his life-blood was already imbued with a subtle narcotic poison emanating from one of the stones in that ring.

As he entered his master’s rooms he was conscious of a strange faintness and an unpleasant burning of the tongue. He had found some difficulty in ascending the staircase, and had scarcely lighted the lamp, when he crept into the second apartment, and threw himself on a couch, feeling as if utterly exhausted.

“I don’t know what is the matter with me,” he muttered, passing his hand over his forehead. “I have taken nothing that could hurt me. I suppose it’s a reaction. That was a painful meeting with—with my wife. May Heaven forgive her all her wickedness toward me, though—though——Strange, this weakness seems to increase, and my thoughts are wandering.”

The faintness grew worse, so did the burning in his mouth and throat. The unhappy man rose, and endeavored to drink some water, but the effort to swallow was too painful.

“May Heaven forgive me all my sins!” he murmured. “I believe I am dying. Dying!” he wildly repeated, raising himself suddenly, and looking about distractedly, then glancing down at his hand. “Dying! She has destroyed me. Oh, Lucia—Lucia—Lucia!”

Burning tears forced their way as he sank back. By degrees he floated into a kind of sleep, and then he forgot everything.

And as he lay dead in the silence of that lonely room, the woman who had so remorselessly slain him was hastening back to the great city, there to still further shape out the path that was to conduct her——

Whither—whither?

To the almost regal chambers of her princely lover, or to the condemned cell of the manslayer?

CHAPTER XXVII.

FRANK AMBERLEY’S MISSION.

The next morning Mr. Amberley went to his office as usual.

As he passed the door on which appeared the name of Mr. Willis Joyner—the back room on the first floor—the dapper figure and pleasant face of that gentleman appeared on the threshold. In spite of his age and his gray whiskers, Mr. Willis Joyner was preferred by many moneyed spinsters and richly jointured widows even before the grave, handsome Mr. Amberley, who never paid any compliments, and apparently regarded business as business, and never sweetened the sourness and dryness of the law with the acceptable honey of soft words and smiling glances.

“Ah! thought ’twas you, Amberley,” said Mr. Willis. “Thought I knew your step. Want to see you when you’ve looked over your letters.”

“All right,” was Mr. Amberley’s very simple rejoinder, as he pursued his upward course.

In ten minutes or a quarter of an hour he came back.

Mr. Willis Joyner wanted to see him about “that affair of Frampton’s,” Frampton being a wealthy commoner who was going to marry a rich baron’s sister, and the “affair” being one of very complicated marriage-settlements.

Some lively talk from the said Mr. Willis Joyner of the one part, and some quiet listening from the said Mr. Frank Amberley of the other part, resulted in the agreement that the younger gentleman should repair at once to Brompton, to have an interview with somebody concerned on some knotty and disputed point.

Frank Amberley went off. About half an hour after his departure, a youth came into the office with a telegram marked “Immediate.”

“Is there any answer wanted, do you know?” inquired the melancholy clerk to whom he delivered it.

“No, I don’t. I’d better wait and see,” answered the messenger.

“Mr. Amberley ain’t in. I’ll ask Mr. Willis,” said the clerk.

Mr. Willis turned it over in his dainty white fingers, and said it must be left for Mr. Amberley, who might be away for a couple of hours. It was uncertain when he might be back.

The telegram was accordingly stuck in the rack, and the bearer went away. It was from Captain Desfrayne, informing Frank Amberley of the sudden death of Gilardoni, the valet.

Unconscious of the tragical revolution which had taken place in Paul Desfrayne’s affairs, the young lawyer pursued his way, planning to return as soon as his immediate business should have been disposed of.

It was not until he was some distance from the office, rattling westward in a hansom, that he remembered he had left no message in case Gilardoni should call early in the afternoon.

It would certainly be desirable to see Madam Guiscardini before fixing any plan with the Italian valet; but could such a thing be hoped for as obtaining an interview with this beautiful tigress, and even granting that she condescended to let herself be spoken with, it was impossible to hope that she would betray a scrap of evidence against herself.

After some trouble, Frank Amberley succeeded in concluding his business with the irascible old gentleman at Blythe Villas, Brompton, to whom he had been despatched.

Coming out from the house, he stood for several minutes on the pavement before he reentered his waiting hansom. He consulted his watch, and found it was yet early—only half-past twelve.

“I can but be refused,” he said to himself. “She must be at home at this hour, I should imagine, and, by the time I reach the place, will have about dressed, I suppose. We can do nothing until she has had the chance of speaking, and she might give me a clue as to the place where her brother may be found.”

Stepping into the hansom, he said:

“Porchester Square.”

On the way he laid out the sketch of one of those imaginary dialogues which never by any possibility take place. He started by fancying himself, after some delay, perhaps, admitted to the drawing-room of the famous prima donna. She might or might not be there. At all events, he would politely introduce himself by name; and then he went on to picture the succeeding talk, ending in two ways, one conceiving her to make fatal admissions against herself, the other supposing her to contemptuously defy him, and laugh all his crafty advances to scorn.

The driver of the hansom shot round the angle of the square. But when he was within a few doors of the house where Madam Guiscardini resided, he perceived that there was already drawn up in front of the curb facing the portico another and far more important vehicle than his own—a splendidly appointed brougham, the gray horses attached to which were handsomely caparisoned in gleaming silver harness. The graceful animals stood perfectly still, except when they half-impatiently threw up their heads, jingling their elegant appointments, or pawed the ground, as if anxious to start off.

The cabman drove past the vehicle a few feet, and then drew up, to wait further orders.

It instantly struck the young lawyer that this might be Madam Guiscardini’s brougham, and that probably she was going out. He had heard that she never attended the theater in the morning when she was to perform in the evening, so she might not be going to the opera-house; but, at all events, she was in all likelihood on the point of taking a drive somewhere. He determined to wait for some moments.

“Turn the other way—right round—and then stop for a while,” he said to the cabman. “If I should jump out very suddenly, and go into that house, do not take any notice, but wait quietly here until I come back.”

“All right, sir,” said cabby, obeying the first part of his instructions.

Frank thus faced the brougham, which he had seen in dashing past, and could see the street-door, at present closed.

Had Lucia Guiscardini happened to be in her dining-room, drawing-room, or bedroom, all of which looked out on the square, she might possibly have descried the mysterious waiting vehicle standing opposite, or nearly opposite, to her house, and, seeing the watchful figure with the dark-bearded, thoughtful face, might by accident have taken an alarm, and so countermanding her orders for the drive, and denying herself on the score of a fit of indisposition to any stranger inquiring for her, have temporarily escaped a dangerous interview.

But, unfortunately for herself, madam was in her dressing-room, a dainty apartment behind her bedroom, and only separated from it by silken and lace curtains. She was occupied in three different ways—completing her exquisite toilet, scolding and snarling at her French maid, and cooing over a tangled skein of floss silk, from which peered forth an infinitesimal black snout and two bright, glittering brown eyes.

Dress was a reigning passion with Lucia, and this day she was doubly absorbed, in spite of the racking state of her mind consequent upon the daring criminal step she had taken the night before.

Madam was going first to the opera-house, to excuse herself to the manager, armed with a medical certificate to the effect that she was incapable of singing that evening, from a painful attack of hoarseness. This excuse was in reality not ill-founded, for she had taken a slight chill in her hurried journey the previous night.

She felt it would be utterly impossible to sing that evening. As it was, her hands were trembling from nervous excitement; the faintest sound, if unexpected, made her start with trepidation; her eyes and cheeks were aflame. Had it not been that she was remarkably abstemious, Finette would have suspected madam to be suffering from the effects of an overdose of champagne.

The second place to which she was bound was a garden-party, where she had smilingly promised her princely adorer she would show herself for at least a few minutes.

“If I go on at this rate,” the signora thought at last, “I shall be ill. Come what may, I must brace up my nerves, and try to compose myself. It would be ruin to my hopes if I fell ill just now.”

She shuddered as she fancied she might be seized with fever, and lose her wits, perhaps, and betray in her wanderings the crime of which she had been guilty within these past twenty-four hours.

At length she was arrayed, all save the right-hand glove; but she could not stay to put that on now, lest she should be too late at the opera-house to enable the manager to make other arrangements for the night. The little white hands were loaded with blazing jewels, that sparkled and flashed in the light; but she no longer wore the fatal diamond ring that had scratched Gilardoni, the valet, on the wrist.

As she swept down the richly carpeted stairs, her movements signalized by the soft frou-frou of her Parisian garments, she meditated chiefly on the impending storm between herself and the director. She floated down to the door, followed by Finette, who was carrying the tiny bundle of floss silk, the denomination of which appeared to be Bébé.

The door was held open by a lackey, in a plain but exceedingly elegant livery. Madam hated all the male servants in her own and other people’s houses, for they often reminded her of the position to which had sunk the man whose legal wife she was.

But there was nothing in the sweetly modulated accents, and in the absent, preoccupied eyes of the beautiful mistress of the house to betray any feeling either way toward the domestic as she said:

“I shall be home about six. Dinner at seven.”

The servant bowed, though a lightninglike glance at Finette behind the signora’s back indicated surprise, for if madam dined at seven, she evidently did not mean to go to the opera, at all events as a performer.

Madam put out one tiny foot to reach her brougham, but drew back with a deep breath that narrowly escaped being a cry of alarm.

Standing just within the portico was a tall, gentlemanly-looking man, a stranger to her, hat in hand, waiting to address her.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

THE INLAID CABINET.

The sight of any and every stranger who spoke to or even looked at Lucia must henceforth inevitably cause her a thrill of fear.

She had never seen this handsome young man with the dark, grave, penetrating eyes before, to her knowledge; yet he looked at her as if he would read her very soul.

Frank, the instant the door opened, had bounded from his cab, and was waiting for the signora to issue forth. He bowed profoundly.

“Madam Guiscardini, I believe?” he said.

He had recognized her at the first glance, having frequently seen her at the opera, both in London and in Paris, and being furthermore made familiar with her strikingly marked features and imperial figure by the innumerable photographs issued by London and Parisian firms.

It was impossible for madam to deny her own identity. Frank noticed that she grew pale—perceptibly so, and that the jeweled fingers of her ungloved hand twitched nervously.

“My name is Guiscardini,” she replied, after a slight hesitation, and speaking in frigid accents.

“May I beg the favor of a few moments’ private conversation with you, madam?” asked Frank Amberley. “My business is of the utmost importance, or I should not delay you just as you are going out.”

“Certainly not,” angrily replied the cantatrice, her lips trembling from mingled rage and fear. She imagined that perhaps this gentlemanly fellow, with the handsome face and urbane manners, might be a detective in disguise. “It is impossible, my time is not my own, and I cannot grant you even five minutes.”

She glanced at the jeweled watch that hung at her waist amid a coruscation of enameled lockets and miscellaneous toys and trinkets.

“I am sorry to be so pressing, madam, but if you will give me ten minutes—I promise to go by the dial of your own watch—I will not trespass longer.”

He knew well that the business he came on could not be disposed of in that time, but relied on the hope that she would, if persuaded to enter on it, voluntarily extend the time.

“Who are you, and what do you want?” demanded Madam Guiscardini sharply, looking keenly at him.

“My name, madam, is Amberley—I have the honor to belong to the firm of Messrs. Salmon, Joyner & Joyner, who are solicitors.”

“What do you want? I will not hear you, sir! Let me pass, sir. You are rude and unmannerly not to take a reasonable refusal. Let me pass, sir, I say—I insist!”

She tried to push by him, in order to get to her brougham, the door of which was held open by the powdered lackey who had been sitting beside the coachman.

Frank Amberley laid a firm, detaining grip on her wrist as she passed by.

“Madam Guiscardini,” he whispered in her ear, “you would consult your own interest in consenting to hear me. I come from Captain Paul Desfrayne, and I wish to ask you a few questions about Leonardo Gilardoni.”

This time the signora could not restrain the scream that rose to her lips. She stared wildly about her, and then at the enemy who had so suddenly sprung up before her.

The idea that he was a detective became almost a certainty. He had come to tax her with her double crime. She must be cool and quiet, she thought the next moment, and strive not to betray herself.

Whatever he had to say, however, must not be said before these prying, gossiping menials. With surprising quickness, she rallied her forces, resisted the inclination to swoon, and without answering her strange visitor, turned back to Finette.

“Put on your bonnet, girl, quick as lightning, and go to the opera-house,” she said to her maid. “Tell Mr. Mervyn that I was on my way to him, but was detained at the last moment, and that I shall not be able to sing to-night. Take this medical certificate with you.”

Finette took the paper, and flew up-stairs, glad of the chance of a pleasant drive, yet vexed that she could not stay to find out the mystery that was going on.

Madam Guiscardini turned to Frank Amberley.

“Follow me,” she said, in harsh accents.

She glided up to the drawing-room, feeling at every step as if her knees must yield under her. The young lawyer silently followed her, wondering at the success which had attended his effort to obtain an interview with her.

“Now, sir, may I ask the nature of your business with me?” madam said, when she had closed the door, across which she pulled the silken portière to deaden the sounds from within, for she distrusted all her servants. She advanced to the windows, as the point farthest away from the reach of eavesdroppers, but neither seated herself nor asked her visitor to sit down.

“You may imagine that I have nothing very agreeable to say, judging by the quarter from which I come,” said Frank Amberley.

“You say you come from Captain Desfrayne? What business can you have to transact between Captain Desfrayne and myself?” asked the signora, with an affectation of surprise and curiosity.

“You do not mention the other name.”

“What other name?”

“The name of Leonardo Gilardoni—of your husband, madam.”

The wretched woman’s hand closed on the slender inlaid back of a chair for support. Every vestige of color faded from her face, and her eyes looked haggard for a moment.

“I don’t know whom you mean,” she whispered, rather than said.

“That is a falsehood, madam.”

“Why should you say that? By what right or license do you come within my house to harass—to torture me?”

Frank Amberley was almost amazed by the singular effect his few preparatory words seemed to have, and could not reasonably account for it. This woman’s demeanor was entirely different from what Paul Desfrayne had yesterday prognosticated it would be. Why should she evidence this fear—this shrinking? He felt there must be some further mystery to solve, some new secret to unravel. Had he known the contents of the telegram then waiting for him in Alderman’s Lane, he would have had a clue. As it was, he was mystified.

Had Lucia Guiscardini, on the other hand, known the simple nature of his errand, she would have entirely controlled herself. But she already in fancy could imagine his arresting grip on her shoulder, and the odd query rose in her mind: “Will he handcuff me?”

“By what right do I come?” Frank Amberley slowly repeated, watching every change and variation in her agitated face. “By the right of justice.”

“Justice? I do not understand you.”

“Oh! yes, you do. I may as well inform you that Captain Desfrayne, the man whom you so basely, so ungratefully entrapped into an illegal marriage—the man whose life you have blighted, whose happiness you have ruined——”

“Well? Be brief, I beg of you, for, as I told you at first, my time is limited, and most precious,” interrupted Madam Guiscardini.

This circumlocution, however, gave her a ray of hope that her first fear was groundless.

“Captain Desfrayne has told me the whole miserable story of infamous deception.”

“What story?”

“Come, madam, your affectation of ignorance is useless, and only a waste of time. You cannot deny that while you hold Captain Desfrayne in legal bondage, you are in reality the wife, by a prior marriage, of a man who is in his service—one Leonardo Gilardoni.”

The words “you are” were like the sound of a trumpet to the unhappy woman. It was palpable that this man did not yet know of Gilardoni’s death. The strain upon her nerves had been so fearful that she gave way the instant the relaxation came. She fell back on the chair by which she stood, in violent hysterics.

Amazed by such apparently singular behavior, Frank Amberley stood by, partly alarmed, partly resolved not to summon assistance if he could help it, for he was determined to follow up the advantage he seemed to have gained.

Presently Lucia Guiscardini recovered her self-command. She was glad none of the servants had been called, though she would have welcomed the interruption their presence would have caused.

“You are doubtless surprised, sir, that I should be thus overcome,” she said. “But I am very unwell. I was on my way to the theater to tell the director I could not appear, in consequence of sudden illness. My nerves are overstrained. The subject of my marriage with the gentleman you name is a distressing one to me, and one upon which I cannot enter without painful emotion. Of the other person about whom you spoke I know nothing. I have never heard his name. The person I have the misfortune to call husband has evidently told you a false story. He has treated me with meanness and cruelty, but I have been generous enough not to betray him. Why does he send you to me?”

“Because he thought you might listen to me where you would only laugh in his face.”

“What does he want of me? Let him come himself. At this moment, I wish to see him. I have something of paramount importance to tell him.”

“You may treat me as his nearest friend and confidant in this matter,” said the young man quietly. “What you would say to him, you can say to me.”

“What guarantee have I that you really come from him?” demanded the signora.

“Why should I raise a fiction of such a kind? What good could I do myself or others by deceiving you?”

“I neither know nor care. With him I will treat—with no other.”

“I will tell him so. But you had better hear what I have to say on the part of Captain Desfrayne. Unfortunately, we cannot prove your marriage with this Gilardoni. Pray, madam, may I ask you one question?”

“Speak.”

“How is it that if, as you declare, you have never until this day heard of Leonardo Gilardoni, his name causes you to shudder violently?”

“That is your fancy, sir. I have a slight attack of ague, from which I shiver every now and then,” replied Madam Guiscardini icily.

“I do not believe you, Madam Guiscardini; but, as I was saying, we cannot prove your first marriage, because you have stolen the original register, and therefore——”

The young woman started from her seat in a kind of frenzy. A moment’s reflection, however, caused her to sink back.

“Mr. Amberley,” she said, very calmly, looking him straight in the face with an expression of candor on her own lovely visage, “every one has, I believe, a motive for what they do. You say you come hither to-day in the name of justice. What your object may further be I do not know, as you have not as yet deigned to enlighten me upon the precise nature of the demand you apparently intend making upon me. I am convinced that you, and it may be Captain Desfrayne, are deceived by the concocted story of a man who desires to extort money. I am supposed to be rich—I do not deny that I have a great deal of money: I am therefore regarded as a person to be preyed upon.

“Captain Desfrayne may be actuated by mean and cruel objects in pursuing me, whom he has always treated in so abominable a manner—his jealousy, his ill conduct, obliged me unwillingly to leave him, for I desired to do my duty as a wife, though I did not love him. You and he have, you say, listened to a story told by some man who asserts that—that—that I was—that I was married to him. Plainly, why do you and Captain Desfrayne lend yourselves to this infamous conspiracy? I do not intend to tamely submit to robbery and insult, I can assure you. Who is this man?”

“He is Captain Desfrayne’s valet,” said Frank Amberley, who had not attempted even once to interrupt the long harangue with which he had been favored.

“As I should have imagined,” said Madam Guiscardini, withering scorn in her look and voice, a disdainful smile on her lips. “This man, whom the world supposes to be a gentleman, because he wears the uniform of an officer in the service of the King of England, puts his servant forward to insult and harass me—will, perhaps, urge him to attack me for money. You come to ask me—what?”

Frank Amberley, who had remained standing from the moment he entered the room until now, slightly stooped, and, leaning forward, gazed intently into the signora’s great, bold black eyes.

For some instants she bore this searching look; then her guilty eyes sank, while the color flowed back to her pale face. Her hands clenched with suppressed fury, and it was with difficulty she refrained from giving way to a burst of rage. But she feared she might betray herself by a word inadvertently spoken, and so remained silent.

“You know, Madam Guiscardini, that what I have asserted is perfectly true,” said the young man sternly. “You, the wife of the Italian, Leonardo Gilardoni, trapped my client into a marriage with you, believing yourself safe because you had abstracted the evidence of your first marriage. That evidence you did not dare to destroy—it still exists.”

The signora raised her eyes, and looked at him in affright.

“What evidence?” she asked.

“The written register in the book belonging to the chapel in which your brother married you to Gilardoni.”

“This is infamous. What do you hope by bullying me in this manner?” exclaimed Madam Guiscardini.

“You asked what I wanted—why I had come. I will tell you: Before we seek for your brother, the priest—the Padre Josef—I wish to know what you have done with the registry-book?”

His keenly practised eye caught a swift glance at hers, gleaming like an instantaneous flash.

With a strange misgiving that she was entirely betrayed—that possibly Finette or some other servant had watched her, unseen, and reported her secret doings—she glanced for a second at a tall cabinet standing in a corner of the room, near the pianoforte—a curious old piece of eighteenth-century furniture, inlaid with paintings on enamel.

Frank Amberley lowered his gaze, and appeared simply to wait for an answer.

“They have, then, sent you upon this ridiculous errand?” said the signora. “It is a fool’s message, undertaken by a simpleton.”

“You say this story has been hatched up by designing persons, with a view to extort money——”

“Or by a pitiful coward who desires to harass and torment me,” interrupted the young woman.

“Aye. As you will. I asked you where this book is concealed. I know you have not destroyed it. You had doubtless your own motives for preserving such a damning piece of evidence against yourself——”

“I foresee that I shall be obliged to dismiss you from the house, sir,” again interrupted Madam Guiscardini, rising, concentrated fury blazing in her eyes. “You shall not continue to annoy and insult me under my own roof.”

“Pardon me, madam. I do not wish to be other than courteous in conducting this unpleasant affair. My own interest in it is less than nothing. Did I consult my own wishes, I should not lift a finger to coerce you. Bear with me for a few moments longer. I said, I asked you where this registry-book is hidden away. The question was put merely to try you.”

“Oh, indeed! Monsieur grows more and more incomprehensible. May I hope that this preposterous little farce is nearly played out?”

“Very nearly, madam. The terrible drama that has been performed is also, I believe, almost at an end. I know where that parchment-bound volume is.”

“Indeed! Monsieur is, then, a magician—a juggler? This begins to be amusing. I should like to see this wonderful tome. But I should hope that your friends and clients and coconspirators have not been so daring as to forge written evidence against me? That would be too terrible, though I do not fear the worst they can do.”

“The volume is near at hand,” pursued Frank, his eyes never leaving her face for a second. As yet, every shot had told with fatal effect.

“Near at hand,” repeated the unhappy young woman mechanically. She felt certain now that she had been betrayed, and her suspicions fell on Finette, the French maid, whom she had always hated and mistrusted.

“Close at hand,” the lawyer said slowly, approaching a step toward her. “It lies in this house.”

“Do you mean to say that they have dared to place their forged papers within my own dwelling?” demanded Lucia Guiscardini, twisting and twining her fingers in and out of one another.

But she only spoke thus to delay the last fatal moment. Not knowing that he was proceeding chiefly upon guesswork, guided by that one swift gleam from her own eyes, she made sure he had certain information.

Finette had seen her open the cabinet, she thought, and had seen her examine the suspicious-looking volume. One hope remained: the girl might not know the secret of the spring opening the inner compartment where the book lay crouching amid laces and filmy handkerchiefs, placed there to deceive any casual eye that might happen to light upon the nook so cunningly devised.

“You cannot deny that the book is in this house—that you carry it about with you—that——”

“What?”

“That it is in this very room.”

“What more, sir? My patience, I warn you, is well-nigh exhausted. Beware, sir—beware! My temper is not of the most angelic mold, and I am very weary of this folly.”

“Madam Guiscardini, I ask you plainly, is not that stolen book in yonder cabinet?” demanded the young lawyer.

It was his last throw, and he watched the result with a keen and eager gaze.

The signora made one step, with an affrighted look, as if to take flight. Then she paused, and drew two or three deep, sobbing breaths, like some wild animal pressed very close by the hunters.

“You look like a gentleman,” she cried, after making some ineffectual efforts to speak; “and you behave like a footpad. I know nothing of the book you rave about. I have never heard of the man whose name you have brought forward—this person in the employ of Captain Desfrayne—I—I——”

“You have not answered my question. Can you distinctly say the book is not in that cabinet? You dare not say so.”

“If a denial will satisfy you, I can safely say no book of any kind is within that cabinet,” said madam. “Our interview is at an end, and I decline to receive you again on any pretense whatever.”

“You dare not open that cabinet, and let me see for myself if what you say is true,” said Frank Amberley.

“You do not believe me, then?”

“Candidly, I do not. I say the book is there.”

“I—I refuse to gratify your curiosity——”

“I thought you would. Now, the question is, what is to be done? For I know the book is there, yet if I go to obtain a search-warrant, you will destroy it before I am fairly out of the house.”

“You shall not have it to say that I shrank from letting you see how preposterous your guess is,” said madam, crossing the room to the cabinet.

With a trembling finger, she pressed the spring that unlocked the doors, and threw the cabinet open.

A range of elaborately carved and gilded drawers appeared—a set on the right and a set on the left.

“You are at liberty to open these drawers, sir. As I have suffered your audacity and presumption so far, I may as well let you run on in your silly insolence to the end.”

Frank Amberley made no reply. He availed himself of the permission to look into the drawers, which he opened mechanically, pushing them back without really seeing their contents.

As he drew them out one after another, Madam Guiscardini standing by with a fast-beating heart, he was trying to recall some dim, misty recollection of a cabinet very similar to this, which he had seen at an old country house in Provençal during the days of his childhood.

He had a vague conception that about the middle of the double row of drawers there was a spring which, properly moved, revealed the existence of a secret hiding-place. The spring was a duplex one, but how it was touched he could not remember.

It would be useless to leave the signora now, with the idea of getting a proper warrant to search the cabinet, for even if the secret were to be solved, or the cabinet taken to pieces, she would burn the volume the moment she found herself alone.

Had he listened to the promptings of the Evil One, he would have made excuses to himself, and left Lucia Guiscardini to her own devices, with liberty to destroy the evidence that would release Paul Desfrayne, but with sublime self-denial, he resolved to press on to the last.

“Are you satisfied, sir?” asked Madam Guiscardini sneeringly, as she noticed his perplexed look on closing the last drawer.

“Very nearly so,” he replied, moving his fingers nervously over the fine filigree work and gilded foliage down the sides of the cabinet.

She dreaded that he would come upon the spring, and saw plainly that he was in search of it. With a rough hand she pushed him away, crying:

“Enough, sir—enough! Allow me to close this cabinet, for it contains numberless articles of value, which——”

But as she pushed Frank Amberley away, his hands touched the duplex spring, and what appeared to be two drawers slowly folded back, sliding in thin layers, one over another, while a fresh drawer was propelled forward in place of the two which disappeared.

A scream from Lucia Guiscardini told the lawyer that he had discovered the object for which he sought. She caught at the filigree handle—it remained immovable.

“Leave the house, sir! I will call my servants to fling you into the street!” screamed Madam Guiscardini, almost beside herself.

The book once found, it would not only ruin her hopes with the prince, but would serve as terrible evidence against her if charged with the murder of the man Gilardoni.

She had intended, Gilardoni agreeing to leave Europe, to make a bargain with Paul Desfrayne, by confessing to him that she had been already married at the time of her union with him, on condition that he took an oath never to betray her affairs to human ear, and never to seek her in any way whatever.

“If you do not quit my house,” she exclaimed, trying to stand between Frank Amberley and the fatal drawer, “I will send for a policeman, and give you into custody on the charge of attempting to rifle these drawers.”

The young man did not answer. There was no longer any doubt that the precious volume lay within a few inches of his hand. The confused memory of the secret spring grew more hazy—he was almost in despair. It seemed hard to be baffled at the moment when victory smiled. Quick as thought, he ran across to the fireplace, and caught up the bright steel poker lying in the fender.

Before Lucia Guiscardini really knew what he meant to do, he had darted back, and with one adroit blow smashed in the front of the drawer.

The laces and handkerchiefs were folded about the faded, ink-stained volume, but Frank dragged them out swift as lightning, and scattered them at his feet. The book then lay revealed, and he snatched at it.

Had the poisoned ring still been on Lucia Guiscardini’s finger, Frank Amberley’s life would not have been worth a second’s purchase. As it was, she for a moment, in her mad rage, measured the possibility of matching her strength against his. But the next, the utter futility of doing anything by force pressed upon her as she glared upon the tall, slender, deep-chested, muscular figure before her.

With a low, moaning growl, like that of a tigress deprived of her young, she glided half-blindly under the silken archway, into the back room, and groped there with an uncertain hand.

Frank took advantage of this moment to rush to the window nearest. It was partially raised, and he flung it wide open.

The cab was still in waiting, directly opposite, on the very spot where poor Gilardoni had stood scarce more than a week since. The driver was sitting tranquilly on the step of his vehicle, smoking a pipe. Frank threw the book so adroitly that it fell at the man’s feet, and called to him. The fellow caught up the dingy volume, and was under the window in a second. Frank dropped a sovereign in his hand, and said, in a clear, distinct tone:

“Drive with that book to eighty-six, Alderman’s Lane, and ask for Mr. Joyner—give it to him; then wait, and if I am not back there in a couple of hours, bring him here. Give that book to no other human being, and tell no one else.”

The man touched his hat, and ran to his cab.

“This ’ere is the very most rummiest start I ever come near,” he said to himself, as he rattled off. “I wonder whatever’s up?”

This scene passed in a moment. As the man was mounting his box, Lucia entered, with the same creeping, tottering, dragging step. In her hand was a tiny, silver-mounted revolver. Her brain had almost given way, and death, disgrace, misery seemed to point at her with gibbering, skeleton fingers. Her one dominant thought was that she must recover that fatal volume at all hazards. She advanced toward Frank Amberley with the aspect of a beautiful beast of prey.

His hands were empty; she glared about to see what he had done with his prize.

“Where is it?” she hoarsely demanded, speaking as if her throat were dry.

“In a place of safety.”

“Where is it, I say? What have you done with it?”

She suddenly noticed the open window, and ran to it. Then the truth flashed upon her.

“You have ruined me!” she screamed, rushing toward the young lawyer. “I have nothing but disgrace and despair to look forward to. But if I suffer, it matters not if it be for little or much, and I will have vengeance!”

The click of the lock of her pistol warned Frank of his imminent danger. He sprang upon her, and tried to disarm her. But her grip was tight, and her strength more than he had counted on, and a short, desperate struggle for life ensued.

As he succeeded in snatching the pistol, it went off. The report brought the servants rushing to the room. They found their mistress on her knees, her hair floating wildly about her, her face ashy white, her arms entwined about her visitor, who stood with the pistol in his hand, trying to disengage himself.

“Seize him—seize him—he will kill me!” exclaimed Madam Guiscardini. “He has robbed me, and would murder me!”

CHAPTER XXIX.

DEFIANCE, NOT DEFENSE.

As Madam Guiscardini’s servants stood gaping in amazement and affright at the scene before them, Frank Amberley felt he had need to exercise all the coolness and address left him. He had no desire, nor did he believe that the mistress of the house in her more sober moments could wish, that the police should be called in as assistants.

“Stand back!” he thundered, in authoritative tones to the scared domestics, at the same time leveling the pistol at them. “Heaven forbid that I should take the life of any one here, but I will shoot the first who dares to lay a finger on me!”

The women squeaked, the men huddled back on one another. None cared to risk the safety of limbs in the service of a mistress for whom not one in the house cared a doit.

“Madam Guiscardini knows me,” the young lawyer continued. “She knows where to find me, if I am wanted. She has told you a falsehood. Let me go. Stand back, all of you.”

Her first burst of frenzied passion exhausted, Lucia Guiscardini rapidly reviewed her position. A sullen despair succeeded her fury. Certainly, it would not be to her interest that the police should be called. This desperate man would probably raise a counter-charge against her, and there would be an investigation. As he was a friend of Paul Desfrayne’s, he must inevitably within a few hours learn the damning fact of the death of the man Gilardoni.

“They will set people to work,” she said to herself; “and they will find out that I was with him yesterday. Not the cleverest chemist on earth will be able to trace the poison, but they may trap me, for all that.”

This idea raced through her brain like lightning, so that she seemed only to have time to unlink her arms from about Frank Amberley, place her hands to her forehead as if in horror, and then fall back in an admirably simulated swoon.

“Stand aside, and let me pass,” again exclaimed Frank Amberley, finding himself thus released.

“Seize him! Don’t let him go!” faintly cried one or two in the rear of the group in the doorway.

“Attend to your mistress, and leave my way free,” cried Frank Amberley, still holding the deadly weapon leveled menacingly. He was as ignorant as any one there whether the second chamber was loaded or not, but that signified little, as he had not the most remote intention of hurting as much as a fly.

With a quick, threatening step and determined air, he strode toward the door.

Some of the domestics fled precipitately up-stairs, others crawled back by another door leading into the two drawing-rooms. A whispered buzz ran round, but no one raised a hand to stay the supposed assailant of the mistress of the house.

Pistol in hand, he walked between the two startled groups, steadily, with perfect sang-froid. At the top of the stairs he turned, and went down step by step, backward, lest he should be surprised and overpowered. No one stirred, however, though some of the women peered over the balustrade. One of the housemaids ran and raised Madam Guiscardini, who still remained in her convenient swoon, while the other flew to get some water from a side table.

Arrived in the hall, Frank Amberley opened the door, laid the pistol on the hall table, and went out.

“Thank Heaven, so far!” he exclaimed, aloud, as he found himself at liberty in the open air.

He marveled how they had let him depart, and expected to see them rushing after him, hallooing at the top of their voices.

A few rapid strides brought him to the corner. He had it in his heart to take to his heels, but did not yield to the temptation. His pulses were throbbing painfully, and he knew that much was yet to come, but he contrived to maintain his composure.

With joy he saw a slowly crawling hansom coming toward him. The driver hailed him, and he threw himself into the vehicle with a sense of relief indescribable.

“Alderman’s Lane, city,” he cried.

It seemed scarcely credible that he should have succeeded in so readily discovering the inestimable treasure which had seemed utterly beyond reach.

On reaching his destination, the young lawyer ran lightly up the steps, and passed into the office. As it happened, Mr. Willis Joyner was there, reading a note which had just come for him. He looked up, and cried out as if in surprise:

“Hello, Amberley, is that you? What have you been up to—practising a little mild burglary, eh?”

“A cabman gave you an Italian register just now, did he not?” anxiously inquired Frank.

“He did. I put it in my safe.”

Arrived in the chamber devoted to the use of the cheerful and urbane Mr. Willis Joyner, Frank seized on the volume the instant it was produced from the ponderous iron safe. In a very short investigation—for he was an accomplished master of the Italian language—he lighted on the register which was to set Paul Desfrayne at liberty.

“By the way,” Mr. Willis remarked, “a telegram arrived for you directly after you left this morning. I had forgotten.”

“A telegram? Did an Italian call for me?”

“Not that I know of.”

Frank Amberley tore open the envelope of the telegram.

“Great heavens!” he ejaculated, when he had read the few terrible lines of the despatch.

They ran thus:

“On my return last night, I found Leonardo Gilardoni lying dead in my rooms. I fear he has met with foul play. On my way, I believe I saw Madam G. walking at a rapid pace toward the station. I pursued; but when I reached the station, I found the last train had just started for London. I cannot help associating the fact of her presence here with the death of my poor servant. Pray Heaven I may be in error in thinking so! Inquest this afternoon.”

Agitated by the events of the morning, Frank Amberley was inexpressibly shocked by this fatal intelligence. Dropping the paper from his trembling fingers, he sank into a chair, as if unable to speak.

Mr. Willis Joyner hastily poured out some wine, which he offered to Frank, and stood by with the tender sympathy of some gentle-hearted woman.

Every one in the place loved Frank Amberley, and none probably more than the gay, superficially selfish Willis Joyner. He saw that some very unusual circumstances had upset the general tranquillity of the young man; and, though he could not form the most distant guess as to the nature of the events which had occurred, he felt grieved.

In a few minutes, Frank Amberley recovered his self-possession, and then he gave Mr. Willis Joyner a brief, rapid outline of the strange story, translating the register, and showing him the telegram.

The register was transferred to the iron safe in Frank Amberley’s room, and he at once wrote a full account of the finding of the prize, which he sent off to Paul Desfrayne by telegraph. He did not allude to Paul’s mention of encountering Lucia Guiscardini on the road to the station, for he felt it would not be safe to do so, but briefly said how shocked he had been by the intelligence that poor Gilardoni was dead.

Lucia Guiscardini made no sign. She had played a desperate game, and the numbers had turned up against her. Like most women who, innocent or guilty, find themselves in difficulties, her chief idea was to seek safety in flight. She dared not face Paul Desfrayne, for she could expect no mercy at his hands. Bitterly did she curse the folly, the cowardice, that had hindered her from destroying the evidence of her marriage with Gilardoni. Deeply now did she deplore having run the terrible risk of killing her real husband.

On the departure of Frank Amberley, she had sullenly cleared the room of her attendants, and then sat down to think—or to try if it were possible to collect her scattered wits.

Disgrace, death, were before her. But which way to turn?—whither fly? The idea of destroying herself occurred to her disordered brain, but then she thought that resource would do when all else failed. Money she had in plenty. Why should she give up this fair and alluring earth, if safety could be purchased?

“Even if they fix this marriage on me,” she reflected, “and thus ruin my hopes of becoming a wealthy princess, they may not be able to discover that I had aught to do with the death of Gilardoni. How could they? Even if they find out I was in the neighborhood, who is to prove that, granting he did not die a natural death, he did not kill himself? The excitement of a painful interview might even bring on heart-disease. Twenty different reasons might explain and reconcile the facts of my being there with my perfect innocence of any complicity in his tragical fate. Shall I defy them all, and remain, or fly?”

She paced to and fro distractedly.

“I will remain here,” she at last defiantly decided. “If they accuse me of stealing the book, I will boldly declare that those three men have entered into a plot for extorting money from me—that he, Gilardoni, was the one who took it away, and that his lawyer pretended to find it here. No one saw him take it, though he threw it out of the window. I will swear he brought it hither, and offered to sell it to me; and tried to bully me with a threat of exposure as being the wife of that low-born peasant. I will risk staying. Let them do their worst—I think I can defy them. His highness will hasten to see me to-night, when he finds I am not at the opera: no doubt he will urge me, as he has so often done, to marry him, and I shall yield to his entreaties. I will no longer keep up my pretense of coyness and reluctance, but will use my influence over him to hurry on the marriage. Once his consort I am safe.”

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 not until 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 seemed to 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.

CHAPTER XXXI.

LUCIA’S TEARS.

Lucia Guiscardini had started by the night mail for Paris.

The next morning was the one fixed for her marriage, arranged to take place as quietly as possible at the Russian embassy.

Fatigued, nay, utterly exhausted, she slept heavily for some hours after her arrival at her apartments in the Rue Saint Honoré.

When Finette came to arouse her, according to orders, she was lying like one in a stupor, and it was with the greatest difficulty the girl could wake her.

“It is almost a pity not to let her sleep as long as she may,” thought the maid, as she stood by her, looking down at the flushed face and uneasy attitude of her slumbering mistress.

Finette had no great reason to care much for the overbearing, capricious prima donna, but she could perceive that she was struggling against impending illness, and she felt sorry she should not be at her best on her wedding-day.

“Madam!” said Finette. “Awake! It is nearly eight o’clock, and your bath is ready.”

A shuddering sigh, and then Lucia relapsed into her lethargic state again, though she was evidently suffering from the visitation of some painful dream.

“Madam!” again urged Finette. “It is your wedding-day. Rouse, then. It is a glorious day—the sunshine bright and golden, scarce a cloud in the blue sky.”

She pressed the soft, rounded shoulder of her mistress, and shook her with a firm yet gentle hand. For madam had given imperative orders the preceding night that she must be awakened immediately after eight o’clock, if not before. The entire responsibility of this lay with Finette, for she had no other attendant with her.

A stifled scream broke from the half-parched lips of the sleeper, and she sprang up, throwing her hands forward, as if to defend herself.

“No—no—no!” she shrieked. “No! Ah-h! You shall not take me. I have not done it. Take your hands off——”

“Madam, it is I—Finette. Do not be alarmed. Pray calm yourself. The people in the house will be frightened. You have been dreaming. It is your wedding-day.”

The smooth, reassuring tones brought back the Italian’s scattered senses, and the light of reason to her brilliant, distended eyes. She turned her glance on the young girl standing by, and sank back, shuddering, gasping for breath, almost on the verge of hysterics.

“I believe—I—was dreaming. Oh, Heaven! what a horrid, awful dream!” She covered her face with her hands, with a sobbing breath. “I am scarcely awake now. I feel so—so tired.”

“Your journey has fatigued you, madam. Why, you have had only a few hours’ rest, though you slept a little in the train. Come, I suppose madam must make an exertion, and rise. I will order the coffee.”

“Why do you wish me to get up? Oh! my head aches so fearfully—at the back, Finette.”

“Madam forgets it is her wedding-day. I am sorry madam’s head is so bad,” said Finette.

“Bon Dieu! my wedding-day!” cried Lucia, again starting up. “I had forgotten. Give me my wrapper.”

Finette gave her the richly embroidered silken wrapper, and then went out to give directions about madam’s coffee.

Lucia threw on her wrapper, and got out of bed. A few tottering steps, and she fell back, flinging her arms on the coverlet in blank despair.

“I believe I am going to be ill,” she cried, aloud. “But I must not be ill until I have been made a princess. Oh! this sickening pain in my head. But I must not give way at the last, after daring so much. What folly! It is simply fatigue. I ought not to have stayed there till the last moment, and then taken such a hurried flight.”

She lay in a half-stupefied state, however, making no effort to raise herself, as if she felt it would be useless. Then hot, blinding tears of rage and despair began to rain over her arms, on which she rested.

So absorbed was the unhappy creature by her terrors and doubts, her feeling of physical exhaustion, her dread lest her forces should fail her at the last, that she did not notice the return of Finette.

The girl stood on the snow-white, fleecy rug just inside the door, in an attitude and with an expression which showed that she was utterly confounded by the scene before her.

Madam had been in all varieties of humors—in violent, stormy frenzies of rage, sullen, depressed, ill-humored, exhausted, wearied—but never before like this.

Finette’s idea was natural, and yet, hitherto, undreamed of, for her lady had seemed, if not the least in love with her handsome prince, certainly pleased and eager to welcome him.

“She does not like him,” thought the waiting-maid, “and is only going to marry him for his money and his title; perhaps she likes somebody else. But it will never do for her to go on in this way.”

The girl was pleased at the prospective vision of being confidential maid to a rich princess—the position would offer so many advantages in addition to the increase of social dignity. It ill-suited her that the marriage should be put off, and she was superstitious enough to regard as most unlucky a postponement of the wedding-day.

It was not until she was close beside her that Lucia gave any sign of being aroused.

“Come, madam’s nerves are giving way,” said Finette smilingly. “Time is flying, and madam knows how long it takes to dress. Sit in this great easy chair, and steady yourself, while I brush out your hair. Come, they say people always fall into a terrible way just before they get married, though when the dreadful words have been spoken by the clergyman, they begin to laugh at themselves for being so silly. It is quite proper to cry on one’s wedding-day, madam.”

She lent the support of her youthful arm to Lucia, who rose mechanically, as if in a dream, and placed her before the dressing-table, a fairy picture of lace, silver, carved ivory, and gold.

Then she proceeded to array the bride, who exerted herself when desired to do so, but otherwise sat or stood like a lovely inanimate statue or waxen figure.

Although it was to be a strictly private marriage, the only attendant on herself being Finette, Lucia had prepared a toilet of the most recherché quality. A pure, white silk, covered with rare and costly laces, a hat of elfin workmanship, over which was thrown a square of tulle, frilled and embroidered petticoats, proclaimed her bridal state. With a great yearning, she had desired white satin and a lace veil, and to wear some of her diamonds, but was obliged to stifle the wish.

When she was dressed, Finette left her sitting by the open window, the balcony of which was heaped with exquisite flowers.

The girl—her only bridesmaid—went to attire herself in her own room, which adjoined that of her mistress.

“What has happened to me?” Lucia asked herself in affright. “What means this weakness, this sense of a sudden blank? Shall I be able to go through my morning’s work? What will happen next? Shall I live to enjoy my honors, my wealth, my prince’s adoration? Nay, I must strive against this pain and depression and fear.”

Rising, she began to walk to and fro, with uncertain, wavering steps, swaying from side to side unconsciously.

Presently Finette returned, arrayed in a really charming manner in a cloud of pretty, fresh, embroidered muslin. In her hand was a large bouquet of the most choice blossoms, fit for the bride of a king to carry.

“See, madam,” she exclaimed gaily; “here are some flowers, this moment sent. There was no name left, but you will guess from whom they have come.”

Lucia took the flowers, and put the bouquet up to her pale face, without making any remark.

“See how the sun shines—a happy omen!” continued the girl lightly, as she gathered up her mistress’ handkerchief, gloves, and little ivory fan. “The carriage waits—we shall be in good time.”

Lucia recovered her strength, and in a certain degree her spirits. They descended to the carriage, and drove to the Russian embassy.

CHAPTER XXXII.

LUCIA GUISCARDINI’S MADNESS.

The prince was waiting impatiently the arrival of Lucia at the Russian embassy. A tall, graceful man, some fifteen years older than his bride, with a somber yet gentle face, jet-black eyes and beard, and dressed to perfection.

A friend on whom he could rely was his only companion. He did not at present wish his relatives or any one of his large circle of friends and acquaintances to know anything about this union.

The ceremony was gone through, the necessary signatures given, and Lucia Gilardoni, widow of the man scarce above the rank of peasant, child of parents hardly equal to petty farmers, was the lawful wife of this proud Russian noble on whose arm she leaned.

Exultant, yet weighed down by an inexplicable dread of approaching evil, the newly made princess swept down the aisle of the little chapel, on her way to his carriage. Suddenly she clutched the prince’s arm, and drew back, as if horror-stricken. With her disengaged hand she pointed to a dim corner, her great black eyes widely opened, the pupils distended.

The prince looked to see what caused her overwhelming terror. Nothing was visible, as far as he could descry.

“What is it, my dearest love?” he tenderly asked, stooping to gaze into her pallid face.

“There—there!” she whispered. “He is there. They said he was dead. They pretended I killed him. But he is there. He is not dead—or is it his spirit?”

“Of whom do you speak, my own dear one?” asked the prince.

“My husband—Gilardoni. He stands there, and gazes at me with eyes of fire. Is he dead or living?”

She continued to point with her finger, her arm stretched out, her neck craned, her eyes full of a horror too great for words.

“There is no one here but ourselves,” said the prince, a vivid terror seizing on his heart with a viselike grip.

The others regarded her with consternation, but could not venture to obtrude themselves on her notice—the prince’s friend, and the girl Finette.

A deathly silence succeeded. The bride dropped her pointing finger, while retaining her clutch on her newly wedded husband’s arm, but she continued to gaze at the phantom conjured up by her disordered fancy.

“He is gone,” she whispered, with a great, gulping sigh. “Did you not see? He melted away into the shadows. Take me away before he returns.”

The prince hurried her to the door, then down the steps, and into his carriage. His friend placed the girl Finette in her mistress’ carriage and directed the coachman to take her as quickly as his horses would go to the Hotel Fleury, in the Rue de Richelieu, where the newly married couple were to sojourn in a magnificent suite of apartments for a couple of days previous to starting for Switzerland.

With a fear too deep for expression the prince watched his lovely idol as she lay trembling within his encircling arm. Her face was of a ghastly pallor, and her eyes were fixed with an absolutely vacant look on the opposite side of the carriage, but it was difficult to conjecture whether she was consciously thinking or not.

Those betraying words of hers: “They said he was dead—they pretended I had killed him—my husband—Gilardoni!” echoed in the brain of the prince like a beating pulse. Had she, then, committed some fearful crime, and had her reason given way under the sting of conscience?

But no—no, a thousand times no! It was impossible. With a love, a loyalty wasted on its object, he refused to believe anything ill of his beloved one.

“My own—my wife!” he murmured fondly.

Lucia shivered, but made no response. They drove fast, and were soon at the gates of the stately pile where the bride was to be lodged suitably to her rank.

The prince lifted her from the carriage, and drawing her hand once more within his arm, led her up to the wide, richly carpeted staircase to the suite on the first floor.

Finette had preceded her mistress by five or ten minutes, and was waiting with the other servants near the entrance. The newly married pair walked through the bowing files of lackeys, and passed into the principal sitting-room—a long, lofty salon, glowing with softly modulated colors, rare china, mirrored panels, rich draperies, and flowers.

The prince closed the door, and sat down on a stool by the trembling Lucia.

“My dear love,” he said, with the deepest anxiety, yet resolved on giving her the opportunity of granting some explanation, “what happened to you in the chapel just now?”

“I don’t know,” she vacantly replied. “What?—how?—I do not recollect. I felt very ill.”

“You are not well now.”

“No; I am not.”

“You seem totally different from your usual self.”

“I feel so—I feel like—I cannot say how I feel—my brain is on fire.”

“What did you mean by——”

“By what?” she sharply demanded, turning on him the full gleam of her resplendent eyes, to which the light of reason for a moment returned.

“In the chapel you fancied you saw some one.”

“I fancied? How strange! I forget,” Lucia replied, laughing gaily. “Whom did I fancy I beheld?”

“You said some very singular words, my dear love.”

“What did I say?”

But before he could speak a word in reply, her glance became again wild and uncertain. She shuddered as if seized with ague, and then leaned forward, as if she again saw the phantom conjured up by her disordered brain in the chapel.

“He is here!” she whispered, half to herself. “He has followed to claim me. I can never escape him now. There is blood upon his wrist, where——It is useless to struggle. I must give way to my destiny. But I will never go with you,” she exclaimed, raising her voice. “Never—never!”

The prince caught her hand, which she snatched away, as if terrified, looking at him with a vacant eye, that evidently did not recognize him.

“You shall not take me,” she fiercely cried. “I did not do it—I swear I did not! I was not there.”

The prince rose, and, approaching a table heaped with elegant and costly trifles, rang a hand-bell sharply.

Almost instantly the violet velvet portière of the chief entrance was raised, and an obsequious lackey stood waiting his lord’s commands.

“Send Mademoiselle Finette here,” was the brief order.

In a moment the girl had replaced her fellow servant. A brief, searching glance showed her that something was wrong; but what she could scarcely tell.

“Come here,” said the prince.

He placed her in front of his bride, who was now leaning her head on her hand, resting against the stool, apparently lost to all around her.

“Madam!” exclaimed the waiting-maid, in consternation at her vacant yet wild aspect.

“What is the matter with her?” demanded the prince. “Has she ever been like this before?”

“No, monseigneur—no, no, never. Something has happened,” replied the trembling maid.

“Something terrible—something awful,” cried the unhappy prince, in an agony of despairing love and fear. “Do you know if anything has occurred to overthrow her reason?”

“I know nothing, monseigneur. Madam has always been so quiet in her life, although perhaps a little passionate in her ways, sometimes. Madam—madam, speak to me—to your poor Finette,” pleaded the girl, taking the passive hand that lay in her mistress’ lap.

A dumb spirit seemed to have seized upon the miserable victim of her own sins and crimes. With a swift glance at the maid, she averted her head coldly, and resumed her gaze into empty space.

Some crude idea had got into her dazed brain that she would betray herself if she spoke, and she had resolved on keeping utterly silent. The prince she had apparently forgotten.

“Remain with her,” said he. “I shall return presently.”

He went to his own private sitting-room, and, going to a desk, wrote a few lines to the most eminent doctor among those who devoted their sole attention to the study of lunacy. Then he rang for his valet—an elderly, severely respectable-looking man, with a tranquil manner.

“Do you know where to find this medical man?” the prince asked, showing him the envelope.

“I believe, monseigneur, he lives in the Rue de Rivoli—but I can easily find out,” answered the valet.

“Do so. Take the brougham, and do not return without him. It is a matter of life and death for me. Do not lose a moment—but wait for him if he should be absent.”

The doctor was not absent. He returned with the confidential servant within a quarter of an hour, and presented himself in the sitting-room, which the prince had not quitted, for he dared not go back to the presence of his distraught bride.

Accustomed as the medical man was to every variety of painful case of lunacy, his face betrayed some signs of surprise and compassion as he listened to the story of the unhappy Lucia’s loss of reason, but he expressed no opinion, simply bowing as he rose to obey the entreaty of the bridegroom that he would see the princess.

“Pardon me, if I stay here until you come back to me,” said the prince, his ashy face showing only too plainly the suffering at his heart. “I dare not accompany you. I love my wife ardently, passionately—and——”

“Remain here,” gently replied the medical man. “I shall not keep you long in suspense.”

The prince flung himself face downward on a lounge as his valet conducted the doctor from the room. He began to fear that this awful shock would end in depriving him of reason. Throbbing pulses surged like waves in his ears, and his senses threatened to desert him.

The slow-dragging minutes went on, on, on, steadily, monotonously, and at length the prince felt he could not remain thus supinely waiting any longer. In reality, half an hour had elapsed from the moment he was left alone, but it seemed like many hours.

Rising, he was about to go to the salon, but as he raised himself, the portière was drawn aside, and the physician stood again before him.

The sad, grave face told its own tale, but the prince could not be satisfied.

“Doctor, how have you found her? What news do you bring me?” he cried desperately.

“The worst. Reason has utterly fled, never, I fear, to return. There has been some fearful pressure on the brain and nervous system. It would be as well to have a consultation, however, for sometimes these difficult cases are deceptive.”

But his judgment was only too firmly established on further inquiry. Lucia adhered to her crazed resolve not to utter a word, though her frequent terror and fixed look showed that she still believed herself closely watched by the figure she imagined she had seen in the chapel at the Russian embassy.

But she had caused a terrible suspicion of the truth to dawn in the mind of the last victim of her ruthless ambition. The prince reflected upon the subject until he arrived at a tolerably correct surmise of the facts of the case.

A man of prompt resolve and speedy action, he at once settled in his mind the course he should pursue, when he had recovered from the stunning effects of his first horror. For a few days Lucia was to remain in her own apartments while the further inquiry was conducted, then he would take her to Switzerland, and there place her in a pretty, secluded villa among the mountains, guarded and waited upon by a trustworthy band of servants, under the immediate direction of Finette, who agreed to accompany her ill-fated mistress.

This was done. From time to time, the prince went to see her; but she displayed the most utter indifference toward him, and never once gave the slightest sign of recognition.

A strange fancy seized her after a while—that this Swiss retreat was the villa and garden at Florence, where she had pursued her studies for the stage, and where she had lived until she made her escape, through the intervention of Paul Desfrayne, to Paris.

But she always remained totally dumb. Not the most strenuous effort could induce her to break that terrible silence. Even in singing, which she practised with the assiduity of her early student-days, she would use no words, only the vowels employed in the chromatic and diatonic scales. Her voice was infinitely richer, fuller, sweeter than it had ever been, and frequently the prince would enjoy a melancholy pleasure in listening beneath the window to the dulcet waves of birdlike melody.

She loved to deck herself with the splendor of a queen; and in this fancy the prince freely indulged her, though he never employed the slightest portion of her large fortune for this object. The horror which might have crushed his love when he was forced to believe that she might have committed the crime of which she had accused herself was tempered by the most profound pity for her distraught state.

Happily, no other love came to make the life of this betrayed man a burden to him, therefore the chains with which he had been so treacherously bound did not gall as they might have done.

A few were trusted with the terrible secret of Lucia’s loss of reason—the director of the London opera-house, and one or two others.

When the emissaries of justice came to seek for her—to accuse her of her sacrilegious theft, they found her forever beyond the reach of earthly law.

The Supreme Judge had seen fit to allot her a punishment before which her accusers drew back in solemn awe and dread.

Thus ended the race upon which the lovely and gifted Lucia Guiscardini had entered with such a high heart and iron nerve.

CHAPTER XXXIII.

THE SOUND OF WEDDING-BELLS.

It was a bright day at the seashore, and the beach was crowded.

Lord and Lady Quaintree were at Eastbourne, with the Honorable Gerald and “the two girls,” as Lois and Blanche were affectionately designated. Frank Amberley had come to spend his few weeks of holiday here.

Paul, by the advice of his colonel, had seen the Italian consul in London. The consul had looked grave, listened to his story, received the register, and said:

“The matter shall have every attention, and in all probability we shall communicate with you shortly respecting it.”

Some months, after all, elapsed before Captain Desfrayne received any communication, and then he learned the painful facts of the unhappy Lucia’s third marriage and the loss of her reason.

He made every effort to find her on settling the affair at the Italian consulate—but vainly, and was obliged to relinquish the attempt. Then he repaired to Eastbourne. The agitation of these last few weeks had told terribly on his health, although he was rejoicing with unspeakable joy over his recovered liberty.

He knew that the Quaintrees had chosen the place; indeed, that had been the attraction for him. And Frank Amberley had seen him during his visit to London, and mentioned his intention of coming.

Captain Desfrayne set off to pay a visit of ceremony to Lady Quaintree.

On the way, however, the scene was so bright, so alluring, so unlike what he had been condemned to for some time, that he paused to contemplate it.

How many minutes he lingered he did not know, but he was aroused from a bitter-sweet day-dream by hearing some one address him by name. It was Frank Amberley.

The young lawyer had left a party seated on the beach to come and intercept Paul; but returned to them, followed by his treasure-trove.

Paul’s heart beat violently, for he perceived Lois Turquand, dazzlingly beautiful as a sea-nymph. He knew not what he said, either to the ladies or to Lord Quaintree and his son, and sat down mechanically when Blanche moved a little to make room for him on the beach.

The remarks, the replies, the notes, and queries, were all commonplace enough, so Paul could keep up a show of attention without betraying his abstracted state of mind.

“Charming, indeed,” he had just returned, to an observation of Lady Quaintree’s—Lois was absolutely silent.

Frank Amberley, too loyal to gain any advantage by treachery, would have explained to Lois that the sad story he told her had ended less tragically than it threatened to do; but he had not yet found any opportunity of speaking to Miss Turquand undisturbed. He had, in fact, preceded Captain Desfrayne by only a couple of days.

Gerald had continued to devote himself to Blanche, in spite of his mother’s evidences of displeasure. Lady Quaintree had begun to despair of being able to secure Lois as a daughter-in-law. Blanche was amused by the little flirtation into which Gerald had drawn her, but she cared not a straw for him; while the grave, handsome face, the soft, musical accents of Frank Amberley began to dangerously haunt her dreams.

The little party rose, and Paul Desfrayne accompanied them a short way. For part of the time he found himself lingering behind the others, with Miss Turquand.

An almost irrepressible desire to confide in her rose in his heart; but he crushed the wish, for this was neither the time nor place. A few impetuous words, however, gave her an inkling of the change that had come to him, and she glanced up at him. A look of passionate admiration—of dawning love—made her blush deeply and avert her head, and hurry a few steps to rejoin the others. But when they were about to part, she gave him her hand with a little happy smile of confidence.

The tranquil, sunlit days glided by, and lengthened into weeks.

Frank Amberley, fully conscious of the risk to his peace involved by lingering, could not tear himself away. But by degrees he discovered the charm, the beauty, the sweetness of the innocent Blanche’s character, so was in a fair way of being consoled. Happily for himself, he was not one of those who love but once and forever.

Paul Desfrayne did not tell his painful story all at once, and Lois spared him much of the distress involved in the recital, but by degrees she became aware of all the sad details; and she gave him all the pity and sympathy of her fresh young heart.

The Honorable Gerald found some one more appreciative and more warmly disposed in his favor than the pretty Blanche, and transferred all the devotion he had to offer to the more accessible divinity.

Paul was left pretty much to his own devices in winning the prize held out to him so strangely.

It was not a difficult task. Never did wooing prosper more hopefully.

The last few days of this brief, delicious holiday were fast winging to the dim past.

Nay, the last evening had come—a soft, cloudless, moonlit night, when the very air seemed to breathe of love.

Gerald was away; Blanche and Lady Quaintree were taking a farewell turn on the sands; Lord Quaintree was asleep. Lois had stayed at home, for she had a tolerably clear idea that Paul would come, and he had looked a hope that he might find her alone.

The young girl was sitting in the long, flower-wreathed balcony, the mild, silvery moonbeams falling over her like a radiance, making her look some lovely ethereal spirit.

Paul did come, as she anticipated. The dim, mysterious light did not betray the glowing blush upon her beautiful face, the sparkling, happy light in her eyes. She did not hear his step upon the carpet, nor see him, but some electrical sympathy told her he was approaching.

With a soft, welcoming, trustful smile, she held out her hand, which he took, but omitted to release. Then he sat down close to her, yet slightly behind her chair, as if even now he scarcely dared to believe that the promise of the future could be true.

A murmuring conversation, too low for ears less acute than those attuned by love to hear, and then Paul gently folded Lois in his arms. Then, after a pause, he slipped a diamond ring of betrothal upon her finger, and she was his promised wife.

Vere Gardiner’s dying wishes had come to a happy fruition, after all. And the story ended like the delightful old fairy-tales, with a joyous clash of merry wedding-bells.

But this time there was no rash marrying in haste. Almost a year elapsed, by the influence and desire of Lady Quaintree, before the pretty bridal-party met in Flore Hall, about six weeks before the marriage of Frank Amberley and Blanche Dormer.

The echoes of the harmonious wedding-bells sound as yet through the wedded life of Paul and his true love. Adieu, care; farewell, sorrow, for the inevitable cares and sorrows are shared, so fall lightly.

Sometimes a faint cloud comes over Paul’s face as he thinks of the one act of folly which had so nearly ruined his life; but he tries to forget the forbidding past, and to sun himself in the love and bright smiles of his wife and two little angel-children, baby Lois, and her elder brother, Paul.

THE END.

“Her Heart’s Delight,” by Bertha M. Clay is the title of No. 301 of the New Bertha Clay Library. It is a story that the readers of this series will not find lacking in the skill that Bertha Clay displays in telling a vivid romance.

POPULAR COPYRIGHTS

New Eagle Series

Carefully Selected Love Stories

There is such a profusion of good books in this list, that it is an impossibility to urge you to select any particular title or author’s work. All that we can say is that any line that contains the complete works of Mrs. Georgie Sheldon, Charles Garvice, Mrs. Harriet Lewis, May Agnes Fleming, Wenona Gilman, Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller, and other writers of the same type, is worthy of your attention.

ALL TITLES ALWAYS IN PRINT

1 | — | Queen Bess | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
2 | — | Ruby’s Reward | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
7 | — | Two Keys | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
9 | — | The Virginia Heiress | By May Agnes Fleming
12 | — | Edrie’s Legacy | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
17 | — | Leslie’s Loyalty | By Charles Garvice
22 | — | Elaine | By Charles Garvice
24 | — | A Wasted Love | By Charles Garvice
41 | — | Her Heart’s Desire | By Charles Garvice
44 | — | That Dowdy | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
50 | — | Her Ransom | By Charles Garvice
55 | — | Thrice Wedded | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
66 | — | Witch Hazel | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
70 | — | Sydney | By Charles Garvice
73 | — | The Marquis | By Charles Garvice
77 | — | Tina | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
79 | — | Out of the Past | By Charles Garvice
84 | — | Imogene | By Charles Garvice
85 | — | Lorrie; or, Hollow Gold | By Charles Garvice
88 | — | Virgie’s Inheritance | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
95 | — | A Wilful Maid | By Charles Garvice
98 | — | Claire | By Charles Garvice
99 | — | Audrey’s Recompense | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
102 | — | Sweet Cymbeline | By Charles Garvice
109 | — | Signa’s Sweetheart | By Charles Garvice
111 | — | Faithful Shirley | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
117 | — | She Loved Him | By Charles Garvice
119 | — | ’Twixt Smile and Tear | By Charles Garvice
122 | — | Grazia’s Mistake | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
130 | — | A Passion Flower | By Charles Garvice
133 | — | Max | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
136 | — | The Unseen Bridegroom | By May Agnes Fleming
138 | — | A Fatal Wooing | By Laura Jean Libbey
141 | — | Lady Evelyn | By May Agnes Fleming
144 | — | Dorothy’s Jewels | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
146 | — | Magdalen’s Vow | By May Agnes Fleming
151 | — | The Heiress of Glen Gower | By May Agnes Fleming
155 | — | Nameless Dell | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
157 | — | Who Wins | By May Agnes Fleming
166 | — | The Masked Bridal | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
168 | — | Thrice Lost, Thrice Won | By May Agnes Fleming
174 | — | His Guardian Angel | By Charles Garvice
177 | — | A True Aristocrat | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
181 | — | The Baronet’s Bride | By May Agnes Fleming
188 | — | Dorothy Arnold’s Escape | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
199 | — | Geoffrey’s Victory | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
203 | — | Only One Love | By Charles Garvice
210 | — | Wild Oats | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
213 | — | The Heiress of Egremont | By Mrs. Harriet Lewis
215 | — | Only a Girl’s Love | By Charles Garvice
219 | — | Lost: A Pearle | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
222 | — | The Lily of Mordaunt | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
223 | — | Leola Dale’s Fortune | By Charles Garvice
231 | — | The Earl’s Heir | By Charles Garvice
233 | — | Nora | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
236 | — | Her Humble Lover | By Charles Garvice
242 | — | A Wounded Heart | By Charles Garvice
244 | — | A Hoiden’s Conquest | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
250 | — | A Woman’s Soul | By Charles Garvice
255 | — | The Little Marplot | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
257 | — | A Martyred Love | By Charles Garvice
266 | — | The Welfleet Mystery | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
267 | — | Jeanne | By Charles Garvice
268 | — | Olivia; or, It Was for Her Sake | By Charles Garvice
272 | — | So Fair, So False | By Charles Garvice
276 | — | So Nearly Lost | By Charles Garvice
277 | — | Brownie’s Triumph | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
280 | — | Love’s Dilemma | By Charles Garvice
282 | — | The Forsaken Bride | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
283 | — | My Lady Pride | By Charles Garvice
287 | — | The Lady of Darracourt | By Charles Garvice
288 | — | Sibyl’s Influence | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
291 | — | A Mysterious Wedding Ring | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
292 | — | For Her Only | By Charles Garvice
296 | — | The Heir of Vering | By Charles Garvice
299 | — | Little Miss Whirlwind | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
300 | — | The Spider and the Fly | By Charles Garvice
303 | — | The Queen of the Isle | By May Agnes Fleming
304 | — | Stanch as a Woman | By Charles Garvice
305 | — | Led by Love | By Charles Garvice
309 | — | The Heiress of Castle Cliffs | By May Agnes Fleming
312 | — | Woven on Fate’s Loom, and The Snowdrift | By Charles Garvice
315 | — | The Dark Secret | By May Agnes Fleming
317 | — | Ione | By Laura Jean Libbey
318 | — | Stanch of Heart | By Charles Garvice
322 | — | Mildred | By Mrs. Mary J. Holmes
326 | — | Parted by Fate | By Laura Jean Libbey
327 | — | He Loves Me | By Charles Garvice
328 | — | He Loves Me Not | By Charles Garvice
330 | — | Aikenside | By Mrs. Mary J. Holmes
333 | — | Stella’s Fortune | By Charles Garvice
334 | — | Miss McDonald | By Mrs. Mary J. Holmes
339 | — | His Heart’s Queen | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
340 | — | Bad Hugh. Vol. I. | By Mrs. Mary J. Holmes
341 | — | Bad Hugh. Vol. II. | By Mrs. Mary J. Holmes
344 | — | Tresillian Court | By Mrs. Harriet Lewis
345 | — | The Scorned Wife | By Mrs. Harriet Lewis
346 | — | Guy Tresillian’s Fate | By Mrs. Harriet Lewis
347 | — | The Eyes of Love | By Charles Garvice
348 | — | The Hearts of Youth | By Charles Garvice
351 | — | The Churchyard Betrothal | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
352 | — | Family Pride. Vol. I. | By Mary J. Holmes
353 | — | Family Pride. Vol. II. | By Mary J. Holmes
354 | — | A Love Comedy | By Charles Garvice
360 | — | The Ashes of Love | By Charles Garvice
361 | — | A Heart Triumphant | By Charles Garvice
362 | — | Stella Rosevelt | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
367 | — | The Pride of Her Life | By Charles Garvice
368 | — | Won By Love’s Valor | By Charles Garvice
372 | — | A Girl in a Thousand | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
373 | — | A Thorn Among Roses. |
| Sequel to “A Girl In a Thousand” | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
380 | — | Her Double Life | By Mrs. Harriet Lewis
381 | — | The Sunshine of Love. |
| Sequel to “Her Double Life” | By Mrs. Harriet Lewis
382 | — | Mona | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
391 | — | Marguerite’s Heritage | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
399 | — | Betsey’s Transformation | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
407 | — | Esther, the Fright | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
415 | — | Trixy | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
440 | — | Edna’s Secret Marriage | By Charles Garvice
449 | — | The Bailiff’s Scheme | By Mrs. Harriet Lewis
450 | — | Rosamond’s Love. |
| Sequel to “The Bailiff’s Scheme” | By Mrs. Harriet Lewis
451 | — | Helen’s Victory | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
456 | — | A Vixen’s Treachery | By Mrs. Harriet Lewis
457 | — | Adrift in the World. |
| Sequel to “A Vixen’s Treachery” | By Mrs. Harriet Lewis
458 | — | When Love Meets Love | By Charles Garvice
464 | — | The Old Life’s Shadows | By Mrs. Harriet Lewis
465 | — | Outside Her Eden. |
| Sequel to “The Old Life’s Shadows” | By Mrs. Harriet Lewis
474 | — | The Belle of the Season | By Mrs. Harriet Lewis
475 | — | Love Before Pride. |
| Sequel to “The Belle of the Season” | By Mrs. Harriet Lewis
481 | — | Wedded, Yet No Wife | By May Agnes Fleming
489 | — | Lucy Harding | By Mrs. Mary J. Holmes
495 | — | Norine’s Revenge | By May Agnes Fleming
511 | — | The Golden Key | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
512 | — | A Heritage of Love. |
| Sequel to “The Golden Key” | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
519 | — | The Magic Cameo | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
520 | — | The Heatherford Fortune. |
| Sequel to “The Magic Cameo” | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
531 | — | Better Than Life | By Charles Garvice
542 | — | Once in a Life | By Charles Garvice
548 | — | ’Twas Love’s Fault | By Charles Garvice
553 | — | Queen Kate | By Charles Garvice
554 | — | Step by Step | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
557 | — | In Cupid’s Chains | By Charles Garvice
630 | — | The Verdict of the Heart | By Charles Garvice
635 | — | A Coronet of Shame | By Charles Garvice
640 | — | A Girl of Spirit | By Charles Garvice
645 | — | A Jest of Fate | By Charles Garvice
648 | — | Gertrude Elliott’s Crucible | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
650 | — | Diana’s Destiny | By Charles Garvice
655 | — | Linked by Fate | By Charles Garvice
663 | — | Creatures of Destiny | By Charles Garvice
671 | — | When Love Is Young | By Charles Garvice
676 | — | My Lady Beth | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
679 | — | Gold in the Gutter | By Charles Garvice
712 | — | Love and a Lie | By Charles Garvice
721 | — | A Girl from the South | By Charles Garvice
730 | — | John Hungerford’s Redemption | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
741 | — | The Fatal Ruby | By Charles Garvice
749 | — | The Heart of a Maid | By Charles Garvice
758 | — | The Woman in It | By Charles Garvice
774 | — | Love in a Snare | By Charles Garvice
775 | — | My Love Kitty | By Charles Garvice
776 | — | That Strange Girl | By Charles Garvice
777 | — | Nellie | By Charles Garvice
778 | — | Miss Estcourt; or Olive | By Charles Garvice
818 | — | The Girl Who Was True | By Charles Garvice
826 | — | The Irony of Love | By Charles Garvice
896 | — | A Terrible Secret | By May Agnes Fleming
897 | — | When To-morrow Came | By May Agnes Fleming
904 | — | A Mad Marriage | By May Agnes Fleming
905 | — | A Woman Without Mercy | By May Agnes Fleming
912 | — | One Night’s Mystery | By May Agnes Fleming
913 | — | The Cost of a Lie | By May Agnes Fleming
920 | — | Silent and True | By May Agnes Fleming
921 | — | A Treasure Lost | By May Agnes Fleming
925 | — | Forrest House | By Mary J. Holmes
926 | — | He Loved Her Once | By Mary J. Holmes
930 | — | Kate Danton | By May Agnes Fleming
931 | — | Proud as a Queen | By May Agnes Fleming
935 | — | Queenie Hetherton | By Mary J. Holmes
936 | — | Mightier Than Pride | By Mary J. Holmes
940 | — | The Heir of Charlton | By May Agnes Fleming
941 | — | While Love Stood Waiting | By May Agnes Fleming
945 | — | Gretchen | By Mary J. Holmes
946 | — | Beauty That Faded | By Mary J. Holmes
950 | — | Carried by Storm | By May Agnes Fleming
951 | — | Love’s Dazzling Glitter | By May Agnes Fleming
954 | — | Marguerite | By Mary J. Holmes
955 | — | When Love Spurs Onward | By Mary J. Holmes
960 | — | Lost for a Woman | By May Agnes Fleming
961 | — | His to Love or Hate | By May Agnes Fleming
964 | — | Paul Ralston’s First Love | By Mary J. Holmes
965 | — | Where Love’s Shadows Lie Deep | By Mary J. Holmes
968 | — | The Tracy Diamonds | By Mary J. Holmes
969 | — | She Loved Another | By Mary J. Holmes
972 | — | The Cromptons | By Mary J. Holmes
973 | — | Her Husband Was a Scamp | By Mary J. Holmes
975 | — | The Merivale Banks | By Mary J. Holmes
978 | — | The One Girl in the World | By Charles Garvice
979 | — | His Priceless Jewel | By Charles Garvice
982 | — | The Millionaire’s Daughter and Other Stories | By Chas. Garvice
983 | — | Doctor Hathern’s Daughters | By Mary J. Holmes
984 | — | The Colonel’s Bride | By Mary J. Holmes
988 | — | Her Ladyship’s Diamonds, and Other Stories | By Chas. Garvice
998 | — | Sharing Her Crime | By May Agnes Fleming
999 | — | The Heiress of Sunset Hall | By May Agnes Fleming
1004 | — | Maude Percy’s Secret | By May Agnes Fleming
1005 | — | The Adopted Daughter | By May Agnes Fleming
1010 | — | The Sisters of Torwood | By May Agnes Fleming
1015 | — | A Changed Heart | By May Agnes Fleming
1016 | — | Enchanted | By May Agnes Fleming
1025 | — | A Wife’s Tragedy | By May Agnes Fleming
1026 | — | Brought to Reckoning | By May Agnes Fleming
1027 | — | A Madcap Sweetheart | By Emma Garrison Jones
1028 | — | An Unhappy Bargain | By Effie Adelaide Rowlands
1029 | — | Only a Working Girl | By Geraldine Fleming
1030 | — | The Unbidden Guest | By Mrs. Alex McVeigh Miller
1031 | — | The Man and His Millions | By Ida Reade Allen
1032 | — | Mabel’s Sacrifice | By Charlotte M. Stanley
1033 | — | Was He Worth It? | By Geraldine Fleming
1034 | — | Her Two Suitors | By Wenona Gilman
1035 | — | Edith Percival | By May Agnes Fleming
1036 | — | Caught in the Snare | By May Agnes Fleming
1037 | — | A Love Concealed | By Emma Garrison Jones
1038 | — | The Price of Happiness | By Mrs. Alex McVeigh Miller
1039 | — | The Lucky Man | By Geraldine Fleming
1040 | — | A Forced Promise | By Ida Reade Allen
1041 | — | The Crime of Love | By Barbara Howard
1042 | — | The Bride’s Opals | By Emma Garrison Jones
1043 | — | Love That Was Cursed | By Geraldine Fleming
1044 | — | Thorns of Regret | By Mrs. Alex McVeigh Miller
1045 | — | Love Will Find the Way | By Wenona Gilman
1046 | — | Bitterly Atoned | By Mrs. E. Burke Collins
1047 | — | Told in the Twilight | By Ida Reade Allen
1048 | — | A Little Barbarian | By Charlotte Kingsley
1049 | — | Love’s Golden Spell | By Geraldine Fleming
1050 | — | Married in Error | By Mrs. Alex McVeigh Miller
1051 | — | If It Were True | By Wenona Gilman
1052 | — | Vivian’s Love Story | By Mrs. E. Burke Collins
1053 | — | From Tears to Smiles | By Ida Reade Allen
1054 | — | When Love Dawns | By Adelaide Stirling
1055 | — | Love’s Earnest Prayer | By Geraldine Fleming
1056 | — | The Strength of Love | By Mrs. Alex McVeigh Miller
1057 | — | A Lost Love | By Wenona Gilman
1058 | — | The Stronger Passion | By Lillian R. Drayton
1059 | — | What Love Can Cost | By Evelyn Malcolm
1060 | — | At Another’s Bidding | By Ida Reade Allen
1061 | — | Above All Things | By Adelaide Stirling
1062 | — | The Curse of Beauty | By Geraldine Fleming
1063 | — | Her Sister’s Secret | By Mrs. Alex McVeigh Miller
1064 | — | Married in Haste | By Wenona Gilman
1065 | — | Fair Maid Marian | By Emma Garrison Jones
1066 | — | No Man’s Wife | By Ida Reade Allen
1067 | — | A Sacrifice to Love | By Adelaide Stirling
1068 | — | Her Fatal Gift | By Geraldine Fleming
1069 | — | Her Life’s Burden | By Mrs. Alex McVeigh Miller
1070 | — | Evelyn, the Actress | By Wenona Gilman
1071 | — | Married for Money | By Lucy Randall Comfort
1072 | — | A Lost Sweetheart | By Ida Reade Allen
1073 | — | A Golden Sorrow | By Charlotte M. Stanley
1074 | — | Her Heart’s Challenge | By Barbara Howard
1075 | — | His Willing Slave | By Lillian R. Drayton
1076 | — | A Freak of Fate | By Emma Garrison Jones
1077 | — | Her Punishment | By Laura Jean Libbey
1078 | — | The Shadow Between Them | By Mrs. Alex McVeigh Miller
1079 | — | No Time for Penitence | By Wenona Gilman
1080 | — | Norma’s Black Fortune | By Ida Reade Allen
1081 | — | A Wilful Girl | By Lucy Randall Comfort
1082 | — | Love’s First Kiss | By Emma Garrison Jones
1083 | — | Lola Dunbar’s Crime | By Barbara Howard
1084 | — | Ethel’s Secret | By Charlotte M. Stanley
1085 | — | Lynette’s Wedding | By Mrs. Alex McVeigh Miller
1086 | — | A Fair Enchantress | By Ida Reade Allen
1087 | — | The Tide of Fate | By Wenona Gilman
1088 | — | Her Husband’s Other Wife | By Emma Garrison Jones
1089 | — | Hearts of Stone | By Geraldine Fleming
1090 | — | In Love’s Springtime | By Laura Jean Libbey
1091 | — | Love at the Loom | By Geraldine Fleming
1092 | — | What Was She to Him? | By Mrs. Alex McVeigh Miller
1093 | — | For Another’s Fault | By Charlotte M. Stanley
1094 | — | Hearts and Dollars | By Ida Reade Allan
1095 | — | A Wife’s Triumph | By Effie Adelaide Rowlands
1096 | — | A Bachelor Girl | By Lucy May Russell
1097 | — | Love and Spite | By Adelaide Stirling
1098 | — | Leola’s Heart | By Charlotte M. Stanley
1099 | — | The Power of Love | By Geraldine Fleming
1100 | — | An Angel of Evil | By Effie Adelaide Rowlands
1101 | — | True to His Bride | By Emma Garrison Jones
1102 | — | The Lady of Beaufort Park | By Wenona Gilman
1103 | — | A Daughter of Darkness | By Ida Reade Allen
1104 | — | My Pretty Maid | By Mrs. Alex McVeigh Miller
1105 | — | Master of Her Fate | By Geraldine Fleming
1106 | — | A Shadowed Happiness | By Effie Adelaide Rowlands
1107 | — | John Elliott’s Flirtation | By Lucy May Russell
1108 | — | A Forgotten Love | By Adelaide Stirling
1109 | — | Sylvia, The Forsaken | By Charlotte M. Stanley
1110 | — | Her Dearest Love | By Geraldine Fleming
1111 | — | Love’s Greatest Gift | By Effie Adelaide Rowlands
1112 | — | Mischievous Maid Faynie | By Laura Jean Libbey
1113 | — | In Love’s Name | By Emma Garrison Jones
1114 | — | Love’s Clouded Dawn | By Wenona Gilman
1115 | — | A Blue Grass Heroine | By Ida Reade Allen
1116 | — | Only a Kiss | By Mrs. Alex McVeigh Miller
1117 | — | Virgie Talcott’s Mission | By Lucy May Russell
1118 | — | Her Evil Genius | By Adelaide Stirling
1119 | — | In Love’s Paradise | By Charlotte M. Stanley
1120 | — | Sold for Gold | By Geraldine Fleming
1121 | — | Andrew Leicester’s Love | By Effie Adelaide Rowlands
1122 | — | Taken by Storm | By Emma Garrison Jones
1123 | — | The Mills of the Gods | By Wenona Gilman
1124 | — | The Breath of Slander | By Ida Reade Allen
1125 | — | Loyal Unto Death | By Mrs. Alex McVeigh Miller
1126 | — | A Spurned Proposal | By Effie Adelaide Rowlands
1127 | — | Daredevil Betty | By Evelyn Malcolm
1128 | — | Her Life’s Dark Cloud | By Lillian R. Drayton
1129 | — | True Love Endures | By Ida Reade Allen
1130 | — | The Battle of Hearts | By Geraldine Fleming
1131 | — | Better Than Riches | By Wenona Gilman
1132 | — | Tempted By Love | By Effie Adelaide Rowlands
1133 | — | Between Good and Evil | By Charlotte M. Stanley
1134 | — | A Southern Princess | By Emma Garrison Jones
1135 | — | The Thorns of Love | By Evelyn Malcolm
1136 | — | A Married Flirt | By Mrs. Alex McVeigh Miller
1137 | — | Her Priceless Love | By Geraldine Fleming
1138 | — | My Own Sweetheart | By Wenona Gilman
1139 | — | Love’s Harvest | By Adelaide Fox Robinson
1140 | — | His Two Loves | By Ida Reade Allen
1141 | — | The Love He Sought | By Lillian R. Drayton
1142 | — | A Fateful Promise | By Effie Adelaide Rowlands
1143 | — | Love Surely Triumphs | By Charlotte May Kingsley
1144 | — | The Haunting Past | By Evelyn Malcolm
1145 | — | Sorely Tried | By Emma Garrison Jones
1146 | — | Falsely Accused | By Geraldine Fleming
1147 | — | Love Given in Vain | By Adelaide Fox Robinson
1148 | — | No One to Help Her | By Ida Reade Allen
1149 | — | Her Golden Secret | By Effie Adelaide Rowlands
1150 | — | Saved From Herself | By Adelaide Stirling
1151 | — | The Gypsy’s Warning | By Emma Garrison Jones
1152 | — | Caught in Love’s Net | By Ida Reade Allen
1153 | — | The Pride of My Heart | By Laura Jean Libbey
1154 | — | A Vagabond Heiress | By Charlotte May Kingsley
1155 | — | That Terrible Tomboy | By Geraldine Fleming
1156 | — | The Man She Hated | By Mrs. Alex McVeigh Miller
1157 | — | Her Fateful Choice | By Charlotte M. Stanley
1158 | — | A Hero For Love’s Sake | By Effie Adelaide Rowlands
1159 | — | A Penniless Princess | By Emma Garrison Jones
1160 | — | Love’s Rugged Pathway | By Ida Reade Allen
1161 | — | Had She Loved Him Less | By Laura Jean Libbey
1162 | — | The Serpent and the Dove | By Charlotte May Kingsley
1163 | — | What Love Made Her | By Geraldine Fleming
1164 | — | Love Conquers Pride | By Mrs. Alex McVeigh Miller
1165 | — | His Unbounded Faith | By Charlotte M. Stanley
1166 | — | A Heart’s Triumph | By Effie Adelaide Rowlands
1167 | — | Stronger than Fate | By Emma Garrison Jones
1168 | — | A Virginia Goddess | By Ida Reade Allen
1169 | — | Love’s Young Dream | By Laura Jean Libbey
1170 | — | When Fate Decrees | By Adelaide Fox Robinson
1171 | — | For a Flirt’s Love | By Geraldine Fleming
1172 | — | All For Love | By Mrs. Alex McVeigh Miller
1173 | — | Could He Have Known | By Charlotte May Stanley
1174 | — | The Girl He Loved | By Adelaide Stirling
1175 | — | They Met By Chance | By Ida Reade Allen
1176 | — | The Lovely Constance | By Laura Jean Libbey
1177 | — | The Love That Prevailed | By Mrs. E. Burke Collins
1178 | — | Trixie’s Honor | By Geraldine Fleming
1179 | — | Driven from Home | By Wenona Gilman
1180 | — | The Arm of the Law | By Evelyn Malcolm
1181 | — | A Will Of Her Own | By Ida Reade Allen
1182 | — | Pity—Not Love | By Laura Jean Libbey
1183 | — | Brave Barbara | By Effie Adelaide Rowlands
1184 | — | Lady Gay’s Martyrdom | By Charlotte May Kingsley
1185 | — | Barriers of Stone | By Wenona Gilman
1186 | — | A Useless Sacrifice | By Emma Garrison Jones
1187 | — | When We Two Parted | By Mrs. Alex McVeigh Miller
1188 | — | Far Above Price | By Evelvn Malcolm
1189 | — | In Love’s Shadows | By Ida Reade Allen
1190 | — | The Veiled Bride | By Laura Jean Libbey
1191 | — | The Love Knot | By Charlotte May Kingsley
1192 | — | She Scoffed at Love | By Mrs. E. Burke Collins
1193 | — | Life’s Richest Jewel | By Adelaide Fox Robinson
1194 | — | A Barrier Between Them | By Evelyn Malcolm
1195 | — | Too Quickly Judged | By Ida Reade Allen
1196 | — | Lotta, the Cloak Model | By Laura Jean Libbey
1197 | — | Loved at Last | By Geraldine Fleming
1198 | — | They Looked and Loved | By Mrs. Alex McVeigh Miller
1199 | — | The Wiles of a Siren | By Effie Adelaide Rowlands
1200 | — | Tricked Into Marriage | By Evelyn Malcolm
1201 | — | Her Twentieth Guest | By Emma Garrison Jones
1202 | — | From Dreams to Waking | By Charlotte M. Kingsley
1203 | — | Sweet Kitty Clover | By Laura Jean Libbey
1204 | — | Selina’s Love Story | By Effie Adelaide Rowlands
1205 | — | The Cost of Pride | By Lillian R. Drayton
1206 | — | Love Is a Mystery | By Adelaide Fox Robinson
1207 | — | When Love Speaks | By Evelyn Malcolm
1208 | — | A Siren’s Heart | By Effie Adelaide Rowlands
1209 | — | Her Share of Sorrow | By Wenona Gilman
1210 | — | The Other Girl’s Lover | By Lillian R. Drayton
1211 | — | The Fatal Kiss | By Mrs. Alex McVeigh Miller
1212 | — | A Reckless Promise | By Emma Garrison Jones
1213 | — | Without Name or Wealth | By Ida Reade Allen
1214 | — | At Her Father’s Bidding | By Geraldine Fleming
1215 | — | The Heart of Hetta | By Effie Adelaide Rowlands
1216 | — | A Dreadful Legacy | By Geraldine Fleming

In order that there may be no confusion, we desire to say that the books listed below will be issued during the respective months in New York City and vicinity. They may not reach the readers at a distance promptly, on account of delays in transportation.

To be published in July, 1926.

1217 | — | For Jack’s Sake | By Emma Garrison Jones
1218 | — | One Man’s Evil | By Effie Adelaide Rowlands

To be published In August, 1926.

1219 | — | Through the Shadows | By Adelaide Fox Robinson
1220 | — | The Stolen Bride | By Evelyn Malcolm

To be published in September, 1926.

1221 | — | When the Heart Hungers | By Charlotte M. Stanley
1222 | — | The Love that Would Not Die | By Ida Reade Allen

To be published in October, 1926.

1223 | — | A King and a Coward | By Effie Adelaide Rowlands
1224 | — | A Queen of Song | By Geraldine Fleming

To be published in November, 1926.

1225 | — | Shall We Forgive Her? | By Charlotte May Kingsley
1226 | — | Face to Face with Love | By Lillian R. Drayton
1227 | — | Long Since Forgiven | By Mrs. E. Burke Collins

To be published In December, 1926.

1228 | — | As Light as Air | By Charlotte M. Stanley
1229 | — | When Man Proposes | By Emma Garrison Jones

The Dealer

who handles the STREET & SMITH NOVELS is a man worth patronizing. The fact that he does handle our books proves that he has considered the merits of paper-covered lines, and has decided that the STREET & SMITH NOVELS are superior to all others.

He has looked into the question of the morality of the paper-covered book, for instance, and feels that he is perfectly safe in handing one of our novels to any one, because he has our assurance that nothing except clean, wholesome literature finds its way into our lines.

Therefore, the STREET & SMITH NOVEL dealer is a careful and wise tradesman, and it is fair to assume selects the other articles he has for sale with the same degree of intelligence as he does his paper-covered books.

Deal with the STREET & SMITH NOVEL dealer.

STREET & SMITH CORPORATION
79 Seventh Avenue | New York City

Transcriber’s Notes:

Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected.

Table of contents has been added and placed into the public domain by the transcriber.

Due to a typographical error, an incorrect line of text (duplicated from an earlier page) was printed on page 36 of the book used as the basis for this edition. This has been replaced here with the correct phrase: “never left him. What would she say when she learnt” which was sourced from an overseas serialization of the work under the title Married in Haste, with the correct text located in the Wednesday, April 5, 1899 issue of The Maryborough Chronicle newspaper.

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SUFFERED IN VAIN ***

Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will be renamed.

Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™ concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use of the Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and research. Project Gutenberg eBooks may be modified and printed and given away—you may do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks not protected by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the trademark license, especially commercial redistribution.

START: FULL LICENSE

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE

PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK

To protect the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting the free distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work (or any other work associated in any way with the phrase “Project Gutenberg”), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project Gutenberg™ License available with this file or online at www.gutenberg.org/license.

Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works

1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg™ electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property (trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in your possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project Gutenberg™ electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8.

1.B. “Project Gutenberg” is a registered trademark. It may only be used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg™ electronic works even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project Gutenberg™ electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg™ electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below.

1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (“the Foundation” or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in the collection are in the public domain in the United States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the United States and you are located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg™ works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg™ name associated with the work. You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg™ License when you share it without charge with others.

1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project Gutenberg™ work. The Foundation makes no representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any country other than the United States.

1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:

1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg™ License must appear prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg™ work (any work on which the phrase “Project Gutenberg” appears, or with which the phrase “Project Gutenberg” is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed, copied or distributed:

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.

1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase “Project Gutenberg” associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg™ trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.

1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is posted with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms will be linked to the Project Gutenberg™ License for all works posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work.

1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg™ License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg™.

1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project Gutenberg™ License.

1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg™ work in a format other than “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other format used in the official version posted on the official Project Gutenberg™ website (www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other form. Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg™ License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1.

1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg™ works unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.

1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing access to or distributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works provided that:

- • You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from the use of Project Gutenberg™ works calculated using the method you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark, but he has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in Section 4, “Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation.”

- • You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg™ License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg™ works.

- • You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of receipt of the work.

- • You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free distribution of Project Gutenberg™ works.

1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg™ electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the manager of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark. Contact the Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below.

1.F.

1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project Gutenberg™ collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg™ electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain “Defects,” such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by your equipment.

1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the “Right of Replacement or Refund” described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark, and any other party distributing a Project Gutenberg™ electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH DAMAGE.

1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further opportunities to fix the problem.

1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you ‘AS-IS’, WITH NO OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE.

1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions.

1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone providing copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg™ work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg™ work, and (c) any Defect you cause.

Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg™

Project Gutenberg™ is synonymous with the free distribution of electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from people in all walks of life.

Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg™’s goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg™ collection will remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure and permanent future for Project Gutenberg™ and future generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at www.gutenberg.org.

Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation

The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non-profit 501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal Revenue Service. The Foundation’s EIN or federal tax identification number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state’s laws.

The Foundation’s business office is located at 809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887. Email contact links and up to date contact information can be found at the Foundation’s website and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact

Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation

Project Gutenberg™ depends upon and cannot survive without widespread public support and donations to carry out its mission of increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be freely distributed in machine-readable form accessible by the widest array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations ($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt status with the IRS.

The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular state visit www.gutenberg.org/donate.

While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who approach us with offers to donate.

International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff.

Please check the Project Gutenberg web pages for current donation methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate.

Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg™ electronic works

Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project Gutenberg™ concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and distributed Project Gutenberg™ eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support.

Project Gutenberg™ eBooks are often created from several printed editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition.

Most people start at our website which has the main PG search facility: www.gutenberg.org.

This website includes information about Project Gutenberg™, including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.

Table of Contents

- SUFFERED IN VAIN

- New Bertha Clay Library

- The Love Story Library

- SUFFERED IN VAIN

- SUFFERED IN VAIN.

- CONTENTS

- CHAPTER I.

- CHAPTER II.

- CHAPTER III.

- CHAPTER IV.

- CHAPTER V.

- CHAPTER VI.

- CHAPTER VII.

- CHAPTER VIII.

- CHAPTER IX.

- CHAPTER X.

- CHAPTER XI.

- CHAPTER XII.

- CHAPTER XIII.

- CHAPTER XIV.

- CHAPTER XV.

- CHAPTER XVI.

- CHAPTER XVII.

- CHAPTER XVIII.

- CHAPTER XIX.

- CHAPTER XX.

- CHAPTER XXI.

- CHAPTER XXII.

- CHAPTER XXIII.

- CHAPTER XXIV.

- CHAPTER XXV.

- CHAPTER XXVI.

- CHAPTER XXVII.

- CHAPTER XXVIII.

- CHAPTER XXIX.

- CHAPTER XXX.

- CHAPTER XXXI.

- CHAPTER XXXII.

- CHAPTER XXXIII.

- New Eagle Series

- The Dealer

- Transcriber’s Notes:

- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE