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Captain Desfrayne, and then withdrawn; while still deeper crimson tides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.