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The brilliant eyes were turned for an instant to the countenance of Captain Desfrayne, and then withdrawn; while still deeper crimson tides flooded over the lovely face.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. “Howverysingular!” she repeated emphatically.
“I am truly glad,” she cried, pulling the cloudy figuretoward 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 tiesof 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 thecopy 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 reallycannotgo 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 hersecret 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.