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.