Kitabı oku: «Frances Kane's Fortune», sayfa 4

CHAPTER IX.
UNDER THE ELMS

Squire Kane had spent by no means an unhappy day. The misfortune, which came like a sudden crash upon Frances, he had been long prepared for. Only last week Mr. Spens had told him that he might expect some such letter as had been put into his hands that morning. He had been a little nervous while breaking his news to Frances – a little nervous and a little cross. But when once she was told, he was conscious of a feeling of relief; for all his hard words to her, he had unbounded faith in this clever managing daughter of his; she had got him out of other scrapes, and somehow, by hook or by crook, she would get him out of this.

Except for Fluff's rather hard words to him when he spoke to her about Frances, he had rather an agreeable day. He was obliged to exert himself a little, and the exertion did him good and made him less sleepy than usual. Both Fluff and Philip did their best to make matters pass agreeably for him, and when Frances at last reached home, in the cool of the evening, she found herself in the midst of a very cheerful domestic scene.

At this hour the squire was usually asleep in the south parlor; on this night he was out-of-doors. His circular cape, it is true, was over his shoulders, and Fluff had tucked a white shawl round his knees, but still he was sitting out-of-doors, cheering, laughing, and applauding while Arnold and Miss Danvers sung to him. Fluff had never looked more lovely. Her light gossamery white dress was even more cloudy than usual; a softer, richer pink mantled her rounded cheeks; her big blue eyes were lustrous, and out of her parted lips poured a melody as sweet as a nightingale's. Arnold was standing near her – he also was singing – and as Frances approached he did not see her, for his glance, full of admiration, was fixed upon Miss Danvers.

"Halloo! here we are, Frances!" called out the squire, "and a right jolly time we've all had. I'm out-of-doors, as you see; broken away from my leading-strings when you're absent; ah, ah! How late you are, child! but we didn't wait dinner. It doesn't agree with me, as you know, to be kept waiting for dinner."

"You look dreadfully tired, Frances," said Philip.

He dropped the sheet of music he was holding, and ran to fetch a chair for her. He no longer looked at Ellen, for Frances's pallor and the strained look in her eyes filled him with apprehension.

"You don't look at all well," he repeated.

And he stood in front of her, shading her from the gaze of the others.

Frances closed her eyes for a second.

"It was a hot, long walk," she said then, somewhat faintly. And she looked up and smiled at him. It was the sweetest of smiles, but Arnold, too, felt, as well as the lawyer, that there was something unnatural and sad in it.

"I don't understand it," he said to himself. "There's some trouble on her; what can it be? I'm afraid it's a private matter, for the squire's right enough. Never saw the old boy looking jollier." Aloud he said, turning to Fluff, "Would it not be a good thing to get a cup of tea for Frances? No? – now I insist. I mean you must let us wait on you, Frances; Miss Danvers and I will bring the tea out here. We absolutely forbid you to stir a step until you have taken it."

His "we" meant "I."

Frances was only too glad to lie back in the comfortable chair, and feel, if only for a few minutes, she might acknowledge him her master.

The squire, finding all this fuss about Frances wonderfully uncongenial, had retired into the house, and Arnold and Fluff served her daintily – Arnold very solicitous for comfort, and Fluff very merry, and much enjoying her present office of waiting-maid.

"I wish this tea might last forever," suddenly exclaimed Frances.

Her words were spoken with energy, and her dark eyes, as they glanced at Arnold, were full of fire.

It was not her way to speak in this fierce and spasmodic style, and the moment the little sentence dropped from her lips she blushed.

Arnold looked at her inquiringly.

"Are you too tired to have a walk with me?" he said. "Not far – down there under the shade of the elm-trees. You need not be cruel, Frances. You can come with me as far as that."

Frances blushed still more vividly.

"I am really very tired," she answered. There was unwillingness in her tone.

Arnold gazed at her in surprise and perplexity.

"Perhaps," he said, suddenly, looking at Fluff, "perhaps, if you are quite too tired even to stir a few steps, Frances, Miss Danvers would not greatly mind leaving us alone here for a little."

Before she could reply, he went up to the young girl's side and took her hand apologetically.

"You don't mind?" he said. "I mean, you won't think me rude when I tell you that I have come all the way from Australia to see Frances?"

"Rude? I am filled with delight," said Fluff.

Her eyes danced; she hummed the air of "Sweethearts" quite in an obtrusive manner as she ran into the house.

"Oh, squire," she said, running up to the old man, who had seated himself in his favorite chair in the parlor. "I have discovered such a lovely secret."

"Ah, what may that be, missy? By the way, Fluff, you will oblige me very much if you will call Frances here. This paraffine lamp has never been trimmed – if I light it, it will smell abominably; it is really careless of Frances to neglect my comforts in this way. Oblige me by calling her, Fluff; she must have finished her tea by this time."

"I'm not going to oblige you in that way," said Fluff. "Frances is particularly engaged – she can't come. Do you know he came all the way from Australia on purpose? What can a lamp matter?"

"What a lot of rubbish you're talking, child! Who came from Australia? Oh, that tiresome Arnold! A lamp does matter, for I want to read."

"Well, then, I'll attend to it," said Fluff. "What is the matter with it?"

"The wick isn't straight – the thing will smell, I tell you."

"I suppose I can put it right. I never touched a lamp before in my life. Where does the wick come?"

"Do be careful, Ellen, you will smash that lamp – it cost three and sixpence. There, I knew you would; you've done it now."

The glass globe lay in fragments on the floor. Fluff gazed at the broken pieces comically.

"Frances would have managed it all right," she said. "What a useless little thing I am! I can do nothing but dance and sing and talk. Shall I talk to you, squire? We don't want light to talk, and I'm dying to tell you what I've discovered."

"Well, child, well – I hate a mess on the floor like that. Well, what is it you've got to say to me, Fluff? It's really unreasonable of Frances not to come. She must have finished her tea long ago."

"Of course she has finished her tea; she is talking to Mr. Arnold. He came all the way from Australia to have this talk with her. I'm so glad. You'll find out what a useful, dear girl Frances is by and by, when you never have her to trim your lamps."

"What do you mean, you saucy little thing? When I don't have Frances; what do you mean?"

"Why, you can't have her when she's – she's married. It must be wonderfully interesting to be married; I suppose I shall be some day. Weren't you greatly excited long, long ago, when you married?"

"One would think I lived in the last century, miss. As to Frances, well – well, she knows my wishes. Where did you say she was? Really, I'm very much disturbed to-day; I had a shock, too, this morning – oh! nothing that you need know about; only Frances might be reasonable. Listen to me, Fluff; your father is in India, and, it so happens, can not have you with him at present, and your mother, poor soul, poor, dear soul! she's dead; it was the will of Heaven to remove her, but if there is a solemn duty devolving upon a girl, it is to see to her parents, provided they are with her. Frances has her faults, but I will say, as a rule, she knows her duty in this particular."

The squire got up restlessly as he spoke, and, try as she would, Fluff found she could no longer keep him quiet in the dark south parlor. He went to the open window and called his daughter in a high and peevish voice. Frances, however, was nowhere within hearing.

The fact was, when they were quite alone, Philip took her hand and said, almost peremptorily:

"There is a seat under the elm-trees; we can talk there without being disturbed."

"It has come," thought Frances. "I thought I might have been spared to-night. I have no answer ready – I don't know what is before me. The chances are that I must have nothing to say to Philip; every chance is against our marrying, and yet I can not – I know I can not refuse him to-night."

They walked slowly together through the gathering dusk. When they reached the seat under the elm-tree Arnold turned swiftly, took Frances's hand in his, and spoke.

"Now, Frances, now; and at last!" he said. "I have waited ten years for this moment. I have loved you with all my heart and strength for ten years."

"It was very – very good of you, Philip."

"Good of me! Why do you speak in that cold, guarded voice? Goodness had nothing to say to the matter. I could not help myself. What's the matter, Frances? A great change has come over you since the morning. Are you in trouble? Tell me what is troubling you, my darling?"

Frances began to cry silently.

"You must not use loving words to me," she said; "they – they wring my heart. I can not tell you what is the matter, Philip, at least for a week. And – oh! if you would let me answer you in a week – and oh! poor Philip, I am afraid there is very little hope."

"Why so, Frances; don't you love me?"

"I – I – ought not to say it. Let me go back to the house now."

"I shall do nothing of the kind. Do you love me?"

"Philip, I said I would give you an answer in a week."

"This has nothing to say to your answer. You surely know now whether you love me or not."

"I – Philip, can't you see? Need I speak?"

"I see that you have kept me at a distance, Frances; that you have left me alone all day; that you seem very tired and unhappy. What I see – yes, what I see – does not, I confess, strike me in a favorable light."

Frances, who had been standing all this time, now laid her hand on Arnold's shoulder. Her voice had grown quiet, and her agitation had disappeared.

"A week will not be long in passing," she said. "A heavy burden has been laid upon me, and the worst part is the suspense. If you have waited ten years, you can wait another week, Philip. I can give you no other answer to-night."

The hand which unconsciously had been almost caressing in its light touch was removed, and Frances returned quickly to the house. She came in by a back entrance, and, going straight to her own room, locked the door. Thus she could not hear her father when he called her.

But Philip remained for a long time in the elm-walk, hurt, angry, and puzzled.

CHAPTER X.
"FLUFF WILL SUIT HIM BEST."

Frances spent a very unhappy night. She could not doubt Philip's affection for her, but she knew very little about men, and was just then incapable of grasping its depth. Like many another woman, she overlooked the fact that in absolutely sacrificing herself she also sacrificed the faithful heart of the man who had clung to her memory for ten long years.

Frances was too humble to suppose it possible that any man could be in serious trouble because he could not win her.

"I know what will happen," she said to herself, as she turned from side to side of her hot, unrestful pillow. "I know exactly how things will be. The man to whom my father owes the money will accept the interest from me. Yes, of course, that is as it should be. That is what I ought to wish for and pray for. In about a week from now I shall go to live at Arden, and the next few years of my life will be taken up soothing Mrs. Carnegie's nerves. It is not a brilliant prospect, but I ought to be thankful if in that way I can add to my poor father's life. Of course, as soon as I hear from Mr. Spens, I must tell Philip I can have nothing to say to him. I must give Philip up. I must pretend that I don't love him. Perhaps he will be disappointed for awhile; but of course he will get over it. He'll get another wife by and by; perhaps he'll choose Fluff. Fluff is just the girl to soothe a man and make him happy. She is so bright, and round, and sweet, she has no hard angles anywhere, and she is so very pretty. I saw Philip looking at her with great admiration to-night. Then she is young, too. In every way she is more suited to him than I am. Oh, it won't be at all difficult for Philip to transfer his affections to Fluff! Dear little girl, she will make him happy. They will both be happy, and I must hide the pain in my heart somehow. I do believe, I do honestly believe, that Fluff is more suited to Philip than I am; for now and then, even if I had the happiest lot, I must have my sad days. I am naturally grave, and sometimes I have a sense of oppression. Philip would not have liked me when I was not gay. Some days I must feel grave and old, and no man would like that. No doubt everything would be for the best; at least, for Philip, and yet how much – how much I love him!"

Frances buried her head in the bed-clothes, and sobbed, long and sadly. After this fit of crying she fell asleep.

It was early morning, and the summer light was filling the room when she woke. She felt calmer now, and she resolutely determined to turn her thoughts in practical directions. There was every probability that the proposal she had made to Mr. Spens would be accepted, and if that were so she had much to do during the coming week.

She rose at her usual early hour, and, going down-stairs, occupied herself first in the house, and then with Watkins in the garden. She rather dreaded Philip's appearance, but if he were up early he did not come out, and when Frances met him at breakfast his face wore a tired, rather bored expression. He took little or no notice of her, but he devoted himself to Fluff, laughing at her gay witty sallies, and trying to draw her out.

After breakfast Frances had a long conversation with her father. She then told him what she meant to do in order that he might continue to live at the Firs. She told her story in a very simple, ungarnished manner, but she said a few words in a tone which rather puzzled the squire at the end.

"I will now tell you," she said, "that when Philip wrote to me asking me to be his wife I was very, very glad. For all the long years of his absence I had loved him, and when I thought he was dead I was heart-broken. I meant to marry him after he wrote me that letter, but I would not say so at once, for I knew that I had grown much older, and I thought it quite possible that when he saw me he might cease to love me. That is not the case; last night he let me see into his heart, and he loves me very, very deeply. Still, if your creditor consents to the arrangement I have proposed, I can not marry Philip – I shall then absolutely and forever refuse him. But I do this for you, father, for my heart is Philip's. I wish you to understand, therefore, that I could not give up more for you than I am doing. It would be a comfort for me if, in return, you would give me a little affection."

Frances stood tall and straight and pale by her father's side. She now looked full into his face. There were no tears in her eyes, but there was the passion of a great cry in the voice which she tried to render calm.

The squire was agitated in spite of himself; he was glad Fluff was not present. He had an uneasy consciousness of certain words Fluff had said to him yesterday.

"You are a good girl, Frances," he said, rising to his feet and laying his trembling old hand on her arm. "I love you after my fashion, child – I am not a man of many words. By and by, when you are old yourself, Frances, you won't regret having done something to keep your old father for a short time longer out of his grave. After all, even with your utmost endeavor, I am not likely to trouble any one long. When I am dead and gone, you can marry Philip Arnold, Frances."

"No father."

Frances's tone was quiet and commonplace now.

"Sit down, please; don't excite yourself. I am not a woman to keep any man waiting for me. I trust, long before you are dead, father, Philip will be happy with another wife."

"What! Fluff, eh?" said the old man. "What a capital idea! You will forgive my saying that she will suit him really much better than you, Frances. Ah, there they go down the elm-walk together. She certainly is a fascinating little thing. It will comfort you, Frances, to know that you do Philip no injury by rejecting him; for he really gets a much more suitable wife in that pretty young girl – you are decidedly passée, my love."

Frances bit her lips hard.

"On the whole, then, you are pleased with what I have done," she said, in a constrained voice.

"Very much pleased, my dear. You have acted well, and really with uncommon sense for a woman. There is only one drawback that I can see to your scheme. While you are enjoying the luxuries and comforts of Arden, who is to take care of me at the Firs?"

"I have thought of that," said Frances. "I acknowledge there is a slight difficulty; but I think matters can be arranged. First of all, father, please disabuse yourself of the idea that I shall be in a state of comfort and luxury. I shall be more or less a close prisoner; I shall be in servitude. Make of that what you please."

"Yes, yes, my love – a luxurious house, carriages, and horses – an affectionate and most devoted friend in Lucilla Carnegie – the daintiest living, the most exquisitely furnished rooms. Yes, yes, I'm not complaining. I'm only glad your lot has fallen in such pleasant places, Frances. Still, I repeat, what is to become of me?"

"I thought Mrs. Cooper, our old housekeeper, would come back and manage matters for you, father. She is very skillful and nice, and she knows your ways. Watkins quite understands the garden, and I myself, I am sure, will be allowed to come over once a fortnight or so. There is one thing – you must be very, very careful of your money, and Watkins must try to sell all the fruit and vegetables he can. Fluff, of course, can not stay here. My next thought is to arrange a home for her, but even if I have to leave next week, she need not hurry away at once. Now, father, if you will excuse me, I will go out to Watkins, for I have a great deal to say to him."

CHAPTER XI.
EDGE TOOLS

"I have something to say to you, Fluff," said Frances.

The young girl was standing in her white dress, with her guitar hung in its usual attitude by her side. She scarcely ever went anywhere without this instrument, and she was fond of striking up the sweetest, wildest songs to its accompaniment at any moment.

Fluff, for all her extreme fairness and babyishness, had not a doll's face. The charming eyes could show many emotions, and the curved lips reveal many shades either of love or dislike. She had not a passionate face; there were neither heights nor depths about little Fluff; but she had a very warm heart, and was both truthful and fearless.

She had been waiting in a sheltered part of the garden for over an hour for Arnold. He had promised to go down with her to the river – he was to sketch, and she was to play. It was intensely hot, even in the shadiest part of the squire's garden, but by the river there would be coolness and a breeze. Fluff was sweet-tempered, but she did not like to wait an hour for any man, and she could not help thinking it aggravating of Arnold to go on pacing up and down in the hot sun by the squire's side. What could the squire and Arnold have to say to each other? And why did the taller and younger man rather stoop as he walked? And why was his step so depressed, so lacking in energy that even Fluff, under her shady tree in the distance, noticed it?

She was standing so when Frances came up to her; now and then her fingers idly touched her guitar, her rosy lips pouted, and her glowing dark-blue eyes were fixed reproachfully on Arnold's distant figure.

Frances looked pale and fagged; she was not in the becoming white dress which she had worn during the first few days of Arnold's visit; she was in gray, and the gray was not particularly fresh nor cool in texture.

"Fluff, I want to speak to you," she said.

And she laid her hand on the girl's shoulder – then her eyes followed Fluff's; she saw Arnold, and her cheeks grew a little whiter than before.

"Fluff misses him already," she whispered to her heart. "And he likes her. They are always together. Yes, I see plainly that I sha'n't do Philip any serious injury when I refuse him."

"What is it, Frances?" said Fluff, turning her rather aggrieved little face full on the new-comer. "Do you want to say anything to me very badly? I do call it a shame of Mr. Arnold; he and the squire have chatted together in the South Walk for over an hour. It's just too bad, I might have been cooling myself by the river now; I'm frightfully hot."

"No, you're not really very hot," said Frances, in the peculiarly caressing tone she always employed when speaking to her little cousin. "But I own it is very annoying to have to wait for any one – more particularly when you are doing nothing. Just lay your guitar on the grass, Fluff, and let us walk up and down under the shade here. I have something to say to you, and it will help to pass the time."

Fluff obeyed at once.

"You don't look well, Frances," she said, in her affectionate way, linking her hand through her cousin's arm. "I have noticed that you haven't looked yourself ever since the day you went to Martinstown – nearly a week ago now. Now I wonder at that, for the weather has been so perfect, and everything so sweet and nice; and I must say it is a comfort to have a pleasant man like Mr. Arnold in the house. I have enjoyed myself during the past week, and I greatly wonder you haven't, Frances."

"I am glad you have been happy, dear," said Frances, ignoring the parts of Fluff's speech which related to herself. "But it is on that very subject I want now to speak to you. You like living at the Firs, don't you, Fluff?"

"Why, of course, Frances. It was poor mamma's" – here the blue eyes brimmed with tears – "it was darling mother's wish that I should come here to live with you and the squire. I never could be so happy anywhere as at the Firs; I never, never want to leave it."

"But of course you will leave it some day, little Fluff, for in the ordinary course of things you will fall in love and you will marry, and when this happens you will love your new home even better than this. However, Fluff, we need not discuss the future now, for the present is enough for us. I wanted to tell you, dear, that it is very probable, almost certain, that I shall have to go away from home. What is the matter, Fluff?"

"You go away? Then I suppose that is why you look ill. Oh, how you have startled me!"

"I am sorry to have to go, Fluff, and I can not tell you the reason. You must not ask me, for it is a secret. But the part that concerns you, dear, is that, if I go, I do not see how you can stay on very well at the Firs."

"Of course I should not dream of staying, Francie. With you away, and Mr. Arnold gone" – here she looked hard into Frances's face – "it would be dull. Of course, I am fond of the squire, but I could not do without another companion. Where are you going, Frances? Could not I go with you?"

"I wish you could, darling. I will tell you where I am going to-morrow or next day. It is possible that I may not go, but it is almost certain that I shall."

"Oh, I trust, I hope, I pray that you will not go."

"Don't do that, Fluff, for that, too, means a great trouble. Oh, yes, a great trouble and desolation. Now, dear, I really must talk to you about your own affairs. Leave me out of the question for a few moments, pet. I must find out what you would like to do, and where you would like to go. If I go away I shall have little or no time to make arrangements for you, so I must speak to you now. Have you any friends who would take you in until you would hear from your father, Fluff?"

"I have no special friends. There are the Harewoods, but they are silly and flirty, and I don't care for them. They talk about dress – you should hear how they go on – and they always repeat the silly things the men they meet say to them. No, I won't go to the Harewoods. I think if I must leave you, Frances, I had better go to my old school-mistress, Mrs. Hopkins. She would be always glad to have me."

"That is a good thought, dear. I will write to her to-day just as a precautionary measure. Ah, and here comes Philip. Philip, you have tried the patience of this little girl very sadly."

In reply to Frances' speech Arnold slightly raised his hat; his face looked drawn and worried; his eyes avoided Frances's, but turned with a sense of refreshment to where Fluff stood looking cool and sweet, and with a world of tender emotion on her sensitive little face.

"A thousand apologies," he said. "The squire kept me. Shall I carry your guitar? No, I won't sketch, thanks; but if you will let me lie on my back in the long grass by the river, and if you will sing me a song or two, I shall be grateful ever after."

"Then I will write to Mrs. Hopkins, Fluff," said Frances. And as the two got over a stile which led down a sloping meadow to the river, she turned away. Arnold had neither looked at her nor addressed her again.

"My father has been saying something to him," thought Frances. And she was right.

The squire was not a man to take up an idea lightly and then drop it. He distinctly desired, come what might, that his daughter should not marry Arnold; he came to the sage conclusion that the best way to prevent such a catastrophe was to see Arnold safely married to some one else. The squire had no particular delicacy of feeling to prevent his alluding to topics which might be avoided by more sensitive men. He contrived to see Arnold alone, and then, rudely, for he did not care to mince his words, used expressions the reverse of truthful, which led Arnold, whose faith was already wavering in the balance, to feel almost certain that Frances never had cared for him, and never would do so. He then spoke of Fluff, praising her enthusiastically, and without stint, saying how lucky he considered the man who won not only a beautiful, but a wealthy bride, and directly suggested to Arnold that he should go in for her.

"She likes you now," said the squire; "bless her little heart, she'd like any one who was kind to her. She's just the pleasantest companion any man could have – a perfect dear all round. To tell the truth, Arnold, even though she is my daughter, I think you are well rid of Frances."

"I'm ashamed to hear you say so, sir. If what you tell me is true, your daughter has scarcely behaved kindly to me; but, notwithstanding that, I consider Frances quite the noblest woman I know."

"Pshaw!" said the squire. "You agree with Fluff – she's always praising her, too. Of course, I have nothing to say against my daughter – she's my own uprearing, so it would ill beseem me to run her down. But for a wife, give me a fresh little soft roundabout, like Fluff yonder."

Arnold bit his lip.

"You have spoken frankly to me, and I thank you," he said. "If I am so unfortunate as not to win Miss Kane's regard, there is little use in my prolonging my visit here; but I have yet to hear her decision from her own lips. If you will allow me, I will leave you now, squire, for I promised Miss Danvers to spend some of this afternoon with her by the river."

"With Fluff? Little puss – very good – very good – Ah!

'The time I've spent in wooing'

never wasted, my boy – never wasted. I wish you all success from the bottom of my heart."

"Insufferable old idiot!" growled Arnold, under his breath.

But he was thoroughly hurt and annoyed, and when he saw Frances, could not bring himself even to say a word to her.

The squire went back to the house to enjoy his afternoon nap, and to reflect comfortably on the delicious fact that he had done himself a good turn.

"There is no use playing with edge tools," he murmured. "Frances means well, but she confessed to me she loved him. What more likely, then, that she would accept him, and, notwithstanding her good resolutions, leave her poor old father in the lurch? If Frances accepts Arnold, it will be ruin to me, and it simply must be prevented at all hazards."