Kitabı oku: «Frances Kane's Fortune», sayfa 5
CHAPTER XII.
THE CUNNING LITTLE MOUSE
Fluff found her companion strangely dull. They reached the river, where Arnold, true to his promise, did stretch himself at full length in the long fragrant grass; and Fluff, true to her promise, touched her guitar gently, and gently, softly, and sympathetically sung a song or two. She sung about the "Auld acquaintance" who should never be forgot; she sung of "Robin Adair;" and, lastly, her clear little notes warbled out the exquisite Irish melody, "She is far from the land." Never had Fluff sung better. She threw feeling and sympathy into her notes – in short, she excelled herself in her desire to please. But when at the end of the third song Arnold still made no response, when not the flicker of an eyelid or the faintest dawn of a smile showed either approbation or pleasure, the spoiled child threw her guitar aside, and spoke pettishly.
"I won't amuse you any more," she said. "I don't like sulky people; I am going home to my darling Frances. She is often troubled – oh, yes, she knows what trouble is – but she never sulks, never!"
"Look here, Fluff," said Arnold. "I may call you Fluff, may I not?"
"I don't mind."
Fluff's big eyes began to dilate. She stretched out her hand to draw her guitar once more to her side. She was evidently willing to be reasonable.
"Look here," repeated Arnold. He rose hastily, and leaning on a low wall which stood near, looked down at the bright little girl at his feet. "Fluff," he said, "should you greatly mind if I threw conventionality to the winds, and spoke frankly to you?"
"I should not mind at all," said Fluff. "I don't know what you have got to say, but I hate conventionalities."
"The fact is, I am very much bothered."
"Oh!"
"And I haven't a soul to consult."
Another "Oh!" and an upward glance of two lovely long-fringed eyes.
"And I think you have a kind, affectionate heart, Fluff."
"I have."
"And you won't misunderstand a man who is half distracted?"
"I am sorry you are half distracted. No, I won't misunderstand you."
"That is right, and what I expected. I was thinking of all this, and wondering if I might speak frankly to you when you were singing those songs. That is the reason I did not applaud you, or say thank you, or anything else commonplace."
"I understand now," said Fluff. "I'm very glad. I was puzzled at first, and I thought you rude. Now I quite understand."
"Thank you, Fluff; if I may sit by your side I will tell you the whole story. The fact is, I want you to help me, but you can only do so by knowing everything. Why, what is the matter? Are you suddenly offended?"
"No," answered little Ellen; "but I'm surprised. I'm so astonished that I'm almost troubled, and yet I never was so glad in my life. You are the very first person who has ever asked me to help them. I have amused people – oh, yes, often; but helped – you are the very first who has asked me that."
"I believe you are a dear little girl," said Arnold, looking at her affectionately; "and if any one can set things right now, you are the person. Will you listen to my story? May I begin?"
"Certainly."
"Remember, I am not going to be conventional."
"You said that before."
"I want to impress it upon you. I am going to say the sort of things that girls seldom listen to."
"You make me feel dreadfully curious," said Fluff. "Please begin."
"The beginning is this: Ten years ago I came here. I stayed here for a month. I fell in love with Frances."
"Oh – oh! darling Frances. And you fell in love with her ten years ago?"
"I did. I went to Australia. For five years I had an awful time there; my friends at home supposed me to be dead. The fact is, I was taken captive by some of the bushmen. That has nothing to say to my story, only all the time I thought of Frances. I remained in Australia five more years. During that five years I was making my fortune. As I added pound to pound, I thought still of Frances. I am rich now, and I have come home to marry her."
"Oh," said little Fluff, with a deep-drawn sigh, "what a lovely story! But why, then, is not Frances happy?"
"Ah, that is where the mystery comes in; that is what I want you to find out. I see plainly that Frances is very unhappy. She won't say either yes or no to my suit. Her father gives me to understand that she does not love me; that she never loved me. He proposes that instead of marrying Frances I should try to make you my wife. He was urging me to do so just now when I kept you waiting. All the time he was telling me that Frances never could or would love me, and that you were the wife of all others for me."
"Why do you tell me all this?" said Fluff. Her cheeks had crimsoned, and tears trembled on her eyelashes. "Why do you spoil a beautiful story by telling me this at the end?"
"Because the squire will hint it to you, Fluff; because even Frances herself will begin to think that I am turning my affections in your direction; because if you help me as I want you to help me, we must be much together; because I must talk very freely to you; in short, because it is absolutely necessary that we should quite understand each other."
"Yes," said Fluff. "I see now what you mean; it is all right; thank you very much." She rose to her feet. "I will be a sort of sister to you," she said, laying her little hand in his; "for I love Frances better than any sister, and when you are her husband you will be my brother."
"No brother will ever be truer to you, Fluff; but, alas, and alas! is it ever likely that Frances can be my wife?"
"Of course she will," said Fluff. "Frances is so unhappy because she loves you."
"Nonsense."
"Well, I think so, but I'll soon find out."
"You will? If you were my real sister, I would call you a darling."
"You may call me anything you please. I am your sister to all intents and purposes, until you are married to my darling, darling Frances. Oh, won't I give it to the squire! I think he's a perfectly horrid old man, and I used to be fond of him."
"But you will be careful, Fluff – a rash word might do lots of mischief."
"Of course I'll be careful. I have lots of tact."
"You are the dearest girl in the world, except Frances."
"Of course I am. That was a very pretty speech, and I am going to reward you. I am going to tell you something."
"What is that?"
"Frances is going away."
Arnold gave a slight start.
"I did not know that," he said. "When?"
"She told me when you were talking to the squire. She is going away very soon, and she wants me to go too. I am to go back to my old school-mistress, Mrs. Hopkins. Frances is very sorry to go, and yet when I told her that I hoped she would not have to, she said I must not wish that, for that would mean a great calamity. I don't understand Frances at present, but I shall soon get to the bottom of everything."
"I fear it is all too plain," said Arnold, lugubriously. "Frances goes away because she does not love me, and she is unhappy because she does not wish to give me pain."
"You are quite wrong, sir. Frances is unhappy on her own account, not on yours. Well, I'll find out lots of things to-night, and let you know. I'm going to be the cunningest little mouse in the world; but oh, won't the squire have a bad time of it!"
CHAPTER XIII.
"LITTLE GIRLS IMAGINE THINGS."
The morning's post brought one letter. It was addressed to Miss Kane, and was written in a business hand. The squire looked anxiously at his daughter as she laid it unopened by her plate. Fluff, who was dressed more becomingly than usual, whose eyes were bright, and who altogether seemed in excellent spirits, could not help telegraphing a quick glance at Arnold; the little party were seated round the breakfast-table, and the squire, who intercepted Fluff's glance, chuckled inwardly. He was very anxious with regard to the letter which Frances so provokingly left unopened, but he also felt a pleasing thrill of satisfaction.
"Ha! ha!" he said to himself, "my good young man, you are following my advice, for all you looked so sulky yesterday. Fluff, little dear, I do you a good turn when I provide you with an excellent husband, and I declare, poor as I am, I won't see you married without giving you a wedding present."
After breakfast the squire rose, pushed aside his chair, and was about to summon his daughter to accompany him to the south parlor, when Fluff ran up to his side.
"I want to speak to you most particularly," she said. "I have a secret to tell you," and she raised her charming, rounded, fresh face to his. He patted her on the cheek.
"Is it very important?" he said, a little uneasily, for he noticed that Philip and Frances were standing silently, side by side in the bay-window, and that Frances had removed her letter from its envelope, and was beginning to read it.
"She'll absolutely tell that fellow the contents of the most important letter she ever received," inwardly grumbled the squire. "He'll know before her father knows." Aloud he said, "I have a little business to talk over with Frances just now, Ellen. I am afraid your secret must wait, little puss."
"But that's what it can't do," answered Fluff. "Don't call Frances; she's reading a letter. What a rude old man you are, to think of disturbing her! I'm quite ashamed of you. Now come with me, for I must tell you my important secret."
The squire found himself wheedled and dragged into the south parlor. There he was seated in his most comfortable chair, just as much sunlight as he liked best was allowed to warm him, a footstool was placed under his feet, and Fluff, drawing a second forward, seated herself on it, laid her hand on his knee, and looked at him with an expression of pleased affection.
"Aren't you dreadfully curious?" she said.
"Oh, yes, Fluff – quite devoured with curiosity. I wonder now what Frances is doing; the fact is, she has received an important letter. It's about my affairs. I am naturally anxious to know its contents. Tell your secret as quickly as possible, little woman, and let me get to more important matters."
"More important matters? I'm ashamed of you," said Fluff, shaking her finger at him. "The fact is, squire, you mustn't be in a hurry about seeing Frances – you must curb your impatience; it's very good for you to curb it – it's a little discipline, and discipline properly administered always turns people out delightful. You'll be a very noble old man when you have had a little of the proper sort of training. Now, now – why, you look quite cross; I declare you're not a bit handsome when you're cross. Frances can't come to you at present – she's engaged about her own affairs."
"And what may they be, pray, miss?"
"Ah, that's my secret!"
Fluff looked down; a becoming blush deepened the color in her cheeks; she toyed idly with a rosebud which she held in her hand. Something in her attitude, and the significant smile on her face, made the squire both angry and uneasy.
"Speak out, child," he said. "You know I hate mysteries."
"But I can't speak out," said Fluff. "The time to speak out hasn't come – I can only guess. Squire, I'm so glad – I really do think that Frances is in love with Philip."
"You really do?" said the squire. He mimicked her tone sarcastically, red, angry spots grew on his old cheeks. "Frances in love with Philip, indeed! You have got pretty intimate with that young Australian, Fluff, when you call him by his Christian name."
"Oh, yes; we arranged that yesterday. He's like a brother to me. I told you some time ago that he was in love with Frances. Now, I'm so delighted to be able to say that I think Frances is in love with him."
"Tut – tut!" said the squire. "Little girls imagine things. Little girls are very fanciful."
"Tut – tut!" responded Fluff, taking off his voice to the life. "Little girls see far below the surface; old men are very obtuse."
"Fluff, if that's your secret, I don't think much of it. Run away now, and send my daughter to me."
"I'll do nothing of the kind, for if she's not reading her letter she's talking to her true love. Oh, you must have a heart of stone to wish to disturb them!"
The squire, with some difficulty, pushed aside his footstool, hobbled to his feet, and walked to the window where the southern sun was pouring in. In the distance he saw the gray of Frances's dress through the trees, and Philip's square, manly, upright figure walking slowly by her side.
He pushed open the window, and hoarsely and angrily called his daughter's name.
"She doesn't hear you," said Fluff. "I expect he's proposing for her now; isn't it lovely? Aren't you delighted? Oh, where's my guitar? I'm going to play 'Sweethearts.' I do hope, squire, you'll give Frances a very jolly wedding."
But the squire had hobbled out of the room.
He was really very lame with rheumatic gout; but the sight of that gray, slender figure, pacing slowly under the friendly sheltering trees, was too much for him; he was overcome with passion, anxiety, rage.
"She's giving herself away," he murmured. "That little vixen, Fluff, is right – she's in love with the fellow, and she's throwing herself at his head; it's perfectly awful to think of it. She has forgotten all about her old father. I'll be a beggar in my old age; the Firs will have to go; I'll be ruined, undone. Oh, was there ever such an undutiful daughter? I must go to her. I must hobble up to that distant spot as quickly as possible; perhaps when she sees me she may pause before she irrevocably commits so wicked an act. Oh, how lame I am! what agonies I'm enduring! Shall I ever be in time? He's close to her – he's almost touching her – good gracious, he'll kiss her if I'm not quick! that little wretch Fluff could have reached them in a twinkling, but she won't do anything to oblige me this morning. Hear her now, twanging away at that abominable air, 'Sweethearts' – oh – oh – puff – puff – I'm quite blown! This walk will kill me! Frances – I say, Frances, Frances."
The feeble, cracked old voice was borne on the breeze, and the last high agonized note reached its goal.
"I am coming, father," responded his daughter. She turned to Arnold and held out her hand.
"God bless you!" she said.
"Is your answer final, Frances?"
"Yes – yes. I wish I had not kept you a week in suspense; it was cruel to you, but I thought – oh, I must not keep my father."
"Your father has you always, and this is my last moment. Then you'll never, never love me?"
"I can not marry you, Philip."
"That is no answer. You never loved me."
"I can not marry you."
"I won't take 'no' unless you say with it, 'I never loved you; I never can love you.'"
"Look at my father, Philip; he is almost falling. His face is crimson. I must go to him. God bless you!"
She took his hand, and absolutely, before the squire's horrified eyes, raised it to her lips, then flew lightly down the path, and joined the old man.
"Is anything wrong, father? How dreadful you look!"
"You – you have accepted the fellow! You have deserted me; I saw you kiss his hand. Fah! it makes me sick. You've accepted him, and I am ruined!"
"On the contrary, I have refused Philip. That kiss was like one we give to the dead. Don't excite yourself; come into the house. I am yours absolutely from this time out."
"Hum – haw – you gave me an awful fright, I can tell you." The squire breathed more freely. "You set that little Fluff on to begin it, and you ended it. I won't be the better of this for some time. Yes, let me lean on you, Frances; it's a comfort to feel I'm not without a daughter. Oh, it would have been a monstrous thing had you deserted me! Did I not rear you, and bring you up? But in cases of the affections – I mean in cases of those paltry passions, women are so weak."
"But not your daughter, Frances Kane. I, for your sake, have been strong. Now, if you please, we will drop the subject; I will not discuss it further. You had better come into the house, father, until you get cool."
"You had a letter this morning, Frances – from Spens, was it not?"
"Oh, yes; I had forgotten; your creditors will accept my terms for the present. I must drive over to Arden this afternoon, and arrange what day I go there."
"I shall miss you considerably, Frances. It's a great pity you couldn't arrange to come home to sleep; you might see to my comforts then by rising a little earlier in the morning. I wish, my dear, you would propose it to Mrs. Carnegie; if she is a woman of any consideration she will see how impossible it is that I should be left altogether."
"I can not do that, father. Even you must pay a certain price for a certain good thing. You do not wish to leave the Firs, but you can not keep both the Firs and me. I will come and see you constantly, but my time from this out belongs absolutely to Mrs. Carnegie. She gives me an unusually large salary, and, being her servant, I must endeavor in all particulars to please her, and must devote my time to her to a certain extent day and night."
"Good gracious, Frances, I do hope that though adversity has come to the house of Kane, you are not going so far to forget yourself as to stoop to menial work at Arden. Why, rather than that – rather than that, it would be better for us to give up the home of our fathers."
"No work need be menial, done in the right spirit," responded Frances.
Her eyes wandered away, far up among the trees, where Arnold still slowly paced up and down. In the cause of pride her father might even be induced to give up the Firs. Was love, then, to weigh nothing in the scale?
She turned suddenly to the father.
"You must rest now," she said. "You need not be the least anxious on your own account any more. You must rest and take things quietly, and do your best not to get ill. It would be very bad for you to be ill now, for there would be no one to nurse you. Remember that, and be careful. Now go and sit in the parlor and keep out of draughts. I can not read to you this morning, for I shall be very busy, and you must not call me nor send for me unless it is absolutely necessary. Now, good-bye for the present."
Frances did not, as her usual custom was, establish her father in his easy-chair; she did not cut his morning paper for him, nor attend to the one or two little comforts which he considered essential; she left him without kissing him, only her full, grave, sorrowful eyes rested for one moment with a look of great pathos on his wrinkled, discontented old face, then she went away.
The squire was alone; even the irritating strain of "Sweethearts" no longer annoyed him. Fluff had ceased to play – Fluff's gay little figure was no longer visible; the man who had paced up and down under the distant trees had disappeared; Frances's gray dress was nowhere to be seen.
The whole place was still, oppressively still – not a bee hummed, not a bird sung. The atmosphere was hot and dry, but there was no sunshine; the trees were motionless, there was a feeling of coming thunder in the air.
The squire felt calmed and triumphant, at the same time he felt irritated and depressed. His anxiety was over; his daughter had done what he wished her to do – the Firs was saved, at least for his lifetime – the marriage he so dreaded was never to be. At the same time, he felt dull and deserted; he knew what it was to have his desire, and leanness in his soul. It would be very dull at the Firs without Frances; he should miss her much when she went away. He was a feeble old man, and he was rapidly growing blind. Who would read for him, and chat with him, and help to while away the long and tedious hours? He could not spend all his time eating and sleeping. What should he do now with all the other hours of the long day and night? He felt pleased with Frances – he owned she was a good girl; but at the same time he was cross with her; she ought to have thought of some other way of delivering him. She was a clever woman – he owned she was a clever woman; but she ought not to have effected his salvation by deserting him.
The squire mumbled and muttered to himself. He rose from his arm-chair and walked to the window; he went out and paced up and down the terrace; he came in again. Was there ever such a long and tiresome morning? He yawned; he did not know what to do with himself.
A little after noon the door of the south parlor was quickly opened and Arnold came in.
"I have just come to say good-bye, sir."
The squire started in genuine amazement. He did not love Arnold, but after two hours of solitude he was glad to hear any human voice. It never occurred to him, too, that any one should feel Frances such a necessity as to alter plans on her account.
"You are going away?" he repeated. "You told me yesterday you would stay here for at least another week or ten days."
"Exactly, but I have changed my mind," said Arnold. "I came here for an object – my object has failed. Good-bye."
"But now, really – " the squire strove to retain the young man's hand in his clasp. "You don't seriously mean to tell me that you are leaving a nice place like the Firs in this fine summer weather because Frances has refused you."
"I am going away on that account," replied Arnold, stiffly. "Good-bye."
"You astonish me – you quite take my breath away. Frances couldn't accept you, you know. She had me to see after. I spoke to you yesterday about her, and I suggested that you should take Fluff instead. A dear little thing, Fluff. Young, and with money; who would compare the two?"
"Who would compare the two?" echoed Arnold. "I repeat, squire, that I must now wish you good-bye, and I distinctly refuse to discuss the subject of my marriage any further."
Arnold's hand scarcely touched Squire Kane's. He left the south parlor, and his footsteps died away in the distance.
Once more there was silence and solitude. The sky grew darker, the atmosphere hotter and denser – a growl of thunder was heard in the distance – a flash of lightning lighted up the squire's room. Squire Kane was very nervous in a storm – at all times he hated to be long alone – now he felt terrified, nervous, aggrieved. He rang his bell pretty sharply.
"Jane," he said to the servant who answered his summons, "send Miss Kane to me at once."
"Miss Kane has gone to Martinstown, sir. She drove in in the pony-cart an hour go."
"Oh – h'm – I suppose Mr. Arnold went with her?"
"No, sir. Mr. Arnold took a short cut across the fields; he says the carrier is to call for his portmanteau, and he's not a-coming back."
"H'm – most inconsiderate – I hate parties broken up in a hurry like this. What a vivid flash that was! Jane, I'm afraid we are going to have an awful storm."
"It looks like it, sir, and the clouds is coming direct this way. Watkins says as the strength of the storm will break right over the Firs, sir."
"My good Jane, I'll thank you to shut the windows, and ask Miss Danvers to have the goodness to step this way."
"Miss Danvers have a headache, sir, and is lying down. She said as no one is to disturb her."
The squire murmured something inarticulate. Jane lingered for a moment at the door, but finding nothing more was required of her, softly withdrew.
Then in the solitude of his south parlor the squire saw the storm come up – the black clouds gathered silently from east and west, a slight shiver shook the trees, a sudden wind agitated the slowly moving clouds – it came between the two banks of dark vapor, and then the thunder rolled and the lightning played. It was an awful storm, and the squire, who was timid at such times, covered his face with his trembling hands, and even feebly tried to pray. It is possible that if Frances had come to him then he would, in the terror fit which had seized him, have given her her heart's desire. Even the Firs became of small account to Squire Kane, while the lightning flashed in his eyes and the thunder rattled over his head. He was afraid – he would have done anything to propitiate the Maker of the storm – he would have even sacrificed himself if necessary.
But the clouds rolled away, the sunshine came out. Fear vanished from the squire's breast, and when dinner was announced he went to partake of it with an excellent appetite. Fluff and he alone had seats at the board; Arnold and Frances were both away.
Fluff's eyes were very red. She was untidy, too, and her whole appearance might best be described by the word "disheveled." She scarcely touched her dinner, and her chattering, merry tongue was silent.
The squire was a man who never could abide melancholy in others. He had had a fright; his fright was over. He was therefore exactly in the mood to be petted and humored, to have his little jokes listened to and applauded, to have his thrice-told tales appreciated. He was just in the mood, also, to listen to pretty nothings from a pretty girl's lips, to hear her sing, perhaps to walk slowly with her by and by in the sunshine.
Fluff's red eyes, however, Fluff's disordered, untidy appearance, her downcast looks, her want of appetite, presented to him, just then, a most unpleasing picture. As his way was, he resented it, and began to grumble.
"I have had a very dull morning," he began.
"Indeed, sir? I won't take any pease, thank you, Jane; I'm not hungry."
"I hate little girls to come to table who are not hungry," growled the squire. "Bring the pease here, Jane."
"Shall I go up to my room again?" asked Fluff, laying down her knife and fork.
"Oh, no, my love; no, not by any means."
The squire was dreadfully afraid of having to spend as solitary an afternoon as morning.
"I am sorry you are not quite well, Fluff," he said, hoping to pacify the angry little maid; "but I suppose it was the storm. Most girls are very much afraid of lightning. It is silly of them; for really in a room with the windows shut – glass, you know, my dear, is a non-conductor – there is not much danger. But there is no combating the terrors of the weaker sex. I can fancy you, Fluff, burying that pretty little head of yours under the bed-clothes. That doubtless accounts for its present rough condition. You should have come to me, my love; I'd have done my best to soothe your nervous fears."
Fluff's blue eyes were opened wide.
"I don't know what you are talking about," she said. "I afraid of the storm, and burying my head under the bed-clothes, as if I were a baby or a silly old man! Yes, of course I knew there was a storm, but I didn't notice it much, I was too busy packing."
This last remark effectually distracted the squire's attention.
"Packing! good gracious, child, you are not going away too?"
"Of course I am; you don't suppose I am going to stay here without my darling Francie?"
"But what am I to do, Fluff?"
"I don't know, squire. I suppose you'll stay on at the Firs."
"Alone! Do you mean I'm to stay here alone?"
"I suppose so, now that you have sent Frances away."
"I have not sent her away. What do you mean, miss?"
"I'm not going to say what I mean," said Fluff. "Dear Frances is very unhappy, and I'm very unhappy too, and Philip, I think, is the most miserable of all. As far as I can tell, all this unhappiness has been caused by you, squire, so I suppose you are happy; but if you think I am going to stay at the Firs without Frances you are very much mistaken. I would not stay with you now on any account, for you are a selfish old man, and I don't love you any longer."
This angry little speech was uttered after Jane had withdrawn, and even while Fluff spoke she pushed some fruit toward the squire.
"You are a selfish old man," she continued, her cheeks burning and her eyes flashing; "you want your comforts, you want to be amused, and to get the best of everything; and if that is so you don't care for others. Well, here is the nicest fruit in the garden – eat it; and by and by I'll sing for you, if my singing gives you pleasure. I'll do all this while I stay, but I'm going away the day after to-morrow. But I don't love you any more, for you are unkind to Frances."
The squire was really too much astonished to reply. Nobody in all his life had ever spoken to him in this way before; he felt like one who was assaulted and beaten all over. He was stunned, and yet he still clung in a sort of mechanical way to the comforts which were dearer to him than life. He picked out the finest strawberries which Fluff had piled on his plate, and conveyed them to his lips. Fluff flew out of the room for her guitar, and when she returned she began to sing a gay Italian air in a very sprightly and effective manner. In the midst of her song the squire broke in with a sudden question.
"What do you mean by saying I am unkind to Frances?"
Fluff's guitar dropped with a sudden clatter to the floor.
"You won't let her marry Philip – she loves him with all her heart, and he loves her. They have cared for each other for ten long years, and now you are parting them. You are a dreadfully, dreadfully selfish old man, and I hate you!"
Here the impulsive little girl burst into tears and ran out of the room. The squire sat long over his strawberries.
