Frances Kane's Fortune

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."

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."