Frances Kane's Fortune Part 12

"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 n.o.ble 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 att.i.tude, 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 hoa.r.s.ely 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 pa.s.sion, 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, tw.a.n.ging 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.

"G.o.d 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. G.o.d 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 pa.s.sions, 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.