Frances Kane's Fortune. Meade L. T.

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СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">      She turned away, walking rapidly, and a bend in the avenue soon hid her from view.

      Little Ellen had not yet quite recovered her breath. She stood holding her hand to her side, and slightly panting.

      "You seem frightened," said Arnold, kindly.

      "It is not that," she replied. Her breath came quicker, almost in gasps. Suddenly she burst into tears. "It's all so dreadful," she said.

      "What do you mean?" said Arnold.

      To his knowledge he had never seen a girl cry in his life. He had come across very few girls while in Australia. One or two women he had met, but they were not particularly worthy specimens of their sex; he had not admired them, and had long ago come to the conclusion that the only perfect, sweet, and fair girl in existence was Frances Kane. When he saw Fluff's tears he discovered that he was mistaken – other women were sweet and gracious, other girls were lovable.

      "Do tell me what is the matter," he said, in a tone of deep sympathy; for these fast-flowing tears alarmed him.

      "I'm not fit for trouble," said Fluff. "I'm afraid of trouble, that's it. I'm really like the butterflies – I die if there's a cloud. It is not long since I lost my mother, and – now, now – I know the squire is much more ill than Frances thinks. Oh, I know it! What shall I do if the squire really gets very ill – if he – he dies? Oh, I'm so awfully afraid of death!"

      Her cheeks paled visibly, her large, wide-open blue eyes dilated; she was acting no part – her terror and distress were real. A kind of instinct told Arnold what to say to her.

      "You are standing under these great shady trees," he said. "Come out into the sunshine. You are young and apprehensive. Frances is much more likely to know the truth about Squire Kane than you are. She is not alarmed; you must not be, unless there is really cause. Now is not this better? What a lovely rose! Do you know, I have not seen this old-fashioned kind of cabbage rose for over ten years!"

      "Then I will pick one for you," said Fluff.

      She took out a scrap of cambric, dried her eyes like magic, and began to flit about the garden, humming a light air under her breath. Her dress was of an old-fashioned sort of book-muslin – it was made full and billowy; her figure was round and yet lithe, her hair was a mass of frizzy soft rings, and when the dimples played in her cheeks, and the laughter came back to her intensely blue eyes, Arnold could not help saying – and there was admiration in his voice and gaze:

      "What fairy godmother named you so appropriately?"

      "What do you mean? My name is Ellen."

      "Frances called you Fluff; Thistledown would be as admirably appropriate."

      While he spoke Fluff was handing him a rose. He took it, and placed it in his button-hole. He was not very skillful in arranging it, and she stood on tiptoe to help him. Just then Frances came out of the house. The sun was shining full on the pair; Fluff was laughing, Arnold was making a complimentary speech. Frances did not know why a shadow seemed to fall between her and the sunshine which surrounded them. She walked slowly across the grass to meet them. Her light dress was a little long, and it trailed after her. She had put a bunch of Scotch roses into her belt. Her step grew slower and heavier as she walked across the smoothly kept lawn, but her voice was just as calm and clear as usual as she said gently:

      "Supper is quite ready. You must be so tired and hungry, Philip."

      "Not at all," he said, leaving Fluff and coming up to her side. "This garden rests me. To be back here again is perfectly delightful. To appreciate an English garden and English life, and – and English ladies – here his eyes fell for a brief moment on Fluff – one most have lived for ten years in the backwoods of Australia. How is your father, Frances? I trust Miss Danvers had no real cause for alarm?"

      "Oh, no; Ellen is a fanciful little creature. He did sleep rather heavily. I think it was the heat; but he is all right now, and waiting to welcome you in the supper-room. Won't you let me show you the way to your room? You would like to wash your hands before eating."

      Frances and Arnold walked slowly in the direction of the house. Fluff had left them; she was engaged in an eager game of play with an overgrown and unwieldly pup and a Persian kitten. Arnold had observed with some surprise that she had forgotten even to inquire for Mr. Kane.

      CHAPTER VI.

      "I WILL NOT SELL THE FIRS."

      On the morning after Arnold's arrival the squire called his daughter into the south parlor.

      "My love," he said, "I want a word with you."

      As a rule Frances was very willing to have words with her father. She was always patient and gentle and sweet with him; but she would have been more than human if she had not cast some wistful glances into the garden, where Philip was waiting for her. He and she also had something to talk about that morning, and why did Fluff go out, and play those bewitching airs softly to herself on the guitar? And why did she sing in that wild-bird voice of hers? and why did Philip pause now and then in his walk, as though he was listening – which indeed he was, for it would be difficult for any one to shut their ears to such light and harmonious sounds. Frances hated herself for feeling jealous. No – of course she was not jealous; she could not stoop to anything so mean. Poor darling little Fluff! and Philip, her true lover, who had remained constant to her for ten long years.

      With a smile on her lips, and the old look of patience in her steady eyes, she turned her back to the window and prepared to listen to what the squire had to say.

      "The fact is, Frances – " he began. "Sit down, my dear, sit down; I hate to have people standing, it fidgets me so. Oh! you want to be out with that young man; well, Fluff will amuse him – dear little thing, Fluff – most entertaining. Has a way of soothing a man's nerves, which few women possess. You, my dear, have often a most irritating way with you; not that I complain – we all have our faults. You inherit this intense overwrought sort of manner from your mother, Frances."

      Frances, who was standing absolutely quiet and still again, smiled slightly.

      "You had something to talk to me about," she said, in her gentlest of voice.

      "To be sure I had. I can tell you I have my worries – wonder I'm alive – and since your mother died never a bit of sympathy do I get from mortal. There, read that letter from Spens, and see what you make of it. Impudent? uncalled for? I should think so; but I really do wonder what these lawyers are coming to. Soon there'll be no distinctions between man and man anywhere, when a beggarly country lawyer dares to write to a gentleman like myself in that strain. But read the letter, Frances; you'll have to see Spens this afternoon. I'm not equal to it."

      "Let me see what Mr. Spens says," answered Frances.

      She took the lawyer's letter from the squire's shaking old fingers, and opened it. Then her face became very pale, and as her eyes glanced rapidly over the contents, she could not help uttering a stifled exclamation.

      "Yes, no wonder you're in a rage," said the squire. "The impudence of that letter beats everything."

      "But what does Mr. Spens mean?" said Frances. "He says here – unless you can pay the six thousand pounds owing within three months, his client has given him instructions to sell the Firs. What does he mean, father? I never knew that we owed a penny. Oh, this is awful!"

      "And how do you suppose we have lived?" said the squire, who was feeling all that undue sense of irritation which guilty people СКАЧАТЬ