Frances Kane's Fortune

"Let me peep," said Marion. "I haven't got one peep yet."

But here the voices became a little loud, and the lovers, if they were lovers, passed out of sight behind the yew hedge.

"That's it," said Fluff when she had finished her story; "it's all explained now. I hope you're obliged to me."

"No brother could love you better, nor appreciate you more than I do, Fluff."

"Thank you; I'll tell you how much I care for those words when you let me know what you are going to do."

Arnold put his hand to his forehead; his face grew grave, he looked with an earnest, half-puzzled glance at the childish creature by his side.

"I really think you are the best girl in the world, and one of the cleverest," he said. "I have a feeling that you have an idea in your head, but I am sorry to say nothing very hopeful up to the present time has occurred to me. It does seem possible, after your explanation, that Frances may love me, and yet refuse me; yes, certainly, that does now seem possible."

"How foolish you are to speak in that doubting tone," half snapped Fluff (certainly, if the girls had seen her now they would have thought she was quarreling with her lover). "How can you say perhaps Frances loves you? Loves you! She is breaking her heart for you. Oh! I could cry when I think of Frances's pain!"

"Dear little friend!" said Arnold. "Then if that is so – God grant it, oh, God grant it – Frances and I must turn to you to help us."

Fluff's face brightened.

"I will tell you my plan," she said. "But first of all you must answer me a question."

"What is it? I will answer anything."

"Mr. Arnold – "

"You said you would call me Philip."

"Oh, well, Philip – I rather like the name of Philip – Philip, are you a rich man?"

"That depends on what you call riches, Fluff. I have brought fifteen thousand pounds with me from the other side of the world. I took five years earning it, for all those five years I lived as a very poor man, I was adding penny to penny, and pound to pound, to Frances's fortune."

"That is right," exclaimed Fluff, clapping her hands. "Frances's fortune – then, of course, then you will spend it in saving her."

"I would spend every penny to save her, if I only knew how."

"How stupid you are," said Fluff. "Oh, if only I were a man!"

"What would you do, if you were?"

"What would I not do? You have fifteen thousand pounds, and Frances is in all this trouble because of six thousand pounds. Shall I tell you, must I tell you what you ought to do?"

"Please – pray tell me."

"Oh, it is so easy. You must get the name of the old horror in London to whom the squire owes six thousand pounds, and you must give him six out of your fifteen, and so pay off the squire's debt. You must do this and – and – "

"Yes, Fluff; I really do think you are the cleverest little girl I ever came across."

"The best part is to come now," said Fluff. "Then you go to the squire; tell him that you will sell the Firs over his head, unless he allows you to marry Frances. Oh, it is so easy, so, so delightful!"

"Give me your hand, Fluff. Yes, I see light – yes. God bless you, Fluff!"

"There is no doubt she has accepted him," reported Mary Mills to her fellows. "They have both appeared again around the yew hedge, and he has taken her hand, and he is smiling. Oh, he is lovely when he smiles!"

"I wish I was grown up," sighed Marion, from behind. "I'd give anything in all the world to have a lover."

"It will be interesting to watch Fluff at supper to-night," exclaimed Katie Philips. "Of course she'll look intensely happy. I wonder if she'll wear an engagement-ring."

The supper hour came. Fluff took her seat among the smaller girls; her face was radiant enough to satisfy the most exacting, but her small dimpled fingers were bare.

"Why do you all stare at my hands so?" she exclaimed once.

"It's on account of the ring," whispered little Sibyl. "Hasn't he given you the ring yet?"

"Who is 'he,' dear?"

"Oh, I wasn't to say. His name is Mr. Lover."

CHAPTER XVI.

SWEETLY ROMANTIC

Mrs. Carnegie could scarcely be considered the most cheerful companion in the world. There was a general sense of rejoicing when Frances took up her abode at Arden, but the victim who was to spend the greater part of her life in Mrs. Carnegie's heated chambers could scarcely be expected to participate in it. This good lady having turned her thoughts inward for so long, could only see the world from this extremely narrow standpoint. She was hypochondriacal, she was fretful, and although Frances managed her, and, in consequence, the rest of the household experienced a good deal of ease, Frances herself, whose heart just now was not of the lightest, could not help suffering. Her cheeks grew paler, her figure slighter and thinner. She could only cry at night, but then she certainly cried a good deal.

On a certain sunny afternoon, Mrs. Carnegie, who thought it her bounden duty on all occasions to look out for grievances, suddenly took it upon herself to complain of Frances's looks.

"It is not that you are dull, my dear," she remarked. "You are fairly cheerful, and your laugh is absolutely soothing; but you are pale, dreadfully pale, and pallor jars on my nerves, dear. Yes, I assure you, in the sensitive state of my poor nerves a pale face like yours is absolutely excruciating to them, darling."

"I am very sorry," replied Frances. She had been a month with Mrs. Carnegie now, and the changed life had certainly not improved her. "I am very sorry." Then she thought a moment. "Would you like to know why I am pale?"

"How interesting you are, my love – so different from every other individual that comes to see me. It is good for my poor nerves to have my attention distracted to any other trivial matter? Tell me, dearest, why you are so pallid. I do trust the story is exciting – I need excitement, my darling. Is it an affair of the heart, precious?"

Frances's face grew very red. Even Mrs. Carnegie ought to have been satisfied for one brief moment with her bloom.

"I fear I can only give you a very prosaic reason," she said, in her gentle, sad voice. "I have little or no color because I am always shut up in hot rooms, and because I miss the open-air life to which I was accustomed."

Mrs. Carnegie tried to smile, but a frown came between her brows.

"That means," she said, "that you would like to go out. You would leave your poor friend in solitude."

"I would take my friend with me," responded Frances. "And she should have the pleasure of seeing the color coming back into my cheeks."

"And a most interesting sight it would be, darling. But oh, my poor, poor nerves! The neuralgia in my back is positively excruciating at this moment, dearest. I am positively on the rack; even a zephyr would slay me."

"On the contrary," replied Frances in a firm voice, "you would be strengthened and refreshed by the soft, sweet air outside. Come, Mrs. Carnegie, I am your doctor and nurse, as well as your friend, and I prescribe a drive in the open air for you this morning. After dinner, too, your sofa, shall be placed in the arbor; in short, I intend you to live out-of-doors while this fine weather lasts."

"Ah, dear imperious one! And yet you will kill me with this so-called kindness."

"On the contrary, I will make you a strong woman if I can. Now I am going to ring to order the carriage."

She bustled about, had her way, and to the amazement of every one Mrs. Carnegie submitted to a drive for an hour in an open carriage.

All the time they were out Frances regaled her with the stories of the poor and suffering people. She told her stories with great skill, knowing just where to leave off, and just the points that would be most likely to interest her companion. So interesting did she make herself that never once during the drive was Mrs. Carnegie heard to mention the word "nerves," and so practical and to the point were her words that the rich woman's purse was opened, and two five-pound notes were given to Frances to relieve those who stood most in need of them.

"Positively I am better," explained Mrs. Carnegie, as she ate her dainty dinner with appetite.

An hour later she was seated cosily in the arbor which faced down the celebrated Rose Walk, a place well known to all the visitors at Arden.

"You are a witch," she said to Frances; "for positively I do declare the racking, torturing pain in my back is easier. The jolting of the carriage ought to have made it ten times worse, but it didn't. I positively can't understand it, my love."

"You forget," said Frances, "that although the jolting of the carriage might have tried your nerves a very little, the soft, sweet air and change of scene did them good."

"And your conversation, dearest – the limpid notes of that sweetest voice. Ah, Frances, your tales were harrowing!"

"Yes; but they were more harrowing to be lived through. You, dear Mrs. Carnegie, to-day have relieved a certain amount of this misery."

"Ah, my sweet, how good your words sound! They are like balm to this tempest-tossed heart and nerve-racked form. Frances dear, we have an affinity one for the other. I trust it may be our fate to live and die together."

Frances could scarcely suppress a slight shudder. Mrs. Carnegie suddenly caught her arm.

"Who is that radiant-looking young creature coming down the Rose Walk?" she exclaimed. "See – ah, my dear Frances, what a little beauty! What style! what exquisite bloom!"

"Why, it is Fluff!" exclaimed Frances.

She rushed from Mrs. Carnegie's side, and the next moment Miss Danvers's arms were round her neck.

"Yes, I've come, Frances," she exclaimed. "I have really come back. And who do you think I am staying with?"

"Oh, Fluff – at the Firs! It would be kind of you to cheer my poor old father up with a visit."

"But I'm not cheering him up with any visit – I'm not particularly fond of him. I'm staying with Mr. and Mrs. Spens."

Frances opened her eyes very wide; she felt a kind of shock, and a feeling almost of disgust crept over her.

"Mr. Spens? Surely you don't mean my father's lawyer, Mr. Spens, who lives in Martinstown, Fluff?"

"Yes, I don't mean anybody else."

"But I did not think you knew him."

"I did not when last I saw you, but I do now – very well, oh, very well indeed. He's a darling."

"Fluff! How can you speak of dull old Mr. Spens in that way? Well, you puzzle me. I don't know why you are staying with him."

"You are not going to know just at present, dearest Francie. There's a little bit of a secret afloat. Quite a harmless, innocent secret, which I promise you will break nobody's heart. I like so much being with Mr. Spens, and so does Philip – Philip is there, too."

"Philip? Then they are engaged," thought Frances. "It was very soon. It is all right, of course, but it is rather a shock. Poor little Fluff – dear Philip – may they be happy!"

She turned her head away for a moment, then, with a white face, but steady, quiet eyes, said in her gentlest tones:

"Am I to congratulate you, then, Fluff?"

"Yes, you are – yes, you are. Oh, I am so happy, and everything is delicious! It's going on beautifully. I mean the – the affair – the secret. Frances, I left Philip at the gate. He would like to see you so much. Won't you go down and have a chat with him?"

"I can not; you forget that I am Mrs. Carnegie's companion. I am not my own mistress."

"That thin, cross-looking woman staring at us out of the bower yonder? Oh, I'll take care of her. I promise you I'll make myself just as agreeable as you can. There, run down, run down – I see Philip coming to meet you. Oh, what a cold wretch you are, Frances! You don't deserve a lover like Philip Arnold – no, you don't."

"He is not my lover, he is yours."

"Mine? No, thank you – there, he is walking down the Rose-path. He is sick of waiting, poor fellow! I am off to Mrs. Carnegie. Oh, for goodness' sake, Francie, don't look so foolish!"

Fluff turned on her heel, put wings to her feet, and in a moment, panting and laughing, stood by Mrs. Carnegie's side.

"Oh, I beg your pardon," she exclaimed when she could speak. "I know who you are, and I am dear Frances's cousin, Fluff. I know you would not mind giving the poor thing a chance, and allowing me to stay and try to entertain you for a little."

"Sit down, my dear, sit down. You really are a radiant little vision. It is really most entertaining to me to see anything so fresh and pretty. I must congratulate you on the damask roses you wear in your cheeks, my pretty one."

"Thank you very much; I know I have plenty of color. Do you mind sitting a little bit, just so – ah, that is right. Now we'll have our backs to the poor things, and they'll feel more comfortable."

"My dear, extraordinary, entertaining little friend, what poor things do you mean?"

"Why, Frances and – "

"Frances – my companion – Frances Kane?"

"Yes, your companion. Only she oughtn't to be your companion, and she won't be long. Your companion, and my darling cousin, Frances Kane, and her lover."

"Her lover! I knew there was a love affair. That accounts for the pallor! Oh, naughty Frances; oh, cruel maiden, to deceive your Lucilla! I felt it, I guessed it, it throbbed in the air. Frances and her lover! My child, I adore lovers – let me get a peep at him. Dear Frances, dear girl! And is the course of true love going smoothly, miss – miss – I really don't know your name, my little charmer."

"My name is Fluff – please don't look round. It's a very melancholy love affair just at present, but I'm making it right."

"My little bewitching one, I would embrace you, but my poor miserable nerves won't permit of the least exertion. And so Frances, my Frances, has a lover! It was wrong of her, darling, not to tell of this."

"She gave him up to come to you."

"Oh, the noble girl! But do you think, my child, I would permit such a sacrifice? No, no; far rather would Lucilla Carnegie bury her sorrows in the lonely tomb. Lend me your handkerchief, sweet one – I can't find my own, and my tears overflow. Ah, my Frances, my Frances, I always knew you loved me, but to this extent – oh, it is too much!"

"But she didn't do it for you," said Fluff. "She wanted the money to help her father – he's such a cross, selfish old man. He wouldn't let her marry Philip, although Philip loved her for ten years, and saved all his pence in Australia to try and get enough money to marry her, and was nearly eaten himself by the blacks, but never forgot her day or night – and she loved him beyond anything. Don't you think, Mrs. Carnegie, that they ought to be married? Don't you think so?"

"My child, my little fair one, you excite me much. Oh, I shall suffer presently! But now your enthusiasm carries that of Lucilla Carnegie along with you. Yes, they ought to be married."

"Mrs. Carnegie, they must be married. I'm determined, and so is Philip, and so is Mr. Spens. Won't you be determined too?"

"Yes, my child. But, oh, what shall I not lose in my Frances? Forgive one tear for myself – my little rose in June."

"You needn't fret for yourself at all. You'll be ever so happy when you've done a noble thing. Now listen. This is our little plot – only first of all promise, promise most faithfully, that you won't say a word to Frances."

"I promise, my child. How intensely you arouse my curiosity! Really I begin to live."

"You won't give Frances a hint?"

"No, no, you may trust me, little bright one."

"Well, I do trust you. I know you won't spoil all our plans. You'll share them and help us. Oh, what a happy woman you'll be by and by! Now listen."

Then Fluff seated herself close to Mrs. Carnegie, and began to whisper an elaborately got-up scheme into that lady's ear, to all of which she listened with glowing eyes, her hands clasping Fluff's, her attention riveted on the sweet and eager face.

"It's my plot," concluded the narrator. "Philip doesn't much like it – not some of it – but I say that I will only help him in my own way."

"My dear love, I don't think I ever heard anything more clever and original, and absolutely to the point."

"Now did you? I can't sleep at night, thinking of it – you'll be sure to help me?"

"Help you? With my heart, my life, my purse!"

"Oh, we don't want your purse. You see there's plenty of money; there's the fortune Philip made for Frances. It would be a great pity anything else should rescue her from this dilemma."

"Oh, it is so sweetly romantic!" said Mrs. Carnegie, clasping her hands.

"Yes, that's what I think. You'll be quite ready when the time comes?"

"Oh, quite. More than ready, my brightest fairy!"

"Well, here comes Frances – remember, you're not to let out a word, a hint. I think I've amused Mrs. Carnegie quite nicely, Francie."

Frances's cheeks had that delicate bloom on them which comes now and then as a special and finishing touch, as the last crown of beauty to very pale faces. Her eyes were soft, and her dark eyelashes were still a little wet with some tears which were not unhappy ones.

"Philip wrung a confession out of me," she whispered to her little cousin. "No, Fluff – no, dear Fluff, it does no good – no good whatever. Still, I am almost glad I told him."

"You told him what?"

"I won't say. It can never come to anything."

"I know what you said – you have made Philip very happy, Frances. Now I must run away."

CHAPTER XVII.

THE FIRS OR FRANCES?

It is necessary for some people to go away to be missed. There are certain very quiet people in the world, who make no fuss, who think humbly of themselves, who never on any occasion blow their own trumpets, who under all possible circumstances keep in the background, but who yet have a knack of filling odd corners, of smoothing down sharp angles, of shedding the sunshine of kindness and unselfishness over things generally. There are such people, and they are seldom very much missed until they go away.

Then there is a hue and cry. Who did this? Whose duty was the other? Where is such a thing to be found? Will nobody attend to this small but necessary want? The person who never made any talk, but did all the small things, and made all the other people comfortable, is suddenly missed, and in an instant his or her virtues are discovered.

This was the case at the Firs when Frances on a certain morning drove away.

Watkins missed her – the stable-boy, the house-servant – the cat, the dog – many other domestic pets – and most of all, Squire Kane.

He was not neglected, but he had a sense of loneliness which began at the moment he awoke, and never left him till he went to sleep again.

He had his meals regularly; he was called in good time in the morning; the new housekeeper lighted his candle and brought it to him at night; his favorite fruit and his favorite flowers were still set before him, and the newspaper he liked best always lay by his plate at breakfast-time. Watkins was really an excellent gardener, and the ribbon border still bloomed and flourished, the birds sung in the trees as of yore, the lawn was smoothly kept. It was early September now, but the old place never looked gayer, sweeter, brighter. Still, somehow or other the squire was dull. His newspaper was there, but there was no one to cut it, no one to read it aloud to him. The flowers were making a wonderful bloom, but there was no special person to talk them over with. He had no one to tell his thoughts to, no one to criticise, no one to praise, and – saddest want of all to a nature like his – not a soul in the world to blame.

Really, Frances was very much missed; he could not quite have believed it before she went, for she was such a quiet, grave woman, but there wasn't the least doubt on the subject. She had a way of making a place pleasant and home-like. Although she was so quiet herself, wherever she went the sun shone. It was quite remarkable how she was missed – even the Firs, even the home of his ancestors, was quite dull without her.

Frances had been away for five weeks, and the squire was beginning to wonder if he could endure much more of his present monotonous life, when one day, as he was passing up and down in the sunny South Walk, he was startled, and his attention pleasingly diverted by the jangling sweet sound of silver bells. A smart little carriage, drawn by a pair of Arab ponies, and driven by a lady, drew up somewhere in the elm avenue; a girl in white jumped lightly out, and ran toward him.

"Good gracious!" he said to himself, "why, it's that dear little Fluff. Well, I am glad to see her."

He hobbled down the path as fast as he could, and as Fluff drew near, sung out cheerily:

"Now this is a pleasing surprise! But welcome to the Firs, my love – welcome most heartily to the Firs."

"Thank you, squire," replied Fluff. "I've come to see you on a most important matter. Shall we go into the house, or may I talk to you here?"

"I hope, my dear, that you have come to say that you are going to pay me another visit – I do hope that is your important business. Your little room can be got ready in no time, and your guitar – I hope you've brought your guitar, my dear. It really is a fact, but I haven't had one scrap of entertainment since Frances went away – preposterous, is it not?"

"Well, of course I knew you'd miss her," said Fluff in a tranquil voice. "I always told you there was no one in the world like Frances."

"Yes, my dear, yes – I will own, yes, undoubtedly, Frances, for all she is so quiet, and not what you would call a young person, is a good deal missed in the place. But you have not answered my query yet, Fluff. Have you come to stay?"

"No, I've not come to stay; at least, I think not. Squire, I am glad you appreciate dear Frances at last."

"Of course, my love, of course. A good creature – not young, but a good, worthy creature. It is a great affliction to me, being obliged, owing to sad circumstances, to live apart from my daughter. I am vexed that you can not pay me a little visit, Fluff. Whose carriage was that you came in? and what part of the world are you staying in at present?"

"That dear little pony-trap belongs to Mrs. Carnegie, of Arden; and her niece, Mrs. Passmore, drove me over. I am staying with Mr. and Mrs. Spens, at Martinstown."

"Spens the lawyer?"

"Yes, Spens the lawyer. I may stay with him if I like, may I not? I am a great friend of his. He sent me over here to-day to see you on most important business."

"My dear Fluff! Really, if Spens has business with me, he might have the goodness to come here himself."

"He couldn't – he has a very bad influenza cold; he's in bed with it. That was why I offered to come. Because the business is so very important."

"How came he to talk over my affairs with a child like you?"

"Well, as you'll learn presently, they happen to be my affairs too. He thought, as he couldn't stir out of his bed, and I knew all the particulars, that I had better come over and explain everything to you, as the matter is of such great importance, and as a decision must be arrived at to-day."

Fluff spoke with great eagerness. Her eyes were glowing, her cheeks burning, and there wasn't a scrap of her usual fun about her.

In spite of himself the squire was impressed.

"I can not imagine what you have to say to me," he said; "but perhaps we had better go into the house."

"I think we had," said Fluff; "for as what I have got to say will startle you a good deal, you had better sit in your favorite arm-chair, and have some water near you in case you feel faint."

As she spoke she took his hand, led him through the French windows into his little parlor, and seated him comfortably in his favorite chair.

"Now I'll begin," said Fluff. "You must not interrupt me, although I'm afraid you will be a little startled. You have mortgaged the Firs for six thousand pounds."

"My dear Ellen!" – an angry flush rose in the squire's cheeks. "Who has informed you with regard to my private affairs? Frances has done very – "

"Frances has had nothing to say to it; I won't go on if you interrupt me. You have mortgaged the Firs for six thousand pounds, to some people of the name of Dawson & Blake, in London. Frances lives at Arden, in order to pay them three hundred pounds a year interest on the mortgage."

"Yes, yes; really, Frances – really, Spens – "