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FRANCES KANE'S FORTUNE.
BY
L. T. MEADE,
AUTHOR OF "HOW IT ALL CAME ROUND," "WATER GIPSIES," ETC.
CHICAGO:
M. A. DONOHUE & CO.
* * * * *
Contents
FRANCES KANE'S FORTUNE.
MONSIEUR THE VISCOUNT'S FRIEND.
THE YEW-LANE GHOSTS.
* * * * *
FRANCES KANE'S FORTUNE.
CHAPTER I.
THE LETTER.
It was a very sunny June day, and a girl was pacing up and down a
sheltered path in an old-fashioned garden. She walked slowly along the
narrow graveled walk, now and then glancing at the carefully trimmed
flowers of an elaborate ribbon border at her right, and stopping for an
instant to note the promise of fruit on some well-laden peach and
pear-trees. The hot sun was pouring down almost vertical rays on her
uncovered head, but she was either impervious to its power, or, like a
salamander, she rejoiced in its fierce noonday heat.
"We have a good promise of peaches and pears," she said to herself; "I
will see that they are sold this year. We will just keep a few for my
father to eat, but the rest shall go. It is a pity Watkins spends so
much time over the ribbon border; it does not pay, and it uses up so
many of our bedding plants."
She frowned slightly as she said these last words, and put up her hand
to shade her face from the sun, as though for the first time she noticed
its dazzling light and heat.
"Now I will go and look to the cabbages," she said, continuing her
meditations aloud. "And those early pease ought to be fit for pulling
now. Oh! is that you, Watkins? Were you calling me? I wanted to speak to
you about this border. You must not use up so many geraniums and
calceolarias here. I don't mind the foliage plants, but the others cost
too much, and can not be made use of to any profit in a border of this
kind."
"You can't make a ribbon, what's worthy to be called a ribbon, with
foliage plants," gruffly retorted the old gardener. "Master would be
glad to see you in the house, Miss Frances, and yer's a letter what
carrier has just brought."
"Post at this hour?" responded Frances, a little eagerness and interest
lighting up her face; "that is unusual, and a letter in the middle of
the day is quite a treat. Well, Watkins, I will go to my father now, and
see you at six o'clock in the kitchen garden about the cabbages and
peas."
"As you please, Miss Frances; the wegitables won't be much growed since
you looked at them yester-night, but I'm your sarvint, miss. Carrier
called at the post-office and brought two letters: one for you, and
t'other for master. I'm glad you're pleased to get 'em, Miss Frances."
Watkins's back was a good deal bent; he certainly felt the heat of the
sun, and was glad to hobble off into the shade.
"Fuss is no word for her," he said; "though she's a good gel, and means
well--werry well."
After the old gardener had left her, Frances stood quite still; the sun
beat upon her slight figure, upon her rippling, abundant dark-brown
hair, and lighted up a face which was a little hard, a tiny bit soured,
and scarcely young enough to belong to so slender and lithe a figure.
The eyes, however, now were full of interest, and the lips melted into
very soft curves as Frances turned her letter round, examined the
postmarks, looked with interest at the seal, and studied the
handwriting. Her careful perusal of the outside of the letter revealed
at a glance how few she got, and how such a comparatively uninteresting
event in most lives was regarded by her.
"This letter will keep," she said to herself, slipping it into her
pocket. "I will hear what father has to tell me first. It is a great
treat to have an unopened letter to look forward to. I wonder where this
is from. Who can want to write to me from Australia? If Philip were
alive--" Here she paused and sighed. "In the first place, I heard of his
death three years ago; in the second, being alive, why should he write?
It is ten years since we met."
Her face, which was a very bright and practical one, notwithstanding
those few hard lines, looked pensive for a moment. Then its habitual
expression of cheerfulness returned to it, and when she entered the
house Frances Kane looked as practical and business-like a woman as
could be found anywhere in the whole of the large parish in the north
of England where she and her father lived.
Squire Kane, as he was called, came of an old family; and in the days
before Frances was born he was supposed to be rich. Now, however, nearly
all his lands were mortgaged, and it was with difficulty that the long,
low, old-fashioned house, and lovely garden which surrounded it, could
be kept together. No chance at all would the squire have had of spending
his last days in the house where he was born, and where many generations
of ancestors had lived and died, but for Frances. She managed the house
and the gardens, and the few fields which were not let to surrounding
farmers. She managed Watkins, too, and the under-gardener, and the two
men-servants; and, most of all, she managed Squire Kane.
He had been a hale and hearty man in his day, with a vigorous will of
his own, and a marvelous and fatal facility for getting through money;
but now he leaned on Frances, was guided by her in all things; never
took an opinion or spent a shilling without her advice; and yet all the
time he thought himself to be the ruler, and she the ruled. For Frances
was very tactful, and if she governed with a rod of iron, she was clever
enough to incase it well in silk.
"I want you, Frances," called a rather querulous old voice.
The squire was ensconced in the sunniest corner of the sunny old parlor;
his feet were stretched out on a hassock; he wore a short circular cape
over his shoulders, and a black velvet skull-cap was pushed a little
crooked over his high bald forehead. He had aquiline features, an
aristocratic mouth, and sunken but somewhat piercing eyes. As a rule his
expression was sleepy, his whole attitude indolent; but now he was
alert, his deep-set eyes were wide open and very bright, and when his
daughter came in, he held out a somewhat trembling hand, and drew her to
his side.
"Sit down, Frances--there, in the sun, it's so chilly in the
shade--don't get into that corner behind me, my dear; I want to look at
you. What do you think? I have got a letter, and news--great news! It is
not often that news comes to the Firs in these days. What do you think,
Frances? But you will never guess. Ellen's child is coming to live with
us!"
"What?" said Frances. "What! Little Fluff we used to call her? I don't
understand you, father; surely Ellen would never part with her child."
"No, my dear, that is true. Ellen and her child were bound up in each
other; but she is dead--died three months ago in India. I have just
received a letter from that good-for-nothing husband of hers, and the
child is to leave school and come here. Major Danvers can't have her in
India, he says, and her mother's wish was--her mother's last wish--that
she should make her home with us. She will be here within a week after
the receipt of this letter, Frances. I call it great news; fancy a young
thing about the house again!"
Frances Kane had dark, straight brows; they were drawn together now with
a slight expression of surprise and pain.
"I am not so old, father," she said; "compared to you, I am quite young.
I am only eight-and-twenty."
"My dear," said the squire, "you were never young. You are a good woman,
Frances, an excellent, well-meaning woman; but you were never either
child or girl. Now, this little thing--how long is it since she and her
mother were here, my love?"
"It was just before Cousin Ellen went to India," responded Frances,
again knitting her brows, and casting back her memory. "Yes, it was six
years ago; I remember it, because we planted the new asparagus bed that
year."
"Ay, ay; and a very productive bed it turned out," responded the squire.
"Fluff was like a ball then, wasn't she?--all curly locks, and dimples,
and round cheeks, and big blue eyes like saucers! The merriest little
kitten--she plagued me, but I confess I liked her. How old would she be
now, Frances?"
"About seventeen," replied Frances. "Almost a grown-up girl; dear, dear,
how time does fly! Well, father, I am glad you are pleased. I will read
the letter, if you will let me, by and by, and we must consult as to
what room to give the child. I hope she won't find it very dull."
"Not she, my dear, not she. She was the giddiest mortal--always
laughing, and singing, and skipping about in the sunshine. Dear heart!
it will do me good to see anything so lively again."
"I am glad she is coming," repeated Frances, rising to her feet.
"Although you must remember, father, that six years make a change. Ellen
may not be quite so kittenish and frolicsome now."
"Ellen!" repeated the squire; "I'm not going to call the child anything
so formal. Fluff she always was and will be with me--a kittenish
creature with a kittenish name; I used to tell her so, and I expect I
shall again."
"You forget that she has just lost her mother," said Frances. "They
loved each other dearly, and you can not expect her not to be changed.
There is also another thing, father; I am sorry to have to mention it,
but it is necessary. Does Major Danvers propose to give us an allowance
for keeping his daughter here? Otherwise it will be impossible for us to
have her except on a brief visit."
The squire pulled himself with an effort out of his deep arm-chair. His
face flushed, and his eyes looked angry.
"You are a good woman, Frances, but a bit hard," he said. "You don't
suppose that a question of mere money would keep Ellen's child away from
the Firs? While I am here she is sure of a welcome. No, there was
nothing said about money in this letter, but I have no doubt the money
part is right enough. Now I think I'll go out for a stroll. The sun is
going off the south parlor, and whenever I get into the shade I feel
chilly. If you'll give me your arm, my dear, I'll take a stroll before
dinner. Dear, dear! it seems to me there isn't half the heat in the sun
there used to be. Let's get up to the South Walk, Frances, and pace up
and down by the ribbon border--it's fine and hot there--what I like. You
don't wear a hat, my dear? quite right--let the sun warm you all it
can."