"THIS IS WONDERFUL."
It was quite late on that same afternoon before Frances found a leisure
moment to read her own letter. It was not forgotten as it lay in her
pocket, but she was in no hurry to ascertain its contents.
"Until it is read it is something to look forward to," she said to
herself; "afterward--oh, of course there can be nothing of special
interest in it."
She sighed; strong and special interests had never come in her way.
The afternoon which followed the receipt of the two letters was a
specially busy one. The squire never grew tired of discussing the news
which his own letter had brought him. He had a thousand conjectures
which must be dwelt upon and entered into; how and when had Ellen
Danvers died? what would the child Ellen be like? which bedroom would
suit her best? would she like the South Walk as much as the old squire
did himself? would she admire the ribbon border? would she appreciate
the asparagus which she herself had seen planted?
The old man was quite garrulous and excited, and Frances was pleased to
see him so interested in anything. When she had walked with him for
nearly an hour she was obliged to devote some time to Watkins in the
vegetable garden; then came dinner; but after that meal there always was
a lull in the day's occupation for Frances, for the squire went to sleep
over his pipe, and never cared to be aroused or spoken to until his
strong coffee was brought to him at nine o'clock.
On this particular evening Frances felt her heart beat with a pleased
and quickened movement. She had her unopened letter to read. She would
go to the rose arbor, and have a quiet time there while her father
slept. She was very fond of Keats, and she took a volume of his poems
under her arm, for, of course, the letter would not occupy her many
moments. The rose arbor commanded a full view of the whole garden, and
Frances made a graceful picture in her soft light-gray dress, as she
stepped into it. She sat down in one of the wicker chairs, laid her copy
of Keats on the rustic table, spread the bright shawl on her lap, and
took the foreign letter out of her pocket.
"It is sure to be nothing in the least interesting," she said to
herself. "Still, there is some excitement about it till it is opened."
And as she spoke she moved to the door of the arbor.
Once again she played with the envelope and examined the writing. Then
she drew a closely written sheet out of its inclosure, spread it open on
her lap, and began to read.
As she did so, swiftly and silently there rose into her cheeks a
beautiful bloom. Her eyelids quivered, her hand shook; the bloom was
succeeded by a pallor. With feverish haste her quick eyes flew over the
paper. She turned the page and gasped slightly for breath. She raised
her head, and her big, dark eyes were full of tears, and a radiant,
tender smile parted her lips.
"Thank God!" she said; "oh, this is wonderful! Oh, thank God!"
Once again she read the letter, twice, three times, four times. Then she
folded it up, raised it to her lips, and kissed it. This time she did
not return it to her pocket, but, opening her dress, slipped it inside,
so that it lay against her heart.
"Miss Frances!" old Watkins was seen hobbling down the path. "You hasn't
said what's to be done with the bees. They are sure to swarm to-morrow,
and--and--why, miss, I seem to have startled you like--"
"Oh, not at all, Watkins; I will come with you now, and we will make
some arrangement about the bees."
Frances came out of the arbor. The radiant light was still in her eyes,
a soft color mantled her cheeks, and she smiled like summer itself on
the old man.
He looked at her with puzzled, dull wonder and admiration.
"What's come to Miss Frances?" he said to himself. "She looks rare and
handsome, and she's none so old."
The question of the bees was attended to, and then Frances paced about
in the mellow June twilight until it was time for her father to have his
coffee. She came in then, sat down rather in the shadow, and spoke
abruptly. Her heart was beating with great bounds, and her voice sounded
almost cold in her effort to steady it.
"Father, I, too, have had a letter to-day."
"Ay, ay, my love. I saw that the carrier brought two. Was it of any
importance? If not, we might go on with our 'History of Greece.' I was
interested in where we left off last night. You might read to me for an
hour before I go to bed, Frances; unless, indeed, you have anything more
to say about Fluff, dear little soul! Do you know, it occurred to me
that we ought to get fresh curtains and knickknacks for her room? It
ought to look nice for her, dear, bright little thing!"
"So it shall, father." There was no shade of impatience in Frances's
tone. "We will talk of Fluff presently. But it so happens that my
letter was of importance. Father, you remember Philip Arnold?"
"Arnold--Arnold? Dimly, my dear, dimly. He was here once, wasn't he? I
rather fancy that I heard of his death. What about him, Frances?"
Frances placed her hand to her fast-beating heart. Strange--her father
remembered dimly the man she had thought of, and dreamed of, and
secretly mourned for for ten long years.
"Philip Arnold is not dead," she said, still trying to steady her voice.
"It was a mistake, a false rumor. He has explained it--my letter was
from him."
"Really, my love? Don't you think there is a slight draught coming from
behind that curtain? I am so sensitive to draughts, particularly after
hot days. Oblige me, Frances, my dear, by drawing that curtain a little
more to the right. Ah, that is better. So Arnold is alive. To tell the
truth, I don't remember him very vividly, but of course I'm pleased to
hear that he is not cut off in his youth. A tall, good-looking fellow,
wasn't he? Well, well, this matter scarcely concerns us. How about the
dimity in the room which will be Fluff's? My dear Frances, what is the
matter? I must ask you not to fidget so."
Frances sprung suddenly to her feet.
"Father, you must listen to me. I am going to say something which will
startle you. All these quiet years, all the time which has gone by and
left only a dim memory of a certain man to you, have been spent by me
smothering down regrets, stifling my youth, crushing what would have
made me joyous and womanly--for Philip Arnold has not been remembered at
all dimly by me, father, and when I heard of his death I lived through
something which seemed to break the spring of energy and hope in me. I
did not show it, and you never guessed, only you told me to-day that I
had never been young, that I had never been either child or girl. Well,
all that is over now, thank God! hope has come back to me, and I have
got my lost youth again. You will have two young creatures about the
house, father, and won't you like it?"
"I don't know," said the squire. He looked up at his daughter in some
alarm; her words puzzled him; he was suddenly impressed too by the
brightness in her eyes, and the lovely coloring on her cheeks.
"What is all this excitement, Frances?" he said. "Speak out; I never
understand riddles."
Frances sat down as abruptly as she had risen.
"The little excitement was a prelude to my letter, dear father," she
said. "Philip is alive, and is coming to England immediately. Ten years
ago he saw something in me--I was only eighteen then--he saw something
which gave him pleasure, and--and--more. He says he gave me his heart
ten years ago, and now he is coming to England to know if I will accept
him as my husband. That is the news which my letter contains, father.
You see, after all, my letter is important--as important as yours."
"Bless me!" said the squire. The expression of his face was not
particularly gratified; his voice was not too cordial. "A proposal of
marriage to you, Frances? Bless me!--why, I can scarcely remember the
fellow. He was here for a month, wasn't he? It was the summer before
your mother died. I think it is rather inconsiderate of you to tell me
news of this sort just before I go to bed, my dear. I don't sleep
over-well, and it is bad to lie down with a worry on your pillow. I
suppose you want me to answer the letter for you, Frances, but I'll do
nothing of the kind, I can tell you. If you encouraged the young man
long ago, you must get out of it as best you can now."
"Out of it, father? Oh, don't you understand?"
"Then you mean to tell me you care for him? You want to marry a fellow
whom you haven't seen for ten years! And pray what am I to do if you go
away and leave me?"
"Something must be managed," said Frances.
She rose again. Her eyes no longer glowed happily; her lips, so sweet
five minutes ago, had taken an almost bitter curve.
"We will talk this over quietly in the morning, dear father," she said.
"I will never neglect you, never cast you aside; but a joy like this can
not be put out of a life. That is, it can not be lightly put away. I
have always endeavored to do my duty--God will help me to do it still.
Now shall I ring for prayers?"