AFTER TEN YEARS.
When Frances got to her room she took out pen and ink, and without a
moment's hesitation wrote an answer to her letter.
"MY DEAR PHILIP,--I have not forgotten you--I remember the
old times, and all the things to which you alluded in your
letter. I thought you were dead, and for the last three or
four years always remembered you as one who had quite done
with this world. Your letter startled me to-day, but your
hope about me has been abundantly fulfilled, for I have
never for a moment forgotten you. Philip, you have said very
good words to me in your letter, and whatever happens, and
however matters may be arranged between us in the future, I
shall always treasure the words, and bless you for
comforting my heart with them. But, Philip, ten years is a
long time--in ten years we none of us stay still, and in ten
years some of us grow older than others. I think I am one of
those who grow old fast, and nothing would induce me to
engage myself to you, or even to tell you that I care for
you, until after we have met again. When you reach
England--I will send this letter to the address you give me
in London--come down here. My dear and sweet mother is dead,
but I dare say my father will find you a room at the Firs,
and if not, there are good lodgings to be had at the White
Hart in the village. If you are of the same mind when you
reach England as you were when you wrote this letter, come
down to the old place, and let us renew our acquaintance.
If, after seeing me, you find I am not the Frances you had
in your heart all these years, you have only to go away
without speaking, and I shall understand. In any case, thank
you for the letter, and believe me, yours faithfully,
"FRANCES KANE."
This letter was quickly written, as speedily directed and stamped, and,
wrapping her red shawl over her head, Frances herself went out in the
silent night, walked half a mile to the nearest pillar-box, kissed the
letter passionately before she dropped it through the slit, and then
returned home, with the stars shining over her, and a wonderful new
peace in her heart. Her father's unsympathetic words were forgotten, and
she lived over and over again on what her hungry heart had craved for
all these years.
The next morning she was up early; for the post of housekeeper,
head-gardener, general accountant, factotum, amanuensis, reader, etc.,
to John Kane, Esq., of the Firs, was not a particularly light post, and
required undivided attention, strong brains, and willing feet, from
early morning to late night every day of the week. Frances was by no
means a grumbling woman, and if she did not go through her allotted
tasks with the greatest possible cheerfulness and spirit, she performed
them ungrudgingly, and in a sensible, matter-of-fact style.
On this particular morning, however, the joy of last night was still in
her face; as she followed Watkins about, her merry laugh rang in the
air; work was done in half the usual time, and never done better, and
after breakfast she was at leisure to sit with her father and read to
him as long as he desired it.
"Well, Frances," he said, in conclusion, after the reader's quiet voice
had gone on for over an hour and a half, "you have settled that little
affair of last night, I presume, satisfactorily. I have thought the
whole matter over carefully, my love, and I have really come to the
conclusion that I can not spare you. You see you are, so to speak,
necessary to me, dear. I thought I would mention this to you now,
because in case you have not yet written to that young Arnold, it will
simplify matters for you. I should recommend you not to enter on the
question of your own feelings at all, but state the fact simply--'My
father can not spare me.'"
"I wrote to Philip last night," said Frances. "I have neither refused
him nor accepted him. I have asked him on a visit here; can we put him
up at the Firs?"
"Certainly, my love; that is a good plan. It will amuse me to have a man
about the house again, and travelers are generally entertaining. I can
also intimate to him, perhaps with more propriety than you can, how
impossible it would be for me to spare you. On the whole, my dear, I
think you have acted with discernment. You don't age well, Frances, and
doubtless Arnold will placidly acquiesce in my decision. By all means
have him here."
"Only I think it right to mention to you, father"--here Frances stood up
and laid her long, slender white hand with a certain nervous yet
imperative gesture on the table--"I think it right to mention that if,
after seeing me, Philip still wishes to make me his wife, I shall accept
him."
"My dear!" Squire Kane started. Then a satisfied smile played over his
face. "You say this as a sort of bravado, my dear. But we really need
not discuss this theme; it positively wearies me. Have you yet made up
your mind, Frances, what room Ellen's dear child is to occupy?"