FOR THE SAKE OF THREE HUNDRED A YEAR.
For nearly another quarter of a mile Frances walked quickly under the
friendly elm-trees. Then she came to some massive and beautifully
wrought iron gates, and paused for an instant, pressing her hand to her
brow.
"Shall I go on?" said she to herself. "It means giving up Philip--it
means deliberately crushing a very bright hope."
She remained quite still for several seconds longer. Her lips, which
were white and tired-looking, moved silently. She raised her eyes, and
looked full into the blue deep of the sky; and then she turned in at one
of the gates, and walked up an exquisitely kept carriage drive.
Some ladies in a carriage bowled past her; the ladies bent forward,
bowed, and smiled.
"Why, that is Frances Kane," they said one to another. "How good of her
to call--and this is one of Aunt Lucilla's bad days. If she will consent
to see Frances it will do her good."
Frances walked on. The avenue was considerably over a mile in length.
Presently she came to smaller gates, which were flung open. She now
found herself walking between velvety greenswards, interspersed with
beds filled with all the bright flowers of the season. Not a leaf was
out of place; not an untidy spray was to be seen anywhere; the garden
was the perfection of what money and an able gardener could achieve.
The avenue was a winding one, and a sudden bend brought Frances in full
view of a large, square, massive-looking house--a house which contained
many rooms, and was evidently of modern date. Frances mounted the steps
which led to the wide front entrance, touched an electric bell, and
waited until a footman in livery answered her summons.
"Is Mrs. Passmore at home?"
"I will inquire, madame. Will you step this way?"
Frances was shown into a cool, beautifully furnished morning-room.
"What name, madame?"
"Miss Kane, from the Firs. Please tell Mrs. Passmore that I will not
detain her long."
The man bowed, and, closing the door softly after him, withdrew.
Her long walk, and all the excitement she had gone through, made Frances
feel faint. It was past the hour for lunch at the Firs, and she had not
eaten much at the early breakfast. She was not conscious, however, of
hunger, but the delicious coolness of the room caused her to close her
eyes gratefully--gave her a queer sensation of sinking away into
nothing, and an odd desire, hardly felt before it had vanished, that
this might really be the case, and so that she might escape the hard
role of duty.
The rustling of a silk dress was heard in the passage--a quick, light
step approached--and a little lady most daintily attired, with a
charming frank face, stepped briskly into the room.
"My dear Frances, this is delightful--how well--no, though, you are not
looking exactly the thing, poor dear. So you have come to have lunch
with me; how very, very nice of you! The others are all out, and I am
quite alone."
"But I have come to see you on business, Carrie."
"After luncheon, then, dear. My head is swimming now, for I have been
worrying over Aunt Lucilla's accounts. Ah, no, alas! this is not one of
her good days. Come into the next room, Frances--if you have so little
time to spare, you busy, busy creature, you can at least talk while we
eat."
Mrs. Passmore slipped her hand affectionately through Frances's arm, and
led her across the wide hall to another cool and small apartment where
covers were already placed for two.
"I am very glad of some lunch, Carrie," said Frances. "I left home early
this morning. I am not ashamed to say that I am both tired and hungry."
"Eat then, my love, eat--these are lamb cutlets; these pease are not to
be compared with what you can produce at the Firs, but still they are
eatable. Have a glass of this cool lemonade. Oh, yes, we will help
ourselves. You need not wait Smithson."
The footman withdrew. Mrs. Passmore flitted about the table, waiting on
her guest with a sort of loving tenderness. Then she seated herself
close to Frances, pretended to eat a mouthful or two, and said suddenly:
"I know you are in trouble. And yet I thought--I hoped--that you would
be bringing me good news before long. Is it true, Frances, that Philip
Arnold is really alive after all, and has returned to England?"
"It is perfectly true, Carrie. At this moment Philip is at the Firs."
Mrs. Passmore opened her lips--her bright eyes traveled all over
Frances's face.
"You don't look well," she said, after a long pause. "I am puzzled to
account for your not looking well now."
"What you think is not going to happen, Carrie. Philip is not likely to
make a long visit. He came yesterday; he may go again to-morrow or next
day. We won't talk of it. Oh, yes, of course it is nice to think he is
alive and well. Carrie, does your aunt Lucilla still want a companion?"
Mrs. Passmore jumped from her seat--her eyes lighted up; she laid her
two dimpled, heavily ringed hands on Frances's shoulders.
"My dear, you can't mean it! You can't surely mean that you would come?
You know what you are to auntie; you can do anything with her. Why, you
would save her, Frances; you would save us all."
"I do think of accepting the post, if you will give it to me," said
Frances.
"Give it to you? you darling! As if we have not been praying and longing
for this for the last two years!"
"But, Carrie, I warn you that I only come because necessity presses
me--and--and--I must make conditions--I must make extravagant demands."
"Anything, dearest. Is it a salary? Name anything you fancy. You know
Aunt Lucilla is rolling in money. Indeed, we all have more than we know
what to do with. Money can't buy everything, Frances. Ah, yes, I have
proved that over and over again; but if it can buy you, it will for once
have done us a good turn. What do you want, dear? Don't be afraid to
name your price--a hundred a year? You shall have it with pleasure."
"Carrie, I know what you will think of me, but if I am never frank again
I must be now. I don't come here to oblige you, or because I have a
real, deep, anxious desire to help your aunt. I come--I come alone
because of a pressing necessity; there is no other way out of it that I
can see, therefore my demand must be extravagant. If I take the post of
companion to your aunt Lucilla, I shall want three hundred pounds a
year."
Mrs. Passmore slightly started, and for the briefest instant a frown of
disappointment and annoyance knit her pretty brows. Then she glanced
again at the worn face of the girl who sat opposite to her; the
steadfast eyes looked down, the long, thin, beautifully cut fingers
trembled as Frances played idly with her fork and spoon.
"No one could call Frances Kane mercenary," she said to herself. "Poor
dear, she has some trouble upon her. Certainly her demand is exorbitant;
never before since the world was known did a companion receive such a
salary. Still, where would one find a second Frances?"
"So be it, dear," she said, aloud. "I admit that your terms are high,
but in some ways your services are beyond purchase. No one ever did or
ever will suit Aunt Lucilla as you do. Now, when will you come?"
"I am not quite sure yet, Carrie, that I can come at all. If I do it
will probably be in a week from now. Yes, to-morrow week; if I come at
all I will come then; and I will let you know certainly on this day
week."
"My dear, you are a great puzzle to me; why can't you make up your mind
now?"
"My own mind is made up, Carrie, absolutely and fully, but others have
really to decide for me. I think the chances are that I shall have my
way. Carrie dear, you are very good; I wish I could thank you more."
"No, don't thank me. When you come you will give as much as you get.
Your post won't be a sinecure."
"Sinecures never fell in my way," said Frances. "May I see your aunt for
a few minutes to-day?"
"Certainly, love--you know her room. You will find her very poorly and
fractious this afternoon. Will you tell her that you are coming to live
with her, Frances?"
"No; that would be cruel, for I may not be able to come, after all.
Still, I think I shall spend some time in doing my utmost to help you
and yours, Carrie."
"God bless you, dear! Now run up to auntie. You will find me in the
summer-house whenever you like to come down. I hope you will spend the
afternoon with me, Frances, and have tea; I can send you home in the
evening."
"You are very kind, Carrie, but I must not stay. I will say good-bye to
you now, for I must go back to Martinstown for a few minutes early this
afternoon. Good-bye, thank you. You are evidently a very real friend in
need."
Frances kissed Mrs. Passmore, and then ran lightly up the broad and
richly carpeted stairs. Her footsteps made no sound on the thick
Axminster. She flitted past down a long gallery hung with portraits,
presently stopped before a baize door, paused for a second, then opened
it swiftly and went in.
She found herself in an anteroom, darkened and rendered cool with soft
green silk drapery. The anteroom led to a large room beyond. She tapped
at the door of the inside room, and an austere-looking woman dressed as
a nurse opened it immediately. Her face lighted up when she saw Frances.
"Miss Kane, you're just the person of all others my mistress would like
to see. Walk in, miss, please. Can you stay for half an hour? If so,
I'll leave you."
"Yes, Jennings. I am sorry Mrs. Carnegie is so ill to-day."
Then she stepped across the carpeted floor, the door was closed behind
her, and she found herself in the presence of a tall thin woman, who was
lying full length on a sofa by the open window. Never was there a more
peevish face than the invalid wore. Her brows were slightly drawn
together, her lips had fretful curves; the pallor of great pain, of
intense nervous suffering, dwelt on her brow. Frances went softly up to
her.
"How do you do, Mrs. Carnegie?" she said, in her gentle voice.
The sound was so low and sweet that the invalid did not even start. A
smile like magic chased the furrows from her face.
"Sit down, Frances, there's a dear child," she said. "Now, I have been
wishing for you more than for any one. I'm at my very worst to-day,
dear. My poor back is so bad--oh, the nerves, dear child, the nerves! I
really feel that I can not speak a civil word to any one, and Jennings
is so awkward, painfully awkward--her very step jars me; and why will
she wear those stiff-starched caps and aprons? But there, few understand
those unfortunates who are martyrs to nerves."
"You have too much light on your eyes," said Frances. She lowered the
blind about an inch or two.
"Now tell me, have you been down-stairs to-day?"
"How can you ask me, my love, when I can't even crawl? Besides, I assure
you, dear, dearest one"--here Mrs. Carnegie took Frances's hand and
kissed it--"that they dislike having me. Freda and Alicia quite show
their dislike in their manner. Carrie tries to smile and look friendly,
but she is nothing better than a hypocrite. I can read through them all.
They are only civil to me; they only put up with their poor old aunt
because I am rich, and they enjoy my comfortable house. Ah! they none of
them know what nerves are--the rack, the tear, to the poor system, that
overstrained nerves can give. My darling, you understand, you pity me."
"I am always very sorry for you, Mrs. Carnegie, but I think when you are
better you ought to exert yourself a little more, and you must not
encourage morbid thoughts. Now shall I tell you what I did with that
last five-pound note you gave me?"
"Ah, yes, love, that will be interesting. It is nice to feel that even
such a useless thing as money can make some people happy. Is it really,
seriously the case, Frances, that there are any creatures so destitute
in the world as not to know where to find a five-pound note?"
"There are thousands and thousands who don't even know where to find a
shilling," replied Frances.
Mrs. Carnegie's faded blue eyes lighted up.
"How interesting!" she said. "Why, it must make existence quite keen.
Fancy being anxious about a shilling! I wish something would make life
keen for me; but my nerves are in such a state that really everything
that does not thrill me with torture, palls."
"I will tell you about the people who have to find their shillings,"
responded Frances.
She talked with animation for about a quarter of an hour, then kissed
the nervous sufferer, and went away.
Half an hour's brisk walking brought her back to Martinstown. She
reached the lawyer's house, and was fortunate in finding him within.
"Will you tell your client, Mr. Spens, that if he will hold over the
sale of the Firs until after my father's death, I will engage to let him
have five per cent. on his money? I have to-day accepted the post of
companion to Mrs. Carnegie, of Arden. For this I am to have a salary of
three hundred pounds a year."
"Bless me!" said the lawyer. "Such a sacrifice! Why! that woman can't
keep even a servant about her. A heartless, selfish hypochondriac! even
her nieces will scarcely stay in the house with her. I think she would
get you cheap at a thousand a year, Miss Kane; but you must be joking."
"I am in earnest," responded Frances. "Please don't make it harder for
me, Mr. Spens. I know what I am undertaking. Will you please tell your
client that I can pay him his interest? If he refuses to accept it, I am
as I was before; if he consents, I go to Arden. You will do me a great
favor by letting me know his decision as soon as possible."
The lawyer bowed.
"I will do so," he said. Then he added, "I hope you will forgive me,
Miss Kane, for saying that I think you are a very brave and unselfish
woman, but I don't believe even you will stand Mrs. Carnegie for long."
"I think you are mistaken," responded Frances, gently. "I do it for the
sake of three hundred pounds a year, to save the Firs for my father
during his lifetime."
The lawyer thought he had seldom seen anything sadder than Frances'
smile. It quite haunted him as he wrote to his client, urging him to
accept her terms.