UNDER THE ELMS.
Squire Kane had spent by no means an unhappy day. The misfortune, which
came like a sudden crash upon Frances, he had been long prepared for.
Only last week Mr. Spens had told him that he might expect some such
letter as had been put into his hands that morning. He had been a little
nervous while breaking his news to Frances--a little nervous and a
little cross. But when once she was told, he was conscious of a feeling
of relief; for all his hard words to her, he had unbounded faith in this
clever managing daughter of his; she had got him out of other scrapes,
and somehow, by hook or by crook, she would get him out of this.
Except for Fluff's rather hard words to him when he spoke to her about
Frances, he had rather an agreeable day. He was obliged to exert himself
a little, and the exertion did him good and made him less sleepy than
usual. Both Fluff and Philip did their best to make matters pass
agreeably for him, and when Frances at last reached home, in the cool of
the evening, she found herself in the midst of a very cheerful domestic
scene.
At this hour the squire was usually asleep in the south parlor; on this
night he was out-of-doors. His circular cape, it is true, was over his
shoulders, and Fluff had tucked a white shawl round his knees, but still
he was sitting out-of-doors, cheering, laughing, and applauding while
Arnold and Miss Danvers sung to him. Fluff had never looked more lovely.
Her light gossamery white dress was even more cloudy than usual; a
softer, richer pink mantled her rounded cheeks; her big blue eyes were
lustrous, and out of her parted lips poured a melody as sweet as a
nightingale's. Arnold was standing near her--he also was singing--and as
Frances approached he did not see her, for his glance, full of
admiration, was fixed upon Miss Danvers.
"Halloo! here we are, Frances!" called out the squire, "and a right
jolly time we've all had. I'm out-of-doors, as you see; broken away from
my leading-strings when you're absent; ah, ah! How late you are, child!
but we didn't wait dinner. It doesn't agree with me, as you know, to be
kept waiting for dinner."
"You look dreadfully tired, Frances," said Philip.
He dropped the sheet of music he was holding, and ran to fetch a chair
for her. He no longer looked at Ellen, for Frances's pallor and the
strained look in her eyes filled him with apprehension.
"You don't look at all well," he repeated.
And he stood in front of her, shading her from the gaze of the others.
Frances closed her eyes for a second.
"It was a hot, long walk," she said then, somewhat faintly. And she
looked up and smiled at him. It was the sweetest of smiles, but Arnold,
too, felt, as well as the lawyer, that there was something unnatural and
sad in it.
"I don't understand it," he said to himself. "There's some trouble on
her; what can it be? I'm afraid it's a private matter, for the squire's
right enough. Never saw the old boy looking jollier." Aloud he said,
turning to Fluff, "Would it not be a good thing to get a cup of tea for
Frances? No?--now I insist. I mean you must let us wait on you, Frances;
Miss Danvers and I will bring the tea out here. We absolutely forbid you
to stir a step until you have taken it."
His "we" meant "I."
Frances was only too glad to lie back in the comfortable chair, and
feel, if only for a few minutes, she might acknowledge him her master.
The squire, finding all this fuss about Frances wonderfully uncongenial,
had retired into the house, and Arnold and Fluff served her
daintily--Arnold very solicitous for comfort, and Fluff very merry, and
much enjoying her present office of waiting-maid.
"I wish this tea might last forever," suddenly exclaimed Frances.
Her words were spoken with energy, and her dark eyes, as they glanced at
Arnold, were full of fire.
It was not her way to speak in this fierce and spasmodic style, and the
moment the little sentence dropped from her lips she blushed.
Arnold looked at her inquiringly.
"Are you too tired to have a walk with me?" he said. "Not far--down
there under the shade of the elm-trees. You need not be cruel, Frances.
You can come with me as far as that."
Frances blushed still more vividly.
"I am really very tired," she answered. There was unwillingness in her
tone.
Arnold gazed at her in surprise and perplexity.
"Perhaps," he said, suddenly, looking at Fluff, "perhaps, if you are
quite too tired even to stir a few steps, Frances, Miss Danvers would
not greatly mind leaving us alone here for a little."
Before she could reply, he went up to the young girl's side and took her
hand apologetically.
"You don't mind?" he said. "I mean, you won't think me rude when I tell
you that I have come all the way from Australia to see Frances?"
"Rude? I am filled with delight," said Fluff.
Her eyes danced; she hummed the air of "Sweethearts" quite in an
obtrusive manner as she ran into the house.
"Oh, squire," she said, running up to the old man, who had seated
himself in his favorite chair in the parlor. "I have discovered such a
lovely secret."
"Ah, what may that be, missy? By the way, Fluff, you will oblige me very
much if you will call Frances here. This paraffine lamp has never been
trimmed--if I light it, it will smell abominably; it is really careless
of Frances to neglect my comforts in this way. Oblige me by calling her,
Fluff; she must have finished her tea by this time."
"I'm not going to oblige you in that way," said Fluff. "Frances is
particularly engaged--she can't come. Do you know he came all the way
from Australia on purpose? What can a lamp matter?"
"What a lot of rubbish you're talking, child! Who came from Australia?
Oh, that tiresome Arnold! A lamp does matter, for I want to read."
"Well, then, I'll attend to it," said Fluff. "What is the matter with
it?"
"The wick isn't straight--the thing will smell, I tell you."
"I suppose I can put it right. I never touched a lamp before in my life.
Where does the wick come?"
"Do be careful, Ellen, you will smash that lamp--it cost three and
sixpence. There, I knew you would; you've done it now."
The glass globe lay in fragments on the floor. Fluff gazed at the broken
pieces comically.
"Frances would have managed it all right," she said. "What a useless
little thing I am! I can do nothing but dance and sing and talk. Shall I
talk to you, squire? We don't want light to talk, and I'm dying to tell
you what I've discovered."
"Well, child, well--I hate a mess on the floor like that. Well, what is
it you've got to say to me, Fluff? It's really unreasonable of Frances
not to come. She must have finished her tea long ago."
"Of course she has finished her tea; she is talking to Mr. Arnold. He
came all the way from Australia to have this talk with her. I'm so glad.
You'll find out what a useful, dear girl Frances is by and by, when you
never have her to trim your lamps."
"What do you mean, you saucy little thing? When I don't have Frances;
what do you mean?"
"Why, you can't have her when she's--she's married. It must be
wonderfully interesting to be married; I suppose I shall be some day.
Weren't you greatly excited long, long ago, when you married?"
"One would think I lived in the last century, miss. As to Frances,
well--well, she knows my wishes. Where did you say she was? Really, I'm
very much disturbed to-day; I had a shock, too, this morning--oh!
nothing that you need know about; only Frances might be reasonable.
Listen to me, Fluff; your father is in India, and, it so happens, can
not have you with him at present, and your mother, poor soul, poor, dear
soul! she's dead; it was the will of Heaven to remove her, but if there
is a solemn duty devolving upon a girl, it is to see to her parents,
provided they are with her. Frances has her faults, but I will say, as a
rule, she knows her duty in this particular."
The squire got up restlessly as he spoke, and, try as she would, Fluff
found she could no longer keep him quiet in the dark south parlor. He
went to the open window and called his daughter in a high and peevish
voice. Frances, however, was nowhere within hearing.
The fact was, when they were quite alone, Philip took her hand and said,
almost peremptorily:
"There is a seat under the elm-trees; we can talk there without being
disturbed."
"It has come," thought Frances. "I thought I might have been spared
to-night. I have no answer ready--I don't know what is before me. The
chances are that I must have nothing to say to Philip; every chance is
against our marrying, and yet I can not--I know I can not refuse him
to-night."
They walked slowly together through the gathering dusk. When they
reached the seat under the elm-tree Arnold turned swiftly, took
Frances's hand in his, and spoke.
"Now, Frances, now; and at last!" he said. "I have waited ten years for
this moment. I have loved you with all my heart and strength for ten
years."
"It was very--very good of you, Philip."
"Good of me! Why do you speak in that cold, guarded voice? Goodness had
nothing to say to the matter. I could not help myself. What's the
matter, Frances? A great change has come over you since the morning. Are
you in trouble? Tell me what is troubling you, my darling?"
Frances began to cry silently.
"You must not use loving words to me," she said; "they--they wring my
heart. I can not tell you what is the matter, Philip, at least for a
week. And--oh! if you would let me answer you in a week--and oh! poor
Philip, I am afraid there is very little hope."
"Why so, Frances; don't you love me?"
"I--I--ought not to say it. Let me go back to the house now."
"I shall do nothing of the kind. Do you love me?"
"Philip, I said I would give you an answer in a week."
"This has nothing to say to your answer. You surely know now whether you
love me or not."
"I--Philip, can't you see? Need I speak?"
"I see that you have kept me at a distance, Frances; that you have left
me alone all day; that you seem very tired and unhappy. What I see--yes,
what I see--does not, I confess, strike me in a favorable light."
Frances, who had been standing all this time, now laid her hand on
Arnold's shoulder. Her voice had grown quiet, and her agitation had
disappeared.
"A week will not be long in passing," she said. "A heavy burden has been
laid upon me, and the worst part is the suspense. If you have waited
ten years, you can wait another week, Philip. I can give you no other
answer to-night."
The hand which unconsciously had been almost caressing in its light
touch was removed, and Frances returned quickly to the house. She came
in by a back entrance, and, going straight to her own room, locked the
door. Thus she could not hear her father when he called her.
But Philip remained for a long time in the elm-walk, hurt, angry, and
puzzled.