THE CUNNING LITTLE MOUSE.
Fluff found her companion strangely dull. They reached the river, where
Arnold, true to his promise, did stretch himself at full length in the
long fragrant grass; and Fluff, true to her promise, touched her guitar
gently, and gently, softly, and sympathetically sung a song or two. She
sung about the "Auld acquaintance" who should never be forgot; she sung
of "Robin Adair;" and, lastly, her clear little notes warbled out the
exquisite Irish melody, "She is far from the land." Never had Fluff sung
better. She threw feeling and sympathy into her notes--in short, she
excelled herself in her desire to please. But when at the end of the
third song Arnold still made no response, when not the flicker of an
eyelid or the faintest dawn of a smile showed either approbation or
pleasure, the spoiled child threw her guitar aside, and spoke pettishly.
"I won't amuse you any more," she said. "I don't like sulky people; I am
going home to my darling Frances. She is often troubled--oh, yes, she
knows what trouble is--but she never sulks, never!"
"Look here, Fluff," said Arnold. "I may call you Fluff, may I not?"
"I don't mind."
Fluff's big eyes began to dilate. She stretched out her hand to draw
her guitar once more to her side. She was evidently willing to be
reasonable.
"Look here," repeated Arnold. He rose hastily, and leaning on a low wall
which stood near, looked down at the bright little girl at his feet.
"Fluff," he said, "should you greatly mind if I threw conventionality to
the winds, and spoke frankly to you?"
"I should not mind at all," said Fluff. "I don't know what you have got
to say, but I hate conventionalities."
"The fact is, I am very much bothered."
"Oh!"
"And I haven't a soul to consult."
Another "Oh!" and an upward glance of two lovely long-fringed eyes.
"And I think you have a kind, affectionate heart, Fluff."
"I have."
"And you won't misunderstand a man who is half distracted?"
"I am sorry you are half distracted. No, I won't misunderstand you."
"That is right, and what I expected. I was thinking of all this, and
wondering if I might speak frankly to you when you were singing those
songs. That is the reason I did not applaud you, or say thank you, or
anything else commonplace."
"I understand now," said Fluff. "I'm very glad. I was puzzled at first,
and I thought you rude. Now I quite understand."
"Thank you, Fluff; if I may sit by your side I will tell you the whole
story. The fact is, I want you to help me, but you can only do so by
knowing everything. Why, what is the matter? Are you suddenly offended?"
"No," answered little Ellen; "but I'm surprised. I'm so astonished that
I'm almost troubled, and yet I never was so glad in my life. You are the
very first person who has ever asked me to help them. I have amused
people--oh, yes, often; but helped--you are the very first who has asked
me that."
"I believe you are a dear little girl," said Arnold, looking at her
affectionately; "and if any one can set things right now, you are the
person. Will you listen to my story? May I begin?"
"Certainly."
"Remember, I am not going to be conventional."
"You said that before."
"I want to impress it upon you. I am going to say the sort of things
that girls seldom listen to."
"You make me feel dreadfully curious," said Fluff. "Please begin."
"The beginning is this: Ten years ago I came here. I stayed here for a
month. I fell in love with Frances."
"Oh--oh! darling Frances. And you fell in love with her ten years ago?"
"I did. I went to Australia. For five years I had an awful time there;
my friends at home supposed me to be dead. The fact is, I was taken
captive by some of the bushmen. That has nothing to say to my story,
only all the time I thought of Frances. I remained in Australia five
more years. During that five years I was making my fortune. As I added
pound to pound, I thought still of Frances. I am rich now, and I have
come home to marry her."
"Oh," said little Fluff, with a deep-drawn sigh, "what a lovely story!
But why, then, is not Frances happy?"
"Ah, that is where the mystery comes in; that is what I want you to find
out. I see plainly that Frances is very unhappy. She won't say either
yes or no to my suit. Her father gives me to understand that she does
not love me; that she never loved me. He proposes that instead of
marrying Frances I should try to make you my wife. He was urging me to
do so just now when I kept you waiting. All the time he was telling me
that Frances never could or would love me, and that you were the wife of
all others for me."
"Why do you tell me all this?" said Fluff. Her cheeks had crimsoned, and
tears trembled on her eyelashes. "Why do you spoil a beautiful story by
telling me this at the end?"
"Because the squire will hint it to you, Fluff; because even Frances
herself will begin to think that I am turning my affections in your
direction; because if you help me as I want you to help me, we must be
much together; because I must talk very freely to you; in short, because
it is absolutely necessary that we should quite understand each other."
"Yes," said Fluff. "I see now what you mean; it is all right; thank you
very much." She rose to her feet. "I will be a sort of sister to you,"
she said, laying her little hand in his; "for I love Frances better than
any sister, and when you are her husband you will be my brother."
"No brother will ever be truer to you, Fluff; but, alas, and alas! is it
ever likely that Frances can be my wife?"
"Of course she will," said Fluff. "Frances is so unhappy because she
loves you."
"Nonsense."
"Well, I think so, but I'll soon find out."
"You will? If you were my real sister, I would call you a darling."
"You may call me anything you please. I am your sister to all intents
and purposes, until you are married to my darling, darling Frances. Oh,
won't I give it to the squire! I think he's a perfectly horrid old man,
and I used to be fond of him."
"But you will be careful, Fluff--a rash word might do lots of mischief."
"Of course I'll be careful. I have lots of tact."
"You are the dearest girl in the world, except Frances."
"Of course I am. That was a very pretty speech, and I am going to reward
you. I am going to tell you something."
"What is that?"
"Frances is going away."
Arnold gave a slight start.
"I did not know that," he said. "When?"
"She told me when you were talking to the squire. She is going away very
soon, and she wants me to go too. I am to go back to my old
school-mistress, Mrs. Hopkins. Frances is very sorry to go, and yet when
I told her that I hoped she would not have to, she said I must not wish
that, for that would mean a great calamity. I don't understand Frances
at present, but I shall soon get to the bottom of everything."
"I fear it is all too plain," said Arnold, lugubriously. "Frances goes
away because she does not love me, and she is unhappy because she does
not wish to give me pain."
"You are quite wrong, sir. Frances is unhappy on her own account, not on
yours. Well, I'll find out lots of things to-night, and let you know.
I'm going to be the cunningest little mouse in the world; but oh, won't
the squire have a bad time of it!"