"LITTLE GIRLS IMAGINE THINGS."
The morning's post brought one letter. It was addressed to Miss Kane,
and was written in a business hand. The squire looked anxiously at his
daughter as she laid it unopened by her plate. Fluff, who was dressed
more becomingly than usual, whose eyes were bright, and who altogether
seemed in excellent spirits, could not help telegraphing a quick glance
at Arnold; the little party were seated round the breakfast-table, and
the squire, who intercepted Fluff's glance, chuckled inwardly. He was
very anxious with regard to the letter which Frances so provokingly left
unopened, but he also felt a pleasing thrill of satisfaction.
"Ha! ha!" he said to himself, "my good young man, you are following my
advice, for all you looked so sulky yesterday. Fluff, little dear, I do
you a good turn when I provide you with an excellent husband, and I
declare, poor as I am, I won't see you married without giving you a
wedding present."
After breakfast the squire rose, pushed aside his chair, and was about
to summon his daughter to accompany him to the south parlor, when Fluff
ran up to his side.
"I want to speak to you most particularly," she said. "I have a secret
to tell you," and she raised her charming, rounded, fresh face to his.
He patted her on the cheek.
"Is it very important?" he said, a little uneasily, for he noticed that
Philip and Frances were standing silently, side by side in the
bay-window, and that Frances had removed her letter from its envelope,
and was beginning to read it.
"She'll absolutely tell that fellow the contents of the most important
letter she ever received," inwardly grumbled the squire. "He'll know
before her father knows." Aloud he said, "I have a little business to
talk over with Frances just now, Ellen. I am afraid your secret must
wait, little puss."
"But that's what it can't do," answered Fluff. "Don't call Frances;
she's reading a letter. What a rude old man you are, to think of
disturbing her! I'm quite ashamed of you. Now come with me, for I must
tell you my important secret."
The squire found himself wheedled and dragged into the south parlor.
There he was seated in his most comfortable chair, just as much sunlight
as he liked best was allowed to warm him, a footstool was placed under
his feet, and Fluff, drawing a second forward, seated herself on it,
laid her hand on his knee, and looked at him with an expression of
pleased affection.
"Aren't you dreadfully curious?" she said.
"Oh, yes, Fluff--quite devoured with curiosity. I wonder now what
Frances is doing; the fact is, she has received an important letter.
It's about my affairs. I am naturally anxious to know its contents. Tell
your secret as quickly as possible, little woman, and let me get to more
important matters."
"More important matters? I'm ashamed of you," said Fluff, shaking her
finger at him. "The fact is, squire, you mustn't be in a hurry about
seeing Frances--you must curb your impatience; it's very good for you to
curb it--it's a little discipline, and discipline properly administered
always turns people out delightful. You'll be a very noble old man when
you have had a little of the proper sort of training. Now, now--why, you
look quite cross; I declare you're not a bit handsome when you're cross.
Frances can't come to you at present--she's engaged about her own
affairs."
"And what may they be, pray, miss?"
"Ah, that's my secret!"
Fluff looked down; a becoming blush deepened the color in her cheeks;
she toyed idly with a rosebud which she held in her hand. Something in
her attitude, and the significant smile on her face, made the squire
both angry and uneasy.
"Speak out, child," he said. "You know I hate mysteries."
"But I can't speak out," said Fluff. "The time to speak out hasn't
come--I can only guess. Squire, I'm so glad--I really do think that
Frances is in love with Philip."
"You really do?" said the squire. He mimicked her tone sarcastically,
red, angry spots grew on his old cheeks. "Frances in love with Philip,
indeed! You have got pretty intimate with that young Australian, Fluff,
when you call him by his Christian name."
"Oh, yes; we arranged that yesterday. He's like a brother to me. I told
you some time ago that he was in love with Frances. Now, I'm so
delighted to be able to say that I think Frances is in love with him."
"Tut--tut!" said the squire. "Little girls imagine things. Little girls
are very fanciful."
"Tut--tut!" responded Fluff, taking off his voice to the life. "Little
girls see far below the surface; old men are very obtuse."
"Fluff, if that's your secret, I don't think much of it. Run away now,
and send my daughter to me."
"I'll do nothing of the kind, for if she's not reading her letter she's
talking to her true love. Oh, you must have a heart of stone to wish to
disturb them!"
The squire, with some difficulty, pushed aside his footstool, hobbled to
his feet, and walked to the window where the southern sun was pouring
in. In the distance he saw the gray of Frances's dress through the
trees, and Philip's square, manly, upright figure walking slowly by her
side.
He pushed open the window, and hoarsely and angrily called his
daughter's name.
"She doesn't hear you," said Fluff. "I expect he's proposing for her
now; isn't it lovely? Aren't you delighted? Oh, where's my guitar? I'm
going to play 'Sweethearts.' I do hope, squire, you'll give Frances a
very jolly wedding."
But the squire had hobbled out of the room.
He was really very lame with rheumatic gout; but the sight of that gray,
slender figure, pacing slowly under the friendly sheltering trees, was
too much for him; he was overcome with passion, anxiety, rage.
"She's giving herself away," he murmured. "That little vixen, Fluff, is
right--she's in love with the fellow, and she's throwing herself at his
head; it's perfectly awful to think of it. She has forgotten all about
her old father. I'll be a beggar in my old age; the Firs will have to
go; I'll be ruined, undone. Oh, was there ever such an undutiful
daughter? I must go to her. I must hobble up to that distant spot as
quickly as possible; perhaps when she sees me she may pause before she
irrevocably commits so wicked an act. Oh, how lame I am! what agonies
I'm enduring! Shall I ever be in time? He's close to her--he's almost
touching her--good gracious, he'll kiss her if I'm not quick! that
little wretch Fluff could have reached them in a twinkling, but she
won't do anything to oblige me this morning. Hear her now, twanging away
at that abominable air, 'Sweethearts'--oh--oh--puff--puff--I'm quite
blown! This walk will kill me! Frances--I say, Frances, Frances."
The feeble, cracked old voice was borne on the breeze, and the last high
agonized note reached its goal.
"I am coming, father," responded his daughter. She turned to Arnold and
held out her hand.
"God bless you!" she said.
"Is your answer final, Frances?"
"Yes--yes. I wish I had not kept you a week in suspense; it was cruel to
you, but I thought--oh, I must not keep my father."
"Your father has you always, and this is my last moment. Then you'll
never, never love me?"
"I can not marry you, Philip."
"That is no answer. You never loved me."
"I can not marry you."
"I won't take 'no' unless you say with it, 'I never loved you; I never
can love you.'"
"Look at my father, Philip; he is almost falling. His face is crimson. I
must go to him. God bless you!"
She took his hand, and absolutely, before the squire's horrified eyes,
raised it to her lips, then flew lightly down the path, and joined the
old man.
"Is anything wrong, father? How dreadful you look!"
"You--you have accepted the fellow! You have deserted me; I saw you kiss
his hand. Fah! it makes me sick. You've accepted him, and I am ruined!"
"On the contrary, I have refused Philip. That kiss was like one we give
to the dead. Don't excite yourself; come into the house. I am yours
absolutely from this time out."
"Hum--haw--you gave me an awful fright, I can tell you." The squire
breathed more freely. "You set that little Fluff on to begin it, and you
ended it. I won't be the better of this for some time. Yes, let me lean
on you, Frances; it's a comfort to feel I'm not without a daughter. Oh,
it would have been a monstrous thing had you deserted me! Did I not rear
you, and bring you up? But in cases of the affections--I mean in cases
of those paltry passions, women are so weak."
"But not your daughter, Frances Kane. I, for your sake, have been
strong. Now, if you please, we will drop the subject; I will not discuss
it further. You had better come into the house, father, until you get
cool."
"You had a letter this morning, Frances--from Spens, was it not?"
"Oh, yes; I had forgotten; your creditors will accept my terms for the
present. I must drive over to Arden this afternoon, and arrange what day
I go there."
"I shall miss you considerably, Frances. It's a great pity you couldn't
arrange to come home to sleep; you might see to my comforts then by
rising a little earlier in the morning. I wish, my dear, you would
propose it to Mrs. Carnegie; if she is a woman of any consideration she
will see how impossible it is that I should be left altogether."
"I can not do that, father. Even you must pay a certain price for a
certain good thing. You do not wish to leave the Firs, but you can not
keep both the Firs and me. I will come and see you constantly, but my
time from this out belongs absolutely to Mrs. Carnegie. She gives me an
unusually large salary, and, being her servant, I must endeavor in all
particulars to please her, and must devote my time to her to a certain
extent day and night."
"Good gracious, Frances, I do hope that though adversity has come to the
house of Kane, you are not going so far to forget yourself as to stoop
to menial work at Arden. Why, rather than that--rather than that, it
would be better for us to give up the home of our fathers."
"No work need be menial, done in the right spirit," responded Frances.
Her eyes wandered away, far up among the trees, where Arnold still
slowly paced up and down. In the cause of pride her father might even be
induced to give up the Firs. Was love, then, to weigh nothing in the
scale?
She turned suddenly to the father.
"You must rest now," she said. "You need not be the least anxious on
your own account any more. You must rest and take things quietly, and
do your best not to get ill. It would be very bad for you to be ill now,
for there would be no one to nurse you. Remember that, and be careful.
Now go and sit in the parlor and keep out of draughts. I can not read to
you this morning, for I shall be very busy, and you must not call me nor
send for me unless it is absolutely necessary. Now, good-bye for the
present."
Frances did not, as her usual custom was, establish her father in his
easy-chair; she did not cut his morning paper for him, nor attend to the
one or two little comforts which he considered essential; she left him
without kissing him, only her full, grave, sorrowful eyes rested for one
moment with a look of great pathos on his wrinkled, discontented old
face, then she went away.
The squire was alone; even the irritating strain of "Sweethearts" no
longer annoyed him. Fluff had ceased to play--Fluff's gay little figure
was no longer visible; the man who had paced up and down under the
distant trees had disappeared; Frances's gray dress was nowhere to be
seen.
The whole place was still, oppressively still--not a bee hummed, not a
bird sung. The atmosphere was hot and dry, but there was no sunshine;
the trees were motionless, there was a feeling of coming thunder in the
air.
The squire felt calmed and triumphant, at the same time he felt
irritated and depressed. His anxiety was over; his daughter had done
what he wished her to do--the Firs was saved, at least for his
lifetime--the marriage he so dreaded was never to be. At the same time,
he felt dull and deserted; he knew what it was to have his desire, and
leanness in his soul. It would be very dull at the Firs without Frances;
he should miss her much when she went away. He was a feeble old man, and
he was rapidly growing blind. Who would read for him, and chat with him,
and help to while away the long and tedious hours? He could not spend
all his time eating and sleeping. What should he do now with all the
other hours of the long day and night? He felt pleased with Frances--he
owned she was a good girl; but at the same time he was cross with her;
she ought to have thought of some other way of delivering him. She was a
clever woman--he owned she was a clever woman; but she ought not to
have effected his salvation by deserting him.
The squire mumbled and muttered to himself. He rose from his arm-chair
and walked to the window; he went out and paced up and down the terrace;
he came in again. Was there ever such a long and tiresome morning? He
yawned; he did not know what to do with himself.
A little after noon the door of the south parlor was quickly opened and
Arnold came in.
"I have just come to say good-bye, sir."
The squire started in genuine amazement. He did not love Arnold, but
after two hours of solitude he was glad to hear any human voice. It
never occurred to him, too, that any one should feel Frances such a
necessity as to alter plans on her account.
"You are going away?" he repeated. "You told me yesterday you would stay
here for at least another week or ten days."
"Exactly, but I have changed my mind," said Arnold. "I came here for an
object--my object has failed. Good-bye."
"But now, really--" the squire strove to retain the young man's hand in
his clasp. "You don't seriously mean to tell me that you are leaving a
nice place like the Firs in this fine summer weather because Frances has
refused you."
"I am going away on that account," replied Arnold, stiffly. "Good-bye."
"You astonish me--you quite take my breath away. Frances couldn't accept
you, you know. She had me to see after. I spoke to you yesterday about
her, and I suggested that you should take Fluff instead. A dear little
thing, Fluff. Young, and with money; who would compare the two?"
"Who would compare the two?" echoed Arnold. "I repeat, squire, that I
must now wish you good-bye, and I distinctly refuse to discuss the
subject of my marriage any further."
Arnold's hand scarcely touched Squire Kane's. He left the south parlor,
and his footsteps died away in the distance.
Once more there was silence and solitude. The sky grew darker, the
atmosphere hotter and denser--a growl of thunder was heard in the
distance--a flash of lightning lighted up the squire's room. Squire Kane
was very nervous in a storm--at all times he hated to be long alone--now
he felt terrified, nervous, aggrieved. He rang his bell pretty sharply.
"Jane," he said to the servant who answered his summons, "send Miss Kane
to me at once."
"Miss Kane has gone to Martinstown, sir. She drove in in the pony-cart
an hour go."
"Oh--h'm--I suppose Mr. Arnold went with her?"
"No, sir. Mr. Arnold took a short cut across the fields; he says the
carrier is to call for his portmanteau, and he's not a-coming back."
"H'm--most inconsiderate--I hate parties broken up in a hurry like this.
What a vivid flash that was! Jane, I'm afraid we are going to have an
awful storm."
"It looks like it, sir, and the clouds is coming direct this way.
Watkins says as the strength of the storm will break right over the
Firs, sir."
"My good Jane, I'll thank you to shut the windows, and ask Miss Danvers
to have the goodness to step this way."
"Miss Danvers have a headache, sir, and is lying down. She said as no
one is to disturb her."
The squire murmured something inarticulate. Jane lingered for a moment
at the door, but finding nothing more was required of her, softly
withdrew.
Then in the solitude of his south parlor the squire saw the storm come
up--the black clouds gathered silently from east and west, a slight
shiver shook the trees, a sudden wind agitated the slowly moving
clouds--it came between the two banks of dark vapor, and then the
thunder rolled and the lightning played. It was an awful storm, and the
squire, who was timid at such times, covered his face with his trembling
hands, and even feebly tried to pray. It is possible that if Frances had
come to him then he would, in the terror fit which had seized him, have
given her her heart's desire. Even the Firs became of small account to
Squire Kane, while the lightning flashed in his eyes and the thunder
rattled over his head. He was afraid--he would have done anything to
propitiate the Maker of the storm--he would have even sacrificed himself
if necessary.
But the clouds rolled away, the sunshine came out. Fear vanished from
the squire's breast, and when dinner was announced he went to partake of
it with an excellent appetite. Fluff and he alone had seats at the
board; Arnold and Frances were both away.
Fluff's eyes were very red. She was untidy, too, and her whole
appearance might best be described by the word "disheveled." She
scarcely touched her dinner, and her chattering, merry tongue was
silent.
The squire was a man who never could abide melancholy in others. He had
had a fright; his fright was over. He was therefore exactly in the mood
to be petted and humored, to have his little jokes listened to and
applauded, to have his thrice-told tales appreciated. He was just in the
mood, also, to listen to pretty nothings from a pretty girl's lips, to
hear her sing, perhaps to walk slowly with her by and by in the
sunshine.
Fluff's red eyes, however, Fluff's disordered, untidy appearance, her
downcast looks, her want of appetite, presented to him, just then, a
most unpleasing picture. As his way was, he resented it, and began to
grumble.
"I have had a very dull morning," he began.
"Indeed, sir? I won't take any pease, thank you, Jane; I'm not hungry."
"I hate little girls to come to table who are not hungry," growled the
squire. "Bring the pease here, Jane."
"Shall I go up to my room again?" asked Fluff, laying down her knife and
fork.
"Oh, no, my love; no, not by any means."
The squire was dreadfully afraid of having to spend as solitary an
afternoon as morning.
"I am sorry you are not quite well, Fluff," he said, hoping to pacify the
angry little maid; "but I suppose it was the storm. Most girls are very
much afraid of lightning. It is silly of them; for really in a room with
the windows shut--glass, you know, my dear, is a non-conductor--there is
not much danger. But there is no combating the terrors of the weaker sex. I
can fancy you, Fluff, burying that pretty little head of yours under the
bed-clothes. That doubtless accounts for its present rough condition. You
should have come to me, my love; I'd have done my best to soothe your
nervous fears."
Fluff's blue eyes were opened wide.
"I don't know what you are talking about," she said. "I afraid of the
storm, and burying my head under the bed-clothes, as if I were a baby or
a silly old man! Yes, of course I knew there was a storm, but I didn't
notice it much, I was too busy packing."
This last remark effectually distracted the squire's attention.
"Packing! good gracious, child, you are not going away too?"
"Of course I am; you don't suppose I am going to stay here without my
darling Francie?"
"But what am I to do, Fluff?"
"I don't know, squire. I suppose you'll stay on at the Firs."
"Alone! Do you mean I'm to stay here alone?"
"I suppose so, now that you have sent Frances away."
"I have not sent her away. What do you mean, miss?"
"I'm not going to say what I mean," said Fluff. "Dear Frances is very
unhappy, and I'm very unhappy too, and Philip, I think, is the most
miserable of all. As far as I can tell, all this unhappiness has been
caused by you, squire, so I suppose you are happy; but if you think I am
going to stay at the Firs without Frances you are very much mistaken. I
would not stay with you now on any account, for you are a selfish old
man, and I don't love you any longer."
This angry little speech was uttered after Jane had withdrawn, and even
while Fluff spoke she pushed some fruit toward the squire.
"You are a selfish old man," she continued, her cheeks burning and her
eyes flashing; "you want your comforts, you want to be amused, and to
get the best of everything; and if that is so you don't care for others.
Well, here is the nicest fruit in the garden--eat it; and by and by I'll
sing for you, if my singing gives you pleasure. I'll do all this while I
stay, but I'm going away the day after to-morrow. But I don't love you
any more, for you are unkind to Frances."
The squire was really too much astonished to reply. Nobody in all his
life had ever spoken to him in this way before; he felt like one who was
assaulted and beaten all over. He was stunned, and yet he still clung in
a sort of mechanical way to the comforts which were dearer to him than
life. He picked out the finest strawberries which Fluff had piled on his
plate, and conveyed them to his lips. Fluff flew out of the room for her
guitar, and when she returned she began to sing a gay Italian air in a
very sprightly and effective manner. In the midst of her song the squire
broke in with a sudden question.
"What do you mean by saying I am unkind to Frances?"
Fluff's guitar dropped with a sudden clatter to the floor.
"You won't let her marry Philip--she loves him with all her heart, and
he loves her. They have cared for each other for ten long years, and now
you are parting them. You are a dreadfully, dreadfully selfish old man,
and I hate you!"
Here the impulsive little girl burst into tears and ran out of the room.
The squire sat long over his strawberries.