Frances Kane's Fortune. Meade L. T.
Arnold.
He raised his hat, there was a flush on his face as Frances drove down the shady lane.
"I have offended him," she said to herself; "I suppose I meant to. I don't see how I can have anything to say to him now; he can't marry a beggar; and, besides, I must somehow or other support my father. Yes, it's at an end – the brightest of dreams. The cup was almost at my lips, and I did not think God would allow it to be dashed away so quickly. I must manage somehow to make Philip cease to care for me, but I think I am the most miserable woman in the world."
Frances never forgot that long, hot drive into Martinstown. She reached the lawyer's house at a little before noon, and the heat was then so great that when she found herself in his office she nearly fainted.
"You look really ill, Miss Kane," said the man of business, inwardly commenting under his breath on how very rapidly Frances was ageing. "Oh, you have come from your father; yes, I was afraid that letter would be a blow to him; still, I see no way out of it – I really don't!"
"I have never liked you much, Mr. Spens," said Frances Kane. "I have mistrusted you, and been afraid of you; but I will reverse all my former opinions – all – now, if you will only tell me the exact truth with regard to my father's affairs."
The lawyer smiled and bowed.
"Thank you for your candor," he remarked. "In such a case as yours the plain truth is best, although it is hardly palatable. Your father is an absolutely ruined man. He can not possibly repay the six thousand pounds which he has borrowed. He obtained the money from my client by mortgaging the Firs to him. Now my client's distinct instructions are to sell, and realize what we can. The property has gone much to seed. I doubt if we shall get back what was borrowed; at any rate, land, house, furniture, all must go."
"Thank you – you have indeed spoken plainly," said Frances. "One question more: when must you sell?"
"In three months from now. Let me see; this is July. The sale will take place early in October."
Frances had been sitting. She now rose to her feet.
"And there is really no way out of it?" she said, lingering for a moment.
"None; unless your father can refund the six thousand pounds."
"He told me, Mr. Spens, that if the Firs is sold he will certainly die. He is an old man, and feeble now. I am almost sure that he speaks the truth when he says such a blow will kill him."
"Ah! painful, very," said the lawyer. "These untoward misfortunes generally accompany rash speculation. Still, I fear – I greatly fear – that this apprehension, if likely to be realized, will not affect my client's resolution."
"Would it," said Frances, "would it be possible to induce your client to defer the sale till after my father's death? Indeed – indeed – indeed, I speak the truth when I say I do not think he will have long to wait for his money. Could he be induced to wait, Mr. Spens, if the matter were put to him very forcibly?"
"I am sure he could not be induced, Miss Kane; unless, indeed, you could manage to pay the interest at five per cent. on his six thousand pounds. That is, three hundred a year."
"And then?" Frances's dark eyes brightened.
"I would ask him the question; but such a thing is surely impossible."
"May I have a week to think it over? I will come to you with my decision this day week."
"Well, well, I say nothing one way or another. You can't do impossibilities, Miss Kane. But a week's delay affects no one, and I need not go on drawing up the particulars of sale until I hear from you again."
Frances bowed, and left the office without even shaking hands with Mr. Spens.
"She's a proud woman," said the lawyer to himself, as he watched her driving away. "She looks well, too, when her eyes flash, and she puts on that haughty air. Odd that she should be so fond of that cantankerous old father. I wonder if the report is true which I heard of an Australian lover turning up for her. Well, there are worse-looking women than Frances Kane. I thought her very much aged when she first came into the office, but when she told me that she didn't much like me, she looked handsome and young enough."
Instead of driving home, Frances turned the pony's head in the direction of a long shady road which led into a westerly direction away from Martinstown. She drove rapidly for about half an hour under the trees. Then she turned to the silent Pete.
"Pete, you can go back now to the Firs, and please tell your master and Miss Danvers that I shall not be home until late this evening. See, I will send this note to the squire."
She tore a piece of paper out of her pocket-book, and scribbled a few lines hastily.
"Dear Father, – I have seen Mr. Spens. Don't despair. I am doing my best for you.
"I shall be back before nightfall," said Frances, giving the note to the lad. "Drive home quickly, Pete. See that Bob has a feed of oats, and a groom-down after his journey. I shall be home at latest by nightfall."
CHAPTER VIII.
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 rôle 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