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."