Chapter Eleven.

Chapter Eleven.Rich in Love.As long as she lived, Florence Heathcote never forgot that week which she spent with the Arbuthnots. They belonged to that noble race of people who live for others. They were not rich—indeed, far from that, they were extremely poor. Had any one been told the exact extent of Colonel Arbuthnot’s income, that person would have stared and refused to believe it. But then the person would not have known Susie’s saving powers, her wonderful capability for making tenpence do the work of a shilling, for never losing a penny’s worth in any transaction, and for renovating her old garments so that they looked almost like new. The money she was allowed for clothes she spent, as a rule, on other people. What did it matter if her hat was last year’s fashion when poor Mrs Jones and Mary Bryce got their nourishing soup, and when the orphan child of that gallant fellow, William Engelhart, was taught by her to read and write, and she paid the necessary money for his small education? The fact was, fashionable hats, jackets, and skirts would not have become Susie in the very least: she would have looked absolutely out of place in them. No one ever looked at Susie Arbuthnot’s clothes: the eye was arrested by the kindliness in the kindly face, by the smile round the good-natured lips, by the strength and firmness of purpose of that hand grip, by the noble soul that radiated from that somewhat homely countenance.And if Susie was good and could do good, she was but her father’s complement. Each seemed to complete the character. There never had been before, nor ever since, a father and daughter so wholly and completely one. They had the same tastes, the same desires. Life with them was a little season to be spent in the school of the Almighty. It was the will of God that they should learn His lessons, and they learned them with submission, with cheerfulness, and without a thought of grumbling. The books they liked best were books that spoke about a future state. Often on Sunday evenings they sat close together, talking of that period when they should lay down for ever this vile body, and put on the celestial body. But they were not morbid in their conversations. They were always simple, and homely and direct. It was their pleasure to do what little good they could. Every one loved them at Langdale, and they were the life and light of the place.The Colonel was just as economical in the matter of clothes as Susie. That winter overcoat of his must have seen the light for long years—one might almost say, generations. Its original black had changed to a musty green, but at one time it had been cut by a fashionable tailor, and, somehow or other, the Colonel looked well in it. He was very upright, as all well-drilled men are, and he walked with a certain martial stride, holding his head erect, and looking all the world in the face. He was not ashamed of himself or of anybody else. He hated sin and wickedness, and smallnesses and the love of riches, and would fight against these things to his dying day. But he sincerely pitied those who had sinned and had repented. As to the poor of this world—those who were a little poorer than himself—he took them under his special protection.“Dear me, Susie,” he would say; “I think we might ask little Miss Hudson on a visit. The weather is so cold, and I am persuaded the little creature cannot afford a fire in her bedroom. It would never do to ask her the question, but while the intense cold lasts, it would be nice to have her here. She could go on teaching the Hibbert children, and come to us for her meals, and have the enjoyment of her snug little room with a bright fire in it in the evenings. I could fancy how she would luxuriate at the flicker of the firelight as she dropped asleep.”Susie acquiesced, of course, but Florence, who was present, said—“That is all very well; but what is Miss Hudson to do when she leaves you, Colonel?”“We’ll keep her as long as the cold weather lasts,” said the Colonel, rubbing his hands. “She can go back to her own rooms when the weather becomes mild. Run round to her early this morning, Susie, my love; and be sure you have something specially appetising for dinner.”Susie promised with that bright glance of hers and a smile which irradiated her face for a moment and then left it grave and practical. She meant to have a dinner of bones that day, and a bone dinner would not do for Miss Hudson. Florence had been initiated into the bone dinners, and they were really quite remarkable. They were so good that she quite enjoyed them; but they were never spoken about. They consisted of two or three pennyworth of bones, which were boiled down to make a strong soup, into which was introduced every known vegetable that Susie could lay her hands on out of the garden. No one ever spoke of the absence of meat on the day when the bone dinner appeared. Each person received a portion of bone with the rich gravy and vegetables, and it would have been considered very incorrect not to praise the delicious, tender repast. The Colonel as a rule said, “What good meat we get from our butcher,” and Susie nodded, picking at her bone viciously as she did so, knowing quite well that she would not get one morsel of meat from it.Florence had been told the mystery of the bone dinner.“We have it sometimes three times a week,” said Susie. “We need not have it at all, you know, but the price of the meat goes to certain very poor widows in the village. I could not manage to give it to them in any other way, and I cannot tell you what sustenance father and I get from our bones and vegetables. You will have the same, and you won’t mind, will you, Florence?”Florence was delighted, but rather overdid the occasion in the first instance of the bone dinner, declaring that the meat was almost too tender. But the Colonel gave her a keen glance which was almost stern, and she found herself colouring and was silent.Now the day on which Miss Hudson was to be asked to go and stay with the Arbuthnots was a bone dinner day, and Susie was a little perplexed as to how to manage the matter. She consulted Florence on the subject. Florence was very much excited on her own account, for that was the very day of the week on which Michael Reid had promised to come to receive her answer. Nevertheless, Susie’s anxious face drew her at once, and she said, after a pause—“You could have some little special thing for her alone, couldn’t you?”“No; that would never do,” said Susie, frowning. “She would not touch it. She would push the bones about in her plate, and make a noise with them, and pretend she was delighted, and the special thing would go out of the room, for not one of us would look at it. What is to be done?”“I tell you what,” said Florence, blushing very deeply. “I have got such a lot of money. May not I provide the dinner to-day? You have been, oh, so kind to me, so sweet, so angelic. Do, do,dolet me! The darling Colonel won’t notice, I know he won’t. It will be just our secret. Why may not I have this pleasure?”“There now,” said Susie; “why, of course you may. Give me half-a-crown, and I will get something excellent for dinner.”So Florence broke into the first of her ten sovereigns, and Susie started off to market, determined to buy beef which should not be rivalled by any other beef that had ever been cooked before in the United Kingdom. When she had gone, Florence went away by herself. She was afraid to go out; she did not care to stay still. She was restless and unhappy. Michael ought to have arrived. He knew quite well where she was, for she had met him once during the week, and had even told him that she was staying with the Arbuthnots. On this occasion the gallant lieutenant had been seen walking down the High Street with two or three young ladies. But he had stopped at sight of Florence looking so radiant, so different from any other girl, in her beautiful sealskin jacket with that becoming sealskin cap. He had looked at her, but had said nothing, cruelly contenting himself with taking off his hat. But his eyes—and Michael had very handsome eyes—seemed to express volumes, and Florence had gone back again to the Arbuthnots’ house feeling warm and happy.Yes; she knew now quite well that she loved him, and love was beautiful. She was not a poor girl, after all; she was rich, far richer than Brenda, far richer than Susie or the Colonel. In a short time she would be publicly engaged to Michael, and then would begin the delightful task of working for their future home. She had heard of girls who, when engaged, spoke of the bottom drawer in their room as containing treasures which they amassed for the time when they would be married. Florence would have her bottom drawer; and oh! how many and what beautiful things she would put into it!—a wealth of love, a world of devotion; courage, hope, steadfastness. She could scarcely believe her own heart: she was learning so much, oh, so much during that week she spent with the Arbuthnots.For the first time in all her young life Florence did perceive how very little value money really was. It could not buy the great things of life. She had hitherto never thought about it at all. She had had it in abundance; it had been but to ask to obtain. When she wanted a pretty dress, it was given to her. When she wished for a trinket, it became her own. The best rooms at school were kept for Brenda and herself; the best seats at table were theirs. The headmistress made a fuss about them: the other teachers regarded them with affection, and spoke of them as they would of princesses. Florence supposed, and rightly, that this was because they were rich. In the holidays they had a really glorious time. Who could fuss more about them than Mrs Fortescue? What lovely lodgings she took for them at the seaside, paying more than one dared to think for the spacious rooms where they lived and looked out upon the sparkling waves. Once she had taken them to Paris, and they had had a truly glorious time.Yes; nothing had been denied them up to the present. They had been urged to learn, too, just because it was such poor fun for rich girls to be ignorant. Rich girls ought to know things. They ought to be rich in mind as well as in body.Well, Florence had done her best. She was a fairly clever girl. She had certain talents, and she had made the most of them. She was, of course, very young, but she felt, on the whole, rather old. This last week had made her old. She had learned a great deal during this week—the immense, the terrible difference between extreme poverty and extreme wealth. It never once occurred to her that Mr Timmins had behaved badly in not describing to them more accurately the true state of affaire. Brenda had not blamed him, nor did she. He had acted according to her father’s will; and her dear father must have known what was beat. No one was to blame. They had had their good time—as far as wealth was concerned. But oh, how joyful! she had discovered something else: the wealth, the great wealth of love—love; which could exist in a poorly furnished house between an old man and a middle-aged woman; love, which could rejoice the hearts of those who were poorer than itself. And had she not also found her own true love? her lover, who cared for her just because she was herself, just because she was Florence Heathcote, a young girl with a heart to respond to his heart, a love to return for his love? Oh yes, she was happy!The day of days had come. After Florence had given her half-crown to Susie Arbuthnot, she ran up to her room to prepare for her lover’s visit. He was quite sure to come. He had promised to come to-day for her answer: and she had it ready. She had not put it on paper, she had folded it up inside her heart. It was waiting for him. She would open the door of her heart and just let him peep in and see what it was like—rosy, red, glorious with the tint of the morning; and his—all his!As she entered the house, she was singing under her breath. She had a sweet voice, and her gay notes thrilled through the old house and brought the Colonel out of his study.“Well, Florence,” he said.“Well, Colonel,” she answered. She went up to him and took his hand. Then she said, looking full into his face: “I am so awfully happy!”“I am glad of it, dear,” he replied. “I am more than glad to find that there is a young girl in this world who has been brought up as you have been brought up, and who thinks nothing at all of riches. It takes most of us many long years to learn the lesson which you have learned at once.”“I am not thinking about riches at all,” said Florence. She looked at him again, and then she resolved to tell. “May I come with you into your study for a few minutes?” she said.“Why, certainly, my dear child,” he replied; and he took her hand and led her into the study. He shut the door and turned and faced her.“Well, Florence,” he said; “what is it?”“You say I am not rich, Colonel Arbuthnot,” was Florence’s answer; “but I am just about as rich as any girl can be.”She blushed, and her beautiful eyes grew bright—bright with that sort of look which made it impossible to tell what their colour was, only there seemed to be a great deal of gold about them—a sort of golden brown. Then she dropped her long, black lashes, and her face, which had been so rosy, grew pale. She lifted her eyes again, and fixed them on the Colonel’s face.“He is coming to-day,” she said; “that is why I am happy. He may be here at any hour—at any minute. I am most awfully happy. A week ago I was astonished when he said what he did say; but now I am just happy. I am very rich, Colonel, because he loves me so much.”“Who in the world is the girl talking about?” said the Colonel, for he at least knew nothing about Florence’s attachment.Florence looked at him half shyly.“Can’t you guess?” she said. “Didn’t you see us together on Christmas Day?” But the Colonel still looked puzzled. A good many people had dined in their hospitable house on Christmas Day, and he had not particularly noticed either Brenda or Florence at that time.“You must explain a little more, dear,” he said very gently.“Well,” said Florence, “I will tell you, for you will know all about it very, very soon. It is Michael—Michael Reid.”“What?” said the Colonel.“We have been friends always, but I never guessed—in fact, I have never had the smallest idea that he—he cared for me; I did not think about those sorts of things; but on Christmas Day he did seem a little different from other men, and the next day we took a walk—a long walk—and he told me—oh, that is what makes it so beautiful!—that he loved me just, just for myself alone.”The Colonel looked rather uneasy.“Michael Reid!” he said. “Of course I know the lad, I have known him since he was a boy. He is not well off, Florence.”“That is just it,” said Florence. “That is the beautiful part. We neither of us care twopence whether he is well off or not. He says that he would love me if I were as poor as a church mouse, and I feel just the same for him. We are very rich, both of us, because we love each other so much. That is about it, Colonel. How can you call me a poor girl, when I am so rich in love?”“God grant it, my darling! God grant that you are,” said the Colonel in a reverent tone. Then, bending over her, he kissed her on her white forehead. “You have no father living, so I must take his place for the time being,” he added.“Michael is coming to see me to-day,” said Florence. “He may be here any minute. I want to put on my very prettiest frock for him. There is nothing one would not do for the man who loves you, is there?”“Nothing, nothing, of course,” said the Colonel.Very soon afterwards Florence left the room. As she was going away, the Colonel said—“I must see about this: I must be a father to you; I feel that I stand in the place of a father to you at the present moment.”“Oh, how sweet you are!” said Florence. “He will be here himself—any minute; for the week is up to-day, and he is coming to get my answer. He knows all, all about my being poor, and he is coming to-day for my answer. I must go upstairs now to make myself look my very best for him.”She went away, closing the door very softly behind her. The Colonel heard her singing as she ran upstairs. He then sank heavily into his accustomed armchair. He rested his elbows on the arms of the chair and gazed straight before him with a deep frown between his brows. In truth, he was more troubled than he had ever been before.After a long time, during which he had been thinking deeply, he went to his desk and wrote a short note to Susie.“Dear Susie,—“I may not be in to lunch. Don’t wait for me.“Your loving,—“Father.”He then put on his greatcoat, that shabby coat which had grown green with age, took up his hat and gold-headed stick, and marched out into the little street of Langdale. The Colonel had never looked fiercer, nor yet more dignified than he did now. His moustaches had taken quite a formidable military curl. His white hair was white as snow, but his black brows, and the gleam in his eyes under them, made him look quite a remarkable and imposing figure. One or two people spoke to him, but he did not answer. They wondered afterwards what was the matter with Colonel Arbuthnot. He was certainly very upright. He was an amazing figure for a man of his age—so the women said who watched him from their cottage doors. He was bent on something, just as bent as he had been when he was young and was fighting the battles of his country.He went straight to Mrs Fortescue’s house. He rang the bell, and when Bridget answered his summons, he said—“You needn’t tell me that your mistress is at home, because I see her in her dining-room window. I want to say something to her.” Then Bridget made way for him, and he went into Mrs Fortescue’s presence uninvited.

As long as she lived, Florence Heathcote never forgot that week which she spent with the Arbuthnots. They belonged to that noble race of people who live for others. They were not rich—indeed, far from that, they were extremely poor. Had any one been told the exact extent of Colonel Arbuthnot’s income, that person would have stared and refused to believe it. But then the person would not have known Susie’s saving powers, her wonderful capability for making tenpence do the work of a shilling, for never losing a penny’s worth in any transaction, and for renovating her old garments so that they looked almost like new. The money she was allowed for clothes she spent, as a rule, on other people. What did it matter if her hat was last year’s fashion when poor Mrs Jones and Mary Bryce got their nourishing soup, and when the orphan child of that gallant fellow, William Engelhart, was taught by her to read and write, and she paid the necessary money for his small education? The fact was, fashionable hats, jackets, and skirts would not have become Susie in the very least: she would have looked absolutely out of place in them. No one ever looked at Susie Arbuthnot’s clothes: the eye was arrested by the kindliness in the kindly face, by the smile round the good-natured lips, by the strength and firmness of purpose of that hand grip, by the noble soul that radiated from that somewhat homely countenance.

And if Susie was good and could do good, she was but her father’s complement. Each seemed to complete the character. There never had been before, nor ever since, a father and daughter so wholly and completely one. They had the same tastes, the same desires. Life with them was a little season to be spent in the school of the Almighty. It was the will of God that they should learn His lessons, and they learned them with submission, with cheerfulness, and without a thought of grumbling. The books they liked best were books that spoke about a future state. Often on Sunday evenings they sat close together, talking of that period when they should lay down for ever this vile body, and put on the celestial body. But they were not morbid in their conversations. They were always simple, and homely and direct. It was their pleasure to do what little good they could. Every one loved them at Langdale, and they were the life and light of the place.

The Colonel was just as economical in the matter of clothes as Susie. That winter overcoat of his must have seen the light for long years—one might almost say, generations. Its original black had changed to a musty green, but at one time it had been cut by a fashionable tailor, and, somehow or other, the Colonel looked well in it. He was very upright, as all well-drilled men are, and he walked with a certain martial stride, holding his head erect, and looking all the world in the face. He was not ashamed of himself or of anybody else. He hated sin and wickedness, and smallnesses and the love of riches, and would fight against these things to his dying day. But he sincerely pitied those who had sinned and had repented. As to the poor of this world—those who were a little poorer than himself—he took them under his special protection.

“Dear me, Susie,” he would say; “I think we might ask little Miss Hudson on a visit. The weather is so cold, and I am persuaded the little creature cannot afford a fire in her bedroom. It would never do to ask her the question, but while the intense cold lasts, it would be nice to have her here. She could go on teaching the Hibbert children, and come to us for her meals, and have the enjoyment of her snug little room with a bright fire in it in the evenings. I could fancy how she would luxuriate at the flicker of the firelight as she dropped asleep.”

Susie acquiesced, of course, but Florence, who was present, said—

“That is all very well; but what is Miss Hudson to do when she leaves you, Colonel?”

“We’ll keep her as long as the cold weather lasts,” said the Colonel, rubbing his hands. “She can go back to her own rooms when the weather becomes mild. Run round to her early this morning, Susie, my love; and be sure you have something specially appetising for dinner.”

Susie promised with that bright glance of hers and a smile which irradiated her face for a moment and then left it grave and practical. She meant to have a dinner of bones that day, and a bone dinner would not do for Miss Hudson. Florence had been initiated into the bone dinners, and they were really quite remarkable. They were so good that she quite enjoyed them; but they were never spoken about. They consisted of two or three pennyworth of bones, which were boiled down to make a strong soup, into which was introduced every known vegetable that Susie could lay her hands on out of the garden. No one ever spoke of the absence of meat on the day when the bone dinner appeared. Each person received a portion of bone with the rich gravy and vegetables, and it would have been considered very incorrect not to praise the delicious, tender repast. The Colonel as a rule said, “What good meat we get from our butcher,” and Susie nodded, picking at her bone viciously as she did so, knowing quite well that she would not get one morsel of meat from it.

Florence had been told the mystery of the bone dinner.

“We have it sometimes three times a week,” said Susie. “We need not have it at all, you know, but the price of the meat goes to certain very poor widows in the village. I could not manage to give it to them in any other way, and I cannot tell you what sustenance father and I get from our bones and vegetables. You will have the same, and you won’t mind, will you, Florence?”

Florence was delighted, but rather overdid the occasion in the first instance of the bone dinner, declaring that the meat was almost too tender. But the Colonel gave her a keen glance which was almost stern, and she found herself colouring and was silent.

Now the day on which Miss Hudson was to be asked to go and stay with the Arbuthnots was a bone dinner day, and Susie was a little perplexed as to how to manage the matter. She consulted Florence on the subject. Florence was very much excited on her own account, for that was the very day of the week on which Michael Reid had promised to come to receive her answer. Nevertheless, Susie’s anxious face drew her at once, and she said, after a pause—

“You could have some little special thing for her alone, couldn’t you?”

“No; that would never do,” said Susie, frowning. “She would not touch it. She would push the bones about in her plate, and make a noise with them, and pretend she was delighted, and the special thing would go out of the room, for not one of us would look at it. What is to be done?”

“I tell you what,” said Florence, blushing very deeply. “I have got such a lot of money. May not I provide the dinner to-day? You have been, oh, so kind to me, so sweet, so angelic. Do, do,dolet me! The darling Colonel won’t notice, I know he won’t. It will be just our secret. Why may not I have this pleasure?”

“There now,” said Susie; “why, of course you may. Give me half-a-crown, and I will get something excellent for dinner.”

So Florence broke into the first of her ten sovereigns, and Susie started off to market, determined to buy beef which should not be rivalled by any other beef that had ever been cooked before in the United Kingdom. When she had gone, Florence went away by herself. She was afraid to go out; she did not care to stay still. She was restless and unhappy. Michael ought to have arrived. He knew quite well where she was, for she had met him once during the week, and had even told him that she was staying with the Arbuthnots. On this occasion the gallant lieutenant had been seen walking down the High Street with two or three young ladies. But he had stopped at sight of Florence looking so radiant, so different from any other girl, in her beautiful sealskin jacket with that becoming sealskin cap. He had looked at her, but had said nothing, cruelly contenting himself with taking off his hat. But his eyes—and Michael had very handsome eyes—seemed to express volumes, and Florence had gone back again to the Arbuthnots’ house feeling warm and happy.

Yes; she knew now quite well that she loved him, and love was beautiful. She was not a poor girl, after all; she was rich, far richer than Brenda, far richer than Susie or the Colonel. In a short time she would be publicly engaged to Michael, and then would begin the delightful task of working for their future home. She had heard of girls who, when engaged, spoke of the bottom drawer in their room as containing treasures which they amassed for the time when they would be married. Florence would have her bottom drawer; and oh! how many and what beautiful things she would put into it!—a wealth of love, a world of devotion; courage, hope, steadfastness. She could scarcely believe her own heart: she was learning so much, oh, so much during that week she spent with the Arbuthnots.

For the first time in all her young life Florence did perceive how very little value money really was. It could not buy the great things of life. She had hitherto never thought about it at all. She had had it in abundance; it had been but to ask to obtain. When she wanted a pretty dress, it was given to her. When she wished for a trinket, it became her own. The best rooms at school were kept for Brenda and herself; the best seats at table were theirs. The headmistress made a fuss about them: the other teachers regarded them with affection, and spoke of them as they would of princesses. Florence supposed, and rightly, that this was because they were rich. In the holidays they had a really glorious time. Who could fuss more about them than Mrs Fortescue? What lovely lodgings she took for them at the seaside, paying more than one dared to think for the spacious rooms where they lived and looked out upon the sparkling waves. Once she had taken them to Paris, and they had had a truly glorious time.

Yes; nothing had been denied them up to the present. They had been urged to learn, too, just because it was such poor fun for rich girls to be ignorant. Rich girls ought to know things. They ought to be rich in mind as well as in body.

Well, Florence had done her best. She was a fairly clever girl. She had certain talents, and she had made the most of them. She was, of course, very young, but she felt, on the whole, rather old. This last week had made her old. She had learned a great deal during this week—the immense, the terrible difference between extreme poverty and extreme wealth. It never once occurred to her that Mr Timmins had behaved badly in not describing to them more accurately the true state of affaire. Brenda had not blamed him, nor did she. He had acted according to her father’s will; and her dear father must have known what was beat. No one was to blame. They had had their good time—as far as wealth was concerned. But oh, how joyful! she had discovered something else: the wealth, the great wealth of love—love; which could exist in a poorly furnished house between an old man and a middle-aged woman; love, which could rejoice the hearts of those who were poorer than itself. And had she not also found her own true love? her lover, who cared for her just because she was herself, just because she was Florence Heathcote, a young girl with a heart to respond to his heart, a love to return for his love? Oh yes, she was happy!

The day of days had come. After Florence had given her half-crown to Susie Arbuthnot, she ran up to her room to prepare for her lover’s visit. He was quite sure to come. He had promised to come to-day for her answer: and she had it ready. She had not put it on paper, she had folded it up inside her heart. It was waiting for him. She would open the door of her heart and just let him peep in and see what it was like—rosy, red, glorious with the tint of the morning; and his—all his!

As she entered the house, she was singing under her breath. She had a sweet voice, and her gay notes thrilled through the old house and brought the Colonel out of his study.

“Well, Florence,” he said.

“Well, Colonel,” she answered. She went up to him and took his hand. Then she said, looking full into his face: “I am so awfully happy!”

“I am glad of it, dear,” he replied. “I am more than glad to find that there is a young girl in this world who has been brought up as you have been brought up, and who thinks nothing at all of riches. It takes most of us many long years to learn the lesson which you have learned at once.”

“I am not thinking about riches at all,” said Florence. She looked at him again, and then she resolved to tell. “May I come with you into your study for a few minutes?” she said.

“Why, certainly, my dear child,” he replied; and he took her hand and led her into the study. He shut the door and turned and faced her.

“Well, Florence,” he said; “what is it?”

“You say I am not rich, Colonel Arbuthnot,” was Florence’s answer; “but I am just about as rich as any girl can be.”

She blushed, and her beautiful eyes grew bright—bright with that sort of look which made it impossible to tell what their colour was, only there seemed to be a great deal of gold about them—a sort of golden brown. Then she dropped her long, black lashes, and her face, which had been so rosy, grew pale. She lifted her eyes again, and fixed them on the Colonel’s face.

“He is coming to-day,” she said; “that is why I am happy. He may be here at any hour—at any minute. I am most awfully happy. A week ago I was astonished when he said what he did say; but now I am just happy. I am very rich, Colonel, because he loves me so much.”

“Who in the world is the girl talking about?” said the Colonel, for he at least knew nothing about Florence’s attachment.

Florence looked at him half shyly.

“Can’t you guess?” she said. “Didn’t you see us together on Christmas Day?” But the Colonel still looked puzzled. A good many people had dined in their hospitable house on Christmas Day, and he had not particularly noticed either Brenda or Florence at that time.

“You must explain a little more, dear,” he said very gently.

“Well,” said Florence, “I will tell you, for you will know all about it very, very soon. It is Michael—Michael Reid.”

“What?” said the Colonel.

“We have been friends always, but I never guessed—in fact, I have never had the smallest idea that he—he cared for me; I did not think about those sorts of things; but on Christmas Day he did seem a little different from other men, and the next day we took a walk—a long walk—and he told me—oh, that is what makes it so beautiful!—that he loved me just, just for myself alone.”

The Colonel looked rather uneasy.

“Michael Reid!” he said. “Of course I know the lad, I have known him since he was a boy. He is not well off, Florence.”

“That is just it,” said Florence. “That is the beautiful part. We neither of us care twopence whether he is well off or not. He says that he would love me if I were as poor as a church mouse, and I feel just the same for him. We are very rich, both of us, because we love each other so much. That is about it, Colonel. How can you call me a poor girl, when I am so rich in love?”

“God grant it, my darling! God grant that you are,” said the Colonel in a reverent tone. Then, bending over her, he kissed her on her white forehead. “You have no father living, so I must take his place for the time being,” he added.

“Michael is coming to see me to-day,” said Florence. “He may be here any minute. I want to put on my very prettiest frock for him. There is nothing one would not do for the man who loves you, is there?”

“Nothing, nothing, of course,” said the Colonel.

Very soon afterwards Florence left the room. As she was going away, the Colonel said—

“I must see about this: I must be a father to you; I feel that I stand in the place of a father to you at the present moment.”

“Oh, how sweet you are!” said Florence. “He will be here himself—any minute; for the week is up to-day, and he is coming to get my answer. He knows all, all about my being poor, and he is coming to-day for my answer. I must go upstairs now to make myself look my very best for him.”

She went away, closing the door very softly behind her. The Colonel heard her singing as she ran upstairs. He then sank heavily into his accustomed armchair. He rested his elbows on the arms of the chair and gazed straight before him with a deep frown between his brows. In truth, he was more troubled than he had ever been before.

After a long time, during which he had been thinking deeply, he went to his desk and wrote a short note to Susie.

“Dear Susie,—“I may not be in to lunch. Don’t wait for me.“Your loving,—“Father.”

“Dear Susie,—“I may not be in to lunch. Don’t wait for me.“Your loving,—“Father.”

He then put on his greatcoat, that shabby coat which had grown green with age, took up his hat and gold-headed stick, and marched out into the little street of Langdale. The Colonel had never looked fiercer, nor yet more dignified than he did now. His moustaches had taken quite a formidable military curl. His white hair was white as snow, but his black brows, and the gleam in his eyes under them, made him look quite a remarkable and imposing figure. One or two people spoke to him, but he did not answer. They wondered afterwards what was the matter with Colonel Arbuthnot. He was certainly very upright. He was an amazing figure for a man of his age—so the women said who watched him from their cottage doors. He was bent on something, just as bent as he had been when he was young and was fighting the battles of his country.

He went straight to Mrs Fortescue’s house. He rang the bell, and when Bridget answered his summons, he said—

“You needn’t tell me that your mistress is at home, because I see her in her dining-room window. I want to say something to her.” Then Bridget made way for him, and he went into Mrs Fortescue’s presence uninvited.

Chapter Twelve.Tried and Found Wanting.Mrs Fortescue was busily engaged answering letters which had come to her owing to an advertisement which she had put intoThe Timesand other daily papers to the effect that she wished to mother young orphan girls to whom she could give undying care and devotion. She was emphasising these special qualities in her replies, and looked up with decided annoyance and a frown between her brows when Colonel Arbuthnot appeared. One glance at him, however, caused her manner to change. She by no means wished to make an enemy of the Colonel; although he was poor—never for a moment pretending to be anything else—he was quite the most respected person in the whole of Langdale. He was influential, too, and his name as one of her late Majesty’s most esteemed soldiers would carry weight in any circle. She wanted to secure him as a reference, and was therefore very mild and gentle when she stood up to give him her cordial greeting.“Sit down, Colonel; do sit down,” she said. “I am so glad to see you. How very fortunate that I was not out. I told Bridget to say that I could not be disturbed this morning, for I am specially engaged; but never to you, dear Colonel; never to you.”The Colonel made no response of any sort. He sat and stared moodily at Mrs Fortescue. Mrs Fortescue was puzzled at the expression on his face.“And how is my dear child?” she said. “You know I call both the dear Heathcote girls my children. They have been as children to me for many years now, and ah! how fondly I have tried to act a mother’s part to both of them, God alone can tell.”“If I were you, madam,” said the Colonel somewhat severely, “I would leave the name of the Almighty out of this business. There are times and seasons for everything, and this, in my opinion, is not the time to speak of God, except, indeed, to beg for His forgiveness, which all we poor sinners need—all, all of us.”The Colonel’s voice changed as he uttered the last words, but only for an instant. Once again his black brows came beetling down over his eyes, and once more he looked like one ready to fight to the death in a losing cause. Mrs Fortescue was not, however, a woman possessed of any insight to character. She was as essentially worldly minded as Colonel Arbuthnot was the reverse.“How is my Florence?” she repeated.“Florence Heathcote is well, thank you.”“It was so noble of you to take her into your house as you have done,” said Mrs Fortescue. “Few in your circumstances would have done it. It was just the very thing for the dear child—a sort of stepping stone for her, in fact, to—”“To what?” asked the Colonel.His tone slightly startled Mrs Fortescue.“To her future life, my dear friend. Alack and alas! to think that those poor children should be the sport of poverty. How cruel was their father’s will! How much, much more sensible it would have been to send them both to a charity school, and keep the little money for their needs when they grew up, that has been lavishly wasted year after year on their education. I have been counting carefully, and I make not the least doubt—”“Excuse me,” said the Colonel: “I have come just to ask you a question and then to leave you. I am somewhat busy, and have not a moment to spare. Did you, or did you not, Mrs Fortescue—”“Why, what is it?” asked Mrs Fortescue. “What a severe tone you are taking, my dear Colonel—and we have been such old friends.”“Will you listen?” said the Colonel, and he thumped his hand on the table with such force that one of the letters which Mrs Fortescue was answering dropped on the floor.“Of course I will listen,” she said gently. “Do calm yourself, dear Colonel. What can be wrong?”“Nothing; at least, I hope nothing. I simply want to ask you one question, and I am then going.”“Of course I will answer it.”“Did you let Major Reid and his son know the change with regard to Florence Heathcote’s fortune?”Now this was about the very last question which Mrs Fortescue expected to be asked. She changed colour and turned rather white.“I—” she began.“I see you did,” said the Colonel. “It doesn’t matter in the least—on the contrary, I regard it as a good thing, an excellent thing. Good-morning: I won’t keep you another moment.”“But—really, Colonel—you are so strange—”Mrs Fortescue spoke to empty air. The Colonel had left her. He stood for a minute or two in the street, pondering. He was making up his mind whether he would himself go straight to see Major Reid or leave things alone. While he was so deliberating in his mind, he saw Michael Reid coming down the street. Michael’s well-groomed figure, his dainty dress, his spotless turn-out, the very way he twirled his cane, the very manner in which he smoked his cigar irritated the Colonel almost past bearing.“Insolent puppy!” he said to himself. He crossed the street, however, and went straight up to the young man.“I presume you are on your way to my house?”“Well, I—ar—I did not intend to call this morning,” said Reid, turning red as he spoke.The Colonel gave him a shrewd glance.“Florence Heathcote is expecting you. When I was young, it was considered extremely ungallant to keep young ladies waiting. We may as well walk together. What a pleasant morning, isn’t it, for the time of year?”Reid murmured something. He wondered how he could possibly escape the Colonel. He did not wish to displease him, and yet he certainly had no desire to see Florence on that special morning. While he was deliberating, the Colonel stole his hand inside the young man’s arm.“We are old friends, aren’t we, Michael?” he said. “I have known you from your birth. I am exceedingly glad to hear that you have formed an attachment to so excellent a girl as Florence. Now, my dear fellow, pray don’t blush: who minds the words of an old soldier like myself? I was young once: I loved once. My Susie’s mother and I married when we were very poor. But, God knows! there never was a happier union. The only sad thing about it—the only sad thing was, its brevity. God took my angel to Himself. But he left me Susie, and I am the last to complain. There’s nothing, my dear young fellow, like roughing it a bit in the early years of marriage, provided, of course, there is true love; and you, Michael, could not be such a dog as to pretend to love a woman when you do not love her all the time. Ah—and here we are. See Florence; she has noticed us. A sweet girl, Michael—a sweet girl. I can see you afterwards, that is, if you wish it. I stand in the position of a father to Florence, for the time being, her own father having left us—gone to join the majority—ah, what a majority it is! Now you go right in. You will find her all alone. The best girl in the world, true as steel, afraid of nothing. God bless you, Michael.”Certainly Michael Reid had not the faintest idea when he started on his walk that morning of going near the Grange. He knew perfectly well, however, that it was the day when Florence was prepared to give him her answer. He was uncomfortably aware of the fact. It had stayed with him in his dreams on the previous night, and disturbed him a good deal. He knew all about the Heathcotes’ reverse of fortune—that was how his father chose to express it. The girls were, his father said, a pair of impostors. They had been palmed off on the people as heiresses. They did not own a penny in the world. As to their good looks—Brenda was, if anything, a plain girl, and Florence was just moderately good-looking. Of course, Michael must never give her a thought again.The Major had urged his son to leave Langdale; but something, he could not tell what, kept Michael on the spot. He wanted to see Florence once more, and yet he dreaded seeing her inexpressibly. Well, now he was caught—fairly caught by Colonel Arbuthnot, dragged to the house against his will. What a position for a man, a man who was terribly in debt and who required all the assistance that a rich wife could give him. Surely rich wives were to be had, although they might not be as taking as pretty Florence. There was no help for it, however; he could not possibly marry her. He had absolutely forgotten that remark of his, that he would love her and make her his wife if she was as poor as a church mouse.Florence had put on her very prettiest frock, and Florence’s prettiest frock was one to wonder at, for it was made by a dressmaker who was also an artist; it was somewhat the colour of an autumn leaf—seeming to shade away from her dear and radiant complexion; and her sunny brown hair seeming to add to the glories in her brown eyes (oh, how brown they were this morning!), and to bring out the bewitching sparkles of her face.When Michael entered the room, Florence ran up to him joyfully.“So you have come!” she said. “I was expecting you. Sit down, won’t you? How are you, Michael?”She looked at him with a certain pathos in her pretty eyes. He came eagerly to her. He could not help himself. He forgot, just for a minute or two, that she was a penniless girl; she looked so radiant, so different from anybody else.“Oh, Florence!” he said.She clasped both his hands, holding them tightly and standing close to him.“I know, dear,” she said, “I know you are sorry for me. But I am not one to be sorry for myself: I am not really, Mike. You have heard, of course, that Brenda and I, instead of being rich, are poor. But that doesn’t matter. At first I thought perhaps it did a little. I knew, of course, darling, it would never matter with you after what you said. You remember what you said, don’t you, Mike?”“What—what was it?” said the young man.“That you would love me all the same, and marry me all the same if I were as poor as—as a church mouse? Do you know that at the time I absolutely knew that I was as poor as a church mouse?”“And you never told me?” he said, trying to let go her hands and yet feeling attracted by her as he had never been attracted before.“I was not allowed to,” she answered. “Mr Timmins had enjoined Brenda and me not to breathe a word of it to any one until he thought it best that the secret should be known.”“Everybody knows it now—my father and every one,” said Michael; and his voice was very gloomy.“But it doesn’t matter a scrap,” she answered. “You don’t think I mind? Why, you know in some ways it makes it far more exciting; and I will tell you one of the ways, Michael. It makes me so sure and certain that you love me, not for my money, but for myself. It would be perfectly awful for a girl to marry a man just because he liked her money and did not care for herself.” Michael Reid winced. “But you are not like that, darling, and if you want me—why, here—here I am. I made up my mind fully a day or two ago. It is all right; I am quite willing to be poor with you. I know we can’t be married for a little, but that doesn’t matter. I am going to work ever so hard: we’ll both work, won’t we, darling Michael? We’ll do our very best, and I know we’ll win in the end. I don’t mind being engaged at all, even if it’s for a long time.”“Florence,” said Michael.He dropped his hands to his sides and looked full at the girl.“What is it?” she asked, a queer expression darkening her eyes. She stepped a little away from him.“I must write to you, dear,” he said. “I—I will explain things by letter. You are good to me—very, very good—but I will explain things by letter.”“But—Michael, can’t you speak? Don’t you—don’t you—really love me?”“Of course I do—of course I do—”Just then the door was opened, and in came Colonel Arbuthnot.“I am sorry to interrupt you two young people,” he said, “but the fact is, I want to hear what arrangements you have made. I stand in the place of father to this young girl, Michael Reid. Are you willing to be her husband; to wait for her until you can afford to marry; to live a clean and good life for her sake, sir; to make yourself worthy of her? She is a very precious gem, sir—a girl hard to match: she has purity of heart and honesty of motive. She is innocent, sir, as the dawn, and beautiful, sir, as the sunrise. Do you think you are fit for her? Tell me so, honestly, and at once: otherwise, I shall not be able to give my consent.”“I am not—I am not fit for her; I am not worthy,” said Michael.“That is for yourself to decide, of course—”“Oh—but Michael—” said poor Florence.“Florence, dear, be silent. Michael Reid must speak now from his full heart. Michael, I know all about this little affair.”“Littleaffair!” said Florence. She felt indignant at the word “little” being introduced. The Colonel turned to her with a very gentle smile. He laid his hand on her arm.“You are very young, my darling,” he said; “only a child—little more than a child. You don’t understand the world at all.”“He said he wanted me for myself; that—that he would love me if I were as poor as a church mouse,” said Florence.“You did say those words, didn’t you, Michael Reid?” said the Colonel.Michael dropped his eyes.“One says a great many things,” was his reply, “that one—doesn’t—”“Ah, I see,” said the Colonel. “You thought Florence Heathcote would be rich. Florence, don’t leave the room,”—for Florence was moving towards the door—“I wish you to stay, my dear. There is a little lesson which you two young people must learn, and you must learn it now, and in my presence. It will hurt you both for a time, but in the end you will both recover. Now, Michael, you made love to Florence Heathcote, believing her to be well off.”“Everybody else thought the same,” said Michael Reid.“Then you didn’t mean that about the church mouse?” said Florence.“To tell the truth,” said Michael, desperately, “it was quite impossible—I mean, itisquite impossible. I am not at all well off myself—”“But I said I was willing to wait,” said Florence.“Let himspeak, Florence; don’t interrupt,” said the Colonel.“There is no use in a long engagement,” said Reid. “I am exceedingly sorry—I cannot pretend that I am in a position to marry a penniless girl. I—I have debts; I am desperately sorry—I would have written—I ought to have written—I have been a fearful coward, but—”“Then you resign all claim to Florence Heathcote’s hand?” said Colonel Arbuthnot.“Yes; I am obliged to; I am terribly, terribly sorry; it is fearfully bad of me.” Michael raised his eyes, met the flashing ones of Florence, then lowered them again. She was quite still for a minute. All the colour had gone out of her face. She was only eighteen; but a girl’s first love is sacred, and something was burned and withered, never to be restored again, in her young heart at that moment. She went straight up to Michael Reid.“You didn’t mean a word that you said. You deceived me that day when we walked home by the river.”“I didn’t mean to,” he said in a shamefaced way.“Well, it is at an end,” said Colonel Arbuthnot. “There is no use in prolonging this scene. After all, Florence, you are years and years too young to be married; and as to you, Reid, you are not in any way worthy of Florence Heathcote. Some day, I trust, my dear child, you will find a man to love you for yourself, who will not think of your money, but of you.”“My money?” said Florence. “I have no money.”“That is not the point at present,” said Colonel Arbuthnot. “The point is that you have discovered—as many another girl does—that you have loved some one who is unworthy of you. I don’t say that you are all bad, Reid, I hope you are very far from it; but when you and your father schemed to secure this young girl simply because she was, as you imagined, rich, you overshot the mark, sir, both of you, understand me, you overshot the mark. And now I shall have the pleasure of showing you the door, Michael Reid. While Florence is here, you don’t enter my house—no, sir; you don’t enter it. Go, sir; go at once.”It was impossible, under such circumstances, even for a lieutenant in His Majesty’s army to make a graceful exit, and Michael Reid looked uncommonly like a beaten hound as he went out of the house. As to Florence, she did not glance at either the Colonel or Michael, but rushed up to her room. There she bolted the door and flung herself on her bed.

Mrs Fortescue was busily engaged answering letters which had come to her owing to an advertisement which she had put intoThe Timesand other daily papers to the effect that she wished to mother young orphan girls to whom she could give undying care and devotion. She was emphasising these special qualities in her replies, and looked up with decided annoyance and a frown between her brows when Colonel Arbuthnot appeared. One glance at him, however, caused her manner to change. She by no means wished to make an enemy of the Colonel; although he was poor—never for a moment pretending to be anything else—he was quite the most respected person in the whole of Langdale. He was influential, too, and his name as one of her late Majesty’s most esteemed soldiers would carry weight in any circle. She wanted to secure him as a reference, and was therefore very mild and gentle when she stood up to give him her cordial greeting.

“Sit down, Colonel; do sit down,” she said. “I am so glad to see you. How very fortunate that I was not out. I told Bridget to say that I could not be disturbed this morning, for I am specially engaged; but never to you, dear Colonel; never to you.”

The Colonel made no response of any sort. He sat and stared moodily at Mrs Fortescue. Mrs Fortescue was puzzled at the expression on his face.

“And how is my dear child?” she said. “You know I call both the dear Heathcote girls my children. They have been as children to me for many years now, and ah! how fondly I have tried to act a mother’s part to both of them, God alone can tell.”

“If I were you, madam,” said the Colonel somewhat severely, “I would leave the name of the Almighty out of this business. There are times and seasons for everything, and this, in my opinion, is not the time to speak of God, except, indeed, to beg for His forgiveness, which all we poor sinners need—all, all of us.”

The Colonel’s voice changed as he uttered the last words, but only for an instant. Once again his black brows came beetling down over his eyes, and once more he looked like one ready to fight to the death in a losing cause. Mrs Fortescue was not, however, a woman possessed of any insight to character. She was as essentially worldly minded as Colonel Arbuthnot was the reverse.

“How is my Florence?” she repeated.

“Florence Heathcote is well, thank you.”

“It was so noble of you to take her into your house as you have done,” said Mrs Fortescue. “Few in your circumstances would have done it. It was just the very thing for the dear child—a sort of stepping stone for her, in fact, to—”

“To what?” asked the Colonel.

His tone slightly startled Mrs Fortescue.

“To her future life, my dear friend. Alack and alas! to think that those poor children should be the sport of poverty. How cruel was their father’s will! How much, much more sensible it would have been to send them both to a charity school, and keep the little money for their needs when they grew up, that has been lavishly wasted year after year on their education. I have been counting carefully, and I make not the least doubt—”

“Excuse me,” said the Colonel: “I have come just to ask you a question and then to leave you. I am somewhat busy, and have not a moment to spare. Did you, or did you not, Mrs Fortescue—”

“Why, what is it?” asked Mrs Fortescue. “What a severe tone you are taking, my dear Colonel—and we have been such old friends.”

“Will you listen?” said the Colonel, and he thumped his hand on the table with such force that one of the letters which Mrs Fortescue was answering dropped on the floor.

“Of course I will listen,” she said gently. “Do calm yourself, dear Colonel. What can be wrong?”

“Nothing; at least, I hope nothing. I simply want to ask you one question, and I am then going.”

“Of course I will answer it.”

“Did you let Major Reid and his son know the change with regard to Florence Heathcote’s fortune?”

Now this was about the very last question which Mrs Fortescue expected to be asked. She changed colour and turned rather white.

“I—” she began.

“I see you did,” said the Colonel. “It doesn’t matter in the least—on the contrary, I regard it as a good thing, an excellent thing. Good-morning: I won’t keep you another moment.”

“But—really, Colonel—you are so strange—”

Mrs Fortescue spoke to empty air. The Colonel had left her. He stood for a minute or two in the street, pondering. He was making up his mind whether he would himself go straight to see Major Reid or leave things alone. While he was so deliberating in his mind, he saw Michael Reid coming down the street. Michael’s well-groomed figure, his dainty dress, his spotless turn-out, the very way he twirled his cane, the very manner in which he smoked his cigar irritated the Colonel almost past bearing.

“Insolent puppy!” he said to himself. He crossed the street, however, and went straight up to the young man.

“I presume you are on your way to my house?”

“Well, I—ar—I did not intend to call this morning,” said Reid, turning red as he spoke.

The Colonel gave him a shrewd glance.

“Florence Heathcote is expecting you. When I was young, it was considered extremely ungallant to keep young ladies waiting. We may as well walk together. What a pleasant morning, isn’t it, for the time of year?”

Reid murmured something. He wondered how he could possibly escape the Colonel. He did not wish to displease him, and yet he certainly had no desire to see Florence on that special morning. While he was deliberating, the Colonel stole his hand inside the young man’s arm.

“We are old friends, aren’t we, Michael?” he said. “I have known you from your birth. I am exceedingly glad to hear that you have formed an attachment to so excellent a girl as Florence. Now, my dear fellow, pray don’t blush: who minds the words of an old soldier like myself? I was young once: I loved once. My Susie’s mother and I married when we were very poor. But, God knows! there never was a happier union. The only sad thing about it—the only sad thing was, its brevity. God took my angel to Himself. But he left me Susie, and I am the last to complain. There’s nothing, my dear young fellow, like roughing it a bit in the early years of marriage, provided, of course, there is true love; and you, Michael, could not be such a dog as to pretend to love a woman when you do not love her all the time. Ah—and here we are. See Florence; she has noticed us. A sweet girl, Michael—a sweet girl. I can see you afterwards, that is, if you wish it. I stand in the position of a father to Florence, for the time being, her own father having left us—gone to join the majority—ah, what a majority it is! Now you go right in. You will find her all alone. The best girl in the world, true as steel, afraid of nothing. God bless you, Michael.”

Certainly Michael Reid had not the faintest idea when he started on his walk that morning of going near the Grange. He knew perfectly well, however, that it was the day when Florence was prepared to give him her answer. He was uncomfortably aware of the fact. It had stayed with him in his dreams on the previous night, and disturbed him a good deal. He knew all about the Heathcotes’ reverse of fortune—that was how his father chose to express it. The girls were, his father said, a pair of impostors. They had been palmed off on the people as heiresses. They did not own a penny in the world. As to their good looks—Brenda was, if anything, a plain girl, and Florence was just moderately good-looking. Of course, Michael must never give her a thought again.

The Major had urged his son to leave Langdale; but something, he could not tell what, kept Michael on the spot. He wanted to see Florence once more, and yet he dreaded seeing her inexpressibly. Well, now he was caught—fairly caught by Colonel Arbuthnot, dragged to the house against his will. What a position for a man, a man who was terribly in debt and who required all the assistance that a rich wife could give him. Surely rich wives were to be had, although they might not be as taking as pretty Florence. There was no help for it, however; he could not possibly marry her. He had absolutely forgotten that remark of his, that he would love her and make her his wife if she was as poor as a church mouse.

Florence had put on her very prettiest frock, and Florence’s prettiest frock was one to wonder at, for it was made by a dressmaker who was also an artist; it was somewhat the colour of an autumn leaf—seeming to shade away from her dear and radiant complexion; and her sunny brown hair seeming to add to the glories in her brown eyes (oh, how brown they were this morning!), and to bring out the bewitching sparkles of her face.

When Michael entered the room, Florence ran up to him joyfully.

“So you have come!” she said. “I was expecting you. Sit down, won’t you? How are you, Michael?”

She looked at him with a certain pathos in her pretty eyes. He came eagerly to her. He could not help himself. He forgot, just for a minute or two, that she was a penniless girl; she looked so radiant, so different from anybody else.

“Oh, Florence!” he said.

She clasped both his hands, holding them tightly and standing close to him.

“I know, dear,” she said, “I know you are sorry for me. But I am not one to be sorry for myself: I am not really, Mike. You have heard, of course, that Brenda and I, instead of being rich, are poor. But that doesn’t matter. At first I thought perhaps it did a little. I knew, of course, darling, it would never matter with you after what you said. You remember what you said, don’t you, Mike?”

“What—what was it?” said the young man.

“That you would love me all the same, and marry me all the same if I were as poor as—as a church mouse? Do you know that at the time I absolutely knew that I was as poor as a church mouse?”

“And you never told me?” he said, trying to let go her hands and yet feeling attracted by her as he had never been attracted before.

“I was not allowed to,” she answered. “Mr Timmins had enjoined Brenda and me not to breathe a word of it to any one until he thought it best that the secret should be known.”

“Everybody knows it now—my father and every one,” said Michael; and his voice was very gloomy.

“But it doesn’t matter a scrap,” she answered. “You don’t think I mind? Why, you know in some ways it makes it far more exciting; and I will tell you one of the ways, Michael. It makes me so sure and certain that you love me, not for my money, but for myself. It would be perfectly awful for a girl to marry a man just because he liked her money and did not care for herself.” Michael Reid winced. “But you are not like that, darling, and if you want me—why, here—here I am. I made up my mind fully a day or two ago. It is all right; I am quite willing to be poor with you. I know we can’t be married for a little, but that doesn’t matter. I am going to work ever so hard: we’ll both work, won’t we, darling Michael? We’ll do our very best, and I know we’ll win in the end. I don’t mind being engaged at all, even if it’s for a long time.”

“Florence,” said Michael.

He dropped his hands to his sides and looked full at the girl.

“What is it?” she asked, a queer expression darkening her eyes. She stepped a little away from him.

“I must write to you, dear,” he said. “I—I will explain things by letter. You are good to me—very, very good—but I will explain things by letter.”

“But—Michael, can’t you speak? Don’t you—don’t you—really love me?”

“Of course I do—of course I do—”

Just then the door was opened, and in came Colonel Arbuthnot.

“I am sorry to interrupt you two young people,” he said, “but the fact is, I want to hear what arrangements you have made. I stand in the place of father to this young girl, Michael Reid. Are you willing to be her husband; to wait for her until you can afford to marry; to live a clean and good life for her sake, sir; to make yourself worthy of her? She is a very precious gem, sir—a girl hard to match: she has purity of heart and honesty of motive. She is innocent, sir, as the dawn, and beautiful, sir, as the sunrise. Do you think you are fit for her? Tell me so, honestly, and at once: otherwise, I shall not be able to give my consent.”

“I am not—I am not fit for her; I am not worthy,” said Michael.

“That is for yourself to decide, of course—”

“Oh—but Michael—” said poor Florence.

“Florence, dear, be silent. Michael Reid must speak now from his full heart. Michael, I know all about this little affair.”

“Littleaffair!” said Florence. She felt indignant at the word “little” being introduced. The Colonel turned to her with a very gentle smile. He laid his hand on her arm.

“You are very young, my darling,” he said; “only a child—little more than a child. You don’t understand the world at all.”

“He said he wanted me for myself; that—that he would love me if I were as poor as a church mouse,” said Florence.

“You did say those words, didn’t you, Michael Reid?” said the Colonel.

Michael dropped his eyes.

“One says a great many things,” was his reply, “that one—doesn’t—”

“Ah, I see,” said the Colonel. “You thought Florence Heathcote would be rich. Florence, don’t leave the room,”—for Florence was moving towards the door—“I wish you to stay, my dear. There is a little lesson which you two young people must learn, and you must learn it now, and in my presence. It will hurt you both for a time, but in the end you will both recover. Now, Michael, you made love to Florence Heathcote, believing her to be well off.”

“Everybody else thought the same,” said Michael Reid.

“Then you didn’t mean that about the church mouse?” said Florence.

“To tell the truth,” said Michael, desperately, “it was quite impossible—I mean, itisquite impossible. I am not at all well off myself—”

“But I said I was willing to wait,” said Florence.

“Let himspeak, Florence; don’t interrupt,” said the Colonel.

“There is no use in a long engagement,” said Reid. “I am exceedingly sorry—I cannot pretend that I am in a position to marry a penniless girl. I—I have debts; I am desperately sorry—I would have written—I ought to have written—I have been a fearful coward, but—”

“Then you resign all claim to Florence Heathcote’s hand?” said Colonel Arbuthnot.

“Yes; I am obliged to; I am terribly, terribly sorry; it is fearfully bad of me.” Michael raised his eyes, met the flashing ones of Florence, then lowered them again. She was quite still for a minute. All the colour had gone out of her face. She was only eighteen; but a girl’s first love is sacred, and something was burned and withered, never to be restored again, in her young heart at that moment. She went straight up to Michael Reid.

“You didn’t mean a word that you said. You deceived me that day when we walked home by the river.”

“I didn’t mean to,” he said in a shamefaced way.

“Well, it is at an end,” said Colonel Arbuthnot. “There is no use in prolonging this scene. After all, Florence, you are years and years too young to be married; and as to you, Reid, you are not in any way worthy of Florence Heathcote. Some day, I trust, my dear child, you will find a man to love you for yourself, who will not think of your money, but of you.”

“My money?” said Florence. “I have no money.”

“That is not the point at present,” said Colonel Arbuthnot. “The point is that you have discovered—as many another girl does—that you have loved some one who is unworthy of you. I don’t say that you are all bad, Reid, I hope you are very far from it; but when you and your father schemed to secure this young girl simply because she was, as you imagined, rich, you overshot the mark, sir, both of you, understand me, you overshot the mark. And now I shall have the pleasure of showing you the door, Michael Reid. While Florence is here, you don’t enter my house—no, sir; you don’t enter it. Go, sir; go at once.”

It was impossible, under such circumstances, even for a lieutenant in His Majesty’s army to make a graceful exit, and Michael Reid looked uncommonly like a beaten hound as he went out of the house. As to Florence, she did not glance at either the Colonel or Michael, but rushed up to her room. There she bolted the door and flung herself on her bed.

Chapter Thirteen.Lady Marian Explains.Whether she was weak or not, whether she was angry or indifferent, Florence Heathcote shed very few tears. She came downstairs in that frock which was so like the colour of a rich autumn leaf. She partook of lunch with the Colonel and Susie, and afterwards went into the kitchen with Susie in order to prepare as good a dinner as possible for Miss Hudson.Whenever Susie spoke to her, she laughed. Susie wondered if she felt anything. It was not until that evening that any of Florence’s real feelings came out.It was late in the evening when something very unexpected happened. No less a person than Brenda appeared on the scene. She had come down from London by the last train and come straight to the Arbuthnots’ house by the invitation of the Colonel and Susie. They had said nothing to Florence on the subject. Florence had indeed gone up to bed. She expected to spend the whole night in those transports of grief which the overthrow of all hopes must induce. But somehow, when she saw Brenda, the tears were dry in her eyes, and a feeling of lightness visited her heart.“Oh, Brenda, darling!” she said. “Why ever have you come? Did Lady Marian Dixie allow you to visit me so soon? How perfectly sweet of her!”“Mr Timmins has brought me,” said Brenda. “He had a telegram in the course of the morning from Colonel Arbuthnot, and came to see me, and has brought me down. I don’t quite understand what it all means; but he is talking to Colonel Arbuthnot now, and you and I are to share that little bed, Flo. Do you mind, just for one night?”“It’s all over between Mike and me,” said Florence. “Did you know that, Brenda?”“Oh, you poor, poor darling!” said Brenda.“But he said—”“Yes, he said,” interrupted Florence—and her tone was one of scorn—“but he didn’t mean it—he was put to the proof to-day—and—he didn’t mean a word of it. He wanted my money, not me. Oh—don’t let’s talk about him! I’d have got engaged to him; I had made up my mind to, and I—I’d have loved him—yes—most truly I’d have loved him—and waited for him—oh! years and years, and worked and worked to save money for him. But he didn’t want it; he didn’t want poor little me at all. Oh, how I hate all men, Brenda!” Brenda flung her arms round her sister’s neck and kissed her many times.“I have got you,” said Florence; “we’ll work together somehow. If I had been engaged, it would in a sort of way have divided us.”“It would certainly,” said Brenda; “that is quite true.”“It is lovely to be close to you,” said Florence; “and you look happier than ever. Oh! I should have had a perfectly awful time since I parted from you if it had not been for the dear Arbuthnots. I never knew any one like Mrs Fortescue; she was so angry when she found we had no money that she wouldn’t even give me eggs for my breakfast; I had nothing but a little bit from that ham bone. Don’t you remember that ham bone, Brenda?”“Yes,” said Brenda. “I remember Bridget told me how sick she was of it, how she had to make her dinner from it almost every day.”“As far as I can tell, I dare say she is still making her dinner from it,” said Florence. “But anyhow, I told you in my letter, didn’t I? how dear, darling Susie came and brought me away to stay here. I have been here for a week—I mean newly a week; and oh! I have been so happy—that is, until to-day. I have been finding out that money means nothing at all. No one who lived in the house with the Arbuthnots would think anything at all about money; for they are poor, but they never make a fuss. They manage on so little, and they give away every penny they can to those who are still poorer than themselves. But to-day has been awful—quite, quite awful!”“You mean about Michael Reid?”“Oh yes: I don’t think I can ever be the same girl again.”“Do you know,” said Brenda, “when Mr Timmins and I arrived at the station this evening, we saw Michael in the distance. Michael was going away with a lot of luggage and the Major was with him; he was saying good-bye to him. I don’t think Michael saw me.”“Don’t speak of him; I hate him even to be spoken about!” said Florence.“He was subjected to a test,” said Brenda, “and he certainly did not stand the ordeal. Well, you and I will do the best we can; and I somehow think we’ll be happy together.”“How does Lady Marian treat you? You look awfully well, Brenda,” said Florence.“Yes, I am well, and if it were not for you and that terrible Michael, I would be quite happy. I never could know, as Lady Marian’s guest, that I was not as rich as ever. She has bought me lots of new things, and whenever she gets me anything, she gets the same for you. It is really quite ridiculous; I told her so. But her only remark was that our figures were the same and that it saved a lot of trouble. You will find almost a trousseau of clothes waiting for you when you come up to town to-morrow.”“Oh, I don’t want them; I hate finery,” said Florence.“It would hurt Lady Marian very much indeed if we didn’t accept her presents,” said Brenda. “She wants to talk to us to-morrow about our future, and we are going back to town, both of us, by an early train with Mr Timmins.”“Oh,” said Florence, “must we leave the dear Arbuthnots?”“I have no doubt they will ask you to visit them sometimes in the holidays,” said Brenda. “But we are going back to town, both of us, to-morrow, because Lady Marian particularly wants to see us.”After this conversation, the girls undressed and got into bed. Notwithstanding her grief, and the soreness at her heart, Florence slept soundly. In her sleep she had a dream that Michael Reid was at her feet, that he had repented of his pusillanimity of the day before, and was offering her once again his heart and hand, but that now she was refusing them with great scorn. She awoke from her dream to find her cheeks wet with tears and saw Susie looking down at her and smiling.“I am so very sorry to wake you, Florence,” she said, “but the fact is, you and Brenda must get up at once in order to catch the train. I’ve got a lovely breakfast ready for you both downstairs—real fresh eggs and broiled ham.”“Oh—but so expensive!” said Florence.“I managed splendidly out of the money you gave me yesterday,” said Susie. “You know what a delicious dinner we had, and how Miss Hudson did enjoy it. Well, there was enough over to make this good breakfast. And now you must hurry down, both of you, to eat it.”Florence sprang to her feet.“I don’t mind poverty, after all,” she said, “if only I could spend it with you, Susie, and with your father.”“You shall come back to us, and whenever you come, you shall have a welcome—the best in all the world,” said Susie. “And oh! do, my dear Florence, remember, when you are making orange marmalade that you cut the peel thin enough!”“Yes, yes,” said Florence. “But I don’t think somehow,” she added, with a dash of her old spirit, “that making orange marmalade is mymétier.”The girls dressed and went downstairs. The Colonel was waiting to receive them. Miss Hudson had had her breakfast and gone off to her pupils. The new-laid eggs were duly appreciated. The ham was pronounced delicious.Presently, a cab came to the door and Brenda and Florence got in. Mr Timmins was to meet them at the railway station. The Colonel took both their hands as they were leaving.“Good-bye, my dears,” he said. “God bless you both. From what Mr Timmins tells me, I think you will be able to manage in the future; but if ever in any possible way you need a friend, you have but to remember me, who would love you both, my dear girls, were you as poor as the proverbial church mouse. And now, may a father have his privilege?”He kissed each girl on her forehead, wrung their hands, and put them into the cab. As to Susie, she was wiping the tears from her eyes. The cab started on its way to the railway station and the pretty brown house disappeared from view. The different inhabitants of Langdale, who had known the girls in their wealth, saw them as they went by. Mrs Fortescue’s Bridget was so much excited that she opened one of the bedroom windows and shrieked out—“God bless you both, darlings!” But Mrs Fortescue only gazed at them severely from behind a wire blind.She was thinking that there would be a good riddance at Langdale, and was comfortably feeling her purse, which was heavy with some money which Mr Timmins had paid her in person on the previous night. Yes, she had got rid of the Heathcotes; she must now find other girls to devote herself to with all a mother’s care.Bridget entered the room with her mistress’ breakfast.“Did you see the young ladies, madam?” she asked.“What young ladies?” asked Mrs Fortescue.“Ouryoung ladies, madam—the Misses Heathcote. They’ve gone, both of them, poor darlings!”“It’s a very good thing they have gone,” said Mrs Fortescue, in a severe voice. “They were quite nice girls, but were unfortunately brought up to deceive other people. They are now going to begin the battle of life in earnest, and I, for my part, am glad of it. They have plenty of faults, and will, I fear, find the lessons of life hard to learn.”“Oh, madam,” said Bridget, “I never saw any one so good-natured as Miss Florence was about that ham bone—”“That will do,” said her mistress. “I expect,” she added, “other young ladies to come and stay with me before long, and trust that you will exert yourself to cook well and to look after their interests.”“I was going to say, madam,” said Bridget demurely, “that now that Miss Florence and Miss Brenda have gone, I should wish to give a month’s notice.”Mrs Fortescue stared at her elderly servant. “Whatdoyou mean?” she said. “Give me your reasons.”“Well, madam, to tell you the truth—I don’t like treating ladies, just because they ain’t as rich as one expected them to be, with ham bones for breakfast. You will get some one else to help you when the new ladies come, madam,” and Bridget flounced out of the room.Meanwhile, Mr Timmins met the girls at the station. He took them up to town first-class and treated them with great respect and consideration. Florence could not help whispering to Brenda—“Seeing that we are so very poor, it does seem absurd that we should always travel first-class.”“It’s Mr Timmins’ way,” said Brenda. “I don’t think he’d like,” she added, “Lady Marian to know that we travelled in any other way.”“Well, we shall have to in the future,” said Florence; “and,” she added, “as far as I am concerned, I think it is almost more exciting to be poor. It is so delightful to manage. You can’t imagine, Brenda, what fun Susie and I had contriving the dinners, more particularly the bone dinners.”“Whatareyou talking about, children?” said Mr Timmins, waking up from a nap in which he had temporarily indulged.Florence went and sat by his side and told him the story of the bone dinner.“They are so delicious!” she said. “I never enjoyed anything more.”Mr Timmins seemed much interested in the story.“’Pon my word!” he said; “if that is not about the very highest form of charity I have ever heard of. He that giveth to the poor lendeth to the Lord. It’s a mighty good security, young ladies, mighty good. No fear of that security coming to smash.”Then he returned to his sheet ofThe Times, and did not speak again until the journey came to an end. When it did, Mr Timmins’ own brougham was waiting for them. They got in, and drove straight to Lady Marian Dixie’s house in Cadogan Place. Brenda seemed quite at home there, but Florence felt a little shy.“Now,” said Mr Timmins, “I will say goodbye to you both. Lady Marian has something to say to you, and if you want to see me later on in the day, you have but to telephone, and I will be with you. But I think Lady Marian would rather see you by herself.”“Come, Flo, come,” said Brenda. “Oh, she is such a darling; you will love her soon as much as I do.”The girls both entered the pretty boudoir where old Lady Marian Dixie was waiting for them. She drew Brenda close to her and kissed her. Then she looked at Florence.“Why, I have heard all about that young man,” she said, “and the week is up; it was up yesterday. Is everything settled? Are you engaged to him? He has stood the test, has he?”Poor Florence! The tears trembled in her eyes.“No,” she said, “no. Oh, tell her, Brenda, tell her. I can’t, I can’t!”Florence walked to the window and looked out. Brenda said something in a low tone to Lady Marian. After a very short time Florence came back. Her cheeks were bright, and so were her eyes.“I wouldn’t have him now,” she said, “if—if he were to go on his knees to me—as the saying is. I wouldn’t have him at any price. I don’t suppose I really loved him.”“It was a good thing you found it out in time,” said Lady Marian. “And besides, Florence, you are a great deal too young to marry yet. Why, my dear good child, you are not half educated. Now, my plan for you both is this: that you should go to either Newnham or Girton in the autumn and take a proper course of training there; afterwards, we might go abroad for a bit. In these days, uneducated women are unbearable, and no girl of eighteen, however clever she is, can be properly educated. You can spend your holidays with me, and go and see the Arbuthnots sometimes if you like. But that must be as you please.”“But—but,” said Florence in amazement; “of course I’d adore to go to Girton; I have always had the greatest hankering for it. But we can’t earn our living in that way.”Lady Marian smiled.“You don’t need to earn your living, my dear child,” she said.“I don’t need—Brenda and I don’t need! What do you mean, Lady Marian?”“I mean what I say,” answered Lady Marian. “Mr Timmins told you the truth with regard to your father. He unfortunately lost a very large fortune shortly before his death, and could only leave enough by will to be spent on your education. His will was a somewhat extraordinary one. In this, he said that he wished you to be educated to enable you to take your proper position in the world, not only in the world of fashion but also in that better world of refinement and culture: in the world where good people live and valiant efforts are made to maintain the right and suppress the wrong. He wished you to be carefully prepared for this position, for he knew only too well that youth—the early days of youth—is the time for such a preparation. But when you left school (he mentioned the exact age when this was to take place), you were both to be put to the test; and not only you, but your friends. You were to be told the truth, but only a part of the truth. Your father’s money, with the exception of a small sum which I believe Mr Timmins mentioned to you, has nearly been exhausted. You were to face the world, prepared in one sense, but unprepared in another. You were to look at the world, for a short time, as poor girls, not as rich ones. Your own characters were to be submitted to this trial and, still more important, the characters of your so-called friends. Do sit down, Florence; how white your face is! Brenda, come and kneel by me, darling.” Florence dropped into a chair. Her heart was beating almost to suffocation. Brenda knelt by Lady Marian and looked at her sister with a world of pity in her own eyes.“You were to find out your friends, my dear children,” said Lady Marian; “and you could only find them out through this test. The girl who has money is often surrounded by so-called friends, who see much in her because her gold casts a sort of false halo round her. Your father wanted you to learn a lesson, so that you could, all through your future years, discern the true from the false. As to the length of the test to which you were to be submitted, that was left altogether to Mr Timmins’ and to my discrimination; for I, my dear children, by your father’s and mother’s will, am appointed your guardian, and have now absolute power to arrange for your future.”“Still—still,” said Brenda, speaking with hesitation, “I cannot see where the money comes in. Not that we want it,” she continued; “for we have found—oh! such a true friend in you, and Mr Timmins is good—”“And the Arbuthnots,” said Florence suddenly; “they are just more than splendid!”“And we don’t mind a bit earning our own living,” said Brenda.Lady Marian bent forward and kissed Brenda on her brow.“I know that quite well, my darling,” she said; “and I know also that Florence has learnt her lesson. You have discovered your true friends, and also discovered your false ones. What about Mrs Fortescue? What about—” here she glanced at Florence.“I know, I know,” said Florence. “I thought Michael was—oh! so different; and I—I did care for him a little!”Tears rose to her eyes. She pressed her handkerchief to them and sat still for a minute, trying to recover from her emotions; then she continued—“I have not broken my heart.”She looked up with a smile which was half piteous.“I know that,” said Lady Marian, briskly, “and you will recover it altogether soon. Now the facto of the case are these. Your father wished his money to be spent on your education. Meanwhile, your mother’s money, which represented a very large sum—many thousands of pounds: I cannot go into full particulars, but Mr Timmins will, if necessary, enlighten you—was to lie at compound interest awaiting the moment when you were to receive it. My dear girls, a certain portion of that money is to be devoted to what may be called yourhighereducation—that which you will receive during the next three years—and afterwards you will be rich, dears, I trust; not only rich in money, but rich in the better things, which mean courage, and endurance, and faith, and sympathy. You will understand the real poor a little better because for a short week of your lives you considered yourselves poor, and you will discern the true from the false also because of this week, which has taught you a lesson. Now go up to your rooms, dears; I think I have explained all that is necessary for the present.”“But one thing,” said Florence, as they rose. “May I write and tell Susie Arbuthnot?”“Certainly; I should like you to do so.”

Whether she was weak or not, whether she was angry or indifferent, Florence Heathcote shed very few tears. She came downstairs in that frock which was so like the colour of a rich autumn leaf. She partook of lunch with the Colonel and Susie, and afterwards went into the kitchen with Susie in order to prepare as good a dinner as possible for Miss Hudson.

Whenever Susie spoke to her, she laughed. Susie wondered if she felt anything. It was not until that evening that any of Florence’s real feelings came out.

It was late in the evening when something very unexpected happened. No less a person than Brenda appeared on the scene. She had come down from London by the last train and come straight to the Arbuthnots’ house by the invitation of the Colonel and Susie. They had said nothing to Florence on the subject. Florence had indeed gone up to bed. She expected to spend the whole night in those transports of grief which the overthrow of all hopes must induce. But somehow, when she saw Brenda, the tears were dry in her eyes, and a feeling of lightness visited her heart.

“Oh, Brenda, darling!” she said. “Why ever have you come? Did Lady Marian Dixie allow you to visit me so soon? How perfectly sweet of her!”

“Mr Timmins has brought me,” said Brenda. “He had a telegram in the course of the morning from Colonel Arbuthnot, and came to see me, and has brought me down. I don’t quite understand what it all means; but he is talking to Colonel Arbuthnot now, and you and I are to share that little bed, Flo. Do you mind, just for one night?”

“It’s all over between Mike and me,” said Florence. “Did you know that, Brenda?”

“Oh, you poor, poor darling!” said Brenda.

“But he said—”

“Yes, he said,” interrupted Florence—and her tone was one of scorn—“but he didn’t mean it—he was put to the proof to-day—and—he didn’t mean a word of it. He wanted my money, not me. Oh—don’t let’s talk about him! I’d have got engaged to him; I had made up my mind to, and I—I’d have loved him—yes—most truly I’d have loved him—and waited for him—oh! years and years, and worked and worked to save money for him. But he didn’t want it; he didn’t want poor little me at all. Oh, how I hate all men, Brenda!” Brenda flung her arms round her sister’s neck and kissed her many times.

“I have got you,” said Florence; “we’ll work together somehow. If I had been engaged, it would in a sort of way have divided us.”

“It would certainly,” said Brenda; “that is quite true.”

“It is lovely to be close to you,” said Florence; “and you look happier than ever. Oh! I should have had a perfectly awful time since I parted from you if it had not been for the dear Arbuthnots. I never knew any one like Mrs Fortescue; she was so angry when she found we had no money that she wouldn’t even give me eggs for my breakfast; I had nothing but a little bit from that ham bone. Don’t you remember that ham bone, Brenda?”

“Yes,” said Brenda. “I remember Bridget told me how sick she was of it, how she had to make her dinner from it almost every day.”

“As far as I can tell, I dare say she is still making her dinner from it,” said Florence. “But anyhow, I told you in my letter, didn’t I? how dear, darling Susie came and brought me away to stay here. I have been here for a week—I mean newly a week; and oh! I have been so happy—that is, until to-day. I have been finding out that money means nothing at all. No one who lived in the house with the Arbuthnots would think anything at all about money; for they are poor, but they never make a fuss. They manage on so little, and they give away every penny they can to those who are still poorer than themselves. But to-day has been awful—quite, quite awful!”

“You mean about Michael Reid?”

“Oh yes: I don’t think I can ever be the same girl again.”

“Do you know,” said Brenda, “when Mr Timmins and I arrived at the station this evening, we saw Michael in the distance. Michael was going away with a lot of luggage and the Major was with him; he was saying good-bye to him. I don’t think Michael saw me.”

“Don’t speak of him; I hate him even to be spoken about!” said Florence.

“He was subjected to a test,” said Brenda, “and he certainly did not stand the ordeal. Well, you and I will do the best we can; and I somehow think we’ll be happy together.”

“How does Lady Marian treat you? You look awfully well, Brenda,” said Florence.

“Yes, I am well, and if it were not for you and that terrible Michael, I would be quite happy. I never could know, as Lady Marian’s guest, that I was not as rich as ever. She has bought me lots of new things, and whenever she gets me anything, she gets the same for you. It is really quite ridiculous; I told her so. But her only remark was that our figures were the same and that it saved a lot of trouble. You will find almost a trousseau of clothes waiting for you when you come up to town to-morrow.”

“Oh, I don’t want them; I hate finery,” said Florence.

“It would hurt Lady Marian very much indeed if we didn’t accept her presents,” said Brenda. “She wants to talk to us to-morrow about our future, and we are going back to town, both of us, by an early train with Mr Timmins.”

“Oh,” said Florence, “must we leave the dear Arbuthnots?”

“I have no doubt they will ask you to visit them sometimes in the holidays,” said Brenda. “But we are going back to town, both of us, to-morrow, because Lady Marian particularly wants to see us.”

After this conversation, the girls undressed and got into bed. Notwithstanding her grief, and the soreness at her heart, Florence slept soundly. In her sleep she had a dream that Michael Reid was at her feet, that he had repented of his pusillanimity of the day before, and was offering her once again his heart and hand, but that now she was refusing them with great scorn. She awoke from her dream to find her cheeks wet with tears and saw Susie looking down at her and smiling.

“I am so very sorry to wake you, Florence,” she said, “but the fact is, you and Brenda must get up at once in order to catch the train. I’ve got a lovely breakfast ready for you both downstairs—real fresh eggs and broiled ham.”

“Oh—but so expensive!” said Florence.

“I managed splendidly out of the money you gave me yesterday,” said Susie. “You know what a delicious dinner we had, and how Miss Hudson did enjoy it. Well, there was enough over to make this good breakfast. And now you must hurry down, both of you, to eat it.”

Florence sprang to her feet.

“I don’t mind poverty, after all,” she said, “if only I could spend it with you, Susie, and with your father.”

“You shall come back to us, and whenever you come, you shall have a welcome—the best in all the world,” said Susie. “And oh! do, my dear Florence, remember, when you are making orange marmalade that you cut the peel thin enough!”

“Yes, yes,” said Florence. “But I don’t think somehow,” she added, with a dash of her old spirit, “that making orange marmalade is mymétier.”

The girls dressed and went downstairs. The Colonel was waiting to receive them. Miss Hudson had had her breakfast and gone off to her pupils. The new-laid eggs were duly appreciated. The ham was pronounced delicious.

Presently, a cab came to the door and Brenda and Florence got in. Mr Timmins was to meet them at the railway station. The Colonel took both their hands as they were leaving.

“Good-bye, my dears,” he said. “God bless you both. From what Mr Timmins tells me, I think you will be able to manage in the future; but if ever in any possible way you need a friend, you have but to remember me, who would love you both, my dear girls, were you as poor as the proverbial church mouse. And now, may a father have his privilege?”

He kissed each girl on her forehead, wrung their hands, and put them into the cab. As to Susie, she was wiping the tears from her eyes. The cab started on its way to the railway station and the pretty brown house disappeared from view. The different inhabitants of Langdale, who had known the girls in their wealth, saw them as they went by. Mrs Fortescue’s Bridget was so much excited that she opened one of the bedroom windows and shrieked out—

“God bless you both, darlings!” But Mrs Fortescue only gazed at them severely from behind a wire blind.

She was thinking that there would be a good riddance at Langdale, and was comfortably feeling her purse, which was heavy with some money which Mr Timmins had paid her in person on the previous night. Yes, she had got rid of the Heathcotes; she must now find other girls to devote herself to with all a mother’s care.

Bridget entered the room with her mistress’ breakfast.

“Did you see the young ladies, madam?” she asked.

“What young ladies?” asked Mrs Fortescue.

“Ouryoung ladies, madam—the Misses Heathcote. They’ve gone, both of them, poor darlings!”

“It’s a very good thing they have gone,” said Mrs Fortescue, in a severe voice. “They were quite nice girls, but were unfortunately brought up to deceive other people. They are now going to begin the battle of life in earnest, and I, for my part, am glad of it. They have plenty of faults, and will, I fear, find the lessons of life hard to learn.”

“Oh, madam,” said Bridget, “I never saw any one so good-natured as Miss Florence was about that ham bone—”

“That will do,” said her mistress. “I expect,” she added, “other young ladies to come and stay with me before long, and trust that you will exert yourself to cook well and to look after their interests.”

“I was going to say, madam,” said Bridget demurely, “that now that Miss Florence and Miss Brenda have gone, I should wish to give a month’s notice.”

Mrs Fortescue stared at her elderly servant. “Whatdoyou mean?” she said. “Give me your reasons.”

“Well, madam, to tell you the truth—I don’t like treating ladies, just because they ain’t as rich as one expected them to be, with ham bones for breakfast. You will get some one else to help you when the new ladies come, madam,” and Bridget flounced out of the room.

Meanwhile, Mr Timmins met the girls at the station. He took them up to town first-class and treated them with great respect and consideration. Florence could not help whispering to Brenda—

“Seeing that we are so very poor, it does seem absurd that we should always travel first-class.”

“It’s Mr Timmins’ way,” said Brenda. “I don’t think he’d like,” she added, “Lady Marian to know that we travelled in any other way.”

“Well, we shall have to in the future,” said Florence; “and,” she added, “as far as I am concerned, I think it is almost more exciting to be poor. It is so delightful to manage. You can’t imagine, Brenda, what fun Susie and I had contriving the dinners, more particularly the bone dinners.”

“Whatareyou talking about, children?” said Mr Timmins, waking up from a nap in which he had temporarily indulged.

Florence went and sat by his side and told him the story of the bone dinner.

“They are so delicious!” she said. “I never enjoyed anything more.”

Mr Timmins seemed much interested in the story.

“’Pon my word!” he said; “if that is not about the very highest form of charity I have ever heard of. He that giveth to the poor lendeth to the Lord. It’s a mighty good security, young ladies, mighty good. No fear of that security coming to smash.”

Then he returned to his sheet ofThe Times, and did not speak again until the journey came to an end. When it did, Mr Timmins’ own brougham was waiting for them. They got in, and drove straight to Lady Marian Dixie’s house in Cadogan Place. Brenda seemed quite at home there, but Florence felt a little shy.

“Now,” said Mr Timmins, “I will say goodbye to you both. Lady Marian has something to say to you, and if you want to see me later on in the day, you have but to telephone, and I will be with you. But I think Lady Marian would rather see you by herself.”

“Come, Flo, come,” said Brenda. “Oh, she is such a darling; you will love her soon as much as I do.”

The girls both entered the pretty boudoir where old Lady Marian Dixie was waiting for them. She drew Brenda close to her and kissed her. Then she looked at Florence.

“Why, I have heard all about that young man,” she said, “and the week is up; it was up yesterday. Is everything settled? Are you engaged to him? He has stood the test, has he?”

Poor Florence! The tears trembled in her eyes.

“No,” she said, “no. Oh, tell her, Brenda, tell her. I can’t, I can’t!”

Florence walked to the window and looked out. Brenda said something in a low tone to Lady Marian. After a very short time Florence came back. Her cheeks were bright, and so were her eyes.

“I wouldn’t have him now,” she said, “if—if he were to go on his knees to me—as the saying is. I wouldn’t have him at any price. I don’t suppose I really loved him.”

“It was a good thing you found it out in time,” said Lady Marian. “And besides, Florence, you are a great deal too young to marry yet. Why, my dear good child, you are not half educated. Now, my plan for you both is this: that you should go to either Newnham or Girton in the autumn and take a proper course of training there; afterwards, we might go abroad for a bit. In these days, uneducated women are unbearable, and no girl of eighteen, however clever she is, can be properly educated. You can spend your holidays with me, and go and see the Arbuthnots sometimes if you like. But that must be as you please.”

“But—but,” said Florence in amazement; “of course I’d adore to go to Girton; I have always had the greatest hankering for it. But we can’t earn our living in that way.”

Lady Marian smiled.

“You don’t need to earn your living, my dear child,” she said.

“I don’t need—Brenda and I don’t need! What do you mean, Lady Marian?”

“I mean what I say,” answered Lady Marian. “Mr Timmins told you the truth with regard to your father. He unfortunately lost a very large fortune shortly before his death, and could only leave enough by will to be spent on your education. His will was a somewhat extraordinary one. In this, he said that he wished you to be educated to enable you to take your proper position in the world, not only in the world of fashion but also in that better world of refinement and culture: in the world where good people live and valiant efforts are made to maintain the right and suppress the wrong. He wished you to be carefully prepared for this position, for he knew only too well that youth—the early days of youth—is the time for such a preparation. But when you left school (he mentioned the exact age when this was to take place), you were both to be put to the test; and not only you, but your friends. You were to be told the truth, but only a part of the truth. Your father’s money, with the exception of a small sum which I believe Mr Timmins mentioned to you, has nearly been exhausted. You were to face the world, prepared in one sense, but unprepared in another. You were to look at the world, for a short time, as poor girls, not as rich ones. Your own characters were to be submitted to this trial and, still more important, the characters of your so-called friends. Do sit down, Florence; how white your face is! Brenda, come and kneel by me, darling.” Florence dropped into a chair. Her heart was beating almost to suffocation. Brenda knelt by Lady Marian and looked at her sister with a world of pity in her own eyes.

“You were to find out your friends, my dear children,” said Lady Marian; “and you could only find them out through this test. The girl who has money is often surrounded by so-called friends, who see much in her because her gold casts a sort of false halo round her. Your father wanted you to learn a lesson, so that you could, all through your future years, discern the true from the false. As to the length of the test to which you were to be submitted, that was left altogether to Mr Timmins’ and to my discrimination; for I, my dear children, by your father’s and mother’s will, am appointed your guardian, and have now absolute power to arrange for your future.”

“Still—still,” said Brenda, speaking with hesitation, “I cannot see where the money comes in. Not that we want it,” she continued; “for we have found—oh! such a true friend in you, and Mr Timmins is good—”

“And the Arbuthnots,” said Florence suddenly; “they are just more than splendid!”

“And we don’t mind a bit earning our own living,” said Brenda.

Lady Marian bent forward and kissed Brenda on her brow.

“I know that quite well, my darling,” she said; “and I know also that Florence has learnt her lesson. You have discovered your true friends, and also discovered your false ones. What about Mrs Fortescue? What about—” here she glanced at Florence.

“I know, I know,” said Florence. “I thought Michael was—oh! so different; and I—I did care for him a little!”

Tears rose to her eyes. She pressed her handkerchief to them and sat still for a minute, trying to recover from her emotions; then she continued—

“I have not broken my heart.”

She looked up with a smile which was half piteous.

“I know that,” said Lady Marian, briskly, “and you will recover it altogether soon. Now the facto of the case are these. Your father wished his money to be spent on your education. Meanwhile, your mother’s money, which represented a very large sum—many thousands of pounds: I cannot go into full particulars, but Mr Timmins will, if necessary, enlighten you—was to lie at compound interest awaiting the moment when you were to receive it. My dear girls, a certain portion of that money is to be devoted to what may be called yourhighereducation—that which you will receive during the next three years—and afterwards you will be rich, dears, I trust; not only rich in money, but rich in the better things, which mean courage, and endurance, and faith, and sympathy. You will understand the real poor a little better because for a short week of your lives you considered yourselves poor, and you will discern the true from the false also because of this week, which has taught you a lesson. Now go up to your rooms, dears; I think I have explained all that is necessary for the present.”

“But one thing,” said Florence, as they rose. “May I write and tell Susie Arbuthnot?”

“Certainly; I should like you to do so.”

Back to IndexNext