Chapter Four.Christmas Festivities.At night there was no doubt whatever that Florence Heathcote’s eyes looked their best. By night they were invariably dark; their brightness was enhanced by artificial light. They were softened, too, particularly at such a table as Colonel Arbuthnot and his daughter prepared for their guests. For nothing would induce the Colonel to have anything but candles on his dinner-table. Candles, in large silver branches, adorned the board; and if girls don’t know, they ought to be informed that there is no possible light so soft and becoming to eyes and complexion as that caused by these minor stars of illumination. There is no garishness in the light of a candle, and it does not make hideous revelations like electricity nor cause the deep shadows that a gaselier flings on your head.Florence, in spite of herself, was feeling a little sad to-night, and that sadness gave the final touch to her charms. She was quite pleased to be taken into dinner by her old playmate, Michael Reid. She told him so in her sweet, bright, open way.“What a lot we shall have to talk of!” she said. “How long is it since I have first known you?”He tried to count the years on his fingers and then, moved by an inspiration, said—“No; I won’t count—I can’t count. I have known you for ever.”“Oh,” she said, with a laugh; “but of course you haven’t.” And then, rather to his horror, she called across the table to Brenda—“When did we first meet Michael? I mean, how old were you?”Brenda was talking very gently to an elderly clergyman—a dull sort of man, who always, however, appealed to Brenda because, as she said to her sister, he was so very good. She paused and looked thoughtful; and Susie, at the bottom of the table, gave her silk lining a swish. After a minute’s thought, Brenda said—“We have known you, Michael, for four years.” And then she related in a gentle but penetrating voice the occasion of their first meeting. “Florence was,” she said, “fourteen at the time. She is eighteen now. You pulled her hair: you were a very rough boy indeed, and you made Flo cry.”“No, that he didn’t!” interrupted Florence. “He put me into a towering passion.”“Yes,” pursued Brenda, “and you cried while you were in the passion.”“I don’t know how to apologise,” said the somewhat discomfited lieutenant: “but I suppose boys will be boys.”“And girls will be girls,” said Florence. “You would not pull my hair now, would you?”He looked at her lovely hair, arranged in the most becoming fashion and yet so simply, and murmured something which she could not quite catch but which caused her ears to tingle, for she was quite unaccustomed to compliments except among her school-fellows, and they did not count.After dinner, the pair found themselves alone for a few minutes. Then Reid drew a chair close to Florence’s side, and said—“I wish with all my heart and soul that you were as poor as a church mouse, so that I might show you what a man’s devotion can do for a girl.”Florence found herself turning pale—not at the latter part of his speech but at the beginning; for was she not quite as poor as a church mouse? in fact, poorer, for even the church mouse manages to exist; and she could not exist beyond quite a limited time on the small amount of money which the girls possessed between them.By and by the dance began, and they did go out under the stars. Reid felt almost in love. He had always admired pretty Florence, and to-night she looked so charming—so young, so very girlish, and yet there was a certain stateliness about her. She was an unopened bud as yet, but full of rare promise. He thought of what she might be in a year—in two years. Other men would discover her charms. Oh, if only she would promise herself to him!He did not dare to say too much that night; but while he was thinking about her, and she was looking up at the stars, and his chance of making that remark about her eyes was so very easy, she suddenly said something which put the whole idea out of his head.“You have made a remarkable statement since we came here this evening, and I do just wonder if you meant it.”“I meant every single word I said. How could I possibly mean anything else to you?”“That is what I want to find out. I am very young, and you are the only man I have ever known. At school we used to talk about men and what they did and said and thought; and, of course, we always had our dreams.”“Of course you had,” said Reid. “All girls have. Do whisper to me what yours were like.”“No; I can’t do that, for they were so fleeting. One day I imagined one thing about a man, another day, another. But you said the sort of thing to me to-night which—which I did not expect, and which—which I can’t forget.”“Do tell me what it was,” asked the puzzled lieutenant. He was racking his own brain to remember.“You expressed a wish that I were as poor as a church mouse. What a very funny thing to say!”“Oh, it’s that you are thinking of,” said Reid. “Well, I meant it. I meant that I should like you to be poor in order to show you what a fellow will do for a really lovely girl whom he—” and then he drew himself up abruptly and said no more, for he was afraid of going too far.“Thank you,” said Florence. “Then you are one of the men who do not care for a girl because she is rich?”“I!” said Reid, being certain by Florence’s manner that she must have over a thousand a year. “I should hate myself if I did.”“I am so glad to hear it,” said Florence. “I respect you very much.”“I am glad—” he said, in a gentle tone.“Do let us walk up and down by the laurel hedge; we needn’t go in for the next dance, need we?”“I promised it to Mr Cunliffe.”“Oh—cut his dance. Never mind him; stay with me. Surely I am more interesting to you than Cunliffe.”“Yes, you are; far more interesting: in fact, I don’t care about him at all. Nevertheless, I don’t like to cut men’s dances.”“You will have plenty of opportunity to make up for all omissions when you go to London. I suppose you will be going there soon.”“Perhaps so,” said Florence; who, however, by no means wished to revert to her future.“When you go,” pursued Lieutenant Reid, “you will see plenty of me, for I am quartered at Knightsbridge for the present. I shall come to see you whenever I can.”“That will be very kind of you.”“Not at all. It is not a kindness to give oneself a pleasure—at least, I don’t think so.”Florence made no reply. After a time she said, suddenly—“Iamglad you made that remark. I shall never forget it—never.”Again he had to ask her what it was.“About your feeling just the same to me if I were as poor as a church mouse.”“So I should,” he answered, with enthusiasm. “How could riches enhance your value? A man likes a girl for herself. He is indifferent, quite indifferent as to whether she has money or not.”“That is the sort of man I admire,” said Florence.“Well, always remember that I have said it of you. Don’t forget, will you?”“I shall never forget,” she replied; and then they went back to the house where Susie, being tired out with strumming on the old piano, had begged for round games. There was a great deal of fun; and altogether Christmas night passed withéclat. The girls went back in high spirits, and as they were going to bed that evening, Florence said to Brenda—“How did you enjoy yourself?”“Fairly well,” she replied; “but I saw that you looked happy.”“I was,” said Florence. “I have found one true man in the world.”“Michael Reid?” remarked Brenda. “You talked and danced with him a good deal.”“Yes; he said one queer thing—in fact, he said it three times. He must be a very good fellow, better even than—than we imagined.”“What did he say?” asked Brenda, as she unfastened her sister’s white frock, and slightly yawned, for she was tired and wanted to go to bed.“He said that he would like a girl quite as well if she were as poor as a church mouse. He said it so earnestly, too. He knows nothing about us, but you know that sort of remark would not have been believed by the girls at school; would it, Brenda?”“No; I expect not. Well, you are as poor as a church mouse, Flo, but you didn’t tell him so?”“Of course I didn’t. No one must know before poor Mrs Fortescue, and I suppose she must be told after we have been to London to see Lady Marian Dixie. All the same, Brenda, I can’t realise it a bit. Things are going on just as usual, and we are to stay here till the end of our holidays. We have till at least the twentieth of January to be happy in. Why should we be miserable till then?”“I have no intention of being miserable,” was Brenda’s remark.A few minutes later, the girls got into bed and slept with that sound refreshing sleep which only comes to most of us in early youth. The next day, Lieutenant Reid did himself the pleasure of calling on Mrs Fortescue. He said he came to see her, but he looked decidedly disappointed when he was told that both the girls were out.“They are with Susie Arbuthnot,” she said. “They went early this morning and won’t be back until late. I think they are going to have tea at the Arbuthnots’.” Mr Reid’s face decidedly fell. “But you and I will have tea together,” said Mrs Fortescue; “and I can tell you about the dear girls. I can see that you are much interested in them.”“Can you?” he asked, looking at her critically.She laughed.“Of course I can,” she said. “Why, you hardly left my beautiful Florence’s side the whole of yesterday evening. You ought not to pay such marked attentions if you don’t mean anything by them.”“But suppose I do mean something,” he said, all of a sudden.Then Mrs Fortescue drew her chair nearer to that of the gallant lieutenant and spoke with great earnestness.“I have not the least idea,” she said, “what the girls’ fortunes will be; but I know, of course, that they must be exceedingly well off. No expense has been spared during their school-days. Their dress has been quiet but of the most expensive make, and they have been taught every possible accomplishment, even riding, which you know is always a serious item in school bills. Mr Timmins is a very reserved man, and has told me nothing of what is now to happen to them.”“But surely, you must know something?” said the lieutenant, who at that moment seemed quite to forget that he would like Florence equally well if she were as poor as a church mouse.“As a matter of fact, I know nothing. Mr Timmins came down to see the girls on Christmas Eve, and was with them for a little time, but he had no talk with me. Still, I make not the slightest doubt that I shall hear from him soon and, in all probability, we shall leave Langdale and go to London. I am quite willing to go with the dear children and to help them any way in my power.”“They will both marry young,” said the lieutenant, with exceeding gloom in his voice. “They will be surrounded by suitors of all sorts. A homely sort of fellow like—like—”“Oh, you mustn’t compare yourself to a homely sort of fellow,” said Mrs Fortescue.“An officer in His Majesty’s army! A soldier can take his place with any man.”“I know; but then I have nothing of my own, nothing at all, except what my dear old father allows me. I ought not to think about the girls—about either of them.”Mrs Fortescue paused to consider.“I don’t know that you ought,” she said. She had her own ideas for her young charges, and Lieutenant Reid, a native of Langdale, would bring no special credit to her management. People would say that it was a pretty romance; the girl and the young man met when they were still children. But that was all they could say about a young and beautiful heiress marrying a penniless man. After a pause, she said—“You have not really confided in me, and, of course, if there is true and passionate and real love, I am the last person to stand in the way; but without it I think both those young girls ought to have their chances.”Mrs Fortescue spoke with precision and reserve. Reid thought her a tiresome woman, and hoped sincerely that some one else would chaperone the girls when they first went to London. His intention, however, was to secure Florence before that date. He thought he had already made an impression on her, and if Mrs Fortescue did not help him, Susie Arbuthnot would. Susie was the very soul of romance. Behind Susie’s red face shone a soul, the kindest and most chivalrous in the world; and Susie’s true heart beat for all that she considered true in love and bravery. A man must be brave, and a man must be loving. That was all she considered necessary, and surely Lieutenant Reid, the young man she had known from a boy, possessed these two attributes. Yes, he would give up Mrs Fortescue, and consult Susie on the subject of Florence Heathcote.Accordingly, he declined tea, although some special hot cakes were being made for him in the kitchen, and went away holding his head very high and looking, as Mrs Fortescue said to herself, “quite distinguished.”“I must be careful not to allow my dear Florence to see too much of him,” she said to herself. “It would never do for her to fall in love with him before she has seen other men.”Reid strolled about in the neighbourhood of the Arbuthnots’ house until, as it were quite by accident, he came across the merry girls and equally merry Miss Arbuthnot returning home from their walk. They were carrying sprays of holly and quantities of mistletoe, and looked each one of them, in her own way, quite charming. Reid fell naturally to Florence’s share, and Brenda and Susie walked on in front.When they got to the front door, Susie invited “dear Captain Reid” to come in and have tea with them, and dear Captain Reid accepted the invitation with alacrity.“It is so funny,” said Florence, “to hear her invariably call you ‘Captain’: and you never correct her; why don’t you?”“Because I like the sound,” he answered. “I shall be Captain, I hope, before long; and I like it, for your sake.”“For my sake?” she said, colouring faintly.“Yes; there is nothing I would not do for you. There is no ambition that would not fill my heart and soul for your sake. You know that, Florence, don’t you?”“I don’t,” said Florence, rather bluntly. “I can’t imagine for a single moment why you talk as you do.”“I only felt that you must know,” he answered. He was a little piqued by her manner; but then, when he looked into her eyes—yes, they were dark grey to-day, and he did admire dark grey eyes, they were so expressive—he felt that she, herself, alone, independent of thousands, was a girl worth winning. He really began to be quite in love with her. He delighted in the feeling which she gave him. He wondered if it was really true, and if he would be steadfast to her if she were as poor as a church mouse. But then he thought again with a throb of delight how unnecessary that feeling was, for Florence would be rich; only he must secure her before she went to London.Tea was brought in, and the tea was excellent. There were several nice cakes and choice little dainties left after the dinner of the day before, and Colonel Arbuthnot joined the social gathering and made himself extremely agreeable, and in the end Reid accompanied the young ladies back to Mrs Fortescue’s house.With Brenda by his side, he could not say anything special to Florence, but it was already quite perceptible that he liked her and had singled her out for attention. Susie Arbuthnot noticed it; so did the Colonel; and so certainly also did Mrs Fortescue.Mrs Fortescue was the only one who was annoyed. The Reids were a good old family. Michael Reid, as far as any one knew, had always been an excellent fellow. He had done well at school, and had passed into the Army with ease. There was no reason why he should not marry a girl with money, particularly as he liked her.So said Colonel Arbuthnot, who knew nothing about the young fellow’s debts. Susie, who had been talking the matter over with her father, quite started and coloured a somewhat ugly red when Major Reid was announced.Major Reid sat down in the chair which his son had just occupied, and immediately began to talk about the Heathcote girls.“How different they are from others,” he said. “I have seldom seen any one quite—to my ideas—so beautiful as Florence.”Then Colonel Arbuthnot said something which made Susie long to wear her grey barège in order that she might rustle the silk. He said gravely—“Your son seems to agree with you, Major.”“Ah!” said the Major. “Do you think so? Well, nothing could give me greater happiness.”After that Susie got up to leave the room, but her father called her back.“We have no secrets from you, Tabby,” he said.Tabby was his favourite name for her, and she sat down again near his side.“The fact is,” said the Major, “I want Mike to settle down, and I don’t believe that anything will do him real good, or bring out the best that is in him, like marriage. I think that Florence Heathcote would make him an admirable wife. Of course, he could not afford to marry without money, but as she has plenty, that would make no difficulty. I think, too, he would care for her for herself.”“Oh, I know he would; he loves her dearly?” said romantic Susie. “Now that you have spoken, I will tell you a little incident. He came here on purpose last night, before any one else, in order to make sure that he was to take her in to dinner. I don’t mind confessing to you, Major Reid, that I had arranged differently; but after he had spoken of it, there was no help for me. I made the change quite easily—”“Good girl; good girl!” said the Major. “Well, if he asks me to give him my blessing on such a match, you may be quite sure I shall do so. But we must await events; things cannot be hurried; the girl is very young.”“She is indeed,” said Colonel Arbuthnot; “nothing more than a child.”It was on the next day that the girls received a letter from Mr Timmins. It was addressed to Miss Heathcote, and was sealed with a large red seal. It had a thick and massive appearance, and caused Mrs Fortescue pangs of intense curiosity as she handled it before her young charges came downstairs to breakfast. There was no other letter that morning, so she was able to turn it round and look at the seal, which bore the inscription of “Timmins and Co, Solicitors, Chancery Lane,” and also to feel the bulk of the epistle. It was a long envelope, and Mrs Fortescue felt absolutely devoured with curiosity with regard to the contents. To open, however, a sealed envelope was an impossibility, and she did not dare even to attempt the work.She was seated quietly in front of her copper urn when the girls came in.“Well, my dears,” she said; “how are you? I hope you have slept well.”“Capitally, thank you,” said Brenda; and then her eyes flew to her plate, and she saw the long letter lying on it. She turned a little pale, and a swift contraction went through her heart.Florence, however, did not even glance at the letter. She danced into the room in her usually gay and sprightly manner and sat down, saying as she did so—“Oh, I am so hungry. I do hope that we have something very nice for breakfast.”“You know I always think of your tastes, dears,” said Mrs Fortescue, who felt more than ever inclined to pet the girls that morning. “I have got the most delicious kippers and that special porridge with cream which you like so much. There will be hot cakes afterwards, so I hope you will have enough to eat.”“Oh yes, yes!” said Florence. “Am I not hungry!”She glanced at her sister as she spoke, and saw that Brenda’s grave eyes were fixed on the letter. Brenda had not attempted to open it. She had laid it quietly by her plate.“Who is your correspondent?” asked Florence.“I don’t know,” said Brenda; “but I suppose it is from Mr Timmins.”Then Florence somehow felt her appetite going and a coldness stealing over her. But Mrs Fortescue was in the best of spirits.“I am delighted the man has written,” she said. “It was so queer of him to come down on Christmas Eve and have a long talk with you two girls and not say a word to me. Of course, you know, my darlings, that you are to me as my very own children, and there is nothing I would not do for you—”“You would keep us with you if we were as poor as church mice, for instance,” said Florence, raising her eyes (they looked brown this morning) and fixing them with a saucy air on the good lady’s face.“Indeed I would. I love you far beyond mere money. But what I want to say to you is this,”—Mrs Fortescue broke a piece of toast as she spoke, and her voice became a little nervous—“that whatever Mr Timmins intends to do for your future, I do trust he will not leave me out of it. I do not think it would be right of him, seeing that I have had the care of you ever since you have been both little children.”“We have been most of our time at school, have we not?” said Brenda.“Yes, dear; that is quite true; but who has prepared you for your school, and who has done her utmost to make your holidays happy?”“Indeed, you have!” said Brenda, her voice full of feeling. “You have been most kind.”“That is all I want you to say, Brenda. Well, what I wish is to go on being kind. You will probably go to London, and I should like to go with you. Until you marry, my dears—and alas! I fear that auspicious event will take place soon with you both,”—here she glanced at Florence, who grew quite red—“until you marry, you will need a chaperone, and who so suitable as me? If you see Mr Timmins, will you mention to him, dears, that I am more than anxious to do for you in the future what I did in the past?”“Yes, oh yes; we will be sure to say it,” said Florence in a glib tone.Breakfast went on. Brenda did not attempt to open her letter.“I wonder why you don’t read what the good man has said,” remarked Mrs Fortescue. “He probably, to judge from the size of that letter, has given you full directions with regard to your future plans. I cannot imagine why he does not write to me.”“I will read the letter, if you like,” said Brenda in her gentlest voice.“Do so, dear; I should be so much obliged.”Brenda opened it. There was a long foolscap sheet which, as far as Mrs Fortescue’s acute vision could discern, was filled with accounts; and then there was a letter. The accounts pleased her, only she was puzzled that they had not been sent to her. Hitherto, she had always been consulted about the dear girls.The letter was very short, and when Brenda had run her eyes over it, she folded it up and put it back into its envelope, placing the accounts also there for future study.“Well, well?” said Mrs Fortescue, with great interest.“Mr Timmins wants us both to go up to London to-morrow to see him.”“And, of course, I am to go with you.”“He does not say so; in fact, I know he wishes us to go alone.”“That is very odd.”“He tells us the train to go by,” pursued Brenda, “and also the train by which we can return. If we leave here at nine o’clock to-morrow morning, we shall get to London a little before twelve. We can be back with you in time for dinner or supper.”“And he says nothing about my going?”“He does. He says he wishes us to go alone; that we are to travel first-class. He sends us a postal order for our fares.”“First-class!” said Mrs Fortescue, with a sniff. “Of course girls in your position will travel first-class. It is absurd even to think of any other mode of travelling.”“Yes,” said Brenda calmly, “he says first-class, and he has sent us the money.”“He wants to talk to you about your future, dears.”“Probably,” said Brenda. “We shall have to go,” she continued, and she looked across at Florence.Florence said “Yes,” but her tone was not very lively. Mrs Fortescue glanced at her.“She is thinking of Lieutenant Reid,” was her thought. “Poor child! Well, of course, he is handsome and well-born, and she has plenty of money, only I always did think that with her great beauty she would be the one to make the best match. However, there is no interfering with nature, and if she loves him—and beyond doubt he loves her—it will be all right.” Aloud Mrs Fortescue said—“You had better send a telegram to Mr Timmins to tell him you will go up by the train you mention. I will prepare sandwiches for you for the journey, and take you to the station and come again to meet the train by which you return. Nothing will induce me to neglect even a particle of my duty: you may be certain of that, my loves. Only I do hope, Brenda, that if you can put in a word for one who truly loves you, during your interview with Mr Timmins, you will mention me as the chaperone you would like best.”“I will mention you with real affection,” said Brenda; and she got up as she spoke and, going up to the little woman, kissed her on her forehead. Then she said, gently: “Mr Timmins specially says not to send a telegram—that a postcard will do equally well.”
At night there was no doubt whatever that Florence Heathcote’s eyes looked their best. By night they were invariably dark; their brightness was enhanced by artificial light. They were softened, too, particularly at such a table as Colonel Arbuthnot and his daughter prepared for their guests. For nothing would induce the Colonel to have anything but candles on his dinner-table. Candles, in large silver branches, adorned the board; and if girls don’t know, they ought to be informed that there is no possible light so soft and becoming to eyes and complexion as that caused by these minor stars of illumination. There is no garishness in the light of a candle, and it does not make hideous revelations like electricity nor cause the deep shadows that a gaselier flings on your head.
Florence, in spite of herself, was feeling a little sad to-night, and that sadness gave the final touch to her charms. She was quite pleased to be taken into dinner by her old playmate, Michael Reid. She told him so in her sweet, bright, open way.
“What a lot we shall have to talk of!” she said. “How long is it since I have first known you?”
He tried to count the years on his fingers and then, moved by an inspiration, said—
“No; I won’t count—I can’t count. I have known you for ever.”
“Oh,” she said, with a laugh; “but of course you haven’t.” And then, rather to his horror, she called across the table to Brenda—“When did we first meet Michael? I mean, how old were you?”
Brenda was talking very gently to an elderly clergyman—a dull sort of man, who always, however, appealed to Brenda because, as she said to her sister, he was so very good. She paused and looked thoughtful; and Susie, at the bottom of the table, gave her silk lining a swish. After a minute’s thought, Brenda said—
“We have known you, Michael, for four years.” And then she related in a gentle but penetrating voice the occasion of their first meeting. “Florence was,” she said, “fourteen at the time. She is eighteen now. You pulled her hair: you were a very rough boy indeed, and you made Flo cry.”
“No, that he didn’t!” interrupted Florence. “He put me into a towering passion.”
“Yes,” pursued Brenda, “and you cried while you were in the passion.”
“I don’t know how to apologise,” said the somewhat discomfited lieutenant: “but I suppose boys will be boys.”
“And girls will be girls,” said Florence. “You would not pull my hair now, would you?”
He looked at her lovely hair, arranged in the most becoming fashion and yet so simply, and murmured something which she could not quite catch but which caused her ears to tingle, for she was quite unaccustomed to compliments except among her school-fellows, and they did not count.
After dinner, the pair found themselves alone for a few minutes. Then Reid drew a chair close to Florence’s side, and said—
“I wish with all my heart and soul that you were as poor as a church mouse, so that I might show you what a man’s devotion can do for a girl.”
Florence found herself turning pale—not at the latter part of his speech but at the beginning; for was she not quite as poor as a church mouse? in fact, poorer, for even the church mouse manages to exist; and she could not exist beyond quite a limited time on the small amount of money which the girls possessed between them.
By and by the dance began, and they did go out under the stars. Reid felt almost in love. He had always admired pretty Florence, and to-night she looked so charming—so young, so very girlish, and yet there was a certain stateliness about her. She was an unopened bud as yet, but full of rare promise. He thought of what she might be in a year—in two years. Other men would discover her charms. Oh, if only she would promise herself to him!
He did not dare to say too much that night; but while he was thinking about her, and she was looking up at the stars, and his chance of making that remark about her eyes was so very easy, she suddenly said something which put the whole idea out of his head.
“You have made a remarkable statement since we came here this evening, and I do just wonder if you meant it.”
“I meant every single word I said. How could I possibly mean anything else to you?”
“That is what I want to find out. I am very young, and you are the only man I have ever known. At school we used to talk about men and what they did and said and thought; and, of course, we always had our dreams.”
“Of course you had,” said Reid. “All girls have. Do whisper to me what yours were like.”
“No; I can’t do that, for they were so fleeting. One day I imagined one thing about a man, another day, another. But you said the sort of thing to me to-night which—which I did not expect, and which—which I can’t forget.”
“Do tell me what it was,” asked the puzzled lieutenant. He was racking his own brain to remember.
“You expressed a wish that I were as poor as a church mouse. What a very funny thing to say!”
“Oh, it’s that you are thinking of,” said Reid. “Well, I meant it. I meant that I should like you to be poor in order to show you what a fellow will do for a really lovely girl whom he—” and then he drew himself up abruptly and said no more, for he was afraid of going too far.
“Thank you,” said Florence. “Then you are one of the men who do not care for a girl because she is rich?”
“I!” said Reid, being certain by Florence’s manner that she must have over a thousand a year. “I should hate myself if I did.”
“I am so glad to hear it,” said Florence. “I respect you very much.”
“I am glad—” he said, in a gentle tone.
“Do let us walk up and down by the laurel hedge; we needn’t go in for the next dance, need we?”
“I promised it to Mr Cunliffe.”
“Oh—cut his dance. Never mind him; stay with me. Surely I am more interesting to you than Cunliffe.”
“Yes, you are; far more interesting: in fact, I don’t care about him at all. Nevertheless, I don’t like to cut men’s dances.”
“You will have plenty of opportunity to make up for all omissions when you go to London. I suppose you will be going there soon.”
“Perhaps so,” said Florence; who, however, by no means wished to revert to her future.
“When you go,” pursued Lieutenant Reid, “you will see plenty of me, for I am quartered at Knightsbridge for the present. I shall come to see you whenever I can.”
“That will be very kind of you.”
“Not at all. It is not a kindness to give oneself a pleasure—at least, I don’t think so.”
Florence made no reply. After a time she said, suddenly—
“Iamglad you made that remark. I shall never forget it—never.”
Again he had to ask her what it was.
“About your feeling just the same to me if I were as poor as a church mouse.”
“So I should,” he answered, with enthusiasm. “How could riches enhance your value? A man likes a girl for herself. He is indifferent, quite indifferent as to whether she has money or not.”
“That is the sort of man I admire,” said Florence.
“Well, always remember that I have said it of you. Don’t forget, will you?”
“I shall never forget,” she replied; and then they went back to the house where Susie, being tired out with strumming on the old piano, had begged for round games. There was a great deal of fun; and altogether Christmas night passed withéclat. The girls went back in high spirits, and as they were going to bed that evening, Florence said to Brenda—
“How did you enjoy yourself?”
“Fairly well,” she replied; “but I saw that you looked happy.”
“I was,” said Florence. “I have found one true man in the world.”
“Michael Reid?” remarked Brenda. “You talked and danced with him a good deal.”
“Yes; he said one queer thing—in fact, he said it three times. He must be a very good fellow, better even than—than we imagined.”
“What did he say?” asked Brenda, as she unfastened her sister’s white frock, and slightly yawned, for she was tired and wanted to go to bed.
“He said that he would like a girl quite as well if she were as poor as a church mouse. He said it so earnestly, too. He knows nothing about us, but you know that sort of remark would not have been believed by the girls at school; would it, Brenda?”
“No; I expect not. Well, you are as poor as a church mouse, Flo, but you didn’t tell him so?”
“Of course I didn’t. No one must know before poor Mrs Fortescue, and I suppose she must be told after we have been to London to see Lady Marian Dixie. All the same, Brenda, I can’t realise it a bit. Things are going on just as usual, and we are to stay here till the end of our holidays. We have till at least the twentieth of January to be happy in. Why should we be miserable till then?”
“I have no intention of being miserable,” was Brenda’s remark.
A few minutes later, the girls got into bed and slept with that sound refreshing sleep which only comes to most of us in early youth. The next day, Lieutenant Reid did himself the pleasure of calling on Mrs Fortescue. He said he came to see her, but he looked decidedly disappointed when he was told that both the girls were out.
“They are with Susie Arbuthnot,” she said. “They went early this morning and won’t be back until late. I think they are going to have tea at the Arbuthnots’.” Mr Reid’s face decidedly fell. “But you and I will have tea together,” said Mrs Fortescue; “and I can tell you about the dear girls. I can see that you are much interested in them.”
“Can you?” he asked, looking at her critically.
She laughed.
“Of course I can,” she said. “Why, you hardly left my beautiful Florence’s side the whole of yesterday evening. You ought not to pay such marked attentions if you don’t mean anything by them.”
“But suppose I do mean something,” he said, all of a sudden.
Then Mrs Fortescue drew her chair nearer to that of the gallant lieutenant and spoke with great earnestness.
“I have not the least idea,” she said, “what the girls’ fortunes will be; but I know, of course, that they must be exceedingly well off. No expense has been spared during their school-days. Their dress has been quiet but of the most expensive make, and they have been taught every possible accomplishment, even riding, which you know is always a serious item in school bills. Mr Timmins is a very reserved man, and has told me nothing of what is now to happen to them.”
“But surely, you must know something?” said the lieutenant, who at that moment seemed quite to forget that he would like Florence equally well if she were as poor as a church mouse.
“As a matter of fact, I know nothing. Mr Timmins came down to see the girls on Christmas Eve, and was with them for a little time, but he had no talk with me. Still, I make not the slightest doubt that I shall hear from him soon and, in all probability, we shall leave Langdale and go to London. I am quite willing to go with the dear children and to help them any way in my power.”
“They will both marry young,” said the lieutenant, with exceeding gloom in his voice. “They will be surrounded by suitors of all sorts. A homely sort of fellow like—like—”
“Oh, you mustn’t compare yourself to a homely sort of fellow,” said Mrs Fortescue.
“An officer in His Majesty’s army! A soldier can take his place with any man.”
“I know; but then I have nothing of my own, nothing at all, except what my dear old father allows me. I ought not to think about the girls—about either of them.”
Mrs Fortescue paused to consider.
“I don’t know that you ought,” she said. She had her own ideas for her young charges, and Lieutenant Reid, a native of Langdale, would bring no special credit to her management. People would say that it was a pretty romance; the girl and the young man met when they were still children. But that was all they could say about a young and beautiful heiress marrying a penniless man. After a pause, she said—
“You have not really confided in me, and, of course, if there is true and passionate and real love, I am the last person to stand in the way; but without it I think both those young girls ought to have their chances.”
Mrs Fortescue spoke with precision and reserve. Reid thought her a tiresome woman, and hoped sincerely that some one else would chaperone the girls when they first went to London. His intention, however, was to secure Florence before that date. He thought he had already made an impression on her, and if Mrs Fortescue did not help him, Susie Arbuthnot would. Susie was the very soul of romance. Behind Susie’s red face shone a soul, the kindest and most chivalrous in the world; and Susie’s true heart beat for all that she considered true in love and bravery. A man must be brave, and a man must be loving. That was all she considered necessary, and surely Lieutenant Reid, the young man she had known from a boy, possessed these two attributes. Yes, he would give up Mrs Fortescue, and consult Susie on the subject of Florence Heathcote.
Accordingly, he declined tea, although some special hot cakes were being made for him in the kitchen, and went away holding his head very high and looking, as Mrs Fortescue said to herself, “quite distinguished.”
“I must be careful not to allow my dear Florence to see too much of him,” she said to herself. “It would never do for her to fall in love with him before she has seen other men.”
Reid strolled about in the neighbourhood of the Arbuthnots’ house until, as it were quite by accident, he came across the merry girls and equally merry Miss Arbuthnot returning home from their walk. They were carrying sprays of holly and quantities of mistletoe, and looked each one of them, in her own way, quite charming. Reid fell naturally to Florence’s share, and Brenda and Susie walked on in front.
When they got to the front door, Susie invited “dear Captain Reid” to come in and have tea with them, and dear Captain Reid accepted the invitation with alacrity.
“It is so funny,” said Florence, “to hear her invariably call you ‘Captain’: and you never correct her; why don’t you?”
“Because I like the sound,” he answered. “I shall be Captain, I hope, before long; and I like it, for your sake.”
“For my sake?” she said, colouring faintly.
“Yes; there is nothing I would not do for you. There is no ambition that would not fill my heart and soul for your sake. You know that, Florence, don’t you?”
“I don’t,” said Florence, rather bluntly. “I can’t imagine for a single moment why you talk as you do.”
“I only felt that you must know,” he answered. He was a little piqued by her manner; but then, when he looked into her eyes—yes, they were dark grey to-day, and he did admire dark grey eyes, they were so expressive—he felt that she, herself, alone, independent of thousands, was a girl worth winning. He really began to be quite in love with her. He delighted in the feeling which she gave him. He wondered if it was really true, and if he would be steadfast to her if she were as poor as a church mouse. But then he thought again with a throb of delight how unnecessary that feeling was, for Florence would be rich; only he must secure her before she went to London.
Tea was brought in, and the tea was excellent. There were several nice cakes and choice little dainties left after the dinner of the day before, and Colonel Arbuthnot joined the social gathering and made himself extremely agreeable, and in the end Reid accompanied the young ladies back to Mrs Fortescue’s house.
With Brenda by his side, he could not say anything special to Florence, but it was already quite perceptible that he liked her and had singled her out for attention. Susie Arbuthnot noticed it; so did the Colonel; and so certainly also did Mrs Fortescue.
Mrs Fortescue was the only one who was annoyed. The Reids were a good old family. Michael Reid, as far as any one knew, had always been an excellent fellow. He had done well at school, and had passed into the Army with ease. There was no reason why he should not marry a girl with money, particularly as he liked her.
So said Colonel Arbuthnot, who knew nothing about the young fellow’s debts. Susie, who had been talking the matter over with her father, quite started and coloured a somewhat ugly red when Major Reid was announced.
Major Reid sat down in the chair which his son had just occupied, and immediately began to talk about the Heathcote girls.
“How different they are from others,” he said. “I have seldom seen any one quite—to my ideas—so beautiful as Florence.”
Then Colonel Arbuthnot said something which made Susie long to wear her grey barège in order that she might rustle the silk. He said gravely—
“Your son seems to agree with you, Major.”
“Ah!” said the Major. “Do you think so? Well, nothing could give me greater happiness.”
After that Susie got up to leave the room, but her father called her back.
“We have no secrets from you, Tabby,” he said.
Tabby was his favourite name for her, and she sat down again near his side.
“The fact is,” said the Major, “I want Mike to settle down, and I don’t believe that anything will do him real good, or bring out the best that is in him, like marriage. I think that Florence Heathcote would make him an admirable wife. Of course, he could not afford to marry without money, but as she has plenty, that would make no difficulty. I think, too, he would care for her for herself.”
“Oh, I know he would; he loves her dearly?” said romantic Susie. “Now that you have spoken, I will tell you a little incident. He came here on purpose last night, before any one else, in order to make sure that he was to take her in to dinner. I don’t mind confessing to you, Major Reid, that I had arranged differently; but after he had spoken of it, there was no help for me. I made the change quite easily—”
“Good girl; good girl!” said the Major. “Well, if he asks me to give him my blessing on such a match, you may be quite sure I shall do so. But we must await events; things cannot be hurried; the girl is very young.”
“She is indeed,” said Colonel Arbuthnot; “nothing more than a child.”
It was on the next day that the girls received a letter from Mr Timmins. It was addressed to Miss Heathcote, and was sealed with a large red seal. It had a thick and massive appearance, and caused Mrs Fortescue pangs of intense curiosity as she handled it before her young charges came downstairs to breakfast. There was no other letter that morning, so she was able to turn it round and look at the seal, which bore the inscription of “Timmins and Co, Solicitors, Chancery Lane,” and also to feel the bulk of the epistle. It was a long envelope, and Mrs Fortescue felt absolutely devoured with curiosity with regard to the contents. To open, however, a sealed envelope was an impossibility, and she did not dare even to attempt the work.
She was seated quietly in front of her copper urn when the girls came in.
“Well, my dears,” she said; “how are you? I hope you have slept well.”
“Capitally, thank you,” said Brenda; and then her eyes flew to her plate, and she saw the long letter lying on it. She turned a little pale, and a swift contraction went through her heart.
Florence, however, did not even glance at the letter. She danced into the room in her usually gay and sprightly manner and sat down, saying as she did so—
“Oh, I am so hungry. I do hope that we have something very nice for breakfast.”
“You know I always think of your tastes, dears,” said Mrs Fortescue, who felt more than ever inclined to pet the girls that morning. “I have got the most delicious kippers and that special porridge with cream which you like so much. There will be hot cakes afterwards, so I hope you will have enough to eat.”
“Oh yes, yes!” said Florence. “Am I not hungry!”
She glanced at her sister as she spoke, and saw that Brenda’s grave eyes were fixed on the letter. Brenda had not attempted to open it. She had laid it quietly by her plate.
“Who is your correspondent?” asked Florence.
“I don’t know,” said Brenda; “but I suppose it is from Mr Timmins.”
Then Florence somehow felt her appetite going and a coldness stealing over her. But Mrs Fortescue was in the best of spirits.
“I am delighted the man has written,” she said. “It was so queer of him to come down on Christmas Eve and have a long talk with you two girls and not say a word to me. Of course, you know, my darlings, that you are to me as my very own children, and there is nothing I would not do for you—”
“You would keep us with you if we were as poor as church mice, for instance,” said Florence, raising her eyes (they looked brown this morning) and fixing them with a saucy air on the good lady’s face.
“Indeed I would. I love you far beyond mere money. But what I want to say to you is this,”—Mrs Fortescue broke a piece of toast as she spoke, and her voice became a little nervous—“that whatever Mr Timmins intends to do for your future, I do trust he will not leave me out of it. I do not think it would be right of him, seeing that I have had the care of you ever since you have been both little children.”
“We have been most of our time at school, have we not?” said Brenda.
“Yes, dear; that is quite true; but who has prepared you for your school, and who has done her utmost to make your holidays happy?”
“Indeed, you have!” said Brenda, her voice full of feeling. “You have been most kind.”
“That is all I want you to say, Brenda. Well, what I wish is to go on being kind. You will probably go to London, and I should like to go with you. Until you marry, my dears—and alas! I fear that auspicious event will take place soon with you both,”—here she glanced at Florence, who grew quite red—“until you marry, you will need a chaperone, and who so suitable as me? If you see Mr Timmins, will you mention to him, dears, that I am more than anxious to do for you in the future what I did in the past?”
“Yes, oh yes; we will be sure to say it,” said Florence in a glib tone.
Breakfast went on. Brenda did not attempt to open her letter.
“I wonder why you don’t read what the good man has said,” remarked Mrs Fortescue. “He probably, to judge from the size of that letter, has given you full directions with regard to your future plans. I cannot imagine why he does not write to me.”
“I will read the letter, if you like,” said Brenda in her gentlest voice.
“Do so, dear; I should be so much obliged.”
Brenda opened it. There was a long foolscap sheet which, as far as Mrs Fortescue’s acute vision could discern, was filled with accounts; and then there was a letter. The accounts pleased her, only she was puzzled that they had not been sent to her. Hitherto, she had always been consulted about the dear girls.
The letter was very short, and when Brenda had run her eyes over it, she folded it up and put it back into its envelope, placing the accounts also there for future study.
“Well, well?” said Mrs Fortescue, with great interest.
“Mr Timmins wants us both to go up to London to-morrow to see him.”
“And, of course, I am to go with you.”
“He does not say so; in fact, I know he wishes us to go alone.”
“That is very odd.”
“He tells us the train to go by,” pursued Brenda, “and also the train by which we can return. If we leave here at nine o’clock to-morrow morning, we shall get to London a little before twelve. We can be back with you in time for dinner or supper.”
“And he says nothing about my going?”
“He does. He says he wishes us to go alone; that we are to travel first-class. He sends us a postal order for our fares.”
“First-class!” said Mrs Fortescue, with a sniff. “Of course girls in your position will travel first-class. It is absurd even to think of any other mode of travelling.”
“Yes,” said Brenda calmly, “he says first-class, and he has sent us the money.”
“He wants to talk to you about your future, dears.”
“Probably,” said Brenda. “We shall have to go,” she continued, and she looked across at Florence.
Florence said “Yes,” but her tone was not very lively. Mrs Fortescue glanced at her.
“She is thinking of Lieutenant Reid,” was her thought. “Poor child! Well, of course, he is handsome and well-born, and she has plenty of money, only I always did think that with her great beauty she would be the one to make the best match. However, there is no interfering with nature, and if she loves him—and beyond doubt he loves her—it will be all right.” Aloud Mrs Fortescue said—
“You had better send a telegram to Mr Timmins to tell him you will go up by the train you mention. I will prepare sandwiches for you for the journey, and take you to the station and come again to meet the train by which you return. Nothing will induce me to neglect even a particle of my duty: you may be certain of that, my loves. Only I do hope, Brenda, that if you can put in a word for one who truly loves you, during your interview with Mr Timmins, you will mention me as the chaperone you would like best.”
“I will mention you with real affection,” said Brenda; and she got up as she spoke and, going up to the little woman, kissed her on her forehead. Then she said, gently: “Mr Timmins specially says not to send a telegram—that a postcard will do equally well.”
Chapter Five.A Proposal and a Promise.Soon after lunch on that day Florence went out alone to execute some small commissions for Mrs Fortescue. She was wearing a sealskin cap and verychiclittle sealskin jacket. No one could look nicer than she did in her pretty and expensive dress, and nothing could become her radiant complexion and those changeful eyes of hers better than the sealskin cap, which revealed beneath its narrow brim just a touch of that bright chestnut hair which Lieutenant Reid thought of by day and dreamed of by night. It was only last night that he dreamed he was touching that hair and even kissing it and calling it his own. Now it was a queer dream, for his locks were harsh and, of course, very short, and although he had thick hair, it was not exactly beautiful. He could only have called Florence’s chestnut locks his own in one sense. Somehow, as he lay in bed that morning and thought about the girl, he imagined himself more than ever in love with her.“I do care for her, quite independently of her money,” he thought. “She is the happiest, happiest girl on earth, and the most beautiful. I always had apenchantfor her, but now I am in love with her.”In love. He smiled to himself at the thought. He had read a lot about that passion which sometimes destroys a man’s life, and sometimes blesses it, but which, when it is strong and all-enduring, has a very great effect either for good or for evil.Lieutenant Reid, as he luxuriously stretched himself in bed, thought it an agreeable feeling, and that those who talk about it exaggerate its importance a good deal. Of course he had had his fancies before now. He had liked to flirt like other men, but never, never before had he thought of any one as he thought of Florence. She was all that his fancy could desire—A creature not too bright and good For human nature’s daily food.For daily pleasures, simple wiles.Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears and smiles.He was quite delighted with himself for remembering Wordsworth’s ideal of the perfect woman, and said to himself that he must really be in love. He showed symptoms of the complaint that morning by not taking quite such a large breakfast as usual, and also by being strangely silent while Major Reid chatted on the invariable subjects which now interested him—those local matters which he as a magistrate of the peace was engaged in, viz the poachers in the neighbourhood, the state of the autumn crops, the distress amongst the poor, his own extremely light purse.His remarks with regard to his purse did rouse Michael Reid’s attention. There was not the slightest doubt that he would have to speak to his father about that five hundred pounds which he owed. It must be met somehow, and that before very long. He owed it to one man in particular, a money-lender, who had no pity and no idea of allowing the debt to lie over beyond the day when it was due. Exactly five hundred pounds would be expected to be paid to him in a month’s time, therefore before that date he must be properly engaged to his darling Florence. He would then be absolutely a free man. Five hundred pounds was such a trifle. No young man in his position could exist in the Army without getting into debt. Florence need never know about it. His father would pay it gladly when once he knew that his son was securing over a thousand a year. Florence’s income would probably be fifteen hundred a year at the least. If that was the case, he would pay his father back with interest during the first year of their marriage; and she, his darling Florence, need know nothing at all about it. It was not likely that a sharp old card, as he designated Mr Timmins, would allow Lieutenant Reid the full control of Florence’s fortune. But her income—dear innocent child!—she would only too gladly put it into his hands to use as he thought best. Her tastes, sweet girl, were quite simple. No; he must not lose his chance—not that there was any special hurry, but still, before she went to London he must secure her. He was thinking of her, therefore, of her fortune, of that dreadful debt which was still, however, quite a month off as he walked down the High Street and suddenly met the pretty, radiant creature in her becoming sealskin cap and jacket, and muff to match.She was all in brown to-day, for her dress was made of some brown stuff too, and her boots were brown, and very small and pretty. He liked a woman to have pretty feet, and beyond doubt Florence had. Altogether, she was, as he expressed it, admirably turned out. She was a charming young creature. His heart beat with the intoxication of first love as he drew close to her side. He took off his hat and came up to her eagerly.“This is luck!” he said.She coloured. She was really interested in him. A man who could care for a girl who was as poor as a church mouse must be worth something, and she had never before in her young experience met any young man—that is, on terms of equality. Major Reid’s son had been indifferent to her as a boy, but as a man he was quite agreeable and—yes—very good-looking. So she, too, stopped, and expressed pleasure in her dancing brown eyes (yes, they were brown to-day; he thought, after all, he liked them when they were brown best) and said—“I am glad I have met you. Are you going anywhere in particular?”“I am going wherever you are going,” he said, taking his cigarette from his mouth and throwing it away.She laughed in a very soft and musical way. “If you go with me,” she said, “you will have a very dull time. I am only out to do some shopping for Mrs Fortescue. She has given me a list of things to get from James, the grocer, and also, I am to buy a duck for dinner at Henderson’s. You won’t care to accompany me on these stupid expeditions.”“Oh yes, I shall,” he answered. “I will stay outside while you go in and shop. I will be ever so patient. I know what a long time young ladies take shopping. But it won’t matter to me; that is, if you give me my reward.”“What is that?” she asked, raising her dancing eyes, filing them on his face, and then looking down again and colouring faintly; for his bold black eyes had said something to hers which caused her heart to beat and which she did not in the least understand.“Well,” he said, “my reward is this. The day is lovely. Why won’t you take a walk with me afterwards?”“But I shall be late for lunch. Mrs Fortescue always has lunch ready at one o’clock.”“Never mind: if you are out she and Brenda will lunch alone. Do come with me, Florence, do. I want to talk to you so badly.”Florence remembered his speech about the church mouse. He did like her for herself. Of course he must not be told yet. No thought of her money had ever entered into his unworldly soul. He was nice. After all, why should she not have a bit of fun? It was tiresome walking with him in the presence of Susie Arbuthnot and Brenda. Why not walk with him all alone?“I will go with you,” she said, “if you will give me lunch somewhere. For when one o’clock comes, I shall be very hungry and will want something to eat.”“Then I tell you what we’ll do,” said the gallant lieutenant in a resolute tone, and thinking with great satisfaction that he had an unbroken sovereign in his pocket. “I will take you as far as Johnson’s, by the river side; it is two miles from here, and we will have the very choicest little lunch I can possibly order, and have a good time by ourselves.”“But what will Mrs Fortescue think?” said Florence.“You can send her a note, if you like. James would send it with the groceries.”“So he would—so he would!” said Florence. “Very well: I will go with you; it will be great fun!”She skipped along by his side; it seemed impossible to her to walk like other girls; she was always upheld by a sort of inward spring which made her appear almost like a creature with wings. Her extreme youth and childishness were made more than ever apparent by the way she walked.They reached the shop. Florence gave orders with regard to the groceries and scribbled a line to Brenda, telling her that she had met Michael Reid, and was going for a walk with him and would be back before dusk. The duck was also ordered for late dinner, and then the pair sped away into the country as fast as their legs could carry them. Florence said she liked to walk fast, and Michael agreed with her. He hated girls who were not strong: he hated delicacy of any sort. Florence was quite perfect. She had such magnificent health. He did not believe she even had the faintest idea what it was to be tired. Florence, with a smile, assured him that such was the case—shedidnot know; she was always well. Brenda, poor darling, sometimes had headaches, but she, Florence, never had.“It is a good thing that I am strong, isn’t it?” she said with a laugh.He replied in the affirmative.By and by they reached Johnson’s, an inn by the river side, much frequented in the summer by all sorts and conditions of people, and in the winter carrying on a fair trade by bicyclists.On this special day, however, the inn parlour was empty and the young pair had it to themselves. Reid felt more in love than ever as he showed themenuto Florence, and consulted with her over the special dainties they were to have for lunch. She said she would like beefsteak best and plenty of onions. She hoped he did not mind onions. He said he adored them, and Florence laughed and showed her white teeth.She really was an adorable girl; and her tastes were so simple. He asked her what she would like to drink, and she said water. He ordered water, therefore, for her and a bottle of Guinness’ stout for himself.While they were partaking of their lunch, Florence told him that she and Brenda were going to London on the following day.“We are going to see Mr Timmins,” she said.“Oh, your lawyer?” he remarked at once. “He is going to arrange with you about your future?”“Yes,” she replied, very gravely; and she looked him full in the face.He returned her glance.“You are not going to stay in London, are you?”“Oh no,” she answered. “Oh no; we are both going up by the nine o’clock train. We are travelling first-class.”“Why, of course,” said Lieutenant Reid. “I only wish I might come with you.”“Oh no,” said Florence, “you must not do that. He does not even wish poor Mrs Fortescue to come. He wants to see us quite alone.”“He is going to make arrangements about you; I quite understand,” said the lieutenant.It was there and then he made up his mind. If he did not seize the present opportunity, Florence, beautiful Florence would be snatched from him. Some one else, perhaps some horrid City magnate with lots of money, would come forward and win the darling girl. It could not, it must not be.They had finished their lunch and the lieutenant had paid for it, gallantly giving a substantial tip to the red-elbowed girl who had waited on them. They then left the cottage and went slowly along by the river side.The river was very full just now and made a babbling sound. The snow and cold of Christmas had given place to milder weather. There was quite a spring-like feel in the air, and the lieutenant felt more in love than ever.“Florence,” he said suddenly, “do you remember what I said to you on Christmas night?”“You said a great many things to me then,” she answered, somewhat flippantly; “I cannot remember them all.”“But there was one very special thing, and I think I said it several times.”“Oh, now I remember,” she said colouring, and a different expression came into her face. Her eyes grew large and dark and were turned upon him with a certain solemnity, with a look as though she would read him through.“Tell me, tell me with your own lips what I said,” was his answer. He trembled as he spoke; he was feeling desperately in love.“You said,” answered Florence, “that you wished I was as poor as a church mouse in order that you could show me what—what you would do for me.”“And—and I repeat it now,” he said.He looked at her again. Her eyes filled with sudden tears.“What is the matter, darling?” was his next remark. “Oh, Florence! I love you with all my heart and soul. I love you for yourself—absolutely and entirely. Say you will love me; do—do give me hope. Don’t throw yourself away on some worthless fellow. Give me a chance, Florence.”Florence was a good deal startled. All girls have dreamt of their first proposal, and when the proposal comes it is generally as unlike their dreams as any one thing can be unlike another. But there was something about this one, coming as it did at this special time, which touched the girl inexpressibly.“Will you give me,” she said, “one month in which to consider the matter?”He thought of his debt, that debt which must be met in a month’s time. He could not keep his father in uncertainty until then.“No,” he said. “No; say now that you will marry me—now; promise me now, my own little Florence. If you care for me the least bit now, you will love me twice as well in a month’s time.”“Give me a week then,” she answered.“I must think the matter over for a week—and say just once again to me that you would like me to be as poor as a church mouse in order to show me how much you care for me.”He was obliged to be satisfied with this, but he talked love to her all the way home, and before they reached the village of Langdale he had even kissed her once on her forehead. Oh yes; he was in love. All was right.“Remember, in one week I come to you for the fulfilment of your promise, Florence,” was his answer when at last they parted outside Mrs Fortescue’s door.
Soon after lunch on that day Florence went out alone to execute some small commissions for Mrs Fortescue. She was wearing a sealskin cap and verychiclittle sealskin jacket. No one could look nicer than she did in her pretty and expensive dress, and nothing could become her radiant complexion and those changeful eyes of hers better than the sealskin cap, which revealed beneath its narrow brim just a touch of that bright chestnut hair which Lieutenant Reid thought of by day and dreamed of by night. It was only last night that he dreamed he was touching that hair and even kissing it and calling it his own. Now it was a queer dream, for his locks were harsh and, of course, very short, and although he had thick hair, it was not exactly beautiful. He could only have called Florence’s chestnut locks his own in one sense. Somehow, as he lay in bed that morning and thought about the girl, he imagined himself more than ever in love with her.
“I do care for her, quite independently of her money,” he thought. “She is the happiest, happiest girl on earth, and the most beautiful. I always had apenchantfor her, but now I am in love with her.”
In love. He smiled to himself at the thought. He had read a lot about that passion which sometimes destroys a man’s life, and sometimes blesses it, but which, when it is strong and all-enduring, has a very great effect either for good or for evil.
Lieutenant Reid, as he luxuriously stretched himself in bed, thought it an agreeable feeling, and that those who talk about it exaggerate its importance a good deal. Of course he had had his fancies before now. He had liked to flirt like other men, but never, never before had he thought of any one as he thought of Florence. She was all that his fancy could desire—
A creature not too bright and good For human nature’s daily food.
For daily pleasures, simple wiles.
Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears and smiles.
He was quite delighted with himself for remembering Wordsworth’s ideal of the perfect woman, and said to himself that he must really be in love. He showed symptoms of the complaint that morning by not taking quite such a large breakfast as usual, and also by being strangely silent while Major Reid chatted on the invariable subjects which now interested him—those local matters which he as a magistrate of the peace was engaged in, viz the poachers in the neighbourhood, the state of the autumn crops, the distress amongst the poor, his own extremely light purse.
His remarks with regard to his purse did rouse Michael Reid’s attention. There was not the slightest doubt that he would have to speak to his father about that five hundred pounds which he owed. It must be met somehow, and that before very long. He owed it to one man in particular, a money-lender, who had no pity and no idea of allowing the debt to lie over beyond the day when it was due. Exactly five hundred pounds would be expected to be paid to him in a month’s time, therefore before that date he must be properly engaged to his darling Florence. He would then be absolutely a free man. Five hundred pounds was such a trifle. No young man in his position could exist in the Army without getting into debt. Florence need never know about it. His father would pay it gladly when once he knew that his son was securing over a thousand a year. Florence’s income would probably be fifteen hundred a year at the least. If that was the case, he would pay his father back with interest during the first year of their marriage; and she, his darling Florence, need know nothing at all about it. It was not likely that a sharp old card, as he designated Mr Timmins, would allow Lieutenant Reid the full control of Florence’s fortune. But her income—dear innocent child!—she would only too gladly put it into his hands to use as he thought best. Her tastes, sweet girl, were quite simple. No; he must not lose his chance—not that there was any special hurry, but still, before she went to London he must secure her. He was thinking of her, therefore, of her fortune, of that dreadful debt which was still, however, quite a month off as he walked down the High Street and suddenly met the pretty, radiant creature in her becoming sealskin cap and jacket, and muff to match.
She was all in brown to-day, for her dress was made of some brown stuff too, and her boots were brown, and very small and pretty. He liked a woman to have pretty feet, and beyond doubt Florence had. Altogether, she was, as he expressed it, admirably turned out. She was a charming young creature. His heart beat with the intoxication of first love as he drew close to her side. He took off his hat and came up to her eagerly.
“This is luck!” he said.
She coloured. She was really interested in him. A man who could care for a girl who was as poor as a church mouse must be worth something, and she had never before in her young experience met any young man—that is, on terms of equality. Major Reid’s son had been indifferent to her as a boy, but as a man he was quite agreeable and—yes—very good-looking. So she, too, stopped, and expressed pleasure in her dancing brown eyes (yes, they were brown to-day; he thought, after all, he liked them when they were brown best) and said—
“I am glad I have met you. Are you going anywhere in particular?”
“I am going wherever you are going,” he said, taking his cigarette from his mouth and throwing it away.
She laughed in a very soft and musical way. “If you go with me,” she said, “you will have a very dull time. I am only out to do some shopping for Mrs Fortescue. She has given me a list of things to get from James, the grocer, and also, I am to buy a duck for dinner at Henderson’s. You won’t care to accompany me on these stupid expeditions.”
“Oh yes, I shall,” he answered. “I will stay outside while you go in and shop. I will be ever so patient. I know what a long time young ladies take shopping. But it won’t matter to me; that is, if you give me my reward.”
“What is that?” she asked, raising her dancing eyes, filing them on his face, and then looking down again and colouring faintly; for his bold black eyes had said something to hers which caused her heart to beat and which she did not in the least understand.
“Well,” he said, “my reward is this. The day is lovely. Why won’t you take a walk with me afterwards?”
“But I shall be late for lunch. Mrs Fortescue always has lunch ready at one o’clock.”
“Never mind: if you are out she and Brenda will lunch alone. Do come with me, Florence, do. I want to talk to you so badly.”
Florence remembered his speech about the church mouse. He did like her for herself. Of course he must not be told yet. No thought of her money had ever entered into his unworldly soul. He was nice. After all, why should she not have a bit of fun? It was tiresome walking with him in the presence of Susie Arbuthnot and Brenda. Why not walk with him all alone?
“I will go with you,” she said, “if you will give me lunch somewhere. For when one o’clock comes, I shall be very hungry and will want something to eat.”
“Then I tell you what we’ll do,” said the gallant lieutenant in a resolute tone, and thinking with great satisfaction that he had an unbroken sovereign in his pocket. “I will take you as far as Johnson’s, by the river side; it is two miles from here, and we will have the very choicest little lunch I can possibly order, and have a good time by ourselves.”
“But what will Mrs Fortescue think?” said Florence.
“You can send her a note, if you like. James would send it with the groceries.”
“So he would—so he would!” said Florence. “Very well: I will go with you; it will be great fun!”
She skipped along by his side; it seemed impossible to her to walk like other girls; she was always upheld by a sort of inward spring which made her appear almost like a creature with wings. Her extreme youth and childishness were made more than ever apparent by the way she walked.
They reached the shop. Florence gave orders with regard to the groceries and scribbled a line to Brenda, telling her that she had met Michael Reid, and was going for a walk with him and would be back before dusk. The duck was also ordered for late dinner, and then the pair sped away into the country as fast as their legs could carry them. Florence said she liked to walk fast, and Michael agreed with her. He hated girls who were not strong: he hated delicacy of any sort. Florence was quite perfect. She had such magnificent health. He did not believe she even had the faintest idea what it was to be tired. Florence, with a smile, assured him that such was the case—shedidnot know; she was always well. Brenda, poor darling, sometimes had headaches, but she, Florence, never had.
“It is a good thing that I am strong, isn’t it?” she said with a laugh.
He replied in the affirmative.
By and by they reached Johnson’s, an inn by the river side, much frequented in the summer by all sorts and conditions of people, and in the winter carrying on a fair trade by bicyclists.
On this special day, however, the inn parlour was empty and the young pair had it to themselves. Reid felt more in love than ever as he showed themenuto Florence, and consulted with her over the special dainties they were to have for lunch. She said she would like beefsteak best and plenty of onions. She hoped he did not mind onions. He said he adored them, and Florence laughed and showed her white teeth.
She really was an adorable girl; and her tastes were so simple. He asked her what she would like to drink, and she said water. He ordered water, therefore, for her and a bottle of Guinness’ stout for himself.
While they were partaking of their lunch, Florence told him that she and Brenda were going to London on the following day.
“We are going to see Mr Timmins,” she said.
“Oh, your lawyer?” he remarked at once. “He is going to arrange with you about your future?”
“Yes,” she replied, very gravely; and she looked him full in the face.
He returned her glance.
“You are not going to stay in London, are you?”
“Oh no,” she answered. “Oh no; we are both going up by the nine o’clock train. We are travelling first-class.”
“Why, of course,” said Lieutenant Reid. “I only wish I might come with you.”
“Oh no,” said Florence, “you must not do that. He does not even wish poor Mrs Fortescue to come. He wants to see us quite alone.”
“He is going to make arrangements about you; I quite understand,” said the lieutenant.
It was there and then he made up his mind. If he did not seize the present opportunity, Florence, beautiful Florence would be snatched from him. Some one else, perhaps some horrid City magnate with lots of money, would come forward and win the darling girl. It could not, it must not be.
They had finished their lunch and the lieutenant had paid for it, gallantly giving a substantial tip to the red-elbowed girl who had waited on them. They then left the cottage and went slowly along by the river side.
The river was very full just now and made a babbling sound. The snow and cold of Christmas had given place to milder weather. There was quite a spring-like feel in the air, and the lieutenant felt more in love than ever.
“Florence,” he said suddenly, “do you remember what I said to you on Christmas night?”
“You said a great many things to me then,” she answered, somewhat flippantly; “I cannot remember them all.”
“But there was one very special thing, and I think I said it several times.”
“Oh, now I remember,” she said colouring, and a different expression came into her face. Her eyes grew large and dark and were turned upon him with a certain solemnity, with a look as though she would read him through.
“Tell me, tell me with your own lips what I said,” was his answer. He trembled as he spoke; he was feeling desperately in love.
“You said,” answered Florence, “that you wished I was as poor as a church mouse in order that you could show me what—what you would do for me.”
“And—and I repeat it now,” he said.
He looked at her again. Her eyes filled with sudden tears.
“What is the matter, darling?” was his next remark. “Oh, Florence! I love you with all my heart and soul. I love you for yourself—absolutely and entirely. Say you will love me; do—do give me hope. Don’t throw yourself away on some worthless fellow. Give me a chance, Florence.”
Florence was a good deal startled. All girls have dreamt of their first proposal, and when the proposal comes it is generally as unlike their dreams as any one thing can be unlike another. But there was something about this one, coming as it did at this special time, which touched the girl inexpressibly.
“Will you give me,” she said, “one month in which to consider the matter?”
He thought of his debt, that debt which must be met in a month’s time. He could not keep his father in uncertainty until then.
“No,” he said. “No; say now that you will marry me—now; promise me now, my own little Florence. If you care for me the least bit now, you will love me twice as well in a month’s time.”
“Give me a week then,” she answered.
“I must think the matter over for a week—and say just once again to me that you would like me to be as poor as a church mouse in order to show me how much you care for me.”
He was obliged to be satisfied with this, but he talked love to her all the way home, and before they reached the village of Langdale he had even kissed her once on her forehead. Oh yes; he was in love. All was right.
“Remember, in one week I come to you for the fulfilment of your promise, Florence,” was his answer when at last they parted outside Mrs Fortescue’s door.
Chapter Six.At Mr Timmins’ Office.That evening late, Florence, in the seclusion of their chamber told Brenda what had happened.“You know,” she said, “that we have nothing. I think it is dreadful of Mr Timmins to make a mystery about it, and to let us appear before the good folks at Langdale as apparently wealthy girls; but on one matter, at least, I am obliged to him. This has given me the opportunity of finding a true heart.”“A true heart, Flo?” said Brenda. “What do you mean?”“What I say,” answered Florence. “You know I took a walk to-day with Michael Reid.”“Oh, with poor old Michael,” said Brenda, in a tone as much as to say that Michael at least did not count for much, that he was a poor sort of fellow, and need not agitate the girls just then. But Florence’s next words astonished her elder sister very much.“I am a year younger than you,” said Florence, “and I have been proposed for before you, Brenda. Michael cares for me; he cares for me for myself alone. He absolutely wants me to be poor, very poor, as poor as a church mouse, he says, in order that he may show to all the world how deeply he loves me. He doesn’t care for me in the very least because he thinks I have money. He wants me to be poor: he told me all about it to-day. He mentioned the subject first at the Arbuthnots’ Christmas party, but he spoke of it again to-day when we were walking home. He looked very, very handsome; and I—I quite think I like him.”“Oh, you poor little innocent Florence!” said Brenda. “But you don’t know anything about men at all. It was very mean of him to speak to you, very mean of him to take advantage of you. Yes, it was, Flo; I cannot help saying it. It was wrong of him; he ought not to have done it.”“He did nothing wrong,” said Florence; “he spoke up like a man. I suppose a man can’t help loving a girl.”“He ought not to have done it like that,” repeated Brenda. “I know I am right: he ought on no account to have done it like that.”“It is very queer of you to speak to me in that tone, Brenda,” said her sister, “and I must say that I am very much astonished. I cannot understand what you mean. Why should not Michael care for me? He is a gentleman: he is an officer in the King’s army. We know his father; we know his people. I don’t know why you should talk to me like that. I suppose a man will propose to me some day, just as some one will propose to you, darling Brenda; and you will love him with all your heart and soul.”“Oh, I don’t know,” said Brenda. “I am not beautiful like you, Flo. But tell me all about it, darling. You startled me very much when you first spoke, and I suppose I did wrong to be a little bit annoyed. It hurts me to think that my only darling sister should care for any one else better than me.”“But I don’t know that I do,” said Florence; “only of course,” she added, “he was very nice, and he did say so emphatically that he only cared for me for myself.”“And what did you say to him, Flo?”“I told him that he had startled me, and that I wanted a month to think it over. He would not give me a month, but he gave me a week. What I feel is this, Brenda: that he must know all about our changed circumstances before I give him my true answer. Then if he comes forward, as indeed I know he will, I shall feel at least assured that he cares for me for myself.”“And who would not care for you for yourself,” said her sister, putting her arms round the girl’s neck and kissing her with great affection. “Why, aren’t you just the dearest creature in the world? Won’t you make the very sweetest wife? But all the same,” she added, “I don’t know how Mr Reid can marry any one at present, for he can’t be well off. I know the Major has barely enough to live on.”“We should be very poor, of course,” said Florence; “but he seems to like that. After all,” she continued, “what I thought was this: that I might, if I go on liking him as much as I do now, be engaged to him, and we could wait a year or so while I—I was earning money. It does seem so queer to think that I should have to earn money in any way; and I am sure I haven’t the faintest idea how to set about it—not the very faintest. But I suppose Mr Timmins will give us some sort of directions to-morrow.”“I suppose he will,” said Brenda. “It is queer, the whole thing. We have been allowed to grow up, you and I, as though we were rich girls. We have had every possible luxury and every possible educational advantage, and I know the people at Langdale think us rich enough, and yet we haven’t a penny in the world.”“Oh yes!” said Florence; “we have seventy-five pounds; don’t forget that: that is quite a good sum—at least, it seems so to me.”“Half of it would buy your trousseau—at least some sort of trousseau for you, if you decide to marry the lieutenant at once,” said Brenda. Then she added: “It is all very puzzling; but you must do what you think right; only we won’t tell Mrs Fortescue anything whatever about it.”After this conversation, the girls went to bed, and both slept the sleep of the just, pretty Florence looking prettier than ever in her happy innocent dreams—for was she not loved just for her very self alone, and was not that something to be proud of?They were awakened early in the morning by Mrs Fortescue, who herself brought them tea to their room, and fussed over them, and paid them a vast amount of attention, and begged of them, as they were getting ready for their journey, not to forget to put in a good word for her when Mr Timmins talked about their future plans. She was quite excited about them, and her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes had a hard, worried look. Brenda felt as though they were exceedingly deceitful to her, but Florence was thinking of Lieutenant Reid, and had not much time to consider Mrs Fortescue and her future.A cab arrived in good time to take them to the station. Mrs Fortescue herself accompanied them to the train, and purchased their tickets for them out of the postal order which had been cashed the day before, and which left enough over to provide them with cabs when they got to London. She herself saw them into a first-class carriage marked “For Ladies only,” and she gave them also into the charge of the guard, paying him five shillings in advance for looking after them. It is true she paid him this money out of the girls’ own little fund, but it quite looked as if she were spending her own worldly goods for their advantage. The last thing they saw as they left the little station was her kind and yet anxious face gazing after them. She was blowing kisses to them, and wondering most anxiously what would happen between now and the evening when she was to meet their train again.“I do feel,” said Florence, as the train brought them beyond the narrow confines of the little town of Langdale, “that we are deceiving dear Mrs Fortescue most horribly.”“Well, it’s no fault of ours,” said Brenda; “we’ll have to undeceive her to-morrow. But, after all, she won’t suffer, for Mr Timmins will pay her in full for keeping us until the end of the holidays; and then, instead of going back to school, we’ll begin our life’s work. I do feel excited about what is going to happen to-day, don’t you, Florence?”Florence said she did, and sat book in her seat. But her thoughts were considerably absorbed with Lieutenant Reid. She was wondering what he was doing, and how he was spending his time, and considering how she would pass her own time until that day next week, when she could tell him that he might have his very heart’s desire, and that a girl, poor as the poorest church mouse, would be willing to marry him.“How glad he will be,” thought Florence. “He is very nice, very nice indeed; but, of course, we must be engaged for some time before we think of marrying, for I could not leave darling Brenda until she was safely secure with some sort of livelihood.”They arrived in London between eleven and twelve o’clock, and were met at the station by one of Mr Timmins’ clerks—a grave, elderly-looking man of the name of Andrews. The girls had never seen him before, but he had been given explicit directions by Mr Timmins to look out for young ladies bearing a certain appearance, and as no other girl quite so pretty as Florence stepped out of the train, he went up to her at once and asked if she was Miss Heathcote.Florence replied in the affirmative.They were then ushered by Mr Andrews into a very comfortable private brougham which belonged to Mr Timmins, and were taken straight to his office in Chancery Lane.Mr Timmins was the head of a large firm of solicitors, and the girls passed through many rooms full of clerks, both old and young, who looked up as they passed by and gazed at them with admiration. Even Brenda was a pretty girl, but Florence was quite above the ordinary with regard to good looks. There was something so fresh and innocent, and withal pathetic, about the young creatures, that the men who watched them felt their hearts softening both with admiration and affection. Those who were old thought that they would like such girls to be their daughters, and those who were young felt instinctively that such girls would make good wives and sisters. The girls passed through the different rooms, and were presently ushered into Mr Timmins’ own private sanctum.He was waiting for them, and was quite alone. He gave them both a very hearty welcome, and desired them to take off their hats and jackets and sit near the fire. Brenda obeyed at once, but Florence looked restless and impatient.“I suppose,” she said, after a minute’s pause, while she was fiddling with a feather boa which she wore round her neck, “you will tell us to-day, Mr Timmins, just what we are to do in the future.”“I have sent for you for that purpose,” he replied.“We have got to earn our living, haven’t we?” said Florence.“Well,” he replied, speaking slowly, “girls who have no money have, as a rule, to earn their living.”Florence looked at Brenda and half smiled, but Brenda’s sweet face was very grave.“Sit down, Florence,” she said: “don’t be impatient. Let us wait until we hear what Mr Timmins has to say.”“Yes; that is quite right, Brenda,” said Mr Timmins. “Florence, please take your sealskin jacket off, and your hat: you will be much too hot in this room if you don’t.” Florence now hesitated no longer. She took her pretty cap off, pushed back her chestnut hair, and unfastened her sealskin jacket. She then sank book in the easy-chair provided for her by Mr Timmins.“Now, my dears,” said the good man, “I told you the other day that I would send for you when I had something in my mind’s eye for your benefit; and I think I have something. It is my proposal, therefore, that we shall first of all partake of a little lunch. You must be very hungry, both of you, for I know you started from Langdale at nine o’clock; and afterwards we will go to see Lady Marian Dixie.”“But what can she want with us?” said Brenda.“She will tell you herself,” said Mr Timmins, in his grave voice.“And we have just seventy-five pounds to live on,” said Florence. “It seems a good deal of money, for although, Mr Timmins, although you were always very generous, you did not give us a lot of pocket money; you just bought our clothes for us, and paid our school bills, and paid Mrs Fortescue in the holidays; but we ourselves never had much, had we, Brenda?”“Good gracious!” said Mr Timmins—he threw up his hands as he spoke—“you cost hundreds a year, girls—hundreds a year.”“Then,” said Florence, still speaking gravely and taking the lead, which completely astonished her sister Brenda, “don’t you think you did exceedingly wrong to waste all that money on us when you knew that by and by we should have nothing?”Mr Timmins turned rather red.“I sent you the account in full, didn’t I, Brenda?” he said.“You sent me an account,” said Brenda; “but, to tell you the truth, I haven’t read it yet.”“Oh!” said Mr Timmins, with a groan. “How exactly like all other women you are. Nothing will make a woman careful with regard to money. The fact is, she needs a husband to look after her. I wish you two were provided with good husbands, that I do. But there—no one will look at a penniless girl in these days, even though she is as pretty as my friend Florence.”Florence coloured very high. She looked full at Brenda. Then she said quickly—“There is one man who will look at a penniless girl, and marry her too, if she wishes to marry him.”“What do you mean?” said Mr Timmins. “I am glad you have spoken of it, Florence,” said Brenda. “Even if you had not, I should feel it my duty to do so.”“Oh, tell him yourself, tell him yourself!” said Florence. She sprang from her seat by the fire. “Tell Him when I am not in the room. I want him to know: I want you two to talk it over. Is there no private room where I can go while you are talking it over, Mr Timmins? Is this your only private room?” Mr Timmins looked quite excited: nay, more—he looked delighted.“Do you see that door, Florence?” he said. “Open it; and you will find a little room with a fire. A clerk may be sitting at his table writing letters for me, but he won’t trouble you. Here is to-day’s copy ofThe Times, my dear: you can take this with you to read. An intelligent, well-educated girl ought to read herTimesevery day. I have ordered lunch to be here in a quarter of an hour; so you had better go at once if you really wish Brenda to tell me your story.”Florence got up. She felt red all over. There was a tingling sensation down her back. She was half ashamed and half proud. Her lover was assuming a magnitude in her eyes. He must really be a most heroic person to wish to marry her even though she had not a penny. According to Mr Timmins, men never did marry penniless girls in these days, even though the girls were beautiful.She quickly reached the shelter of the little room, shut the door behind her and, sitting down with her back to the clerk, pretended to readThe Times. Meanwhile, Mr Timmins turned anxiously to Brenda.“What does this mean? what is it, Brenda?” he said. “Why, Flo—she is quite a child: how old is she, Brenda?”“Eighteen,” said Brenda at once. “Just a year younger than I am.”“Well, tell me all about it.”“I will tell you what I know,” said Brenda. “We have been, as you know, visitors at Langdale for several years. It is true that Mrs Fortescue has taken us to the seaside in the summer, but we have invariably spent our Easter and Christmas holidays at Langdale, and we have got to know the people. In especial, we have got to know the Arbuthnots, who are, in my opinion, absolutely sweet; and there are the Misses Salter, who are very kind and very, very nice; and there is Major Reid—a dear old gentleman—and Major Reid’s son. It is about Major Reid’s son I want to tell you.”“Yes—yes!” said Mr Timmins, in an impatient and very anxious voice.“He is in the Army,” continued Brenda. “He is quite young—I don’t know his age, but he cannot be twenty-five yet. He is a lieutenant in one of His Majesty’s regiments of foot, and we have known him since he was a young lad and we were children. I never did notice that he especially cared about Florence; but this Christmas his manners were completely changed—in fact, the other day, he asked her to marry him.”“Thinking that she would be an heiress, no doubt, the young scoundrel!” said Mr Timmins, with an angry twist of his person as he spoke.“Oh no; there you wrong him. He told Florence most emphatically that he cared for her only for herself, and he would marry her gladly if she were as poor as a church mouse. Now, I don’t know why church mice should be especially poor; but that was his expression, and it has had a great weight with Florence, who knew the truth all the time, but could not tell him on account of her promise to you.”“Ha!” said Mr Timmins. “She never told him—the little witch—did she?”“Of course she didn’t. She had faithfully promised you not to breathe it to a soul.”“And what sort is he, Brenda? You can tell me, because you are not in love with him. Now, give me a fair and unbiassed opinion of what sort the young man is.”“He is quite good-looking, and quite gentlemanly,” said Brenda at once. “His father is a dear old gentleman, and I believe the family is a good one. He is the only child, and his mother has been dead for a long time. His father thinks a lot about Michael, I know.”“Then I suppose the father will be able to leave the son something?”“I don’t know anything about that. I fancy they are both poor. Major Reid has his pension, of course, but I should not imagine they have much private means. They live in a little house, but they are quite nice people.”“You wouldn’t mind your sister marrying him, would you?”“Not if she loved him.”“Thank you very much, Brenda. You can’t tell me any more for the present.”“Do you think he will propose to her when he knows—or rather do you think he will renew his proposal?” asked Brenda anxiously.“That remains to be proved, my dear. Ah! here comes lunch. We will, for the time at least, consider that the young man is faithful and means what he says. Time alone can prove what his true sentiments are. Call your sister back; this will make a little change in my arrangements for you both.”Florence re-entered the room. She had not found the copy of the day’sTimesparticularly interesting. Her cheeks were still flushed. She looked with apprehension at Mr Timmins, but kind Mr Timmins patted her on the shoulder and said, “Good girl, good girl!” in an appreciative way, which put her at her ease at once; so much so, that she thoroughly enjoyed the very excellent repast which was sent in from a neighbouring restaurant, and of which both girls ate with appetite. When it was over, Mr Timmins said—“Now, my dears, I want to say something to you.”They both looked at him attentively.“I am going to take you, Florence, and you, Brenda, to see my old friend, Lady Marian Dixie. She is an elderly woman and full of the milk of human kindness. She will talk to you herself, and I will not tell you beforehand what she is likely to say: indeed, it would be difficult for me to do so, for I do not know myself. Afterwards, the probabilities are that you, Florence, will go back to Langdale, and that Brenda will stay with Lady Marian.”“What?” said Brenda with a start.Mr Timmins looked at her with affection.“That is what is most likely to happen,” he said: “but I can’t tell you anything. You must both be obedient and good, for the present, and allow me to guide you. I have your very best interests at heart. I am a friend to you both, as I was to your father and your mother before you. Lady Marian also knew your mother well. Don’t forget that when you are talking to her to-day.”“And I,” said Florence, “am I to tell Mrs Fortescue—”“Nothing of the sort, my dear: I should be sorry to give you such a piece of work. I will myself write to Mrs Fortescue, and tell her that her services, as far as you both are concerned, will come to an end on the twentieth of January, that Brenda has found a home—as I expect will be probable—with Lady Marian Dixie, and that she will be paid for you both until that date.”“And I?” said Florence, once more.“Ah, Florence,” said the old lawyer; “better things may be in store for you; but time will prove. There is nothing, my dear, in all the world, like disinterested affection, like the true, true homage of the heart, which has nothing to do with money nor outward accessories. In fact, my dear girls, I may as well tell you that I have the greatest horror of those men who are known as fortune seekers, the men who court girls simply because they want their money. A girl who has not money has a very poor chance in the society in which she usually moves. I do not know which is the worst off, the handsome poor girl who is attracted by the richparvenuand marries him for his wealth, or the handsome poor man who marries the rich girl because of her money. You, my dears, will at least be saved from this calamity. But now, come; I have ordered the brougham to be ready for us at a quarter-past one, and I think the time is up. I will ring for Andrews. You, Florence, will be on your way back to Langdale soon after three o’clock, so we have not too much time to spare.”Andrews answered the summons of his chief, and assured him that the brougham was waiting just outside the little court where the celebrated firm of Timmins and Co conducted their highly successful business. He himself accompanied his chief and the two young ladies to the carriage. Mr Timmins looked critically at his young charges.“Is there anything you both happen to want in the world of dress?” he said. “I don’t say for a single moment that you have any means to buy yourselves luxuries, but just now it might be just possible for me— Oh, by no means as a present! but, nevertheless, it might be possible for me to give you some little things that you might require. Just say the word, my dears: do not hesitate. I know girls want so many pretty things—gloves, shoes, boots, hats, handkerchiefs, etc, etc.”But the Heathcote girls assured good Mr Timmins that they were well supplied with all these necessaries. They took care to assure him that there was not a single thing that they required, and he was forced to accept their word, although he seemed more uneasy than pleased when they rejected any sort of help on his part.They drove across St. James’ Park, and then down a quiet street, until at last the carriage stopped before Lady Marian Dixie’s door. Here a grave man in livery and with powdered hair immediately answered the bell. He assured Andrews that his mistress was within. Mr Timmins got out of the carriage and had a private word with him. He then turned to the girls.“Hudson,” he said, “will show you into the dining-room for a few minutes while I talk to Lady Marian.”He went upstairs quite lightly, two steps at a time, and the girls stood and faced each other in the great dining-room of the house in Cadogan Place. Florence looked full at Brenda.“Brenda,” she said, “if I had thought for a single moment that this sort of half engagement—for it scarcely amounts to that—which now exists between Michael Reid and myself would part me from you, I should never have consented to it. I don’t want to go back to Langdale alone. I don’t want to, I don’t wish to, I won’t go back without you. You must come back with me, Brenda, darling Brenda!”“No,” said Brenda; “we must do what is right: we are not choosers any longer and you know, Florence, that we are in the position of girls who have to earn their own living, and if I can earn mine here, why, I must; and if you can bring yourself to get engaged to Michael Reid, why then, some employment will be found for you until he is well enough off to marry. I assure you, Mr Timmins seemed quite pleased when he heard of all that Michael had said to you.”“I do like him myself!—the more I think of him, the more I like him,” said Florence.“But all the same,” she added, “it is odious going back to Langdale without you! and then when Mrs Fortescue finds out, it will be awful, awful!”“No: I don’t think it will,” said Brenda. “I am sure Mr Timmins will be exceedingly careful not to make anything awful for you, Florence. Ah! and here he comes.”The door was opened, and Mr Timmins came in. He was accompanied by a beautiful old lady, whose hair was snowy white. She wore a white cap made of Brussels lace. She was dressed in soft grey and wore a white embroidered scarf round her shoulders. Any one more elegant and altogether lovely than this old person the girls had never seen. She was as far removed from the people at Langdale as light is from darkness. Each movement was aristocratic, and in addition to that, she had one of the kindest faces in the world.“How do you do, my dears?” she said, coming forward at once and taking a hand of each. “Now, let me guess to whom I am speaking. Yes, this must be Brenda. Brenda, you have such a look of your mother. I used to know her very, very well indeed a long time ago; and this, of course, is Florence; she has got her father’s eyes. Well, come upstairs with me, dears, won’t you? and let us have a chat together.”The girls followed the old lady upstairs, but when they reached the drawing-room landing, they were astonished to find that Mr Timmins had not followed them.“Where is Mr Timmins?” asked Florence at once.“He will see you back to the railway station presently, Florence,” was Lady Marian’s reply. “He would rather we had a chat all alone for the time being.”She took them both into a snug room, made them seat themselves, and then began to talk in an easy and pleasant way. When the girls had both got over their first shyness, she asked Brenda if she would come to her on a visit for three months.“It is quite a short time,” she said; “but I name three months because I know you would like a limit to the time you propose to spend with me. During that period, I hope you will consider yourself in every respect my guest. I don’t offer you any salary, my dear, but I will give you what clothes are necessary, and you in return will write some letters for me and occasionally read aloud to me. I hope to make you quite happy. I would do more, far more than this for your mother’s daughter.”“But what about Florence?” said Brenda, her pretty eyes filling with tears.“Ah well,” said Lady Marian; “I did intend to offer the same hospitality to Florence, and she is at liberty to come to me if she wishes; but I think it is only fair to her to let her return to Langdale; at least for the present. If you do want to come to me, Florence, you have only to send me a letter.”“To come on a visit?” asked Florence.“Well, yes,” said the old lady. “I do not want a companion. You see, I have my maid Pearson, who has been with me for many long years, and who understands all my requirements. But I will do far you what I do for your sister, and it is only a matter of three months. At the end of that time you must, of course, both of you find some means of earning your living.”Florence rose proudly to her feet.“Very well,” she said. “I do not think I will trouble you.”There was a distressed look on her face, and Brenda never felt nearer crying in the whole course of her life.“Oh, Florence,” she said, “I would give all the wide world to be going back with you to Langdale to-day!” Then she turned to Lady Marian. “I know well,” she said, “that you mean to be kind, but you cannot possibly tell what this means to homeless girls who have never been parted before in the whole course of their lives.”“I can quite understand what you are suffering, dear,” said Lady Marian; “but we all have to go through pain; it is part of our great purgatory, but it draws out the good in us and develops qualities which without it might perish. Now I know you have plenty to say to each other, and Mr Timmins will come back for Florence in less than an hour. I will leave you here to talk to each other until he arrives.”As Lady Marian spoke, she left the room. The moment they were alone, Florence flung herself into Brenda’s arms and burst out crying.“I never felt so wretched in all my life!” she said. “I almost hate Michael! But for him I should be staying with you here; and yet how could I stay just on a visit with that old lady? It is all very well for her to say that she was a friend of our mother’s, but she is no friend of ours.”“She seems very kind, very kind indeed,” said Brenda; “and I know she will be good to me. I will write to you every day, Florence.”“Yes, do,” said Florence. “But oh! I am a miserable girl!”She cried long and hard, and when at last Mr Timmins came to fetch her, her face was quite disfigured by her bitter sobbing.“Come, come,” he said, “this will never do. You will smile at this dark hour some day, Miss Florence. But now we have just barely time to reach the railway station. I am going to send Andrews with you as far as Langdale, as I prefer your not travelling alone.” Florence could not help thinking how strange the circumstances of their lives had become. They were very poor girls. They were absolutely without a penny in the world—that is, almost without a penny; and yet they had to travel first-class, and one girl would not be allowed to go back to Langdale alone. She turned to Mr Timmins. An idea came to her.“If we are to be poor,” she said, “and to earn our living, why don’t you let us begin at once? It is far, far kinder than allowing us to spend our last penny and then starting us on this cold world with nothing to protect us against its rebuffs.”“But you, Florence,” said the old man, “have secured the love of an honest heart. You surely, at least, are not to be pitied.”“That is true,” she said; and the thought certainly did give her comfort. Michael—dear, handsome Michael—wished her to be as poor as a church mouse. Well, she was: there was no doubt of that.As Mr Timmins was parting from her at the railway station, he slipped ten pounds into her hand.“You must have a little ready money to spend,” he said. “Be exceedingly careful of it.”“Is it part of our seventy-five pounds?” she asked.He nodded. There was a strange expression on his face.“Good-bye for the present, dear child,” he said. “Tell Mrs Fortescue to-night when you see her, that your sister is staying with Lady Marian Dixie, and that I will write to her myself to-morrow or next day. It is quite unnecessary that she should know anything about your circumstances. Whatever you do in the future, Langdale is scarcely likely to be your home.”
That evening late, Florence, in the seclusion of their chamber told Brenda what had happened.
“You know,” she said, “that we have nothing. I think it is dreadful of Mr Timmins to make a mystery about it, and to let us appear before the good folks at Langdale as apparently wealthy girls; but on one matter, at least, I am obliged to him. This has given me the opportunity of finding a true heart.”
“A true heart, Flo?” said Brenda. “What do you mean?”
“What I say,” answered Florence. “You know I took a walk to-day with Michael Reid.”
“Oh, with poor old Michael,” said Brenda, in a tone as much as to say that Michael at least did not count for much, that he was a poor sort of fellow, and need not agitate the girls just then. But Florence’s next words astonished her elder sister very much.
“I am a year younger than you,” said Florence, “and I have been proposed for before you, Brenda. Michael cares for me; he cares for me for myself alone. He absolutely wants me to be poor, very poor, as poor as a church mouse, he says, in order that he may show to all the world how deeply he loves me. He doesn’t care for me in the very least because he thinks I have money. He wants me to be poor: he told me all about it to-day. He mentioned the subject first at the Arbuthnots’ Christmas party, but he spoke of it again to-day when we were walking home. He looked very, very handsome; and I—I quite think I like him.”
“Oh, you poor little innocent Florence!” said Brenda. “But you don’t know anything about men at all. It was very mean of him to speak to you, very mean of him to take advantage of you. Yes, it was, Flo; I cannot help saying it. It was wrong of him; he ought not to have done it.”
“He did nothing wrong,” said Florence; “he spoke up like a man. I suppose a man can’t help loving a girl.”
“He ought not to have done it like that,” repeated Brenda. “I know I am right: he ought on no account to have done it like that.”
“It is very queer of you to speak to me in that tone, Brenda,” said her sister, “and I must say that I am very much astonished. I cannot understand what you mean. Why should not Michael care for me? He is a gentleman: he is an officer in the King’s army. We know his father; we know his people. I don’t know why you should talk to me like that. I suppose a man will propose to me some day, just as some one will propose to you, darling Brenda; and you will love him with all your heart and soul.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Brenda. “I am not beautiful like you, Flo. But tell me all about it, darling. You startled me very much when you first spoke, and I suppose I did wrong to be a little bit annoyed. It hurts me to think that my only darling sister should care for any one else better than me.”
“But I don’t know that I do,” said Florence; “only of course,” she added, “he was very nice, and he did say so emphatically that he only cared for me for myself.”
“And what did you say to him, Flo?”
“I told him that he had startled me, and that I wanted a month to think it over. He would not give me a month, but he gave me a week. What I feel is this, Brenda: that he must know all about our changed circumstances before I give him my true answer. Then if he comes forward, as indeed I know he will, I shall feel at least assured that he cares for me for myself.”
“And who would not care for you for yourself,” said her sister, putting her arms round the girl’s neck and kissing her with great affection. “Why, aren’t you just the dearest creature in the world? Won’t you make the very sweetest wife? But all the same,” she added, “I don’t know how Mr Reid can marry any one at present, for he can’t be well off. I know the Major has barely enough to live on.”
“We should be very poor, of course,” said Florence; “but he seems to like that. After all,” she continued, “what I thought was this: that I might, if I go on liking him as much as I do now, be engaged to him, and we could wait a year or so while I—I was earning money. It does seem so queer to think that I should have to earn money in any way; and I am sure I haven’t the faintest idea how to set about it—not the very faintest. But I suppose Mr Timmins will give us some sort of directions to-morrow.”
“I suppose he will,” said Brenda. “It is queer, the whole thing. We have been allowed to grow up, you and I, as though we were rich girls. We have had every possible luxury and every possible educational advantage, and I know the people at Langdale think us rich enough, and yet we haven’t a penny in the world.”
“Oh yes!” said Florence; “we have seventy-five pounds; don’t forget that: that is quite a good sum—at least, it seems so to me.”
“Half of it would buy your trousseau—at least some sort of trousseau for you, if you decide to marry the lieutenant at once,” said Brenda. Then she added: “It is all very puzzling; but you must do what you think right; only we won’t tell Mrs Fortescue anything whatever about it.”
After this conversation, the girls went to bed, and both slept the sleep of the just, pretty Florence looking prettier than ever in her happy innocent dreams—for was she not loved just for her very self alone, and was not that something to be proud of?
They were awakened early in the morning by Mrs Fortescue, who herself brought them tea to their room, and fussed over them, and paid them a vast amount of attention, and begged of them, as they were getting ready for their journey, not to forget to put in a good word for her when Mr Timmins talked about their future plans. She was quite excited about them, and her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes had a hard, worried look. Brenda felt as though they were exceedingly deceitful to her, but Florence was thinking of Lieutenant Reid, and had not much time to consider Mrs Fortescue and her future.
A cab arrived in good time to take them to the station. Mrs Fortescue herself accompanied them to the train, and purchased their tickets for them out of the postal order which had been cashed the day before, and which left enough over to provide them with cabs when they got to London. She herself saw them into a first-class carriage marked “For Ladies only,” and she gave them also into the charge of the guard, paying him five shillings in advance for looking after them. It is true she paid him this money out of the girls’ own little fund, but it quite looked as if she were spending her own worldly goods for their advantage. The last thing they saw as they left the little station was her kind and yet anxious face gazing after them. She was blowing kisses to them, and wondering most anxiously what would happen between now and the evening when she was to meet their train again.
“I do feel,” said Florence, as the train brought them beyond the narrow confines of the little town of Langdale, “that we are deceiving dear Mrs Fortescue most horribly.”
“Well, it’s no fault of ours,” said Brenda; “we’ll have to undeceive her to-morrow. But, after all, she won’t suffer, for Mr Timmins will pay her in full for keeping us until the end of the holidays; and then, instead of going back to school, we’ll begin our life’s work. I do feel excited about what is going to happen to-day, don’t you, Florence?”
Florence said she did, and sat book in her seat. But her thoughts were considerably absorbed with Lieutenant Reid. She was wondering what he was doing, and how he was spending his time, and considering how she would pass her own time until that day next week, when she could tell him that he might have his very heart’s desire, and that a girl, poor as the poorest church mouse, would be willing to marry him.
“How glad he will be,” thought Florence. “He is very nice, very nice indeed; but, of course, we must be engaged for some time before we think of marrying, for I could not leave darling Brenda until she was safely secure with some sort of livelihood.”
They arrived in London between eleven and twelve o’clock, and were met at the station by one of Mr Timmins’ clerks—a grave, elderly-looking man of the name of Andrews. The girls had never seen him before, but he had been given explicit directions by Mr Timmins to look out for young ladies bearing a certain appearance, and as no other girl quite so pretty as Florence stepped out of the train, he went up to her at once and asked if she was Miss Heathcote.
Florence replied in the affirmative.
They were then ushered by Mr Andrews into a very comfortable private brougham which belonged to Mr Timmins, and were taken straight to his office in Chancery Lane.
Mr Timmins was the head of a large firm of solicitors, and the girls passed through many rooms full of clerks, both old and young, who looked up as they passed by and gazed at them with admiration. Even Brenda was a pretty girl, but Florence was quite above the ordinary with regard to good looks. There was something so fresh and innocent, and withal pathetic, about the young creatures, that the men who watched them felt their hearts softening both with admiration and affection. Those who were old thought that they would like such girls to be their daughters, and those who were young felt instinctively that such girls would make good wives and sisters. The girls passed through the different rooms, and were presently ushered into Mr Timmins’ own private sanctum.
He was waiting for them, and was quite alone. He gave them both a very hearty welcome, and desired them to take off their hats and jackets and sit near the fire. Brenda obeyed at once, but Florence looked restless and impatient.
“I suppose,” she said, after a minute’s pause, while she was fiddling with a feather boa which she wore round her neck, “you will tell us to-day, Mr Timmins, just what we are to do in the future.”
“I have sent for you for that purpose,” he replied.
“We have got to earn our living, haven’t we?” said Florence.
“Well,” he replied, speaking slowly, “girls who have no money have, as a rule, to earn their living.”
Florence looked at Brenda and half smiled, but Brenda’s sweet face was very grave.
“Sit down, Florence,” she said: “don’t be impatient. Let us wait until we hear what Mr Timmins has to say.”
“Yes; that is quite right, Brenda,” said Mr Timmins. “Florence, please take your sealskin jacket off, and your hat: you will be much too hot in this room if you don’t.” Florence now hesitated no longer. She took her pretty cap off, pushed back her chestnut hair, and unfastened her sealskin jacket. She then sank book in the easy-chair provided for her by Mr Timmins.
“Now, my dears,” said the good man, “I told you the other day that I would send for you when I had something in my mind’s eye for your benefit; and I think I have something. It is my proposal, therefore, that we shall first of all partake of a little lunch. You must be very hungry, both of you, for I know you started from Langdale at nine o’clock; and afterwards we will go to see Lady Marian Dixie.”
“But what can she want with us?” said Brenda.
“She will tell you herself,” said Mr Timmins, in his grave voice.
“And we have just seventy-five pounds to live on,” said Florence. “It seems a good deal of money, for although, Mr Timmins, although you were always very generous, you did not give us a lot of pocket money; you just bought our clothes for us, and paid our school bills, and paid Mrs Fortescue in the holidays; but we ourselves never had much, had we, Brenda?”
“Good gracious!” said Mr Timmins—he threw up his hands as he spoke—“you cost hundreds a year, girls—hundreds a year.”
“Then,” said Florence, still speaking gravely and taking the lead, which completely astonished her sister Brenda, “don’t you think you did exceedingly wrong to waste all that money on us when you knew that by and by we should have nothing?”
Mr Timmins turned rather red.
“I sent you the account in full, didn’t I, Brenda?” he said.
“You sent me an account,” said Brenda; “but, to tell you the truth, I haven’t read it yet.”
“Oh!” said Mr Timmins, with a groan. “How exactly like all other women you are. Nothing will make a woman careful with regard to money. The fact is, she needs a husband to look after her. I wish you two were provided with good husbands, that I do. But there—no one will look at a penniless girl in these days, even though she is as pretty as my friend Florence.”
Florence coloured very high. She looked full at Brenda. Then she said quickly—
“There is one man who will look at a penniless girl, and marry her too, if she wishes to marry him.”
“What do you mean?” said Mr Timmins. “I am glad you have spoken of it, Florence,” said Brenda. “Even if you had not, I should feel it my duty to do so.”
“Oh, tell him yourself, tell him yourself!” said Florence. She sprang from her seat by the fire. “Tell Him when I am not in the room. I want him to know: I want you two to talk it over. Is there no private room where I can go while you are talking it over, Mr Timmins? Is this your only private room?” Mr Timmins looked quite excited: nay, more—he looked delighted.
“Do you see that door, Florence?” he said. “Open it; and you will find a little room with a fire. A clerk may be sitting at his table writing letters for me, but he won’t trouble you. Here is to-day’s copy ofThe Times, my dear: you can take this with you to read. An intelligent, well-educated girl ought to read herTimesevery day. I have ordered lunch to be here in a quarter of an hour; so you had better go at once if you really wish Brenda to tell me your story.”
Florence got up. She felt red all over. There was a tingling sensation down her back. She was half ashamed and half proud. Her lover was assuming a magnitude in her eyes. He must really be a most heroic person to wish to marry her even though she had not a penny. According to Mr Timmins, men never did marry penniless girls in these days, even though the girls were beautiful.
She quickly reached the shelter of the little room, shut the door behind her and, sitting down with her back to the clerk, pretended to readThe Times. Meanwhile, Mr Timmins turned anxiously to Brenda.
“What does this mean? what is it, Brenda?” he said. “Why, Flo—she is quite a child: how old is she, Brenda?”
“Eighteen,” said Brenda at once. “Just a year younger than I am.”
“Well, tell me all about it.”
“I will tell you what I know,” said Brenda. “We have been, as you know, visitors at Langdale for several years. It is true that Mrs Fortescue has taken us to the seaside in the summer, but we have invariably spent our Easter and Christmas holidays at Langdale, and we have got to know the people. In especial, we have got to know the Arbuthnots, who are, in my opinion, absolutely sweet; and there are the Misses Salter, who are very kind and very, very nice; and there is Major Reid—a dear old gentleman—and Major Reid’s son. It is about Major Reid’s son I want to tell you.”
“Yes—yes!” said Mr Timmins, in an impatient and very anxious voice.
“He is in the Army,” continued Brenda. “He is quite young—I don’t know his age, but he cannot be twenty-five yet. He is a lieutenant in one of His Majesty’s regiments of foot, and we have known him since he was a young lad and we were children. I never did notice that he especially cared about Florence; but this Christmas his manners were completely changed—in fact, the other day, he asked her to marry him.”
“Thinking that she would be an heiress, no doubt, the young scoundrel!” said Mr Timmins, with an angry twist of his person as he spoke.
“Oh no; there you wrong him. He told Florence most emphatically that he cared for her only for herself, and he would marry her gladly if she were as poor as a church mouse. Now, I don’t know why church mice should be especially poor; but that was his expression, and it has had a great weight with Florence, who knew the truth all the time, but could not tell him on account of her promise to you.”
“Ha!” said Mr Timmins. “She never told him—the little witch—did she?”
“Of course she didn’t. She had faithfully promised you not to breathe it to a soul.”
“And what sort is he, Brenda? You can tell me, because you are not in love with him. Now, give me a fair and unbiassed opinion of what sort the young man is.”
“He is quite good-looking, and quite gentlemanly,” said Brenda at once. “His father is a dear old gentleman, and I believe the family is a good one. He is the only child, and his mother has been dead for a long time. His father thinks a lot about Michael, I know.”
“Then I suppose the father will be able to leave the son something?”
“I don’t know anything about that. I fancy they are both poor. Major Reid has his pension, of course, but I should not imagine they have much private means. They live in a little house, but they are quite nice people.”
“You wouldn’t mind your sister marrying him, would you?”
“Not if she loved him.”
“Thank you very much, Brenda. You can’t tell me any more for the present.”
“Do you think he will propose to her when he knows—or rather do you think he will renew his proposal?” asked Brenda anxiously.
“That remains to be proved, my dear. Ah! here comes lunch. We will, for the time at least, consider that the young man is faithful and means what he says. Time alone can prove what his true sentiments are. Call your sister back; this will make a little change in my arrangements for you both.”
Florence re-entered the room. She had not found the copy of the day’sTimesparticularly interesting. Her cheeks were still flushed. She looked with apprehension at Mr Timmins, but kind Mr Timmins patted her on the shoulder and said, “Good girl, good girl!” in an appreciative way, which put her at her ease at once; so much so, that she thoroughly enjoyed the very excellent repast which was sent in from a neighbouring restaurant, and of which both girls ate with appetite. When it was over, Mr Timmins said—
“Now, my dears, I want to say something to you.”
They both looked at him attentively.
“I am going to take you, Florence, and you, Brenda, to see my old friend, Lady Marian Dixie. She is an elderly woman and full of the milk of human kindness. She will talk to you herself, and I will not tell you beforehand what she is likely to say: indeed, it would be difficult for me to do so, for I do not know myself. Afterwards, the probabilities are that you, Florence, will go back to Langdale, and that Brenda will stay with Lady Marian.”
“What?” said Brenda with a start.
Mr Timmins looked at her with affection.
“That is what is most likely to happen,” he said: “but I can’t tell you anything. You must both be obedient and good, for the present, and allow me to guide you. I have your very best interests at heart. I am a friend to you both, as I was to your father and your mother before you. Lady Marian also knew your mother well. Don’t forget that when you are talking to her to-day.”
“And I,” said Florence, “am I to tell Mrs Fortescue—”
“Nothing of the sort, my dear: I should be sorry to give you such a piece of work. I will myself write to Mrs Fortescue, and tell her that her services, as far as you both are concerned, will come to an end on the twentieth of January, that Brenda has found a home—as I expect will be probable—with Lady Marian Dixie, and that she will be paid for you both until that date.”
“And I?” said Florence, once more.
“Ah, Florence,” said the old lawyer; “better things may be in store for you; but time will prove. There is nothing, my dear, in all the world, like disinterested affection, like the true, true homage of the heart, which has nothing to do with money nor outward accessories. In fact, my dear girls, I may as well tell you that I have the greatest horror of those men who are known as fortune seekers, the men who court girls simply because they want their money. A girl who has not money has a very poor chance in the society in which she usually moves. I do not know which is the worst off, the handsome poor girl who is attracted by the richparvenuand marries him for his wealth, or the handsome poor man who marries the rich girl because of her money. You, my dears, will at least be saved from this calamity. But now, come; I have ordered the brougham to be ready for us at a quarter-past one, and I think the time is up. I will ring for Andrews. You, Florence, will be on your way back to Langdale soon after three o’clock, so we have not too much time to spare.”
Andrews answered the summons of his chief, and assured him that the brougham was waiting just outside the little court where the celebrated firm of Timmins and Co conducted their highly successful business. He himself accompanied his chief and the two young ladies to the carriage. Mr Timmins looked critically at his young charges.
“Is there anything you both happen to want in the world of dress?” he said. “I don’t say for a single moment that you have any means to buy yourselves luxuries, but just now it might be just possible for me— Oh, by no means as a present! but, nevertheless, it might be possible for me to give you some little things that you might require. Just say the word, my dears: do not hesitate. I know girls want so many pretty things—gloves, shoes, boots, hats, handkerchiefs, etc, etc.”
But the Heathcote girls assured good Mr Timmins that they were well supplied with all these necessaries. They took care to assure him that there was not a single thing that they required, and he was forced to accept their word, although he seemed more uneasy than pleased when they rejected any sort of help on his part.
They drove across St. James’ Park, and then down a quiet street, until at last the carriage stopped before Lady Marian Dixie’s door. Here a grave man in livery and with powdered hair immediately answered the bell. He assured Andrews that his mistress was within. Mr Timmins got out of the carriage and had a private word with him. He then turned to the girls.
“Hudson,” he said, “will show you into the dining-room for a few minutes while I talk to Lady Marian.”
He went upstairs quite lightly, two steps at a time, and the girls stood and faced each other in the great dining-room of the house in Cadogan Place. Florence looked full at Brenda.
“Brenda,” she said, “if I had thought for a single moment that this sort of half engagement—for it scarcely amounts to that—which now exists between Michael Reid and myself would part me from you, I should never have consented to it. I don’t want to go back to Langdale alone. I don’t want to, I don’t wish to, I won’t go back without you. You must come back with me, Brenda, darling Brenda!”
“No,” said Brenda; “we must do what is right: we are not choosers any longer and you know, Florence, that we are in the position of girls who have to earn their own living, and if I can earn mine here, why, I must; and if you can bring yourself to get engaged to Michael Reid, why then, some employment will be found for you until he is well enough off to marry. I assure you, Mr Timmins seemed quite pleased when he heard of all that Michael had said to you.”
“I do like him myself!—the more I think of him, the more I like him,” said Florence.
“But all the same,” she added, “it is odious going back to Langdale without you! and then when Mrs Fortescue finds out, it will be awful, awful!”
“No: I don’t think it will,” said Brenda. “I am sure Mr Timmins will be exceedingly careful not to make anything awful for you, Florence. Ah! and here he comes.”
The door was opened, and Mr Timmins came in. He was accompanied by a beautiful old lady, whose hair was snowy white. She wore a white cap made of Brussels lace. She was dressed in soft grey and wore a white embroidered scarf round her shoulders. Any one more elegant and altogether lovely than this old person the girls had never seen. She was as far removed from the people at Langdale as light is from darkness. Each movement was aristocratic, and in addition to that, she had one of the kindest faces in the world.
“How do you do, my dears?” she said, coming forward at once and taking a hand of each. “Now, let me guess to whom I am speaking. Yes, this must be Brenda. Brenda, you have such a look of your mother. I used to know her very, very well indeed a long time ago; and this, of course, is Florence; she has got her father’s eyes. Well, come upstairs with me, dears, won’t you? and let us have a chat together.”
The girls followed the old lady upstairs, but when they reached the drawing-room landing, they were astonished to find that Mr Timmins had not followed them.
“Where is Mr Timmins?” asked Florence at once.
“He will see you back to the railway station presently, Florence,” was Lady Marian’s reply. “He would rather we had a chat all alone for the time being.”
She took them both into a snug room, made them seat themselves, and then began to talk in an easy and pleasant way. When the girls had both got over their first shyness, she asked Brenda if she would come to her on a visit for three months.
“It is quite a short time,” she said; “but I name three months because I know you would like a limit to the time you propose to spend with me. During that period, I hope you will consider yourself in every respect my guest. I don’t offer you any salary, my dear, but I will give you what clothes are necessary, and you in return will write some letters for me and occasionally read aloud to me. I hope to make you quite happy. I would do more, far more than this for your mother’s daughter.”
“But what about Florence?” said Brenda, her pretty eyes filling with tears.
“Ah well,” said Lady Marian; “I did intend to offer the same hospitality to Florence, and she is at liberty to come to me if she wishes; but I think it is only fair to her to let her return to Langdale; at least for the present. If you do want to come to me, Florence, you have only to send me a letter.”
“To come on a visit?” asked Florence.
“Well, yes,” said the old lady. “I do not want a companion. You see, I have my maid Pearson, who has been with me for many long years, and who understands all my requirements. But I will do far you what I do for your sister, and it is only a matter of three months. At the end of that time you must, of course, both of you find some means of earning your living.”
Florence rose proudly to her feet.
“Very well,” she said. “I do not think I will trouble you.”
There was a distressed look on her face, and Brenda never felt nearer crying in the whole course of her life.
“Oh, Florence,” she said, “I would give all the wide world to be going back with you to Langdale to-day!” Then she turned to Lady Marian. “I know well,” she said, “that you mean to be kind, but you cannot possibly tell what this means to homeless girls who have never been parted before in the whole course of their lives.”
“I can quite understand what you are suffering, dear,” said Lady Marian; “but we all have to go through pain; it is part of our great purgatory, but it draws out the good in us and develops qualities which without it might perish. Now I know you have plenty to say to each other, and Mr Timmins will come back for Florence in less than an hour. I will leave you here to talk to each other until he arrives.”
As Lady Marian spoke, she left the room. The moment they were alone, Florence flung herself into Brenda’s arms and burst out crying.
“I never felt so wretched in all my life!” she said. “I almost hate Michael! But for him I should be staying with you here; and yet how could I stay just on a visit with that old lady? It is all very well for her to say that she was a friend of our mother’s, but she is no friend of ours.”
“She seems very kind, very kind indeed,” said Brenda; “and I know she will be good to me. I will write to you every day, Florence.”
“Yes, do,” said Florence. “But oh! I am a miserable girl!”
She cried long and hard, and when at last Mr Timmins came to fetch her, her face was quite disfigured by her bitter sobbing.
“Come, come,” he said, “this will never do. You will smile at this dark hour some day, Miss Florence. But now we have just barely time to reach the railway station. I am going to send Andrews with you as far as Langdale, as I prefer your not travelling alone.” Florence could not help thinking how strange the circumstances of their lives had become. They were very poor girls. They were absolutely without a penny in the world—that is, almost without a penny; and yet they had to travel first-class, and one girl would not be allowed to go back to Langdale alone. She turned to Mr Timmins. An idea came to her.
“If we are to be poor,” she said, “and to earn our living, why don’t you let us begin at once? It is far, far kinder than allowing us to spend our last penny and then starting us on this cold world with nothing to protect us against its rebuffs.”
“But you, Florence,” said the old man, “have secured the love of an honest heart. You surely, at least, are not to be pitied.”
“That is true,” she said; and the thought certainly did give her comfort. Michael—dear, handsome Michael—wished her to be as poor as a church mouse. Well, she was: there was no doubt of that.
As Mr Timmins was parting from her at the railway station, he slipped ten pounds into her hand.
“You must have a little ready money to spend,” he said. “Be exceedingly careful of it.”
“Is it part of our seventy-five pounds?” she asked.
He nodded. There was a strange expression on his face.
“Good-bye for the present, dear child,” he said. “Tell Mrs Fortescue to-night when you see her, that your sister is staying with Lady Marian Dixie, and that I will write to her myself to-morrow or next day. It is quite unnecessary that she should know anything about your circumstances. Whatever you do in the future, Langdale is scarcely likely to be your home.”