L.T. Meade (continued 2)

“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 very chic little 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 a penchant for 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—she did not 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 the menu to 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 of The Times, my dear: you can take this with you to read. An intelligent, well-educated girl ought to read her Times every 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 read The 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’s Times particularly 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 rich parvenu and 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.”

Chapter Seven.

An Exchange of Confidences.

While the girls were in London, Mrs Fortescue had by no means passed an idle day. She had meant to visit several friends with the avowed intention of talking about her young heiresses, as she invariably alluded to Brenda and Florence. She would at least amuse herself hinting at the possibilities which lay before her; but it so happened that she had scarcely got through her ordinary household duties before she had an unexpected visitor. This was no less a person than Major Reid.

Major Reid was, as a rule, considered a woman-hater. Since the death of his wife he had certainly never paid attentions to any woman. On the contrary, he had avoided the society of the fair sex, and had employed himself in his library and garden, living almost entirely alone, except when his son bore him company. For him to visit Mrs Fortescue, therefore, on this special day was a great surprise to the good lady.

She had not the least idea that Michael Reid cared for Florence. She had, it is true, observed his attentions to her on Christmas Eve, but had not given them any serious thought. The young man was an acknowledged flirt, and was fond of the society of all pretty girls; and what pretty girl at Langdale could compare with Florence? That she had taken a walk with him on the following day had scarcely aroused any suspicions. The young people were old friends. Florence would make a great match some day. So beautiful, so rich, so well-born—what had she not to give a husband? Poor Michael Reid would indeed be a silly man if he fell in love with a girl like Florence. The visit, therefore, of Major Reid did not in the least connect itself with Florence in Mrs Fortescue’s mind.

She was up in her bedroom rearranging some of her drawers; for she was a very busy, active little woman, who kept her place in immaculate order and never was a moment unemployed. She was so engaged when Bridget came to inform her that Major Reid would like to see her in the drawing-room.

“Dear, dear!” thought Mrs Fortescue. “What does the man want?”

She said aloud to Bridget—

“Go down to the Major; give him my compliments, and say that I will be with him in a moment.”

She then proceeded to put on a clean collar and a fresh and becoming tie of cherry-coloured ribbon at her throat. Her dress was dark brown. She looked a very neat and comely little person when she entered the Major’s presence. The Major, however, had no special eye for Mrs Fortescue’s comeliness. He looked rather excited. He was holding his stick in his hand as though he did not wish to part with it, and when he stood up, it was with considerable difficulty that Mrs Fortescue could get him to sit down again.

“Dear, dear!” he said. “Dear, dear! I don’t know how to apologise for coming to you at such an hour before lunch. I do hope you will forgive me.”

Here he deliberately paced from the door to the mantelpiece. The room was small, and he accomplished the distance in a couple of strides; but his whole manner was so confused and distrait that Mrs Fortescue wondered if the good man had taken leave of his senses and was about to propose to her. She was, however, thoroughly sensible and practical; and, knowing that the Major had certainly no money wherewith to support a second wife, turned her mind from the subject and endeavoured to set him at his ease.

“Do sit down,” she said. “Do you know—I am sorry to have to say it—but it fidgets me dreadfully to see people pacing about my drawing-room.”

The Major dropped in the nearest chair as though he had been shot.

“May I take your stick from you?” said Mrs Fortescue.

He resigned it with the expression of one who was about to suffer martyrdom.

“Now, that is much better,” she said. “But I would suggest an easy-chair; there is one near the window. You can then lean back and cross your legs. My late dear husband said he never felt comfortable unless he could lean back in his chair and cross his legs. Ah! how well I remember him; such a dear fellow, so devoted to me. I have never ceased to mourn for him. I could never put another in his place.”

“Now I have set him at his ease, and got him to abandon the ridiculous idea of proposing to me,” thought the widow. “Yes; he looks quite happy, but I do wonder what he wants. I could have taken the opportunity in the absence of the dear girls of looking over the house linen; but he will dawdle on—I know he will. What can he have to say?”

The Major was staring hard at Mrs Fortescue, but she soon perceived that though he was looking at her, he was not seeing her. He was, in fact, looking through her at something which considerably disturbed, excited, and delighted him.

“The Heathcotes have gone to London, have they not?” he said.

“Yes,” she replied at once. “My children have left me for the day; but they are coming back to-night—my Brenda and my Florence, as I call them—for they are to me, I assure you, Major Reid, just as though they were my very own children. For years I have given them a mother’s care, and—sweet girls!—they have repaid me amply.”

“They are fine girls, both of them,” said the Major.

“Fine!” said Mrs Fortescue. “I should scarcely express what the girls are by that word. Aristocratic—I should call them; more particularly Florence, and yet in some ways Brenda has a rare dignity of her own—like a sweet winter rose: that is what I call her; whereas Florence is like the passion-flower. Marvellous grace that child possesses! He certainly will be a happy man who secures her.”

“I am coming to that,” said Major Reid. “I am coming to that. I want to confide in you.”

Mrs Fortescue became intensely interested. She had not looked for a confidence in this visit of the Major’s; but now she saw by his red face and by the way his lips twitched that he had really come on special business.

“The fact is this,” he said. “That young dog of mine, Michael, has had the audacity to fall in love with your—well, your adopted child. He is madly in love with Florence, and I have an idea that she responds to his attachment. There; I have told you the truth. I thought it only right.”

“You will excuse me for a minute,” said Mrs Fortescue.

She got up abruptly and left the room. The moment she had done so, the Major sprang from his easy-chair, took hold of his stick, and began to pace about more energetically than ever.

“If that woman puts a spoke in Mike’s wheel, I shall hate her as long as I live!” he thought. “She is just the spiteful sort to do it. I shall have to be very wary when I talk to her.”

Meanwhile, Mrs Fortescue had really left the room to recover her self-control. But she was a woman, and could quickly achieve her object. She came back looking as calm as though the Major had not brought her any special information.

“You will, Major Reid, forgive me,” she said, “for having left you so suddenly, but your news startled me.”

“Naturally, quite naturally,” he answered.

He was clasping his stick between his two hands and leaning on it. His stick gave him a lot of support.

“Quite naturally,” he repeated.

“As my dear Florence’s mother—we will assume for the time being that I hold that position—you are quite right to tell me, Major Reid. But when—when did Michael give my dear girl to understand that he cared for her!”

“As far as I can make out, he has always cared for her,” said the Major; “but I don’t think he showed her any serious attention until Christmas Day. You must have noticed that they were a good deal together then.”

“Oh well—I naturally observed that your son was pleased to be with the prettiest girl in the room.”

“Quite so; most natural, most natural,” said the Major. “Well, yesterday they took a walk together, and then he told her that he—he loved her.”

“He ought to have spoken to me or to Mr Timmins.”

“I don’t agree with you, madam,” said the Major. “I think the person most concerned ought to be first talked to on so essential a matter. My boy is the very soul of honour. You know what a good family we belong to. The Reids of Ardnacarrick can hold up their heads with any one. It is true, I am only the younger son; but there is never any saying what my boy may inherit by and by. Anyhow, he is a good boy, a brave boy, a true soul. He spoke openly to the girl, and she—”

“Yes; that is the important part,” said Mrs Fortescue. “What did Florence say?”

“She was wonderfully careful, all things considered.”

“I have taught her that,” said Mrs Fortescue, drawing herself up. “I have taught her that of all qualities self-control is the most essential in the case of a woman.”

“She asked him,” continued the Major, “to give her a week to decide. She has gone to town to-day. Most probably she will tell her guardian.”

“Oh dear, oh dear!” said Mrs Fortescue. Then she added, the colour rushing into her cheeks: “Do you think it was quite fair of your son to try to entangle Florence before she met any other man?”

“Madam,” said Major Reid, “I must not permit such a word. You must excuse me if I ask you to recall it. The Reids of Ardnacarrick may very justly unite themselves with any family in England.”

“I am saying nothing against you, Major; nor indeed against your son. But Florence has only just left school: she is but eighteen years of age, and will be, I understand, exceedingly well off. She has also great beauty. My hope was that I could take a house in London during the spring and bring both girls out.”

“Yes!” said the Major, his face hot with indignation. “And marry Florence to some dissipated roué or some horrible American millionaire! My son is a gentleman, and surely,” he added, the anxiety in his face causing him to clutch his stick more violently than ever, “they will have money enough between them.”

“I do not know,” said Mrs Fortescue, “why you call it between them, when it happens to be entirely on one side.”

The Major was quite silent for a minute. He felt the indignity of his present position, and would have given a good deal to put himself outside Mrs Fortescue’s house at the present moment. But as he had come there with the express intention of finding out what Florence’s fortune would be, it seemed absurd to go away without doing so. Accordingly, he said, after a pause—

“My dear madam, we have known each other for years.”

“We have,” said Mrs Fortescue.

“And neither you nor I are to blame if the young people fall in love with each other.”

“That is certainly true,” said Mrs Fortescue. “I never encouraged it.”

“Oh!” said the Major. “Can you say that? You were always asking my boy over to play tennis or croquet with the girls during their holidays: in fact, he was always in and out of the house. He was the only young man you admitted into their society.”

“True—very true,” she said. “I did wrong; I did not think. I hope, Major, you won’t use this knowledge to my disadvantage.”

“By no means,” he replied. “I should be more than sorry to injure your position at the present moment: my entire desire, my one object is to be as friendly with you as possible. I have come to you at the first possible moment to tell you what I myself know—that the young people are much attracted each to the other, and that a marriage is likely to take place between them. It is impossible for either you or me to prevent such a union: indeed, we should be doing wrong were we to attempt it. It is best, therefore, for us to be friends in the matter. Two heads are better than one. Florence need never be ashamed of herself as Mrs Reid. As my daughter-in-law she will have a good position, and as my son’s wife she will be a truly happy woman. You can, of course, make yourself disagreeable at the present moment, but that will not prevent the marriage; for, after all, you were only paid to be good to the girls.”

Mrs Fortescue sprang indignantly to her feet. People never spoke directly about money at Langdale. No one ever before had alluded to the fact that she had made a nice harvest out of the girls. No one had been so ill-bred; but now it flashed across her mind that it was true: it also came over her that she had been envied amongst the most aristocratic members of society in Langdale, because of her chaperonage of Brenda and Florence Heathcote. Accordingly, she sank down again with a faint smile on her face.

“After all,” she said, her words coming out with a pause between each, “we had best, as you say, be friendly in the matter.”

“Yes; that is just what I think. I can help you if you can help me—”

“Won’t you stay and have lunch with me?” said Mrs Fortescue suddenly.

The Major loathed having lunch anywhere except at home, where he invariably ate a chop specially prepared, and drank a glass of old port. The present occasion was too serious, however, to make him consider either his chop or port.

“I shall be delighted to have lunch with you,” he said.

Mrs Fortescue thought of her cold mutton and the very sour claret which she usually had on the sideboard but never drank. Still, what did food matter? The moment was too important. She reflected with satisfaction that she had one or two bottles of champagne in her wine cellar. She would have one opened for the Major. He was fond of good champagne—that she knew. Afterwards he would talk to her; they would, as he expressed it, get to understand each other.

She left the room to give some directions with regard to lunch, and came back in a few minutes ready to listen to the Major. On purpose, she drew him into other channels of conversation, chatting lightly and agreeably about the girls and about other matters, even going to the length of asking his advice as to what port of town would be the best for her to take a house for the coming season.

Lunch, after all, was a poor affair, when it did arrive; but the Major gallantly ate his cold mutton and drank enough champagne to put him into good humour.

After the meal was over, they went into the drawing-room again, where excellent black coffee was served, and then the Major found courage to ask Mrs Fortescue that question which was burning on the top of his tongue.

“You know,” he said, “that my boy Michael could not possibly marry at present, deeply as he loves Florence, were she not an heiress.”

“I quite understand that,” said Mrs Fortescue.

“You, my dear madam, probably know something of what her expectations are. She is a very young girl, only eighteen, but there is no sense in her waiting to marry until she is twenty-one; for marriage, as a rule, has an equal effect with coming of age, as far as money is concerned. Can you give me the least idea what she is likely to inherit?”

“No; I can’t,” said Mrs Fortescue bluntly. “I have often and often tried to find out, but have never succeeded. My idea, however, is—seeing that the girls have been spared no expense whatever since the death of their parents, and knowing that their parents, during their lifetime, were very well off—that they will both be rich. I know that Mr Timmins has spent hundreds a year on their education, and as to the amount he has devoted to their dress, it has really amazed me, although it has been no affair of mine. Florence now possesses a set of sealskin which would delight any duchess in the land, and there was a little talk last year of giving her a similar set of chinchilla. She looks better in furs than her sister, who requires altogether a simpler style of dress. The girls travelled up to town first-class to-day and were met by Mr Timmins’ man—his confidential clerk: that I happen to know; but I have not the slightest idea whether Florence Heathcote’s fortune represents a pound a year, or two or three thousand.”

“Two or three thousand!” murmured the Major.

A greedy look came into his old eyes. He suddenly rose to his feet.

“I am very much obliged,” he said. “You have frankly told me all you know.”

“Most frankly; most unreservedly. You will regard our conversation as confidential?”

“Certainly: it would not be fair to mention it to anybody else until the week for which Florence has stipulated expires,” said the old man. “But now; let me assure you, that were the dear girl blessed with nothing at all in the way of money she would be equally precious both to my son and to me.”

“Oh, you old hypocrite!” murmured Mrs Fortescue under her breath, but she did not say the words aloud: people don’t in polite society.

The Major took his leave.

“Your champagne was excellent,” he said, as the widow saw him to the door. “You must let me know some day where you get it, and, of course, when the week is up and everything is comfortably arranged, you and Brenda and Florence will give us the pleasure of dining with us at the Moat.”

“Thank you so much, Major,” said Mrs Fortescue.

The Major walked down the street, murmuring to himself—

“Two or three thousand a year! It is true—it must be true. She has practically admitted it.”

He met his son, who was, in fact, waiting for him.

“Come for a walk, Mike,” said the old man. “Give me your arm, my boy. I have been busy over your affairs during the morning, and the fact is, that woman’s sweet champagne has got into my head. I can’t imagine how it is that women never know the difference between dry champagne and sweet. I shall have a bilious attack after this, as sure as fate.”

“Where in the world have you been, dad?” said the lieutenant, looking with apprehension at his father’s flushed face.

“Why, my boy,” said the Major, “I have been eating the most abominable lunch I ever tasted in the whole course of my life at Mrs Fortescue’s.”

“At Mrs Fortescue’s?” said the young man. “You surely have not been there about—about Florence and me!”

“Yes, I have, Mike, and you can’t blame me; and I have got the most satisfactory information for you. The girl’s income will run into thousands, my boy—yes, into thousands.” Now, of course, Lieutenant Reid was delighted to hear this, but he felt all the same annoyed at his father’s lack of circumspection in going to see Mrs Fortescue.

“The news will be all over the place,” he said. “That woman is the most inveterate gossip in Langdale. She will tell all her friends just what has happened, and if Flo chooses to give me up, you will be the one to blame.”

“Oh, she won’t give you up. She loves you dearly, my boy; and no other, no other,” said the Major. “I really congratulate you, Mike; and if there is any possible way in which I can help you at the present moment, you have but to command it. Some thousands a year! Three, four, five—I should not be the least surprised if it was five thousand a year. The girls have been brought up as if they might expect that income at the very least. You’re a lucky dog—a very lucky dog, Mike.”

Chapter Eight.

A Tempting Tea.

Mrs Fortescue’s morning had been so exciting that she really could not settle down at searching through her house linen for possible or impossible holes during the afternoon. It was her bounden duty to go to see the Arbuthnots. She ought to visit them after the delightful dinner they had given her on Christmas Day. Accordingly, putting on her most becoming dress, she started off between three and four o’clock in the direction of their house. She must meet the train which would bring her darlings back to her between six and seven, but during the intervening hours she might spend her time quite comfortably with Susie, chatting to her, of course—not on the subject, but on every possible subject which led towards it, approaching it, as it were, by every devious path within her knowledge.

Susie was upright, honest as the day. Mrs Fortescue was a crooked-minded woman; but very straight people are, as a rule, apt not to see the crookedness of their friends. Susie liked every one at Langdale, just as much as the Colonel liked them. She was heartily pleased to see her friend, and told her so, frankly. Susie was not wearing her grey barège, and the supporting silk lining could not therefore sustain her; but she was very neatly dressed in an old black serge which she had altered with her own clever fingers, and which fitted her plump form to perfection. Round her neck she were a neat linen collar, and had linen cuffs round her plump wrists. Her hands were ringless and very fat. Her face, always highly coloured, was a little redder than usual, because she had been taking advantage of the fine morning and spending it in the garden. She loved gardening, and there was not a day, either summed or winter, which did not give her something to do in her favourite employment.

“Now,” she said, when she saw Mrs Fortescue; “this is good! You have come to tea, of course. I will order some hot cakes. They can be made in a twinkling. I have desired cook to do them from a new recipe which I happened to cut out of a penny paper last week. How nice you look, Mrs Fortescue! and how are the darling girls? What a decided beauty Florence is turning into!”

“Of course you know,” said Mrs Fortescue, throwing meaning into her tone, “that both girls went to London this morning to spend the day with their guardian and lawyer, Mr Timmins, of Pye’s Court.”

“No, I didn’t know it,” said Susie. Then she added, seeing that something was expected of her: “Did they go alone?”

“Well, they went together first-class, and were met at the station by Mr Timmins’ confidential clerk. They are coming back to night.”

“Dear children!” said Susie, in her sweet voice. “I am so fond of them both.”

“And they are fond of you, Susie.”

“I wonder what they will do in the future,” said Susie. “Is it really true that they have left school?”

“Yes, it is quite true,” said Mrs Fortescue. “I am sorry,” answered Susie.

“Sorry? What do you mean? Florence is eighteen and Brenda nineteen.”

“Yes,” said Susie; “but one only begins to appreciate school at that age. Before, one is too young and lessons seem a useless drudgery. One’s mind is not big enough or broad enough to take in the advantages of learning. It is a great, great pity that Mr Timmins does not give them two more years at Newnham or Girton or some such place.”

“Oh, my dear?” said Mrs Fortescue, throwing up her hands. “How can you say anything so horrible! Newnham or Girton! They would be simply ruined; and men do so hate learned women.”

“Do they?” said Susie. She paused reflectively. “I have known one or two,” she said, after a pause, “whom men have loved very much. I don’t think it is the learning part that men hate; it is something else which now and then the learned woman possesses. Perhaps it is pride in her own attainments. Surely no sensible man can dislike a woman for knowing things.”

“They do—they all do,” said Mrs Fortescue. “My dear late lamented did. He told me he could not even have looked at me if I had had a smattering of Latin or Greek; and I have heard many other men say the same.”

“Then they must be quite worthless,” said Susie, “and we needn’t bother about them. Ah! and here comes the tea. Put it here, please, Peters.”

The servant arranged the very tempting tea on a little table, and Susie stood up to perform her duties as hostess. She was certainly remarkably plain, but, somehow, no one ever thought her plain when they looked at her, for goodness shone out of her eyes and seemed to radiate from her stout little person. Mrs Fortescue was quite ready to do justice to the excellent tea, the rich cream, the plum cake, and that new recipe for hot cakes which Susie’s cook had so successfully carried out and which resulted in such appetising, melting morsels, that the good woman was consoled for the loss of one of her few bottles of champagne, and for the fact that she knew very well that Major Reid had hated his lunch.

“Do you know,” she said, as she finished her meal, “that I never enjoy my tea anywhere as I do here. Besides, I had a hot lunch to-day. Who do you think came and had lunch with me?”

“How can I guess?” said Susie. “I suppose you were all alone, as the girls were in London.”

“No: I was not alone. I had a visitor—a man.”

“A man?” said Susie, opening her round eyes.

“Yes; no less a person than Major Reid. Now, what do you think of that?”

“Oh; I like him very much,” said Susie.

“Do you, now? I wonder why?”

“Why,” said Susie, “because I think he is nice. He is very poor, of course, but he makes the best of his poverty, and he is very intelligent and fond of reading.”

“Perhaps you like Michael too,” said Mrs Fortescue.

“I am exceedingly fond of Michael,” said Susie. “He is a dear boy.”

“A boy?” said Mrs Fortescue. “Do you call him that? He is a man; he is twenty-four.”

“I call twenty-four quite a boy,” answered Susie. “Mike is a great friend of mine: we have always been chums, and always will be, for that matter.”

Mrs Fortescue sat quite still. She longed to add something further; but Susie sat smiling to herself, for she remembered Michael’s request that he might take Florence into dinner on Christmas night, and she also remembered the fact that he had walked through the snow and slush in order to secure his heart’s desire. It would in Susie’s eyes be a delightful match if Mike and Florence married. But she was not going to speak of it. Mrs Fortescue’s small black eyes sparkled.

“Well, well,” she said; “we all have our tastes. I will own that in a place like Langdale one is apt to appreciate any fairly good-looking young man. But out in the great world where one meets them in shoals—simply in shoals—a person like Michael Reid would not have much chance.”

“Do you think so?” said Susie very quietly. “I am sorry for the great world, then.”

“You know nothing about it, Susie.”

“That is true,” answered Susie, who might have retorted, “No more do you,” but it was not her habit ever to say anything unkind.

“Well,” said Mrs Fortescue, “I suppose I must be going. I have to meet the dear girls, and they will have lots to tell me. In all probability, Susie, I shall be leaving Langdale myself this spring, for no doubt Mr Timmins will wish me to undertake the chaperonage of my two sweet girls until they marry. I look to their both making great matches, with their wealth and good looks; for they are both good-looking. They ought to do exceedingly well in the marriage market.”

“If you mean by that,” said Susie, the colour rushing into her face, “that they will marry men worthy of them—I mean good in the best sense of the word—good, and true and brave, then I trust they will. But if you mean anything else, Mrs Fortescue; if you mean men who will seek them for their wealth—for I presume they are rich, although really I know nothing about it, and what is more, I don’t care—then I sincerely trust they won’t marry that sort of man.”

“Oh,” said Mrs Fortescue, “you don’t understand—you don’t care whether they are rich or not—”

“Not one scrap,” said Susie. “How can riches add to the brightness of Florence’s eyes or the affection of Brenda’s manner? But if riches make them a little more comfortable, I hope they will have sufficient, though we don’t require much money, do we, Mrs Fortescue? I know that is not what the world would call rich,” (Mrs Fortescue hated Susie for making this remark) “and most certainly father and I are not. We just contrive and contrive, and always have enough for a jolly Christmas dinner when we can really entertain our friends. I don’t believe any two people in all the world are happier than my darling dad and myself, and it doesn’t come from riches, for we have to be very careful. Oh, no; rich people are not the happiest, I do assure you on that point.”

Mrs Fortescue could not help saying, “I do not agree with you, Susie,” and she could not help giving a contemptuous glance at the old-fashioned, very plump little figure with the red face and honest round eyes. But having eaten as much as she could of Susie’s very excellent food, and found it quite impossible to draw Susie Arbuthnot into any conversation of what she considered a truly interesting nature, she left the house and amused herself doing some shopping until it was time to go to the railway station to meet the girls.

There Florence alone confronted her—Florence, with a white and anxious face, although all trace of that fit of weeping which had overcome her when she parted from Brenda had disappeared from her features.

“Why, Flo—Flo, darling! Where is your sister? Where is my Brenda?”

“Brenda is staying for a few days with Lady Marian Dixie.”

“But I knew nothing of this. She did not take up any clothes.”

“We are to send her some. Mr Timmins has sent his clerk down with me, and he is coming back to the house with us now in order that I may pack some of Brenda’s things and send them to town by him. If we are quick we shall catch the half-past seven train, and she will get what things she most requires by to-night.”

“I have a cab waiting for you, my love. This is very unexpected. Did you say Lady Marian Dixie?”

“Yes,” said Florence; “an old friend of my mother’s.”

“Well, you will have a great deal to tell me,” said Mrs Fortescue; “and how very tired you look, dear.”

“I am not specially tired, but I should like to get home as fast as possible in order to give Andrews a trunk full of clothes to take back to Brenda.”

“Oh, surely Brenda won’t be away so long as that.”

Florence made no reply. She motioned to Andrews to get on the box beside the driver, and they returned to Mrs Fortescue’s house almost in silence. Mrs Fortescue felt that something had happened, but did not dare to inquire. She kept repeating to herself at intervals during their drive back—

“Lady Marian Dixie—a friend of the girls’ mother! It sounds very nice; still, it is queer. Surely, surely Mr Timmins could not be so mad as to allow Lady Marian to conduct the girls about in London society! It would be too cruel to me, after all I have done for them.”

When they reached the house, the cabman was desired to wait. Florence ran up to their room and, with Mrs Fortescue’s help, filled a trunk with Brenda’s smartest things. Mrs Fortescue talked all the time, but Florence was almost silent. The trunk was speedily packed, and the old clerk took it back to London with him.

Then the two ladies, the old and the young, went into the drawing-room and faced each other.

Chapter Nine.

Mrs Fortescue Seeks Enlightenment.

“Now, Florence,” said Mrs Fortescue, “I suppose you have got something to tell me.”

“I have,” answered Florence. She spoke almost flippantly. “I am very, very hungry. I hope you have a nice dinner, a specially nice dinner for us both to enjoy together to-night, Mrs Fortescue.”

“I have got a duck,” said Mrs Fortescue; “and ducks at present are exceedingly expensive; but I never think of expense when I am providing luxuries for you and your dear sister. You deserve all the good things of life, my darlings, and I trust they will fall to your portion. Nevertheless, I think, I do think you might have confided in me.”

Florence coloured and then turned pale. She wondered if anyone had, in some miraculous way, become acquainted with the fact of their own great poverty; but no, the whole thing seemed impossible. Florence herself had been careful not to breathe a word on the subject, and she was pretty sure that Brenda had not done so. What, therefore, could Mrs Fortescue mean? As to the other matter—that which related to Lieutenant Reid, it is sad to have to confess that Florence, for the time being, had forgotten the gallant lieutenant.

“I am hungry!” she said; “and I would rather talk to you after dinner than before: that is, if you don’t mind.”

“I don’t mind at all, dearest,” said Mrs Fortescue. “You would like to go upstairs and change your travelling dress. I will send Bridget in to help you.”

“Thank you,” said Florence.

She was about to refuse this offer, but suddenly remembered that all her dresses fastened behind, and that she could not manage this part of her toilet now that Brenda was away. She ran upstairs at once, locked her door and flung herself on her knees by her bedside. There she uttered a strangled sort of prayer to God to give her help; but she had not been more than a minute on her knees before Bridget’s knock was heard. Florence went to the door and opened it.

Bridget was always respectful to the Misses Heathcote, for they were liberal with their tips and were, she considered, exceedingly nice, lively young ladies, who made the house pleasant and enabled her to stay on with Mrs Fortescue. She would long ago have left that good lady but for the fact that the Misses Heathcote came to Langdale in the holidays, and made the place bright and cheerful, and caused her mistress to provide the best food, and, in short, to give every one in the house a good time all round.

“I have come to help you, miss,” said Bridget now. “You will be that lonely without dear Miss Brenda. We none of us knew she was going to stay in town when you both left this morning.”

“Oh, it’s all right, Biddie dear,” said Florence. “Brenda had to stay: I don’t want to talk too much about it, for it makes me so very sad.”

“Then it ain’t all right, if it makes you sad,” said Bridget.

“We have all of us to bear pain in our turn, haven’t we?” said Florence, looking full at the elderly servant with her bright eyes.

“I suppose so,” said Bridget, who felt interested in this talk and inclined to concur. “My poor mother, who died a very lingering and painful death, always said that pain was the will of Providence. I couldn’t see it, miss; but I suppose she was right.”

“Yes, Bridget,” said Florence; “she was quite right. Please fasten me into my white dress—this one, please. Thank you so very much.”

“We have had quite an entertaining day,” said Bridget. “You wouldn’t believe it—but we had company to lunch.”

“Company?” said Florence, in some astonishment. “What do you mean?”

“No less a person than Major Reid.” Florence felt herself colouring violently.

“He came comparatively early,” continued Bridget, “and had a long talk with my missis, and afterwards stayed to lunch. I can’t say there was much for lunch—only the mutton bone and some fried potatoes; but my missis got up a bottle of champagne from the wine cellar, and the Major drank three or four glasses. He was very friendly indeed with my missis, and seemed a good bit excited—indeed, they both were.”

Florence longed to ask more questions, but refrained, and after a time, Bridget left the room. Then the girl stood with her hands clasped together gazing straight before her into the long mirror which was fastened to the wall. She saw a very charming reflection there. The form of a girl, with the extreme grace of youth and altogether well made, stood upright before her. She saw sparkling eyes, and a wealth of hair and delicate colour on the softly rounded cheeks. She knew that she was looking at herself, and it occurred to her all of a sudden that there was no wonder at all that Michael Reid should love her just for herself and not in the very least for her gold. Was not her face her fortune? She now felt quite gay and happy. She forgot her loneliness with regard to her sister and ran downstairs humming a gay song.

Dinner was announced almost immediately, and the two ladies went into the dining-room and partook of it. Florence was really hungry and enjoyed the carefully prepared meal. Mrs Fortescue watched her as she ate. At last the dinner came to an end and they both retired to the drawing-room.

“Now,” said Mrs Fortescue, the moment the door had closed behind the two, “I must ask you, Florence, to enlighten me. There is a great deal you ought to tell me. I have been kept in the dark too long. What arrangements has Mr Timmins arrived at with regard to your future?”

“He said he would write to you. I expect you will hear from him in the morning.”

“But you can tell me, darling: I need not be kept on tenter-hooks until the morning.”

“I would much, much rather he told you himself,” said Florence, moving restlessly in her choir.

“But why, dearest? Did he ask you not to tell me?”

“He did not exactly do that; but he said he would write. From his whole tone I know he expects me to say nothing until you hear from him.”

Then Florence got up. She approached Mrs Fortescue’s side, and bending down, kissed the good lady on her forehead.

“You have been very, very kind to Brenda and me,” she said; “and we will never forget it, never.”

“I trust indeed you won’t, my dear,” said Mrs Fortescue. “It is my wish to continue my kindness to you both. And now, Florence, I have something to say to you on my own account. A little bird has told me a secret with regard to you. Of course, dear—with regard to Mr Timmins, he must please himself as to whether he chooses to let me know what our future plans are to be, although I maintain that if I am kept much longer in the dark, I shall think he is not treating me fairly. But as to you and your dear sister—you, at least are different. Florence, I did not think, I could not imagine that you would have a love affair—you, such a child as you are too! and keep it dark from me.”

Florence found herself blushing very hotly.

“Who told you that I had a love affair?” she said.

“My dear Florence, there is not the least manner of use in your hiding the matter from me any longer. We at Langdale know each other so well that we are, in fact, like one big family. What affects one affects all. The sorrows of one try the hearts of all the others. The joys of one equally rejoice the hearts of all the others. In your happiness, my darling, the rest of us rejoice. It was Major Reid who told me; he came himself to-day to speak of his son’s attachment to you. He was delighted himself; he has a great, great affection and a deep admiration for you, Florence; and I—I also think Michael an excellent young man.”

“Oh—do you?” said Florence. “Do you, really?”

She had meant to go back to her seat at the opposite side of the hearth, but instead of doing this, she now dropped on her knees close to Mrs Fortescue. She had never felt so near that good lady before—so drawn to her, so part of her: in fact, the one comfort at present in her desolate position was the knowledge of Michael’s love. She must, of course, not mention her own great poverty, but she could at least listen to what Mrs Fortescue had to say about him.

“I don’t mind your knowing at all,” she said. “I felt shy about speaking to you, but as the Major has called, it makes all the difference. And he is not angry—really? You are quite, quite sure?”

“Sure? my dear child. I am certain the Major is delighted, Florence. He loves you as a daughter. But now, take this little chair close to me and tell me all you have to say.”

Florence found that she had not a great deal to say. There was something about Mrs Fortescue which seemed to shut her up. The first dawning of that young love which had awakened in her heart did not respond to the touch of the eager, selfish, worldly woman. Of course she did love—yes, she was certain now she loved Michael; but she hated talking about him. She would rather put him in the background, and when Mrs Fortescue—instead of answering her many questions with regard to the young man’s youth, his early history, his dead mother, his father when he was young, and those various things about his early life which Mrs Fortescue knew and Florence did not—preferred to talk about the girl’s own future, the way Michael and she would live (as Michael would probably leave the Army), and how nice it would be to settle in Langdale, Florence found a wall of separation rising up between herself and her quondam friend. She pleaded fatigue at last, and went to her room, where she spent a great part of the night in secret tears. For, notwithstanding the fact that the Major had visited Mrs Fortescue, and that Michael himself had told Florence that he would love her just the same if she were as poor as a church mouse, Florence felt certain that neither the Major nor Mrs Fortescue thought of her as a desirable wife for the young man except as a rich heiress.