L.T. Meade (continued 3)

“Well,” she said to herself finally, as she turned on her pillow for the fifth time, “if, after hearing everything, he cares for me, I will stick to him and work hard to save a little money until we can marry; but if he doesn’t—oh, oh—”

Florence would not allow herself even to finish the latter thought which came into her mind.

Chapter Ten.

“As Poor as a Church Mouse.”

On the following morning, Mrs Fortescue received her promised letter from Mr Timmins. He sat down to write it almost immediately he had seen Florence off by the train, and it arrived by first post the next day. Mrs Fortescue was in the habit of having her letters brought up to her bedroom, where she used to read them, luxuriously sipping her tea and eating her thin bread and butter the while.

Florence was sound asleep in bed while Mrs Fortescue was reading the most startling information she had perhaps ever got in the course of her life. Mr Timmins’ letter ran as follows—

“My dear Madam,— “I do not know whether the contents of this letter will surprise you, but, after all, they need scarcely do so, for I have never for a single moment given you to understand that you would have anything further to do with the Misses Heathcote after the period devoted to their education was over. That time has now been reached, and the sum of money left by their late father for their education has been expended in strict accordance with his directions. “I have been happy enough to find a suitable home for the next three months for dear Brenda Heathcote, who will stay with my friend, Lady Marian Dixie, in London. Florence is at liberty to join her sister there whenever she wishes to do so. But from what I heard yesterday I rather gather that she may have inducements to remain on at Langdale for a short time. I am the last person in the world to interfere with any young girl’s predilections, provided they are in themselves innocent and suitable, and from what Brenda has mentioned to me, the man who has given his heart to Florence appears to be worthy of her. He will certainly be submitted to as severe a test as can be given to any man; but if he is worthy, he will not, I am sure, regret the noble and true wife that such a beautiful and good girl as Florence Heathcote will make him. If, on the other hand, he is unworthy of her, the sooner he shows himself in his true character, the better. As you probably know of this affair, I need not allude to it further. But what I have now to say to you is that your guardianship of my wards comes to an end on the twentieth of January. Until that date, I should be glad if you would keep Florence with you, and I will, of course, pay you in full for the maintenance of both girls, as Brenda’s leaving you at an earlier date was an unforeseen coincidence over which you had no control. “You will receive your cheque weekly as heretofore, and if you have been in any way obliged to go to additional expense for the girls, pray add it to your account. “Thanking you for all you have done for them in the past,— “I am, yours faithfully,— “James Timmins.”

Mrs Fortescue read this letter the first time in great bewilderment of mind. She did not in the least take it in. She had, in short, to read it from three to four times before its contents were in the least made clear to her. Even then she felt, as she expressed it, all in a muddle. She was also in a great rage, and considered herself most badly treated. The fact of the girls’ being poor did not once enter into her calculations. She only thought of herself. She, who had worked and slaved for these two young girls for long and anxious years, was to have nothing whatever to do with their future. They were to be handed over to nobody knew who. Brenda had already been taken from her. She was living with a rich woman—a person of title, who was doubtless paid an extravagant sum for her support. Florence might marry Michael Reid if she pleased. Where was she, Mrs Fortescue, to come in? She was left out of everything!

The angry woman was too indignant to finish her dressing. She hastily smoothed her hair, put on a becoming dressing-gown, and, with the open letter in her hand, went straight to Florence’s room. She gave a peremptory knock at the door and, when the girl said “Come in,” entered without ceremony.

“Mr Timmins’ letter has arrived, Florence. I must say that I consider both you and your sister have treated me shamefully—shamefully!”

Florence, who was half way through her toilet, and looked very sweet and pretty with her rich hair hanging about her neck and shoulders, and in a neat white embroidered dressing-gown, sank into a choir and looked full at Mrs Fortescue.

“I thought you would be sorry,” she said; “but I don’t think, after all, you are as much to be pitied as we are.”

“Now what in the world do you mean by that?”

“Why, didn’t he tell you?” said Florence. “You said you had heard from him.”

“Yes; I have. You are to stay with me till the twentieth of January, and then I have nothing further to do with you.”

“But surely, surely,” said Florence; “you would not wish to have anything to do with me after then, would you?”

“What in the world do you mean?” Florence coloured.

“I see he has not told you,” she said. “He ought to. It was not right of him to leave it to me. But I will tell you: I don’t really mind.”

“Oh—do speak out, child! You keep me so frightfully in suspense I can scarcely endure myself.”

“Well,” said Florence, “you would not care to keep us for nothing, would you?”

“Nothing! nothing! What does the girl mean? Why, surely you are rich? I gave Major Reid to understand yesterday that your yearly income must run into four figures. We were divided as to the amount, but I thought fifteen hundred a year each. Florence, what are you alluding to?”

Florence turned very white.

“It is awful only to be cared for because one has money,” she said. “Well, there is one person who cares for me quite independently of that. And now I will tell you the truth. I have not any money—that is, I have a few pounds. Mr Timmins gave me ten pounds yesterday, and I shall have a few more pounds before all our affairs are wound up, but something quite inconsiderable. I am as poor as a church mouse, and so is Brenda. Our money was spent on our education. Now it is finished, all used up. We are penniless. Now—now—you know all about us.”

Florence stood up as she spoke and extended her arms wide as though to emphasise her own words.

“We are penniless,” she repeated. “Now you know.”

Mrs Fortescue was absolutely silent for a minute. Then she uttered a violent ejaculation and, turning round on her heel, left the room. She slammed—absolutely slammed the door after her. Florence sat very still after she had gone.

“She would like me to leave at once,” thought the girl. “But Michael—dear Michael: he at least will be true to his word. Oh, what am I to do! I hate beyond everything in the world staying here—staying on with her when she can look at me like that. Is it my fault that I am poor! I think that I am very cruelly treated.”

Tears rushed to her eyes. She stayed for a time in her room, then finished her dressing. She went downstairs to breakfast. To her surprise Mrs Fortescue was not in the room. After a moment’s hesitation, she rang the bell. Bridget appeared.

“What is it, missie?” she asked.

“I want my breakfast, please,” said Florence.

“My missis sent to tell you that there were no fresh eggs in the house, so that perhaps you would do with the cold ham. I don’t see why fresh eggs should not be bought for you, but those were her orders, I’ll make you some new coffee, nice and strong, and bring it in, in a few minutes.”

Florence laughed. Her laughter was almost satirical. In a short time, Bridget came in with the coffee and a bone of ham which had been cut very bare.

“I can’t make out,” said Bridget, “what is the matter with my missis. I never saw anybody in such a raging temper.”

“But where is she?” asked Florence.

“Oh, gone out, my dear—gone out. She has been out nearly an hour.”

“Did she eat any breakfast?” asked Florence.

“That she did—the eggs that were meant for you, too; for you know she never takes eggs in the winter; she considers them too dear. But she ate your eggs this morning, and said that you might do with the ham bone.”

“Thank you,” said Florence.

She carved a few slices from the bone, then looked up at the old servant with a smile.

“It is such a relief,” she said, “not to conceal things any longer. I will tell you, Bridget. I wonder if you are going to be just as horrid to me as Mrs Fortescue.”

Bridget stood stock still staring at the girl.

“The fact is,” said Florence, “Brenda and I haven’t got any money. We’re not heiresses at all. We are just very poor girls who have to earn our own living. We have nothing to live on—nothing at all. I expect if all were known, you have more money at the present moment than I have, Bridget. I shouldn’t be a scrap surprised if you had.”

Bridget stared open-mouthed.

“You poor thing!” she said, after a pause. “You ain’t a bit fit to earn your own living.”

“No; I am not,” said Florence; but here a ghost of a smile crossed her face.

Bridget after a time went out of the room. Florence did not feel at all inclined to eat the dry ham and stale bread, which were all that was left for her breakfast. She had a certain sense of the great injustice of being treated in this manner; for was not Mr Timmins paying Mrs Fortescue just as much for her support as though she and her sister were both living with the good lady?

After a time, she got up and left the dining-room. Things were very dreary. It was so strange of Mrs Fortescue to go out. Mrs Fortescue had always fussed a good deal about the girls, and had made their arrangements for the day her first consideration. Now she did not seem to think Florence of the slightest importance, and had gone away without alluding to her. She had not come back either. Florence felt restless. She wanted to go and see Susie Arbuthnot, but thought it was too early. She left the room, however, prepared to put on her outdoor things. She would have liked it if Michael had called. Now was the opportunity for Michael to show his devotion, to assure her of the great truth of his own words; then if she were as poor as a church mouse, she would still be all the world to him.

But Michael did not come. Florence ran up to her room. She put on her hat and jacket. They were just as becoming as yesterday, and her young face looked just as pretty—prettier, indeed; for sorrow had brought out fresh charms and had added to her loveliness. Her eyes, always bright and capable of varying expressions, were now filled with intense pathos.

She had just run downstairs, and was crossing the hall, when she saw Mrs Fortescue come in. To her relief, she perceived that this good woman was accompanied by Susie Arbuthnot.

“Oh Florence—dear!” said Susie.

She went straight up to the girl, folded her arms round her and kissed her.

“I have a proposal to make to you,” she continued, “and if it is agreeable, we will carry it out at once. I don’t think Mrs Fortescue will object, will you, Mrs Fortescue?”

“Well, really!” said Mrs Fortescue; “I don’t think that my wishes are worth consulting. I am of no importance—no importance whatever. But all I insist upon is that until the twentieth of the month I receive the ten guineas a week which Mr Timmins owes for you and your sister. You are welcome to stay at my house, or to do what Susie Arbuthnot—who is quite extraordinary and unlike other people—proposes. But I will have my ten guineas a week, or I go to law with Mr Timmins. I will at least have that much money at my disposal.”

“What do you want me to do, Susie?” said Florence, with that new-born dignity which suited her so very well, and with that wonderful, new pathos in her eyes which made her look altogether lovely.

“I want you to do this,” said Susie; “to come straight back with me to the Grange. Neither father nor I want ten guineas, nor one penny a week, and you are to stay as long as ever you like. I want you to come now. Why, Flo, it is you I love just for yourself, not because you are an heiress. As a rule, I hate heiresses—not that I have met many.”

“Nor have I,” said Mrs Fortescue, with a snap. “They are mostly creatures of imagination. They don’t exist outside story-books. Well, Florence, say what you will do. Of course you can stay here if you wish; I want you clearly to understand that I don’t turn you out.”

“Of course you don’t,” said Florence; “and I know that you will get your money in full. I’ll see to that. But I should love to go with you, Susie; and—may I go at once?”

“Indeed you may, darling. I have come for you,” said Susie Arbuthnot.

“Who will pack her things?” said Mrs Fortescue. “Bridget has no time to spare; when a woman is as poor as I am and has only one servant, she can’t have that servant’s time being given up doing odds and ends for penniless girls. Penniless girls ought to understand how to manage their own affaire; otherwise, they are no use in the world.”

“Hush!” said Susie, in so stern a voice that Mrs Fortescue turned and looked at her in some amazement. “You will be sorry another time that you spoke like this. Come upstairs with me, Florence; we will soon put your things into their trunks, and then we can drive to the Grange. I will order a fly.”

“I can pay for it, you know, Susie,” said poor Florence. “I have plenty of money, plenty, until the twentieth of January—”

“And after that, nothing—nothing at all,” said Mrs Fortescue. “Did ever any one before in all the world hear of such improvidence—girls who have had hundreds a year spent on them to be brought down to nothing! Oh, I have been shamefully deceived! But you’ll rue it—both of you. Yes, you will. That sister of yours, Florence, is just as improvident as you are, and has just as little power of making herself useful to any one. This fine woman. Lady Marian Dixie, will soon discover her uselessness. But go upstairs, my dear, do. I shall be very glad to have your room. I cannot afford, however, to give you any of Bridget’s valuable time.”

Florence ran upstairs as if in a dream. Susie accompanied her.

“Don’t fret, Florence,” she said, when they entered the pretty bedroom. “She is a very hardened, money-loving woman, and you have managed to disappoint her; but she will get over this, of course.”

“And you are not disappointed?” said Florence.

“Oh no, darling,” said Susie with a smile. “I never in the very least cared about your money. It was you I loved, and you are not changed.”

Here she took the bright girl’s face between both her hands and kissed her on her lips.

“Oh, Florence!” she said. “Talk of you as penniless—you, with those eyes, that youth, that beauty and that true heart! Florence, darling; you are rich in great possessions!”

“I think I am,” said Florence, joyfully, “now that I have found a friend. Oh yes,” she added, “I am sure I am.”

It took but a short time to pack the different articles of Florence’s wardrobe into the neat trunks which were waiting to receive them. Susie herself went out to fetch a cab, and before lunch time Florence was installed at the Grange. The Colonel was delighted to see her, and received her with the same graceful old-fashioned courtesy he had done on Christmas Day. This was perhaps, if anything, slightly accentuated. He did not once allude to the subject of money, nor did he express any commiseration for Florence’s poverty. On the contrary, he expected her to be in an excellent humour, and took her about the garden showing her his favourite plants, and pointing out different mysterious little plots of ground which would, as he expressed it, “blossom like the rose” when the spring arrived.

“Ah,” he said, “it is a great mystery—a very, very great mystery, that of death and resurrection. All the seeds in the ground down there are apparently dead, and there is nothing as far as we can tell to call them into life again. Frost night after night, snow on the ground, biting cold rains, no growth, no movement—and yet the germ is safe within, folded in each of the little seeds; and when the right moment comes, it will begin to fructify, and there will come out the little tender plants—just the merest little shoots at first—which will grow together day by day; and then there will come the hardy plant, and then the bud, and then the blossom, and then again the seed; and that same must die in order to bring forth fresh life. It is all lovely and all true and like our own life, isn’t it, Florence?”

“Yes,” said Florence; “it does seem so.”

“You are lonely without your sister, my dear.”

“I am rather lonely,” said Florence. But it was not the thought of Brenda which was depressing her. She had got over her separation from her sister for the time being: besides, they could meet, and would meet, at any time. She was expecting Michael Reid and wondering if he would look in at the Arbuthnots’. So far he had not come, nor had his name been alluded to.

While Florence and the old Colonel were pottering about the garden, out came Susie with her red and yet sunshiny face.

“Now,” she said, “you two have talked long enough, and I want Florence. Florence, we are going to do a lot of preserving this afternoon. I mean to make more marmalade than I have ever made before, and it is a tremendous business; but I have managed to get a hundred Seville oranges at quite a moderate price at Johnson’s. We’ll begin our preparations as soon as ever lunch is over. But now it is on the table; so do come in, good folks, both of you, and eat.”

“I should like to help with the marmalade too,” said the Colonel.

Susie laughed.

“Oh no, you won’t,” she said. “You did last year, don’t you remember? and nobody would eat the Colonel’s marmalade. Each jar had to be marked ‘Colonel Arbuthnot’ on account of the thickness of the rinds. You had it all to yourself, and I think you are about sick of it.”

“But I’ll do better this time; I really will, Susie,” said the poor Colonel.

“Oh, it does seem so very silly to cut up that beautiful rind so thick; it isn’t men’s work,” said Susie, “and that’s the truth; but it’s meant for women like Florence and me. If Flo cuts the rinds thick, she will feel the full impetus of my wrath. You go into the library and get your books in order, father. I dare say Flo and I will come in and read to you presently; but between lunch and tea-time we are going to be busy over our marmalade, and we don’t want you hovering round.”

“There, there!” said the Colonel, “there, there! What is the good of an old man who is always in the way?”

“Things are being done for him all the time,” said Susie. “Now, how do you like that curry, sir? Let me tell you that I made it myself.”

“It is delicious, my dear,” said the Colonel. “I could almost fancy myself back in Bengal. It has got the true oriental flavour. Where did you discover that knack of blending the ingredients so that you don’t get one flavour over and above the others? Really—this curry is a chef-d’oeuvre. Try some, won’t you, Florence?”

But Florence declared that she could not eat curry with the true eastern flavour and preferred some cold mutton, which Susie out for her with right good-will.

“I like your food,” she said. “It is so good and wholesome. I hate messy things. Mrs Fortescue was always making things up for us, imagining that we could not eat plain things.”

“You will get very plain things here,” said Susie. “It’s only father who has to be petted and fussed over. But then he is worth it—he is such an old dear,” and she looked at him with her honest eyes beaming with affection.

When the meal had come to an end, Florence and Susie were immediately supplied with two large linen aprons, and the work of making marmalade began. For a time, Florence pretended to enjoy it, then her knife slackened, and Susie shouted to her that her pieces of orange peel were almost if not quite worthy of the Colonel’s own.

“I am not going to have it,” she said. “We can only manage to live comfortably by never wasting anything, and if you can’t cut the oranges better than that, you had better stop.”

“Oh, Susie, I am sorry! I will be good.” Florence made a violent effort to do better, but ended in cutting her finger, and then Susie had to spend a long time in binding up the wound and pitying the sufferer.

“You are not a bit yourself to-day,” she said. “What is the matter with you?”

“Well, I don’t know,” said Florence. “I am both happy and unhappy.”

“I shouldn’t have thought,” said Susie gravely, “that you were a bit the sort of girl to care whether you had money or not.”

“I shouldn’t mind in the least,” answered Florence, “only that it seems to make such a wonderful difference with people. Mrs Fortescue has turned out so horribly nasty.”

“Oh no,” said Susie. “She is quite natural; she will be all right in a day or two, and as affectionate to you as ever. She is a little disappointed, that is all. She takes her disappointments badly: some people do.”

“But you, Susie—you and your father—you are so sweet.”

“Well, dear,” said Susie, “I do trust that our sweetness does not depend on the fact that you and Brenda are entitled to so many hundreds a year. I have always been fond of you just for your two selves and for nothing else.”

“There is one thing that makes me a little anxious,” said Florence; “but, of course, it is all right—of course it is.”

“What is it, darling?” asked Susie. “You may as well out with it, for I can see plainly that you are harbouring a very uncomfortable and anxious thought in your heart.”

“Well,” said Florence, “it is this way. I am thinking about Michael. I am wondering if—if he will mind.”

“Do you mean Michael Reid?”

“Yes.”

Susie was silent, but she laid down the sharp knife with which she had been cutting her orange peel and looked full at the girl.

“What do you think yourself, Florence?”

“I think this,” said Florence. “I think that if I doubt him I am about the most unworthy, the most cowardly girl in all God’s world. For when he told me—oh yes, Susie, he did tell me—for when he told me so plainly that he loved me, he said it was for myself, and that if I were as poor as a church mouse, he would love me just, just the same.”

“Then, of course, it is all right,” said Susie. She spoke cheerfully.

“Yes; of course it must be all right,” said Florence; “but I knew at the time that I was poor, although I was not allowed to say a word about it. Mr Timmins had given us such explicit directions, and Brenda and I felt ourselves in quite a false position. So I told him I would not give him his answer for a week. I shall probably know nothing about him for at least a week.”

“Probably not,” said Susie. “And now, let me give you a word of advice. I have known Michael since he was a boy. He is a good fellow, as young men go; but he has plenty of faults—”

“Oh no—I am sure he hasn’t.”

“He has,” said Susie. “Every one has. You have, and I have, and even daddy has—particularly when it comes to cutting the orange peel. But now, I will tell you what I feel. If Michael finds when he is put to the test that he doesn’t care for you, although you are as poor as a church mouse, you are very well rid of him; and if he does care for you, he is worth waiting for.”

“Yes, yes,” said Florence; “that is what I think. And oh, Susie, I mean to work so hard just to help to earn money for him.”

“You poor little thing!” said Susie. “I wonder how you will earn money.”

“I don’t know; but there must be lots of ways. A girl can’t be given hands, and arms, and legs, and a brain, and a head all for nothing.”

“A great many are, it seems to me,” said Susie, with a sigh. “But there—we have cut enough orange peel for to-day. We must go and get tea for daddy. Come with me into the kitchen, and I will complete your education by teaching you how to make a proper tea-cake.”

Chapter Eleven.

Rich in Love.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Florence had been told the mystery of the bone dinner.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Well, Florence,” he said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Florence looked at him half shyly.

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

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

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

“What?” said the Colonel.

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

The Colonel looked rather uneasy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter Twelve.

Tried and Found Wanting.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How is my Florence?” she repeated.

“Florence Heathcote is well, thank you.”

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

“To what?” asked the Colonel.

His tone slightly startled Mrs Fortescue.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Of course I will answer it.”

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

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

“I—” she began.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Colonel gave him a shrewd glance.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, Florence!” he said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Florence,” said Michael.

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

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

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

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

“Of course I do—of course I do—”

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

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

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

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

“Oh—but Michael—” said poor Florence.

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

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

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

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

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

Michael dropped his eyes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter Thirteen.

Lady Marian Explains.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But he said—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You mean about Michael Reid?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh—but so expensive!” said Florence.

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

Florence sprang to her feet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bridget entered the room with her mistress’ breakfast.

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

“What young ladies?” asked Mrs Fortescue.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mr Timmins seemed much interested in the story.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Poor Florence! The tears trembled in her eyes.

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

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

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

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

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

Lady Marian smiled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lady Marian bent forward and kissed Brenda on her brow.

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

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

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

“I have not broken my heart.”

She looked up with a smile which was half piteous.

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

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

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

Chapter Fourteen.

Mrs Fortescue Receives a Shock.

At Langdale, several people missed Florence and Brenda Heathcote. Susie and her father missed them most, because they were the sort of people who would love the girls for themselves, and not for the money they had been supposed to possess. But there were others who missed them in different degrees and according to their different characters. Bridget, for instance, was extremely sulky when she found that Mrs Fortescue had let Miss Florence go without even one word of farewell, nor one allusion to the sorrow she ought to feel at giving her up. Mrs Fortescue herself had her qualms of conscience. The advertisements she had put into the papers were not receiving satisfactory replies. The ladies, old or young, who suggested residing with Mrs Fortescue offered comparatively small sums for the privilege of dwelling under her roof. Mrs Fortescue felt almost snappish. She did not think that she would make much solid gold out of the young ladies whom she was hoping to have to reside with her. She began to murmur at the dispensations of Providence, and to think it cruelly hard on Brenda and Florence that they should be deprived of their fortunes. She began for the first time to see matters from the girls’ point of view. It would, in short, be difficult, almost impossible, for her to find any other pair of girls so nice as these, and so well able to pay her for the great trouble she had taken on their account.

She even did not like to think of that morning when she had insisted on depriving Florence of her poached eggs, and giving her a breakfast which under ordinary circumstances would have been partaken of by Bridget. She was also much annoyed at Bridget’s determination to leave her; for Bridget was a cheap, as well as a valuable servant; and Mrs Fortescue knew well that such people were rare.

She therefore, when she went into the street, had on an injured and melancholy air, and spoke with sadness about the poor dear Heathcotes, wondering what the sweet girls would now do with themselves, and how the cold world would receive these dear orphans, who were so unfitted to plunge into its stormy waves.

One of the people she met, as she walked down the street a couple of days after Florence had left Langdale, was Major Reid. Major Reid felt about as cross as man could feel. He had been worked up to a state of intense excitement during his last memorable interview with Mrs Fortescue. He had hoped great things not only for his son, but for himself, after he had heard what in all probability Florence’s fortune would be. He had returned home in a genial mood, and in consequence he and the Lieutenant had engaged that evening in a very amicable conversation. Michael found his father much more approachable on certain subjects than he had ever found him before, and in a fit of confidence he had acquainted his parent with part of the truth, but not all, with regard to his financial difficulties.

The Major swore a good deal when he discovered that his son was hopelessly in debt. Nevertheless, he cooled down after a time, and said that although it would be almost an impossibility, he would endeavour to raise a few hundred pounds to set Michael straight—in short, to put him on his legs again, provided he secured that dazzling young heiress, Florence Heathcote. But now—alack and alas! the dazzling young heiress did not exist. The girl herself was there, with her bright eyes and radiant face and all the fine qualities which the Major had given her credit for. But the glitter of gold no longer surrounded her, and she was therefore an impossible mate for Michael. The Major was choking with rage. Things were much worse than they had been at the Moat, for now the Major and the Lieutenant were scarcely on speaking terms, the Major furiously declaring that he would not advance a penny to help his son, and the son threatening all sorts of disastrous consequences in the future.

Eventually, Lieutenant Reid left Langdale, intending to visit certain money-lenders who, he trusted, would help him temporarily out of his difficulties.

After he had gone, Major Reid cooled down a little. The boy was his only son: he had hoped to see him a useful and popular member of society—a country gentleman, no less; for surely if Florence was as well off as Mrs Fortescue had given him to understand, the boy need not continue in the Army.

All these dreams had now come to an end, and the Major felt that there were few women in the world he hated as he did Mrs Fortescue. He would have given a great deal not to meet her, but he suddenly found himself face to face with her in the little High Street. She came up to him sorrowfully. She was the sort of woman who could never, under any circumstances, imagine herself de trop, and she certainly believed herself to be irresistible to all men.

“Ah, Major!” she said. “What a blow—what a terrible blow we have received! and where is your dear boy? I pity him from my heart.”

“My son has left Langdale,” said the Major freezingly. “I will not detain you any longer, Mrs Fortescue. I am going for a brisk walk, and the morning is too chilly to stand still long in the street.”

He raised his hat and walked on. He looked very stiff and disagreeable.

“Old curmudgeon!” whispered Mrs Fortescue under her breath. “What a selfish person! he has no thought for the poor girls themselves; or for me, or for any one but just himself and that conceited puppy, Michael.” Mrs Fortescue continued her morning shopping, and eventually found herself in the neighbourhood of the Grange. Surely there, at least, she would receive all possible sympathy. When had Susie turned an unwilling ear to any one’s grief? She—Mrs Fortescue—would show herself this morning in the most amiable light, suffering with the penniless girls and not thinking of herself at all. It would be very forgiving of her, too, to call at the Arbuthnots’ after the Colonel’s visit to her. It would show, that she at least bore no ill-will to any human being on earth.

Accordingly, she paused before the well-known door. She would be obliged to ask Colonel Arbuthnot before long for a reference, and would like to smooth the way by means of an interview with Susie first.

When the servant answered her summons she inquired, therefore, if Miss Arbuthnot was within. She was replied to in the affirmative, and was shown into the parlour looking out on the street. There Susie was performing all kinds of useful arts. It was not at all a pretty room—as pretty rooms go: it was made for use, not for ornament. The table in the centre was an old deal one—in fact, nothing better than a large kitchen table, and at this moment Susie was busy finishing the marmalade which she and Florence had begun.

She looked up when Mrs Fortescue appeared. Her eyes were a little red, as though she had been crying: otherwise, her face was quite cheerful, it even wore a jubilant expression.

“How do you do?” she said in her kind voice. “You will forgive me if I go on cutting my oranges. All this supply of marmalade has to be boiled early to-morrow morning, and the orange peel must soak for a certain time.”

“Yes, yes,” said Mrs Fortescue; “I quite understand. There are so many recipes for marmalade.”

“Mine is the best that is known,” said Susie, in her quick voice, cutting her orange peel as she spoke into fine, almost imperceptible wafers. “You don’t slake your own marmalade, do you?” she said.

“No; I really haven’t time; and that reminds me—Bridget is leaving. It is too bad: she is such a good faithful creature, and I don’t know how to replace her.”

Susie helped herself to some more orange peel and continued her work.

“You don’t know of any one you could recommend, do you, Susie?” said Mrs Fortescue.

“No,” said Susie bluntly. “I do not.”

Mrs Fortescue heaved a deep sigh. She quite understood what Susie Arbuthnot meant to imply by her brief words. Even if she did know a nice honest girl she would not send her to Mrs Fortescue.

“Susie,” said Mrs Fortescue, after a pause, “I fear, I greatly fear that I was a little hard on dear Florence. I have come here to tell you so.”

Susie laid down her knife and raised her honest brown eyes to fix them fully on Mrs Fortescue’s face. The widow pushed her chair round so that the light should not fall too full on her countenance.

“Yes,” she continued, “and I have come here to own my fault. I fear your father was deeply annoyed with me. Is that true?”

”‘Annoyed’ is not exactly the word,” said Susie, in a low tone.

“Well—well, dear,” said Mrs Fortescue, who did not wish Susie to say too much and trembled also with regard to her future reference. “You, who have your fixed and settled income can scarcely understand what it is to be a woman of my means—a woman with an uncertain, a fluctuating supply of money; enough just for her bare needs one year, and too little for them the next. I lost my temper—not, indeed, with the girls themselves, but with that exceedingly deceitful man, Mr Timmins, who might have told me how the dear children were placed long, long before he did. He deceived me, he deceived us all.”

“The girls were not to blame, were they?” said Susie, resuming the cutting of her orange peel with considerable energy.

“Oh, no, no—indeed no!” said Mrs Fortescue; “and that is just what I have come to talk about. I have recovered my temper and repented of my injustice. I am now thinking, not so much of myself, although I shall have to find some young girls to mother, in the future—”

Susie again looked at her attentively—“but I have not come here to talk of that now. I am anxious about the Heathcotes, poor dears! Poor dears! the world will receive them coldly—”

“I do not think so,” said Susie.

Mrs Fortescue shook her head.

“You do not know the world, Susie Arbuthnot. You think you do; but you don’t. The fact is—it shudders at the poor, and the older it grows, the more it despises poverty, the more it requires every one whom it takes to its heart to be rich—rich.” Susie was silent. “Those poor young things,” continued Mrs Fortescue—“if there is any way in which I can help them—I came here this morning. Susie, to tell you that I am willing to do it.”