The Girl and Her Fortune

“No; I expect not. Well, you are as poor as a church mouse, Flo, but you didn’t tell him so?”

“Of course I didn’t. No one must know before poor Mrs Fortescue, and I suppose she must be told after we have been to London to see Lady Marian Dixie. All the same, Brenda, I can’t realise it a bit. Things are going on just as usual, and we are to stay here till the end of our holidays. We have till at least the twentieth of January to be happy in. Why should we be miserable till then?”

“I have no intention of being miserable,” was Brenda’s remark.

A few minutes later, the girls got into bed and slept with that sound refreshing sleep which only comes to most of us in early youth. The next day, Lieutenant Reid did himself the pleasure of calling on Mrs Fortescue. He said he came to see her, but he looked decidedly disappointed when he was told that both the girls were out.

“They are with Susie Arbuthnot,” she said. “They went early this morning and won’t be back until late. I think they are going to have tea at the Arbuthnots’.” Mr Reid’s face decidedly fell. “But you and I will have tea together,” said Mrs Fortescue; “and I can tell you about the dear girls. I can see that you are much interested in them.”

“Can you?” he asked, looking at her critically.

She laughed.

“Of course I can,” she said. “Why, you hardly left my beautiful Florence’s side the whole of yesterday evening. You ought not to pay such marked attentions if you don’t mean anything by them.”

“But suppose I do mean something,” he said, all of a sudden.

Then Mrs Fortescue drew her chair nearer to that of the gallant lieutenant and spoke with great earnestness.

“I have not the least idea,” she said, “what the girls’ fortunes will be; but I know, of course, that they must be exceedingly well off. No expense has been spared during their school-days. Their dress has been quiet but of the most expensive make, and they have been taught every possible accomplishment, even riding, which you know is always a serious item in school bills. Mr Timmins is a very reserved man, and has told me nothing of what is now to happen to them.”

“But surely, you must know something?” said the lieutenant, who at that moment seemed quite to forget that he would like Florence equally well if she were as poor as a church mouse.

“As a matter of fact, I know nothing. Mr Timmins came down to see the girls on Christmas Eve, and was with them for a little time, but he had no talk with me. Still, I make not the slightest doubt that I shall hear from him soon and, in all probability, we shall leave Langdale and go to London. I am quite willing to go with the dear children and to help them any way in my power.”

“They will both marry young,” said the lieutenant, with exceeding gloom in his voice. “They will be surrounded by suitors of all sorts. A homely sort of fellow like – like – ”

“Oh, you mustn’t compare yourself to a homely sort of fellow,” said Mrs Fortescue.

“An officer in His Majesty’s army! A soldier can take his place with any man.”

“I know; but then I have nothing of my own, nothing at all, except what my dear old father allows me. I ought not to think about the girls – about either of them.”

Mrs Fortescue paused to consider.

“I don’t know that you ought,” she said. She had her own ideas for her young charges, and Lieutenant Reid, a native of Langdale, would bring no special credit to her management. People would say that it was a pretty romance; the girl and the young man met when they were still children. But that was all they could say about a young and beautiful heiress marrying a penniless man. After a pause, she said —

“You have not really confided in me, and, of course, if there is true and passionate and real love, I am the last person to stand in the way; but without it I think both those young girls ought to have their chances.”

Mrs Fortescue spoke with precision and reserve. Reid thought her a tiresome woman, and hoped sincerely that some one else would chaperone the girls when they first went to London. His intention, however, was to secure Florence before that date. He thought he had already made an impression on her, and if Mrs Fortescue did not help him, Susie Arbuthnot would. Susie was the very soul of romance. Behind Susie’s red face shone a soul, the kindest and most chivalrous in the world; and Susie’s true heart beat for all that she considered true in love and bravery. A man must be brave, and a man must be loving. That was all she considered necessary, and surely Lieutenant Reid, the young man she had known from a boy, possessed these two attributes. Yes, he would give up Mrs Fortescue, and consult Susie on the subject of Florence Heathcote.

Accordingly, he declined tea, although some special hot cakes were being made for him in the kitchen, and went away holding his head very high and looking, as Mrs Fortescue said to herself, “quite distinguished.”

“I must be careful not to allow my dear Florence to see too much of him,” she said to herself. “It would never do for her to fall in love with him before she has seen other men.”

Reid strolled about in the neighbourhood of the Arbuthnots’ house until, as it were quite by accident, he came across the merry girls and equally merry Miss Arbuthnot returning home from their walk. They were carrying sprays of holly and quantities of mistletoe, and looked each one of them, in her own way, quite charming. Reid fell naturally to Florence’s share, and Brenda and Susie walked on in front.

When they got to the front door, Susie invited “dear Captain Reid” to come in and have tea with them, and dear Captain Reid accepted the invitation with alacrity.

“It is so funny,” said Florence, “to hear her invariably call you ‘Captain’: and you never correct her; why don’t you?”

“Because I like the sound,” he answered. “I shall be Captain, I hope, before long; and I like it, for your sake.”

“For my sake?” she said, colouring faintly.

“Yes; there is nothing I would not do for you. There is no ambition that would not fill my heart and soul for your sake. You know that, Florence, don’t you?”

“I don’t,” said Florence, rather bluntly. “I can’t imagine for a single moment why you talk as you do.”

“I only felt that you must know,” he answered. He was a little piqued by her manner; but then, when he looked into her eyes – yes, they were dark grey to-day, and he did admire dark grey eyes, they were so expressive – he felt that she, herself, alone, independent of thousands, was a girl worth winning. He really began to be quite in love with her. He delighted in the feeling which she gave him. He wondered if it was really true, and if he would be steadfast to her if she were as poor as a church mouse. But then he thought again with a throb of delight how unnecessary that feeling was, for Florence would be rich; only he must secure her before she went to London.

Tea was brought in, and the tea was excellent. There were several nice cakes and choice little dainties left after the dinner of the day before, and Colonel Arbuthnot joined the social gathering and made himself extremely agreeable, and in the end Reid accompanied the young ladies back to Mrs Fortescue’s house.

With Brenda by his side, he could not say anything special to Florence, but it was already quite perceptible that he liked her and had singled her out for attention. Susie Arbuthnot noticed it; so did the Colonel; and so certainly also did Mrs Fortescue.

Mrs Fortescue was the only one who was annoyed. The Reids were a good old family. Michael Reid, as far as any one knew, had always been an excellent fellow. He had done well at school, and had passed into the Army with ease. There was no reason why he should not marry a girl with money, particularly as he liked her.

So said Colonel Arbuthnot, who knew nothing about the young fellow’s debts. Susie, who had been talking the matter over with her father, quite started and coloured a somewhat ugly red when Major Reid was announced.

Major Reid sat down in the chair which his son had just occupied, and immediately began to talk about the Heathcote girls.

“How different they are from others,” he said. “I have seldom seen any one quite – to my ideas – so beautiful as Florence.”

Then Colonel Arbuthnot said something which made Susie long to wear her grey barège in order that she might rustle the silk. He said gravely —

“Your son seems to agree with you, Major.”

“Ah!” said the Major. “Do you think so? Well, nothing could give me greater happiness.”

After that Susie got up to leave the room, but her father called her back.

“We have no secrets from you, Tabby,” he said.

Tabby was his favourite name for her, and she sat down again near his side.

“The fact is,” said the Major, “I want Mike to settle down, and I don’t believe that anything will do him real good, or bring out the best that is in him, like marriage. I think that Florence Heathcote would make him an admirable wife. Of course, he could not afford to marry without money, but as she has plenty, that would make no difficulty. I think, too, he would care for her for herself.”

“Oh, I know he would; he loves her dearly?” said romantic Susie. “Now that you have spoken, I will tell you a little incident. He came here on purpose last night, before any one else, in order to make sure that he was to take her in to dinner. I don’t mind confessing to you, Major Reid, that I had arranged differently; but after he had spoken of it, there was no help for me. I made the change quite easily – ”

“Good girl; good girl!” said the Major. “Well, if he asks me to give him my blessing on such a match, you may be quite sure I shall do so. But we must await events; things cannot be hurried; the girl is very young.”

“She is indeed,” said Colonel Arbuthnot; “nothing more than a child.”

It was on the next day that the girls received a letter from Mr Timmins. It was addressed to Miss Heathcote, and was sealed with a large red seal. It had a thick and massive appearance, and caused Mrs Fortescue pangs of intense curiosity as she handled it before her young charges came downstairs to breakfast. There was no other letter that morning, so she was able to turn it round and look at the seal, which bore the inscription of “Timmins and Co, Solicitors, Chancery Lane,” and also to feel the bulk of the epistle. It was a long envelope, and Mrs Fortescue felt absolutely devoured with curiosity with regard to the contents. To open, however, a sealed envelope was an impossibility, and she did not dare even to attempt the work.

She was seated quietly in front of her copper urn when the girls came in.

“Well, my dears,” she said; “how are you? I hope you have slept well.”

“Capitally, thank you,” said Brenda; and then her eyes flew to her plate, and she saw the long letter lying on it. She turned a little pale, and a swift contraction went through her heart.

Florence, however, did not even glance at the letter. She danced into the room in her usually gay and sprightly manner and sat down, saying as she did so —

“Oh, I am so hungry. I do hope that we have something very nice for breakfast.”

“You know I always think of your tastes, dears,” said Mrs Fortescue, who felt more than ever inclined to pet the girls that morning. “I have got the most delicious kippers and that special porridge with cream which you like so much. There will be hot cakes afterwards, so I hope you will have enough to eat.”

“Oh yes, yes!” said Florence. “Am I not hungry!”

She glanced at her sister as she spoke, and saw that Brenda’s grave eyes were fixed on the letter. Brenda had not attempted to open it. She had laid it quietly by her plate.

“Who is your correspondent?” asked Florence.

“I don’t know,” said Brenda; “but I suppose it is from Mr Timmins.”

Then Florence somehow felt her appetite going and a coldness stealing over her. But Mrs Fortescue was in the best of spirits.

“I am delighted the man has written,” she said. “It was so queer of him to come down on Christmas Eve and have a long talk with you two girls and not say a word to me. Of course, you know, my darlings, that you are to me as my very own children, and there is nothing I would not do for you – ”

“You would keep us with you if we were as poor as church mice, for instance,” said Florence, raising her eyes (they looked brown this morning) and fixing them with a saucy air on the good lady’s face.

“Indeed I would. I love you far beyond mere money. But what I want to say to you is this,” – Mrs Fortescue broke a piece of toast as she spoke, and her voice became a little nervous – “that whatever Mr Timmins intends to do for your future, I do trust he will not leave me out of it. I do not think it would be right of him, seeing that I have had the care of you ever since you have been both little children.”

“We have been most of our time at school, have we not?” said Brenda.

“Yes, dear; that is quite true; but who has prepared you for your school, and who has done her utmost to make your holidays happy?”

“Indeed, you have!” said Brenda, her voice full of feeling. “You have been most kind.”

“That is all I want you to say, Brenda. Well, what I wish is to go on being kind. You will probably go to London, and I should like to go with you. Until you marry, my dears – and alas! I fear that auspicious event will take place soon with you both,” – here she glanced at Florence, who grew quite red – “until you marry, you will need a chaperone, and who so suitable as me? If you see Mr Timmins, will you mention to him, dears, that I am more than anxious to do for you in the future what I did in the past?”

“Yes, oh yes; we will be sure to say it,” said Florence in a glib tone.

Breakfast went on. Brenda did not attempt to open her letter.

“I wonder why you don’t read what the good man has said,” remarked Mrs Fortescue. “He probably, to judge from the size of that letter, has given you full directions with regard to your future plans. I cannot imagine why he does not write to me.”

“I will read the letter, if you like,” said Brenda in her gentlest voice.

“Do so, dear; I should be so much obliged.”

Brenda opened it. There was a long foolscap sheet which, as far as Mrs Fortescue’s acute vision could discern, was filled with accounts; and then there was a letter. The accounts pleased her, only she was puzzled that they had not been sent to her. Hitherto, she had always been consulted about the dear girls.

The letter was very short, and when Brenda had run her eyes over it, she folded it up and put it back into its envelope, placing the accounts also there for future study.

“Well, well?” said Mrs Fortescue, with great interest.

“Mr Timmins wants us both to go up to London to-morrow to see him.”

“And, of course, I am to go with you.”

“He does not say so; in fact, I know he wishes us to go alone.”

“That is very odd.”

“He tells us the train to go by,” pursued Brenda, “and also the train by which we can return. If we leave here at nine o’clock to-morrow morning, we shall get to London a little before twelve. We can be back with you in time for dinner or supper.”

“And he says nothing about my going?”

“He does. He says he wishes us to go alone; that we are to travel first-class. He sends us a postal order for our fares.”

“First-class!” said Mrs Fortescue, with a sniff. “Of course girls in your position will travel first-class. It is absurd even to think of any other mode of travelling.”

“Yes,” said Brenda calmly, “he says first-class, and he has sent us the money.”

“He wants to talk to you about your future, dears.”

“Probably,” said Brenda. “We shall have to go,” she continued, and she looked across at Florence.

Florence said “Yes,” but her tone was not very lively. Mrs Fortescue glanced at her.

“She is thinking of Lieutenant Reid,” was her thought. “Poor child! Well, of course, he is handsome and well-born, and she has plenty of money, only I always did think that with her great beauty she would be the one to make the best match. However, there is no interfering with nature, and if she loves him – and beyond doubt he loves her – it will be all right.” Aloud Mrs Fortescue said —

“You had better send a telegram to Mr Timmins to tell him you will go up by the train you mention. I will prepare sandwiches for you for the journey, and take you to the station and come again to meet the train by which you return. Nothing will induce me to neglect even a particle of my duty: you may be certain of that, my loves. Only I do hope, Brenda, that if you can put in a word for one who truly loves you, during your interview with Mr Timmins, you will mention me as the chaperone you would like best.”

“I will mention you with real affection,” said Brenda; and she got up as she spoke and, going up to the little woman, kissed her on her forehead. Then she said, gently: “Mr Timmins specially says not to send a telegram – that a postcard will do equally well.”

Chapter Five

A Proposal and a Promise

Soon after lunch on that day Florence went out alone to execute some small commissions for Mrs Fortescue. She was wearing a sealskin cap and 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.”