Chapter Seven.
An Exchange of Confidences.
While the girls were in London, Mrs Fortescue had by no means passed an idle day. She had meant to visit several friends with the avowed intention of talking about her young heiresses, as she invariably alluded to Brenda and Florence. She would at least amuse herself hinting at the possibilities which lay before her; but it so happened that she had scarcely got through her ordinary household duties before she had an unexpected visitor. This was no less a person than Major Reid.
Major Reid was, as a rule, considered a woman-hater. Since the death of his wife he had certainly never paid attentions to any woman. On the contrary, he had avoided the society of the fair sex, and had employed himself in his library and garden, living almost entirely alone, except when his son bore him company. For him to visit Mrs Fortescue, therefore, on this special day was a great surprise to the good lady.
She had not the least idea that Michael Reid cared for Florence. She had, it is true, observed his attentions to her on Christmas Eve, but had not given them any serious thought. The young man was an acknowledged flirt, and was fond of the society of all pretty girls; and what pretty girl at Langdale could compare with Florence? That she had taken a walk with him on the following day had scarcely aroused any suspicions. The young people were old friends. Florence would make a great match some day. So beautiful, so rich, so well-born—what had she not to give a husband? Poor Michael Reid would indeed be a silly man if he fell in love with a girl like Florence. The visit, therefore, of Major Reid did not in the least connect itself with Florence in Mrs Fortescue’s mind.
She was up in her bedroom rearranging some of her drawers; for she was a very busy, active little woman, who kept her place in immaculate order and never was a moment unemployed. She was so engaged when Bridget came to inform her that Major Reid would like to see her in the drawing-room.
“Dear, dear!” thought Mrs Fortescue. “What does the man want?”
She said aloud to Bridget—
“Go down to the Major; give him my compliments, and say that I will be with him in a moment.”
She then proceeded to put on a clean collar and a fresh and becoming tie of cherry-coloured ribbon at her throat. Her dress was dark brown. She looked a very neat and comely little person when she entered the Major’s presence. The Major, however, had no special eye for Mrs Fortescue’s comeliness. He looked rather excited. He was holding his stick in his hand as though he did not wish to part with it, and when he stood up, it was with considerable difficulty that Mrs Fortescue could get him to sit down again.
“Dear, dear!” he said. “Dear, dear! I don’t know how to apologise for coming to you at such an hour before lunch. I do hope you will forgive me.”
Here he deliberately paced from the door to the mantelpiece. The room was small, and he accomplished the distance in a couple of strides; but his whole manner was so confused and distrait that Mrs Fortescue wondered if the good man had taken leave of his senses and was about to propose to her. She was, however, thoroughly sensible and practical; and, knowing that the Major had certainly no money wherewith to support a second wife, turned her mind from the subject and endeavoured to set him at his ease.
“Do sit down,” she said. “Do you know—I am sorry to have to say it—but it fidgets me dreadfully to see people pacing about my drawing-room.”
The Major dropped in the nearest chair as though he had been shot.
“May I take your stick from you?” said Mrs Fortescue.
He resigned it with the expression of one who was about to suffer martyrdom.
“Now, that is much better,” she said. “But I would suggest an easy-chair; there is one near the window. You can then lean back and cross your legs. My late dear husband said he never felt comfortable unless he could lean back in his chair and cross his legs. Ah! how well I remember him; such a dear fellow, so devoted to me. I have never ceased to mourn for him. I could never put another in his place.”
“Now I have set him at his ease, and got him to abandon the ridiculous idea of proposing to me,” thought the widow. “Yes; he looks quite happy, but I do wonder what he wants. I could have taken the opportunity in the absence of the dear girls of looking over the house linen; but he will dawdle on—I know he will. What can he have to say?”
The Major was staring hard at Mrs Fortescue, but she soon perceived that though he was looking at her, he was not seeing her. He was, in fact, looking through her at something which considerably disturbed, excited, and delighted him.
“The Heathcotes have gone to London, have they not?” he said.
“Yes,” she replied at once. “My children have left me for the day; but they are coming back to-night—my Brenda and my Florence, as I call them—for they are to me, I assure you, Major Reid, just as though they were my very own children. For years I have given them a mother’s care, and—sweet girls!—they have repaid me amply.”
“They are fine girls, both of them,” said the Major.
“Fine!” said Mrs Fortescue. “I should scarcely express what the girls are by that word. Aristocratic—I should call them; more particularly Florence, and yet in some ways Brenda has a rare dignity of her own—like a sweet winter rose: that is what I call her; whereas Florence is like the passion-flower. Marvellous grace that child possesses! He certainly will be a happy man who secures her.”
“I am coming to that,” said Major Reid. “I am coming to that. I want to confide in you.”
Mrs Fortescue became intensely interested. She had not looked for a confidence in this visit of the Major’s; but now she saw by his red face and by the way his lips twitched that he had really come on special business.
“The fact is this,” he said. “That young dog of mine, Michael, has had the audacity to fall in love with your—well, your adopted child. He is madly in love with Florence, and I have an idea that she responds to his attachment. There; I have told you the truth. I thought it only right.”
“You will excuse me for a minute,” said Mrs Fortescue.
She got up abruptly and left the room. The moment she had done so, the Major sprang from his easy-chair, took hold of his stick, and began to pace about more energetically than ever.
“If that woman puts a spoke in Mike’s wheel, I shall hate her as long as I live!” he thought. “She is just the spiteful sort to do it. I shall have to be very wary when I talk to her.”
Meanwhile, Mrs Fortescue had really left the room to recover her self-control. But she was a woman, and could quickly achieve her object. She came back looking as calm as though the Major had not brought her any special information.
“You will, Major Reid, forgive me,” she said, “for having left you so suddenly, but your news startled me.”
“Naturally, quite naturally,” he answered.
He was clasping his stick between his two hands and leaning on it. His stick gave him a lot of support.
“Quite naturally,” he repeated.
“As my dear Florence’s mother—we will assume for the time being that I hold that position—you are quite right to tell me, Major Reid. But when—when did Michael give my dear girl to understand that he cared for her!”
“As far as I can make out, he has always cared for her,” said the Major; “but I don’t think he showed her any serious attention until Christmas Day. You must have noticed that they were a good deal together then.”
“Oh well—I naturally observed that your son was pleased to be with the prettiest girl in the room.”
“Quite so; most natural, most natural,” said the Major. “Well, yesterday they took a walk together, and then he told her that he—he loved her.”
“He ought to have spoken to me or to Mr Timmins.”
“I don’t agree with you, madam,” said the Major. “I think the person most concerned ought to be first talked to on so essential a matter. My boy is the very soul of honour. You know what a good family we belong to. The Reids of Ardnacarrick can hold up their heads with any one. It is true, I am only the younger son; but there is never any saying what my boy may inherit by and by. Anyhow, he is a good boy, a brave boy, a true soul. He spoke openly to the girl, and she—”
“Yes; that is the important part,” said Mrs Fortescue. “What did Florence say?”
“She was wonderfully careful, all things considered.”
“I have taught her that,” said Mrs Fortescue, drawing herself up. “I have taught her that of all qualities self-control is the most essential in the case of a woman.”
“She asked him,” continued the Major, “to give her a week to decide. She has gone to town to-day. Most probably she will tell her guardian.”
“Oh dear, oh dear!” said Mrs Fortescue. Then she added, the colour rushing into her cheeks: “Do you think it was quite fair of your son to try to entangle Florence before she met any other man?”
“Madam,” said Major Reid, “I must not permit such a word. You must excuse me if I ask you to recall it. The Reids of Ardnacarrick may very justly unite themselves with any family in England.”
“I am saying nothing against you, Major; nor indeed against your son. But Florence has only just left school: she is but eighteen years of age, and will be, I understand, exceedingly well off. She has also great beauty. My hope was that I could take a house in London during the spring and bring both girls out.”
“Yes!” said the Major, his face hot with indignation. “And marry Florence to some dissipated roué or some horrible American millionaire! My son is a gentleman, and surely,” he added, the anxiety in his face causing him to clutch his stick more violently than ever, “they will have money enough between them.”
“I do not know,” said Mrs Fortescue, “why you call it between them, when it happens to be entirely on one side.”
The Major was quite silent for a minute. He felt the indignity of his present position, and would have given a good deal to put himself outside Mrs Fortescue’s house at the present moment. But as he had come there with the express intention of finding out what Florence’s fortune would be, it seemed absurd to go away without doing so. Accordingly, he said, after a pause—
“My dear madam, we have known each other for years.”
“We have,” said Mrs Fortescue.
“And neither you nor I are to blame if the young people fall in love with each other.”
“That is certainly true,” said Mrs Fortescue. “I never encouraged it.”
“Oh!” said the Major. “Can you say that? You were always asking my boy over to play tennis or croquet with the girls during their holidays: in fact, he was always in and out of the house. He was the only young man you admitted into their society.”
“True—very true,” she said. “I did wrong; I did not think. I hope, Major, you won’t use this knowledge to my disadvantage.”
“By no means,” he replied. “I should be more than sorry to injure your position at the present moment: my entire desire, my one object is to be as friendly with you as possible. I have come to you at the first possible moment to tell you what I myself know—that the young people are much attracted each to the other, and that a marriage is likely to take place between them. It is impossible for either you or me to prevent such a union: indeed, we should be doing wrong were we to attempt it. It is best, therefore, for us to be friends in the matter. Two heads are better than one. Florence need never be ashamed of herself as Mrs Reid. As my daughter-in-law she will have a good position, and as my son’s wife she will be a truly happy woman. You can, of course, make yourself disagreeable at the present moment, but that will not prevent the marriage; for, after all, you were only paid to be good to the girls.”
Mrs Fortescue sprang indignantly to her feet. People never spoke directly about money at Langdale. No one ever before had alluded to the fact that she had made a nice harvest out of the girls. No one had been so ill-bred; but now it flashed across her mind that it was true: it also came over her that she had been envied amongst the most aristocratic members of society in Langdale, because of her chaperonage of Brenda and Florence Heathcote. Accordingly, she sank down again with a faint smile on her face.
“After all,” she said, her words coming out with a pause between each, “we had best, as you say, be friendly in the matter.”
“Yes; that is just what I think. I can help you if you can help me—”
“Won’t you stay and have lunch with me?” said Mrs Fortescue suddenly.
The Major loathed having lunch anywhere except at home, where he invariably ate a chop specially prepared, and drank a glass of old port. The present occasion was too serious, however, to make him consider either his chop or port.
“I shall be delighted to have lunch with you,” he said.
Mrs Fortescue thought of her cold mutton and the very sour claret which she usually had on the sideboard but never drank. Still, what did food matter? The moment was too important. She reflected with satisfaction that she had one or two bottles of champagne in her wine cellar. She would have one opened for the Major. He was fond of good champagne—that she knew. Afterwards he would talk to her; they would, as he expressed it, get to understand each other.
She left the room to give some directions with regard to lunch, and came back in a few minutes ready to listen to the Major. On purpose, she drew him into other channels of conversation, chatting lightly and agreeably about the girls and about other matters, even going to the length of asking his advice as to what port of town would be the best for her to take a house for the coming season.
Lunch, after all, was a poor affair, when it did arrive; but the Major gallantly ate his cold mutton and drank enough champagne to put him into good humour.
After the meal was over, they went into the drawing-room again, where excellent black coffee was served, and then the Major found courage to ask Mrs Fortescue that question which was burning on the top of his tongue.
“You know,” he said, “that my boy Michael could not possibly marry at present, deeply as he loves Florence, were she not an heiress.”
“I quite understand that,” said Mrs Fortescue.
“You, my dear madam, probably know something of what her expectations are. She is a very young girl, only eighteen, but there is no sense in her waiting to marry until she is twenty-one; for marriage, as a rule, has an equal effect with coming of age, as far as money is concerned. Can you give me the least idea what she is likely to inherit?”
“No; I can’t,” said Mrs Fortescue bluntly. “I have often and often tried to find out, but have never succeeded. My idea, however, is—seeing that the girls have been spared no expense whatever since the death of their parents, and knowing that their parents, during their lifetime, were very well off—that they will both be rich. I know that Mr Timmins has spent hundreds a year on their education, and as to the amount he has devoted to their dress, it has really amazed me, although it has been no affair of mine. Florence now possesses a set of sealskin which would delight any duchess in the land, and there was a little talk last year of giving her a similar set of chinchilla. She looks better in furs than her sister, who requires altogether a simpler style of dress. The girls travelled up to town first-class to-day and were met by Mr Timmins’ man—his confidential clerk: that I happen to know; but I have not the slightest idea whether Florence Heathcote’s fortune represents a pound a year, or two or three thousand.”
“Two or three thousand!” murmured the Major.
A greedy look came into his old eyes. He suddenly rose to his feet.
“I am very much obliged,” he said. “You have frankly told me all you know.”
“Most frankly; most unreservedly. You will regard our conversation as confidential?”
“Certainly: it would not be fair to mention it to anybody else until the week for which Florence has stipulated expires,” said the old man. “But now; let me assure you, that were the dear girl blessed with nothing at all in the way of money she would be equally precious both to my son and to me.”
“Oh, you old hypocrite!” murmured Mrs Fortescue under her breath, but she did not say the words aloud: people don’t in polite society.
The Major took his leave.
“Your champagne was excellent,” he said, as the widow saw him to the door. “You must let me know some day where you get it, and, of course, when the week is up and everything is comfortably arranged, you and Brenda and Florence will give us the pleasure of dining with us at the Moat.”
“Thank you so much, Major,” said Mrs Fortescue.
The Major walked down the street, murmuring to himself—
“Two or three thousand a year! It is true—it must be true. She has practically admitted it.”
He met his son, who was, in fact, waiting for him.
“Come for a walk, Mike,” said the old man. “Give me your arm, my boy. I have been busy over your affairs during the morning, and the fact is, that woman’s sweet champagne has got into my head. I can’t imagine how it is that women never know the difference between dry champagne and sweet. I shall have a bilious attack after this, as sure as fate.”
“Where in the world have you been, dad?” said the lieutenant, looking with apprehension at his father’s flushed face.
“Why, my boy,” said the Major, “I have been eating the most abominable lunch I ever tasted in the whole course of my life at Mrs Fortescue’s.”
“At Mrs Fortescue’s?” said the young man. “You surely have not been there about—about Florence and me!”
“Yes, I have, Mike, and you can’t blame me; and I have got the most satisfactory information for you. The girl’s income will run into thousands, my boy—yes, into thousands.” Now, of course, Lieutenant Reid was delighted to hear this, but he felt all the same annoyed at his father’s lack of circumspection in going to see Mrs Fortescue.
“The news will be all over the place,” he said. “That woman is the most inveterate gossip in Langdale. She will tell all her friends just what has happened, and if Flo chooses to give me up, you will be the one to blame.”
“Oh, she won’t give you up. She loves you dearly, my boy; and no other, no other,” said the Major. “I really congratulate you, Mike; and if there is any possible way in which I can help you at the present moment, you have but to command it. Some thousands a year! Three, four, five—I should not be the least surprised if it was five thousand a year. The girls have been brought up as if they might expect that income at the very least. You’re a lucky dog—a very lucky dog, Mike.”