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.