“Has she found employment?” asked Mrs Fortescue.
“Well—yes; that is, her future plans and those of her sister are practically arranged for the next few years.”
“I am very glad,” said Mrs Fortescue, speaking in a cold, disappointed voice.
“Ah, well,” said the Colonel, “and so am I—very glad. But you haven’t heard all yet. You don’t know, far instance, what the girls mean to do.”
“I do not,” said Mrs Fortescue; “and I am so much interested in them—so very much—dear children, dear children!”
“You had an opportunity of showing your interest a week ago,” said the Colonel, very gravely—“your interest and your sympathy. The fact is, Mrs Fortescue, both that interest and sympathy have come now rather late in the day—in short, they are not required. The girls go to Girton in the autumn, and until that time, they will be preparing for their life there, under the best masters that London can provide. They will live, until they go to Girton, with Lady Marian Dixie.”
“Then she has taken them up!” said Mrs Fortescue, quivering rage in her voice. “She has in a sort of way adopted them? Yes,” she continued, half-choking with futile anger; “but they need not trust to the whims of rich women. She may change her mind a thousand times and leave all her money in the end to some one else. I have seen it done—I have known it done times out of number.”
“Yes; quite so,” said the Colonel; “quite so. In this case the matter is different.”
“Has she already made a will in their favour?” inquired Mrs Fortescue.
“I don’t know anything whatever with regard to Lady Marian’s intentions,” said the Colonel, speaking less affably and flashing his eyes sternly at the widow. “The fact is this—you will be as surprised as Susie and I were and, I hope and trust, for the sake of your better nature—as glad. Brenda and Florence Heathcote have no need to earn their bread.”