“Oh, Michael,” said the Major; “we have been duped, and we have been fools, all of us! I thought when first I heard the news, that Arbuthnot and Susie were in the conspiracy; but in the train, somehow, I changed my mind. Arbuthnot could not do anything mean, nor could Susie. They were the only people at Langdale who treated Florence Heathcote with equal love and kindness in her supposed poverty as in her supposed riches.”
“Well, sir,” said Michael; “you yourself were the one who said that I must not consider Florence for a single moment as a suitable wife for me.”
“I did—I did, my boy. And oh! my God—how I have repented!”
“But why?” said Michael. “Do you want me, after all, to many a penniless girl? But I; father, I can’t see her again! I—I behaved abominably to her—abominably. What is the matter with you, dad? Why do you stare at me? What are you so put out about?”
“Put out—put out!” said the Major. “I—I should think I am put out. If the truth must be known, I feel nearly mad. Why, Michael, my boy, the Heathcotes are heiresses after all—richer, far richer than we ever dared to hope. Michael—what is it?”
Michael Reid started to his feet. He stared for a moment across the room as though he felt inclined to do something desperate: then he sank down in a state almost of collapse. In that instant, there came a vision before him of a radiant young face, of speaking and beautiful eyes, and of words he had said—oh! words he had never meant—never meant at all! He had another vision of that face when he had acted cruelly, brutally—towards the sweetest girl in the world.
“You want to hear particulars?” said the Major. “I will tell them. That horrid woman, Mrs Fortescue, was the first to hear the news. Florence wrote to Colonel Arbuthnot. The facts are simply these. The girls inherit a very considerable fortune from their late mother. It was their father’s money which was mostly spent on their education and which was nearly exhausted.”
It seemed to Michael Reid that Florence’s pathetic face looked at him more and more sorrowfully. The room seemed full of her face, full of her young presence, full of the trust she had once given him, and then of the horror and distress which his conduct had caused her.
“Why have you come all the way to London to tell me this?” he said faintly, turning as he spoke to address his father.
“Because—because,” said the Major eagerly, “you are a clever young fellow, Michael, and it may not be too late. You love the girl—you have said so—and the girl loves you. Think what it means Michael: don’t lose such a golden chance. Is there any possible way in which you can explain your last interview to Florence, and—and win her back? I can assure you that if such a thing can be done, there is no step that I, on my part, will not take to help you.”