For the first time in all her young life Florence did perceive how very little value money really was. It could not buy the great things of life. She had hitherto never thought about it at all. She had had it in abundance; it had been but to ask to obtain. When she wanted a pretty dress, it was given to her. When she wished for a trinket, it became her own. The best rooms at school were kept for Brenda and herself; the best seats at table were theirs. The headmistress made a fuss about them: the other teachers regarded them with affection, and spoke of them as they would of princesses. Florence supposed, and rightly, that this was because they were rich. In the holidays they had a really glorious time. Who could fuss more about them than Mrs Fortescue? What lovely lodgings she took for them at the seaside, paying more than one dared to think for the spacious rooms where they lived and looked out upon the sparkling waves. Once she had taken them to Paris, and they had had a truly glorious time.
Yes; nothing had been denied them up to the present. They had been urged to learn, too, just because it was such poor fun for rich girls to be ignorant. Rich girls ought to know things. They ought to be rich in mind as well as in body.
Well, Florence had done her best. She was a fairly clever girl. She had certain talents, and she had made the most of them. She was, of course, very young, but she felt, on the whole, rather old. This last week had made her old. She had learned a great deal during this week—the immense, the terrible difference between extreme poverty and extreme wealth. It never once occurred to her that Mr Timmins had behaved badly in not describing to them more accurately the true state of affaire. Brenda had not blamed him, nor did she. He had acted according to her father’s will; and her dear father must have known what was beat. No one was to blame. They had had their good time—as far as wealth was concerned. But oh, how joyful! she had discovered something else: the wealth, the great wealth of love—love; which could exist in a poorly furnished house between an old man and a middle-aged woman; love, which could rejoice the hearts of those who were poorer than itself. And had she not also found her own true love? her lover, who cared for her just because she was herself, just because she was Florence Heathcote, a young girl with a heart to respond to his heart, a love to return for his love? Oh yes, she was happy!
The day of days had come. After Florence had given her half-crown to Susie Arbuthnot, she ran up to her room to prepare for her lover’s visit. He was quite sure to come. He had promised to come to-day for her answer: and she had it ready. She had not put it on paper, she had folded it up inside her heart. It was waiting for him. She would open the door of her heart and just let him peep in and see what it was like—rosy, red, glorious with the tint of the morning; and his—all his!
As she entered the house, she was singing under her breath. She had a sweet voice, and her gay notes thrilled through the old house and brought the Colonel out of his study.
“Well, Florence,” he said.
“Well, Colonel,” she answered. She went up to him and took his hand. Then she said, looking full into his face: “I am so awfully happy!”
“I am glad of it, dear,” he replied. “I am more than glad to find that there is a young girl in this world who has been brought up as you have been brought up, and who thinks nothing at all of riches. It takes most of us many long years to learn the lesson which you have learned at once.”
“I am not thinking about riches at all,” said Florence. She looked at him again, and then she resolved to tell. “May I come with you into your study for a few minutes?” she said.
“Why, certainly, my dear child,” he replied; and he took her hand and led her into the study. He shut the door and turned and faced her.