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.