Mrs Fortescue was full of curiosity.
The girls were absolutely silent. She talked with animation of their
usually gay programme for Christmas. The Blundells and the Arbuthnots
and the Aylmers had all invited them to Christmas parties. Of course
they would go. They were to dine with the Arbuthnots on the following
evening. She hoped the girls had pretty dresses.
"There will be quite a big party," said Mrs Fortescue. "Major Reid and
his son are also to be there. Michael Reid is a remarkably clever man.
What sort of dresses have you, girls? Those white ones you wore last
summer must be rather _outre_ now. It was such a pity that I was not
able to get you some really stylish frocks from Madame Aidee in town."
"Our white frocks will do very well indeed," said Florence.
"But you have grown, dear; you have grown up now," said Mrs Fortescue.
"Oh my love!" She drew her chair a little closer to the young girl as
she spoke. "I wonder what Mr Timmins meant. He did not seem at all
interested in my house. I expressed so plainly my willingness to give
it up and to take a house in town where we could be all happy together;
but he was very huffy and disagreeable. It was a sad pity that you
didn't stay in for him. It put him out. I never knew that Mr Timmins
was such an irascible old gentleman before."
"He is not; he is a perfect dear," said Florence.
"Well, Florence, I assure you he was not at all a dear to me. Still, if
he made himself agreeable to you, you two darling young creatures, I
must not mind. I suppose I shan't see a great deal of you in the
future. I shall miss you, my loves."
Tears came into the little woman's eyes. They were genuine tears, of
sorrow for herself but also of affection for the girls. She would, of
course, like to make money by them, but she also regarded them as
belonging to her. She had known them for so long, and, notwithstanding
the fact that she had been paid for their support, she had been really
good to them. She had given them of those things which money cannot
buy, had sat up with Florence night after night when she was ill with
the measles, and had read herself hoarse in order to keep that difficult
young lady in bed when she wanted to be up and playing about.
Of the two girls Florence was her darling. She dreamed much of
Florence's future, of the husband she would win, of the position she
would attain, and of the advantage which she, Mrs Fortescue, would
derive from her young friends--advancement in the social scale. Beauty
was better than talent; and Florence, as well as being an heiress, was
also a beauty.
It cannot be said that the girls did much justice to Bridget's hot
cakes. They were both a little stunned, and their one desire was to get
away to their own bedroom to talk over their changed circumstances, and
decide on what course of action they would pursue with regard to Mrs
Fortescue. In her heart of hearts, Florence would have liked to rush to
the good lady and say impulsively--
"I am a cheat, an impostor. I haven't a penny in the world. You will
be paid up to the end of the Christmas holidays, and then you will never
see me any more. I have got to provide my own living somehow. I
suppose I'll manage best as a nursery governess; but I don't know
anything really well."
Brenda, however, would not encourage any such lawless action.
"We won't say a word about it," said Brenda, "until after Christmas
Day."
She gave forth this mandate when the girls were in their room preparing
for dinner.
"Oh," said Florence; "it will kill me to keep it a secret for so long!"
"It won't kill you," replied Brenda, "for you will have me to talk it
over with."
"But she'll go on asking us questions," said Florence. "She will want
to know where we are going after the holidays; if we are going to stay
on with her, or what is to happen; and unless we tell her a lot of lies,
I don't see how we are to escape telling her the truth. It is all
dreadful from first to last; but I think having to keep it a secret from
Mrs Fortescue is about the most terrible part of all."
"It is the part you feel most at the present time," said Brenda. "It is
a merciful dispensation that we cannot realise everything that is
happening just at the moment it happens. It is only by degrees that we
get to realise the full extent of our calamities."
"I suppose it is a calamity," said Florence, opening her bright eyes
very wide. "Somehow, at the present moment I don't feel anything at all
about it except rather excited; and there are eighty pounds left.
Eighty pounds ought to go far, oughtn't they? Oughtn't they to go far,
Brenda?"
"No," said Brenda; "they won't go far at all."
"But I can't make out why. We could go into small lodgings and live
quite by ourselves and lead the simple life. There is so much written
now about the simple life. I have read many books lately in which very
clever men say that we eat far too much, and that, after all, what we
really need is abundance of fresh air and so many hours for sleep and
very plain food. I was reading a book not long ago which described a
man who had exactly twenty pounds on which he intended to live for a
whole year. He paid two and sixpence a week for his room and about as
much more for his food, and he was very healthy and very happy. Now, if
we did the same sort of thing, we could live both of us quite
comfortably for two years on our eighty pounds."
"And then," said Brenda, "what would happen at the end of that time?"
"Oh, I should be married by then," said Florence, "and you would come
and live with me, of course, you old darling."
"No; that I wouldn't," said Brenda. "I am not at all content to sit
down and wait. I want to do something. As far as I am concerned, I am
rather glad of this chance. I never did care for what are so-called
`society pleasures.' I see now the reason why I always felt driven to
work very hard. You know father was a great writer. I shall write too.
I will make money by my books, and we will both live together and be
happy. If you find your prince, the man you have made up your mind to
marry, why, you shall marry him. But if you don't, I am always there.
We will be very careful of our money, and I will write a book; I think I
just know how. I am not father's daughter for nothing. The book will
be a success, and I shall get an order for another book, and we can live
somehow. We shall be twenty thousand times happier than if we were in a
house with Mrs Fortescue looking out for husbands for us--for that is
what it comes to when all is said and done."
"Oh, you darling! I never thought of that," said Florence. "It is
perfectly splendid! I never admired you in all my life as I admire you
now, Brenda. Of course, I never thought that you would be the one to
save us from destruction. I used at times to have a sort of idea within
me that perhaps you would have to come and live with me some day when
all our money was spent. I can't imagine why I used to think so often
about all our money being spent; but I used to, only I imagined it would
be after I had got my trousseau and was married to my dear lord, or
duke, or marquis--anyhow, some one with a big place and a title; and I
used to imagine you living with me and being my dear companion. But
this is much, much better than any of those things."
"Yes; I think it is better," said Brenda. "I will think about the book
to-night, and perhaps the title may come to me; but in the meantime, we
are not to tell Mrs Fortescue--not at least till Christmas Day is over;
and we've got to take out our white dresses and get them ironed, and see
that they look as fresh as possible. Now, we mustn't stay too long in
our room: she is dying with curiosity, but she can't possibly guess the
truth."
"No; she couldn't guess the truth, that would be beyond her power," said
Florence. "The truth is horrible, and yet delightful. We are our own
mistresses, aren't we, Brenda?"
"As far as the eighty pounds go," replied Brenda.
"What I was so terrified about," said the younger sister, "was this. I
thought we should have to go as governesses or companions, or something
of that sort, in big houses and be--be parted." Her lips trembled.
"Oh no; we won't be parted," said Brenda; "but all the same, we'll have
to go to see Lady Marian Dixie--that is, when she writes to ask us. Now
may I brush your hair for you? I want you to look your very prettiest
self to-night."
The white frocks were ironed by Bridget's skilful fingers. It is true,
they were only the sort of dresses worn by schoolgirls, but they were
quite pretty, and of the very best material. They were somewhat short
for the two tall girls, and Brenda smiled at herself when she saw her
dress, which only reached a trifle below her ankles. As to Florence,
she skipped about the room in hers. She was in wonderfully high
spirits. For girls who had been brought up as heiresses, and who
expected all the world to bow before them, this was extraordinary. And
now it was borne in upon her that she had only forty pounds in the
world, not even quite that, for already a little of the five pounds
advanced by Mr Timmins had been spent. Mrs Fortescue insisted upon
it. She said, "You ought to wear real flowers; I will order some for
you at the florist's round the corner."
Now flowers at Christmas time are expensive, but Florence was reckless
and ordered roses and lilies of the valley. Brenda looked unutterable
things, but after opening her lips as though to speak, decided to remain
silent. Why should not Florence have her pretty way for once? She
looked at her sister with great admiration. She thought again of her
beauty, which was of the sort which can scarcely be described, and deals
more with expression than feature. Wherever this girl went, her bright
eyes did their own work. They drew people towards them as towards a
magnet. Her charming manners effected the rest of the fascination. She
was not self-conscious either, so that women liked her as much as men
did.
But now Christmas Day had really come, and Mrs Fortescue, in the
highest of high spirits, accompanied her young charges to Colonel
Arbuthnot's house. Year by year, the girls had eaten their Christmas
dinner at the old Colonel's house, which was known by the commonplace
name of The Grange. It was a corner house in Langdale, abutting
straight on to the street, but evidently at one time there had been a
big garden in front, and just before the hall door was an enormous oak
tree, which spread its shadows over the low stone steps in summer, and
caused the dining-room windows which faced the street to be cool even in
the hottest weather.
At the back of the house was a glorious old garden. No one had touched
that. It measured nearly three acres. It had its walled-in enclosure,
its small paddock, and its wealth of flower garden. The flowers, as far
as Florence and Brenda could make out, seemed to grow without expense or
trouble, for Colonel Arbuthnot was not a rich man, and could not even
afford a gardener every day, but he worked a good deal himself, and was
helped by his daughter Susie, a buxom, rather matronly young woman of
six or seven and thirty. The girls liked Susie very much, although they
considered her quite an old maid.
No; Colonel Arbuthnot was by no means rich--that is, as far as money is
concerned; but he possessed other riches--the riches of a brave and
noble heart. He was straight as a die in all his dealings with his
fellow-men. He had a good deal of penetration of character, and had
long ago taken a fancy to Mrs Fortescue's young charges. It did not
matter in the least to him whether the girls were heiresses or not.
They were young. They were both, in his opinion, pretty. He liked
young and pretty creatures, and the idea of sitting down to his
Christmas dinner without these additions to his party would have annoyed
him very much.
Colonel Arbuthnot's one extravagance in the year was his Christmas
dinner. He invited all those people to it who otherwise might have to
do without roast beef and plum pudding. There were a good many such in
the little town of Langdale. It was a remote place, far from the world,
and no one was wealthy there. Money went far in a little place of the
sort, and the Colonel always saved several pounds out of his income in
order to give Susie plenty of money to pay for a great joint at the
butcher's, and to make the old-fashioned plum pudding, also to prepare
the mince pies by the old receipt, and to wind up by a sumptuous
dessert.
It was on these rare occasions that the people who came to The Grange
saw the magnificent silver which Colonel Arbuthnot possessed. It was
kept wrapped up in paper and baize during the remainder of the year: for
Susie said frankly that she could not keep it clean; what with the
garden and helping the young servant, she had no time for polishing
silver. Accordingly, she just kept out a few silver spoons and forks
for family use and locked the rest up.
But Christmas Day was a great occasion. Christmas Day saw the doors
flung wide, and hospitality reigning supreme. The Colonel put on his
best dinner coat. He had worn it on more than one auspicious occasion
at more than one famous London club. But it never seemed to grow the
least bit old-fashioned. He always put a sprig of holly with the
berries on it in his button-hole, and would not change this symbol of
Christmas for any flower that could be presented to him.
As to Susie, she also had one dinner dress which appeared on these
auspicious occasions, and only then. It was made of a sort of grey
"barege," and had belonged to her mother. It had been altered to fit
her somewhat abundant proportions, and it was lined with silk. That was
what Susie admired so much about it. The extravagance of silk lining
gave her, as she expressed it, "a sense of aristocracy." She said she
felt much more like a lady with a silk lining in her dress than if she
wore a silk dress itself with a cotton lining.
"There is something pompous and ostentatious about the latter," she
said, "whereas the former shows a true lady."
She constantly moved about the room in order that the rustle of the silk
might be heard, and occasionally, in a fit of absence--or apparent
absence--she would lift the skirt so as to show the silk lining. The
dress itself was exceedingly simple; but that did not matter at all to
Susie. She wore it low in the neck and short in the sleeves; and it is
true that she sometimes rather shivered with cold; for on no other day
in the remaining three hundred and sixty-four did she dream of putting
on a low dress. In the front of the dress she wore her mother's diamond
brooch--a treasure from the past, which alone she felt gave her
distinction; and round her neck she had a string of old pearls, somewhat
yellow with age, but very genuine and very good.
Susie's hair was turning slightly grey and was somewhat thin, but then
she never remembered her hair at all, nor her honest, flushed, reddish
face, hardened by exposure to all sorts of weather, but very healthy
withal.
From the moment she entered the drawing-room to receive her guests, she
never gave Susie Arbuthnot a thought, except in the very rare moments
when she rustled her grey barege in order to let her visitors know that
the lining was silk. That silk lining was her one vanity. As a rule,
we all have one, and that was hers. It was a very innocent one, and did
no one any harm.
On this special Christmas Day, the Reids were coming to dinner. Major
Reid was an army man who had retired a long time ago. He was always
expecting his promotion, but had not got it yet. He was somewhat
discontented, but liked to talk over old days with Colonel Arbuthnot.
His son Michael had been a favourite with the Heathcote girls as long as
they could remember. He was considered to be of their own rank in life,
and Mrs Fortescue, in consequence, asked him to dine, and play with
them during the holidays. When he was very small, he rather bullied
them; but as he grew older, he began to think a great deal of Florence's
beauty, and even to imagine himself in love with her. He was the sort
of young man who always kept his father in a state of alarm with regard
to money, and spent a great deal more than he had a right to do. He was
a good-looking fellow, and popular in his regiment; and as he could make
himself very agreeable, was a great favourite.
When Christmas Day dawned on the snowy world, Major Reid spoke to his
son.
"Well, Michael," he said, "it's a great pleasure to have you with me. I
consider myself a particularly lucky fellow to be able to say that I
haven't missed a single Christmas since your birth without having you by
my side. But I don't suppose this state of things will go on. You are
sure to accept foreign service between now and next year, and, all
things considered, I should like you to marry, my boy."
"Oh, I'm a great deal too young for that kind of thing," said Michael,
helping himself to some kidneys on toast as he spoke, and eating with
great relish and appetite.
"Well, my boy, I don't know about that, there's nothing like taking time
by the forelock. Why, how old are you, Mike?"
"I shall be twenty-four my next birthday," said the young man.
"Well," said the major; "many a man has married before then, and done
none the worse."
"And a great many have ruined their lives by marrying too young," said
Reid. "Besides, I am only a lieutenant, father; I ought not to think of
such a thing until I get my captaincy."
Major Reid looked attentively at his son.
"The fact is, Michael," he said, "you ought to marry money. Of course,
to engage yourself to a girl who has not plenty of money would be sheer
madness."
Michael Reid looked at his father with a twinkle in his grey eye. He
had quite a nice face, although it was very worldly. He could read
through the old man's thoughts at the present moment as though they were
spread before him on an open page.
"What are you thinking of, dad?" he said. "Out with it, whatever it
is."
"This," said the Major, colouring as he spoke; "those two girls have
come back to Mrs Fortescue's. Florence is remarkably pretty. They
must both be exceedingly well off. I spoke to Mrs Fortescue the other
day, and she told me that she doesn't know the extent of their fortune,
but believes it to be something quite considerable. In fact, I should
imagine from the way they have been brought up, that they must have
something which runs into at least four figures a year. Now, the moment
such girls go into society, they will be surrounded by adventurers, men
who wish to secure them simply for the sake of their money. You, my
dear boy, I understand, have already paid attentions to Florence, and
why not carry them on? This is your chance; she is an exceedingly
attractive girl: in fact, she is a beauty. She will be rich. At
present you are not supposed to know anything about her fortune; but if
it comes as a surprise, why, so much the better."
Lieutenant Reid, of His Majesty's --th, thought of certain debts he had
incurred, debts which if he explained their full significance to his
father, would ruin the old man. He sat silent for a time, thinking.
"When last I saw Florence," he said, after a minute's pause, "she was
just a pretty little hoyden of a girl; but, as you say, we were always
good friends. Did you say they were still with Mrs Fortescue?"
"Of course they are," said Major Reid, tapping his foot impatiently.
"Don't they always spend their holidays with her? But they are leaving
school now, in fact, they have left school. Mrs Fortescue quite
expects to go to London with them in order to take them into the gay
world. If ever you have a chance, it is now; and if I were you, I would
make the best of it."
Michael Reid was silent, but he broke a piece of toast, and ate it
reflectively. His father saw that he need say no more, and after a
minute's pause left the room.
As to the young man, he went to church on that Christmas Day although he
had no previous idea of doing so. He did not dare even to say to
himself that his object was to see the Misses Heathcote. But he looked
very hard at both girls as they walked up the aisle of the church,
accompanied by Mrs Fortescue. Even in her plain school dress, Florence
had an air of distinction, and Brenda looked quiet and charming.
Michael Reid felt his heart beating quite agreeably. His father's
advice, after all, was sound. If he could secure a wife who had four,
five, six, or seven hundred a year--and, of course, there was a great
likelihood that she would have much more--why, his fortune would be
made. Florence had seen no other man as yet, but she had a schoolgirl
friendship for him. Now was his opportunity. He would strike while the
iron was hot.
Accordingly, in the course of the afternoon, as he and his father were
pacing up and down in the sheltered corner by the laurel hedge beside
the Major's old house, Michael linked his hand within the old man's arm,
and said--
"If you will allow me to manage things my own way, and will not appear
in the very least to interfere; why--I--I will do my best."
"Thank you, my boy. I knew you would," said the Major. "God bless you,
my son; and God grant you success."
Michael did not think it necessary to reply to these remarks, which were
really uttered as a matter of course; but he went upstairs early to his
bedroom, and took great care in selecting the white tie he would wear
with his dinner suit that evening. Instead of the morsel of mistletoe,
which was considered the correct thing among the young ladies at
Langdale for the gentlemen to wear at the Arbuthnots' dinner parties, he
went out and purchased a rose. He paid a shilling for a rose with a bud
attached, and put it with care into his button-hole. When he had
finished dressing, he surveyed himself in the glass with great
satisfaction. He was a good-looking fellow, and might, he thought,
attract the admiration and affection of any girl. He tried hard to
remember what colour Florence's eyes were; but hers was an evasive face,
which baffled inquiry. It was full of subtle changes. The eyes looked
brown one moment, green the next; and then again a careful observer
would swear that they were grey. But they had a story in them at all
times. So Michael thought to himself. He thought that to compare them
to the stars of heaven would be a happy metaphor, and that he might use
it with effect that evening. He hoped the night would be fine, so that
they could go out between the dances. They always danced at Colonel
Arbuthnot's on Christmas night. When dinner was cleared away, the
tables were pushed to one side, and the polished floor left ready for
the tread of the dancers.
Then was Susie's really proud moment. She would sit at the old piano--
never in perfect tune--and play one old-fashioned waltz and
old-fashioned polka after another. She played a set of the Lancers too
when she was pressed to do so; but was often heard to say she considered
them too rompy. Notwithstanding, she was never tired of rattling out
her old tunes on the old piano; and Reid thought of the dancing and of
the happy minute when he would get Florence to himself under the stars
and compare her bright eyes to those luminaries.
When he had finished dressing, he went downstairs and spoke to his
father.
"You are going in a cab, I suppose, as usual?"
"Well, yes; there's a good deal of snow on the ground, and it is some
little distance to the Arbuthnots', so I told Hoggs to call. Dinner is
at seven. The cab will be here at ten minutes to the hour."
"You don't greatly mind if I walk on in advance?"
"Of course not, my boy, if you prefer it. But be sure you put on good
stout walking shoes, and change them for your pumps when you get in."
"All right, Dad," said this soldier of his Majesty's --th Foot; and,
slipping on an overcoat, he stepped out into the frosty night.
Yes; the stars at least would be propitious. Although there were great
banks of cloud coming up from the west, they were moving slowly, and he
did not think they would interfere with the enjoyment of that Christmas
dinner.
Lieutenant Reid was the very first of the guests to arrive at the
Arbuthnots' house. In fact, he was so much too early that the little
maid who was hired for the occasion had not her cap on, and kept him
waiting at the hall door for a considerable time. But at last he was
admitted, and was ushered into the Colonel's smoking-room, that
apartment being set aside for the accommodation of the gentleman guests.
There Reid changed his walking shoes for his pumps, took off his
overcoat, looked at his face in the glass, saw that his button-hole was
in perfect order, and was the very first to enter the drawing-room.
There he saw to his immense satisfaction Susie Arbuthnot standing by the
fire quite alone. The Colonel had not yet come downstairs. Susie, in
that grey barege, with a flush of excitement all over her face, Susie
with her very stout figure, her diamond brooch, her pearl necklace, gave
Reid an extraordinary desire to laugh. While all the world was going
on, poor Susie was standing still. It flashed through his mind after a
minute's reflection that when he and Florence were married, they would
send her anonymously a fashionable new dinner dress. He began to
consider what colour it ought to be--purple, mauve, red, violet? He
decided to leave the choice of the dress to Florence, who, of course,
would know all about such things. Meanwhile, he went eagerly up to
shake hands with the little lady.
"You are early, Captain," she said.
She invariably called him "Captain," and although he had no right
whatever to the name, he enjoyed the sound very much, and never dreamed
of correcting her.
"I do hope," she continued, her brow puckering slightly, "that nothing
has occurred to keep your dear, good father from joining in our
Christmas festivities. I don't know what the Colonel would say if the
Major were not present at our Christmas dinner. Do tell me at once,
Captain, that nothing is wrong with your esteemed father."
"Nothing whatever," said Reid; "he is coming along presently in one of
Hoggs' cabs. I thought I would come first for the simple reason that I
want to have a word alone with you, Miss Susie."
"Oh, I am only too delighted," said Susie; and she rustled her silk
petticoat as she spoke, getting closer to the young man, and looking
redder in the face than ever. "What is it? If there is anything in my
power--"
"Oh, it is quite a simple matter," he said. "You know I dine out a
great deal, but I may say without verging a hair's line from the truth,
that I never enjoy any dinners as I do yours--a little old-fashioned of
course--but so good, the food so--A.1. Now I noticed last Christmas
that you, Miss Susie--ah! Miss Susie!--you must have been in London
since I saw you last and picked up some of the modes of the great world.
I noticed that you had adopted some of the latest London fashions: for
instance, the names of the guests put beside their plates."
"It was Lady Lorrimer, when she was here two years ago, who told me
about that," said Susie. "I generally use a number of correspondence
cards, cutting them very carefully to the necessary shape, and printing
the names in my very best writing. It helps our servants, and our
visitors know where to sit."
"Quite so. I think it is an excellent idea. But please tell me--where
am I to sit at dinner to-night?"
She laughed, and half blushed. She had meant this good "Captain Reid"
to take herself in to dinner, having reserved a much more elderly lady
for Major Reid. But somehow, as she looked into his face, an intuition
came to her. She was a woman with very quick intuitions, and she could
read a man's thoughts in a flash.
"Never mind whom you were to take in," she said. "Tell me quickly--
quickly--whom you wish to sit next. Ah, there's another ring at the
bell!"
"Well, to tell you the truth, I want to take Florence Heathcote into
dinner to-night. Can you manage it?"
"I certainly can, and will. Dear, beautiful Florence! No wonder you
admire her. I will give directions this minute. Just sit down, won't
you, near the fire. I will go and alter the dinner-table."
Lieutenant Reid seated himself with a smile round his lips. He had
achieved his purpose.
"I thought she would help me," was his inward reflection. "I was to
take her in--poor Susie! but I am flying for higher game. 'Pon my word!
the pater is right, and Florence is worth making an effort to secure.
Now, it's all right. We'll go into the garden after dinner, and during
dinner I can begin to lay my little trap for the entanglement of that
gentle heart. She looked very beautiful in church to-day, but I do wish
I could remember the colour of her eyes."