"Now, Florence," said Mrs Fortescue, "I suppose you have got something
to tell me."
"I have," answered Florence. She spoke almost flippantly. "I am very,
very hungry. I hope you have a nice dinner, a specially nice dinner for
us both to enjoy together to-night, Mrs Fortescue."
"I have got a duck," said Mrs Fortescue; "and ducks at present are
exceedingly expensive; but I never think of expense when I am providing
luxuries for you and your dear sister. You deserve all the good things
of life, my darlings, and I trust they will fall to your portion.
Nevertheless, I think, I do think you might have confided in me."
Florence coloured and then turned pale. She wondered if anyone had, in
some miraculous way, become acquainted with the fact of their own great
poverty; but no, the whole thing seemed impossible. Florence herself
had been careful not to breathe a word on the subject, and she was
pretty sure that Brenda had not done so. What, therefore, could Mrs
Fortescue mean? As to the other matter--that which related to
Lieutenant Reid, it is sad to have to confess that Florence, for the
time being, had forgotten the gallant lieutenant.
"I am hungry!" she said; "and I would rather talk to you after dinner
than before: that is, if you don't mind."
"I don't mind at all, dearest," said Mrs Fortescue. "You would like to
go upstairs and change your travelling dress. I will send Bridget in to
help you."
"Thank you," said Florence.
She was about to refuse this offer, but suddenly remembered that all her
dresses fastened behind, and that she could not manage this part of her
toilet now that Brenda was away. She ran upstairs at once, locked her
door and flung herself on her knees by her bedside. There she uttered a
strangled sort of prayer to God to give her help; but she had not been
more than a minute on her knees before Bridget's knock was heard.
Florence went to the door and opened it.
Bridget was always respectful to the Misses Heathcote, for they were
liberal with their tips and were, she considered, exceedingly nice,
lively young ladies, who made the house pleasant and enabled her to stay
on with Mrs Fortescue. She would long ago have left that good lady but
for the fact that the Misses Heathcote came to Langdale in the holidays,
and made the place bright and cheerful, and caused her mistress to
provide the best food, and, in short, to give every one in the house a
good time all round.
"I have come to help you, miss," said Bridget now. "You will be that
lonely without dear Miss Brenda. We none of us knew she was going to
stay in town when you both left this morning."
"Oh, it's all right, Biddie dear," said Florence. "Brenda had to stay:
I don't want to talk too much about it, for it makes me so very sad."
"Then it ain't all right, if it makes you sad," said Bridget.
"We have all of us to bear pain in our turn, haven't we?" said Florence,
looking full at the elderly servant with her bright eyes.
"I suppose so," said Bridget, who felt interested in this talk and
inclined to concur. "My poor mother, who died a very lingering and
painful death, always said that pain was the will of Providence. I
couldn't see it, miss; but I suppose she was right."
"Yes, Bridget," said Florence; "she was quite right. Please fasten me
into my white dress--this one, please. Thank you so very much."
"We have had quite an entertaining day," said Bridget. "You wouldn't
believe it--but we had company to lunch."
"Company?" said Florence, in some astonishment. "What do you mean?"
"No less a person than Major Reid." Florence felt herself colouring
violently.
"He came comparatively early," continued Bridget, "and had a long talk
with my missis, and afterwards stayed to lunch. I can't say there was
much for lunch--only the mutton bone and some fried potatoes; but my
missis got up a bottle of champagne from the wine cellar, and the Major
drank three or four glasses. He was very friendly indeed with my
missis, and seemed a good bit excited--indeed, they both were."
Florence longed to ask more questions, but refrained, and after a time,
Bridget left the room. Then the girl stood with her hands clasped
together gazing straight before her into the long mirror which was
fastened to the wall. She saw a very charming reflection there. The
form of a girl, with the extreme grace of youth and altogether well
made, stood upright before her. She saw sparkling eyes, and a wealth of
hair and delicate colour on the softly rounded cheeks. She knew that
she was looking at herself, and it occurred to her all of a sudden that
there was no wonder at all that Michael Reid should love her just for
herself and not in the very least for her gold. Was not her face her
fortune? She now felt quite gay and happy. She forgot her loneliness
with regard to her sister and ran downstairs humming a gay song.
Dinner was announced almost immediately, and the two ladies went into
the dining-room and partook of it. Florence was really hungry and
enjoyed the carefully prepared meal. Mrs Fortescue watched her as she
ate. At last the dinner came to an end and they both retired to the
drawing-room.
"Now," said Mrs Fortescue, the moment the door had closed behind the
two, "I must ask you, Florence, to enlighten me. There is a great deal
you ought to tell me. I have been kept in the dark too long. What
arrangements has Mr Timmins arrived at with regard to your future?"
"He said he would write to you. I expect you will hear from him in the
morning."
"But you can tell me, darling: I need not be kept on tenter-hooks until
the morning."
"I would much, much rather he told you himself," said Florence, moving
restlessly in her choir.
"But why, dearest? Did he ask you not to tell me?"
"He did not exactly do that; but he said he would write. From his whole
tone I know he expects me to say nothing until you hear from him."
Then Florence got up. She approached Mrs Fortescue's side, and bending
down, kissed the good lady on her forehead.
"You have been very, very kind to Brenda and me," she said; "and we will
never forget it, never."
"I trust indeed you won't, my dear," said Mrs Fortescue. "It is my
wish to continue my kindness to you both. And now, Florence, I have
something to say to you on my own account. A little bird has told me a
secret with regard to you. Of course, dear--with regard to Mr Timmins,
he must please himself as to whether he chooses to let me know what our
future plans are to be, although I maintain that if I am kept much
longer in the dark, I shall think he is not treating me fairly. But as
to you and your dear sister--you, at least are different. Florence, I
did not think, I could not imagine that you would have a love affair--
you, such a child as you are too! and keep it dark from me."
Florence found herself blushing very hotly.
"Who told you that I had a love affair?" she said.
"My dear Florence, there is not the least manner of use in your hiding
the matter from me any longer. We at Langdale know each other so well
that we are, in fact, like one big family. What affects one affects
all. The sorrows of one try the hearts of all the others. The joys of
one equally rejoice the hearts of all the others. In your happiness, my
darling, the rest of us rejoice. It was Major Reid who told me; he came
himself to-day to speak of his son's attachment to you. He was
delighted himself; he has a great, great affection and a deep admiration
for you, Florence; and I--I also think Michael an excellent young man."
"Oh--do you?" said Florence. "Do you, really?"
She had meant to go back to her seat at the opposite side of the hearth,
but instead of doing this, she now dropped on her knees close to Mrs
Fortescue. She had never felt so near that good lady before--so drawn
to her, so part of her: in fact, the one comfort at present in her
desolate position was the knowledge of Michael's love. She must, of
course, not mention her own great poverty, but she could at least listen
to what Mrs Fortescue had to say about him.
"I don't mind your knowing at all," she said. "I felt shy about
speaking to you, but as the Major has called, it makes all the
difference. And he is not angry--really? You are quite, quite sure?"
"Sure? my dear child. I am certain the Major is delighted, Florence.
He loves you as a daughter. But now, take this little chair close to me
and tell me all you have to say."
Florence found that she had not a great deal to say. There was
something about Mrs Fortescue which seemed to shut her up. The first
dawning of that young love which had awakened in her heart did not
respond to the touch of the eager, selfish, worldly woman. Of course
she did love--yes, she was certain now she loved Michael; but she hated
talking about him. She would rather put him in the background, and when
Mrs Fortescue--instead of answering her many questions with regard to
the young man's youth, his early history, his dead mother, his father
when he was young, and those various things about his early life which
Mrs Fortescue knew and Florence did not--preferred to talk about the
girl's own future, the way Michael and she would live (as Michael would
probably leave the Army), and how nice it would be to settle in
Langdale, Florence found a wall of separation rising up between herself
and her quondam friend. She pleaded fatigue at last, and went to her
room, where she spent a great part of the night in secret tears. For,
notwithstanding the fact that the Major had visited Mrs Fortescue, and
that Michael himself had told Florence that he would love her just the
same if she were as poor as a church mouse, Florence felt certain that
neither the Major nor Mrs Fortescue thought of her as a desirable wife
for the young man except as a rich heiress.
"Well," she said to herself finally, as she turned on her pillow for the
fifth time, "if, after hearing everything, he cares for me, I will stick
to him and work hard to save a little money until we can marry; but if
he doesn't--oh, oh--"
Florence would not allow herself even to finish the latter thought which
came into her mind.