"That is all very well; but what is Miss Hudson to do when she leaves
you, Colonel?"
"We'll keep her as long as the cold weather lasts," said the Colonel,
rubbing his hands. "She can go back to her own rooms when the weather
becomes mild. Run round to her early this morning, Susie, my love; and
be sure you have something specially appetising for dinner."
Susie promised with that bright glance of hers and a smile which
irradiated her face for a moment and then left it grave and practical.
She meant to have a dinner of bones that day, and a bone dinner would
not do for Miss Hudson. Florence had been initiated into the bone
dinners, and they were really quite remarkable. They were so good that
she quite enjoyed them; but they were never spoken about. They
consisted of two or three pennyworth of bones, which were boiled down to
make a strong soup, into which was introduced every known vegetable that
Susie could lay her hands on out of the garden. No one ever spoke of
the absence of meat on the day when the bone dinner appeared. Each
person received a portion of bone with the rich gravy and vegetables,
and it would have been considered very incorrect not to praise the
delicious, tender repast. The Colonel as a rule said, "What good meat
we get from our butcher," and Susie nodded, picking at her bone
viciously as she did so, knowing quite well that she would not get one
morsel of meat from it.
Florence had been told the mystery of the bone dinner.
"We have it sometimes three times a week," said Susie. "We need not
have it at all, you know, but the price of the meat goes to certain very
poor widows in the village. I could not manage to give it to them in
any other way, and I cannot tell you what sustenance father and I get
from our bones and vegetables. You will have the same, and you won't
mind, will you, Florence?"
Florence was delighted, but rather overdid the occasion in the first
instance of the bone dinner, declaring that the meat was almost too
tender. But the Colonel gave her a keen glance which was almost stern,
and she found herself colouring and was silent.
Now the day on which Miss Hudson was to be asked to go and stay with the
Arbuthnots was a bone dinner day, and Susie was a little perplexed as to
how to manage the matter. She consulted Florence on the subject.
Florence was very much excited on her own account, for that was the very
day of the week on which Michael Reid had promised to come to receive
her answer. Nevertheless, Susie's anxious face drew her at once, and
she said, after a pause--
"You could have some little special thing for her alone, couldn't you?"
"No; that would never do," said Susie, frowning. "She would not touch
it. She would push the bones about in her plate, and make a noise with
them, and pretend she was delighted, and the special thing would go out
of the room, for not one of us would look at it. What is to be done?"
"I tell you what," said Florence, blushing very deeply. "I have got
such a lot of money. May not I provide the dinner to-day? You have
been, oh, so kind to me, so sweet, so angelic. Do, do, _do_ let me!
The darling Colonel won't notice, I know he won't. It will be just our
secret. Why may not I have this pleasure?"
"There now," said Susie; "why, of course you may. Give me half-a-crown,
and I will get something excellent for dinner."
So Florence broke into the first of her ten sovereigns, and Susie
started off to market, determined to buy beef which should not be
rivalled by any other beef that had ever been cooked before in the
United Kingdom. When she had gone, Florence went away by herself. She
was afraid to go out; she did not care to stay still. She was restless
and unhappy. Michael ought to have arrived. He knew quite well where
she was, for she had met him once during the week, and had even told him
that she was staying with the Arbuthnots. On this occasion the gallant
lieutenant had been seen walking down the High Street with two or three
young ladies. But he had stopped at sight of Florence looking so
radiant, so different from any other girl, in her beautiful sealskin
jacket with that becoming sealskin cap. He had looked at her, but had
said nothing, cruelly contenting himself with taking off his hat. But
his eyes--and Michael had very handsome eyes--seemed to express volumes,
and Florence had gone back again to the Arbuthnots' house feeling warm
and happy.
Yes; she knew now quite well that she loved him, and love was beautiful.
She was not a poor girl, after all; she was rich, far richer than
Brenda, far richer than Susie or the Colonel. In a short time she would
be publicly engaged to Michael, and then would begin the delightful task
of working for their future home. She had heard of girls who, when
engaged, spoke of the bottom drawer in their room as containing
treasures which they amassed for the time when they would be married.
Florence would have her bottom drawer; and oh! how many and what
beautiful things she would put into it!--a wealth of love, a world of
devotion; courage, hope, steadfastness. She could scarcely believe her
own heart: she was learning so much, oh, so much during that week she
spent with the Arbuthnots.
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.
"Well, Florence," he said; "what is it?"
"You say I am not rich, Colonel Arbuthnot," was Florence's answer; "but
I am just about as rich as any girl can be."
She blushed, and her beautiful eyes grew bright--bright with that sort
of look which made it impossible to tell what their colour was, only
there seemed to be a great deal of gold about them--a sort of golden
brown. Then she dropped her long, black lashes, and her face, which had
been so rosy, grew pale. She lifted her eyes again, and fixed them on
the Colonel's face.
"He is coming to-day," she said; "that is why I am happy. He may be
here at any hour--at any minute. I am most awfully happy. A week ago I
was astonished when he said what he did say; but now I am just happy. I
am very rich, Colonel, because he loves me so much."
"Who in the world is the girl talking about?" said the Colonel, for he
at least knew nothing about Florence's attachment.
Florence looked at him half shyly.
"Can't you guess?" she said. "Didn't you see us together on Christmas
Day?" But the Colonel still looked puzzled. A good many people had
dined in their hospitable house on Christmas Day, and he had not
particularly noticed either Brenda or Florence at that time.
"You must explain a little more, dear," he said very gently.
"Well," said Florence, "I will tell you, for you will know all about it
very, very soon. It is Michael--Michael Reid."
"What?" said the Colonel.
"We have been friends always, but I never guessed--in fact, I have never
had the smallest idea that he--he cared for me; I did not think about
those sorts of things; but on Christmas Day he did seem a little
different from other men, and the next day we took a walk--a long walk--
and he told me--oh, that is what makes it so beautiful!--that he loved
me just, just for myself alone."
The Colonel looked rather uneasy.
"Michael Reid!" he said. "Of course I know the lad, I have known him
since he was a boy. He is not well off, Florence."
"That is just it," said Florence. "That is the beautiful part. We
neither of us care twopence whether he is well off or not. He says that
he would love me if I were as poor as a church mouse, and I feel just
the same for him. We are very rich, both of us, because we love each
other so much. That is about it, Colonel. How can you call me a poor
girl, when I am so rich in love?"
"God grant it, my darling! God grant that you are," said the Colonel in
a reverent tone. Then, bending over her, he kissed her on her white
forehead. "You have no father living, so I must take his place for the
time being," he added.
"Michael is coming to see me to-day," said Florence. "He may be here
any minute. I want to put on my very prettiest frock for him. There is
nothing one would not do for the man who loves you, is there?"
"Nothing, nothing, of course," said the Colonel.
Very soon afterwards Florence left the room. As she was going away, the
Colonel said--
"I must see about this: I must be a father to you; I feel that I stand
in the place of a father to you at the present moment."
"Oh, how sweet you are!" said Florence. "He will be here himself--any
minute; for the week is up to-day, and he is coming to get my answer.
He knows all, all about my being poor, and he is coming to-day for my
answer. I must go upstairs now to make myself look my very best for
him."
She went away, closing the door very softly behind her. The Colonel
heard her singing as she ran upstairs. He then sank heavily into his
accustomed armchair. He rested his elbows on the arms of the chair and
gazed straight before him with a deep frown between his brows. In
truth, he was more troubled than he had ever been before.
After a long time, during which he had been thinking deeply, he went to
his desk and wrote a short note to Susie.
"Dear Susie,--
"I may not be in to lunch. Don't wait for me.
"Your loving,--
"Father."
He then put on his greatcoat, that shabby coat which had grown green
with age, took up his hat and gold-headed stick, and marched out into
the little street of Langdale. The Colonel had never looked fiercer,
nor yet more dignified than he did now. His moustaches had taken quite
a formidable military curl. His white hair was white as snow, but his
black brows, and the gleam in his eyes under them, made him look quite a
remarkable and imposing figure. One or two people spoke to him, but he
did not answer. They wondered afterwards what was the matter with
Colonel Arbuthnot. He was certainly very upright. He was an amazing
figure for a man of his age--so the women said who watched him from
their cottage doors. He was bent on something, just as bent as he had
been when he was young and was fighting the battles of his country.
He went straight to Mrs Fortescue's house. He rang the bell, and when
Bridget answered his summons, he said--
"You needn't tell me that your mistress is at home, because I see her in
her dining-room window. I want to say something to her." Then Bridget
made way for him, and he went into Mrs Fortescue's presence uninvited.