At Langdale, several people missed Florence and Brenda Heathcote. Susie
and her father missed them most, because they were the sort of people
who would love the girls for themselves, and not for the money they had
been supposed to possess. But there were others who missed them in
different degrees and according to their different characters. Bridget,
for instance, was extremely sulky when she found that Mrs Fortescue had
let Miss Florence go without even one word of farewell, nor one allusion
to the sorrow she ought to feel at giving her up. Mrs Fortescue
herself had her qualms of conscience. The advertisements she had put
into the papers were not receiving satisfactory replies. The ladies,
old or young, who suggested residing with Mrs Fortescue offered
comparatively small sums for the privilege of dwelling under her roof.
Mrs Fortescue felt almost snappish. She did not think that she would
make much solid gold out of the young ladies whom she was hoping to have
to reside with her. She began to murmur at the dispensations of
Providence, and to think it cruelly hard on Brenda and Florence that
they should be deprived of their fortunes. She began for the first time
to see matters from the girls' point of view. It would, in short, be
difficult, almost impossible, for her to find any other pair of girls so
nice as these, and so well able to pay her for the great trouble she had
taken on their account.
She even did not like to think of that morning when she had insisted on
depriving Florence of her poached eggs, and giving her a breakfast which
under ordinary circumstances would have been partaken of by Bridget.
She was also much annoyed at Bridget's determination to leave her; for
Bridget was a cheap, as well as a valuable servant; and Mrs Fortescue
knew well that such people were rare.
She therefore, when she went into the street, had on an injured and
melancholy air, and spoke with sadness about the poor _dear_ Heathcotes,
wondering what the sweet girls would now do with themselves, and how the
cold world would receive these dear orphans, who were so unfitted to
plunge into its stormy waves.
One of the people she met, as she walked down the street a couple of
days after Florence had left Langdale, was Major Reid. Major Reid felt
about as cross as man could feel. He had been worked up to a state of
intense excitement during his last memorable interview with Mrs
Fortescue. He had hoped great things not only for his son, but for
himself, after he had heard what in all probability Florence's fortune
would be. He had returned home in a genial mood, and in consequence he
and the Lieutenant had engaged that evening in a very amicable
conversation. Michael found his father much more approachable on
certain subjects than he had ever found him before, and in a fit of
confidence he had acquainted his parent with part of the truth, but not
all, with regard to his financial difficulties.
The Major swore a good deal when he discovered that his son was
hopelessly in debt. Nevertheless, he cooled down after a time, and said
that although it would be almost an impossibility, he would endeavour to
raise a few hundred pounds to set Michael straight--in short, to put him
on his legs again, provided he secured that dazzling young heiress,
Florence Heathcote. But now--alack and alas! the dazzling young heiress
did not exist. The girl herself was there, with her bright eyes and
radiant face and all the fine qualities which the Major had given her
credit for. But the glitter of gold no longer surrounded her, and she
was therefore an impossible mate for Michael. The Major was choking
with rage. Things were much worse than they had been at the Moat, for
now the Major and the Lieutenant were scarcely on speaking terms, the
Major furiously declaring that he would not advance a penny to help his
son, and the son threatening all sorts of disastrous consequences in the
future.
Eventually, Lieutenant Reid left Langdale, intending to visit certain
money-lenders who, he trusted, would help him temporarily out of his
difficulties.
After he had gone, Major Reid cooled down a little. The boy was his
only son: he had hoped to see him a useful and popular member of
society--a country gentleman, no less; for surely if Florence was as
well off as Mrs Fortescue had given him to understand, the boy need not
continue in the Army.
All these dreams had now come to an end, and the Major felt that there
were few women in the world he hated as he did Mrs Fortescue. He would
have given a great deal not to meet her, but he suddenly found himself
face to face with her in the little High Street. She came up to him
sorrowfully. She was the sort of woman who could never, under any
circumstances, imagine herself _de trop_, and she certainly believed
herself to be irresistible to all men.
"Ah, Major!" she said. "What a blow--what a terrible blow we have
received! and where is your dear boy? I pity him from my heart."
"My son has left Langdale," said the Major freezingly. "I will not
detain you any longer, Mrs Fortescue. I am going for a brisk walk, and
the morning is too chilly to stand still long in the street."
He raised his hat and walked on. He looked very stiff and disagreeable.
"Old curmudgeon!" whispered Mrs Fortescue under her breath. "What a
selfish person! he has no thought for the poor girls themselves; or for
me, or for any one but just himself and that conceited puppy, Michael."
Mrs Fortescue continued her morning shopping, and eventually found
herself in the neighbourhood of the Grange. Surely there, at least, she
would receive all possible sympathy. When had Susie turned an unwilling
ear to any one's grief? She--Mrs Fortescue--would show herself this
morning in the most amiable light, suffering with the penniless girls
and not thinking of herself at all. It would be very forgiving of her,
too, to call at the Arbuthnots' after the Colonel's visit to her. It
would show, that she at least bore no ill-will to any human being on
earth.
Accordingly, she paused before the well-known door. She would be
obliged to ask Colonel Arbuthnot before long for a reference, and would
like to smooth the way by means of an interview with Susie first.
When the servant answered her summons she inquired, therefore, if Miss
Arbuthnot was within. She was replied to in the affirmative, and was
shown into the parlour looking out on the street. There Susie was
performing all kinds of useful arts. It was not at all a pretty room--
as pretty rooms go: it was made for use, not for ornament. The table in
the centre was an old deal one--in fact, nothing better than a large
kitchen table, and at this moment Susie was busy finishing the marmalade
which she and Florence had begun.
She looked up when Mrs Fortescue appeared. Her eyes were a little red,
as though she had been crying: otherwise, her face was quite cheerful,
it even wore a jubilant expression.
"How do you do?" she said in her kind voice. "You will forgive me if I
go on cutting my oranges. All this supply of marmalade has to be boiled
early to-morrow morning, and the orange peel must soak for a certain
time."
"Yes, yes," said Mrs Fortescue; "I quite understand. There are so many
recipes for marmalade."
"Mine is the best that is known," said Susie, in her quick voice,
cutting her orange peel as she spoke into fine, almost imperceptible
wafers. "You don't slake your own marmalade, do you?" she said.
"No; I really haven't time; and that reminds me--Bridget is leaving. It
is too bad: she is such a good faithful creature, and I don't know how
to replace her."
Susie helped herself to some more orange peel and continued her work.
"You don't know of any one you could recommend, do you, Susie?" said
Mrs Fortescue.
"No," said Susie bluntly. "I do not."
Mrs Fortescue heaved a deep sigh. She quite understood what Susie
Arbuthnot meant to imply by her brief words. Even if she did know a
nice honest girl she would not send her to Mrs Fortescue.
"Susie," said Mrs Fortescue, after a pause, "I fear, I greatly fear
that I was a little hard on dear Florence. I have come here to tell you
so."
Susie laid down her knife and raised her honest brown eyes to fix them
fully on Mrs Fortescue's face. The widow pushed her chair round so
that the light should not fall too full on her countenance.
"Yes," she continued, "and I have come here to own my fault. I fear
your father was deeply annoyed with me. Is that true?"
"`Annoyed' is not exactly the word," said Susie, in a low tone.
"Well--well, dear," said Mrs Fortescue, who did not wish Susie to say
too much and trembled also with regard to her future reference. "You,
who have your fixed and settled income can scarcely understand what it
is to be a woman of my means--a woman with an uncertain, a fluctuating
supply of money; enough just for her bare needs one year, and too little
for them the next. I lost my temper--not, indeed, with the girls
themselves, but with that exceedingly deceitful man, Mr Timmins, who
might have told me how the dear children were placed long, long before
he did. He deceived me, he deceived us all."
"The girls were not to blame, were they?" said Susie, resuming the
cutting of her orange peel with considerable energy.
"Oh, no, no--indeed no!" said Mrs Fortescue; "and that is just what I
have come to talk about. I have recovered my temper and repented of my
injustice. I am now thinking, not so much of myself, although I shall
have to find some young girls to mother, in the future--"
Susie again looked at her attentively--"but I have not come here to talk
of that now. I am anxious about the Heathcotes, poor dears! Poor
dears! the world will receive them coldly--"
"I do not think so," said Susie.
Mrs Fortescue shook her head.
"You do not know the world, Susie Arbuthnot. You think you do; but you
don't. The fact is--it shudders at the poor, and the older it grows,
the more it despises poverty, the more it requires every one whom it
takes to its heart to be rich--_rich_." Susie was silent. "Those poor
young things," continued Mrs Fortescue--"if there is any way in which I
can help them--I came here this morning. Susie, to tell you that I am
willing to do it."
"Are you really?" said Susie. She looked at her abruptly. "Would you,
for instance, give them a home if they required it?"
"I--" said Mrs Fortescue, hesitating--"well, not for long--but just for
a little visit perhaps. What I really meant to say was that I could
furnish them with excellent references, and--what is the matter, Susie?"
"Nothing," said Susie, rising. "I am going to find father. I think he
is in the house."
She abruptly left the room, closing the door after her.
"What a very queer look Susie Arbuthnot has on her face!" thought Mrs
Fortescue. "I wonder if those people have made up their minds to shun
me. If so, and if Major Reid means to continue to be as abominable as
he has been this morning, I had better leave Langdale."
As the last thought flashed through her mind Susie returned with the
Colonel. They came in together, and the Colonel held a letter in his
hand. He was somewhat shabby in his dress. He always was shabby in the
house; but he never stooped in body, being a soldier; and he never
stooped in mind, being a gentleman. He came forward quite simply, and
held out his hand to Mrs Fortescue.
"How do you do? It is a beautiful day, is it not?"
Mrs Fortescue felt immensely relieved. The Colonel had evidently quite
forgiven her. He was a nice man and--yes, she acknowledged it to
herself--such a gentleman. Susie was very blunt; but the Colonel had
exquisite manners when he liked, and he seemed to like now, for he
invited Mrs Fortescue to take a warm seat near the fire and poked it up
for her benefit. Then, turning his own back to it, he looked at her
with a whimsical expression on his pleasant face.
"Susie tells me that you have been good enough to express regret with
regard to Brenda and Florence Heathcote."
"Oh, yes--yes!" said Mrs Fortescue, clasping her hands. "I am so sorry
for them."
"Well, there is no possible reason why you should not be relieved of any
feeling of uneasiness with regard to my two young friends. Florence did
not wish her letter to be kept a secret, did she, Susie?"
"No, father; quite the contrary," said Susie. She had not returned to
her marmalade. She was standing not far from her father, one of her
hands resting on the mantelpiece.
"I have had a letter from Florence Heathcote this morning," said the
Colonel. "It was really written both to my daughter and myself."
"Has she found employment?" asked Mrs Fortescue.
"Well--yes; that is, her future plans and those of her sister are
practically arranged for the next few years."
"I am very glad," said Mrs Fortescue, speaking in a cold, disappointed
voice.
"Ah, well," said the Colonel, "and so am I--very glad. But you haven't
heard all yet. You don't know, far instance, what the girls mean to
do."
"I do not," said Mrs Fortescue; "and I am so much interested in them--
so very much--dear children, dear children!"
"You had an opportunity of showing your interest a week ago," said the
Colonel, very gravely--"your interest and your sympathy. The fact is,
Mrs Fortescue, both that interest and sympathy have come now rather
late in the day--in short, they are not required. The girls go to
Girton in the autumn, and until that time, they will be preparing for
their life there, under the best masters that London can provide. They
will live, until they go to Girton, with Lady Marian Dixie."
"Then she has taken them up!" said Mrs Fortescue, quivering rage in her
voice. "She has in a sort of way adopted them? Yes," she continued,
half-choking with futile anger; "but they need not trust to the whims of
rich women. She may change her mind a thousand times and leave all her
money in the end to some one else. I have seen it done--I have known it
done times out of number."
"Yes; quite so," said the Colonel; "quite so. In this case the matter
is different."
"Has she already made a will in their favour?" inquired Mrs Fortescue.
"I don't know anything whatever with regard to Lady Marian's
intentions," said the Colonel, speaking less affably and flashing his
eyes sternly at the widow. "The fact is this--you will be as surprised
as Susie and I were and, I hope and trust, for the sake of your better
nature--as glad. Brenda and Florence Heathcote have no need to earn
their bread."
"No need? Oh!" said Mrs Fortescue. "But I was told they were
penniless."
"You received a letter from Mr Timmins in which he informed you that
the money their father had left for their education was practically
exhausted, and that your services would not be required after their
winter vacation."
"I was given to understand that they were penniless girls. What do you
mean?" said Mrs Fortescue.
"You will be glad to hear that they are very far from penniless. Their
mother has left them a large fortune which they will come into as soon
as they attain their majority. Meanwhile, Lady Marian Dixie is
appointed their guardian. She wishes them to continue their education,
and they are going to Girton for the purpose. It is good news--yes, it
is very good news. Florence and Brenda will, I make no doubt, be fitted
to bear the awful responsibility of wealth."
"But--but," said Mrs Fortescue, almost blue with rage; "how can you
justify--"
"I justify nothing, my dear madam; I simply state a fact; you are
welcome to tell it to whom you please. As far as I can make out, the
girls were not told anything absolutely untrue. As far as their
father's money was concerned, they were penniless. There was no mention
made of their mother's fortune. It was, I gathered, a test to discover
who were their true friends. Rich young girls are often surrounded by
those who simply prey on them for the sake of what they can get. Susie,
don't you think we had better come out while the sun shines? You won't
think me rude, Mrs Fortescue, if I ask you to call at some future
date."
"Oh no; I won't think you rude," said Mrs Fortescue. "I--I am
astonished--stunned--"
But she spoke to empty air, for Susie and her father had left the room.
"They did not even show me out!" thought the furious widow. "Langdale
won't see _me_ long!"
Perhaps very few people suffered more exquisite torture than did Mrs
Fortescue after she left Colonel Arbuthnot's house. Oh! if only she had
been good to Florence during that week. Oh! if only she had done just--
just what she had not done! She was like many another unfortunate man
or woman in this world which contains so many failures! She had acted
in the worst possible way at the crucial moment. She had missed her
chance. The girls were rich after all, and yet she had given Florence a
ham bone for breakfast! She walked fast, trying to cool down after the
blow which, it is to be feared, Colonel Arbuthnot rather rejoiced in
giving her.
Suddenly, an idea came to her. If she was suffering, why should not
Major Reid share her tortures? How impertinent he had been to her that
morning! But she was right after all--right, not wrong. That silly
fool of a Michael--if only he had been true to his heart's instincts--
would have won an heiress, and perhaps an heiress to a far greater
extent than even Mrs Fortescue's dreams had pictured.
"I will go to see the man. This is really a good story and one worth
telling," thought the widow.
She turned in the direction of the Moat. The Moat was a little way
outside Langdale, and you had to go up a somewhat steep hill to reach
it. It was an old-fashioned house, surrounded by overshadowing trees.
Even in summer it was not very bright, and in winter it was a hopelessly
damp, deserted-looking place.
Mrs Fortescue marched up the avenue with a determined stride and rang
the bell by the front door. It was opened by a slatternly-looking
servant. The Major's house was not kept well. In all respects, it was
a contrast to the Grange, where the Arbuthnots managed to make every
penny do its utmost work. Nobody cared what became of things at the old
Moat, and there was hardly a more miserable old man than Major Reid, as
he sat now at his lunch table, trying to find something tasty and
agreeable in his badly-done chop. Mrs Fortescue, who was feeling so
fierce that she would dare anything, followed in the steps of Colonel
Arbuthnot and said quickly--"I know your master is in: I must see him at
once on important business."
The girl made way for her, and Mrs Fortescue's instinct drew her to the
dining-room. She opened the door and burst in.
"I have news--great news for you, Major Reid."
"Madam!" said the Major. He started to his feet. His first furious
request to ask this interloper to make herself scarce died on his lips.
He looked into her face. She came close to him and looked into his.
"Major," she said; "we have been the victims of a conspiracy--yes, of a
base, base conspiracy. It is my opinion that the Arbuthnots were in the
secret from the first, and that hat accounts for their sneaking, fawning
ways. How I do loathe people of that sort. So different from you and
me--so, so different!"
"You astonish me," began the Major. "The Arbuthnots--pray take a
seat--"
He pushed his plate away from him and looked hard at his visitor.
"You were abominably rude to me in the street a couple of hours ago,"
said Mrs Fortescue.
"I was in no mood to be civil, and even now, if you have anything to say
except to abuse my old friend Arbuthnot, I--"
"But I have something to say; something that will astound--_astound_
you! When you came to my house a very short time ago and asked me to
give you some idea of the extent of Florence Heathcote's fortune, I told
you--"
"A lie, madam! The girl is penniless: pray don't revert to that most
annoying scene."
"I told you no lie, Major Reid."
"What?"
"I told you the truth. I doubtless understated the sum which will
eventually belong to Florence Heathcote."
"What is this?" said the Major, turning very pale.
"The conspiracy has been at last explained," said Mrs Fortescue, "and
my opinion is that those Arbuthnots, who set up such lofty standards,
knew all about the matter from the first. Those miserable girls are
heiresses, after all. Their father's fortune, it is true, has been
already expended on their education, but they inherit a large sum--
doubtless many thousands--from their mother. It seems, Major Reid, that
for some extraordinary, unfathomable reason we, their old and trusty
friends, were to be put to the test--to the test with regard to their
future: and I--_I_ treated Florence, that beautiful, gifted spirited,
_rich_ girl, to--a ham bone!"
Angry tears rose to Mrs Fortescue's eyes. The Major looked at her with
a face very nearly as pale as her own.
"Are you certain of what you are saying?"
"I am positive. I have been to the Arbuthnots'. I received the news
from the Colonel himself. He had a letter from Florence in his hand.
He spoke of it as a test--a test; but I call it the vilest of all
conspiracies! I could still have had those girls with me, and your son
would have married Florence and been rich."
"Good Heavens!" said the Major. "If I thought--but it isn't too late.
Michael--that young dog! Mrs Fortescue; don't say a word; don't
breathe anything. Keep my secret and I vow I will help you in the
future. I will go to London to see Michael this evening. All is not
lost."
The Major, trembling exceedingly, crossed the room. He rang the bell
and desired the servant to bring him an A B C. He looked up a train in
Mrs Fortescue's presence. She was no longer hateful to him. If she
could help him at this juncture, he would be her friend for the rest of
her life.
"Never mind the Arbuthnots," he said. "Yes; they doubtless did know.
Just like the Colonel. It _is_ a conspiracy--it is shameful! But let
me make an effort in my poor boy's cause. Don't breathe to any one that
I have gone to London. I will just walk in the direction of the
station, and slip in when no one is observing, and take the next train
to town."
"I will keep your secret, trust me," said Mrs Fortescue.