The Major arrived in town towards evening.
He knew where his son was lodging. Lieutenant Reid would have to join
his regiment in two or three days, but the last few hours of his leave
would be spent in his old rooms in St James' Street.
Reid was heavily in debt--up to his very eyes, in fact--but that was no
reason whatever for his taking poor rooms or allowing himself to be in
the least uncomfortable. He had a very little money in hand, which he
had extorted from a rascally old Jew at enormous interest, and was
therefore, as he called it, rather flush, and inclined to make the best
of things. He was about to go out to dine at a certain club where he
would meet some of his brother officers when the Major walked in. It is
sad to have to relate that Lieutenant Reid was by no means glad to see
his father.
"Why, dad!" he said; "whatever has brought you up to town? and how queer
you look and in the name of fortune, what is the matter?"
"I have had the most astounding news," said the Major. "Let me sit
down, I am quite breathless. Michael, where are you going to dine?"
Michael Reid mentioned a fashionable club where he hoped to meet his
friend.
"You will not go there; you will stay with me. Send a messenger to
Hudson to say you are prevented dining with him this evening."
"But why? I have arranged the matter," said Michael, speaking crossly.
"That does not signify in the least," answered Major Reid. "I want to
speak to you, and there is not a moment--let me tell you frankly--not a
moment to lose."
Michael looked very hard at his father, and something in the old
gentleman's agitation seemed at last to acquaint him with the fact that
a matter of importance had occurred. He accordingly rang his bell, and
gave the necessary directions with regard to securing a messenger boy to
take a note to Captain Hudson. He then scribbled a few lines, delivered
the note to the servant, and turned to his father.
"I see you are in the old rooms," said the Major.
"Yes; I always come here when I am in town. Why should I change?"
"They are expensive," said the Major. "How do you mean to pay for
them?" Michael Reid turned rather white.
"Sir," he said, "you have decided not to help me in the future, you have
therefore forfeited the right to inquire into my financial position. It
is nothing to you, surely, how and in what manner I manage to obtain a
living."
"You cannot go on in the Army, swamped in debt as you are," said the
Major. "It is disreputable, and impossible."
Michael, who had been exceedingly annoyed at his father's visit, now
stared at him with a certain defiance. Then he looked at him again, and
it seemed to him that there was a meaning under the old gentleman's
words. He wondered vaguely if his old father was softening towards him,
and if, notwithstanding that unpleasant _fracas_ with regard to Florence
Heathcote, he would help him after all. Accordingly, he sank into a
chair, and gazed at his parent.
"You have something to say; you have not come up to town for nothing?"
"Most assuredly I have not. Michael--be prepared for astounding news."
"What, what?" said the young man, his heart beginning to beat.
"You remember that Heathcote girl."
"Florence?" said Michael. "I shall never forget her."
"Oh, Michael," said the Major; "we have been duped, and we have been
fools, all of us! I thought when first I heard the news, that Arbuthnot
and Susie were in the conspiracy; but in the train, somehow, I changed
my mind. Arbuthnot could not do anything mean, nor could Susie. They
were the only people at Langdale who treated Florence Heathcote with
equal love and kindness in her supposed poverty as in her supposed
riches."
"Well, sir," said Michael; "you yourself were the one who said that I
must not consider Florence for a single moment as a suitable wife for
me."
"I did--I did, my boy. And oh! my God--how I have repented!"
"But why?" said Michael. "Do you want me, after all, to many a
penniless girl? But I; father, I can't see her again! I--I behaved
abominably to her--abominably. What is the matter with you, dad? Why
do you stare at me? What are you so put out about?"
"Put out--put out!" said the Major. "I--I should think I am put out.
If the truth must be known, I feel nearly mad. Why, Michael, my boy,
the Heathcotes are heiresses after all--richer, far richer than we ever
dared to hope. Michael--what is it?"
Michael Reid started to his feet. He stared for a moment across the
room as though he felt inclined to do something desperate: then he sank
down in a state almost of collapse. In that instant, there came a
vision before him of a radiant young face, of speaking and beautiful
eyes, and of words he had said--oh! words he had never meant--never
meant at all! He had another vision of that face when he had acted
cruelly, brutally--towards the sweetest girl in the world.
"You want to hear particulars?" said the Major. "I will tell them.
That horrid woman, Mrs Fortescue, was the first to hear the news.
Florence wrote to Colonel Arbuthnot. The facts are simply these. The
girls inherit a very considerable fortune from their late mother. It
was their father's money which was mostly spent on their education and
which was nearly exhausted."
It seemed to Michael Reid that Florence's pathetic face looked at him
more and more sorrowfully. The room seemed full of her face, full of
her young presence, full of the trust she had once given him, and then
of the horror and distress which his conduct had caused her.
"Why have you come all the way to London to tell me this?" he said
faintly, turning as he spoke to address his father.
"Because--because," said the Major eagerly, "you are a clever young
fellow, Michael, and it may not be too late. You love the girl--you
have said so--and the girl loves you. Think what it means Michael:
don't lose such a golden chance. Is there any possible way in which you
can explain your last interview to Florence, and--and win her back? I
can assure you that if such a thing can be done, there is no step that
I, on my part, will not take to help you."
It was just at that moment that Michael Reid felt something new and
strange stirring within him, something he had _never_ in his whole life
felt before--a germ, the first germ of true nobility and true manliness.
The stirring of this new something was very slight at first--so slight
that it seemed to him that he had hardly felt it at all. Nevertheless,
the colour of shame did dye his face. He rose from his chair, and said
in a choking voice--
"Thank you for coming up, dad. I know you mean well. And now, you must
be tired out. Shall we go and have something to eat?"
"But you haven't answered me," said the astonished Major. "You allow
the precious moments to fly. My idea is this: I thought it all out
carefully in the train. Florence need have no reason to suppose that
you know anything about her unexpected change of fortune. You can still
approach her, as it were, in her state of poverty. Don't look at me
like that, my boy. Men have done such things before. You told her
once--"
"Yes, father--yes," interrupted Michael, "I told Florence a very, very
short time ago--a few days ago, in fact--that were she as poor as a
church mouse it would be all the same to me."
"You told her that, Michael, really?"
"I did--I did!" said the young man; "and if you had only seen how her
eyes shone and how she looked at me. She thought then that she was
poor--poor as I have described. She believed in me then. I told her a
lie, of course."
"Your path is clear," said the Major, becoming so excited that he began
to pace up and down the room. "You can easily explain away the
impression you unfortunately made upon her on that miserable day. You
can tell her that however great her poverty, she is all the world to
you. Do it, Michael; do it!"
"You want me to tell her another lie," said Michael Reid.
The Major laid his hand, his shrivelled old hand, on Michael's firm,
broad shoulder.
"You are young," he said; "you have the world before you. You have the
chance of winning the love of a beautiful and very rich girl. You have
got into many difficulties which many other young men in your station
have, alas! also plunged themselves in. There is a way out; but there
is not an hour to lose. Write to her to-night: beg for an interview.
She is with Lady Marian Dixie in Cadogan Place. You can see her in the
morning. Speak to her quickly--before she gives you her news. You can
retrieve your position: all is not lost. No one knows at Langdale, with
the exception of Mrs Fortescue, that I have come up to town; no one
shall know. I will take the evening train and creep back to the Moat
under shadow of the darkness. You cannot possibly have heard the news--
so people will say. Act on my advice, Michael--act on my advice."
"Come out and have something to eat," was Michael Reid's response. And
now he took his father by the arm and drew him down stairs, and took him
to a good restaurant not far off.
The old man was full of the most intense excitement. The young man was
calm and looked collected and firm. That germ of true manliness was
growing bigger. That little flickering flame of real nobility was
beginning to warm his hitherto frozen heart.
After the meal was over, the Major again spoke on the subject of
Florence.
"I understand exactly what you want me to do," Michael replied. "Don't
say another word. Keep your own counsel till you hear from me," and
this was all the Major could get out of his son Michael.
But he himself felt that his hurried journey to town had not been thrown
away. He was almost sure that Michael's future was secure. He trembled
with delight.
"If only it is never, never known that I rushed up to town to acquaint
the lad, all will be well," was his last thought as he lay down very
late that night to sleep. "Mrs Fortescue won't dare to tell; I'll take
precious good care that it is not worth her while. No one else has seen
me: it will never be known."
So, while the old man slept, dreaming wonderful dreams with regard to
Michael, Michael Reid himself fought with temptation and, to his credit
be it pronounced--conquered.
In the course of the next day two letters were received by two different
people. They were both in the Lieutenant's well-known handwriting. The
Major trembled much when his reached him. He looked at it, almost
fearing to open it, but by degrees he calmed down sufficiently to wrest
the contents from the envelope, and read Michael's few words. They ran
as follows:--
"My dear Father,--
"Thank you for coming to see me, and for opening my eyes. They have
been opened very wide. I have had a look at myself: I don't like what
I have seen, but there is always such a thing as turning over the
proverbial new leaf. I have been a cad in the past; I will make a try
for being a gentleman in the future. I can't do what you suggest.
Burn this, and try to forget our interview of to-night. I have got
into a mess, and I will scramble on to my own legs somehow; but not in
that way.
"Good-bye, dad. You will hear from me as soon as I have any news
worth relating.
"Your affectionate son,--
"Michael."
There is no use in describing the Major's rage. It lasted for about an
hour. At the end of that time, he burned his son's letter and said to
himself that he would try and forget him. But this was not at all easy:
on the contrary, for the first time since his birth, the Major truly
respected Michael, and in consequence could not get him out of his head.
There was one other letter written that same evening by the young man.
"Florence,--
"I have heard of your great fortune. God bless you. I was never
worthy of you. I am going to exchange immediately into foreign
service; but before I go, I want to take this opportunity to thank you
for teaching me a lesson which to my dying day I shall never forget.
I was tried in the fire, and was found unworthy.
"Michael."
Florence cried over this letter. She never showed it to any one. Even
Brenda to her dying day never knew that Florence had received it. But
although the Major burned his son's letter, Florence put hers away into
a secret place where she kept her treasures.
"The letter smooths out _some_ of the pain," she whispered to herself;
"and I can think of him now without sorrow."
------------------------------------------------------------------------
The End.