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.”