“Little affair!” said Florence. She felt indignant at the word “little” being introduced. The Colonel turned to her with a very gentle smile. He laid his hand on her arm.

“You are very young, my darling,” he said; “only a child – little more than a child. You don’t understand the world at all.”

“He said he wanted me for myself; that – that he would love me if I were as poor as a church mouse,” said Florence.

“You did say those words, didn’t you, Michael Reid?” said the Colonel.

Michael dropped his eyes.

“One says a great many things,” was his reply, “that one – doesn’t – ”

“Ah, I see,” said the Colonel. “You thought Florence Heathcote would be rich. Florence, don’t leave the room,” – for Florence was moving towards the door – “I wish you to stay, my dear. There is a little lesson which you two young people must learn, and you must learn it now, and in my presence. It will hurt you both for a time, but in the end you will both recover. Now, Michael, you made love to Florence Heathcote, believing her to be well off.”

“Everybody else thought the same,” said Michael Reid.

“Then you didn’t mean that about the church mouse?” said Florence.

“To tell the truth,” said Michael, desperately, “it was quite impossible – I mean, it is quite impossible. I am not at all well off myself – ”

“But I said I was willing to wait,” said Florence.

“Let him speak, Florence; don’t interrupt,” said the Colonel.

“There is no use in a long engagement,” said Reid. “I am exceedingly sorry – I cannot pretend that I am in a position to marry a penniless girl. I – I have debts; I am desperately sorry – I would have written – I ought to have written – I have been a fearful coward, but – ”

“Then you resign all claim to Florence Heathcote’s hand?” said Colonel Arbuthnot.

“Yes; I am obliged to; I am terribly, terribly sorry; it is fearfully bad of me.” Michael raised his eyes, met the flashing ones of Florence, then lowered them again. She was quite still for a minute. All the colour had gone out of her face. She was only eighteen; but a girl’s first love is sacred, and something was burned and withered, never to be restored again, in her young heart at that moment. She went straight up to Michael Reid.

“You didn’t mean a word that you said. You deceived me that day when we walked home by the river.”

“I didn’t mean to,” he said in a shamefaced way.

“Well, it is at an end,” said Colonel Arbuthnot. “There is no use in prolonging this scene. After all, Florence, you are years and years too young to be married; and as to you, Reid, you are not in any way worthy of Florence Heathcote. Some day, I trust, my dear child, you will find a man to love you for yourself, who will not think of your money, but of you.”

“My money?” said Florence. “I have no money.”

“That is not the point at present,” said Colonel Arbuthnot. “The point is that you have discovered – as many another girl does – that you have loved some one who is unworthy of you. I don’t say that you are all bad, Reid, I hope you are very far from it; but when you and your father schemed to secure this young girl simply because she was, as you imagined, rich, you overshot the mark, sir, both of you, understand me, you overshot the mark. And now I shall have the pleasure of showing you the door, Michael Reid. While Florence is here, you don’t enter my house – no, sir; you don’t enter it. Go, sir; go at once.”

It was impossible, under such circumstances, even for a lieutenant in His Majesty’s army to make a graceful exit, and Michael Reid looked uncommonly like a beaten hound as he went out of the house. As to Florence, she did not glance at either the Colonel or Michael, but rushed up to her room. There she bolted the door and flung herself on her bed.

Chapter Thirteen
Lady Marian Explains

Whether she was weak or not, whether she was angry or indifferent, Florence Heathcote shed very few tears. She came downstairs in that frock which was so like the colour of a rich autumn leaf. She partook of lunch with the Colonel and Susie, and afterwards went into the kitchen with Susie in order to prepare as good a dinner as possible for Miss Hudson.

Whenever Susie spoke to her, she laughed. Susie wondered if she felt anything. It was not until that evening that any of Florence’s real feelings came out.

It was late in the evening when something very unexpected happened. No less a person than Brenda appeared on the scene. She had come down from London by the last train and come straight to the Arbuthnots’ house by the invitation of the Colonel and Susie. They had said nothing to Florence on the subject. Florence had indeed gone up to bed. She expected to spend the whole night in those transports of grief which the overthrow of all hopes must induce. But somehow, when she saw Brenda, the tears were dry in her eyes, and a feeling of lightness visited her heart.

“Oh, Brenda, darling!” she said. “Why ever have you come? Did Lady Marian Dixie allow you to visit me so soon? How perfectly sweet of her!”

“Mr Timmins has brought me,” said Brenda. “He had a telegram in the course of the morning from Colonel Arbuthnot, and came to see me, and has brought me down. I don’t quite understand what it all means; but he is talking to Colonel Arbuthnot now, and you and I are to share that little bed, Flo. Do you mind, just for one night?”

“It’s all over between Mike and me,” said Florence. “Did you know that, Brenda?”

“Oh, you poor, poor darling!” said Brenda.

“But he said – ”

“Yes, he said,” interrupted Florence – and her tone was one of scorn – “but he didn’t mean it – he was put to the proof to-day – and – he didn’t mean a word of it. He wanted my money, not me. Oh – don’t let’s talk about him! I’d have got engaged to him; I had made up my mind to, and I – I’d have loved him – yes – most truly I’d have loved him – and waited for him – oh! years and years, and worked and worked to save money for him. But he didn’t want it; he didn’t want poor little me at all. Oh, how I hate all men, Brenda!” Brenda flung her arms round her sister’s neck and kissed her many times.

“I have got you,” said Florence; “we’ll work together somehow. If I had been engaged, it would in a sort of way have divided us.”

“It would certainly,” said Brenda; “that is quite true.”

“It is lovely to be close to you,” said Florence; “and you look happier than ever. Oh! I should have had a perfectly awful time since I parted from you if it had not been for the dear Arbuthnots. I never knew any one like Mrs Fortescue; she was so angry when she found we had no money that she wouldn’t even give me eggs for my breakfast; I had nothing but a little bit from that ham bone. Don’t you remember that ham bone, Brenda?”

“Yes,” said Brenda. “I remember Bridget told me how sick she was of it, how she had to make her dinner from it almost every day.”

“As far as I can tell, I dare say she is still making her dinner from it,” said Florence. “But anyhow, I told you in my letter, didn’t I? how dear, darling Susie came and brought me away to stay here. I have been here for a week – I mean newly a week; and oh! I have been so happy – that is, until to-day. I have been finding out that money means nothing at all. No one who lived in the house with the Arbuthnots would think anything at all about money; for they are poor, but they never make a fuss. They manage on so little, and they give away every penny they can to those who are still poorer than themselves. But to-day has been awful – quite, quite awful!”

“You mean about Michael Reid?”

“Oh yes: I don’t think I can ever be the same girl again.”

“Do you know,” said Brenda, “when Mr Timmins and I arrived at the station this evening, we saw Michael in the distance. Michael was going away with a lot of luggage and the Major was with him; he was saying good-bye to him. I don’t think Michael saw me.”

“Don’t speak of him; I hate him even to be spoken about!” said Florence.

“He was subjected to a test,” said Brenda, “and he certainly did not stand the ordeal. Well, you and I will do the best we can; and I somehow think we’ll be happy together.”

“How does Lady Marian treat you? You look awfully well, Brenda,” said Florence.

“Yes, I am well, and if it were not for you and that terrible Michael, I would be quite happy. I never could know, as Lady Marian’s guest, that I was not as rich as ever. She has bought me lots of new things, and whenever she gets me anything, she gets the same for you. It is really quite ridiculous; I told her so. But her only remark was that our figures were the same and that it saved a lot of trouble. You will find almost a trousseau of clothes waiting for you when you come up to town to-morrow.”

“Oh, I don’t want them; I hate finery,” said Florence.

“It would hurt Lady Marian very much indeed if we didn’t accept her presents,” said Brenda. “She wants to talk to us to-morrow about our future, and we are going back to town, both of us, by an early train with Mr Timmins.”

“Oh,” said Florence, “must we leave the dear Arbuthnots?”

“I have no doubt they will ask you to visit them sometimes in the holidays,” said Brenda. “But we are going back to town, both of us, to-morrow, because Lady Marian particularly wants to see us.”

After this conversation, the girls undressed and got into bed. Notwithstanding her grief, and the soreness at her heart, Florence slept soundly. In her sleep she had a dream that Michael Reid was at her feet, that he had repented of his pusillanimity of the day before, and was offering her once again his heart and hand, but that now she was refusing them with great scorn. She awoke from her dream to find her cheeks wet with tears and saw Susie looking down at her and smiling.

“I am so very sorry to wake you, Florence,” she said, “but the fact is, you and Brenda must get up at once in order to catch the train. I’ve got a lovely breakfast ready for you both downstairs – real fresh eggs and broiled ham.”

“Oh – but so expensive!” said Florence.

“I managed splendidly out of the money you gave me yesterday,” said Susie. “You know what a delicious dinner we had, and how Miss Hudson did enjoy it. Well, there was enough over to make this good breakfast. And now you must hurry down, both of you, to eat it.”

Florence sprang to her feet.

“I don’t mind poverty, after all,” she said, “if only I could spend it with you, Susie, and with your father.”

“You shall come back to us, and whenever you come, you shall have a welcome – the best in all the world,” said Susie. “And oh! do, my dear Florence, remember, when you are making orange marmalade that you cut the peel thin enough!”

“Yes, yes,” said Florence. “But I don’t think somehow,” she added, with a dash of her old spirit, “that making orange marmalade is my métier.”

The girls dressed and went downstairs. The Colonel was waiting to receive them. Miss Hudson had had her breakfast and gone off to her pupils. The new-laid eggs were duly appreciated. The ham was pronounced delicious.

Presently, a cab came to the door and Brenda and Florence got in. Mr Timmins was to meet them at the railway station. The Colonel took both their hands as they were leaving.

“Good-bye, my dears,” he said. “God bless you both. From what Mr Timmins tells me, I think you will be able to manage in the future; but if ever in any possible way you need a friend, you have but to remember me, who would love you both, my dear girls, were you as poor as the proverbial church mouse. And now, may a father have his privilege?”

He kissed each girl on her forehead, wrung their hands, and put them into the cab. As to Susie, she was wiping the tears from her eyes. The cab started on its way to the railway station and the pretty brown house disappeared from view. The different inhabitants of Langdale, who had known the girls in their wealth, saw them as they went by. Mrs Fortescue’s Bridget was so much excited that she opened one of the bedroom windows and shrieked out —

“God bless you both, darlings!” But Mrs Fortescue only gazed at them severely from behind a wire blind.

She was thinking that there would be a good riddance at Langdale, and was comfortably feeling her purse, which was heavy with some money which Mr Timmins had paid her in person on the previous night. Yes, she had got rid of the Heathcotes; she must now find other girls to devote herself to with all a mother’s care.

Bridget entered the room with her mistress’ breakfast.

“Did you see the young ladies, madam?” she asked.

“What young ladies?” asked Mrs Fortescue.

“Our young ladies, madam – the Misses Heathcote. They’ve gone, both of them, poor darlings!”

“It’s a very good thing they have gone,” said Mrs Fortescue, in a severe voice. “They were quite nice girls, but were unfortunately brought up to deceive other people. They are now going to begin the battle of life in earnest, and I, for my part, am glad of it. They have plenty of faults, and will, I fear, find the lessons of life hard to learn.”

“Oh, madam,” said Bridget, “I never saw any one so good-natured as Miss Florence was about that ham bone – ”

“That will do,” said her mistress. “I expect,” she added, “other young ladies to come and stay with me before long, and trust that you will exert yourself to cook well and to look after their interests.”

“I was going to say, madam,” said Bridget demurely, “that now that Miss Florence and Miss Brenda have gone, I should wish to give a month’s notice.”

Mrs Fortescue stared at her elderly servant. “What do you mean?” she said. “Give me your reasons.”

“Well, madam, to tell you the truth – I don’t like treating ladies, just because they ain’t as rich as one expected them to be, with ham bones for breakfast. You will get some one else to help you when the new ladies come, madam,” and Bridget flounced out of the room.

Meanwhile, Mr Timmins met the girls at the station. He took them up to town first-class and treated them with great respect and consideration. Florence could not help whispering to Brenda —

“Seeing that we are so very poor, it does seem absurd that we should always travel first-class.”

“It’s Mr Timmins’ way,” said Brenda. “I don’t think he’d like,” she added, “Lady Marian to know that we travelled in any other way.”

“Well, we shall have to in the future,” said Florence; “and,” she added, “as far as I am concerned, I think it is almost more exciting to be poor. It is so delightful to manage. You can’t imagine, Brenda, what fun Susie and I had contriving the dinners, more particularly the bone dinners.”

“What are you talking about, children?” said Mr Timmins, waking up from a nap in which he had temporarily indulged.

Florence went and sat by his side and told him the story of the bone dinner.

“They are so delicious!” she said. “I never enjoyed anything more.”

Mr Timmins seemed much interested in the story.

“’Pon my word!” he said; “if that is not about the very highest form of charity I have ever heard of. He that giveth to the poor lendeth to the Lord. It’s a mighty good security, young ladies, mighty good. No fear of that security coming to smash.”

Then he returned to his sheet of The Times, and did not speak again until the journey came to an end. When it did, Mr Timmins’ own brougham was waiting for them. They got in, and drove straight to Lady Marian Dixie’s house in Cadogan Place. Brenda seemed quite at home there, but Florence felt a little shy.

“Now,” said Mr Timmins, “I will say goodbye to you both. Lady Marian has something to say to you, and if you want to see me later on in the day, you have but to telephone, and I will be with you. But I think Lady Marian would rather see you by herself.”

“Come, Flo, come,” said Brenda. “Oh, she is such a darling; you will love her soon as much as I do.”

The girls both entered the pretty boudoir where old Lady Marian Dixie was waiting for them. She drew Brenda close to her and kissed her. Then she looked at Florence.

“Why, I have heard all about that young man,” she said, “and the week is up; it was up yesterday. Is everything settled? Are you engaged to him? He has stood the test, has he?”

Poor Florence! The tears trembled in her eyes.

“No,” she said, “no. Oh, tell her, Brenda, tell her. I can’t, I can’t!”

Florence walked to the window and looked out. Brenda said something in a low tone to Lady Marian. After a very short time Florence came back. Her cheeks were bright, and so were her eyes.

“I wouldn’t have him now,” she said, “if – if he were to go on his knees to me – as the saying is. I wouldn’t have him at any price. I don’t suppose I really loved him.”

“It was a good thing you found it out in time,” said Lady Marian. “And besides, Florence, you are a great deal too young to marry yet. Why, my dear good child, you are not half educated. Now, my plan for you both is this: that you should go to either Newnham or Girton in the autumn and take a proper course of training there; afterwards, we might go abroad for a bit. In these days, uneducated women are unbearable, and no girl of eighteen, however clever she is, can be properly educated. You can spend your holidays with me, and go and see the Arbuthnots sometimes if you like. But that must be as you please.”

“But – but,” said Florence in amazement; “of course I’d adore to go to Girton; I have always had the greatest hankering for it. But we can’t earn our living in that way.”

Lady Marian smiled.

“You don’t need to earn your living, my dear child,” she said.

“I don’t need – Brenda and I don’t need! What do you mean, Lady Marian?”

“I mean what I say,” answered Lady Marian. “Mr Timmins told you the truth with regard to your father. He unfortunately lost a very large fortune shortly before his death, and could only leave enough by will to be spent on your education. His will was a somewhat extraordinary one. In this, he said that he wished you to be educated to enable you to take your proper position in the world, not only in the world of fashion but also in that better world of refinement and culture: in the world where good people live and valiant efforts are made to maintain the right and suppress the wrong. He wished you to be carefully prepared for this position, for he knew only too well that youth – the early days of youth – is the time for such a preparation. But when you left school (he mentioned the exact age when this was to take place), you were both to be put to the test; and not only you, but your friends. You were to be told the truth, but only a part of the truth. Your father’s money, with the exception of a small sum which I believe Mr Timmins mentioned to you, has nearly been exhausted. You were to face the world, prepared in one sense, but unprepared in another. You were to look at the world, for a short time, as poor girls, not as rich ones. Your own characters were to be submitted to this trial and, still more important, the characters of your so-called friends. Do sit down, Florence; how white your face is! Brenda, come and kneel by me, darling.” Florence dropped into a chair. Her heart was beating almost to suffocation. Brenda knelt by Lady Marian and looked at her sister with a world of pity in her own eyes.

“You were to find out your friends, my dear children,” said Lady Marian; “and you could only find them out through this test. The girl who has money is often surrounded by so-called friends, who see much in her because her gold casts a sort of false halo round her. Your father wanted you to learn a lesson, so that you could, all through your future years, discern the true from the false. As to the length of the test to which you were to be submitted, that was left altogether to Mr Timmins’ and to my discrimination; for I, my dear children, by your father’s and mother’s will, am appointed your guardian, and have now absolute power to arrange for your future.”

“Still – still,” said Brenda, speaking with hesitation, “I cannot see where the money comes in. Not that we want it,” she continued; “for we have found – oh! such a true friend in you, and Mr Timmins is good – ”

“And the Arbuthnots,” said Florence suddenly; “they are just more than splendid!”

“And we don’t mind a bit earning our own living,” said Brenda.

Lady Marian bent forward and kissed Brenda on her brow.

“I know that quite well, my darling,” she said; “and I know also that Florence has learnt her lesson. You have discovered your true friends, and also discovered your false ones. What about Mrs Fortescue? What about – ” here she glanced at Florence.

“I know, I know,” said Florence. “I thought Michael was – oh! so different; and I – I did care for him a little!”

Tears rose to her eyes. She pressed her handkerchief to them and sat still for a minute, trying to recover from her emotions; then she continued —

“I have not broken my heart.”

She looked up with a smile which was half piteous.

“I know that,” said Lady Marian, briskly, “and you will recover it altogether soon. Now the facto of the case are these. Your father wished his money to be spent on your education. Meanwhile, your mother’s money, which represented a very large sum – many thousands of pounds: I cannot go into full particulars, but Mr Timmins will, if necessary, enlighten you – was to lie at compound interest awaiting the moment when you were to receive it. My dear girls, a certain portion of that money is to be devoted to what may be called your higher education – that which you will receive during the next three years – and afterwards you will be rich, dears, I trust; not only rich in money, but rich in the better things, which mean courage, and endurance, and faith, and sympathy. You will understand the real poor a little better because for a short week of your lives you considered yourselves poor, and you will discern the true from the false also because of this week, which has taught you a lesson. Now go up to your rooms, dears; I think I have explained all that is necessary for the present.”

“But one thing,” said Florence, as they rose. “May I write and tell Susie Arbuthnot?”

“Certainly; I should like you to do so.”