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“I will mention you with real affection,” said Brenda; and she got up as she spoke and, going up to the little woman, kissed her on her forehead. Then she said, gently: “Mr Timmins specially says not to send a telegram – that a postcard will do equally well.”

Chapter Five
A Proposal and a Promise

Soon after lunch on that day Florence went out alone to execute some small commissions for Mrs Fortescue. She was wearing a sealskin cap and very chic little sealskin jacket. No one could look nicer than she did in her pretty and expensive dress, and nothing could become her radiant complexion and those changeful eyes of hers better than the sealskin cap, which revealed beneath its narrow brim just a touch of that bright chestnut hair which Lieutenant Reid thought of by day and dreamed of by night. It was only last night that he dreamed he was touching that hair and even kissing it and calling it his own. Now it was a queer dream, for his locks were harsh and, of course, very short, and although he had thick hair, it was not exactly beautiful. He could only have called Florence’s chestnut locks his own in one sense. Somehow, as he lay in bed that morning and thought about the girl, he imagined himself more than ever in love with her.

“I do care for her, quite independently of her money,” he thought. “She is the happiest, happiest girl on earth, and the most beautiful. I always had a penchant for her, but now I am in love with her.”

In love. He smiled to himself at the thought. He had read a lot about that passion which sometimes destroys a man’s life, and sometimes blesses it, but which, when it is strong and all-enduring, has a very great effect either for good or for evil.

Lieutenant Reid, as he luxuriously stretched himself in bed, thought it an agreeable feeling, and that those who talk about it exaggerate its importance a good deal. Of course he had had his fancies before now. He had liked to flirt like other men, but never, never before had he thought of any one as he thought of Florence. She was all that his fancy could desire —

A creature not too bright and good For human nature’s daily food.

For daily pleasures, simple wiles.

Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears and smiles.

He was quite delighted with himself for remembering Wordsworth’s ideal of the perfect woman, and said to himself that he must really be in love. He showed symptoms of the complaint that morning by not taking quite such a large breakfast as usual, and also by being strangely silent while Major Reid chatted on the invariable subjects which now interested him – those local matters which he as a magistrate of the peace was engaged in, viz the poachers in the neighbourhood, the state of the autumn crops, the distress amongst the poor, his own extremely light purse.

His remarks with regard to his purse did rouse Michael Reid’s attention. There was not the slightest doubt that he would have to speak to his father about that five hundred pounds which he owed. It must be met somehow, and that before very long. He owed it to one man in particular, a money-lender, who had no pity and no idea of allowing the debt to lie over beyond the day when it was due. Exactly five hundred pounds would be expected to be paid to him in a month’s time, therefore before that date he must be properly engaged to his darling Florence. He would then be absolutely a free man. Five hundred pounds was such a trifle. No young man in his position could exist in the Army without getting into debt. Florence need never know about it. His father would pay it gladly when once he knew that his son was securing over a thousand a year. Florence’s income would probably be fifteen hundred a year at the least. If that was the case, he would pay his father back with interest during the first year of their marriage; and she, his darling Florence, need know nothing at all about it. It was not likely that a sharp old card, as he designated Mr Timmins, would allow Lieutenant Reid the full control of Florence’s fortune. But her income – dear innocent child! – she would only too gladly put it into his hands to use as he thought best. Her tastes, sweet girl, were quite simple. No; he must not lose his chance – not that there was any special hurry, but still, before she went to London he must secure her. He was thinking of her, therefore, of her fortune, of that dreadful debt which was still, however, quite a month off as he walked down the High Street and suddenly met the pretty, radiant creature in her becoming sealskin cap and jacket, and muff to match.

She was all in brown to-day, for her dress was made of some brown stuff too, and her boots were brown, and very small and pretty. He liked a woman to have pretty feet, and beyond doubt Florence had. Altogether, she was, as he expressed it, admirably turned out. She was a charming young creature. His heart beat with the intoxication of first love as he drew close to her side. He took off his hat and came up to her eagerly.

“This is luck!” he said.

She coloured. She was really interested in him. A man who could care for a girl who was as poor as a church mouse must be worth something, and she had never before in her young experience met any young man – that is, on terms of equality. Major Reid’s son had been indifferent to her as a boy, but as a man he was quite agreeable and – yes – very good-looking. So she, too, stopped, and expressed pleasure in her dancing brown eyes (yes, they were brown to-day; he thought, after all, he liked them when they were brown best) and said —

“I am glad I have met you. Are you going anywhere in particular?”

“I am going wherever you are going,” he said, taking his cigarette from his mouth and throwing it away.

She laughed in a very soft and musical way. “If you go with me,” she said, “you will have a very dull time. I am only out to do some shopping for Mrs Fortescue. She has given me a list of things to get from James, the grocer, and also, I am to buy a duck for dinner at Henderson’s. You won’t care to accompany me on these stupid expeditions.”

“Oh yes, I shall,” he answered. “I will stay outside while you go in and shop. I will be ever so patient. I know what a long time young ladies take shopping. But it won’t matter to me; that is, if you give me my reward.”

“What is that?” she asked, raising her dancing eyes, filing them on his face, and then looking down again and colouring faintly; for his bold black eyes had said something to hers which caused her heart to beat and which she did not in the least understand.

“Well,” he said, “my reward is this. The day is lovely. Why won’t you take a walk with me afterwards?”

“But I shall be late for lunch. Mrs Fortescue always has lunch ready at one o’clock.”

“Never mind: if you are out she and Brenda will lunch alone. Do come with me, Florence, do. I want to talk to you so badly.”

Florence remembered his speech about the church mouse. He did like her for herself. Of course he must not be told yet. No thought of her money had ever entered into his unworldly soul. He was nice. After all, why should she not have a bit of fun? It was tiresome walking with him in the presence of Susie Arbuthnot and Brenda. Why not walk with him all alone?

“I will go with you,” she said, “if you will give me lunch somewhere. For when one o’clock comes, I shall be very hungry and will want something to eat.”

“Then I tell you what we’ll do,” said the gallant lieutenant in a resolute tone, and thinking with great satisfaction that he had an unbroken sovereign in his pocket. “I will take you as far as Johnson’s, by the river side; it is two miles from here, and we will have the very choicest little lunch I can possibly order, and have a good time by ourselves.”

“But what will Mrs Fortescue think?” said Florence.

“You can send her a note, if you like. James would send it with the groceries.”

“So he would – so he would!” said Florence. “Very well: I will go with you; it will be great fun!”

She skipped along by his side; it seemed impossible to her to walk like other girls; she was always upheld by a sort of inward spring which made her appear almost like a creature with wings. Her extreme youth and childishness were made more than ever apparent by the way she walked.

They reached the shop. Florence gave orders with regard to the groceries and scribbled a line to Brenda, telling her that she had met Michael Reid, and was going for a walk with him and would be back before dusk. The duck was also ordered for late dinner, and then the pair sped away into the country as fast as their legs could carry them. Florence said she liked to walk fast, and Michael agreed with her. He hated girls who were not strong: he hated delicacy of any sort. Florence was quite perfect. She had such magnificent health. He did not believe she even had the faintest idea what it was to be tired. Florence, with a smile, assured him that such was the case – she did not know; she was always well. Brenda, poor darling, sometimes had headaches, but she, Florence, never had.

“It is a good thing that I am strong, isn’t it?” she said with a laugh.

He replied in the affirmative.

By and by they reached Johnson’s, an inn by the river side, much frequented in the summer by all sorts and conditions of people, and in the winter carrying on a fair trade by bicyclists.

On this special day, however, the inn parlour was empty and the young pair had it to themselves. Reid felt more in love than ever as he showed the menu to Florence, and consulted with her over the special dainties they were to have for lunch. She said she would like beefsteak best and plenty of onions. She hoped he did not mind onions. He said he adored them, and Florence laughed and showed her white teeth.

She really was an adorable girl; and her tastes were so simple. He asked her what she would like to drink, and she said water. He ordered water, therefore, for her and a bottle of Guinness’ stout for himself.

While they were partaking of their lunch, Florence told him that she and Brenda were going to London on the following day.

“We are going to see Mr Timmins,” she said.

“Oh, your lawyer?” he remarked at once. “He is going to arrange with you about your future?”

“Yes,” she replied, very gravely; and she looked him full in the face.

He returned her glance.

“You are not going to stay in London, are you?”

“Oh no,” she answered. “Oh no; we are both going up by the nine o’clock train. We are travelling first-class.”

“Why, of course,” said Lieutenant Reid. “I only wish I might come with you.”

“Oh no,” said Florence, “you must not do that. He does not even wish poor Mrs Fortescue to come. He wants to see us quite alone.”

“He is going to make arrangements about you; I quite understand,” said the lieutenant.

It was there and then he made up his mind. If he did not seize the present opportunity, Florence, beautiful Florence would be snatched from him. Some one else, perhaps some horrid City magnate with lots of money, would come forward and win the darling girl. It could not, it must not be.

They had finished their lunch and the lieutenant had paid for it, gallantly giving a substantial tip to the red-elbowed girl who had waited on them. They then left the cottage and went slowly along by the river side.

The river was very full just now and made a babbling sound. The snow and cold of Christmas had given place to milder weather. There was quite a spring-like feel in the air, and the lieutenant felt more in love than ever.

“Florence,” he said suddenly, “do you remember what I said to you on Christmas night?”

“You said a great many things to me then,” she answered, somewhat flippantly; “I cannot remember them all.”

“But there was one very special thing, and I think I said it several times.”

“Oh, now I remember,” she said colouring, and a different expression came into her face. Her eyes grew large and dark and were turned upon him with a certain solemnity, with a look as though she would read him through.

“Tell me, tell me with your own lips what I said,” was his answer. He trembled as he spoke; he was feeling desperately in love.

“You said,” answered Florence, “that you wished I was as poor as a church mouse in order that you could show me what – what you would do for me.”

“And – and I repeat it now,” he said.

He looked at her again. Her eyes filled with sudden tears.

“What is the matter, darling?” was his next remark. “Oh, Florence! I love you with all my heart and soul. I love you for yourself – absolutely and entirely. Say you will love me; do – do give me hope. Don’t throw yourself away on some worthless fellow. Give me a chance, Florence.”

Florence was a good deal startled. All girls have dreamt of their first proposal, and when the proposal comes it is generally as unlike their dreams as any one thing can be unlike another. But there was something about this one, coming as it did at this special time, which touched the girl inexpressibly.

“Will you give me,” she said, “one month in which to consider the matter?”

He thought of his debt, that debt which must be met in a month’s time. He could not keep his father in uncertainty until then.

“No,” he said. “No; say now that you will marry me – now; promise me now, my own little Florence. If you care for me the least bit now, you will love me twice as well in a month’s time.”

“Give me a week then,” she answered.

“I must think the matter over for a week – and say just once again to me that you would like me to be as poor as a church mouse in order to show me how much you care for me.”

He was obliged to be satisfied with this, but he talked love to her all the way home, and before they reached the village of Langdale he had even kissed her once on her forehead. Oh yes; he was in love. All was right.

“Remember, in one week I come to you for the fulfilment of your promise, Florence,” was his answer when at last they parted outside Mrs Fortescue’s door.

Chapter Six
At Mr Timmins’ Office

That evening late, Florence, in the seclusion of their chamber told Brenda what had happened.

“You know,” she said, “that we have nothing. I think it is dreadful of Mr Timmins to make a mystery about it, and to let us appear before the good folks at Langdale as apparently wealthy girls; but on one matter, at least, I am obliged to him. This has given me the opportunity of finding a true heart.”

“A true heart, Flo?” said Brenda. “What do you mean?”

“What I say,” answered Florence. “You know I took a walk to-day with Michael Reid.”

“Oh, with poor old Michael,” said Brenda, in a tone as much as to say that Michael at least did not count for much, that he was a poor sort of fellow, and need not agitate the girls just then. But Florence’s next words astonished her elder sister very much.

“I am a year younger than you,” said Florence, “and I have been proposed for before you, Brenda. Michael cares for me; he cares for me for myself alone. He absolutely wants me to be poor, very poor, as poor as a church mouse, he says, in order that he may show to all the world how deeply he loves me. He doesn’t care for me in the very least because he thinks I have money. He wants me to be poor: he told me all about it to-day. He mentioned the subject first at the Arbuthnots’ Christmas party, but he spoke of it again to-day when we were walking home. He looked very, very handsome; and I – I quite think I like him.”

“Oh, you poor little innocent Florence!” said Brenda. “But you don’t know anything about men at all. It was very mean of him to speak to you, very mean of him to take advantage of you. Yes, it was, Flo; I cannot help saying it. It was wrong of him; he ought not to have done it.”

“He did nothing wrong,” said Florence; “he spoke up like a man. I suppose a man can’t help loving a girl.”

“He ought not to have done it like that,” repeated Brenda. “I know I am right: he ought on no account to have done it like that.”

“It is very queer of you to speak to me in that tone, Brenda,” said her sister, “and I must say that I am very much astonished. I cannot understand what you mean. Why should not Michael care for me? He is a gentleman: he is an officer in the King’s army. We know his father; we know his people. I don’t know why you should talk to me like that. I suppose a man will propose to me some day, just as some one will propose to you, darling Brenda; and you will love him with all your heart and soul.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Brenda. “I am not beautiful like you, Flo. But tell me all about it, darling. You startled me very much when you first spoke, and I suppose I did wrong to be a little bit annoyed. It hurts me to think that my only darling sister should care for any one else better than me.”

“But I don’t know that I do,” said Florence; “only of course,” she added, “he was very nice, and he did say so emphatically that he only cared for me for myself.”

“And what did you say to him, Flo?”

“I told him that he had startled me, and that I wanted a month to think it over. He would not give me a month, but he gave me a week. What I feel is this, Brenda: that he must know all about our changed circumstances before I give him my true answer. Then if he comes forward, as indeed I know he will, I shall feel at least assured that he cares for me for myself.”

“And who would not care for you for yourself,” said her sister, putting her arms round the girl’s neck and kissing her with great affection. “Why, aren’t you just the dearest creature in the world? Won’t you make the very sweetest wife? But all the same,” she added, “I don’t know how Mr Reid can marry any one at present, for he can’t be well off. I know the Major has barely enough to live on.”

“We should be very poor, of course,” said Florence; “but he seems to like that. After all,” she continued, “what I thought was this: that I might, if I go on liking him as much as I do now, be engaged to him, and we could wait a year or so while I – I was earning money. It does seem so queer to think that I should have to earn money in any way; and I am sure I haven’t the faintest idea how to set about it – not the very faintest. But I suppose Mr Timmins will give us some sort of directions to-morrow.”

“I suppose he will,” said Brenda. “It is queer, the whole thing. We have been allowed to grow up, you and I, as though we were rich girls. We have had every possible luxury and every possible educational advantage, and I know the people at Langdale think us rich enough, and yet we haven’t a penny in the world.”

“Oh yes!” said Florence; “we have seventy-five pounds; don’t forget that: that is quite a good sum – at least, it seems so to me.”

“Half of it would buy your trousseau – at least some sort of trousseau for you, if you decide to marry the lieutenant at once,” said Brenda. Then she added: “It is all very puzzling; but you must do what you think right; only we won’t tell Mrs Fortescue anything whatever about it.”

After this conversation, the girls went to bed, and both slept the sleep of the just, pretty Florence looking prettier than ever in her happy innocent dreams – for was she not loved just for her very self alone, and was not that something to be proud of?

They were awakened early in the morning by Mrs Fortescue, who herself brought them tea to their room, and fussed over them, and paid them a vast amount of attention, and begged of them, as they were getting ready for their journey, not to forget to put in a good word for her when Mr Timmins talked about their future plans. She was quite excited about them, and her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes had a hard, worried look. Brenda felt as though they were exceedingly deceitful to her, but Florence was thinking of Lieutenant Reid, and had not much time to consider Mrs Fortescue and her future.

A cab arrived in good time to take them to the station. Mrs Fortescue herself accompanied them to the train, and purchased their tickets for them out of the postal order which had been cashed the day before, and which left enough over to provide them with cabs when they got to London. She herself saw them into a first-class carriage marked “For Ladies only,” and she gave them also into the charge of the guard, paying him five shillings in advance for looking after them. It is true she paid him this money out of the girls’ own little fund, but it quite looked as if she were spending her own worldly goods for their advantage. The last thing they saw as they left the little station was her kind and yet anxious face gazing after them. She was blowing kisses to them, and wondering most anxiously what would happen between now and the evening when she was to meet their train again.

“I do feel,” said Florence, as the train brought them beyond the narrow confines of the little town of Langdale, “that we are deceiving dear Mrs Fortescue most horribly.”

“Well, it’s no fault of ours,” said Brenda; “we’ll have to undeceive her to-morrow. But, after all, she won’t suffer, for Mr Timmins will pay her in full for keeping us until the end of the holidays; and then, instead of going back to school, we’ll begin our life’s work. I do feel excited about what is going to happen to-day, don’t you, Florence?”

Florence said she did, and sat book in her seat. But her thoughts were considerably absorbed with Lieutenant Reid. She was wondering what he was doing, and how he was spending his time, and considering how she would pass her own time until that day next week, when she could tell him that he might have his very heart’s desire, and that a girl, poor as the poorest church mouse, would be willing to marry him.

“How glad he will be,” thought Florence. “He is very nice, very nice indeed; but, of course, we must be engaged for some time before we think of marrying, for I could not leave darling Brenda until she was safely secure with some sort of livelihood.”

They arrived in London between eleven and twelve o’clock, and were met at the station by one of Mr Timmins’ clerks – a grave, elderly-looking man of the name of Andrews. The girls had never seen him before, but he had been given explicit directions by Mr Timmins to look out for young ladies bearing a certain appearance, and as no other girl quite so pretty as Florence stepped out of the train, he went up to her at once and asked if she was Miss Heathcote.

Florence replied in the affirmative.

They were then ushered by Mr Andrews into a very comfortable private brougham which belonged to Mr Timmins, and were taken straight to his office in Chancery Lane.

Mr Timmins was the head of a large firm of solicitors, and the girls passed through many rooms full of clerks, both old and young, who looked up as they passed by and gazed at them with admiration. Even Brenda was a pretty girl, but Florence was quite above the ordinary with regard to good looks. There was something so fresh and innocent, and withal pathetic, about the young creatures, that the men who watched them felt their hearts softening both with admiration and affection. Those who were old thought that they would like such girls to be their daughters, and those who were young felt instinctively that such girls would make good wives and sisters. The girls passed through the different rooms, and were presently ushered into Mr Timmins’ own private sanctum.

He was waiting for them, and was quite alone. He gave them both a very hearty welcome, and desired them to take off their hats and jackets and sit near the fire. Brenda obeyed at once, but Florence looked restless and impatient.

“I suppose,” she said, after a minute’s pause, while she was fiddling with a feather boa which she wore round her neck, “you will tell us to-day, Mr Timmins, just what we are to do in the future.”

“I have sent for you for that purpose,” he replied.

“We have got to earn our living, haven’t we?” said Florence.

“Well,” he replied, speaking slowly, “girls who have no money have, as a rule, to earn their living.”

Florence looked at Brenda and half smiled, but Brenda’s sweet face was very grave.

“Sit down, Florence,” she said: “don’t be impatient. Let us wait until we hear what Mr Timmins has to say.”

“Yes; that is quite right, Brenda,” said Mr Timmins. “Florence, please take your sealskin jacket off, and your hat: you will be much too hot in this room if you don’t.” Florence now hesitated no longer. She took her pretty cap off, pushed back her chestnut hair, and unfastened her sealskin jacket. She then sank book in the easy-chair provided for her by Mr Timmins.

“Now, my dears,” said the good man, “I told you the other day that I would send for you when I had something in my mind’s eye for your benefit; and I think I have something. It is my proposal, therefore, that we shall first of all partake of a little lunch. You must be very hungry, both of you, for I know you started from Langdale at nine o’clock; and afterwards we will go to see Lady Marian Dixie.”

“But what can she want with us?” said Brenda.

“She will tell you herself,” said Mr Timmins, in his grave voice.

“And we have just seventy-five pounds to live on,” said Florence. “It seems a good deal of money, for although, Mr Timmins, although you were always very generous, you did not give us a lot of pocket money; you just bought our clothes for us, and paid our school bills, and paid Mrs Fortescue in the holidays; but we ourselves never had much, had we, Brenda?”

“Good gracious!” said Mr Timmins – he threw up his hands as he spoke – “you cost hundreds a year, girls – hundreds a year.”

“Then,” said Florence, still speaking gravely and taking the lead, which completely astonished her sister Brenda, “don’t you think you did exceedingly wrong to waste all that money on us when you knew that by and by we should have nothing?”

Mr Timmins turned rather red.

“I sent you the account in full, didn’t I, Brenda?” he said.

“You sent me an account,” said Brenda; “but, to tell you the truth, I haven’t read it yet.”

“Oh!” said Mr Timmins, with a groan. “How exactly like all other women you are. Nothing will make a woman careful with regard to money. The fact is, she needs a husband to look after her. I wish you two were provided with good husbands, that I do. But there – no one will look at a penniless girl in these days, even though she is as pretty as my friend Florence.”

Florence coloured very high. She looked full at Brenda. Then she said quickly —

“There is one man who will look at a penniless girl, and marry her too, if she wishes to marry him.”

“What do you mean?” said Mr Timmins. “I am glad you have spoken of it, Florence,” said Brenda. “Even if you had not, I should feel it my duty to do so.”

“Oh, tell him yourself, tell him yourself!” said Florence. She sprang from her seat by the fire. “Tell Him when I am not in the room. I want him to know: I want you two to talk it over. Is there no private room where I can go while you are talking it over, Mr Timmins? Is this your only private room?” Mr Timmins looked quite excited: nay, more – he looked delighted.

“Do you see that door, Florence?” he said. “Open it; and you will find a little room with a fire. A clerk may be sitting at his table writing letters for me, but he won’t trouble you. Here is to-day’s copy of The Times, my dear: you can take this with you to read. An intelligent, well-educated girl ought to read her Times every day. I have ordered lunch to be here in a quarter of an hour; so you had better go at once if you really wish Brenda to tell me your story.”

Florence got up. She felt red all over. There was a tingling sensation down her back. She was half ashamed and half proud. Her lover was assuming a magnitude in her eyes. He must really be a most heroic person to wish to marry her even though she had not a penny. According to Mr Timmins, men never did marry penniless girls in these days, even though the girls were beautiful.

She quickly reached the shelter of the little room, shut the door behind her and, sitting down with her back to the clerk, pretended to read The Times. Meanwhile, Mr Timmins turned anxiously to Brenda.

“What does this mean? what is it, Brenda?” he said. “Why, Flo – she is quite a child: how old is she, Brenda?”

“Eighteen,” said Brenda at once. “Just a year younger than I am.”

“Well, tell me all about it.”

“I will tell you what I know,” said Brenda. “We have been, as you know, visitors at Langdale for several years. It is true that Mrs Fortescue has taken us to the seaside in the summer, but we have invariably spent our Easter and Christmas holidays at Langdale, and we have got to know the people. In especial, we have got to know the Arbuthnots, who are, in my opinion, absolutely sweet; and there are the Misses Salter, who are very kind and very, very nice; and there is Major Reid – a dear old gentleman – and Major Reid’s son. It is about Major Reid’s son I want to tell you.”

“Yes – yes!” said Mr Timmins, in an impatient and very anxious voice.

“He is in the Army,” continued Brenda. “He is quite young – I don’t know his age, but he cannot be twenty-five yet. He is a lieutenant in one of His Majesty’s regiments of foot, and we have known him since he was a young lad and we were children. I never did notice that he especially cared about Florence; but this Christmas his manners were completely changed – in fact, the other day, he asked her to marry him.”

“Thinking that she would be an heiress, no doubt, the young scoundrel!” said Mr Timmins, with an angry twist of his person as he spoke.

“Oh no; there you wrong him. He told Florence most emphatically that he cared for her only for herself, and he would marry her gladly if she were as poor as a church mouse. Now, I don’t know why church mice should be especially poor; but that was his expression, and it has had a great weight with Florence, who knew the truth all the time, but could not tell him on account of her promise to you.”

“Ha!” said Mr Timmins. “She never told him – the little witch – did she?”

“Of course she didn’t. She had faithfully promised you not to breathe it to a soul.”

“And what sort is he, Brenda? You can tell me, because you are not in love with him. Now, give me a fair and unbiassed opinion of what sort the young man is.”