Читать книгу The Girl and Her Fortune - Meade L. T. - Страница 4

At night there was no doubt whatever that Florence Heathcote’s eyes looked their best. By night they were invariably dark; their brightness was enhanced by artificial light. They were softened, too, particularly at such a table as Colonel Arbuthnot and his daughter prepared for their guests. For nothing would induce the Colonel to have anything but candles on his dinner-table. Candles, in large silver branches, adorned the board; and if girls don’t know, they ought to be informed that there is no possible light so soft and becoming to eyes and complexion as that caused by these minor stars of illumination. There is no garishness in the light of a candle, and it does not make hideous revelations like electricity nor cause the deep shadows that a gaselier flings on your head.

Florence, in spite of herself, was feeling a little sad to-night, and that sadness gave the final touch to her charms. She was quite pleased to be taken into dinner by her old playmate, Michael Reid. She told him so in her sweet, bright, open way.

“What a lot we shall have to talk of!” she said. “How long is it since I have first known you?”

He tried to count the years on his fingers and then, moved by an inspiration, said —

“No; I won’t count – I can’t count. I have known you for ever.”

“Oh,” she said, with a laugh; “but of course you haven’t.” And then, rather to his horror, she called across the table to Brenda – “When did we first meet Michael? I mean, how old were you?”

Brenda was talking very gently to an elderly clergyman – a dull sort of man, who always, however, appealed to Brenda because, as she said to her sister, he was so very good. She paused and looked thoughtful; and Susie, at the bottom of the table, gave her silk lining a swish. After a minute’s thought, Brenda said —

“We have known you, Michael, for four years.” And then she related in a gentle but penetrating voice the occasion of their first meeting. “Florence was,” she said, “fourteen at the time. She is eighteen now. You pulled her hair: you were a very rough boy indeed, and you made Flo cry.”

“No, that he didn’t!” interrupted Florence. “He put me into a towering passion.”

“Yes,” pursued Brenda, “and you cried while you were in the passion.”

“I don’t know how to apologise,” said the somewhat discomfited lieutenant: “but I suppose boys will be boys.”

“And girls will be girls,” said Florence. “You would not pull my hair now, would you?”

He looked at her lovely hair, arranged in the most becoming fashion and yet so simply, and murmured something which she could not quite catch but which caused her ears to tingle, for she was quite unaccustomed to compliments except among her school-fellows, and they did not count.

After dinner, the pair found themselves alone for a few minutes. Then Reid drew a chair close to Florence’s side, and said —

“I wish with all my heart and soul that you were as poor as a church mouse, so that I might show you what a man’s devotion can do for a girl.”

Florence found herself turning pale – not at the latter part of his speech but at the beginning; for was she not quite as poor as a church mouse? in fact, poorer, for even the church mouse manages to exist; and she could not exist beyond quite a limited time on the small amount of money which the girls possessed between them.