The girls absented themselves during the whole of the morning, but appeared again in time for lunch, which they ate with a healthy appetite. They praised Mrs. Fortescue’s food, comparing it with what they had at school to the disadvantage of the latter. Mrs. Fortescue was pleased. She prided herself very much on Bridget’s cooking.
“And now,” she said, when the meal had come to an end, “you will go upstairs and put on your prettiest dresses and wait in the drawing-room for Mr. Timmins. I shall not be far off. He will naturally want to see me as soon as he has had his talk with you both, so I shall remain writing letters in the dining-room. There are so many letters and cards to send off at Christmas time that I shall be fully occupied, and when you touch the bell, Brenda, I shall know what it means. In any case, I will send tea into the drawing-room at a quarter to four. That will give you time to get through your business first, and if you want me to come in and pour out the tea, I shall know if you will just touch the bell.”
“Thank you,” said Brenda. “But it isn’t half-past one yet, and the day is a lovely one. Florence and I want to take a good brisk walk between now and three o’clock. We shall be back before three. We cannot be mewed up in the house until Mr. Timmins chooses to arrive.”
“Oh, my dear children! He will think it queer.”
“I am sorry,” said Brenda, “but he had no right to choose Christmas Eve as the day when he was to come to see us. His train may not be in till late. Anyhow, we want to take advantage of the sunshine. Come, Florence.”
The girls left the room and soon afterwards were seen going out arm-in-arm. They walked down the little avenue, and were lost to view.
There was a certain style about them both. They looked quite different from the ordinary Langdale girls. Florence held herself very well, and although she acknowledged herself to be a beauty, had no self-conscious airs. Brenda’s sweet face appeared to see beyond the ordinary line of vision, as though she were always communing with thoughts deeper and more rare than those given to most. People turned and looked at the girls as they walked up the little High Street. Most people knew them, and were interested in them. They were the very charming young ladies who always spent their holidays with Mrs. Fortescue. They were, of course, to be included in all the Christmas parties given at Langdale, and Mrs. Fortescue would, as her custom was, give a party on Twelfth Night in their honour.
That was the usual state of things. The girls did not seem in the mood, however, to greet their old friends beyond smiling and nodding to them. As they were returning home, Brenda said—
“We are more than half an hour late. I wonder if he has come.”
“Well, if he has, it is all right,” said Florence. “Mrs. Fortescue is dying to have a chat with him all by herself, and she will have managed to by this time. She will be rather glad, if the truth may be known, that we are not in to interrupt her. I can see that she is dying with curiosity.”
“I don’t want her to live with us in the future,” said Brenda.
“But she has set her heart on it,” said Florence.
“I know,” remarked Brenda; “but, all the same, our lives are our own, and I don’t think we can do with Mrs. Fortescue. I suppose Mr. Timmins will tell us what he has decided. We are not of age yet, either of us. You have three years to wait, Flo, and I have two.”
“Well, we must do what he wishes,” said Florence. “I intend to be married ages and ages before I am twenty-one; so that will be all right.”
While they were coming towards the house, an impatient, white-headed old lawyer was pacing up and down Mrs. Fortescue’s narrow drawing-room. Mrs. Fortescue was sitting with him and doing her utmost to soothe his impatience.
“Dear Mr. Timmins, I am so sorry the girls are out. I quite thought they would have been back before now.”
“But they knew my train would be in by three o’clock,” said Mr. Timmins.
He was a man of between fifty and sixty years of age, rather small, with rosy cheeks and irascible eyes. His hair was abundant and snow-white, white as milk.
“I said three o’clock,” he repeated.
“Yes,” said Mrs. Fortescue, “but on Christmas Eve we made sure your train would be late.”
The lawyer took out his watch.
“Not the special from London; that is never late,” he remarked. “I want to catch the half-past four back; otherwise I shall have to go by one of those dreadful slow trains, and there’s a good deal to talk over. I do think it is a little careless of those girls not to be at home when they are expecting me.”
Mrs. Fortescue coughed, then she ’hemmed.
“It might—” she began. The lawyer paused in his impatient walk and stared at her. “It might expedite matters,” she continued, “if you were to tell me some of your plans. For instance, I shall quite understand if you wish me to leave here and take a house in London. It is true the lease of this house won’t be up for two years, but I have no doubt my landlord would be open to a consideration.”
“Eh? What is it you were going to say? I don’t want you to leave your house,” blurted out Mr. Timmins. “I have nothing whatever to do with your future, Mrs. Fortescue. You have been kind to my young friends in the past, but I think I have—er—er—fully repaid you. And here they come—that is all right. Now, my dear madam, if you would leave the young ladies with me—no tea, thank you; I haven’t time for any—I may be able to get my business through in three-quarters of an hour. It is only just half-past three. If I leave here at a quarter-past four, I may catch the express back to town. Would you be so very kind as to order your servant to have a cab at the door for me at a quarter-past four—yes, in three-quarters of an hour I can say all that need be said. No tea, I beg of you.”
He was really very cross; it was the girls’ doing. Mrs. Fortescue felt thoroughly annoyed. She went into the hall to meet Brenda and Florence.
“Mr. Timmins has been here for nearly twenty minutes. His train was in sharp at three. He is very much annoyed at your both being out. Go to him at once, girls—at once.”
“Oh, of course we will,” said Florence. “Who would have supposed that his train would have been punctual to-day! Come, Brenda, come.”
They went, just as they were, into the pretty little precise drawing-room, where a fire was burning cheerily in the grate, and the room was looking spick and span, everything dusted and in perfect order, and some pretty vases full of fresh flowers adding a picturesqueness to the scene. It was quite a dear little drawing-room, and when the two girls—Florence with that rich colour which so specially characterised her, and Brenda a little paler but very sweet-looking—entered the room, the picture was complete. The old lawyer lost his sense of irritation. He came forward with both hands outstretched.
“My dear children,” he said; “my poor children. Sit down; sit down.”
They were surprised at his address, and Florence began to apologise for being late; but Brenda made no remark, only her face turned pale.
“I may as well out with it at once,” said Mr. Timmins. “It was never my wish that it should have been kept from you all these years, but I only obeyed your parent’s special instructions. You have left school—”
“Oh yes,” said Florence; “and I am glad. What are we to do in the future, Daddy Timmins?”
She often called him by that name. He took her soft young hand and stroked it. There was a husky note in his voice. He found it difficult to