CHAPTER II.
SHADOWS.
Mr. Heriton, a portly, handsome man, scarcely past the middle age, was walking about the drawing room, addressing an occasional observation to his lady, who was sitting near a window which commanded the route Frank and Florence had taken an hour previously.
She had the hectic color and fragile form of continual suffering, and every time Mr. Heriton raised his voice or pushed a chair out of his way she put her hand to her side as if to stay the quickened beating of her heart. But she answered him cheerfully, with a smile on her lip, though a close observer might have detected in her eyes an anxious scrutiny of her restless husband, who was both moody and irritable.
“Is it not time we dined?” he asked. “It seems to me that our servants do as they please with us.”
“It is my fault,” Mrs. Heriton replied. “I bade them put the dinner back for a quarter of an hour. Mr. Dormer is out; Florence has carried him off on one of her wild excursions.”
Mr. Heriton knitted his brow.
“She has too much liberty. Her manners are terribly unformed, and she is quite childish for her age.”
“She is so young!” replied the mother deprecatingly. “I thought, dear Richard, we had agreed not to bring her forward too early?”
He ahemmed, and looked slightly embarrassed.
“Yes, yes—of course! But, as Morrison of Carnbraes was remarking this morning, the heiress of the Heritons is—is, in fact—is not an ordinary person.”
Mrs. Heriton looked at him inquiringly as he walked to and fro, but was silent. She knew that he would be more likely to explain himself if she did not attempt to question him.
“A year or two will transform Florence into a lovely woman, and, with her advantages and wealth, she ought to marry well—very well. By the bye, Mrs. Morrison made a remark about your protégé—this Mr. Dormer—a remark that I thought very impertinent.”
Mrs. Heriton forbore to remind him that she had nothing to do with Mr. Dormer’s introduction to the priory, but gently observed:
“An impertinence of any description is not worthy your notice, Richard.”
“True—true. But it was annoying, very annoying, to be asked if it was not dangerous to domesticate a young adventurer with my heiress.”
Mrs. Heriton reddened slightly.
“Surely Mr. Dormer does not merit such a name as that?”
“Well, no—not in the common acceptation of the term. He is an agreeable, intelligent young fellow. But you must acknowledge, my dear, that you are permitting too close an intimacy between him and our daughter. He might be tempted to try and entangle her into an engagement or elopement. Really,” and Mr. Heriton began to look quite excited at the idea, “really, it looks very serious.”
His lady smiled.
“I have too much faith in his honor and my little Florence’s simplicity to fear such a dénouement. Yet I know and feel that you are right; and if it were not that he will soon leave us, I should, for his sake, keep Florence more closely to her studies.”
Mr. Heriton stared.
“For his sake! Well, yes, I suppose you are right. Florence will have too much good sense to throw herself away. She must not marry until she has been properly presented. She must have a season in London, and——”
“Dear Richard, is it worth while to form plans that cannot be carried out for two or three years to come?” the lady asked, wearily leaning back with closed eyes, as if the mere prospect of her merry, artless daughter being converted into a fashionable belle alarmed her.
Mr. Heriton came to her side directly with affectionate solicitude.
“Dear Emma, I have worried you, haven’t I? You’re not feeling so well. Did you have a drive to-day?”
“No, I scarcely felt equal to it.”
“Ha! That carriage is not easy enough. I saw a new patent advertised in the Times expressly adapted for invalids. I’ll have one down for you.”
“Pray don’t!” said Mrs. Heriton earnestly. “I am very well satisfied with the one I have; and, indeed, Richard, it troubles me when you go to such needless expense.”
He patted her shoulder.
“Pooh—pooh! Do I ever begrudge anything that will add to your comfort?”
“No, never. But, Richard, dear, when I think of the enormous outlay of the last few years, I will confess that it frightens me. No, don’t go away. I have wanted to say this to you for some time. Do tell me frankly—are we not exceeding our income? Is not that the cause of the secret anxiety that I am sure is preying upon you?”
She had got both his hands in hers, and was looking so eagerly in his face that he was obliged to reply:
“Nonsense, love! You are too fearful. There is nothing amiss. The improvements will pay for themselves in a little while. I am somewhat pressed for ready money—yes, I don’t mind confessing that to you. But it’s nothing—absolutely nothing. Every gentleman of enterprise has to contend with such inconveniences occasionally. And I have been embarking rather largely in a capital speculation.”
“Speculation!” Mrs. Heriton repeated, looking really alarmed.
He laughed.
“I shouldn’t have used that expression. I know what a terrible sound it has in your ears. But there is not the slightest cause for uneasiness. It is a flourishing company I have joined, and I shall more than double what I have risked. For Florence’s sake, love, you ought to be pleased. It is for our child’s interests I try to increase our fortune.”
Mrs. Heriton tried to appear satisfied, but failed so signally that her husband’s irritability returned.
“Are we not to dine at all to-day? Really, Emma, there is strange mismanagement somewhere!”
Before she could reply the signal was given, and he led her to the dining room, where they were speedily joined by Frank. His apologies for the delay somewhat appeased his host’s ill humor, and he chatted cheerfully till the removal of the cloth.
But Mrs. Heriton’s keener eye detected that the young man was not in his usual spirits, and when she returned to the drawing room her questions quickly drew from the ingenuous Florence a recital of what had occurred.
She was lying back on her couch, still quivering with grateful emotion, and caressing the beloved one who had been in such peril, when the gentlemen joined them. A servant had been sent to the nearest town for letters, and Mr. Heriton was unusually eager to examine the bag. But there was nothing in it for him except a few notes and circulars of no importance, and he sat drumming on the table, and sipping his coffee, while Frank Dormer opened the two addressed to himself.
From one of his correspondents—a college acquaintance, who was enjoying a few months of London life—he was in the habit of receiving many little bits of town gossip, which he was so accustomed to read aloud, that when he closed his letter Florence exclaimed:
“What! No news to-night, Mr. Dormer?”
“None worth repeating. In fact, Willis’ letter is filled with lamentations at his own ill fortune. He has suffered himself to be persuaded to take some shares in a new company which has suddenly collapsed. I fear from what he tells me that hundreds will be sufferers by the rascality of the few who had constituted themselves directors.”
Mr. Heriton took the cup Florence had just replenished, and carelessly observed:
“Ah, there are so many of these mushroom affairs always springing up that it behooves a man to be cautious. Your friend should not have been so easily duped. What was the company called?”
Frank referred to his letter, and read aloud the high-sounding appellation. Mr. Heriton’s cup fell from his nerveless hand, he gasped for breath, and then, dashing his hand on the table, cried fiercely:
“It is a lie, sir—a lie!”
His wife and daughter started up in such terrified surprise that it recalled him to himself. But he was fearfully pale.
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Dormer—I really beg your pardon! I don’t know what possessed me. How ridiculous I am! Sit down, Emma. Why do you persist in agitating yourself about nothing? Florence, child, go to your mother. Do you hear?” And he stamped his foot at her so passionately that she shrank from him in tearful affright.
With unsteady hand he lit a candle.
“I must go to my study. I have letters here that must be answered. Will you excuse me, Mr. Dormer?”
When he had quitted the room, Mrs. Heriton, stifling her own dread, quietly said that she believed he had taken a few shares in the defunct company, and felt mortified that his name should be mixed up in a fraudulent concern.
The composure of her manner reassured her daughter and deceived Frank, who knew nothing of his host’s affairs, and was thoughtfully musing over the contents of his other missive. He was so absorbed in his musings that he did not hear Florence when she came to bid him good night.
Then he started up.
“Good night and good-by, dear little friend! I have received my summons, and shall be far away from here when you open your eyes in the morning.”
Florence looked aghast.
“So soon—so soon? Oh, mamma! Why must he go?”
“It is his duty, child,” her mother replied gravely. “Don’t distress him with vain regrets. Bid him adieu, and we will both pray for his successful career and safe return.”
Florence put out both her hands.
“Dear Mr. Dormer, good-by! And Heaven bless you! I shall greatly miss you. I shall never, never forget you!”
“You promise too much,” he answered, trying to laugh. “You will be a happy wife long before I return to England—if I ever do.”
Florence raised her eyes to his with dismay.
“If ever you come back! Do you mean that we shall not see you again? What—never? Mamma, does he mean it?”
She burst into tears, and Frank, more troubled at her distress than he dared express, led her to her mother, who was anxiously looking on.
For some few minutes the young girl could not still her passionate weeping. She had never contemplated an utter separation, and it terrified her.
“It is like death,” she murmured, “to see any one you love go away with no hope of their returning.”
“Mr. Dormer spoke too hastily, Florence,” said her mother. “If he leaves friends here whom he values, he will come back some day to them. Now say good-by once more, and run away, unless you wish to spoil my night’s rest.”
Florence instantly obeyed, but her faltering farewell and the wistful glance of her soft eyes made Frank forget himself. He put his arms around her and pressed his lips to her forehead; then turned to the fireplace and shaded his face with his hand till the closing of the door told him she had gone.
Then he went to Mrs. Heriton.
“Forgive me! If you knew all I feel and suffer at this moment—how dear Florence has become to me—to me, who may never——”
He could say no more, but she kindly answered:
“Be more hopeful. Look forward to the future with a firm trust in Providence, and remember that Florence is very young, and may still be free when you have achieved a position that warrants your asking her father for her, if you still wish it.”
His face glowed with joy.
“And would you—would Mr. Heriton ever consent? Ah, madam, you say this to encourage me; but years of patient toil would scarcely place me on a footing with your heiress!”
The lady sighed heavily, and pressed her hands to her throbbing heart.
“There are many changes in life, and Florence may not be exempt from misfortunes. I have terrible misgivings. A few years, and Heaven only knows where my child may be!”
She spoke so low that Frank bent forward to hear her; and, raising herself, she laid her clasped hands in his.
“Frank Dormer,” she said, with solemn impressiveness, “I shall have gone to my grave long ere you turn your face homeward! I have faith in you—great faith. So much, that, were Florence older, I would thankfully see her yours. But I can do nothing. I have been weak and helpless all my life. I can only strive for strength to leave my dear ones to wiser guardianship than mine. But it will comfort me to hear you promise that, under any circumstances, you will protect and befriend my child if she needs it.”
“I promise it, on my soul, Mrs. Heriton,” the young man answered, reverently bending his head.
She murmured a blessing, and, seeing that the excitement was too much for her, he rang for her maid. It was their last earthly meeting, as she had predicted; but ere Frank quitted the priory at daybreak, a sealed packet was given to him. It contained a tiny miniature of Florence and her mother, and on the paper that enveloped it was faintly traced the word “Remember!”
Mr. Heriton also left the priory that day, on pretext of a little business to attend to at Morpeth; but his lady was not surprised to hear that he had been seen at the coach office when the coach was starting for London.
The railways had not then reached Northumberland, and Mrs. Heriton prepared herself for days of suspense, to be endured with what patience she could muster, before she could expect his return, or even a letter to explain the cause of his departure.
On the evening of the second day she was reclining in her easy-chair, with Florence sitting at her feet, talking sorrowfully of the absent Frank, when a servant announced the arrival of two strangers.
“They want master, please, ma’am; and they wouldn’t be said nay when I told ’em he was out. They’re Lunnoners by the look of ’em.”
“Are they gentlemen, Mark—friends of papa’s?” asked Florence, her curiosity aroused by the man’s evident perturbation.
Before he could answer, Mrs. Heriton touched her daughter.
“Go away, my dear. And, Mark, show these persons in here.”
Florence looked dubious.
“Let me stay, mamma. You’re not fit to talk to these people, whoever they are; and I will be very reserved and dignified, as Miss Heriton ought to be.”
“No, no!” was the hurried reply. “They come on business. Pray go away!” And she reluctantly withdrew.
Mrs. Heriton knew that her worst forebodings were realized as soon as her unwelcome visitors entered. But she struggled with the sharp pain that shook her feeble frame, and calmly inquired their errand. It was soon told, though with tolerable gentleness, for the men had a little compassion for the delicate woman who questioned them.
Mr. Heriton had rendered himself responsible for the liabilities of the company he had joined, to such an extent that ruin—absolute ruin—must be the consequence. These men had been empowered to take possession of the priory, and would remain until some arrangements could be made.
She offered no useless objections, uttered no complaints, but heard them with patience, and gave the necessary orders to her servants. But when they had quitted the room, and the miserable wife and mother began to comprehend the extent of the trouble that menaced her, a bitter cry burst from her laboring heart.
“Florence, my child—my poor child!”
Her daughter, who was lingering in the next room until recalled, heard the shriek, and flew to her mother. She found her lying back in her chair, looking so strangely white that she hastily summoned assistance.
The female servants gathered around their lady, and tried every known remedy to revive her, but without success.
“A doctor!” cried the half-frantic Florence. “She has fainted. Oh, if papa were but here!”
One of the strangers, who had stolen in unchecked in the confusion, put his fingers to Mrs. Heriton’s pulse, then crept softly away.
“Heaven help that poor young creature!” he whispered to his companion. “I don’t like to be the first to tell her, but a doctor’s no use. The lady’s dead.”