CHAPTER III.
THE LEGACY.
Eight years had passed over the head of Florence Heriton since the sudden death of her beloved mother, and the gay, happy child of fifteen was transformed into the thoughtful, beautiful woman.
Florence had more than fulfilled the promise of her early girlhood. The slim figure had expanded into well-rounded proportions, and if the rosy color and arch expression of her features had departed, they were replaced by a softened sweetness and delicacy even more charming.
Mrs. Heriton’s worst misgivings had been realized. The priory had passed into other hands. By slow degrees the rest of her husband’s property had been dissipated in vain attempts to rebuild his fortunes by wild speculations. Friends had grown weary of dissuading and advising, and had given up a connection which only exposed them to urgent entreaties for loans to be repaid on the success of such and such an enterprise.
Only Florence clung more closely than ever to the father whom she loved and pitied; and, fancying that her mother’s death had been in some measure the cause of his insatiable restlessness, she tried in every conceivable way to minister to his comfort, and to wile him from those thoughts of achieving riches which tormented him.
As they grew poorer they had been compelled to economize more and more, and they were now occupying lodgings in a very quiet part of Brompton.
There was no thoroughfare through this street, which ended in a mews, so it was indeed very quiet and very dull. From her sitting-room window Florence had listlessly watched the opposite neighbors till she knew them all and was familiar with their habits—the half-pay major and his shrewish wife; the invalid lady with her large family of boisterous children, and the three old maids who were patterns of propriety and stiffness to every one in the street. But her eye always rested longest on two young females, daily governesses, who with commendable punctuality went to and fro every day. How she envied them—how she longed to take up her books, too, and toil with the proud satisfaction of knowing that her meed would be the glittering coins of which she so often felt an absolute need.
But Mr. Heriton was prouder than in the days of his prosperity. He was always dreaming of retrieving the past by some stroke of good luck, and he insisted that his heiress should do nothing that would degrade him. A hint that she was anxious to make some use of her accomplishments threw him into such a fit of passion that his frightened daughter never dared repeat it. But it was a weary life for one so young. Without a piano—a luxury she had long ago been forced to deny herself—without books, save those she had read till she wearied of them—forbidden to walk out because it was indecorous for Miss Heriton to be seen without an attendant—the days went by as slowly and sadly as Mariana’s in the moated grange.
Mr. Heriton—dressed with punctilious care—always sallied forth after he had breakfasted, and did not return until evening, when Florence was expected to be ready to receive him with smiles. He never asked how she had spent the long interval; nor did he seem to guess how often it was passed in weeping over the pages of her one great treasure—a little journal her mother had kept, and which she jealously guarded from every eye, for was not the last entry about Frank Dormer?—that dear, kind, gentle Frank, more thought of, more loved and regretted now than even in the first days of his absence. Mrs. Heriton’s feeble hand had traced these words only a few hours before she died:
“Thursday, May, 18—.—Mr. Dormer left us yesterday for India. Even as I imagined, he loves my darling, and hopes to return some day rich enough to wed her. Heaven bless and prosper him! For he is a good young man, and it comforts and strengthens me to think that there is some one in this wide world who will protect her when I am gone. Perhaps I am too romantic in hoping this, but so pure a love will surely outlast the sad changes which I am compelled to dread. My poor Richard—my poor little Florence!”
And here the writer had suddenly ceased, as if her fears overcame her. But when Florence grew very sad she would take out her mother’s journal, ponder over this last page, and, with hope lighting up her eye and a soft blush o’erspreading her delicate cheek, whisper to herself: “It will be all right when Frank comes back to me; I shall never know sorrow more when he is here!”
Still, as the years sped on and he returned not, the deferred hope became an additional sorrow. He had written to Mr. Heriton twice after the tidings of Mrs. Heriton’s death had reached him, and each time the packet had contained a voluminous inclosure for Florence. But these letters were tossed into the fire half read, with such fierce execrations at the writer’s insolence that she dared not ask the nature of their contents.
At the close of a day in November, when the evening was setting in with a misting rain, the dinner hour had almost passed without Mr. Heriton making his appearance. Florence had shaken up the pillows of his easy-chair, coaxed the fire into a bright blaze, and rectified all the omissions of the slatternly servant—who complained bitterly of the airs miss’ pa gave himself if the tablecloth wasn’t quite straight, or the knives dull—and had then gone backward and forward to the window many times to watch for his coming.
The governesses, shielded with umbrellas and waterproofs, had returned home half an hour previously, and as they stood at the door waiting to be admitted, had caught a glimpse of the pretty, anxious face peering through the opposite window. They must have surmised her fears, for their own blind was raised once or twice, and by and by one of them, with a shawl thrown over her head, tripped out of the house, picked her way across the muddy road, and, standing under the lamp-post, looked up and waved her hand to attract Florence’s attention.
She threw up the sash immediately, and a cheerful voice exclaimed:
“Pardonnez, mademoiselle, but you are uneasy—is it not so? Monsieur your papa has not returned?”
“No, he has not,” was the hurried reply. “Tell me—do you know if anything has happened to him?”
“No, he was well and safe when I passed through Pall Mall on my way home. He had just encountered an old friend, whom he was warmly greeting.”
Florence’s heart bounded. Could it be Frank Dormer? Unlikely as it was, her spirits rose, and she gratefully thanked the young lady for the information.
“Do not speak of it,” she answered. “The suggestion was Susan’s, my cousin’s. Good night—good night!” And she sped back to her own cozy fireside.
“How kind to interest themselves about me—a stranger!” murmured Florence. “How I wish papa would let me make their acquaintance! Who can he be staying with? An old friend whom he greeted warmly! Ah, we have so few friends left, it is difficult to guess who this one can be.”
Another hour had almost elapsed ere her suspense was ended. Mr. Heriton came in, rubbing his hands and complaining of the cold, but evidently in the highest possible spirits.
“What a wretched fire you keep, my love! Ring for more coals! Is dinner ready? Have I kept you waiting?”
“A little, sir. I should have been very uneasy about you if one of our neighbors had not kindly assured me of your safety.”
Mr. Heriton lifted his eyebrows.
“Rather impertinent, I think, of such people to trouble themselves about our affairs! We must get out of this miserable hole, my love, as soon as we can. It is scarcely respectable.”
He took his seat at the table without waiting for a reply, and began uncovering the dishes.
“Nothing but a sole and hashed mutton! Do you call this a dinner?”
Florence colored painfully.
“Dear papa, I reminded you a week ago that my housekeeping purse was empty, and Mrs. Jones is—is dissatisfied at the length of our bill.”
She did not add that she had sold a pair of pearl bracelets to quiet the woman with a partial payment.
Mr. Heriton frowned angrily.
“You must be a very bad manager. However, I shall engage a thorough housekeeper as soon as we leave here, and then there will be a prospect of having a meal fit to sit down to. Why are there no wineglasses here?” he asked of the girl who waited.
She answered rather saucily that it worn’t no use to put them if there worn’t no wine to drink out of them; and missus said she shouldn’t order no more till the last dozen was paid for.
“Quit the room!” Mr. Heriton exclaimed, with dignity. “And tell your mistress to send me her account in the morning. I shall seek other apartments!”
The girl, who had gone through many such scenes, and only refrained from a pert answer for Florence’s sake, flounced away, and the father and daughter finished their meal in silence.
Florence longed to know what had happened to detain him, but feared to ask, till, as he drew his chair to the fire, he put his arm lovingly across her shoulder.
“My darling, you look pale and thin, and your dresses are shabby; but I shall alter all this soon, and my pretty heiress shall take her proper place in society again. Who do you think I have seen to-day?”
“I am a miserable guesser. Pray tell me, papa.”
“Have you forgotten Lady Mason, an acquaintance of your poor mother?”
“Forgotten her! Oh, no, sir! A tall, thin, serious lady, whose grave looks used to make me dislike her, until mamma explained that they were occasioned by the bad conduct of her only son, who was a very profligate man.”
Mr. Heriton stirred the fire vigorously.
“Pooh! Nonsense! Robert Mason is no Puritan, but he’s a remarkably clever fellow; a citizen of the world, child, with a marvelous faculty for business. He is the secretary of a company that is the most prosperous and best-managed one in London.”
“Indeed, sir?” said Florence doubtfully.
“Yes,” he sharply retorted. “Why do you speak in that sneering, unladylike tone? Do you think I am an idiot to be duped by any tale I hear? Am I not old enough and experienced enough to judge for myself whether it is so? I tell you Lieutenant Mason is a clever man, and my very good friend. How dare you doubt my word!”
“Forgive me, papa; I did not mean to vex you,” pleaded Florence tearfully.
He softened as he saw her regret.
“You are a silly child. My sister Margaret has infected you with her own suspicious disposition. My pretty Floy,” he added fondly, “my only blessing—is it not for you that I strive to regain our lost wealth? Shall I ever be happy until I have restored to you your inheritance?”
Florence slid down on her knees beside him.
“Papa, don’t think of it—don’t strive for what I have freely yielded. Only love me, and let me work for you, and I ask nothing else.”
He kissed her forehead.
“Pooh, you foolish little thing! You don’t know what you are talking about. Our prospects are brightening, and ere long we shall buy back the priory, and my daughter shall keep open house there to all comers to celebrate our return.”
Florence sighed drearily. She had heard this predicted so often! But Mr. Heriton did not notice it, and went on talking in the same animated manner.
“Mason was delighted to see me. He entered warmly into my affairs, and has put me in the way of a good thing or two already. You see, my dear, I have been unfortunate hitherto in having to deal with artful persons who took no real interest in me. Now, Mason is quite a different man, and will not let me run any risks. Do you comprehend my meaning?”
“Not quite, papa; but I hope he is all you think him. Does he thoroughly understand”—and now Florence spoke hesitatingly—“that—that we have no ready money left to—to speculate with?”
Mr. Heriton frowned.
“How oddly you express yourself! Of course, I frankly told him that all my available capital is locked up in various investments. It is very unfortunate that it should be so, for I cannot buy some shares he has recommended me until I can put my hand on a few hundreds.”
Florence thought in her heart that it was quite as well as it was; but she did not venture to say so, and her father rose and paced the room for some few minutes. When he came back to his seat he said irritably:
“How it wounds me to see you so careless of our interests! Really, Florence, it is cruelly disheartening to find you so utterly indifferent.”
“But indeed, papa,” she said affectionately, “I have been listening to all you have said, and wishing it were in my power to give you back the priory.”
He drew his chair closer to hers.
“And it is in your power to assist me greatly, Florence. You can let me have the money I require. That legacy my sister Margaret’s husband left you will be ample, and I will return it ere long.”
Florence grew very pale. Mrs. Margaret Blunden—who knew and condemned her brother’s follies—had exacted from her a promise never to be tempted to touch this bequest; and her niece had freely given it, for it was their little all. She knew but too well that there was nothing else left to them, and she held it sacred, for it was her steadfast purpose when Mr. Heriton saw the hopelessness of his speculations to devote it to the purchase of an annuity for him. The more madly he launched into fresh schemes the more firmly Florence clung to this sum of money for his sake. With this, and what she could earn, her father’s old age could at least be secured from want.
She had long dreaded such a request, and now summoned up all her fortitude to refuse it.
“Dearest papa, if I had reserved Uncle Blunden’s legacy for my own uses I would willingly give it to you, but I have a special purpose for it. Don’t ask me to part with it, please, for I dare not.”
“Pooh! Florence—this is so childish! I do but ask it as a loan; a few weeks or months at the farthest, and you shall have it again, doubled.”
Florence was very pale, but her resolution was not to be shaken.
“I cannot give it you, papa—I cannot, indeed! We have nothing else left, and if this were lost, too, what would become of us?”
Mr. Heriton began to grow angry at her firmness.
“Child, it will not be lost, I tell you. Think what you are doing by your obstinacy; you are depriving me of what may be my last chance of recovering myself. With those few hundreds in my possession, I see my way to fortune.”
“But, alas, dear papa, you have thought the same thing so often.”
Mr. Heriton started up and pushed her violently from him.
“Unfeeling girl! After all I have risked on your account—the days and nights of mental anxiety I have endured—the insults I have submitted to from men who formerly were ready to humble themselves before me—after all that I have encountered and borne with for your sake—yes—all—all for you—you are the first to reproach me with my unfortunate failures.”
“Don’t mistake me so, papa; indeed, I did not mean to reproach you!” said Florence, now in tears at his harshness.
“Prove it—prove it!” he answered vehemently. “If you really repent your injustice, sign me a check on the banker with whom the money is deposited.”
She had never actually disobeyed any wish of her father until now, and it was not without a terrible pang that she repeated her refusal.
“I cannot, sir! Forgive me, but I cannot!”
Mr. Heriton struck his forehead with his hand.
“Am I a villain, that my only child refuses to trust me? Go, Florence—leave me; I can bear no more.”
But instead of quitting the room, she threw her arms around his neck, beseeching him to pardon her if she seemed unkind.
“I do not doubt you, my own dear papa. How could I? Are we not all in all to each other? Let me work for you—let me earn money for you! I should be the happiest of the happy if your little comforts were purchased by my exertions. But don’t ask me again for Uncle Blunden’s bequest; I have promised Aunt Margaret that I will not touch it, and you would despise your daughter if she broke her word.”
Mr. Heriton, quivering with passion, put her forcibly from him.
“I believe, Miss Heriton, that Mrs. Blunden has on more than one occasion expressed a wish that you should take up your residence with her. I withdraw my opposition to her request; you are perfectly at liberty to go whenever you please. You have forfeited my affection by your selfish and deceitful conduct; you have chosen to be guided by an illiberal woman, who has no sisterly affection for me. Go to her, and forget that you have a father, as I shall try to forget that I have ever had a child!”
“Papa, you cannot mean this!” she faltered. “You know that I would not leave you for Aunt Margaret or any one else.”
With freezing politeness he walked to the door and opened it for her.
“This discussion is very painful to me, Miss Heriton; I must beg that you will not prolong it. As you may depart before I rise in the morning, I will say my adieus now.”
Florence tried to answer him, but she had been feeling poorly all day with a feverish cold; and, thoroughly upset by the scene she had gone through, she dropped into a chair, half fainting.
Greatly alarmed by her pale face and closed eyes, her father rang the bell and hurried to support her.
“Look up, my darling—speak to me! Great heavens! Have I killed her—have I killed her?”
Florence made an effort to answer him, but was too ill to do more than murmur an affectionate “Dear—dear papa!” And his alarm increasing, he called loudly for assistance. The mistress of the house, who cherished a great liking for “poor, pretty Miss Heriton,” and disliked her consequential father, came bustling in and carried her off to bed, assiduously nursing her during the days that she lay in the alternate chills and delirium of a low fever.
Mr. Heriton was extremely attentive during this time, and seemed anxious to atone for the past, fussily hovering about his daughter’s bed, and entreating her to tell him if there was any delicacy she could fancy—a pineapple, for instance, or peaches, or guava jelly—till poor Florence, who knew that all these things were beyond his reach, grew worried and unhappy at his thoughtless way of talking.
Partly to put an end to it she left the room as soon as her weakened limbs would support her, and her longing for fresh air led her to wrap herself up on the first sunny day, and stroll languidly up and down the street. The bright, frosty atmosphere braced and revived her. There was even a pale tint of the rose on her cheek as she turned her steps homeward, but she was so fragile-looking that one of the governesses, coming briskly from her daily avocation, stopped, and, after a moment’s hesitation, came and spoke to her with sympathizing kindness.
“I am afraid you have been ill, Miss Heriton? We had missed you from the window. Will you accept my arm down the street?”
Florence took it as frankly as it was offered. The pale, oval face, the smoothly braided brown hair, and neat gray dress of this gentlewoman irresistibly attracted her.
“I have been ill, but I am better, thank you; and it is such a treat to breathe the air once more!”
“Cannot you prolong your stroll as far as the park? The walks are dry, and there are seats where you could rest for a few minutes if warmly clothed.”
“I should like it much; but papa does not approve of my going there alone,” Florence replied, and her new friend was too delicate to say more.
They sauntered together to the door of Mr. Heriton’s lodgings, and then the governess, moved by an impulse of pity for the young creature who seemed so lonely, said:
“My name is Denham—Susan Denham. My cousin and I rarely receive any visitors, but we are generally at home on Thursday afternoon, and if you will come and read or work with us we shall be pleased to see you.”
Florence pressed her hand warmly.
“I shall like it so much. I will be sure to come.”
It was not until she was in her own room, taking off her wraps, that she remembered Mr. Heriton’s exordiums against forming any low connections. She timidly mentioned the invitation as they sat together in the evening, adding:
“I should much like to go, papa, if you will let me.”
He smiled and shrugged his shoulders.
“You don’t seem to see the drift of this attention, my dear. These governesses would like the name of having finished the education of Miss Heriton, of the priory. If they are really talented women you may engage their services. I have noticed that your Italian is imperfect. I will inquire the price of a piano for you.”
Florence wisely raised no objections, but resolved to evade compliance with injunctions that would only involve her in a fresh anxiety. How could she repay the kindness of Miss Denham by asking for lessons for which she knew her father had no means of paying? It was such things as these which made her miserable and wounded her best feelings.
At first she was half inclined to renounce the visit, but her longing for a change from the monotony of her life and thoughts overcame this resolution; and, dressing carefully on the appointed afternoon, she was just starting for Miss Denham’s lodging, when a carriage stopped at the door and Mrs. Margaret Blunden was announced.
Owing to the antagonistic temperaments of the brother and sister, they rarely met. Mrs. Blunden was as economical as Mr. Heriton was extravagant, and she had always so strenuously opposed and predicted the consequences of his speculations that her very name was unpleasant in his ears. But his daughter, who recognized her aunt’s warm, generous nature, really loved her, and was always pleased when they met.
Mrs. Blunden was a tall, stout, florid lady, so full of health and vigor that Florence looked thinner and paler than ever as she hurried to meet her. Her aunt, instead of bestowing upon her the customary embrace, put back the arms extended to her.
“Don’t touch me! Don’t play the hypocrite with me, Florence Heriton!”
Astonished at her manner, her niece drew back and surveyed her wonderingly. Mrs. Blunden threw back her shawl as if its soft folds choked her.
“What had I done that you should willfully deceive me, child? For your dead mother’s sake I have loved you dearly. Was it worth your while to lie to me?”
“Aunt Margaret, you must be laboring under some strange mistake,” Florence replied.
“A mistake!” was the vehement retort. “Is it a mistake that you wrote to me yesterday, assuring me that you had not and would not meddle with your legacy? Was it worth while, I ask, to send me this assurance, when you had withdrawn it some days ago? Attempt no further denials, for I have been to the banker, and seen your letter authorizing the withdrawal. Hush! I don’t want to hear any evasions. You have deceived me, and I have done with you forever!”
Before Florence could attempt a reply she had given her one more reproachful look and swept out of the room.