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.