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.