AN UNPLEASANT ERRAND.
Two or three weeks passed away, during which Florence studied
assiduously. She had an incentive to exertion in her father’s haggard
looks and increasing uneasiness. Although he tried to hide it from her,
he was evidently dissatisfied with the progress of affairs.
“Mason assured me that I should receive interest on the money invested,
and have a certain number of shares made over to me before this time,”
he said, upon one occasion. “But nothing is done, and he puts me off
with vexatious excuses. Not but what it’s all right, my dear, only I’m
a little impatient, and shan’t feel easy until that legacy is restored
to you. Where is your Aunt Margaret?” he added abruptly.
“She has gone to Nice for the remainder of the winter, I believe, sir.
I saw her name among the arrivals there, in a newspaper you brought
home.”
“Humph! I should like her to know that you were innocent of deceiving
her in that matter of the legacy, Florence.”
Florence passed her hand lovingly down the face that was aging so fast.
“Never mind that, papa, dear. Aunt Margaret does not retain her wrath
long. I thought we agreed to talk of it no more.”
He sighed, took his hat, and went out for his customary lounge about
the city; and his daughter, after writing a long Italian theme, went
over to Miss Denham’s rooms to practice for an hour.
Susan had given her a key, with injunctions to use it whenever she
had time or inclination. Accordingly she entered without ceremony,
and to her great surprise she found Julia lying on the sofa, sobbing
convulsively.
Before Florence could retreat she had looked up and seen her. With the
strong will of a proud woman, she sat up directly and composed herself.
“My dear Miss Heriton, don’t go away. I have had to excuse myself
from lessons this morning, for my head aches intolerably. I’m fit
for nothing but to lie here and listen while you play soft, dreamy
melodies.”
“First let me bathe your temples with cold water, and pull down the
blinds,” said Florence, proceeding to carry out her kind intentions
without heeding the faint refusal. And Julia grew calmer under those
soft, gentle hands that touched her hot brows so tenderly.
“You are very good-natured, Miss Heriton, and you are something
more--you are an excellent sympathizer. Susan is too good to be that.”
“Rather a doubtful compliment this--is it not?” asked Florence, with a
smile.
“I did not intend it for one at all. I only gave honest utterance to
my feelings. I mean that Susan, never being tempted to step out of the
regular routine she has made for herself, cannot understand those who
stand less firmly nor pity their weaknesses.”
“I have formed a very different estimate of your cousin’s character,”
said Florence, rather surprised at the tone of Julia’s remarks. “I
should think she was very pitiful to all who need her compassion.”
“Yes; if any one had actually done wrong, Susan would be an invaluable
friend--so merciful, yet so just. But she cannot sympathize with my
chafings against all the petty annoyances of poverty. If I were to
say how I long to be rich, to wear pretty dresses and jewelry, to
ride, to drive, and have no contemptible cares about the few pounds,
more or less, which I spend, she would answer with something about
being content with what we have got. And I’m not contented. Do you
understand?”
“Yes,” said Florence, looking at her thoughtfully. “I, too, often wish
to be independent of the wearing anxiety about money that oppresses all
those who have not enough of it. But I don’t think it is for my own
sake--it is on papa’s account.”
Julia turned her head away.
“Neither do I crave riches solely for myself,” she said, in low tones.
“But I’m not as free from ambition as you are, and so I’ll not deny it.
Sit down, Miss Heriton, will you? I want to talk to you--I want you to
tell me what sort of a person Lady Mason is.”
“A very sad, serious lady outwardly, but her dependents and the
cottagers near her residence adore her.”
“Is your expression, ‘sad and serious,’ a polite way of hinting that
she is a stern and unforgiving mother?” asked Julia, after a short
silence.
“Certainly not. I have heard mamma say that her only fault as a parent
was overindulgence to a very reckless and undutiful son.”
Julia shivered and put her hands to her head, affirming that the
pain was becoming intense again. Yet the next moment she resumed her
questioning remarks.
“How bitterly you speak of this handsome lieutenant! Do you know that
half the ladies who know him are contesting for the honor of his hand?”
“I know nothing more of him than I have already told you,” Florence
rather frigidly replied. “I am not aware that I spoke of Lieutenant
Mason more harshly than I should of any one else who has been so bad a
son to an excellent mother. I think I will reserve my practicing till
to-morrow, Miss Denham.”
Somehow, the conversation was distasteful to her, and she was glad to
make her escape. She detected beneath Julia’s apparent carelessness a
deep interest in all that concerned this young man--an interest she
was not disposed to foster by listening while she dilated upon his
fascinations.
Julia made no further efforts to detain her; but, saying a cold adieu,
drew her shawl over her face, and Florence returned home.
She had not had time to settle to any occupation when Mr. Heriton came
in, breathless and excited. He so rarely returned before evening that
his daughter expressed her surprise. But, taking no notice of her,
he opened his desk and began to write a note. After several attempts,
which his impatience and shaking hand rendered abortive, he succeeded
in composing one to his satisfaction. When it was finished and
addressed, he turned to Florence.
“My dear, you must go out for me; you can take a cab. I want this note
delivered--personally, remember--to Lieutenant Mason, at his chambers,
in the Albany.”
“Papa!” exclaimed the astonished girl, looking from the letter he held
toward her, to his agitated face.
“Yes, Florence--yes, it must be done. There are rumors afloat in the
city that perplex and frighten me. Yes, I’ll be candid with you--they
frighten me. And I must have his assurance that they are false before I
can rest.”
“But, dear papa, would it not be better to have an interview with him
yourself?”
Mr. Heriton struck his hands together.
“I cannot get it, child. I have been to his chambers two--three times,
and the cringing, fawning, lying servant tells me always that he is
out, although others are admitted. They are weary, I suppose, of the
sight of the old man who haunts them so persistently. But I cannot
rest, Florence--I cannot rest until I know that our money is safe.”
She tried to soothe him--to persuade him to regard this venture as a
mistake that it were better to forget; for her own conviction of the
uselessness of hoping had long been deeply rooted. But he would not
listen, and his excitement increased.
“I’ll not believe that he has played me false. Mason’s a gentleman and
a man of honor. It’s I who am to blame for doubting him. Only take this
note to him; insist on seeing him, and explain and smooth away my folly
in being so fearful. Remind him that I am old, and have been terribly
tried and played upon by designing men. He will listen to you, Florry,
my darling, and my mind will be at ease. Only go, dear, quickly!”
It was impossible to refuse this pitiful appeal, and, though much
against her will, Florence went. She did not take a cab, for the simple
reason that she had not sufficient silver in her purse to pay for it,
but walked as briskly as she could, devising as she went the best way
of addressing the lieutenant so as to draw from him the truth.
The manservant who answered her inquiry for his master bore out Mr.
Heriton’s description of him, for his countenance was a villainous one.
But he was extremely respectful, begging the young lady to take a chair
in an antechamber while he went to see whether Lieutenant Mason was in.
Florence, who declined his civility and remained standing, had heard
voices in an inner room. These were hushed when the man entered, and
then some one audibly asked:
“Good-looking, did you say?”
“One of the prettiest creatures I’ve seen for a long time, sir,” she
heard the man answer.
Instinctively she drew her veil over the face that was crimsoning
with resentment, and stepped nearer the door. But the man was already
returning to ask her name.
She gave it with reluctance, and while awaiting the issue the door
behind her opened, and a gentleman, whose bronzed face was half
concealed by an Oriental-looking beard, entered the room, glanced at
its veiled occupant, bowed, and retreated to the window.
The lieutenant’s servant came back with his fawning civility fast
changing into insolence.
“My master really cannot see you to-night, miss. He is particularly
engaged. You can leave a message if you like.”
In the presence of a stranger Florence felt herself compelled to curb
her indignation at this rude treatment.
“Take this note to Lieutenant Mason,” she said haughtily, “and tell him
that I am waiting for a reply to it. I must again request an interview
with him.”
The man began to mutter something, but she checked him with an
imperious “Deliver my message, sir!” And, a scowl settling down on his
face, he obeyed.
The stranger had turned round at the sound of her voice, and was eying
her so keenly that she was glad to bend over the leaves of a pamphlet
lying on the table before her to avoid his scrutiny.
In a very short space of time the man came back, saucier than ever.
“My master really cannot see you to-night, Miss Heriton, so it’s no use
your staying. I’m to tell you that he’ll write or come to you in the
morning.”
Too angry to trust her voice to reply, Florence instantly quitted the
room. As she passed through the door she heard the strange gentleman
eagerly demand:
“Who did you say? What did you call that lady?”
The answer was inaudible. But Florence, in passionate anger that her
name should be repeated by the lips of the vile pander to his master’s
vices, clenched her hands, and wished herself a man, that she might
punish his insolence as it merited.
Then a feeling of annoyance at her father’s thoughtlessness in
exposing her to such rudeness came across her; but that was quickly
forgotten as she recollected how utterly her errand had failed, and the
disappointment he would suffer in consequence.
Pausing and retracing her steps, she looked up at the brightly lighted
windows, and began to ask herself if she had been sufficiently urgent
in her efforts to see the lieutenant. As she thought this, some one
came from the house. It was the stranger; and, ashamed to have been
seen by any one lingering there, Florence hurried away, nor relaxed her
quick pace till, with sinking heart, she entered the dull street where
her father was anxiously awaiting her.