In Deadly Peril
Who that knows Northumberland has not roamed delightedly beside the lovely Coquet, that tricksome little river which sometimes murmurs softly along its rocky bed, and anon—swollen and turbid—fiercely dashes against its steep banks, rushing on toward the ocean with a force and rapidity that carries everything before it.
Those who have visited this capricious stream will remember Heriton Priory, one of the fairest and finest estates through which it wanders. Surrounded on three sides by hills which protect it from the keen winds, then sloping gently toward the river, the grounds are worthy the house, which is a fine specimen of the Tudor style of architecture. The ruins of the first priory—formerly the residence of a community of monks—still exist; and, owing to the care of their owners, are almost in as good condition as when the demesne was bestowed upon a certain Ralph de Heriton by Henry VIII.
The priory had been in the same family ever since. Succeeding generations had added to and improved the estate, until at the commencement of the present reign it fell into the hands of Mr. Richard Heriton, the last of the male branch. He, too, pulled down, and rebuilt, and altered, and this at a rate which made some of his more prudent neighbors shrug their shoulders as they counted the cost.
That the alterations were made with taste no one could deny, and at the time our story opens—that sweet, fragrant season when spring insensibly glides into summer—the priory gardens were in one flush of glowing beauty. It was literally a fairy scene, concealed from prying eyes by the towering heights which guarded and sheltered its loveliness.
A young man whom Mr. Heriton had discovered pedestrianizing in the neighborhood, and on learning that they had mutual friends in London, had hospitably brought home with him, lay at full length on the greensward beneath a drooping ash tree. Frank Dormer had fixed himself in the library to have a quiet morning’s reading; but the twitter of the birds, the sunlight, and the sweet breath of the roses, drew him forth to spend an hour of half-sad, half-pleasant idleness. He had rarely looked on so fair a scene before. He might never behold it again, for he was daily expecting orders to sail for India, where he had received an appointment in the Civil Service. An orphan from an early age—looked coldly upon by his few relatives, and bandied from school to private tutor, from private tutor to college—he had never known the real meaning of the word home until these few happy weeks he had spent at the priory.
As he lay there listening to the ripple of the river, and recalling the pleasant events of each succeeding day—the rides with Mr. Heriton to every spot within reach which was worthy a visit; the calls upon the warm-hearted, free-handed Northumbrian landowners with whom his host was acquainted; the quieter drives with Mrs. Heriton, a confirmed invalid; and the walks and gay romps with Florence, the only daughter of the house—he sighed, and shaded his eyes with his hand.
The trailing branches of the tree were gently parted, an arch face peeped from between them, and the next moment the young man’s head and shoulders were covered with a shower of flower petals.
Shaking his curly head with something of the air of a good-tempered Newfoundland dog, he started up—his melancholy thoughts all put to flight—and looked around. But the owner of the pretty, saucy face had retreated, and was nowhere to be seen, though a stifled laugh proclaimed her vicinity.
“You may as well show yourself, Miss Mischief,” exclaimed Frank, “unless, indeed, you are on the wing for a broom to sweep up this mess before Johnson sees it. He had the lawn swept not two hours ago. There’ll be a complaint laid before Mr. Heriton of Miss Florence’s untidy ways. I hope you’ll be punished with half a dozen sums in practice and a long German exercise.”
Florence emerged from her hiding place to answer him. She was a slim, delicate girl of fifteen, with eyes of so deep a blue that they were almost black, and long, wavy hair of golden brown that was carelessly tied at the back of her head with a ribbon of the same color. Although under the control of a strict governess for several hours every day, in order that she might become the accomplished young lady Mr. Heriton’s heiress ought to be, her mother’s thoughtful tenderness secured her perfect freedom for as many more. Thus Florence, brought up in the healthful seclusion of the priory—never permitted to exhibit her acquirements and receive the ill-judging admiration of visitors—was still a happy, artless child, with only enough of the woman to cherish a secret thought that if she grew up and ever consented to leave dear, suffering mamma and marry, it must be for just such a man as Frank Dormer.
Secure in her extreme youth and the young man’s speedy departure, no limits had been set upon their intercourse by either of her parents. They had rambled together, sung together, and read from the same books; the pretty Florence coming to Frank with all her difficulties, and making him the confidant of all her girlish secrets; while he—thrown for the first time into feminine society—petted and protected her with a growing tenderness which no one saw or suspected except Florence’s mother.
“I wouldn’t add story-telling to all my other evil propensities if I were you,” said the girl demurely, as she came a little nearer, yet stood ready to spring away if Frank attempted to approach her. “It was not I who threw those leaves on the lawn, Mr. Dormer. I wouldn’t vex poor old Johnson for the world, especially just now that I want some of his best verbenas for my garden. It was you who made the litter by shaking them off in all directions. I should advise you to pick them up directly, sir.”
“Come and help me then, mademoiselle.”
“No, indeed, monsieur! That would be to confess myself guilty. I am going for a walk. Oh, Mr. Dormer, I saw such a lovely fern on one of the heights that overhang the river! It’s about a mile higher up, and I mean to fetch it. You’ll come, won’t you?”
Frank picked up his straw hat and followed, as with her basket in hand she danced across the lawn, singing to herself, and stopping occasionally to pick the fairest buds she passed, until she had gathered a tiny bouquet for her companion’s buttonhole.
“Miss Dodson says every flower has a meaning attached to it,” Florence remarked, as she fastened them in his summer coat. “Do you know what these signify?”
“To me their meaning is second to the fact that they are among the last blossoms I shall have from an English garden,” Frank answered. “I think I shall take them with me to India if I can dry them nicely.”
“Were you thinking of your voyage when I disturbed you?” asked Florence, coming closer to him and speaking gravely. “Why do you go? Why not stay in England?”
“Simply, my dear, because my only chance of rising in the world lies in accepting this appointment. I have no friends, no interest——” He stopped himself and smiled. “But there—why trouble that little head of yours about matters you don’t understand?”
“I can understand that you are going away for years, and that mamma is very sorry, and so am I, really! Papa must have friends and interest,” she added suddenly. “He could help you, I am sure. I’ll go and speak to him at once.”
Dropping her basket, she was speeding away, but Frank caught and detained her.
“Dear Florence—dear little girl—you must not do this. You must promise me never to ask any favors from your father for me.”
“But you don’t doubt his willingness to assist you?” asked Florence, a little warmly.
“Certainly I do not. Mr. Heriton has been most kind, most hospitable to me.”
“Then why——” she began.
He checked her with an imperious:
“Hush—say no more! My pride has been galled enough of late years. Don’t let me have to take any but pleasant memories from here.”
Florence glanced at his darkening face. She had never before heard him allude to the clouds that had shadowed his early life, and she wisely diverted his thoughts into pleasanter channels. But whether she dived into the wood they were passing through, to peep into a bird’s nest, or challenged him to races, or hid from him in some bosky dingle, she always came back to his side with a softer, sweeter smile on her lip, a more caressing gentleness in her manner, as if she sought to make him amends for having evoked such unpleasant recollections.
Her wanderings made their ramble a long one, but at last they reached the spot where the rare fern was growing which she was desirous of possessing. While Frank Dormer dug carefully around the roots she ran to the edge of the bank, or cliff, which rose here almost perpendicularly from the river to so great a height that he grew uneasy, and shouted a caution to the adventurous girl.
