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.”
