CHAPTER XI.
THE STRANGER FROM INDIA.
No letter came from Susan Denham; and after wavering until there was scarcely time left for the necessary packing, Florence resolved to put pride steadily under her feet, and enter cheerfully upon her new duties.
It cost her a pang to leave the little cottage where her father’s stormy, restless life had found a haven; and Mrs. Bick wept noisily at their parting.
“I dunno, after all, whether I ain’t glad I’m going right away,” said the poor old woman, “for I could never abide the place when there’s nobody in it as I cares about. Master Weddell have took to it, and he have promised he won’t root up Dannle’s flowers. Ye’ll have a look in as ye goes by sometimes, miss, won’t ye, and see if he keep his word?”
This Florence readily consented to do, and then they parted—the old woman blessing the young with a rugged eloquence that came from the heart.
“I’ll never forget ye, miss. I ain’t much of a hand at saying what I thinks, but I’ll never forget your name in my prayers. I shall always think them was my happiest times when I see your sweet face every day.”
As Florence stepped into the carriage sent from Orwell Court, with Mrs. Bick’s last words ringing in her ears, her spirits became greatly depressed. Those had been happy days—those days of actual poverty and daily labor; and she might well ask herself what would be her lot in the future to which she had no clue. Never before had her loneliness been felt so thoroughly as now, and despite her utmost efforts to appear composed, Mrs. Wilson’s warm greeting on her arrival was met with a burst of hysterical tears.
The little lady’s nervousness vanished as soon as she saw the agitation of her young guest, and with the soothing tenderness of a mother she led her into her own room, where, with the most unobtrusive kindness, she contrived to win back her calmness. Then she had some patterns to select for hangings for the bedrooms, in which grave matter she consulted Florence, who, pleased to be of service, roused herself to assist in the choice, and write some letters to the tradespeople by whom they were supplied.
With the tact supplied by kindness of heart, Mrs. Wilson quickly comprehended that the way to make Florence contented was to give her employment. Accordingly, as soon as they had breakfasted on the following morning, she led her into the library, and pointed to the bare shelves, and the packing cases that bestrewed the floor.
“My dear, I haven’t a notion how books should be placed, and Mr. Aylwinne sent me word that I had better leave these alone till he came, unless I could find some one competent to arrange and catalogue them. Now, it would be a great relief to my mind if this could be done before his arrival.”
“I shall be delighted to undertake it,” Florence replied, and Mrs. Wilson was satisfied. The owner of Orwell Court had gone to Southampton to await there the coming of the ship in which his wards had sailed from India. His return was not expected for several days, and this interval was one of real rest and refreshment to the governess-elect.
The library at Orwell Court was a fine, old-fashioned room, with deep bay windows looking far away over the greensward and clumps of trees dotting the park to a long range of chalk hills beyond.
Florence—whether at her desk or on the library steps with some engrossing volume on her lap—always contrived to perch herself where she could see the sun set behind these distant hills, and enjoy the beauty of the view.
Mrs. Wilson passed in and out all day long, to detail little vexations, or ask advice on some—to her—very important point. If she found Florence at work, she stayed, but if she had forgotten herself in the pages of Thierry or Macaulay, Mrs. Wilson smiled, and slipped away again in silence.
The days glided on only too quickly, and one chilly evening, as Florence and her friend sat over the fire in the morning room, the sounds of wheels were heard on the carriage drive.
Mrs. Wilson started up; joy at Mr. Aylwinne’s arrival mingling with her nervous dread that he would not find everything in the perfect order and good taste she had been worrying herself and every one about her to attain.
“It’s he—it’s Mr. Aylwinne!” she panted. “I’m so pleased! But, oh, Miss Heriton, do you think he’ll approve of the way we’ve hung the pictures? And there are those statuettes—I’m terribly afraid they’re not placed in the right niches!”
“Mr. Aylwinne must be of a very exacting disposition if he is not satisfied,” Florence answered, her pulses beating more quickly than usual as she anticipated her own introduction. “But will you not go to meet him?”
“Of course—of course!” And Mrs. Wilson hurried away, forgetting in her haste to close the door after her.
It was rather awkward to be thus made a hearer of their meeting; but it was unavoidable, for Florence did not like to cross the room and shut the door, lest they should approach and detect her in the act.
Thus she heard a manly voice exclaim heartily:
“Well, Mrs. Wilson, here I am at last; but I scarcely know yet whether this is Orwell Court or not. How you have transmogrified the place, to be sure!”
“Not for the worse, I hope. I assure you I have tried to remember your wishes and tastes, and act up to them as far as I could.”
“And you have succeeded admirably. Nothing could be better than the effect of the lamplight on that marble group. Why, Mrs. Wilson, your taste is exquisite!”
“Oh, pray don’t give me credit for what I don’t possess! I should not have thought of such a thing. In fact, that group was quite a trouble to me, for I could not find a corner it fitted. It was Miss Heriton who suggested putting it there.”
“Who?” Mr. Aylwinne’s voice took such a startled tone that a shiver ran through the frame of the listening Florence, and involuntarily she retreated still farther from the speakers.
“Miss Heriton—Florence Heriton. Is it not a pretty name? I must tell you”—Mrs. Wilson chattered on, quite in a glow of elation at his praises—“I must tell you that it was a real anxiety to me when you wrote and bade me find a governess for your poor little wards; and so I did as you had advised me to do in any real difficulty: I carried your letter to that excellent Mr. Lumley. But you won’t catch cold standing here, will you, sir? I am so dreadfully thoughtless, and there is a fire in the morning room.”
“I shall not catch cold,” he answered curtly. “You went to Mr. Lumley? Quite right. Well, and then?”
“And then he told me he knew a young lady whom he could recommend; and we went together and secured her. But I’m sure you feel chilly, Mr. Aylwinne; you look so pale about the lips.”
“You secured her services, did you say? And her father—what about him?”
“Dear me, didn’t I tell you?” And Mrs. Wilson lowered her voice to an awed whisper, which, to Florence’s great relief, made it inaudible where she stood. “He’s dead, you know, sir; taken off quite suddenly, Mr. Lumley said, with paralysis. And she was such an excellent daughter! It was very touching to see her sitting there alone, in her deep mourning—so patient, poor dear, and so resigned!”
“And you secured—that is, you engaged her? And she is coming here, to Orwell Court?” Mr. Aylwinne asked unsteadily.
“Dear me—how badly I must express myself!” cried Mrs. Wilson. “I thought you quite understood that she is here.”
“Florence Heriton here, in my house?”
So strangely were these words spoken that the nervous little housekeeper began to get into a state of great perturbation.
“I hope I have not been too hasty in my arrangements, sir. But Mr. Lumley advised, and seemed to think—and I am so unaccustomed to such responsibility—that——”
But Mr. Aylwinne had by this time quite recovered himself, and interrupted her by saying, in his usually firm, decided accents:
“You have done quite right, my good friend. There is a fate in these things which overrules our wisest intentions. Come, you must introduce me to—the governess of my wards.”
Florence, embarrassed by what she had overheard, knew not whether to advance or retain her position when Mr. Aylwinne followed Mrs. Wilson into the room. She had withdrawn to the most distant window, and as she turned at their entrance the deep-crimson draperies behind her threw out her slight figure and delicate profile in vivid relief.
With just the nice degree of empressement the occasion warranted, Mr. Aylwinne held out his hand, and hoped that Miss Heriton would be comfortable at Orwell Court with his worthy friend Mrs. Wilson.
There was not a fault to be found with his words or manner. It was just what a generous employer’s should be to the lady whose services he accepted. But the hand that touched Florence’s was cold and trembling, and her timid glance at his dark face showed her that he never looked up while addressing her.
Mrs. Wilson would have bustled away to order some refreshments; but, putting her into her chair, he rang the bell himself for a cup of coffee and a biscuit; he wanted nothing more, he said.
And then, leaning his elbow on the end of the mantel-piece, he glided into general remarks about the weather, and one or two of the topics of the day, with an easy politeness before which the remaining traces of Florence’s embarrassment disappeared.
He seemed disposed to ignore the fact that this was not their first interview, and for this she was extremely thankful. It enabled her to bear her share in the conversation with greater ease; although she was not sorry when Mrs. Wilson’s anxiety to know whether this room was furnished correctly, or that one arranged as Mr. Aylwinne intended, kept him employed in answering her questions.
Florence, though her fingers were busy with some work, was a keen observer of all that was passing.
She liked to watch Mr. Aylwinne’s demeanor to the fussy little lady. While it was evident enough that these housekeeping matters were boring him, and his thoughts had often flown far away when she came to the end of some description or explanation, yet he was always patient and kind, listening to and commending her as an affectionate son would bear with the infirmities of a mother.
Once, when he lowered his voice in replying to some query she put to him, Florence started, and her work dropped on her lap, for those softly modulated tones, with something plaintive thrilling through their music, went to her own heart.
Surely she had heard them before! But when?
She looked at him scrutinizingly. His forehead and eyes were concealed by the hand that shaded them from the lamp, and the luxuriant beard and mustache, which were quite Oriental in their profusion, effectually concealed the contour of the lower part of his countenance.
Her scrutiny baffled, Florence resumed her work; but again and again the same memories were evoked, though still she vainly taxed her brain for answers to the questions:
“Who is he, and how connected with the far-distant past?”
When she again listened to Mrs. Wilson’s babble, the little lady was speaking of the library.
“You’ve not seen it yet, Mr. Aylwinne; but I’m sure you’ll be delighted. It looks so nice now it’s carpeted, and the easy-chairs in the snuggest nooks; but I’m terribly afraid you’ll think the carpet too dark, and the pattern of the largest.”
“It’s not likely to interfere with my studies, is it?” he asked, with a smile.
“Well, no, I suppose these little things do not catch your eye and fidget you. Did I tell you that we have put all the books in order?”
“I hope not,” said Mr. Aylwinne; then, as he saw her blank glance, he added laughingly: “I mean that I hope you have not been arranging them according to the size and binding instead of the contents.”
“Would it signify?” Mrs. Wilson asked innocently. “I’m no reader myself, but I like to see books put on their shelves uniformly; it makes them look so nice and neat. However, I have left it to Miss Heriton. She will tell you what she has done.”
“I cannot pretend to have made a satisfactory classification of so many volumes,” Florence replied, “but I have arranged them to the best of my judgment.”
“You are very good,” said Mr. Aylwinne, a little stiffly. “I have no doubt they will do very well. Where have you put my ‘Carlo Dolce,’ Mrs. Wilson?”
“Your what, sir?”
“Picture, madam—a small painting of two female heads.”
“Oh, I know now,” said the housekeeper briskly. “It is in the study. That picture, you know, Miss Heriton, that you said reminded you so much of your mother.”
Mr. Aylwinne started from his lounging attitude and walked quickly to the door. As he opened it he seemed to recollect himself, and came back again.
“I beg your pardon, ladies. I had forgotten to say that my wards will be here early to-morrow. They were so fatigued with their voyage that I left them with a motherly landlady at a hotel in Kirton, and promised to fetch them in the morning. Good night!”
“I am afraid he is very tired himself by his going away so abruptly,” said Mrs. Wilson uneasily. “I never saw him look so before. Did you see how white he had turned, Miss Heriton?”
“I was not noticing Mr. Aylwinne’s looks,” Florence answered quietly. “Perhaps it was only his manner.”
“Oh, no; he was always so courteous to every one!” Mrs. Wilson declared. She wondered whether she might venture to send something nice and hot to his dressing room—just a tray with a morsel of fricasseed chicken and some mulled wine.
“How long have you known Mr. Aylwinne?” asked Florence, so abruptly that Mrs. Wilson regarded her with open eyes.
“How long? Ever since he first came to England to take possession of his property. That was before he went to Egypt. He has been the best and truest friend I ever had in my life, Miss Heriton. I cannot think of his goodness without reproaching myself for not doing more to testify my gratitude. I’ll go and send up that tray, I think, if you’ll excuse my running away.”
“Tell me before you go,” said Florence, detaining her, “tell me where Mr. Aylwinne had been residing before he came to England.”
“In India, my dear, of course. I thought you knew that he was there for some years. What wine would you advise me to mull? Port? Or do you think that would be too heavy?”
Putting her off with an evasive answer, Florence escaped to her own chamber.
She was pale, and trembling with irrepressible agitation. At one moment she reproached herself for giving way to ridiculous fancies, and told herself it was absurd to imagine that beneath the bronzed and bearded skin of the wealthy owner of Orwell Court she recognized the smooth-faced Frank Dormer, with whom she parted so many long years ago; yet, reason as she would, the fancy returned. Every strange speech he had made this night was pondered over, only to increase her perplexity, for in the softened tones that had replied to Mrs. Wilson she seemed to detect the echo of that voice last heard in the happy home of her childhood.