CHAPTER XIII.
THE DISCOVERY.
Christmas had come and gone before Mr. Aylwinne returned to Orwell Court. The change those months had wrought in his wards was almost marvelous. Their frames, like their intellects, had expanded in the bracing air and healthy companionship they had been enjoying; and the shrinking nervousness of the past was scarcely ever discernible now.
Working out her own ideas of what was best for them, Florence had wisely made much of her teaching of the simplest kind. Nothing was ever allowed to interfere with the preparation of their lessons for Mr. Lumley; but when this was done, she walked with them, played croquet, and entered into their sports and plans with a heartiness that infused additional spirit into them. For a long time they could not conquer their dread of the daily visit to the vicarage and the sly taunts leveled at them by lads of their own age whose acquirements were far beyond their own. But Florence walked to Mr. Lumley’s with them, often awaited their return, and had so much sympathy for their troubles mingled with such brave, hopeful auguries for their future, that Walter grew too manly to fret over little difficulties, and Fred had too much boyish pride not to imitate him.
The winter had set in with some severity, and the delicate East Indians had been disposed at first to cower over the fires, and permit Mrs. Wilson to cosset them to her heart’s content. But, incited by Florence’s example, they were gradually induced to try the hardening system; and a few merry games at snowballing, a few afternoons on the ice of the pretty lake in the park, made them pronounce an English winter delightful. Florence herself grew rosier and stronger than she had been for years now that she shared in these outdoor amusements, and the trio were all panting and glowing with pleasurable excitement when they came into the house at the close of a January day to find Mr. Aylwinne standing on the hearthrug in the dining room, talking to Mrs. Wilson.
He bowed rather stiffly to Florence, and held out a hand to each of her pupils.
“Well, boys, this is something like! Where have you been to get such apple faces?”
“Skating, sir,” they answered, both together. “Can you skate, Mr. Aylwinne? It is such jolly fun! We’ve been at it these two hours.”
“And what did you do with Miss Heriton the while? Let her stand shivering on the bank to watch your performances?”
“I should rather think not!” cried Walter, looking very indignant. “She skated with us, or else we pushed her in the sleigh the gardener helped us make.”
Mr. Aylwinne gave an approving nod, and Florence went away to take off her wrappings. When she came back, the boys were still talking, for they had much to tell about what they had done and learned since he had been away.
“But you’ll not leave Orwell Court again, will you?” she heard Fred inquire.
“I think not. I am tired of being a wanderer, my boy.”
“It’s very comfortable here,” said Walter, surveying the bright fire with a meditative air.
“You think so because Mrs. Wilson pampers your appetites, and spoils you,” his guardian retorted, amused at the boy’s earnestness.
Walter reddened.
“No, it’s not that, I’m sure; for I don’t think half so much of her cakes and pies as Fred does. It’s because—because——Well, I don’t hardly know why, except”—and, catching sight of Florence, who had just come, he slid his fingers into hers—“except it’s because you are here, Donna.”
His guardian frowned.
“Does Miss Heriton permit you to call her by a stupid nickname?”
Walter was silent, but Fred ventured to stand up for his pet appellation.
“I don’t think it’s a stupid one, Mr. Aylwinne. It means a lady, and I’m sure Miss Heriton’s one.”
“The more reason, my boy, why you should call her by her own name.”
“But it sounds so long and stiff, and we like the other best,” pouted Fred. “And she don’t mind it a bit, for she says so.”
“Before such very conclusive arguments my own opinion must give way,” retorted his guardian dryly. “But take care that you never for a moment forget the respect due to Miss Heriton, unless you would incur my serious displeasure.”
The sternness with which this speech was concluded awed the sensitive boys; and nothing was said until Fred seized an opportunity of whispering in Florence’s ear:
“You do not think us rude, do you?”
“Certainly not! I am sure you love me too well to treat me discourteously.”
“But how crossly he spoke!”
“Hush, dear boy!” said Florence, who saw by the glance of that gentleman’s penetrating eye that he overheard what was passing. “Mr. Aylwinne is tired to-night. To-morrow he will understand you better.”
But the morrow did not bring with it the anticipated change in his manner, and Mrs. Wilson was the only one who was at her ease with him. Perhaps he thought that Walter and Fred would be none the worse for standing in some fear of his anger; anyhow, he was distant to their governess, and sufficiently stern to her pupils to make them careful of offending him. From his favorite corner in the drawing-room, where he sat every evening with his papers and books, an imperative reminder would issue if ever the boys showed any disposition to resist Florence’s mild rule; and although he rarely addressed her after the courtesies of the morning had been exchanged, she knew that his eye often followed her movements, and that he watched her closely and continually.
It might be in the interest of her young charges that he did this. Certainly, his demeanor betokened no recollection of an earlier acquaintance—no kindly feelings such as pleasant memories of the past evoke; and yet Florence’s conviction that in her wealthy employer she beheld Frank Dormer gained ground instead of decreasing.
Though careful to conceal this, she often caught herself listening to his voice, furtively scanning his features, and recalling everything he had said that tended to strengthen her supposition. Many an idle hour was spent in conjecturing what could have changed the gentle, affectionate Frank into the cold, reserved man who seemed often inclined to ignore her very existence.
Yet, as time went on, traces of a different feeling peeped out. When she heard with regret and alarm that her Aunt Margaret, traveling across the Apennines, had been attacked by brigands, Mr. Aylwinne, unasked, made inquiries for her concerning the report, nor rested until he had ascertained that it was exaggerated, and Mrs. Blunden safely on her way to Paris.
The books she preferred always found their way to her table; the boys would be warned to avoid walks which would prove too wet or long for their gentle companion, and the only time that Mrs. Wilson fell under Mr. Aylwinne’s displeasure was when he detected her feeding the sweet-toothed Fred with some dainty Florence had forbidden.
Still he was outwardly so careful to keep the same impassable distance between them that Florence began to chafe at it and ask herself if her changed fortunes occasioned it—if his accession to great wealth had hardened the heart once so tender and true.
With a haughty gesture, she told herself that she would brave his selfish coldness, and let him see that, though she had lost all else, her pride steeled her against aught he could do or say.
From this time she imitated his reserve. If he was cold, she was still colder; if he relaxed sufficiently to propose anything for her pleasure, she was either deaf to the suggestion, or with curt thanks refused to avail herself of it. She rigidly adhered to her duties as governess to his wards, and with proud humility accepted the stipulated payment for her services; but when Walter and Fred, in a little speech taught them for the occasion, begged her acceptance of a desk far too elegant to have been purchased with their pocket money, the gift was steadily refused. Mr. Aylwinne was piqued, though he said nothing, and for some days looked more somber than ever.
It was soon after this that Walter, who progressed admirably under Mr. Lumley’s tuition, began Euclid, and was dreadfully puzzled with the dry problems, which his young head refused to retain. Pitying the boy, who was really anxious to master his work, Florence nightly went over it with him, and together they succeeded in conquering many of the early difficulties he encountered. But one evening, after long study, they were both nonplused, and Walter fell from vexation into despair. Laying his head on the book, he began to sob:
“I shall never, never understand it! It’s horrible stuff! You see, you can’t make anything of it, Donna, and the boys will all laugh at me, and Mr. Lumley will be so cross!”
Mrs. Wilson put down her knitting and spectacles with a pitying “Dear me!” and trotted away to the storeroom for some almonds and raisins to console the weeper, but Fred exclaimed:
“What, blubbering! Oh, Wal, you are a big baby!” and then subsided again into the agreeable study of “Robinson Crusoe.”
The angry Walter aimed a blow at him, which he ducked and evaded; and Florence glanced uncertainly in the direction of Mr. Aylwinne, half inclined to bid the boy ask his assistance.
She met his eye gazing fully at her, and ere she could speak he queried:
“Well, what do you want me to do?”
Instead of replying, she turned to Walter.
“Go to Mr. Aylwinne—he will explain what it is that puzzles you so much.”
The boy started up joyfully, but his guardian’s next words checked his approach.
“I did not say so. I think the weakness of character that sits down and laments over a difficulty, instead of trying to overcome it, deserves no encouragement. But if Miss Heriton asks this as a favor to herself I will do it.”
This Florence would not do. Drawing the book toward her, she began to study it more determinately than ever.
Mr. Aylwinne watched her in silence for a few minutes, and then said:
“Will you accept nothing at my hands, Miss Heriton?”
“It is Walter, sir, who needs your help—not I.”
“So be it, then,” he said, with a half sigh. “I had no business to be so overofficious. Come here, youngster!”
With alacrity, Walter obeyed, and put the book into his guardian’s hand.
“Blockhead that you are!” was the comment. “Do you not see this, and this? Give me a piece of paper—now a pencil; no, I have one here in my pocket.”
Despite his grumbling at the boy’s stupidity, he patiently went over the proposition till the rejoiced lad had thoroughly mastered it.
“Now take yourself off to bed!” said Mr. Aylwinne, as he returned the book. “No, don’t thank me; I only came to your aid because I saw that you were boring Miss Heriton most unmercifully. She is too good-natured to you.”
“Oh, no, she isn’t!” cried Fred, running up to give her his good-night kiss before he followed his brother from the room.
“Seriously,” said Mr. Aylwinne, as Florence was putting books and papers together preparatory to following her pupils, “seriously, I never contemplated your taking so much unnecessary trouble with these boys, and I beg that you will not do it any more.”
“Their love amply repays me for it,” she replied.
“Ha!” he said gloomily. “Can you still build upon anything so delusive? Is it not a folly that always ends in disappointment?”
Florence did not answer. In taking the pencil from his pocket, Mr. Aylwinne had dropped something, and now a restless movement of his foot pushed it toward her.
She stooped for it, and, as she raised herself, saw with indescribable feelings that it was a tiny ivory cardcase, her mother’s gift to Frank Dormer before he quitted Heriton Priory.