CHAPTER XIX.
STILL A MYSTERY.
Susan Denham—never a very good correspondent—had only written once to Florence since she had been residing at Orwell Court, and that was to regret the length of time Miss Heriton’s letter announcing her father’s death had lain unopened, owing to her own absence from home and subsequent illness.
But soon after Mrs. Blunden had established herself at Babbicombe Bay a letter was forwarded to Florence in Susan’s handwriting. It was written in some agitation. A paper, reporting Lieutenant Mason’s death, had been sent to her from New York, with the paragraph underlined; and though the direction was evidently in a disguised hand, Susan felt sure that she recognized some of Julia’s bold down strokes, and was now all anxiety to obtain further information concerning her unhappy cousin.
“I have often thought,” she wrote, “that she might have pursued her misguided husband with the intention of compelling from him the proofs of her marriage. Perhaps she was with him at the time of his dreadful death, and now lingers in America, too miserable to seek my sympathy. How can I learn this? Dear Miss Heriton, can you advise or help me? You speak highly of Mr. Aylwinne in your letters, and you say that he has been a great traveler. Do you think he has any acquaintance with the British consuls in America? Or could tell me my best way of proceeding to trace Julia’s present abode? If you can learn this for me without touching upon her history more than is absolutely necessary, I shall be very thankful, for in all such matters I am sadly inexperienced.”
Florence had not the slightest doubt of Mr. Aylwinne’s readily interesting himself in the affair if he were asked to do so, but she shrank from making any request to him in the present state of her feelings. However, for the sake of the affectionate Susan, she conquered her repugnance; and, having occasion to address him respecting some books he had promised to procure for Walter, but forgotten, she availed herself of the opportunity. Prevented by Susan’s wish from entering into any explanation, she merely inclosed the paragraph, with the following words appended:
“I am very anxious to learn whether this unhappy man was alone at the time of his death. Can you ascertain this for me? Or tell me how I may learn fuller particulars of the occurrence than this report contains?”
With an apology for troubling him, she closed her note and dispatched it; then felt as if she would have given worlds to recall it, and accused herself of folly and boldness in thus opening the way for a correspondence with one whom she had resolved to forget. The thought of Susan waiting eagerly for her reply partially reconciled her to what she had done; but still she tormented herself with conjectures as to what Mr. Aylwinne must have thought of her letter.
The books for Walter were sent in the course of a day or two, with a penciled note to the boy, regretting that they had been so long forgotten. There was also a postscript for Florence:
“Tell Miss Heriton I will attend to her request, and she shall hear the result of my inquiries shortly.”
This was cold and concise enough; so much so, that Florence, whose heart was craving the attentions her reason condemned, felt disappointed. She would not give way to this, but tried to interest herself in the pursuits of Walter and Fred, who were out for hours daily, exploring the rock pools, and bringing home stores of shells, and seaweeds, and marine monsters that frightened Mrs. Wilson and amused Aunt Margaret, who preferred to stay quietly on the beach, with a camp stool and her book.
Coming home one bright, tranquil evening from a longer excursion than usual, they found Mr. Aylwinne sitting on the sands with the elder ladies. He shook hands with his wards, congratulated Florence on the improvement in her looks, and then sat very silent until she went indoors, when he rose and followed her.
The weary boys had thrown themselves down at Mrs. Blunden’s feet, and no one seemed disposed to move even when Mrs. Wilson put away her knitting needles, and wondered whether she ought not to go in and order tea.
“Florence is there. She will call us when it is ready. Pray sit still,” said Aunt Margaret, who had suddenly awakened to the fact that there was something significant in the deep blush that mantled on her niece’s cheek when she beheld Mr. Aylwinne, and saw no reason why she should interfere, if it betokened the dawning of a love affair.
Florence had gone into the drawing room and taken off her hat, unconscious that any one had followed her, until she turned, and saw in the twilight pervading the apartment the object who filled her thoughts.
“Did I startle you?” he asked, without advancing. “I fancied you would be glad to have the information you sought at the earliest moment. Shall I tell you at once what I have ascertained? Or would you rather hear it when——”
“At once, if you please,” she said quickly. “But is it possible that you have obtained tidings from California already?”
“I must acknowledge,” he answered, “that I instituted inquiries respecting this matter some time since. I only received a reply to them yesterday.”
Florence sat down to listen, and he went on in a slow, hesitating manner, as if it pained him to tell the tale of his countryman’s disgraceful fate.
“The report you sent me is perfectly correct so far as it goes. The additional particulars an eyewitness has given me are too painful to repeat. Lieutenant Mason undoubtedly provoked the attack by which he lost his life.”
Florence thought of the poor mother who had never ceased to hope and pray for her son’s reformation, and covered her eyes with her hand.
“To the question you asked me, ‘Was he alone?’ I must answer ‘Yes.’ But my informant avers that after the death a young female——Shall I go on? Is this a tale for your ears?”
“Oh, I beseech you tell me all!” she cried breathlessly. Was the clue found at last? Had Julia indeed followed the heartless man who had so cruelly deserted her?
Mr. Aylwinne obeyed.
“A young female laid claim to the papers of the deceased, averring that she had a legal right to their possession, and promising to appear at the inquest. When this took place, however, she had disappeared—having, it was discovered, taken her departure for New York.”
“And this is all?” said Florence inquiringly, finding that he paused.
“All I have been able to gather at present. But if you can suggest anything——”
“A thousand thanks,” she answered hastily. “But, no; I must consult my friend.” And then Florence’s head went down on her hand again with a thrill of pity, as she pictured the struggles and privations Julia must have endured—nay, might now be enduring, a stranger in a strangers’ land, too proud to beseech her cousin’s assistance, unless she had been successful in obtaining the proofs of her marriage.
When she looked up Mr. Aylwinne had gone. He had returned to the group on the beach; and when, warned by the increasing chilliness of the night, they came in, he still lingered on the sands with his cigar, pacing to and fro in the moonlight.
Mrs. Blunden cast a searching look at her niece when she came into her room to bid her good night.
“What had Mr. Aylwinne to say to you, Florence? Anything very interesting?”
“No, Aunt Margaret—at least, it would not interest you. It was merely some information I had asked him to procure for me.”
Mrs. Blunden’s “Oh!” was sharp and suspicious, but Florence’s was not the face of a young lady who has within the last hour accepted or rejected a suitor, and she was forced to conclude that she was mistaken.
The boys were urgent on the following morning to know whether their guardian intended remaining.
“You’d better, sir,” pleaded Fred, “for there’s splendid walks all round about; and if you were here we might have a boat and sail to lots of places where the Donna don’t like to trust us with only old Sam, the boatman. Do stay!”
“Yes, do!” echoed Mrs. Blunden. “I don’t mind confessing that I find a house very dull when it only contains three women and some children. I begin to want amusement.”
Mr. Aylwinne smiled at her frankness, while Mrs. Wilson looked shocked.
“To-day, at all events, I will devote to la Reine Marguerite; but whether I am to continue in her suite or not must depend”—he hesitated and colored a little—“must depend on circumstances.”
“And what are circumstances?” queried Mrs. Blunden. “I can’t understand a lord of the creation being governed by whim or accident, and calling himself the creature of circumstances. Why not say decidedly I do or I do not choose to stay?”
“Because,” he answered, in lowered tones, “I am not just at present master of my own actions. After this candid confession you will spare me, will you not?”
Mrs. Blunden shook her head, and glanced from him to Florence, as she had done more than once already. But she gained nothing by her scrutiny, for the face of her niece was turned from her, and she was listening with apparent interest to an extraordinary dream that had visited Mrs. Wilson’s slumbers.
“There is something here that I can’t quite comprehend,” muttered Aunt Margaret. “I shall watch them closely, and draw my own conclusions.”
She had but scant opportunities for carrying out her intentions. Mr. Aylwinne planned one of the sailing excursions for which the boys had been teasing him, and in high spirits they all set forth, except Florence, who was anxious to write a long letter to Susan Denham, and stayed at home for this purpose. She related all that she had learned from Mr. Aylwinne, and advised Susan to send some advertisements to the New York papers, worded in such a manner that they would be likely to catch the eye of Julia, and assure her of her cousin’s wish that she would return to England.
It was late before the boating party returned—so late that Florence was beginning to feel surprised, if not uneasy, at their absence—when Mr. Aylwinne came in alone.
She threw down her work, and rose to meet him.
“Has anything happened?”
“Nothing that need alarm you. Our friends have been detained by an hospitable acquaintance of Mrs. Blunden’s, who insists that they stay to take tea with her; and I came to acquaint you with the reason of the delay, and to ask you if you will join them.”
“I had rather not,” said Florence, who still shrank from the gay, gossiping people in whom her Aunt Margaret delighted.
Mr. Aylwinne did not press her going, but he said:
“It is not right that you should lose the whole of this lovely day indoors. Will you not walk along the beach to meet them?”
A little embarrassed by the request, she would have declined, but he said:
“Do not refuse, Florence—I may never ask aught from you again.”
Her confusion was greatly increased by the low, deep tones in which he spoke. Scarcely knowing what she did, she took up her hat, threw a light mantle over her shoulders, and stepped out into the garden. He followed, and, drawing her hand through his arm, led her in the contrary direction to that he had proposed.
If Florence was conscious of this, she made no remark. She knew that the arm on which she rested trembled strangely, and that the eyes looking down upon her had in them the same soft light, the same tender affection, that beamed in them when Frank Dormer held her to his breast the day he saved her from destruction on the banks of the Coquet.
As if he, too, were thinking of that moment, he said:
“Do you remember how you wished you had something to give me? And how I answered that if you were the same Florence on my return that I left I would ask you for what would be more precious to me than aught else the world can contain? You were too young and childish to comprehend me then, or to guess how the only hope I carried away with me was of returning to ask you to be mine.”
“Why do you persist in referring to these things?” said Florence resentfully.
“Do you bid me be silent? Do you bid me leave you? Or will you not say ‘Stay, and leave me no more?’”
She flashed one look of glad surprise at the earnest speaker; then, checked by the recollection of his strange behavior, exclaimed:
“Should you ask me this—you, who have yourself acknowledged——”
He would not let her finish the sentence.
“Hush! That is all past and gone now. We are both free, and no foolish punctilios shall stand between us. You are the same Florence I have always loved; and there shall be no more looking back. Never allude to what has been. It maddens me to think of it! For my sake do not recur to it, for I cannot bear it!”
He left her for a moment as if to recover his self-control; then, drawing her to his side, he gently said:
“If you are the same Florence I loved at the priory—the Florence whose mother blessed and sanctioned my wishes—I say again, be mine!”
She thought of her fallen fortunes.
“Alas! I am not what I was then!”
“Hush!” he cried, almost sternly. “Have I not said that what has happened in all these miserable years of separation shall be blotted out?”
“And the obstacles to our union which you have yourself pronounced——”
“Are they not gone—vanished—swept from our paths by a Providence kinder to us than we deserved? Nay, Florence, than I deserved, for I have been moody, reckless, repining, often doubting you—yes, even you, whom I love so fondly.”
“And I, too, have often been doubtful and depressed,” she faltered, “especially since——” But here she stopped, ashamed to confess how deeply she had felt the estrangement he had himself pronounced unavoidable. She was too much perplexed to be absolutely happy, even though the long-dreamed-of moment had come when Frank Dormer told his love. His mysterious allusions to the past required an explanation he did not seem disposed to give, and this troubled her.
He wound his arm around her.
“You shall never be sad again,” he murmured in her ear, “if my care and devotion can prevent it.”
But she shrank from him a little, and he saw it.
“What is this, Florence? Have you lost your trust in me? Have you been taught to doubt me? Did he who separated us teach you this lesson?”
A cry of pain burst from her lips. She could not hear her father named disrespectfully, however faulty he might have been.
“Oh, Mr. Aylwinne, you speak of the dead! For my sake never say such cruel words again!”
“Then you loved him, Florence, in spite of all?” he asked sadly.
“I strove earnestly and faithfully to do my duty; therefore spare me the grief of feeling that you are hard in your judgment of his actions.”
“You are a true woman,” he said moodily, “ever clinging closest to those who deserve the least at your hands.”
Angry and hurt, she began to retrace her steps, and this brought him back to himself. He followed her, and began to entreat for forgiveness.
“Florence—dear, dearest Florence, on my honor I will never pain you in this manner again. I was wrong—I confess it. I ought to have admired and imitated your generosity. I tell you, love, these sad years have terribly altered me from the Frank you knew. I am harsh in my judgments, as you truly said, and inclined to look always at the worst side of human nature. But your gentle smile will exorcise all the demons, and restore me to my better self. Speak, Florence! Shall we steadily put the bygone years behind us, and look forward—always forward?”
She no longer withheld herself from his embrace—she no longer hesitated to ask herself why he had not said this sooner. His eyes were looking into hers. She knew even without words or promises that she had his love; and if her tears began to flow fast they were not sorrowful ones.
“You will be mine at once, Florence?” he said, as they again walked on together. “As quietly and privately as you please, but let it be at once.”
“You are too exacting,” she murmured, startled by the suddenness of the proposal. “I cannot consent to this.”
“What! Do you deny my first request?” he jealously demanded.
“Is it not an unreasonable one?” she queried, in her turn. “I have Aunt Margaret to consider; while I should wish you to have time to ask yourself what the world will say to your union with poor me.”
“If I had not determined beforehand to let the world and the world’s opinions have no part in my plans, I had not been here, Florence,” he answered, with a gravity which contrasted strongly with the playfulness of her own manner. “I am no waverer to be blown hither and thither by the whispers of indifferent people; and let those who think to meddle with my private concerns look to it! I brook no interference from any one!”
The sunshine died out of Florence’s face, and all the old, anxious conjectures began to come back. Could she be happy as Frank Dormer’s wife if she had to learn that he had for her sake broken the ties that should have bound him to another?
She was not sorry that Walter and Fred came in search of them, and prevented any further conversation. But at the door Mr. Aylwinne sent the boys in and held her back.
“Tell me, Florence,” he whispered, “is it to be as I wish?”
“Ah, no!” she faltered. “Give me time—a little time!”
“For what?” he demanded, with the earnest gravity that would have a reply. “For what? Is it for appearance sake? Or because you are not sure that your heart is in my keeping?”
“If you knew——” Florence began, almost indignant at the implied doubt, then paused. “But no; I will tell you nothing more. You ought to know that I am incapable of playing the coquette.”
He took both her hands in his, and drawing her to him, kissed her fervently. But at the same moment he breathed so deep a sigh that Florence, as soon as she was released, stole away in the dark to her own room, trembling with some inexplicable fear. What could it mean? What was this cloud that not even the assurance of her love had banished from his brow?