CHAPTER XVI.
A MAN OF MYSTERY.
For some few moments the awed Florence could not collect her senses sufficiently to know more than that she was saved. When she began to recover herself a little, Mr. Aylwinne was hurrying her down the hill; nor did he pause until they stood beside the carriage in which Fred was already comfortably laid.
“Miss Heriton must not ride home—she is too wet to run the risk,” said Mr. Aylwinne authoritatively. “Take my horse with you, John, and I will walk with her across the fields.”
Without giving her time to raise any objection, he led her away, and the exceeding gravity of his face kept Florence mute and embarrassed, until he paused a moment to inquire if he was walking too fast.
“I owe you my life,” she faltered. “This is the second time you have saved me from a fearful death. How can I thank you?”
“Hush!” he replied, his lip quivering a little. “Never speak of it again! Only let me treasure among my few pleasant recollections the remembrance that I have been able to be of use to you.”
“You must also let me be grateful,” said Florence, chilled by something in his speech. “My life is of little worth to any one but myself, yet I shudder at the thoughts of losing it so fearfully and suddenly.”
Mr. Aylwinne walked on a few paces without speaking; then, bending toward her, he said softly:
“Poor little Florence! Has the past left such a dark cloud that you cannot shake it off? I hoped in the peaceful seclusion of Orwell Court, where every one who knows you loves you, your natural cheerfulness would return.”
She did not reply. She could not tell him that it was the inexplicable barrier between them which robbed her life of its sunshine.
“You must have a change,” Mr. Aylwinne went on. “You shall go to the seaside for a few weeks or longer. The boys will like it, and I shall give you all carte blanche to enjoy yourselves. Let it be a long holiday, and lessons set entirely aside till you all feel disposed to resume them. Mrs. Wilson shall go, too. I shall leave you to decide for yourselves where it shall be. Choose which part of the coast you prefer, and I will see about a house there directly.”
“I have no doubt that Walter and Fred will be delighted with your proposal,” Florence coldly answered. “And Mrs. Wilson has not been well lately, so that the change will be acceptable to her also. But for myself——”
She paused a moment, for Mr. Aylwinne was looking at her so earnestly that in spite of herself her voice faltered.
“Why do you stop?” he demanded.
“Because your kindness makes me regret to do anything that interferes with your plans. But I have merely been waiting for such an opportunity as this, to tell you that I shall not be able to retain my office much longer.”
“If you say this because I have returned home sooner than I said I should,” Mr. Aylwinne exclaimed, “pray understand at once that I am simply here for a few hours, because my presence was necessary for the signing of some leases.”
“If my residence at Orwell Court involves its owner’s absence,” retorted Florence, rather resentfully, “I have an additional motive for quitting it. But my movements actually depend on my Aunt Margaret, with whom I am to take up my abode immediately on her return to England.”
Again Mr. Aylwinne walked on in silence, until he abruptly put the query:
“From whom did this proposal emanate? From Mrs. Blunden herself?”
Florence would have preferred evading this question, but as he was waiting for a reply, she said truthfully:
“From myself. As she is my nearest relative, I consider that I have a claim upon Aunt Margaret’s protection; and this she has cheerfully conceded.”
He sighed.
“Perhaps you have acted wisely—yes, I must acknowledge that you are right. And yet I hoped you would have been contented to remain with us.”
Florence did not reply, and the conversation was not resumed until they were within sight of the house. Then, as he held her for a moment in his arms while lifting her over an awkward stile, he said tenderly:
“Florence, if you have any perception of what is passing in my heart, you must know how keenly I shall feel your loss—how sharp a pang it inflicts to know that I cannot say: ‘Stay with me forever—be the dear companion of my life!’”
Trembling from head to foot, she turned from him, and leaned against the stile, too much agitated to sustain herself.
He saw this, and began to reproach himself as the cause.
“I am an unmanly, selfish wretch! I cannot justify my conduct—nothing can excuse it! Yet forgive me, Miss Heriton—pray forgive me!”
Instead of answering, she began to hurry on. What could she say that would not in some measure betray the bitter pain she suffered whenever he made these mysterious allusions?
But he followed her closely.
“Miss Heriton, you are greatly fatigued—pray take my arm, and I promise on my honor not to offend you again. You will not? Florence, had I felt less deeply, I could have better borne the disappointment of my best hopes.”
Florence let him draw her hand through his arm. Oh, if he would but explain himself more fully—if he would but tell her frankly what this barrier was whose existence he so deplored! He loved her! Yes, she could not doubt that, veil it as he might under the colder name of friendship. What was it that made a confession of his love sinful or impossible?
But apparently satisfied with this mute token of her forgiveness, he silently led her to the house. At the door was Mrs. Wilson, who had been watching for their arrival.
She held up her hands in dismay as she saw Florence’s white face and dripping garments, and began to exclaim: “Dear me! How dreadful! My poor, dear child, this will give you your death!”
“Not if proper precautions are promptly taken,” said Mr. Aylwinne significantly; and his kind-hearted housekeeper acted on the hint with such dispatch that the weary girl was soon undressed and laid in a warm bed, with directions to have a long, comfortable sleep and not make herself uneasy about Fred, who was getting better already.
Exhausted both in mind and body by the flood of hysterical tears she shed as soon as she was alone, she tried to obey the injunction, and was sinking into a fitful doze when her door was softly opened.
Imagining that it was only Mrs. Wilson coming in to inquire how she felt, and in no humor to be talked to, Florence lay perfectly still, with closed eyes, while the intruder came on tiptoe to the bedside and leaned over her.
As the curtain was again dropped, she heard Mrs. Wilson say, in cautious, lowered tones:
“I told you she must be sleeping.”
“I know,” said a fuller and louder voice. “But I could not resist coming at once to look at her. Dear child, she is the image of her sweet, gentle mother!”
Florence started up in bed, and threw back the drapery. Her ear had not deceived her, and she was warmly clasped to the capacious bosom of her hot-tempered but affectionate Aunt Margaret.