CHAPTER XVII.
THE NEWSPAPER PARAGRAPH.
Mrs. Blunden, ill skilled in analyzing the feelings of those about her, never suspected the mingled ones that prompted the sobs Florence could not repress. She attributed them entirely to the recollections naturally arising on this their first meeting since Mr. Heriton’s death. In the same breath she reproached her niece as having by her deceitful conduct occasioned their estrangement, and called herself hard-hearted for not having sooner forgiven her.
“You were a very naughty girl, Florence. I must call you so. I’ll never say one thing and mean another. The word of the Heritons has always been their bond; and nothing can excuse you for breaking yours. But I ought to have considered the circumstances in which you were placed. I’m afraid I’ve been dreadfully unfeeling. Pray don’t fret any more—I can’t bear it! And I’ve come to you with the kindest intentions. You shall take my name, and I’ll introduce you into society, and take care that you marry well. You shall never again know what trouble or anxiety means, my dear.”
Florence tried to smile her thanks; but ventured to remind her aunt that she had not yet thrown off her mourning for her father. The very idea of mixing in the frivolities of fashion was so distasteful to one who had for the last few years been making acquaintance with life in its sternest realities, that she could not wholly conceal her repugnance.
Mrs. Blunden, however, pooh-poohed the objection. It was her will that was to be Florence’s law from henceforth, and she was beginning to dictate already.
“That will be of no consequence. If you assume my name no one need know that you were my poor, foolish brother’s daughter, and any large establishment in London will supply us with the dresses you require at a day’s notice.”
“I will never put off the name of Heriton as though I were ashamed of it!” cried Florence proudly.
Mrs. Blunden reddened.
“As though you were ashamed of it! And so you ought to be ashamed of it! I don’t say the fault is yours, child; but I’m sure my poor brother’s follies have made it so notorious that I’m only too glad I no longer bear it. There! Now I’ve made you cry again. Dear me! You can’t be well to be so easily upset.”
“I don’t think I am very strong-nerved just now,” Florence replied, trying to speak cheerfully. “Suppose we waive any further discussion of your wishes for a day or two. And, dear Aunt Margaret, do try to remember that whatever papa may have done, to me he was a dear and fondly loved parent. If you had heard him bless me ere he died, or listened to his regrets that he could not see you once more and awake your protection for his child, you would not cherish such unkind recollections.”
Mrs. Blunden melted directly.
“I’m a very unfeeling, unchristianly old woman, my dear, to speak in such terms of my only brother. Poor, dear Richard! whom I remember the handsomest and most-popular man in Northumberland. Kiss me, and forgive me, Florence. I’ll never say such cruel things again, and you shall keep your name. It’s one of the oldest in England. There is not a more ancient or honorable family anywhere than the Heritons, let who will say to the contrary.”
Florence gave her impulsive relative the kiss she asked, and then inquired what Mrs. Blunden’s arrangements were, and when she proposed that they should take their departure from Orwell Court.
“Oh, my dear, I’ve come for a month at least! You need not look so surprised. I promised Mr. Aylwinne that my first visit in England should be to him, and so here I am. I have seen him while you were sleeping, and he has pressed me to stay as long as I feel comfortable.”
“I thought we should have gone away at once,” said Florence, to whose heart these weeks of close intimacy with Mr. Aylwinne would be a greater trial than an immediate parting.
“Why? Where do you wish to go?” Mrs. Blunden asked sharply.
“Anywhere you please; I have no choice.”
“Then why do you wish to hurry me away from here? Unless, indeed, you have not been well used. Tell me, child, has Mr. Aylwinne treated you ill in any way?” And the lady’s color began to rise and her eyes to sparkle defiantly.
“No, aunt—no; he has been most kind—most considerate!” was the answer, given with a sigh.
Mrs. Blunden still looked unsatisfied.
“But you must have a motive for proposing to go away before I have scarcely had time to say half a dozen sentences to my host.”
“Yes,” said Florence sadly, “and my principal one is that I dread the pang of parting, and long to have it over.”
Mrs. Blunden gave herself a cross shake.
“Really, child, you are too sentimental! You don’t mean to tell me that you shall half break your heart at saying good-by to two troublesome little boys and a fidgety old lady?”
“No,” Florence replied, with an effort at indifference. “I’ll not break my heart at parting with any one. I’m sorry I said anything about it; and we will go or stay, just as you please, Aunt Margaret.”
“As for Mr. Aylwinne, you have seen too little of him to feel any regrets on his account,” Mrs. Blunden went on, answering her own thoughts more than her niece’s words. “Neither is he the sort of man to captivate a young girl’s fancy. He is too staid—too reserved; besides, I have my doubts about him.”
“Doubts, Aunt Margaret?” cried Florence breathlessly. “What do you know? What have you heard?”
“Pooh! Nothing tangible, so never repeat it. But there’s no denying that he’s very eccentric; and it’s my own opinion that his brain is slightly affected. You know he had been in India for some years, which might account for it.”
Florence turned away from her in a pet. Mr. Aylwinne—the keen observer, the profound scholar, the man of business habits—declared not only eccentric, but something worse! It was a few minutes before she could answer her aunt’s remarks without betraying her annoyance.
She went, however, with Mrs. Blunden to the rooms prepared for her, and assisted her maid in unpacking, putting the lady in such a good humor by her attentions that she descended to dinner prepared to like every one.
Fred was not well enough to rise again that day, but Florence had found time ere she joined the party below to pay him a short visit, and promise him a longer one in the course of the evening.
As she was leaving him he grasped her dress and drew her back.
“Mrs. Wilson was saying something to Jane just now about an aunt of yours coming here to fetch you away, Donna. But you’ll not leave us, will you?”
Florence stooped and kissed him without replying, for she had seen Mr. Aylwinne enter the room while the boy was speaking, and knew that he, too, was listening to hear what she would say.
When he found that she was silent, he came forward, and Fred in great tribulation turned to his guardian.
“Mr. Aylwinne, she is going away! What shall we do without her? There isn’t any one who has been so good to us since we lost mamma! Can’t you get her to stay? Oh, do, sir—do try! She’d listen to you if you asked her.”
But he, too, was silent; and Florence, to end the awkward pause, said to the excited child soothingly:
“Dear Fred, I am not going yet. Lie down and be quiet, or you will make your head worse. I may not leave you for some weeks to come.”
“But I don’t want you to go at all!” sobbed the boy, and Mr. Aylwinne walked quietly away.
With some trouble Florence reconciled her pupil to the necessity of their separation, and sat by him till he fell asleep.
When she entered the drawing-room, Mrs. Wilson was absent. Her anxiety that the dinner should be perfection to the palates of her employer and his lady guest made her fidget in and out of the kitchen incessantly, until the cook was thrown into a state of desperation, and declared to her sympathizing assistants an intention of sitting down and leaving “missus” to finish the cooking herself.
Mrs. Blunden, unconscious of the turmoil her visit had created in the lower regions, was conversing with Mr. Aylwinne, and recalling some of her traveling experiences for the amusement of Walter, whose bright, intelligent face had taken her fancy. But after her niece entered, the depressed manner she could not shake off attracted her aunt’s notice; and although Florence was not near enough to hear her half-whispered remarks, she was painfully conscious that Mrs. Blunden was adverting to it. Mr. Aylwinne, too, though politeness compelled him to lend an ear, was evidently embarrassed, and anxious to change the subject. This he succeeded in doing when dinner was announced. But in the evening Mrs. Blunden fastened upon him again, and consoled herself for the silence she had promised to observe to Florence, by making him a confidant of all the vexation her poor brother’s folly had cost her.
Growing desperate at last, Florence challenged her aunt to a game at chess, as the only means of quieting her.
“Presently, love. Arrange the men, and I will be with you before you are ready.”
Walter ran to fetch the board and bring a little table closer to the center lamp, and Florence followed him to it. This brought her nearer the talkers, if Mr. Aylwinne can be so named, whose conversational efforts had been vainly directed to turning his companion’s thoughts into another channel.
Mrs. Blunden had not the delicacy to understand or appreciate this. Mr. Heriton’s speculations and losses were patent to the whole world, and she saw no reason why she should not describe her own feelings in connection with them.
“Yes,” Florence heard her say, “though the act was that foolish child’s, I’m sure, from what my solicitor has since told me, that it was at my brother’s pressing solicitations; and I know it was drawn out to put into the hands of that wicked rogue we were speaking about. Florence,” she added, in louder tones, “Florence, my dear, am I not right? Didn’t your legacy go to swell Lieutenant Mason’s gains?”
Mr. Aylwinne, who had striven to prevent the putting of the question, started up and left the room; but as he went he saw Florence redden to the temples, and heard her indignant and reproachful exclamation: “Aunt Margaret!”
“Well, my dear,” was the placid reply, “what harm have I done in alluding to this? You forget that every one knows it, and I chose Mr. Aylwinne to understand that I never gave your poor father any encouragement in his follies.”
Florence could have cried with vexation. Instead of her aunt’s presence being a comfort to her, her feelings had been tried already more than they had been for months. But Mrs. Blunden could not be made to see this. The only hope was that, as she had relieved herself by saying all she thought upon the painful subject, she would now be contented to let it rest.
Mr. Aylwinne came back no more that night, sending an apology for his absence, which was graciously received; and Florence, with aching head and troubled mind, played chess with Mrs. Blunden till the latter grew out of patience with her careless moves, and proposed that they should go to bed.
After this first day Aunt Margaret proved more agreeable and manageable than her niece had anticipated. Mrs. Wilson, to whom her activity and decision were something remarkable, deferred to her visitor continually, and Mrs. Blunden, always pleased to be made of consequence, arranged her store closet for her, set her books in order, and advised and directed with a brisk precision that the poor, little, nervous housekeeper thought wonderful.
Mrs. Blunden liked children—that is, boys; girls were too quiet in their habits to please her. Before she had been at Orwell Court three days she had made the acquaintance of all Walter’s and Fred’s schoolfellows, and organized cricket and running matches, and archery meetings, at which she presided in state, and gave prizes to the winners. The sight of her cheerful face and portly figure was hailed with delight at the vicarage, where she soon made herself quite at home both with Mr. Lumley and the prim little lady, his only sister, who resided with him. She even penetrated the secret of Miss Lumley’s sober looks, and learned that she was losing hope and youth in the suspense of a long engagement to a curate too poor to marry. Mrs. Blunden immediately set all her energies to work to procure this young man a living, and, by dint of indefatigable efforts, was successful.
Every one’s services at Orwell Court were then enlisted in the preparation of a simple trousseau for the grateful bride, Aunt Margaret deprecating any further delays.
Mr. Aylwinne, whose purse was at her command, would sometimes come into the room where the cutting out and contriving were going on at one table, while Florence and her pupils studied at another. He would stand by, watching them all with looks which never brightened into a smile, save when Mrs. Blunden addressed him, and then Florence could see that it was but a forced attempt to appear gay.
“How is it? You are the only idler among us,” Mrs. Blunden said to him laughingly, one day, as he stood beside her.
“Because you never take interest enough in me to give me occupation,” he retorted.
With another jest, she offered him her scissors; but he declined them.
“No, I will not expose my ignorance of female arts and sciences. But if there is anything I can do, you may command me.”
Mrs. Blunden pointed to a newspaper.
“Read to us. I have been too busy to inquire how the world goes on; and Florence never cares to know.”
Mr. Aylwinne drew forward a chair, and began glancing down the columns.
“What will you have? The court movements, the state of the funds, or the fashions?”
“Neither,” was the reply. “Let us hear the general news—the accidents, and robberies, and so on.”
He read two or three police reports, and turned over the page to find something else likely to interest her; then, starting from his seat, with his eyes riveted on the page to which he had turned, he carried it to the window, where for a few moments he stood absorbed in something that appeared possessed of some extraordinary interest to him.
Startled by his hasty movement, Florence had raised her eyes from the drawing she was overlooking. She saw him turn very pale, flush as deeply, and drop the newspaper; opening the sash, he stepped out onto the lawn, and before Mrs. Blunden missed him he had plunged into the shrubbery.
“What! Is he gone? I thought he would soon tire of reading aloud; I detest it myself. Come here, Florence, and tell me whether you think these trimmings should be pink or blue.”
Her niece obeyed so far as to cross the room and say a quiet “Yes,” and “No,” in accordance with Mrs. Blunden’s wishes. But when her aunt released her, she snatched up the newspaper and carried it to her own room.
There were two paragraphs on which his eye must have rested, for they were close together. One announced a serious accident to the daughter of Major Dawson, of 120 Park Villas, the young lady having been thrown from her horse while riding in Rotten Row. The other reported the death, at San Francisco, in a gaming house, of Lieutenant Mason, son of the late Mr. and Lady Catherine Mason, of the Brae House, Northumberland.
Which of these reports was it that had so powerfully affected Mr. Aylwinne? Florence’s jealous heart answered, “The first—the first!” for the injured girl was one of those fair sisters of whom Mrs. Wilson had spoken when the subject of his marriage was touched upon.
Would she die? Or would she recover and become his wife?