In love's hands

by Bertha M. Clay

“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.