Florence could not speak a word that reproached her father’s memory, but her silence was sufficient reply.
Mr. Aylwinne struck his hands together and paced the room in great disorder.
“It was cruel—it was dishonorable! Yes, it was dishonorable! How dared he use me so?”
“Hush, sir! You are speaking of my father!” said Florence, whose hand was now on the door, though she felt unwilling to leave him without further explanation.
“Forgive me!” he exclaimed, leading her gently back to the fireplace. “Forgive me! I know I am scarcely justified in saying this before you; but now that I know so much I must be fully satisfied. Were you aware that Mr. Heriton answered my last letter?”
Florence murmured a negative, and then looked at him eagerly.
“Answered it in his name and yours—answered it as though it was your wish that guided his pen.”
While her eyes fell consciously beneath the steady gaze of his, he went on:
“You did not know this. I see it all now, now that it is too late—too late! Florence, as soon as a brightening fortune warranted the act, I asked Mr. Heriton for your hand. I received a curt and decided refusal. The words are still engraven on my memory. ‘Miss Heriton regretted that Mr. Dormer should have imagined her so foolishly romantic as to remember anything connected with Mr. Dormer’s visit to Heriton Priory, except that she did her best to amuse her father’s guest.’ And the letter concluded with a definite assurance that Miss Heriton’s hand was already disposed of.”
A sigh of shame and distress burst from Florence’s lips as he ceased. She well remembered that at the time of which Mr. Aylwinne spoke, her father’s expectations had been raised to a pitch of the highest extravagance by the fair-seeming speculation he had embarked in; and a few flattering speeches whispered in her ears by a needy nobleman who had lent his name to the scheme had inspired Mr. Heriton with a belief that he should soon see his daughter a peeress.