In love's hands

by Bertha M. Clay

For such wild and unfounded hopes as these he had sacrificed her happiness—and not hers only, but another’s. For a moment the conflict in her mind between filial love and her sense of having been cruelly wronged was severe. But the better feeling soon predominated, and she murmured:

“Forgive him—forgive him! He was unhappy in his advisers, and his impatience to retrieve his position led him to do many things his better judgment condemned.”

Mr. Aylwinne made no immediate reply to this appeal. He could not judge Mr. Heriton’s conduct as leniently as his daughter was doing. At last he said hoarsely:

“We are taught to believe that our greatest sorrows and disappointments tend to some good purpose. But knowing what I know, and remembering from what a depth of trouble and humiliation I might have been able to save you, Florence, it is difficult to think so.”

She turned from him with burning cheek.

“Forgive me,” he went on, “if I have pained you. I will never recur to this subject again. Perhaps it would have been better if I had never learned the truth—if I had always believed that it was your own will that separated us. But, Florence, though I may never ask more—though there is a barrier between us I may not attempt to remove—you will give me your friendship, will you not? You will let me have the satisfaction of knowing that you have found a safe shelter beneath my roof? That, as far as Fate has left it in my power, I have fulfilled my pledge to the gentle woman so dear to both of us?”

Before she could reply, Mrs. Wilson, who had been detained by some petitioner from the village, came hurrying in to know Mr. Aylwinne’s wishes about the relief she proposed sending. Florence thankfully availed herself of the opportunity thus afforded her of quitting the room. Her brain was in a whirl that effectually banished sleep from her pillow for the greater part of the night.

Frank Dormer had been true to her! Oh, joyful thought! He had returned to make her his, as her beloved mother had fondly expected that he would. And then her head dropped on her hands, and she wept bitterly, to think that for the mere love of wealth and rank her father had separated them. A yet deeper grief lay at the root of Florence’s tears. She had heard with a thrill of pain Mr. Aylwinne’s voice passionately declare that the discovery had been made too late! He had asked for her friendship—he had hinted at a barrier that totally precluded his asking more; and this it was that made her heart sink more than all she had hitherto undergone. She had learned that his youthful fancy had strengthened and ripened beneath the hot suns of India—that he had hastened home in all the flush of joy to claim her; the letters she had thought it so hard not to be permitted to read had been full of devotion to her whose only earthly hope had been that such an hour would come; and now that at last she knew this, and saw him worthy in all points of her affection, his own lips had declared that it was too late! Their love must be forgotten, and they must be content to be friends.

Florence rebelled against this conclusion. Young, warm-hearted, and free, she felt that she could have loved him devotedly. What, she asked herself, could it be that intervened to keep them apart? Could it be that Frank, in his vexation at Mr. Heriton’s refusal, had betrothed himself to another?

In vague conjectures like this, the hours passed away, until, thoroughly exhausted, she threw herself on the bed in her clothes, and sank into a heavy sleep.