THE STRANGER FROM INDIA.
No letter came from Susan Denham; and after wavering until there was
scarcely time left for the necessary packing, Florence resolved to put
pride steadily under her feet, and enter cheerfully upon her new duties.
It cost her a pang to leave the little cottage where her father’s
stormy, restless life had found a haven; and Mrs. Bick wept noisily at
their parting.
“I dunno, after all, whether I ain’t glad I’m going right away,” said
the poor old woman, “for I could never abide the place when there’s
nobody in it as I cares about. Master Weddell have took to it, and he
have promised he won’t root up Dannle’s flowers. Ye’ll have a look in
as ye goes by sometimes, miss, won’t ye, and see if he keep his word?”
This Florence readily consented to do, and then they parted--the old
woman blessing the young with a rugged eloquence that came from the
heart.
“I’ll never forget ye, miss. I ain’t much of a hand at saying what I
thinks, but I’ll never forget your name in my prayers. I shall always
think them was my happiest times when I see your sweet face every day.”
As Florence stepped into the carriage sent from Orwell Court, with
Mrs. Bick’s last words ringing in her ears, her spirits became greatly
depressed. Those had been happy days--those days of actual poverty and
daily labor; and she might well ask herself what would be her lot in
the future to which she had no clue. Never before had her loneliness
been felt so thoroughly as now, and despite her utmost efforts to
appear composed, Mrs. Wilson’s warm greeting on her arrival was met
with a burst of hysterical tears.
The little lady’s nervousness vanished as soon as she saw the agitation
of her young guest, and with the soothing tenderness of a mother she
led her into her own room, where, with the most unobtrusive kindness,
she contrived to win back her calmness. Then she had some patterns
to select for hangings for the bedrooms, in which grave matter she
consulted Florence, who, pleased to be of service, roused herself to
assist in the choice, and write some letters to the tradespeople by
whom they were supplied.
With the tact supplied by kindness of heart, Mrs. Wilson quickly
comprehended that the way to make Florence contented was to give
her employment. Accordingly, as soon as they had breakfasted on the
following morning, she led her into the library, and pointed to the
bare shelves, and the packing cases that bestrewed the floor.
“My dear, I haven’t a notion how books should be placed, and Mr.
Aylwinne sent me word that I had better leave these alone till he came,
unless I could find some one competent to arrange and catalogue them.
Now, it would be a great relief to my mind if this could be done before
his arrival.”
“I shall be delighted to undertake it,” Florence replied, and Mrs.
Wilson was satisfied. The owner of Orwell Court had gone to Southampton
to await there the coming of the ship in which his wards had sailed
from India. His return was not expected for several days, and this
interval was one of real rest and refreshment to the governess-elect.
The library at Orwell Court was a fine, old-fashioned room, with deep
bay windows looking far away over the greensward and clumps of trees
dotting the park to a long range of chalk hills beyond.
Florence--whether at her desk or on the library steps with some
engrossing volume on her lap--always contrived to perch herself where
she could see the sun set behind these distant hills, and enjoy the
beauty of the view.
Mrs. Wilson passed in and out all day long, to detail little vexations,
or ask advice on some--to her--very important point. If she found
Florence at work, she stayed, but if she had forgotten herself in the
pages of Thierry or Macaulay, Mrs. Wilson smiled, and slipped away
again in silence.
The days glided on only too quickly, and one chilly evening, as
Florence and her friend sat over the fire in the morning room, the
sounds of wheels were heard on the carriage drive.
Mrs. Wilson started up; joy at Mr. Aylwinne’s arrival mingling with her
nervous dread that he would not find everything in the perfect order
and good taste she had been worrying herself and every one about her to
attain.
“It’s he--it’s Mr. Aylwinne!” she panted. “I’m so pleased! But, oh,
Miss Heriton, do you think he’ll approve of the way we’ve hung the
pictures? And there are those statuettes--I’m terribly afraid they’re
not placed in the right niches!”
“Mr. Aylwinne must be of a very exacting disposition if he is not
satisfied,” Florence answered, her pulses beating more quickly than
usual as she anticipated her own introduction. “But will you not go to
meet him?”
“Of course--of course!” And Mrs. Wilson hurried away, forgetting in her
haste to close the door after her.
It was rather awkward to be thus made a hearer of their meeting; but it
was unavoidable, for Florence did not like to cross the room and shut
the door, lest they should approach and detect her in the act.
Thus she heard a manly voice exclaim heartily:
“Well, Mrs. Wilson, here I am at last; but I scarcely know yet whether
this is Orwell Court or not. How you have transmogrified the place, to
be sure!”
“Not for the worse, I hope. I assure you I have tried to remember your
wishes and tastes, and act up to them as far as I could.”
“And you have succeeded admirably. Nothing could be better than the
effect of the lamplight on that marble group. Why, Mrs. Wilson, your
taste is exquisite!”
“Oh, pray don’t give me credit for what I don’t possess! I should not
have thought of such a thing. In fact, that group was quite a trouble
to me, for I could not find a corner it fitted. It was Miss Heriton who
suggested putting it there.”
“Who?” Mr. Aylwinne’s voice took such a startled tone that a shiver
ran through the frame of the listening Florence, and involuntarily she
retreated still farther from the speakers.
“Miss Heriton--Florence Heriton. Is it not a pretty name? I must tell
you”--Mrs. Wilson chattered on, quite in a glow of elation at his
praises--“I must tell you that it was a real anxiety to me when you
wrote and bade me find a governess for your poor little wards; and so I
did as you had advised me to do in any real difficulty: I carried your
letter to that excellent Mr. Lumley. But you won’t catch cold standing
here, will you, sir? I am so dreadfully thoughtless, and there is a
fire in the morning room.”
“I shall not catch cold,” he answered curtly. “You went to Mr. Lumley?
Quite right. Well, and then?”
“And then he told me he knew a young lady whom he could recommend; and
we went together and secured her. But I’m sure you feel chilly, Mr.
Aylwinne; you look so pale about the lips.”
“You secured her services, did you say? And her father--what about him?”
“Dear me, didn’t I tell you?” And Mrs. Wilson lowered her voice to an
awed whisper, which, to Florence’s great relief, made it inaudible
where she stood. “He’s dead, you know, sir; taken off quite suddenly,
Mr. Lumley said, with paralysis. And she was such an excellent
daughter! It was very touching to see her sitting there alone, in her
deep mourning--so patient, poor dear, and so resigned!”
“And you secured--that is, you engaged her? And she is coming here, to
Orwell Court?” Mr. Aylwinne asked unsteadily.
“Dear me--how badly I must express myself!” cried Mrs. Wilson. “I
thought you quite understood that she is here.”
“Florence Heriton here, in my house?”
So strangely were these words spoken that the nervous little
housekeeper began to get into a state of great perturbation.
“I hope I have not been too hasty in my arrangements, sir. But Mr.
Lumley advised, and seemed to think--and I am so unaccustomed to such
responsibility--that----”
But Mr. Aylwinne had by this time quite recovered himself, and
interrupted her by saying, in his usually firm, decided accents:
“You have done quite right, my good friend. There is a fate in these
things which overrules our wisest intentions. Come, you must introduce
me to--the governess of my wards.”
Florence, embarrassed by what she had overheard, knew not whether to
advance or retain her position when Mr. Aylwinne followed Mrs. Wilson
into the room. She had withdrawn to the most distant window, and as she
turned at their entrance the deep-crimson draperies behind her threw
out her slight figure and delicate profile in vivid relief.
With just the nice degree of empressement the occasion warranted,
Mr. Aylwinne held out his hand, and hoped that Miss Heriton would be
comfortable at Orwell Court with his worthy friend Mrs. Wilson.
There was not a fault to be found with his words or manner. It was just
what a generous employer’s should be to the lady whose services he
accepted. But the hand that touched Florence’s was cold and trembling,
and her timid glance at his dark face showed her that he never looked
up while addressing her.
Mrs. Wilson would have bustled away to order some refreshments; but,
putting her into her chair, he rang the bell himself for a cup of
coffee and a biscuit; he wanted nothing more, he said.
And then, leaning his elbow on the end of the mantel-piece, he glided
into general remarks about the weather, and one or two of the topics of
the day, with an easy politeness before which the remaining traces of
Florence’s embarrassment disappeared.
He seemed disposed to ignore the fact that this was not their first
interview, and for this she was extremely thankful. It enabled her to
bear her share in the conversation with greater ease; although she was
not sorry when Mrs. Wilson’s anxiety to know whether this room was
furnished correctly, or that one arranged as Mr. Aylwinne intended,
kept him employed in answering her questions.
Florence, though her fingers were busy with some work, was a keen
observer of all that was passing.
She liked to watch Mr. Aylwinne’s demeanor to the fussy little lady.
While it was evident enough that these housekeeping matters were boring
him, and his thoughts had often flown far away when she came to the end
of some description or explanation, yet he was always patient and kind,
listening to and commending her as an affectionate son would bear with
the infirmities of a mother.
Once, when he lowered his voice in replying to some query she put to
him, Florence started, and her work dropped on her lap, for those
softly modulated tones, with something plaintive thrilling through
their music, went to her own heart.
Surely she had heard them before! But when?
She looked at him scrutinizingly. His forehead and eyes were concealed
by the hand that shaded them from the lamp, and the luxuriant beard and
mustache, which were quite Oriental in their profusion, effectually
concealed the contour of the lower part of his countenance.
Her scrutiny baffled, Florence resumed her work; but again and again
the same memories were evoked, though still she vainly taxed her brain
for answers to the questions:
“Who is he, and how connected with the far-distant past?”
When she again listened to Mrs. Wilson’s babble, the little lady was
speaking of the library.
“You’ve not seen it yet, Mr. Aylwinne; but I’m sure you’ll be
delighted. It looks so nice now it’s carpeted, and the easy-chairs in
the snuggest nooks; but I’m terribly afraid you’ll think the carpet too
dark, and the pattern of the largest.”
“It’s not likely to interfere with my studies, is it?” he asked, with a
smile.
“Well, no, I suppose these little things do not catch your eye and
fidget you. Did I tell you that we have put all the books in order?”
“I hope not,” said Mr. Aylwinne; then, as he saw her blank glance, he
added laughingly: “I mean that I hope you have not been arranging them
according to the size and binding instead of the contents.”
“Would it signify?” Mrs. Wilson asked innocently. “I’m no reader
myself, but I like to see books put on their shelves uniformly; it
makes them look so nice and neat. However, I have left it to Miss
Heriton. She will tell you what she has done.”
“I cannot pretend to have made a satisfactory classification of so many
volumes,” Florence replied, “but I have arranged them to the best of my
judgment.”
“You are very good,” said Mr. Aylwinne, a little stiffly. “I have no
doubt they will do very well. Where have you put my ‘Carlo Dolce,’ Mrs.
Wilson?”
“Your what, sir?”
“Picture, madam--a small painting of two female heads.”
“Oh, I know now,” said the housekeeper briskly. “It is in the study.
That picture, you know, Miss Heriton, that you said reminded you so
much of your mother.”
Mr. Aylwinne started from his lounging attitude and walked quickly to
the door. As he opened it he seemed to recollect himself, and came back
again.
“I beg your pardon, ladies. I had forgotten to say that my wards will
be here early to-morrow. They were so fatigued with their voyage that I
left them with a motherly landlady at a hotel in Kirton, and promised
to fetch them in the morning. Good night!”
“I am afraid he is very tired himself by his going away so abruptly,”
said Mrs. Wilson uneasily. “I never saw him look so before. Did you see
how white he had turned, Miss Heriton?”
“I was not noticing Mr. Aylwinne’s looks,” Florence answered quietly.
“Perhaps it was only his manner.”
“Oh, no; he was always so courteous to every one!” Mrs. Wilson
declared. She wondered whether she might venture to send something nice
and hot to his dressing room--just a tray with a morsel of fricasseed
chicken and some mulled wine.
“How long have you known Mr. Aylwinne?” asked Florence, so abruptly
that Mrs. Wilson regarded her with open eyes.
“How long? Ever since he first came to England to take possession of
his property. That was before he went to Egypt. He has been the best
and truest friend I ever had in my life, Miss Heriton. I cannot think
of his goodness without reproaching myself for not doing more to
testify my gratitude. I’ll go and send up that tray, I think, if you’ll
excuse my running away.”
“Tell me before you go,” said Florence, detaining her, “tell me where
Mr. Aylwinne had been residing before he came to England.”
“In India, my dear, of course. I thought you knew that he was there
for some years. What wine would you advise me to mull? Port? Or do you
think that would be too heavy?”
Putting her off with an evasive answer, Florence escaped to her own
chamber.
She was pale, and trembling with irrepressible agitation. At one
moment she reproached herself for giving way to ridiculous fancies,
and told herself it was absurd to imagine that beneath the bronzed and
bearded skin of the wealthy owner of Orwell Court she recognized the
smooth-faced Frank Dormer, with whom she parted so many long years ago;
yet, reason as she would, the fancy returned. Every strange speech he
had made this night was pondered over, only to increase her perplexity,
for in the softened tones that had replied to Mrs. Wilson she seemed
to detect the echo of that voice last heard in the happy home of her
childhood.