THE STORM.
When Florence’s letter to Mrs. Blunden had been written and dispatched,
she felt calmer, and was able to go through her daily duties with an
appearance of cheerfulness. No one guessed the soreness at her heart
when the boys spoke of their absent guardian, or Mrs. Wilson lamented
his erratic habits, concluding with: “It’s such a pity he doesn’t
marry, isn’t it? So fond of children as he is, and so generous and
gentle with all women, he would make an excellent husband, wouldn’t he?”
“Perhaps Mr. Aylwinne is already engaged,” Florence suggested, with her
head bent over her work.
Mrs. Wilson meditated.
“Well, it may be so, my dear, for I remember when he first came to
England that he used to ride out sometimes with a Major Dawson and
his daughters. Pretty young creatures they were! Too young then for
anything of the kind, but they must be growing quite fine women now.”
After hearing such remarks as these, Florence would grow eager for her
aunt’s reply; and she certainly had some cause for her impatience in
the length of time she had to wait before it arrived. Mrs. Blunden was
in Paris, and apologized for her silence by saying that she had been
greatly worried by the loss of her jewel box and the subsequent arrest
of the thief.
“I could not settle down to anything,” she said, “until this matter
was over, for between my dread of an innocent person being falsely
accused and unwillingness to let the guilty one escape unpunished,
my mind has been greatly excited. I’m very angry with you, Florence;
it’s my duty to be so, for though I freely forgive you for the wicked
falsehoods you wrote to me about your poor uncle’s legacy, I cannot
pardon the folly that has made you penniless and a dependent. As
to coming to me, it is what you ought to have done directly upon
the decease of my poor, foolish brother. But as I am in dear and
uncomfortable lodgings, and fully resolved to leave this nasty,
frivolous city as soon as the weather permits of the journey, why,
don’t come. You are in good hands, and can stay quietly at Orwell
Court until I join you there. You don’t seem to be aware that I know
Mr. Aylwinne. I met him in Italy when I was on my way to Nice, and
fairly harassed to death with the extortions of the innkeepers. I had
provided myself with a tariff of the charges made at a respectable
London hotel, and I was as firmly resolved to abide by this as the
horrid, chattering Italians were to cheat me. After I had explained
myself to Mr. Aylwinne, I had no more trouble, as he paid the bills
for me. They could not take the same advantage of a resolute man as
they had been attempting with an unprotected female. How did you make
Mr. Aylwinne’s acquaintance? I found that he knew your father, but he
so evidently avoided speaking of him that I was obliged to conclude
he had lost money through some of my brother’s mad speculations. Is
it so? And to what amount? And why do you thank me for sending you a
hundred pounds while your father was ill at Brompton? I did not send
it. No one had the grace to write and acquaint me with his illness. I
shall come to England as soon as I can; so au revoir,” etc.
There was nothing for it, then, but to await Mrs. Blunden’s arrival.
Ardently Florence hoped that it might take place before Mr. Aylwinne
came back, and already she had mentally written that note of thanks
which would tell him that she had quitted his roof. She would not think
of the real sorrow it would cost her to do this, nor of the blank her
life would be when the loving faces of her young pupils no longer met
hers, and she could nevermore linger stealthily in the corner where
stood their guardian’s favorite chair, and draw her fingers with tender
touch over the books he had last read, or the paper knife he used,
or sit in the twilight dreamily fancying that his earnest eyes were
following her movements, as she had so often detected them in doing
when he thought himself unobserved.
Meanwhile time fleeted on. The spring was merging into summer, and she
was often glad to forget herself in long walks to the many lovely spots
in the neighborhood. In these her pupils were generally her companions,
and they had been urging her for some time to indulge them with a trip
to an isolated hill some three or four miles distant, celebrated for
the beauty of the views to be obtained from its summit.
Mrs. Wilson made many objections on the score of the length of the
walk, the fatigue they would undergo in climbing so steep an eminence,
and the danger of rain, or of encountering tramps or gypsies. But the
eager Walter overruled them all; and on a brilliantly sunny morning the
trio started, accompanied by a lad in Mr. Aylwinne’s service, who was
a favorite with both the boys, and who carried a good-sized basket of
edibles.
Avoiding the dusty highroad, they permitted Tom, to whom every part of
the country was familiar, to guide them across fields, through copses,
and over strips of moorland until they reached the foot of Insley Hill.
Here the ground was so thickly covered with bluebells and orchids that
it was not until huge bunches had been gathered that the delighted
boys could be prevailed upon to commence the ascent. It proved more
difficult than Florence had anticipated, for there was no actual path
to be found, and it was one continued and steep climb, till, hot and
breathless, they threw themselves on the dry moss beneath the fir trees
that crowned the flat top of the hill.
But the glorious prospects amply repaid their toil; and the sweet
odor emitted by the resinous trees, the freshness of the air, and the
soft murmur of the breeze that soughed through the treetops, were all
delicious. Their luncheon, washed down as it was by the water from a
spring in the hillside, was discussed with a relish; and then Tom was
sent back to Orwell Court with the empty basket, to carry Mrs. Wilson
the tidings of their safe arrival at their destination, and a renewal
of their promise to be home before evening set in.
When they had rambled round the top of the hill, and Florence had
sketched one of the prettiest points of view, a favorite book was
brought out, and the boys seated themselves at her feet to listen while
she read aloud.
They had perched themselves on a part of the hill that jutted out,
commanding an uninterrupted prospect of the highroad, which wound round
the foot immediately beneath them; and it was at first an amusement to
Fred to note how small the few figures looked which had passed along it.
By and by the little fellows’ heads drooped heavily on Florence’s knee;
but, absorbed in the book, she noticed nothing unusual, till Walter
said in her ear:
“Donna, there’s a storm coming up; I can feel it on the air.”
“So can I,” added Fred plaintively. “My poor head is aching so badly I
don’t know what to do.”
Florence looked anxiously around. She knew that Walter, with boyish
enthusiasm, liked to watch the warring elements, but she had heard
Fred pathetically describe his sufferings during the tempests he had
witnessed in India. The child’s nervous temperament, always delicate,
was severely affected by the change in the weather; and when she tried
to arouse him that they might seek a shelter ere the storm overtook
them, he sank on the ground, moaning with the acute pain in his temples.
There was not a cottage near, and for a few minutes she knelt beside
her helpless charge in great perplexity.
“Let me run to the Court and ask Mrs. Wilson to send the pony chaise
for you and Fred,” suggested his braver brother.
Florence glanced at the threatening sky above them.
“My dear boy, it is such a distance to let you go alone.”
“Nonsense, Donna! I don’t mind it a bit. It’s no use to stay here, for
it will be hours before Fred is better.”
This seemed too feasible to be denied.
“I’ll run all the way,” Walter added eagerly. “And old John will soon
rattle the chaise here, with plenty of cloaks and umbrellas.”
Reluctantly Florence consented to let him go. But no sooner had she
given a faint consent than, delighted to prove his courage by the
undertaking, Walter bounded down the hill. He stopped a moment at the
foot to wave his cap, then vaulted over the stile, and she saw him run
swiftly toward the field path by which they came, just as a deafening
clap of thunder was followed by a few large drops of rain.
Afraid to take refuge beneath the trees at the summit, and incapable
of effecting Fred’s removal to the foot, Florence laid him beneath the
projecting bank which had formed their seat, and tried to revive him by
bathing his forehead with the cool water from the spring. But ere long
all her efforts had to be centered in sheltering him from a pelting
shower that came down fast and furiously. By wrapping her own mantle
around the child she succeeded in keeping him tolerably safe; but her
own dress of some thin material was soon drenched, and she began to
reckon the moments since Walter’s departure, and long impatiently for
the appearance of the chaise.
As she stood up to gaze along the silent highway, a gentleman, riding
in the opposite direction, came in sight, and his eye was caught by her
figure. It was something so entirely out of the common way to see a
lady in this solitary spot, especially with a storm raging around her,
that he checked his steed and looked again. This minuter survey of the
graceful form on the heights ended in his dismounting, securing his
reins to a sapling, and commencing the ascent of the hill.
Florence neither saw nor heard his approach. She had been too much
absorbed in her own chilly condition and the plaints of Fred; and,
returning to the boy, she was kneeling by his side, trying to soothe
the terrors which made him cry and tremble every time the hoarse
muttering of the thunder was audible.
The first thing that made her aware that they were no longer alone was
the snapping of some branches beneath a heavy foot. The next moment the
bushes were parted, and Mr. Aylwinne appeared.
Too much astonished to speak, she rose and stood before him like a
beautiful statue of silence--her parted lips, her varying color, alone
betraying the pleasure she could not help feeling at his coming.
But when he drew nearer and began to ask with solicitude the reason he
found her here, she remembered herself, and, withdrawing the hand he
had taken, gave a curt explanation.
He bent compassionately over Fred, and then eyed her more steadfastly
than before.
“But your dress is wet, your shoulders quite unprotected! How long do
you say Walter has started? You must let me put my coat around you.”
But this Florence would not permit, and made light of the fears he
expressed.
“I shall catch a cold, perhaps, but it is unavoidable; or, rather,
I have nothing to blame for it but my own folly in not watching the
weather more carefully.”
Mr. Aylwinne’s uneasiness on her account was not appeased by this
careless speech; and Florence, whom it alternately vexed and flattered,
was thankful when the pony carriage came in sight.
Wrapping Fred in the coat she had refused, Mr. Aylwinne raised the
boy in his arms to carry him down the hill, and Florence prepared to
follow; but after taking two or three steps he looked back, and warned
her not to attempt it.
“The rain has made the dry, short moss as slippery as glass,” he
said. “And it will be impossible for you to keep your feet without
assistance. Pray stay where you are until I can return.”
She obeyed so far as to stand still until he had passed out of sight,
but her pride revolting against the idea of accepting his aid, or of
leaning on his arm, she resolved to essay the descent without it.
Mr. Aylwinne had in no wise exaggerated the difficulty. Florence’s thin
boots, with their flat soles, afforded no resistance to the glassy
earth. She was fain to snatch desperately at the trees to save herself
from being thrown down; and at last, in one long glissade, she was
impelled forward until she was on the very brink of a sand pit, and
only saved from being hurried into it by the projecting roots of an
old ash tree, which she succeeded in grasping.
Frightened at the danger so narrowly escaped, and conscious that she
must have wandered from the direct route, she tried to return to the
spot where Mr. Aylwinne had left her. With difficulty she raised
herself to her feet, for the fury of the lightning, and the beating of
the rain in her face, dizzied her. Catching at the tufts of heather and
the brushwood for support, she had nearly succeeded in returning to the
path, when a flash, more vivid than any of the previous ones, lit up
the murky air. A venerable tree, struck by the electric fluid, wavered
and fell so immediately in the direction she was pursuing, that,
shrieking and cowering down, she hid her face. Those mighty branches
threatened to crush her beneath them, but she had no power to avert her
doom. She knew that a fearful death was at hand, but time and strength
to escape seemed alike to have left her. With a mighty crash the old
tree measured its length upon the earth, that trembled beneath the
shock; but Florence felt herself snatched from her dangerous position,
and knew that she was safe and in the arms of Mr. Aylwinne.