THE NEWSPAPER PARAGRAPH.
Mrs. Blunden, ill skilled in analyzing the feelings of those about
her, never suspected the mingled ones that prompted the sobs Florence
could not repress. She attributed them entirely to the recollections
naturally arising on this their first meeting since Mr. Heriton’s
death. In the same breath she reproached her niece as having by her
deceitful conduct occasioned their estrangement, and called herself
hard-hearted for not having sooner forgiven her.
“You were a very naughty girl, Florence. I must call you so. I’ll never
say one thing and mean another. The word of the Heritons has always
been their bond; and nothing can excuse you for breaking yours. But I
ought to have considered the circumstances in which you were placed.
I’m afraid I’ve been dreadfully unfeeling. Pray don’t fret any more--I
can’t bear it! And I’ve come to you with the kindest intentions. You
shall take my name, and I’ll introduce you into society, and take care
that you marry well. You shall never again know what trouble or anxiety
means, my dear.”
Florence tried to smile her thanks; but ventured to remind her aunt
that she had not yet thrown off her mourning for her father. The very
idea of mixing in the frivolities of fashion was so distasteful to
one who had for the last few years been making acquaintance with
life in its sternest realities, that she could not wholly conceal her
repugnance.
Mrs. Blunden, however, pooh-poohed the objection. It was her will that
was to be Florence’s law from henceforth, and she was beginning to
dictate already.
“That will be of no consequence. If you assume my name no one need
know that you were my poor, foolish brother’s daughter, and any large
establishment in London will supply us with the dresses you require at
a day’s notice.”
“I will never put off the name of Heriton as though I were ashamed of
it!” cried Florence proudly.
Mrs. Blunden reddened.
“As though you were ashamed of it! And so you ought to be ashamed
of it! I don’t say the fault is yours, child; but I’m sure my poor
brother’s follies have made it so notorious that I’m only too glad I no
longer bear it. There! Now I’ve made you cry again. Dear me! You can’t
be well to be so easily upset.”
“I don’t think I am very strong-nerved just now,” Florence replied,
trying to speak cheerfully. “Suppose we waive any further discussion
of your wishes for a day or two. And, dear Aunt Margaret, do try to
remember that whatever papa may have done, to me he was a dear and
fondly loved parent. If you had heard him bless me ere he died, or
listened to his regrets that he could not see you once more and awake
your protection for his child, you would not cherish such unkind
recollections.”
Mrs. Blunden melted directly.
“I’m a very unfeeling, unchristianly old woman, my dear, to speak in
such terms of my only brother. Poor, dear Richard! whom I remember the
handsomest and most-popular man in Northumberland. Kiss me, and forgive
me, Florence. I’ll never say such cruel things again, and you shall
keep your name. It’s one of the oldest in England. There is not a more
ancient or honorable family anywhere than the Heritons, let who will
say to the contrary.”
Florence gave her impulsive relative the kiss she asked, and then
inquired what Mrs. Blunden’s arrangements were, and when she proposed
that they should take their departure from Orwell Court.
“Oh, my dear, I’ve come for a month at least! You need not look so
surprised. I promised Mr. Aylwinne that my first visit in England
should be to him, and so here I am. I have seen him while you were
sleeping, and he has pressed me to stay as long as I feel comfortable.”
“I thought we should have gone away at once,” said Florence, to whose
heart these weeks of close intimacy with Mr. Aylwinne would be a
greater trial than an immediate parting.
“Why? Where do you wish to go?” Mrs. Blunden asked sharply.
“Anywhere you please; I have no choice.”
“Then why do you wish to hurry me away from here? Unless, indeed, you
have not been well used. Tell me, child, has Mr. Aylwinne treated you
ill in any way?” And the lady’s color began to rise and her eyes to
sparkle defiantly.
“No, aunt--no; he has been most kind--most considerate!” was the
answer, given with a sigh.
Mrs. Blunden still looked unsatisfied.
“But you must have a motive for proposing to go away before I have
scarcely had time to say half a dozen sentences to my host.”
“Yes,” said Florence sadly, “and my principal one is that I dread the
pang of parting, and long to have it over.”
Mrs. Blunden gave herself a cross shake.
“Really, child, you are too sentimental! You don’t mean to tell me that
you shall half break your heart at saying good-by to two troublesome
little boys and a fidgety old lady?”
“No,” Florence replied, with an effort at indifference. “I’ll not break
my heart at parting with any one. I’m sorry I said anything about it;
and we will go or stay, just as you please, Aunt Margaret.”
“As for Mr. Aylwinne, you have seen too little of him to feel any
regrets on his account,” Mrs. Blunden went on, answering her own
thoughts more than her niece’s words. “Neither is he the sort of man to
captivate a young girl’s fancy. He is too staid--too reserved; besides,
I have my doubts about him.”
“Doubts, Aunt Margaret?” cried Florence breathlessly. “What do you
know? What have you heard?”
“Pooh! Nothing tangible, so never repeat it. But there’s no denying
that he’s very eccentric; and it’s my own opinion that his brain is
slightly affected. You know he had been in India for some years, which
might account for it.”
Florence turned away from her in a pet. Mr. Aylwinne--the keen
observer, the profound scholar, the man of business habits--declared
not only eccentric, but something worse! It was a few minutes before
she could answer her aunt’s remarks without betraying her annoyance.
She went, however, with Mrs. Blunden to the rooms prepared for her, and
assisted her maid in unpacking, putting the lady in such a good humor
by her attentions that she descended to dinner prepared to like every
one.
Fred was not well enough to rise again that day, but Florence had found
time ere she joined the party below to pay him a short visit, and
promise him a longer one in the course of the evening.
As she was leaving him he grasped her dress and drew her back.
“Mrs. Wilson was saying something to Jane just now about an aunt of
yours coming here to fetch you away, Donna. But you’ll not leave us,
will you?”
Florence stooped and kissed him without replying, for she had seen Mr.
Aylwinne enter the room while the boy was speaking, and knew that he,
too, was listening to hear what she would say.
When he found that she was silent, he came forward, and Fred in great
tribulation turned to his guardian.
“Mr. Aylwinne, she is going away! What shall we do without her? There
isn’t any one who has been so good to us since we lost mamma! Can’t you
get her to stay? Oh, do, sir--do try! She’d listen to you if you asked
her.”
But he, too, was silent; and Florence, to end the awkward pause, said
to the excited child soothingly:
“Dear Fred, I am not going yet. Lie down and be quiet, or you will make
your head worse. I may not leave you for some weeks to come.”
“But I don’t want you to go at all!” sobbed the boy, and Mr. Aylwinne
walked quietly away.
With some trouble Florence reconciled her pupil to the necessity of
their separation, and sat by him till he fell asleep.
When she entered the drawing-room, Mrs. Wilson was absent. Her anxiety
that the dinner should be perfection to the palates of her employer and
his lady guest made her fidget in and out of the kitchen incessantly,
until the cook was thrown into a state of desperation, and declared to
her sympathizing assistants an intention of sitting down and leaving
“missus” to finish the cooking herself.
Mrs. Blunden, unconscious of the turmoil her visit had created in the
lower regions, was conversing with Mr. Aylwinne, and recalling some of
her traveling experiences for the amusement of Walter, whose bright,
intelligent face had taken her fancy. But after her niece entered, the
depressed manner she could not shake off attracted her aunt’s notice;
and although Florence was not near enough to hear her half-whispered
remarks, she was painfully conscious that Mrs. Blunden was adverting to
it. Mr. Aylwinne, too, though politeness compelled him to lend an ear,
was evidently embarrassed, and anxious to change the subject. This he
succeeded in doing when dinner was announced. But in the evening Mrs.
Blunden fastened upon him again, and consoled herself for the silence
she had promised to observe to Florence, by making him a confidant of
all the vexation her poor brother’s folly had cost her.
Growing desperate at last, Florence challenged her aunt to a game at
chess, as the only means of quieting her.
“Presently, love. Arrange the men, and I will be with you before you
are ready.”
Walter ran to fetch the board and bring a little table closer to the
center lamp, and Florence followed him to it. This brought her nearer
the talkers, if Mr. Aylwinne can be so named, whose conversational
efforts had been vainly directed to turning his companion’s thoughts
into another channel.
Mrs. Blunden had not the delicacy to understand or appreciate this.
Mr. Heriton’s speculations and losses were patent to the whole world,
and she saw no reason why she should not describe her own feelings in
connection with them.
“Yes,” Florence heard her say, “though the act was that foolish
child’s, I’m sure, from what my solicitor has since told me, that it
was at my brother’s pressing solicitations; and I know it was drawn
out to put into the hands of that wicked rogue we were speaking about.
Florence,” she added, in louder tones, “Florence, my dear, am I not
right? Didn’t your legacy go to swell Lieutenant Mason’s gains?”
Mr. Aylwinne, who had striven to prevent the putting of the question,
started up and left the room; but as he went he saw Florence redden to
the temples, and heard her indignant and reproachful exclamation: “Aunt
Margaret!”
“Well, my dear,” was the placid reply, “what harm have I done in
alluding to this? You forget that every one knows it, and I chose
Mr. Aylwinne to understand that I never gave your poor father any
encouragement in his follies.”
Florence could have cried with vexation. Instead of her aunt’s presence
being a comfort to her, her feelings had been tried already more than
they had been for months. But Mrs. Blunden could not be made to see
this. The only hope was that, as she had relieved herself by saying all
she thought upon the painful subject, she would now be contented to let
it rest.
Mr. Aylwinne came back no more that night, sending an apology for his
absence, which was graciously received; and Florence, with aching head
and troubled mind, played chess with Mrs. Blunden till the latter grew
out of patience with her careless moves, and proposed that they should
go to bed.
After this first day Aunt Margaret proved more agreeable and
manageable than her niece had anticipated. Mrs. Wilson, to whom her
activity and decision were something remarkable, deferred to her
visitor continually, and Mrs. Blunden, always pleased to be made of
consequence, arranged her store closet for her, set her books in order,
and advised and directed with a brisk precision that the poor, little,
nervous housekeeper thought wonderful.
Mrs. Blunden liked children--that is, boys; girls were too quiet
in their habits to please her. Before she had been at Orwell Court
three days she had made the acquaintance of all Walter’s and Fred’s
schoolfellows, and organized cricket and running matches, and archery
meetings, at which she presided in state, and gave prizes to the
winners. The sight of her cheerful face and portly figure was hailed
with delight at the vicarage, where she soon made herself quite at home
both with Mr. Lumley and the prim little lady, his only sister, who
resided with him. She even penetrated the secret of Miss Lumley’s sober
looks, and learned that she was losing hope and youth in the suspense
of a long engagement to a curate too poor to marry. Mrs. Blunden
immediately set all her energies to work to procure this young man a
living, and, by dint of indefatigable efforts, was successful.
Every one’s services at Orwell Court were then enlisted in the
preparation of a simple trousseau for the grateful bride, Aunt Margaret
deprecating any further delays.
Mr. Aylwinne, whose purse was at her command, would sometimes come into
the room where the cutting out and contriving were going on at one
table, while Florence and her pupils studied at another. He would stand
by, watching them all with looks which never brightened into a smile,
save when Mrs. Blunden addressed him, and then Florence could see that
it was but a forced attempt to appear gay.
“How is it? You are the only idler among us,” Mrs. Blunden said to him
laughingly, one day, as he stood beside her.
“Because you never take interest enough in me to give me occupation,”
he retorted.
With another jest, she offered him her scissors; but he declined them.
“No, I will not expose my ignorance of female arts and sciences. But if
there is anything I can do, you may command me.”
Mrs. Blunden pointed to a newspaper.
“Read to us. I have been too busy to inquire how the world goes on; and
Florence never cares to know.”
Mr. Aylwinne drew forward a chair, and began glancing down the columns.
“What will you have? The court movements, the state of the funds, or
the fashions?”
“Neither,” was the reply. “Let us hear the general news--the accidents,
and robberies, and so on.”
He read two or three police reports, and turned over the page to find
something else likely to interest her; then, starting from his seat,
with his eyes riveted on the page to which he had turned, he carried it
to the window, where for a few moments he stood absorbed in something
that appeared possessed of some extraordinary interest to him.
Startled by his hasty movement, Florence had raised her eyes from
the drawing she was overlooking. She saw him turn very pale, flush as
deeply, and drop the newspaper; opening the sash, he stepped out onto
the lawn, and before Mrs. Blunden missed him he had plunged into the
shrubbery.
“What! Is he gone? I thought he would soon tire of reading aloud; I
detest it myself. Come here, Florence, and tell me whether you think
these trimmings should be pink or blue.”
Her niece obeyed so far as to cross the room and say a quiet “Yes,”
and “No,” in accordance with Mrs. Blunden’s wishes. But when her aunt
released her, she snatched up the newspaper and carried it to her own
room.
There were two paragraphs on which his eye must have rested, for they
were close together. One announced a serious accident to the daughter
of Major Dawson, of 120 Park Villas, the young lady having been
thrown from her horse while riding in Rotten Row. The other reported
the death, at San Francisco, in a gaming house, of Lieutenant Mason,
son of the late Mr. and Lady Catherine Mason, of the Brae House,
Northumberland.
Which of these reports was it that had so powerfully affected Mr.
Aylwinne? Florence’s jealous heart answered, “The first--the first!”
for the injured girl was one of those fair sisters of whom Mrs. Wilson
had spoken when the subject of his marriage was touched upon.
Would she die? Or would she recover and become his wife?