NOT QUITE HAPPY.
Mrs. Blunden looked volumes at the heavy eyes with which her niece
appeared at the breakfast table on the following morning; nor did the
tender solicitude of Mr. Aylwinne’s manner, as he rose to give Florence
a chair, and hovered about her till rewarded with a blush and smile,
escape her notice. She had scarcely patience to sit still till the meal
was ended; and as soon as she had found a pretext for getting rid of
Mrs. Wilson and the boys, she began to query sharply:
“What’s all this, Mr. Aylwinne--Florence--what’s all this?”
In much confusion Florence played with her teaspoon without any attempt
to reply; but her lover’s answer was prompt and decided:
“It means, Aunt Margaret, that I have asked and obtained a boon,
subject, of course, to your approval. Will you give me your Florence?”
Mrs. Blunden smiled quizzically.
“You are very polite, certainly; but, judging by what I know of my
niece, she will follow her own inclinations, whether I say a yea or a
nay to them. There, you needn’t redden and pretend to contradict me,
child. You have the Heriton temper, like my poor brother, whom it led
into all sorts of follies.”
“Shall you consider your niece’s acceptance of my hand in a similar
light?” Mr. Aylwinne gravely inquired, while Florence’s annoyance at
her aunt’s blunt speech ended in a smile at the retort it provoked.
“Certainly not,” Mrs. Blunden replied, with a gravity as great as his
own, and much more real. “If I were not satisfied on the score of your
worthiness to espouse her, I should have taken her away as soon as I
had occasion to suspect your affection.”
“And you see no reason to object to our immediate union, I hope?” Mr.
Aylwinne observed, without appearing to see the embarrassment of his
betrothed.
Mrs. Blunden raised her eyebrows.
“Why, this is being in a hurry with a vengeance! Pray, when did you put
the momentous question to my niece? In the character of her guardian, I
consider that I have a right to know this.”
“Florence and I have understood each other since--last night,” he
answered, with a little hesitation.
“Last night! And propose to be married to-morrow?” cried Aunt Margaret
sarcastically. “Surely, Florence, you are no party to this--well, I
really must call it indecorous haste?”
“My dear Mrs. Blunden,” said Mr. Aylwinne, interposing to prevent
Florence’s reply, “if we are assured that we love each other, and may
hope to spend our future together, what delay is required? Why oppose
my wish to commence our new life as quickly as possible?”
“Since when have you resolved to make Florence your wife?” her aunt
demanded. “Since when have these important plans been arranged?”
“I knew and loved her before I went to India,” he answered evasively.
“Humph!” said Mrs. Blunden dryly. “If you have been contented to
wait patiently all these years, I certainly think you can exercise
sufficient forbearance to let a suitable trousseau be prepared for your
bride, and proper settlements drawn up. What say you, Florence? Have
you pledged yourself to have no voice in the matter, that you sit there
so silent?”
“I have already pleaded with Mr. Aylwinne for more time,” was the
murmured reply.
He looked vexed and inclined to be angry as he retorted:
“You certainly did; but when I reminded you that this was my first
request, I thought you had sufficient trust in me to withdraw your
opposition.”
“Nay!” said Mrs. Blunden positively. “I will not give you my child--for
I consider her in that light--if she is to be hurried out of the house
secretly, as though there was something in your choice of which you
were ashamed. If you have loved Florence so long, why did you not give
me a hint of your intentions sooner?”
Mr. Aylwinne was silent; and Florence, who had raised her head eagerly
to listen for his explanation, was disappointed.
“Well, good people,” cried Aunt Margaret brusquely, as she gathered
up her gloves and handkerchief, “it appears that I am not to know
more than you choose to tell me; and perhaps my wishes will be set at
naught, after all.”
“No, dear aunt--no--no!” cried her niece, running to her, and throwing
her arms around her neck. “Not by me; nor will Mr. Aylwinne be
unreasonable. You shall not have to accuse me of disobedience to your
commands, even for his sake. I will be guided by you, Aunt Margaret.”
Tears rose into Mrs. Blunden’s eyes as she heartily returned the
affectionate embrace. She was appeased by this entire submission, and
half sobbed, half said:
“Child, it will be so hard to part with you that I should not be
begrudged the pleasure of having you with me a few weeks longer. I was
never really angry with you but once, my little Florry, and I have
repented that ever since. I’m sure,” she added, sobbing still more
audibly, “when you wrote, thanking me so gratefully for sending you
a hundred pounds, and dwelling upon the use it had been and comforts
it had procured my poor, foolish brother, I felt that I had been
dreadfully cruel to have withheld what some one with more Christian
charity had bestowed. By the bye,” she cried abruptly, “who sent you
that money? Was it Mr. Aylwinne?”
“No, madam,” he answered shortly.
“Really, now! And did you know nothing about it?”
For a moment or two he did not reply; but, meeting the questioning
glance of Florence, whose keener perception had divined that he was
withholding something, he said slowly:
“I have reason to know--that is, I accidentally learned that the
inclosure of that note to Miss Heriton was one of Lieutenant Mason’s
last acts before quitting England.”
Florence uttered an exclamation of astonishment.
“Is it possible? Heaven forgive me! I judged him more harshly than I
should have done had I known that he repented his conduct so far as to
do this.”
Mr. Aylwinne turned to the window without replying, but Mrs. Blunden
cried:
“Pish! You could not think worse of him than he deserved. He did but
give you back a part of your own. And now let me go. If this wedding is
to be a hurried affair, as I suppose it will be in spite of my protest,
I must go and talk to my maid about the fashions, and so forth.”
When she had bustled out of the room, Florence went softly to where Mr.
Aylwinne was moodily standing, and, laying her hand on his arm, she
whispered:
“You are not angry with me, are you?”
“What for?” he replied. “For trying to think your best of that
miserable man?”
“I was not thinking of him at all, but of you, and your wishes.”
He drew her to him fondly.
“Were you really? And if Mrs. Blunden can be prevailed upon, will you
promise to make no delays? Don’t you see that I am eager to take you
right away--to teach you in a sunnier land, and among fresh scenes and
faces, to forget all the old haunting associations that now pale your
cheek and sadden you?”
“But I would not wholly forget them,” said Florence; “for surely in
those sorrowful years I have learned lessons that shall make me more
humble, more thoughtful for others, more pitiful to the erring, and
compassionate to those who need it.”
“You are the living image of your mother, my Florence!” he exclaimed
admiringly. “It is just in this way that she would have gathered
flowers amid the thorns that bestrewed her path. And you are right--I
know you are, though I cannot emulate your sweet patience and
forbearance. I must still hate those who have injured you, and rail at
the fate that separated us so long.”
“Did you not yourself propose that we should not speak of that
sorrowful past?” she said uneasily, as she saw his eyes flash and brows
lower.
“True, love--true, I did; and so it shall be. You do well to check me.
You must do so always, and I will try to be more careful.”
“And yet,” said Florence, trembling a little as she felt that she was
approaching a dangerous subject, “and yet I think we should both be
happier if there were perfect confidence between us--I mean if we had
no reservations; but----”
“I understand you, Florence,” he exclaimed, in great agitation, “and
I appreciate your motives; but spare me--pray spare me! I lack the
courage for such miserable details. Let us be content to know that our
love has never wavered, however adverse circumstances have divided us.
And it never has, has it, my Florence?”
To this she could truly answer “No,” and he seemed satisfied. But the
old cloud had not gone, and Florence felt more than ever that their
felicity could not be perfect while it was so.
Yet when he tenderly pressed her to promise that she would be his at
the earliest period Mrs. Blunden could be prevailed upon to concede,
she knew not how to refuse his ardent prayers. As he basked in the
light of her smiles he became more and more like the Frank Dormer
so well remembered, so unceasingly regretted. It was only when an
hour of solitude enabled her to review all he had said that she was
again compelled to acknowledge the galling fact that there was some
important passage of his life which he withheld from her; some act
or deed--whether of his own or another’s--which was an ever-present
trouble to his harassed mind, and poisoned even the bliss of their
reunion.