A WHISPERED WORD.
Mrs. Blunden, having once made up her mind to her niece’s marriage,
quickly laid aside all her objections, and went heart and soul into the
preparations she considered necessary for so important an affair.
Mrs. Wilson was her delighted assistant, for she was sincerely attached
to Florence, and considered her worthy to become the wife of Mr.
Aylwinne, even though he was in her eyes of all men the most peerless.
The boys were wild with joy when it was whispered to them that the
Donna would soon become the bride of their guardian, and hung about
their gentle governess with an affection that would not be repressed.
Mrs. Blunden proposed that they should remove at once to London, where
the very handsome trousseau she intended to purchase could be more
easily procured; while Mrs. Wilson was impatient to return to Orwell
Court, in order to commence the cleaning and polishing she thought the
house and furniture would require before it was fit for the reception
of its lovely young mistress.
Florence was passive in the hands of her aunt, and raised no objections
to anything she proposed; but Mr. Aylwinne would not hear of quitting
Babbicombe Bay for the noisy metropolis; and by dint of an obstinacy
equal to her own, he finally won from Mrs. Blunden a consent to stay
where she was until the nuptial rite was celebrated.
Florence, naturally domesticated and attached to Orwell Court, would
have liked to go quietly home after her marriage. Mr. Aylwinne’s
prolonged wanderings must, she fancied, have wearied him of other
lands; yet it was he who sketched out a route which must detain them
abroad for many months.
She pointed this out to her lover, and hinted her own wish that
they might at all events return to England in time to keep their
Christmas at Orwell Court; but his answer, though affectionate, was
unsatisfactory.
“I shall not bring my darling back till she has learned to forget. When
she wears the bright, untroubled face of the Florence I remember, then,
and not till then, shall I be content.”
“And do you think it possible that I can ever again be the gay,
careless child you then knew?” she asked, with a sigh. “Or shall I be
less dear to you because contact with the world has taught me to think
and to suffer?”
“Hush, love--hush! Whenever your voice takes that mournful strain it
brings back memories that unfit me for everything. Let me have my way,
Florence. If I seem obstinate, it is because I have my own ideas of
what will be best for your happiness.”
“You think of me always and only, dear Frank,” she replied. “And there
are the boys to be considered. I cannot help remembering their blank
looks when they heard we were going away for an indefinite period.
They will be very lonely, poor children!”
He was pleased at her thoughtful consideration for his wards, but
answered directly:
“They must live as I did for years, upon hope; they will have one
comfort I never had--your letters.”
She smiled and said no more. It seemed almost ungrateful to urge the
claims of others any longer, while he was so bent upon remembering only
hers.
Her speech had, however, set Mr. Aylwinne thinking. He was averse to
leaving Walter and Fred with Mrs. Wilson as sole authority over them;
for, with the kindest intentions, she was scarcely adapted for such
a charge. He had asked Mr. Lumley to take them as boarders at the
vicarage, but the good clergyman had lost his right hand in losing his
sister, and was proposing to lessen the number of his pupils instead of
increasing them.
“We must advertise for a gouvernante for the lads, and put up with her,
if she does not prove a second Miss Heriton,” Mr. Aylwinne said as he
discussed his wishes with Florence.
She, too, looked thoughtful for a brief interval, but then her eye lit
up with pleasure.
“What will you say if I agree to find you a good, gentle woman far more
capable of managing them than I have ever been?”
“Say! Why, that I will engage with her at once, leaving the terms to
you,” he replied. “But who is this rara avis?”
“Her name is Denham--Susan Denham,” said Florence, a shade of
pensiveness deepening upon her brow as she spoke. “I learned to know
and love her at a time of great anxiety. I cannot tell you how often
her sympathy and good counsel comforted me.”
Mr. Aylwinne made no reply for a few minutes. He was intently watching
the downcast face of his betrothed.
“Of what period are you speaking? May I ask?”
“Of the time when we were living in West Street, Brompton,” Florence
answered. “I had no other friend then but Susan Denham.”
“My poor love!” he exclaimed tenderly; then relapsed again into
silence, till she cried, with more cheerfulness:
“Well, what say you? Shall I try and prevail upon Susan to give up her
present situation--I know she is not very well satisfied with it--and
come to Orwell Court?”
“No,” Mr. Aylwinne decisively replied. “I will have no one about you
who can recall the hours it will be the business of my life to prevent
your remembering.”
“But Susan is in every way fitted for the duties I propose her taking,”
Florence persisted. “And, indeed, dear Frank, it would please me much
to insure and personally overlook her comforts.”
“You shall do that. You shall amply repay every obligation you lie
under to this good woman. I will settle an annuity upon her, my
dearest, which will give her a competence for the rest of her life.”
“You are too generous,” Florence murmured, grateful for his kindness
to her friend, yet disappointed that he would not accede to her
wishes. “But I do not think Susan would accept such a gift. She has an
independent spirit, and would much rather work for what she receives.”
“We must contrive to keep her in ignorance of the source from whence
she derives the income,” was the answer.
“And Walter and Fred? Indeed, dear Frank, I should feel much easier
about our boys if I might leave them in such excellent hands as
Susan’s.”
“My dear Florence,” said Mr. Aylwinne, with increasing gravity, “you
have a morbid tendency to cherish the very recollections I seek to
banish. You don’t seem to see that the continual presence of Miss
Denham would encourage this. Love, you must let me do as I propose in
this matter.”
With a little pettishness, Florence withdrew her hand from his arm.
“And I thought my own idea such an excellent one. Can you not reconcile
your pride to letting me have my own way for once?”
“You shall have it, not once, but always, in everything, except what
concerns yourself,” he answered, kissing her cheek. “Now go and get
your hat, and let us escape before Mrs. Blunden pounces upon you for a
millinery consultation. I know it is pending, for I saw her pass the
door ten minutes ago, with a huge packet of patterns and trimmings
fresh from London.”
Only too glad to avoid one of the long inflictions with which Aunt
Margaret tried her patience but too often, Florence obeyed. It was some
time, however, before she could recover her usual tone, for she felt
greatly disappointed at his determination with regard to Susan Denham.
He saw that she was vexed, and redoubled his usual tenderness,
insensibly leading her thoughts away from the disagreeable subject. The
morning, too, was a lovely one--soft and hazy with the fast-falling
leaves glittering in their autumnal tints beneath a cloudless sky.
Insensibly they wandered on, leaving the seaside for the deep and
intricate lanes of the inland country--sometimes talking, sometimes
silent; occasionally pausing and resting on a stile or bank, but always
happy, for they were together; and every glance, every murmured word,
spoke the fullness of their content.
At last, with a start and a bewildered look around him, Mr. Aylwinne
paused.
“I haven’t the slightest idea where we are, have you?”
Florence laughed gayly at their dilemma, for she was in equal
ignorance; and not a creature was in sight, or a cottage visible where
they could make inquiries.
Mr. Aylwinne pulled out his watch.
“By Jove! It is nearly three hours since we left the house! How
inconsiderate I am! You must be tired to death.”
“I did not feel it till you spoke; but I will confess now, to wishing
myself nearer home. We had better return as quickly as we can.”
“By no means; I could not think of letting you walk back. There must be
a village somewhere near here, for I can hear the voices of children.
Let me go forward and reconnoiter the neighborhood.”
He climbed a bit of rising ground, and returned to say that he had
espied a respectable-looking inn at no great distance. There they could
doubtless procure a conveyance to carry them back to the bay, where
their absence, if it lasted much longer, would cause uneasiness.
When they reached the inn they were received by a slatternly,
sullen-looking woman, who scarcely vouchsafed a civil reply to Mr.
Aylwinne’s questions.
“Maybe they could have a chaise--maybe they couldn’t; it was just as
her master took in his head.”
“Send him here, then,” said the gentleman imperatively. “And show me
the way to a room where this lady can rest a while.”
Still muttering, but somewhat awed by his manner, she obeyed so far as
to push open the door of a sitting room. They then heard her screaming
to some one upstairs:
“You’re wanted, d’ye hear? Here’s gentry in the parlor, an’ if they
wants waiting on you may come and do it! I ain’t going to drudge here
while you sits above with your wine and takes your pleasure, I can tell
you!”
There was a muttered retort, and then a quick footstep; and the next
minute a smart, dapper man was bowing and cringing at the door, and,
in very oily tones, requesting the “favior of their horders.”
“Some wine and biscuits, and a vehicle to convey us to Babbicombe Bay
as quickly as it can be got ready,” Mr. Aylwinne replied.
“Most certainly, sir. The horse shall be put in the chaise directly.
Bless me!” he added, catching a fuller view of Florence’s features. “I
beg your parding, I’m sure, but it’s Miss Heriton, ain’t it? I hopes
there’s no offense in saying I’m glad to see you so well, miss.”
“Who is this fellow?” Mr. Aylwinne demanded, as he bowed himself out to
fetch the wine.
“Do you not remember him? And yet his is a face not easily forgotten,”
Florence replied; and, seeing that he still looked puzzled, she added:
“He is the ci-devant servant of Lieutenant Mason.”
Mr. Aylwinne hissed an oath between his clenched teeth.
“Could I bring you nowhere but to his house? I will go and hasten the
harnessing of the horses that we may get away as quickly as possible.”
He hurried from the room as he spoke, almost upsetting the landlord in
his hurry as he entered with a tray.
“The gentleman as took my master’s chambers in the Albany, I believe?
Your husband, miss? Excuse me!”
Florence, annoyed at this impertinence, turned to the window without
replying; but, nothing daunted, he went on:
“I hope, miss, I may say without offense that I’m glad my foolish
little whispered words didn’t do you no harm, and that you bears no
malice, for I’m a different man to what I was in those times. I’m
married, miss, to that excellent creetur you see. A little temperish
she is, but we’ve all our faults, though I’ve repented mine, and hope I
can say I’m a reformed character, thanks to a saving grace!”
Florence scarcely heard the end of this hypocritical harangue. The
expression he had made use of in the beginning had greatly astonished
her; and though she revolted at holding any converse with such a
fellow, she could not refrain from asking his meaning.
“To whom did you whisper anything concerning me? To Mr. Aylwinne? And
what was it?”
“Oh, miss,” he answered fawningly, “I hope you’ll let bygones be
bygones, for there’s no harm done, nor there wasn’t no harm meant.
It was only said because he was inclined to be curious like, and I’m
ashamed to say I wasn’t so particular then as I ought to have been;
but, thanks to a saving grace, I’m----”
What he considered himself the disgusted girl did not stay to hear;
but, sweeping past him with a gesture of indignant scorn, she went to
the door, and waited there till Mr. Aylwinne came to say the vehicle
was ready.
“Have you had a glass of wine? No? But you must not go until you have
taken something.”
He was hurrying into the house, when Florence detained him.
“I cannot touch anything in this house. Come away.”
One glance at her agitated face, and he flung down a piece of gold to
the obsequious landlord, and lifted her into the chaise. Scarcely a
word was interchanged during the homeward ride, and Florence’s replies
to her aunt’s scolding for wandering so far were brief in the extreme.
But, instead of going to her own room, she followed Mr. Aylwinne to a
small apartment to which he generally retreated to write letters, etc.
He looked surprised, but instantly rose from the chair into which he
had thrown himself, and came to meet her.
“Sit down again, Frank. I have something to ask you to which I must
have a truthful reply. You remember the first time I encountered you
at the Albany? Yes, I see you do--and how, when doubtful, I suppose,
of my identity, you asked Lieutenant Mason’s servant my name, and he
whispered his reply? That whisper contained something more than a
simple repetition of my name. Tell me--I entreat, I command you--what
it was!”