CONCLUSION.
Mrs. Blunden was not at all surprised to be told that her niece had
gone to her room, pleading excessive fatigue as an excuse for not
appearing at the dinner table. But she was greatly concerned when, in
consequence of the agitation she had undergone and a night spent in
weeping, Florence became seriously ill.
She could not conceal from her aunt that something had happened to
cause this; nor did Mrs. Blunden rest until she was put in possession
of all the circumstances.
Like all hasty-tempered people, she scarcely waited to hear the end
before she began to complain loudly of the little confidence that
Florence had reposed in her; nor could she be made to understand why
her niece had concealed the secret uneasiness Mr. Aylwinne’s mysterious
allusions had frequently occasioned her.
Finding the suffering girl incapable of answering her reproaches, she
then turned the torrent of her wrath upon Mr. Aylwinne, declaring his
credulity in suspecting a Heriton of allying herself clandestinely with
a man of Lieutenant Mason’s character to be quite unpardonable.
Too much harassed by the condition of Florence to attach much weight to
anything Mrs. Blunden could say, he permitted her to scold and storm
unchecked. He would wait, he said, till Florence was better and able
to listen calmly to his reasoning. She, at least, would acquit him of
knowingly wronging her.
This opportunity, however, Mrs. Blunden did not intend him to have.
Always rash and hot-headed, she determined to seize on the opportunity
of his riding to the nearest town for further advice, to remove her
niece, and take her by express train to London.
But the angry lady’s exordiums and violent anger against her betrothed
had made Florence so much worse that she became delirious; and her
alarmed aunt soon showed herself as eager to implore Mr. Aylwinne’s
advice and sympathy as she had been to repudiate it.
“She speaks constantly of some one of the name of Denham--Julia
Denham, I think,” cried the tearful Aunt Margaret. “She asks for her
frequently. What shall I do?”
“It must be Susan Denham whose presence she craves,” Mr. Aylwinne
answered. “I will go to town and find her.”
His search assisted by an old letter Mrs. Blunden found in Florence’s
desk, he was soon successful. Nor did Susan refuse to return with him.
It was from her lips that he heard the very little she knew of her
cousin’s acquaintance with Lieutenant Mason, and when she spoke simply
but affectionately of her continual yearning to discover the retreat of
this unhappy wanderer, he entered into her feelings and counseled her
with a friendly kindness for which she was very grateful.
When Florence recovered her senses it was to find Miss Denham watching
over her and shielding her from Mrs. Blunden’s well-meant but noisy
demonstrations of affection. It was Susan who comforted her when she
wept bitterly over the necessity of the separation she had herself
decreed--comforting her with a hope to which, vague as it was, Florence
fondly clung: that her innocence might yet be sufficiently proved to
permit of Frank’s recall.
Not that he was far off. Although Mrs. Blunden had banished him from
the house, he hovered around it continually; and Florence, when able to
leave her bed for a couch near the window of the adjoining room, saw
him sometimes, and gathered fresh consolation from his steady refusal
to accept his dismissal.
On the other hand, however, Mrs. Blunden--all her ambition reviving
that her niece should marry well--only waited the physician’s consent
to carry her to new scenes and livelier society, where she fancied Mr.
Aylwinne would soon be forgotten; and Florence, weak and depressed, was
no longer in a condition to offer any strenuous opposition to her Aunt
Margaret’s plans.
Her nervous horror of hearing them discussed made her dread Mrs.
Blunden’s approach; and one afternoon, when Susan had gone out for a
walk and she heard the rustle of a silk dress in the apartment, she
closed her eyes, in the hope that her aunt would think she slept, and
so withdraw.
But the step came nearer, paused beside the sofa on which she reclined,
and a light, firm touch was laid on her thin fingers.
“Miss Heriton!”
She started up at the sound of that voice. A lady, richly dressed,
stood beside her, and, throwing back her veil, answered the startled
Florence’s cry of recognition with a slight smile.
“Not Julia Denham now, nor Julia Mason, the deserted wife; but Madame
la Comtesse Morauville, _à votre service_.”
“I cannot understand,” said Florence confusedly. “Have you seen your
cousin?”
Julia dropped the veil over her face and looked round uneasily.
“No, nor do I wish to see her. I could not bear--that is, our paths in
life are different, and she would not think as I do--we never agreed. I
am here to serve you, Miss Heriton, not to see Susan.”
“Me!”
“Yes, and myself. I have comprehended enough from an advertisement
addressed to me to know that my presence was necessary here. The rest
has been explained by Mr. Aylwinne, your friend.”
Florence, with rising color, now gazed at her eagerly.
Julia smiled reassuringly.
“Poor child! It was hard that your happiness should suffer! See, here
are two of the letters I had from my worthless husband, and here the
certificate of the marriage it suited him to deny, and here are your
father’s notes imploring the return of the money intrusted to him. Take
them all, Miss Heriton, and may they restore your felicity. Bid Susan
clear the brand from my name, and--Heaven bless you both!”
She would have turned away directly, but Florence held her dress.
“No, Julia, do not leave us thus! Tell me, are you happy? And why have
you concealed yourself so long from your friends?”
“Do not try to detain me. I cannot see Susan. I am content at present;
but I could not remain so if she pleaded with me to forego my present
calling. If she asks you what I said concerning myself, tell her that
I left England to obtain those papers, and that I went to California
on a twofold errand: partly to fulfill a mission intrusted to me by
the French police, in whose service I enlisted myself--partly to trace
Lieutenant Mason. I was successful in both. None dare point at me now
as nameless and degraded!”
“But, Julia--forgive me--surely you are not----”
“Not what? A paid servant of France? A spy of the police? Bah! They
have enriched me--they use me well--my honor is unimpeachable, and why
should not I, who owe the misery of a blighted life to man’s villainy,
retaliate now the means are in my power?”
Florence would have argued, pleaded, entreated; but Julia had come
prepared to steel herself against such solicitations. She had been
forced, she said, in hard, reckless tones, into the course she was now
pursuing--forced by the desertion of the husband she had loved with all
the intensity of her passionate nature, and she lived now only for
herself. Then, hurriedly repeating her adieus, she extricated herself
from the invalid’s feeble hold, and departed.
Susan Denham afterward made repeated attempts to see her, or draw her
into a correspondence, but in vain. Through a friend of Mr. Aylwinne it
transpired that she married a wealthy Parisian financier, and became
famous in the fashionable world for her brilliant entertainments. She
thus secured the riches and distinction which were the dream of her
girlish vanity; but whether she found in such things the happiness she
had then anticipated her friends in England never knew.
For some time after Julia left her, Florence sat with the letters lying
on her lap untouched. Her womanly interest in the fate of her visitor
made her forgetful for a while of her own. But by and by an arm stole
gently around her, and she turned to find herself in the embrace of the
much-tried Frank Aylwinne.
She held the letters toward him, but he would not look at them. He
held her in his arms, and in her smile and joyous welcome he saw the
harbingers of the happiness he once more hoped would be his.
How Mrs. Blunden scolded, and protested that she would never, never
consent to a renewal of the engagement we need not repeat; for, before
she had discovered the audacious intruder, he had won from the blushing
Florence a promise to be his as soon as Mr. Lumley could come to
perform the nuptial rite.
When Aunt Margaret had exhausted her invectives, it was easy to
conciliate her, and within a fortnight of Julia’s strange visit Mr.
Aylwinne and his bride left England for the south of France, where
Florence soon recovered her health, or only retained sufficient traces
of her late illness to make the tender assiduities of her husband very
delightful.
Susan Denham went to Orwell Court, after all, to take charge of
Walter and Fred. Her regret for her cousin only made her more gentle
and thoughtful for others; and the boys, though awed at first by her
gravity, soon learned to regard her as second only to the Donna.
Nor were they alone in discovering Susan’s excellent qualities, for
when Florence and Frank came back to Orwell Court, Mr. Lumley confided
to his old college friend the attachment he had formed for Miss Denham,
who did not prove insensible to the good vicar’s suit.
But it was not at Orwell Court, dearly though she loved it, that
Florence was destined to spend her married life. Mr. Aylwinne had been
for some months negotiating for the purchase of Heriton Priory, and
the title deeds of the estate were his gift to his bride on the first
anniversary of their wedding day.
On the banks of the Coquet, where Florence spent her own sunny
girlhood, her children will sport and play; and the sobering
recollections of the troubled years spent since she quitted those
lovely scenes have chastened the joy of returning to it the fondly
loved and contented wife of Frank Dormer.
THE END.
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Transcriber’s Notes:
A table of contents has been added by the transcriber and placed in the
public domain.
Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected.