She appeared to be in deep thought, her cheek resting on her hand, and her eyes fixed on vacancy. Some movement in the house aroused her, and she arose, shook her head, as if she would shake care away, and bent over a rare plant in the room"s large opening, lightly touching the leaves.
"I fear that mamma is right, and I am wrong, pretty plant!" she murmured. "I fear that you will die. Is it that this London, with its heavy atmosphere----"
The knock of a visitor at the hall door resounded through the house. Did Florence _know_ the knock, that her voice should falter, and the soft pink in her cheeks should deepen to a glowing crimson? The room door opened, and a servant announced Mr. Clay.
In that early railway journey when they first met, Florence had taken a predilection for Austin Clay. "I like him so much!" had been her gratuitous announcement to her uncle Harry. The liking had ripened into an attachment, firm and lasting--a child"s attachment: but Florence grew into a woman, and it could not remain such. Thrown much together, the feeling had changed, and love mutually arose: they fell into it unconsciously. Was it quite prudent of Mr. Hunter to sanction, nay, to court the frequent presence at his house of Austin Clay? Did he overlook the obvious fact, that he was one who possessed attractions, both of mind and person, and that Florence was now a woman grown? Or did Mr.
Hunter deem that the social barrier, which he might a.s.sume existed between his daughter and his dependent, would effectually prevent all approach of danger? Mr. Hunter must himself account for the negligence: no one else can do it. It was certain that he did have Austin very much at his house, but it was equally certain that he never cast a thought to the possibility that his daughter might be learning to love him.
The strange secret, whatever it may have been, attaching to Mr. Hunter, had shattered his health to that extent that for days together he would be unequal to go abroad or to attend to business. Then Austin, who acted as princ.i.p.al in the absence of Mr. Hunter, would arrive at the house when the day was over, to report progress, and take orders for the next day. Or, rather, consult with him what the orders should be; for in energy, in capability, Austin was now the master spirit, and Mr. Hunter bent to it. That over, he pa.s.sed the rest of the evening in the society of Florence, conversing with her freely, confidentially; on literature, art, the news of the day; on topics of home interest; listening to her music, listening to her low voice, as she sang her songs; guiding her pencil. There they would be. He with his ready eloquence, his fund of information, his attractive manners, and his fine form, handsome in its height and strength; she with her sweet fascinations, her gentle loveliness. What could be the result? But, as is almost invariably the case, the last person to give a suspicion to it was he who positively looked on, and might have seen all--Mr. Hunter. Life, in the presence of the other, had become sweet to each as a summer"s dream--a dream that had stolen over them ere they knew what it meant. But consciousness came with time.
Very conscious of it were they both as he entered this evening. Austin took her hand in greeting; a hand always tremulous now in his. She bent again over the plant she was tending, her eyelids and her damask cheeks drooping.
"You are alone, Florence!"
"Just now. Mamma is very poorly this evening, and keeps her room. Papa was here a few minutes ago."
He released her hand, and stood looking at her, as she played with the petals of the flower. Not a word had Austin spoken of his love; not a word was he sure that he might speak. If he partially divined that it might be acceptable to her, he did not believe it would be to Mr.
Hunter.
"The plant looks sickly," he observed.
"Yes. It is one that thrives in cold and wind. It came from Scotland.
Mamma feared this close London atmosphere would not suit it; but I said it looked so hardy, it would be sure to do well. Rather than it should die, I would send it back to its bleak home."
"In tears, Florence? for the sake of a plant?"
"Not for that," she answered, twinkling the moisture from her eyelashes, as she raised them to his with a brave smile. "I was thinking of mamma; she appears to be fading rapidly, like the plant."
"She may grow stronger when the heat of summer shall have pa.s.sed."
Florence slightly shook her head, as if she could not share in the suggested hope. "Mamma herself does not seem to think she shall, Austin.
She has dropped ominous words more than once latterly. This afternoon I showed her the plant, that it was drooping. "Ay, my dear," she remarked, "it is like me--on the wane." And I think my uncle Bevary"s opinion has become unfavourable."
It was a matter on which Austin could not urge hope, though, for the sake of tranquillizing Florence, he might suggest it, for he believed that Mrs. Hunter was fading rapidly. All these years she seemed to have been getting thinner and weaker; it was some malady connected with the spine, causing her at times great pain. Austin changed the subject.
"I hope Mr. Hunter will soon be in, Florence. I am come to ask for leave of absence."
"Papa is not out; he is sitting with mamma. That is another reason why I fear danger for her. I think papa sees it; he is so solicitous for her comfort, so anxious to be with her, as if he would guard her from surprise or agitating topics. He will not suffer a visitor to enter at hazard; he will not let a note be given her until he has first seen it."
"But he has long been thus anxious," replied Austin, who was aware that what she spoke of had lasted for years.
"I know. But still, latterly--however, I must hope against hope," broke off Florence. "I think I do: hope is certainly a very strong ingredient in my nature, for I cannot realize the parting with my dear mother. Did you say you have come for leave of absence? Where is it that you wish to go?"
"I have had a telegraphic despatch from Ketterford," he replied, taking it from his pocket. "My good old friend, Mrs. Thornimett, is dying, and I must hasten thither with all speed."
"Oh!" uttered Florence, almost reproachfully. "And you are wasting the time with me!"
"Not so. The first train that goes there does not start for an hour yet, and I can get to Paddington in half of one. The news has grieved me much. The last time I was at Ketterford--you may remember it--Mrs.
Thornimett was so very well, exhibiting no symptoms whatever of decay."
"I remember it," answered Florence. "It is two years ago. You stayed a whole fortnight with her."
"And had a battle with her to get away then," said Austin, smiling with the reminiscence, or with Florence"s word "whole"--a suggestive word, spoken in that sense. "She wished me to remain longer. I wonder what illness can have stricken her? It must have been sudden."
"What is the relationship between you?"
"A distant one. She and my mother were second cousins. If I----"
Austin was stopped by the entrance of Mr. Hunter. _So_ changed, _so_ bent and bowed, since you, reader, last saw him! The stout, upright figure had grown thin and stooping, the fine dark hair was grey, the once calm, self-reliant face was worn and haggard. Nor was that all; there was a constant _restlessness_ in his manner and in the turn of his eye, giving a spectator the idea that he lived in a state of ever-present, perpetual fear.
Austin put the telegraphic message in his hand. "It is an inconvenient time, I know, sir, for me to be away, busy as we are, and with this agitation rising amongst the men; but I cannot help myself. I will return as soon as it is possible."
Mr. Hunter did not hear the words. His eyes had fallen on the word "Ketterford," in the despatch, and that seemed to scare away his senses.
His hands shook as he held the paper, and for a few moments he appeared incapable of collected thought, of understanding anything. Austin exclaimed again.
"Oh, yes, yes, it is only--it is Mrs. Thornimett who is ill, and wants you--I comprehend now." He spoke in an incoherent manner, and with a sigh of the most intense relief. "I--I--saw the word "dying," and it startled me," he proceeded, as if anxious to account for his agitation.
"You can go, Austin; you must go. Remain a few days there--a week, if you find it necessary."
"Thank you, sir. I will say farewell now, then."
He shook hands with Mr. Hunter, turned to Florence, and took hers.
"Remember me to Mrs. Hunter," he said in a low tone, which, in spite of himself, betrayed its own tenderness, "and tell her I hope to find her better on my return."
A few paces from the house, as he went out, Austin encountered Dr.
Bevary. "Is she much worse?" he exclaimed to Austin, in a hasty tone.
"Is who much worse, doctor?"
"Mrs. Hunter. I have just had a message from her."
"Not very much, I fancy. Florence said her mamma was poorly this evening. I am off to Ketterford, doctor, for a few days."
"To Ketterford!" replied Dr. Bevary, with an emphasis that showed the news had startled him. "What are you going there for? For--for Mr.
Hunter?"
"For myself," said Austin. "A good old friend is ill--dying, the message says--and has telegraphed for me."
The physician looked at him searchingly. "Do you speak of Miss Gwinn?"
"I should not call her a friend," replied Austin. "I allude to Mrs.
Thornimett."
"A pleasant journey to you, then. And, Clay, steer clear of those Gwinns; they would bring you no good."
It was in the dawn of the early morning that Austin entered Ketterford.
He did not let the gra.s.s grow under his feet between the railway terminus and Mrs. Thornimett"s, though he was somewhat dubious about disturbing the house. If she was really "dying," it might be well that he should do so; if only suffering from a severe illness, it might not be expected of him; and the wording of the message had been ambiguous, leaving it an open question. As he drew within view of the house, however, it exhibited signs of bustle; lights not yet put out in the dawn, might be discerned through some of the curtained windows, and a woman, having much the appearance of a nurse, was coming out at the door, halting on the threshold a moment to hold converse with one within.
"Can you tell me how Mrs. Thornimett is?" inquired Austin, addressing himself to her.