Florence.
Florence Linden sat in the library the following evening in an
attitude of depression. Her eyelids were swollen, and it was evident
she had been weeping. During the day she had had an interview with her
uncle, in which he harshly insisted upon her yielding to his wishes,
and marrying her cousin, Curtis.
"But, uncle," she objected, "I do not love him."
"Marry him, and love will come."
"Never!" she said, vehemently.
"You speak confidently, miss," said Mr. Linden, with irritation.
"Listen, Uncle John. It is not alone that I do not love him. I dislike
him--I loathe--him."
"Nonsense! that is a young girl's extravagant nonsense."
"No, uncle."
"There can be no reason for such a foolish dislike. What can you have
against him?"
"It is impressed upon me, uncle, that Curtis is a bad man. There is
something false--treacherous--about him."
"Pooh! child! you are more foolish than I thought. I don't say Curtis
is an angel. No man is; at least, I never met any such. But he is no
worse than the generality of men. In marrying him you will carry out
my cherished wish. Florence, I have not long to live. I shall be glad
to see you well established in life before I leave you. As the wife of
Curtis you will have a recognized position. You will go on living in
this house, and the old home will be maintained."
"But why is it necessary for me to marry at all, Uncle John?"
"You will be sure to marry some one. Should I divide my fortune
between you and Curtis, you would become the prey of some unscrupulous
fortune hunter."
"Better that than become the wife of Curtis Waring----"
"I see, you are incorrigible," said her uncle, angrily. "Do you refuse
obedience to my wishes?"
"Command me in anything else, Uncle John, and I will obey," pleaded
Florence.
"Indeed! You only thwart me in my cherished wish, but are willing to
obey me in unimportant matters. You forget the debt you owe me."
"I forget nothing, dear uncle. I do not forget that, when I was a poor
little child, helpless and destitute, you took me in your arms, gave
me a home, and have cared for me from that time to this as only a
parent could."
"You remember that, then?"
"Yes, uncle. I hope you will not consider me wholly ungrateful."
"It only makes matters worse. You own your obligations, yet refuse to
make the only return I desire. You refuse to comfort me in the closing
days of my life by marrying your cousin."
"Because that so nearly concerns my happiness that no one has a right
to ask me to sacrifice all I hold dear."
"I see you are incorrigible," said John Linden, stormily. "Do you know
what will be the consequences?"
"I am prepared for all."
"Then listen! If you persist in balking me, I shall leave the entire
estate to Curtis."
"Do with your money as you will, uncle. I have no claim to more than I
have received."
"You are right there; but that is not all."
Florence fixed upon him a mute look of inquiry.
"I will give you twenty-four hours more to come to your senses. Then,
if you persist in your ingratitude and disobedience, you must find
another home."
"Oh, uncle, you do not mean that?" exclaimed Florence, deeply moved.
"I do mean it, and I shall not allow your tears to move me. Not
another word, for I will not hear it. Take twenty-four hours to think
over what I have said."
Florence bowed her head on her hands, and gave herself up to sorrowful
thoughts. But she was interrupted by the entrance of the servant, who
announced:
"Mr. Percy de Brabazon."
An effeminate-looking young man, foppishly dressed, followed the
servant into the room, and made it impossible for Florence to deny
herself, as she wished to do.
"I hope I see you well, Miss Florence," he simpered.
"Thank you, Mr. de Brabazon," said Florence, coldly. "I have a slight
headache."
"I am awfully sorry, I am, upon my word, Miss Florence. My doctor
tells me it is only those whose bwains are vewy active that are
troubled with headaches."
"Then, I presume, Mr. de Brabazon," said Florence, with intentional
sarcasm, "that you never have a headache."
"Weally, Miss Florence, that is vewy clevah. You will have your joke."
"It was no joke, I assure you, Mr. de Brabazon."
"I--I thought it might be. Didn't I see you at the opewa last
evening?"
"Possibly. I was there."
"I often go to the opewa. It's so--so fashionable, don't you know?"
"Then you don't go to hear the music?"
"Oh, of course, but one can't always be listening to the music, don't
you know. I had a fwiend with me last evening--an Englishman--a
charming fellow, I assure you. He's the second cousin of a lord, and
yet--you'll hardly credit it--we're weally vewy intimate. He tells me,
Miss Florence, that I'm the perfect image of his cousin, Lord Fitz
Noodle."
"I am not at all surprised."
"Weally, you are vewy kind, Miss Florence. I thought it a great
compliment. I don't know how it is, but evewybody takes me for an
Englishman. Strange, isn't it?"
"I am very glad."
"May I ask why, Miss Florence?"
"Because---- Well, perhaps I had better not explain. It seems to give
you pleasure. You would, probably, prefer to be an Englishman."
"I admit that I have a great admiration for the English character.
It's a gweat pity we have no lords in America. Now, if you would only
allow me to bring my English fwiend here----
"I don't care to make any new acquaintances. Even if I did, I prefer
my own countrymen. Don't you like America, Mr. de Brabazon?"
"Oh, of courth, if we only had some lords here."
"We have plenty of flunkeys."
"That's awfully clevah, 'pon my word."
"Is it? I am afraid you are too complimentary. You are very
good-natured."
"I always feel good-natured in your company, Miss Florence. I--wish I
could always be with you."
"Really! Wouldn't that be a trifle monotonous?" asked Florence,
sarcastically.
"Not if we were married," said Percy, boldly breaking the ice.
"What do you mean, Mr. de Brabazon?"
"I hope you will excuse me, Miss Florence--Miss Linden, I mean; but
I'm awfully in love with you, and have been ever so long--but I never
dared to tell you so. I felt so nervous, don't you know? Will you
marry me? I'll be awfully obliged if you will."
Mr. de Brabazon rather awkwardly slipped from his chair, and sank on
one knee before Florence.
"Please arise, Mr. de Brabazon," said Florence, hurriedly. "It is
quite out of the question--what you ask--I assure you."
"Ah! I see how it is," said Percy, clasping his hands sadly. "You love
another."
"Not that I am aware of."
"Then I may still hope?"
"I cannot encourage you, Mr. de Brabazon. My heart is free, but it can
never be yours."
"Then," said Percy, gloomily, "there is only one thing for me to do."
"What is that?"
"I shall go to the Bwooklyn Bwidge, climb to the parapet, jump into
the water, and end my misewable life."
"You had better think twice before adopting such a desperate
resolution, Mr. de Brabazon. You will meet others who will be kinder
to you than I have been----"
"I can never love another. My heart is broken. Farewell, cruel girl.
When you read the papers tomorrow morning, think of the unhappy Percy
de Brabazon!"
Mr. de Brabazon folded his arms gloomily, and stalked out of the room.
"If my position were not so sad, I should be tempted to smile," said
Florence. "Mr. de Brabazon will not do this thing. His emotions are as
strong as those of a butterfly."
After a brief pause Florence seated herself at the table, and drew
toward her writing materials.
"It is I whose heart should be broken!" she murmured; "I who am driven
from the only home I have ever known. What can have turned against me
my uncle, usually so kind and considerate? It must be that Curtis has
exerted a baneful influence upon him. I cannot leave him without one
word of farewell."
She took up a sheet of paper, and wrote, rapidly:
"Dear Uncle: You have told me to leave your house, and I
obey. I cannot tell you how sad I feel, when I reflect that I
have lost your love, and must go forth among strangers--I
know not where. I was but a little girl when you gave me a
home. I have grown up in an atmosphere of love, and I have
felt very grateful to you for all you have done for me. I
have tried to conform to your wishes, and I would obey you in
all else--but I cannot marry Curtis; I think I would rather
die. Let me still live with you as I have done. I do not care
for any part of your money--leave it all to him, if you think
best--but give me back my place in your heart. You are angry
now, but you will some time pity and forgive your poor
Florence, who will never cease to bless and pray for you.
Good-bye!
"Florence."
She was about to sign herself Florence Linden, but reflected that she
was no longer entitled to use a name which would seem to carry with it
a claim upon her uncle.
The tears fell upon the paper as she was writing, but she heeded them
not. It was the saddest hour of her life. Hitherto she had been
shielded from all sorrow, and secure in the affection of her uncle,
had never dreamed that there would come a time when she would feel
obliged to leave all behind her, and go out into the world, friendless
and penniless, but poorest of all in the loss of that love which she
had hitherto enjoyed.
After completing the note, Florence let her head fall upon the table,
and sobbed herself to sleep.
An hour and a half passed, the servant looked in, but noticing that
her mistress was sleeping, contented herself with lowering the gas,
but refrained from waking her.
And so she slept on till the French clock upon the mantle struck
eleven.
Five minutes later and the door of the room slowly opened, and a boy
entered on tiptoe. He was roughly dressed. His figure was manly and
vigorous, and despite his stealthy step and suspicious movements his
face was prepossessing.
He started when he saw Florence.
"What, a sleeping gal!" he said to himself. "Tim told me I'd find the
coast clear, but I guess she's sound asleep, and won't hear nothing. I
don't half like this job, but I've got to do as Tim told me. He says
he's my father, so I s'pose it's all right. All the same, I shall be
nabbed some day, and then the family'll be disgraced. It's a queer
life I've led ever since I can remember. Sometimes I feel like leaving
Tim, and settin' up for myself. I wonder how 'twould seem to be
respectable."
The boy approached the secretary, and with some tools he had brought
essayed to open it. After a brief delay he succeeded, and lifted the
cover. He was about to explore it, according to Tim's directions, when
he heard a cry of fear, and turning swiftly saw Florence, her eyes
dilated with terror, gazing at him.
"Who are you?" she asked in alarm, "and what are you doing there?"