MYSTERY BEGINS
The discerning reader will perhaps think Mr. Thomas Larcher a very dull
person in not having yet put this and that together and associated the
love-affair of Murray Davenport with the “romance” of Miss Florence
Kenby. One might suppose that Edna Hill's friendship for Miss Kenby, and
her inquisitiveness regarding Davenport, formed a sufficient pair of
connecting links. But the still more discerning reader will probably
judge otherwise. For Miss Hill had many friends whom she brought to
Larcher's notice, and Miss Kenby did not stand alone in his observation,
as she necessarily does in this narrative. Larcher, too, was not as fully
in possession of the circumstances as the reader. Nor, to him, were the
circumstances isolated from the thousands of others that made up his
life, as they are to the reader. Edna's allusion to Miss Kenby's
“romance” had been cursory; Larcher understood only that she had given
up a lover to please her father. Davenport's inconstant had abandoned
him because he was unlucky; Larcher had always conceived her as such a
woman, and so of a different type from that embodied in Miss Kenby. To
be sure, he knew now that Davenport's fickle one had a father; but so
had most young women. In short, the small connecting facts had no such
significance in his mind, where they were not grouped away from other
facts, as they must have in these pages, where their very presence
together implies inter-relation.
In his reports to Edna, a certain delicacy had made him touch lightly
upon the traces of Davenport's love-affair. He may, indeed, have guessed
that those traces were what she was most desirous to hear of. But a
certain manly allegiance to his sex kept him reticent on that point in
spite of all her questions. He did not even say to what motive Davenport
ascribed the false one's fickleness; nor what was Davenport's present
opinion of her. “He was thrown over by some woman whose name he never
mentions; since then he has steered clear of the sex,” was what Larcher
replied to Edna a hundred times, in a hundred different sets of phrases;
and it was all he replied on the subject.
So matters stood until two days after the interview related in the
previous chapter. At the end of that interview, Larcher had said that
for the second day thereafter he was engaged; Hence he had appointed
the third day for his next meeting with Davenport. The engagement for
the second day was, to spend the afternoon with Edna Hill at a
riding-school. Upon arriving at the flat where Edna lived under the mild
protection of her easy-going aunt, he found Miss Kenby included in the
arrangement. To this he did not object; Miss Kenby was kind as well as
beautiful; and Larcher was not unwilling to show the tyrannical Edna
that he could play the cavalier to one pretty girl as well as to another.
He did not, however, manage to disturb her serenity at all during the
afternoon. The three returned, very merry, to the flat, in a state of the
utmost readiness for afternoon tea, for the day was cold and blowy. To
make things pleasanter, Aunt Clara had finished her tea and was taking a
nap. The three young people had the drawing-room, with its bright coal
fire, to themselves.
Everything was trim and elegant in this flat. The clear-skinned maid who
placed the tea things, and brought the muffins and cake, might have been
transported that instant from Mayfair, on a magic carpet, so neat was
her black dress, so spotless her white apron, cap, and cuffs, so clean
her slender hands.
“What a sweet place you have, Edna,” remarked Florence Kenby, looking
around.
“So you've often said before, dear. And whenever you choose to make it
sweeter, for good, you've only got to move in.”
Florence laughed, but with something very like a sigh.
“What, are you willing to take boarders?” said Larcher. “If that's the
case, put me down as the first applicant.”
“Our capacity for 'paying guests' is strictly limited to one person, and
no gentlemen need apply. Two lumps, Flo dear?”
“Yes, please.--If only your restrictions didn't keep out poor father--”
“If only your poor father would consider your happiness instead of his
own selfish plans.”
“Edna, dear! You mustn't.”
“Why mustn't I?” replied Edna, pouring tea. “Truth's truth. He's your
father, but I'm your friend, and you know in your heart which of us would
do more for you. You know, and he knows, that you'd be happier, and have
better health, if you came to live with us. If he really loves you, why
doesn't he let you come? He could see you often enough. But I know the
reason; he's afraid you'd get out of his control; he has his own
projects. You needn't mind my saying this before Tom Larcher; he read
your father like a book the first time he ever met him.”
Larcher, in the act of swallowing some buttered muffin, instantly looked
very wise and penetrative.
“I should think your father himself would be happier,” said he, “if he
lived less privately and had more of men's society.”
“He's often in poor health,” replied Florence.
“In that case, there are plenty of places, half hotel, half sanatorium,
where the life is as luxurious as can be.”
“I couldn't think of deserting him. Even if he--weren't altogether
unselfish about me, there would always be my promise.”
“What does that matter--such a promise?” inquired Edna, between sips of
tea.
“You would make one think you were perfectly unscrupulous, dear,” said
Florence, smiling. “But you know as well as I, that a promise is sacred.”
“Not all promises. Are they, Tommy?”
“No, not all,” replied Larcher. “It's like this: When you make a bad
promise, you inaugurate a wrong. As long as you keep that promise, you
perpetuate that wrong. The only way to end the wrong, is to break the
promise.”
“Bravo, Tommy! You can't get over logic like that, Florence, dear, and
your promise did inaugurate a wrong--a wrong against yourself.”
“Well, then, it's allowable to wrong oneself,” said Florence.
“But not one's friends--one's true, disinterested friends. And as for
that other promise of yours--that _fearful_ promise!--you can't deny you
wronged somebody by that; somebody you had no right to wrong.”
“It was a choice between him and my father,” replied Florence, in a low
voice, and turning very red.
“Very well; which deserved to be sacrificed?” cried Edna, her eyes and
tone showing that the subject was a heating one. “Which was likely to
suffer more by the sacrifice? You know perfectly well fathers _don't_ die
in those cases, and consequently your father's hysterics _must_ have been
put on for effect. Oh, don't tell me!--it makes me wild to think of it!
Your father would have been all right in a week; whereas the other man's
whole life is darkened.”
“Don't say that, dear,” pleaded Florence, gently. “Men soon get over such
things.”
“Not so awfully soon;--not sincere men. Their views of life are changed,
for all time. And _this_ man seems to grow more and more melancholy, if
what Tom says is true.”
“What I say?” exclaimed Larcher.
The two girls looked at each other.
“Goodness! I _have_ given it away!” cried Edna.
“More and more melancholy?” repeated Larcher. “Why, that must be Murray
Davenport. Was he the--? Then you must be the--! But surely _you_
wouldn't have given him up on account of the bad luck nonsense.”
“Bad luck nonsense?” echoed Edna, while Miss Kenby looked bewildered.
“The silly idea of some foolish people, that he carried bad luck with
him,” Larcher explained, addressing Florence. “He sent you a letter about
it.”
“I never got any such letter from him,” said Florence, in wonderment.
“Then you didn't know? And that had nothing to do with your giving him
up?”
“Indeed it had not! Why, if I'd known about that--But the letter you
speak of--when was it? I never had a letter from him after I left town.
He didn't even answer when I told him we were going.”
“Because he never heard you were going. He got a letter after you had
gone, and then he wrote you about the bad luck nonsense. There must
have been some strange defect in your mail arrangements.”
“I always thought some letters must have gone astray and miscarried
between us. I knew he couldn't be so negligent. I'd have taken pains to
clear it up, if I hadn't promised my father just at that time--” She
stopped, unable to control her voice longer. Her lips were quivering.
“Speaking of your father,” said Larcher, “you must have got a subsequent
letter from Davenport, because he sent it registered, and the receipt
came back with your father's signature.”
“No, I never got that, either,” said Florence, before the inference
struck her. When it did, she gazed from one to the other with a helpless,
wounded look, and blushed as if the shame were her own.
Edna Hill's eyes blazed with indignation, then softened in pity for her
friend. She turned to Larcher in a very calling-to-account manner.
“Why didn't you tell me all this before?”
“I didn't think it was necessary. And besides, he never told me about
the letters till the night before last.”
“And all this time that poor young man has thought Florence tossed him
over because of some ridiculous notion about bad luck?”
“Well, more or less,--and the general fickleness of the sex.”
“General fick--! And you, having seen Florence, let him go on thinking
so?”
“But I didn't know Miss Kenby was the lady he meant. If you'd only told
me it was for her you wanted news of him--”
“Stupid, you might have guessed! But I think it's about time he had some
news of _her_. He ought to know she wasn't actuated by any such paltry,
childish motive.”
“By George, I agree with you!” cried Larcher, with a sudden energy. “If
you could see the effect on the man, of that false impression, Miss
Kenby! I don't mean to say that his state of mind is entirely due to
that; he had causes enough before. But it needed only that to take away
all consolation, to stagger his faith, to kill his interest in life.”
“Has it made him so bitter?” asked Florence, sadly.
“I shouldn't call the effect bitterness. He has too lofty a mind for
strong resentment. That false impression has only brought him to the
last stage of indifference. I should say it was the finishing touch to
making his life a wearisome drudgery, without motive or hope.”
Florence sighed deeply.
“To think that he could believe such a thing of Florence,” put in Edna.
“I'm sure _I_ couldn't. Could you, Tom?”
“When a man's in love, he doesn't see things in their true proportions,”
said Larcher, authoritatively. “He exaggerates both the favors and the
rebuffs he gets, both the kindness and the coldness of the woman. If he
thinks he's ill-treated, he measures the supposed cause by his
sufferings. As they are so great, he thinks the woman's cruelty
correspondingly great. Nobody will believe such good things of a woman
as the man who loves her; but nobody will believe such bad things if
matters go wrong.”
“Dear, dear, Tommy! What a lot you know about it!”
But Miss Hill's momentary sarcasm went unheeded. “So I really think,
Miss Kenby, if you'll pardon me,” Larcher continued, “that Murray
Davenport ought to know your true reason for giving him up. Even if
matters never go any further, he ought to know that you still--h'm--feel
an interest in him--still wish him well. I'm sure if he knew about your
solicitude--how it was the cause of my looking him up--I can see through
all that now--”
“I can never thank you enough--and Edna,” said Florence, in a tremulous
voice.
“No thanks are due me,” replied Larcher, emphatically. “I value his
acquaintance on its own account. But if he knew about this, knew your
real motives then, and your real feelings now, even if he were never to
see you again, the knowledge would have an immense effect on his life.
I'm sure it would. It would restore his faith in you, in woman, in
humanity. It would console him inexpressibly; would be infinitely sweet
to him. It would change the color of his view of life; give him hope and
strength; make a new man of him.”
Florence's eyes glistened through her tears. “I should be so glad,” she
said, gently, “if--if only--you see, I promised not to hold any sort of
communication with him.”
“Oh, that promise!” cried Edna. “Just think how it was obtained. And
think about those letters that were stopped. If that alone doesn't
release you, I wonder what!”
Florence's face clouded with humiliation at the reminder.
“Moreover,” said Larcher, “you won't be holding communication. The
matter has come to my knowledge fairly enough, through Edna's lucky
forgetfulness. I take it on myself to tell Davenport. I'm to meet him
to-morrow, anyhow--it looks as though it had all been ordained. I really
don't see how you can prevent me, Miss Kenby.”
Florence's face threw off its cloud, and her conscience its scruples, and
a look of gratitude and relief, almost of sudden happiness, appeared.
“You are so good, both of you. There's nothing in the world I'd rather
have than to see him made happy.”
“If you'd like to see it with your own eyes,” said Larcher, “let me send
him to you for the news.”
“Oh, no! I don't mean that. He mustn't know where to find me. If he came
to see me, I don't know what father would do. I've been so afraid of
meeting him by chance; or of his finding out I was in New York.”
Larcher understood now why Edna had prohibited his mentioning the Kenbys
to anybody. “Well,” said he, “in that case, Murray Davenport shall be
made happy by me at about one o'clock to-morrow afternoon.”
“And you shall come to tea afterward and tell us all about it,” cried
Edna. “Flo, you _must_ be here for the news, if I have to go in a hansom
and kidnap you.”
“I think I can come voluntarily,” said Florence, smiling through her
tears.
“And let's hope this is only the beginning of matters, in spite of any
silly old promise obtained by false pretences! I say, we've let our tea
get cold. I must have another cup.” And Miss Hill rang for fresh hot
water.
The rest of the afternoon in that drawing-room was all mirth and
laughter; the innocent, sweet laughter of youth enlisted in the generous
cause of love and truth against the old, old foes--mercenary design,
false appearance, and mistaken duty.
Larcher had two reasons for not going to his friend before the time
previously set for his call. In the first place he had already laid out
his time up to that hour, and, secondly, he would not hazard the
disappointment of arriving with his good news ready, and not finding his
friend in. To be doubly sure, he telegraphed Davenport not to forget the
appointment on any account, as he had an important disclosure to make.
Full of his revelation, then, he rang the bell of his friend's
lodging-house at precisely one o'clock the next day.
“I'll go right up to Mr. Davenport's room,” he said to the negro boy at
the door.
“All right, sir, but I don't think you'll find Mr. Davenport up there,”
replied the servant, glancing at a brown envelope on the hat-stand.
Larcher saw that it was addressed to Murray Davenport. “When did that
telegram come?” he inquired.
“Last evening.”
“It must be the one I sent. And he hasn't got it yet! Do you mean he
hasn't been in?”
Heavy slippered footsteps in the rear of the hall announced the coming
of somebody, who proved to be a rather fat woman in a soiled wrapper,
with tousled light hair, flabby face, pale eyes, and a worried but kindly
look. Larcher had seen her before; she was the landlady.
“Do you know anything about Mr. Davenport?” she asked, quickly.
“No, madam, except that I was to call on him here at one o'clock.”
“Oh, then, he may be here to meet you. When did you make that
engagement?”
“On Tuesday, when I was here last! Why?--What's the matter?”
“Tuesday? I was in hopes you might 'a' made it since. Mr. Davenport
hasn't been home for two days!”
“Two days! Why, that's rather strange!”
“Yes, it is; because he never stayed away overnight without he either
told me beforehand or sent me word. He was always so gentlemanly about
saving me trouble or anxiety.”
“And this time he said nothing about it?”
“Not a word. He went out day before yesterday at nine o'clock in the
morning, and that's the last we've seen or heard of him. He didn't carry
any grip, or have his trunk sent for; he took nothing but a parcel
wrapped in brown paper.”
“Well, I can't understand it. It's after one o'clock now--If he doesn't
soon turn up--What do you think about it?”
“I don't know what to think about it. I'm afraid it's a case of
mysterious disappearance--that's what I think!”