FLORENCE DECLARES HER ALLEGIANCE
During the next few weeks, Larcher saw much of Mr. Turl. The Kenbys,
living under the same roof, saw even more of him. It was thus inevitable
that Edna Hill should be added to his list of new acquaintances. She
declared him “nice,” and was not above trying to make Larcher a little
jealous. But Turl, beyond the amiability which he had for everybody, was
not of a coming-on disposition. Sometimes Larcher fancied there was the
slightest addition of tenderness to that amiability when Turl regarded,
or spoke to, Florence Kenby. But, if there was, nobody need wonder at it.
The newcomer could not realize how permanently and entirely another image
filled her heart. It would be for him to find that out--if his feelings
indeed concerned themselves with her--when those feelings should take
hope and dare expression. Meanwhile it was nobody's place to warn him.
If poor Davenport's image remained as living as ever in Florence Kenby's
heart, that was the only place in New York where it did remain so. With
Larcher, it went the course of such images; occupied less and less of his
thoughts, grew more and more vague. He no longer kept up any pretence of
inquiry. He had ceased to call at police headquarters and on Mrs. Haze.
That good woman had his address “in case anything turned up.” She had
rented Davenport's room to a new lodger; his hired piano had been removed
by the owners, and his personal belongings had been packed away unclaimed
by heir or creditor. For any trace of him that lingered on the scene of
his toils and ponderings, the man might never have lived at all.
It was now the end of January. One afternoon Larcher, busy at his
writing-table, was about to light up, as the day was fading, when he was
surprised by two callers,--Edna Hill and her Aunt Clara.
“Well, this is jolly!” he cried, welcoming them with a glowing face.
“It's not half bad,” said Edna, applying the expression to the room. “I
don't believe so much comfort is good for a young man.”
She pointed her remark by dropping into one of the two great chairs
before the fire. Her aunt, panting a little from the ascent of the
stairs, had already deposited her rather plump figure in the other.
“But I'm a hard-working young man, as you can see,” he replied, with a
gesture toward the table.
“Is that where you grind out the things the magazines reject?” asked
Edna. “Oh, don't light up. The firelight is just right; isn't it,
auntie?”
“Charming,” said Aunt Clara, still panting. “You must miss an elevator
in the house, Mr. Larcher.”
“If it would assure me of more visits like this, I'd move to where there
was one. You can't imagine how refreshing it is, in the midst of the
lonely grind, to have you come in and brighten things up.”
“We're keeping you from your work, Tommy,” said Edna, with sudden
seriousness, whether real or mock he could not tell.
“Not a bit of it. I throw it over for the day. Shall I have some tea
made for you? Or will you take some wine?”
“No, thanks; we've just had tea.”
“I think a glass of wine would be good for me after that climb,”
suggested Aunt Clara. Larcher hastened to serve her, and then brought a
chair for himself.
“I just came in to tell you what I've discovered,” said Edna. “Mr. Turl
is in love with Florence Kenby!”
“How do you know?” asked Larcher.
“By the way he looks at her, and that sort of thing. And she knows it,
too--I can see that.”
“And what does she appear to think about it?”
“What would she think about it? She has nothing against him; but of
course it'll be love's labor lost on his side. I suppose he doesn't know
that yet, poor fellow. All she can do is to ignore the signs, and avoid
him as much as possible, and not hurt his feelings. It's a pity.”
“What is?”
“That she isn't open to--new impressions,--you know what I mean. He's an
awfully nice young man, so tall and straight,--they would look so well
together.”
“Edna, you amaze me!” said Larcher. “How can you want her to be
inconstant? I thought you were full of admiration for her loyalty to
Davenport.”
“So I was, when there was a tangible Davenport. As long as we knew he was
alive, and within reach, there was a hope of straightening things out
between them. I'd set my heart on accomplishing that.”
“I know you like to play the goddess from the machine,” observed Larcher.
“She's prematurely given to match-making,” said Aunt Clara, now restored
to her placidity.
“Be good, auntie, or I'll make a match between you and Mr. Kenby,”
threatened Edna. “Well, now that the best we can hope for about Davenport
is that he went away with another man's money--”
“But I've told you the other man morally owed him that much money.”
“That won't make it any safer for him to come back to New York. And you
know what's waiting for him if he does come back, unless he's got an
awfully good explanation. And as for Florence's going to him, what chance
is there now of ever finding out where he is? It would either be one of
those impossible countries where there's no extradition, or a place where
he'd always be virtually in hiding. What a horrid life! So I think if she
isn't going to be miserable the rest of her days, it's time she tried to
forget the absent.”
“I suppose you're right,” said Larcher.
“So I came in to say that I'm going to do all I quietly can to distract
her thoughts from the past, and get her to look around her. If I see
any way of preparing her mind to think well of Mr. Turl, I'll do it. And
what I want of you is not to discourage him by any sort of hints or
allusions--to Davenport, you understand.”
“Oh, I haven't been making any. I told him the mere fact, that's all. I'm
neither for him nor against him. I have no right to be against him--and
yet, when I think of poor Davenport, I can't bring myself to be for Turl,
much as I like him.”
“All right. Be neutral, that's all I ask. How is Turl getting on with his
plan of going to work?”
“Oh, he has excellent chances. He's head and shoulders above the ruck of
black-and-white artists. He makes wonderfully good comics. He'll have no
trouble getting into the weeklies, to begin with.”
“Is it settled yet, about that money of his in dispute?”
“I don't know. He hasn't spoken of it lately.”
“He doesn't seem to care much. I'm going to do my little utmost to keep
Florence from avoiding him. I know how to manage. I'm going to reawaken
her interest in life in general, too. She's promised to go for a drive
with me to-morrow. Do you want to come along?”
“I jump at the chance--if there's room.”
“There'll be a landau, with a pair. Aunt Clara won't come, because Mr.
Kenby's coming, and she doesn't love him a little bit.”
“Neither do I, but for the sake of your society--”
“All right. I'll get the Kenbys first, and pick you up here on the way
to the park. You can take Mr. Kenby off our hands, and leave me free to
cheer up Florence.”
This assignment regarding Mr. Kenby had a moderating effect on Larcher's
pleasure, both at that moment and during the drive itself. But he gave
himself up heroically to starting the elder man on favorite topics, and
listening to his discourse thereon. He was rewarded by seeing that Edna
was indeed successful in bringing a smile to her friend's face now and
then. Florence was drawn out of her abstracted air; she began to have
eyes for the scenes around her. It was a clear, cold, exhilarating
afternoon. In the winding driveways of the park, there seemed to be more
than the usual number of fine horses and pretty women, the latter in
handsome wraps and with cheeks radiant from the frosty air. Edna was
adroit enough not to prolong the drive to the stage of numbness and
melancholy. She had just ordered the coachman to drive home, when the
rear of the carriage suddenly sank a little and a wheel ground against
the side. Edna screamed, and the driver stopped the horses. People came
running up from the walks, and the words “broken axle” went round.
“We shall have to get out,” said Larcher, leading the way. He instantly
helped Florence to alight, then Edna and Mr. Kenby.
“Oh, what a nuisance!” cried Edna. “We can't go home in this carriage, of
course.”
“No, miss,” said the driver, who had resigned his horses to a park
policeman, and was examining the break. “But you'll be able to pick up a
cab in the avenue yonder. I'll send for one if you say so.”
“What a bore!” said Edna, vexatiously.
Several conveyances had halted, for the occupants to see what the trouble
was. From one of them--an automobile--a large, well-dressed man strode
over and greeted Larcher with the words:
“How are you? Had an accident?”
It was Mr. Bagley. Larcher briefly answered, “Broken axle.”
“Well,” said Edna, annoyed at being the centre of a crowd, “I suppose
we'd better walk over to Fifth Avenue and take a cab.”
“You're quite welcome to the use of my automobile for your party,” said
Bagley to Larcher, having swiftly inspected the members of that party.
As Edna, hearing this, glanced at Bagley with interest, and at Larcher
with inquiry, Larcher felt it was his cue to introduce the newcomer. He
did so, with no very good grace. At the name of Bagley, the girls
exchanged a look. Mr. Kenby's manner was gracious, as was natural toward
a man who owned an automobile and had an air of money.
“I'm sorry you've had this break-down,” said Bagley, addressing the
party collectively. “Won't you do me the honor of using my car? You're
not likely to find an open carriage in this neighborhood.”
“Thank you,” said Edna Hill, chillily. “We can't think of putting you
out.”
“Oh, you won't put _me_ out. There's nobody but me and the chauffeur. My
car holds six people. I can't allow you to go for a carriage when mine's
here waiting. It wouldn't be right. I can set you all down at your homes
without any trouble.”
During this speech, Bagley's eyes had rested first on Edna, then on Mr.
Kenby, and finally, for a longer time, on Florence. At the end, they went
back to Mr. Kenby, as if putting the office of reply on him.
“Your kindness is most opportune, sir,” said Mr. Kenby, mustering
cordiality enough to make up for the coldness of the others. “I'm not at
my best to-day, and if I had to walk any distance, or wait here in the
cold, I don't know what would happen.”
He started at once for the automobile, and there was nothing for the
girls to do, short of prudery or haughtiness, but follow him; nor for
Larcher to do but follow the girls.
Bagley sat in front with the chauffeur, but, as the car flew along, he
turned half round to keep up a shouting conversation with Mr. Kenby. His
glance went far enough to take in Florence, who shared the rear seat with
Edna. The spirits of the girls rose in response to the swift motion, and
Edna had so far recovered her merriment by the time her house was
reached, as to be sorry to get down. The party was to have had tea in her
flat; but Mr. Kenby decided he would rather go directly home by
automobile than wait and proceed otherwise. So he left Florence to
the escort of Larcher, and remained as Mr. Bagley's sole passenger.
“That was _the_ Mr. Bagley, was it?” asked Florence, as the three young
people turned into the house.
“Yes,” said Larcher. “I ought to have got rid of him, I suppose. But
Edna's look was so imperative.”
“I didn't know who he was, then,” put in Edna.
“But after all, there was no harm in using his automobile.”
“Why, he as much as accused Murray Davenport of absconding with his
money,” said Florence, with a reproachful look at Edna.
“Oh, well, he couldn't understand, dear. He only knew that the money and
the man were missing. He could think of only one explanation,--men like
that are so unimaginative and businesslike. He's a bold, coarse-looking
creature. We sha'n't see anything more of him.”
“I trust not,” said Larcher; “but he's one of the pushful sort. He
doesn't know when he's snubbed. He thinks money will admit a man
anywhere. I'm sorry he turned up at that moment.”
“So am I,” said Florence, and added, explanatorily, “you know how ready
my father is to make new acquaintances, without stopping to consider.”
That her apprehension was right, in this case, was shown three days
later, when Edna, calling and finding her alone, saw a bunch of great
red roses in a vase on the table.
“Oh, what beauties!” cried Edna.
“Mr. Bagley sent them,” replied Florence, quickly, with a helpless,
perplexed air. “Father invited him to call.”
“H'm! Why didn't you send them back?”
“I thought of it, but I didn't want to make so much of the matter. And
then there'd have been a scene with father. Of course, anybody may send
flowers to anybody. I might throw them away, but I haven't the heart to
treat flowers badly. _They_ can't help it.”
“Does Mr. Bagley improve on acquaintance?”
“I never met such a combination of crudeness and self-assurance. Father
says it's men of that sort that become millionaires. If it is, I can
understand why American millionaires are looked down on in other
countries.”
“It's not because of their millions, it's because of their manners,”
said Edna. “But what would you expect of men who consider money-making
the greatest thing in the world? I'm awfully sorry if you have to be
afflicted with any more visits from Mr. Bagley.”
“I'll see him as rarely as I can. I should hate him for the injuries he
did Murray, even if he were possible otherwise.”
When Edna saw Larcher, the next time he called at the flat, she first
sent him into a mood of self-blame by telling what had resulted from
the introduction of Bagley. Then, when she had sufficiently enjoyed his
verbal self-chastisement, she suddenly brought him around by saying:
“Well, to tell the truth, I'm not sorry for the way things have turned
out. If she has to see much of Bagley, she can't help comparing him with
the other man they see much of,--I mean Turl, not you. The more she
loathes Bagley, the more she'll look with relief to Turl. His good
qualities will stand out by contrast. Her father will want her to
tolerate Bagley. The old man probably thinks it isn't too late, after
all, to try for a rich son-in-law. Now that Davenport is out of the way,
he'll be at his old games again. He's sure to prefer Bagley, because
Turl makes no secret about his money being uncertain. And the best thing
for Turl is to have Mr. Kenby favor Bagley. Do you see?”
“Yes. But are you sure you're right in taking up Turl's cause so
heartily? We know so little of him, really. He's a very new acquaintance,
after all.”
“Oh, you suspicious wretch! As if anybody couldn't see he was all right
by just looking at him! And I thought you liked him!”
“So I do; and when I'm in his company I can't doubt that he's the best
fellow in the world. But sometimes, when he's not present, I remember--”
“Well, what? What do you remember?”
“Oh, nothing,--only that appearances are sometimes deceptive, and that
sort of thing.”
In assuming that Bagley's advent on the scene would make Florence more
appreciative of Turl's society, Edna was right. Such, indeed, was the
immediate effect. Mr. Kenby himself, though his first impression that
Turl was a young man of assured fortune had been removed by the young
man's own story, still encouraged his visits on the brilliant theory
that Bagley, if he had intentions, would be stimulated by the presence
of a rival. As Bagley's visits continued, it fell out that he and Turl
eventually met in the drawing-room of the Kenbys, some days after Edna
Hill's last recorded talk with Larcher. But, though they met, few words
were wasted between them. Bagley, after a searching stare, dismissed the
younger man as of no consequence, because lacking the signs of a
money-grabber; and the younger man, having shown a moment's curiosity,
dropped Bagley as beneath interest for possessing those signs. Bagley
tried to outstay Turl; but Turl had the advantage of later arrival and
of perfect control of temper. Bagley took his departure, therefore, with
the dry voice and set face of one who has difficulty in holding his
wrath. Perceiving that something was amiss, Mr. Kenby made a pretext to
accompany Bagley a part of his way, with the design of leaving him in a
better humor. In magnifying his newly discovered Bagley, Mr. Kenby
committed the blunder of taking too little account of Turl; and thus
Turl found himself suddenly alone with Florence.
The short afternoon was already losing its light, and the glow of the
fire was having its hour of supremacy before it should in turn take
second place to gaslight. For a few moments Florence was silent, looking
absently out of the window and across the wintry twilight to the rear
profile of the Gothic church beyond the back gardens. Turl watched her
face, with a softened, wistful, perplexed look on his own. The ticking
of the clock on the mantel grew very loud.
Suddenly Turl spoke, in the quietest, gentlest manner.
“You must not be unhappy.”
She turned, with a look of surprise, a look that asked him how he knew
her heart.
“I know it from your face, your demeanor all the time, whatever you're
doing,” he said.
“If you mean that I seem grave,” she replied, with a faint smile, “it's
only my way. I've always been a serious person.”
“But your gravity wasn't formerly tinged with sorrow; it had no touch of
brooding anxiety.”
“How do you know?” she asked, wonderingly.
“I can see that your unhappiness is recent in its cause. Besides, I have
heard the cause mentioned.” There was an odd expression for a moment on
his face, an odd wavering in his voice.
“Then you can't wonder that I'm unhappy, if you know the cause.”
“But I can tell you that you oughtn't to be unhappy. No one ought to
be, when the cause belongs to the past,--unless there's reason for
self-reproach, and there's no such reason with you. We oughtn't to
carry the past along with us; we oughtn't to be ridden by it, oppressed
by it. We should put it where it belongs,--behind us. We should sweep
the old sorrows out of our hearts, to make room there for any happiness
the present may offer. Believe me, I'm right. We allow the past too
great a claim upon us. The present has the true, legitimate claim. You
needn't be unhappy. You can forget. Try to forget. You rob
yourself,--you rob others.”
She gazed at him silently; then answered, in a colder tone: “But you
don't understand. With me it isn't a matter of grieving over the past.
It's a matter of--of absence.”
“I think,” he said, so very gently that the most sensitive heart could
not have taken offence, “it is of the past. Forgive me; but I think you
do wrong to cherish any hopes. I think you'd best resign yourself to
believe that all is of the past; and then try to forget.”
“How do you know?” she cried, turning pale.
Again that odd look on his face, accompanied this time by a single
twitching of the lips and a momentary reflection of her own pallor.
“One can see how much you cared for him,” was his reply, sadly uttered.
“Cared for him? I still care for him! How do you know he is of the past?
What makes you say that?”
“I only--look at the probabilities of the case, as others do, more calmly
than you. I feel sure he will never come back, never be heard of again in
New York. I think you ought to accustom yourself to that view; your whole
life will be darkened if you don't.”
“Well, I'll not take that view. I'll be faithful to him forever. I
believe I shall hear from him yet. If not, if my life is to be darkened
by being true to him, by hoping to meet him again, let it be darkened!
I'll never give him up! Never!”
Pain showed on Turl's countenance. “You mustn't doom yourself--you
mustn't waste your life,” he protested.
“Why not, if I choose? What is it to you?”
He waited a moment; then answered, simply, “I love you.”
The naturalness of his announcement, as the only and complete reply to
her question, forbade resentment. Yet her face turned scarlet, and when
she spoke, after a few moments, it was with a cold finality.
“I belong to the absent--entirely and forever. Nothing can change my
hope; or make me forget or want to forget.”
Turl looked at her with the mixture of tenderness and perplexity which
he had shown before; but this time it was more poignant.
“I see I must wait,” he said, quietly.
There was a touch of anger in her tone as she retorted, with an impatient
laugh, “It will be a long time of waiting.”
He sighed deeply; then bade her good afternoon in his usual courteous
manner, and left her alone. When the door had closed, her eyes followed
him in imagination, with a frown of beginning dislike.