MR. TURL WITH HIS BACK TO THE WALL
The living arrangements of the Kenbys were somewhat more exclusive than
those to which the ordinary residents of boarding-houses are subject.
Father and daughter had their meals served in their own principal room,
the one with the large fireplace, the piano, the big red easy chairs, and
the great window looking across the back gardens to the Gothic church.
The small bedchamber opening off this apartment was used by Mr. Kenby.
Florence slept in a rear room on the floor above.
The dinner of three was scarcely over, on this blizzardy evening, when
Mr. Kenby betook himself up-stairs for his whist, to which, he had
confided to the girls, there was promise of additional attraction in the
shape of claret punch, and sundry pleasing indigestibles to be sent in
from a restaurant at eleven o'clock.
“So if Mr. Turl comes at half-past eight, we shall have at least three
hours,” said Edna, when Florence and she were alone together.
“How excited you are, dear!” was the reply. “You're almost shaking.”
“No, I'm not--it's from the cold.”
“Why, I don't think it's cold here.”
“It's from looking at the cold, I mean. Doesn't it make you shiver to see
the snow flying around out there in the night? Ugh!” She gazed out at the
whirl of flakes illumined by the electric lights in the street between
the furthest garden and the church. They flung themselves around the
pinnacles, to build higher the white load on the steep roof. Nearer, the
gardens and trees, the tops of walls and fences, the verandas and
shutters, were covered thick with snow, the mass of which was ever
augmented by the myriad rushing particles.
Edna turned from this scene to the fire, before which Florence was
already seated. The sound of an electric door-bell came from the hall.
“It's Tom,” cried Edna. “Good boy!--ahead of time.” But the negro man
servant announced Mr. Bagley.
A look of displeasure marked Florence's answer. “Tell him my father is
not here--is spending the evening with Mr. and Mrs. Lawrence.”
“Mr. Bagley!--he _must_ be devoted, to call on such a night!” remarked
Edna, when the servant had gone.
“He calls at all sorts of times. And his invitations--he's forever
wanting us to go to the theatre--or on his automobile--or to dine at
Delmonico's--or to a skating-rink, or somewhere. Refusals don't
discourage him. You'd think he was a philanthropist, determined to give
us some of the pleasures of life. The worst of it is, father sometimes
accepts--for himself.”
Another knock at the door, and the servant appeared again. The gentleman
wished to know if he might come in and leave a message with Miss Kenby
for her father.
“Very well,” she sighed. “Show him in.”
“If he threatens to stay two minutes, I'll see what I can do to make it
chilly,” volunteered Edna.
Mr. Bagley entered, red-faced from the weather, but undaunted and
undauntable, and with the unconscious air of conferring a favor on Miss
Kenby by his coming, despite his manifest admiration. Edna he took
somewhat aback by barely noticing at all.
He sat down without invitation, expressed himself in his brassy voice
about the weather, and then, instead of confiding a message, showed a
mind for general conversation by asking Miss Kenby if she had read an
evening paper.
She had not.
“I see that Count What's-his-name's wedding came off all the same, in
spite of the blizzard,” said Mr. Bagley. “I s'pose he wasn't going to
take any chances of losing his heiress.”
Florence had nothing to say on this subject, but Edna could not
keep silent.
“Perhaps Miss What-you-call-her was just as anxious to make sure of her
title--poor thing!”
“Oh, you mustn't say that,” interposed Florence, gently. “Perhaps they
love each other.”
“Titled Europeans don't marry American girls for love,” said Edna.
“Haven't you been abroad enough to find out that? Or if they ever do,
they keep that motive a secret. You ought to hear them talk, over there.
They can't conceive of an American girl being married for anything _but_
money. It's quite the proper thing to marry one for that, but very bad
form to marry one for love.”
“Oh, I don't know,” said Bagley, in a manner exceedingly belittling to
Edna's knowledge, “they've got to admit that our girls are a very
charming, superior lot--with a few exceptions.” His look placed Miss
Kenby decidedly under the rule, but left poor Edna somewhere else.
“Have they, really?” retorted Edna, in opposition at any cost. “I know
some of them admit it,--and what they say and write is published and
quoted in this country. But the unfavorable things said and written in
Europe about American girls don't get printed on this side. I daresay
that's the reason of your one-sided impression.”
Bagley looked hard at the young woman, but ventured another play for the
approval of Miss Kenby:
“Well, it doesn't matter much to me what they say in Europe, but if they
don't admit the American girl is the handsomest, and brightest, and
cleverest, they're a long way off the truth, that's all.”
“I'd like to know what you mean by _the_ American girl. There are all
sorts of girls among us, as there are among girls of other nations:
pretty girls and plain ones, bright girls and stupid ones, clever girls
and silly ones, smart girls and dowdy girls. Though I will say, we've got
a larger proportion of smart-looking, well-dressed girls than any other
country. But then we make up for that by so many of us having frightful
_ya-ya_ voices and raw pronunciations. As for our wonderful cleverness,
we have the assurance to talk about things we know nothing of, in such a
way as to deceive some people for awhile. The girls of other nations
haven't, and that's the chief difference.”
Bagley looked as if he knew not exactly where he stood in the argument,
or exactly what the argument was about; but he returned to the business
of impressing Florence.
“Well, I'm certain Miss Kenby doesn't talk about things she knows nothing
of. If all American girls were like her, there'd be no question which
nation had the most beautiful and sensible women.”
Florence winced at the crude directness. “You are too kind,” she said,
perfunctorily.
“As for me,” he went on, “I've got my opinion of these European gentlemen
that marry for money.”
“We all have, in this country, I hope,” said Edna; “except, possibly, the
few silly women that become the victims.”
“I should be perfectly willing,” pursued Bagley, magnanimously, watching
for the effect on Florence, “to marry a girl without a cent.”
“And no doubt perfectly able to afford it,” remarked Edna, serenely.
He missed the point, and saw a compliment instead.
“Well, you're not so far out of the way there, if I do say it myself,” he
replied, with a stony smile. “I've had my share of good luck. Since the
tide turned in my affairs, some years ago, I've been a steady winner.
Somehow or other, nothing seems able to fail that I go into. It's really
been monotonous. The only money I've lost was some twenty thousand
dollars that a trusted agent absconded with.”
“You're mistaken,” Florence broke in, with a note of indignation that
made Bagley stare. “He did not abscond. He has disappeared, and your
money may be gone for the present. But there was no crime on his part.”
“Why, do you know anything about it?” asked Bagley, in a voice subdued by
sheer wonder.
“I know that Murray Davenport disappeared, and what the newspapers said
about your money; that is all.”
“Then how, if I may ask, do you know there wasn't any crime intended? I
inquire merely for information.” Bagley was, indeed, as meek as he could
be in his manner of inquiry.
“I _know_ Murray Davenport,” was her reply.
“You knew him well?”
“Very well.”
“You--took a great interest in him?”
“Very great.”
“Indeed!” said Bagley, in pure surprise, and gazing at her as if she
were a puzzle.
“You said you had a message for my father,” replied Florence, coldly.
Bagley rose slowly. “Oh, yes,”--he spoke very dryly and looked very
blank,--“please tell him if the storm passes, and the snow lies, I wish
you and he would go sleighing to-morrow. I'll call at half-past two.”
“Thank you; I'll tell him.”
Bagley summoned up as natural a “good night” as possible, and went. As he
emerged from the dark rear of the hallway to the lighter part, any one
who had been present might have seen a cloudy red look in place of the
blank expression with which he had left the room. “She gave me the dead
freeze-out,” he muttered. “The dead freeze-out! So she knew Davenport!
and cared for the poverty-stricken dog, too!”
Startled by a ring at the door-bell, Bagley turned into the common
drawing-room, which was empty, to fasten his gloves. Unseen, he heard
Larcher admitted, ushered back to the Kenby apartment, and welcomed by
the two girls. He paced the drawing-room floor, with a wrathful frown;
then sat down and meditated.
“Well, if he ever does come back to New York, I won't do a thing to him!”
was the conclusion of his meditations, after some minutes.
Some one came down the stairs, and walked back toward the Kenby rooms.
Bagley strode to the drawing-room door, and peered through the hall, in
time to catch sight of the tall, erect figure of a man. This man knocked
at the Kenby door, and, being bidden to enter, passed in and closed it
after him.
“That young dude Turl,” mused Bagley, with scorn. “But she won't freeze
him out, I'll bet. I've noticed he usually gets the glad hand, compared
to what I get. Davenport, who never had a thousand dollars of his own at
a time!--and now this light-weight!--compared with _me_ I--I'd give
thirty cents to know what sort of a reception this fellow does get.”
Meanwhile, before Turl's arrival, but after Larcher's, the
characteristics of Mr. Bagley had undergone some analysis from Edna Hill.
“And did you notice,” said that young lady, in conclusion, “how he simply
couldn't understand anybody's being interested in Davenport? Because
Davenport was a poor man, who never went in for making money. Men of the
Bagley sort are always puzzled when anybody doesn't jump at the chance of
having their friendship. It staggers their intelligence to see
impecunious Davenports--and Larchers--preferred to them.”
“Thank you,” said Larcher. “I didn't know you were so observant. But
it's easy to imagine the reasoning of the money-grinders in such cases.
The satisfaction of money-greed is to them the highest aim in life; so
what can be more admirable or important than a successful exponent of
that aim? They don't perceive that they, as a rule, are the dullest of
society, though most people court and flatter them on account of their
money. They never guess why it's almost impossible for a man to be a
money-grinder and good company at the same time.”
“Why is it?” asked Florence.
“Because in giving himself up entirely to money-getting, he has to
neglect so many things necessary to make a man attractive. But even
before that, the very nature that made him choose money-getting as the
chief end of man was incapable of the finer qualities. There _are_
charming rich men, but either they inherited their wealth, or made it in
some high pursuit to which gain was only an incident, or they are
exceptional cases. But of course Bagley isn't even a fair type of the
regular money-grinder--he's a speculator in anything, and a boor compared
with even the average financial operator.”
This sort of talk helped to beguile the nerves of the three young people
while they waited for Turl to come. But as the hands of the clock neared
the appointed minute, Edna's excitement returned, and Larcher found
himself becoming fidgety. What Florence felt could not be divined, as she
sat perfectly motionless, gazing into the fire. She had merely sent up a
request to know if Mr. Turl could call at half-past eight, and had
promptly received the desired answer.
In spite of Larcher's best efforts, a silence fell, which nobody was able
to break as the moment arrived, and so it lasted till steps were heard in
the hall, followed by a gentle rap on the door. Florence quickly rose and
opened. Turl entered, with his customary subdued smile.
Before he had time to notice anything unnatural in the greeting of
Larcher and Miss Hill, Florence had motioned him to one of the chairs
near the fire. It was the chair at the extreme right of the group, so far
toward a recess formed by the piano and a corner of the room that, when
the others had resumed their seats, Turl was almost hemmed in by them and
the piano. Nearest him was Florence, next whom sat Edna, while Larcher
faced him from the other side of the fireplace.
The silence of embarrassment was broken by the unsuspecting visitor, with
a remark about the storm. Instead of answering in kind, Florence, with
her eyes bearing upon his face, said gravely:
“I asked you here to speak of something else--a matter we are all
interested in, though I am far more interested than the others. I want to
know--we all want to know--what has become of Murray Davenport.”
Turl's face blenched ever so little, but he made no other sign of being
startled. For some seconds he regarded Florence with a steady inquiry;
then his questioning gaze passed to Edna's face and Larcher's, but
finally returned to hers.
“Why do you ask me?” he said, quietly. “What have I to do with Murray
Davenport?”
Florence turned to Larcher, who thereupon put in, almost apologetically:
“You were in correspondence with him before his disappearance, for
one thing.”
“Oh, was I?”
“Yes. He showed me a letter signed by you, in your handwriting. It was
about a meeting you were to have with him.”
Turl pondered, till Florence resumed the attack.
“We don't pretend to know where that particular meeting occurred. But we
do know that you visited the last place Murray Davenport was traced to in
New York. We have a great deal of evidence connecting you with him about
the time of his disappearance. We have so much that there would be no use
in your denying that you had some part in his affairs.”
She paused, to give him a chance to speak. But he only gazed at her with
a thoughtful, regretful perplexity. So she went on:
“We don't say--yet--whether that part was friendly,
indifferent,--or evil.”
The last word, and the searching look that accompanied it, drew a swift
though quiet answer:
“It wasn't evil, I give you my word.”
“Then you admit you did have a part in his disappearance?” said
Larcher, quickly.
“I may as well. Miss Kenby says you have evidence of it. You have
been clever--or I have been stupid.--I'm sorry Davenport showed you
my letter.”
“Then, as your part was not evil,” pursued Florence, with ill-repressed
eagerness, “you can't object to telling us about him. Where is he now?”
“Pardon me, but I do object. I have strong reasons. You must excuse me.”
“We will not excuse you!” cried Florence. “We have the right to
know--the right of friend-ship--the right of love. I insist. I will not
take a refusal.”
Apprised, by her earnestness, of the determination that confronted him,
Turl reflected. Plainly the situation was a most unpleasant one to him. A
brief movement showed that he would have liked to rise and pace the
floor, for the better thinking out of the question; or indeed escape from
the room; but the impulse was checked at sight of the obstacles to his
passage. Florence gave him time enough to thresh matters out in his mind.
He brought forth a sigh heavy with regret and discomfiture. Then, at
last, his face took on a hardness of resolve unusual to it, and he spoke
in a tone less than ordinarily conciliating:
“I have nothing now to do with Murray Davenport. I am in no way
accountable for his actions or for anything that ever befell him. I have
nothing to say of him. He has disappeared, we shall never see him again;
he was an unhappy man, an unfortunate wretch; in his disappearance there
was nothing criminal, or guilty, or even unkind, on anybody's part. There
is no good in reviving memories of him; let him be forgotten, as he
desired to be. I assure you, I swear to you, he will never reappear,--and
that no good whatever can come of investigating his disappearance. Let
him rest; put him out of your mind, and turn to the future.”
To his resolved tone, Florence replied with an outburst of
passionate menace:
“I _will_ know! I'll resort to anything, everything, to make you speak.
As yet we've kept our evidence to ourselves; but if you compel us, we
shall know what to do with it.”
Turl let a frown of vexation appear. “I admit, that would put me out.
It's a thing I would go far to avoid. Not that I fear the law; but to
make matters public would spoil much. And I wouldn't make them public,
except in self-defence if the very worst threatened me. I don't think
that contingency is to be feared. Surmise is not proof, and only proof is
to be feared. No; I don't think you would find the law able to make me
speak. Be reconciled to let the secret remain buried; it was what Murray
Davenport himself desired above all things.”
“Who authorized you to tell _me_ what Murray Davenport desired? He would
have desired what I desire, I assure you! You sha'n't put me off with a
quiet, determined manner. We shall see whether the law can force you to
speak. You admit you would go far to avoid the test.”
“That's because I shouldn't like to be involved in a raking over of the
affairs of Murray Davenport. To me it would be an unhappy business, I do
admit. The man is best forgotten.”
“I'll not have you speak of him so! I love him! and I hold you
answerable to me for your knowledge of his disappearance. I'll find a way
to bring you to account!”
Her tearful vehemence brought a wave of tenderness to his face, a quiver
to his lips. Noting this, Larcher quickly intervened:
“In pity to a woman, don't you think you ought to tell her what you know?
If there's no guilt on your part, the disclosure can't harm you. It will
end her suspense, at least. She will be always unhappy till she knows.”
“She will grow out of that feeling,” said Turl, still watching her
compassionately, as she dried her eyes and endeavored to regain her
composure.
“No, she won't!” put in Edna Hill, warmly. “You don't know her. I must
say, how any man with a spark of chivalry can sit there and refuse to
divulge a few facts that would end a woman's torture of mind, which she's
been undergoing for months, is too much for me!”
Turl, in manifest perturbation, still gazed at Florence. She fixed her
eyes, out of which all threat had passed, pleadingly upon him.
“If you knew what it meant to me to grant your request,” said he, “you
wouldn't make it.”
“It can't mean more to you than this uncertainty, this dark mystery, is
to me,” said Florence, in a broken voice.
“It was Davenport's wish that the matter should remain the closest
secret. You don't know how earnestly he wished that.”
“Surely Davenport's wishes can't be endangered through _my_ knowledge of
any secret,” Florence replied, with so much sad affection that Turl was
again visibly moved. “But for the misunderstanding which kept us apart,
he would not have had this secret from me. And to think!--he disappeared
the very day Mr. Larcher was to enlighten him. It was cruel! And now you
would keep from me the knowledge of what became of him. I have learned
too well that fate is pitiless; and I find that men are no less so.”
Turl's face was a study, showing the play of various reflections. Finally
his ideas seemed to be resolved. “Are we likely to be interrupted here?”
he asked, in a tone of surrender.
“No; I have guarded against that,” said Florence, eagerly.
“Then I'll tell you Davenport's story. But you must be patient, and let
me tell it in my own way, and you must promise--all three--never to
reveal it; you'll find no reason in it for divulging it, and great
reason for keeping it secret.”
On that condition the promise was given, and Turl, having taken a
moment's preliminary thought, began his account.