FLORENCE DARLEY.
Elm Grove was a beautiful spot, though a desolute one since the murder
of its master. At least so thought Florence Darley, who had bestowed
on Colonel Conrad the love of a daughter, and who had received from
him a parent’s care. She was a beautiful girl――this Florence Darley,
beautiful in the possession of a pair of glorious dark eyes. No
other portion of her face was particularly striking――not that any of
her features were what would be called plain――but in her eyes, with
their capacity for expression, lay her chief attractiveness so far
as mere appearance went. To say that she was amiable in disposition,
high-spirited, and fascinating in manner is but simply to state the
unvarnished truth. There was a charm about her presence and bearing
that had, as has been stated early in this narrative, made a deep
impression on Carlos Conrad. And if, in recounting his experiences
after the tragedy, no mention has been made of Florence Darley, it
must not be inferred that his thoughts had not often dwelt upon her.
A month passed, and the excitement in Dalton over the murder subsided
in a great measure. All efforts to trace Carlos had failed, and the
thoughts of the townspeople wandered to him only when some incidental
circumstances called the subject up.
One afternoon in October, Florence Darley sat on the piazza of the
mansion at Elm Grove, with her friend Mabel Cummings, a young lady of
about her own age, and her trusted confidante.
“Florence, you ought not to allow your sorrow to keep you so housed
up,” said Mabel. “You are growing pale and thin, and you will injure
your health.”
“I am well,” replied Florence, “and I have no disposition to seek
recreation. Colonel Conrad was all that a father could be to me, and
you can never know how I miss him.”
“Yes, he was a good man, though people did call him eccentric. How
strange that he should have bothered his head so over the machinery.
I have heard that his workshop was a perfect curiosity.”
“He had a genius for mechanics,” said Florence, with a half smile, “and
I have often sat near him by the hour as he toiled with his files, and
lathes, and wheels. I used to ask him questions to make him laugh when
he would get tired and out of patience with his work.”
“What did he ever make? Did he invent anything?”
“I don’t know whether he invented anything new or not. He made a very
curious rat-trap, that caught six rats alive, and left them facing each
other in a little circle of wire stalls. And then he got up a model
of a mowing-machine and gave it to some farmer, who, I believe, had
one made on a larger scale and got it patented. But the most wonderful
thing was the large clock in his study. He worked for months on it,
and put it up, frame and all, himself. It is fastened to the wall and
cannot be moved. He put the winding of it in my charge, and I still
attend to it every Saturday morning.”
“What a wonderful man he was! And good, too, I am sure, though I never
could succeed in approaching him to any degree of intimacy. By the
way, how generous Mr. Haywood is toward the poor young man who――did
the awful deed. I saw him once, and could not help feeling sympathy
for him, he was so young and kind-looking. And now that he has escaped,
Mr. ♦Haywood seems so charitable toward him.”
“How? Mr. Haywood never speaks to me of him.”
“Does he not? I heard only the other day that he did not join in
the clamor for his capture, but said let him go――he might go to some
strange land and lead a better life.”
“Mabel,” said Florence, earnestly, “do you know that I never believed
Carlos Conrad to be guilty?”
“You did not?”
“No; I saw him twice, and twice only, after he came to Dalton――once
when he called here, and the other time at the examination before
Justice Bean. And I felt as you did――that there was something in his
face to call up one’s sympathy. And more than that, he did not look
like a villain; he had a frank, kind expression, and seemed every inch
a gentleman.”
“Florence you surprise me!”
“And shock you?”
“Oh, no.”
“I am glad of that. I have often thought what a terrible experience it
was for Carlos Conrad and his cousin. They came here so unexpectedly,
and had that interview with their uncle (no one knows what was said or
done on that occasion). Then came the awful tragedy, and their flight
to parts unknown. I wonder what became of them? Are they in a strange
land, without friends? Are they wandering about in disguise? Did they
die from starvation or exposure during their flight? I have passed
sleepless nights, asking these questions to myself, and thinking.”
“Oh, Florence, you must take your mind from these things. No good can
come of your thinking of them. It is not doing justice to yourself. You
are young, and have life before you.”
“True; but only seven weeks have passed yet. You must know how fresh
everything is in my mind.”
“Yes, and it will always be so unless you have some diversion. Come,
take a ride with me now,” exclaimed Mabel, springing up impulsively.
“My phaeton is out here by the gate, and it is a lovely day.”
“Oh, Mabel, I have not ridden out since――since I put on black. I
cannot.”
“But you must. I will not see you bury yourself in this way. Come!”
Florence hesitated.
“Go and get ready,” commanded Mabel.
Florence still hesitated, but soon yielded, and five minutes afterward
was in the phaeton with her friend.
They started toward Dalton.
“Not through the busy streets,” exclaimed Florence.
“Yes,” persisted Mabel, “right through the streets of Dalton. Why, you
will forget how the place looks; and you are not benefiting yourself
nor any one else by shutting yourself up. Come, I mean to bring the
roses back to those cheeks.”
Mabel handled the reins herself, and managed her spirited pony in good
style.
They were shortly passing through the main business street in Dalton.
Florence found her thoughts diverted, and looked about her with
interest.
Suddenly her gaze became fixed and her face whitened.
“Who is that?” she exclaimed, clutching her companion’s arm.
“Where?” asked Mabel, in surprise at Florence’s tone, and flinching at
the grasp on her arm.
“There――walking down the street just ahead of us. In the back he looks
like――that is, he brings to my mind――Carlos Conrad!”
She spoke the name in a whisper. She was affected visibly, and trembled
with agitation.
“Don’t you know who that is? But of course you don’t, having been shut
up so long. It is our new music teacher, Karl Zikoff. He came to town
about a week ago. There is a resemblance, looking at him from behind,
but I never noticed it before. We are passing him now. Look at his face.
Isn’t he funny?”
Florence stared at the face of the musician attentively. He had
stubby side-whiskers and mustache, and wore spectacles. A long, loose
sack-coat fluttered in the breeze as he walked, and a broad-brimmed,
low-crowned black hat was set back on his head. His whole countenance
was exposed, and even at that distance a scar over his right eye was
visible. His eyes were bright and rolled about quickly, his movements
were nervous, and he flourished his cane in an awkward manner.
“He is peculiar,” said Florence, smiling. “There is no resemblance,
come to get a good view of him. You must pardon me; I was frightened.”
“Even if it were the one you thought it was, I should think there was
no occasion for any one being frightened but himself. You may depend
upon it Carlos Conrad will not be seen in Dalton unless he is brought
here.”
“Do you know,” said Florence, thoughtfully, “that I have hoped all
along that he would――――”
Here she checked herself, and was silent.
“Hoped what, Florence?”
“Never mind; it was only a passing fancy, not worth uttering. Has this
Mr. Zikoff many pupils?”
“Several, I believe. They say he is a magnificent player.”
“You have not heard him, then?”
“No; but he is to give a _soiree_ to-morrow night at Delmar’s music
rooms to introduce himself. I have been favored with an invitation, and
shall be in attendance.”
“You can give me a report of the affair.”
“Yes; I have an idea, Florence. It is that you take lessons of
Mr. Zikoff.”
“I!”
“Yes; it would be an excellent way for you to occupy your time. It
would keep you from brooding your life away. You are interested in
music too, and used to enjoy its study so much.”
“Yes, I know it.”
“And that would not be like going out into the world. He would come to
you twice a week, and give you something to keep your hands and mind
busy several hours every day.”
“I will think of it,” said Florence, musingly. Her mind seemed to be
possessed of some new train of thought, for she spoke slowly, and there
was an absent look on her face. She added, as if speaking to herself,
“I think I should like to know Mr. Zikoff.”
“I’ll warrant that he’s jolly,” rattled Mabel, “and it must be no end
of fun to listen to his jabber.”
“Jabber.”
“Yes, all Germans talk so Dutchy.”
“You would make fun of him if he should give you lessons, Mabel,” said
Florence, smiling.
“I am afraid I would. Now seriously, Florence, I want you to think of
this thing I have proposed. You really need something to take up your
attention. I suppose the marriage will not take place for some time.”
“What marriage?” asked Florence, quickly.
“That of yourself and Mr. Haywood. Isn’t it generally understood that
you are engaged to him?”
“I hope not, for it is not true. But I believe Colonel Conrad had some
such thought. He held Mr. Haywood in great esteem.”
“I understood that it went farther than that――that he was particularly
desirous a match should be made.”
“Perhaps he was,” replied Florence, gravely. “But I do not approve of
such affairs being arranged for young people before they have had time
to know their own minds.”
“Nor I; but I suppose this arrangement was satisfactory. There is
not a marriageable maiden in Dalton but would be glad to have had him
excepting myself.”
“And me,” said Florence, quietly.
“Is it to be broken off?” exclaimed Mabel.
“There is nothing yet to break off. I am not engaged to him, as I said
before.”
“Oh, well, but――――”
“And I would prefer that you should not aid in spreading the impression
about. Do not couple my name with any intended marriage at present,
Mabel. I have no such thought in connection with Mr. Haywood or any one
else.”
“I will obey your injunction. And now will you stop or ride farther?”
The drive had taken them through several streets and by a circuitous
route back to Elm Grove.
“I will get out,” replied Florence, “and accept my thanks, Mabel. I
have enjoyed the ride very much.”
“I am glad! I will come again for you to-morrow.”
Florence alighted, and was proceeding up the broad path to the house.
As Mabel was gathering up the reins preparatory to starting homeward,
Florence turned and said:
“I was going to say, when we were down town, Mabel, that I had hoped
all along that Carlos Conrad would escape.”
Having delivered this remark in a low voice, she went swiftly on up the
path, and her friend, having no opportunity to reply, drove off.