CHAPTER XI — 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.