CHAPTER XIII — 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.