The Mystery of Murray Davenport Part 20

"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-a.s.surance. 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-chastis.e.m.e.nt, 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 a.s.suming 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 a.s.sured 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.