The Mystery of Murray Davenport Part 24

"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 a.n.a.lysis 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 n.o.body 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 embarra.s.sment 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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sage. 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 a.s.sure 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 pa.s.sionate 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 a.s.sure 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 compa.s.sionately, 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 pa.s.sed, 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.