Adrift in New York: Tom and Florence Braving the World

“I have a better plan. Here is my latchkey.”

“Good! I may not do the job myself, but I will see that it is done. How shall I know the will?”

“It is in a big envelope, tied with a narrow tape. Probably it is inscribed: ‘My will.’ ”

“Suppose I succeed, when shall I see you?”

“I will come around to your place on the Bowery. Good-night!”

Curtis Waring saw Bolton to the door, and let him out. Returning, he flung himself on a sofa.

“I can make that man useful!” he reflected. “There is an element of danger in the boy’s presence in New York; but it will go hard if I can’t get rid of him! Tim Bolton is unexpectedly squeamish, but there are others to whom I can apply. With gold everything is possible. It’s time matters came to a finish. My uncle’s health is rapidly failing—the doctor hints that he has heart disease—and the fortune for which I have been waiting so long will soon be mine, if I work my cards right. I can’t afford to make any mistakes now.”

CHAPTER IV.

FLORENCE

Florence Linden sat in the library the following evening in an attitude of depression. Her eyelids were swollen, and it was evident she had been weeping. During the day she had had an interview with her uncle, in which he harshly insisted upon her yielding to his wishes, and marrying her cousin, Curtis.

“But, uncle,” she objected, “I do not love him.”

“Marry him, and love will come.”

“Never!” she said, vehemently.

“You speak confidently, miss,” said Mr. Linden, with irritation.

“Listen, Uncle John. It is not alone that I do not love him. I dislike him—I loathe—him.”

“Nonsense! that is a young girl’s extravagant nonsense.”

“No, uncle.”

“There can be no reason for such a foolish dislike. What can you have against him?”

“It is impressed upon me, uncle, that Curtis is a bad man. There is something false—treacherous—about him.”

“Pooh! child! you are more foolish than I thought. I don’t say Curtis is an angel. No man is; at least, I never met any such. But he is no worse than the generality of men. In marrying him you will carry out my cherished wish. Florence, I have not long to live. I shall be glad to see you well established in life before I leave you. As the wife of Curtis you will have a recognized position. You will go on living in this house, and the old home will be maintained.”

“But why is it necessary for me to marry at all, Uncle John?”

“You will be sure to marry some one. Should I divide my fortune between you and Curtis, you would become the prey of some unscrupulous fortune hunter.”

“Better that than become the wife of Curtis Waring–”

“I see, you are incorrigible,” said her uncle, angrily. “Do you refuse obedience to my wishes?”

“Command me in anything else, Uncle John, and I will obey,” pleaded Florence.

“Indeed! You only thwart me in my cherished wish, but are willing to obey me in unimportant matters. You forget the debt you owe me.”

“I forget nothing, dear uncle. I do not forget that, when I was a poor little child, helpless and destitute, you took me in your arms, gave me a home, and have cared for me from that time to this as only a parent could.”

“You remember that, then?”

“Yes, uncle. I hope you will not consider me wholly ungrateful.”

“It only makes matters worse. You own your obligations, yet refuse to make the only return I desire. You refuse to comfort me in the closing days of my life by marrying your cousin.”

“Because that so nearly concerns my happiness that no one has a right to ask me to sacrifice all I hold dear.”

“I see you are incorrigible,” said John Linden, stormily. “Do you know what will be the consequences?”

“I am prepared for all.”

“Then listen! If you persist in balking me, I shall leave the entire estate to Curtis.”

“Do with your money as you will, uncle. I have no claim to more than I have received.”

“You are right there; but that is not all.”

Florence fixed upon him a mute look of inquiry.

“I will give you twenty-four hours more to come to your senses. Then, if you persist in your ingratitude and disobedience, you must find another home.”

“Oh, uncle, you do not mean that?” exclaimed Florence, deeply moved.

“I do mean it, and I shall not allow your tears to move me. Not another word, for I will not hear it. Take twenty-four hours to think over what I have said.”

Florence bowed her head on her hands, and gave herself up to sorrowful thoughts. But she was interrupted by the entrance of the servant, who announced:

“Mr. Percy de Brabazon.”

An effeminate-looking young man, foppishly dressed, followed the servant into the room, and made it impossible for Florence to deny herself, as she wished to do.

“I hope I see you well, Miss Florence,” he simpered.

“Thank you, Mr. de Brabazon,” said Florence, coldly. “I have a slight headache.”

“I am awfully sorry, I am, upon my word, Miss Florence. My doctor tells me it is only those whose bwains are vewy active that are troubled with headaches.”

“Then, I presume, Mr. de Brabazon,” said Florence, with intentional sarcasm, “that you never have a headache.”

“Weally, Miss Florence, that is vewy clevah. You will have your joke.”

“It was no joke, I assure you, Mr. de Brabazon.”

“I—I thought it might be. Didn’t I see you at the opewa last evening?”