help,” said Curtis.
John Linden, supported on either side by his nephew and niece, left the room, and was assisted to his chamber.
Curtis and Florence returned to the library.
“Florence,” said her cousin, “my uncle’s intentions, as expressed to-night, make it desirable that there should be an understanding between us. Take a seat beside me”—leading her to a sofa—“and let us talk this matter over.”
With a gesture of repulsion Florence declined the proffered seat, and remained standing.
“As you please,” she answered, coldly.
“Will you be seated?”
“No; our interview will be brief.”
“Then I will come to the point. Uncle John wishes to see us united.”
“It can never be!” said Florence, decidedly.
Curtis bit his lip in mortification, for her tone was cold and scornful.
Mingled with this mortification was genuine regret, for, so far as he was capable of loving any one, he loved his fair young cousin.
“You profess to love Uncle John, and yet you would disappoint his cherished hope!” he returned.
“Is it his cherished hope?”
“There is no doubt about it. He has spoken to me more than once on the subject. Feeling that his end is near, he wishes to leave you in charge of a protector.”
“I can protect myself,” said Florence, proudly.
“You think so. You do not consider the hapless lot of a penniless girl in a cold and selfish world.”
“Penniless?” repeated Florence, in an accent of surprise.
“Yes, penniless. Our uncle’s bequest to you is conditional upon your acceptance of my hand.”
“Has he said this?” asked Florence, sinking into an armchair, with a helpless look.
“He has told me so more than once,” returned Curtis, smoothly. “You don’t know how near to his heart this marriage is. I know what you would say: If the property comes to me I could come to your assistance, but I am expressly prohibited from doing so. I have pleaded with my uncle in your behalf, but in vain.”
Florence was too clear-sighted not to penetrate his falsehood.
“If my uncle’s heart is hardened against me,” she said, “I shall be too wise to turn to you. I am to understand, then, that my choice lies between poverty and a union with you?”
“You have stated it correctly, Florence.”
“Then,” said Florence, arising, “I will not hesitate. I shrink from poverty, for I have been reared in luxury, but I will sooner live in a hovel—”
“Or a tenement house,” interjected Curtis, with a sneer.
“Yes, or a tenement house, than become the wife of one I loathe.”
“Girl, you shall bitterly repent that word!” said Curtis, stung to fury.
She did not reply, but, pale and sorrowful, glided from the room to weep bitter tears in the seclusion of her chamber.
CHAPTER II.
A STRANGER VISITOR
Curtis Waring followed the retreating form of his cousin with a sardonic smile.
“She is in the toils! She cannot escape me!” he muttered. “But”—and here his brow darkened—“it vexes me to see how she repels my advances, as if I were some loathsome thing! If only she would return my love—for I do love her, cold as she is—I should be happy. Can there be a rival? But no! we live so quietly that she has met no one who could win her affection. Why can she not turn to me? Surely, I am not so ill-favored, and though twice her age, I am still a young man. Nay, it is only a young girl’s caprice. She shall yet come to my arms, a willing captive.”
His thoughts took a turn, as he arose from his seat, and walked over to the secretary.
“So it is here that the two wills are deposited!” he said to himself; “one making me a rich man, the other a beggar! While the last is in existence I am not safe. The boy may be alive, and liable to turn up at any moment. If only he were dead—or the will destroyed–” Here he made a suggestive pause.
He took a bunch of keys from his pocket, and tried one after another, but without success. He was so absorbed in his work that he did not notice the entrance of a dark-browed, broad-shouldered man, dressed in a shabby corduroy suit, till the intruder indulged in a short cough, intended to draw attention.
Starting with guilty consciousness, Curtis turned sharply around, and his glance fell on the intruder.
“Who are you?” he demanded, angrily. “And how dare you enter a gentleman’s house unbidden?”
“Are you the gentleman?” asked the intruder, with intentional insolence.
“Yes.”
“You own this house?”
“Not at present. It is my uncle’s.”
“And that secretary—pardon my curiosity—is his?”
“Yes; but what business is it of yours?”
“Not much. Only it makes me laugh to see a gentleman picking a lock. You should leave such business to men like me!”
“You are an insolent fellow!” said Curtis, more embarrassed than he liked to confess, for this rough-looking man had become possessed of a dangerous secret. “I am my uncle’s confidential agent, and it was on business of his that I wished to open the desk.”
“Why not go to him for the key?”
“Because he is sick. But, pshaw! why should I apologize or give any explanation to you? What can you know of him or me?”
“More, perhaps, than you suspect,” said the intruder, quietly.
“Then, you know, perhaps, that I am my uncle’s heir?”
“Don’t be too sure of that.”
“Look here, fellow,” said Curtis, thoroughly provoked, “I don’t know who you are nor what you mean, but let me inform you that your presence here is an intrusion, and the sooner you leave the house the better!”
“I will leave it when I get ready.”
Curtis started to his feet, and advanced to his visitor with an air of menace.
“Go at once,” he exclaimed, angrily, “or I will kick you out of the door!”
“What’s the matter with the window?” returned the stranger, with an insolent leer.
“That’s as you prefer, but if you don’t leave at once I will eject you.”
By way of reply, the rough visitor coolly seated himself in a luxurious easy-chair, and, looking up into the angry face of Waring, said:
“Oh, no, you won’t.”
“And why not, may I ask?” said Curtis, with a feeling of uneasiness for which he could not account.
“Why not? Because, in that case, I should seek an interview with your uncle, and tell him–”
“What?”
“That his son still lives; and that I can restore him to his–”
The face of Curtis Waring blanched; he staggered as if he had been struck; and he cried out, hoarsely:
“It is a lie!”
“It is the truth, begging your pardon. Do you mind my smoking?” and he coolly produced a common clay pipe, filled and lighted it.
“Who are you?” asked Curtis, scanning the man’s features with painful anxiety.
“Have you forgotten Tim Bolton?”
“Are