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?”
“Possibly. I was there.”
“I often go to the opewa. It’s so—so fashionable, don’t you know?”
“Then you don’t go to hear the music?”
“Oh, of course, but one can’t always be listening to the music, don’t you know. I had a fwiend with me last evening—an Englishman—a charming fellow, I assure you. He’s the second cousin of a lord, and yet—you’ll hardly credit it—we’re weally vewy intimate. He tells me, Miss Florence, that I’m the perfect image of his cousin, Lord Fitz Noodle.”
“I am not at all surprised.”
“Weally, you are vewy kind, Miss Florence. I thought it a great compliment. I don’t know how it is, but evewybody takes me for an Englishman. Strange, isn’t it?”
“I am very glad.”
“May I ask why, Miss Florence?”
“Because– Well, perhaps I had better not explain. It seems to give you pleasure. You would, probably, prefer to be an Englishman.”
“I admit that I have a great admiration for the English character. It’s a gweat pity we have no lords in America. Now, if you would only allow me to bring my English fwiend here–
“I don’t care to make any new acquaintances. Even if I did, I prefer my own countrymen. Don’t you like America, Mr. de Brabazon?”
“Oh, of courth, if we only had some lords here.”
“We have plenty of flunkeys.”
“That’s awfully clevah, ’pon my word.”
“Is it? I am afraid you are too complimentary. You are very good-natured.”
“I always feel good-natured in your company, Miss Florence. I—wish I could always be with you.”
“Really! Wouldn’t that be a trifle monotonous?” asked Florence, sarcastically.
“Not if we were married,” said Percy, boldly breaking the ice.
“What do you mean, Mr. de Brabazon?”
“I hope you will excuse me, Miss Florence—Miss Linden, I mean; but I’m awfully in love with you, and have been ever so long—but I never dared to tell you so. I felt so nervous, don’t you know? Will you marry me? I’ll be awfully obliged if you will.”
Mr. de Brabazon rather awkwardly slipped from his chair, and sank on one knee before Florence.
“Please arise, Mr. de Brabazon,” said Florence, hurriedly. “It is quite out of the question—what you ask—I assure you.”
“Ah! I see how it is,” said Percy, clasping his hands sadly. “You love another.”
“Not that I am aware of.”
“Then I may still hope?”
“I cannot encourage you, Mr. de Brabazon. My heart is free, but it can never be yours.”
“Then,” said Percy, gloomily, “there is only one thing for me to do.”
“What is that?”
“I shall go to the Bwooklyn