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 Bwidge, climb to the parapet, jump into the water, and end my misewable life.”
“You had better think twice before adopting such a desperate resolution, Mr. de Brabazon. You will meet others who will be kinder to you than I have been–”
“I can never love another. My heart is broken. Farewell, cruel girl. When you read the papers tomorrow morning, think of the unhappy Percy de Brabazon!”
Mr. de Brabazon folded his arms gloomily, and stalked out of the room.
“If my position were not so sad, I should be tempted to smile,” said Florence. “Mr. de Brabazon will not do this thing. His emotions are as strong as those of a butterfly.”
After a brief pause Florence seated herself at the table, and drew toward her writing materials.
“It is I whose heart should be broken!” she murmured; “I who am driven from the only home I have ever known. What can have turned against me my uncle, usually so kind and considerate? It must be that Curtis has exerted a baneful influence upon him. I cannot leave him without one word of farewell.”
She took up a sheet of paper, and wrote, rapidly:
“Dear Uncle: You have told me to leave your house, and I obey. I cannot tell you how sad I feel, when I reflect that I have lost your love, and must go forth among strangers—I know not where. I was but a little girl when you gave me a home. I have grown up in an atmosphere of love, and I have felt very grateful to you for all you have done for me. I have tried to conform to your wishes, and I would obey you in all else—but I cannot marry Curtis; I think I would rather die. Let me still live with you as I have done. I do not care for any part of your money—leave it all to him, if you think best—but give me back my place in your heart. You are angry now, but you will some time pity and forgive your poor Florence, who will never cease to bless and pray for you. Good-bye!
She was about to sign herself Florence Linden, but reflected that she was no longer entitled to use a name which would seem to carry with it a claim upon her uncle.
The tears fell upon the paper as she was writing, but she heeded them not. It was the saddest hour of her life. Hitherto she had been shielded from all sorrow, and secure in the affection of her uncle, had never dreamed that there would come a time when she would feel obliged to leave all behind her, and go out into the world, friendless and penniless, but poorest of all in the loss of that love which she had hitherto enjoyed.
After completing the note, Florence let her head fall upon the table,
