Adrift in New York: Tom and Florence Braving the World

When he thought of this his face became set and its expression stern and determined.

“Florence shall yet be mine,” he declared, resolutely. “I will yet be master of her fate, and bend her to my will. Foolish girl, how dare she match her puny strength against the resolute will of Curtis Waring?”

“Was there any one else whom she loved?” he asked himself, anxiously. No, he could think of none. On account of his uncle’s chronic invalidism, they had neither gone into society, nor entertained visitors, and in the midst of a great city Florence and her uncle had practically led the lives of recluses.

There had been no opportunity to meet young men who might have proved claimants for her hand.

“When did Miss Florence leave the house, Jane?” he inquired, as he seated himself at the table.

“Most an hour since,” the girl answered, coldly, for she disliked Curtis as much as she loved and admired Florence.

“It is sad, very sad that she should be so headstrong,” said Curtis, with hypocritical sorrow.

“It is sad for her to go away from her own uncle’s house,” returned Jane.

“And very—very foolish.”

“I don’t know about that, sir. She had her reasons,” said Jane, significantly.

Curtis coughed.

He had no doubt that Florence had talked over the matter with her hand-maiden.

“Did she say where she was going, Jane?” he asked.

“I don’t think the poor child knew herself, sir.”

“Did she go alone?”

“No, sir; the boy that was here last night called for her.”

“That ragamuffin!” said Curtis, scornfully. “She certainly shows extraordinary taste for a young lady of family.”

“The boy seems a very kind and respectable boy,” said Jane, who had been quite won by Dodger’s kindness to her young mistress.

“He may be respectable, though I am not so sure of that; but his position in life is very humble. He is probably a bootblack; a singular person to select for the friend of a girl like Florence.”

“There’s them that stands higher that isn’t half so good,” retorted Jane, with more zeal than good grammar.

“Did Miss Florence take a cab?”

“No; she just walked.”

“But she took some clothing with her?”

“She took a handbag—that is all. She will send for her trunk.”

“If you find out where she is living, just let me know, Jane.”

“I will if she is willing to have me,” answered Jane, independently.

“Look here, Jane,” said Curtis, angrily, “don’t forget that you are not her servant, but my uncle’s. It is to him you look for wages, not to Miss Florence.”

“I don’t need to be told that, sir. I know that well enough.”

“Then you know that it is to him that your faithful services are due, not to Florence?”

“I’m faithful to both, Mr. Waring.”

“You are aware that my uncle is justly displeased with my cousin?”

“I know he’s displeased, but I am sure he has no good reason to be.”

Curtis Waring bit his lips. The girl, servant as she was, seemed to be openly defying him. His imperious temper could ill brook this.

“Take care!” he said, with a frown. “You seem to be lacking in respect to me. You don’t appear to understand my position in this house.”

“Oh, yes, I do. I know you have schemed to get my poor young mistress out of the house, and have succeeded.”

“I have a great mind to discharge you, girl,” said Curtis, with lowering brow.

“I am not your servant, sir. You have nothing to do with me.”

“You will see whether I have or not. I will let you remain for a time, as it is your attachment to Miss Florence that has made you forget yourself. You will find that it is for your interest to treat me respectfully.”

A feeble step was heard at the door, and John Linden entered the breakfast-room. His face was sad, and he heaved a sigh as he glanced mechanically at the head of the table, where Florence usually sat.

Curtis Waring sprang to his feet, and placing himself at his uncle’s side, led him to his seat.

“How do you feel this morning, uncle?” he asked, with feigned solicitude.

“Ill, Curtis. I didn’t sleep well last night.”

“I don’t wonder, sir. You had much to try you.”

“Is—is Florence here?”

“No, sir,” answered Jane, promptly. “She left the house an hour ago.”

A look of pain appeared on John Linden’s pale face.

“Did—did she leave a message for me?” he asked, slowly.

“She asked me to bid you good-by for her,” answered Jane, quickly.

“Uncle, don’t let yourself be disturbed now with painful thoughts. Eat your breakfast first, and then we will speak of Florence.”

John Linden ate a very light breakfast. He seemed to have lost his appetite and merely toyed with his food.

When he arose from the table, Curtis supported him to the library.

“It is very painful to me—this conduct of Florence’s, Curtis,” he said, as he sank into his armchair.

“I understand it fully, uncle,” said Curtis. “When I think of it, it makes me very angry with the misguided girl.”

“Perhaps I have been too harsh—too stern!”

“You, uncle, too harsh! Why, you are the soul of gentleness. Florence has shown herself very ungrateful.”

“Yet, Curtis, I love that girl. Her mother seemed to live again in her. Have I not acted cruelly in requiring her to obey me or leave the house?”

“You have acted only for good. You are seeking her happiness.”

“You really think this, Curtis?”

“I am sure of it.”

“But how will it all end?” asked Linden, bending an anxious look upon his wily nephew.

“By Florence yielding.”

“You are sure of that?”

“Yes. Listen, uncle; Florence is only capricious, like most girls of her age. She foolishly desires to have her own way. It is nothing more serious, I can assure you.”

“But she has left the house. That seems to show that she is in earnest.”

“She thinks, uncle, that by doing so she can bend you to her wishes. She hasn’t the slightest idea of any permanent separation. She is merely experimenting upon your weakness. She expects you will recall her in a week, at the latest. That is all of it.”

Like most weak men, it made Mr. Linden angry to have his strength doubted.

“You think that?” he said.

“I have no doubt of it.”

“She shall find that I am resolute,” he said, irritably. “I will not recall her.”

“Bravo, uncle! Only stick to that, and she will yield unconditionally within a fortnight. A little patience, and you will carry your point. Then all will be smooth sailing.”

“I hope so, Curtis. Your words have cheered me. I will be patient. But I hope I shan’t have to wait long. Where is the morning paper?”

“I shall have to humor and deceive him,” thought Curtis. “I shall have a difficult part to play, but I am sure to succeed at last.”

CHAPTER XI.

FLORENCE SECURES EMPLOYMENT

For a few days after being installed in her new home Florence was like one dazed.

She could not settle her mind to any plan of self-support.

She was too unhappy in her enforced exile from her home, and it saddened her to think that the uncle who had always been so kind was permanently estranged from her.

Though Mrs. O’Keefe was kind, and Dodger was her faithful friend, she could not accustom herself to her poor surroundings.

She had not supposed luxury so essential to her happiness.

It was worse for her because she had nothing to do but give way to her morbid fancies.

This Mrs. O’Keefe was clear-sighted enough to see.

“I am sorry to see you so downcast like, my dear young lady,” she said.

“How can I help it, Mrs. O’Keefe?” returned Florence.

“Try not to think of your wicked cousin, my dear.”

“It isn’t of him that I think—it is of my uncle. How could he be so cruel, and turn against me after years of kindness?”

“It’s that wicked Curtis that is settin’ him against you, take my word for it, Miss Florence. Shure, he must be wake-minded to let such a spalpeen set him against a swate young leddy like you.”

“He is weak in body, not in mind, Mrs. O’Keefe. You are right in thinking that it is Curtis that is the cause of my misfortune.”

“Your uncle will come to his right mind some day, never fear! And now, my dear, shall I give you a bit of advice?”

“Go on, my kind friend. I will promise to consider whatever you say.”

“Then you’d better get some kind of work to take up your mind—a bit of sewin’, or writin’, or anything that comes to hand. I suppose you wouldn’t want to mind my apple-stand a couple of hours every day?”

“No,” answered Florence. “I don’t feel equal to that.”

“It would do you no end of good to be out in the open air. It would bring back the roses to your pale cheeks. If you coop yourself up in this dark room, you’ll fade away and get thin.”

“You are right. I will make an effort and go out. Besides, I must see about work.”

Here Dodger entered the room in his usual breezy way. In his hand he brandished a morning paper.

“How are you feelin’, Florence?” he asked; he had given up saying Miss Florence at her request. “Here’s an advertisement that’ll maybe suit you.”

“Show it to me, Dodger,” said Florence, beginning to show some interest.

The boy directed her attention to the following advertisement:

“Wanted.—A governess for a girl of twelve. Must be a good performer on the piano, and able to instruct in French and the usual English branches. Terms must be moderate. Apply to Mrs. Leighton, at 127 W. – Street.”

“There, Florence, what do you say to that? That’s better than sewin’.”

“I don’t know, Dodger, whether I am competent.”

“You play on the pianner, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Well enough to teach?”

“I think so; but I may not have the gift of teaching.”

“Yes, you have. Haven’t you been teachin’ me every evenin’? You make everything just as clear as mud—no, I don’t mean that. You just explain so that I can’t help understandin’.”

“Then,” said Florence, “I suppose I am at liberty to refer to you.”

“Yes; you can tell the lady to call at the office of Dodger, Esq., any mornin’ after sunrise, and he’ll give her full particulars.”

Florence did not immediately decide to apply for the situation, but the more she thought of it the more she felt inclined to do so. The little experience she had had with Dodger satisfied her that she should enjoy teaching better than sewing or writing.

Accordingly, an hour later, she put on her street dress and went uptown to the address given in the advertisement.

No. 127 was a handsome brown-stone house, not unlike the one in which Florence had been accustomed to live. It was a refreshing contrast to the poor tenement in which she lived at present.

“Is Mrs. Leighton at home?” inquired Florence. “Yes, miss,” answered the servant, respectfully. “Whom shall I say?”

“I have come to apply for the situation of governess,” answered Florence, feeling rather awkward as she made the statement.

“Ah,” said the servant, with a perceptible decline in respect. “Won’t you step in?”

“Thank you.”

“Well, she do dress fine for a governess,” said Nancy to herself. “It’s likely she’ll put on airs.”

The fact was that Florence was dressed according to her past social position—in a costly street attire—but it had never occurred to her that she was too well dressed for a governess.

She took her seat in the drawing-room, and five minutes later there was a rustling heard, and Mrs. Leighton walked into the room.

“Are you the applicant for the position of governess?” she asked, surveying the elegantly attired young lady seated on the sofa.

“Yes, Mrs. Leighton,” answered Florence, easily, for she felt more at home in a house like this than in the tenement.

“Have you taught before?”

“Very little,” answered Florence, smiling to herself, as she wondered what Mrs. Leighton would say if she could see Dodger, the only pupil she ever had. “However, I like teaching, and I like children.”

“Pardon me, but you don’t look like a governess, Miss–”

“Linden,” suggested Florence, filling out the sentence. “Do governesses have a peculiar look?”

“I mean as to dress. You are more expensively dressed than the average governess can afford.”

“It is only lately that my circumstances required me to support myself. I should not be able to buy such a dress out of my present earnings.”

“I am glad to hear you say that, for I do not propose to give a large salary.”

“I do not expect one,” said Florence, quietly. “You consider yourself competent to instruct in music, French and the English branches?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Do you speak French?”

“Yes, madam.”

“Would you favor me with a specimen of your piano playing?”

There was a piano in the back parlor. Florence removed her gloves, and taking a seat before it, dashed into a spirited selection from Strauss.

Mrs. Leighton listened with surprised approval.

“Certainly you are a fine performer,” she said. “What—if I should engage you—would you expect in the way of compensation?”

“How much time would you expect me to give?”

“Three hours daily—from nine to twelve.”

“I hardly know what to say. What did you expect to pay?”

“About fifty cents an hour.”

Florence knew very well, from the sums that had been paid for her own education, that this was miserably small pay; but it was much more than she could earn by sewing.

“I will teach a month on those terms,” she said, after a pause.

Mrs. Leighton looked well pleased. She knew that she was making a great bargain.

“Oh, by the way,” she said, “can you give references?”

“I can refer you to Madam Morrison,” naming the head of a celebrated female seminary. “She educated me.”

“That will be quite satisfactory,” said Mrs. Leighton, graciously. “Can you begin to-morrow?”

“Yes, madam.”

“You will then see your pupil. At present she is out.”

Florence bowed and withdrew.

She had been afraid Mrs. Leighton would inquire where she lived, and she would hardly dare to name the humble street which she called home.

She walked toward Fifth Avenue, when, just as she was turning the corner, she met Mr. Percy de Brabazon, swinging a slender cane, and dressed in the extreme of the fashion.

“Miss Linden!” he exclaimed, eagerly. “This is—aw—indeed a pleasure. Where are you walking this fine morning? May I—aw—have the pleasure of accompanying you?”

Florence stopped short in deep embarrassment.

CHAPTER XII.

A FRIEND, THOUGH A DUDE

Percy de Brabazon looked sincerely glad to meet Florence, and she herself felt some pleasure in meeting one who reminded her of her former life.

But it was quite impossible that she should allow him to accompany her to her poor home on the East Side.

“Thank you, Mr. de Brabazon, but my engagements this morning will hardly permit me to accept your escort,” she said.

“I suppose that means that you are going shopping; but I don’t mind it, I assure you, and I will carry your bundles,” he added, magnanimously.

“That would never do. What! the fashionable Mr. de Brabazon carrying bundles? You would lose your social status.”

“I don’t mind, Miss Florence, as long as you give me—aw—an approving smile.”

“I will give it now, as I bid you good-morning.”

“May I—aw—have the pleasure of calling upon you to-morrow evening, Miss Linden?”

“It is evident that you have not heard that I am no longer residing with my uncle.”

Mr. de Brabazon looked surprised.

“No, I had not heard. May I ask—aw—where you are wesiding?”

“With friends,” answered Florence, briefly. “As you are a friend and will be likely to hear it, I may as well mention that my uncle is displeased with me, and has practically disowned me.”

“Then, Miss Florence,” said Mr. de Brabazon, eagerly, “won’t you accept—aw—my heart and hand? My mother will be charmed to receive you, and I—aw—will strive to make you happy.”

“I appreciate your devotion, I do, indeed, Mr. de Brabazon,” said Florence, earnestly; “but I must decline your offer. I will not marry without love.”

“I don’t mind that,” said Percy, “if you’ll agree to take a feller; you’ll learn in time to like him a little. I am wich—I know you don’t care for that—but I can give you as good a home as your uncle. If you would give me hope—aw–”

“I am afraid I cannot, Mr. de Brabazon, but if you will allow me to look upon you as a friend, I will call upon you if I have need of a friend’s services.”

“Will you, weally?”

“Yes, there is my hand on it. I ought to tell you that I must now earn my own living, and am to give lessons to a young pupil in West – Street, three hours daily.”

“You don’t mean to say you are actually poor?” said Mr. de Brabazon, horrified.

“Yes, indeed, I am.”

“Then, won’t you let me lend you some money? I’ve got more than I need, I have, ’pon my honor.”

“Thank you, I promise to call upon you if I need it.”

Mr. de Brabazon looked pleased.

“Would you mind telling me where you are going to teach, Miss Florence?”

Florence hesitated, but there was something so sincere and friendly in the young man’s manner—dude though he was—that she consented to grant his request.

“I am to teach the daughter of Mr. Robert Leighton.”

“Why, Miss Leighton is my cousin,” said Percy, in joyous excitement.

“Indeed! Had I known that I would hardly have told you.”

“Don’t be afwaid! I will be vewy discreet,” said Mr. de Brabazon.

“Thank you, and good-morning.”

Florence went on her way, cheered and encouraged in spite of herself, by her success in obtaining employment, and by the friendly offers of Mr. de Brabazon.

“It is wrong to get discouraged,” she said to herself. “After all, there are warm hearts in the world.”

When she entered her humble home, she found Dodger already there. There was an eagerness in his manner, and a light in his eye, that seemed to indicate good news.

“Well, Dodger, what is it?”

“I’ve been waitin’ half an hour to see you, Florence,” he said. “I’ve got some work for you.”

“What is it—sewing on a button, or mending a coat?”

“No, I mean workin’ for money. You can play on the pianner, can’t you?”

“Yes.”

“They want a young lady to play the pianner at a dime museum, for nine dollars a week. It’s a bully chance. I just told the manager—he’s a friend of mine—that I had a young lady friend that was a stunnin’ player, and he wants you to come around and see him.”

It was a preposterous idea—so Florence thought—that she should consent to play at such a place; but she couldn’t expect Dodger to look at the matter in the same light, so she answered, very gently and pleasantly:

“You are very kind, Dodger, to look out for me, but I shall not need to accept your friend’s offer. I have secured a chance to teach uptown.”

“You have? What’ll you get?”

“I am to be employed three hours daily, at fifty cents an hour.”

“Geewhillikens! that’s good! You’d have to work as much as twelve hours at the museum for the same pay.”

“You see, therefore, that I am provided for—that is, if I suit.”

Dodger was a little disappointed. Still, he could not help admitting that it would be better for Florence to teach three hours, than to work ten or twelve. As to her having any objection to appearing at a dime museum, that never occurred to him.

Florence had sent for her trunk, and it was now in her room.

Dodger accompanied an expressman to the house, and luckily saw Jane, who arranged everything for him.

“How’s the old gentleman?” asked Dodger. “Florence wanted me to ask.”

“He’s feeble,” said Jane, shaking her head.

“Does he miss Florence?”

“That he do.”

“Why don’t he send for her, then, to come back?” asked Dodger, bluntly.

“Because Curtis Waring makes him believe she’ll come around and ask forgiveness, if he only holds out. I tell you, Dodger, that Curtis is a viper.”

“So he is,” answered Dodger, who was not quite clear in his mind as to what a viper was. “I’d like to step on his necktie.”

“If it wasn’t for him, my dear young mistress would be back in the house within twenty-four hours.”

“I don’t see how the old gentleman can let him turn Florence out of the house.”

“He’s a snake in the grass, Dodger. It may be wicked, but I just wish something would happen to him. And how is Miss Florence lookin’, poor dear?”

“She’s lookin’ like a daisy.”

“Does she worry much?”

“She did at first, but now she’s workin’ every day, and she looks more cheerful-like.”

“Miss Florence workin’! She that was always brought up like a lady!”

“She’s teachin’ a little girl three hours a day.”

“Well, that isn’t so bad!” said Jane, relieved. “Teachin’ is genteel. I wish I could see her some day. Will you tell her, Dodger, that next Sunday is my day out, and I’ll be in Central Park up by the menagerie at three o’clock, if she’ll only take the trouble to be up there?”

“I’ll tell her, Jane, and I’m sure she’ll be there.”

A day or two afterward Curtis Waring asked: “Have you heard from my Cousin Florence since she went away?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Indeed! Where is she staying?”

“She didn’t send me word.”

“How, then, did you hear from her?”

“Dodger came with an expressman for her trunk.”

Curtis Waring frowned.

“And you let him have it?” he demanded, sternly.

“Of course I did. Why shouldn’t I?”

“You should have asked me.”

“And what business have you with Miss Florence’s trunk, I’d like to know?” said Jane, independently.

“Never mind; you ought to have asked my permission.”

“I didn’t think you’d want to wear any of Miss Florence’s things, Mr. Waring.”

“You are silly and impertinent,” said Curtis, biting his lips. “Did that boy tell you anything about her?”

“Only that she wasn’t worryin’ any for you, Mr. Curtis.”

Curtis glanced angrily at his cousin’s devoted friend, and then, turning on his heel, left the room.

“I’ll bring her to terms yet,” he muttered. “No girl of seventeen shall defy me!”

CHAPTER XIII.

TIM BOLTON’S SALOON

Not far from Houston Street, on the west side of the Bowery, is an underground saloon, with whose proprietor we are already acquainted.

It was kept by Tim Bolton, whose peculiar tastes and shady characteristics well fitted him for such a business.

It was early evening, and the gas jets lighted up a characteristic scene.

On the sanded floor were set several tables, around which were seated a motley company, all of them with glasses of beer or whiskey before them.

Tim, with a white apron on, was moving about behind the bar, ministering to the wants of his patrons. There was a scowl upon his face, for he was not fond of work, and he missed Dodger’s assistance.

The boy understood the business of mixing drinks as well as he, and often officiated for hours at a time, thus giving his guardian and reputed father a chance to leave the place and meet outside engagements.

A tall, erect gentleman entered the saloon, and walked up to the bar.

“Good-evening, colonel,” said Tim.

“Good-evening, sir,” said the newcomer, with a stately inclination of the head.

He was really a colonel, having served in the Civil War at the head of a Georgia regiment.

He had all the stately courtesy of a Southern gentleman, though not above the weakness of a frequent indulgence in the strongest fluids dispensed by Tim Bolton.

“What’ll you have, colonel?”

“Whiskey straight, sir. It’s the only drink fit for a gentleman. Will you join me, Mr. Bolton?”

“Of course, I will,” said Tim, as, pouring out a glass for himself, he handed the bottle to the colonel.

“Your health, sir,” said the colonel, bowing.

“Same to you, colonel,” responded Tim, with a nod.

“Where’s the boy?”

Col. Martin had always taken considerable notice of Dodger, being naturally fond of boys, and having once had a son of his own, who was killed in a railroad accident when about Dodger’s age.

“Danged if I know!” answered Tim, crossly.

“He hasn’t left you, has he?”

“Yes; he’s cleared out, the ungrateful young imp! I’d like to lay my hands on the young rascal.”

“Was he your son?”

“He was my—stepson,” answered Tim, hesitating.

“I see, you married his mother.”

“Yes,” said Tim, considering the explanation satisfactory, and resolved to adopt it. “I’ve always treated him as if he was my own flesh and blood, and I’ve raised him from a young kid. Now he’s gone and left me.”