The Mystery of Murray Davenport | Page 8

has been accepted, and nothing can increase or diminish the
amount I'm to receive for it."
"But consider the risk to your future career," pursued Davenport, with a
faint smile.
"Oh, I'll take the chances," said Larcher, glad to treat the subject as a

joke. "I don't suppose the author of 'A Heart in Peril,' for instance, has
experienced hard luck as a result of your illustrating his story."
"As a matter of fact," replied Davenport, with a look of melancholy
humor, "the last I heard of him, he had drunk himself into the hospital.
But I believe he had begun to do that before I crossed his path. Well, I
thank you for your hardihood, Mr. Larcher. As for the _Avenue
Magazine_, it can afford a little bad luck."
"Let us hope that the good luck of the magazine will spread to you, as a
result of your contact with it."
"Thank you; but it doesn't matter much, as things are. No; they are right;
Murray Davenport is a marked name; marked for failure. You must
know, Mr. Larcher, I'm not only a Jonah; I'm that other ludicrous figure
in the world,--a man with a grievance; a man with a complaint of
injustice. Not that I ever air it; it's long since I learned better than that. I
never speak of it, except in this casual way when it comes up apropos;
but people still associate me with it, and tell newcomers about it, and
find a moment's fun in it. And the man who is most hugely amused at it,
and benevolently humors it, is the man who did me the wrong. For it's
been a part of my fate that, in spite of the old injury, I should often
work for his pay. When other resources fail, there's always he to fall
back on; he always has some little matter I can be useful in. He poses
then as my constant benefactor, my sure reliance in hard times. And so
he is, in fact; though the fortune that enables him to be is built on the
profits of the game he played at my expense. I mention it to you, Mr.
Larcher, to forestall any other account, if you should happen to speak
of me where my name is known. Please let nobody assure you, either
that the wrong is an imaginary one, or that I still speak of it in a way to
deserve the name of a man with a grievance."
His composed, indifferent manner was true to his words. He spoke,
indeed, as one to whom things mattered little, yet who, being originally
of a social and communicative nature, talks on fluently to the first
intelligent listener after a season of solitude. Larcher was keen to make
the most of a mood so favorable to his own purpose in seeking the
man's acquaintance.
"You may trust me to believe nobody but yourself, if the subject ever
comes up in my presence," said Larcher. "I can certainly testify to the
cool, unimpassioned manner in which you speak of it."

"I find little in life that's worth getting warm or impassioned about,"
said Davenport, something half wearily, half contemptuously.
"Have you lost interest in the world to that extent?"
"In my present environment."
"Oh, you can easily change that. Get into livelier surroundings."
Davenport shook his head. "My immediate environment would still be
the same; my memories, my body; 'this machine,' as Hamlet says; my
old, tiresome, unsuccessful self."
"But if you got about more among mankind,--not that I know what your
habits are at present, but I should imagine--" Larcher hesitated.
"You perceive I have the musty look of a solitary," said Davenport.
"That's true, of late. But as to getting about, 'man delights not me'--to
fall back on Hamlet again--at least not from my present point of view."
"'Nor woman neither'?" quoted Larcher, interrogatively.
"'No, nor woman neither,'" said Davenport slowly, a coldness coming
upon his face. "I don't know what your experience may have been. We
have only our own lights to go by; and mine have taught me to expect
nothing from women. Fair-weather friends; creatures that must be
amused, and are unscrupulous at whose cost or how great. One of their
amusements is to be worshipped by a man; and to bring that about they
will pretend love, with a pretence that would deceive the devil himself.
The moment they are bored with the pastime, they will drop the
pretence, and feel injured if the man complains. We take the beauty of
their faces, the softness of their eyes, for the outward signs of
tenderness and fidelity; and for those supposed qualities, and others
which their looks seem to express, we love them. But they have not
those qualities; they don't even know