CHAPTER II. A DINNER OF TWO

The O'Shea returned to Rome at a “slapping pace.” He did his eight miles of heavy ground within forty minutes. But neither the speed nor the storm could turn his thoughts from the scene he had just passed through. It was with truth he said that he could not give credit to the fact of such good fortune as to believe she would accept him; and yet the more he reflected on the subject, the more was he puzzled and disconcerted. When he had last seen her, she refused him,—refused him absolutely and flatly; she even hinted at a reason that seemed unanswerable, and suggested that, though they might aid each other as friends, there could be no copartnership of interests. “What has led her to this change of mind, Heaven knows. It is no lucky turn of fortune on my side can have induced it; my prospects were never bleaker. And then,” thought he, “of what nature is this same secret, or rather these secrets, of hers, for they seem to grow in clusters? What can she have done? or what has Penthony Morris done? Is he alive? Is he at Norfolk Island? Was he a forger, or worse? How much does Paten know about her? What power has he over her besides the possession of these letters? Is Paten Penthony Morris?” It was thus that his mind went to and fro, like a surging sea, restless and not advancing. Never was there a man more tortured by his conjectures. He knew that she might marry Sir William Heathcote if she liked; why, then, prefer himself to a man of station and fortune? Was it that he was more likely to enact the vengeance she thirsted for than the old Baronet? Ay, that was a reasonable calculation. She was right there, and he 'd bring Master Paten “to book,” as sure as his name was O'Shea. That was the sort of thing he understood as well as any man in Europe. He had been out scores of times, and knew how to pick a quarrel, and to aggravate it, and make it perfectly beyond all possibility of arrangement, as well as any fire-eater of a French line regiment. That was, perhaps, the reason of the widow's choice of him. If she married Heathcote, it would be a case for lawyers: a great trial at Westminster, and a great scandal in the papers. “But with me it will be all quiet and peaceable. I 'll get back her letters, or I 'll know why.”

He next bethought him of her fortune. He wished she had told him more about it,—how it came to her,—was it by settlement,—was it from the Morrises? He wished, too, it had not been in America; he was not quite sure that property there meant anything at all; and, lastly, he brought to mind that though he had proposed for dozens of women, this was the only occasion he was not asked what he could secure by settlement, and how much he would give as pin-money. No, on that score she was delicacy itself, and he was one to appreciate all the refinement of her reserve. Indeed, if it came to the old business of searches, and showing titles, and all the other exposures of the O'Shea family, he felt that he would rather die a bachelor than encounter them. “She knew how to catch me! 'A row to fight through, and no questions asked about money, O'Shea,' says she. 'Can you resist temptation like that?'”

As he alighted at the hotel, he saw Agincourt standing at a window, and evidently laughing at the dripping, mud-stained appearance he presented.

“I hope and trust that was n't the nag I bought this morning,” said he to O'Shea, as he entered the room.

“The very same; and I never saw him in finer heart. If you only witnessed the way he carried me through those ploughed fields out there! He's strong in the loins as a cart-horse.”

“I must say that you appear to have ridden him as a friend's horse. He seemed dead beat, as he was led away.”

“He's fresh as a four-year old.”

“Well, never mind, go and dress for dinner, for you're half an hour behind time already.”

O'Shea was not sorry to have the excuse, and hurried off to make his toilet.

Freytag was aware that his guest was a “Milor',” and the dinner was very good, and the wine reasonably so; and the two, as they placed a little spider-table between them before the fire, seemed fully conscious of all the enjoyment of the situation.

Agincourt said, “Is not this jolly?” And so it was. And what is there jollier than to be about sixteen or seventeen years of age, with good health, good station, and ample means? To be launched into manhood, too, as a soldier, without one detracting sense of man's troubles and cares,—to feel that your elders condescend to be your equals, and will even accept your invitation to dinner!—ay, and more, practise towards you all those little flatteries and attentions which, however vapid ten years later, are positive ecstasies now!

But of all its glorious privileges there is not one can compare with the boundless self-confidence of youth, that implicit faith not alone in its energy and activity, its fearless contempt for danger, and its indifference to hardships, but, more strange still, in its superior sharpness and knowledge of life! Oh dear! are we not shrewd fellows when we matriculate at Christ Church, or see ourselves gazetted Cornet in the Horse Guards Purple? Who ever equalled us in all the wiles and schemes of mankind? Must he not rise early who means to dupe us? Have we not a registered catalogue of all the knaveries that have ever been practised on the unsuspecting? Truly have we; and if suspicion were a safeguard, nothing can harm us.

Now, Agincourt was a fine, true-hearted, generous young fellow,—manly and straightforward,—but he had imbibed his share of this tendency. He fancied himself subtle, and imagined that a nice negotiation could not be intrusted to better hands. Besides this, he was eager to impress Heathcote with a high opinion of his skill, and show that even a regular man of the world like O'Shea was not near a match for him.

“I 'm not going to drink that light claret such an evening as this,” said O'Shea, pushing away his just-tasted glass. “Let us have something a shade warmer.”

“Ring the bell, and order what you like.”

“Here, this will do,—'Clos Vougeot,'” said O'Shea, pointing out to the waiter the name on the wine carte.”

“And if that be a failure, I 'll fall back on brandy-and-water, the refuge of a man after bad wine, just as disappointed young ladies take to a convent. If you can drink that little tipple, Agincourt, you 're right to do it. You 'll come to Burgundy at forty, and to rough port ten years later; but you 've a wide margin left before that. How old are you?”

“I shall be seventeen my next birthday,” said the other, flushing, and not wishing to add that there were eleven months and eight days to run before that event should come off.

“That's a mighty pretty time of life. It gives you a clear four years for irresponsible follies before you come of age. Then you may fairly count upon three or four more for legitimate wastefulness, and with a little, very little, discretion, you never need know a Jew till you're six-and-twenty.”

“I beg your pardon, my good fellow,” said the other, coloring, half angrily; “I've had plenty to do with those gents already. Ask Nathan whether he has n't whole sheafs of my bills. My guardian only allows me twelve hundred a year,—a downright shame they call it in the regiment, and so I wrote him word. In fact, I told him what our Major said, that with such means as mine I ought to try and manage an exchange into the Cape Rifles.”

“Or a black regiment in the West Indies,” chimed in O'Shea, gravely.

“No, confound it, he did n't say that!”

“The Irish Constabulary, too, is a cheap corps. You might stand that.”

“I don't mean to try either,” said the youth, angrily.

“And what does Nathan charge you?—say for a 'thing' at three months?”

“That all depends upon the state of the money-market,” said Agincourt, with a look of profoundest meaning. “It is entirely a question of the foreign exchanges, and I study them like a stockbroker. Nathan said one day, 'It's a thousand pities he's a Peer; there's a fellow with a head to beat the whole Stock Exchange.'”

“Does he make you pay twenty per cent, or five-and twenty for short dates?”

“You don't understand it at all. It's no question of that kind. It's always a calculation of what gold is worth at Amsterdam, or some other place, and it's a difference of, maybe, one-eighth that determines the whole value of a bill.”

“I see,” said O'Shea, puffing his cigar very slowly. “I have no doubt that you bought your knowledge on these subjects dearly enough.”

“I should think I did! Until I came to understand the thing, I was always 'outside the ropes,' always borrowing with the 'exchanges against me,'—you know what I mean?”

“I believe I do,” said O'Shea, sighing heavily. “They have been against me all my life.”

“That's just because you never took trouble to study the thing. You rushed madly into the market whenever you wanted money, and paid whatever they asked.”

“I did indeed! and, what's more, was very grateful if I got it.”

“And I know what came of that,—how that ended.”

“How?”

“Why, you dipped your estate, gave mortgages, and the rest of it.”

O'Shea nodded a full assent.

“Oh,Iknow the whole story; I 've seen so much of this sort of thing. Well, old fellow,” added he, after a pause, “if I 'd been acquainted with you ten or fifteen years ago, I could have saved you from all this ruin.”

O'Shea repressed every tendency to a smile, and nodded again.

“I 'd have said to you, 'Don't be in a hurry, watch the market, and I 'll tell you when to “go in.''”

“Maybe it's not too late yet, so give me a word of friendly advice,” said O'Shea, with a modest humility. “There are few men want it more.”

There was now a pause of several minutes; O'Shea waiting to see how his bait had taken, and Agincourt revolving in his mind whether this was not the precise moment for opening his negotiation. At last he said,—

“I wrote that letter I promised you. I said you were an out-and-outer as to ability, and that they could n't do better than make you a Governor somewhere, though you 'd not be disgusted with something smaller. I 've been looking over the vacancies; there's not much open. Could you be a Mahogany Commissioner at Honduras?”

“Well, so far as having had my legs under that wood for many years with pleasure to myself and satisfaction to my friends, perhaps I might.”

“Do you know what I 'd do if I were you?”

“I have not an idea.”

“I 'd marry,—by Jove, I would!—I 'd marry!”

“I 've thought of it half a dozen times,” said he, stretching out his hand for the decanter, and rather desirous of escaping notice; “but, you see, to marry a woman with money,—and of course it's that you mean,—there's always the inquiry what you have yourself, where it is, and what are the charges on it. Now, as you shrewdly guessed awhile ago, I dipped my estate,—dipped it so deep that I begin to suspect it won't come up again.”

“But look out for a woman that has her fortune at her own disposal.”

“And no friends to advise her.”

O'Shea's face, as he said this, was so absurdly droll that Agincourt laughed aloud. “Well, as you observe, no friends to advise her. I suppose you don't care much for connection,—I mean rank?”

“As for the matter of family, I have enough for as many wives as Bluebeard, if the law would let me have them.”

“Then I fancy I know the thing to suit you. She's a stunning pretty woman, besides.”

“Where is she?”

“At Rome here.”

“And who is she?”

“Mrs. Penthony Morris, the handsome widow, that's on a visit to the Heathcotes. She must have plenty of tin, I can answer for that, for old Nathan told me she was in all the heavy transfers of South American shares, and was a buyer for very large amounts.”

“Are you sure of that?”

“I can give my word on it. I remember his saying one morning, 'The widow takes her losses easily; she minds twelve thousand pounds no more than I would a five-pound note.”

“They have a story here that she's going to marry old Heathcote.”

“Not true,—I mean, that she won't have him.”

“And why? It was clear enough she was playing that game for some time back.”

“I wanted Charley to try his chance,” said Agincourt, evading the question; “but he is spooney on his cousin May, I fancy, and has no mind to do a prudent thing.”

“But how am I to go in?” said O'Shea, timidly. “If she's as rich as you say, would she listen to a poor out-at-elbows Irish gentleman, with only his good blood to back him?”

“You 're the man to do it,—the very man.”

O'Shea shook his head.

“I say you 'd succeed. I 'd back you against the field.”

“Will you make me a bet on it?”

“With all my heart! What shall it be?”

“Lay me a hundred to one, in tens, and I give you my solemn word of honor I 'll do my very best to lose my wager and win the widow.”

“Done! I 'll bet you a thousand pounds to ten; book it, with the date, and I 'll sign it.”

While Agincourt was yet speaking, O'Shea had produced a small note-book, and was recording the bet. Scarcely had he clasped the little volume again, when the waiter entered, and handed him a note.

O'Shea read it rapidly, and, finishing off his glass, refilled and drank it. “I must leave you for half an hour,” said he, hastily. “There's a friend of mine in a bit of a scrape with one of these French officers; but I 'll be back presently.”

“I say, make your man fight. Don't stand any bullying with those fellows.”

O'Shea did not wait for his counsels, but hurried off.

“This way, sir,” whispered a man to him, as he passed out into the court of the hotel; “the carriage is round the corner.”

He followed the man, and in a few minutes found himself in a narrow by-street, where a single carriage was standing. The glass was quietly let down as he drew near, and a voice he had no difficulty in recognizing, said, “I have just received a most urgent letter, and I must leave Rome tomorrow at daybreak, for Germany. I have learned, besides, that Paten is at Baden. He was on his way here, but stopped to try his luck at the tables. He has twice broken the bank, and swears he will not leave till he has succeeded a third time. We all well know how such pledges finish. But you must set off there at once. Leave to-morrow night, if you can, and by the time you arrive, or the day after, you 'll find a letter for you at the post, with my address, and all your future directions. Do nothing with Paten till you hear; mind that,—nothing. I have not time for another word, for I am in terror lest my absence from the house should be discovered. If anything imminent occur, you shall hear by telegraph.”

“Let me drive back with you; I have much to say, much to ask you,” said he, earnestly.

“On no account. There, good-bye; don't forget me.”

While he yet held her hand, the word was given to drive on, and his farewell was lost in the rattling of the wheels over the pavement.

“Well, have you patched it up, or is it a fight?” asked Agincourt when he entered the room once more.

“You'll keep my secret, I know,” said O'Shea, in a whisper. “Don't even breathe a word to Heathcote, but I 'll have to leave this to-morrow, get over the nearest frontier, and settle this affair.”

“You 'd like some cash, would n't you?—at all events, I am your debtor for that horse. Do you want more?”

“There, that's enough,—two hundred will do,” said O'Shea, taking the notes from his fingers; “even if I have to make a bolt of it, that will be ample.”

“This looks badly for your wager, O'Shea. It may lose you the widow, I suspect.”

“Who knows?” said O'Shea, laughing. “Circular sailing is sometimes the short cut on land as well as sea. If you have any good news for me from Downing Street, I 'll shy you a line to say where to send; and so, good-bye.”

And Agincourt shook his hand cordially, but not without a touch of envy as he thought of the mission he was engaged in.

While Agincourt and O'Shea thus sat and conversed together, there was another fireside which presented a far happier picture, and where old Sir William sat, with his son and May Leslie, overjoyed to think that they were brought together again, and to separate no more. Charles had told them that he had determined never to leave them, and all their thoughts had gone back to the long, long ago, when they were so united and so happy. There was, indeed, one theme which none dared to touch. It was ever and anon uppermost in the mind of each, and yet none had courage to adventure on it, even in allusion. It was in one of the awkward pauses which this thought produced that a servant came to say Mrs. Morris would be glad to see Charles in her room. He had more than once requested permission to visit her, but somehow now the invitation had come ill-timed, and he arose with a half impatience to obey it.

During the greater part of that morning Charles Heathcote had employed himself in imagining by what process of persuasion, what line of argument, or at what price he could induce the widow herself to break off the engagement with his father. The guarded silence Sir William had maintained on the subject since his son's arrival was to some extent an evidence that he knew his project could not meet approval. Nor was the old man a stranger to the fact that May Leslie's manner to the widow had long been marked by reserve and estrangement. This, too, increased Sir William's embarrassment, and left him more isolated and alone. “How shall I approach such a question and not offend her?” was Charles's puzzle, as he passed her door. So full was he of the bulletins of her indisposition, that he almost started as he saw her seated at a table, writing away rapidly, and looking, to his thinking, as well as he had ever seen her.

“This is, indeed, a pleasant surprise,” said he, as he came forward. “I was picturing to myself a sick-room and a sufferer, and I find you more beautiful than ever.”

“You surely could n't imagine I 'd have sent for you if I were not conscious that my paleness became me, and that my dressing-gown was very pretty. Sit down—no, here—at my side; I have much to say to you, and not very long to say it. If I had not been actually overwhelmed with business, real business too, I 'd have sent for you long ago. I could imagine with very little difficulty what was uppermost in your mind lately, and how, having determined to remain at home, your thoughts would never quit one distressing theme,—you know what I mean. Well, I repeat, I could well estimate all your troubles and difficulties on this head, and I longed for a few minutes alone with you, when we could speak freely and candidly to each other, no disguise, no deception on either side. Shall we be frank with each other?”

“By all means.”

“Well, then, you don't like this marriage. Come, speak out honestly your mind.”

“Why, when I think of the immense disproportion in age; when I see on one side—”

“Fiddle faddle! if I were seventy, it wouldn't make it better. I tell you I don't want fine speeches nor delicate evasions; therefore be the blunt, straightforward fellow you used to be, and say, 'I don't like it at all.'”

“Well, here goes, I donotlike it at all.”

“Neither do I,” said she, lying back listlessly in her chair, and looking calmly at him. “I see what is passing in your mind, Charles. I read your thoughts in their ebb and flow, and they come to this: 'Why have you taken such consummate pains about an object you would regret to see accomplished? To what end all your little coquetries and graces, and so forth?' Well, the question is reasonable enough, and I 'll give you only one answer. It amused me, and it worried others. It kept poor May and yourself in a small fever, and I have never through life had self-command enough to deny myself the pleasure of terrifying people at small cost, making them fancy they were drowning in two feet of water.”

“I hope May is grateful; I am sure I am,” said Charles, stiffly.

“Well, if you have not been in the past, I intend you to be so for the future. I mean to relinquish the great prize I had so nearly won; to give up the distinguished honor of being your stepmother, with all the rights and privileges I could have grouped around that station. I mean to abdicate all my power; to leave the dear Heathcotes to the enjoyment of such happiness as their virtues and merits cannot fail to secure them, under the simple condition that they will forget me, or, if that be more than they can promise, that they will never make me the subject of their discussions, nor bring up my name, either in praise or blame. Now understand me aright, Charles,” said she, earnestly; “this is no request prompted by any pique of injured pride or wounded self-love. It is not uttered in the irritation of one who feels rejected by you. It is a grave demand, made as the price of an important concession. I exact that my name be not spoken, or, if uttered by others in your presence, that it be unacknowledged and unnoticed. It is no idle wish, believe me; for who are the victims of the world's calumnies so often as the friendless, whose names call forth no sponsor? They are the outlaws that any may wound, or even kill, and their sole sanctuary is oblivion.”

“I think you judge us harshly,” began Charles.

But she stopped him.

“No, far from it. I know you all by this time. You are far more generously minded than your neighbors, but there is one trait attaches to human nature everywhere. Every one exaggerates any peril he has passed through, and every man and woman is prone to blacken the character of those who have frightened them. Come, I 'll not discuss the matter further. I have all those things to pack up, and some notes to write before I go.”

“Go! Are you going away so soon?”

“To-morrow, at daybreak. I have got tidings of a sick relative, an old aunt, who was very fond of me long ago, and who wishes to have me near her. I should like to see May, and, indeed, Sir William, but I believe it will be better not: I mean that partings are gratuitous sorrows. You will say all that I wish. You will tell them how it happened that I left so hurriedly. I 'm not sure,” added she, smiling, “that your explanation will be very lucid or very coherent, but the chances are, none will care to question you too closely. Of course you will repeat all my gratitude for the kindness I have met here. I have had some of my happiest days with you,” added she, as if thinking aloud,—“days in which I half forgot the life of trouble that was to be resumed on the morrow. And, above all, say,” said she, with earnestness, “that; when they have received my debt of thanks they are to wipe out my name from the ledger, and remember me no more.”

Charles Heathcote was much moved by her words. The very calm she spoke in had all its effect, and he felt he knew not what of self-accusation as he thought of her lonely and friendless lot. He could not disabuse his mind of the thought that it was through offended pride she was relinquishing the station she had so long striven to attain, and now held within her very grasp. “She is not the selfish creature I had deemed her; she is far, far better than I believed. I have mistaken her, misjudged her. That she has gone through much sorrow is plain; that there may be in her story incidents which she would grieve to see a town talk, is also likely; but are not all these reasons the more for our sympathy and support, and how shall we answer to ourselves, hereafter, for any show of neglect or harshness towards her?”

While he thus reflected, she had turned to the table and was busy writing.

“I have just thought of sending a few farewell lines to May,” said she, talking away as her pen ran along the paper. “We all of us mistake each other in this world; we are valued for what we are not, and deemed deficient in what we have.” She stopped, and then crumpling up the half-written paper in her hand, said: “No, I'll not write,—at least, not now. You 'll tell her everything,—ay, Charles, everything!”

Here she fixed her eyes steadfastly on him, as though to look into his very thoughts. “You and May Leslie will be married, and one of your subjects of mysterious talk when you 're all alone will be that strange woman who called herself Mrs. Penthony Morris. What wise guesses and shrewd conjectures do I fancy you making; how cunningly you 'll put together fifty things that seem to illustrate her story, and yet have no bearing upon it; and how cleverly you 'll construct a narrative for her without one solitary atom of truth. Well, she 'll think of you, too, but in a different spirit, and she will be happier than I suspect if she do not often wish to live over again the long summer days and starry nights at Marlia.”

“May is certain to ask me about Clara, where she is, and if we are likely to see her again.”

“And you 'll tell her that as I did not speak of her, your own delicacy imposed such a reserve that you could not ask these questions. Good-bye. But that I want to be forgotten, I 'd give you a keepsake. Good-bye,—and forget me.”

She turned away at the last word, and passed into an inner room. Charles stood for an instant or two irresolute, and then walked slowly away.

Quackinboss and the Laytons came back in due time to England, and at once hastened to London. They had traced Winthrop and Trover at Liverpool, and heard of their having left for town, and thither they followed them in all eagerness. The pursuit had now become a chase, with all its varying incidents of good or bad fortune. Each took his allotted part, going out of a morning on his especial beat, and returning late of an evening to report his success or failure.

Quackinboss frequented all the well-known haunts of his countrymen, hoping to chance upon some one who had seen Winthrop, or could give tidings of him. Old Layton—the doctor, as we shall for the remainder of our brief space call him—was more practical. He made searches for Hawke's will at Doctors' Commons, and found the transcript of a brief document irregularly drawn, and disposing of a few thousand pounds, but not making mention of any American property. He next addressed himself to that world-known force, so celebrated in all the detection of crime; he described the men he sought for, and offered rewards for their discovery, carefully protesting the while that nothing but a vague suspicion attached to them.

As for Alfred, he tried to take his share in what had such interest for the others. He made careful notes of the points assigned to him for investigation; he learned names and addresses, and references to no end; he labored hard to imbue himself with the zeal of the others, but it would not do. All his thoughts, hopes, and wishes had another direction, and he longed impatiently for an opportunity to make his escape from them, and set out for Italy and discover Clara. His only clew to her was through Stocmar; but that gentleman was abroad, and not expected for some days in London. Little did the doctor or Quackinboss suspect that Alfred's first call on every morning was at the private entrance of the Regent's Theatre, and his daily question as invariably the same demand, “When do you expect Mr. Stocmar in town?”

Poor fellow! he was only bored by that tiresome search, and hated every man, woman, and child concerned in the dismal history; and yet no other subject was ever discussed, no other theme brought up amongst them. In vain Alfred tried to turn the conversation upon questions of public interest; by some curious sympathy they would not be drawn away into that all-absorbing vortex, and, start from what point they might, they were certain to arrive at last at the High Court of Jersey.

It was on one evening, as they sat together around the fire, that, by dint of great perseverance and consummate skill, Alfred had drawn them away to talk of India and the war there. Anecdotes of personal heroism succeeded, and for every achievement of our gallant fellows at Lucknow, Quackinboss steadily quoted some not less daring exploit of the Mexican war. Thus discussing courage, they came at last to the nice question,—of its characteristics in different nations, and even in individuals.

“In cool daring, in confronting peril with perfect collectedness, and such a degree of self-possession as confers every possible chance of escape on its possessor, a woman is superior to us all,” said the doctor, who for some time had been silently reflecting. “One case particularly presents itself to my mind,” resumed he. “It was connected with that memorable trial at Jersey.”

Alfred groaned heavily, and pushed back his chair from the group.

“The case was this,” continued the old man: “while the police were eagerly intent on tracing out all who were implicated in the murder, suspicion being rife on every hand, every letter that passed between the supposed confederates was opened and read, and a strict watch set over any who were believed likely to convey messages from one to the other.

“On the evening of the inquest—it was about an hour after dark—the window of an upper room was gently opened, and a woman's voice called out to a countryman below, 'Will you earn half a crown, my good man, and take this note to Dr. Layton's, in the town?' He agreed at once, and the letter and the bribe were speedily thrown into his hat. Little did the writer suspect it was a policeman in disguise she had charged with her commission! The fellow hastened off with his prize to the magistrate, who, having read the note, resealed it, and forwarded it to me. Here it is. I have shown it to so many that its condition is become very frail, but it is still readable. It was very brief, and ran thus:—

“Dear Friend,—My misery will plead for me if I thus address you. I have a favor to ask, and my broken heart tells me you will not refuse me. I want you to cut me off a lock of my darling's hair. Take it from the left temple, where it is longest, and bring it to-morrow to his forlorn widow,

“'Louisa Hawke.'

“From the moment they read that note, the magistrates felt it an outrage to suspect her. I do not myself mean to implicate her in the great guilt,—far from it; but here was a bid for sympathy, and put forward in all the coolness of a deliberate plan; for the policeman himself told me, years after, that she saw him at Dover, and gave him a sovereign, saying jocularly, 'I think you look better when dressed as a countryman.' Now, I call this consummate calculation.”

As he was speaking, Quackinboss had drawn near the candles, and was examining the writing.

“I wonder,” said be, “what the fellows who affect to decipher character in handwriting would say to this? It's all regular and well formed.”

“Is it very small? Are the letters minute?—for that, they allege, is one of the indications of a cruel nature,” said Alfred. “They show a specimen of Lucrezia Borgia's, that almost requires a microscope to read it.”

“No,” said Quackinboss; “that's what they call a bold, free hand; the writing, one would say, of a slapdash gal that was n't a-goin' to count consequences.”

“Letmeinterpret her,” said Alfred, drawing the candles towards him, and preparing for a very solemn and deliberate judgment. “What's this?” cried he, almost wildly. “I know this hand well; I could swear to it. You shall see if I cannot.”' And, without another word, he arose, and rushed from the room. Before the doctor or Quackinboss could recover from their astonishment, Alfred was back again, holding two notes in his hand. “Come here, both of you, now,” cried he, “and tell me, are not these in the same writing?” They were several short notes,—invitations or messages from Marlia about riding-parties, signed Louisa Morris. “What do you say to that? Is that word 'Louisa' written by the same hand or not?” cried Alfred, trembling from head to foot as he spoke.

ONE0550

“'Tarnal snakes if it ain't!” broke out Quackinboss; “and our widow woman was the wife of that murdered fellow Hawke.”

“And Clara his daughter!” muttered Alfred, as he covered his face with his hands to hide his emotion.

“These were written by the same person, that's clear enough,” said the doctor, closely scrutinizing every word and every letter; “there are marks of identity that cannot be disputed. But who is this widow you speak of?”

Alfred could only stammer out, “He 'll tell you all,” as he pointed to Quackinboss, for a faintish sick sensation crept over his frame, and he shook like one in the cold stage of an ague. The American, however, gave a very calm and connected narrative of their first meeting with Mrs. Penthony Morris and her supposed daughter at Lucca; how that lady, from a chance acquaintance with the Heathcotes, had established an intimacy, and then a friendship there.

“Describe her to me,—tell me something of her appearance,” burst in the old man with impatience; for as his mind followed the long-sought-for “trail,” his eagerness became beyond his power of control. “Blue eyes, that might be mistaken for black, or dark hazel, had she not? and the longest of eyelashes, the mouth full and pouting, but the chin sharply turned, and firm-looking? Am I right?”

“That are you, and teeth as reg'lar as a row of soldiers.”

“Her foot, too, was perfect. It had been modelled scores of times by sculptors, and there were casts of it with a Roman sandal, or naked on a plantain-leaf, in her drawing-room. You've seen her foot?”

“It was a grand foot! Ihaveseen it,” said the American; “and if I was one as liked monarchy, I 'd say it might have done for a queen to stand on in front of a throne.”

“What was her voice like?” asked the old man, eagerly.

“Low and soft, with almost a tremor in it when she asked some trifling favor,” said Alfred, now speaking for the first time.

“Herself,—her very self. I know her well, bythat!” cried the old man, triumphantly. “I carried those trembling accents in my memory for many and many a day. Go on, and tell me more of her. Who was this same Morris,—when, how, and where were they married?”

“We never knew; none of us ever saw him. Some said he was living, and in China or India. Some called her a widow. The girl Clara was called hers—”

“No. Clara was Hawke's. She must have been Hawke's daughter by his first wife, the niece of this Winthrop.”

“She's the great heiress, then,” broke in Quackinboss; “she's to have Peddar's Clearings, and the whole of that track beside Grove's River. There ain't such another fortune in all Ohio.”

“And this was poor Clara's secret,” said Alfred to Quackinboss, in a whisper, “when she said, 'I only know that I am an orphan, and that my name is not Clara Morris.'”

“Doyouthink, then, sir, that such a rogue as that fellow Trover went out all the way to the Western States to make out that gal's right to these territories?” asked Quackinboss, gravely.

“Not a bit of it. He went to rob her, to cheat her, to put forward some false claim, to substitute some other in her place,” cried old Layton. “Who is to say if he himself be not the man Morris, and the husband of our fair friend? He may have fifty names, for aught we know, and Morris be one of them.”

“You told me that Clara had been made over to a certain Mr. Stocmar, to prepare her for the stage.” said Alfred to the American. But before he could reply the doctor broke in,—

“Stocmar,—Hyman Stocmar, of the Regent's?”

“The same. Do you know him, father?”

“That do I, and well too. What of him?”

“It was to his care this young lady was intrusted,” said Alfred, blushing at the very thought of alluding to her.

“If there should be dealings with Stocmar, let them be left tome.” said the doctor, firmly. “I will be able to make better terms with him than either of you.”

“I s'pose you're not going to leave a gal that's to have a matter of a million of dollars to be a stage-player? She ain't need to rant, and screech, and tear herself to pieces at ten or fifteen dollars a night and a free benefit.”

“First to find her, then to assert her rights,” said the doctor.

“Howarewe to find her?” asked Alfred.

“I will charge myself with that task, but we must be active too,” said the doctor. “I half suspect that I see the whole intrigue,—why this woman was separated from the young girl, why this fellow Trover was sent across the Atlantic, and what means that story of the large fortune so suddenly left to Winthrop.”

“I only know him slightly, sir,” said Quackinboss, breaking in, “but no man shall say a word against Harvey P. Winthrop in my hearing.”

“You mistake me,” rejoined the doctor. “It would be no impugnment of my honesty that some one bequeathed me an estate,—not that I think the event a likely one. So far as I can surmise, Winthrop is the only man of honor amongst them.”

“Glad to bear you say so, sir,” said the Colonel, gravely. “It's a great victory over national prejudices when a Britisher gets to say so much for one of our people. It's the grand compensation you always have for your inferiority, to call our sharpness roguery.”

It was a critical moment now, and it needed all Alfred's readiness and address to separate two combatants so eager for battle. He succeeded, however, and, after some commonplace conversation, contrived to carry his father away, on pretence of an engagement.

“You should have letmesmash him,” muttered the old man, bitterly, as he followed him from the room. “You should have given me fifteen minutes,—ay, ten. I 'd not have asked more than ten to present him with a finished picture of his model Republican, in dress, manner, morals, and demeanor. I'd have said, 'Here is what I myself have seen—'”

“And I would have stopped you,” broke in Alfred, boldly, “and laid my hand on Quackinboss's shoulder, and said, 'Here is what I have known of America. Here is one who, without other tie than a generous pity, nursed me through the contagion of a fever, and made recovery a blessing to me by his friendship after,—who shared heart and fortune with me when I was a beggar in both.'”

“You are right, boy,—you are right. How hard it is to crush the old rebellious spirit in one's nature, even after we have lived to see the evil it has worked us!”

At an early hour the next morning the two Laytons presented themselves at the private door of the “Regents.” Mr. Stocmar had returned that morning from Paris; he had been to bed for an hour, and was now dressed and up, but so busily engaged that he had left positive orders to be denied to all except to a certain high personage in the royal household, and a noble Lord, whose name he had given to the porter.

“We are not either of these,” said the doctor, smiling, “but I am a very old friend, whom he did not know was in England. I have been scores of times here with him; and to prove how I know my way through flats and side-scenes, I 'll just step up to his room without asking you to conduct me.” These pleadings were assisted considerably by the dexterous insinuation of a sovereign into the man's hand; and Layton passed in, with his son after him.

True to his word, and not a little to Alfred's astonishment, the doctor threaded his way through many a dark passage and up many a frail stair, till he reached the well-known, well-remembered door. He knocked sharply, but, without waiting for reply, turned the handle and entered. Stocmar, who stood at the table busily breaking the seals of a vast heap of letters, turned suddenly around and stared at the strangers with mingled surprise and displeasure.

“I gave positive orders that I could not receive strangers,” said he, haughtily. “May I ask what is the meaning of this intrusion?”

“You shall know in a few moments, sir,” said the old man, deliberately taking a seat, and motioning to his son to do the same. “My business could be transacted with yourself alone, and it would be useless referring me to a secretary or a treasurer. I have come here with my son—”

“Oh, the old story!” broke in Stocmar. “The young gentleman is stage-struck; fancies that his Hamlet is better than Kean's or Macready's; but I have no time for this sort of thing. The golden age of prodigies is gone by, and, at all events, I have no faith in it. Make an apothecary of him, clerk in a gas-works, or anything you please, only don't come here to bother me, you understand; my time is too full for these negotiations.”

“Have you done?” said the old man, fiercely.

“Done withyou, certainly,” said Stocmar, moving towards the bell.

“That you have not. You have not even begun with me yet. I perceive you do not remember me.”

“Remember you! I never saw you before, and I trust most sincerely I may never have that pleasure again. Anything wrong with the old party here?” whispered he, as he turned to Alfred, and touched his finger significantly to his forehead.

“Be quiet, boy!” cried Layton, fiercely, as his son started up to resent the insolence; “he shall soon learn whether there be or not. Our time, sir, if not so profitable as yours, has its value for ourselves, so that I will briefly tell you what I came for. I want the addresses of two persons of your acquaintance.”

“This is beyond endurance. Am I to be the victim of every twaddling old bore that requires an address? Are you aware, sir, that I don't keep an agency office?”

With a calm self-possession which amazed his son, the old man quietly said, “I want this address,—and this.” And he handed Stocmar a card with two names written in pencil.

“Clara Hawke'—and who is Clara Hawke? I never heard of her till now; and 'Mrs. Hawke' too? My good friend, this is some self-delusion of yours. Take him away quietly, young gentleman, or my patience will not stand this any longer. I 'll send for a policeman.”

“There is one already in waiting, sir,” said old Layton, fiercely, “and with a warrant for the apprehension of Mr. Hyman Stocmar. Ay, sir, our laws give many a wide margin to rascality, but slave-dealing is not legalized on our soil. Keep your laughter for the end, and see whether it will be so mirthful. Of that crime I mean to accuse you in an open court, the victim being myself. So, then, I have refreshed your memory a little; you begin to recognize me now. Ay, sir, it is the professor, your old slave, stands before you, whom, after having starved and cheated, you put drunk on board a sailing-ship, and packed off to America; sold, too, deliberately sold, for a sum of money. Every detail of this transaction is known to me, and shall be attested by competent witnesses. My memory is a better one than you suspect. I forget nothing, even to the day and the hour I last stood in this room. Yes,” cried he, turning to his son and addressing him, “I was summoned here to be exhibited as a spectacle to a visitor, and who, think you, was the distinguished friend to whose scrutiny I was to be subjected? He was one who himself had enjoyed his share of such homage,—he was no less a man than the famous Paul Hunt, tried at Jersey for the murder of Godfrey Hawke, and how acquitted the world well knows; and he it was who sat here, the dear friend of the immaculate Mr. Stocmar,—Mr. Stocmar, the chosen associate of lords and ladies, the favored guest of half the great houses in London. Oh, what a scandal and a disgrace is here! You 'd rather face the other charge, with all its consequences, than this one. Where is your laughter now, Stocmar? Where that jocose humor you indulged in ten minutes ago?”

“Look here, my good friend,” cried Stocmar, suddenly starting up from his chair, while the great drops of sweat hung on his forehead and trickled along his pale cheeks; “don't fancy that you can pit yourself againstmebefore the public. I have station, friends, and patrons in the highest ranks in England.”

“My name of Herbert Layton will suffice for all that I shall ask of it. When the true history of our connection shall be written and laid before the world, we shall see which of us comes best out of the ordeal.”

“This, then, is a vengeance!” said Stocmar, trembling from head to foot.

“Not if you do not drive me to it. There never were easier terms to escape a heavy penalty. Give me the address of these persons.”

“But I know nothing of them. I have not, amongst my whole acquaintance, one named Hawke.”

The old man made no reply, and looked puzzled and confused. Stocmar saw his advantage, and hastily added,—

“I am ready to pledge you my oath to this.”

“Ask him, then, for the address of Mrs. Penthony Morris, father, and of the young lady her reputed daughter,” interposed Alfred.

“Ay, what say you to this?”

“What I say is, that I am not here to be questioned as to the whereabouts of every real or imaginary name you can think of.”

“Restive again, Stocmar? What, are you so bent on your own ruin that you will exhaust the patience of one who never could boast too much of that quality? I tell you that if I leave this room without a full and explicit answer to my demand,—and in writing, too, in your own hand,—you'll not see me again except as your prosecutor in a court of justice. And now, for the last time, where is this woman?”

“She was in Italy; at Rome all the winter,” said Stocmar, doggedly.

“I know that. And now?”

“In Germany, I believe.”

“That is, youknow, and the place too. Write it there.”

“Before I do so, you 'll give me, under your own hand, a formal release from this trumpery charge, whose worst consequence would be my appearing in public to answer it.”

“Nothing of the kind; not a line to that effect. I 'll keep it over you till the whole of the business we are engaged in be completed. Ay, sir, you shall not be exposed to the evil temptation to turn upon me. We have affairs to settle which will require our meeting with this woman, and as we live in an age of telegraphs, you shall not be able to warn her that we are coming; for if you do, I swear to you more solemnly than you swore awhile back to me, that I 'll bring such disgrace upon your head that you 'll walk the streets of this city as wretched an object asIwas when I slept in that dog-hole behind the fire-engine.”

“You 'll do nothing with me by your threats, old man.”

“Everything, all I ask, by what my threats can accomplish. Remember, besides, all that we require of you will only serve to shorten a road that we are determined to go. You can only help us so far. The rest lies with ourselves.”

“Her address is Gebhardts-Berg, Bregenz,” said Stocmar, in a low muttering voice.

“Write it, sir; write it there,” said the doctor, pointing to a sheet of paper on the table.

“There, is that enough?” said Stocmar, as he wrote the words, and flung down the pen.

“No, there is yet the other. Where is Clara Hawke?”

“As to her, I may as well tell you she is bound to me by an indenture; I have been at the charge of her instruction, and can only be repaid by her successes hereafter—”

“More of the slave market!” broke in the doctor. “But to the question. Who sold her to you? She had neither father nor mother. With whom did you make your compact? Bethink you these are points you 'll have to answer very openly, and with reporters for the daily press amongst the company who listen to you. Such treaties being made public may lead to many an awkward disclosure. It were wiser not to provoke them.”

“I do not see why I am to incur a positive loss of money—”

“Only for this reason, that as you thought proper to buy without a title, you may relinquish without compensation. But come, we will deal with you better than you deserve. If it be, as I believe, this young lady's lot to inherit a large fortune, I will do my utmost to induce her to repay you all that you have incurred in her behalf. Will that satisfy you?”

“It might, if I were not equally certain that you have not the slightest grounds for the expectation. I know enough of her story to be aware that there is not one from whom she expects a shilling.”

“Every day and hour brings us great surprises; nothing was less looked for by the great Mr. Stocmar this morning than a visit from me, and yet it has come to pass.”

“And in whose interest, may I ask, are you taking all this trouble?—how is it incumbent on you to mix yourself up in questions of a family to which you do not belong, nor are even known to?”

“If I can only fashion to myself a pretext for your question, I would answer it; but to the matter,—write the address there.” And he pointed to the paper.

Stocmar obeyed, and wrote, “The Conservatoire, at Milan.”

“I may warn you,” added he, “that Mademoiselle Clara Stocmar, for as such is she inscribed, will not be given up to you, or to any one save myself, or by my order.”

“I am aware of that, and therefore you will write this order. Mr. Stocmar, you need not be told by me that the fact of this girl being an English subject once admitted, the law of this country will take little heed of the regulations of a musical academy; save yourself this publicity, and write as I tell you.”

Stocmar wrote some hurried lines and signed them. “Will that do?”

“Perfectly,” said he, folding up both papers, and placing them in his pocket. “Now, Mr. Stocmar, thus far has been all business between us. You have done me a small service, and for it I am willing to forgive a great wrong; still, it is a fair bargain. Let us see, however, if we cannot carry our dealings a little further. Here is a case where a dreadful scandal will be unburied, and one of the most fearful crimes be brought again before public notice, to herald the narrative of an infamous fraud. I am far from suspecting or insinuating that you have had any great part whatever in these transactions, but I know that when once they have become town talk, Hyman Stocmar will figure as a prominent name throughout. He will not appear as a murderer or a forger, it is true, but he will stand forward the intimate friend of the worst characters in the piece, and have always some small petty share of complicity to answer for. Is it not worth while to escape such an open exposure as this? What man—least of all, what man moving where you do—could court such scandal?”

Stocmar made no answer, but, leaning his head on his hand, seemed lost in thought.

“I can show you how to avoid it all. I will point ont the way to escape from the whole difficulty.”

“How do you mean?” cried Stocmar, suddenly.

“Leave the knaves and come over to the honest men; or desert the losing side and back the winner, if you like that better. In plain English, tell me all you know of this case, and of every one concerned in it. Give me your honest version of the scheme,—how it has been done and by whom. You know Trover and Hunt well; say what were their separate shares. I will not betray your confidence; and if I can, I will reward it.”

“Let your son leave us. I will speak to you alone,” said Stocmar, in a faint whisper.

Alfred, at a signal from his father, stepped quietly away, and they were alone.

It was late in the afternoon when the doctor arose to take his departure, and, though somewhat wearied, his look was elated, and his face glowed with an expression of haughty satisfaction, such as it might have worn after a collegiate triumph years and years ago.

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