The little cottage at Port-na-Whapple, to which Alfred Layton had repaired to collect the last few relics of his poor mother, had so completely satisfied all his longings for quiet seclusion, that he lingered on there in a sort of dreamy abstractedness far from unpleasing. Quackinboss was with him, but never was there a companion less obtrusive. The honest American delighted in the spot; he was a fisherman, and soon became acquainted with all the choice places for the take of salmon, while he oftentimes strolled inland and whipped the mountain streams with no small success. In fact, the gun, the rod, and a well-trained greyhound amply supplied all the demands of the household; and never was there a life less crossed by outward cares than theirs. Whether the Colonel believed or not that Layton was deeply engaged in his studies, he affected to think so, and made a point of interfering as little as possible with the other's time. If by a chance word now and then he would advert to their projected trip to America, he never pressed the theme, nor seemed in any way to evince over-eagerness regarding it. Indeed, with a delicacy of truest refinement, he abstained from making Layton ever feel himself constrained by the deep obligations he owed him, so that nothing could be freer than their intercourse; the only theme of gloom between them being the fate of Layton's father, of which, notwithstanding all their efforts, they could obtain no tidings. From the day when he quitted the asylum, and was pronounced “cured,” nothing was known of him. Dr. Millar had assisted in all their inquiries with a most friendly interest, and endeavored to induce Alfred to accept the hospitalities of the vicarage; but this he declined, making weak health his apology. The vicar, however, did not cease to show his constant attention, feeling deeply interested in the youth. In nothing did he evince this sentiment more than the trouble he gave himself to collect the scattered papers and documents of the old Professor. The old man—accustomed ever to an existence of emergency—was in the habit of pledging his private papers and his own writings for small sums here and there through the country; and thus researches which had cost months of labor, investigations of deepest import, were oftentimes pawned at a public for a few shillings. Scarcely a day went over without some record being brought in by a farmer or a small village tradesman; sometimes valueless, sometimes of great interest. Now and then they would be violent and rebellious pasquinades against men in power,—his supposed enemies,—versified slanders upon imaginary oppressors.
Neither imbued with Alfred's taste nor influenced by the ties of blood, Quackinboss took a pleasure in poring over these documents which the young man could not feel. The Professor, to him, seemed the true type of intellectual power, and he had that bold recklessness of all consequences which appealed strongly to the Yankee. He was, as he phrased it, an “all-mighty smasher,” and would have been a rare man for Congress! All Alfred's eagerness to possess himself of his father's papers was soon exceeded by the zeal of Quackinboss, who, by degrees, abandoned gun and rod to follow out his new pursuit. If he could not estimate the value of deep scientific calculations and researches, he was fully alive to the sparkling wit and envenomed satire of the various attacks upon individuals; and so enamored was he of these effusions, that many of the verse ones he had committed to memory.
Poor Alfred! what a struggle was his, as Quackinboss would recite some lines of fearful malignity, asking him, the while “if all English literature could show such another 'tarnal screamer' as his own parent? Warn't he a 'right-down scarification'? Did n't he scald the hides of them old hogs in the House of Lords? Well, I 'm blest if Mr. Clay could a-done it better!” To the young man's mild suggestions that his father's fame would rest upon very different labors, Quackinboss would hastily offer rejoinder, “No, sir, chemicals is all very well, but human natur' is a grander study than acids and oxides. What goes on in a man's heart is a main sight harder reading than salts and sediments.”
The Colonel had learned in the course of his wanderings that a farmer who inhabited one of the lone islands off the coast was in possession of an old writing-desk of the Professor,—the pledge for a loan of three pounds sterling,—a sum so unusually large as to imply that the property was estimated as of value. It was some time before the weather admitted of a visit to the spot, but late of a summer's evening, as Alfred sat musingly on the door-sill of the cottage, Quackinboss was seen approaching with an old-fashioned writing-desk under his arm, while he called out, “Here it is; and without knowin' the con-tents, I 'd not swap the plunder for a raft of timber!”
If the moment of examining the papers was longed for by the impatient Quackinboss with an almost feverish anxiety, what was his blank disappointment at finding that, instead of being the smart squibs or bitter invectives he delighted in, the whole box was devoted to documents relating to a curious incident in medical jurisprudence, and was labelled on the inner side of the lid, “Hawke's case, with all the tests and other papers.”
“This seems to have been a great criminal case,” said Alfred, “and it must have deeply interested my father, for he has actually drawn out a narrative of the whole event, and has even journalized his share in the story.
“'Strange scene that I have just left,' wrote he, in a clear, exact hand. 'A man very ill—seriously, dangerously ill—in one room, and a party—his guests—all deeply engaged at play in the same house. No apparent anxiety about his case,—scarcely an inquiry; his wife—if she be his wife, for I have my misgivings about it—eager and feverish, following me from place to place, with a sort of irresolute effort to say something which she has no courage for. Patient worse,—the case a puzzling one; there is more than delirium tremens here. But what more? that's the question. Remarkable his anxiety about the sense of burning in the throat; ever asking, “Is that usual? is it invariable?” Suspicion, of course, to be looked for; but why does it not extend tomealso? Afraid to drink, though his thirst is excruciating. Symptoms all worse; pulse irregular; desires to see me alone; his wife, unwilling, tries by many pretexts to remain; he seems to detect her plan, and bursts into violent passion, swears at her, and cries out, “Ain't you satisfied? Don't you see that I 'm dying?”'
“'We have been alone for above an hour. He has told me all; she is not his wife, but the divorced wife of a well-known man in office. Believes she intended to leave him; knows, or fancies he knows, her whole project. Rage and anger have increased the bad symptoms, and made him much worse. Great anxiety about the fate of his child, a daughter of his former wife; constantly exclaiming, “They will rob her! they will leave her a beggar, and I have none to protect her.” A violent paroxysm of pain—agonizing pain—has left him very low.
“'"What name do you give this malady, doctor?” he asks me.
“'"It is a gastric inflammation, but not unaccompanied by other symptoms.”
“'"How brought on?”
“'"No man can trace these affections to primary causes.”
“'"I can,—here, at least,” breaks he in. “This is poison, andyouknow it. Come, sir,” he cried, “be frank and honest with one whose moments are to be so few here. Tell me, as you would speak the truth in your last hour, am I not right?”
“'"I cannot say with certainty. There are things here I am unable to account for, and there are traits which I cannot refer to any poisonous agency.”
“'"Think over the poisons; you know best. Is it arsenic?”
“'"No, certainly not.”
“'"Nor henbane, nor nicotine, nor nitre, nor strychnine,—none of these?”
“'"None.”
“'"How subtle the dogs have been!” muttered he. “What fools they make of you, with all your science! The commonest money-changer will detect a spurious shilling, but you, with all your learning, are baffled by every counterfeit case that meets you. Examine, sir; inquire, investigate well,” he cried; “it is for your honor as a physician not to blunder here.”
“'"Be calm; compose yourself. These moments of passion only waste your strength.”
“'"Let me drink,—no, from the water-jug; they surely have not druggedthat!What are you doing there?”
“'"I was decanting the tea into a small bottle, that I might take it home and test it.”
“'"And so,” said he, sighing, “with all your boasted skill, it is only after death you can pronounce. It is to aid the law, not to help the living, you come. Be it so. But mind, sir,” cried he, with a wild energy, “they are all in it,—all. Let none escape. And these were my friends!” said he, with a smile of inexpressible sorrow. “Oh, what friends are a bad man's friends! You swear to me, doctor, if there has been foul play it shall be discovered. They shall swing for it Don't you screen them. No mumbling, sir; your oath,—your solemn sworn oath! Take those keys and open that drawer there,—no, the second one; fetch me the papers. This was my will two months ago,” said he, tearing open the seals of an envelope. “You shall see with your own eyes how I meant by her. You will declare to the world how you read in my own hand that I had left her everything that was not Clara's by right. Call her here; send for her; let her be present while you read it aloud, and let her see it burned afterwards.”
“'It was long before I could calm him after this paroxysm. At length he said: “What a guilty conscience will be yours if this crime pass unpunished!”
“'"If there be a crime, it shall not,” said I, firmly.
“'"If it were to do,” muttered he, in a low voice, “I 'd rather they 'd have shot me; these agonies are dreadful, and all this lingering too! Oh! could you not hasten it now? But not yet!” cried he, wildly. “I have to tell you about Clara. They may rob her of all here, but she will be rich after all. There is that great tract in America, in Ohio, called 'Peddar's Clearings;' don't forget the name. Peddar's Clearings, all hers; it was her mother's fortune. Harvey Winthrop, in Norfolk, has the titles, and is the guardian when I am dead.''”
“Why, I know that 'ere tract well; there's a cousin of mine, Obadiah B. Quackinboss, located there, and there ain't finer buckwheat in all the West than is grown on that location. But go on, let's hear about this sick fellow.”
“This is an account of chemical tests, all this here,” said Alfred, passing over several leaves of the diary. “It seems to have been a difficult investigation, but ending at last in the detection of corrosive sublimate.”
“And it killed him?”
“Yes; he died on the third evening after this was written. Here follows the whole story of the inquest, and a remarkable letter, too, signed 'T. Towers.' It is addressed to my father, and marked 'Private and Secret': 'The same hand which delivers you this will put you in possession of five hundred pounds sterling; and, in return, you will do whatever is necessary to make all safe. There is no evidence, except yours, of consequence; and all the phials and bottles have been already disposed of. Be cautious, and stand fast to yours,—T. T.' On a slip wafered to this note was written: 'I am without twenty shillings in the world; my shoes are falling to pieces, and my coat threadbare; but I cannot do this.' But what have we here?” cried Alfred, as a neatly folded note with deep black margin met his eyes. It was a short and most gracefully worded epistle in a lady's hand, thanking Dr. Layton for his unremitting kindness and perfect delicacy in a season of unexampled suffering. “I cannot,” wrote she, “leave the island, dearly associated as it is with days of happiness, and now more painfully attached to my heart by the most terrible of afflictions, without tendering to the kindest of physicians my last words of gratitude.” The whole, conveyed in lines of strictly conventional use, gave no evidence of anything beyond a due sense of courtesy, and the rigid observance of a fitting etiquette. It was very polished in style, and elegant in phraseology; but to have been written amid such scenes as she then lived in, it seemed a perfect marvel of unfeeling conduct.
“That 'ere woman riles me considerable,” said Quackinboss; “she doesn't seem to mind, noways, what has happened, and talks of goin' to a new clearin' quite uncon-sarned like. I ain't afraid of many things, but I 'm darned extensive if I 'd not be afeard of her! What are you a-por-ing over there?”
“It is the handwriting. I am certain I have seen it before; but where, how, and when, I cannot bring to mind.”
“How could you, sir? Don't all your womankind write that sort of up-and-down bristly hand, more like a prickly-pear fence than a Christian's writin'? It's all of a piece with your Old-World civilization, which tries to make people alike, as the eggs in a basket; but they ain't like, for all that. No, sir, nor will any fixin' make 'em so!”
“I have certainly seen it before,” muttered Layton to himself.
“I 'm main curious to know how your father found out the 'pyson,'—ain't it all there?”
“Oh, it was a long and very intricate chemical investigation.”
“Did he bile him?”
“Boil him? No,” said he, with difficulty restraining a laugh;' 'certainly not.”
“Well, they tell me, sir, there ain't no other sure way to discover it. They always bile 'em in France!”
“I am so puzzled by this hand,” muttered Alfred, half aloud.
Quackinboss, equally deep in his own speculations, proceeded to give an account of the mode of inquiry pursued by Frenchmen of science in cases of poisoning, which certainly would have astonished M. Orfila, and was only brought back from this learned disquisition by Layton's questioning him about “Peddar's Clearings.”
“Yes, sir,” said he, “it is con-siderable of a tract, and lies between two rivers. There 's the lines for a new city—Pentacolis—laid down there; and the chief town, 'Measles,' is a thriving location. My cousin, O. B. Quackinboss, did n't stump out less than eighty dollars an acre for his clearin', and there's better land than his there.”
“So far as appears, then, this is an extensive property which is spoken of here?”
“Well, sir, I expect it's a matter of half a million of dollars now, though, mayhap, twenty thousand bought it fifteen or sixteen years back.”
“I wonder what steps my father took in this affair? I 'll be very curious to know if he interested himself in the matter; for, with his indolent habits, it is just as likely that he never moved in it further.”
“A 'tarnal shame, then, for him, sir, when it was for a child left alone and friendless in the world; and I'm thinkin' indolence ain't the name to give it.”
For a moment an angry impulse to reply stirred Layton's blood, but he refrained, and said nothing.
“I'll go further,” resumed the American, “and I'll say that if your father did neglect this duty, you are bound to look to it. Ay, sir, there ain't no ways in this world of getting out of what we owe one to another. We are most of us ready enough to be 'generous,' but few take trouble to be 'just.'”
“I believe you are right,” said Layton, reflectively.
“I know it, sir,—I know it,” said the other, resolutely. “There's a sort of flattery in doing something more than we are obliged to do which never comes of doing what is strict fair. Ay,” added he, after a moment, “and I 've seen a man who 'd jump into the sea to save a fellow-creature as would n't give a cent to a starving beggar on dry land.”
“I 'll certainly inquire after this claim, and you 'll help me, Quackinboss?”
“Yes, sir; and there ain't no honester man in all the States to deal with than Harvey Winthrop. I was with him the day he cowhided Senator Jared Boles, of Massachusetts, and when I observed, 'I think you have given him enough,' he said, 'Well, sir, though I have n't the honor of knowingyou, if that be your conscientious opinion, I 'll abstain from going further;' and he did, and we went into the bar together, and had a mint julep.”
“The trait is worth remembering,” said Layton, dryly. “Here's another reason to cross the Atlantic,” cried he, with something of his former energy of voice and look.
“Here's a great cause to sustain and a problem to work out. Shall we go at once?”
“There's the 'Asia' to sail on Wednesday, and I 'm ready,” said Quackinboss, calmly.
“Wednesday be it, then,” cried Layton, with a gayety that showed how the mere prospect of activity and exertion had already cheered him.
They whose notions of a banker are formed on such home models as Overend and Gurney and Drummond, and the other princes o' that ilk, will be probably not a little shocked to learn by what inferior dignitaries the great craft is represented abroad; your English banker in a foreign city being the most extraordinary agglomeration of all trades it is well possible to conceive, combining within himself very commonly the duties of house-agent, wine-merchant, picture-dealer, curiosity-vendor, with agencies for the sale of india-rubber shoes, Cuban cigars, and cod-liver oil. He will, at a moment's notice, start you with a whole establishment from kitchen to stable, and, equally ready to do the honors of this world or the next, he will present you in society, or embalm you with every careful direction for your conveyance “homeward.” Well judging that in dealing thus broadly with mankind a variety of tastes and opinions must be consulted, they usually hunt in couples, one doing the serious, the other taking the light comedy parts. The one is the grave, calm, sensible man, with his prudent reserves and his cautious scruples; the other, a careless dog, who only “discounts” out of fun, and charges you “commission” in mere pastime and lightness of heart.
Imagine the heavy father and the light rake of comedy conspiring for some common object, and you have them. Probably the division-of-labor science never had a happier illustration than is presented by their agreement. Who, I ask you,—who can escape the double net thus stretched for his capture? Whatever your taste or temperament, you must surely be approachable by one or the other of these.
What Trover cannot, Twist will be certain to accomplish; where Twist fails, there Trover is sovereign. “Ah, you 'll have to askmypartner about that,” is the stereotyped saying of each. It was thus these kings of Brentford sniffed at the same nosegay, the world, and, sooth to say, to their manifest self-satisfaction and profit. If the compact worked well for all the purposes of catching clients, it was more admirable still in the difficult task of avoiding them. Strange and exceptional must his station in life be to whom the secret intelligences of Twist or Trover could not apply. Were we about to dwell on these gentlemen and their characteristics, we might advert to the curious fact that though their common system worked so smoothly and successfully, they each maintained for the other the most disparaging opinion, Twist deeming Trover a light, thoughtless, inconsiderate creature, Trover returning the compliment by regarding his partner as a bigoted, low-minded, vulgar sort of fellow, useful behind the desk, but with no range of speculation or enterprise about him.
Our present scene is laid at Mr. Trover's villa near Florence. It stands on the sunny slope of Fiezole, and with a lovely landscape of the Val d' Arno at its feet. O ye gentles, who love to live at ease, to inhale an air odorous with the jasmine and the orange-flower,—to gaze on scenes more beautiful than Claude ever painted,—to enjoy days of cloudless brightness, and nights gorgeous in starry brilliancy, why do ye not all come and live at Fiezole? Mr. Trover's villa is now to let, though this announcement is not inserted as an advertisement. There was a rumor that it was once Boccaccio's villa. Be that as it may, it was a pretty, coquettish little place, with a long terrace in front, under which ran an orangery, a sweet, cool, shady retreat in the hot noon-time, with a gushing little fountain always rippling and hissing among rock-work. The garden sloped away steeply. It was a sort of wilderness of flowers and fruit-trees, little cared for or tended, but beautiful in the wild luxuriance of its varied foliage, and almost oppressive in its wealth of perfume. Looking over this garden, and beyond it again, catching the distant domes of Florence, the tall tower of the Palazzo Vecchio, and the massive block of the Pitti, was a small but well-proportioned room whose frescos were carried from wall to ceiling by a gentle arch of the building, in which were now seated three gentlemen over their dessert. Mr. Trover's guests were our acquaintances Stocmar and Ludlow Paten. The banker and the “Impresario” were very old friends; they had done “no end of shrewd things” together. Paten was a new acquaintance. Introduced however by Stocmar, he was at once admitted to all the intimacy of his host, and they sat there, in the free indulgence of confidence, discussing people, characters, events, and probabilities, as three such men, long case-hardened with the world's trials, well versed in its wiles, may be supposed to do. Beneath the great broad surface of this life of ours, with its apparent impulses and motives, there is another stratum of hard stern realities, in which selfish motives and interested actions have their sphere. These gentlemen lived entirely in this layer, and never condescended to allude to what went on elsewhere. If they took a very disparaging view of life, it was not so much the admiration they bestowed on knavery as the hearty contempt they entertained for whatever was generous or trustful. Oh, how they did laugh at the poor “muffs” who believed in anything or any one! To listen to them was to declare that there was not a good trait in the heart, nor an honest sentiment which had not its origin in folly. And the stupid dog who paid his father's debts, and the idiot that beggared himself to portion his sisters, and the wretched creature who was ruined by giving security for his friend, all figured in a category despised and ridiculed!
“Were they happy in this theory?” you ask, perhaps. It is very hard to answer the question. They were undoubtedly what is called “jolly;” they laughed much, and seemed marvellously free from care and anxiety.
“And so, Trover,” said Stocmar, as he sipped his claret luxuriously,—“and so you tell me this is a bad season with you out here,—few travellers, no residents, and little stirring in the way of discounts and circular notes.”
“Wretched! miserable!” cried the banker. “The people who come out from England nowadays are mostly small twenty-pounders, looking sharp to the exchanges, and watching the quotations like money-brokers.”
“Where are the fast men all gone to? That is a problem puzzles me much,” said Paten.
ONE0330
“They have gone over to Puseyism, and stained glass, and Saint Winifred's shin-bones, and early Christian art,” broke in Stocmar. “I know them well, and their velvet paletots cut in the mediaeval fashion, and their hair cut straight over the forehead.”
“How slow a place must become with such fellows!” sighed Paten.
“The women are mostly pretty; they dress with a sort of quaint coquetry very attractive, and they have a kind of demure slyness about them, with a fascination all its own.”
“We have the exact type you describe here at this moment now,” said the banker. “She never goes into society, but steals furtively about the galleries, making copies of old Giottos, and such-like, and even penetrating into the monasteries with a special permission from the Cardinal-Secretary to examine the frescos.”
“Is she young? Is she pretty?” asked Stocmar.
“She is both, and a widow, I believe,—at least, her letters come to the bank addressed Mrs. Penthony Morris.”
Paten started, but a slight kick under the table from Stocmar recalled him to caution and self-possession.
“Tell us more about her, Trover; all that you know, in fact.”
“Five words will suffice for that. She lives here with the family of a certain Sir William Heathcote, and apparently exercises no small influence amongst them; at least, the tradespeople tell me they are referred to her for everything, and all the letters we get about transfers of stock, and suchlike, are inherhand.”
“You have met her, and spoken with her, I suppose?” asked Stocmar.
“Only once. I waited upon her, at her request, to confer with her about her daughter, whom she had some intention of placing at the Conservatoire at Milan, as a preparation for the stage, and some one had told her that I knew all the details necessary.”
“Have you seen the girl?”
“Yes, and heard her sing. Frightened enough she was, poor thing; but she has a voice like Sontag's, just a sort of mellow, rich tone they run upon just now, and with a compass equal to Malibran's.”
“And her look?”
“Strikingly handsome. She is very young; her mother says nigh sixteen, but I should guess her at under fifteen certainly. I thought at once of writing toyou, Stocmar, when I saw her. I know how eagerlyyousnatch up such a chance as this; but as you were on your way out, I deferred to mention her till you came.”
“And what counsel did you give her, Trover?”
“I said, 'By all means devote her to the Opera. It is to women, in our age, what the career of politics is to men, the only royal road to high ambition.'”
“That is what I tell all my young prime donne,” said Stocmar. “I never fail to remind them that any débutante may live to be a duchess.”
“And they believe you?” asked Paten.
“To be sure they do. Why, man, there is an atmosphere of credulity about a theatre that makes one credit anything, except what is palpably true. Every manager fancies he is making a fortune; every tenor imagines he is to marry a princess; and every fiddler in the orchestra firmly believes in the time when a breathless audience will be listening tohis'solo.'”
“I wish, with all my heart, I was on the stage, then,” exclaimed Paten. “I should certainly like to imbibe some of this sanguine spirit.”
“You are too old a dram-drinker, Ludlow, to be intoxicated with such light tipple,” said Stocmar. “You have tasted of the real 'tap.'”
“That have I,” said he, with a sigh that told how intensely he felt the words; and then, as if to overcome the sad impression, he asked, “And the girl, is she to take to the stage?”
“I believe Stocmar will have to decide the point; at least, I told her mother that he was on his way to Italy, and that his opinion on such a matter might be deemed final. Our friend here,” continued Trover, as he pointed laughingly to Stocmar,—“our friend here buys up these budding celebrities just as Anderson would a yearling colt, and, like him too, would reckon himself well paid if one succeed in twenty.”
“Ay, one in fifty, Trover,” broke in Stocmar. “It is quite true. Many a stone does not pay for the cutting; but as we always get the lot cheap, we can afford to stand the risk.”
“She's a strange sort of woman, this Mrs. Morris,” said Trover, after a pause, “for she seems hesitating between the Conservatoire and a convent.”
“Is the girl a Catholic?”
“No; but her mother appears to consider that as a minor circumstance; in fact, she strikes me as one of those people who, when they determine to go to a place, are certain to cut out a road for themselves.”
“That she is!” exclaimed Paten.
“Oh, then, you are acquainted with her?” cried Trover.
“No, no,” said he, hurriedly. “I was merely judging from your description of her. Such a woman as you have pictured I can imagine, just as if I had known her all my life.”
“I should like to see both mother and daughter,” broke in Stocmar.
“I fancy she will have no objection; at least, she said to me, 'You will not fail to inform me of your friend Mr. Stocmar's arrival here;' and I promised as much.”
“Well, you must arrange our meeting speedily, Trover, for I mean to be at Naples next week, at Barcelona and Madrid the week after. The worthy Public, for whose pleasure I provide, will, above all things, have novelty,—excellence, if you can, but novelty must be procured them.”
“Leave it to me, and you shall have an interview tomorrow or the day after.”
A strange telegraphic intelligence seemed to pass from Paten to the manager, for Stocmar quickly said, “By the way, don't drop any hint that Paten is with me; he has n't got the best of reputations behind the scenes, and it would, perhaps, mar all our arrangements to mention him.”
Trover put a finger to his lips in sign of secrecy, and said, “You are right there. She repeatedly questioned me on the score of your own morality, Stocmar, expressing great misgivings about theatrical folk generally.”
“Take my word for it, then, the lady is a fast one herself,” said Stocmar; “for, like the virtuous Pangloss, she knows what wickedness is.”
“It is deuced hard to say what she is,” broke in Trover. “My partner, Twist, declares she must have been a stockbroker or a notary public. She knows the whole share-list of Europe, and can quote you the 'price current' of every security in the Old World or the New; not to say that she is deeply versed in all the wily relations between the course of politics and the exchanges, and can surmise, to a nicety, how every spoken word of a minister can react upon the money-market.”
“She cannot have much to do with such interests, I take it,” said Paten, in assumed indifference.
“Not upon her own account, certainly,” replied Trover; “but such is her influence over this old Baronet, that she persuades him to sell out here, and buy in there, just as the mood inclines her.”
“And is he so very rich?” asked Stocmar.
“Twist thinks not; he suspects that the money all belongs to a certain Miss Leslie, the ward of Sir William, but who came of age a short time back.”
“Now, what may her fortune be?” said Stocmar, in a careless tone; “in round numbers, I mean, and not caring for a few thousands more or less.”
“I have no means of knowing. I can only guess it must be very large. It was only on Tuesday last she bought in about seven-and-twenty thousand 'Arkansas New Bonds,' and we have an order this morning to transfer thirty-two thousand more into Illinois 'Sevens.'”
“All going to America!” cried Paten. “Why does she select investment there?”
“That's the widow's doing. She says that the Old World is going in for a grand smash. That Louis Napoleon will soon have to throw off the mask, and either avow himself the head of the democracy, or brave its vengeance, and that either declaration will be the signal for a great war. Then she assumes that Austria, pushed hard for means to carry on the struggle, will lay hands on the Church property of the empire, and in this way outrage all the nobles whose families were pensioned off on these resources, thus of necessity throwing herself on the side of the people. In a word, she looks for revolution, convulsion, and a wide-spread ruin, and says the Yankees are the only people who will escape. I know little or nothing of such matters myself, but she sent Twist home t' other day in such a state of alarm that he telegraphed to Turin to transfer all his 'Sardinians' into 'New Yorkers,' and has been seriously thinking of establishing himself in Broadway.”
“I wish she 'd favor me with her views about theatrical property,” said Stocmar, with a half sneer, “and what is to become of the Grand Opera in the grand smash.”
“Ask her, and she'll tell you,” cried Trover. “You'll never pose her with a difficulty; she 'll give you a plan for paying off the national debt, tell you how to recruit the finances of India, conduct the Chinese war, or oppose French intrigues in Turkey, while she stitches away at her Berlin work. I give you my word, while she was finishing off the end of an elephant's snout in brown worsted, t' other day, she restored the Murats to Naples, gave Sicily to Russia, and sent the Pope, as head of a convict establishment, to Cayenne.”
“Is she a little touched in the upper story?” asked Stocmar, laying his finger on his forehead.
“Twist says not. Twist calls her the wiliest serpent he ever saw, but not mad.”
“And now a word about the daughter,” cried Stocmar. “What's the girl like?”
“Pretty,—very pretty; long eyelashes, very regular features, a beautiful figure; and the richest auburn hair I ever saw, but, with all that, none of the mother'sesprit,—no smartness, no brilliancy. In fact, I should call her a regular mope.”
“She is very young, remember,” broke in Stocmar.
“That's true; but with such a clever mother, if she really had any smartness, it would certainly show itself. Now, it is not only that she displays no evidence of superior mind, but she wears an air of depression and melancholy that seems like a sort of confession of her own insufficiency, so Twist says, and Twist is very shrewd as to character.”
“I can answer for it, he's devilish close-fisted as to money,” said Stocmar, laughing.
“I remember,” chimed in Trover; “he told me that you came into the bank with such a swaggering air, and had such a profusion of gold chains, rings, and watch-trinkets, that he set you down for one of the swell-mob out on a tour.”
“Civil, certainly,” said Stocmar, “but as little flattering to his own perspicuity as to myself. But I'll never forget the paternal tone in which he whispered me afterwards, 'Whenever you want a discount, Mr. Stocmar, from a stranger,—an utter stranger,—don't wear an opal pin set in brilliants; it don't do, I assure you it don't'.” Stocmar gave such a close imitation of the worthy banker's voice and utterance, that his partner laughed heartily.
“Does he ever give a dinner, Trover?” asked Stocmar.
“Oh yes, he gives one every quarter. Our graver clients, who would not venture to come up here, dine with him, and he treats them to sirloins and saddles, with Gordon's sherry and a very fruity port, made especially, I believe, for men with good balances to their names.”
“I should like to be present at one of these festivals.” “You have no chance, Stocmar; he'd as soon think of inviting thecorps de balletto tea. I myself am never admitted to such celebrations.”
“What rogues these fellows are, Ludlow!” said Stocmar. “If you and I were to treat the world in this fashion, what would be said of us! The real humbugs of this life are the fellows that play the heavy parts.” And with this reflection, whose image was derived from his theatrical experiences, he arose, to take his coffee on the terrace.
Mrs. Morris gave directions that when a gentleman should call to inquire for her he should be at once introduced, a brief note from Mr. Trover having apprised her that Mr. Stocmar had just arrived, and would wait upon her without further delay. There was not in her air or manner the slightest trait of inquietude or even impatience; as she sat there, still stitching away at her Berlin elephant, she seemed an emblem of calm, peaceful contentedness. Her half-mourning, perhaps, sobered down somewhat the character of her appearance; but these lilac-colored ribbons harmonized well with her fair skin, and became her much.
With a tact all her own, she had carefully avoided in the arrangement of her room any of those little artistic effects which, however successful with the uninitiated, would be certain of a significant appreciation from one familiar with stage “get up” and all the suggestive accessories of the playhouse. “No,” thought she,—“no half-open miniatures, no moss-roses in Bohemian glass—not even a camellia—on my work-table for Mr. Stocmar.” Even Lila, her Italian greyhound, was dismissed from her accustomed cushion on that morning, lest her presence might argue effect.
She knew well that such men as Stocmar have a sort of instinctive appreciation of a locality, and she determined he should have the fewest possible aids to his interpretation of herself. If, at certain moments, a terrible dread would cross her mind that this man might know all her history, who she was, and in what events mixed up, she rallied quickly from these fears by recalling how safe from all discovery she had lived for several years back. Indeed, personally, she was scarcely known at all, her early married life having been passed in almost entire reclusion; while, later on, her few acquaintances were the mere knot of men in Hawke's intimacy.
There was also another reflection that supplied its consolation: the Stocmars of this world are a race familiar with secrets; their whole existence is passed in hearing and treasuring up stories in which honor, fame, and all future happiness are often involved; they are a sort of lay priesthood to the “fast” world, trusted, consulted, and confided in on all sides. “If he should know me,” thought she, “it is only to make a friend of him, and no danger can come from that quarter.” Trover's note said, “Mr. Stocmar places his services at your feet, too proud if in any way they can be useful to you;” a mere phrase, after all, which might mean much or little, as it might be. At the same time she bore in mind that such men as Stocmar were as little addicted to rash pledges as Cabinet ministers. Too much harassed and worried by solicitation, they usually screened themselves in polite generalities, and never incurred the embarrassment of promising anything, so that, thus viewed, perhaps, he might be supposed as well-intentioned towards her.
Let us for a moment—a mere moment—turn to Stocmar himself, as he walked up and down a short garden alley of Trover's garden with Paten by his side.
“Above all things, remember, Stocmar, believe nothing she tells you, if she only tell it earnestly. Any little truth she utters will drop out unconsciously, never with asseveration.”
“I'm prepared for that,” replied he, curtly.
“She 'll try it on, too, with fifty little feminine tricks and graces; and although you may fancy you know the whole armory,pardi!she has weapons you never dreamed of.”
“Possibly,” was the only rejoinder.
“Once for all,” said Paten,—and there was impatience in his tone,—“I tell you she is a greater actress than any of your tragedy queens behind the footlights.”
“Don't you know what Talleyrand said to the Emperor, Ludlow? 'I think your Majesty may safely rely upon me for the rogueries.'”
Paten shook his head dissentingly; he was very far from feeling the combat an equal one.
Stocmar, however, reminded him that his visit was to be a mere reconnaissance of the enemy, which under no circumstances was to become a battle. “I am about to wait upon her with reference to a daughter she has some thoughts of devoting to the stage,—voilà toutI never heard ofyouin my life,—never heard of for,—know absolutely nothing of her history, save by that line in the 'Times' newspaper some six weeks ago, which recorded the death of Captain Penthony Morris, by fever, in Upper India.”
“That will do; keep to that,” cried Paten more cheerfully, as he shook his friend's hand and said good-bye.
Your shrewd men of the world seldom like to be told that any circumstance can arise which may put their acuteness to the test; they rather like to believe themselves always prepared for every call upon their astuteness. Stocmar therefore set out in a half-irritation, which it took the three miles of his drive to subdue.
“Mrs. Penthony Morris at home?” asked he of the discreet-looking English servant whom Sir William's home prejudices justly preferred to the mongrel and moustachioed domestics of native breed.
“At home for Mr. Stocmar, sir,” said the man, half inquiring, as he bowed deferentially, and then led the way upstairs.
When Stocmar entered the room, he was somewhat disappointed. Whether it was that he expected to see something more stately, haughty, and majestic, like Mrs. Siddons herself, or that he counted upon being received with a certain show of warmth and welcome, but the lady before him was slight, almost girlish in figure, blushed a little when he addressed her, and, indeed, seemed to feel the meeting as awkward a thing as need be.
“I have to thank you very gratefully, sir,” began she, “for condescending to spare me a small portion of time so valuable as yours. Mr. Trover says your stay here will be very brief.”
“Saturday, if I must, Friday, if I can, will be the limit, madam,” said he, coldly.
“Indeed!” exclaimed she. “I was scarcely prepared for so short a visit; but I am aware how manifold must be your engagements.”
“Yes, madam. Even these seasons, which to the world are times of recreation and amusement, are, in reality, to us periods of active business occupation. Only yesterday I heard a barytone before breakfast, listened to the grand chorus in the 'Huguenots' in my bath, while I decided on the merits of a ballerina as I sat under the hands of my barber.”
“And, I venture to say, liked it all,” said she, with an outbreak of frank enjoyment in his description.
“Upon my life, I believe you are right,” said he. “One gets a zest for a pursuit till everything else appears valueless save the one object; and, for my own part, I acknowledge I have the same pride in the success of my new tenor or my prima donna, as though I had my share in the gifts which secure it.”
“I can fancy all that,” said she, in a low, soft voice. And then, stealing a look of half admiration at her visitor, she dropped her eyes again suddenly, with a slight show of confusion.
“I assure you,” continued he, with warmth, “the season I brought out Cianchettoni, whenever he sang a little huskily I used to tell my friends I was suffering with a sore-throat.”
“What a deal of sympathy it betrays in your nature!” said she, with a bewitching smile. “And talking of sore-throats, don't sit there in the draught, but take this chair, here.” And she pointed to one at her side.
As Stocmar obeyed, he was struck by the beauty of her profile. It was singularly regular, and more youthful in expression than her full face. He was so conscious of having looked at her admiringly that he hastened to cover the awkwardness of the moment by plunging at once into the question of business. “Trover has informed me, madam,” began he, “as to the circumstances in which my very humble services can be made available to you. He tells me that you have a daughter—”
“Not a daughter, sir,” interrupted she, in a low, confidential voice, “a niece,—the daughter of a sister now no more.”
The agitation the words cost her increased Stocmar's confusion, as though he had evidently opened a subject of family affliction. Yes, her handkerchief was to her eyes, and her shoulders heaved convulsively. “Mr. Stocmar,” said she, with an effort which seemed to cost her deeply, “though we meet for the first time, I am no stranger to your character. I know your generosity, and your high sense of honor. I am well aware how persons of the highest station are accustomed to confide in your integrity, and in that secrecy which is the greatest test of integrity. I, a poor friendless woman, have no claim to prefer to your regard, except in the story of my misfortunes, and which, in compassion to myself, I will spare you. If, however, you are willing to befriend me on trust,—that is, on the faith that I am one not undeserving of your generosity, and entitled at some future day to justify my appeal to it,—if, I say, you be ready and willing for this, say so, and relieve my intense anxiety; or if—”
“Madam!” broke he in, warmly, “do not agitate yourself any more. I pledge myself to be your friend.”
With a bound she started from her seat, and, seizing his hand, pressed it to her lips, and then, as though overcome by the boldness of the action, she covered her face and sobbed bitterly. If Stocmar muttered some unmeaning commonplaces of comfort and consolation, he was in reality far more engrossed by contemplating a foot and ankle of matchless beauty, and which, in a moment so unguarded, had become accidentally exposed to view.
“I am, then, to regard you as my friend?” said she, trying to smile through her tears, while she bent on him a look of softest meaning. She did not, however, prolong a situation so critical, but at once, and with an impetuosity that bespoke her intense anxiety, burst out into the story of her actual calamities. Never was there a narrative more difficult to follow; broken at one moment by bursts of sorrow, heart-rending regrets, or scarce less poignant expressions of a resignation that savored of despair. There had been something very dreadful, and somebody had been terribly cruel, and the world—cold-hearted and unkind as it is—had been even unkinder than usual. And then she was too proud to stoop to this or accept that. “You surely would not have wished me to?” cried she, looking into his eyes very meltingly. And then there was a loss of fortune somehow and somewhere; a story within a story, like a Chinese puzzle. And there was more cruelty from the world, and more courage on her part; and then there were years of such suffering,—years that had so changed her. “Ah! Mr. Stocmar, you would n't know me if you had seen me in those days!” Then there came another bewitching glance from beneath her long eyelashes, as with a half-sigh she said, “You now know it all, and why my poor Clara must adopt the stage, for I have concealed nothing from you,—nothing!”
“I am to conclude, then, madam,” said he, “that the young lady herself has chosen this career?”
“Nothing of the kind, my dear Mr. Stocmar. I don't think she ever read a play in her life; she has certainly never seen one. Of the stage, and its ambitions and triumphs, she has not the very vaguest notion, nor do I believe, if she had, would anything in the world induce her to adopt it.”
“This is very strange; I am afraid I scarcely understand you,” broke he in.
“Very probably not, sir; but I will endeavor to explain my meaning. From the circumstances I narrated to you awhile ago, and from others which it is unnecessary for me to enter upon, I have arrived at the conclusion that Clara and I must separate. She has reached an age in which either her admissions or her inquiries might prove compromising. My object would therefore be to part with her in such a manner as might exclude our meeting again, and my plan was to enter her as a pupil at the Conservatoire, either at Bologna or Milan, having first selected some one who would assume the office of her guardian, as it were, replacing me in my authority over her. If her talents and acquirements were such as to suit the stage, I trusted to the effect of time and the influence of companionship to reconcile her to the project.”
“And may I ask, madam, have you selected the person to whom this precious treasure is to be confided?—the guardian, I mean.”
“I have seen him and spoken with him, sir, but have not yet asked his acceptance of the trust.”
“Shall I be deemed indiscreet if I inquire his name?”
“By no means, sir. He is a gentleman of well-known character and repute, and he is called—Mr. Stocmar.”
“Surely, madam, you cannot mean me?” cried he, with a start.
“No other, sir. Had I the whole range of mankind to choose from, you would be the man; you embrace within yourself all the conditions the project requires; you possess all the special knowledge of the subject; you are a man of the world fully competent to decide what should be done, and how; you have the character of being one no stranger to generous motives, and you can combine a noble action with, of course, a very inadequate but still some personal advantage. This young lady will, in short, be yours; and if her successes can be inferred from her abilities, the bribe is not despicable.”
“Let us be explicit and clear,” said Stocmar, drawing his chair closer to her, and talking in a dry, businesslike tone. “You mean to constitute me as the sole guide and director of this young lady, with full power to direct her studies, and, so to say, arbitrate for her future in life.”
“Exactly,” was the calm reply.
“And what am I to give in return, madam? What is to be the price of such an unlooked-for benefit?”
“Secrecy, sir,—inviolable secrecy,—your solemnly sworn pledge that the compact between us will never be divulged to any, even your dearest friend. When Clara leaves me, you will bind yourself that she is never to be traced to me; that no clew shall ever be found to connect us one with the other. With another name who is to know her?”
Stocmar gazed steadfastly at her. Was it that in a moment of forgetfulness she had suffered herself to speak too frankly, for her features had now assumed a look of almost sternness, the very opposite to their expression hitherto.
“And can you part with your niece so easily as this, madam?” asked he.
“She is not my niece, sir,” broke she in, with impetuosity; “we are on honor here, and so I tell you she is nothing—less than nothing—to me. An unhappy event—a terrible calamity—bound up our lot for years together. It is a compact we are each weary of, and I have long told her that I only await the arrival of her guardian to relieve myself of a charge which brings no pleasure to either of us.”
“You have given me a right to be very candid with you, madam,” said Stocmar. “May I adventure so far as to ask what necessity there can possibly exist for such a separation as this you now contemplate?”
“You are evidently resolved, sir, to avail yourself of your privilege,” said she, with a slight irritation of manner; “but when people incur a debt, they must compound for being dunned. You desire to know why I wish to part with this girl? I will tell you. I mean to cutoff all connection with the past; and she belongs to it. I mean to carry with me no memories ofthattime; and she is one of them. I mean to disassociate myself from whatever might suggest a gloomy retrospect; and this her presence does continually. Perhaps, too, I have other plans,—plans so personal that your good breeding and good taste would not permit you to penetrate.”
Though the sarcasm in which these last words were uttered was of the faintest, Stocmar felt it, and blushed slightly as he said: “You do me but justice, madam. I would not presume so far! Now, as to the question itself,” said he, after a pause, “it is one requiring some time for thought and reflection.”
“Which is what it does not admit of, sir,” broke she in. “It was on Mr. Trover's assurance that you were one of those who at once can trust themselves to say 'I will,' or 'I will not,' that I determined to see you. If the suddenness of the demand be the occasion of any momentary inconvenience as to the expense, I ought to mention that she is entitled to a few hundred pounds,—less, I think, than five,—which, of course, could be forthcoming.”
“A small consideration, certainly, madam,” said he, bowing, “but not to be overlooked.” He arose and walked the room, as though deep in thought; at last, halting before her chair, and fixing a steady but not disrespectful gaze on her, he said, “I have but one difficulty in this affair, madam, but yet it is one which I know not how to surmount.”
“State it, sir,” said she, calmly.
“It is this, madam: in the most unhappy newness of our acquaintance I am ignorant of many things which, however anxious to know, I have no distinct right to ask, so that I stand between the perils of my ignorance and the greater perils of possible presumption.”
“I declare to you frankly, sir, I cannot guess to what you allude. If I only surmised what these matters were, I might possibly anticipate your desire to hear them.”
“May I dare, then, to be more explicit?” asked he, half timidly.
“It is for you, sir, to decide upon that,” said she, with some haughtiness.
“Well, madam,” said he, boldly, “I want to know are you a widow?”
“Yes, sir,” said she, with a calm composure.
“Am I, then, to believe that you can act free and uncontrolled, without fear of any dictation or interference from others?”
“Of course, sir.”
“I mean, in short, madam, that none can gainsay any rights you exercise, or revoke any acts you execute?”
“Really, sir, I cannot fancy any other condition of existence, except it be to persons confined in an asylum.”
“Nay, madam, you are wrong there,” said he, smiling; “the life of every one is a network of obligations and ties, not a whit the less binding that they are not engrossed on parchment, and attested by three witnesses; liberty to do this, or to omit that, having always some penalty as a consequence.”
“Oh, sir, spare me these beautiful moralizings, which only confuse my poor weak woman's head, and just say how they address themselves to me.”
“Thus far, madam: that your right over the young lady cannot be contested nor shared?”
“Certainly not. It is with me to decide for her.”
“When, with your permission, I have seen her and spoken with her, if I find that no obstacle presents itself, why then, madam, I accept the charge—”
“And are her guardian,” broke she in. “Remember, it is in that character that you assume your right over her. I need not tell a person of such tact as yours how necessary it will be to reply cautiously and guardedly to all inquiries, from whatever quarter coming, nor how prudent it will be to take her away at once from this.”
“I will make arrangements this very day. I will telegraph to Milan at once,” said he.
“Oh, dear!” sighed she, “what a moment of relief is this, after such a long, long period of care and anxiety!”
The great sense of relief implied in these words scarcely seemed to have extended itself to Mr. Stocmar, who walked up and down the room in a state of the deepest preoccupation.
“I wish sincerely,” said he, half in soliloquy,—“I wish sincerely we had a little more time for deliberation here; that we were not so hurried; that, in short, we had leisure to examine this project more fully, and at length.”
“My dear Mr. Stocmar,” said she, blandly, looking up from the embroidery that she had just resumed, “life is not a very fascinating thing, taken at its best; but what a dreary affair it would be if one were to stop every instant and canvass every possible or impossible eventuality of the morrow. Do what we will, how plain is it that we can prejudge nothing, foresee nothing!”
“Reasonable precautions, madam, are surely permissible. I was just imagining to myself what my position would be if, when this young lady had developed great dramatic ability and every requirement for theatrical success, some relative—some fiftieth cousin if you like, but some one with claim of kindred—should step forward and demand her. What becomes of all my rights in such a case?”
“Let me put another issue, sir. Let me suppose somebody arriving at Dover or Folkestone, calling himself Charles Stuart, and averring that, as the legitimate descendant of that House, he was the rightful King of England. Do you really believe that her Majesty would immediately place Windsor at his disposal; or don't you sincerely suppose that the complicated question would be solved by the nearest policeman?”
“But she might marry, madam?”
“With her guardian's consent, of course,” said she, with a demure coquetry of look and manner. “I trust she has been too well brought up, Mr. Stocmar, to make any risk of disobedience possible.”
“Yes, yes,” muttered he, half impatiently, “it's all very well to talk of guardians' consent; but so long as she can say, 'How did you become my guardian? What authority made you such? When, where, and by whom conferred?'—”
“My dear Mr. Stocmar, your ingenuity has conjured up an Equity lawyer instead of an artless girl not sixteen years of age! Do, pray, explain to me how, with a mind so prone to anticipate difficulties, and so rife to coin objections,—how, in the name of all that is wonderful, do you ever get through the immense mass of complicated affairs your theatrical life must present? If, before you engage a prima donna, you are obliged to trace her parentage through three generations back, to scrutinize her baptismal registry and her mother's marriage certificate, all I can say is that a prime minister's duties must be light holiday work compared with the cares ofyourlot.”
“My investigations are not carried exactly so far as you have depicted them,” said he, good-humoredly; “but, surely, I 'm not too exacting if I say I should like some guarantee.”
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Stocmar,” said she, interrupting him with a laugh, “but may I ask if you are married?”
“No, madam. I am a bachelor.”
“You probably intend, however, at some future time to change your state. I'm certain you don't mean to pass all your life in the egotism of celibacy.”
“Possibly not, madam. I will not say that I am beyond the age of being fascinated or being foolish.”
“Just what I mean, sir. Well, surely, in such a contingency, you 'd not require the lady to give you what you have just called a guarantee that she 'd not run away from you?”
“My trust in her would be that guarantee, madam.”
“Extend the same benevolent sentiment to me, sir.Trustme. I ask for no more.” And she said this with a witchery of look and manner that made Mr. Stocmar feel very happy and very miserable, twice over, within the space of a single minute.
Poor Mr. Stocmar, what has become of all your caution, all your craft, and all the counsels so lately given you? Where are they now? Where is that armor of distrust in which you were to resist the barbed arrow of the enchantress? Trust her! It was not to be thought of, and yet it was exactly the very thing to be done, in spite of all thought and in defiance of all reason.
And so the “Stocmar” three-decker struck her flag, and the ensign of the fast frigate floated from her masthead!