CHAPTER XXXVI. MR. STOCMAR'S VISIT

It was not without trepidation that Mr. Stocmar presented himself, the morning after the events we have recorded, at the residence of Sir William Heathcote. His situation was, indeed, embarrassing; for not only had he broken faith with Mrs. Morris in permitting Paten to take his place at the ball, but as Paten had started for England that same night without even communicating with him, Stocmar was completely puzzled what to do, and how to comport himself.

That she would receive him haughtily, disdainfully even, he was fully prepared for; that she would reproach him—not very measuredly too—for his perfidy regarding Paten, he also expected. But even these difficulties were less than the embarrassment of not knowing how her meeting with Paten had been conducted, and to what results it had led. More than once did he stop in the street and deliberate with himself whether he should not turn back, hasten to his hotel, and leave Florence without meeting her. Nor was he quite able to say why he resisted this impulse, nor how it was that, in defiance of all his terrors, he found himself at length at her door.

The drawing-room into which he was shown was large and splendidly furnished. A conservatory opened from one end, and at the other a large folding glass door gave upon a spacious terrace, along which a double line of orange-trees formed an alley of delicious shade. Scarcely had Stocmar passed the threshold than a very silvery voice accosted him from without.

“Oh, do come here, dear Mr. Stocmar, and enjoy the delightful freshness of this terrace. Let me present a very old friend of my family to you,—Captain Holmes. He has just returned from India, and can give you the very latest news of the war.” And the gentlemen bowed, and smiled, and looked silly at each other. “Is not all this very charming, Mr. Stocmar?—at a season, too, when we should, in our own country, be gathering round coal-fires and screening ourselves from draughts. I am very angry with you,—very,” whispered she, as she gave him her hand to kiss, “and I am not at all sure if I mean ever to be friends with you again.”

And poor Mr. Stocmar bowed low and blushed, not through modesty, indeed, but delight, for he felt like the schoolboy who, dreading to be punished, hears he is to be rewarded.

“But Iamforgiven, am I not?” muttered he.

“Hush! Be cautious,” whispered she. “Here comes Sir William Heathcote. Can't you imagine yourself to have known him long ago?”

The hint was enough; and as the old Baronet held out his hand with his accustomed warmth, Stocmar began a calculation of how many years had elapsed since he had first enjoyed the honor of shaking that hand. This is a sort of arithmetic elderly gentlemen have rather a liking for. It is suggestive of so many pleasant little platitudes about “long ago,” with anecdotic memories of poor dear Dick or Harry, that it rarely fails to interest and amuse. And so they discussed whether it was not in '38 or '39,—whether in spring or in autumn,—if Boulter—“poor Tom,” as they laughingly called him—had not just married the widow at that time; and, in fact, through the intervention of some mock dates and imaginary incidents, they became to each other like very old friends.

Those debatable nothings are of great service to Englishmen who meet as mere acquaintances; they relieve the awkwardness of looking out for a topic, and they are better than the eternal question of the weather. Sir William had, besides, a number of people to ask after, and Stocmar knew everybody, and knew them, too, either by some nickname, or some little anecdotic clew very amusing to those who have lived long enough in the world to be interested by the same jokes on the same people,—a time of life, of course, not ours, dear reader, though we may come to it one day; and Captain Holmes listened to the reminiscences, and smiled, and smirked, and “very true'd,” to the great enjoyment of the others; while Mrs. Morris stole noiselessly here and there, cutting camellias for a bouquet, but not unwatchful of the scene.

“I hope and trust I have been misinformed about your plans here, Mr. Stocmar,” said Sir William, who was so happy to recall the names of former friends and acquaintances. “You surely do not mean to run away from us so soon?”

A quick glance from Mrs. Morris telegraphed his reply, and he said, “I am most unfortunately limited for time. I shall be obliged to leave immediately.”

“A day or two you could surely spare us?” said Heathcote.

Stocmar shook his head with a deploring smile, for another glance, quick as the former, had given him his instructions.

“I have told you, Sir William, how inexorable he is about Clara; and although at first I stoutly opposed his reasonings, I am free to own that he has convinced me his plan is the true one; and as he has made all the necessary arrangements,—have you not, Mr. Stocmar?—and they are charming people she will be with,—he raves about them,” said she, in a sort of whisper, while she added, still lower, “and I partly explained to him my own projected change,—and, in fact, it is better as it is,—don't you think so?” and thus hurrying Sir William along,—a process not unlike that by which an energetic rider hustles a lazy horse through heavy ground,—she at least made him feel grateful that he was not called upon for any increased exercise of his judgment. And then Stocmar followed, like another counsel in the same brief,—half jocularly, to be sure, and like one not required to supply more than some illustrative arguments. He remarked that young ladies nowadays were expected to be models of erudition,—downright professors; no smatterings of French and Italian, no water-color sketches touched up by the master,—“they must be regular linguists, able to write like De Sévigné, and interpret Dante.” In a word, so much did he improve the theme, that he made Sir William shudder at the bare thought of being domesticated with so much loose learning, and thank his stars that he had been born in a generation before it. Not but the worthy Baronet had his own secret suspicions that Clara wanted little aid from all their teachings; his firm belief being that she was the most quick-witted, gifted creature ever existed, and it was in a sort of triumphant voice he asked Mrs. Morris, “Has Mr. Stocmar seen her?”

“Not yet,” said she, dryly. “Clara is in my room. Mr. Stocmar shall see her presently; for, as he insists on leaving this to-morrow—”

“To-morrow—-to-morrow!” cried Sir William, in amazement.

And then Stocmar, drawing close to Sir William, began confidentially to impart to him how, partly from over-persuasion of certain great people, partly because he liked that sort of thing, he had got into theatrical management. “One must do something. You know,” said he, “I hate farming, never was much of a sportsman, had no turn for politics; and so, by Jove! I thought I 'd try the stage. I mean, of course, as manager, director, 'impresario,' or whatever you call it. I need not tell you it's a costly amusement, so far as expense goes. I might have kept the best house in town, and the best stables in Leicestershire, for far less than I have indulged my dramatic tastes; but I like it: it amuses, it interests me!” And Stocmar drew himself up and stuck his hands into his waistcoat-pockets, as though to say, “Gaze, and behold a man rich enough to indulge a costly caprice, and philosophic enough to pay for the pleasure that rewards him.” “Yes, sir,” he added, “my last season, though the Queen took her private box, and all my noble friends stood stanchly to me, brought me in debt no less than thirteen thousand seven hundred pounds! That's paying for one's whistle, sir,—eh?” cried he, as though vain of his own defeat.

“You might have lost it in the funds, and had no pleasure for it,” said Sir William, consolingly.

“The very remark I made, sir. The very thing I said to Lord Snaresby. I might have been dabbling in those Yankee securities, and got hit just as hard.”

Sir William made a wry face, and turned away. He hoped that Captain Holmes had not overheard the allusion; but the Captain was deep in “Galignani,” and heard nothing.

“It is this,” continued Stocmar, “recalls me so suddenly to England. We open on the 24th, and I give you my word of honor we have neither tenor, basso, nor barytone engaged, nor am I quite sure of my prima donna.”

“Who ever was?” whispered Mrs. Morris, slyly; and then added aloud, “Come now, and let me present Clara to you. We'll return presently, Sir William.” And, so saying, she slipped her arm within Stocmar's and led him away.

“Who is that Captain Holmes?” asked he, as they walked along.

“Oh, a nobody; an old muff.”

“Is he deaf, or is it mere pretence?”

“Deaf as a post.”

“I know his face perfectly. I 've seen him about town for years back.”

“Impossible! He has been collecting revenue, distressing Talookdars, or Ryots, or whatever they are, in India, these thirty-odd years. It was some one you mistook for him.” She had her hand on the lock of the door as she said this. She paused before opening it, and said, “Remember, you are her guardian,—your word is law.” And they entered.

Stocmar was certainly not prepared for the appearance of the young girl who now rose to receive him with all the practised ease of the world. She was taller, older-looking, and far handsomer than he expected, and, as Mrs. Morris said, “Your guardian, Clara,” she courtesied deeply, and accepted his salutation at once with deference and reserve.

“I am in the most painful of all positions,” began he, with a courteous smile. “My first step in your acquaintance is as the ungracious herald of a separation from all you love.”

“I have been prepared, sir, for your intentions regarding me,” said she, coldly.

ONE0404

“Yes, Mr. Stocmar,” broke in Mrs. Morris, quickly, “though Clara is very young, she is thoroughly aware of our circumstances; she knows the narrowness of our fortune, and the necessity we are under of effort for our future support. Her own pride and her feeling for me are sufficient reasons for keeping such matters secret. She is not ignorant of the world, little as she has seen of it, and she comprehends that our acceptance with our friends is mainly dependent on our ability to dispense with their assistance.”

“Am I to be a governess, sir?” asked Clara, with a calm which the deathlike paleness of her face showed to have cost her dearly.

“A governess! a governess!” repeated he, looking at Mrs. Morris for his cue, for the suddenness of the question had routed all his preparations. “I think not,—I should hope not; indeed, I am enabled to say, there is no thought of that.”

“If so,” continued Clara, in the same calm tone, “I should like to be with very young children. I am not afraid of being thought menial.”

“Clara,” broke in Mrs. Morris, harshly, “Mr. Stocmar has already assured you that he does not contemplate this necessity.” She looked towards him as she spoke, and he at once saw it was his duty to come up to the rescue, and this he did with one of those efforts all his own. He launched forth boldly into generalities about education and its advantages; how, with the development of the mind and the extension of the resources, came new fields of exercise, fresh realms of conquest. “None of us, my dear young lady,” cried he, “not the worldliest nor the wisest of us, can ever tell when a particular acquirement will be the key-stone of our future fortune.” He illustrated his theory with copious instances. “There was Mademoiselle Justemar, whom nobody had ever imagined to be an artiste, came out as Alice one evening that the prima donna was ill, and took the whole town by storm. There was that little creature, Violetta; who ever fancied she could dance till they saw her as Titania? Every one knew of Giulia Barducci, taken from the chorus, to be the greatest Norma of the age.”

He paused and looked at her, with a stare of triumph in his features; his expression seemed to say, “What think you of that glorious Paradise I have led you to look at?”

“It is very encouraging indeed, sir,” said Clara, dryly, but with no semblance of irony,—“very encouraging. There is, then, really no reason that one day I might not be a rope-dancer.”

“Clara,” cried Mrs. Morris, severely, “you must curb this habit, if you will not do better by abandoning it altogether. The spirit of repartee is the spirit of impertinence.”

“I had really hoped, mamma,” said she, with an air of simplicity, “that, as all Mr. Stocmar's illustrations were taken from the stage, I had caught the spirit of his examples in giving one from the circus.”

“I'll be sworn you're fond of riding,” cried Stocmar, eager to relieve a very awkward crisis even by a stupid remark.

“Yes, sir; and I am very clever in training. I know the whole 'Bauchet' system, and can teach a horse his 'flexions,' and the rest of it.—Well, but, mamma,” broke she in, apologetically, “surely my guardian ought to be aware of my perfections; and ifyouwon't inform him,Imust.”

“You perceive, sir,” said Mrs. Morris, “that when I spoke of her flippancy, I was not exaggerating.”

“You may rely upon it, Mr. Stocmar,” continued Clara, “mamma's description of me was only justice.”

Stocmar laughed, and hoped that the others would have joined him; but in this he was unhappily disappointed: they were even graver than before; Mrs. Morris showing, in her heightened color, a degree of irritation, while Clara's pale face betrayed no sign of emotion.

“You are to leave this to-morrow, Clara,” said Mrs. Morris, coldly.

“Very well, mamma,” was the quiet answer.

“You don't seem very eager to know for whither,” said Stocmar, smiling. “Are all places alike to you?”

“Pretty much so, sir,” said she, in the same voice.

“You were scarcely prepared for so much philosophy, I 'm sure, Mr. Stocmar,” said Mrs. Morris, sneeringly. “Pray confess yourself surprised.”

“Call it ignorance, mamma, and you'll give it the right name. What doIknow of the world, save from guide and road books? and, from the little I have gleaned, many a village would be pleasanter to me than Paris.”

“More philosophy, sir. You perceive what a treasure of wisdom is about to be intrusted to your charge.”

“Pray bear that in mind, sir,” said Clara, with a light laugh; “and don't forget that though the casket has such a leaden look, it is all pure gold.”

Never was poor Stocmar so puzzled before. He felt sailing between two frigates in action, and exposed to the fire of each, though a non-combatant; nor was it of any use that he hauled down his flag, and asked for mercy,—they only loaded and banged away again.

“I must say,” cried he at last, “that I feel very proud of my ward.”

“And I am charmed with my guardian,” said she, courtesying, with an air that implied far more of grace than sincerity in its action.

Mrs. Morris bit her lip, and a small red spot on her cheek glowed like a flame.

“I have explained fully to Mr. Stocmar, Clara,” said she, in a cold, calm tone, “that from to-morrow forward your allegiance will be transferred frommetohim; that with him will rest all authority and direction over you; that, however interested—naturally interested—I must continue to feel in your future,he, andhealone, must be its arbiter. I repeat this now, in his presence, that there may be no risk of a misconception.”

“Am I to write to you, mamma?” asked the girl, in a voice unmoved as her own.

“Yes, you will write; that is, I shall expect to hear from you in reply to my letters. This we will talk over together.”

“Am I to correspond with you, sir?” said she, addressing Stocmar in the same impassive way.

“Oh! by all means. I shall take it as the greatest of favors. I shall be charmed if you will honor me so far.”

“I ask, sir,” continued she, “because I may chance to have companions in the place to which I am going; and, even to satisfytheirscruples, one ought to have some belongings.”

There was not the shadow of irritation in the manner in which these words were spoken; and yet Stocmar heard them with a strange thrill of pity, and Mrs. Morris grew pale as she listened to them.

“Clara,” said Mrs. Morris, gravely, “there are circumstances in our relations to each other which you will only learn when we have parted. I have committed them to writing for your own eye alone. They will explain the urgency of the step I am now taking, as much foryoursake as formine. When you have read and carefully pondered over that paper, you will be convinced that this separation is of necessity.”

Clara bowed her head in assent, but did not speak.

“You will also see, Clara,” resumed she, “that it is very far from likely the old relations between us will ever again be resumed. If we do meet again,—an event that may or may not happen,—it will be as some distant cousins,—some who have ties of kindred between them, and no more.”

Clara nodded again, but still in silence.

“You see, sir,” said Mrs. Morris, turning towards Stocmar, while her eyes flashed angrily,—“you see, sir, that I am handing over to your care a model of obedience,—a young lady who has no will save that of those in authority over her,—not one rebellious sentiment of affection or attachment in her nature.”

“And who will ever strive to preserve your good opinions, sir, by persevering in this wise course,” said Clara, with a modest courtesy.

If any one could have read Mr. Stocmar's heart at that moment, he would have detected no very benevolent feelings towards either mother or daughter, while he sincerely deplored his own fate at being in such company.

“Don't you think, mamma,” said the girl, with an easy smile, “that, considering how recently we have known this gentleman, we have been sufficiently explicit and candid before him, and that any pretence of emotion in his presence would be most unbecoming? He will, I am sure, forgive us the omission. Won't you, sir?”

Stocmar smiled and bowed, and blushed and looked miserable.

“Youhave been very candid, at all events, Clara,” said Mrs. Morris; “and Mr. Stocmar—or I mistake him much—must have acquired a considerable insight into the nature of his charge. Sir William expects to see you at dinner to-day, Clara,” added she, in an easier tone. “He hopes to be well enough to come to table; and as it will be your last evening here—”

“So it will,” said the girl, quickly; “and I must fetch down Beethoven with me, and play his favorites for him once more.”

Mrs. Morris raised her eyebrows with an expressive look at Stocmar, and led him from the room. Scarcely had the door closed, when the girl threw herself, half kneeling, on the sofa, and sobbed as if her very heart was breaking.

And there came a next morning to all this. Oh, these same next mornings of life!—strange leaves in that book of our daily existence, now dark and black-lettered, now bright in all the glories of golden tracery! For so is it, each day is a fresh page to be written “with chalk or charcoal,” as it may be.

Two travelling-carriages took their way from Florence on that morning,—one for Bologna, with Mr. Stocmar and Clara; the other for Rome, with the Heathcotes, Captain Holmes having his place in the rumble. Old soldier that he was, he liked the open-air seat, where he could smoke his cigar and see the country. Of all those who journeyed in either, none could vie with him in the air of easy enjoyment that he wore; and even the smart Swiss maid at his side, though she might have preferred a younger companion, was fain to own, in her own peculiar English, that he was full of little bounties (bontés) in her regard. And when they halted to bait, he was so amiable and full of attentions to every one, exerting the very smallest vocabulary to provide all that was needed; never abashed by failure or provoked by ridicule; always good-tempered, always gay. It was better than colchicum to Sir William to see the little fat man washing the salad himself at the fountain, surrounded by all the laughing damsels of the hostel, who jeered him on every stage of his performance; and even May, whose eyes were red with crying after Clara, had to laugh at the disasters of his cookery and the blunders of his Italian. And then he gossiped about with landlords and postboys, till he knew of every one who had come or was coming; what carriages, full of Russian Princes, could not get forward for want of horses, and what vetturinos, full of English, had been robbed of everything. He had the latest intelligence about Garibaldi, and the names of the last six Sicilian Dukes shot by the King of Naples. Was he not up, too, in his John Murray, which he read whenever Mademoiselle Virginia was asleep, and sold out in retail at every change of post-horses?

Is it not strange that this is exactly the sort of person one needs on a journey, and yet is only by the merest accident to be chanced upon? We never forget the courier, nor the valet, nor the soubrette, but the really invaluable creature,—the man who learns the name of every village, the value of all coinage, the spot that yields good wine, the town where the peaches are fullest of flavor, or the roses richest in perfume; we leave him to be picked up at hazard, if picked up at all. It is an unaccountable prejudice that makes the parasite unpopular. For who is it that relieves life of much of its asperities,—who is it that provides so unceasingly that our capon should be well roasted and our temper unruffled,—who, like him, to secure all the available advantages of the road, and, when disasterswilloccur, to make them food for laughter?

How patient, how self-sacrificing, how deferential to caprices and indulgent to whims is the man whose daily dinner you pay for! If you would see humanity in holiday attire, look out for one likehim. How blandly does he forgive the rascalities ofyourservants and the robberies ofyourtradesmen! No fretfulness about trifles disfigures the calm serenity of his features. He knows that if the travelling-carriage be thought heavy, it is only two leaders the more are required; if the wine be corked, it is but ordering another bottle. Look at life from his point of view, and it is surprising how little there is to complain of. It would be too much to say that there was not occasionally a little acting in all this catholic benevolence and universal satisfaction, but no more, perhaps, than the fervor of a lawyer for his client,—thatnisi priusenthusiasm marked five guineas on the brief.

The Captain understood his part like an artist; and through all the condescending forgiveness he bestowed on the shortcomings of inns and innkeepers, he suffered, ever half imperceptibly, to peer out the habits of a man accustomed to the best of everything, who always had been sedulously served and admirably cared for. His indulgence was thus generosity, not ignorance, and all irritability in such a presence would stand rebuked at once.

Sir William declared he had never seen his equal,—such temper, such tact, such resources in difficulty, such patience under all trials. May pronounced him charming. He could obtain something eatable in the veriest desolation, he could extract a laugh out of disasters that seemed to defy drollery; and, lastly, Mrs. Morris herself averred “that he was unlike every old Indian she had ever seen, for he seemed not to know what selfishness meant,—but so, indeed, 'poor Penthony' had always described him.” And here she would wipe her eyes and turn away in silence.

As they rolled along the road, many a little scheme was devised for detaining him at Rome, many a little plot laid for making him pass the carnival with them. Little knew they the while, how, seated in the rumble close behind, he too revolved the self-same thoughts, asking himself by what means he could secure so pleasant a harbor of refuge. Will it not occasionally occur in life that some of those successes on which we pride ourselves have been in a measure prepared by others, and that the adversary has helped us to win the game we are so vain of having scored?

“Well, how do you like them?” said Mrs. Morris, as she smoked her cigarette at the end of the little garden at Viterbo, after Sir William and May had said good-night,—“how do you like them, pa?”

“They 're wonderful,—they 're wonderful!” said the Captain, puffing his weed. “It's a long time since I met anything so fresh as that old Baronet.”

“And with all that,” said she, “his great vanity is to think he knows 'the world.'”

“So he may, my dear. I can only say it is n'tyourworld normine,” replied he, laughing.

“And yet there is a class in which such men as he are the clever ones, where their remarks are listened to and their observations treasured, and where old ladies in turbans and bird-of-paradise feathers pronounce them 'such well-informed men.' Isn't that the phrase, pa?”

“Yes, that's the phrase. An old article of the 'Quarterly' committed to memory, some of Dr. Somebody's predictions about the end of the world, and Solomon's proverbs done into modern English, make a very well-informed man.”

“And a most insupportable bore, besides. After all, papa,” said she, “it is in the landlocked creeks, the little waveless bays, that one must seek his anchorage, and not in the breezy roadsteads nor the open ocean. I've thought over the matter a good deal lately, and I believe that to be the wise choice.”

“You are right, Loo,” said he; “ease is the great thing,—ease and security! What settlement can he make?”

“A small one; just enough to live on. The son would be better in that respect, but then I should n't like it; and, besides, he would live as long as myself,—longer, perhaps,—and you know one likes to have a look forward, though it be ever so far away off.”

“Very true,—very true,” said he, with a mild sigh. “And this Miss Leslie,” added he, after a while; “she 'll marry, I suppose?”

“Oh yes; her fortune will still be considerable,—at least, I hope so. That man Trover has taken all the papers away with him, but he 'll turn up some day or other. At all events, there will be quite enough to get her a Roman Count or a Sicilian Duke; and as they are usually sent to the galleys or shot in a few years, the endurance is not prolonged. These are Trover's cigars, ain't they? I know them well.”

“Yes; it was your friend Stocmar filled my case yesterday.”

“Another of the would-be shrewd ones!” said she, laughing.

“I did n't fancy him much,” said he.

“Nor I, either; he issucha snob. Now, one can't live with a snob, though one may dine with him, smoke, flirt, ride, and chat with him. Is it not so?”

“Perfectly true.”

“Sir William is not snobbish. It is his one redeeming quality.”

“I see that. I remarked it the first day we met.”

“Oh dear! oh dear!” sighed she, drearily, “what a tame, poor, commonplace thing life becomes when it is reduced to English cookery for health, and respectability for morals! I could marry Stocmar if I pleased, papa.”

“Of course you could.”

“Or O'Shea,—'the O'Shea,'” said she, with a laugh. “How droll to be thesheof that species! I could havehimalso.”

“Not also, but either, dear,” said the Captain, correcting her.

“I meant that, papa,” laughed she in, “though, perhaps—perhaps poor Mr. Ogden might n't see that your objection was called for.” And then they both laughed once more at the droll conceit. “We are to be married on some day before Lent,” said she, after a pause. “I must positively get an almanac, papa, or I shall make confusion in my dates.”

“The Lent begins late this year,” remarked he.

“Does it? So much the better, for there is much to be thought of. I trust to you for the settlements, papa. You will have to be inexorable on every stage of the proceedings; and as for me, I know nothing of business,—never did, never could.”

“But that is not exactly the character you have figured in here of late.”

“Oh, papa dear,” cried she, “do you imagine, if reason or judgment were to be invoked, that Sir William would ever marry me? Is it not because he is blind to every inconsistency and every contradiction that the poor man has decided on this step?”

“Where do you mean to live? Have you any plans on that score?”

“None, except where there are fewest English; the smallest possible population of red whiskers and red petticoats, and the least admixture of bad tongues and Balmoral boots. If we cannot find such a spot, then a city,—a large city, where people have too many resources to be obliged to amuse themselves with scandal.”

“That's true; I have always remarked that where the markets were good, and fish especially abundant, people were less censorious. In small localities, where one eats kid every day, the tendency to tear your neighbor becomes irresistible. I 'm convinced that the bad tongue of boarding-house people may be ascribed to the bad diet.”

“Perfectly true, papa; and when you dine with us, you shall have no excuse for malevolence. There,” said she, throwing away the end of her cigar, “I can't afford to light another one this evening, I have got so few of those delicious Cubans. Oh dear,” sighed she, “what a strange destiny is mine! Whenever I enter the marriage state, it must always be with a connection where there are no small vices, andIfond of them!”

And so saying, she drew her shawl around her, and strolled lazily towards the house, while the Captain, selecting another cheroot, sat himself down in a snug spot in the arbor to muse, and meditate, and moralize after his fashion. Had any one been there to mark him as he gazed upwards at the starry sky, he might readily have deemed him one lost in heavenly contemplation, deep in that speculative wisdom that leaves the frontier of this narrow life far, far behind, and soars to realms nobler, vaster, grander. But not so were his thoughts; they were earthy of the earthiest, craft and subtlety crossed and recrossed them, and in all their complex web not one chord was to be found which could vibrate with an honest wish or a generous aspiration. There was not, nevertheless, a ruddier complexion, a brighter eye, a merrier voice, or a better digestion than his in Christendom.

It was just as Alfred Layton stepped into the boat to row out to the “Asia,” bound for New York, that a letter from Clara was placed in his hands. He read it as they rowed along,—read it twice, thrice over. It was a strange letter—at least, he thought so—from one so very young. There was a tone of frankness almost sisterly, but there was, in alluding to the happy past, a something of tenderness half shadowed forth that thrilled strangely through his heart. How she seemed to love those lessons he had once thought she felt to be mere tasks! How many words he had uttered at random,—words of praise or blame, as it might be; she had treasured all up, just as she had hoarded the flowers he had given her. What a wondrous sensation it is to feel that a chance expression we have used, a few stray words, have been stored up as precious memories! Is there any flattery like it? What an ecstasy to feel that we could impart value to the veriest commonplace, and, without an effort, without even a will, sit enthroned within some other heart!

What wisdom there was in that old fable of the husbandman, who bequeathed the treasure to his sons to be discovered by carefully turning over the soil of their land, delving and digging it industriously! How applicable is the lesson it teaches to what goes on in our daily lives, where, ever in search of one form of wealth, our labors lead us to discover some other of which we knew nothing! Little had Alfred Layton ever suspected that, while seeking to gain May's affection, he was winning another heart; little knew he that in that atmosphere of love his deep devotion made, she—scarcely more than a child—lived and breathed, mingling thoughts of him through all the efforts of her mind, till he became the mainspring of every ambition that possessed her. And now he knew it all. Yes, she confessed, as one never again fated to meet him, that she loved him. “If,” wrote she, “it is inexpressible relief to me to own this, I can do so with less shame that I ask no return of affection; I give you my heart, as I give that which has no value, save that I feel it is with you, to go along with you through all the straits and difficulties of your life, to nourish hope for your success and sorrow for your failure, but never to meet you more.... Nor,” said she, in another place, “do I disguise from myself the danger of this confession. They say it is man's nature to despise the gift which comes unasked,—the unsought heart is but an undesired realm. Be it so. So long as the thought fills me thatyouare its lord, so long as to myself I whisper vows of loyalty, I am not worthless in my own esteem. I can say, 'Hewould like this;hewould praise me for that; some word of good cheer would aid me here; how joyouslyhewould greet me as I reached this goal!”

“Bravely borne, dear Clara! would requite me for a cruel sacrifice. You are too generous to deny me this much, and I ask no more. None of us can be the worse of good wishes, none be less fortunate that daily blessings are entreated for us. Mine go with you everywhere and always.”

These lines, read and re-read so often, weighed heavily on Layton's heart; and she who wrote them was never for an instant from his thoughts. At first, sorrow and a sense of self-reproach were his only sentiments; but gradually another feeling supervened. There is not anything which supplies to the heart the want of being cared for. There is that companionship in being loved, without which life is the dreariest of all solitudes. As we are obliged to refer all our actions to a standard of right and wrong, so by a like rule all our emotions must be brought before another court,—the heart that loves us; and he who has not this appeal is a wretched outlaw! This Layton now began to feel, and every day strengthened the conviction. The last few lines of the letter, too, gave an unspeakable interest to the whole. They ran thus:—

“I know not what change has come over my life, or is to come, but I am to be separated from my mother, intrusted to a guardian I have never seen till now, and sent I know not whither. All that I am told is that our narrow fortune requires I should make an effort for my own support. I am grateful to the adversity that snatches me from a life of thought to one of labor. The weariness of work will be far easier to bear than the repinings of indolence. Self-reproach will be less poignant, too, when not associated with self-indulgence; and, better than all, a thousand times better, I shall feel in my toil some similitude to him whom I love,—feel, when my tired brain seeks rest, some unseen thread links my weariness to his, and blends our thoughts together in our dreams, fellow-laborers at least in life, if not lovers!”

When he had read thus far, and was still contemplating the lines, a small slip, carefully sealed in two places, fell from the letter. It was inscribed “My Secret.” Alfred tore it open eagerly. The contents were very brief, and ran thus:—

“She whom I had believed to be my mother is not so. She is nothing to me. I am an orphan. I know nothing of those belonging to me, nor of myself, any more than that my name isnot, 'Clara Morris.'”

Layton's first impulse, as he read, was to exclaim, “Thank God, the dear child has no tie to this woman!” The thought of her being her daughter was maddening. And then arose the question to his mind, by what link had they been united hitherto? Mrs. Morris had been ever to him a mysterious personage, for whom he had invented numberless histories, not always to her advantage. But why or through what circumstances this girl had been associated with her fortunes, was a knot he could find no clew to. There arose, besides, another question, why should this connection now cease, by what change in condition were they to be separated, and was the separation to be complete and final? Clara ought to have told him more; she should have been more explicit. It was unfair to leave him with an unsolved difficulty which a few words might have set clear. He was half angry with her for the torture of this uncertainty, and yet—let us own it—in his secret heart he hugged this mystery as a new interest that attached him to life. Let a man have ever so little of the gambler in his nature,—and we have never pictured Layton as amongst that prudent category,—and there will be still a tendency to weigh the eventualities of life, as chances inclining now to this side, now to that “I was lucky in that affair,” “I was unfortunate there,” are expressions occasionally heard from those who have never played a card or touched a dice-box. And where does this same element play such a part as when a cloud of doubt and obscurity involves the fate of one we love?

For the first few days of the voyage Layton thought of nothing but Clara and her history, till his mind grew actually confused with conflicting guesses about her. “I must tell Quackinboss everything. I must ask his aid to read this mystery, or it will drive me mad,” said he, at last. “He has seen her, too, and liked her.” She was the one solitary figure he had met with at the Villa which seemed to have made a deep impression upon him; and over and over again the American had alluded to the “'little gal' with the long eyelashes, who sang so sweetly.”

It was not very easy to catch the Colonel in an unoccupied moment. Ever since the voyage began he was full of engagements. He was an old Transatlantic voyager, deep in all the arts and appliances by which such journeys are rendered agreeable. Such men turn up everywhere. On the Cunard line they organize the whist-parties, the polka on the poop-deck, the sweepstakes on the ship's log, and the cod-fishing on the banks. On the overland route it is they who direct where tents are to be pitched, kids roasted, and Arabs horsewhipped. By a sort of common accord a degree of command is conceded to them, and their authority is admitted without dispute. Now and then a rival will contest the crown, and by his party divide the state; but the community is large enough for such schism, which, after all, is rarely a serious one. The Pretender, in the present case, had come on board by the small vessel which took the pilot away,—a circumstance not without suspicion, and, of course, certain of obtaining its share of disparaging comments, not the less that the gentleman's pretensions were considerable, and his manners imposing. In fact, to use a vulgarism very expressive of the man, “he took on” immensely. He was very indignant at not finding his servant expecting him, and actually out of himself on discovering that a whole stateroom had not been engaged for his accommodation. With all these disappointing circumstances, it was curious enough how soon he reconciled himself to his condition, submitting with great good-humor to all the privations of ordinary mortals; and when, on the third or fourth day of the voyage, he deigned to say that he had drunk worse Madeira, and that the clam soup was really worthy of his approval, his popularity was at once assured. It was really pleasant to witness such condescension, and so, indeed, every one seemed to feel it. All but one, and that one was Quackinboss, who, from the first moment, had conceived a strong dislike against the new arrival, a sentiment he took no pains to conceal or disguise.

“He's too p'lite,—he 's too civil by half, sir,—especially with the women folk,” said Quackinboss; “they ain't wholesome when they are so tarnation sweet. As Senator Byles says, 'Bunkum won't make pie-crust, though it 'll serve to butter a man up.' Them's my own sentiments too, sir, and I don't like that stranger.”

“What can it signify to you, Colonel?” said Layton. “Why need you trouble your head about who or what he is?”

“I 'll be bound he's one of them as pays his debts with the topsail sheet, sir. He's run. I 'm as sartain o' that fact as if I seen it. Whenever I see a party as won't play whist under five-guinea points, or drink anything cheaper than Moët at four dollars a bottle, I say look arter that chap, Shaver, and you'll see it's another man's money pays for him.”

“But, after all,” remonstrated Layton, “surely you have nothing to do with him?”

“Well, sir, I 'm not downright convinced on that score. He's a-come from Florence; he knows all about the Heathcotes and Mrs. Morris, and the other folk there; and he has either swindledthem, or they 've been a-roguing some others. That'smyplatform, sir, and I'll not change one plank of it.”

“Come, come,” said Layton, laughingly, “for the first time in your life you have suffered a prejudice to override your shrewd good sense. The man is a snob, and no more.”

“Well, sir, I 'd like to ask, could you say worse of him? Ain't a snob a fellow as wants to be taken for better bred or richer or cleverer or more influential than he really is? Ain't he a cheat? Ain't he one as says, 'I ain't like that poor publican yonder, I 'm another guess sort of crittur, and sit in quite another sort of place?' Jest now, picture to your own mind how pleasant the world would be if one-fourth, or even one-tenth, of its inhabitants was fellows of that stamp!”

It was only after two or three turns on the deck that Layton could subdue the Colonel's indignation sufficiently to make him listen to him with calm and attention. With a very brief preamble he read Clara's letter for him, concluding all with the few lines inscribed “My Secret.” “It is about this I want your advice, dear friend,” said he. “Tell me frankly what you think of it all.”

Quackinboss was always pleased when asked his advice upon matters which at first blush might seem out of the range of his usual experiences. It seemed such a tribute to his general knowledge of life, that it was a very graceful species of flattery, so that he was really delighted by this proof of Layton's confidence in his acuteness and his delicacy, and in the exact proportion of the satisfaction he felt was he disposed to be diffuse and long-winded.

“This ain't an easy case, sir,” began he; “this ain't one of those measures where a man may say, 'There's the right and there's the wrong of it;' and it takes a man like Shaver Quackinboss—a man as has seen snakes with all manner o' spots on 'em—to know what's best to be done.”

“So I thought,” mildly broke in Layton,—“so I thought.”

“There's chaps in this world,” continued he, “never sees a difficulty nowhere; they 'd whittle a hickory stick with the same blade as a piece of larch timber, sir; ay, and worse, too, never know how they gapped their knife for the doin' it! You 'd not believe it, perhaps, but the wiliest cove ever I seen in life was an old chief of the Mandans, Aï-ha-ha-tha, and his rule was, when you 're on a trail, track it step by step; never take short cuts. Let us read the girl's letter again.” And he did so carefully, painstakingly, folding it up afterwards with slow deliberation, while he reflected over the contents.

“I 'in a-thinkin',” said he, at last,—“I 'm a-thinkin' how we might utilize that stranger there, the fellow as is come from Florence, and who may possibly have heard something of this girl's history.Hedon't take to me; nor, for the matter o' that, doItohim. But that don't signify; there's one platform brings all manner of folk together,—it's the great leveller in this world,—Play. Ay, sir, your English lord has no objection to even Uncle Sam's dollars, though he 'd be riled con-siderable if you asked him to sit down to meals with him. I 'll jest let this crittur plunder me a bit; I'll flatter him with the notion that he's too sharp and too spry for the Yankee. He's always goin' about asking every one, 'Can't they make a game o' brag?' Well, I 'll go in, sir.Heshall have his game, and I'll have mine.”

Layton did not certainly feel much confidence in the plan of campaign thus struck out; but seeing the pleasure Quackinboss felt in the display of his acuteness, he offered no objection to the project.

“Yes, sir,” continued Quackinboss, as though reflecting aloud, “once these sort of critturs think a man a flat, they let out all about how sharp they are themselves; they can't help it; it's part of their shallow natur' to be boastful. Let us see, now, what it is we want to find out: first of all, the widow, who she is and whence she came; then, how she chanced to have the gal with her, and who the gal herself is, where she was raised, and by whom; and, last of all, what is't they done with her, how they 've fixed her. Ay, sir,” mused he, after a pause, “as Senator Byles says, 'if I don't draw the badger, I 'd beg the honorable gentleman to b'lieve that his own claws ain't sharp enough to do it!' There's the very crittur himself, now, a-smokin',” cried he; “I'll jest go and ask him for a weed.” And, so saying, Quackinboss crossed the deck and joined the stranger.

Back to IndexNext