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 tout_ I never heard
of _you_ in 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 of _that_ time; 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 of _your_ lot.”
“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. _Trust_ me. 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!