“Here's another note for you, Stocmar,” said Paten, half peevishly, as
they both sat at breakfast at the Hôtel d'Italie, and the waiter entered
with a letter. “That's the third from her this morning.”
“The second,--only the second, on honor,” said he, breaking the seal,
and running his eye over the contents. “It seems she cannot see me to-
day. The Heathcote family are all in grief and confusion; some smash in
America has involved them in heavy loss. Trover, you may remember, was
in a fright about it last night. She'll meet me, however, at the masked
ball to-night, where we can confer together. She's to steal out
unperceived, and I'm to recognize her by a yellow domino with a little
tricolored cross on the sleeve. Don't be jealous, Ludlow, though it does
look suspicious.”
“Jealous! I should think not,” said the other, insolently.
“Come, come, you 'll not pretend to say she is n't worth it, Ludlow, nor
you 'll not affect to be indifferent to her.”
“I wish to Heaven I _was_ indifferent to her; next to having never met
her, it would be the best thing I know of,” said he, rising, and walking
the room with hurried steps. “I tell you, Stocmar, if ever there was an
evil destiny, I believe that woman to be mine. I don't think I love her,
I cannot say to my own heart that I do, and yet there she is, mistress
of my fate, to make me or mar me, just as she pleases.”
“Which means, simply, that you are madly in love with her,” said
Stocmar.
“No such thing; I 'd do far more to injure than to serve her this
minute. If I never closed my eyes last night, it was plotting how to
overreach her,--how I should wreck her whole fortune in life, and leave
her as destitute as I am myself.”
“The sentiment is certainly amiable,” said Stocmar, smiling.
“I make no pretence to generosity about her,” said Paten, sternly; “nor
is it between men like you and myself fine sentiments are bandied.”
“Fine sentiments are one thing, master, an unreasonable antipathy is
another,” said Stocmar. “And it would certainly be too hard if we were
to pursue with our hatred every woman that could not love us.”
“She _did_ love me once,--at least, she said so,” broke in Paten.
“Be grateful, therefore, for the past. I know I'd be very much her
debtor for any show of present tenderness, and give it under my hand
never to bear the slightest malice whenever it pleased her to change her
mind.”
“By Heaven! Stocmar,” cried Paten, passionately, “I begin to believe you
have been playing me false all this time, telling her all about me, and
only thinking of how to advance your own interests with her.”
“You wrong me egregiously, then,” said Stocmar, calmly. “I am ready to
pledge you my word of honor that I never uttered your name, nor made a
single allusion to you in any way. Will that satisfy you?”
“It ought,” muttered he, gloomily; “but suspicions and distrusts spring
up in a mind like mine just as weeds do in a rank soil. Don't be angry
with me, old fellow.”
“I 'm not angry with you, Ludlow, except in so far as you wrong
yourself. Why, my dear boy, the pursuit of a foolish spite is like going
after a bad debt. All the mischief you could possibly wish this poor
woman could never repay _you_.”
“How can _you_ know that without feeling as I feel?” retorted he,
bitterly. “If I were to show you her letters,” began he; and then, as if
ashamed of his ignoble menace, he stopped and was silent.
“Why not think seriously of this heiress she speaks of? I saw her
yesterday as she came back from riding; her carriage was awaiting her at
the Piazza del Popolo, and there was actually a little crowd gathered to
see her alight.”
“Is she so handsome, then?” asked he, half listlessly.
“She is beautiful; I doubt if I ever saw as lovely a face or as graceful
a figure.”
“I 'll wager my head on't, Loo is handsomer; I 'll engage to thrust my
hand into the fire if Loo's foot is not infinitely more beautiful.”
“She has a wonderfully handsome foot, indeed,” muttered Stocmar.
“And so you have seen it,” said Paten, sarcastically. “I wish you 'd be
frank with me, and say how far the flirtation went between you.”
“Not half so far as I wished it, my boy. That's all the satisfaction you
'll get from me.”
This was said with a certain irritation of manner that for a while
imposed silence upon each.
“Have you got a cheroot?” asked Paten, after a while; and the other
flung his cigar-case across the table without speaking.
“I ordered that fellow in Geneva to send me two thousand,” said Paten,
laughing; “but I begin to suspect he had exactly as many reasons for not
executing the order.”
“Marry that girl, Ludlow, and you 'll get your 'bacco, I promise you,”
said Stocmar, gayly.
“That's all easy talking, my good fellow, but these things require time,
opportunity, and pursuit. Now, who's to insure me that they 'd not find
out all about _me_ in the mean while? A woman does n't marry a man with
as little solicitation as she waltzes with him, and people in real life
don't contract matrimony as they do in the third act of a comic opera.”
“Faith, as regards obstacles, I back the stage to have the worst of it,”
broke in Stocmar. “But whose cab is this in such tremendous haste,--
Trover's? And coming up here too? What's in the wind now?”
He had but finished these words when Trover rushed into the room, his
face pale as death, and his lips colorless.
“What's up?--what's the matter, man?” cried Stocmar.
“Ruin's the matter--a general smash in America--all securities
discredited--bills dishonored--and universal failure.”
“So much the worse for the Yankees,” said Paten, lighting his cigar
coolly.
A look of anger and insufferable contempt was all Trover's reply.
“Are you deep with them?” asked Stocmar, in a whisper to the banker.
“Over head and ears,” muttered the other; “we have been discounting
their paper freely all through the winter, till our drawers are choke-
full of their acceptances, not one of which would now realize a dollar.”
“How did the news come? Are you sure of its being authentic?”
“Too sure; it came in a despatch to Mrs. Morris from London. All the
investments she has been making lately for the Heathcotes are clean
swept away; a matter of sixty thousand pounds not worth as many penny-
pieces.”
“The fortune of Miss Leslie?” asked Stocmar.
“Yes; she can stand it, I fancy, but it's a heavy blow too.”
“Has she heard the news yet?”
“No, nor Sir William either. The widow cautioned me strictly not to say
a word about it. Of course, it will be all over the city in an hour or
so, from other sources.”
“What do you mean to do, then?”
“Twist is trying to convert some of our paper into cash, at a heavy
sacrifice. If he succeed, we can stand it; if not, we must bolt to-
night.” He paused for a few seconds, and then, in a lower whisper, said,
“Is n't she game, that widow? What do you think she said? 'This is mere
panic, Trover,' said she; 'it's a Yankee roguery, and nothing more. If I
could command a hundred thousand pounds this minute, I 'd invest every
shilling of it in their paper; and if May Leslie will let me, you 'll
see whether I 'll be true to my word.'”
“It's easy enough to play a bold game on one's neighbor's money,” said
Stocmar.
“She'd have the same pluck if it were her own, or I mistake her much.
Has _he_ got any disposable cash?” whispered Trover, with a jerk of his
thumb towards Paten.
“Not a sixpence in the world.”
“What a situation!” said Trover, in a whisper, trembling with agitation.
“Oh, there's Heathcote's brougham,--stopping here too! See! that's Mrs.
Morris, giving some directions to the servant. She wants to see you, I'm
sure.”
Stocmar, making a sign to Trover to keep Paten in conversation, hurried
from the room just in time to meet the footman in the corridor. It was,
as the banker supposed, a request that Mr. Stocmar would favor her with
“one minute” at the door. She lifted her veil as he came up to the
window of the carriage, and in her sweetest of accents said,--
“Can you take a turn with me? I want to speak to you.”
He was speedily beside her; and away they drove, the coachman having
received orders to make one turn of the Cascine, and back to the hotel.
“I'm deep in affairs this morning, my dear Mr. Stocmar,” began she, as
they drove rapidly along, “and have to bespeak your kind aid to befriend
me. You have not seen Clara yet, and consequently are unable to
pronounce upon her merits in any way, but events have occurred which
require that she should be immediately provided for. Could you, by any
possibility, assume the charge of her to-day,--this evening? I mean, so
far as to convey her to Milan, and place her at the Conservatoire.”
“But, my dear Mrs. Morris, there is an arrangement to be fulfilled,--
there is a preliminary to be settled. No young ladies are received there
without certain stipulations made and complied with.”
“All have been provided for; she is admitted as the ward of Mr. Stocmar.
Here is the document, and here the amount of the first half-year's
pension.”
“'Clara Stocmar,'” read he. “Well, I must say, madam, this is going
rather far.”
“You shall not be ashamed of your niece, sir,” said she, “or else I
mistake greatly your feeling for her aunt.” Oh! Mr. Stocmar, how is it
that all your behind-scene experiences have not hardened you against
such a glance as that which has now set your heart a-beating within that
embroidered waistcoat? “My dear Mr. Stocmar,” she went on, “if the world
has taught me any lesson, it has been to know, by an instinct that never
deceives, the men I can dare to confide in. You had not crossed the
room, where I received you, till I felt you to be such. I said to
myself, 'Here is one who will not want to make love to me, who will not
break out into wild rhapsodies of passion and professions, but who will
at once understand that I need his friendship and his counsel, and
that'”--here she dropped her eyes, and, gently suffering her hand to
touch his, muttered, “and that I can estimate their value, and try to
repay it.” Poor Mr. Stocmar, your breathing is more flurried than ever.
So agitated, indeed, was he, that it was some seconds ere he became
conscious that she had entered upon a narrative for which she had
bespoken his attention, and whose details he only caught some time after
their commencement. “You thus perceive, sir,” said she, “the great
importance of time in this affair. Sir William is confined to his room
with gout, in considerable pain, and, naturally enough, far too much
engrossed by his sufferings to think of anything else; Miss Leslie has
her own preoccupations, and, though the loss of a large sum of money may
not much increase them, the disaster will certainly serve to engage her
attention. This is precisely the moment to get rid of Clara with the
least possible _éclat_; we shall all be in such a state of confusion
that her departure will scarcely be felt or noticed.”
“Upon my life, madam,” said Stocmar, drawing a long breath, “you
frighten--you actually terrify me; you go to every object you have in
view with such energy and decision, noting every chance circumstance
which favors you, so nicely balancing motives, and weighing
probabilities with such cool accuracy, that I feel how we men are mere
puppets, to be moved about the board at your will.”
“And for what is the game played, my dear Mr. Stocmar?” said she, with a
seductive smile. “Is it not to win some one amongst you?”
“Oh, by Jove! if a man could only flatter himself that he held the right
number, the lottery would be glorious sport.”
“If the prize be such as you say, is not the chance worth something?”
And these words were uttered with a downcast shyness that made every
syllable of them thrill within him.
“What does she mean?” thought he, in all the flurry of his excited
feelings. “Is she merely playing me off to make use of me, or am I to
believe that she really will--after all? Though I confess to thirty-
eight--I am actually no more than forty-two--only a little bald and gray
in the whiskers, and--confound it, she guesses what is passing through
my head.--What _are_ you laughing at; do, I beg of you, tell me truly
what it is?” cried he, aloud.
“I was thinking of an absurd analogy, Mr. Stocmar; some African
traveller--I'm not sure that it is not Mungo Park--mentions that he used
to estimate the depth of the rivers by throwing stones into them, and
watching the time it took for the air bubbles to come up to the surface.
Now, I was just fancying what a measure of human motives might be
fashioned out of the interval of silence which intervenes between some
new impression and the acknowledgment of it. You were gravely and
seriously asking yourself, 'Am I in love with this woman?'”
“I was,” said he, solemnly.
“I knew it,” said she, laughing. “I knew it.”
“And what was the answer--do you know _that_ too?” asked he, almost
sternly.
“Yes, the answer was somewhat in this shape: 'I don't half trust her!'”
They both laughed very joyously after this, Stocmar breaking out into a
second laugh after he had finished.
“Oh! Mr. Stocmar,” cried she, suddenly, and with an impetuosity that
seemed beyond her control, “I have no need of a declaration on your
part. I can read what passes in _your_ heart by what I feel in my own.
We have each of us seen that much of life to make us afraid of rash
ventures. We want better security for our investments in affection than
we used to do once on a time, not alone because we have seen so many
failures, but that our disposable capital is less. Come now, be frank,
and tell me one thing,--not that I have a doubt about it, but that I 'd
like to hear it from yourself,--confess honestly, you know who I am and
all about me?”
So sudden and so unexpected was this bold speech, that Stocmar, well
versed as he was in situations of difficulty, felt actually overcome
with confusion; he tried to say something, but could only make an
indistinct muttering, and was silent.
“It required no skill on my part to see it,” continued she. “Men so well
acquainted with life as you, such consummate tacticians in the world's
strategies, only make one blunder, but you all of you make _that_: you
always exhibit in some nameless little trait of manner a sense of
ascendancy over the woman you deem in your power. You can't help it.
It's not through tyranny, it's not through insolence,--it is just the
man-nature in you, that's all.”
“If you read us truly, you read us harshly too,” began he. But she cut
him short, by asking,--
“And who was your informant? Paten, was n't it?”
“Yes, I heard everything from _him_,” said he, calmly.
“And my letters--have you read _them_ too?”
“No. I have heard him allude to them, but never saw them.”
“So, then, there is some baseness yet left for him,” said she, bitterly,
“and I 'm almost sorry for it. Do you know, or will you believe me when
I tell it, that, after a life with many reverses and much to grieve
over, my heaviest heart-sore was ever having known that man?”
“You surely cared for him once?”
“Never, never!” burst she out, violently. “When we met first, I was the
daily victim of more cruelties than might have crushed a dozen women.
His pity was very precious, and I felt towards him as that poor prisoner
we read of felt towards the toad that shared his dungeon. It was one
living thing to sympathize with, and I could not afford to relinquish
it, and so I wrote all manner of things,--love-letters I suppose the
world would call them, though some one or two might perhaps decipher the
mystery of their meaning, and see in them all the misery of a hopeless
woman's heart. No matter, such as they were, they were confessions wrung
out by the rack, and need not have been recorded as calm avowals, still
less treasured up as bonds to be paid off.”
“But if you made him love you--”
“Made him love me!” repeated she, with insolent scorn; “how well you
know your friend! But even _he_ never pretended _that_. My letters in
his eyes were I O U's, and no more. Like many a one in distress, I
promised any rate of interest demanded of me; he saw my misery, and
dictated the terms.”
“I think you judge him hardly.”
“Perhaps so. It is little matter now. The question is, will he give up
these letters, and on what conditions?”
“I think if you were yourself to see him--”
“_I_ to see him! Never, never! There is no consequence I would not
accept rather than meet that man again.”
“Are you not taking counsel from passion rather than your real interest
here?”
“I may be; but passion is the stronger. What sum in money do you suppose
he would take? I can command nigh seven hundred pounds. Would that
suffice?”
“I cannot even guess this point; but if you like to confide to me the
negotiation--”
“Is it not in your hands already?” asked she, bluntly. “Have you not
come out here for the purpose?”
“No, on my honor,” said he, solemnly; “for once you are mistaken.”
“I am sorry for it. I had hoped for a speedier settlement,” said she,
coldly. “And so, you really came abroad in search of theatrical
novelties. Oh dear!” sighed she, “Trover said so; and it is _so_
confounding when any one tells the truth!”
She paused, and there was a silence of some minutes. At last she said:
“Clara disposed of, and these letters in my possession, and I should
feel like one saved from shipwreck. Do you think you could promise me
these, Mr. Stocmar?”
“I see no reason to despair of either,” said he; “for the first I have
pledged myself, and I will certainly do all in my power for the second.”
“You must, then, make me another promise: you must come back here for my
wedding.”
“Your wedding!”
“Yes. I am going to marry Sir William Heathcote,” said she, sighing
heavily. “His debts prevent him ever returning to England, and
consequently I ran the less risk of being inquired after and traced,
than if I were to go back to that dear land of perquisition and
persecution.”
“The world is very small nowadays,” muttered Stocmar. “People are known
everywhere.”
“So they are,” said she, quickly. “But on the Continent, or at least in
Italy, the detectives only give you a nod of recognition; they do not
follow you with a warrant, as they do at home. This makes a great
difference, sir.”
“And can you really resign yourself, at _your_ age and with _your_
attractions, to retire from the world?” said he, with a deep earnestness
of manner.
“Not without regret, Mr. Stocmar. I will not pretend it But remember,
what would life be if passed upon a tightrope, always poising, always
balancing, never a moment without the dread of a fall, never a second
without the consciousness that the slightest divergence might be death!
Would you counsel me to face an existence like this? Remember, besides,
that in the world we live in, they who wreck character are not the
calumnious, they are simply the idle,--the men and women who, having
nothing to do, do mischief without knowing. One remarks that nobody in
the room knew that woman with the blue wreath in her hair, and at once
she becomes an object of interest. Some of the men have admired her; the
women have discovered innumerable blemishes in her appearance. She
becomes at once a topic and a theme,--where she goes, what she wears,
whom she speaks to, are all reported, till at length the man who can
give the clew to the mystery and 'tell all about her' is a public
benefactor. At what dinner-party is he not the guest?--what opera-box is
denied him?--where is the coterie so select at which his presence is not
welcome so long as the subject is a fresh one? They tell us that
society, like the Church, must have its 'autos da fé,' but one would
rather not be the victim.”
Stocmar gave a sigh that seemed to imply assent.
“And so,” said she, with a deeper sigh, “I take a husband, as others
take the veil, for the sake of oblivion.”
While she said this, Stocmar's eyes were turned towards her with a most
unfeigned admiration. He felt as he might have done if a great actress
were to relinquish the stage in the climax of her greatest success. He
wished he could summon courage to say, “You shall not do so; there are
grander triumphs before you, and we will share them together;” but
somehow his “nerve” failed him, and he could not utter the words.
“I see what is passing in your heart, Mr. Stocmar,” said she,
plaintively. “You are sorry for me,--you pity me,--but you can't help
it. Well, that sympathy will be my comfort many a day hence, when you
will have utterly forgotten me. I will think over it and treasure it
when many a long mile will separate us.”
Mr. Stocmar went through another paroxysm of temptation. At last he
said, “I hope this Sir William Heathcote is worthy of you,--I do trust
he loves you.”
She held her handkerchief over her face, but her shoulders moved
convulsively for some seconds. Was it grief or laughter? Stocmar
evidently thought the former, for he quickly said, “I have been very
bold,--very indiscreet. Pray forgive me.”
“Yes, yes, I do forgive you,” said she, hurriedly, and with her head
averted. “It was _my_ fault, not _yours_. But here we are at your hotel,
and I have got so much to say to you! Remember we meet to-night at the
ball. You will know me by the cross of ribbon on my sleeve, which, if
you come in domino, you will take off and pin upon your own; this will
be the signal between us.”
“I will not forget it,” said he, kissing her hand with an air of
devotion as he said “Good-bye!”
“I saw her!” whispered a voice in his ear. He turned; and Paten, whose
face was deeply muffled in a coarse woollen wrapper, was beside him.