Mrs. Morris, supposed to be confined to her room with a bad headache,
was engaged in dressing for the masked ball, when a small twisted note
was delivered to her by her maid.
“Is the bearer of this below stairs?” asked she, eagerly. “Show him in
immediately.”
The next moment, a short, burly figure, in a travelling-dress, entered,
and, saluting her with a kiss on either cheek, unrolled his woollen
comforter, and displayed the pleasant, jocund features of Mr. Nicholas
Holmes.
“How well you are looking, papa!” said she. “I declare I think you grow
younger!”
“It's the good conscience, I suppose,” said he, laughing. “That and a
good digestion help a man very far on his road through life. And how are
you, Loo?”
“As you see,” said she, laughingly. “With some of those family gifts you
speak of, I rub on through the world tolerably well.”
“You are not in mourning, I perceive. How is that?” asked he, looking at
the amber-colored silk of her dress.
“Not to-night, papa, for I was just dressing for a masked ball at the
Pergola, whither I was about to go on the sly, having given out that I
was suffering from headache, and could not leave my room.”
“Fretting over poor Penthony, eh?” cried he, laughing.
“Well, of course that might also be inferred. Not but I have already got
over my violent grief. I am beginning to be what is technically called
'resigned.'”
“Which is, I believe, the stage of looking out for another!” laughed he
again.
She gave a little faint sigh, and went on with her dressing. “And what
news have you for me, papa? What is going on at home?”
“Nothing,--absolutely nothing, dear. You don't care for political news?”
“Not much. You know I had a surfeit of Downing Street once. By the way,
papa, only think of my meeting George!”
“Ogden,--George Odgen?”
“Yes, it was a strange accident. He came to fetch away a young lad that
happened to be stopping with us, and we met face to face--fortunately,
alone--in the garden.”
“Very awkward that!” muttered he.
“So it was; and so he evidently felt it. By the way, how old he has
grown! George can't be more than--let me see--forty-six. Yes, he was
just forty-six on the 8th of August. You 'd guess him fully ten years
older.”
“How did he behave? Did he recognize you and address you?”
“Yes; we talked a little,--not pleasantly, though. He evidently is not
forgiving in his nature, and you know he had never much tact,--except
official tact,--and so he was flurried and put out, and right glad to
get away.”
“But there was no _éclat_,--no scandal?”
“Of course not. The whole incident did not occupy ten minutes.”
“They 've been at me again about my pension,--_his_ doing, I'm sure,”
muttered he,--“asking for a return of services, and such-like rubbish.”
“Don't let them worry you, papa; they dare not push you to publicity.
It's like a divorce case, where one of the parties, being respectable,
must submit to any terms imposed.”
“Well, that's my own view of it, dear; and so I said, 'Consult the
secret instructions to the Under-Secretary for Ireland for an account of
services rendered by N. H.'”
“You 'll hear no more of it,” said she, flippantly. “What of Ludlow?
Where is he?”
“He's here. Don't you know that?”
“Here! Do you mean in Florence?”
“Yes; he came with Stocmar. They are at the same hotel.”
“I declare I half suspected it,” said she, with a sort of bitter laugh.
“Oh, the cunning Mr. Stocmar, that must needs deceive me!”
“And you have seen him?”
“Yes; I settled about his taking Clara away with him. I want to get rid
of her,--I mean altogether,--and Stocmar is exactly the person to manage
these little incidents of the white slave-market. But,” added she, with
some irritation, “that was no reason why you should dupe _me_, my good
Mr. Stocmar! particularly at the moment when I had poured all my sorrows
into your confiding breast!”
“He's a very deep fellow, they tell me.”
“No, papa, he is not. He has that amount of calculation--that putting
this, that, and t' other together, and seeing what they mean--which all
Jews have; but he makes the same blunder that men of small craft are
always making. He is eternally on the search after motives, just as if
fifteen out of every twenty things in this life are not done without any
motive at all!”
“Only in Ireland, Loo,--only in Ireland.”
“Nay, papa, in Ireland they do the full twenty,” said she, laughing.
“But what has brought Ludlow here? He has certainly not come without a
motive.”
“To use some coercion over you, I suspect.”
“Probably enough. Those weary letters,--those weary letters!” sighed
she. “Oh, papa dear,--you who were always a man of a clear head and a
subtle brain,--how did you fall into the silly mistake of having your
daughter taught to write? Our nursery-books are crammed with cautious
injunctions,--'Don't play with fire,' &c,--and of the real peril of all
perils not a word of warning is uttered, and nobody says, 'Avoid the
inkstand.'”
“How could you have fallen into such a blunder?” said he, half
peevishly.
“I gave rash pledges, papa, just as a bankrupt gives bad bills. I never
believed I was to be solvent again.”
“We must see what can be done, Loo. I know he is very hard up for money
just now; so that probably a few hundreds might do the business.”
She shook her head doubtingly, but said nothing.
“A fellow-traveller of mine, unacquainted with him personally, told me
that his bills were seen everywhere about town.”
“Who is your companion?”
“An Irishman called O'Shea.”
“And is the O'Shea here too?” exclaimed she, laughingly.
“Yes; since he has lost his seat in the House, England has become too
hot for him. And, besides,” added he, slyly, “he has told me in
confidence that if 'the party,' as he calls them, should not give him
something, he knows of a widow somewhere near this might suit him. 'I
don't say that she's rich, mind you,' said he, 'but she's 'cute as a
fox, and would be sure to keep a man's head above water somehow.'”
Mrs. Morris held her handkerchief to her mouth, but the sense of the
ridiculous could not be suppressed, and she laughed out.
“What would I not have given to have heard him, papa!” said she, at last
“Well, it really _was_ good,” said he, wiping his eyes; for he, too, had
indulged in a very hearty laugh, particularly when he narrated all the
pains O'Shea had been at to discover who Penthony Morris was, where he
came from, and what fortune he had. “'It was at first all in vain,' said
he, 'but no sooner did I begin to pay fellows to make searches for me,
than I had two, or maybe three Penthony Morrises every morning by the
post; and, what's worse, all alive and hearty!'”
“What did he do under these distressing circumstances?” asked she,
gayly.
“He said he 'd give up the search entirely. 'There 's no such bad
hunting country,' said he, 'as where there's too many foxes, and so I
determined I 'd have no more Penthony Morrises, but just go in for the
widow without any more inquiry.'”
“And have you heard the plan of his campaign?” asked she.
“He has none,--at least, I think not. He trusts to his own attractions
and some encouragement formerly held out to him.”
“Indiscreet wretch!” said she, laughing; “not but he told the truth
there. I remember having given him something like what lawyers call a
retainer.”
“Such a man might be very troublesome, Loo,” said he, cautiously.
“Not a bit of it, papa; he might be very useful, on the contrary.
Indeed, I'm' not quite certain that I have not exactly the very service
on which to employ him.”
“Remember, Loo,” said he, warmly, “he's a shrewd fellow in _his_ way.”
“In _his_ way' he is, but _his_ way is not _mine_,” said she, with a
saucy toss of the head. “Have you any idea, papa, of what may be the
sort of place or employment he looks for? Is he ambitious, or has
adversity taught him humility?”
“A good deal depends upon the time of the day when one talks to him. Of
a morning he is usually downcast and depressed; he 'd go out as a
magistrate to the Bahamas or consul to a Poyais republic. Towards
dinner-time he grows more difficult and pretentious; and when he has got
three or four glasses of wine in, he would n't take less than the
Governorship of a colony.”
“Then it's of an evening one should see him.”
“Nay, I should say not, Loo. I would rather take him at his cheap
moment.”
“Quite wrong, papa,--quite wrong. It is when his delusions are strongest
that he will be most easily led. His own vanity will be the most
effectual of all intoxications. But you may leave him to _me_ without
fear or misgiving.”
“I suppose so,” said he, dryly. And a silence of some minutes ensued.
“Why are you taking such pains about your hair, Loo,” asked he, “if you
are going in domino?”
“None can ever tell when or where they must unmask in this same life of
ours, papa,” said she, laughingly; “and I have got such a habit of
providing for casualties that I have actually arranged my papers and
letters in the fashion they ought to be found in after my death.”
Holmes sighed. The thought of such a thing as death is always unwelcome
to a man with a light auburn wig and a florid complexion, who wants to
cheat Fate into the notion that he is hale and hearty, and who likes to
fancy himself pretty much what he was fifteen or twenty years ago. And
Holmes sighed with a feeling of compassionate sorrow for himself.
“By the way, papa,” said she, in a careless, easy tone, “where are you
stopping?”
“At the Hôtel d'Italie, my dear.”
“What do you think,--had n't you better come here?”
“I don't exactly know, nor do I precisely see how.”
“Leave all that to me, papa. You shall have an invitation,--'Sir William
Heathcote's compliments,' &c,--all in due form, in the course of the
day, and I 'll give directions about your room. You have no servant, I
hope?”
“None.”
“So much the better; there is no guarding against the garrulity of that
class, and all the craftiest stratagems of the drawing-room are often
undermined in the servants'-hall. As for yourself, you know that you
represent the late Captain's executor. You were the guardian of poor
dear Penthony, and his oldest friend in the world.”
“Knew him since he was so high!” said he, in a voice of mock emotion, as
he held out his extended palm about two feet above the floor.
“That will give you a world of trouble, papa, for you 'll have to
prepare yourself with so much family history, explaining what Morrises
they were, how they were Penthonys, and so on. Sir William will torture
you about genealogies.”
“I have a remedy for that, my dear,” said he, slyly. “I am most
painfully deaf! No one will maintain a conversation of a quarter of an
hour with me without risking a sore throat; not to say that no one can
put delicate questions in the voice of a boatswain.”
“Dear papa, you are always what the French call 'at the level of the
situation,' and your deafness will be charming, for our dear Baronet and
future husband has a most inquisitive turn, and would positively torture
you with interrogatories.”
“He 'll be more than mortal if he don't give in, Loo. I gave a Lunacy
Commissioner once a hoarseness that required a course of the waters at
Vichy to cure; not to say that, by answering at cross purposes, one can
disconcert the most zealous inquirer. But now, my dear, that I am in
possession of my hearing, do tell me something about yourself and your
plans.”
“I have none, papa,--none,” said she, with a faint sigh. “Sir William
Heathcote has, doubtless, many, and into some of them I may perhaps
enter. He intends, for instance, that some time in March I shall be Lady
Heathcote; that we shall go and live--I'm not exactly sure where, though
I know we 're to be perfectly happy, and, not wishing to puzzle him, I
don't ask how.”
“I have no doubt you will be happy, Loo,” said he, confidently.
“Security, safety, my dear, are great elements of happiness.”
“I suppose they are,” said she, with another sigh; “and when one has
been a privateer so long, it is pleasant to be enrolled in the regular
navy, even though one should be laid up in ordinary.”
“Nay, nay, Loo, no fear of that!”
“On the contrary, papa, every hope of it! The best thing I could ask for
would be oblivion.”
“My dear Loo,” said he, impressively, “the world has not got one half so
good a memory as you fancy. It is our own foolish timidity--what certain
folk call conscience--that suggests the idea how people are talking of
us, and, like the valet in the comedy, we begin confessing our sins
before we 're accused of them!”
“I know that is _your_ theory, papa,” said she, laughing, “and that one
ought always to 'die innocent.'”
“Of course, my dear. It is only the jail chaplain benefits by what is
called 'a full disclosure of the terrible tragedy.'”
“I hear my carriage creeping up quietly to the door,” said she,
listening. “Be sure you let me see you early tomorrow. Good-night.”