CHAPTER XXXVI. A GRAVE SCENE IN LIGHT COMPANY

Moralists have often found a fruitful theme in the utter barrenness of

all the appliances men employ for their pleasures. What failures follow

them, what weariness, what satiety and heart-sickness! The feast of

Belshazzar everywhere!

To the mere eye nothing could be more splendid, nothing more suggestive

of enjoyment, than the Pergola of Florence when brilliantly lighted and

thronged with a gay and merry company. Character figures in every

variety fancy or caprice could suggest--Turks, Styrians, Highlanders,

Doges, Dervishes, and Devils--abounded, with Pifferari from Calabria,

Muleteers, Matadors, and Conjurers; Boyards from Tobolsk jostled Male

Crusaders, and Demons that might have terrified St. Anthony flitted past

with Sisters of Charity! Strange parody upon the incongruities of our

every-day life, costume serving but to typify the moral

incompatibilities which are ever at work in our actual existence! for

are not the people we see linked together--are not the social groupings

we witness--just as widely separated by every instinct and every

sentiment as are these characters in all their motley? Are the two

yonder, as they sit at the fireside, not as remote from each other as

though centuries had rolled between them? They toil along, it is true,

together; they drag the same burden, but with different hopes and fears

and motives. Bethink you “the friends so linked together” are like-

minded? No, it is all masquerade; and the motley is that same easy

conventionality by which we hope to escape undetected and unknown!

Our business now is not with the mass of this great assemblage; we are

only interested for two persons,--one of whom, a tall figure in a black

domino, leans against a pillar yonder, closely scrutinizing each new-

comer that enters, and eagerly glancing at the sleeve of every yellow

domino that passes.

He has been there from an early hour of the evening, and never left it

since. Many a soft voice has whispered some empty remark on his

impassiveness; more than once a jesting sarcasm has been uttered upon

his participation in the gayety around; but he has never replied, but

with folded arms patiently awaited the expected one. At last he is

joined by another, somewhat shorter and stouter, but dressed like him,

who, bending close to his ear, whispers,--

“Why are you standing here,--have you not seen her?”

“No; she has never passed this door.”

“She entered by the stage, and has been walking about this hour. I saw

her talking to several, to whom, to judge by their gestures, her remarks

must have been pointed enough; but there she is,--see, she is leaning on

the arm of that Malay chief. Join her; you know the signal.”

Paten started suddenly from his lounging attitude, and cleft his way

through the crowd, little heeding the comments his rude persistence

called forth. As he drew nigh where the yellow domino stood, he

hesitated and glanced around him, as though he felt that every eye was

watching him, and only after a moment or so did he seem to remember that

he was disguised. At last he approached her, and, taking her sleeve in

his hand, unpinned the little cross of tricolored ribbon and fastened it

on his own domino. With a light gesture of farewell she quickly

dismissed her cavalier and took his arm.

As he led her along through the crowd, neither spoke, and it was only at

last, as seemingly baffled to find the spot he sought for, she said,--

“All places are alike here. Let us talk as we walk along.”

A gentle pressure on her arm seemed to assent, and she went on:--

“It was only at the last moment that I determined to come here this

evening. You have deceived me. Yes; don't deny it. Paten is with you

here, and you never told me.”

He muttered something that sounded like apology.

“It was unfair of you,” said she, hurriedly, “for I was candid and open

with you; and it was needless, besides, for we are as much apart as if

hundreds of miles separated us. I told you already as much.”

“But why not see him? He alone can release you from the bond that ties

you; he may be more generous than you suspect.”

“He generous! Who ever called him so?”

“Many who knew him as well as you,” cried he, suddenly.

With a bound she disengaged her arm from him, and sprang back.

“Do not touch me; lay so much as a finger on me, and I 'll unmask and

call upon this crowd for protection!” cried she, in a voice trembling

with passion. “I know you now.”

“Let me speak with you a few words,--the last I shall ever ask,”

muttered he, “and I promise all you dictate.”

“Leave me--leave me at once,” said she, in a mere whisper. “If you do

not leave me, I will declare aloud who you are.”

“Who _we_ are; don't forget yourself,” muttered he.

“For that I care not. I am ready.”

“For mercy's sake, Loo, do not,” cried he, as she lifted her hand

towards the strings of her mask. “I will go. You shall never see me

more. I came here to make the one last reparation I owe you, to give you

up your letters, and say good-bye forever.”

“That you never did,--never!” cried she, passionately. “You came because

you thought how, in the presence of this crowd, the terror of exposure

would crush my woman's heart, and make me yield to any terms you

pleased.”

“If I swear to you by all that I believe is true--”

“You never did believe; your heart rejected belief. When I said I knew

you, I meant it all: I do know you. I know, besides, that when the

scaffold received one criminal, it left another, and a worse, behind.

For many a year you have made my life a hell. I would not care to go on

thus; all your vengeance and all the scorn of the world would be light

compared to what I wake to meet each morning, and close my eyes to, as I

sleep at night.”

“Listen to me, Loo, but for one moment. I do not want to justify myself.

You are not more wretched than I am,--utterly, irretrievably wretched!”

“Where are the letters?” said she, in a low whisper.

“They are here,--in Florence.”

“What sum will you take for them?”

“They shall be yours unbought, Loo, if you will but hear me.

“I want the letters; tell me their price.”

“The price is simply one meeting--one opportunity to clear myself before

you--to show you how for years my heart has clung to you.”

“I cannot buy them at this cost. Tell me how much money you will have

for them.”

“It is your wish to outrage, to insult me, then?” muttered he, in a

voice thick with passion.

“Now you are natural; now you are yourself; and now I can speak to you.

Tell me your price.”

“Your shame!--your open degradation! The spectacle of your exposure

before all Europe, when it shall have been read in every language and

talked of in every city.”

“I have looked for that hour for many a year, Paul Hunt, and its arrival

would be mercy, compared with the daily menace of one like _you_.”

“The story of the murder again revived; the life you led, the letters

themselves revealing it; the orphan child robbed of her inheritance; the

imposture of your existence abroad here!--what variety in the scenes!

what diversity in the interests!”

“I am far from rich, but I would pay you liberally, Paul,” said she, in

a voice low and collected.

“Cannot you see, woman, that by this language you are wrecking your last

hope of safety?” cried he, insolently. “Is it not plain to you that you

are a fool to insult the hand that can crush you?”

“But I _am_ crushed; I can fall no lower,” whispered she, tremulously.

“Oh, dearest Loo, if you would forgive me for the past!”

“I cannot--I cannot!” burst she out, in a voice scarcely above a

whisper. “I have done all I could, but I cannot!”

“If you only knew how I was tempted to it, Loo! If you but heard the

snare that was laid for me!”

A scornful toss of her head was all her answer.

“It is in my consciousness of the wrong I have done you that I seek this

reparation, Loo,” said he, eagerly. “When I speak otherwise, it is my

passion gives utterance to the words. My heart is, however, true to

you.”

“Will you let me have my letters, and at what cost? I tell you again, I

am not rich, but I will pay largely, liberally here.”

“Let me confess it, Loo,” said he, in a trembling tone, “these letters

are the one last link between us. It is not for a menace I would keep

them,--so help me Heaven, the hour of _your_ shame would be that of _my_

death,--but I cling to them as the one tie that binds my fate to yours.

I feel that when I surrender them, that tie is broken; that I am nothing

to you; that you would hear my name unmoved, and see me pass without a

notice. Bethink you, then, that you ask me for what alone attaches me to

existence.”

“I cannot understand such reasonings,” said she, coldly. “These letters

have no other value save the ruin they can work me. If not employed to

that end, they might as well blacken in the fire or moulder into dust.

You tell me you are not in search of any vengeance on me, and it is much

to say, for I never injured you, while you have deeply injured _me_.

Why, therefore, not give up what you own to be so useless?”

“For the very reason I have given you, Loo; that, so long as I hold

them, I have my interest in your heart, and you cannot cease to feel

bound up with my destiny.”

“And is not this vengeance?” asked she, quietly. “Can you picture to

your mind a revenge more cruel, living on from day to day, and gathering

force from time?”

“But to me there is ever the hope that the past might come back again.”

“Never--never!” said she, resolutely. “The man who has corrupted a

woman's heart may own as much of it as can feel love for him; but he who

has held up to shame the dishonor he has provoked must be satisfied with

her loathing and her hate.”

“And you tell me that these are my portion?” said he, sternly.

“Your conscience can answer how you have earned them.”

They walked along side by side in silence for some time, and at last she

said, “How much better, for both of us, to avoid words of passion or

remembrances of long ago.”

“You loved me once, Loo,” broke he in, with deep emotion.

“And if I once contracted a debt which I could not pay you now, would

you insult me for my poverty, or persecute me? I do not think so,

Ludlow.”

“And when I have given them to you, Loo, and they are in your hands, how

are we to meet again? Are we to be as utter strangers to each other?”

said he, in deep agitation.

“Yes,” replied she, “it is as such we must be. There is no hardship in

this; or, if there be, only what one feels in seeing the house he once

lived in occupied by another,--a passing pang, perhaps, but no more.”

“How you are changed, Loo!” cried he.

“How silly would it be for the trees to burst out in bud with winter!

and the same folly were it for us not to change as life wears on. Our

spring is past, Ludlow.”

“But I could bear all if you were not changed to me,” cried he,

passionately.

“Far worse, again. I am changed to myself, so that I do not know

myself,” said she.

“I know well how your heart reproaches me for all this, Loo,” said he,

sorrowfully; “how you accuse me of being the great misfortune of your

life. Is it not so?”

“Who can answer this better than yourself?” cried she, bitterly.

“And yet, was it not the whole aim and object of my existence to be

otherwise? Did I not venture everything for your love?”

“If you would have me talk with you, speak no more of this. You have it

in your power to do me a great service, or work me a great injury; for

the first, I mean to be more than grateful; that is, I would pay all I

could command; for the last, your recompense must be in the hate you

bear me. Decide which path you will take, and let me face my future as

best I may.”

“There is one other alternative, Loo, which you have forgotten.”

“What is it?”

“Can you not forgive me?” said he, almost sobbing as he spoke.

“I cannot,--I cannot,” said she. “You ask me for more than any human

heart could yield. All that the world can heap upon me of contempt would

be as nothing to what I should feel for myself if I stooped to that. No,

no; follow out your vengeance if it must be, but spare me to my own

heart.”

“Do you know the insults you cast upon me?” cried he, savagely. “Are you

aware that it is to my own ears you speak these words?”

“Do not quarrel with me because I deal honestly by you,” said she,

firmly. “I will not promise that I cannot pay. Remember, too, Ludlow,

that what I ask of you I do not ask from your generosity. I make no

claim to what I have forfeited all right. I simply demand the price you

set upon a certain article of which to _me_ the possession is more than

life. I make no concealment from you. I own it frankly--openly.”

“You want your letters, and never to hear more of _me_!” said he,

sternly.

“What sum will you take for them?” said she, in a slow, whispering

voice.

“You ask what will enable you to set me at defiance forever, Loo! Say it

frankly and fairly. You want to tear your bond and be free.”

She did not speak, and he went on,--

“And you can ask this of the man you abhor! you can stoop to solicit him

whom, of all on earth, you hate the most!”

Still she was silent.

“Well,” said he, after a lengthened pause, “you shall have them. I will

restore them to you. I have not got them here,--they are in England,--

but I will fetch them. My word on it that I will keep my pledge. I see,”

added he, after an interval, in which he expected she would speak, but

was still silent,--“I see how little faith you repose in a promise. You

cannot spare one word of thanks for what you regard as so uncertain; but

I can endure this, for I have borne worse. Once more, then, I swear to

you, you shall have your letters back. I will place them myself in your

hands, and before witnesses too. Remember that, Loo--before witnesses!”

And with these words, uttered with a sort of savage energy, he turned

away from her, and was soon lost in the crowd.

“I have followed you this hour, Loo,” said a low voice beside her.

She turned and took the speaker's arm, trembling all over, and scarcely

able to keep from falling.

“Take me away, father,--take me away from this,” said she, faintly. “I

feel very ill.”

“It was Paten was with you. I could not mistake him,” said Holmes. “What

has occurred between you?”

“I will tell you all when I get home,” said she, still speaking faintly.

And now they moved through the motley crowd, with sounds of mirth and

words of folly making din around them. Strange discrepant accents to

fall on hearts as full as theirs! “How glad I am to breathe this fresh

cold night air,” cried she, as they gained the street. “It was the heat,

the noise, and the confusion overcame me, but I am better now.”

“And how have you parted with him?” asked her father, eagerly.

“With a promise that sounds like a threat,” said she, in a hollow voice.

“But you shall hear all.”

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 I _am_ forgiven, 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.

“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 if _you_ won't inform him, _I_ must.”

“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 do

_I_ know 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 from _me_ to _him_; 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_, and _he_ alone, 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 satisfy _their_ scruples,

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 for _your_ sake as for

_mine_. 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.

“_You_ have 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.

CHAPTER XXXVIII. VERY OUTSPOKEN ON THE WORLD AT LARGE

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 disasters _will_ occur, 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 like _him_. How

blandly does he forgive the rascalities of _your_ servants and the

robberies of _your_ tradesmen! 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,--that _nisi prius_ enthusiasm 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't _your_ world nor _mine_,”

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 is _such_ a 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 the

_she_ of that species! I could have _him_ also.”

“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, and _I_ fond 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.

CHAPTER XXXIX. FROM CLARA

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 that _you_ are its

lord, so long as to myself I whisper vows of loyalty, I am not worthless

in my own esteem. I can say, '_He_ would like this; _he_ would praise me

for that; some word of good cheer would aid me here; how joyously _he_

would 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 is _not_, '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 swindled _them_, or they 've been a-

roguing some others. That's _my_ platform, 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. _He_ don't

take to me; nor, for the matter o' that, do _I_ to _him_. 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. _He_ shall 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.

CHAPTER XL. QUACKINBOSSIANA

On the morning on which the great steamer glided within the tranquil

waters of Long Island, Quackinboss appeared at Layton's berth, to

announce the fact, as well as report progress with the stranger. “I was

right, sir,” said he; “he's been and burnt his fingers on 'Change;

that's the reason he's here. The crittur was in the share-market, and

got his soup too hot! You Britishers seem to have the bright notion

that, when you've been done at home, you 'll be quite sharp enough to do

us here, and so, whenever you make a grand smash in Leadenhall Street,

it's only coming over to Broadway! Well, now, sir, that's considerable

of a mistake; we understand smashing too,--ay, and better than folk in

the old country. Look you here, sir; if I mean to lose my ship on the

banks, or in an ice-drift, or any other way, I don't go and have her

built of strong oak plank and well-seasoned timber, copper-fastened, and

the rest of it; but I run her up with light pine, and cheap fixin's

everywhere. She not only goes to pieces the quicker, but there ain't

none of her found to tell where it happened, and how. That's how it

comes _we_ founder, and there 's no noise made about it; while one of

your chaps goes bumpin' on the rocks for weeks, with fellows up in the

riggin', and life-boats takin' 'em off, and such-like, till the town

talks of nothing else, and all the newspapers are filled with pathetic

incidents, so that the very fellows that calked her seams or wove her

canvas are held up to public reprobation. That's how you do it, sir, and

that's where you 're wrong. When a man builds a cardhouse, he don't want

iron fastenings. I've explained all to that crittur there, and he seems

to take it in wonderful.” “Who is he--what is he?” asked Layton.

“His name's Trover; firm, Trover, Twist, and Co., Frankfort and

Florence, bankers, general merchants, rag exporters, commission agents,

doing a bit in the picture line and marble for the American market, and

sole agents for the sale of Huxley's tonic balsam. That's how he is,”

said the Colonel, reading the description from his note-book.

“I never heard of him before.”

“He knows you, though,--knew you the moment he came aboard; said you was

tutor to a lord in Italy, and that he cashed you circular notes on

Stanbridge and Sawley. These fellows forget nobody.”

“What does he know of the Heathcotes?”

“Pretty nigh everything. He knows that the old Baronet would be for

makin' a fortune out of his ward's money, and has gone and lost a good

slice of it, and that the widow has been doin' a bit of business in the

share-market, in the same profitable fashion,--not but she's a rare

wide-awake 'un, and sees into the 'exchanges' clear enough. As to the

gal, he thinks she sold her--”

“Sold her! What do you mean?” cried Layton, in a voice of horror.

“Jest this, that one of those theatrical fellows as buys singing-people,

and gets 'em taught,--it's all piping-bullfinch work with 'em,--has been

and taken her away; most probably cheap, too, for Trover said she was

n't nowise a rare article; she had a will of her own, and was as likely

to say 'I won't,' as 'I will.'”

“Good heavens! And are things like this suffered,--are they endured in

the age we live in?”

“Yes, sir. You've got all your British sympathies very full about

negroes and 'Uncle Tom's Cabin,' you 're wonderful strong about slavery

and our tyrants down South, and you 've something like fifty thousand

born ladies, called governesses, treated worse than housemaids, and some

ten thousand others condemned to what I won't speak of, that they may

amuse you in your theatres. I can tell you, sir, that the Legrees that

walk St. James's Street and Piccadilly are jest as black-hearted as the

fellows in Georgia or Alabama, though they carry gold-headed walking-

sticks instead of cow-hides.”

“But sold her!” reiterated Layton. “Do you mean to say that Clara has

been given over to one of these people to prepare her for the stage?”

“Yes, sir; he says his name's Stocmar,--a real gentleman, he calls him,

with a house at Brompton, and a small yacht at Cowes. They 've rather

good notions about enjoying themselves, these theatre fellows. They get

a very good footing in West End life, too, by supplying countesses to

the nobility.”

“No, no!” cried Layton, angrily; “you carry your prejudices against

birth and class beyond reason and justice too.”

“Well, I suspect not, sir,” said Quackinboss, slowly. “Not to say that I

was n't revilin', but rather a-praisin' 'em, for the supply of so much

beauty to the best face-market in all Europe. If I were to say what's

the finest prerogatives of one of your lords, I know which I 'd name,

sir, and it would n't be wearin' a blue ribbon, and sittin' on a carved

oak bench in what you call the Upper House of Parliament.”

“But Clara--what of Clara?” cried Layton, impatiently.

“He suspects that she's at Milan, a sort of female college they have

there, where they take degrees in singin' and dancin'. All I hope is

that the poor child won't learn any of their confounded lazy Italian

notions. There's no people can prosper, sir, when their philosophy

consists in _Come si fa? Come si fa?_ means it's no use to work, it's no

good to strive; the only thing to do in life is to lie down in the shade

and suck oranges. That's the real reason they like Popery, sir, because

they can even go to heaven without trouble, by paying another man to do

the prayin' for 'em. It ain't much trouble to hire a saint, when it only

costs lighting a candle to him. And to tell me that's a nation wants

liberty and free institutions! No man wants liberty, sir, that won't

work for his bread; no man really cares for freedom till he's ready to

earn his livin', for this good reason, that the love of liberty must

grow out of personal independence, as you'll see, sir, when you take a

walk yonder.” And he pointed to the tall steeples of New York as he

spoke. But Layton cared little for the discussion of such a theme; his

thoughts had another and a very different direction.

“Poor Clara!” muttered he. “How is she to be rescued from such a

destiny?”

“_I_'d say by the energy and determination of the man who cares for

her,” said Quackinboss, boldly. “_Come si fa?_ won't save her, that's

certain.”

“Can you learn anything of the poor child's history from this man, or

does he know it?”

“Well, sir,” drawled out the Colonel, “that ain't so easy to say.

Whether a man has a partic'lar piece of knowledge in his head, or

whether a quartz rock has a streak of gold inside of it, is things only

to be learned in the one way,--by hammering,--ay, sir, by hammering!

Now, it strikes me this Trover don't like hammering; first of all, the

sight of you here has made him suspicious--”

“Not impossible is it that he may have seen you also, Colonel,” broke in

Layton.

“Well, sir,” said the other, drawing himself proudly up, “and if he had,

what of it? You don't fancy that _we_ are like the Britishers? You don't

imagine that when we appear in Eu-rope that every one turns round and

whispers, 'That's a gentleman from the United States'? No, sir, it is

the remarkable gift of our people to be cosmopolite. We pass for

Russian, French, Spanish, or Italian, jest as we like, not from our

skill in language, which we do not all possess, so much as a certain

easy imitation of the nat-ive that comes nat'ral to us. Even our Western

people, sir, with very remarkable features of their own, have this

property; and you may put a man from Kentucky down on the Boulevard de

Gand to-morrow, and no one will be able to say he warn't a born

Frenchman!”

“I certainly have not made that observation hitherto,” said Layton,

dryly.

“Possibly not, sir, because your national pride is offended by our never

imitating _you!_ No, sir, we never do that!”

“But won't you own that you might find as worthy models in England as in

France or Italy?”

“Not for us, sir,--not for us. Besides, we find ourselves at home on the

Continent; we don't with _you_. The Frenchman is never taxing us with

every little peculiarity of accent or diction; he 's not always

criticising our ways where they differ from his own. Now, your people

do, and, do what we may, sir, they will look on us as what the Chinese

call 'second chop.' Now, to my thinking, we are first chop, sir, and you

are the tea after second watering.”

They were now rapidly approaching the only territory in which an

unpleasant feeling was possible between them. Each knew and felt this,

and yet, with a sort of national stubbornness, neither liked to be the

one to recede first. As for Layton, bound as he was by a debt of deep

gratitude to the American, he chafed under the thought of sacrificing

even a particle of his country's honor to the accident of his own

condition, and with a burning cheek and flashing eye he began,--

“There can be no discussion on the matter. Between England and America

there can no more be a question as to supremacy--”

“There, don't say it; stop there,” said Quackinboss, mildly. “Don't let

us get warm about it. I may like to sit in a rockin'-chair and smoke my

weed in the parlor; you may prefer to read the 'Times' at the drawing-

room fire; but if we both agree to go out into the street together, sir,

we can whip all cre-ation.”

And he seized Layton's hand, and wrung it with an honest warmth that

there was no mistaking.

“And now as to this Mr. Trover,” said Layton, after a few minutes. “Are

we likely to learn anything from him?”

“Well, sir,” said the Colonel, lazily, “I 'm on his track, and I know

his footmarks so well now that I 'll be sure to detect him if I see him

again. He 's a-goin' South, and so are _we_. He's a-looking out for

land; that's exactly what _we're_ arter!”

“You have dropped no hint about our lecturing scheme?” asked Layton,

eagerly.

“I rayther think not, sir,” said the other, half indignant at the bare

suspicion. “We 're two gentlemen on the search after a good location and

a lively water-power. We 've jest heard of one down West, and there's

the whole cargo as per invoice.” And he gave a knowing wink and look of

mingled drollery and cunning.

“You are evidently of opinion that this man could be of use to us?” said

Layton, who was well aware how fond the American was of acting with a

certain mystery, and who therefore cautiously abstained from any rash

assault upon his confidence.

“Yes, sir, that's _my_ ticket; but I mean to take my own time to lay the

bill on the table. But here comes the small steamers and the boats for

the mails. Listen to that bugle, Britisher. That air is worth all

Mozart. Yes, sir,” said he proudly, as he hummed,--

“There's not a man beneath the moon, Nor lives in any land he That

hasn't heard the pleasant time Of Yankee doodle dandy!

“In coolin' drinks, and clipper ships, The Yankee has the way shown! On

land and sea 't is he that whips Old Bull and all creation.”

Quackinboss gradually dropped his voice, till at the concluding line the

words sank into an undistinguishable murmur; for now, as it were, on the

threshold of his own door, he felt all the claim of courtesy to the

stranger. Still it was not possible for him to repress the proud delight

he felt in the signs of wealth and prosperity around him.

“There,” cried he, with enthusiasm, “there ain't a land in the universe-

-that's worth calling a land--has n't a flag flying yonder! There's

every color of bunting, from Lapland to Shanghai, afloat in them waters,

sir; and yet you 'll not have to go back two hundred years, and where

you see the smoke risin' from ten thousand human dwellin's there was n't

one hearth nor one home! The black pine and the hemlock grew down those

grassy slopes where you see them gardens, and the red glare of the

Indian's fire shone out where the lighthouse now points to safety and

welcome! It ain't a despicable race as has done all that! If that be not

the work of a great people, I 'd like to hear what is!” He next pointed

out to Layton the various objects of interest as they presented

themselves to view, commenting on the very different impressions such a

scene of human energy and activity is like to produce than those lands

of Southern Europe from which they had lately come. “You 'll never hear

_Come si fa?_ here, sir,” said he, proudly. “If a man can't fix a thing

aright, he 'll not wring his hands and sit down to cry over it, but he

'll go home to think of it at his meals, and as he lies awake o' nights;

and he 'll ask himself again and again, 'If there be a way o' doin'

this, why can't _I_ find it out as well as another?'”

It was the Colonel's belief that out of the principle of equality sprang

an immense amount of that energy which develops itself in inventive

ability; and he dilated on this theory for some time, endeavoring to

show that the subdivision of ranks in the Old World tended largely to

repress the enterprising spirit which leads men into paths previously

untrodden. “That you 'll see, sir, when you come to mix with our people.

And now, a word of advice to you before you begin.”

He drew his arm within Layton's as he said this, and led him two or

three turns on the deck in silence. The subject was in some sort a

delicate one, and he did not well see how to open it without a certain

risk of offending. “Here's how it is,” said he at last. “Our folk isn't

your folk because they speak the same language. In _your_ country, your

station or condition, or whatever you like to call it, answers for you,

and the individual man merges into the class he belongs to. Not so here.

_We_ don't care a red cent about your rank, but we want to know about

you yourself! Now, you strangers mistake all that feeling, and call it

impertinence and curiosity, and such-like; but it ain't anything of the

kind! No, sir. It simply means what sort of knowledge, what art or

science or labor, can you contribute to the common stock? Are you a-come

amongst us to make us wiser or richer or thriftier or godlier; or are

you just a loafer,--a mere loafer? My asking _you_ on a rail-car whence

you come and where you 're a-goin' is no more impertinence than my

inquirin' at a store whether they have got this article or that! I want

to know whether you and I, as we journey together, can profit each

other; whether either of us mayn't have something the other has never

heard afore. He can't have travelled very far in life who has n't picked

up many an improvin' thing from men he didn't know the names on, ay, and

learned many a sound lesson, besides, of patience, or contentment,

forgiveness, and the like; and all that ain't so easy if people won't be

sociable together!”

Layton nodded a sort of assent; and Quackinboss continued, in the same

strain, to point out peculiarities to be observed, and tastes to be

consulted, especially with reference to the national tendency to invite

to “liquor,” which he assured Layton by no means required a sense of

thirst on his part to accede to. “You ain't always charmed when you say

you are, in French, sir; and the same spirit of politeness should lead

you to accept a brandy-smash without needing it, or even to drink off a

cocktail when you ain't dry. After all,” said he, drawing a long breath,

like one summing up the pith of a discourse, “if you're a-goin' to pick

holes in Yankee coats, to see all manner of things to criticise,

condemn, and sneer at, if you 're satisfied to describe a people by a

few peculiarities which are not pleasin' to you, go ahead and abuse us;

but if you 'll accept honest hospitality, though offered in a way that's

new and strange to you,--if you 'll believe in true worth and genuine

loyalty of character, even though its possessor talk somewhat through

the nose,--then, sir, I say, there ain't no fear that America will

disappoint you, or that you 'll be ill-treated by Americans.” With this

speech he turned away to look after his baggage and get ready to go

ashore.

CHAPTER XLI. QUACKINBOSS AT HOME

Though Quackinboss understood thoroughly well that it devolved upon him

to do the honors of his country to the “Britisher,” he felt that, in

honest fairness, the stranger ought to be free to form his impressions,

without the bias that would ensue from personal attentions, while he

also believed that American institutions and habits stood in need of no

peculiar favor towards them to assert their own superiority.

“Don't be on the look-out, sir, for Eu-ropean graces,” he would say, “in

this country, for the men that have most of 'em ain't our best people;

and don't mistake the eagerness with which everybody will press you to

admire America for any slight towards the old country. We all like her,

sir; and we'd like her better if she wasn't so fond of saying she's

ashamed of us.”

These were the sort of warnings and counsels he would drop as he guided

Layton about through the city, pointing out whatever he deemed most

worthy of curiosity, or whatever he conceived might illustrate the

national character. It was chiefly on the wealth of the people, their

untiring industry, and the energy with which they applied themselves to

money-getting, that he laid stress; and he did this with a degree of

insistence that betrayed an uneasy consciousness of how little sympathy

such traits meet with from the passing traveller.

“Mayhap, sir, you 'd rather see 'em loafing?” said he one day in a

moment of impatience, as Layton half confessed that he 'd like to meet

some of the men of leisure. “Well, you 'll have to look 'em up

elsewhere, I expect. I 'll have to take you a run down South for that

sort of cattle,--and that's what I mean to do. Before you go before our

people, sir, as a lecturer, you 'll have to study 'em a little, that's a

fact! When you come to know 'em, you 'll see that it's a folk won't be

put off with chaff when they want buckwheat; and that's jest what your

Eu-ropeans think to do. I will take a trip to the Falls first; I 'd like

to show you that water-power. We start away on Monday next.”

Layton was not sorry to leave New York. The sight of that ever busy

multitude, that buzzing hive of restless bees, was only addling to one

who never regarded wealth save as a stage to something farther off. He

was well aware how rash it would be to pronounce upon a people from the

mere accidents of chance intercourse, and he longed to see what might

give him some real insight into the character of the nation. Besides

this, he felt, with all the poignant susceptibility of his nature, that

he was not himself the man to win success amongst them. There was a bold

rough energy, a daring go-ahead spirit, that overbore him wherever he

went. They who had not travelled spoke more confidently of foreign lands

than he who had seen them. Of the very subjects he had made his own by

study, he heard men speak with a confidence he would not have dared to

assume; and lastly, the reserve which serves as a sanctuary to the

bashful man was invaded without scruple by any one who pleased it.

If each day's experience confirmed him in the impression that he was not

one to gain their suffrages, he was especially careful to conceal this

discouraging conviction from Quackinboss, leaving to time, that great

physician, to provide for the future. Nor was the Colonel himself, be it

owned, without his own misgivings. He saw, to his amazement, that the

qualities which he had so much admired in Layton won no approval from

his countrymen; the gifts, which by reading and reflection he had

cultivated, seemed not to be marketable commodities; there were no

buyers,--none wanted them. Now Quackinboss began to think seriously over

their project, deeply pained as he remembered that it was by his own

enthusiastic description of his countrymen the plan had first met

acceptance. Whether it was that the American mind had undergone some

great change since he had known it, or that foreign travel had

exaggerated, in his estimation, the memory of many things he had left

behind him; but so it was, the Colonel was amazed to discover that with

all the traits of sharp intelligence and activity he recognized in his

countrymen, there were yet some features in the society of the old

continent that he regretted and yearned after. Again and again did he

refer to Italy and their life there; even the things he had so often

condemned now came up, softened by time and distance, as pleasant

memories of an era passed in great enjoyment If any passing trait in the

scenery recalled the classic land, he never failed to remark it, and,

once launched upon the theme, he would talk away for hours of the olive-

woods, the trellised vines, the cottages half hid amidst the orange-

groves, showing how insensibly the luxurious indolence he had imbibed

lingered like a sort of poison in his blood.

“Yes, sir,” said he, one day, as with an amount of irritation he

acknowledged the fatal fascination of that land of dreamy inactivity,

“it's _my_ notion that Italy is a pasture where no beast ought to be

turned out that's ever to do any work again. It ain't merely that one

does nothing when he 's there, but he ain't fit for anything when he

leaves it. I know what I 'd have thought of any man that would have said

to me, 'Shaver Quackinboss, you 'll come out of them diggin's lazy and

indolent. You 'll think more of your ease than you ought, and you 'll be

more grateful for being jest left alone to follow your own fancies than

for the best notion of speculation that ever was hit upon.' And that's

exactly what I 've come to! I don't want a fellow to tell me where I can

make thirty or forty thousand dollars; I 've lost all that spring in me

that used to make me rise early and toil late. What I call happiness now

is to sit and smoke with one of your sort of an afternoon, and listen to

stories of chaps that lived long ago, and worked their way on in a world

a precious sight harder to bully than our own. Well now, sir, I say,

that ain't right, and it ain't nat'ral, and, what's more, I ain't a-

goin' to bear it. I mean to be stirrin' and active again, and you 'll

see it.”

It was a few days after he had made this resolve that he said to

Layton,--

“Only think who I saw at the bar this morning. That fellow we came over

with in the passage out; he was a-liquoring down there and treating all

the company. He comes up to me, straight on end, and says,--

“'Well, old 'oss, and how do _you_ get on?'

“'Bobbish-like,' says I, for I was minded to be good-humored with him,

and see what I could get out of him about hisself.

“'Where's the young 'un I saw with you aboard?' says he.

“'Well,' said I, 'he ain't very far off, when he's wanted.'

“'That's what he ain't,' said he; 'he ain't wanted nowhere.' When he

said this I saw he was very 'tight,' as we call it,--far gone in liquor,

I mean.

“'Have you found out that same water-power you were arter?' said he.

“'No,' said I. 'It's down West a man must go who has n't a bag full of

dollars. Everything up hereabouts is bought up at ten times its worth.'

“'Well, look sharp after the young 'un,' said he, laughing; 'that's _my_

advice to you. Though you're Yankee, he 'll be too much for you in the

end.' He said this, drinking away all the time, and getting thicker in

his speech at every word.

“'I ain't a man to neglect a warnin',' says I, in a sort of whisper,

'and if _you_ mean friendly by me, speak out.'

“'And ain't that speaking out,' says he, boldly, 'when I say to a fellow

I scarcely know by sight, “Mind your eye; look out for squalls!” I

wonder what more he wants? Does he expect me to lend him money?' said

he, with an insolent laugh.

“'No,' said I, in the same easy way, 'by no manner o' means; and if it's

myself you allude to, I ain't in the vocative case, sir. I 've got in

that old leather pocket-book quite enough for present use.'

“'Watch it well, then; put it under your head o' nights, that's all,'

said he, hiccuping; 'and if you wake up some morning without it, don't

say the fault was Oliver Trover's.' This was a-tellin' me his name,

which I remembered the moment I heard it.

“'You 'll take a brandy-smash or a glass of bitters with _me_ now, sir?'

said I, hopin' to get something more out of him; but he wouldn't have

it. He said, with a half-cunning leer, 'No more liquor, no more liquor,

and no more secrets! If you was to treat me to all in the bar, you 'd

get nothing more out of Noll Trover.'”

“But what does the fellow mean by his insinuations about me?” said

Layton, angrily. “I never knew him, never met him, never so much as

heard of him!”

“What does that signify if he has heard of _you_, and suspects you to

know something about _him?_ He ain't all right, that's clear enough; but

our country is so full of fellows like that, it ain't easy work tracking

'em.”

Layton shrugged his shoulders with an indifference, as though to say the

matter did not interest him; but Quackinboss rejoined quickly, “I 've a

notion that it concerns us, sir. I heerd his inquiry about all the lines

down South, and asking if any one knew a certain Harvey Winthrop, down

at Norfolk.”

“Winthrop--Winthrop? Where have I heard that name?”

“In that book of your father's,--don't you remember it? It was he was

mentioned as the guardian of that young girl, the daughter of him as was

pisoned at Jersey.”

“And is this man Trover in search of Winthrop?” asked Layton, eagerly.

“Well, he's a-lookin' arter him, somehow, that's certain; for when

somebody said, 'Oh, Harvey Winthrop ain't at Norfolk now,' he looked

quite put out and amazed, and muttered something about having made all

his journey for nothing.”

“It is strange, indeed, that we should have the same destination, and

stranger still would it be if we should be both on the same errand.”

“Well,” said Quackin boss, after a long pause, “I've been a-rolling the

log over and over, to see which way to cut it, and at last, I believe, I

've found the right side o' it. You and I must quarrel.”

“What do you mean?” asked Layton, in astonishment.

“I mean jest this. I must take up the suspicion that he has about _you_,

and separate from you. It may be to join _him_. He's one of your Old-

World sort, that's always so proud to be reckoned 'cute and smart, that

you 've only to praise his legs to get his leggin's. We'll be as thick

as thieves arter a week's travelling, and I 'll find out all that he's

about. Trust Old Shaver, sir, to get to windward of small craft like

that!”

“I own to you frankly,” said Layton, “that I don't fancy using a rogue's

weapons even against a rogue.”

“Them's not the sentiments of the men that made laws, sir,” said

Quackinboss. “Laws is jest rogues' weapons against rogues. You want to

do something you have n't no right to, and straight away you discover

that some fellow was so wide awake once that he made a statute against

it, ay, and so cleverly too, that he first imagined every different way

you could turn your dodge, and provided for each in turn.”

Layton shook his head in dissent, but could not repress a faint smile.

“Ain't it roguery to snare partridges and to catch fish, for the matter

o' that?” said he, with increased warmth. “Wherever a fellow shows

hisself more 'cute than his neighbors, there's sure to be an outcry

'What a rogue he is!'”

“Your theory would be an indictment against all mankind,” said Layton.

“No, sir, for _I_ only call him a rogue that turns his sharpness to bad

and selfish ends. Now, that's not the case with him as hunts down

varmint: he's a-doin' a good work, and all the better that he may get

scratched for his pains.”

“Well, what is your plan?” said Layton, rather fearful of the length

into which his friend's speculations occasionally betrayed him.

“Here it is, sir,” said the Colonel. “I'll come down upon that crittur

at Detroit, where I hear he's a-goin', and flatter him by saying that he

was all right about _you_.”

“Indeed!” said Layton, laughing.

“Yes, sir,” said the other, gravely. “I'll say to him, 'Stranger, you

_are_ a wide-awake 'un, that's a fact.' He'll rise to _that_, like a

ground-shark to a leg of pork,--see if he don't,--and he 'll go on to

ask about _you_; that will give me the opportunity to give a sketch of

myself, and a more simple, guileless sort of bein' you 've not often

heerd of than I 'll turn out to be. Yes, sir, I 'm one as suspects no

ill of anybody, jest out of the pureness of my own heart. When we get on

to a little more intimacy, I mean to show him twenty thousand dollars I

've got by me, and ask his advice about investin' 'em. I guess pretty

nigh what he'll say: 'Give 'em over to me.' Well, I 'll take a bit of

time to consider about that. There will be, in consequence, more

intimacy and more friendship atween us: but arter he's seen the money,

he 'll not leave me; human natur' could n't do _that!_”

“Shall I tell you fairly,” said Layton, “that I not only don't like your

scheme, but that I think it will not repay you?”

“Well, sir,” said Quackinboss, drawing himself up, “whenever you see

_me_ baitin' a rat-trap, I don't expect you 'll say, 'Colonel, ain't

that mean? Ain't _you_ ashamed of yourself to entice that poor varmint

there to his ruin? Why don't you explain to him that if he wants that

morsel of fried bacon, it will cost him pretty dear?'”

“You forget that you're begging the question. You're assuming, all this

time, that this man is a rogue and a cheat.”

“I am, sir,” said he, firmly, “for it's not at this time o' day Shaver

Quackinboss has to learn life. All the pepperin' and lemon-squeezin' in

the world won't make a toad taste like a terrapin: that crittur's gold

chains don't impose upon _me!_ You remember that he was n't aboard four-

and-twenty hours when I said, 'That sheep's mangy.'”

“Perhaps I like your plan the less because it separates us,” said

Layton, who now perceived that the Colonel seemed to smart under

anything that reflected on his acuteness.

“That's jest what galls me too,” said he, frankly. “It's been all

sunshine in my life, since we 've been together. All the book-learnin'

you 've got has stolen into your nature so gradually as to make part of

yourself, but what you tell me comes like soft rain over a dry prairie,

and changing the parched soil into something that seems to say, 'I 'm

not so barren, after all, if I only got my turn from fortune.' You 've

shown me one thing, that I often had a glimmerin' of, but never saw

clearly till you pointed it out, that the wisest men that ever lived

felt more distrust of themselves than of their fellows. But we only part

for a while, Layton. In less than a month we 'll meet again, and I hope

to have good news for you by that time.”

“Where are we to rendezvous, then?” asked Layton, for he saw how

fruitless would be the attempt at further opposition.

“I'll have the map out this evening, and we 'll fix it,” said the

Colonel. “And now leave me to smoke, and think over what's afore us.

There's great thoughts in that bit of twisted 'bacco there, if I only

have the wit to trace 'em. Every man that has had to use his head in

life finds out by the time he's forty what helps him to his best

notions. Bonaparte used to get into a bath to think, Arkwright went to

bed, and my father, Methuselah Grip Quackinboss, said he never was so

bright as standing up to his neck in the mill-race, with the light spray

of the wheel comin' in showers over him. 'I feel,' says he, 'as if I was

one-half Lord Bacon and the other John C. Colhoun.' Now my brain-

polisher is a long Cuban, a shady tree, and a look-out seaward,--all the

better if the only sails in sight be far away.”

CHAPTER XLII. A NEW LOCATION

After a great deal of discussion it was agreed between Layton and the

Colonel that they should meet that day month at St. Louis. Layton was to

employ the interval in seeing as much as he could of the country and the

people, and preparing himself to appear before them at the first

favorable opportunity. Indeed, though he did not confess it, he yielded

to the separation the more willingly, because it offered him the

occasion of putting into execution a plan he for some time had been

ruminating over. In some measure from a natural diffidence, and in a

great degree from a morbid dread of disappointing the high expectations

Quackinboss had formed of the success he was to obtain, Layton had long

felt that the presence of his friend would be almost certain to insure

his failure. He could neither venture to essay the same flights before

him, nor could he, if need were, support any coldness or disinclination

of his audience were Quackinboss there to witness it. In fact, he wanted

to disassociate his friend from any pain failure should occasion, and

bear all alone the sorrows of defeat.

Besides this, he felt that, however personally painful the ordeal, he

was bound to face it. He had accepted Quackinboss's assistance under the

distinct pledge that he was to try this career. In its success was he to

find the means of repaying his friend; and so confidently had the

Colonel always talked of that success, it would seem mere wilfulness not

to attempt it.

There is not, perhaps, a more painful position in life than to be

obliged to essay a career to which all one's thoughts and instincts are

opposed; to do something against which self-respect revolts, and yet

meet no sympathy from others,--to be conscious that any backwardness

will be construed into self-indulgence, and disinclination be set down

as indolence. Now this was Alfred Layton's case. He must either risk a

signal failure, or consent to be thought of as one who would rather be a

burden to his friends than make an honorable effort for his own support.

He was already heavily in the Colonel's debt; the thought of this

weighed upon him almost insupportably. It never quitted him for an

instant; and, worse than all, it obtruded through every effort he made

to acquit himself of the obligation; and only they who have experienced

it can know what pain brain labor becomes when it is followed amidst the

cares and anxieties of precarious existence; when the student tries in

vain to concentrate thoughts that _will_ stray away to the miserable

exigencies of his lot, or struggle hopelessly to forget himself and his

condition in the interest of bygone events or unreal incidents. Let none

begrudge him the few flitting moments of triumph he may win, for he has

earned them by many a long hour of hardship!

The sense of his utter loneliness, often depressing and dispiriting, was

now a sort of comfort to him. Looking to nothing but defeat, he was glad

that there was none to share in his sorrows. Of all the world, he

thought poor Clara alone would pity him. Her lot was like his own,--the

same friendlessness, the self-same difficulty. Why should he not have

her sympathy? She would give it freely and with her whole heart. It was

but to tell her, “I am far away and unhappy. I chafe under dependence,

and I know not how to assert my freedom. I would do something, and yet I

know not what it is to be. I distrust myself, and yet there are times

when I feel that one spoken word would give such courage to my heart

that I could go on and hope.” Could she speak that word to him? was his

ever present thought. He resolved to try, and accordingly wrote her a

long, long letter. Full of the selfishness of one who loved, he told her

the whole story of his journey, and the plan that led to it. “I have

patience enough for slow toil,” said he, “but I do not seek for the

success it brings. I wanted the quick prosperity that one great effort

might secure, and time afterwards to enjoy the humble fortune thus

acquired. With merely enough for life, Clara, I meant to ask you to

share it. Who are as friendlessly alone as we are? Who are so bereft of

what is called home? Say, have you a heart to give me,--when I can claim

it,--and will you give it? I am low and wretched because I feel unloved.

Tell me this is not so, and in the goal before me hope and energy will

come back to me.” Broken and scarce coherent at times, his letter

revealed one who loved her ardently, and who wanted but her pledge to

feel himself happy. He pressed eagerly to know of her own life,--what it

was, and whether she was contented. Had she learned anything of the

mystery that surrounded her family, or could she give him the slightest

clew by which he could aid her in the search? He entreated of her to

write to him, even though her letter should not be the confirmation of

all he wished and prayed for.

The very fact of his having written this to Clara seemed to rally his

spirits. It was at least a pledge to his own heart. He had placed a goal

before him, and a hope.

“I am glad to see you look cheerier,” said Quackinboss, as they sat

talking over their plans. “The hardest load a man ever carried is a

heavy heart, and it's as true as my name's Shaver, that one gets into

the habit of repinin' and seein' all things black jest as one falls into

any other evil habit. Old Grip Quackinboss said, one day, to Mr.

Jefferson, 'Yes, sir,' says he, 'always hearty, sir,--always cheery.

There 's an old lady as sweeps the crossin' in our street, and I give

her a quarter-dollar to fret for me, for it's a thing I've sworn never

to do for myself.'”

“Well,” said Layton, gayly, “you 'll see I 've turned over a new leaf;

and whatever other thoughts you shall find in me, causeless depression

shall not be of the number.”

“All right, sir; that's my own platform. Now here's your instructions,

for I 'm a-goin'. I start at seven-forty, by the cars for Buffalo. That

spot down there is our meetin'-place,--St. Louis. It looks mighty

insignificant on the map, there; but you 'll see it's a thrivin'

location, and plenty of business in it. You 'll take your own time about

being there, only be sure to arrive by this day month; and if I be the

man I think myself, I 'll have news to tell you when you come. This

crittur, Trover, knows all about that widow Morris, and the girl, too,--

that Clara,--you was so fond of. If I have to tie him up to a tree, sir,

I 'll have it out of him! There 's five hundred dollars in that bag. You

'll not need all of it, belike, if you keep clear of 'Poker' and Bully-

brag; and I advise you to, sir,--I do,” said he, gravely. “It takes a

man to know life, to guess some of the sharp 'uns in our river steamers.

There's no other dangers to warn you of here, sir. Don't be riled about

trifles, and you 'll find yourself very soon at home with us.”

These were his last words of counsel as he shook Layton's hand at

parting. It was with a sad sense of loneliness Layton sat by his window

after Quackinboss had gone. For many a month back he had had no other

friend or companion: ever present to counsel, console, or direct him,

the honest Yankee was still more ready with his purse than his precepts.

Often as they had differed in their opinions, not a hasty word or

disparaging sentiment had ever disturbed their intercourse; and even the

Colonel's most susceptible spot--that which touched upon national

characteristics--never was even casually wounded in the converse. In

fact, each had learned to see with how very little forbearance in

matters of no moment, and with how slight an exercise of deference for

differences of object and situation, English and American could live

together like brothers.

There was but one thought which embittered the relations between them,

in Layton's estimation. It was the sense of that dependence which

destroyed equality. He was satisfied to be deeply the debtor of his

friend, but he could not struggle between what he felt to be a fitting

gratitude, and that resolute determination to assert what he believed to

be true at any cost. He suspected, too,--and the suspicion was a very

painful one,--that the Colonel deemed him indolent and self-indulgent.

The continued reluctance he had evinced to adventure on the scheme for

which they came so far, favored this impression.

As day after day he travelled along, one thought alone occupied him. At

each place he stopped came the questions, Will this suit? Is this the

spot I am in search of? It was strange to mark by what slight and casual

events his mind was influenced. The slightest accident that ruffled him

as he arrived, an insignificant inconvenience, a passing word, the look

of the place, the people, the very aspect of the weather, were each

enough to assure him he had not yet discovered what he sought after. It

was towards the close of his fifth day's ramble that he reached the

small town of Bunkumville. It was a newly settled place, and, like all

such, not over-remarkable for comfort or convenience. The spot had been

originally laid out as the centre of certain lines of railroad, and

intended to have been a place of consequence; but the engineers who had

planned it had somehow incurred disgrace, the project was abandoned, and

instead of a commercial town, rich, populous, and flourishing, it now

presented the aspect of a spot hastily deserted, and left to linger out

an existence of decline and neglect. There were marks enough to denote

the grand projects which were once entertained for the place,--great

areas measured off for squares, spacious streets staked off; here and

there massive “blocks” of building; three or four hotels on a scale of

vast proportion, and an assembly-room worthy of a second-rate city. With

all this, the population was poor-looking and careworn. No stir of trade

or business to be met with. A stray bullock-car stole drearily along

through the deep-rutted streets, or a traveller significantly armed with

rifle and revolver rode by on his own raw-boned horse; but of the sights

and sounds of town life and habits there were none. Of the hotels, two

were closed; the third was partially occupied as a barrack, by a party

of cavalry despatched to repress some Indian outrages on the frontier.

Even the soldiers had contracted some of the wild, out-of-the-world look

of the place, and wore their belts over buckskin jackets, that smacked

more of the prairie than the parade. The public conveyance which brought

Layton to the spot only stopped long enough to bait the horses and

refresh the travellers; and it was to the no small surprise of the

driver that he saw the “Britisher” ask for his portmanteau, with the

intention of halting there. “Well, you ain't a-goin' to injure your

constitution with gayety and late hours, stranger,” said he, as he saw

him descend; “that's a fact.”

Nor was the sentiment one that Layton could dispute, as, still standing

beside his luggage in the open street, he watched the stage till it

disappeared in the distant pine forest. Two or three lounging, lazy-

looking inhabitants had, meanwhile, come up, and stood looking with

curiosity at the new arrival.

“You ain't a valuator, are you?” asked one, after a long and careful

inspection of him.

“No,” said Layton, dryly.

“You 're a-lookin' for a saw-mill, I expect,” said another, with a keen

glance as he spoke.

“Nor that, either,” was the answer.

“I have it,” broke in a third; “you 've got 'notions' in that box,

there, but it won't do down here; we 've got too much bark to hew off

before we come to such fixin's.”

“I suspect you are not nearer the mark than your friends, sir,” said

Layton, still repressing the slightest show of impatience.

“What'll you lay, stranger, I don't hit it?” cried a tall, thin, bold-

looking fellow, with long hair falling over his neck. “You're a

preacher, ain't you? You're from the New England States, I 'll be bound.

Say I 'm right, sir, for you know I am.”

“I must give it against you, sir, also,” said Layton, preserving his

gravity with an effort that was not without difficulty. “I do not follow

any one of the avocations you mention; but, in return for your five

questions, may I make bold to ask one? Which is the hotel here?”

“It's yonder,” said the tall man, pointing to a large house, handsomely

pillared, and overgrown with the luxuriant foliage of the red acanthus;

“there it is. That's the Temple of Epicurus, as you see it a-written up.

You ain't for speculatin' in that sort, are you?”

“No,” said Layton, quietly; “I was merely asking for a house of

entertainment.”

“You 're a Britisher, I reckon,” said one of the former speakers; “that

's one of _their_ words for meat and drink.”

Without waiting for any further discussion of himself, his country, or

his projects, Layton walked towards the hotel. From the two upper tiers

of windows certain portions of military attire, hung out to air or to

dry, undeniably announced a soldierly occupation; cross-belts, overalls,

and great-coats hung gracefully suspended on all sides. Lower down,

there was little evidence of habitation; most of the windows were

closely shuttered, and through such as were open Layton saw large and

lofty rooms, totally destitute of furniture and in part unfinished. The

hall-door opened upon a spacious apartment, at one side of which a bar

had been projected, but the plan had gone no further than a long counter

and some shelves, on which now a few bottles stood in company with three

or four brass candlesticks, a plaster bust, wanting a nose, and some

cooking-utensils. On the counter itself was stretched at full length,

and fast asleep, a short, somewhat robust man, in shirt and trousers,

his deep snoring awaking a sort of moaning echo in the vaulted room. Not

exactly choosing to disturb his slumbers, if avoidable, Layton pushed

his explorations a little further; but though he found a number of

rooms, all open, they were alike empty and unfinished, nor was there a

creature to be met with throughout. There was, then, nothing for it but

to awaken the sleeper, which he proceeded to, at first by gentle, but,

as these failed, by more vigorous means.

“Don't! I say,” growled out the man, without opening his eyes, but

seeming bent on continuing his sleep; “I 'll not have it; let me be,--

that's all.”

“Are you the landlord of this hotel?” said Layton, with a stout shake by

the shoulder.

“Well, then, here's for it, if you will!” cried the other, springing up,

and throwing himself in an instant into a boxing attitude, while his

eyes glared with a vivid wildness, and his whole face denoted passion.

“I came here for food and lodging, and not for a boxing-match, my

friend,” said Layton, mildly.

“And who said I was your friend?” said the other, fiercely: “who told

_you_ that we was raised in the same diggins? and what do you mean, sir,

by disturbin' a gentleman in his bed?”

“You'll scarcely call that bench a bed, I think?” said Layton, in an

accent meant to deprecate all warmth.

“And why not, sir? If you choose to dress yourself like a checker-board,

I 'm not going to dispute whether you have a coat on. It's _my_ bed, and

I like it. And now what next?”

“I 'm very sorry to have disturbed you; and if you can only tell me if

there be any other hotel in this place--”

“There ain't; and there never will be, that's more. Elsmore's is shut

up; Chute Melchin 's a-blown his brains out; and so would _you_ if you

'd have come here. Don't laugh, or by the everlastin' rattlesnake, I 'll

bowie you!”

The madly excited look of the man, his staring eyes, retreating

forehead, and restless features made Layton suspect he was insane, and

he would gladly have retired from an interview that promised so little

success; but the other walked deliberately round, and, barring the

passage to the door, stood with his arms crossed before him.

“You think I don't know you, but I do; I heerd of you eight weeks ago; I

knew you was comin', but darm me all blue if you shall have it. Come out

into the orchard; come out, I say, and let's see who's the best man.

_You_ think you 'll come here and make this like the Astor House, don't

ye? and there 'll be five or six hundred every night pressing up to the

bar for bitters and juleps, just because you have the place? But I say

Dan Heron ain't a-goin' to quit; he stands here like old Hickory in the

mud-fort, and says, try and turn me out.”

By the time the altercation had reached thus far, Layton saw that a

crowd of some five-and-twenty or thirty persons had assembled outside

the door, and were evidently enjoying the scene with no common zest.

Indeed, their mutterings of “Dan 's a-givin' it to him,” “Dan 's full

steam up,” and so on, showed where their sympathies inclined. Some,

however, more kindly-minded, and moved by the unfriended position of the

stranger, good-naturedly interposed, and, having obtained Layton's

sincere and willing assurance that he never harbored a thought of

becoming proprietor of the Temple, nor had he the very vaguest notion of

settling down at Bunkumville in any capacity, peace was signed, and Mr.

Heron consented to receive him as a guest.

Taking a key from a nail on the wall, Dan Heron preceded him to a small

chamber, where a truckle-bed, a chair, and a basin on the floor formed

the furniture; but he promised a table, and if the stay of the stranger

warranted the trouble, some other “fixin's” in a day or two.

“You can come and eat a bit with me about sun-down,” said Dan, doggedly,

as he withdrew, for he was not yet quite satisfied what projects the

stranger nursed in his bosom.

Resolved to make the best of a situation not over-promising, to go with

the humor of his host so far as he could, and even, where possible, try

and derive some amusement from his eccentricities, Layton presented

himself punctually at meal-time. The supper was laid out in a large

kitchen, where an old negress officiated as cook. It was abundant and

savory; there was every imaginable variety of bread, and the display of

dishes was imposing. The circumstance was, however, explained by Heron's

remarking that it was the supper of the officers of the detachment they

were eating, a sudden call to the frontier having that same morning

arrived, and to this lucky accident were they indebted for this

abundance.

An apple-brandy “smash” of Mr. Heron's own devising wound up the meal,

and the two lighted their cigars, and in all the luxurious ease of their

rocking-chairs, enjoyed their post-prandial elysium.

“Them boots of yours is English make,” was Mr. Heron's first remark,

after a long pause.

“Yes, London,” was the brief reply.

“I 've been there; I don't like it.”

Layton muttered some expression of regret at this sentiment; but the

other not heeding went on:--

“I 've seen most parts of the world, but there ain't anything to compare

with this.”

Layton was not certain whether it was the supremacy of America he

asserted, or the city of Bunkumville in particular, but he refrained

from inquiring, preferring to let the other continue; nor did he seem at

all unwilling. He went on to give a half-connected account of a

migratory adventurous sort of life at home and abroad. He had been a

cook on shipboard, a gold-digger, an auctioneer, a showman, dealt in

almost every article of commerce, smuggled opium into China and slaves

into New Orleans, and with all his experiences had somehow or other not

hit upon the right road to fortune. Not, indeed, that he distrusted his

star,--far from it. He believed himself reserved for great things, and

never felt more certain of being within their reach than at this moment.

“It was I made this city we 're in, sir,” said he, proudly. “I built all

that mass yonder,--Briggs Block; I built the house we 're sitting in; I

built that Apollonicon, the music-hall you saw as you came in, and I

lectured there too; and if it were not for an old 'rough' that won't

keep off his bitters early of a mornin', I 'd be this day as rich as

John Jacob Astor: that's what's ruined me, sir. I brought him from New

York with me down here, and there 's nothing from a bird-cage to a

steam-boiler that fellow can't make you when he's sober,--ay, and

describe it too. If you only heerd him talk! Well, he made a telegraph

here, and set two saw-mills a-goin', and made a machine for getting the

salt out of that lake yonder, and then took to manufacturing macaroni

and gunpowder, and some dye-stuff out of oak bark; and what will you

say, stranger, when I tell you that he sold each of these inventions for

less than gave him a week's carouse? And now I have him here, under lock

and key, waiting till he comes to hisself, which he's rather long about

this time.”

“Is he ill?” asked Layton.

“Well, you can't say exactly he's all right; he gave hisself an ugly

gash with a case-knife on the neck, and tried to blow hisself up arter

with some combustible stuff, so that he's rather black about the

complexion; and then he's always a-screechin' and yellin' for drink, but

I go in at times with a heavy whip, and he ain't unreasonable then.”

“He's mad, in fact,” said Layton, gravely.