“He has been much fretted of late; independently of being separated from

_you_, he has had many anxieties.”

“I have heard something of this; more, indeed, than I like to believe

true. Is it possible, May, that he intends to marry?”

She nodded twice slowly, without speaking.

“And his wife is to be this Mrs. Morris,--this widow that I remember at

Marlia, long ago?”

“And who is now here domesticated with us.”

“What do you know of her? What does any one know of her?” asked he,

impatiently.

“Absolutely nothing,--that is, of her history, her family, or her

belongings. Of herself I can only say that she is supreme in this house;

her orders alone are obeyed. I have reason to believe that papa confides

the gravest interests to her charge, and for myself, I obey her by a

sort of instinct.”

“But you like her, May?”

“I am too much afraid of her to like her. I was at first greatly

attracted by fascinations perfectly new to me, and by a number of

graceful accomplishments, which certainly lent a great charm to her

society. But after a while I detected, or I fancied that I detected,

that all these attractions were thrown out as lures to amuse and occupy

us, while she was engaged in studying our dispositions and examining our

natures. Added to this, I became aware of the harshness she secretly

bestowed upon poor Clara, whose private lectures were little else than

tortures. This latter completely estranged me from her, and, indeed, was

the first thing which set me at work to consider her character. From the

day when Clara left this--”

“Left this, and for where?” cried he.

“I cannot tell you; we have never heard of her since. She was taken away

by a guardian, a certain Mr. Stocmar, whom papa seemed to know, or at

least thought he had met somewhere, many years ago. It was shortly after

the tidings of Captain Morris's death this gentleman arrived here to

claim her.”

“And her mother,--was she willing to part with her?”

“She affected great sorrow--fainted, I think--when she read the letter

that apprised her of the necessity; but from Clara herself I gathered

that the separation was most grateful to her, and that for some secret

cause I did not dare to ask--even had she known to tell--they were not

to meet again for many, many years.”

“But all that you tell me is unnatural, May. Is there not some terrible

mystery in this affair? Is there not some shameful scandal beneath it

all?”

A heavy sigh seemed to concur with what he said.

“And can my father mean to marry a woman of whose past life he knows

nothing? Is it with all these circumstances of suspicion around her that

he is willing to share name and fortune with her?”

“As to that, such is her ascendancy over him, that were she to assure

him of the most improbable or impossible of events he 'd not discredit

her. Some secret dread of what you would say or think has delayed the

marriage hitherto; but once you have taken your leave and are fairly

off,--not to return for years,--the event will no longer be deferred.”

“Oh, May, how you grieve me! I cannot tell you the misery you have put

into my heart.”

“It is out of my own sorrow I have given you to drink,” said she,

bitterly. “You are a man, and have a man's career before you, with all

its changeful chances of good or evil; I, as a woman, must trust my

hazard of happiness to a home, and very soon I shall have none.”

He tried to speak, but a sense of choking stopped him, and thus, without

a word on either side, they walked along several minutes.

“May,” said he, at last, “do you remember the line of the poet,--

“'Death and absence differ but in name'?”

“I never heard it before; but why do you ask me?”

“I was just thinking that in parting moments like this, as on a death-

bed, one dares to speak of things which from some sense of shame one had

never dared to touch on before. Now, I want to carry away with me over

the seas the thought that your lot in life is assured, and your

happiness, so far as any one's can be, provided for. To know this, I

must force a confidence which you may not wish to accord me; but bethink

you, dear May, that you will never see me more. Will you tell me if I

ask about _him?_”

“About whom?” asked she, in unfeigned astonishment, for never were her

thoughts less directed to Alfred Layton.

“May,” said he, almost angrily, “refuse me if you will, but let there be

no deceit between us. I spoke of Layton.”

“Ask what you please, and I will answer you,” said she, boldly.

“He is your lover, is he not? You have engaged yourself to him?”

“No.”

“It is the same thing. You are to be his wife, when this, that, or

t'other happens?”

“No.”

“In a word, if there be no compact, there is an understanding between

you?”

“Once more, no!” said she, in the same firm voice.

“Will you deny that you have received letters from him, and have written

to him again?”

An angry flush covered the girl's cheek, and her lip trembled. For an

instant it seemed as if an indignant answer would break from her; but

she repressed the impulse, and coolly said, “There is no need to deny

it. I have done both.”

“I knew it,--I knew it!” cried he, in a bitter exultation. “You might

have dealt more frankly with me, or might have said, 'I am in no wise

accountable to _you_, I recognize no right in you to question me.' Had

you done this, May, it would have been a warning to me; but to say, 'Ask

me freely, I will tell you everything,'--was this fair, was this honest,

was it true-hearted?”

“And yet I meant it for such,” said she, sorrowfully. “I may have felt a

passing sense of displeasure that you should have heard from any other

than myself of this correspondence; but even that is passed away, and I

care not to learn from whom you heard it. I have written as many as

three letters to Mr. Layton. This is his last to _me_.” She took at the

same moment a letter from her pocket, and handed it towards him.

“I have no presumption to read your correspondence, May Leslie,” said

he, red with shame and anger together. “Your asking me to do so implies

a rebuke in having dared to speak on the subject, but it is for the last

time.”

“And is it because we are about to part, Charles, that it must be in

anger?” said she; and her voice faltered and her lip trembled. “Of all

your faults, Charles, selfishness was not one, long ago.”

“No matter what I was long ago; we have both lived to see great changes

in ourselves.”

“Come, let us be friends,” said she, taking his hand cordially. “I know

not how it is with you, but never in my life did I need a friend so

much.”

“Oh, May, how can I serve you?”

“First read that letter, Charles. Sit down there and read it through,

and I 'll come back to you by the time you 've finished it.”

With a sort of dogged determination to sacrifice himself, no matter at

what cost, Charles Heathcote took the letter from her, and turned away

into another alley of the garden.

CHAPTER L. THREE MET AGAIN

When, on the following morning, Charles Heathcote repaired to the hotel

where he had left his friend Lord Agincourt, he was surprised to hear

the sound of voices and laughter as he drew nigh the room; nor less

astonished was he, on entering, to discover O'Shea seated at the

breakfast-table, and manifestly in the process of enjoying himself. Had

there been time to retire undetected, Heathcote would have done so, for

his head was far too full of matters of deep interest to himself to

desire the presence of a stranger, not to say that he had a

communication to make to his friend both delicate and difficult.

O'Shea's quick glance had, however, caught him at once, and he cried

out, “Here's the very man we wanted to make us complete,--the jolliest

party of three that ever sat down together.”

“I scarcely thought to see you in these parts,” said Heathcote, with

more of sulk than cordiality in the tone.

“Your delight ought to be all the greater, though, maybe, it is n't! You

look as glum as the morning I won your trap and the two nags.”

“By the way, what became of them?” asked Heathcote.

“I sold the chestnut to a young cornet in the Carabineers. He saw me

ride him through all the bonfires in Sackville Street the night the mob

beat the police, and he said he never saw his equal to face fire; and he

was n't far wrong there, for the beast was stone blind.”

“And the gray?”

“The gray is here, in Rome, and in top condition; and if I don't take

him over five feet of timber, my name is n't Gorman.” A quick wink and a

sly look towards Agincoort conveyed to Heathcote the full meaning of

this speech.

“And you want a high figure for him?” asked he.

“If I sell him,--if I sell him at all; for you see, if the world goes

well with me, and I have a trump or two in my hand, I won't part with

that horse. It's not every day in the week that you chance on a beast

that can carry fifteen stone over a stiff country,--ay, and do it four

days in the fortnight!”

“What's his price?” asked Agincourt.

“Let him tell you,” said O'Shea, with a most expressive look at

Heathcote. “He knows him as well or better than I do.”

“Yes,” said Heathcote, tantalizing him on purpose; “but when a man sets

out by saying, 'I don't want to sell my horse,' of course it means, 'If

you will have him, you must pay a fancy price.'”

If O'Shea's expression could be rendered in words, it might be read

thus: “And if that be the very game I'm playing, ain't you a downright

idiot to spoil it?”

“Well,” said Agincourt, after a pause, “I 'm just in the sort of humor

this morning to do an extravagant thing, or a silly one.”

“Lucky fellow!” broke in Heathcote, “for O'Shea's the very man to assist

you to your project.”

“I am!” said O'Shea, firmly and quickly; “for there's not the man living

has scattered his money more freely than myself. Before I came of age,

when I was just a slip of a boy, about nineteen--”

“Never mind the anecdote, old fellow,” said Heathcote, laughingly, as he

laid his hand on the other's shoulder. “Agincourt has just confessed

himself in the frame of mind to be 'done.' Do him, therefore, by all

means. Say a hundred and fifty for the nag, and he 'll give it, and keep

your good story for another roguery.”

“Isn't he polite?--isn't he a young man of charming manners and elegant

address?” said O'Shea, with a strange mixture of drollery and

displeasure.

“He's right, at all events,” said Agincourt, laughing at the other's

face; “he's right as regards me. I 'll give you a hundred and fifty for

the horse without seeing him.”

“Oh, mother of Moses! I wish your guardian was like you.”

“Why so? What do you mean?”

“I mean this,--that I wish he 'd buy me, too, without seeing me!” And

then, seeing that by their blank looks they had failed to catch his

meaning, he added, “Is n't he one of the Cabinet now?”

“Yes, he is Colonial Secretary.”

“That 's the very fellow I want. He 's giving away things every day,

that any one of them would be the making of me.”

“What would you take?”

“Whatever I 'd get. There's my answer. Whatever I 'd get I'd be a

Bishop, or a Judge, or a boundary Commissioner, or a Treasurer,--I 'd

like to be that best,--or anything in reason they could offer a man of

good family, and who had a seat in the House.”

“I think you might get him something; I'm sure you might,” said

Heathcote.

“Well, I can try, at all events. I 'll write to-day.”

“Will you really?”

“I give you my word on it. I 'll say that, independently of all personal

claims of your own, you 're an intimate and old friend, whose

advancement I will accept as a favor done to myself.”

“That's the ticket. But mind no examination,--no going before the Civil

Service chaps. I tell you fairly, I would n't take the Governor-

Generalship of India if I had to go up for the multiplication-table. I

think I see myself sitting trembling before them, one fellow asking me,

'Who invented “pitch and toss”?' and another inquiring 'Who was the

first man ever took pepper with oysters?'”

“Leave all that to Agincourt,” said Heathcote; “he'll explain to his

guardian that you were for several sessions a distinguished member of

the House--”

“'T was I that brought 'crowing' in. I used to crow like a cock when old

Sibthorp got up, and set them all off laughing.”

“I 'll mention your public services--”

“And don't say that I 'm hard up. Don't make it appear that it 's

because I 'm out at the elbows I 'm going, but just a whim,--the way

Gladstone went to Greece the other day; that's the real dodge, for they

keep the Scripture in mind up in Downing Street, and it's always the

'poor they send empty away.'”

“And you'll dine with us here, at seven?” said Agincourt, rising from

the table.

“That 's as much as to say, 'Cut your lucky now, Gorman; we don't want

you till dinner-time.'”

“You forget that he has got the letter to write about you,” said

Heathcote. “You don't want him to lose a post?”

“And the gray horse?”

“He's mine; I 've bought him.”

“I suppose you 've no objection to my taking a canter on him this

morning?”

“Ride him, by all means,” said Agincourt, shaking his hand cordially

while he said adieu.

“Why did you ask him to dinner to-day?” said Heathcote, peevishly. “I

wanted you to have come over and dined with us. My father is eager to

see you, and so is May.”

“Let us go to tea, then. And how are they?--how is he looking?”

“Broken,--greatly broken. I was shocked beyond measure to see him so

much aged since we met, and his spirits gone,--utterly gone.”

“Whence is all this?”

“He says that I deserted him,--that he was forsaken.”

“And is he altogether wrong, Charley? Does not conscience prick you on

that score?”

“He says, too, that I have treated May as cruelly and as unjustly; also,

that I have broken up their once happy home. In fact, he lays all at

_my_ door.”

“And have you seen _her?_”

“Yes, we had a meeting last night, and a long talk this morning; and,

indeed, it was about that I wanted to speak to you when I found O'Shea

here. Confound the fellow! he has made the thing more difficult than

ever, for I have quite forgotten how I had planned it all.”

“Planned it all! Surely there was no need of a plan, Charley, in

anything that you meant to say to _me?_”

“Yes, but there was, though. You have very often piqued me by saying

that I never knew my own mind from one day to another, that you were

always prepared for some change of intention in me, and that nothing

would surprise you less than that I should 'throw you over' the very day

before we were to sail for India.”

“Was I very, very unjust, Charley?” said he, kindly.

“_I_ think you were, and for this reason: he who is master of his own

fate, so far as personal freedom and ample fortune can make him, ought

not to judge rashly of the doubts and vacillations and ever changing

purposes of him who has to weigh fifty conflicting influences. The one

sufficiently strong to sway others may easily take his line and follow

it; the other is the slave of any incident of the hour, and must be

content to accept events, and not mould them.”

“I read it all, Charley. You 'll not go out?”

“I will not.”

Agincourt repressed the smile that was fast gathering on his lips, and,

in a grave and quiet voice, said, “And why?”

“For the very reason you have so often given me. She cares for me; she

has told me so herself, and even asked me not to leave them! I explained

to her that I had given you not only a promise, but a pledge, that,

unless you released me, I was bound in honor to accompany you. She said,

'Will you leave this part of the matter to _me?_' and I answered, 'No,

I'll go frankly to him, and say, “I'm going to break my word with you: I

have to choose between May Leslie and you, and I vote for her.”'”

“What a deal of self-sacrifice it might have saved you, Charley,” said

he, laughing, “had you seen this telegram which came when I had sat down

to breakfast.” It came from the Horse Guards, sent by some private

friend of Agincourt' s, and was in these words: “The row is over, no

more drafts for India, do not go.”

Heathcote read and re-read the paper for several minutes. “So, then, for

once I have luck on my side. My resolve neither wounds a friend nor

hurts my own self-esteem. Of course _you_ 'll not go?”

“Certainly not. I 'll not go out to hunt the lame ducks that others have

wounded.”

“You 'll let me take this and show it to my father,” said Heathcote. “He

shall learn the real reason of my stay hereafter, but for the present

this will serve to make him happy; and poor May, too, will be spared the

pain of thinking that in yielding to her wish I have jeopardized a true

friendship. I can scarcely believe all this happiness real, Agincourt.

After so long a turn of gloom and despondency, I cannot trust myself to

think that fortune means so kindly by me. Were it not for one unhappy

thought,--one only,--I could say I have nothing left to wish for.”

“And what is that?--Is it anything in which I can be of service to you?”

“No, my dear fellow; if it were, I'd never have said it was a cause for

sorrow. It is a case, however, equally removed from your help as from

mine. I told you some time back that my father, yielding to a game of

cleverly played intrigue, had determined to marry this widow, Mrs.

Penthony Morris, whom you remember. So long as the question was merely

mooted in gossip, I could not allude to it; but when he wrote himself to

me on the subject, I remonstrated with him as temperately as I was able.

I adverted to their disproportion of age, their dissimilarity of habits;

and, lastly, I spoke out and told him that we knew nothing, any of us,

of this lady, her family, friends, or connections; that though I had

inquired widely, I never met the man who could give me any information

about her, or had ever heard of her husband. I wrote all this, and much

more of the same kind, in the strain of frank confidence a son might

employ towards his father, particularly when they had long lived

together in relations of the dearest and closest affection. I waited

eagerly for his answer. Some weeks went over, and then there came a

letter, not from him, but from her. The whole mischief was out: he had

given her my letter, and said, 'Answer it.' I will show you her epistle

one of these days. It is really clever. There wasn't a word of

reproach,--not an angry syllable in the whole of it She was pained,

fretted, deeply fretted by what I had written, but she acknowledged that

I had, if I liked to indulge them, reasonable grounds for all my

distrusts, though, perhaps, it might have been more generous to oppose

them. At first, she said, she had resolved to satisfy all my doubts by

the names and circumstances of her connections, with every detail of

family history and fortune; but, on second thoughts, her pride revolted

against a step so offensive to personal dignity, and she had made up her

mind to confine these revelations to my father, and then leave his roof

forever. 'Writing,' continued she, 'as I now do, without his knowledge

of what I say,--for, with a generous confidence in me that I regret is

not felt in other quarters, he has refused to read my letter,--I may

tell you that I shall place my change of purpose on such grounds as can

never possibly endanger your future relations with your father. He shall

never suspect, in fact, from anything in my conduct, that my departure

was influenced in the slightest degree by what has fallen from _you_.

The reasons I will give him for my step will refer solely to

circumstances that refer to myself. Go back, therefore, in all

confidence and love, and give your whole affection to one who needs and

who deserves it!

“There was, perhaps, a slight tendency to dilate upon what ought to

constitute my duties and regards; but, on the whole, the letter was well

written and wonderfully dispassionate. I was sorely puzzled how to

answer it, or what course to take, and might have been more so, when my

mind was relieved by a most angry epistle from my father, accusing me

roundly, not only of having wilfully forsaken him, but having

heartlessly insulted the very few who compassionated his lonely lot, and

were even ready to share it.

“This ended our correspondence, and I never wrote again till I mentioned

my approaching departure for India, and offered, if he wished it, to

take Italy on my way and see him once more before I went. To this there

came the kindest answer, entreating me to come and pass as many days as

I could with him. It was all affection, but evidently written in great

depression of mind and spirits. There were three lines of a postscript,

signed 'Louisa,' assuring me that none more anxiously looked forward to

my visit than herself; that she had a pardon to crave of me, and would

far rather sue for it in person than on paper. 'As you _are_ coming,'

said she, 'I will say no more, for when you _do_ come you will both pity

and forgive me.'”

As Heathcote had just finished the last word, the door of the room was

quietly opened, and O'Shea peeped in. “Are you at the letter? for, if

you are, you might as well say, 'Mr. Gorman O'Shea was never violent in

his politics, but one of those who always relied upon the good faith and

good will of England towards his countrymen.' That's a sentence the

Whigs delight in, and I remark it's the sure sign of a good berth.”

“Yes, yes, I 'll book it; don't be afraid,” said Agincourt, laughing;

and the late member for Inch retired, fully satisfied. “Go on, Charley;

tell me the remainder.”

“There is no more to tell; you have heard all. Since I arrived I have

not seen her. She has been for two days confined to bed with a feverish

cold, and, apprehending something contagious, she will not let May visit

her. I believe, however, it is a mere passing illness, and I suppose

that to-morrow or next day we shall meet.”

“And _how?_ for that, I own, is a matter would puzzle me considerably.”

“It will all depend upon her. She must give the key-note to the concert.

If she please to be very courteous and affable, and all the rest of it,

talk generalities and avoid all questions of real interest, I must

accept that tone, and follow it If she be disposed to enter upon private

and personal details, I have only to be a listener, except she give me

an opportunity to speak out regarding the marriage.” “And you will?”

“That I will. I suspect, shrewdly, that she is mistaken about our

circumstances, and confounds May Leslie's means with ours. Now, when she

knows that my father has about five hundred a year in the world for

everything, it is just possible that she may rue her bargain, and cry

'off.'”

“Scarcely, I think,” said Agincourt. “The marriage would give her

station and place at once, if she wants them.”

“What if O'Shea were to supplant Sir William? I half suspect he would

succeed. He hasn't a sixpence. It's exactly his own beat to find some

one willing to support him.”

“Well, I 'll back myself to get him a place. I 'll not say it will be

anything very splendid or lucrative, but something he shall have. Come,

Charley, leave this to me. Let O'Shea and myself dine _tête-à-tête_ to-

day, and I 'll contrive to sound him on it.”

“I mean to aid you so far, for I know my father would take it ill were I

to dine away from home,--on the first day too; but I own I have no great

confidence in your plan, nor any unbounded reliance on your diplomacy.”

“No matter, I'll try it; and, to begin, I'll start at once with a letter

to Downing Street I have never asked for anything yet, so I 'll write

like one who cannot contemplate a refusal.”

“I wish you success, for all our sakes,” said Charles; and left him.

END OF VOL. I.

ONE OF THEM, Volume II.

CHAPTER I. THE LONE VILLA ON THE ÇAMPAGNA.

About half-way between Rome and Albano, and something more than a mile

off the high-road, there stands on a little swell of the Çampagna a

ruined villa, inhabited by a humble family of peasants, who aid their

scanty means of support by showing to strangers the view from the house-

top. It is not, save for its extent, a prospect in any way remarkable.

Rome itself, in the distance, is not seen in its most imposing aspect,

and the Çampagna offers little on which the eye cares to rest long.

The “Villa of the Four Winds,” however, is a place sought by tourists,

and few leave Rome without a visit to it. These are, of course, the

excursions of fine days in the fine season, and never occur during the

dark and gloomy months of midwinter. It was now such a time. The wind

tore across the bleak plain, carrying fitful showers of cold rain,

driving cattle to their shelter, and sending all to seek a refuge within

doors; and yet a carriage was to be seen toiling painfully through the

deep clay of the by-road which led from the main line, and making for

the villa. After many a rugged shake and shock, many a struggling effort

of the weary beasts, and many a halt, it at length reached the little

paved courtyard, and was speedily surrounded by the astonished peasants,

curious to see the traveller whose zeal for the picturesque could bid

defiance to such weather.

As the steps were let down, a lady got out, muffled in a large cloak,

and wearing the hood over her head, and hastily passed into the little

kitchen of the house. Scarcely had she entered, than, throwing off her

cloak, she said, in a gay and easy voice, “I have often promised myself

a visit to the villa when there would be a grand storm to look at. Don't

you think that I have hit on the day to keep my pledge?” The speech was

made so frankly that it pleased the hearers, nowise surprised, besides,

at any eccentricity on the part of strangers; and now the family, young

and old, gathered around the visitor, and talked, and questioned, and

admired her dress and her appearance, and told her so, too, with a

pleasant candor not displeasing. They saw she was a stranger, but knew

not from where. Her accent was not Roman; they knew no more; nor did she

give much time for speculating, as she contrived to make herself at home

amongst them by ingratiating herself imperceptibly into the good graces

of each present, from the gray-headed man to whom she discoursed of

cattle and their winter food, to the little toddling infant, who would

insist upon being held upon her lap.

The day went on, and yet never a lull came in the storm that permitted a

visit to the roof to see the lightning that played along the distant

horizon. She betrayed no impatience, however; she laughingly said she

was very comfortable at the fireside, and could afford to wait. She

expected her brother, it is true, to have met her there, and more than

once despatched a messenger to the door to see if he could not descry a

horseman on the high-road. The same answer came always back: nothing to

be seen for miles round.

“Well,” said she, good-humoredly, “you must give me a share of your

dinner, for my drive has given me an appetite, and I will still wait

here another hour.”

It would have made a pleasing picture as she sat there,--her fair and

beautiful features graced with that indescribable charm of expression

imparted by the wish to please in those who have made the art to please

their study; to have seen her surrounded by those bronzed and seared and

careworn looks, now brightened up by the charm of a spell that had often

worked its power on their superiors; to have marked how delicately she

initiated herself into their little ways, and how marvellously the

captivation of her gentleness spread its influence over them. In their

simple piety they likened her to the image of all that embodies beauty

to their eyes, and murmured to each other that she was like the Madonna.

A cruel interruption to their quiet rapture was now given by the

clattering sound of a horse's feet, and, immediately after, the entrance

of a man drenched to the skin, and dripping from the storm. After a few

hasty words of greeting, the strangers ascended the stairs, and were

shown into a little room, scantily furnished, but from which the view

they were supposed to come for could be obtained.

“What devotion to come out in such weather!” said she, when they were

alone. “It is only an Irishman, and that Irishman the O'Shea, could be

capable of this heroism.”

“It's all very nice making fun of a man when he's standing like a soaked

sponge,” said he; “but I tell you what, Mrs. Morris, the devil a Saxon

would do it. It's not in them to risk a sore-throat or a pain in the

back for the prettiest woman that ever stepped.”

“I have just said so, but not so emphatically, perhaps; and, what is

more, I feel all the force of the homage as I look at you.”

“Well, laugh away,” said he. “When a woman has pretty teeth or good

legs, she does n't want much provocation to show them. But if we are to

stay any time here, could n't we have a bit of fire?”

“You shall come down to the kitchen presently, and have both food and

fire; for I'm sure there's something left, though we 've just dined.”

“Dined?--where?”

“Well, eaten, if you like the word better; and perhaps it is the more

fitting phrase. I took my plate amongst these poor people, and I assure

you there was a carrot soup by no means bad. Sir William's _chef_ would

have probably taken exception to the garlic, which was somewhat in

excess, and there was a fishy flavor, also slightly objectionable. They

called it 'baccala.'”

“Faith, you beat me entirely!” exclaimed O'Shea. “I can't make you out

at all, at all.”

“I assure you,” resumed she, “it was quite refreshing to dine with

people who ate heartily, and never said an ill word of their neighbors.

I regret very much that you were not of the party.”

“Thanks for the politeness, but I don't exactly concur with the regret.”

“I see that this wetting has spoiled your temper. It is most unfortunate

for me that the weather should have broken just as I wanted you to be in

the very best of humors, and with the most ardent desire to serve me.”

If she began this speech in a light and volatile tone, before she had

finished it her manner was grave and earnest.

“Here I am, ready and willing,” said he, quickly. “Only say the word,

and see if I 'm not as good as my promise.”

She took two or three turns of the room without speaking; then wheeling

round suddenly, she stood right in front of where he sat, her face pale,

and her whole expression that of one deeply occupied with one purpose.

“I don't believe,” said she, in a slow, collected voice, “that there

exists a more painful position than that of a woman who, without what

the world calls a natural protector, must confront the schemes of a man

with the inferior weapons of her sex, and who yet yearns for the

privilege of setting a life against a life.”

“You'd like to be able to fight a duel, then?” asked he, gravely.

“Yes. That my own hand might vindicate my own wrong, I 'd consent freely

to lose it the hour after.”

“That must needs have been no slight injury that suggests such a

reparation.”

She only nodded in reply.

“It is nothing that the Heathcotes--”

“The Heathcotes!” broke she in, with a scornful smile; “it is not from

such come heavy wrongs. No, no; they are in no wise mixed up in what I

allude to, and if they had been, I would need no help to deal with them.

The injury I speak of occurred long ago,--years before I knew you. I

have told you,”--here she paused, as if for strength to go on,--“I have

told you that I accept your aid, and on your own conditions. Very few

words will suffice to show for what I need it. Before I go further,

however, I would ask you once more, are you ready to meet any and every

peril for my sake? Are you prepared to encounter what may risk even your

life, if called upon? I ask this now, and with the firm assurance that

if you pledge your word you will keep it.”

“I give you my solemn oath that I'll stand by you, if it lead me to the

drop before the jail.”

She gave a slight shudder. Some old memories had, perhaps, crossed her

at the moment; but she was soon self-possessed again.

“The case is briefly this. And mind,” said she, hurriedly, “where I do

not seem to give you full details, or enter into clear explanations, it

is not from inadvertence that I do so, but that I will tell no more than

I wish, nor will I be questioned. The case is this: I was married

unhappily. I lived with a man who outraged and insulted me, and I met

with one who assumed to pity me and take my part. I confided to him my

miseries, the more freely that he had been the witness of the cruelties

I endured. He took advantage of the confidence to make advances to me.

My heart--if I had a heart--would not have been difficult to win. It was

a theft not worth guarding against. Somehow, I cannot say wherefore,

this man was odious to me, more odious than the very tyrant who trampled

on me; but I had sold myself for a vengeance,--yes, as completely as if

the devil had drawn up the bond and I had signed it. My pact with myself

was to be revenged on him, come what might afterwards. I have told you

that I hated this man; but I had no choice. The whole wide world was

there, and not another in it had ever offered to be my defender; nor,

indeed, did he. No, the creature was a coward; he only promised that if

he found me as a waif he would shelter me; he was too cautious to risk a

finger in my cause, and would only claim what none disputed with him.

And I was abject enough to be content with that, to be grateful for it,

to write letters full of more than gratitude, protesting--Oh, spare me!

if even yet I have shame to make me unable to repeat what, in my

madness, I may have said to him. I thought I could go on throughout it

all, but I cannot. The end was, my husband died; yes! he was dead! and

this man--who I know, for I have the proofs, had shown my letters to my

husband--claimed me in marriage; he insisted that I should be his wife,

or meet all the shame and exposure of seeing my letters printed and

circulated through the world, with the story of my life annexed. I

refused, fled from England, concealed myself, changed my name, and did

everything I could to escape discovery; but in vain. He found me out; he

is now upon my track; he will be here--here, at Rome--within the week,

and, with these letters in his hand, repeat his threat, he says, for the

last time, and I believe him.” The strength which had sustained her up

to this now gave way, and she sank heavily to the ground, like one

stricken by a fit. It was some time before she rallied; for O'Shea,

fearful of any exposure, had not called others to his aid, but, opening

the window, suffered the rude wind to blow over her face and temples.

“There, there,” said she, smiling sadly, “it is but seldom I show so

poor a spirit, but I am somewhat broken of late. Leave me to rest my

head on this chair, and do not lift me from the ground yet. I 'll be

better presently. Have I cut my forehead?”

“It is but a slight scratch. You struck the foot of the table in your

fall.”

“There,” said she, making a mark with the blood on his wrist, “it is

thus the Arabs register the fidelity of him who is to avenge them. You

will not fail me, will you?”

“Never, by this hand!” cried he, holding it up firmly clenched over his

head.

“It's the Arab's faith, that if he wash away the stain before the depth

of vengeance is acquitted, he is dishonored; there's a rude chivalry in

the notion that I like well.” She said this in his ear as he raised her

from the ground and placed her on a chair. “It is time you should know

his name,” said she, after a few minutes' pause. “He is called Ludlow

Paten. I believe he is Captain Paten about town.”

“I know him by repute. He's a sort of swell at the West-End play clubs.

He is amongst all the fast men.”

“Oh, he's fashionable,--he's very fashionable.”

“I have heard him talked of scores of times as one of the pleasantest

fellows to be met with.”

“I 'm certain of it. I feel assured that he must be a cheerful

companion, and reasonably honest and loyal in his dealings with man. He

is of a class that reserve all their treachery and all their baseness

for where they can be safely practised; and, strange enough, men of

honor know these things,--men of unquestionable honor associate freely

with fellows of this stamp, as if the wrong done to a woman was a venial

offence, if offence at all.”

“The way of the world,” said OShea, with a half sigh.

“Pleasant philosophy that so easily accounts for every baseness and even

villany by showing that they are popular. But come, let us be practical.

What's to be done here?--what do you suggest?”

“Give me the right to deal with him, and leave the settlement to _me_.”

“The right--that is--” She hesitated, flushed up for an instant, and

then grew lividly pale again.

“Yes,” said he, taking his place at her side, and leaning an arm on the

back of her chair, “I thought I never saw your equal when you were gay

and light-hearted, and full of spirits; but I like you better, far

better now, and I 'd rather face the world with you than--”

“I don't want to deceive you,” said she, hurriedly, and her lips

quivered as she spoke; “but there are things which I cannot tell you,--

things of which I could not speak to any one, least of all to him who

says he is willing to share his fate with me. It is a hard condition to

make, and yet I must make it.”

“Put your hand in mine, then, and I 'll take you on any conditions you

like.”

“One word more before we close our bargain. It might so happen--it is

far from unlikely--that the circumstances of which I dare not trust

myself to utter a syllable may come to your ears when I am your wife,

when it will be impossible for you to treat them as calumnies, and just

as idle to say that you never heard of them before. How will you act if

such a moment comes?”

“Answer me one plain question first. Is there any man living who has

power over you--except as regards these letters, I mean?”

“None.”

“There is, then, no charge of this, that, or t' other?”

“I will answer no more. I have told you fairly that if you take me for

your wife you most be prepared to stand in the breach between me and the

world, and meet whatever assails me as one prepared. Are you ready for

this?”

“I'm not afraid of the danger--”

“So, then, your fears are only for the cause?”

It was with the very faintest touch of scorn these words were spoken;

but he marked it, and reddened over face and forehead.

“When that cause will have become my own, you 'll see that I 'll

hesitate little about defending it.”

“That's all that I ask for, all that I wish. This is strange courtship,”

said she, trying to laugh; “but let us carry it through consistently. I

conclude you are not rich; neither am I,--at least, for the present; a

very few weeks, however, will put me in possession of a large property.

It is in land in America. The legal formalities which are necessary will

be completed almost immediately, and my co-heir is now coming over from

the States to meet me, and establish his claim also. These are all

confidences, remember, for I now speak to you freely; and, in the same

spirit that I make them, I ask _you_ to trust me,--to trust me fully and

wholly, with a faith that says, 'I will wait to the end--to the very

end! '”

“Let this be my pledge,” said he, taking her hand and kissing it.

“Faith!” said he, after a second or two, “I can scarcely believe in my

good luck. It seems to be every moment so like a dream to think that you

consent to take me; just, too, when I was beginning to feel that fortune

had clean forgotten me. You are not listening to me, not minding a word

I say. What is it, then, you are thinking of?”

“I was plotting,” said she, gravely.

“Plotting,--more plotting! Why can't we go along now on the high-road,

without looking for by-paths?”

“Not yet,--not yet awhile. Attend to me, now. It is not likely that we

can meet again very soon. My coming out here to-day was at great risk,

for I am believed to be ill and in bed with a feverish cold. I cannot

venture to repeat this peril, but you shall hear from me. My maid is to

be trusted, and will bring you tidings of me. With to-morrow's post I

hope to learn where Paten is, and when he will be here. You shall learn

both immediately, and be prepared to act on the information. Above all

things, bear in mind that though I hate this man, all my abhorrence of

him is nothing--actually nothing--to my desire to regain my letters. For

them I would forego everything. Had I but these in my possession, I

could wait for vengeance, and wait patiently.”

“So that from himself personally you fear nothing?”

“Nothing. He cannot say more of me than is open to all the world to say-

-” She stopped, and grew red, for she felt that her impetuosity had

carried her further than she was aware. “Remember once more, then, if

you could buy them, steal them, get them in any way,--I care not how,

that my object is fulfilled,--the day you place them in this hand it is

your own!”

He burst out into some rhapsody of his delight, but checked himself as

suddenly, when he saw that her face had assumed its former look of

preoccupation.

“Plotting again?” asked he, half peevishly.

“I have need to plot,” said she, mournfully, as she leaned her head upon

her hand; and now there came over her countenance a look of deepest

sorrow. “I grow very weary of all this at times,” said she, in a faint

and broken voice; “so weary that I half suspect it were better to throw

the cards down, and say, 'There! I 've lost! What's the stake?' I

believe I could do this. I am convinced I could, if I were certain that

there was one man or one woman on the earth who would give me one word

of pity, or bestow one syllable of compassion for my fall.”

“But surely your daughter Clara--”

“Clara is not my daughter; she is nothing to me,--never was, never can

be. We are separated, besides, never to meet again, and I charge you not

to speak of her.”

“May I never! if I can see my way at all. It 's out of one mystery into

another. Will you just tell me--”

“Ask me nothing. You have heard from me this day what I have never told

another. But I have confidence in your good faith, and can say, 'If you

rue your bargain, there is yet time to say so,' and you may leave this

as free as when you entered it.”

“You never mistook a man more. It's not going back I was thinking of;

but surely I might ask--”

“Once for all, I will not be questioned. There never lived that man or

woman who could thread their way safely through difficulties, if they

waited to have every obstacle canvassed and every possible mystery

explained. You must leave me to my own guidance here; and one of its

first conditions is, not to shake my confidence in myself.”

“Won't you even tell me when we 're to be one?”

“What an ardent lover it is!” said she, laughing. “There, fetch me my

shawl, and let me see that you know how to put it properly on my

shoulders. No liberties, sir! and least of all when they crush a

Parisian bonnet. The evening is falling already, and I must set off

homewards.”

“Won't you give me a seat in the carriage with you? Surely, you 'd not

see me ride back in such a downpour as that.”

“I should think I would. I 'd leave you to go it on foot rather than

commit such an indiscretion. Drive back to Rome with Mr. O'Shea alone!

What would the world say? What would Sir William Heathcote say, who

expects to make me Lady Heathcote some early day next month?”

“By the way, I heard that story. An old fellow, called Nick Holmes, told

me--”

“What old Nick told you could scarcely be true. There, will you order

the carriage to the door, and give these good people some money? Ain't

you charmed that I give you one of a husband's privileges so early?

Don't dare to answer me; an Irishman never has the discretion to reply

to a liberty as he ought. Is that poor beast yours?” asked she, as they

gained the door, and saw a horse standing, all shivering and wretched,

under a frail shed.

“He was this morning, but I had the good luck to sell him before I took

this ride.”

“I must really compliment you,” said she, laughing heartily. “A

gentleman who makes love so economically ought to be a model of order

when a husband.” And with this she stepped in, and drove away.

CHAPTER II. A DINNER OF TWO

The O'Shea returned to Rome at a “slapping pace.” He did his eight miles

of heavy ground within forty minutes. But neither the speed nor the

storm could turn his thoughts from the scene he had just passed through.

It was with truth he said that he could not give credit to the fact of

such good fortune as to believe she would accept him; and yet the more

he reflected on the subject, the more was he puzzled and disconcerted.

When he had last seen her, she refused him,--refused him absolutely and

flatly; she even hinted at a reason that seemed unanswerable, and

suggested that, though they might aid each other as friends, there could

be no copartnership of interests. “What has led her to this change of

mind, Heaven knows. It is no lucky turn of fortune on my side can have

induced it; my prospects were never bleaker. And then,” thought he, “of

what nature is this same secret, or rather these secrets, of hers, for

they seem to grow in clusters? What can she have done? or what has

Penthony Morris done? Is he alive? Is he at Norfolk Island? Was he a

forger, or worse? How much does Paten know about her? What power has he

over her besides the possession of these letters? Is Paten Penthony

Morris?” It was thus that his mind went to and fro, like a surging sea,

restless and not advancing. Never was there a man more tortured by his

conjectures. He knew that she might marry Sir William Heathcote if she

liked; why, then, prefer himself to a man of station and fortune? Was it

that he was more likely to enact the vengeance she thirsted for than the

old Baronet? Ay, that was a reasonable calculation. She was right there,

and he 'd bring Master Paten “to book,” as sure as his name was O'Shea.

That was the sort of thing he understood as well as any man in Europe.

He had been out scores of times, and knew how to pick a quarrel, and to

aggravate it, and make it perfectly beyond all possibility of

arrangement, as well as any fire-eater of a French line regiment. That

was, perhaps, the reason of the widow's choice of him. If she married

Heathcote, it would be a case for lawyers: a great trial at Westminster,

and a great scandal in the papers. “But with me it will be all quiet and

peaceable. I 'll get back her letters, or I 'll know why.”

He next bethought him of her fortune. He wished she had told him more

about it,--how it came to her,--was it by settlement,--was it from the

Morrises? He wished, too, it had not been in America; he was not quite

sure that property there meant anything at all; and, lastly, he brought

to mind that though he had proposed for dozens of women, this was the

only occasion he was not asked what he could secure by settlement, and

how much he would give as pin-money. No, on that score she was delicacy

itself, and he was one to appreciate all the refinement of her reserve.

Indeed, if it came to the old business of searches, and showing titles,

and all the other exposures of the O'Shea family, he felt that he would

rather die a bachelor than encounter them. “She knew how to catch me! 'A

row to fight through, and no questions asked about money, O'Shea,' says

she. 'Can you resist temptation like that?'”

As he alighted at the hotel, he saw Agincourt standing at a window, and

evidently laughing at the dripping, mud-stained appearance he presented.

“I hope and trust that was n't the nag I bought this morning,” said he

to O'Shea, as he entered the room.

“The very same; and I never saw him in finer heart. If you only

witnessed the way he carried me through those ploughed fields out there!

He's strong in the loins as a cart-horse.”

“I must say that you appear to have ridden him as a friend's horse. He

seemed dead beat, as he was led away.”

“He's fresh as a four-year old.”

“Well, never mind, go and dress for dinner, for you're half an hour

behind time already.”

O'Shea was not sorry to have the excuse, and hurried off to make his

toilet.

Freytag was aware that his guest was a “Milor',” and the dinner was very

good, and the wine reasonably so; and the two, as they placed a little

spider-table between them before the fire, seemed fully conscious of all

the enjoyment of the situation.

Agincourt said, “Is not this jolly?” And so it was. And what is there

jollier than to be about sixteen or seventeen years of age, with good

health, good station, and ample means? To be launched into manhood, too,

as a soldier, without one detracting sense of man's troubles and cares,-

-to feel that your elders condescend to be your equals, and will even

accept your invitation to dinner!--ay, and more, practise towards you

all those little flatteries and attentions which, however vapid ten

years later, are positive ecstasies now!

But of all its glorious privileges there is not one can compare with the

boundless self-confidence of youth, that implicit faith not alone in its

energy and activity, its fearless contempt for danger, and its

indifference to hardships, but, more strange still, in its superior

sharpness and knowledge of life! Oh dear! are we not shrewd fellows when

we matriculate at Christ Church, or see ourselves gazetted Cornet in the

Horse Guards Purple? Who ever equalled us in all the wiles and schemes

of mankind? Must he not rise early who means to dupe us? Have we not a

registered catalogue of all the knaveries that have ever been practised

on the unsuspecting? Truly have we; and if suspicion were a safeguard,

nothing can harm us.

Now, Agincourt was a fine, true-hearted, generous young fellow,--manly

and straightforward,--but he had imbibed his share of this tendency. He

fancied himself subtle, and imagined that a nice negotiation could not

be intrusted to better hands. Besides this, he was eager to impress

Heathcote with a high opinion of his skill, and show that even a regular

man of the world like O'Shea was not near a match for him.

“I 'm not going to drink that light claret such an evening as this,”

said O'Shea, pushing away his just-tasted glass. “Let us have something

a shade warmer.”

“Ring the bell, and order what you like.”

“Here, this will do,--'Clos Vougeot,'” said O'Shea, pointing out to the

waiter the name on the wine carte.”

“And if that be a failure, I 'll fall back on brandy-and-water, the

refuge of a man after bad wine, just as disappointed young ladies take

to a convent. If you can drink that little tipple, Agincourt, you 're

right to do it. You 'll come to Burgundy at forty, and to rough port ten

years later; but you 've a wide margin left before that. How old are

you?”

“I shall be seventeen my next birthday,” said the other, flushing, and

not wishing to add that there were eleven months and eight days to run

before that event should come off.

“That's a mighty pretty time of life. It gives you a clear four years

for irresponsible follies before you come of age. Then you may fairly

count upon three or four more for legitimate wastefulness, and with a

little, very little, discretion, you never need know a Jew till you're

six-and-twenty.”

“I beg your pardon, my good fellow,” said the other, coloring, half

angrily; “I've had plenty to do with those gents already. Ask Nathan

whether he has n't whole sheafs of my bills. My guardian only allows me

twelve hundred a year,--a downright shame they call it in the regiment,

and so I wrote him word. In fact, I told him what our Major said, that

with such means as mine I ought to try and manage an exchange into the

Cape Rifles.”

“Or a black regiment in the West Indies,” chimed in O'Shea, gravely.

“No, confound it, he did n't say that!”

“The Irish Constabulary, too, is a cheap corps. You might stand that.”

“I don't mean to try either,” said the youth, angrily.

“And what does Nathan charge you?--say for a 'thing' at three months?”

“That all depends upon the state of the money-market,” said Agincourt,

with a look of profoundest meaning. “It is entirely a question of the

foreign exchanges, and I study them like a stockbroker. Nathan said one

day, 'It's a thousand pities he's a Peer; there's a fellow with a head

to beat the whole Stock Exchange.'”

“Does he make you pay twenty per cent, or five-and twenty for short

dates?”

“You don't understand it at all. It's no question of that kind. It's

always a calculation of what gold is worth at Amsterdam, or some other

place, and it's a difference of, maybe, one-eighth that determines the

whole value of a bill.”

“I see,” said O'Shea, puffing his cigar very slowly. “I have no doubt

that you bought your knowledge on these subjects dearly enough.”

“I should think I did! Until I came to understand the thing, I was

always 'outside the ropes,' always borrowing with the 'exchanges against

me,'--you know what I mean?”

“I believe I do,” said O'Shea, sighing heavily. “They have been against

me all my life.”

“That's just because you never took trouble to study the thing. You

rushed madly into the market whenever you wanted money, and paid

whatever they asked.”

“I did indeed! and, what's more, was very grateful if I got it.”

“And I know what came of that,--how that ended.”

“How?”

“Why, you dipped your estate, gave mortgages, and the rest of it.”

O'Shea nodded a full assent.

“Oh, _I_ know the whole story; I 've seen so much of this sort of thing.

Well, old fellow,” added he, after a pause, “if I 'd been acquainted

with you ten or fifteen years ago, I could have saved you from all this

ruin.”

O'Shea repressed every tendency to a smile, and nodded again.

“I 'd have said to you, 'Don't be in a hurry, watch the market, and I

'll tell you when to “go in.”'”

“Maybe it's not too late yet, so give me a word of friendly advice,”

said O'Shea, with a modest humility. “There are few men want it more.”

There was now a pause of several minutes; O'Shea waiting to see how his

bait had taken, and Agincourt revolving in his mind whether this was not

the precise moment for opening his negotiation. At last he said,--

“I wrote that letter I promised you. I said you were an out-and-outer as

to ability, and that they could n't do better than make you a Governor

somewhere, though you 'd not be disgusted with something smaller. I 've

been looking over the vacancies; there's not much open. Could you be a

Mahogany Commissioner at Honduras?”

“Well, so far as having had my legs under that wood for many years with

pleasure to myself and satisfaction to my friends, perhaps I might.”

“Do you know what I 'd do if I were you?”

“I have not an idea.”

“I 'd marry,--by Jove, I would!--I 'd marry!”

“I 've thought of it half a dozen times,” said he, stretching out his

hand for the decanter, and rather desirous of escaping notice; “but, you

see, to marry a woman with money,--and of course it's that you mean,--

there's always the inquiry what you have yourself, where it is, and what

are the charges on it. Now, as you shrewdly guessed awhile ago, I dipped

my estate,--dipped it so deep that I begin to suspect it won't come up

again.”

“But look out for a woman that has her fortune at her own disposal.”

“And no friends to advise her.”

O'Shea's face, as he said this, was so absurdly droll that Agincourt

laughed aloud. “Well, as you observe, no friends to advise her. I

suppose you don't care much for connection,--I mean rank?”

“As for the matter of family, I have enough for as many wives as

Bluebeard, if the law would let me have them.”

“Then I fancy I know the thing to suit you. She's a stunning pretty

woman, besides.”

“Where is she?”

“At Rome here.”

“And who is she?”

“Mrs. Penthony Morris, the handsome widow, that's on a visit to the

Heathcotes. She must have plenty of tin, I can answer for that, for old

Nathan told me she was in all the heavy transfers of South American

shares, and was a buyer for very large amounts.”

“Are you sure of that?”

“I can give my word on it. I remember his saying one morning, 'The widow

takes her losses easily; she minds twelve thousand pounds no more than I

would a five-pound note.”

“They have a story here that she's going to marry old Heathcote.”

“Not true,--I mean, that she won't have him.”

“And why? It was clear enough she was playing that game for some time

back.”

“I wanted Charley to try his chance,” said Agincourt, evading the

question; “but he is spooney on his cousin May, I fancy, and has no mind

to do a prudent thing.”

“But how am I to go in?” said O'Shea, timidly. “If she's as rich as you

say, would she listen to a poor out-at-elbows Irish gentleman, with only

his good blood to back him?”

“You 're the man to do it,--the very man.”

O'Shea shook his head.

“I say you 'd succeed. I 'd back you against the field.”

“Will you make me a bet on it?”

“With all my heart! What shall it be?”

“Lay me a hundred to one, in tens, and I give you my solemn word of

honor I 'll do my very best to lose my wager and win the widow.”

“Done! I 'll bet you a thousand pounds to ten; book it, with the date,

and I 'll sign it.”

While Agincourt was yet speaking, O'Shea had produced a small note-book,

and was recording the bet. Scarcely had he clasped the little volume

again, when the waiter entered, and handed him a note.

O'Shea read it rapidly, and, finishing off his glass, refilled and drank

it. “I must leave you for half an hour,” said he, hastily. “There's a

friend of mine in a bit of a scrape with one of these French officers;

but I 'll be back presently.”

“I say, make your man fight. Don't stand any bullying with those

fellows.”

O'Shea did not wait for his counsels, but hurried off.

“This way, sir,” whispered a man to him, as he passed out into the court

of the hotel; “the carriage is round the corner.”

He followed the man, and in a few minutes found himself in a narrow by-

street, where a single carriage was standing. The glass was quietly let

down as he drew near, and a voice he had no difficulty in recognizing,

said, “I have just received a most urgent letter, and I must leave Rome

tomorrow at daybreak, for Germany. I have learned, besides, that Paten

is at Baden. He was on his way here, but stopped to try his luck at the

tables. He has twice broken the bank, and swears he will not leave till

he has succeeded a third time. We all well know how such pledges finish.

But you must set off there at once. Leave to-morrow night, if you can,

and by the time you arrive, or the day after, you 'll find a letter for

you at the post, with my address, and all your future directions. Do

nothing with Paten till you hear; mind that,--nothing. I have not time

for another word, for I am in terror lest my absence from the house

should be discovered. If anything imminent occur, you shall hear by

telegraph.”

“Let me drive back with you; I have much to say, much to ask you,” said

he, earnestly.

“On no account. There, good-bye; don't forget me.”

While he yet held her hand, the word was given to drive on, and his

farewell was lost in the rattling of the wheels over the pavement.

“Well, have you patched it up, or is it a fight?” asked Agincourt when

he entered the room once more.

“You'll keep my secret, I know,” said O'Shea, in a whisper. “Don't even

breathe a word to Heathcote, but I 'll have to leave this to-morrow, get

over the nearest frontier, and settle this affair.”

“You 'd like some cash, would n't you?--at all events, I am your debtor

for that horse. Do you want more?”

“There, that's enough,--two hundred will do,” said O'Shea, taking the

notes from his fingers; “even if I have to make a bolt of it, that will

be ample.”

“This looks badly for your wager, O'Shea. It may lose you the widow, I

suspect.”

“Who knows?” said O'Shea, laughing. “Circular sailing is sometimes the

short cut on land as well as sea. If you have any good news for me from

Downing Street, I 'll shy you a line to say where to send; and so, good-

bye.”

And Agincourt shook his hand cordially, but not without a touch of envy

as he thought of the mission he was engaged in.

CHAPTER III. SOME LAST WORDS

While Agincourt and O'Shea thus sat and conversed together, there was

another fireside which presented a far happier picture, and where old

Sir William sat, with his son and May Leslie, overjoyed to think that

they were brought together again, and to separate no more. Charles had

told them that he had determined never to leave them, and all their

thoughts had gone back to the long, long ago, when they were so united

and so happy. There was, indeed, one theme which none dared to touch. It

was ever and anon uppermost in the mind of each, and yet none had

courage to adventure on it, even in allusion. It was in one of the

awkward pauses which this thought produced that a servant came to say

Mrs. Morris would be glad to see Charles in her room. He had more than

once requested permission to visit her, but somehow now the invitation

had come ill-timed, and he arose with a half impatience to obey it.

During the greater part of that morning Charles Heathcote had employed

himself in imagining by what process of persuasion, what line of

argument, or at what price he could induce the widow herself to break

off the engagement with his father. The guarded silence Sir William had

maintained on the subject since his son's arrival was to some extent an

evidence that he knew his project could not meet approval. Nor was the

old man a stranger to the fact that May Leslie's manner to the widow had

long been marked by reserve and estrangement. This, too, increased Sir

William's embarrassment, and left him more isolated and alone. “How

shall I approach such a question and not offend her?” was Charles's

puzzle, as he passed her door. So full was he of the bulletins of her

indisposition, that he almost started as he saw her seated at a table,

writing away rapidly, and looking, to his thinking, as well as he had

ever seen her.

“This is, indeed, a pleasant surprise,” said he, as he came forward. “I

was picturing to myself a sick-room and a sufferer, and I find you more

beautiful than ever.”

“You surely could n't imagine I 'd have sent for you if I were not

conscious that my paleness became me, and that my dressing-gown was very

pretty. Sit down--no, here--at my side; I have much to say to you, and

not very long to say it. If I had not been actually overwhelmed with

business, real business too, I 'd have sent for you long ago. I could

imagine with very little difficulty what was uppermost in your mind

lately, and how, having determined to remain at home, your thoughts

would never quit one distressing theme,--you know what I mean. Well, I

repeat, I could well estimate all your troubles and difficulties on this

head, and I longed for a few minutes alone with you, when we could speak

freely and candidly to each other, no disguise, no deception on either

side. Shall we be frank with each other?”

“By all means.”

“Well, then, you don't like this marriage. Come, speak out honestly your

mind.”

“Why, when I think of the immense disproportion in age; when I see on

one side--”

“Fiddle faddle! if I were seventy, it wouldn't make it better. I tell

you I don't want fine speeches nor delicate evasions; therefore be the

blunt, straightforward fellow you used to be, and say, 'I don't like it

at all.'”

“Well, here goes, I do _not_ like it at all.”

“Neither do I,” said she, lying back listlessly in her chair, and

looking calmly at him. “I see what is passing in your mind, Charles. I

read your thoughts in their ebb and flow, and they come to this: 'Why

have you taken such consummate pains about an object you would regret to

see accomplished? To what end all your little coquetries and graces, and

so forth?' Well, the question is reasonable enough, and I 'll give you

only one answer. It amused me, and it worried others. It kept poor May

and yourself in a small fever, and I have never through life had self-

command enough to deny myself the pleasure of terrifying people at small

cost, making them fancy they were drowning in two feet of water.”

“I hope May is grateful; I am sure I am,” said Charles, stiffly.

“Well, if you have not been in the past, I intend you to be so for the

future. I mean to relinquish the great prize I had so nearly won; to

give up the distinguished honor of being your stepmother, with all the

rights and privileges I could have grouped around that station. I mean

to abdicate all my power; to leave the dear Heathcotes to the enjoyment

of such happiness as their virtues and merits cannot fail to secure

them, under the simple condition that they will forget me, or, if that

be more than they can promise, that they will never make me the subject

of their discussions, nor bring up my name, either in praise or blame.

Now understand me aright, Charles,” said she, earnestly; “this is no

request prompted by any pique of injured pride or wounded self-love. It

is not uttered in the irritation of one who feels rejected by you. It is

a grave demand, made as the price of an important concession. I exact

that my name be not spoken, or, if uttered by others in your presence,

that it be unacknowledged and unnoticed. It is no idle wish, believe me;

for who are the victims of the world's calumnies so often as the

friendless, whose names call forth no sponsor? They are the outlaws that

any may wound, or even kill, and their sole sanctuary is oblivion.”

“I think you judge us harshly,” began Charles.

But she stopped him.

“No, far from it. I know you all by this time. You are far more

generously minded than your neighbors, but there is one trait attaches

to human nature everywhere. Every one exaggerates any peril he has

passed through, and every man and woman is prone to blacken the

character of those who have frightened them. Come, I 'll not discuss the

matter further. I have all those things to pack up, and some notes to

write before I go.”

“Go! Are you going away so soon?”

“To-morrow, at daybreak. I have got tidings of a sick relative, an old

aunt, who was very fond of me long ago, and who wishes to have me near

her. I should like to see May, and, indeed, Sir William, but I believe

it will be better not: I mean that partings are gratuitous sorrows. You

will say all that I wish. You will tell them how it happened that I left

so hurriedly. I 'm not sure,” added she, smiling, “that your explanation

will be very lucid or very coherent, but the chances are, none will care

to question you too closely. Of course you will repeat all my gratitude

for the kindness I have met here. I have had some of my happiest days

with you,” added she, as if thinking aloud,--“days in which I half

forgot the life of trouble that was to be resumed on the morrow. And,

above all, say,” said she, with earnestness, “that; when they have

received my debt of thanks they are to wipe out my name from the ledger,

and remember me no more.”

Charles Heathcote was much moved by her words. The very calm she spoke

in had all its effect, and he felt he knew not what of self-accusation

as he thought of her lonely and friendless lot. He could not disabuse

his mind of the thought that it was through offended pride she was

relinquishing the station she had so long striven to attain, and now

held within her very grasp. “She is not the selfish creature I had

deemed her; she is far, far better than I believed. I have mistaken her,

misjudged her. That she has gone through much sorrow is plain; that

there may be in her story incidents which she would grieve to see a town

talk, is also likely; but are not all these reasons the more for our

sympathy and support, and how shall we answer to ourselves, hereafter,

for any show of neglect or harshness towards her?”

While he thus reflected, she had turned to the table and was busy

writing.

“I have just thought of sending a few farewell lines to May,” said she,

talking away as her pen ran along the paper. “We all of us mistake each

other in this world; we are valued for what we are not, and deemed

deficient in what we have.” She stopped, and then crumpling up the half-

written paper in her hand, said: “No, I'll not write,--at least, not

now. You 'll tell her everything,--ay, Charles, everything!”

Here she fixed her eyes steadfastly on him, as though to look into his

very thoughts. “You and May Leslie will be married, and one of your

subjects of mysterious talk when you 're all alone will be that strange

woman who called herself Mrs. Penthony Morris. What wise guesses and

shrewd conjectures do I fancy you making; how cunningly you 'll put

together fifty things that seem to illustrate her story, and yet have no

bearing upon it; and how cleverly you 'll construct a narrative for her

without one solitary atom of truth. Well, she 'll think of you, too, but

in a different spirit, and she will be happier than I suspect if she do

not often wish to live over again the long summer days and starry nights

at Marlia.”

“May is certain to ask me about Clara, where she is, and if we are

likely to see her again.”

“And you 'll tell her that as I did not speak of her, your own delicacy

imposed such a reserve that you could not ask these questions. Good-bye.

But that I want to be forgotten, I 'd give you a keepsake. Good-bye,--

and forget me.”

She turned away at the last word, and passed into an inner room. Charles

stood for an instant or two irresolute, and then walked slowly away.

CHAPTER IV. FOUND OUT.

Quackinboss and the Laytons came back in due time to England, and at

once hastened to London. They had traced Winthrop and Trover at

Liverpool, and heard of their having left for town, and thither they

followed them in all eagerness. The pursuit had now become a chase, with

all its varying incidents of good or bad fortune. Each took his allotted

part, going out of a morning on his especial beat, and returning late of

an evening to report his success or failure.

Quackinboss frequented all the well-known haunts of his countrymen,

hoping to chance upon some one who had seen Winthrop, or could give

tidings of him. Old Layton--the doctor, as we shall for the remainder of

our brief space call him--was more practical. He made searches for

Hawke's will at Doctors' Commons, and found the transcript of a brief

document irregularly drawn, and disposing of a few thousand pounds, but

not making mention of any American property. He next addressed himself

to that world-known force, so celebrated in all the detection of crime;

he described the men he sought for, and offered rewards for their

discovery, carefully protesting the while that nothing but a vague

suspicion attached to them.

As for Alfred, he tried to take his share in what had such interest for

the others. He made careful notes of the points assigned to him for

investigation; he learned names and addresses, and references to no end;

he labored hard to imbue himself with the zeal of the others, but it

would not do. All his thoughts, hopes, and wishes had another direction,

and he longed impatiently for an opportunity to make his escape from

them, and set out for Italy and discover Clara. His only clew to her was

through Stocmar; but that gentleman was abroad, and not expected for

some days in London. Little did the doctor or Quackinboss suspect that

Alfred's first call on every morning was at the private entrance of the

Regent's Theatre, and his daily question as invariably the same demand,

“When do you expect Mr. Stocmar in town?”

Poor fellow! he was only bored by that tiresome search, and hated every

man, woman, and child concerned in the dismal history; and yet no other

subject was ever discussed, no other theme brought up amongst them. In

vain Alfred tried to turn the conversation upon questions of public

interest; by some curious sympathy they would not be drawn away into

that all-absorbing vortex, and, start from what point they might, they

were certain to arrive at last at the High Court of Jersey.

It was on one evening, as they sat together around the fire, that, by

dint of great perseverance and consummate skill, Alfred had drawn them

away to talk of India and the war there. Anecdotes of personal heroism

succeeded, and for every achievement of our gallant fellows at Lucknow,

Quackinboss steadily quoted some not less daring exploit of the Mexican

war. Thus discussing courage, they came at last to the nice question,--

of its characteristics in different nations, and even in individuals.

“In cool daring, in confronting peril with perfect collectedness, and

such a degree of self-possession as confers every possible chance of

escape on its possessor, a woman is superior to us all,” said the

doctor, who for some time had been silently reflecting. “One case

particularly presents itself to my mind,” resumed he. “It was connected

with that memorable trial at Jersey.”

Alfred groaned heavily, and pushed back his chair from the group.

“The case was this,” continued the old man: “while the police were

eagerly intent on tracing out all who were implicated in the murder,

suspicion being rife on every hand, every letter that passed between the

supposed confederates was opened and read, and a strict watch set over

any who were believed likely to convey messages from one to the other.

“On the evening of the inquest--it was about an hour after dark--the

window of an upper room was gently opened, and a woman's voice called

out to a countryman below, 'Will you earn half a crown, my good man, and

take this note to Dr. Layton's, in the town?' He agreed at once, and the

letter and the bribe were speedily thrown into his hat. Little did the

writer suspect it was a policeman in disguise she had charged with her

commission! The fellow hastened off with his prize to the magistrate,

who, having read the note, resealed it, and forwarded it to me. Here it

is. I have shown it to so many that its condition is become very frail,

but it is still readable. It was very brief, and ran thus:--

“Dear Friend,--My misery will plead for me if I thus address you. I have

a favor to ask, and my broken heart tells me you will not refuse me. I

want you to cut me off a lock of my darling's hair. Take it from the

left temple, where it is longest, and bring it to-morrow to his forlorn

widow,

“'Louisa Hawke.'

“From the moment they read that note, the magistrates felt it an outrage

to suspect her. I do not myself mean to implicate her in the great

guilt,--far from it; but here was a bid for sympathy, and put forward in

all the coolness of a deliberate plan; for the policeman himself told

me, years after, that she saw him at Dover, and gave him a sovereign,

saying jocularly, 'I think you look better when dressed as a

countryman.' Now, I call this consummate calculation.”

As he was speaking, Quackinboss had drawn near the candles, and was

examining the writing.

“I wonder,” said be, “what the fellows who affect to decipher character

in handwriting would say to this? It's all regular and well formed.”

“Is it very small? Are the letters minute?--for that, they allege, is

one of the indications of a cruel nature,” said Alfred. “They show a

specimen of Lucrezia Borgia's, that almost requires a microscope to read

it.”

“No,” said Quackinboss; “that's what they call a bold, free hand; the

writing, one would say, of a slapdash gal that was n't a-goin' to count

consequences.”

“Let _me_ interpret her,” said Alfred, drawing the candles towards him,

and preparing for a very solemn and deliberate judgment. “What's this?”

cried he, almost wildly. “I know this hand well; I could swear to it.

You shall see if I cannot.”' And, without another word, he arose, and

rushed from the room. Before the doctor or Quackinboss could recover

from their astonishment, Alfred was back again, holding two notes in his

hand. “Come here, both of you, now,” cried he, “and tell me, are not

these in the same writing?” They were several short notes,--invitations

or messages from Marlia about riding-parties, signed Louisa Morris.

“What do you say to that? Is that word 'Louisa' written by the same hand

or not?” cried Alfred, trembling from head to foot as he spoke.

“'Tarnal snakes if it ain't!” broke out Quackinboss; “and our widow

woman was the wife of that murdered fellow Hawke.”

“And Clara his daughter!” muttered Alfred, as he covered his face with

his hands to hide his emotion.

“These were written by the same person, that's clear enough,” said the

doctor, closely scrutinizing every word and every letter; “there are

marks of identity that cannot be disputed. But who is this widow you

speak of?”

Alfred could only stammer out, “He 'll tell you all,” as he pointed to

Quackinboss, for a faintish sick sensation crept over his frame, and he

shook like one in the cold stage of an ague. The American, however, gave

a very calm and connected narrative of their first meeting with Mrs.

Penthony Morris and her supposed daughter at Lucca; how that lady, from

a chance acquaintance with the Heathcotes, had established an intimacy,

and then a friendship there.

“Describe her to me,--tell me something of her appearance,” burst in the

old man with impatience; for as his mind followed the long-sought-for

“trail,” his eagerness became beyond his power of control. “Blue eyes,

that might be mistaken for black, or dark hazel, had she not? and the

longest of eyelashes, the mouth full and pouting, but the chin sharply

turned, and firm-looking? Am I right?”

“That are you, and teeth as reg'lar as a row of soldiers.”

“Her foot, too, was perfect. It had been modelled scores of times by

sculptors, and there were casts of it with a Roman sandal, or naked on a

plantain-leaf, in her drawing-room. You've seen her foot?”

“It was a grand foot! I _have_ seen it,” said the American; “and if I

was one as liked monarchy, I 'd say it might have done for a queen to

stand on in front of a throne.”

“What was her voice like?” asked the old man, eagerly.

“Low and soft, with almost a tremor in it when she asked some trifling

favor,” said Alfred, now speaking for the first time.

“Herself,--her very self. I know her well, by _that!_” cried the old

man, triumphantly. “I carried those trembling accents in my memory for

many and many a day. Go on, and tell me more of her. Who was this same

Morris,--when, how, and where were they married?”

“We never knew; none of us ever saw him. Some said he was living, and in

China or India. Some called her a widow. The girl Clara was called hers-

-”

“No. Clara was Hawke's. She must have been Hawke's daughter by his first

wife, the niece of this Winthrop.”

“She's the great heiress, then,” broke in Quackinboss; “she's to have

Peddar's Clearings, and the whole of that track beside Grove's River.

There ain't such another fortune in all Ohio.”

“And this was poor Clara's secret,” said Alfred to Quackinboss, in a

whisper, “when she said, 'I only know that I am an orphan, and that my

name is not Clara Morris.'”

“Do _you_ think, then, sir, that such a rogue as that fellow Trover went

out all the way to the Western States to make out that gal's right to

these territories?” asked Quackinboss, gravely.

“Not a bit of it. He went to rob her, to cheat her, to put forward some

false claim, to substitute some other in her place,” cried old Layton.

“Who is to say if he himself be not the man Morris, and the husband of

our fair friend? He may have fifty names, for aught we know, and Morris

be one of them.”

“You told me that Clara had been made over to a certain Mr. Stocmar, to

prepare her for the stage.” said Alfred to the American. But before he

could reply the doctor broke in,--

“Stocmar,--Hyman Stocmar, of the Regent's?”

“The same. Do you know him, father?”

“That do I, and well too. What of him?”

“It was to his care this young lady was intrusted,” said Alfred,

blushing at the very thought of alluding to her.

“If there should be dealings with Stocmar, let them be left to _me_.”

said the doctor, firmly. “I will be able to make better terms with him

than either of you.”

“I s'pose you're not going to leave a gal that's to have a matter of a

million of dollars to be a stage-player? She ain't need to rant, and

screech, and tear herself to pieces at ten or fifteen dollars a night

and a free benefit.”

“First to find her, then to assert her rights,” said the doctor.

“How _are_ we to find her?” asked Alfred.

“I will charge myself with that task, but we must be active too,” said

the doctor. “I half suspect that I see the whole intrigue,--why this

woman was separated from the young girl, why this fellow Trover was sent

across the Atlantic, and what means that story of the large fortune so

suddenly left to Winthrop.”

“I only know him slightly, sir,” said Quackinboss, breaking in, “but no

man shall say a word against Harvey P. Winthrop in my hearing.”

“You mistake me,” rejoined the doctor. “It would be no impugnment of my

honesty that some one bequeathed me an estate,--not that I think the

event a likely one. So far as I can surmise, Winthrop is the only man of

honor amongst them.”

“Glad to bear you say so, sir,” said the Colonel, gravely. “It's a great

victory over national prejudices when a Britisher gets to say so much

for one of our people. It's the grand compensation you always have for

your inferiority, to call our sharpness roguery.”

It was a critical moment now, and it needed all Alfred's readiness and

address to separate two combatants so eager for battle. He succeeded,

however, and, after some commonplace conversation, contrived to carry

his father away, on pretence of an engagement.

“You should have let _me_ smash him,” muttered the old man, bitterly, as

he followed him from the room. “You should have given me fifteen

minutes,--ay, ten. I 'd not have asked more than ten to present him with

a finished picture of his model Republican, in dress, manner, morals,

and demeanor. I'd have said, 'Here is what I myself have seen--'”

“And I would have stopped you,” broke in Alfred, boldly, “and laid my

hand on Quackinboss's shoulder, and said, 'Here is what I have known of

America. Here is one who, without other tie than a generous pity, nursed

me through the contagion of a fever, and made recovery a blessing to me

by his friendship after,--who shared heart and fortune with me when I

was a beggar in both.'”

“You are right, boy,--you are right. How hard it is to crush the old

rebellious spirit in one's nature, even after we have lived to see the

evil it has worked us!”

CHAPTER V. THE MANAGER'S ROOM AT THE “REGENT'S.”

At an early hour the next morning the two Laytons presented themselves

at the private door of the “Regents.” Mr. Stocmar had returned that

morning from Paris; he had been to bed for an hour, and was now dressed

and up, but so busily engaged that he had left positive orders to be

denied to all except to a certain high personage in the royal household,

and a noble Lord, whose name he had given to the porter.

“We are not either of these,” said the doctor, smiling, “but I am a very

old friend, whom he did not know was in England. I have been scores of

times here with him; and to prove how I know my way through flats and

side-scenes, I 'll just step up to his room without asking you to

conduct me.” These pleadings were assisted considerably by the dexterous

insinuation of a sovereign into the man's hand; and Layton passed in,

with his son after him.

True to his word, and not a little to Alfred's astonishment, the doctor

threaded his way through many a dark passage and up many a frail stair,

till he reached the well-known, well-remembered door. He knocked

sharply, but, without waiting for reply, turned the handle and entered.

Stocmar, who stood at the table busily breaking the seals of a vast heap

of letters, turned suddenly around and stared at the strangers with

mingled surprise and displeasure.

“I gave positive orders that I could not receive strangers,” said he,

haughtily. “May I ask what is the meaning of this intrusion?”

“You shall know in a few moments, sir,” said the old man, deliberately

taking a seat, and motioning to his son to do the same. “My business

could be transacted with yourself alone, and it would be useless

referring me to a secretary or a treasurer. I have come here with my

son--”

“Oh, the old story!” broke in Stocmar. “The young gentleman is stage-

struck; fancies that his Hamlet is better than Kean's or Macready's; but

I have no time for this sort of thing. The golden age of prodigies is

gone by, and, at all events, I have no faith in it. Make an apothecary

of him, clerk in a gas-works, or anything you please, only don't come

here to bother me, you understand; my time is too full for these

negotiations.”

“Have you done?” said the old man, fiercely.

“Done with _you_, certainly,” said Stocmar, moving towards the bell.

“That you have not. You have not even begun with me yet. I perceive you

do not remember me.”

“Remember you! I never saw you before, and I trust most sincerely I may

never have that pleasure again. Anything wrong with the old party here?”

whispered he, as he turned to Alfred, and touched his finger

significantly to his forehead.

“Be quiet, boy!” cried Layton, fiercely, as his son started up to resent

the insolence; “he shall soon learn whether there be or not. Our time,

sir, if not so profitable as yours, has its value for ourselves, so that

I will briefly tell you what I came for. I want the addresses of two

persons of your acquaintance.”

“This is beyond endurance. Am I to be the victim of every twaddling old

bore that requires an address? Are you aware, sir, that I don't keep an

agency office?”

With a calm self-possession which amazed his son, the old man quietly

said, “I want this address,--and this.” And he handed Stocmar a card

with two names written in pencil.

“Clara Hawke'--and who is Clara Hawke? I never heard of her till now;

and 'Mrs. Hawke' too? My good friend, this is some self-delusion of

yours. Take him away quietly, young gentleman, or my patience will not

stand this any longer. I 'll send for a policeman.”

“There is one already in waiting, sir,” said old Layton, fiercely, “and

with a warrant for the apprehension of Mr. Hyman Stocmar. Ay, sir, our

laws give many a wide margin to rascality, but slave-dealing is not

legalized on our soil. Keep your laughter for the end, and see whether

it will be so mirthful. Of that crime I mean to accuse you in an open

court, the victim being myself. So, then, I have refreshed your memory a

little; you begin to recognize me now. Ay, sir, it is the professor,

your old slave, stands before you, whom, after having starved and

cheated, you put drunk on board a sailing-ship, and packed off to

America; sold, too, deliberately sold, for a sum of money. Every detail

of this transaction is known to me, and shall be attested by competent

witnesses. My memory is a better one than you suspect. I forget nothing,

even to the day and the hour I last stood in this room. Yes,” cried he,

turning to his son and addressing him, “I was summoned here to be

exhibited as a spectacle to a visitor, and who, think you, was the

distinguished friend to whose scrutiny I was to be subjected? He was one

who himself had enjoyed his share of such homage,--he was no less a man

than the famous Paul Hunt, tried at Jersey for the murder of Godfrey

Hawke, and how acquitted the world well knows; and he it was who sat

here, the dear friend of the immaculate Mr. Stocmar,--Mr. Stocmar, the

chosen associate of lords and ladies, the favored guest of half the

great houses in London. Oh, what a scandal and a disgrace is here! You

'd rather face the other charge, with all its consequences, than this

one. Where is your laughter now, Stocmar? Where that jocose humor you

indulged in ten minutes ago?”

“Look here, my good friend,” cried Stocmar, suddenly starting up from

his chair, while the great drops of sweat hung on his forehead and

trickled along his pale cheeks; “don't fancy that you can pit yourself

against _me_ before the public. I have station, friends, and patrons in

the highest ranks in England.”

“My name of Herbert Layton will suffice for all that I shall ask of it.

When the true history of our connection shall be written and laid before

the world, we shall see which of us comes best out of the ordeal.”

“This, then, is a vengeance!” said Stocmar, trembling from head to foot.

“Not if you do not drive me to it. There never were easier terms to

escape a heavy penalty. Give me the address of these persons.”

“But I know nothing of them. I have not, amongst my whole acquaintance,

one named Hawke.”

The old man made no reply, and looked puzzled and confused. Stocmar saw

his advantage, and hastily added,--

“I am ready to pledge you my oath to this.”

“Ask him, then, for the address of Mrs. Penthony Morris, father, and of

the young lady her reputed daughter,” interposed Alfred.

“Ay, what say you to this?”

“What I say is, that I am not here to be questioned as to the

whereabouts of every real or imaginary name you can think of.”

“Restive again, Stocmar? What, are you so bent on your own ruin that you

will exhaust the patience of one who never could boast too much of that

quality? I tell you that if I leave this room without a full and

explicit answer to my demand,--and in writing, too, in your own hand,--

you'll not see me again except as your prosecutor in a court of justice.

And now, for the last time, where is this woman?”

“She was in Italy; at Rome all the winter,” said Stocmar, doggedly.

“I know that. And now?”

“In Germany, I believe.”

“That is, you _know_, and the place too. Write it there.”

“Before I do so, you 'll give me, under your own hand, a formal release

from this trumpery charge, whose worst consequence would be my appearing

in public to answer it.”

“Nothing of the kind; not a line to that effect. I 'll keep it over you

till the whole of the business we are engaged in be completed. Ay, sir,

you shall not be exposed to the evil temptation to turn upon me. We have

affairs to settle which will require our meeting with this woman, and as

we live in an age of telegraphs, you shall not be able to warn her that

we are coming; for if you do, I swear to you more solemnly than you

swore awhile back to me, that I 'll bring such disgrace upon your head

that you 'll walk the streets of this city as wretched an object as _I_

was when I slept in that dog-hole behind the fire-engine.”

“You 'll do nothing with me by your threats, old man.”

“Everything, all I ask, by what my threats can accomplish. Remember,

besides, all that we require of you will only serve to shorten a road

that we are determined to go. You can only help us so far. The rest lies

with ourselves.”

“Her address is Gebhardts-Berg, Bregenz,” said Stocmar, in a low

muttering voice.

“Write it, sir; write it there,” said the doctor, pointing to a sheet of

paper on the table.

“There, is that enough?” said Stocmar, as he wrote the words, and flung

down the pen.

“No, there is yet the other. Where is Clara Hawke?”

“As to her, I may as well tell you she is bound to me by an indenture; I

have been at the charge of her instruction, and can only be repaid by

her successes hereafter--”

“More of the slave market!” broke in the doctor. “But to the question.

Who sold her to you? She had neither father nor mother. With whom did

you make your compact? Bethink you these are points you 'll have to

answer very openly, and with reporters for the daily press amongst the

company who listen to you. Such treaties being made public may lead to

many an awkward disclosure. It were wiser not to provoke them.”

“I do not see why I am to incur a positive loss of money--”

“Only for this reason, that as you thought proper to buy without a

title, you may relinquish without compensation. But come, we will deal

with you better than you deserve. If it be, as I believe, this young

lady's lot to inherit a large fortune, I will do my utmost to induce her

to repay you all that you have incurred in her behalf. Will that satisfy

you?”

“It might, if I were not equally certain that you have not the slightest

grounds for the expectation. I know enough of her story to be aware that

there is not one from whom she expects a shilling.”

“Every day and hour brings us great surprises; nothing was less looked

for by the great Mr. Stocmar this morning than a visit from me, and yet

it has come to pass.”

“And in whose interest, may I ask, are you taking all this trouble?--how

is it incumbent on you to mix yourself up in questions of a family to

which you do not belong, nor are even known to?”

“If I can only fashion to myself a pretext for your question, I would

answer it; but to the matter,--write the address there.” And he pointed

to the paper.

Stocmar obeyed, and wrote, “The Conservatoire, at Milan.”

“I may warn you,” added he, “that Mademoiselle Clara Stocmar, for as

such is she inscribed, will not be given up to you, or to any one save

myself, or by my order.”

“I am aware of that, and therefore you will write this order. Mr.

Stocmar, you need not be told by me that the fact of this girl being an

English subject once admitted, the law of this country will take little

heed of the regulations of a musical academy; save yourself this

publicity, and write as I tell you.”

Stocmar wrote some hurried lines and signed them. “Will that do?”

“Perfectly,” said he, folding up both papers, and placing them in his

pocket. “Now, Mr. Stocmar, thus far has been all business between us.

You have done me a small service, and for it I am willing to forgive a

great wrong; still, it is a fair bargain. Let us see, however, if we

cannot carry our dealings a little further. Here is a case where a

dreadful scandal will be unburied, and one of the most fearful crimes be

brought again before public notice, to herald the narrative of an

infamous fraud. I am far from suspecting or insinuating that you have

had any great part whatever in these transactions, but I know that when

once they have become town talk, Hyman Stocmar will figure as a

prominent name throughout. He will not appear as a murderer or a forger,

it is true, but he will stand forward the intimate friend of the worst

characters in the piece, and have always some small petty share of

complicity to answer for. Is it not worth while to escape such an open

exposure as this? What man--least of all, what man moving where you do--

could court such scandal?”

Stocmar made no answer, but, leaning his head on his hand, seemed lost

in thought.

“I can show you how to avoid it all. I will point ont the way to escape

from the whole difficulty.”

“How do you mean?” cried Stocmar, suddenly.

“Leave the knaves and come over to the honest men; or desert the losing

side and back the winner, if you like that better. In plain English,

tell me all you know of this case, and of every one concerned in it.

Give me your honest version of the scheme,--how it has been done and by

whom. You know Trover and Hunt well; say what were their separate

shares. I will not betray your confidence; and if I can, I will reward

it.”

“Let your son leave us. I will speak to you alone,” said Stocmar, in a

faint whisper.

Alfred, at a signal from his father, stepped quietly away, and they were

alone.

It was late in the afternoon when the doctor arose to take his

departure, and, though somewhat wearied, his look was elated, and his

face glowed with an expression of haughty satisfaction, such as it might

have worn after a collegiate triumph years and years ago.

CHAPTER VI. MR. O'SHEA AT BADEN

Although Mr. O'Shea be not one of the most foreground figures in this

piece, we are obliged to follow his fortunes for a brief space, and at a

moment when our interests would more naturally call us in another

direction. Thus, at a dinner-party, will it occasionally happen that our

attention is engaged on one side, while our sympathies incline to the

other; so, in life, the self-same incident continues to occur. We have

said that he had many a sore misgiving about the enterprise he was

engaged in. He felt that he was walking completely in the dark, and

towards what he knew not. Mrs. Morris was, doubtless, a clever pilot,

but she _might_ mistake the course, she _might_ go wrong in her

soundings, and, lastly, she _might_ chance to be on the shore when the

ship was scuttled. These were dire mistrusts, not to say very ungallant

suspicions, to haunt the heart and the head of a bridegroom; but--alas!

that we must own it--Mr. O'Shea now occupied that equatorial position in

life equally distant from the zones of youth and age, where men are most

worldly, and disposed to take the most practical views of whatever

touches their interests. It was very hard for him to believe that a

woman of such consummate cleverness as the widow had ever written a line

that could compromise her. He took a man's view of the question, and

fancied that a cool head is always cool, and a calculating heart always

alive to its arithmetic. These letters, therefore, most probably

referred to money transactions; they were, in fact, either bills, or

securities, or promises to pay, under circumstances, possibly, not the

pleasantest to make public. In such affairs he had always deemed a

compromise the best course; why had she not given him a clearer insight

into his mission? In fact, he was sailing with sealed orders, to be

opened only on reaching a certain latitude. “At all events, I can do

nothing till she writes to me;” and with this grain of comfort he

solaced himself as he went along his road, trying to feel at ease, and

doing his utmost to persuade himself that he was a lucky fellow, and “on

the best thing” that had ever turned up in his life.

It is unpleasant for us to make the confession, but in his heart of

hearts Mr. O'Shea thought of a mode of guiding himself through his

difficulties, which assuredly was little in keeping with the ardor of a

devoted lover. The ex-Member for Inch was a disciple of that sect--not a

very narrow one--which firmly believes that men have a sort of masonic

understanding amongst them always to be true to each other against a

woman, and that out of a tacit compact of mutual protection they will

always stand by each other against the common enemy. If, therefore, he

could make Paten's acquaintance, be intimate with him, and on terms of

confidence, he might learn all the bearings of this case, and very

probably get no inconsiderable insight into the fair widow's life and

belongings.

Amidst a vast conflict of such thoughts as these he rolled along over

the Splügen Alps, down the Via Mala, and arrived at last at Baden. The

season was at its full flood. There were a brace of kings there, and a

whole covey of Serene Highnesses, not to speak of flocks of fashionables

from every land of Europe. There was plenty of gossip,--the gossip of

politics, of play, of private scandal. The well-dressed world was

amusing itself at the top of its bent, and every one speaking ill of his

neighbor to his own heart's content. Whatever, however, may be the grand

event of Europe,--the outbreak of a war, or a revolution, the

dethronement of a king, or the murder of an emperor,--at such places as

these the smallest incident of local origin will far out-top it in

interest; and so, although the world at this moment had a very fair

share of momentous questions at issue, Baden had only tongues and ears

for one, and that was the lucky dog that went on breaking the bank at

rouge-et-noir about twice a week.

Ludlow Paten was the man of the day. Now it was his equipage, his

horses; now it was the company he entertained at dinner yesterday, the

fabulous sum he had given for a diamond ring, the incredible offer he

had made for a ducal palace on the Rhine. Around these and such-like

narratives there floated a sort of atmosphere of an imaginative order:

how he had made an immense wager to win a certain sum by a certain day,

and now only wanted some trifle of ten or twelve thousand pounds to

complete it; how, if he continued to break the bank so many times more,

M. Bennasset, the proprietor, was to give him fifty thousand francs a

year for life to buy him off, with twenty other variations on these

themes as to the future application of the money, some averring it was

to ransom his wife from the Moors, and others, as positively, to pay off

a sum with which he had absconded in his youth from a great banking-

house in London; and, last of all, a select few had revived the old

diabolic contract on his behalf, and were firm in declaring that after

he retired to his room at night he was heard for hours counting over his

gains, and disputing with the Evil One, who always came for his share of

the booty, and rigidly insisted on having it in gold. Now, it was

strange enough that these last, however wild the superstructure of their

belief, had really a small circumstance in their favor, which was that

Paten had been met with three or four times in most unfrequented places,

walking with a man of very wretched appearance and most forbidding

aspect, who covered his face when looked at, and was only to be caught

sight of by stealth. The familiar, as he was now called, had been seen

by so many that all doubt as to his existence was quite removed.

These were the stories which met O'Shea on his arrival, and which formed

the table-talk of the hotel he dined in; narratives, of course, graced

with all the illustrative powers of those who told them. One fact,

however, impressed itself strongly on his mind,--that with a man so

overwhelmed by the favors of Fortune, any chance of forming acquaintance

casually was out of the question. If he were cleaned out of his last

Napoleon, one could know him readily enough; but to the fellow who can

break the bank at will, archdukes and princes are the only intimates.

His first care was to learn his appearance. Nor had he long to wait; the

vacant chair beside the croupier marked the place reserved for the great

player, whose game alone occupied the attention of the bystanders, and

whose gains and losses were all marked and recorded by an expectant

public. “Here he comes! That is he, leaning on the Prince of Tours, the

man with the large beard!” whispered a person in O'Shea's hearing; and

now a full, large man, over-weighty, as it seemed, for his years, pushed

the crowd carelessly aside, and seated himself at the table. The low

murmur that went round showed that the great event of the evening was

about to “come off,” and that the terrible conflict of Luck against Luck

was now to be fought out.

More intent upon regarding the man himself than caring to observe his

game, O'Shea stationed himself in a position to watch his features, scan

their whole expression, and mark every varying change impressed upon

them. His experience of the world had made him a tolerable

physiognomist, and he read the man before him reasonably well. “He is

not a clever fellow,” thought he, “he is only a resolute one; and, even

as such, not persistent. Still, he will be very hard to deal with; he

distrusts every man.” Just as O'Shea was thus summing up to himself, an

exclamation from the crowd startled him. The stranger had lost an

immense “coup;” the accumulation of five successful passes had been

swept away at once, and several minutes were occupied in counting the

enormous pile of Napoleons he had pushed across the table.

The player sat apparently unmoved; his face, so far as beard and

moustache permitted it to be seen, was calm and impassive; but O'Shea

remarked a fidgety uneasiness in his hands, and a fevered impatience in

the way he continued to draw off and on a ring which he wore on his

finger. The game began again, but he did not bet; and murmuring comments

around the room went on, some averring that he was a bad loser, who

never had nerve for his reverses, and others as stoutly maintaining that

he was such a consummate master of himself that he was never carried

away by impulse, but, seeing fortune unfavorable, had firmness enough to

endure his present defeat, and wait for a better moment. Gradually the

interest of the bystanders took some other direction, and Paten was

unobserved, as he sat, to all seeming, inattentive to everything that

went on before him. Suddenly, however, he placed twenty thousand francs

in notes upon the table, and said, “Red.” The “Black” won; and he pushed

back his chair, arose, and strolled carelessly into another room.

O'Shea followed him; he saw him chatting away pleasantly with some of

his most illustrious friends, laughingly telling how unfortunate he had

been, and in sportive vein declaring that, from the very fact of her

sex, a man should not trust too much to Fortune. “I 'll go and play

dominoes with the Archduchess of Lindau,” said he, laughing; “it will be

a cheap pleasure even if I lose.” And he moved off towards a smaller

_salon_, where the more exclusive of the guests were accustomed to

assemble.

Not caring to attract attention by appearing in a company where he was

not known to any, O'Shea sauntered out into the garden, and, tempted by

the fresh night air, sat down. Chilled after a while, he resolved to

take a brisk walk before bed-time, and set out in the avenue which leads

to Lichtenthal. He had plenty to think of, and the time favored

reflection. On and on he went at a smart pace, the activity of mind

suggesting activity of body, and, before he knew it, had strolled some

miles from Baden, and found himself on the rise of the steep ascent that

leads to Eberstein. He was roused, indeed, from his musings by the

passage of a one-horse carriage quite close to him, and which, having

gained a piece of level ground, drew up. The door was quickly opened,

and a man got out; the moonlight was full upon his figure, and O'Shea

saw it was Paten. He looked around for a second or two, and then entered

the wood. O'Shea determined to explore the meaning of the mystery, and,

crossing the low edge, at once followed him. Guided by the light of the

cigar which Paten was smoking, O'Shea tracked him till he perceived him

to come to a halt, and immediately after heard the sound of voices. The

tone was angry and imperious on both sides, and, in intense eagerness,

O'Shea drew nigher and nigher.

“None of your nonsense with me,” said a firm and resolute voice. “I know

well how much you believe of such trumpery.”