One Of Them

“And, I venture to say, liked it all,” said she, with an outbreak of frank enjoyment in his description.

“Upon my life, I believe you are right,” said he. “One gets a zest for a pursuit till everything else appears valueless save the one object; and, for my own part, I acknowledge I have the same pride in the success of my new tenor or my prima donna, as though I had my share in the gifts which secure it.”

“I can fancy all that,” said she, in a low, soft voice. And then, stealing a look of half admiration at her visitor, she dropped her eyes again suddenly, with a slight show of confusion.

“I assure you,” continued he, with warmth, “the season I brought out Cianchettoni, whenever he sang a little huskily I used to tell my friends I was suffering with a sore-throat.”

“What a deal of sympathy it betrays in your nature!” said she, with a bewitching smile. “And talking of sore-throats, don’t sit there in the draught, but take this chair, here.” And she pointed to one at her side.

As Stocmar obeyed, he was struck by the beauty of her profile. It was singularly regular, and more youthful in expression than her full face. He was so conscious of having looked at her admiringly that he hastened to cover the awkwardness of the moment by plunging at once into the question of business. “Trover has informed me, madam,” began he, “as to the circumstances in which my very humble services can be made available to you. He tells me that you have a daughter – ”

“Not a daughter, sir,” interrupted she, in a low, confidential voice, “a niece, – the daughter of a sister now no more.”

The agitation the words cost her increased Stocmar’s confusion, as though he had evidently opened a subject of family affliction. Yes, her handkerchief was to her eyes, and her shoulders heaved convulsively. “Mr. Stocmar,” said she, with an effort which seemed to cost her deeply, “though we meet for the first time, I am no stranger to your character. I know your generosity, and your high sense of honor. I am well aware how persons of the highest station are accustomed to confide in your integrity, and in that secrecy which is the greatest test of integrity. I, a poor friendless woman, have no claim to prefer to your regard, except in the story of my misfortunes, and which, in compassion to myself, I will spare you. If, however, you are willing to befriend me on trust, – that is, on the faith that I am one not undeserving of your generosity, and entitled at some future day to justify my appeal to it, – if, I say, you be ready and willing for this, say so, and relieve my intense anxiety; or if – ”

“Madam!” broke he in, warmly, “do not agitate yourself any more. I pledge myself to be your friend.”

With a bound she started from her seat, and, seizing his hand, pressed it to her lips, and then, as though overcome by the boldness of the action, she covered her face and sobbed bitterly. If Stocmar muttered some unmeaning commonplaces of comfort and consolation, he was in reality far more engrossed by contemplating a foot and ankle of matchless beauty, and which, in a moment so unguarded, had become accidentally exposed to view.

“I am, then, to regard you as my friend?” said she, trying to smile through her tears, while she bent on him a look of softest meaning. She did not, however, prolong a situation so critical, but at once, and with an impetuosity that bespoke her intense anxiety, burst out into the story of her actual calamities. Never was there a narrative more difficult to follow; broken at one moment by bursts of sorrow, heart-rending regrets, or scarce less poignant expressions of a resignation that savored of despair. There had been something very dreadful, and somebody had been terribly cruel, and the world – cold-hearted and unkind as it is – had been even unkinder than usual. And then she was too proud to stoop to this or accept that. “You surely would not have wished me to?” cried she, looking into his eyes very meltingly. And then there was a loss of fortune somehow and somewhere; a story within a story, like a Chinese puzzle. And there was more cruelty from the world, and more courage on her part; and then there were years of such suffering, – years that had so changed her. “Ah! Mr. Stocmar, you would n’t know me if you had seen me in those days!” Then there came another bewitching glance from beneath her long eyelashes, as with a half-sigh she said, “You now know it all, and why my poor Clara must adopt the stage, for I have concealed nothing from you, – nothing!”

“I am to conclude, then, madam,” said he, “that the young lady herself has chosen this career?”

“Nothing of the kind, my dear Mr. Stocmar. I don’t think she ever read a play in her life; she has certainly never seen one. Of the stage, and its ambitions and triumphs, she has not the very vaguest notion, nor do I believe, if she had, would anything in the world induce her to adopt it.”

“This is very strange; I am afraid I scarcely understand you,” broke he in.

“Very probably not, sir; but I will endeavor to explain my meaning. From the circumstances I narrated to you awhile ago, and from others which it is unnecessary for me to enter upon, I have arrived at the conclusion that Clara and I must separate. She has reached an age in which either her admissions or her inquiries might prove compromising. My object would therefore be to part with her in such a manner as might exclude our meeting again, and my plan was to enter her as a pupil at the Conservatoire, either at Bologna or Milan, having first selected some one who would assume the office of her guardian, as it were, replacing me in my authority over her. If her talents and acquirements were such as to suit the stage, I trusted to the effect of time and the influence of companionship to reconcile her to the project.”

“And may I ask, madam, have you selected the person to whom this precious treasure is to be confided? – the guardian, I mean.”

“I have seen him and spoken with him, sir, but have not yet asked his acceptance of the trust.”

“Shall I be deemed indiscreet if I inquire his name?”

“By no means, sir. He is a gentleman of well-known character and repute, and he is called – Mr. Stocmar.”

“Surely, madam, you cannot mean me?” cried he, with a start.

“No other, sir. Had I the whole range of mankind to choose from, you would be the man; you embrace within yourself all the conditions the project requires; you possess all the special knowledge of the subject; you are a man of the world fully competent to decide what should be done, and how; you have the character of being one no stranger to generous motives, and you can combine a noble action with, of course, a very inadequate but still some personal advantage. This young lady will, in short, be yours; and if her successes can be inferred from her abilities, the bribe is not despicable.”

“Let us be explicit and clear,” said Stocmar, drawing his chair closer to her, and talking in a dry, businesslike tone. “You mean to constitute me as the sole guide and director of this young lady, with full power to direct her studies, and, so to say, arbitrate for her future in life.”

“Exactly,” was the calm reply.

“And what am I to give in return, madam? What is to be the price of such an unlooked-for benefit?”

“Secrecy, sir, – inviolable secrecy, – your solemnly sworn pledge that the compact between us will never be divulged to any, even your dearest friend. When Clara leaves me, you will bind yourself that she is never to be traced to me; that no clew shall ever be found to connect us one with the other. With another name who is to know her?”

Stocmar gazed steadfastly at her. Was it that in a moment of forgetfulness she had suffered herself to speak too frankly, for her features had now assumed a look of almost sternness, the very opposite to their expression hitherto.

“And can you part with your niece so easily as this, madam?” asked he.

“She is not my niece, sir,” broke she in, with impetuosity; “we are on honor here, and so I tell you she is nothing – less than nothing – to me. An unhappy event – a terrible calamity – bound up our lot for years together. It is a compact we are each weary of, and I have long told her that I only await the arrival of her guardian to relieve myself of a charge which brings no pleasure to either of us.”

“You have given me a right to be very candid with you, madam,” said Stocmar. “May I adventure so far as to ask what necessity there can possibly exist for such a separation as this you now contemplate?”

“You are evidently resolved, sir, to avail yourself of your privilege,” said she, with a slight irritation of manner; “but when people incur a debt, they must compound for being dunned. You desire to know why I wish to part with this girl? I will tell you. I mean to cutoff all connection with the past; and she belongs to it. I mean to carry with me no memories of that time; and she is one of them. I mean to disassociate myself from whatever might suggest a gloomy retrospect; and this her presence does continually. Perhaps, too, I have other plans, – plans so personal that your good breeding and good taste would not permit you to penetrate.”

Though the sarcasm in which these last words were uttered was of the faintest, Stocmar felt it, and blushed slightly as he said: “You do me but justice, madam. I would not presume so far! Now, as to the question itself,” said he, after a pause, “it is one requiring some time for thought and reflection.”

“Which is what it does not admit of, sir,” broke she in. “It was on Mr. Trover’s assurance that you were one of those who at once can trust themselves to say ‘I will,’ or ‘I will not,’ that I determined to see you. If the suddenness of the demand be the occasion of any momentary inconvenience as to the expense, I ought to mention that she is entitled to a few hundred pounds, – less, I think, than five, – which, of course, could be forthcoming.”

“A small consideration, certainly, madam,” said he, bowing, “but not to be overlooked.” He arose and walked the room, as though deep in thought; at last, halting before her chair, and fixing a steady but not disrespectful gaze on her, he said, “I have but one difficulty in this affair, madam, but yet it is one which I know not how to surmount.”

“State it, sir,” said she, calmly.

“It is this, madam: in the most unhappy newness of our acquaintance I am ignorant of many things which, however anxious to know, I have no distinct right to ask, so that I stand between the perils of my ignorance and the greater perils of possible presumption.”

“I declare to you frankly, sir, I cannot guess to what you allude. If I only surmised what these matters were, I might possibly anticipate your desire to hear them.”

“May I dare, then, to be more explicit?” asked he, half timidly.

“It is for you, sir, to decide upon that,” said she, with some haughtiness.

“Well, madam,” said he, boldly, “I want to know are you a widow?”

“Yes, sir,” said she, with a calm composure.

“Am I, then, to believe that you can act free and uncontrolled, without fear of any dictation or interference from others?”

“Of course, sir.”

“I mean, in short, madam, that none can gainsay any rights you exercise, or revoke any acts you execute?”

“Really, sir, I cannot fancy any other condition of existence, except it be to persons confined in an asylum.”

“Nay, madam, you are wrong there,” said he, smiling; “the life of every one is a network of obligations and ties, not a whit the less binding that they are not engrossed on parchment, and attested by three witnesses; liberty to do this, or to omit that, having always some penalty as a consequence.”

“Oh, sir, spare me these beautiful moralizings, which only confuse my poor weak woman’s head, and just say how they address themselves to me.”

“Thus far, madam: that your right over the young lady cannot be contested nor shared?”

“Certainly not. It is with me to decide for her.”

“When, with your permission, I have seen her and spoken with her, if I find that no obstacle presents itself, why then, madam, I accept the charge – ”

“And are her guardian,” broke she in. “Remember, it is in that character that you assume your right over her. I need not tell a person of such tact as yours how necessary it will be to reply cautiously and guardedly to all inquiries, from whatever quarter coming, nor how prudent it will be to take her away at once from this.”

“I will make arrangements this very day. I will telegraph to Milan at once,” said he.

“Oh, dear!” sighed she, “what a moment of relief is this, after such a long, long period of care and anxiety!”

The great sense of relief implied in these words scarcely seemed to have extended itself to Mr. Stocmar, who walked up and down the room in a state of the deepest preoccupation.

“I wish sincerely,” said he, half in soliloquy, – “I wish sincerely we had a little more time for deliberation here; that we were not so hurried; that, in short, we had leisure to examine this project more fully, and at length.”

“My dear Mr. Stocmar,” said she, blandly, looking up from the embroidery that she had just resumed, “life is not a very fascinating thing, taken at its best; but what a dreary affair it would be if one were to stop every instant and canvass every possible or impossible eventuality of the morrow. Do what we will, how plain is it that we can prejudge nothing, foresee nothing!”

“Reasonable precautions, madam, are surely permissible. I was just imagining to myself what my position would be if, when this young lady had developed great dramatic ability and every requirement for theatrical success, some relative – some fiftieth cousin if you like, but some one with claim of kindred – should step forward and demand her. What becomes of all my rights in such a case?”

“Let me put another issue, sir. Let me suppose somebody arriving at Dover or Folkestone, calling himself Charles Stuart, and averring that, as the legitimate descendant of that House, he was the rightful King of England. Do you really believe that her Majesty would immediately place Windsor at his disposal; or don’t you sincerely suppose that the complicated question would be solved by the nearest policeman?”

“But she might marry, madam?”

“With her guardian’s consent, of course,” said she, with a demure coquetry of look and manner. “I trust she has been too well brought up, Mr. Stocmar, to make any risk of disobedience possible.”

“Yes, yes,” muttered he, half impatiently, “it’s all very well to talk of guardians’ consent; but so long as she can say, ‘How did you become my guardian? What authority made you such? When, where, and by whom conferred?’ – ”

“My dear Mr. Stocmar, your ingenuity has conjured up an Equity lawyer instead of an artless girl not sixteen years of age! Do, pray, explain to me how, with a mind so prone to anticipate difficulties, and so rife to coin objections, – how, in the name of all that is wonderful, do you ever get through the immense mass of complicated affairs your theatrical life must present? If, before you engage a prima donna, you are obliged to trace her parentage through three generations back, to scrutinize her baptismal registry and her mother’s marriage certificate, all I can say is that a prime minister’s duties must be light holiday work compared with the cares of your lot.”

“My investigations are not carried exactly so far as you have depicted them,” said he, good-humoredly; “but, surely, I ‘m not too exacting if I say I should like some guarantee.”

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Stocmar,” said she, interrupting him with a laugh, “but may I ask if you are married?”

“No, madam. I am a bachelor.”

“You probably intend, however, at some future time to change your state. I’m certain you don’t mean to pass all your life in the egotism of celibacy.”

“Possibly not, madam. I will not say that I am beyond the age of being fascinated or being foolish.”

“Just what I mean, sir. Well, surely, in such a contingency, you ‘d not require the lady to give you what you have just called a guarantee that she ‘d not run away from you?”

“My trust in her would be that guarantee, madam.”

“Extend the same benevolent sentiment to me, sir. Trust me. I ask for no more.” And she said this with a witchery of look and manner that made Mr. Stocmar feel very happy and very miserable, twice over, within the space of a single minute.

Poor Mr. Stocmar, what has become of all your caution, all your craft, and all the counsels so lately given you? Where are they now? Where is that armor of distrust in which you were to resist the barbed arrow of the enchantress? Trust her! It was not to be thought of, and yet it was exactly the very thing to be done, in spite of all thought and in defiance of all reason.

And so the “Stocmar” three-decker struck her flag, and the ensign of the fast frigate floated from her masthead!

CHAPTER XXXII. A DRIVE ROUND THE CASCINE AT FLORENCE

“Here’s another note for you, Stocmar,” said Paten, half peevishly, as they both sat at breakfast at the Hôtel d’Italie, and the waiter entered with a letter. “That’s the third from her this morning.”

“The second, – only the second, on honor,” said he, breaking the seal, and running his eye over the contents. “It seems she cannot see me to-day. The Heathcote family are all in grief and confusion; some smash in America has involved them in heavy loss. Trover, you may remember, was in a fright about it last night. She’ll meet me, however, at the masked ball to-night, where we can confer together. She’s to steal out unperceived, and I’m to recognize her by a yellow domino with a little tricolored cross on the sleeve. Don’t be jealous, Ludlow, though it does look suspicious.”

“Jealous! I should think not,” said the other, insolently.

“Come, come, you ‘ll not pretend to say she is n’t worth it, Ludlow, nor you ‘ll not affect to be indifferent to her.”

“I wish to Heaven I was indifferent to her; next to having never met her, it would be the best thing I know of,” said he, rising, and walking the room with hurried steps. “I tell you, Stocmar, if ever there was an evil destiny, I believe that woman to be mine. I don’t think I love her, I cannot say to my own heart that I do, and yet there she is, mistress of my fate, to make me or mar me, just as she pleases.”

“Which means, simply, that you are madly in love with her,” said Stocmar.

“No such thing; I ‘d do far more to injure than to serve her this minute. If I never closed my eyes last night, it was plotting how to overreach her, – how I should wreck her whole fortune in life, and leave her as destitute as I am myself.”

“The sentiment is certainly amiable,” said Stocmar, smiling.

“I make no pretence to generosity about her,” said Paten, sternly; “nor is it between men like you and myself fine sentiments are bandied.”

“Fine sentiments are one thing, master, an unreasonable antipathy is another,” said Stocmar. “And it would certainly be too hard if we were to pursue with our hatred every woman that could not love us.”

“She did love me once, – at least, she said so,” broke in Paten.

“Be grateful, therefore, for the past. I know I’d be very much her debtor for any show of present tenderness, and give it under my hand never to bear the slightest malice whenever it pleased her to change her mind.”

“By Heaven! Stocmar,” cried Paten, passionately, “I begin to believe you have been playing me false all this time, telling her all about me, and only thinking of how to advance your own interests with her.”

“You wrong me egregiously, then,” said Stocmar, calmly. “I am ready to pledge you my word of honor that I never uttered your name, nor made a single allusion to you in any way. Will that satisfy you?”

“It ought,” muttered he, gloomily; “but suspicions and distrusts spring up in a mind like mine just as weeds do in a rank soil. Don’t be angry with me, old fellow.”

“I ‘m not angry with you, Ludlow, except in so far as you wrong yourself. Why, my dear boy, the pursuit of a foolish spite is like going after a bad debt. All the mischief you could possibly wish this poor woman could never repay you.”

“How can you know that without feeling as I feel?” retorted he, bitterly. “If I were to show you her letters,” began he; and then, as if ashamed of his ignoble menace, he stopped and was silent.

“Why not think seriously of this heiress she speaks of? I saw her yesterday as she came back from riding; her carriage was awaiting her at the Piazza del Popolo, and there was actually a little crowd gathered to see her alight.”

“Is she so handsome, then?” asked he, half listlessly.

“She is beautiful; I doubt if I ever saw as lovely a face or as graceful a figure.”

“I ‘ll wager my head on’t, Loo is handsomer; I ‘ll engage to thrust my hand into the fire if Loo’s foot is not infinitely more beautiful.”

“She has a wonderfully handsome foot, indeed,” muttered Stocmar.

“And so you have seen it,” said Paten, sarcastically. “I wish you ‘d be frank with me, and say how far the flirtation went between you.”

“Not half so far as I wished it, my boy. That’s all the satisfaction you ‘ll get from me.”

This was said with a certain irritation of manner that for a while imposed silence upon each.

“Have you got a cheroot?” asked Paten, after a while; and the other flung his cigar-case across the table without speaking.

“I ordered that fellow in Geneva to send me two thousand,” said Paten, laughing; “but I begin to suspect he had exactly as many reasons for not executing the order.”

“Marry that girl, Ludlow, and you ‘ll get your ‘bacco, I promise you,” said Stocmar, gayly.

“That’s all easy talking, my good fellow, but these things require time, opportunity, and pursuit. Now, who’s to insure me that they ‘d not find out all about me in the mean while? A woman does n’t marry a man with as little solicitation as she waltzes with him, and people in real life don’t contract matrimony as they do in the third act of a comic opera.”

“Faith, as regards obstacles, I back the stage to have the worst of it,” broke in Stocmar. “But whose cab is this in such tremendous haste, – Trover’s? And coming up here too? What’s in the wind now?”

He had but finished these words when Trover rushed into the room, his face pale as death, and his lips colorless.

“What’s up? – what’s the matter, man?” cried Stocmar.

“Ruin’s the matter – a general smash in America – all securities discredited – bills dishonored – and universal failure.”

“So much the worse for the Yankees,” said Paten, lighting his cigar coolly.

A look of anger and insufferable contempt was all Trover’s reply.

“Are you deep with them?” asked Stocmar, in a whisper to the banker.

“Over head and ears,” muttered the other; “we have been discounting their paper freely all through the winter, till our drawers are choke-full of their acceptances, not one of which would now realize a dollar.”

“How did the news come? Are you sure of its being authentic?”

“Too sure; it came in a despatch to Mrs. Morris from London. All the investments she has been making lately for the Heathcotes are clean swept away; a matter of sixty thousand pounds not worth as many penny-pieces.”

“The fortune of Miss Leslie?” asked Stocmar.

“Yes; she can stand it, I fancy, but it’s a heavy blow too.”

“Has she heard the news yet?”

“No, nor Sir William either. The widow cautioned me strictly not to say a word about it. Of course, it will be all over the city in an hour or so, from other sources.”

“What do you mean to do, then?”

“Twist is trying to convert some of our paper into cash, at a heavy sacrifice. If he succeed, we can stand it; if not, we must bolt to-night.” He paused for a few seconds, and then, in a lower whisper, said, “Is n’t she game, that widow? What do you think she said? ‘This is mere panic, Trover,’ said she; ‘it’s a Yankee roguery, and nothing more. If I could command a hundred thousand pounds this minute, I ‘d invest every shilling of it in their paper; and if May Leslie will let me, you ‘ll see whether I ‘ll be true to my word.’”

“It’s easy enough to play a bold game on one’s neighbor’s money,” said Stocmar.

“She’d have the same pluck if it were her own, or I mistake her much. Has he got any disposable cash?” whispered Trover, with a jerk of his thumb towards Paten.