"I remember," chimed in Trover; "he told me that you came into the bank with such a swaggering air, and had such a profusion of gold chains, rings, and watch-trinkets, that he set you down for one of the swell-mob out on a tour."

"Civil, certainly," said Stocmar, "but as little flattering to his own perspicuity as to myself. But I'll never forget the paternal tone in which he whispered me afterwards, 'Whenever you want a discount, Mr.

Stocmar, from a stranger,--an utter stranger,--don't wear an opal pin set in brilliants; it don't do, I assure you it don't'" Stocmar gave such a close imitation of the worthy banker's voice and utterance, that his partner laughed heartily.

"Does he ever give a dinner, Trover?" asked Stocmar.

"Oh yes, he gives one every quarter. Our graver clients, who would not venture to come up here, dine with him, and he treats them to sirloins and saddles, with Gordon's sherry and a very fruity port, made especially, I believe, for men with good balances to their names."

"I should like to be present at one of these festivals." "You have no chance, Stocmar; he'd as soon think of inviting the _corps de ballet_ to tea. I myself am never admitted to such celebrations."

"What rogues these fellows are, Ludlow!" said Stocmar. "If you and I were to treat the world in this fashion, what would be said of us! The real humbugs of this life are the fellows that play the heavy parts."

And with this reflection, whose image was derived from his theatrical experiences, he arose, to take his coffee on the terrace.

CHAPTER XXXI. IN THE TOILS

Mrs. Morris gave directions that when a gentleman should call to inquire for her he should be at once introduced, a brief note from Mr. Trover having apprised her that Mr. Stocmar had just arrived, and would wait upon her without further delay. There was not in her air or manner the slightest trait of inquietude or even impatience; as she sat there, still stitching away at her Berlin elephant, she seemed an emblem of calm, peaceful contentedness. Her half-mourning, perhaps, sobered down somewhat the character of her appearance; but these lilac-colored ribbons harmonized well with her fair skin, and became her much.

With a tact all her own, she had carefully avoided in the arrangement of her room any of those little artistic effects which, however successful with the uninitiated, would be certain of a significant appreciation from one familiar with stage "get up" and all the suggestive accessories of the playhouse. "No," thought she,--"no half-open miniatures, no moss-roses in Bohemian glass--not even a camellia--on my work-table for Mr. Stocmar." Even Lila, her Italian greyhound, was dismissed from her accustomed cushion on that morning, lest her presence might argue effect.

She knew well that such men as Stocmar have a sort of instinctive appreciation of a locality, and she determined he should have the fewest possible aids to his interpretation of herself. If, at certain moments, a terrible dread would cross her mind that this man might know all her history, who she was, and in what events mixed up, she rallied quickly from these fears by recalling how safe from all discovery she had lived for several years back. Indeed, personally, she was scarcely known at all, her early married life having been passed in almost entire reclusion; while, later on, her few acquaintances were the mere knot of men in Hawke's intimacy.

There was also another reflection that supplied its consolation: the Stocmars of this world are a race familiar with secrets; their whole existence is passed in hearing and treasuring up stories in which honor, fame, and all future happiness are often involved; they are a sort of lay priesthood to the "fast" world, trusted, consulted, and confided in on all sides. "If he should know me," thought she, "it is only to make a friend of him, and no danger can come from that quarter." Trover's note said, "Mr. Stocmar places his services at your feet, too proud if in any way they can be useful to you;" a mere phrase, after all, which might mean much or little, as it might be. At the same time she bore in mind that such men as Stocmar were as little addicted to rash pledges as Cabinet ministers. Too much harassed and worried by solicitation, they usually screened themselves in polite generalities, and never incurred the embarrassment of promising anything, so that, thus viewed, perhaps, he might be supposed as well-intentioned towards her.

Let us for a moment--a mere moment--turn to Stocmar himself, as he walked up and down a short garden alley of Trover's garden with Paten by his side.

"Above all things, remember, Stocmar, believe nothing she tells you, if she only tell it earnestly. Any little truth she utters will drop out unconsciously, never with asseveration."

"I'm prepared for that," replied he, curtly.

"She 'll try it on, too, with fifty little feminine tricks and graces; and although you may fancy you know the whole armory, _pardi!_ she has weapons you never dreamed of."

"Possibly," was the only rejoinder.

"Once for all," said Paten,--and there was impatience in his tone,--"I tell you she is a greater actress than any of your tragedy queens behind the footlights."

"Don't you know what Talleyrand said to the Emperor, Ludlow? 'I think your Majesty may safely rely upon me for the rogueries.'"

Paten shook his head dissentingly; he was very far from feeling the combat an equal one.

Stocmar, however, reminded him that his visit was to be a mere reconnaissance of the enemy, which under no circumstances was to become a battle. "I am about to wait upon her with reference to a daughter she has some thoughts of devoting to the stage,--_voila tout_ I never heard of _you_ in my life,--never heard of for,--know absolutely nothing of her history, save by that line in the 'Times' newspaper some six weeks ago, which recorded the death of Captain Penthony Morris, by fever, in Upper India."

"That will do; keep to that," cried Paten more cheerfully, as he shook his friend's hand and said good-bye.

Your shrewd men of the world seldom like to be told that any circumstance can arise which may put their acuteness to the test; they rather like to believe themselves always prepared for every call upon their astuteness. Stocmar therefore set out in a half-irritation, which it took the three miles of his drive to subdue.

"Mrs. Penthony Morris at home?" asked he of the discreet-looking English servant whom Sir William's home prejudices justly preferred to the mongrel and moustachioed domestics of native breed.

"At home for Mr. Stocmar, sir," said the man, half inquiring, as he bowed deferentially, and then led the way upstairs.

When Stocmar entered the room, he was somewhat disappointed. Whether it was that he expected to see something more stately, haughty, and majestic, like Mrs. Siddons herself, or that he counted upon being received with a certain show of warmth and welcome, but the lady before him was slight, almost girlish in figure, blushed a little when he addressed her, and, indeed, seemed to feel the meeting as awkward a thing as need be.

"I have to thank you very gratefully, sir," began she, "for condescending to spare me a small portion of time so valuable as yours.

Mr. Trover says your stay here will be very brief."

"Saturday, if I must, Friday, if I can, will be the limit, madam," said he, coldly.

"Indeed!" exclaimed she. "I was scarcely prepared for so short a visit; but I am aware how manifold must be your engagements."

"Yes, madam. Even these seasons, which to the world are times of recreation and amusement, are, in reality, to us periods of active business occupation. Only yesterday I heard a barytone before breakfast, listened to the grand chorus in the 'Huguenots' in my bath, while I decided on the merits of a ballerina as I sat under the hands of my barber."

"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."