Sir William declared he had never seen his equal,--such temper, such tact, such resources in difficulty, such patience under all trials.

May pronounced him charming. He could obtain something eatable in the veriest desolation, he could extract a laugh out of disasters that seemed to defy drollery; and, lastly, Mrs. Morris herself averred "that he was unlike every old Indian she had ever seen, for he seemed not to know what selfishness meant,--but so, indeed, 'poor Penthony' had always described him." And here she would wipe her eyes and turn away in silence.

As they rolled along the road, many a little scheme was devised for detaining him at Rome, many a little plot laid for making him pass the carnival with them. Little knew they the while, how, seated in the rumble close behind, he too revolved the self-same thoughts, asking himself by what means he could secure so pleasant a harbor of refuge.

Will it not occasionally occur in life that some of those successes on which we pride ourselves have been in a measure prepared by others, and that the adversary has helped us to win the game we are so vain of having scored?

"Well, how do you like them?" said Mrs. Morris, as she smoked her cigarette at the end of the little garden at Viterbo, after Sir William and May had said good-night,--"how do you like them, pa?"

"They 're wonderful,--they 're wonderful!" said the Captain, puffing his weed. "It's a long time since I met anything so fresh as that old Baronet."

"And with all that," said she, "his great vanity is to think he knows 'the world.'"

"So he may, my dear. I can only say it is n't _your_ world nor _mine_,"

replied he, laughing.

"And yet there is a class in which such men as he are the clever ones, where their remarks are listened to and their observations treasured, and where old ladies in turbans and bird-of-paradise feathers pronounce them 'such well-informed men.' Isn't that the phrase, pa?"

"Yes, that's the phrase. An old article of the 'Quarterly' committed to memory, some of Dr. Somebody's predictions about the end of the world, and Solomon's proverbs done into modern English, make a very well-informed man."

"And a most insupportable bore, besides. After all, papa," said she, "it is in the landlocked creeks, the little waveless bays, that one must seek his anchorage, and not in the breezy roadsteads nor the open ocean.

I've thought over the matter a good deal lately, and I believe that to be the wise choice."

"You are right, Loo," said he; "ease is the great thing,--ease and security! What settlement can he make?"

"A small one; Just enough to live on. The son would be better in that respect, but then I should n't like it; and, besides, he would live as long as myself,--longer, perhaps,--and you know one likes to have a look forward, though it be ever so far away off."

"Very true,--very true," said he, with a mild sigh. "And this Miss Leslie," added he, after a while; "she 'll marry, I suppose?"

"Oh yes; her fortune will still be considerable,--at least, I hope so.

That man Trover has taken all the papers away with him, but he 'll turn up some day or other. At all events, there will be quite enough to get her a Roman Count or a Sicilian Duke; and as they are usually sent to the galleys or shot in a few years, the endurance is not prolonged.

These are Trover's cigars, ain't they? I know them well."

"Yes; it was your friend Stocmar filled my case yesterday."

"Another of the would-be shrewd ones!" said she, laughing.

"I did n't fancy him much," said he.

"Nor I, either; he is _such_ a snob. Now, one can't live with a snob, though one may dine with him, smoke, flirt, ride, and chat with him. Is it not so?"

"Perfectly true."

"Sir William is not snobbish. It is his one redeeming quality."

"I see that I remarked it the first day we met."

"Oh dear! oh dear!" sighed she, drearily, "what a tame, poor, commonplace thing life becomes when it is reduced to English cookery for health, and respectability for morals! I could marry Stocmar if I pleased, papa."

"Of course you could."

"Or O'Shea,--'the O'Shea,'" said she, with a laugh. "How droll to be the _she_ of that species! I could have _him_ also."

"Not also, but either, dear," said the Captain, correcting her.

"I meant that, papa," laughed she in, "though, perhaps--perhaps poor Mr.

Ogden might n't see that your objection was called for." And then they both laughed once more at the droll conceit. "We are to be married on some day before Lent," said she, after a pause. "I must positively get an almanac, papa, or I shall make confusion in my dates."

"The Lent begins late this year," remarked he.

"Does it? So much the better, for there is much to be thought of. I trust to you for the settlements, papa. You will have to be inexorable on every stage of the proceedings; and as for me, I know nothing of business,--never did, never could."

"But that is not exactly the character you have figured in here of late."

"Oh, papa dear," cried she, "do you imagine, if reason or judgment were to be invoked, that Sir William would ever marry me? Is it not because he is blind to every inconsistency and every contradiction that the poor man has decided on this step?"

"Where do you mean to live? Have you any plans on that score?"

"None, except where there are fewest English; the smallest possible population of red whiskers and red petticoats, and the least admixture of bad tongues and Balmoral boots. If we cannot find such a spot, then a city,--a large city, where people have too many resources to be obliged to amuse themselves with scandal."

"That's true; I have always remarked that where the markets were good, and fish especially abundant, people were less censorious. In small localities, where one eats kid every day, the tendency to tear your neighbor becomes irresistible. I 'm convinced that the bad tongue of boarding-house people may be ascribed to the bad diet."

"Perfectly true, papa; and when you dine with us, you shall have no excuse for malevolence. There," said she, throwing away the end of her cigar, "I can't afford to light another one this evening, I have got so few of those delicious Cubans. Oh dear," sighed she, "what a strange destiny is mine! Whenever I enter the marriage state, it must always be with a connection where there are no small vices, and _I_ fond of them!"

And so saying, she drew her shawl around her, and strolled lazily towards the house, while the Captain, selecting another cheroot, sat himself down in a snug spot in the arbor to muse, and meditate, and moralize after his fashion. Had any one been there to mark him as he gazed upwards at the starry sky, he might readily have deemed him one lost in heavenly contemplation, deep in that speculative wisdom that leaves the frontier of this narrow life far, far behind, and soars to realms nobler, vaster, grander. But not so were his thoughts; they were earthy of the earthiest, craft and subtlety crossed and recrossed them, and in all their complex web not one chord was to be found which could vibrate with an honest wish or a generous aspiration. There was not, nevertheless, a ruddier complexion, a brighter eye, a merrier voice, or a better digestion than his in Christendom.

CHAPTER XXXIX. FROM CLARA

It was just as Alfred Layton stepped into the boat to row out to the "Asia," bound for New York, that a letter from Clara was placed in his hands. He read it as they rowed along,--read it twice, thrice over. It was a strange letter--at least, he thought so--from one so very young.

There was a tone of frankness almost sisterly, but there was, in alluding to the happy past, a something of tenderness half shadowed forth that thrilled strangely through his heart. How she seemed to love those lessons he had once thought she felt to be mere tasks! How many words he had uttered at random,--words of praise or blame, as it might be; she had treasured all up, just as she had hoarded the flowers he had given her. What a wondrous sensation it is to feel that a chance expression we have used, a few stray words, have been stored up as precious memories! Is there any flattery like it? What an ecstasy to feel that we could impart value to the veriest commonplace, and, without an effort, without even a will, sit enthroned within some other heart!

What wisdom there was in that old fable of the husbandman, who bequeathed the treasure to his sons to be discovered by carefully turning over the soil of their land, delving and digging it industriously! How applicable is the lesson it teaches to what goes on in our daily lives, where, ever in search of one form of wealth, our labors lead us to discover some other of which we knew nothing! Little had Alfred Layton ever suspected that, while seeking to gain May's affection, he was winning another heart; little knew he that in that atmosphere of love his deep devotion made, she--scarcely more than a child--lived and breathed, mingling thoughts of him through all the efforts of her mind, till he became the mainspring of every ambition that possessed her. And now he knew it all. Yes, she confessed, as one never again fated to meet him, that she loved him. "If," wrote she, "it is inexpressible relief to me to own this, I can do so with less shame that I ask no return of affection; I give you my heart, as I give that which has no value, save that I feel it is with you, to go along with you through all the straits and difficulties of your life, to nourish hope for your success and sorrow for your failure, but never to meet you more.... Nor," said she, in another place, "do I disguise from myself the danger of this confession. They say it is man's nature to despise the gift which comes unasked,--the unsought heart is but an undesired realm. Be it so. So long as the thought fills me that _you_ are its lord, so long as to myself I whisper vows of loyalty, I am not worthless in my own esteem. I can say, '_He_ would like this; _he_ would praise me for that; some word of good cheer would aid me here; how joyously _he_ would greet me as I reached this goal!"

"Bravely borne, dear Clara! would requite me for a cruel sacrifice. You are too generous to deny me this much, and I ask no more. None of us can be the worse of good wishes, none be less fortunate that daily blessings are entreated for us. Mine go with you everywhere and always."

These lines, read and re-read so often, weighed heavily on Layton's heart; and she who wrote them was never for an instant from his thoughts. At first, sorrow and a sense of self-reproach were his only sentiments; but gradually another feeling supervened. There is not anything which supplies to the heart the want of being cared for.

There is that companionship in being loved, without which life is the dreariest of all solitudes. As we are obliged to refer all our actions to a standard of right and wrong, so by a like rule all our emotions must be brought before another court,--the heart that loves us; and he who has not this appeal is a wretched outlaw! This Layton now began to feel, and every day strengthened the conviction. The last few lines of the letter, too, gave an unspeakable interest to the whole. They ran thus:--

"I know not what change has come over my life, or is to come, but I am to be separated from my mother, intrusted to a guardian I have never seen till now, and sent I know not whither. All that I am told is that our narrow fortune requires I should make an effort for my own support.

I am grateful to the adversity that snatches me from a life of thought to one of labor. The weariness of work will be far easier to bear than the repinings of indolence. Self-reproach will be less poignant, too, when not associated with self-indulgence; and, better than all, a thousand times better, I shall feel in my toil some similitude to him whom I love,--feel, when my tired brain seeks rest, some unseen thread links my weariness to his, and blends our thoughts together in our dreams, fellow-laborers at least in life, if not lovers!"

When he had read thus far, and was still contemplating the lines, a small slip, carefully sealed in two places, fell from the letter. It was inscribed "My Secret." Alfred tore it open eagerly. The contents were very brief, and ran thus:--

"She whom I had believed to be my mother is not so. She is nothing to me. I am an orphan. I know nothing of those belonging to me, nor of myself, any more than that my name is _not_, 'Clara Morris.'"

Layton's first impulse, as he read, was to exclaim, "Thank God, the dear child has no tie to this woman!" The thought of her being her daughter was maddening. And then arose the question to his mind, by what link had they been united hitherto? Mrs. Morris had been ever to him a mysterious personage, for whom he had invented numberless histories, not always to her advantage. But why or through what circumstances this girl had been associated with her fortunes, was a knot he could find no clew to. There arose, besides, another question, why should this connection now cease, by what change in condition were they to be separated, and was the separation to be complete and final? Clara ought to have told him more; she should have been more explicit. It was unfair to leave him with an unsolved difficulty which a few words might have set clear. He was half angry with her for the torture of this uncertainty, and yet--let us own it--in his secret heart he hugged this mystery as a new interest that attached him to life. Let a man have ever so little of the gambler in his nature,--and we have never pictured Layton as amongst that prudent category,--and there will be still a tendency to weigh the eventualities of life, as chances inclining now to this side, now to that "I was lucky in that affair," "I was unfortunate there," are expressions occasionally heard from those who have never played a card or touched a dice-box. And where does this same element play such a part as when a cloud of doubt and obscurity involves the fate of one we love?