One Of Them

“No, on my honor,” said he, solemnly; “for once you are mistaken.”

“I am sorry for it. I had hoped for a speedier settlement,” said she, coldly. “And so, you really came abroad in search of theatrical novelties. Oh dear!” sighed she, “Trover said so; and it is so confounding when any one tells the truth!”

She paused, and there was a silence of some minutes. At last she said: “Clara disposed of, and these letters in my possession, and I should feel like one saved from shipwreck. Do you think you could promise me these, Mr. Stocmar?”

“I see no reason to despair of either,” said he; “for the first I have pledged myself, and I will certainly do all in my power for the second.”

“You must, then, make me another promise: you must come back here for my wedding.”

“Your wedding!”

“Yes. I am going to marry Sir William Heathcote,” said she, sighing heavily. “His debts prevent him ever returning to England, and consequently I ran the less risk of being inquired after and traced, than if I were to go back to that dear land of perquisition and persecution.”

“The world is very small nowadays,” muttered Stocmar. “People are known everywhere.”

“So they are,” said she, quickly. “But on the Continent, or at least in Italy, the detectives only give you a nod of recognition; they do not follow you with a warrant, as they do at home. This makes a great difference, sir.”

“And can you really resign yourself, at your age and with your attractions, to retire from the world?” said he, with a deep earnestness of manner.

“Not without regret, Mr. Stocmar. I will not pretend it But remember, what would life be if passed upon a tightrope, always poising, always balancing, never a moment without the dread of a fall, never a second without the consciousness that the slightest divergence might be death! Would you counsel me to face an existence like this? Remember, besides, that in the world we live in, they who wreck character are not the calumnious, they are simply the idle, – the men and women who, having nothing to do, do mischief without knowing. One remarks that nobody in the room knew that woman with the blue wreath in her hair, and at once she becomes an object of interest. Some of the men have admired her; the women have discovered innumerable blemishes in her appearance. She becomes at once a topic and a theme, – where she goes, what she wears, whom she speaks to, are all reported, till at length the man who can give the clew to the mystery and ‘tell all about her’ is a public benefactor. At what dinner-party is he not the guest? – what opera-box is denied him? – where is the coterie so select at which his presence is not welcome so long as the subject is a fresh one? They tell us that society, like the Church, must have its ‘autos da fé,’ but one would rather not be the victim.”

Stocmar gave a sigh that seemed to imply assent.

“And so,” said she, with a deeper sigh, “I take a husband, as others take the veil, for the sake of oblivion.”

While she said this, Stocmar’s eyes were turned towards her with a most unfeigned admiration. He felt as he might have done if a great actress were to relinquish the stage in the climax of her greatest success. He wished he could summon courage to say, “You shall not do so; there are grander triumphs before you, and we will share them together;” but somehow his “nerve” failed him, and he could not utter the words.

“I see what is passing in your heart, Mr. Stocmar,” said she, plaintively. “You are sorry for me, – you pity me, – but you can’t help it. Well, that sympathy will be my comfort many a day hence, when you will have utterly forgotten me. I will think over it and treasure it when many a long mile will separate us.”

Mr. Stocmar went through another paroxysm of temptation. At last he said, “I hope this Sir William Heathcote is worthy of you, – I do trust he loves you.”

She held her handkerchief over her face, but her shoulders moved convulsively for some seconds. Was it grief or laughter? Stocmar evidently thought the former, for he quickly said, “I have been very bold, – very indiscreet. Pray forgive me.”

“Yes, yes, I do forgive you,” said she, hurriedly, and with her head averted. “It was my fault, not yours. But here we are at your hotel, and I have got so much to say to you! Remember we meet to-night at the ball. You will know me by the cross of ribbon on my sleeve, which, if you come in domino, you will take off and pin upon your own; this will be the signal between us.”

“I will not forget it,” said he, kissing her hand with an air of devotion as he said “Good-bye!”

“I saw her!” whispered a voice in his ear. He turned; and Paten, whose face was deeply muffled in a coarse woollen wrapper, was beside him.

CHAPTER XXXIII. SIR WILLIAM IN THE GOUT

SIR William Heathcote in his dressing-room, wrapped up with rugs, and his foot on a stool, looked as little like a bridegroom as need be. He was suffering severely from gout, and in all the irritable excitement of that painful malady.

A mass of unopened letters lay on the table beside him, littered as it was with physic bottles, pill-boxes, and a small hand-bell. On the carpet around him lay the newspapers and reviews, newly arrived, but all indignantly thrown aside, uncared for by one too deeply engaged in his sufferings to waste a thought upon the interests of the world.

“Not come in yet, Fenton?” cried he, angrily, to his servant. “I ‘m certain you ‘re mistaken; go and inquire of her maid.”

“I have just asked mamselle, sir, and she says her mistress is still out driving.”

“Give me my colchicum; no, the other bottle, – that small phial. But you can’t drop them. There, leave it down, and send Miss Leslie here.”

“She is at the Gallery, sir.”

“Of course she is,” muttered he, angrily, below his breath; “gadding, like the rest. Is there no one can measure out my medicine? Where’s Miss Clara?”

“She’s in the drawing-room, sir.”

“Send her here; beg her to do me the favor,” cried he, subduing the irritation of his manner, as he wiped his forehead, and tried to seem calm and collected.

“Did you want me, grandpapa?” said the young girl, entering, and addressing him by the title she had one day given him in sportiveness, and which he liked to be called by.

“Yes,” said he, roughly, for his pain was again upon him. “I wanted any one that would be humane enough to sit with me for a while. Are you steady enough of hand to drop that medicine for me, child?”

“I think so,” said she, smiling gently.

“But you must be certain, or it won’t do. I ‘d not like to be poisoned, my good girl. Five-and-twenty drops, – no more.”

“I ‘ll count them, sir, and be most careful,” said she, rising, and taking the bottle.

“Egad, I scarcely fancy trusting you,” said he, half peevishly. “A giddy thing like you would feel little remorse at having overdone the dose.”

“Oh, grandpapa!”

“Oh, of course you ‘d not do it purposely. But why am I left to such chances? Why is n’t your mother here? There are all my letters, besides, unread; and they cannot, if need were, be answered by this post.”

“She said that she ‘d be obliged to call at the bank this morning, sir, and was very likely to be delayed there for a considerable time.”

“I ‘m sure I cannot guess why. It is Trover and Twist ‘s duty to attend to her at once. They would not presume to detain her, Oh! here comes the pain again! Why do you irritate me, child, by these remarks? Can’t you see how they distress me?”

“Dear grandpapa, how sorry I am! Let me give you these drops.”

“Not for the world! No, no, I ‘ll not be accessary to my own death. If it come, it shall come at its own time. There, I am not angry with you, child; don’t get so pale; sit down here, beside me. What’s all this story about your guardian? I heard it so confusedly last night, during an attack of pain, I can make nothing of it.”

“I scarcely know more of it myself, sir. All I do know is that he has come out from England to take me away with him, and place me, mamma says, at some Pensionnat.”

“No, no; this mustn’t be, – this is impossible! You belong to us, dear Clara. I ‘ll not permit it Your poor mamma would be heart-broken to lose you.”

Clara turned away, and wiped two large tears from her eyes; her lips trembled so that she could not utter a word.

“No, no,” continued he; “a guardian is all very well, but a mother’s rights are very different, – and such a mother as yours, Clara! Oh! by Jove! that was a pang! Give me that toast-and-water, child!”

It was with a rude impatience he seized the glass from her hand, and drank off the contents. “This pain makes one a downright savage, my poor Clara,” said he, patting her cheek, “but old grandpapa will not be such a bear to-morrow.”

“To-morrow, when I’m gone!” muttered she, half dreamily.

“And his name? What is it?”

“Stocmar, sir.”