CHAPTER XXXIV. A WARM DISCUSSION
“I knew it, – I could have sworn to it,” cried Paten, as he listened to Stocmar’s narrative of his drive with Mrs. Morris. “She has just done with you as with fifty others. Of course you ‘ll not believe that you can be the dupe, – she ‘d not dare to throw her net for such a fish as you. Ay, and land you afterwards, high and dry, as she has done with scores of fellows as sharp as either of us.”
Stocmar sipped his wine, half simpering at the passionate warmth of his companion, which, not without truth, he ascribed to a sense of jealousy.
“I know her well,” continued Paten, with heightened passion. “I have reason to know her well; and I don’t believe that this moment you could match her for falsehood in all Europe. There is not a solitary spot in her heart without a snare in it.”
“Strange confession this, from a lover,” said Stocmar, smiling.
“If you call a lover one that would peril his own life to bring shame and disgrace on hers, I am such a man.”
“It is not more than a week ago you told me, in all seriousness, that you would marry her, if she ‘d have you.”
“And I say it again, here and now; and I say more, that if I had the legal right over her that marriage would give me, I’d make her rue the day she outraged Ludlow Paten.”
“It was Paul Hunt that she slighted, man,” said Stocmar, half sneeringly. “You forget that.”
“Is this meant for a threat, Stocmar?”
“Don’t be a fool,” said the other, carelessly. “What I meant was, that other times had other interests, and neither she, nor you, nor, for that matter, I myself, want to live over the past again.”
Paten threw his cigar angrily from him, and sat brooding and moody; for some time nothing was heard between them save the clink of the decanter as they filled their glasses, and passed the wine.
“Trover’s off,” mattered Paten, at last.
“Off! Whereto?”
“To Malta, I believe; and then to Egypt – anywhere, in short, till the storm blows over. This American crash has given them a sharp squeeze.”
“I wonder who’ll get that Burgundy? I think I never drank such Chambertin as that he gave us t’ other night.”
“I’d rather pick up that pair of Hungarian chestnuts. They are the true ‘Yucker’ breed, with nice straight slinging action.”
“His pictures, too, were good.”
“And such cigars as the dog had! He told me, I think, he had about fifteen thousand of those Cubans.”
“A vulgar hound! – always boasting of his stable, or his cellar, or his conservatory! I can’t say I feel sorry for him.”
“Sorry for him! I should think not. The fellow has had his share of good fortune, living up there at that glorious villa in luxury. It’s only fair he should take his turn on the shady side of the road.”
“These Heathcotes must have got it smartly too from the Yankees. They invested largely there of late.”
“So Trover told me. Almost the last words he said were: ‘The man that marries that girl for an heiress, will find he has got a blind nut Her whole fortune is swept away.’”
“I wonder is that true.”
“I feel certain it is. Trover went into all sorts of figures to show it. I’m not very much up in arithmetic, and so could n’t follow him; but I gathered that they ‘d made their book to lose, no matter how the match came off. That was to be expected when they trusted such things to a woman.”
Another and a longer pause now ensued between them; at length Paten broke it abruptly, saying, “And the girl – I mean Clara – what of her?”
“It’s all arranged; she is to be Clara Stocmar, and a pensionnaire of the Conservatoire of Milan within a week.”
“Who says so?” asked Paten, defiantly.
“Her mother – well, you know whom I mean by that title – proposed, and I accepted the arrangement. She may, or may not, have dramatic ability; like everything else in life, there is a lottery about it. If she really do show cleverness, she will be a prize just now. If she has no great turn of speed, as the jocks say, she ‘ll always do for the Brazils and Havannah. They never send us their best cigars, and, in return, we only give them our third-rate singers!”
It was evident in this speech that Stocmar was trying, by a jocular tone, to lead the conversation into some channel less irritating and disputatious; but Paten’s features relaxed nothing of their stern severity, and he looked dogged and resolute as before.
“I think, Stocmar,” said he, at length, “that there is still a word wanting to that same bargain you speak of. If the girl’s talents are to be made marketable, why should not I stand in for something?”
“You, – you, Ludlow!” cried the other. “In the name of all that is absurd, what pretext can you have for such a claim?”
“Just this: that I am privy to the robbery, and might peach if not bought up.”
“You know well this is mere blind menace, Ludlow,” said the other, good-humoredly; “and as to letting off squibs, my boy, don’t forget that you live in a powder-magazine.”
“And what if I don’t care for a blow-up? What if I tell you that I ‘d rather send all sky-high to-morrow than see that woman succeed in all her schemes, and live to defy me?”
“As to that,” said Stocmar, gravely, “the man who neither cares for his own life or character can always do damage to those of another; there is no disputing about that.”
“Well, I am exactly such a man, and she shall know it.” Not a word was spoken for several minutes, and then Paten resumed, but in a calmer and more deliberate tone, “Trover has told me everything. I see her whole scheme. She meant to marry that old Baronet, and has been endeavoring, by speculating in the share-market, to get some thousands together; now, as the crash has smashed the money part of the scheme, the chances are it will have also upset the marriage. Is not that likely?”
“That is more than I can guess,” said Stocmar, doubtingly.
“You can guess it, just as I can,” said Paten, half angrily. “She’s not the woman to link her fortune with a ruined man. Can’t you guess that?” Stocmar nodded, and Paten went on: “Now, I mean to stand to win on either event, – that’s my book.”
“I don’t understand you, Paul.”
“Call me Ludlow, confound you,” said Paten, passionately, “or that infernal name will slip out some day unawares. What I would say is, that, if she wishes to be ‘My Lady,’ she must buy me off first. If she ‘ll consent to become my wife, – that is the other alternative.”
“She’ll never do that,” said Stocmar, gravely.
“How do you know, – did she tell you so?”
“Certainly not.”
“You only know it, then, from your intimate acquaintance with her sentiments,” said he, sneeringly.
“How I know, or why I believe it, is my own affair,” said Stocmar, in some irritation; “but such is my conviction.”
“Well, it is not mine,” said Paten, filling up his glass, and drinking it slowly off. “I know her somewhat longer – perhaps somewhat better – than you do; and if I know anything in her, it is that she never cherishes a resentment when it costs too high a price.”
“You are always the slave of some especial delusion, Ludlow,” said Stocmar, quietly. “You are possessed with the impression that she is afraid of you. Now, my firm persuasion is, that the man or woman that can terrify her has yet to be born.”
“How she has duped you!” said Paten, insolently.
“That may be,” said he. “There is, however, one error I have not fallen into, – I have not fancied that she is in love with me.”
This sally told; for Paten became lividly pale, and he shook from head to foot with passion. Careful, however, to conceal the deep offence the speech had given him, he never uttered a word in reply. Stocmar saw his advantage, and was silent also. At last he spoke, but it was in a tone so conciliatory and so kindly withal, as to efface, if possible, all unpleasant memory of the last speech. “I wish you would be guided by me, Ludlow, in this business. It is not a question for passion or vindictiveness; and I would simply ask you, Is there not space in the world for both of you, without any need to cross each other? Must your hatred of necessity bridge over all distance, and bring you incessantly into contact? In a word, can you not go your road, and let her go hers, unmolested?”
“Our roads lie the same way, man. I want to travel with her,” cried Paten.
“But not in spite of her! – not, surely, if she declines your company!”
“Which you assume that she must, and I am as confident that she will not.”
Stocmar made an impertinent gesture at this, which Paten, quickly perceiving, resented, by asking, in a tone of almost insult, “What do you mean? Is it so very self-evident that a woman must reject me? Is that your meaning?”
“Any woman that ever lived would reject the man who pursues her with a menace. So long as you presume to wield an influence over her by a threat, your case must be hopeless.”
“These are stage and behind-scene notions, – they never were gleaned from real life. Your theatrical women have little to lose, and it can’t signify much to them whether a story more or less attach to their names. Threats of exposure would certainly affright them little; but your woman living in the world, holding her head amongst other women, criticising their dress, style, and manner, – think of her on the day that the town gets hold of a scandal about her! Do you mean to tell me there’s any price too high to pay for silencing it?”
“What would you really take for those letters of hers, if she were disposed to treat for them?”
“I offered them once to old Nick Holmes for two thousand pounds. I ‘d not accept that sum now.”
“But where or how could she command such an amount?”
“That ‘s no affair of mine. I have an article in the market, and I ‘m not bound to trouble myself as to the straits of the purchaser. Look here, Hyman Stocmar,” said he, changing his voice to a lower tone, while he laid his hand on the other’s arm, – “look here. You think me very vindictive and very malignant in all this, but if you only knew with what insults she has galled me, what cruel slights she has passed upon me, you ‘d pity rather than condemn me. If she would have permitted me to see and speak to her, – if I could only be able to appeal to her myself, – I don’t think it would be in vain; and, if I know anything of myself, I could swear I ‘d bear up with the crudest thing she could utter to me, rather than these open outrages that come conveyed through others.”
“And if that failed, would you engage to restore her letters? – for some possible sum, I mean, for you know well two thousand is out of the question. She told me she could command some six or seven hundred pounds. She said so, believing that I really came to treat with her on the subject.”
Paten shook his head dissentingly, but was silent. At last he said: “She must have much more than this at her command, Stocmar. Hawke’s family never got one shilling by his death; they never were able to trace what became of his money, or the securities he held in foreign funds. I remember how Godfrey used to go on about that girl of his being one day or other the greatest heiress of her time. Take my word for it, Loo could make some revelations on this theme. Come,” cried he, quickly, as a sudden thought flashed across him, “I ‘ll tell you what I ‘ll do. You are to meet her this evening at the masked ball. Let me go in your place. I ‘ll give you my solemn promise not to abuse the opportunity, nor make any scandal whatever. It shall be a mere business discussion between us; so much for so much. If she comes to terms, well. If she does not agree to what I propose, there’s no harm done. As I said before, there shall be no publicity, – no scene.”
“I can’t accede to this, Ludlow. It would be a gross breach of faith on my part,” said Stocmar, gravely.
“All your punctilio, I remark, is reserved for her benefit,” said Paten, angrily. “It never occurs to you to remember that I am the injured person.”
“I only think of the question as it displays a man on one side, and a woman on the other. Long odds in favor of the first, eh?”
“You think so!” said Paten, with a sneer. “By Jove! how well you judge such matters! I can’t help wondering what becomes of all that subtlety and sharpness you show when dealing with stage folk, when you come to treat with the world of every-day life. Why, I defy the wiliest serpent of the ballet to overreach you, and yet you suffer this woman to wind you round her finger!”
“Well, it is a very pretty finger!” laughed Stocmar.
“Yes, but to have you at her feet in this fashion!”
“And what a beautiful foot too!” cried Stocmar, with enthusiasm.
Something that sounded like a malediction was muttered by Paten as he arose and walked the room with passionate strides. “Once more, I say,” cried he, “let me take your place this evening, or else I ‘ll call on this old fool, – this Sir William Heathcote, – and give him the whole story of his bride. I ‘m not sure if it’s not the issue would give me most pleasure. I verily believe it would.”
“It’s a smart price to pay for a bit of malice too!” said Stocmar, musing. “I must say, there are some other ways in which the money would yield me as much pleasure.”
“Is it a bargain, Stocmar? Do you say yes?” cried Paten, with heightened excitement.
“I don’t see how I can agree to it,” broke in the other. “If she distinctly tells me that she will not meet you – ”
“Then she shall, by – !” cried Paten, confirming the determination by a terrible oath. “Look out now, Stocmar, for a scene,” continued he, “and gratify yourself by the thought it is all your own doing. Had you accepted my proposal, I ‘d have simply gone in your place, made myself known to her without scandal or exposure, and, in very few words, declared what my views were, and learned how far she’d concur with them. You prefer an open rupture before the world. Well, you shall have it!”
Stocmar employed all his most skilful arguments to oppose this course. He showed that, in adopting it, Paten sacrificed every prospect of self-interest and advantage, and, for the mere indulgence of a cruel outrage, that he compromised a position of positive benefit. The other, however, would not yield an inch. The extreme concession that Stocmar, after a long discussion, could obtain was, that the interview was not to exceed a few minutes, a quarter of an hour at furthest; that there was to be no éclat or exposure, so far as he could pledge himself; and that he would exonerate Stocmar from all the reproach of being a willing party to the scheme. Even with these stipulations, Stocmar felt far from being reconciled to the plan, and declared that he could never forgive himself for his share in it.
“It is your confounded self-esteem is always uppermost in your thoughts,” said Paten, insolently. “Just please to remember you are no foreground figure in this picture, if you be any figure at all. I feel full certain she does not want you, – I ‘ll take my oath I do not, – so leave us to settle our own affairs our own way, and don’t distress yourself because you can’t interfere with them.”
With this rude speech, uttered in a tone insolent as the words, Paten arose and left the room. Scarcely had the door closed after him, however, than he reopened it, and said, —
“Only one word more, Stocmar. No double, – no treachery with me here. I ‘ll keep my pledge to the very letter; but if you attempt to trick or to overreach me, I ‘ll blow up the magazine.”
Before Stocmar could reply, he was gone.
CHAPTER XXXV. LOO AND HER FATHER
Mrs. Morris, supposed to be confined to her room with a bad headache, was engaged in dressing for the masked ball, when a small twisted note was delivered to her by her maid.
“Is the bearer of this below stairs?” asked she, eagerly. “Show him in immediately.”
The next moment, a short, burly figure, in a travelling-dress, entered, and, saluting her with a kiss on either cheek, unrolled his woollen comforter, and displayed the pleasant, jocund features of Mr. Nicholas Holmes.
“How well you are looking, papa!” said she. “I declare I think you grow younger!”
“It’s the good conscience, I suppose,” said he, laughing. “That and a good digestion help a man very far on his road through life. And how are you, Loo?”
“As you see,” said she, laughingly. “With some of those family gifts you speak of, I rub on through the world tolerably well.”
“You are not in mourning, I perceive. How is that?” asked he, looking at the amber-colored silk of her dress.
“Not to-night, papa, for I was just dressing for a masked ball at the Pergola, whither I was about to go on the sly, having given out that I was suffering from headache, and could not leave my room.”
“Fretting over poor Penthony, eh?” cried he, laughing.
“Well, of course that might also be inferred. Not but I have already got over my violent grief. I am beginning to be what is technically called ‘resigned.’”
“Which is, I believe, the stage of looking out for another!” laughed he again.
She gave a little faint sigh, and went on with her dressing. “And what news have you for me, papa? What is going on at home?”
“Nothing, – absolutely nothing, dear. You don’t care for political news?”
“Not much. You know I had a surfeit of Downing Street once. By the way, papa, only think of my meeting George!”
“Ogden, – George Odgen?”
“Yes, it was a strange accident. He came to fetch away a young lad that happened to be stopping with us, and we met face to face – fortunately, alone – in the garden.”
“Very awkward that!” muttered he.
“So it was; and so he evidently felt it. By the way, how old he has grown! George can’t be more than – let me see – forty-six. Yes, he was just forty-six on the 8th of August. You ‘d guess him fully ten years older.”
“How did he behave? Did he recognize you and address you?”
“Yes; we talked a little, – not pleasantly, though. He evidently is not forgiving in his nature, and you know he had never much tact, – except official tact, – and so he was flurried and put out, and right glad to get away.”
“But there was no éclat, – no scandal?”
“Of course not. The whole incident did not occupy ten minutes.”
“They ‘ve been at me again about my pension, —his doing, I’m sure,” muttered he, – “asking for a return of services, and such-like rubbish.”
“Don’t let them worry you, papa; they dare not push you to publicity. It’s like a divorce case, where one of the parties, being respectable, must submit to any terms imposed.”
“Well, that’s my own view of it, dear; and so I said, ‘Consult the secret instructions to the Under-Secretary for Ireland for an account of services rendered by N. H.’”
“You ‘ll hear no more of it,” said she, flippantly. “What of Ludlow? Where is he?”
“He’s here. Don’t you know that?”
“Here! Do you mean in Florence?”
“Yes; he came with Stocmar. They are at the same hotel.”
“I declare I half suspected it,” said she, with a sort of bitter laugh. “Oh, the cunning Mr. Stocmar, that must needs deceive me!”
“And you have seen him?”
“Yes; I settled about his taking Clara away with him. I want to get rid of her, – I mean altogether, – and Stocmar is exactly the person to manage these little incidents of the white slave-market. But,” added she, with some irritation, “that was no reason why you should dupe me, my good Mr. Stocmar! particularly at the moment when I had poured all my sorrows into your confiding breast!”
“He’s a very deep fellow, they tell me.”
“No, papa, he is not. He has that amount of calculation – that putting this, that, and t’ other together, and seeing what they mean – which all Jews have; but he makes the same blunder that men of small craft are always making. He is eternally on the search after motives, just as if fifteen out of every twenty things in this life are not done without any motive at all!”
“Only in Ireland, Loo, – only in Ireland.”
“Nay, papa, in Ireland they do the full twenty,” said she, laughing. “But what has brought Ludlow here? He has certainly not come without a motive.”
“To use some coercion over you, I suspect.”
“Probably enough. Those weary letters, – those weary letters!” sighed she. “Oh, papa dear, – you who were always a man of a clear head and a subtle brain, – how did you fall into the silly mistake of having your daughter taught to write? Our nursery-books are crammed with cautious injunctions, – ‘Don’t play with fire,’ &c, – and of the real peril of all perils not a word of warning is uttered, and nobody says, ‘Avoid the inkstand.’”
“How could you have fallen into such a blunder?” said he, half peevishly.
“I gave rash pledges, papa, just as a bankrupt gives bad bills. I never believed I was to be solvent again.”
“We must see what can be done, Loo. I know he is very hard up for money just now; so that probably a few hundreds might do the business.”
She shook her head doubtingly, but said nothing.
“A fellow-traveller of mine, unacquainted with him personally, told me that his bills were seen everywhere about town.”
“Who is your companion?”
“An Irishman called O’Shea.”
“And is the O’Shea here too?” exclaimed she, laughingly.
“Yes; since he has lost his seat in the House, England has become too hot for him. And, besides,” added he, slyly, “he has told me in confidence that if ‘the party,’ as he calls them, should not give him something, he knows of a widow somewhere near this might suit him. ‘I don’t say that she’s rich, mind you,’ said he, ‘but she’s ‘cute as a fox, and would be sure to keep a man’s head above water somehow.’”
Mrs. Morris held her handkerchief to her mouth, but the sense of the ridiculous could not be suppressed, and she laughed out.
“What would I not have given to have heard him, papa!” said she, at last
“Well, it really was good,” said he, wiping his eyes; for he, too, had indulged in a very hearty laugh, particularly when he narrated all the pains O’Shea had been at to discover who Penthony Morris was, where he came from, and what fortune he had. “‘It was at first all in vain,’ said he, ‘but no sooner did I begin to pay fellows to make searches for me, than I had two, or maybe three Penthony Morrises every morning by the post; and, what’s worse, all alive and hearty!’”
“What did he do under these distressing circumstances?” asked she, gayly.
“He said he ‘d give up the search entirely. ‘There ‘s no such bad hunting country,’ said he, ‘as where there’s too many foxes, and so I determined I ‘d have no more Penthony Morrises, but just go in for the widow without any more inquiry.’”
“And have you heard the plan of his campaign?” asked she.
“He has none, – at least, I think not. He trusts to his own attractions and some encouragement formerly held out to him.”
“Indiscreet wretch!” said she, laughing; “not but he told the truth there. I remember having given him something like what lawyers call a retainer.”
“Such a man might be very troublesome, Loo,” said he, cautiously.
“Not a bit of it, papa; he might be very useful, on the contrary. Indeed, I’m’ not quite certain that I have not exactly the very service on which to employ him.”
“Remember, Loo,” said he, warmly, “he’s a shrewd fellow in his way.”
“In his way’ he is, but his way is not mine,” said she, with a saucy toss of the head. “Have you any idea, papa, of what may be the sort of place or employment he looks for? Is he ambitious, or has adversity taught him humility?”
“A good deal depends upon the time of the day when one talks to him. Of a morning he is usually downcast and depressed; he ‘d go out as a magistrate to the Bahamas or consul to a Poyais republic. Towards dinner-time he grows more difficult and pretentious; and when he has got three or four glasses of wine in, he would n’t take less than the Governorship of a colony.”
“Then it’s of an evening one should see him.”
“Nay, I should say not, Loo. I would rather take him at his cheap moment.”
“Quite wrong, papa, – quite wrong. It is when his delusions are strongest that he will be most easily led. His own vanity will be the most effectual of all intoxications. But you may leave him to me without fear or misgiving.”
“I suppose so,” said he, dryly. And a silence of some minutes ensued. “Why are you taking such pains about your hair, Loo,” asked he, “if you are going in domino?”
“None can ever tell when or where they must unmask in this same life of ours, papa,” said she, laughingly; “and I have got such a habit of providing for casualties that I have actually arranged my papers and letters in the fashion they ought to be found in after my death.”
Holmes sighed. The thought of such a thing as death is always unwelcome to a man with a light auburn wig and a florid complexion, who wants to cheat Fate into the notion that he is hale and hearty, and who likes to fancy himself pretty much what he was fifteen or twenty years ago. And Holmes sighed with a feeling of compassionate sorrow for himself.
“By the way, papa,” said she, in a careless, easy tone, “where are you stopping?”
“At the Hôtel d’Italie, my dear.”
“What do you think, – had n’t you better come here?”
“I don’t exactly know, nor do I precisely see how.”
“Leave all that to me, papa. You shall have an invitation, – ‘Sir William Heathcote’s compliments,’ &c, – all in due form, in the course of the day, and I ‘ll give directions about your room. You have no servant, I hope?”
“None.”
“So much the better; there is no guarding against the garrulity of that class, and all the craftiest stratagems of the drawing-room are often undermined in the servants’-hall. As for yourself, you know that you represent the late Captain’s executor. You were the guardian of poor dear Penthony, and his oldest friend in the world.”
“Knew him since he was so high!” said he, in a voice of mock emotion, as he held out his extended palm about two feet above the floor.
“That will give you a world of trouble, papa, for you ‘ll have to prepare yourself with so much family history, explaining what Morrises they were, how they were Penthonys, and so on. Sir William will torture you about genealogies.”
“I have a remedy for that, my dear,” said he, slyly. “I am most painfully deaf! No one will maintain a conversation of a quarter of an hour with me without risking a sore throat; not to say that no one can put delicate questions in the voice of a boatswain.”
“Dear papa, you are always what the French call ‘at the level of the situation,’ and your deafness will be charming, for our dear Baronet and future husband has a most inquisitive turn, and would positively torture you with interrogatories.”
“He ‘ll be more than mortal if he don’t give in, Loo. I gave a Lunacy Commissioner once a hoarseness that required a course of the waters at Vichy to cure; not to say that, by answering at cross purposes, one can disconcert the most zealous inquirer. But now, my dear, that I am in possession of my hearing, do tell me something about yourself and your plans.”
“I have none, papa, – none,” said she, with a faint sigh. “Sir William Heathcote has, doubtless, many, and into some of them I may perhaps enter. He intends, for instance, that some time in March I shall be Lady Heathcote; that we shall go and live – I’m not exactly sure where, though I know we ‘re to be perfectly happy, and, not wishing to puzzle him, I don’t ask how.”
“I have no doubt you will be happy, Loo,” said he, confidently. “Security, safety, my dear, are great elements of happiness.”
“I suppose they are,” said she, with another sigh; “and when one has been a privateer so long, it is pleasant to be enrolled in the regular navy, even though one should be laid up in ordinary.”
“Nay, nay, Loo, no fear of that!”
“On the contrary, papa, every hope of it! The best thing I could ask for would be oblivion.”
“My dear Loo,” said he, impressively, “the world has not got one half so good a memory as you fancy. It is our own foolish timidity – what certain folk call conscience – that suggests the idea how people are talking of us, and, like the valet in the comedy, we begin confessing our sins before we ‘re accused of them!”
“I know that is your theory, papa,” said she, laughing, “and that one ought always to ‘die innocent.’”
“Of course, my dear. It is only the jail chaplain benefits by what is called ‘a full disclosure of the terrible tragedy.’”
“I hear my carriage creeping up quietly to the door,” said she, listening. “Be sure you let me see you early tomorrow. Good-night.”