Let us now return to some of the actors in our drama who for a while back have been playing out their parts behind the scenes. The Heathcote family, consisting of Sir William and his ward, May Leslie, Mrs. Morris and her late husband's friend, Captain Holmes, were domesticated in a sumptuous residence near the “Pincian,” but neither going out into the world nor themselves receiving visitors. Sir William's health, much broken and uncertain as it was, formed the excuse for this reclusion; but the real reason was the fact, speedily ascertained by the Captain, and as speedily conveyed to his daughter, that “Society” had already decided against them, and voted the English family at the Palazzo Balbi as disfranchised.

Very curious and very subtle things are the passively understood decrees of those who in each city of Europe call themselves the “World.” The delicate shades by which recognition is separated from exclusion; the fine tints, perceptible only to the eyes of fashion, by which certain frailties are relieved from being classed with grave derelictions; the enduring efficacy of the way in which the smell of the roses will cling to the broken vase of virtue and rescue its fragments from dishonor,—are all amongst the strangest and most curious secrets of our civilization.

Were it not for a certain uniformity in the observances, one might be disposed to stigmatize as capricious the severity occasionally displayed here, while a merciful lenity was exhibited there; but a closer examination will show that some fine discriminating sense is ever at work, capable of distinguishing between genteel vice and the wickedness that forgets conventionalities. As in law, so in morals, no man need criminate himself, but he who does so by an inadvertence is lost. Now the Heathcotes were rich, and yet lived secluded. The world wanted not another count in the indictment against them. A hundred stories were circulated about them. They had come to place the “girl” in a convent. Old Sir William had squandered away all her fortune, and the scheme now was to induce her to turn Catholic and take the veil. “The old fool”—the world is complimentary on these occasions—was going to marry that widow, whom he had picked up at Leamington or Ems or Baden-Baden. If the Captain had not kept the Hell in the Circus, he was the very double of the man who had it. At all events, it was better not to have him in the Club; and so the banker, who was to have proposed, withdrew him.

It may be imagined that some very palpable and sufficient cause was at work to induce society thus to stand on the defensive towards these new-comers. Nothing of the kind. All the evidence against them was shadowy; all the charges such as denied detail. They were an odd set, they lived in a strange fashion, they knew nobody; and to accusations like these even spotless integrity must succumb.

Dressed in a robe de chambre that would have made the fortune of a French Vaudeville actor, with a gold-tasselled fez, and slippers to match, the Captain sat, smoking a splendid meerschaum, in a well-cushioned chair, while his daughter was engaged at her embroidery, opposite to him. Though it was midwinter, the sun streamed in through the orange-trees on the terrace, and made a rainbow of the spray that dashed from the marble fountain. The room itself combined all the sumptuous luxury we understand by the word “comfort,” with the graceful elegance of a Southern existence. There were flowers and fresh air, and the song of birds to be enjoyed on the softest of sofas and the best carpeted of floors.

A large goblet of some amber-colored drink, in which a rock of pure ice floated, stood at the Captain's elbow, and he sipped and puffed, with his head thrown well back, in an attitude that to smokers must have some Elysian ecstasy. Nor was his daughter the least ornamental part of the situation; a morning dress of white muslin, tastefully trimmed with sky-blue ribbons, and a rich fall of Brussels lace over her head, making a very charming picture of the graceful figure that now bent over the embroidery-frame.

“I tell you it won't do, Loo,” said he, removing his pipe, and speaking in a firm and almost authoritative voice. “I have been thinking a great deal over it, and you must positively get away from this.”

“I know that too,” said she, calmly; “and I could have managed it easily enough but for this promised visit of Charles. He comes through on his way to Malta, and Sir William would not hear of anything that risked the chance of seeing him.”

“I 'd rather risk that than run the hazards we daily do in this place,” said he, gravely.

“You forget, papa, that he knows nothing of these hazards. He is eager to see his son, for what he naturally thinks may be the last time. I 'm sure I did my best to prevent the meeting. I wrote to Lord Agincourt; I wrote to Charles himself. I represented all the peril the agitation might occasion his father, and how seriously the parting might affect a constitution so impressionable as his, but to no purpose; he coldly replies, 'Nothing short of my father's refusal to see me shall prevent my coming to see him,' or 'embrace him,' or—I forget the words, but the meaning is, that come he will, and that his arrival may be counted on before the end of the week.”

“What stay will he make?”

“He speaks of three or four days at farthest. We can learn the limit easily enough by the time of the P. and O. steamer's sailing. Ask for it at the banker's.”

“I don't call in there now,” said he, peevishly. “Since they took down my name for the Club-ballot, I have not gone to the bank.”

She sighed heavily; there was more than one care on her heart, and that sigh gathered in a whole group of anxieties.

“They have got up all sorts of stories about us; and it is always out of these false attacks of scandal comes the real assault that storms the citadel.”

She sighed again, but did not speak.

“So long as Heathcote keeps the house and sees nobody, all may go on well; but let him be about again, able to ramble amongst the galleries and churches, he is certain to meet some amiable acquaintance, who will startle him with a few home truths. I tell you again, we are banqueting over a powder-magazine; and even as to the marriage itself, I don't like it. Are you aware of the amount he is able to settle? I couldn't believe my eyes when I read the draft. It is neither more nor less than eight thousand pounds. Fancy taking such a husband for eight thousand pounds!”

“You scarcely put the case fairly, papa,” said she, smiling; “the eight thousand is the compensation for losing him.”

“Are you in love with him, then?” asked he, with a sarcastic twinkle of the eye.

“I don't think so,—at least, not to desperation.”

“It is scarcely for the sake of being 'My Lady.'”

“Oh dear, no; that is a snobbery quite beyond me. Now, I neither marry for the title, nor the man, nor his money, nor his station; but out of that mass of motives which to certain women have the force of a principle. I can explain what I mean, perhaps, by an illustration: Were you to tell a fashionable physician, in first-rate practice, that if he got up out of bed at midnight, and drove off two miles to a certain corner of Regent's Park, where under a particular stone he 'd find a guinea, it is more than certain he 'd not stir; but if you sent for the same man to a case of illness, he'd go unhesitatingly, and accept his guinea as the due recompense of his trouble. This is duty, or professional instinct, or something else with a fine name, but it's not gold-seeking. There now, make out my meaning out of my parable, as best you may. And, after all, papa, I'm not quite sure that I intend to marry him.”

“Why, what do you mean?”

“Oh, pray don't be frightened. I merely meant to say that there was an eventuality which might rescue me from this necessity. I have told you nothing about it hitherto, dear papa, because I inherit your own wholesome dislike to entertaining my friends with what may turn out mere moonshine. Now, however, that the project has a certain vitality in it, you shall hear it.”

Holmes drew his chair close to her, and, laying down his pipe, prepared to listen with all attention.

“If I hate anything,” said she, half peevishly, “it is to talk of the bygone, and utter the names of people that I desire never to hear again. It can't be helped, however; and here goes. After the events in Jersey, you remember I left the island and came abroad. There were all sorts of confusion about H.'s affairs. The law had taken possession of his papers, placed seals on everything, and resisted my application to remove them, on the vexatious plea that I was not his wife, and could not administer as such. A long litigation ensued, and at last my marriage was admitted, and then I took out probate and received a few thousand pounds, and some little chance property; the bulk of his fortune was, however, in America, and settled on Clara by a will, which certain writings showed was in the possession of her uncle, now nominated to be her guardian, a certain Harvey Winthrop, of Norfolk, Virginia. I opened a correspondence with him, and suggested the propriety of leaving Clara with me, as I had always regarded her as my own child, and hinting at the appropriateness of some allowance for her maintenance and education. He replied with promptitude and much kindness, expressed great sympathy for my late loss, and made a very liberal settlement for Clara.

“All went on peaceably and well for two years, when one morning came a letter from Winthrop of a most alarming nature. Without any positive charge, it went on to say that he had, for reasons which his delicacy would prefer to spare me, decided on himself assuming the guardianship of his niece, and that if I would kindly come to London, or name any convenient place on the Continent for our meeting, he would punctually present himself at the time agreed on. Of course I guessed what had occurred,—indeed, it had always been a matter of astonishment to me how long I had been spared; at all events, I determined on resistance. I wrote back a letter, half sorrow, half indignation; I spoke of the dear child as all that remained of consolation to my widowed heart; I said that though it was in his competence to withhold from me the little pittance which served to relieve some of the pressure of our narrow means, yet I would not separate myself from my darling child, even though at the cost of sharing with her a mere sufficiency for support. I told him, besides, that he should never hear from me more, nor would all his efforts enable him to trace us. It was then I became Mrs. Penthony Morris. I suppose Winthrop was sorry for his step; at least, by a variety of curious advertisements in English papers, he suggested that some accommodation might be arranged, and entreated me to renew intercourse with him. There were many reasons why I could not agree to this. Clara, too, was of great use to me. To a lone woman in the world, without any definite belongings, a child is invaluable. The advertisements were continued, and even rewards offered for such information as might lead to my discovery. All in vain: he never succeeded in tracing me, and at length gave up the pursuit.

“I must now skip over some years which have no bearing on this incident, and come to a period comparatively recent, when, in the transaction of certain purchases of American securities, I came unexpectedly on the mention of a new railroad line through a district whose name was familiar to me. I set myself to think where, when, and how I had heard of this place before, and at last remembered it was from H———, who used to talk of this property as what would one day make his daughter a great heiress. My moneyed speculations had led me into much intimacy here with a banker, Mr. Trover, over whom an accidental discovery gave me absolute power. It was no less than a forgery he had committed on my name, and of which, before relinquishing the right to take proceedings against him, I obtained his full confession in writing. With this tie over the man, he was my slave; I sent him here and there at my pleasure, to buy, and sell, and gain information, and so on, and, above all, to obtain a full account of the value of this American property, where it lay, and how it was occupied. It was in the midst of these inquiries came a great financial crash, and my agent was obliged to fly. At first he went to Malta; he came back, but, after a few weeks, he set out for the States. He was fully in possession of the circumstances of this property, and Clara's right to it, and equally so of my determination that she should never inherit it. We had, on one of the evenings he was here, a long conversation on the subject, and he cunningly asked me,—

“'How was the property settled in reversion?'

“It was a point I never knew, for I never saw H.'s will.

“'The will was made four years before his death; might he not have made a later one on his death-bed?—might he not have bequeathed the estate in reversion to yourself in case she died?—might she not have died?'

“All these he asked, and all of them had been my own unceasing thoughts for years back. It was a scheme I had planned and brooded over days and nights long. It was to prepare the road for it that I sent away Clara, and, under the name of Stocmar, had her inscribed at the Conservatoire of Milan. Was it that Trover had read my secret thoughts, or had he merely chanced upon them by mere accident? I did not dare to ask him, for I felt that by his answer I should be as much in his power as he was in mine.

“'I have often imagined there might be such a will,' said I; 'there is no reason to suppose it is not in existence. Could it not be searched for and found?'

“He understood me at once, and replied,—

“'Have you any of Hawke's handwriting by you?'

“'A quantity,' said I; 'and it is a remarkable hand, very distinctive, and not hard to imitate,—at least, by any one skilled in such accomplishments.'

“He blushed a little at the allusion, but laughed it off.

“'The girl could have died last year; she might have been buried,—where shall we say?' added he, carelessly.

“'At Meisner, in the Tyrol,' said I, catching at the idea that just struck me, for my maid died in that place, and I had got the regular certificate of her death and burial from the Syndic, and I showed him the document.

“'This is admirable,' said he; 'nothing easier than to erase this name and insert another.'

“'I cannot hear of such a thing, Mr. Trover,' said I; 'nor can I, after such a proposal, suffer the paper to leave my hands.' And with this I gave it to him.

“'I could not dream of such an act, madam,' said he, with great seriousness; 'it would amount to a forgery. Now for one last question,' said he, after a little interval of silence: 'what would you deem a suitable reward to the person who should discover this missing will, and restore this property to the rightful owner? Would twenty per cent on the value appear to you too much?'

“'I should say that the sum was a high one, but if the individual acquitted himself with all the integrity and all the delicacy the situation demanded, never by even an implication involving any one who trusted him, conducting the transaction to its end on his own responsibility and by his own unaided devices, why, then, it is more than probable that I would judge the reward to be insufficient.'

“So much, dear papa, will put you in possession of the treaty then ratified between us. I was to supply all the funds for present expenses; Mr. Trover to incur all the perils. He was invested with full powers, in fact, to qualify himself for Botany Bay; and I promised to forward his views towards a ticket of leave if the worst were to happen him. It was a very grave treaty very laughingly and playfully conducted. Trover had just tact enough for the occasion, and was most jocose wherever the point was a perilous one. From the letters and papers in my possession, he found details quite ample enough to give him an insight into the nature of the property, and also, what he deemed of no small importance, some knowledge of the character of this Mr. Winthrop, Clara's uncle. This person appeared to be an easy-tempered, good-natured man, not difficult to deal with, nor in any way given to suspicion. Trover was very prompt in his proceedings. On the evening after our conversation he showed me the draft of Hawke's will, dated at Jersey, about eight days before his death. It was then, for the first time, I learned that Trover knew the whole story, and who I was. This rather disconcerted me at first. There are few things more disconcerting than to find out that a person who has for a long intercourse never alluded to your past history, has been all the while fully acquainted with it. The way he showed his knowledge of the subject was characteristic In pointing out to me Hawke's signature, he remarked,—

“'I have made the witnesses—Towers, who was executed, and Collier, who, I have heard, died in Australia.'

“'How familiar you are with these names, sir!' said I, curiously.

“'Yes, madam,' said he; 'I edited a well-known weekly newspaper at that time, and got some marvellous details from a fellow who was on the spot.'

“I assure you, papa, though I am not given to tremors, I shuddered at having for my accomplice a man that I could not deceive as to my past life. It was to be such an open game between us that, in surrendering all the advantages of my womanly arts, I felt I was this man's slave, and yet he was a poor creature. He had the technical craft for simulating a handwriting and preparing a false document, but was miserably weak in providing for all the assaults that must be directed against its authenticity.

“His plan was, armed with what he called an attested copy of H.'s will, to set out for America and discover this Mr. Winthrop. Cleverly enough, he had bethought him of securing this gentleman's co-operation by making him a considerable inheritor under the will. In fact, he charged the estate with a very handsome sum in his favor, and calculated on all the advantages of this bribe; and without knowing it, Mr. Winthrop was to be 'one of us.'

“He sailed in due time, but I heard no more of him; and, indeed, I began to suspect that the two bank-notes I had given him, of one hundred each, had been very unprofitably invested, when by this day's post a letter reaches me to say that success had attended him throughout. By a mere accidental acquaintance on a railroad, he 'fell in' with—that's his phrase, which may mean that he stole—some very curious documents which added to his credit with Winthrop. He describes this gentleman as exactly what he looked for, and with this advantage, that having latterly been somewhat unfortunate in speculation, he was the more eager to repair his fortune by the legacy. He says that only one embarrassing circumstance occurred, and this was that Winthrop determined at once on coming over to England, so that the authenticity of the will should be personally ascertained by him, and all his own proceedings in the matter be made sure. 'For this purpose,' he writes, 'we shall sail from this place by the first steamer for Liverpool, where let me have a letter addressed to the Albion to say where you are to be found. Winthrop's first object will be to meet you, and you must bethink you well what place you will deem most suitable for this purpose. Of course the more secluded and private the better. I have explained to him that so overwhelmed were you by the terrible event of H.'s death you had never entered the world since; and, in fact, so averse to anything that might recall the past that you had never administered to the will, nor assumed any of your rights to property, and it would be well for him, if he could, to arouse you out of this deadly lethargy, and call you back to something like existence. This explained why I had taken the journey out to America to meet him.' You will perceive, papa, that Mr. Trover knows how to lie 'with the circumstance,' and is not unitarian in his notions of falsehood.

“I am far from liking this visit of Mr. Winthrop. I wish from my heart that his scruples had been less nice, and that he had been satisfied to eat his cake without inquiring whether every one else had got his share; but, as he is coming, we must make the best of it. And now, what advice have you to give me? Of course, we cannot suffer him to come here.”

“Certainly not, Loo. We must have out the map, and think it over. Does Trover tell you what amount the property may be worth?”

“He says that there are three lots. Two have been valued at something over a million of dollars; the third, if the railroad be carried through it, will be more valuable still. It is, he says, an immense estate and in high productiveness. Let us, however, think of our cards, papa, and not the stake; there is much to provide. I have no certificate of my marriage with Hawke.”

“That must be thought of,” said he, musingly.

“Clara, too, must be thought of,—married, if possible, to some one going abroad,—to Australia or New Zealand. Perhaps O'Shea.” And she burst out a-laughing at the thought.

“Or Paten. I 'd say Ludlow—”

A look of sickly aversion crossed his daughter's face at the suggestion, and she said,—

“Nothing on earth would induce, me to consent to it.”

The Captain might have regarded this as a woman's weakness, but he said nothing.

“It will be very difficult for me to get away at this moment too,” said she, after a pause. “I don't fancy being absent while young Heathcote is here. He will be making all manner of inquiries about Clara,—where she is, with whom, and for what? If I were on the spot, I could suppress such perquisitions.”

“After all, dear Loo, the other is the great event I conclude, if all goes smoothly about this work, you 'll never dream of the marriage with Sir William?”

“Perhaps not,” said she, roguishly. “I am not so desperately in love as to do an imprudence. There is, however, much to be thought of, papa. In a few days more Ludlow is to be back here with my letters, more than ever necessary at this moment, when any scandal might be fatal. If he were to know anything of this accession of fortune, his demands would be insupportable.”

“No doubt of that. At the same time, if he merely hears that your marriage with the Baronet is broken off, he will be more tractable. How are you to obtain these letters?”

“I don't know,” said she, with a stolid look.

“Are you to buy them?”

“I don't know.”

“He will scarcely surrender them out of any impulse of generosity?”

“I don't know,” said she, again; and over her features there was a sickly pallor that changed all their expression, and made her look even years older than she was. He looked at her compassionately, for there was that in her face that might well have challenged pity.

“But, Loo, dearest,” said he, encouragingly, “place the affair in my hands, and see if I cannot bring it to a good ending.”

“He makes it a condition to treat with none but myself, and there is a cowardice in this of which he knows all the advantage.”

“It must be a question of money, after all. It is a matter of figures.”

“He would say not. At the very moment of driving his hardest bargain he would interpose some reference to what he is pleased to call 'his feelings.' I told him that even Shylock did not insult his victim with a mock sympathy, nor shed false tears over the pain his knife was about to inflict.”

“It was not the way to conciliate him, Loo.”

“Conciliate him! Oh, how you know him!” She pressed her hands over her face as she spoke, and when she withdrew them the cheeks were scalded with tears.

“Come, come, Loo, this is scarcely like yourself.”

“There, it's over now,” said she, smiling, with a half-sad look, as she pushed her hair back, as though to suffer the cool air to bathe her forehead. “Oh dear!” sighed she out, “if I only could have foreseen all the perils before me, I might have borne with George Ogden, and lived and died what the world calls respectable.”

He gave a little sigh too, which might have meant that he agreed with her, or that the alternative was a hard one, or that respectability was a very expensive thing for people of small means, or a little of all three together, which was most probable, since the Captain rarely dealt in motives that were not sufficiently mixed.

“And now, papa,” said she, “use your most ingenious devices to show me how I am to answer all these engagements, and while I meet Mr. Winthrop in Switzerland, contrive also to be on guard here, and on outpost duty with Mr. Ludlow Paten.”

“You 'll do it, Loo,—you 'll do it, or nobody else will,” said he, sipping his iced drink, and gazing on her approvingly.

“What would you say to Bregenz for our rendezvous with Winthrop?” said she, bending over the map. “It is as quiet and forgotten a spot as any I know of.”

“So it is, Loo; and one of the very few where the English never go, or, at least, never sojourn.”

“I wish we could manage to find a small house or a cottage there. I should like to be what dramatists call 'discovered' in a humbly furnished chamber, living with my dear old father, venerable in years and virtues.”

“Well, it ought not to be difficult to manage. If you like, I 'll set off there and make the arrangements. I could start this evening.”

“How good of you! Let me think a little over it, and I will decide. It would be a great comfort to me to have you here when Charles Heathcote comes. I might need your assistance in many ways, but perhaps—Yes, you had better go; and a pressing entreaty on your part for me to hasten to the death-bed of my 'poor aunt' can be the reason for my own hurried departure. Is it not provoking how many embarrassments press at the same moment? It is an attack front, rear, and on the flanks.”

“You 're equal to it, dear,—you 're equal to it,” said he, with the same glance of encouragement.

“I almost think I should go with you, papa,—take French leave of these good people, and evacuate the fortress,—if it were not that next week I expect Ludlow to be back here with the letters, and I cannot neglect that. Can you explain it to me?” cried she, more eagerly,—“there is not one in this family for whom I entertain the slightest sense of regard,—they are all less than indifferent to me,—and yet I would do anything, endure anything, rather than they should learn my true history, and know all about my past life; and this, too, with the certainty that we were never to meet again.”

“That is pride, Loo,—mere pride.”

“No,” said she, tremulously, “it is shame. The consciousness that one's name is never to be uttered but in scorn in those places where once it was always spoken of in honor,—the thought that the fair fame we had done so much to build up should be a dreary ruin, is one of the saddest the heart can feel; for, let the world say what it will, we often give all our energies to hypocrisy, and throw passion into what we meant to be mere acting. Well, well, enough of moralizing, now for action. You will want money for this trip, papa; see if there be enough there.” And she opened her writing-desk, and pushed it towards him.

The Captain took out his double eye-glass, and then, with due deliberation, proceeded to count over a roll of English notes fresh from the bank.

“In funds, I see, Loo,” said he, smiling.

“It is part of the last three hundred I possess in the world. I drew it out yesterday, and, as I signed the check, I felt as might a sailor going over the side as his ship was sinking. Do you know,” said she, hurriedly, “it takes a deal of courage to lead the life I have done.”

“No doubt,—no doubt,” muttered he, as he went on counting. “Forty-five, fifty, fifty-five—”

“Take them all, papa; I have no need of them. Before the month ends I mean to be a millionnaire or 'My Lady.'”

“I hope not the latter, Loo; I hope sincerely not, dearest. It would be a cruel sacrifice, and really for nothing.”

“A partnership in an old-established house,” said she, with a mocking laugh, “is always something; but I won't prejudge events, nor throw my cards on the table till I have lost the game. And À propos to losing the game, suppose that luck should turn against us,—suppose that we fail to supply some essential link in this chain of fortune,—suppose that Trover should change his mind and sell us,—suppose, in short, anything adverse you please,—what means are remaining to you, papa? Have you enough to support us in some cheap unfrequented spot at home or abroad?”

“I could get together about two hundred and forty pounds a year, not more.”

“One could live upon that, could n't one?” asked she.

“Yes, in a fashion. With a number of privations you have never experienced, self-denial in fifty things you have never known to be luxuries, with a small house and small habits and small acquaintances, one could rub through, but no more.”

“Oh, how I should like to try it!” cried she, clasping her hands together. “Oh, what would I not give to pass one year—one entire year of life—without the ever-present terror of exposure, shame, and scorn,—to feel that when I lie down to rest at night a knock at the street door should not throw me into the cold perspiration of ague, or the coming of the postman set my heart a-throbbing, as though the missive were a sentence on me! Why cannot I have peace like this?”

“Poverty has no peace, my dear Loo. It is the poorest of all wars, for it is the pettiest of all objects. It would break my heart to see you engaged in such a conflict.”

And the Captain suffered his eyes to range over the handsome room and its fine furniture, while his thoughts wandered to a French cook, and that delicious “ChÂteau Margaux” he had tasted yesterday.

Did she read what was passing in his mind, as, with a touch of scorn in her manner, she said, “Doubtless you know the world better,” and left the room?