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,—voilÀ 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.”

“I have seen him and spoken with him, sir, but have not yet asked his acceptance of the trust.”

“Shall I be deemed indiscreet if I inquire his name?”

“By no means, sir. He is a gentleman of well-known character and repute, and he is called—Mr. Stocmar.”

“Surely, madam, you cannot mean me?” cried he, with a start.

“No other, sir. Had I the whole range of mankind to choose from, you would be the man; you embrace within yourself all the conditions the project requires; you possess all the special knowledge of the subject; you are a man of the world fully competent to decide what should be done, and how; you have the character of being one no stranger to generous motives, and you can combine a noble action with, of course, a very inadequate but still some personal advantage. This young lady will, in short, be yours; and if her successes can be inferred from her abilities, the bribe is not despicable.”

“Let us be explicit and clear,” said Stocmar, drawing his chair closer to her, and talking in a dry, businesslike tone. “You mean to constitute me as the sole guide and director of this young lady, with full power to direct her studies, and, so to say, arbitrate for her future in life.”

“Exactly,” was the calm reply.

“And what am I to give in return, madam? What is to be the price of such an unlooked-for benefit?”

“Secrecy, sir,—inviolable secrecy,—your solemnly sworn pledge that the compact between us will never be divulged to any, even your dearest friend. When Clara leaves me, you will bind yourself that she is never to be traced to me; that no clew shall ever be found to connect us one with the other. With another name who is to know her?”

Stocmar gazed steadfastly at her. Was it that in a moment of forgetfulness she had suffered herself to speak too frankly, for her features had now assumed a look of almost sternness, the very opposite to their expression hitherto.

“And can you part with your niece so easily as this, madam?” asked he.

“She is not my niece, sir,” broke she in, with impetuosity; “we are on honor here, and so I tell you she is nothing—less than nothing—to me. An unhappy event—a terrible calamity—bound up our lot for years together. It is a compact we are each weary of, and I have long told her that I only await the arrival of her guardian to relieve myself of a charge which brings no pleasure to either of us.”

“You have given me a right to be very candid with you, madam,” said Stocmar. “May I adventure so far as to ask what necessity there can possibly exist for such a separation as this you now contemplate?”

“You are evidently resolved, sir, to avail yourself of your privilege,” said she, with a slight irritation of manner; “but when people incur a debt, they must compound for being dunned. You desire to know why I wish to part with this girl? I will tell you. I mean to cutoff all connection with the past; and she belongs to it. I mean to carry with me no memories of that time; and she is one of them. I mean to disassociate myself from whatever might suggest a gloomy retrospect; and this her presence does continually. Perhaps, too, I have other plans,—plans so personal that your good breeding and good taste would not permit you to penetrate.”

Though the sarcasm in which these last words were uttered was of the faintest, Stocmar felt it, and blushed slightly as he said: “You do me but justice, madam. I would not presume so far! Now, as to the question itself,” said he, after a pause, “it is one requiring some time for thought and reflection.”

“Which is what it does not admit of, sir,” broke she in. “It was on Mr. Trover's assurance that you were one of those who at once can trust themselves to say 'I will,' or 'I will not,' that I determined to see you. If the suddenness of the demand be the occasion of any momentary inconvenience as to the expense, I ought to mention that she is entitled to a few hundred pounds,—less, I think, than five,—which, of course, could be forthcoming.”

“A small consideration, certainly, madam,” said he, bowing, “but not to be overlooked.” He arose and walked the room, as though deep in thought; at last, halting before her chair, and fixing a steady but not disrespectful gaze on her, he said, “I have but one difficulty in this affair, madam, but yet it is one which I know not how to surmount.”

“State it, sir,” said she, calmly.

“It is this, madam: in the most unhappy newness of our acquaintance I am ignorant of many things which, however anxious to know, I have no distinct right to ask, so that I stand between the perils of my ignorance and the greater perils of possible presumption.”

“I declare to you frankly, sir, I cannot guess to what you allude. If I only surmised what these matters were, I might possibly anticipate your desire to hear them.”

“May I dare, then, to be more explicit?” asked he, half timidly.

“It is for you, sir, to decide upon that,” said she, with some haughtiness.

“Well, madam,” said he, boldly, “I want to know are you a widow?”

“Yes, sir,” said she, with a calm composure.

“Am I, then, to believe that you can act free and uncontrolled, without fear of any dictation or interference from others?”

“Of course, sir.”

“I mean, in short, madam, that none can gainsay any rights you exercise, or revoke any acts you execute?”

“Really, sir, I cannot fancy any other condition of existence, except it be to persons confined in an asylum.”

“Nay, madam, you are wrong there,” said he, smiling; “the life of every one is a network of obligations and ties, not a whit the less binding that they are not engrossed on parchment, and attested by three witnesses; liberty to do this, or to omit that, having always some penalty as a consequence.”

“Oh, sir, spare me these beautiful moralizings, which only confuse my poor weak woman's head, and just say how they address themselves to me.”

“Thus far, madam: that your right over the young lady cannot be contested nor shared?”

“Certainly not. It is with me to decide for her.”

“When, with your permission, I have seen her and spoken with her, if I find that no obstacle presents itself, why then, madam, I accept the charge—”

“And are her guardian,” broke she in. “Remember, it is in that character that you assume your right over her. I need not tell a person of such tact as yours how necessary it will be to reply cautiously and guardedly to all inquiries, from whatever quarter coming, nor how prudent it will be to take her away at once from this.”

“I will make arrangements this very day. I will telegraph to Milan at once,” said he.

“Oh, dear!” sighed she, “what a moment of relief is this, after such a long, long period of care and anxiety!”

The great sense of relief implied in these words scarcely seemed to have extended itself to Mr. Stocmar, who walked up and down the room in a state of the deepest preoccupation.

“I wish sincerely,” said he, half in soliloquy,—“I wish sincerely we had a little more time for deliberation here; that we were not so hurried; that, in short, we had leisure to examine this project more fully, and at length.”

“My dear Mr. Stocmar,” said she, blandly, looking up from the embroidery that she had just resumed, “life is not a very fascinating thing, taken at its best; but what a dreary affair it would be if one were to stop every instant and canvass every possible or impossible eventuality of the morrow. Do what we will, how plain is it that we can prejudge nothing, foresee nothing!”

“Reasonable precautions, madam, are surely permissible. I was just imagining to myself what my position would be if, when this young lady had developed great dramatic ability and every requirement for theatrical success, some relative—some fiftieth cousin if you like, but some one with claim of kindred—should step forward and demand her. What becomes of all my rights in such a case?”

“Let me put another issue, sir. Let me suppose somebody arriving at Dover or Folkestone, calling himself Charles Stuart, and averring that, as the legitimate descendant of that House, he was the rightful King of England. Do you really believe that her Majesty would immediately place Windsor at his disposal; or don't you sincerely suppose that the complicated question would be solved by the nearest policeman?”

“But she might marry, madam?”

“With her guardian's consent, of course,” said she, with a demure coquetry of look and manner. “I trust she has been too well brought up, Mr. Stocmar, to make any risk of disobedience possible.”

“Yes, yes,” muttered he, half impatiently, “it's all very well to talk of guardians' consent; but so long as she can say, 'How did you become my guardian? What authority made you such? When, where, and by whom conferred?'—”

“My dear Mr. Stocmar, your ingenuity has conjured up an Equity lawyer instead of an artless girl not sixteen years of age! Do, pray, explain to me how, with a mind so prone to anticipate difficulties, and so rife to coin objections,—how, in the name of all that is wonderful, do you ever get through the immense mass of complicated affairs your theatrical life must present? If, before you engage a prima donna, you are obliged to trace her parentage through three generations back, to scrutinize her baptismal registry and her mother's marriage certificate, all I can say is that a prime minister's duties must be light holiday work compared with the cares of your lot.”

“My investigations are not carried exactly so far as you have depicted them,” said he, good-humoredly; “but, surely, I 'm not too exacting if I say I should like some guarantee.”

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Stocmar,” said she, interrupting him with a laugh, “but may I ask if you are married?”

“No, madam. I am a bachelor.”

“You probably intend, however, at some future time to change your state. I'm certain you don't mean to pass all your life in the egotism of celibacy.”

“Possibly not, madam. I will not say that I am beyond the age of being fascinated or being foolish.”

“Just what I mean, sir. Well, surely, in such a contingency, you 'd not require the lady to give you what you have just called a guarantee that she 'd not run away from you?”

“My trust in her would be that guarantee, madam.”

“Extend the same benevolent sentiment to me, sir. Trust me. I ask for no more.” And she said this with a witchery of look and manner that made Mr. Stocmar feel very happy and very miserable, twice over, within the space of a single minute.

Poor Mr. Stocmar, what has become of all your caution, all your craft, and all the counsels so lately given you? Where are they now? Where is that armor of distrust in which you were to resist the barbed arrow of the enchantress? Trust her! It was not to be thought of, and yet it was exactly the very thing to be done, in spite of all thought and in defiance of all reason.

And so the “Stocmar” three-decker struck her flag, and the ensign of the fast frigate floated from her masthead!