It was not without trepidation that Mr. Stocmar presented himself, the morning after the events we have recorded, at the residence of Sir William Heathcote. His situation was, indeed, embarrassing; for not only had he broken faith with Mrs. Morris in permitting Paten to take his place at the ball, but as Paten had started for England that same night without even communicating with him, Stocmar was completely puzzled what to do, and how to comport himself.

That she would receive him haughtily, disdainfully even, he was fully prepared for; that she would reproach him—not very measuredly too—for his perfidy regarding Paten, he also expected. But even these difficulties were less than the embarrassment of not knowing how her meeting with Paten had been conducted, and to what results it had led. More than once did he stop in the street and deliberate with himself whether he should not turn back, hasten to his hotel, and leave Florence without meeting her. Nor was he quite able to say why he resisted this impulse, nor how it was that, in defiance of all his terrors, he found himself at length at her door.

The drawing-room into which he was shown was large and splendidly furnished. A conservatory opened from one end, and at the other a large folding glass door gave upon a spacious terrace, along which a double line of orange-trees formed an alley of delicious shade. Scarcely had Stocmar passed the threshold than a very silvery voice accosted him from without.

“Oh, do come here, dear Mr. Stocmar, and enjoy the delightful freshness of this terrace. Let me present a very old friend of my family to you,—Captain Holmes. He has just returned from India, and can give you the very latest news of the war.” And the gentlemen bowed, and smiled, and looked silly at each other. “Is not all this very charming, Mr. Stocmar?—at a season, too, when we should, in our own country, be gathering round coal-fires and screening ourselves from draughts. I am very angry with you,—very,” whispered she, as she gave him her hand to kiss, “and I am not at all sure if I mean ever to be friends with you again.”

And poor Mr. Stocmar bowed low and blushed, not through modesty, indeed, but delight, for he felt like the schoolboy who, dreading to be punished, hears he is to be rewarded.

“But I am forgiven, am I not?” muttered he.

“Hush! Be cautious,” whispered she. “Here comes Sir William Heathcote. Can't you imagine yourself to have known him long ago?”

The hint was enough; and as the old Baronet held out his hand with his accustomed warmth, Stocmar began a calculation of how many years had elapsed since he had first enjoyed the honor of shaking that hand. This is a sort of arithmetic elderly gentlemen have rather a liking for. It is suggestive of so many pleasant little platitudes about “long ago,” with anecdotic memories of poor dear Dick or Harry, that it rarely fails to interest and amuse. And so they discussed whether it was not in '38 or '39,—whether in spring or in autumn,—if Boulter—“poor Tom,” as they laughingly called him—had not just married the widow at that time; and, in fact, through the intervention of some mock dates and imaginary incidents, they became to each other like very old friends.

Those debatable nothings are of great service to Englishmen who meet as mere acquaintances; they relieve the awkwardness of looking out for a topic, and they are better than the eternal question of the weather. Sir William had, besides, a number of people to ask after, and Stocmar knew everybody, and knew them, too, either by some nickname, or some little anecdotic clew very amusing to those who have lived long enough in the world to be interested by the same jokes on the same people,—a time of life, of course, not ours, dear reader, though we may come to it one day; and Captain Holmes listened to the reminiscences, and smiled, and smirked, and “very true'd,” to the great enjoyment of the others; while Mrs. Morris stole noiselessly here and there, cutting camellias for a bouquet, but not unwatchful of the scene.

“I hope and trust I have been misinformed about your plans here, Mr. Stocmar,” said Sir William, who was so happy to recall the names of former friends and acquaintances. “You surely do not mean to run away from us so soon?”

A quick glance from Mrs. Morris telegraphed his reply, and he said, “I am most unfortunately limited for time. I shall be obliged to leave immediately.”

“A day or two you could surely spare us?” said Heathcote.

Stocmar shook his head with a deploring smile, for another glance, quick as the former, had given him his instructions.

“I have told you, Sir William, how inexorable he is about Clara; and although at first I stoutly opposed his reasonings, I am free to own that he has convinced me his plan is the true one; and as he has made all the necessary arrangements,—have you not, Mr. Stocmar?—and they are charming people she will be with,—he raves about them,” said she, in a sort of whisper, while she added, still lower, “and I partly explained to him my own projected change,—and, in fact, it is better as it is,—don't you think so?” and thus hurrying Sir William along,—a process not unlike that by which an energetic rider hustles a lazy horse through heavy ground,—she at least made him feel grateful that he was not called upon for any increased exercise of his judgment. And then Stocmar followed, like another counsel in the same brief,—half jocularly, to be sure, and like one not required to supply more than some illustrative arguments. He remarked that young ladies nowadays were expected to be models of erudition,—downright professors; no smatterings of French and Italian, no water-color sketches touched up by the master,—“they must be regular linguists, able to write like De SÉvignÉ, and interpret Dante.” In a word, so much did he improve the theme, that he made Sir William shudder at the bare thought of being domesticated with so much loose learning, and thank his stars that he had been born in a generation before it. Not but the worthy Baronet had his own secret suspicions that Clara wanted little aid from all their teachings; his firm belief being that she was the most quick-witted, gifted creature ever existed, and it was in a sort of triumphant voice he asked Mrs. Morris, “Has Mr. Stocmar seen her?”

“Not yet,” said she, dryly. “Clara is in my room. Mr. Stocmar shall see her presently; for, as he insists on leaving this to-morrow—”

“To-morrow—-to-morrow!” cried Sir William, in amazement.

And then Stocmar, drawing close to Sir William, began confidentially to impart to him how, partly from over-persuasion of certain great people, partly because he liked that sort of thing, he had got into theatrical management. “One must do something. You know,” said he, “I hate farming, never was much of a sportsman, had no turn for politics; and so, by Jove! I thought I 'd try the stage. I mean, of course, as manager, director, 'impresario,' or whatever you call it. I need not tell you it's a costly amusement, so far as expense goes. I might have kept the best house in town, and the best stables in Leicestershire, for far less than I have indulged my dramatic tastes; but I like it: it amuses, it interests me!” And Stocmar drew himself up and stuck his hands into his waistcoat-pockets, as though to say, “Gaze, and behold a man rich enough to indulge a costly caprice, and philosophic enough to pay for the pleasure that rewards him.” “Yes, sir,” he added, “my last season, though the Queen took her private box, and all my noble friends stood stanchly to me, brought me in debt no less than thirteen thousand seven hundred pounds! That's paying for one's whistle, sir,—eh?” cried he, as though vain of his own defeat.

“You might have lost it in the funds, and had no pleasure for it,” said Sir William, consolingly.

“The very remark I made, sir. The very thing I said to Lord Snaresby. I might have been dabbling in those Yankee securities, and got hit just as hard.”

Sir William made a wry face, and turned away. He hoped that Captain Holmes had not overheard the allusion; but the Captain was deep in “Galignani,” and heard nothing.

“It is this,” continued Stocmar, “recalls me so suddenly to England. We open on the 24th, and I give you my word of honor we have neither tenor, basso, nor barytone engaged, nor am I quite sure of my prima donna.”

“Who ever was?” whispered Mrs. Morris, slyly; and then added aloud, “Come now, and let me present Clara to you. We'll return presently, Sir William.” And, so saying, she slipped her arm within Stocmar's and led him away.

“Who is that Captain Holmes?” asked he, as they walked along.

“Oh, a nobody; an old muff.”

“Is he deaf, or is it mere pretence?”

“Deaf as a post.”

“I know his face perfectly. I 've seen him about town for years back.”

“Impossible! He has been collecting revenue, distressing Talookdars, or Ryots, or whatever they are, in India, these thirty-odd years. It was some one you mistook for him.” She had her hand on the lock of the door as she said this. She paused before opening it, and said, “Remember, you are her guardian,—your word is law.” And they entered.

Stocmar was certainly not prepared for the appearance of the young girl who now rose to receive him with all the practised ease of the world. She was taller, older-looking, and far handsomer than he expected, and, as Mrs. Morris said, “Your guardian, Clara,” she courtesied deeply, and accepted his salutation at once with deference and reserve.

“I am in the most painful of all positions,” began he, with a courteous smile. “My first step in your acquaintance is as the ungracious herald of a separation from all you love.”

“I have been prepared, sir, for your intentions regarding me,” said she, coldly.

“Yes, Mr. Stocmar,” broke in Mrs. Morris, quickly, “though Clara is very young, she is thoroughly aware of our circumstances; she knows the narrowness of our fortune, and the necessity we are under of effort for our future support. Her own pride and her feeling for me are sufficient reasons for keeping such matters secret. She is not ignorant of the world, little as she has seen of it, and she comprehends that our acceptance with our friends is mainly dependent on our ability to dispense with their assistance.”

“Am I to be a governess, sir?” asked Clara, with a calm which the deathlike paleness of her face showed to have cost her dearly.

“A governess! a governess!” repeated he, looking at Mrs. Morris for his cue, for the suddenness of the question had routed all his preparations. “I think not,—I should hope not; indeed, I am enabled to say, there is no thought of that.”

“If so,” continued Clara, in the same calm tone, “I should like to be with very young children. I am not afraid of being thought menial.”

“Clara,” broke in Mrs. Morris, harshly, “Mr. Stocmar has already assured you that he does not contemplate this necessity.” She looked towards him as she spoke, and he at once saw it was his duty to come up to the rescue, and this he did with one of those efforts all his own. He launched forth boldly into generalities about education and its advantages; how, with the development of the mind and the extension of the resources, came new fields of exercise, fresh realms of conquest. “None of us, my dear young lady,” cried he, “not the worldliest nor the wisest of us, can ever tell when a particular acquirement will be the key-stone of our future fortune.” He illustrated his theory with copious instances. “There was Mademoiselle Justemar, whom nobody had ever imagined to be an artiste, came out as Alice one evening that the prima donna was ill, and took the whole town by storm. There was that little creature, Violetta; who ever fancied she could dance till they saw her as Titania? Every one knew of Giulia Barducci, taken from the chorus, to be the greatest Norma of the age.”

He paused and looked at her, with a stare of triumph in his features; his expression seemed to say, “What think you of that glorious Paradise I have led you to look at?”

“It is very encouraging indeed, sir,” said Clara, dryly, but with no semblance of irony,—“very encouraging. There is, then, really no reason that one day I might not be a rope-dancer.”

“Clara,” cried Mrs. Morris, severely, “you must curb this habit, if you will not do better by abandoning it altogether. The spirit of repartee is the spirit of impertinence.”

“I had really hoped, mamma,” said she, with an air of simplicity, “that, as all Mr. Stocmar's illustrations were taken from the stage, I had caught the spirit of his examples in giving one from the circus.”

“I'll be sworn you're fond of riding,” cried Stocmar, eager to relieve a very awkward crisis even by a stupid remark.

“Yes, sir; and I am very clever in training. I know the whole 'Bauchet' system, and can teach a horse his 'flexions,' and the rest of it.—Well, but, mamma,” broke she in, apologetically, “surely my guardian ought to be aware of my perfections; and if you won't inform him, I must.”

“You perceive, sir,” said Mrs. Morris, “that when I spoke of her flippancy, I was not exaggerating.”

“You may rely upon it, Mr. Stocmar,” continued Clara, “mamma's description of me was only justice.”

Stocmar laughed, and hoped that the others would have joined him; but in this he was unhappily disappointed: they were even graver than before; Mrs. Morris showing, in her heightened color, a degree of irritation, while Clara's pale face betrayed no sign of emotion.

“You are to leave this to-morrow, Clara,” said Mrs. Morris, coldly.

“Very well, mamma,” was the quiet answer.

“You don't seem very eager to know for whither,” said Stocmar, smiling. “Are all places alike to you?”

“Pretty much so, sir,” said she, in the same voice.

“You were scarcely prepared for so much philosophy, I 'm sure, Mr. Stocmar,” said Mrs. Morris, sneeringly. “Pray confess yourself surprised.”

“Call it ignorance, mamma, and you'll give it the right name. What do I know of the world, save from guide and road books? and, from the little I have gleaned, many a village would be pleasanter to me than Paris.”

“More philosophy, sir. You perceive what a treasure of wisdom is about to be intrusted to your charge.”

“Pray bear that in mind, sir,” said Clara, with a light laugh; “and don't forget that though the casket has such a leaden look, it is all pure gold.”

Never was poor Stocmar so puzzled before. He felt sailing between two frigates in action, and exposed to the fire of each, though a non-combatant; nor was it of any use that he hauled down his flag, and asked for mercy,—they only loaded and banged away again.

“I must say,” cried he at last, “that I feel very proud of my ward.”

“And I am charmed with my guardian,” said she, courtesying, with an air that implied far more of grace than sincerity in its action.

Mrs. Morris bit her lip, and a small red spot on her cheek glowed like a flame.

“I have explained fully to Mr. Stocmar, Clara,” said she, in a cold, calm tone, “that from to-morrow forward your allegiance will be transferred from me to him; that with him will rest all authority and direction over you; that, however interested—naturally interested—I must continue to feel in your future, he, and he alone, must be its arbiter. I repeat this now, in his presence, that there may be no risk of a misconception.”

“Am I to write to you, mamma?” asked the girl, in a voice unmoved as her own.

“Yes, you will write; that is, I shall expect to hear from you in reply to my letters. This we will talk over together.”

“Am I to correspond with you, sir?” said she, addressing Stocmar in the same impassive way.

“Oh! by all means. I shall take it as the greatest of favors. I shall be charmed if you will honor me so far.”

“I ask, sir,” continued she, “because I may chance to have companions in the place to which I am going; and, even to satisfy their scruples, one ought to have some belongings.”

There was not the shadow of irritation in the manner in which these words were spoken; and yet Stocmar heard them with a strange thrill of pity, and Mrs. Morris grew pale as she listened to them.

“Clara,” said Mrs. Morris, gravely, “there are circumstances in our relations to each other which you will only learn when we have parted. I have committed them to writing for your own eye alone. They will explain the urgency of the step I am now taking, as much for your sake as for mine. When you have read and carefully pondered over that paper, you will be convinced that this separation is of necessity.”

Clara bowed her head in assent, but did not speak.

“You will also see, Clara,” resumed she, “that it is very far from likely the old relations between us will ever again be resumed. If we do meet again,—an event that may or may not happen,—it will be as some distant cousins,—some who have ties of kindred between them, and no more.”

Clara nodded again, but still in silence.

“You see, sir,” said Mrs. Morris, turning towards Stocmar, while her eyes flashed angrily,—“you see, sir, that I am handing over to your care a model of obedience,—a young lady who has no will save that of those in authority over her,—not one rebellious sentiment of affection or attachment in her nature.”

“And who will ever strive to preserve your good opinions, sir, by persevering in this wise course,” said Clara, with a modest courtesy.

If any one could have read Mr. Stocmar's heart at that moment, he would have detected no very benevolent feelings towards either mother or daughter, while he sincerely deplored his own fate at being in such company.

“Don't you think, mamma,” said the girl, with an easy smile, “that, considering how recently we have known this gentleman, we have been sufficiently explicit and candid before him, and that any pretence of emotion in his presence would be most unbecoming? He will, I am sure, forgive us the omission. Won't you, sir?”

Stocmar smiled and bowed, and blushed and looked miserable.

“You have been very candid, at all events, Clara,” said Mrs. Morris; “and Mr. Stocmar—or I mistake him much—must have acquired a considerable insight into the nature of his charge. Sir William expects to see you at dinner to-day, Clara,” added she, in an easier tone. “He hopes to be well enough to come to table; and as it will be your last evening here—”

“So it will,” said the girl, quickly; “and I must fetch down Beethoven with me, and play his favorites for him once more.”

Mrs. Morris raised her eyebrows with an expressive look at Stocmar, and led him from the room. Scarcely had the door closed, when the girl threw herself, half kneeling, on the sofa, and sobbed as if her very heart was breaking.