“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?
CHAPTER XLIX. THE PALAZZO BALBI
The household of the Palazzo Balbi was unusually busy and active. There was a coming and a parting guest. Sir William himself was far too much occupied by the thoughts of his son’s arrival to bestow much interest upon the departure of Captain Holmes. Not that this ingenious gentleman had failed in any of the requirements of his parasitical condition, nay, he had daily improved the occasion of his presence, and ingratiated himself considerably in the old Baronet’s favor; but it is, happily, the lot of such people to be always forgotten where the real affections are in play. They while away a weary day, they palliate the small irritations of daily life, they suggest devices to cheat ennui, but they have no share in deeper sentiments; we neither rejoice nor weep with them.
“Sorry for your friend’s illness!” – “Sincerely trust you may find him better!” – or, “Ah, it is a lady, I forgot; and that we may soon see you on this side of the Alps again!” – “Charming weather for your journey! “ – “Good-bye, good-bye!”
And with this he shook his hand cordially enough, and forgot him.
“I’m scarcely sorry he’s gone,” said May, “he was so deaf! And besides, papa, he was too civil, – too complaisant. I own I had become a little impatient of his eternal compliments, and the small scraps out of Shelley and Keats that he adapted to my address.”
“All the better for Charley, that,” said the old Baronet “You’ll bear his rough frankness with more forgiveness after all this sugary politeness.” He never noticed how this random speech sent the blood to her cheeks, and made her crimson over face and neck; nor, indeed, had he much time to bestow on it, for the servant opened the door at the instant, and announced, “Captain Heathcote.” In a moment the son was in his father’s arms. “My boy, my dear boy,” was all the old man could say; and Charles, though determined to maintain the most stoical calm throughout the whole visit, had to draw his hand across his eyes in secret.
“How well you look, Charley, – stouter and heavier than when here. English life and habits have agreed with you, boy.”
“Yes, sir. If I can manage to keep my present condition, I ‘m in good working trim for a campaign; and you – tell me of yourself.”
“There is little to say on that subject. When men live to my term, about the utmost they can say is, that they are here.”
Though he tried to utter these words in a half-jocular tone, his voice faltered, and his lips trembled; and as the young man looked, he saw that his father’s face was careworn and sad, and that months had done the work of years on him since they parted. Charles did his utmost to treat these signs of sorrow lightly, and spoke cheerfully and even gayly.
“I’d go with your merry humor, boy, with all my heart, if you were not about to leave us.”
Was it anything in the interests thus touched on, or was it the chance phrase, “to leave us,” that made young Heathcote become pale as death while he asked, “How is May?”
“Well, – quite well; she was here a moment back. I fancied she was in the room when you came in. I’ll send for her.”
“No, no; time enough. Let us have a few more minutes together.”
In a sort of hurried and not very collected way, he now ran on to talk of his prospects and the life before him. It was easy to mark how the assumed slap-dash manner was a mere mask to the bitter pain he felt and that he knew he was causing. He talked of India as though a few days’ distance, – of the campaign like a hunting-party; the whole thing was a sort of eccentric ramble, to have its requital in plenty of incident and adventure. He even assumed all the vulgar slang about “hunting down the niggers,” and coming back loaded with “loot,” when the old man threw his arm around him, and said, —
“But not to me, Charley, – not to me.”
The chord was touched at last. All the pretended careless ease was gone, and the young man sobbed aloud as he pressed his father to his breast. The secret which each wanted to keep to his own heart was out, and now they must not try any longer a deception.
“And why must it be, Charley? what is the urgent cause for deserting me? I have more need of you than ever I had. I want your counsel and your kindness; your very presence – as I feel it this moment – is worth all my doctors.”
“I think you know – I think I told you, I mean – that you are no stranger to the position I stood in here. You never taught me, father, that dependence was honorable. It was not amongst your lessons that a life of inglorious idleness was becoming.” As with a faltering and broken utterance he spoke these words, his confusion grew greater and greater, for he felt himself on the very verge of a theme that he dreaded to touch; and at last, with a great effort, he said, “And besides all this, I had no right to sacrifice another to my selfishness.”
“I don’t understand you, Charley.”
“Maybe not, sir; but I am speaking of what I know for certain. But let us not go back on these things.”
“What are they? Speak out, boy,” cried he, more eagerly.
“I see you are not aware of what I thought you knew. You do not seem to know that May’s affections are engaged, – that she has given her heart to that young college man who was here long ago as Agincourt’s tutor. They have corresponded.”
“Corresponded!”
“Yes, I know it all, and she will not deny it, – nor need she, from all I can learn. He is a fine-hearted fellow, worthy of any girl’s love. Agincourt has told me some noble traits of him, and he deserves all his good fortune.”
“But to think that she should have contracted this engagement without consulting me, – that she should have written to him – ”
“I don’t see how you can reproach her, a poor motherless girl. How could she go to you with her heart full of sorrows and anxieties? She was making no worldly compact in which she needed your knowledge of life to guide her.”
“It was treachery to us all!” cried the old man, bitterly, for now he saw to what he owed his son’s desertion of him.
“It was none to me; so much I will say, father. A stupid compact would have bound her to her unhappiness, and this she had the courage to resist.”
“And it is for this I am to be forsaken in my old age!” exclaimed he, in an accent of deep anguish. “I can never forgive her, – never!”
Charles sat down beside him, and, with his arm on the old man’s shoulder, talked to him long in words of truest affection. He recalled to his mind the circumstances under which May Leslie first came amongst them, the daughter of his oldest, dearest friend, intrusted to his care, to become one day his own daughter, if she willed it.
“Would you coerce her to this? Would you profit by the authority you possess over her to constrain her will? Is it thus you would interpret the last dying words of your old companion? Do not imagine, father, that I place these things before you in cold blood or indifference. I have my share of sorrow in the matter.” He was going to say more, but he stopped himself, and, arising, walked towards the window. “There she is!” cried he, “on the terrace; I’ll go and meet her.” And with this he went out.
It is not impossible that the generous enthusiasm into which Charles Heathcote had worked himself to subdue every selfish feeling about May enabled him to meet her with less constraint and difficulty. At all events, he came towards her with a manner so like old friendship that, though herself confused, she received him with equal cordiality.
“How like old times, May, is all this!” said he, as, with her arm within his own, they strolled under a long vine trellis. “If I had not to remember that next Wednesday I most be at Malta, I could almost fancy I had never been away. I wonder when we are to meet again? and where, and how?”
“I’m sure it is not I that can tell you,” said she, painfully; for in the attempt to conceal his emotion his voice had assumed a certain accent of levity that wounded her deeply.
“The where matters little, May,” resumed he; “but the when is much, and the how still more.”
“It is fortunate, then, that this is the only point I can at all answer for, for I think I can say that we shall meet pretty much as we part.”
“What am I to understand by that, May?” asked he, with an eagerness that forgot all dissimulation.
“How do you find papa looking?” asked she, hurriedly, as a deep blush covered her face. “Is he as well as you hoped to see him?”
“No,” said he, bluntly; “he has grown thin and careworn. Older by ten years than I expected to find him.”
“He has been much fretted of late; independently of being separated from you, he has had many anxieties.”
“I have heard something of this; more, indeed, than I like to believe true. Is it possible, May, that he intends to marry?”
She nodded twice slowly, without speaking.
“And his wife is to be this Mrs. Morris, – this widow that I remember at Marlia, long ago?”
“And who is now here domesticated with us.”
“What do you know of her? What does any one know of her?” asked he, impatiently.
“Absolutely nothing, – that is, of her history, her family, or her belongings. Of herself I can only say that she is supreme in this house; her orders alone are obeyed. I have reason to believe that papa confides the gravest interests to her charge, and for myself, I obey her by a sort of instinct.”
“But you like her, May?”
“I am too much afraid of her to like her. I was at first greatly attracted by fascinations perfectly new to me, and by a number of graceful accomplishments, which certainly lent a great charm to her society. But after a while I detected, or I fancied that I detected, that all these attractions were thrown out as lures to amuse and occupy us, while she was engaged in studying our dispositions and examining our natures. Added to this, I became aware of the harshness she secretly bestowed upon poor Clara, whose private lectures were little else than tortures. This latter completely estranged me from her, and, indeed, was the first thing which set me at work to consider her character. From the day when Clara left this – ”
“Left this, and for where?” cried he.
“I cannot tell you; we have never heard of her since. She was taken away by a guardian, a certain Mr. Stocmar, whom papa seemed to know, or at least thought he had met somewhere, many years ago. It was shortly after the tidings of Captain Morris’s death this gentleman arrived here to claim her.”
“And her mother, – was she willing to part with her?”
“She affected great sorrow – fainted, I think – when she read the letter that apprised her of the necessity; but from Clara herself I gathered that the separation was most grateful to her, and that for some secret cause I did not dare to ask – even had she known to tell – they were not to meet again for many, many years.”
“But all that you tell me is unnatural, May. Is there not some terrible mystery in this affair? Is there not some shameful scandal beneath it all?”
A heavy sigh seemed to concur with what he said.
“And can my father mean to marry a woman of whose past life he knows nothing? Is it with all these circumstances of suspicion around her that he is willing to share name and fortune with her?”
“As to that, such is her ascendancy over him, that were she to assure him of the most improbable or impossible of events he ‘d not discredit her. Some secret dread of what you would say or think has delayed the marriage hitherto; but once you have taken your leave and are fairly off, – not to return for years, – the event will no longer be deferred.”
“Oh, May, how you grieve me! I cannot tell you the misery you have put into my heart.”
“It is out of my own sorrow I have given you to drink,” said she, bitterly. “You are a man, and have a man’s career before you, with all its changeful chances of good or evil; I, as a woman, must trust my hazard of happiness to a home, and very soon I shall have none.”
He tried to speak, but a sense of choking stopped him, and thus, without a word on either side, they walked along several minutes.
“May,” said he, at last, “do you remember the line of the poet, —
“‘Death and absence differ but in name’?”
“I never heard it before; but why do you ask me?”
“I was just thinking that in parting moments like this, as on a death-bed, one dares to speak of things which from some sense of shame one had never dared to touch on before. Now, I want to carry away with me over the seas the thought that your lot in life is assured, and your happiness, so far as any one’s can be, provided for. To know this, I must force a confidence which you may not wish to accord me; but bethink you, dear May, that you will never see me more. Will you tell me if I ask about him?”
“About whom?” asked she, in unfeigned astonishment, for never were her thoughts less directed to Alfred Layton.
“May,” said he, almost angrily, “refuse me if you will, but let there be no deceit between us. I spoke of Layton.”
“Ask what you please, and I will answer you,” said she, boldly.
“He is your lover, is he not? You have engaged yourself to him?”
“No.”
“It is the same thing. You are to be his wife, when this, that, or t’other happens?”
“No.”
“In a word, if there be no compact, there is an understanding between you?”
“Once more, no!” said she, in the same firm voice.
“Will you deny that you have received letters from him, and have written to him again?”
An angry flush covered the girl’s cheek, and her lip trembled. For an instant it seemed as if an indignant answer would break from her; but she repressed the impulse, and coolly said, “There is no need to deny it. I have done both.”
“I knew it, – I knew it!” cried he, in a bitter exultation. “You might have dealt more frankly with me, or might have said, ‘I am in no wise accountable to you, I recognize no right in you to question me.’ Had you done this, May, it would have been a warning to me; but to say, ‘Ask me freely, I will tell you everything,’ – was this fair, was this honest, was it true-hearted?”
“And yet I meant it for such,” said she, sorrowfully. “I may have felt a passing sense of displeasure that you should have heard from any other than myself of this correspondence; but even that is passed away, and I care not to learn from whom you heard it. I have written as many as three letters to Mr. Layton. This is his last to me.” She took at the same moment a letter from her pocket, and handed it towards him.
“I have no presumption to read your correspondence, May Leslie,” said he, red with shame and anger together. “Your asking me to do so implies a rebuke in having dared to speak on the subject, but it is for the last time.”
“And is it because we are about to part, Charles, that it must be in anger?” said she; and her voice faltered and her lip trembled. “Of all your faults, Charles, selfishness was not one, long ago.”
“No matter what I was long ago; we have both lived to see great changes in ourselves.”
“Come, let us be friends,” said she, taking his hand cordially. “I know not how it is with you, but never in my life did I need a friend so much.”
“Oh, May, how can I serve you?”
“First read that letter, Charles. Sit down there and read it through, and I ‘ll come back to you by the time you ‘ve finished it.”
With a sort of dogged determination to sacrifice himself, no matter at what cost, Charles Heathcote took the letter from her, and turned away into another alley of the garden.