One Of Them

CHAPTER XXXV. LOO AND HER FATHER

Mrs. Morris, supposed to be confined to her room with a bad headache, was engaged in dressing for the masked ball, when a small twisted note was delivered to her by her maid.

“Is the bearer of this below stairs?” asked she, eagerly. “Show him in immediately.”

The next moment, a short, burly figure, in a travelling-dress, entered, and, saluting her with a kiss on either cheek, unrolled his woollen comforter, and displayed the pleasant, jocund features of Mr. Nicholas Holmes.

“How well you are looking, papa!” said she. “I declare I think you grow younger!”

“It’s the good conscience, I suppose,” said he, laughing. “That and a good digestion help a man very far on his road through life. And how are you, Loo?”

“As you see,” said she, laughingly. “With some of those family gifts you speak of, I rub on through the world tolerably well.”

“You are not in mourning, I perceive. How is that?” asked he, looking at the amber-colored silk of her dress.

“Not to-night, papa, for I was just dressing for a masked ball at the Pergola, whither I was about to go on the sly, having given out that I was suffering from headache, and could not leave my room.”

“Fretting over poor Penthony, eh?” cried he, laughing.

“Well, of course that might also be inferred. Not but I have already got over my violent grief. I am beginning to be what is technically called ‘resigned.’”

“Which is, I believe, the stage of looking out for another!” laughed he again.

She gave a little faint sigh, and went on with her dressing. “And what news have you for me, papa? What is going on at home?”

“Nothing, – absolutely nothing, dear. You don’t care for political news?”

“Not much. You know I had a surfeit of Downing Street once. By the way, papa, only think of my meeting George!”

“Ogden, – George Odgen?”

“Yes, it was a strange accident. He came to fetch away a young lad that happened to be stopping with us, and we met face to face – fortunately, alone – in the garden.”

“Very awkward that!” muttered he.

“So it was; and so he evidently felt it. By the way, how old he has grown! George can’t be more than – let me see – forty-six. Yes, he was just forty-six on the 8th of August. You ‘d guess him fully ten years older.”

“How did he behave? Did he recognize you and address you?”

“Yes; we talked a little, – not pleasantly, though. He evidently is not forgiving in his nature, and you know he had never much tact, – except official tact, – and so he was flurried and put out, and right glad to get away.”

“But there was no éclat, – no scandal?”

“Of course not. The whole incident did not occupy ten minutes.”

“They ‘ve been at me again about my pension, —his doing, I’m sure,” muttered he, – “asking for a return of services, and such-like rubbish.”

“Don’t let them worry you, papa; they dare not push you to publicity. It’s like a divorce case, where one of the parties, being respectable, must submit to any terms imposed.”

“Well, that’s my own view of it, dear; and so I said, ‘Consult the secret instructions to the Under-Secretary for Ireland for an account of services rendered by N. H.’”

“You ‘ll hear no more of it,” said she, flippantly. “What of Ludlow? Where is he?”

“He’s here. Don’t you know that?”

“Here! Do you mean in Florence?”

“Yes; he came with Stocmar. They are at the same hotel.”

“I declare I half suspected it,” said she, with a sort of bitter laugh. “Oh, the cunning Mr. Stocmar, that must needs deceive me!”

“And you have seen him?”

“Yes; I settled about his taking Clara away with him. I want to get rid of her, – I mean altogether, – and Stocmar is exactly the person to manage these little incidents of the white slave-market. But,” added she, with some irritation, “that was no reason why you should dupe me, my good Mr. Stocmar! particularly at the moment when I had poured all my sorrows into your confiding breast!”

“He’s a very deep fellow, they tell me.”

“No, papa, he is not. He has that amount of calculation – that putting this, that, and t’ other together, and seeing what they mean – which all Jews have; but he makes the same blunder that men of small craft are always making. He is eternally on the search after motives, just as if fifteen out of every twenty things in this life are not done without any motive at all!”

“Only in Ireland, Loo, – only in Ireland.”

“Nay, papa, in Ireland they do the full twenty,” said she, laughing. “But what has brought Ludlow here? He has certainly not come without a motive.”

“To use some coercion over you, I suspect.”

“Probably enough. Those weary letters, – those weary letters!” sighed she. “Oh, papa dear, – you who were always a man of a clear head and a subtle brain, – how did you fall into the silly mistake of having your daughter taught to write? Our nursery-books are crammed with cautious injunctions, – ‘Don’t play with fire,’ &c, – and of the real peril of all perils not a word of warning is uttered, and nobody says, ‘Avoid the inkstand.’”

“How could you have fallen into such a blunder?” said he, half peevishly.

“I gave rash pledges, papa, just as a bankrupt gives bad bills. I never believed I was to be solvent again.”

“We must see what can be done, Loo. I know he is very hard up for money just now; so that probably a few hundreds might do the business.”

She shook her head doubtingly, but said nothing.

“A fellow-traveller of mine, unacquainted with him personally, told me that his bills were seen everywhere about town.”

“Who is your companion?”

“An Irishman called O’Shea.”

“And is the O’Shea here too?” exclaimed she, laughingly.

“Yes; since he has lost his seat in the House, England has become too hot for him. And, besides,” added he, slyly, “he has told me in confidence that if ‘the party,’ as he calls them, should not give him something, he knows of a widow somewhere near this might suit him. ‘I don’t say that she’s rich, mind you,’ said he, ‘but she’s ‘cute as a fox, and would be sure to keep a man’s head above water somehow.’”

Mrs. Morris held her handkerchief to her mouth, but the sense of the ridiculous could not be suppressed, and she laughed out.

“What would I not have given to have heard him, papa!” said she, at last

“Well, it really was good,” said he, wiping his eyes; for he, too, had indulged in a very hearty laugh, particularly when he narrated all the pains O’Shea had been at to discover who Penthony Morris was, where he came from, and what fortune he had. “‘It was at first all in vain,’ said he, ‘but no sooner did I begin to pay fellows to make searches for me, than I had two, or maybe three Penthony Morrises every morning by the post; and, what’s worse, all alive and hearty!’”

“What did he do under these distressing circumstances?” asked she, gayly.

“He said he ‘d give up the search entirely. ‘There ‘s no such bad hunting country,’ said he, ‘as where there’s too many foxes, and so I determined I ‘d have no more Penthony Morrises, but just go in for the widow without any more inquiry.’”

“And have you heard the plan of his campaign?” asked she.

“He has none, – at least, I think not. He trusts to his own attractions and some encouragement formerly held out to him.”

“Indiscreet wretch!” said she, laughing; “not but he told the truth there. I remember having given him something like what lawyers call a retainer.”

“Such a man might be very troublesome, Loo,” said he, cautiously.

“Not a bit of it, papa; he might be very useful, on the contrary. Indeed, I’m’ not quite certain that I have not exactly the very service on which to employ him.”

“Remember, Loo,” said he, warmly, “he’s a shrewd fellow in his way.”

“In his way’ he is, but his way is not mine,” said she, with a saucy toss of the head. “Have you any idea, papa, of what may be the sort of place or employment he looks for? Is he ambitious, or has adversity taught him humility?”

“A good deal depends upon the time of the day when one talks to him. Of a morning he is usually downcast and depressed; he ‘d go out as a magistrate to the Bahamas or consul to a Poyais republic. Towards dinner-time he grows more difficult and pretentious; and when he has got three or four glasses of wine in, he would n’t take less than the Governorship of a colony.”

“Then it’s of an evening one should see him.”

“Nay, I should say not, Loo. I would rather take him at his cheap moment.”

“Quite wrong, papa, – quite wrong. It is when his delusions are strongest that he will be most easily led. His own vanity will be the most effectual of all intoxications. But you may leave him to me without fear or misgiving.”

“I suppose so,” said he, dryly. And a silence of some minutes ensued. “Why are you taking such pains about your hair, Loo,” asked he, “if you are going in domino?”

“None can ever tell when or where they must unmask in this same life of ours, papa,” said she, laughingly; “and I have got such a habit of providing for casualties that I have actually arranged my papers and letters in the fashion they ought to be found in after my death.”

Holmes sighed. The thought of such a thing as death is always unwelcome to a man with a light auburn wig and a florid complexion, who wants to cheat Fate into the notion that he is hale and hearty, and who likes to fancy himself pretty much what he was fifteen or twenty years ago. And Holmes sighed with a feeling of compassionate sorrow for himself.

“By the way, papa,” said she, in a careless, easy tone, “where are you stopping?”

“At the Hôtel d’Italie, my dear.”

“What do you think, – had n’t you better come here?”

“I don’t exactly know, nor do I precisely see how.”

“Leave all that to me, papa. You shall have an invitation, – ‘Sir William Heathcote’s compliments,’ &c, – all in due form, in the course of the day, and I ‘ll give directions about your room. You have no servant, I hope?”

“None.”

“So much the better; there is no guarding against the garrulity of that class, and all the craftiest stratagems of the drawing-room are often undermined in the servants’-hall. As for yourself, you know that you represent the late Captain’s executor. You were the guardian of poor dear Penthony, and his oldest friend in the world.”

“Knew him since he was so high!” said he, in a voice of mock emotion, as he held out his extended palm about two feet above the floor.

“That will give you a world of trouble, papa, for you ‘ll have to prepare yourself with so much family history, explaining what Morrises they were, how they were Penthonys, and so on. Sir William will torture you about genealogies.”

“I have a remedy for that, my dear,” said he, slyly. “I am most painfully deaf! No one will maintain a conversation of a quarter of an hour with me without risking a sore throat; not to say that no one can put delicate questions in the voice of a boatswain.”

“Dear papa, you are always what the French call ‘at the level of the situation,’ and your deafness will be charming, for our dear Baronet and future husband has a most inquisitive turn, and would positively torture you with interrogatories.”

“He ‘ll be more than mortal if he don’t give in, Loo. I gave a Lunacy Commissioner once a hoarseness that required a course of the waters at Vichy to cure; not to say that, by answering at cross purposes, one can disconcert the most zealous inquirer. But now, my dear, that I am in possession of my hearing, do tell me something about yourself and your plans.”

“I have none, papa, – none,” said she, with a faint sigh. “Sir William Heathcote has, doubtless, many, and into some of them I may perhaps enter. He intends, for instance, that some time in March I shall be Lady Heathcote; that we shall go and live – I’m not exactly sure where, though I know we ‘re to be perfectly happy, and, not wishing to puzzle him, I don’t ask how.”

“I have no doubt you will be happy, Loo,” said he, confidently. “Security, safety, my dear, are great elements of happiness.”

“I suppose they are,” said she, with another sigh; “and when one has been a privateer so long, it is pleasant to be enrolled in the regular navy, even though one should be laid up in ordinary.”

“Nay, nay, Loo, no fear of that!”

“On the contrary, papa, every hope of it! The best thing I could ask for would be oblivion.”

“My dear Loo,” said he, impressively, “the world has not got one half so good a memory as you fancy. It is our own foolish timidity – what certain folk call conscience – that suggests the idea how people are talking of us, and, like the valet in the comedy, we begin confessing our sins before we ‘re accused of them!”

“I know that is your theory, papa,” said she, laughing, “and that one ought always to ‘die innocent.’”

“Of course, my dear. It is only the jail chaplain benefits by what is called ‘a full disclosure of the terrible tragedy.’”

“I hear my carriage creeping up quietly to the door,” said she, listening. “Be sure you let me see you early tomorrow. Good-night.”

CHAPTER XXXVI. A GRAVE SCENE IN LIGHT COMPANY

Moralists have often found a fruitful theme in the utter barrenness of all the appliances men employ for their pleasures. What failures follow them, what weariness, what satiety and heart-sickness! The feast of Belshazzar everywhere!

To the mere eye nothing could be more splendid, nothing more suggestive of enjoyment, than the Pergola of Florence when brilliantly lighted and thronged with a gay and merry company. Character figures in every variety fancy or caprice could suggest – Turks, Styrians, Highlanders, Doges, Dervishes, and Devils – abounded, with Pifferari from Calabria, Muleteers, Matadors, and Conjurers; Boyards from Tobolsk jostled Male Crusaders, and Demons that might have terrified St. Anthony flitted past with Sisters of Charity! Strange parody upon the incongruities of our every-day life, costume serving but to typify the moral incompatibilities which are ever at work in our actual existence! for are not the people we see linked together – are not the social groupings we witness – just as widely separated by every instinct and every sentiment as are these characters in all their motley? Are the two yonder, as they sit at the fireside, not as remote from each other as though centuries had rolled between them? They toil along, it is true, together; they drag the same burden, but with different hopes and fears and motives. Bethink you “the friends so linked together” are like-minded? No, it is all masquerade; and the motley is that same easy conventionality by which we hope to escape undetected and unknown!

Our business now is not with the mass of this great assemblage; we are only interested for two persons, – one of whom, a tall figure in a black domino, leans against a pillar yonder, closely scrutinizing each new-comer that enters, and eagerly glancing at the sleeve of every yellow domino that passes.

He has been there from an early hour of the evening, and never left it since. Many a soft voice has whispered some empty remark on his impassiveness; more than once a jesting sarcasm has been uttered upon his participation in the gayety around; but he has never replied, but with folded arms patiently awaited the expected one. At last he is joined by another, somewhat shorter and stouter, but dressed like him, who, bending close to his ear, whispers, —

“Why are you standing here, – have you not seen her?”

“No; she has never passed this door.”

“She entered by the stage, and has been walking about this hour. I saw her talking to several, to whom, to judge by their gestures, her remarks must have been pointed enough; but there she is, – see, she is leaning on the arm of that Malay chief. Join her; you know the signal.”

Paten started suddenly from his lounging attitude, and cleft his way through the crowd, little heeding the comments his rude persistence called forth. As he drew nigh where the yellow domino stood, he hesitated and glanced around him, as though he felt that every eye was watching him, and only after a moment or so did he seem to remember that he was disguised. At last he approached her, and, taking her sleeve in his hand, unpinned the little cross of tricolored ribbon and fastened it on his own domino. With a light gesture of farewell she quickly dismissed her cavalier and took his arm.