Alderman Stacy arose as she entered the room where he was sitting, and made three profound bows in the different stages of her advance from the door, then he sat down in a light chair. The delicate India carving began to creak under his weight, and he sprang to his feet again, looking over his shoulder at the combination of azure silk and lace-like ebony in awkward consternation. Then he took another chair, all cushions and softness, in which he sank down luxuriously, and began to fidget with his chain.
"You are from New York, Mr. Stacy—I think it was on your card?" said Clara, commencing the conversation.
"Yes, exactly, my—my lady—Empire State; besides that I have a little business with you—pleasant business, I may undertake to say; money, my dear young lady. Money always is pleasant. What ancient poet is it that says, 'money makes the mare go?' which means, I take it, that it drives men and women—I mean gentlemen and ladies—just alike. So I call it pleasant news, when I tell your ladyship that I have got a pile of it for you—American bonds, payable in gold."
"Money for me—for me?"
"No wonder you are surprised. The amount was an astonisher for me when I came to reckon it up. At first it was a mere nothing, only a few thousand, but gold, in my hands, grows, grows, grows, and now, my dear young lady, that little heap left by your lamented mother—you understand—"
"Left by my mother, and for me?"
"Yes, your lamented mother, the first Lady Hope, a lovely woman, but delicate, very delicate; carried off by consumption at last. Well, just before her death she sent for me—we were great friends, you know. Being alderman, in fact, president of the board, I had an opportunity to offer her some municipal civilities, such as the use of the Governor's room to receive her friends in, and the freedom of the city. I assure you she had the broadest liberty to ride where she pleased, especially in the Central Park. Then we took her to the institutions, and she had a lovely dinner on Blackwell's Island, for I was hand in glove with the commissioners. I don't tell these things to boast of 'em only to explain how she came to trust me as her executioner—I beg pardon—her executor, and send for me just as her spirit was taking flight."
"Oh! please tell me of that—of her—I do not care about the money," cried Clara, interrupting this pompous tissue of falsehoods, with tears in her eyes. "You saw her, you talked with her?"
"Often and often."
"Oh, tell me!"