“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.”