She paused, and there was a silence of some minutes. At last she said: “Clara disposed of, and these letters in my possession, and I should feel like one saved from shipwreck. Do you think you could promise me these, Mr. Stocmar?”
“I see no reason to despair of either,” said he; “for the first I have pledged myself, and I will certainly do all in my power for the second.”
“You must, then, make me another promise: you must come back here for my wedding.”
“Your wedding!”
“Yes. I am going to marry Sir William Heathcote,” said she, sighing heavily. “His debts prevent him ever returning to England, and consequently I ran the less risk of being inquired after and traced, than if I were to go back to that dear land of perquisition and persecution.”
“The world is very small nowadays,” muttered Stocmar. “People are known everywhere.”
“So they are,” said she, quickly. “But on the Continent, or at least in Italy, the detectives only give you a nod of recognition; they do not follow you with a warrant, as they do at home. This makes a great difference, sir.”
“And can you really resign yourself, at your age and with your attractions, to retire from the world?” said he, with a deep earnestness of manner.
“Not without regret, Mr. Stocmar. I will not pretend it But remember, what would life be if passed upon a tightrope, always poising, always balancing, never a moment without the dread of a fall, never a second without the consciousness that the slightest divergence might be death! Would you counsel me to face an existence like this? Remember, besides, that in the world we live in, they who wreck character are not the calumnious, they are simply the idle,—the men and women who, having nothing to do, do mischief without knowing. One remarks that nobody in the room knew that woman with the blue wreath in her hair, and at once she becomes an object of interest. Some of the men have admired her; the women have discovered innumerable blemishes in her appearance. She becomes at once a topic and a theme,—where she goes, what she wears, whom she speaks to, are all reported, till at length the man who can give the clew to the mystery and 'tell all about her' is a public benefactor. At what dinner-party is he not the guest?—what opera-box is denied him?—where is the coterie so select at which his presence is not welcome so long as the subject is a fresh one? They tell us that society, like the Church, must have its 'autos da fé,' but one would rather not be the victim.”
Stocmar gave a sigh that seemed to imply assent.