“Not for the world! No, no, I 'll not be accessary to my own death. If it come, it shall come at its own time. There, I am not angry with you, child; don't get so pale; sit down here, beside me. What's all this story about your guardian? I heard it so confusedly last night, during an attack of pain, I can make nothing of it.”
“I scarcely know more of it myself, sir. All I do know is that he has come out from England to take me away with him, and place me, mamma says, at some Pensionnat.”
“No, no; this mustn't be,—this is impossible! You belong to us, dear Clara. I 'll not permit it Your poor mamma would be heart-broken to lose you.”
Clara turned away, and wiped two large tears from her eyes; her lips trembled so that she could not utter a word.
“No, no,” continued he; “a guardian is all very well, but a mother's rights are very different,—and such a mother as yours, Clara! Oh! by Jove! that was a pang! Give me that toast-and-water, child!”
It was with a rude impatience he seized the glass from her hand, and drank off the contents. “This pain makes one a downright savage, my poor Clara,” said he, patting her cheek, “but old grandpapa will not be such a bear to-morrow.”
“To-morrow, when I'm gone!” muttered she, half dreamily.
“And his name? What is it?”
“Stocmar, sir.”
“Stocmar,—Stocmar? never heard of a Stocmar, except that theatrical fellow near St. James's. Have you seen him, child?”