“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.”