Those debatable nothings are of great service to Englishmen who meet as mere acquaintances; they relieve the awkwardness of looking out for a topic, and they are better than the eternal question of the weather. Sir William had, besides, a number of people to ask after, and Stocmar knew everybody, and knew them, too, either by some nickname, or some little anecdotic clew very amusing to those who have lived long enough in the world to be interested by the same jokes on the same people,—a time of life, of course, not ours, dear reader, though we may come to it one day; and Captain Holmes listened to the reminiscences, and smiled, and smirked, and “very true'd,” to the great enjoyment of the others; while Mrs. Morris stole noiselessly here and there, cutting camellias for a bouquet, but not unwatchful of the scene.
“I hope and trust I have been misinformed about your plans here, Mr. Stocmar,” said Sir William, who was so happy to recall the names of former friends and acquaintances. “You surely do not mean to run away from us so soon?”
A quick glance from Mrs. Morris telegraphed his reply, and he said, “I am most unfortunately limited for time. I shall be obliged to leave immediately.”
“A day or two you could surely spare us?” said Heathcote.
Stocmar shook his head with a deploring smile, for another glance, quick as the former, had given him his instructions.
“I have told you, Sir William, how inexorable he is about Clara; and although at first I stoutly opposed his reasonings, I am free to own that he has convinced me his plan is the true one; and as he has made all the necessary arrangements,—have you not, Mr. Stocmar?—and they are charming people she will be with,—he raves about them,” said she, in a sort of whisper, while she added, still lower, “and I partly explained to him my own projected change,—and, in fact, it is better as it is,—don't you think so?” and thus hurrying Sir William along,—a process not unlike that by which an energetic rider hustles a lazy horse through heavy ground,—she at least made him feel grateful that he was not called upon for any increased exercise of his judgment. And then Stocmar followed, like another counsel in the same brief,—half jocularly, to be sure, and like one not required to supply more than some illustrative arguments. He remarked that young ladies nowadays were expected to be models of erudition,—downright professors; no smatterings of French and Italian, no water-color sketches touched up by the master,—“they must be regular linguists, able to write like De Sévigné, and interpret Dante.” In a word, so much did he improve the theme, that he made Sir William shudder at the bare thought of being domesticated with so much loose learning, and thank his stars that he had been born in a generation before it. Not but the worthy Baronet had his own secret suspicions that Clara wanted little aid from all their teachings; his firm belief being that she was the most quick-witted, gifted creature ever existed, and it was in a sort of triumphant voice he asked Mrs. Morris, “Has Mr. Stocmar seen her?”
“Not yet,” said she, dryly. “Clara is in my room. Mr. Stocmar shall see her presently; for, as he insists on leaving this to-morrow—”
“To-morrow—-to-morrow!” cried Sir William, in amazement.
And then Stocmar, drawing close to Sir William, began confidentially to impart to him how, partly from over-persuasion of certain great people, partly because he liked that sort of thing, he had got into theatrical management. “One must do something. You know,” said he, “I hate farming, never was much of a sportsman, had no turn for politics; and so, by Jove! I thought I 'd try the stage. I mean, of course, as manager, director, 'impresario,' or whatever you call it. I need not tell you it's a costly amusement, so far as expense goes. I might have kept the best house in town, and the best stables in Leicestershire, for far less than I have indulged my dramatic tastes; but I like it: it amuses, it interests me!” And Stocmar drew himself up and stuck his hands into his waistcoat-pockets, as though to say, “Gaze, and behold a man rich enough to indulge a costly caprice, and philosophic enough to pay for the pleasure that rewards him.” “Yes, sir,” he added, “my last season, though the Queen took her private box, and all my noble friends stood stanchly to me, brought me in debt no less than thirteen thousand seven hundred pounds! That's paying for one's whistle, sir,—eh?” cried he, as though vain of his own defeat.
“You might have lost it in the funds, and had no pleasure for it,” said Sir William, consolingly.