On a sea like glass, and with a faint moonlight streaking the calm water, the “Vivid,” her Majesty's mail-packet, steamed away for Ostend. There were very few passengers aboard, so that it was clearly from choice two tall men, wrapped well up in comfortable travelling-cloaks, continued to walk the deck, till the sandy headlands of Belgium could be dimly descried through the pinkish gray of the morning. They smoked and conversed as they paced up and down, talking in low, cautious tones, and even entirely ceasing to speak when by any chance a passing sailor came within earshot.

“It is, almost day for day, nine years since I crossed over here,” said one, “and certainly a bleaker future never lay before any man than on that morning!”

“Was she with you, Ludlow?” asked the other, whose deep voice recalled the great Mr. Stocmar. “Was she with you?”

“No; she refused to come. There was nothing I did n't do, or threaten to do, but in vain. I menaced her with every sort of publicity and exposure. I swore I 'd write the whole story,—giving a likeness of her from the miniature in my possession; that I 'd give her letters to the world in fac-simile of her own hand; and that, while the town rang with the tragedy as the newspapers called it, they should have a dash of melodrama, or high comedy too, to heighten the interest. All in vain; she braved everything—defied everything.”

“There are women with that sort of masculine temperament—”

“Masculine you call it!” cried the other, scoffingly; “you never made such a blunder in your life. They are entirely and essentially womanly. You 'd break twenty men down, smash them like rotten twigs, before you 'd succeed in turning one woman of this stamp from her fixed will. I 'll tell you another thing, too, Stocmar,” added he, in a lower voice: “they do not fear the world the way men do. Would you believe it? Collins and myself left the island in a fishing-boat, and she—the woman—went coolly on board the mail-packet with her maid and child, and sat down to breakfast with the passengers, one of whom had actually served on the jury.”

“What pluck! I call that pluck.”

“It's more like madness than real courage,” said the other, peevishly; and for some minutes they walked on side by side without a word.

“If I remember rightly,” said Stocmar, “she was not put on her trial?”

“No; there was a great discussion about it, and many blamed the Crown lawyers for not including her; but, in truth, there was not a shadow of evidence to be brought against her. His treatment of her might have suggested the possibility of any vengeance.”

“Was it so cruel?”

“Cruel is no word for it. There was not an insult nor an outrage spared her. She passed one night in the deep snow in the garden, and was carried senseless into the house at morning, and only rallied after days of treatment. He fired at her another time.”

“Shot her!”

“Yes, shot her through the shoulder,—sent the bullet through here,—because she would not write to Ogden a begging letter, entreating him to assist her with a couple of hundred pounds.”

“Oh, that was too gross!” exclaimed Stocmar.

“He told her, 'You 've cost me fifteen hundred in damages, and you may tell Ogden he shall have you back again for fifty.'”

“And she bore all this?”

“I don't know what you mean by bearing it. She did not stab him. Some say that Hawke was mad, but I never thought so. He had boastful fits at times, in which he would vaunt all his villanies, and tell you of the infamies he had done with this man and that; but they were purely the emanations of an intense vanity, which left him unable to conceal anything. Imagine, for instance, his boasting how he had done the 'Globe' office out of ten thousand, insured on his first wife's life,—drowned when bathing. I heard the story from his own lips, and I 'll never forget his laugh as he said, 'I 'd have been in a hole if Mary had n't.'”

“That was madness, depend on 't.”

“No; I think not. It was partly vanity, for he delighted above all things to create an effect, and partly a studied plan to exercise an influence by actual terror, in which he had a considerable success. I could tell you of a score of men who would not have dared to thwart him; and it was at last downright desperation drove Tom Towers and Wake to”—he hesitated, faltered, and, in a weak voice, added,—“to do it!”

“How was it brought about?” whispered Stocmar, cautiously.

Paten took out his cigar-case, selected a cigar with much care, lighted it, and, after smoking for some seconds, began: “It all happened this way: we met one night at that singing-place in the Haymarket. Towers, Wake, Collins, and myself were eating an oyster supper, when Hawke came in. He had been dining at the 'Rag,' and had won largely at whist from some young cavalry swells, who had just joined. He was flushed and excited, but not from drinking, for he said he had not tasted anything but claret-cup at dinner. 'You're a mangy-looking lot,' said he, 'with your stewed oysters and stout,' as he came up. 'Why, frozen-out gardeners are fine gentlemen in comparison. Are there no robberies going on at the Ottoman,—nothing doing down at Grimshaw's?'

“'You 're very bumptious about belonging to the “Rag,” Hawke.' said Towers; 'but they 'll serve you the same trick they did me one of these days.'

“'No, sir, they 'll never turn me out,' said Hawke, insolently.

“'More fools they, then,' said the other; 'for you can do ten things for one that I can; and, what's more, you have done them.'

“'And will again, old boy, if that's any comfort to you,' cried Hawke, finishing off the other's malt. 'Waiter, fetch me some cold oysters, and score them to these gentlemen,' said he, gayly, taking his place amongst us. And so we chaffed away, about one thing or another, each one contributing some lucky or unlucky hit that had befallen him; but Hawke always bringing up how he had succeeded here, and what he had won there, and only vexed if any one reminded him that he had been ever 'let in' in his life.

“'Look here,' cried he, at last; 'ye're an uncommon seedy lot, very much out at elbows, and so I 'll do you a generous turn. I 'll take ye all over to my cottage at Jersey for a week, house and grub you, and then turn you loose on the island, to do your wicked will with it.'

“'We take your offer—we say, Done!' cried Collins.

“'I should think you do! You've been sleeping under the colonnade of the Haymarket these last three nights,' said he to Collins, 'for want of a lodging. There's Towers chuckling over the thought of having false keys to all my locks; and Master Paul, yonder,' said he, grinning at me, 'is in love with my wife. Don't deny it, man; I broke open her writing-desk t' other day, and read all your letters to her; but I'm a generous dog; and, what's better,' added he, with an insolent laugh, 'one as bites, too—eh, Paul?—don't forget that.'

“'Do you mean the invitation to be real and bon fide?' growled out Towers; 'for I 'm in no jesting humor.'

“'I do,' said Hawke, flourishing out a handful of banknotes; 'there's enough here to feed five times as many blacklegs; and more costly guests a man can't have.'

“'You'll go, won't you?' said Collins, to me, as we walked home together afterwards.

“'Well,' said I, doubtingly, 'I don't exactly see my way.'

“'By Jove!' cried he, 'you are afraid of him.'

“'Not a bit,' said I, impatiently. 'I 'm well acquainted with his boastful habit: he's not so dangerous as he 'd have us to believe.'

“'But will you go?—that's the question,' said he, more eagerly.

“'Why are you so anxious to know?' asked I, again.

“'I 'll be frank with you,' said he, in a low, confidential tone. 'Towers wants to be certain of one thing. Mind, now,' added be, 'I 'm sworn to secrecy, and I 'm telling you now what I solemnly swore never to reveal; so don't betray me, Paul. Give me your hand on it.' And I gave him my hand.

“Even after I had given him this pledge, he seemed to have become timorous, and for a few minutes he faltered and hesitated, totally unable to proceed. At last he said, half inquiringly,—

“'At all events, Paul, you cannot like Hawke?'

“'Like him! there is not the man on earth I hate as I hate him!'

“'That's exactly what Towers said: “Paul detests him more than we do.”'

“The moment Collins said these words the whole thing flashed full upon me. They were plotting to do for Hawke, and wanted to know how far I might be trusted in the scheme.

“'Look here, Tom,' said I, confidentially; 'don't tell me anything. I don't want to be charged with other men's secrets; and, in return, I'll promise not to pry after them. “Make your little game,” as they say at Ascot, and don't ask whether I'm in the ring or not. Do you understand me?'

“'I do, perfectly,' said he. 'The only point Towers really wanted to be sure of is, what of her? What he says is, there's no telling what a woman will do.'

“' If I were merely to give an opinion,' said I, carelessly, 'I 'd say, no danger from that quarter; but, mind, it's only an opinion.'

“'Wake says you'd marry her,' said he, bluntly, and with an abruptness that showed he had at length got courage to say what he wanted.

“'Tom Collins,' said I, seriously, 'let us play fair; don't question me, and I 'll not question you.'

“'But you 'll come along with us?' asked he, eagerly.

“'I 'm not so sure of that, now,' said I; 'but if I do, it's on one only condition.'

“'And that is—'

“'That I 'm to know nothing, or hear nothing, of whatever you 're about. I tell you distinctly that I 'll not pry anywhere, but, in return, treat me as a stranger in whose discretion you cannot trust.'

“'You like sure profits and a safe venture, in fact,' said he, sneeringly.

“'Say one half of that again, Collins,' said I, 'and I'll cut with the whole lot of you. I ask no share. I 'd accept no share in your gains here.'

“'But you 'll not peach on us, Paul?' said he, catching my hand.

“'Never,' said I, 'as long as you are on the square with me.'

“After this, he broke out into the wildest abuse of Hawke, making him out—as it was not hard to do—the greatest villain alive, mingling the attack with a variety of details of the vast sums he had latterly been receiving. 'There are,' he said, 'more than two thousand in hard cash in his hands at this moment, and a number of railway shares and some Peruvian bonds, part of his first wife's fortune, which he has just recovered by a lawsuit.' So close and accurate were all these details, so circumstantial every part of the story, that I perceived the plan must have been long prepared, and only waiting for a favorable moment for execution. With this talk he occupied the whole way, till I reached my lodgings.

“'And now, Paul,' said he, 'before we part, give me your word of honor once more.'

“'There 's my pledge,' said I, 'and there 's my hand. So long as I hear nothing, and see nothing, I know nothing.' And we said good-night, and separated.

“So long as I was talking with Collins,” continued Paten,—“so long, in fact, as I was taking my own side in the discussion,—I did not see any difficulty in thus holding myself aloof from the scheme, and not taking any part whatever in the game played out before me; but when I found myself alone in my room, and began to conjure up an inquest and a trial, and all the searching details of a cross-examination, I trembled from head to foot. I remember to this hour how I walked to and fro in my room, putting questions to myself aloud, and in the tone of an examining counsel, till my heart sickened with fear; and when at last I lay down, wearied but not sleepy, on my bed, it was to swear a solemn vow that nothing on earth should induce me to go over to Jersey.

“The next day I was ill and tired, and I kept my bed, telling my servant to let no one disturb me on any pretext. Towers called, but was not admitted. Collins came twice, and tried hard to see me, but my man was firm, so that Tom was fain to write a few words on a card, in pencil: 'H. is ill at Limmer's; but it is only del. tremens, and he will be all right by Saturday. The boat leaves Blackwall at eleven. Don't fail to be in time.' This was Thursday. There was no time to lose, if I only knew what was best to be done. I 'll not weary you with the terrible tale of that day's tortures; how I thought over every expedient in turn, and in turn rejected it; now I would go to Hawke, and tell him everything; now to the Secretary of State at the Home Office; now to Scotland Yard, to inform the police; then I bethought me of trying to dissuade Towers and the others from the project; and at last I resolved to make a 'bolt' of it, and set out for Ireland by the night mail, and lie hid in some secluded spot till all was over. About four o'clock I got up, and, throwing on my dressing-gown, I walked to the window. It was a dark, dull day, with a thin rain falling, and few persons about; but just as I was turning away from the window I saw a tall, coarse-looking fellow pass into the oyster-shop opposite, giving a glance up towards me as he went; the next minute a man in a long camlet cloak left the shop, and walked down the street; and, muffled though he was from head to foot, I knew it was Towers.

“I suppose my conscience wasn't all right, for I sank down into a chair as sick as if I 'd been a month in a fever. I saw they had set a watch on me, and I knew well the men I had to deal with. If Towers or Wake so much as suspected me, they 'd make all safe before they ventured further. I looked out again, and there was the big man, with a dark blue woollen comforter round his throat, reading the advertisements on a closed shutter, and then strolling negligently along the street. Though his hat was pressed down over his eyes, I saw them watching me as he went; and such was my terror that I fancied they were still gazing at me after he turned the corner.

“Fully determined now to make my escape, I sat down and wrote a few lines to Collins, saying that a relation of mine, from whom I had some small expectations, was taken suddenly ill, and sent for me to come over and see him, so that I was obliged to start for Ireland by that night's mail. I never once alluded to Jersey, but concluded with a kindly message to all friends, and a hasty good-bye.

“Desiring to have my servant out of the way, I despatched him with this note, and then set about making my own preparations for departure. It was now later than I suspected, so that I had barely time to pack some clothes hastily into a carpet-bag, and cautiously descended the stairs with it in my hand, opened the street door and issued forth. Before I had, however, gone ten yards from the door, the large man was at my side, and in a gruff voice offered to carry my bag. I refused as roughly, and walked on towards the cab-stand. I selected a cab, and said Euston Square; and as I did so, the big fellow mounted the box and sat down beside the driver. I saw it was no use, and, affecting to have forgotten something at my lodgings, I got out, paid the cab, and returned home. How cowardly! you'd say. No, Stocmar, I knew my men: it was not cowardly. I knew that, however they might abandon a project or forego a plan, they would never, never forgive a confederate that tried to betray them. No, no,” muttered he, below his breath; “no man shall tell me it was cowardice.

“When I saw that there was no way to turn back, I determined to go forward boldly, and even eagerly, trusting to the course of events to give me a chance of escape. I wrote to Collins to say that my relative was better, and should not require me to go over; and, in short, by eleven o'clock on the appointed Saturday, we all assembled on the deck of the 'St Helier,' bound for Jersey.

“Never was a jollier party met for an excursion of pleasure,—all but Hawke himself; he came aboard very ill, and went at once to his berth. He was in that most pitiable state, the commencing convalescence of delirium tremens, when all the terrors of a deranged mind still continue to disturb and distress the recovering intellect. As we went down one by one to see him, he would scarcely speak, or even notice us. At times, too, he seemed to have forgotten the circumstance which brought us all there, and he would mutter to himself, 'It was no good job gathered all these fellows together. Where can they be going to? What can they be after?' We had just sat down to dinner, when Towers came laughing into the cabin. 'What do you think,' said he to me, 'Hawke has just told me confidentially? He said, “I 'm not at all easy about that lot on deck,”—meaning you all. “The devil doesn't muster his men for mere drill and parade, and the moment I land in the island I 'll tell the police to have an eye on them.”' We laughed heartily at this polite intention of our host, and joked a good deal over the various imputations our presence might excite. From this we went on to talk over what was to be done if Hawke should continue ill, all being agreed that, having come so far, it would be impossible to forego our projected pleasure: and at last it was decided that I, by virtue of certain domestic relations ascribed to me, should enact the host, and do the honors of the house, and so they filled bumpers to the Regency, and I promised to be a mild Prince.

“'There's the thing for Godfrey,' said Towers, as some grilled chicken was handed round; and taking the dish from the waiter, he carried it himself to Hawke, and remained while he ate it. 'Poor devil!' said he, as he came back, 'he seems quite soft-hearted about my little attentions to him. He actually said, “Thank you, old fellow.''”

Perhaps our reader will thank us if we do not follow Paten through a narrative in which the minutest detail was recorded, nor any, even the most trivial, incident forgotten, graven as they were on a mind that was to retain them to the last. All the levities they indulged in during the voyage,—which was, in fact, little other than an orgie from the hour they sailed to that they landed, dashed with little gloomy visits to that darkened sick berth where Hawke lay,—all were remembered, all chronicled.

The cottage itself—The Hawke's Nest, as it was whimsically called—he described with all the picturesque ardor of an artist. It was truly a most lovely spot, nestled down in a cleft between the hills, and so shut in from all wintry influences that the oranges and myrtles overgrew it as though the soil were Italy. The grounds were of that half-park, half-garden order, which combines greensward and flowering border, and masses into one beauteous whole the glories of the forest-tree with the spray-like elegance of the shrub. There was a little lake, too, with an island, over whose leafy copper beeches a little Gothic spire appeared,—an imitation of some richly ornamented shrine in Moorish Spain. What was it that in this dark story would still attract him to the scenery of this spot, making him linger and dally in it as though he could not tear himself away? Why would he loiter in description of some shady alley, some woodbine-trellised path, as though the scene had no other memories but those of a blissful bygone? In fact, such was the sort of fascination the locality seemed to exercise over him, that his voice grew softer, the words faltered as he spoke them, and once he drew his hand across his eyes, as though to wipe away a tear.

“Was it not strange, Stocmar,” broke he suddenly in, “I was never able to see her one moment alone? She avoided it in fifty ways! Hawke kept his room for two days after we arrived, and we scarcely ever saw her, and when we did, it was hurriedly and passingly. Godfrey, too, he would send for one of us,—always one, mark you, alone; and after a few muttering words about his suffering, he 'd be sure to say, 'Can you tell me what has brought them all down here? I can't get it out of my head that there ain't mischief brewing.' Now each of us in turn had heard this speech, and we conned it over and over again. 'It's the woman has put this notion in his head,' said Towers. 'I 'll take my oath it came from her. Look to that, Paul Hunt,' said he to me, 'for you have influence in that quarter.' I retorted angrily to this, and very high words passed between us; in fact, the altercation went so far that, when we met at dinner, we never addressed or noticed each other. I 'll never forget that dinner. Wake seemed to range himself on Towers's side, and Collins looked half disposed to take mine; everything that was said by one was sure to be capped by some sharp impertinence by another, and we sat there interchanging slights and sneers and half-covert insolences for hours.

“If there had been a steamer for Southampton, I 'd have started next morning. I told Collins so when I went to my room; but he was much opposed to this, and said, 'If we draw back now, it must be with Towers and Wake,—all or none!' We passed nearly the entire night in discussing the point, and could not agree on it.

“I suppose that Hawke must have heard how ill we all got on together. There was a little girl—a daughter by his first wife—always in and out of the room where we were; and though in appearance a mere infant, the shrewdest, craftiest little sprite I ever beheld. Now this Clara, I suspect, told Hawke everything that passed. I know for certain that she was in the flower-garden, outside the window, during a very angry altercation between Towers and myself, and when I went up afterwards to see Hawke he knew the whole story.

“What a day that was! I had asked Loo to let me speak a few words with her alone, and, after great hesitation, she promised to meet me in the garden in the evening. I had determined on telling her everything. I was resolved to break with Towers and Wake, and I trusted to her clear head to advise how best to do it. The greater part of the morning Towers was up in Hawke's room; he had always an immense influence over Godfrey; he knew things about him none others had ever heard of, and, when he came downstairs, he took the doctor—it was your old Professor, that mad fellow—into the library, and spent full an hour with him. When Towers came out afterwards, he seemed to have got over his angry feeling towards me, and, coming up in all seeming frankness, took my arm, and led me out into the shrubbery.

“'Hawke is sinking rapidly,' said he; 'the doctor says he cannot possibly recover.'

“'Indeed!' said I, amazed. 'What does he call the malady?'

“'He says it's a break-up,—a general smash,—lungs, liver, brain, all destroyed; a common complaint with fellows who have lived hard.' He looked at me steadily, almost fiercely, as he said this, but I seemed quite insensible to his gaze. 'He 'll not leave her a farthing,' added he, after a moment.

“'The greater villain he, then,' said I. 'It was for him she ruined herself.'

“'Yes, yes, that was all true enough once; but now, Master Paul,—now there's another story, you know.'

“'If you mean under the guise of a confidence to renew the insults you dared to pass upon me yesterday,' said I, 'I tell you at once I 'll not bear it.'

“'Can't you distinguish between friendship and indifference?' said he, warmly. 'I don't ask you to trust me with your secrets, but let us talk like men, not like children. Hawke intends to alter his will to-morrow. It had been made in her favor; at least, he left her this place here, and some small thing he had in Wales; he's going to change everything and leave all to the girl.'

“'It can't be a considerable thing, after all,' said I, peevishly, and not well knowing what I said.

“'Pardon me,' broke he in; 'he has won far more than any of us suspected. He has in hard cash above two thousand pounds in the house, a mass of acceptances in good paper, and several bonds of first-rate men. I went over his papers this morning with him, and saw his book, too, for the Oaks,—a thing, I suppose, he had never shown to any living man before. He has let us all in there, Paul; he has, by Jove! for while telling us to put all upon Jeremy, he 's going to win with Proserpine!'

“I confess the baseness of this treachery sickened me.

“'"How Paul will storm, and rave, and curse me when he finds it out,” said he; “but there was no love lost between us.” He never liked you, Hunt,—never.'

“'It's not too late yet,' said I, 'to hedge about and save ourselves.'

“'No, there's time still, especially if he “hops the twig.” Now,' said he, after a long pause, 'if by any chance he were to die to-night, she 'd be safe; she'd at least inherit some hundreds a year, and a good deal of personal property.'

“'There's no chance of that, though,' said I, negligently.

“'Who told you so, Paul?' said he, with a cunning cast of his eye.' That old drunken doctor said he 'd not insure him for twenty-four hours. A rum old beast he is! Do you know what he said to me awhile ago? “Captain,” said he, “do you know anything about chemistry?” “Nothing whatever,” said I. “Well,” said he, with a hiccup,—for he was far gone in liquor,—“albumen is the antidote to the muriate; and if you want to give him a longer line, let him have an egg to eat”.'”

“Good Heavens! Do you mean that he suspected—”

“He was dead drunk two minutes afterwards, and said that Hawke was dying of typhus, and that he'd certify under his hand. 'But no matter about him,' said he, impatiently. 'If Hawke goes off to-night, it will be a good thing for all of us. Here's this imp of a child!' muttered he, below his breath; 'let us be careful.' And so we parted company, each taking his own road.

“I walked about the grounds alone all day,—I need not tell you with what a heavy heart and a loaded conscience, and only came back to dinner. We were just sitting down to table, when the door opened, and, like a corpse out of his grave, Hawke stole slowly in, and sat down amongst us. He never spoke a word, nor looked at any one. I swear to you, so terrible was the apparition, so ghastly, and so death-like, that I almost doubted if he were still living.

“'Well done, old boy! there 's nothing will do you such good as a little cheering up,' cried Towers.

“'She's asleep,' said he, in a low, feeble voice, 'and so I stole down to eat my last dinner with you.'

“'Not the last for many a year to come,' said Wake, filling his glass. 'The doctor says you are made of iron.'

“'A man of mettle, I suppose,' said he, with a feeble attempt to laugh.

“'There! isn't he quite himself again?' cried Wake. 'By George! he 'll see us all down yet!'

“'Down where?' said Hawke, solemnly. And the tone and the words struck a chill over us.

“We did not rally for some time, and when we did, it was with an effort forced and unnatural. Hawke took something on his plate, but ate none of it, turning the meat over with his fork in a listless way. His wine, too, he laid down when half-way to his lips, and then spat it out over the carpet, saying to himself something inaudible.

“'What's the matter, Godfrey? Don't you like that capital sherry?' said Towers.

“'No,' said he, in a hollow, sepulchral voice.

“'We have all pronounced it admirable,' went on the other.

“'It burns,—everything burns,' said the sick man.

“I filled him a glass of iced water and handed it to him, and Towers gave me a look so full of hate and vengeance that my hand nearly let the tumbler drop.

“'Don't drink cold water, man!' cried Towers, catching his arm; 'that is the worst thing in the world for you.'

“'It won't poison me, will it?' said Hawke. And he fixed his leaden, glazy gaze on Towers.

“'What the devil do you mean?' cried he, savagely. 'This is an ugly jest, sir.'

“The sick man, evidently more startled by the violence of the manner than by the words themselves, looked from one to the other of us all round the table.

“'Forgive me, old fellow,' burst in Towers, with an attempt to laugh; 'but the whole of this day, I can't say why or how, but everything irritates and chafes me. I really believe that we all eat and drink too well here. We live like fighting-cocks, and, of course, are always ready for conflict.'

“We all did our best to forget the unpleasant interruption of a few minutes back, and talked away with a sort of over-eagerness. But Hawke never spoke; there he sat, turning his glazed, filmy look from one to the other, as though in vain trying to catch up something of what went forward. He looked so ill—so fearfully ill, all the while, that it seemed a shame to sit carousing there around him, and so I whispered to Collins; but Towers overheard me, and said,

“'All wrong. You don't know what tough material he is made of. This is the very thing to rally him,—eh, Godfrey?' cried he, louder. 'I 'm telling these fellows that you 'll be all the better for coming down amongst us, and that when I've made you a brew of that milk-punch you are so fond of—'

“'It won't burn my throat, will it?' whined out the sick man.

“'Burn your throat! not a bit of it; but warm your blood up, give energy to your heart, and brace your nerves, so that before the bowl is finished you 'll sing us “Tom Hall;” or, better still, “That rainy day I met her,”—

“'How does it go?' said he, trying to catch the tune.

“A ghastly grin—an expression more horrible than I ever saw on a human face before—was Hawke's recognition of this appeal to him, and, beating his fingers feebly on the table, he seemed trying to recall the air.

“'I can't stand this any longer,' whispered Wake to me; 'the man is dying!'

“'Confound you for a fool!' said Towers, angrily. 'You 'll see what a change an hour will make in him. I 've got the receipt for that milk-punch up in my room. I 'll go and fetch it' And with this he arose, and hastily left the room.

“'Where's Tom?' said the sick man, with a look of painful eagerness. 'Where is he?'

“'He's gone for the receipt of the milk-punch; he's going to make a brew for you!' said I.

“'But I won't take it. I 'll taste nothing more,' said he, with a marked emphasis. 'I 'll take nothing but what Loo gives me,' muttered he, below his breath. And we all exchanged significant looks with each other.

“'This will never do,' murmured Wake, in a low voice. 'Say something—tell a story—but let us keep moving.'

“And Collins began some narrative of his early experiences on the Turf. The story, like all such, was the old burden of knave and dupe,—the man who trusted and the man who cheated. None of us paid much attention to the details, but drank away at our wine, and sent the decanters briskly round, when suddenly, at the mention of a horse being found dead in his stall on the morning he was to have run, Hawke broke in with 'Nobbled! Just like me!'

“Though the words were uttered in a sort of revery, and with a bent-down head, we all were struck dumb, and gazed ruefully at each other. 'Where's Towers all this time?' said Collins to me, in a whisper. I looked at my watch, and saw that it was forty-four minutes since he left the room. I almost started up from my seat with terror, as I thought what this long absence might portend. Had he actually gone off, leaving us all to the perils that were surrounding us? Was it that he had gone to betray us to the law? I could not speak from fear when the door opened, and he came in and sat down in his place. Though endeavoring to seem easy and unconcerned, I could mark that he wore an air of triumph and success that he could not subdue.

“'Here comes the brew,' said he, as the servant brought in a large smoking bowl of fragrant mixture.

“'I 'll not touch it!' said Hawke, with a resolute tone that startled us.

“'What! after giving me more than half an hour's trouble in preparing it,' said Towers. 'Come, old fellow, that is not gracious.'

“'Drink it yourselves!' said Hawke, sulkily.

“'So we will, after we have finished this Burgundy,' said Towers. 'But, meanwhile, what will you have? It's poor fun to sit here with an empty glass.' And he filled him out a goblet of the milk-punch and placed it before him. 'Here's to the yellow jacket with black sleeves,' said he, lifting his glass; 'and may we see him the first “round the corner.”'

“'First “round the corner!”' chorused the rest of us. And Hawke, catching up the spirit of the toast, seized his glass and drank it off.

“'Iknew he 'd drink his own colors if he had one leg in the grave!' said Towers.

“The clock on the mantelpiece struck ten at the moment. It was the hour I was to meet her in the shrubbery; and so, pretending to go in search of my cigar-case, I slipped away and left them. As I was passing behind Hawke's chair, he made a gesture to me to come near him. I bent down my head to him, and he said, 'It won't do this time; she 'll not meet you, Paul.' These were the last words I ever heard him speak.”

When Paten had got thus far, he walked away from his friend, and, leaning his arm on the bulwark, seemed overwhelmed with the dreary retrospect. He remained thus for a considerable time, and only rallied as Stocmar, drawing his arm within his, said, “Come, come, this is no fresh sorrow now. Let me hear the remainder.”

“He spoke truly,” said he, in a broken voice. “She never came! I walked the grounds for above an hour and a half, and then I came back towards the cottage. There was a light in her room, and I whistled to attract her notice, and threw some gravel against the glass, but she only closed the shutters, and did not mind me. I cannot tell you how my mind was racked between the actual terror of the situation and the vague dread of some unknown evil. What had produced this change in her? Why had she broken with me? Could it be that Towers had seen her in that long interval he was absent from the table, and, if so, to what intent? She always hated and dreaded him; but who could tell what influence such a man might acquire in a moment of terrible interest? A horrible sense of jealousy—not the less maddening that it was shadowy and uncertain—now filled my mind; and—would you believe it?—I thought worse of Towers for his conduct towards me than for the dreadful plot against Hawke. Chance led me, as I walked, to the bank of the little lake, where I stood for some time thinking. Suddenly a splash—too heavy for the spring of a fish—startled me, and immediately after I heard the sound of some one forcing his way through the close underwood beside me. Before I had well rallied from my astonishment, a voice I well knew to be that of Towers, cried out,—

“'Who 's there?—who are you?'

“I called out, 'Hunt,—Paul Hunt!'

“'And what the devil brings you here, may I ask?' said he, insolently, but in a tone that showed he had been drinking deeply.

“It was no time to provoke discord; it was a moment that demanded all we could muster of concession and agreement, and so I simply told how mere accident had turned my steps in this direction.

“'What if I said I don't believe you, Paul Hunt?' retorted he, savagely. 'What if I said that I see your whole game in this business, and know every turn and every trick you mean to play us?'

“If you had not drunk so much of Godfrey's Burgundy,' said I, 'you 'd never have spoken this way to an old friend.'

“'Friend be———!' cried he, savagely. 'I know no friends but the men who will share danger with you as well as drink out of the same bottle. Why did you leave us this evening?'

“'I'll be frank with you, Tom,' said I. 'I had made a rendezvous with Louisa; but she never came.'

“'Why should she?' muttered he, angrily. 'Why should she trust the man who is false to his pals?'

“'That I have never been,' broke I in. 'Ask Hawke himself. Ask Godfrey, and he'll tell you whether I have ever dropped a word against you.'

“'No, he would n't,' said he, doggedly.

“'I tell you he would,' cried I. 'Let us go to him this minute.'

“'I 'd rather not, if the choice were given me,' said he, with a horrid laugh.

“'Do you mean,' cried I, in terror,—'do you mean that it is all over?'

“'All over!' said he, gravely, and as though his clouded faculties were suddenly cleared. 'Godfrey knows all about it by this time,' muttered he, half to himself.

“'Would to Heaven we had never come here!' burst I in, for my heart was breaking with anguish and remorse. 'How did it happen, and where?'

“'In the chair where you last saw him. We thought he had fallen asleep, and were for having him carried up to bed, when he gave a slight shudder and woke up again.

“Where's Loo?” cried he, in a weak voice; and then, before we could answer, he added, “Where 's Hunt?”

“'"Paul was here a moment ago; he 'll be back immediately.”

“'He gave a laugh,—such a laugh I hope never to hear again. Cold as he lies there now, that terrible grin is on his face yet. You 've done it this time, Tom,” said he to me, in a whisper. “What do you mean?” said I. “Death!” said he; “it's all up with me,—your time is coming.” And he gave a ghastly grin, sighed, and it was over.'

“We both sat down on the damp ground, and never spoke for nigh an hour. At last Tom said, 'We ought to be back in the house, and trying to make ourselves useful, Paul.'

“I arose, and walked after him, not knowing well whither I was going. When we reached the little flower-garden, we could see into the dining-room. The branch of wax-candles were still lighted, but burnt down very low. All had left; there was nothing there but the dead man sitting up in his chair, with his eyes staring, and his chin fallen. 'Craven-hearted scoundrels!' cried Towers. 'The last thing I said was to call in the servants, and say that their master had fainted; and see, they have run away out of sheer terror. Ain't these hopeful fellows to go before the coroner's inquest?' I was trembling from head to foot all this while, and had to hold Towers by the arm to support myself. 'You are not much better!' said he, savagely. 'Get to bed, and take a long sleep, man. Lock your door, and open it to none till I come to you.' I staggered away as well as I could, and reached my room. Once alone there, I fell on my knees and tried to pray, but I could not. I could do nothing but cry,—cry, as though my heart would burst; and I fell off asleep, at last, with my head on the bedside, and never awoke till the next day at noon. Oh!” cried he, in a tone of anguish, “do not ask me to recall more of this dreadful story; I'd rather follow the others to the scaffold, than I 'd live over again that terrible day. But you know the rest,—the whole world knows it. It was the 'Awful Tragedy in Jersey' of every newspaper of England; even to the little cottage, in the print-shop windows, the curiosity of the town was gratified. The Pulpit employed the theme to illustrate the life of the debauchee; and the Stage repeated the incidents in a melodrama. With a vindictive inquisitiveness, too, the Press continued to pry after each of us, whither we had gone, and what had become of us. I myself, at last, escaped further scrutiny by the accidental circumstance of a pauper, called Paul Hunt, having died in a poor-house, furnishing the journalist who recorded it one more occasion for moral reflection and eloquence. Collins lived, I know not how or where. She sailed for Australia, but I believe never went beyond the Cape.”

“And you never met her since?”

“Never.”

“Nor have you held any correspondence together?”

“None, directly. I have received some messages; one to that purport I have already told you. Indeed, it was but t' other day that I knew for certain she was in Europe.”

“What was she in appearance,—what style and manner of person?”

“You shall guess before I tell you,” said Paten, smiling sadly.

“A dark-eyed, dark-haired woman,—brunette,—tall,—with a commanding look,—thin lips,—and strongly marked chin.”

“Here,” said he, approaching the binnacle lantern, and holding out a miniature he had drawn from his breast,—“here you can recognize the accuracy of your description.”

“But can that be like her?”

“It is herself; even the careless ease of the attitude, the voluptuous indolence of the 'pose,' is all her own.”

“But she is the very type of feminine softness and delicacy. I never saw eyes more full of gentle meaning, nor a mouth more expressive of womanly grace.”

“There is no flattery in the portrait; nay, it wants the great charm she excelled in,—that ever changeful look as thoughts of joy or sadness would flash across her.”

“Good Heavens!” cried Stocmar. “How hard it is to connect this creature, as she looks here, with such a story!”

“Ah, my friend, these have been the cruel ones, from the earliest time we hear of. The more intensely they are womanly, the more unrelenting their nature.”

“And what do you mean to do, Ludlow? for I own to you I think she is a hard adversary to cope with.”

“I' ll marry her, if she 'll have me.”

“Have you? Of course she will.”

“She says not; and she generally keeps her word.”

“But why should you wish to marry her, Ludlow? You have already told me that you know nothing of her means, or how she lives; and, certainly, the memories of the past give small guarantee for the future. As for myself, I own to you, if there was not another woman—”

“Nay, nay,” broke in Paten, “you have never seen her,—never spoken to her.”

“You forget, my dear fellow, that I have passed a life in an atmosphere of mock fascinations; that tinsel attractions and counterfeit graces would all fail with me.”

“But who says they are factitious?” cried Paten, angrily. “The money that passes from hand to hand, as current coin, may have some alloy in its composition a chemist might call base, but it will not serve to stamp it as fraudulent. I tell you, Stocmar, it is the whole fortune of a man's life to be associated with such a woman. They can mar or make you.”

“More likely the first,” muttered Stocmar. And then added aloud, “And as to her fortune, you actually know nothing.”

“Nothing beyond the fact that there's money somewhere. The girl or she, I can't say which, has it.”

“And of course, in your eyes, it 's like a pool at ÉcartÉ: you don't trouble your head who are the contributors?”

“Not very much if I win, Stocmar!” said he, resuming at once all the wonted ease of his jovial manner.

Stocmar walked the deck in deep thought. The terrible tale he had just heard, though not new in all its details, had impressed him fearfully, while at the same time he could not conceive how a man so burdened with a horrible past could continue either to enjoy the present or speculate on the future.

At last he said, “And have you no dread of recognition, Ludlow? Is the danger of being known and addressed by your real name not always uppermost with you?”

“No, not now. When I first returned to England, after leaving the Austrian service, I always went about with an uneasy impression upon me,—a sort of feeling that when men looked at me they were trying to remember where and when and how they had seen that face before; but up to this none have ever discovered me, except Dell the detective officer, whom I met one night at Cremorne, and who whispered me softly, 'Happy to see you, Mr. Hunt. Have you been long in England?' I affected at first not to understand him, and, touching his hat politely, he said: 'Well, Sir,—Jos. Dell. If you remember, I was there at the inquest.' I invited him to share a bottle of wine with me at once, and we parted like old friends. By the way,” added he, “there was that old pyrotechnist of yours,—that drunken rascal,—he knew me too.”

“Well, you 're not likely to be troubled with another recognition from him, Ludlow.”

“How so? Is the fellow dead?”

“No; but I 've shipped him to New York by the 'Persia.' Truby, of the Bowery Theatre, has taken a three years' lease of him, and of course cocktails and juleps will shorten even that.”

“That is a relief, by Jove!” cried Paten. “I own to you, Stocmar, the thought of being known by that man lay like a stone on my heart. Had you any trouble in inducing him to go?”

“Trouble? No. He went on board drunk; he 'll be drunk all the voyage, and he 'll land in America in the same happy state.”

Paten smiled pleasantly at this picture of beatitude, and smoked on. “There's no doubt about it, Stocmar,” said he, sententiously, “we all of us do make cowards of ourselves quite needlessly, imagining that the world is full of us, canvassing our characters and scrutinizing our actions, when the same good world is only thinking of itself and its own affairs.”

“That is true in part, Ludlow. But let us make ourselves foreground figures, and, take my word for it, we 'll not have to complain of want of notice.”

Paten made a movement of impatience at this speech, that showed how little he liked the sentiment, and then said,—

“There are the lights of Ostend. What a capital passage we have made! I can't express to you,” said he, with more animation, “what a relief it is to me to feel myself on the soil of the Continent. I don't know how it affects others, but to me it seems as if there were greater scope and a freer room for a man's natural abilities there.”

“I suppose you think we are cursed with 'respectability' at home.”

“The very thing I mean,” said he, gayly; “there's nothing I detest like it.”

“Colonel Paten,” cried the steward, collecting his fees.

“Are you Colonel?” asked Stocmar, in a whisper.

“Of course I am, and very modest not to be Major-General. But here we are, inside the harbor already.”

Were we free to take a ramble up the Rhine country, and over the Alps to Como, we might, perhaps, follow the steps of the two travellers we have here presented to our reader. They were ultimately bound for Italy, but in no wise tied by time or route. In fact, Mr. Stocmar's object was to seek out some novelties for the coming season. “Nihil humanum a me alienum puto” was his maxim. All was acceptable that was attractive. He catered for the most costly of all publics, and who will insist on listening to the sweetest voices and looking at the prettiest legs in Europe. He was on the lookout for both. What Ludlow Paten's object was the reader may perhaps guess without difficulty, but there was another “transaction” in his plan not so easily determined. He had heard much of Clara Hawke,—to give her her true name,—of her personal attractions and abilities, and he wished Stocmar to see and pronounce upon her. Although he possessed no pretension to dispose of her whatever, he held certain letters of her supposed mother in his keeping which gave him a degree of power which he believed irresistible. Now, there is a sort of limited liability slavery at this moment recognized in Europe, by which theatrical managers obtain a lease of human ability, for a certain period, under nonage, and of which Paten desired to derive profit by letting Clara out as dancer, singer, comedian, or “figurante,” according to her gifts; and this, too, was a purpose of the present journey.

The painter or the sculptor, in search of his model, has no higher requirements than those of form and symmetry; he deals solely with externals, while the impresario most carry his investigations far beyond the category of personal attractions, and soar into the lofty atmosphere of intellectual gifts and graces, bearing along with him, at the same time, a full knowledge of that public for whom he is proceeding; that fickle, changeful, fanciful public, who sometimes, out of pure satiety with what is best, begin to long for what is second-rate. What consummate skill must be his who thus feels the pulse of fashion, recognizing in its beat the indications of this or that tendency, whether “society” soars to the classic “Norma,” or descends to the tawdry vulgarisms of the “Traviata”! No man ever accepted more implicitly than Mr. Stocmar the adage of “Whatever is, is best.” The judgment of the day with him was absolute. The “world” a toujours raison, was his creed. When that world pronounced for music, he cried, “Long live Verdi!” when it decided for the ballet, his toast was, “Legs against the field!” Now, at this precise moment, this same world had taken a turn for mere good looks,—if it be not heresy to say “mere” to such a thing as beauty,—and had actually grown a little wearied of roulades and pirouettes; and so Stocmar had come abroad, to see what the great slave market of Europe could offer him.

Let us suppose them, therefore, pleasantly meandering along through the Rhineland, while we turn once more to those whom we have left beyond the Alps.