Moralists have often found a fruitful theme in the utter barrenness of all the appliances men employ for their pleasures. What failures follow them, what weariness, what satiety and heart-sickness! The feast of Belshazzar everywhere!

To the mere eye nothing could be more splendid, nothing more suggestive of enjoyment, than the Pergola of Florence when brilliantly lighted and thronged with a gay and merry company. Character figures in every variety fancy or caprice could suggest—Turks, Styrians, Highlanders, Doges, Dervishes, and Devils—abounded, with Pifferari from Calabria, Muleteers, Matadors, and Conjurers; Boyards from Tobolsk jostled Male Crusaders, and Demons that might have terrified St. Anthony flitted past with Sisters of Charity! Strange parody upon the incongruities of our every-day life, costume serving but to typify the moral incompatibilities which are ever at work in our actual existence! for are not the people we see linked together—are not the social groupings we witness—just as widely separated by every instinct and every sentiment as are these characters in all their motley? Are the two yonder, as they sit at the fireside, not as remote from each other as though centuries had rolled between them? They toil along, it is true, together; they drag the same burden, but with different hopes and fears and motives. Bethink you “the friends so linked together” are like-minded? No, it is all masquerade; and the motley is that same easy conventionality by which we hope to escape undetected and unknown!

Our business now is not with the mass of this great assemblage; we are only interested for two persons,—one of whom, a tall figure in a black domino, leans against a pillar yonder, closely scrutinizing each new-comer that enters, and eagerly glancing at the sleeve of every yellow domino that passes.

He has been there from an early hour of the evening, and never left it since. Many a soft voice has whispered some empty remark on his impassiveness; more than once a jesting sarcasm has been uttered upon his participation in the gayety around; but he has never replied, but with folded arms patiently awaited the expected one. At last he is joined by another, somewhat shorter and stouter, but dressed like him, who, bending close to his ear, whispers,—

“Why are you standing here,—have you not seen her?”

“No; she has never passed this door.”

“She entered by the stage, and has been walking about this hour. I saw her talking to several, to whom, to judge by their gestures, her remarks must have been pointed enough; but there she is,—see, she is leaning on the arm of that Malay chief. Join her; you know the signal.”

Paten started suddenly from his lounging attitude, and cleft his way through the crowd, little heeding the comments his rude persistence called forth. As he drew nigh where the yellow domino stood, he hesitated and glanced around him, as though he felt that every eye was watching him, and only after a moment or so did he seem to remember that he was disguised. At last he approached her, and, taking her sleeve in his hand, unpinned the little cross of tricolored ribbon and fastened it on his own domino. With a light gesture of farewell she quickly dismissed her cavalier and took his arm.

As he led her along through the crowd, neither spoke, and it was only at last, as seemingly baffled to find the spot he sought for, she said,—

“All places are alike here. Let us talk as we walk along.”

A gentle pressure on her arm seemed to assent, and she went on:—

“It was only at the last moment that I determined to come here this evening. You have deceived me. Yes; don't deny it. Paten is with you here, and you never told me.”

He muttered something that sounded like apology.

“It was unfair of you,” said she, hurriedly, “for I was candid and open with you; and it was needless, besides, for we are as much apart as if hundreds of miles separated us. I told you already as much.”

“But why not see him? He alone can release you from the bond that ties you; he may be more generous than you suspect.”

“He generous! Who ever called him so?”

“Many who knew him as well as you,” cried he, suddenly.

With a bound she disengaged her arm from him, and sprang back.

“Do not touch me; lay so much as a finger on me, and I 'll unmask and call upon this crowd for protection!” cried she, in a voice trembling with passion. “I know you now.”

“Let me speak with you a few words,—the last I shall ever ask,” muttered he, “and I promise all you dictate.”

“Leave me—leave me at once,” said she, in a mere whisper. “If you do not leave me, I will declare aloud who you are.”

“Who we are; don't forget yourself,” muttered he.

“For that I care not. I am ready.”

“For mercy's sake, Loo, do not,” cried he, as she lifted her hand towards the strings of her mask. “I will go. You shall never see me more. I came here to make the one last reparation I owe you, to give you up your letters, and say good-bye forever.”

“That you never did,—never!” cried she, passionately. “You came because you thought how, in the presence of this crowd, the terror of exposure would crush my woman's heart, and make me yield to any terms you pleased.”

“If I swear to you by all that I believe is true—”

“You never did believe; your heart rejected belief. When I said I knew you, I meant it all: I do know you. I know, besides, that when the scaffold received one criminal, it left another, and a worse, behind. For many a year you have made my life a hell. I would not care to go on thus; all your vengeance and all the scorn of the world would be light compared to what I wake to meet each morning, and close my eyes to, as I sleep at night.”

“Listen to me, Loo, but for one moment. I do not want to justify myself. You are not more wretched than I am,—utterly, irretrievably wretched!”

“Where are the letters?” said she, in a low whisper.

“They are here,—in Florence.”

“What sum will you take for them?”

“They shall be yours unbought, Loo, if you will but hear me.

“I want the letters; tell me their price.”

“The price is simply one meeting—one opportunity to clear myself before you—to show you how for years my heart has clung to you.”

“I cannot buy them at this cost. Tell me how much money you will have for them.”

“It is your wish to outrage, to insult me, then?” muttered he, in a voice thick with passion.

“Now you are natural; now you are yourself; and now I can speak to you. Tell me your price.”

“Your shame!—your open degradation! The spectacle of your exposure before all Europe, when it shall have been read in every language and talked of in every city.”

“I have looked for that hour for many a year, Paul Hunt, and its arrival would be mercy, compared with the daily menace of one like you.”

“The story of the murder again revived; the life you led, the letters themselves revealing it; the orphan child robbed of her inheritance; the imposture of your existence abroad here!—what variety in the scenes! what diversity in the interests!”

“I am far from rich, but I would pay you liberally, Paul,” said she, in a voice low and collected.

“Cannot you see, woman, that by this language you are wrecking your last hope of safety?” cried he, insolently. “Is it not plain to you that you are a fool to insult the hand that can crush you?”

“But I am crushed; I can fall no lower,” whispered she, tremulously.

“Oh, dearest Loo, if you would forgive me for the past!”

“I cannot—I cannot!” burst she out, in a voice scarcely above a whisper. “I have done all I could, but I cannot!”

“If you only knew how I was tempted to it, Loo! If you but heard the snare that was laid for me!”

A scornful toss of her head was all her answer.

“It is in my consciousness of the wrong I have done you that I seek this reparation, Loo,” said he, eagerly. “When I speak otherwise, it is my passion gives utterance to the words. My heart is, however, true to you.”

“Will you let me have my letters, and at what cost? I tell you again, I am not rich, but I will pay largely, liberally here.”

“Let me confess it, Loo,” said he, in a trembling tone, “these letters are the one last link between us. It is not for a menace I would keep them,—so help me Heaven, the hour of your shame would be that of my death,—but I cling to them as the one tie that binds my fate to yours. I feel that when I surrender them, that tie is broken; that I am nothing to you; that you would hear my name unmoved, and see me pass without a notice. Bethink you, then, that you ask me for what alone attaches me to existence.”

“I cannot understand such reasonings,” said she, coldly. “These letters have no other value save the ruin they can work me. If not employed to that end, they might as well blacken in the fire or moulder into dust. You tell me you are not in search of any vengeance on me, and it is much to say, for I never injured you, while you have deeply injured me. Why, therefore, not give up what you own to be so useless?”

“For the very reason I have given you, Loo; that, so long as I hold them, I have my interest in your heart, and you cannot cease to feel bound up with my destiny.”

“And is not this vengeance?” asked she, quietly. “Can you picture to your mind a revenge more cruel, living on from day to day, and gathering force from time?”

“But to me there is ever the hope that the past might come back again.”

“Never—never!” said she, resolutely. “The man who has corrupted a woman's heart may own as much of it as can feel love for him; but he who has held up to shame the dishonor he has provoked must be satisfied with her loathing and her hate.”

“And you tell me that these are my portion?” said he, sternly.

“Your conscience can answer how you have earned them.”

They walked along side by side in silence for some time, and at last she said, “How much better, for both of us, to avoid words of passion or remembrances of long ago.”

“You loved me once, Loo,” broke he in, with deep emotion.

“And if I once contracted a debt which I could not pay you now, would you insult me for my poverty, or persecute me? I do not think so, Ludlow.”

“And when I have given them to you, Loo, and they are in your hands, how are we to meet again? Are we to be as utter strangers to each other?” said he, in deep agitation.

“Yes,” replied she, “it is as such we must be. There is no hardship in this; or, if there be, only what one feels in seeing the house he once lived in occupied by another,—a passing pang, perhaps, but no more.”

“How you are changed, Loo!” cried he.

“How silly would it be for the trees to burst out in bud with winter! and the same folly were it for us not to change as life wears on. Our spring is past, Ludlow.”

“But I could bear all if you were not changed to me,” cried he, passionately.

“Far worse, again. I am changed to myself, so that I do not know myself,” said she.

“I know well how your heart reproaches me for all this, Loo,” said he, sorrowfully; “how you accuse me of being the great misfortune of your life. Is it not so?”

“Who can answer this better than yourself?” cried she, bitterly.

“And yet, was it not the whole aim and object of my existence to be otherwise? Did I not venture everything for your love?”

“If you would have me talk with you, speak no more of this. You have it in your power to do me a great service, or work me a great injury; for the first, I mean to be more than grateful; that is, I would pay all I could command; for the last, your recompense must be in the hate you bear me. Decide which path you will take, and let me face my future as best I may.”

“There is one other alternative, Loo, which you have forgotten.”

“What is it?”

“Can you not forgive me?” said he, almost sobbing as he spoke.

“I cannot,—I cannot,” said she. “You ask me for more than any human heart could yield. All that the world can heap upon me of contempt would be as nothing to what I should feel for myself if I stooped to that. No, no; follow out your vengeance if it must be, but spare me to my own heart.”

“Do you know the insults you cast upon me?” cried he, savagely. “Are you aware that it is to my own ears you speak these words?”

“Do not quarrel with me because I deal honestly by you,” said she, firmly. “I will not promise that I cannot pay. Remember, too, Ludlow, that what I ask of you I do not ask from your generosity. I make no claim to what I have forfeited all right. I simply demand the price you set upon a certain article of which to me the possession is more than life. I make no concealment from you. I own it frankly—openly.”

“You want your letters, and never to hear more of me!” said he, sternly.

“What sum will you take for them?” said she, in a slow, whispering voice.

“You ask what will enable you to set me at defiance forever, Loo! Say it frankly and fairly. You want to tear your bond and be free.”

She did not speak, and he went on,—

“And you can ask this of the man you abhor! you can stoop to solicit him whom, of all on earth, you hate the most!”

Still she was silent.

“Well,” said he, after a lengthened pause, “you shall have them. I will restore them to you. I have not got them here,—they are in England,—but I will fetch them. My word on it that I will keep my pledge. I see,” added he, after an interval, in which he expected she would speak, but was still silent,—“I see how little faith you repose in a promise. You cannot spare one word of thanks for what you regard as so uncertain; but I can endure this, for I have borne worse. Once more, then, I swear to you, you shall have your letters back. I will place them myself in your hands, and before witnesses too. Remember that, Loo—before witnesses!” And with these words, uttered with a sort of savage energy, he turned away from her, and was soon lost in the crowd.

“I have followed you this hour, Loo,” said a low voice beside her.

She turned and took the speaker's arm, trembling all over, and scarcely able to keep from falling.

“Take me away, father,—take me away from this,” said she, faintly. “I feel very ill.”

“It was Paten was with you. I could not mistake him,” said Holmes. “What has occurred between you?”

“I will tell you all when I get home,” said she, still speaking faintly. And now they moved through the motley crowd, with sounds of mirth and words of folly making din around them. Strange discrepant accents to fall on hearts as full as theirs! “How glad I am to breathe this fresh cold night air,” cried she, as they gained the street. “It was the heat, the noise, and the confusion overcame me, but I am better now.”

“And how have you parted with him?” asked her father, eagerly.

“With a promise that sounds like a threat,” said she, in a hollow voice. “But you shall hear all.”