That twilight of the year called spring, most delightful of all seasons, is scarcely known in Italy. Winter dies languidly away, and summer bursts forth at once, and in a few days the trees are clothed in full foliage, the tall grass is waving, and panting lizards sun themselves on the rocks over which so lately the mountain torrent was foaming. There are, however, a few days of transition, and these are inexpressibly delicious. The balmy air scented with the rose and the violet stirs gently through the olive-trees, shaking the golden limes amidst the dark leaves, and carrying away the sweet perfume on its breath; rivulets run bright and clear through rocky channels, mingling their murmurs with the early cicala. The acacia sheds its perfume on the breeze,—a breeze so faint, as though it loved to linger on its way; and so, above, the lazy clouds hang upon the mountains, or float in fragments out to sea, as day wears on. What vitality there is in it all!—the rustling leaves, the falling water, the chirping birds, the softly plashing tide, all redolent of that happy season,—the year's bright youth.
On such a day as this Alfred Layton strolled languidly through the grounds of Marlia. Three months of severe illness had worn him to a shadow, and he walked with the debility of one who had just escaped from a sick-room. The place was now deserted. The Heathcotes had gone to Rome for the winter, and the Villa was shut up and untenanted. It had been a cherished wish of poor Layton to visit the spot as soon as he could venture abroad; and Quackinboss, the faithful friend who had nursed him through his whole illness, had that day yielded to his persuasion and brought him there.
Who could have recognized the young and handsome youth in the broken-down, feeble, careworn man who now leaned over the palings of a little flower-garden, and gazed mournfully at a rustic bench beneath a lime-tree? Ay, there it was, in that very spot, one chapter of his life was finished. It was there she had refused him! He had no right, it is true, to have presumed so highly; there was nothing in his position to warrant such daring; but had she not encouraged him? That was the question; he believed so, at least. She had seen his devotion to her, and had not repulsed it. Nay, more, she had suffered him to speak to her of feelings and emotions, of hopes and fears and ambitions, that only they are led to speak who talk to willing ears. Was this encouragement, or was it the compassionate pity of one, to him, so friendless and alone? May certainly knew that he loved her. She had even resented his little passing attentions to Mrs. Morris, and was actually jealous of the hours he bestowed on Clara; and yet, with all this, she had refused him, and told him not to hope that, even with time, her feeling towards him should change. “How could it be otherwise?” cried he to himself. “What was I, to have pretended so highly? Her husband should be able to offer a station superior to her own. So thought she, too, herself. How her words ring in my ears even yet: 'Idolove rank'! Yes, it was there, on that spot, she said it. I made confession of my love, and she, in turn, told me ofhers; and it was the world, the great and gorgeous prize, for which men barter everything. And then her cold smile, as I said, 'What is this same rank you prize so highly; can I not reach it—win it?' 'I will not waste youth in struggle and conflict,' said she. 'Ha!' cried I, 'these words are not yours. I heard them one short week ago. I know your teacher now. It was that false-hearted woman gave you these precious maxims. It was not thus you spoke or felt when first I knew you, May.' 'Is it not well,' said she, 'that we have each grown wiser?' I heard no more. I have no memory for the passionate words I uttered, the bitter reproaches I dared to make her. We parted in anger, never to meet again; and then poor Clara, how I hear her faint, soft voice, as she found me sitting there alone, forsaken, as she asked me, 'May I take these flowers?' and oh! how bitterly she wept as I snatched them from her hand, and scattered them on the ground, saying, 'They were not meant for you!' 'Let me have one, dear Alfred,' said she, just then; and she took up a little jasmine flower from the walk. 'Even that you despise to give is dearto me!And so I kissed her on the forehead, and said, 'Good-bye.' Two partings,—never to meet again!” He covered his face with his hands, and his chest heaved heavily.
“It's main dreary in these diggin's here,” cried Quackinboss, as he came up with long strides. “I 've been a-lookin' about on every side to find some one to open the house for us, but there ain't a crittur to be found. What 's all this about? You haven't been a-cryin', have you?”
Alfred turned away his head without speaking.
“I'll tell you what it is, Layton,” said he, earnestly, “there's no manner of misfortune can befall in life that one need to fret over, but the death of friends, or sickness; and as these are God's own doin', it is not for us to say they 're wrong. Cheer up, man; you and I are a-goin' to fight the world together.”
“You have been a true friend to me,” said Layton, grasping the other's hand, while he held his head still averted.
“Well, I mean to, that's a fact; but you must rouse yourself, lad. We're a-goin' 'cross seas, and amongst fellows that, whatever they do with their spare time, give none of it to grief. Who ever saw John C. Colhoun cry? Did any one ever catch Dan Webster in tears?”
“I was n't crying,” said Layton; “I was only saddened to see again a spot where I used to be so happy. I was thinking of bygones.”
“I take it bygones is very little use if they don't teach us something more than to grieve over 'em; and, what's more, Layton,—it sounds harsh to say it,—but grief, when it's long persisted in, is downright selfishness, and nothing else.”
Layton slipped his arm within the other's to move away, but as he did so he turned one last look towards the little garden.
“I see it all now,” said Quackinboss, as they walked along; “you've been and met a sweetheart down here once on a time, that's it. She's been what they call cruel, or she's broke her word to you. Well, I don't suppose there's one man livin'—of what might be called real men—as has n't had something of the same experience. Some has it early, some late, but it's like the measles, it pushes you main hard if you don't take it when you 're young. There's no bending an old bough,—you must break it.”
There was a deep tone of melancholy in the way the last words were uttered that made Layton feel his companion was speaking from the heart.
“But it's all our own fault,” broke in Quackinboss, quickly; “it all comes of the way we treat 'em.”
“How do you mean?” asked Layton, eagerly.
“I mean,” said the other, resolutely, “we treat 'em as reasonable beings, and they ain't. No, sir, women is like Red-men; they ain't to be persuaded, or argued with; they 're to be told what is right for 'em, and good for 'em, and that's all. What does all your courting and coaxing a gal, but make her think herself something better than all creation? Why, you keep a-tellin' her so all day, and she begins to believe it at last. Now, how much better and fairer to say to her, 'Here's how it is, miss, you 've got to marry me, that's how it's fixed.' She 'll understand that.”
“But if she says, 'No, I won't'?”
“No, no,” said Quackinboss, with a half-bitter smile, “she 'll never say that to the man as knows how to tell her his mind. And as for that courtship, it's all a mistake. Why, women won't confess they like a man, just to keep the game a-movin'. I'm blest if they don't like it better than marriage.”
Layton gave a faint smile, but, faint as it was, Quackinboss perceived it, and said,—
“Now, don't you go a-persuadin' yourself these are all Yankee notions and such-like. I'm a-talkin' of human natur', and there ain't many as knows more of that article than Leonidas Shaver Quackinboss. All you Old-World folk make one great mistake, and nothing shows so clearly as how you 're a worn-out race, used up and done for. You live too much with your emotions and your feelin's. Have you never remarked that when the tap-root of a tree strikes down too far, it gets into a cold soil? And from that day for'ard you 'll never see fruit or blossom more. That's just the very thing you 're a-doin'. You ain't satisfied to be active and thrivin' and healthful, but you must go a-specu-latin' about why you are this, and why you ain't t' other. Get work to do, sir, and do it.”
“It is what I intend,” said Layton, in a low voice.
“There ain't nothing like labor,” said Quackinboss, with energy; “work keeps the devil out of a man's mind, for somehow there's nothing that black fellow loves like loafing. And whenever I see a great, tall, well-whiskered chap leaning over a balcony in a grand silk dressing-gown, with a gold stitched cap on his head, and he a-yawning, I say to myself, 'Maybe I don't knowwho 'sat your elbow now;' and when I see one of our strapping Western fellows, as he has given the last stroke of his hatchet to a pine-tree, and stands back to let it fall, wiping the honest sweat from his brow, as his eyes turn upward over the tree-tops to something higher than them, I say to my heart, 'All right, there; he knows who it was gave him the strength to lay that sixty-foot stem so low.'”
“You say truly,” muttered Layton.
“I know it, sir; I 've been a-loafing myself these last three years, and I 've run more to seed in that time than in all my previous life; but I mean to give it up.”
“What are your plans?” asked Layton, not sorry to let the conversation turn away from himself and his own affairs.
“My plans! They are ours, I hope,” said Quackinboss. “You're a-coming out with me to the States, sir. We fixed it all t' other night, I reckon ! I 'm a-goin' to make your fortune; or, better still, to show you how to make it for yourself.”
Layton walked on in moody silence, while Quackinboss, with all the zealous warmth of conviction, described the triumphs and success he was to achieve in the New World.
A very few words will suffice to inform our reader of all that he need know on this subject. During Layton's long convalescence poor Quackinboss felt his companionable qualities sorely taxed. At first, indeed, his task was that of consoler, for he had to communicate the death of Alfred's mother, which occurred in the early days of her son's illness. The Rector's letter, in conveying the sad tidings, was everything that kindness and delicacy could dictate, and, with scarcely a reference to his own share in the benevolence, showed that all care and attention had waited upon her last hours. The blow, however, was almost fatal to Layton; and the thought of that forlorn, deserted death-bed clung to him by day, and filled his dreams by night.
Quackinboss did his utmost, not very skilfully nor very adroitly, perhaps, but with a hearty sincerity, to combat this depression. He tried to picture a future of activity and exertion,—a life of sterling labor. He placed before his companion's eyes the objects and ambitions men usually deem the worthiest, and endeavored to give them an interest to him. Met in all his attempts by a dreary, hopeless indifference, the kind-hearted fellow reflected long and deeply over his next resource; and so one day, when Layton's recovered strength suggested a hope for the project, he gave an account of his own neglected youth, how, thrown when a mere boy upon the world, he had never been able to acquire more than a smattering of what others learn at school. “I had three books in the world, sir,—a Bible, Robinson Crusoe, and an old volume of Wheatson's Algebra. And from a-readin' and readin' of 'em over and over, I grew to blend 'em all up in my head together. And there was Friday, just as much a reality to me as Father Abraham; and I thought men kept all their trade reckoning by simple equations. I felt, in fact, as if there was no more than these three books in all creation, and out of them a man had to pick all the wisdom he could. Now, what I 'm a-thinkin' is that though I 'm too old to go to school, maybe as how you 'd not refuse to give me a helpin' hand, by readin' occasionally out of those languages I only know by name? Teachin' an old fellow like me is well-nigh out of the question; but when a man has got a long, hard-earned experience of human natur', it's a main pleasant thing to know that oftentimes the thoughts that he is struggling with have occurred to great minds who know how to utter them; and so many an impression comes to be corrected, or mayhap confirmed, by those clever fellows, with their thoughtful heads.”
There was one feature in the project which could not but gratify Layton; it enabled him to show his gratitude for the brotherly affection he had met with, and he accepted the suggestion at once. The first gleam of animation that had lighted his eyes for many a day was when planning out the line of reading he intended them to follow. Taking less eras of history than some of the great men who had illustrated them, he thought how such characters would be sure to interest one whose views of life were eminently practical, and so a great law-giver, a legislator, a great general, or orator, was each evening selected for their reading. If it were not out of our track, we might tell here how much Layton was amused by the strange, shrewd commentaries of his companion on the characters of a classic age; or how he enjoyed the curious resemblances Quackinboss would discover between the celebrities of Athens and Rome and the great men of his own country. And many a time was the reader interrupted by such exclamations as, “Ay, sir, just what J. Q. Adams would have said!” or, “That 's the way our John Randolph would have fixed it!”
But Quackinboss was not satisfied with the pleasure thus afforded to himself, for, with native instinct, he began to think how all such stores of knowledge and amusement might be utilized for the benefit of the possessor.
“You must come to the States, Layton,” he would say. “You must let our people hear these things. They 're a main sharp, wide-awake folk, but they ain't posted up about Greeks and Romans. Just mind me, now, and you'll do a fine stroke of work, sir. Give them one of these pleasant stories out of that fellow there, Herod—Herod—what d'ye call him?”
“Herodotus?”
“Ay, that's he; and then a slice out of one of those slapping speeches you read to me t' other night. I'm blessed if the fellow did n't lay it on like Point Dexter himself; and wind up all with what we can't match, a comic scene from Aristophanes. You see I have his name all correct. I ain't christened Shaver if you don't fill your hat with Yankee dollars in every second town of the Union.”
Layton burst out into a hearty laugh at what seemed to him a project so absurd and impossible; but Quackinboss, with increased gravity, continued,—
“Your British pride, mayhap, is offended by the thought of lecturin' to us Western folk; but I am here to tell you, sir, that our own first men—ay, and you 'll not disparagethem—are a-doin' it every day. It's not play-actin' I 'm speaking of. They don't go before a crowded theatre to play mimic with face or look or voice or gesture. They 've got a something to tell folk that's either ennobling or instructive. They've got a story of some man, who, without one jot more of natural advantages than any of those listening there, made himself a name to be blessed and remembered for ages. They've to show what a thing a strong will is when united with an honest heart; and how no man, no matter how humble he be, need despair of being useful to his fellows. They 've got many a lesson out of history to give a people who are just as ambitious, just as encroaching, and twice as warlike as the Athenians, about not neglecting private morality in the search after national greatness. What is the lecturer but the pioneer to the preacher? In clearing away ignorance and superstition, ain't he making way for the army of truth that's coming up? Now I tell you, sir, that ain't a thing to be ashamed of!”
Layton was silent; not convinced, it is true, but restrained, from respect for the other's ardor, from venturing on a reply too lightly. Quackinboss, after a brief pause, went on:—
“Well, it is possible what I said about the profit riled you. Well, then, don't take the dollars; or take them, and give them, as some of our Western men do, to some object of public good,—if you 're rich enough.”
“Rich enough! I'm a beggar,” broke in Layton, bitterly, “I 'm at this instant indebted to you for more than, perhaps, years of labor may enable me to repay.”
“I put it all down in a book, sir,” said Quackinboss, sternly, “and I threw it in the fire the first night you read out Homer to me. I said to myself, 'You are well paid, Shaver, old fellow. You never knew how your heart could be shaken that way, and what brave feelings were lying there still, inside of it.'”
“Nay, dear friend, it is not thus I 'm to acquit my debt Even the moneyed one—”
“I tell you what, Layton,” said Quackinboss, rising, and striking the table with his clenched fist, “there's only one earthly way to part us, and that is by speaking to me of this. Once, and forever, I say to you, there's more benefit to a man like me to be your companion for a week, than foryouto have toiled, and fevered, and sweated after gold, as I have done for thirty hard years.”
“Give me a day or two to think over it,” said Layton, “and I 'll tell you my resolve.”
“With all my heart! Only, I would ask you not to take my showing of its goodness, but to reason the thing well out of your own clear head. Many a just cause is lost by a bad lawyer; remember that” And thus the discussion ended for the time.
The following morning, when they met at breakfast, Layton took the other's hand, and said,—
“I 've thought all night of what you 've said, and I accept,—not without many a misgiving as regards myself, but I accept.”
“I'd not take ten thousand dollars for the engagement, sir,” said Quackinboss, as he wrung Layton's hand. “No, sir, I 'd not take it, for even four cities of the Union.”
Although thus the project was ratified between them, scarcely a day passed that Layton did not experience some compunction for his pledge. Now, it was a repugnance to the sort of enterprise he was about to engage in, the criticisms to which he was to expose himself, and the publicity he was to confront; nor could all his companion's sanguine assurances of success compensate him for his own heartfelt repugnance to try the ordeal.
“After all,” thought he, “failure, with all its pangs of wounded self-love, will only serve to show Quackinboss how deeply I feel myself his debtor when I am content to risk so much to repay him.”
Such was the bond he had signed, such his struggles to fulfil its obligations. One only condition he stipulated for,—he wished to go to Ireland before setting out for the States, to see the last resting-place of his poor mother ere he quitted his country, perhaps forever. Dr. Millar, too, had mentioned that a number of letters were amongst the few relics she had left, and he desired, for many reasons, that these should not fall into strangers' hands. As for Qnackinboss, he agreed to everything. Indeed, he thought that as there was no use in reaching the States before “the fall,” they could not do better than ramble about Ireland, while making some sort of preparation for the coming campaign.
“How sad this place makes me!” said Layton, as they strolled along one of the leaf-strewn alleys. “I wish I had not come here.”
“That's just what I was a-thinkin' myself,” said the other. “I remember coming back all alone once over the Michigan prairie, which I had travelled about eight months before with a set of hearty companions, and whenever I 'd come up to one of the spots where our tent used to be pitched, and could mark the place by the circle of greener grass, with a burned-up patch where the fire stood, it was all I could do not to burst out a-cryin' like a child! It's a main cruel thing to go back alone to where you 've once been happy in, and there 's no forgettin' the misery of it ever after.”
“That's true,” said Layton; “the pleasant memories are erased forever. Let us go.”
It is amongst the prerogatives of an author to inform his reader of many things which go on “behind the scenes” of life. Let me, therefore, ask your company, for a brief space, in a small and not ill-furnished chamber, which, deep in the recesses of back scenes, dressing-rooms, scaffolding, and machinery, is significantly entitled, by a painted inscription, “Manager's Room.” Though the theatre is a London one, the house is small. It is one of those West-End speculations which are occasionally graced by a company of French comedians, a monologist, or a conjurer. There is all the usual splendor before the curtain, and all the customary squalor behind. At the present moment—for it is growing duskish of a November day, and rehearsal is just over—the general aspect of the place is dreary enough. The box fronts and the lustre are cased in brown holland, and, though the curtain is up, the stage presents nothing but a chaotic mass of disjointed scenery and properties. Tables, chairs, musical instruments, the half of a boat, a throne, and a guillotine lie littered about, amidst which a ragged supernumerary wanders, broom in hand, but apparently hopeless of where or how to begin to reduce the confusion to order.
The manager's room is somewhat more habitable, for there is a good carpet, warm curtains, and an excellent fire, at which two gentlemen are seated, whose jocund tones and pleasant faces are certainly, so far as outward signs go, fair guarantees that the world is not dealing very hardly with them, nor they themselves much disgusted with the same world. One of these—the elder, a middle-aged man somewhat inclined to corpulency, with a florid cheek, and clear, dark eye—is the celebrated Mr. Hyman Stocmar; celebrated, I say, for who can take up the morning papers without reading his name and knowing his whereabouts; as thus: “We are happy to be able to inform our readers that Mr. Stocmar is perfectly satisfied with his after season at the 'Regent's.' Whatever other managers may say, Mr. Stocmar can make no complaint of courtly indifference. Her Majesty has four times within the last month graced his theatre with her presence. Mr. Stocmar is at Madrid, at Vienna, at Naples. Mr. Stocmar is in treaty with Signor Urlaccio of Turin, or Mademoiselle Voltarina of Venice. He has engaged the Lapland voyagers, sledge-dogs and all, the Choctaw chiefs, or the Californian lecturer, Boreham, for the coming winter. Let none complain of London in November so long as Mr. Hyman Stocmar caters for the public taste;” and so on. To look at Stocmar's bright complexion, his ruddy glow, his well-filled waistcoat, and his glossy ringlets,—for, though verging on forty, he has them still “curly,”—you'd scarcely imagine it possible that his life was passed amongst more toil, confusion, difficulty, and distraction than would suffice to kill five out of any twenty, and render the other fifteen deranged. I do not mean alone the worries inseparable from a theatrical direction,—the fights, the squabbles, the insufferable pretensions he must bear, the rivalries he must reconcile, the hates he must conciliate; the terrible existence of coax and bully, bully and coax, fawn, flatter, trample on, and outrage, which goes on night and day behind the curtain,—but that his whole life in the world is exactly a mild counterpart of the same terrible performance; the great people, his patrons, being fifty times more difficult to deal with than the whole corps itself,—the dictating dowagers and exacting lords, the great man who insists upon Mademoiselle So-and-so being engaged, the great lady who will have no other box than that occupied by the Russian embassy, the friends of this tenor and the partisans of that, the classic admirers of grand music, and that larger section who will have nothing but comic opera, not to mention the very extreme parties who only care for the ballet, and those who vote the “Traviata” an unclean thing. What are a lover's perjuries to the lies such a man tells all day long?—lies only to be reckoned by that machine that records the revolutions of a screw in a steamer. His whole existence is passed in promises, excuses, evasions, and explanations; always paying a small dividend to truth, he barely escapes utter bankruptcy, and by a plausibility most difficult to distrust, he obtains a kind of half-credit,—that of one who would keep his word if he could.
By some strange law of compensation, this man, who sees a very dark side of human nature,—sees it in its low intrigues, unworthy pursuits, falsehoods, and depravities,—who sees even the “great” in their moods of meanness,—this man, I say, has the very keenest relish for life, and especially the life of London. He knows every capital of Europe: Paris, from the Chaussée d'Antin to the Boulevard Mont-Parnasse; Vienna, from the Hof to the Volksgarten; Rome, from the Piazza di Spagna to the Ghetto; and yet he would tell you they are nothing, all of them, to that area between Pall Mall and the upper gate of Hyde Park. He loves his clubs, his dinners, his junketings to Richmond or Greenwich, his short Sunday excursions to the country, generally to some great artiste's villa near Fulham or Chiswick, and declares to you that it is England alone offers all these in perfection. Is it any explanation, does it give any clew to this gentleman's nature, if I say that a certain aquiline character in his nose, and a peculiar dull lustre in the eye, recall that race who, with all the odds of a great majority against them, enjoy a marvellous share of this world's prosperity? Opposite to him sits one not unworthy—even from externals—of his companionship. He is a very good-looking fellow, with light brown hair, his beard and moustaches being matchless in tint and arrangement: he has got large, full blue eyes, a wide capacious forehead, and that style of head, both in shape and the way in which it is set on, which indicate a frank, open, and courageous nature. Were it not for a little over-attention to dress, there is no “snobbery” about him; but there is a little too much velvet on his paletot, and his watch trinkets are somewhat in excess, not to say that the gold head of his cane is ostentatiously large and striking. This is Captain Ludlow Paten, a man about town, known to and by everybody, very much asked about in men's circles, but never by any accident met in ladies' society. By very young men he is eagerly sought after. It is one of the best things coming of age has in its gift is to know Paten and be able to ask him to dine. Older ones relish him full as much; but his great popularity is with a generation beyond that again: the mediaevals, who walk massively and ride not at all; the florid, full-cheeked, slightly bald generation, who grace club windows of a morning and the coulisses at night. These are his “set,”par excellence, and he knows them thoroughly. As for himself or his family, no one knows, nor, indeed, wants to know anything. The men he associates with chiefly in life are all “cognate numbers,” and these are the very people who never trouble their heads about a chance intruder amongst them; and although some rumor ran that his father was a porter at the Home Office, or a tailor at Blackwall, none care a jot on the matter: they want him; and he could n't be a whit more useful if his veins ran with all the blood of all the Howards.
There is a story of him, however, which, though I reveal to you, is not generally known. He was once tried for a murder. It was a case of poisoning in Jersey, where the victim was a well-known man of the Turf, and who was murdered by the party he had invited to spend a Christmas with him. Paten was one of the company, and included in the accusation. Two were banged; Paten and another, named Collier, acquitted. Paten's name was Hunt, but he changed it at once, and, going abroad, entered the Austrian service, where, in eight years, he became a lieutenant. This was enough for probation and rank, and so he returned to England as Captain Ludlow Paten. Stocmar, of course, knew the story: there were half a dozen more, also, who did, but they each and all knew that poor Paul was innocent; that there was n't a fragment of evidence against him; that he lost—actually lost—by Hawke's death; that he was carried tipsy to bed that night two hours before the murder; that he was so overcome the next morning by his debauch that he was with difficulty awakened; that the coroner thought him a downright fool, he was so stunned by the event; in a word, though he changed his name to Paten, and now wore a tremendous beard, and affected a slightly foreign accent, these were disguises offered up to the mean prejudices of the world rather than precautions of common safety and security.
Though thus Paten's friends had passed this bill of indemnity in his favor, the affair of Jersey was never alluded to, by even his most intimate amongst them. It was a page of history to be carefully wafered up till that reckoning when all volumes are ransacked, and no blottings nor erasures avail! As for himself, who, to look at him, with his bright countenance, to hear the jocund ring of his merry laugh—who could ever imagine such a figure in a terrible scene of tragedy? What could such a man have to do with any of the dark machinations of crime, the death-struggle, the sack, the silent party that stole across the grass at midnight, and the fish-pond? Oh, no! rather picture him as one who, meeting such details in his daily paper, would hastily turn the sheet to seek for pleasanter matter; and so it was he eschewed these themes in conversation, and even when some celebrated trial would for the moment absorb all interest, giving but one topic in almost every circle, Paten would drop such commonplaces on the subject as showed he cared little or nothing for the event.
Let us now hear what these two men are talking about, as they sat thus confidentially over the fire. Stocmar is the chief speaker. He does not smoke of a morning, because many of his grand acquaintances are averse to tobacco; as for Paten, the cigar never leaves his lips.
“Well, now for his story!” cried Paten. “I 'm anxious to hear about him.”
“I 'm sorry I can't gratify the curiosity. All I can tell you is where I found him. It was in Dublin. They had a sort of humble Cremorne there,—a place little resorted to by the better classes; indeed, rarely visited save by young subs from the garrison, milliners, and such other lost sheep; not very wonderful, after all, seeing that the rain usually contrived to extinguish the fireworks. Having a spare evening on my hands, I went there, and, to my astonishment, witnessed some of the most extraordinary displays in fireworks I had ever seen. Whether for beauty of design, color, and precision, I might declare them unequalled. 'Who's your pyrotechnist?' said I to Barry, the proprietor.
“'I can't spare him, Mr. Stocmar,' said he, 'so I entreat you don't carry him off from me.'
“'Oh!' cried I, 'it was mere curiosity prompted the question. The man is well enough here, but he would n't do for us. We have got Giomelli, and Clari—'
“'Not fit to light a squib for him,' said he, warming up in his enthusiasm for his man. 'I tell you, sir, that fellow would teach Giomelli, and every Italian of them all. He's a great man, sir,—a genius. He was, once on a time, the great Professor of a University; one of the very first scientific men of the kingdom, and if it was n't for '—here he made a sign of drinking—'he 'd perhaps be this day sought by the best in the land.'
“Though interested by all this, I only gave a sort of incredulous laugh in return, when he went on:—
“'If I was quite sure you 'd not take him away—if you 'd give me your word of honor for it—I'd just show him to you, and you 'd see—even tipsy as he's sure to be—if I'm exaggerating.'
“'What is he worth to you, Barry?' said I.
“'He 's worth—not to reckon private engagements for fireworks in gentlemen's grounds, and the like,—he 's worth from seven to eight pounds a week.'
“'And you give him—'
“'Well, I don't give him much. It would n't do to give him much; he has no self-control,—no restraint He'd kill himself,—actually kill himself.'
“'So that you only give him—'
“'Fourteen shillings a week. Not but that I am making a little fund for him, and occasionally remitted his wife—he had a wife—a pound or so, without his knowledge.'
“'Well, he's not too dear at that,' said I. 'Now let me see and speak with him, Barry, and if I like him, you shall have a fifty-pound note for him. You know well enough that I needn't pay a sixpence. I have fellows in my employment would track him out if you were to hide him in one of his rocket-canisters; so just be reasonable, and take a good offer.'
“He was not very willing at first, but he yielded after a while, and so I became the owner of the Professor, for such they called him.”
“Had he no other name?”
“Yes; an old parrot, that he had as a pet, called him Tom, and so we accepted that name; and as Tom, or Professor Tom, he is now known amongst us.”
“Did you find, after all, that you made a good bargain?”
“I never concluded a better, though it has its difficulties; for, as the Professor is almost an idiot when perfectly sober, and totally insensible when downright drunk, there is just a short twilight interval between the two, when his faculties are in good order.”
“What can he do at this favorable juncture?”
“What can he not? is the question. Why, it was he arranged all the scores for the orchestra after the fire, when we had not a scrap left of the music of the 'Maid of Cashmere.' It was he invented that sunrise, in the last scene of all, with the clouds rolling down the mountains, and all the rivulets glittering as the first rays touch them. It was he wrote the third act of Linton's new comedy; the catastrophe and all were his. It was he dashed off that splendid critique on Ristori, that set the town in a blaze; and then he went home and wrote the parody on 'Myrra' for the Strand, all the same night, for I had watered the brandy, and kept him in the second stage of delirium till morning.”
“What a chance! By Jove! Stocmar, you are the only fellow ever picks up a gem of this water!”
“It's not every man can tell the stone that will pay for the cutting, Paten, remember that. I 've had to buy this experience of mine dearly enough.”
“Are you not afraid that the others will hear of him, and seduce him by some tempting offer?”
“I have, in a measure, provided against that contingency. He lives here, in a small crib, where we once kept a brown bear; and he never ventures abroad, so that the chances are he will not be discovered.”
“How I should like to have a look at him!”
“Nothing easier. Let us see, what o'clock is it? Near five. Well, this is not an unfavorable moment; he has just finished his dinner, and not yet begun the evening.” Ringing the bell, as he spoke, he gave orders to a supernumerary to send the Professor to him.
While they waited for his coming, Stocmar continued to give some further account of his life and habits, the total estrangement from all companionship in which he lived, his dislike to be addressed, and the seeming misanthropy that animated him. At last the manager, getting impatient, rang once more, to ask if he were about to appear.
“Well, sir,” said the man, with a sort of unwillingness in his manner, “he said as much as that he was n't coming; that he had just dined, and meant to enjoy himself without business for a while.”
“Go back and tell him that Mr. Stocmar has something very important to tell him; that five minutes will be enough.—You see the stuff he's made of?” said the manager, as the man left the room.
Another, and nearly as long a delay ensued, and at last the dragging sound of heavy slipshod feet was heard approaching; the door was rudely opened, and a tall old man, of haggard appearance and in the meanest rags, entered, and, drawing himself proudly up, stared steadfastly at Stocmar, without even for an instant noticing the presence of the other.
“I wanted a word,—just one word with you, Professor,” began the manager, in an easy, familiar tone.
“Men do not whistle even for a dog, when he 's at his meals,” said the old man, insolently. “They told you I was at my dinner, did n't they?”
“Sorry to disturb you, Tom; but as two minutes would suffice for all I had to say—”
“Reason the more to keep it for another occasion,” was the stubborn reply.
“We are too late this time,” whispered Stocmar across towards Paten; “the fellow has been at the whiskey-bottle already.”
With that marvellous acuteness of hearing that a brain in its initial state of excitement is occasionally gifted with, the old man caught the words, and, as suddenly rendered aware of the presence of a third party, turned his eyes on Paten. At first the look was a mere stare, but gradually the expression grew more fixed, and the bleared eyes dilated, while his whole features became intensely eager. With a shuffling but hurried step he then moved across the floor, and, coming close up to where Paten stood, he laid his hands upon his shoulders, and wheeled him rudely round, till the light of the window fell full upon him.
“Well, old gent,” said Paten, laughing, “if we are not old friends, you treat me very much as though we were.”
A strange convulsion, half smile, half grin, passed over the old man's face, but he never uttered a word, but stood gazing steadily on the other.
“You are forgetting yourself, Tom,” said Stocmar, angrily. “That gentleman is not an acquaintance of yours.”
“And who toldyouthat?” said the old man, insolently. “Ask himself if we are not.”
“I'm afraid I must give it against you, old boy,” said Paten, good-humoredly. “This is the first time I have had the honor to meet you.”
“It is not!” said the old man, with a solemn and even haughty emphasis.
“I could scarcely have forgotten a man of such impressive manners,” said Paten. “Will you kindly remind me of the where and how you imagine us to have met?”
“I will,” said the other, sternly. “You shall hear the where and the how. The where was in the High Court, at Jersey, on the 18th of January, in the year 18—; the how, was my being called on to prove the death, by corrosive sublimate, of Godfrey Hawke. Now, sir, what say you to my memory,—is it accurate, or not?”
Had not Paten caught hold of a heavy chair, he would have fallen; even as it was, he swayed forward and backward like a drunken man.
“And you—you were a doctor in those days, it seems,” said he, with an affected laugh, that made his ghastly features appear almost horrible.
“Yes; they accusedmeof curing folk, just as they chargedyouwith killing them. Calumnious world that it is,—lets no man escape!”
ONE0280
“After all, my worthy friend,” said Paten, as he drew himself haughtily up, and assumed, though by a great effort, his wonted ease of manner, “you are deceived by some chance resemblance, for I know nothing about Jersey, and just as little of that interesting little incident you have alluded to.”
“This is even more than you attempted on the trial. You never dreamed of so bold a stroke as that, there. No, no, Paul Hunt, I know you well: that's a gift of mine,—drunk or sober, it has stuck to me through life,—I never forget a face,—never!”
“Come, come, old Tom,” said Stocmar, as he drew forth a sherry decanter and a large glass from a small recess in the wall, “this is not the kindliest way to welcome an old friend or make a new one. Taste this sherry, and take the bottle back with you, if you like the flavor.” Stocmar's keen glance met Paten's eyes, and as quickly the other understood his tactique.
“Good wine, rare wine, if it was n't so cold on the stomach,” said the old man, as he tossed off the second goblet. Already his eyes grew wild and bloodshot, and his watery lip trembled. “To your good health, gentlemen both,” said he, as he finished the decanter. “I'm proud you liked that last scene. It will be finer before I 've done with it; for I intend to make the lava course down the mountain, and be seen fitfully as the red glow of the eruption lights up the picture.”
“With the bay and the fleet all seen in the distance, Tom,” broke in Stocmar.
“Just so, sir; the lurid glare—as the newspaper fellows will call it—over all. Nothing like Bengal-lights and Roman-candles; they are the poetry of the modern drama. Ah! sir, no sentiment without nitrate of potash; no poetry if you have n't phosphorus.” And with a drunken laugh, and a leer of utter vacancy, the old man reeled from the room and sought his den again.
“Good Heavens, Stocmar! what a misfortune!” cried Paten, as, sick with terror, he dropped down into a chair.
“Never fret about it, Paul. That fellow will know nothing of what has passed when he wakes to-morrow. His next drunken bout—and I 'll take care it shall be a deep one—will let such a flood of Lethe over his brain that not one single recollection will survive the deluge. You saw why I produced the decanter?”
“Yes; it was cleverly done, and it worked like magic. But only think, Stocmar, if any one had chanced to be here—it was pure chance that there was not—and then—”
“Egad! it might have been as you say,” said Stocmar; “there would have been no stopping the old fellow; and had he but got the very slightest encouragement, he had been off at score.”
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!”
“Wasshewith you, Ludlow?” asked the other, whose deep voice recalled the great Mr. Stocmar. “Wasshewith 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 didmeone of these days.'
“'No, sir, they 'll never turnmeout,' said Hawke, insolently.
“'More fools they, then,' said the other; 'for you can dotenthings foronethat I can; and, what's more, youhavedone 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 andbonâ 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, 'youareafraid 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,youcannot like Hawke?'
“'Like him! there is not the man on earth I hate as I hatehim!'
“'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 ofher?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 questionyou.'
“'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 withme.'
“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 wasnotcowardly. 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, 'Canyoutell 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 fromher. Look tothat, 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 leavehera farthing,' added he, after a moment.
“'The greater villain he, then,' said I. 'It was forhimshe ruined herself.'
“'Yes, yes, that was all true enough once; butnow, 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 ifhe“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 ofthat, 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 abouthim,' 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.