"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."

CHAPTER XXVI. A DARK REMEMBRANCE

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 _bona 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 tiroes 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?'