One Of Them

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And you never met her since?”

“Never.”

“Nor have you held any correspondence together?”

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

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

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

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

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

“But can that be like her?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Have you? Of course she will.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How so? Is the fellow dead?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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