“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--”