One Of Them

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

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

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

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

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

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

“For that I care not. I am ready.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“They are here, – in Florence.”

“What sum will you take for them?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A scornful toss of her head was all her answer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How you are changed, Loo!” cried he.

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

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

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