Ina rose, and, with a delicate movement of her milk-white hand, turned the mountain of gold and column of notes toward Ashmead. “Make haste, please,” she whispered; then put on her gloves deliberately, while Ashmead shoved the gold and the notes anyhow into the inner pockets of his shooting-jacket, and buttoned it well up.
“Allons,”said she, calmly, and took his arm; but, as she moved away, she saw Zoe Vizard passing on the other side of the table. Their eyes met: she dropped Ashmead's arm and made her a sweeping courtesy full of polite consideration, and a sort of courteous respect for the person saluted, coupled with a certain dignity, and then she looked wistfully at her a moment. I believe she would have spoken to her if she had been alone; but Miss Maitland and Fanny Dover had, both of them, a trick of putting onnoli-me-tangerefaces among strangers. It did not mean much; it is an unfortunate English habit. But it repels foreigners: they neither do it nor understand it.
Those two faces, not downright forbidding, but uninviting, turned the scale; and the Klosking, who was not a forward woman, did not yield to her inclination and speak to Zoe. She took Ashmead's arm again and moved away.
Then Zoe turned back and beckoned Vizard. He joined her. “There she is,” said Zoe; “shall I speak to her?”
Would you believe it? He thought a moment, and then said, gloomily, “Well, no. Half cured now. Seen the lover in time.” So that opportunity was frittered away.
Before the English party left the Kursaal, Zoe asked, timidly, if they ought not to make some inquiry about Mr. Severne. He had been taken ill again.
“Ay, taken ill, and gone to be cured at another table,” said Vizard, ironically. “I'll make the tour, and collar him.”
He went off in a hurry; Miss Maitland faced a glass and proceeded to arrange her curl.
Fanny, though she had offered no opposition to Vizard's going, now seized Zoe's arm with unusual energy, and almost dragged her aside. “The idea of sending Harrington on that fool's errand!” said she, peevishly. “Why, Zoe! where are your eyes?”
Zoe showed her by opening them wide. “Whatdoyou mean?”
“What—do—I—mean? No matter. Mr. Severne is not in this building, and you know it.”
“How can I know? All is so mysterious,” faltered Zoe. “How doyouknow?”
“Because—there—least said is soonest mended.”
“Fanny, you are older than me, and ever so much cleverer. Tell me, or you are not my friend.”
“Wait till you get home, then. Here he is.”
Vizard told them he had been through all the rooms; the only chance now was the dining-room. “No,” said Fanny, “we wish to get home; we are rather tired.”
They went to the rail, and at first Vizard was rather talkative, making his comments on the players; but the ladies were taciturn, and brought him to a stand. “Ah,” thought he, “nothing interests them now; Adonis is not here.” So he retired within himself.
When they reached the Russie, he ordered apetit souperin an hour, and invited the ladies. Meantime they retired—Miss Maitland to her room, and Fanny, with Zoe, to hers. By this time Miss Dover had lost her alacrity, and would, I verily believe, have shunned ate'te-'a-te'teif she could; but there was a slight paleness in Zoe's cheek, and a compression of the lips, which told her plainly that young lady meant to have it out with her. They both knew so well what was coming, that Zoe merely waved her to a chair and leaned herself against the bed, and said, “Now, Fanny.” So Fanny was brought to bay.
“Dear me,” said she piteously, “I don't know what to do, between you and Aunt Maitland. If I say all I think, I suppose you will hate me; and if I don't, I shall be told I'm wicked, and don't warn an orphan girl. She flew at me like a bull-dog before your brother: she said I was twenty-five, and I only own to twenty-three. And, after all, what could I say? for I do feel I ought to give you the benefit of my experience, and make myself as disagreeable asshedoes. And Ihavegiven you a hint, and a pretty broad one, but you want such plain speaking.”
“I do,” said Zoe. “So please speak plainly, if you can.”
“Ah, yousaythat.”
“And I mean it. Never mind consequences; tell me the truth.”
“Like a man, eh? and get hated.”
“Men are well worth imitating, in some things. Tell me the truth, pleasant or not, and I shall always respect you.”
“Bother respect. I am like the rest of us; I want to be loved a little bit. But there—I'm in for it. I have said too much, or too little. I know that. Well, Zoe, the long and the short is—you have a rival.”
Zoe turned rather pale, but was not so much shaken as Fanny expected.
She received the blow in silence. But after a while she said, with some firmness, “Mademoiselle Klosking?”
“Oh, you are not quite blind, then.”
“And pray which does he prefer?” asked Zoe, a little proudly.
“It is plain he likes you the best. But why does he fear her so? This is where you seem all in the dark. He flew out of the opera, lest she should see him.”
“Oh! Absurd!”
“He cut you and Vizard, rather than call upon her with you.”
“And so he did.”
“He flew from the gambling-table the moment she entered the room.”
“Behind him. She came in behind him.”
“There was a large mirror in front of him.”
“Oh, Fanny! oh!” and Zoe clasped her hands piteously. But she recovered herself, and said, “After all, appearances are deceitful.”
“Not so deceitful as men,” said Fanny, sharply.
But Zoe clung to her straw. “Might not two things happen together? He is subject to bleeding at the nose. It is strange it should occur twice so, but it is possible.”
“Zoe,” said Fanny, gravely, “he is not subject to bleeding at the nose.”
“Oh,then—but how can you know that? What right have you to say that?”
“I'll show you,” said Fanny, and left the room.
She soon came back, holding something behind her back. Even at the last moment she was half unwilling. However, she looked down, and said, in a very peculiar tone, “Here is the handkerchief he put before his face at the opera; there!” and she threw it into Zoe's lap.
Zoe's nature revolted against evidence so obtained. She did not even take up the handkerchief. “What!” she cried; “you took it out of his pocket?”
“No.”
“Then you have been in his room and got it.”
“Nothing of the kind!I sent Rosa.”
“My maid!”
“Mine, for that job. I gave her half a crown to borrow it for a pattern.”
Zoe seized the handkerchief and ran her eye over it in a moment. There was no trace of blood on it, and there were his initials, “E. S.,” in the corner. Her woman's eye fastened instantly on these. “Silk?” said she, and held it up to the light. “No. Hair!—golden hair. It ishers!”And she flung the handkerchief from her as if it were a viper, and even when on the ground eyed it with dilating orbs and a hostile horror.
“La!” said Fanny; “fancy that! You are not blind now. You have seen more than I. I made sure it was yellow silk.”
But this frivolous speech never even entered Zoe's ear. She was too deeply shocked. She went, feebly, and sat down in a chair, and covered her face with her hands.
Fanny eyed her with pity. “There!” said she, almost crying, “I never tell the truth but I bitterly repent it.”
Zoe took no notice of this droll apothegm. Her hands began to work. “What shall I do!” she said. “What shall I do!”
“Oh, don't go on like that, Zoe!” cried Fanny. “After all, it is you he prefers. He ran away from her.”
“Ah, yes. But why?—why? What has he done?”
“Jilted her. I suppose. Aunt Maitland thinks he is after money; and, you know, you have got money.”
“Have I nothing else?” said the proud beauty, and lifted her bowed head for a moment.
“You have everything. But you should look things in the face. Is that singer an unattractive woman?”
“Oh, no. But she is not poor. Her kind of talent is paid enormously.”
“That is true,” said Fanny. “But perhaps she wastes it. She is a gambler, like himself.”
“Let him go to her,” said Zoe, wildly; “I will share no man's heart.”
“He will never go to her, unless—well, unless we tell him that she has broken the bank with his money.”
“If you think so badly of him, tell him, then, and let him go. Oh, I am wretched—I am wretched!” She lifted her hands in despair, and began to cry and sob bitterly.
Fanny was melted at her distress, and knelt to her, and cried with her.
Not being a girl of steady principle, she went round with the wind. “Dear Zoe,” said she, “it is deeper than I thought. La! if you love him, why torment yourself?”
“No,” said Zoe; “it is deceit and mystery that torment me. Oh, what shall I do! what shall I do!”
Fanny interpreted this vague exclamation of sorrow as asking advice, and said, “I dare not advise you; I can only tell you what I should do in your place. I should make up my mind at once whether I loved the man, or only liked him. If I only liked him, I would turn him up at once.”
“Turn him up! What is that?”
“Turn him off, then. If I loved him, I would not let any other woman have the least little bit of a chance to get him. For instance, I would not let him know this old sweetheart of his has won three thousand pounds at least, for I noted her winnings. Diamond cut diamond, my dear. He is concealing from you something or other about him and this Klosking; hide you this one little thing about the Klosking from him, till you get my gentleman safe to England.”
“And this is love! I call it warfare.”
“And love is warfare, three times out of four. Anyway, it is for you to decide, Zoe. I do wish you had never seen the man. He is not what he seems. He is a poor adventurer, and a bundle of deceit.”
“You are very hard on him. You don't know all.”
“No, nor a quarter; and you know less. There, dear, dry your eyes and fight against it. After all, you know you are mistress of the situation. I'll settle it for you, which way you like.”
“You will? Oh, Fanny, you are very good!”
“Say indulgent, please. I'm not good, and never will be, ifI can possibly help.I despise good people; they are as weak as water. But I do like you, Zoe Vizard, better than any other woman in the world. That is not saying very much; my taste is for men. I think them gods and devils compared with us; and I do admire gods and devils. No matter, dear. Kiss me, and say, 'Fanny, act for me,' and I'll do it.”
Zoe kissed her, and then, by a truly virginal impulse, hid her burning face in her hands, and said nothing at all.
Fanny gave her plenty of time, and then said, kindly, “Well, dear?”
Then Zoe murmured, scarce audibly, “Act—as if—I loved him.”
And still she kept her face covered with her hands. Fanny was anything but surprised at this conclusion of the struggle. She said, with a certain alacrity, “Very well, I will: so now bathe your eyes and come in to supper.”
“No, no; please go and make an excuse for me.”
“I shall do nothing of the kind. I won't be told by-and-by I have done wrong. I will do your business, but it shall be in your hearing. Then you can interfere, if you choose. Only you had better not put your word in till you see what I am driving at.”
With a little more encouragement, Zoe was prevailed on to sponge her tearful eyes and compose herself, and join Harrington at supper.
Miss Maitland soon retired, pleading fatigue and packing; and she had not been gone long, when Fanny gave her friend a glance and began upon Harrington.
“You are very fond of Mr. Severne, are you not?” said she.
“I am,” said Vizard, stoutly, preparing for battle. “You are not, perhaps.”
Fanny laughed at this prompt pugnacity. “Oh, yes, I am,” said she; “devoted. But he has a weakness, you must own. He is rather fond of gambling.”
“He is, I am sorry to say. It is his one fault. Most of us have two or three.”
“Don't you think it would be a pity if he were to refuse to go with us tomorrow—were to prefer to stay here and gamble?”
“No fear of that: he has given me his word of honor.”
“Still, I think it would be hardly safe to tempt him. If you go and tell him that friend of his won such a lot of money, he will want to stop; and if he does not stop, he will go away miserable. You know they began betting with his money, though they went on with their own.”
“Oh, did they? What was his own money?”
“How much was it, Zoe?”
“Fifty pounds.”
“Well,” said Vizard, “you must admit it is hard he should lose his own money. And yet I own I am most anxious to get him away from this place. Indeed, I have a project; I want him to rusticate a few months at our place, while I set my lawyer to look into his affairs and see if his estate cannot be cleared. I'll be bound the farms are underlet. What does the Admirable Crichton know about such trifles?”
Fanny looked at Zoe, whose color was rising high at all this. “Well!” said she, “when you gentlemen fall in lovewith each other,you certainly are faithful creatures.”
“Because we can count on fidelity in return,” said Vizard. He thought a little, and said, “Well, as to the other thing—you leave it to me. Let us understand one another. Nothing we saw at the gambling-table is to be mentioned by us.”
“No.”
“Crichton is to be taken to England for his good.”
“Yes.”
“And I am to be grateful to you for your co-operation in this.”
“You can, if you like.”
“And you will secure an agreeable companion for the rest of the tour, eh?—my diplomatic cousin and my silent sister.”
“Yes; but it is too bad of you to see through a poor girl, and her little game, like that. I own he is a charming companion.”
Fanny's cunning eyes twinkled, and Zoe blushed crimson to see her noble brother manipulated by this artful minx and then flattered for his perspicacity.
From that moment a revulsion took place in her mind, and pride fought furiously with love—for a time.
This was soon made apparent to Fanny Dover. When they retired, Zoe looked very gloomy; so Fanny asked, rather sharply, “Well, what is the matter now? Didn't I do it cleverly?”
“Yes, yes, too cleverly. Oh, Fanny, I begin to revolt against myself.”
“This is nice!” said Fanny. “Go on, dear. It is just what I ought to have expected. You were there. You had only to interfere. You didn't. And now you are discontented.”
“Not with you. Spare me. You are not to blame, and I am very unhappy. I am losing my self-respect. Oh, if this goes on, I shall hate him!”
“Yes, dear—for five minutes, and then love him double. Come, don't deceive yourself, and don't torment yourself. All your trouble, we shall leave it behind us to-morrow, and every hour will take us further from it.”
With this practical view of matters, she kissed Zoe and hurried to bed.
But Zoe scarcely closed her eyes all night.
Severne did not reach the hotel till past eleven o'clock, and went straight to his own room.
ASHMEAD accompanied Mademoiselle Klosking to her apartment. It was lighted, and the cloth laid for supper under the chandelier, a snow-white Hamburg damask. Ashmead took the winnings out of his pocket, and proudly piled the gold and crumpled notes in one prodigious mass upon the linen, that shone like satin, and made the gold look doubly inviting. Then he drew back and gloated on it. The Klosking, too, stood and eyed the pile of wealth with amazement and a certain reverence. “Let me count it,” said Ashmead. He did so, and it came to four thousand nine hundred and eighty-one pounds, English money. “And to think,” said he, “if you had taken my advice you would not have a penny of this!”
“I'll take your advice now,” said she. “I will never gamble again.”
“Well, take my advice, and lock up the swag before a creature sees it. Homburg is full of thieves.”
She complied, and took away the money in a napkin.
Ashmead called after her to know might he order supper.
“If you will be so kind.”
Ashmead rejoiced at this unguarded permission, and ordered a supper that made Karl stare.
The Klosking returned in about half an hour, clad in a crisppeignoir.
Ashmead confronted her. “I have ordered a bottle of champagne,” said he. Her answer surprised him. “You have done well. We must now begin to prove the truth of the old proverb, 'Ce qui vient de la flute s'en va au tambour.'”
At supper Mr. Ashmead was the chief drinker, and, by a natural consequence, the chief speaker: he held out brilliant prospects; he favored the Klosking with a discourse on advertising. No talent availed without it; large posters, pictures, window-cards, etc.; but as her talent was superlative, he must now endeavor to keep up with it by invention in his line—the puff circumstantial, the puff poetic, the puff anecdotal, the puff controversial, all tending to blow the fame of the Klosking in every eye, and ring it in every ear. “You take my advice,” said he, “and devote this money, every penny of it, to Publicity. Don't you touch a single shiner for anything that does not return a hundred per cent. Publicity does, when the article is prime.”
“You forget,” said she, “this money does not all belong to me. Another can claim half; the gentleman with whom we are in partnership.”
Ashmead looked literally blue. “Nonsense!” said he, roughly. “He can only claim his fifty pounds.”
“Nay, my friend. I took two equal sums: one was his, one mine.”
“That has nothing to do with it. He told me to bet for him. I didn't; and I shall take him back his fifty pounds and say so. I know where to find him.”
“Where?”
“That is my business. Don't you go mad now, and break my heart.”
“Well, my friend, we will talk of it tomorrow morning. It certainly is not very clear; and perhaps, after I have prayed and slept, I may see more plainly what is right.”
Ashmead observed she was pale, and asked her, with concern, if she was ill.
“No, not ill,” said she, “but worn out. My friend, I knew not at the time how great was my excitement; but now I am conscious that this afternoon I have lived a week. My very knees give way under me.”
Upon this admission, Ashmead hurried her to bed.
She slept soundly for some hours; but, having once awakened, she fell into a half-sleepless state, and was full of dreams and fancies. These preyed on her so, that she rose and dispatched a servant to Ashmead, with a line in pencil begging him to take an early breakfast with her, at nine o'clock.
As soon as ever he came she began upon the topic of last night. She had thought it over, and said, frankly, she was not without hopes the gentleman, if he was really a gentleman, might be contented with something less than half. But she really did not see how she could refuse him some share of her winnings, should he demand it. “Think of it,” said she. “The poor man loses—four hundred pounds, I think you said. Then he says, 'Bet you for me,' and goes away, trusting to your honor. His luck changes in my hands. Is he to lose all when he loses, and win nothing when he wins, merely because I am so fortunate as to win much? However, we shall hear whathesays. You gave him your address.”
“I said I was at 'The Golden Star,'” growled Ashmead, in a tone that plainly showed he was vexed with himself for being so communicative.
“Then he will pay us a visit as soon as he hears: so I need give myself no further trouble.”
“Why should you? Wait till he comes,” said crafty Ashmead.
Ina Klosking colored. She felt her friend was tempting her, and felt she was not quite beyond the power of temptation.
“What was he like?” said she, to turn the conversation.
“The handsomest young fellow I ever saw.”
“Young, of course?”
“Yes, quite a boy. At least, he looked a boy. To be sure, his talk was not like a boy's; very precocious, I should say.”
“What a pity, to begin gambling so young!”
“Oh, he is all right. If he loses every farthing of his own, he will marry money. Any woman would have him. You never saw such a curled darling.”
“Dark or fair?”
“Fair. Pink-and-white, like a girl; a hand like a lady.”
“Indeed. Fine eyes?”
“Splendid!”
“What color?”
“I don't know. Lord bless you, a man does not examine another man's eyes, like you ladies. However, now I think of it, there was one curious thing I should know him by anywhere.”
“And what was that?”
“Well, you see, his hair was brown; but just above the forehead he had got one lock that was like your own—gold itself.”
While he said this, the Klosking's face underwent the most rapid and striking changes, and at last she sat looking at him wildly.
It was some time before he noticed her, and then he was quite alarmed at her strange expression. “What is the matter?” said he. “Are you ill?”
“No, no, no. Only a little—astonished. Such a thing as that is very rare.”
“That it is. I never saw a case before.”
“Not one, in all your life?” asked she, eagerly.
“Well, no; not that I remember.”
“Excuse me a minute,” said Ina Klosking, and went hurriedly from the room.
Ashmead thought her manner very strange, but concluded she was a little unhinged by yesterday's excitement. Moreover, there faced him an omelet of enormous size, and savory. He thought this worthy to divide a man's attention even with the great creature's tantrums. He devoted himself to it, and it occupied him so agreeably that he did not observe the conduct of Mademoiselle Klosking on her return. She placed three photographs softly on the table, not very far from him, and then resumed her seat; but her eye never left him: and she gave monosyllabic and almost impatient replies to everything he mumbled with his mouth full of omelet.
When he had done his omelet, he noticed the photographs. They were all colored. He took one up. It was an elderly woman, sweet, venerable, and fair-haired. He looked at Ina, and at the photograph, and said, “This is your mother.”
“It is.”
“It is angelic—as might be expected.”
He took up another.
“This is your brother, I suppose. Stop. Haloo!—what is this? Are my eyes making a fool of me?”
He held out the photograph at arm's length, and stared from it to her. “Why, madam,” said he, in an awestruck voice, “this is the gentleman—the player—I'd swear to him.”
Ina started from her seat while he spoke. “Ah!” she cried, “I thought so—my Edward!” and sat down, trembling violently.
Ashmead ran to her, and sprinkled water in her face, for she seemed ready to faint: but she murmured, “No, no!” and soon the color rushed into her face, and she clasped her hands together, and cried, “I have found him!” and soon the storm of varying emotions ended in tears that gave her relief.
It was a long time before she spoke; but when she did, her spirit and her natural strength of character took the upper hand.
“Where is he?” said she, firmly.
“He told me he was at the 'Russie.'”
“We will go there at once. When is the next train?”
Ashmead looked at his watch. “In ten minutes. We can hardly do it.”
“Yes, we can. Order a carriage this instant. I will be ready in one minute.”
They caught the train, and started.
As they glided along, Ashmead begged her not to act too hurriedly, and expose herself to insult.
“Who will dare insult me?”
“Nobody, I hope. Still, I cannot bear you to go into a strange hotel hunting this man. It is monstrous; but I am afraid you will not be welcome. Something has just occurred to me; the reason he ran off so suddenly was, he saw you coming. There was a mirror opposite. Ah, we need not have feared he would come back for his winnings. Idiot—villain!”
“You stab me to the heart,” said Ina. “He ran away at sight of me? Ah, Jesu, pity me! What have I done to him?”
Honest Ashmead had much ado not to blubber at this patient cry of anguish, though the woman herself shed no tear just then. But his judgment was undimmed by passion, and he gave her the benefit. “Take my advice,” said he, “and work it this way. Come in a close carriage to the side street that is nearest the Russie. I'll go in to the hotel and ask for him by his name—what is his name?”
“Mr. Edward Severne.”
“And say that I was afraid to stake his money, but a friend of mine, that is a bold player, undertook it, and had a great run of luck. 'There is money owing you,' says I, 'and my friend has brought it.' Then he is sure to come. You will have your veil down, I'll open the carriage-door, and tell him to jump in, and, when you have got him you must make him hear reason. I'll give you a good chance—I'll shut the carriage-door.”
Ina smiled at his ingenuity—her first smile that day. “You are indeed a friend,” said she. “He fears reproaches, but, when he finds he is welcome, he will stay with me; and he shall have money to play with, and amuse himself how he likes. I kept too tight a rein on him, poor fellow! My good mother taught me prudence.”
“Yes, but,” said Ashmead, “you must promise me one thing: not to let him know how much money you have won, and not to go, like a goose, and give him a lot at once. It never pays to part with power in this wicked world. You give him twenty pounds a day to play with whenever he is cleaned out. Then the money will last your time, and he will never leave you.”
“Oh, how cold-hearted and wise you are!” said she. “But such a humiliating position forhim!”
“Don't you be silly. You won't keep him any other way.”
“I will be as wise as I can,” sighed Ina. “I have had a bitter lesson. Only bring him to me, and then, who knows? I am a change: my love may revive his, and none of these pitiable precautions may be needed. They would lower us both.”
Ashmead groaned aloud. “I see,” said he. “He'll soon clean you out. Ah, well! he can't rob you of your voice, and he can't rob you of your Ashmead.”
They soon reached Frankfort. Ashmead put her into a carriage as agreed, and went to the Russie.
Ina sat, with her veil down, in the carriage, and waited Ashmead's return with Severne. He was a long time coming. She began to doubt, and then to fear, and wonder why he was so long.
At last he came in sight.
He was alone.
As he drew nearer she saw his face was thoroughly downcast.
“My dear friend,” he faltered, “you are out of luck to-day.”
“He will not come with you?”
“Oh, he would come fast enough, if he was there; but he is gone.”
“Gone! To Homburg?”
“No. Unfortunately, he is gone to England. Went off, by the fast train, an hour ago.”
Ina fell back in silence, just as if she had been struck in the face.
“He is traveling with an English family, and they have gone straight home. Here are their names. I looked in the visitors' book, and talked to the servant, and all. Mr. Vizard, Miss Vizard—”
“Vizard?”
“Yes—Miss Maitland, Miss Dover. See, I wrote them all down.”
“Oh, I am unfortunate! Why was I ever born?”
“Don't say that, don't say that. It is annoying: but we shall be able to trace him now; and, besides, I see other ways of getting hold of him.”
Ina broke in upon his talk. “Take me to the nearest church,” she cried. “Man's words are vain. Ah, Jesu, let me cry to thee!”
He took her to the nearest church. She went in, and prayed for full two hours. She came out, pale and listless, and Ashmead got her home how he could. Her very body seemed all crushed and limp. Ashmead left her, sad at heart himself.
So long as she was in sight Ashmead could think only of her misery: but the moment she was out of sight, he remembered the theater. She was announced for Rosina that very night. He saw trouble of all sorts before him. He ran to the theater, in great alarm, and told the manager she had been taken very ill. He must change the bill.
“Impossible!” was the reply. “If she can't sing, I close.”
Ashmead went back to “The Star.”
Ina was in her bedroom.
He sent in a line, “Can you sing tonight? If not he says he must close.”
The reply came back in rather a trembling hand. “I suffer too much by falsehood to break faith myself. I shall pray till night: and then I shall sing. If I die on the stage, all the better for me.”
Was not this a great soul?
THAT same morning our English party snatched a hasty breakfast in traveling attire. Severne was not there; but sent word to Vizard he should be there in time.
This filled the cup. Zoe's wounded pride had been rising higher and higher all the night, and she came down rather pale, from broken rest, and sternly resolved. She had a few serious words with Fanny, and sketched her out a little map of conduct, which showed that she had thought the matter well over.
But her plan bid fair to be deranged: Severne was not at the station: then came a change. Zoe was restless, and cast anxious glances.
But at the second bell he darted into the carriage, as if he had just dispatched some wonderful business to get there in time. While the train was starting, he busied himself in arranging his things; but, once started, he put on his sunny look and prepared to be, as usual, the life and soul of the party.
But, for once, he met a frost. Zoe was wrapped in impenetrablehauteur,and Fanny in polite indifference. Never was loss of favor more ably marked without the least ill-breeding, and no good handle given to seek an explanation.
No doubt a straightforward man, with justice on his side, would have asked them plumply whether he had been so unfortunate as to offend, and how; and this was what Zoe secretly wished, however she might seem to repel it. But Severne was too crafty for that. He had learned the art of waiting.
After a few efforts at conversation and smooth rebuffs, he put on a surprised, mortified, and sorrowful air, and awaited the attack, which he felt would come soon or late.
This skillful inertia baffled the fair, in a man; in a woman, they might have expected it; and, after a few hours, Zoe's patience began to wear out.
The train stopped for twenty minutes, and, even while they were snatching a little refreshment, the dark locks and the blonde came very close together; and Zoe, exasperated by her own wounded pride and the sullen torpor of her lover, gave Fanny fresh instructions, which nobody was better qualified to carry out than that young lady, as nobody was better able to baffle female strategy than the gentleman.
This time, however, the ladies had certain advantages, to balance his subtlety and his habit of stating anything, true or false, that suited his immediate purpose.
They opened very cat-like. Fanny affected to be outgrowing her ill-humor, and volunteered a civil word or two to Severne. Thereupon Zoe turned sharply away from Fanny, as if she disapproved her conduct, and took a book. This was pretty sly, and done, I suppose, to remove all idea of concert between the fair assailants; whereas it was a secret signal for the concert to come into operation, it being Fanny's part to play upon Severne, and Zoe's to watch, from her corner, every lineament of his face under fire.
“By-the-way, Mr. Severne,” said Fanny, apropos of a church on a hill they were admiring, “did you get your winnings?”
“My winnings! You are sarcastical.”
“Am I? Really I did not intend to be.”
“No, no; forgive me; but that did seem a little cruel. Miss Dover, I was a heavy loser.”
“Not while we were there. The lady and gentleman who played with your money won, oh, such a deal!”
“The devil they did!”
“Yes. Did you not stay behind, last night, to get it? We never saw you at the Russie.”
“I was very ill.”
“Bleeding at the nose?”
“No. That always relieves me when it comes. I am subject to fainting fits: once I lay insensible so long they were going to bury me. Now, do pray tell me what makes you fancy anybody won a lot with my money.”
“Well, I will. You know you left fifty pounds for a friend to bet with.”
Severne stared; but was too eager for information to question her how she knew this. “Yes, I did,” said he.
“And you really don't know what followed?”
“Good heavens! how can I?”
“Well, then, as you ran out—to faint, Mademoiselle Klosking came in, just as she did at the opera, you know, the time before, when you ran out—to bleed. She slipped into your chair, the very moment you left it; and your friend with the flaming neck-tie told her you had set him to bet with your money. By-the-by, Mr. Severne, how on earth do you and Mademoiselle Klosking, who have both so much taste in dress, come to have a mutual friend, vulgarity in person, with a velveteen coat and an impossible neck-tie?”
“What are you talking about, Miss Dover? I do just know Mademoiselle Klosking; I met her in society in Vienna, two years ago: but that cad I commissioned to bet for me I never saw before in my life. You are keeping me on tenter-hooks. My money—my money—my money! If you have a heart in your bosom, tell me what became of my money.”
He was violent, for the first time since they had known him, and his eyes flashed fire.
“Well,” said Fanny, beginning to be puzzled and rather frightened, “this man, who yousaywas a new acquaintance—”
“Whom Isay?Do you mean to tell me I am a liar?” He fumbled eagerly in his breast-pocket, and produced a card. “There,” said he, “this is the card he gave me, 'Mr. Joseph Ashmead.' Now, may this train dash over the next viaduct, and take you and Miss Vizard to heaven, and me to hell, if I ever saw Mr. Joseph Ashmead's face before. THE MONEY!—THE MONEY!”
He uttered this furiously, and, it is a curious fact; but Zoe turned red, and Fanny pale. It was really in quite a cowed voice Miss Dover went on to say, “La! don't fly out like that. Well, then, the man refused to bet with your money; so then Mademoiselle Klosking said she would; and she played—oh, how she did play! She doubled, and doubled, and doubled, hundreds upon hundreds. She made a mountain of gold and a pyramid of bank-notes; and she never stopped till she broke the bank—there!”
“With my money?” gasped Severne.
“Yes; with your money. Your friend with the loud tie pocketed it; I beg your pardon, not your friend—only hers. Harrington says he is hercher ami.”
“The money is mine!” he shrieked. “I don't care who played with it, it is mine. And the fellow had the impudence to send me back my fifty pounds to the Russie.”
“What! you gave him your address?” this with an involuntary glance of surprise at Zoe.
“Of course. Do you think I leave a man fifty pounds to play with, and don't give him my address? He has won thousands with my money, and sent me back my fifty, for a blind, the thief!”
“Well, really it is too bad,” said Fanny. “But, there—I'm afraid you must make the best of it. Of course, their sending back your fifty pounds shows they mean to keep their winnings.”
“You talk like a woman,” said he; then, grinding his teeth, and stretching out a long muscular arm, he said, “I'll take the blackguard by the throat and tear it out of him, though I tear his life out along with it.”
All this time Zoe had been looking at him with concern, and even with admiration. He seemed more beautiful than ever, to her, under the influence of passion, and more of a man.
“Mr. Severne,” said she, “be calm. Fanny has misled you, without intending it. She did not hear all that passed between those two; I did. The velveteen and neck-tie man refused to bet with your money. It was Mademoiselle Klosking who bet, and with her own money. She took twenty-five pounds of her own, and twenty-five pounds of yours, and won two or three hundred in a few moments. Surely, as a gentleman, you cannot ask a lady to do more than repay you your twenty-five pounds.”
Severne was a little cowed by Zoe' s interference. He stood his ground; but sullenly, instead of violently.
“Miss Vizard, if I were weak enough to trust a lady with my money at a gambling table, I should expect foul play; for I never knew a lady yet who would not cheatat cards,if she could. I trusted my money to a tradesman to bet with. If he takes a female partner, that is no business of mine; he is responsible all the same, and I'll have my money.”
He jumped up at the word, and looked out at the window; he even fumbled with the door, and tried to open it.
“You had better jump out,” said Fanny.
“And then they would keep my money for good. No;” said he, “I'll wait for the nearest station.” He sunk back into his seat, looking unutterable things.
Fanny looked rather rueful at first; then she said, spitefully, “You must be very sure of your influence with your old sweetheart. You forget she has got another now—a tradesman, too. He will stick to the money, and make her stick to it. Their sending the fifty pounds shows that.”
Zoe's eyes were on him with microscopic power, and, with all his self-command, she saw him wince and change color, and give other signs that this shaft had told in many ways.
He shut his countenance the next moment; but it had opened, and Zoe was on fire with jealousy and suspicion.
Fluctuating Fanny regretted the turn things had taken. She did not want to lose a pleasant male companion, and she felt sure Zoe would be unhappy, and cross to her, if he went. “Surely, Mr. Severne,” she said, “you will not desert us and go back for so small a chance. Why, we are a hundred and fifty miles from Homburg, and all the nearer to dear old England. There, there—we must be kinder to you, and make you forget this misfortune.”
Thus spoke the trimmer. The reply took her by surprise.
“And whose fault is it that I am obliged to get out a hundred and fifty miles from Homburg? You knew all this. You could have got me a delay of a few hours to go and get my due. You know I am a poor man. With all your cleverness, you don't know what made me poor, or you would feel some remorse, perhaps; but you know I am poor when most I could wish I were rich. You have heard that old woman there fling my poverty in my teeth; yet you could keep this from me—just to assist a cheat and play upon the feelings of a friend. Now, what good has that done you, to inflict misery on me in sport, on a man who never gave you a moment's pain if he could help it?”
Fanny looked ruefully this way and that, her face began to work, and she laid down her arms, if a lady can be said to do that who lays down a strong weapon and takes up a stronger; in other words, she burst out crying, and said no more. You see, she was poor herself.
Severne took no notice of her; he was accustomed to make women cry. He thrust his head out of the window in hopes of seeing a station near, and his whole being was restless as if he would like to jump out.
While he was in this condition of mind and body, the hand he had once kissed so tenderly, and shocked Miss Maitland, passed an envelope over his shoulder, with two lines written on it in pencil:
“If you GO BACK TO HOMBURG, oblige ME BY REMAINING there.”
This demands an explanation; but it shall be brief.
Fanny's shrewd hint, that the money could only be obtained from Mdlle. Klosking, had pierced Zoe through and through. Her mind grasped all that had happened, all that impended, and, wisely declining to try and account for, or reconcile, all the jarring details, she settled, with a woman's broad instinct, that, somehow or other, his going back to Homburg meant going back to Mademoiselle Klosking. Whether that lady would buy him or not, she did not know. But going back to her meant going a journey to see a rival, with consequences illimitable.
She had courage; she had pride; she had jealousy. She resolved to lose her lover, or have him all to herself. Share him she would not, nor even endure the torture of the doubt.
She took an envelope out of her satchel, and with the pencil attached to her chatelaine wrote the fatal words, “If you go back to Homburg, oblige me by remaining there.”
At this moment she was not goaded by pique or any petty feeling. Indeed, his reproach to Fanny had touched her a little, and it was with the tear in her eye she came to the resolution, and handed him that line, which told him she knew her value, and, cost what it might, would part with any man forever rather than share him with the Klosking or any other woman.
Severne took the line, eyed it, realized it, fell back from the window, and dropped into his seat. This gave Zoe a consoling sense of power. She had seen her lover raging and restless, and wanting to jump out, yet now beheld him literally felled with a word from her hand.
He leaned his head in his hand in a sort of broken-down, collapsed, dogged way that moved her pity, though hardly her respect.
By-and-by it struck her as a very grave thing that he did not reply by word, nor even by look. He could decide with a glance, and why did he hesitate? Was he really balancing her against Mademoiselle Klosking weighted with a share of his winnings?
This doubt was wormwood to her pride and self-respect; but his crushed attitude allayed in some degree the mere irritation his doubt caused.
The minutes passed and the miles: still that broken figure sat before her, with his face hidden by his white hand.
Zoe's courage began to falter. Misgivings seized her. She had made that a matter of love which, after all, to a man, might be a mere matter of business. He was poor, too, and she had thrust her jealousy between him and money. He might have his pride too, and rebel against her affront.
As for his thoughts, under that crushed exterior, which he put on for a blind, they were so deliberate and calculating that I shall not mix them on this page with that pure and generous creature's. Another time will do to reveal his sordid arithmetic. As for Zoe, she settled down into wishing, with all her heart, she had not submitted her lover so imperiously to a test, the severity of which she now saw she had underrated.
Presently the speed of the train began to slacken—all too soon. She now dreaded to learn her fate. Was she, or was she not, worth a few thousand pounds ready money?
A signal-post was past, proving that they were about to enter a station. Yet another. Now the wheels were hardly turning. Now the platform was visible. Yet he never moved his white, delicate, womanish fingers from his forehead, but remained still absorbed, and looked undecided.
At last the motion entirely ceased. Then, as she turned her head to glean, if possible, the name of the place, he stole a furtive glance at her. She was pallid, agitated. He resolved upon his course.
As soon as the train stopped, he opened the door and jumped out, without a word to Zoe, or even a look.
Zoe turned pale as death. “I have lost him,” said she.
“No, no,” cried Fanny. “See, he has not taken his cane and umbrella.”
“Theywill not keep him from flying to his money and her,” moaned Zoe. “Did you not see? He never once looked at me. He could not. I am sick at heart.”
This set Fanny fluttering. “There, let me out to speak to him.”
“Sit quiet,” said Zoe, sternly.
“No; no. If you love him—”
“I do love him—passionately. AndthereforeI'll die rather than share him with any one.”
“But it is dreadful to be fixed here, and not allowed to move hand or foot.”
“It is the lot of women. Let me feel the hand of a friend, that is all; for I am sick at heart.”
Fanny gave her her hand, and all the sympathy her shallow nature had to bestow.
Zoe sat motionless, gripping her friend's hand almost convulsively, a statue of female fortitude.
This suspense could not last long. The officials ordered the travelers to the carriages; doors were opened and slammed; the engine gave a snort, and only at that moment did Mr. Edward Severne tear the door open and bolt into the carriage.
Oh, it was pitiable, but lovely, to see the blood rush into Zoe's face, and the fire into her eye, and the sweet mouth expand in a smile of joy and triumph!
She sat a moment, almost paralyzed with pleasure, and then cast her eyes down, lest their fire should proclaim her feelings too plainly.
As for Severne, he only glanced at her as he came in, and then shunned her eye. He presented to her the grave, resolved countenance of a man who has been forced to a decision, but means to abide by it.
In reality he was delighted at the turn things had taken. The money was not necessarily lost, since he knew where it was; and Zoe had compromised herself beyond retreating. He intended to wear this anxious face a long while. But his artificial snow had to melt, so real a sun shone full on it. The moment he looked full at Zoe, she repaid him with such a point-blank beam of glorious tenderness and gratitude as made him thrill with passion as well as triumph. He felt her whole heart was his, and from that hour his poverty would never be allowed to weigh with her. He cleared up, and left off acting, because it was superfluous; he had now only to bask in sunshine. Zoe, always tender, but coy till this moment, made love to him like a young goddess. Even Fanny yielded to the solid proof of sincerity he had given, and was downright affectionate.
He was king. And from one gradation to another, they entered Cologne with Severne seated between the two girls, each with a hand in his, and a great disposition to pet him and spoil him; more than once, indeed, a delicate head just grazed each of his square shoulders; but candor compels me to own that their fatigue and the yawing of the carriage at the time were more to blame than the tired girls; for at the enormity there was a prompt retirement to a distance. Miss Maitland had been a long time in the land of Nod; and Vizard, from the first, had preferred male companions and tobacco.
At Cologne they visited the pride of Germany, that mighty cathedral which the Middle Ages projected, commenced, and left to decay of old age before completion, and our enterprising age will finish; but they departed on the same day.
Before they reached England, the love-making between Severne and Zoe, though it never passed the bounds of good taste, was so apparent to any female eye that Miss Maitland remonstrated severely with Fanny.
But the trimmer was now won to the other side. She would not offend Aunt Maitland by owning her conversion. She said, hypocritically, “I am afraid it is no use objecting at present, aunt. The attachment is too strong on both sides. And, whether he is poor or not, he has sacrificed his money to her feelings, and so, now, she feels bound in honor. I know her; she won't listen to a word now, aunt: why irritate her? She would quarrel with both of us in a moment.”
“Poor girl!” said Miss Maitland; and took the hint. She had still an arrow in her quiver—Vizard.
In mid-channel, ten miles south of Dover, she caught him in a lucid interval of non-smoke. She reminded, him he had promised her to give Mr. Severne a hint about Zoe.
“So I did,” said he.
“And have you?”
“Well, no; to tell the truth, I forgot.”
“Then please do it now; for they are going on worse than ever.”
“I'll warn the fool,” said he.
He did warn him, and in the following terms:
“Look here, old fellow. I hear you are getting awfully sweet on my sister Zoe.”
No answer. Severne on his guard.
“Now, you had better mind your eye. She is a very pretty girl, and you may find yourself entangled before you know where you are.”
Severne hung his head. “Of course, I know it is great presumption in me.”
“Presumption? fiddlestick! Such a man as you are ought not to be tied to any woman, or, if you must be, you ought not to go cheap. Mind, Zoe is a poor girl; only ten thousand in the world. Flirt with whom you like—there is no harm in that; but don't get seriously entangled with any of them. Good sisters, and good daughters, and good flirts make bad wives.”
“Oh, then,” said Severne, “it is only on my account you object.”
“Well, principally. And I don't exactly object. I warn. In the first place, as soon as ever we get into Barfordshire, she will most likely jilt you. You may be only her Continental lover. How can I tell,or you either?And if not, and you were to be weak enough to marry her, she would develop unexpected vices directly—they all do. And you are not rich enough to live in a house of your own; you would have to live in mine—a fine fate for a rising blade like you.”
“What a terrible prospect—to be tied to the best friend in England as well as the loveliest woman!”
“Oh, if that is the view you take,” said Vizard, beaming with delight, “it is no use talking reason toyou.”
When they reached London, Vizard gave Miss Maitland an outline of this conversation; and, so far from seeing the humor of it, which, nevertheless, was pretty strong and characteristic of the man and his one foible, she took the huff, and would not even stay to dinner at the hotel. She would go into her own county by the next train, bag and baggage.
Mr. Severne was the only one who offered to accompany her to the Great Western Railway. She declined. He insisted; went with her; got her ticket, numbered and arranged her packages, and saw her safely off, with an air of profound respect and admirably feigned regret.
That she was the dupe of his art, may be doubted: that he lost nothing by it, is certain. Men are not ruined by civility. As soon as she was seated, she said, “I beg, sir, you will waste no more time with me. Mr. Severne, you have behaved to me like a gentleman, and that is very unusual in a man of your age nowadays. I cannot alter my opinion about my niece and you: but Iamsorry you are a poor gentleman—much too poor to marry her, and I wish I could make you a rich one; but I cannot. There is my hand.”
You should have seen the air of tender veneration with which the young Machiavel bowed over her hand, and even imprinted a light touch on it with his velvet lips.
Then he retired, disconsolate, and, once out of sight, whipped into a gin-palace and swallowed a quartern of neat brandy, to take the taste out of his mouth. “Go it, Ned,” said he, to himself; “you can't afford to make enemies.”
The old lady went off bitter against the whole partyexcept Mr. Severne;and he retired to his friends, disembarrassed of the one foe he had not turned into a downright friend, but only disarmed. Well does the great Voltaire recommend what he well calls “le grand art de plaire.”
Vizard sent Harris into Barfordshire, to prepare for the comfort of the party; and to light fires in all the bedrooms, though it was summer; and to see the beds, blankets and sheets aired at the very fires of the very rooms they were to be used in. This sacred office he never trusted to a housekeeper; he used even to declare, as the result of experience, that it was beyond the intellect of any woman really to air mattresses, blankets, and sheets—all three. He had also a printed list he used to show about, of five acquaintances, stout fellows all, whom “little bits of women” (such was his phraseology) had laid low with damp beds, having crippled two for life with rheumatism and lumbago, and sent three to their long home.
Meantime Severne took the ladies to every public attraction by day and night, and Vizard thanked him, before the fair, for his consideration in taking them off his hands; and Severne retorted by thanking him for leaving them on his.
It may seem, at first, a vile selection; but I am going to ask the ladies who honor me with their attention to follow, not that gay, amorous party of three, but this solitary cynic on his round.
Taking a turn round the garden in Leicester Square, which was new to him, Harrington Vizard's observant eye saw a young lady rise up from a seat to go, but turn pale directly, and sit down again upon the arm of the seat, as if for support.
“Halloo!” said Vizard, in his blunt way,“youare not well. What can I do for you?”
“I am all right,” said she. “Please go on;” the latter words in a tone that implied she was not a novice, and the attentions of gentlemen to strange ladies were suspected.
“I beg your pardon,” said Vizard, coolly. “You are not all right. You look as if you were going to faint.”
“What, are my lips blue?”
“No; but they are pale.”
“Well, then it is not a case of fainting. Itmaybe exhaustion.”
“You know best. What shall we do?”
“Why, nothing. Yes; mind our own business.”
“With all my heart; my business just now is to offer you some restorative—a glass of wine.”
“Oh, yes! I think I see myself going into a public-house with you. Besides, I don't believe in stimulants. Strength can only enter the human body one way. I know what is the matter with me.”
“What is it?”
“I am not obliged to tellyou.”
“Of course you are not obliged; but you might as well.”
“Well, then, it is Hunger.”
“Hunger!”
“Hunger—famine—starvation. Don't you know English?”
“I hope you are not serious, madam,” said Vizard, very gravely. “However, if ladies will say such things as that, men with stomachs in their bosoms must act accordingly. Oblige me by taking my arm, as you are weak, and we will adjourn to that eating-house over the way.”
“Much obliged,” said the lady, satirically, “our acquaintance is notquitelong enough for that.”
He looked at her; a tall, slim, young lady, black merino, by no means new, clean cuffs and collar leaning against the chair for support, and yet sacrificing herself to conventional propriety, and even withstanding him with a pretty little air of defiance that was pitiable, her pallor and the weakness of her body considered.
The poor Woman-hater's bowels began to yearn. “Look here, you little spitfire,” said he, “if you don't instantly take my arm, I'll catch you up and carry you over, with no more trouble than you would carry a thread-paper.”
She looked him up and down very keenly, and at last with a slight expression of feminine approval, the first she had vouchsafed him. Then she folded her arms, and cocked her little nose at him, “You daren't. I'll call the police.”
“If you do, I'll tell them you are my little cousin, mad as a March hare: starving, and won't eat. Come, how is it to be?” He advanced upon her.
“You can't be in earnest, sir,” said she, with sudden dignity.
“Am I not, though? You don't knowme.I am used to be obeyed. If you don't go with me like a sensible girl, I'll carry you—to your dinner—like a ruffian.”
“Then I'll go—like a lady,” said she, with sudden humility.
He offered her his arm. She passed hers within; but leaned as lightly as possible on it, and her poor pale face was a little pink as they went.
He entered the eating-house, and asked for two portions of cold roast beef, not to keep her waiting. They were brought.
“Sir,” said she, with a subjugated air, “will you be so good as cut up the meat small, and pass it to me a bit or two at a time.”
He was surprised, but obeyed her orders.
“And if you could make me talk a little? Because, at sight of the meat so near me, I feel like a tigress—poor human nature! Sir, I have not eaten meat for a week, nor food of any kind this two days.”
“Good God!”
“So I must be prudent. People have gorged themselves with furious eating under those circumstances; that is why I asked you to supply me slowly. Thank you. You need not look at me like that. Better folk than I havediedof hunger. Something tells me I have reached the lowest spoke, when I have been indebted to a stranger for a meal.”
Vizard felt the water come into his eyes; but he resisted that pitiable weakness. “Bother that nonsense!” said he. “I'll introduce myself, and then you can't throwstrangerin my teeth. I am Harrington Vizard, a Barfordshire squire.”
“I thought you were not a Cockney.”
“Lord forbid! Does that information entitle me to any in return?”
“I don't know; but, whether or no, my name is Rhoda Gale.”
“Have another plate, Miss Gale?”
“Thanks.”
He ordered another.