A Woman-Hater

CHAPTER XXV.

MADEMOISELLE KLOSKING told Vizard the time drew near when she must leave his hospitable house.

“Say a month hence,” said he.

She shook her head.

“Of course you will not stay to gratify me,” said he, half sadly, half bitterly. “But you will have to stay a week or two longer par ordonnance du me'decin.”

“My physician is reconciled to my going. We must all bow to necessity.”

This was said too firmly to admit a reply. “The old house will seem very dark again whenever you do go,” said Vizard, plaintively.

“It will soon be brightened by her who is its true and lasting light,” was the steady reply.

A day or two passed with nothing to record, except that Vizard hung about Ina Klosking, and became, if possible, more enamored of her and more unwilling to part with her.

Mr. Ashmead arrived one afternoon about three o'clock, and was more than an hour with her. They conversed very earnestly, and when he went, Miss Gale found her agitated.

“This will not do,” said she.

“It will pass, my friend,” said Ina. “I will sleep.”

She laid herself down and slept three hours before dinner.

She arose refreshed, and dined with the little party; and on retiring to the drawing-room, she invited Vizard to join them at his convenience. He made it his convenience in ten minutes.

Then she opened the piano, played an introduction, and electrified them all by singing the leading song in Siebel. She did not sing it so powerfully as in the theater; she would not have done that even if she could: but still she sung it out, and nobly. It seemed a miracle to hear such singing in a room.

Vizard was in raptures.

They cooled suddenly when she reminded him what he had said, that she must stay till she could sing Siebel's song. “I keep to the letter of the contract,” said she. “My friends, this is my last night at Vizard Court.”

“Please try and shake that resolution,” said Vizard, gravely, to Mesdemoiselles Dover and Gale.

“They cannot,” said Ina. “It is my destiny. And yet,” said she, after a pause, “I would not have you remember me by that flimsy thing. Let me sing you a song your mother loved; let me be remembered in this house, as a singer, by that.”

Then she sung Handel's song:

“What though I trace each herb and flower That decks the morning dew? Did I not own Jehovah's power, How vain were all I knew.”

She sung it with amazing purity, volume, grandeur, and power; the lusters rang and shook, the hearts were thrilled, and the very souls of the hearers ravished. She herself turned a little pale in singing it, and the tears stood in her eyes.

The song and its interpretation were so far above what passes for music that they all felt compliments would be an impertinence. Their eyes and their long drawn breath paid the true homage to that great master rightly interpreted—a very rare occurrence.

“Ah!” said she; “that was the hand could brandish Goliath's spear.”

“And this is how you reconcile us to losing you,” said Vizard. “You might stay, at least, till you had gone through my poor mother's collection.”

“Ah! I wish I could. But I cannot. I must not. My Fate forbids it.”

“'Fate' and 'destiny,'” said Vizard, “stuff and nonsense. We make our own destiny. Mine is to be eternally disappointed, and happiness snatched out of my hands.”

He had no sooner made this pretty speech than he was ashamed of it, and stalked out of the room, not to say any more unwise things.

This burst of spleen alarmed Fanny Dover. “There,” said she, “now you cannot go. He is very angry.”

Ina Klosking said she was sorry for that; but he was too just a man to be angry with her long: the day would come when he would approve her conduct. Her lip quivered a little as she said this, and the water stood in her eyes: and this was remembered and understood, long after, both by Miss Dover and Rhoda Gale.

“When does your Royal Highness propose to start?” inquired Rhoda Gale, very obsequiously, and just a little bitterly.

“To-morrow at half-past nine o'clock, dear friend,” said Ina.

“Then you will not go without me. You will get the better of Mr. Vizard, because he is only a man; but I am a woman, and have a will as well as you. If you make a journey to-morrow, I go with you. Deny me, and you shan't go at all.” Her eyes flashed defiance.

Ina moved one step, took Rhoda's little defiant head, and kissed her cheek. “Sweet physician and kind friend, of course you shall go with me, if you will, and be a great blessing to me.”

This reconciled Miss Gale to the proceedings. She packed up a carpet-bag, and was up early, making provisions of every sort for her patient's journey: air pillows, soft warm coverings, medicaments, stimulants, etc., in a little bag slung across her shoulders. Thus furnished, and equipped in a uniform suit of gray cloth and wideawake hat, she cut a very sprightly and commanding figure, but more like Diana than Hebe.

The Klosking came down, a pale Juno, in traveling costume; and a quarter of an hour before the time a pair-horse fly was at the door and Mr. Ashmead in the hall.

The ladies were both ready.

But Vizard had not appeared.

This caused an uneasy discussion.

“He must be very angry,” said Fanny, in a half whisper.

“I cannot go while he is,” sighed La Klosking. “There is a limit even to my courage.”

“Mr. Harris,” said Rhoda, “would you mind telling Mr. Vizard?”

“Well, miss,” said Harris, softly, “I did step in and tell him. Which he told me to go to the devil, miss—a hobservation I never knew him to make before.”

This was not encouraging. Yet the Klosking quietly inquired where he was.

“In there, ma'am,” said Harris. “In his study.”

Mademoiselle Klosking, placed between two alternatives, decided with her usual resolution. She walked immediately to the door and tapped at it; then, scarcely waiting for an instant, opened it and walked in with seeming firmness, though her heart was beating rather high.

The people outside looked at one another. “I wonder whether he will tell her to go to the devil,” said Fanny, who was getting tired of being good.

“No use,” said Miss Gale; “she doesn't know the road.”

When La Klosking entered the study, Vizard was seated, disconsolate, with two pictures before him. His face was full of pain, and La Klosking's heart smote her. She moved toward him, hanging her head, and said, with inimitable sweetness and tenderness, “Here is a culprit come to try and appease you.”

There came a time that he could hardly think of these words and her penitent, submissive manner with dry eyes. But just then his black dog had bitten him, and he said, sullenly, “Oh, never mind me. It was always so. Your sex have always made me smart for—If flying from my house before you are half recovered gives you half the pleasure it gives me pain and mortification, say no more about it.”

“Ah! why say it gives me pleasure? my friend, you cannot really think so.”

“I don't know what to think. You ladies are all riddles.”

“Then I must take you into my confidence, and, with some reluctance, I own, let you know why I leave this dear, kind roof to-day.”

Vizard's generosity took the alarm. “No,” said, “I will not extort your reasons. It is a shame of me. Your bare will ought to be law in this house; and what reasons could reconcile me to losing you so suddenly? You are the joy of our eyes, the delight of our ears, the idol of all our hearts. You will leave us, and there will be darkness and gloom, instead of sunshine and song. Well, go; but you cannot soften the blow with reasons.”

Mademoiselle Klosking flushed, and her bosom heaved; for this was a strong man, greatly moved. With instinctive tact, she saw the best way to bring him to his senses was to give him a good opening to retreat.

“Ah, monsieur,” said she, “you are trop grand seigneur. You entertain a poor wounded singer in a chamber few princes can equal. You place everything at her disposal; such a physician and nurse as no queen can command; a choir to sing to her; royal sables to keep the wind from her, and ladies to wait on her. And when you have brought her back to life, you say to yourself, She is a woman; she will not be thoroughly content unless you tell her she is adorable. So, out of politeness, you descend to the language of gallantry. This was not needed. I dispense with that kind of comfort. I leave your house because it is my duty, and leave it your grateful servant and true friend to my last hour.”

She had opened the door, and Vizard could now escape. His obstinacy and his heart would not let him.

“Do not fence with me,” said he. “Leave that to others. It is beneath you. If you had been content to stay, I would have been content to show my heart by halves. But when you offer to leave me, you draw from me an avowal I can no longer restrain, and you must and shall listen to it. When I saw you on the stage at Homburg, I admired you and loved you that very night. But I knew from experience how seldom in women outward graces go with the virtues of the soul. I distrusted my judgment. I feared you and I fled you. But our destiny brought you here, and when I held you, pale and wounded, in my very arms, my heart seemed to go out of my bosom.”

“Oh, no more! no more, pray!” cried Mademoiselle Klosking.

But the current of love was not to be stemmed. “Since that terrible hour I have been in heaven, watching your gradual and sure recovery; but you have recovered only to abandon me, and your hurry to leave me drives me to desperation. No, I cannot part with you. You must not leave me, either this day or any day. Give me your hand, and stay here forever, and be the queen of my heart and of my house.”

For some time La Klosking had lost her usual composure. Her bosom heaved tumultuously, and her hands trembled. But at this distinct proposal the whole woman changed. She drew herself up, with her pale cheek flushing and her eyes glittering.

“What, sir?” said she. “Have you read me so ill? Do you not know I would rather be the meanest drudge that goes on her knees and scrubs your floors, than be queen of your house, as you call it? Ah, Jesu, are all men alike, then; that he whom I have so revered, whose mother's songs I have sung to him, makes me a proposal dishonorable to me and to himself?”

“Dishonorable!” cried Vizard. “Why, what can any man offer to any woman more honorable than I offer you? I offer you my heart and my hand, and I say, do not go, my darling. Stay here forever, and be my queen, my goddess, my wife!”

“YOUR WIFE?” She stared wildly at him. “Your wife? Am I dreaming, or are you?”

“Neither. Do you think I can be content with less than that? Ina, I adore you.”

She put her hand to her head. “I know not who is to blame for this,” said she, and she trembled visibly.

“I'll take the blame,” said he, gayly.

Said Ina, very gravely. “You, who do me the honor to offer me your name, have you asked yourself seriously what has been the nature of my relation with Edward Severne?”

“No!” cried Vizard, violently; “and I do not mean to. I see you despise him now; and I have my eyes and my senses to guide me in choosing a wife. I choose you—if you will have me.”

She listened, then turned her moist eyes full upon him, and said to him, “This is the greatest honor ever befell me. I cannot take it.”

“Not take it?”

“No; but that is my misfortune. Do not be mortified. You have no rival in my esteem. What shall I say, my friend?—at least I may call you that. If I explain now, I shall weep much, and lose my strength. What shall I do? I think—yes, that will be best—you shall go with me to-day.”

“To the end of the world!”

“Something tells me you will know all, and forgive me.”

“Shall I take my bag?”

“You might take an evening dress and some linen.”

“Very well. I won't keep you a moment,” said he, and went upstairs with great alacrity.

She went into the hall, with her eyes bent on the ground, and was immediately pinned by Rhoda Gale, whose piercing eye, and inquisitive finger on her pulse, soon discovered that she had gone through a trying scene. “This is a bad beginning of an imprudent journey,” said she: “I have a great mind to countermand the carriage.”

“No, no,” said Ina; “I will sleep in the railway and recover myself.”

The ladies now got into the carriage; Ashmead insisted on going upon the box; and Vizard soon appeared, and took his seat opposite Miss Gale and Mademoiselle Klosking. The latter whispered her doctress: “It would be wise of me not to speak much at present.” La Gale communicated this to Vizard, and they drove along in dead silence. But they were naturally curious to know where they were going; so they held some communication with their eyes. They very soon found they were going to Taddington Station.

Then came a doubt—were they going up or down?

That was soon resolved.

Mr. Ashmead had hired a saloon carriage for them, with couches and conveniences.

They entered it; and Mademoiselle Klosking said to Miss Gale, “It is necessary that I should sleep.”

“You shall,” said Miss Gale.

While she was arranging the pillows and things, La Klosking said to Vizard, “We artists learn to sleep when we have work to do. Without it I should not be strong enough this day.” She said this in a half-apologetic tone, as one anxious not to give him any shadow of offense.

She was asleep in five minutes; and Miss Gale sat watching her at first, but presently joined Vizard at the other end, and they whispered together. Said she, “What becomes of the theory that women have no strength of will? There is Mademoiselle Je le veux in person. When she wants to sleep, she sleeps; and look at you and me—do you know where we are going?”

“No.”

“No more do I. The motive power is that personification of divine repose there. How beautiful she is with her sweet lips parted, and her white teeth peeping, and her upper and lower lashes wedded, and how graceful!”

“She is a goddess,” said Vizard. “I wish I had never seen her. Mark my words, she will give me the sorest heart of all.”

“I hope not,” said Rhoda, very seriously.

Ina slept sweetly for nearly two hours, and all that time her friends could only guess where they were going.

At last the train stopped, for the sixth time, and Ashmead opened the door.

This worthy, who was entirely in command of the expedition, collected the luggage, including Vizard's bag, and deposited it at the station. He then introduced the party to a pair-horse fly, and mounted the box.

When they stopped at Bagley, Vizard suspected where they were going.

When he saw the direction the carriage took, he knew it, and turned very grave indeed.

He even regretted that he had put himself so blindly under the control of a woman. He cast searching glances at Mademoiselle Klosking to try and discover what on earth she was going to do. But her face was as impenetrable as marble. Still, she never looked less likely to do anything rash or in bad taste. Quietness was the main characteristic of her face, when not rippled over by a ravishing sweetness; but he had never seen her look so great, and lofty, and resolute as she looked now; a little stern, too, as one who had a great duty to do, and was inflexible as iron. When truly feminine features stiffen into marble like this, beauty is indeed imperial, and worthy of epic song; it rises beyond the wing of prose.

My reader is too intelligent not to divine that she was steeling herself to a terrible interview with Zoe Vizard—terrible mainly on account of the anguish she knew she must inflict.

But we can rarely carry out our plans exactly as we trace them—unexpected circumstances derange them or expand them; and I will so far anticipate as to say that in this case a most unexpected turn of events took La Klosking by surprise.

Whether she proved equal to the occasion these pages will show very soon.