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A Woman-Hater

by Charles Reade · English · Gutenberg #3669 · 878,067 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: A Woman-Hater

Author: Charles Reade


        
Release date: January 1, 2003 [eBook #3669]
                Most recently updated: March 5, 2018

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/3669

Credits: Produced by James Rusk and David Widger


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A WOMAN-HATER ***




Produced by James Rusk







A WOMAN-HATER.

By Charles Reade



Italics are indicated by the
underscore character. Accent marks are indicated by a single quote
(') after the vowel for acute accents and before the vowel for grave
accents. Other accent marks are ignored.



CHAPTER I.

“THE Golden Star,” Homburg, was a humble hotel, not used by gay gamblers,
but by modest travelers.

At two o'clock, one fine day in June, there were two strangers in the
_salle a' manger,_ seated at small tables a long way apart, and wholly
absorbed in their own business.

One was a lady about twenty-four years old, who, in the present repose of
her features, looked comely, sedate, and womanly, but not the remarkable
person she really was. Her forehead high and white, but a little broader
than sculptors affect; her long hair, coiled tight, in a great many
smooth snakes, upon her snowy nape, was almost flaxen, yet her eyebrows
and long lashes not pale but a reddish brown; her gray eyes large and
profound; her mouth rather large, beautifully shaped, amiable, and
expressive, but full of resolution; her chin a little broad; her neck and
hands admirably white and polished. She was an Anglo-Dane--her father
English.

If you ask me what she was doing, why--hunting; and had been, for some
days, in all the inns of Homburg. She had the visitors' book, and was
going through the names of the whole year, and studying each to see
whether it looked real or assumed. Interspersed were flippant comments,
and verses adapted to draw a smile of amusement or contempt; but this
hunter passed them all over as nullities: the steady pose of her head,
the glint of her deep eye, and the set of her fine lips showed a soul not
to be diverted from its object.

The traveler at her back had a map of the district and blank telegrams,
one of which he filled in every now and then, and scribbled a hasty
letter to the same address. He was a sharp-faced middle-aged man of
business; Joseph Ashmead, operatic and theatrical agent--at his wits'
end; a female singer at the Homburg Opera had fallen really ill; he was
commissioned to replace her, and had only thirty hours to do it in. So he
was hunting a singer. What the lady was hunting can never be known,
unless she should choose to reveal it.

Karl, the waiter, felt bound to rouse these abstracted guests, and
stimulate their appetites. He affected, therefore, to look on them as
people who had not yet breakfasted, and tripped up to Mr. Ashmead with a
bill of fare, rather scanty.

The busiest Englishman can eat, and Ashmead had no objection to snatch a
mouthful; he gave his order in German with an English accent. But the
lady, when appealed to, said softly, in pure German, “I will wait for the
_table-d'hote.”_

“The _table-d'hote!_ It wants four hours to that.”

The lady looked Karl full in the face, and said, slowly, and very
distinctly, “Then, I--will--wait--four--hours.”

These simple words, articulated firmly, and in a contralto voice of
singular volume and sweetness, sent Karl skipping; but their effect on
Mr. Ashmead was more remarkable. He started up from his chair with an
exclamation, and bent his eyes eagerly on the melodious speaker. He could
only see her back hair and her figure; but, apparently, this quick-eared
gentleman had also quick eyes, for he said aloud, in English, “Her hair,
too--it must be;” and he came hurriedly toward her. She caught a word or
two, and turned and saw him. “Ah!” said she, and rose; but the points of
her fingers still rested on the book.

“It is!” cried Ashmead. “It is!”

“Yes, Mr. Ashmead,” said the lady, coloring a little, but in pure
English, and with a composure not easily disturbed; “it is Ina Klosking.”

“What a pleasure,” cried Ashmead; and what a surprise! Ah, madam, I never
hoped to see you again. When I heard you had left the Munich Opera so
sudden, I said, 'There goes one more bright star quenched forever.' And
you to desert us--you, the risingest singer in Germany!”

“Mr. Ashmead!”

“You can't deny it. You know you were.”

The lady, thus made her own judge, seemed to reflect a moment, and said,
“I was a well-grounded musician, thanks to my parents; I was a very
hard-working singer; and I had the advantage of being supported, in my
early career, by a gentleman of judgment and spirit, who was a manager at
first, and brought me forward, afterward a popular agent, and talked
managers into a good opinion of me.”

“Ah, madam,” said Ashmead, tenderly, “it is a great pleasure to hear this
from you, and spoken with that mellow voice which would charm a
rattlesnake; but what would my zeal and devotion have availed if you had
not been a born singer?”

“Why--yes,” said Ina, thoughtfully; “I was a singer.” But she seemed to
say this not as a thing to be proud of, but only because it happened to
be true; and, indeed, it was a peculiarity of this woman that she
appeared nearly always to think--if but for half a moment--before she
spoke, and to say things, whether about herself or others, only because
they were the truth. The reader who shall condescend to bear this in mind
will possess some little clew to the color and effect of her words as
spoken. Often, where they seem simple and commonplace--on paper, they
were weighty by their extraordinary air of truthfulness as well as by the
deep music of her mellow, bell-like voice.

“Oh, you do admit that,” said Mr. Ashmead, with a chuckle; “then why jump
off the ladder so near the top? Oh, of course I know--the old story--but
you might give twenty-two hours to love, and still spare a couple to
music.”

“That seems a reasonable division,” said Ina, naively. “But”
 (apologetically) “he was jealous.”

“Jealous!--more shame for him. I'm sure no lady in public life was ever
more discreet.”

“No, no; he was only jealous of the public.”

“And what had the poor public done?”

“Absorbed me, he said.”

“Why, he could take you to the opera, and take you home from the opera,
and, during the opera, he could make one of the public, and applaud you
as loud as the best.”

“Yes, but rehearsals!--and--embracing the tenor.”

“Well, but only on the stage?”

“Oh, Mr. Ashmead, where else does one embrace the tenor?”

“And was that a grievance? Why, I'd embrace fifty tenors--if I was paid
proportionable.”

“Yes; but he said I embraced one poor stick, with a fervor--an
_abandon_--Well, I dare say I did; for, if they had put a gate-post in
the middle of the stage, and it was in my part to embrace the thing, I
should have done it honestly, for love of my art, and not of a post. The
next time I had to embrace the poor stick it was all I could do not to
pinch him savagely.”

“And turn him to a counter-tenor--make him squeak.”

Ina Klosking smiled for the first time. Ashmead, too, chuckled at his own
wit, but turned suddenly grave the next moment, and moralized. He
pronounced it desirable, for the interests of mankind, that a great and
rising singer should not love out of the business; outsiders were
wrong-headed and absurd, and did not understand the true artist. However,
having discoursed for some time in this strain, he began to fear it might
be unpalatable to her; so he stopped abruptly, and said, “But there--what
is done is done. We must make the best of it; and you mustn't think I
meant to run _him_ down. He loves you, in his way. He must be a noble
fellow, or he never could have won such a heart as yours. He won't be
jealous of an old fellow like me, though I love you, too, in my humdrum
way, and always did. You must do me the honor to present me to him at
once.”

Ina stared at him, but said nothing.

“Oh,” continued Ashmead, “I shall be busy till evening; but I will ask
him and you to dine with me at the Kursaal, and then adjourn to the Royal
Box. You are a queen of song, and that is where you and he shall sit, and
nowhere else.”

Ina Klosking was changing color all this time, and cast a grateful but
troubled look on him. “My kind, old faithful friend!” said she, then
shook her head. “No, we are not to dine with you; nor sit together at the
opera, in Homburg.”

Ashmead looked a little chagrined. “So be it,” he said dryly. “But at
least introduce me to him. I'll try and overcome his prejudices.”

“It is not even in my power to do that.”

“Oh, I see. I'm not good enough for him,” said Ashmead, bitterly.

“You do yourself injustice, and him too,” said Ina, courteously.

“Well, then?”

“My friend,” said she, deprecatingly, “he is not here.”

“Not here? That is odd. Well, then, you will be dull till he comes back.
Come without him; at all events, to the opera.”

She turned her tortured eyes away. “I have not the heart.”

This made Ashmead look at her more attentively. “Why, what is the
matter?” said he. “You are in trouble. I declare you are trembling, and
your eyes are filling. My poor lady--in Heaven's name, what is the
matter?”

“Hush!” said Ina; “not so loud.” Then she looked him in the face a little
while, blushed, hesitated, faltered, and at last laid one white hand upon
her bosom, that was beginning to heave, and said, with patient dignity,
“My old friend--I--am--deserted.”


Ashmead looked at her with amazement and incredulity. “Deserted!” said
he, faintly. “You--deserted!!!”

“Yes,” said she, “deserted; but perhaps not forever.” Her noble eyes
filled to the brim, and two tears stood ready to run over.

“Why, the man must be an idiot!” shouted Ashmead.

“Hush! not so loud. That waiter is listening: let me come to your table.”

She came and sat down at his table, and he sat opposite her. They looked
at each other. He waited for her to speak. With all her fortitude, her
voice faltered, under the eye of sympathy. “You are my old friend,” she
said. “I'll try and tell you all.” But she could not all in a moment, and
the two tears trickled over and ran down her cheeks; Ashmead saw them,
and burst out, “The villain!--the villain!”

“No, no,” said she, “do not call him that. I could not bear it. Believe
me, he is no villain.” Then she dried her eyes, and said, resolutely, “If
I am to tell you, you must not apply harsh words to him. They would close
my mouth at once, and close my heart.”

“I won't say a word,” said Ashmead, submissively; “so tell me all.”

Ina reflected a moment, and then told her tale. Dealing now with longer
sentences, she betrayed her foreign half.

“Being alone so long,” said she, “has made me reflect more than in all my
life before, and I now understand many things that, at the time, I could
not. He to whom I have given my love, and resigned the art in which I was
advancing--with your assistance--is, by nature, impetuous and inconstant.
He was born so, and I the opposite. His love for me was too violent to
last forever in any man, and it soon cooled in him, because he is
inconstant by nature. He was jealous of the public: he must have all my
heart, and all my time, and so he wore his own passion out. Then his
great restlessness, having now no chain, became too strong for our
happiness. He pined for change, as some wanderers pine for a fixed home.
Is it not strange? I, a child of the theater, am at heart domestic. He, a
gentleman and a scholar, born, bred, and fitted to adorn the best
society, is by nature a Bohemian.

“One word: is there another woman?”

“No, not that I know of; Heaven forbid!” said Ina. “But there is
something very dreadful: there is gambling. He has a passion for it, and
I fear I wearied him by my remonstrances. He dragged me about from one
gambling-place to another, and I saw that if I resisted he would go
without me. He lost a fortune while we were together, and I do really
believe he is ruined, poor dear.”

Ashmead suppressed all signs of ill-temper, and asked, grimly, “Did he
quarrel with you, then?”

“Oh, no; he never said an unkind word to me; and I was not always so
forbearing, for I passed months of torment. I saw that affection, which
was my all, gliding gradually away from me; and the tortured will cry
out. I am not an ungoverned woman, but sometimes the agony was
intolerable, and I complained. Well, that agony, I long for it back; for
now I am desolate.”

“Poor soul! How could a man have the heart to leave you? how could he
have the face?”

“Oh, he did not do it shamelessly. He left me for a week, to visit
friends in England. But he wrote to me from London. He had left me at
Berlin. He said that he did not like to tell me before parting, but I
must not expect to see him for six weeks; and he desired me to go to my
mother in Denmark. He would send his next letter to me there. Ah! he knew
I should need my mother when his second letter came. He had planned it
all, that the blow might not kill me. He wrote to tell me he was a ruined
man, and he was too proud to let me support him: he begged my pardon for
his love, for his desertion, for ever having crossed my brilliant path
like a dark cloud. He praised me, he thanked me, he blessed me; but he
left me. It was a beautiful letter, but it was the death-warrant of my
heart. I was abandoned.”

Ashmead started up and walked very briskly, with a great appearance of
business requiring vast dispatch, to the other end of the _salle;_ and
there, being out of Ina's hearing, he spoke his mind to a candlestick
with three branches. “D--n him! Heartless, sentimental scoundrel! D--n
him! D--n him!”

Having relieved his mind with this pious ejaculation, he returned to Ina
at a reasonable pace and much relieved, and was now enabled to say,
cheerfully, “Let us take a business view of it. He is gone--gone of his
own accord. Give him your blessing--I have given him mine--and forget
him.”

“Forget him! Never while I live. Is that your advice? Oh, Mr. Ashmead!
And the moment I saw your friendly face, I said to myself, 'I am no
longer alone: here is one that will help me.'”

“And so I will, you may be sure of that,” said Ashmead, eagerly. “What is
the business?”

“The business is to find him. That is the first thing.”

“But he is in England.”

“Oh, no; that was eight months ago. He could not stay eight months in any
country; besides, there are no gambling-houses there.”

“And have you been eight months searching Europe for this madman?”

“No. At first pride and anger were strong, and I said, 'Here I stay till
he comes back to me and to his senses.'”

“Brava!”

“Yes; but month after month went by, carrying away my pride and my anger,
and leaving my affection undiminished. At last I could bear it no longer;
so, as he would not come to his senses--”

“You took leave of yours, and came out on a wild-goose chase,” said
Ashmead, but too regretfully to affront her.

“It _was,”_ said Ina; “I feel it. But it is not one _now,_ because I have
_you_ to assist me with your experience and ability. You will find him
for me, somehow or other. I know you will.”

Let a woman have ever so little guile, she must have tact, if she is a
true woman. Now, tact, if its etymology is to be trusted, implies a fine
sense and power of touch; so, in virtue of her sex, she pats a horse
before she rides him, and a man before she drives him. There, ladies,
there is an indictment in two counts; traverse either of them if you can.

Joseph Ashmead, thus delicately but effectually manipulated, swelled with
gratified vanity and said, “You are quite right; you can't do this sort
of thing yourself; you want an agent.”

“Of course I do.”

“Well, you have got one. Now let me see--fifty to one he is not at
Homburg at all. If he is, he most likely stays at Frankfort. He is a
swell, is he not?”

“Swell!” said the Anglo-Dane, puzzled. “Not that I am aware of.” She was
strictly on her guard against vituperation of her beloved scamp.

“Pooh, pooh!” said Ashmead; “of course he is, and not the sort to lodge
in Homburg.”

“Then behold my incompetence!” said Ina.

“But _the_ place to look for him is the gambling-saloon. Been there?”

“Oh, no.”

“Then you must.”

“What! Me! Alone?”

“No; with your agent.”

“Oh, my friend; I said you would find him.”

“What a woman! She will have it he is in Homburg. And suppose we do find
him, and you should not be welcome?”

“I shall not be unwelcome. _I shall be a change.”_

“Shall I tell you how to draw him to Homburg, wherever he is?” said
Ashmead, very demurely.

“Yes, tell me that.”

“And do _me_ a good turn into the bargain.”

“Is it possible? Can I be so fortunate?”

“Yes; and _as you say,_ it _is_ a slice of luck to be able to kill two
birds with one stone. Why, consider--the way to recover a man is not to
run after him, but to make him run to you. It is like catching moths; you
don't run out into the garden after them; you light the candle and open
the window, and _they_ do the rest--as he will.”

“Yes, yes; but what am I to do for _you?”_ asked Ina, getting a little
uneasy and suspicious.

“What! didn't I tell you?” said Ashmead, with cool effrontery. “Why, only
to sing for me in this little opera, that is all.” And he put his hands
in his pockets, and awaited thunder-claps.

“Oh, that is all, is it?” said Ina, panting a little, and turning two
great, reproachful eyes on him.

“That is all,” said he, stoutly. “Why, what attracted him at first?
Wasn't it your singing, the admiration of the public, the bouquets and
bravas? What caught the moth once will catch it again 'moping' won't. And
surely you will not refuse to draw him, merely because you can pull me
out of a fix into the bargain. Look here, I have undertaken to find a
singer by to-morrow night; and what chance is there of my getting even a
third-rate one? Why, the very hour I have spent so agreeably, talking to
you, has diminished my chance.”

“Oh!” said Ina, “this is _driving_ me into your net.”

“I own it,” said Joseph, cheerfully; “I'm quite unscrupulous, because I
know you will thank me afterward.”

“The very idea of going back to the stage makes me tremble,” said Ina.

“Of course it does; and those who tremble succeed. In a long experience I
never knew an instance to the contrary. It is the conceited fools, who
feel safe, that are in danger.”

“What is the part?”

“One you know--Siebel in 'Faust,' with two new songs.”

“Excuse me, I do not know it.”

“Why, everybody knows it.”

“You mean everybody has heard it sung. I know neither the music nor the
words, and I cannot sing incorrectly even for you.”

“Oh, you can master the airs in a day, and the cackle in half an hour.”

“I am not so expeditious. If you are serious, get me the book--oh! he
calls the poet's words the cackle--and the music of the part directly,
and borrow me the score.”

“Borrow you the score! Ah! that shows the school you were bred in. I gaze
at you with admiration.”

“Then please don't, for we have not a moment to waste. You have terrified
me out of my senses. Fly!”

“Yes; but before I fly, there is something to be settled--salary!”

“As much as they will give.”

“Of course; but give me a hint.”

“No, no; you will get me some money, for I am poor. I gave all my savings
to my dear mother, and settled her on a farm in dear old Denmark. But I
really sing for _you_ more than for Homburg, so make no difficulties.
Above all, do not discuss salary with me. Settle it and draw it for me,
and let me hear no more about that. I am on thorns.”



He soon found the director, and told him, excitedly, there was a way out
of his present difficulty. Ina Klosking was in the town. He had implored
her to return to the opera. She had refused at first; but he had used all
his influence with her, and at last had obtained a half promise on
conditions--a two months' engagement; certain parts, which he specified
out of his own head; salary, a hundred thalers per night, and a half
clear benefit on her last appearance.

The director demurred to the salary.

Ashmead said he was mad: she was the German Alboni; her low notes like a
trumpet, and the compass of a mezzo-soprano besides.

The director yielded, and drew up the engagement in duplicate. Ashmead
then borrowed the music and came back to the inn triumphant. He waved the
agreement over his head, then submitted it to her. She glanced at it,
made a wry face, and said, “Two months! I never dreamed of such a thing.”

“Not worth your while to do it for less,” said Ashmead. “Come,” said he,
authoritatively, “you have got a good bargain every way; so sign.”

She lifted her head high, and looked at him like a lioness, at being
ordered.

Ashmead replied by putting the paper before her and giving her the pen.

She cast one more reproachful glance, then signed like a lamb.

“Now,” said she, turning fretful, “I want a piano.”

“You shall have one,” said he coaxingly. He went to the landlord and
inquired if there was a piano in the house.

“Yes, there is one,” said he.

“And it is mine,” said a sharp female voice.

“May I beg the use of it?”

“No,” said the lady, a tall, bony spinster. “I cannot have it strummed on
and put out of tune by everybody.”

“But this is not everybody. The lady I want it for is a professional
musician. Top of the tree.”

“The hardest strummers going.”

“But, mademoiselle, this lady is going to sing at the opera. She _must_
study. She _must_ have a piano.

“But [grimly] she need not have mine.

“Then she must leave the hotel.”

“Oh [haughtily], _that_ is as she pleases.”

Ashmead went to Ina Klosking in a rage and told her all this, and said he
would take her to another hotel kept by a Frenchman: these Germans were
bears. But Ina Klosking just shrugged her shoulders, and said, “Take me
to her.”

He did so; and she said, in German, “Madam, I can quite understand your
reluctance to have your piano strummed. But as your hotel is quiet and
respectable, and I am unwilling to leave it, will you permit me to play
to you? and then you shall decide whether I am worthy to stay or not.”

The spinster drank those mellow accents, colored a little, looked keenly
at the speaker, and, after a moment's reflection, said, half sullenly,
“No, madam, you are polite. I must risk my poor piano. Be pleased to come
with me.”

She then conducted them to a large, unoccupied room on the first-floor,
and unlocked the piano, a very fine one, and in perfect tune.

Ina sat down, and performed a composition then in vogue.

“You play correctly, madam,” said the spinster; “but your music--what
stuff! Such things are null. They vex the ear a little, but they never
reach the mind.”

Ashmead was wroth, and could hardly contain himself; but the Klosking was
amused, and rather pleased. “Mademoiselle has positive tastes in music,”
 said she; “all the better.”

“Yes,” said the spinster, “most music is mere noise. I hate and despise
forty-nine compositions out of fifty; but the fiftieth I adore. Give me
something simple, with a little soul in it--if you can.”

Ina Klosking looked at her, and observed her age and her dress, the
latter old-fashioned. She said, quietly, “Will mademoiselle do me the
honor to stand before me? I will sing her a trifle my mother taught me.”

The spinster complied, and stood erect and stiff, with her arms folded.
Ina fixed her deep eyes on her, playing a liquid prelude all the time,
then swelled her chest and sung the old Venetian cauzonet, “Il pescatore
de'll' onda.” It is a small thing, but there is no limit to the genius of
song. The Klosking sung this trifle with a voice so grand, sonorous, and
sweet, and, above all, with such feeling, taste, and purity, that somehow
she transported her hearers to Venetian waters, moonlit, and thrilled
them to the heart, while the great glass chandelier kept ringing very
audibly, so true, massive, and vibrating were her tones in that large,
empty room.

At the first verse that cross-grained spinster, with real likes and
dislikes, put a bony hand quietly before her eyes. At the last, she made
three strides, as a soldier marches, and fell all of a piece, like a
wooden _mannequin,_ on the singer's neck. “Take my piano,” she sobbed,
“for you have taken the heart out of my body.”

Ina returned her embrace, and did not conceal her pleasure. “I am very
proud of such a conquest,” said she.

From that hour Ina was the landlady's pet. The room and piano were made
over to her, and, being in a great fright at what she had undertaken, she
studied and practiced her part night and day. She made Ashmead call a
rehearsal next day, and she came home from it wretched and almost
hysterical.

She summoned her slave Ashmead; he stood before her with an air of
hypocritical submission.

“The Flute was not at rehearsal, sir,” said she, severely, “nor the Oboe,
nor the Violoncello.”

“Just like 'em,” said Ashmead, tranquilly.

“The tenor is a quavering stick. He is one of those who think that an
unmanly trembling of the voice represents every manly passion.”

“Their name is legion.”

“The soprano is insipid. And they are all imperfect--contentedly
imperfect, How can people sing incorrectly? It is like lying.”

“That is what makes it so common--he! he!”

“I do not desire wit, but consolation. I believe you are Mephistopheles
himself in disguise; for ever since I signed that diabolical compact you
made me, I have been in a state of terror, agitation, misgiving, and
misery--and I thank and bless you for it; for these thorns and nettles
they lacerate me, and make me live. They break the dull, lethargic agony
of utter desolation.”

Then, as her nerves were female nerves, and her fortitude female
fortitude, she gave way, for once, and began to cry patiently.

Ashmead the practical went softly away and left her, as we must leave her
for a time, to battle her business with one hand and her sorrow with the
other.


CHAPTER II.

IN the Hotel Russie, at Frankfort, there was a grand apartment, lofty,
spacious, and richly furnished, with a broad balcony overlooking the
Platz, and roofed, so to speak, with colored sun-blinds, which softened
the glare of the Rhineland sun to a rosy and mellow light.

In the veranda, a tall English gentleman was leaning over the balcony,
smoking a cigar, and being courted by a fair young lady. Her light-gray
eyes dwelt on him in a way to magnetize a man, and she purred pretty
nothings at his ear, in a soft tone she reserved for males. Her voice was
clear, loud, and rather high-pitched whenever she spoke to a person of
her own sex; a comely English blonde, with pale eyelashes; a keen,
sensible girl, and not a downright wicked one; only born artful. This was
Fanny Dover; and the tall gentleman--whose relation she was, and whose
wife she resolved to be in one year, three years, or ten, according to
his power of resistance--was Harrington Vizard, a Barfordshire squire,
with twelve thousand acres and a library.

As for Fanny, she had only two thousand pounds in all the world; so
compensating Nature endowed her with a fair complexion, gray, mesmeric
eyes, art, and resolution--qualities that often enable a poor girl to
conquer landed estates, with their male incumbrances.

Beautiful and delicate--on the surface--as was Miss Dover's courtship of
her first cousin once removed, it did not strike fire; it neither pleased
nor annoyed him; it fell as dead as a lantern firing on an iceberg. Not
that he disliked her by any means. But he was thirty-two, had seen the
world, and had been unlucky with women. So he was now a _divorce',_ and a
declared woman-hater; railed on them, and kept them at arm's-length,
Fanny Dover included. It was really comical to see with what perfect
coolness and cynical apathy he parried the stealthy advances of this
cat-like girl, a mistress in the art of pleasing--when she chose.

Inside the room, on a couch of crimson velvet, sat a young lady of rare
and dazzling beauty. Her face was a long but perfect oval, pure forehead,
straight nose, with exquisite nostrils; coral lips, and ivory teeth. But
what first struck the beholder were her glorious dark eyes, and
magnificent eyebrows as black as jet. Her hair was really like a raven's
dark-purple wing.

These beauties, in a stern character, might have inspired awe; the more
so as her form and limbs were grand and statuesque for her age; but all
was softened down to sweet womanhood by long, silken lashes, often
lowered, and a gracious face that blushed at a word, blushed little,
blushed much, blushed pinky, blushed pink, blushed roseate, blushed rosy;
and, I am sorry to say, blushed crimson, and even scarlet, in the course
of those events I am about to record, as unblushing as turnip, and cool
as cucumber. This scale of blushes arose not out of modesty alone, but
out of the wide range of her sensibility. On hearing of a noble deed, she
blushed warm approbation; at a worthy sentiment, she blushed heart-felt
sympathy. If you said a thing at the fire that might hurt some person at
the furthest window, she would blush for fear it should be overheard, and
cause pain.

In short, it was her peculiarity to blush readily for matters quite
outside herself, and to show the male observer (if any) the amazing
sensibility, apart from egotism, that sometimes adorns a young,
high-minded woman, not yet hardened by the world.

This young lady was Zoe Vizard, daughter of Harrington's father by a
Greek mother, who died when she was twelve years of age. Her mixed origin
showed itself curiously. In her figure and face she was all Greek, even
to her hand, which was molded divinely, but as long and large as befitted
her long, grand, antique arm; but her mind was Northern--not a grain of
Greek subtlety in it. Indeed, she would have made a poor hand at dark
deceit, with a transparent face and eloquent blood, that kept coursing
from her heart to her cheeks and back again, and painting her thoughts
upon her countenance.

Having installed herself, with feminine instinct, in a crimson couch that
framed her to perfection, Zoe Vizard was at work embroidering. She had
some flowers, and their leaves, lying near her on a little table, and,
with colored silks, chenille, etc., she imitated each flower and its leaf
very adroitly without a pattern. This was clever, and, indeed, rather a
rare talent; but she lowered her head over this work with a demure,
beaming complacency embroidery alone never yet excited without external
assistance. Accordingly, on a large stool, or little ottoman, at her
feet, but at a respectful distance, sat a young man, almost her match in
beauty, though in quite another style. In height about five feet ten,
broad-shouldered, clean-built, a model of strength, agility, and grace.
His face fair, fresh, and healthy-looking; his large eyes hazel; the
crisp curling hair on his shapely head a wonderful brown in the mass, but
with one thin streak of gold above the forehead, and all the loose hairs
glittering golden. A short clipped mustache saved him from looking too
feminine, yet did not hide his expressive mouth. He had white hands, as
soft and supple as a woman's, a mellow voice, and a winning tongue. This
dangerous young gentleman was gazing softly on Zoe Vizard and purring in
her ear; and she was conscious of his gaze without looking at him, and
was sipping the honey, and showed it, by seeming more absorbed in her
work than girls ever really are.

Matters, however, had not gone openly very far. She was still on her
defense: so, after imbibing his flatteries demurely a long time, she
discovered, all in one moment, that they were objectionable. “Dear me,
Mr. Severne,” said she, “you do nothing but pay compliments.”

“How can I help it, sitting here?” inquired he.

“There--there,” said she: then, quietly, “Does it never occur to you that
only foolish people are pleased with flatteries?”

“I have heard that; but I don't believe it. I know it makes me awfully
happy whenever you say a kind word of me.”

“That is far from proving your wisdom,” said Zoe; “and, instead of
dwelling on my perfections, which do not exist, I wish you would _tell_
me things.”

“What things?”

“How can I tell till I hear them? Well, then, things about yourself.”

“That is a poor subject.”

“Let me be the judge.”

“Oh, there are lots of fellows who are always talking about themselves:
let me be an exception.”

This answer puzzled Zoe, and she was silent, and put on a cold look. She
was not accustomed to be refused anything reasonable.

Severne examined her closely, and saw he was expected to obey her. He
then resolved to prepare, in a day or two, an autobiography full of
details that should satisfy Zoe's curiosity, and win her admiration and
her love. But he could not do it all in a moment, because his memory of
his real life obstructed his fancy. Meantime he operated a diversion. He
said, “Set a poor fellow an example. Tell me something about
_yourself--_since I have the bad taste, and the presumption, to be
interested in you, and can't help it. Did you spring from the foam of the
Archipelago? or are you descended from Bacchus and Ariadne?”

“If you want sensible answers, ask sensible questions,” said Zoe, trying
to frown him down with her black brows; but her sweet cheek would tint
itself, and her sweet mouth smile and expose much intercoral ivory.

“Well, then,” said he, “I will ask you a prosaic question, and I only
hope you won't think it impertinent. How--ever--did such a strangely
assorted party as yours come to travel together? And if Vizard has turned
woman-hater, as he pretends, how comes he to be at the head of a female
party who are not _all_ of them--” he hesitated.

“Go on, Mr. Severne; not all of them what?” said Zoe, prepared to stand
up for her sex.

“Not perfect?”

“That is a very cautious statement, and--there--you are as slippery as an
eel; there is no getting hold of you. Well, never mind, I will set you an
example of communicativeness, and reveal this mystery hidden as yet from
mankind.”

“Speak, dread queen; thy servant heareth.”

“Ha! ha! ha! Mr. Severne, you amuse _me.”_

“You only interest _me,”_ was the soft reply.

Zoe blushed pink, but turned it off. “Then why do you not attend to my
interesting narrative, instead of--Well, then, it began with my asking
the dear fellow to take me a tour, especially to Rome.”

“You wanted to see the statues of your ancestors, and shame them.”

“Much obliged; I was not quite such a goose. I wanted to see the Tiber,
and the Colosseum, and Trajan's Pillar, and the Tarpeian Rock, and the
one everlasting city that binds ancient and modern history together.”

She flashed her great eyes on him, and he was dumb. She had risen above
the region of his ideas. Having silenced her commentator, she returned to
her story, “Well, dear Harrington said 'yes' directly. So then I told
Fanny, and she said, 'Oh, do take me with you?' Now, of course I was only
too glad to have Fanny; she is my relation, and my friend.”

“Happy girl!”

“Be quiet, please. So I asked Harrington to let me have Fanny with us,
and you should have seen his face. What, he travel with a couple of us!
He--I don't see why I should tell you what the monster said.”

“Oh, yes, please do.”

“You won't go telling anybody else, then?”

“Not a living soul, upon my honor.”

“Well, then,” he said--she began to blush like a rose--“that he looked on
me as a mere female in embryo; I had not yet developed the vices of my
sex. But Fanny Dover was a ripe flirt, and she would set me flirting, and
how could he manage the pair? In short, sir, he refused to take us, and
gave his reasons, such as they were, poor dear! Then I had to tell Fanny.
Then she began to cry, and told me to go without her. But I would not do
that, when I had once asked her. Then she clung round my neck, and kissed
me, and begged me to be cross and sullen, and tire out dear Harrington.”

“That is like her.”

“How do you know?” said Zoe sharply.

“Oh, I have studied her character.”

“When, pray?” said Zoe, ironically, yet blushing a little, because her
secret meaning was, “You are always at my apron strings, and have no time
to fathom Fanny.”

“When I have nothing better to do--when you are out of the room.”

 “Well, I shall be out of the room very soon, if you say another word.”

“And serve me right, too. I am a fool to talk when you allow me to
listen.”

“He is incorrigible!” said Zoe, pathetically. “Well, then, I refused to
pout at Harrington. It is not as if he had no reason to distrust women,
poor dear darling. I invited Fanny to stay a month with us; and, when
once she was in the house, she soon got over me, and persuaded me to play
sad, and showed me how to do it. So we wore long faces, and sweet
resignation, and were never cross, but kept turning tearful eyes upon our
victim.”

“Ha! ha! How absurd of Vizard to tell you that two women would be too
much for one man.”

“No, it was the truth; and girls are artful creatures, especially when
they put their heads together. But hear the end of all our cunning. One
day, after dinner, Harrington asked us to sit opposite him; so we did,
and felt guilty. He surveyed us in silence a little while, and then he
said, 'My young friends, you have played your little game pretty well,
especially you, Zoe, that are a novice in the fine arts compared with
Miss Dover.' Histrionic talent ought to be rewarded; he would relent, and
take us abroad, on one condition: there must be a chaperone. 'All the
better,' said we hypocrites, eagerly; 'and who?'”

“'Oh, a person equal to the occasion--an old maid as bitter against men
as ever grapes were sour. She would follow us upstairs, downstairs, and
into my lady's chamber. She would have an eye at the key-hole by day, and
an ear by night, when we went up to bed and talked over the events of our
frivolous day.' In short, he enumerated our duenna's perfections till our
blood ran cold; and it was ever so long before he would tell us who it
was--Aunt Maitland. We screamed with surprise. They are like cat and
dog, and never agree, except to differ. We sought an explanation of this
strange choice. He obliged us. It was not for his gratification he took
the old cat; it was for us. She would relieve him of a vast
responsibility. The vices of her character would prove too strong for the
little faults of ours, which were only volatility, frivolity,
flirtation--I will _not_ tell you what he said.”

“I seem to hear Harrington talking,” said Severne. “What on earth makes
him so hard upon women? Would you mind telling me that?”

“Never ask me that question again,” said Zoe, with sudden gravity.

“Well, I won't; I'll get it out of him.”

“If you say a word to him about it, I shall be shocked and offended.”

She was pale and red by turns; but Severne bowed his head with a
respectful submission that disarmed her directly. She turned her head
away, and Severne, watching her, saw her eyes fill.

“How is it,” said she thoughtfully, and looking away from him, “that men
leave out their sisters when they sum up womankind? Are not we women too?
My poor brother quite forgets he has one woman who will never, never
desert nor deceive him; dear, darling fellow!” and with these three last
words she rose and kissed the tips of her fingers, and waved the kiss to
Vizard with that free magnitude of gesture which belonged to antiquity:
it struck the Anglo-Saxon flirt at her feet with amazement. Not having
good enough under his skin to sympathize with that pious impulse, he
first stagnated a little while; and then, not to be silent altogether,
made his little, stale, commonplace comment on what she had told him.
“Why, it is like a novel.”

“A very unromantic one,” replied Zoe.

“I don't know that. I have read very interesting novels with fewer new
characters than this: there's a dark beauty, and a fair, and a duenna
with an eagle eye and an aquiline nose.”

“Hush!” said Zoe: “that is her room;” and pointed to a chamber door that
opened into the apartment.

Oh, marvelous female instinct! The duenna in charge was at that moment
behind that very door, and her eye and her ear at the key-hole, turn
about.

Severne continued his remarks, but in a lower voice.

“Then there's a woman-hater and a man-hater: good for dialogue.”

Now this banter did not please Zoe; so she fixed her eyes upon Severne,
and said, “You forget the principal figure--a mysterious young gentleman
who looks nineteen, and is twenty-nine, and was lost sight of in England
nine years ago. He has been traveling ever since, and where-ever he went
he flirted; we gather so much from his accomplishment in the art; fluent,
not to say voluble at times, but no egotist, for he never tells you
anything about himself, nor even about his family, still less about the
numerous _affaires de coeur_ in which he has been engaged. Perhaps he is
reserving it all for the third volume.”

The attack was strong and sudden, but it failed. Severne, within the
limits of his experience, was a consummate artist, and this situation was
not new to him. He cast one gently reproachful glance on her, then
lowered his eyes to the carpet, and kept them there. “Do you think,” said
he, in a low, dejected voice, “it can be any pleasure to a man to relate
the follies of an idle, aimless life? and to you, who have given me
higher aspirations, and made me awfully sorry, I cannot live my whole
life over again. I can't bear to think of the years I have wasted,” said
he; “and how can I talk to you, whom I reverence, of the past follies I
despise? No, pray don't ask me to risk your esteem. It is so dear to me.”

Then this artist put in practice a little maneuver he had learned of
compressing his muscles and forcing a little unwilling water into his
eyes. So, at the end of his pretty little speech, he raised two gentle,
imploring eyes, with half a tear in each of them. To be sure, Nature
assisted his art for once; he did bitterly regret, but out of pure
egotism, the years he had wasted, and wished with all his heart he had
never known any woman but Zoe Vizard.

The combination of art and sincerity was too much for the guileless and
inexperienced Zoe. She was grieved at the pain she had given, and rose to
retire, for she felt they were both on dangerous ground; but, as she
turned away, she made a little, deprecating gesture, and said, softly,
“Forgive me.”

That soft tone gave Severne courage, and that gesture gave him an
opportunity. He seized her hand, murmured, “Angel of goodness!” and
bestowed a long, loving kiss on her hand that made it quiver under his
lips.

“Oh!” cried Miss Maitland, bursting into the room at the nick of time,
yet feigning amazement.

Fanny heard the ejaculations, and whipped away from Harrington into the
window. Zoe, with no motive but her own coyness, had already snatched her
hand away from Severne.

But both young ladies were one moment too late. The eagle eye of a
terrible old maid had embraced the entire situation, and they saw it had.

Harrington Vizard, Esq., smoked on, with his back to the group. But the
rest were a picture--the mutinous face and keen eyes of Fanny Dover,
bristling with defense, at the window; Zoe blushing crimson, and newly
started away from her too-enterprising wooer; and the tall, thin, grim
old maid, standing stiff, as sentinel, at the bedroom door, and gimleting
both her charges alternately with steel-gray orbs; she seemed like an
owl, all eyes and beak.

When the chaperon had fixed the situation thoroughly, she stalked erect
into the room, and said, very expressively, “I am afraid I disturb you.”

Zoe, from crimson, blushed scarlet, and hung her head; but Fanny was
ready.

“La! aunt,” said she, ironically, and with pertness infinite, “you know
you are always welcome. Where ever have you been all this time? We were
afraid we had lost you.”

Aunt fired her pistol in reply: “I was not far off--most fortunately.”

Zoe, finding that, even under crushing circumstances, Fanny had fight in
her, glided instantly to her side, and Aunt Maitland opened battle all
round.

“May I ask, sir,” said she to Severne, with a horrible smile, “what you
were doing when I came in?”

Zoe clutched Fanny, and both awaited Mr. Severne's reply for one moment
with keen anxiety.

“My dear Miss Maitland,” said that able young man, very respectfully, yet
with a sort of cheerful readiness, as if he were delighted at her
deigning to question him, “to tell you the truth, I was admiring Miss
Vizard's diamond ring.”

Fanny tittered; Zoe blushed again at such a fib and such _aplomb._

“Oh, indeed,” said Miss Maitland; “you were admiring it very close, sir.”

“It is like herself--it will bear inspection.”

This was wormwood to Miss Maitland. “Even in our ashes live their wonted
fires;” and, though she was sixty, she disliked to hear a young woman
praised. She bridled, then returned to the attack.

“Next time you wish to inspect it, you had better ask her _to take it
off,_ and show you.”

“May I, Miss Maitland?” inquired the ingenuous youth. “She would not
think that a liberty?”

His mild effrontery staggered her for a moment, and she glared at him,
speechless, but soon recovered, and said, bitterly, “Evidently _not.”_
With this she turned her back on him rather ungraciously, and opened fire
on her own sex.

“Zoe!” (sharply).

“Yes, aunt.” (faintly)

“Tell your brother--if he can leave off smoking--I wish to speak to him.”

Zoe hung her head, and was in no hurry to bring about the proposed
conference.

While she deliberated, says Fanny, with vast alacrity, “I'll tell him,
aunt.”

“Oh, Fanny!” murmured Zoe, in a reproachful whisper.

“All right!” whispered Fanny in reply, and whipped out on to the balcony.
“Here's Aunt Maitland wants to know if you ever leave off smoking;” and
she threw a most aggressive manner into the query.

The big man replied, composedly, “Tell her I do--at meals and prayers;
but I always _sleep_ with a pipe in my mouth--heavily insured!”

“Well, then, you mustn't; for she has something very particular to say to
you when you've done smoking.”

“Something particular! That means something disagreeable. Tell her I
shall be smoking all day to-day.”

Fanny danced into the room and said, “He says he shall be smoking all
day, _under the circumstances.”_

Miss Maitland gave this faithful messenger the look of a basilisk, and
flounced to her own room. The young ladies instantly stepped out on the
balcony, and got one on each side of Harrington, with the feminine
instinct of propitiation; for they felt sure the enemy would tell, soon
or late.

“What does the old cat want to talk to me about?” said Harrington,
lazily, to Fanny.

It was Zoe who replied:

“Can't you guess, dear?” said she, tenderly--“our misconduct.” Then she
put her head on his shoulder, as much as to say, “But we have a more
lenient judge here.”

“As if I could not see _that_ without her assistance!” said Harrington
Vizard. (Puff!) At which comfortable reply Zoe looked very rueful, and
Fanny burst out laughing.

Soon after this Fanny gave Zoe a look, and they retired to their rooms;
and Zoe said she would never come out again, and Fanny must stay with
her. Fanny felt sure _ennui_ would thaw that resolve in a few hours; so
she submitted, but declared it was absurd, and the very way to give a
perfect trifle importance.

“Kiss your hand!” said she, disdainfully--“that is nothing. If I was the
man, I'd have kissed both your cheeks long before this.”

“And I should have boxed your ears and made you cry,” said Zoe, with calm
superiority.

So she had her way, and the deserted Severne felt dull, but was too good
a general to show it. He bestowed his welcome company on Mr. Vizard,
walked with him, talked with him, and made himself so agreeable, that
Vizard, who admired him greatly, said to him, “What a good fellow you
are, to bestow your sunshine on me. I began to be afraid those girls had
got you, and tied you to their apron-strings altogether.”

“Oh, no!” said Severne: “they are charming; but, after all, one can't do
without a male friend: there are so few things that interest ladies.
Unless you can talk red-hot religion, you are bound to flirt with them a
little. To be sure, they look shy, if you do, but if you don't--”

“They _are_ bored; whereas they only _looked_ shy. I know 'em. Call
another subject, please.”

“Well, I will; but perhaps it may not be so agreeable a one.”

“That is very unlikely,” said the woman-hater, dryly.

“Well, it is Tin. I'm rather short. You see, when I fell in with you at
Monaco, I had no idea of coming this way; but, meeting with an old
college friend--what a tie college is, isn't it? There is nothing like
it; when you have been at college with a man, you seem never to wear him
out, as you do the acquaintances you make afterward.”

“That is very true,” said Vizard warmly.

“Isn't it? Now, for instance, if I had only known you of late years, I
should feel awfully shy of borrowing a few hundreds of you--for a month
or two.”

“I don't know why you should, old fellow.”

“I should, though. But having been at college together makes all the
difference. I don't mind telling you that I have never been at Homburg
without taking a turn at the table, and I am grizzling awfully now at not
having sent to my man of business for funds.”

“How much do you want? That is the only question.”

“Glad to hear it,” thought Severne. “Well, let me see, you can't back
your luck with less than five hundred.”

“Well, but we have been out two months; I am afraid I haven't so much
left. Just let me see.” He took out his pocket-book, and examined his
letter of credit. “Do you want it to-day?”

“Why, yes; I do.”

“Well, then, I am afraid you can only have three hundred. But I will
telegraph Herries, and funds will be here to-morrow afternoon.”

“All right,” said Severne.

Vizard took him to the bank, and exhausted his letter of credit: then to
the telegraph-office, and telegraphed Herries to enlarge his credit at
once. He handed Severne the three hundred pounds. The young man's eye
flashed, and it cost him an effort not to snatch them and wave them over
his head with joy: but he controlled himself, and took them like
two-pence-halfpenny. “Thank you, old fellow,” said he. Then, still more
carelessly, “Like my I O U?”

“As you please,” said Vizard, with similar indifference; only real.

After he had got the money, Severne's conversational powers
relaxed--short answers--long reveries.

Vizard observed, stopped short, and eyed him. “I remember something at
Oxford, and I am afraid you are a gambler; if you are, you won't be good
for much till you have lost that three hundred. It will be a dull evening
for me without you: I know what I'll do--I'll take my hen-party to the
opera at Homburg. There are stalls to be got here. I'll get one for you,
on the chance of your dropping in.”

The stalls were purchased, and the friends returned at once to the hotel,
to give the ladies timely intimation. They found Fanny and Zoe seated,
rather disconsolate, in the apartment Zoe had formally renounced: at
sight of the stall tickets, the pair uttered joyful cries, looked at each
other, and vanished.

“You won't see _them_ any more till dinner-time,” said Vizard. “They will
be discussing dress, selecting dress, trying dresses, and changing
dresses, for the next three hours.” He turned round while speaking, and
there was Severne slipping away to his own bedroom.

Thus deserted on all sides, he stepped into the balcony and lighted a
cigar. While he was smoking it, he observed an English gentleman, with a
stalwart figure and a beautiful brown beard, standing on the steps of the
hotel. “Halloo!” said he, and hailed him. “Hi, Uxmoor! is that you?”

Lord Uxmoor looked up, and knew him. He entered the hotel, and the next
minute the waiter ushered him into Vizard's sitting-room.

Lord Uxmoor, like Mr. Vizard, was a landed proprietor in Barfordshire.
The county is large, and they lived too many miles apart to visit; but
they met, and agreed, at elections and county business, and had a respect
for each other.

Meeting at Frankfort, these two found plenty to say to each other about
home; and as Lord Uxmoor was alone, Vizard asked him to dine. “You will
balance us,” said he: “we are terribly overpetticoated, and one of them
is an old maid. We generally dine at the _table-d'hote,_ but I have
ordered dinner _here_ to-day: we are going to the opera at Homburg. You
are not obliged to do that, you know. You are in for a bad dinner, that
is all.”

“To tell the truth,” said Lord Uxmoor, “I don't care for music.”

“Then you deserve a statue for not pretending to love it. I adore it, for
my part, and I wish I was going alone, for my hens will be sure to cackle
_mal 'a propos,_ and spoil some famous melody with talking about it, and
who sung it in London, instead of listening to it, and thanking God for
it in deep silence.”

Lord Uxmoor stared a little at this sudden sally, for he was unacquainted
with Vizard's one eccentricity, having met him only on county business,
at which he was extra rational, and passed for a great scholar. He really
did suck good books as well as cigars.

After a few more words, they parted till dinner-time.


Lord Uxmoor came to his appointment, and found his host and Miss
Maitland, whom he knew; and he was in languid conversation with them,
when a side-door opened, and in walked Fanny Dover, fair and bright, in
Cambridge blue, her hair well dressed by Zoe's maid in the style of the
day. Lord Uxmoor rose, and received his fair country-woman with
respectful zeal; he had met her once before. She, too, sparkled with
pleasure at meeting a Barfordshire squire with a long pedigree, purse,
and beard--three things she admired greatly.

In the midst of this, in glided Zoe, and seemed to extinguish everybody,
and even to pale the lights, with her dark yet sunlike beauty. She was
dressed in a creamy-white satin that glinted like mother-of-pearl, its
sheen and glory unfrittered with a single idiotic trimming; on her breast
a large diamond cross. Her head was an Athenian sculpture--no chignon,
but the tight coils of antiquity; at their side, one diamond star
sparkled vivid flame, by its contrast with those polished ebon snakes.

Lord Uxmoor was dazzled, transfixed, at the vision, and bowed very low
when Vizard introduced him in an off-hand way, saying, “My sister, Miss
Vizard; but I dare say you have met her at the county balls.”

“I have never been so fortunate,” said Uxmoor, humbly.

“I have,” said Zoe; “that is, I saw you waltzing with Lady Betty Gore at
the race ball two years ago.”

“What!” said Vizard, alarmed. “Uxmoor, were you waltzing with Lady Betty
Gore?”

“You have it on too high an authority for me to contradict.”

Finding Zoe was to be trusted as a county chronicle, Vizard turned
sharply to her, and said, “And was he flirting with her?”

Zoe colored a little, and said, “Now, Harrington, how can I tell?”

“You little hypocrite,” said Vizard, “who can tell better?”

At this retort Zoe blushed high, and the water came into her eyes.

Nobody minded that but Uxmoor, and Vizard went on to explain, “That Lady
Betty Gore is as heartless a coquette as any in the county; and don't you
flirt with her, or you will get entangled.”

“You disapprove her,” said Uxmoor, coolly; “then I give her up forever.”
 He looked at Zoe while he said this, and felt how easy it would be to
resign Lady Betty and a great many more for this peerless creature. He
did not mean her to understand what was passing in his mind; he did not
know how subtle and observant the most innocent girl is in such matters.
Zoe blushed, and drew away from him. Just then Ned Severne came in, and
Vizard introduced him to Uxmoor with great geniality and pride. The
charming young man was in a black surtout, with a blue scarf, the very
tint for his complexion.

The girls looked at one another, and in a moment Fanny was elected Zoe's
agent. She signaled Severne, and when he came to her she said, for Zoe,
“Don't you know we are going to the opera at Homburg?”

“Yes, I know,” said he, “and I hope you will have a pleasanter evening
than I shall.”

“You are not coming with us?”

“No,” said he, sorrowfully.

“You had better,” said Fanny, with a deal of quiet point, more, indeed,
than Zoe's pride approved.

“Not if Mr. Severne has something more attractive,” said she, turning
palish and pinkish by turns.

All this went on _sotto voce,_ and Uxmoor, out of good-breeding, entered
into conversation with Miss Maitland and Vizard. Severne availed himself
of this diversion, and fixed his eyes on Zoe with an air of gentle
reproach, then took a letter out of his pocket, and handed it to Fanny.
She read it, and gave it to Zoe.

It was dated from “The Golden Star,” Homburg.


“DEAR NED--I am worse to-day, and all alone. Now and then I almost fear I
may not pull through. But perhaps that is through being so hipped. Do
come and spend this evening with me like a good, kind fellow.

“Telegraph reply.

“S. T.”


“Poor fellow,” said Ned; “my heart bleeds for him.”

Zoe was affected by this, and turned liquid and loving eyes on “dear
Ned.” But Fanny stood her ground. “Go to 'S. T.' to-morrow morning, but
don't desert 'Z. V.' and 'F. D.' to-night.” Zoe smiled.

“But I have telegraphed!” objected Ned.

“Then telegraph again--_not,”_ said Fanny firmly.

Now, this was unexpected. Severne had set his heart upon _rouge et noir,_
but still he was afraid of offending Zoe; and, besides, he saw Uxmoor,
with his noble beard and brown eyes, casting rapturous glances at her.
“Let Miss Vizard decide,” said he. “Don't let me be so unhappy as to
offend her twice in one day.”

Zoe's pride and goodness dictated her answer, in spite of her wishes. She
said, in a low voice, “Go to your sick friend.”

“There,” said Severne.

“I hear,” said Fanny. “She means 'go;' but you shall repent it.”

“I mean what I say,” said Zoe, with real dignity. “It is my habit.” And
the next moment she quietly left the room.

She sat down in her bedroom, mortified and alarmed. What! Had it come to
this, that she felt her heart turn cold just because that young man said
he could not accompany her--on a single evening! Then first she
discovered that it was for him she had dressed, and had, for once,
beautified her beauty--for _him;_ that with Fanny she had dwelt upon the
delights of the music, but had secretly thought of appearing publicly on
_his_ arm, and dazzling people by their united and contrasted beauty.

She rose, all of a sudden, and looked keenly at herself in the glass, to
see if she had not somehow overrated her attractions. But the glass was
reassuring. It told her not one man in a million could go to a sick
friend that night, when he might pass the evening by her side, and visit
his friend early in the morning. Best loved is best served. Tears of
mortified vanity were in her eyes; but she smiled through them at the
glass; then dried them carefully, and went back to the dining-room
radiant, to all appearance.

Dinner was just served, and her brother, to do honor to the new-comer,
waved his sister to a seat by Lord Uxmoor. He looked charmed at the
arrangement, and showed a great desire to please her, but at first was
unable to find good topics. After several timid overtures on his part,
she assisted him, out of good-nature, She knew by report that he was a
very benevolent young man, bent on improving the home, habits, wages, and
comforts of the agricultural poor. She led him to this, and his eyes
sparkled with pleasure, and his homely but manly face lighted, and was
elevated by the sympathy she expressed in these worthy objects. He could
not help thinking: “What a Lady Uxmoor this would make! She and I and her
brother might leaven the county.”

And all this time she would not even bestow a glance on Severne. She was
not an angel. She had said, “Go to your sick friend;” but she had not
said, “I will smart alone if you _do.”_

Severne sat by Fanny, and seemed dejected, but, as usual, polite and
charming. She was smilingly cruel; regaled him with Lord Uxmoor's wealth
and virtues, and said he was an excellent match, and all she-Barfordshire
pulling caps for him. Severne only sighed; he offered no resistance; and
at last she could not go on nagging a handsome fellow, who only sighed,
so she said, “Well, _there;_ I advise you to join us before the opera is
over, that is all.”

“I will, I will!” said he, eagerly. “Oh, thank you.”

Dinner was dispatched rather rapidly, because of the opera.

When the ladies got their cloaks and lace scarfs, to put over their heads
coming home, the party proved to be only three, and the tickets five; for
Miss Maitland pleaded headache.

On this, Lord Uxmoor said, rather timidly, he should like to go.

“Why, you said you hated music,” said Vizard.

Lord Uxmoor colored. “I recant,” said he, bluntly; and everybody saw what
had operated his conversion. That is a pun.

It is half an hour, by rail, from Frankfort to Homburg, and the party
could not be seated together. Vizard bestowed Zoe and Lord Uxmoor in one
carriage, Fanny and Severne in another, and himself and a cigar in the
third. Severne sat gazing piteously on Fanny Dover, but never said a
word. She sat and eyed him satirically for a good while, and then she
said, cheerfully, “Well, Mr. Severne, how do you like the turn things are
taking?”

“Miss Dover, I am very unhappy.”

“Serves you right.”

“Oh, pray don't say that. It is on you I depend.”

“On me, sir! What have I to do with your flirtations?”

“No; but you are so clever, and so good. If for once you will take a poor
fellow's part with Miss Vizard, behind my back; oh, please do--pray do,”
 and, in the ardor of entreaty, he caught Fanny's white hand and kissed it
with warm but respectful devotion. Indeed, he held it and kissed it again
and again, till Fanny, though she minded it no more than marble, was
going to ask him satirically whether he had not almost done with it, when
at last he contrived to squeeze out one of his little hysterical tears,
and drop it on her hand.

Now, the girl was not butter, like some of her sex; far from it: but
neither was she wood--indeed, she was not old enough for that--so this
crocodile tear won her for the time being. “There--there,” said she;
“don't be a baby. I'll be on your side tonight; only, if you care for
her, come and look after her yourself. Beautiful women with money won't
stand neglect, Mr. Severne; and why should they? They are not like poor
me; they have got the game in their hands.” The train stopped. Vizard's
party drove to the opera, and Severne ordered a cab to The Golden Star,
meaning to stop it and get out; but, looking at his watch, he found it
wanted half an hour to gambling time, so he settled to have a cup of
coffee first, and a cigar. With this view he let the man drive him to The
Golden Star.



CHAPTER III.

INA KLOSKING worked night and day upon Siebel, in Gounod's “Faust,” and
upon the songs that had been added to give weight to the part.

She came early to the theater at night, and sat, half dressed, fatigued,
and nervous, in her dressing-room.

Crash!--the first _coup d'archet_ announced the overture, and roused her
energy, as if Ithuriel's spear had pricked her. She came down dressed, to
listen at one of the upper entrances, to fill herself with the musical
theme, before taking her part in it, and also to gauge the audience and
the singers.

The man Faust was a German; but the musical part Faust seems better
suited to an Italian or a Frenchman. Indeed, some say that, as a rule,
the German genius excels in creation and the Italian in representation or
interpretation. For my part, I am unable to judge nations in the lump, as
some fine fellows do, because nations are composed of very different
individuals, and I know only one to the million; but I do take on me to
say that the individual Herr who executed Doctor Faustus at Homburg that
night had everything to learn, except what he had to unlearn. His person
was obese; his delivery of the words was mouthing, chewing, and gurgling;
and he uttered the notes in tune, but without point, pathos, or passion;
a steady lay-clerk from York or Durham Cathedral would have done a little
better, because he would have been no colder at heart, and more exact in
time, and would have sung clean; whereas this gentleman set his windpipe
trembling, all through the business, as if palsy were passion. By what
system of leverage such a man came to be hoisted on to such a pinnacle of
song as “Faust” puzzled our English friends in front as much as it did
the Anglo-Danish artist at the wing; for English girls know what is what
in opera.

The Marguerite had a voice of sufficient compass, and rather sweet,
though thin. The part demands a better _actress_ than Patti, and this
Fraulein was not half as good: she put on the painful grin of a
prize-fighter who has received a staggerer, and grinned all through the
part, though there is little in it to grin at.

She also suffered by having to play to a Faust milked of his poetry, and
self-smitten with a _tremolo_ which, as I said before, is the voice of
palsy, and is not, nor ever was, nor ever will be, the voice of passion.
Bless your heart, passion is a manly thing, a womanly thing, a grand
thing, not a feeble, quavering, palsied, anile, senile thing. Learn that,
ye trembling, quavering idiots of song!

“They let me down,” whispered Ina Klosking to her faithful Ashmead. “I
feel all out of tune. I shall never be able. And the audience so cold. It
will be like singing in a sepulcher.”

“What would you think of them, if they applauded?” said Ashmead.

“I should say they were good, charitable souls, and the very audience I
shall want in five minutes.”

“No, no,” said Ashmead, “all you want is a discriminating audience; and
this is one. Remember they have all seen Patti in Marguerite. Is it
likely they would applaud this tin stick?”

Ina turned the conversation with feminine quickness. “Mr. Ashmead, have
you kept your promise; my name is not in the programme?”

“It is not; and a great mistake too.”

“I have not been announced by name in any way?”

“No. But, of course, I have nursed you a bit.”

“Nursed me? What is that? Oh, what have you been doing? No
_charlatanerie,_ I hope.”

“Nothing of the kind,” said Ashmead, stoutly; “only the regular
business.”

“And pray what is the regular business?” inquired Ina, distrustfully.

“Why, of course, I sent on the manager to say that Mademoiselle Schwaub
had been taken seriously ill; that we had been fearing we must break
faith with the public for the first time; but that a cantatrice, who had
left the stage, appreciating our difficulty, had, with rare kindness,
come to our aid for this one night: we felt sure a Humbug audience--what
am I saying?--a Homburg audience would appreciate this, and make due
allowance for a performance undertaken in such a spirit, and with
imperfect rehearsals, etc.--in short, the usual patter; and the usual
effect, great applause. Indeed, the only applause that I have heard in
this theater to-night. Ashmead ahead of Gounod, so far.”

Ina Klosking put both hands before her face, and uttered a little moan.
She had really a soul above these artifices. “So, then,” said she, “if
they do receive me, it will be out of charity.”

“No, no; but on your first night you must have two strings to your bow.”

“But I have only one. These cajoling speeches are a waste of breath. A
singer can sing, or she can _not_ sing, and they find out which it is as
soon as she opens her mouth.”

“Well, then, you open your mouth--that is just what half the singers
can't do--and they will soon find out you can sing.”

“I hope they may. I do not know. I am discouraged. I'm terrified. I think
it is stage-fright,” and she began to tremble visibly, for the time drew
near.

Ashmead ran off and brought her some brandy-and-water. She put up her
hand against it with royal scorn. “No, sir! If the theater, and the
lights, and the people, the mind of Goethe, and the music of Gounod,
can't excite me without _that,_ put me at the counter of a cafe', for I
have no business here.”

The power, without violence, and the grandeur with which she said this
would have brought down the house had she spoken it in a play without a
note of music; and Ashmead drew back respectfully, but chuckled
internally at the idea of this Minerva giving change in a cafe'.

And now her cue was coming. She ordered everybody out of the entrance not
very ceremoniously, and drew well back. Then, at her cue, she made a
stately rush, and so, being in full swing before she cleared the wing,
she swept into the center of the stage with great rapidity and
resolution; no trace either of her sorrowful heart or her quaking limbs
was visible from the front.

There was a little applause, all due to Ashmead's preliminary apology,
but there was no real reception; for Germany is large and musical, and
she was not immediately recognized at Homburg. But there was that
indescribable flutter which marks a good impression and keen expectation
suddenly aroused. She was beautiful on the stage for one thing; her
figure rather tall and stately, and her face full of power: and then the
very way she came on showed the step and carriage of an artist at home
upon the boards.

She cast a rapid glance round the house, observed its size, and felt her
way. She sung her first song evenly, but not tamely, yet with restrained
power; but the tones were so full and flexible, the expression so easy
yet exact, that the judges saw there was no effort, and suspected
something big might be yet in store to-night. At the end of her song she
did let out for a moment, and, at this well-timed foretaste of her power,
there was applause, but nothing extravagant.

She was quite content, however. She met Ashmead, as she came off, and
said, “All is well, my friend, so far. They are sitting in judgment on
me, like sensible people, and not in a hurry. I rather like that.”

“Your own fault,” said Joseph. “You should have been announced. Prejudice
is a surer card than judgment. The public is an ass.”

“It must come to the same thing in the end,” said the Klosking firmly.
“One can sing, or one cannot.”


Her next song was encored, and she came off flushed with art and
gratified pride. “I have no fears now,” said she, to her Achates, firmly.
“I have my barometer; a young lady in the stalls. Oh, such a beautiful
creature, with black hair and eyes! She applauds me fearlessly. Her
glorious eyes speak to mine, and inspire me. She is _happy,_ she is. I
drink sunbeams at her. I shall act and sing 'Le Parlate d'Amor' for
_her_--and you will see.”


Between the acts, who should come in but Ned Severne, and glided into the
vacant stall by Zoe's side.

She quivered at his coming near her; he saw it, and felt a thrill of
pleasure himself.

“How is 'S. T.'?” said she, kindly.

“'S. T.'?” said he, forgetting.

“Why, your sick friend, to be sure.”

“Oh, not half so bad as he thought. I was a fool to lose an hour of you
for _him._ He was hipped; had lost all his money at _rouge et noir._ So I
lent him fifty pounds, and that did him more good than the doctor. You
forgive me?”

“Forgive you? I approve. Are you going back to him?” said she, demurely.

“No, thank you, I have made sacrifices enough.”

And so indeed he had, having got cleaned out of three hundred pounds
through preferring gambling to beauty.

“Singers good?” he inquired.

“Wretched, all but one; and she is divine.”

“Indeed. Who is she?”

“I don't know. A gentleman in black came out--”

“Mephistopheles?”

“No--how dare you?--and said a singer that had retired would perform the
part of 'Siebel, to oblige; and she has obliged me for one. She is, oh,
so superior to the others! Such a heavenly contralto; and her upper
notes, honey dropping from the comb. And then she is so modest, so
dignified, _and_ so beautiful. She is fair as a lily; and such a
queen-like brow, and deep, gray eyes, full of sadness and soul. I'm
afraid she is not happy. Once or twice she fixed them on me, and they
magnetized me, and drew me to her. So I magnetized her in return. I
should know her anywhere fifty years hence. Now, if I were a man, I
should love that woman and make her love me.”

“Then I am very glad you are not a man,” said Severne, tenderly.

“So am I,” whispered Zoe, and blushed. The curtain rose.

“Listen now, Mr. Chatterbox,” said Zoe.

Ned Severne composed himself to listen; but Fraulein Graas had not sung
many bars before he revolted. “Listen to what?” said he; “and look at
what? The only Marguerite in the place is by my side.”

Zoe colored with pleasure; but her good sense was not to be blinded. “The
only good black Mephistophe-_less_ you mean,” said she. “To be
Marguerite, one must be great, and sweet, and tender; yes, and far more
lovely than ever woman was. That lady is a better color for the part than
I am; but neither she nor I shall ever be Marguerite.”

He murmured in her ear. “You are Marguerite, for you could fire a man's
heart so that he would sell his soul to gain you.”

It was the accent of passion and the sensitive girl quivered. Yet she
defended herself--in words, “Hush!” said she. “That is wicked--out of an
opera. Fanny would laugh at you, if she heard.”

Here were two reasons for not making such hot love in the stalls of an
opera. Which of the two weighed most with the fair reasoner shall be left
to her own sex.

The brief scene ended with the declaration of the evil spirit that
Marguerite is lost.

“There,” said Zoe, naively, “that is over, thank goodness: now you will
hear _my_ singer.”

Siebel and Marta came on from opposite sides of the stage. “See!” said
Zoe, “isn't she lovely?” and she turned her beaming face full on Severne,
to share her pleasure with him. To her amazement the man seemed
transformed: a dark cloud had come over his sunny countenance. He sat,
pale, and seemed to stare at the tall, majestic, dreamy singer, who stood
immovable, dressed like a velvet youth, yet looking like no earthly boy,
but a draped statue of Mercury,

“New lighted on a heaven-kissing hill.”

The blood left his lips, and Zoe thought he was faint; but the next
moment he put his handkerchief hastily to his nose, and wriggled his way
out, with a rush and a crawl, strangely combined, at the very moment when
the singer delivered her first commanding note of recitative.

Everybody about looked surprised and disgusted at so ill-timed an exit;
but Zoe, who had seen his white face, was seriously alarmed, and made a
movement to rise too, and watch, or even follow him; but, when he got to
the side, he looked back to her, and made her a signal that his nose was
bleeding, but it was of no great consequence. He even pointed with his
finger out and then back again, indicating he should not be long gone.

This re-assured her greatly; for she had always been told a little
bleeding of that sort was good for hot-headed young people. Then the
singer took complete hold of her. The composer, to balance the delightful
part of Marguerite, has given Siebel a melody with which wonders can be
done; and the Klosking had made a considerable reserve of her powers for
this crowning effort. After a recitative that rivaled the silver trumpet,
she flung herself with immediate and electrifying ardor into the melody;
the orchestra, taken by surprise, fought feebly for the old ripple; but
the Klosking, resolute by nature, was now mighty as Neptune, and would
have her big waves. The momentary struggle, in which she was loyally
seconded by the conductor, evoked her grand powers. Catgut had to yield
to brains, and the whole orchestra, composed, after all, of good
musicians, soon caught the divine afflatus, and the little theater seemed
on fire with music; the air, sung with a large rhythm, swelled and rose,
and thrilled every breast with amazement and delight; the house hung
breathless: by-and-by there were pale cheeks, panting bosoms, and wet
eyes, the true, rare triumphs of the sovereigns of song; and when the
last note had pealed and ceased to vibrate, the pent-up feelings broke
forth in a roar of applause, which shook the dome, followed by a clapping
of hands, like a salvo, that never stopped till Ina Klosking, who had
retired, came forward again.

She courtesied with admirable dignity, modesty, and respectful gravity,
and the applause thundered, and people rose at her in clusters about the
house, and waved their hats and handkerchiefs at her, and a little
Italian recognized her, and cried out as loud as he could, “Viva la
Klosking! viva!” and she heard that, and it gave her a thrill; and Zoe
Vizard, being out of England, and, therefore, brave as a lioness, stood
boldly up at her full height, and, taking her bouquet in her right hand,
carried it swiftly to her left ear, and so flung it, with a free
back-handed sweep, more Oriental than English, into the air, and it
lighted beside the singer; and she saw the noble motion, and the bouquet
fly, and, when she made her last courtesy at the wing, she fixed her eyes
on Zoe, and then put her hand to her heart with a most touching gesture
that said, “Most of all I value your bouquet and your praise.”

Then the house buzzed, and ranks were leveled; little people spoke to big
people, and big to little, in mutual congratulation; for at such rare
moments (except in Anglo-Saxony) instinct seems to tell men that true art
is a sunshine of the soul, and blesses the rich and the poor alike.

One person was affected in another way. Harrington Vizard sat rapt in
attention, and never took his eyes off her, yet said not a word.

Several Russian and Prussian grandees sought an introduction to the new
singer. But she pleaded fatigue.

The manager entreated her to sup with him, and meet the Grand Duke of
Hesse. She said she had a prior engagement.

She went quietly home, and supped with her faithful Ashmead, and very
heartily too; for nature was exhausted, and agitation had quite spoiled
her dinner.

Joseph Ashmead, in the pride of his heart, proposed a bottle of
champagne. The Queen of Song, with triumph flushed, looked rather blue at
that. “My friend,” said she, in a meek, deprecating way, “we are
working-people: is not Bordeaux good enough for _us?”_

“Yes; but it is not good enough for the occasion,” said Joseph, a little
testily. “Well, never mind;” and he muttered to himself, “that is the
worst of _good_ women: they are so terribly stingy.”

The Queen of Song, with triumph flushed, did not catch these words, but
only a little growling. However, as supper proceeded, she got uneasy. So
she rang the bell, and ordered a _pint:_ of this she drank one spoonful.
The remainder, co-operating with triumph and claret, kept Ashmead in a
great flow of spirits. He traced her a brilliant career. To be
photographed tomorrow morning as Siebel, and in plain dress. Paragraphs
in _Era, Figaro, Galignani, Inde'pendance Belge,_ and the leading
dailies. Large wood-cuts before leaving Homburg for Paris, London,
Vienna, St. Petersburg, and New York.”

“I'm in your hands,” said she, and smiled languidly, to please him.

But by-and-by he looked at her, and found she was taking a little cry all
to herself.

“Dear me!” said he, “what is the matter?”

“My friend, forgive me. _He_ was not there to share my triumph.”



CHAPTER IV.

AS the opera drew to an end, Zoe began to look round more and more for
Severne; but he did not come, and Lord Uxmoor offered his arm earnestly.
She took it; but hung back a moment on his very arm, to tell Harrington
Mr. Severne had been taken ill.

At the railway station the truant emerged suddenly, just as the train was
leaving; but Lord Uxmoor had secured three seats, and the defaulter had
to go with Harrington. On reaching the hotel, the ladies took their
bed-candles; but Uxmoor found time to propose an excursion next day,
Sunday, to a lovely little lake--open carriage, four horses. The young
ladies accepted, but Mr. Severne declined; he thanked Lord Uxmoor
politely, but he had arrears of correspondence.

Zoe cast a mortified and rather a haughty glance on him, and Fanny
shrugged her shoulders incredulously.

These two ladies brushed hair together in Zoe's room. That is a soothing
operation, my masters, and famous for stimulating females to friendly
gossip; but this time there was, for once, a guarded reserve. Zoe was
irritated, puzzled, mortified, and even grieved by Severne's conduct.
Fanny was gnawed by jealousy, and out of temper. She had forgiven Zoe Ned
Severne. But that young lady was insatiable; Lord Uxmoor, too, had fallen
openly in love with her--openly to a female eye. So, then, a blonde had
no chance, with a dark girl by: thus reasoned she, and it was
intolerable. It was some time before either spoke an atom of what was
uppermost in her mind. They each doled out a hundred sentences that
missed the mind and mingled readily with the atmosphere, being, in fact,
mere preliminary and idle air. So two deer, in duel, go about and about,
and even affect to look another way, till they are ripe for collision.
There be writers would give the reader all the preliminary puffs of
articulated wind, and everybody would say, “How clever! That is just the
way girls really talk.” But I leave the glory of photographing nullities
to the geniuses of the age, and run to the first words which could,
without impiety, be called dialogue.

“Don't you think his conduct a little mysterious?” said Zoe, _mal 'a
propos_ of anything that had been said hitherto.

“Well, yes; rather,” said Fanny, with marked carelessness.

“First, a sick friend; then a bleeding at the nose; and now he won't
drive to the lake with us. Arrears of correspondence? Pooh!”

Now, Fanny's suspicions were deeper than Zoe's; she had observed Severne
keenly: but it was not her cue to speak. She yawned and said, “What
_does_ it matter?”

“Don't be unkind, Fanny. It matters to _me.”_

“Not it. You have another ready.”

“What other? There is no one that I--Fanny.”

“Oh, nonsense! The man is evidently smitten, and you keep encouraging
him.”

“No, I don't; I am barely civil. And don't be ill-natured. What _can_ I
do?”

“Why, be content with one at a time.”

“It is very rude to talk so. Besides, I haven't got one, much less two. I
begin to doubt _him;_ and, Lord Uxmoor! you know I cannot possibly care
for him--an acquaintance of yesterday.”

“But you know all about him--that he is an excellent _parti,”_ said
Fanny, with a provoking sneer.

This was not to be borne.

“Oh!” said Zoe, “I see; you want him for yourself. It is _you_ that are
not content with one. You forget how poor Harrington would miss your
attentions. He would _begin_ to appreciate them--when he had lost them.”

This stung, and Fanny turned white and red by turns. “I deserve this,”
 said she, “for wasting advice on a coquette.”

“That is not true. I'm no coquette; and here I am, asking your advice,
and you only snub me. You are a jealous, cross, unreasonable thing.”

“Well, I'm not a hypocrite.”

“I never was called so before,” said Zoe, nobly and gently.

“Then you were not found out, that is all. You look so simple and
ingenuous, and blush if a man says half a word to you; and all the time
you are a greater flirt than I am.”

“Oh, Fanny!” screamed Zoe, with horror.

It seems a repartee may be conveyed in a scream; for Fanny now lost her
temper altogether. “Your conduct with those two men is abominable,” said
she. “I won't speak to you any more.”

“I beg you will _not,_ in your present temper,” said Zoe, with unaffected
dignity, and rising like a Greek column.

Fanny flounced out of the room.

Zoe sat down and sighed, and her glorious eyes were dimmed.
Mystery--doubt--and now a quarrel. What a day! At her age, a little
cloud seems to darken the whole sky.


Next morning the little party met at breakfast. Lord Uxmoor, anticipating
a delightful day, was in high spirits, and he and Fanny kept up the ball.
She had resolved, in the silent watches of the night, to contest him with
Zoe, and make every possible use of Severne, in the conflict.

Zoe was silent and _distraite,_ and did not even try to compete with her
sparkling rival. But Lord Uxmoor's eyes often wandered from his sprightly
companion to Zoe, and it was plain he longed for a word from her mouth.

Fanny observed, bit her lip, and tacked internally, “'bout ship,” as the
sailors say. Her game now, conceived in a moment, and at once put in
execution, was to encourage Uxmoor's attentions to Zoe. She began by
openly courting Mr. Severne, to make Zoe talk to Uxmoor, and also make
him think that Severne and she were the lovers.

Her intentions were to utilize the coming excursion: she would attach
herself to Harrington, and so drive Zoe and Uxmoor together; and then
Lord Uxmoor, at his present rate of amorous advance, would probably lead
Zoe to a detached rock, and make her a serious declaration. This good,
artful girl felt sure such a declaration, made a few months hence in
Barfordshire, would be accepted, and herself left in the cold. Therefore
she resolved it should be made prematurely, and in Prussia, with Severne
at hand, and so in all probability come to nothing. She even glimpsed a
vista of consequences, and in that little avenue discerned the figure of
Fanny Dover playing the part of consoler, friend, and ultimately spouse
to a wealthy noble.



CHAPTER V.

THE letters were brought in; one was to Vizard, from Herries, announcing
a remittance; one to Lord Uxmoor. On reading it, he was surprised into an
exclamation, and his face expressed great concern.

“Oh!” said Zoe--“Harrington!”

Harrington's attention being thus drawn, he said, “No bad news, I hope?”

“Yes,” said Uxmoor, in a low voice, “very bad. My oldest, truest, dearest
friend has been seized with small-pox, and his life is in danger. He has
asked for me, poor fellow. This is from his sister. I must start by the
twelve o'clock train.”

“Small-pox! Why, it is contagious,” cried Fanny; “and so disfiguring!”

“I can't help that,” said the honest fellow; and instantly rang the bell
for his servant, and gave the requisite orders.

Zoe, whose eye had never left him all the time, said, softly, “It is
brave and good of you. We poor, emotional, cowardly girls should sit down
and cry.”

_“You_ would not, Miss Vizard,” said he, firmly, looking full at her. “If
you think you would, you don't know yourself.”

Zoe colored high, and was silent.

Then Lord Uxmoor showed the true English gentleman. “I do hope,” said he,
earnestly, though in a somewhat broken voice, “that you will not let this
spoil the pleasure we had planned together. Harrington will be my
deputy.”

“Well, I don't know,” said Harrington, sympathizingly. Mr. Severne
remarked, “Such an occurrence puts pleasure out of one's head.” This he
said, with his eyes on his plate, like one repeating a lesson. “Vizard, I
entreat you,” said Uxmoor, almost vexed. “It will only make me more
unhappy if you don't.”

“We will go,” cried Zoe, earnestly; “we promise to go. What does it
matter? We shall think of you and your poor friend wherever we are. And I
shall pray for him. But, ah, I know how little prayers avail to avert
these cruel bereavements.” She was young, but old enough to have prayed
hard for her sick mother's life, and, like the rest of us, prayed in
vain. At this remembrance the tears ran undisguised down her cheeks.

The open sympathy of one so young and beautiful, and withal rather
reserved, made Lord Uxmoor gulp, and, not to break down before them all,
he blurted out that he must go and pack: with this he hurried away.

He was unhappy. Besides the calamity he dreaded, it was grievous to be
torn away from a woman he loved at first sight, and just when she had
come out so worthy of his love: she was a high-minded creature; she had
been silent and reserved so long as the conversation was trivial; but,
when trouble came, she was the one to speak to him bravely and kindly.
Well, what must be, must. All this ran through his mind, and made him
sigh; but it never occurred to him to shirk--to telegraph instead of
going--nor yet to value himself on his self-denial.

They did not see him again till he was on the point of going, and then he
took leave of them all, Zoe last. When he came to her, he ignored the
others, except that he lowered his voice in speaking to her. “God bless
you for your kindness, Miss Vizard. It is a little hard upon a fellow to
have to run away from such an acquaintance, just when I have been so
fortunate as to make it.”

“Oh, Lord Uxmoor,” said Zoe, innocently, “never mind that. Why, we live
in the same county, and we are on the way home. All I think of is your
poor friend; and do please telegraph--to Harrington.”

He promised he would, and went away disappointed somehow at her last
words.

When he was gone, Severne went out on the balcony to smoke, and
Harrington held a council with the young ladies. “Well, now,” said he,
“about this trip to the lake.”

“I shall not go, for one,” said Zoe, resolutely.

“La!” said Fanny, looking carefully away from her to Harrington; “and she
was the one that insisted.”

Zoe ignored the speaker and set her face stiffly toward Harrington. “She
only _said_ that to _him.”_

_Fanny._ “But, unfortunately, ears are not confined to the noble.”

_Zoe._ “Nor tongues to the discreet.”

Both these remarks were addressed pointedly to Harrington.

“Halloo!” said he, looking from one flaming girl to the other; “am I to
be a shuttlecock, and your discreet tongues the battledoors? What is up?”

“We don't speak,” said the frank Zoe; “that is up.”

“Why, what is the row?”'

“No matter” (stiffly).

“No great matter, I'll be bound. 'Toll, toll the bell.' Here goes one
more immortal friendship--quenched in eternal silence.”

Both ladies bridled. Neither spoke.

“And dead silence, as ladies understand it, consists in speaking _at_ one
another instead of _to.”_

No reply.

“That is well-bred taciturnity.”

No answer.

“The dignified reserve that distinguishes an estrangement from a
squabble.”

No reply.

“Well, I admire permanent sentiments, good or bad; constant resolves,
etc. Your friendship has not proved immortal; so, now let us see how long
you can hold spite--SIEVES!” Then he affected to start. “What is this? I
spy a rational creature out on yonder balcony. I hasten to join him.
'Birds of a feather, you know;” and with that he went out to his
favorite, 'and never looked behind him.

The young ladies, indignant at the contempt the big man had presumed to
cast upon the constant soul of woman, turned two red faces and four
sparkling eyes to each other, with the instinctive sympathy of the
jointly injured; but remembering in time, turned sharply round again, and
presented napes, and so sat sullen.


By-and-by a chilling thought fell upon them both at the same moment of
time. The men were good friends as usual, safe, by sex, from tiffs, and
could do without them; and a dull day impended over the hostile fair.

Thereupon the ingenious Fanny resolved to make a splash of some sort and
disturb stagnation. She suddenly cried out, “La! and the man is gone
away: so what is the use?” This remark she was careful to level at bare
space.

Zoe, addressing the same person--space, to wit--inquired of him if
anybody in his parts knew to whom this young lady was addressing herself.

“To a girl that is too sensible not to see the folly of quarreling about
a man--_when he is gone,”_ said Fanny.

“If it is me you mean,” said Zoe stiffly, _“really_ I am _surprised._ You
forget we are at daggers drawn.”

“No, I don't, dear; and parted forever.”

Zoe smiled at that against her will.

“Zoe!” (penitentially).

“Frances!” (archly).

“Come cuddle me quick!”

Zoe was all round her neck in a moment, like a lace scarf, and there was
violent kissing, with a tear or two.

Then they put an arm round each other's waist, and went all about the
premises intertwined like snakes; and Zoe gave Fanny her cameo brooch,
the one with the pearls round it.


The person to whom Vizard fled from the tongue of beauty was a delightful
talker: he read two or three newspapers every day, and recollected the
best things. Now, it is not everybody can remember a thousand
disconnected facts and recall them apropos. He was various, fluent, and,
above all, superficial; and such are your best conversers. They have
something good and strictly ephemeral to say on everything, and don't
know enough of anything to impale their hearers. In my youth there talked
in Pall Mall a gentleman known as “Conversation Sharpe.” He eclipsed
everybody. Even Macaulay paled. Sharpe talked all the blessed afternoon,
and grave men listened, enchanted; and, of all he said, nothing stuck.
Where be now your Sharpiana? The learned may be compared to mines. These
desultory charmers are more like the ornamental cottage near Staines,
forty or fifty rooms, and the whole structure one story high. The mine
teems with solid wealth; but you must grope and trouble to come to it: it
is easier and pleasanter to run about the cottage with a lot of rooms.
all on the ground-floor.

The mind and body both get into habits--sometimes apart, sometimes in
conjunction. Nowadays we seat the body to work the intellect, even in its
lower form of mechanical labor: it is your clod that toddles about
laboring. The Peripatetics did not endure: their method was not suited to
man's microcosm. Bodily movements fritter mental attention. We _sit_ at
the feet of Gamaliel, or, as some call him, Tyndal; and we sit to Bacon
and Adam Smith. But, when we are standing or walking, we love to take
brains easy. If this delightful chatterbox had been taken down shorthand
and printed, and Vizard had been set down to Severni Opuscula, ten
volumes--and, mind you, Severne had talked all ten by this time--the
Barfordshire squire and old Oxonian would have cried out for “more matter
with less art,” and perhaps have even fled for relief to some shorter
treatise--Bacon's “Essays,” Browne's “Religio Medici,” or Buckle's
“Civilization.” But lounging in a balcony, and lazily breathing a cloud,
he could have listened all day to his desultory, delightful friend,
overflowing with little questions, little answers, little queries, little
epigrams, little maxims _'a la Rochefoucauld,_ little histories, little
anecdotes, little gossip, and little snapshots at every feather flying.

“Quicquid agunt homines, votum, timor, ira, voluptas, Gaudia, discursus,
nostri farrago Severni.”

But, alas! after an hour of touch-and-go, of superficiality and soft
delight, the desultory charmer fell on a subject he had studied. So then
he bored his companion for the first time in all the tour.

But, to tell the honest truth, Mr. Severne had hitherto been pleasing his
friend with a cold-blooded purpose. His preliminary gossip, that made the
time fly so agreeably, was intended to oil the way to lubricate the
passage of a premeditated pill. As soon as he had got Vizard into perfect
good humor, he said, apropos of nothing that had passed, “By-the-by, old
fellow, that five hundred pounds you promised to lend me!”

Vizard was startled by this sudden turn of a conversation, hitherto
agreeable.

“Why, you have had three hundred and lost it,” said he. “Now, take my
advice, and don't lose any more.”

“I don't mean to. But I am determined to win back the three hundred, and
a great deal more, before I leave this. I have discovered a system, an
infallible one.”

“I am sorry to hear it,” said Harrington, gravely. “That is the second
step on the road to ruin; the gambler with a system is the confirmed
maniac.”

“What! because _other_ systems have been tried, and proved to be false?
Mine is untried, and it is mere prejudice to condemn it unheard.”

“Propound it, then,” said Vizard. “Only please observe the bank has got
its system; you forget that: and the bank's system is to take a positive
advantage, which must win in the long run; therefore, all counter-systems
must lose in the long run.”

“But the bank is tied to a long run, the individual player is not.”

This reply checked Vizard for a moment and the other followed up his
advantage. “Now, Vizard, be reasonable. What would the trifling advantage
the bank derives from an incident, which occurs only once in twenty-eight
deals, avail against a player who could foresee at any given deal whether
the card that was going to come up the nearest thirty would be on the red
or black?”

“No avail at all. God Almighty could break the bank every afternoon.
_Apre's?_ as we say in France. Do you pretend to omniscience?”

“Not exactly.”

“Well, but prescience of isolated events, preceded by no _indicia,_
belongs only to omniscience. Did they not teach you that much at Oxford?”

“They taught me very little at Oxford.”

“Fault of the place, eh? You taught _them_ something, though; and the
present conversation reminds me of it. In your second term, when every
other man is still quizzed and kept down as a freshman, you, were already
a leader; a chief of misrule. You founded a whist-club in Trinity, the
primmest college of all. The Dons rooted you out in college; but you did
not succumb; you fulfilled the saying of Sydney Smith, that 'Cribbage
should be played in caverns, and sixpenny-whist in the howling
wilderness.' Ha! ha! how well I remember riding across Bullington Green
one fine afternoon, and finding four Oxford hacks haltered in a row, and
the four undergraduates that had hired them on long tick, sitting
cross-legged under the hedge like Turks or tailors, round a rude table
with the legs sawed down to stumps. You had two packs, and a portable
inkstand, and were so hard at it that I put my mare's nose right over the
quartet before you saw either her or me. That hedge was like a drift of
odoriferous snow the hawthorn bloom, and primroses sparkled on its bank
like topazes. The birds chirruped, the sky smiled, the sun burned
perfumes; and there sat my lord and his fellow-maniacs,
snick-snack--pit-pat--cutting, dealing, playing, revoking, scoring, and
exchanging I. O. U. 's not worth the paper.”

“All true, but the revoking,” said Severne, merrily. “Monster! by the
memory of those youthful days, I demand a fair hearing.” Then, gravely,
“Hang it all, Vizard, I am not a fellow that is always intruding his
affairs and his theories upon other men.”

“No, no, no,” said Vizard, hastily, and half apologetically; “go on.”

“Well, then, of course I don't pretend to foreknowledge; but I do to
experience, and you know experience teaches the wise.”

“Not to fling five hundred after three. There--I beg pardon. Proceed,
instructor of youth.”

“Do listen, then: experience teaches us that luck has its laws; and I
build my system on one of them. If two opposite accidents are sure to
happen equally often in a total of fifty times, people, who have not
observed, expect them to happen turn about, and bet accordingly. But they
don't happen turn about; they make short runs, and sometimes long ones.
They positively avoid alternation. Have you not observed this at _trente
et quarante?”_

“No.”

“Then you have not watched the cards.”

“Not much. The faces of the gamblers were always my study. They are
instructive.”

“Well, then, I'll give you an example outside--for the principle runs
through all equal chances--take the university boat-race: you have kept
your eye on that?”

“Rather. Never missed one yet. Come all the way from Barfordshire to see
it.”

“Well, there's an example.”

“Of chance? No, thank you. That goes by strength, skill, wind, endurance,
chaste living, self-denial, and judicious training. Every winning boat is
manned by virtues.” His eye flashed, and he was as earnest all in a
moment as he had been listless. A continental cynic had dubbed this
insular cynic mad.

The professor of chances smiled superior. “Those things decide each
individual race, and the best men win, because it happens to be the only
race that is never sold. But go further back, and you find it is chance.
It is pure chance that sends the best men up to Cambridge two or three
years running, and then to Oxford. With this key, take the facts my
system rests on. There are two. The first is that in thirty and odd races
and matches, the university luck has come out equal on the river and at
Lord's: the second is, the luck has seldom alternated. I don't say,
never. But look at the list of events; it is published every March. You
may see there the great truth that even chances shun direct alternation.
In this, properly worked, lies a fortune at Homburg, where the play is
square. Red gains once; you back red next time, and stop. You are on
black, and win; you double. This is the game, if you have only a few
pounds. But with five hundred pounds you can double more courageously,
and work the short run hard; and that is how losses are averted and gains
secured. Once at Wiesbaden I caught a croupier, out on a holiday. It was
Good-Friday, you know. I gave him a stunning dinner. He was close as wax,
at first--that might be the salt fish; but after the _rognons 'a la
brochette,_ and a bottle of champagne, he let out. I remember one thing
he said: Monsieur, ce que fait la fortune de la banque ce n'est pas le
petit avantage qu'elle tire du refait--quoique cela y est pour
quelquechose--c'est la te'me'rite' de ceux qui perdent, et la timidite'
de ceux qui gagnent.'”

“And,” says Vizard, “there is a French proverb founded on _experience:_

“C'est encore rouge qui perd, Et encore noir. Mais toujours blanc qui
gagne.'”

Severne, for the first time, looked angry and mortified; he turned his
back and was silent. Vizard looked at him uneasily, hesitated a moment,
then flung the remainder of his cigar away and seemed to rouse himself
body and soul. He squared his shoulders, as if he were going to box the
Demon of play for his friend, and he let out good sense right and left,
and, indeed, was almost betrayed into eloquence. “What!” he cried, “you,
who are so bright and keen and knowing in everything else, are you really
so blinded by egotism and credulity as to believe that you can invent any
method of betting at _rouge et noir_ that has not been tried before you
were born? Do you remember the first word in La Bruy'ere's famous work?”

“No,” said Ned, sulkily. “Read nothing but newspapers.”

“Good lad. Saves a deal of trouble. Well, he begins 'Tout est
dit'--'everything has been said;' and I say that, in your business, 'Tout
est fait'--'everything has been done.' Every move has been tried before
you existed, and the result of all is that to bet against the bank,
wildly or systematically, is to gamble against a rock. _Si monumenta
quoeris, circumspice._ Use your eyes, man. Look at the Kursaal, its
luxuries, its gardens, its gilding, its attractions, all of them cheap,
except the one that pays for all; all these delights, and the rents, and
the croupiers, and the servants, and the income and liveries of an
unprincipled prince, who would otherwise be a poor but honest gentleman
with one _bonne,_ instead of thirty blazing lackeys, all come from the
gains of the bank, which are the losses of the players, especially of
those that have got a system.”

Severne shot in, “A bank was broken last week.”

“Was it? Then all it lost has returned to it, or will return to it
to-night; for gamblers know no day of rest.”

“Oh, yes, they do. It is shut on Good-Friday.”

“You surprise me. Only three hundred and sixty-four days in the year!
Brainless avarice is more reasonable than I thought. Severne, yours is a
very serious case. You have reduced your income, that is clear; for an
English gentleman does not stay years and years abroad unless he has out
run the constable; and I feel sure gambling has done it. You had the
fever from a boy. Bullington Green! 'As the twig's bent the tree's
inclined.' Come, come, make a stand. We are friends. Let us help one
another against our besetting foibles. Let us practice antique wisdom;
let us 'know ourselves,' and leave Homburg to-morrow, instead of
Tuesday.”

Severne looked sullen, but said nothing; then Vizard gave him too hastily
credit for some of that sterling friendship, bordering on love, which
warmed his own faithful breast: under this delusion he made an
extraordinary effort; he used an argument which, with himself, would have
been irresistible. “Look here,” said he, “I'll--won't you have a
cigar?--there; now I'll tell you something: I have a mania as bad as
yours; only mine is intermittent, thank Heaven! I'm told a million women
are as good, or better, than a million men. It may be so. But when I, an
individual, stake my heart on lovely woman, she always turns out
unworthy. With me, the sex avoids alternation. Therefore I rail on it
wholesale. It is not philosophical; but I don't do it to instruct
mankind; it is to soothe my spleen. Well--would you believe it?--once in
every three years, in spite of my experience, I am always bitten again.
After my lucid interval has expired, I fall in with some woman, who seems
not like the rest, but an angel. Then I, though I'm averse to the sex,
fall an easy, an immediate victim to the individual.”

“Love at first sight.”

“Not a bit of it. If she is as beautiful as an angel, with the voice of a
peacock or a guinea-hen--and, luckily for me, that is a frequent
arrangement--she is no more to me than the fire-shovel. If she has a
sweet voice and pale eyes, I'm safe. Indeed, I am safe against Juno,
Venus, and Minerva for two years and several months after the last; but
when two events coincide, when my time is up, and the lovely, melodious
female comes, then I am lost. Before I have seen her and heard her five
minutes, I know my fate, and I never resist it. I never can; that is a
curious part of the mania. Then commences a little drama, all the acts of
which are stale copies; yet each time they take me by surprise, as if
they were new. In spite of past experience, I begin all confidence and
trust: by-and-by come the subtle but well-known signs of deceit; so doubt
is forced on me; and then I am all suspicion, and so darkly vigilant that
soon all is certainty; for 'les fourberies des femmes' are diabolically
subtle, but monotonous. They seem to vary only on the surface. One looks
too gentle and sweet to give any creature pain; I cherish her like a
tender plant; she deceives me for the coarsest fellow she can find.
Another comes the frank and candid dodge; she is so off-handed she shows
me it is not worth her while to betray. She deceives me, like the other,
and with as little discrimination. The next has a face of beaming
innocence, and a limpid eye that looks like transparent candor; she gazes
long and calmly in my face, as if her eye loved to dwell on me, gazes
with the eye of a gazelle or a young hare, and the baby lips below outlie
the hoariest male fox in the Old Jewry. But, to complete the delusion,
all my sweethearts and wives are romantic and poetical skin-deep--or they
would not attract me--and all turn out vulgar to the core. By their
lovers alone can you ever know them. By the men they can't love, and the
men they do love, you find these creatures that imitate sentiment so
divinely are hard, prosaic, vulgar little things, thinly gilt and double
varnished.”

“They are much better than we are; but you don't know how to take them,”
 said Severne, with the calm superiority of success.

“No,” replied Vizard, dryly, “curse me if I do. Well, I did hope I had
outgrown my mania, as I have done the toothache; for this time I had
passed the fatal period, the three years. It is nearly four years now
since I went through the established process--as fixed beforehand as the
dyer's or the cotton-weaver's--adored her, trusted her blindly, suspected
her, watched her, detected her, left her. By-the-by, she was my wife, the
last; but that made no difference; she was neither better nor worse than
the rest, and her methods and idiotic motives of deceit identical. Well,
Ned, I was mistaken. Yesterday night I met my Fate once more.”

“Where? In Frankfort?”

“No: at Homburg; at the opera. You must give me your word not to tell a
soul.”

“I pledge you my word of honor.”

“Well, the lady who sung the part of Siebel.”

“Siebel?” muttered Severne.

“Yes,” said Vizard, dejectedly.

Severne fixed his eyes on his friend with a strange expression of
confusion and curiosity, as if he could not take it all in. But he said
nothing, only looked very hard all the time.

Vizard burst out, “'O miserae hominum mentes, O pectora caeca!' There I
sat, in the stalls, a happy man comparatively, because my heart, though
full of scars, was at peace, and my reason, after periodical abdications,
had resumed its throne, for good; so I, weak mortal, fancied. Siebel
appeared; tall, easy, dignified, and walking like a wave; modest, fair,
noble, great, dreamy, and, above all, divinely sad; the soul of womanhood
and music poured from her honey lips; she conquered all my senses: I felt
something like a bolt of ice run down my back. I ought to have jumped up
and fled the theater. I wish I had. But I never do. I am incurable. The
charm deepened; and when she had sung 'Le Parlate d'Amor' as no mortal
ever sung and looked it, she left the stage and carried my heart and soul
away with her. What chance had I? Here shone all the beauties that adorn
the body, all the virtues and graces that embellish the soul; they were
wedded to poetry and ravishing music, and gave and took enchantment. I
saw my paragon glide away, like a goddess, past the scenery, and I did
not see her meet her lover at the next step--a fellow with a wash-leather
face, greasy locks in a sausage roll, and his hair shaved off his
forehead--and snatch a pot of porter from his hands, and drain it to the
dregs, and say, 'It is all right, Harry: _that_ fetched 'em.' But I know,
by experience, she did; so _sauve qui peut._ Dear friend and
fellow-lunatic, for my sake and yours, leave Frankfort with me
to-morrow.”

Severne hung his head, and thought hard. Here was a new and wonderful
turn. He felt all manner of strange things--a pang of jealousy, for one.
He felt that, on every account, it would be wise to go, and, indeed,
dangerous to stay. But a mania is a mania, and so he could not. “Look
here, old fellow,” he said, “if the opera were on to-morrow, I would
leave my three hundred behind me and sacrifice myself to you, sooner than
expose you to the fascinations of so captivating a woman as Ina
Klosking.”

“Ina Klosking? Is that her name? How do _you_ know?”

“I--I--fancy I heard so.”

“Why, she was not announced. Ina Klosking! It is a sweet name;” and he
sighed.

“But you are quite safe from her for one day,” continued Severne, “so you
must be reasonable. I will go with you, Tuesday, as early as you like;
but do be a good fellow, and let me have the five hundred, to try my
system with to-morrow.”

Vizard looked sad, and made no reply.

Severne got impatient. “Why, what is it to a rich fellow like you? If I
had twelve thousand acres in a ring fence, no friend would ask me twice
for such a trifling sum.”

Vizard, for the first time, wore a supercilious smile at being so
misunderstood, and did not deign a reply.

Severne went on mistaking his man: “I can give you bills for the money,
and for the three hundred you did lend me.”

Vizard did not receive this as expected. “Bills?” said he, gravely.
“What, do you do that sort of thing as well?”

“Why not, pray? So long as I'm the holder, not the drawer, nor the
acceptor. Besides, they are not accommodation bills, but good commercial
paper.”

“You are a merchant, then; are you?”

“Yes; in a small way. If you will allow me, I will explain.”

He did so; and, to save comments, yet enable the reader to appreciate his
explanation, the true part of it is printed in italics, the mendacious
portion in ordinary type.

_“My estate in Huntingdonshire is not very large; and there are mortgages
on it,_ for the benefit of other members of my family. I was always
desirous to pay off these mortgages; and took the best advice I could. _I
have got an uncle:_ he lives in the city. He put me on to a good thing. I
bought a share in a trading vessel; she makes short trips, and turns her
cargo often. She will take out paper to America, and bring back raw
cotton: she will land that at Liverpool, and ship English hardware and
cotton fabrics for the Mediterranean and Greece, and bring back currants
from Zante and lemons from Portugal. She goes for the nimble shilling.
Well, you know ships wear out: _and if you varnish them rotten, and
insure them high, and they go to glory, Mr. Plimsoll is down on you like
a hammer._ So, when she had paid my purchase-money three times over, some
fellows in the city made an offer for _The Rover_--that was her name. My
share came to twelve hundred, and my uncle said I was to take it. _Now I
always feel bound by what he decides._ They gave me four bills, for four
hundred, three hundred, three hundred, and two hundred. The four hundred
was paid at maturity. _The others are not due yet._ I have only to send
them to London, and I can get the money back by Thursday: but you want me
to start on Tuesday.”

“That is enough,” said Vizard, wearily, “I will be your banker, and--”

“You are a good fellow!” said Severne warmly.

“No, no; I am a weak fellow, and an injudicious one. But it is the old
story: when a friend asks you what he thinks a favor, the right thing is
to grant it at once. He doesn't want your advice; he wants the one thing
he asks for. There, get me the bills, and I'll draw a check on Muller:
Herries advised him by Saturday's post; so we can draw on Monday.”

“All right, old man,” said Severne, and went away briskly for the bills.

When he got from the balcony into the room, his steps flagged a little;
it struck him that ink takes time to dry, and more time to darken.

As _The Rover,_ with her nimble cargoes, was first cousin to _The Flying
Dutchman,_ with his crew of ghosts, so the bills received by Severne, as
purchase-money for his ship, necessarily partook of that ship's aerial
character. Indeed they existed, as the schoolmen used to say, in _posse,_
but not in _esse._ To be less pedantic and more exact, they existed as
slips of blank paper, with a Government stamp. To give them a mercantile
character for a time--viz., until presented for payment--they must be
drawn by an imaginary ship-owner or a visionary merchant, and indorsed by
at least one shadow, and a man of straw.

The man of straw sat down to inscribe self and shadows, and became a
dishonest writer of fiction; for the art he now commenced appears to fall
short of forgery proper, but to be still more distinct from justifiable
fiction. The ingenious Mr. De Foe's certificate by an aeial justice of
the peace to the truth of his ghostly narrative comes nearest to it, in
my poor reading.

Qualms he had, but not deep. If the bills were drawn by Imagination,
accepted by Fancy, and indorsed by Impudence, what did it matter to Ned
Straw, since his system would enable him to redeem them at maturity? His
only real concern was to conceal their recent origin. So he wrote them
with a broad-nibbed pen, that they might be the blacker, and set them to
dry in the sun.

He then proceeded to a change of toilet.

While thus employed, there was a sharp tap at his door and Vizard's voice
outside. Severne started with terror, snapped up the three bills with the
dexterity of a conjurer--the handle turned--he shoved them into a
drawer--Vizard came in--he shut the drawer, and panted.

Vizard had followed the custom of Oxonians among themselves, which is to
knock, and then come in, unless forbidden.

“Come,” said he, cheerfully, “those bills. I'm in a hurry to cash them
now, and end the only difference we have ever had, old fellow.”

The blood left Severne's cheek and lips for a moment, and he thought
swiftly and hard. The blood returned, along with his ready wit. “How good
you are!” said he; “but no. It is Sunday.”

“Sunday!” ejaculated Vizard. “What is that to you, a fellow who has been
years abroad?”

“I can't help it,” said Severne, apologetically. “I am
superstitious--don't like to do business on a Sunday. I would not even
shunt at the tables on a Sunday--I don't think.”

“Ah, you are not quite sure of that. There _is_ a limit to your
superstition! Well, will you listen to a story on a Sunday?”

“Rather!”

“Then, once on a time there was a Scotch farmer who had a bonny cow; and
another farmer coveted her honestly. One Sunday they went home together
from kirk and there was the cow grazing. Farmer Two stopped, eyed her,
and said to Farmer One, 'Gien it were Monday, as it is the Sabba' day,
what would ye tak' for your coow?' The other said the price would be nine
pounds, _if it were Monday._ And so they kept the Sabbath; and the cow
changed hands, though, to the naked eye, she grazed on _in situ._ Our
negotiation is just as complete. So what does it matter whether the
actual exchange of bills and cash takes place to-day or to-morrow?”

“Do you really mean to say it does not matter to you?” asked Severne.

“Not one straw.”

“Then, as it does not matter to you, and does to me, give me my foolish
way, like a dear good fellow.”

“Now, that is smart,” said Vizard--“very smart;” then, with a look of
parental admiration, “he gets his own way in everything. He _will_ have
your money--he _won't_ have your money. I wonder whether he _will_
consent to walk those girls out, and disburden me of their too profitable
discourse.”

“That I will, with pleasure.”

“Well, they are at luncheon--with their bonnets on.”

“I will join them in five minutes.”


After luncheon, Miss Vizard, Miss Dover, and Mr. Severne started for a
stroll.

Miss Maitland suggested that Vizard should accompany them.

“Couldn't think of deserting you,” said he dryly.

The young ladies giggled, because these two rarely opened their mouths to
agree, one being a professed woman-hater, and the other a man-hater, in
words.

Says Misander, in a sourish way, “Since you value my conversation so,
perhaps you will be good enough not to smoke for the next ten minutes.”

Misogyn consented, but sighed. That sigh went unpitied, and the lady
wasted no time.

“Do you see what is going on between your sister and that young man?”

“Yes; a little flirtation.”

“A great deal more than that. I caught them, in this very room, making
love.”

“You alarm me,” said Vizard, with marked tranquillity.

“I saw him--kiss--her--hand.”

“You relieve me,” said Vizard, as calmly as he had been alarmed. “There's
no harm in that. I've kissed the queen's hand, and the nation did not
rise upon me. However, I object to it. The superior sex should not play
the spaniel. I will tell him to drop that. But, permit me to say, all
this is in your department, not mine.

“But what can I do against three of them, unless you support me? There
you have let them go out together.”

“Together with Fanny Dover, you mean?”

“Yes; and if Fanny had any designs on him, Zoe would be safe--”

“And poor Ned torn in two.”

“But Fanny, I am grieved to say, seems inclined to assist this young man
with Zoe; that is, because it does not matter to her. She has other
views--serious ones.”

“Serious! What? A nunnery? Then I pity my lady abbess.”

“Her views are plain enough to anybody but you.”

“Are they? Then make me as wise as my neighbors.”

“Well, then, she means to marry _you.”_

“What! Oh, come!--that is too good a joke!”

“It is sober earnest. Ask Zoe--ask your friend, Mr. Severne--ask the
chambermaids--ask any creature with an eye in its head. Oh, the blindness
of you men!”

The Misogyn was struck dumb. When he recovered, it was to repine at the
lot of man.

“Even my own familiar cousin--once removed--in whom I trusted! I depute
you to inform her that I think her _adorable,_ and that matrimony is no
longer a habit of mine. Set her on to poor Severne; he is a ladies' man,
and 'the more the merrier' is his creed.”

“Such a girl as Fanny is not to be diverted from a purpose of that sort.
Besides, she has too much sense to plunge into the Severne
and--pauperism! She is bent on a rich husband, not a needy adventurer.”

“Madam, in my friend's name, I thank you.”

“You are very welcome, sir--it is only the truth.” Then, with a swift
return to her original topic: “No; I know perfectly well what Fanny Dover
will do this afternoon. She sketches.”

“It is too true,” said Vizard dolefully: “showed me a ship in full sail,
and I praised it _in my way._ I said, 'That rock is rather well done.'”

“Well, she will be seized with a desire to sketch. She will sit down
apart, and say, 'Please don't watch me--it makes me nervous.' The other
two will take the hint and make love a good way off; and Zoe will go
greater lengths, with another woman in sight--but only just in sight, and
slyly encouraging her--than if she were quite alone with her _mauvais
sujet.”_

Vizard was pleased with the old lady. “This is sagacious,” said he, “and
shows an eye for detail. I recognize in your picture the foxy sex. But,
at this moment, who can foretell which way the wind will blow? You are
not aware, perhaps, that Zoe and Fanny have had a quarrel. They don't
speak. Now, in women, you know, vices are controlled by vices--see Pope.
The conspiracy you dread will be averted by the other faults of their
character, their jealousy and their petulant tempers. Take my word for
it, they are sparring at this moment; and that poor, silly Severne
meditating and moderating, and getting scratched on both sides for trying
to be just.”

At this moment the door opened, and Fanny Dover glittered on the
threshold in Cambridge blue.

“There,” said Vizard; “did not I tell you? They are come home.”

“Only me,” said Fanny gayly.

“Where are the others?” inquired Miss Maitland sharply.

“Not far off--only by the riverside.”

“And you left those two alone!”

“Now, don't be cross, aunt,” cried Fanny, and limped up to her. “These
new boots are so tight that I really couldn't bear them any longer. I
believe I shall be lame, as it is.”

“You ought to be ashamed of yourself. What will the people say?”

“La! aunt, it is abroad. One does what one likes--out of England.”

“Here's a code of morals!” said Vizard, who must have his slap.

“Nonsense,” said Miss Maitland: “she will be sure to meet somebody. All
England is on the Rhine at this time of the year; and, whether or no, is
it for you to expose that child to familiarity with a person nobody
knows, nor his family either? You are twenty-five years old; you know the
world; you have as poor an opinion of the man as I have, or you would
have set your own cap at him--you know you would--and you have let out
things to me when you were off your guard. Fanny Dover, you are behaving
wickedly; you are a false friend to that poor girl.”

Upon this, lo! the pert Fanny, hitherto so ready with her answers, began
to cry bitterly. The words really pricked her conscience, and to be
scolded is one thing, to be severely and solemnly reproached is another;
and before a man!

The official woman-hater was melted in a moment by the saucy girl's
tears. “There--there,” said he, kindly, “have a little mercy. Hang it
all! Don't make a mountain of a mole-hill.”

The official man-hater never moved a muscle. “It is no use her crying to
_me:_ she must give me a _proof_ she is sorry. Fanny, if you are a
respectable girl, and have any idea of being my heir, go you this moment
and bring them home.”

“Yes, aunt,” said Fanny, eagerly; and went off with wonderful alacrity.

It was a very long apartment, full forty feet; and while Fanny bustled
down it, Miss Maitland extended a skinny finger, like one of Macbeth's
witches, and directed Vizard's eye to the receding figure so pointedly
that he put up his spyglass the better to see the phenomenon.

As Fanny skipped out and closed the door, Miss Maitland turned to Vizard,
with lean finger still pointing after Fanny, and uttered a monosyllable:

“LAME!”

Vizard burst out laughing. “La fourbe!” said he. “Miss Maitland, accept
my compliments; you possess the key to a sex no fellow can unlock. And,
now I have found an interpreter, I begin to be interested in this little
comedy. The first act is just over. There will be half an hour's wait
till the simulatrix of infirmity comes running back with the pilgrims of
the Rhine. Are they 'the pilgrims of the Rhine' or 'the pilgrims of
Love?' Time will show. Play to recommence with a verbal encounter; you
will be one against three; for all that, I don't envy the greater
number.”

“Three to one? No. Surely you will be on the right side for once.

“Well, you see, I am the audience. We can't be all _dramatis personae,_
and no spectator. During the wait, I wonder whether the audience, having
nothing better to do, may be permitted to smoke a cigar.”

“So long a lucid interval is irksome, of course. Well, the balcony is
your smoking-room. You will see them coming; please tap at my door the
moment you do.”

Half an hour elapsed, an hour, and the personages required to continue
the comedy did not return.

Vizard, having nothing better to do, fell to thinking of Ina Klosking,
and that was not good for him. Solitude and _ennui_ fed his mania, and at
last it took the form of action. He rang, and ordered up his man Harris,
a close, discreet personage, and directed him to go over to Homburg, and
bring back all the information he could about the new singer; her address
in Homburg, married or single, prude or coquette. Should information be
withheld, Harris was to fee the porter at the opera-house, the waiter at
her hotel, and all the human commodities that knew anything about her.
Having dismissed Harris, he lighted his seventh cigar, and said to
himself, “It is all Ned Severne's fault. I wanted to leave for England
to-day.”

The day had been overcast for some time and now a few big drops fell, by
way of warning. Then it turned cool: then came a light drizzling rain,
and, in the middle of this, Fanny Dover appeared, almost flying home.

Vizard went and tapped at Miss Maitland's door. She came out.

“Here's Miss Dover coming, but she is alone.”

The next moment Fanny bounced into the room, and started a little at the
picture of the pair ready to receive her. She did not wait to be taken to
task, but proceeded to avert censure by volubility and self-praise.
“Aunt, I went down to the river, where I left them, and looked all along
it, and they were not in sight. Then I went to the cathedral, because
that seemed the next likeliest place. Oh, I have had such a race!”

“Why did you come back before you had found them?”

“Aunt, it was going to rain; and it is raining now, hard.”

_“She_ does not mind that.”

“Zoe? Oh, she has got nothing on!”

“Bless me!” cried Vizard. “Godiva _rediviva.”_

“Now, Harrington, don't! Of course, I mean nothing to spoil; only her
purple alpaca, and that is two years old. But my blue silk, I can't
afford to ruin _it._ Nobody would give me another, _I_ know.”

“What a heartless world!” said Vizard dryly.

“It is past a jest, the whole thing,” objected Miss Maitland; “and, now
we are together, please tell me, if you can, either of you, who is this
man? What are his means? I know 'The Peerage,' 'The Baronetage,' and 'The
Landed Gentry,' but not Severne. That is a river, not a family.”

“Oh,” said Vizard, “family names taken from rivers are never _parvenues._
But we can't all be down in Burke. Ned is of a good stock, the old
English yeoman, the country's pride.”

“Yeoman!” said the Maitland, with sovereign contempt.

Vizard resisted. “Is this the place to sneer at an English yeoman, where
you see an unprincely prince living by a gambling-table? What says the
old stave?

“'A German prince, a marquis of France, And a laird o' the North
Countrie; A yeoman o' Kent, with his yearly rent, Would ding 'em out, all
three.”'

“Then,” said Misander, with a good deal of malicious, intent, “you are
quite sure your yeoman is not a--_pauper--_an _adventurer--“_

“Positive.”

“And a _gambler.”_

“No; I am not at all sure of that. But nobody is all-wise. I am not, for
one. He is a fine fellow; as good as gold; as true as steel. Always
polite, always genial; and never speaks ill of any of you behind your
backs.”

Miss Maitland bridled at that. “What I have said is not out of dislike to
the young man. I am warning a brother to take a little more care of his
sister, that is all. However, after your sneer, I shall say no more
behind Mr. Severne's back, but to his face--that is, if we ever see his
face again, or Zoe's either.”

“Oh, aunt!” said Fanny, reproachfully. “It is only the rain. La! poor
things, they will be wet to the skin. Just see how it is pouring!”

“That it is: and let me tell you there is nothing so dangerous as a
_te'te-'a-te'te_ in the rain.”

“A thunder-storm is worse, aunt,” said Fanny, eagerly; “because then she
is frightened to death, and clings to him--_if he is nice.”_

Having galloped into this revelation, through speaking first and thinking
afterward, Fanny pulled up short the moment the words were out, and
turned red, and looked askant, under her pale lashes at Vizard. Observing
several twinkles in his eyes, she got up hastily and said she really must
go and dry her gown.

“Yes,” said Miss Maitland; “come into my room, dear.”

Fanny complied, with rather a rueful face, not doubting that the public
“dear” was to get it rather hot in private.

Her uneasiness was not lessened when the old maid said to her, grimly,
“Now, sit you down there, and never mind your dress.”

However, it came rather mildly, after all. “Fanny, you are not a bad
girl, and you have shown you were sorry; so I am not going to be hard on
you: only you must be a good girl now, and help me to undo the mischief,
and then I will forgive you.”

“Aunt,” said Fanny, piteously, “I am older than she is, and I know I have
done rather wrong, and I won't do it any more; but pray, pray, don't ask
me to be unkind to her to-day; it is brooch-day.”

Miss Maitland only stared at this obscure announcement: so Fanny had to
explain that Zoe and she had tiffed, and made it up, and Zoe had given
her a brooch. Hereupon she went for it, and both ladies forgot the topic
they were on, and every other, to examine the brooch.

“Aunt,” says Fanny, handling the brooch, and eyeing it, “you were a poor
girl, like me, before grandpapa left you the money, and you know it is
just as well to have a tiff now and then with a rich one, because, when
you kiss and make it up, you always get some reconciliation-thing or
other.”

Miss Maitland dived into the past and nodded approval.

Thus encouraged, Fanny proceeded to more modern rules. She let Miss
Maitland know it was always understood at her school that on these
occasions of tiff, reconciliation, and present, the girl who received the
present was to side in everything with the girl who gave it, for that one
day. “That is the real reason I put on my tight boots--to earn my brooch.
Isn't it a duck?”

_“Are_ they tight, then?”

“Awfully. See--new on to-day.”

“But you could shake off your lameness in a moment.”

“La, aunt, you know one can fight _with_ that sort of thing, or fight
_against_ it. It is like colds, and headaches, and fevers, and all that.
You are in bed, too ill to see anybody you don't much care for. Night
comes, and then you jump up and dress, and go to a ball, and leave your
cold and your fever behind you, because the ball won't wait till you are
well, and the bores will. So don't ask me to be unkind to Zoe,
brooch-day,” said Fanny, skipping back to her first position with
singular pertinacity.

“Now, Fanny,” said Miss Maitland, “who wants you to be unkind to her? But
you must and shall promise me not to lend her any more downright
encouragement, and to watch the man well.”

“I promise that faithfully,” said Fanny--an adroit concession, since she
had been watching him like a cat a mouse for many days.

“Then you are a good girl; and, to reward you, I will tell you in
confidence all the strange stories I have discovered today.”

“Oh, do, aunt!” cried Fanny; and now her eyes began to sparkle with
curiosity.

Miss Maitland then bid her observe that the bedroom window was not a
French casement, but a double-sash window--closed at present because of
the rain; but it had been wide open at the top all the time.

“Those two were smoking, and talking secrets; and, child,” said the old
lady, very impressively, “if you--want--to--know--what gentlemen really
are, you must be out of sight, and listen to them, smoking. When I was a
girl, the gentlemen came out in their true colors over their wine. Now
they are as close as wax, drinking; and even when they are tipsy they
keep their secrets. But once let them get by themselves and smoke, the
very air is soon filled with scandalous secrets none of the ladies in the
house ever dreamed of. Their real characters, their true histories, and
their genuine sentiments, are locked up like that genius in 'The Arabian
Nights,' and come out in smoke as he did.” The old lady chuckled at her
own wit, and the young one laughed to humor her. “Well, my dear, those
two smoked, and revealed themselves--their real selves; and I listened
and heard every word on the top of those drawers.”

Fanny looked at the drawers. They were high.

“La, aunt! how ever did you get up there?”

“By a chair.”

“Oh, fancy you perched up there, listening, at your age!”

“You need not keep throwing my age in my teeth. I am not so very old.
Only I don't paint and whiten and wear false hair. There are plenty of
coquettes about, ever so much older than I am. I have a great mind not to
tell you; and then much you will ever know about either of these men!”

“Oh, aunt, don't be cruel! I am dying to hear it.”

As aunt was equally dying to tell it, she passed over the skit upon her
age, though she did not forget nor forgive it; and repeated the whole
conversation of Vizard and Severne with rare fidelity; but as I abhor
what the evangelist calls “battology,” and Shakespeare “damnable
iteration,” I must draw upon the intelligence of the reader (if any), and
he must be pleased to imagine the whole dialogue of those two unguarded
smokers repeated to Fanny, and interrupted, commented on at every salient
point, scrutinized, sifted, dissected, and taken to pieces by two keen
women, sharp by nature, and sharper now by collision of their heads. No
candor, no tolerance, no allowance for human weakness, blunted the
scalpel in their dexterous hands.

Oh, Gossip! delight of ordinary souls, and more delightful still when you
furnish food for detraction!

To Fanny, in particular, it was exciting, ravishing, and the time flew by
so unheeded that presently there came a sharp knock and an impatient
voice cried, “Chatter! chatter! chatter! How long are we to be kept
waiting for dinner, all of us?”



CHAPTER VI.

AT the very commencement of the confabulation, so barbarously interrupted
before it had lasted two hours and a half, the Misogyn rang the bell, and
asked for Rosa, Zoe's maid.

She came, and he ordered her to have up a basket of wood, and light a
roaring fire in her mistress's room, and put out garments to air. He also
inquired the number of Zoe's bedroom. The girl said it was “No. 74.”

The Misogyn waited half an hour, and then visited “No. 74.” He found the
fire burned down to one log, and some things airing at the fire, as
domestics air their employers' things, but not their own, you may be
sure. There was a chemise carefully folded into the smallest possible
compass, and doubled over a horse at a good distance from the cold fire.
There were other garments and supplementaries, all treated in the same
way.

The Misogyn looked, and remarked as follows, “Idiots! at everything but
taking in the men.”

Having relieved his spleen with this courteous and comprehensive
observation, he piled log upon log till the fire was half up the chimney.
Then he got all the chairs and made a semi-circle, and spread out the
various garments to the genial heat; and so close that, had a spark
flown, they would have been warmed with a vengeance, and the superiority
of the male intellect demonstrated. This done, he retired, with a guilty
air; for he did not want to be caught meddling in such frivolities by
Miss Dover or Miss Maitland. However, he was quite safe; those superior
spirits were wholly occupied with the loftier things of the mind,
especially the characters of their neighbors.

I must now go for these truants that are giving everybody so much
trouble.

When Fanny fell lame and said she was very sorry, but she must go home
and change her boots, Zoe was for going home too. But Fanny, doubting her
sincerity, was peremptory, and said they had only to stroll slowly on,
and then turn; she should meet them coming back. Zoe colored high,
suspecting they had seen the last of this ingenious young lady.

“What a good girl!” cried Severne.

“I am afraid she is a very naughty girl,” said Zoe, faintly; and the
first effect of Fanny's retreat was to make her a great deal more
reserved and less sprightly.

Severne observed, and understood, and saw he must give her time. He was
so respectful, as well as tender, that, by degrees, she came out again,
and beamed with youth and happiness.

They strolled very slowly by the fair river, and the pretty little
nothings they said to each other began to be mere vehicles for those soft
tones and looks, in which love is made, far more than by the words
themselves.

When they started on this walk, Severne had no distinct nor serious views
on Zoe. But he had been playing with fire for some time, and so now he
got well burned.

Walking slowly by his side, and conscious of being wooed, whatever the
words might be, Zoe was lovelier than ever. Those lowered lashes, that
mantling cheek, those soft, tender murmurs, told him he was dear, and
thrilled his heart, though a cold one compared with hers.

He was in love; as much as he could be, and more than he had ever been
before. He never even asked himself whether permanent happiness was
likely to spring from this love: he was self-indulgent, reckless, and in
love.

He looked at her, wished he could recall his whole life, and sighed.

“Why do you sigh?” said she, gently.

“I don't know. Yes, I do. Because I am not happy.”

“Not happy?” said she. “You ought to be; and I am sure you deserve to
be.”

“I don't know that. However, I think I shall be happier in a few minutes,
or else very unhappy indeed. That depends on you.”

“On me, Mr. Severne?” and she blushed crimson, and her bosom began to
heave. His words led her to expect a declaration and a proposal of
marriage.

He saw her mistake; and her emotion spoke so plainly and sweetly, and
tried him so, that it cost him a great effort not to clasp her in his
arms. But that was not his cue at present. He lowered his eyes, to give
her time, and said, sadly, “I cannot help seeing that, somehow, there is
suspicion in the air about me. Miss Maitland puts questions, and drops
hints. Miss Dover watches me like a lynx. Even you gave me a hint the
other day that I never talk to you about my relations, and my past life.”

“Pray do not confound me with other people,” said Zoe proudly. “If I am
curious, it is because I know you must have done many good things and
clever things; but you have too little vanity, or too much pride, to tell
them even to one who--esteems you, and could appreciate.”

“I know you are as generous and noble as most people are narrow-minded,”
 said Severne, enthusiastically; “and I have determined to tell you all
about myself.”

Zoe's cheeks beamed with gratified pride and her eyes sparkled.

“Only, as I would not tell it to anybody but you, I must stipulate that
you will receive it in sacred confidence, and not repeat it to a living
soul.”

“Not even to my brother, who loves you so?”

“Not even to him.”

This alarmed the instinctive delicacy and modesty of a truly virgin soul.

“I am not experienced,” said she. “But I feel I ought not to yield to
curiosity and hear from you anything I am forbidden to tell my brother.
You might as well say I must not tell my mother; for dear Harrington is
all the mother I have; and I am sure he is a true friend to you” (this
last a little reproachfully).

But for Severne's habitual self-command, he would have treated this
delicacy as ridiculous prudery; but he was equal to greater difficulties.

“You are right, by instinct, in everything. Well, then, I shall tell you,
and you shall see at once whether it ought to be repeated, or to remain a
sacred deposit between me and the only creature I have the courage to
tell it to.”

Zoe lowered her eyes, and marked the sand with her parasol. She was a
little puzzled now, and half conscious that, somehow, he was tying her to
secrecy with silk instead of rope; but she never suspected the deliberate
art and dexterity with which it was done.

Severne then made the revelation which he had been preparing for a day or
two past; and, to avoid eternal comments by the author, I must once more
call in the artful aid of the printers. The true part of Mr. Severne's
revelation is in italics; the false in ordinary type.

_“When my father died, I inherited an estate in Huntingdonshire. It was
not so large as Vizard's, but it was clear. Not a mortgage nor
incumbrance on it. I had a younger brother;_ a fellow with charming
manners, and very accomplished. These were his ruin: he got into high
society in London; _but high society is not always good society._ He
became connected with a fast lot, some of the young nobility. Of course
he could not vie with them. He got deeply in debt. Not but what they were
in debt too, every one of them. He used to send to me for money oftener
than I liked; but I never suspected the rate he was going at. I was
anxious, too, about him; but I said to myself he was just sowing his wild
oats, like other fellows. Well, it went on, until--to his misfortune and
mine--he got entangled in some disgraceful transactions; the general
features are known to all the world. I dare say you have heard of one or
two young noblemen who committed forgeries on their relations and friends
some years ago. _One of them, the son of an earl, took his sister's whole
fortune out of her bank, with a single forged check. I believe the sum
total of his forgeries was over one hundred thousand pounds. His father
could not find half the money. A number of the nobility had to combine to
repurchase the documents; many of them were in the hands of the Jews; and
I believe a composition was effected, with the help of a very powerful
barrister, an M. P. He went out of his line on this occasion, and
mediated between the parties._ What will you think when I tell you that
my brother, the son of my father and my mother, was one of these
forgers--a criminal?”

“My poor friend!” cried Zoe, clasping her innocent hands.

“It was a thunder-clap. I had a great mind to wash my hands of it, and
let him go to prison. But how could I? The struggle ended in my doing
like the rest. Only poor, I had no noble kinsmen with long purses to help
me, and no solicitor-general to mediate _sub rosa._ The total amount
would have swamped my family acres. I got them down to sixty per cent,
and that only crippled my estate forever. As for my brother, he fell on
his knees to me. But I could not forgive him. _He left the country with a
hundred pounds_ I gave him. _He is in Canada; and only known there as a
most respectable farmer._ He talks of paying me back. That I shall
believe when I see it. All I know for certain is that his crime has
mortgaged my estate, and left me poor--and suspected.”

While Severne related this, there passed a somewhat notable thing in the
world of mind. The inventor of this history did not understand it; the
hearer did, and accompanied it with innocent sympathetic sighs. Her
imagination, more powerful and precise than the inventor's, pictured the
horror of the high-minded brother, his agony, his shame, his respect for
law and honesty, his pity for his own flesh and blood, his struggle, and
the final triumph of fraternal affection. Every line of the figment was
alive to her, and she _realized_ the tale. Severne only repeated it.

At the last touch of his cold art, the warm-hearted girl could contain no
longer.

“Oh, poor Mr. Severne!” she cried; “poor Mr. Severne!” And the tears ran
down her cheeks.

He looked at her first with a little astonishment--fancy taking his
little narrative to heart like that--then with compunction, and then with
a momentary horror at himself, and terror at the impassable gulf fixed
between them, by her rare goodness and his depravity.

Then for a moment he felt, and felt all manner of things at once. “Oh,
don't cry,” he blurted out, and began to blubber himself at having made
her cry at all, and so unfairly. It was his lucky hour; this hysterical
effusion, undignified by a single grain of active contrition, or even
penitent resolve, told in his favor. They mingled their tears; and hearts
cannot hold aloof when tears come together. Yes, they mingled their
tears, and the crocodile tears were the male's, if you please, and the
woman's tears were pure holy drops, that angels might have gathered and
carried them to God for pearls of the human soul.

After they had cried together over the cool figment, Zoe said: “I do not
repent my curiosity now. You did well to tell me. Oh, no, you were right,
and I will never tell anybody. People are narrow-minded. They shall never
cast your brother's crime in your teeth, nor your own losses I esteem you
for--oh, so much more than ever! I wonder you could tell me.”

“You would not wonder if you knew how superior you are to all the world:
how noble, how generous, and how I--”

“Oh, Mr. Severne, it is going to rain! We must get home as fast as ever
we can.”

They turned, and Zoe, with true virgin coyness, and elastic limbs, made
the coming rain an excuse for such swift walking that Severne could not
make tender love to her. To be sure, Apollo ran after Daphne, with his
little proposals; but, I take it, he ran mute--till he found he couldn't
catch her. Indeed, it was as much as Severne could do to keep up with her
“fair heel and toe.” But I ascribe this to her not wearing high heels
ever since Fanny told her she was just a little too tall, and she was
novice enough to believe her.

She would not stop for the drizzle; but at last it came down with such a
vengeance that she was persuaded to leave the path and run for a
cattle-shed at some distance. Here she and Severne were imprisoned.
Luckily for them “the kye had not come hame,” and the shed was empty.
They got into the farthest corner of it; for it was all open toward the
river; and the rain pattered on the roof as if it would break it.

Thus driven together, was it wonderful that soon her hand was in his, and
that, as they purred together, and murmured soft nothings, more than once
she was surprised into returning the soft pressure which he gave it so
often?

The plump declaration she had fled from, and now seemed deliciously
resigned to, did not actually come. But he did what she valued more, he
resumed his confidences: told her he had vices; was fond of gambling.
Excused it on the score of his loss by his brother; said he hoped soon to
hear good news from Canada; didn't despair; was happy now, in spite of
all; had been happy ever since he had met _her._ What declaration was
needed? The understanding was complete. Neither doubted the other's love;
and Zoe would have thought herself a faithless, wicked girl, if, after
this, she had gone and accepted any other man.

But presently she had a misgiving, and looked at her watch. Yes, it
wanted but one hour to dinner. Now, her brother was rather a Tartar about
punctuality at dinner. She felt she was already in danger of censure for
her long _te'te-'a-te'te_ with Severne, though the rain was the culprit.
She could not afford to draw every eye upon her by being late for dinner
along with him.

She told Severne they must go home now, rain or no rain, and she walked
resolutely out into the weather.

Severne did not like it at all, but he was wise enough to deplore it only
on her account; and indeed her light alpaca was soon drenched, and began
to cling to her. But the spirited girl only laughed at his condolences,
as she hurried on. “Why, it is only warm water,” said she; “this is no
more than a bath in the summer sea. Bathing is getting wet through in
blue flannel. Well, I am bathing in blue alpaca.”

 “But it will ruin your dress.”

“My dress! Why, it is as old as the hills. When I get home I'll give it
to Rosa, ready washed--ha-ha!”

The rain pelted and poured, and long before they reached the inn, Zoe's
dress had become an external cuticle, an alpaca skin.

But innocence is sometimes very bold. She did not care a bit; and, to
tell the truth, she had little need to care. Beauty so positive as hers
is indomitable. The petty accidents that are the terrors of homely charms
seem to enhance Queen Beauty. Disheveled hair adorns it: close bound hair
adorns it. Simplicity adorns it. Diamonds adorn it. Everything seems to
adorn it, because, the truth is, it adorns everything. And so Zoe,
drenched with rain, and her dress a bathing-gown, was only a Greek
goddess tinted blue, her bust and shoulders and her molded figure
covered, yet revealed. What was she to an artist's eye? Just the Townly
Venus with her sculptor's cunning draperies, and Juno's gait.

“Et vera incessa patuit Dea.”

When she got to the hotel she held up her finger to Severne with a pretty
peremptoriness. She had shown him so much tenderness, she felt she had a
right to order him now: “I must beg of you,” said she, “to go straight to
your rooms and dress very quickly, and present yourself to Harrington
five minutes before dinner at least.”

“I will obey,” said he, obsequiously.

That pleased her, and she kissed her hand to him and scudded to her own
room.

At sight of the blazing fire and provident preparations, she started, and
said, aloud, “Oh, how nice of them!” and, all dripping as she was, she
stood there with her young heart in a double glow.

Such a nature as hers has too little egotism and low-bred vanity to
undervalue worthy love. The infinite heart of a Zoe Vizard can love but
one with passion, yet ever so many more with warm and tender affection.

She gave Aunt Maitland credit for this provident affection. It was out of
the sprightly Fanny's line; and she said to herself, “Dear old thing!
there, I thought she was bottling up a lecture for me, and all the time
her real anxiety was lest I should be wet through.” Thereupon she settled
in her mind to begin loving Aunt Maitland from that hour. She did not
ring for her maid till she was nearly dressed, and, when Rosa came and
exclaimed at the condition of her cast-off robes, she laughed and told
her it was nothing--the Rhine was nice and warm--pretending she had been
in it. She ordered her to dry the dress, and iron it.

“Why, la, miss; you'll never wear it again, to be sure?” said Rosa,
demurely.

“I don't know,” said the young lady, archly; “but I mean to take great
care of it,” and burst out laughing like a peal of silver bells, because
she was in high spirits, and saw what Rosa would be at.

Give away the gown she had been wooed and wet through in--no, thank you!
Such gowns as these be landmarks, my masters.

Vizard, unconscious of her arrival, was walking up and down the room,
fidgeting more and more, when in came Zoe, dressed high in black silk and
white lace, looking ever so cozy, and blooming like a rose.

“What!” said he; “in, and dressed.” He took her by the shoulders and gave
her a great kiss. “You young monkey!” said he, “I was afraid you were
washed away.”

Zoe suggested that would only have been a woman obliterated.

“That is true,” said he, with an air of hearty conviction. “I forgot
that.”

He then inquired if she had had a nice walk.

“Oh, beautiful! Imprisoned half the time in a cow-shed, and then
drenched. But I'll have a nice walk with you, dear, up and down the
room.”

“Come on, then.”

So she put her right hand on his left shoulder, and gave him her left
hand, and they walked up and down the room, Zoe beaming with happiness
and affection for everybody and walking at a graceful bend.

Severne came in, dressed as perfect as though just taken out of a
bandbox. He sat down at a little table, and read a little journal
unobtrusively. It was his cue to divest his late _te'te-'a-te'te_ of
public importance.

Then came dinner, and two of the party absent. Vizard heard their voices
going like mill-clacks at this sacred hour, and summoned them rather
roughly, as stated above. His back was to Zoe, and she rubbed her hands
gayly to Severne, and sent him a flying whisper: “Oh, what fun! We are
the culprits, and they are the ones scolded.”

Dinner waited ten minutes, and then the defaulters appeared. Nothing was
said, but Vizard looked rather glum; and Aunt Maitland cast a vicious
look at Severne and Zoe: they had made a forced march, and outflanked
her. She sat down, and bided her time, like a fowler waiting till the
ducks come within shot.

But the conversation was commonplace, inconsecutive, shifty, and vague,
and it was two hours before anything came within shot: all this time not
a soul suspected the ambushed fowler.

At last, Vizard, having thrown out one of his hints that the fair sex are
imperfect, Fanny, being under the influence of Miss Maitland's
revelations, ventured to suggest that they had no more faults than men,
and _certainly_ were not more deceitful.

“Indeed?” said Vizard. “Not--more--_deceitful!_ Do you speak from
experience?”

“Oh, no, no,” said Fanny, getting rather frightened. “I only think so,
somehow.”

“Well, but you must have a reason. May I respectfully inquire whether
more men have jilted you than you have jilted?”

“You may inquire as respectfully as you like; but I shan't tell you.”

“That is right, Miss Dover,” said Severne; “don't you put up with his
nonsense. He knows nothing about it: women are angels, compared with men.
The wonder is, how they can waste so much truth and constancy and beauty
upon the foul sex. To my mind, there is only one thing we beat you in; we
do stick by each other rather better than you do. You are truer to us. We
are a little truer to each other.”

“Not a little,” suggested Vizard, dryly.

“For my part,” said Zoe, blushing pink at her boldness in advancing an
opinion on so large a matter, “I think these comparisons are rather
narrow-minded. What have we to do with bad people, male or female? A good
man is good, and a good woman is good. Still, I do think that women have
greater hearts to love, and men, perhaps, greater hearts for friendship:”
 then, blushing roseate, “even in the short time we have been here we have
seen two gentlemen give up pleasure for self-denying friendship. Lord
Uxmoor gave us all up for a sick friend. Mr. Severne did more, perhaps;
for he lost that divine singer. You will never hear her now, Mr.
Severne.”

The Maitland gun went off: “A sick friend! Mr. Severne? Ha, ha, ha! You
silly girl, he has got no sick friend. He was at the gaming-table. That
was his sick friend.”

It was an effective discharge. It winged a duck or two. It killed, as
follows: the tranquillity--the good humor--and the content of the little
party.

Severne started, and stared, and lost color, and then cast at Vizard a
venomous look never seen on his face before; for he naturally concluded
that Vizard had betrayed him.

Zoe was amazed, looked instantly at Severne, saw it was true, and turned
pale at his evident discomfiture. Her lover had been guilty of
deceit--mean and rather heartless deceit.

Even Fanny winced at the pointblank denunciation of a young man, who was
himself polite to everybody. She would have done it in a very different
way--insinuations, innuendo, etc.

“They have found you out, old fellow,” said Vizard, merrily; “but you
need not look as if you had robbed a church. Hang it all! a fellow has
got a right to gamble, if he chooses. Anyway, he paid for his whistle;
for he lost three hundred pounds.”

“Three hundred pounds!” cried the terrible old maid. “Where ever did he
get them to lose?”

Severne divined that he had nothing to gain by fiction here; so he said,
sullenly, “I got them from Vizard; but I gave him value for them.”

“You need not publish our private transactions, Ned,” said Vizard. “Miss
Maitland, this is really not in your department.”

“Oh, yes, it is,” said she; “and so you'll find.”

This pertinacity looked like defiance. Vizard rose from his chair, bowed
ironically, with the air of a man not disposed for a hot argument.

“In that case--with permission--I'll withdraw to my veranda and, in that
[he struck a light] peaceful--[here he took a suck] shade--”

“You will meditate on the charms of Ina Klosking.”

Vizard received this poisoned arrow in the small of the back, as he was
sauntering out. He turned like a shot, as if a man had struck him, and,
for a single moment, he looked downright terrible and wonderfully unlike
the easy-going Harrington Vizard. But he soon recovered himself. “What!
you listen, do you?” said he; and turned contemptuously on his heel
without another word.

There was an uneasy, chilling pause. Miss Maitland would have given
something to withdraw her last shot. Fanny was very uncomfortable and
fixed her eyes on the table. Zoe, deeply shocked at Severne's deceit, was
now amazed and puzzled about her brother. “Ina Klosking!” inquired she;
“who is that?”

“Ask Mr. Severne,” said Miss Maitland, sturdily.

Now Mr. Severne was sitting silent, but with restless eyes, meditating
how he should get over that figment of his about the sick friend.

Zoe turned round on him, fixed her glorious eyes full upon his face, and
said, rather imperiously, “Mr. Severne, who is Ina Klosking?”

Mr. Severne looked up blankly in her face, and said nothing.

She colored at not being answered, and repeated her question (all this
time Fanny's eyes were fixed on the young man even more keenly than
Zoe's), “Who--and what--is Ina Klosking?”

“She is a public singer.”

“Do you know her?”

“Yes; I heard her sing at Vienna.”

“Yes, yes; but do you know her to speak to?”

He considered half a moment, and then said he had not that honor. “But,”
 said he, rather hurriedly, “somebody or other told me she had come out at
the opera here and made a hit.”

“What in--Siebel?”

“I don't know. But I saw large bills out with her name. She made her
_de'but_ in Gounod's 'Faust.'”

“It is _my_ Siebel!” cried Zoe, rapturously. “Why, aunt, no wonder
Harrington admires her. For my part, I adore her.”

_“You,_ child! That is quite a different matter.”

“No, it is not. He is like me; he has only seen her once, as I have, and
on the stage.”

“Fiddle-dee-dee. I tell you he is in love with her, over head and ears.
He is wonderfully inflammable for a woman-hater. Ask Mr. Severne: he
knows.”

“Mr. Severne, is my brother in love with that lady?”

Severne's turn had come; that able young man saw his chance, and did as
good a bit of acting as ever was extemporized even by an Italian mime.

“Miss Vizard,” said he, fixing his hazel eyes on her for the first time,
in a way that made her feel his power, “what passed in confidence between
two friends ought to be sacred. Don't--you--think so?” (The girl
quivered, remembering the secret he had confessed to her.) “Miss Maitland
has done your brother and me the honor to listen to our secrets. She
shall repeat them, if she thinks it delicate; but I shall not, without
Vizard's consent; and, more than that, the conversation seems to me to be
taking the turn of casting blame and ridicule and I don't know what on
the best-hearted, kindest-hearted, truest-hearted, noblest, and manliest
man I know. I decline to take any further share in it.”

With these last words in his mouth, he stuck his hands defiantly into his
pockets and stalked out into the veranda, looking every inch a man.

Zoe folded her arms and gazed after him with undisguised admiration. How
well everything he did became him; his firing up--his _brusquerie--_the
very movements of his body, all so piquant, charming, and unwomanly! As
he vanished from her admiring eyes, she turned, with flaming cheeks, on
Miss Maitland, and said, “Well, aunt, you have driven them both out at
the window; now, say something pretty to Fanny and me, and drive us out
at the door.”

Miss Maitland hung her head; she saw she had them all against her but
Fanny, and Fanny was a trimmer. She said, sorrowfully, “No, Zoe. I feel
how unattractive I have made the room. I have driven away the gods of
your idolatry--they are only idols of clay; but that you can't believe. I
will banish nobody else, except a cross-grained, but respectable old
woman, who is too experienced, and too much soured by it, to please young
people when things are going wrong.”

With this she took her bed-candle, and retired.

Zoe had an inward struggle. As Miss Maitland opened her bedroom door, she
called to her: “Aunt! one word. Was it you that ordered the fire in my
bedroom?”

Now, if she had received the answer she expected, she meant to say, “Then
please let me forget everything else you have said or done to-day.” But
Miss Maitland stared a little, and said, “Fire in your bedroom? no.”

“Oh! Then I have nothing to thank you for this day,” said Zoe, with all
the hardness of youth; though, as a general rule, she had not her share
of it.

The old lady winced visibly, but she made a creditable answer. “Then, my
dear, you shall have my prayers this night; and it does not matter much
whether you thank me for them or not.”

As she disappeared, Zoe flung herself wearily on a couch, and very soon
began to cry. Fanny ran to her and nestled close to her, and the two had
a rock together, Zoe crying, and Fanny coaxing and comforting.

“Ah!” sighed Zoe, “this was the happiest day of my life; and see how it
ends. Quarreling; and deceit! the one I hate, the other I despise. No,
never again, until I have said my prayers, and am just going to sleep,
will I cry 'O giorno felice!' as I did this afternoon, when the rain was
pouring on me, but my heart was all in a glow.”

These pretty little lamentations of youth were interrupted by Mr. Severne
slipping away from his friend, to try and recover lost ground.

He was coolly received by Zoe; then he looked dismayed, but affected not
to understand; then Zoe pinched Fanny, which meant “I don't choose to put
him on his defense; but I am dying to hear if he has anything to say.”
 Thereupon Fanny obeyed that significant pinch, and said, “Mr. Severne, my
cousin is not a woman of the world; she is a country girl, with
old-fashioned romantic notions that a man should be above telling fibs. I
have known her longer than you, and I see she can't understand your
passing off the gambling-table for a sick friend.”

“Why, I never did,” said he, as bold as brass.

“Mr. Severne!”

“Miss Dover, my sick friend was at 'The Golden Star.' That's a small
hotel in a different direction from the Kursaal. I was there from seven
o'clock till nine. You ask the waiter, if you don't believe me.”

Fanny giggled at this inadvertent speech; but Zoe's feelings were too
deeply engaged to shoot fun flying. “Fanny” cried she, eagerly, “I heard
him tell the coachman to drive him to that very place, 'The Golden
Star.'”

“Really?” said Fanny, mystified.

“Indeed I did, dear. I remember 'The Golden Star' distinctly.

“Ladies, I was there till nine o'clock. Then I started for the theater.
Unfortunately the theater is attached to the Kursaal. I thought I would
just look in for a few minutes. In fact, I don't think I was there half
an hour. But Miss Maitland is quite right in one thing. I lost more than
two hundred pounds, all through playing on a false system. Of course, I
know I had no business to go there at all, when I might have been by your
side.”

“And heard La Klosking.”

“It was devilish bad taste, and you may well be surprised and offended.”

“No, no; not at that,” said Zoe.

“But hang it all, don't make a fellow worse than he is! Why should I
invent a sick friend? I suppose I have a right to go to the Kursaal if I
choose. At any rate, I mean to go to-morrow afternoon, and win a pot of
money. Hinder me who can.”

Zoe beamed with pleasure. “That spiteful old woman! I am ashamed of
myself. Of course you _have._ It becomes a man to say _je veux;_ and it
becomes a woman to yield. Forgive our unworthy doubts. We will all go to
the Kursaal to-morrow.”


The reconciliation was complete; and, to add to Zoe's happiness, she made
a little discovery. Rosa came in to see if she wanted anything. That, you
must know, was Rosa's way of saying, “It is very late. _I_'m tired; so
the sooner _you_ go to bed, the better.” And Zoe was by nature so
considerate that she often went to bed more for Rosa's convenience than
her own inclination.

But this time she said, sharply, “Yes, I do. I want to know who had my
fire lighted for me in the middle of summer.”

“Why, squire, to be sure,” said Rosa.

“What--_my_ brother!”

“Yes, miss; and seen to it all hisself: leastways, I found the things
properly muddled. 'Twas to be seen a man had been at 'em.”

Rosa retired, leaving Zoe's face a picture.

Just then Vizard put his head cautiously in at the window, and said, in a
comic whisper, “Is she gone?”

“Yes, she is gone,” cried Zoe, “and you are wanted in her place.” She ran
to meet him. “Who ordered a fire in my room, and muddled all my things?”
 said she, severely.

“I did. What of that?”

“Oh, nothing. Only now I know who is my friend. Young people, here's a
lesson for you. When a lady is out in the rain, don't prepare a lecture
for her, like Aunt Maitland, but light her fire, like this dear old duck
of a woman-hating impostor. Kiss me!” (violently).

“There--pest!”

“That is not enough, nor half. There, and there, and there, and there,
and there, and there.”

“Now look here, my young friend,” said Vizard, holding her lovely head
by both ears, “you are exciting yourself about nothing, and that will end
in one of your headaches. So, just take your candle, and go to bed, like
a good little girl.”

“Must I? Well, then, I will. Goodby, tyrant dear. Oh, how I love you!
Come, Fanny.”

She gave her hand shyly to Severne, and soon they were both in Zoe's
room.

Rosa was dismissed, and they had their chat; but it was nearly all on one
side. Fanny had plenty to say, but did not say it. She had not the heart
to cloud that beaming face again so soon; she temporized: Zoe pressed her
with questions too; but she slurred things, Zoe asked her why Miss
Maitland was so bitter against Mr. Severne. Fanny said, in an off-hand
way, “Oh, it is only on your account she objects to him.”

“And what are her objections?”

“Oh, only grammatical ones, dear. She says his _antecedents_ are obscure,
and his _relatives_ unknown, ha! ha! ha!” Fanny laughed, but Zoe did not
see the fun. Then Fanny stroked her down.

“Never mind that old woman. I shall interfere properly, if I see you in
danger. It was monstrous her making an _esclandre_ at the very
dinner-table, and spoiling your happy day.”

“But she hasn't!” cried Zoe, eagerly. “'All's well that ends well.' I am
happy--oh, so happy! You love me. Harrington loves me. _He_ loves me.
What more can any woman ask for than to be _ambata bene?”_

This was the last word between Zoe and Fanny upon St. Brooch's day.

As Fanny went to her own room, the vigilant Maitland opened her door that
looked upon the corridor and beckoned her in. “Well,” said she, “did you
speak to Zoe?”

“Just a word before dinner. Aunt, she came in wet, to the skin, and in
higher spirits than Rosa ever knew her.”

Aunt groaned.

“And what do you think? Her spoiled dress, she ordered it to be ironed
and put by. _It is a case.”_


Next day they all met at a late breakfast, and good humor was the order
of the day. This encouraged Zoe to throw out a feeler about the
gambling-tables. Then Fanny said it must be nice to gamble, because it
was so naughty. “In a long experience,” said Miss Dover, with a sigh, “I
have found that whatever is nice is naughty, and whatever is naughty is
nice.”

“There's a short code of morals,” observed Vizard, “for the use of
seminaries. Now let us hear Severne; he knows all the defenses of
gambling lunacy has discovered.”

Severne, thus appealed to, said play was like other things, bad only when
carried to excess. “At Homburg, where the play is fair, what harm can
there be in devoting two or three hours of a long day to _trente et
quarante?_ The play exercises memory, judgment, _sangfroid,_ and other
good qualities of the mind. Above all, it is on the square. Now, buying
and selling shares without delivery, bulling, and bearing, and rigging,
and Stock Exchange speculations in general, are just as much gambling;
but with cards all marked, and dice loaded, and the fair player has no
chance. The world,” said this youthful philosopher, “is taken in by
words. The truth is, that gambling with cards is fair, and gambling
without cards a swindle.”

“He is hard upon the City,” said the Vizard; “but no matter. Proceed,
young man. Develop your code of morals for the amusement of mankind,
while duller spirits inflict instruction.”

“You have got my opinion,” said Severne. “Oblige us with yours.”

“No; mine would not be popular just now: I reserve it till we are there,
and can see the lunatics at work.”

“Oh, then we are to go,” cried Fanny. “Oh, be joyful!”

“That depends on Miss Maitland. It is not in my department.”

Instantly four bright eyes were turned piteously on the awful Maitland.

“Oh, aunt,” said Zoe, pleadingly, “do you think there would be any great
harm in our--just for once in a way?”

“My dear,” said Miss Maitland, solemnly, “I cannot say that I approve of
public gambling in general. But at Homburg the company is select. I have
seen a German prince, a Russian prince, and two English countesses, the
very _e'lite_ of London society, seated at the same table in the Kursaal.
I think, therefore, there can be no harm in your going, under the conduct
of older persons--myself, for example, and your brother.”

“Code three,” suggested Vizard--“the chaperonian code.”

“And a very good one, too,” said Zoe. “But, aunt, must we look on, or may
we play just a little, little?”

“My dear, there can be no great harm in playing a little, in _good
company_--if you play with your own money.” She must have one dig at
Severne.

“I shan't play very deep, then,” said Fanny; “for I have got no money
hardly.”

Vizard came to the front, like a man. “No more should I,” said he, “but
for Herries & Co. As it is, I am a Croesus, and I shall stand one hundred
pounds, which you three ladies must divide; and between you, no doubt,
you will break the bank.”

Acclamations greeted this piece of misogyny. When they had subsided,
Severne was called on to explain the game, and show the young ladies how
to win a fortune with thirty-three pounds six shillings and eight pence.

The table was partly cleared, two packs of cards sent for, and the
professor lectured.

“This,” said he, “is the cream of the game. Six packs are properly
shuffled, and properly cut; the players put their money on black or red,
which is the main event, and is settled thus: The dealer deals the cards
in two rows. He deals the _first_ row for black, and stops the moment the
cards pass thirty. That deal determines how near _noir_ can get to
thirty-one.”

Severne then dealt for _noir,_ and the cards came as follows:

“Queen of hearts--four of clubs--ten of spades--nine of diamonds: total,
thirty-three.”

He then dealt for red:

Knave of clubs--ace of diamonds--two of spades--king of spades--nine of
hearts: total, thirty-two.

“Red wins, because the cards dealt for red come nearer thirty-one.
Besides that,” said he, “you can bet on the color, or against it. The
actual color of the first card the player turns up on the black line must
be black or red. Whichever happens to be it is called 'the color.' Say it
is red; then, if the black line of cards wins, color loses. Now, I will
deal again for both events.

“I deal for _noir.”_

“Nine of diamonds. Red, then, is the actual color turned up on the black
line. Do you bet for it, or against it?”

“I bet for it,” cried Zoe. “It's my favorite color.”

“And what do you say on the main event?”

“Oh, red on that too.”

“Very good. I go on dealing for _noir._ Queen of diamonds, three of
spades, knave of hearts--nine of spades: thirty-two. That looks ugly for
your two events, black coming so near as thirty-two. Now for red. Four of
hearts, knave of spades, seven of diamonds, queen of clubs--thirty-one,
by Jove! _Rouge gagne, et couleur._ There is nothing like courage. You
have won both events.”

“Oh, what a nice game!” cried Zoe.

He then continued to deal, and they all bet on the main event and the
color, staking fabulous sums, till at last both numbers came up
thirty-one.

Thereupon Severne informed them that half the stakes belonged to him.
That was the trifling advantage accorded to the bank.

“Which trifling advantage,” said Vizard, “has enriched the man-eating
company, and their prince, and built the Kursaal, and will clean you all
out, if you play long enough.”

“That,” said Severne, “I deny. It is more than balanced by the right the
players have of doubling, till they gain, and by the maturity of the
chances: I will explain this to the ladies. You see experience proves
that neither red nor black can come up more than nine times running.
When, therefore, either color has come up four times, you can put a
moderate stake on the other color, and double on it till it _must_ come,
by the laws of nature. Say red has turned four times. You put a napoleon
on black; red gains. You lose a napoleon. You don't remove it, but double
on it. The chances are now five to one you gain: but if you lose, you
double on the same, and, when you have got to sixteen napoleons, the
color must change; uniformity has reached its physical limit. That is
called the maturity of the chances. Begin as unluckily as possible with
five francs, and lose. If you have to double eight times before you win,
it only comes to twelve hundred and eighty francs. Given, therefore, a
man to whom fifty napoleons are no more than five francs to us, he can
never lose if he doubles, like a Trojan, till the chances are mature.
This is called 'the Martingale:' but, observe, it only secures against
loss. Heavy gains are made by doubling judiciously on the _winning_
color, or by simply betting on short runs of it. When red comes up, back
red, and double twice on it. Thus you profit by the remarkable and
observed fact that colors do not, as a rule, alternate, but reach
ultimate equality by avoiding alternation, and making short runs, with
occasional long runs; the latter are rare, and must be watched with a
view to the balancing run of the other color. This is my system.”

“And you really think you have invented it?” asked Vizard.

“I am not so conceited. My system was communicated to me, in the Kursaal
itself--by an old gentleman.”

_“An_ old gentleman, or _the_--?”

“Oh, Harrington,” cried Zoe, “fie!”

“My wit is appreciated at its value. Proceed, Ned.”

Severne told him, a little defiantly, it was an old gentleman, with a
noble head, a silvery beard, and the most benevolent countenance he ever
saw.

“Curious place for his reverence to be in,” hazarded Vizard.

“He saw me betting, first on the black, then on the red, till I was
cleaned out, and then he beckoned me.”

“Not a man of premature advice anyway.”

“He told me he had observed my play. I had been relying on the
alternations of the colors, which alternation chance persistently avoids,
and arrives at equality by runs. He then gave me a better system.”

“And, having expounded his system, he illustrated it? Tell the truth now;
he sat down and lost the coat off his back? It followed his family
acres.”

“You are quite wrong again. He never plays. He has heart-disease, and his
physician has forbidden him all excitement.”

“His nation?”

“Humph! French.”

“Ah! the nation that produced _'Le philosophe sans le savoir.'_ And now
it has added, _'Le philosophe sans le vouloir,'_ and you have stumbled on
him. What a life for an aged man! _Fortunatus ille senex qui ludicola
vivit._ Tantalus handcuffed and glowering over a gambling-table; a hell
in a hell.”

“Oh, Harrington!--”

“Exclamations not allowed in sober argument, Zoe.”

“Come, Ned, it is not heart-disease, it is purse disease. Just do me a
favor. Here are five sovereigns; give those to the old beggar, and let
him risk them.”

“I could hardly take such a liberty with an old gentleman of his age and
appearance--a man of honor too, and high sentiments. Why, I'd bet seven
to four he is one of Napoleon's old soldiers.”

The ladies sided unanimously with Severne. “What! offer a _vieux de
l'Empire_ five pounds? Oh, fie!”

“Fiddle-dee-dee!” said the indomitable Vizard. “Besides, he will do it
with his usual grace. He will approach the son of Mars with that feigned
humility which sits so well on youth, and ask him, as a personal favor,
to invest five pounds for him at _rouge-et-noir._ The old soldier will
stiffen into double dignity at first, then give him a low wink, and end
by sitting down and gambling. He will be cautious at starting, as one who
opens trenches for the siege of Mammon; but soon the veteran will get
heated, and give battle; he will fancy himself at Jena, since the
croupiers are Prussians. If he loses, you cut him dead, being a humdrum
Englishman; and if he wins, he cuts you, and pockets the cash, being a
Frenchman that talks sentiment.”

This sally provoked a laugh, in which Severne joined, and said, “Really,
for a landed proprietor, you know a thing or two.” He consented at last,
with some reluctance, to take the money; and none of the persons present
doubted that he would execute the commission with a grace and delicacy
all his own. Nevertheless, to run forward a little with the narrative, I
must tell you that he never did hand that five pound to the venerable
sire; a little thing prevented him--the old man wasn't born yet.

“And now,” said Vizard, “it is our last day in Homburg. You are all going
to gratify your mania--lunacy is contagious. Suppose I gratify mine.”

“Do dear,” said Zoe; “and what is it?”

“I like your asking that; when it was publicly announced last night, and
I fled discomfited to my balcony, and, in my confusion, lighted a cigar.
My mania is--the Klosking.”

“That is not a mania; it is good taste. She is admirable.”

 “Yes, in an opera; but I want to know how she looks and talks in a room;
and that is insane of me.”

“Then so you _shall,_ insane or not. I will call on her this morning, and
take you in my hand.”

“What an ample palm! and what juvenile audacity! Zoe, you take my breath
away.”

“No audacity at all. I am sure of my welcome. How often must I tell you
that we have mesmerized each other, that lady and I, and only waiting an
opportunity to rush into each other's arms. It began with her singling me
out at the opera. But I dare say that was owing, _at first,_ only to my
being in full dress.

“No, no; to your being, like Agamemnon, a head taller than all the other
Greeks.”

“Harrington! I am not a Greek. I am a thorough English girl at heart,
though I am as black as a coal.”

“No apology needed in our present frame. You are all the more like the
ace of spades.”

“Do you want me to take you to the Klosking, sir? Then you had better not
make fun of me. I tell you she sung to _me,_ and smiled on _me,_ and
courtesied to _me;_ and, now you have put it into my head, I mean to call
upon her, and I will take you with me. What I shall do, I shall send in
my card. I shall be admitted, and you will wait outside. As soon as she
sees me, she will run to me with both hands out, and say, in excellent
_French,_ I hope, _'How,_ mademoiselle! you have deigned to remember me,
and to honor me with a visit.' Then I shall say, in school-French, 'Yes,
madame; excuse the intrusion, but I was so charmed with your performance.
We leave Homburg to-morrow, and as, unfortunately for myself, I cannot
have the pleasure of seeing you again upon the stage--' then I shall
stop, for her to interrupt me. Then she will interrupt me, and say
charming things, as only foreigners can; and then I shall say, still in
school-French, 'Madame, I am not alone. I have my brother with me. He
adores music, and was as fascinated with your Siebel as myself. May I
present him?' Then she will say, 'Oh, yes, by all means;' and I shall
introduce you. Then you can make love to her. That will be droll. Fanny,
I'll tell you every word he says.”

“Make love to her!” cried Vizard. “Is this your estimate of a brother's
motives. My object in visiting this lady is, not to feed my mania, but to
cure it. I have seen her on the stage, looking like the incarnation of a
poet's dream. I am _extasie'_ with her. Now let me catch her _en
de'shabille,_ with her porter on one side, and her lover on the other:
and so to Devonshire, relieved of a fatal illusion.”

“If that is your view, I'll go by myself; for I know she is a noble
woman, and as much a lady off the stage as on it. My only fear is she
will talk that dreadful guttural German, with its 'oches' and its
'aches,' and then where shall we all be? We must ask Mr. Severne to go
with us.”

“A good idea. No--a vile one. He is abominably handsome, and has the gift
of the gab--in German, and other languages. He is sure to cut me out, the
villain! Look him up, somebody, till we come back.”

“Now, Harrington, don't be absurd. He must, and shall, be of the party. I
have my reasons. Mr. Severne,” said she, turning on him with a blush and
a divine smile, “you will oblige me, I am sure.”

Severne's face turned as blank as a doll's, and he said nothing, one way
or other.


It was settled that they should all meet at the Kursaal at four, to dine
and play. But Zoe and her party would go on ahead by the one-o'clock
train; and so she retired to put on her bonnet--a technical expression,
which implies a good deal.

Fanny went with her, and, as events more exciting than the usual routine
of their young lives were ahead, their tongues went a rare pace. But the
only thing worth presenting to the reader came at the end, after the said
business of the toilet had been dispatched.

Zoe said, “I must go now, or I shall keep them waiting.”

“Only one, dear,” said Fanny dryly.

“Why only one?”

“Mr. Severne will not go.”

“That he will: I made a point of it.”

“You did, dear? but still he will not go.”

There was something in this, and in Fanny's tone, that startled Zoe, and
puzzled her sorely. She turned round upon her with flashing eye, and
said, “No mysteries, please, dear. Why won't he go with me wherever I ask
him to go? or, rather, what makes you think he won't?”

Said Fanny, thoughtfully: “I could not tell you, all in a moment, why I
feel so positive. One puts little things together that are nothing apart:
one observes faces; I do, at least. You don't seem, to me, to be so quick
at that as most girls. But, Zoe dear, you know very well one often knows
a thing for certain, yet one doesn't know exactly what makes one know
it.”

Now Zoe's _amour propre_ was wounded by Fanny's suggestion that Severne
would not go to Homburg, or, indeed, to the world's end with her; so she
drew herself up in her grand way, and folded her arms and said, a little
haughtily, “Then tell me what is it you know about _him_ and me, without
knowing how on earth you know it.”

The supercilious tone and grand manner nettled Fanny, and it wasn't
“brooch day;” she stood up to her lofty cousin like a little game-cock.
“I know this,” said she, with heightened cheek, and flashing eyes and a
voice of steel, “you will never get Mr. Edward Severne into one room with
Zoe Vizard and Ina Klosking.”


Zoe Vizard turned very pale, but her eyes flashed defiance on her friend.

“That I'll know!” said she, in a deep voice, with a little gasp, but a
world of pride and resolution.



CHAPTER VII.

THE ladies went down together, and found Vizard ready. Mr. Severne was
not in the room. Zoe inquired after him.

“Gone to get a sun-shade,” said Vizard.

“There!” said Zoe to Fanny, in a triumphant whisper. “What is that for
but to go with us?”

Fanny made no reply.

They waited some time for Severne and his sun-shade.

At last Vizard looked at his watch, and said they had only five minutes
to spare. “Come down, and look after him. He _must_ be somewhere about.”

They went down and looked for him all over the Platz. He was not to be
seen. At last Vizard took out his watch, and said, “It is some
misunderstanding: we can't wait any longer.”

So he and Zoe went to the train. Neither said much on the way to Homburg;
for they were both brooding. Vizard's good sense and right feeling were
beginning to sting him a little for calling on the Klosking at all, and a
great deal for using the enthusiasm of an inexperienced girl to obtain an
introduction to a public singer. He sat moody in his corner, taking
himself to task. Zoe's thoughts ran in quite another channel; but she was
no easier in her mind. It really seemed as if Severne had given her the
slip. Probably he would explain his conduct; but, then, that Fanny should
foretell he would avoid her company, rather than call on Mademoiselle
Klosking, and that Fanny should be right--this made the thing serious,
and galled Zoe to the quick: she was angry with Fanny for prophesying
truly; she was rather angry with Severne for not coming, and more angry
with him for making good Fanny's prediction.

Zoe Vizard was a good girl and a generous girl, but she was not a humble
girl: she had a great deal of pride, and her share of vanity, and here
both were galled. Besides that, it seemed to her most strange and
disheartening that Fanny, who did not love Severne, should be able to
foretell his conduct better than she, who did love him: such foresight
looked like greater insight. All this humiliated and also puzzled her
strangely; and so she sat brooding as deeply as her brother.

As for Vizard, by the time they got to Homburg he had made up his mind.
As they got out of the train, he said, “Look here, I am ashamed of
myself. I have a right to play the fool alone; but I have no business to
drag my sister into it. We will go somewhere else. There are lots of
things to see. I give up the Klosking.”

Zoe stared at him a moment, and then answered, with cold decision, “No,
dear; you must allow me to call on her, now I am here. She won't bite
_me.”_

“Well, but it is a strange thing to do.”

“What does that matter? We are abroad.”

“Come, Zoe, I am much obliged to you; but give it up.”

“No, dear.”

Harrington smiled at her pretty peremptoriness, and misunderstood it.
“This is carrying sisterly love a long way,” said he. “I must try and
rise to your level. I won't go with you.”

“Then I shall go alone.”

“What if I forbid you, miss?”

She tapped him on the cheek with her fingers. “Don't affect the tyrant,
dear; you can't manage it. Fanny said something that has mortified me. I
shall go. You can do as you like. But, stop; where does she live?”

“Suppose I decline to tell you? I am seized with a virtuous fit--a
regular paroxysm.”

“Then I shall go to the opera and inquire, dear. But” (coaxingly) “you
will tell me, dear.”

“There,” said Harrington, “you wicked, tempting girl, my sham virtue has
oozed away, and my real mania triumphs. She lives at 'The Golden Star.' I
was weak enough to send Harris in last night to learn.” Zoe smiled.

He hailed a conveyance; and they started at once for “The Golden Star.”

“Zoe,” said Harrington gravely, “something tells me I am going to meet my
fate.”

“All the better,” said Zoe. “I wish you to meet your fate. My love for my
brother is not selfish. I am sure she is a good woman. Perhaps I may find
out something.”

“About what?”

“Oh, never mind.”



CHAPTER VIII.

ALL this time Ina Klosking was rehearsing at the theater, quite
unconscious of the impending visit. A royal personage had commanded “Il
Barbiere,” the part of Rosina to be restored to the original key. It was
written for a contralto, but transposed by the influence of Grisi.

Having no performance that night, they began to rehearse rather later
than usual, and did not leave off till a quarter to four o'clock. Ina,
who suffered a good deal at rehearsals from the inaccuracy and apathy of
the people, went home fagged, and with her throat parched--so does a bad
rehearsal affect all good and earnest artists.

She ordered a cutlet, with potato chips, and lay down on the sofa. While
she was reposing, came Joseph Ashmead, to cheer her, with good
photographs of her, taken the day before. She smiled gratefully at his
zeal. He also reminded her that he had orders to take her to the Kursaal:
he said the tables would be well filled from five o'clock till quite
late, there being no other entertainment on foot that evening.

Ina thanked him, and said she would not miss going on any account; but
she was rather fatigued and faint.

“Oh, I'll wait for you as long as you like,” said Ashmead, kindly.

“No, my good comrade,” said Ina. “I will ask you to go to the manager and
get me a little money, and then to the Kursaal and secure me a place at
the table in the largest room. There I will join you. If _he_ is not
there--and I am not so mad as to think he will be there--I shall risk a
few pieces myself, to be nearer him in mind.”

This amazed Ashmead; it was so unlike her. “You are joking,” said he.
“Why, if you lose five napoleons at play, it will be your death; you will
grizzle so.”

“Yes; but I shall not lose. I am too unlucky in love to lose at cards. I
mean to play this afternoon; and never again in all my life. Sir, I am
resolved.”

“Oh, if you are resolved, there is no more to be said. I won't run my
head against a brick wall.”

Ina, being half a foreigner, thought this rather brusk. She looked at him
askant, and said, quietly, “Others, besides me, can be stubborn, and get
their own way, while speaking the language of submission. Not I invented
volition.”

With this flea in his ear, the faithful Joseph went off, chuckling, and
obtained an advance from the manager, and then proceeded to the principal
gaming-table, and, after waiting some time, secured a chair, which he
kept for his chief.

An hour went by; an hour and a half. He was obliged, for very shame, to
bet. This he did, five francs at a time; and his risk was so small, and
his luck so even, that by degrees he was drawn into conversation with his
neighbor, a young swell, who was watching the run of the colors, and
betting in silver, and pricking a card, preparatory to going in for a
great _coup._ Meantime he favored Mr. Ashmead with his theory of chances,
and Ashmead listened very politely to every word; because he was rather
proud of the other's notice: he was so handsome, well dressed, and well
spoken.

Meantime Ina Klosking snatched a few minutes' sleep, as most artists can
in the afternoon, and was awakened by the servant bringing in her frugal
repast, a cutlet and a pint of Bordeaux.

On her plate he brought her a large card, on which was printed “Miss Zoe
Vizard.” This led to inquiries, and he told her a lady of superlative
beauty had called and left that card. Ina asked for a description.

“Ah, madame,” said Karl, “do not expect details from me. I was too
dazzled, and struck by lightning, to make an inventory of her charms.”

“At least you can tell me was she dark or fair.”

“Madame, she was dark as night; but glorious as the sun. Her earthly
abode is the Russie, at Frankfort; blest hotel!”

“Did she tell you so?”

“Indirectly. She wrote on the card with the smallest pencil I have
hitherto witnessed: the letters are faint, the pencil being inferior to
the case, which was golden. Nevertheless, as one is naturally curious to
learn whence a bright vision has emerged, I permitted myself to
decipher.”

“Your curiosity was natural,” said Ina, dryly. “I will detain you with no
more questions.”

She put the card carefully away, and eat her modest repast. Then she made
her afternoon toilet, and walked, slowly and pensively, to the Kursaal.

Nothing there was new to her, except to be going to the table without the
man on whom it was her misfortune to have wasted her heart of gold.

I think, therefore, it would be better for me to enter the place in
company with our novices; and, indeed, we must, or we shall derange the
true order of time and sequence of incidents; for, please observe, all
the English ladies of our story met at the Kursaal while Ina was reposing
on her sofa.

The first-comers were Zoe and Harrington. They entered the noble hall,
inscribed their names, and, by that simple ceremony, were members of a
club, compared with which the greatest clubs in London are petty things:
a club with spacious dining-rooms, ball-rooms, concert-rooms,
gambling-rooms, theater, and delicious gardens. The building, that
combined so many rich treats, was colossal in size, and glorious with
rich colors and gold laid on with Oriental profusion, and sometimes with
Oriental taste.

Harrington took his sister through the drawing-rooms first; and she
admired the unusual loftiness of the rooms, the blaze of white and gold,
and of _ce'ladon_ and gold, and the great Russian lusters, and the mighty
mirrors. But when they got to the dining-room she was enchanted. That
lofty and magnificent _salon,_ with its daring mixture of red and black,
and green and blue, all melted into harmony by the rivers of gold that
ran boldly among them, went to her very heart. A Greek is half an
Oriental; and Zoe had what may be called the courage of color.
“Glorious!” she cried, and clasped her hands. “And see! what a background
to the emerald grass outside and the ruby flowers. They seem to come into
the room through those monster windows.”

“Splendid!” said Harrington, to whom all this was literally Greek. “I'm
so excited, I'll order dinner.”

“Dinner!” said Zoe, disdainfully; and sat down and eyed the Moresque
walls around her, and the beauties of nature outside, and brought them
together in one picture.

Harrington was a long time in conclave with M. Chevet. Then Zoe became
impatient.

“Oh, do leave off ordering dinner,” said she, “and take me out to that
other paradise.”

The Chevet shrugged his shoulders with pity. Vizard shrugged his too, to
soothe him; and, after a few more hurried words, took the lover of color
into the garden. It was delicious, with green slopes, and rich foliage,
and flowers, and enlivened by bright silk dresses, sparkling fitfully
among the green leaves, or flaming out boldly in the sun; and, as luck
would have it, before Zoe had taken ten steps upon the greensward, the
band of fifty musicians struck up, and played as fifty men rarely play
together out of Germany.

Zoe was enchanted. She walked on air, and beamed as bright as any flower
in the place.

After her first ejaculation at the sudden music, she did not speak for a
good while; her content was so great. At last she said, “And do they
leave this paradise to gamble in a room?”

“Leave it? They shun it. The gamblers despise the flowers.”

“How perverse people are! Excitement! Who wants any more than this?”

“Zoe,” said Vizard, “innocent excitement can never compete with vicious.”

“What, is it really wicked to play?”

“I don't know about wicked; you girls always run to the biggest word.
But, if avarice is a vice, gambling cannot be virtuous; for the root of
gambling is mere avarice, weak avarice. Come, my young friend, _as we're
quite alone,_ I'll drop Thersites, and talk sense to you, for once.
Child, there are two roads to wealth; one is by the way of industry,
skill, vigilance, and self-denial; and these are virtues, though
sometimes they go with tricks of trade, hardness of heart, and taking
advantage of misfortune, to buy cheap and sell dear. The other road to
wealth is by bold speculation, with risk of proportionate loss; in short,
by gambling with cards, or without them. Now, look into the mind of the
gambler--he wants to make money, contrary to nature, and unjustly. He
wants to be rewarded without merit, to make a fortune in a moment, and
without industry, vigilance, true skill, or self-denial. 'A penny saved
is a penny gained' does not enter his creed. Strip the thing of its
disguise, it is avarice, sordid avarice; and I call it weak avarice,
because the gambler relies on chance alone, yet accepts uneven chances,
and hopes that Fortune will be as much in love with him as he is with
himself. What silly egotism! You admire the Kursaal, and you are right;
then do just ask yourself why is there nothing to pay for so many
expensive enjoyments: and very little to pay for concerts and balls; low
prices at the opera, which never pays its own expenses; even Chevet's
dinners are reasonable, if you avoid his sham Johannisberg. All these
cheap delights, the gold, the colors, the garden, the music, the lights,
are paid for by the losses of feeble-minded Avarice. But, there--I said
all this to Ned Severne, and I might as well have preached sense to the
wind.”

“Harrington, I will not play. I am much happier walking with my good
brother--”

“Faute de mieux.”

Zoe blushed, but would not hear--“And it is so good of you to make a
friend of me, and talk sense. Oh! see--a lady with two blues! Come and
look at her.”

Before they had taken five steps, Zoe stopped short and said, “It is
Fanny Dover, I declare. She has not seen us yet. She is short-sighted.
Come here.” And the impetuous maid dragged him off behind a tuft of
foliage.

When she had got him there she said hotly that it was too bad.

“Oh, is it?” said he, very calmly. “What?”

“Why, don't you see what she has done? You, so sensible, to be so slow
about women's ways; and you are always pretending to know them. Why, she
has gone and bought that costume with the money you gave her to play
with.”

“Sensible girl!”

“Dishonest girl, _I_ call her.”

“There you go to your big words. No, no. A little money was given her for
a bad purpose. She has used it for a frivolous one. That is 'a step in
the right direction'--jargon of the day.”

“But to receive money for one purpose, and apply it to another, is--what
do you call it--_chose?--de'tournement des fonds_--what is the English
word? I've been abroad till I've forgotten English. Oh, I
know--embezzlement.”

“Well, that is a big word for a small transaction; you have not dug in
the mine of the vernacular for nothing.”

“Harrington, if you don't mind, I do; so please come. I'll talk to her.”

“Stop a moment,” said Vizard, very gravely. “You will not say one word to
her.”

“And why not, pray?”

“Because it would be unworthy of us, and cruel to her; barbarously cruel.
What! call her to account before that old woman and me?”

“Why not? She is flaunting her blues before you two, and plenty more.”

“Feminine logic, Zoe. The point is this--she is poor. You must know that.
This comes of poverty and love of dress; not of dishonesty and love of
dress; and just ask yourself, is there a creature that ought to be pitied
more and handled more delicately than a _poor lady?_ Why, you would make
her writhe with shame and distress! Well, I do think there is not a
single wild animal so cruel to another wild animal as a woman is to a
woman. You are cruel to one another by instinct. But I appeal to your
reason--if you have any.”

Zoe's eyes filled. “You are right,” said she, humbly. “Thank you for
thinking for me. I will not say a word to her before _you.”_

“That is a good girl. But, come now, why say a word at all?”

“Oh, it is no use your demanding impossibilities, dear. I co

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