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.