THAT same morning our English party snatched a hasty breakfast in
traveling attire. Severne was not there; but sent word to Vizard he
should be there in time.
This filled the cup. Zoe's wounded pride had been rising higher and
higher all the night, and she came down rather pale, from broken rest,
and sternly resolved. She had a few serious words with Fanny, and
sketched her out a little map of conduct, which showed that she had
thought the matter well over.
But her plan bid fair to be deranged: Severne was not at the station:
then came a change. Zoe was restless, and cast anxious glances.
But at the second bell he darted into the carriage, as if he had just
dispatched some wonderful business to get there in time. While the train
was starting, he busied himself in arranging his things; but, once
started, he put on his sunny look and prepared to be, as usual, the life
and soul of the party.
But, for once, he met a frost. Zoe was wrapped in impenetrable _hauteur,_
and Fanny in polite indifference. Never was loss of favor more ably
marked without the least ill-breeding, and no good handle given to seek
an explanation.
No doubt a straightforward man, with justice on his side, would have
asked them plumply whether he had been so unfortunate as to offend, and
how; and this was what Zoe secretly wished, however she might seem to
repel it. But Severne was too crafty for that. He had learned the art of
waiting.
After a few efforts at conversation and smooth rebuffs, he put on a
surprised, mortified, and sorrowful air, and awaited the attack, which he
felt would come soon or late.
This skillful inertia baffled the fair, in a man; in a woman, they might
have expected it; and, after a few hours, Zoe's patience began to wear
out.
The train stopped for twenty minutes, and, even while they were snatching
a little refreshment, the dark locks and the blonde came very close
together; and Zoe, exasperated by her own wounded pride and the sullen
torpor of her lover, gave Fanny fresh instructions, which nobody was
better qualified to carry out than that young lady, as nobody was better
able to baffle female strategy than the gentleman.
This time, however, the ladies had certain advantages, to balance his
subtlety and his habit of stating anything, true or false, that suited
his immediate purpose.
They opened very cat-like. Fanny affected to be outgrowing her ill-humor,
and volunteered a civil word or two to Severne. Thereupon Zoe turned
sharply away from Fanny, as if she disapproved her conduct, and took a
book. This was pretty sly, and done, I suppose, to remove all idea of
concert between the fair assailants; whereas it was a secret signal for
the concert to come into operation, it being Fanny's part to play upon
Severne, and Zoe's to watch, from her corner, every lineament of his face
under fire.
“By-the-way, Mr. Severne,” said Fanny, apropos of a church on a hill they
were admiring, “did you get your winnings?”
“My winnings! You are sarcastical.”
“Am I? Really I did not intend to be.”
“No, no; forgive me; but that did seem a little cruel. Miss Dover, I was
a heavy loser.”
“Not while we were there. The lady and gentleman who played with your
money won, oh, such a deal!”
“The devil they did!”
“Yes. Did you not stay behind, last night, to get it? We never saw you at
the Russie.”
“I was very ill.”
“Bleeding at the nose?”
“No. That always relieves me when it comes. I am subject to fainting
fits: once I lay insensible so long they were going to bury me. Now, do
pray tell me what makes you fancy anybody won a lot with my money.”
“Well, I will. You know you left fifty pounds for a friend to bet with.”
Severne stared; but was too eager for information to question her how she
knew this. “Yes, I did,” said he.
“And you really don't know what followed?”
“Good heavens! how can I?”
“Well, then, as you ran out--to faint, Mademoiselle Klosking came in,
just as she did at the opera, you know, the time before, when you ran
out--to bleed. She slipped into your chair, the very moment you left it;
and your friend with the flaming neck-tie told her you had set him to bet
with your money. By-the-by, Mr. Severne, how on earth do you and
Mademoiselle Klosking, who have both so much taste in dress, come to have
a mutual friend, vulgarity in person, with a velveteen coat and an
impossible neck-tie?”
“What are you talking about, Miss Dover? I do just know Mademoiselle
Klosking; I met her in society in Vienna, two years ago: but that cad I
commissioned to bet for me I never saw before in my life. You are keeping
me on tenter-hooks. My money--my money--my money! If you have a heart in
your bosom, tell me what became of my money.”
He was violent, for the first time since they had known him, and his eyes
flashed fire.
“Well,” said Fanny, beginning to be puzzled and rather frightened, “this
man, who you _say_ was a new acquaintance--”
“Whom I _say?_ Do you mean to tell me I am a liar?” He fumbled eagerly in
his breast-pocket, and produced a card. “There,” said he, “this is the
card he gave me, 'Mr. Joseph Ashmead.' Now, may this train dash over the
next viaduct, and take you and Miss Vizard to heaven, and me to hell, if
I ever saw Mr. Joseph Ashmead's face before. THE MONEY!--THE MONEY!”
He uttered this furiously, and, it is a curious fact; but Zoe turned red,
and Fanny pale. It was really in quite a cowed voice Miss Dover went on
to say, “La! don't fly out like that. Well, then, the man refused to bet
with your money; so then Mademoiselle Klosking said she would; and she
played--oh, how she did play! She doubled, and doubled, and doubled,
hundreds upon hundreds. She made a mountain of gold and a pyramid of
bank-notes; and she never stopped till she broke the bank--there!”
“With my money?” gasped Severne.
“Yes; with your money. Your friend with the loud tie pocketed it; I beg
your pardon, not your friend--only hers. Harrington says he is her _cher
ami.”_
“The money is mine!” he shrieked. “I don't care who played with it, it is
mine. And the fellow had the impudence to send me back my fifty pounds to
the Russie.”
“What! you gave him your address?” this with an involuntary glance of
surprise at Zoe.
“Of course. Do you think I leave a man fifty pounds to play with, and
don't give him my address? He has won thousands with my money, and sent
me back my fifty, for a blind, the thief!”
“Well, really it is too bad,” said Fanny. “But, there--I'm afraid you
must make the best of it. Of course, their sending back your fifty pounds
shows they mean to keep their winnings.”
“You talk like a woman,” said he; then, grinding his teeth, and
stretching out a long muscular arm, he said, “I'll take the blackguard by
the throat and tear it out of him, though I tear his life out along with
it.”
All this time Zoe had been looking at him with concern, and even with
admiration. He seemed more beautiful than ever, to her, under the
influence of passion, and more of a man.
“Mr. Severne,” said she, “be calm. Fanny has misled you, without
intending it. She did not hear all that passed between those two; I did.
The velveteen and neck-tie man refused to bet with your money. It was
Mademoiselle Klosking who bet, and with her own money. She took
twenty-five pounds of her own, and twenty-five pounds of yours, and won
two or three hundred in a few moments. Surely, as a gentleman, you cannot
ask a lady to do more than repay you your twenty-five pounds.”
Severne was a little cowed by Zoe' s interference. He stood his ground;
but sullenly, instead of violently.
“Miss Vizard, if I were weak enough to trust a lady with my money at a
gambling table, I should expect foul play; for I never knew a lady yet
who would not cheat _at cards,_ if she could. I trusted my money to a
tradesman to bet with. If he takes a female partner, that is no business
of mine; he is responsible all the same, and I'll have my money.”
He jumped up at the word, and looked out at the window; he even fumbled
with the door, and tried to open it.
“You had better jump out,” said Fanny.
“And then they would keep my money for good. No;” said he, “I'll wait for
the nearest station.” He sunk back into his seat, looking unutterable
things.
Fanny looked rather rueful at first; then she said, spitefully, “You must
be very sure of your influence with your old sweetheart. You forget she
has got another now--a tradesman, too. He will stick to the money, and
make her stick to it. Their sending the fifty pounds shows that.”
Zoe's eyes were on him with microscopic power, and, with all his
self-command, she saw him wince and change color, and give other signs
that this shaft had told in many ways.
He shut his countenance the next moment; but it had opened, and Zoe was
on fire with jealousy and suspicion.
Fluctuating Fanny regretted the turn things had taken. She did not want
to lose a pleasant male companion, and she felt sure Zoe would be
unhappy, and cross to her, if he went. “Surely, Mr. Severne,” she said,
“you will not desert us and go back for so small a chance. Why, we are a
hundred and fifty miles from Homburg, and all the nearer to dear old
England. There, there--we must be kinder to you, and make you forget this
misfortune.”
Thus spoke the trimmer. The reply took her by surprise.
“And whose fault is it that I am obliged to get out a hundred and fifty
miles from Homburg? You knew all this. You could have got me a delay of a
few hours to go and get my due. You know I am a poor man. With all your
cleverness, you don't know what made me poor, or you would feel some
remorse, perhaps; but you know I am poor when most I could wish I were
rich. You have heard that old woman there fling my poverty in my teeth;
yet you could keep this from me--just to assist a cheat and play upon the
feelings of a friend. Now, what good has that done you, to inflict misery
on me in sport, on a man who never gave you a moment's pain if he could
help it?”
Fanny looked ruefully this way and that, her face began to work, and she
laid down her arms, if a lady can be said to do that who lays down a
strong weapon and takes up a stronger; in other words, she burst out
crying, and said no more. You see, she was poor herself.
Severne took no notice of her; he was accustomed to make women cry. He
thrust his head out of the window in hopes of seeing a station near, and
his whole being was restless as if he would like to jump out.
While he was in this condition of mind and body, the hand he had once
kissed so tenderly, and shocked Miss Maitland, passed an envelope over
his shoulder, with two lines written on it in pencil:
“If you GO BACK TO HOMBURG, oblige ME BY REMAINING there.”
This demands an explanation; but it shall be brief.
Fanny's shrewd hint, that the money could only be obtained from Mdlle.
Klosking, had pierced Zoe through and through. Her mind grasped all that
had happened, all that impended, and, wisely declining to try and account
for, or reconcile, all the jarring details, she settled, with a woman's
broad instinct, that, somehow or other, his going back to Homburg meant
going back to Mademoiselle Klosking. Whether that lady would buy him or
not, she did not know. But going back to her meant going a journey to see
a rival, with consequences illimitable.
She had courage; she had pride; she had jealousy. She resolved to lose
her lover, or have him all to herself. Share him she would not, nor even
endure the torture of the doubt.
She took an envelope out of her satchel, and with the pencil attached to
her chatelaine wrote the fatal words, “If you go back to Homburg, oblige
me by remaining there.”
At this moment she was not goaded by pique or any petty feeling. Indeed,
his reproach to Fanny had touched her a little, and it was with the tear
in her eye she came to the resolution, and handed him that line, which
told him she knew her value, and, cost what it might, would part with any
man forever rather than share him with the Klosking or any other woman.
Severne took the line, eyed it, realized it, fell back from the window,
and dropped into his seat. This gave Zoe a consoling sense of power. She
had seen her lover raging and restless, and wanting to jump out, yet now
beheld him literally felled with a word from her hand.
He leaned his head in his hand in a sort of broken-down, collapsed,
dogged way that moved her pity, though hardly her respect.
By-and-by it struck her as a very grave thing that he did not reply by
word, nor even by look. He could decide with a glance, and why did he
hesitate? Was he really balancing her against Mademoiselle Klosking
weighted with a share of his winnings?
This doubt was wormwood to her pride and self-respect; but his crushed
attitude allayed in some degree the mere irritation his doubt caused.
The minutes passed and the miles: still that broken figure sat before
her, with his face hidden by his white hand.
Zoe's courage began to falter. Misgivings seized her. She had made that a
matter of love which, after all, to a man, might be a mere matter of
business. He was poor, too, and she had thrust her jealousy between him
and money. He might have his pride too, and rebel against her affront.
As for his thoughts, under that crushed exterior, which he put on for a
blind, they were so deliberate and calculating that I shall not mix them
on this page with that pure and generous creature's. Another time will do
to reveal his sordid arithmetic. As for Zoe, she settled down into
wishing, with all her heart, she had not submitted her lover so
imperiously to a test, the severity of which she now saw she had
underrated.
Presently the speed of the train began to slacken--all too soon. She now
dreaded to learn her fate. Was she, or was she not, worth a few thousand
pounds ready money?
A signal-post was past, proving that they were about to enter a station.
Yet another. Now the wheels were hardly turning. Now the platform was
visible. Yet he never moved his white, delicate, womanish fingers from
his forehead, but remained still absorbed, and looked undecided.
At last the motion entirely ceased. Then, as she turned her head to
glean, if possible, the name of the place, he stole a furtive glance at
her. She was pallid, agitated. He resolved upon his course.
As soon as the train stopped, he opened the door and jumped out, without
a word to Zoe, or even a look.
Zoe turned pale as death. “I have lost him,” said she.
“No, no,” cried Fanny. “See, he has not taken his cane and umbrella.”
_“They_ will not keep him from flying to his money and her,” moaned Zoe.
“Did you not see? He never once looked at me. He could not. I am sick at
heart.”
This set Fanny fluttering. “There, let me out to speak to him.”
“Sit quiet,” said Zoe, sternly.
“No; no. If you love him--”
“I do love him--passionately. And _therefore_ I'll die rather than share
him with any one.”
“But it is dreadful to be fixed here, and not allowed to move hand or
foot.”
“It is the lot of women. Let me feel the hand of a friend, that is all;
for I am sick at heart.”
Fanny gave her her hand, and all the sympathy her shallow nature had to
bestow.
Zoe sat motionless, gripping her friend's hand almost convulsively, a
statue of female fortitude.
This suspense could not last long. The officials ordered the travelers to
the carriages; doors were opened and slammed; the engine gave a snort,
and only at that moment did Mr. Edward Severne tear the door open and
bolt into the carriage.
Oh, it was pitiable, but lovely, to see the blood rush into Zoe's face,
and the fire into her eye, and the sweet mouth expand in a smile of joy
and triumph!
She sat a moment, almost paralyzed with pleasure, and then cast her eyes
down, lest their fire should proclaim her feelings too plainly.
As for Severne, he only glanced at her as he came in, and then shunned
her eye. He presented to her the grave, resolved countenance of a man who
has been forced to a decision, but means to abide by it.
In reality he was delighted at the turn things had taken. The money was
not necessarily lost, since he knew where it was; and Zoe had compromised
herself beyond retreating. He intended to wear this anxious face a long
while. But his artificial snow had to melt, so real a sun shone full on
it. The moment he looked full at Zoe, she repaid him with such a
point-blank beam of glorious tenderness and gratitude as made him thrill
with passion as well as triumph. He felt her whole heart was his, and
from that hour his poverty would never be allowed to weigh with her. He
cleared up, and left off acting, because it was superfluous; he had now
only to bask in sunshine. Zoe, always tender, but coy till this moment,
made love to him like a young goddess. Even Fanny yielded to the solid
proof of sincerity he had given, and was downright affectionate.
He was king. And from one gradation to another, they entered Cologne with
Severne seated between the two girls, each with a hand in his, and a
great disposition to pet him and spoil him; more than once, indeed, a
delicate head just grazed each of his square shoulders; but candor
compels me to own that their fatigue and the yawing of the carriage at
the time were more to blame than the tired girls; for at the enormity
there was a prompt retirement to a distance. Miss Maitland had been a
long time in the land of Nod; and Vizard, from the first, had preferred
male companions and tobacco.
At Cologne they visited the pride of Germany, that mighty cathedral which
the Middle Ages projected, commenced, and left to decay of old age before
completion, and our enterprising age will finish; but they departed on
the same day.
Before they reached England, the love-making between Severne and Zoe,
though it never passed the bounds of good taste, was so apparent to any
female eye that Miss Maitland remonstrated severely with Fanny.
But the trimmer was now won to the other side. She would not offend Aunt
Maitland by owning her conversion. She said, hypocritically, “I am afraid
it is no use objecting at present, aunt. The attachment is too strong on
both sides. And, whether he is poor or not, he has sacrificed his money
to her feelings, and so, now, she feels bound in honor. I know her; she
won't listen to a word now, aunt: why irritate her? She would quarrel
with both of us in a moment.”
“Poor girl!” said Miss Maitland; and took the hint. She had still an
arrow in her quiver--Vizard.
In mid-channel, ten miles south of Dover, she caught him in a lucid
interval of non-smoke. She reminded, him he had promised her to give Mr.
Severne a hint about Zoe.
“So I did,” said he.
“And have you?”
“Well, no; to tell the truth, I forgot.”
“Then please do it now; for they are going on worse than ever.”
“I'll warn the fool,” said he.
He did warn him, and in the following terms:
“Look here, old fellow. I hear you are getting awfully sweet on my sister
Zoe.”
No answer. Severne on his guard.
“Now, you had better mind your eye. She is a very pretty girl, and you
may find yourself entangled before you know where you are.”
Severne hung his head. “Of course, I know it is great presumption in me.”
“Presumption? fiddlestick! Such a man as you are ought not to be tied to
any woman, or, if you must be, you ought not to go cheap. Mind, Zoe is a
poor girl; only ten thousand in the world. Flirt with whom you
like--there is no harm in that; but don't get seriously entangled with
any of them. Good sisters, and good daughters, and good flirts make bad
wives.”
“Oh, then,” said Severne, “it is only on my account you object.”
“Well, principally. And I don't exactly object. I warn. In the first
place, as soon as ever we get into Barfordshire, she will most likely
jilt you. You may be only her Continental lover. How can I tell, _or you
either?_ And if not, and you were to be weak enough to marry her, she
would develop unexpected vices directly--they all do. And you are not
rich enough to live in a house of your own; you would have to live in
mine--a fine fate for a rising blade like you.”
“What a terrible prospect--to be tied to the best friend in England as
well as the loveliest woman!”
“Oh, if that is the view you take,” said Vizard, beaming with delight,
“it is no use talking reason to _you.”_
When they reached London, Vizard gave Miss Maitland an outline of this
conversation; and, so far from seeing the humor of it, which,
nevertheless, was pretty strong and characteristic of the man and his one
foible, she took the huff, and would not even stay to dinner at the
hotel. She would go into her own county by the next train, bag and
baggage.
Mr. Severne was the only one who offered to accompany her to the Great
Western Railway. She declined. He insisted; went with her; got her
ticket, numbered and arranged her packages, and saw her safely off, with
an air of profound respect and admirably feigned regret.
That she was the dupe of his art, may be doubted: that he lost nothing by
it, is certain. Men are not ruined by civility. As soon as she was
seated, she said, “I beg, sir, you will waste no more time with me. Mr.
Severne, you have behaved to me like a gentleman, and that is very
unusual in a man of your age nowadays. I cannot alter my opinion about my
niece and you: but I _am_ sorry you are a poor gentleman--much too poor
to marry her, and I wish I could make you a rich one; but I cannot. There
is my hand.”
You should have seen the air of tender veneration with which the young
Machiavel bowed over her hand, and even imprinted a light touch on it
with his velvet lips.
Then he retired, disconsolate, and, once out of sight, whipped into a
gin-palace and swallowed a quartern of neat brandy, to take the taste out
of his mouth. “Go it, Ned,” said he, to himself; “you can't afford to
make enemies.”
The old lady went off bitter against the whole party _except Mr.
Severne;_ and he retired to his friends, disembarrassed of the one foe he
had not turned into a downright friend, but only disarmed. Well does the
great Voltaire recommend what he well calls “le grand art de plaire.”
Vizard sent Harris into Barfordshire, to prepare for the comfort of the
party; and to light fires in all the bedrooms, though it was summer; and
to see the beds, blankets and sheets aired at the very fires of the very
rooms they were to be used in. This sacred office he never trusted to a
housekeeper; he used even to declare, as the result of experience, that
it was beyond the intellect of any woman really to air mattresses,
blankets, and sheets--all three. He had also a printed list he used to
show about, of five acquaintances, stout fellows all, whom “little bits
of women” (such was his phraseology) had laid low with damp beds, having
crippled two for life with rheumatism and lumbago, and sent three to
their long home.
Meantime Severne took the ladies to every public attraction by day and
night, and Vizard thanked him, before the fair, for his consideration in
taking them off his hands; and Severne retorted by thanking him for
leaving them on his.
It may seem, at first, a vile selection; but I am going to ask the ladies
who honor me with their attention to follow, not that gay, amorous party
of three, but this solitary cynic on his round.
Taking a turn round the garden in Leicester Square, which was new to him,
Harrington Vizard's observant eye saw a young lady rise up from a seat to
go, but turn pale directly, and sit down again upon the arm of the seat,
as if for support.
“Halloo!” said Vizard, in his blunt way, _“you_ are not well. What can I
do for you?”
“I am all right,” said she. “Please go on;” the latter words in a tone
that implied she was not a novice, and the attentions of gentlemen to
strange ladies were suspected.
“I beg your pardon,” said Vizard, coolly. “You are not all right. You
look as if you were going to faint.”
“What, are my lips blue?”
“No; but they are pale.”
“Well, then it is not a case of fainting. It _may_ be exhaustion.”
“You know best. What shall we do?”
“Why, nothing. Yes; mind our own business.”
“With all my heart; my business just now is to offer you some
restorative--a glass of wine.”
“Oh, yes! I think I see myself going into a public-house with you.
Besides, I don't believe in stimulants. Strength can only enter the human
body one way. I know what is the matter with me.”
“What is it?”
“I am not obliged to tell _you.”_
“Of course you are not obliged; but you might as well.”
“Well, then, it is Hunger.”
“Hunger!”
“Hunger--famine--starvation. Don't you know English?”
“I hope you are not serious, madam,” said Vizard, very gravely. “However,
if ladies will say such things as that, men with stomachs in their bosoms
must act accordingly. Oblige me by taking my arm, as you are weak, and we
will adjourn to that eating-house over the way.”
“Much obliged,” said the lady, satirically, “our acquaintance is not
_quite_ long enough for that.”
He looked at her; a tall, slim, young lady, black merino, by no means
new, clean cuffs and collar leaning against the chair for support, and
yet sacrificing herself to conventional propriety, and even withstanding
him with a pretty little air of defiance that was pitiable, her pallor
and the weakness of her body considered.
The poor Woman-hater's bowels began to yearn. “Look here, you little
spitfire,” said he, “if you don't instantly take my arm, I'll catch you
up and carry you over, with no more trouble than you would carry a
thread-paper.”
She looked him up and down very keenly, and at last with a slight
expression of feminine approval, the first she had vouchsafed him. Then
she folded her arms, and cocked her little nose at him, “You daren't.
I'll call the police.”
“If you do, I'll tell them you are my little cousin, mad as a March hare:
starving, and won't eat. Come, how is it to be?” He advanced upon her.
“You can't be in earnest, sir,” said she, with sudden dignity.
“Am I not, though? You don't know _me._ I am used to be obeyed. If you
don't go with me like a sensible girl, I'll carry you--to your
dinner--like a ruffian.”
“Then I'll go--like a lady,” said she, with sudden humility.
He offered her his arm. She passed hers within; but leaned as lightly as
possible on it, and her poor pale face was a little pink as they went.
He entered the eating-house, and asked for two portions of cold roast
beef, not to keep her waiting. They were brought.
“Sir,” said she, with a subjugated air, “will you be so good as cut up
the meat small, and pass it to me a bit or two at a time.”
He was surprised, but obeyed her orders.
“And if you could make me talk a little? Because, at sight of the meat so
near me, I feel like a tigress--poor human nature! Sir, I have not eaten
meat for a week, nor food of any kind this two days.”
“Good God!”
“So I must be prudent. People have gorged themselves with furious eating
under those circumstances; that is why I asked you to supply me slowly.
Thank you. You need not look at me like that. Better folk than I have
_died_ of hunger. Something tells me I have reached the lowest spoke,
when I have been indebted to a stranger for a meal.”
Vizard felt the water come into his eyes; but he resisted that pitiable
weakness. “Bother that nonsense!” said he. “I'll introduce myself, and
then you can't throw _stranger_ in my teeth. I am Harrington Vizard, a
Barfordshire squire.”
“I thought you were not a Cockney.”
“Lord forbid! Does that information entitle me to any in return?”
“I don't know; but, whether or no, my name is Rhoda Gale.”
“Have another plate, Miss Gale?”
“Thanks.”
He ordered another.
“I am proud of your confiding your name to me, Miss Gale; but, to tell
the truth, what I wanted to know is how a young lady of your talent and
education could be so badly off as you must be. It is not impertinent
curiosity.”
The young lady reflected a moment. “Sir,” said she, “I don't think it is;
and I would not much mind telling you. Of course I studied you before I
came here. Even hunger would not make me sit in a tavern beside a fool,
or a snob, or (with a faint blush) a libertine. But to tell one's own
story, that is so egotistical, for one thing.
“Oh, it is never egotistical to oblige.”
“Now, that is sophistical. Then, again, I am afraid I could not tell it
to you without crying, because you seem rather a manly man, and some of
it might revolt you, and you might sympathize right out, and then I
should break down.”
“No matter. Do us both good.”
“Yes, but before the waiters and people! See how they are staring at us
already.”
“We will have another go in at the beef, and then adjourn to the garden
for your narrative.”
“No: as much garden as you like, but no more beef. I have eaten one
sirloin, I reckon. Will you give me one cup of black tea without sugar or
milk?”
Vizard gave the order.
She seemed to think some explanation necessary, though he did not.
“One cup of tea agrees with my brain and nerves,” said she. “It steadies
them. That is a matter of individual experience. I should not prescribe
it to others any the more for that.”
Vizard sat wondering at the girl. He said to himself, “What is she? A
_lusus naturoe?”_
When the tea came, and she had sipped a little, she perked up
wonderfully. Said she, “Oh, the magic effect of food eaten judiciously!
Now I am a lioness, and do not fear the future. Yes; I will tell you my
story--and, if you think you are going to hear a love-story, you will be
nicely caught--ha-ha! No, _sir;”_ said she, with rising fervor and
heightened color, “you will hear a story the public is deeply interested
in and does not know it; ay, a story that will certainly be referred to
with wonder and shame, whenever civilization shall become a reality, and
law cease to be a tool of injustice and monopoly.” She paused a moment;
then said a little doggedly, as one used to encounter prejudice, “I am a
medical student; a would-be doctor.”
“Ah!”
“And so well qualified by genuine gifts, by study from my infancy, by
zeal, quick senses, and cultivated judgment, that, were all the leading
London physicians examined to-morrow by qualified persons at the same
board as myself, most of those wealthy practitioners--not all, mind
you--would cut an indifferent figure in modern science compared with me,
whom you have had to rescue from starvation--because I am a woman.”
Her eye flashed. But she moderated herself, and said, “That is the
outline; and it is a grievance. Now, grievances are bores. You can escape
this one before it is too late.”
“If it lies with me, I demand the minutest details,” said Vizard, warmly.
“You shall have them; and true to the letter.”
Vizard settled the small account, and adjourned, with his companion, to
the garden. She walked by his side, with her face sometimes thoughtfully
bent on the ground, and sometimes confronting him with ardor, and told
him a true story, the simplicity of which I shall try not to spoil with
any vulgar arts of fiction.
A LITTLE NARRATIVE OF DRY FACTS TOLD TO A WOMAN-HATER BY A WOMAN.