THE next morning Vizard carried Lord Uxmoor away to a magistrates'
meeting, and left the road clear to Severne; but Zoe gave him no
opportunity until just before luncheon, and then she put on her bonnet
and came downstairs; but Fanny was with her.
Severne, who was seated patiently in his bedroom with the door ajar, came
out to join them, feeling sure Fanny would openly side with him, or slip
away and give him his opportunity.
But, as the young ladies stood on the broad flight of steps at the hall
door, an antique figure drew nigh--an old lady, the shape of an egg, so
short and stout was she. On her head she wore a black silk bonnet
constructed many years ago, with a droll design, viz., to keep off sun,
rain, and wind; it was like an iron coal scuttle, slightly shortened; yet
have I seen some very pretty faces very prettily framed in such a bonnet.
She had an old black silk gown that only reached to her ankle, and over
it a scarlet cloak of superfine cloth, fine as any colonel or queen's
outrider ever wore, and looking splendid, though she had used it forty
years, at odd times. This dame had escaped the village ill, rheumatics,
and could toddle along without a staff at a great, and indeed a fearful,
pace; for, owing to her build, she yawed so from side to side at every
step that, to them who knew her not, a capsize appeared inevitable.
“Mrs. Judge, I declare,” cried Zoe.
“Ay, Miss Hannah Judge it is. Your sarvant, ma'am;” and she dropped two
courtesies, one for each lady.
Mrs. Judge was Harrington's old nurse. Zoe often paid a visit to her
cottage, but she never came to Vizard Court except on Harrington's
birthday, when the servants entertained all the old pensioners and
retainers at supper. Her sudden appearance, therefore, and in gala
costume, astonished Zoe. Probably her face betrayed this, for the old
lady began, “You wonder to see me here, now, doan't ye?”
“Well, Mrs. Judge,” said Zoe, diplomatically, “nobody has a better right
to come.”
“You be very good, miss. I don't doubt my welcome nohow.”
“But,” said Zoe, playfully, “you seldom do us the honor; so I _am_ a
little surprised. What can I do for you?”
“You does enough for me, miss, you and young squire. I bain't come to ask
no favors. I ain't one o' that sort. I'll tell ye why I be come. 'Tis to
warn you all up here.”
“This is alarming,” said Zoe to Fanny.
“That is as may be,” said Mrs. Judge; “forwarned, forearmed, the by-word
sayeth. There is a young 'oman a-prowling about this here parish as don't
belong to _hus.”_
“La,” said Fanny, “mustn't we visit your parish if we were not born
there?”
“Don't you take me up before I be down, miss,” said the old nurse, a
little severely. “'Tain't for the likes of you I speak, which you are a
lady, and visits the Court by permission of squire; but what I objects to
is--hinterlopers.” She paused to see the effect of so big a word, and
then resumed, graciously, “You see, most of our hills comes from that
there Hillstoke. If there's a poacher, or a thief, he is Hillstoke; they
harbors the gypsies as ravage the whole country, mostly; and now they
have let loose this here young 'oman on to us. She is a POLL PRY: goes
about the town a-sarching: pries into their housen and their vittels, and
their very beds. Old Marks have got a muck-heap at his door for his
garden, ye know. Well, miss, she sticks her parasole into this here, and
turns it about, as if she was agoing to spread it: says she, 'I must know
the de-com-po-si-tion of this 'ere, as you keeps under the noses of your
young folk.' Well, I seed her agoing her rounds, and the folk had told me
her ways; so I did set me down to my knitting and wait for her, and when
she came to me I offered her a seat; so she sat down, and says she 'This
is the one clean house in the village,' says she: 'you might eat your
dinner off the floor, let alone the chairs and tables.' 'You are very
good, miss,' says I. Says she, 'I wonder whether upstairs is as nice as
this?' 'Well,' says I, 'them as keep it downstairs keeps it hup; I don't
drop cleanliness on the stairs, you may be sure.' 'I suppose not,' says
she, 'but I should like to see.' That was what I was a-waiting for, you
know, so I said to her, 'Curiosity do breed curiosity,' says I. 'Afore
you sarches this here house from top to bottom I should like to see the
warrant.' 'What warrant?' says she. 'I've no warrant. Don't take me for
an enemy,' says she. 'I'm your best friend,' says she. 'I'm the new
doctor.' I told her I had heard a whisper of that too; but we had got a
parish doctor already, and one was enough. 'Not when he never comes anigh
you,' says she, 'and lets you go half way to meet your diseases.' 'I
don't know for that,' says I, and indeed I haan't a notion what she
meant, for my part; but says I, 'I don't want no women folk to come here
a-doctoring o' me, that's sartin.' So she said, 'But suppose you were
very ill, and the he-doctor three miles off, and fifty others to visit
afore you?' 'That is no odds,' says I; 'I would not be doctored by a
woman.' Then she says to me, says she, 'Now you look me in the face.' 'I
can do that,' says I; 'you, or anybody else. I'm an honest woman, _I_
am;' so I up and looked her in the face as bold as brass. 'Then,' says
she, 'am I to understand that, if you was to be ill to-morrow, you would
rather die than be doctored by a woman?' She thought to daant me, you
see, so I says, 'Well, I don't know as I oodn't.' You do laugh, miss.
Well, that is what she did. 'All right,' says she. 'Make haste and die,
my good soul,' says she, 'for, while you live, you'll be a hobelisk to
reform.' So she went off, but I made to the door, and called after her I
should die when God pleased, and I had seen a good many young folk laid
out, that looked as like to make old bones as ever she
does--chalk-faced--skinny---to-a-d! And I called after her she was no
lady. No more she ain't, to come into my own house and call a decent
woman 'a hobelisk!' Oh! oh! Which I never _was,_ not even in my giddy
days, but did work hard in my youth, and am respect for my old age.”
“Yes, nurse, yes; who doubts it?”
“And nursed young squire, and, Lord bless your heart, a was a poor puny
child when I took him to my breast, and in six months the finest,
chubbiest boy in all the parish; and his dry-nurse for years arter, and
always at his heels a-keeping him out of the stable and the ponds, and
consorting with the village boys; and a proper resolute child he was, and
hard to manage: and my own man that is gone, and my son 'that's not so
clever as some,' * I always done justice by them both, and arter all to be
called a hobelisk--oh! oh! oh!”
* Paraphrase for the noun substantive “idiot.” It is also a
specimen of the Greek figure “litotes.”
Then behold the gentle Zoe with her arm round nurse's neck, and her
handkerchief to nurse's eyes, murmuring, “There--there--don't cry, nurse;
everybody esteems you, and that lady did not mean to affront you; she did
not say 'obelisk;' she said 'obstacle.' That only means that you stand in
the way of her improvements; there was not much harm in that, you know.
And, nurse, please give that lady her way, to oblige me; for it is by my
brother's invitation she is here.”
“Ye doan't say so! What, does he hold with female she-doctoresses?”
“He wishes to _try_ one. She has his authority.”
“Ye doan't say so!”
“Indeed I do.”
“Con--sarn the wench! why couldn't she says so, 'stead o' hargefying?”
“She is a stranger, and means well; so she did not think it necessary.
You must take my word for it.”
“La, miss, I'll take your'n before hers, you _may_ be sure,” said Mrs.
Judge, with a decided remnant of hostility.
And now a proverbial incident happened. Miss Rhoda Gale came in sight,
and walked rapidly into the group.
After greeting the ladies, and ignoring Severne, who took off his hat to
her, with deep respect, in the background, she turned to Mrs. Judge.
“Well, old lady,” said she cheerfully, “and how do you do?”
Mrs. Judge replied, in fawning accents, “Thank you, miss, I be well
enough to get about. I was a-telling 'em about you--and, to be sure, it
is uncommon good of a lady like you to trouble so much about poor folk.”
“Don't mention it; it is my duty and my inclination. You see, my good
woman, it is not so easy to cure diseases as people think; therefore it
is a part of medicine to prevent them: and to prevent them you must
remove the predisposing causes, and to find out all those causes you must
have eyes, and use them.”
“You are right, miss,” said La Judge, obsequiously. “Prevention is better
nor cure, and they say 'a stitch in time saves nine.'”
“That is capital good sense, Mrs. Judge; and pray tell the villagers
that, and make them as full of 'the wisdom of nations' as you seem to be,
and their houses as clean--if you can.”
“I'll do my best, miss,” said Mrs. Judge, obsequiously; “it is the least
we can all do for a young lady like you that leaves the pomps and
vanities, and gives her mind to bettering the condishing of poor folk.”
Having once taken this cue and entered upon a vein of flattery, she would
have been extremely voluble--for villages can vie with cities in
adulation as well as in detraction--but she was interrupted by a footman
announcing luncheon.
Zoe handed Mrs. Judge over to the man with a request that he would be
kind to her, and have her to dine with the servants.
Yellowplush saw the gentlefolks away, and then, parting his legs, and
putting his thumbs into his waistcoat pockets, delivered himself thus:
“Well, old girl, am I to give you my harm round to the kitchen, or do you
know the way by yourself?”
“Young chap,” said Mrs. Judge, and turned a glittering eye, “I did know
the way afore you was born, and I should know it all one if so be you was
to be hung, or sent to Botany Bay--to larn manners.”
Having delivered this shot, she rolled away in the direction of Roast
Beef.
The little party had hardly settled at the table when they were joined by
Vizard and Uxmoor: both gentlemen welcomed Miss Gale more heartily than
the ladies had done, and before luncheon ended Vizard asked her if her
report was ready. She said it was.
“Have you got it with you?”
“Yes.”
“Then please hand it to me.”
“Oh! it is in my head. I don't write much down; that weakens the memory.
If you would give me half an hour after luncheon--” She hesitated a
little.
Zoe jealoused a _te'te-'a-te'te,_ and parried it skillfully. “Oh,” said
she, “but we are all much interested: are not you, Lord Uxmoor?”
“Indeed I am,” said Uxmoor.
“So am I,” said Fanny, who didn't care a button.
“Yes, but,” said Rhoda, “truths are not always agreeable, and there are
some that I don't like--” She hesitated again, and this time actually
blushed a little.
The acute Mr. Severne, who had been watching her slyly, came to her
assistance.
“Look here, old fellow,” said he to Vizard, “don't you see that Miss Gale
has discovered some spots in your paradise? but, out of delicacy, does
not want to publish them, but to confide them to your own ear. Then you
can mend them or not.”
Miss Gale turned her eyes full on Severne. “You are very keen at reading
people, sir,” said she, dryly.
“Of course he is,” said Vizard. “He has given great attention to your
sex. Well, if that is all, Miss Gale, pray speak out and gratify their
curiosity. You and I shall never quarrel over the truth.”
“I'm not so sure of that,” said Miss Gale. “However, I suppose I must
risk it. I never do get my own way; that's a fact.”
After this little ebullition of spleen, she opened her budget. “First of
all, I find that these villages all belong to one person; so does the
soil. Nobody can build cottages on a better model, nor make any other
improvement. You are an absolute monarch. This is a piece of Russia, not
England. They are all serfs, and you are the czar.”
“It is true,” said Vizard, “and it sounds horrid, but it works benignly.
Every snob who can grind the poor does grind them; but a gentleman never,
and he hinders others. Now, for instance, an English farmer is generally
a tyrant; but my power limits his tyranny. He may discharge his laborer,
but he can't drive him out of the village, nor rob him of parish relief,
for poor Hodge is _my_ tenant, not a snob's. Nobody can build a beershop
in Islip. That is true. But if they could, they would sell bad beer, give
credit in the ardor of competition, poison the villagers, and demoralize
them. Believe me, republican institutions are beautiful on paper; but
they would not work well in Barfordshire villages. However, you profess
to go by experience in everything. There are open villages within five
miles. I'll give you a list. Visit them. You will find that liberty can
be the father of tyranny. Petty tradesmen have come in and built
cottages, and ground the poor down with rents unknown in Islip; farmers
have built cottages, and turned their laborers into slaves. Drunkenness,
dissipation, poverty, disaffection, and misery--that is what you will
find in the open villages. Now, in Islip you have an omnipotent squire,
and that is an abomination in theory, a mediaeval monster, a blot on
modern civilization; but practically the poor monster is a softener of
poverty, an incarnate buffer between the poor and tyranny, the poor and
misery.”
“I'll inspect the open villages, and suspend my opinion till then,” said
Miss Gale, heartily; “but, in the meantime, you must admit that where
there is great power there is great responsibility.”
“Oh, of course.”
“Well, then, your little outlying province of Hillstoke is full of
rheumatic adults and putty-faced children. The two phenomena arise from
one cause--the water. No lime in it, and too many reptiles. It was the
children gave me the clew. I suspected the cherry stones at first: but
when I came to look into it, I found they eat just as many cherry stones
in the valley, and are as rosy as apples; but, then, there is well water
in the valleys. So I put this and that together, and I examined the water
they drink at Hillstoke. Sir, it is full of animalcula. Some of these
cannot withstand the heat of the human stomach; but others can, for I
tried them in mud artificially heated. [A giggle from Fanny Dover.]
Thanks to your microscope, I have made sketches of several amphibia who
live in those boys' stomachs, and irritate their membranes, and share
their scanty nourishment, besides other injuries.” Thereupon she produced
some drawings.
They were handed round, and struck terror in gentle bosoms. “Oh,
gracious!” cried Fanny, “one ought to drink nothing but champagne.”
Uxmoor looked grave. Vizard affected to doubt their authenticity. He
said, “You may not know it, but I am a zoologist, and these are
antediluvian eccentricities that have long ceased to embellish the world
we live in. Fie! Miss Gale. Down with anachronisms.”
Miss Gale smiled, and admitted that one or two of the prodigies resembled
antediluvian monsters, but said oracularly that nature was fond of
producing the same thing on a large scale and a small scale, and it was
quite possible the small type of antediluvian monster might have survived
the large.
“That is most ingenious,” said Vizard; “but it does not account for this
fellow. He is not an antediluvian; he is a barefaced modern, for he is A
STEAM ENGINE.”
This caused a laugh, for the creature had a perpendicular neck, like a
funnel, that rose out of a body like a horizontal cylinder.
“At any rate,” said Miss Gale, “the little monster was in the world
first; so he is not an imitation of man's work.”
“Well,” said Vizard, “after all, we have had enough of the monsters of
the deep. Now we can vary the monotony, and say the monsters of the
shallow. But I don't see how they can cause rheumatism.”
“I never said they did,” retorted Miss Gale, sharply: “but the water
which contains them is soft water. There is no lime in it, and that is
bad for the bones in every way. Only the children drink it as it is: the
wives boil it, and so drink soft water and dead reptiles in their tea.
The men instinctively avoid it and drink nothing but beer. Thus, for want
of a pure diluent with lime in solution, an acid is created in the blood
which produces gout in the rich, and rheumatism in the poor, thanks to
their meager food and exposure to the weather.”
“Poor things!” said womanly Zoe. “What is to be done?”
“La!” said Fanny, “throw lime into the ponds. That will kill the
monsters, and cure the old people's bones into the bargain.”
This compendious scheme struck the imagination, but did not satisfy the
judgment of the assembly.
“Fanny!” said Zoe, reproachfully.
“That _would_ be killing two birds with one stone,” suggested Uxmoor,
satirically.
“The tender mercies of the wicked are cruel,” explained Vizard,
composedly.
Zoe reiterated her question, What was to be done?
Miss Gale turned to her with a smile. _“We_ have got nothing to do but to
point out these abominations. The person to act is the Russian autocrat,
the paternal dictator, the monarch of all he surveys, and advocate of
monarchial institutions. He is the buffer between the poor and all their
ills, especially poison: he must dig a well.”
Every eye being turned on Vizard to see how he took this, he said, a
little satirically, “What! does Science bid me bore for water at the top
of a hill?”
“She does _so,”_ said the virago. “Now look here, good people.”
And although they were not all good people, yet they all did look there,
she shone so with intelligence, being now quite on her mettle.
“Half-civilized man makes blunders that both the savage and the civilized
avoid. The savage builds his hut by a running stream. The civilized man
draws good water to his door, though he must lay down pipes from a
highland lake to a lowland city. It is only half-civilized man that
builds a village on a hill, and drinks worms, and snakes, and efts, and
antediluvian monsters in limeless water. Then I say, if great but half
civilized monarchs would consult Science _before_ they built their serf
huts, Science would say, 'Don't you go and put down human habitations far
from pure water--the universal diluent, the only cheap diluent, and the
only liquid which does not require digestion, and therefore must always
assist, and never chemically resist, the digestion of solids.' But when
the mischief is done, and the cottages are built on a hill three miles
from water, then all that Science can do is to show the remedy, and the
remedy is--boring.”
“Then the remedy is like the discussion,” said Fanny Dover, very pertly.
Zoe was amused, but shocked. Miss Gale turned her head on the offender as
sharp as a bird. “Of course it is, to _children,”_ said she; “and that is
why I wished to confine it to mature minds. It is to you I speak, sir.
Are your subjects to drink poison, or will you bore me a well?--Oh,
please!”
“Do you hear that?” said Vizard, piteously, to Uxmoor. “Threatened and
cajoled in one breath. Who can resist this fatal sex?--Miss Gale, I will
bore a well on Hillstoke common. Any idea how deep we must go--to the
antipodes, or only to the center?”
“Three hundred and thirty feet, or thereabouts.”
“No more? Any idea what it will cost?”
“Of course I have. The well, the double windlass, the iron chain, the two
buckets, a cupola over the well, and twenty-three keys--one for every
head of a house in the hamlet--will cost you about 315 pounds.”
“Why, this is Detail made woman. How do you know all this?”
“From Tom Wilder.”
“Who is he?”
“What, don't you know? He is the eldest son of the Islip blacksmith, and
a man that will make his mark. He casts every Thursday night. He is the
only village blacksmith in all the county who _casts._ You know that, I
suppose.”
“No, I had not the honor.”
“Well, he is, then: and I thought you would consent, because you are so
good: and so I thought there could be no harm in sounding Tom Wilder. He
offers to take the whole contract, if squire's agreeable; bore the well;
brick it fifty yards down: he says that ought to be done, if she is to
have justice. 'She' is the well: and he will also construct the gear; he
says there must be two iron chains and two buckets going together; so
then the empty bucket descending will help the man or woman at the
windlass to draw the full bucket up. 315 pounds: one week's income, your
Majesty.”
“She has inspected our rent-roll, now,” said Vizard, pathetically: “and
knows nothing about the matter.”
“Except that it is a mere flea-bite to you to bore through a hill for
water. For all that, I hope you will leave me to battle it with Tom
Wilder. Then you won't be cheated, for once. _You always are,_ and it is
abominable. It would have been five hundred if you had opened the
business.”
“I am sure that is true,” said Zoe. She added this would please Mrs.
Judge: she was full of the superiority of Islip to Hillstoke.
“Stop a bit,” said Vizard. “Miss Gale has not reported on Islip yet.”
“No, dear; but she has looked into everything, for Mrs. Judge told me.
You have been into the cottages?”
“Yes.”
“Into Marks's?”
“Yes, I have been into Marks's.”
She did not seem inclined to be very communicative; so Fanny, out of
mischief, said, pertly, “And what did you see there, with your Argus
eye?”
“I saw--three generations.”
“Ha! ha! La! did you now? And what were they all doing?”
“They were all living together, night and day, in one room.”
This conveyed no very distinct idea to the ladies; but Vizard, for the
first time, turned red at this revelation before Uxmoor, improver of
cottage life. “Confound the brutes!” said he. “Why, I built them a new
room; a larger one: didn't you see it?”
“Yes. They stack their potatoes in it.”
“Just like my people,” said Uxmoor. “That is the worst of it: they resist
their own improvement.”
“Yes, but,” said the doctress, “with monarchial power we can trample on
them for their good. Outside Marks's door at the back there is a
muck-heap, as he calls it; all the refuse of the house is thrown there;
it is a horrible melange of organic matter and decaying vegetables, a
hot-bed of fever and malaria. Suffocated and poisoned with the breath of
a dozen persons, they open the window for fresh air, and in rushes
typhoid from the stronghold its victims have built. Two children were
buried from that house last year. They were both killed by the domestic
arrangements as certainly as if they had been shot with a double-barreled
pistol. The outside roses you admire so are as delusive as flattery;
their sweetness covers a foul, unwholesome den.”
“Marks's cottage! The show place of the village!” Zoe Vizard flushed with
indignation at the bold hand of truth so rudely applied to a pleasant and
cherished illusion.
Vizard, more candid and open to new truths, shrugged his shoulders, and
said, “What can I do more than I have done?”
“Oh, it is not your fault,” said the doctress, graciously. “It is theirs.
Only, as you are their superior in intelligence and power, you might do
something to put down indecency, immorality, and disease.”
“May I ask what?”
“Well, you might build a granary for the poor people's potatoes. No room
can keep them dry; but you build your granary upon four pillars: then
that is like a room over a cellar.”
“Well, I'll build it so--if I build it at all,” said Vizard, dryly. “What
next?”
“Then you could make them stack their potatoes in the granary, and use
the spare room, and so divide their families, and give morality a chance.
The muck-heap you should disperse at once with the strong hand of power.”
At this last proposal, Squire Vizard--the truth must be told--delivered a
long, plowman's whistle at the head of his own table.
“Pheugh!” said he; “for a lady that is more than half republican, you
seem to be taking very kindly to monarchial tyranny.”
“Well, now, I'll tell you the truth,” said she. “You have converted me.
Ever since you promised me the well, I have discovered that the best form
of government is a good-hearted tyrant.”
“With a female viceroy over him, eh?”
“Only in these little domestic matters,” said Rhoda, deprecatingly.
“Women are good advisers in such things. The male physician relies on
drugs. Medical women are wanted to moderate that delusion; to prevent
disease by domestic vigilance, and cure it by selected esculents and pure
air. These will cure fifty for one that medicine can; besides drugs kill
ever so many: these never killed a creature. You will give me the
granary, won't you? Oh, and there's a black pond in the center of the
village. Your tenant Pickett, who is a fool--begging his pardon--lets all
his liquid manure run out of his yard into the village till it
accumulates in a pond right opposite the five cottages they call New
Town, and its exhalations taint the air. There are as many fevers in
Islip as in the back slums of a town. You might fill the pond up with
chalk, and compel Pickett to sink a tank in his yard, and cover it; then
an agricultural treasure would be preserved for its proper use, instead
of being perverted into a source of infection.”
Vizard listened civilly, and, as she stopped, requested her to go on.
“I think we have had enough,” said Zoe, bitterly.
Rhoda, who was in love with Zoe, hung her head, and said, “Yes; I have
been very bold.”
“Fiddlestick!” said Vizard. “Never mind those girls. _You_ speak out like
a man: a stranger's eye always discovers things that escape the natives.
Proceed.”
“No; I won't proceed till I have explained to Miss Vizard.”
“You may spare yourself the trouble. Miss Vizard thought Islip was a
paradise. You have dispelled the illusion, and she will never forgive
you. Miss Dover will; because she is like Gallio--she careth for none of
these things.”
“Not a pin,” said Fanny, with admirable frankness.
“Well, but,” said Rhoda, naively, “I can't bear Miss Vizard to be angry
with me; I admire her so. Please let me explain. Islip is no
paradise--quite the reverse; but the faults of Islip are not _your_
faults. The children are ignorant; but you pay for a school. The people
are poor from insufficient wages; but you are not paymaster. _Your_
gardeners, _your_ hinds, and all your outdoor people have enough. You
give them houses. You let cottages and gardens to the rest at half their
value; and very often they don't pay that, but make excuses; and you
accept them, though they are all stories; for they can pay everybody but
you, and their one good bargain is with you. Miss Vizard has carried a
basket all her life with things from your table for the poor.”
Miss Vizard blushed crimson at this sudden revelation.
“If a man or a woman has served your house long, there's a pension for
life. You are easy, kind, and charitable. It is the faults of others I
ask you to cure, because you have such power. Now, for instance, if the
boys at Hillstoke are putty-faced, the boys at Islip have no calves to
their legs. That is a sure sign of deteriorating species. The lower type
of savage has next to no calf. The calf is a sign of civilization and due
nourishment. This single phenomenon was my clew, and led me to others;
and I have examined the mothers and the people of all ages, and I tell
you it is a village of starvelings. Here a child begins life a
starveling, and ends as he began. The nursing mother has not food enough
for one, far less for two. The man's wages are insufficient, and the diet
is not only insufficient, but injudicious. The race has declined. There
are only five really big, strong men--Josh Grace, Will Hudson, David
Wilder, Absalom Green, and Jack Greenaway; and they are all over
fifty--men of another generation. I have questioned these men how they
were bred, and they all say milk was common when they were boys. Many
poor people kept a cow; squire doled it; the farmers gave it or sold it
cheap; but nowadays it is scarcely to be had. Now, that is not your
fault, but you are the man who can mend it. New milk is meat and drink
especially to young and growing people. You have a large meadow at the
back of the village. If you could be persuaded to start four or five
cows, and let somebody sell the new milk to the poor at cost price--say,
five farthings the quart. You must not give it, or they will water their
muckheaps with it. With those cows alone you will get rid, in the next
generation, of the half-grown, slouching men, the hollow-eyed,
narrow-chested, round-backed women, and the calfless boys one sees all
over Islip, and restore the stalwart race that filled the little village
under your sires and have left proofs of their wholesome food on the
tombstones: for I have read every inscription, and far more people
reached eighty-five between 1750 and 1800 than between 1820 and 1870. Ah,
how I envy you to be able to do such great things so easily! Water to
poisoned Hillstoke with one hand; milk to starved Islip with the other.
This is to be indeed a king!”
The enthusiast rose from the table in her excitement, and her face was
transfigured; she looked beautiful for the moment.
“I'll do it,” shouted Vizard; “and you are a trump.”
Miss Gale sat down, and the color left her cheek entirely.
Fanny Dover, who had a very quick eye for passing events, cried out, “Oh
dear! she is going to faint _now.”_ The tone implied, what a plague she
is!
Thereupon Severne rushed to her, and was going to sprinkle her face; but
she faltered, “No! no! a glass of wine.” He gave her one with all the
hurry and empressement in the world. She fixed him with a strange look as
she took it from him: she sipped it; one tear ran into it. She said she
had excited herself; but she was all right now. Elastic Rhoda!
“I am very glad of it,” said Vizard. “You are quite strong enough without
fainting. For Heaven's sake, don't add woman's weakness to your
artillery, or you will be irresistible; and I shall have to divide Vizard
Court among the villagers. At present I get off cheap, and Science on the
Rampage: let me see--only a granary, a well, and six cows.”
“They'll give as much milk as twelve cows without the well,” said Fanny.
It was her day for wit.
This time she was rewarded with a general laugh.
It subsided, as such things will, and then Vizard said, solemnly, “New
ideas are suggested to me by this charming interview; and permit me to
give them a form, which will doubtless be new to these accomplished
ladies:
“'Gin there's a hole in a' your coats, I rede ye tent it; A chiel's amang
ye takin' notes, And, faith, he'll prent it.'”
Zoe looked puzzled, and Fanny inquired what language that was.
“Very good language.”
“Then perhaps you will translate it into language one can understand.”
“The English of the day, eh?”
“Yes.”
“You think that would improve it, do you? Well, then:
'If there is a defect in any one of your habilimeats, Let me earnestly
impress on you the expediency of repairing it; An individual is among you
with singular powers of observation, Which will infallibly result in
printing and publication.'
Zoe, you are an affectionate sister; take this too observant lady into
the garden, poison her with raw fruit, and bury her under a pear tree.”
Zoe said she would carry out part of the programme, if Miss Gale would
come.
Then the ladies rose and rustled away, and the rivals would have
followed, but Vizard detained them on the pretense of consulting them
about the well; but, when the ladies had gone, he owned he had done it
out of his hatred to the sex. He said he was sure both girls disliked his
virago in their hearts, so he had compelled them to spend an hour
together, without any man to soften their asperity.
This malicious experiment was tolerably successful. The three ladies
strolled together, dismal as souls in purgatory. One or two little
attempts at conversation were made, but died out for want of sympathy.
Then Fanny tried personalities, the natural topic of the sex in general.
“Miss Gale, which do you admire most, Lord Uxmoor or Mr. Severne?”
“For their looks?”
“Oh, of course.”
“Mr. Severne.”
“You don't admire beards, then?”
“That depends. Where the mouth is well shaped and expressive, the beard
spoils it. Where it is commonplace, the beard hides its defect, and gives
a manly character. As a general rule, I think the male bird looks well
with his crest and feathers.”
“And so do I,” said Fanny, warmly; “and yet I should not like Mr. Severne
to have a beard. Don't you think he is very handsome?”
“He is something more,” said Rhoda. “He is beautiful. If he was dressed
as a woman, the gentlemen would all run after him. I think his is the
most perfect oval face I ever saw.”
“But you must not fall in love with him,” said Fanny.
“I do not mean to,” said Rhoda. “Falling in love is not my business: and
if it was, I should not select Mr. Severne.”
“Why not, pray?” inquired Zoe haughtily. Her manner was so menacing that
Rhoda did not like to say too much just then. She felt her way. “I am a
physiognomist,” said she, “and I don't think he can be very truthful. He
is old of his age, and there are premature marks under his eyes that
reveal craft, and perhaps dissipation. These are hardly visible in the
room, but they are in the open air, when you get the full light of day.
To be sure, just now his face is marked with care and anxiety; that young
man has a good deal on his mind.”
Here the observer discovered that even this was a great deal too much.
Zoe was displeased, and felt affronted by her remarks, though she did not
condescend to notice them; so Rhoda broke off and said, “It is not fair
of you, Miss Dover, to set me giving my opinion of people you must know
better than I do. Oh, what a garden!” And she was off directly on a tour
of inspection. “Come along,” said she, “and I will tell you their names
and properties.”
They could hardly keep up with her, she was so eager. The fruits did not
interest her, but only the simples. She was downright learned in these,
and found a surprising number. But the fact is, Mr. Lucas had a respect
for his predecessors. What they had planted, he seldom uprooted--at
least, he always left a specimen. Miss Gale approved his system highly,
until she came to a row of green leaves like small horseradish, which was
planted by the side of another row that really was horseradish.
“This is too bad, even for Islip,” said Miss Gale. “Here is one of our
deadliest poisons planted by the very side of an esculent herb, which it
resembles. You don't happen to have hired the devil for gardener at any
time, do you? Just fancy! any cook might come out here for horseradish,
and gather this plant, and lay you all dead at your own table. It is the
Aconitum of medicine, the Monk's-hood or Wolf's-bane' of our ancestors.
Call the gardener, please, and have every bit of it pulled up by the
roots. None of your lives are safe while poisons and esculents are
planted together like this.”
And she would not budge till Zoe directed a gardener to dig up all the
Aconite. A couple of them went to work and soon uprooted it. The
gardeners then asked if they should burn it.
“Not for all the world,” said Miss Gale. “Make a bundle of it for me to
take home. It is only poison in the hands of ignoramuses. It is most
sovereign medicine. I shall make tinctures, and check many a sharp ill
with it. Given in time, it cuts down fever wonderfully; and when you
check the fever, you check the disease.”
Soon after this Miss Gale said she had not come to stop; she was on her
way to Taddington to buy lint and German styptics, and many things useful
in domestic surgery. “For,” said she, “the people at Hillstoke are
relenting; at least, they run to me with their cut fingers and black
eyes, though they won't trust me with their sacred rheumatics. I must
also supply myself with vermifuges till the well is dug, and so mitigate
puerile puttiness and internal torments.”
The other ladies were not sorry to get rid of an irrelevant zealot, who
talked neither love, nor dress, nor anything that reaches the soul.
So Zoe said, “What, going already?” and having paid that tax to
politeness, returned to the house with alacrity.
But the doctress would not go without her Wolf's-bane, Aconite ycleped.
The irrelevant zealot being gone, the true business of the mind was
resumed; and that is love-making, or novelists give us false pictures of
life, and that is impossible.
As the doctress drove from the front door, Lord Uxmoor emerged from the
library--a coincidence that made both girls smile; he hoped Miss Vizard
was not too tired to take another turn.
“Oh no!” said Zoe: “are you, Fanny?”
At the first step they took, Severne came round an angle of the building
and joined them. He had watched from the balcony of his bedroom.
Both men looked black at each other, and made up to Zoe. She felt
uncomfortable, and hardly knew what to do. However, she would not seem to
observe, and was polite, but a little stiff, to both.
However, at last, Severne, having asserted his rights, as he thought,
gave way, but not without a sufficient motive, as may be gathered from
his first word to Fanny.
“My dear friend, for Heaven's sake, what is the matter? She is angry with
me about something. What is it? has she told you?”
“Not a word. But I see she is in a fury with you; and really it is too
ridiculous. You told a fib; that is the mighty matter, I do believe. No,
it isn't; for you have told her a hundred, no doubt, and she liked you
all the better; but this time you have been naughty enough to be found
out, and she is romantic, and thinks her lover ought to be the soul of
truth.”
“Well, and so he ought,” said Ned.
“He isn't, then;” and Fanny burst out laughing so loud that Zoe turned
round and enveloped them both in one haughty glance, as the exaggerating
Gaul would say.
“La! there was a look for you!” said Fanny, pertly: “as if I cared for
her black brows.”
“I do, though: pray remember that.”
“Then tell no more fibs. Such a fuss about nothing! What is a fib?” and
she turned up her little nose very contemptuously at all such trivial
souls as minded a little mendacity.
Indeed, she disclaimed the importance of veracity so imperiously that
Severne was betrayed into saying, “Well, not much, between you and me;
and I'll be bound I can explain it.”
“Explain it to me, then.”
“Well, but I don't know--”
“Which of your fibs it was.”
Another silver burst of laughter. But Zoe only vouchsafed a slightly
contemptuous movement of her shoulders.
“Well, no,” said Severne, half laughing himself at the sprightly jade's
smartness.
“Well, then, that friend of yours that called at luncheon.”
Severne turned grave directly. “Yes,” said he.
“You said he was your lawyer, and came about a lease.”
“So he did.”
“And his name was Jackson.
“So it was.”
“This won't do. You mustn't fib to _me!_ It was Poikilus, a Secret
Inquiry; and they all know it; now tell me, without a fib--if you
can--what ever did you want with Poikilus?”
Severne looked aghast. He faltered out, “Why, how could they know?”
“Why, he advertises, stupid! and Lord Uxmoor and Harrington had seen it.
Gentlemen _read_ advertisements. That is one of their peculiarities.”
“Of course he advertises: that is not what I mean. I did not drop his
card, did I? No; I am sure I pocketed it directly. What mischief-making
villain told them it was Poikilus?”
Fanny colored a little, but said, hastily, “Ah, that I could not tell
you.”
“The footman, perhaps?”
“I should not wonder.” (What is a fib?)
“Curse him!”
“Oh, don't swear at the servants; that is bad taste.”
“Not when he has ruined me?”
“Ruined you?--nonsense! Make up some other fib, and excuse the first.”
“I can't. I don't know what to do; and before my rival, too! This
accounts for the air of triumph he has worn ever since, and her glances
of scorn and pity. She is an angel, and I have lost her.”
“Stuff and nonsense!” said Fanny Dover. “Be a man, and tell me the
truth.”
“Well, I will,” said he; “for I am in despair. It is all that cursed
money at Homburg. I could not clear my estate without it. I dare not go
for it. She forbade me; and indeed I can't bear to leave her for
anything; so I employed Poikilus to try and learn whether that lady has
the money still, and whether she means to rob me of it or not.”
Fanny Dover reflected a moment, then delivered herself thus: “You were
wrong to tell a fib about it. What you must do now--brazen it out. Tell
her you love her, but have got your pride and will not come into her
family a pauper. Defy her, to be sure; we like to be defied now and then,
when we are fond of the fellow.”
“I will do it,” said he; “but she shuns me. I can't get a word with her.”
Fanny said she would try and manage that for him; and as the rest of
their talk might not interest the reader, and certainly would not edify
him, I pass on to the fact that she did, that very afternoon, go into
Zoe's room, and tell her Severne was very unhappy: he had told a fib; but
it was not intended to deceive her, and he wished to explain the whole
thing.
“Did he explain it to you?” asked Zoe, rather sharply.
“No; but he said enough to make me think you are using him very hardly.
To be sure, you have another string to your bow.”
“Oh, that is the interpretation you put.”
“It is the true one. Do you think you can make _me_ believe you would
have shied him so long if Lord Uxmoor had not been in the house?”
Zoe bridled, but made no reply, and Fanny went to her own room, laughing.
Zoe was much disturbed. She secretly longed to hear Severne justify
himself. She could not forgive a lie, nor esteem a liar. She was one of
those who could pardon certain things in a woman she would not forgive in
a man. Under a calm exterior, she had suffered a noble distress; but her
pride would not let her show it. Yet now that he had appealed to her for
a hearing, and Fanny knew he had appealed, she began to falter.
Still Fanny was not altogether wrong: the presence of a man incapable of
a falsehood, and that man devoted to her, was a little damaging to
Severne, though not so much as Miss Artful thought.
However, this very afternoon Lord Uxmoor had told her he must leave
Vizard Court to-morrow morning.
So Zoe said to herself, “I need not make opportunities; after to-morrow
he will find plenty.”
She had an instinctive fear he would tell more falsehoods to cover those
he had told; and then she should despise him, and they would both be
miserable; for she felt for a moment a horrible dread that she might both
love and despise the same person, if it was Edward Severne.
There were several people to dinner, and, as hostess, she managed not to
think too much of either of her admirers.
However, a stolen glance showed her they were both out of spirits.
She felt sorry. Her nature was very pitiful. She asked herself was it her
fault, and did not quite acquit herself. Perhaps she ought to have been
more open and declared her sentiments. Yet would that have been modest in
a lady who was not formally engaged? She was puzzled. She had no
experience to guide her: only her high breeding and her virginal
instincts.
She was glad when the night ended.
She caught herself wishing the next day was gone too.
When she retired Uxmoor was already gone, and Severne opened the door to
her. He fixed his eyes on her so imploringly, it made her heart melt; but
she only blushed high, and went away sad and silent.
As her maid was undressing her she caught sight of a letter on her table.
“What is that?” said she.
“It is a letter,” said Rosa, very demurely.
Zoe divined that the girl had been asked to put it there.
Her bosom heaved, but she would not encourage such proceedings, nor let
Rosa see how eager she was to hear those very excuses she had evaded.
But, for all that, Rosa knew she was going to read it, for she only had
her gown taken off and a peignoir substituted, and her hair let down and
brushed a little. Then she dismissed Rosa, locked the door, and pounced
on the letter. It lay on her table with the seal uppermost. She turned it
round. It was not from _him:_ it was from Lord Uxmoor.
She sat down and read it.
“DEAR MISS VIZARD--I have had no opportunities of telling you all I feel
for you, without attracting an attention that might have been unpleasant
to you; but I am sure you must have seen that I admired you at first
sight. That was admiration of your beauty and grace, though even then you
showed me a gentle heart and a sympathy that made me grateful. But, now I
have had the privilege of being under the same roof with you, it is
admiration no longer--it is deep and ardent love; and I see that my
happiness depends on you. Will you confide _your_ happiness to me? I
don't know that I could make you as proud and happy as I should be
myself; but I should try very hard, out of gratitude as well as love. We
have also certain sentiments in common. That would be one bond more.
“But indeed I feel I cannot make my love a good bargain to you, for you
are peerless, and deserve a much better lot in every way than I can
offer. I can only kneel to you and say, 'Zoe Vizard, if your heart is
your own to give, pray be my lover, my queen, my wife.'
“Your faithful servant and devoted admirer,
“UXMOOR.”
“Poor fellow!” said Zoe, and her eyes filled. She sat quite quiet, with
the letter open in her hand. She looked at it, and murmured, “A pearl is
offered me here: wealth, title, all that some women sigh for, and--what I
value above all--a noble nature, a true heart, and a soul above all
meanness. No; Uxmoor will never tell a falsehood. He _could_ not.”
She sighed deeply, and closed her eyes. All was still. The light was
faint; yet she closed her eyes, like a true woman, to see the future
clearer.
Then, in the sober and deep calm, there seemed to be faint peeps of
coming things: It appeared a troubled sea, and Uxmoor's strong hand
stretched out to rescue her. If she married him, she knew the worst--an
honest man she esteemed, and had almost an affection for, but no love.
As some have an impulse to fling themselves from a height, she had one to
give herself to Uxmoor, quietly, irrevocably, by three written words
dispatched that night.
But it was only an impulse. If she had written it, she would have torn it
up.
Presently a light thrill passed through her: she wore a sort of
half-furtive, guilty look, and opened the window.
Ay, there he stood in the moonlight, waiting to be heard.
She did not start nor utter any exclamation. Somehow or other she almost
knew he was there before she opened the window.
“Well?” said she, with a world of meaning.
“You grant me a hearing at last.”
“I do. But it is no use. You cannot explain away a falsehood.”
“Of course not. I am here to confess that I told a falsehood. But it was
not you I wished to deceive. I was going to explain the whole thing to
you, and tell you all; but there is no getting a word with you since that
lord came.”
“He had nothing to do with it. I should have been just as much shocked.”
“But it would only have been for five minutes. Zoe!”
“Well?”
“Just put yourself in my place. A detective, who ought to have written to
me in reply to my note, surprises me with a call. I was ashamed that such
a visitor should enter your brother's house to see me. There sat my
rival--an aristocrat. I was surprised into disowning the unwelcomed
visitor, and calling him my solicitor.”
Now if Zoe had been an Old Bailey counsel, she would have kept him to the
point, reminded him that his visitor was unseen, and fixed a voluntary
falsehood on him; but she was not an experienced cross-examiner, and
perhaps she was at heart as indignant at the detective as at the
falsehood: so she missed her advantage, and said, indignantly, “And what
business had you with a detective? You having one at all, and then
calling him your solicitor, makes one think all manner of things.”
“I should have told you all about it that afternoon, only our intercourse
is broken off to please a rival. Suppose I gave you a rival, and used you
for her sake as you use me for his, what would you say? That would be a
worse infidelity than sending for a detective, would it not?”
Zoe replied, haughtily, “You have no right to say you have a rival; how
dare you? Besides,” said she, a little ruefully, “it is you who are on
your defense, not me.”
“True; I forgot that. Recrimination is not convenient, is it?”
“I can escape it by shutting the window,” said Zoe, coldly.
“Oh, don't do that. Let me have the bliss of seeing you, and I will
submit to a good deal of injustice without a murmur.”
“The detective?” said Zoe, sternly.
“I sent for him, and gave him his instructions, and he is gone for me to
Homburg.”
“Ah! I thought so. What for?”
“About my money. To try and find out whether they mean to keep it.”
“Would you really take it if they would give it you?”
“Of course I would.”
“Yet you know my mind about it.”
“I know you forbade me to go for it in person: and I obeyed you, did I
not?”
“Yes, you did--at the time.”
“I do now. You object to my going in person to Homburg. You know I was
once acquainted with that lady, and you feel about her a little of what I
feel about Lord Uxmoor; about a tenth part of what I feel, I suppose, and
with not one-tenth so much reason. Well, I know what the pangs of
jealousy are: I will never inflict them on you, as you have on me. But I
_will_ have my money, whether you like or not.”
Zoe looked amazed at being defied. It was new to her. She drew up, but
said nothing.
Severne went on: “And I will tell you why: because without money I cannot
have you. My circumstances have lately improved; with my money that lies
in Homburg I can now clear my family estate of all incumbrance, and come
to your brother for your hand. Oh, I shall be a very bad match even then,
but I shall not be a pauper, nor a man in debt. I shall be one of your
own class, as I was born--a small landed gentleman with an unencumbered
estate.”
“That is not the way to my affection. I do not care for money.”
“But other people do. Dear Zoe, you have plenty of pride yourself; you
must let me have a little. Deeply as I love you, I could not come to your
brother and say, 'Give me your sister, and maintain us both.' No, Zoe, I
cannot ask your hand till I have cleared my estate; and I cannot clear it
without that money. For once I must resist you, and take my chance. There
is wealth and a title offered you. I won't ask you to dismiss them and
take a pauper. If you don't like me to try for my own money, give your
hand to Lord Uxmoor; then I shall recall my detective, and let all go;
for poverty or wealth will matter nothing to me: I shall have lost the
angel I love: and she once loved me.”
He faltered, and the sad cadence of his voice melted her. She began to
cry. He turned his head away and cried too.
There was a silence. Zoe broke it first.
“Edward,” said she, softly.
“Zoe!”
“You need not defy me. I would not humiliate you for all the world. Will
it comfort you to know that I have been very unhappy ever since you
lowered yourself so? I will try and accept your explanation.”
He clasped his hands with gratitude.
“Edward, will you grant me a favor?”
“Can you ask?”
“It is to have a little more confidence in one who--Now you must obey me
implicitly, and perhaps we may both be happier to-morrow night than we
are to-night. Directly after breakfast take your hat and walk to
Hillstoke. You can call on Miss Gale, if you like, and say something
civil.”
“What! go and leave you alone with Lord Uxmoor?”
“Yes.”
“Ah, Zoe, you know your power. Have a little mercy.”
“Perhaps I may have a great deal--if you obey me.”
“I _will_ obey you.”
“Then go to bed this minute.”
She gave him a heavenly smile, and closed the window.
Next morning, as soon as breakfast was over, Ned Severne said, “Any
messages for Hillstoke? I am going to walk up there this morning.”
“Embrace my virago for me,” said Vizard.
Severne begged to be excused.
He hurried off, and Lord Uxmoor felt a certain relief.
The Master of Arts asked himself what he could do to propitiate the
female M. D. He went to the gardener and got him to cut a huge bouquet,
choice and fragrant, and he carried it all the way to Hillstoke. Miss
Gale was at home. As he was introduced rather suddenly, she started and
changed color, and said, sharply, “What do you want?” Never asked him to
sit down, rude Thing!
He stood hanging his head like a culprit, and said, with well-feigned
timidity, that he came, by desire of Miss Vizard, to inquire how she was
getting on, and to hope the people were beginning to appreciate her.
“Oh! that alters the case; any messenger from Miss Vizard is welcome. Did
she send me those flowers, too? They are beautiful.”
“No. I gathered them myself. I have always understood ladies loved
flowers.”
“It is only by report you know that, eh? Let me add something to your
information: a good deal depends on the giver; and you may fling these
out of the window.” She tossed them to him.
The Master of Arts gave a humble, patient sigh, and threw the flowers out
of the window, which was open. He then sunk into a chair and hid his face
in his hands.
Miss Gale colored, and bit her lip. She did not think he would have done
that, and it vexed her economical soul. She cast a piercing glance at
him, then resumed her studies, and ignored his presence.
But his patience exhausted hers. He sat there twenty minutes, at least,
in a state of collapse that bid fair to last forever.
So presently she looked up and affected to start. “What! are you there
still?” said she.
“Yes,” said be; “you did not dismiss me; only my poor flowers.”
“Well,” said she, apologetically, “the truth is, I'm not strong enough to
dismiss you by the same road.”
“It is not necessary. You have only to say, 'Go.'”
“Oh, that would be rude. Could not you go without being told right out?”
“No, I could not. Miss Gale, I can't account for it, but there is some
strange attraction. You hate me, and I fear you, yet I could follow you
about like a dog. Let me sit here a little longer and see you work.”
Miss Gale leaned her head upon her hand, and contemplated him at great
length. Finally she adopted a cat-like course. “No,” said she, at last;
“I am going my rounds: you can come with me, if I am so attractive.”
He said he should be proud, and she put on her hat in thirty seconds.
They walked together in silence. He felt as if he were promenading a
tiger cat, that might stop any moment to fall upon him.
She walked him into a cottage: there was a little dead wood burning on
that portion of the brick floor called the hearth. A pale old man sat
close to the fire, in a wooden armchair. She felt his pulse, and wrote
him a prescription.
“To Mr. Vizard's housekeeper, Vizard Court:
“Please give the bearer two pounds of good roast beef or mutton, not
salted, and one pint port wine,
“RHODA GALE, M. D.”
“Here, Jenny,” she said to a sharp little girl, the man's grandniece,
“take this down to Vizard Court, and if the housekeeper objects, go to
the front-door and demand in my name to see the squire or Miss Vizard,
and give _them_ the paper. Don't you give it up without the meat. Take
this basket on your arm.”
Then she walked out of the cottage, and Severne followed her: he ventured
to say that was a novel prescription.
She explained. “Physicians are obliged to send the rich to the chemist,
or else the fools would think they were slighted. But we need not be so
nice with the poor; we can prescribe to do them good. When you inflicted
your company on me, I was sketching out a treatise, to be entitled, 'Cure
of Disorders by Esculents.' That old man is nearly exsanguis. There is
not a drug in creation that could do him an atom of good. Nourishing food
may. If not, why, he is booked for the long journey. Well, he has had his
innings. He is fourscore. Do you think _you_ will ever see fourscore--you
and your vices?”
“Oh, no. But I think _you_ will; and I hope so; for you go about doing
good.”
“And some people one could name go about doing mischief?”
Severne made no reply.
Soon after they discovered a little group, principally women and
children. These were inspecting something on the ground, and chattering
excitedly. The words of dire import, “She have possessed him with a
devil,” struck their ear. But soon they caught sight of Miss Gale, and
were dead silent. She said, “What is the matter? Oh, I see, the vermifuge
has acted.”
It was so: a putty-faced boy had been unable to eat his breakfast; had
suffered malaise for hours afterward, and at last had been seized with a
sort of dry retching, and had restored to the world they so adorn a
number of amphibia, which now wriggled in a heap, and no doubt bitterly
regretted the reckless impatience with which they had fled from an
unpleasant medicine to a cold-hearted world.
“Well, good people,” said Miss Gale, “what are you making a fuss about?
Are they better in the boy or out of him?”
The women could not find their candor at a moment's notice, but old Giles
replied heartily, “Why, hout! better an empty house than a bad tenant.”
“That is true,” said half a dozen voices at once. They could resist
common sense in its liquid form, but not when solidified into a proverb.
“Catch me the boy,” said Miss Gale, severely.
Habitual culpability destroys self-confidence; so the boy suspected
himself of crime, and instantly took to flight. His companions loved
hunting; so three swifter boys followed him with a cheerful yell, secured
him, and brought him up for sentence.
“Don't be frightened, Jacob,” said the doctress. “I only want to know
whether you feel better or worse.”
His mother put in her word: “He was ever so bad all the morning.”
“Hold your jaw,” said old Giles, “and let the boy tell his own tale.”
“Well, then,” said Jacob, “I was mortal bad, but now do I feel like a
feather; wust on't is, I be so blessed hungry now. Dall'd if I couldn't
eat the devil--stuffed with thunder and lightning.”
“I'll prescribe accordingly,” said Miss Gale, and wrote in pencil an
order on a beefsteak pie they had sent her from the Court.
The boy's companions put their heads together over this order, and
offered their services to escort him.
“No, thank you,” said the doctress. “He will go alone, you young monkeys.
Your turn will come.”
Then she proceeded on her rounds, with Mr. Severne at her heels, until it
was past one o'clock.
Then she turned round and faced him. “We will part here,” said she, “and
I will explain my conduct to you, as you seem in the dark. I have been
co-operating with Miss Vizard all this time. I reckon she sent you out of
the way to give Lord Uxmoor his opportunity, so I have detained you.
While you have been studying medicine, he has been popping the question,
of course. Good-by, Mr. Villain.”
Her words went through the man like cold steel. It was one woman reading
another. He turned very white, and put his hand to his heart. But he
recovered himself, and said, “If she prefers another to me, I must
submit. It is not my absence for a few hours that will make the
difference. You cannot make me regret the hours I have passed in your
company. Good-by,” and he seemed to leave her very reluctantly.
“One word,” said she, softening a little. “I'm not proof against your
charm. Unless I see Zoe Vizard in danger, you have nothing to fear from
me. But I love _her,_ you understand.”
He returned to her directly, and said, in most earnest, supplicating
tones, “But will you ever forgive me?”
“I will try.”
And so they parted.
He went home at a great rate; for Miss Gale's insinuations had raised
some fear in his breast.
Meantime this is what had really passed between Zoe and Lord Uxmoor.
Vizard went to his study, and Fanny retired at a signal from Zoe. She
rose, but did not go; she walked slowly toward the window; Uxmoor joined
her: for he saw he was to have his answer from her mouth.
Her bosom heaved a little, and her cheeks flushed. “Lord Uxmoor,” she
said, “you have done me the greatest honor any man can pay a woman, and
from you it is indeed an honor. I could not write such an answer as I
could wish; and, besides, I wish to spare you all the mortification I
can.”
“Ah!” said Uxmoor, piteously.
“You are worthy of any lady's love; but I have only my esteem to give
you, and that was given long ago.”
Uxmoor, who had been gradually turning very white, faltered, “I had my
fears. Good-by.”
She gave him her hand. He put it respectfully to his lips: then turned
and left her, sick at heart, but too brave to let it be seen. He
preferred her esteem to her pity.
By this means he got both. She put her handkerchief to her eyes without
disguise. But he only turned at the door to say, in a pretty firm voice,
“God bless you!”
In less than an hour he drove his team from the door, sitting heartbroken
and desolate, but firm and unflinching as a rock.
So then, on his return from Hillstoke, Severne found them all at luncheon
except Uxmoor. He detailed his visit to Miss Gale, and, while he talked,
observed. Zoe was beaming with love and kindness. He felt sure she had
not deceived him. He learned, by merely listening, that Lord Uxmoor was
gone, and he exulted inwardly.
After luncheon, Elysium. He walked with the two girls, and Fanny lagged
behind; and Zoe proved herself no coquette. A coquette would have been a
little cross and shown him she had made a sacrifice. Not so Zoe Vizard.
She never told him, nor even Fanny, she had refused Lord Uxmoor. She
esteemed the great sacrifice she had made for him as a little one, and so
loved him a little more that he had cost her an earl's coronet and a
large fortune.
The party resumed their habits that Uxmoor had interrupted, and no
warning voice was raised.
The boring commenced at Hillstoke, and Doctress Gale hovered over the
work. The various strata and their fossil deposits were an endless study,
and kept her microscope employed. With this, and her treatise on “Cure by
Esculents” she was so employed that she did not visit the Court for some
days: then came an invitation from Lord Uxmoor to stay a week with him,
and inspect his village. She accepted it, and drove herself in the
bailiff's gig, all alone. She found her host attending to his duties, but
dejected; so then she suspected, and turned the conversation to Zoe
Vizard, and soon satisfied herself he had no hopes in that quarter. Yet
he spoke of her with undisguised and tender admiration. Then she said to
herself, “This is a man, and he shall have her.”
She sat down and wrote a letter to Vizard, telling him all she knew, and
what she thought, viz., that another woman, and a respectable one, had a
claim on Mr. Severne, which ought to be closely inquired into, and _the
lady's version heard._ “Think of it,” said she. “He disowned the woman
who had saved his life, he was so afraid I should tell Miss Vizard under
what circumstances I first saw him.”
She folded and addressed the letter.
But having relieved her mind in some degree by this, she asked herself
whether it would not be kinder to all parties to try and save Zoe without
an exposure. Probably Severne benefited by his grace and his disarming
qualities; for her ultimate resolution was to give him a chance, offer
him an alternative: he must either quietly retire, or be openly exposed.
So then she put the letter in her desk, made out her visit, of which no
further particulars can be given at present, returned home, and walked
down to the Court next morning to have it out with Edward Severne.
But, unfortunately, from the very day she offered him terms up at
Hillstoke, the tide began to run in Severne's favor with great rapidity.
A letter came from the detective. Severne received it at breakfast, and
laid it before Zoe, which had a favorable effect on her mind to begin.
Poikilus reported that the money was in good hands. He had seen the lady.
She made no secret of the thing--the sum was 4,900 pounds, and she said
half belonged to her and half to a gentleman. She did not know him, but
her agent, Ashmead, did. Poikilus added that he had asked her would she
honor that gentleman's draft? She had replied she should be afraid to do
that; but Mr. Ashmead should hand it to him on demand. Poikilus summed up
that the lady was evidently respectable, and the whole thing square.
Severne posted this letter to his cousin, under cover, to show him he was
really going to clear his estate, but begged him to return it immediately
and lend him 50 pounds. The accommodating cousin sent him 50 pounds, to
aid him in wooing his heiress. He bought her a hoop ring, apologized for
its small value, and expressed his regret that all he could offer her was
on as small a scale, except his love.
She blushed, and smiled on him, like heaven opening. “Small and great, I
take them,” said she; and her lovely head rested on his shoulder.
They were engaged.
From that hour he could command a _te'te-'a-te'te_ with her whenever he
chose, and his infernal passion began to suggest all manner of wild,
wicked and unreasonable hopes.
Meantime there was no stopping. He soon found he must speak seriously to
Vizard. He went into his study and began to open the subject. Vizard
stopped him. “Fetch the other culprit,” said he; and when Zoe came,
blushing, he said, “Now I am going to make shorter work of this than you
have done. Zoe has ten thousand pounds. What have you got?”
“Only a small estate, worth eight thousand pounds, that I hope to clear
of all incumbrances, if I can get my money.”
“Fond of each other? Well, don't strike me dead with your eyes. I have
watched you, and I own a prettier pair of turtledoves I never saw. Well,
you have got love and I have got money. I'll take care of you both. But
you must live with me. I promise never to marry.”
This brought Zoe round his neck, with tears and kisses of pure affection.
He returned them, and parted her hair paternally.
“This is a beautiful world, isn't it?” said he, with more tenderness than
cynicism this time.
“Ah, that it is!” cried Zoe, earnestly. “But I can't have you say you
will never be as happy as I am. There are true hearts in this heavenly
world; for I have found one.”
“I have not, and don't mean to try again. I am going in for the paternal
now. You two are my children. I have a talisman to keep me from marrying.
I'll show it you.” He drew a photograph from his drawer, set round with
gold and pearls. He showed it them suddenly. They both started. A fine
photograph of Ina Klosking. She was dressed as plainly as at the
gambling-table, but without a bonnet, and only one rose in her hair. Her
noble forehead was shown, and her face, a model of intelligence,
womanliness, and serene dignity.
He gazed at it, and they at him and it.
He kissed it. “Here is my Fate,” said he. “Now mark the ingenuity of a
parent. I keep out of my Fate's way. But I use her to keep off any other
little Fates that may be about. No other humbug can ever catch me while I
have such a noble humbug as this to contemplate. Ah! and here she is as
Siebel. What a goddess! Just look at her. Adorable! There, this shall
stand upon my table, and the other shall be hung in my bedroom. Then, my
dear Zoe, you will be safe from a stepmother. For I am your father now.
Please understand that.”
This brought poor Zoe round his neck again with such an effusion that at
last he handed her to Severne, and he led her from the room, quite
overcome, and, to avoid all conversation about what had just passed, gave
her over to Fanny, while he retired to compose himself.
By dinner-time he was as happy as a prince again and relieved of all
compunction.
He heard afterward from Fanny that Zoe and she had discussed the incident
and Vizard's infatuation, Fanny being specially wroth at Vizard's abuse
of pearls; but she told him she had advised Zoe not to mention that
lady's name, but let her die out.
And, in point of fact, Zoe did avoid the subject.
There came an eventful day. Vizard got a letter, at breakfast, from his
bankers, that made him stare, and then knit his brows. It was about
Edward Severne' s acceptances. He said nothing, but ordered his horse and
rode into Taddington.
The day was keen but sunny, and, seeing him afoot so early, Zoe said she
should like a drive before luncheon. She would show Severne and Fanny
some ruins on Pagnell Hill. They could leave the trap at the village inn
and walk up the hill. Fanny begged off, and Severne was very glad. The
prospect of a long walk up a hill with Zoe, and then a day spent in utter
seclusion with her, fired his imagination and made his heart beat. Here
was one of the opportunities he had long sighed for of making passionate
love to innocence and inexperience.
Zoe herself was eager for the drive, and came down, followed by Rosa with
some wraps, and waited in the morning-room for the dog-cart. It was
behind time for once, because the careful coachman had insisted on the
axle being oiled. At last the sound of wheels was heard. A carriage drew
up at the door.
“Tell Mr. Severne,” said Zoe. “He is in the dining-room, I think.”
But it was not the dog-cart.
A vigilant footman came hastily out and opened the hall door. A lady was
on the steps, and spoke to him, but, in speaking, she caught sight of Zoe
in the hall. She instantly slipped pass the man and stood within the
great door.
“Miss Vizard?” said she.
Zoe took a step toward her and said, with astonishment, “Mademoiselle
Klosking!”
The ladies looked at each other, and Zoe saw something strange was
coming; for the Klosking was very pale, yet firm, and fixed her eyes upon
her as if there was nothing else in sight.
“You have a visitor--Mr. Severne?”
“Yes,” said Zoe, drawing up.
“Can I speak with him?”
“He will answer for himself. EDWARD!”
At her call Severne came out hastily behind Ina Klosking.
She turned, and they faced each other.
“Ah!” she cried; and in spite of all, there was more of joy than any
other passion in the exclamation.
Not so he. He uttered a scream of dismay, and staggered, white as a
ghost, but still glared at Ina Klosking.
Zoe's voice fell on him like a clap of thunder: “What!--Edward!--Mr.
Severne!--Has this lady still any right--”
“No, none whatever!” he cried; “it is all past and gone.”
“What is past?” said Ina Klosking, grandly. “Are you out of your senses?”
Then she was close to him in a moment, by one grand movement, and took
him by both lapels of his coat, and held him firmly. “Speak before this
lady,” she cried. “Have--I--no--rights--over you?” and her voice was
majestic, and her Danish eyes gleamed lightning.
The wretch's knees gave way a moment and he shook in her hands. Then,
suddenly, he turned wild. “Fiend! you have ruined me!” he yelled; and
then, with his natural strength, which was great, and the superhuman
power of mad excitement, he whirled her right round and flung her from
him, and dashed out of the door, uttering cries of rage and despair.
The unfortunate lady, thus taken by surprise, fell heavily, and, by cruel
ill luck, struck her temple, in falling, against the sharp corner of a
marble table. It gashed her forehead fearfully, and she lay senseless,
with the blood spurting in jets from her white temple.
Zoe screamed violently, and the hall and the hall staircase seemed to
fill by magic.
In the terror and confusion, Harrington Vizard strode into the hall, from
Taddington. “What is the matter?” he cried. “A woman killed?”
Some one cried out she had fallen.
“Water, fools--a sponge--don't stand gaping!” and he flung himself on his
knees, and raised the woman's head from the floor. One eager look into
her white face--one wild cry--“Great God! it is--” He had recognized her.