THE reputation Mademoiselle Klosking gained in the new oratorio, aided by
Ashmead's exertions, launched her in a walk of art that accorded with her
sentiments.
She sung in the oratorio whenever it could be performed, and also sung
select songs from it, and other sacred songs at concerts.
She was engaged at a musical festival in the very cathedral town whose
choir had been so consoling to her. She entered with great zeal into this
engagement, and finding there was a general desire to introduce the
leading chorister-boy to the public in a duet, she surprised them all by
offering to sing the second part with him, if he would rehearse it
carefully with her at her lodgings. He was only too glad, as might be
supposed. She found he had a lovely voice, but little physical culture.
He read correctly, but did not even know the nature of the vocal
instrument and its construction, which is that of a bagpipe. She taught
him how to keep his lungs full in singing, yet not to gasp, and by this
simple means enabled him to sing with more than twice the power he had
ever exercised yet. She also taught him the swell, a figure of music he
knew literally nothing about.
When, after singing a great solo, to salvos of applause, Mademoiselle
Klosking took the second part with this urchin, the citizens and all the
musical people who haunt a cathedral were on the tiptoe of expectation.
The boy amazed them, and the rich contralto that supported him and rose
and swelled with him in ravishing harmony enchanted them. The vast
improvement in the boy's style did not escape the hundreds of persons who
knew him, and this duet gave La Klosking a great personal popularity.
Her last song, by her own choice, was, “What though I trace” (Handel),
and the majestic volume that rang through the echoing vault showed with
what a generous spirit she had subdued that magnificent organ not to
crush her juvenile partner in the preceding duet.
Among the persons present was Harrington Vizard. He had come there
against his judgment; but he could not help it.
He had been cultivating a dull tranquillity, and was even beginning his
old game of railing on women, as the great disturbers of male peace. At
the sight of her, and the sound of her first notes, away went his
tranquillity, and he loved her as ardently as ever. But when she sung his
mother's favorite, and the very roof rang, and three thousand souls were
thrilled and lifted to heaven by that pure and noble strain, the rapture
could not pass away from this one heart; while the ear ached at the
cessation of her voice, the heart also ached, and pined, and yearned.
He ceased to resist. From that day he followed her about to her public
performances all over the Midland Counties; and she soon became aware of
his presence. She said nothing till Ashmead drew her attention; then,
being compelled to notice it, she said it was a great pity. Surely he
must have more important duties at home.
Ashmead wanted to recognize him, and put him into the best place vacant;
but La Klosking said, “No. I will be more his friend than to lend him the
least encouragement.”
At the end of that tour she returned to London.
While she was there in her little suburban house, she received a visit
from Mr. Edward Severne. He came to throw himself at her feet and beg
forgiveness. She said she would try and forgive him. He then implored her
to forget the past. She told him that was beyond her power. He persisted,
and told her he had come to his senses; all his misconduct now seemed a
hideous dream, and he found he had never really loved any one but her. So
then he entreated her to try him once more; to give him back the treasure
of her love.
She listened to him like a woman of marble. “Love where I despise!” said
she. “Never. The day has gone by when these words can move me. Come to me
for the means of enjoying yourself--gambling, drinking, and your other
vices--and I shall indulge you. But do not profane the name of love. I
forbid you ever to enter my door on that errand. I presume you want
money. There is a hundred pounds. Take it; and keep out of my sight till
you have wasted it.”
He dashed the notes proudly down. She turned her back on him, and glided
into another room.
When she returned, he was gone, and the hundred pounds had managed to
accompany him.
He went straight from her to Ashmead and talked big. He would sue for
restitution of conjugal rights.
“Don't do that, for my sake,” said Ashamed. “She will fly the country
like a bird, and live in some village on bread and milk.”
“Oh, I would not do you an ill turn for the world,” said the Master of
Arts. “You have been a kind friend to me. You saved my life. It is
imbittered by remorse, and recollections of the happiness I have thrown
away, and the heart I have wronged. No matter!”
This visit disturbed La Klosking, and disposed her to leave London. She
listened to a brilliant offer that was made her, through Ashmead, by the
manager of the Italian Opera, who was organizing a provincial tour. The
tour was well advertised in advance, and the company opened to a grand
house at Birmingham.
Mademoiselle Klosking had not been long on the stage when she discovered
her discarded husband in the stalls, looking the perfection of youthful
beauty. The next minute she saw Vizard in a private box. Mr. Severne
applauded her loudly, and flung her a bouquet. Mr. Vizard fixed his eyes
on her, beaming with admiration, but made no public demonstration.
The same incident repeated itself every night she sung, and at every
town.
At last she spoke about it to Ashmead, in the vague, suggestive way her
sex excels in. “I presume you have observed the people in front.”
“Yes, madam. Two in particular.”
“Could you not advise him to desist?”
“Which of 'em, madam?”
“Mr. Vizard, of course. He is losing his time, and wasting sentiments it
is cruel should be wasted.”
Ashmead said he dared not take any liberty with Mr. Vizard.
So the thing went on.
Severne made acquaintance with the manager, and obtained the _entre'e_
behind the scenes. He brought his wife a bouquet every night, and
presented it to her with such reverence and grace, that she was obliged
to take it and courtesy, or seem rude to the people about.
Then she wrote to Miss Gale and begged her to come if she could.
Miss Gale, who had all this time been writing her love-letters twice a
week, immediately appointed her mother viceroy, and went to her friend.
Ina Klosking explained the situation to her with a certain slight
timidity and confusion not usual to her; and said, “Now, dear, you have
more courage than the rest of us; and I know he has a great respect for
you; and, indeed, Miss Dover told me he would quite obey you. Would it
not be the act of a friend to advise him to cease this unhappy--What
good can come of it? He neglects his own duties, and disturbs me in mine.
I sometimes ask myself would it not be kinder of me to give up my
business, or practice it elsewhere--Germany, or even Italy.
“Does he call on you?”
“No.”
“Does he write to you?”
“Oh no. I wish he would. Because then I should be able to reply like a
true friend, and send him away. Consider, dear, it is not like a nobody
dangling after a public singer; that is common enough. We are all run
after by idle men; even Signorina Zubetta, who has not much voice, nor
appearance, and speaks a Genoese patois when she is not delivering a
libretto. But for a gentleman of position, with a heart of gold and the
soul of an emperor, that he should waste his time and his feelings so, on
a woman who can never be anything to him, it is pitiable.”
“Well, but, after all, it is his business; and he is not a child:
besides, remember he is really very fond of music. If I were you I'd look
another way, and take no notice.”
“But I cannot.”
“Ah! And why not, pray?”
“Because he always takes a box on my left hand, two from the stage. I
can't think how he gets it at all the theaters. And then he fixes his
eyes on me so, I cannot help stealing a look. He never applauds, nor
throws me bouquets. He looks: oh, you cannot conceive how he looks, and
the strange effect it is beginning to produce on me.”
“He mesmerizes you?”
“I know not. But it is a growing fascination. Oh, my dear physician,
interfere. If it goes on, we shall be more wretched than ever.” Then she
enveloped Rhoda in her arms, and rested a hot cheek against hers.
“I see,” said Rhoda. “You are afraid he will make you love him.”
“I hope not. But artists are impressionable; and being looked at so, by
one I esteem, night after night, when my nerves are strung--_cela
m'agace;”_ and she gave a shiver, and then was a little hysterical; and
that was very unlike her.
Rhoda kissed her, and said resolutely she would stop it.
“Not unkindly?”
“Oh no.”
“You will not tell him it is offensive to me?”
“No.”
“Pray do not give him unnecessary pain.”
“No.”
“He is not to be mortified.”
“No.”
“I shall miss him sadly.”
“Shall you?”
“Naturally. Especially at each new place. Only conceive: one is always
anxious on the stage; and it is one thing to come before a public all
strangers, and nearly all poor judges; it is another to see, all ready
for your first note, a noble face bright with intelligence and
admiration--the face of a friend. Often that one face is the only one I
allow myself to see. It hides the whole public.”
“Then don't you be silly and send it away. I'll tell you the one fault of
your character: you think too much of other people, and too little of
yourself. Now, that is contrary to the scheme of nature. We are sent into
the world to take care of number one.”
“What!” said Ina; “are we to be all self-indulgence? Is there to be no
principle, no womanly prudence, foresight, discretion? No; I feel the
sacrifice: but no power shall hinder me from making it. If you cannot
persuade him, I'll do like other singers. I will be ill, and quit the
company.”
“Don't do that,” said Rhoda. “Now you have put on your iron look, it is
no use arguing--I know that to my cost. There--I will talk to him. Only
don't hurry me; let me take my opportunity.”
This being understood, Ina would not part with her for the present, but
took her to the theater. She dismissed her dresser, at Rhoda's request,
and Rhoda filled that office. So they could talk freely.
Rhoda had never been behind the scenes of a theater before, and she went
prying about, ignoring the music, for she was almost earless. Presently,
whom should she encounter but Edward Severne. She started and looked at
him like a basilisk. He removed his hat and drew back a step with a great
air of respect and humility. She was shocked and indignant with Ina for
letting him be about her. She followed her off the stage into her
dressing room, and took her to task. “I have seen Mr. Severne here.”
“He comes every night.”
“And you allow him?”
“It is the manager.”
“But he would not admit him, if you objected.”
“I am afraid to do that.”
“Why?”
“We should have an _esclandre._ I find he has had so much consideration
for me as to tell no one our relation; and as he has never spoken to me,
I do the most prudent thing I can, and take no notice. Should he attempt
to intrude himself on me, then it will be time to have him stopped in the
hall, and I shall do it _cou'te que cou'te._ Ah, my dear friend, mine is
a difficult and trying position.”
After a very long wait, Ina went down and sung her principal song, with
the usual bravas and thunders of applause. She was called on twice, and
as she retired, Severne stepped forward, and, with a low, obsequious bow,
handed her a beautiful bouquet. She took it with a stately courtesy, but
never looked nor smiled.
Rhoda saw that and wondered. She thought to herself, “That is carrying
politeness a long way. To be sure, she is half a foreigner.”
Having done his nightly homage, Severne left the theater, and soon
afterward the performance concluded, and Ina took her friend home.
Ashmead was in the hall to show his patroness to her carriage--a duty he
never failed in. Rhoda shook hands with him, and he said, “Delighted to
see you here, miss. You will be a great comfort to her.”
The two friends communed till two o'clock in the morning: but the limits
of my tale forbid me to repeat what passed.
Suffice it to say that Rhoda was fairly puzzled by the situation; but,
having a great regard for Vizard, saw clearly enough that he ought to be
sent back to Islip. She thought that perhaps the very sight of her would
wound his pride, and, finding his mania discovered by a third person, he
would go of his own accord: so she called on him.
My lord received her with friendly composure, and all his talk was about
Islip. He did not condescend to explain his presence at Carlisle. He knew
that _qui s'excuse s'accuse,_ and left her to remonstrate. She had hardly
courage for that, and hoped it might be unnecessary.
She told Ina what she had done. But her visit was futile: at night there
was Vizard in his box.
Next day the company opened in Manchester. Vizard was in his box
there--Severne in front, till Ina's principal song. Then he came round
and presented his bouquet. But this time he came up to Rhoda Gale, and
asked her whether a penitent man might pay his respects to her in the
morning.
She said she believed there were very few penitents in the world.
“I know one,” said he.
“Well, I don't, then,” said the virago. “But _you_ can come, if you are
not afraid.”
Of course Ina Klosking knew of this appointment two minutes after it was
made. She merely said, “Do not let him talk you over.”
“He is not so likely to talk me over as you,” said Rhoda.
“You are mistaken,” was Ina's reply. “I am the one person he will never
deceive again.”
Rhoda Gale received his visit: he did not beat about the bush, nor fence
at all. He declared at once what he came for. He said, “At the first
sight of you, whom I have been so ungrateful to, I could not speak; but
now I throw myself on your forgiveness. I think you must have seen that
my ingratitude has never sat light on me.”
“I have seen that you were terribly afraid of me,” said she.
“I dare say I was. But I am not afraid of you now; and here, on my knees,
I implore you to forgive my baseness, my ingratitude. Oh, Miss Gale, you
don't know what it is to be madly in love; one has no principle, no right
feeling, against a real passion: and I was madly in love with her. It was
through fear of losing her I disowned my physician, my benefactress, who
had saved my life. Miserable wretch! It was through fear of losing her
that I behaved like a ruffian to my angel wife, and would have committed
bigamy, and been a felon. What was all this but madness? You, who are so
wise, will you not forgive me a crime that downright insanity was the
cause of?”
“Humph! if I understand right, you wish me to forgive you for looking in
my face, and saying to the woman who had saved your life, 'I don't know
you?'”
“Yes--if you can. No: now you put it in plain words, I see it is not to
be forgiven.”
“You are mistaken. It was like a stab to my heart, and I cried bitterly
over it.”
“Then I deserve to be hanged; that is all.”
“But, on consideration, I believe it is as much your nature to be wicked
as it is my angel Ina's to be good. So I forgive you that one thing, you
charming villain.” She held out her hand to him in proof of her good
faith.
He threw himself on his knees directly, and kissed and mumbled her hand,
and bedewed it with hysterical tears.
“Oh, don't do that,” said she; “or I'm bound to give you a good kick. I
hate she men.”
“Give me a moment,” said he, “and I will be a man again.”
He sat with his face in his hands, gulping a little.
“Come,” said she, cocking her head like a keen jackdaw; “now let us have
the real object of your visit.”
“No, no,” said he, inadvertently--“another time will do for that. I am
content with your forgiveness. Now I can wait.”
“What for?”
“Can you ask? Do you consider this a happy state of things?”
“Certainly not. But it can't be helped: and we have to thank you for it.”
“It could be helped in time. If you would persuade her to take the first
step.”
“What step?”
“Not to disown her husband. To let him at least be her friend--her
penitent, humble friend. We are man and wife. If I were to say so
publicly, she would admit it. In this respect at least I have been
generous: will she not be generous too? What harm could it do her if we
lived under the same roof, and I took her to the theater, and fetched her
home, and did little friendly offices for her?”
“And so got the thin edge of the wedge in, eh? Mr. Severne, I decline all
interference in a matter so delicate, and in favor of a person who would
use her as ill as ever, if he once succeeded in recovering her
affections.”
So then she dismissed him peremptorily.
But, true to Vizard's interest, she called on him again, and, after a few
preliminaries, let him know that Severne was every night behind the
scenes.
A spasm crossed his face. “I am quite aware of that,” said he. “But he is
never admitted into her house.”
“How do you know?”
“He is under constant surveillance.”
“Spies?”
“No. Thief-takers. All from Scotland Yard.”
“And love brings men down to this. What is it for?”
“When I am sure of your co-operation, I will let you know my hopes.”
“He doubts my friendship,” said Rhoda sorrowfully.
“No; only your discretion.”
“I will be discreet.”
“Well, then, sooner or later, he is sure to form some improper connection
or other; and then I hope you will aid me in persuading her to divorce
him.”
“That is not so easy in this country. It is not like our Western States,
where, the saying is, they give you five minutes at a railway station for
di--vorce.”
“You forget she is a German Protestant and the marriage was in that
country. It will be easy enough.”
“Very well; dismiss it from your mind. She will never come before the
public in that way. Nothing you nor I could urge would induce her.”
Vizard replied, doggedly, “I will never despair, so long as she keeps him
out of her house.”
Rhoda told Ina Klosking this, and said, “Now it is in your own hands. You
have only to let your charming villain into your house, and Mr. Vizard
will return to Islip.”
Ina Klosking buried her face in her hands, and thought.
At night, Vizard in his box, as usual. Severne behind the scenes with his
bouquet. But this night he stayed for the ballet, to see a French
danseuse who had joined them. He was acquainted with her before, and had
a sprightly conversation with her. In other words, he renewed an old
flirtation.
The next opera night all went as usual. Vizard in the box, looking sadder
than usual. Rhoda's good sense had not been entirely wasted. Severne,
with his bouquet, and his grave humility, until the play ended, and La
Klosking passed out into the hall. Her back was hardly turned when
Mademoiselle Lafontaine, dressed for the ballet, in a most spicy costume,
danced up to her old friend, and slapped his face very softly with a
rose, then sprung away and stood on her defense.
“I'll have that rose,” cried Severne.
“Nenni.”
“And a kiss into the bargain.”
“Jamais.”
“C'est ce que nous verrons.”
He chased her. She uttered a feigned “Ah!” and darted away. He followed
her; she crossed the scene at the back, where it was dark, bounded over
an open trap, which she saw just in time, but Severne, not seeing it,
because she was between him and it, fell through it, and, striking the
mazarine, fell into the cellar, fifteen feet below the stage.
The screams of the dancers soon brought a crowd round the trap, and
reached Mademoiselle Klosking just as she was going out to her carriage.
“There!” she cried. “Another accident!” and she came back, making sure it
was some poor carpenter come to grief, as usual. On such occasions her
purse was always ready.
They brought Severne up sensible, but moaning, and bleeding at the
temple, and looking all streaky about the face.
They were going to take him to the infirmary; but Mademoiselle Klosking,
with a face of angelic pity, said, “No; he bleeds, he bleeds. He must go
to my house.”
They stared a little; but it takes a good deal to astonish people in a
theater.
Severne was carried out, his head hastily bandaged, and he was lifted
into La Klosking's carriage. One of the people of the theater was
directed to go on the box, and La Klosking and Ashmead supported him, and
he was taken to her lodgings. She directed him to be laid on a couch, and
a physician sent for, Miss Gale not having yet returned from Liverpool,
whither she had gone to attend a lecture.
Ashmead went for the physician. But almost at the door he met Miss Gale
and Mr. Vizard.
“Miss,” said he, “you are wanted. There has been an accident. Mr. Severne
has fallen through a trap, and into the cellar.”
“No bones broken?”
“Not he: he has only broken his head; and that will cost her a broken
heart.”
“Where is he?”
“Where I hoped never to see him again.
“What! in her house?” said Rhoda and, hurried off at once.
“Mr. Ashmead,” said Vizard, “a word with you.”
“By all means, sir,” said Ashmead, “as we go for the doctor. Dr. Menteith
has a great name. He lives close by your hotel, sir.”
As they went, Vizard asked him what he meant by saying this accident
would cost her a broken heart.
“Why, sir,” said Ashmead, “he is on his good behavior to get back; has
been for months begging and praying just to be let live under the same
roof. She has always refused. But some fellows have such luck. I don't
say he fell down a trap on purpose; but he has done it, and no broken
bones, but plenty of blood. That is the very thing to overcome a woman's
feelings; and she is not proof against pity. He will have her again. Why,
she is his nurse now; and see how that will work. We have a week's more
business here; and, by bad luck, a dead fortnight, all along of Dublin
falling through unexpectedly. He is as artful as Old Nick; he will spin
out that broken head of his and make it last all the three weeks; and she
will nurse him, and he will be weak, and grateful, and cry, and beg her
pardon six times a day, and she is only a woman, after all: and they are
man and wife, when all is done: the road is beaten. They will run upon it
again, till his time is up to play the rogue as bad as ever.”
“You torture me,” said Vizard.
“I am afraid I do, sir. But I feel it my duty. Mr. Vizard, you are a
noble gentleman, and I am only what you see; but the humblest folk will
have their likes and dislikes, and I have a great respect for you, sir. I
can't tell you the mixture of things I feel when I see you in the same
box every night. Of course, I am her agent, and the house would not be
complete without you; but as a man I am sorry. Especially now that she
has let him into her house. Take a humble friend's advice, sir, and cut
it. Don't you come between any woman and her husband, especially a public
lady. She will never be more to you than she is. She is a good woman, and
he must keep gaining ground. He has got the pull. Rouse all your pride,
sir, and your manhood, and you have got plenty of both, and cut it; don't
look right nor left, but cut it--and forgive my presumption.”
Vizard was greatly moved. “Give me your hand,” he said; “you are a worthy
man. I'll act on your advice, and never forget what I owe you. Stick to
me like a leech, and see me off by the next train, for I am going to tear
my heart out of my bosom.”
Luckily there was a train in half an hour, and Ashmead saw him off; then
went to supper. He did not return to Ina's lodgings. He did not want to
see Severne nursed. He liked the fellow, too; but he saw through him
clean; and he worshiped Ina Klosking.