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The Woman Hater

C >> Charles Reade >> The Woman Hater




"Excuse me a minute," said Ina Klosking, and went hurriedly from the
room.

Ashmead thought her manner very strange, but concluded she was a little
unhinged by yesterday's excitement. Moreover, there faced him an omelet
of enormous size, and savory. He thought this worthy to divide a man's
attention even with the great creature's tantrums. He devoted himself to
it, and it occupied him so agreeably that he did not observe the conduct
of Mademoiselle Klosking on her return. She placed three photographs
softly on the table, not very far from him, and then resumed her seat;
but her eye never left him: and she gave monosyllabic and almost
impatient replies to everything he mumbled with his mouth full of omelet.

When he had done his omelet, he noticed the photographs. They were all
colored. He took one up. It was an elderly woman, sweet, venerable, and
fair-haired. He looked at Ina, and at the photograph, and said, "This is
your mother."

"It is."

"It is angelic--as might be expected."

He took up another.

"This is your brother, I suppose. Stop. Haloo!--what is this? Are my eyes
making a fool of me?"

He held out the photograph at arm's length, and stared from it to her.
"Why, madam," said he, in an awestruck voice, "this is the gentleman--the
player--I'd swear to him."

Ina started from her seat while he spoke. "Ah!" she cried, "I thought
so--my Edward!" and sat down, trembling violently.

Ashmead ran to her, and sprinkled water in her face, for she seemed ready
to faint: but she murmured, "No, no!" and soon the color rushed into her
face, and she clasped her hands together, and cried, "I have found him!"
and soon the storm of varying emotions ended in tears that gave her
relief.

It was a long time before she spoke; but when she did, her spirit and her
natural strength of character took the upper hand.

"Where is he?" said she, firmly.

"He told me he was at the 'Russie.' "

"We will go there at once. When is the next train?"

Ashmead looked at his watch. "In ten minutes. We can hardly do it."

"Yes, we can. Order a carriage this instant. I will be ready in one
minute."

They caught the train, and started.

As they glided along, Ashmead begged her not to act too hurriedly, and
expose herself to insult.

"Who will dare insult me?"

"Nobody, I hope. Still, I cannot bear you to go into a strange hotel
hunting this man. It is monstrous; but I am afraid you will not be
welcome. Something has just occurred to me; the reason he ran off so
suddenly was, he saw you coming. There was a mirror opposite. Ah, we need
not have feared he would come back for his winnings. Idiot--villain!"

"You stab me to the heart," said Ina. "He ran away at sight of me? Ah,
Jesu, pity me! What have I done to him?"

Honest Ashmead had much ado not to blubber at this patient cry of
anguish, though the woman herself shed no tear just then. But his
judgment was undimmed by passion, and he gave her the benefit. "Take my
advice," said he, "and work it this way. Come in a close carriage to the
side street that is nearest the Russie. I'll go in to the hotel and ask
for him by his name--what is his name?"

"Mr. Edward Severne."

"And say that I was afraid to stake his money, but a friend of mine, that
is a bold player, undertook it, and had a great run of luck. 'There is
money owing you,' says I, 'and my friend has brought it.' Then he is sure
to come. You will have your veil down, I'll open the carriage-door, and
tell him to jump in, and, when you have got him you must make him hear
reason. I'll give you a good chance--I'll shut the carriage-door."

Ina smiled at his ingenuity--her first smile that day. "You are indeed a
friend," said she. "He fears reproaches, but, when he finds he is
welcome, he will stay with me; and he shall have money to play with, and
amuse himself how he likes. I kept too tight a rein on him, poor fellow!
My good mother taught me prudence."

"Yes, but," said Ashmead, "you must promise me one thing: not to let him
know how much money you have won, and not to go, like a goose, and give
him a lot at once. It never pays to part with power in this wicked world.
You give him twenty pounds a day to play with whenever he is cleaned out.
Then the money will last your time, and he will never leave you."

"Oh, how cold-hearted and wise you are!" said she. "But such a
humiliating position for _him!"_

"Don't you be silly. You won't keep him any other way."

"I will be as wise as I can," sighed Ina. "I have had a bitter lesson.
Only bring him to me, and then, who knows? I am a change: my love may
revive his, and none of these pitiable precautions may be needed. They
would lower us both."

Ashmead groaned aloud. "I see," said he. "He'll soon clean you out. Ah,
well! he can't rob you of your voice, and he can't rob you of your
Ashmead."

They soon reached Frankfort. Ashmead put her into a carriage as agreed,
and went to the Russie.

Ina sat, with her veil down, in the carriage, and waited Ashmead's return
with Severne. He was a long time coming. She began to doubt, and then to
fear, and wonder why he was so long.

At last he came in sight.

He was alone.

As he drew nearer she saw his face was thoroughly downcast.

"My dear friend," he faltered, "you are out of luck to-day."

"He will not come with you?"

"Oh, he would come fast enough, if he was there; but he is gone."

"Gone! To Homburg?"

"No. Unfortunately, he is gone to England. Went off, by the fast train,
an hour ago."

Ina fell back in silence, just as if she had been struck in the face.

"He is traveling with an English family, and they have gone straight
home. Here are their names. I looked in the visitors' book, and talked to
the servant, and all. Mr. Vizard, Miss Vizard--"

"Vizard?"

"Yes--Miss Maitland, Miss Dover. See, I wrote them all down."

"Oh, I am unfortunate! Why was I ever born?"

"Don't say that, don't say that. It is annoying: but we shall be able to
trace him now; and, besides, I see other ways of getting hold of him."

Ina broke in upon his talk. "Take me to the nearest church," she cried.
"Man's words are vain. Ah, Jesu, let me cry to thee!"

He took her to the nearest church. She went in, and prayed for full two
hours. She came out, pale and listless, and Ashmead got her home how he
could. Her very body seemed all crushed and limp. Ashmead left her, sad
at heart himself.

So long as she was in sight Ashmead could think only of her misery: but
the moment she was out of sight, he remembered the theater. She was
announced for Rosina that very night. He saw trouble of all sorts before
him. He ran to the theater, in great alarm, and told the manager she had
been taken very ill. He must change the bill.

"Impossible!" was the reply. "If she can't sing, I close."

Ashmead went back to "The Star."

Ina was in her bedroom.

He sent in a line, "Can you sing tonight? If not he says he must close."

The reply came back in rather a trembling hand. "I suffer too much by
falsehood to break faith myself. I shall pray till night: and then I
shall sing. If I die on the stage, all the better for me."

Was not this a great soul?



CHAPTER XI.

THAT same morning our English party snatched a hasty breakfast in
traveling attire. Severne was not there; but sent word to Vizard he
should be there in time.

This filled the cup. Zoe's wounded pride had been rising higher and
higher all the night, and she came down rather pale, from broken rest,
and sternly resolved. She had a few serious words with Fanny, and
sketched her out a little map of conduct, which showed that she had
thought the matter well over.

But her plan bid fair to be deranged: Severne was not at the station:
then came a change. Zoe was restless, and cast anxious glances.

But at the second bell he darted into the carriage, as if he had just
dispatched some wonderful business to get there in time. While the train
was starting, he busied himself in arranging his things; but, once
started, he put on his sunny look and prepared to be, as usual, the life
and soul of the party.

But, for once, he met a frost. Zoe was wrapped in impenetrable _hauteur,_
and Fanny in polite indifference. Never was loss of favor more ably
marked without the least ill-breeding, and no good handle given to seek
an explanation.

No doubt a straightforward man, with justice on his side, would have
asked them plumply whether he had been so unfortunate as to offend, and
how; and this was what Zoe secretly wished, however she might seem to
repel it. But Severne was too crafty for that. He had learned the art of
waiting.

After a few efforts at conversation and smooth rebuffs, he put on a
surprised, mortified, and sorrowful air, and awaited the attack, which he
felt would come soon or late.

This skillful inertia baffled the fair, in a man; in a woman, they might
have expected it; and, after a few hours, Zoe's patience began to wear
out.

The train stopped for twenty minutes, and, even while they were snatching
a little refreshment, the dark locks and the blonde came very close
together; and Zoe, exasperated by her own wounded pride and the sullen
torpor of her lover, gave Fanny fresh instructions, which nobody was
better qualified to carry out than that young lady, as nobody was better
able to baffle female strategy than the gentleman.

This time, however, the ladies had certain advantages, to balance his
subtlety and his habit of stating anything, true or false, that suited
his immediate purpose.

They opened very cat-like. Fanny affected to be outgrowing her ill-humor,
and volunteered a civil word or two to Severne. Thereupon Zoe turned
sharply away from Fanny, as if she disapproved her conduct, and took a
book. This was pretty sly, and done, I suppose, to remove all idea of
concert between the fair assailants; whereas it was a secret signal for
the concert to come into operation, it being Fanny's part to play upon
Severne, and Zoe's to watch, from her corner, every lineament of his face
under fire.

"By-the-way, Mr. Severne," said Fanny, apropos of a church on a hill they
were admiring, "did you get your winnings?"

"My winnings! You are sarcastical."

"Am I? Really I did not intend to be."

"No, no; forgive me; but that did seem a little cruel. Miss Dover, I was
a heavy loser."

"Not while we were there. The lady and gentleman who played with your
money won, oh, such a deal!"

"The devil they did!"

"Yes. Did you not stay behind, last night, to get it? We never saw you at
the Russie."

"I was very ill."

"Bleeding at the nose?"

"No. That always relieves me when it comes. I am subject to fainting
fits: once I lay insensible so long they were going to bury me. Now, do
pray tell me what makes you fancy anybody won a lot with my money."

"Well, I will. You know you left fifty pounds for a friend to bet with."

Severne stared; but was too eager for information to question her how she
knew this. "Yes, I did," said he.

"And you really don't know what followed?"

"Good heavens! how can I?"

"Well, then, as you ran out--to faint, Mademoiselle Klosking came in,
just as she did at the opera, you know, the time before, when you ran
out--to bleed. She slipped into your chair, the very moment you left it;
and your friend with the flaming neck-tie told her you had set him to bet
with your money. By-the-by, Mr. Severne, how on earth do you and
Mademoiselle Klosking, who have both so much taste in dress, come to have
a mutual friend, vulgarity in person, with a velveteen coat and an
impossible neck-tie?"

"What are you talking about, Miss Dover? I do just know Mademoiselle
Klosking; I met her in society in Vienna, two years ago: but that cad I
commissioned to bet for me I never saw before in my life. You are keeping
me on tenter-hooks. My money--my money--my money! If you have a heart in
your bosom, tell me what became of my money."

He was violent, for the first time since they had known him, and his eyes
flashed fire.

"Well," said Fanny, beginning to be puzzled and rather frightened, "this
man, who you _say_ was a new acquaintance--"

"Whom I _say?_ Do you mean to tell me I am a liar?" He fumbled eagerly in
his breast-pocket, and produced a card. "There," said he, "this is the
card he gave me, 'Mr. Joseph Ashmead.' Now, may this train dash over the
next viaduct, and take you and Miss Vizard to heaven, and me to hell, if
I ever saw Mr. Joseph Ashmead's face before. THE MONEY!--THE MONEY!"

He uttered this furiously, and, it is a curious fact; but Zoe turned red,
and Fanny pale. It was really in quite a cowed voice Miss Dover went on
to say, "La! don't fly out like that. Well, then, the man refused to bet
with your money; so then Mademoiselle Klosking said she would; and she
played--oh, how she did play! She doubled, and doubled, and doubled,
hundreds upon hundreds. She made a mountain of gold and a pyramid of
bank-notes; and she never stopped till she broke the bank--there!"

"With my money?" gasped Severne.

"Yes; with your money. Your friend with the loud tie pocketed it; I beg
your pardon, not your friend--only hers. Harrington says he is her _cher
ami."_

"The money is mine!" he shrieked. "I don't care who played with it, it is
mine. And the fellow had the impudence to send me back my fifty pounds to
the Russie."

"What! you gave him your address?" this with an involuntary glance of
surprise at Zoe.

"Of course. Do you think I leave a man fifty pounds to play with, and
don't give him my address? He has won thousands with my money, and sent
me back my fifty, for a blind, the thief!"

"Well, really it is too bad," said Fanny. "But, there--I'm afraid you
must make the best of it. Of course, their sending back your fifty pounds
shows they mean to keep their winnings."

"You talk like a woman," said he; then, grinding his teeth, and
stretching out a long muscular arm, he said, "I'll take the blackguard by
the throat and tear it out of him, though I tear his life out along with
it."

All this time Zoe had been looking at him with concern, and even with
admiration. He seemed more beautiful than ever, to her, under the
influence of passion, and more of a man.

"Mr. Severne," said she, "be calm. Fanny has misled you, without
intending it. She did not hear all that passed between those two; I did.
The velveteen and neck-tie man refused to bet with your money. It was
Mademoiselle Klosking who bet, and with her own money. She took
twenty-five pounds of her own, and twenty-five pounds of yours, and won
two or three hundred in a few moments. Surely, as a gentleman, you cannot
ask a lady to do more than repay you your twenty-five pounds."

Severne was a little cowed by Zoe' s interference. He stood his ground;
but sullenly, instead of violently.

"Miss Vizard, if I were weak enough to trust a lady with my money at a
gambling table, I should expect foul play; for I never knew a lady yet
who would not cheat _at cards,_ if she could. I trusted my money to a
tradesman to bet with. If he takes a female partner, that is no business
of mine; he is responsible all the same, and I'll have my money."

He jumped up at the word, and looked out at the window; he even fumbled
with the door, and tried to open it.

"You had better jump out," said Fanny.

"And then they would keep my money for good. No;" said he, "I'll wait for
the nearest station." He sunk back into his seat, looking unutterable
things.

Fanny looked rather rueful at first; then she said, spitefully, "You must
be very sure of your influence with your old sweetheart. You forget she
has got another now--a tradesman, too. He will stick to the money, and
make her stick to it. Their sending the fifty pounds shows that."

Zoe's eyes were on him with microscopic power, and, with all his
self-command, she saw him wince and change color, and give other signs
that this shaft had told in many ways.

He shut his countenance the next moment; but it had opened, and Zoe was
on fire with jealousy and suspicion.

Fluctuating Fanny regretted the turn things had taken. She did not want
to lose a pleasant male companion, and she felt sure Zoe would be
unhappy, and cross to her, if he went. "Surely, Mr. Severne," she said,
"you will not desert us and go back for so small a chance. Why, we are a
hundred and fifty miles from Homburg, and all the nearer to dear old
England. There, there--we must be kinder to you, and make you forget this
misfortune."

Thus spoke the trimmer. The reply took her by surprise.

"And whose fault is it that I am obliged to get out a hundred and fifty
miles from Homburg? You knew all this. You could have got me a delay of a
few hours to go and get my due. You know I am a poor man. With all your
cleverness, you don't know what made me poor, or you would feel some
remorse, perhaps; but you know I am poor when most I could wish I were
rich. You have heard that old woman there fling my poverty in my teeth;
yet you could keep this from me--just to assist a cheat and play upon the
feelings of a friend. Now, what good has that done you, to inflict misery
on me in sport, on a man who never gave you a moment's pain if he could
help it?"

Fanny looked ruefully this way and that, her face began to work, and she
laid down her arms, if a lady can be said to do that who lays down a
strong weapon and takes up a stronger; in other words, she burst out
crying, and said no more. You see, she was poor herself.

Severne took no notice of her; he was accustomed to make women cry. He
thrust his head out of the window in hopes of seeing a station near, and
his whole being was restless as if he would like to jump out.

While he was in this condition of mind and body, the hand he had once
kissed so tenderly, and shocked Miss Maitland, passed an envelope over
his shoulder, with two lines written on it in pencil:

"If you GO BACK TO HOMBURG, oblige ME BY REMAINING there."





This demands an explanation; but it shall be brief.

Fanny's shrewd hint, that the money could only be obtained from Mdlle.
Klosking, had pierced Zoe through and through. Her mind grasped all that
had happened, all that impended, and, wisely declining to try and account
for, or reconcile, all the jarring details, she settled, with a woman's
broad instinct, that, somehow or other, his going back to Homburg meant
going back to Mademoiselle Klosking. Whether that lady would buy him or
not, she did not know. But going back to her meant going a journey to see
a rival, with consequences illimitable.

She had courage; she had pride; she had jealousy. She resolved to lose
her lover, or have him all to herself. Share him she would not, nor even
endure the torture of the doubt.

She took an envelope out of her satchel, and with the pencil attached to
her chatelaine wrote the fatal words, "If you go back to Homburg, oblige
me by remaining there."

At this moment she was not goaded by pique or any petty feeling. Indeed,
his reproach to Fanny had touched her a little, and it was with the tear
in her eye she came to the resolution, and handed him that line, which
told him she knew her value, and, cost what it might, would part with any
man forever rather than share him with the Klosking or any other woman.

Severne took the line, eyed it, realized it, fell back from the window,
and dropped into his seat. This gave Zoe a consoling sense of power. She
had seen her lover raging and restless, and wanting to jump out, yet now
beheld him literally felled with a word from her hand.

He leaned his head in his hand in a sort of broken-down, collapsed,
dogged way that moved her pity, though hardly her respect.

By-and-by it struck her as a very grave thing that he did not reply by
word, nor even by look. He could decide with a glance, and why did he
hesitate? Was he really balancing her against Mademoiselle Klosking
weighted with a share of his winnings?

This doubt was wormwood to her pride and self-respect; but his crushed
attitude allayed in some degree the mere irritation his doubt caused.

The minutes passed and the miles: still that broken figure sat before
her, with his face hidden by his white hand.

Zoe's courage began to falter. Misgivings seized her. She had made that a
matter of love which, after all, to a man, might be a mere matter of
business. He was poor, too, and she had thrust her jealousy between him
and money. He might have his pride too, and rebel against her affront.

As for his thoughts, under that crushed exterior, which he put on for a
blind, they were so deliberate and calculating that I shall not mix them
on this page with that pure and generous creature's. Another time will do
to reveal his sordid arithmetic. As for Zoe, she settled down into
wishing, with all her heart, she had not submitted her lover so
imperiously to a test, the severity of which she now saw she had
underrated.

Presently the speed of the train began to slacken--all too soon. She now
dreaded to learn her fate. Was she, or was she not, worth a few thousand
pounds ready money?

A signal-post was past, proving that they were about to enter a station.
Yet another. Now the wheels were hardly turning. Now the platform was
visible. Yet he never moved his white, delicate, womanish fingers from
his forehead, but remained still absorbed, and looked undecided.

At last the motion entirely ceased. Then, as she turned her head to
glean, if possible, the name of the place, he stole a furtive glance at
her. She was pallid, agitated. He resolved upon his course.

As soon as the train stopped, he opened the door and jumped out, without
a word to Zoe, or even a look.

Zoe turned pale as death. "I have lost him," said she.

"No, no," cried Fanny. "See, he has not taken his cane and umbrella."

_"They_ will not keep him from flying to his money and her," moaned Zoe.
"Did you not see? He never once looked at me. He could not. I am sick at
heart."

This set Fanny fluttering. "There, let me out to speak to him."

"Sit quiet," said Zoe, sternly.

"No; no. If you love him--"

"I do love him--passionately. And _therefore_ I'll die rather than share
him with any one."

"But it is dreadful to be fixed here, and not allowed to move hand or
foot."

"It is the lot of women. Let me feel the hand of a friend, that is all;
for I am sick at heart."

Fanny gave her her hand, and all the sympathy her shallow nature had to
bestow.

Zoe sat motionless, gripping her friend's hand almost convulsively, a
statue of female fortitude.

This suspense could not last long. The officials ordered the travelers to
the carriages; doors were opened and slammed; the engine gave a snort,
and only at that moment did Mr. Edward Severne tear the door open and
bolt into the carriage.

Oh, it was pitiable, but lovely, to see the blood rush into Zoe's face,
and the fire into her eye, and the sweet mouth expand in a smile of joy
and triumph!

She sat a moment, almost paralyzed with pleasure, and then cast her eyes
down, lest their fire should proclaim her feelings too plainly.

As for Severne, he only glanced at her as he came in, and then shunned
her eye. He presented to her the grave, resolved countenance of a man who
has been forced to a decision, but means to abide by it.

In reality he was delighted at the turn things had taken. The money was
not necessarily lost, since he knew where it was; and Zoe had compromised
herself beyond retreating. He intended to wear this anxious face a long
while. But his artificial snow had to melt, so real a sun shone full on
it. The moment he looked full at Zoe, she repaid him with such a
point-blank beam of glorious tenderness and gratitude as made him thrill
with passion as well as triumph. He felt her whole heart was his, and
from that hour his poverty would never be allowed to weigh with her. He
cleared up, and left off acting, because it was superfluous; he had now
only to bask in sunshine. Zoe, always tender, but coy till this moment,
made love to him like a young goddess. Even Fanny yielded to the solid
proof of sincerity he had given, and was downright affectionate.

He was king. And from one gradation to another, they entered Cologne with
Severne seated between the two girls, each with a hand in his, and a
great disposition to pet him and spoil him; more than once, indeed, a
delicate head just grazed each of his square shoulders; but candor
compels me to own that their fatigue and the yawing of the carriage at
the time were more to blame than the tired girls; for at the enormity
there was a prompt retirement to a distance. Miss Maitland had been a
long time in the land of Nod; and Vizard, from the first, had preferred
male companions and tobacco.

At Cologne they visited the pride of Germany, that mighty cathedral which
the Middle Ages projected, commenced, and left to decay of old age before
completion, and our enterprising age will finish; but they departed on
the same day.

Before they reached England, the love-making between Severne and Zoe,
though it never passed the bounds of good taste, was so apparent to any
female eye that Miss Maitland remonstrated severely with Fanny.

But the trimmer was now won to the other side. She would not offend Aunt
Maitland by owning her conversion. She said, hypocritically, "I am afraid
it is no use objecting at present, aunt. The attachment is too strong on
both sides. And, whether he is poor or not, he has sacrificed his money
to her feelings, and so, now, she feels bound in honor. I know her; she
won't listen to a word now, aunt: why irritate her? She would quarrel
with both of us in a moment."

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