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The Woman Hater

C >> Charles Reade >> The Woman Hater




Thus forewarned, Vizard, in due course, paid his second visit to Ina
Klosking.

He found her propped up with pillows this time. She begged him to be
seated.

She had evidently something on her mind, and her nurses watched her like
cats.

"You are fond of music, sir?"

"Not of all music. I adore good music, I hate bad, and I despise
mediocre. Silence is golden, indeed, compared with poor music."

"You are right, sir. Have you good music in the house?"

"A little. I get all the operas, and you know there are generally one or
two good things in an opera--among the rubbish. But the great bulk of our
collection is rather old-fashioned. It is sacred music--oratorios,
masses, anthems, services, chants. My mother was the collector. Her
tastes were good, but narrow. Do you care for that sort of music?"

"Sacred music? Why, it is, of all music, the most divine, and soothes the
troubled soul. Can I not see the books? I read music like words. By
reading I almost hear."

"We will bring you up a dozen books to begin on."

He went down directly; and such was his pleasure in doing anything for
the Klosking that he executed the order in person, brought up a little
pile of folios and quartos, beautifully bound and lettered, a lady having
been the collector.

Now, as he mounted the stairs, with his very chin upon the pile, who
should he see looking over the rails at him but his sister Zoe.

She was sadly changed. There was a fixed ashen pallor on her cheek, and a
dark circle under her eyes.

He stopped to look at her. "My poor child," said he, "you look very ill."

"I am very ill, dear."

"Would you not be better for a change?"

"I might."

"Why coop yourself up in your own room? Why deny yourself a brother's
sympathy?"

The girl trembled, and tears came to her eyes.

"Is it with me you sympathize?" said she.

"Can you doubt it, Zoe?"

Zoe hung her head a moment, and did not reply. Then she made a diversion.
"What are those books? Oh, I see--your mother's music-books. Nothing is
too good for _her."_

"Nothing in the way of music-books is too good for her. For shame! are
you jealous of that unfortunate lady?"

Zoe made no reply.

She put her hands before her face, that Vizard might not see her mind.

Then he rested his books on a table, and came and took her head in his
hands paternally. "Do not shut yourself up any longer. Solitude is
dangerous to the afflicted. Be more with me than ever, and let this cruel
blow bind us more closely, instead of disuniting us."

He kissed her lovingly, and his kind words set her tears flowing; but
they did her little good--they were bitter tears. Between her and her
brother there was now a barrier sisterly love could not pass. He hated
and despised Edward Severne; and she only distrusted him, and feared he
was a villain. She loved him still with every fiber of her heart, and
pined for his explanation of all that seemed so dark.

So then he entered the sick-room with his music-books; and Zoe, after
watching him in without seeming to do so, crept away to her own room.

Then there was rather a pretty little scene. Miss Gale and Miss Dover, on
each side of the bed, held a heavy music-book, and Mademoiselle Klosking
turned the leaves and read, when the composition was worth reading. If it
was not, she quietly passed it over, without any injurious comment.

Vizard watched her from the foot of the bed, and could tell in a moment,
by her face, whether the composition was good, bad, or indifferent. When
bad, her face seemed to turn impassive, like marble; when good, to
expand; and when she lighted on a masterpiece, she was almost
transfigured, and her face shone with elevated joy.

This was a study to the enamored Vizard, and it did not escape the
quick-sighted doctress. She despised music on its own merits, but she
despised nothing that could be pressed into the service of medicine; and
she said to herself, "I'll cure her with esculents and music."

The book was taken away to make room for another.

Then said Ina Klosking, "Mr. Vizard, I desire to say a word to you.
Excuse me, my dear friends."

Miss Gale colored up. She had not foreseen a _te'te-'a-te'te_ between
Vizard and her patient. However, there was no help for it, and she
withdrew to a little distance with Fanny; but she said to Vizard, openly
and expressively, "Remember!"

When they had withdrawn a little way, Ina Klosking fixed her eyes on
Vizard, and said, in a low voice, "Your sister!"

Vizard started a little at the suddenness of this, but he said nothing:
he did not know what to say.

When she had waited a little, and he said nothing, she spoke again. "Tell
me something about her. Is she good? Forgive me: it is not that I doubt."

"She is good, according to her lights."

"Is she proud?"

"Yes."

"Is she just?"

"No. And I never met a woman that was."

"Indeed it is rare. Why does she not visit me?"

"I don't know"

"She blames me for all that has happened."

"I don't know, madam. My sister looks very ill, and keeps her own room.
If she does not visit you, she holds equally aloof from us all. She has
not taken a single meal with me for some days."

"Since I was your patient and your guest."

"Pray do not conclude from that--Who can interpret a woman?"

"Another woman. Enigmas to you, we are transparent to each other. Sir,
will you grant me a favor? Will you persuade Miss Vizard to see me here
alone--all alone? It will be a greater trial to me than to her, for I am
weak. In this request I am not selfish. She can do nothing for me; but I
can do a little for her, to pay the debt of gratitude I owe this
hospitable house. May Heaven bless it, from the roof to the foundation
stone!"

"I will speak to my sister, and she shall visit you--with the consent of
your physician."

"It is well," said Ina Klosking, and beckoned her friends, one of whom,
Miss Gale, proceeded to feel her pulse, with suspicious glances at
Vizard. But she found the pulse calm, and said so.

Vizard took his leave and went straight to Zoe's room. She was not there.
He was glad of that, for it gave him hopes she was going to respect his
advice and give up her solitary life.

He went downstairs and on to the lawn to look for her. He could not see
her anywhere.

At last, when he had given up looking for her, he found her in his study
crouched in a corner.


She rose at sight of him and stood before him. "Harrington," said she, in
rather a commanding way, "Aunt Maitland is ill, and I wish to go to her."

Harrington stared at her with surprise. "You are not well enough
yourself."

"Quite well enough in body to go anywhere."

"Well, but--" said Harrington.

She caught him up impatiently. "Surely you cannot object to my visiting
Aunt Maitland. She is dangerously ill. I had a second letter this
morning--see." And she held him out a letter.

Harrington was in a difficulty. He felt sure this was not her real
motive; but he did not like to say so harshly to an unhappy girl. He took
a moderate course. "Not just now, dear," said he.

"What! am I to wait till she dies?" cried Zoe, getting agitated at his
opposition.

"Be reasonable, dear. You know you are the mistress of this house. Do not
desert me just now. Consider the position. It is a very chattering
county. I entertain Mademoiselle Klosking; I could not do otherwise when
she was nearly killed in my hall. But for my sister to go away while she
remains here would have a bad effect."

"It is too late to think of that, Harrington. The mischief is done, and
you must plead your eccentricity. Why should I bear the blame? I never
approved it."

"You would have sent her to an inn, eh?"

"No; but Miss Gale offered to take her."

"Then I am to understand that you propose to mark your reprobation of my
conduct by leaving my house."

"What! publicly? Oh no. You may say to yourself that your sister could
not bear to stay under the same roof with Mr. Severne's mistress. But
this chattering county shall never know my mind. My aunt is dangerously
ill. She lives but thirty miles off. She is a fit object of pity. She is
a--respectable--lady; she is all alone; no female physician, no flirt
turned Sister of Charity, no woman-hater, to fetch and carry for her. And
so I shall go to her. I am your sister, not your slave. If you grudge me
your horses, I will go on foot."

Vizard was white with wrath, but governed himself like a man. "Go on,
young lady!" said he; "go on! Jeer, and taunt, and wound the best brother
any young madwoman ever had. But don't think I'll answer you as you
deserve. I'm too cunning. If I was to say an unkind word to you, I should
suffer the tortures of the damned. So go on!"

"No, no. Forgive me, Harrington. It is your opposition that drives me
wild. Oh, have pity on me! I shall go mad if I stay here. Do, pray, pray,
pray let me go to Aunt Maitland!"

"You shall go, Zoe. But I tell you plainly, this step will be a blow to
our affection--the first."

Zoe cried at that. But as she did not withdraw her request, Harrington
told her, with cold civility, that she must be good enough to be ready
directly after breakfast to-morrow, and take as little luggage as she
could with convenience to herself.





Horses were sent on that night to the "Fox," an inn half-way between
Vizard Court and Miss Maitland's place.

In the morning a light barouche, with a sling for luggage, came round,
and Zoe was soon seated in it. Then, to her surprise, Harrington came out
and sat beside her.

She was pleased at this and said, "What! are you going with me, dear, all
that way?"

"Yes, to save appearances," said he; and took out a newspaper to read.

This froze Zoe, and she retired within herself.

It was a fine fresh morning; the coachman drove fast; the air fanned her
cheek; the motion was enlivening; the horses's hoofs rang quick and clear
upon the road. Fresh objects met the eye every moment. Her heart was as
sad and aching as before, but there arose a faint encouraging sense that
some day she might be better, or things might take some turn.

When they had rolled about ten miles she said, in a low voice,
"Harrington."

"Well?"

"You were right. Cooping one's self up is the way to go mad."

"Of course it is."

"I feel a little better now--a very little."

"I am glad of it."

But he was not hearty, and she said no more.

He was extremely attentive to her all the journey, and, indeed, had never
been half so polite to her.

This, however, led to a result he did not intend nor anticipate. Zoe,
being now cool, fell into a state of compunction and dismay. She saw his
affection leaving her for _her,_ and stiff politeness coming instead.

She leaned forward, put her hands on his knees, and looked, all scared,
in his face. "Harrington," she cried, "I was wrong. What is Aunt Maitland
to me? You are my all. Bid him turn the horses' heads and go home."

"Why, we are only six miles from the place."

"What does that matter? We shall have had a good long drive together, and
I will dine with you after it; and I will ride or drive with you every
day, if you will let me."

Vizard could not help smiling. He was disarmed. "You impulsive young
monkey," said he, "I shall do nothing of the kind. In the first place, I
couldn't turn back from anything; I'm only a man. In the next place, I
have been thinking it over, as you have; and this is a good move of ours,
though I was a little mortified at first. Occupation is the best cure of
love, and this old lady will find you plenty. Besides, nursing improves
the character. Look at that frivolous girl Fanny, how she has come out.
And you know, Zoe, if you get sick of it in a day or two, you have only
to write to me, and I will send for you directly. A short absence, with
so reasonable a motive as visiting a sick aunt, will provoke no comments.
It is all for the best."

This set Zoe at her ease, and brother and sister resumed their usual
manners.

They reached Miss Maitland's house, and were admitted to her sick-room.
She was really very ill, and thanked them so pathetically for coming to
visit a poor lone old woman that now they were both glad they had come.

Zoe entered on her functions with an alacrity that surprised herself, and
Vizard drove away. But he did not drive straight home. He had started
from Vizard Court with other views. He had telegraphed Lord Uxmoor the
night before, and now drove to his place, which was only five miles
distant. He found him at home, and soon told him his errand. "Do you
remember meeting a young fellow at my house, called Severne?"

"I do," said Lord Uxmoor, dryly enough.

"Well, he has turned out an impostor."

Uxmoor's eye flashed. He had always suspected Severne of being his rival
and a main cause of his defeat. "An impostor?" said he: "that is rather a
strong word. Certainly I never heard a gentleman tell such a falsehood as
he volunteered about--what's the fellow's name?--a detective."

"Oh, Poikilus. That is nothing. That was one of his white lies. He is a
villain all round, and a forger by way of climax."

"A forger! What, a criminal?"

"Rather! Here are his drafts. The drawer and acceptor do not exist. The
whole thing was written by Edward Severne, whose indorsement figures on
the bill. He got me to cash these bills. I deposit them with you, and I
ask you for a warrant to commit him--if he should come this way."

"Is that likely?"

"Not at all; it is a hundred to one he never shows his nose again in
Barfordshire. When he was found out, he bolted, and left his very clothes
in my house. I packed them off to the 'Swan' at Taddington. He has never
been heard of since; and I have warned him, by advertisement, that he
will be arrested if ever he sets foot in Barfordshire."

"Well, then?"

"Well, then, I am not going to throw away a chance. The beggar had the
impudence to spoon on my sister Zoe. That was my fault, not hers. He was
an old college acquaintance, and I gave him opportunities--I deserve to
be horsewhipped. However, I am not going to commit the same blunder
twice. My sister is in your neighborhood for a few days."

"Ah!"

"And perhaps you will be good enough to keep your eye on her."

"I feel much honored by such a commission. But you have not told me where
Miss Vizard is."

"With her aunt, Miss Maitland, at Somerville Villa, near Bagley. Apropos,
I had better tell you what she is there for, or your good dowager will be
asking her to parties. She has come to nurse her aunt Maitland. The old
lady is seriously ill, and all our young coquettes are going in for
nursing. We have a sick lady at our house, I am sorry to say, and she is
nursed like a queen by Doctress Gale and ex Flirt Fanny Dover. Now is
fulfilled the saying that was said,

'O woman! in our hours of ease--'

I spare you the rest, and simply remark that our Zoe, fired by the
example of those two ladies, has devoted herself to nursing Aunt
Maitland. It is very good of her, but experience tells me she will very
soon find it extremely trying; and as she is a very pretty girl, and
therefore a fit subject of male charity, you might pay her a visit now
and then, and show her that this best of all possible worlds contains
young gentlemen of distinction, with long and glossy beards, as well as
peevish old women, who are extra selfish and tyrannical when they happen
to be sick."

Uxmoor positively radiated as this programme was unfolded to him. Vizard
observed that, and chuckled inwardly.

He then handed him the forged acceptances.

Lord Uxmoor begged him to write down the facts on paper, and also his
application for the warrant. He did so. Lord Uxmoor locked the paper up,
and the friends parted. Vizard drove off, easy in his mind, and
congratulating himself, not unreasonably, on his little combination, by
means of which he had provided his sister with a watch-dog, a companion,
and an honorable lover all in one.

Uxmoor put on his hat and strode forth into his own grounds, with his
heart beating high at this strange turn of things in favor of his love.

Neither foresaw the strange combinations which were to arise out of an
event that appeared so simple and one-sided.



CHAPTER XXII.

INA KLOSKING'S cure was retarded by the state of her mind. The excitement
and sharp agony her physician had feared died away as the fever of the
brain subsided; but then there settled down a grim, listless lethargy,
which obstructed her return to health and vigor. Once she said to Rhoda
Gale, "But I have nothing to get well for."

As a rule, she did not speak her mind, but thought a great deal. She
often asked after Zoe; and her nurses could see that her one languid
anxiety was somehow connected with that lady. Yet she did not seem
hostile to her now, nor jealous. It was hard to understand her; she was
reserved, and very deep.

The first relief to the deadly languor of her mind came to her from
Music. That was no great wonder; but, strange to say, the music that did
her good was neither old enough to be revered, nor new enough to be
fashionable. It was English music too, and _passe'_ music. She came
across a collection of Anglican anthems and services--written, most of
it, toward the end of the last century and the beginning of this. The
composers' names promised little: they were Blow, Nares, Green, Kent,
King, Jackson, etc. The words and the music of these compositions seemed
to suit one another; and, as they were all quite new to her, she went
through them almost eagerly, and hummed several of the strains, and with
her white but now thin hand beat time to others. She even sent for
Vizard, and said to him, "You have a treasure here. Do you know these
compositions?"

He inspected his treasure. "I remember," said he, "my mother used to sing
this one, 'When the Eye saw Her, then it blessed Her;' and parts of this
one, 'Hear my Prayer;' and, let me see, she used to sing this psalm,
'Praise the Lord,' by Jackson. I am ashamed to say I used to ask for
'Praise the Lord Jackson,' meaning to be funny, not devout."

"She did not choose ill," said Ina. "I thought I knew English music, yet
here is a whole stream of it new to me. Is it esteemed?"

"I think it was once, but it has had its day."

"That is strange; for here are some immortal qualities. These composers
had brains, and began at the right end; they selected grand and tuneful
words, great and pious thoughts; they impregnated themselves with those
words and produced appropriate music. The harmonies are sometimes thin,
and the writers seem scarcely to know the skillful use of discords; but
they had heart and invention; they saw their way clear before they wrote
the first note; there is an inspired simplicity and fervor: if all these
choice things are dead, they must have fallen upon bad interpreters."

"No doubt," said Vizard; "so please get well, and let me hear these pious
strains, which my poor dear mother loved so well, interpreted worthily."

The Klosking's eyes filled. "That is a temptation," said she, simply.
Then she turned to Rhoda Gale. "Sweet physician, he has done me good. He
has given me something to get well for."

Vizard's heart yearned. "Do not talk like that," said he, buoyantly;
then, in a broken voice, "Heaven forbid you should have nothing better to
live for than that."

"Sir," said she, gravely, "I have nothing better to live for now than to
interpret good music worthily."

There was a painful silence.

Ina broke it. She said, quite calmly, "First of all, I wish to know how
others interpret these strains your mother loved, and I have the honor to
agree with her."

"Oh," said Vizard, "we will soon manage that for you. These things are
not defunct, only unfashionable. Every choir in England has sung them,
and can sing them, after a fashion; so, at twelve o'clock to-morrow, look
out--for squalls!"

He mounted his horse, rode into the cathedral town--distant eight
miles--and arranged with the organist for himself, four leading boys, and
three lay clerks. He was to send a carriage in for them after the morning
service, and return them in good time for vespers.

Fanny told Ina Klosking, and she insisted on getting up.

By this time Doctress Gale had satisfied herself that a little excitement
was downright good for her patient, and led to refreshing sleep. So they
dressed her loosely but very warmly, and rolled her to the window on her
invalid couch, set at a high angle. It was a fine clear day in October,
keen but genial; and after muffling her well, they opened the window.

While she sat there, propped high, and inhaling the pure air, Vizard
conveyed his little choir, by another staircase, into the antechamber;
and, under his advice, they avoided preludes and opened in full chorus
with Jackson's song of praise.

At the first burst of sacred harmony, Ina Klosking was observed to quiver
all over.

They sung it rather coarsely, but correctly and boldly, and with a
certain fervor. There were no operatic artifices to remind her of earth;
the purity and the harmony struck her full. The great singer and sufferer
lifted her clasped hands to God, and the tears flowed fast down her
cheeks.

These tears were balm to that poor lacerated soul, tormented by many
blows.

"O lacrymarum fons, tenero sacros Ducemtium ortus ex animo, quater Felix,
in imo qui scatentem Pectore, te, pia nympha, sensit."

Rhoda Gale, who hated music like poison, crept up to her, and, infolding
her delicately, laid a pair of wet eyes softly on her shoulder.

Vizard now tapped at the door, and was admitted from the music-room. He
begged Ina to choose another composition from her book. She marked a
service and two anthems, and handed him the volume, but begged they might
not be done too soon, one after the other. That would be quite enough for
one day, especially if they would be good enough to repeat the hymn of
praise to conclude; "for," said she, "these are things to be digested."

Soon the boys' pure voices rose again and those poor dead English
composers, with prosaic names, found their way again to the great foreign
singer's soul.

They sung an anthem, which is now especially despised by those great
critics, the organists of the country--"My Song shall be of Mercy and
Judgment."

The Klosking forgave the thinness of the harmony, and many little faults
in the vocal execution. The words, no doubt, went far with her, being
clearly spoken. She sat meditating, with her moist eyes raised, and her
face transfigured, and at the end she murmured to Vizard, with her eyes
still raised, "After all, they are great and pious words, and the music
has at least this crowning virtue--it means the words." Then she suddenly
turned upon him and said, "There is another person in this house who
needs this consolation as much as I do. Why does she not come? But
perhaps she is with the musicians."

"Whom do you mean?"

"Your sister."

"Why, she is not in the house."

Ina Klosking started at that information, and bent her eyes keenly and
inquiringly on him.

"She left two days ago."

"Indeed!"

"To nurse a sick aunt."

"Indeed! Had she no other reason?"

"Not that I know of," said Vizard; but he could not help coloring a
little.

The little choir now sung a service, King in F. They sung "The
Magnificat" rudely, and rather profanely, but recovered themselves in the
"Dimittis."

When it was over, Ina whispered, "'To be a light to lighten the
Gentiles.' That is an inspired duet. Oh, how it might be sung!"

"Of course it might," whispered Vizard; "so you have something to get
well for."

"Yes, my friend--thanks to you and your sainted mother."

This, uttered in a voice which, under the healing influence of music,
seemed to have regained some of its rich melody, was too much for our
cynic, and he bustled off to hide his emotion, and invited the musicians
to lunch.

All the servants had been listening on the stairs, and the hospitable old
butler plied the boys with sparkling Moselle, which, being himself reared
on mighty Port; he thought a light and playful wine--just the thing for
women and children. So after luncheon they sung rather wild, and the
Klosking told Vizard, dryly, that would do for the present.

Then he ordered the carriage for them, and asked Mademoiselle Klosking
when she would like them again.

"When _can_ I?" she inquired, rather timidly.

"Every day, if you like--Sundays and all."

"I must be content with every other day."

Vizard said he would arrange it so, and was leaving her; but she begged
him to stay a moment.

"She would be safer here," said she, very gravely.

Vizard was taken aback by the suddenness of this return to a topic he was
simple enough to think she had abandoned. However, he said, "She is safe
enough. I have taken care of that, you may be sure."

"You have done well, sir," said Ina, very gravely.

She said no more to him; but just before dinner Fanny came in, and Miss
Gale went for a walk in the garden. Ina pinned Fanny directly. "Where is
Miss Vizard?" said she, quietly.

Fanny colored up; but seeing in a moment that fibs would be dangerous,
said, mighty carelessly, "She is at Aunt Maitland's."

"Where does _she_ live, dear?"

"In a poky little place called 'Somerville Villa.'"

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