Emilie Kip Baker - "Short Stories and Selections for Use in the Secondary Schools"

Talbot Mundy - "Told in the East"

Eliza Lee Follen - "Travellers' Stories"

William Shakespeare - "Measure for Measure"

The Woman Hater

C >> Charles Reade >> The Woman Hater




"Of course you shall," said he; and overwhelmed her with expressions of
gratitude, respect, and affection.

This soothed her troubled mind, and she let him take her hand and pour
his honeyed flatteries into her ear, as he walked her slowly up and down.

She could hardly tear herself away from the soft pressure of his hand and
the fascination of his tongue, and she left him, more madly in love with
him than ever, and ready to face anything but dishonor for him. She was
to come out at twelve o'clock, and walk into Bagley with him to betroth
herself to him, as she chose to consider it, before the stipendiary
magistrate, who married couples in that way. Of the two marriages she had
consented to, merely as preliminaries to a real marriage, Zoe despised
this the most; for the Scotch marriage was, at all events, ancient, and
respectable lovers had been driven to it again and again.

She was behind her time, and Severne thought her courage had failed her,
after all. But no: at half-past twelve she came out, and walked briskly
toward Bagley.

He was behind her, and followed her. She took his arm nervously. "Let me
feel you all the way," she said, "to give me courage."

So they walked arm-in-arm; and, as they went, his courage secretly
wavered, her's rose at every step.

About half a mile from the town they met a carriage and pair.

At sight of them a gentleman on the box tapped at the glass window, and
said, hurriedly, "Here they are _together."_

Mademoiselle Klosking said, "Stop the carriage": then, pausing a little,
"Mr. Vizard--on your word of honor, no violence."

The carriage was drawn up, Ashmead opened the door in a trice, and La
Klosking, followed by Vizard, stepped out, and stood like a statue before
Edward Severne and Zoe Vizard.

Severne dropped her arm directly, and was panic-stricken.

Zoe uttered a little scream at the sight of Vizard; but the next moment
took fire at her rival's audacity, and stepped boldly before her lover,
with flashing eyes and expanded nostrils that literally breathed
defiance.



CHAPTER XXVII.

"YOU infernal scoundrel!" roared Vizard, and took a stride toward
Severne.

"No violence," said Ina Klosking, sternly: "it will be an insult to this
lady and me."

"Very well, then," said Vizard, grimly, "I must wait till I catch him
alone."

"Meantime, permit me to speak, sir," said Ina. "Believe me, I have a
better right than even you."

"Then pray ask my sister why I find her on that villain's arm."

"I should not answer her," said Zoe, haughtily. "But my brother I will.
Harrington, all this vulgar abuse confirms me in my choice: I take his
arm because I have accepted his hand. I am going into Bagley with him to
become his wife."

This announcement took away Vizard's breath for a moment, and Ina
Klosking put in her word. "You cannot do that: pray he warned. He is
leading you to infamy."

"Infamy! What, because he cannot give me a suit of sables? Infamy!
because we prefer virtuous poverty to vice and wealth?"

"No, young lady," said Ina, coloring faintly at the taunt; "but because
you could only be his paramour; not his wife. He is married already."

At these words, spoken with that power Ina Klosking could always command,
Zoe Vizard turned ashy pale. But she fought on bravely.

"Married? It is false! To whom?"

"To me."

"I thought so. Now I know it is not true. He left you months before we
ever knew him."

"Look at him. He does not say it is false."

Zoe turned on Severne, and at his face her own heart quaked. "Are you
married to this lady?" she asked; and her eyes, dilated to their full
size, searched his every feature.

"Not that I know of," said he, impudently.

"Is that the serious answer you expected, Miss Vizard?" said Ina, keenly:
then to Severne, "You are unwise to insult the woman on whom, from this
day, you must depend for bread. Miss Vizard, to you I speak, and not to
this shameless man. For your mother's sake, do me justice. I have loved
him dearly; but now I abhor him. Would I could break the tie that binds
us and give him to you, or to any lady who would have him! But I cannot.
And shall I hold my tongue, and let you be ruined and dishonored? I am an
older woman than you, and bound by gratitude to all your house. Dear
lady, I have taxed my strength to save you. I feel that strength waning.
Pray read this paper, and consent to save _yourself."_

"I will read it," said Rhoda Gale, interfering. "I know German. It is an
authorized duplicate certifying the marriage of Edward Severne, of
Willingham, in Huntingdonshire, England, to Ina Ferris, daughter of
Walter Ferris and Eva Klosking, of Zutzig, in Denmark. The marriage was
solemnized at Berlin, and here are the signatures of several witnesses:
Eva Klosking; Fraulein Graafe; Zug, the Capellmeister; Vicomte Meurice,
French _attache';_ Count Hompesch, Bavarian plenipotentiary; Herr
Formes."

Ina explained, in a voice that was now feeble, "I was a public character;
my marriage was public: not like the clandestine union which is all he
dared offer to this well-born lady."

"The Bavarian and French ministers are both in London," said Vizard,
eagerly. "We can easily learn if these signatures are forged, like _your_
acceptances."

But, if one shadow of doubt remained, Severne now removed it; he uttered
a scream of agony, and fled as if the demons of remorse and despair were
spurring him with red-hot rowels.

"There, you little idiot!" roared Vizard; "does that open you eyes?"

"Oh, Mr. Vizard," said Ina, reproachfully, "for pity's sake, think only
of her youth, and what she has to suffer. I can do no more for her: I
feel--so--faint."

Ashmead and Rhoda supported her into the carriage. Vizard, touched to the
heart by Ina's appeal, held out his eloquent arms to his stricken sister,
and she tottered to him, and clung to him, all limp and broken, and
wishing she could sink out of the sight of all mankind. He put his strong
arm round her, and, though his own heart was desolate and broken, he
supported that broken flower of womanhood, and half led, half lifted her
on, until he laid her on a sofa in Somerville Villa. Then, for the first
time, he spoke to her. "We are both desolate, now, my child. Let us love
one another. I will be ten times tenderer to you than I ever have been."
She gave a great sob, but she was past speaking.





Ina Klosking, Miss Gale, and Ashmead returned in the carriage to Bagley.
Half a mile out of the town they found a man lying on the pathway, with
his hat off, and white as a sheet. It was Edward Severne. He had run till
he dropped.

Ashmead got down and examined him. He came back to the carriage door,
looking white enough himself. "It is all over," said he; "the man is
dead."

Miss Gale was out in a moment and examined him. "No," said she. "The
heart does not beat perceptibly; but he breathes. It is another of those
seizures. Help me get him into the carriage."

This was done, and the driver ordered to go a foot's pace.

The stimulants Miss Gale had brought for Ina Klosking were now applied to
revive this malefactor; and both ladies actually ministered to him with
compassionate faces. He was a villain; but he was superlatively handsome,
and a feather might turn the scale of life or death.

The seizure, though really appalling to look at, did not last long. He
revived a little in the carriage, and was taken, still insensible, but
breathing hard, into a room in the railway hotel. When he was out of
danger, Miss Gale felt Ina Klosking's pulse, and insisted on her going to
Taddington by the next train and leaving Severne to the care of Mr.
Ashmead.

Ina, who, in truth, was just then most unfit for any more trials, feebly
consented, but not until she had given Ashmead some important
instructions respecting her malefactor, and supplied him with funds. Miss
Gale also instructed Ashmead how to proceed in case of a relapse, and
provided him with materials.

The ladies took a train, which arrived soon after; and, being so
fortunate as to get a lady's carriage all to themselves, they sat
intertwined and rocking together, and Ina Klosking found relief at last
in a copious flow of tears.

Rhoda got her to Hillstoke, cooked for her, nursed her, lighted fires,
aired her bed, and these two friends slept together in each other's arms.

Ashmead had a hard time of it with Severne. He managed pretty well with
him at first, because he stupefied him with brandy before he had come to
his senses, and in that state got him into the next train. But as the
fumes wore off, and Severne realized his villainy, his defeat, and his
abject condition between the two women he had wronged, he suddenly
uttered a yell and made a spring at the window. Ashmead caught him by his
calves, and dragged him so powerfully down that his face struck the floor
hard and his nose bled profusely. The hemorrhage and the blow quieted him
for a time, and then Ashmead gave him more brandy, and got him to the
"Swan" in a half-lethargic lull. This faithful agent, and man of all
work, took a private sitting room with a double bedded room adjoining it,
and ordered a hot supper with champagne and madeira. Severne lay on a
sofa moaning.

The waiter stared. "Trouble!" whispered Ashmead, confidentially. "Take no
notice. Supper as quick as possible."

By-and-by Severne started up and began to rave and tear about the room,
cursing his hard fate, and ended in a kind of hysterical fit. Ashmead,
being provided by Miss Gale with salts and aromatic vinegar, etc.,
applied them, and ended by dashing a tumbler of water right into his
face, which did him more good than chemistry.

Then he tried to awaken manhood in the fellow. "What are _you_ howling
about?" said he. "Why, you are the only sinner, and you are the least
sufferer. Come, drop sniveling, and eat a bit. Trouble don't do on an
empty stomach."

Severne said he would try, but begged the waiter might not be allowed to
stare at a broken-hearted man.

"Broken fiddlesticks!" said honest Joe.

Severne tried to eat, but could not. But he could drink, and said so.

Ashmead gave him champagne in tumblers, and that, on his empty stomach,
set him raving, and saying life was hell to him now. But presently he
fell to weeping bitterly. In which condition Ashmead forced him to bed,
and there he slept heavily. In the morning Ashmead sat by his bedside,
and tried to bring him to reason. "Now, look here," said he, "you are a
lucky fellow, if you will only see it. You have escaped bigamy and a
jail, and, as a reward for your good conduct to your wife, and the many
virtues you have exhibited in a short space of time, I am instructed by
that lady to pay you twenty pounds every Saturday at twelve o'clock. It
is only a thousand a year; but don't you be down-hearted; I conclude she
will raise your salary as you advance. You must forge her name to a heavy
check, rob a church, and abduct a schoolgirl or two--misses in their
teens and wards of Chancery preferred--and she will make it thirty, no
doubt;" and Joe looked very sour.

"That for her twenty pounds a week!" cried this injured man. "She owes me
two thousand pounds and more. She has been my enemy, and her own. The
fool!--to go and peach! She had only to hold her tongue, and be Mrs.
Vizard, and then she would have had a rich husband that adores her, and I
should have had my darling beautiful Zoe, the only woman I ever loved or
ever shall."

"Oh," said Ashmead, "then you expected your wife to commit bigamy, and so
make it smooth to you."

_"Of course I did,"_ was the worthy Severne' s reply; "and so she would,
if she had had a grain of sense. See what a contrast now. We are all
unhappy--herself included--and it is all her doing."

"Well, young man," said Ashmead, drawing a long breath; "didn't I tell
you you are a lucky fellow? You have got twenty pounds a week, and that
blest boon, 'a conscience void of offense.' You are a happy man. Here's a
strong cup of tea for you: just you drink it, and then get up and take
the train to the little village. There kindred spirits and fresh delights
await you. You are not to adorn Barfordshire any longer: that is the
order."

"Well, I'll go to London--but not without you."

"Me! What do you want of _me?"_

"You are a good fellow, and the only friend I have left. But for you, I
should be dead, or mad. You have pulled me through."

"Through the window I did. Lord, forgive me for it," said Joseph. "Well,
I'll go up to town with you; but I can't be always tied to your tail. I
haven't got twenty pounds a week. To be sure," he added, dryly, "I
haven't earned it. That is one comfort."

He telegraphed Hillstoke, and took Severne up to London.

There the Bohemian very soon found he could live, and even derive some
little enjoyment from his vices--without Joseph Ashmead. He visited him
punctually every Saturday, and conversed delightfully. If he came any
other day, it was sure to be for an advance: he never got it.



CHAPTER XXVIII.

FANNY DOVER was sent for directly to Somerville Villa; and, three days
after the distressing scene I have endeavored to describe, Vizard brought
his wrecked sister home. Her condition was pitiable; and the moment he
reached Vizard Court he mounted his horse and rode to Hillstoke to bring
Miss Gale down to her.

There he found Ina Klosking, with her boxes at the door, waiting for the
fly that was to take her away.

It was a sad interview. He thanked her deeply for her noble conduct to
his sister, and then he could not help speaking of his own
disappointment.

Mademoiselle Klosking, on this occasion, was simple, sad, and even
tender, within prudent limits. She treated this as a parting forever, and
therefore made no secret of her esteem for him. "But," said she, "I hope
one day to hear you have found a partner worthy of you. As for me, who am
tied for life to one I despise, and can never love again, I shall seek my
consolation in music, and, please God, in charitable actions."

He kissed her hand at parting, and gave her a long, long look of
miserable regret that tried her composure hard, and often recurred to her
memory.

She went up to London, took a small suburban house, led a secluded life,
and devoted herself to her art, making a particular study now of sacred
music; she collected volumes of it, and did not disdain to buy it at
bookstalls, or wherever she could find it.

Ashmead worked for her, and she made her first appearance in a new
oratorio. Her songs proved a principal feature in the performance.





Events did not stand still in Barfordshire; but they were tame, compared
with those I have lately related, and must be dispatched in fewer words.

Aunt Maitland recovered unexpectedly from a severe illness, and was a
softened woman: she sent Fanny off to keep Zoe company. That poor girl
had a bitter time, and gave Doctress Gale great anxiety. She had no brain
fever, but seemed quietly, insensibly, sinking into her grave. No
appetite, and indeed was threatened with atrophy at one time. But she was
so surrounded with loving-kindness that her shame diminished, her pride
rose, and at last her agony was blunted, and only a pensive languor
remained to show that she had been crushed, and could not be again the
bright, proud, high-spirited beauty of Barfordshire.

For many months she never mentioned either Edward Severne, Ina Klosking,
or Lord Uxmoor.

It was a long time before she went outside the gates of her own park. She
seemed to hate the outer world.

Her first visit was to Miss Gale; that young lady was now very happy. She
had her mother with her. Mrs. Gale had defeated the tricky executor, and
had come to England with a tidy little capital, saved out of the fire by
her sagacity and spirit.

Mrs. Gale's character has been partly revealed by her daughter. I have
only to add she was a homely, well-read woman, of few words, but those
few--grape-shot. Example--she said to Zoe, "Young lady, excuse an old
woman's freedom, who might be your mother: the troubles of young folk
have a deal of self in them; more than you could believe. Now just you
try something to take you out of self, and you will be another creature."

"Ah," sighed Zoe, "would to Heaven I could!"

"Oh," said Mrs. Gale, "anybody with money can do it, and the world so
full of real trouble. Now, my girl tells me you are kind to the poor: why
not do something like Rhoda is doing for this lord she is overseer, or
goodness knows what, to?"

Rhoda (defiantly), "Viceroy."

"You have money, and your brother will not refuse you a bit o' land. Why
not build some of these new-fangled cottages, with fancy gardens, and
dwarf palaces for a cow and a pig? Rhoda, child, if I was a poor woman, I
could graze a cow in the lanes hereabouts, and feed a pig in the woods.
Now you do that for the poor, Miss Vizard, and don't let my girl think
for you. Breed your own ideas. That will divert you from self, my dear,
and you will begin to find it--there--just as if a black cloud was
clearing away from your mind, and letting your heart warm again."

Zoe caught at the idea, and that very day asked Vizard timidly whether he
would let her have some land to build a model cottage or two on.

Will it be believed that the good-natured Vizard made a wry face? "What,
two proprietors in Islip!" For a moment or two he was all squire. But
soon the brother conquered. "Well," said he, "I can't give you a
fee-simple; I must think of my heirs: but I will hold a court, and grant
you a copy-hold; or I'll give you a ninety-nine years' lease at a
pepper-corn. There's a slip of three acres on the edge of the Green. You
shall amuse yourself with that." He made it over to her directly, for a
century, at ten shillings a year; and, as he was her surviving trustee,
he let her draw in advance on her ten thousand pounds.

Mapping out the ground with Rhoda, settling the gardens and the miniature
pastures, and planning the little houses and outhouses, and talking a
great deal, compared with what she transacted, proved really a certain
antidote to that lethargy of woe which oppressed her: and here, for a
time, I must leave her, returning slowly to health of body, and some
tranquillity of mind; but still subject to fits of shame, and gnawed by
bitter regrets.



CHAPTER XXIX.

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.

Copyright (c) 2007. topbookz.net. All rights reserved.