INA KLOSKING recovered her senses that evening, and asked Miss Gale where she was. Miss Gale told her she was in the house of a friend.

“What friend?”

“That,” said Miss Gale, “I will tell you by-and-by. You are in good hands, and I am your physician.”

“I have heard your voice before,” said Ina, “but I know not where; and it is so dark! Why is it so dark?”

“Because too much light is not good for you. You have met with an accident.”

“What accident, madam?”

“You fell and hurt your poor forehead. See, I have bandaged it, and now you must let me wet the bandage—to keep your brow cool.”

“Thank you, madam,” said Ina, in her own sweet but queenly way. “You are very good to me. I wish I could see your face more clearly. I know your voice.” Then, after a silence, during which Miss Gale eyed her with anxiety, she said, like one groping her way to the truth, “I—fell—and—hurt—my forehead?—Ah!”

Then it was she uttered the cry that made Vizard quake at the door, and shook for a moment even Rhoda's nerves, though, as a rule, they were iron in a situation of this kind.

It had all come back to Ina Klosking.

After that piteous cry she never said a word. She did nothing but think, and put her hand to her head.

And soon after midnight she began to talk incoherently.

The physician could only proceed by physical means. She attacked the coming fever at once, with the remedies of the day, and also with an infusion of monk's-hood. That poison, promptly administered, did not deceive her. She obtained a slight perspiration, which was so much gained in the battle.

In the morning she got the patient shifted into another bed, and she slept a little after that. But soon she was awake, restless, and raving: still her character pervaded her delirium. No violence. Nothing any sore injured woman need be ashamed to have said: only it was all disconnected. One moment she was speaking to the leader of the orchestra, at another to Mr. Ashmead, at another, with divine tenderness, to her still faithful Severne. And though not hurried, as usual in these cases, it was almost incessant and pitiable to hear, each observation was so wise and good; yet, all being disconnected, the hearer could not but feel that a noble mind lay before him, overthrown and broken into fragments like some Attic column.

In the middle of this the handle was softly turned, and Zoe Vizard came in, pale and somber.

Long before this she had said to Fanny several times, “I ought to go and see her;” and Fanny had said, “Of course you ought.”

So now she came. She folded her arms and stood at the foot of the bed, and looked at her unhappy rival, unhappy as possible herself.

What contrary feelings fought in that young breast! Pity and hatred. She must hate the rival who had come between her and him she loved; she must pity the woman who lay there, pale, wounded, and little likely to recover.

And, with all this, a great desire to know whether this sufferer had any right to come and seize Edward Severne by the arm, and so draw down calamity on both the women who loved him.

She looked and listened, and Rhoda Gale thought it hard upon her patient.

But it was not in human nature the girl should do otherwise; so Rhoda said nothing.

What fell from Ina's lips was not of a kind to make Zoe more her friend.

Her mind seemed now like a bird tied by a long silken thread. It made large excursions, but constantly came back to her love. Sometimes that love was happy, sometimes unhappy. Often she said “Edward!” in the exquisite tone of a loving woman; and whenever she did, Zoe received it with a sort of shiver, as if a dagger, fine as a needle, had passed through her whole body.

At last, after telling some tenor that he had sung F natural instead of F sharp, and praised somebody's rendering of a song in “Il Flauto Magico,” and told Ashmead to make no more engagements for her at present, for she was going to Vizard Court, the poor soul paused a minute, and uttered a deep moan.

“Struck down by the very hand that was vowed to protect me!” said she. Then was silent again. Then began to cry, and sob, and wring her hands.

Zoe put her hand to her heart and moved feebly toward the door. However, she stopped a moment to say, “I am no use here. You would soon have me raving in the next bed. I will send Fanny.” Then she drew herself up. “Miss Gale, everybody here is at your command. Pray spare nothing you can think of to save—my brother's guest.”

There came out the bitter drop.

When she had said that, she stalked from the room like some red Indian bearing a mortal arrow in him, but too proud to show it.

But when she got to her own room she flung herself on her sofa, and writhed and sobbed in agony.

Fanny Dover came in and found her so, and flew to her.

But she ordered her out quite wildly. “No, no; go to her, like all the rest, and leave poor Zoe all alone. She is alone.”

Then Fanny clung to her, and tried hard to comfort her.

This young lady now became very zealous and active. She divided her time between the two sufferers, and was indefatigable in their service. When she was not supporting Zoe, she was always at Miss Gale's elbow offering her services. “Do let me help you,” she said. “Do pray let me help. We are poor at home, and there is nothing I cannot do. I'm worth any three servants.”

She always helped shift the patient into a fresh bed, and that was done very often. She would run to the cook or the butler for anything that was wanted in a hurry. She flung gentility and humbug to the winds. Then she dressed in ten minutes, and went and dined with Vizard, and made excuses for Zoe's absence, to keep everything smooth; and finally she insisted on sitting up with Ina Klosking till three in the morning, and made Miss Gale go to bed in the room. “Paid nurses!” said she; “they are no use except to snore and drink the patient's wine. You and I will watch her every moment of the night; and if I'm ever at a loss what to do, I will call you.”

Miss Gale stared at her once, and then accepted this new phase of her character.

The fever was hot while it lasted; but it was so encountered with tonics, and port wine, and strong beef soup (not your rubbishy beef tea), that in forty-eight hours it began to abate. Ina recognized Rhoda Gale as the lady who had saved Severne's life at Montpellier, and wept long and silently upon her neck. In due course, Zoe, hearing there was a great change, came in again to look at her. She stood and eyed her. Soon Ina Klosking caught sight of her, and stared at her.

“You here!” said she. “Ah! you are Miss Vizard. I am in your house. I will get up and leave it;” and she made a feeble attempt to rise, but fell back, and the tears welled out of her eyes at her helplessness.

Zoe was indignant, but for the moment more shocked than anything else. She moved away a little, and did not know what to say.

“Let me look at you,” said the patient. “Ah! you are beautiful. When I saw you at the theater, you fascinated me. How much more a man? I will resist no more. You are too beautiful to be resisted. Take him, and let me die.”

“I do her no good,” said Zoe, half sullenly, half trembling.

“Indeed you do not,” said Rhoda, bluntly, and almost bitterly. She was all nurse.

“I'll come here no more,” said Zoe, sadly but sternly, and left the room.

Then Ina turned to Miss Gale and said, patiently, “I hope I was not rude to that lady—who has broken my heart.”

Fanny and Rhoda took each a hand and told her she could not be rude to anybody.

“My friends,” said Ina, looking piteously to each in turn, “it is her house, you know, and she is very good to me now—after breaking my heart.”

Then Fanny showed a deal of tact. “Her house!” said she. “It is no more hers than mine. Why, this house belongs to a gentleman, and he is mad after music. He knows you very well, though you don't know him, and he thinks you the first singer in Europe.”

“You flatter me,” said Ina, sadly.

“Well, he thinks so; and he is reckoned a very good judge. Ah! now I think of it, I will show you something, and then you will believe me.”

She ran off to the library, snatched up Ina's picture set round with pearls, and came panting in with it. “There,” said she; “now you look at that!” and she put it before her eyes. “Now, who is that, if you please?”

“Oh! It is Ina Klosking that was. Please bring me a glass.”

The two ladies looked at each other. Miss Gale made a negative signal, and Fanny said, “By-and-by. This will do instead, for it is as like as two peas. Now ask yourself how this comes to be in the house, and set in pearls. Why, they are worth three hundred pounds. I assure you that the master of this house is fanatico per la musica; heard you sing Siebel at Homburg—raved about you—wanted to call on you. We had to drag him away from the place; and he declares you are the first singer in the world; and you cannot doubt his sincerity, for here are the pearls.”

Ina Klosking's pale cheek colored, and then she opened her two arms wide, and put them round Fanny's neck and kissed her: her innocent vanity was gratified, and her gracious nature suggested gratitude to her who had brought her the compliment, instead of the usual ungrateful bumptiousness praise elicits from vanity.

Then Miss Gale put in her word—“When you met with this unfortunate accident, I was for taking you up to my house. It is three miles off; but he would not hear of it. He said, 'No; here she got her wound, and here she must be cured.'”

“So,” said Fanny, “pray set your mind at ease. My cousin Harrington is a very good soul, but rather arbitrary. If you want to leave this place, you must get thoroughly well and strong, for he will never let you go till you are.”

Between these two ladies, clever and cooperating, Ina smiled, and seemed relieved; but she was too weak to converse any more just then.

Some hours afterward she beckoned Fanny to her, and said, “The master of the house—what is his name?”

“Harrington Vizard.”

“What!—her father?”

“La, no; only her half-brother.”

“If he is so kind to me because I sing, why comes he not to see me? She has come.”

Fanny smiled. “It is plain you are not an Englishwoman, though you speak it so beautifully. An English gentleman does not intrude into a lady's room.”

“It is his room.”

“He would say that, while you occupy it, it is yours, and not his.”

“He awaits my invitation, then.”

“I dare say he would come if you were to invite him, but certainly not without.”

“I wish to see him who has been so kind to me, and so loves music; but not to-day—I feel unable.”

The next day she asked for a glass, and was distressed at her appearance. She begged for a cap.

“What kind of a cap?” asked Fanny.

“One like that,” said she, pointing to a portrait on the wall. It was of a lady in a plain brown silk dress and a little white shawl, and a neat cap with a narrow lace border all round her face.

This particular cap was out of date full sixty years; but the house had a storeroom of relics, and Fanny, with Vizard's help, soon rummaged out a cap of the sort, with a narrow frill all round.

Her hair was smoothed, a white silk band passed over the now closed wound, and the cap fitted on her. She looked pale, but angelic.

Fanny went down to Vizard, and invited him to come and see Mademoiselle Klosking—by her desire. “But,” she added, “Miss Gale is very anxious lest you should get talking of Severne. She says the fever and loss of blood have weakened her terribly; and if we bring the fever on again, she cannot answer for her life.”

“Has she spoken of him to you?”

“Not once.”

“Then why should she to me?”

“Because you are a man, and she may think to get the truth out of you: she knows we shall only say what is for the best. She is very deep, and we don't know her mind yet.”

Vizard said he would be as guarded as he could; but if they saw him going wrong, they must send him away.

“Oh, Miss Gale will do that, you may be sure,” said Fanny.

Thus prepared, Vizard followed Fanny up the stairs to the sick-room.

Either there is such a thing as love at first sight, or it is something more than first sight, when an observant man gazes at a woman for an hour in a blaze of light, and drinks in her looks, her walk, her voice, and all the outward signs of a beautiful soul; for the stout cynic's heart beat at entering that room as it had not beat for years. To be sure, he had not only seen her on the stage in all her glory, but had held her, pale and bleeding, to his manly breast, and his heart warmed to her all the more, and, indeed, fairly melted with tenderness.

Fanny went in and announced him. He followed softly, and looked at her.

Wealth can make even a sick-room pretty. The Klosking lay on snowy pillows whose glossy damask was edged with lace; and upon her form was an eider-down quilt covered with violet-colored satin, and her face was set in that sweet cap which hid her wound, and made her eloquent face less ghastly.

She turned to look at him, and he gazed at her in a way that spoke volumes.

“A seat,” said she, softly.

Fanny was for putting one close to her. “No,” said Miss Gale, “lower down; then she need not to turn her head.”

So he sat down nearer her feet.

“My good host,” said she, in her mellow voice, that retained its quality, but not its power, “I desire to thank you for your goodness to a poor singer, struck down—by the hand that was bound to protect her.”

Vizard faltered out that there was nothing to thank him for. He was proud to have her under his roof, though deeply grieved at the cause.

She looked at him, and her two nurses looked at her and at each other, as much as to say, “She is going upon dangerous ground.”

They were right. But she had not the courage, or, perhaps, as most women are a little cat-like in this, that they go away once or twice from the subject nearest their heart before they turn and pounce on it, she must speak of other things first. Said she, “But if I was unfortunate in that, I was fortunate in this, that I fell into good hands. These ladies are sisters to me,” and she gave Miss Gale her hand, and kissed the other hand to Fanny, though she could scarcely lift it; “and I have a host who loves music, and overrates my poor ability.” Then, after a pause, “What have you heard me sing?”

“Siebel.”

“Only Siebel! why, that is a poor little thing.”

“So I thought, till I heard you sing it.”

“And, after Siebel, you bought my photograph.”

“Instantly.”

“And wasted pearls on it.”

“No, madam. I wasted it on pearls.”

“If I were well, I should call that extravagant. But it is permitted to flatter the sick—it is kind. Me you overrate, I fear; but you do well to honor music. Ay, I, who lie here wounded and broken-hearted, do thank God for music. Our bodies are soon crushed, our loves decay or turn to hate, but art is immortal.”

She could no longer roll this out in her grand contralto, but she could still raise her eyes with enthusiasm, and her pale face was illuminated. A grand soul shone through her, though she was pale, weak, and prostrate.

They admired her in silence.

After a while she resumed, and said, “If I live, I must live for my art alone.”

Miss Gale saw her approaching a dangerous topic, so she said, hastily, “Don't say if you live, please, because that is arranged. You have been out of danger this twenty-four hours, provided you do not relapse; and I must take care of that.”

“My kind friend,” said Ina, “I shall not relapse; only my weakness is pitiable. Sometimes I can scarcely forbear crying, I feel so weak. When shall I be stronger?”

“You shall be a little stronger every three days. There are always ups and downs in convalescence.”

“When shall I be strong enough to move?”

“Let me answer that question,” said Vizard. “When you are strong enough to sing us Siebel's great song.”

“There,” said Fanny Dover; “there is a mercenary host for you. He means to have a song out of you. Till then you are his prisoner.”

“No, no, she is mine,” said Miss Gale; “and she shan't go till she has sung me 'Hail, Columbia.' None of your Italian trash for me.”

Ina smiled, and said it was a fair condition, provided that “Hail, Columbia,” with which composition, unfortunately, she was unacquainted, was not beyond her powers. “I have often sung for money,” said she; “but this time”—here she opened her grand arms and took Rhoda Gale to her bosom—“I shall sing for love.”

“Now we have settled that,” said Vizard, “my mind is more at ease, and I will retire.”

“One moment,” said Ina, turning to him. Then, in a low and very meaning voice, “There is something else.”

“No doubt there is plenty,” said Miss Gale, sharply; “and, by my authority, I postpone it all till you are stronger. Bid us good-by for the present, Mr. Vizard.”

“I obey,” said he. “But, madam, please remember I am always at your service. Send for me when you please, and the oftener the better for me.”

“Thank you, my kind host. Oblige me with your hand.”

He gave her his hand. She took it, and put her lips to it with pure and gentle and seemly gratitude, and with no loss of dignity, though the act was humble.

He turned his head away, to hide the emotion that act and the touch of her sweet lips caused him; Miss Gale hurried him out of the room.

“You naughty patient,” said she; “you must do nothing to excite yourself.”

“Sweet physician, loving nurse, I am not excited.”

Miss Gale felt her heart to see.

“Gratitude does not excite,” said Ina. “It is too tame a feeling in the best of us.”

“That is a fact,” said Miss Gale; “so let us all be grateful, and avoid exciting topics. Think what I should feel if you had a relapse. Why, you would break my heart.”

“Should I?”

“I really think you would, tough as it is. One gets so fond of an unselfish patient. You cannot think how rare they are, dear. You are a pearl. I cannot afford to lose you.”

“Then you shall not,” said Ina, firmly. “Know that I, who seem so weak, am a woman of great resolution. I will follow good counsel; I will postpone all dangerous topics till I am stronger; I will live. For I will not grieve the true friends calamity has raised me.”

Of course Fanny told Zoe all about this interview. She listened gloomily; and all she said was, “Sisters do not go for much when a man is in love.”

“Do brothers, when a woman is?” said Fanny.

“I dare say they go for as much as they are worth.”

“Zoe, that is not fair. Harrington is full of affection for you. But you will not go near him. Any other man would be very angry. Do pray make an effort, and come down to dinner to-day.”

“No, no. He has you and his Klosking. And I have my broken heart. I am alone; and so will be all alone.”

She cried and sobbed, but she was obstinate, and Fanny could only let her have her own way in that.

Another question was soon disposed of. When Fanny invited her into the sickroom, she said, haughtily, “I go there no more. Cure her, and send her away—if Harrington will let her go. I dare say she is to be pitied.”

“Of course she is. She is your fellow-victim, if you would only let yourself see it.”

“Unfortunately, instead of pitying her, I hate her. She has destroyed my happiness, and done herself no good. He does not love her, and never will.”

Fanny found herself getting angry, so she said no more; for she was determined nothing should make her quarrel with poor Zoe; but after dinner, being te'te-'a-te'te with Vizard, she told him she was afraid Zoe could not see things as they were; and she asked him if he had any idea what had become of Severne.

“Fled the country, I suppose.”

“Are you sure he is not lurking about?”

“What for?”

“To get a word with Zoe—alone.”

“He will not come near this. I will break every bone in his skin if he does.”

“But he is so sly; he might hang about.”

“What for? She never goes out; and if she did, have you so poor an opinion of her as to think she would speak to him?”

“Oh, no! and she would forbid him to speak to her. But he would be sure to persist; and he has such wonderful powers of explanation, and she is blinded by love, I think he would make her believe black was white, if he had a chance; and if he is about, he will get a chance some day. She is doing the very worst thing she could—shutting herself up so. Any moment she will turn wild, and rush out reckless. She is in a dangerous state, you mark my words; she is broken-hearted, and yet she is bitter against everybody, except that young villain, and he is the only enemy she has in the world. I don't believe Mademoiselle Klosking ever wronged her, nor ever will. Appearances are against her; but she is a good woman, or I am a fool. Take my advice, Harrington, and be on your guard. If he had written a penitent letter to Mademoiselle Klosking, that would be a different thing; but he ignores her, and that frightens me for Zoe.”

Harrington would not admit that Zoe needed any other safeguard against a detected scoundrel than her own sense of dignity. He consented, however, to take precautions, if Fanny would solemnly promise not to tell Zoe, and so wound her. On that condition, he would see his head-keeper tomorrow, and all the keepers and watchers should be posted so as to encircle the parish with vigilance. He assured Fanny these fellows had a whole system of signals to the ear and eye, and Severne could not get within a mile of the house undetected. “But,” said he, “I will not trust to that alone. I will send an advertisement to the local papers and the leading London journals, so worded that the scoundrel shall know his forgery is detected, and that he will be arrested on a magistrate's warrant if he sets foot in Barfordshire.”

Fanny said that was capital, and, altogether, he had set her mind at rest.

“Then do as much for me,” said Vizard. “Please explain a remarkable phenomenon. You were always a bright girl, and no fool; but not exactly what humdrum people would call a good girl. You are not offended?”

“The idea! Why, I have publicly disowned goodness again and again. You have heard me.”

“So I have. But was not that rather deceitful of you? for you have turned out as good as gold. Anxiety has kept me at home of late, and I have watched you. You live for others; you are all over the house to serve two suffering women. That is real charity, not sexual charity, which humbugs the world, but not me. You are cook, housemaid, butler, nurse, and friend to both of them. In an interval of your time, so creditably employed, you come and cheer me up with your bright little face, and give me wise advice. I know that women are all humbugs; only you are a humbug reversed, and deserve a statue—and trimmings. You have been passing yourself off for a naughty girl, and all the time you were an extra good one.”

“And that puzzles the woman-hater, the cynical student, who says he has fathomed woman. My poor dear Harrington, if you cannot read so shallow a character as I am, how will you get on with those ladies upstairs—Zoe, who is as deep as the sea, and turbid with passion, and the Klosking, who is as deep as the ocean?”

She thought a moment and said, “There, I will have pity on you. You shall understand one woman before you die, and that is me. I'll give you the clew to my seeming inconsistencies—if you will give me a cigarette.”

“What! another hidden virtue? You smoke?”

“Not I, except when I happen to be with a noble soul who won't tell.”

Vizard found her a Russian cigarette, and lighted his own cigar, and she lectured as follows:

“What women love, and can't do without, if they are young and healthy and spirited, is—Excitement. I am one who pines for it. Now, society is so constructed that to get excitement you must be naughty. Waltzing all night and flirting all day are excitement. Crochet, and church, and examining girls in St. Matthew, and dining en famille, and going to bed at ten, are stagnation. Good girls—that means stagnant girls: I hate and despise the tame little wretches, and I never was one, and never will be. But now look here: We have two ladies in love with one villain—that is exciting. One gets nearly killed in the house—that is gloriously exciting. The other is broken-hearted. If I were to be a bad girl, and say, 'It is not my business; I will leave them to themselves, and go my little mill-round of selfishness as before,' why, what a fool I must be! I should lose Excitement. Instead of that, I run and get thinks for the Klosking—Excitement. I cook for her, and nurse her, and sit up half the night—Excitement. Then I run to Zoe, and do my best for her—and get snubbed—Excitement. Then I sit at the head of your table, and order you—Excitement. Oh, it is lovely!”

“Shall you not be sorry when they both get well, and Routine recommences?”

“Of course I shall. That is the sort of good girl I am. And, oh! when that fatal day comes, how I shall flirt. Heaven help my next flirtee! I shall soon flirt out the stigma of a good girl. You mark my words, I shall flirt with some married man after this. I never did that yet. But I shall; I know I shall.—Ah!—there, I have burned my finger.”

“Never mind. That is exciting.”

“As such I accept it. Good-by. I must go and relieve Miss Gale. Exit the good girl on her mission of charity—ha! ha!” She hummed a valse 'a deux temps, and went dancing out with such a whirl that her petticoats, which were ample, and not, as now, like a sack tied at the knees, made quite a cool air in the room.

She had not been gone long when Miss Gale came down, full of her patient. She wanted to get her out of bed during the daytime, but said she was not strong enough to sit up. Would he order an invalid couch down from London? She described the article, and where it was to be had.

He said Harris should go up in the morning and bring one down with him.

He then put her several questions about her patient; and at last asked her, with an anxiety he in vain endeavored to conceal, what she thought was the relation between her and Severne.

Now it may be remembered that Miss Gale had once been on the point of telling him all she knew, and had written him a letter. But at that time the Klosking was not expected to appear on the scene in person. Were she now to say she had seen her and Severne living together, Rhoda felt that she should lower her patient. She had not the heart to do that.

Rhoda Gale was not of an amorous temperament, and she was all the more open to female attachments. With a little encouragement she would have loved Zoe, but she had now transferred her affection to the Klosking. She replied to Vizard almost like a male lover defending the object of his affection.

“The exact relation is more than I can tell; but I think he has lived upon her, for she was richer than he was; and I feel sure he has promised her marriage. And my great fear now is lest he should get hold of her and keep his promise. He is as poor as a rat or a female physician; and she has a fortune in her voice, and has money besides, Miss Dover tells me. Pray keep her here till she is quite well, please.”

“I will.”

“And then let me have her up at Hillstoke. She is beginning to love me, and I dote on her.”

“So do I.”

“Ah, but you must not.”

“Why not?”

“Because.”

“Well, why not?”

“She is not to love any man again who will not marry her. I won't let her. I'll kill her first, I love her so. A rogue she shan't marry, and I can't let you marry her, because, her connection with that Severne is mysterious. She seems the soul of virtue, but I could not let you marry her until things are clearer.”

“Make your mind easy. I will not marry her—nor anybody else—till things are a great deal clearer than I have ever found them, where your sex is concerned.”

Miss Gale approved the resolution.

Next day Vizard posted his keepers, and sent his advertisements to the London and country journals.

Fanny came into his study to tell him there was more trouble—Miss Maitland taken seriously ill, and had written to Zoe.

“Poor old soul!” said Vizard. “I have a great mind to ride over and see her.”

“Somebody ought to go,” said Fanny.

“Well, you go.”

“How can I—with Zoe, and Mademoiselle Klosking, and you, to look after?”

“Instead of one old woman. Not much excitement in that.”

“No, cousin. To think of your remembering! Why, you must have gone to bed sober.”

“I often do.”

“You were always an eccentric landowner.”

“Don't you talk. You are a caricature.”

This banter was interrupted by Miss Gale, who came to tell Harrington Mademoiselle Klosking desired to see him, at his leisure.

He said he would come directly.

“Before you go,” said Miss Gale, “let us come to an understanding. She had only two days' fever; but that fever, and the loss of blood, and the shock to her nerves, brought her to death's door by exhaustion. Now she is slowly recovering her strength, because she has a healthy stomach, and I give her no stimulants to spur and then weaken her, but choice and simple esculents, the effect of which I watch, and vary them accordingly. But the convalescent period is always one of danger, especially from chills to the body, and excitements to the brain. At no period are more patients thrown away for want of vigilance. Now I can guard against chills and other bodily things, but not against excitements—unless you co-operate. The fact is, we must agree to avoid speaking about Mr. Severne. We must be on our guard. We must parry; we must evade; we must be deaf, stupid, slippery; but no Severne—for five or six days more, at all events.”

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.