“Because you are here.”

“And how dare you come where I am?—now your falsehood is found out and flung into my very face!”

“I have never been false to you. At this moment I suffer for my fidelity.”

“You suffer? I am glad of it. How?”

“In many ways: but they are all light, compared with my fear of losing your love.”

“I will listen to no idle words,” said Zoe sternly. “A lady claimed you before my face; why did you not stand firm like a man, and say, 'You have no claim on me now; I have a right to love another, and I do?' Why did you fly?—because you were guilty.”

“No,” said he, doggedly. “Surprised and confounded, but not guilty. Fool! idiot! that I was. I lost my head entirely. Yes, it is hopeless. You must despise me. You have a right to despise me.”

“Don't tell me,” said Zoe: “you never lose your head. You are always self-possessed and artful. Would to Heaven I had never seen you!” She was violent.

He gave her time. “Zoe,” said he, after a while, “if I had not lost my head, should I have ill-treated a lady and nearly killed her?”

“Ah!” said Zoe, sharply, “that is what you have been suffering from—remorse. And well you may. You ought to go back to her, and ask her pardon on your knees. Indeed, it is all you have left to do now.”

“I know I ought.”

“Then do what you ought. Good-by.”

“I cannot. I hate her.”

“What, because you have broken her heart, and nearly killed her?”

“No; but because she has come between me and the only woman I ever really loved, or ever can.”

“She would not have done that if you had not given her the right. I see her now; she looked justice, and you looked guilt. Words are idle, when I can see her face before me still. No woman could look like that who was in the wrong. But you—guilt made you a coward: you were false to her and false to me; and so you ran away from us both. You would have talked either of us over, alone; but we were together: so you ran away. You have found me alone now, so you are brave again; but it is too late. I am undeceived. I decline to rob Mademoiselle Klosking of her lover; so good-by.”

And this time she was really going, but he stopped her. “At least don't go with a falsehood on your lips,” said he, coldly.

“A falsehood!—Me!”

“Yes, it is a falsehood. How can you pretend I left that lady for you, when you know my connection with her had entirely ceased ten months before I ever saw your face?”

This staggered Zoe a moment; so did the heat and sense of injustice he threw into his voice.

“I forgot that,” said she, naively. Then, recovering herself, “You may have parted with her; but it does not follow that she consented. Fickle men desert constant women. It is done every day.”

“You are mistaken again,” said he. “When I first saw you, I had ceased to think of Mademoiselle Klosking; but it was not so when I first left her. I did not desert her. I tore myself from her. I had a great affection for her.”

“You dare to tell me that. Well, at all events, it is the truth. Why did you leave her, then?”

“Out of self-respect. I was poor, she was rich and admired. Men sent her bouquets and bracelets, and flattered her behind the scenes, and I was lowered in my own eyes: so I left her. I was unhappy for a time; but I had my pride to support me, and the wound was healed long before I knew what it was to love, really to love.”

There was nothing here that Zoe could contradict. She kept silence, and was mystified.

Then she attacked him on another quarter. “Have you written to her since you behaved like a ruffian to her?”

“No. And I never will, come what may. It is wicked of me; but I hate her. I am compelled to esteem her. But I hate her.”

Zoe could quite understand that; but in spite of that she said, “Of course you do. Men always hate those they have used ill. Why did you not write to me? Had a mind to be impartial, I suppose?”

“I had reason to believe it would have been intercepted.”

“For shame! Vizard is incapable of such a thing.”

“Ah, you don't know how he is changed. He looks on me as a mad dog. Consider, Zoe: do, pray, take the real key to it all. He is in love with Mademoiselle Klosking, madly in love with her: and I have been so unfortunate as to injure her—nearly to kill her. I dare say he thinks it is on your account he hates me; but men deceive themselves. It is for her he hates me.”

“Oh!”

“Ay. Think for a moment, and you will see it is. You are not in his confidence. I am sure he has never told you that he ordered his keepers to shoot me down if I came about the house at night.”

“Oh no, no!” cried Zoe.

“Do you know he has raised the country against me, and has warrants out against me for forgery, because I was taken in by a rogue who gave me bills with sham names on them, and I got Vizard to cash them? As soon as we found out how I had been tricked, my uncle and I offered at once to pay him back his money. But no! he prefers to keep the bills as a weapon.”

Zoe began to be puzzled a little. But she said, “You have been a long time discovering all these grievances. Why have you held no communication all this time?”

“Because you were inaccessible. Does not your own heart tell you that I have been all these weeks trying to communicate, and unable? Why, I came three times under your window at night, and you never, never would look out.”

“I did look out ever so often.”

“If I had been you, I should have looked ten thousand times. I only left off coming when I heard the keepers were ordered to shoot me down. Not that I should have cared much, for I am desperate. But I had just sense enough left to see that, if my dead body had been brought bleeding into your hall some night, none of you would ever have been happy again. Your eyes would have been opened, all of you. Well, Zoe, you left Vizard Court; that I learned: but it was only this morning I could find out where you were gone: and you see I am here—with a price upon my head. Please read Vizard's advertisements.”

She took them and read them. A hot flush mounted to her cheek.

“You see,” said he, “I am to be imprisoned if I set my foot in Barfordshire. Well, it will be false imprisonment, and Mademoiselle Klosking's lover will smart for it. At all events, I shall take no orders but from you. You have been deceived by appearances. I shall do all I can to undeceive you, and if I cannot, there will be no need to imprison me for a deceit of which I was the victim, nor to shoot me like a dog for loving you. I will take my broken heart quietly away, and leave Barfordshire, and England, and the world, for aught I care.”

Then he cried: and that made her cry directly.

“Ah!” she sighed, “we are unfortunate. Appearances are so deceitful. I see I have judged too hastily, and listened too little to my own heart, that always made excuses. But it is too late now.”

“Why too late?”

“It is.”

“But why?”

“It all looked so ugly, and you were silent. We are unfortunate. My brother would never let us marry; and, besides—Oh, why did you not come before?”

“I might as well say, Why did you not look out of your window? You could have done it without risking your life, as I did. Or why did you not advertise. You might have invited an explanation from 'E. S.,' under cover to so-and-so.”

“Ladies never think of such things. You know that very well.”

“Oh, I don't complain; but I do say that those who love should not be ready to reproach; they should put a generous construction. You might have known, and you ought to have known, that I was struggling to find you, and torn with anguish at my impotence.”

“No, no. I am so young and inexperienced, and all my friends against you. It is they who have parted us.”

“How can they part us, if you love me still as I love you?”

“Because for the last fortnight I have not loved you, but hated you, and doubted you, and thought my only chance of happiness was to imitate your indifference: and while I was thinking so, another person has come forward; one whom I have always esteemed: and now, in my pity and despair, I have given him hopes.” She hid her burning face in her hands.

“I see; you are false to me, and therefore you have suspected me of being false to you.”

At that she raised her head high directly. “Edward, you are unjust. Look in my face, and you may see what I have suffered before I could bring myself to condemn you.”

“What! your paleness, that dark rim under your lovely eyes—am I the cause?”

“Indeed you are. But I forgive you. You are sadly pale and worn too. Oh, how unfortunate we are!”

“Do not cry, dearest,” said he. “Do not despair. Be calm, and let me know the worst. I will not reproach you, though you have reproached me. I love you as no woman can love. Come, tell me.”

“Then the truth is, Lord Uxmoor has renewed his attention to me.”

“Ah!”

“He has been here every day.”

Severne groaned.

“Aunt Maitland was on his side, and spoke so kindly to me, and he saved my life from a furious bull. He is brave, noble, good, and he loves me. I have committed myself. I cannot draw back with honor.”

“But from me you can, because I am poor and hated, and have no title. If you are committed to him, you are engaged to me.”

“I am; so now I can go neither way. If I had poison, I would take it this moment, and end all.”

“For God's sake, don't talk so. I am sure you exaggerate. You cannot, in those few days, have pledged your faith to another. Let me see your finger. Ah! there's my ring on it still: bless you, my own darling Zoe—bless you;” and he covered her hand with kisses, and bedewed it with his ever-ready tears.

The girl began to melt, and all power to ooze out of her, mind and body. She sighed deeply and said, “What can I do—I don't say with honor and credit, but with decency. What can I do?”

“Tell me, first, what you have said to him that you consider so compromising.”

Zoe, with many sighs, replied: “I believe—I said—I was unhappy. And so I was. And I owned—that I admired—and esteemed him. And so I do. And then of course he wanted more, and I could not give more; and he asked might he try and make me love him; and—I said—I am afraid I said—he might, if he could.”

“And a very proper answer, too.”

“Ah! but I said he might come every day. It is idle to deceive ourselves: I have encouraged his addresses. I can do nothing now with credit but die, or go into a convent.”

“When did you say this?”

“This very day.”

“Then he has never acted on it.”

“No, but he will. He will be here tomorrow for certain.”

“Then your course is plain. You must choose to-night between him and me. You must dismiss him by letter, or me upon this spot. I have not much fortune to offer you, and no coronet; but I love you, and you have seen me reject a lovely and accomplished woman, whom I esteem as much as you do this lord. Reject him? Why, you have seen me fling her away from me like a dog sooner than leave you in a moment's doubt of my love: if you cannot write a civil note declining an earl for me, your love in not worthy of mine, and I will begone with my love. I will not take it to Mademoiselle Klosking, though I esteem her as you do this lord; but, at all events, I will take it away from you, and leave you my curse instead, for a false, fickle girl that could not wait one little month, but must fall, with her engaged ring on her finger, into another man's arms. Oh, Zoe! Zoe! who could have believed this of you?”

“Don't reproach me. I won't bear it,” she cried, wildly.

“I hope not to have to reproach you,” said he, firmly; “I cannot conceive your hesitating.”

“I am worn out. Love has been too great a torment. Oh, if I could find peace!”

Again her tears flowed.

He put on a sympathizing air. “You shall have peace. Dismiss him as I tell you, and he will trouble you no more; shake hands with me, and say you prefer him, and I will trouble you no more. But with two lovers, peace is out of the question, and so is self-respect. I know I could not vacillate between you and Mademoiselle Klosking or any other woman.”

“Ah, Edward, if I do this, you ought to love me very dearly.”

“I shall. Better than ever—if possible.”

“And never make me jealous again.”

“I never shall, dearest. Our troubles are over.”

“Edward, I have been very unhappy. I could not bear these doubts again.”

“You shall never be unhappy again.”

“I must do what you require, I suppose. That is how it always ends. Oh dear! oh dear!”

“Zoe, it must be done. You know it must.”

“I warn you I shall do it as kindly as I can.”

“Of course you will. You ought to.”

“I must go in now. I feel very cold.”

“How soon to-morrow will you meet me here?”

“When you please,” said she, languidly.

“At ten o'clock?”

“Yes.”

Then there was a tender parting, and Zoe went slowly in. She went to her own room, just to think it all over alone. She caught sight of her face in the glass. Her cheeks had regained color, and her eyes were bright as stars. She stopped and looked at herself. “There now,” said she, “and I seem to myself to live again. I was mad to think I could ever love any man but him. He is my darling, my idol.”

There was no late dinner at Somerville Villa. Indeed, ladies, left to themselves, seldom dine late. Nature is strong in them, and they are hungriest when the sun is high. At seven o'clock Zoe Vizard was seated at her desk trying to write to Lord Uxmoor. She sighed, she moaned, she began, and dropped the pen and hid her face. She became almost wild; and in that state she at last dashed off what follows:

“DEAR LORD UXMOOR—For pity's sake, forgive the mad words I said to you today. It is impossible. I can do no more than admire and esteem you. My heart is gone from me forever. Pray forgive me, though I do not deserve it; and never see me nor look at me again. I ask pardon for my vacillation. It has been disgraceful; but it has ended, and I was under a great error, which I cannot explain to you, when I led you to believe I had a heart to give you. My eyes are opened. Our paths lie asunder. Pray, pray forgive me, if it is possible. I will never forgive myself, nor cease to bless and revere you, whom I have used so ill.

“ZOE VIZARD.”

That day Uxmoor dined alone with his mother, for a wonder, and he told her how Miss Vizard had come round; he told her also about the bull, but so vilely that she hardly comprehended he had been in any danger: these encounters are rarely described to the life, except by us who avoid them—except on paper.

Lady Uxmoor was much pleased. She was a proud, politic lady, and this was a judicious union of two powerful houses in the county, and one that would almost command the elections. But, above all, she knew her son's heart was in the match, and she gave him a mother's sympathy.

As she retired, she kissed him and said, “When you are quite sure of the prize, tell me, and I will call upon her.”

Being alone, Lord Uxmoor lighted a cigar and smoked it in measureless content. The servant brought him a note on a salver. It had come by hand. Uxmoor opened it and read every word straight through, down to “Zoe Vizard;” read it, and sat petrified.

He read it again. He felt a sort of sickness come over him. He swallowed a tumbler of port, a wine he rarely touched; but he felt worse now than after the bullfight. This done, he rose and stalked like a wounded lion into the drawing-room, which was on the same floor, and laid the letter before his mother.

“You are a woman too,” said he, a little helplessly. “Tell me—what on earth does this mean?”

The dowager read it slowly and keenly, and said, “It means—another man.”

“Ah!” said Uxmoor, with a sort of snarl.

“Have you seen any one about her?”

“No; not lately. At Vizard Court there was. But that is all over now, I conclude. It was a Mr. Severne, an adventurer, a fellow that was caught out in a lie before us all. Vizard tells me a lady came and claimed him before Miss Vizard, and he ran away.”

“An unworthy attachment, in short?”

“Very unworthy, if it was an attachment at all.”

“Was he at Vizard Court when she declined your hand?”

“Yes.”

“Did he remain, after you went?”

“I suppose so. Yes, he must have.”

“Then the whole thing is clear: that man has come forward again unexpectedly, or written, and she dismisses you. My darling, there is but one thing for you to do. Leave her, and thank her for telling you in time. A less honorable fool would have hidden it, and then we might have had a Countess of Uxmoor in the Divorce Court some day or other.

“I had better go abroad,” said Uxmoor, with a groan. “This country is poisoned for me.”

“Go, by all means. Let Janneway pack up your things to-morrow.”

“I should like to kill that fellow first.”

“You will not even waste a thought on him, if you are my son.”

“You are right, mother. What am I to say to her?”

“Not a word.”

“What, not answer her letter? It is humble enough, I am sure—poor soul! Mother, I am wretched, but I am not bitter, and my rival will revenge me.”

“Uxmoor, your going abroad is the only answer she shall have. The wisest man, in these matters, who ever lived has left a rule of conduct to every well-born man—a rule which, believe me, is wisdom itself:

“Le bruit est pour le fat, la plainte est pour le sot; L'honnete homme trompe'; s'e'loigne, et ne dit mot.”

“You will make a tour, and not say a word to Miss Vizard, good, bad, nor indifferent. I insist upon that.”

“Very well. Thank you, dear mother; you guide me, and don't let me make a fool of myself, for I am terribly cut up. You will be the only Countess of Uxmoor in my day.”

Then he knelt at her feet, and she kissed his head and cried over him; but her tears only made this proud lady stronger.

Next day he started on his travels.

Now, but for Zoe, he would on no account have left England just then; for he was just going to build model cottages in his own village, upon designs of his own, each with a little plot, and a public warehouse or granary, with divisions for their potatoes and apples, etc. However, he turned this over in his mind while he was packing; he placed certain plans and papers in his dispatch box, and took his ticket to Taddington, instead of going at once to London. From Taddington he drove over to Hillstoke and asked for Miss Gale. They told him she was fixed at Vizard Court. That vexed him: he did not want to meet Vizard. He thought it the part of a Jerry Sneak to go and howl to a brother against his sister. Yet if Vizard questioned him, how could he conceal there was something wrong? However, he went down to Vizard Court; but said to the servant who opened the door, “I am rather in a hurry, sir: do you think you could procure me a few minutes with Miss Gale? You need not trouble Mr. Vizard.”

“Yes, my laud. Certainly, my laud. Please step in the morning-room, my laud. Mr. Vizard is out.”

That was fortunate, and Miss Gale came down to him directly.

Fanny took that opportunity to chatter and tell Mademoiselle Klosking all about Lord Uxmoor and his passion for Zoe. “And he will have her, too,” said she, boldly.

Lord Uxmoor told Miss Gale he had called upon business. He was obliged to leave home for a time, and wished to place his projects under the care of a person who could really sympathize with them, and make additions to them, if necessary. “Men,” said he, “are always making oversights in matters of domestic comfort: besides, you are full of ideas. I want you to be viceroy with full power, and act just as you would if the village belonged to you.”

Rhoda colored high at the compliment.

“Wells, cows, granary, real education—what you like” said he. “I know your mind. Begin abolishing the lower orders in the only way they can be got rid of—by raising them in comfort, cleanliness, decency, and knowledge. Then I shall not be missed. I'm going abroad.”

“Going abroad?”

“Yes. Here are my plans: alter them for the better if you can. All the work to be done by the villagers. Weekly wages. We buy materials. They will be more reconciled to improved dwellings when they build them themselves. Here are the addresses of the people who will furnish money. It will entail traveling; but my people will always meet you at the station, if you telegraph from Taddington. You accept? A thousand thanks. I am afraid I must be off.”

She went into the hall with him, half bewildered, and only at the door found time to ask after Zoe Vizard.

“A little better, I think, than when she came.”

“Does she know you are going abroad?”

“No; I don't think she does, yet. It was settled all in a hurry.”

He escaped further questioning by hurrying away.

Miss Gale was still looking after him, when Ina Klosking came down, dressed for a walk, and leaning lightly on Miss Dover's arm. This was by previous consent of Miss Gale.

“Well, dear,” said Fanny, “what did he say to you?”

“Something that has surprised and puzzled me very much.” She then related the whole conversation, with her usual precision.

Ina Klosking observed quietly to Fanny that this did not look like successful wooing.

“I don't know that,” said Fanny, stoutly. “Oh, Miss Gale, did you not ask him about her?”

“Certainly I did; and he said she was better than when she first came.”

“There!” said Fanny, triumphantly.

Miss Gale gave her a little pinch, and she dropped the subject.

Vizard returned, and found Mademoiselle Klosking walking on his gravel. He offered her his arm, and was a happy man, parading her very slowly, and supporting her steps, and purring his congratulations into her ear. “Suppose I were to invite you to dinner, what would you say?”

“I think I should say, 'To-morrow.'”

“And a very good answer, too. To-morrow shall be a fete.”

“You spoil me?”

“That is impossible.”

It was strange to see them together; he so happy, she so apathetic, yet gracious.

Next morning came a bit of human nature—a letter from Zoe to Fanny, almost entirely occupied with praises of Lord Uxmoor. She told the bull story better than I have—if possible—and, in short, made Uxmoor a hero of romance.

Fanny carried this in triumph to the other ladies, and read it out. “There!” said she. “Didn't I tell you?”

Rhoda read the letter, and owned herself puzzled. “I am not, then,” said Fanny: “they are engaged—over the bull; like Europa and I forgot who—and so he is not afraid to go abroad now. That is just like the men. They cool directly the chase is over.”

Now the truth was that Zoe was trying to soothe her conscience with elegant praises of the man she had dismissed, and felt guilty.

Ina Klosking said little. She was puzzled too at first. She asked to see Zoe's handwriting. The letter was handed to her. She studied the characters. “It is a good hand,” she said; “nothing mean there.” And she gave it back.

But, with a glance, she had read the address, and learned that the post town was Bagley.

All that day, at intervals, she brought her powerful understanding to bear on the paradox; and though she had not the facts and the clew I have given the reader, she came near the truth in an essential matter. She satisfied herself that Lord Uxmoor was not engaged to Zoe Vizard. Clearly, if so, he would not leave England for months. She resolved to know more; and just before dinner she wrote a line to Ashmead, and requested him to call on her immediately.

That day she dined with Vizard and the ladies. She sat at Vizard's right hand, and he told her how proud, and happy he was to see her there.

She blushed faintly, but made no reply.

She retired soon after dinner.

All next day she expected Ashmead.

He did not come.

She dined with Vizard next day, and retired to the drawing-room. The piano was opened, and she played one or two exquisite things, and afterward tried her voice, but only in scales, and somewhat timidly, for Miss Gale warned her she might lose it or spoil it if she strained the vocal chord while her whole system was weak.

Next day Ashmead came with apologies.

He had spent a day in the cathedral town on business. He did not tell her how he had spent that day, going about puffing her as the greatest singer of sacred music in the world, and paving the way to her engagement at the next festival. Yet the single-hearted Joseph had really raised that commercial superstructure upon the sentiments she had uttered on his first visit to Vizard Court.

Ina now held a private conference with him. “I think,” said she, “I have heard you say you were once an actor.”

“I was, madam, and a very good one, too.”

“Cela va sans dire. I never knew one that was not. At all events, you can disguise yourself.”

“Anything, madam, from Grandfather Whitehead to a boy in a pinafore. Famous for my make-ups.”

“I wish you to watch a certain house, and not be recognized by a person who knows you.”

“Well, madam, nothing is infra dig, if done for you; nothing is distasteful if done for you.”

“Thank you, my friend. I have thought it well to put my instructions on paper.”

“Ay, that is the best way.”

She handed him the instructions. He read them, and his eyes sparkled. “Ah, this is a commission I undertake with pleasure, and I'll execute it with zeal.”

He left her, soon after, to carry out these instructions, and that very evening he was in the wardrobe of the little theater, rummaging out a suitable costume, and also in close conference with the wigmaker.

Next day Vizard had his mother's sables taken out and aired, and drove Mademoiselle Klosking into Taddington in an open carriage. Fanny told her they were his mother's sables, and none to compare with them in the country.

On returning, she tried her voice to the harmonium in her own antechamber, and found it was gaining strength—like herself.

Meantime Zoe Vizard met Severne in the garden, and told him she had written to Lord Uxmoor, and he would never visit her again. But she did not make light of the sacrifice this time. She had sacrificed her own self-respect as well as Uxmoor's, and she was sullen and tearful.

He had to be very wary and patient, or she would have parted with him too, and fled from both of them to her brother.

Uxmoor's wounded pride would have been soothed could he have been present at the first interview of this pair. He would have seen Severne treated with a hauteur and a sort of savageness he himself was safe from, safe in her unshaken esteem.

But the world is made for those who can keep their temper, especially the female part of the world.

Sad, kind, and loving, but never irritable, Severne smoothed down and soothed and comforted the wounded girl; and, seeing her two or three times a day—for she was completely mistress of her time—got her completely into his power again.

Uxmoor did not reply.

She had made her selection. Love beckoned forward. It was useless to look back.

Love was omnipotent. They both began to recover their good looks as if by magic; and as Severne's passion, though wicked, was earnest, no poor bird was ever more completely entangled by bird-lime than Zoe was caught by Edward Severne.

Their usual place of meeting was the shrubbery attached to Somerville Villa. The trees, being young, made all the closer shade, and the gravel-walk meandered, and shut them out from view.

Severne used to enter this shrubbery by a little gate leading from the meadow, and wait under the trees till Zoe came to him. Vizard's advertisements alarmed him, and he used to see the coast clear before he entered the shrubbery, and also before he left it. He was so particular in this that, observing one day an old man doddering about with a basket, he would not go in till he had taken a look at him. He found it was an ancient white-haired villager gathering mushrooms. The old fellow was so stiff, and his hand so trembling, that it took him about a minute to gather a single fungus.

To give a reason for coming up to him, Severne said, “How old are you, old man?”

“I be ninety, measter, next Martinmas-day.”

“Only ninety?” said our Adonis, contemptuously; “you look a hundred and ninety.”

He would have been less contemptuous had he known that the mushrooms were all toad-stools, and the village centenaire was Mr. Joseph Ashmead, resuming his original arts, and playing Grandfather Whitehead on the green grass.