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.

“Does he call on you?”

“No.”

“Does he write to you?”

“Oh no. I wish he would. Because then I should be able to reply like a true friend, and send him away. Consider, dear, it is not like a nobody dangling after a public singer; that is common enough. We are all run after by idle men; even Signorina Zubetta, who has not much voice, nor appearance, and speaks a Genoese patois when she is not delivering a libretto. But for a gentleman of position, with a heart of gold and the soul of an emperor, that he should waste his time and his feelings so, on a woman who can never be anything to him, it is pitiable.”

“Well, but, after all, it is his business; and he is not a child: besides, remember he is really very fond of music. If I were you I'd look another way, and take no notice.”

“But I cannot.”

“Ah! And why not, pray?”

“Because he always takes a box on my left hand, two from the stage. I can't think how he gets it at all the theaters. And then he fixes his eyes on me so, I cannot help stealing a look. He never applauds, nor throws me bouquets. He looks: oh, you cannot conceive how he looks, and the strange effect it is beginning to produce on me.”

“He mesmerizes you?”

“I know not. But it is a growing fascination. Oh, my dear physician, interfere. If it goes on, we shall be more wretched than ever.” Then she enveloped Rhoda in her arms, and rested a hot cheek against hers.

“I see,” said Rhoda. “You are afraid he will make you love him.”

“I hope not. But artists are impressionable; and being looked at so, by one I esteem, night after night, when my nerves are strung—cela m'agace;” and she gave a shiver, and then was a little hysterical; and that was very unlike her.

Rhoda kissed her, and said resolutely she would stop it.

“Not unkindly?”

“Oh no.”

“You will not tell him it is offensive to me?”

“No.”

“Pray do not give him unnecessary pain.”

“No.”

“He is not to be mortified.”

“No.”

“I shall miss him sadly.”

“Shall you?”

“Naturally. Especially at each new place. Only conceive: one is always anxious on the stage; and it is one thing to come before a public all strangers, and nearly all poor judges; it is another to see, all ready for your first note, a noble face bright with intelligence and admiration—the face of a friend. Often that one face is the only one I allow myself to see. It hides the whole public.”

“Then don't you be silly and send it away. I'll tell you the one fault of your character: you think too much of other people, and too little of yourself. Now, that is contrary to the scheme of nature. We are sent into the world to take care of number one.”

“What!” said Ina; “are we to be all self-indulgence? Is there to be no principle, no womanly prudence, foresight, discretion? No; I feel the sacrifice: but no power shall hinder me from making it. If you cannot persuade him, I'll do like other singers. I will be ill, and quit the company.”

“Don't do that,” said Rhoda. “Now you have put on your iron look, it is no use arguing—I know that to my cost. There—I will talk to him. Only don't hurry me; let me take my opportunity.”

This being understood, Ina would not part with her for the present, but took her to the theater. She dismissed her dresser, at Rhoda's request, and Rhoda filled that office. So they could talk freely.

Rhoda had never been behind the scenes of a theater before, and she went prying about, ignoring the music, for she was almost earless. Presently, whom should she encounter but Edward Severne. She started and looked at him like a basilisk. He removed his hat and drew back a step with a great air of respect and humility. She was shocked and indignant with Ina for letting him be about her. She followed her off the stage into her dressing room, and took her to task. “I have seen Mr. Severne here.”

“He comes every night.”

“And you allow him?”

“It is the manager.”

“But he would not admit him, if you objected.”

“I am afraid to do that.”

“Why?”

“We should have an esclandre. I find he has had so much consideration for me as to tell no one our relation; and as he has never spoken to me, I do the most prudent thing I can, and take no notice. Should he attempt to intrude himself on me, then it will be time to have him stopped in the hall, and I shall do it cou'te que cou'te. Ah, my dear friend, mine is a difficult and trying position.”

After a very long wait, Ina went down and sung her principal song, with the usual bravas and thunders of applause. She was called on twice, and as she retired, Severne stepped forward, and, with a low, obsequious bow, handed her a beautiful bouquet. She took it with a stately courtesy, but never looked nor smiled.

Rhoda saw that and wondered. She thought to herself, “That is carrying politeness a long way. To be sure, she is half a foreigner.”

Having done his nightly homage, Severne left the theater, and soon afterward the performance concluded, and Ina took her friend home. Ashmead was in the hall to show his patroness to her carriage—a duty he never failed in. Rhoda shook hands with him, and he said, “Delighted to see you here, miss. You will be a great comfort to her.”

The two friends communed till two o'clock in the morning: but the limits of my tale forbid me to repeat what passed.

Suffice it to say that Rhoda was fairly puzzled by the situation; but, having a great regard for Vizard, saw clearly enough that he ought to be sent back to Islip. She thought that perhaps the very sight of her would wound his pride, and, finding his mania discovered by a third person, he would go of his own accord: so she called on him.

My lord received her with friendly composure, and all his talk was about Islip. He did not condescend to explain his presence at Carlisle. He knew that qui s'excuse s'accuse, and left her to remonstrate. She had hardly courage for that, and hoped it might be unnecessary.

She told Ina what she had done. But her visit was futile: at night there was Vizard in his box.

Next day the company opened in Manchester. Vizard was in his box there—Severne in front, till Ina's principal song. Then he came round and presented his bouquet. But this time he came up to Rhoda Gale, and asked her whether a penitent man might pay his respects to her in the morning.

She said she believed there were very few penitents in the world.

“I know one,” said he.

“Well, I don't, then,” said the virago. “But you can come, if you are not afraid.”

Of course Ina Klosking knew of this appointment two minutes after it was made. She merely said, “Do not let him talk you over.”

“He is not so likely to talk me over as you,” said Rhoda.

“You are mistaken,” was Ina's reply. “I am the one person he will never deceive again.”

Rhoda Gale received his visit: he did not beat about the bush, nor fence at all. He declared at once what he came for. He said, “At the first sight of you, whom I have been so ungrateful to, I could not speak; but now I throw myself on your forgiveness. I think you must have seen that my ingratitude has never sat light on me.”

“I have seen that you were terribly afraid of me,” said she.

“I dare say I was. But I am not afraid of you now; and here, on my knees, I implore you to forgive my baseness, my ingratitude. Oh, Miss Gale, you don't know what it is to be madly in love; one has no principle, no right feeling, against a real passion: and I was madly in love with her. It was through fear of losing her I disowned my physician, my benefactress, who had saved my life. Miserable wretch! It was through fear of losing her that I behaved like a ruffian to my angel wife, and would have committed bigamy, and been a felon. What was all this but madness? You, who are so wise, will you not forgive me a crime that downright insanity was the cause of?”

“Humph! if I understand right, you wish me to forgive you for looking in my face, and saying to the woman who had saved your life, 'I don't know you?'”

“Yes—if you can. No: now you put it in plain words, I see it is not to be forgiven.”

“You are mistaken. It was like a stab to my heart, and I cried bitterly over it.”

“Then I deserve to be hanged; that is all.”

“But, on consideration, I believe it is as much your nature to be wicked as it is my angel Ina's to be good. So I forgive you that one thing, you charming villain.” She held out her hand to him in proof of her good faith.

He threw himself on his knees directly, and kissed and mumbled her hand, and bedewed it with hysterical tears.

“Oh, don't do that,” said she; “or I'm bound to give you a good kick. I hate she men.”

“Give me a moment,” said he, “and I will be a man again.”

He sat with his face in his hands, gulping a little.

“Come,” said she, cocking her head like a keen jackdaw; “now let us have the real object of your visit.”

“No, no,” said he, inadvertently—“another time will do for that. I am content with your forgiveness. Now I can wait.”

“What for?”

“Can you ask? Do you consider this a happy state of things?”

“Certainly not. But it can't be helped: and we have to thank you for it.”

“It could be helped in time. If you would persuade her to take the first step.”

“What step?”

“Not to disown her husband. To let him at least be her friend—her penitent, humble friend. We are man and wife. If I were to say so publicly, she would admit it. In this respect at least I have been generous: will she not be generous too? What harm could it do her if we lived under the same roof, and I took her to the theater, and fetched her home, and did little friendly offices for her?”

“And so got the thin edge of the wedge in, eh? Mr. Severne, I decline all interference in a matter so delicate, and in favor of a person who would use her as ill as ever, if he once succeeded in recovering her affections.”

So then she dismissed him peremptorily.

But, true to Vizard's interest, she called on him again, and, after a few preliminaries, let him know that Severne was every night behind the scenes.

A spasm crossed his face. “I am quite aware of that,” said he. “But he is never admitted into her house.”

“How do you know?”

“He is under constant surveillance.”

“Spies?”

“No. Thief-takers. All from Scotland Yard.”

“And love brings men down to this. What is it for?”

“When I am sure of your co-operation, I will let you know my hopes.”

“He doubts my friendship,” said Rhoda sorrowfully.

“No; only your discretion.”

“I will be discreet.”

“Well, then, sooner or later, he is sure to form some improper connection or other; and then I hope you will aid me in persuading her to divorce him.”

“That is not so easy in this country. It is not like our Western States, where, the saying is, they give you five minutes at a railway station for di—vorce.”

“You forget she is a German Protestant and the marriage was in that country. It will be easy enough.”

“Very well; dismiss it from your mind. She will never come before the public in that way. Nothing you nor I could urge would induce her.”

Vizard replied, doggedly, “I will never despair, so long as she keeps him out of her house.”

Rhoda told Ina Klosking this, and said, “Now it is in your own hands. You have only to let your charming villain into your house, and Mr. Vizard will return to Islip.”

Ina Klosking buried her face in her hands, and thought.

At night, Vizard in his box, as usual. Severne behind the scenes with his bouquet. But this night he stayed for the ballet, to see a French danseuse who had joined them. He was acquainted with her before, and had a sprightly conversation with her. In other words, he renewed an old flirtation.

The next opera night all went as usual. Vizard in the box, looking sadder than usual. Rhoda's good sense had not been entirely wasted. Severne, with his bouquet, and his grave humility, until the play ended, and La Klosking passed out into the hall. Her back was hardly turned when Mademoiselle Lafontaine, dressed for the ballet, in a most spicy costume, danced up to her old friend, and slapped his face very softly with a rose, then sprung away and stood on her defense.

“I'll have that rose,” cried Severne.

“Nenni.”

“And a kiss into the bargain.”

“Jamais.”

“C'est ce que nous verrons.”

He chased her. She uttered a feigned “Ah!” and darted away. He followed her; she crossed the scene at the back, where it was dark, bounded over an open trap, which she saw just in time, but Severne, not seeing it, because she was between him and it, fell through it, and, striking the mazarine, fell into the cellar, fifteen feet below the stage.

The screams of the dancers soon brought a crowd round the trap, and reached Mademoiselle Klosking just as she was going out to her carriage. “There!” she cried. “Another accident!” and she came back, making sure it was some poor carpenter come to grief, as usual. On such occasions her purse was always ready.

They brought Severne up sensible, but moaning, and bleeding at the temple, and looking all streaky about the face.

They were going to take him to the infirmary; but Mademoiselle Klosking, with a face of angelic pity, said, “No; he bleeds, he bleeds. He must go to my house.”

They stared a little; but it takes a good deal to astonish people in a theater.

Severne was carried out, his head hastily bandaged, and he was lifted into La Klosking's carriage. One of the people of the theater was directed to go on the box, and La Klosking and Ashmead supported him, and he was taken to her lodgings. She directed him to be laid on a couch, and a physician sent for, Miss Gale not having yet returned from Liverpool, whither she had gone to attend a lecture.

Ashmead went for the physician. But almost at the door he met Miss Gale and Mr. Vizard.

“Miss,” said he, “you are wanted. There has been an accident. Mr. Severne has fallen through a trap, and into the cellar.”

“No bones broken?”

“Not he: he has only broken his head; and that will cost her a broken heart.”

“Where is he?”

“Where I hoped never to see him again.

“What! in her house?” said Rhoda and, hurried off at once.

“Mr. Ashmead,” said Vizard, “a word with you.”

“By all means, sir,” said Ashmead, “as we go for the doctor. Dr. Menteith has a great name. He lives close by your hotel, sir.”

As they went, Vizard asked him what he meant by saying this accident would cost her a broken heart.

“Why, sir,” said Ashmead, “he is on his good behavior to get back; has been for months begging and praying just to be let live under the same roof. She has always refused. But some fellows have such luck. I don't say he fell down a trap on purpose; but he has done it, and no broken bones, but plenty of blood. That is the very thing to overcome a woman's feelings; and she is not proof against pity. He will have her again. Why, she is his nurse now; and see how that will work. We have a week's more business here; and, by bad luck, a dead fortnight, all along of Dublin falling through unexpectedly. He is as artful as Old Nick; he will spin out that broken head of his and make it last all the three weeks; and she will nurse him, and he will be weak, and grateful, and cry, and beg her pardon six times a day, and she is only a woman, after all: and they are man and wife, when all is done: the road is beaten. They will run upon it again, till his time is up to play the rogue as bad as ever.”

“You torture me,” said Vizard.

“I am afraid I do, sir. But I feel it my duty. Mr. Vizard, you are a noble gentleman, and I am only what you see; but the humblest folk will have their likes and dislikes, and I have a great respect for you, sir. I can't tell you the mixture of things I feel when I see you in the same box every night. Of course, I am her agent, and the house would not be complete without you; but as a man I am sorry. Especially now that she has let him into her house. Take a humble friend's advice, sir, and cut it. Don't you come between any woman and her husband, especially a public lady. She will never be more to you than she is. She is a good woman, and he must keep gaining ground. He has got the pull. Rouse all your pride, sir, and your manhood, and you have got plenty of both, and cut it; don't look right nor left, but cut it—and forgive my presumption.”

Vizard was greatly moved. “Give me your hand,” he said; “you are a worthy man. I'll act on your advice, and never forget what I owe you. Stick to me like a leech, and see me off by the next train, for I am going to tear my heart out of my bosom.”

Luckily there was a train in half an hour, and Ashmead saw him off; then went to supper. He did not return to Ina's lodgings. He did not want to see Severne nursed. He liked the fellow, too; but he saw through him clean; and he worshiped Ina Klosking.