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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Married? It is false! To whom?”

“To me.”

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

“Look at him. He does not say it is false.”

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

“Not that I know of,” said he, impudently.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Broken fiddlesticks!” said honest Joe.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Well, I'll go to London—but not without you.”

“Me! What do you want of me?”

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

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

He telegraphed Hillstoke, and took Severne up to London.

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