CHAPTER XXII.
INA KLOSKING'S cure was retarded by the state of her mind. The excitement and sharp agony her physician had feared died away as the fever of the brain subsided; but then there settled down a grim, listless lethargy, which obstructed her return to health and vigor. Once she said to Rhoda Gale, “But I have nothing to get well for.”
As a rule, she did not speak her mind, but thought a great deal. She often asked after Zoe; and her nurses could see that her one languid anxiety was somehow connected with that lady. Yet she did not seem hostile to her now, nor jealous. It was hard to understand her; she was reserved, and very deep.
The first relief to the deadly languor of her mind came to her from Music. That was no great wonder; but, strange to say, the music that did her good was neither old enough to be revered, nor new enough to be fashionable. It was English music too, and passe'' music. She came across a collection of Anglican anthems and services—written, most of it, toward the end of the last century and the beginning of this. The composers' names promised little: they were Blow, Nares, Green, Kent, King, Jackson, etc. The words and the music of these compositions seemed to suit one another; and, as they were all quite new to her, she went through them almost eagerly, and hummed several of the strains, and with her white but now thin hand beat time to others. She even sent for Vizard, and said to him, “You have a treasure here. Do you know these compositions?”
He inspected his treasure. “I remember,” said he, “my mother used to sing this one, 'When the Eye saw Her, then it blessed Her;' and parts of this one, 'Hear my Prayer;' and, let me see, she used to sing this psalm, 'Praise the Lord,' by Jackson. I am ashamed to say I used to ask for 'Praise the Lord Jackson,' meaning to be funny, not devout.”
“She did not choose ill,” said Ina. “I thought I knew English music, yet here is a whole stream of it new to me. Is it esteemed?”
“I think it was once, but it has had its day.”
“That is strange; for here are some immortal qualities. These composers had brains, and began at the right end; they selected grand and tuneful words, great and pious thoughts; they impregnated themselves with those words and produced appropriate music. The harmonies are sometimes thin, and the writers seem scarcely to know the skillful use of discords; but they had heart and invention; they saw their way clear before they wrote the first note; there is an inspired simplicity and fervor: if all these choice things are dead, they must have fallen upon bad interpreters.”
“No doubt,” said Vizard; “so please get well, and let me hear these pious strains, which my poor dear mother loved so well, interpreted worthily.”
The Klosking's eyes filled. “That is a temptation,” said she, simply. Then she turned to Rhoda Gale. “Sweet physician, he has done me good. He has given me something to get well for.”
Vizard's heart yearned. “Do not talk like that,” said he, buoyantly; then, in a broken voice, “Heaven forbid you should have nothing better to live for than that.”
“Sir,” said she, gravely, “I have nothing better to live for now than to interpret good music worthily.”
There was a painful silence.
Ina broke it. She said, quite calmly, “First of all, I wish to know how others interpret these strains your mother loved, and I have the honor to agree with her.”
“Oh,” said Vizard, “we will soon manage that for you. These things are not defunct, only unfashionable. Every choir in England has sung them, and can sing them, after a fashion; so, at twelve o'clock to-morrow, look out—for squalls!”
He mounted his horse, rode into the cathedral town—distant eight miles—and arranged with the organist for himself, four leading boys, and three lay clerks. He was to send a carriage in for them after the morning service, and return them in good time for vespers.
Fanny told Ina Klosking, and she insisted on getting up.
By this time Doctress Gale had satisfied herself that a little excitement was downright good for her patient, and led to refreshing sleep. So they dressed her loosely but very warmly, and rolled her to the window on her invalid couch, set at a high angle. It was a fine clear day in October, keen but genial; and after muffling her well, they opened the window.
While she sat there, propped high, and inhaling the pure air, Vizard conveyed his little choir, by another staircase, into the antechamber; and, under his advice, they avoided preludes and opened in full chorus with Jackson's song of praise.
At the first burst of sacred harmony, Ina Klosking was observed to quiver all over.
They sung it rather coarsely, but correctly and boldly, and with a certain fervor. There were no operatic artifices to remind her of earth; the purity and the harmony struck her full. The great singer and sufferer lifted her clasped hands to God, and the tears flowed fast down her cheeks.
These tears were balm to that poor lacerated soul, tormented by many blows.
“O lacrymarum fons, tenero sacros Ducemtium ortus ex animo, quater Felix, in imo qui scatentem Pectore, te, pia nympha, sensit.”
Rhoda Gale, who hated music like poison, crept up to her, and, infolding her delicately, laid a pair of wet eyes softly on her shoulder.
Vizard now tapped at the door, and was admitted from the music-room. He begged Ina to choose another composition from her book. She marked a service and two anthems, and handed him the volume, but begged they might not be done too soon, one after the other. That would be quite enough for one day, especially if they would be good enough to repeat the hymn of praise to conclude; “for,” said she, “these are things to be digested.”
Soon the boys' pure voices rose again and those poor dead English composers, with prosaic names, found their way again to the great foreign singer's soul.
They sung an anthem, which is now especially despised by those great critics, the organists of the country—“My Song shall be of Mercy and Judgment.”
The Klosking forgave the thinness of the harmony, and many little faults in the vocal execution. The words, no doubt, went far with her, being clearly spoken. She sat meditating, with her moist eyes raised, and her face transfigured, and at the end she murmured to Vizard, with her eyes still raised, “After all, they are great and pious words, and the music has at least this crowning virtue—it means the words.” Then she suddenly turned upon him and said, “There is another person in this house who needs this consolation as much as I do. Why does she not come? But perhaps she is with the musicians.”
“Whom do you mean?”
“Your sister.”
“Why, she is not in the house.”
Ina Klosking started at that information, and bent her eyes keenly and inquiringly on him.
“She left two days ago.”
“Indeed!”
“To nurse a sick aunt.”
“Indeed! Had she no other reason?”
“Not that I know of,” said Vizard; but he could not help coloring a little.
The little choir now sung a service, King in F. They sung “The Magnificat” rudely, and rather profanely, but recovered themselves in the “Dimittis.”
When it was over, Ina whispered, “'To be a light to lighten the Gentiles.' That is an inspired duet. Oh, how it might be sung!”
“Of course it might,” whispered Vizard; “so you have something to get well for.”
“Yes, my friend—thanks to you and your sainted mother.”
This, uttered in a voice which, under the healing influence of music, seemed to have regained some of its rich melody, was too much for our cynic, and he bustled off to hide his emotion, and invited the musicians to lunch.
All the servants had been listening on the stairs, and the hospitable old butler plied the boys with sparkling Moselle, which, being himself reared on mighty Port; he thought a light and playful wine—just the thing for women and children. So after luncheon they sung rather wild, and the Klosking told Vizard, dryly, that would do for the present.
Then he ordered the carriage for them, and asked Mademoiselle Klosking when she would like them again.
“When can I?” she inquired, rather timidly.
“Every day, if you like—Sundays and all.”
“I must be content with every other day.”
Vizard said he would arrange it so, and was leaving her; but she begged him to stay a moment.
“She would be safer here,” said she, very gravely.
Vizard was taken aback by the suddenness of this return to a topic he was simple enough to think she had abandoned. However, he said, “She is safe enough. I have taken care of that, you may be sure.”
“You have done well, sir,” said Ina, very gravely.
She said no more to him; but just before dinner Fanny came in, and Miss Gale went for a walk in the garden. Ina pinned Fanny directly. “Where is Miss Vizard?” said she, quietly.
Fanny colored up; but seeing in a moment that fibs would be dangerous, said, mighty carelessly, “She is at Aunt Maitland's.”
“Where does she live, dear?”
“In a poky little place called 'Somerville Villa.'”
“Far from this?”
“Not very. It is forty miles by the railway, but not thirty by the road; and Zoe went in the barouche all the way.”
Mademoiselle Klosking thought a little, and then taking Fanny Dover's hand, said to her, very sweetly, “I beg you to honor me with your confidence, and tell me something. Believe me, it is for no selfish motive I ask you; but I think Miss Vizard is in danger. She is too far from her brother, and too far from me. Mr. Vizard says she is safe. Now, can you tell me what he means? How can she be safe? Is her heart turned to stone, like mine?”
“No, indeed,” said Fanny. “Yes, I will be frank with you; for I believe you are wiser than any one of us. Zoe is not safe, left to herself. Her heart is anything but stone; and Heaven knows what wild, mad thing she might be led into. But I know perfectly well what Vizard means: no, I don't like to tell it you all; it will give you pain.”
“There is little hope of that. I am past pain.”
“Well, then—Miss Gale will scold me.”
“No, she shall not.”
“Oh, I know you have got the upper hand even of her; so if you promise I shall not be scolded, I'll tell you. You see, I had my misgivings about this very thing; and as soon as Vizard came home—it was he who took her to Aunt Maitland—I asked him what precautions he had taken to hinder that man from getting hold of her again. Well, then—oh, I ought to have begun by telling you Mr. Severne forged bills to get money out of Harrington.”
“Good Heavens!”
“Oh, Harrington will never punish him, if he keeps his distance; but he has advertised in all the papers, warning him that if he sets foot in Barfordshire he will be arrested and sent to prison.”
Ina Klosking shook her head. “When a man is in love with such a woman as that, dangers could hardly deter him.”
“That depends upon the man, I think. But Harrington has done better than that. He has provided her with a watch-dog—the best of all watch-dogs—another lover. Lord Uxmoor lives near Aunt Maitland, and he adores Zoe; so Harrington has commissioned him to watch her, and cure her, and all. I wish he'd cure me—an earl's coronet and twenty thousand a year!”
“You relieve my mind,” said Ina. Then after a pause—“But let me ask you one question more. Why did you not tell me Miss Vizard was gone?”
“I don't know,” said Fanny, coloring up. “She told me not.”
“Who?”
“Why, the Vixen in command. She orders everybody.”
“And why did she forbid you?”
“Don't know.”
“Yes, you do. Kiss me, dear. There, I will distress you with no more questions. Why should I? Our instincts seldom deceive us. Well, so be it: I have something more to get well for, and I will.”
Fanny looked up at her inquiringly.
“Yes,” said she; “the daughter of this hospitable house will never return to it while I am in it. Poor girl; she thinks she is the injured woman. So be it. I will get well—and leave it.”
Fanny communicated this to Miss Gale, and all she said was, “She shall go no further than Hillstoke then; for I love her better than any man can love her.”
Fanny did not tell Vizard; and he was downright happy, seeing the woman he loved recover, by slow degrees, her health, her strength, her color, her voice. Parting was not threatened. He did not realize that they should ever part at all. He had vague hopes that, while she was under his roof, opportunity might stand his friend, and she might requite his affection. All this would not bear looking into very closely: for that very reason he took particular care not to look into it very closely; but hoped all things, and was happy. In this condition he received a little shock.
A one-horse fly was driven up to the door, and a card brought in—