“MR. JOSEPH ASHMEAD.”
Vizard was always at home at Vizard Court, except to convicted Bores. Mr. Ashmead was shown into his study.
Vizard knew him at a glance. The velveteen coat had yielded to tweed; but another loud tie had succeeded to the one “that fired the air at Homburg.” There, too, was the wash-leather face, and other traits Vizard professed to know an actress's lover by. Yes, it was the very man at sight of whom he had fought down his admiration of La Klosking, and declined an introduction to her. Vizard knew the lady better now. But still he was a little jealous even of her acquaintances, and thought this one unworthy of her; so he received him with stiff but guarded politeness, leaving him to open his business.
Ashmead, overawed by the avenue, the dozen gables, four-score chimneys, etc., addressed him rather obsequiously, but with a certain honest trouble, that soon softened the bad impression caused by his appearance.
“Sir,” said he, “pray excuse this intrusion of a stranger, but I am in great anxiety. It is not for myself, but for a lady, a very distinguished lady, whose interests I am charged with. It is Mademoiselle Klosking, the famous singer.”
Vizard maintained a grim silence.
“You may have heard of her.”
“I have.”
“I almost fancy you once heard her sing—at Homburg.”
“I did.”
“Then I am sure you must have admired her, being a gentleman of taste. Well, sir, it is near a fortnight since I heard from her.”
“Well, sir?”
“You will say what is that to you? But the truth is, she left me, in London, to do certain business for her, and she went down to this very place. I offered to come with her, but she declined. To be sure, it was a delicate matter, and not at all in my way. She was to write to me and report progress, and give me her address, that I might write to her; but nearly a fortnight has passed. I have not received a single letter. I am in real distress and anxiety. A great career awaits her in England, sir; but this silence is so mysterious, so alarming, that I begin actually to hope she has played the fool, and thrown it all up, and gone abroad with that blackguard.”
“What blackguard, sir?”
Joseph drew in his horns. “I spoke too quick, sir,” said he; “it is no business of mine. But these brilliant women are as mad as the rest in throwing away their affections. They prefer a blackguard to a good man. It is the rule. Excuse my plain speaking.”
“Mr. Ashmead,” said Vizard, “I may be able to answer your questions about this lady; but, before I do so, it is right I should know how far you possess her confidence. To speak plainly, have you any objection to tell me what is the precise relation between you and her?”
“Certainly not, sir. I am her theatrical agent.”
“Is that all?”
“Not quite. I have been a good deal about her lately, and have seen her in deep distress. I think I may almost say I am her friend, though a very humble one.”
Vizard did not yet quite realize the truth that this Bohemian had in his heart one holy spot—his pure devotion and unsexual friendship for that great artist. Still, his prejudices were disarmed, and he said, “Well, Mr. Ashmead, excuse my cross-questioning you. I will now give myself the pleasure of setting your anxieties at rest. Mademoiselle Klosking is in this house.”
Ashmead stared at him, and then broke out, “In this house! O Lord! How can that be?”
“It happened in a way very distressing to us all, though the result is now so delightful. Mademoiselle Klosking called here on a business with which, perhaps, you are acquainted.”
“I am, sir.”
“Unfortunately she met with an accident in my very hall, an accident that endangered her life, sir; and of course we took charge of her. She has had a zealous physician and good nurses, and she is recovering slowly. She is quite out of danger, but still weak. I have no doubt she will be delighted to see you. Only, as we are all under the orders of her physician, and that physician is a woman, and a bit of a vixen, you must allow me to go and consult her first.” Vizard retired, leaving Joseph happy, but mystified.
He was not long alone. In less than a minute he had for companions some well-buttered sandwiches made with smoked ham, and a bottle of old Madeira. The solids melted in his mouth, the liquid ran through his veins like oil charged with electricity and elixir vitoe.
By-and-by a female servant came for him, and ushered him into Ina Klosking's room.
She received him with undisguised affection, and he had much ado to keep from crying. She made him sit down near her in the vast embrasure of the window, and gave him a letter to read she had just written to him.
They compared notes very rapidly; but their discourse will not be given here, because so much of it would be repetition.
They were left alone to talk, and they did talk for more than an hour. The first interruption, indeed, was a recitativo with chords, followed by a verse from the leading treble.
Mr. Ashmead looked puzzled; the Klosking eyed him demurely.
Before the anthem concluded, Vizard tapped, and was admitted from the music-room. Ina smiled, and waved him to a chair. Both the men saw, by her manner, they were not to utter a sound while the music was going on. When it ceased, she said, “Do you approve that, my friend?”
“If it pleases you, madam,” replied the wary Ashmead.
“It does more than please me; it does me good.”
“That reconciles me to it at once.”
“Oh, then you do not admire it for itself.”
“Not—very—much.”
“Pray, speak plainly. I am not a tyrant, to impose my tastes.”
“Well then, madam, I feel very grateful to anything that does you good: otherwise, I should say the music was—rather dreary; and the singing—very insipid.”
The open struggle between Joseph's honesty and his awe of the Klosking tickled Vizard so that he leaned back in his chair and laughed heartily.
The Klosking smiled superior. “He means,” said she, “that the music is not operatic, and the boys do not clasp their hands, and shake their shoulders, and sing passionately, as women do in a theater. Heaven forbid they should! If this world is all passion, there is another which is all peace; and these boys' sweet, artless tones are the nearest thing we shall get in this world to the unimpassioned voices of the angels. They are fit instruments for pious words set by composers, who, however obscure they may be, were men inspired, and have written immortal strains, which, as I hear them, seem hardly of this world—they are so free from all mortal dross.”
Vizard assented warmly. Ashmead asked permission to hear another. They sung the “Magnificat” by King, in F.
“Upon my word,” said Ashmead, “there is a deal of 'go' in that.”
Then they sung the “Nuno Dimittis.” He said, a little dryly, there was plenty of repose in that.
“My friend,” said she, “there is—to the honor of the composer: the 'Magnificat' is the bright and lofty exultation of a young woman who has borne the Messiah, and does not foresee His sufferings, only the boon to the world and the glory to herself. But the 'Dimittis' is the very opposite. It is a gentle joy, and the world contentedly resigned by a good old man, fatigued, who has run his race, and longs to sleep after life's fever. When next you have the good fortune to hear that song, think you see the sun descending red and calm after a day of storms, and an aged Christian saying, 'Good-night,' and you will honor poor dead King as I do. The music that truly reflects great words was never yet small music, write it who may.”
“You are right, madam.” said Ashmead. “When I doubted its being good music, I suppose I meant salable.”
“Ah, voil'a!” said the Klosking. Then, turning to Vizard for sympathy, “What this faithful friend understands by good music is music that can be sold for a good deal of money.”
“That is so,” said Ashmead, stoutly. “I am a theatrical agent. You can't make a silk purse out of a sow's ear. You have tried it more than once, you know, but it would not work.”
Ashmead amused Vizard, and he took him into his study, and had some more conversation with him. He even asked him to stay in the house; but Ashmead was shy, and there was a theater at Taddington. So he said he had a good deal of business to do; he had better make the “Swan” his headquarters. “I shall be at your service all the same, sir, or Mademoiselle Klosking's.”
“Have a glass of Madeira, Mr. Ashmead.”
“Well, sir, to tell the truth, I have had one or two.”
“Then it knows the road.”
“You are very good, sir. What Madeira! Is this the wine the doctors ran down a few years ago? They couldn't have tasted it.”
“Well, it is like ourselves, improved by traveling. That has been twice to India.”
“It will never go again past me,” said Ashmead, gayly. “My mouth is a cape it will never weather.”
He went to his inn.
Before he had been there ten minutes, up rattled a smart servant in a smart dogcart.
“Hamper—for Joseph Ashmead, Esquire.”
“Anything to pay?”
“What for?—it's from Vizard Court.”
And the dog-cart rattled away.
Joseph was in the hall, and witnessed this phenomenon. He said to himself, “I wish I had a vast acquaintance—ALL COUNTRY GENTLEMEN.”
That afternoon Ina Klosking insisted on walking up and down the room, supported by Mesdemoiselles Gale and Dover. The result was fatigue and sleep; that is all.
“To-morrow,” said she, “I will have but one live crutch. I must and will recover my strength.”
In the evening she insisted on both ladies dining with Mr. Vizard. Here, too, she had her way.
Vizard was in very good spirits, and, when the servants were gone, complimented Miss Gale on her skill.
“Our skill, you mean,” said she. “It was you who prescribed this new medicine of the mind, the psalms and hymns and spiritual songs; and it was you who administered the Ashmead, and he made her laugh, or nearly—and that we have never been able to do. She must take a few grains of Ashmead every day. The worst of it is, I am afraid we shall cure her too quickly; and then we shall lose her. But that was to be expected. I am very unfortunate in my attachments; I always was. If I fall in love with a woman, she is sure to hate me, or else die, or else fly away. I love this one to distraction, so she is sure to desert me, because she couldn't misbehave, and I won't let her die.”
“Well,” said Vizard, “you know what to do—retard the cure. That is one of the arts of your profession.”
“And so it is; but how can I, when I love her? No, we must have recourse to our benevolent tyrant again. He must get Miss Vizard back here, before my goddess is well enough to spread her wings and fly.”
Vizard looked puzzled. “This,” said he “sounds like a riddle, or female logic.”
“It is both,” said Rhoda. “Miss Dover, give him the mot d'e'nigme. I'm off—to the patient I adore.”
She vanished swiftly, and Vizard looked to Fanny for a solution. But Fanny seemed rather vexed with Miss Gale, and said nothing. Then he pressed her to explain.
She answered him, with a certain reluctance, “Mademoiselle Klosking has taken into her head that Zoe will never return to this house while she is in it.”
“Who put that into her head, now?” said Vizard, bitterly.
“Nobody, upon my honor. A woman's instinct.”
“Well?”
“She is horrified at the idea of keeping your sister out of her own house, so she is getting well to go; and the strength of her will is such that she will get well.”
“All the better; but Zoe will soon get tired of Somerville Villa. A little persuasion will bring her home, especially if you were to offer to take her place.”
“Oh, I would do that, to oblige you, Harrington, if I saw any good at the end of it. But please think twice. How can Zoe and that lady ever stay under the same roof? How can they meet at your table, and speak to each other? They are rivals.”
“They are both getting cured, and neither will ever see the villain again.”
“I hope not; but who can tell? Well, never mind them. If their eyes are not opened by this time, they will get no pity from me. It is you I think of now.” Then, in a hesitating way, and her cheeks mantling higher and higher with honest blushes—“You have suffered enough already from women. I know it is not my business, but it does grieve me to see you going into trouble again. What good can come of it? Her connection with that man, so recent, and so—strange. The world will interpret its own way. Your position in the county—every eye upon you. I see the way in—no doubt it is strewed with flowers; but I see no way out. Be brave in time, Harrington. It will not be the first time. She must be a good woman, somehow, or faces, eyes and voices, and ways, are all a lie. But if she is good, she is very unfortunate; and she will give you a sore heart for life, if you don't mind. I'd clinch my teeth and shut my eyes, and let her go in time.”
Vizard groaned aloud, and at that a tear or two rolled down Fanny's burning cheeks.
“You are a good little girl,” said Vizard, affectionately; “but I cannot.”
He hung his head despondently and muttered, “I see no way out either. But I yield to fate. I feared her, and fled from her. She has followed me. I can resist no more. I drift. Some men never know happiness. I shall have had a happy fortnight, at all events. I thank you, and respect you for your advice; but I can't take it. So now I suppose you will be too much offended to oblige me.”
“Oh dear, no.”
“Would you mind writing to Aunt Maitland, and saying you would like to take Zoe's place?”
“I will do it with pleasure to oblige you. Besides, it will be a fib, and it is so long since I have told a good fib. When shall I write?”
“Oh, about the end of the week.”
“Yes, that will be time enough. Miss Gale won't let her go till next week. Ah, after all, how nice and natural it is to be naughty! Fibs and flirtation, welcome home! This is the beauty of being good—and I shall recommend it to all my friends on this very account—you can always leave it off at a moment's notice, without any trouble. Now, naughtiness sticks to you like a burr.”
So, with no more ado, this new Mentor became Vizard's accomplice, and they agreed to get Zoe back before the Klosking could get strong enough to move with her physician's consent.
As the hamper of Madeira was landed in the hall of the “Swan” inn, a genial voice cried, “You are in luck.” Ashmead turned, and there was Poikilus peering at him from the doorway of the commercial room.
“What is the game now?” thought Ashmead. But what he said was, “Why, I know that face. I declare, it is the gent that treated me at Homburg. Bring in the hamper, Dick.” Then to Poikilus, “Have ye dined yet?”
“No. Going to dine in half an hour. Roast gosling. Just enough for two.”
“We'll divide it, if you like, and I'll stand a bottle of old Madeira. My old friend, Squire Vizard, has just sent it me. I'll just have a splash; dinner will be ready by then.” He bustled out of the room, but said, as he went, “I say, old man, open the hamper, and put two bottles just within the smile of the fire.”
He then went upstairs, and plunged his head in cold water, to clear his faculties for the encounter.
The friends sat down to dinner, and afterward to the Madeira, both gay and genial outside, but within full of design—their object being to pump one another.
In the encounter at Homburg, Ashmead had an advantage; Poikilus thought himself unknown to Ashmead. But this time there was a change. Poikilus knew by this time that La Klosking had gone to Vizard Court. How she had known Severne was there puzzled him a good deal; but he had ended by suspecting Ashmead, in a vague way.
The parties, therefore, met on even terms. Ashmead resolved to learn what he could about Severne, and Poikilus to learn what he could about Zoe Vizard and Mademoiselle Klosking.
Ashmead opened the ball: “Been long here?”
“Just come.”
“Business?”
“Yes. Want to see if there's any chance of my getting paid for that job.”
“What job?”
“Why, the Homburg job. Look here—I don't know why I should have any secrets from a good fellow like you; only you must not tell anybody else.”
“Oh, honor bright!”
“Well, then, I am a detective.”
“Ye don't mean that?”
“I'm Poikilus.”
“Good heavens! Well, I don't care. I haven't murdered anybody. Here's your health, Poikilus. I say, you could tell a tale or two.”
“That I could. But I'm out of luck this time. The gentleman that employed me has mizzled, and he promised me fifty pounds. I came down here in hopes of finding him. Saw him once in this neighborhood.”
“Well, you won't find him here, I don't think. You must excuse me, but your employer is a villain. He has knocked a lady down, and nearly killed her.”
“You don't say that?”
“Yes; that beautiful lady, the singer, you saw in Homburg.”
“What! the lady that said he should have his money?”
“The same.”
“Why, he must be mad.”
“No. A scoundrel. That is all.”
“Then she won't give him his money after that.”
“Not if I can help it. But if she likes to pay you your commission, I shall not object to that.”
“You are a good fellow.”
“What is more, I shall see her to-morrow, and I will put the question to her for you.”
Poikilus was profuse in his thanks, and said he began to think it was his only chance. Then he had a misgiving. “I have no claim on the lady,” said he; “and I am afraid I have been a bad friend to her. I did not mean it, though, and the whole affair is dark to me.”
“You are not very sharp, then, for a detective,” said Ashmead. “Well, shut your mouth and open your eyes. Your Mr. Severne was the lady's lover, and preyed upon her. He left her; she was fool enough to love him still, and pined for him. He is a gambler, and was gambling by my side when Mademoiselle Klosking came in; so he cut his lucky, and left me fifty pounds to play for him, and she put the pot on, and broke the bank. I didn't know who he was, but we found it out by his photograph. Then you came smelling after the money, and we sold you nicely, my fine detective. We made it our business to know where you wrote to—Vizard Court. She went down there, and found him just going to be married to a beautiful young lady. She collared him. He flung her down, and cut her temple open—nearly killed her. She lies ill in the house, and the other young lady is gone away broken-hearted.”
“Where to?”
“How should I know? What is that to you?”
“Why don't you see? Wherever she is, he won't be far off. He likes her best, don't he?”
“It don't follow that she likes him, now she has found him out. He had better not go after her, or he'll get a skinful of broken bones. My friend, Squire Vizard, is the man to make short work with him, if he caught the blackguard spooning after his sister.”
“And serve him right. Still, I wish I knew where that young lady is.”
“I dare say I could learn if I made it my business.”
Having brought the matter to that point, Poikilus left it, and simply made himself agreeable. He told Ashmead his experiences; and as they were, many of them, strange and dramatic, he kept him a delighted listener till midnight.
The next day Ashmead visited Mademoiselle Klosking, and found her walking up and down the room, with her hand on Miss Gale's shoulder.
She withdrew into the embrasure, and had some confidential talk with him. As a matter of course, he told her about Poikilus, and that he was hunting down Severne for his money.
“Indeed!” said the Klosking. “Please tell me every word that passed between you.”
He did so, as nearly as he could remember.
Mademoiselle Klosking leaned her brow upon her hand a considerable time in thought. Then she turned on Ashmead, and said, quietly, “That Poikilus is still acting for him, and the one thing they desire to learn is where to find Miss Vizard, and delude her to her ruin.”
“No, no,” cried Ashmead violently; but the next moment his countenance fell. “You are wiser than I am,” said he; “it may be. Confound the sneak! I'll give it him next time I see him! Why, he must love villainy for its own sake. I as good as said you would pay him his fifty pounds.”
“What fifty pounds? His fifty pounds is a falsehood, like himself. Now, my friend, please take my instructions, my positive instructions.”
“Yes, madam.”
“You will not change your friendly manner: show no suspicion nor anger. If they are cunning, we must be wise; and the wise always keep their temper. You will say Miss Vizard has gone to Ireland, but to what part is only known to her brother. Tell him this, and be very free and communicative on all other subjects; for this alone has any importance now. As for me, I can easily learn where Somerville Villa is, and in a day or two shall send you to look after her. One thing is clear—I had better lose no time in recovering my strength. Well, my will is strong. I will lose no time—your arm, monsieur;” and she resumed her promenade.
Ashmead, instructed as above, dined again with the detective; but out of revenge gave him but one bottle of Madeira. As they sipped it, he delivered a great many words; and in the middle of them said, “Oh, by-the-by, I asked after that poor young lady. Gone to Ireland, but they didn't know what part.”
After dinner Ashmead went to the theater. When he came back Poikilus was gone.
So did Wisdom baffle Cunning that time.
But Cunning did not really leave the field: that very evening an aged man, in green spectacles, was inquiring about the postal arrangements to Vizard Court; and next day he might have been seen, in a back street of Taddington, talking to the village postman, and afterward drinking with him. It was Poikilus groping his way.