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 compa.s.sionate 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 h.e.l.l 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 s.p.a.ce of time, I am instructed by that lady to pay you twenty pounds every Sat.u.r.day 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 Sat.u.r.day, and conversed delightfully. If he came any other day, it was sure to be for an advance: he never got it.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
f.a.n.n.y DOVER was sent for directly to Somerville Villa; and, three days after the distressing scene I have endeavored to describe, Vizard brought his wrecked sister home. Her condition was pitiable; and the moment he reached Vizard Court he mounted his horse and rode to Hillstoke to bring Miss Gale down to her.
There he found Ina Klosking, with her boxes at the door, waiting for the fly that was to take her away.
It was a sad interview. He thanked her deeply for her n.o.ble conduct to his sister, and then he could not help speaking of his own disappointment.
Mademoiselle Klosking, on this occasion, was simple, sad, and even tender, within prudent limits. She treated this as a parting forever, and therefore made no secret of her esteem for him. "But," said she, "I hope one day to hear you have found a partner worthy of you. As for me, who am tied for life to one I despise, and can never love again, I shall seek my consolation in music, and, please G.o.d, in charitable actions."
He kissed her hand at parting, and gave her a long, long look of miserable regret that tried her composure hard, and often recurred to her memory.
She went up to London, took a small suburban house, led a secluded life, and devoted herself to her art, making a particular study now of sacred music; she collected volumes of it, and did not disdain to buy it at bookstalls, or wherever she could find it.
Ashmead worked for her, and she made her first appearance in a new oratorio. Her songs proved a princ.i.p.al feature in the performance.
Events did not stand still in Barfordshire; but they were tame, compared with those I have lately related, and must be dispatched in fewer words.
Aunt Maitland recovered unexpectedly from a severe illness, and was a softened woman: she sent f.a.n.n.y off to keep Zoe company. That poor girl had a bitter time, and gave Doctress Gale great anxiety. She had no brain fever, but seemed quietly, insensibly, sinking into her grave. No appet.i.te, and indeed was threatened with atrophy at one time. But she was so surrounded with loving-kindness that her shame diminished, her pride rose, and at last her agony was blunted, and only a pensive languor remained to show that she had been crushed, and could not be again the bright, proud, high-spirited beauty of Barfordshire.
For many months she never mentioned either Edward Severne, Ina Klosking, or Lord Uxmoor.
It was a long time before she went outside the gates of her own park. She seemed to hate the outer world.
Her first visit was to Miss Gale; that young lady was now very happy. She had her mother with her. Mrs. Gale had defeated the tricky executor, and had come to England with a tidy little capital, saved out of the fire by her sagacity and spirit.
Mrs. Gale"s character has been partly revealed by her daughter. I have only to add she was a homely, well-read woman, of few words, but those few--grape-shot. Example--she said to Zoe, "Young lady, excuse an old woman"s freedom, who might be your mother: the troubles of young folk have a deal of self in them; more than you could believe. Now just you try something to take you out of self, and you will be another creature."
"Ah," sighed Zoe, "would to Heaven I could!"
"Oh," said Mrs. Gale, "anybody with money can do it, and the world so full of real trouble. Now, my girl tells me you are kind to the poor: why not do something like Rhoda is doing for this lord she is overseer, or goodness knows what, to?"
Rhoda (defiantly), "Viceroy."
"You have money, and your brother will not refuse you a bit o" land. Why not build some of these new-fangled cottages, with fancy gardens, and dwarf palaces for a cow and a pig? Rhoda, child, if I was a poor woman, I could graze a cow in the lanes hereabouts, and feed a pig in the woods.
Now you do that for the poor, Miss Vizard, and don"t let my girl think for you. Breed your own ideas. That will divert you from self, my dear, and you will begin to find it--there--just as if a black cloud was clearing away from your mind, and letting your heart warm again."
Zoe caught at the idea, and that very day asked Vizard timidly whether he would let her have some land to build a model cottage or two on.