"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 pa.s.sionately, as women do in a theater. Heaven forbid they should! If this world is all pa.s.sion, 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 unimpa.s.sioned 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 a.s.sented 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 gla.s.s 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--r.e.t.a.r.d 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 G.o.ddess 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 f.a.n.n.y for a solution. But f.a.n.n.y 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.

"n.o.body, 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 f.a.n.n.y'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."