A FEW words avail to describe the sluggish waters of the Dead Sea, but what pen can portray the Indian Ocean lashed and tormented by a cyclone?
Even so a few words have sufficed to show that Ina Klosking's heart was all benumbed and deadened; and, with the help of insult, treachery, loss of blood, brain-fever, and self-esteem rebelling against villainy, had outlived its power of suffering poignant torture.
But I cannot sketch in a few words, nor paint in many, the tempest of passion in Zoe Vizard. Yet it is my duty to try and give the reader some little insight into the agony, the changes, the fury, the grief, the tempest of passion, in a virgin heart; in such a nature, the great passions of the mind often rage as fiercely, or even more so, than in older and experienced women.
Literally, Zoe Vizard loved Edward Severne one minute and hated him the next; gave him up for a traitor, and then vowed to believe nothing until she had heard his explanation; burned with ire at his silence, sickened with dismay at his silence. Then, for a while, love and faith would get the upper hand, and she would be quite calm. Why should she torment herself? An old sweetheart, abandoned long ago, had come between them; he had, unfortunately, done the woman an injury, in his wild endeavor to get away from her. Well, what business had she to use force? No doubt he was ashamed, afflicted at what he had done, being a man; or was in despair, seeing that lady installed in her brother's house, and _her_ story, probably a parcel of falsehoods, listened to.
Then she would have a gleam of joy; for she knew he had not written to Ina Klosking. But soon Despondency came down like a dark cloud; for she said to herself, "He has left us both. He sees the woman he does not love will not let him have the one he does love; and so he has lost heart, and will have no more to say to either."When her thoughts took this turn she would cry piteously; but not for long. She would dry her eyes, and burn with wrath all round; she would still hate her rival, but call her lover a coward--a contemptible coward.
After her day of raging, and grieving, and doubting, and fearing, and hoping, and despairing, night overtook her with an exhausted body, a bleeding heart, and weeping eyes. She had been so happy--on the very brink of paradise; and now she was deserted. Her pillow was wet every night. She cried in her very sleep; and when she woke in the morning her body was always quivering; and in the very act of waking came a horror, and an instinctive reluctance to face the light that was to bring another day of misery.
Such is a fair, though loose, description of her condition.
The slight fillip given to her spirits by the journey did her a morsel of good, but it died away. Having to nurse Aunt Maitland did her a little good at first. But she soon relapsed into herself, and became so _distraite_ that Aunt Maitland, who was all self, being an invalid, began to speak sharply to her.
On the second day of her visit to Somerville Villa, as she sat brooding at the foot of her aunt's bed, suddenly she heard horses' feet, and then a ring at the hall-door. Her heart leaped. Perhaps he had come to explain all. He might not choose to go to Vizard Court. What if he had been watching as anxiously as herself, and had seized the first opportunity!
In a moment her pale cheek rivaled carmine.
The girl brought up a card--
"LORD UXMOOR."
The color died away directly. "Say I am very sorry, but at this moment Icannot leave my aunt."
The girl stared with amazement, and took down the message.
Uxmoor rode away.
Zoe felt a moment's pleasure. No, if she could not see the right man, she would not see the wrong. That, at least, was in her power.
Nevertheless, in the course of the day, remembering Uxmoor's worth, and the pain she had already given him, she was almost sorry she had indulged herself at his expense.
Superfluous contrition! He came next day, as a matter of course. She liked him none the better for coming, but she went downstairs to him.
He came toward her, but started back and uttered an exclamation. "You are not well," he said, in tones of tenderness and dismay.
"Not very," she faltered; for his open manly concern touched her.
"And you have come here to nurse this old lady? Indeed, Miss Vizard, you need nursing yourself. You know it is some time since I had the pleasure of seeing you, and the change is alarming. May I send you Dr. Atkins, my mother's physician?""I am much obliged to you. No."
"Oh, I forgot. You have a physician of your own sex. Why is she not looking after you?""Miss Gale is better employed. She is at Vizard Court in attendance on a far more brilliant person--Mademoiselle Klosking, a professional singer.
Perhaps you know her?"
"I saw her at Homburg."
"Well, she met with an accident in our hall--a serious one; and Harrington took her in, and has placed all his resources--his lady physician and all--at her service: he is so fond of _Music."_A certain satirical bitterness peered through these words, but honest Uxmoor did not notice it. He said, "Then I wish you would let me be your doctor--for want of a better.""And you think _you_ can cure me?" said Zoe, satirically.
"It does seem presumptuous. But, at least, I could do you a little good if you could be got to try my humble prescription.""What is it?" asked Zoe, listlessly.
"It is my mare Phillis. She is the delight of every lady who mounts her.
She is thorough-bred, lively, swift, gentle, docile, amiable, perfect.
Ride her on these downs an hour or two very day. I'll send her over to-morrow. May I?""If you like. Rosa _would_ pack up my riding-habit.""Rosa was a prophetess."
Next day came Phillis, saddled. and led by a groom on horseback, and Uxmoor soon followed on an old hunter. He lifted Zoe to her saddle, and away they rode, the groom following at a respectful distance.
