The Woman-Hater | Page 4

Star," Homburg, was a humble hotel, not used by gay
gamblers, but by modest travelers.
At two o'clock, one fine day in June, there were two strangers in the
_salle a' manger,_ seated at small tables a long way apart, and wholly
absorbed in their own business.
One was a lady about twenty-four years old, who, in the present repose
of her features, looked comely, sedate, and womanly, but not the
remarkable person she really was. Her forehead high and white, but a
little broader than sculptors affect; her long hair, coiled tight, in a great
many smooth snakes, upon her snowy nape, was almost flaxen, yet her
eyebrows and long lashes not pale but a reddish brown; her gray eyes
large and profound; her mouth rather large, beautifully shaped, amiable,
and expressive, but full of resolution; her chin a little broad; her neck
and hands admirably white and polished. She was an Anglo-Dane--her
father English.
If you ask me what she was doing, why--hunting; and had been, for
some days, in all the inns of Homburg. She had the visitors' book, and

was going through the names of the whole year, and studying each to
see whether it looked real or assumed. Interspersed were flippant
comments, and verses adapted to draw a smile of amusement or
contempt; but this hunter passed them all over as nullities: the steady
pose of her head, the glint of her deep eye, and the set of her fine lips
showed a soul not to be diverted from its object.
The traveler at her back had a map of the district and blank telegrams,
one of which he filled in every now and then, and scribbled a hasty
letter to the same address. He was a sharp-faced middle-aged man of
business; Joseph Ashmead, operatic and theatrical agent--at his wits'
end; a female singer at the Homburg Opera had fallen really ill; he was
commissioned to replace her, and had only thirty hours to do it in. So
he was hunting a singer. What the lady was hunting can never be
known, unless she should choose to reveal it.
Karl, the waiter, felt bound to rouse these abstracted guests, and
stimulate their appetites. He affected, therefore, to look on them as
people who had not yet breakfasted, and tripped up to Mr. Ashmead
with a bill of fare, rather scanty.
The busiest Englishman can eat, and Ashmead had no objection to
snatch a mouthful; he gave his order in German with an English accent.
But the lady, when appealed to, said softly, in pure German, "I will
wait for the _table-d'hote."_
"The _table-d'hote!_ It wants four hours to that."
The lady looked Karl full in the face, and said, slowly, and very
distinctly, "Then, I--will--wait--four--hours."
These simple words, articulated firmly, and in a contralto voice of
singular volume and sweetness, sent Karl skipping; but their effect on
Mr. Ashmead was more remarkable. He started up from his chair with
an exclamation, and bent his eyes eagerly on the melodious speaker. He
could only see her back hair and her figure; but, apparently, this
quick-eared gentleman had also quick eyes, for he said aloud, in
English, "Her hair, too--it must be;" and he came hurriedly toward her.

She caught a word or two, and turned and saw him. "Ah!" said she, and
rose; but the points of her fingers still rested on the book.
"It is!" cried Ashmead. "It is!"
"Yes, Mr. Ashmead," said the lady, coloring a little, but in pure English,
and with a composure not easily disturbed; "it is Ina Klosking."
"What a pleasure," cried Ashmead; and what a surprise! Ah, madam, I
never hoped to see you again. When I heard you had left the Munich
Opera so sudden, I said, 'There goes one more bright star quenched
forever.' And you to desert us--you, the risingest singer in Germany!"
"Mr. Ashmead!"
"You can't deny it. You know you were."
The lady, thus made her own judge, seemed to reflect a moment, and
said, "I was a well-grounded musician, thanks to my parents; I was a
very hard-working singer; and I had the advantage of being supported,
in my early career, by a gentleman of judgment and spirit, who was a
manager at first, and brought me forward, afterward a popular agent,
and talked managers into a good opinion of me."
"Ah, madam," said Ashmead, tenderly, "it is a great pleasure to hear
this from you, and spoken with that mellow voice which would charm a
rattlesnake; but what would my zeal and devotion have availed if you
had not been a born singer?"
"Why--yes," said Ina, thoughtfully; "I was a singer." But she seemed to
say this not as a thing to be proud of, but only because it happened to
be true; and,