The Woman-Hater | Page 5

indeed, it was a peculiarity of this woman that she
appeared nearly always to think--if but for half a moment--before she
spoke, and to say things, whether about herself or others, only because
they were the truth. The reader who shall condescend to bear this in
mind will possess some little clew to the color and effect of her words
as spoken. Often, where they seem simple and commonplace--on paper,
they were weighty by their extraordinary air of truthfulness as well as

by the deep music of her mellow, bell-like voice.
"Oh, you do admit that," said Mr. Ashmead, with a chuckle; "then why
jump off the ladder so near the top? Oh, of course I know--the old
story--but you might give twenty-two hours to love, and still spare a
couple to music."
"That seems a reasonable division," said Ina, naively. "But"
(apologetically) "he was jealous."
"Jealous!--more shame for him. I'm sure no lady in public life was ever
more discreet."
"No, no; he was only jealous of the public."
"And what had the poor public done?"
"Absorbed me, he said."
"Why, he could take you to the opera, and take you home from the
opera, and, during the opera, he could make one of the public, and
applaud you as loud as the best."
"Yes, but rehearsals!--and--embracing the tenor."
"Well, but only on the stage?"
"Oh, Mr. Ashmead, where else does one embrace the tenor?"
"And was that a grievance? Why, I'd embrace fifty tenors--if I was paid
proportionable."
"Yes; but he said I embraced one poor stick, with a fervor--an
_abandon_-- Well, I dare say I did; for, if they had put a gate-post in
the middle of the stage, and it was in my part to embrace the thing, I
should have done it honestly, for love of my art, and not of a post. The
next time I had to embrace the poor stick it was all I could do not to
pinch him savagely."

"And turn him to a counter-tenor--make him squeak."
Ina Klosking smiled for the first time. Ashmead, too, chuckled at his
own wit, but turned suddenly grave the next moment, and moralized.
He pronounced it desirable, for the interests of mankind, that a great
and rising singer should not love out of the business; outsiders were
wrong-headed and absurd, and did not understand the true artist.
However, having discoursed for some time in this strain, he began to
fear it might be unpalatable to her; so he stopped abruptly, and said,
"But there--what is done is done. We must make the best of it; and you
mustn't think I meant to run him down. He loves you, in his way. He
must be a noble fellow, or he never could have won such a heart as
yours. He won't be jealous of an old fellow like me, though I love you,
too, in my humdrum way, and always did. You must do me the honor
to present me to him at once."
Ina stared at him, but said nothing.
"Oh," continued Ashmead, "I shall be busy till evening; but I will ask
him and you to dine with me at the Kursaal, and then adjourn to the
Royal Box. You are a queen of song, and that is where you and he shall
sit, and nowhere else."
Ina Klosking was changing color all this time, and cast a grateful but
troubled look on him. "My kind, old faithful friend!" said she, then
shook her head. "No, we are not to dine with you; nor sit together at the
opera, in Homburg."
Ashmead looked a little chagrined. "So be it," he said dryly. "But at
least introduce me to him. I'll try and overcome his prejudices."
"It is not even in my power to do that."
"Oh, I see. I'm not good enough for him," said Ashmead, bitterly.
"You do yourself injustice, and him too," said Ina, courteously.
"Well, then?"

"My friend," said she, deprecatingly, "he is not here."
"Not here? That is odd. Well, then, you will be dull till he comes back.
Come without him; at all events, to the opera."
She turned her tortured eyes away. "I have not the heart."
This made Ashmead look at her more attentively. "Why, what is the
matter?" said he. "You are in trouble. I declare you are trembling, and
your eyes are filling. My poor lady--in Heaven's name, what is the
matter?"
"Hush!" said Ina; "not so loud." Then she looked him in the face a little
while, blushed, hesitated, faltered, and at last laid one white hand upon
her bosom, that was beginning to heave, and said, with patient dignity,
"My old friend--I--am--deserted."
Ashmead looked at her with amazement and incredulity. "Deserted!"
said he, faintly. "You--deserted!!!"
"Yes," said she, "deserted; but perhaps not forever." Her