1d^ /7^oT
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SABINA ZEMBRA
01 3)3'occl
BY
WILLIAM BLACK
AUTHOR OP
"white HKATHER" "MACLEOD OF DARE " "A PRINCESS OF THULE "
"sunrise" "white wings" etc.
NEW YORK
HARPER & BROTHERS, FRANKLIN SQUARE
1887
d\
WILLIAM BLACK'S NOYELS.
LIBRARY EDITION.
17 vols., 12mo, Clulh, $1 25 per vol. Complete Sets, $19 GO.
S.\niN'.\ ZKMBRA.
WIIITI'; HKATHKR
JIDITH SllAKKSPEARE. Illus-
tnilctl by AiiiiEV.
YOI.A.VDK. Illustrated.
SHANIiiiX IJEI.LS. llhistratcii.
THAT liKALTlFLL WKETCU. Il-
lustrated.
SUXKISE.
MACLEOD OF DARE. Illustrated.
GKEEX PASTURES AND PICCA-
DIEI-Y.
MADCAP VIOLET.
THREE FEATHERS.
A DAUGHTER OF HETU.
A PRINCESS OF THULE.
IN SILK ATTIRE.
KILMENY.
THE STRANGE ADVENTURES OF
A PHAETON.
■WHITE WINGS. Illustrated.
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CONTENTS.
CHAPTER PAGE
I. SIR ANTHONY 1
IT. SABIE 9
in. WALTER LINDSAY 19
IV. FRED FOSTER 28
V. SER FEDERIGO'S FALCON 36
VI. TO BRIGHTON 50
Vn. BY THE SHANNON SHORE 55
VIII. THE NEW FRIENDSHIP 64
IX. BY THE SEA 73
X. AT THE ACADEMY 82
XI. A FOREBODING 91
XII. PLIGHT 100
Xlir. REPENTANCE 109
XIV. A ROSE-DECORATED BALL 118
XV. AN ALLIANCE 127
XVL A BETROTHAL 136
XVII. PREPARATIONS 145
XVIIL A WEDDING 154
XIX. A HONEY-MOON VISIT 101
XX. IN LONDON AGAIN 173
XXI. SOME NEW ACQUAINTANCES 179
XXII. WAYS AND MEANS 189
XXIIL AT A MUSIC-HALL 198
XXIV. DIVERGENT WAYS 207
XXV. ALTERED PLANS 318
XXVL A MESSAGE 837
XXVII. IN NEW YORK 236
XXVIII. AN AMBASSADOR 245
XXIX. TOO LATE I 355
XXX. AN OLD FRIEND 264
XXXI. A THREAT 373
XXXII. A CRY OF DESPAIR 383
XXXIII. ALLIES 390
iv CONTENTS.
CIIAITER PAGE
XXXIV. THE rNTERPOSINC. HAND 299
XXXV. TilK EXILK's RETURN 306
XXXVI. NEW QUARTERS 314
XXXVII. TOGETHER 321
XXXVIII. " O' RVdANE DAYS AND .ME." 329
XXXIX. NEIOIIHORS 337
XL. IN TIME OF NEED 345
XLI. A SEVER^UhCE 353
XMI. DARKENED DAYS 360
XI, III. FAREWELL WORDS.. . . 368
XLIV, A REVELATION 376
XLV. CONSPIRATORS 384
XLVI. A KEEPSAICE 392
XLVIL A KNELL OF DOOM 400
XLVIII. NIGHT FALLS 408
XLIX. IN DARKNESS 417
L. IN THE KINGDOM OF GALLOWAY 425
LI. AT CARNRYAN TOWER 432
Lll. AT A PICTURE-SUOW 438
SABINA ZEMBRA.
CHAPTER I.
SIR ANTHONY.
Ok a certain Wednesday afternoon in March, the billiard-room
of the Waldegrave Club, Pall Mall, was the scene of a remarkable
occurrence. The Waldegrave, it may be said parenthetically, is
held in much veneration by our country cousins as the head-
quarters of a great political party ; there the chiefs of that party
are supposed to meet and direct the operations of a general
election; thither impecunious candidates look for the sinews of
war; and the honor of its membership is understood to be the
crowning glory and reward of him who has wooed and won over
to the cause a doubtful constituency. All this may be so, or it
may not be so ; but to the Londoner, and especially to the London
diner-out, the Waldegrave is chiefly known for its noble hall and
its stately galleries, its excellent cuisine and cellar, its pleasant
outlook into Carlton Gardens, and the proportions and decoration
of its library, which is far and away the most beautiful room in
Europe. As for the more modest apartment in which this re-
markable occurrence took place, no visitor is allowed to enter
within its door, which may account for the rumor that the pro-
ceedings there are not always conducted with a dignity and re-
pose befitting the fame and name of so notable a club. Indeed,
it has been affirmed (but doubtless by political enemies) that the
pool-players of the Waldegrave, safe in the friendly secrecy of
that upper chamber, occasionally, and even frequently, break out
into wild revelry; that derisive cheers overwhelm the "sniggler;"
that groans of execration bring the "fluker" to open shame; and
that the timid and nervous player is frightened out of his wits
by the sudden cry that he has " missed the ball 1" However,
1
2 SABIXA ZEMBRA.
these stories arc probably not true; the rancor of party strife is
capable of inventing anything ; and it would be a pity if the
constituencies were to believe that the Waldegrave is anything
other than what it really is — that is to say, a great and decorous
political institution.
On the afternoon in question, one of the members of the club
went up to the billiard-room, opened the door, and went in,
greeting pleasantly this one and the other of his acquaintances
as he passed them. lie was a tall man, of about sixty ; handsome
and well dressed; fresh-comploxioned and white-haired; of debo-
nair look and bland expression ; and evidently very well pleased
with himself. This was Sir Anthony Zembra, senior member for
one of the big manufacturing towns in the north ; a man of
enormous wealth; a writer of pamphlets on currency and free-
trade and kindred questions; an active and industrious politician,
who might fairly hope to be invited to join the Government, in
a subordinate capacity, one of these days ; and socially — well,
socially, tlie most detested man in London. But how could he
help that? No one could have explained why he was so detested ;
he himself did not know it ; nay, it would have been impossible
for him to grasp the idea. Rich, handsome, bland of manner;
his wife a queen of fashion ; his dinners quite famous for their
excellence — how could he be detested ? No, that was the last
idea that could have gained admission into Sir Anthony Zembra's
head.
" I will take a ball, m'arker," he said, for tliey were just be-
ginning a new game.
" Right, sir."
The new-comer walked up to the little mahogany box and de-
posited the shilling claimed by the pool ; then he proceeded to
get down his cue from its tin case. The marker gave out the
balls.
" Red on white — yellow's your player." The game had begun.
"What ball am I, marker?"
" Blue, Sir Anthony ; the ball is in the pocket."
" Who plays on me ?"
" Mr. Herscliell," said the marker, naming the notoriously best
player in the club.
And now occurred the incident to which reference has been
made.
SIE ANTHONY. 3
" Oh, look here, that won't do at all," exclaimed Sir Anthony.
" Why, I sha'n't have a chance. That won't do. Herschell, do
you play on me ? Well, I'm out ; I'm not going to give you
three lives for nothing."
" You may withdraw your ball if you like, Sir Anthony," ob-
served the marker.
" Why, of course I do. Mr, Herschell's too good for me,"
" The blue ball is withdrawn," the marker said, shutting up
the three lives on the board ; and then he was about to call the
game, when Sir Anthony interrupted him,
" Come along, marker, give me that shilling out,"
The marker seemed surprised, but he said, quite respectfully,
" No, sir, you can't have the shilling out. You may withdraw
your ball, but the shilling is in the pool ; you can't have that
back."
" Oh, nonsense !" called out Sir Anthony, with a kind of stormy
good-nature, " Nonsense ! I haven't played, I'm not in the
game. Do you think I'm going to let them play for my money ?
Come, out with that shilling!"
The marker was helpless; he could only look at the other
members in an appealing sort of way. And they looked at one
another; for nothing of the kind had happened in the club
before — no, nor in any other club, most likely. Then came mut-
tered protests, some angry, some half-ashamed.
" No, no, you can't have the shilling out — forfeited to the pool
— you joined in the game when you took a ball — the rule of the
game — the marker's quite right — you can't interfere with the
pool."
"Oh, but can't I?" he said, with a good-humored laugh, "Do
you think I'm going to let you play for my money when I'm
not in the game — you thieves and robbers!"
And therewithal he jauntily went up to the mahogany box and
took out the shilling and put it in his pocket. Then he proceed-
ed to replace his cue in its case, and as he walked to the door he
shook his forefinger in a waggish manner at the old gentleman
whose superior skill had induced him to withdraw from the game.
"You old rascal," he said, playfully, "you thought you were
going to have an easy victim. No, no, not to-day, thank you,"
They made no reply, no protest; the magnificence of the man's
meanness, and of his self-complacency, were too appalling ; when
4 SABIXA ZEMBRA.
he had shut tlic door a Icind of awc-strncTc silence fell over the
room, and they looked at each other in dumb amazement.
*' Green plays on yellow !" the marker called ; and this awolce
them from their trance; and then, as the jjame went on, there
were questions asked as to the probable dimensions of Sir An-
thony Zembra's fortune, and the bic;f]jer the flexures the greater
the distrust. But there was little said, for the marker was within
hearinij.
Meanwhile, Sir Anthony, suave, radiant, complacent — and cer-
tainly little dreaming that he had just conferred a favor on some
eight or ten of his fellow-creatures in giving them something
they could definitely produce as a reason for hating him — Sir
Anthony, bland, smiling, and debonair, went down through the
hall of the club. Perhaps the nod which he bestowed on his
intimates had just a touch of patronage in it; but how could
that very well be helped? His life had been all through so pros-
perous and successful and satisfactory. His first wife had died
as soon as she grew ugly ; his second was good-tempered, except
when he wanted the carriage in the afternoon ; the Times printed
his letters in leaded type; his digestion enabled him to eat even
a House of Commons dinner with equanimity; and his constit-
uents believed him when he told lies about previous engage-
ments. The old woman who sweeps the crossing at the corner
of St. James's Square courtesied lower to him than to anybody
else; though never a penny had he bestowed on her. In St.
James's street the cabmen had to look out for him, not he for
them ; he went out into the open thoroughfare with a charming
nonchalance, glancing neither to the left nor to the right. And
so, eventually, he made his way home, to a big house in Lancaster
Gate; and he walked the whole distance, for Lady Zembra had
possession of the carriage, and he did not care to spend money
on a hansom. Besides, his appearance was much admired (and
he knew it) as he strode along Piccadilly and up through the
Park.
He let himself in with a latch-key. The house was very quiet,
insomuch that a faint murmur coming from the school-room was
distinctly audible. And as the door of the room was open an
inch or two. Sir Anthony thought he might as well pause there
and discover whether the governess were doing her duty — for
this was one of the afternoons on which nothinix but French was
SIR ANTHOnY. 5
allowed to be spoken — and it was Miss Renshaw's business to
impose a fine of threepence for any lapse. However, everything
seemed going on well. Master Reginald (his father could hear)
was reading aloud a composition of his own. It was a descrip-
tion of the character and conduct of a dog belonging to a public-
house in the Bayswater Road — " Un gros chien qui a^ypartcmit a
une maison 2'>ul>lique dans le Bayswater Road,'''' was tlie youthful
scholar's rendering; and apparently that animal had not found
much favor iu the eyes of the narrator. But presently other
sounds smote the listener's ear. A squabble had arisen some-
where. " Voyez, voyez, mademoiselle, il a fait pour mon dessin P''
^^ JVon, non — ce ii'eiait pas vioi — ne mentez vous pas — je vous
donnerai — vous donnerai — une boite sur Voreilley Sir Anthony
thought this an opportune moment. He opened the door and
entered, and there was instant silence. But he did not remon-
strate or scold ; it was enough that Miss Renshaw should see how
his mere presence — his presence, without a look or a word — could
produce calm.
" Have you looked through to-day's newspapers yet, Miss Ren-
shaw?" said he, as he strolled up to tlie chiinney-piece and lifted
therefrom a pass-book labelled on the outside " Domestic."
" Yes, Sir Anthony, except those that came this afternoon,"
said the patient-looking, gray-faced young woman sitting there.
And of these desultory paragraphs that he was now scanning
with much complacent interest, who could guess at the author-
ship? Perhaps the patient -eyed young person who had that
morning carefully clipped them out of the various journals and
pasted them in the pass-book had also herself inspired them, or
even written them out, for the information of provincial editors?
At all events, they showed a remarkable familiarity with the com-
ings and goings of the Zembra family, and also a kind of pathet-
ic assumption that these, and the smallest details about them,
must be of keen interest to the British public. Here are some
of them :
" Lady Zembra and Miss Florence Zembra will sliortly leave
Lancaster Gate, on a visit to Lord and Lady Petersfield at their
beautiful place near Marlow."
" At the marriage of Miss Emily Vere and Colonel Langley,
last week, the costume of Master Reginald Zembra, who was
dressed as a page of the time of Henry VHL, was much admired.
6 SABINA ZEMBBA. i
The desip^n of the costume, we understand, was presented to Lady
Zembra by a distinguished academician."
" The Chapel Royal, St. James's, was on Sunday last crowded
to excess to hear a sermon by the Bishop of Truro. Lady Zem-
bra and her daughters were among tlie congregation."
"At the drawing-room held by the Princess of Wales on Thurs-
day no costume was more remarked and admired than that of
Lady Zembra. Her ladyship wore a train from the shoulder of
crimson Lyons velvet, lined with pink merveilleux, and trimmed
with clusters of pink and crimson ostrich feathers, tied with rib-
bons of the same color. Her bodice was of pink merv, over a
petticoat of the same material, draped with embroidered cj-e^^e de
Chine, and finished at the bottom with handsome chenille fringe."
"Sir Anthony and Lady Zembra, and the Misses Florence and
Gertrude Zembra, were present at the lecture given by Dr. Felt-
hurst on Wednesday at Princess Hall, Piccadilly. Her ladyship
formed quite a distinct figure among the assembly, although
merely unostentatiously occupying a seat with her husband and
daughters in the body of the hall."
But all these were as nothing to the description of a children's
fancy-dress ball given the week before by a sister-in-law of Sir
Anthony's, at which all the Zembra family (except one whose
acquaintance we will make by-and-by) appeared to have been
present; and very pretty and nice were the things which the
faithful chronicler had to say about every one of them. It must
have been a gay scene ; according to this flattering account, every
one looked at his or her best; the costumes were charming;
Lady Zembra was especially admired as Marie Antoinette; and
Sir Anthony Zembra, as a courtier of the time of Geoi'ge H., was
a most picturesque and striking figure. It was a great success,
in short; and never had the ballroom at the Red House, Camp-
den Hill, presented so beautiful a sight as when the children
were ranged in two long rows to dance Sir Roger de Coverley.
Well, Sir Anthony was thus pleasantly engaged in studying
the social impression produced by the various members of his
family when he was somewhat rudely interrupted. There was
an unusual noise outside. Then the doors were flung wide open,
and there entered liurrieMlly a tall young lady, who was very pale,
but had sufficient firmness in the look of her clear-cut and beau-
tiful face.
SIR ANTHONY. 7
" Miss Renshaw," said she, qniclvly, " will you take the children
up-stairs? I want this room. Take them to the night-niirsery."
" What's this, now ?" Sir Anthony said, at once startled and
angry at the sudden interruption.
" There's a man hurt," his daughter answered him, quietly ;
but her fingers were quick enough in removing the things that
lay strewn on a couch there. " They're bringing him in."
" What !" he exclaimed again, and still more angrily; but there
was a shuffling of footsteps outside, and the immediate answer
was the appearance of a number of men, who were slowly and
with difficulty carrying an apparently inanimate body along the
passage.
" Sabina, what is this ? Who is this ?"
" I don't know, papa."
She was busy with many things.
"Then what do you mean by bringing him in here? God
bless my soul, what are you about? Send him to a hospital ! I
say he must go to a hospital. Here, my men, what are you doing ?
Who told you to bring the man in here? He must go to the
hospital — "
" The young lady, sir," one of the men said.
"Sabina, what is this?" her father again angrily demanded.
" I will have none of your W^hitechapel nonsense here. Are you
going to turn the house into a public shambles?"
But Sabina had made her preparations during these few sec-
onds. She caught her father's arm for a moment with a gesture
of entreaty.
"Papa, I cannot send him to a hospital. This is all my doing.
I am to blame for the accident — and — and there is no time to be
lost; why, common lumianity — " She turned to the footman,
who was standing helplessly by. " George, run down-stairs and
fetch me a basin of water and a sponge, and some cloths; and
send for Dr. Ilungerford — no, Mr. Hungerford, I mean — the son
— and tell him to come at once. And you — yes, bring him in
now, but gently — gently — the head a little higher up — yes, that
will do ;" and when they had got him laid on the couch, she,
with her own fingers, and swiftly and dexterously, too, undid his
necktie and removed his collar and opened his waistcoat. It was
clear to the most ignorant of the by-standcrs that this young
lady knew very well what she was about.
8 SABIXA ZEMBRA.
But as for Sir Anthony ? AVell, Sir Antliony stood looking on
for a second or two, very much exasperated. But wliat could he
do? lie could not summon a policeman and have the whole pack
of them thrust into the street ; it was his own daughter who had
liad tlie man brought in ; and, moreover, she said she was respon-
sible for the accident; and it would not look well to quarrel
with her before these people, lie wished the wounded man was
at Jericho; but he did not want to have these rude folk stare at
liini for what they would doubtless consider his inhumanity.
But he was very angry with his daughter; and then, again, he
did not like looking at a head and neck that were bedabbled
with blood; and the doctor would have more unpleasant business
when he arrived ; so, on the whole, Sir Anthony thought he
might as well retire from that scene, only he was growling and
grumbling to himself, as he passed up-stairs, about the niidsum-
mcr madness of young women who nowadays went out and got
themselves trained as nurses at the London Hospital.
On tlie writing-desk of his study there was lying a pass-book
labelled outside " Political ;" and apparently his private secretary
bad done for him what the governess did for Lady Zembra and
the family. As he glanced over these paragraphs — " Sir Anthony
Zembra, we understand, has consented to take the chair at the
next meeting of the Statistical Society " — " Sir Anthony Zembra
has given notice that on Thursday next he will ask the Secretary
of State for the Home Department," etc. — " Sir Anthony Zembra
was present last evening at a dinner given at the official residence
of the Prime-minister in Downing Street" — "We understand
that it is the intention of Sir Anthony Zembra's constituency to
entertain him at a public banquet in May next" — "The remark-
able speech on the Land Question which Sir Anthony Zembra
delivered in the House of Commons last week i.s, we understand,
to be issued in the form of a pamphlet." As he read these and
many similar paragraphs. Sir Anthony's brow cleared, and his
face resumed its ordinary pleasant and complacent expression, for
he was glad to have his merits recognized, and he rather liked to
contemplate himself in the mirror of the public press.
SABIE.
CHAPTER 11.
SABIE.
Sabina Zembra — Sabie, her intimate friends called her, and
they seemed rather proud of displaying this familiarity ; indeed,
many of the women-folk down Kensington way, if you mentioned
the name of Miss Zeinbra, would say, with a kind of air of dis-
tinction, "Oh, do you mean Sabie?" as if Sabie belonged to them,
and to them alone — Sabina Zembra was a tall young woman, and
fair ; of upright carriage and well-poised neck ; with a clear, pale
complexion, light brown eyes that were soft and benignant, and
light-brown hair that burned gold in the sun. She was twenty-
five, though a dimple in her cheek when she laughed made her
look younger, and hinted that she was light-hearted enough ; on
the other hand, her ordinary expression was of an almost mater-
nal gentleness and generosity. The blandness that in her father
was begotten of self-sufficiency became in her the blandness of
grave good-will ; she looked as if kindness were a natural instinct
with her, as if she liked seeing the people around her being
made happy. But even this cannot wholly explain the extraor-
dinary affection that women seemed to have for this woman ; they
would cling around her when she entered a room, and pet her with
pretty names ; and would send her flowers on any birthday, or
other excuse; and would treasure her letters, and show them, and
say with a touch of pride, "Oh, Sabie has just been writing;
isn't she the dearest and sweetest girl in the world?" "I hope
Sabie will never marry," was the constant cry of her chief com-
panion and friend (who, poor lass, had not much in the way of
pretty looks to boast of). "Just think what her goodness and
her beauty and her loving disposition mean to so many people;
and think of her going and throwing all that away on a man !"
Of course the men professed to laugh at this widespread and ri-
diculous infatuation, and declared that Miss Senibra was a wom-
an's woman, and nothing more; but at the same time it was ob-
served, on the rare occasions on which Miss Zembra was to be
1*
10 SABINA ZEMBRA.
found at an evening party, that these hostile critics were not near-
ly so careless of her society as in common consistency they ought
to have been.
Sabina did not live with her father. On a certain important
occasion Sir Anthony had taken her to task and spoken his mind
clearly.
"Understand me once for all, Sabina," he observed, in a more
than ordinarily sententious way. " I am not in the habit of wast-
ing words. What I say I mean to be final. Now, while you were
merely busying yourself about Industrial Homes, and Training-
ships, and things of that kind, I did not object ; no, nor did I
mind your visiting this or that poor family where you knew the
circumstances, and knew there was no infection. But this new
fad is quite different. What will happen after you come out of
the hospital ? You are not going in fur six mouths' training for
nothing,"
" Papa," she broke in, " I must do something — you don't know
how dreadful idleness is."
" I know that I don't hear your sisters complain," he retorted.
"They seem to have enough to fill the time."
" Yes, but they care for quite different things," she said ; and
then she added, with the slightest of demure smiles hovering
about her mouth, " Besides, they're ashamed of me. Mamma says
I'm a dowdy, and it's quite true. I don't care for fine dresses
and driving in the Park. And then, you see, papa, I shouldn't
mind playing the part of Cinderella — I shouldn't mind it at all,
for Cinderella had plenty to do, and knew she was of some use ;
but I know you wouldn't like that. You wouldn't like me to be-
come one of the maids and sweep the kitchen."
" Sabina, this is not a joking matter," Sir Anthony observed,
shortly. " Let us return to common-sense. When you leave the
London Hospital a trained nurse, what then? I know very well.
You will be more than ever in the slums; you will be forever in
the slums; and coming and going between them and this house.
Well, now, that I cannot permit. It would not be right and just
to the other members of my family to subject them to such a con-
tinual risk of infection. It is not to be thought of."
" Then do you want me to clear out, papa ?" she said, frankly.
" Yes, if you will persist in this folly."
Well, she was a little bit startled, for a girl does not like being
SABIE. 11
turned out of her father's house. On the other hand, her rela-
tions with her step -mother Lady Zembra, and her half-sisters
Florence and Gertrude, had never been of the most satisfactory
kind; not that they quarrelled, but that their modes of life and
opinions and aims were so entirely different. So the ugly duck-
ling was about to fly away.
" Of course," continued Sir Anthony, " the whole thing is fool-
ish from the beginning. It is simply ludicrous for a young wom-
an of your education and position to turn herself into a hospital
nurse, when you can get dozens of women, of more hardened
nerve, who could do the work ever so much better. But we've
argued out that question before. I suppose you don't intend to
change your mind?"
Surely his tone was unnecessarily hard, considering that he was
turning her out of the house.
" Papa," she said, " I — I think I am doing what is right ; but
— but you might make it a little easier for me. It won't be
holiday work."
" If it is not the greatest happiness of the greatest number,"
Sir Anthony continued, calmly, "it is at least the safety of the
greatest number that I have to consider. And I have thought
the matter over. I am prepared to allow you three hundred
pounds a year; that is ample maintenance, for you don't spend
much on yourself. I have no doubt you will easily find some
quiet, respectable family, where there are no children to be put in
danger, who will receive you as a boarder, if go you must — "
A sudden, happy light leaped to her eyes — those eyes in which
" her thoughts lay clear, like pebbles in a brook." It had oc-
curred to her that she could confer a kindness! Even in being
thrust forth from her father's house, her first thought was that
there was a chance of doing a friendly turn to certain folk she
knew.
" The Wygrams, papa," she said, eagerly. " Do you think they
would take me? You know they are not very well off; Mr. Wy-
gram never succeeds in any of the competitions now ; and this
miglit be a little something, if they were not offended. Oh, I
know they would take me. Why, Janic spends half her time
with me now ; I should be quite at home there !"
"That will be for yourself to decide," said Sir Anthony.
And so it was that Sabina went to serve her six months at the
12 SABINA ZEMBRA.
London Ilospital. It was not at all romantic work. Occasion-
ally, of course, she had her moments of exaltation ; in crossing
from the nurses' dormitory, in the strange silence and darkness
of a winter morning, and looking up to the vast, immeasurable
skies, with the stars throbbing palely and distant, she would
sometimes repeat to herself, as with a kind of ineffable longing :
"Break up the heavens, Lord ! and far
Thro' all yon starlight keen
Draw mo, thy bride, a glittering star,
In raiment white and clean."
But there was little time for self-communing during the continu-
ous labor of the long day ; nor was she much given to pitying
herself in any circumstances ; it was the suffering of others that
moved her ; and here there was plenty of that, only too obvious,
all around her. Moreover, she was a particularly healthy young
woman, and she could bear fatigue better than any of her sister
non-professionals, although when they got away to supper, about
half-past eight or nine, and all of them pretty well fagged out
with the day's work, they used to joke her about her sleepy dis-
position. It was rumored, moreover, that one or two of the medi-
cal students who came about had cast an eye on this pretty, tall,
benignant-eyed nurse, who looked so neat and smart in her belted
gown and apron and cap, and that they paid a good deal more
attention to her than to the patient whose condition she had to
report to the doctor. But Sabie was impervious to all that kind
of thing. It was only when she was with the other nurses at
night that the dimple in her cheek appeared, and that she showed
herself — as long as her eyes would keep open — blithe and friend-
ly and merry-hearted. Perhaps she was only a woman's woman
after all.
The long period of probation over, Sabina went to live with
the Wygrams, a family who by dint of sore pinching still man-
aged to occupy an old-fashioned house in Kensington Square that
was endeared to them by its association with other and better
days. Mr. Wygrara had been at one time an architect in a fair
way of business, and may have saved a little money then ; but
the capable partner in the firm died ; things went badly some-
how ; and now the old gentleman, who was as industrious as
ever, kept working away at competitive drawings, each time more
SABIE. 13
and more confident that he was about to carry oS the prize, and
never doing so, but sometimes securing a few pounds by way of
con)pensation. However, old Mr. and Mrs. Wygram were great
favorites in the artist world of London ; and very distinguished
people, indeed, might be found together in the scantily furnished
and rather melancholy drawing-room — at an evening party, that
is to say, with tea and darkly suspicious sherry and cake to crown
the festivities. And what joy filled the heart of their only daugh-
ter, Janie, when she learned that her beloved Sabina was coming
to live with them ! Now there would be no risk of their chance
evenings being dull ; now there would be attraction and enter-
tainment enough for all the world, and she would be accounted
somebody among the young men — for -that she could secure
them, if she chose, an introduction to Sabie ; and she would take
ofE Sabie's cloak when she came in, and get tea for her, and sit
by her with their arms intertwined, and have her all to herself.
In short, the arrangement came to work very well all round.
The sum paid by Subina for her board and lodging (though this
was a covert transaction) was a certain addition to the finances
of the establishment; Mrs. Wygram could be her chaperon when
there was need, and Janie was her constant companion when she
" went about doing good." For that was her occupation in life
— as many a poor family down in Chelsea knew ; and it came
natural to her, and she was as busy, and as content, as the day
was long. Then they had quiet evenings in the old-fashioned
drawing-room; and the plain-featured, wistful-eyed Janie played
very well ; nor was she vexed when she looked round and found
that her poor tired Sabie (who was very unconscionable in this
respect) had dropped into a little snooze ; and sometimes they
had a game at whist, too; and sometimes a few young people
would drop in, and they would have a pretence of supper, and a
bit of a carpet dance. But always these young people — and es-
pecially the young men — treated Sabina with a certain deference.
It was not that she was in any way socially their superior, for
that was not the case; the Wygrams had a very excellent circle
of friends and acquaintances. It was rather something in her
manner that distinguished her from them. One would almost
have taken her for a young and gentle-eyed matron looking on —
not without sympathy and pleasure — at the amusements of those
boys and girls. She enjoyed their merriment as much as they
14 SABINA ZEMBKA.
did ; and her lan2;b was ready and quite youthful and joyous
when anything ridiculous happened; but ordinarily there was a
kind of serious sweetness and grave kindliness in her eyes that
seemed to keep her a little bit apart. She preferred to be a
spectator — but surely a friendly one.
Of course she occasionally went up to see the family at Lan-
caster Gate, when she could solemnly assure them she had been
rear no infectious case ; and it was on one of those visits that
there occurred the unfortunate accident already referred to. She
had chosen a Wednesday afternoon, knowing that her father would
be early home from the House of Commons ; but when she got
to Lancaster Gate she found he had not arrived; Lady Zembra
and Florence and Gertrude were out driving; the children were
busy in the school-room. The only living thing to welcome her
was the little spaniel. Busy — an old friend and ally of hers; and
it occurred to her that, to beguile the tedium of waiting, she
might as well take the dog for a bit of a run along the Bayswater
Road and back. He was nothing loath, it may be guessed, and
so she opened the door, and they went down the steps and made
for the front pavement.
What next occurred may take some minutes to tell, but it
seemed to her to happen all in one wild second.
" Now, come here, Busy, you keep close to me," she had said
on leaving the house, for she knew the habits of the spaniel kind,
and that this one delighted in nothing so much as scampering
about in the open thoroughfare — amid cabs and omnibuses and
carriages — and always with his nose down, as if he expected to
flush a pheasant in the middle of Bayswater Road. Busy paid
heed to his mistress so long as she spoke to him ; the moment
they had reached the pavement lie was off — careless of anything
that might be coming along. She angrily called to him to come
back; he turned in his scamper, but still with his nose down —
and, alas ! at the same instant she knew, rather than saw, that
some one on a bicycle, coming at an alarming speed, was almost
on the dog.
" Look out ! Take care !" she cried.
Now, no doubt the bicyclist had seen the little spaniel ; and it
is also possible that Busy might have got out of harm's way un-
aided ; but at all events her sudden cry seemed to startle this
young fellow, who was coming along at such a rate, and probably
SABIE. 15
from gallantry as rnuch as anything else, he swerved sharply from
his course, to make quite sure of missing the spaniel. Unliappily,
at this precise spot there was a little heap of gravel, used for scat-
tering over the wooden pavement, lying by the roadway, and ap-
parently the bicycle caught on some of the pebbles ; the next
thing she saw Avas some terrible thing hurling through the air and
striking heavily against the curbstone, where it lay motionless.
The blood forsook her face, but her courage was firm enough ;
she was at his side in a moment, trying to raise his head, and then
a few by-standers came hurrying up, and she besought them to
carry him into her father's house. White as her face was, she
seemed cahn and collected ; there was an air of authority about
her; they did not even suggest the hospital. Nor, it must be con-
fessed, did she pay much heed to her father's remonstrances ; her
hands were full of work — work that she knew; moreover, Sir
Anthony almost immediately retired, grumbling. She was left
alone to deal with the wounded man, a maid assisting her, for the
footman, George, had rushed oflE to summon the surgeon.
" Pore young gentleman ! pore young gentleman !" the maid
kept saying, and was rather inclined to look on, in a feebly com-
miserating attitude ; but her pale-lipped young mistress had no
time for mere pity.
" Catherine, get some calico — quick ; and cut it into strips, and
put them into cold water — look alive !"
For there was a bad scalp -wound oa the side of the young
man's head, and she had to stanch the blood, and thereafter bind
the cold, wet bandages round it. He lay in a heavy stupor, only
that once he murmured the words "cherry blossom," and, busy as
she was, it seemed pathetic to her that he should " babble o' green
fields." And then, when she had bandaged his head, she passed
her hands lightly over his neck and back and shoulders, and pret-
ty well satisfied herself that there was no serious fracture or dis-
location ; nevertheless, she was anxious that the surgeon should
appear forthwith.
She was moistening her patient's lips with cold water when he
drew a long breath and slowly opened his eyes. He looked at
her with a kind of mild wonder, and then at the room around
him ; then he seemed to recollect.
"Tliat was a nasty one," he managed to say. "Did I hurt
the doer 2"
16 SABINA ZEMBRA.
"Oh no, you did not," Sabina said, quickly. "Pray don't
think of that. I ara so sorry. It was all my fault. I should
not have called to you — I am so sorry."
"Oh, don't trouble about me," he said, with a faint kind of
smile — for the shock and loss of blood had weakened him.
"This isn't my first cropper. There are no bones broken, I sup-
pose — "
"I think not — I think not," she said, eagerly. "And there
will be a surgeon here directly."
" But whose house is this ?" he asked — it was all that he dared
to ask.
" Sir Anthony Zembra's," Sabina answered ; and she added,
without embarrassment, "I am his daughter. It was my little
dog that made the mischief — or rather, I did myself. I do hope
you arc not seriously hurt."
" Hurt ? "No, no — don't you bother. I shall be all right," he
said.
He was a fairly good-looking young fellow of some six or
seven and twenty, with clear blue eyes, curly but short-cropped
hair of a reddish yellow, and a healthy pink-and-white complex-
ion that had got a wash of sun-tan over it. Clearly he had lived
much in the open air; and his frame seemed wiry and vigorous,
with not an ounce of spare fat on it anywhere. As for guessing
at his profession or calling or social status, that was not easy, see-
ing that he was clad in a bicycling suit; but his manner was
well enough, and he seemed good-natured.
Suddenly he uttered a little involuntary exclamation, and bit
his under-lip.
" What is it ?" she said, instantly.
"My knee — and I hardly moved it — oh, thunder!"
The pain in his face was obvious ; and he was about to make
some clfort to raise himself, when she caught him, and caught
him firmly.
"No, no; you must not move on any account — it may be se-
rious; you must lie perfectly still till the doctor comes."
"Yes, but when is he coming?" he said, with a touch of im-
patience. " If I have broken my leg, I want to know. You
don't understand what that would mean to me."
" You have not broken your leg," said she, calmly, " but you
may have injured your knee." And then she added, without any
SABIE. 17
false shame or hesitation, " If you like, I will see what harm is
done, and tell you. I know about these things; I have been in
a hospital. Or if you would rather wait, I am sure the doctor
will be here in a few minutes."
" Oil, of course I will wait — I could not think of troubling
you," he said, instantly.
" And in the mean time I will make a splint," said she, " just
in case it should be necessary. Catherine, run and get me some
cotton-wool."
She went to the table, tore the cover off one of the children's
drawing-books, and cut a strip of the thick pasteboard about three
inches wide and over a dozen long; and she was in the act of
swathing the improvised splint in cotton-wool when the young
surgeon arrived. Everything she had done he approved of; but
he was not surprised ; he was well aware of Miss Zembra's quali-
fications. Then came the examination of the knee, and that was
simple enough, for he had merely to unbuckle the knee-band of
the knickerbockers ; but the next moment he had grown grave.
Sabina had withdrawn a step or two ; her assistance was not
needed.
" What is it, doctor?" the young man said, noticing that look.
" Well, I'm sorry to have to tell you that you've dislocated your
knee-cap, and there's a bad bruise besides. Miss Zembra, I haven't
brought anything with me — your man met me in the street — "
Sabina came forward.
" Here is a kind of a splint," she said, " and I think there's
enough calico here for a figure-of-eight bandage — if that will do
in the mean time — "
"In the mean time that will do excellently, until I run home
and get some things."
"But, doctor," the young man on the couch said, and he was
rather pale now, partly from loss of blood, no doubt, but also
partly from anxiety, " what does all this mean ? Is it really so
bad? You don't mean that I'm to be laid up with a splint?
AVhy, how soon — how soon, now, shall I be all right again ? Not
long, surely !"
" I don't wish to alarm you," the surgeon said, in reply, " but
I ought to warn you that it is a rather serious case, and that the
greatest care will be wanted. Even then it may be months before
you can put your foot to the ground."
18 SABIXA ZEMBRA.
"God bless me, you don't know what you're saying!" the
young man cried, faintly, and very white his face was now.
" I'm afraid I do," the surgeon said, quietly.
The other remained silent for a second or two ; then he said,
with a kind of forced resignation,
" When can I be taken to my own rooms?"
The doctor turned to Sabina.
"It is a serious case," said he; "I would not advise his re-
moval, if your people would not mind letting him have the use
of this room, for a few days even."
" Oh, but they must; of course they will," Sabina exclaimed,
eagerly. " Oh, you don't know, doctor ; it was all my fault that
the accident happened ; I am more grieved about it than I can say ;
I cannot even think of it; and what we can do we must do ; but
how can I ever atone for such an injury ?"
" The young lady had nothing to do with it," said the maimed
man; but he had to hold his breath now, for the surgeon was
about to put his knee in the splint.
By-and-by, when the doctor was giving a few parting direc-
tions to Sabina (who had already installed herself as nurse, the
maid Catherine assisting), and promising to be back shortly, the
young man on the couch called to him in ratlier a faint voice,
" Doctor !"
"Yes?"
" I wish you would do me a favor, will you?"
"Certainly."
" When you are out, will you go to a telegraph office and wire
to the duke — the Duke of Exminster — that I sha'n't be able to
ride Cherry Blossom for him in the Grand National ? It's hard
luck, it is. Twenty times have I dreamed of lifting the old horse
over Valentine's Brook. Don't forget — the Duke of Exminster
— he's at llelmslcy just now. Well, it's liard luck; I knew the
horse. Nobody else can do anything with him but myself. I
could see us over the ditch and rail-fence near the bridge, and
fairly in the line for home. Poor old Cherry Blossom — it's very
hard luck."
" And from whom shall I telegraph ?" the doctor said, gently.
" Oh, my name, you mean ? Fred Foster, Bury Street : the
duke knows."
Sabina had left the room for a minute or two, and so remained
WALTER LINDSAY. 19
undeceived as to the mistake she had made about his having " bab-
bled o' green fields." But that was not of much account, perhaps.
What was of more account, at least to one very tender heart,
was that poor Janie Wygrani was now to be deprived for many
a long day to come of the society and companionship of her be-
loved Sabie.
CHAPTER in.
WALTER LINDSAY.
It is rather a sorry thing in these times to have to speak of a
man who is in love ; for in the eyes of most people — especially
of the young men of the day — he seems to be considered a sen-
timental jackass ; unless, indeed, the woman he is in love with
should happen to be a married woman, and then tlie whole situa-
tion becomes intelligible, and even something to be mildly envied.
However, Walter Lindsay was in love, and very much in love;
and not with a married woman, but with Sabina Zembra.
" Poor fellow 1" Janie Wygram would say to her mother, " I do
believe he is the most wretched man in this country ; and yet you
would think he had everything that a human being could wish
for. Good-looking — well, I call him most distinguished-looking
— and handsome, with pleasant manners, a favorite everywhere,
every woman anxious to have him at her house; and people be-
ginning to speak of him as almost, if not quite, the first land-
scape-painter in England ; with a splendid career before him, with
plenty of money, a beautiful house, and heaps of friends ; and
then his family — well, no wonder he is a little proud of the Lind-
says of Carnryan, and of the old tower overlooking the sea : just
think of all that, mother; and I know it is all worthless to him
just because he cannot have Sabie's love — and Sable's love he
never will have in this world."
"Don't be so sure," the mother would answer.
" Ah, but I know," the plain-featured, gray-eyed Janie would
continue (and she seemed rather to like talking about Miss Zem-
bra). "I know the only way to win Sabie's love: it's through
her pity. If you're poor or ragged or suffering, and look to her
for help — that is the only way. Then her eyes grow soft. But
20 BABINA ZEMBBA.
why sliould she pity Mr. Lindsay, or take any interest in him ?
He has everything the world can give him — liandsomc, famous,
with plenty of money, and plenty of friends — how should he ap-
peal to her pity ?"
"Don't you say that he is miserable?"
Janie smiled a little, but not out of malice.
" She doesn't understand that hind of misery ; no, nor that
kind of love, either. If you speak to her of that kind of love
she only laughs and turns away. Sabie will never marry —
never."
" Don't be so sure," the mother would repeat : she had seea
more things happen than her daugliter had.
"Ah, but I know. And why should she marry? Doesn't she
see how great a delight she can give to so many people? And
it's so easy for her, mother. She has only to smile and look
pleased, and people are grateful. When she comes into a room
it's like bringing sunlight: everybody's face brightens up. I
wonder," continued Janie Wygram, rather wistfully, " if beauti-
ful people know how thankful they should be for their beauty ?
I wonder if they know how easy it is for them to make friends
— and to be kind — "
" I wish you would stop talking about her," her mother would
probably interpose at this juncture. "She has made a fool of
you."
" And you, mother ? You don't see much in Sabie ? Well, it's
a shame to speak of her as if it was only her beauty. It's her
goodness. She's ' better than she's bonny ' — if that is possible."
"She has got a stanch champion, anyway."
One afternoon the young artist whose name was introduced so
frequently in their repeated conversations was in his studio, up
Ladbroke Grove way, and he was seated at an open piano, though
he was not playing. He was a man of about eight-and-twenty or
thirty, tall and spare, pale of face, with perfectly coal-black hair
and black eyes, that were contemplative rather than observant — at
least they were so at this moment. The studio was a large and
liandsome apartment, hung with tapestry, and stored with all
kinds of bric-a-brac, that spoke of Spain, and Tunis, and Egypt
mostly, though there w-as a nondescript and picturesque variety
and confusion prevailing throughout. Damascus- ware jugs, old
violins, bits of Italian embroidery, Indian swords, eightcenth-cen-
WALTER LINDSAY. 21
tnry ale-jnp;s, Sheraton chairs, pictures framed and unfraraed, pho-
tographs of popular actresses, wooden pipes, sheaves of brushes,
books, stray music, invitation cards, Persian rugs, Rhodian dishes,
tennis-balls, cigar-boxes, Syrian silks, all were flung together any-
how ; but besides these ordinary paraphernalia of a modern stu-
dio, there were certain "properties" more particularly wanted for
the landscape artist's special work — a great mass of freshly cut
golden-blossomed furze, a sheaf of dried bulrushes, the stem of a
birch-tree with its hanging silvery flakes, and everywhere bunches
of early spring flowers stuck carelessly into pots. And yet there
was a kind of harmony in all this entanglement of things; they
seemed appropriate. Perhaps the sombre grayness of the after-
noon had its effect. And perhaps, too, that had its effect on the
mind of the young man sitting at the piano. When he put his
fingers on the keys it was in a musing kind of way, and the chance
bits of Mendelssohn or Chopin that he absently played seemed to
come unsought for, as if it were his memory that was speaking to
him. Sometimes his fingers rested idle, and then the silence was
almost painfully distinct, for the studio was separated from the
house by a strip of garden, and there was not even the ticking of
a clock to be heard, lie played one or two little waltzes by Mo-
zart — curiously quaint and simple and melodious. lie hummed to
himself, as he touched the notes, Lillo's
" Ritorna ch'io t'amo, mio primo sospir."
But by-and-by this languid and careless occupation ceased alto-
gether ; he sat for a little time plunged in a vague reverie, and
then, as with an effort, he rose, shut the piano mechanically, and
turned to face the empty studio. This seemed to bring him to
his senses somewhat.
"It's a queer world," he said to himself.
And yet he seemed irresolute. Ho took up a wooden pipe, but
almost immediately put it down again ; then he went and stood
in front of the unfinished landscape that was on the easel. It
was a large water-color drawing: an evening scene — the spire of
a village church rising dark into the golden glow of the sunset
sky ; a river stealing in shadow underneath a grove of dusky elms;
empty meadows with a pearly gray mist rising from them. It
seemed to suggest silence and remoteness, and perhaps a trifle of
sadness too, for the day was dying away in the west, and the vel-
22 SAniNA ZEMERA.
vet-footed night coming stealthily over the land. But what a time
and a place for lovers! There were no figures in this landscape;
he had intentionally left it without any sign of life ; it seemed
secret and sacred at this sad hour ; there was not even a swallow
skimming over that still-flowing stream. But what, now, if some
veiled and hooded maiden were to appear out of that golden glow
beyond, and come swiftly with timid footstep along by the hushed
meadows and the whispering reeds? Could the gracious heavens
be so bountiful, on some such evening as this — in the coming
years — and she, the one maiden in all the world, be actually there,
and he hastening towards her with wildly beating heart? Easily
could he recognize her figure far away ; there was but the one.
And then the untying of the hood, and the beautiful tender eyes
benignant — Subina —
"If I were on my death-bed," he said to himself, "the image
of that woman would come between me and my grave."
But what had Sabina done that he should be angry with her?
If he chose to make a fool of himself about a woman (he said to
himself), that was none of her fault. And so, as the afternoon
was dreary and uncomfortable, and not conducive to work, and
the studio very silent and lonely, and the associations of this pict-
ure rather melancholy, he thought he would go away and seek for
some society somewhere. And whose? Why, Janie Wygram's,
to be sure — if haply he might find her at home. If not the rose,
she was near the rose ; and she would have something to say to
him about Sabina.
He put on his hat and overcoat, and also a pair of gloves, for
artists have abandoned their Bohemian manners and customs
nowadays, and he was about to pay an afternoon call. And as he
walked away over Camden Hill Road, and so down into Kensing-
ton, how was it that his eye instinctively sought out any tall
woman that he could see in the distance? It was very unlikely
that accident should bring Sabina in his way; and yet the remote
possibility was always there, and it lent an interest to all the
neighborhood of Kensington, and it had become an unconscious
habit with him to look far ahead with this half-defined hope al-
ways present with him. And then, again, where the High Street
narrows there is an abundance of shops, and there mammas and
daughters congregate, passing by the windows slowly ; and if by
chance he were to find Sabina in that throng! In especial there
WALTER LINDSAY, 23
•was a florist's shop that was of interest to him ; for Sabina, when
she came round that way, generally called there to carry home
some flowers for Mrs. Wygram, who herself could not well afford
such luxuries. However, on this particular afternoon, as on many
and many another one, his half-intentional scrutiny was fruitless,
and so he turned down Young Street, and made for the Wygrams'
house in Kensington Square.
Janie was up-stairs in her mother's room ; she saw him come
along the pavement.
" There's Mr. Lindsay, mother."
"You must go down, then, and make some excuse. I can't
see him in this state ; besides, I'm busy."
" Oh, I can entertain him well enough, mother," the younger
woman said. "You've only to talk to him about Sabie."
Of course it was not Mr. Lindsay who introduced that subject
when these two were seated in the dusky drawing-room — oh no !
Mr. Lindsay talked about theatres and new books -and music;
and when Miss Wygram incidentally mentioned that Sabie was
spending that afternoon with her people at Lancaster Gate, he
did not say anything at all. Nay, when Miss Wygram, who was
a kind-hearted creature, would insist on talking about Sabie, and
the good she was doing, and her kindness, and her gentleness,
and her courage, and all the rest, he listened respectfully, it is
true, but did not betray much interest.
" Of course she has her faults," said Janie.
"Oh, indeed 1" said he, thinking himself very cunning. " Well,
now, it would be something to hear of them. As every one has
nothing but praises for Miss Zembra, it would be quite refreshing
to hear unkind things said of her."
Janie winced. That she should be thought capable, even in
jest, of saying unkind things of her dearest ! Nevertheless, she
continued :
"Oh yes, she has faults, and plenty," she said, cheerfully.
" How could one love her if she were perfect ? Faults — oh yes.
For one thing, she is a little too anxious to have every one fond
of her. She can't bear that any one should be quite indifferent
about her. She likes to be well thought of. I don't know that
it is exactly vanity — for it is not her appearance she thinks of —
it's herself that she wants people to like ; and more than that,
she insists on it. If an ill-conditioned brat of a boy will have
24 SABINA ZEMBRA.
nothing to say to her, you will see her deliberately neglect tho
whole of the family until she has won him over in spite of him-
self. Or an old woman. Old women are sometimes cynical.
They distrust pretty eyes. Then you should see Sabie ! Oh,
she is a hypocrite — an out-and-out hypocrite ! But that is the
one thing she cannot bear — that anybody should be quite indif-
ferent about her,"
"So far," said he, "Miss Zembra's faults don't seem to be very
serious. Some people would call them virtues. I don't think it
is much against a woman — and particularl}^ a young woman —
that she should wish to be thought well of. It seems to me
quite natural. And as for wishing people to be fond of her,
surely that is natural too. The strange thing to me is that she
should experience any difficulty."
She knew he would come to Sable's defence — knew it perfect-
ly wlien she began, and she thought she would reward him. She
had observed his eyes wandering occasionally towards a photo-
graph that stood on the mantle-piece ; she went and fetched that.
" This is the last that has been done of Sabie ; do you think
it like?"
He took the photograph in his hand.
"Like?" he said, after a second. "Why, it's herself — her
very self! And so natural and simple the whole thing — and so
good-natured she looks!"
" Would you care to have it?" she said, with an air of indiffer-
ence. She meant him to understand that she could have as many
photographs of Sabie as she chose.
He looked up quickly and eagerly.
" May I have it ?"
" Oh yes, if you care for it, I have plenty of others. Only a
studio is such a public place — people come strolling in, and you
would have to explain that it was I who gave it you,"
"But do you think I would have it lying about? I can assure
you no. If I may have it, I will lock it away as my greatest
treasure,"
"Oh, but you must not say such things," said Miss Janie,
laughing. " And about the studio, Mr. Lindsay — I hope you did
not think it rude of us, going in the other day."
"It was the most awful piece of bad luck that ever happened
to me that I should have been out," he answered. "And Mrs.
WALTER LINDSAY. 25
Summers not to have offered you tea! She's a dreadfully stupid
woman, that woman."
" But I suppose she was so frightened by our boldness," said
Miss Janie. " You see, it was such a temptation. Sabie had
never been in a studio before. And then mother happened to be
with us; and it was really her doing; for when Mrs. Summers
said you were not at home, mother said, ' Oh, that's all right ;
we'll go and rummage over the place.' And Sabie said, ' Oh, he's
so good-natured he won't mind.' And you should have seen how
interested she was — especially in the embroidery ; and she won-
dered who could have taught you to pick up such things. Yes,
and the picture — you should have heard what she said — "
"But which one?" he said, quickly. It was all music to his ears.
"The one on the easel, you know — the one with the church
and the trees and the river — the evening one — "
"Did she like that?"
"Oh yes; you should have beard. And when Sabie likes a
thing she tells you."
"Miss Wygram, would you do me a very, very great favor?"
said he. " Do you think you could get her to accept it ?"
" What ?"
"That picture. Do you think Miss Zembra would take it? I
should be so glad if she would. It is a fair exchange — I have
her portrait. Do you think she would take that drawing if I
finished it and had it framed for her?"
"But what would she do with it?" Miss Janie said. She was
a little bit frightened, thinking she had said too much ; and she
knew that Mr. Lindsay's pictures fetched very large prices, for
water-colors.
" Why, she might hang it up in her room, if she cared any-
thing for it at all. Or over there — she might hang it there — and
it would be hers all the same. Do you think you could induce
her to accept it if it was framed and made a little more pre-
sentable?"
" Oh no, no, no, Mr. Lindsay !" Miss Janie said, earnestly. " It's
bad enough for a parcel of strangers to go into an artist's
studio — "
" Strangers !" said he.
" But to plunder him as well, simply because you happen to say
you like a particular picture — "
2
26 SABINA ZEMBRA.
" But you don't know," lie broke in — " wliy, you don't know
what pleasure it would give me if Miss Zeinbra would only take
that picture. It's nothing; it's a foolish kind of thing. But if
she sees anything in it — if she would take it — "
"I'm sure she would not," said Miss Janie, promptly, " and I
know I should get into sad trouble if she discovered tliat I was
the cause of your making so generous an offer. But — but — now,
shall I be frank with you ?"
"Yes; but be frank in this way: I will give you the picture,
and you will hang it up in her room," said he,
"Oh no; how could that be? But — but — if you would make
a small sketch of it — something that would not cost you too
much trouble — I'm sure she would be glad to have that."
"Are you sure she would take it?" he said, eagerly.
" I'm sure she would be very, very much pleased to have it,"
said Miss Janie, frankly. "But you see how it is, Mr. Lindsay;
it's difficult for people who are not artists to accept a valuable
picture. It's all very well for artists, who can repay in kind."
"Then you think there is nothing in winning approval — there
is nothing in being able to gratify a friend?" said ]>e.
" Oh yes ; if every one was as pretty as Sabie, I could under-
stand it," she rejoined. " But even in her case — "
And then he grew bold.
"Now, I am going to tell you something," said he, "and to ask
of you the greatest favor I ever asked of anybody. Have you
heard of Borella, the new barytone? No? Well, he has only
sung at one or two houses, privately, as yet; but he is something
wonderful, I assure you ; the quality of his voice is perfectly mar-
vellous, and the skill with which he adapts it to a small room just as
marvellous too. Well, he is coming to my studio Thursday, next
week, in the evening ; and there will be a few young people there ;
and there will be a little music, and a little supper, and so forth ;
and I was wondering if your mother and you would be so kind
as to join the little party. You see — "
" I think I know," interposed Miss Janie, with a smile ; and
although she was not pretty, she could look friendly and amiable
on occasion, and she had a little sympathy with this unhappy
young man, " I think I know. You would like mother to go up
in the afternoon, and have a little chat with Mrs. Summers about
the supper, and the arrangement of the flowers, and so forth?"
WALTER LINDSAY, 27
"Would she be so kind ?"
"But as for me," said Miss Janie, demurely, " what use should
I be? Well, would you like me to bring Sabie with me?"
He lowered his eyes to hide their anxiety.
"Do you think Miss Zembra would care to come up for even
half an hour?" said he. " Borella is a very good-natured fellow;
he told me that if he came at all it would be to sing for my
guests. I think she would be pleased. I am sure she would be
pleased."
" But that's not the way to put it when you're talking about
Sabie, The question is — Can she do a kindness to anybody ?"
" I should consider it more than a kindness," he said, in rather
a low voice.
" Oh, I'll bring Sabie along," Miss Janie said, cheerfully.
"Will you?" he said. He looked up. "It is a promise,'
mind. And you know. Miss Janie" (for he permitted himself
this familiarity on rare occasions), "I am going to insist on your
taking that sunset sketch as a present from me. Oh yes, you
must. When I have offered anybody anything, then it is no
longer mine."
" But, good gracious, Mr, Lindsay, what should I do with such
a valuable picture?" said Miss Janie, frightened again,
" It will become valuable if you accept it," said he, gently.
" And there is the very place to hang it, over there ; and if Miss
Zembra would care to have a little replica of it, I should be very
happy to do that for her at any time,"
He rose and took his hat,
" I will send your mother a little reminder note about Thursday
next week," said he. " And I hope you won't forget your prom-
ise about Miss Zembra."
" Oh, I'll bring Sabie along," was the confident answer.
" Good-by,"
Dark had fallen over Kensington now ; but for him the gray
melancholy that hung about the dismal streets was filled with all
kinds of brilliant and happy visions, Sabina was coming to his
little party ; and now the question was as to what he could do,
and plan, and contrive, for the entertainment of this radiant vis-
itor. Neither Mrs. Summers nor Mrs. Wygram, to begin with,
was to be intrusted with the supper arrangements ; he would go
forthwith to a famous confectioner and bid him do his best, spar-
28 SABIXA ZEMBRA,
infy neither cost nor trouble. And he would call on the great
barytone and make sure of him. Then, whatever Covent Garden
could produce in the way of flowers would make that one nio-ht
sweet and memorable; with this proviso, tiiat while the florist
migiit exercise his fancy as he pleased with regard to the little
bouquets or button-holes placed on the table for the guests, he —
that is to say, the host himself — would reserve for himself, and
for himself alone, the devising of the bouquet that Sabina would
find awaitino: her !
CHAPTER IV.
FRED FOSTER.
An angry man, indeed, was Sir Anthony Zembra, when he
found that the stranger who had been thus unceremoniously
thrust into his house promised to be a fixture there, at least for
a considerable time. And naturally he was impatient to know
who he was; but he would not ask Sabina; he made his inqui-
ries of Dr. Hungerford, plainly intimating the while that as likely
as not this unwelcome guest was a common swindler, and all the
fuss about the hurt knee part of a scheme of robbery.
"He would be an enterprising burglar who would get himself
smashed about like that on purpose," said the young surgeon,
laughing. " Anyhow, Sir Anthony, it will be many a day before
he is able to run away with anything. And I will say this for
him: he tries to make as light of his injuries as may be — espe-
cially if Miss Zembra is within hearing; and talks quite content-
edly about the whole affair. He has pluck, at all events — "
"Yes, yes; but — but — God bless my soul, I want to know who
he is! Who is he? What is he?" Sir Anthony demanded.
" Well, I think I should call him, speaking generally, a sporting
character," the surgeon answered. " At least I can't make out
that he has any occupation besides riding steeple-chases, backinc:
horses, playing billiards, and so forth. But his interest in such
matters seems to be of an all-round character. He offered to lay
me 6 to 4 on Oxford for the boat race."
" Professional conversation !" Sir Anthony said.
FRED FOSTER, 29
" My fault, at all events," the young surgeon said, promptly.
" Well, it is neither that race nor any other that he'll be present
at for many a day to come, poor fellow !"
"What I want to know is," observed Sir Anthony, coldly,
" when you mean to remove him from this house. I don't see
that we are responsible for the accident in any way whatever;
and, really, to have one's domestic arrangements upset in this
fashion, on behalf of a stranger, is perfectly absurd. Common
humanity? Common stupidity ! When is this gentleman jock-
ey, or whatever he is — 'gentleman jock' is the phrase, isn't it? —
when is he going to clear out of my house?"
" Well, now, Sir Anthony," the surgeon said, " I would beg of
you not to hurry his removal. I would rather not run any risk,
unless you have imperative need of the room. I dare say every-
thing will go on well ; his constitution seems to be a sound and
healthy one ; and as soon as it is fairly safe we will have him
taken away — but not to his own rooms, I hope. Bury Street,
St. James's, is not a very cheerful place for a man who will have
to be on his back for the next month or two. I don't know
what his means are ; but if he could afford to go to Brighton —
if he were to get a front room on the King's Road or the Marine
Parade, that would be more lively for him. And then on a fine
day he might be wheeled down the Pier on a stretcher, and get
the sea air and the sunlight into his blood."
" I cannot say that I feel called upon to concern myself about
the young man," observed Sir Anthony, in his lofty manner, " al-
though one naturally wishes him a speedy recovery. In the mean
time I shall be glad to have the use and freedom of my own
house again at the very earliest opportunity."
Lady Zembra, for her part, flatly declined to allow the maid
Catherine to be forever dancing attendance on the sick-room;
and as Sabina could not do everything herself — and as, moreover,
she could not wholly neglect certain charges of hers down in the
Chelsea district — she got in a trained nurse to help her, defraying
the cost out of her own pocket. But she herself spent a large
portion of each day in the invalid's chamber; and she would
bring him newspapers and illustrated journals and books, and
would sit amiably chatting with him to lighten the tedium of
this enforced confinement. Fred Foster, it must be confessed,
was not much of a reader; when he had glanced at the latest
30 SABINA. ZEMBKA.
betting for the Lincolnshire Handicap, and seen how Cherry
Blossom stood for the Liverpool Grand National, he was content
to put the evening paper aside, and would rather talk to Sabina,
in a timid and respectful and grateful way. And yet he spoke
cheerfully, too ; for he would not have her think he was fretting
overmuch, and as they became better friends, he was quite frank-
ly garrulous about himself and his experiences and companions
and pursuits. It was a new world, this that was being opened
to her; and yet it was interesting in a fashion; for she was a
friendly and sympathetic kind of creature, and accustomed to
meeting diverse people, who all had their own way of life. And
there was a sort of good-natured cynicism and saturnine honesty
in this young man's talk that was in a measure attractive, and
he seemed to have seen a good deal of the world for one of his
years.
But it was when he told her all about his home in Bucking-
hamshire, and the old people there, that he pleased her most. It
appeared that he was returning from a visit to them (having sent
on his portmanteau by rail) when he met with the smash in Bays-
water Road. His father, he told her, had, a good many years ago,
laid out his last penny on property down Amersham and Missen-
den way, in the expectation of a railway being made along the
valley; but the railway never came; land would not sell at all;
farms were letting badly ; and times were not as they used to be.
Still, that seemed a comfortable home that he talked about; and
Sabina, sitting in this silent room, and listening with friendly in-
terest to his idle discourse, could see for herself the big, old-fash-
ioned, red-brick house fronting the road; a row of tall elms out-
side ; inside the low, wide hall, with its pillars; rambling corridors
and rooms with casemented windows ; a spacious garden behind ;
and, busy in the vineries, an old gentleman in velveteen coat and
gaiters, with a velvet cap and tassel on his head, a pair of shears
in his hands, and not far away from him a long clay pipe.
" But it's the Mater," he would say (and he was fond of re-
turning to this point, and Sabina liked to hear him speak in this
fashion) — "it's the Mater has been my stand-by through thick
and thin ; and whatever happens to me I know I've got one
friend. Well, you see, the governor has been rather inclined to
cut up rough with me from time to time, and no wonder, for I
have been an idle wretch ; I mean, the only things I can do well
FRED FOSTER. 31
don't seem to bring; in much coin, and I dare say I have been a
disappointment to him. But the old lady is my stanch friend
through everything. And mind, I don't mean only in the way
of money. No, no. You see, Miss Zembra, a man who has had
a little experience in turf affairs, and mixed himself up in that
kind of life — well, I don't suppose that he can have the highest
notions about human nature, and be too ready to believe in peo-
ple; but it's a very capital thing for him if he knows that some-
where or other — no matter where, but somewhere — there is one
human being that is just as good as gold. I suppose, now, at my
age, my one perfect human being should be a young woman, not
an old one ; a divinity and angel about eighteen or twenty. Well,
I've never met any of that kind ; I've never met any girl even fit
to be compared to my mother. It isn't ribbons and scents, and a
dog-cart and a pair of ponies driven tandem, for her; she doesn't
think what she can get out of you ; it's what she can do for you,
that she thinks of ; she's just as good as gold, she is."
"And I hope and am sure you will always think so," Sabina
said. "But why should you have disappointed your father?"
" Well, you see, my wares don't fetch a big price in the world's
market," said he, and there was an odd kind of simplicity in his
self-disparagement. "What am I to do ? I can ride a horse;
and I've even been complimented at times for a niceish bit of
mouth-touching. And I play a fair game at billiards. And I'd
back myself at a pigeon-match even against the Claimant, and
that is saying something — "
"Pigeon-shooting?" she said; there was the least trace of sur-
pi'ise in her tone; and that of itself was a compliment.
" I beg your pardon — I shouldn't have mentioned that," he
said, laughing a little. " Sentiment has changed. But don't
you believe the nonsense that is talked about pigeon-shooting,
either. Miss Zembra. It used to be the most fashionable thing
going; it isn't now; and why? Because it's easy? Because it's
merely slaughter? Not a bit; it's because it's too difficult — and
a score is kept. If you put a man into a hot corner at a pheas-
ant-shoot and let him blaze away, he'll make a bag somehow, and
nobody counts the misses; it's different in an open field, with a
crowd of fashionable people looking on, and the reporters with
their note -books just behind you. Did you ever hear of the
Lords and Commons pigeon -shooting match at Hurlingham ?
32 SABIXA ZEMBRA.
No; before your time, I suppose. And before mine, too, rather;
but I've seen the score ; and if you look at that score you'll find
how it was that pigeon-shooting ceased to be fashionable. Peo-
ple always turn their backs on what they can't do. You don't
like to have all your lady -friends looking on while you show
what a duffer you are; and you don't want to have the score in
the newspapers next day. Then don't you believe the stories
about the maiming of the pigeons either ; that's all newspaper
nonsense. Do you think they'd get a single man to lay a sover-
eign if anything like that were allowed ? No, no ; and of course
the betting men back the pigeon ; they know he'll play fair; they
may not be sure about the noble sportsman, but they know the
bird will try to get away if he can. You can't ' pull ' a pigeon."
However, he saw by the expression of her face — and the hazel
eyes were easy to read — that this was not a wholly grateful sub-
ject, and he got away from it. She was far more pleased by
his descriptions of the morning gallops, before breakfast, on
Epsom Downs ; and he spoke rather wistfully about them ; and
she thought it a pitiable thing that he should be lying here, help-
less. But whether he spoke wistfully or cheerfully, all the way
througb these chance conversations there ran an innocent assump-
tion that she must be interested; and she did become interested,
without hardly knowing why. For one thing, he talked about
horses with a genuine enthusiasm ; and she grew to sympathize
in his admiration of skilful riding; and could almost understand
how Jem Robinson burst into tears of vexation when he found
he had been tricked by the lad Twitchet ; and she was sorry for
Fordham when she was told how Sam Rogers had served him the
same turn. It was a new world to her ; and there were plenty of
strange characters in it, and striking incidents, and moving his-
tories. She grew almost familiar with its physical aspects; when
he described the Grand National course, she had to construct in
her imagination the successive thorn fences and hurdles bushed
with gorse, and Beecher's Brook, and Valentine's Brook, and the
Water Jump, and then again the hurdles on the straight way for
home. Cherry Blossom was now at 11 to 2, and still first favor-
ite; and how could she help hoping the horse would win, seeing
that this young man, who seemed so good-natured and cheerful
and patient under his grievously bad luck, was so obviously anx-
ious about it?
FEED FOSTER. 33
The Duke of Exminster called on Fred Foster to see how he
was getting on ; and very sorry was that young gentleman that
Sabina happened to be out.
" Very sorry," he said ; " I should like you to have met, if just
for once, the very straightest man that ever had anything to do
with the English turf — the very straightest, and all his life through
too. I wonder who ever heard of him 'readying' a horse and
running it out of form so as to scoop the big handicap after-
wards — "
"But is it so unusual to find an honest man on the turf?" Sa-
bina asked.
lie did not answer ; he only said, evasively, and a little grimly,
" Horse-racing is a great game ; and it has got to be played
different ways."
Now, as has already been said, the training that Sabina had vol-
untarily undergone had taught her a wide catholicity of sympa-
thy ; and she had long ago got rid of any Pharisaical notion that
because a certain way of life is right for this or that person, it is
necessarily so for all. This kind of life that he described, if it
did not appear to be informed by any lofty purpose, or to be ex-
erting any beneficial influence on others, was nevertheless appar-
ently joyous and merry, and so far it was distinctly well; while it
was certainly not one whit more selfish than the lives of the vast
majority of the people — highly respectable and praiseworthy peo-
ple — whom she saw around her. Perhaps there was a trifle too
much luncheon-basket in it; and there was a pretty continuous
popping of champagne-bottles ; but, on the other hand, that was
probably the handiest way of celebrating victories; and, for the
rest, there seemed to be a considerable amount of good-comrade-
ship and generous help for the unfortunate in this set that he de-
scribed. Nay, when she began and told him a little of how she
spent her own time — what her occupations were, and so forth —
he said he was quite ashamed of himself ; and wondered what she
would think of him, who could but talk of horses and hounds,
and partridges and tennis-courts, while she was engaged in such
unselfish and noble work.
" But then," said he, looking at her, " there are not many like
you."
" What do you mean ?" she said.
" Oh, I can't tell you to your face," he answered, gently ; and
2*
34 SABINA ZEMBEA.
then an unaccustomed flush mantled in tlie pale and beautiful
forehead ; and she turned quickly aside to get for him his lemon-
juice and soda-water, which was the beverage allowed him at this
time.
On another occasion he said,
" You know it's awfully good of you, Miss Zembra, to bother
yourself about me, and to come and chat with me now and again,
and yon so busy. But I have remorse of conscience. I have in-
deed. I really must ask you not to let me take up so much of
your time — there are so many others who have better claims."
" Perhaps you forget how you came to be here at all," said Sa-
bina.
" Oh, but you must put that out of your head," he insisted.
"You were in no way responsible for the accident. Anybody's
dog would have brought about the same thing. Or, rather, it was
ray own stupidity that did it, for I should have seen the little
heap of gravel. Or rather — and this is the truth — it was a piece
of pure bad luck. I've come a cropper many a time before; but
this time, by pure bad luck, I chanced to hit the curb -stone.
Well, why should you consider yourself responsible for that?
However, you must not think me ungrateful for all your good-
ness to me ; and I have been wondering whether you wouldn't
let me take a little part in what you are doing. I mean," he
added, with a touch of half-amused embarrassment, "you might
bring me luck — that is, supposing Schiller were to win the Ship-
ley Hall Handicap on Tuesday next, would you accept a ten-pound
note for distribution among your poor people ?"
" Oh yes, certainly, if you care to give it me," said Miss Zem-
bra, promptly. She had long ago ceased to be squeamish about
such matters.
" It's rather a shabby offer, isn't it, to make it conditional ?" he
continued. " But every loose farthing I've got I've put on that
horse, and if I were out and about now I'd sell my boots, I be-
lieve, and clap everything on ; for it's as good as a moral, so the
duke says. And then there's the glory — you see, I own a sixth
share in this horse — "
Miss Zembra had taken up the evening paper; she wanted to
know something about the animal that was perhaps to win ten
pounds for her.
" The Derby Meeting," he said. " The Shipley Hall Handicap."
FEED FOSTER. 33
" Oh yes, here it is," she said. " Schiller, 4 to 1 against. That
does not look promising, does it?"
"Promising enough. I wish it was 20 to 1. I know the old
horse will pull it off for us this time, though it isn't a big thing.
"We can't all be dukes."
" But with regard to the ten pounds, now," said Sabina, rather
diffidently — " I am afraid I accepted heedlessly."
"Oh, a bargain's a bargain," lie said, with much cheerfulness,
"and I think you'll find by next Tuesday afternoon that Schiller
has landed you that ten-pound note for your pensioners : the
money might go a worse way."
It may be said generally that he bore this imprisonment with
really remarkable fortitude, the more so that when Sabina was
absent the other members of the household did nothing at all to
relieve his solitude. Lady Zembra was so kind as to make inqui-
ries about him from day to day of the nurse; and Sir Anthony
would ask an occasional question of the doctor ; but it was very
clear that their solicitude was prompted solely by their desire to
know when he was going away. In these circumstances Sabina
did what she could to keep him amused, and gave him as much
of her time as was possible ; and in tliis way she came to know
his history, even from his boyhood's days, in a curiously intimate
fashion. lie liked to talk ; he was grateful to so gentle and con-
siderate a listener; for, indeed, in her attitude towards him there
was an almost maternal kindliness and patience and sympathy.
One would scarcely have remembered that, as a matter of fact, he
was a couple of years older than she was. lie talked to her as if
he knew she would pass no harsh judgment when he made confes-
sion ; and also as if he was sure beforehand that she would like
well enough to know all about his first pistol, and his adventures
with his pony, and his bird-stuffing, and his various scrapes at
school, and the gradual way in which in after-life he become asso-
ciated with the sporting world. She got to understand all about
his somewhat strained relations with his father, his dependence
on his mother, and his abundant gratitude towards her; his gen-
eral habits of life, his opinions of particular men, his manner of
looking at the tricks of fickle Fortune. Moreover, through all this
self-revelation there ran a vein of sarcasm that gave it piquancy.
His judgment of people and things was shrewd and sharp; so was
his judgment of himself; and there was a kind of innocent sat-
36 SABIXA ZEMBRA.
urnine honesty about him that amused her and attracted her at
the same time.
" If I had broken my neck that time I pitched on the pave-
ment," he said, on one occasion, " I suppose I should have had to
give an account of myself. Well, I should just have said this:
' Lord, there are some would tell you I was a very good sort of
fellow, but I know I've been rather a bad sort of fellow ; only, I
■was just what you made me.' "
And it was hardly her business to point out to him that this
theory of moral responsibility — or irresponsibility — was of a
primitive and unworkable character. One thing, finally, was cer-
tain, tliis man interested her; and Jane Wygrain had maintained
that, so far, Sabina had never shown herself interested (in Janie's
sense of the phrase) in any man.
CHAPTER V.
SER FEDERIGO'S FALCON.
Naturally, Janie Wygram regarded with anything but favor
the young man who was thus claiming so much of her beloved
Sable's attention ; and her jealousy of him made her all the
more determined that Sabina should go to Walter Lindsay's
pai'ty.
"But why should I go?" Sabina said, quite good-naturedly.
" Some people are interested in such things, but I am not.
Standing about among a lot of half-strangers, and trying to talk
about things that are quite indifferent to you — "
" Oh, but, Sabie, you don't know," her friend said. " It's not
like that at Mr. Lindsay's. They're small parties, and there's no
one asked wbo isn't either clever, or pretty, or remarkable in
some wav ; and there is every kind of freedom and amusement
and merriment. You will find no old people there at all, except
mother, who is to play duenna for all of us."
"No, no, Janie," Sabina said. "I should most likely be tired
by that time of night, and you wouldn't want a kill-joy to come
in among a lot of young folks amusing themselves."
" But you can't help going, Sabie dear," her friend said, in-
sidiously.
SEE FEDERIGO'S FALCON. 37
"Indeed! And why ?"
"Not when I tell you that you will confer a great kindness on
several people, and on two in particular. That is enough reason
for you, Sabie."
Sabina laughed ; it was a dexterous piece of flattery.
"But who are the two people in particular?" she asked.
" Mr. Lindsay is the one, and I am the other."
" Then I will go to please you," Sabina said, in her frank and
generous way ; and forthwith the glad-hearted Janie made swift-
ly for her own room to send a little note to Mr. Lindsay, inform-
ing him of the joyful news.
As the eventful evening drew near, the little Mrs. Wygram as-
sumed a more and more important air; for she had undertaken
to superintend the domestic arrangements for the young artist;
and she was in all his secrets, and very earnest were their confab-
ulations together. But one afternoon she came home looking
rather puzzled.
" Janie," she said to her daughter, " what is it about a falcon ?"
"What falcon, mother?"
"I don't understand at all; but twice to-day he has said the
same thing. You see, I was remonstrating with him about his
extravagance — and really the way he is going on is absurd. Oh,
I assure you there is nothing in Covent Garden half good enough.
I believe he would telegraph to the Brazils if there was time to
get back the things. Well, I was saying how absurd it was, and
that people did not expect such entertainments at a bachelor's
house ; and then it was he said, ' I wish there was nothing left
but my falcon.' And then again he said, ' But when is the falcon
to be brought in ?' And when I asked him what falcon, he only
laughed and turned to something else."
" Mother," cried Janie, " don't you know ? Don't you know
the old Italian story ?"
The mother looked as puzzled as ever.
" Why, it has been told a hundred times. It was about a
young gentleman of Florence who wasted all his wealth in giving
entertainments to please his lady-love ; but she did not care for
him. She married some one else ; and he went away into the
country, very poor, and having nothing left him but his pet fal-
con. Then, by-and-by, she became a widow, and she was living
in the country too ; and her little boy fell sick, and nothing
38 SABIXA ZEMBRA.
■would do but tliat he must have tlie falcon that he had seen fly-
ing over the ncii;lil)oring garden. So she went with another lady
to the house, and there was her former lover, and he was greatly
distressed that there was nothing in the house he could have
cooked for them, for she had said that she would eat something.
Do you understand now, mother? lie bade his servant go
quickly and strangle the falcon — the last of, all his possessions —
and that was cooked and brought in and set before them. And
then, of course, when the lady made her request about the falcon,
he had to confess what he had done in order to entertain hev;
and she was so much struck by his generosity that she fell in
love with him and married him. Have you never heard the story ?
The young gentleman's name was Federigo, and the lady's Monna
Giovanna. And you may be sure that was what Mr. Lindsay
meant, mother; and very certain I am that he would be content
to part with everything he has, and to sacrifice pet falcon and
everything else, if that would only win him his Monna Gio-
vanna."
"And who may she be?" the mother said, demurely.
" Oh, of course you don't know, mother. It would never enter
your head — not for a moment — that it was our Sabie who is Mr.
Lindsay's Monna Giovanna?"
" What fools men are !" the mother sighed.
"They may or they may not be; I don't know," the daughter
said, valiantly ; " but I do know that if I were a man I should
consider myself a fool if I were not in love with Sabie."
And at length the great evening arrived, and everything had
been done that the most anxious consideration could think of;
and all that was wanting now was the presence of Sabina to
irradiate the feast. As a matter of fact, she and Mrs. Wygram
and Janie came rather late. All the others had assembled, and
were idling away the time in the studio, laughing and joking and
examining the sketches ; but Walter Lindsay was in front of the
house by himself, and rather nervously waiting. Then there was
the noise of a cab, the gate-bell was rung, and the next moment
he was outside and down through the little garden just in time
to receive them. This was rather a dusky thoroughfare, and the
yellow gas-lamps gave but little relief; but it seemed to him that
when Sabina stepped out on to the pavement — so tall and queenly
she was, and yet with such a frank and generous good-nature in
SEE FEDERIGO'S FALCON. 39
her face — that there was some kind of moonlight around. He
bad eyes only for her ; he was a little bewildered ; she seemed
something radiant — here in the dusk.
" It is very kind of you to come," he said ; but he did not
know what he was saying.
lie accompanied them into the house: could this beautiful
creature know how great a favor she was conferring by merely
stepping within the door? And she smiled so graciously on the
little maid who asked them to go into the improvised cloak-room :
did she know that that, too, was a kindness? — that she could so
easily make friends with her winning looks and her gentle man-
ner? But at this moment Janie Wygram hung back from her
companions, and said to him, in a half-whisper,
" Is the falcon being cooked ?"
" There is no such luck for me," said he ; and then he added,
quickly, "But do you think, now, that Miss Zembra could be
prevailed upon to take away some little thing as a souvenir?
There are all kinds of things in this studio. If you found her
interested in any of them could you give me a hint? Anything,
no matter what — anything in the house."
" I don't know," said Miss Janie ; but she could not add an-
other word then, for she had to follow her companions into the
cloak-room.
Forthwith he sent word to have supper served as soon as pos-
sible ; and when these new guests reappeared he would have them
remain in the drawing-room. He seemed to forget the others
whom he had left in the studio. It was Sabina whom he wanted
to look at these sketches and medallions and miniatures and
what not; and so anxious was he to interest her, and so strangely
did the magic of her presence affect him, that his fingers were
not so steady as they might have been.
" Why, your hand shakes," she said (for she was rather blunt-
spoken on occasion). "What is it? Too much Arts Club at
midnight?"
It was a cruel speech, though it was not meant cruelly. How
could he explain to her what it was that made his hand a trifle
unsteady? Or how could he say to her that he would willingly
never enter within the doors of the Arts Club again if she but
expressed the slightest wish on the subject?
"But your other friends, Mr. Lindsay?" said Mrs. Wygram,
40 SABINA ZEMBRA,
•who considered herself responsible for the proper conduct of the
proceedings. " Should we not go into the studio ?"
"Oh no," said he. "They're all right. Borella is there; he
will keep them lively enough." In fact, they could hear the
sound of a piano in the distance. "That is another thing I
wanted to warn you about. Miss Janie. Don't you keep insisting
on encores. Borella is the best fellow in the world, but he is
rather noisy, and he likes to monopolize the piano. Now, when
he wants to go, let him go, and then we shall have a nice quiet
evening by ourselves."
Of course, Miss Janie knew very well it was about Sabina he
was thinking ; perhaps she might not like too hilarious an even-
ing ; for there was something grave and serious in her manner,
even with all its gracious sweetness.
Then came the butler (he was a butler only at night ; by day
he was an old-man model, and favorably known throughout the
studios for his prominent nose and shaggy eyebrows; it should
be said, moreover, that his ability in both capacities was marked,
and that he could decant a bottle of port just as well as he could
pose as an ancient Highland cateran, or a scowling miser, or a
smiling grandpapa) to say that supper was served ; and Mr. Lind-
say escorted these three guests into the dining-room I It was a
clever little scheme.
" Miss Zembra," said he, " will you take this seat, if you please?
Mrs. Wygram has been so kind as to offer to take the other end
of the table — she can see that things are going on rightly — and
— and the servants understand — "
It was a clever little scheme ; for now, without fear of any mis-
take. Miss Zembra would be seated next him, and on his right
hand also ; and there awaiting her was the bouquet he liad him-
self designed for her; while Mrs. Wygram, instead of being an-
noyed at not finding herself in the place of honor, considered
herself promoted to the position of mistress of the feast. Janie
Wygram smiled to herself, but said nothing ; and with a light
heart Walter Lindsay went away to summon his other guests from
the studio.
It was a pretty scene at that supper-table when they had all
come in and taken their places — the shining silver and the Vene-
tian glass ; the shaded candles shedding a soft roseate glow on
the cover ; the abundant flowers ; the baskets of fruit ; the faces
SER FEDEKIGO'S FALCON. 41
of the young men and maidens growing blither as the talk became
more and more animated. And if there was a trifle too much
noise in the neighborhood of the black-a-vised barytone — who
was telling very, very old stories in half-intelligible English, and
laughing boisterously at the same — well, that was all the more
convenient for any of the quieter folk, who perhaps had their own
little sentences (timid and hesitating, and hardly daring to say all
that might be said) to communicate to each other in their small,
separate sets. Walter Lindsay was not sorry to be able to mur-
mur a word or two unheard by the general crowd, even if there
was no particular secret to be conveyed; it was something that he
could speak to Sabina, as it were, alone. And then she was look-
ing so beautiful this evening — so calm and bland and compla-
cent; and the gracious outline of her neck, as she bent forward a
little to listen, was something to steal one's heart away. Her step-
mother had said she was a dowdy in her dress. Well, on ordinary
busy days she generally wore a tight-fitting gown of brownish-
gray homespun, with a jacket to match ; and her brown felt bon-
net was serviceable enough ; and if you had met her in Kensing-
ton High Street, or in Cromwell Road, you would have thought
little of the CQstume, though perhaps her stature and her gait, and
the set of her head, might have attracted a brief notice. But to-
night there was naturally something different. She wore a dress of
pale-blue Indian silk, with a fichu of faintly yellow lace coming
round the neck and bosom ; and for sole ornament, where the. fichu
met the gown, there was a bunch of real forget-me-nots. Walter
Lindsay looked at these from time to time. What falcon would
he not have sacrificed to gain possession of any one of them ?
And yet he had a little score to settle with her. If any other
person had told him that he had a shaky hand, he would not have
heeded much ; besides, such was not the case, for although he had
the artist's temperament, and was exceedingly sensitive in many
ways, his nerves were as sound as a bell. But that Sabina should
have taunted him was too bad : and her reference to the Arts Club !
" Miss Zembra," he made bold to say (but still in that under-
tone that he seemed to prefer), " what did you mean by saying
that my hand shook ?"
" Did I?" she said, and she looked up. And then something in
his manner appeared to amuse her. " If I hurt your feelings I am
very sorry."
42 SABIXA ZEMBRA,
"What do you mean by too much Arts Club at midnight?"
said he, for he was determined to clear himself of the charge,
" I am a hospital nurse on occasion," she said, laughing. " I sup-
pose I spoke professionally. But really I did not mean anything
serious, Mr. Litidsay — oh, of course not."
■ " Oh, but I'm going to have it out with you," said he. "I want
just to see whether you or I have the steadier hand — "
" No, no ; if I apologize to you — "
"But I want to see. Now, just you lift your wineglass, and I
will hold up mine, and we will see who can let them come closest
without actually touching."
Well, she was good-natured ; they went through that little per-
formance ; and certainly both their hands now seemed steady
enough.
" Can I do more than apologize ?" she said, as she put down
her glass again. " I did not mean to offend you."
"Offend me!" He looked at her; that was all.
Meanwhile, the robust barytone had chanced to catch sight of
that raising of glasses, and imagining that it was merely the re-
vival of an old custom, he set to work at his end of the table, and
presently there was a good deal of drinking of healths and clink-
ing of glasses, with even an occasional " Stosst an / — setzt an ! —
fertig ! — los !" It was in the midst of this hubbub of chatter
and merriment that Mrs. Wygram found an opportunity of say-
ing to her daughter, who happened to sit next her,
" Janie, don't look up the table, but do you know what is
going on ? I can tell you. Are you aware that your darling
Sabina is showing herself as nothing else than an outrageous
flirt?"
"She is not, mother?" Janie said, indignantly. "She doesn't
know what flirtation is!"
" It's a remarkably good imitation of it, then, that is going on
up there," said the little old lady, still with her eyes cast down.
"I've never seen anything worse anywhere. Why, Mr. Lindsay
has not said a word to a soul since we sat down to supper; he
has eyes and ears for nobody but her !"
"And whose fault is that?" said Janie; "that is his fault, not
hers. Of course, she is kind to him, as she would be to any one
sitting in his place. It's little you know about Sabie if you think
that of her."
SEE FEDERIGO'S FALCON". 43
" I can use ray eyes," said Mrs. Wygrara, " and they're older
than yours, my girl."
"You know you're only saying that to vex me, mother; and
you can't do it. No, you can't; I know Sabie better than
that."
"At all events," the mother said, to close this underhand dis-
cussion — " at all events, Mr. Lindsay is having one happy even-
ing in his life."
Nor was Mrs. Wygrara the only one who was casually observant
of what was going on at the upper end of the table. A tall,
rather good-looking fellow — a recently elected Associate he was,
and very proud of his new honors — said to his neighbor, who
was a lively little maiden with a roseate face, a piquant nose, and
raven-black hair,
" Who is the lady of the forget-rae-nots ?"
She glanced up the table.
" Oh, don't you know ? That is Miss Zembra — a daughter of
Sir Anthony Zembra — the Parliament man, don't you know?
Pretty, isn't she ?"
" How long have Walter Lindsay and she known each other ?"
he asked. There was some kind of significance in his tone.
"I think for some time," said his companion. "But I believe
she has never been in his house before. She doesn't care for
such things — nursing babies and old women is more in her line.
It's all very well, if they would only wash their faces."
"Oh, they've known each other for some time?"
"I believe so."
"Oh, they've known each other for some time?"
What did he mean by this repetition ? What he was trying
to do, at all events, was to get his companion to raise her eyes to
his, to ask what his meaning was; but she was a shrewd little
lass, and knew better than to be drawn into any such under-
standing.
" Well, I suppose it's none of my business," he said, finally ;
and that was a very sensible conclusion.
And now did Walter Lindsay call down the blessings of
Heaven on Borella's wildly matted head ; for the noisy barytone
had taken to performing conjuring tricks, and the attention of
every one at the table was directed towards hiin. And Sabina
wished to look on also, for she loved anmsement as well as any
44 SABINA ZEMIiKA,
one, when the chance was there ; but her companion would not
let her. lie was sure she had had no supper at all. A little
more wine, then? for she seemed to like the perfume of that
golden-clear vino di Capri. He was so sorry she had had no sup-
per. It was a shame that slie had come to his house merely to
be starved ; perhaps she would never come ao;ain, after such treat-
ment? Some fruit, then, just to show that she had not been
quite neglected? Not a slice of pineapple, nor half a dozen
grapes, even? Some strawberries, then?
"Grapes and strawberries in the middle of March?" she said,
with a smile. " Really, it is perfectly wicked."
And then there was on his lips some wild reference to Ser
Federigo's envied happiness in the destruction of his falcon ; but
fortunately he did not go so far; he contented himself with
engrossing her attention so that she could not see any of the
conjuring; and he would have her tell him more of her experi-
ences among the mudlarks down Lambeth way. Were they all
so cynical ? And not so grateful to her as they might be? Was
she not afraid of having her pocket picked? And that one of
them who was her champion and chief confidant — could he be
found out now by a stranger? AVould he like to have a good,
substantial, mid-day dinner given him, and thereafter a boat, that
he might sail on the ponds in Battersea Park, supposing that
such amusement were permitted?
Well, Sabina had a generous faculty of being pleased with
whomsoever was talking to her for the moment; and he was her
host, moreover ; and all the others were occupied with their own
affairs ; so she had leisure to tell him about these and other things.
And ever the glamour of her clear, soft hazel eyes was working
him further and further woe. Her rounded, white arms were
near him ; the dimple in her cheek showed when she laughed ;
her beautiful brown hair was still more beautiful in the softened
light. But these things were as nothing. It was her eyes he
sought, and these were so friendly and pleased and benignant,
that who would have accused them of working him woe? Nor
did he care. He drank the sweet madness, the fell poison, with-
out stint, and recklessly and joyously ; this night was to be at
least one happy night in his life; he had Sabie all to himself, and
he was drinking in her pleased glances and her smiles as if they
were strong wine: the years to come, whatever there might be
SER FEDEEIGO'S FALCON'. 45
in them, could never deprive bim of that gold and rose-tinted
memory.
At length the conjuring came to an end ; and it was Herr Bo-
relia himself who suggested that they should go away into the
studio to have a little music ; he had to leave soon, he explained.
And then there was a fetching of wraps for the women-folk; and
somehow Walter Lindsay managed to secure Sabina's long fur
cloak; and be it was who put it round her shoulders, and would
even insist that it was properly fastened at the throat, for the
night was cold. When they went outside into the back garden,
at the farther end of which was the studio, they found that the
night skies had grown clearer, and stars were shining palely over-
head. Sabina thought of the dark early morning in East London,
and of her crossing from the nurse's dormitory to the wards: she
was a little grave as the ghost-like procession passed along from
the house through this weird gloom to the yellow light of the
studio door.
All within there, however, was brightness ; the gases and can-
dles lit; the fire burning briskly ; the piano open ; plenty of mu-
sic scattered everywhere. The great barytone set to work at
once ; he was frank enough. He sung them " du, mein holder
Abendstern," from " Tannhauser " — a young lady in spectacles
accompanying him ; and then he himself sat down at the piano
and sung,
" Fern in die Welt,
Weit, weit von dlr,
Strahlot dein Bild
Tief, tief in mir."
One would scarcely have expected a man who had been so bois-
terous and uproarious at supper to sing with so much feeling ; but
the quality of his art was very fine indeed ; more than one young
woman there was rather liimpy about the throat when he finished.
Then, after he had sung one or two more things, and bade such
as he knew good-night, and lighted a big cigar and gone away, the
young folks began on their own account; and as there happened
to be lying open a volume of old-fashioned glees and madrigals
and duets, they were soon in the midst of these. It was a careless,
happy-go-lucky scries of performances; when they broke down
they turned over the page to the next one ; sometimes a new-
comer would stroll along and give them a helping hand. But the
46 SABIXA ZEMBKA.
young lady in spectacles knew her business, at all events ; and so
in one way or another they got along, with laughter and jests
thrown in. Now it was " Foresters, sound the cheerful horn," or
" The chough and crow to roost are gone," or " Hark, the bonny
Christ Church bells," or " Here's a health to all good lasses;" and
again it was, " Chloe found Amyntas lying," or
" Sigh no more, ladies ; ladies, sigh no more,
Men were deceivers ever."
All this while Walter Lindsay was seated on a sofa with Sa-
bina as his sole companion. On coming into the studio he had
perforce paid a little attention to bis other guests ; but once he had
got them fairly started on this occupation, he had gone back to
her — how could he help it ? And Sabina sat and listened, her
hands folded, her eyes pleased ; she had the air of one looking on
rather than of one participating; but surely it was with no un-
kindly regard.
" How pretty that is !" she said, rather wistfully, on one oc-
casion.
The tall, young Associate was at the piano; and it was his
neighbor at supper who had now taken the place of the specta-
cled young lady, and he was bending over the accompanist, so
that their heads were very near together — his a fair chestnut
brown, hers raven black. And they were singing — with a careless
bass thrown in by a gentleman standing opposite the fire :
" Tell me, shepherds, have you seen
My Flora pass this way ?"
" Yes, it is a pretty air," Walter Lindsay said.
" Ah, but I did not mean that," Sabina said, in her low voice.
" It is the picture that looks so pretty — the two young people to-
gether — and singing — "
And why, asked Lindsay of himself, should she look and speak
so wistfully ? Was she not herself young and more beautiful
than any ? Was she to be forever a spectator ? Did she regard
herself as one cut off from the amusements, the associations, the
hopes of young people? And where was the need of any such
sacrifice ?
^^Tell wie," warbled the young lady at the piano ; "TV// mc/"
roared the basso at the fireplace ; " Shepherds, have you seen .^"
SER FEDERIGO'S FALCON". 47
strnclc in the young Associate, who had a very fair tenor voice ;
but Lindsay did not heed them ; he was thinking of Sabina, and
of her way of life, and of her future. And if he was bold enough
to consider how easy it would be for her to give him one of those
forget-me-nots? Well, if that wild fancy crossed his mind, it was
but for a moment. He was far away from that, and he knew it.
But why should he fret ? Sabina was here, and by his side ; and
she was bland and smiling and kind, and ever he drank fresh
draughts of bewildering gladness and madness from the shining
beauty of her eyes.
By this time the black-haired maiden at the piano had had
enough of duets and glees.
"Go and get up a dance," she said, in her imperative way, to
her companion ; and as the young painter dutifully obeyed, she
began to play the slow and gracious music of a minuet. How-
ever, it was no minuet that was in the young lady's mind. She
only wished in that way to introduce the idea of dancing. As
soon as the easels and chairs and couches had been removed, and
the young men were choosing their partners, she started off with
"Sir Roger de Coverley," and that at a rattling pace.
" Will you join them ?" Walter Lindsay said to his companion.
" I think I would rather look on," Sabina answered.
"Then give me the dance, and we will sit it out together,"
said he.
She nodded and smiled ; that was more to her liking.
"Will you give me them all on the same terms?" said he,
quickly. " I don't wish to dance."
But she did not answer this; she was looking on with interest
at the formation of the two long lines.
And so Lindsay and this fell enchantress weTe left together
again; and as the wild romp in the middle of the floor went on,
he was telling her all about his work and his plans for the sum-
mer (in answer to her questions, of course), and he was describ-
ing to her the secret sylvan haunts he knew, and the remote little
inns he stayed f.t, and so forth ; and as all this naturally led up
to his drawings and sketches, he took her away into a corner to
show her a big portfolio of these. And meanwhile he was form-
ing a dark design in his brain. When the " Sir Roger de Cover-
ley " ended, he withdrew from her side for a moment.
" Percy," he said to the tall young painter, " get up a cotillon."
48 SABIXA ZEIICKA.
"Don't know how."
"Oh yes, you do," was the hurried rejoinder. " Anybody will
show you. Do, like a good fellow — and look sharp !"
And tlien he was back at her side again. Now, in the corner
where the portfolio was, there stood a triangular Chippendale cab-
inet, filled with various kinds of bric-a-brac; and among these —
and the gem of the collection — was a small chalice of rock-crystal,
elaborately studded round with uncut stones of diverse colors.
In itself it was a most beautiful thing; besides which it was ob-
viously of great age and value. Sabina was looking in at these
shelves with a woman's curiosity.
"Do you know what that dance is?" he asked of her.
She glanced over her shoulder carelessly.
" No."
" It is a cotillon," said he, rather breathlessly. " And you gave
it me, you know."
"Did I?" said she, with something of an amused look; what
could it matter whether she had made this useless promise or
not?
" Oh yes, you did," he said, eagerly. " We are in it, if we
choose. And do you know what the peculiarity of this dance is?
— that you are allowed to make your partner a little present.
Oh, I assure you it is so — and — and this is what I want you to
accept from me."
He opened the cabinet and took out the jewcl-bestudded wine-
cup. Sabina rather shrunk back.
"Oh no, oh no," she said. "You are very kind — but — but I
have no place to keep such things — besides, I could not take it.
Mr. Lindsay, please be kind enough not to ask me."
Her eyes were earnest; and they could make him do anything.
But he was unsatisfied and anxious and a little bit reckless,
perhaps.
" Then if you will not take, will you give ?" he made bold to
say, but under his breath. " Miss Janie says that is more in your
way. And if I ask a favor of you ? You will take this little
cup: well, you could make it thirty times more valuable to me if
you would drink something out of it. Will you?"
She looked surprised, but not offended ; she did not quite un-
derstand.
" Why, what difference will that make ?" she said. But before
SER FEDEEIGO'S FALCON. 49
she had finished the words he had gone away, over to a little buf-
fet that Mrs. Wygrani was improvising for the dancers, and the
next moment he had returned with a bottle of wine in his hand.
He poured a little of the foaming fluid into the chalice, and of-
fered it to her.
" Is it a ceremony ?" Sabina asked, with a smile, and she toolc
the chalice from him.
" Yes, it is part of the dance," he answered, glad of any excuse
that would obtain for him this gracious favor.
"Do I say anything? Do I wish anything?" Sabina asked.
"I will do the wishing," he answered, quickly; and then she
raised the wine-cup to her lips and drank a little, and then gave
it back to him. lie could only look his thanks.
Mrs. Wygram's eyes had followed him across the room.
"And what do you think of your Sabie now?" she exclaimed
to her daughter, who was assisting hei'.
" Just the same as ever — why ?" was Janie's answer.
" You did not see what she did just now ?"
" No."
" Well, then, I'll tell you ; she drank out of that crystal wine-
cup just to please him, I suppose, and he put it back in the
cabinet !"
" And why shouldn't she ?" said Janie, bravely. " To please
Lim ? — very well. She would do that or anything else to please
any man, woman, or child who happened to be there. Mother,
what has set you all of a sudden against Sabie? You know it's
just her universal kindness."
" Kindness !" said the mother, with a gentle sarcasm. " Per-
haps it is. But I have never seen a more abominable piece of
flirtation in all my born days." And with that she went to bid
the model-butler bring some more lemonade and seltzer-water;
for the young lady at the piano had begun to play a wild High-
land schottische, and Mrs. Wygrara had enough experience of
these scratch parties to know what that meant.
They kept up the merrymaking to a very early hour indeed;
but after Sabina and the Wygrams had taken their departure,
Lindsay did not seem to heed much what was going forward.
And at last he was left alone in this big studio with the disjecta
membra of the revels all around him ; and he sate him down to
think over everything that had happened during that eventful
3
50 SABIXA ZEMBRA.
evening, even to tlic smallest details, wLerever Sabina had been
concerned.
And so Scr Fcderi<:;o had not sacrificed his falcon, after all —
thongh his offer of the jewelled chalice was a little tentative ef-
fort in that direction. No; so far from his being poorer by her
coming to his house, he was ever so much the richer : that was
like Sabina, as the faithful Janie would have maintained. The
whole of this big studio seemed saturated with the charm and
wonder of her presence. Uere she had sate, her hands folded in
her lap, talking to him in her softly modulated voice; there she
had stood, her beautiful neck bent over the drawings and sketches,
her praise and admiration frank and ready enough ; it was by the
side of that easel she had taken the wine-cup — now a hundred
times more precious to him than it had been before — into her
gentle hand, and raised it, and touched the rim with her proudly
cut lips, and given it him back with so gracious a smile. He was
beginning to understand her now. If you said "Take!" her
answer was " No ;" if you said " Give !" her answer was " Yes."
But all through these visions and recalling of visions it was her
eyes that chiefly he saw ; and they were regarding him some-
how ; and always they were pleased and generous and benignant
towards him. He made no effort to banish the memory of that
look.
CHAPTER VI.
TO BRIGHTON.
Sabina was nnused to late hours and late suppers. Next morn-
ing she found herself less brisk than was her wont; and so, hav-
ing despatched Janie Wygram on certain errands down in the
Chelsea direction, she thought she would take a longer walk than
usual, and go ronnd by Hyde Park on her way to Lancaster Gate.
And very soon the fresh air revived her. It was one of those
sudden spring-like days that occasionally show themselves in
March; a bland south wind was blowing; the Serpentine was
shimmering in silver; the pale- brown roads dividing the level
breadths of greensward looked pleasant enough in the warm sun-
light; and every leafless branch of the elms and maples was de-
fined sharp and black against the blue sky. There was a kind
TO BRIGHTON". 51
of happy murmur all around, and a look of life and animation
among the nondescript crowd. Carriages rolled by with their
occupants wrapped in their winter furs; nurse-maids were chat-
ting as they pushed before them the somnolent perambulator;
charming young horsewomen were walking side by side, and per-
chance exchanging confidences about the last night's ball, chil-
dren were calling, dogs scampering, sparrows twittering ; every-
where there was life and motion and sound — and it was a sound
as of gladness, somehow.
And, of course, Sabina thought of the poor young fellow who
was shut out from all this and kept a close prisoner there, and
her heart was filled with pity for him ; and half unconsciously
she walked as quickly as she could, so as to give him as soon as
possible the solace of her companionship. It is true — though
she did not like to confess it to herself — that she had begun to
suspect of late that he was not quite so grateful for her society,
and her efforts to amuse him, as he might be. He seemed to be
very well content with the sporting papers, and with the less of-
ficious conversation of the professional nurse. Perhaps, then, she
— that is, Sabina — bored him somewhat? Perhaps he did not
want to be bothered with the formality of talking to a young
lady ? Perhaps he might even consider her a little bit of a nui-
sance? Sabina did not like to dwell on these questions because
they sounded like pique; and, of course, it did not matter to her
whether he was grateful for her volunteered companionship or
not.
On this morning she found him in very gay spirits indeed ; a
number of things contributing. First of all, Schiller had won the
Shipley Hall Handicap on the previous Tuesday, and Mr. Fred
Foster was now in ample funds; but this she knew, for she had
been the gainer by that victory of ten pounds. Then, again, the
horse that he had backed for the Lincolnshire Handicap, at 20 to
1 against, had quite suddenly risen in popular estimation, and was
now first favorite, at 100 to 12 ; and here was a fine opportunity
for a little business! But the chief and glorious news was that
the doctor had consented to his removal, and arrangements were
now being made for his being conveyed to Brighton.
"Do you know Brighton, Miss Zerabra?" he said, eagerly.
" Oh, I do, I can tell you ; I know it just down to the ground.
I sha'n't want for amusement. You see, I'll have rooms in the
52 SABIXA ZEMBRA.
King's Road; they're not very dear just now, and I can be
wheeled out to the end of the West Pier like tlic other cripples,
and read the papers, and listen to the band. Then there's a tele-
graph office at the foot of the pier if one wants to do a little
business. Then there's the tennis-court; they'll let me look on,
I suppose. Then the billiard-rooms ; but I suppose they wouldn't
like my hearse brought in there. When I can sport about in a
Bath-chair, however, I know one shop where I shall be welcome
enough. And then, the fellows I know are always running down
to Brighton — to the Old Ship; I should hear what was going
on ; they won't leave me out in the cold. I'm not likely to be
tempted, like the ordinary stay-at-home backer, to try a system — "
"A system?" she said, with inquiring eyebrows.
" Well, a system is a machine for making it certain that you
drop your money — that's all," he explained. " But why should
I bore you with such things — you don't understand. And you
seem a little bit tired this morning, Miss Zembra."
She told him something of the festivities of the night before,
and said that though they were mild enough, she was not used to
them, and confessed to being a trifle fagged.
" That kind of thing would not suit me at all," he said, frankly.
" I like to keep myself fit all the way round — fit for a steeple-
chase course, or a thousand up at billiards, or a pigeon-shoot, or
anything. Now I'll tell you the kind of feast I like — a break-
fast at Jem Reid's — Reid, the trainer, you know. Well, now,
that is the prettiest thing that I have any acquaintance with ;
Mrs. Reid, buxom and fresh as a daisy, at the head of the table ;
an excellent breakfast; fried soles done to a turn; bacon crisp
and hot from the fender, a devilled kidney or two, and the best
coSee in the world. Then, as you're forging ahead, you may
chance to glance out of the window, and there is a string of
horses marching past on their way to the heath, and just as like
as not you'll hear Mrs. Reid say, ' Well, I for one don't object to
seeing the touts coming about; it shows they think we have
some horses worth watching.' After a breakfast like, that, I'm
fit for the day; I can do without anything else all day long;
there's ney ver an ' sinking ' bothers me."
" You ought to be very thankful you have such a constitution,"
Sabina said ; she could not help noticing the clearness of his com-
plexion, where the sun-tan still lingered, and also the brilliant
TO BRIGHTOX. 53
liqnidness of his eyes, which were like those of a school-boy in
the briskest of health.
"It's just luck," said he, in his usual saturnine fashion. "I
happened to be born like that ! I might have been one of those
miserable devils who can't go on for a couple of hours without a
sherry-and-bitters. I don't blame them, but I'd rather be as I
am."
" And when do you go to Brighton ?" Sabina asked : it oc-
curred to her then that the house would become strangely empty
and uninteresting when he was gone.
" As soon as my catafalque is got ready," he said, with cheer-
ful good-humor. " And I shall be precious glad to get there.
Not entirely on my own account — I'm afraid you must think me
an awfully selfish brute, don't you ? — no, it's partly on account
of the Mater. You see, as soon as I can date my letters from
Brighton, she will be convinced that nothing very serious has
happened. I have been mortally afraid of the old lady turning
up in London, and getting alarmed when she found I wasn't in
Bury Street. As for my father, I suppose he's disappointed that
I haven't broken my neck. He has been prophesying these dozen
years back that that would be the end of me ; and people like
their prophecies to come off, you know."
" It has been bad enough as it is," said Sabina, " but I am sure
you have borne your imprisonment so far with very great cour-
age. Most men would have fretted and complained, and found
the forced idleness almost unendurable. I hope you will never
have such an experience again ; but I must say you make an ad-
mirable patient."
Now, surely, here was an opportunity for him to show himself
a little grateful to the young lady who had given him so much of
her time and attention. It could have been easily done ; nay,
was there not almost an invitation in what she had said? But
he did not seem to take it that way. He humorously remarked
that he hoped soon to be about again, but that he would take
care not to challenge John Roberts, Jr., to play 3000 up for a
considerable time to come.
There were one or two questions of some delicacy arose ere he
could take his departure for Brighton.
"You know, Miss Zembra," he said, in his usual matter-of-fact
way, " I am quite aware that your people have wished me at
64 BABINA ZEMBUA.
Jericho ever since I came into the house, and I don't wish to be
indebted to people who wish me at Jericho ; at the same time, I
should be sorry to offend you by offering to pay for my board."
" Please, we will not speak of it," said Sabina.
" It's an awkward time of the year — if I could send them some
game — "
He saw that he only vexed her, and he dropped the subject,
privately reserving to himself the right of bountifully tipping the
servants, for he was in ample funds at the moment.
Sabina, on her side, found herself quite unable to induce either
her father or Lady Zembra to say a word of farewell to their un-
bidden and unwelcome guest. She represented to them what a
gross discourtesy this would be to a man who was distinctly a
gentleman ; and that even common humanity demanded that they
should be well-disposed to one who had suffered injury through
a member of the family. But no; Sir Anthony, when he had
said a thing, stuck to it; and he had declared he would have
nothing whatsoever to do with this stranger; and Lady Zembra
was only too glad to escape from bother by following the exam-
ple of her lord. Sabina tried to make some little explanation
and apology to Mr. Fred Foster himself ; but that young gentle-
man only laughed good-naturedly, said he understood the whole
situation, and that, in their position, he would have been precisely
in the same state of mind.
Both Janie Wygram and Sabina went to Victoria Station to
see him off, and it was then that Janie saw him for the first time.
"Ue does not seem much of an invalid," said Janie, aside, ob-
serving his sun-browned complexion and clear blue eyes.
"Poor fellow!" Sabina said; "just imagine what it must be
for one who has led so active a life to be chained down like that.
And the doctor says it may be months before he can walk about.
I have never seen any one so patient and cheerful."
"I should have thought he was quick-tempered by the color of
his hair — carroty curls always go with a short temper," said Janie,
who had not forgotten her grudge against this luckless young
man.
However, Sabina did not reply to this remark; for she had to
step into the carriage to bid Mr. Foster good-by.
" You won't forget to let me know how you get on at Brigh-
ton ?" said she.
BY THE SHANNON SHORE. 55
"Why should I bother you?" he said.
"But I particularly wish to know, and as often as it is con-
venient," she persisted. '"You can't imagine how glad I shall
be when I hear that you are getting about again, and shaking off
the last traces of that dreadful accident."
"Oh, very well," said he. "But don't you bother about me.
I shall soon be skipping about again like a two-year-old."
" Good-by," she said, and she gave him her hand.
"Good-by, Miss Zenibra," said he, and he added: "You know
you've been awfully kind to me. I wish I knew how to repay
you. If you were a man, I could."
" Indeed ?" she said, lightly, for she guessed there was some
small joke in his mind.
" Yes, I could. I'd advise you to put every penny you have
in the world on Cherry Blossom for the Grand National."
The train was already moving; she had to step quickly back;
and then she waved her hand to him from the platform.
" Poor fellow !" she said, almost to herself, " half of his cheer-
fulness is only pretence. He feels it more than he would have
any one think."
And Janie looked at her, with a curious glance; then they
turned and left the station together, and in silence.
CHAPTER VII.
BY THE SHANNON SHORE.
For ordinary lovesickncss there is no more prompt and effica-
cious cure than marriage ; but for the heartache begotten of hope-
less love, where is the cure ? It is a disease that people are for
the most part ashamed of; they conceal it assiduously, and there-
fore it may be assumed to be more prevalent than appears.
Walter Lindsay, at all events, could find no cure, though he tried
many. For he was inordinately vexed with himself that in walk-
ing along High Street, Kensington, he could not see a tall woman
in the distance without his heart leaping up with some wild hope
that it might be Sabina. And why, each time that he went
home, was there a great disappointment for him on finding there
no letter from Janie Wygram, with some chance mention of
56 SABINA ZEMP.RA.
Sabina in it? Janie Wygrain could not keep continually writing
to him apropos of nothing. The most serious interests of his
life were interfered with by this agony of vague unrest; his
work was done now, not for the world, that was willing enough
to welcome it, but that it might perchance win him a smile of
Sabina's approval. And as for the hopelessness of his passion —
well, he had not studied her every gesture and look, he had not
listened to Janic's minute and intimate description of her ways
of life, and her hopes and opinions and interests, all for nothing;
and well he knew that marriage formed no part of Sabina's plans
for the future. She was very kind to him — for she was kind to
everybody; and if he were ill, he thought she might be sorry;
and for the passing hour — as had happened the other evening —
she would smile on him, and be generous and gracious and bland.
But as for anything more? He knew he might as well think of
going into the National Gallery and asking some fair- browed
Madonna to step down from her frame, and take his hand, and
go through the years of life with him.
And then he would try to argue himself out of this insanity
of love. He had set up an impossible ideal, he maintained, to
himself. No woman could be so fine as that. Why should he
bother his head about a phantom of his own creation ? Women
were women ; he knew what they themselves said and wrote of
one another; he was no longer a boy, imagining everything that
wore a petticoat to be an angel. And then he would resolve to
go again to Janie Wygram, and get to know something about the
real Sabina, who must have her faults and weaknesses and vani-
ties like other folk. Alas ! that was not of much avail. Janie
quietly remarked that people might say what they liked about
women in general ; it was none of her business ; but she knew
what Sabina was; nay, more, she did not scruple to declare to
him, as she had already declared to her mother, that, were she a
man, she would consider herself a fool if she Avere not in love with
Sabie. And so there was no hope for him that way either (not
that he was so anxious to dethrone his idol, as he tried to per-
suade iiimsclf that he was) ; and as Sabina haunted every moment
of his life, and came between his every occupation and project
and fancy, he began to think that something must be done. He
would go away from this hateful Kensington and see whether
some of this lovesickness could not be left behind. He would
BY THE SHANNON SHORE. 57
seek out one of Lis favorite solitudes, and bury himself in that
secret place, and devote himself to assiduous work, or assiduous
recreation, he cared not Avhich. To leave London — to miss the
chance of catching a glimpse of her — to miss the chance even of
hearing her name mentioned in the talking of friends — was not
pleasant; but to remain in London, suffering this useless torture,
was intolerable. So one morning, and on a sudden impulse, he
telegraphed over ~^a friend in the west of L'eland, asking whether
a place could be foi.nd for him on a certain stretch of the Shan-
non ; the answer bade him come forthwith, and that afternoon
he packed up his sketching implements and fishing-rods, went
down by the night mail to Holyhead, and was in Dublin in the
morning.
He had come either to work or to play ; there were to be no
more foolish love-fancies. And so, as he sat in that railway-
carriage, hour after hour, and was taken away across Ireland, he
kept studying the ever-varying and yet monotonous features of
the landscape, and the slowly changing effects of light. And
lucky it was for him that he was a painter : anybody else would
have found that solitary journey a somewhat dismal thing, and
the melancholy April day not a little depressing. The leafless
trees looked black and harsh amid the raw reds and greens of
ploughed land and fallow ; and the long stretches of bog, with
here and there a few cottages and stone walls and miserable en-
closures, were not very cheerful under these cold and neutral-
tinted skies. That is to say, the ordinary traveller would have
found those skies neutral-tinted and characterless enough ; but this
man was a painter, and he could find quite sufficient technical
interest in regarding the softly shaded bulk and retreating per-
spective of the larger masses of cloud, and in tracing here and
there a tinge of golden-white among the pale, hopeless, and yet
pearly and ethereal blues and grays. And during all this observa-
tion, and studying of forms and tones and " values," he was de-
termined that his heart should not go away wandering back to
Kensington Square and Sabina Zembra.
In the afternoon he reached his destination, a straggling little
town on the banks of the Shannon, the swift-rushing waters of
which noble river are here spanned by a long and many-arched
bridge. He had telegraphed for rooms to the inn, where he was
well known ; and having deposited his things there, and picked
3*
58 SAUINA ZEMBUA.
out a handy little trout-rod, he walked down to the river, to have
an hour's careless fishing and a general look round. This was a
picturesque neighborhood into which he had come, but the after-
noon was not favorable; what wind there was was easterly, and
that had drunk the color out of the hills around, that loomed high
and lurid as mountains through the mist. However, there was
always the magnificent river, with its surging, rapid masses of
white-tipped waves, and the pleasant sound of the rushing over
the weir; while eventually a sort of coppery-red sunset broke
through the pall of gray. But he was anxious about neither paint-
ing nor fishing on this first evening; and so he idly walked back
to the inn again, and to dinner, in the small sitting-room, where
the faithful Nora had not forgotten to build for him a big fire of
turf instead of coal.
This Nora was an old friend of his ; and as she came and went
during dinner, they had a little talking together. She was a large-
limbed creature of a lass, with pretty soft eyes, and black liair that
might have been more tidily kept, and hands that might have been
more frequently washed. But she was friendly and obliging and
pleasant-mannered, and her amiable disposition towards the young
English artist was manifested in a hundred little ways. She it
was who never neglected to fill his fiask before he started in the
morning; and she was the last to wish him good-luck as he left;
and she sent him very nice things for lunch ; and she was the
first to congratulate him if the men appeared in the evening bring-
ing a big salmon, or perhaps two, or perhaps three, with them ;
and when he came home empty-handed the pretty Nora would
say, almost with tears in her voice, "Well, it's sorry I am, sir;
what a shame ye didn't get nothin' all the day long." " Alanna
raachree," he called her, and " Mavourneen," and " Nora asthore,"
and a great many other things of the meaning of which he knew
very little ; but Nora took all these with a placid good-humor, and
her friendliness was always perfectly within bounds.
" Sure, sir," she said to him this evening, as he was getting to
the end of his dinner, " it's manny's the time we've been thinking
you'd be bringing Mrs. Lindsay over wid ye, sir."
"If you wait for that day, you'll wait all your life, Nora, my
darling," he answered.
" Ah, don't say that, sir !" responded Nora, cheerfully. " Sure
there's plenty of pretty young ladies in London."
BY THE SUANXOX SUOBE. 59
" I suppose there are," said he.
And instantly something in his manner told the sharp-witted
Nora that she had strnclv a wrong chord ; and she quickly changed
tlie subject.
" Will ye have any pudding, sir?" she asked. Here she could
not go wrong.
" What kind of a pudding is it, Nora?"
" 'Tis an apple-poy, sir."
"Oh yes, that'll do."
And it may have fancifully occurred to him in his idle musings,
as this gentle-manneied handmaiden came and went, that if Nora
were only to brush her hair and wash her hands, and get nicely
dressed and smartened up, she would make a very presentable
bride ; and what if he were to induce her to go away to America
— to the West, where lie would buy a farm, and they would lead a
healthy, happy, matter-of-fact existence — so that he should forget
his sorrows, and think of that hated Kensington no more? But
no; that wou/d not do either. He might not find the forgetful-
ness he was in search of. Besides, her hair — each time she came
into the room he noticed it — was too dreadfully untidy. And
then, again, it was just possible that the Lass of Limerick (this
was another of the names he gave her) might not care to go.
By-and-by, when Nora had removed the dinner things, and
brought him some coffee and stirred up the peats, he was left
quite alone, and he pulled in his chair to the blazing lire, and lit
his pipe. So far he had done well. He had scarcely sent one
backward thought towards London the whole day long. But now
tliere was this to be considered. He had promised to paint for
Sabina a replica of the water-color drawing she had chanced to
admire; and he had understood from Janie that Miss Zembra was
willing to accept the same. But replicas were more or less me-
chanical things; besides, he had not the drawing here. Would it
not be better, before setting seriously to work, that he should do
some sketch for her of some actual living scene? A first fresh im-
pression was always preferable. She had shown a little interest
in asking him about the various remote corners that he went to ;
here was one. Would she care for a sketch of the wide waters of
the Shannon, the long bridge, the little straggling town, the old
square-towered church, and overlooking all, the distant slopes and
shoulders of tlie Slicve Bernagh liills? It would not be recalling
60 SABINA ZEMBRA.
him to her recollection ; it would be redeeming a promise. And
might he not write to Janie — now — and make the suggestion ?
It was a pretty long letter that he wrote to Janie. And if at
first he pretended that all his concern was about that picture ar-
rangement, in the end he was quite candid, and even glad to make
Janie once more his confidante.
"The truth is," he wrote, " I came here to try to shake off cer-
tain influences — or rather, one particular influence — that you are
aware of, I dare say. And to you, who see so much of Miss Zem-
bra, and know what she is, T am not ashamed to confess that it
may be difficult; but I hope to succeed in the end; and then
when this glamour of fascination has been got rid of, I hope to
meet her on the more durable basis of friendship, if she will per-
mit of that. Of course a young woman, and especially a beautiful
young woman, may naturally distrust any such proposal ; but if
ever the need should arise, she would find that it was no fair-
weather friendship I had begged her to accept. It would not be
merely while her physical beauty lasted that I should be at her
service at any moment if trouble came. To me, Sabina (I may
call her this in confidence, and you will burn this letter) will al-
ways be beautiful, even when her eyes have lost that lustre that
at present is just a little too bewildering for some unhappy mor-
tals. You have helped me to understand what this is; and the
friendship of such a splendid creature would mean more to me
than I can well tell you. I suppose nothing else is possible.
You say so ; and you ought to know. At the same time I am
aware that you don't wish her to marry anybody ; and that, if it
were a matter of advice, that is the advice you would give her.
Now let me warn you, dear Miss Janie, that you have not seen
very much of the world; and that to give advice in such a serious
matter to any one involves a grave responsibility. It is all very
well just now. Sabina is young and vigorous, self-confident in
the audacity of her health and good spirits, and happy enough in
shedding the bounty of her generous disposition upon all comers.
But it cannot be always so. She cannot be always so. She might
want a helping hand ; she is away from her family ; sickness
might overtake her; she might get robbed of her good looks,
which are an easy passport just now to everybody's favor. In
any case, she must inevitably grow old. Is it wise to ask such a
woman to face the coming years alone ? You know better than
BY THE SHANNON SHORE. 61
any one how sensitive she is, though she pretends not to be; how
eager she is that people should like her; how she seems to crave
for sympathy and atfection. Well, I'm not going to rave about
her any more, for you would think it was all special pleading;
but you just be careful, dear Miss Janie, not to do any mischief
where the life-long interests of your best and dearest friend are
concerned. If she will go that way, it is well. Each human be-
ing has his or her own ideal, I suppose. And anyhow, I'm going
to try to banish all this mystification and glamour out of my head ;
and when I come back to London, I hope to be able to understand
what Sabina really is — and no doubt she is a great deal finer than
any of my imaginings about her ; and you will help us to become
good, true friends, and so make a satisfactory end of the whole
matter. And I'm going to send your mother a salmon as soon
as I catch one."
It was a very sensible letter to be written by a man whose
brains had got so thoroughly bewildered ; and no doubt at the
moment he believed every word he had written. But as he sat
there later on, staring into the fire, perhaps some other visions
may have arisen before him — only, it is not necessary they should
be put down here.
Next morning he was all alert; the boatmen were waiting out-
side; the long Castle Connel rods had been put together; Nora
had filled his flask — just in case there might be occasion to drink
"a tight line to your honor;" and prescntl}^ when he had bun-
dled his sketching implements together, they were all on their
•way down to the boat. This was a very excellent recreation for
a landscape-painter (as well he knew before) ; for when once the
coble, or "cot," was out in the midst of the wild-whirling waters,
the men not only managed that, but the fishing as well ; trolling
— " dragging," as they called it — with prawn and " killoch " and
phantom minnow, or lashing the stream with a forty-yard line and
a big gold and red and purple Shannon fly, as the occasion de-
manded ; while he, if he chose, could sit idle, studying effects of
light and color and form, or jotting these down in his book when
he was so inclined. And then again, when the light was bad, or
the part of the river they happened to be at uninteresting, he
would get up and take the casting-rod and have a turn at the
throwing ; and if the forty yards were now reduced to twenty-five,
still that was not a bad line for an amateur to throw out clean.
62 SABINA ZEMBUA.
On this particular morning he was less interested in the fishing
than usual ; all his concern was to find something fine for the
sketch he was to send Sabina. And how would that do now ?
The built-up bank all ablaze with golden gorse ; above that a row
of leafless trees against a sky of pale lurid blues and faint red
grays; and underneath the bank, and all in front of him, the
rushing, boiling, surging river; here and there straight, swift rapids;
here and there masses of foam-crested waves ; and here and there
a large circular eddy of black, oily-looking smooth water, on which
were reflected, in wan and spectral fashion, the whitewashed walls
of an old dilapidated mill. He looked at it again, this way and
that, but it would not do. The east wind had withered the color
out of the landscape; this furious river was too difiicult for a
mere sketch ; he wanted a blue sky on the water instead of those
reflections of gray and black. So he gave that up for the present
and took the rod from Johnnie Ryan, and began to belabor the
whirling currents with five-and-twenty yards of lino and a big
" silver doctor."
In the afternoon he was more fortunate. For although that
weird haze still hung over the lurid blue hills and the ghostly
landscape, and the sun, when the clouds slowly parted, showed
himself a sphere of mottled, dusky gold, by-and-by, as the even-
ing drew on, a beautiful piuky-gray light began to shine in the
western heavens; and the stems and branches and twigs of the
leafless trees grew to be of a rich, warm purple ; and the dark
green of the grass on the bank and the deep yellow of the gorse
became strangely intense and clear.
"Put me ashore now, Johnnie," he said to the chief boatman.
" Sure 'tis the best bit of the lake we're just coming to,"
Johnnie remonstrated.
" Very well ; you fire away, and pick up a forty-pounder. I'm
going ashore — look alive now !"
And perhaps he was a little anxious as he began, and half for-
getful of his own mastery of his craft. He was so anxious to
justify himself in Sabina's eyes. She had not seen much of his
work ; nor had any one, in fact. His Wigtonshire patrimony
had relieved him from the necessity of laboring for the market ;
and his reputation, which was distinct and marked, prevailed
chiefly among artists themselves, who were wont to become very
enthusiastic indeed about Walter Lindsay's drawings. Of course
BY THE SHANNOX SHOKE, 63
there were those who decried his method, and called him an Im-
pressionist, and the like. And he was an Impressionist of a kind ;
but his Impressionism was of the higher order that refuses to deal
with that which is unnecessary, not the Impressionism which is
chiefly marked by a clever avoidance of ditiiculties. He began
by being a Realist of the severest type ; for years he had labored,
in Switzerland, in Sweden, in Holland, at patient and faithful
studies of rocks and foliage and water and sky ; but gradually
he had emancipated himself ; Nature was no longer his master
and tyrant; he chose for himself; he left undone what he did
not think worth doing, but what he did do was done with the
reverence born of knowledge. Nature was his friend and com-
panion, if no longer his master; and hitherto he had been well
content to wander away by himself into any kind of a solitude,
working sometimes, idling sometimes, but always more or less
unconsciously studying. And if he was not scrupulous about
detail, where he did put in detail it was right: he was none the
worse a painter that he was also a skilled geologist, and that his
herbarium was of his own collection, and bore record of many a
toilsome pilgrimage.
And now he began to pick up his courage again, for the effect
proved lasting, and he was getting on. The beautiful ethereal
rose-grays still dwelt in the higher heavens; the leafless trees
grew even warmer in their purple, and the gorse-bushcs burned
gold in the pallid shadow of the bank. He glanced at Johnnie
Ryan from time to time, for Johnnie was fighting a salmon far-
ther down the stream, and he wanted to see the end of that strug-
gle. And then he wondered whether Sabina would care for this
bit of a sketch. It was not of the chromo-lithographic kind ; it
was not striking: moreover, a good deal of compromise was nec-
essary even with what was before him. But he thought he could
make something out of it ultimately — a tender kind of a thing ;
not strong in color, perhaps, rather ethereal and delicate, but, if
possible, luminous and fine. He hoped Sabina would like it.
AVould she understand the reticence of it? Would she under-
stand what had made him hold his hand somewhat? Of course,
he could do the other thing if he chose. But it was something
in the nature of a pearl that he wished to give to Sabina.
He carried out the sketch as far as was possible in the circum-
stances, until the rose-hue in the sky began to fade into dusk.
64 SABINA ZEMBRA.
and then he bundled up his things, fairly well content. And
Johnnie Ryan and his companion had got the salmon — a twenty-
two-poiinder, and they were also well content. He let the two
men go on before him ; and then, after sitting there a while, con-
sidering what he could do further with the sketch, and perhaps
thinking of one or two other things, he rose and walked slowly
home by the river-bank, underneath a twilight made transparent
by a single star.
CHAPTER VIH.
THE NEW FRIENDSHIP.
Of a sudden all this was changed; for the next morning the
wind was blowing freshly from the west, and the world was ablaze
with color — rich and glowing and keen ; and from that moment
forward every day as it went by was filled to overflowing with
brisk work, and recreation quite as brisk. When he had done
a sufficient quantity of the former, he fell upon the latter with
might and main, and flogged those surging rapids of the Shan-
non with a persistency and skill that won even the approval of
Johnnie Ryan. And the evenings? — well, the evenings were
given over now to the glorification of friendship. That was to
be the future happiness. He would go back to London cured of
the cruel madness of love, and ask that beautiful, high -gifted
creature to give him of her companionship as far as that might
be possible. He would prove the faith that was in him too.
Others might try to woo and win her; he would be her friend,
no matter what befell. He had heard of such things; and the
situation might become fine in its way. And so he worked hard,
and fished hard, and bade himself be of good cheer; he had ban-
ished that morbid lovesickness by main force ; Sabina was to be
his friend.
There came a large envelope containing a couple of cards for
the Private View of the Royal Academy. A week or two previ-
ous he had received the honor of an invitation to be present at
the banquet; this was an additional compliment, and highly
pleased was he with both. But, of course, his first thought was
of Sabina ; and as he guessed that old Mr. Wygram would as
THE NEW FRIENDSHIP, 65
usual have received a similar couple of tickets (this was a friend-
ly act on the part of the Academy towards one who was not now
as prosperous as once he had been), and as he knew that Mrs.
Wygram and Janie invariably made use of these, he at once tele-
graphed to Miss Janie that he had a card for Miss Zembra, if she
cared to go, and also begging her to fix the engagement. That
meant, naturally, that he should escort the three ladies to Bur-
lington House and show them round the rooms. But it was all
in the way of friendship.
Next morning he said casually to the Lass of Limerick,
" Nora, what do you think, now, would be a nice present for a
young lady ?"
" Sure a sweetheart mightn't be amiss, sir," said Nora, demure-
ly, as she was putting the eggs on the table.
"Ah, you're too facetious, Nora, alanna, for one of your tender
years. How about a salmon, now ? What if I were to send the
young lady a salmon?"
"She'd be mighty plazed, sir, I suppose," said Nora, as she was
heaping some more turf on the fire.
" But the fish ought to be of my own catching — don't you
think so ?"
"And maybe it's herself you'd rather be afther, sir, begging
your pardon," said Nora, darting a glance at him from the door.
" Nora," said he, gravely, " is that the fashion they have of
talking in Limerick?"
" It's the fashion they talk all over the wurruld, sir, when a
young gentleman spakes about a young lady in that way — and
tliat's the truth, sir," said Nora, as she smiled maliciously and
disappeared into the passage.
He was not to be deterred by the sarcasm of the Pride of Kil-
dare (another of her names, by-the-way). This was a happy in-
spiration, that he should send a salmon to Sabina. He did not
stay to ask himself what she could do with it. Why, it was the
right and privilege of every sportsman to make a present of game
— salmon or venison or grouse, or whatever it might be — to
whomsoever he chose, even to a stranger. Sabina would have
the compliment; the Wygrams would have the fish. And surely
tliis noble river, that he had made friends with, that he had come
to know so well, that he had formed so great an affection for,
would yield him a worthy prize? Anyhow, his colors and block
66 SABINA ZEMBRA,
and camp-stool and sketching umbrella were all left unheeded in
a corner; and he was busy with minnows and prawns and "Jock
Scotts" and " Blue Doctors;" and forthwith he was on his way
down to the coble with Johnnie Ryan and his mate.
And what a day this was for idleness, whether afloat or ashore !
The spring seemed to have come upon them with a bound. The
lilac and silver-white April skies were filled with blowing clouds ;
and now there were dazzling floods of light, and again the gloom
of a passing shower; the yellow gorse burned hot in the sun;
there were blush-tinted anemones in the leafless woods, and prim-
roses everywhere, and shy violets; the swallows were skimming
and dipping and twittering. A robin sung loud and clear from
the topmost twig of a hawthorn-bush. And then the splendid
river, changing with every mood of the sky : at times sullen and
dark under the heavy rain-clouds, and then again, when these had
passed, and the heavens were bountifully flooding the world with
light, this great mass of water became a mighty highway of flash-
ing, vivid, intense cobalt blue, lying between these soft green
meadows and that high bank, crowned with its golden furze,
" Wo ought to get a fish to-day, Johnnie," he said, as he was
flogging away at the water.
" Bedad, and it's more than one we'll have before going home
this night, your honor," was Johnnie's confident answer.
Moreover, the prophecy came true, for that evening, as they
went home through the dusk, the men had three very nice fish to
carry, one of them weighing twenty-eight pounds; and it was the
twenty-eight-pounder, of course, that was to go to Kensington
Square,
A twenty-eight-pound salmon ; a ticket for the Private View
of the Academy ; a water-color drawing of a rose-gray evening
over the beautiful river — these were the gifts he now had for
Sabina; but they were not to show her that he was continually
thinking of her; they were not to beg for her favor in any way ;
they were merely to cement the new friendship. All the same,
he began to wonder why Janie had not written. He watched the
posts. He tormented himself with doubts. Perhaps he had been
too bold. Perhaps Sabina was ill. To think of her — while here
he was in this blowing April weather, with the spring flowers car-
peting the wood, and the west winds redolent of the full-blos-
somed gorse, and the great river shining back the deep blue of
THE NEW FRIENDSHIP. 67
the young year's skies — to think of lier as perchance in a dull
room in that gray Kensington Square, lying pale and wan, it
might be, with white fingers limp on the coverlet! Why was he
not in London, that he might go straight to Janie and ask? If
Sabina were ill, however slightly, small messages from the outside
world might vary the monotony of the sick-room — flowers and
fruit and books, and an occasional word of remembrance and sym-
pathy — these could do no harm. Then again he would argue
himself out of this fear. Sabina was very busy. Janie, too, had
many things to look after. Perhaps she was waiting to see wheth-
er Sabina could definitely fix about the Private View, Neverthe-
less, he came down-stairs early in the morning, lest there should
be an envelope waiting for him on the breakfast -table. And
sometimes he would leave the fishing just as the evening looked
most promising, and wander back to the inn, hoping for an an-
swer from Kensington Square. But all this anxiety, and needless
alarm, and torturing speculation had nothing to do with love or
lovesickness ; it was but part of the newly established friend-
ship.
Nora was a good-hearted lass, and shrewd withal ; and she had
got to suspect that Mr. Lindsay was troubling himself about the
non-arrival of a letter; so that one day when the afternoon post
brought a little batch of correspondence for him, she straightway
sought out a small shock-headed boy and sent him down with the
parcel to the boat. The letter from Janie had come at last, and
eagerly enough it was opened. She apologized for not having an-
swered sooner, but said she had been extremely busy. The young
gentleman who had met with the accident had left Lancaster Gate;
following that, Sabina had many arrears of her own particular
work to attack, and Janie had been helping her. And as he read
on, remorse of conscience struck him. It appeared that his letter
had very much distressed this tender soul. Any charge, however
slight or remote, against her beloved Sabie was a cause of deep
concern to her, and she had got it into her head that Mr. Lindsay
was rather hinting that Sabina was impervious to the claims of
friendship; and she considered this to be most especially ungrate-
ful on his part.
"Don't think me impertinent, dear Mr. Lindsay," she wrote,
"but really I cannot help asking what you would like more. You
•write as if you and Sabie were strangers; that you were coming
68 SABIXA ZKJjCRA.
back to beg for a little friendship from ber ; and that is all you
have to say in return for the way she treated you that night at
your house ! Why, she just devoted herself to you the whole
evening, and had scarcely a word or a look for any one else — so
much so that it was remarked — and was as kind to you as an un-
married girl could be. I think you want a little too much, if I
must speak ray mind. If you think that Sabie is not already your
friend, I can only say that you are very inuch mistaken; and
friendship with Sabie means something. And she is very much
interested in your work, as I know ; and when I told her where
you were, among such beautiful things — well, I confess I was
mean enough to say it was lucky for some folk that they could
go away and live among green fields and spring flowers and
woods, and all that, for we were walking through a horrid little
lane over in Battersea — she was quite sharp with me, and said it
was a very good thing some people could go away and bring us
back reports how beautiful the world was, and give us pictures of
it that we could look at again and again with delight, in the mid-
dle of all our troubles and worry. Yes ; and she met the Presi-
dent of the Academy at somebody's house the other evening, and
he was saying very nice things about you, and she came home and
repeated every one of them, and was very much pleased about it,
and said how fine a thing it must be for one in your position to
have such a career before him, and to have won such esteem al-
ready from your own brothers in art. But that isn't friendship —
oh no ! That is the carelessness of a stranger. However, I am not
going to scold any more, for I don't know that there was not
some make-believe in your letter. Only it does seem hard on Sa-
bie. I suppose you don't know how kind she was to you that
evening? Or how much attention do you expect, if I may speak
frankly ? I wondered that none of the other gentlemen were jeal-
ous of the way she devoted herself to you, both during supper
and in the studio ; but I suppose they find girls like Miss Sadleir
and Tottie Morrison more attractive? Well, they're welcome, so
long as they leave me my Sabie. She told me you had offered
her that beautiful old wine-cup, and she thought it was very kind
of you ; but of course it would be of no use to her. Besides, 3'ou
could not expect her to accept so valuable a gift. Mother, who
-has very sharp eyes, says that something else happened just about
that time. Do you know ? Of course, I would not ask Sabie for
THE NEW FRIENDSHIP. 69
worlds. But did it happen ? That was not friendship, anyway ?
And yet you seem to think that Sabie is not kind to you.
He took her scolding manfully, and only wished for more. For
it was very grateful to him to have it so hotly argued and proved,
by one who ought to know, that Sabina held him in some little
regard; and the references to that evening in the studio recalled
an abundance of happiness, and he liked to be told that Sabina
bad shown him so much favor. He read the scolding over and
over again, and did not care whether he merited it or not; it was
all about Sabina, and that was sufficient. But that chance remark
about the lane in Battersea gave him a twinge of conscience. He
could see the two girls trudging through those squalid thorough-
fares, on their errands of kindness and help, the air fetid around
them, the skies hidden away from them. While as for him, look
at his surroundings at this moment ! The afternoon happened to
be strangely still and peaceful — it was like an evening in summer.
On the higher meadows lay a soft and mellow radiance, streaming
over from the west; but down here the wide stream was in shad-
ow ; and odd enough was the contrast between the turmoil of the
water — with its sharp and sudden gleams of blue-black and silver-
gray — and that peaceful golden landscape, and the pale, cloudless,
overarching sky. Here and there a bird was singing; and ever
there was the lulling rush of the river, a murmur filling the still
evening air. And. then he thought of Battersea, and of Sabina,
and of her generous defence of him ; and all he could say for
himself was this — that if any of his transcripts of these peaceful
and beautiful scenes on the Shannon had a trace of interest in her
eyes, or could make a dull corner of the house in Kensington
Square one whit the brighter, she was welcome to her choice of
them, or to all of them put together.
There was further good news for him in the postscript.
" About the Private View of the Academy," Miss Wygram
wrote, " Sabie says I am to thank you very much for remember-
ing her, and she will be glad to go with us, if nothing unusual
should happen."
Now, here was a notable thing ; for though he was neither Ac-
ademician nor Associate, he would be in a certain sense Sabina's
liost on this occasion, and responsible for her being pleased and
entertained. And what could he do? Was there no special fa-
vor he could obtain for her ? Numbers of both Academicians and
70 SABINA ZEMBRA.
Associates were among his most intimate friends : perhaps they
could procure for him the use of some small room somewhere, so
that Miss Zenibra and the little party he might make up could
have lunch in peace and quiet, instead of among the lieated crowd ?
Failing that (and it did not sound possible, somehow), by going
early surely he could secure a table in the refreshment-room, up
at the window-end? And who could prove himself a better guide
to her as she went round the Galleries? For each year he was in
the habit of sending in a little water-color, not to ask for public
favor at all, but merely to gain for him a ticket for the Varnish-
ing Day; and he would devote the whole of that day to a rapid
survey of the Exhibition, so that, when Sabina started on her
round of the rooms, he could take her without trouble and explo-
ration to everything worth seeing. On Private View Day, as every
one knows, the women-folks rather let themselves loose in the way
of conspicuous attire. And if Sabina should come among them
in her simple gown of plain brown homespun, with its black but-
tons and frilled tight cuffs ! He hoped she would. It was the
dress he used to look out for in Kensington High Street ; it was
the dress that used to make bis heart leap — before the era of
friendship had opened. And better than any extravagance of
fashion, it seemed to suit the tall and lithe and graceful form.
But for the consideration of these and other high-stirring proj-
ects and fancies he wanted more freedom and the excitement of
motion ; this coble amid the hurrying waters of the Shannon was
all too narrow and confined ; so he surrendered his rod to Johnnie
Ryan, got put ashore, and presently was walking rapidly along the
unfrequented highway in the direction of Lough Derg. And
what, he was asking himself, ought he to strive for, in order to
prove himself worthy of this rare companionship that was to be
his? how was he to win further favor in her eyes? Women, he
understood, rather liked the society of famous men — of men who
had "done something" and who were known to the world.
Well, now, he had never striven for fame at all. He had striven
to win the appreciation of his brother-artists, and he had succeeded
in a most enviable degree ; but chiefly, it may be said, he worked
for absolute love of the work itself. His Wigtonshire property
rendered him independent of the dealers, and of any caprice of
public fashion ; he did his work in his own way ; he could afford
to linger over it, and produce his best ; and the ultimate fate of
THE NEW FUIENDSniP. 71
it, or the effect it would have on his reputation, did not bother
him much. But if women liked the society of famous men ^
Surely there was nothing unworthy in seeking the public approv-
al, in doing something definite, in making his work perhaps a
little more consecutive? He was walking near to the Shannon
on tliis placid and golden evening. And it suddenly occurred to
him that a series of drawings illustrative of the mighty river from
its source away in the north down to its disappearance in the sea
might show a certain coherence, and appeal to the public with
more effect than any mere number of disconnected water-colors.
It was a bold project, for the Shannon during its course of two
hundred miles flows through almost every kind of country. He
would have to face mountain scenery and lake scenery and gentle
pastoral scenery ; and he would have to deal with the varied char-
acter of the river itself, now widening out into such inland seas
as Lough Ree and Lough Derg, again gliding swiftly by peaceful
meadows, or wildly racing and chasing over the rocky barriers of
Castle Connell. And then look at the result of these two or three
years' labor; an exhibition room in Piccadilly or King Street — a
Private View Day all to himself — Sabina making her appearance,
along with the Wygrams, about four in the afternoon — Sabina, as
ever, gracious and benignant and sniiliug-eyed.
This newly formed friendship seemed to demand a good deal
of reverie; and it is to be observed that not only did the figure
of Sabina loom large and constant in these visions of the future,
but also that the society and companionship he was arranging for
her was very curiously limited. In fact, there did not appear to
be any room for a third or a fourth person. The Wygrams, of
course, did not count; they might be regarded merely as attend-
ants upon Sabina; while as for any one else, there was no one
else. Sabina and he were to be friends ; the outer world — espe-
cially the male creatures of the outer world — might surround that
distinctly limited circle if thoy chose — at a little distance. Now,
friendship is not ordinarily so exclusive. But perhaps this was a
new kind.
" I'm afraid I'm very late for dinner, Nora, acushla," said lie,
as he got back to the inn an hour and a half after the proper
time.
"Oh, well, sir," said Nora, good-naturedly, " we expect the gen-
tlemen to come in at anny time. If it's bad luck they're having
12 SABINA ZEMBKA.
with tlie fishino^, tliey come home, and if it's good luck they stay
out. I sent you down your letters, sir."
"Thank you kindly," said he.
"I hope there was good news in them, sir," said Nora, as she
was giving the last touch to the turf fire.
" Indeed there was," he rejoined.
" Well, it's glad I am of that, sir," said Nora, who had been
forming her little guesses, "for sometimes a letter has a dale to
say."
" I'm going back to England on Monday."
" Are ye, now, sir ? Well, that's a pity, to be sure ! — and Tim
O'Connor declaring the weather was going to be splendid for the
fishing."
"Yes, I must be off; but some day or another I'll be coming
back. No fear about that ; you're too good to rac over here."
"And the next time you come, sir," said Nora, in her demure
way, as she was leaving the room, " sure I hope ye'U not be com-
ing alone."
There w-as no particular need that he should go back on Mon-
day ; but he knew that the art world of London was now enter-
ing upon its annual period of excitement; the studios would all
be a- murmuring, and the air surcharged with stories of rejec-
tions, and rage at the hanging, and wonder at the good-luck of
some folks in selling their pictures. Of course, he was interested
in such things ; and it was natural he should return to London
at such a time. As for any other reason, or subtle hope, or
fascination ? — no, he answered himself, there was none. He was
quite heart-whole now. Those weeks of hard work and hard ex-
ercise and wholesome air on the shores of the Shannon had cured
him of that hateful and febrile sadness that had made his life in
London unendurable. He was going back to assiduous and hap-
py labors in his studio ; and if by chance he were to meet Sabina
in the street — down by Kensington Square, it might be, or Hyde
Park Gate, or Cromwell Gardens — he would be able to take her
hand without a tremor, and she should find nothing but friend-
ship — placid and assured and abiding — in his eyes.
BT THE SEA. 73
CHAPTER IX.
BY THE SEA.
But, in the mean time, Mrs. Wygram had fallen ill in a vagne
kind of way ; lassitude, loss of appetite, and melancholy were the
chief symptoms; and Sahina, taking the matter in liand in her
rapid and practical fashion, had no difficulty in making a diag-
nosis of the case. The ailment she declared to be Kensington
Square; and the obvious cure — Brighton.
" Janie," she said, "I will run down with your mother and see
her put comfortably in a lodging, and stay with her as long as I
can. Then you will look after my people from time to time;
and if I'm wanted, it's merely a sixpenny telegram and I'm in
London in an hour and a quarter. Even if I have to come up
now and again, your mother won't feel very lonely when she
knows I am coming back in the evening."
" But why to Brighton, Sabie ?" said Janie, with a sudden and
jealous alarm.
" I'll tell you the reason — because it is so handy," was the an-
swer.
" Is Mr. Foster there ?"
Sabina's face brightened.
"Yes. Poor fellow, it will be quite a pleasure to see him, and
try to cheer him up a bit. He is so good-natured, you know,
Janie. When one looks back on tliat unhappy accident, it is
with a good deal of remorse, and it isn't pleasant; but the mo-
ment you see him he tries to make light of it, and to put you at
your ease, and then you are glad that he takes it so courageously.
And just think what it must be to one who has led so active and
stirring a life — to be chained down like that. Why, it's dread-
ful to think of ! People who are walking about, and going where
they like, can't even imagine what that is. Then the want of
society — the dull evenings — the wet days when lie is alone and
in-doors — do you wonder that I should be sorry for him, and feel
sometimes a little miserable about it all ?"
"For my part," said Janie, somewhat coldly, " I don't sec why
4
74 SABINA ZEMBRA.
you should feel miserable about it in any way whatever; an ac-
cident may happen to any one. And I can't understand a bit
the interest you take in him. Why, Sabie, he is the last man in
the world I should have expected you to make friends with : a
man who seems to have no aim in life but to amuse himself."
"But you know, Janie, there are many people who don't even
succeed in doing that," said Sabina, in her gentle way. These
two were not in the habit of quarrelling.
The end of it was that Sabina took Mrs. Wygrara down to
Brighton, and got rooms for them both in a house in Regency
Square.
" I shall be such a dull companion for you, Sabie," the old
lady said. "Don't you know any young people here?"
"I don't know a soul in the place," Sabina answered, "except
Mr. Foster, and he is another invalid. Fancy what a business I
shall have in talking you both into something like light-hearted-
ncss. But how am I to see him ? I want to see him ; and I
know where he is living — in the crescent where the Grand Hotel
is. But I suppose we could hardly call on him, could we, or send
him a message that we are here?"
"He is rather a stranger, isn't he?" said Mrs. Wygram, doubt-
fully.
"A stranger? Not a bit of it! You don't keep talking to
any one day after day without getting to understand him pretty
well ; and I seem to have known Mr. Foster all my life ; I have
heard all about his school-days, and his home, and his people, and
his pursuits. I assure you, there is an amount of frank egotism
about him that is quite charming; and you know you should al-
ways encourage people to talk about themselves — it's the subject
that interests them most."
" You have such a wonderful patience, Sabie, with old people
and with young," said Mrs. Wygram, who had some acquaintance
with the girl.
" Oh, but that is just the way I take of amusing myself," said
Sabina, lightly, "just as other people take to whist, or billiards,
or horse-racing. Now tell me what is to be done. If yon knew
Mr. Foster you could write and ask him to call — if the Bath-chair
can be got into the house. But you don't know him. Well,
suppose I were to send him a note like this: 'Young man, I'm
old enough to be your mother ; so don't be ofiended if I ask you
BY THE SEA, 75
to come along and hnve a cup of tea with Mrs. Wygram and
myself.' "
" You old enough to be bis motber, indeed 1" Mrs. Wygram
cried. " How old is be, tben?"
" Oh, I don't know," Sabina said, carelessly. " But tell me
what we should do now. Or shall we go out for a little walk
first, and decide so weighty a matter afterwards?"
And as it turned out, the matter was decided for them, and
that forthwith and in the simplest way. When they went out
they naturally strolled down towards the pier; for the band was
playing, and the wide promenade seemed a cheerful kind of place ;
and about the very first person they saw there was Mr. Foster
himself, whose chair was being slowly pulled along. His quick,
clear eyes smiled a recognition at once; Sabina, in the frankest
and friendliest way, went up and shook hands with him, and in-
troduced him to Mrs. Wygram ; and there they remained, chat-
ting, asking questions, and apparently very well pleased to have
met once more.
But Mrs. Wygram was not so well pleased. She had heard a
good deal about Mr. Foster from Janie; and perhaps she had un-
consciously imbibed a little of the jealousy with which Janie re-
garded the young gentleman. Anyhow, she was distinctly of
opinion — as she remained a trifling space apart, and only half
listened to their conversation — that the manner of Mr. Foster
towards Sabina was not right. It was a great deal too easy and
familiar. Her beautiful Sabic, she considered, ought to be re-
garded with a respectful adoration — especially by young men ;
wliereas this person in the Bath-cliair looked at Sabina, and spoke
to her, just as if she might have been anybody. In truth, Sabina
appeared to be a good deal more pleased by this chance meeting
than he was; she was interested, animated, smiling, and friendly ;
while he glanced at her in a critical kind of way, and seemed in
nowise sufficiently grateful for her condescension.
"Well, did you do as I told you?" he said. "Did you 'go
nap ' on Clierry Blossom for the Grand National ?"
" No, I did not," she answered. " But I hope you won."
"Oh, I don't call it winning; I call it getting back a little of
my stolen property. And I did pretty well on the City and Sub-
urban too," he added, cheerfully.
"But," she said, " perha{).s I ought not to congratulate you on
76 SABINA ZEMBRA.
winning; for, of course, that means that some one must have
lost."
" Oh, you needn't be sorry when the * bookies ' get cauglit ;
they make a good enough thing of it in the end — be sure of
that."
"But some one must lose," said this patient disciple — and
strange it was to Mrs. Wygram to hear Sabie talk about horse-
racing.
" Why, yes. The great bulk of the public lose, and must lose ;
and why shouldn't they lose? They bet for fun, whether they
know anything about the horses or not. Well, if you want your
amusement, you've got to pay for it; and if your amusement is
backing horses, you've got to pay for that too. You see, it isn't
every one who can keep a yacht or a pack of hounds; but every
one can back a horse — thanks to the noble swells who provide
the animals. I consider it very disinterested on their part ; it
isn't many of them who have made money over it. I know a
good number of gallant sportsmen who have a fine display of
gold cups on their dining-room sideboards, but who don't quite
like to be asked how much they cost."
" But still, to encourage general gambling in that way — " Sa-
bina was going to protest, but he interrupted her with a laugh.
" Oh yes, I know, Miss Zembra. It's very wicked and bad,
and the grocer's apprentice who filches from his master's till in
order to back a favorite will no doubt come to the gallows ; and
it's very sad that people will go on risking their money on games
of chance; but then, such is life."
"We might try to make life a little better than we find it,"
she said, tentatively. Somehow he had not the air of one who
would listen to words of wisdom.
He looked at her and said, gravely,
" I'm going to tell you something. Don't you forget it. If
you can get anybody to give you ten to one against Macedon for
the Two Thousand, just you take it — and you'll remember me
with tears of gratitude."
"You are incorrigible," she said; but she said it with a smile;
for there was far more of good-humor than of argument in her
composition, and she was pleased to find him so confident and
self-reliant, and in such good spirits.
They went out to the farther end of the pier, which he said
BY THE SEA. 77
was his favorite retreat; for there, while he could command au
uninterrupted view of the coast line all the way from Worthing
Point out to the successive chalk headlands of Seaford and the
Seven Sisters, the music near at hand was softened to the ear by
the intervention of the glass screen. He could either listen to
the band or read the morning newspaper and its guesses about
the forth-coming race-meetings, or overlook the small boats row-
ing below, or watch here and there a big steamer leaving an al-
most stationary trail of smoke along the far horizon. And this
particular morning, as it happened, was exceedingly bright and
cheerful, a light west wind blowing, the clear green water glanc-
ing in a myriad of diamonds of sunlight along each shimmering
ripple ; here and there soft purple patches telling of the shadow
of a cloud ; overhead a quite summer-like sky. Then there was
much liveliness abroad: the last-delayed of the fishing -smacks
coming in from the south-east ; the heavy-booted crews making
their way home to bed ; the salesmen and packers getting off the
boxes and barrels of mackerel and conger to the London market;
holiday folks down on the shingle ; children paddling where the
sand showed at low tide ; the boatmen and photographers and
newsboys busy — a traffic brisker than usual for that time of the
year visible in the King's Road.
" Oh yes," he continued, as Sabina stood by the side of the
Bath-chair, or leaned over the rails to watch the manoeuvring of a
small sailing-boat below, " this is an excellent place : there is al-
ways something going on, something to look at. I know all the
girls — I mean by head-mark. It's quite nice to see the young
things trying to make believe that it is summer already with their
pretty bonnets and dresses. And you, Miss Zembra," he added,
with no embarrassment at all, " aren't you going to take advan-
tage of the sea-side? You know people allow themselves a little
liberty when they come here — in the way of cosUnne, I mean.
Pray, don't think me rude, but I should fancy, now, that a sailor's
hat — a straw hat, you know, with a band of red silk, or some-
thing of that kind — would become you very well, and be a little
brighter for the sea-side. Don't you ?"
The suggestion was no doubt made in simple friendliness, but
Mrs. Wygram did not like it.
" If you would care to see the prettiest dress Miss Zembra ever
wore — to my thinking — I can show it to you."
78 SABINA ZEMBRA.
She took from her pocket an envelope, and from the envelope
a photograph. It was a pliotograph of Sabiiia in her hospital
costume — a plain striped gown, a white cap and apron — the apron
furnished with shoulder-straps, her nurse's implements slung by a
silver chain from her girdle, a silver brooch — an anchor — at her
neck. He glanced at the photograph and handed it back with
a laugh.
" I did not think they would have allowed you to wear any
ornament," he said, still addressing Sabina, " but I see you wore
the same brooch you are wearing now."
"And you would not easily get Miss Zembra to part with that
brooch," said the little old lady, proudly. " It was given her by
some of the boys on board the Chichester — they subscribed
among themselves — and that was what they sent her. At least,"
continued Mrs. Wygram (for she was determined that Mr. Foster
should know there were other people who could appreciate Sabina,
if he seemed so careless and indifferent) — " at least that was the
story, and perhaps it is partly true. But I have my suspicions.
I know that the only time I ever went down to see the Chichester
there was a young officer there who went round the ship with us,
and I noticed that he was particularly attentive to a young lady
— I wouldn't mention names for the world. An<l when he spoke
of this subscription I guessed who would help in that. Boys in
training-ships don't have many pence, I should think. Oh yes,
and the letter he sent! I shouldn't have expected lads like that
to use such beautiful English — "
" Now, Mrs. Wygram, don't you say anything against my
boys," Sabina said, but she had turned away partly — perhaps to
get a better view of that little sailing-boat.
They chatted and looked around them until lunch-time, and
then they made for home^the two ladies accompanying the Bath-
chair as far as the turnstile of the pier.
" Good-by," he said, and raised his hat slightly.
But Sabina hesitated for a moment.
" Shall you be out again in the afternoon ?" she asked.
" Well, no," he answered. " I was thinking of looking in at
the tennis-court."
" What, on a day like this?" she exclaimed. "Surely that is
unwise on the part of an invalid."
" Oh, but I don't look on myself as an invalid at all," he said.
BY THE SEA. 79
"I am an expectant — a tied-waiter — a tied-vfaiter, yon see! An
excellent joke ! Well, good-morning !"
" If you will come along at five o'clock, we will give you a cup
of tea," she said.
"Thanks, awfully — but a Bath-chair is such a nuisance in a
room — "
" Oh, don't say that," she interposed, with a touch of appeal
in her tone.
" Well, I will, if I may; what is your number in the square?"
and then, when he had got that information, they went their
several ways.
During lunch Sabina talked of nothing but Mr. Foster, and of
bis wonderful courage and equanimity under this heavy trial.
" You don't know how grateful I am to him," she said, " when
I see liim so light-hearted. If he were to fret and pine over it, as
many another man would, just think how miserable I should feel."
" So you've said a hundred times, Sabie," Mrs. Wygram an-
swered, patiently, " and so you've said to Janie; but if you were
to talk from now to Doomsday, you wouldn't convince me that
you ought to hold yourself responsible for tliat accident."
" Why was I such a fool as to call out, then ?" was the imme-
diate rejoinder. " I don't believe he would have harmed the dog
at all. And I am quite certain he wouldn't have gone near the
heap of gravel."
Mrs. Wygram did not choose to argue ; but somehow she was
not well disposed to Mr. Fostei-.
"You may be as grateful as you please," she said to Sabina;
"I should have liked to hear of his being a little grateful on his
side for all the kindness and attention he received."
" Ah, don't be so hard on the poor fellow, dear Mrs. Wygram,"
said Sabina. " How would you like it if you were shut up in a
Bath-chair like that?"
"How should I like it?" Mrs. Wygram retorted, with a trifle
of indignation in her voice. " Well, I know this : if I were in a
Bath-chair, and if I were a man, and a young lady came of her
own accord to pay me a good deal of attention, and to be very
friendly and courteous and obliging, I think I should do or say
something to show that I recognized how kind she was trying to
be. I should not show myself an indifferent boor. Why, a
man — "
80 SABINA ZEMBRA.
*' Now, now, dear Mrs. Wygram, please to stop," said Sabina ;
but she was not very angry. " You don't know what you're say-
ing. And besides, that is why I like Mr. Foster; he is honest,
and does not pretend to be more interested in you than he really
feels."
After lunch Mrs. Wygram was ordered by her imperious nurse
to go away and lie down for a while ; and then, about half-past
three, Sabina came for her.
" The people are coming out," she said. " Shall we go for a
little stroll ? I want to see the fashions."
And then she said,
" Really, the clear light here is dreadful for showing you how
shabby your clothes are. Did you ever see anything so disgrace-
ful as this bonnet of mine?"
She was holding it up to the window. Then she said,
"Yes, we will go along to the shops; and you know we ought
to join in with the others and make believe that summer is come
already ; and I am going to get you a new bonnet — no, no, now,
you needn't protest, for I always have my own way in the end —
yes, I am going to get you a bonnet of a lighter color, with a lit-
tle frivolity in it, for of course when we are at the sea-side we
must follow the sea-side fashions."
And then again she said,
" I wonder, now, if I am too old and grave a person to wear a
sailor's hat?"
" You too old, Sabie ? Oh yes, indeed ! You look so old !"
was Mrs. Wygram's answer.
But when they had got outside, and were going along the King's
Road, a sudden thought occurred to Sabina's companion.
" Sabie," she said, " what put the notion of getting a sailor's
hat into your head? Was it Mr. Foster's suggestion ?"
"And supposing it was?" the tall, bland-featured girl answered,
in her good-natured way.
"But do you know what you are doing?" Mrs. Wygram said,
half angrily. " It is not the custom for young gentlemen to ad-
vise young ladies as to what they should wear."
"Oh, nonsense! — a chance hint of that kind? — I should have
taken it from anybody. And besides," Sabina added, " what do
you mean by young ladies and young gentlemen ? I tell you I am
old enouo-h to be his mother."
BY THE SEA, 81
" Oh yes, very old !" Mrs. Wygram replied, with a fine irony.
"And very plain, too — remarkably plain. I suppose you didn't no-
tice how the people were looking at yon out at the end of the pier?
I did, if you didn't; and to nie it didn't seem the best of manners.
And you'll put a band of red silk round the hat as he directed
you ?"
"No, I don't think I will do that," Sabina answered. " I will
get a band of cream-colored satin, I think ; or of the color of this
dress, if I can."
" And you will be wearing that hat when he comes along this
afternoon ?"
" Well, no ; for I don't wear a hat in-doors."
"But it will be lying about?"
" It may. But, dear Mrs. Wygram, what do you mean ? A
trifle of this kind! And Janie isn't here; you know it is Janie
who generally chooses my things for me."
That evening Mrs. Wygram had to write to her daughter; and
this was the postscript of the letter :
" I don't know what to say or think about Sabie. Of course
she is goodness itself to me ; that she is always ; and never was
she more kind and considerate and affectionate. And you know
how I love the girl. But she puzzles me. For either she carries
good-nature to the verge of folly — and over it — or else she is the
raost abominable flirt that ever breathed."
This set Janie a-crying; and she answered in hot haste :
" Mother, I beg you will not say such things about Sabie. It's
very little you know about her if you can think thus for a mo-
ment. But I see how it is, and understand.it perfectly; you do
love her; and you are jealous ; and I knew that would be so the
moment you saw how interested she is in Mr. Foster. I hope it
won't be a misery to all of us. What should we do, mother, if
anything happened to our Sabie?"
4*
82 SABLSTA ZKMBKA.
CHAPTER X.
AT THE ACADEMY.
The tender heart of Janie was to be still further distracted.
Sabina refused to go up to town for the Private View of the
Academy.
"I cau't leave my charge," she wrote, "just when it is most
necessary that she should be driven about, and walked about, and
generally looked after."
Janie, in great distress, forthwith appealed to her mother:
" She must come, mother. It is a promise. I pledged my
word to Walter Lindsay that she should go with us. Surely it
cannot be that she is so fascinated by that contemptible horse-
jockey that she is going to disappoint us all in this way ? Of
course, don't repeat what I liave just said, or she will think it
necessary to defend him, and I don't want to quarrel with her
about anybody like that. But appeal to the real Sabie — to our
Sabie. Does she know how Mr. Lindsay has set his heart on
taking her to the Academy ? And Mrs. Tremenheere has prom-
ised to go with us in your place ; and then, if Sabie comes up on
the Thursday night she can go down to you again on the follow-
ing afternoon or evening. The truth is, I have not dared to
speak of it to Mr, Lindsay ; I could not do it — I tell you he has
just set his heart on it — and it's for you, now, dearest mother, to
try to bring that abominable wretch to her senses."
There was not the slightest difficulty about it. When it was
pointed out to Sabina that her refusal to go would give a great
deal of pain to two of her friend., she merely elevated her eye-
brows a little in surprise, as if that had never occurred to her be-
fore; and when Mrs. ^Yy gram added that she herself would take
it as a favor if Sabie yielded to the wishes of those kind people,
Sabina instantly and good-naturedly said yes. Only she stipu-
lated that she should go up on the Friday morning and I'eturn
the same evening.
Walter Lindsay never knew how near he had been to a griev-
AT THE ACADEMY. 83
ous disappointment ; he was merely told (Janie assumino; a little
air of authority on the occasion) at what hour he might expect
Sabina to arrive at Burlington House. It is perhaps unnecessary
to say that he had not been able to obtain the use of any private
room for their luncheon, though one distinguished Academician
had facetiously offered to place the Diploma Gallery at the dis-
posal of the party. And be sure he was waiting at the top of
the staircase long before the time at which Mrs, Tremenheere and
Sabina and Janie had promised to appear. The people came
pouring in, elderly gentlemen already opening their catalogues
and adjusting their glasses ; gorgeous matrons scanning the crowd
in search of friends ; young ladies with a quick eye for other
young ladies' gowns; young gentlemen with a quick eye for
those young ladies' faces. And to many of these the tall and
pale young artist, wlio stood as close as might be to the wicket,
was known, and he had perfunctorily to shake hands with them
and say a word or two, but ever his anxious gaze went down that
wide, thick -carpeted stair, eagerly scrutinizing each successive
group as it arrived. And as it chanced, he was caught napping
after all. A sculptor friend came to him and touched him ou
the shoulder.
" Lindsay," he said, " I want you to come and look at my bust
of Mrs. ; have you seen it yet ?"
"No, I haven't; but I will remember; all right."
"Come along, now, won't you? — a minute will do — the fact is,
they've all been abusing it and pitching into it — and I want you
to say it isn't so bad as all that."
"But I'm waiting for some people, man," Lindsay broke in,
not too cordially.
"My good fellow, it won't take you a minute !"
And so he cast a last despairing glance down the crowded
staircase, and impatiently followed his friend into the sculpture
room. He was not there more than three minutes. And then
it was, as he was hastening back to his post, that he suddenly
found before him — Sabina! Other people saw advancing tow-
ards him a young lady, tall ami fair and smiling; he only saw a
face, a kind of bewilderment of light shining there and in her
eyes ; and if his heart seemed to choke him somewhat (in a man-
ner not quite consistent with the new friendship he had estab-
lished), he had scarcely time to attend to that. Perhaps he shook
84 SABINA ZEMBRA.
hands with her — he did not know ; probably he also greeted Mrs,
Tremenheere and Janie ; at all events, he seemed to want to take
them through all the rooms at once, and yet not to know where
to begin, while the fingers that held the open catalogue were far
from being so steady as the new friendship demanded. As for
Sabina, she was certainly not perturbed. Nor did she seem par-
ticularly anxious to see the pictures. She looked at the crowd
in her gentle, bland, pleased way, recognizing here and there a
familiar face, and perhaps not paying as much attention to her
eager guide as she ought to have done. However, she eventually
yielded to his solicitation, and they began their laborious round.
He made it as easy as possible for her — if Mrs. Tremenheere and
Janie had pretty well to look out for themselves. He took her
to all the principal pictures. If any one stopped her and spoke
to her, he made no scruple about dragging her away, and insist-
ing upon her looking at this or that. And Sabina was very kind
to him, for she knew he was giving himself a great deal of trou-
ble on her behalf; and the new relationship he had established
between himself and her seemed to him a distinctly joyous thing
— sending, as it were, flashes of gladness through his veins every
time she turned towards him, or spoke to him, or happened to
let the sleeve of her bronze plush cloak come near his arm. It
was a very pretty costume, by-the-way, that she wore, though it
was not the simple brown homespun of his expectation ; and he
could see that it was admired — and that Sabina was admired —
by the little covert glances that both men and women directed
towards her as they passed. And of course he perjured his soul
a hundred times in quickly assenting to everything she said.
Why should he dispute her judgment? What was his miserable
cut-and-dried knowledge of technique as compared with the gen-
erous appreciation of a fresh young soul ? Could he check kind-
ness? Would he like her eyes to be less benignant? Wliere her
abundant good-nature saw merit, wliat right had he to search out
defects ? In short, what mattered the pictures to him in any way
whatever? He would have made a holocaust of the whole collec-
tion had it belonged to him, if only Sabina would have been in-
terested in the riotous blaze. And all this, it must be remem-
bered, was but part of the new friendship.
" And where is your own picture, Mr. Lindsay ?" Sabina said to
him.
AT THE ACADEMY. 85
"Oh, that is nothing," he answered.
" Bat I wish to see it," she said.
"lleally, it is not worth looking at," he protested. "It is a
little thing I sent in merely to get a ticket for Varnishing Day."
" ]>iit I wish to see it," she said, with mild persistence.
"The water-color room is at the other end," he pointed out;
for he did not wish Sabina to take this luckless little contribu-
tion as in any way representative of his work.
"Then you won't take me to see it?"
Of course, this was a command, and forthwith they set about
making their way through the now crowded rooms. And scant,
indeed, was the recognition his friends obtained from him on that
busy morning, for it seemed as if there were a hundred thousand
things he liad to say to Sabina ; and that the time was all too
short. And then was it not his duty to keep her amused and
interested and pleased? He was her host, in a measure; he was
responsible for her being entertained ; he would have ample op-
portunities of talking with all those various friends and acquaint-
ances after Sabina had gone away once more from London.
" Why, you seem to know every one," she said to him, as they
were making their slow progress through the galleries.
And yet he had no wish to show her oflE — to proclaim their
friendship, that is to say, before all these people. Far rather
would he have had her go away into some quiet corner — into the
room for architectural drawings, for example — and sit down there,
so that he might recollect some of the hundred thousand things
he had to tell her. He was not in any way anxious that these
good folk should admire Sabina, or look at her pretty dress, or
be struck by the proud and gracious set of her neck and shoul-
ders, and the sweetness of her smile. He was far more anxious
that she should not become tired, or indifferent, or bored ; and
the hundred thousand things he had to tell her seemed to narrow
themselves down in a dreadful way, or refused to be summoned
altogether; so that he could only say to himself, "Well, I am a
blatant idiot; but Sabina is so good-natured that she pretends to
be pleased." The new friendship was progressing.
Eventually they found the little picture ; it was a harmless
kind of thing — merely a study of a black windmill and an up-
lying field, golden with charlock, against an almost silver-white
sky ; and when Sabina, out of kindness, would praise it, he rather
86 SABINA ZEMBRA.
resented her approval, for he did not wish her to imagine that
was how he always painted.
" But you need not think that," she said. " I have seen so
much of your work. And I am sure I did not half thank you
for the beautiful drawing you sent me from the Shannon. I was
so busy at the time. But I prize it none the less, I assure you ;
do you know that I took it down to Brighton, and we have it
hung up there — of course, to be brought away again when we
leave ?"
"Oh, did you?" he said; there was a kind of music in the air.
And then he suddenly discovered that it was a quarter to one,
and therefore time fcr lunch.
" Do come, now," he said, " and we will get a quiet place to
ourselves. I don't want to have you tired out. Besides, you
must be hungry ; you left Brighton by the 9.45."
"How do you know that?" she said, glancing at him.
"You must have left then ; I looked at the time-table."
And they did, as it happened, get a quiet corner for themselves
in the luncheon-room ; and whether it was owing to some mys-
terious subsidy or not, they appeared to be very well attended to,
while people at the other tables were looking vacuously about
them, or making impatient and fruitless appeals to over-harassed
waiters. Curiously enough, too, Sabina sate at his right hand —
where Mrs. Tremenheere should have been ; but perhaps that was
an accident. And Janie was very pleased and happy ; and said,
in an undertone, to Mrs. Tremenheere — for Mr. Lindsay had a
good many things to say to Miss Zembra, so that these two were
occupied — that never in all her life had she seen Sabie looking
so beautiful. Janie was a kind-hearted creature, and talked to
Mrs. Tremenheere without ceasing.
And what did Lindsay say, now that she and he were together
in this secluded nook, their shoulders almost touching, their heads
not far apart, he humbly solicitous about the smallest details of
the frugal little banquet he had provided for her? Well, it was
all a lamentation over the fact that no ladies could be present,
even as lookers-on, at the Academy dinner to which he was in-
vited the following evening.
"You see," he continued — and it was all addressed to Sabina
— " the walls are covered to the roof with pictures — as many a
poor wretch knows to his cost; and I suppose it would be im-
AT THE ACADEMY. 87
possible to have a gallery for spectators. But it is a pity ; for
there is no such sight to be seen anywhere else, or at any other
time, in Great Britain. All England's greatest are there — her
statesmen and poets and soldiers and lawyers and painters ; u
stranger would think he had got among a lot of portraits out of
the illustrated papers. It is an extraordinary assemblage of the
brains and wealth of the country. Yes," he said, glancing at
her, " I have no doubt you are asking yourself how I ever came
to be in that gallery."
" Indeed I was not," she said, warmly.
" I asked myself the question," he continued, modestly, "when
I looked round last year and found myself the only insignificant
duffer at our particular table, for I'm not even a picture-buyer.
But I have a good many friends in the Academy — I suppose that
is it."
" I should rather think it was meant as a recognition of your
work," Sabina said, gently, "and I should be very proud of it if
I were you."
"However, as I was saying," he interposed, rather quickly, "it
is an extraordinary sight; and then, you know, they keep the
lights somewhat lowered during dinner — though you wouldn't
think it, for the place is so brilliant — until the president has pro-
posed the toast of the Queen's health ; and then, when he winds
up with 'Your Royal Highnesses, my lords, and gentlemen — the
Queen !' all of a sudden the lights are put at full blaze, and the
effect is quite startling. You should see them all standing up —
the Queen's ministers, the ex-ministers, judges, generals, bishops,
academicians, and all — while the singers at the far end of the hall
sing 'God save the Queen!' And to think that such an assem-
blage is brought together every year in England ,• and that there
should be no ladies to look on !"
And why was he so miserable because there would be no gen-
tle-eyed spectators of the following night's banquet? At the ban-
quet of the previous year — the first to which he had been invited
— the subject had not even occurred to him.
"No," he continued, "nor do they ask any women-folk to the
annual dinner of the Academy Club — at the Trafalgar at Green-
wich. But that is less to be wondered at, for it is a kind of half-
private affair; and there is a good deal of jollification going on —
smoking and singing and speech-making. Oh, and very pretty it
88 SABIXA ZKMBKA.
is at the bcjjinning of the evenirifj, if you happen to have a seat
facini^ the big bay-window, and can watcli tlic red-sailed barges
floating down on the yellow water. It's rather an early dinner,
you know, though they keep it up late enough ; for when they
get back to town, a lot of them — tiiose that aren't afraid of their
wives — generally go down to Mackinnon's rooms, in Buckingham
Street, to have a midnight palaver and a final pipe or two."
"There seems to be a fair amount of merrymaking in the art
world," Sabina observed.
" At present there is," he said, rather apologetically, " because
everybody is glad to have got finished with his year's work. And
from now on to the Academy Conversazione, at the end of June,
there won't be much painting done — among the landscapers,
anyway — there will be a good deal of dining and dancing and
lawn-tennis, and so on — but after the Conversazione the general
dispersal will take place — away to Brittany and Spain and the
Riviera ; or over to Holland, or up to Norway, or to the wilds of
Connemara and Galway — each man wanting to have a place all
to himself, of course, and growling if any one comes near him."
"And where are you going?" she asked.
" I ?"
The question seemed to startle him. Perhaps he had made no
definite plans. Or had some wild notion flashed into his brain
that he would fain have that depend on Sabina's whereabouts?
" I hardly know," he stammered. " I suppose you, too, will be
going away from London, Miss Zembra?"
He hardly looked up at her.
"I think not," she said, simply, " unless Mrs. Wygram improves
much more rapidly than she is doing at present. I will keep her
at Brighton for some time, and I may as well make that my holi-
day."
"Do you mean that you will be in London all the autumn,
when everybody else will be away ?" he asked, and he had grown
suddenly thoughtful.
"Your everybody else will be away, no doubt," she answered,
smiling, " but my everybody else can't get away, unhappily. Yes;
if I take a holiday now, I dare say I shall be in London through
the autumn. But isn't it time we were returning to the pict-
ures?"
And he was not unwilling to take up his task again ; for he
AT THE ACADEMY. 89
had been forming certain dark designs, Sabina was going down
to Brighton by tlie 4.30 express; Mrs. Tremenheere and Janie
wanted to wait to see the people arrive in the afternoon ; and it
was Janie who considerately suggested that, if Sabina must really
leave, perhaps Mr. Lindsay would be so kind as to see her as far
as Victoria Station. Sabina protested that nothing of the sort
was necessary. But Mr. Lindsay took little heed of the protest ;
on the contrary, he rather hurried her through the remaining
rooms in order that they should get away early. He was not sure
that they would get a cab easily. The streets might be blocked.
Wasn't St. James's Park torn up as usual ? The end of it all was
that he and she together left the Academy when it was barely
four o'clock.
And to be in a hansom with Sabina — to be so close to her —
to see her gloved hand resting on the little iron ledge — to have
charge of her small travelling-bag — to be able to direct her atten-
tion to this and that — to steal an occasional covert glance at the
pale oval of her cheeks and her soft clear eyes ! Of course, he
told the cabman to drive round by Hyde Park Corner and Gros-
venor Place; and the trees in the Green Park were showing their
foliage now ; and there was a breezy light in the May skies; and
the crowd in Piccadilly and the continual string of carriages made
up a picture sufficiently animated and cheerful. The new friend-
ship had begun so delightfully ! Sabina was with hira, and with
him alone; he had charge of her; there was none to interfere.
And she was to be all by herself in London through the autumn
— when still she might want and welcome a friend.
And then, again, at Victoria Station a little judicious bribery
procured him access to the platform ; and when he had procured
for her a seat in the Pullman car, and purchased for her a vast
assortment of magazines and illustrated papers, they had nearly a
quarter of an hour in which to walk up and down. Alas ! that
the time was so short — for he still seemed to have a hundred
thousand things to say — and he wanted her to have some tea —
and he was so sorry that the sleeve of her plush cloak had been
somewhat marked by her driving in the hansom — and he even
went the length of lightly smoothing out one or two of these
creases. Because, you see, Janie was not there, and Sabina was
accustomed to have some one wait on her and be kind to her.
The hateful hands of the great clock kept creeping on, and at
90 SABINA ZEMBRA.
length the guard came along with his warning. Sabina went in
and took her scat. He kept by the window outside until the
train began to move slowly away ; and then Sabina smiled her
farowoll thanks to him, and presently he found himself standing
on that wide, empty platform, alone.
He did not go away quickly from Victoria Station ; no, he
kept lingering about there, looking at the long platform where he
and she had walked together. And when at length he set out
for home, he went rather slowly and thoughtfully ; and, strange-
ly enough, he chose his way by Cornwall Gardens and Victoria
Road, and through Kensington Square. And then, again, he did
not pursue a straight course ; he turned back a little in Kensing-
ton High Street, and went into a florist's shop there, and rather
idly looked about, and seemed more interested in the place than
in the purchase he eventually made. The flowers he directed to
be sent to Miss Janie Wygram ; but he did not send his card
with them — he only meant that they should go to the dusky
drawing-room where sometimes he had found Sabina in the by-
gone days.
But at last he got home, and into his studio. Somehow it
seemed a very lonely and silent place, and he could not even think
of work. Almost mechanically he threw off his coat and hat,
and sate down to the piano, and began to let his fingers wander
over the keys. And what were his fancies about? Well, they
were not very sad, after all ; for he was thinking of August — and
the great city very empty but for the presence of Sabina — and
his being in London during that strange time — and sometimes
seeing her. And what was the air that he was quite inadvertently
— and somewhat slowly and absently — playing ? He did not
himself notice how entirely inappropriate it was to the new
friendship.
" Parlatcle d'amor, o cari fior,
Ditele die I'acloro,
Ch' k il solo mio tesoro,
Ditele cbe il mio cor lanjrue d'amor!"
A FOBEBODINQ. 91
CHAPTER XL
A FOREBODING.
Sabina returned to Brighton, and to Mrs. W3'gram, and to
long, idling, sunny mornings at the end of the West Pier in the
society of Mr. Fred Foster. Mrs. Wygram looked on at this
continual and ever-increasing intimacy with alarm which it was
impossible for her to put into words. In her small way, too,
she did what she could to avert the danger that she too clearly
foresaw. But it was in vain that she hinted her preference for
inland drives ; and she could not well insist, for it was Sabina
who defrayed the cost of these amusements. And it was in vain
that she tried to cultivate Sabina's interest in Mr. Lindsay:
pointing out his name in the list of the guests at the Academy
banquet; telling her how he had been included in the toast of
the " Outsiders " at the Academy Club dinner at Greenwich, and
that his speech in reply had produced the most favorable impres-
sion; coming back again and again to inconsequent praise of the
Shannon drawing they had hung up in their small sitting-room;
and wondering if there was a possibility of his being descended
from the high-sounding
" Sir David Lindsay of the Mount,
Lord Lion King at Arms."
Sabina somehow seemed indifferent about Mr. Lindsay. She
expressed no dissent when Mrs. Wygram insisted that he was so
clever and handsome and popular and modest, and all the rest of
it; nay, she would even admit that that was true, and that he was
deserving of all good things ; but there an end. And Mrs. Wy-
gram was afraid to express any more clearly her wishes — and her
fears.
Moreover, as time went on, she observed a remarkable altera-
tion in Mr. Foster's manner towards Sabina; and it came about
in this way. On the morning, after Sabina's return from Lon-
don, they as usual strolled out to the end of the Pier ; and there,
92 SABINA ZEMBRA.
sure enough, was the occupant of the Bath-chair, reading a pink-
colored sporting paper, and apparently very well content with
himself.
"Ah, how do you do. Miss Zembra?" said he. "I was think-
ing about you yesterday when you were in London."
'" Indeed ?"
"Yes. I chanced to fall in Avith one of the local magnates —
an ex-mayor — who said I had met him somewhere or other, I
forget where, and we had a pretty long chat together. Well,
among other things, he was telling me about a fete and bazaar
they mean to hold in the Pavilion Gardens to raise funds for —
what was it? — I think some Convalescent Home attached to the
Children's Hospital ; and that his wife had undertaken to get up
a stall for the sale of flowers and bonbons, and so on. But the
ex-mayoress, it appears, is a sensible woman. She says she wants
to obtain the services of an exceedingly pretty young lady, who
would be able to get plenty of money for the flowers from the
young fellows about. Well, I told him I knew some one who
answered that description, and who might possibly be induced to
help."
Now, this was Mr. Foster's ordinary manner towards Sabina;
and bitterly and angrily did Mrs. Wygram resent it. Why
should he talk to her so coolly and indifferently ? How dared
he say to her face that she was a pretty young lady? What
kind of a description was that of Sabina? Why, he almost as-
sumed an air of patronage, said Mrs. Wygram to herself in her
jealous wrath, this whipper-snapper, who was not worthy of hav-
ing a single look of her beautiful Sabie bestowed on him.
There was little difficulty in persuading Sabina to give her serv-
ices in aid of the Children's Hospital; only she said to him,
" You know, Mr. Foster, that charity has been defined as A
asking B to help C. Now, I want to know what A is going to
do this time?"
"Who is A?"
" You."
" How am I A ?"
"Because you ask me to do certain things for certain other
people. But what are you going to do yourself?"
" Well," said he, solemnly, " if my little speculation on the Two
Thousand comes off all right, you won't find me behindhand.
A FOREBODING. 93
No, no; you'll have one good customer, at all events. But what
am I to do with the flowers when I've got them? I don't know
anybody in this town, hardly."
" What are you to do with them ? Give them back to me, and
I will sell them over again," said Sabina, promptly.
It did not seem to occur to him that he might present the
flowers to Sabina herself ; perhaps he thought she was too matter-
of-fact a young woman to care for such things.
However, the date fixed for the bazaar was some way off yet ;
and in the mean time they had got into a long spell of fine
weather; and these two saw a good deal of each other, in the
open air and the sunlight. Their meeting of a morning at the
end of the Pier was almost an understood arrangement; and then
in the golden afternoons they would pass into the greensward
enclosure of Regency Square, or go round to the Pavilion Gar-
dens, now becoming beautiful vi'ith flowers and the clear-tinted
young summer foliage. And not only had Sabina got her sailor's
hat, but she appeared to be much more particular about her cos-
tume than had been her wont in London ; she made herself very
neat and trim, and wore pretty things round her neck and at her
wrists, and was most fastidious about the dressing of her hair.
Mrs. Wygram ventured to make some little comment; and the
girl only looked surprised — and said she supposed that it was
idleness that made her attentive to such trifles.
And very bright and cheerful and animated looked those Pa-
vilion Gardens on the day set apart for the fete ; the umbrageous
elms shimmering in their freshest green ; young maidens and
children in summer costume strolling along the paths, or crossing
the wide, smooth lawn ; two regimental bands playing alternately ;
long strings of colored lamps already hung up for the evening il-
lumination ; the white tents around the enclosure busy with vis-
itors. Sabina's stall was almost entirely given up to flowers; and
not only had she an abundant store of sprays and button-holes
and bouquets, but also she had large masses of wallflower, daffo-
dils, marsh-marigolds, and the like, on the chance of the alder-
men's wives and daughters understanding the art of decorating
their dining-rooms. The worthy ex-mayor and his wife, on whose
behalf Sabina had undertaken the function of saleswoman, were
most assiduous in bringing her customers; and she was not over-
exacting with her prices ; sometimes people came back. Mrs.
94 SABINA ZEMERA.
Wygram lent a helping hand. Mr. Foster was there, but made
no undue profession of his acquaintance; whenever the tall, fair
flower-girl was busy, he had his Bath-chair removed away under
the elm-trees, and remained there listening to the band.
And now occurred the incident which seemed to Mrs. Wygram
(but perhaps she was unjustly jealous, owing to Janie's repeated
warnings) to be the turning-point in Mr. Foster's attitude towards
Sabina. There came into the enclosure two young fellows who
seemed to be known to him ; they went up and spoke to him,
and remained chatting. These were the first of Mr. Foster's
friends that Sabina had seen ; and she was rather pleased to find
that they were not of a horsy type. No ; they were merely a
couple of tali, light -haired, healthy -complexioned, well-dressed
English lads, whom one might associate with plenty of boating
and cricket, but hardly with the turf. And presently she had a
better opportunity of seeing what they were like ; for Mr, Foster
brought them along to the stall.
" Miss Zembra," said he, " I have brought you a couple of cus-
tomers; but don't be too hard on them."
Good-looking lads they were, she thought ; though the younger
one was evidently very shy. He scarcely lifted his eyes to the
beautiful, gracious flower-girl ; he selected the first little spray
that came handy, and paid for it, and seemed rather glad to re-
tire. The elder and taller of the two was not so timid; he ap-
peared to be a little fastidious in his choice; and once or twice,
when he asked her a question, he ventured to glance at her.
" How much did you say this rose was ?" he asked.
"Two shillings."
*' Oh yes, I will take that, if you please."
He put his fingers in his waistcoat-pocket and took out a couple
of coins.
" I am afraid," said he, rather bashfully, " that you will find
them rather discolored ; but I hope you won't mind."
And with that he put down two sovereigns on the board, and
said " Good-morning," and raised his hat, and went away.
"I beg your pardon — stay a moment!" Sabina instantly called
to him.
He turned and came back, looking somewhat confused. Sabina
was not. She smiled towards him, and said,
" You know I cannot give you any of the money back — they
A FOREBODING. 95
never allow that at bazaars — but I will give you another rose, if
you like."
She picked out a white rose and handed it to him ; her eyes
were very gracious.
" I'm snre it's awfully kind of you," said he, blushing furiously ;
and then he managed to stammer, " And — and, of course, it's this
one I shall keep — I — I don't want the other one now."
" Here is a pin if you wish to wear it," said Sabina. " Mrs.
AVygram, will you fasten it?"
(For Mrs. Wygram was outside the stall.)
"Thank you, very, very much," said he; but it was to Sabina
he said it, not to Mrs. Wygram.
" Look here, Lionel," said Mr. Foster, somewhat sharply, " we'd
better clear out — we're only blocking the way."
And so the three friends went off, and were seen of Sabina no
more that day. But by-and-by, when she got a favorable chance,
Mrs. Wygram went round and inside the stall. She seemed vexed,
and yet partly inclined to laugh as well.
"Sabie," said she, " I don't know whether you know it or not,
but I do believe you are the most atrocious flirt I ever saw in my
life."
" What do you mean ?" the girl said, not a little startled.
" Why, the way you went on with that poor young fellow —
giving him a rose — and looking ail kinds of things — you've sent
him away with his head quite bewildered."
"Oh, don't say that!" Sabina said, but still rather wondering.
" Why, don't you understand ? — he gave me two sovereigns for a
rose. Do you imagine boys of his age have so many sovereigns
to spare — or would spend them that way if they had?"
" He would have given you his boots and his gloves and his
watch-chain after the way you looked at him !" Mrs. Wygram
protested.
" Oh, don't say that ! I thought it was very kind of him to
give me so much towards my stall ; and of course I wanted to be
civil to him. I hope I was," she added, boldly.
" Oh yes, you were," Mrs. Wygram retorted. " You were very
civil indeed — if that is what you call civility. I think that is what
Janie calls it, too. No, she calls it kindness — she said it was only
kindness when you sipped some wine out of Mr. Lindsay's chalice,
so that he might put it back among his treasures."
96 SABINA ZEMBEA.
For an instant or two she could not remember; then a slight
color came to her face.
" I did not think there was any harm," she said.
" I suppose yon don't know that you have sent Mr. Foster
away very angry ?"
" Mr. Foster !" said Sabina, with her eyes wide — as if she wanted
to know what Mr. Foster had to do with her.
"But it's true; and if I am not mistaken, you won't find him
back here again to-day !"
Mrs. Wygram was not mistaken. Mr. Foster put in no further
appearance. And it was not until the evening, when they were
in the quietude of their own rooms, that Mrs. Wygram said,
" Well, now, Sabie, I will tell you the truth. I really don't
think you know how pretty your eyes are, and you do mischief
without intending it. You need not look at men in so frank a
way ; you should be a little more self-conscious and watchful.
Why, you fairly blinded that young fellow this morning."
" A school-boy !" said Sabina, but with her cheeks reddening
a little ; " I wonder you could think of such a thing !"
" Sabie, why will you go on persuading yourself that you are
an old woman ?" the other exclaimed. " It's all those hospitals !
You've been so accustomed to take charge of people — to be good
to them, and humor them, and be a kind of mother to them — that
you forget you are a young woman, with remarkably beautiful
eyes. And some day or another you will break a man's heart —
that will be the end."
"Oh, you need not talk such nonsense," said Sabina, proudly.
Now, if Mr. Foster went away from the Pavilion Gardens in an-
ger, he showed no trace of anything of the kind when they met
as usual on the Pier next morning. And it was from that morn-
ing that Mrs. Wygram (in her subsequent conversations with Ja-
nie) professed to date the change in his manner towards Sabina.
He no longer treated her with friendly indifference, varied now
and again with a little jocose raillery ; beseemed more anxious to
please her, and to win her favor. Those two Lionel lads happened
to come down the Pier that morning; and of course they stopped
to speak to him ; and they raised their hats to Sabina, who was
standing by, and who graciously acknowledged that salutation.
In the ordinary course of affairs Mr. Foster might fairly have in-
troduced them by name to Miss Zembra — after their kindness of
A FOREBODING. 97
the day before ; but he did nothing of the sort ; and they had
perforce to go on rather lingeringly, as Mrs. Wygram imagined.
That afternoon Mr. Foster sent Sabina some flowers. The next
morning he told her he had taken a box at the theatre for that
same evening, and that it would be very, very kind of her if she
and Mrs. Wygram would come and keep him company.
" But a Bath-chair — in a theatre ?" she said.
"Oh, George and I will manage," he said, confidently. "If
you come along in the eveuing, you will find me already in the
box — box G it is : I should be very grateful to you if you would."
And it seemed to her that it would be unfriendly to refuse.
Here he was in a strange town, with hardly any society ; and he
was bearing his banishment so heroically. And so she and Mrs.
Wygram went, and found him comfortably ensconced in a large
box commanding an easy view of the stage; and there was a lit-
tle bouquet lying in readiness for each of the ladies. The piece
■was a merry one, played by an excellent London company ; and
Sabina had not been in a theatre for many a day; and she had
the natural and healthy laughter of a sehool-girh He had tea
and coffee brought to them between the acts ; in short, he paid
them every attention that was possible ; and when they finally
got home, even Mrs. Wygram had to confess, not only that they
had spent a most charming evening, but that Mr. Foster, when he
chose, could make himself very pleasant and agreeable.
Whether Mrs. Wygram entirely relished the change from Mr.
Foster's half-supercilious indifference to his mood of eager and
respectful amiability may perhaps be questioned ; but, at all events,
it afforded her plenty of material for study and conjecture. One
of its chief features was an almost continual wish on his part
to be justifying himself and his ways of life in Sabina's eyes.
Hitherto he seemed to care nothing for her opinion — he had even
jocularly told her of one or two foolish love-affairs. But now he
seemed anxious to stand well with her, and would make excuses
for himself and his pursuits, and would even recall things she had
said on former occasions that he might urge some plea of de-
fence.
"No, I am not a great reader," he said, one morning, apropos
of nothing at all. " It's men and women who interest me
most—"
" Next to horses ?" Sabina suggested, with a smile.
5
98 SABIXA ZEMBKA.
"Now, tliat isn't fair, Miss Zerabra; but you're always hard on
me of late — I don't know why. And I was going to tell you
about my reading; if I were compelled to have only two books,
I would choose Chaucer and Shakespeare, and that is, again, just
because they show me men and women. I don't like conundrums
in literature, or wire-drawing, or fog; life isn't long enough to bo
spent in finding things out — just because the fellow won't speak
plain. And then, after all, real men and women are just as inter-
esting to me as those I find in books. When I am going about
the streets here I find continual amusement and surprise and oc-
cupation."
" I am very glad of that," Sabina said, in an undertone, so as
not to interrupt him.
"Out at the end of the Chain Pier is a splendid place," he
continued. "Sometimes I go there when I have missed you
here; and you see a good deal of human nature about. Some-
times very pretty, too. Why, is there anything prettier than to
see a young girl — I mean one of those spindle-shanked creatures
of twelve or thirteen, with a straw liat and long hair, and big
clear eyes — ^^is there anything prettier than to see her pet an old
lady — an old lady as ugly as the mischief, most likely, fluffy
black clothes, and glass bugles in her bonnet? Yes, and tease
her, too ; and then put her arm round her and coax her into good-
humor again? Or you'll see a purple-faced old sportsman — a
real Punjaub jungle-cock — devilled-kidneys-for-breakfast sort of
fellow — kind of chap would send blue thunder through his club
if his chop were underdone, or overdone, or late by thirty seconds
— you'll sec him come walking out with a sickly-white girl in a
long couch, and he'll hold the sunshade over her, or read the news-
papers to her, and be just like a nurse to her. Then the lads and
boys — and sometimes old men — at the fishing. Well, I like to
see them at it ; they've the true instinct, and they're very earnest
about it, though I never see them get anything but a reckless lit-
tle flounder or an eel. Spooners are not very interesting."
" I beg your pardon ?" said she, innocently.
"Lovers,! should sa}'. Well, they're not very interesting;
they look so foolish when you chance on them. Besides, it isn't
fair; they should be let alone. But I'll tell you what is very
funny ; to go round the churches on Sunday morning after serv-
ice has begun ; and you generally find outside one or two ofia-
A FOREBODING. 99
cials — sometimes a man, sometimes a woman — and they have the
most curiously indifferent air on their faces. They look at the
sky, they look down the street; they seem to say, * Weil, we've
done our part of the business ; we've shut him up with his au-
dience ; he has got to get through the rest of the performance
now.' "
" But a church is not a theatre," Sabina said, gently.
"Not all of them," he said; and then, fearing to have got on
dangerous ground, he pointed out to her that these Sunday morn-
ing perambulations were almost a necessity in his case, as he did
not like going inside in his Bath-chair.
And so this continual association and intimacy went on ; and
Sabina was very kind to hiol (as she was to every one, Janie
■would have said) ; and there was distinctly no indifference on
his part. One afternoon he was in having tea with them.
" I have a little surprise for you," he said to Sabina.
" Indeed 1"
" My father and mother are coming to London next week, and
purpose running down here for a day or two. I hope you will
let me introduce them to you ; they would be so very much
pleased."
Of course she said it was she who would be pleased ; but Mrs.
Wygram was struck with a sudden dismay.
" Do you know what he is doing now ?" she instantly wrote off
to Janie. " He is bringing his father and mother from Bucking-
hamshire that Sabie may be introduced to them as his future
wife. I am sure of it — I am sure that is what he means. Well,
I have held my tongue all this while, but I cannot do so any
longer ; I must tell the girl what she is bringing on herself. Yes,
this very night I will. But I wish you were here, Janie. I am
not very strong just now; and I am all of a tremble when I think
of it. Still, what would not one do for Sabie? And I know she
is too kind-hearted to take it amiss."
100 SABINA ZEMBRA.
CHAPTER XII.
FLIGHT,
But it was a long time before the little woman could screw up
her courage; and even at the last moment she fah'ly jibbed and
bolted. Late that night Sabina was in her own room, and lei-
surely getting ready for bed ; she wore a dressing-gown of pale-
blue and white, and heavy masse* of her golden-brown hair fell
loose-flowing and free over her shoulders and down to and below
her waist.
" Dear Sabie," said Mrs. Wygrara (though this was not in the
least what she wanted to say), " I would give a hundred pounds,
if I had it, that Walter Lindsay could see you as you are now."
" Mrs. Wygram !" Sabina exclaimed — but there was not much
of ferocity in her virgin pride.
" It would be something for an artist to dream of all his life
long," Mrs. Wygram continued, recklessly. " Do you know, Sa-
bie, you are the only woman I have ever seen who reminds me
of Rossetti's 'Blessed Damozel.' You remember? —
" ' Her hair that lay along her back
Was yellow like ripe coru.' "
" I thought my hair was brown," Sabina said, quietly. " How-
ever, it is not of much consequence. I have no wish to become
an artist's model. Besides, you forget that Mr. Lindsay is a land-
scape-painter."
" But surely you know how wonderful he is in catching like-
nesses !" the other said. " Why, the portraits he did of Mrs.
Secley's boys were quite marvellous. Oh yes ; there's no reason
in the world why he should not do a figure subject. And I know
he was thinking of it. Yes, I know; for I have the scrap of
paper he gave Janie, with the quotation for the picture. I be-
lieve I have it now."
She pulled out her purse, and eventually found the little bit of
writincr. Sabina read the lines aloud :
FLIGHT. 101
"See where she sits upon the grassy green
(0 seemlj' sight !)
Yclad in scarlet, lilce a maiden queen,
And ermines white;
Upon her head a crimson coronet,
With damask roses and dalfodiliies set."
" Yes, it sounds picturesque," Sabina said, in her placid way.
"And whom is he going to paint like that?"
"You."
"Dear Mrs. Wygram, are you out of your mind ?" ,
" But it's true, lie wanted to know whether you would sit to
him. Oh, he was so anxious about it, but quite afraid to ask you.
Yes; and he said if only Janie could induce you to sit to him, he
would do a pencil drawing of you, and give it to Janie and me
— as a kind of bribe, I suppose,"
" I wonder, now," said Sabina, laughing, " how many portraits
of me you would like to have in Kensington Square."
" Don't you think we shall be glad to have them, Sabie, when
you are no longer there yourself ?"
And behold ! here was her chance, come quite unexpectedly ;
and she was bound to face it. Hardly aware of what she was do-
ing, she put her trembling fingers on the girl's arm ; and piteous
indeed was her tone.
" Dearest Sabie, don't be angry ! No, you won't be angry —
but I must speak to you — I can't stand by and not say a word —
you know I love you, and I am sure we shall always be friends — "
"Now, what is this all about?" Sabina said, gently, for she
could see how agitated the little woman was.
"Don't you know, then, why Mr. Foster has sent for his father
and mother to come to Brighton ? Can't you guess ? Sabie, it is
to introduce you to them as their future daughter-in-law."
For the briefest moment the girl seemed to draw herself up to
her full height, and there was a proud look about her lips; but
that instantly disappeared. She put her hand on the trembling
hand of her companion, and patted it affectionately.
" My dear friend," she said, with a smile, " I see I must put you
back on your quinine, and insist on the port-wine at lunch. Your
nerves are all wrong — why, you are fluttering at this moment like
a caught rabbit — and you let all kinds of ridiculous fancies get
into your brain."
102 SAKINA ZEMBBA.
" They are not ridiculous fancies, Sabie ! Why will you be so
blind ? But it all comes from the same thing: you will go on im-
agining yourself to be an elderly woman — whose business is to
pet people and take care of them — whereas the truth is that you
are a very dangerously attractive young woman ; and I tell you
that men don't understand a young woman looking at them in that
frank way. In the case of a young married woman it might be
diScrent— "
"There again !" said Sabina, with an air of resignation ; " you
have to[d me all that before, dear Mrs.Wygram ; and I don't for-
get that you accused me of tlirtation merely because I gave that
pretty, yellow-haired boy a rose in exchange for two sovereigns."
"Yes; and if that young man is heart-whole at this moment, I
am very much mistaken," Mrs. Wygram retorted. " Why, don't
you see how he is always hanging about, just for the chance of
saying a word to Mr. Foster, and so being allowed to raise his hat
to you ?"
" Poor, innocent young thing !"
" Sabie, if you choose to act like a flirt, don't talk like one !"
said Mrs. Wygram, sharply.
Sabina looked at her.
" No," she said, " you can't make me quarrel with you — I won't
do it. For I know you are out of sorts ; and I know you mean
to be kind ; so I can only say that you are quite mistaken. Why,
the idea ! Mr. Foster and I have been excellent friends, simply be-
cause I know that no nonsense of that kind would ever enter his
head."
"But hasn't it? I am very much mistaken if it has not," Mrs.
Wygram persisted. " Sabie, you don't know what an amount of
encouragement you have given him. And encouragement from
you! I tell you, you don't know your own value. Why should
you defer to his opinions — you who have a hundred times as
much brains as he has? And why should a beautiful young wom-
an like you wear things that you think will please him ? — oh, but
you do, whether you are conscious of it or not. And why should
you be interested in stories of race-courses and regattas and crick-
et? and be entertained with accounts of what happened to him
when he was a school-boy — as if his life, and every moment of it.
Lad been of the utmost value?"
" Poor Mr. Foster !" Sabina interposed. " There's no one to
FLIGHT. 103
say a good word for him. If it's in London, it's Janie who keeps
saying bitter things about him ; and if it's in Brighton, it's yon.
Wliat has he done to deserve it all — except to be unfortunate ?
And they used always to say that women had some sympathy
for people who were unfortunate ; but that was in the old days, I
suppose."
"You can't deceive me, Sabie, though you may be able to de-
ceive yourself."
" Can't I ? Well, at all events, I can put you to bed ; and that's
what I am going to do now ; for I won't have any of my patients
sitting up and talking past midnight."
However, this warning and appeal were not without a certain
effect ; for, naturally, a young woman feels somewhat alarmed
when she is told that her manner of regarding men is a trifle too
audacious. Sabina brazened it out before Mrs.Wygram ; but in-
wardly she was resolved to be a good deal more circumspect. And
she wanted to know what it was in Mr. Foster's relations with her
that had prompted these wild surmises.
Accordingly, next day, she kept her eyes observant. But what
could she see except that he was rather more respectful towards
her tlian he used to be? He did not laugh at her now, nor tease
her, nor hint that she was being imposed upon by the poor peo-
ple she befriended. No ; he was rather sympathetic in that di-
rection ; only he said he did not like the idea of her going about
alone — or with such an insufficient protector as Janie. Indeed, he
chose to insist upon this point; though, of course, it was not for
a cripple in a Bath-chair to oifer to become her. guard and cham-
pion and ally.
She observed, also, that the stories he told her — and he had al-
ways an abundant stock of them, chiefly in connection with the
history of the turf — were, for the most part, not humorous or sar-
castic as formerly, but rather tragic and romantic ; and that ho
seemed to have a warm admiration for Miss Dorothy Vernon and
her gay enterprise. On the other hand, how could she suspect
him of talking with a purpose when such an incident as the fol-
lowing occurred? They were on the Chain Pier together. He
was relating to her the sad history of the fourth Manjuis of Hast-
ings, and the reckless struggles of that luckless lad to retrieve his
fortunes. Suddenly there was a considerable commotion among
the few idlers on the Pier; one of the anglers had hooked a large
104 SABINA ZBMBRA.
bass; you could sec the fisli in the clear green water below — tug-
ging and plunging, and shooting this way and that; and there
was a frantic calling for the landing-net. From that instant the
Marquis of Hastings and Miss Dorothy Vernon and Miss Sabina
Zembra were alike forgotten. He took no more notice of his com-
panion. And when, at last, amid the general rejoicing, the big
fish had been hoisted up in the landing-net, and carried oflE to the
weighing-machine, and found to scale just over eight pounds, and
when the prevailing excitement had quieted down, Sabina had
gently to remind him that he had broken off in the midst of a
story, and then he could not in the least recollect at what point.
Sabina said to herself that it was impossible she could wholly en-
gross his attention when she was so easily dispossessed by an
eight-pound fish.
" Sabie," said Mrs. Wygram, that evening, " do you know that
you behaved yourself a little better to-day ?"
" I am glad you approve," Sabina answered. " But it is none
the pleasanter to have to be continually on the watch with one's
friends."
" Friendship between a young man and a pretty girl," observed
Mrs. Wygram, sententiously, " is all very well in its way, but it
wants to have its limits pretty clearly defined. And I think he
understands now. He noticed the change in your manner — I
could see that he did. And perhaps he is beginning to think
that he was a little premature in sending for his father and
mother."
" What nonsense you talk !" said Sabina, bluntly. " I tell you,
the coming of his father and mother to Brighton has no more to
do with me than with the man in the moon."
" We will see."
" If I thought such folly were possible, I would go up to Lon-
don this very evening and send Janie down in my stead. I'm
afraid I shall have to do that very soon in any case."
" But, Sabie, I shall have to go back home too."
"You? Not you! Yon won't be allowed to come home un-
til you are ever so much stronger. Janie will take mv place
lierc."
" And what will Mr. Foster do when you are gone, Sabie?"
Sabina was too proud to reply.
But this placid and equable and eventless life was far too
FLIGHT. 105
pleasant to last. Mr. Fred Foster's father and mother arrived in
due course, and were installed in the rooms he had provided for
them ; and the same afternoon he brought them along to call on
Mrs. Wygram and Sabina. He seemed a little anxious and nerv-
ous. But if he was at all concerned about the impression likely
to be produced on the old lady by the young girl, or vice versa,
he must have been speedily reassured. At the very first glance
— while as yet this tall, thin, elegant -looking woman, with the
short white curls and apple-tinted cheeks and soft gray eyes, had
hardly entered the room — Sabina had formed a liking for her;
and that was only confirmed by the singular air of refinement
and graciousness of manner that seemed to surround her as she
came forward. And on her side ? She took the girl's hand in
hers, and held it ; apparently, she was unable to utter a word ; but
as she read all that that clear, beautiful, youthful face had to say
to her, her eyes quickly filled with tears. Sabina was frightened
— she scarcely knew why; she managed to say a few common-
place words of welcome, and then she turned to give a similar
greeting to the old gentleman. As for him, it was pretty evi-
dent that he considered the whole proceeding a bore. As soon
as he decently could, he withdrew from the lot of them, and went
to the window, and stared out there with his hands behind him,
over the tails of his highly respectable black frock-coat.
But the old lady was sitting next Sabina, and had drawn her
chair very close ; and she seemed unable to keep her eyes — which
■were kind and affectionate eyes — away from the girl. And she
said that she knew her quite well already, so much had Fred
written home about her ; and how was she to thank Miss Zembra
for all her goodness to him when he was shut up a prisoner in
Lancaster Gate? — and how fortunate it was for him to have had
so much of her companionship during his stay at the sea-side.
There was a great deal to talk about; but all through it the old
lady's glances were gently scrutinizing the various points of the
girl's appearance, and her costume too — the beautiful line of the
neck and shoulders, her hair, the trimness of her cuffs, the neat-
ness of her brooch and collar, the slender, tapering, but large
hand, the gracious arch of the eyebrow ; and the more that old
Mrs. Foster looked, the more and more did pleasure sit beaming
upon her own face. Once or twice she touched Sabina's arm;
and her fingers seemed to linger there. She followed her every
5*
106 SABINA ZEMBRA.
word ea<^erly ; she laughed when there was the least occasion ;
delight and tenderness shone in the soft gray eyes.
The old gentleman came back from the window, and rather
brusquely remarked that it was a pity to waste so fine an after-
noon within - doors, as he had never seen Brighton, and there
seemed to be plenty to see. His wife rose reluctantly. And now
she held Sabina by both hands, and seemed loath to leave her.
" Good-by, dear," she said, and still she held her hands a little;
and then, with an impulse of affection, she kissed the girl — kissed
her on both cheeks — and said good-by again, and went away.
When they had gone, Sabina walked once or twice up and
down the room, in a curiously agitated manner, and then came
back.
" Mrs. Wygram, tell me — tell me what I have said or done ! —
oh, you may say any harm of me you like ! — but have I done or
said anything wrong? — what do they mean?"
Mrs. Wygram was not one to seek a cheap triumph.
"I think it is quite clear they came to Brighton to make your
acquaintance, Sabie," she said, gently.
" Yes, but why ? Why did she kiss me like that ? — a stranger !
Why did she talk about their home in Buckinghamshire, as if
she expected me to be there at any time?" And then Sabina's
cheeks reddened angrily. " What has Mr, Foster been saying
about me to them ? What right has he to speak about me ? If
I have done anything — if I have done anything I should not have
done — I — I will apologize — but they have no right — they have
no right — to speak about me."
And here she burst out crying, which was a very unusual thing
for her to do ; and of course the next moment Mrs. Wygram's
arms were round the girl's neck, and she was being soothed and
pacified with all kinds of endearing phrases.
" Sabie darling, be sure he said nothing about you but what
was perfectly kind — perhaps too kind. And if there has been
any mistake it can easily be put right. Perhaps the mistake is
ours — I hope it is. You see, you do make people affectionate tow-
ards you. Perhaps she did not mean anything."
"Anyway," Sabina said, quickly, "I am going up to London
to-night."
" You cannot do that !" her friend said, instantly. " Why, it
would be a confession ! It would look as if you were ashamed,
rLIGIIT. lO*/
and had run away !" And then the little woman's courage rose.
"And what has my beautiful Sabie to be ashamed of? I say —
nothing! Haven't I been with you all the time? Let them
come to me if they like — but you are not going to run away for
anybody."
All doubts, however, as to the meaning of the old people's
visit to Brighton were set at rest next morning. Mrs. Foster
called about eleven, and asked to be allowed to see Sabina alone.
Mrs. Wygram went up-stairs.
And very gently and skilfully and affectionately did this am-
bassador disclose her mission. Her " poor boy," as she called
him, had something of great importance to say to Sabina, but in
his present crippled state he had never a chance of seeing her by
herself, and would she take it amiss if he had asked his mother
to come and plead for him.
"And for myself, dear," said this soft-voiced diplomatist, " if
you knew how proud I should be to call you my daughter !"
Sabina had grown very wliite.
"Dear child, are you ill?" the other exclaimed; "shall I get
you some water?"
"No, no, no," the girl said, and she was striving to be quite
calm. " I am very, very sorry, but there has been some mistake.
I feared it. After you came ycsteixlay I asked Mrs. Wygram if
I had done anything — "
" It's not what you have done, it's what you are," the old lady
said, and she took the girl's hand. " You are pretty and you are
good ; can you wonder at the rest?"
Sabina withdrew her hand.
" I see you are afraid of me," Mrs. Foster said, smiling. " Per-
haps it was foolish of the boy to send me here to do his wooing
for him. You think I should make a harsh mother-in-law to
you."
" I am sure you will be very kind to whoever your son marries,"
Sabina managed to say, and with truth she said it.
"Then may I tell him that when he can come and speak for
himself there will be some hope for him ? I think he would be
satisfied even with that."
" Oh no, no, no; say anything but that!" Sabina said, but she
seemed scarcely to understand the meaning of her words. "No,
no, that is impossible. It was not that I was thinking of. Tell
108 SABIXA ZEMBRA.
him I am so very sorry for this dreadful mistake. I hope I was
not — too — thoughtless ; but yes, I suppose that was it ; and now
■what can I do? I ain very, very sorry — tell him I hope he will
forgive me — "
" I see I distress you," the old lady said, and she rose from her
chair. "But remember you have only refused me, you have not
refused him. Perhaps it was my rude way of asking, and he
niav be more successful; and no one, no one would be happier
than I, should that time ever come, my dear."
She kissed her again before she left.
" Remember that, my dear, I shall be a proud woman if ever I
have to call you my daughter."
Sabina went hurriedly to Mrs. "Wygram. She was very pale,
but apparently quite business-like and collected.
" What you said has come true. I am going up to London,
and I will send Janie down to-night. I could not bear to meet
them again."
"But, Sabie," Mrs. Wygram protested, for she could guess
what underlay this forced quietude of manner, "you are going
away with a quite exaggerated notion of what has happened !"
" I am not. Well, perhaps I don't understand yet all that has
happened. But I wish I had taken your warning earlier. I did
not know."
Sabina arrived in Kensington Square between three and four,
and bade Janie pack up and get away to Brighton as quickly as
possible. But something in her look, and perhaps also in her
coming to town so unexpectedly, awoke Janie's suspicions.
"What is the matter? Sabie — Sabie, you have not promised
to marry Mr. Foster?"
Tliorc was a pry of appeal in her voice.
" I have refused him," was Sabina's answer. " And I have
covered myself with shame. But I hardly understand all that
has happened, and — and — don't ask me any more, Janie."
Janie's preparations for her departure were necessarily hurried,
but still she could think of her friend. Now, Walter Lindsay,
not content with sending Sabina a sketch from the Sliannon, had
also painted a small replica of the landscape she had admired in
his studio, and in her absence had forwarded it to Kensington
Square. It was now lying in the parlor. Amid all her hurry
Janie found time to go and get hold of that little picture, and
REPENTANCE. 109
carry it swiftly and stealthily up to Sabina's room, where she
placed it in a prominent position on the mantle-shelf. It would
be the first thing Sabina must see when she opened the door.
CHAPTER XIII.
REPENTANCE.
It is hardly to be imagined that a beautiful and healthy young
woman should have attained to the age of five-and-twenty with-
out experiencing, at some time or other, and especially in her
earlier years, certain tender preferences for members of the op-
posite sex ; but these love-fancies, if they may be so called, had
in Sabina's case been quickly absorbed in the cares and active
interests of a particularly busy existence. Her character was
robust and independent ; she had little time for sentimental mus-
ings. Marriage had never entered into her scheme of life. Then
she had seen one after another of her companions retire into the
realm of matronhood, leaving her pretty much alone; and she
had to deal with an ever-increasing amount of business about
training-ships, convalescent homes, philanthropic societies, and
the like ; and it is quite probable, as Mrs. Wygram maintained,
that these occupations of hers, and the almost maternal authority
she had frequently to exercise in the households of the poor and
sickly and indigent, had taught her a certain brusqueness and
directness of manner as of one who was too much engaged with
the practical needs of the world around her to pay much atten-
tion to the refinements of etiquette. But when Mrs. Wygram
plainly accused her of being a downright flirt, Sabina was entire-
ly startled out of her self-complacency ; and when, closely follow-
ing upon that, Mr. Foster made her an indirect offer of marriage,
thereby incurring the pain and mortification of a refusal, there
was no end to her self-reproach. It was true, then, that she had
acted with an indiscretion visible to all on-Iookers? It was true
that she had encouraged him to believe she was willing to be his
wife? What would he think of her? What would his mother
think of her? She recalled the patient and gentle grace and
dignity of the old lady, the evident and affectionate hope that
was in all her words and looks; hur promises of kindness; and
110 SABINA ZEMBEA.
she could imagine the mother goini^ back to the son and break-
ing the truth to him in her delicately considerate fashion. Well,
there was one woman who had never deceived him. "The only
son of his mother," he would at least retain his faith in her — the
faith that he was so openly proud of. And he w'ould forget that
he had ever been trifled with by a flirt.
Now Sabina never did a more foolish thing in her life than
when she came away from Brighton. Had she remained there,
her remorse and self-abasement would have been largely mitigated.
She would have discovered that Mr. Foster's grief over his disap-
pointment was not of a crushing nature. He was annoyed, it is
true; but he was annoyed chiefly by the grumblings of his fa-
ther, who considered that he had been dragged away hither on a
fool's-errand. Mr. Fred Foster was of a cheerful teniperament ;
despondency was not much in his way,
"We haven't pulled it off this time, mother," said he, " but
wait till you see me on my legs again. You could hardly expect
a high-stepper like that to get matched with a broken-down old
cripple in a paddock."
" If I live to see you married to a girl like Miss Zembra, Fred-
die," said the gentle mother, " I shall be happy. A girl like that
would have a good influence over you ; you would give up your
wild life. And I am sure your father and I would be glad to let
you have the old house ; we could do very well at Crookfield."
" You need not count on me. I should be no such fool," the
elder Mr. Foster remarked, with some point.
Mr. Fred Foster chose to ignore this chance observation.
"Oh, don't you make any mistake, mother; Miss Zembra isn't
a prig at all. She is just as fond of fun as anybody ; only she
has never had a chance. Why, she herself told me how well she
liked looking on at some dancing there was at an artist-fellow's
house — I forget the name — and she said it was quite fine to see
a lot of young people — that's the way she talks, you know —
romping about and dajicing the Highland schottische and enjoy-
ing themselves without restraint. Oh, there's nothing of the
stuck-up school-miss about her, I can assure you."
" I do not think I should like to see Miss Zembra dancing the
Highland schottische," the old lady said, quietly, " though I hard-
ly know why."
" No, no," said he, with a laugh, " nothing less dignified than
REPENTANCE. Ill
the minuet in Ariadne. Well, I don't know that I should care to
see her romping about either. But I'll tell you what I should like
to see — I should like to see her drive a dog-cart up to Ascot Heath,
two ponies tandem; wouldn't that be something like the thing?
And on the lawn, mother — just think of her on the lawn — vvhy,
there isn't one of them would be in it with her! Think of her
figure — I tell you there's not one of the women would be in it with
her — except, perhaps, Lady , and she doesn't go to race meet-
ings any more since that thing happened. Well, do you know,
mother, I don't think you would grumble at a little extravagance.
A good figure wants good style — and the fashions have to be paid
for—"
" My dear," said the old lady, with the least touch of remon-
strance in her placid voice, "you speak very confidently."
" Oil," said he, lightly, " that is a fancy picture, you know.
But I am not so sure it won't come off. Of course, I have re-
ceived my snub, and must grin and bear it ; but while there's life
there's hope."
Sabina had but little idea that he was accepting the situation
in this cheerful frame of mind ; and she was alone in London ;
and she was very miserable. For she had a vague conviction
that some kind of calamity had occurred, for which she was
mainly responsible ; and her wrong-doing was none the less dis-
tressing that it was so hard to define. She kept thinking and
thinking over it; wondering what Mrs. Wygram was saying to
Janie about it; hoping that Mr. Foster was not too deeply of-
fended with her. Had she sent him sufficient assurance of her
sorrow over this hapless mistake? Would it not have been
kinder if she had seen him — to say a word of good-by ? And
the beautiful and gentle old lady who had asked her in so pleas-
ing a way to become her daughter — ought she not to sit do-wn
and write to her and make some excuses for her running away ?
Sabina was very busy on these first days of her return to Lon-
don ; but she went about her duties with a preoccupied air. It
struck even herself that slie had less self-confidence somehow in
addressing people — even those best known to her and most de-
pendent on her. But she guessed that might be the effect of her
long holiday ; she had come back strange to her work ; she had
not fallen into tlie way of it yet.
Either Mrs. Wygram or her daughter wrote to their beloved
112 SABINA ZEMBRA.
Sabie every day. This was professedly a medical report ; but of
course it contained all the news of their uneventful life at the sea-
side. And it seemed unaccountable to Sabina that neither of
them should ever make the least mention of Mr. Foster. Why
she wished to hear about him she did not ask herself; but each
letter that came from Brighton she opened quickly, and each time
there was an undefined feeling of disappointment that never a
word was said about him. About the mother and father she had
heard ; the old people had left a couple of days or so after her
departure — Mrs. Foster calling at Regency Square and leaving
some very affectionate messages for Miss Zenibra. But never the
least allusion to the young man ; and Sabina, though writing ev-
ery other day, somehow did not choose to ask.
The reason why Janie had nothing to say about Mr. Foster was
simply this: she had learned from her mother what were his
principal haunts, and she took care that her mother and herself
should keep away from these. They never went out to the end
of the West Pier, nor to the end of the Chain Pier ; and they
seldom went into the Old Steyne Enclosures or the Pavilion Gar-
dens. For Janie's vague dislike for the young man had developed
into something like hatred when she heard that he had attempted
to carry off Sabina from them; and that attempt having been
fortunately frustrated, she was resolved that it would not be
through her mother and herself that any communications should
be resumed. And she was delighted to see that Sabina never
even mentioned his name. She had feared the worst from the
curious interest that Sabina seemed to take in the character and
fortunes of the stranger whom chance had thrown in her way.
But that was all over now. He had been sent about his busi-
ness. Sabina was back in London, and sooner or later Walter
Lindsay would be calling in at Kensington Square to see Mr.
Wygiam.
Brighton is a small place ; Janie was caught at last. Her
mother had lain down for a while after lunch ; the daughter had
come out for a bit of a stroll, and had wandered down to the sea-
front, where she took a seat on one of the benches. A passing
Bath-chair was stopped for a moment just as it reached her.
" I beg your pardon, Miss Wygram, but I'm afraid you've for-
gotten me."
She thought it was an intolerable piece of effrontery that he
EEPENTANCE. 113
should speak to her, after what had happened, but she could not
be positively rude.
" How do you do, Mr. Foster ?" she said, and she gave him her
hand for a moment. " I hope you are g-ctting on well."
"Oh yes, very well," he said, clieerfuliy. "I can move about
a little now, in-doors. I think the Derby week will sec me on my
legs again. And how is Miss Zembra? I suppose you have
heard from her."
And then it flashed upon her that he was assuming she knew
nothing of what had occurred ; for how else could he dare to talk
about Sabina in this free-and-easy fashion?
"Oh yes, I hear from her frequently; she is very well, I be-
lieve. What a pleasant afternoon for going about !"
If that was not an intimation to him that he might move on
she did not know what was. But he remained.
" I have found it very difEerent since she left," said he, with a
rueful smile. " Very different, indeed. I had no idea we had
been such constant companions until she left. Brighton seems
quite deserted now. You see, you get into the habit of meeting
people in a place like this, one day being just like the day before
it; and you don't notice, perhaps, how much you are thrown to-
gether. But you find out when they leave."
"Yes?" said Janie — which was rather cold encouragement.
"And I'm awfully sorry she went away so hurriedly," he con-
tinued (and Janie wished he would not stare at her so uncom-
promisingly with his clear, hard, blue eyes), "I don't mind tell-
ing you there was a kind of — kind of — well, something happened
that might have admitted of some explanation if only she had not
gone away so abruptly, I was awfully sorry — if I could have
seen her for merely a couple of minutes I could have explained u
lot. Yes ; and there's another thing I wanted to say to her be-
fore she went back to London — well, it was talked about occa-
sionally here — but I wanted to impress it on her — don't you think
she ought to look about for some male companion — I suppose she
could not aiford a secretary? — but some male companion anyway,
to go with her through all those places?"
" Miss Zembra," said Janie, distantly (for she was not going
to call her "Sabie" to him), "only goes to places where she is
known ; besides, she can take care of herself."
" Oh, I do not mean in that way," he said, and he accepted her
114 6ABINA ZEMBRA.
repellent attitude with much good-nature ; perhaps he did not no-
tice it. " I mean in the way of her getting sharped. I imagine
she is imposed on by a whole crowd of cringing, fawning, sneak-
ing wretches. If a man were to go with her he would let a little
dayliglit into the whole affair."
" You think he would get to know more about those people
than she could?" Janic asked, "I suppose you are not aware,
then, that Miss Zembra is a member of the Charity Organization
Society ?"
" But she is a woman."
" A woman may have as sharp eyes as a man."
" But she is sure to have a softer heart — and that's where the
trouble comes in."
Janie remained obdurate. Even that little bit of adroit flattery
had no effect on her. And Mr. Foster, seeing that she was not in-
clined for further conversation, left a friendly message for her
mother and passed on.
That evening's despatch to Sabina could not well omit all men-
tion of this interview ; but Janie had no scruples whatever about
sending a distinctly garbled version.
" He seemed as cheerful and complacent as you could wish,"
slie wrote, among other things, " and put all the blame on you for
having gone away so hurriedly. Everything could have been put
right by an explanation. 1 suppose he means he could have ex-
plained why it was absolutely necessary you should become his
wife. And he was kind enough to say that Brighton felt quite
lonely now that you had gone, and that he had no idea you and
he had been so much together. I suppose because he had not
taken the trouble to notice,"
This letter — the animus of which she well understood and
could discard — set Sabie still further wondering. What explana-
tion could he mean ? And so he had been looking back over
their companionship together; and perhaps valuing it a little?
And she was glad that he was putting so brave a face on his dis-
a])pointment; for she assumed that there must have been some
disappointment: a man does not ask a woman to be his wife
without having seriously thought it over, and laid far-reaching
plans and cherished hopes that he is anxious to have fulfilled.
And of course so important a choice is a great honor to confer
upon any girl, and one not lightly or ungratefully to be thrown
REPENTANCE. 115
aside. What explanation was it? she asked herself again and
again. Slie knew that he was not a sentimental person ; but then
neither was she herself; perhaps she ought to have waited, and
listened to what he had to say, and been less discourteous in her
summary refusal.
It may have been this continual questioning of herself that
caused Sabina, one afternoon as slie was going down through
Kensington Square, to pass Walter Lindsay without recognition.
He had not been so blind. He had seen her a long viay off ;
and it was as if something had suddenly grasped his heart and
made it cease to beat. He did not know she had returned to
London. He was not prepared. The calm and equable friend-
ship he had promised himself was not ther® with its quieting in-
fluence ; and he only knew that the sight of Sabina advancing
towards him — the real Sabina — here in Kensington Square — in
Kensington Square that he had peopled so often with ghosts and
visions of her — this actual thing bewildered liim out of his senses,
and he could not think what he was to say to her. How was he
to account for her being in Kensington Square at all? Was
some one ill, that she had so suddenly come back ? She would
be startled and displeased at confronting him so unexpect-
edly.
Sabina came along, all unheeding. She was not looking at any
one whom she might meet; her eyes were absorbed. And when
she passed him, he was still silent, almost fearing to disturb her;
but the next moment something within him took control of him,
and he advanced a quick step or two.
" Miss Zembra !"
She turned with a little start, but the moment she saw who it
was, there was a quick outshining of friendliness from the beauti-
ful eyes and a pleasant smile of welcome. She had been much
harassed and worried those last few days ; she had been almost
alone; here was an old friend who had been kind to her many a
time. And she did not know that she allowed him to retain her
hand while they were mutually asking and answering ihe usual
preliminary questions (perhaps he did not know it either), and
she took no pains to conceal the pleasure with which she recog-
nized him ; and her eyes met his with a frankness that took no
thought of consequences. In short, during these few seconds her
conduct was abominable, Mrs. Wygram would have said ; but Mrs.
116 SABINA ZKMBRA.
Wygram was altogether forgotten in the surprise and gladness of
this unexpected meeting.
" You are going down that way ?" he said, looking towards the
end of tlie square.
" Yes ; I am going down to Cornwall Gardens. It is not often
I pay afternoon calls ; but I am to meet an old admiral who has
been of great service to me several times, and I shall have plenty
of opportunity to thank him — that is, to beg for future favors."
" May I walk as far with you ?"
" If yon like," she said, without hesitation — " if it is not out of
your way."
And here he was actually walking side by side with Sabina
along the Kensingt(^n Square pavement, as many and many a
time he had vainly imagined and pictured to himself. And what
a tragic thing that he could only talk to her about trivial matters
— about Brighton lodging-houses, and the crowds at South Ken-
sington of an evening, and the various gossip of the studios —
when all tlie time he was dying to tell her of the newly estab-
lished relationship, the unalterable and perfect friendship that was
to last between these two for ever and ever and evermore. Of
course he could not tell her, for she knew of no other relation-
ship — and had probably never dreamed of any ; and so he had to
pretend to be eagerly interested in training-ships and the like;
while all the pleasant and amusing things he had been storing up
for her during these many weeks had gone clean out of his head.
No matter; Sabina was about as close to him as she had been in
the hansom ; and he was keeping step with her as well as he
could, and bending towards her a little, so that he could listen to
her the more easily, and sometimes he succeeded in making her
laugh, and her laugh was pleasant to hear. And he knew that
for him thenceforth this Victoria Road would be a blessed thor-
oughfare; he and she together had passed underneath the over-
hanging trees of those front gardens ; for him, at least, the place
would be forever haunted.
Nor even when she had passed within the hated portals of that
house in Cornwall Gardens was he likely to quit the neighborhood
so long as she was there. Of course, he could not wait and offer
to escort her back home again, if she was going home ; that would
have been too significant; but he could linger unobserved until
she came out, and have at least a last glimpse of her. And that
REPENTANCE. 117
was all lie obtained ; for on Sabina's coming- out of the house she
took the first cab she saw, and was driven away he knew not
whither.
But he was happy enoug-h ; nay, his heart was filled with re-
joicing. Nor would he go northward by Victoria Road and Ken-
sington Square; the way they had come seemed to him still rich
with the glory of her presence ; he would not go and see how
empty the thoroughfares looked. No, he went away in another
direction altogether; and eventually, after many aimless turnings
and wanderings, found himself, towards seven o'clock, out in the
Addison Road neighborhood, and at the door of the studio of an
old chum of his.
This Willie Meteyard was rather celebrated in his way as hav-
ing been an unconscionable number of times on the very edge of
being elected to the Academy, and failing at the last moment
through some unexpected combination ; but he took these disap-
pointments very equably, and worked away at his pictures of Irish
peasant life with an assiduity which brought him a fair amount
of fame and the dealers a large amount of money. He was a
bachelor, and he was sitting down to a bachelor dinner when Wal-
ter Lindsay entered. Artists, as a rule, are not over-exacting in
their needs; there was soon another plate on the table.
"What are you going to do to-night, Willie?" the visitor
asked.
" I'm going with those Mowbray girls and their mother to the
theatre."
"You'll have to dress and get away immediately, I suppose?"
" Yes."
" W'hat a nuisance ! You'd much better stop where you arc,
and we'll go into the studio and have a pipe and some music."
Now, Mr. Meteyard was nuich fonder of music than of the thea-
tre ; and he knew that when Lindsay got into the vein he played
very well indeed, and with quite unusual feeling; besides, Lindsay
was an old friend, and the Mowbrays were mere acquaintances ;
and the promise was not a very definite one ; and there was a
large party going to the theatre, and he would not be missed.
Finally, he wanted to stop — and he stopped.
The evening passed pleasantly enough, though by degrees the
two friends ceased from music, and took mostly to smoking and
lounging and chatting in the comfortable, hushed studio. And,
118 SABINA ZEMBRA,
of course, Walter Lindsay had but one subject, to wliich he re-
turned again and again by many subterfuges ; and tliat subject,
of course, was the beautiful nature and disposition of Miss Zem-
bra, and the ennobling effect of an assured friendship with such a
woman ; the influence it must have on one's character, and on
one's work, too, making it sincere and earnest and of a lofty aim
— all of which Willie Meteyard had heard a few times before. At
last he said,
" Look here, Walter, my good fellow, let's have an end of this.
It's no use your trying to humbug me. All your talk about
friendship is pure idiocy. I tell you I believe what you say of
the girl — I suppose it's all true. But I tell you this as well — and
it's as plain as a pikestaff to every one but yourself — I tell you,
you're just madly in love with her."
CHAPTER XIV.
A ROSE-DECORATED BALL.
To name a thing is uothing; other people might call it love, if
they liked ; he was content to regard it as a beautiful and ideal
friendship ; and he could have wished that this was the fourteenth
century, and London, Florence ; and that a certain chosen band of
charming ladies and young gentlemen might retire to a small and
fair domain without the city, there to walk in cool gardens and
fragrant meadows, singing songs and telling stories, weaving gar-
lands of flowers, and dancing to the dulcet strains of lute and viol
— all to show to the world that perfect and frank good-comrade-
ship might innocently and advantageously exist between unmar-
ried men and maidens. In the mean time, he was neither in Flor-
ence nor in the fourteenth century ; and, indeed, he was too much
occupied with the one and sole and consuming question as to how
he should manage to see Sabina again to waste much thinking
over impracticabilities.
But afternoon calls were useless, for Sabina was rarely at home
in the daytime; haunting the neighborhood of Kensington Square
was tantalizing beyond endurance; and not until Mrs. Wvgram
came back from Brighton could he hope for an invitation to
A ROSE-DECORATED BALL. 119
spend an evening with them. Was there no othei* way? For
this constant desire to meet her again — if only for a few min-
utes, just to see how she was looking, and hear her voice — ban-
ished every other thought and fancy from his brain ; and he neg-
lected his work, and his ordinary companions had but little interest
for him ; and London became at once a delight and a torture to
him — knowing, as he did, that Sabina was somewhere within the
vast extent of it; and from morning till night he kept vainly
guessing at her probable whereabouts. All this was friendship of
a very exalted and devoted character, he knew ; still, it was friend-
ship.
One afternoon he went down to the house of a famous Acad-
emician, and found the mistress of the mansion at home. There
were a few visitors present, and when they rose to leave he re-
mained ; he wanted to have a little private conversation with Mrs.
Mellord.
" Why," said he, when they had gone, "from what I hear, the
whole of London is coming to you on the 22d?"
"Oh no, no — only a few friends," she said (all hostesses say
the like). " We shall be very quiet — don't you be frightened
away — "
" Oh, I am coming, of course," he said.
"*! have got some pretty women," she observed, encouragingly
(and she herself was charming enough, both in appearance and
manner).
" You always do have pretty women at your house," he said.
" Don't you know that other people are a little bit jealous ? How
do you manage it? They're not too fond of shining side by
side. They like to be solitary stars. Well, now — eh — I wanted
to ask you if you had sent a card to the Wygrams ?"
"The Wygrams?" she repeated, with the least touch of sur-
prise. " I don't think I did, then."
" Oh, but you ought," he made bold to say (for he was on very
friendly terms with this pretty Mrs. Mellord). "Oh yes, you
must — a kindness, you know — auld lang syne — "
" I should hardly have thought it was in their way," she said,
still looking rather puzzled. And then something seemed to
strike her, and she regarded the young man with shrewd and de-
murely smiling eyes. "I suppose you mean that Miss Zera bra
should be included ?"
120 SABIXA ZEMBRA.
"Miss Zembra?"hc answered, and he took up an Egyptian
scent-burner and affected to be deeply interested in the potter's
handiwork. " Well, yes ; I understand she is still living with
them. I don't know that she would care to come — probably not.
She would want some persuasion, I suppose, if you were kind
enough to ask her. However, if you want another pretty woman,
there is one. Of course, as I say, she would have to be persuaded
— she doesn't often go out — but you could tell her, for example,
that she ought to go out from time to time — seeing how rich
people enjoy and amuse themselves should sharpen her sympathy
■with those poor people she works among — you might put it that
way, if you thought it worth while asking her."
Mrs. Mellord burst out laughing.
" Do you know, Mr. Lindsay, that you are a very admirable
actor ? Of course, it is not you who want Miss Zeinbra to be here
on the 22d. Oli no. And your air of indifference — excellent!
Do you think I have heard nothing? — with all the town talking
about your infatuation for Miss Sabina !"
lie reddened to the temples.
" I was not aware there were so many idiots in the world."
"Don't be angry," said his friend, placidly ; "they might have
coupled your name with a plainer girl. Now let us understand
each other. Supposing I go to Miss Zembra and talk her over,
and get her to come here, perliaps you would like to take her in
to supper ?"
lie looked up quickly, bat she did not give him time to
speak.
" I suppose you would not object. Well, then, everybody says
that Ilerr Borella is a great chum of yours. I saw him the other
night, and he refused to come to me on the 22d — the flimsiest
excuse you ever heard : do you think you can induce him to
change his mind?"
" I know I can."
" And will you get him to sing?"
" Certainly."
" For, don't you see, I am not going to sacrifice the whole night
to you boys and girls. I must have some little amusement for
the elderly people, and I am going to have distinct intervals be-
tween the dances, and have music — songs, I mean, for no one
listens to anything else. Well, then, I have got Madame Secchi
A KOSE-DECORATED BALL. 121
and Angelica Russell and Isidore, and one or two others, and I
want 3'oiir friend Borella as well."
" 01), that's all right," he said, promptly.
" You really think you will get him to sing for me?"
" I'll make him sing."
" Because," said pretty Mrs. Mellord, gravely — and she regarded
the young man with eyes that meant a good deal — "in that case
I think, out of sheer gratitude, I must do my best to persuade
Miss Zembra."
The 22d was a long way off yet, however; and in the interval
the Wygrams came home from Brighton. During this time he
encountered the sympathetic Janie occasionally, but saw very little
of Sabina, who was busy with her multifarious duties ; so that all
the more he looked forward to the evening on which he was to
meet her at Mrs. Mellord's, and always with the tacit assumption
that he was to have the monopoly of her society on that occasion.
Had it not been so at his own house on that memorable night?
Sabina was his companion all the way through; at supper she
had sat on his right hand, and talked almost exclusively to him ;
in the studio the others were free to dance, or listen to music, or
amuse themselves as they chose : Sabina and he were apart, and
together. And as it was then, so it would be now ; for who else
had such a claim on her ?
And at last came the night of the ball, and it was the very
height of the London season ; and as carriage after carriage drove
up to Mrs. Mellord's house, the crowd on the pavement had more
or less distant glimpses of very distinguished people indeed — a
generally recognized face causing a little murmur of comment —
and of the less-known womenfolk who stepped along under the
awning in the lightest and palest of summer cloaks and hoods.
And pleasant it was on this hot June night to pass into the spa-
cious hall of white and black marble; and fresh and cool looked
the tall ferns that went all the way round the walls ; and there
was a grateful flashing of the central fountain, where a ghost-white
alabaster swan floated motionless in the middle of a miniature
lake. But from the hall upward and onward there was no deco-
ration but roses. Ropes of roses adorned the staircase ; festoons
of roses hung above the doors ; masses of roses gave color to the
pale-gold ballroom ; and on the supper-table — as yet concealed
from the public eye — lay a bed of red roses from end to end.
6
122 SABINA ZEMBRA.
Everywhere there was a scent of roses, and a sound of music, too,
for tlie dancing had begun ; and pretty Mrs. Mellord, at the head
of the staircase, was already becoming anxious that the people
should disperse a little, and not crowd so obstinately round the
ballroom door.
Walter Lindsay was not in that ballroom. No ; he was in the
spacious hall below, lounging about with Willie Meteyard, and
pretending to listen to him. The subject of their talk was etch-
ing, ordinarily a sufficiently attractive topic for most artists ; and
Meteyard was most enthusiastic about a wonder-working press he
had just purchased. Somehow or other, however, Walter Lind-
say's attention was but intermittent. He looked anxious. He
kept glancing towards the wide-open door-way, and to the brill-
iant crowd that came slowly pouring in. And at last, with a
sudden " See you by-and-by," he abruptly left his companion and
made for a certain small group that had just arrived.
Sabina (so tall she seemed ; and to him she appeared to be en-
veloped in a cloud of white gauze — but that was because he had
no eyes for anything but her face and the possible look of wel-
come he might find there) was apparently a little surprised to
meet him.
" In London still ?" she said, in her direct way. " Why are
you not in the country at work?"
He stammered some excuse.
" And you might well ask what brings us here," she added,
■with a smile ; " but Janie wanted to see the roses."
They passed into the cloak-room. He was very nervous while
awaiting them. He wanted to get possession of Sabina from the
first — to establish a right of companionship that no one could
interfere with. And what if they were to be separated on the
crowded staircase, or if she were to be snatched away from hitn
on her entrance to the rooms above? It suddenly occurred to
him that he was, in a manner, helpless. In his own home, with
Sabina as his guest, he could do what he liked. He could choose
her seat for her, take her hither and thither, and generally assume
charge of her. But here, in another person's house, he had no
such control ; all sorts of untoward accidents might happen ;
wild beasts (in the shape of strangers wanting introductions)
would be waiting up -stairs to devour her. And what had he
come for if Sabina were to be spirited away ?
A KOSE-DECOEATED BALL. 123
However, when the women reappeared, it was very evident that
Sabina had no intention of ignoring the claims of old friendship.
She came forward to him quite frankly ; appeared to take it for
granted he was waiting for them, and went up the staircase with
him, these two together, and Janie looking on with marked
approval.
" I wish Mr. Foster could see them now," she said, in an un-
dertone, to her mother.
" You know," Sabina said to her companion, " we are going
away quite early. I cannot have all the good that Brighton did
to Mrs. Wygram undone again. Wasn't it kind of her to take
all the trouble about bringing ws here to-night? But Janie was so
anxious to see the pretty rooms; and then Mrs. Mcllord is a very
persuasive woman — when she sets her mind on a thing — "
"Oh," said he, "I will take you where yon will see everything
without getting crushed. I know you don't care much about
dancing. Miss Zembra, and I don't either; why, I detest it — in
this hot weather — in a crowd — "
But they were now arrived at the head of the staircase. Mrs.
Mellord was not much surprised to find Walter Lindsay appear at
the same time with Miss Zembra ; and she gave both of them,
and the Wygrams, a pleasant greeting, only she took occasion, as
she pressed Mr. Lindsay's hand sliglitly, to say,
" Borella is here, and has already sung twice. You are a very
good boy."
Now as Walter Lindsay was familiar with this house, and as
all the rooms on this floor were en suite, he found no difficulty in
taking his little party by a roundabout way to a corner where
they could have a commanding view. And a very pretty sight it
was; the pale-hued walls, the brilliant lights, the masses and ropes
and festoons of roses; young English girls showing further roses
in their cheeks, their eyes vivid with the animation of a waltz ;
dowagers gorgeous in velvet and satin and diamonds ; here and
there in the "general circle," if one may use the phrase, the re-
splendent costume of a dusky Indian Prince, or the quieter gar-
ments of a group of Chinese officials looking on with impassive
stare. Perhaps, indeed, the "general circle" was more interest-
ing to the ordinary observer than the industrious young men and
maidens who were engaged in the active business of the evening;
for there were many famous folk here ; and, luckily for Lindsay's
124 SABINA ZEMBRA.
companions, his acquaintance was not confined to mere painters
and poets, and people of that kind. However, they were not suf-
fered to remain long in this quiet corner. The son of the house
had espied them ; a quadrille was being formed ; he brought
along a partner, and introduced him to Janie. Janie was a good
girl, and told no lie ; only she threw a little despairing glance
towards Sabina.
" Won't you come in, Sabie ?" she said.
" Will you ?" said Walter Lindsay, quickly.
*' Oh yes," was the placid answer.
And so before he knew what he was about he found himself
engaged to dance with Sabina; and quite inadvertently he took
lier hand so as to put her in proper position, and his heart was
beating pretty quickly, and the music that had now begun made
a fervor in his brain, so that the little speeches he made to her
were rather incoherent. Fortunately, they were " sides," and in
the period of waiting Sabina looked on calm and bland and smil-
ing. When it came to their turn she went through the various
evolutions with a simplicity and ease and grace that entirely sur-
prised him, and wrought him a more deadly woe than ever. Was
it her beautiful figure, then, that caused her slightest movement
to appear so fine and finished ? and then she was so gentle and
dignified in her self-possession, and Janie's eyes, as he could see,
were full of admiring pride ; she seemed to be saying, " Is not
our beautiful Sabie perfect in everything she does?" And, of
course, he pretended to have forgotten the figures in order to
have information given him in an undertone ; and he rather lin-
gered in letting go her hand when they returned to their places,
and he, too, spoke to her in an undertone, as if to shut away the
outer world. But alas! this close companionship could not last
forever; the music and the dancing ceased, and he had to take
her back to Mrs. Wygram. It was Perdita he was thinking of,
and Florizel's speech to her: "What you do still betters what is
done. . . . When you do dance, I wish you a wave o' the sea, that
you might ever do nothing but that." Only this was rather a
tall and stately Perdita, though her manner was gracious enough.
Madame Secchi was now singing the Casta Diva air from
" Norma," but he did not listen attentively ; he was busy with
the fear that that officious young Mellord would presently be
bringing along some partner and stealing Sabina away from him.
A ROSE-DECORATED BALL. 125
And he was resolved that no such thing should occur. So lie
charged them not to move from their present position, and slipped
away through the crowd, and reached his hostess.
" Mrs. Mellord," said he, " are you going to be awfully good to
nie ?"
" I always am," was the prompt reply.
" Yes ; but this time especially ?"
"What is it?"
" Miss Zembra and the Wygrams are not going to stay late,
and I want to show them the supper-room ; I've heard about the
roses. May I take them in ?"
" The candles are not lit yet."
" Oh, but there will be some kind of light."
" Very well, then." And then she looked at him with laughing
but friendly eyes. " Promise to be grateful to me all your life.
I will let you give them supper now, if you can find any."
" No— may I ?"
"But get the servants to put the table straight — don't forget
that."
And right gladly and swiftly lie went back to his friends; the
music had not yet finished ; Sabina was still there.
" Come along," said he ; " I am commissioned by Mrs. Mellord
to take you into the supper-room — before any one else goes in —
come along !"
And then he bundled them away, and guided them across the
upper hall, and opened the ponderous rosewood door, and ushered
them into this long, dimly lit chamber. But even these few
lamps showed what a beautiful room it was — the abundance of
flowers, the silver candelabra, the crystal and china, making the
table very pretty indeed. Then it was cool and quiet and mys-
terious ; there was no servant of any kind near ; they were as
children who had stolen into some forbidden place. Of course
the womenfolk would not hear of his attempting to get them an}'^
supper. Would he disarrange that beautiful table ? They could
get some refreshment, if they wanted any, in the other room.
Then said Janie,
" Mother, Sabie is tired after her long day's work. Let her
stop here — in the cool. We will go back and look at the dan-
cing."
Sabina was nothing loath ; tliis room was indeed much less hot
126 SABINA ZEMBRA,
than the others; he had got her a comfortable chair; and, -when
she had time, she enjoyed hiziness luxuriously. What did she
talk to him about? It seemed a matter of little concern to her.
He was all eagerness to interest her — about a dozen different sub-
jects; but she answered as if the mysterious lights, and the cool
atmosphere, and the scent of the roses were enough for her. She
lay a little back in her chair; the solitary diamond in the slender
necklace round her throat flashed from time to time; she never
raised her eyes to his; she seemed content — and blandly indif-
ferent.
But there was a growing wildness in his brain ; at any moment
she might carelessly rise and signify her wish to return to the
ballroom ; and he could not control her going. He took a rose
from the bed of roses.
"Miss Zcmbra, will you give me this rose?" he said, in rather
a low voice.
In an instant she seemed to be startled into half-consciousness,
and to recollect where she was — and what Mrs. Wygrara would
probably say of her. The next moment she had risen and taken
the rose and placed it gently back on the table.
"We must not rob Mrs. Mellord," she said, v.ith perfect quie-
tude. "And now shall we go back?"
" I would wait ten years to get that rose from you," he said,
for this madness was still in his brain.
Perhaps she did not hear. She preceded him calmly to the
door, and there, indeed, she lingered for half a second until he
rejoined her; and together, as if nothing had happened, they re-
turned to the Wygrams. But he was very pale; and all this
thing around him was phantasmal — the din and splendor were
alike bewildering; he looked on, but his eyes were blind.
Sabina began to question Mrs. W^ygram about going, and this
somewhat recalled him to himself. Nay, she spoke to him too,
and with no studied coldness, but rather with a certain timidity.
Had she heard, and yot was not angry ? Or was it that she was
too gentle to be angry ? She would rather pretend not to have
heard at all.
Very soon the Wygrams and Sabina left, and for him the rose-
scented ball was over, lie returned no more to those brilliant
rooms, with their blazing candelabra, and beautiful dresses, and
gay music. He put on his thin summer overcoat, and went away
AN ALLIANCE. 127
listlessly — and yet with a kind of excitement in his brain — through
the dim gas-lit streets — down by Gloucester Road, and Cornwali
Gardens, and back by Victoria Road, and so, and stealthily, through
Kensington Square. The lights were already out in the well-
known house. And then he wandered away up in the Notting
Ilill direction, until he reached his own home ; and there he went
into the studio, and turned up the gas, and threw off his coat, and
sat down. What had happened? And right well he knew; no
further disguise or pretence was possible now ; his inmost soul
had spoken — to himself, if not to her.
CHAPTER XV.
AN ALLIANCE.
One morning Sabina and Janie were engaged on an errand in
Richmond Road, Old Brompton, when a hansom cab that had
come rattling along behind them was pulled up, and the occupant
stepped out. Sabina happened to turn her head.
" Mr. Foster !"
And, indeed, it was Mr. Foster — brisk, smiling, complacent;
very smartly dressed and gloved, too, though the tall hat made
him look a little bit unfamiliar.
"This is a stroke of luck," said he. "I was driving down to
the sports at Lillie Bridge, little expecting to have this pleasure."
" Oh, but you can't tell how glad I am to see you able to get
about again," she said, with great earnestness. " Indeed, indeed,
I am very glad !"
" There is not much to boast of yet," he said, lightly. " I don't
think I should like to back myself to run the Open Quarter Mile
in forty-eight seconds. That was done on Saturday, at this very
place. But we are getting on. And at any rate, a hansom is
more comfortable than a Bath-chair. I am just making the fort-
unes of the London cabbies at present. Well, now, I won't detain
you, for I saw you were walking quickly ; but I want you to tell
me if I may call at Kensington Square — to make your acquaint-
ance, you know."
"To make my acquaintance?" she repeated; she did not un-
derstand.
128 SABINA ZEMBRA.
" Why, yes," lie continued, cheerfully. "You've only known
me as a cripple — in a Bath-chair and a pot hat. I want to intro-
duce myself in a new character. May I come to see you — and
Mrs. ^Yygl■am ?"
" I am sure we shall be very pleased indeed," Sabina answered,
with evident sincerity. "Why, you don't understand — it is like
getting well one's self to see you as you are now. Don't you feel
very happy about it ? I do."
Her sympathy was exceedingly frank, and her pleasure on wit-
nessing this transformation obvious enough. Indeed, in her sur-
prise and gratification over this sudden encounter, she had entire-
ly forgotten the little tentative embassy that Mr. Foster's mother
had undertaken, and when he asked her to say on which day he
might call at Kensington Square, she instantly named the follow-
ing afternoon.
"Sabie," her companion remonstrated, "you will be at the
Charity Organization !"
" I shall be home by half-past five," was the answer, " and very
glad of a cup of tea — because sometimes the proceedings are not
quite unanimous."
"What!" Mr. Foster struck in. "You don't mean to say that
those good people have an occasional bickering ? Well, I should
like to be there — to lend you a helping hand."
Sabina laughed.
" What is the matter?" he asked, innocently.
"I think you would make a strange figure at a meeting of the
Charity Organization Society," she remarked.
"I've got an English tongue in my head — I could speak my
mind," he said, bluntly. " However, I see you want to be off.
To-morrow at half-past five, then."
And he got into the hansom again and drove away, while they
turned out of this thoroughfare and made for the Fulham Road.
As they were going through the Boltons, Sabina said,
"I am so glad we met him. I feel quite happy about it."
" I don't see why his recovering from an accident should be of
so much importance to you," Janie said, rather coldly,
" You forget that I was mainly the cause of the accident," Sa-
bina answered, but in her gentle way.
" We will not discuss that, for we are not likely to agree."
And then Janie added, sharply, " And look at the way he occupies
AN ALLIANCE. 129
his time, now that he can get about again — driving in hansoms
to places of amusement — his onl}' thought for himself. Why, Sa-
bie, I can't understand the interest you take in that man. There
never were two human beings so entirely dissimilar in everything.
When I think of the life he leads — sports and pleasures and pas-
times from week's end to week's end ; and the life that you lead
— working hard, and all for other people — "
" Janie, Janie," Sabina said, with a laugh, " why will you be so
violently prejudiced ? Haven't I told you a hundred times that
what is right for one person is not necessarily right for every
one? Different people have different hobbies; and I happen to
have mine. Do you think, if I could ride like Mr. Foster, and
play cricket, and so on, I should not be intensely interested in
those things ?"
"Oh yes," said Janie, with cutting irony. "I can quite im-
agine Sabina Zembra a champion slayer of pigeons. Two to one,
bar one. That's just like yon, Sabie !"
When Mr. Fred Foster called at Kensington Square the follow-
ing afternoon he was even more scrupulously neat in his attire;
and the slight lameness from which he still suffered served as an
excuse for the display of a walking-stick, the head of which was
of elaborately carved jade. There was no embarrassment about
him over this his first visit to the house ; he was most pleasant to
Mrs. Wygram (Janie had gone out) ; he was anxious to hear from
Sabina of the proceedings at the Charitable Organization Society ;
and he facetiously remarked that, although he had intended to in-
troduce himself as a new acquaintance, it was impossible to keep
up the pretence — he preferred to acknowledge that he had fallen
among old friends.
" Well, you know," he said, " the memory of a lioliday place
and the time you spent there is always far finer than the thing
itself, and fortunately so. Don't you ever think of those morn-
ings at Brighton, Miss Zembra — out at the end of the Pier, you
know ; the fresh wind, and clear skies, and the music ; the young
people about; and you beginning to think that when hinch-time
comes along you will be quite ready? Very jolly mornings they
were, weren't they ? And when you look back at them they seem
very bright somehow — a poetical halo, I suppose? And that," lie
continued, warming to his subject, for he was evidently bent on
making a good impression, in his self-complacent way — " that is
6*
130 SABINA ZEMBRA.
what I should like to have in my composition — just enough poetry
to make things look a little better than they are. It's no great
harm to go on thinking all your geese are swans, so long as you
don't find it out. Of course, I shouldn't want to have as much
poetry as would drive one into publishing it, and running the
racket of the critics, and becoming miserable if the public wouldn't
look at you. Oh no ; I should like to be able to take a fairly
roseate view of things, but for my own use ; I shouldn't care a rap
what other people thought of them. As for writing real poetry,
now — well, I don't know — I suppose it may be interesting to be
a famous person — in your own lifetime, I mean — people stare at
you, if that is any good to you — but beyond that what is there in
fame ? I don't see that it would be of any advantage to me that
people should remember my name two hundred years after my
death."
His apologia pro vita sua would sometimes come in thus in the
most unexpected fashion ; but indeed it was unnecessary, for Sa-
bina had a wide experience of diverse modes of life, and she was
tolerant to a degree. If he seemed to spend a good deal of his
time up at Lord's and at the Oval, why should he not, on those
pleasant summer afternoons ? He was harming no one, as far as
she knew.
He did not overstay his welcome ; and it was clear that on this
first visit he had managed to somewhat mitigate Mrs. Wygram's
prejudice against him ; for it was with no great asperity that
she said, when he had gone,
" Sabie, don't you think it just a little awkward that Mr. Foster
should come here?"
" Why, then?" the girl said, with some surprise.
" Well, you know it is not such a long time since he asked you
to be his wife — indirectly, at least. And a refusal is supposed to
mean something. I should not wonder, now, if you encourage
him to call, and receive him in that frank way you have with ev-
erybody, he may begin to imagine that you would not be sorry if
he repeated his offer."
Sabina reddened a little, but she said,
"Dear Mrs. Wygrara, you must not put such fancies into inno-
cent people's heads. I am sure he is thinking of no such thing.
He is as busy in his own way as I am in mine ; especially now
that he can get about again."
AN ALLIANCE. 131
Busy as lie was, however, Mr. Foster found time to pay several
visits to Kensington Square ; and he was very straightforward in
asking Sabina when she was likely to be found at home. lie
seemed exceedingly desirous of establishing affectionate relations
between her and the old lady in Buckinghamshire. One day he
brought with him a magnificent basket of strawberries.
"This is a little present from my mother, Miss Zerabra," ho
said, "and she wants you to know that they are her own growing
— of course she is rather proud of them."
" That is very kind, I am sure," Sabina said. "Will you give
her my best thanks, and say how good it was of her to think of
me?"
" If you wouldn't mind sending her a note yourself, Miss Zem-
bra?" he suggested. " It would please her so much."
"Oh yes, I will," Sabina said at once; "give me the address."
And so the brief note was written and despatched to Bucking-
hamshire. Of course, it needed no reply ; but, all the same, the re-
ply came, in the shape of a very long and affectionate letter, in
which the old lady ventured to hope that she had done no harm
by a certain indiscreet disclosure made at Brighton. Moreover,
enclosed in the letter was a photograph of the garden where the
strawberries were grown, with Mrs. Foster seated in an arm-chair,
and the old gentleman, scissors in hand, standing at the door of
the vine-houses. It was a pretty and peaceful-looking picture;
and Sabina, in acknowledging the receipt, said so. What, then,
should arrive — even by return of post — but an invitation — a gen-
eral invitation — to Sabina to come down to this peaceful retreat
whenever she felt tired, or ill, or depressed, with abundant assur-
ances that she would be treated with the most considerate care.
A more than friendly letter, nicely worded ; and Mr. Fred Foster
was good enough to indorse that invitation eagerly, and to say the
old lady's heart would just be filled with joy if Miss Zenibra would
take her at her word, and go down to see her when the opportu-
nity arose.
Another point that he went back upon again and again was
the necessity of Miss Zcmbra introducing a little more amuse-
ment into her life. He had nothing to say against the self-ap-
pointed labors that she had devoted herself to; only that she
•was too assiduous. All work and no play, he insisted, was the
right thing for no one; and he appealed to Mrs.Wygrain. Why
132 SABINA ZEMBRA.
should not Miss Zembra have gone up to see the Eton vs. Harrow
match at Lord's ? — for indeed he had been desirous of escorting
the whole party thither.
"But I find my amusement in my work, such as it is," Sabina
said, good-naturedly. " I dou't know that I should care to sit
and look on at a number of boys knocking a ball about. Perhaps
I might, though. Young English lads, healthy and well-built
and active, are always nice to look at. And that reminds me, I
am going down to see my boys on the Arethusa and Chichester
next Wednesday ; it is the annual inspection. Now, is not that
a sufficient holiday, Mr. Foster ? And I am going with a clear
conscience ; I shall not have to drag either Mrs. Wygram or Janie
with me; Mrs. Tremenheere is going, and I have merely to pick
her up at Charing Cross Pier. Now, is not that enough of a
holiday? A pleasant sail down the river, luncheon on board the
Arethusa, w^atching the boys go through their drill, presenting
the prizes, and then back to town."
And not only did Mr. Fred Foster express approval, but also he
was curious to learn further and minute details about this pro-
jected excursion. What was the institution ? Who were the
managers? Who were likely to be there on Wednesday? How
were invitations come at ?
" You know," said he, " if my little arrangement about the
Leicestershire Cup comes oS I shall become a subscriber."
" I think we'd rather have the money now," Sabina said, " and
then you won't risk losing it."
" But it's out of the profits — if any — that the subscription
would come," he then explained.
Soon, however, he was to be of assistance to her in a more im-
mediate way. One evening, about half-past six, he strolled along
to Kensington Square, on the off-chance that she had returned
home somewhat before dinner-time ; a message from the old lady
in Buckinghamshire was the ostensible excuse for his calling. He
had scarcely entered the square than he perceived her at the far-
ther corner of it, coming north ; so he leisurely went on to meet
her.
" Oh," Mr. Foster, I am glad to see you," she said, in her frank
way; " I want to see if you can give me some help."
" You may be sure I will if I can," he said, cheerfully.
"It's rather a sad story," she said, plunging into the matter at
AN ALLIANCE. 133
once. " A poor widow I know has an only son, a lad about fif-
teen, and he has got into trouble. It isn't merely the loss of his
wages for the moment — though that is something to her — it is
his future, and the difBculty of getting another situation for him,
that is worrying the poor woman. This is how it happened :
He is employed in a livery-stable keeper's place down in Earl's
Court, lie had to take a whip into the clerk's office to leave it
there. Well, a customer had been paying a bill, and the change
was two shillings ; but he had neglected to pick up the change,
and he and the clerk came to the door of the office, for they were
talking together. The boy goes past them into the office to leave
the whip ; he sees the florin lying on the counter; the temptation
is too great — he slips it into his pocket. Then the man remem-
bers he has not picked up his change ; turns, and finds it is gone ;
the boy is challenged, and at once gives up the florin. Well, of
course, there is no excuse ; but, of course, most people have done
things they are sorry for; and I am certain this boy has nothing
of the inborn thief in him — it was a sudden temptation, and he
gave way. There was a talk of prosecution ; 1 went to his mas-
ter, and he consented to stop that, only he insisted on dismissing
the lad ; so that there he is now, without a situation and without
a character or reference. Can you get some kind-hearted man to
overlook this one slip and give the boy another trial ?"
She had an admirably business-like way of putting a case;
perhaps she was used to it. As for Fred Foster, he paused ; had
he not always been telling her that she needed a man's shrewd-
ness and firmness to assist her — that she was always running, the
risk of being imposed upon ?
" If I could see the lad," said he, *' I think I could tell by the
look of him whether his story will wash."
" Oh, but he confesses 1"
" Well, I could tell whether I should care to ask somebody to
give him a fresh start."
"Would you mind coming and seeing him now?" she said,
promptly. "His mother lives not ten minutes' walk from here,
and he is at home just now, I know."
" But if you are kept late for dinner ?"
"Oh, that is nothing," she said, cheerfully. "They never wait
for me ; that's all right."
So they set out — she walking at a studiously moderate pace ;
134 SABINA ZEMBRA,
and he seemed a little proud and pleased to have so fair a com-
panion. And how did he entertain her ? Well, there had been
a smoking concert at Mildenhull, in Suffolk, given by certain
"bookies" to their friends, who were at the Newmarket race
meeting; and he had been present on this particularly festive
occasion ; and he gave her a fairly vivid and humorous account
of the evening. He was very honest: he never sought to conceal
anything about himself or his companions, and they seemed to
have been pretty gay at the White Hart Hotel. In the middle
of the story Sabina bowed to some one passing, and Mr. Foster,
raising his hat, as in duty bound, merely glanced at the stranger.
" That is Mr. Lindsay, the artist whom I have spoken to you
about," said Sabina.
" Oh, indeed," he said, indifferently. " An odd-looking creat-
ure — gaunt, white-faced, and black-haired — seems to have come
out of Byron's poems — those artists always do like to look sin-
gular."
" But you must not say anything like that about Mr. Lindsay,"
said Sabina, gently, " for he is a particular friend of mine — of
ours."
When they reached the widow woman's scantily furnished
lodgings the peccant youth seemed almost paralyzed with fear;
he imagined that this appearance of a stranger could only mean
prosecution, with its unknown horrors. But Fred Foster speedily
reassured him. After a sharp scanning of the boy's face, he said,
" Look here, my lad, you've had a narrow escape, and I hope
it will be a warning to you all your life. This lady has told me
the whole story ; and I think I can get you a situation, where
you will have a fair trial — only it will be out of town — "
"Oh, he will not mind that, sir," the mother interposed, quick-
ly, " if only he can get another chance. Poor lad, he feels it
awful, sir."
" Well, if you mean to keep on the square," he said, still ad-
dressing the boy, " I'll see what I can do. Get your kit together,
and meet me at Victoria Station to-morrow morning at 10.40.
Will you remember?"
" Yes, sir."
" I will take you down to Epsom, and get you a place there,
where nothing will be known of what has happened. The rest is
for yourself; you will have a fair chance of getting on."
AN ALLIANCE. 135
" Yes, sir — thank you, sir." The boy was too frightened to
say more.
" Well, now, that is very kind of you to take so much trouble,"
Sabina £aid, when they were come out again. "To go away
down to Epsom — "
" Don't give me unnecessary credit, Miss Zembra," he said at
once. " Going down to Epsom never comes amiss to me — I can
always put in a day in that quarter, sometimes to my own advan-
tage. And I will get your stable-boy a place easily enough ; poor
young devil, he seems frightened out of his wits. I suppose his
mother has been nagging at him. What a fearful thing it would
be if everything was to be treasured up against us, and no for-
giveness possible. I don't mean you," he added, hastily — " I was
talking about men. And — and — did I tell you how we wound
up the evening at Mildenhall ?"
Sabina thought he had not ; and so — he discoursing the while
on these pretty goings-on — they walked equably back to Kensing-
ton Square.
It was only a day or two after this occurrence that Walter
Lindsay happened to meet Janie Wygram, who with her mother
had gone to pay an afternoon call at an artist's house. Wander-
ing about the big studio, as all of them did, lie had little difficulty
in getting the chance of saying a few words to Janie by herself.
" I suppose," he said, rather diffidently, " that it was the Mr.
Foster you told me of whom I saw walking with Miss Zembra
the other day ?"
Janie instantly turned her sympathetic and troubled eyes tow-
ards him, and then lowered them.
" I did not know you had seen them," she said. " But no
doubt it was Mr. Foster. Sabie told me he had gone with her to
see some people she's interested in. AVcll, what do you think of
him ?"
She hoped he would say something bitter and savage.
" I only caught a moment's glimpse of him," he answered,
evasively. " He goes a good deal to Kensington Square ?"
lie endeavored to speak in an indifferent way ; but Janie was
not deceived.
" Yes, he has been there several times of late ;" and tlicrc was
a little touch of indignation in her tone as she added, "And do
you know how he has acquired such an influence over Sabie?
136 SABINA ZEMBRA.
Well, I'll tell you — it's his impudence — pure impudence. Sabie
has never been treated in that free-and-easy way before ; and she
doesn't understand it, and gets bewildered, and tliinks there must
be something in him because he is cool and complacent and mas-
terful towards her. And to think that Sabie — a girl like Sabie —
should be imposed upon by pure impudence !"
But Janie Wygrara could scarcely be regarded as a dispassion-
ate judge.
CHAPTER XVI.
A BETROTHAL.
Among decorous people it is considered that an unmarried
young lady should not drive alone in a hansom ; but Sabina was
a very busy woman, and besides, she considered herself elderly ;
so it was in a hansom that on this brilliant July morning she
drove along to Charing Cross Pier. Almost at the same moment
Mrs. Tremenheere arrived in her carriage ; and the two ladies
■went down to the special steamer that was awaiting the party.
As they stepped on board, the first person to come forward and
greet Sabina was Mr. Fred Foster.
Now Mr. Foster, though his sympathies in certain directions
were distinctly limited, had a good deal of natural sagacity ; and
instantly he saw — from the look of surprise, or more than sur-
prise, in Sabina's face — that in planning this artful little strata-
gem he had made a mistake. And as quickly as he could he
made his apology.
" I did not know until last night," he said, " that I had secured
an invitation ; for I have been down in Buckinghamshire — my
first trip there since — since the little accident. And you have
told me so much about these training-ships, Miss Zembra — I
thought it would be a good opportunity — I was very glad when
I found I was to have the chance of seeing them."
Sabina somewhat formally introduced him to Mrs. Tremen-
heere ; and he was very humble and civil in getting them seats
where the awning would shelter them from the sun ; and there
was no suggestion in his manner that he had come hither with
any dark design. Moreover, Sabina was not one quick to take
offence ; perhaps it was really his interest in the Arethusa and
A BETROTHAL. 137
the Chichester that had prompted his coming ; and if so, did not
he deserve a little encouragement and friendliness ? He did not
in any way whatever seek to thrust his society on the two ladies.
But he was within call. And as Mrs. Tremenheere was devoting
her whole and rapt attention to the Bisiiop of Sudbury — who
was discoursing to her of the iniquity of spending money on or-
chids — Fred Foster came gradually to be Sabina's attendant and
companion, when no one else claimed her.
It was a very pleasant sail down the river: flags flying, a juve-
nile brass band playing from time to time in the forward part of
the steamer, the lads on the training-ships that they passed giving
them a hearty cheer as they went by.
" If helping in a good work were always as enjoyable as this,
there would be lots at it. I feel very virtuous indeed," he re-
marked, cheerfully.
" I feel very serious," was her rejoinder, " for they have fixed
on me to give away the prizes ; and though I get on very well
among the boys when they are by themselves, I don't like having
a lot of spectators looking on."
" I wish I could be of any assistance to you," he said (and
Mrs. Tremenheere was entirely given over to her dear bishop ; he
could address himself directly, if modestly and respectfully, to Sa-
bina's eyes). "I feel myself such a useless creature in the world
whenever I meet you. Ah, I wish you heard my mother speak
of you. Miss Zembra. It was Miss Zembra this and Miss Zembra
that, all the time I was down. I think she would consent to be
ill if she thought you would come and tend her a little. She
was talking about a poor woman — an imaginary woman — lying
sick and hopeless and friendless; and she said that to such a
poor creature, when you went into the room, your face must ap-
pear to be the face of an angel. And she hasn't forgotten your
promise to go and see her — "
Sabina looked up in surprise.
" Perhaps there wasn't quite a promise," he said, quickly, " but
I fancy that in her case the wish was father to the thought. Oh
yes ; and she has settled upon the room that you are to have
when yon go down — it is a curious little box, all by itself; but
it overlooks the garden, and it is very quiet, and she says you
will be so much the better for absolute rest and quiet after your
hard work in London."
138 SABIXA ZEMBRA.
*' I am sure she is very kind," Sabina was bound to say.
** I hadn't quite such a good time with the Pater," her com-
panion continued, with a rueful smile. " No, he was rather rough
on me. He did not think much of my invention as likely to
increase the sum of human happiness."
A glance of inquiry asked him to explain.
"Oh, didn't I tell you? Did you not hear of my invention?"
he said. *' Well, it was in this way. You see, after you left
Brighton, it was pretty slow down there for mc, and I had to do
a good deal of steady thinking all by myself. And then it was
that an idea occurred to me which will enable me to go down to
the latest ages as a benefactor of mankind. You know how awk-
ward it is for a lady, when she is riding alone in the country, to
mount her horse by herself — supposing she has to get down to
tighten the girths — and there is no stile or gate handy. Well,
now, my invention is a small ladder of rope that can easily be
folded up and fastened to the saddle, and there she is, independ-
ent ! She has neither to trust herself to the clumsiness of some
country lout nor walk along to the nearest cottage for the loan
of a chair; she can get down or up for herself, as she pleases.
And, would you believe it, the Pater saw nothing in that idea to
add to the gayety of nations; and when I talked to him about
Galileo, and Sir Walter Raleigh, and George Stephenson, he used
the most reprehensible language. Great discoveries are always
treated like that. It isn't until after we are dead that the public
find out how much they owe to us."
" I am afraid you try the old gentleman's patience a little ?"
she said, venturing to look np at him.
" But what am I to do ?" he said. " Begin and work some of
those farms? I could not make as much out of them as the pres-
ent tenants, and they're all skating on the edge of bankruptcy.
He thinks I ought to do something, and I want to know what I
am to do."
" Are there no beggars at your gate ?" Sabina said, gently.
" There are," he answered, with cheerful promptitude ; " and
what's more, there will be beggars all over the place if farming
doesn't become more profitable. But don't say anything against
me this time, Miss Zembra. Surely Fm engaged in a good and
charitable work at the present moment. Fm actually going down
to have luncheon on board the Arethusa.''''
A BETROTHAL. 139
And this sardonic self-depreciation of his pleased SabinA a good
deal more than any affected interest or other hypocrisy ; he seemed
to be constantly saying to her, " Well, I'm not much of a fellow,
but you are very good-natured — you won't be too hard."
A right brave sight was that that met their eyes when they
reached their destination ; for the yards of the great vessel were
manned by near a thousand lads and boys; and loud and long
was the cheering that greeted the visitors. And then, when they
had got on board and began to look round the ship, it was but
natural that Mr. Foster should remain with the small party whom
he had accompanied on the way down ; and therefore, when the
crowd went below for lunch, he assumed the right of attending
upon the two ladies, and very assiduously and cheerfully did he
execute the task. Mrs. Tremenheere was rather pleased with the
young man. And she was interested in him ; for she had heard
of the accident, and of Sabina's care of him subsequently. She
thought he was rather good-looking, and distinctly well dressed,
and if he carried his frankness of manner to the verge of a certain
cool audacity, she reflected that Sabina and he had been thrown
so much into each other's society that now he probably regarded
her in the light of an old friend.
After lunch the visitors went on deck again, and the business
of the day began. Very proud, indeed, was Sabina over the smart
and seaman-like way in which the lads went through their drill ;
and she spied out here and there among them a particular favorite
of her own ; and what officer could check the return glances of
recognition ? Of course, she wore the silver anchor at her neck.
And she was as pleased at the proficiency of these young sailors
as if she had trained them all herself; and she was glad that the
people clapped their hands when something particularly prompt
was done ; and she made bold to ask Mr. Foster if the country
should not be grateful to an institution that took the neglected
boys of London and turned them into fine, smart, healthy-looking,
bright-eyed fellows of whom England might one day be in urgent
need. Then came her own share in the programme — the distri-
bution of the prizes and medals; and as each blushing recipient
came forward — the best swimmer, the most popular boy, the
smartest lad aloft, and so forth — Sabina managed to say a kindly
word or two to him as she put the j)rize into his hand or pitmed
the medal on his breast. And, of course, Mr. Foster was at her
140 SABINA ZEMBKA.
side all this time, and perhaps his little underhand jokes rather
tended to give her confidence; anyhow, her tinkers did not tremble
much as she pinned on the medals ; and her eyes — that could
express approval very well, indeed — said as much as her words.
"Bravo, Johnny; you've done it again," she said to one of the
prize-winners ; and she turned to Fred Foster : " That is one of
my own boys."
Indeed, Sabina was so highly pleased with the success of the
whole of the day's performance that, when they had seen the last
of the boat-racing, and were returning to town again on board the
steamer, she was in a far more animated mood than Mr. Foster
had ever seen before; and she was particularly gracious to him-
self. He had been her companion, in a way ; he had stood by
her through that public ceremony ; and now tliat it was all over,
it was comfortable to sit here in idleness, and listen to his half-
facetious comments about men and things. And what should
hinder him from taking up that same subject he had been harping
on so much of late, and giving it a more immediate and personal
application? An early opportunity arrived. Mrs. Tremenheere
went below to have some tea, her bishop accompanying her. Sa-
bina did not care for any ; she preferred to remain on deck. And
then it was that Fred Foster renewed his prayer that Sabina
should not give herself so wholly up to these charitable labors of
hers — that she should introduce a little amusement into her life.
It was a roundabout way of placing an offer of marriage before
a young lady ; but it was not an unskilful one. There was no
startling suddenness about it. Sabina found herself listening to
an argument that seemed to be pervaded by sound common-sense.
All work and no play, he said, was just as bad as all play and no
work : the first was her case, the second his ; wouldn't it be a bet-
ter and wholesomer arrangement if he could share her work, and
she take some part in his amusements? It was quite gradually
that slie came to understand what he meant — that they should
join their two lives so as to arrive at this fair compromise between
pleasure and duty ; and she listened with her eyes cast down, and
with many rapid fancies running through her head. There was
not much sentiment expressed in this proposal ; but then she did
not consider herself a sentimental person. Was there not, on the
other hand, instead of sentiment, a certain reasonableness and fit-
ness ? More than once she had found herself in need of a man's
A BETROTHAL. 141
support and guidance, while (for there was no austerity in her
nature) a little holiday-making now and again might gladden life
up somewhat. She listened in silence, perhaps afraid to under-
stand his meaning too clearly ; but presently his speech became
plain enough.
" You know my mother went to see you at Brighton, Miss
Zembra," he said, and his eyes were fixed on the deck, and he
spoke in an undertone, for there were many people about. " That
was foolish on my part. An ambassador is no good. And even
here — when I have the chance — I can only say bits of things.
But I have been thinking it over a good deal, and a partnership
between us seems reasonable ; and, of course, that partnership could
only mean marriage. I ought to tell you what I think of you;
but I can't praise you to your face ; besides, Mrs. Tremenheere
may be up again any minute. But I think we might have ' a real
good time,' as the Yankees say ; and I should be tremendously in-
terested in all you are doing, and lend you a hand when there was
a chance ; and then, when you are over-fagged and deserve a day's
holiday-making, you might leave me to engineer that with a fair
amount of confidence. I would live anywhere you liked ; I haven't
many friends in London ; and you don't seem to go out much ;
when we went pleasuring, it would be in the country. There's
Goodwood, now : wouldn't it be fine to get you away from those
slums and run down to Brighton for a week, and get hold of a
dog-cart and a stout little cob ? There's the Mater, too — wouldn't
she welcome you ? And if you want quiet, that's the place ; and
shouldn't I be willing to play good boy then ? Sabina — is it to
be ' Yes ?' "
She looked up for a second, timid and hesitating.
"No," he said, quickly, "if you are afraid to say 'Yes' on so
short a notice, say nothing. Think over it. Will you ?"
She nodded slightly, with her eyes still cast down. And then
he said, eagerly,
"But this you must promise — to take no one into your confi-
dence. Will you promise to make your decision yourself? Oh,
I know what will happen if you take advice. Your people at
Lancaster Gate hate the sight of me. I don't wonder at it, and I
don't resent it. Perhaps I shouldn't myself like having anybody
planked in my house like that. If you ask them, they will say
no — I am certain of it ; and I don't see that they take such care
142 SABINA ZEMBRA.
of you that you should be particular about asking their permission
or advice. And as for the Wygrains, they would say the same
thing, for they are very fond of you, and they are jealous, and
would be angry at any one taking you away from them. But
never mind that. AVhen it was all over I should soon be able to
pacify them. Now, will you promise me so much — that you
will form your judgment entirely by yourself?"
She was understood to assent; he could hardly hear her speak.
"And that you will make it 'Yes' if you can?" he pleaded.
"Sabina, tliat is not too much to ask?"
Whether it was or not was of little consequence, for at this
moment Mrs. Tremenheere made her appearance on deck ; and
the bishop, coming along, would insist on carrying Sabina away
to have some tea or something of the kind.
Nor did Mr. Foster have another opportunity of speaking pri-
vately with her during the rest of the way up the river; but as
they were going ashore at Charing Cross, where Sabina was to
embark in Mrs. Tremenheere's barouche, and be driven home that
way, he managed to say to her,
" Will you send me a message to-morrow?"
And as they shook hands at the door of the carriage, she said
to him — but with averted eyes,
" Yes ; to-morrow."
It was not a long time in which to form a decision which would
affect the whole of her life; and yet it cannot be said that she
spent an agonizing night of doubt and dread. For one thing,
she was no timid young creature of seventeen, driven out of her
wits by the discovery that Charlie had stolen unawares into her
heart, confronted by the awfulness of having to break her prom-
ise to poor Tommy, and conscious at the same time of certain
secret and pronounced flirtations with Frank, that had no doubt
awakened certain hopes in his mind, and that it would be remark-
ably difficult to explain away. Nor was there any wild passion
in the matter. Sabina was twenty-five; she had seen too much
of the real trouble of the world to care about indulging in ro-
mantic imaginary woes; life had been serious vi'ith her. Perhaps,
indeed, a trifle too serious. For it was a cheerful prospect, on
the whole, that Fred Foster had opened out before her. She was
to have his advice and aid in time of difficulty; she was to have
his blithe companionship when they thought fit to snatch a holi-
A BETEOTHAL. 143
day. There was a kind of happy-go-lucky self-reliance about him
which was in itself assuring; he seemed very certain that the
projected partnership would work well ; she did not think it
would be so much amiss if on occasion they left overcrowded
lanes and alleys for a pleasant drive to Goodwood.
Nor had she any fear about forming a decision for herself ; for
she had for long been accustomed to manage her own affairs.
And well she knew that he had spoken truth in warning her as
to the consequences of her seeking counsel either from her own
people or from the Wygrams. Neither the one nor the other
knew Fred Foster as she did ; they were governed by a violent
prejudice against him ; it would not be honest advice she would
get, but an expression of ill-will. And was it not a pity to see
this young fellow, who had many good qualities about him, left
to drift uselessly about the world ? His income, she knew, was
not very large ; indeed, he was almost entirely dependent upon
his mother; still, it might be better employed than in backing
horses. Her income and his together would enable them to live
very comfortably in a moderate way, and also permit her to con-
tinue her works of charity as well as to have a little amusement
now and again, according to his projected plan. His mother
would be kind to her, she knew. Altogether, looking at the
matter from every possible point of view, it not only looked
reasonable and practicable, but also attractive in many ways; and
as for Fred Foster himself, surely it was affection that had prompt-
ed his offer (for she had no fortune) ; then she liked his frank-
ness, and his sardonic self-criticism, and also the quiet audacity
•with which he sought to get the best of everything within his reach;
and she made no doubt that a man like this, who was rather given
to belittling himself, would in the end turn out more trustworthy
than a man who was eager to show himself off to the best advantage.
And yet it is no light matter for a young woman to sign away
the days of her freedom and maidenhood ; and next morning the
letter that was to deliver Sabina into slavery — into partnership,
he called it — was written many times over before she could con-
sider it even passable. And when she came down-stairs to break-
fast, she was somewhat self-conscious, and rather avoided meeting
Janie's eye.
"Are you tired, Sabie dear, after your trip to Greenhithe?"
said Mrs. Wygram, noticing that she was rather silent.
144 SABINA ZEMBRA.
"No, no, not at all," the girl said, and some slight color came
unwittingly into the pale, calm, beautiful face, " Why, it was a
holiday — I think we all enjoyed it very much."
By-and-by Sabina had to set forth on the business of the day,
and this time she was going alone. But before leaving the house
she sought out Janie, and took her into the drawing-room, where
there was no one but themselves. She had her hand on Janie's
arm.
" Janie, dear, I have a secret to tell you."
Her eyes were smiling, her cheeks rose-tinted ; she was hesitat-
ing and timid — and then she suddenly made a step forward and
kissed Janie, and put her head close to her head.
" Janie, be kind to me — don't be vexed — I — I am engaged to
be married."
Janie withdrew herself from that embrace, her surprise was so
great.
" You, Sabie ?" she managed to say. " But— but— to whom ?"
" To Mr. Foster," was the answer, given in a kind of doubtful
tone.
" Oh, Sabie, what have you done !" the girl cried ; and there was
anguish in the cry, and her face had grown suddenly pale. "Oh,
what have you done, Sabie — when — when there was one man in
all the world who really loved you — "
Janie had stepped back, white-faced and frightened.
" Yes, and you knew it — you knew it — and now you have
broken his heart !"
"You must not talk such nonsense," said Sabina, somewhat
proudly. " And we will not mention the subject again until you
have come back to your senses."
And therewith she turned and went from the room, leaving poor
Janie entirely overcome ; for not only was she aware that an aw-
ful calamity had occurred — and to her beloved Sabie — but also
she had quarrelled with her nearest and dearest friend.
PREPARATIONS. 145
CHAPTER XVII.
PREPARATIONS.
In these days of strict governance one would hardly expect to
find in Kensington High Street a well-conducted young lady
vainly endeavoring to repress her sobs, and occasionally and fur-
tively wiping a tear-drop away from her wet eyelashes. Yet such
was Janie Wygram's condition on this July morning ; and she had
not quite recovered her self-control even when she had got up to
Netting Hill. But she had grown reckless in this sudden grief
tliat had come upon her; and she longed for consolation — which
is sometimes to be found in the imparting of news to a faithful
friend; and it was with no hesitation at all that she rang the bell
of Walter Lindsay's house, and asked if he was at home.
He was at home. He was in the studio, she was informed.
Was he alone? Only a model with him. But Janie had lived
much among painters; she knew that models form the telephonic
system of the art world ; and this communication she had to make
to Walter Lindsay was not meant for alien ears. So she sent a
message to him, and awaited him in the drawing-room.
Presently she heard a step, and her heart sunk within her. She
knew not how to meet him. And even as he came forward to
greet her — a little surprised he was, but certainly pleased by this
unexpected visit — she could not help thinking, with a heavy heart,
that it was this man, so distinguished-looking, so generous of nat-
ure, so courteous and gentle in all ways, that Sabina had thrown
over — for whom ? She stole another glance at him, and essayed
to speak, but in vain. Then he noticed that she had been crying,
and instantly he took her hand again, and his face was full of a
quick concern.
" What is it? What has happened ?" he said.
" I — I came to tell you," said Janie, striving not to give way.
*' Sabie — Sabie is engaged to be married."
Quito involuntarily he dropped her hand. She did not dare to
7
146 SABIXA ZEMBRA.
look at his face. Indeed, her eyes were all wet and blind ; she
had enough to do with her own trouble.
As for him — They say that a drowning man sees all the back-
ward years at a glance. He seemed to see all his future years
— stretching on and on — gray, barren, hopeless, solitary. That
was but for a moment.
" I suppose — it is — to that Mr. Foster?" he said, in a voice that
was apparently quite calm.
"Oh yes," said Janie, in a half -hysterical fashion. "And I
have been afraid of it all along ! They were together always at
Brighton — I heard it from mother — and Sabie is so strange — she
lets herself be talked over — especially if you ask anything from
her — and I suppose that — that contemptible horse-jockey has ap-
pealed to her sympathy, and she has taken pity on him."
"Janie," Walter Lindsay said, gravely, "don't you think it
would be wiser if you tried to make the best of what has hap-
pened ?"
" But it was you I wanted her to marry, if ever she married
any one," Janie broke out afresh. " We all wanted it. If Sa-
bie had only done that — "
" But what is the use of speaking of it ?" he gently remonstrat-
ed — and she was so much occupied with her own sorrow that she
did not notice how gray his face had become all this while, how
haunted and absent his eyes. " You know that was never pos-
sible."
"No, I suppose it was not," she said, in a kind of despair. " I
suppose it was never possible. You were too well off — too happy ;
and — and — and every one making much of you. She used al-
ways to talk of you as being so fortunate, having such a great ca-
reer before you. It was always work she thought of; she never
let sentiment, affection, come in — unless it was about poor people.
Yes," added Janie, bitterly, " you were always too well off for
Sabie. But if you had been a miserable, insignificant, conceited,
contemptible creature, like this horse-jockey — "
"Janie," he said, with a touch of authority, "you are acting
very foolishly. You are letting your disappointment become a
craze; and it will be all the more difficult for you to remain on
good terms with Mr. Foster if you nurse this silly anger against
him."
" On good terms with him ?" she said, scornfully.
PEEPARATIONS. 147
" For Sabina's — for Miss Zembra's sake."
"But Sabie has gone away fcom me now !" Janie cried. "Sa-
ble, who was my friend — "
" She is your friend," he said, quietly. " Now, sit down and
tell me how all this came about, and how you heard of it."
Janie sat down obediently ; but how was she to tell him of the
arguments and persuasions that Fred Foster had used in winning
over Sabina? Janie knew nothing of all these; but she had
formed her own theories and guesses, and it was these that she
now placed before him, Walter Lindsay in vain endeavoring to
mitigate the malice of her insinuations. And as for Foster's mo-
tives in seeking to make Sabina his wife, she could make them
out too. Sabina was a very pretty woman ; and, for a year or
two, until he got tired of her, she would do him credit when he
drove her to a race-course. Then there was her three hundred
pounds a year. Sabina, Janie explained, was very frank in dis-
cussing her financial position, when charitable projects were be-
ing considered ; of course, Mr. Foster must have learned what her
allowance from her father was. And would not the three hun-
dred pounds be a handy addition to his income, and enable liini
to bet a little more on horses and greyhounds? Besides that
(Janie contended), he was of course expecting a rich man like Sir
Anthony Zembra to give his daughter a handsome marriage-por-
tion. Where would that go ? In gambling, of course. And then ?
Poor Sabie !
" No, no, no !" he said, " I will not hoar anything of the kind.
These are only Cassandra prophecies. Depend upon it, a woman
like Miss Zembra could not make such a mistake in her choice;
there must be something finer and better than that in him; re-
member, she knows so much more about him than you do. And
you are going to be reconciled to him — that is what you have
got to do ; and both you and I, whatever happens, will remain
Miss Zembra's fast friends; and I, for one, I — I wish her a very
happy marriage 1"
She raised her eyes to his face. There was not much gaycty
there, but a serious wistfulness, rather; and his look, which was
directed to the window, was thoughtful and absent. And for the
life of her — regarding him thus — she could not help repeating
what she had said before as to what she had sketched out as Sa-
bina's future.
148 SABINA ZEMBRA.
"No, I think none of us were anxious that Sabie should marry ;
she was so good and perfect and beautiful that we all wished to
have a share in her, and to have a little of her kindness and at-
tention ; but if she was to marry, it should have been you ; indeed,
indeed, that would have reconciled us all to it."
" But it is of no use talking of that now," said he, gently put-
ting away the subject. " No, dear Miss Janie, what you have to
do now is to think of what is best for her. As for me, I don't
pity myself overmuch. Surely no harm can come to any one
through having known a good woman. Anything more than her
friendship was never possible, but I had that for a time, and I
will remember it all my life, I hope. Now, give me your prom-
ise."
"What?"
"That you will do everything you can for Miss Zerabra, and,
as the first thing, that you will receive her future husband as she
would like to have him received."
" No, I can't promise that," she said, stubbornly.
" And what is the value, then, of your affection for your Sabie,
as you call her?"
"You ask too rnuch — you ask too much!" she exclaimed; and
the tears were like to come into her eyes again; but she rose, as
if to go away. And then she said, reUictantly, " Well, I — I know
what you say is right. It isn't everybody who is so unselfish as
you. Perhaps, some time later on, I will try; and I hope that
what you say will come true, and that there is a chance of Sable's
being happy. But I should have been happier if she had made
another choice."
" Remember," he said to her at the door, and as she turned to
him for a moment she thought there was something in the grave,
sad face she had never seen there before, an inexpressible gentle-
ness and tenderness, as it were — "remember," he said, as his last
word to her, " that you are Miss Zembra's friend, and may be of
great help to her. There are some who would be proud to be in
that position."
AVell, if Sabina, at this crisis of her life, was to have the good-
will and aid and sympathy of her friends, it was more than she
was likely to receive from her relatives. Of course, she said to
Fred Foster, she must go and tell her father of her engagement.
" As for that," remarked Mr. Foster, in his cheerful manner,
PREPARATIONS. 149
" if there's going to be any kind of a row, you'd bettor let mc do
it. Oh, I don't mind. I have an impression tliat your father
isn't very fond of me ; and if he wants to say so, or to say any-
thing nasty about our engagement, I am willing to stand the
racket. Bless you, it's wonderful how little words can hurt you,
if you look at them the right way. They're only air; air can't
hurt you. I've seen a woman's lips turn white because of a little
remark ad<h-essed to her. It would need some particularly pene-
trating patent gas-tight remarks to make my lips turn white. Oh,
I shouldn't mind in the least."
" I liope there won't be any trouble," Sabina said. " They've
always left me to act for myself. But if there should be any ob-
jection — or — or misapprehension — I am sure that I shall be able
to talk more gently than you would."
" Oh, I don't believe in gentle speaking," said he, cheerfully.
" Plain speaking is ever so much better. Besides, there may be
a few little business arrangements to talk over; you'd better let
me go."
Sabina laughed.
" Are we to have a quarrel already ?" she asked. " It is true I
have been living separate from my family for some time, and
they let me go ray own way ; but don't you think it would look
a little bit queer if I were to send a third person to tell my fa-
ther that his daughter was going to be married ?"
"Do as you like, then, Sabie," said he, ifl his off-hand way.
"But I think I should have made a better job of it."
That same afternoon Sabina went along to the Waldegrave
Club. It was with her father alone, she considered, not with the
other members of the family, that she had to deal ; and she knew
when she would most likely find him at his club — a little before
question time at the House. The hall porter at the Waldegrave
recognized her at once, for she had often called there ; he asked
her to step within and take a seat, while he sent a page-boy for
Sir Anthony ; and so it was that Sabina found herself awaiting
her father in this great hall, that looked so quiet and clean and
cool after the din and dust of the hot London streets.
Sir Anthony came along in his most majestic manner, serene,
complacent, looking all round the hall for some one to favor with
a distant nod. When he reached Sabina, he plumped himself
down beside her on the softlv cushioned seat.
150 SABINA ZEMBRA.
"Well, Small -pox," he said (for he was a desperately witty
person on occasion), " what do you want now?"
"Do you remember Mr. Foster, papa?"
" Foster," he said, with a sudden coldness. " Do you mean
the young man who was good enough to confer his* society on us
for a considerable period — a very considerable period ?"
*' But it was through no fault or wish of his own, papa,"
she pleaded. "Why do you speak of him like that? It
is such a pity you should have formed a prejudice against
him."
" We're rid of him now, anyway ; and I wish to hear no more
about him," he said, shortly.
" But it is about him I came to see you," she said.
" Oh ! He is in the hospital still, I suppose, and you want to
raise a subscription for him when he comes out. Is that it ?
Well, you needn't come to me — I will not give you a shilling —
no, nor a penny."
"Papa, he is a gentleman !" she said, rather incoherently. "And
please don't talk of him like that. I — I am engaged to be mar-
ried to him."
He stared at her in dumb surprise. Was the girl mad ? And
then, when he had become convinced of the truth of the few
words she had just spoken, he broke into no violent explosion
(how could he, in the hall of the Waldegrave Club ?) ; rather, he
affected to treat the news with much respect.
"Really, Sabina, I am very much obliged to you," he said
(though the look in his eyes was scarcely in consonance with the
extreme suavity of his voice). " Your consideration for us all is
Tuost kind. You can't imagine what a relief will be felt at home.
For, of course, knowing your ways, we had been expecting you to
choose at the highest a coster-monger for your husband ; and we
had been looking forward to a visit from you all — the char-wom-
an, his mother, his brother, the prize-figiitcr, and his sister — well,
anything; and we should have had altogether a nice family party.
But this is a much better arrangement — quite a bound up the
social ladder. Let's see, what is his profession ?"
" Papa, you are not very kind to me," she said, with a slight
quiver of the lips.
But at this moment Sir Anthony Zembra's face became all
beams and smiles. A very distinguished and famous statesman
PKEPARATIONS, 151
had just come out of the reading-room, and as he passed, he nod-
ded and said,
" How are you, Sir Anthony ?"
And Sir Anthony, with the most winning expression, made
haste to answer,
" How do you do ! how do you do !" for wlio knows when one
may wish to have the favor of a dispenser of office?
However, at the same moment, the remarkably Iceen eyes of the
great man had caught sight of Sabina, and he stopped ; for he
was known to be very partial to pretty young ladies, whom he
treated with an Old-world courtesy that was very pleasant to look
upon.
" Miss Zembra, I think?"
Sabina rose as in duty bound.
" We don't meet very often," said the old gentleman, and lie
bowed over the hand that Sabina timidly extended to him, " but
I hear of you from time to time through Mrs. Tremenheere. Yes,
I hear of your goodness. But mind you take care of yourself,
my dear — we can't afford to lose any such as you."
He patted her hand and said " Good-by," and went on liis way.
Sabina sat down again; Sir Anthony's face instantly resumed its
former expression of perfectly implacable coldness and firmness.
" Well, now that you have given me the information, what
more ?" he said.
"Have you nothing to say to me, papa?" she answered, with
an appealing look.
" Oh, I wish you joy, if that is what you mean," he said, calm-
ly. " I wish you joy — witliout any sarcasm. Marrying a man
you don't know — "
" But I do know him — everything about him," she said. " And
I know his people — and his mother has promised to be very kind
to me."
" More than my own relatives seem likely to be," she might
liave added ; but she did not want to make mischief.
"Oh, his mother has promised to be very kind to you. Has
she offered to support you ?"
"I liardly know what you mean," she said, rather bewildered.
" Only that I di)n't see that I am called upon to support an-
other man's wife," he continued. "You take this step without
the slightest consultation with your family. You did not con-
152 SABINA ZEMBRA.
suit them, probably because you knew it would be against their
wishes. Very well. It's a free country. You may go your own
way. But as you make your bed you must lie on it. You don't
suppose that I am going to support you and this man who has
no claim upon me whatever, unless unbounded impudence be a
claim."
"My husband will be able to support me," said Sabina, proud-
ly — but imprudently, for his eyes darkened a little.
"Very well," he said, in the same impassive way. " We'll see
how it turns out. But mind, I never do anything out of anger.
I will make you a certain allowance, so that you shall not have to
fear starvation. I think that is my duty. What the amount will
be I will consider later on. '
"Papa, I did not come here to ask you for money !"
"No? Then I suppose you came merely to impart the agreea-
ble news. Well, having done so, is there anything more to be
said ? I must be ofE to the House."
She knew not what to say. She had expected that he would
be annoyed, and that she might have some trouble in talking him
over ; she had not expected to be confronted with this stony and
stolid indifference.
" Won't you come to the wedding ?" she said, in desperation.
He lifted his eyebrows in affected surprise.
" Come to the wedding ? No, I think not. What could put
that into your head ? Of course you are quite aware that if you
are really bent on this folly — if you are determined to throw
yourself away on this man — then I must decline to have either
him or you come near my house. I don't wish to make any fuss.
You are a grown woman — you are able to judge for yourself ; I
only wish to let you know clearly what will be the consequences
of this freak of yours."
She rose ; her lips were proud and firm.
" Yes, I understand," she said ; and she bade good-by to him
without offering her hand, and turned and went away, and got
into the cab that was awaiting her, and drove home.
And how eagerly and impatiently she waited for Fred Foster,
who was to come to see her that evening !
" Oh, Fred," she said, piteously (Janie had retired from the
drawing-room), " it was dreadful !"
"I knew it would be," he said, laughing. "All the fat in the
PREPARATIONS. 153
fire, no doubt. You'd mucli better have let me manage the busi-
ness,"
" I suppose a girl should never say anything against her fa-
ther," poor Sabie continued (rather clinging to him a little, as if
for sympathy), " but he was like a stone — if it had been mere
anger, I shouldn't have minded so much."
" It will blow over," he said, carelessly. " They're often like
that, those inconvenient papas. But they always come round in
the end, especially if there's — "
" If there's a baby," he was on the point of saying, but luckily
stopped in time.
" And about the money — he seemed to think I had come to
ask him for money !" she continued.
" Yes, I told you you'd better have left me to manage it," he
answered, coolly. " But it's all right, Sabie — it will be all right
in the end, never you fear."
"But will you do this for me?" she said, at once timidly and
eagerly. " You know my father said he would make me an al-
lowance — but you can't tell how it was offered — well, now, if I
could only say to him, ' No, thank you, my husband can support
me,' don't you see how proud I should be ? I don't want to do
it out of anger or revenge — but to justify you, and to show him
that the cruel things he said were quite uncalled for. Do you
think we could afford to refuse that allowance ? 1 know it would
make a great difference to me — I mean it would be so much more
difficult to look after any of those poor people; but we might
pinch a little — I could, in lots of things; I would try hard."
"My dear child," he said, good-naturedly, "you're suffering
from a fit of heroics. Your sensitive soul has been wounded.
No doubt you and I could live on my income, with prudence and
a frugal and contented mind ; but most assuredly you would have
no margin for your tribe of dependants. No, no, Sabie, don't be
angry with your poor father. He'll come round. He did not
mean the half of what he said — they never do ; but it sounds
well, and gives them importance for the moment."
" It was for your sake," she said, hesitatingly.
" But, you see, I haven't a sensitive soul. We couldn't afford
to run two in the same establishment. I care as little what the
good papa thinks of me as he docs of what I think of liim. No,
no ; the wise thing to do is to take what we can get, and to hope
164 SABINA ZEMBKA.
for more ; and I dare say we shall do very well, somehow or other.
And don't be too downhearted about the Herr Papa — I tell you,
it's wonderful how much more people say than they mean."
There was a tapping at the door; a maid-servant announced to
them that the rest of the household were awaiting them at sup-
per, and Sabina's proud project of renunciation was at an end.
CHAPTER XVIII.
A WEDDING.
It was a summer night at Brighton. The tall house-fronts
were gray and wan against the crimson and yellow still lingering
in the north-western heavens ; but far away over the sea, to the
south-east, there dwelt a golden moon in a sky of pale rose-pur-
ple; and the moonlight that fell on the wide waters was soft and
shimmering, until it gleamed sharp and vivid where the ripples
broke on the beach. Here and there the stars of the gas-lamps
began to tell in the twilight. There was a faint murmur of talk-
ing ; young girls in white summer costumes went by with laugh-
ter and jest ; there was an open window, and somebody within a
brilliantly lit drawing-room was singing — in a voice not very loud,
but still audible to such of the passers-by as happened to pause
and listen — an old Silesian air. It was about a lover, and a bro-
ken ring, and the sound of a mill-wheel.
Walter Lindsay was among these casual listeners — for a min-
ute or two ; and then he went on, with some curious fancies in his
head. Not that any young maiden had deceived him, or that he
was particularly anxious to find rest in the grave ; for this is the
latter half of the nineteenth century ; and he, as well as others,
knew that Wertherism was now considered ridiculous. But some-
how London had become intolerable to him, and he could not
work ; and — well, Brighton was the nearest place to get away to
while one was considering further plans. It was a little lonely, it
is true; especially on these summer evenings, when all the world
seemed, as it were, to be murmuring in happiness. Over there was
the Chain Pier. A few golden points — gas-lamps — glimmered on
it; and beyond it there was a small boat, the sail of which caught
the last dusky-red light from the sunset, and looked ghostly on
A WEDDING. 155
the darkening plain. In that direction peace seemed to lie. lie
began to think tliat if he passed away from this laughing and
murmuring crowd, and went out to the end of the pier, and quiet-
ly slipped down into the placid waters, the world would be none
the worse for the want of him, and a good deal of heart-sickness
would come to an end. He did not really contemplate suicide;
it was a mere fancy. Killing one's self for love is not known
nowadays, except among clerks and shop-lads ; and then it is gen-
erally prefaced by cutting a young woman's throat, which is un-
pleasant. No, it was a mere fancy that haunted him, and not in
a too mournful fashion. He thought of the people who would
decide that it was at such and such a moment that he must have
flung himself into the sea, from the fact of his watch having
stopped then ; and he knew that they would be in error, because,
of course, the water does not instantly get into the inside of a
watch. He remembered the story of the impecunious reporter,
who wrote, " Sevenpence -half -penny having been found in the
pockets of the deceased, no motive could be assigned for the rash
act;" and he wondered whether, he having several sovereigns in
his pocket, it would be assumed that this was not suicide at all.
But these were but idle dreams and reveries; because he knew
that this dull, continuous, insatiable heartache in time would
cease — or, at least, he hoped so ; and, besides that, he thought he
would like in the coming years to be kind to Sabina's children.
There were so many young women coming along this Marine
Parade; some sedately walking with their, mammas; some gig-
gling with their companions; some aimlessly alone and silent;
Avhy was it that none of them had any interest for him at all, and
that his heart was far away in London ? In the distance, some-
times, he saw a tall figure ; and a sharp spasm of wonder would
seize him ; might not this be some one like Sabina — with some-
thing of the inexpressible magic and charm of Sabina's presence,
with something of Sabina's look in her eyes, with the proud set
of her head, and her fearless gait? Then the young lady would
draw near — perhaps graceful, and good-looking, and gentle-look-
ing enough, and no doubt a most charming and accomplished and
praiseworthy young person ; but the first swift glance that told
him it was not Sabina herself was sufficient; she went by un-
heeded. Of course all this was the sheer perversity of foolish
sentiment, and he knew it ; and he walked back to the Bedford
156 SABINA ZEMBRA.
Hotel declaring to himself that love was the most idiotic thing in
the world (and rightly laughed at by all sensible people), and that
what he was really concerned about was the size of the canvas on
which he was to attempt a picture of the Shannon rapids at Kil-
laloe.
On reaching the hotel he found awaiting him there a letter from
his faithful friend and correspondent Janie Wygram, who had
promised to let him know how things were going on.
" Dear Mr. Lindsay " (she wrote), — " I have tried to do as
you said ; and it has not been quite so hard as I expected ; for I
do think he is really fond of Sabie — in a careless way; and that
he is good-natured when everything is done to please him. But
sometimes — well, you will say I am prejudiced, but I must tell the
truth — sometimes he vexes me terribly. Why, he seems to think
it is all a piece of fun — a frolic ! Fancy any one marrying our
Sabie as if it was part of a Bank Holiday excursion ! He doesn't
in the least understand what a prize he has won, or the favor she
has shown him ; it's all a free-and-easy give-and-take with him ;
indeed, I am not sure that he doesn't consider that she is the one
who ought to be smiling and grateful. I know he has a pretty
good opinion of himself, anyway ; and you understand how gen-
erous Sabie is; she always makes the most of everybody ; and, of
course, after what you said, I'm not going to make her discon-
tented or pick out defects. But fancy having to write like this
of Sable's lover ! I don't think I ever did really want her to
marry anybody ; but many a time, in reading poetry, I have
thought that if ever Sabie had a sweetheart, it would be a beau-
tiful sight to see, and just like the wonderful pictures of the poets.
Many a time I have thought of her as Rosalind putting the chain
ronnd Orlando's neck, and wishing him well in the wrestling ; for
giving is Sable's natural attitude, I think. But it is no use talk-
ing; and I won't say how very, very different from these romantic
pictures is the present situation ; for you are quite right about
making the best of it, for her sake ; and you may be sure of this,
that however any one else may choose to behave or make light of
his great good- fortune, which he doesri't understand a bit, Sabie re-
mains herself as distinguished and refined and gentle and beauti-
ful as ever, and just goodness itself. Mother says I am mad about
her. I wonder what she is ? However, if I am, I don't care who
A WEDDING. 157
knows it — I am proud of it ; and if people only knew Sabie as
intimately as I do, they wouldn't be much surprised, I think."
He laid down the letter for a moment. He saw clearly the
situation she described, despite the cunning with which she affect-
ed to be saying smooth things. And was this the predicament in
which Sabina had placed herself ? He could not believe it. Janie
Wygram was only half concealing the violence of her prejudice.
She took Fred Foster's cheerfulness — in itself an admirable qual-
ity — for indifference. Perhaps she was disappointed that these
two betrothed people did not show her a little more of the ro-
mance of an engagement ; he was not disappointed that Sabina
should refuse to bill and coo for the edification of by-standers.
" I hope there will be no trouble in the future," the letter went
on, " but I want you to understand that Sable's father has behaved
like a monster. They may say what they like about him in the
papers; but certain I am that he has not the heart of a human
being. He came here the day before yesterday (the first time he
has honored our house Avith his presence since Sabie came to live
with ns), and made a settlement of everything. That is to say,
he never asked Sabie if she was still of the same mind ; there was
no quarrelling, or even remonstrance, on his j)art — for he is far
too selfish and cold and hard a man to take so much trouble about
anybody ; and then he told her what he meant to do. She is to
have one hundred pounds for her wedding outfit ; and afterwards
he will allow her one hundred and fifty pounds a year, to keep
her from starvation, as he says; but lie won't allow either her or
her husband ever to come near his house. Sabie did not break
down at all — she is too proud ; indeed, the cruel thing is that Mr.
Foster would not allow her to refuse the allowance altogether,
which she wanted to do. Of course, he took it in his chirrupy
way. He says it will be all right ; and that, after the marriage,
her father will relent. But she says he will do nothing of the
kind ; and she knows him better than Mr. Foster does. Fancy
such meanness — to his eldest daughter; and that they should be
forever praising him in the papers for his public spirit and his
benevolence. But what he gives to Sabie isn't printed in a list
of subscriptions; I suppose that is it.
" There is one good thing : my dear one will have a true friend
in Mr. Foster's mother. The old people came to town the other
158 SABINA ZEMBRA.
day ; and Mrs. Foster was very, very nice and affectionate. Mat-
ters don't go smoothly between father and son, I imagine ; but, of
course, I wasn't allowed to hear too much ; and perhaps, now that
he is to marry and settle down, there will be greater harmony.
Sabie will be the peace-maker; surely, if they can withstand the
sweetness of her disposition they are made of sterner stuff than
some people I know. I do wish she had some other kind of fa-
ther than that cruel old beast Sir Anthony ; just fancy the thousands
and thousands he has ; and he must needs cut down the girl's al-
lowance by one hundred and fifty pounds just because he dislikes
the man she is going to marry. Why, he might be proud to know
that he has such a daughter ; but there is none of his nature in
Sabie ; she must have got all her goodness and honor and gener-
ousness from her mother. If I were a writer in the papers, wouldn't
I give it him ! I'd show the public what a monster of meanness
and hypocrisy he is; why, I believe he is glad that Sabie is going
to marry against his wishes, for it will save him one hundred and
fifty pounds a year.
"Dear Mr. Lindsay, tell me if I bother you writing to you
about Sabie. I can't talk to her as I used to. He has come be-
tween us, and she has other interests ; and although she is as
kind as ever, still this other future that is now coming near must
engage all her attention. If only her heart had been placed else-
where, I should not have repined : no, I should have rejoiced ; and
I should have borne without a murmur a good deal of coldness or
indifference on her part, if I saw that her affections were wholly
centred on one worthy of them. Never mind ; Sabie will always
be dear Sabie to me, whoever claims her ; and if there should be
a time of trouble she won't want for one friend at least.
" The marriage is to be soon (because the chirrupy man thinks
it's all a kind of gay pastime, I suppose), and I am to be the only
bridesmaid. After that is over, Sabie will have just as much of
my friendship as she asks for ; I am not going to intrude. Please
forgive me for sending you so long a letter; I thought you might
like to know how matters stand. And I hope everything will
turn out well ; but sometimes I am a little miserable — perhaps
needlessly. Yours sincerely,
"Janie WyORAM.
" p. S. — Would you mind sending Sabie a little message of con-
gratulation ? or is that asking too much ?"
A WEDDING. 159
A message of congratulation ? — yes, and more. He put on his
hat again and went out. The suuiuier night was cool ; it was
pleasant to pass along through the light-hearted murmuring crowd.
By this time the skies had darkened into a clear rich violet : the
moon was shining with its fullest radiance ; the sea broke in sharp
ripples of gold along the shingle ; the shadows of the people were
black on the wan-gray pavements. What was he to do for Sabi-
na ? That, at least, was something more comforting to think of
than the vague heart-sickness of renunciation.
And very wild some of these first projects were. He thought
of settling his little patrimony in Gallowayshire on her, for her sole
and exclusive use ; of selling his studio and all its appurtenances,
and then of " taking the world for his pillow," as the Gaelic sto-
ries say, when the hero sets forth on his adventures. For he
wished to get away from England somehow. And in tliinking
that he would be more content if the wide Atlantic were the bar-
rier between him and Kensington High Street and Kensington
Square, he was facing no foolish risk. His work was well known
in art circles in America ; several American artists were among
his familiar friends; he was already a member of the Tile and
Kinsman Clubs ; the far Western land would in time come to be
his home. And if he achieved fame there, might not Sabina oc-
casionally hear of him ? And if, after many years, he had amassed
a little money, well, there was a vision before him of an elderly,
white-haired man returning to his native country, and perhaps
finding a young Sabina there — a Sabina in all ways like her moth-
er, but with her face bright with youth and hope, and her chest-
nut-brown hair as yet unstreaked with gray — who might be his
companion on an afternoon stroll or so, and introduce him to the
young man she favored, and accept a little dowry from her moth-
er's friend of former days? These were far-reaching dreams; but
at least they were not very selfish.
In the mean time, that forsaking of his native land had to bo
postponed, for the most singular of all reasons — Sabina's marriage.
Janie came to him one evening after he had returned to London,
and diflidently and almost shamefacedly j)referred her humble
prayer. Sable's relatives, she said, would have nothing to do
with her; surely the few friends she had ought to stand by her.
Lindsay looked at her for a second in his grave and thoughtful
way.
160 SABINA ZEMBRA.
" Do yon think," said he, rather slowly — " do you think Miss
Zcmbra would like it ?"
"Why don't you call her Sabief the girl cried, piteoiisly.
" Yes, yes, indeed she would ! She asked me. Oli, I don't know
whether she suspects there is any — any reason why you might re-
fuse — how could I speak of that without saying too much — "
" And it is not to be spoken of any more," said he, gently.
" That is all past now. Yes, I will come to the wedding. I was
thinking of going to America, but I will put that off. And in
the mean time, Miss Janie, I wish you would help me to decide on
a present for her. There are two or three things I have been
thinking of. There is a dessert service in old Worcester that my
mother was proud of. It's in Scotland."
" Oh, Mr. Lindsay, you wouldn't give away an heirloom like
that!" Janie cried.
" I know where there is a very handsome set of things for the
dinner-table, in Venetian glass, that ought to do," he said, absent-
ly. " But I will hunt about, and perhaps get something more
unusual."
It was a fair autumn morning that saw Sabina wedded. Janie
■was the only bridesmaid. AVhen, after the ceremony, the beau-
tiful, smiling, fair-haired bride came walking down the aisle on the
arm of her husband, there was a little murmur of approval among
the old women and girls who had wandered into the church. The
smile that was on her face was one of greeting ; for she had caught
sight of Walter Lindsay (whom she had not seen for a long while),
and she paused for a second to give him her hand. He murmured
something about " happiness," and they passed on.
" Good-by, Mrs. Wygram," he said, at the church door.
*'But you are coming home with us!" the old lady said.
"No, I think not," he answered.
"Oh, but Sabie particularly wished you should. We were
counting up last night how many friends she had who would take
the trouble to come to the wedding — oh, indeed you must go
back to the house. I thought Janie had arranged it with you !"
Well, he went; and found a very merry little party assembled
in the familiar old faded drawing-room in Kensington Square.
The happy bridegroom, very smartly dressed, and apparently
quite recovered from his lingering lameness, was radiant, face-
tious, good-humored to a degree ; the bride (to use the faithful
A nONEY-MOON VISIT. 161
Janie's not very original phrase) looked more like an angel than
ever. If she looked like an angel she acted like a woman ; for
she singled out Walter Lindsay for the most especial and obvious
kindness; and tore herself away from her sympathizing feminine
friends to talk to him, and to talk to him alone ; and she was so
anxious to know all about his future plans and projects.
"But you don't mean to remain in America?'' she said, and
her eyes were more frank and direct than his.
" Oh yes, I think so," he answered.
" Why ?" she asked, in her straightforward way. He hesitated
for a moment, and then said, with a laugh,
" Don't you know that picture-buying is a lost art in this coun-
try ? I want to see if there is a market for my wares on the
other side. That will take a long time."
" You will come back to your friends," she said, quietly.
When at last the moment arrived for her going awa)', the
usual little crowd followed her to the front door, and there was
the customary throwing of rice and old slippers, Janie was
standing on the steps along- side Walter Lindsay, and bravely
endeavoring to restrain her tears. Just as the door of the
brougham was snapped to, he heard her exclaim to herself " Sa-
ble !" — and she put out her hand as if even now she would have
entreated her friend to come back. It was a curious, involuntary
little gesture ; the stifled cry that accompanied it was almost a
cry of anguish.
About a week after that, Walter Lindsay sailed from Liverpool
for New York.
CHAPTER XIX.
A HONEY-MOON VISIT.
The newly wedded couple went down to Boscastic on the
Cornish coast. Now Boscastle is a picturesque little place, but
the occupations it affords are scanty ; and in a very short time
Mr. Fred Foster began to find the afternoons hanging ratlior heav-
ily on his hands. Not that he was at all a dull comj)anion. He
had seen a good deal of life, was a shrewd judge of character,
and could describe people in a semi-facetious vein that was at
1C2 BABINA ZEMBRA.
least meant to be amusing. Why, one whole morning — these
two walking the while along the high Downs overlooking the
western sea — he entertained her with an account of the various
modes of concealing their emotion adopted by certain noble
sportsmen while looking on at a race in which they were interest-
ed : how the Duke of Belvoir invariably found something wrong
with the working of his field-glass; how Lord Cranesfoot seized
the moment for selecting a big cigar, proceeding to chew the
same without taking the trouble to light it; how Mr. De Gott-
heimer (no matter how pale his features might be) would affect
to care nothing at all about the race, but rather to be surprised
at the excitement of the roaring crowd around him, and so forth.
Nevertheless, these walks along the Downs, and along the country
lanes, and out by the little harbor to the hill facing the Atlantic,
became a little monotonous, and Fred Foster was a frank-spoken
person.
"Dame Durden," said he, in his playful fashion, " listen to me.
I suppose it wouldn't be quite according to the correct card to
ask a young lady on her wedding-trip to visit her mother-in-law,
■would it? Beginning too soon, eh, to face the trials of life?"
" I will go with pleasure," Sabina said, promptly.
"You don't mean that?"
" I do."
"Then we'll be off to-morrow morning."
This resolve seemed to bring quite a new cheerfulness and live-
liness into the atmosphere, and that evening at dinner he said,
" You know, Sabie, I wouldn't have made the suggestion if the
Mater was like any one else ; but she's just as good as gold, and
she'll be awfully proud to see you. Indeed, there are several
reasons why it will be a very good move. We shall be there by
the First, and I dare say I shall be able to pick up a few birds.
But that's not the chief thing; the chief thing is this — that I
want you to set seriously to work and make a poor thing of my
pa."
She looked up inquiringly.
" Oil, you can do it," he said, with an air of sarcastic approval.
"You are a first-class performer, when you like, for all your in-
nocent eyes — "
"But what do you mean ?" she said.
" Well, Vm talking about the art of making a fool of people,"
A HONEY-MOON VISIT. 163
be answered, blandly ; " and if there's any one can beat you at
that, I've never met the person. Why, there's not a man nor a
woman about this place, nor a boy nor a girl, either, who isn't
all smiles and simpers whenever you make your appearance ; and
the house-keeper brings flowers for the ' dear, sweet young lady ;'
and the slavey washing the steps grins to you as if your going
past her was a favor. Oh yes, you can do it. Why, you left
those Wygrams in a perfectly gelatinous condition ; I don't sup-
pose Janie Wygrara has done crying yet. Now I want you to
try a little of that same business on my. pa, and see what you
can do with him. He's an uncommon rough subject, I can tell
you ; you'll have your work cut out for you ; but if you can
manage it, it will be a rare good thing for both of us. You'll
have no trouble with the Mater. She's gone ; she collapsed the
minute she saw you. But if you make up your mind to go for
the old man — and you can do it if you like — there's no saying
■what he mayn't do for us. You see, picking ferns along these
Cornish lanes is all very fine, and so is sitting on the top of a
cliff and wondering how long it will be to lunch-time; but when
we get back to London there will have to be some considering
of ways and means. Of course it will be all right — you needn't
be afraid ; but in the mean time you might as well be civil to the
old gentleman."
" Oh yes, I'll be civil to him," said Sabina, laughing. She did
not attribute too serious a rnotive to these wise counsels.
And doubtless it was chiefly as a joke that Fred Foster pre-
tended to regard this trip into Buckinghamshire as the scheme.
of a couple of adventurers in sore need of money, and affected to
advise Sabina as to how she should play her game. If the game
was that of fascination, she had no need of his advice — it came
naturally to her. From the moment that she set foot in the^^ld-
fashioned house just outside Missenden, the tall, pretty, refined-
looking old lady who was mistress there became her daughter-
in-law's bounden slave. She had come quickly to the door on
liearing the wagonette drive up; the broad daylight — the open
highway — she did not heed, though she was all trembling, and
her eyes were filled with tears. The instant that Sabina alighted
she was caught to this kind old lady's heart, and kissed again and
again, without much regard for any passer-by. " My dear! — my
dear!" was all that was said; but she took Sabina's hand, and
164 SABINA ZEMBRA.
held it fast as she led her into tlie liall. She had scarce a word
for her son. It was Sabina who was to be attended to ; it was
Sabina that she must herself take to her room ; it was Sabina
who was helped to remove her things, and pressed to have tea or
wine or anything she could fancy, and all the while there was a
good deal of petting and stroking of hands, with an occasional
trickling tear or two.
" She's a goner," said Fred Foster to liimsclf (he was left vi'ith
the luggage in the hall), " but Fm not so sure about the old man."
By-and-by, when the hubbub of the arrival had quieted down,
the son of the house — who had been pretty mucii neglected in
the mean while — managed to get a few words in private with his
wife.
"Look here, Sabie ; I'm going along to see old Jakes — the
keeper I've told you about, don't you remember? — and most like-
ly I sha'n't be back till dinner-time. The Mater has her house-
hold affairs to look after — she goes through them like clock-work
— you won't see much of her. But the old man is in the green-
house — I saw him go in a minute ago — why don't you go in and
tackle him now? He's only snipping at his grapes; you've got
a splendid chance. Off you go, and do for him."
She turned to him with a gravely innocent face, but there was
some laughter in her eyes.
" I don't know what you mean. What am I to do ?"
"Oh, of course, you don't know !'J he retorted. "You don't
know how to do it at all ! It wasn't you who knocked young
Lionel out of his senses in about a couple of minutes in the Pa-
vilion Gardens?"
She thought for a moment, and then she laughed.
" Oh, do you remember that? Mrs. Wygram was angry with
me-about that. I am sure I did not know I had done anything."
" Oh, you can do it very well. Just you go and try a little of
the same kind of thing on my respected papa ; but mind, he isn't
two-and-twenty."
Well, whether from mischief or idleness or careless good-nat-
ure, Sabina, being thus left to herself, thought she could not do
better than go and talk to the old gentleman, who had but spo-
ken a few words of welcome to her and returned to his labors.
Her reception in the greenhouse, when she timidly opened the
door, was not of the most cordial kind.
A HONEY-MOON VISIT. 165
'* Where's Fred ?" the old gentleman said, sharply.
" He has gone to see the game-keeper, I think. Shall I — shall
I be in your way, sir, if 1 stay here a little while ?"
"Left you alone already, has he?" the old man grumbled; and
seemed disinclined for further conversation.
But Sabina had had long experience in the humoring of peo-
ple. She began to ask a few questions. Soon he was telling her
all about his grapes, with a touch of professional pride. She had
praises for a country life. She was fond of a garden. What did
he consider, now, gave him most satisfaction for all the care he
expended — what were the flowers he was most interested in?
The next thing that happened was that the old gentleman found
himself walking about in the open with this pretty daughter-in-
law of his, showing her all his treasures, chatting to her quite
briskly and cheerfully, and apparently vastly pleased with both
himself and her.
That was but the beginning. When dinner-time arrived, Fred
Foster got back rather late, and had barely a couple of minutes
to rush up-stairs and wash his hands and brush his hair. When
he came down again, what was his astonishment to find old Mr.
Foster arrayed in an antiquated suit of evening dress, with a stiff
white neckcloth, and a waistcoat of black satin, adorned with flow-
ers in colored silk. Such a thing had not happened within the
son's recollection.
" Halloo, father," said he ; " this is rather formal, isn't it ?"
" You may treat your wife as you please ; I hope I know how
to show respect for my daughter-in-law," was the chilling rejoin-
der.
"Well, that's rather rough on me," the son said, good-hu-
moredly. "I didn't bring any evening dress. Why, you have
always set your face against it."
All during dinner, too, the old gentleman would have a monop-
oly of Sabina's conversation, and resented any casual intrusion of
his son as if he had no right to be there at all. As for the gen-
tle-featured mother, she did not say much; she was content to sit
and look at this new-found beautiful daughter, and to listen to
lier; and there were pride and a great affection very evident in
the tender gray eyes. She had not been busy with her house-
hold matters all the afternoon ; she liad found time to ransack
certain sacred repositories, and many were the bits of old-fash-
166 S A BIN A ZEMBRA.
ioned finery and lace and trinkets that she had resolved to bestow
on Sabina. As she sate and looked at her, she thought it would
be very nice to put such or such a thing round Sabie's neck and
fasten it in front with loving care. And there might be a kiss
in return — for she thought the girl was rather affectionate.
Mr. Fred Foster took his snubbing very patiently ; he spoke a
word now and again to his mother, and was well satisfied to see
Sabina (as he would have phrased it) rising so rapidly to first
favorite. Grown happy with a few glasses of port, the old gen-
tleman was gallantry itself. Many a rare old story, hidden for
years in the dusky recesses of his memory, saw the light once
more ; he was facetious, patronizing, sarcastic by turns, and gen-
erally he meant to convey to her that the young fellows of his
day were a dashing set, adepts in all the arts of love and war.
And then, when dinner was over, and John, the butler (who was
also groom, and helped in the garden besides), had put the de-
canters on the table, old Mr. Foster filled Sabina's glass and his
own, and bowed to her graciously.
" No speech-making, my dear," said he ; " but I hope you see
that you are very welcome in this house."
" Haven't you got a little bit of a blessing for me, too, father?"
Mr. Fred ventured to interpose.
"For you?" said the old gentleman, after a moment's hesita-
tion. " Well, I will say this for you, that at last you have done
a sensible thing — the first you ever did in your life, I think."
But the climax came later. Old Mr. Foster had several odd
ways and habits, to which he adhered with the rigor begotten of
a methodical country life ; and one of these was his invariable
custom of going into the spacious stone-floored kitchen, the last
thing at night, to smoke a pipe or two of tobacco in solitary com-
munion with himself. Mrs. Foster could not bear the odor of
tobacco in any of the rooms, not even in the greenhouse. The
household went early to bed; the maids, before leaving, had ev-
erything trimly swept and tidied up ; and there was a small
wooden table placed in front of the smouldering fire, with decan-
ters, a jar of tobacco, and two long church-wardens. The second
church-warden was supposed to be placed there for the service of
Mr. Fred ; but as a matter of fact, that young gentleman did not
find much gayety in sitting and listening to grumblings over his
own conduct and gloomy prophecies as to the future of the agri-
A HONEY-MOON VISIT. 167
cultural interests of the country, so that the old man generally sate
there alone ; nor had he ever been known to ask any one to keep
hira company. Indeed, he was supposed to be bus}'. This was
the time for the review of the day's doings, for plans for the
morrow, and so forth. And this solitary retirement to the great
and gaunt kitchen (which, nevertheless, was clean and warm
enough) he had practised as a rite for over thirty years.
*' My dear," said he to Sabina, " do you object to the smell of
tobacco ?"
" I like it," was the plain answer.
" Yes, they all say that—"
" Oh, but I do — and it's very well I do, for sometimes I get a
good dose of it."
"Then you won't mind giving me a little of your company?
My smoking-room is a plain one — the kitchen. There's always a
fire, you see, and we don't annoy anybody. Where's your hus-
band ?"
" I think he has gone back to Jakes again, sir, to see about
some dogs."
*' Come along, then, my dear," said he ; and when she promptly
rose, he took her hand and placed it within his arm, and marched
her away. " It isn't a gilded smoking-saloon,^but it's snug. And
I've such a story to tell you about an elopement. I had a hand
in it myself, too, that I had, though it wasn't me the young
lady was running away with. Faith, that was an act of friend-
ship, wasn't it? To run away with a young lady on behalf of
somebody else, and scarcely a man of the family less than a six-
footer. But we did it — we did it; ay, and she got safe away,
and over the border both of them were before the people chasing
them had got to Carlisle. Come along, my dear, and sit down
by the fire ; it's a long story to tell. But there was some fun in
those days."
Fred Foster came in by-and-by.
"Where's Sabie?" he asked of his mother, who was quietly
knitting in the little drawing-room.
"She has gone to sit with your father," was the answer, and
the old lady smiled a little.
" What ! You don't mean in the kitchen ?" he exclaimed, for
such a thing had never been heard of before.
"Yes, indeed. He asked her, and she went at once."
1G8 SABINA ZEMBEA.
" Well, upon my soul I What's the matter witli the old gen-
tleman ?"
Mrs. Foster looked up.
" It's very early in your married life to show jealousy, isn't it?
But you'd better take care." And then she added, " Ah, well,
she is a dear. And this is what I think, Fred — that nothing
luckier ever happened to you than your falling off that bicycle."
If there was anybody jealous it was not Fred Foster. It was
the old man who was determined to monopolize Sabina, and re-
sented the slightest interference on the part of his son. The next
morning, when Mr. Fred was buttoning on his gaiters in the hall,
he called in to the breakfast-room :
"Mother, we shall be shooting over Crookfield to-day ; will you
bring Sabie along for a while ? Or will you send Tom to show
her the road ?"
But it was the old man who answered, and that sharply, too.
" Nothing of the kind. What ! Dawdling along muddy hedge-
rows or crossing wet turnip-fields!" Then the voice became less
grufE. " No, no, my dear, we've something better for you than
that. Just to think that you've never seen Hampden House, and
the splendid avenue of Spanish chestnuts, and the relics, and all.
Why, I'll show you the very spot where they tried to levy the
ship-money. Yes, yes, my dear, it's a beautiful country. I'll drive
you myself; and then we'll go on to Wendover, and maybe pick
up a bit of lace for you — local industries, you know — local indus-
tries must be encouraged."
And so Mr. Fred went away with the keeper and the dogs, while
Sabina by-and-by found herself seated next the old gentleman in
front of the wagonette and leisurely driving along a pleasant high-
way on this clear and fresh September morning. She was in ex-
cellent spirits, and ready to be pleased with everything she saw.
She even took good-naturedly the grumblings and growlings that
greeted the slightest reference to her husband.
" But you may be of his way of thinking, too," he said, and he
sharply glanced at her.
"How, sir?"
" Oh, well," he said, softening a little, " it might be more nat-
ural to you — yes, yes ; I should not be surprised if you thought
our life in this quiet place rather monotonous and dull. You are
accustomed to the gay life of a big town — balls and parties."
A HONEY-MOON VISIT. 169
" Indeed, no," Sabina said, simply, " that was never my way of
living at all."
"But look at him," the old gentleman said, angrily. "Loolc at
him — a Buckinghamshire lad — born and bred in this very valley
• — but nothing here is good enough for him — he must be off and
away, living like a lord, and thinking of nothing but the different
ways of spending money. There's Crookfield — the very place he
is off to this morning. Mullein's lease falls in next Michaelmas.
The old man's wife died last year ; his sons are doing very well in
Texas ; he's going out to them ; and so the farm falls on my
hands. There's a fine old farm-house — one of the prettiest places
in the neighborhood — where any young couple might make them-
selves comfortable and snug. But would my gentleman look at
it. Oh no ; spending money, not making it, is his trade ; though
goodness knows there's not much money coming nowadays to
people who have farms to let — in this part of the world, at all
events. There it is, you see — the farm coming on my hands — as
line a farm as any in the country standing empty — and him horse-
racing, I suppose, and billiard-playing, and spending money."
"But it is only natural for a young man to like amusement,"
she said, gently. " And besides, sir, you should remember he has
just turned ov^er a new leaf. He is to be quite a reformed char-
acter when he goes back to London."
" Why should he go back to London ?"
She did not answer that question. But she understood clearly
enough the drift of these remarks ; and that same evening she
said to her husband,
"I suppose you know, Fred, what the old people would like us
to do. They would like us to settle down here — in the farm-
house at Crookfield — so as to be near them."
" Yes, I know very well," said he. " It's exceedingly kind of
them ; but I'm not going to bury myself alive just yet. And you
— do you mean to tell me you could bear with another fortnight
— well, let's say a month — do you mean to tell me you could
stand a month of the kind of life they live here?"
She looked at him in amazement.
" Why," she said, " I could live all my life this way, if I thought
I had any right to do so. Could anything be more pleasant and
peaceful and harmless — the garden, the driving, the seeing to the
house ?"
8
170 SABINA ZEMBRA.
" It isn't wildly exciting," he remarked.
"But you don't know how lazy I am naturally," she answered.
" A fine day, a seat in the garden, and a book — what more could
any one want? And I am sure kinder people never were born;
oh yes, this kind of life would suit me very well. But I know I
haven't earned the right to it. When we get back to London,
and when you have a little time to come along with me, I will
show you why I could not accept this quiet, pleasant life down
here Avith anything like a good conscience. Perhaps some day — "
"Perhaps some day we will do Darby and Joan, you mean?"
he said, lightly. "I know one Darby — in these here parts — who
seems a good deal fonder of his daughter-in-law than of his own
lawful wife."
" And how awfully fond she is of you, Fred !"
" Yes," he said, " the Mater has spoiled me all the way through.
That's what has made me the wreck I am."
" The wretch, you mean."
" It's all the same," he said, carelessly.
In the mean time there was nothing to be done beyond the
getting through these holidays as pleasantly as might be, and she
submitted with a gracious indolence to the little plans that these
good people drew out for her — and very kind indeed they were to
her ; and very proud of her they seemed. It was during this pe-
riod, moreover, that she saw her husband at his best. If there
was one strong feature in his character, it was his passionate de-
votion to his mother; and this, that she had only guessed at from
his talking, she now saw put in evidence, in a hundred pretty w-ays,
from morning till night. Just about as clearly as most people,
Sabina perceived her husband's peculiarities and defects ; for she
had a calm understanding — and she was not blinded by any wild
romanticism. He was frivolous, careless, infirm of purpose ; he
was a little cynical, and not a little selfish. But his affection for
his mother, his admiration of her, his praises of her goodness, his
faith in her counsels, his delight in her personal appearance — all
these were beautiful things to look at or to listen to. If old Mr.
Foster would have Sabina go with him for a stroll along the au-
tumn-tinted highways, the son was well content to follow behind
with the pretty and gentle mother, teasing her sometimes, at oth-
ers petting her, but ever and always her champion.
" I suppose it is rather a stupid thing," he said to Sabina, " for
A HONEY-MOON VISIT. 171
a man to be proud of his own mother; but then, you see, they
don't often make them like that."
" She has been very kind to me," Sabina said, rather wistfully ;
she had not enjoyed much of a mother's care.
On the morning of their leaving for London, Fred Foster ad-
dressed the following remarks to his wife, during the process of
heaving his things into his portmanteau :
" Well, now, Sabie, you've done everything I asked of you, and
done it thoroughly, too. I thought you would have had a tough-
er job with the old man ; but you've settled him ; you've made a
poor, wretched, gelatinous thing of him ; lie's just as silly about
you as the Wygraras used to be. But look here, my dear," he
said, regarding her rather ruefully. " I haven't seen any practical
outcome of it. Here we are going back, and not a word has been
said about any little friendly assistance to two young people
starting life together."
" Oh, Fred," she remonstrated, " don't talk about money !
They have been goodness itself to us."
"Yes, my dear child; but money insists on being talked about
— it is a way it has got. I don't say we haven't enough for pres-
ent necessities ; and those rooms in the Strand are not expensive
— considering how handy they are ; but still — one would have
liked a trifling augmentation of income, so to speak ; or even sup-
posing that a little friendly check had been slipped into one's
hand, I dare say one might have pocketed one's dignity. Or per-
haps he doesn't believe in my playing good boy down here?
Wants to see how our small establishment is going to work?
Payment by results, eh ?"
" Fred, don't talk like that !" she implored. " Surely we have
enough, if we are careful and economical."
" Oh, I assure you I am not frightened about tlie future," he
said, gayly. " The success of your performance down here has
quite reassured me. When you can do for such a tough old
character as my father, you won't have much difficulty in bring-
ing your own father to reason, if once you set your mind to it.
We shall be all right, never fear."
Old Mrs. Foster was crying a little when she embraced her
daughter-in-law for the last time at Wycombe station.
"Dear child," she said, "I — I suppose you are doing right in
going away from us — but — but remember there is always a iionie
172 SAEINA ZEMBEA.
•waiting for you when you choose. God bless you, my dear ! — I
shall look forward to your coming home. I know you will come
and comfort the last years of an old woman's life."
Sabina was not a sentimental person ; but this old lady had
been very, very kind to her.
" Good-by, mother," she said, with a half-stifled sob in her throat ;
and after they had got away from the station, she sate very silent
in a corner of the carriage, not caring to show that her downcast
lashes were wet.
CHAPTER XX.
IN LONDON AGAIN.
This was Janie Wygram who was making her way up a dusky
and narrow little staircase in a house in the Strand, and wonder-
ing the while what had induced the newly married pair to pitch
their dwelling in the very centre of the great city's turmoil.
Then she gained a landing ; there was an open door before her ;
and the next moment this was no other than her beloved Sabie
who had eagerly caught her by both hands, and drawn her into
the light and kissed her, and was smiling and laughing with glad-
ness to see her again.
"And I know what you're thinking, Janie — that we've gone
stai'k, staring mad to come and live in such a place. Oh, but you
have no idea how convenient it is. I can pop down to Hunger-
ford Pier in a couple of minutes — the Charity Organization So-
ciety is quite close by; there's Charing Cross station handy for
Fred, and Waterloo not so far away."
At the first mention of Fred Foster's name the rather bewil-
dered Janie involuntarily looked round, and Sabina instantly un-
derstood that mute interrogation.
"Fred's gone down to Lillie Bridge," she said, lightly.
As plainly as possible Janie's little glance of surprise said,
" He has left you already — alone in London, too ?" but she was a
prudent lass, and held her peace; and Sabina (whether or not she
had noticed that look of surprise) continued, cheerfully enough :
"I suppose he'll find some friends there, for lie's not coming
back till the evening, and so I thought I would use the day for
IN LONDON AGAIN. 173
my own purposes. That is why I wrote to you, Janie dear. I
want you to corae and help me in getting a few things for the
rooms. Comfortable little rooms, aren't they? And one need
never be dull either : just look at this."
She took her friend to the window, and showed her the busy,
noisy thoroughfare, with its continual stream of passers-by, its
shops and pavements and sandwich-men, its cabs and vans and
omnibuses, its ceaseless movement and kaleidoscopic groupings.
" When I'm left a poor forlorn grass-widow," Sabina said, " I
can always amuse myself there. But you know, Janie, I sha'n't
have much time for moping. Come, shall we go and begin our
purchases at once ? I want to get a few pretty things, and some
useful things as well, just to make the place trim and snug. Fred
•was no use in the way of advice ; the only thing he could suggest
was a cellaret."
All this time Janie had been quite silent ; but now she took
Sabina's hand in hers, and regarded her with tender and earnest
and wistful eyes, and said,
" Ah, you don't know, Sabie — how glad I am — to find you so
— so — so happy — and contented."
"Why, you dear, good, silly creature," Sabina answered, good-
humoredly, "what did you expect? Did you expect to find me
sitting with a dagger and a bowl of poison before me? Come
along now and we'll get our shopping done, and then we'll como
back here to have a bit of lunch, and you will tell me all about my
friends down in Chelsea."
And so they set forth, and soon they were both engrossed in
that important business. At the same titiie Janie could not fail
to perceive that Sabina seemed determined to be scrupulously
economical, and betrayed a quite new desire to have money's-
worth for her money. Formerly she had been distinctly free-
handed — even to carelessness; but now questions of small savings
were considered ; and more than once she contented herself with
a second-rate article, in spite of Janie's protests. On their way
back to the rooms in the Strand she even made some little kind
of apology.
" You see, Janie, if I am to have any margin at all to help my
poor people down there, we must be very prudent in what we
spend on ourselves. 1 dare say, in time, and with care, we may
make a little nest-egg, just in case of emergency ; but at j)rcsent
174 SABINA ZEMBEA..
it is pretty mucli hand-to-mouth, and I know my father won't
alter his resolution, whatever Fred may think. That hundred
pounds my father gave me for the wedding outfit just made all
the difference to us ; you know I spent as little as ever I could,
and out of the balance I paid for all these things we have been
buying; and I lent Fred twenty pounds this morning; and even
now I have another five-and-twenty left. So you see, when I come
again to visit my friends down there, I sha'n't have a quite empty
purse."
" You lent Mr. Foster twenty pounds this morning ?" Janie was
startled into saying.
" Oh, well," Sabina rejoined, with her usual good-nature, " he
chose to call it a loan. I don't suppose our united fortunes will
he so great that we need keep an account between us. I suppose
that trip to Cornwall rather impoverished him — the driving is so
expensive there. When you get married, my dear child, don't you
go to Cornwall,"
" How very business-like you have grown, Sabie !" her friend
exclaimed — perhaps with a touch of disappointment.
" A married woman, ray dear, has her responsibilities," Sabina
answered, briskly, as they were ascending to the room. " And
the first of these at present is to decide what we shall send out
for for lunch. Better still — we'll ring for the landlady, and ask
her advice."
It was quite like old times for these two to be having a frugal
little meal together; and of course there was a great deal to be
talked over concerning the futures and condition of the poor peo-
ple who had been temporarily under Janie's charge. Nor were
other friends forgotten ; and at last Sabina said,
" And what about Walter Lindsay ?"
Janie looked up quickly.
" Why, surely you know he has gone to America !"
" Oh yes, I remember his speaking about it," Sabina said.
" His speaking about it !" Janie repeated, with something of re-
proach in her tone ; and then she added, with a bit of a sigh, "Ah,
■well, Sabie, I suppose it was not your fault that you did not care
for him."
" But I did care for him," Sabina answered, warmly — " I cared
for him very much indeed. He and I were always the best of
friends. I hardly ever knew any one I liked more — why, how
IN LONDON AGAIN. 175
could it be otherwise? — lie was so generous and raanly and cour-
teous in every way. And so pleasant in manner — I tell j'ou I
liked him very, very much indeed."
" He loved you, Sabie."
Sabina hesitated for a moment, not knowing which way to take
this.
" You should not say such things," she said, quietly.
"There's no harm in saying it now," was the rejoinder.
*' There would be harm if it were true," Sabina said, quickly.
"And I knew that you had some fancy of the kind, from the way
you kept on talking about him. You mistook the very frankness
of his friendship for something quite different."
" Sabie, I'm telling the truth !" she cried. " Why, he worship-
ped the very ground you trod on ! There never was a man loved
a woman more than he did you. He thought of nothing else but
you : night and day he was contriving to do you some little kind-
ness — or even to keep himself in your remembrance. Loved you !
yes, I should think he did — you will never meet with a love like
that again, if you live for a hundred years."
*' Janie, you forget !"
*' No, I don't forget," Janie said, piteously, " but I want to
speak just this once. I think it is cruel — he goes away, without
a word — well, that is just like him — up to the last he had no
thought or wish but for your happiness ; and now — when you
talk of other people — you — you mention him just as an ordinary
acquaintance, and you've half forgotten that he's gone away to
America. I suppose he would prefer that; it was always his
way ; whatever was best for you — that was all he thought of. I
went to tell him when you got engaged. I suppose I was rather
put about. I had expected other things. But would he say a
single word — except of kindness for you ? No ; he made mc
promise to remain your friend whatever happened ; he made me
promise to make the best of everything; he had nothing to say
about himself, though I could guess well enough."
" And so you think you are making the best of everything, Ja-
nie, by telling me all this?"
"I don't want him to be quite forgotten. I don't think it's
fair. You would have remembered if the most ordinary acquaint-
ance had gone away to America; and this man — the noblest man
that I have ever met with — he goes away from his own country
176 SABINA ZEMBEA.
— and with a broken heart, as I take it — and you scarcely re-
member — "
" Janie, don't make me angry," Sabina said. " I tell you I re-
membered well enough his intention of going to America — we
talked of it on my wedding-day ; and he was as cheerful then as
you might be now, if you had only a little common-sense. Come,
come, put that folly out of your head, and let me know if you
have heard anything about him since his arrival — I should be glad
to hear of him now and again — I suppose he has friends over
there ?"
"Friends? Yes, I should think so!" said Janie, proudly.
" You should have seen the account of the dinner they gave him
at one of the artists' clubs in New York — father got the newspa-
per, but I don't know who sent it — and they said such fine things
about him, and spoke of his making America his home. But I
know better than that," Janie continued, with an air of authority,
" I know better than that. He meant it one time, no doubt ; and
he meant to sell his house and studio — and he asked me to go up
one afternoon and help him to pick out keepsakes for the people
we knew, before he sold everything off. Well, we were getting
through with that — and we have all of us got something to re-
member him by — father and mother and all of us — when lie
came to the Chippendale cabinet in the corner of the studio. He
did not think I saw him, but I did ; he took out the cup of rock-
crystal with the stones round it — you once drank out of that cup,
Sabie— "
A slight flush came on Sabina's forehead.
" It was a piece of nonsense — I should have thought nothing
of it only that your mother mentioned it afterwards."
" Well, he looked at it a long time ; and then he put it back,
and then he turned to me. ' Do you remember the night Sabina
came here to supper?' he said — for I had asked him to call you
Sabina during these last few days, when we were talking a little
about you. ' Of course I do,' I said. ' Do you remember how
pretty she looked when she was up at the corner of the table —
the yellow fichu of lace round her neck, and the bunch of forget-
me-nots in front ? She was very kind to me that night. And do
you remember her coming along through the garden, like a pale,
beautiful ghost, and her surprise at finding the studio so well lit
up? That is where she sate — on the sofa there — while they were
IN LONDON AGAIN. l'7'7
singing " Shepherds, have you seen my Flora pass this way ?" —
you remember all that evening, Miss Janie?' As if I were likely
to forget it ! ' Well,' he says, ' it's no use, I meant to sell this
place, and go to America for good. I'm going to America, that's
all right ; but so help me God, so long as I have a shilling left, I
will never allow a stranger to come in and take possession of this
house !' And that is how it stands at this moment ; and yet — yet
— you say that man was not in love with you !"
" Janie," Sabina said, " you talk to me as if you had something
to reproach me with — as if I had done Walter Lindsay a great
wrong. Well, you know Walter Lindsay, But so do I ; and I
think I know him well enough to make sure he never meant you
to speak to me like that."
This was a deadly home-thrust, and for a second poor Janie
became rather pale, and bit her lip.
" You may say anything you like against me, Sabie ; I am quite
content when I see you begin to appreciate Walter Lindsay a
little."
That was all that was said on this subject just then ; for lunch
was over now, and when Sabina asked Janie what they ought to
do that afternoon (Mr. Fred not returning till seven), and when Ja-
nie besought her to go down and see the old people in Kensington
Square, she most cheerfully consented. They spent the after-
noon partly in Kensington Square, and partly in certain neighbor-
hoods to the south of that, looking up a few old friends and ac-
quaintances ; and then, when Sabina had to return to the Strand,
Janie made the voyage with her from Chelsea Pier to Ilungerford,
but could riot be induced to go farther than that. Some other
time, she said, she would call and see Mr. Foster and Sabina to-
gether.
As it chanced, if she had accompanied Sabina home to those
rooms, she would have found Fred Foster in a remarkably good
humor.
" Ain't we smart !" said he, as he came in (Sabina had preceded
liim by but a few minutes). "Now, I do call this uncommonfy
neat and snug for the very middle of London. Oli, Janie helped
you, did she ? Give her my love when you sec her ; she's not
particularly beautiful, but I consider those people were awfully
good to you. Now, Dame Durden, what's the programme for
this evening? To begin with, some dinner. The strong point
8*
178 SABINA ZEMBRA.
of this arrangement is that we are not dependent on cooks or
butlers or anybody who may get drunk and break things ; you
wander out into the world of London and dine where you please
— the best of food and the best of wines, if you only know where
to go ; no bother ; you can entertain your friends, too, when
fortune smiles on you. So off you go and make yourself gor-
geous, and we'll try the Cri."
"The what?" she asked.
" The Criterion. No ; let me see ; we'll go to the Cafe Royal ;
there I may have a cigar after dinner. Look alive, for I'm des-
perately hungry."
They went to that restaurant, and Mr. Fred showed considerable
experience and skill in ordering their little banquet, with its ap-
propriate wines. Sabina rather took him to task for his extrava-
gance ; but he said, lightly,
"Oh, you let me alone. I've had a little bit of luck to-day.
Well, I don't consider it luck, as I told you before, I consider
it bare justice; it's only getting a little of my property back.
Don't you make any mistake — the breast of a partridge and a
glass of Poramard were specially invented by a beneficent Provi-
dence to go together — don't be a fool, but do as you're bid. I
tell you I'm going to look after you, and see you through this
turmoil they call life."
He was quite merry, indeed, and told her many facetious
stories about the two or three companions he had run against
during the day ; indeed, so lightly did the time pass that it was
after nine o'clock before he had finished his cigar and was ready-
to leave.
"I had intended taking you to the theatre," he said, as be
called for his bill, "but that's the worst about play -going in
London now — the theatres are too popular; you are never sure
of a decent seat, unless you solemnly make up your mind a long
time before — as if you were going to be married, or hanged, or
something. Then they don't let you smoke. And besides,
you've got to rush away in the middle of your dinner, just when
one's inner consciousness feels the want of repose. Now, the
music-halls don't give you the highest form of intellectual enter-
tainment — I admit that. It isn't Shakespeare, But, mind you,
there's something uncommonly handy in your being able to drop
in at any time; always something going on ; a cigar, or a drink.
SOME NEW ACQUAINTANCES. 179
when you want it; or an evening paper, to vary the thing. Look
here, what do you say to driving up to tlie Oxford for an hour?"
" The Oxford ?" she repeated, inquiringly.
"Yes; it's a music-hall, don't you know? Oh, well, it isn't
high culture, as I admit, but it's a way of passing an hour; and
then you wouldn't meet anybody — I mean, we should get a
private box ; no one would know that you were there. And
sometimes there's very good singing."
" If you don't mind," she said, " I think I would as soon go
back to our rooms, and see how all our new finery looks."
" Oh, ver)'' well," he said, contentedly ; and so they went down-
stairs, and got into a hansom, and were driven home.
Sabina took to planning and arranging and stitching where
that was wanted ; he applied himself to Dufton's excellent treatise
on "Practical Billiards," but soon fell asleep. When he awoke,
it was half-past eleven ; and then he proceeded to mix for him-
self a little spirits and water, as an adjunct to his final cigar.
CHAPTER XXI.
SOME NEW ACQUAINTANCES.
Now, there had been a clear understanding, if no formal com-
pact, between these two that their life after marriage was to be
in a manner a combination of their separate lives before it. He
was to be at her right hand in all her various duties; she was to
reward herself occasionally by a little participation in his amuse-
ments. Ue had talked her over into considering this a very sen-
sible and practicable scheme ; and on the one or two occasions
when he was allowed to accompany her on her errands of mercy
and help, his good -humor, his shrewd acquaintance with the
world's ways, and his vivacious society, all came in very well.
Unfortunately for this ideal copartnership, however, when they
returned to London it so happened that the Czarevitch and Cam-
bridgeshire handicaps had just been published, and lie was much
interested in the discussion of these imposts; and he was away a
good deal among acquaintances whom he did not care to intro-
duce to his wife, because their conversation was not in the least
likely to interest her. Then came the Doncastcr September
180 SABINA ZEMBRA.
Meeting. But when he had spolien of Sabina's giving herself a
little holiday relaxation now and again, he had never thought of
proposing to her a rough-and-tumble journey down to Yorkshire
and back. He had thought of a sunny afternoon at Lord's, look-
ing on at a cricket match ; or a trip down the river in the steamer
of the Royal Thames Yacht Club ; or the Oaks, perhaps, or Ascot,
or Goodwood — something pretty and lively and socially amusing ;
not this business-like meeting in the north. At the same time
he considered it prudent, and even kind, to break the news of
his going in an artful and diplomatic manner.
" Dame Durden," said he, " you're a young and innocent thing ;
I wish you'd pray for the success of Squire Tipton."
" That's a horse, I suppose ?" she said, looking up from her
books — for she now kept minute accounts of her expenditure.
" I should say so ; and a very good horse too. He's in for the
Yorkshire Handicap on Tuesday ; and seeing that he ran second
for last year's St. Leger, and that he is as fit as a fiddle, accord-
ing to all accounts, I think he'll do the trick. That's Tues-
day afternoon. I suppose I ought to go down Monday night;
there's a train arriving about nine. Then the Leger is Wednes-
day-"
"But where is all this?" she asked, innocently.
" Why, Doncaster." And then he added, " It wouldn't be worth
your while, would it, to go all that way and back just for these
few days ?"
She hesitated ; was it not for him to decide ?
"Oh no, I'm sure it wouldn't!" he said, instantly, interpreting
her silence his own way. " It isn't a ladies' meeting. I wouldn't
advise you to go. A lot of fatigue ; precious little amusement.
You won't find the time hang heavily on your hands, will you,
till I come back ?"
" Indeed no," she said, with a smile. " There's never a day
long enough, it would seem."
The truth was that she had now to gather up again all the
threads of her charitable work that had been temporarily dropped;
and his devotion to his own pursuits left her all the more time,
down there in Chelsea, in the company of the indefatigable Janie.
Janie was not at all sorry that Mr. Foster did not put in an ap-
pearance. Why, it was quite like old times for her to find her-
self going about with her bosom friend; and there was always
SOME NEW ACQUAINTANCES. 181
tea for thera, when they wanted it, in Kensington Square ; and
Sabie, in Mrs. Wygram's eyes, was just as beautiful and gracious
and bland and good-natured as ever, and quite as submissive to
all the petting that could be bestowed on her. These good peo-
ple did not seem to be altogether angry when they heard that Mr.
Foster was going down to Doncaster, though of course they made
the remark that it was pretty early for hira to be leaving his
young wife.
But before Fred Foster went to Doncaster there were a few lit-
tle matters to be considered. On the Friday evening, when Sa-
bina returned home, she found him pacing up and down the little
sitting-roora in very evident disappointment.
" It's pretty hard," he said. " I suppose I must ask you to
lend me a five-pound note — "
" But I will give it you," she said, promptly, and she went to
her desk with a light heart. " I'm sure there is not much use in
talking of lending or borrowing as between you and me — what-
ever I have is yours and welcome."
" If you're in such a generous mood," he said, rather thankless-
ly, "you might make the fiver a tenner, if you can."
" Well, I can," she answered, " but it won't leave me very
much."
"It's very absurd, all this,'' he continued, in his grumbling
way, and he scarcely regarded her counting out the money on the
table. " Of course I thought the old man was going to do some-
thing — especially after the fuss he made about you. I consider
it very shabby. I don't care for professions of interest and affec-
tion that don't mean anything. Why, it was enough to lead any
one into being careless — or at least hopeful — the way they both
treated you ; and they must know very well that a wedding
trip costs something; and I'm sure they couldn't expect mc to
have saved up a fortune out of my allowance — "
"But surely, Fred, so long as we can live comfortably enough,
I would not make the relationship too much of a mercenary one !"
she said, gently. " I am sure I never thought their kindness to
me meant money. And look how well off we are as compared to
many ! It may be annoying to be in want of a few sovereigns
now and again ; but look at the comfort of knowing that our in-
come, however small, is assured. There are the ten pounds ; isn't
it enough ?"
182 SABINA ZEMBRA.
"Yes, it is — for the present; it is the whole situation that
seems to me unbearable, and absurd also."
" But if you have enough, what more would you have ?" she
asked — and she was inclined to laugh at this spoiled child. " You
know, I shall be having my little check coming along on the 22d."
" Yes, the twelfth part of one hundred and fifty pounds," he
said, bitterly. "Accurately divided, to the shilling. No, no;
I tell you it won't do, Sabie. There must be some alteration.
We ought to begin as we mean to go on ; and it is easier for you
to deal with your people than for me with mine ; for your father
is a very rich man, with whom the money itself can be no object,
and I am perfectly certain he would do the right thing — what he
ought in natural fairness to do — if he was approached the right
way."
She glanced towards him, and then she lowered her eyes.
" Do you mean that — that I should ask ?"
*' Yes, certainly," he said, bluntly. " The very least he can do
is to give you the allowance you had before you were married.
Surely there is as much need of it now as then ! That is the
very least you ought to ask for."
A faint color overspread her forehead.
" You don't know," she said, in a rather low voice, " what his
manner was towards me when that matter was settled — and — how
he spoke of you."
"Oh, that I understand perfectly well," he said, impatiently.
" Why, it's the common story. Of course people say nasty things
when they don't like a marriage ; and goodness knows he's wel-
come to call me all the names he can think of. But that's nei-
ther here nor there. We can't afford to take a little display of
temper for more than it is worth. It's only on the stage that
parents curse their disobedient daughter, and drive her forth, and
keep impossible vows about never seeing her again. Blood is
thicker than water, depend on it. I have no doubt your father
was annoyed ; I dare say I should have been annoyed if I had
been in his place ; and, mind, you had been leading him on to be
annoyed. I don't understand it at all ; you can manage every-
body else you come across — why did you quarrel with him?"
" There was no quarrel, that I know of," Sabina said, simply,
" but we had different ways of looking at things, that is all.
When I left the house it was on a quite friendly understanding."
SOME NEW ACQUAINTANCES. 183
" Oh, well, he has simmered down by this time. And really
something must be done. Will you write to him ?"
" Fred," she said, with a touch of entreaty in her voice, " if you
only knew the things he said — "
" My dear creature, if you paid heed to the things that are said
about you, or thought about you, life would be intolerable. Let
us get to something of more importance than that. And the
immediate and actual thing is, that it is impossible for us to go
on in this hand-to-mouth way."
And yet still she hesitated. Of course, he could not know
everything of her father's demeanor towards her during that in-
terview — the cold exactitude of his phrases, his contemptuous re-
ferences to the man who was about to become her husband. lie
could not understand how eager she had been that he would agree
to her renouncing that allowance altogether, and with what a re-
current shame and mortification it was that she felt herself com-
pelled, month by month, to receive money from such a source.
And now — to sit down and write for more!
A happy idea struck her.
" Besides, it would be no use writing," she said, " for they are
abroad at present."
" Oh no, they're not," he said, " begging your pardon. Look
at this."
He handed her an evening paper, and showed her a paragraph
in it:
" Sir Anthony and Lady Zembra have arrived in town from a
protracted sojourn at Davos- Piatz. They proceed next week on
a visit to Dikeley Hall, Suffolk, the country residence of Isambard
Zembra, Esq., of Red House, Campden Hill."
Sabina recognized the style of the patient chronicler of the
house of Zembra — Miss Renshaw, the governess, that is to say —
and knew that the information was likely to be correct.
" It is a capital opportunity," he said, with a little facctlousncss.
"They're coming back flushed with their holidays. They'll im-
agine you've been cooped up in London all the time; and surely
they will take pity on honest poverty. Oh, don't you be afraid
of pitching the supplication pretty strong. What is the writing
of a letter? Ten minutes' work — with a substantial reward if you
do it well enough. And you may depend on it, it won't be pre-
served as a record against you. Sir Anthony won't show that
184 SABINA ZEMBRA.
letter about ; it will be torn up directly he lias read it. Why,
wouldn't his constituents like to be told that the rich Sir Anthony
allowed his eldest daughter the princely revenue of twelve pound
ten shillings a month, and that she had to write to him for more?
A pretty story for the local journals ! a pretty cry at the next
election ! No, no ; you may make your prayer as pathetic as ever
you like ; that is one thing about himself that he won't have sent
to the public press."
Well, for some time she sat in silent consideration, while he lit
a cigar and proceeded to scan the contents of the evening paper.
And if the truth were known, it was not Fred Foster, nor any of
his wants or wishes, that finally overcame her deep reluctance and
induced her to write to her father. It was of a great many other
people she was thinking — honest, well-meaning people she took
them to be, and industrious when they had the chance — who yet
had fallen into untoward circumstances in the general fight of the
world, and had come to look on her as their wisest counsellor and
best and generous friend. The winter months would deal hardly
with many of these poor folk. Scant food, scant firing, scant
clothing would become the parents of illness ; illness meant en-
forced idleness ; it was those of them who were too proud to ac-
cept of parish relief who suffered the most and needed the most
skilful management, if they were to be helped at all. Then she
thought of her own little store. Twenty-five pounds a month
used to be abundance ; but now that was cut down by one-half ;
moreover, there were a good many small incidental expenses con-
nected with this modest establishment which she had hardly looked
forward to, and which her husband did not seem to think it was his
business to deal with. In point of fact, she had never yet received
a farthing from him — though he had bought her presents, and
•would have bought her more, only that she protested against his
extrava<Tance. On the contrary, she had lent liira from her small
hoardings until (as she thought of certain families she knew) she
was almost afraid to see what a pittance was left, and if there was
really a chance that her father would listen. It was scarcely ask-
ing for herself — it was rather begging for her poor ones. And so
in the end she consented to write.
And yet, as she wrote, she could not help remembering her fa-
ther's manner to her, and she was not very confident. Nor could
she demean herself by making too piteous an appeal. No ; she
SOME NEW ACQUAINTANCES. 185
merely asked him to recoasider the arrangement he had made,
and hoped that he would see his way to making her the same al-
lowance that he had formerly made her, seeing that her marriage
had not interfered at all, and was not likely to interfere, with those
little charitable undertakings that used to have at least his tacit
approval. And she trusted that his annoyance with her over the
step she had taken would cease in time — she looked forward to
that.
Sabina handed the letter to her husband, and he took it and
read it.
" Well," said he, lightly, " it's rather a business-like production,
and there isn't much of the ad misericordiam, in forma pauperis
kind of thing in it ; but I dare say it will do very well. The old
gentleman is too much of a man of the world to continue a quar-
rel with his daughter over a hundred and fifty a year."
He rose and got his hat and cane.
" Come along, Dame Durden," he said, cheerfully. " We'll
post this letter so that he'll get it the first thing in the morning;
and then we'll drive up to the Cafe Roval and have a bit of din-
ner."
" Wouldn't it be much cheaper to have some little thing here ?"
she suggested — thinking of the lent sovereigns and her dimin-
ished store.
"Not for this negro minstrel. No; I may trust Mother Sim-
mons as far as a boiled egg goes, or even a chop for lunch, but no
further. Come along, I'm as hungry as a hawk."
And very merry and cheerful he was as they went out, appar-
ently taking it for granted that Sir Anthony would consent. Per-
haps the borrowed sovereigns in his waistcoat-pocket added to
his high spirits ; at all events, when the letter had been posted
he would have Sabina get into a hansom — though she was quite
willing to walk; and when they had got up to the cafe and taken
their places, he proceeded to order a little dinner that seemed to
her quite unnecessarily prodigal.
"The question now lies between Burgundy and champagne,"
he observed. " What do you say to that Bollinger we tried the
other day ?"
"I won't have any wine, thank you," she answered.
•' Why not ?"
"I would rather not have any, thank you," she said, simply.
186 6ABINA ZEMBRA.
" Well, that is pretty hard on me," he remarked, with rueful
sincerity. " For when we have a whole bottle, I get two-thirds
of it ; but when I order a pint, it is only a pint. Come, Sabie,
change your mind — I want you to drink good -luck to Squire
Tipton."
" Really, I would rather have no wine," she said.
" Then a pint it must be," he said ; and he ordered that —
while she had some water.
They had just finished dinner, and Foster was pulling out his
cigar-case, when two friends of his came along, and nodded to
him as they passed the little table. The one was a middle-aged,
shortish man, spare of frame, with a keen, weather-tanned face,
prominent blue eyes, and a carefully waxed mustache; the other
a tall young man, with rather flabby, clean-shaven cheeks, very
light liair, vacant eyes, and listless demeanor. Both were in even-
ing dress, their light overcoats being over their arm.
" Wait a minute, Raby," Foster called after them, and they
both turned; "I want to introduce you to my wife — Captain
Raby— Mr. Russell—"
The tall, apathetic young man merely bowed ; but Captain
Raby said, " Proud to have the honor of making your acquaint-
ance, Mrs. Foster," and stared at her so curiously that she dropped
her eyes.
" I say, what are you after to-night?" Foster continued, regard-
ing them both. " Won't you come down and smoke a cigar in
my diggings — in the Strand, don't you know ?"
The shorter of the two gentlemen was still looking at Sabina
— examining her almost.
"Delighted, I am sure," he said, " if Mrs. Foster will permit."
" Oh, she doesn't mind a cigar or two," Fred Foster put in, in-
stantly. " Come along. AVe'U go down in two hansoms. Tell
your man to follow us — we will show you where to pull up."
In the cab Sabina said to him,
" Who are these two ?"
"The little man is Captain Raby — a very good sort of fellow
— and as sharp as a needle. He manages all Lord Tynemouth's
turf affairs for him."
" I don't like him," she said.
" Why, you haven't spoken a word to him yet ! Oh yes, he's
a very good sort of fellow — and one worth knowing."
SOME NEW ACQUAINTANCES. 187
" And tlie other ?"
" Russell ! Don't you know Russell & Schroeder in Oxford
Street? Of course you do. Not that he lias anything to do with
the business ; it's his happy occupation to spend the money that
has been made in it."
"He seems a soft-looking youth," was Sabina's sole comment.
"Johnny Russell," answered her husband, significantly, " is a
very valuable young man — an extremely valuable young man."
When they had all arrived at the rooms in the Strand, Fred
Foster became his own butler, and produced cigars, soda-water,
brandy, and also a pack of cards, while Captain Raby devoted
himself to Sabina, staring at her as he spoke. It was sixpenny
" Nap " they were going to play, and nothing would do them
but that Sabina should join in ; and she, being a good-natured
kind of creature, consented, though in her manner there was a
trifle more reserve than usually appeared there when she joined
a friendly little game at the Wygrams' of an evening. Captain
Raby appeared to care very little about the cards ; he played me-
chanically and indifferently, and was mostly concerned in chat-
ting across the table to Sabina — his talk chiefly consisting of
little sarcastic comments about her husband and his ways and
doings. Moreover, whenever she lifted her eyes — as sometimes
she did in a puzzled kind of fashion, for she understood the
game but slightly, and was oftentimes uncertain as to what she
should do — invariably she found his eyes regarding her, and that
in a curiously familiar way. He said nothing to offend, but his
manner was unpleasant ; and Sabina gradually withdrew herself
from any conversation, attending to the cards in a perfunctory
way, and anxious only to escape. At last, when the mild youth
had boldly gone Nap, and got it, too. Captain Raby said,
"I'll tell you what we'll do now. Three Nap is as good as
any. Now, I don't think Mrs. Foster is having a fair chance.
You haven't played much, have you, Mrs. Foster? Well, now, I
will come and sit beside you and play your hand for you — give
you advice, anyway — I would just as soon look on — and we'll sec
if we can't mend matters a little."
He rose; but Sabina refused his offer on the ground that she
wished to withdraw from the game anyway. She had a slight
headache ; she would rather leave them to themselves. There was
a little bit of a scrimmage after this, the pale-faced youth timidly
188 SABINA ZEMBRA.
pleading with her to remain, Fred Foster laughing at her for be-
ing a bad loser, Captain Raby almost insisting that she and he
together should play the same hand, and rout their foes. Sabina
gently persisted, and with a little dignity, too; she withdrew
from the table to an arm-chair, and took a book ; and then they
continued the game by themselves, with the addition of a half-a-
crown pool to increase the attraction.
They played late, Sabina wondering the while when they would
go. And even after they had risen from the cards, Captain Raby
would light another cigar, and would come and talk to Sabina in
his gaHant way, and promise to see that her husband got into no
mischief down at Doncaster. Immediately they had gone, Fred
Foster said to her,
" Well, Madam Dignity, what offended you to-night?"
" Oh, nothing in particular," she said, and then she looked up.
" What is that Captain Raby a captain in ?"
"He was in the militia, I believe."
" I don't think he's a gentleman," she said,
" Well, I like that," Foster said, with a laugh. " He's Lord
Tynemouth's brother-in-law, at any rate."
She made no reply to this.
"Perhaps you preferred the draper?" he asked.
"Mr. Russell? Yes, I preferred his manner very much. And
I suppose he is no more feeble and foolish than other brainless
young men of the same type."
" Well, we're in a very hypercritical vein this evening," he said,
looking at her with some surprise. " You'll have to learn, my
dear, that the world is made up of all sorts, and one can't have
one's friends all turned out regulation pattern. I suppose there
are some Admirable Crichtons somewhere, but they don't abound
in the Strand ; and they won't play whist to lighten the journey
down to Doncaster. The one isn't a gentleman, and the other is
a fool? Well, fool or no fool, he managed to rob me of three
golden sovereigns this evening, that I shall have to get back from
him somehow or other next week. Three golden sovereigns to
an infant like that ! No matter ; we'll put it straight next week,
I have no doubt. So you go away to bed now; and don't for-
get to pray that your father may arise in a blessed and heavenly
temper to-morrow morning."
WAYS AND MEANS, 189
CHAPTER XXII.
WATS AND MEANS,
The answer of Sir Anthony Zembra to his daughter's reluctant
petition arrived just as she and her husband were going out for
the evening, Mr. Foster had been presented with a couple of
stalls at one of the theatres in the Strand ; so he proposed that
they should dine at a restaurant and go to the play afterwards.
But the appearance of this important letter drove both dinner
and theatre out of Fred Foster's head.
" Well," said he, with affected indifference, as she glanced over
the contents, " does Jupiter nod favorably, or is this another
thunder-bolt?"
Sabina did not answer; her face had flushed suddenly — with
anger or indignation ; and she folded the letter again quickly.
" Let me see it."
He held out his hand ; she withdrew an inch or two.
" No," she said, " you need not read it. He refuses. I thought
he would — so I suppose it doesn't much matter."
"And he says something about mc that I am not to look at?
Do you think I am a child, or a fool ? Let's see it."
He took the letter from her, and opened it, and read as follows :
"Dear Sabixa, — I think you are aware that I never waste
words. I told you that you were free to go your own way, and
order your life as you thought best ; and I named the sum I was
willing to allow for your own personal maintenance. I must
decline to increase that sum in order to enable you to support a
lot of paupers — including your husband.
" Yours truly, Anthony Zembra,"
He laughed aloud ; but it was a rueful kind of laugh.
"Pretty mad, isn't he? I thought the old gentleman would
have become a little reasonable by now. Well, we'll have to wait
— as best we can."
It was the refusal of the money that chiefly concerned him ;
190 SABINA ZEMBEA.
the insnit levelled at himself be did not seem to mind in the
least. Indeed, he threw the letter carelessly on to the table, took
up his hat, gloves, and cane again, and then, when he was ready,
he held open the door to let Sabina pass out.
" We'll have to hurry over this banquet," said he, lightly, " if
you want to see the beginning of the piece."
All the same, he was rather silent during dinner, and he did
not seem to care much for the little comedy they went to see
thereafter. When they got back to their rooms, and he had lit a
cigar, and ensconced himself in a low easy-chair, he revealed what
he had been thinking of all the evening by his first ejaculation.
"It is a confounded nuisance," he said, impatiently.
" Fred," said she, " don't you think we might manage to live a
little more economically than we do, and so mend matters that
way? Dining at restaurants is so expensive; if you didn't mind
being content with what they can do for us here, you might' have
your own wine sent in, and that would make a great difference.
And you know you are so dreadfully extravagant about cabs — or
careless, rather, I should say."
" Oh, it's no use talking like that," he interrupted. " Saving
twopence-farthing here or there won't put matters straight. What
I want to know is what income we can definitely calculate on."
"But you know," she said.
"What? What we have at present? Oh no, no; that won't
do at all ; that I look on as provisional ; it was always understood
to be so. Of course we can't go on like this."
Well, she did not answer; though she might have reminded
him of her repeated warnings that Sir Anthony would prove im-
placable, of which his cheerful optimism would take no heed. Nor
did she further insist on their cutting their coat according to such
cloth as they had in the mean time ; nor did she venture to sug-
gest that he might turn his attention to some pursuit more settled
and profitable than playing billiard-matches and backing horses.
For these considerations were -obvious ; and no man likes to be
preached at.
" I am afraid," said he, gloomily staring at his out-stretched
legs and the tips of his patent-leather boots, " you've only made
matters worse by writing that letter."
" I am sure I did not wish to write it," she said, gently.
" No, of course not. I don't suppose you did. But people
WAYS AND MEANS. 191
have often to do what they have no wish to do ; and the best way
then is to do it with as good a grace as possible. I think you might
have made that letter a little more complacent. There was no
use showing you did it unwillingly — of course he would sav, ' Oh,
this is a business communication ; and I'll answer it as such.' "
Sabina sate silent. It was the first time he had found fault with
her. And she did not remind him that he had seen the letter be-
fore it was sent, and that, if it did not please him, he might have
remonstrated then.
Nor was he inclined to be much more cheerful on the follow-
ing morning, as he stood at the window and idly thrummed on
the pane. Indeed, the Strand early on a Sunday morning is not
a sight to raise any one's spirits, even when it is flooded with
London's sickly sunshine. It is like a city of the dead. The
shops are shut, the buildings deserted, the pavements empty ; at
long intervals a solitary four-wheeler — looking somehow as if it
had been out all night, and got lost, and was groping its way slow-
ly home — comes stealthily along the hushed wooden highway,
the footfalls of the horse sounding faint and distant. Mr. Fred
Foster turned from that depressing spectacle, and took to the
sporting papers he had purchased the night before.
And then he threw these aside.
" Look here, Sabie, something must be done. That letter has
only made matters worse. Your father seems more determined
in his unreasonableness than ever ; if you let him go on like that,
it will become confirmed, and then good-by to everybody's expec-
tations. The mischief done by that letter must be undone some-
how, and at once. Of course it isn't about any immediate and
temporary thing that I am thinking — I dare say one could al-
ways put one's hand on a few sovereigns if there was need — it's
the long future that I'm looking to; and something must be done.
And it isn't merely doubling your allowance that has to be thought
of — an additional twelve-pound-ten a month isn't a great thing —
it's his attitude towards you. Your father is a very rich man ;
you are his eldest daughter — the only one married ; it's absurd
that he shouldn't do something substanlial and handsome for you.
"Why, how would he like it to be known ?"
" I don't think he would care," said Sabina, who knew her fa-
ther a good deal better than Mr. Fred Foster did.
"I say it is quite preposterous," he continued, impatiently.
192 SABINA ZEMBEA.
" Yon may asTc why I don't appeal to my own people. But that's
different. They're in the right mood ; they'll do the right thing
by-and-by. I don't want to press them just at present. My fa-
ther is inclined to be cautious, and suspicious, even ; but the Ma-
ter's always on my side; they'll be all right by-and-by. But this
other affair is very serious, looking to the future. And if you
ask me, I think there's only one thing to be done."
" What, then ?" she asked ; though this talk about money rath-
er depressed her — she hardly knew why.
" You should go and see him — this very day."
She started slightly.
" Yes," he continued, boldly. " That's the proper way. Any-
body can answer a letter; a letter can't make an appeal; a letter
hasn't to be faced. Here you have such a chance — your father in
town — you would be sure of seeing him in the afternoon — and
then if you went and told him how you were situated, and put
the thing fairly and properly to him, and were civil to him, how
could he refuse ?"
Sbe was looking at him — with a strange, startled look.
" Fred," she said, slowly, " would you have me go and ask
money from my father, after what he called you in that letter?"
He saw the surprise in her face, and the reproach too ; perhaps
it was the consciousness that these were not uncalled for that
made him all the more impatient, and even vexed and angry.
" Oh, it's all very well for you to have romantic notions," he
said, bluntly, " but you'll find as you live longer in the world that
they won't wash. Do you think I care what your father thinks
about me ? Not one bit. He may call me a hundred names in a
day if he likes. Would you like me to tell you what I think
about him ? Perhaps you wouldn't. I dare say he wouldn't care
either. But what's that got to do with giving him the opportu-
nity of doing the right thing by his own daughter ? I don't ask
for his money. It's as much your affair as mine. I want to give
him the chance of acting like a reasonable human being; and it
isn't to-morrow or next day that I'm thinking about, but at a very
long future, as I say."
Sabina's eyes were downcast now ; her face was somewhat pale,
" There are some women who are well off," she said. " They
can earn tlieir own living, without taking a penny from any one.
I wish I could do that. I would work hard enough."
WAYS AND MKANS. 193
•'There you are with your romantics again," he comphiined.
" What would you like to do ? — stitch shirts at ninepence a day ?
or stand behind the counter in a telegraph-office?"
The uiaid-servant came in with breakfast, so that conversation
had to cease. But he knew that he had spoken with unnecessary
harshness; and when breakfast was over, and he had taken up
one of the sporting journals, he began to excuse himself a little.
"I only want you to exercise a little common-sense, Sabie," he
said. " People must put their pride in their pocket at times. Of
course, a noble self-respect is a very tine thing; and if I were a
duke, with one hundred thousand pounds a year, I should worship
myself like a little god and expect everybody else to do the same.
But poor folk like you and me, my dear, can't afford to have more
than an ordinary, decent, Christian-like allowance of pride — no,
we shouldn't have any if we are to be like Christians — we should
cultivate humility; and if people call us ugly names, we should
say that probably we deserve them. Bless you, what harm can
the calling of names do you? Besides, he said nothing of the
kind to you ; I was the happy recipient — "
"Do you think I make any difference of that kind?" she said,
quickly ; and there was no humility at all, but a wounded and in-
dignant pride in the expression of the sensitive mouth and the
beautiful clear eyes. " No, when I read that, it was as if — as if
he had struck me !"
"Oh," said he, coolly, "you must cultivate a little wholesorao
indifference. You'll never get through the world at all if you are
so thin-skinned. Besides, if you think he has done you an injury,
or me, or both of us, don't you think it would only be magnani-
mous to give him the chance of atoning?"
"You would have me ask for money — after that insult?"
He did not answer, for he did not wish to get angry again ; so
he returned to his newspaper, and Sabina took up a book and
read till it was time to go to church. She went to church alone.
When she returned they had lunch together, and Foster was
again in a somewhat fretful mood.
"I don't sec why you should look at it in that way," ho said,
just as if the subject had never been dropped. "The only thing
that pride does is to keep up family quarrels. It's absunl that
your father and you should be on such terms ; and how is the sit-
uation to be altered so long as you have these high-flying notions?
9
194 SABINA ZEMBRA.
Any other girl would go to her father and make it up in five min-
utes. Can't you look at it that way? Put the money out of the
question. Here is a Sunday ; your father will be at home this
afternoon; why not go and make up a family quarrel?"
" Fred," she said — and the distress that was in her face was a
piteous thing to see — " don't ask me to go !"
"Then you give the whole thing up?" he asked.
" You see what he says," she pleaded. " Could anything be
more distinct?"
" Oh, very well — I suppose it's all right."
After lunch he took up his hat and cane, and said to her,
*' I'm going along to see Dick Raby, to fix about the train to
Doncaster to-morrow. I suppose one must try to pick up a few
sovereigns somehow."
"Shall I wait till you come back?" she asked.
" Oh no ; not if you have anything to do. Most likely I sha'n't
be back till about seven."
When he had gone she sate for some little time pondering over
these things. And perhaps there was some cause for his vexa-
tion? Perhaps she had not told iiim clearly enough what manner
of man her father was, and warned him with sufficient distinct-
ness that any resolve of his would be final ? And perhaps when
he asked her to go and make a personal appeal to her father he
did not quite understand the humiliation that would involve?
Men were less quick to perceive such things than women. If he
had known what that interview must necessarily mean, surely he
would not have asked her to go ?
By-and-by — and still in a somewhat thoughtful mood — she put
on her things and went out, taking the underground railway down
to Kensington. She had just turned into Kensington Square
when she caught sight of Janie coming away from the house, and
it was very grateful to her (for she was a little depressed, some-
how) to notice the quiet look of pleasure that instantly appeared
in Janie's wistful eyes.
" Oh, Sabie, this is so kind of you ! All the morning I kept
saying to myself, ' I wonder if Sabie will come this afternoon ?' "
"And that is why you left the house?" Sabina said, with a
smile.
" Oh, but I meant to be back in time. I did not expect you
so early."
"WAYS AND MEANS. 195
" And where are you off to ?"
"Will you go with me, Sabie?" she said, eagerly. "I was
going up to Walter Lindsay's studio. I had a letter from him
yesterday morning, and he reminded me that I offered to go up
from time to time and see that everything was going on all right.
Won't you come? It will be a nice walk. And mother's lying
down just now. We'll have tea when we come back."
And so Janie found herself once more walking along Kensing-
ton High Street with her beloved Sabie, and up the Campden
Hill Road, and over to Notting Hill ; and proud and pleased she
was, and on this occasion (as on many a former one) all the talk
was of Walter Lindsay.
"And where is Mr. Lindsay now?" Sabina asked, to humor
her.
" Still in New York. He is having a caravan built for himself
— a studio on wheels, you know — and when that is quite ready,
lie is going away — oh, I don't know how far. But he is to send
me his address from time to time — just in case there should be
any news for him ; and you know the news he will look for — it's
news about you, Sabie."
"Don't talk nonsense," Sabina said, but not ill-naturedly.
" What news could he want to hear about me ?"
"That you are well and happy — I think that's all he would
want to hear."
" You are a very sentimental young woman, Janie, and imagine
things," Sabina said. " Now, I want you to talk about some-
tliing practical. You remember taking me into a place in Oxford
Street — an art-furniture place — "
" Maragliano's ?"
"Yes. You remember the hand-painted china we saw — the
dessert-service, and so on — now, do they pay well for that kind
of work? — would it be worth while for any one to try and get
some of it to do ?"
"I know Mr. Hutton, the manager; I will ask him," said Janie,
never doubting that this was but anotlicr of Sabina's numerous
schemes for benefiting somebody or other.
"I suppose they have inferior sets," Sabina continued, "whore
very high artistic skill would not be necessary. I used to draw
and paint a little, years ago, I could copy things anyway.
There were some flowers on vases that I think I could do."
196 SABINA ZEMBRA.
" You ?" said Janie, in amazement. " You yourself, Sabic ?
"What do you want to do that kind of thins^ for?"
" Well, the truth is," she answered, " I'm afraid that Fred and
I will have to pinch a little. We sha'n't be very well off, you
know, and I was wondering; if I could help; I might fill in a little
time that way at night if I were clever enough. I wonder if it
is difficult."
"Filling in time? — yes, you are so idle! And you would
work at night, too, when you get home dead tired ! AVhat next,
Sabie?" her friend said, indignantly. And then she added, with
a sharp look, " Whose scheme is that?"
"My own, of course. Will you ask Mr. Ilutton if he will let
me have one or two simple things? I don't expect much — there
are too many unemployed young women looking out for work of
that kind — but even if it was a little, I should be glad."
" I know this," said Janie, boldly — and as they were come to
the gate of the house, she paused there for a moment, and re-
garded Sabina without fear — " I know this, Sabie, that I could
get you one customer who would buy all that you could paint,
even if he had to lock it up in chests and never see it again ; yes,
and pay you like a king for it, even if he had to sell house and
land and pictures and everything. Ah, you don't know what he
said to mother — that time of the supper in this very house — or
did I tell you? — about the falcon? — and how he envied the Flor-
entine young gentleman who had the chance of sacrificing his
falcon for the sake of his sweetheart ?"
"But what has that to do with me?" Sabina said.
"You don't know, then, that that supper was given all in your
honor, and that everything he could get in England was got for
you ; and I think he was quite sorry he wasn't poor, that he
might make some real sacrifice for you? Ah, well, Sabie, I will
say this for you — you made him very happy that one evening."
"You are incorrigible," Sabina said, good-humoredly. " Why,
yoi.1 may depend on it that at this very minute your hero is mak-
ing love to one of those American girls — they're pretty enough,
to judge by those of them who come over here."
Janie would not answer; she rang the bell, and they were ad-
mitted. The house-keeper was very civil ; offered them tea ; was
pleased to hear news of Mr. Lindsay ; and reported the small in-
cidents that had happened since he left. Then Janie got the key
WAYS AND MEANS. 197
of the studio, and she and Sabina passed through the little gar-
den, opened tlie heavy door, and entered the gaunt, strange-look-
ing, musty-smelling place.
" lie was right — it wants a little airing occasionally. Different
from the night that you were here, Sabie, isn't it? See, there is
the Chippendale cabinet in the corner; but you won't find in it
the rock-crystal cup you drank out of — oh no, that's away in
safety with his other valuables. Maybe he has taken it to Amer-
ica with him."
"Do you know, Janie," Sabina said, out of pure mischief, "I
am beginning to believe that you are in love with Mr. Lindsay
yourself?"
"Don't say that, Sabie, even in joke. Besides — "
She hesitated. But was not this a rare opportunity for reveal-
ing a great secret ?
" Besides what ?"
Janie's pale face flushed, and the wistful eyes were a trifle be-
seeching.
"There's some one else!" Sabina cried. "So that's it? Oh,
Janie, why did you never tell me? Or is it quite a new affair?
Well, then, who is he?"
"Did you never guess, Sabie?"
" Never, never 1"
"Not when you saw Philip Drexel coming about the house?"
Now, this Philip Drexel was a young figure-painter, whose am-
bitious style and defiant mannerisms had attracted some little no-
tice, though Sabina had paid no great heed to him. But now she
was greatly interested, and would know all about the engagement,
though Janie protested there was no such thing, but only an un-
derstanding that was not to be made known to anybody as yet.
And Sabina had abundant praises for the young painter, and
would make Janie promise to bring -him to the rooms in the
Strand, so that she might better get to know hiui, and altogether
was highly pleased.
" Hut you know, Sabie," said the honest-minded' Janie, with a
demure smile, " I'm not too proud about it. I don't think his
approval of me is too much of a compliment. You know they've
asked him to send in two or three pictures to the Grosvenor Gal-
lery next year; and — and he came to mother and asked her if I
would give him some sittings for one of them — ' Mariana in the
198 BABINA ZEMBRA.
South ' it is to be — and be said sometbing about me being quite
an ideal type for biin. Weil, I don't think it's too compliment-
ary — do you, Sabie ? — for you know be paints such dreadfully
ugly women,"
" Oh, I don't think so at all," Sabina said, instantly. " Why,
I've beard people speak most highly of bis pictures. And of
course he'll make his Mariana ever so much prettier than any of
the others."
" Sabie, you can say such nice things!" the girl said ; and grat-
itude was near bringing tears to her eyes, for she knew that she
was not very beautiful.
Well, the promised visit had been paid to both house and stu-
dio, and they went back to Kensington Square and had tea with
the old people, and in due course Sabina returned to tlie lodging
in tbe Strand. Mr. Foster, when he came in, announced that he
would be going down to Doncaster by an early train the next
day. He made further reference to the project of her seeking
a personal interview with her father ; though once or twice he
threw out hints that he hoped the trip to Doncaster would repay
him — otbervvise things might be getting a little "tight." Sabina,
on her part, made no reference to her vague fancy that she might
earn something by painting on porcelain ; indeed, if the scheme
were practicable at all, she would have preferred sitting up at
night to do the work, when no one knew.
CHAPTER XXHI.
AT A MUSIC-HALL.
However, as it turned out, Fred Foster returned from his visit
to Yorkshire in the most radiant good-humor ; his Doncaster spec-
ulations bad turned out very well, indeed, and not only did he
faithfully pay back to Sabina every farthing that he owed her,
but also he promised that after settling-day she should have twen-
ty-five pounds to be devoted entirely to her charitable enterprises.
Nay more ; he said that as be did not expect to be away from
town again till the Newmarket Second October Meeting, he would
go with her on her rounds and see how she was getting along ;
and he thought he would begin by having a little serious conver-
AT A MUSIC-HALL. 199
sation with a certain non-working man down Hammersmith way
about whom she had told liim, and who was neglecting his wife
and family in a shameless fashion,
"Or, don't you think that a thundering good licking would
knock the laziness out of him ?" he asked, cheerfully.
"I don't know," said Sabina. "But I am afraid it would not
look well if I had to go to the police-court to bail out my hus-
band. What would Mr. Bridge think of mc ? And, you know,
he is very good to me, I can always have an officer of the court
with me if I want to make any inquiries — "
"Oh, Tam going to be your officer of the court," he said, gay-
ly, " and we'll begin to-morrow morning. In the mean time we're
going to have a little celebration of our good-luck this evening.
Captain Raby has gone up to the Bristol to order a bit of dinner
— just the four of us, you know — Raby, and Johnny Russell, and
you, and I — "
" Please leave me out, Fred," she said, at once.
" Why ?"
" 01), well, I should simply be in the way. You don't want
a woman at a man's dinner-party of that kind. It would look
ridiculo.us. Besides, you will have your own affairs to talk over.
I shall do very well here ; I find no difficulty in passing the
time,"
" Oh, nonsense !" he exclaimed. " Why, the whole thing has
been got up to please you. It was Raby's proposal, and I ex-
pressly accepted the invitation for you. Look ridiculous? —
why, it will be in a private room ; we shall be quite by ourselves.
Come, Sabie, don't be a kill-joy just as things are looking a little
brighter."
" Oh, very well," she said, good-naturedly. " But I believe yoii
would have a merrier party without me."
"Don't you think anything of the kind," he said. "You're
not one of the straight-laced ones. And if you knew how glad I
shall be to have a bit of decent dinner — to take the Doncaster
taste out of my mouth. Perhaps you yourself wouldn't like to
live on ham sandwiches, and pork pies, and butter-scotch ?"
Sabina did not answer this question, for she had to go and
smarten herself up somewhat. Very much rather would she have
stayed at home ; but she was pleased to see her husband in such
high spirits; and she certainly had no wish to play the part of
200 SABINA ZEMBRA.
kill-joy. Indeed, she made herself as neat as possible ; slie would
do liini credit.
Nor did Sabina's presence seera to act as any damper at the
modest little festivities that took place at the Bristol Hotel. All
three of her companions appeared to be highly pleased with the
result of their Yorkshire trip ; even the vacant-eyed Johnny Rus-
sell — whose flabby and clean-shaven face was a little more flushed
than usual — ceased to be voiceless, and was nebulously anxious to
interest Sabina in one or two topics not connected with the turf.
It was Captain Raby who kept the coolest head ; but to make up
for that he seemed bent on encouraging Fred Foster's" outbursts
of gayety ; and of course, as host, it was his duty to pass the
wine.
" You don't know, Mrs. Foster," said he, with that familiar stare
that invariably caused Sabina to lower her eyes — " you don't know
what your husband did for us down there in the north. lie was
quite a blessing to us. After this week he ought to be called The
Infallible."
" Why, that is the name of my paper !" Fred Foster cried at
once. " Didn't you know I was going to publish a racing news-
paper ? Just you wait, and you'll see. And of course I'm going
to run the business of sporting prophet as well. Here, Johnny,
lend me your pencil, and we'll get out the manifesto: we're all in
it, you know, for I never desert my friends."
The apathetic young man detached a massive gold pencil from
Lis watch-guard and handed it over ; and for some little time Mr.
Foster was engaged in the throes of literary composition, while
Captain Raby considerately endeavored to amuse Sabina. At last
the back of the menu was pretty well filled, and then Mr. Foster
read out his address to the public :
Ml'. Fred Foster, 2^roprietor of " The Infallible^'' and Sporting
Telegraphist.
Mr. Foster may now confidently appeal to the racing public for
their continued support, as his marvellous and repeated success
beats all previous records (see my last year's Czarevitch week,
and the brilliant feat of placing the first, second, and third for the
Two Thousand, Derby, and St. Leger). A special number of 2'he
Infallible, devoted to the Middle Park Plate, is now ready, and
AT A MUSIC-HALL. 201
for the nominal sum of five shillings will be supplied to all appli-
cants, along with subsequent issues to end of season.
Finals. — Newmarket Finals.
Mr. Fred Foster having just returned from a professional visit
to the cliief training centres is prepared to give sound and relia-
ble advice on all the great races yet to be run, but would especial-
ly advise his patrons to secure his final telegrams for the New-
market Meeting, at the trifling outlay of one sovereign for the
week, Mr. Fred Foster is above the vulgar arts of the ordinary
prophet, scorns to advertise himself by newspaper puffing, and
obtains his information without chicanery. Address, Mr. Fred
Foster, No. — Strand, W. C.
"There, now ; how's that?" he asked, regarding the paper with
some pride.
"I think 'God save the Queen' should come in at the end,"
observed Mr. Russell.
" Let's have a drink over it, anyway. Pass the champagne,
Raby. And here's the health of Squire Tipton — may his shadow
never grow less !"
They had lit their cigars by this time (with many apologies to
Mrs. Foster), and then coffee came in, and liqueurs; and there was
a period of comparative repose — Fred Foster sipping maraschino,
and occasionally hazarding a remark to Johnny Russell about the
probable starters at Lichfield and Manchester; Mr. Russell listen-
ing in a vacuous silence, and also sipping maraschino ; Captain
Raby entirely devoting his conversation to Sabina, if that can be
called conversation which was chiefly a series of stories, more or
less discreditable, about very distinguished people. Mr. Fred Fos-
ter began to find this slow.
" Look here," he said, " we can't talk horses all the evening."
"I quite agree with you," said Captain Raby, instantly.
" I propose we go and get a private box at the " said he,
naming a well-known music-hall. " We can smoke just as well
there; and there's always something going on. There are those
children on the bicycles — very pretty that is. And Kate Trcmayne
— well, it's rather early for her yet, but she'll be on by-and-by, and
she's always fun. What do vou say ?"
9*
202 SABINA ZEJIBEA.
He addressed Captain Raby ; that gentleman was regarding
Sabina with a look in which there was a little afiected surprise
and amusement.
" Oh, that is not for me to decide," said he, gravely. " It is for
Mrs. Foster to say whether she would like to go."
It was a kind of a challenge. A hundred times would she rather
have gone back home, and busied herself with her own affairs;
but that half-scornful look of Captain Raby's had annoyed her,
and she said at once,
" Of course I will go, Fred, if you want me to go with you.
But wouldn't you rather go by yourselves?"
"Oh no, no," the phlegmatic young man said, with unusual
warmth.
" I'm afraid we can't get a domino and mask for you, Mrs. Fos-
ter," said Captain Raby, smiling in his saturnine fashion. "And
yet they would be useful if they were allowed. I don't think you
would care to be seen at the "
Taking no heed of him, she calmly awaited her husband's
decision ; and he said forthwith, and rather impatiently,
"Of course you won't be seen at all ! We'll put yoir in a cor-
ner of the box — there's a curtain — of course you won't be seen.
And don't you believe all that's said against music-halls by peo-
ple who have never been near them. There's sometimes very good
music. And anyway it passes an hour — and — and you can smoke
— and — and Kate Tremayne — well, if she isn't funny enough for
anything — "
" We shall have Mrs. Foster's opinion of Miss Tremayne by-
and-by," observed Captain Raby; and the tone in which he spoke
more than ever determined Sabina that she would make the best
of everything she saw or heard in tliat music-hall, Miss Tremayne
included.
And yet it was a hard task; for anything more contemptible
— anything more insulting to the commonest intelligence — than
the amusement provided in this place of entertainment it would be
impossible to imagine. The mean knowingness, the swagger, the
vulgar braggadocio with which the performers appealed to their
audience, were a sorry thing to see and hear; and indeed Sabina,
safely ensconced in the corner there, and looking abroad over that
mass of young men and lads, and young women too, all drinking
in this wretched stuff, was moved far more to pity than to any
AT A MUSIC-HALL. 203
sort of disdain. Wlien the person on the stage — n big, over-
weighted, crapulous-looking creature he was, with a head like an
unboiled haggis, in-knees, and an enormous paunch — sang his
famous song of " Englishmen — one to ten," those white-faced,
narrow-chested, gin-bemused boys took up the chorus with him :
"We fouglit before ; we'll fight again ;
We'll sweep the land ; we'll sweep the main ;
We're Englislimen,
And, one to ten.
We'll stand and bid the world come on."
" Poor wretches!" Sabina said, half to herself, " there's not much
fighting stuff in them."
However, there was little that was really offensive in this bla-
tant pseudo - patriotism ; it was during subsequent performances
that Sabina's face fell, and she began bitterly to regret liaving,
from a passing wish to defend her husband, ever come to such a
place at all. Moreover, he had left her now. Just as Miss Rosa
Lee had finished her favorite song of " Tandem Tommy " (Miss
Lee appeared in a Newmarket coal of yellow satin, with enormous
brass buttons, a jockey's cap on her head, and a coaching-whip in
her hand ; and her, also, the audience aided with the well-known
refrain,
"And the chorus-girl she kisses me
As we spin along the road"),
and was retiring from the stage amid loud applause, tliere was a
tapping at the door of the box. The next moment there ap-
peared a gentleman in evening dress, with a large diamond in liis
shirt-front and a very shiny hat. It was clear that he had not
expected to find a lady in the box, for the moment he caught
sight of Sabina he said, " Oh, I beg your pardon," and was about
to retire.
"Come along, Morgan," Fred Foster said at once. " Let me
introduce you to my wife — Mr. Morganti."
Mr. Morganti gracefully removed his shiny hat, showing tlie
diamonds on his fingers the while; but he seemed a little bit dis-
concerted, and still inclined to withdraw.
" Do you want to see me, old man ?" Fred Foster asked, getting
up from his seat.
*' If you can spare me a couple of minutes."
204 SABINA ZEMBKA.
When they had gone away together, Captain Raby said to
Sabina, with his peculiar smile,
" I suppose you don't know who that was who had the pleas-
ure of being introduced to you just now ? That is Mr. Morganti,
the manager of this establishment. Mr. Morganti is a very im-
portant person, and his acquaintance is esteemed a high honor by
many people. I am told that the young ladies who are engaged
to perform here become very affable when you are introduced to
them by Mr. Morganti, and that they will condescend to drink a
little champagne, and even bring their husbands to join in, that
is, when they've got one ; and you may perhaps be allowed to
drive the whole family-party out to Richmond of a Sunday.
They will entertain you certainly, if their vvLt lacks a little refine-
uient."
" I dare say there are as honest and well-intentioned people
among them as among any other class," Sabina said, coldly.
"Intentions? Oh yes. Their intentions are all right, I sup-
pose. Their manners are a little — w^ell, affable. I should not
wonder if at this very moment Miss Rosa Lee was begging your
husband to give her a good thing for the Czarevitch. They're
very fond of racing, the people about music-halls. Miss Kate
Trcmayne, who is about due now, was married to Jim Older, the
jockey. Was married ; Jim got out of that engagement, luck-
ily, and Miss Tremayne is free to let her fancies roam. I am
informed she is a very lively young person."
Sabina's heart was hot within her with vexation, but she was
too proud to show her anger. And how could she forbid him
to talk to her? And what escape was there for her? Her hus-
band was away. The phlegmatic Russell was wholly engrossed
with the stage, staring vacuously at the successive performers, to
the neglect of his brandy-and-soda. Moreover, had she not her-
self to blame ? Had she not come of her own accord into this
polluted atmosphere?
However, she obtained a temporary respite ; for now Miss
Tremayne appeared ; and Miss Tremayne was so popular a fa-
vorite that even Captain Raby condescended to bestow a little
attention on her. She was attired in all kinds of cheap finery;
her name was Bank Holiday Ann ; she was supposed to be a
maid -servant set free for a jollification on Hampstead Heath;
and she proceeded — in a voice about as musical as the sharp
AT A MUSIC-HALL. 205
ening of a saw — to describe the adventures of herself and her
companions, there and elsewhere. As these included the getting
drunk of the whole party, their being locked up for the night,
and their appearance before a magistrate the next morning, there
was no lack of incident; while the long-spoken passages, delivered
in a rapid jargon of Cockney accent and Cockney slang, seemed
to find much favor with the audience, who also heartily joined in
the chorus —
" Bank Holiday Annie,
Bank Holiday Ann,
Up the Heath,
And down the Heath,
And round the Heath she ran.
When the p'leeceman copt her,
She got him one on tlie eye;
Oh, Annie, Dl tell your mother,
Oh fie, Annie, fie !"
But the idiocy of this performance was refinement itself compared
with the "humor" of the leering cad who followed, whose vile
innuendoes were so- obvious that even Captain Raby had to talk
rapidly to Sabina about all kinds of things to distract -her notice.
Probably, if Sabina had understood, she would have been a little
bit thankful ; but his attentions to her seemed now to have reached
the height of persecution ; and as the atmosphere and surround-
ings and associations of the place were grown quite insufferable,
she could only impatiently ask herself when her husband was
coming to take her away. At last she said,
" Captain Kaby, I wish to go. Do you think you could find
my husband?''
" Well," said he, blandly, " I am not an habitue here; I under-
stand tliat Mr. Morganti has a private room somewhere, where he
keeps excellent cigars and spirits; but I have not the honor of
the entree into it. No doubt your husband is atn using himself
well enough. Don't you think you had better stay ? It ought
to interest you especially to study the kind of amusements that
are popular with the masses of the people. Can't I get you some-
thing — some coffee ?"
Sabina was rather paler about the lips than usual.
" Mr. Russell !" she said.
" I beg your pardon V the younger man said, turning round at
once.
206 SABINA ZEMBRA.
Then she drew back ; slie had no wish to be left alone witli
Captain Raby, and he, noticing her hesitation, instantly rose.
" Oh, if you really wish to have your husband found, I will do
my best," he said ; and he put on his crush-hat and left the box.
In a few minutes he returned with Fred Foster, who was in a
gay mood.
"Well, what have you all been doing? You're not going yet,
Sabie? Fve been transacting a little business with my noble
friend, Morgy — "
"Was Miss Tremayne a party to the transaction?" asked Cap-
tain Raby, with a glance at Sabina.
" Kate Tremayne is a rattling clever girl — that's what I call her.
All London has got hold of that chorus. She'll make a pot of
money in the provinces. Do you really want to go, Sabie ?"
" Yes."
" Then we'll all go," said Johnny Russell, rising. " I've had
enough for one."
At the front door, when the cab was called up, she was for part-
ing with these two acquaintances with a polite bow ; but both of
them insisted on shaking hands with her, which ceremony she
performed with a marked coldness. As soon as they were in the
hansom, and were driving away, Fred Foster said to her,
" Well, what's the matter now ?"
" It is of no consequence."
" Come, out with it ! I saw you had got on your high-tragedy
air. I guessed as much from what Raby said."
"You have no right to ask me to meet a man like that," Sabina
was stung into saying. " His conduct, his manner, is insufferable.
And as for that place where we have been, why did you allow me
to go there? You knew what it was — I did not."
" You said you wanted to go."
"I said I would go if you wished me to go ; I wanted to show
them that what was right for you was right for me ; do you think
I would stand by and have Captain Raby openly sneering at you?
But you needn't have taken me to such a place, for all that."
"Oh, you're one of the impossible ones," said he, but with per-
fect good-humor. "I know what has set your back up — the ap-
pearance in that box opposite of the gorgeous creature in green
velvet and diamonds. Well, her get-up was striking, I admit ; and
so was her yellow hair, and her fan; but you know you can't
DIVERGENT WAYS. 207
compel everybody to tone down their appearance. Besides, I
made certain you couldn't see the woman at all."
"I did not see any such person," Subina said, with absolute
truth.
"Then what's the matter? There was some very good singing.
That sketch of Kate Tremayne's was awfully clever — as like the
thing as could be ; it was too like for me, indeed ; I couldn't fol-
low half what she said. Low comedy, of course, but still comedy ;
and a precious deal nearer real life than the comedy of the regular
stage. I didn't see anything to object to in the performance."
"Perhaps you were otherwise occupied," she said. "You did
not consider how pleasant it was for me to sit in that box and
have Captain Raby suggesting that you were at the time making
bets with the women behind the stage."
" Raby will have his joke," he answered, cheerfully. " He was
simply roaring when he came and told me of the expression that
had come over your face. And what there was to offend you I
am sure I can't imagine."
Indeed, he was bent on laughing off the whole affair ; and when
they had got home, and when he had donned his dressing-gown
and slippers, and lit a cigar, and mixed some whiskey and water,
and drawn his chair in towards the fire, he proceeded to remon-
strate with her, but in a perfectly friendly and pleasant way, about
her cultivation of impossible ideals and standards of conduct.
" The trouble with you, Sabie, is simply this," he observed,
" that you are a great deal too good for this wretched and sinful
world."
CHAPTER XXIV.
DIVERGENT WAYS.
But next morning found him in a very different mood. lie
was silent and surly at first ; then he began to remonstrate with
her for her priggishncss, as he chose to call it; finally ho adopted
a distinctly injured tone.
"Of course, a man doesn't like to be laughed at. I shouldn't
wonder if, the next time I see these two, it was to be ' Holloa,
Foster, how's Saint Cecilia? Come down from the clouds again ?
You shouldn't take that kind of a person to a music-hall.' Well,
208 SABINA ZEMBEA.
I'm not any fonder of rausic-halls than other people ; but I didn't
see anvtliing to' offend 3'ou so miiihtily; and as for Raby and
Russell — what did you expect? You expect too much, that's
where the trouble is. You want people to live up to ideal stand-
ards that are quite impossible. Wouldn't it be a little more sen-
sible to take the world as it is? And it's all the more extraordi-
nary in your case ; for you haven't been brought up in a glass-
house or a nunnery; you've seen plenty of life — "
" I have seen a great deal of poverty, if that is what you mean,"
Sabina said, calmly. " But poverty is not contemptible."
" What is contemptible, then ? Whatever doesn't come up to
your perfectly impossible standards? W^ell, I prefer to take the
world as it is. I never professed to live in a select circle of arch-
angels ; I never met any ; ordinary men and women are good
enough for me."
She did not answer him ; perhaps she had done him an injury
in the sight of his friends; perhaps he had cause to complain ; and
perhaps, too, that was the reason he made no further reference to
bis proposal that he should accompany her down to Hammer-
smith ; on the contrary, when he had lit his after-breakfast cigar,
and got his coat and hat and cane, he merely said that he would
be back as usual in the evening, and so he went his way.
Sabina was a little downhearted that day, Janie Wygrara
thought ; and as they were walking along she confessed that
sometimes she grew dispirited, and began to doubt the efficacy of
the net-work of charitable associations that were trying to do
something to lighten the misery of the great city. Perhaps it
was true that the weakest must go to the wall ; that the vast so-
cial forces must work out their own salvation; and that all at-
tempts to interfere with them were useless, or useful only in
handing on a legacy of incompetence to the next generation. Of
course, she did not say so in these words; but that was the drift
of what she said ; and very much astonished and grieved was
Janie Wygram to find her in any such hopeless mood.
" Why, that's not like you at all, Sabie !" she exclaimed.
"Don't you remember what you said — that one single act of
kindness done every day in the week made the world just so much
better? I don't tliink you see yourself half the good you do;
but I know what it would be to me, if I were lying ill, to have you
come in and talk to me for a minute or two. Oh yes, I have
DIVERGENT WAYS. 209
heard plenty of that kind of argument — that charity only perpet-
uates sickness, and creates paupers and so forth. But I don't see
how trying to make people well is helping on sickness ; and it
isn't making paupers to get people into situations who would oth-
erwise be idle ; and as for the social forces — " Here Janie paused
for a moment, for the subject was a large one. " Well, I don't
know much about the social forces, but I should think if they saw
ragged brats taken out of the gutter and washed and clothed and
educated, and turned into those fine young fellows on board the
Chichester and the Arethusa, well, then, the social forces ought to
be very much obliged. Oh, don't you give in, Sabic, whoever
gives in. If you only knew what you are in many and many and
many a home !"
Settling-day came and went, but Fred Foster forgot about the
twenty -five pounds he had promised Sabina, and she did not
choose to remind him ; she would rather try, by practising the
most rigid economy, to get along with what she had. And at
this time, indeed, Mr. Foster had need of all available funds ; for
the racing world was very busy just then, as it always is towards
the close of the season ; and he was away a good deal in various
parts of the country, lie went down to the Manchester Meeting.
Then came Newmarket, where his usual good-luck deserted him ;
both the Czarevitch and the Middle Park Plate hit him hard. She
heard of his having paid a flying visit to Scotland. He was for
a few days at the Duke of Exminster's training quarters at Helm-
ingsley. Then he returned to Newmarket for the Cambridgeshire
Handicap. And always, amid tliese various and continued en-
gagements, when he chose to run up to town, to those snug little
rooms in the Strand, Sabina was ready with the kindest welcome
for him, and was assiduous about his small comforts, and there
was no look of reproach or of appeal in the calm and serious and
beautiful face.
" Oh, mother, what has come over Sabic ?" Janie Wygram said
one evening (and now there was another admitted to these collo-
quies; a young man with a pale face, large, earnest eyes, and long
hair; Philip Drexel was his name; and he was no im[)alient lis-
tener; when either these two, or any others of the women down
Kensington way, were singing the praise of Sabina, as sometimes
they did, the young artist's voice was eager in the chorus ; and
he stood unrebuked of Janie ; nay, he knew it was the one sure
210 6ABINA ZEMBKA.
way to win her favor). " She has been quite different of late,"
Janie continued. " No one sees it as I do ; for no one is so much
with her. She never laughs now — never, never; and she is never
impatient and masterful with the people, or scolding, as she used
to be ; but always so gentle with them ; and so grave and com-
passionate ; and her face — well — well, her face, I think, is more
beautiful than ever ; but there is a kind of sadness and loneliness
in it that I can't understand ; and sometimes she will walk ever
so far with you without a single word, though the moment you
speak she is as patient and kind as ever, I don't think he actually
ill-treats her — "
Here Janie's mild eyes flashed, and her lips were rather pale.
"No, if I thought that, I would get Philip to go and smash
him, or I would — I would ask Walter Lindsay to come across the
Atlantic and kill him. I don't think it's that ; but she is very
much alone ; and perhaps her marriage hasn't turned out what
she thought it would — though she won't allow a single word to
be said. Why, she is not the least like the Sabie Zembra we
used to know 1 Don't you remember her — so merry and proud
and courageous, and just bewildering people with her pretty face
and her good-humor. That was when Walter Lindsay wanted to
paint her — the maiden queen, you know, in scarlet and ermine —
was it from Chaucer the lines were ?"
Janie should have remembered that there was another artist
listening who had also thought of Sabina as the central figure of
certain half-imagined compositions. Even at this moment was
there not before his mind some faint and wavering vision of
" The groves
Where the lady Mary is,
With her five handmaidens, whose names
Are five sweet symphonies,
Cecily, Gertrude, Magdalen,
Margaret and Rosalys.
Circlewise sit they, with bound locks,
And forehead garlanded ;
Into the fine cloth white like flame
Weaving the golden thread.
To fashion the birth-robes for them
Who are just born, being dead."
"And there's another strange thing," continued Janie, who
was never tired of talking about her best-beloved, " she has
DIVERGENT WATS. . 211
nothing like the nerve she used to have. You know Sabie was
never very sentimental ; I used to think her a little too robust in
that direction. But now a very trifling thing will bring tears to
her eyes, though she is desperately anxious to hide it. The other
day we were going through Stanhope Gardens. There was a
window open, and some children were singing, with the mother
leading on a harmonium ; and I stopped Sabie for a minute.
Well, it was 'Abide with me, fast falls the even-tide ;' and, do you
know, the singing of the children quite upset her, and she went
on quickly so that I should not see. You know, mother, that's
not like Sabie ; she never was sentimental ; I believe it is loneli-
ness that is breaking her heart. There's that little boy Watson,
that was run over ; he came back the other day from Brighton —
she had sent him to the Convalescent Home for a fortnight — and
she went down to sec how he was. Well, it was a little bit affect-
ing to see how bewildered he had been by the sight of the sea,
for he has never been out of London in his life; but Sabie is
used to such things; and I've seen her pretty sharp sometimes
with women for crying aimlessly ; but this time when she said to
the poor little fellow, ' Well, Johnny, tell me what you thought of
the sea when you first saw it ;' and when he said, looking up at
her, ' Please, miss, I thought it was like 'evin,' she stopped for a
minute uncertain---of course, not wanting to break down — and
then she had to turn away, and I saw her dry her eyes. Mother,
it is not the least like Sabie to be in a nervous state like that, is
it? — she who was always so full of courage, and bright humor,
and briskness. Of course, there is one thing; you know she had
sent him down for a fortnight; and it's five shillings a week at
the Black Rock House ; and I know she was debating whether
she should not let him have another fortnight; and then she
thought she could not afford the other ten shillings. And per-
haps when she saw what a treat it had been to the poor little fel-
low, she was sorry she had not given him the other fortnight —
getting the money somewhat."
"Yes," said Mrs. AVygram, bitterly, "and her father rolling in
wealth, and her husband drinking champagne with his dinner
every night in the week, and that poor creature saving every
penny to do good to others. It's little the world knows how
selfish the people may be that arc drinking wine and flaunting
about in carriages — "
212 SABINA ZEMBRA.
" I'm sure they might flaunt about in carriages, or drink all the
wine in the world, if only they'd make Sabie a little happier,"
Janie said, wistfully. " I think she grows more like an angel
every day, in her goodness and gentleness; but do you imagine I
like it? No, I don't. I would rather have her bad and wicked — "
" Janie !" the mother remonstrated ; but she added, with a
smile, " Well, it's no use talking like that about Sabina, for it
can't mean anything at all."
" Very well, then, mother, I will say this only — that I wish she
was a little more like the Sabie Zenibra we used to know. Some-
times, when I look at her now, my heart is pretty heavy about
her. And I am not as near to her as I used to be ; she seems to
live within herself, somehow; and there's never a word said; her
husband's name is hardly ever mentioned — when it is, Sabie is al-
ways on his side, and has excuses for his being away, and all that.
But she is not like our Sabie that we used to know."
Now, if Sabina was ever ready with excuses for her husband's
absence, that was a good deal more than Fred Foster cared to be.
He took it as quite natural, in their straitened circumstances, that
he should try to pick up a few sovereigns in the only way known
to him ; and he plainly intimated that if she chose to occupy
roost of her time in looking after other people's affairs, he, at
least, preferred to attend to his own proper business. Once, in-
deed, he offered to let her accompany him. It was on the eve
of the Brighton and Lewes race meetings.
" What do yon say to going down for the week, to have a look
at the old place ?" he said. " You would find it lively at this
time of the year — the King's Road in November is pretty brisk.
We could put up at the Bedford — I like the coffee-room — "
" Thank you, Fred, but I think I Avould rather not go," she
answered.
*' Why ? I suppose because you don't want to meet Raby or
any of those fellows. Well, you wouldn't. They'll be at the
Old Ship, if they are at Brighton at all. Don't you think you
would be safe enough at the Bedford ? There's a ladies' room
you might shut yourself up in, if you're so tei'ribly afraid."
She took no heed of the taunt.
" It isn't that. But I'd rather not go," she said, gently.
" Oh, you grudge the time, I suppose ? You can't tear your-
self away from your beloved slums ?"
DIVERGENT WAYS. 213
** No, it isn't the time either," she said, " it is the expense. I
should not feel very happy about it ; so please don't ask me."
" Oh, well, you can stop at liome if you like," he said ; and
there was an end of that proposal.
However, matters mended very much at Christmas ; for they
were to spend that holiday with the old people, and whatever
•was best in Foster's nature and disposition invariably came to the
front when his mother's influence was brought to bear on him.
A few days before Christmas the old lady came to town, to do
some shopping' and take her daughter-in-law back with her; and
as soon as she had installed herself in an old-fashioned little hotel
near Charing Cross that is much patronized by Buckinghamshire
folk, she hurried along to see Sabina. She had arrived earlier
than was expected ; Fred Foster was out ; she found Sabina
alone.
" My dear, my dear," she said, with some concern, and she took
the girl's two hands, and kissed her on both cheeks, and drew her
to the window, "you're not looking at all well! What is the
matter ? Have you been ill ?"
" Oh no," Sabina said — and for the moment her face was all
lit up with gladness at finding this kind friend near her again;
there seemed comfort in her mere presence.
" But this will never do — we must see whether the country air
can bring back the roses to your cheeks," said this gentle mother-
in-law, and she kept patting the girl's hand. " And every time
you wrote, you wrote from London — have you never been away
from London since we saw you ?"
" No," she answered. " But you know I am quite used to
that."
" But you shouldn't be used to it," Mrs. Foster said, sliarply,
" I suppose Fred has been flying about the country just as ho ever
did?"
"He has been away at times," Sabina answered, evasivclv.
"And how has he been behaving?" the elder lady said, with
some little scrutiny in her eyes. " Pretty much as usual, I sup-
pose? Yes; but we thought he was going to turn over a new
leaf when he married. And so glad I am that you are coming
down to us now; for you will have to be the peace-maker — in-
deed you will, my dear."
Sabina looked up inquiringly.
214 SABINA ZEMBRA.
" That wretched boy has been getting into trouble again with
his father," the mother said, with a rueful good-nature. " Writ-
ing for money, I suppose ; and never a word about Crookfield, or
settling tlown anywhere else. Indeed, my dear, I think it's most-
ly on your behalf that his father is so angry ; so you'll have to
be the peace-maker — and you'll find it easy enough with that
pretty face of yours."
The old lady now made Sabina sit down, and took a chair op-
posite to her, and proceeded to open a somewhat capacious and
country-looking purse.
" Now, my dear, I have brought you a little Christmas present ;
and I know what is most useful to a young house-keeper, being a
house-keeper myself."
She took out a little packet of bank-notes, all neatly fold-
ed, and bound together with a tiny elastic band ; and then she
counted them.
"Yes, ten ; and as each is a ten-pound note, you mustn't leave
them lying about, my dear."
She put the little packet into the girl's hand, and closed her
fingers over it.
"Dear mother, it is so very good of you," Sabina said, and her
eyes were grateful enough. " If you only knew how much I
shall be able to do with it — just at this time too — I confess I was
a little downhearted about going away into the country and leav-
ing so many small things undone. And I will be very, very care-
ful. I suppose I may take ten pounds for myself, if I give the
rest to Fred."
"What?" the elder woman cried, instantly. "You foolish
child, I tell you that that is for your own private purse, every
farthing of it. To Fred! Well, I used to help Master Freddie
a little; but I'm done with him now, until he settles down and
conducts himself like a respectable married man. For your own
private purse, my dear, every farthing of it !"
"Ah, but you don't know," Sabina said, with downcast eyes.
"I shall be glad to give it to him. I wish it was in a clearer
sense my own, I wish it came from my family."
" Why ?"
The girl hesitated; then she looked up in a piteous way, as if
appealing to this kind friend not to misunderstand her.
" Don't think I am saying anything against him, or would
DIVERGENT WAYS. 215
mean to do that," she said, timidly. "But — but sometimes I
cannot get it out of my head that Fred appears to think I mar-
ried him under false pretences. He wouldn't say it," she added,
instantly. "But — but sometimes he seems to think it — and —
and of course — if he really was quite certain that my father would
do something more for me than he has done — well, the disap-
pointment is only natural. Dear Mrs. Foster, I shall be so glad
to give him this money ; but don't you understand how I could
■wish it to be more clearly my very own to give?"
" I understand more than you think," said Mrs. Foster, angrily.
"Has Fred been worrying you about money?"
But Sabina would make no such admission ; she evaded tliat
question and a good many others that Mrs. Foster put ; and in-
deed the arrival of Fred Foster himself shortly brought these sus-
picious inquiries to a close.
For the sake of variety they went down to Missenden by the
familiar old omnibus that still starts — or recently started — from
the Bell in Holborn — that is to say, they leisurely drove away
down by Uxbridge, and Chalfont St. Giles, and Amersham ; and
they had not left the great city far behind when the fresh, sweet-
smelling country air began to be very grateful to Sabina, who
had been so long pent up in the town. Both the ladies were
outside; for this was a very mild December, and though there
had been rain in the night, there was now a clear, watery sun-
shine flooding the wide landscape, and what wind there was
touched the cheek softly enough. And the farther they went
away into the open country the more beautiful, it seemed to Sa-
bina, everything became ; there was a strange clearness abroad,
and a multitude of colors to delight the eye. The gray-green of
the commons ; the deeper greens of holly and ivy ; the russet of
withered beech and withered fern; the purple red of the haws;
the scarlet berries of the bryony ; the black berries of the elder;
the white waxen-like berries of the mistletoe high up on some
gnarled old apple-tree — all these were shining in this humid sun-
light, that seemed to call up vapors and pleasant scents from the
long swathes of ploughed field and fallow. Of course, long be-
fore they reached Missenden, night had fallen over the land ; but
it was not much of a winter's night; Sabina regretted that the
day's drive had come to an end.
And very speedily it appeared that there had been some rather
216 SABINA ZEMBRA.
serious quarrel between father and son ; for the old gentleman
would scarce take any notice of Mr. Fred Foster, but devoted his
whole attention to Sabina, making her his constant confidante
and companion. During these next few days Sabina nestled
down into this quiet, domestic life with a curious, unwonted sense
of comfort and peace. For a long time back she had found her-
self very homeless and very lonely ; and now these good people
were surrounding her with every possible little kindness, and she
was abundantly grateful. Even Fred Foster, in the society of his
mother, showed himself in the best of humors, and by dint of
sheer audacity succeeded in establishing some better relations be-
tween the old man and himself. Ue went out shooting most of
the time — picking up a stray bird or a hare occasionally ; while
Sabina talked to the old gentleman in the greenhouses, or walked
arm-in-arm with Mrs, Foster through the dank, faint -smelling
garden.
It was on one of these latter occasions that the old lady again
broached the subject of the young people coming and settling
down in the country. Sabina paused for a moment in their walk,
and regarded her friend with a somewhat wistful look.
" I almost think it would be better," she said. " I used to fear
it would be selfish — to give up everything when there is so much
that can be done to help people who are greatly in need of help.
And I suppose it would be selfish. But I find now that I cannot
do as much as I used to do ; well, the mere want of money inter-
feres, though money isn't everything in that kind of work. And
one feels the need of a home — where one can rest at times."
" Oh yes, yes, yes, my dear," the old lady said, with eager kind-
ness. " I am sure you are right. Of course, you want a home.
And Crookfield could be made so nice and comfortable for you;
just the prettiest place imaginable; and far enough away, too, to
save you from intrusion — ^you wouldn't have an ill-natured old
mother-in-law coming prying and poking her nose in at every
minute. But you may depend on this, my dear child, that any-
thing my husband or myself could do to make you perfectly hap-
py — well, it would be done pretty quickly, I think."
" Ah, you are all too good to me down here," Sabina said, with
a bit of a sigh ; she was thinking of her life in London.
But as soon as Mrs. Foster found a convenient opportunity she
went to her son.
DIVERGENT AVAYS, 217
" Fred," she said, " do you know that Sabie is quite willing to
live in the country ?"
"Oh, is she?" he responded, with some indifference.
" Now don't you think tbis would be a great chance for you to
give up that idle life ?" she pleaded. " Even to get a proper
horae for Sabie would be something. She is not looking well at
all. She wants rest and quiet."
" Do you mean at Crookfield ?" he asked, with a smile.
" Yes, I do."
" Then you don't know what you're talking about, mother.
She would be sick and tired of it in a week. Her heart would
be back in those slums, where she spends the whole of her time
and every farthing that she can appropriate with decency. As if
there was such an abundance of money flying about!"
"But what is this about money, now?" his mother asked.
"She says that you are disappointed. Did you ever look forward
to living upon her income?"
" I looked forward to our joining our not immense fortunes,"
said he, with much equanimity, " so as to share the domestic ex-
penses. It's a usual kind of thing, I believe."
"And now you are disappointed with her because her father
•will not give her as much as you expected ?"
He did not answer this : he was busy filling some cartridges.
" At all events," his mother said, warmly, " you have no right
to say that she deceived you, or to think it even — she is incapable
of any such thing — you should be ashamed to imagine such a
thing—"
" I don't know what you mean !"
" Well, perhaps it is a mere fancy on her part — I hope it is — I
hope for your own sake it is — but I know what she thinks — she
thinks that you have got to imagine that she married you under
false pretences."
" Oh, she thinks that, does she ?" he said, carelessly, and he
locked up the cartridge-box and put it aside. " Well, I never
said so, anyway."
And with that he got his cap and went out, whistling for the
retriever that was lying asleep in the yard.
10
218 SABINA ZEAIBUA.
CHAPTER XXV.
ALTERED PLANS.
On their return to town Sabina gave her husband eighty pounds
out of the one hundred pounds she had received from the old
lady ; and this came in handy ; for if there was no racing just
then, he was busy enough with pigeon-shooting and billiards, and
also there was a little speculation going on about the Waterloo
Cup. But it must not be imagined that he was in any wise
grateful for the gift. He knew very well that, had Sabina not
been in the case, he would have had the whole of that sum ; and
he knew that the twenty pounds would be frittered away on
objects of which lie wholly and sulkily disapproved. For he
had come to grumble not a little about her work in the slums,
and her attendance upon charitable societies. It was a mere
waste of time and money, he said. A married woman ought to
devote herself to her own home. On the rare occasions on which
he had returned to their rooms at mid-day, he had found her
almost invariably absent; and there was a difficulty about lunch-
eon, for the landlady was unprepared for such contingencies. To
be sure, Sabina had offered to be at home every day at one, if he
■wished it ; but this again was absurd ; for how could he bind
himself by any such hard and fast rule ? As regards the money,
were they in a position to indulge in indiscriminate charity? More-
over, her rigid economy (which he declared to be perfectly ridicu-
lous) was in a kind of way a standing reproach to him. It seemed
to ftccuse him of extravagance, whereas he was merely living as
always he had lived. It made him look foolish in the eyes of
his friends, when they passed Sabina and himself in a restaurant,
that he should be drinking wine and she only water. AVhy should
she not drink wine? She would be ready enough to prescribe it
for sick people down in Hammersmith ; why shouldn't she pre-
scribe it for herself, seeing that she was looking none too well ?
He saw no virtue in self-sacrifice; it was a pure delusion; the
best thing for everybody was for each to do the best for himself.
AXTERED PLANS. 219
In the mean while these representations took no practical shape;
for now came the hurdle-racing at Kempton and Sandown and
Croydon to engage his attention — with the Lincoln Spring Meet-
ing looming in the near future: and he was absent from town a
good deal ; and Sabina was left to the freedom of her own soli-
tary ways. But when he came back he said to her one evening,
" Look here. I've been thinking things over, and I don't see
that we get value for our money out of these rooms."
He did not, at any rate.
" They are expensive ; and it's an expensive way of living, as
you say — dining at restaurants and all that. When we started
them, of course I expected we should have a wider margin ; but
I suppose that is all over now. Well, now, didn't I understand
from the Mater, when we were down in Buckinghamshire, that
you were willing to live in the country?"
" It was a kind of fancy," she said, absently.
" But either you did say you were willing, or you didn't," he
retorted, with a touch of impatience.
"Yes, I said I thought it might be better," she answered, with
a little hesitation. " They were very kind to me down there. I
liked the quiet life. If I were only thinking of myself — "
" Weil, then, I take it you are willing to live in the country,"
Le said, interrupting her. " And I think you are quite right. It
will be much healthier, and cheaper, too, if it is properly managed.
I will look out for a convenient little place, not too far from
town — "
She looked up in some bewilderment.
" But don't you mean Crookfield ?"
" Crookfield"!" he said, with a laugh—" Crookfield ! I should
think not! Ten miles away from the nearest rail way -station ?
No, thank you ; I don't want to play Robinson Crusoe."
"But it was about Crookfield your mother was thinking when
she spoke of our going to live in the country," Sabina said — not
seeing how she had been entrapped.
" Oh yes, I know. She said so. But I don't propose to turn
farmer; it's the worst paying game there is nowadays; my father
will do much better to take whatever rent he can get for the
place. I want quarters much more convenient than that — near to
Epsora, perhaps — Banstead is handy — or Leathorhead — anyway,
we must not get beyond tlie pale of civilization altogether."
220 SABINA ZEMBRA.
And so Sabina had pledged lierself — without too closely ask-
ing herself why — to forsake all those pursuits and occupations
that had been the solace of a somewhat lonely life, to leave her
friends behind her, and to go away into the country, she knew
not whither. Of course, when she announced this startling intel-
ligence to Janie Wygram, she had to adduce reasons. It was her
husband's wish, to begin with. They had found their means a
little straitened ; they would be able to live more economically.
Then her husband had complained of her spending so much of
her time away from home; perhaps they would be more together
in the course of a country life. These and several other reasons
she placed before Janie ; she did not add — perhaps she would not
have confessed to herself — that she was sick and sore at heart,
and that she had welcomed this change, as she would have wel-
comed any change, in a kind of despair.
Now this is what Janie Wygram instantly said to herself :
"The contemptible brute ! — he grudges her every farthing that
she pinches and saves out of her own income ; and he is carrying
her off to the country so that he may have every penny to him-
self."
But this was what Janie Wygram (who was a loyal lass, and
had not forgotten Walter Lindsay's parting injunctions) said to
Sabina :
" Ah well, Sabie, I dare say he is a little bit jealous of the time
you give to other people. It's only natural, isn't it? And then
he is quite right about the healthier air; and you haven't been
looking your best of late, you know. Dear me, I wonder what
Kensington will be like without you. There was always the
chance of meeting you in the street somewhere. I never went
out of the house without thinking, ' Well, now, perhaps Sabie is
just coming round the corner.' And there's many and many a
home will miss you, Sabie."
Sabina was standing at the window, looking out on the wintry
trees and bushes of Kensington Square, and her back was turned
to her friend. When Janie went to her, and put her arm within
her arm, she was greatly surprised to find that the girl's eyes were
filled with tears.
" Sabie, you are not glad about going !" she exclaimed, breath-
lessly. " It vexes you ? You are not happy about it ?"
Sabina dried her eyes quickly.
ALTERED PLANTS. 221
*' Oh, it will be all right," she said. " I dare say it will be all
right. When there are so many real troubles in the world, it is
no use bothering about sentimental ones."
" But you don't want to go !"
" I suppose the whole of life is more or less of an experiment,"
Sabina said, "and you can't tell how any part of it may turn out.
I hope this will be for the better."
Janie looked at her, wondering whether she was going to speak
more plainly, and yet almost afraid. But the calm and beautiful
face was quite passive ; and the hazel eyes — that used to be so
clear, and shining with mirth, or filled with a soft and benignant
kindness — were now almost apathetic, not to say hopeless.
" You will have to be very good to my poor people, Janie," she
said, with an effort at cheerfulness. " You know their ways. And
you will be more patient with them than I was."
" Me ?" said Janie. " And you think I could ever take your
place? It's little you know what you have been to them, Sabie.
It isn't money, mind ; as far as that goes, there would be no great
difficulty. For do you know what Philip has done? — he is such
a noble fellow ! You remember, I told you that Walter Lindsay
had written over to say that it would be a great favor to him if
we would occupy his house after we got married. And you know,
Sabie, Philip is pretty well off; his people are very well off in-
deed; and he himself has been very lucky in getting commissions
— he is very popular in Liverpool and Birkenhead, where they've
plenty of money to spend on pictures — so that when I told him
of Mr. Lindsay's offer, he laughed at first, and didn't like the no-
tion of having a house rent-free. But it happens that the studio
is the very thing he wants ; and he is so very busy that he can't
bother about one building for himself at present; so he came to
me the day before yesterday, and said that as soon as we were
married we would settle down tliere, only that he would prefer
paying rent. And where was the rent to go to ? Walter Lindsay
would not take it. Well, it was to be handed over to you and me,
to help deserving people. Wasn't that kind ? So, you see, it isn't
the money. But when you talk about my taking your place, it's
little you know. It wasn't money so much as courage you brought
them. They did whatever you asked them to do. Will you come
and bid them good-by before you go, Sabie ^"
The girl's lips quivered for an instant.
222 6ABINA ZEMBRA.
" No," she answered. " What would be the use? That would
be mere sentiment. What is the use of sentiment ?"
"It would be kindness, Sabie. And you never refused them
that."
There was no answer. Sabina had got into the habit of late
of leaving conversations unended ; her mind seemed much pre-
occupied.
On the morning after Fred Foster's return from the Lincoln
and Liverpool Meetings, he was standing at the window of their
sitting-room, looking down into the Strand. It was rather a
cheerful sort of morning for March, and there was a spring-like
feeling in the air. After a while he turned to Sabina.
" I have to run down to Epsom — to Witstead, rather," said he,
" to see some friends of mine there about a little bit of business.
Would you care to go for the day ? I dare say they would give
us some lunch ; and we could come back in the afternoon."
Now this was a most unexpected proposal ; for never once,
since the unlucky episode of the music-hall and Captain Raby,
had he ofEered to introduce, her to any of his associates, just as
never once had he brought either friend or acquaintance home to
these lodgings. But Sabina assented forthwith, and cheerfully;
and she went away to make herself as neat and smart as possible;
and was resolved to show herself grateful for his consideration,
and as amiable as might be. In the hansom going down to Vic-
toria station he said, rather apologetically,
"You know they're not very distinguished people, those Deanes
we are going to see. But they're good enough kind of folk; and
the world's made up of all sorts ; we've got to take them as they
are."
The apology was unnecessary; Sabina was resolved, not upon
taking them as. they were, but upon making the best of them,
whoever they might be. And indeed the little trip promised to
be very pleasant. Once away from London, the clear country
light was a cheerful thing to look at; and the air that blew in at
the carriage window was mild and sweet; and she could not but
think that along the hedge-rows there — in the sheltered places —
or on the warm sunny banks — or in the clearances of the woods
— the firstlings of the year must be appearing now ; the red dead-
nettle, the ground-ivy, here and there a patch of pale primroses, a
sweet violet half hidden among the withered grass. She would
ALTERED PLANS. 223
like to have brought a dozen or so of the children she knew, and
turned them loose into these wooded lanes. Fred Foster was
reading a newspaper, and she had leisure to picture them straying
through the dryer glades or chasing each other over the wide
commons. She could almost hear them lauofhinir. It was a sprinn^
day, fit for children and children's delights.
They were received at Witstead station by Mr. Deane himself,
who seemed to have dressed himself in a gay fashion for this oc-
casion. He was distinctly a horsey-looking man of about five-
and-thirty, with a thin, dried, good-humored face, small, clear eyes,
and neatly cut whiskers. Towards Sabina he was particularly
civil, not to say obsequious ; told her that he had that very morn-
ing been reading a speech of her father's, and— though they dif-
fered in politics — he considered it a remarkably able speech —
remarkably able. And might he have the pleasure of introducing
his wife, who was waiting outside the station with the pony-chaise?
Mrs. Deane turned out to be a buxom and rather pretty little per-
son of about eight-and-twenty, with cheeks like the rose, merry
blue eyes, and a manner that was chirrupy and cheerful to the
verge of audacity. And as the gentlemen preferred to walk, Mrs.
Deane would have Sabina take a scat beside her in the pony-
chaise; and then they drove away together — towards the little
straggling village of Witstead, that is dotted in a staccato fashion
along a bit of the Guildford road.
The distance from the station to the village is barely over three-
quarters of a mile ; but Fred Foster and his companion would
appear to have walked rather slowly — no doubt talking over their
business affairs; for before they arrived at Wayside Cottage, the
mistress of that small establishment had had time to introduce
Sabina to her family, as she called her miscellaneous collection of
pets. Other family had she none; but these afforded her suffi-
cient interest and occupation, what with iier cockatoos, and white
mice, and love-birds, and marmosets, and squirrels, and kittens, and
canaries. Indeed, by the time that the voluble and roseate little
woman had expatiated on the merits and virtues and tricks and
failings of this host of favorites, and by the time that Fred Foster
and his companion had finished their talk in the little bit of
front garden overlooking the front road, Mrs. Deane begged to
be excused, for that now she had to be off to get luncheon hur-
ried up.
224 SABINA ZEMBRA.
Well, Sabina was not much interested in these good people, but
she was in nowise offended by them, and during this little ban-
quet she tried to be as amiable and responsive to all their kindness
as she well could be. Of course, Mrs. Deane monopolized most of
her attention ; for Fred Foster and his friend were discussing the
recent University Boat-race, and also certain wrestling contests
then going on at Lillie Bridge. And soon it appeared that this
gay and rubicund little lady had a most astonishing acquaintance
with what was to the fore in the way of amusements in London.
She knew all the pieces at the theatres ; she had heard all the new
music ; from Muswell Hill and its racing to the Crystal Palace and
its fireworks, she and her husband seemed to have been everywhere
and to have seen everything.
" I should have thought," Sabina said, in some surprise, " that
you would have found it difficult to get much to the theatre —
living in a remote place like this — "
" Bless you," said the other, cheerfully, " that is the advantage
of living anywhere within a reasonable driving distance of Epsom ;
the late trains make it so easy. Did you think we were buried
alive down here? Oh, I think we know a little of what's going
on in town."
" So it would seem," Sabina said, smiling.
On the other hand, whenever the conversation was general, Mr.
Deane's manner towards Sabina was most deferential ; and he
warmly expressed concurrence with whatever she said, and was
pleased to grin when there happened to be something cheerful.
Nor, when luncheon was over, could he be induced to light a cigar
in that room, though everybody else was willing that he should do
so ; he refused flatly, and said that he and Foster would smoke on
their way over to the stables of a great house near by, which they
had promised to visit. Then, again, instead of at once following
Fred Foster out to the front gate, he found a chance of calling his
wife aside, and said, quickly,
" Mind this, Susie, if you're singing any songs now, be a little
careful. Don't have any of the ' a-little-later-on-in-the-evening '
kind, there's a good girl."
" Don't be alarmed," said Mrs. Deane, with a cheerful little gig-
gle, " I'm not going to sing any songs. I'm going to take her
for a drive to Box Hill. I think she's an awfully nice girl.
Whatever made her marry Fred Foster ?"
ALTERED PLANS. 225
" Women do strange things," her husband said. " I suppose
it was the accident that brought it about."
"Then there's another thing, Jim," she said. "I wish you
wouldn't allow Fred Foster to jump on you. What right has he
to patronize you? Ain't you as good as he is? — well, I should
think so ! Just you cheek him a bit — it'll do him all the good in
the world. You keep him in his place, Jim. His wife's worth a
dozen of him — set him up !"
When the two husbands were gone, their wives got into the
pony-chaise, Mrs. Deane taking the reins; and presently they were
driving away along the Surrey highway, on a spring day that
was pleasant enough, with its purple clouds, and silver light, and
warm, humid air. And somehow Sabina preferred Mrs. Deane in
the pony-chaise to Mrs. Deane at table ; for in the pony-chaise
she looked so trim and neat and jolly ; whereas at table she had
a trick of trying to eat and speak at once — a practice which saves
time, to be sure, but is not otherwise to be admired. They drove
away down by Mickleham and Juniper Hill and Burford Bridge;
then they struck ofi the main highway to make the ascent of Box
Hill ; and here Mrs. Deane surrendered the reins to Sabina, to let
the patient and stout little cob take the long zigzags at his case,
while she took a bee-line up the hill with a lightness of foot that
showed she was used to the neighborhood. She got in again at
the top ; and then they made away for Headley Heath and Wal-
ton Downs — making no haste of the drive indeed, for they had
plenty of time, and the day was mild for March.
The blithe little Mrs. Deane seemed rather curious to learn in
what measure Sabina was acquainted with, or interested in, her
husband's pursuits ; though here Sabina was reticent enough ; and
also she wanted to know how a mere bicycle accident should
have led to acquaintanceship, and then friendship, and tlion mar-
riage.
" I wonder whether he will be quite up to his old form next
week," she said.
" But how ?" Sabina asked.
" In the steeple-chase."
"What steeple-chase?"
"Why, don't you know? The Spring Steep'.e-cliase at Man-
chester. T fancy that this is the first one he has ridden in since
that accident ; that's a long time for a man to be kept away from
10*
226 SABINA ZEMBRA.
what used to be his favorite hobby. The loss of money, too ; a
hundred to nothing is a nice Uttle bet when one is liard up."
"Do you go much to races?" Sabina ventured to inquire.
" I ? Not I ! The ordinary race-meetings are no use for wom-
en at all ; the men are after business — not after lunches, and swell
gowns, and gloves. But when your own set have pulled ofE a
good thing, and the men are back in town, then you may have a
very nice time ; they're free-handed then ; easy come, easy go ;
there are a good many little presents about. But the bookie wins
in the end — yes, and all along the way, too ; it's no good the
clever ones thinking they can stand against the market odds ;
though they may have a stroke of luck now and again. Your
husband was awful lucky last year."
"Was he?" Sabina said; and then, as that sounded as if she
were strangely ignorant of her husband's affairs, she instantly add-
ed, "Yes, I believe he was. They say he is a very good judge of
horses — and — and the one he has a share in did very well last
year, I believe. But I don't understand much about it."
" The less you know the better," said Mrs. Deane, curtly. " I've
heard a good deal too much."
In course of time they got back to Wayside Cottage, and found
that the two husbands had returned ; and, as there was a train due
in about half an hour, they did not take the pony out; they mere-
ly stopped for a cup of tea, and then Mrs. Dcane drove Sabina to
the station. Fred Foster arrived there a few minutes afterwards;
and presently they were on their way back to town.
" A nice little cottage, that?" he said, inquiringly.
" Oh yes," she answered.
" I should think the garden would look pretty in the summer."
" Yes; and they have a good deal of fruit, Mrs. Deane says."
" What kind of a trap was that — comfortable ?"
" Very."
" And the cob ? it seemed to me a niceish-looking beast."
"It is very quiet," Sabina answered. "And very willing at the
hill-work."
"Ah," said he, "I'm glad you approve of the place, for I've
just taken it over from my worthy friend Deane."
"Do you mean we are to live there?" Sabina said, somewhat
aghast.
" If you are to live anywhere at all in the country. I don't
A MESSAGE. 22?
see where you could get a prettier place, or more convenient," he
said, cheerf ulh\ " And we can get it at once. They're remov-
ing to Newmarket. Mrs. Deane doesn't know as yet, though ;
guess she'll tear her hair — and his too — when she's told ; for she
is rather fond of a little fling in town. And I've taken over the
cob and pony-chaise, too, though it's needless to say I haven't
paid for them yet; if the beast is quiet, you'll have no trouble
about driving him; it will be quite an occupation for you."
And thus came to an end Sabina's mission-work in London ;
she was no longer an " angel in the house," or, rather, in many,
many houses ; she was now merely Mrs. Foster, of Wayside Cot-
tage, Witstead.
CHAPTER XXVI.
A MESSAGE.
No sooner was Sabina installed in her new home than she be-
gan to try to make it as neat and pretty and attractive as might
be ; and she had })lcnty of leisure to do so, for, as it happened,
Fred Foster had to be down at Northampton just at this time.
And no doubt through all these little preparations there ran the
wistful hope that on his return he might perhaps be a little more
kind and considerate towards her than he had been. Nay, she
began to take herself to task, and to seek reasons for his appar-
ent discontent with her. Perhaps her character was somewhat
too severe? Perhaps it was true that she had impossible stand-
ards of duty and conduct, that only served to disconcert people?
Perhaps she ought to aim at being a little more like Mrs. Deane,
whose robustly merry spirits seemed to please her husband very
well? Perhaps she was too straitlaced — too exacting — not toler-
ant enongh of other people's ways and opinions and pursuits?
For Sabina could hardly believe that this alteration in his man-
ner towards her was due merely to disappointment over money
matters. Why, before marriage, what she had chiefly admired
in him was his courageous ciieerfiiiiiess in making the best of
any circumstances. It is true that his mother said on one occa-
sion,
*' Well, Sabina, I am afraid Fred is a spoiled child, and I am
228 SABINA ZEMBEA.
afraid I am partly responsible for it; but he is very good-hu-
mored and nice so long as be has bis own way."
But snrely be was baving bis own way now ? She bad given
up all the interests of her life to please him : she was ready to
obey his slightest wish ; she would try to mould her character,
her opinions, her conduct, in any direction that would be agree-
able to him. And perhaps, when be returned, be would be a lit-
tle more kind to her — and remain a little more with her? And
she would not forget to be grateful to him for his not insisting
on her personally going to seek money from her father.
But when Fred Foster's mother beard of their removal to this
furnished bouse in Surrey, she was exceedingly angry, and wrote
a long and indignant letter to Sabina about her son's perversity,
as she chose to consider it. On Foster's return from Northamp-
ton be found this protest awaiting him, for he had enjoined Sa-
bina to preserve for him all letters coming from bis mother; and
when be had read it, he pitched it back impatiently on to the
chimney-piece.
" Yes," he said, turning to Sabina, " I suppose you wrote com-
plaining that it was a lonely place — that there wasn't enough
society for you."
" Ob no, Fred, I did not," she said, rather timidly. *' I — I —
said I was afraid you would find it dull — it was about you that I
wrote — "
" Oh, you may make your mind easy about me," said he, care-
lessly. "You needn't imagine that I am going to sit down and
bite my nails — or plant kidney-beans. I can't afford it. Our
circumstances aren't so flourishing as all that; I must be about
just as much as ever; you needn't bother about me."
Then he began to make inquiries about the arrangements she
had made with the Epsom tradesmen ; and it was clear that he
meant this household to be conducted with a view to economy.
" Of course," said he, " the simplest way to pay Jim Deane for
the cob and the pony-cbaise would be to sell them both; and
that would save old Noel's wages, besides the keep of the cob — "
"But how should we get the things out from Epsom?" she
asked.
" You could send the girl in by train at a pinch. Or I dare
say most of the Epsom tradesmen have carts. But I sba'n't de-
cide on that yet; we'll see what Newmarket does for me. Oh,
A MESSAGE. 229
by-the-way, if you have any questions to ask of Mrs. Deane, just
jot them down on a piece of paper. I shall see her to-morrow
night most likely."
" Are you going away again, then ?" Sabina asked, without rais-
ing her eyes.
" Yes ; I'm going down to Newmarket to-morrow."
So Sabina was left once more alone ; and somehow she was
more hopeless now, as she tried this or tliat bit of additional dec-
oration within-doors, or sought employment outside in helping
the little old man who worked in the garden when he was done
with the stable. At first she had got this ancient to drive her in
the pony-chaise — in his faded livery ; but he was not very com-
municative; and she preferred being alone; and so she took to
driving by herself — going considerable distances sometimes — and
letting the cob walk for the most part. In this way she became
very familiar with the not over-peopled neighborhood surround-
ing her, with the Commons of Stoke and Leatherhead and Esher,
with Fitcham Downs and Micklehara Downs, with Headley Heath
and Walton Heath, and all the scattered little hamlets and nooks
and by-ways to which she could gain access. It was a solitary
life for a young woman to lead. Her ostensible object was the
gathering of wild flowers for the adornment of the cottage parlor.
The cob would stand patiently enough in the lanes, or on the
open heath, while she explored the hedge -rows or the broken
sand-pits. But sometimes she forgot this pursuit — oftenest when
she had got up to some height from which she could look north-
ward across the wide, undulating, wooded country ; and then slie
would remain there motionless, silent, absent- minded, until she
felt helpless tears swimming into her eyes. For she was looking
across that wide landscape to London town, where still she had
one or two friends.
One day her solitude was broken in npon ; for Mrs. Wygram,
and Janie, and Janie's artist-sweetheart all came down to see her;
and as this was the first time that Sabina had acted as hostess in
her own home, she was very proud and pleased, and the excite-
ment of seeing them brought quite a flush of aiiiination to the
pale and sad face. As for Janie (after one quick, nervous, anx-
ious look of inquiry directed to Sabina's eyes), she declared that
the little cottage was most charmingly pretty, the neighborhood
was delightfully picturesque, the air so sweet after London, the
230 SABINA ZEMBRA.
blossom on the fruit-trees so beautiful. She would go into the
garden, and was interested in the smallest details; she went into
the stable and patted the cob ; she thought the little maid-servant
such a pretty-looking country lass. But when they had got in-
doors again, and when Sabina had gone away for a couple of
minutes to superintend lunch, Janie said, sharply,
"Philip, why do you stare at her so? I wish you wouldn't
stare at her so !"
" I think she is more beautiful than ever," he said, absently.
"But it is a rarer kind of beauty — something finer — Janie, I
don't know why, but to me she hasn't the look of a happy
woman,"
" Oh, don't say that, Phil !" Janie exclaimed, " Don't say she
isn't happy !" And then she fought with her own fears, "Why,
of course she is happy ! What did you expect ? You've seen
Sabie before. She's not the giggling bar-maid kind of person.
Why shouldn't Sabie be reserved — and — and — and refined — and
— and quiet in manner? Did you expect her to giggle?"
"Janie!" the mother said, and the warning was only given in
time ; for just then Sabina made her appearance.
But surely this gentle hostess was not unhappy, as she sate there
at the head of the table, smiling and talking to her friends, and
rather bewildering the young artist with the graciousness of her
look and address. He was accustomed to seek his inspiration
from many sources, but he could not quite get at the secret here.
Was it her eyes — that were so frank and generous and kind ? Or
was it the proud set of the head and neck — as she seemed to
incline a little in order to listen to her next neighbor? Her
shoulders and the lines of her throat were magnificent, he could
.see easily enough ; but that was merely physical and obvious ;
that had nothing to do with the subtle charm and sweetness of
her presence. Wherein lay the mystery, then ? Was it her dis-
position ? But a plain woman might have a beautiful disposition
without possessing this nameless attraction. Or was it associa-
tion ? There was something in the Madonna-like forehead and
in the calm of the eyes that seemed to suggest the ideals of the
early Italian artists — the serene loveliness — the sadness, even,
with which they had endowed their imaginings of the blessed
among women. He thought he would like to have a look
through the National Gallery. Janie would go with him — it
A MESSAGE. 231
would be a pleasant task for her to seek out something resembling
Sabina's expression in those visions and dreams of the painters of
an earlier world.
After luncheon was over, Sabina took Mrs. Wygram away for
H drive in the pony-chaise, considerately leaving the two young
folks to go for a walk by themselves. And they had plenty to
talk over — at least he had ; for he was telling her of the various
Italian cities he proposed they should visit on their approaching
wedding-trip ; and he was debating whether it was better to
arrive at Venice at night or in the morning. Which was likely
to be the more striking to her who had never been there at all —
the hushed, mysterious blackness of the canals, and the gliding
by of the hearse-like and half-invisible gondolas, or the splendor
of the dawn widening over the great lagoon and making a won-
der of the islands, and the tall campaniii, and the domes, and the
palaces ? He did not address his conversation to her direct ; he
talked as if he was looking at some one away along the road ;
perhaps that was the reason he did not perceive that Janie was
paying him but scant attention. At last he said to her,
" Why are you silent ? What are you thinking of ?"
"I was thinking of one night at Walter Lindsay's," Janie
answered, with a sigh. "Ah, if you had seen Sabie that night!
I never saw her so — so radiant. But I suppose the world changes
to every one."
" Oh, as to that," said he, " I don't know that she has changed
so much for the worse. Of course, I don't want to say anytliing
against her, or else you'd be up in arms in a moment; but the
Miss Zembra that I used to see sometimes — well, everybody could
recognize her beauty — that was apparent enough — but I confess
that she was just a little too straightforward in her manner for
me. There was a kind of want of sensitiveness somehow that is
difficult to exphiin — she was just a trifle too direct and frank — "
"She was a healthy and high-spirited young woman," Janie
said, warmly, " and very busy, with little time to study small
details or think of what she was saying ; but she was, always and
always, just graciousness and goodness itself !"
" Oil yes," he said. " Yes, I suppose that was so. But I can't
help thinking there is a finer touch about her now — "
"I suppose you think it is line to be unhappy!" said Janie,
rather bitterly.
232 SABINA ZEMBRA.
But she instantly drew back from that proposition — or, rather,
from the suspicion implied in it.
" Oh no, I hope she is not unhappy," she said. " Iler husband
seems to be away a great deal, certainly ; and she may be feeling
lonely there ; but, you know, he is mad about horse-racing and
such things; and as soon as he has run through the little money
that he has, then he will be compelled to stop, and begin and live
a more domestic life. In the mean time," Janie added, plaintive-
ly, "if he doesn't want her, I wish he would give her to us. Ah,
wouldn't you like to see Sabie again in Kensington Square?"
Sabiua seemed to be loath to part with her visitors that after-
noon.
"You will come up for the wedding?" Janie said, shyly, as
they stood together in the railway-station.
"Oh yes; and for the Private View at the Grosvenor?" said the
young artist, who seemed to consider these two events as of about
equal importance to him.
"Sabie, do you remember the Private View at the Academy
last year ?"
There was no answer to the question, for the train came in just
then ; and presently these good people were on their way to Lon-
don, and Sabina was slowly driving back to her solitary home.
Her next visitors were of another complexion. Fred Foster
came back, of course, for the Epsom Spring Meeting ; and as he
was leaving on the first morning, he said to her,
" Most likely some of these fellows will be coming here to-night
for a smoke and a drink ; but that needn't bother you ; you
needn't put in an appearance unless you like. It was their own
proposal ; and I'm under obligations to Johnny Russell — I did not
like to refuse — "
" But," she said, quickly, " couldn't I get some dinner for thera ?
I think I could manage."
"Oh no," he said, impatiently. "We shall dine at Epsom.
And you needn't be afraid — Raby won't be one of them."
"Shouldn't I have some supper for them, Fred?" she asked.
" No, no ; it's drink they'll want — see that there's plenty of
soda-water."
Sabina said nothing more; but all the same she busied herself
during the day in preparing for thera a neat little supper, so that
they might have it if they wished it ; and long before they ar-
A MESSAGE. 233
rived it was all ready for them — a couple of cold fowls and some
ham and salad, with bottled stout, and whiskey and soda-water
in the cupboard; there was no wine in the house. And she had
a fire burning brightly ; and there were clusters of wild flowers
adorning the white table-cover; altogether this little apartment
looked very neat and comfortable.
It was about nine o'clock when they arrived ; she heard the
noisy crew drive up to the gate. And then amid the tumult of
their getting down, she could make out her husband's voice — and
sulky enough it sounded.
" Jiold your row, can't you ? Do you want to make it out
you're all drunk ?"
" Keep your hair on, old man !" another said.
"You always were a bad loser, Freddie," said a third; "but I
must say your luck to-day was awful, all the way through."
And then, as they got to the door, one said,
" What is it to be ? Crowns and pounds ?"
But when they came inside, a hush fell over them, and they left
their coats and hats in the passage quietly enough ; and then,
during their brief and rough-and-ready introduction to Sabina;
their manner was most denmre. Johnny Russell was the only
one of them she knew ; and he was quite deferential.
" Come along, now, into the other room," Foster said ; " if Fm
dead broke, I mean to have a drink anyway."
"Won't you smoke here?" Sabina suggested. "Later on you
may want a little supper."
" Oh no, we don't want any supper," he said. " Come along,
you fellows."
Being thus imperatively bidden, they followed him into the pas-
sage ; the next raotnent the open door showed them the supper
already laid on the table.
"Here, what's the use of this?" he said, turning to Sabina. "I
told you we shouldn't want any supper. Send tiie girl and have
the table cleared."
" Oh, I say, Foster," Johnny Russell at once protested, " that is
rather cool. If Mrs. Foster has been so kind as to mean this for
us — well, 1 think you might give us the chance — what do you
say ?"
He turned to the others.
" Yes, yes, certainly," was the unanimous answer; but wluilhcr
234 SABINA ZEMBRA.
that was prompted by any wish for supper, or as a compliment
to their hostess, may be a matter of doubt.
" Oh, very well — very well," Foster said, and he went into the
room.
Sabina remained for a second uncertain ; whereupon Johnny
Russell facetiously remarked,
"I think we shall be surer of our welcome when Mrs, Foster
takes her place at the table."
Sabina needed no further invitation ; and when she sate down
they were very kind and attentive to her ; though she had to re-
mind them that it was she who ought to wait upon them. And
if, as is highly probable, they wanted no supper at all, still, out of
courtesy, tliey pretended to be valiant trencher-men, and Sabina
was highly pleased. Fred Foster was the only one who did not
join in ; perhaps it was his losses during the day that made him
moody ; at all events, he remained standing by the fire ; and he
had lit a cigar.
Supper over, and things cleared away by the little maid-serv-
ant, Sabina withdrew ; and she knew, by the hilarity that speedily
followed, that she had done right in leaving them free. This was
not whist they were playing, she guessed ; probably it was some
round game, in which the ill-luck of the unfortunate was greeted
with derision; anyhow, the noise did not disturb her; she read
contentedly in the small drawing-room until (following an old
habit about which Janie used to tease her) she quietly fell asleep.
It was near midnight when she awoke; they were still playing,
but less noisily ; so leaving them to themselves, she slipped up-
stairs and went to bed.
But whatever game that was they had been playing, Fred Fos-
ter had burned his fingers at it, as she discovered next morning.
" Those brutes didn't go till three," he said. " I hope their
walk back to Epsom did them good. I know they managed to
clean me out before they left."
And then he said,
" Look here, Sabie, I've been pretty hard hit lately, in several
ways. I think I must sell the cob and the pony-chaise."
'' To pay Mr. Deane ?" she asked.
" Oh no. He's all right. He has got a bill for that. But I
must get a bit of money somehow. And this would save old
Noel's wages, and the keep of the cob besides."
A MESSAGE. 235
"Very well," she said, without any word of remonstrance or
regret.
But this sale of the cob and the pony-chaise — they were taken
away a couple of days thereafter — left her life at the cottage even
more monotonous and empty than it had been before. She work-
ed a little in the garden ; she read sometimes ; she wrote to Janie,
or to Mrs. Foster in Buckinghamshire, evading the old lady's per-
tinacious inquiries about the whereabouts and conduct of her son.
But it was a lonely life; the hours went by slowly; there were
long spaces for reverie and recollections and forecasts which were
not always of the happiest kind. But no word of complaint es-
caped her; whatever of despair was in her heart she kept con-
cealed there; she sought for no sympathy. Sometimes, in a
half-hysterical kind of way, she would convince herself that her
father would relent, and that a larger income would remove her
husband's discontent and win him back to her; and she would go
down-stairs in the morning with some wild hope of finding a let-
ter there with the joyful news. No such letter came. Sir An-
thony's communications were punctual ; beyond that, nothing.
And so the slow days went by, each one laying a heavier hand
upon her heart.
She did not go to the Private View of the Grosvcnor, nor yet
to Janie Wygram's wedding; but thereafter she got many and
many a letter from Janie, describing their wanderings in Italy,
and her joy over these new experiences. The young married
couple were not away very long, though they managed to visit a
good many places in the time ; and Sabina began to count the
days until their return ; for somehow she wished to know that
Janie was in London.
It was the second morning after they got back that Janie re-
ceived the following note :
"Dear Friend, — Do you remember one night at Mrs. Mel-
lord's a Scotch girl singing a song that began something like this —
" ' can ye sew cushions,
And can ye sew sheets,
And can ye sing hallaloo
When the bah-n greets ?'
Do you think you could get me a copy of it ? You will try, for
Sable's sake."
23G - SABINA ZKMBRA.
Just as fast as ever she could walk from Netting Hill to Ken-
sington Square, Janie carried this note, and breathless and joyful
she was when she put it into her mother's hand.
"See, mother," she cried. "Don't you understand? — it is a
message ! And oh, I am so glad ! Poor Sabie — she will not be
so lonely now."
CHAPTER XXVn.
IN NEW YORK.
Walter Lindsay never even began the series of drawings of
the river Shannon, the chief aim of which was that they should
form a little exhibition by themselves, and so enable him to invite
Sabina to the Private View. But after he had been a little while
in America, the idea recurred to him of getting together a collec-
tion of consecutive studies of one particular neighborhood ; and
finally he betook himself to the Adirondacks, remaining there all
the winter and most of the spring, suffering a good deal of hard-
ship at times, but working diligently nevertheless. When he re-
turned to New York he brought with him a sufficient number of
sketches and pictures to make a very creditable show in a room
that he hired for the purpose ; and if there was no formal Private
View, many visitors dropped in in a casual kind of way, and the
newspapers were kind enough to approve. The end of it was that
a railway king bought the entire collection — to be set into a series
of panels in his smoking-room — thus leaving Lindsay free to re-
new his solitary wanderings.
But on the afternoon that saw this transaction completed he
thought he would treat himself to a bit of a frolic later on ; and so,
being president of a small society going by the name of the
Monks of St. Giles (he had borrowed the title of a club to which
he had been introduced in Edinburgh), he issued a summons to
the members to meet that night at twelve; and then he went to
order a supper for them at the hotel where they were wont to as-
semble. Thence he strolled along to a certain large theatre where
they were just then playing " Romeo and Juliet," passed in by the
stage entrance, made his way through many intricate passages, and
finally gained admission to a room in which Romeo and Tybalt —
in perfect amity — were dressing for their respective parts.
IN NEW YOKK. 237
"The Monks meet to-night; I thought I would make sure of
you," he said to Romeo.
"All right," the hapless lover answered (for a wonder he was
a perfectly ideal Romeo — young, slim, well-featured, well-man-
nered).
And then he turned to Tybalt — who, by-the-way, was as hand-
some as any Montague of them all.
" I sav, Jack, you know we are not supposed to take any one
with us; but I'll make it all right with the boys. Will you go as
my guest ? I'll lend you a cloak and hood."
"I should like it immensely," was the immediate answer.
" One good turn deserves another," Romeo said, with a laugh.
" Jack, why don't you go and get a domino and mask, and we'll
get Lindsay on in the ballroom scene?"
" What, on the stage ?" cried tlie victim of this proposal.
" Why, of course ! It will be quite a new experience for you.
You're not afraid, are you J Even if you should be, that will be
another experience. Stage-fright is a delicious thing — when it is
over, and you begin to breathe again. Besides, no one will see
you if you keep your mask up."
" But what am I to do ?"
" Oh, anything you like. You can stand and talk to Lady
Capulet, or you may fan the nurse, or walk about among the
crowd. But you'd better not wander down the stage much ; you
might get in the way — and those Capulets are pretty quick with
their weapons."
"You may trust me not to wander one inch from the place I'm
put in," observed Walter Lindsay, with marked decision.
"You'll come off with the others, of course," his friend con-
tinued carelessly (indeed he was more intent on pencilling his eye-
brows). " And if you care to stay and see the rest of the play
you can sit in the first entrance; then we could all go down to-
gether to the Monks."
Well, it was not only a new experience, it was an absolutely be-
wildering one. For no sooner had he donned the long blue dom-
ino, with its belt and dagger, and taken the scarlet mask in his
hand, than he was led on the stage and jjlaced by the side of Lady
Capulet's chair of state ; and then it seemed to him as if he were
lost in ungovernable chaos. How was this turbulent, amorphous
crowd, with its picturesque costumes and visors and weapons, ever
238 SABINA ZEMBRA.
to fall into the regulated harmony of a ballroom ? The air was
thick ■with warnings, calls, and cries; his efforts to converse with
the Lady Capulet were of the most inconsequent kind. But pres-
ently there was a sound slow and melodious ; a hush fell over the
varied throng; and as the raising of the curtain revealed to him
a vast space beyond this ballroom in which he stood — a space
dusky and dim and huge, and filled with orange-hued masses of
what were apparently human beings — he found that these figures
near him were gliding through the gentle movements of a minuet,
while a chorus of voices somewhere kept time with the strains of
the music. Curiously enough, he was not concerned about the
audience in the least. To him they were non-existent. They
were eyeless, as it were. Why should he heed those distant and
dusky rows of inanimate obj(!Cts that he could scarce make out?
It was here, in this actual and living throng, that all his interests
were ; and it was strange to be one of them — to be in the midst
of them — not the remote spectator of a theatrical display — but
standing among the guests in the glare and gorgeousness of a
ballroom of a house in Verona. The whole thing became mar-
vellously and unaccountably real. There was the Lady Juliet.
.Well, he had the honor of a slight acquaintance with the young
lady who was then playing the part, having met her in one or two
social circles in New York; but now he forgot all about that;
surely this was the real Juliet in her father's home, observed of
all, and charming all with her youthful and radiant beauty, her
dignity, her gentle courtesy. A few minutes before he had been
up in his friend's dressing-room, chatting to him, watching the
buckling on of his rapier, and thinking mostly about the Monks
of St. Giles ; but he forgot all about that, too ; surely this was the
real Romeo — the lovelorn, ill-fated youth — here in this ballroom
— in Verona — whose vibrant voice now thrilled through the half-
silenced music :
" ! she doth teach the torches to burn bright.
It seems she hangs upon the cheek of night
Like a rich jewel in an Ethiop's ear;
Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear !"
But this was only the beginning of his bewilderment ; for by-and-
by, when the minuet was over, the Lady Juliet was free to move
among her father's bidden guests, bestowing here and there a gra-
IN NEW YORK. 239
cious word or smile ; and to his amazement he found she was ap-
proaching him.
" Good-evening, Mr. Lindsay," she said. " Oh, you need not
be afraid. No one can recognize you. Jack told me who you
were."
" But I am afraid — horribly afraid," he said.
"Of what?"
" Of getting in the way, or doing something wrong — "
" No, no," she said ; and then she added, with a touch of gentle
malice, " Won't you walk down the stage with me ? Will you
give me your arm V
*' Oh no, thank you, I'd rather not," was the instant and anx-
ious answer. " I feel safe where I am, thank you very much."
And surely this was the strangest and most dazzling and puz-
zling scene that any human being ever found himself in, whether
in Verona, or New York, or anywhere else. Here is what his dis-
tracted ears were listening to — including his own voice; while
his eyes would keep wandering from the Lady Juliet to her watch-
ful cousin and her more magnanimous father:
" Tybalt. Now, by the stock and honor of my kin,
To strike him dead I hold it not a sin.
Capulet. Wiiy, how now, kinsman ? wherefore storm you so ?
Tybalt. Uncle, this is a Montague, our foe ;
A villain, that is hither come in spite,
To scorn at our solemnity this night."
The Lady Juliet. " Surely, Mr. Lindsay, you do not think that
any one can recognize you ?"
Walter Lindsay. " Not hitherto ; but now all their opera-
glasses are levelled at you; and supposing I were to drop my
mask by accident, what then ?"
" Tybalt. It fits, when such a villain is a guest.
I'll not endure him.
Capulet. lie shall be endur'd :
What ! goodman boy ! — I say, he shall ; — go to — "
The Lady Juliet. " I hear you arc going to take Jack to some
club to-night. Don't let him sit up too late."
Walter Lindsay. " Oh, I will look after him. But he doesn't
need looking after. Your brother Jack is a very good boy."
240 SABIXA ZEMBRA.
"Tybalt. Why, uncle, 'tis a shame.
Capulet. Go to, go to."
The Lady Juliet. " "Well, I will say good-night now, Mr.
Lindsay, for I sba'n't see you again this evening. I don't like
seeing people after playing ' Juliet.' Good-night !"
AValter Lindsay (remembering his part, and bowing gravely).
" Addio, signorina."
On the whole, however, he was more content when the slow
procession filed off the stage, and when they found for him a cor-
ner from which he could look on at the ever beautiful balcony
scene. And even here, standing in the " wings," among gasmen
and carpenters and scene-shifters, it was still that magic night in
Verona that was all around him ; and it was not the young lady
he had met in New York society that he saw before him ; but
Juliet her very self, in all her impassionate tenderness, now startled
and coy and timid, now generously confiding and bountiful in her
love, and in her maiden charms
" More beautiful than whom Alcaeus wooed,
The Lesbian woman of immortal song !"
Nay, so much was he impressed with the reality of the scene, that
when Romeo, having uttered his last farewell, came out of that
moonlit garden, Lindsay, from some kind of delicacy, let him go
by without speaking, and did not follow him to his dressing-room.
On the contrary, he merely sent him a message to say that he did
not wish to stay the performance out, but would come back for
those two when it was over ; and then he wandered forth into the
busy streets of New York. To tell the truth, he rather wanted to
make this a frolicsome night ; and even a winter in the Adiron-
dacks had not wholly hardened up the sensitiveness of his artist's
temperament ; very well he knew that the tragic spectacle of Juli-
et's unnumbered woes was not the best beginning for a merry
evening.
And indeed, as it turned out, this midnight meeting of the
Monks proved to be a very gay affair when each had donned his
cloak and hood of sober gray, and taken his place at the sumptu-
ously furnished table. At first there was no kind of order in the
proceedings; the business of supper had- to be got through with;
quips and jests and anecdotes of more or less doubtful veracity
were bandied about anyhow ; and, as the wine flowed, there was
IN NEW YOEK. 241
abundant laughter found for even a fisli story. But when the
supper-things had been removed and cigars lit, the president from
time to time tinkled his bell for silence; and in the pauses those
who were able and willing joined in this or that old English glee
— "Dame Durden," "Calm be thy Slumbers," "Ye Spotted
Snakes," " Here in Cool Grot," and so forth. Likewise there
were many nigger choruses, one especially being a favorite ; for
as each Monk had to improvise a verse — no matter what — there
was abundant occasion for all kinds of personalities, the sting of
which, of course, disappeared, or was drowned, rather, in the uni-
versal chorus of " Balm of Gilead, Gilead 1" It was a very care-
less and merry gathering; but the climax of these festivities was
neither careless nor merry. At a quarter to two the lights were
lowered. Each Monk drew forward his cowl, and sate with down-
cast head. And then, in the hushed silence, a powerful barytone
began to sing — slowly and with clear enunciation — that grimmest
and weirdest of all the Scotch ballads, "The Twa Corbies," while
after each couplet the whole of the company took up the fantastic
and mournful refrain. It was the old air, which is curiously pathetic
in its simplicit}', that was sung; and scarcely less grewsome than
the words themselves —
"And nae ane kens that lie lies there
But his hawk and his hound and his lady fair,"
was the slow-chanted burden that followed —
" Witli a fal, lal lal, lal lal, lal lay.
With a fal, hil lal, lal lay."
And then, when the tragic story was ended —
" Mony's the ane for him makes mane,
But nane shall ken wiiere he is gane ;
Owrc his white banes, when they are bare,
The wind shall blaw forever mair."
And when the last deep-sounding, mournful notes,
" With a fal, lal lal, lal lal, lal lay,
With a fal, lal lal, lal lay "
had died into silence, they rose from the table, the lights were
turned up, cloaks and hoods put aside, and — somewhat sobered
by this mystic rite — the Monks were free to go their several ways
home.
11
242 SABINA ZEMBKA.
"Walter Lindsay, however, had rooms in this same hotel ; and
so, Avhen the last of his friends had gone, he retired thither, drew
in a chair to the fire that was still burning, and took from his
pocket a letter. It had come that morning ; it was from Janie ;
and although there was a good deal in it about her husband and
their travels in Italy, the bulk of it (as of yore) was all about
Sabina; and this was what he wanted to read over again, in seclu-
sion and peace.
" Sometimes we were amused, sometimes we were a little
ashamed of ourselves," the ever -faithful Janie wrote, " to find
how often the same idea was in our head in going through those
picture-galleries. When we went into a new room we almost in-
variably made first for the most prominent Madonna subject.
Philip would stand looking at it for some time. ' Very curious;
none of them quite seem to have her expression. There's some-
thing about those eyebrows a little like.' Then I (in sweet sim-
plicity), ' But wlio is it you are thinking of, Phil? 'Oh, you
know well enough. As if your beloved Sabie was ever for a mo-
ment out of your head ! And of course I've got to think of her
sometimes — so as not to feel lonely; you can't always be wan-
dering away by yourself.' But really it was he who began it,
even before we were married, for he took me to the National Gal-
lery, and we went over all the Madonnas carefully, but not one
would do. This one was too cold and wooden, the other simper-
ing, and so forth. Nor did we get on any better abroad. There's
one in the Louvre, the ' Vierge Aux Rochers,' that has something
of the calm look of Sable's forehead ; but her hair is more crim-
pled than Sable's; and then you remember there is always a lit-
tle trickiness in the smile of that woman that Leonardo used to
paint. The most beautiful one we saw, 'The Assumption,' in
Venice — yes, that was very beautiful — but it was quite different
from Sabie. She is so much more human, to my fancy, and looks
at you so straight. But if we failed before, you may imagine
whether we are likely to succeed now, Phil and I went down
the other day. Dear friend, I wish you could see her, if but for
a moment. There is a look in her face that was never there be-
fore, even in the old days when she was at her happiest. I think
she had quite given herself over to despair — though she would
never complain — and I never wrote much to you about it, for I
had not the heart to do so ; but now that she finds there is some
IN NEW YORK. 243
consolation for her, and some call for her love and sympathy, and
a constant interest in her lonely life, she seems overcome with a
kind of wondering gratitude. If you could only see her stoop-
ing over the little bed where the child lies, and see the happiness
in her face, and her delight in showing you all the little bits of
finery and lace that she has made with her own fingers, you would
understand how deeply, deeply thankful we all are that some-
thing has happened to make her life a little more bearable. Poor
Sabie ! Who could ever have thought that this would be the
end — living almost alone in a cottage away from all her friends.
But in spite of all her shrewdness and high spirits, she was al-
ways romantically generous; it was invariably 'Give, give' with
her; and so, to make up for a trumpery accident, she gave her-
self! That's what I call it; and many a time my heart was very
sore about it when I saw the result, though I did not tell you
everything; but now I am glad to write and say that she is a
little happier. She laughed once or twice the last time we were
there — it's such a long time since I heard our poor Sabie laugh.
When Baby gets a little older, Phil is going to ask a friend of
his, who is a very skilled photographer, to go down and take a
group of mother and child; and if it turns out well, be sure you
will have a copy if you care to have it ; and as for me I know
I shall far and away prefer it to any of the Madonnas we saw
abroad.
" We keep the house and studio as neat and pretty as we can,
and occasionally have a few friends ; and often enough, when I
see them seated at the table, I think of the night that Sabie came
to your supper-party, and looked so pretty as she sate next to you.
I wonder if you remember the Indian silk dress, and the fichu of
yellow lace, and the forget-me-nots! Poor Sabie, there are no
more of such nights for her now."
That was all that Janie had to report at present. And if it
never occurred to her that she was doing a remarkably ingenuous
thing in writing out to Walter Lindsay to inform him that Mr.
Fred Foster had been presented with a son — well, that did not
occur to Lindsay either. It was as Sable's child that both of
thcin regarded this new-comer. Janie rejoiced to see that at last
some measure of happiness had been meted out to one whose life
had of late been loveless enough ; Lindsay wondering in a vague
sort of way whether Sabina had ever heard of the pet name that
244 SABINA ZEMBRA.
the Highland mother has for her infant — " the lamb of my heart."
But his tlioiights and fancies went far further afield. During
those solitary months in the Adirondacks lie had been a good
deal given to looking into the future, with no kind of despair or
discontent whatever, but I'ather with a curious apathy. The long,
forth-coming years looked empty somehow, and not very interest-
ing; that was all. But with this letter of Janie's lying on \iip,
knee — and as he sate far into the morning, with the fire in the
grate slowly dwindling down — other pictures began to form them-
selves. Strangely enough, neither Fred Foster nor Sabina was
there ; he had forgotten them ; he did not see them. But he
saw a young lad, tall for his age, and fair, with clear brown eyes,
and a bright and gracious smile, and he saw himself, grave and griz-
zled and elderly, and yet half admiring the lad's audacity and fool-
ish opinions, walking bj^ his side. This was in Galloway. They
had fishing-rods in their hands. And if the tall, proud-featured,
but gentle -lipped youth had been talking wilful perversity in
politics, now he was all grave submission as his elderly compan-
ion began to select flies for him and show him where were the
likely casts in the stream. And not in Galloway alone (though
the boy would know that he was heir to a little estate in that
county). Might not Mentor and Telemachus — always with their
rods and fly-books accompanying them — enjoy many devious and
distant wanderings, with lunch on the loch-side or the river-bank,
and evenings before the fire in the cosey room of the inn ?
"Nay, Spring I'd meet by Tweed or Ail,
And Summer by Loch Assynt's deep,
And Autumn in that lonely vale
Where wedded Avons westward sweep.
" Or where, amid the empty fields.
Among the bracken of the glen,
Her yellow wreath October yields,
To crown the crystal brows of Ken."
The elder of these two inseparable companions — whom he saw
in those visionary pictures — was himself. And the other ? Well,
the lad had Sabina's eyes.
AN AMBASSADOR. 245
CHAPTER XXVIII.
AN AMBASSADOR.
Mr. Fred Foster was going down home by the ten-o'clock
train from Waterloo, and he had for companion a big, heavy, red-
faced, good-natured -looking man, who seemed in much better
spirits than his neighbor.
" No, no, Freddie, take my advice and never back yourself at
billiards unless you're ahead, and in fairly good luck. You can't
play a losing game a bit ; and bad luck drives you wild. Why,
man, you can't ram the balls into the pockets if they won't go.
Temper won't do it, my lad."
" And I suppose you wouldn't get out of temper if you were
playing with a cad like that?" was the retort. " I never saw such
a sneak in all my life. His sole notion of the game was to pot
the white and get double balk."
*' When a man thinks he's going to land a tidy little twenty-
five pounds, he doesn't play to the gallery," observed Mr. John
Scott, sententiously. " Well, well, old man, cheer up. It will be
a lesson to you. You know you were just a little bit too eager
to touch that young man's chinks. A pony to a fiver, and thirty-
five points in two hundred, that's not good biz. That's not bill-
iard-betting at all, unless you were to bar flakes. In a nomina-
tion game it might do ; but with all the chances of luck against
you, I'd be awful sure of my play before I backed myself at five
to one."
"The sneak wouldn't bet at all without ridiculous odds — that's
what it was," Foster said, rather morosely. " And if he had
played a fair game, I should have won easily. Why, I'd lay him
£100 to £10 to-morrow, and give him 200 in 1000 — to-mono w
morning I'd do it."
" Yes," said the other, dryly, " but I think he has had cnouo;h.
I think he will be quite content when he has got that twenty-five
pounds in his trousers-pocket."
"lie hasn't got it there yet, then," Foster said, gloomily, "and
246 SABINA ZEMBRA.
I don't see how he is to get it just at present. My luck for the
last four months has just been awful. It was the scratching of
Theology for the Liverpool Cup that begun it — the most infer-
nal swindle ever done on the turf that was — I am certain of it — a
deliberate swindle ; well, ever since that, every mortal thing has
gone against me — every mortal thing. I seem to Jonah every-
thing I touch."
" Take my advice and keep your noddle cool, then," Mr. Scott
said, pleasantly. " I know you, Fred, my lad. When they get
you in a corner, you are inclined to put down your head and butt.
But that's not the way to play the great game. No, no, keep cool
and bide your chance."
" There's an awful amount of advice about this evening," Fos-
ter was goaded into saying. " Very kind of you, I am sure, Mr.
Scott. Perhaps you wouldn't mind also lending me a pony for a
week or two, to settle up with that sneak ?"
The suggestion was merely a bit of sarcasm, but Mr. Scott took
it blandly enough.
" My dear boy," he said, in a tone of gentle remonstrance,
'* didn't I tell you what they did to me at Shrewsbury ? If King
of Tralee hadn't pulled off the Shropshire Handicap I should have
had to come home on shanks' mare."
Mr. Scott left the train at Epsom ; Foster went on to Witstead.
At the little station only one other passenger got out — a gentle-
man of the neighborhood, who jauntily stepped into his comfort-
ably-lit brougham, and was rapidly driven away, leaving his fellow-
traveller to find his way home on foot. The night was pitch-dark,
the air thick with a cold raw drizzle, the roads heavy with mire;
and as Fred Foster had to exercise the utmost caution to prevent
his stumbling into the ditch, his reflections were none of the niost
genial kind.
" Sir Anthony Zembra at the Mansion House — great oration —
generous appeal — check for five hundred guineas — cheers. Sir
Anthony Zembra entertains Prime-minister at Waldegrave Club
— proceedings strictly private. Sir Anthony Zembra arrived at
the Castle, and had the honor of dining, etc. Yes; and Sir An-
thony Zembra's son-in-law finds himself slouching along a muddy
country lane, like a tramp in search of a night's lodging, with
precious little prospect of supper before him."
Nor were his meditations much enlivened by the appearance of
AN AMBASSADOR. 247
Wayside Cottage ■when eventually he arrived there. All the lower
windows were dark. In one of the upper windows there was the
faintest yellow tinge, probably a night-light was burning in the
room. So he knocked and rang, knocked and rang, until a sharp-
er light appeared there ; and then he waited ; and by-and-by Sa-
bina herself, wrapped from head to foot in a large shawl, and
bearing a candle in her hand, opened the door for him,
" What is the use of going to bed in the middle of the day ?"
be asked, surlily, as he entered.
" It is past eleven," was the mild answer; " but I would have
waited up any time if I had known you were coming."
" Fire out, I suppose," he said, as he preceded her into the lit-
tle dining-room.
Unmistakably it was out.
She lit the two lamps on the sideboard, and said she was sorry
she had not known he was coming; but would she get him some
supper? She could easily do that without waking the girl.
" Has that check come down to-day f he asked.
" No ; it is only due to-day ; I suppose it will come to-morrow,"
she answered ; and then she added, rather piteously, " But, Fred,
surely you do not want any of that money !"
For she owed some small sums in Epsom. But that was not
all. The baby was now old enough to be promoted from a cradle
to a cot; and she had seen a very neat-looking one in Epsom;
and she had looked forward to the patient adornment of it by her
own hands as a welcome labor of love in the slow hours. Nay,
she Iiad even procured the materials for the purpose; and had
foreshadowed the most cunning little elegancies; and had de-
signed, in Old English letters, a scroll to hang at the head of it —
" Gute Nacht, (In siixsrs Kind,
Mor/cii Eii(/cl click bchiitcn,
Und der Schlimimcr Icin mul lind,
Streue dir die schijnstcn JJtiilhcn."
And she had promised herself the happiness of purchasing this
cot as soon as the check from her father arrived ; it was an extrav-
agance, she knew ; but she had set her heart on it.
" Why, of course I want some of it !" lie said, sharply. " t
wish you knew the straits I am in. I suppose you wouldn't
n)ind if I were locked up in Ilolloway Jail ?"
248 SABINA ZEMBRA.
" Oh, Fred, don't talk that way," she entreated. " Don't let
VIS quarrel about nothing. See, there is a letter on the mantle-
piece — from Buckinghamshire — there is bad news — your mother
is not well."
This brought him to his senses in an instant.
*' It came four days ago," she said, as he went to the fireplace.
" Then why didn't you send it to me ?"
*' You know I hadn't your address," she said — but by this time
he was wholly engrossed with tlie contents of the letter.
It was written by old Mr. Foster; and the animus of the old
gentleman against his son was clearly shown by the fact that the
latter was not mentioned or referred to in any way whatsoever.
It was their prayer that Sabina and her child should live with the
old people, who would do everything in their power to make her
comfortable. The entreaty was sent at the earnest request of Mrs.
Foster, who could not herself write just then, as she was ill and in
bed. The long-continued cold and wet had affected her general
health ; a bad cough had supervened on that ; and it was feared
her lungs were more or less affected. Still, no immediate alarm
was felt ; only the old lady seemed anxiously to wish to know
that her daughter was near her, as she said ; and she sent many
and many kindly messages. Finally, would Sabina at once send a
telegram in reply ? It would give Mrs. Foster great pleasure to
hear that she was coming, and they would begin to make prepa-
rations to receive her.
" Of course it's impossible," Fred Foster rather impatiently
said. " I'm not going to live down there — unless the writters
make it too hot for me to live anywhere else."
And then he said more gently,
" I should like to run down and see how the Mater is, if it
wasn't for the expense."
" Oh, Fred !" Sabina said, " why should that hinder you ? The
money will be here to-morrow — by the mid-day post at latest.
Of course you must go and see your mother."
"No," he said, somewhat sulkily. "No, I don't want any of
that money. I can do without it. You keep it."
" But really I can do without the whole of it," Sabina said —
for she was a generous-hearted kind of creature. " lieally I can.
I have a few bills to pay ; and then I thought of buying Baby a
cot—"
AN AMBASSADOR. 249
" Why ? Isn't the cradle good enough ?" he said, turning to
her.
"They say a cot is healthier. But Baby can wait," Sabina
said, cheerfully. " There's not much the matter with his health,
the dear."
" Well, go to your bed now. I'm going to smoke a pipe — and
consider the best way of keeping out of jail."
So Sabina went away, sincerely hoping that he would go down
to Missenden on the morrow ; for he was always more considerate
to her, and more reasonable, and a little less selfish, when he had
been even for the briefest space under his mother's roof.
But next morning his mood had changed — as frequently hap-
pened with him.
"The old man has been pitching it strong about the Mater's
health," he said, " in order to get you to promise to go down.
Oh, I know his games. He has done that before with me. I
should like to hear more definite news before going away down
there, and spending money on a wild-goose chase. By-the-way,
I think I shall have to ask you for a fiver out of that check if it
comes to-day."
" Very well, Fred." And then she said, "Just look at Baby;
I think he's going to be an artist. It is quite extraordinary the
fascination that anything with colors on it has for him. From
the very first he wouldn't look at the silver mug that Janie gave
him ; but that one is his favorite plaything. Fancy Mr. Lindsay
taking all the trouble to have that made in America and sent
over."
" If you had any common-sense, you would lock it away in a
drawer," he said, briefly. " A pretty catch for a thief, that, with
all those stones."
The check did not come by the first post, so he had to kick his
heels about the house waiting for the second. On one occasion,
when Sabina came into the room, she found him reading over
again the letter she had shown him the previous night. He
threw it on to the table contemptuously.
" It's pretty clever," he said.
" What is ?"
"The proposal that you should go down and live at Missenden.
Very ingenious that is ; quite worthy of the old boy."
" But I don't understand, Fred."
11*
250 SABINA ZEMBRA.
"They get you down there ; and expect me to go too. Either
I do or I don't. If I don't — as I certainly shouldn't — he cuts off
my allowance; that's what he's after; and there's so much saved.
But if I were to go, then we should only cost them what we ate
and drank in the house — cheap, you know."
"Oh, Fred, why should you look at it like that!" Sabina pro-
tested. " Isn't it natural they should wish us to go and live with
them — especially if your mother is not well, and perhaps a little
anxious and fretting. Anyway, what am I to telegraph ?"
*' What is the use of telegraphing ?" he said. " Write and say
it is impossible."
However, neither letter nor telegram was necessary. Scarcely
had Sabina left the room when Fred Foster heard some one at
the little gate outside, and, turning, saw to his quick alarm that it
was his father. Instantly he went to the door and opened it.
" How is mother ?" he asked, breathlessly.
The old gentleman, at least, was in no hurry. He even seemed
unwilling to speak to his son.
" She is just about the same," he said, coldly, as he passed into
the hall. " I suppose Sabina is at home ?"
" Yes, I'll fetch her."
The old man went into the dining-room, put his umbrella in a
corner and his wide-awake on the table, but he kept on his Inver-
ness cape when he sate down. He was looking around him with
no very amiable expression ; perhaps he had not expected to find
his son at home. However, his face brightened a little when
Sabina came into the room, and he gave her some more definite
particulars about Mrs. Foster's condition.
"You got my letter?" he asked.
" Oh yes, but I could not telegraph until Fred came home."
" Oh, he has been away — that was it," the old man said. " I
thought it strange. And — and as I had some business with my
lawyers in London, it occurred to me that I might as well run
down and take back the answer myself."
It was a pretty lame excuse for this sudden and unannounced
visit, the real object of which was obvious enough.
" Well, and how long does your husband propose to continue
this folly ?" he asked, looking round the room.
" If you mean living in this house," said Fred Foster, with
a levity which was dangerously ill-timed, "I assure you I
AN AMBASSADOK. 251
couldn't get a cheaper one anywhere, for I haven't paid a far-
thing for it."
" Then you owe money for it — that you expect me to pay ?"
the old man said, turning sharply to his son; and Sabina, fearino'
what might ensue, thought she could not do better than fly away
quickly and get Baby made presentable, and bring him down to
act as peace-maker.
Indeed, she had not been many minutes in the room, her
fingers as busy as ever they could with the adornment of her
precious charge, when she could hear pretty plainly that there
was a battle royal r.iging below. Now there was no gentle-eyed
mother to interpose between these two; and it was clear from
the beginning that the old man had come down in a suspicious
and resentful mood against his son. Moreover, she guessed that
the father must have thrown out some unusually bitter taunts,
for it was not customary with Fred Foster to get angry. lie was
too selfish and indifferent for that. He could sulk ; but ordina-
rily he would not take the trouble to storm. And when at last
she was enabled to hurry down-stairs — the voices ceased as she
opened the door — it was clear that Fred Foster no longer wore
any mask of levity ; he was standing with his back to the win-
dow; but even with his face in shadow, her swift glance told her
he was scowling, angry, and tight-lipped.
She drew in a chair close to the old man, so that the wonderful
Baby might be properly admired.
"Isn't he growing a big boy ?" she said, proudly.
"I have a little present for him from his grandmother," Mr.
Foster said, and he took out from his purse a carefully folded ten-
pound bank-note. " This is to go into the Post-office Savings-
bank in his own name, she says, and you are to add a little when
you can ; and then when he grows up a bit he will be able to
buy himself a pony."
Of course, Sabina thanked the old gentleman, and made be-
lieve that Baby understood all that was being arranged for hira,
and was, indeed, quite an interested party,
" Do you remember, perhaps," Mr. Foster continued, and he
looked at his daughter-in-law with a little hesitation, "the cor-
ner room at the end of the passage — overlooking the green-
houses ?"
" Oh yes, perfectly," she answered.
262 SABINA ZEMBKA.
"We were thinking — my wife was thinking — that might do
for a nursery — if you were coming to live with us."
" Yes ?" Sabina said : what more could she say ?
The old man paused for a second or two.
" What answer am I to take back ?" he asked. " May I say
that we are to expect you ?"
Sabina involuntarily turned to her husband.
" Oh, you may do as you like," Fred Foster said, curtly. ** I'm
not going to live in Missenden. I can't afford it."
" You can't afford it — but you can afford to keep up this sepa-
rate house !" the old man retorted; but he would say no more;
Sabina was there.
He turned to hei\
" What do you say, my dear?" he asked, very gently.
" I am sure Fred would like to go and see his mother — will
you tell her that he will come and see her?" Sabina said, tim-
idly.
" But that is not it," the old man said, plainly. " Surely you
must understand that it is for your own sake as much as for ours
that we want to see you settled down into a quiet, respectable
life. We offer you a home. We will do our best to make you
comfortable. If the ways of the house don't suit you, we will
alter them. I don't think you will find us unkind or inconsid-
erate. I dare say my wife would say more to you, but you see
she is ill, and cannot come to ask you herself; and what I have
said is perhaps badly said — only I would rather see my daughter-
in-law in a settled home than moving from place to place in
furnished lodgings."
It was a cruel position for her to be placed in, for the offer
was meant in all kindness ; but she did not hesitate.
"You have heard what Fred said, sir," she answered, calmly.
"And of course I must remain with my husband."
" That is your final decision ?"
Her eyes were bent to the ground ; and it was in rather a low
voice — for she knew to what she was condemning herself — that
she said,
"Yes."
He rose then.
" But don't go yet," she pleaded. " Won't you stay and have
some lunch with us ?"
AN AMBASSADOR. 253
"No, thank you; I must try and get back to Missenden to-
night."
As he was leaving the room — he did not even bid good-by to
his son — he said to Sabina,
" Come here, I want to speak with you."
She followed him into the passage, where he opened the door
for himself.
" Mind, child, I have no quarrel with you," he said, in a very
different voice from that he had used in the roorn. " Whatever
we can do for your good we will do. It was that that brought
me here to-day."
" But don't quarrel with Fred, either," she pleaded, earnestly.
" Indeed, he speaks the truth. He has been so used to an active
life — here and there — that it is hardly a wonder he shrinks from
tying himself down to Missenden all at once. Perhaps he might
get more familiar with the idea by-and-by. Or he might try it
for a time. Bat don't part with him in anger."
" I have nothing further to say on that head," the old man said,
somewhat coldly. " Except this, that I don't choose to support
him any longer in idleness, I thought when he married there
would be a change. There is no change — except for the worse,
as far as I can see. My patience is out. From this day he will
not touch a penny of ray money — it is simply monstrous that in
hard times like these, when farms are going a-begging, we should
be supplying him with money for horse-racing and gambling. No,
from this day the allowance we have hitherto made him shall be
paid — but into your hands, for the support of yourself and your
household. That is settled. So good-by, and God bless you, my
child. I'll have a lot of questions to answer about the baby."
Sabina, when she returned to the room, did not say anything
about this decision on the part of the old gentleman ; for she
thought that it was perhaps merely a threat — the temporary result
of impatience and anger. As for Fred Foster, he seemed to take
his father's visit very coolly.
" Somebody has been telling him a pack of lies about mc, that's
what it is," he said. "And didn't I tell you he was pitching it
strong about the Mater's illness? — of course, if she had been so
very ill he would not have come all the way here. And the story
about his lawyers — very good ! I know why he came down in that
sudden fashion ; it was to spy out the land. Wonder if he ex-
254 SABINA ZEMBRA.
pected to find a wild carnival going- on — fountains spouting cham-
pagne — and Nautch girls lolling about on marble steps. Doesn't
look like it, somehow."
With the second post came the looked-for check ; and when
Sabina had signed it he put it in his pocket, saying he would get
it cashed in London, and send her down the balance after retain-
ing the five pounds.
" Five pounds," he said, as he leisurely put on his overcoat and
brushed his hat ; "it isn't a large sura to set about the retrieving
of your fortunes with. I dare say some fellows could work it
out into five hundred pounds, or five thousand pounds, before
the end of the year; but that doesn't seem to be my line at
present."
"Are you going back to London already ?" she asked, but with
no reproach in her tone.
"I suppose one must try to do something," he said, carelessly ;
the check in his pocket was in some small degree comforting.
And then he said,
" Look here; you don't really mean to bury that ten-pound note
in the savings-bank ? What nonsense that is ! Our circumstances
are not suggestive of opening bank-accounts. What are you going
to do with it ?"
" Fred," she said, looking at him, " you wouldn't touch that ?
It's from your mother. It's for Baby."
He pulled himself together.
" No, no ; that's all right. Go and bury it in the savings-bank,
if you like. Though the pony seems to me a long way off."
By-and-by he left for the station, and Sabina was once more in
solitary possession of the house. Yet not quite solitary, cither.
She went up to her room ; the baby was in its cradle, and asleep.
Perhaps the sound of her foot on the stairs, perhaps the opening
of the door, had disturbed the child; but he moved a little as she
crept forward on tiptoe ; and presently she was kneeling down
beside him, quieting him with velvet fingers, and crooning over
him — but so gently that she could scarce hear her own voice — the
song that Janie had got for her —
" Oh can ye sew cushions,
And can ye sew sheets,
AnJ can ye sing ballaloo
When the bairn greets ?
TOO late! 255
And hie and baw birdie,
And hie and baw lamb,
And hie and baw birdie,
My bonnie wee lamb."
She liked this song — its old-fashioned words and pathetic air.
But when she was hushing the child to sleep — or walking about
with him in her arms — and even when she was at her loneliest,
with her heart at times pretty heavy within her — she did not
make the plaintive air too sad. For well she knew that it is not
when the mother cries that the babe smiles.
CHAPTER XXIX.
TOO LATE !
" I SUPPOSE you would like me to pawn my wife's wedding-
ring ?"
It was Fred Foster who spoke in this hurt way ; and it was
his friend Jim Deane whom he addressed. But all the usual good-
humor was absent now from Mr. Deane's small, ferrety, clear eyes,
and from the weather-pinched face, with its lined features and
small, neat whiskers. For there was no Sabina present to mollify
his manner. Rather he seemed to be following his wife's brisk
counsel of the year before — that he should no longer submit to
Foster's superior airs; and indeed at this moment his expression
was far from being placable. The two men were in a small apart-
ment at the top of a liouse in Wellington Street, Strand, which
now constituted Fred Foster's lodging when he had to stay in
town of a night.
" Pawn it or sell it, that don't concern me," was the retort.
"But what I want you to understand is, that I am not going to
go on renewing that bill every three months. Mind, I don't like
the look of the transaction at all. I don't think it would look
well in court. You take over a horse and trap ; give a bill for
the amount; then you sell them ; but instead of taking up the
bill when it is due, it appears that you stuffed the money into
your own pocket and spent it. Well, now, you know — "
"Oh, what's the use of talking like that!" Foster impatiently
broke in. " You would have had the money long ago if I hadn't
256 SABINA ZEMBRA.
struck such a cursed vein of ill-luck. Just look at Altcar last
week. Did you ever see such luck? Shrapnell breaking her leg,
and Tricksy Kitty and The Lad coming to grief almost imme-
diately after. How can you expect any one to be in funds ?"
" And there is that house," continued the other. " You have
been in it all this time, and not one penny of rent paid 1 Well, I
can't afford to find people in furnished houses all for nothing."
" You've come to town in a pretty temper, Jim," Foster remark-
ed, coolly. " Why, I took over the house and the things to oblige
you — you wanted to be off to Newmarket in such a hurry."
"To oblige me?" Mr. Deane repeated. "Well, you'll oblige
me by clearing out ; that's all I've got to say. I'll forfeit the
rent up till now ; but I don't mean to be made a fool of any
longer."
"Why, man, do you think you could let the house at this time
of the year ?"
" That is my affair."
" Come, be reasonable, Jim," Foster said, in more conciliatory
tones. "You know very well that I always meant to pay you,
and mean it now. It isn't like you to be hard on a fellow who is
down on his luck; and the luck I've experienced of late would
melt the heart of a grindstone. Anybody deader broke than I
am at the present moment I can't imagine. But it won't last
— it can't last. Just give me till Sandown Grand Prize, and then
you'll see."
Deane's small eyes brightened up a little.
" What are you on — Victory or Cherry-band ?"
"Cherry-band."
" Cherry-band is a very good horse," he remarked, slowly.
"I got on him at 8 to 1," Foster said, with some cheerful-
ness.
" And what do you stand to win, if it's a fair question ?" the
other asked.
" Well, I put everything I could scrape together on him — ev-
ery scrap ; but you may suppose it wasn't millions. AVhy, that's
been the worst of my luck ; when I have pulled off a good thing
there's been nothing on worth speaking of."
" Cherry-band is a good horse over the sticks," Deane said,
contemplatively.
" We'll go across to the Gayety bar," said Foster, perceiving
TOO LATE ! 257
that Mr. Deane had grown more amenable, " and drink his good
health. It's Cherry-band has got to pull nie through."
When they were over the way Foster, whose temperament could
move from one extreme to another with remarkable facility, said
to his companion,
" Look here, Jim, I'm so certain of this thing coming all right
that I'll tell you what I'll do with you — here, now, at this very
counter. If you are worrying about the rent of the house, I'll
tell you what I'll do ; I'll get paper and ink and write down to
my wife, directing her to send you a certain sum every month
out of the household money. You may depend it will be paid ;
for she's as methodical as clock-work ; and so is her precious
prig of a father, too, although I believe he would prefer to see
us both starving. Now, will that do ? And how much is it
to be?"
Mr, Deane looked somewhat uneasy.
"N — no, I don't think I will trouble Mrs. Foster," he said, with
some hesitation. " Business is business, of course ; but I prefer
dealing with men."
"Then you are content to wait to see what Wednesday does
for me ?"
" Y— yes."
" Now," Foster continued, boldly, " will you lend me a tenner
to put on Cherry-band ?"
" No, I will not," Deane said, with much sharpness. " W"hy,
you're out of your senses 1"
" It's always the way," Foster said, plaintively ; " when I've
got hold of a real good thing, a moral, it always happens just then
that I am out of funds, and lose my chance."
"And what if Cherry-band shouldn't pull it off?" his compan-
ion said, eying him.
Foster laughed in a curious kind of way.
" We'd better not speak about that."
It was in the interval between tliis conversation and tlie San-
down Park Meeting that Fred Foster learned, for the first time,
that henceforth his father meant to forward his (juartorly allow-
ance to Sabina ; in fact it was on one of his occasional visits to
Wayside Cottage that the check arrived, payable to her order ;
and he chose to be very angry about the circumstance, despite
her remonstrances.
258 SABINA ZEMBKA.
" What difference will it make ?" she said. " You will get tbe
money all the same."
" Why did you hide it from me all this time that he had spoken
to you about it ?" he asked, roughly enough.
" I — I did not hide it. I thought perhaps it was only a threat,"
she said. "Indeed, I had no wish that he should do anything of
the kind."
" He thinks he can twist you round his finger. Wants you to
go to Missenden ! Oh yes. I wonder what he will try next.
Anyhow, this check comes in handy enough, for I'm off to San-
down to-morrow — so you'd better sign it now."
" But, Fred, you don't mean to take the whole of it away with
you ?" she pleaded.
" Oh, you needn't imagine I am going to risk all of it on horses,'*
he said. "There's something more immediate than that. The
Collinsons have a writ out against rae — the contemptible cads ! —
and I must get it squared. That comes of doing people a kind-
ness. I wonder how many people I have got to try their cliam-
pagnes — without a farthing of commission. But every one's
hand is turned against rae just now. Here's Deane rowing about
the rent of this house, when he ought to have been glad to have
the place kept warm and dry through such a winter. Oh, I've
had some nice experiences of late of human gratitude ; I could
write a book about it. As soon as you're down in your luck,
then the truth comes out. If you can ask them to dinner, and
give them the best of everything, then it's ' My dear fellow,' all
over the place ; or if they fancy you're on good terms with some
of the trainers, they are ready to black your boots ; but the mo-
ment your luck turns against you, then it's ' Pay up, or you'll be
in the County Court next week.' Well, we'll see what Wednes-
day does. I hope it will be the turning-point. I've had ill-luck
before, but never such a run ; the time has come for a change,
surely."
"It seems such a pity, Fred," she ventured to say (for she was
thinking of the small boy up-stairs, and of many little plans and
schemes she had been drawing out on his behalf), " that you should
let everything hang on a mere chance."
" Oh yes, I know," he returned, scornfully; " that is what wom-
en always say. It's such a pity we're not all angels. Well, I
never pretended to be one. Besides, the question doesn't interest
TOO LATE ! 259
«
me. What does interest me is whether Cherry-band is going to
win the Grand Prize at Sandown on Wednesday — that interests
me a very great deal, I can tell you,"
He paused for a second or two, staring into the fire, and then
he rose, and went and filled a pipe.
"Oh, he must," he said, half to himself, and indeed as if he
■were inclined to laugh at himself. "He must, he must, he must!
Every man and lad in the stable has put his last farthing on him.
He's ten pounds better than Cryddesho."
She came to him with the check.
" Here it is, Fred, but don't be reckless."
" I'm not reckless !" he said, turning upon her. " I tell you we
simply can't live on the income we have at present, and when I
try to make things a little better, you say I'm reckless ! You
don't suppose any human being can have a constant run of good-
luck. I had a fair slice of it after we were married, and you didn't
complain then. You must take the bad with the good, like other
people ; and it's no use, when things are bad, when one's trying
one's best to pull through — I say it's pure nonsense to talk about
recklessness."
But that was neither his tone nor his manner when, early on
the morning after the Sandown Grand Prize had been run for, he
came back to Witstead. For the first time in their life together,
Sabina saw him thoroughly cowed ; he was pale and agitated, and
at the same time unusually reticent. No wonder she was ahirmed.
" What is the matter, Fred ?" she asked.
" Everything is the matter," he answered, curtly.
He went up-stairs to his dressing-room and got together a few
things, which he brought down and proceeded to put hurriedly
into his bag, and while doing so made her some brief explana-
tion.
"I must get out of the way for a little while, that's all," he
said. " I'm in a mess. I must clear out and get away until I see
how things are to be squared."
"Where are you going, Fred?" she asked, calmly.
"You'd better not know. You can say you don't know. But,
look here, whatever money you can send me — and you may im-
agine I shall have need of every penny — you can send to Captain
Kaby ; he will know how to pass it on."
He scribbled a few words on a piece of paper.
260 SABINA ZEMBRA.
"That is bis address. If you send post-office orders, make
them payable to him, not to me."
" Is — is everything gone, Fred ?" she ventured to ask.
"Everything? I should think so. Everything!"
She went forward and put her hand on his arm.
" Fred, will you let this be the end, now ? I should not regret
the loss of the money if only you would promise to have done
with betting. Will you ?"
He shook off her hand.
" Oh, don't talk. Cherry-band was drugged. I saw it the mo-
ment I clapped eyes on him. He was quite dazed and helpless
when they pulled him out to run. Well, it has done for me.
Ev'en if the owner and trainer find out the scoundrel, that won't
help me. What money have you in the house ?"
The sudden question startled her. Clearly he was bent on im-
mediate flight.
" A little over four pounds, I think," she answered.
" Well, I must have it," he said, briefly.
" Fred !"
"Now don't make a fuss, but go and get it. Do you think
this is a time for talking ? I can tell you it's more serious than
that."
He had finished his packing by this time, and had gone to the
sideboard for a piece of cake and a glass of spirits and water.
Sabina said nothing further, but went away up-stairs, slowly
and stealthily, for the child was lying asleep.
On the landing, however, she paused irresolute. She could just
hear within the girl she had left in charge hushing the baby, and,
indeed, making some effort to imitate the cradle-song that Sabina
was used to croon. But it was not to listen she stood there, it
was to bring her mind to this robbery of her child, as she con-
sidered it ; and at last she gave way — she could not do it. She
went down again to the room.
"No," she said, with her face grown very pale, "I will not do
it, Fred ; I cannot be so mean. It is not of myself I am thinking.
If I were starving I would not complain; but it's the child — if
he were taken ill — and nothing in the house — "
" Oh, if you won't get it, I must fetch it for myself, I suppose,"
he said ; and up-stairs he went to the bedroom, where he found
no difficulty in getting the money out of her desk. A few min-
TOO LATE ! 261
utes thereafter he had gone from the house, and was on his way
to the station.
And so Sabina was once more left helpless and penniless and
alone ; and it is hardly to be wondered at that more than ever, if
that were possible, she prized and treasured the one consolation
of her solitary existence. The child became the very life of her
life ; the source of any glimmer of joy that shot athwart these
darkened days ; the one cheerful thing she could think of as re-
garded the future. She was angry and indignant with the little
maid-servant for not understanding what Baby said — efforts at
conversation which were mostly the creation of the mother's fancy;
she wrote wonderful accounts to Janie of his exploits and quali-
ties; when Baby was pleased she was happy, and for the moment
forgot everything else. Indeed it was oftentimes with a wonder-
ing gratitude that amid all her dumb fears for the future, and her
present anxieties and trouble, she could turn to this other living
creature, as much concerned as herself, but so happily unconscious.
She would sing the cradle-song to him :
"Now hiish-a-baw, lammic.
And husli-a-baw, dear,
Now husli-a-ba\v, laiuraie,
Thy niiniiie is here;
The wild wind is ravin',
Thy niinnie's heart's sair.
The wild wind is ravin',
But ye diuua care."
And very glad was she to take the last of these lines as solace to
herself. It may be mentioned that Walter Lindsay, incidentally,
of course, asked Janie, in a letter, whether it was likely that Sa-
bina had heard of the Highland mother's pet name for her child
— " the lamb of my heart;" and it is to be guessed that that piece
of information was not long in finding its way down to Witstead.
Sabina was glad to have the pretty phrase ; the fact implied in it
she had already found out for herself.
But soon this uneventful solitude was to be startled by unwel-
come news. Old Mr. Foster wrote:
" Dear Daughter-in-law. — Mother has grown much worse.
She anxiously wishes to see you and the boy, if it is possible. Tell
Fred he must come at once."
2G2 SABINA ZEMBRA.
She feared what this might moan; and instantly telegraphed
to Captain Raby for her husband's address. To her astonish-
ment and indignation, instead of answering this telegram forth-
with, Captain Raby made his appearance at Wayside Cottage,
and hoped that she would command his services in any possible
way, if he could be of assistance to her. She briefly answered
that all she wanted was to know where her husband was at that
moMiont. She remained standing, her tall figure drawn up to its
full height, her mouth firm, her eyes proud and invincible. It
was he who was somewhat abashed ; and he began to make a few
excuses for his visit — saying it was necessary just then to be a
little cautious in revealing Fred Foster's whereabouts, and the like.
And then, twirling his waxed mustache the while, he endeavored
to introduce a little bland facetiousness about Mr. Foster's ways
and weaknesses ; and clearly wished to be asked to sit down and
prolong the interview. Sabina had no such intention in her head.
AVith cold insistence she got from him, if not her husband's actual
address, at least the name of a person in Yorkshire who was in
communication with him; and then with a formal "Thank you;
good-morning," Captain Raby found himself dismissed, and free
to return to London. His temper was not improved by this visit,
as one or two of his associates discovered that afternoon.
Sabina, not understanding precisely why her husband should
wish to remain concealed for the moment, concluded that it would
be better not to telegraph to him ; but she wrote him an urgent
letter, telling him of the news she had received, and begging
him at once to go down to Buckinghamshire. As for herself, he
would know it was impossible for her to go ; she had not the
money, for one thing.
She posted the letter at once; but she might have spared her-
self the trouble. The very next morning there came a telegram.
She opened it with trembling fingers; it contained a brief and
laconic message from a broken-hearted old man — '''' Do not come.
All is over.'^ Sabina let the paper fall on to the table. That
gentle -eyed woman had been very, very kind to her. And it
seemed so pitiless that the one idol of her life — for whom she had
striven so much, for whom she had sacrificed so much — should not
have been with her in her last hours. It was impossible that he
could have got the letter. It was next to impossible that any in-
telligence of the approaching end could have reached him.
TOO LATE ! 263
It was three days after that, and late in the evening, that Fred
Foster suddenly made his appearance at Wayside Cottage, She
was horrified beyond measure at the sight of him. He was as
one demented ; his face white and haggard ; his eyes furtive, and
yet with a strange glare in them ; and his clothes were crumpled
and soiled, as if he had been asleep on the floor of a third-class
carriage.
" Did you get my letter?" she said, breathlessly.
" What letter?" he said — and his speech was thick in his throat,
" No, I got no letter. I saw the — the announcement in the Times.
My God !"
He was pacing up and down the room, like some wild beast in
a cage.
" Did she send no message to me ? Was there no message for
me ? That's what I have come for. Surely — surely — a word — "
" Here is the letter from your father," she said, gravely ; and
she handed it to him.
He glanced hurriedly over it, and then, with a slight cry as of
pain, he threw himself on the sofa, face downward, and broke out
into a wild fit of sobbing. She was terrified. For a young wom-
an, she had seen a great deal of human sorrow, but she had never
seen a man so moved before.
" I wish I was dead too," he said, in broken sentences, between
the sobs; "and it would be better for everybody. Oh, I can see
it well enough, I wish I had never been born. It's been my
luck all the way through to bring misery to every one. And
what's the use of holding on now, when you can only do more
and more harm ? It's no good trying any more now ; everything's
against mc. And there she has gone away, just when I was at
the worst. But — but I can make reparation — to others. The
old man won't have to fret any more. Why did you ever marry
me? I told you what kind of fellow I was, I might have been
better if there had been a little luck ; but it was all against me.
And you'll be all right; you are a strong woman. Yes, you arc
a stronger woman than I am a man. But there is somctiiing you
are not strong enough to do, and I am going to do it; it's the
only thing I can do now. I am going out of this world alto-
gether — it's the only reparation I can make. If the poor old
Mater knew, she would say I was doing right — "
Sabina went to him and put her hand on his shoulder.
2G4 SABINA ZEMBRA.
"Fred, you mast not talk like that ! Tell me, are you going
to the funeral ?"
" I daren't — I daren't," he groaned. " I would kill myself on
her grave. And perhaps the best thing, too, that could happen ;
for it's all over now."
" No, no ; don't take on so," she said, soothingly. " See, here
is a piece of porcelain that I have been painting for Baby's birth-
day, with the date on it, and a wreath of mixed none-so-pretty
and forget-me-not. Janie is going to have it glazed and fired for
me."
By-and-by he rose ; but he would listen to none of her pro-
posals that he should have something to eat or drink, or that he
should go to bed. He would not go up-stairs that night, he said ;
he was going out, and might be back late ; he did not wish to
■wake the child. And then he wandered away into tlie darkness.
It was about three in the morning when he returned ; and
thereafter she, lying awake in the silence, could hear him pacing
up and down ; and sometimes she thought she could hear him
say " Mother 1" And if she was convinced that this passion of
grief was sincere enough for the moment, still, she could not tell
that the remorse accompanying it was likely to be a permanent
or fruitful thing. On the contrar}^, as she looked away to the
future (in those despondent hours that herald in the dawn), and
as she considered that the one salutary and controlling influence
over Fred Foster's life had now been taken away, she could only
despairingly conjecture what the fate of herself, and of her child,
that was dearer to her than herself, was likely to be.
CHAPTER XXX.
AN OLD FRIEND.
It was about a couple of months after this that Fred Foster was
one morning walking in towards the town of Scarborough, care-
lessly switching at the way-side weeds with his cane, and appar-
ently thinking hard. Indeed, so preoccupied was he that he would
probably have allowed a smart little chaise, drawn by a pair of
small brown ponies, to have passed unnoticed, had not the soli-
tary occupant of the vehicle pulled up, and rather timidly pro-
AN OLD FRIEND. 265
nounced his name. She was a woman of about thirty, styh'shiy
dressed in a drivinj^-coat of silver-gra}^ phish, and beef-eater hat
of the same material ; and she would have been distinctly good-
looking had she only let her face alone. But her desperate efforts
to appear ten years younger than she really was were somewhat
too obvious. Her abundant yellow hair looked bleached, and her
lips, that were a trifle thin and hard in expression, owed some-
thing, it is to be feared, to artificial aid. And yet, notwithstand-
ing the aggressive character of her thin features and steely-blue
eyes, she was now regarding Fred Foster with considerable doubt,
as if she was uncertain as to how he would answer her appeal.
" Oh, how do you do ?" he said, rather coldly.
She shifted the whip and familiarly held out her right hand.
" There — let by-gones be by-gones."
" I have no objection," he said, and he stepped forward and
took her hand for a moment. " Who could have expected to
meet you here? I thought you lived at Doncaster?"
" One word," she interposed. " Have you heard anything about
me lately ?"
*' No ; I haven't been about much," he said, evasively.
"Then you may as well call me Mrs. Fairservice again, if you
don't mind."
" What !" he said. " You don't mean that ? Have you and
Bernard — "
" 01), don't talk to me about Charlie Bernard," she again inter-
posed, with a scornful little laugh. "I've had enough of Charlie
Bernard. I found him out in the end. Why, if you only knew
what a hound he is — But there, we will not speak about him.
You never thought much of him ?"
"I had no great reason to think much of him," remarked Fos-
ter, who was too shrewd a man of the world to say anything more
definite. He knew that this fair dame had a pretty violent tem-
per ; and no doubt there had been a quarrel, which very likely
might get patched up again.
"And you?" she said, scanning him from head to foot with her
cold, scrutinizing eyes. "You don't seem over - flourishing. I
heard you had got into queer-street?"
"You heard right, then," he answered, rather gloomily.
"And you, of all men in the world !" she said, with a sardonic
little laugh. " I wonder how you like being hard up. I should
12
266 SABINA ZEMBRA.
be curious to see how you bear it. Somehow I can't imagine
yonr living up a tree. It doesn't seem natural. I suppose you
swear a good deal V
"Oh, I assure you it is quite a laughing matter," he retorted, a
little bit nettled.
"No, no; I didn't mean that," she said at once. "Come, tell
me what you arc doing in Scarborough."
" I have just been out to Ilolkley Hall. Raby is there just
now — you remember Captain Ruby ?"
" Of course I do."
" "Well, he's trying to fix things together for me. You may
laugh as you like, but living the life of a badger in a hole is rather
monotonous. And it wasn't through any fault of mine that I got
into this mess. It was Cherry-band that broke me — of course you
heard of the drugging of Cherry-band ? Oh, I can tell you, I
have had some rare experiences of human nature since then. I
never had a high and mighty opinion of my fellow-creatures ; but
it was little I knew how mean they could be until I got broke."
"Yes, on the turf it is every man for himself, and the devil
catch the hindmost. And the worst of it is, that the devil does
catch the hindmost."
But she did not seem interested in what she was saying, or in
what he was saying either. As he went on to detail his woes and
wrongs, she listened in silence, looking at him from time to time,
as if she was pondering over some very different matters. At
length she said, abruptly,
" Will you dine with me to-night ?"
He hesitated.
"Are you at an hotel ?"
" Yes," she said, and she named the hotel.
"Do you mean the table cVhote?^^ he asked, with an involun-
tary look downward at his attire, which Avas none of the smartest.
She instantly understood his hesitation.
"No, we will dine in my sitting-room. Come as you are, of
course. At seven, that Ave may have a good talk afterwards. Is
it a bargain ?"
" Very well — thank you," he said.
" Mind, it is Mrs. Fairservice you ask for. Good-by, just now."
And therewith she touched the ponies and drove on.
Towards seven o'clock that evening he made himself as trim as
AN OLD FKIExVD. 267
was possible, and went along to the hotel, where he found Mrs.
Fairservice, very elegantly attired, and apparently in a merry mood.
Glancing at the table, he saw that it was laid for two.
" You have no one with you ?" he asked.
" Oh, dear, no ; I think I can take care of myself," she an-
swered, blandly. "And they know me at this hotel."
She had ordered a neat little dinner for him, and was evidently
well acquainted with men's tastes. The things were all good of
their kind, but not too numerous; there was no dawdling over
sweets; the wines were excellent; and awaiting him there lay on
the mantle-piece half a dozen cigars — not greeny-gray, nor foxy-
red, nor black with bitterness, nor veined with oil, but (when
stripped of their silver-foil and tissue-paper) plump, smooth, soft-
ly brown Cabanas, with promise of supernal joy.
" I can hardly help laughing," she said, when together they
were seated at the table, "to think of Master Fred being up a
tree. Honestly now, did you ever deny yourself anything?"
" Never, when I could get it," he answered, frankly, " What
is the use ?"
" You're married, ain't you ?"
" Yes."
" Where's your wife ?"
" In Surrey — Witstead — near Epsom."
" How does she get on ?"
" What do you mean ?"
" W^ho supports her? You can't, I know."
" Oh, she has money from her father, and from my father, too.
That is a pretty joke. To spite me, I suppose, the old gentleman
prefers to pay over my allowance to her. But it's the same thing
in the end."
" Yes, I should imagine so," she said, dryly. " What do you
think of that Chablis?''
" It is very good indeed."
"They told me it was."
" lint why don't you take any ?" he asked.
" Well," she answered, " 1 have had some vexations to get
through lately, and I find that wine keeps the brain too mucli
alive to these things — especially if you are lying awake at night.
I don't worry so much when I keep to water."
"Don't you drink wine at all, then ?"
268 SABINA ZEMBRA.
" Sometimes I have a little champagne. Here, waiter, open
that bottle."
"Yes, my lady."
"What worries have you had?" Fred Foster ashed, with that
masculine disregard of the presence of servants which women
never acquire.
"I will tell you presently," said Mrs. Fairservice, with a dis-
creet wink.
But even when the waiter had gone from the I'oom, she seemed
to wish to keep away from that topic. Indeed they had a great
many things and persons to talk over, and among them — a topic
to which Mrs. Fairservice pertinaciously, and Fred Foster most
unwillingly, returned — was his wife.
" What kind of a woman is she?" his companion asked, frankly.
" Oh, she's a good enough sort," he answered, with some reluc-
tance. "Rather lofty in her notions sometimes, for the humble
likes of me. Brought up among philanthropic fads, and that
kind of thing. Why, I believe, if she had a sixpence to spare,
she would sooner send it to the soup-kitchens at Westminster
than spend it on her own child."
"What!" Mrs. J'airservice cried, with a burst of rather thin-
tinkling laughter. " You don't mean so say you are a papa ?"
" Yes, I am."
"Well, well, well ! Wonders will never cease. To think of
Master Fred being a father. You don't look it, somehow. But
about your wife — I heard she was the daughter of a swell."
" I don't know what you call a swell," he said, rather sulkily.
"She is the daughter of Sir Anthony Zembra, who is the meanest
cur in these three kingdoms. However, Vm going to have all
that put to rights as soon as I can go south. I'm not going to
stand it any longer. There's my father, who is a poor man, he
gives us more than Zembra does. But that will soon be put
straight. Raby is patching up my affairs. And when I get
south, I'm going to have a little settlement with Sir Anthony
Zembra. I'm not going to support his daughter."
Mrs. Fairservice deliberately put down her knife and fork.
" You are not going to support his daughter," she slowly re-
peated. " Well, you are a most delightful wag !"
But the quick glance of anger that he darted at her showed
that she had gone too far — or else that he had drank too mucli
AN OLD FRIEND. 269
champagne ; so she instantly changed her manner, and began to
prophesy smooth things, and to say that Sir Anthony Zembra, if
approached in the proper way, would of course come to the aid
of his son-in-law.
Dinner over, coffee was brought in ; and she herself fetched
him a cigar, which he lit, drawing his chair a little bit back from
the table. She went and stood by the fireplace, her back to the
empty grate. When the waiter had removed the things, and they
were once more left alone, she said,
" Now I am going to tell you something. Perhaps you won't
be surprised. You say you have had some experience lately of
human nature — meanness, and that. Well, so have I. What would
you say, now, if I told you that it was Charlie Bernard who
threw me over?"
There was a curious smile on her lips, somewhat belied by the
look in her eyes.
" I should say you had had a quarrel," said Foster, prudently,
" which you will soon make up again."
" There was no quarrel," she said, with an increasing harshness
in her voice. " He deliberately threw me over — left me — for
some bar-maid or other at Chester — going to marry her, I hear.
And I made that man! What was he five years ago? You
know. Scarce enough to buy himself a toothpick. And there at
the Ackworth sale last week he gave twelve hundred guineas for
Trigonella and eight hundred for Master of Roy. Two thousand
guineas at one sale — how did he come by that, do you think?"
" He has had the devil's own luck," Foster said, pensively,
" Everything he has touched has turned to gold."
" And who put him in the way of making a single farthing ?"
she demanded. "Luck? What is your luck if you've nothing
to back it with? You know well enough what I did for that
man. Well ? Don't you think I take it very quietly ? You used
to gird at me because of my temper. Am I in a temper?"
He looked at her.
" I don't know," he said. " But if you got a chance of doing
Charlie Bernard a mischief, I shouldn't like to be in his shoes !"
"Vitriol-throwing?" she said, with a harsh laugh, "Oh no, I
won't spoil his beauty — I'll leave that to the bar-maid, and wel-
come,"
And then, with a surprising suddenness, she stepped for\fard to
270 SABINA ZEMBKA.
the table, and put her clinched fist on it ; and her eyes were spar-
kling with rage, and her face was thin and hard and white.
"No," she said, with a fury that was all the more obvious from
licr efforts to conceal it, " I won't spoil his beauty, but I'll ruin
liim. I tell you I won't rest in my grave until I have ruined that
man. I made him ; and I'll break him !"
" You won't find it easy to get the better of Charlie Bernard,"
Foster observed.
** Bah ! that's all you know," she said, contemptuously. " That's
all you know. But I understand Charlie Bernard down to his
boots; and I tell you he's a fool. He thinks he can't go wrong.
The luck has been with him so long that his head's turned. And
that's where I'll have my gentleman, see if I don't?"
She resumed her station by the fireplace. That sharp ebullition
of rage over, she strove to appear perfectly calm. But her mouth
was cruel.
" And how do you propose to get at him ?" Foster asked.
"That's my affair," she said, shortly. "But I don't mind tell-
ing you that I mean it. I shouldn't mind telling all the world ;
for I dare say Charlie Bernard himself has a shrewd notion that I
will do my little best. And I haven't been in all his stable secrets
for over four years for nothing."
And then she said, looking hard at him,
"Of course I should want somebody to stand in with me. I
couldn't appear myself. Charlie Bernard is conceited; but he is
wary enough, and he'll be watching me for many a day to come.
No ; I must have a trustworthy agent to do the trick for me ; and
if we pulled it off, it would be well worth his while."
That she was referring to himself was clear enough.
"But I don't quite understand what you are driving at," he
said. " Do you mean fair means or foul ?"
" I didn't know there was any difference on the turf," she said,
saucily.
" Well, I have no reason to be nasty particklar," he said, with a
laugh. " I don't see why you shouldn't hit back with the same
kind of stick that hits you. If nobbling is to be the game, it
shouldn't be all on one side. But it's a very dangerous game, and
not often tried nowadays ; at least, it doesn't succeed very often.
They managed it pretty well with Cherry-band, though."
"Well, what do you say?" she asked, abruptly.
AN OLD FEIEND. 271
" Oh, I'm not in it. You must look out for somebody else.
I'm broke. Of course you want somebody who can weigh in with
coin."
She paused for a second or two. ♦
" I don't know about that. Of course I should like to have
some one go in equal risks with me, if I was quite sure that at
the last minute he wouldn't play his own game, and land me. Be-
sides, I don't know any one I could trust. I could trust you be-
cause it would be worth your while."
" Thank you."
" Oh, we'd better speak plain. I mean business this time."
There was a flash of fire in her eyes. " I tell you if I had to sell
every stick and stone that I possess — if I had to sell the clothes
off my back — I would do it to bring that man to the gutter. And
it's there I'll have him, you mark my words. And I'm not in a
hurry — no, no — I can wait and watch my chance. I'm not going
to spoil it by rushing it. I'm not going to show my hand until
I've got the odd trick safe and sure. But then — then I'll let him
know. What will he take to, do you think ? I should like to see
him a billiard-marker at Gratti's."
She rang the bell.
" I beg your pardon — I forgot to ask for liqueurs."
" I would rather have a brandy-and-soda," he said.
*' Very well," she said, and that was ordered.
Then she went over and sate down by the table. In her eager-
ness she seemed to take it for granted that Foster was willing to
become her ally.
" Do you know Joe Cantly ?" she said, when the waiter had
brought in the brandy-and-soda, and gone away again.
" Only to speak to."
" If we could only make sure of Joe Cantly, the whole thing
would be as simple as possible. Bernard and he are hand-and-
glove in everything. But he would be a difficult customer to get
at. He prides himself on his professional honor !"
"What!" Foster exclaimed. " Why, they declared lie roped
Redhampton at Liverpool."
"It's a lie," she said, bluntly. "I was there. He no more
pulled that horse than I did. All the stable were backing him,
Cantly as well. No, I believe Joe Cantly has so far ridden as
fair and square as any jock that ever breathed."
272 SABINA ZEMBKA.
" Every man has liis price," Foster said, as lie went to tlie
mantle-piece for another cigar.
" Yes, but I imagine Joe Cantl y's price is rather beyond me.
There^might be other means," she added, musingly.
Foster looked up, but neither spoke nor smiled. What he said
to himself, however, was: "Does this woman really think she
has youth and beauty enough to inflame the heart of that little
shred of a jock ?"
" Gratitude doesn't count, I suppose," she continued. " And
yet he ought to be grateful to me. Why, he was only a stable-
lad when I went first to Doncaster. It was I who got the gen-
eral to give him his first mount, because I liked the look of the
boy. I wish I could have an hour's talk with him, just to see
whether his devotion to my dear friend Charlie Bernard is of an
unusual kind."
And then she said,
" W^ell, are you going to stand in with me ?"
" I should like to know more distinctly what you're aiming
at," he said.
" Do you expect I can put it all down on paper at a moment's
notice ?" she retorted. " Well, yes, I could. I'm aiming at the
ruin of Mr. Charles Bernard ; that's about it ; and it's got to be
done, if a woman can do it. You mean the way of doing it ?
Well, that wants time. But I know this, that it is bad luck that
makes most men reckless, but it is good luck that makes Bernard
reckless. He'll back his fancy through thick and thin ; no hedg-
ing for him ; no, no ; my gentleman knows a horse when he sees
one. The sporting papers have turned his head, that's the fact.
He thinks he is bound to be right. And he is conceited ; and
knows that big figures make the stable-boys gape. There's but
the one end for a man like that — when it is properly prepared for
him. Now, do you understand V
" It has been done," he said, absently.
" When do you go up to town ?"
This startled him out of his reverie.
" I don't know quite. I went out to see Raby this morning.
He has been trying to square things a little for me — and there's a
young fellow called Russell who has turned out a bit of a trump — "
"I am going back to Doncaster to-morrow," she said. "And
in about three weeks' time I expect to be in London. If you are
A THREAT. 273
there then, call on me at the Northern Counties Hotel, Jerrayn
Street. You won't forget the address ?"
He pencilled it down in his memorandum-book.
" There are some writs out against me, that's the fact," he said.
"And people are so unreasonable. Of course you can't give them
money if you haven't got it ; all the summonses and county courts
and writs in the world won't create money where it doesn't hap-
pen to be."
" Ab, well, of course," said Mrs. Fairservice, who was a business-
like woman, " if you are in so bad a hole as that, if you can't get
about, it's hardly worth while talking about that little scheme.
But you say things may mend. Well, come and see me in Jerinyn
Street if they do. I may have something to tell you by that
time — something to your advantage, as the advertisements say.
You look as if you wanted it, don't you. Master Fred ?"
Presently he rose to go ; and she insisted on his putting the
remaining cigars in his pocket. On the top of the staircase, as
she bade him good-by, she said,
" Jermyn Street, then. Au revoiry
CHAPTER XXXI.
A THREAT.
One morning Sabina was seated alone and at work — painting
some Howers on a terra-cotta vase. She earned a little that way
now, thanks to Janie's intercession with the manager of a well-
known firm in Oxford Street. It was but a small addition to her
income, yet it was something; and she considered it as peculiarly
her own, and made no scruple about devoting it entirely to the
comfort and welfare and amusement of her boy. As for her oth-
er money, every farthing that she could save by the exercise of
the most rigid and constant economy was claimed by Foster,
whose demands were becoming more and more peremptory and
extortionate. Not only that, but he had begun once more to in-
sist on her going to her father to obtain some more suitable pro-
vision ; and plainly he warned her that, as soon as he was come
south again, he would see that the present condition of affairs
12*
274 SABIN'A ZEMBRa.
should be brought to an end. Sabina tore up those letters with
a sigh. She knew that appealing to her father would be of no
avail. And even if their income were to be doubled or trebled,
what hope was there that Foster would change in his mode of
life ? Indeed she tried hard not to think of these things, and
kept herself busily occupied in tending the child, and looking af-
ter the house, and filling up every spare moment with this terra-
cotta painting. But there was a shadow ever present on her brow,
and her manner was grave ; and she was a good deal paler than
the Sabina of old. It was only when her boy stretched out his
arms towards her that a soft lustre of happiness shone in the mild,
beautiful eyes.
She was seated at the table in her small parlor when she heard
a slight tapping at the door.
"Come in!"
"A gentleman to see you, ma'am," said the little maid-servant,
and therewith Captain Raby stepped into the room.
She had been so much engaged with her work that she had not
heard him open the front gate; and now she was so surprised by
his unexpected appearance — having some swift momentary recol-
lection of the way she had received him on a former visit — that
Avhen he said, " I have brought you some news of your husband,
Mrs, Foster," she involuntarily asked him to be seated. lie took
a chair, put his hat on the floor beside him, and began to pull oflE
his gloves.
" Yes — I — I happened to be in the neighborhood," he began,
and he had evidently forgiven her curtness on that former occa-
sion, for he strove to be most amiable in manner, " and I saw Fred
last week — the week before it was, nearly — and I thought I might
as well drop in and let you know how he was getting along. Not
very well at this moment, I am afraid, though there is something
of a prospect for him ; indeed I have a little commission on that
subject from our mutual friend Mr. Russell, whom you may re-
member, perhaps."
She paused for a second, she did not answer.
" No, as I say, I don't think Fred Foster could be in a worse
plight than he is just now. You see, he always was such a head-
strong fellow. When things went wrong with him, nothing would
do but that he must force them right ; now you can't force things
riixht if luck is ao-ainst von,"
A THREAT. 275
" Have you any particular news of my husband V she inter-
posed, somewhat coldly.
"Nothing very satisfactory, nothing that you would much care
to hear, perhaps," he answered, as he quietly twisted his mustache,
and regarded her. Then he added, with an ironical smile, "Of
course there are compensating circumstances in every lot, and Fos-
ter has at least hit upon one old acquaintance of his — an old flame
of his, if I mistake not — a Mrs. Fairservice, who is pretty well off.
But she is a very shrewd woman, is Polly Fairservice, and sharp;
I don't think she would be inclined to help him, unless she saw it
to be to her own advantage."
Sabina's pale face flushed slightly.
" Is that what you came to tell me. Captain Raby ?" she asked.
"Oh dear, no," he answered, blandly,"! only came to consult
you as a friend. I wish I could make you believe that. But the
last time I called on you you seemed to think it a very unwar-
rantable intrusion. Why ? I offer you my services — in any way
you choose to command them."
" I have no need of them," she said, stiffly.
"But you might have need of them."
" Will you tell me briefly why you are here ?"
" Yes, I will. I have come in your own interests. I have come
to consult your wishes. Believe it or not, I am come as your
friend — why, how otherwise should I come ? Why should I both-
er myself about Fred Foster's affairs except for your sake ? I
think you might recognize that a little. W^ell, now, I want to
know what you want done. Practically, Foster has deserted
you-"
" I beg your pardon, he has done nothing of the sort; and I
will not stay to hear my husband's actions discussed in any way
whatsoever," Sabina said ; and she pushed away her painting ma-
terials, as if, on the least provocation, she meant to leave the room.
"Very well; but the fact remains," he said, quietly. "Now
this is a very miserable life you are leading— alone, away from
your friends, with no amusement, with no one to protect you — "
" That, at least, is true," she said.
He continued without heeding the interruption: "And as far
as I can guess, supporting a worthless fellow who never could earn
his own living, and who never will — "
"Captain Raby, you came here as a friend — "
276 SABINA ZEMBRA.
" Of yours," he interposed. " One moment. I ask you to lis-
ten to what I have to say. It rests with me to decide whether
your husband is to come back here or not."
She stared at him in astonishment.
" Yes, you are surprised, naturally ; but such is the case," he
continued. " Foster's affairs are in such a precious muddle that
he dare not show himself in any of his old haunts. Very well.
There is only one man in the country who is fool enough to think
of helping him out of the hole — and that is Johnny Russell; and
Russell will act on my advice. Suppose I say yes ; and get some
money from Jack Russell, and square certain people, and pacify
others, so that Foster may return to London, and come here also,
what are you to expect? Do you think he will ever be other than
he is? Would you like to have him back ? Would it be to your
gain, do you think? You see now that it is as a friend I have
come to you — to consult your interests, and yours alone."
He spoke rapidly and plausibly, and she was a little bewildered.
"But — but — in any case he must be coming back here," she
stammered.
He smiled.
" Without Jack Russell's help, I think it will be a very long
time, indeed, before Master Fred will show his face on any race-
course in England."
"But here — to his own house!" she said.
"The writters would be after him like a pack of wolves. No;
you may rest assured, dear Mrs. Foster, that we can keep your
husband from worrying you, if you wish it. If you will only look
at your position in a sensible way ; look at it as any woman of the
world would look at it; consider what your life is likely to be if
Foster comes back penniless and desperate ; then, I think, you will
take the obviously prudent decision of leaving him where he is.
Why, the whole situation is absurd. A beautiful woman like you
— and living in a place like this, the two things are not compat-
ible."
Sabina rose, her lips very pale, and she grasped the back of the
chair with her hand.
" I don't know — I don't know whether you mean to insult me,
Captain Raby — "
" I insult you ! Is it an insult to call a woman beautiful ? Then
your glass must insult you every minute in the day !"
A THREAT. 277
" But I must ask you to go. I do not wish to have my hus-
band's affairs, or mine, interfered with by any third person — least
of all by you."
" Oh, but really, now—"
" Surely, surely," she said, with indignation in her voice, " you
will go when I ask you. You profess to be a gentleman !"
" Of course I obey you," he said, as he slowly took up his hat
and went to the door. " But please remember it is for you to
decide. And you may change your mind."
When he had gone, she stood for a second irresolute — for there
were still pride and indignation in the firm-set lines of her mouth ;
but the next moment her lips began to quiver a little, and pres-
ently she sank down into her chair again, and bent forward her
head between her two arms out-stretched on the table, and was
crying and sobbing like a child. For she had been much alone of
hite, and somehow she had fallen away from the high courage of
the Sabina of old ; now and again a kind of despair would seize
her, and she could have wished to have done with this world and
its ways altogether — if only her child were asleep by her side.
But if Captain Raby imagined that, by simply doing nothing,
he could keep Fred Foster in banishment in the north, lie was mis-
taken. Quite unexpectedly one evening Foster made his appear-
ance at Wayside Cottage,
" Why do you stare ?" he said, sulkily, to Sabina. " I am not
a ghost. I want something to drink."
He looked travel-stained and tired, and his boots were dusty.
"I am afraid there is nothing in the house," she said.
"Nothing?"
" We never use anything of the kind ; the girl has beer-money
instead of beer, so we have no need for it."
" Well, then, send to the Checkers — it will be open yet. Whis-
key, gin, any poison they have. Why don't you keep decent spirits
in the house ? Saving, I suppose — cheese-paring — as if that was
any good. Well, there's got to be an end of that now. The far-
thing system has got to be abolished."
She went to give instructions to the raaid-scrvant. When she
came back he said,
" I suppose you haven't been to your father?"
" No, Fred, I—"
" I thought not. Well, T have come here to see that you do go.
278 SABINA ZEMBRA.
and that you make your going worth while. There's to be no non-
sense tliis time, I can tell you ; it isn't a time for nonsense."
" I am quite sure, Fred," she pleaded, " that it won't be of the
slightest use."
" You've got to make it be of use," he replied, " I must have
two hundred pounds within the next three weeks, and that only
as a beginning."
" You know it is impossible !" she exclaimed.
" I know nothing of the kind. But I do know that it depends
on you, if only you will put your fine feelings in your pocket."
" What can I do, Fred ? What am I to say ?" she asked, in a
kind of bewilderment.
"The first thing you can do," he said, coolly and methodically,
"is to sit down and write a letter to my father, asking him for
fifty pounds. If you pitch the appeal strong enough, you will get
it easily. Very well. I can put my hands on the remaining hun-
dred and fifty as soon as I can show a reasonable prospect of pay-
ing it back by instalments; and it is for 7jour father to provide
that by doubling your allowance. That is clear enough, isn't it ?"
"And even if you were to get the money, Fred — "
" Well ?" he said, for she had hesitated.
" Would things be any better ?"
" I don't know what you mean," he said, roughly. "Sentiment,
I suppose. Well, it isn't a time for sentiment with me, I can tell
you. And when there is a chance of my pulling through, I'm not
going to lose it without a fight. It's you that have got to provide
the means. And that money I'm going to have."
" But why should you threaten, Fred ?" she remonstrated, for his
attitude towards her was quite menacing. " If I can get the money
for you, you know I will. Don't I give you every farthing I can ?"
" Oh, these paltry pittances are no good. I tell you this is a
serious matter. It's my last chance. And if I miss it, then I'm
off to America or Australia, and that's the last you'll see of me."
Here the girl came back from the Checkers, and Foster, having
mixed himself some drink, lit his. pipe.
"But I hope to get even with Raby before that," he said,
moodily.
" What has he been doing ?" she asked.
" Oh, only like the rest ! It's wonderful how you find out what
human nature is when you're down on your luck. Quite useful
A THREAT. 2*79
it is ; it gives you such an insight. Here was Raby professing to
be great friends with me, offering to go up to London to square up
matters for me, pretending he had begged Johnny Russell to give
me a hand. Why, it was by the merest accident I met Russell.
Well, I will say, he is a good fellow, if he wasn't such a fool. And
then he tells me that Raby had refused to take the trouble, and
was so kind as to say that the country air was better for me than
coming to town. But I'll be even with him yet."
" I suppose you know Captain Raby came down here ?" she
asked.
lie looked up angrily and suspiciously.
" What was he down here for?"
" He professed to be anxious to serve you."
"By coming down here? Then I will tell you the less you
have to say to Raby the better."
" I do not wish to have anything to say to him," she answered,
calmly ; " and I do not think he is likely to come here again."
The little maid-servant now brought in supper, but he could
not be persuaded to have any. Perhaps the simple repast of cold
beef, bread, lettuce, and water did not look very tempting. Sa-
bina sat down to the table by herself.
" You've never once asked about the boy, Fred," she said, re-
proachfully.
"Oh, I suppose he's all right," he said, with some impatience.
" If he hadn't been I should have lieard soon enough, I dare say.
You know, when I see you sitting down to a supper like that, it
looks ridiculous, and it is ridiculous. It is perfectly absurd. No
one would believe it. Of course my father isn't as rich as your
father; still between them we should be living in a perfectly dif-
ferent way. Water ! ' Drops of crystal water !' Not a glass of
sherry in the house. Why, what do you suppose your people are
doing at home just now ? Your father at the head of a big din-
ner-table, all the men smoking and passing the wine, the women
gone up to the drawing-room, and thinking it about time to get
ready to go down to the reception at the Foreign Office. That's
living. And you are of the same family. Cold beef and lettuce !
You know it's perfectly absurd !"
"But we had plenty to live upon, Fred, when we married,"
she ventured to remonstrate. " Surely, in a moderate way, we
liad abundance of everything \vc could want."
280 SABINA ZEMBRA.
"Yes, because I had a good turn of luck then," he retorted.
"It was all very well then, and you were satisfied. But now,
when the luck's against me, now you complain,"
She glanced at him for a moment.
" I don't think," she said, slowly — " I don't think you ought
to say that of me, Fred."
"Oh, there are different ways of complaining; it isn't all done
by talking. However, that's neither here nor there. That's not
what I'm come about here to-night. I'm going to have one more
try for it before I skip across the seas, and you've got to help me."
When she had finished supper, and the little girl had come in
to clear the table, he said to her,
" Now, the best thing you can do is to sit down and write that
letter to ray father; then I will look at it and see if it will do."
She hesitated for a second or two.
" Fred, don't think me unwilling to do anything I can for you.
But — but I would rather go to my own father than write to yours
for money — "
" You've got to do both, and that's the fact," he said, bluntly.
" This is not a time for half-measures."
She went rather sadly to her desk.
" I must see what he says in his last letter," she said. " He is
more anxious than ever that I should go and live with him at
Missenden."
"Yes, I dare say," Foster remarked. "Very likely. But
we're not going into the catacombs just yet."
She sate down at the little table.
" What shall I say ?"
"Don't you know yourself? Better not tell him I am here,
anyway. Can't you ask for it on account of the boy ? — that
would fetch him. Or you can blame me for it — that will fetch
him too ; say I left some bills unpaid — that is true enough ; and
the people are worrying for their money, which is also as true as
the gospel. Anyhow, pitch it strong."
It is impossible to describe the humiliation with which Sabina
set about writing this letter; but she wrote it, nevertheless; and
although, on looking it over, he grumbled that the appeal was not
made sufficiently plaintive, he at length forbore to urge her fur-
ther, and she was allowed to put the letter in an envelope, to be
posted as soon as possible.
A THREAT. 281
But the next morning his manner towards her was of a much
more peremptory cast; for he had now to give her instructions
about the mission to her own father; and that was of a far more
serious nature than the mere borrowing of a temporary fifty
pounds.
" You understand me," he said, as he was preparing to leave,
" that I make you distinctly responsible for whatever may hap-
pen. It's absurd to imagine that a daughter can't get her father
to be a little bit generous to her, if she goes about it the right
way. Of course, if you stand on your dignity, so will he. If
you give yourself airs, he will be glad of it ; it will be an excuse
for his saying no, and he will save the money. And mind you
leave me out of it. Tell him anything you like about me — tell
him I'm in a cancer hospital, or in America, or in Van Diemen's
Land, anywhere where his money is not likely to be of service to
me. It's for you and the boy. And considering the circum-
stances, he might be willing to plank down a good round sum to
begin with. Everything will depend on how you do it — "
" Fred, I will do my best," she pleaded, " but don't be disap-
pointed if he refuses. Is there no other way you can save your-
self? It seems so terrible to have everything depending on the
one chance."
"There is no other way, I tell you," he said, angrily. "And
of course if you go shrinking and cowering, and assured of fail-
ure, you will fail. Very well ; I tell you I will hold you respon-
sible for what happens. But whatever does happen, you may be
quite certain of one thing : if I am forced to leave the country,
if I have to spend the rest of my days in Australia, I mean to
take the boy with me when I go. So you just remember that."
It was little he knew of the effect that these last words had
upon Sabina, for he uttered them at the open door, and without
turning to look round, he walked dowa to the little gate, and was
gone.
282 SABINA ZKMBRA.
CHAPTER XXXII.
A CRY OF DESPAIR,
She was absolutely stunned and bewildered by this threat; ter-
ror kept her motionless; she stood there like a statue, aghast and
white ; and then, urged by a sudden impulse, she went swiftly up
the stair, broke into the room, snatched the boy from the nurse's
knee, and wound her arms round him, and pulled him close to her
bosom.
"My darling! my darling!" she cried.
No tears came to her aid — she was too dismayed for that ; she
could only hold him tight to her ; and as she walked up and down
the room, in a very agony of alarm and wild conjecture, she ut-
tered from time to time breathless little moans, and talked to her-
self in broken ejaculations,
" He cannot — he cannot take my boy from me — the one thing
I have on earth — the one thing — and that to be taken too ! God
help me! Surely God will help me, if man will not. My lamb!
If only we were lying dead together, that would be the best thing
for us both,"
" What is it, ma'am ? what is the matter ?" the little uiaid-serv-
ant said, in great concern.
But Sabina paid no heed. She was as one quite distracted.
She clasped the boy to her, and moaned over him as though her
heart were breaking, and held his cheek to hers, " My pretty one!
— ray pretty one !" she said. For in this first bewilderment of
fear it never occurred to her to doubt the power of the father to
take the child away from her ; and well she knew Fred Foster's
passionate and reckless malice when he was thwarted. And then
those long years that rose as a ghastly vision before her eyes —
herself a lone woman, broken-hearted and hopeless — her boy grow-
ing up without her care in some distant part of the world. And
if these two were ever to meet, they would be strangers. They
would not know each other. They might pass, each other in the
street without recognition.
A CRT OF DESPAIR, 283
Then of a sudden there flasLed through her burning brain the
question whether the law would not protect her against this fore-
shadowed outrage. But here all was agonizing doubt. Surely the
mother was the natural guardian of her child ; surely no one could
take him away from her. And yet she had a haunting memory
of having heard — and of having sympathized with — denunciations
of the iniquity of the laws of England on this very matter. What
was it they had said ? She could not tell. She was too agitated
and alarmed to think clearly ; her endeavors to convince herself
of her safety, and her shuddering fears that, after all, he might
have the power to take her boy away from her, were only produc-
tive of mental torture ; and at last, in her abject dread and de-
spair and helplessness, came the resolve to go instantly to London,
to seek aid and counsel from her nearest friend. If Janie did not
know, Janie would get to know, and at once. Life with this ter-
ror hanging over her was not possible.
She gave back the child in charge of the frightened little maid,
hurriedly put on her things, and went out, walking quickly in the
direction of the vicarage. The vicar's family were the only peo-
ple whose acquaintance she had made in the neighborhood, and
she had made it in this way. It appeared that the households of
better standing in that small part of the world had chosen, for
some reason or another, to hold aloof from Mrs. Deane, a proceed-
ing which was of very little moment to that lady, who spent most
of her evenings in London theatres and music-halls. It was prob-
ably owing to this circumstance that, when Sabina came to Way-
side Cottage, the vicar's wife did not call upon her ; and then
again, the young mother was wholly engrossed with her baby,
and rarely appeared out-of-doors, preferring the solitude and free-
dom of the garden behind the cottage. But one day- it happened
that Sabina had taken the boy out in his perambulator for an ex-
cursion along the public highway, when Mrs. Lul worth, the clergy-
man's wife — a brisk and sensible little woman, extremely proud
of her husband, and of her daughters, and of her poultiy, and of
her connection with the Established Church of her native laud —
chanced to come along, and so met them. Now Mrs. Lulworth
knew Sabina only as the tenant of Wayside Cottage, and had
never seen her at close quarters, and she had half a mind to pass
by without speaking. But just as she came quite near, Sabina
looked up, and the elder woman cauglit the expression of the
284 SABINA ZEMBRA.
younger woman's face and of her gentle eyes. That was enough.
She stopped. " What a beautiful morning for Baby to be out 1"
" Yes, indeed it is." " The dear little fellow ! How old is he ?"
That was the beginning. The next day Mrs. Lulvvorth and her
troop of daughters called and left their cards. Then one of the
younger girls, happening to see Sabina in the small front garden,
went up and spoke to her, told her her name, was invited into the
house, and returned liome with an account which might almost
have equalled one of Janie's rhapsodies. The acquaintanceship
thus begun was soon assured ; and if these good people rather
wondered that they heard so little of Mr. Foster — for Sabina hard-
ly ever mentioned his name — they had on the other hand discov-
ered that their beautiful-eyed and gentle-mannered neighbor was
a daughter of Sir Anthony Zembra, and that appeared to give
them much satisfaction.
But it was not to seek counsel of this good little dame that
Sabina was now hurrying along to the vicarage; for she had no
mind to tell the story of her life to people who were almost stran-
gers. When she arrived at the house, she rang the bell, and a serv-
ant appeared.
" Is Mrs. Lulworth at home ?"
" No, ma'am, she has gone over to Banstead."
"Or any of the young ladies?"
" Oh yes, ma'am ; all of them. Won't you step in, ma'am ?"
She followed the maid into the drawing-room, and there, in-
deed, through the open French windows, she at once saw the
whole of the five daughters — four of them playing tennis on the
lawn, the fifth seated on a garden-chair, reading a book, all of
them in their light-colored summer dresses, and forming as pretty
a sight as ope could wish to see.
It was to the young lady in the garden-chair that the servant
addressed herself ; and the next moment the book was thrown
aside and the reader was tripping across the lawn and up the steps
with the fleet-footedness of a young roe. But the instant she en-
tered the drawing-room the brightness of her fresh young English
face gave way to a look of alarm.
" Dear Mrs. Foster, no one is ill ?" she exclaimed.
" Oh no," Sabina answered (she did not know how evident was
the anxious distress written in her eyes), "I am — am rathei' hur-
ried, that is all. I have to go up to London suddenly, and you
A CRT OF DESPAIR. 285
see I don't like to leave Baby in charge of the little girl all by
herself there. I was wondering whether your mamma would al-
low one of the maids to go along and keep her company till the
afternoon, when I shall be back. I am frightened to think of
anything happening while I am away — Ann is a good little thing
but nervous — "
" Oh, but that's all right," said the young lady, blithely. " I'll
go along and take charge of the boy myself — "
"Oh, please, no; I couldn't think of giving you so much trou-
ble," Sabina protested — but feebly ; for she knew where the most
tender care would be forthcoming.
" Oh, but yes, yes, yes. Indeed I insist. You don't know what
friends we are. He is my king-favorite among all the children
we know. Did you hear that he called me Cissy the other day
when we were all at the gate?"
"He talks a great deal now," Sabina said — for the moment
pleased amid all her trouble.
" But that's not it," the young lady interrupted. " I am the
only one of us girls whose name he remembers ; and you may
imagine that I am very proud of it; they tell me I needn't swag-
ger so ; but he's my particular friend, anyway ; and just you trust
him to me for the day, dear Mrs. Foster ; we shall have the most
delightful fun."
" It is really so very, very kind of you," the grateful mother
said. " And when would it be convenient for you to go along ?"
For answer Miss Cissy darted out of the drawing-room, whipped
up her hat that was lying on the lawn, and put it on her head,
and was back in an instant.
"Now, if you are going to the station, I'll walk as far as the
cottage with you. Oh, if I had only known, I could have made
him a hundred playthings. But we'll find out plenty, I am pret-
ty sure."
Even this brief bit of companionship was a comfort to her ;
but when she was again alone, in the railway-carriage going to
London, the darkest forebodings returned. Nor could she get any
enlightenment from thinking over those cases in her own experi-
ence where she had been partly instrumental in having children
withdrawn from the custody of tliis or that parent — drunkenness
being the invariable cause ; for in no one instance had the law
been appealed to ; among these poor people the usual course is to
286 SABINA ZEMBRA.
follow the recommendation of the police-magistrate. And then
again, supposing Foster to have the power of taking away her
child, it was idle to think of appealing to her father to save her
from this cruel wrong. How could she explain why this threat
hung over her ? Her only chance — and it was feeble enough, she
]^new — of getting any money from her father, was to avoid all
mention of Foster. He was supposed to be away somewhere —
anywhere. It was for herself and her boy she was begging. Such
were Fred Foster's last injunctions.
Arrived at Victoria Station, she took the underground railway
to Notting Hill, and thence walked to Walter Lindsay's house,
which Janie and her husband still occupied. She was shown into
the drawing-room. In a minute or two Janie made her appear-
ance — in such a hurry of delight and welcome that she did not
notice the expression on her friend's face. But after that close
embrace, she retired a step to get a better look at her, and then
she was startled.
"Sabie — what is the matter?" she exclaimed.
For a moment Sabina did not speak; she was afraid of break-
ing down ; her lips were tremulous. And then she caught Janie's
Land as if for support.
"Janie — Janie — he threatens to — to take my boy away from
me !" It was a piteous cry for help, so stricken down was she
by her terror.
" No — it is not possible !" Janie said, with frightened eyes.
"My boy — my darling — that was just all the world to me!
My — very — life 1"
But here she gave way altogether, and sank on to the couch
behind her, and hid her head in the cushion, and sobbed and
sobbed.
" My boy — my darling !" she kept moaning at intervals between
her sobs. And then, in the very wildness of her grief, a confes-
sion was wrung from her that she had never uttered before : " God
knows, I — I thought I was — unhappy enough ; but — but this is
more than I can bear."
Janie was frightened — overawed, perhaps ; but not for long ;
she summoned all her courage to her, and she knelt down by her
friend, and put her hand on her shoulder.
" Come, come, Sabie, don't give wa.y so. Why, how you fright-
ened me! You think he can take your boy away from you?
A CRY OF DESPAIR. 287
What a silly notion ! Where is all your common-sense gone to,
Sabie ? You poor thing, you have been living so much alone that
all your nerves are gone astray, and anything terrifies you. A
threat! But what is a threat? A threat is nothing. And it's
your husband, I suppose, who says he will take away the boy
from you. I needn't ask. But he hasn't done it ; and he won't
do it; I suppose you think there is no law in this country?
Come, come, Sabie dear, pull yourself together, and tell me how he
came to threaten anything so ridiculous."
Janic was very cheerful and courageous; but she grew less so
as Sabina, rather falteringly, told her tale ; and at the end of it she
was very much concerned. For the truth vras, her knowledge of
the actual state of the law was no more exact than that of Sabina
herself.
" I'll go and ask Philip ; perhaps he can tell us."
At the door, however, she suddenly paused and came back.
" In any case," she said, desperately — " in any case, the question
need never arise at all ! What you have to do is to persuade your
father to give you the money ; then the whole thing is right. No
one will attempt to take the boy !"
" I will do my best," Sabina said, with weary eyes and sad lips.
** But I have no hope in that direction — none whatever."
Janie went away to the studio to fetch her husband; and on
their way back thi-ough the garden she briefly told him Sabina's
story, with some observations on the character and conduct of
Fred Foster which might perhaps have startled that gentleman
had he heard them. But slie moderated her voice when they
drew near the drawing-room.
On their entrance, Sabina looked up quickly and anxiously.
" You see, now," Janie exclaimed, with an air of triumph.
"You thought there was no law in this country? But if Phil
tells you that you have the absolute guardianship of your child —
that your husband can't interfere for years and years to come — "
" No, wait a moment," the young artist said, less passionately.
" That is only my impression, Mrs. Foster — my belief. But, good-
ness knows, I am not going to say anything in favor of tlie law
as regards the guardianship of children, for, as far as I know it,
it is most abominable and wicked. I am not quite sure at what
age of the child the father's legal control of it begins — but it is
early. I know that; and then not only has he the sole right to
288 SAIJINA ZEMBRA.
say what education, what companionship the child is to have, but
lie can take the boy or girl, as it happens to be, away from the
mother altogether — without the mother having done anything to
justify his doing so ! I hope I am not mistaken ; but I am al-
most certain that is the law ; and a more iniquitous thing was
never imagined. It is simply playing into the hands of a scoun-
drel ; for, of course, a respectable man would not take the child
away from its mother so long as she was fit to take the charge of
it—"
He stopped and blushed hotly.
"I beg your pardon, Mrs. Foster," he stammered. " I was not
even thinking of your husband — I was talking about the abstract
question. And how I happen to know something about it is this
— I know a case in which the husband, having pron)ised before
marriage that if there were any children by the marriage they
were to be brought up in the religion of the mother, changed his
mind afterwards, took the children away from her, had them ed-
ucated as he wished, and brought up in his own religion, and refused
to allow the mother to see them — except under a judge's order,
that enabled her to pay them a short visit at stated times. That
is how I happen to know what the law is ; and a more monstrous
thing couldn't be conceived."
" But, dear Sabie," Janie said, eagerly, " in the mean time he
cannot touch your little boy !"
" Do you think that is any consolation ?" Sabina answered, but
without reproach ; her eyes were absent.
Philip Drexel turned to his wife.
" It's Mrs. Whittington who is sitting to me this morning. I
shouldn't be at all surprised if she knew when the father can as-
sume the sole legal control of a child. It's wonderful how much
some of those people know, where their interests are concerned —
all about rates and taxes, school-boards, county courts, and things
of that kind. If Mrs. Foster will excuse me for a moment, I will
go and see."
lie went along to the studio, and returned in about a couple of
minutes.
" For the first seven years, she says, the mother has the guar-
dianship of the child ; and I am almost sure she is right."
" Do you hear that, Sabie ?"
Sabina turned very pale.
A CEY OF DESPAIR. 289
"When he is seven years of age? Janie, think! Just think
of it!" she said, piteously. "The boy grows up with you — your
only companion — every fibre of your heart answering to his light-
est touch ; and then, when he is seven, he is snatched away from
you, and you may never see him again. God forgive me, but I
could almost wish that my little one were dead now and in his
grave ; I should follow soon."
She rose wearily.
" But in the mean time, Sabie, he is all yours," Janie protested.
"And yours only. No one can touch him."
"Think of my life with this terror hanging over it," she said.
"And what can I do? I am helpless — helpless."
Janie caught her by the arm.
"Sabie," she said, vehemently, "you are not going out of this
house like that. I will not allow you to go away in that frame
of mind. And while Phil and I are alive you need not say you
are helpless. What are you to do now? Why, nothing is more
simple! You and I will get into a cab, and we will go along to
your father's house, or to the Waldegrave Club, or wherever he is
likely to be ; and then you must prevail on him to let you have
the money — and there will be no question at all of taking the
boy away. That is what has to be done — it is as clear as day-
light."
" Unfortunately," her husband interposed, " it can't be done
just at this moment. Sir Anthony Zembra is in Antwerp."
Sabina turned quickly.
" How do you know ?"
" He is over there at the Industrial Congress ; I saw the names
in this morning's paper," was the answer.
"Ah, well, it does not much matter," Sabina said; and her
eyes looked tired and, worn. "I could not have gone to see him
without thinking over what I ought to say to him. I will go
back to my little boy now ; I need not miss any half-hour of
being with him — while that remains to me."
" Janie," said the young artist, sharply, " why don't you ask
Mrs. Foster to stay with us for a few days until her father comes
back from Belgium ? The baby could be sent for."
But Sabina would not hear of that ; nor would she allow Janie
to go back with her to Witstcad. Janie went with her to the
Notting Hill Gate station, and then insisted on going on with her
13
290 SABIXA ZEMBRA.
to Victoria; and there they had to wait a little while for the
train. The time was spent mostly in silence ; for Janie's heart
was heavy within her — except when fiery pulses of indignation
and wrath shot through it ; and she knew it was not worth while
giving voice to these. And even her parting words of consola-
tion and hope died away before the terrible loneliness and despair
of this woman's look. Ail the way home Janie was haunted by
that look ; and also there was ringing through her brain an ap-
peal — a single phrase that she had heard or read, though at the
moment she could not remember where — but surely it was a far-
reaching cry of anguish —
" Is there no pity sitting in the clouds ?"
CHAPTER XXXIIL
ALLIES.
When Fred Foster went to call upon Mrs. Fairservice in Jermyn
Street, it was not without studied preparation ; his hat and boots
and gloves were all new and neat, and he had taken the greatest
care of his general appearance. As she came into the room, and
carelessly gave him her hand, her sharp eyes noticed this at once,
and she laughed a little.
"What, then?" he said, rather resentfully ; for no one likes to
be scrutinized in that fashion.
" We're smart, ain't we ?"
" What did you expect?" he said. "Did you want me to come
in a fancy dress, like a ready-money fielder?"
" I was thinking of Scarborough," she said, good-naturedly.
"Oh, don't you think I am objecting. Quite the contrary. I
think your appearance now would be much more likely to inspire
the confidence of the betting public. And I hope it's a sign of a
change of luck — I do, indeed."
She was putting aside the window-curtains to let a little more
of the afternoon light into the dusky aj)artment, while he put his
hat and gloves on a small side-table hard by. But when she
turned to him again she seemed to be struck with something in
his look.
"Holloa," she said, " what's the matter with your eyes?"
ALLIES. 291
"There's nothing the matter with my eyes," he said, with still
further subdued resentment. " There seems to be with yours,
though. They're remarkably inquisitive this evening."
" You don't drink," she said. " No, you were always too wide-
awake for that. What have you been doing ?"
He was both impatient and angry, but did not dare to show it.
He muttered something in an apologetic way of his having suf-
fered severely from toothache of late, and of his having tried
chloral to procure him a little rest. He did not choose to tell
her that it was the sleepless nights of agony and remorse follow-
ing his mother's death that had driven him to this dangerous
resource.
" Then you'd better stop," Mrs. Fairservice said, plainly. " If
you and I are going to do anything together you'll want a level
head. I suppose you understand ?"
" Don't you be afraid," he said. " I can't see how an attack
of toothache is going to interfere."
" Come, sit down, and tell me how your affairs are," she said,
in a friendly fashion, but still regarding him with a watchful eye.
" At any rate, you are in London — that's a hopeful sign. Got
everything squared up yet? Let me see, who was it who was
coming in as peace-maker?"
" Oh, I am all right," he said, with an assumption of easy con-
fidence. "That is to say, everything wants a little time; but I
see how it is to be managed. You mean Raby. No thanks to
him. No; he played me a shabby trick, though Johnny Russell
swears it was only carelessness or indifference. Well, it does not
matter much. Russell has turned out a brick. And yet it does
not seem such a great deal for a fellow with all his money to
Lold out a helping hand."
"You see, Master Fred, that depends," Mrs. Fairservice re-
marked, coolly. " One does not like in any case to throw good
money after bad. I am glad your young friend thinks better of
your prospects. What's his little game?"
" I don't know what you mean," he said.
" Why, what is his reason for coming forward in this magnani-
mous way, and hauling you out of the ditch ? It isn't often done.
What is his inducement?"
" Well, I call it pure good-fellowship — friendship, if you like."
She shook her head.
292 SABINA ZEMBRA.
" No," she said, with a srailc, "That won't do. That's too
thin. Or else he's an awful softie."
"Women's views of friendship may be different from men's,"
he said. "I don't know. However, it does not matter. The fact
remains that I hope, with Jack Russell's help, to have everything
fair and square in a very short time. And now the question is —
what about Bernard ?"
It was curious to notice the sharp and sudden alteration of her
look. She had been quite pleasant and debonair ; even her scan-
ning of his appearance was not unfriendly; her cynical confidences
were uttered in perfect good-nature. But the mere mention of
Bernard's name sufficed to change all that in an instant. When
next she spoke there was a baleful fire in her eyes, and her mouth
was drawn and hard.
" I had half forgotten," she said, with a kind of laugh. " See-
ing you so smart, I fancied you had coTue to take me to the thea-
tre. I had almost forgotten Mr. Bernard. One will forget one's
best friends sometimes."
She went to the sideboard, opened a drawer, took out a photo-
graph, and, bringing it back, threw it on the table before Foster.
" There, do you know who that is ?" she said, with another iron-
ical laugh.
It was a portrait of a thin, wizened, prematurely old-looking
young man, who was dressed as if he was going to a wedding,
with a large "button-hole" in his frock-coat.
"Well, you might call him a swell, now, if you like," Foster
said. "Bought tliis out of a shop-window, I suppose? You see
what it is to be famous. Cabinet-ministers, archbishops, and jock-
eys ; I suppose Joe Cantly was in excellent company."
" You may suppose anything you like," she retorted, " but don't
you imagine I bought that out of any shop-window. Oh, no, that
is a present from Mr. Joe himself. And that is the footing we are
on now."
" You've seen him ?" he said, quickly.
" Very much," was the collected answer. "Charlie Bernard was
over at Redcar. Joe was quite pleased to see an old friend. And
you should have heard him swear on his honor as a gentleman —
his honor as a gentleman — that not a living soul should know I
had spoken to him. Now what do you suppose a jockey's ' honor
as a gentleman ' is worth ? Ca-n you put a price on it ? No ; I
ALLIES, 293
don't want to say anytliing against the 3-oiing man ; he was very
friendly with me, very grateful ; I believe I could bring tears to
his eyes by appealing to his noble sentiments. Wouldn't you
like to see that ? I should. Fancy a jock with tears in his eyes —
liis hand clasped on his heart — "
"Yes, but did lie say anything?" Foster interrupted.
"Yes," she said, slowly, "he told me that the rumors they have
been putting about that Jackson will never be able to bring Ros-
crawn thoroughly sound to the post are all gammon. The horse
is as fit as a fiddle. That might be a good thing for you, eh ?
But I suppose you're not doing much business with the pencillers
at present ?"
" You know that is not what I asked you," he said, pee-
vishly.
" Well," she said, " you and I must understand each other, Mas-
ter Fred. I sliould want to see you in a rather more secure posi-
tion before chancing anything. IIow much time do you want?
I confess I am in no great hurry. If I go for Charlie Bernard at
all it will be a thorough thing, I can tell you ; and I can bide my
time. Indeed, there's nothing else to be done at present. With
Goodwood, Brighton, and Lewes over, there's nothing worth men-
tioning now till the Leger — except the Ebor Handicap, and Cantly
says that Bernard has no great faith in Red Manual."
" lie's not going to back Red Manual ?" Foster exclaimed — but
this was really intended to give her the notion that information of
the kind was becoming valuable to him.
" To no great extent, anyway, if the immaculate Joe is to be be-
lieved. So that's not to be thought of. No, no ; as 1 say, I'm go-
ing to take my time; Joe and 1 are far, far, far from being suffi-
ciently friendly as yet; and as for you — you're no use to me as
you are."
It was plain speaking, but he did not wince.
"You want time for yourself. Give me the same," he said;
and then he added, " I suppose you have some engagement for this
evening."
"I? Not I. I only came to town this morning."
"You spoke of the theatre," he said, rather nervously. "What
do you say, now, to coming and dining with me at a restaurant,
and then I will send up a commissionaire to one of the Bond street
agencies to secure a box ?"
294 SABINA ZEMBRA.
She was inclined to look upon this as a piece of bravado; but
guessed that perhaps he had fallen in with a little money some-
where. And he had ; for the fifty pounds had, somewhat unex-
pectedly, arrived from Buckinghamshire ; and Foster was deter-
mined to make this go as far as possible in showing evidence of
his bettering condition. How much would Mrs. Fairservice im-
agine lay behind that little offer of a dinner and a box at the
theatre ?
" No, we'll divide that programme into two halves," she said.
" You may go and see about the box now ; I will order a bit of
dinner for us here. What o'clock is it ?"
Perhaps this was sarcasm ; she could see that his watch-pocket
was empty.
" I have left my watch at home," he said. " But I should
fancy it must be close on six."
" Then go and get the box," she said, " and I will order dinner
for six-thirty. We may as well see the farce, if there is one ; and
I have good, healthy, old-fashioned tastes."
Now, not only did Mr. Foster go and secure for himself an ex-
pensive box at one of the best theatres, but also he went round
by Covent Garden and purchased for Mrs. Fairservice a very beau-
tiful bouquet. He himself carried it back with him to the hotel;
and when he presented it, there was no apparent cynicism in the
smile of thanks with which she received it. Perhaps she was a
little bit impressed by this display of affluence, despite her habit-
ual shrewdness. At all events, here he was in London, and with
so little fear of being laid by the heels, or otherwise interfered
with, that he was proposing to go to a public theatre.
Itideed, as they sat at dinner, she became much more frank
with him about her relations with Cantly, and her plans for work-
ing upon these. Once or twice, too, she seemed to imply that
she was counting upon his — that is, upon Foster's — confederacy;
and so anxious was he to assure her of being a person worthy of
trust that he would not, at first, touch a drop of wine.
" What's up now?" she said, when he refused.
" I don't wish to provoke any more complimentary remarks,"
he answ'cred.
" Oh, about the look of your eyes ?" she said. " If it comes to
that, I would sooner see you drinking wine than drugging your-
self with chloraL How long have you been at it?"
ALLIES. 295
" How long have I been at it ?" he repeated. " How long does
a fit of toothache last? About a century, I suppose?"
" Well, it must have been a pretty long fit to have altered your
appearance so," she said, shrevvdl3\ " I fancied you looked rather
wliite about the gills when we met at Scarborough. And that's
not like you. You used to keep yourself in pretty fit condition."
" I am as well as ever I was in my life," he said, bluntly.
"And I will take some wine — I would rather do that than be
picked to pieces."
"Ob, I didn't mean to offend," she said, good-naturedly. "It
was only a little friendly inquiry. And, by-the-way. Master Fred,
it has occurred to me that, in view of certain possibilities in the
future, it would be as well for you and me not to be seen to-
gether at that theatre to-night. One or other of us must keep in
a safe corner in the box."
" I quite agree with you," he said, quickly. " And as I haven't
evening dress on, I'll keep in the background."
In due course of time Mrs. Fairscrvice's carriage was summoned,
and they drove to the theatre, where, if he remained discreetly
withdrawn from the public gaze, she was very much en evidence
indeed, with her opera-glass and fan and bouquet. It is to be
feared that he did not pay great heed to the performances that
followed. He had learned a good deal that evening. It was
abundantly clear that, whoever might help him out of present
straits, that person was not Mrs. Fairservice. Further than that,
it was just as clear that she would have him present a pecuniary
clean bill of health before accepting him as her coadjutor. On
the other hand, she still seemed to count on his assistance; there
was some little time yet in which to prove himself eligible for the
honorable post; and the more he studied the possibilities of the
scheme she was planning, the more he saw what a splendid cou]}
it would prove for himself, if properly managed. But in the
mean while the paramount need was money. Money must be
got at all or any hazards — if only to stay the mouths of the wolves
who were hunting him.
When he had safely escorted Mrs. Fairservice back to her hotel,
and made an appointment to see her that day week, he walked
away up Ilegent Street to the Rochambcau Club, and asked if
Mr. John Russell were within. The Rochambcau was a small
club, of somewhat shady reputation, and chiefly devoted to bac-
29G SABINA ZEMBRA.
carat, ecart6, poker, and billiards. At this hour — a little after
eleven — it seemed deserted. Looking through the glass panels
of the inner doors, Foster could only see one or two young men
dawdling about, in evening dress and crush-hats, and apparently
just arrived from the theatre.
However, one of these did happen to be Mr. Johnny Russell,
who, when summoned by the waiter, came leisurely along into
the outer hall, chewing a toothpick, and looking at once surprised
and amused.
" Well, this is a fair piece of bluff, this is," he said.
" I had to chance it — there was no help for it," was Foster's
answer.
" No, no," the flabby and white-cheeked young man said, face-
tiously, " I can hardly believe it. What do you hold in your
hand ? Three aces and a pair, I'll be bound. Or a straight flush ?
You've got something to show."
" I wish I had," Foster said, bitterly. " I've come to town to
ask you to do for me what Raby sneaked out of. A shabbier
trick was never played. Your excuses for him only make it
worse; for he never need have undertaken it at all if he didn't
mean it."
" Have a drink," said Mr. Russell, coolly. " That is one of
the advantages of a proprietary club ; you can have anything, at
any time, and for anybody, that will put a penny in the man-
ager's pocket. Or a bit of supper? The fellows haven't come
in yet; there's nothing doing."
"No, I would rather not go into the club."
Russell laughed.
"The cavalier in hiding — good subject for a picture."
Foster considered the pleasantry rather ill-timed, but was glad
enough to find Johnny Russell in good-humor.
" Come out for a bit of a stroll," he said. " We can talk with-
out risk of being overheard."
Russell put on a light overcoat, and together they went out ;
the dnsky thoroughfares around Hanover Square gave them am-
ple opportunity of uninterrupted conversation.
" Arc you going to stand my friend. Jack ?" was Foster's plain
question.
" To what tune?" was the equally plain answer.
" Well, if you will lend me three hundred pounds — if I can
ALLIES. 297
show it — I can put ray hand on another two hundred pounds ;
and that together surely should pacify them in the mean time — "
"Three hundred pounds !" the other said, in less friendly fash-
ion. " Why, Raby never suggested anything so much as that."
"No, because he didn't know what a chance I had," Foster
said, eagerly. "He thought it was merely to put me on my legs
again. But it isn't that. I daren't tell you what the chance is —
but it's a very big thing — "
" Oh yes, it's always that," the younger man said, evidently dis-
liking the whole situation. " And perhaps it is a good chance.
But you know, Foster, I don't quite see why I should pay in order
to let you have another gamble."
"It isn't gambling at all!" Foster protested — and he was ear-
nest enough on this occasion — " it is giving me a helping hand to
let me get my head above water — and just when there is a fresh
start offered me. Besides, man, you will be paid — every far-
thing."
" It's easy to say that," the other grumbled.
" Oh, but this time it really is all right. As soon as Sir An-
thony Zembra comes back from Antwerp my wife is going to him
to get him to increase her allowance — there's the grandson to be
considered, you see — and out of that increase she will pay you
back the whole of the three hundred pounds, if you only give her
time. I need not appear in it at all. The instalments — monthly
or quarterly, as you please — will be forwarded by her. It is as
safe as the Bauk 1"
" How do you know that Sir Anthony will give your wife what
she asks?" the other said, still suspicious.
" Why, he's bound to ! But I'll tell you what — wait and see.
I am content to abide by the result."
" Who is to let me know ?" Johnny Russell said, rather coolly.
This was so plain an intimation that Foster's word might not
be considered as all-sufficient, that for a second or two he was ra-
ther at a loss. But presently he said,
"Why, it's very simple. Will you be content with this? If
my wife writes to you and says she is in a position to pay you so
much a quarter, and will do so, will that satisfy you ?"
" Yes, certainly."
"And you will let me have the money?"
" Yes."
13*
298 SABINA ZEMBRA.
" It's a bargain, then," Foster said, with evident relief. " Mind
you, old fellow, I haven't said much about gratitude and all that,
but I don't forget such things. It's when a fellow is down that
he feels them most. Come," he said, presently, " there's a public-
house dovi'n there. Let's have a brandy-and-soda on the strength
of this. I've been at the theatre this evening — with a Mrs. Fair-
service — and doing propriety. I should like a drink."
"Public-house brandy," said Johnny Russell, rather gloomily.
"Why didn't you have it at the Club?"
" Oh, it's all the same — it's all corn and potato spirit," Foster
said, cheerfully. " It will be quite a new sensation for me to
stand treat at a counter — a remembrance of old days, when you
had got hold of a thirsty bookie and wanted him to give you
something like Christian prices. The worst of these places is that
their spirits are so diluted that you can hardly taste them ; the
only way is to have a double dose."
So Foster and his friend went into the private bar and had
their drink there — though Johnny Russell did not seem to like
the look of this unfamiliar place.
" And how long are you going to face it out in London ?" the
latter asked. " It's pretty cheeky, you know."
" Yes, I believe you," Foster said — to whom a deep draught of
the brown brandy and soda-water seemed to have imparted a new
animation. " But I am quite aware that the atmosphere of the
metropolis of England is much too sultry for my constitution. I'm
oflf to-morrow or next day. I shall vanish like a ghost — until I
hear it's all right about the three hundred pounds ; and then I'll
get you two hundred pounds, and give you a list of people — the
Jennings, and Jim Deane, and a lot of them, and you'll have to
do your best to bring them to reason. I know you will do it far
better than Raby. They would suspect him. He's too keen a
file all the way round. But they must know you have nothing to
gain ; sha'n't we have a jolly little dinner, old man, when I come
back clear and safe — at the Bristol, eh ? — the old room ?" —
There was a kind of incoheretice about his talk and manner,
though that could hardly be attributed to drink, for he had taken
very little wine at dinner, and had since touched nothing till now.
" Where are you off to, then?" his companion said.
" Oh, I'll find some safe quarters somewhere — where I can see
a morning gallop or two. Not in Yorkshire, though, I hope; just
TUE INTERPOSING HAND, 299
you believe me, I had a baddisli time of it when I was there. I
never was so down on my hick — "
" You're not looking very well after it, anyway," Russell said,
regarding him with his pale, lack-lustre eyes. " No, by Jove,
you're not looking up to the mark."
" Neither would you be, I dare say," Foster rejoined, with sim-
ulated cheerfulness. " Well, old man, you're oflE back to the Club,
I suppose. I'm going down home to try and get some sleep.
I've had some bad nights lately."
Outside the public-house there were a few final words of under-
taking and direction, and then they parted, and went their several
ways.
CHAPTER XXXIV.
THE INTERPOSING HAND.
"Mother," cried Janie, bustling into the old-fashioned little
dining-room in Kensington Square, and just a little breathless,
either from some unusual excitement, or from quick walking,
*' here's a splendid project, now 1 Phil has sent mo down to tell
you, for we want you to help ; and if only we succeed, won't you
be as pleased as any of us ! Of course it's about Sabie ; you may
be sure of that. You can't tell how distressed Phil and I have
been about her since we saw her last. Why, she has become quite
a different creature from the Sabie we used to know — you remem-
ber how proud and merry and self-confident she used to be — a
queen wherever she went— and now she is nervous and terrified
and cowed ; fancy our Sabie being cowed — by a whipper-snapper
like that ! But it's all through her passionate love of her boy ;
her alarm seems to have got the better of her reason altogether;
you never saw anything like it. I believe Foster could make her
sing in the streets if he chose ; and I believe he would do it, if he
thought he could get any money by it."
" Put about the project, Janie?"
" I am coming to that. I had a letter from Walter Lindsay
this morning. He has been away in Canada; that is why wc
have not heard from him for so long. And now, he says, as wc
have been talking of paying our first visit to Scotland, his place in
Wigtonshire is entirely at our disposal, if Phil and I think of go-
300 SABINA ZEMBKA.
ing round that way. Isn't it good of him ? His brother-in-law,
who lives near, looks after the property for hira ; but there is no
one living in the house. He says it is a small place, but the
grounds are pretty ; and there is a lake not far off where we can
have the use of a boat. Well, we had been rather undecided
about going North, but that decided it ; nothing ever came in so
handy. You remember I told you Phil had been asked by some
rich picture-buyer he knows — I forget his name — to visit hira this
autumn at his place in Islay ; and there are to be three Academi-
cians there, for the fishing and shooting; and Phil rather wanted
to see what that kind of life in the Highlands was like — looking
on, of course, for I shouldn't think he would be much use with a
rod or a gun. But where could he leave me, that was the ques-
tion. I wasn't in the invitation ; I never saw the man ; and the
notion of my dawdling in a hotel in a Scotch town until Phil came
back didn't strike either of us as fascinating. And now do you
see how Mr. Lindsay's offer clinched the matter?"
" At any rate, I cannot understand how any one should have
two houses hanging useless on his hands like that," Mrs. Wygram
said. " Why doesn't he come back to his own country ?"
Janie sighed.
" Why ? He says he gets fresh material over there, and sells
his pictures easily. But I don't think it is that that keeps him
on the other side of the Atlantic."
" You have not said anything of Sabie in all this," her mother
reminded her.
Janie brightened up instantly.
"The moment we had settled the matter so far, Phil said to
me, ' Now, look here ; if your mother could only persuade Mrs.
Foster to give up the charge of her child to her for that time,
what is to hinder your beloved Sabie from coitiing along with us?
I will pay her travelling expenses; Foster would have the whole
of her income while she was away; he wouldn't object. And
then if that place in AVigtonshire turned out to be a niceish sort
of place, Sabie and you could remain there till I got back from
Islay.' Mother, just think of it !" said Janie, with a little laugh
of delight. "Think of Sabie and I walking over the hills, and
rowing in a boat on the lake, and running about the garden. It
is just a dream of happiness. And then, when Phil comes back,
we will all go on together to Edinburgh, I suppose. Edinburgh
THE INTERPOSING HAND. 301
and Melrose Abbey: these are the two tbings I stipulate for.
Phil can settle all the rest."
"And my share," said Mrs. Wygram, with a smile, " is to take
charge of the boy in London."
" Ah, but we knew you would gladly do that, for Sable's sake,"
her daughter said. " When Phil proposed that she should come
with us, he was thinking of me. She was to be a travelling com-
panion for me. But that is not what I am looking forward to.
I am looking forward to getting her away for a while from that
man ; to see if we cannot give her back a little of the cheerfulness
and courage of the Sabie of old days. Of course, it will take a
fearful amount of coaxing before she will agree to part with the
child, even for that short time. You will have to talk her over,
mother, or shall we go down together? You see, as soon as Phil
has finished the last of the cartoons for Verner Castle, we shall be
free ; and although we sha'n't be in time for him to see the shoot-
ing on the Twelfth — that is the great day, he says — still, we should
get North as soon as possible. You'll come to see us ofE at Eus-
ton, mother, won't you ? We may have to buy some rugs and
wraps for Sabie, for it's always so cold in Scotland, they say. Oh,
won't it be fine in that railway-carriage! Phil may fall in love
with her, if he likes; I don't care."
"Yes, that's all very well," the mother said (and yet she was
quite willing to accept her somewhat invidious share in this ar-
rangement), " but you are putting all the diflicultios on to me. It
isn't the taking care of the little boy here — tiiat we could manage
well enough; it's the talking Sabie over, and I don't think 1 shall
succeed in that."
"But we n)ust succeed, and wc shall succeed, mother," Janie
said. " Phil has to go down to Verner Castle this week ; as soon
as he has fixed the day, I will let you know, and we will take that
day to go to Witstead. And if you can't talk her into saying
yes, I will force her."
"You force her!" the mother said, with a smile.
"Oh, yes I can," Janie said, confidently. "Sabie has none of
her old masterful ways now. I am going to take the management
of her. I will compel hor to cotnc with us."
"Don't be too harsh with her, Janie."
" That is so very likely !"
Then she went aw.ay with her brain very busy, and Kensington
302 SABINA ZEMBRA.
Higli Street became a place of dreams. What ideas Janie had
formed of the region
" Where the kingdom of Galloway's blest
With the smell of bog-myrtle, and peat,"
it is hard to say ; but like most people who have never crossed
the Cheviots, she probably considered Scotland as synonymous
with the Highlands ; and no doubt had already romantic visions in
her mind of beetling crags, and lofty mountains, and precipitous
water-falls. Had she been told that the people of Galloway wore
the kilt and talked Gaelic she would scarcely have been surprised.
But that was not the point. In these roseate forecasts of hers she
was thinking less of the character of the country and its inhabi-
tants than of her travelling about in the constant society of Sa-
bina; that was to be the charm of this excursion, whatever the
scenery or the people might be like. And she could not but be
struck by the curious reversal of their positions. It was Sabina
who was now to be the petted and protected one — Sabina, who
used to be so headstrong in her good-humored fashion, so self-
reliant, so imperious and arbitrary in her very kindness. She
could hardly think of that gay -hearted, wilful, radiant creature as
being one and the same person with the poor, trembling, terror-
stricken mother who had come to them but the other day, white-
faced and haggard-eyed, to ask them whether her boy could be
taken away from her.
But all these plans and forecasts were to be rudely and suddenly
shattered. When she returned home, she was surprised to find
her husband in the house ; ordinarily, at this time of the day, he
was busy in the studio. Moreover, he was clearly waiting for her.
"Janie," he said, "I have opened a letter sent to you. I saw
by the outside it might contain news that — that would startle you.
I thought it better to open it — "
For a second her heart stood still with fear. In his hand there
was an envelope that was black-bordered.
" Not Sabie ?" she cried.
" No," he answered, gravely. " No, but her husband — "
He handed her the envelope, and quickly and breathlessly she
opened it, and took out the contents. These were merely a cut-
ting from a Yorkshire newspaper, containing the customary list of
Births, Deaths, and Marriages, and at the foot of the middle sec-
THE INTERPOSING HAND. 303
tion was the laconic announcement: "On the 9th instant, at
Market Hatley, Mr. Fred Foster, aged 29 years." And then, on
the margin of the paper, were a few words in a trembling hand-
writing that she recognized easily enough : " Dearest Janie, —
Don't come to me just yet. I will write. — S."
Janie looked frightened only for a moment; presently a kind
of wonder shone in her face.
" Oh, Phil," she cried, in accents that certainly did not betray
much sorrow, " Sabie will come back to us — to Kensington Square
— or here — will she come and live with us here ? Just think of
it. We will have the old days back again — and — and 1 will go
at once and telegraph to Walter Lindsay !"
"You will do nothing of the kind ; you will do nothing so un-
seemly," her husband said at once. " Are you out of your senses ?
And I don't think you need make it a matter of rejoicing that
you should hear of the death of a fellow-creature."
" Oh no, I don't — at least, I wouldn't, before other people,"
said Janie, rather incoherently. " But I thought there was no
more hope in this world for my poor Sabie — and now there is —
surely, surely there is, Phil. And why may not I go and see her
now ? Perhaps she has gone away north to the funeral. Then
why didn't she telegraph to me to go down and take charge of
the boy ? Vm sure I would have done it instantly. But most
likely old Mr. Foster is arranging everything for her."
And then again she said,
"Don't be angry with mo, Phil ; but how can von expect me to
be sorry? If you only knew as 1 know what she has suffered!
And why may not 1 send a message to Mr. Lindsay?"
"You know very well," her husband said. "Before even the
dead man is in his grave ! And how do you know it would be
welcome? It will be much better for you to leave things alone."
"I don't see how 1 could do any harm," Janie said, wistfully.
" And there's anotlior thing I may warn you about. When you
do go to see your friend, just you take care what you say about
lier deceased husband — if you want to remain her friend. It's
wonderful how a woman's opinions are apt to change in a matter
of this kind. She will let lior husband ill-use her for years — she
may have her eyes open to all his bad and mean fjualities; but as
soon as he goes and mercifully dies, it's wonderful how soon all
these things are forgotten, and the dear departed becomes sancti-
304 SABINA ZEMBKA,
fied into a hero. It isn't reasonable, of course, but its human nat-
ure; and although you used always to make out your Sabie to be
a perfect goddess, without a fault, I consider her to be a very
womanly woman, and I shouldn't at all be surprised if she were to
begin now and look back with regret and remorse on her treat-
ment of Foster."
" Her treatment of Foster !" Janie exclaimed.
" Yes ; I say it, and I mean it. She will accuse herself of not
having humored him sufficiently, of having shown him indiffer-
ence or neglect — a hundred things ; and she will think of all that
was best about him, and blame herself for the failure of their
married life. So you be warned in time. Don't you say a
word against him ; and don't look as if the news rather pleased
you."
She was rather impressed by these words of counsel.
" I suppose what you say is quite right, Phil," she said, submis-
sively.
But she had to go and do some shopping ; and the moment she
was out of the house this moderating influence seemed to fall away
from her. For she was thinking overall that had happened since
Sabina's marriage ; and again slie saw the anguish-stricken face
of the mother dreading to be robbed of her child; and again the
cry rang through her brain — " Is there no pity sitting in the
clouds?" "There is! — there is ! — there is!" Janie passionately
said to herself; and she had no remorse whatever in rejoicing;
the news, she declared to herself, and would hold to it, was good
news.
She had to pass a telegraph-office ; and there she paused for a
second, in wistful hesitation. It seemed such a pity that Walter
Lindsay should not know. The message need not be meant as a
summons to him to come back to his own country. It would
merely be information. How could it be unwelcome, in that sense ?
Say, at the worst, that he was engaged to be married to some one
else, he could not have quite forgotten his old regard for Sabina.
Surely he would be interested in learning of her fortunes. Men
were fickle, as she had heard ; there had been great distances of
time and space between these two ; he had no right to cherish any
feeling warmer than friendship for a woman who had married.
But even friendship ? Would not any friend of Sable's be inter-
ested? And surely Walter Lindsay (if she understood him) most
THE INTERPOSING HAND. 305
of all ? So Janie argued with herself, loitering there irresolute ;
and then she remembered her husband's charge to her, and tore
herself reluctantly away.
Indeed, she was rather proud of herself in that she could thus
calmly consider the hypothesis of Walter Lindsay being engaged
to be married ; but, oddly enough, her next proceeding was to
stop in front of a shop-window where were exhibited a number of
portraits of ladies of the great world and of the stage, and to set
about asking herself whether any one of them could be compared
to Sabina. This one had a royal carriage of the head that was
pensive-looking, with mysterious dark eyes; the other was bright,
vivacious, coquettish-looking. But where was the one of them
who had Sabina's charm, her bland gentleness, her gracious repose?
And then the next thing was to wonder if Walter Lindsay would
find Sabina as beautiful as he had thought her in the former
days? Philip said she was more beautiful; but then Philip wor-
shipped the 3Iater dolorosa type in women ; and Janie was not at
all anxious that Lindsay should be struck with that aspect of Sa-
bina. Oh no ; long before he should set eyes on her, Sabie would
be back in Kensington Square ; the rose-leaf tint would be return-
ing to her cheeks and lips; there would be a subdued light of
happiness in the calm and benignant eyes. As for Sabina's gold-
en-brown hair, that was still as abundant as ever ; not all her trou-
bles had sufficed to interweave in it a single silver streak.
Janie got her shopping done somehow ; and then she sped away
home, and sought the quietude of her own room. She was rather
a superstitious young person, in a half-duubting, whinjsical way;
and on occasion was accustomed to consult the sortes Vir(jiliance ;
although not being able to read Virgil, she had to substitute the
Scriptures as the early Christians did. It may be added that she
was not strictly methodical in her divination ; for, instead of tak-
ing the first passage that met her eyes, she claimed the right of
searching the whole of the chance-opened page for an appropriate
verse — a practice which frequently got rid of enigmas, and brought
her instead some little comfort.
So now, taking the small liible that lay on her dressing-table,
she shut lier eyes, and opened the loaves at random. When she
came to look, it was a chapter of Isaiah that lay before her, and
quickly she glanced over the verses. This one was the last on tho
page — and Janie's heart was rejoiced and glad as she read and re-
306 SABINA ZEMBRA.
read the divine promise of better things for the wasted and sor-
rowing city of Jerusalem — "0 tho^i afflicted, tossed with tempest,
and not comforted, behold, I xoill lay thy stones with fair colours,
and lay thy foundations loith sapphires^
CHAPTER XXXV.
THE EXILE'S RETURN.
It was not nntil the month of December in that year that Wal-
ter Lindsay left for home ; and a very cold, gray, and cheerless
passage he had of it across the Atlantic. But a landscape-painter,
of trained observation and retentive memory, has advantages be-
yond those of other mortals. At will he can dismiss his actual
surroundings, and, by the mere shutting of his eyes, summon be-
fore him scenes from distant lands ; and not only that, but these
visions are ordinarily of unwonted beauty, because it is their
beauty that has stamped them on his mind. Nay, he can occupy
himself with filling in the minutest details of color and form,
until the living picture stands clear and sharp before him ; no
need for him to sadden himself, hour after hour, with the monoto-
nous waste of the steel-gray, slow-rolling Atlantic seas.
You may be sure it was mostly England that was in Lindsay's
thoughts, as, wrapped in Canadian furs, he paced up and down the
chill decks on these blowy mornings ; or, in the hushed evenings,
in the great saloon, lay and only half listened to the heavy throb-
bing of the screw and the occasional singing of a group of girls.
And he tried to be not always dreaming about Kensington Square.
Here, for example, was a winter scene on the Sussex coast; and
he added touch after touch to it, as if he had a canvas before him,
and with a kind of affection almost. A bright morning shining
over the wide, smooth, solitary downs; here and there a dark-
green tnrnip-field; here and there a breadth of red ploughed land ;
a farm-steading near the horizon ; the new roofs of the barns and
out-houses scarlet-tiled, the old roofs orange-lichened. A small
hamlet in a distant hollow ; a few pigeons flying about the weath-
er-stained belfry of the church-tower. A long, winding, ruddy-yel-
low road in front of him, of chalk and sand and flint ; the pools
of recent rain — those near him — of a brownish-saffron hue ; those
THE exile's KETURN. 307
a little farther off, a faint purple (the reflected blue of the zenith
mixing with the local color) ; those still farther away, of the most
brilliant azure. A cloudless sky ; a cold wind; the keen sunlight
striking vividly on the long-trending lines of the chalk cliffs, and
on the wide pale plain of the sea.
Or again it would be a sheltered little bay that he had once dis-
covered in the far northern wilds of his own country — a silent,
unfrequented curve of white sand facing the western waves. And
what beautiful bits of color he found there, or placed there, as his
fancy chose : brown and lilac pebbles, velvet-soft in the light, each
with its touch of blue shadow ; scattered masses of ox-eye daisies,
hardly moving in the soft summer air; thistles purple-topped;
the crimson-stemmed sorrel ; the silver-weed, with its leaves of in-
tensest green, and its long rose-red threads stretching out over the
cream-white soil, and rooting themselves here and there. Behind
him a golden-yellow cornfield ; before him a sea of driven and
vivid blue; beyond that a pale line of distant hills; and above
these again a sky of faintest turquoise, deepening and deepening
into a dark sapphire overhead.
Moreover, he had cultivated this habit of minute and patient
picture-building for an especial reason. Once or twice it had oc-
curred to him that his eyesight was not as good as it liad been.
Now an artist is naturally extremely sensitive on this point; and
it is hardly to be wondered at that in the solitariness of his life
among the Canadian lakes or on the wide Colorado plains he
should sometimes have been haunted by gloomy forebodings. On
such occasions he would summon his philosophy to his aid, and
boldly face the worst. What, then, if he were to become blind ?
He had enough to live on. Probably he had given to the world
the best he could do as an artist. He would retire to some place
familiar to him — Galloway most likely, and spend there a by no
means miserable existence ; for surely, if his attendant gave him
a hint or two — the flowers by the wayside, the look of the sky,
the number of ships visible from Kirkcolim Point, and the like —
he could construct out of his own memory some recognizable pict-
ure of his surroundings. No number of years could make him
forget (for example) the colnr of the silver-weed's rose-red stems
creeping out on the milk-white sand. And then again, in some
distant time, he might come to London. Perhaps, at Janie's
house, he would meet Sabina. And then would he not have rca-
308 SABINA ZEMBRA.
son to rejoice? " Why," he would say to himself, " look what an
advantage you have over all these others. Sabina is middle-aged
now ; perhaps her hair is streaked with silver; perhaps the youth-
ful brilliancy has faded away from her kind eyes. These others
see all that; you do not. When you hear her speak, she is still
to you the Sabina of former years ; to you she remains ever beau-
tiful, youthful, radiant ; her eyes are more than kind, they have
the witchery of young womanhood; and so it will be to the end.
She grows old to others, not to you. So thank God for your
blindness, and rest well content." Of course these were the mor-
bid imaginings of a solitary life and distant travel. When he re-
turned to New York — and to the Tile Club, and the Monks of St.
Giles, and the theatres, and dinner-parties, and the ordinary amuse-
ments and occupations of social life — he forgot all about them,
and ceased to trouble his head about the matter.
But if these were beautiful pictures of England he was sum-
moning up, as he paced the deck under the leaden-gray sky, or
sate in the saloon of an evening, listening to the dismal boom of
the fog-horn overhead, England sorely disappointed him when he
arrived there. It was raining heavily at Liverpool ; and Liver-
pool, on a wet, darkening December afternoon, is not an exhilarat-
ing sight. On his journey up to London next day a cold, damp
mist lay over the land, and the great hive of the metropolis, as he
drove through the sombre streets, was scarcely the brilliant city
of his memories and dreams. But when he reached his home,
there something more cheerful awaited him; for Janie (who had
a house, and her husband a studio, of their own now) had been
along to see that the house-keeper had everything in readiness;
and there was a big fire hazing in the dining-room, and luncheon
was on the table ; and there were a few flowers also, placed there
by Janie's own hands ; altogether the place looked exceedingly
bright, warm, comfortable, and home-like.
Luncheon did not take him long; but there was a vast pile of
letters, prints, and packages to be glanced through ; then he was
ready to go out. But whither? He wished to see Janie, but it
Avas rather early yet for an afternoon call. Eventually he put on
his coat and hat and went out, and by instinct, rather than inten-
tion, wandered idly down to High Street, Kensington.
It was strange to find himself in the old familiar thoroughfare,
and it looking so different from bis storied memories of it. Some-
THE exile's return. 309
how he had been used to picture it as under the light of a clear
summer afternoon, himself come out after his day's work, perhaps
with some faint hope of catching a glimpse of the tall form of Sa-
bina, on her way homeward to Kensington Square. But now the
short December day was drawing into dusk ; a pale blue mist hung
about; the streets were miry. It is true that with all this the
neighborhood wore a festive air; evergreens and holly berries were
in the shop-windows ; the pavements were crowded with elderly
people who seemed benign of aspect, and who were generally ac-
companied by small folk who had the delight and excitement of
Christmas presents clearly shining in their eyes. And he was glad
to be home in England for Christmas.
At last — at last — and perhaps with some trifle of heart-throb-
bing that he would hardly care to have owned — he went a little
way down Young Street, so that he could look across Kensington
Square. It was a doleful sight enough ; the leafless, smoke-black-
ened trees, the dank green grass, the dingy laurels, the bedraggled
chrysanthemums; with the melancholy gray-blue pall of the twi-
light weighing heavier and heavier, and as yet unpierced by a sin-
gle orange ray. And yet he had a curious kind of affection for
this place, and the keenest interest in it ; and those old-fashioned
houses over there had a charm for him beyond any range of palaces
in Venice. They were very different, doubtless, from his dreams of
them in the far Canadian wilds. There they had been of a golden
cast, with light summer airs floating about them, and a June foli-
age on the trees; now they were dark, and indeed almost becom-
ing invisible in the closing down of the melancholy London after-
noon. But they were actual. They had human life within them.
Was it possible that on this northern side (which he could not see)
Sabina might he standing at the window of the well-rcinembered
drawing-room, looking out on this very picture of desolation ? lie
dared not go nearer. He wished to be prepared for meeting lier,
if he was to meet her. But he lingered about there for some time,
until, of a sudden, a shaft of golden fire flashed through the dusk
from the first lighted of the lamps ; and he thought he might now
go and call upon his ever-faithful friend.
He found Janie in possession of a smart little house in Victoria
Road ; and the moment he entered the drawing-room, she came
quickly to meet him, with both hands extended, and with abundant
friendliness beaming in her mild gray eyes.
310 SABINA ZEMBKA.
" I am so glad to see you !" she cried ; and added, rather inco-
herently, " and all of us — all of us — of course you ought to be
back in your own country. I am so glad you have come back!"
But there was some surprise in her face too. "And how you have
changed ! I don't believe I should have known you if I had met
you in the street. You are more like a hunter than an artist !"
"I have been living a good deal of a backwoodsman's life these
last two or three years," he said ; and indeed she could have guessed
as much, for the fine-featured face had lost all its pallor of former
days, and become evenly sun-browned ; and his tall and slender
figure had a touch of added breadth ; and there was a more mus-
cular set of the shoulders. Janie was quite proud — though she
did not stay to ask herself why — to see him look so handsome and
■well.
Of course there were a hundred rapid and cheerful questions to
be put and answered ; and she gave him all the information she
had about the people known to them ; but the subject really up-
permost in both their minds was sedulously left out. Janie was
a little frightened, in truth. Perhaps he had come home engaged ?
Or he might even have brought a wife with him ? On his side
some kind of delicacy kept him silent. And so it came about that
it was quite by accident that Sabiua was brought into the conver-
sation.
Behind him there was a picture he had not as yet seen ; for he
was seated facing the window. It was let into a panel over the
mantle-piece ; and on the oak framework there was inscribed, in
curious characters, the word " Hesperus." The subject was the
solitary, upright figure of a tall young woman, clad in loose draper-
ies, moving through the ethereal spaces of the evening sky ; some
sombre gleams of red beneath her feet; the darkening heavens
above her showing here and there a distant star ; her upraised arm
and hand holding high before her a ball of luminous white fire.
Her face was sad and wan ; her mouth pensive ; her eyes wide apart
and mysterious and dim. Mannered even to the verge of affecta-
tion, this was really a very creditable piece of work ; it showed, at
all events, imaginative effort ; and as it was a wedding-present that
Janie had received from her husband, it is hardly to be wondered
at that she had insisted on its occupying the place of honor in her
drawing-room.
Now in the mutual embarrassment of trying to avoid all men-
THE EXILES KETUEX 311
tion of Sabina's name, they had talked about a large variety of
persons and things; and at last Lindsay came to speak of Janie's
new house, which her husband had furnished in a highly superior
fashion. Happening to cast his eyes about the room, he caught
sight of this picture, and there was something about the look of
the head that caused hira to get up and go nearer. But he had
not been there for a second — gazing at the pensive face and the
dim and mystic eyes — when Janie was at his side.
" But, you know, Mr. Lindsay," she said, rather breathlessly and
anxiously, " you mustn't think that is really like her — really like
her, I mean — you know, that is only Phil's way of painting — Sa-
ble isn't quite so — quite so — sad-looking as that. Of course it is
a little like ; but it was done from photographs and recollection ;
and, you know, Phil will paint in his own way. Oh no, don't
think Sabie is like that!"
And Walter Lindsay thought to himself, " Well, men say that
women are never really friends among themselves. But here is a
woman who, for fear that an unfavorable impression of a friend
of hers may be produced on a casual stranger, is quite content to
speak slightingly of her own husband's work."
"She is in London?" he said, looking at those saddened eyes.
" Oh no," said Janie, who, now that the ice was broken, proved
as eager to give information as before she was reticent. " No ; I
wish she was. She won't leave that house in Surrey, no matter
what we say ; it seems it was a wish of her husband's ; though
why she should respect any wish of his, or his memory either, I
can't make out. Oh, Mr, Lindsay, I never told you half the truth
about poor Sabie. I couldn't. I thought it was no use making
you wretched — I mean, I naturally imagined you would remem-
ber something of her, however far away you might be, and you
mightn't like to hear, ill news of a friend. And I need not tell
you now, either, for it is all over, and I hope Sabie will forget it
in time. And sooner or later, I know, we shall have Sabie com-
ing to London ; and there are two houses, anyway, where there is
a home and a warm welcome awaiting her ; for Phil is just as
good as g(^l(l — why, where do you think he is just now?"
" Pni sure I don't know."
"Away buying Christmas toys to send down to the little boy.
And a rare hash he will make of it, I suppose ; for how should he
know ? But I thought I would stay in, as I expected you."
312 SABINA ZEMBRA.
She went back to her seat by the table, and he followed her.
" I suppose you see her sometimes," he said.
" Oh yes," she answered ; and then she added, quickly, " And
if you were to call upon her, there would be no — no embarrass-
ment ; for we have tacitly agreed never to speak about the past at
all. It is the best way ; and we adopted it from the very begin-
ning. You know Phil has a great deal of common-sense and
wisdom for one of his dreamy and poetical nature, and he warned
me, the first time I went down to see Sabie, that if I said any-
thing against Foster, she might very likely turn on me to defend
liim. Very well, I said to myself, if I am to say no harm of him,
I will say no good of him ; for I am not going to tell lies, even
in the way of condolence; and if Sabie likes to forget, I won't.
Of course it was very awkward, and I looked forward to meeting
her with dread; but there happened the greatest stroke of luck.
Just as I got out of the train at Witstead Station, so did Sir An-
thony Zembra. I suppose she had sent for us both on the same
day; but it was pretty fortunate we should go down by the same
train. I thought that Sir Anthony would have forgotten me ;
but he spoke to me, and we walked to the house together. Do
you see how lucky it was? I had to tell no lies anyway, or pro-
fess a grief that I certainly didn't feel ; nothing but the most or-
dinary commonplaces were said ; Foster's name was hardly men-
tioned ; what Sir Anthony wanted mostly was to get her to re-
move to London. You should have seen how he figured and
posed as the injured party, how magnanimously he offered to for-
get the past; and produced a check for one hundred pounds —
this was before me, mind — to defray all little expenses and leave
her free to move into the house he offered to take for her. I do
believe he thought he was the most magnanimous man in this
country at that moment, and was himself astonished that he did
not complain of her conduct or say hard things of her dead hus-
band. Not that I quarrel with him on that account ; the dear
departed would have had none of my tears, if they had been asked
for. And you should have seen Sir Anthony's splendid air when
he announced to her that he should now give her the same allow-
ance that she had before her marriage ; as if she had condoned
everything now by burying that wretch."
Janie stopped suddenly, and her pale face showed a little color.
"Please, Mr. Lindsay, you won't think me cruel ! Phil says I
THE EXILES RETUKX. 313
am unwomanly. But you don't know — and he doesn't know —
■what poor Sabie has suffered. Not that she shows much trace of
it — oh no. Oh, you must not think that at all," said Janie, ear-
nestly. "She may be a little grave in manner; but — but — you
must rather think of her as she was the night of your supper-
party — you remember? — only not dressed like that; for I think
she is pinching and saving hard on account of the boy. I assure
you, Sabie is just as beautiful as ever — a little paler perhaps; and
you remember the splendid hair, and the sweet mouth, and the
way she walked, as if all the world were hers. You can't throw
that off in a minute; and now, when you find her in a good-hu-
mor, and laughing, and playing with the boy — well, it's just beau-
tiful to look at ! I do wish you could see her!"
But here again Janie stopped suddenly, conscious of indiscre-
tion. He sate silent for a second or two ; then he said (not
noticing the familiarity),
" I will tell you the truth, Janie. I went away to America hop-
ing to forget a good deal. Yes, I thought that was natural. I had
no complaint to make ; I had no bitter memories to carry with me ;
no, it was rather many, n)any kindnesses that I had to remember,
if I remembered anything; but at all events I expected to forget
what I wanted to forget ; and if anybody had said to me that I
should come back married, I should have answered that I did not
think so, but that it was not in the least impossible. I have been
away about two years and a half. It is not a very long time,
perhaps, but I have had the chance of seeing a great many people,
and have had long spells of solitude and reflection. Well, I am
more than ever convinced that there is but the one woman in the
world for me — no, stop a moment," he said, calmly, for he could
not see that her eyes had flashed with pride and pleasure; "don't
imagine I am going to rush in the moment there is no longer
any obstacle, and ask her to marry me. I don't think I ever did
actually ask her to marry me, though, I suppose, she guessed.
No ; what I say is, there is now, and must always be for me, but
the one woman in the world, only it is for her to choose what
relationship should exist between us, and I will abide by that.
If she would ratiier be my sister — my com pan ion — my friend,
good ; let it be so. But if I am to be her friend, 1 must claim
the privileges of a friend; and you seem to think she is not so
well off as she might be. Well, I did not spend very much dur-
14
314 SABINA ZEMBRA.
ing these two or three years in America — the Scotch are a penn-
rioiis race, you know ; and I got through a good deal of work.
What do you say, now — will you find out how I can help her?"
"How can I? — but — but — but the first thing for you is to go
and see her!" said Janie, rather wildly. " Mr. Lindsay, when Phil
comes home with the parcels, will you take them with you, and
go down to-morrow to Witstead ? It would be an excuse. I
want you to see Sabie !"
" No," he said, slowly, " Not yet. I must think over how I
am to meet her."
At this moment Janie's husband was heard at the front door,
and presently entered with his bundles of toys. After a few
■words he carried Lindsay off to his studio, no doubt anxious for
a little encouragement ; and so Janie was left alone in the front
part of the house. Her brain was in a whirl. She was prophe-
sying all kinds of beautiful things for her beloved Sabie. The
rescuer had come. Andromeda was to have her chains dashed
off at last. And again and again there rang through her head
the lines —
" Sir David Lindsay of the Mount,
Lord Lyon King at Arms,"
as if that heroic couplet could in any way be made to refer to one
of the Lindsays of Carnryan, who, besides, was but a mere nine-
teenth-centnry landscape-painter, recently come home from Amer-
ica with a few dollars in his pocket.
CHAPTER XXXVL
NEW QUARTERS.
"And this is what they call the jocund morn," Walter Lindsay
remarked to himself, as he was leisurely dressing by gaslight. It
was about nine o'clock. Outside, the great world of London lay
steeped in a heavy and slumberous fog, dense, immovable, myste-
rious, with here and there a black ghost passing through the saf-
fron-bued darkness. And yet he did not complain overmuch.
There were other and more cheerful visions before his eyes. He
was about to take a little run down into Surrey, just to recall
•what an English winter was like in the country ; and it was quite
NEW QUARTERS. 315
possible that he might be led into making a series of water-color
studies — extending over several months, indeed — if only he could
find convenient quarters.
Nor did he at all seek to conceal from himself that his main
purpose in going down into the country was that he might, per-
haps, have Sabina for neighbor. No ; on the contrary, he strove
to persuade himself that he should approach her without any
anxiety or misgiving whatever. Why should there be any em-
barrassment? He would have nothing to do with trembling
hopes and fears. It was for Sabina herself to decide what their
relationship should be — of the simplest, if so she wished it. But
she could hardly refuse him her friendship. She would not turn
away from him without reason. And it would be a very pleasant
thing for him to know that this beautiful sister and companion —
or acquaintance, even, if she preferred that — was not more than
an hour or two's walk away. Perhaps she would give him a cup
of tea as he passed. They might meet at church of a Sunday
morning, and stroll homeward together. He could leave little
presents for the boy, or illustrated papers and magazines for her-
self, or a basket of fruit, perhaps, got down from Covent Garden.
Sister and friend, if so she wished it ; he was content. And so
he looked forward to meeting Sabina with equanimity and a light
heart.
During the morning matters outside mended somewhat ; the
fog grew gradually thinner; and by the time he issued forth, the
sun was actually visible — appearing like a small Ilispano-Moresque
plate in an atmosphere of opaque milky-white. It was a long
way across London to Waterloo Station ; when he reached that
hollow -resounding place, with its cold platforms and shivering
porters, there was even a faint suggestion of blue in the sky ; he
was now secure of a bright day for his first dip into Surrey.
He had made up his mind that on this occasion he would not
seek to see Sabina. He would merely have a look round the
neighborhood, to discover whether it would suit his purpose.
His own dim recollection of it was that it was pretty flat — healthy
commons, ponds, scattered villages, and so forth. But in any case
there was more variety a little way farther to the south — by Box
Hill and Mickleham Downs; and then again it was atmosplicric
effects he was aiming at rather than j)rnn()iinc(Ml landscape. Krosty
moonlight nights, snow-scenes, wan wintry sunrises, and the like;
316 SABINA ZEMBRA.
these were what he was after; he could afford, in this series of
studies at least, to dispense with the conventionally picturesque.
And if he did happen to meet Sabina, on this journey of explora-
tion, of course he would speak to her. She would hardly be sur-
prised. It was a landscape-painter's business to be about the
country in all seasons. He would tell her his aims. And she
would understand that his choice of this neighborhood was dic-
tated chiefly by the fact of there being a convenient little hotel at
Burford Bridge, which would afford him excellent headquarters.
But still — still — as the train jogged on its way through the
wintry English landscape — with its irregular little fields and tall
hedges, its dank raw greens and reds, its pale sunshine and vapor-
ous distances — he began to be less convinced that he should meet
Sabina in this easy and matter-of-fact fashion. There were some
things he could not quite forget. He could not quite forget how,
in former days, when Sabina made her appearance — whether at
the top of the stairs at the Royal Academy, or alighting from her
cabin front of his own house, or as he casually encountered her in
Kensington High Street — there was a kind of bewilderment caused
by the straightforward look of her clear, beautiful bland eyes.
He could not forget the glamour of her presence as she sate be-
side him at the supper-table ; the charm of her smile, the mystic
fascination of her voice, and his own desperate anxiety to be kind
to her and to entertain her in every possible way. Things were
changed, it is true. Then she was the admired of all — radiant
and beautiful and queenly ; conferring favor by the mere touch
of her hand; bringing with her an atmosphere of light and hap-
piness and sunshine whithersoever she went ; now she was solitary
and apart from friends, and a widow. And then he remembered
— in these rather wistful reveries, as he sate and looked out on
the ever-changing wintry landscape — that Monna Giovanna was a
widow when at last Federigo won her love. But then Monna
Giovanna was rich, and had everything to give ; whereas Federigo
when he had sacrificed his falcon for her sake, had parted with
the last of his possessions. And then again he recalled Janie's
often-repeated saying, "There is but the one way of winning Sa-
ble's love, and that is through her pity." He was in no promis-
ing case, then ? In honest truth, he could not compassionate him-
self about anything. He was in the best of health, with the years
still lying lightly on his shoulders ; he had won for himself a po-
NEW QUARTERS. 31 V
sition as an artist which he considered quite commensurate with
his merits ; he was of good descent ; he had more money than
met his needs; he had lots of friends. He knew of no particular
reason why he should be pitied ; except, perhaps, that he had the
misfortune to be very much in love with a woman — and even in
that direction he did not struggle hard with his fate.
" Witstead !"
The sudden sound startled him out of these reveries, and invol-
untarily and quickly he glanced round the little platform. But
there was no one going away by the train, and he was the only
person who alighted ; when he had given up his ticket and passed
through the small building, he found himself alone, with the road
lying before him towards the village.
And here he paused, in dire uncertainty, almost in fear. It was
one thing to think of Sabina when he was three or four thousand
miles away ; it was another to lind himself almost within a stonc's-
throw of her, so that any moment he might find himself confront-
ed by her startled eyes. If only he could at once go forward and
take her hand and say, " Dear friend, don't be alarmed. It is true
I have come to see you — to be near you. But I will vex you with
no importunities. You shall be my sister, if you wish it — my
sister and friend ; and I will ask you to let me see you occasion-
ally, and to help you in any way that may arise." But would
not these very explanations be embarrassing — nav, impossible?
And now he wished he had gone on to Burford Bridge, and re-
mained there until the arrival of his painting-materials. He had
not even a note-book and pencil with him to make pretence, sup-
posing he were suddenly to meet Sabina, and have to tell his tale.
And what if slie were to resent his coming thus unannounced and
uninvited ? He began to think it would be better for him to avoid
"Witstead ; there would be some other route by which he could
make his way to Burford Bridge.
And yet an overpowering fascination of curiosity drew him on,
bit by bit, towards the village. He regarded the most trivial
things aroimd liiin with the keenest interest. This road, now —
crisp and hard it was in the grij)e of the frost, and the ruts made
by the cart-wheels were gleaming white with ice — this was the
road Sabina would come along each time she went to London.
And of course she would be quite familiar with all these things —
the wintry hedges, the wide stretch of common, with its patches
318 BABINA ZEMBRA.
of dark-green gorse, the pond now ruffled into silver by a slight
wind from the north. And still lie went on, with an eye cast well
forward. If only he could see her cottage, then he would go
away content. But how was he to make out which of these strag-
gling houses was hers? He met no one, and so could not ask.
As he drew nearer, he could see two or three small children play-
ing about ; otherwise the main thoroughfare seemed quite de-
serted; for although there were two heavily laden wains in front
of the Checkers, the drivers had gone inside. Finally, after a
moment's hesitation, he took heart of grace, walked boldly for-
ward, crossed the road, and entered the inn.
He was received by the daughter of the house, a pretty, buxom,
blue-eyed little wench, who seemed to regard the tall, bronzed,
black-eyed stranger with much and evident favor. For not only
did she politely invite him into the bar-parlor, but she offered
him a newspaper, and poked up the fire for him ; and when she
brought him the ale and biscuits and cheese he had ordered (in
the mean time she had snatched a moment to look at her hair,
and arrange her smart little cuffs), she seemed quite willing to
wait and be asked questions, which she answered smilingly and
graciously. And this led to a notable discovery.
" Oh yes, it is a very quiet neighborhood," she was saying ;
and then she added, with a little laugh, "But it wasn't last week.
You know we got our man in, sir."
" No, I didn't know," he said — though he suspected, from cer-
tain damaged placards he had seen, that there had been a county
election recently. " I have been away from England for two or
three years, and have just come back."
" Have you indeed, sir !" she exclaimed, as if that were a very
remarkable occurrence.
"And who was the lucky candidate?" he continued.
" Sir Tyrrell Drake, sir."
" Oh, really," he said, with some surprise. " Well, he is a good
man."
" He is a very kind gentleman — he is very much liked about
here," she said, pleasantly.
" But you don't mean that he is still at Beaver Court ? I thought
he had taken it for only a season or two, for the shooting."
" He has bought the Court, sir. Oh yes, that was about eigh-
teen months ago, I think,"
NEW QUARTERS, 319
" Really !" he said ; and for a minute or two the amiable )'oung
lady's volunteered information about Beaver Court and its con-
nection with local politics received remarkably small attention.
His mind was off on a rapid little trip. Of course Sabina would
be known to the clergyman of the parish ; of course the clergy-
man would be known to the owner of Beaver Court, which was
one of the great houses in the neighborhood. Lindsay had be-
come very friendly with this Sir Tyrrell Drake, through meeting
him at more than one shooting-box in Scotland, and so what
more simple than to have conveyed to Sabina in tliis way the in-
formation that he was established at Burford Bridge, and tliat
there would be nothing remarkable if she should happen to meet
hira ? She would be prepared. There would be no danger of
startling her. Their friendship would be resumed in an easy and
natural way ; it would be no matter for wonder if he called upon
her, and took the little presents for the boy.
When he had paid his shot, and was about to leave, he said to
the gracious and friendly handmaiden,
" Do you happen to know a Mrs. Foster who lives about here ?"
" Indeed I do, sir," was the instant answer. " The poor dear
lady is very lonely now ; she is a widow now, perhaps you know,
sir?"
" Yes," he said, absently. And then he added, " Is her house
in the village or outside V
" If you step into the road I will show you."
He followed her, and she pointed out to him the cottage, which
stood sotnewhat apart from the rest of the place, with a bit of
ground in front, and apparently a larger space of garden behind.
He was rather glad that he could go on his way without passing
the cottage; but he stood looking at it — until, indeed, he was
recalled to his senses by the young lady of the inn saying to him,
"Good-morning, sir, and thank you !"
" Oh, good-morning — and thank you very much!" he said —
and therewith she tjipped into the hostelry, with just one brief,
swift, and perhaps casual glance from the door-step at the hand-
some stranger, who was now walking briskly away southward.
And he was well content that now he knew the actual and
veritable house that hold Sabina; and he was glad to be in tho
neighborhood ; and whenever chance brought him that way, ho
would know the precise spot that his cyos would seek for. lu'
320 SABINA ZEMBRA.
deed, so well satisfied was he with his morning's work that, as he
got farther and farther down into the country, he began to devote
his mind to other things, and to liave a look about him for pos-
sible subjects. To an ordinary observer there was not much that
was promising; for although there was a perfectly cloudless sky
overhead, and the pale December sunlight was flooding the land,
wintry desolation was too apparent, the woods were leafless, the
trees nearer at hand looked black. That is to say, to an ordinary
observer the trees might have looked black, but to the trained eye
of a landscape-painter there is nothing black in the countrv — ex-
cept the rooks. As regarded these very trees, he was noting with
delight the golden-green of their stems on the sunward side, and
the beautiful deep rose -purple of their spreading masses of
branches and twigs. Indeed for him there was no lack of color
anywhere. There was the ruddy bronze of the fallen beech-
leaves; there was the dull yellow of the foliage of the scrub-Oak;
there was the sparkling green of ivy and laurel, and the heavier
green of the firs ; the tall hedges were starred with the red or
purple-red berries of the hawthorn, the wild-rose, and the yew ;
here and there the high banks were hanging with the silvery-gray
fluff of the wild clematis. Oh yes, he should have plenty of em-
ployment. There were greater things than these to tax his skill.
The ever-changing heavens would present him with their slow-
moving transformations, from the lonely splendor of the dawn to
the mystery of the coming night ; the snow and the frost would
be his companions ; the moonlit woods would have secrets to re-
veal. And he was especially fortunate in this, that the public
were very good to him, and did not grumble when he would insist
on doing his work in his own way. He might be as patient and
faithful and minute as he chose — or as elusive and subtle and
faintly suggestive — and they did not complain. Doubtless they
knew they could get chromo-lithographs elsewhere.
When he got down to Box Hill, he first of all had a look round
the neighborhood, and saw there what, with a little straining of
conscience, served to confirm him in his purpose. Then he pro-
ceeded to the Burford Bridge Hotel, and managed to secure what
seemed to him very snug and comfortable rooms. And finally he
ascertained that Sir Tyrrell Drake was then living at Beaver Court,
though they could not tell him whether Sir Tyrrell had got through
his pheasant-shooting of the year. The fact is, Lindsay, though
TOGETHEK. 321
he bad now to say, " For I must to the greenwood go," had no
thought of going as "a banished man." He expected to spend
the time very pleasantly in this retreat; and if his work should
hold him mainly bound to these more southern regions, still there
were Sundays and other occasional holidays when a little trip north-
ward would afford him relaxation. If only that first meeting were
well over 1 In the mean while he walked on to Reading, and took
train back to London, anxious to get his preparations made as soon
as possible, and himself installed in these new quarters. In a
couple of days' time, he thought, he should be established at Bur-
ford 13rid<rc.
CHAPTER XXXVII.
TOGETHER.
Eventually, as it proved, it was the merest chance tliat threw
him in Sabina's way. On the afternoon of his leaving London for
the country, when his painting-gear had been packed, and put on
the top of a hansom, he drove to Victoria Station. The place was
busy and thronged, for it wanted but two days to Christmas ; and
it was with an idle and yet interested curiosity that he stood and
watched the holiday-folks, while the porter was getting down his
things from the cab. At this moment an omnibus was driven up,
and about the first person to alight was a tall young woman, dressed
simply in black and partially veiled, who was carrying some parcels
in her hand. Now any woman who was young and tall attracted
his notice ; it was a habit he had fallen into ; but the moment he
set eyes on this black-draped figure his heart jumped. Nay, as
she stepped across the outer platform and entered the ticket-office,
his wild conjecture became a certainty — how could he mistake that
graceful, easy walk, and the unconsciously proud set of the head?
Instantly he followed her — uncertain what to do or say — deter-
mined only not to let her out of his sight. She passed through the
crowded tickct-ofiice and went leisurely across the |)latft)rni towards
the book-stall. He caught a side gliin[)se of her face — and a thrill
of joy and wonder and almost of fear flashed through his frame.
Indeed this was Sabina — her very self — pale, it is true, but as beau-
tiful as ever; he might have known it was she by the luxuriant,
14*
322 SABINA ZEMBRA.
soft, golden-brown hair that the small black hat and veil only served
partially to conceal.
" Mrs. Foster!" he said, almost breathlessly.
She turned sharply and suddenly, with a frightened look on her
face; but she recognized him almost at once, and then she gave
him her hand, in a somewhat hesitating manner.
" How do you do V she said. " I heard you had come back to
England. I saw Janie this afternoon."
" I — I am afraid I startled you," he said.
" It was the strange voice — that was all," she answered ; and
now she was speaking with perfect self-composure.
" Let me carry your things for you," he said.
" No, thank you, they are quite light. Merely some little pres-
ents for two or three children I know."
"Shall I get your ticket?"
"I have a return, thank you."
It seemed so extraordinary to be standing here talking to Sabina
about these commonplace trifles, just as if he had bade her good-by
yesterday in Kensington Square. And after that first brief shock
of surprise, she appeared to be quite calm and collected ; it was he
who was rather bewildered and breathless, and anxious to talk
about a great many things at once. For he remembered Janie's
hint. The past was past, and there was an understood compact
that it should lie buried and forgotten. It was the things of the
present he had to talk about, in this interval of waiting for the
train; except, indeed, when Sabina was so kind as to ask hira
about his travels, or his intentions as regarded the future.
He left her for a moment to look after his luggage ; and then
these two went down the platform together to the train — a strik-
ingly handsome couple, as one or two of the by-standers appeared
to think. The young widow was neatly dressed, too; Lindsay, at
least, was sure that black became her pale complexion and her
soft-braided sun-brown hair.
They reached the carriages.
" Good-by," she said, in a gentle and friendly way, and she
held out her hand.
"But mayn't I come with you ?" he said, with evident surprise.
"You go to Witstead, don't you? Well, I am for Burford
Bridge. It is the same train."
" I am going third class," she said, simply ; and then she added,
TOGETHER. 323
with a smile, " You know I have to be very economical nowa-
days."
" You always were very economical," he answered, quickly.
"And I am going third class, too. Economy! You don't know
what is expected of us poor artists. I am afraid to walk along
the streets with a decent hat on my head."
" Why ?"
" Why ? In case any of the art-critics should see me."
He could not explain at the moment. lie had to get his para-
phernalia stowed into the farther end of a third-class carriage, and
then he asked her to step in ; and then he turned to the guard,
who was coming along.
*' Look here, guard, I have a lot of breakable things here that I
don't want moved. I suppose you can keep the compartment for
us?"
A couple of half-crowns slipped into the guard's hand accom-
panied this inquiry ; the next minute he was seated in the car-
riage, with the door locked, and he was alone with Sabina. In
order to remove any embarrassment, he took up his parable again
— lightly, cheerfully, discursively, as if talking to her were the
most ordinary and natural thing in the world.
" But it isn't because we arc poor that we artists ought to prac-
tise economy ; oh no ; the cry against us is that we are all so
wealthy and purse-proud and prosperous. That is why English
art is in its decadence. Did you know that English art was in
its decadence ?"
*' I should not have said so — not in landscape, anyway," she
added, with a touch of flattery.
"But it is. You see, art always is in its decadence, according
to contemporary critics. Very well, then ; they have to find a
reason for it, and the reason at present is that in England artists
are paid too well. They live in comfortable houses; buy bric-a-
brac ; their wives wear satins and silks; therefore the pampered
sons of fortune can't paint. If they cared for their art — if they
cared for anything but money and profusion and dis[)lay — they
would go and live the life that Millet lived — "
"J. V. Millet, you mean?" she asked, thougli she judged by his
manner that he was only talking to auHisc her.
" Yes. As if Millet painted wrll simply because he was a sin-
gularly unlucky man, and was badly treated ; or iis if he wouldn't
324 SABINA ZEMBRA.
have lived a very different life if be bad bad the cbance. But
take tbe other side of the question. If being paid for one's work
— if living in a decent bouse — or even being received at conrt — is
destructive of the artist's aims, bow did Vandyke and Reubens
and Velasquez manage to paint at all ? You don't suppose that
Titian starved, or Raphael, or Michael Angelo ? Turner did not die
a pauper. Sir Joshua Reynolds painted some passable things, too,
though be did not live in a garret. Well, you know, all that is tbe
Grub Street notion of the arts. And yet 1 am not sure that Grub
Street has done so much, after all. Shakespeare didn't live there
— be bought houses and lands and tithes. Milton didn't live there ;
nor Pope, nor Dryden, nor Wordsworth, nor Byron, nor Shelley,
nor Scott. Indeed I am not so certain that our critics, who ex-
hort us to live in a garret, and cultivate literature and painting on
a little oatmeal — I am not quite certain that they live there them-
selves. On tbe press day at tbe Academy, I know I have seen
more than one brougham drive into tbe coilrt-yard of Burlington
House. Now that's wrong. That is very wrong. If a man's
work goes to tbe dogs when he gets well paid, bow about a critic
in a brougham? Perhaps they don't think it matters much what
becomes of criticism, and so they may have their bouses in Ken-
sington, their boxes at tbe play, their fine dinner-parties, while we
are ordered off to make water-color drawings at forty francs apiece,
or else be denounced as traitors to our art, and hucksters, and
panderers to fashion. It's a little bard, though, isn't it ?"
" They would be quite pleased to see you as you are now," Sa-
bina said, with a smile, "in a third-class railway-carriage."
" Yes," be said. " I must manage to have it put in tbe papers
— they put everything in the papers nowadays."
However, there was not much of serious malice in this mock
complaint of bis ; for indeed tbe critics had been very kind to him,
as far as be knew, and sometimes bad even gone out of their way,
in their usual pessimistic wail, to make of him an especial excep-
tion, as one whose work showed undeviating high purpose. It
was merely the first subject that had suggested itself on bis get-
ting into this third-class carriage; it served its purpose of remov-
ing any restraint between Sabina and himself ; and by the time
he bad completed a whimsical contrast between tbe lot of a critic
in London, living in luxury, frequenting his clubs, gossiping
through Private Views, and perhaps even seated at the Royal
TOGETHER. 325
Academy banquet, and the lot of a poor devil of an artist in the
Canadian wilds, with half-frozen fingers cooking his own meals,
and sleeping at night in a shivering tent — by the time he had put
these two people before her, and sought to enlist her sympathy on
behalf of one of them, they were rattling away down into Surrey,
with the dusk of the December afternoon stealing gradually over
the land.
In his heart he thanked Janie. It was ever so much more satis-
factory to be talking about the merits of English portrait-painting
than to be offering sham condolences ; and Sabina showed that
she was not at ail shocked by his apparent callousness, for she was
most friendly and pleasant towards him. That was until they
reached Witstead ; there her manner changed. For now the dusk
had deepened, and of course he said that he would get out there
and escort her home — making his own way to Burford Bridge on
foot; and he was a little surprised that she should so earnestly
ask him not to think of such a thing.
" Oh, but I must insist," he said. " What, do you think I am
going to let you walk away alone through the dark?"
" I assure you I am quite used to it," she pleaded. " Please
don't let me put you about so. Do you know how many miles
it is to Burford Bridge ?"
" Yes, I know very well. Here, guard !"
" Yes, sir."
" When you get to Burford Bridge, just give those things to
the station-master, will you, and tell him I will send for them this
evening."
"Very well, sir."
Of course, when she saw that he was determined, she forbore to
protest any further, and she relinquished to him the parcels she
was carrying; then they set forth together along the desolate road
and through the ever-deepening and darkening twilight. lie liid
not walk fast — though Sabina was a notable walker, and liked
brisk exercise. lie wished this solitary way were thrice as long.
And it was so strange to find himself alone in the world with her,
as it were, in the silence of the night, with one or two stars just
becoming faintly vi.'sible through the thin mist that lay all around
them. Now and again a parcel that he carried would touch her
dress. That was being close enough to Sabina. That was not
like being some three or four thousand miles away, half dreaming.
326 SABINA ZEMBRA.
over a camp-fire, of England, and of a woman's face set round
about with an aureole of golden-brown hair, and shining with be-
nignant eyes. And he wondered why Sabina had been so anxious
that he should not walk with her from the station. Did she wish
him not to see how small the place was in which she now lived?
No ; that was not like Sabina, who was simplicity itself in such
matters. And as if it could matter to him where Sabina lived — in
hovel or in palace — so long as she was his friend.
" You will be distributing vour presents to-morrow, I suppose ?"
he said (though the silence and the light sound of her foot-fall on
the frosty road were delightful enough).
"They can hardly be called presents," she answered, simply.
" The fact is, Janie and her husband have sent me down everything
that could be imagined for my own little boy ; and as I had to be
in London, I thought I might as well bring some bits of things
for a few of the children about. But why to-morrow ?"
" You will spend Christmas-day at home ?" he said, at a venture.
"Yes, I shall," she said. "But you forget — my home is here."
" I meant London," he said. " I thought perhaps you might
be going up to your friends — to the Wygrams, for example."
"No," she said, shortly. "I am not going anywhere at pres-
ent. And you — where shall you be ?"
He could not help smiling — though she did not see. For well
he recognized the old abrupt manner — the straightforward frank-
ness that used to startle him a little bit sometimes. And highly
pleased was he to find her placing him on the old friendly footing.
" Oh, I ?" he said. " Well, one or two people have been so kind
as to take pity on a forlorn bachelor; and I was thinking of go-
ing to the house where there were the most children — for they
make the fun of Christmas; but, do you know, I really think I
shall stay at Burford Bridge."
" Christmas in a hotel ?" she said. " Won't you find that very
lonely ?"
" Loneliness and I have been pretty constant companions since
I left England," said he, "and we manage to get on very well to-
gether. We're on the best of terms, and hardly ever tire of each
other. But if I should find Burford Bridge just a trifle too dull
on Christmas-day, I may walk over and call on you for a quarter
of an hour. You know I want to make the acquaintance of your
little boy."
TOGETUEE. 327
She answered neither yes nor no ; and it was too dark for him
to see by her face how she took his proposal. Presently she said,
rather slowly,
" I think, if I were you, I would accept one of those invitations.
It hardly seems Englisli-like to spend Christmas in a hotel. And
there must be many of your friends delighted to welcome you
after so long an absence."
" Oh, I think I shall keep to Burford Bridge," he said, cheer-
fully, " if I don't put the good people about. I should be a stran-
ger now if I went to any one's house. I shall do very well by
myself."
They were arrived at the front gate of the little cottage.
" Well, whether you go up to town or not," she said, " I wish
you a Merry Christmas."
He took her hand.
" I wish you a Merry Christmas, and many, many, many happy
New-years."
Perhaps there was just a trace of too much earnestness in this
speech, for she somewhat distantly said,
" Good-night. I am sure your friends must be glad to see you
looking so well."
And then he shut the little gate, and also bade her good-night,
and directly afterwards was making off to the southward as fast
and as joyfully as he could go — his footsteps sounding sharply on
the hard road, a dim mist hanging all around, the Pleiades over-
head showing merely as a small faint patch of silver haze, a large
planet burning more clearly in the south.
Then there was dinner in the comfortable little hotel ; and
there were big logs piled on the fire of his sitting-room ; and his
pipe was lit; and there were visions there — not in the least of a
mournful character. Ilis mind was going back over many things
— the evenings of former years; and he wondered if she some-
times recalled them too. And most of all he lamented that he
had no keepsake or souvenir of these happy nights, as linking her
memory of them with his. The only thing he possessed that was
associated with Sabina was the chalice of rock-crystal out of
which she hail sipped to please him ; and he thought he would
have that brought down for Christmas-day — not to drink out of,
but to grace his solitary table. If only she had given him some
small trinket in these far-off days ! A rose, even, at Mrs. Mellord's
328 SABINA ZEMBUA.
ball : be would bave bad tbe leaves embalmed in a small gold
casket, that he could have attached to bis watch-chain. That
was the night she bad come into the hall as if in a cloud of ra-
diant white; that was the night she had gone with him into the
half-lit supper-roora, with its festoons and beds of roses, and had
lain lazily back in her chair, with the one diamond in her necklet
flashing from time to time as she breathed. Or perhaps be would
bave been more fortunate if he bad prayed for some token of re-
membrance on tbe evening she spent at his own house ? She was
more than kind and complacent that night — as they sate at table
together. He remembered some verses of a ballad of his own
country — of his own country, indeed —
" dinna ye mind, love Gregory,
When we sate at the wine.
How we changed the napkins frae our necks ?
It's no sae lang sinsyne.
"And yours was gude, and gude enough.
But no sae gude as mine ;
For yours was o' the carabriuk clean,
But mine o' the silk sae fine.
"And dinna ye mind, love Gregory,
As we twa sate at dine,
How we changed the rings frae our fingers,
And I can show thee thine ?
" And yours was gude, and gude enough,
Yet no sae gude as mine.
For yours was o' the red, red gold.
But mine o' the diamond fine."
Cambric or silk, gold or diamond, it would have mattered little
to him what this trinket might be, if only Sabina bad given it to
bim as a pledge of remembrance. And here now was Christmas
come — when friendly gifts and souvenirs were permitted accord-
ing to common custom. From her to him ? — that was hardly to
be thought of. From bim to her? — well, that was matter for
long and cheerful consideration, as the yellow logs and roots
blazed up in tongues of crimson fire, and his pipe was lit again
and again, and the slow half-hours crept on.
"o' BYGANE DAYS AND ME." 329
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
"O' BYGANE DAYS AND ME."
Early next morning he was off and up to London ; and he
made straight for Covent Garden, and for a florist's shop there.
There were two or three men about the place, and a young lady
behind the counter; and naturally he turned to the young lady
behind the counter, as likely to be more sympathetic and obliging.
" I want you to make me up a basket of flowers," said he.
"If you please. About what price?" said the young lady,
with amiable eyes.
" Ah, we'll talk about that later on," he answered. " You see,
I want it arranged according to my own fancy. I am an artist
— like yourself, and this time you will let me have my own way
about the colors."
" Oh, certainly, sir — of course. Will you tell me what flowers
you would like?" she said, politely.
He took a chair, and sate down at the counter; tore a leaf out
of his pocket-book, and began to draw some lines with his pencil.
"I see you have in the window all the flowers that would be
necessary. Well, then, I want you to take a circular basket — a
pretty big one — yes, that will do — and line it with green moss,
leaving the moss to be the outside ring — so. Then comes a cir-
cle of white hyacinths — say about that breadth proportionately.
Then comes a circle of those red tulips — a single line of them.
Then comes a broader circle of white camellias. Now for the
centre : the centre is to be entirely of heart's-ease — nothing else.
Do you understand?"
" Oil yes. I think it will be very pretty," she was good enough
to say.
" I think it will."
And then, Iiaving given her strict injunctions about choosing
the freshest and choicest blossoms, and about the careful packing
of the basket, he turned to the proprietor of the shop. He want-
ed a box of fruit made up — as large as one could conveniently
330 SABINA ZEMBRA.
carry — the contents white grapes, black grapes, pineapples, and
the like. Could these two packages be sent by a certain hour to
Victoria Station ? He would be there to receive them and pay
the messenger. When all this had been satisfactorily settled, he
bade good-raorning to the pleasant-eyed young lady, got into the
hansom again, and drove off to his studio at Notting Hill.
As he had left home but the previous day, there were no letters
to be answered, nor further instructions to be given to his house-
keeper; his only business was to get out from a cabinet the rock-
crystal cup which was the sole souvenir of a certain memorable
night. And so, when he had gone down to Victoria, and was on
his journey back to Burford Bridge, he was bearing with him
three packages : one, a basket of flowers for Sabina (surely, at
such a time, she could not refuse so simple a present ?) ; the sec-
ond, a box of fruit for the little boy (he hoped he had not erred
in his selection — but grapes were innocent enough, anyway) ; and
the third a crystal chalice, set round about with uncut stones,
which was to adorn his Christmas dinner-table, and perhaps, in his
solitude, act as a magic talisman to call up long by-gone scenes
(as if it were so difKcult for him to summon back the well-re-
membered evenings on which he and Sabina had been together!).
However, when he got down to Burford Bridge, his conscience
began to smite hira a little. What was he in this part of the coun-
try for? He was a landscape-painter — with his work to do in the
world. And if it was as yet useless for him to unstrap his sketch-
ing implements, at least he ought to be looking about the neigh-
borhood for possible subjects. And so when he had obtained a
snack of late luncheon, he went wandering carelessly out and along
the road — over the bridge that spans the sluggish Mole.
To tell the truth, things did not look very promising on this
short and bleak December afternoon ; but, by turning his back on
the now westering sun, he managed to get what color w^as going.
There, for example, was a strip of golden-yellow fence; over that
the green stems of some leafless trees ; and then, behind and above
those trees, the dusky height of Box Hill, mostly of a misty in-
digo-blue, with touches of russet and dark-green here and there,
and here and there a series of pinky-gray scaurs. He walked on.
There was a suggestion in some coldly-white horses in a dank
green field, with a coppery sun just sinking behind a hill — the hill
in pale blue shadow. Again he walked on. Somehow his work
" O' BYGANE DAYS AND ME." 331
did not seem to interest him much this afternoon. It was Christ-
mas-time, after all. There was an unsettling sense of hope and
elation in the air. He wondered if to-morrow would be fine and
clear and bright; he was going to take Sabina her flowers. All
over England that afternoon families were being brought together
— some of the members from distant places enough ; the Christ-
mas Schwdrmerei was already being blown into flame ; he thought
of the many, many happy households. Yes ; and of the house-
hold of the young widow, who would be solitary enough to-night
in that little cottage. But to-morrow ? She might be kind to her
one visitor? She could hardly refuse the flowers.
It is a most remarkable circumstance that on this same after-
noon, just as the gases were being lit, Santa Claus made his ap-
pearance in the streets of the small town of Dorking, in actual
and bodily shape, though in a guise not ordinarily attributed to
him. The story was told by a very considerable number of chil-
dren, and as on all the substantial points it was identical, it may
safely be credited. They said that as they were looking into this
or that newly-lit shop-window, some one from behind tapped them
on the shoulder; and that, turning, they saw a tall man — some of
them called him a gentleman, but that is hardly the phrase to ap-
ply to Santa Claus — brown-faced and black-eyed, who said, "Go
in and buy something," and put in the hand of each of them a
coin. In the surprise that followed, the stranger vanished ; but
there was the undoubted white thing — apparently a shilling — in
the palm of their hand. It appeared that most of them were for
going home to ask their people if it was real ; but that here and
there a youngster more intrepid than the re&t adventured into this
or that shop and asked for a pennyworth of something; and not
only came out again to show his com[)anions his purchase, but
could produce an obvious and unmistakable elevenpence of change
to convince the most hesitating mind. Meanwhile, what had be-
come of Santa Claus? ^Vhy, he had gone into the White llorso
Hotel, and was drinking a cup of tea in the bar, and asking the
landlord where and when was the next meet of the fox-hounds in
that neighI)orhood ; for he said he had been away from England
for some little tinie, and, now that he had come back, he thought
there was notliing in the old country he could sec more English-
looking and picturesque and inspiriting than a run with the fox-
hounds on a clear December day.
332 SABIXA ZEMBRA.
Lindsay's hope for the morrow was not belied. A fairer Christ-
mas dawn never widened up and over the county of Surrey ; and
already he was on the top of Box Hill, whither he had climbed
before breakfast, despite the clammy and slippery and difficult
chalk. The red sun rose behind heavy cloud-banks of saffron-
brown, lying low along the horizon ; but over these the eastern
heavens were of a clear and lambent lemon yellow, paling into a
pearly gray. And there was a kind of rejoicing in the soul in
looking abroad over the wide landscape, witli its fields and hedges
and farmsteads and church-spires, and here and there a tuft of
blue smoke rising into the still air. And well he knew what was
happening in those scattered country-houses, half hidden among
the leafless trees. The children were examining with delight and
awe the mysterious fairy packages that had been left for them
overnight at the nursery door; the young folk were careering
down the stairs, to search the pile of cards and letters on the hall
table; the older people were still lying half-dozing and half-
dreaming of former days ; perhaps somewhere — among the laurel-
bushes — or by the garden-gate — there was a lover regarding a high
window, and ready with a kiss to be thrown upward from eager
finger-tips. ^^ Wces-heil /" this solitary spectator could have called
to the wide, awakening land. For he was glad to be at home
again, to be in his own country once more.
The first train after morning church took him to Witstead ;
then he walked along the hard, wintry road towards the village,
carrying the two packages with him. He was hardly apprehen-
sive as to how she should receive him : this was the season for the
meeting of friends ; it was the universal custom to offer little gifts
at such a time ; she would take from him so simple a thing as a
basket of flowers.
He stopped at the little gate and rang the bell. The maid came
to the door.
" Is Mrs. Foster at home ?" he said — not anxiously.
" Yes, sir."
" Can I see her for a moment or two ?"
"Step inside, sir, and I'll ask. "What name, sir?"
The next moment he had followed the little maid into the house,
and was in Sabina's parlor. He put the fruit and flowers on the ta-
ble, removing the wrappers. And then he glanced about the place.
It was a strange kind of drawing-room for the daughter of Sir
"O' BYGANE DAYS AND ME." 333
Antliony Zembra to have. Doubtless there were many small neat-
nesses here and there, which he attributed to Sabina's own hand,
but the furniture was cheap and showy — the pretentious British
upholsterer had been allowed to do his worst. For a moment he
thought of what a labor of love it would be if he were to begin
the construction and beautifying of a house, somewhere on Camp-
den Hill, for choice, with some remote hope of her one day enter-
ing it as mistress. And while the builder was at work he would
be away abroad, at Tunis, at Cairo, at Smyrna, ransacking the
bazaars for rugs and hangings, and tiles and brasswork, and what
not for the proper decoration of her home. He knew of some
sixteenth century silk embroideries he had seen in Venice; there
was an alabaster chimney-piece he had nearly brought home from
Genoa, though it would have been something in the nature of a
white elephant —
" Please, sir," said the little maid at the door, *' missis's compli-
ments, and she will be down in a moment."
Then she went away, but she could only have gone into the
neighboring apartment, for he could distinctly hear her humming
an air that was strangely familiar to him. And then he remem-
bered. Why, this was the familiar old air with which his mother
liad many and many a time hushed him to sleep. And where
had this small maid picked it up? From her mistress? Had Sa-
bina, then, heard some Scotch mother slug
" can ye sew cushions,
And can ye sew sheets ?"
Now that he thought of it, he was not quite sure that Janie had
not mentioned it in one of her letters.
The door opened, and Sabina appeared. She seemed pale, re-
served, and sericjus beyond her wont ; she was leading her little
boy by the hand.
" You wished to sec my little boy ? Here he is."
The child was chiefly occupied with a performing monkey in
oxidized silver, one of Janie's presents, but he came forward frank-
ly enough. At the same time, and involuntarily, she glanced
towards the table.
" I have brought yon a few flowers," said he, lightly, "and also
some fruit f<»r this youngster, if it is permitted to him. It will
be better for him than sweets, anyway."
334 SABINA ZEMBRA.
" Oh, thank you very much," Sabina said, and she went to the
table and bent down her head over the flowers.
Lindsay drew the little fellow towards him. Who could doubt
that these clear brown eyes were unmistakably Sabina's eyes?
"What is your name?"
" Harry," the child said, still busy with the monkey.
And Lindsay, looking at those eyes, said to himself, " Well,
my little chap, of course you can't know that in the years to
come Carnryan in Galloway will be yours. And you will have to
grow up to be a brave man — strong and honorable and generous
to women, and fit to be the owner of the old tower of Carnryan."
Sabina came back.
" So you preferred to stay down in the country ?" she said.
" Yes."
" It will be a lonely Christmas evening for you."
He looked up suddenly, and appealed to her eyes. AVas she
going to ask him to share her solitude, if only for the briefest
time, say for an hour, perhaps, or a couple of hours, as the after-
noon faded away to dusk, and the lamps were lit? It seemed so
natural a thing. These two isolated creatures, living near to each
other, and this being Christmas-time, when people are drawn to-
gether. But she noticed that look, and instantly her manner be-
came more reserved than ever.
" Harry," she said, quickly, " you have put that thing wrong
again. Come here, and I will set it right for you."
He knew that he had made a mistake, yet even this momentary
slip could not account for the strange coldness and distance and
reticence of her manner towards him when he began to talk to
her. It was forced on him only too clearly that his presence was
an embarrassment to her; when she spoke it was in a formally
reserved and courteous way — she who had always been so frank
and direct and straightforward. Nevertheless, the charm of the
beautiful eyes, the calm forehead, and the proud, sweet mouth —
the serious grace and dignity of her every movement and look —
the nameless fascination that merely being near her threw over
him — kept him there in spite of himself; and also perhaps there
was added some remembrance of Sabina's greater kindness to him
in the by-gone days.
At length he rose to go, and she accompanied him to the door.
Then, when she had bade him good-by — and, indeed, when he
" O BYGANE DAYS AND ME." 335
was half-way across the little patch of garden — she seemed to re-
lent for a moment.
" Mr. Lindsay !" she said.
He turned.
" I'm afraid I did not half thank you for bringing the fruit to
the little boy," she said, in a hesitating way. " I — I see so few
visitors — don't think me ungrateful — "
"Oh, that is all right," he said, good-naturedly, "Tell him to
look alive and grow up, and I'll buy him a pony."
Then he bade her farewell again, and went on his way. And
if he was a little comforted by that brief token of compunction
(if so it might be considered), he was none the less surprised that
Sabina should treat him in so cold a fashion. He had been scru-
pulous in offering her nothing but the merest friendship. To give
her a basket of flowers on Christmas-day was surely no great thiiii'.
Why, she had been far more complacent on their comin<r down
together in the train. And he could not for a moment imagine
that Sabina's embarrassment and reserve was owing to her having
to receive him in that commonly furnished room.
He walked away over the hanl-frosted country and round by
Headley Hill and Mickleham JJowns; and when he got back to
Burford Bridge, he found it was almost time for dinner. Then
he brought forth the precious cup of rock-crystal and placed it
among the holly-berries with which the good people of the inn
had decorated the table. It looked very well there. It would
give an air of richness and magniticencc to the frugal little ban-
quet. And he thought that whatever became of his other valu-
ables and possessions (as to which he was rather careless, for he
had discovered in various distant lands that it was easy to get on
without them), this treasure at least should remain his. It would
be to him as the golden goblet of the King of Thule — '^ J)cn
Beefier nicht zugleichy
But as he sate at his solitary Christmas dinner that jewel-studded
talisman proved to be, as often it had proved before, an awakencr
of memories; and all the more he wondered why Sabitia, who had
been so gracious to him in former days, should be so unfriendly
now. Again and again the lines came into his head:
" (linna ye mind, love Grpf^ory,
When we sate ut the wine,
We changeil our napkins frac our nccics?
It's no sac lang sinsyne."
336 SABINA ZEMBEA.
Surely it was not so long since then ? — and about her having
then singled him out for very especial favor, there could not be the
slightest doubt. And if she could not recall those days, at least
he could — to the minutest details. He could remember hove,
more than once, at Mrs. Wygram's, she had left the group who
were surrounding her, and crossed the room to talk to him alone.
At Mrs. Mellord's ball, at the Private View of the Academy, at the
little party in his own house, and on other occasions she seemed
to expect him to devote himself entirely to her — which undoubt-
edly he had done. And now her coldness of manner, her studied
reticence, not only showed that she had forgotten how in all things
he had tried to please her, and amuse her, and entertain her, how
he had paid her every attention that was possible in the circum-
stances, but also they seemed to say that for the future she would
rather have none of his acquaintance.
He was rather glad to have done with this solitary dinner; and
then he lit his pipe, and drew in the comfortable easy-chair to that
fire of briskly blazing logs.
Forthwith (so varying are the moods of men) he began to de-
nounce himself as the most ungrateful scoundrel that ever breathed.
What! was it the very kindness of Sabina towards him in the
past that was to be made a weapon of reproach against her now ?
She had given him everything that the most exacting friendship
could demand — so much so that outsiders mistook the relations
between them altogether; and these were his thanks! And was
it not natural that she should be a little embarrassed by this first
and perhaps unexpected visit of his? She had not got accus-
tomed to the notion of his being, as it were, a next-door neighbor.
Then she was a young widow, living alone ; and people were always
ready to talk. As for his unspoken suggestion that he should re-
main, and share her Christmas dinner with her, perhaps that was
really of a nature to startle her. And clearly — when he was com-
ing away — she had begun to regret her excessive reserve, and
wished to part friends. Things had come to a strange crisis, in-
deed, if he could cherish any grudge against Sabina.
No ; he would set about his work now, and get on with that ;
and she would become familiar with the notion of his being in the
neighborhood ; and by degrees they might establish the coveted
and beautiful relationship of old, if nothing more. And so he re-
lit his pipe, and piled on more logs and roots ; and there grew up
NEIGHBORS. 337
before bis eyes a picture of Sabina standing on tbe doorstep, lau£;b-
ing and radiant and happy-eyed, while he led away the youthful
Harry from the garden-gate — on the back of a Shetland pony.
CHAPTER XXXIX.
NEIGHBORS.
After that day he set resolutely to work; and very cold work
it was. But he had long been used to out-of-door exposure ; be
bad a virile physique; and then some unknown friend — whose
motive for withholding his name was beyond conjecture — had sent
bim a kid-leather coat such as is worn in early spring by salmon-
fishers in Norway, and there was much warmth and satisfaction in
this garment. Nor was he without occasional company. The two
daughters of Sir Tyrrell Drake had a couple of young lady friends
staying with them at Beaver Court ; and the whole four of these
girls were, or professed to be, more or less of amateur artists, and
keenly interested in painting. It was remarkable how often they
bad occasion to drive round by Burford Bridge; and if Mr. Lind-
say was anywhere visible, tbey would give the reins to the groom,
and would come and form a semicircle round the artist and bis
easel, devoting themselves chiefly to compliment, but sometimes
venturing to ask how this or that was done. Lindsay was in no-
wise disconcerted by the presence of these friendly critics; he
was too well used to the bovine gaze of gaping rustics ; but be had
to inform them that his studies were mostly memoranda for his
own subsequent use, and not at all fitted to be set up asexemj)Iars
for innocent and aspiring minds. For the rest, he might have
dined every night in the week at Beaver Court ; and once or twice
lie did go over, begging to be excused for his morning dress ; but,
for the most {)art, he liked to be alone with his sketches in the
evenings, for there was a good deal of consideration to be done
in-doors.
However, a landscape-painter, no matter how busy ho may be,
lias always plenty of time for thinking over things; and Lindsay,
sitting at his easel on those chill January mornings, began to
wonder whether he had ever really understood Sabina. Perhaps
the glamour of her appearance, her actual physical beauty, had
15
338 SABINA ZEMBRA.
blinded lilin ? If he had been asked to name what he considered
her most marked characteristic, he would have said an extraordi-
nary frank and ready generosity of disposition. But this Sabina
■was cold, reticent, distrustful, embarrassed, and at times betraying
more than a trace of nervous anxiety. Was it, then, that all
women were a mystery — inconsistent, perverse, whimsical, unsta-
ble as water? The second time that he went over to Beaver
Court, he went with a definite purpose. " I am going to try to
find out what women really are," he said to himself. But those
four light-hearted, merry, wholesome -cheeked English girls did
not appear to invite psychological study. Probably they would
have called it "stuff." They were very kind to him ; they played
and sang for him ; he played and sang for them ; and with the
assistance of two brothers home from school, they had a little
romp of " Sir Roger de Coverley." One of the girls, indeed, was
a tiny and winsome wench of seventeen or eigliteen, with soft,
kittenish ways, and large, appealing eyes. He suspected that
those eyes knew a trifle more than they pretended to know ; and
that the owner of them, in a quiet corner, might reveal afar from
slight acquaintance with the fine art of flirtation. But what of
that? They were all of them as school-children to him. They
did not interest him. They were merry, and very good-natured,
and frank; and they plagued his life out to come to some ap-
proaching ball ; and they trooped down into the study, and re-
mained there talking and laughing and teasing, while he had a
final cigar with Sir Tyrrell. Indeed, they were in every way
most kind and friendly towards him. But they could not tell
him anything about Sabina, who seemed to belong to a different
world.
On his rare visits to London he was in the habit of making
Witstead his station, just in case he might casually meet her in
going or coming. And at last that happened. He had spent the
night in town, and was returning to his work on the following
morning. He had passed through the little village without see-
ing any sign of her; and was walking briskly on, trying to for-
get the renewed disappointment, when, at some considerable dis-
tance ahead of him, he suddenly caught sight of her. He recog-
nized the tall and graceful figure at a glance; all the more that
her arm was uplifted and her head thrown back, for apparently
she was e-atherino; somethino; from a hiiih hedge that ended a
NEIGHBORS. 339
coppice coming right up to the road. On the pathway was a
perambulator ; but the small Harry was by her side, kneeling at
the hedge roots, and no doubt imitating his mother's occupation.
As he drew nearer, he heard that she was singing to the child ;
nearer still, and he could make out the old familiar air; but it
was very lightly and cheerfully that she made her complaint —
" The wild wind is ravin',
Th}- Minnie's heart's sair;
The wild wind is ravin',
And ye diuna care" —
if that was what she was saying to him. AVhen Lindsay bad got
quite close to her, she did not turn to see who this was; she
merely ceased her singing until the stranger should go by ; and
then she continued her efforts to get at certain feathery sprays
of the wild clematis that were just beyond her reach.
" Let me get them for you,'' be said.
She turned quickly ; was it ever to be his fate to startle her on
their meeting?
"Ob, how do you, Mr. Lindsay? No, thank you. I think I
can manage."
Of course he saw that she could not manage, and without fur-
ther parleying he pulled down the slender branches for her, and
she took what she wanted. Then they spoke a little about the
weather, and the hardships of the poor. Then she asked him
how he was getting along at Burford Bridge.
"Isn't it rather unusual for an artist to be painting out-of-
doors in weather like this?"
"That makes it all the better worth doing.".
"Don't your fingers get benumbed?''
"Sometimes I have to give up, and stamp about. But I can
bear cold pretty well."
"Arc you going to take the drawings to America when you
have finished them ail ?"
"No; I think I shall exhibit them in London."
" I was told you made a great reputation in Anu'rica."
"They were very kind to me over there. And of course an
artist's work has to be shown before they can know anything
about him. One copy of n book is just as good as another; but
the painter has to siiow his own original work."
340 SABINA ZEMBRA.
*' And you are not going back to America ?" she said, rather
absently.
" No, I think not — not at present — I have not even thought of
it."
By this time she had put the bits of holly, and the red berries,
and the sprays of old-man's-beard into the perambulator.
" Come along, Harry," she said. " You will have to walk all
the way back, you see. Good-morning, Mr. Lindsay !"
So she left him ; and he walked on, leaden hearted enough. He
wished he had not seen her. Perhaps he ought to try to see her
no more. Surely it would be better for him to light his pipe in
front of the fire of an evening, and conjure up the beautiful,
bland-eyed Sabina that he used to know, who was so frankly gen-
erous in her friendliness towards himself, who was the bepetted
and bepraised and beloved of all who knew her. This coldly reti-
cent woman here bore herself with an absolutely defiant ostenta-
tion of indifference. She seemed to wonder that he did not re-
turn to America. Was she anxious that he should return ? No;
she was too indifferent to be anxious.
But as he walked up and down the room that night, or stood
before the fire and roused the blazing roots with his heel, he fell
to having juster and gentler thoughts of Sabina.
" There is something that I don't understand," he said to him-
self. " There must be some explanation of such an extraordinary
change of manner; and until I discover what it is, I am not going
to quarrel with her. Nor will I allow her to quarrel with me. I
have given her no cause of offence that I can think of. What-
ever comes of it, I must see her, and insist on her speaking out,
clear and plain. She used to be able to do that in those former
days, without any pleading at all."
He thought over the matter for two or three days ; and then
one morning, when he rose to find a chill east wind (that pest of
the landscape-painter), filling heaven and earth with a barely per-
ceptible but perfectly hopeless mist, he thought he might as well
walk over to Witstead and have this matter out with Sabina. He
arrived there about eleven o'clock. The small maid-servant who
opened the door looked frightened.
" Yes, sir, missis is at home, but you can't see her. There's ill-
ness in the house."
" Who is ill «" he said, quickly.
NEIGHBORS. 341
" The little boy, sir. And it's fever — scarlet-fever."
She made bold to appeal to Lim about her own trouble.
" And I'm sure I don't want to leave, sir," the girl said, looking
up to him with timid e)'es,
" Why should you leave?"
" Mother wants me to. Mother's afraid."
" Wliy, you are not going to play the coward at such a
time?"
" I'm sure I don't want to go — missis has been so good to me.
This is my fourth place, but I've never had a missis like her be-
fore."
" Well, I am going up-stairs to see her — "
" Oh, if you please not, sir — it's dreadfully infectious — I was not
to allow any one to go up," the little maid protested.
" Oh, nonsense," he said, quite gently, to her. "Don't you be
so frightened as that. I am going up to tell your mistress that
yon couldn't think of leaving."
He went up-stairs. The carpet had been stripped from the
landing ; his foot-fall sounded sharp. From the top of one of the
doors there were suspended heavy folds of calico soaked in carbol-
ic-acid ; he guessed that that was the room, and, removing the
curtain an inch or two, he knocked lightly. In a minute or so Sa-
bina appeared.
She did not seem so agitated as he had expected ; perhaps it
was the sense of danger that had strung her nerves. Nor did she
seem surprised at finding him there; while he, on his part, did not
stay to make any apology for his intrusion.
"This is a very bad business," he said. " I hope it will turn
out to be a mild form of the fever."
"The doctor seems to think that likely," she said, with appar-
ent calmness. "There have been two or three cases in the neigh-
borhood, and none of them of the most serious kind."
" Oh, then you may fairly hope for the best," he said. " But
it will be a terrible imprisonment for you."
"I shall not grudge it. My boy will have a faithful nurse, I
think. And very glad I am now that I served six months in the
hospital ; I should be terrified if I did not know exactly what to
do; I should be afraid of making some dreadful mistake."
" I wish you could suggest some way in wliicli I could be of
assistance to you," he said.
342 SABINA ZEMBRA.
" Would you mind sending a note to Janie, and explaining to
her why I cannot write to her ?"
" Oh yes," he said, very eagerly — and very much rejoiced to
have Sabina talking to him in this simple, frank, direct way. " I
will do so at once. But I mean that you must promise to consid-
er me entirely at your service — at any hour — for any length of
time—"
"Thank you, I think we shall do very well," Sabina said ; but
then she added, " unless the little girl Elizabeth were to leave.
Then — I — should be rather helpless."
Even in the dusk behind those heavy folds he could see the
quick nervous tremor that passed across her lips.
" Oh, that's all right," he said, cheerfully ; " that's all right.
You needn't bother about that. The little girl isn't going to leave;
but if she wishes to leave, there's no harm done. You see, I am
on my way to London just now ; and in the afternoon I am go-
ing to bring my house-keeper down. She will be no inconvenience
to you — she will get a bed over the way at the Checkers. Then
in the daytime she will come over here and look after things ; or
if the girl chooses to go, then she will step into her place. It is
the simplest matter in the world."
"You are very kind," Sabina said, in rather a low voice.
"Then as to yourself. Of course you cannot be the sole nurse
— unless you want to knock yourself up at the very outset. As
soon as I get up to London I will go to one of those institutions
and send down a trained nurse. I dare say she might be down
to-night."
"Oh no, pray don't !" she said. " Indeed, I can do the nursing
myself — "
"Day and night? — why, it is impossible!" he exclaimed.
"I have a great deal of endurance. And then the expense of
having one of those trained nurses, perhaps for a long time, would
be so great — really, I can get on by myself."
He had foreseen this question of expenditure.
" As to the cost of having a trained nurse down, or any other
cost that may be necessary, you will have nothing to do with that.
That is my affair — "
" Mr. Lindsay — " she was going to protest ; but he stopped her
with a gentleness that was firm as well.
" Do you think you have any right to utter a word of objec-
NEIGHBORS. 343
tion ? You have no right. The care you have for your child
must keep you silent. Besides, I claim the privilege from our old
standing friendship. You have not been so friendly with me of
late — I do not know why. I came over this morning to ask; I
thought if there was a misunderstanding it might be removed.
But all that is nothing now. It does not need to be spoken of.
No ; I claim from past days the right to act as your friend ; and
you will not object to anything I do — you cannot object if you
think why it is done."
Her eyelids had been growing moist; two great tears rolled
down her cheeks. She quickly brushed them aside,
" How many rooms have yon in there — one or two ?" he asked.
She could not answer for a moment ; then she said,
" One room, and a dressing-room. It is verv convenient. I
can shut the door behind me when I come out like this."
" Then the dressing-room will do for the nurse. Well, I must
be off now ; I will see you again in the evening. And don't you
think of making one word more of protest; and don't have any
anxiety — tlie house will be managed for you all right. There's
another thing; mind you keep yourself up; eat and drink well,
for that is the best safeguard against catching infection. And
fancy what the outlook for your little boy would be if you fell ill
yourself. Well, good-by just now !"
She called him back, and lie pretended not to see that she was
struggling with an emotion which she could not conceal.
"I — I must not offer you my hand," she said, in rather a shaky
voice, " and — and I cannot tell you how I thank you; but some
day I will — "
"Oh, it is nothing; we are neighbors, you know," he said,
lightly, and away he went.
He strode rapidly off to the railway-.station, armed with the.so
self-imposed duties, and glad enough to be able to do so n)iicli for
Sabina. Nay, he would have gone rej(ucing "as a strong man to
run a race" but for recurring thoughts of the sick little lad lying
in tli.'it lonely chamber; well, what could be done for him should.
Arrived in London, he forthwith arrar)ged about the trained
nurse being sent down that evening; then he <lrovc out to Notting
Hill and told his house-keeper what he wanted of lier, and gave
her all the necessary instructions; and then he went along to
Janie's with liis brief and troubled story.
344 SABINA ZEMBRA.
" And I want you to do me a good turn," he said to her. " I
think you told me that Sabina took no wine — for economy's sake,
I suppose. Now she must. But she won't take it if it isn't
there ; I mean she won't send for it. Well, I have a hansom out-
side ; will you drive along with me to my wine-merchant's, and
yourself order some wines, and give her address, and write a note
in the office telling her that they are a New-year's present, or some-
thing of the sort, and insisting on her using the wine, if she means
to keep well during this trouble? Of course it will go down to
ray account."
"To your account? But what would Phil say if he heard of
such a thing ?" Janie exclaimed.
" He need not hear of such a thing," said the tempter.
"Oh yes, I should have to tell him," the honest Janie rejoined.
"However, Sabie must not be allowed to suffer. I will tell you
■what I will do. I will go along and order the wine, and send it
to her and write to her, and then you and Phil can fight as to who
is to pay for it."
" Excellent, most excellent ! Come along !" he said at once.
And they went out, and he put her into the hansom and drove off
towards Piccadilly.
In the wine-merchant's office Janie's choosing was pretty much
of a farce ; and at last she protested.
" Mr. Lindsay, if you order such expensive wines, Sabie will
know quite well that it wasn't I who sent them."
"How will she know? By the quality of them? Not likely;
she is a woman."
" Then if she doesn't know the quality, why send her such
■wines V Janie asked.
" Because I don't want her poisoned."
This business over, he got a four-wheeler to convey Janie home,
reserving the hansom to take him down to Victoria,
" Remember," he said, " that though she may not write to you,
you may write as much as you like to her. And you may send
her magazines and illustrated things, and so forth, if you have
them to spare; but I will take care that she has plenty of these."
" If Sabie only knew," said Janie, looking at him with kind
eyes, " she has one good friend."
"Only one?" he said, with a smile. " I thought yon had a lit-
tle liking for her. Well, never mind. By-the-way, if you do go
IN TIME OF NEED. 345
and tell this story about the wine to Master Phil, just ask him to
mind his own business. I won't be interfered with. Good-by !"
" Good-by ! Give my love to Sabie, and say I shall be down
to see her in a day or two."
So she drove away ; and he made forthwith for Victoria Sta-
tion, not ill-satisfied so far with his day's work.
CHAPTER XL.
IN TIME OF NEED.
All was going well ; and it was with a cheerful equanimity he
set about making matters as easy as might be for the anxious
mother. From the very outset he had presumed to exercise a
certain authority over her; he found he could get along better
that way ; he did as he chose, without waiting for her permission.
One afternoon she said to him,
" Mr. Lindsay, do you think you could get a man from the
village — I mean, do you think it would be fair to ask any one to
come into the room ?"
" To do what ?" he said.
"I can't help thinking that one of the windows is not quite
close up at the top, and I am afraid of the smallest draught. Both
the nurse and I have tried to move the top sasii, but we can't.
Would it be fair to ask a man from the village to try ?"
For answer he pushed aside the heavy and saturated curtains,
and went by her into the sick-room.
"Which one is it?" he asked.
She protested ; but he took no heed of her protest.
"I am not going anywhere where there are children," he said,
briefly.
"But yourself?"
" I am not much afraid of that. Which sash is it?"
She showed him ; and with little trouble the window was se-
curely jammed up and fastened.
Then he had to dismiss the small servant-maid Elizabeth. Ilcr
mother came bothering about tiie place, with idiotic precautions
and whining fears; at last he told her to take her daughter away
with her. Then he installed his own house-keeper, who forth-
15*
346 SABINA ZEMBRA.
with got down from London a relative of hers to help her with
the cooking. These dispositions being made, there remained for
him only to cudgel his brains as to what he could send for to
solace Sabina's imprisonment — books, magazines, reading-lamps,
fruit, flowers, big flasks of eau-de-cologne — everything he could
think of, and everything of the best. He had no need to fear
the ingratitude shown by the Lady Greensleeves to her lover.
He asked only for friendship; and he got it. When a summons
brought Sabina to the door, and when she pulled aside the cur-
tains a little way, her face would light up when she found that it
was he who was on the landing. The embarrassed reticence that
had puzzled him so much was almost entirely gone. She was
glad to see him ; she was very grateful for all he was doing for
her; and she strove to show her sense of his kindness in her man-
ner towards him. Nor was he ill to please — when it was Sabina
who stood before him, talking to him, her eyes gentle and well-
wishing as in the olden days.
The way of his life at this time was as follows : all the morn-
ing and mid-day he was at work at Burford Bridge. Then, as
the dusk of the afternoon came on, he would take the train to
"VVitstead, and walk to Wayside Cottage, where he had to hear
reports, open parcels, and the like. His recompense for that
trouble was a protracted chat with Sabina, she standing half hid-
den by the curtains, he leaning against the balustrade at the top
of the stair. Thereafter he would set out for Burford Bridge by
road. For about this time in the evenings there was now shin-
ing in the southern heavens a crescent moon, dally gaining in size
and brilliancy, and over that there was a large silver-clear planet
— a celestial cup and ball, as it were — and he was contemplating
a series of drawings of moonlit skies. He had tried one before;
his method being to have all his materials ready within-doors ;
then to go out and get as accurate a mental recofti of appearances
as he could obtain ; and then to go quickly in and place these
impressions, as nearly as he could, on paper. The critics were
facetious, of course ; some of them indignant. They declared
that he made the moon ridiculously small ; that he nmst have
been looking at it through the wrong end of a telescope. They
asked him where he found the little touches of yellow round the
edges of the silver-gray clouds. They disputed the rainbow hues
of his lunar halo. They suggested color-blindness when he
I>" TIME OF NEED. 347
painted a highway, on a night of full-moon, of a purple graj' with
a faint russet hue interfused. But he did not pay much heed to
these amateur observers, or non - observers. He was too much
concerned about getting his work done; and he cljose to do that
in his own way. They might call him perverse, pig-headed, ob-
tuse ; they might call his drawings capricious, whimsical, meretri-
cious; somehow he did not mind. If they did not like his draw-
ings, they could leave them ; they were not bound to buy them
unless they wished. And, as a matter of fact, they did not buy
them; but the public did, and many of his fellow -artists did.
Now when one painter goes the length of buying another painter's
work — of actually buying it — that is the extremest form of praise.
The fever declaring itself to be of a mild form, and all things
going on favorably, those little conversations between Sabina and
Walter Lindsay were of a quite cheerful cast; and she had be-
come very frank with him — except now and again, when she
seemed to recollect herself, and to throw a reserve over her man-
ner in a way that puzzled him. Ordinarily, however, she was
most friendly, and showed no hesitation about asking him to do
anything for her ; once, indeed, she was nearly going beyond the
bounds of discretion.
" Mr. Lindsay," she said, recalling him as he was about to
leave, " I forgot something. 1 li;id a letter from my father this
morning. Would you mind sending him a note saying why it is
I cannot answer it ?"
" Won't that look rather odd f ' he said. " I don't suppose Sir
Anthony ever heard of me."
" Never heard of you? Why, he has two of your landscapes in
the drawing-room."
" And who advised him to buy them ?" he asked, with a vague
hope.
"I wisli I could say I did," she answered, honestly, " but it
was Lady Zembra did. And I am certain both of them know
that you know me."
" 1 am afraid Sir Anthony would be a little surprised to get
such a note from me — "
"Oh, never mind then," she said, promptly ; " Janic is coming
down to-morrow — she will write for mc."
And yet he did not refuse to do Sabina a service.
"If you wish, I will send him word — as from an outsider —
348 SABINA ZEMBRA.
that the little boy is ill, and then he will come down and see you
himself."
" Papa come down here — to a house where there is fever ?" she
said, with a smile. "It's little you know him. He would think
you had gone mad if you suggested such a thing. He would tell
you that there is nothing in the world more wicked and foolish
than running unnecessary risks. Why, it was his fear of infection
that made him turn me out of the house. And if he were to
come down, I know how I should be lectured. Oh, shouldn't I
catch it ! 'I told you so, I warned you what would liappen if
you wouldn't give up going to those slums. Here is your own
child ill now !' "
"But there are no slums in Witstead?"
" Oh, that doesn't matter," Sabina said, cheerfully. " It would
be enough that I used to visit slums years ago. However, I
think you are right ; probably papa would be surprised. Janie
will write when she comes to-morrow. And in the mean time I
must consider how I am to thank her for sending me all that
wine."
" That is a simple matter, at all events."
" How ?"
"You have only to tell her that you have been using some of
it. Do you know," he continued — for it was most astonishing
how, on one pretext or another, he would keep lingering on that
dusky landing, while the beautiful silver crescent of the moon, far
away in the southern skies, was shining for him in vain, and
slowly sailing onward to the west — "that I can never quite make
out why it is that Janie is so impressive a person ? When you
come to think of it, there is nothing about her of the kind that
ordinarily impresses people. She is not beautiful — the honest
truth is that she is rather plain; she hasn't a grand manner; she
is neither brilliant, nor sarcastic, nor audacious, in any way what-
ever; she has but little in the way of flocks and herds — and her
jewels would be despised by a grocer's wife. She ought to be an
insignificant kind of creature — one you would pass by without
notice and forget. But she isn't anything of the kind to those
who know her. She is a very decided personality. There is
some curious distinction about her that I can't quite make out —
you say to yourself, well, this plain little woman has something
about her that one is forced to admire, and almost to reverence.
IN TIME OF NEED. 349
She is not like every one else; there is a certain distinction and
nobility about her somehow — Spenser's ' Regard of Honor and
Mild Modesty' sometimes occurs to me — but, whatever it is, I
know that in my little world Janie is a very distinct and im-
portant personality."
" But isn't it simple enough ?" Sabina said, in her bland way.
"Every one can see that Janie is a true, honest, unselfish, warm-
hearted woman. What more ?"
" Oh, but you can say that about lots of women," he answered,
in a dissatisfied kind of way, " who have hardly any distinctive
character at all — who don't interest you, in short. No ; there is
something about Janie that belongs definitely to herself."
" At all events," said Sabina, with a smile, " it has not caused
you to fall out. You are still friends, I hope?"
Shortly after that he was leisurely making his way south, under
the clear, dark skies, along a hard and ghostly gray highway, and
through an almost silent land. He was absently thinking of
many things, and not at all paying the attention that was due to
the soft violet hues of the southern heavens, and to the crescent
moon that seemed to have a touch of gold over its silver clear-
ness. And if that riddle about Janie's distinctive character was
still present to him, any third person could have answered it for
him in a moment. Janie had many excellent qualities, no doubt;
but that which obviously gave her value and importance and
dignity in his eyes — that which made her lovable in a kind of
way — 'was her devoted and loyal and unwavering affection for
Sabina. He forgot that Janie was rather plain-featured when he
saw her eyes grow kind at the very mention of Sabina's name.
Janie came down the next day, and was mightily astonished to
find Walter Lindsay's house- keeper in charge, for slie had not
heard of the most recent arrangements. Then she went up-stairs
— a little tremulous, perhaps — not knowing how Sabina was bear-
ing her trouble. But the first glance she got of her friend reas-
sured her.
"Sometimes," Sabina said, when the first inquiries were over
— "sometimes 1 almost think it is like playing at having illness
in the house, everything is made so easy and {)lt'asa!it for us. It
is not like a sick-room at all. If I could only show you — "
" Why not?" Janie said, and she made a step forward.
Sabina lield up her hand.
350 SABINA ZEMBRA,
" No, I will not allow it. It is not fair to other people. Mr.
Lindsay did come in — to shut a window for us; but that was
none of my doing ; he did not wait for permission. But, really,
if you saw how luxurious we are, Janie — the stoves we have, and
screens, and reading-lamps, and toys lying about the bed, and lit-
tle baskets of flowers above the mantle-piece — you would say that
it was nursing made easy, Mr. Lindsay seems to think that I am
greatly to be pitied because I shall be shut up in these two little
rooms for some weeks to come. It's little he knows what some
people have to suffer when sickness comes into their poor home.
But you and I know, Janie."
"Are you quarrelling with him because he is sorry for you?"
Janie asked, reproachfnll}'.
"Quarrelling? No. That is not likely. His kindness and
thoughtfulness have just been beyond everything. Why, I cannot
imagine how he came to think of so many things — what experi-
ence can he have had of what is serviceable in a sick-room ? Well,
no matter ; all I know is that I shall never forget his goodness to
me — never, never, never."
" That is spoken more like yourself, Sabie," her friend said ;
and then she added, insidiously, " I suppose he comes over from
Burford Bridge now and again ?"
"Every afternoon almost, when his work is finished. He was
here yesterday, and was speaking about you, by-the-way. He said
some very pretty things about you."
" Oh, well, I don't care who knows what my opinion of him is,"
Janie made answer, boldly.
"Of course you don't. The two of you make a very excellent
Society for Mutual Admiration."
" Yes— of you."
The remark was a quite innocent and unpremeditated one ; but
it seemed to startle Sabina somewhat. She instantly changed the
subject.
" I want you to do something for me, Janie. There are one
or two notes I must send ; will you write them ? Mrs. Reid
will bring up a small table and a chair, if you ask her, and the
writing materials. And the note that goes to papa must be
sprinkled with carbolic-acid, or he will be frightened out of his
wits."
So Janie set about her duties as amanuensis, and had no time
ITSr TIME OF NEED. 351
to consider further why it was that Sabina had been so quickly
startled by an innocent mention of Walter Lindsay's obvious ad-
miration for her.
But if, during this first fortnight, all seemed going well — if it
almost " looked like playing at having illness" — a time came when
that cheerful optimism was asked to pause and consider. Some-
how the little boy did not recover his strength as he ought to
have done. The fever had run its course, apparently, in the most
satisfactory way ; and the doctor had not discovered symptoms of
any of the sequelce that frequently follow this dangerous disease ;
but all the same, the child, instead of going forward to perfect
health, seemed to linger. Sabina perceived this less than did the
doctor and the nurse, or perhaps she shut her eyes to it; if any
terrible doubts hammered for entrance into her mind, she held
that closed against them, and barricaded herself along with her
dearest hopes.
" You know," she said, one afternoon, to Walter Lindsay, " I
am not in the least anxious to have the boy getting about soon.
Oh, no; not in the least. Of course, the risk of a chill must be so
much greater in this cold weather. I have always thought that
the hospitals shouldn't keep to their rule of sending scarlatina
patients out at the end of five or six weeks, when the weather is
bitterly cold, or when the patient has a delicate constitution. Oh
no, I should not be disappointed if Harry did not get out until —
until the fiowers came. Now is not that a poetical notion?" she
continued, with real or affected cheerfulness. " When the prim-
roses and bluebells are thick in the woods, and the air quite soft,
then Harry will make his first appearance out-of-doors. Poor lit-
tle mite, he will have to be carried ; you have no idea how his legs
are wasted — of course, that is nothing unusual — oh dear, no, I
have often seen children unable to stand when getting up from a
fever. Yes, I suppose he will have to be carried; and I am going
to ask a favor from you when that groat day comes — that splen-
did day — I am going to ask you to lend me that enormous coat
of yours, with the Canadian furs — "
"I will give it you, and gla<lly," he said at once.
"Oh no, no, no; it is only for the first day, and wc will wrap
the dear in it ; and the nurse will carry him out to look at the
world again, and the primroses, and the woods. Why, wouldn't
that make a subject for a picture? — you mi<rht call it 'The sick
352 SABIXA ZEMBEA.
child's first day out-of-doors' — the nurse in her hospital dress,
and the poor little white face peeping out from the furs."
"The poor little white face," she repeated, absently — as if her
eyes were turned backward, and regarding the sick-room behind
her. " And if you saw how thin and wasted his arms are — you
remember the tramway-car you brought him ; we used to tie a
long string to it, and put it at the farthest end of the room, and
let him pull it across to the bedside. But he has no strength for
that now — or perhaps it is that he does not care for it any
more — "
Tears trembled on her eyelashes ; but the moment he tried to
comfoct her with a few reassuring words, she altered her tone.
" Oh, that is nothing unusual," she said, quickly (as if she were
eao-er to convince herself). " I have often seen children like that.
It isn't the plump children who are safest in a fever — quite the
reverse. And Harry has always been a particularly healthy child.
Of course, it will be a long time before he has quite recovered his
strength, but I shall be satisfied when I once see him out-of-doors,
with some bluebells in his hand."
"And if you don't object," Lindsay said, "I think I should
like to come along and join that little excursion."
But that evening he waited for the doctor. The doctor was
grave and reticent ; he could not be got to say anything beyond
the merest commonplaces about the little boy's condition. There
was a singular lack of vitality, he said ; there seemed to be no
fight in the constitution ; the recovery that was natural in the cir-
cumstances seemed to drag. Was there danger ? No immediate
danger, he thought ; with sounder sleep, and some little increase
in his food — if only he could be persuaded to take that — they
would probably find him gradually emerging from this languor
and extreme prostration. In the mean time, everything that could
be done was being done.
Lindsay walked somewhat slowly and thoughtfully home that
evening — away through the wan, still, moonlit country. And his
mind was busy, not with the coming years, but with the coming
weeks ; and there were dark forebodings that, do what he could,
would press in upon him. Once or twice he shivered slightly, as
if some unknown terror had glided by, touching him as it went.
Or perhaps it was only that the night was bitter cold.
A SEVERANCE. 353
CHAPTER XLI.
A SEVERANCE.
The child still lingered on in that condition of impassive lan-
guor ; but Sabina maintained her defiant attitude ; she would talk
of nothing but the young spring days, and the warm winds, and
primroses in the woods, and the welcome big coat, heavy with its
Canadian furs. Only her lips grew thinner and paler, and her
eyes were at times haggard, as if with much midnight thinking.
Once she broke down. Lindsay had been up to London, and
had brought back with him a little toy, which he offered to her
humbly. It was a light little thing that ran on wheels.
"It is not so heavy as the tram-car," he said. "Perhaps, now,
if you would tie a bit of string to that, he could pull it across the
floor."
She looked at the toy in silence ; there was a slight quivering of
her lips.
"Yes, perhaps — perhaps," she said, in a low voice, " but the
thin wee arms are not very strong."
She suddenly looked up, in a wild, frightened way.
" Mr. Lindsay, my boy is not going to die, is he ? They are not
going to take away my little boy from me?"
It was a cry of anguish rather than of appeal ; her nerves were
all unstrung ; and the next moment she had burst into a frantic fit
of weeping. The curtains fell from her hands ; she was invisible
to him ; he could only hear her sobs. And then there was the
sound of a door opening and shutting; she had gone away, to
her unceasing vigil, with its awful and growing fear.
He sent for Janie, who came down forthwith ; and he went to
meet her at the station. When she got out of the railway-car-
riage, she gave him her hand in silence; she was trembling like .1
leaf; she could not utter a word.
" I have got a room for you at the Checkers," he said, " It is
the best they have. Of course, you won't let her know you are
here ; it would only madden her with fright."
354 SABINA ZEMBRA.
"As you think best," was all she said.
But as they were on their way to the village, she said to him,
" If anything- happens to the boy, then it's all over with Sabie.
He was just the world to her. If he is taken away, then she will
give in — it will kill her."
" Don't say that," he answered, gravely. " Trouble comes to
every one ; it has to be borne."
" But who has had such trouble as she has had — and who has
so little deserved it ?" she said ; and she was very much excited in
her distress. "I say it is not — it is not justice. Yes, plenty of
people have trouble — but they are not like Sabie. She has just
lived for others. And now the little boy — her one consolation in
the world — Mr. Lindsay, do you call that justice?"
" Things are not at their worst yet," he said to her. " I sup-
pose you can stay here for a day or two ?"
" Oh yes. How could I go away until — until I knew that the
boy was out of danger," said Janie, bravely. " Phil is going to
run down to-morrow to see that I am comfortably settled ; but I
am sure there is no need."
" As to that," said he, "if you would rather have the room that
Mrs. Reid occupies now, I could send her to the Checkers to sleep.
But I am afraid Sabina would get to know you were in the house
■ — and it would alarm her."
''No, no, the inn will do very well," Janie said.
"I thought she ought to have a woman-friend near her, just in
case anything should happen," he contiimed. "And I am sure
I shall be glad to have you here ; for a woman's judgment in lots
of things is more delicate and discriminating than a man's. What
do you think, now, of sending word to Sir Anthony that the little
boy is seriously ill — I mean, without letting Sabina know; shouldn't
that be done ? Of course, I would do nothing of the kind if I
thought he would come down and alarm her in some stupid way."
Janie received the mention of Sir Anthony Zembra's name with
marked coldness — nay, with open scorn.
" I wrote to him the last ihue 1 was down," she said ; " Sabie
asked me to write. The letter had to be soaked in carbolic-acid,
although it had never been in the sick-room at all. And do you
think Sir Anthony would come near a house in which there was
scarlet-fever ? Not likely. He has far too great a sense of his
importance to the country. A man of such value to the nation
A SEVERANCE. 355
couldn't afford to run such a risk. And society — tbink of the
possibility of society losing so handsome and distinguished-look-
ing an ornament,"
" You are revengeful. But I really think we ought to send bira
word that the boy is seriously ill. And you must write the note."
By this time they were arrived at the inn, where Janie found
that they bad prepared a very snng little room for her. There
was a fire burning brightly ; there were some books and flowers
on the table ; this would make quite an excellent little sitting-room
in the daytime, if she chose. But besides that, they had placed
at her disposal a small inner parlor down-stairs, in which she could
see any one; they seemed anxious to oblige this friend of the
young mother whose trouble had awakened general sympathy.
Janie wrote the note to Sir Anthony that afternoon ; and, con-
trary to all expectation, he came down to Witstcad the very next
day. But it was neither she nor Walter Lindsay — it was Lind-
say's house-keeper, Mrs. Reid, who found at the door of the cottage
this tall, handsome, fresh-complexioned, white-haired, bland-look-
ing man. Standing a little bit back, he made the usual inquiries
as to how the child was going on, and said he was sorry to have
no better news. Then he said,
" You will tell Mrs. Foster that her father called—"
" I beg your pardon, sir — her father did you say ?" Mrs. Reid
said, in some surprise.
" Yes."
"But won't you come in, sir?"
"Oh dear, no — I suppose what you have told me is quite cor-
rect?"
"But wouldn't you like to see the poor lady, sir?"
" No, no ; no, no. I suppose you are not aware that she has
brothers and sisters. She herself would be the last to expect that
I should run the risk of carrving infection to members of her own
family."
lie delivered these sentences with that calm ami impressive
manner well known to the House of Commons, when, having
caught Mr. Speaker's eye, he rose to his feet, placed his right hand
within the breast of his frock-coat, and, with another glaiuu' round
the House, said "Sir!" Naturally, this poor house-keeper was
overawed; but she was an elderly woman, with some experience
of human life; and she had a bewildered, instinctive notion that
356 SABINA ZEMBRA,
a father would like to see his daughter — if only but to say a kindly
word to her — in the time of her great trouble.
" Perhaps you don't understand, sir — the two rooms are quite
isolated," she said. "There are carbolic curtains separating them
from the rest of the house. There would be no risk of carrying
infection."
" Permit me to be the best judge of that," he observed.
" Oh, certainly, sir," she said, with apparent humility; but she
was beginning to rebel a little ; she was a vertebrate animal.
" And I will thank you to take my instructions. I wish my
daughter to be informed that I called, and that I was sorry not to
hear better news. If she wants for anything, I hope she will write
— by a third person, mind — be particular about that, if you please
— she must write by a third person, as she did on the last occa-
sion, and I will see that her wishes are attended to. Good-morn-
ing."
"Good-morning, sir," said Mrs. Reid; and for a minute or two
she stood on the door-step, looking after the stately and handsome
gentleman, who passed down through the little garden, and finally
disappeared away along the road. But she did not at once go up-
stairs. She had been interrupted in some domestic duties, and
she went back to the kitchen to resume these ; and for a while
she was chiefly engaged in considering what kindly little messages
she could safely add to that which had been left with her to de-
liver. And she thought that when Mr, Lindsay came along in the
afternoon, and when she confessed what she had done, he would
say that these lies were very white indeed.
So the anxious days passed. Lindsay saw little of Sabina now.
AVhen he rapped at the door she sent the nurse. She would not
leave the bedside where that small life seemed to be flickering so
feebly. The nurse said to him once,
" I wish you would speak to her, sir. She won't take any rest.
Sometimes she falls into a doze in her chair — for a few minutes;
that is all. No human being can bear up against that long."
" Tell her I want to see her," he said.
In a second or two Sabina was there; he was shocked at the
change he saw.
" You are acting very wrongly," he said. " This weakness may
last for a long time — what is to become of your care, of your
nursing, if you will take no rest ?"
A SEVERANCE. 367
*' I have tried — I cannot sleep," she said, simply.
" No, you cannot sleep so long as you remain in that room.
Why not lie down in the nurse's room when it is her turn to sit
by him ?"
'.' I cannot be away from my boy," she said.
Then she suddenly raised her head and fixed a strangely scruti-
nizing glance upon him, as if she would read him through and
through.
" Mr. Lindsay, is the doctor telling me the whole truth ? He is
not concealing anything? What does he say to you?"
Piteous and haggard as were her eyes, he felt that they had a
certain command in them.
" You are my friend — I trust you to tell me the whole truth,"
she said. " You cannot refuse."
Well, he did not try to shirk the responsibility. As nearly as
lie could he repeated the very phrases — inconclusive as these were
— which the doctor had used to himself. She listened in silence,
and she seemed to be weighing every word. The pale, sad face
betrayed no emotion ; but her eyes were distant and thoughtful as
she retired, without further questioning, into the room.
He went over the way to the Checkers, and sent for Janie to
come down-stairs.
"I suppose you have all your things ready?" he said, referring
to a complete change of costume she had got down from Lon-
don, lest at any moment she might be asked to take her place in
the sick-chamber.
" Yes, everything," was the instant answer.
"Well, there is only one thing to be done, as far as I can see,"
he continued. " Sabina is killing herself. The watching and the
anxiety combined are too much for lier — you can see it in her
face, in her eyes. Poor creature, it is no longer ' like playing at
having illness in the house.' That was making sure too soon."
" What do you want me to do?" Janie said.
" I want you to go right into the room and insist on remaining
there; and then you must force Sabina to lie down from time to
time and get some rest. The nurse has no authority over her;
you must have."
" I may frighten her if I go in suddenly," Janie said, in doubt.
"She is frightened of only one thing — she thinks of nothing
else — she will hardly heed you," he said.
358 SABINA ZEMBRA.
So Janie went over to the cottage, and installed herself in the
sick-room without protest. There was little nursing to be done;
only waiting, and waiting for what nearly every one in secret
feared.
One evening the doctor came down-stairs and found Walter
Lindsay reading a book in the little parlor. He was really wait-
ing for news.
"Don't you think you should send for her father?" the doctor
said.
Lindsay looked up quickly.
"Then the end is near?"
" I am afraid so," the doctor said, speaking low so that no one
should overhear. " Never since this lingering began has there
been any si<xn of a fi2;ht aijainst it — nothinsf but a gradual losing
of vitality — and now the child is alive, but that is all you can
say."
" But surely patients sometimes recover after they have got
down to the lowest phase of exhaustion? Isn't there a chance?
If it is only weakness, there might come a turn ?"
He put these questions without much hope of an answer. What
he was really thinking of was Sabina in her lonely condition, be-
reft of all she cared for on earth. Nor was this the first time that
picture had come before his mind. For days back dread possi-
bilities had been ever present; and in his solitary evenings, sitting
before the fire and absently looking to the future, he sometimes
saw a young widow, in deepest mourning, enter a little church-
yard. There was a small white gravestone there, with flowers
around it, and perhaps, after the simple record of name and date,
this inscription, '"'' Du Heilige, riife dein Kind ziiruckP The
young mother kneeling — that was a pitiless sight — and putting
further little flowers on the little grave.
He had almost forgotten the presence of the doctor in the
room.
" There is no hope, then ?" he said, looking up from his reverie.
"One mast never say that," was the answer. "But, for my-
self, I think the end is near."
" Does she know ?"
" I imagine so, though nothing definite has been said. I hear
she has had some violent fits of crying when she was by herself
in the smaller room. I thmk she is prepared for the worst. In-
A SEVERANCE. 359
deed, she is almost in a dazed condition, what with want of sleep
and fatigue and dread of what may happen. I am glad of it.
She is so worn out that when the end does come it will be less of
a shock ; her nerves seem to be numbed ; she goes about in a
kind of hopeless and mechanical way — yes, I think she must
know."
" As for sending for her father, that would be no use, as he
would not come near a house where there had been scarlet-fever.
And as for her late husband's father, he can't stir out-of-doors on
account of rheumatism, or he would have been here ere now, he
■writes. But when you think the crisis is at hand, I will go along
to the vicarage and ask Mr. Lulworth to come and be with her.
The family have been very kind to her, and she has a great re-
spect for the old man. Don't you think I should do that?"
" Certainly."
" When ?"
" As far as appearances go, I think the boy may last through
the night."
"But not much longer?" said Lindsay, considerably startled.
The doctor shook his head.
" I am afraid not," he said.
However, it was not until late the following night that the end
came. Janie was in the room and the clergyman ; the nurse had
retired; her services were unavailing now; Walter Lindsay was
below, waiting anxiously enough for news. Sabina would not
leave the bedside ; she knelt there motionless, voiceless, tearless,
holding the small, thin hand in hers, her very soul hanging on
that faint breathing that was gradually growing more and more
feeble. And then the little life, happily without any struggle,
passed quite quietly away, and the mother's head fell forward on
the bed with a dumb moan of agony. No tears came to her aid ;
she was too worn out and bewildered and stricken down. Con-
sciousness seemed to have gone from her with that low wail of
pain. Janie was at her side, and would have taken her away, but
the next moment Sabina was erect in the middle of the floor, and
lier eyes were as one bereft of reason, taking no heed of those
around her, and for a second she looked as if she were listening.
Then she went quickly to the window and tore aside the blind.
Far overhead the midnight skies were shining, the mvriad stars
were cold and clear. A little way she raised her ti'ombling fingers
360 SABINA ZEMBRA,
as if she would fain reach to those distant plains, and then they
heard the stifled and piteous cry,
" And there is no one — no one there — to take care of my little
boy !"
"No one," said the clergyman, *' no one — except Christ the
Lord."
And then be put his hand on her arm, and led her from the
room.
CHAPTER XLII.
DARKENED DATS.
This should have been a wedding morning. . The earth had
donned her fairest bridal robes — the soft snow mantle gaining a
touch of gold from the wintry sunlight ; clear and cloudless shone
the pale-blue skies; there were diamonds sparkling in the hedge-
rows; the vane of the church-spire flashed a distant ray. But it
was a black-hued little procession that moved slowly through the
white, hushed world — out from the straggling village, along the
rutted lane, and up to the gate of the church-yard. The neigh-
bors were lingering about the porch ; when the tiny coflBn had
been carried in, they followed, and entered the pews ; no one
seemed to notice that, just before the door was shut, two women,
both dressed in deep mourning and closely veiled, came in last of
all and took their places rather apart from the rest. They were
in the dusk; their heads were bent down ; not even Walter Lind-
say guessed that the stricken mother was there, come to hear those
dreadful words of a last farewell.
When the service was over, and the little crowd passed out
again into the sunlight and the snow, these two remained behind
for a second.
" Sabie — dear Sabie — come home now ! You can't hear it ; it
will kill you 1"
She did not answer ; she only shook her head. But as they
went out into the white church-yard she held Janie's arm tight,
for she was trembling a little. They took up their .station a short
distance from the others ; the by-standers paid no heed to them ;
all eyes were turned towards the clergyman r.nd the open grave,
and the small, small coflBn covered with white flowers. It was
DARKENED DATS. 361
when they proceeded to lower that tiny coffin into the grave that
Janie found her companion was shaking like a leaf, so that she
was afraid she would totter and fall ; and when the first sprinkling
of earth struck with its hollow and ominous sound, the young
mother utter a short and stifled cry, as if a dagger had gone
through her heart. Janie had almost to drag her away. " My
little boy !" — that was all she said ; and she spoke no more as
they made their way back to the village, far in advance of the
others, the two black figures in that world of white. Arrived
there, Janie took her to her own room in the inn. Sabina was
purposeless in a strange kind of way : she sate down at the win-
dow where she could see — across the dream-like waste of snow —
the little church, and its windows, and the spire, and the vane
sending forth its steady golden ray. Then her head fell forward
on her hands.
A message came for Janie that Sir Anthony Zembra was below
and wanted to see her. She went down to the small parlor.
Never in all this world was there a more suave and distinguished-
looking and perfectly appointed mourner; as he took off his
black kid gloves and put them on the table, so that he might rub
his hands because of the cold, and as he took up his position on
the hearth-rug in front of the fire, he seemed to say that not any
one of the trials or duties of life could find him wanting; put
the occasion before him, he was there, and equal to it.
" I heard that she was with you," he remarked. He had not
seen his daughter that morning — not having cared to go within-
doors.
"Yes," Janie answered. "She will stay here until the house
is disinfected. My husband and Mr. Lindsay were going up to
London immediately the funeral was over, to see about having it
done at once."
"A most necessary measure," Sir Anthony observed, with ap-
proval. " It is an imperative duty that one owes to the rest of
the community. And I hope it will be done thoroughly, whether
Sabina goes back to the cottage or not. She herself has always
been too reckless in such matters — "
" I doti't think so at all !" Janie said, rather hotly ; who was
he that he should criticise Salniia's conduct?
" Ah, you joined with her in those foolish enterprises," he said,
with a superior air.
16
362 SABINA ZEMBRA.
" My share in thera may have been foolish enough — Sabie's
never was," said Janie, whose meek eyes were growing indignant.
"It's all very well for people who .sit in their own homes, sur-
rounded by every selfish luxury — it's all very well for them to
talk of foolishness when any one tries to do a little good in the
world. Perhaps you never even took the trouble to go and see
what it was that Sabie was doing ?"
"We will not discuss the question," he said, in his grand man-
ner. " If I have offended yon, I beg your pardon. I merely
wished to express the hope that before my daughter goes back to
the cottage the most rigid precautions may be taken to guard
against the spread of infection. Temerity in such matters is the
worst of folly. It is not bravery ; it is criminal heedlessness. And
I think that even you cannot deny that Sabina has always shown
herself far too careless — only now she may be warned by the ter-
rible consequences."
"But what do you mean?" Janie said, with her face grown a
trifle pale. " That Sabie was careless about her boy ? — that she
"was responsible — " Janie's words failed her : her indignation was
too great. But she palled herself together. " Have you anything
further to say to me. Sir Anthony ?" she demanded, coldly. " I
am going back to Sabie."
" I wish to hear what she proposes doing," Sir Anthony said ;
" that is all."
" I don't know," was Janie's answer.
" For it is quite absurd her going back to live by herself in that
cottage," he continued. "I suppose that at present it would be
useless for me to see her to discuss the matter with her."
" She won't see anybody — she cau't," Janie answered.
" At all events, I should like her to know this," Sir Anthony
said, " that Lady Zembra is perfectly willing that she should return
to her own home — always, of course, on condition that she should
abandon those pursuits which made that impossible when she used
to be in London. Probably she has had enough of that. In the
circumstances, then, and with the condition I name, we are quite
willing she should return to her own home."
" As for that," said Janie (and there was a touch of scorn in
her voice that might have pierced Sir Anthony's complacency, had
that not been so entirely gigantic) — " as for that, Sabie will never
have to go begging for a home. There are plenty who would be
DARKENED DAYS. 363
proud to liave her — proud and pleased. And I know that if she will
come and live with us, neither my husband nor myself will stay to
impose any condition — no, she shall live in any way she pleases —
and I can answer for it that her welcome will be none the less."
" Ah !" said Sir Anthony, looking at her as if she were some
kind of sentimental maniac. " Well, it is a good thing to have
friends. But friendship is apt to get strained if one lives contin-
ually in the same liouse."
" Was it ever so in Kensington Square?" said Janie, boldly.
He did not answer that question.
" Common-sense," he went on to observe, " would suggest that
a single woman in her circumstances should come and live in her
own home. At the same time, if she prefers lier freedom — I mean,
if she wishes to return to tiie occupations of those former days —
■well and good ; she will have her allowance as before."
Janie interposed quickly and with a tlushed fiM-ehead.
" Of course, if she comes to live with us, it will be as our guest.
That is clearly understood by all of us."
" Oh, then, you have put that proposal before her?"
" Yes."
" And her answer ?"
" It was only a suggestion — we wanted her to know that there
was a home awaiting her — and she said nothing definite in reply.
And at present it is useless to say anything."
" At all events," Sir Anthony said, " you are of opinion that she
should not continue to live by herself in that cottage? Why,
good gracious, she might be murdered in bed ; that would be a
nice story to get into the papers !"
This, indeed, was an appalling thought — that the name of Sir
Anthonv Zembra might be dragged into the public prints in con-
nection wiih an obscure and revolting village tragedy !
"Yes, I want to get her away from here," said Janie, sadly,
" but it is no use talking to her at present. I wish she was not
going back into the cottage at all. I wish she would come away
with us this very afternoon, as soon as I'hil — my husband,! mean
— as soon as he coines down from town. That would be the best
thing."
"Then do you return home this afternoon?"
She glanced at him in surprise ; she could hardly understand
any human being putting such a question.
364 SABINA ZEMBRA.
" Oil no ! How could I do that? IIow could I leave Sable at
such a time — alone ? If she would go with us, that would be well ;
but as it is, I must remain with her to see what she is going to do."
" And when she has decided that, I hope you will let me know,"
Sir Anthony said ; and he took up his gloves. " I presume, when
these sanitary measures have been carried out, there will be no
possibility of a letter conveying infection. You might tell my
daughter that Lady Zembra would have written to her to express
her sympathy, but that she thought it more prudent not to open
communication with a house in which there was fever. We have
got to consult the safety of others, not our own feelings."
When he had delivered himself of this wise saying, Sir Anthony
took up his hat and umbrella, again asked Janic to communicate
with him when Sabina had come to a decision, bade her good-by
graciously, and set out for the station. He walked with an air of
lofty satisfaction ; he seemed to think that it was he who was
diffusing that cheerful sunlight over the wide landscape.
Those next few days at Witstead were terrible. Sabina had
wholly given way to a dumb stupor of misery and hopelessness ;
she was as one walking in the dark, seeing nothing of what was
around her, heeding no one. She hardly ever spoke ; she had no
wild fits of crying; there was nothing but this dreadful monotony
of unuttered and unutterable grief. Mechanically she went up
every morning to the little grave, with a poor handful of flowers ;
sometimes she would go in the afternoon too ; and always her
dull despairing thoughts were there.
Janie sought in vain to distract her and arouse her. Some-
times she wilfully inflicted pain, if but to break in upon this danger-
ous listlessness. Once she went the length of asking what should
be done, when they could go into the house again, with the little
boy's toys and playthings. Sabina shivered, but did not answer.
Janic went to Walter Lindsay, who was pretty frequently over
at Witstead hurrying on the workmen.
" I do everything I can to get her to talk," said Janie, " and of
course she has to settle what she is going to do. But it is very
strange. She is keeping something back from me. It is always,
' Wait a little while, and I will tell you.' I don't understand it at
all. Even about the house — it appears it belongs to a Mr. Deane ;
but she does not know where he is ; and when I asked her how
she paid the rent, it was the same thing — ' Wait a little while,
DARKENED DAYS. 365
Janie, and I will tell you everything. I cannot talk to you now,
or to any one.' But she thinks it is you who put the fresh flow-
ers on the little grave every morning. Is it ?"
" No."
" Do you know who it is, then ?"
He hesitated.
"Oh, well, if you must know, it is one of the Lulworth girls. I
asked her to do it for nie. I have them sent down from London,
and she takes them up. You need not say anything about it."
Janie thought she would follow her own counsel about that.
"Then what do you think she is going to do?" he asked.
" As likely as not, she will go back to the hospital and become
permanent nurse," Janie answered ; but this was merely a guess of
her own. "It is dreadful to think of the poor, broken, wasted
life. You remember what Sable used to be in the old days?
Well, last night I was lying awake, and I was wondering whether
it would not be possible for some one to take Sabie entirely away
from what has happened during these last years — to take her
away altogether to some other country, and teach her to forget.
And I thought that you were the only one who cared for her
enough, and had money to do it as well ; and I saw all sorts of
pictures of you two — walking along the Promenade Anglais at
Nice, and Sabie laughing and happy again — "
He turned very pale, but she did not notice ; she was intent
upon her waking dreams of the previous night.
" Yes, and I followed you to Venice — I was an invisible ghost
attending you — and I saw Sabie feeding the pigeons in the square;
and I saw you and her in one of the glass-factories over at Mura-
no, and you were drawing her initials on a bit of paper, so that the
man could copy them and put them on the jug he was moulding
for her. I wonder if such a thing happens in the world — for
people to forget the years of misery they have gone through, and
become happy again as they used to be ? It seems hard, if it is
impossible."
However, these were forecasts of a vague and shadmvy future;
and in the mean time Janie was soon to be startled by a definite
announcement of Sabina's plans. On the second evening after
they had returned to Wayside Cottage, the fumigation and so
forth all being over, these two were seated in the little parlor to-
gether, Janie sewing, S.ibina pretending to read, but more often
366 SABINA ZEMBRA.
with her calm, sad eyes fixed wistfully on the fire before them. At
length she took a letter from her pocket.
" Janie," she said, " a few days ago I wrote to old Mr. Foster
down in Buckinghamshire, and this morning I received his answer."
Janie was a little surprised to have heard nothing of this be-
fore, and quite simply and naturally she put out her hand to take
the letter — for there never had been secrets between these two. It
was hastily withdrawn, however.
" He writes very kindly," Sabina said, slowly ; " and he asks me
to go and live with him, though he says it's a dull house. I won-
der if he thinks it is gayety that I should prefer."
"And are you going?" said Janie, rather breathlessly.
" When I have everything settled up here, yes. I think it is
the best thing I can do."
"Oh, Sabie, we shall never see you at all !" Janie cried.
" And don't yon think that would be best ?" was the calm an-
swer; she was staring absently into the tiames.
Janie's eyes grew moist quickly enough.
" After the friends that you and I have been, Sabie, it does
seem — a little hard — that you should talk in that quiet way about
going away from us forever."
" But I shall not forget," the other said, " And soon after I
am there I will write you a long, long letter, to explain a number
of things. I ought to tell you the whole story now, but I have
not the courage. And I am so tired," she added, wearily.
Janie did not understand what this promise meant, and perhaps
paid little attention to it, for she was bent on opposing this deci-
sion ; it seemed so dreadful that Sabina should withdraw herself
into a seclusion so remote from all those who had known her.
" You have so many friends in London, Sabie ! It was bad
enough your coming down here ; but now, when there is no rea-
son in the world why you shouldn't come and live with us — I
wish Phil were here, and he would speak for himself — to think
of your going away down to that place, to bury yourself alone,
and brood over all that has happened. Is it wise ? Is it rea-
sonable ? Surely you should come among your friends — I don't
mean at this precise moment — but by-and-by, when time has
begun to tell a little. We don't ask you to come to any gayety.
It is a quiet house. You would have your own rooms ; no one
should disturb you when you wished to be alone."
DARKENED DAYS. 367
For answer Sabina took Janie's hand and patted it a little.
" You have always been so kind to me, I never could under-
stand why. But I am going down to Buckinghamshire, Janic,"
she said.
It was later on that same evening, in the dead silence that was
broken only by the click of Janie's needle, that Sabina looked up
from her reveries and said,
" Janie, there is one thing I must do before I leave this place.
I must say something to Mr. Lindsay of what I feel towards him
for all his goodness to me — his generous goodness and thought-
fulness and kindness. I am sure I don't know how I shall say it,
but I must try. I cannot go away and leave him to think me
ungrateful."
" That he never would think, nor any other ill of you, Sabie 1"
Janie said, eagerly. " But surely you are right — surely you can
do no less ; and a word from you would be a great deal to him,"
she made bold to add.
" I suppose you don't know when he will be here again ?" was
the next question.
"No; but I could send him a note," said Janie, promptly.
"You might tell hira that I was going away, and that I wislied
to say good-by, if it would not be too much trouble for him to
call when he was in the neighborhood."
Janie's nimble brain soon fashioned forth a better scheme than
that, though she kept it to herself. Could she not, on the next
morning, find some pretence for slipping out and make her way
south to Burford Bridge by one of the early trains? A few
words with himself would be of greater service than any note;
and was not the occasion urgent? Sabina was going away. She
would be beyond the influences she had known ; she would for-
get; she would sink into apathy; she was closing the book of
licr life. But what if, at such a juncture — and she was helpless
and distraught and uncertain — some sudden appeal were made to
her? It seemed dreadful to think of weddings and wedding-
bells, when one had to think, too, of the little grave lying far
away there amid the as yet unmelted snow; but, short of that,
might not some vague hint be given her that, wherever her foot-
steps might lead her, there would always remain open for her the
refuge of a strong man's love, when time and distance liad dulled
the edge of her cruel sorrows ?
368 SABINA ZEMBKA.
CHAPTER XLIIL
FAREWELL WORDS.
Yet this was a delicate and difficult task that Janie had under-
taken. She could not forget that on Walter Lindsay's return
from America he had told her plainly enough that any relation-
ship between Sabina and himself should be just as Sabina wished
it to be, and that he would be content with that, nor seek for any-
thing more. Also, in this latter time of trouble, his kindness
towards Sabina, though it had been great and obvious and assid-
uous, had been rather the kindness of an affectionate brother or
intimate friend assuming the right to do things for her as a mat-
ter of course. There had been none of the sensitiveness of a
lover about him. Almost there had been a trifle too much au-
thority. But perhaps the occasion did not permit of any studi-
ous refinements of manner; and Sabina, at least, as Janie knew,
had taken no offence.
However, during the brief journey to Burford Bridge, the
more Janie looked at the main object of her self-imposed mission,
tlie less she liked it. She began to grow very uncomfortable.
It was too great a responsibility. At last — and with a consider-
able sense of relief — she resolved to throw it over altogether; she
would surely deliver Sabina's message ; and that, she knew, would
be welcome. Accordingly, when she reached the hotel, and found
that Lindsay had already gone off to his work, she made no scru-
ple about sending for him ; she guessed that he would not resent
the interruption.
In the mean time she began to look round these bachelor
quarters with not a little curiosity. She half expected to find
some portrait or photograph of Sabina — even some slight pencil-
drawing — but there was nothing of the kind. Apparently he
bad brought down with him few things beyond what he needed
for his daily toil. A volume of " Volkslieder " stood at the open
piano, and there were some loose sheets of music on the top.
Hardly any books were about, and there were no newspapers.
FAREWELL WORDS. 369
Two lari^e portfolios in a corner no doubt contained the bulk of
his drawings, and she did not presume to open tliese ; but on the
mantle-piece, above the pipes and match-boxes and cards of invi-
tation, and also at the back of the piano, were a number of more
or less rough sketches, which she proceeded to examine with con-
siderable interest, for she wondered what he could find in such a
place at such a time of the year. And it may be said that Janie
had had long enough training in the art-world to appreciate cer-
tain qualities as distinct from the mere choice of a subject. In-
complete as most of these drawings were, she could see how every-
where the painter of them showed himself easy master of his own
method; she understood their reticence, their simplicity, their
refinement, scornful of perversity or whim or trick. For the true
artist does not seek to astonish ; his work has reserve and repose;
it demands study, patience, companionship ; it is not for those
who choose to run as they read. The Cook's tourist who darts
through Venice has no time for Titian's " Assumption ;" but
probably, as he jumps into the railway -carriage, he has in his
pocket a number of the Petit Journal pour Hire; and every
one knows what a gay and smart piece of color is ordinarily to be
found on the outer page of that interesting print.
Janie was standing there in the room, and wishing that Phil
would for a little vvhile forsake his mysterious and allegorical vir-
gins to paint for her a series of transcripts of the outer world that
she could hang np in her own room (that he could do so, at least
in a measure, she never doubted ; for what figuro-painter's wife
ever believed her husband incapable of painting landscape ?), when
Walter Lindsay made his appearance.
"Pray forgive me for disturbing you," she said. " But I have
a message from Sabie." She thought that would make all things
smooth.
" Oh, but I am delighted to welcome a visitor — my first since I
came here. Won't you sit down ? I hope the message is nothing
serious."
*' Oh no, not at all. She wanted me to send you a note ; but
I thought I might come along and tell you — the distance is so
short. Sable's message was this — she would like to see you for a
few minutes any time you could make it convenient. The fiict
is, she knows how kind you have been to her all through this
terrible trouble, and she wants to thank you — she wants to as-
IG*
370 SABINA ZEMBRA.
sure you she is not ungrateful — and so will you come and see
her r
" It is quite unnecessary," he said. " If I can be of any service
to her, I will 2;o at once, and at a moment's notice, but not for a
trifle of this kind. She has other things to think of. Tell her
the message she has sent through you is enough — and more than
enough."
" But, Mr. Lindsay, you don't understand !" Janie cried. " Sa-
ble is going away !"
There was a sudden hunp in Janie's throat. Almost she was
on the point of blurting out some iTicoherent appeal — " Mr. Lind-
say, are you in love with her still ? — will you keep Sabie from go-
ing away from all of us ?" But she collected herself. She had
resolved to abstain from any such dangerous interference. She
had merely to give him Sabina's message.
" Going away ?" he repeated, vaguely. " Yes, I supposed that
would come; and it will be better for her. Where is she go-
ing?"
" Away down to Buckinghamshire — to live with old Mr. Foster
— and we shall never see her again!" Janie said. "Fancy her
alone there, with that old man for her only company. Now, if
she would only come to Kensington Square, where her friends
could see her, and take her about a little, and keep her from think-
ing ! Or if she would come to live with us, that would be best
of all; for I could look after her from morning till night; and
Phil would be delighted — I shouldn't wonder if she sate to him,
for she is so awfully good-natured ; and that would be better for
his work than having those scraggy creatures about. You might
come to see us then, Mr. Lindsay," Janie added, looking up rather
wistfully, for she had been thinking of what evenings they might
have together, she and Phil, and Sabina and Lindsay, when all
this time of sorrow had gone by.
" Oh, she is going down into Buckinghamshire ?" he said,
thoughtfully. " Well, I think that is very wise. She will be
better alone for a while. It is too soon to think of her going
among friends. When does she go ?"
" Almost immediately," said Janie, who was disappointed that
be took Sabina's departure in this matter-of-fact way. " As soon
as she can leave the house in proper charge — I think she is wait-
ing to hear from some one. But she is very reserved about all
FAREWELL "WORDS. 371
lier aiTangen'ients, and of course one does not wish to worry her
with questions at such a time. She says she is tired. Indeed,
she is quite worn out, mentally and pliysicall}', and so listless
she does not seem to care what happens to lier.''
"That will all come right," he said. "She has a strong pliy-
siqne. Nature will work its own cure."
"This is the first time she has shown any interest in anything
outside that church-yard," Janie said, " I mean in her anxiety that
you should know she was grateful to you for all you had done
for her."
Janie looked at him with almost appealing eyes. But he mere-
ly said,
" Please tell her not to bother about tliat, I understand per-
fectly. Her message througli you is enough — more than enough."
"Mr. Lindsay, when Sabina asks you to come and see her, you
are not going to refuse ?"
" Oh, if you put it that way, certainly not. I will come and
see her, if she wishes ; I only meant that it was not worth while
bothering about such a trifle."
" She does not consider it a trifle. Of course," added Janie,
■with a little hesitation, " I had hoped, if 3'ou came along, that you
■would help me to persuade Sabie not to go away into Bucking-
hamshire. It seems a pity she should separate herself from her
friends just when she stands in most need of them. And she has
suffered a great deal during these past years. I think they would
be willing to try to make it up to her a little. It seemed to me
that we might try to get her to look more like the Sabie we used
to know."
" Time may do that — but not any of us," lie said.
" Couldn't one help ?" said the faithful Janie. " But, of course,
if it is your opinion that she should go away, there is no more to
be said. I thought you would have been the first to ask iier to
stay."
" I tliink her own instinct is riglit," he said, " And it isn't as
if she were going away to some distant country, never to return.
Some day you will find Sabina in Lon(hin again, when she will bo
better able to face the sympathy of friends."
" And will you be there, then ?"
"Oh, most likely. Why not?"
"With a little sigh Janie rose to go.
372 SABINA ZEMBRA.
" When shall I come along to see her?" he asked.
"Whatever tirae is most convenient. This evening?"
. " Yes."
" Very well. Until then, good-by."
" Oh, but you must not go like that," said he. " If this isn't a
Scotch house, this is a Scotchman's lodging. Let me see — I can't
offer you tea or wine at this hour of the day — and I haven't any
confections — "
He was looking round the room.
" Oh yes, this will do," he said, and he fetched one of the big
portfolios and threw it open on the table. " Take a sketch with
you. Choose one for yourself."
"Mr. Lindsay, I cannot, really!" Janie protested. "They are
too valuable."
"You must not leave the place empty-handed."
Janie hesitated. She could see that these drawings were much
more important and finished studies than those lying about the
room.
" Well, to tell you the truth," said she, " I was wishing before
you came in that Phil could make me some landscape sketches for
my own little room at home — that would meet one's eyes every
morning, and always with a fresh delight — and if I were to tell
you which of all those beautiful things it was that chiefly pro-
voked my envy — "
She went to the piano and selected one of the drawings there.
It was a simple little study of evening light, a wan glare in the
western heavens, that repeated in a wet road ; between, a strip of
dusky hill, with a black wood at its base.
"That one!" he said. "There is not much in that. But it
will do to begin the little collection for your boudoir. Tell Mas-
ter Phil to levy contributions all round and then we will have a
consultation some day about having them framed in a scries."
lie got a couple of pieces of board and made up a small parcel
for her; and then he accompanied her to the door, where, with
renewed thanks to him, she left. But Janie would have been
pleased if, instead of this beautiful little gem of a water-color, she
had taken with her some assurance or hope that that evening he
was coming along to ask Sabina to let him provide for her, at
least, a safe and happy home.
It was later than he had intended when he reached Witstead,
FAEEWELL WORDS. 375
for he had walked, and there were some twilight effects that had
caused hira to linger by the way. He had convinced himself that
it was without perturbation that he was about to bid farewell to
Sabina. As she would probably be in a nervous and depressed
and emotional state, it was necessary for him to have plenty of
firmness on his side. He should make the parting easy for her,
and would take care to cut short this formal business of thanks-
giving.
When he entered the room Sabina rose to receive him, and
came forward a step or two. There were sudden tears in her
eyes ; she gave him a trembling hand ; she could not speak. But
happily Janie was there ; and presently, when he had taken a seat,
he and Janie found themselves talking about all kinds of indiffer-
ent things, and, among others, of the little picture, for carrying off
which Janie was now making abundant apologies.
" But that is one of the privileges of a painter," he said. " If
only his friends think the thing worth hanging up, it serves tore-
call hira to their memory now and again, when he may be half a
world away. It is purchasing remembrance at a cheap rate."
" I don't know about the cheapness of the rate," said Janie.
"I know Phil will be horribly angry with me for having robbed
you of such a beautiful sketch."
"But sometimes one doesn't need any such help to the mem-
ory," Sabina said, in a rather low voice.
Janie now said she would go and ask Mrs. Rcid to let them
have some tea. She did so, but she did not come back. She
went into the dining-room, and lit a candle and sate down there —
with her heart beating a little.
Just as she left, a look of fright passed into Sabina's eyes; but
that was for the briefest second ; she seemed to nerve herself for
this interview. Why? he asked himself. He had no wish for
any fonnal expression of thanks.
"Mr. Lindsay," she said, with her eyes cast down, "Janie says
she told you why I wanted you to come here this evening — "
" And I told her how unnecessary it was," he said, interrupting
her. " I see you are embarrassed at tliis moment. Why should
that be so? These things arc better understood than expressed.
What mortal creature could be so inhuman as not to do what lit-
tle he could at such a time ? It is not worth speaking about."
" Ah, do not say so !" she exclaimed, and for a moment she
374 SABINA ZEMBRA.
looked up and reo-arded him with her sofl and gentle and grief-
worn eyes. " I will never forget it — never — never — through all
the years I may live — and my gratitude to you will be always the
same, and will remain ever with me, even if I am not allowed to
call you friend."
He was amazed and bewildered.
" Why, what do you mean ?" he cried.
"There was something else I meant to have told you," she
said, with a tired look on her face. " I have been trying all the
afternoon to bring myself to it before going away. But I cannot
do it. I am not very strong just now — and — and — "
Her hands fell listlessly in her lap.
" I am sure I would not ask you to tell me anything that
would cause you pain," he said. " If I had known there was
any possibility of such a thing, I would not have come here this
evening."
" But you will have to be told," she said, with a further effort.
"I will write. I will write to Janie. She will explain to you.
And I think Janie will forgive me, but you won't. You are a
man ; you will take a man's view. And this is all I ask of you
— when you find how weak and foolish and wicked I have been —
when you say that I am no longer fit to be called your friend — '*
"I never will, so help me God !" he said ; but she went on, un-
heeding,
" All I ask is this, that, though we should never meet again in
this world, or, if we should meet — well, perhaps you would pass
me by as a strangei" — but what I ask is, that if ever you should
think of me, you will believe that I have not ceased, that I never
will cease, to remember your goodness to me at the darkest time
of my life."
Her lips quivered for a moment. As for him, he was stricken
dumb. Some wild fancy flashed through his brain that he would
ask her if she did not know that his very existence was hers, to
be done with as she chose; that faith in the beauty and nobility
of her womanhood was as necessary to him as sunlight and the
skies of heaven ; that, no matter what sorrows or secret troubles
might be surrounding her, he was ready to take her by the hand
and lead her home, as sister, or friend, or wife. But how was he
to speak words of love, with the fresh-made little grave still pres-
ent to his mind ? Was that the comfort he could offer to the be-
FAREWELL WORDS. 375
reft mother ? She was safe in the sanctity of her grief — thougli
his heart bled for her.
" Yes," she said, with an absent air, " I have been looking at it
every way, and I am prepared for that, and deserve it. You will
say that I deceived you, and that I accepted all your kindness un-
der false pretences. Janie will understand a little — the terror I
was in when my darling was taken ill — how thankful I was to
any one who would help me — I had no time to think — I cared
only for the saving of my little boy's life — "
Here she broke down altogether, and quickly rose and went sob-
bing from the room. When she returned, a little time thereafter,
he said,
" Of course, I cannot imagine what you mean, and I don't press
for any explanation. I am content to wait. I am content to wait
because I know that nothing you can say will alter the relations
between you and me. Of that I am as certain as that I am here
at this moment. IIow can I have anything to forgive — or to
overlook, either? It is impossible. And supposing there was
such a thing — which, I say again, is impossible — do you think
that the judgment of a woman by a man is harsher than the judg-
ment of another woman ? I don't think so. I think you would
find a man quite as forgiving as a woman. Of course that is all
in the air. You have no forgiveness to seek from me — it is out
of the question. But when you speak of friendship, that is differ-
ent. I hope, as long as you and I are alive, tliat, at least, will ex-
ist between us. Nothing may arise to show the measure of it — "
" As if you had not proved that already !" she said.
" But there it is, and always will be. I pledge you my word —
and tny hand."
He stretched out his hand to lier ; she took it, and, stooping
her head, touched it with her lips.
" God bless you for what you have done for me in my time of
agony," she managed to say.
" And do not forget what I have pledged you — no matter what
you may write to Janie," was his answer.
Mrs. Rcid came in with the tea-things, and Janie followed.
Tlieir talk was chiefly al)()ut Sabina's going away, the journey
down to Missenden, and so forth. Janie showed him a gold pen-
cil which Sabina was going to give as a souvenir to Mrs. Reid
(who had flatly refused the offer of a present in money, following
376 SABINA ZEMBRA.
the instructions of her master); and Lindsa}', as he bade good-by
to these two friends, and was setting forth to return to his solitary
lodging, could hardly help reflecting that the old Scotch house-
keeper was to be the lucky — and probably indifferent — owner of
a trinket which he would have valued at a thousand pounds and
more, if Sabina had given it to him of her own free accord.
CHAPTER XLIV.
A REVELATION.
He was so preoccupied with his own thoughts on leaving the
house that he almost ran against a man who came up to the little
gate just as he was opening it.
" Holloa, what are you doing here ?" the stranger said, in surly
and semi-drunken tones.
He did not recognize the voice.
" Yes, I like this ! I think this is pretty cool ! What are you
coming about here for?"
Lindsay's first impulse was to seize the fellow by the neck and
kick him into the middle of the road ; and undoubtedly that was
what would have happened, but that the man staggered forward a
step, bringing his face more into the faint light sent along from a
lamp at the corner. Then a flash of horror went through Lind-
say's frame, striking him motionless, stupefying him, and leaving
him only with the instinctive determination to bar the way against
this drunken wretch's entrance into Sabina's home. That was all he
could think of; there was no time to readjust other matters in
his own mind; how to get this man away quietly — that was the
immediate thing.
" I should think you had a longer story to tell than I have,"
Lindsay said, with an affectation of good-humor. " Come, let us
go over to the Checkers and have a drink."
" The Checkers ? Not L I'm a dead man." Then he added,
with a bit of a guttural laugh, "But it would be worth a fiver to
walk in, all the same. Wouldn't old Mother What's-her-name
shriek? Wouldn't her ribbons stand on end?"
The case was growing desperate; for the women within might
A EEVELATION. 377
hear this talking at the gate. And if drink would not entice him
away, what would ? Of a sudden Lindsay remembered what Janie
had told him as to the ordinary motive of Foster's visits hither,
" What have you come back for? Money ?"
" What's that to you ?" he said, with a sudden return to his
sulky manner. *' And what are you doing here ? That's what I
want to know."
"Because, if it was money, I would lend you a hundred or two
— if you knew of a good horse to back."
Foster hesitated.
" Walk down to the station with me, and we will talk it over,"
Lindsay put in, dexterously ; and then he passed out, quietly
shutting the gate, and the two men set out along the dark road.
" Money from you ?'' Foster said, with a mock assumption of
dignity. " No. I can make money for myself. What do you
take me for? What do I want with your money? But I won't
bear any malice. You were a kind of sweetheart of my wife's
before she married, weren't you ? Oh, well, that's all right. And
she's all right. Caesar's wife — above suspicion — that's all right.
But I'll tell you what I'll do for you — I'll put you on to a real
good thing — been a moral ever since the weights were out. I
wonder at you fellows who have money and get no fun for it.
What's yours in ? Consols, I suppose. Ground-rents and rubbish
of that kind — buried in a grave. Well, you give me the two
hundred, three hundred, five hundred, what you like; and you'll
just see something on the 17th of March next. It's Wednesday,
the 17th of March, that's got to make a man of me. I've been
under a cloud long enough. I'm going to emerge then — emerge
is the word — in splendor. Then she can make it up with Sir
Anthony. If she doesn't, I don't care, I shall have made him
serve my turn — and he may kick up any shindy he likes — it won't
hurt me — "
Lindsay let him babble on in this way almost unheeded ; ho
was busy with his own rapid plans. For if only he could carry
Foster up to London with him, there and then, lie could get Sa-
bina to set out forthwith for Jiuckinghamshire, where she would
be safe from persecution. That she knew that Foster was alive
he did not doubt ; clearly that was the story she had to toll to
Janie. Of course, it was all a mystery to him as yet; the one
definite thing before him was to try to give her the chance of
378 SABINA ZEMBRA.
reaching some haven of shelter. Nor did it occur to him that he
was assuming a remarkably bold and unusual responsibility in
thus interposing to keep separate husband and wife. For one
thing, he had had no time to reflect. It came naturally to him
to think of Sabina first ; she was to be guarded whatever else
happened. And, for another thing, he hardly considered the
creature beside hirn to be a man at all — certainly not one whose
■wishes, projects, or affairs could be regarded as of any account
wliatever, so long, at least, as he could be kept out of the way.
He looked at his watch, the clear starlight just enabling him to
make out the time.
"That's bad luck. Just missed it!" he said.
"Missed what?" his companion said, vaguely.
" Oh, well, you see, as this transaction may be a big thing, and
as I know next to nothing of racing matters, I thought you might
have run up to town with me, and had a bit of dinner somewhere,
to talk it over. But wait a moment — I have not heard the train
pass — perhaps it's late — come along, we may catch it yet."
He did not wait for the other's consent; and Foster's mind
■was too concentrated on the prospect of getting this money to
perceive that he was being hurried off to London in spite of him-
self.
"Yes, there she comes !" Lindsay cried — having just caught
sight of a red flare coming rapidly through the darkness. " Hur-
ry up ! — we shall just do it."
He had but a second in which to get his tickets; then he no-
ticed that as Foster quickly crossed the platform, he held his
handkerchief to his face ; the next moment these two were in a
railway-carriage, by themselves, on their way to London.
Perhaps this hurried rush had sobered Foster a little.
"I say, what's all this about?" he said, rather angrily, and as if
he were awaking out of a stupor. " What's the use of going to
London ? I didn't come down here to go right back to London
— like a fool. I wanted explanations — oh yes, I can tell you I
mean to have matters cleared up now. It was all very well when
1 was over at Nice — good excuse getting no letters — but that won't
do now. Look here, what is the good of rushing away like this ?'*
And then he seemed to try to pull himself together.
" Oh yes. The money. That's business. It's business if you
mean business — "
A KEVELATIOlSr. 379
" Of course, I want to talk it over," Lindsay said. " That's
but natural."
" Don't you expect me to blab," Foster said, with a gleam of
cunning in the bedazzled eyes. "I know when I've had an extra
drink. It was after the long journey — and the beastly cold — and
some of the boys were about last night. But I don't blab. No
horse's name will pass my lips, not though I was blind. A fine
thing you would make of it, rushing into the open market, and
bawling the animal's name all over the place. If you want the
thing done on the quiet, then you must trust to me. There's
more in it than you think — it's a great game that's being played
— you stand in with us — you won't regret it — casting your bread
upon the waters, that's what it is — "
The last sentences had been mumbled ; then he turned his head
to the corner, and almost directly was fast asleep.
And now Lindsay had time to think of Sabina, and of himself,
and of certain wistful hopes that had been thus rudely dispelled.
Many things were now clear enough to him — especially the cold-
ness with which she had received him on his first visit to Wit-
stead. It was the sudden peril of her child that had startled her
out of that repellent attitude; she was glad to have his help in
her time of sore need; nor had she shown herself ungrateful.
But what could Sabina mean by saying that, when he knew every-
thing, he would probably consider her as no longer fit to be his
friend — that he would pass her by as a stranger? That was so
very likely ! Even supposing that she had lent herself a party to
this deception — well, doubtless she had sufficient reasons. IIow
had he suffered by it? He had nothing to forgive. If he had
known that Foster was alive, he would have been every wiiit as
glad and eager to be of every possible service to her, for her own
sake. It was not as her lover that he brought down flowers for
the little grave. It was not as her lover that he was now carrying
off this semi-drunken creature to London, to give her time to es-
cape into Buckinghamshire.
As for himself — well, that did not much matter. He had grown
accustomed to think that life was rather a disappointing kind of
thing, a useless kind of thing. But the meetings of the Monks
of St. Giles, in the New York hotel, were amusing. And some
one there had told him that the coast of New Granada offered
some striking material for the landscape-painter. Perhaps ho
380 SABIXA ZEMBRA,
could get one or two companions to make a small party of explo-
ration ? Anyhow, a trip across the Atlantic would be a break, and
the evenings in the smoking-roorn were snug, with the humors of
the merry bagmen, in their playing of poker, or getting up of raffles.
Then he came back to his unconscious companion, and fell to
■wondering how a wretched rag of existence like this could hold
any power of terrorism over such a woman as Sabina. That ho
had frightened her into concealing the fact of his being alive was
pretty evident; though towards what end Lindsay could not im-
agine. Sabina, who used to be so resolute and independent and
full of happy audacity, to be overmastered and subjugated by a
weakling like this ! Why, now, how easy it would be to take
him up and throw him out of the window ! Who would be any
the worse ? The world would be the gainer. Of course, they would
call it murder; and murder is not a thing that a well-regulated
person ought to contemplate, only whimsical fancies sometimes
come unbidden into the head. On the other hand, if it had not
been for the stories Janie had told him, he could almost have felt
some compunction for this poor wretch, who looked so horribly
ill. Nor was there anything in his appearance to suggest that he
was merely suffering from the consequences of a drinking-bout.
Indeed, the curiously bedazzled look of the eyes — which Lindsay
had noticed before his companion went to sleep — and the pale
and hollow cheeks now visible in the dull light of the lamp, seemed
to speak rather of the use of some poisonous drug than of drink.
In any case Lindsay, who had been forming his own plans, as he
sate and looked at this poor creature, did not anticipate any formi-
dable antagonism — beyond, possibly, the ebullitions of fractious
temper; and he was quite prepared to humor these.
When they got to Waterloo station, Foster woke up, looking
dazed and stupid and helpless. Lindsay called a hansom.
" Wait a minute — I must have a B. and S.," the former said.
" Nonsense, man — just before dinner — you will blow your head
off !"
"I know what'll put me straight," he said, as Lindsay followed
him into the refreshment- room to keep an eye on him.
" Oh, you needn't imagine I drink. I don't. I couldn't afford it.
I've got ray living to earn — somehow. But my nerve isn't what
it used to be. How could you expect it? A run of bad luck like
mine would ruin anybody's nerve ; because, of course, you get
A KETELATION. 381
anxious to make the most of a cliance when it comes in your way.
AViiy, at tlie pigeon-shooting match at Monaco the other day, I
shouhl l)ave been in third for the chainpionsliip if I had only
steadied myself with a good stiif brandy-and-soda before the last
shot. A horrible miss — because I was in a ghastly funk, I sup-
pose. Well, here's better luck!"
Now the effect of this drink was speedily apparent in an unex-
pected way. He ceased those wandering confidences to one who
was almost a stranger to him ; he became quite watchful and
wide-awake ; by the time tlicy had reached the Gayety restaurant,
and secured a private room there, and when he had made a plen-
tiful use of cold water in the lavatory, he appeared to have shaken
off his stupefaction altogether. In the mean time Lindsay had
withdrawn for a few moments to send oflE a couple of telegrams
• — one to his house-keeper's substitute at Notting Ilill ; the other
to Janie, begging her to see that Sabina set out at once for Buck-
inghamshire, and to retain Mrs. Keid at Witstead.
" So you have been on the Riviera ?" he said to Foster, when
he returned to the room.
And now he perceived that Foster was regarding him in a
scrutinizing way — as if, for the first time, he was realizing how
he came to be in a restaurant in Loudon, with a former rival as
his host.
"Oh yes," he said, with affected carelessness. "There was
plenty going on there. Steeple-chasing at Nice — pigeon-shoot-
ing—"
" And the tables at Monte Carlo ?"
" No," Foster said, coldly. " I am not such an ass. Of course,
if I had plenty of money I should enjoy an occasional plunge;
but the percentage against you is a kind of mechanical thing that
there's no use fighting. The truth is, I went to Nice as a kind of
business trip. There's some one there who is a partner of mine
— at least she's in the same swim ; and I had to go and see her."
And then he looked still more scrutinizingly at Lindsay.
" I say, my good friend, liow did you come to be at Witstead
this evening ?''
" My good friend, as you put it, that is a very odd question,"
Lindsay observed; and lie met the other's look with one that
plainly said "Utter a word of suspicion, and I'll fell you." It
was an odil position for two men who were just about to sit down
382 SABINA ZEMBRA,
to dine with each other. " Still, if you wish to know, I happened
to pay an afternoon call. My headquarters at present are at
Biirford Bridge — I am painting there. I have been a good deal
over at Witstead during tins time of trouble — where one might
have expected to find you, I think. However, you may have had
your reasons for remaining away ; but when I called on Janie and
Mrs. Foster this afternoon, imagining that Mrs. Foster was a wid-
ow and not a wife — though I should have called in any case, and,
I hope, parted good friends with her — still, if there was any mis-
take, you know where the blame lies."
He spoke very clearly : here, evidently, was a man who did not
mean to be bullied. Foster mumbled out something about the
folly of taking a simple question seriously ; and at this moment
the waiter appeared, bringing in the soup.
" Now to business," said Foster, who apparently had become
quite sober, though there was still a curious, half-bewildered look
in his eyes. " I tell you I have a good thing — how much do you
propose to put into it ?"
" That would depend on the inducement — and on the reasonable
safety of it," was the very unsportsmanlike answer.
"I don't know what you mean by i-easonable safety," Foster
said, peevishly. " We're not talking about Bank of England
shares; we're talking about racing. If the thing was an absolute
certainty, where would you get the odds? Do you mean business
or not? — or have I come away up here on a wild-goose chase?"
" I hope not; but I want to know a little more clearly how the
land lies," said Lindsay — who really was considering what excuse
could be made for detaining him in town.
" I won't tell you the name of the horse."
" It would be no use to me if you did."
"I will tell you the race if you like — the Lincolnshire Handi-
cap, l7th March — there you are; and there you will be, landing
a pile, if you stand in with us. But we want the money now,
when we can get good prices ; and I will fairly tell you that the
game is to be played on the principle of no questions asked.
That's honest now. That's your risk. And I won't promise you
that, if the horse wins, you will be paid the odds you would find
quoted in the market at this present moment. What would con-
tent you now ?"
" I really don't know," Lindsay said, " for I am quite in the
A BEVEL ATIOX. 383
dark in such matters. But that would make it all the more siui-
ple — I mean if I went in at all, I should go into it as a pure gam-
ble, and leave the whole thing to you. If I attempted to hedo-e,
or anything of that kind, I should doubtless make a complete mess
of it. No, I am inclined to go in blindfold; or, rather, I am
inclined to let you go in for me."
" To what tune ?"
" I shoiMd want a little time about that. Where could I see
you to-morrow ?"
" I will call on you any hour you like. It will be two hundred,
anyway ?"
Lindsay hesitated. He knew quite well that it was as likely as
not he would never see a farthing of his money again — he had
seen too often in his life the result of these "good things" and
" morals." But it was necessary that the inducement hung before
Foster's eyes to keep him in town for perhaps several days should
be sufficiently large. Two hundred pounds? — it seemed a pity to
throw it away. Then he thought of Sabina, safe in the shelter of
the old man's house down in Buckinghamshire. And he had no
kith or kin of his own.
"Yes, I think I can guarantee two hundred," he said. "Give
me your address, and I will telegraph to you to-morrow when to
come and see me, if you can make it convenient. I suppose you
will be in town all day."
Foster pencilled his address on an envelope, and Lindsay put it
in his pocket. For that next day, at all events, there was secu-
rity.
Thereafter, during the course of the little banquet, Fred Foster
endeavored to make himself very amiable, perhaps out of gratitude
for this promise of money. He ate next to nothing, and drank
very little ; but the little he did drink had an effect on him that
Lindsay could not in the least understand. He relapsed into his
maundering garrulity, and then grew comatose ; and liually got up
and said that as he had suffered terribly from sleeplessness of late,
and now felt tliat he could drop off at once, he would go straight
home and go to bed. Lindsay was not loath to see him depart;
probably no two more ill-assorted comrades ever sate down atone
table toiicther. And then he also went home.
384 SABINA ZEMBKA.
CHAPTER XLV.
CONSPIRATORS. *
Lindsay did not sleep well that night; and next morning he
was up betimes, and off by an early train to Witstead. During
those restless hours he had begun to doubt. Perhaps his inter-
ference at such a crisis was just a little high-handed, and might
provoke resentment? Perhaps Sabina ought to know why he had
urged her immediate leaving for Buckinghamshire ? Indeed, there
were a hundred plausible reasons why he should go down and con-
sult Janie, and see that Sabina was got safely away. But he rather
strove to conceal from himself the real reason, which was this : he
wished Sabina to understand that, despite the knowledge he had
just acquired, he was just as much her faithful friend as ever. To
pass her by without recognition ? That was not likely.
There was another thing which he tried to hide from himself,
or to forget — and that was the tragic hopelessness of the whole
situation. What was her future life to be ? And his own ? Per-
haps there was nothing dramatically pathetic in his position — no
definite sorrov^f to be met and conquered — no sudden blow of evil
fortune to be faced. A gray waste of years makes no particular
appeal to the human heart. And indeed, for his own part, he de-
liberately avoided looking at any such prospect. The immediate
details he made matters of importance, and strove to confine his at-
tention to them. As soon as he knew when Sabina could start,
he would telegraph to the Red Lion Hotel, High Wycombe, ask-
ing the landlord to have a conveyance ready to take her to Mis-
senden. And then, as regarded himself ? Well, he went no fur-
ther than the meetings of the Monks of St. Giles, in New York.
These were quite merry and pleasant. But his face looked rather
pallid and worn as he sate in the railway-carriage and absently
looked at the passing landscape.
When he reached the cottage he asked for Janie ; and presently
Janie appeared, looking scared and breathless.
" Oh, Mr. Lindsay, I have something dreadful to say to you,"
CONSPIEATOES. 385
she broke in at once, before he could make any excuse for his visit.
"Sabie has told me everything at last. After you left last
night she was in a dreadful way — she was crying — and saying she
had never received such kindness from any human being as from
you — and that you would despise her — and — and — be ashamed to
think you had ever made her your friend. And then she told
me — what she had intended to tell you, but she hadn't the cour-
atre— "
o
" Yes," said he, coming to her aid, for he could see how agitated
she was, " but don't vex yourself about it. I know the whole
story. I had the honor of Mr. Fred Foster's company at dinner
last night."
She stared at him — he seemed to take the matter so quietly.
" I met him at the gate as I was going away — "
"We heard some people talking," she said, breathlessly.
" And as I thought he was drunk, I coaxed him itito going
back to London. I admit it was rather a cool thing to do, but I
don't see how any harm can come of it. He got a good dinner,
and went oflE home a little more sober than when I found him —
not that I say he was really drunk — I fancy he was as much stupe-
fied as anything else."
" But," said Janie, in a bewildered way — " but you are not
angry with Sabie ?"
" Angry ? On what account ?"
" For allowing us all to think he was dead."
" I suppose she had sufficient reasons."
" Ah, didn't I tell her you would say that !" Janie exclaimed,
triumphantly. "Didn't I say you would pass a charitable judg-
ment on anything she did."
" But I do not wish to judge her at all," he said, calmly.
" And you don't want to be told why it was that Sabie allowed
such a thing?"
" 1 certainly don't ask to be told," he answered. " I assume
that you know her reasons. Yet you don't seem to have fallen
out with her. And why should I presume to be her judge, in
any case?"
" Perhaps you don't know how she values your good opinion,"
Janie said. And then she hesitated. " Yes, I suppose you would
bo content to say, ' Well, whatever it was that lia])pened, Sabie
did what was right,' and you would ask nothing further about it.
17
386 SABINA ZEMBRA.
But if I were to let you go away like that, I know what she would
say ; she would say, ' Ah, you dared not tell him — you were afraid
to see what he would think of me — you hesitated because you
knew you would be cuttino; adrift from me the best of all my
friends.' You understand, Mr. Lindsay, that she is far more sen-
sitive now than she used to be; her troubles and her living alone
have altered her a good deal — and if you only knew how anxious
she is, you would not think hardly of her."
It was clear that Janie herself was considerably anxious, if her
face told a true tale.
*' She says a woman would understand her position a little better
— and perhaps forgive her ; but not you."
*' I never heard yet," said he, " that a man was likely to be more
uncharitable towards a woman than another woman would be. I
should have thought it would be the other way about."
" Supposing," Janie said, rather tremblingly, and she fixed her
eyes upon him, " supposing that Sabie was accused of — of — ob-
taining money on false pretences?"
"I should not believe it," he said, simply.
"But — but if it were true? I suppose nothing would excuse
it? You would never forgive her — a man would never forgive
her!"
She was regarding him with piteous eyes.
"Now that you have told me so much, you must tell me the
whole," he said. "Who makes such an accusation?"
"It was her own phrase — the very words she used when she
was putting everything as harshly as it could be put, and then
challenging me to say that you would not think ill of her. And
if I tell you the story now — if I tell it badly — so that you have
no sympathy with her, I am frightened — "
"You need not be frightened," he said. "None of us who
have known her are likely to think hardly of her, whatever she
has done."
" And indeed it was all Foster's doing !" Janie pleaded, earnest-
ly. "He terrified her into it. He was at his wit's end for mon-
ey. He declared that there was but the one chance to save him
from utter ruin. Then he got her to go to Sir Anthony — but that
was no use — and she knew it would be no use. Foster was des-
perate ; Sabina herself does not understand what scheme he had
on foot ; but he was determined to get some money somehow ;
CONSPIRATORS. 387
and so he made sure that if notice of his death were sent to Sir
Anthony, there would be some provision made for the supposed
•widow. And do you know how he forced her into it? He swore,
on oath, that if she didn't help him in that way, he would take
the boy away with him to Australia, as soon as the law allowed
Iiim to do that, and that she would never sec either of thorn ai;-ain.
It wasn't the first time he had made the threat — he had made it
before — and oh, Mr. Lindsay, if you had seen Sabie the day she
came to us to tell us — it was terrible, terrible ! I never saw any
one so wild with alarm and despair. Just the one thing she lived
for to be taken out of her life ! Of course, Phil told her that Fos-
ter could not do such a thing just then ; but she said it was all the
more horrible to be looking forward to it when the boy would be
her companion — fancy a child of seven to be taken away from the
mother — and that is English law ! She says herself she thinks
she must have been half mad ; she clung to the little boy so ; and
she was in such terror. Foster did it all. He had an advertise-
ment of his death put in a Yorkshire paper; and all she did was
to send that to Sir Anthony and to us, and ask us not to come
down for a time. When Sir Anthony and I did come down, she
was like a stone. And of course neither of us pretended to offer
her sympathy ; I suppose both of us were secretly glad that the
wretch was gone. Sir Anthony gave her a chock there and thon ;
and he doubled her allowance — making it what it was before her
marriage ; of course, every farthing of that — every farthing she
could scrape together — being claimed by that scoundrel. Now
that is the whole extent of it — and it was all done under the ter-
rorism about the taking away of the little boy. Mr. Lindsay,"
said Janie, at the end of this appeal — and her eyes were filled with
tears — " you're not going to give up Sabie ? you're not going to
ask me to tell her that you are no longer her friend ?"
"I am sure you will tell her nothing of the kind — so long as
my friendship is of any use to her," he said. " It is a pitiable
story. I suppose, in her present state, she exaggerates hor share
in it. And so she thinks a man would take a less charitable view
of it than a woman ? Well, I don't know about that. I think a
man can see what her situation was just as well as a woman — a
very miserable and unhappy situation that one naturally wishes
she had never found herself in — "
"Bat it's your forgiveness she seeks for," said Janio, tiiiiiilly.
388 SABINA ZEMBRA.
" My forgiveness ?" he repeated. " I refuse to utter a single
■word of blame."
Then Janio laughed through her tears.
" Ah, didn't I say that ! — when she wouldn't believe me. And
she is making all the reparation she can," Janie added, eagerly.
" You see, the death of the poor little boy left her free. Foster
has no longer any hold over her. She won't take another penny
of any kind from her father; as soon as she gets down into
Buckinghamshire she is going to write to him and confess every-
thing, and give up the whole of her allowance. Old Mr. Foster is
only too glad to have her go and live with him; and Sabie never
had expensive habits. Then, as for her husband, I suppose the
old gentleman can easily prevent his coming about the place —
Fred Foster will now be entirely dependent on him,"
She glanced at him anxiously.
" I don't know how it is," she said, " but always you seem to
bring strength and calmness with you — and a sense of safety.
This morning, when I woke, I thought everything was at its worst ;
there did not seem a glimpse of hope anywhere; and even when I
thought of you, it was with a kind of fear — for I was not quite sure
— I was not quite so sure as I pretended to be to Sabie. But now,
now you will let me tell her you don't think so badly of her — "
"That is not the message," said he. "If you think she cares
for my opinion at all, you may tell her that I quite understand
how she was driven to give an unwilling consent, and that I have
no blame for her — none."
" It will be one little bit of happiness for her," said Janie.
" And I suppose she will be safe from his persecution down there.
It's little he knows why she was so tame and obedient before.
That is all over now. And that of itself is something. But,"
she added, wistfully, " I had been looking forward to a very dif-
ferent future for our Sabie."
"You got my telegram last night, I suppose?" he said,
" Yes ; and I shall be as glad to get away as she will. Fancy
if Foster were to come down and find me here !"
"Well, is he a person to be afraid of? But I will see to that.
lie will not come down here until you are both of you away.
When can you go ?"
"The few things will be packed to-day; and I think we can
leave to-morrow mornino;."
CONSPIRATORS. 389
"Very well; you needn't be afraid of Foster coming down,"
said he. " Then I suppose you know what to do. Sabina will tell
you whether it is to High Wycombe or to Prince's Risboroiigh
you should telegraph to have a trap waiting. And of course you
will telegraph to Missenden as well. I suppose it is too much to
ask that you should go with her all the way ?"
"But I have Phil's strict orders!" Janie exclaimed. "I am
not to leave her until she is comfortably settled in her new
home."
" Oh, that is all right," he said. " I shall be glad to have a line
from you when everything has been arranged."
He rose to go.
"And you ?" said Janie.
He understood well enough the meaning of this half-frightened
question ; but he only answered, carelessly,
"Oh, well, I have still some things to get finished up at Bur-
ford Bridge. And I have been thinking of running down to Scot-
land for a few days, to put ray small affairs in order. After that
— I don't know."
" I will write as soon as Sabie is settled in Buckinghamshire,"
Janie said. " I suppose you would not care to see her now ? No ;
it would be better not. She is very much upset ; and I should like
to prepare her — oh, she will be so glad to know that you still think
well and kindly of her. There is not any one whose opinion she
values so much."
" Make her mind perfectly clear about that, then," he said, in
parting; and then he left the house and returned to London,
This was an objectless kind of day somehow. He did not know
what to do with himself. He could find no employment in his
studio. He walked along to the Arts Club, and dawdled away
some time there, reading magazines, smoking, chatting to casual
droppers-in. Then he went out into the melancholy dusk of the
London afternoon, and wandered about the streets and squares,
watching here and there the golden gleam of a newly-lit gas lamp
suddenly shoot through the gray. Finally, he got back to the Club
again, ordereil a bit of dinner, and sate down at a small table by
himself — which was not his usual way, for he had heaps of friends
and acquaintances.
One of these came into the room.
" Holloa, Lindsay, all alone ? What's the matter ? — you're look-
390 SABINA ZEMBRA.
ing rather glum. And yet you shouldn't be. Of course, you've
heard what they're prophesying about you ?"
"I have heard nothing — I. have been down in the country."
" You don't mean to say you haven't heard that there is a
knighthood being got ready for you ? Don't you know that
talks of resigning? then, as a matter of certainty, the Society will
elect you their new President ; and every one says the Queen will
rise to the occasion. My congratulations, Sir Walter 1"
The recipient of this news did not seem to take much interest
in it, however ; perhaps the contingency was too remote ; perhaps
the Lindsays of Carnryan could afford to be indifferent about any
such decoration.
"I will join you — to the extent of a sherry-and-bitters," said
this amiable new-comer, drawing in a chair. " But what is the mat-
ter, really? You look very depressed."
"I have reason to be depressed," Lindsay said, "and I will tell
you what it is. Either to-night or to-morrow morning I have to
meet a man, and my difficulty will be to keep from murdering him.
If I murder him it will be bad for me ; if I don't, it will be a dis-
tinct disservice to the country in which the hound is allowed to
live. That's all."
" What has he done to you?"
" Nothing to me."
" Oh, nonsense ; people don't take such violent dislikes for noth-
ing — unless you're chaffing. Or is there a woman in the affair ?"
" There is, in a way," Lindsay answered, frankly. " It is his
conduct to his wife that beats anything in the way of meanness —
meanness and brutality — that was ever heard of. If I were to tell
you here, now, you would want to kick him across the square and
back again, and along down Oxford Street, until your boots gave
out. And the infernal ruffian dined with me last night ! I didn't
know the fifteenth part of what he had done. And he dined with
me — sate at the same table !"
Lindsay had begun his story in the ordinary tone of Club persi-
flage, but there was a darker light gathering in his eyes. His com-
panion hesitated for an instant, and then made bold to say,
" My good friend, pray excuse me. I don't want to intermed-
dle, but I would strongly advise you to come out of that. It is a
very dangerous position. When a man has strong sympathy with
a married woman who has been injured, and would like to kick
A CONFESSION. 391
and cowhide the husband — mind, I am not speaking of this par-
ticular case, but I have noticed that mischief generally comes of it.
You, of all people, too ! You know the kind of talk that goes
on about everybody. Well, I never heard your name coupled
■with the name of a woman even in the most innocent way. Oh,
yes; there was once, of course. You were pretty badly hit that
time, but I suppose you have forgotten all about it now. Let me
see, what was her name ? The beautiful tall girl, with the splen-
did hair, who came once or twice to Mrs. Mellord's. She lived
down in Kensington Square with some old people — "
" I know whom you mean," said Lindsay, shortly.
" But you have forgotten her name ! Lord, Lord, what faith-
fulness there is in man I"
" Her name was then Miss Zembra. I will ask you not to say
anything further about her."
" Her name then ? Oh, yes, I think I remember something
about her getting married." And then he seemed to be struck
with some sudden fancy, and he looked quickly at Lindsay. "I
say, Lindsay, you don't mean that — "
He stopped, and his silence was more significant than words.
He dared not even ask whether the Miss Zembra of that time was
the married woman whose injuries were now appealing to Lind-
say's sympathy, and to his indignation and anger. But the
sherry-and-bitters was finished. He rose.
" Of course, anything I said was only in chaflf," he said, " but
men do get into scrapes in the most innocent wa}'. And any-
body going down to Windsor to be knighted would have to have
a pretty clean record, as the sayint; is."
" Murder might be objected to?" Lindsay said, looking up.
" If I were you I wouldn't see that man, either to-night or to-
morrow morning," his acquaintance said. "Just you take care.
There can be no harm in giving you so much advice. Ta-ta !
I'm going to dine at the Restaurant, and Lord have mercy on
my soul !"
But Lindsay was not much alarmed. Having finished with
dinner, he went up-stairs to the smoking-room, and there, after
some deliberation, wrote a note to Fred Foster, asking liim to
call at his, Lindsay's, studio the next day at noon; the money
would then be waiting for him. He despatched this note by a
commissionaire a little after eight o'clock ; and ho guessed that
392 SABINA ZEilBRA.
it was not likely Foster would think of going down to "VYitstead
at so late an hour; while, as for the following morning, he would
have to be in London at least until twelve.
CHAPTER XLVI.
A KEEPSAKE.
Punctually at noon Fred Foster arrived, and was shown
through the house and through the garden to the studio. Lindsay
was standing with his back to the fire, smoking his pipe. AVhen
he heard the footsteps outside he said to himself, " Now, can I
keep my hands off the scoundrel? Can I leave England without
telling him what a coward and sneak he is? Is it to be kicking?
Or breaking a stick across his back?" But the instant the door
was opened all that vanished from his mind. Contempt, pure
and simple, took its place. He regarded this miserable creature
with loathing, not with anger, briefly bade him good-morning, and
then turned to stir the fire so as to avoid the necessity of shaking
hands.
" Snug quarters on a cold morning like this," said Mr. Foster,
in a friendly and familiar way. "You are lucky fellows who can
live in a dreamland of your own, instead of being buffeted about
the world — "
" I have the money ready for you," Lindsay said, curtly, and
lie walked across the room to his writing-desk.
" Of course you understand I don't take it as a loan," Foster
remarked, with some little assumption of dignity. "I take it on
commission. If it were a loan, I would give you my I U for
it—"
" I will not trouble you," said Lindsay, with marked coldness.
Foster glanced at him with a twinkle of anger in his half-dazed
eyes. " Supercilious beast !" was doubtless in his mind ; but there
was a vision of a pale-blue check before him, and that kept him
respectful. All he said was,
" Of course you won't, for I don't mean to. I take the money
on commission, as I say ; and I explained to you the other night
that, if the horse wins, you mustn't expect to be paid the odds that
are now quoted in the market. You will get a percentage on the
A KEEPSAKE. 393
money — that is all ; but I dare say it will be handsome enough
to satisfy you, if we pull the thing off."
Lindsay handed him the check without a word ; it was a heavy
price to pay — but by tliis time Sabina would be on her way down
into Buckinghamshire.
" With anything like luck," Foster said, as he folded up the
check and put it in his pocket, " I ought to be able to return you
a little slip of paper with considerably bigger figures on it. And
I think we are pretty safe this journey. It's about time some-
thing was coming my way — I've had such a cursed run of luck as
never was heard of in the world before. And if we do pull it off
this time, it will be to a pretty tune, I promise you ; it's going to
be a big thing, one way or the other. Just you wait to see what
the iVth of March will bring forth."
"In the mean time," said Lindsay, "when are you going down
to Witstead?"
Foster stared, as much as to say, " What's that to you ?"
" Because," Lindsay continued, "I should like you to make
arrangements to let my house-keeper come back home again as
soon as possible."
" Your house-keeper ? What is she doing there ?"
" If you had been in your own house while your child was ill,
you would know," was the answer. " The little girl was afraid
of the fever — or her people were — and she left. It was necessary
to have some one at once, and I sent my house-keeper down. It
is time she was home again."
" Well, why doesn't my wife let her go?" said he.
" As I understand it, Mrs. Foster was going down to your
father's, and my house-keeper was to remain in charge of the
place until you showed up; that was the arrangement, I believe."
" My wife going down to Buckinghamshire !" he exclaimed.
" Who told you that?"
" Janie."
"Oh, but she sha'n't ! I'll stop that. We'll soon put an end
to that manoeuvre !"
Lindsay looked at him curiously, and with patience. Indeed,
there was no cause for any dis(]uietude now. She would be on
her way to Wycombe by this time; in an hour or two she would
be safe in her new home. And so this poor weakling of a creat-
ure — with the shaky fingers and dazed eyes and half-bemused
17*
394 SABINA ZEMBRA.
brain — imagined that he had still a hold over Sabina, when he
could no longer terrify her with threats of taking away her child?
It was amusing, in a way. Did he think it was his force of char-
acter? Or the majesty of the law behind him? Well, undoubt-
edly the majesty of the law was behind him ; but his own pecu-
niary interests were of more immediate importance to him : and
Lindsay did not anticipate that the old gentleman in Missenden
would find much difficulty in inducing his worthy son to leave
Sabina in peace.
" Well, I'm off," said the gentleman with the check in his pock-
et. "Much obliged for your confidence. Hope you won't find
it misplaced."
This time it was the opening of the studio door that relieved
Lindsay of the necessity of shaking hands.
" Good-morning — I suppose you will be able to find your way
out ?"
" Oh yes — don't you trouble. Good-morning !" It was the
hist time these two ever saw each other.
And then Lindsay began his preparation for going away some-
where, for he had grown tired of England, and wished for a change.
He was fond of travel and fresh scenes, and he could find occupa-
tion for himself wherever he went. So, first of all, he returned to
Burford Bridge, and finished up his work there; then he made a
journey northward to his native kingdom of Galloway, and saw
that his small belongings in that famous county were being prop-
erly looked after ; and finally he engaged a berth in a White Star
liner. New York was to be his first objective point.
And yet he did not like the idea of leaving England without
saying good-by to Sabina — any more than he liked the idea of
presenting himself before her a solitary and unsummoncd visitor.
He went to Janie about it.
" I know quite well," he said, " that I was of some little service
to her down there in Surrey. But she may think I am pressing
too much of a claim on the strength of that."
" Then it's little you understand Sabie," Janie answered, prompt-
ly. *' And what is more — if you have any regard for her at all,
you won't leave the country without going to see her. She will
never believe that she is fully reinstated in your good opinion un-
less you do that. Of course, I told her all you said — and very
glad and very grateful she was — but assurances of that kind, com-
A KEEPSAKE. 395
ing from a tliiid persou, are never quite satisfactory. Mr. Lind-
say, you will go and see Sabie !"
"She might think it strange, my going there alone," he said,
douhtfuliy.
" Will you go if she asks you?"
" Most certainly !"
"Then wait till the day after to-morrow."
On the morning indicated by Janie there came to him a very
friendly, if rather timid, little note from Sablna, saying she had
heard from Janie that he was leaving England for some time, and
intimated tliat if it was not altogether too inconvenient for him,
she would like to have the opportunity of bidding him good-by.
He sought out a time-table ; there was a train at eleven o'clock.
And so, in due course, he found himself on his way to Prince's
Risborough ; for he thought he would like to have a walk across
the Chiltern hills, to have a last look at an English landscape; be-
sides, that would time his arrival at Great Missenden for about
five o'clock, when he conld not incommode the unknown house-
hold in any wav.
The journey down was uninteresting, for a cold gray mist robbed
the landscape of any color it might otherwise have had. But
perhaps his eyes were busy with other things than those visible
through the carriage window. It seemed to him as if he was bent
on a double leave-taking — this was a last look at England, and a
last good-by to Sabina too.
Arrived at Prince's Risborough station, he asked for some scrap
of lunch at the refreshment-room there, but they could give him
nothing. They suggested that if he went on to the village, he
might fare better at the George.
"If it's only bread-and-cheese," he said to himself, as he set out
again, " I must liave something." For he was not going to have
Sabina inconvenienced by the appearance of a hungry visitor.
Great, however, and unexpected was his great fortune at the
George — a small inn in the main thoroughfare of this dead-alivo
and melancholy village. Jle sudilenly found himself in the land
of Canaan ; for there was a market ordinary going on in the prin-
cipal room, and they got a place for him with groat politeness, and
made him very welcome at the bountiful feast. Indeed, this was
not the first time by many that he had noticed the good-fellowship
and friendliness and courtesy shown by a number of strangers
396 SABINA ZE3IBRA.
thrown together in an English inn — a courtesy of which he had
never seen the like in any other country he had visited ; and he
had been a considerable traveller. So far from each man attend-
ing solely to his own wants, and gulping his food as if he was
running to catch a train, there was a general helpfulness that was
almost obtrusive ; and there was an air of leisurely comfort about
the proceedings, as if each man knew that his dog-cart was out-
side awaiting his good pleasure. And he liked the wholesome
and healthy and sturdy look of these elderly farmers — with their
silver-gray whiskers and ruddy complexion, their clear blue eyes,
and their deliberate, strongly accentuated, masculine speech. Their
humor was not very subtle, perhaps; their political views were
robust and definite rather than learned ; and plain common-sense
and attention to the substantial facts of life were doubtless more
in their way than a gay facetiousness ; nevertheless, judging by a
tolerably wide experience, this type of character was very grateful
to Walter Lindsay, who had long ago arrived at the conviction
that the clever, shallow, conceited, ignorant, believing-in-nothing
London cockney is the most degraded and contemptible of all
God's creatures — if such he may properly be called.
Then he set out to climb the Chilterns, keeping to the right of
the great white cross which, cut on the chalk slope, is visible all
the way from Oxford. The conditions were not favorable for his
last look round. A pale mist hung along the hills; the wintry
woods and hedges were colorless, but for here and there a bit of
green holly or russet beech ; the sky was monotonously gray.
And yet when he reached the top, and turned to regard the great
plain stretched out beneath him — with its farm-houses and fields
and copses and roads, all phantom-like in the prevailing haze — it
was with not a little regret that he knew this was a leave-taking.
He had a great affection for England, if he was born a Scotchman.
It was in England he had lived the most of his life and done the
best of his work. And who more faithfully than himself had
studied her moods and ways — and communed with her in secret
places — and got to know her elusive charm ? For the beauty of
English landscape has subtleties that none but the painter knows:
and it is only after patient habitude that these are revealed even
to him ; often enough, moreover, when he has caught and trans-
ferred to paper or canvas something of this coy graciousness, the
result is quite disappointing to the ordinary spectator, accustomed
A KEEPSAKE. 397
to the obvious characteristics of Italian lates, Swi'ss mountains,
Highland glens, and the like. The chromo-lithographer is not at
home in the English counties — or, at best, he goes up to West-
moreland, where he can get a nice, handy, portable edition of lake
and mountain scenery, all within easy compass, and all of guaran-
teed prettiness.
Up here, on the summit of the hill, the roads were filleil with
snow and half-melted ice, which made it difficult walking ; so,
where it was practicable, he made a path for himself through the
leafless beech - woods. It was strangely still in these solitudes ;
there seemed to be no work going on at any of the farms ; the
remotest sounds were plainly audible in the hushed air. 11 is own
footsteps, too, were noiseless on the yielding carpet of withered
leaves ; there was not a sign of life anywhere except when a jay
fled shrieking through the branches, or a long- tailed magpie
flapped its silent way across the fields. He could not have been
more alone in the forests of Champlain.
He had carefully made out this route on the Ordnance Survey
map before starting; and when, at length, he came in sight of a
spacious mansion, standing at the summit of a noble avenue that
sloped away down into the valley, he knew that this was Hamp-
den House, and that here had lived the great Englishman whose
refusal to pay Charles's ship-money had rung through the land as
a summons to England to stand by her ancient rights and liber-
ties. And he wondered whether they had brought his body, after
the fray at Chalgrove, to be buried here; and whether they had
borne it, with solemn state, up this great and silent avenue. And
he wondered, too — as a landscape-painter — where, except in Eng-
land, one could find such an avenue; some three hundred yards
he guessed its width, and over a mile its length, of velvet turf,
where the snow allowed that to be visible, and planted on each
side by magnificent beeches and Spanish chestnuts. Down this
avenue he made his way to the Missenden road — startling a rab-
bit now and again from among the withered bracken and the
snow. He knew that close by was the piece of land on which
the ship-money was levied. Had ajiy one thought of erecting
some kind of memorial to mark so interesting a spot?
However, it was neither John Ham[)dcn, nor the ship-money,
nor the fatal Chalgrove field that was in his mind when he drew
near the village of Misscndcn. The old-fashioned house, with its
398 SABIXA ZEMBRA.
red -brick wall, and tall elm -trees, and laiirGstlnus bushes, was
pointed out to him by a passer-by ; he rang the bell, and was ad-
mitted by an elderly woman, who begged him to go into the draw-
ing-room — Mrs. Foster would be with him presently. So there
he waited, glancing at the portraits and sketches on the walls,
rather struck by the Old-world look of the furniture and the quaint
decorations, and wondering whether Sabina had as yet had time
to grow quite accustomed to the quietude of her new home.
The door opened ; he turned instantly — and caught sight of a
pair of eyes, timid, and yet shining and placid and grateful. And
this was not at all the pale Sabina he had expected to see; there
was a flush of rose-red on her face — the flush of a girl of seven-
teen ; and she came to him quickly, with extended hand, as if her
gladness at the sight of him had overcome her embarrassment.
" It is very kind of you," she said, simply. " Janie gave me
all the messages you sent — and — and that was only more of your
goodness to me ; but when I heard you were going away, well, I —
I — wanted to see you yourself, to make sure that you did really
forgive me — "
" Yes, but we are not going to speak of that any more," said
he, gravely. "That is all over and done. Janie must have told
you that I understood the whole situation perfectly."
" And I am not even to thank you for being so kind ?"
" There is no kindness in the matter ; there may be a little com-
mon-sense. Now, tell me — are you quite comfortable here? Do
you like the place ?"
" Yes, indeed," she answered. " They do everything they can
think of for me, and one day is just like another; it is a peaceful
life; and I wish for nothing better. Only," she added, with
downcast eyes, " it is — very — far away — from Witstead."
He knew what she meant; but he understood that Janie had
undertaken to tend the little grave there.
" And you," she said — " why are you going away from England
after being home so short a time?"
Well, he began and gave her his reasons, or excuses, for going ;
and told her of all his plans and projects, and made the matter as
cheerful as it might be. Then she asked him to go into the din-
ing-room, where old Mr. Foster, whose rheumatism was pretty bad,
was seated ; and they had tea there, and further talk. It was
pleasant to hear Sabina's voice. And sometimes there was a smile
A KEEPSAKE. 399
in her eyes. He began to tbink that in tbis quiet haven she might
attain some forgetfiilness of the too ungenerous past, and that the
years might bring to her at least a pUicid content. The garden
visible through the window looked somewhat dismal at present;
but spring was coming; be could see Sabina among the young
blossoms — in a light print dress — a pair of gardener's shears in
her hand — perliaps a touch of peach-color in her cheek — and the
bright sunlight on her golden-brown hair.
The gray of the afternoon deepened ; the elderly woman
brought in the lamps, and then he rose.
" I have to walk to Wycombe," he said, " and I am not quite
sure of the way — so I had better be going."
"But you must not got astray in the dark," Sabina said, anx-
iously. "If you will wait a few minutes I will send over to the
inn and get a conveyance for you — indeed, you must do that."
" If you are not too proud to go in a pony-chaise," old Mr. Fos-
ter said, with a laugh, "our lad can drive you across; I'm sure
the cob doesn't get half enough exercise in this weather."
" Oh, thank you, I could not think of troubling you ; but I
tbink what Miss Ze-*-Mrs. Foster says is quite right — I shouldn't
like to miss my way — so I'll go into the inn in passing and get a trap
to take me over. I may catch an earlier train, too, at Wycombe."
He spoke rapidly and confusedly ; he hoped neither of them
had noticed the half-stumble. But indeed she had been looking
so young, and speaking in a pleased way, as in the olden days —
and also, perhaps, he was a little bewildered by the knowiedgo
that now he was about to bid her farewell, probably for many
years. He was a little breathless when he found that she came
out after him into the hall.
"Mr. Lindsay," she said — and she stood facing him in the
lampligiit, but with her eyes downcast — " good-by is easily said;
but if you are going away — perhaps for some years — well, I should
like you to think sometimes that I don't forget, that I never, nev-
er can forget, what your friendship has been to me. Would you
take a little keepsake from me — just to remind you? It was my
grandfather's — my mother gave it to me."
She timidiv olTiMCfl him the trinket. It was an old-fashioned
ring — H'd gold and garnets.
He held her hand in his, and for a second he could not thank
her at all.
400 SABIXA ZEMBEA.
•' It will be a reminder, will it not," she said, "that I hare not
ceased to be grateful to you for all your kindness to me ?"'
" And if yoQ only knew how I value it — and how I shall value
it many thousands of miles away." He did not trust himself to
say more. " Good-by, and God bless yon !"
She opened the door for liim ; he looked once at the tender
eyes, and then was gone.
CHAPTER XLVIL
A E:^"ELL OF DOOM.
OyE evening, towards nine o'clock, Fred Foster called at the
Northern Counties Hotel, Jermyn Street, asked to see Mrs, Fair-
service, and was shown up-stairs to her sitting-room. Apparently
she had just finished dinner : dessert was still on the table ; and
she had gone to the fireplace, before which she was standing with
an evening paper in her hand.
She w:is smartly dressed, her yellow hair resplendent, and she
wore a string of brilliants round her neck.
" Fm glad youVe come," she said, throwing aside the paper.
" Fve plenty to tell you. And to have a jock dining with you
who can neither eat, nor drink, nor speak a word unless you get
it out of him with a corkscrew, isn't much fun. And I've plenty
to talk about too. There, help yourself to some wine — the cigars
are on the top of the piano."
She seemed a little bit excited.
" Then that was Joe Cantly I passed in the hall i" he said,
** Yes. He's off to King's Cross,''
" I thought it looked like his figure : but he went by quickly,
without a word. Well, what's the news ?" he asked, pouring out
some champagne with no very steady hand.
" Why, just the same old news, neither more nor less," she said ;
but there was a smile of triumph about the thin, hard lips, and in
the steely-blue eves.
" Everything is going beantiful ; and if I haven't got hold of
Charlie Bernard this time it's pretty queer. Oh. I don't sav you
haven't done your share well enough : but when mv friend Char-
lie goes smash, he'll have a pretty good guess who did the trick
A KNELL OF DOOM. 401
for him. And what a slice of luck it was! — the moment Joe
Cantly confessed to me that I'd better not back Master of Roy, I
suspected what they were up to. ' Why, Joe,' I said, ' it's a moral,
if that horse is ridden fair, and you know it is.' He wouldn't
answer that. ' You're going to lose the race ; is that Bernard's lit-
tle game V says I. But no, the mummified little creature wouldn't
say one thing or another. If you only knew the trouble I had to
corkscrew the truth out of him ; and indeed it was only nods and
winks he would give. And how cleverly they have managed it.
Who would imagine that Charlie Bernard, openly backing Master
of Roy to win the Lincolnshire Handicap — and the stable-money
on, too — was laying against the horse by commi?;sion, qniotly and
gently, but taking everything the public folt inclined to offer?
And we are in that public, Master Freddie," she continued, with
a laugh. " AVe are among the poor innocent gulls. We are put-
ting our little bits on ; and every one knows the favorite will win ;
we're rejoicing at the prospect of the golden sovereigns being
handed over, when, behold ! something goes wrong with Master of
Roy, or Joe Cantly does a little bit of roping, and he's down at
the foot of the poll, or out of it altogether. The Jockey Club
make a fuss, and there is a talk in the newspapers; but noth-
ing can be proved ; and, in the mean time, Charlie Bernard has
scooped in the guineas, and put himself on his legs again. Very
good ; that's all right."
She rang the bell for some tea.
"I told you all the way through that Bernard was a fool," she
continued, talking rapidly and excitedly. " His run of good-luck
turned his head — he thought he couldn't do wrong ; then, when
things did go a little bit bad with him, he lost his head the other
way, and began plunging to recover himself. South African dia-
mond-mines! Do you think I should have let liiui touch SduIIi
African diamond-mines if I had had anything to do with hisalTairs?
I couldn't have helped all his ill-luck ; I couldn't have helped Trig-
onella going dead lame — puff went twelve hundred guineas then ;
but I could have told him to keep to things lie knew sDmethiiig
about. All the better for me now. He is just walking blindfuld
into the trap I have set for him; and when it snaps on his ankle
he'll think the heavens and the earth have come to an cn<l. That's
tidy odds — 100 to 14 — to lay against the favorite. Listen — "
She took up the paper. " ' Master of Roy continues to grow in
402 6ABINA ZEMBKA.
public appreciation ; and Mr. Bernard is confident in bis ability
to win.' But it's a deal safer to bet on his losing, if you can trust
your jockey to rope hiui. Poor Joe ! — you wouldn't believe the
trouble I've had with him. He has always been on the square, he
maintained. 'Very well,' says I, ' why should I have any bother
about persuading you to ride this race honest ?' ' It will be sell-
ing the guv'nor,' says he, pulling a melancholy face. ' Hang the
guv'nor!' says I. 'That's my tip — straight. Serves him right for
trying to swindle the British public. What can he do to you?
Nothing. You ride the horse to win ; and win it must and shall ;
what can he complam of? Would he like to have you round on
him ? And can't you have your excuse ready ? Tell him yon meant
to pull the horse, but that it got the mastery of you at the finish
— anything you like; do you think he would dare to say a word?
Not he !' Goodness me, the trouble I had to get a jock to promise
to ride fair, who had been up till now as innocent as a babe — ac-
cording to his own account ! But I did it. I've got Joe Cantly
as safe as the bank. And it isn't only the four thousand to noth-
ing the horse wins — though that is a tidy little sum in itself. I've
got him, I tell you — he won't play hanky-panky with me."
She had been becoming more and more vehement, and her eyes
were sparkling.
" I can see his face. Charlie Bernard is the worst loser I ever
saw. I hope the bar-maid will be with him — that would be best
of all ; and of course he'll be pretending that he is cock-sure Mas-
ter of Roy will come romping in — perhaps he'll be backing him
for a little bit — just to show off — and make people certain that
everything is fair and straight. Then he'll watch them come
sweeping along — quite indifferently, you know — oh yes, quite in-
differently — until the crowd takes up the cry — 'Master of Roy!
Master of Roy !' — my heavens, I can see his face this mo-
ment !"
In her vehemence she snapped in two the paper-cutter she was
holding in her hands; she flung the fragments in the fire. And
then she turned angrily towards her companion.
" Why don't you speak? Good heavens, man, you are as bad
as the jock ! Haven't you got anything to say ?"
Thus admonished, Fred Foster put aside his cigar for the mo-
ment ; he did not seem in an alert mood.
" It will be a facer for Charlie Bernard," he said.
A KNELL OF DOOil. 403
*' A facer !" she repeated, scornfully. " It will be eternal smash
— that's more like it. And you think he will be able to weisjh in
on settling day? I think not. I think there will be a few little
arrangements and some trifling arrears. I'll tell you what I should
like to see some day — Charlie Bernard presenting himself with
his jockey at the scales, and having slipped before his nose a nice
little telegram from Messrs. Wcatherby to the Clerk of the Course,
saying that until the previous forfeits are paid, Mr. Bernard had
better return to his own humble domicile. That's what thev call
a denouement ; and home he goes, horse and jock and all, and
beats the bar-maid out of spite. Well, I can't talk about it any
more just now — it kindles me up a bit too much. Talk about
something else. Where's your wife?"
"I told you," he said, rather sulkily. "She is staying with her
father in Buckinghamshire."
" Does he believe you're a dead and buried corpse ?"
" No, of course not. What had he to do with it ?"
" It was a pretty dangerous prank to play, ray friend."
"I was desperate," he mumbled. " And it served my turn any-
way. It's wonderful how amenable people become when you can
show them a bit of the ready in your hand. I might have had
more, too, but for the little chap dying — another stroke of bad
luck; then she threw the whole thing up, and that game was
played out. But it served me at the time."
" Well," she said, in a mocking way, " there's nothing I like so
much to see as displays of natural affection. It's so awfully inno-
cent and nice. I remember when I met you at Scarborough, I
couldn't help laughing when you told me you were a papa. Mas-
ter Freddie Foster a papa f And I wondered how you would sup-
port the character. But I suppose you really were sorry when
the boy died — when you found you couldn't screw any more
money out of your father-in-law."
" You may as well leave my domestic relations alone — they've
got nothing to do with you."
"Oh, you needn't be ill-tempered about it," she said, with an
affectation of gaycty. "Come, li-t's hear wiiat you're going to do
when the great haul comes off. Settles up all round, go down and
pacify the old man, turn farmer and grow mangold ? Really, I
don't think you could do better. You'll never do much at the
great game. You get frightened. Here, when you could get on
404 SABINA ZEMBEA.
Master of Roy at 100 to 8, you were still hesitating about every
miserable fiver — "
" Well, there's no more hesitation now," said he, rather blankly.
" Every farthing I could beg or borrow is launched in this swim ;
and I must say Johnny Russell stood by me like a man. Deane,
too — well, it's wonderful how they believe in you when you can
put your hand in your pocket and show them a few sovereigns."
" What are you going to do, then, when it comes oS ?" she re-
peated. " Is it to be the same old game ?"
"The first thing is this," said he. "I've had a pretty baddisli
time of it for the last year or eighteen months — a rat-in-a-drain-
pipe sort of existence. Well, when I find myself on my legs again,
I think I shall be entitled to a little amusement — "
"And there's only the one place in Europe for that;" said she,
promptly, " and that's Monte Carlo. Did you ever find a quarter
of an hour hang heavy on your hands there ? I never did. In
the daytime walks and drives in that delicious air — or boating —
or pigeon-shooting for you ; music in the afternoon ; promenade
concerts in the evening; watching the tables, and putting on a
five-franc piece now and again just for fun. The hotels are not
dear; you meet the most interesting people — well, I call it just a
heavenly place, if you have strength of neck enough to keep back
from gambling. And I thank a merciful Providence for having
screwed on my head pretty straight."
" Are you going ?"
She laughed.
"Yes — in one of two capacities. If everything comes off all
right — well, it won't be quite a fortune for me, for my bet of four
thousand to nothing with Joe Cantly will have to come out of it;
but it will be a tidy sum ; and I shall treat myself to a bit of a
spree. Then take it the other way. Supposing that my faithful
jock should, after all, play the rogue, or supposing that Master of
Roy should come lumbering along the Carholme Mile at the tail-
end of the lot — "
" Oh, what is the use of your talking like that !" he said, testily.
She looked at him with a kind of compassionate scorn.
"You haven't got the nerve of a mouse — unless when you're
half stupefied with chloroform, or whatever it is you're killing
yourself with. Well, I like to face things. I consider myself rath-
er a woman of business, don't you know. And you may be sure
A KXELL OF DOO^kl. 405
tliat I have made my little dispositions ; so that if by some hor-
rible mischance the worst comes to the worst, I sha'n't be quite
dead-broke. Next Wednesday will find me at the Lord Warden
Hotel at Dover — I shall have a telegram in the afternoon — if it
is not satisfactory — well, I vacate the premises ; that's all."
She glanced at him again.
" What will you do ?''
"In that case? I can't think of it!" he said, with haggard
eyes. "I wish these next few days were over. It's maddening
■work, waiting on and on ; and you can't drive the hours a bit
faster. It's at night that it's most horrible — I don't believe I
ever sleep more than half an hour at a time ; and every time I
wake it's with a start, and a fancy that some one is in the room
bringing some frightful news."
"And yet you go on taking that beastly stuff!" she said.
"If I didn't, I shouldn't get any sleep at all," be answered,
gloomily. "But this won't last."
"No, it won't," she said, significantly.
" I mean that after next Wednesday there will be no need of
it. I shall pull round after that — get away somewhere — take
more exercise, and that kind of thing. It is merely anxiety that
has been a little too much for my nerves — there will be no anx-
iety at Monte Carlo, if I should follow you there — except over a
five-franc piece, as you suggest."
"I wouldn't advise your going much to the tables, even as an
onlooker," she observed.
" Did I risk a single napoleon when I was over there that last
time?" he demanded.
" No, probably not; but there were reasons why you should
save up every farthing. So you are tliiuking of coming over to
Monte Carlo too? That is, of course, if we pull this thing o(T
successfully. But if not?"
" It's no use talking about that," he said, peevishly.
"Haven't you the courage to face the possihilily ?" she said,
as a sort of taunt.
" You have — because you arc perfectly certain that ^fa'^tor of
Roy is going to win. You can face twenty dozen possihilities
when you don't believe in them. But what is the use of talking
about them ?"
" They may be hocussing the horse at tliis very minute," she said.
406 SABINA ZEMBRA.
" Why, tbey are taking precautions about him as if he were first
favorite for the Derby — it's quite notorious. Part of Charlie Ber-
nard's game, of course; the public are sure of a winner this time,
and they are to be led on. A hundred to fourteen — it's swinging
odds to have to pay up."
" Yes, but suppose the backers are bit, after all ?" she insisted,
" What will you do then, my poor Freddie ? What refuge will
you fly to from the wratli to come ?"
" It's my last chance in England," lie said, gloomily. " If it
doesn't go right, then I'm off for good. I suppose Jack Russell
would pay my passage to Australia."
" Australia?" she repeated. " What good would you do there?
In Australia they want people who can work."
Then suddenly she altered her tone.
" Come, come, I won't torment you any more. I only wanted
to see how far down into your boots you could get, for you can
get farther than any human creature I know. Wake up, man !
What's the matter with you? Or what's the matter with the
champagne that you won't touch it? Has it gone flat? Never
mind, let's see if we can't find something more to your mind."
She went to the cellaret in the sideboard, and got out some
brandy, and brought over the cigars.
" There," she said, " help yourself. And I will make my humble
apologies for frightening you. Of course it's all right. Did a
jockey ever get such a chance before? — four thousand pounds for
riding honest ! Of course you'll see Master of Roy come romping
in — or, rather, you'll hear — for I don't suppose you are going down
to Lincoln, are you? And don't imagine that I mean to cross the
Channel if it comes off all right — not at once, I mean. Oh no!
I'm coming back to London. I want to hear how things are go-
ing with Master Charlie. I should like to take a run down to
Doncaster, and go driving about, on the chance of seeing the bar-
maid. Not that I care a pin-point — a bar-maid ! — he's welcome ;
and so is she — to all the diamonds she'll ever get out of the South
African mines. Don't they want crushers for that work? — she
might go out there and use her feet — saving of labor. And if
Charlie Bernard can't guess who landed him, he's a bigger fool
than I take him to be — and that is something considerable."
" I wish next Wednesday was come and gone," Fred Foster
said.
A KNELL OF DOOM. 407
She regarded him with rather a contemptuous glance.
" Better go home and sleep till then," was her curt advice.
" I wish I could," he said.
And then he rose to go.
" Don't you come to see me again until the race has been
run," said she. " If it goes all right, I will hurry back to town
at once — you will find me here. And until then mind you keep
a quiet tongue in your head."
She pressed another cigar on him, and he left, making away for
his obscure lodgings in Fetter Lane.
IJow these intervening days passed he himself probably knew
but little. The few companions whom he casually met had got
an inkling that he stood to lose or win everything on the issue of
the Lincolnshire Handicap ; and those of them who had any inter-
est in him hoped that, if he was backing the favorite, he had taken
care to hedge a little, for Charlie Bernard's phenomenal run of
luck had of late deserted him in a remarkable manner. And they
accepted for what they were worth Foster's assurances that it was
only persistent sleeplessness that had driven him to chloral, chlo-
rodyne, morphia, or whatever was the remedy he sought. It was
but a temporary aid ; as soon as he could get away he would bo
all right again. In the mean time he was a pitiable-looking object
— pallid, nerveless, apprehensive, bemused, and hollow-cheeked.
He was "keeping himself up," he said, until he could get away.
The Wednesday came. In the morning papers Master of lioy
was still quoted as first favorite, and the prophets were almost
unanimous in approving the public fancy. Mrs. Fairservice was
certainly confident; for in the simple gaycty of her heart — and
without rhyme or reason — she sent him a telegram from Dover:
" Keep up your pecker, old man." He drank some brandy, and
smoked hard, to make the hours go by.
Long before the lunir appointed for the race, he went out and
down into the Strand, where he kept aimlessly and feverishly walk-
ing to and fro, gazing blankly into shop-windows, or reading play-
bills at the theatre doors. But as the time drew near these wan-
derings were more and more circumscribed, until he hardly went
more than a stone's-throw cast or west of the window of a certain
news agency. A small crowd had already collected there on the
pavement, hanging loosely about, and evidently waiting for the
news. Uc kept away from those people as well as he could,
408 SAEINA ZEMBRA.
though his eyes would incessantly go back to the window, with
far more dread than hope, so terribly anxious was he. Then a
large white sheet was put up, and a murmur went through the
crowd. He walked quickly forward. What was this sound that
chilled him to the heart ? "Stagdyke !" said one; and " Stagdyke !"
they seemed all to be repeating.
Another step forward, and the great splashed letters in ink
were only too terribly legible — staring him in the face. This was
what his burning and throbbing eyes beheld :
LINCOLN HANDICAP.
Stagdyke 1
Kebellion 2
Master of Roy 3
The small crowd melted away almost immediately ; he was
left standing on the pavement, bewildered, incapable of move-
ment, not even perceiving that he was in the way of the passers-
by. It seemed as if he hardly knew what had befallen him.
Then, in a stunned and blind way, he managed to cross the busy
thoroughfare, and entered a public-house, where he said he would
like to sit down for a moment. They brought him a chair at
once ; and he had just taken hold of the back of it when a giddi-
ness came over him, and he sank helplessly to the floor.
It was but for a second. The potman helped him to his feet
again, and brushed the sawdust from his coat, and Foster seemed
to try to pull himself together. He did not sit down. He or-
dered a bottle of brandy, for which he paid, and then asked them
to get him a four-wheeled cab. He gave the cabman his address
in Fetter Lane, and in a few minutes was left at the door of his
lodgings.
CHAPTER XLVIII.
NIGHT FALLS.
About mid- day on the following Saturday, Mr. John Scott
called at these lodgings in Fetter Lane, and was admitted by the
landlady, who forthwith began her protestations and complaints
and entreaties.
" No, I don't want no rent ; I want to see him out o' my 'ouse,
NIGHT FALLS, 409
that's what I want; I have my other lodgers to consider; and
every one of us expecting to be burned alive in our beds some
night. You said as you was going to take him away yesterday,
and the day before — "
" I'll get him away as soon as I can," the big, good-natured-
looking man said, taking her remonstrances quite as a matter of
course. " Do you mean to say he has never stirred out ?"
"Stirred out? Where do you think he would get the drink,
then ? And Td have kep' him out, but I couldn't lock the door
against the other lodgers ; and would he give up his latch-key ?
— not he — he's that cunning; for all he doesn't know no more
what he's doing than the babe unborn. He was crying yesterday !
lor', such a silly ; said his mother died this time last year — what
do I know about his mother, or care either ? I don't believe a
word of it — it was all a trying on, to get Polly to go out for
some more gin. Well, what I say is this — I'll stand it no longer,
and if you don't get him out o' this 'ouse I'll get in a p'leeceinan
as will. We don't want to be burned in our beds — and I don't
ask for no rent — I want him out o' this 'ouso afore he sets it on
fire — that's what I want and mean to have."
" Very well, very well," John Scott said, suavely. " I'll get
him away if I can." And therewith he proceeded to climb the
narrow and dusky stairs, slowly and cautiously, as became one of
his bulk.
When he opened the door of the small apartment, he found
that the blind of the solitary window was down, and the gas
burning. Foster lay at full length on the bed, his clothes on, his
face downward on his hands. John Scott went forward and
touched his shoulder, and then shook him slightly.
"Here, man, wake up! Haven't you come to your senses
yet?"
Another shake, and Foster slowly turned and raised his head,
and regarded his visitor with dazed, stupefied eyes that yet had
some vague look of terror in them.
" What do you want?" he said, in a thick voice.
"Sit up and I'll tell you," Scott said, and he pulled him up by
the shoulders. " I've been trying these two days to get some-
thing hammered into your hoad, and it hasn't been much use. I
wonder if you'll understand now. Do you know that there's a
warrant out against you ?"
18
410 SABINA ZEMIiRA.
*' I don't care," he said, wearily ; " they can take what they
like — I've nothing — "
" Bless my soul, can't you understand the difference between a
writ and a warrant? It's a warrant, I tell you ; and the warrant-
officer is on the lookout for you. Don't you know you are
wanted for that affair at the American Bar ?"
The big Yorkshireman eyed him curiously; but there was no
kind of intelligence in the vacuous, hopeless, pallid face. All
that Foster said — with a sort of feeble impatience — was,
" What do you want here ? What time of the night is it?"
"Time of the night? It's the middle of the day, man ! Here,
I'll put out the gas — the smell of it is sickening — and let some
light into the room."
He did as he said, Foster following his movements with listless
observation.
"What day is it?" he asked, when the dull London light
streamed into the room.
" I like that !" the other said. " Don't know the day of the
week ? It's Saturday, then."
"Saturday?" Foster repeated, vacantly; and yet he seemed to
be thinking too. "Then yesterday was the 19th?"
"No mistake about that."
"The 19th," he said, absently; and he was staring right be-
fore him, and taking no heed of his visitor. "That was the day
I was to start afresh — and I was to go down to Missenden — yes-
terday, was it ? — gone by — gone by."
John Scott came over to him.
" Look here, Freddie, you've got into trouble, though yon don't
seem to know it; and I mean to do the best I can for you ; but
it's no good unless you try to pull yourself together. Do you
understand ?"
Well, his intelligence seemed to grasp this idea.
"Yes, yes, that's all right," said he, with incoherent earnest-
ness. "That's all right. You're a good fellow, Scott. I'm
listening. All I want is a drop of something to steady my
nerves."
He rose, and with trembling gait was making for the cupboard,
when the Yorkshireman interposed his capacious bulk.
" No you don't. Now that I've caught you in a half-sensible
state, you've got to keep so until we decide what has to be done."
NIGHT FALLS. 411
"It's no use, then," Foster said, helplessly, " I can't listen to
you. I feel like death. I wish you'd go away and leave me to
myself."
His visitor hesitated. Perhaps what he said was true.
" Well, one nip," he said, and stood aside.
Foster went to the cupboard, quickly poured out half a tum-
blerful of some white fluid, and drank it oflE before the other could
interpose. Then he went back to the bed and sate down. It seemed
to concern him little now what his visitor had to say.
"That was a stiffish dose, but I hope it will pull you together;
you'll have to have your wits about you, unless you want to be
laid by the heels," Scott said. " So you understand, now, that
there is a warrant out against you, and that you'll have to get clear
away from London, like greased lightning, or you'll be up at
Marlborough Street?"
"Oil, what are you talking about?" Foster said, y)eovishly, and
yet in an absent way ; he did not seem to be paying much atten-
tion.
" Upon my soul, I don't believe you know one thing that has
occurred during these three days !" John Scott exclaimed. " Bo
you mean to say you can't remember what happened on Wednes-
day night at the American Bar?''
"What American Bar?" he said, indifferently.
" At the Palladium. Well, perhaps not. But you seemed to
understand yesterday when I was here. I wonder w hut her you'll
understand now — sufficient to make you get up and quit this
place. You mean to say you haven't the least recollection of the
whole thing — coming into the American Bar with Jitn Deanc —
quarrelling with him about paying for the drinks — and making
fiuch a row that the bar-man had to interfere?"
"Oh, well, I dare say I had a drop. It's all right," he mnt-
tercd.
"It isn't all right! I suppose you don't remember catching up
the knife the bar-man had been cutting lemon-peel with — will that
bring you to your senses? I don't know — at least, I don't want
to be certain — whether you struck him with the knife, or whether
lie stuuil)led against it in the snufflf ; but anyhow we got you
hustled out and into a cab, and Jim Dcane had suflicient nnus to
give them your Wellington Street address when he said you would
answer to the charge. Now do you understand ? — that there's a
412 SABINA ZEMBRA.
warrant out against you — and I suppose the charge is cutting and
•wounding, or whatever the lawyers call it — and unless you quit
out of this place at once they'll be down on you."
The warning seemed to make little impression.
"It doesn't matter," he said, listlessly. "It's all over with me
now. I'm done for — they may hang me if they like. The luck's
been against me — it's no use trying any longer. I thought I was
going to have one more chance ; and yesterday was the day — the
19th of March it was my mother died — she was the only one that
ever cared for me — and when she died it was all up with me — the
19th of March — that was the day I was going to start afresh — if
I had had this one more chance. But the luck's been dead against
me."
" Look here," said his visitor, roughly, " instead of maundering
on like that, you'd better wake up and settle where you can hide
yourself for a time. Have you any friends abroad ? Or where
was it you retired to in Yorkshire ?"
He did not answer. He was vacantly staring at nothing ; and
the spirit he had drunk seemed to be rendering him more and
more maudlin.
" I meant to have gone down to Missenden," he continued, in
his husky voice, with his head hanging down on his chest. " I
meant to have taken an oath on my mother's grave — if I had got
this last chance — and I'd have tried to make up to them for all
that's past. Well, it's no use now. The game's played out. It's
all over with me."
" And what do you propose to do, then ?" Mr. Scott asked, with
obvious sarcasm. " Sit here till the warrant-officer comes? Then
you're up at Marlborough Street. Who's going to become your
bail, do you think ? Perhaps you consider your own recognizances
would be enough ? I don't imagine the magistrate would, though.
I don't think prison life would suit yon, ray lad, in this cold
weather; and there would be mighty little Scotch whiskey going.
Come, come, man, wake up, and clear out of this neighborhood, to
begin with — whatever you do next."
He pulled him from the bed on to his legs; and Foster obedi-
ently began to smooth his ruffled clothes and get ready for de-
parture.
" What am I going to do next?" he said, in the midst of these
hap - hazard preparations. " What do you think I should do ?
NIGUT FALLS. 413
What is there left me to do ? "Well, I am not going to tell you.
But there's a way of making it up to them. I wish I had done
it before, when my mother died ; but I thought I had one more
chance. Yes, you'll see. My wife was frightened that time I
went down. I said, ' You're a strong woman, but you're not
strong enough for — this.' "
" What are you blethering about now ?" the blunt Yorkshire-
man said. " Come, let's settle where you will go to, to begin with,
when you leave this house. Wandering about London streets isn't
the safest thing for you at present."
" What o'clock is'^it?" he asked.
"Just after two."
"Then I know where I am going," he said, witli a kind of
maudlin determination. " You come up to Holborn with me, and
you'll see."
" Oh, you know, do you? Well, that's a comfort, at any rate."
Just as they were about to leave, Foster turned and went to the
cupboard. His companion caught him by the arm.
" No, not one drop !"
" Oil, let me alone !" Foster said, peevishly, and he tried to shake
off the hold. " It's medicine I want."
" Let me see, then."
He opened the cupboard and took out a small phial, which he
instantly put in his pocket.
" What are you taking medicine for?"
" W^hen I can't get sleep."
"What? Sleeplessness? Is that what ails you ? You've been
asleep for three days !"
" It cures other things," Foster said, gloomily. " Cures every-
thing, for the matter of that."
"That's something like a medicine now," Scott said, encourag-
ingly. "Can it cure impecuniosity ? for that's what most of us
are suffering from since Joe Cantly roped Master of lioy — the in-
fernal whelp ! Well, they'll stop his playing that little trick again,
or I'm mistaken."
They were getting down the dark staircase by this tiino. Wliou
they got outside, Foster shivcrL'd with the cold, and his shaking
legs could scarcely carry him along. He seemed ratlier terrilicd,
too, at the number of faces regarding him ; he kept his eyes fixed
on the pavement, and answered his con)|)aiiion iti monosyllables.
414 SABINA ZEMBEA.
As they were walking along Holborn, Foster suddenly stopped
in front of an archway, and held out his hand to his companion.
" Good-by," he said, with averted eyes.
" What do you mean ?" Scott said.
"I am going down into the country," he answered; but his
maudlin resolve had now dropped into a kind of listlessness.
"Going into a public-house, you mean."
"There is an omnibus starts from here at three," be said, with-
out taking any offence.
John Scott glanced through the archway, and saw that in the
middle of the court-yard of the old-fashioned inn there was un-
doubtedly an omnibus standing, though as yet the horses were not
put to.
" Oh, I see. The one that goes down into Buckinghamshire?
So you are going to your own people down there? Well, now,
that's very sensible — the very best thing you can do. You be
quiet there for a time, and pick yourself up again ; then you'll be
able to look round and see what should come next. The very
best thing you can do. Good-by, old chap, and Jim Deane and
I will see whether we can't square that blessed bar-man."
So they shook hands, and John Scott went on bis way, and Fos-
ter, with a strangely apprehensive look — as if he feared to meet
some familiar face — passed through the court-yard, and entered
the tap-room, where he sate down in a dusky corner, to wait until
the omnibus was ready to start.
In due course of time the handful of passengers — mostly elder-
ly country-folk burdened with innumerable baskets and parcels
and packages — who were going by the omnibus were summoned
to take their places ; and Foster rose and went out too. The first
person he saw was the driver — an old and familiar acquaintance
of his from boyhood upward. The stout, rubicund, wholesome-
lookuig man seemed much surprised and concerned.
"Lor' a' mussy, Mr. Fred, how poorly you do look, to be sure.
Be you going with us? — ay? — and the box-seat at your will and
pleasure ; but you'll take a drop o' something before ye start, just
to keep the cold out, won't ye?"
"I'm going inside," Foster said, shivering a little; and he got
into the vehicle, and went up to the farthermost corner, where he
huddled himself together. If any of the other passengers knew
who he was they did not speak; he had not even glanced at them.
NIGUT FALLS. 415
And presently, no doubt, they thought that the sickly-looking
young man in the corner was asleep, for apparently his eyes were
closed.
The old omnibus jogged placidly along, away out by Acton and
Ealing and Hanwell, stopping now and again to deliver its parcels
at the wayside houses. At Uxbridge there was a longer halt, and
here Foster got out and went into the tavern, and drank some hot
gin-and-vvater. He did not, according to usual custom, ask the
driver to join him ; he went back to his corner, and to his stupe-
fied meditations. The wintry afternoon was darkening now.
They went on by Chalfont St. Peter's and Chalfont St. Giles's.
The lamp inside the omnibus had been lighted by this time, and
the dull, orange glow fell on the sallow and sickly features of the
solitary traveller, who seemed to huddle himself away from his
fellow-passengers. At Amersham, however, he again got out, and
had some more gin, the landlady, to whom he was known, express-
ing the greatest concern over his altered appearance. Indeed, he
seemed scarcely to understand what he was doing ; and there was
a furtive look about his eyes — dazed as they were — as if he thought
he was being watched.
At length, about nine o'clock at night, he arrived at his destina-
tion. But he did not go on to his father's house; he alighted at
the inn at which the omnibus stopped, and went inside, and asked
the people, who knew him very well, for a bedroom for the night.
"Why, Mr. Foster, hain't you going on home?" the landlord
said, in great astonishment.
"No, I'm not," he said, huskily. " I don't want to disturb them.
I don't want them to know I'm in Missendcn — do you under-
stand? I'm going out for a while. Have the bed ready by the
time I get back."
"And about supper, sir?" said the landlady.
"I don't want any. I haven't been very well. It's sleep I
want." And therewith he went out into the dark of the night.
But the landlord, who had known the Foster family for years
and years, was sorely disquieted ; ho di<l not like the look of the
young man's appearance nor his strange manner; and after a hur-
ried consultation with his wife he put on his hat and went (juiek-
ly out into the darkness. He could see the way that Foster had
taken, and he followed, keeping a certain distance between him
and the black fiijure ahead. He went down the main thorough-
416 SABINA ZEMBEA.
fare of the village; then got away from the houses; and then
began to ascend the little hill on which the church is built. Here,
away from the yellow light of the windows, one could see better;
the stars overhead were clear ; there was a crescent moon, too, down
in tlie south ; the friendly watcher had no difficulty in following
the movements of the young man, who had awakened his suspi-
cions, if not his alarm. Then he almost took shame on himself
when he saw what happened. Foster, feebly and slowly — for he
seemed very weak — went up the steps of the church-yard, cling-
ing to the hand-rail ; he opened the little gate ; he went forward
— still more slowly, for there were one or two large yew-trees here
that made the place dark — and knelt down by a grave. It was his
mother's grave. And then, the next moment, he had flung him-
self at full length on the slab of stone, with sobs and moans and
inarticulate cries, his face buried in his hands. The man who wit-
nessed this terrible outburst of remorse and anguish withdrew hur-
riedly and stealthily. When he went back to his wife he would
say no word. He put aside her questions ; but she could see that
something unusual had happened to him.
Fred Foster came back to the inn looking more ghastly than
ever; his eyes were sunken, and yet furtively apprehensive; his
face was of an ashen gray. He said he would go to his room at
once ; he asked for two or three candles in case he should be sleep-
less ; and then he went up-stairs and locked himself in.
"Good-night !" he had said to the girl who took the candies up
to him : it was his last farewell to the world.
In the morning, both the landlord and his wife were anxious to
be relieved of the responsibility of having in their house any one
who looked so terribly ill — especially as his own home was but a
short w^ay ofif; and the former had some idea of himself going
along and informing old Mr. Foster and his daughter-in-law. And
then they thought they would wait and see what the young man
had to say. They waited in vain. They knocked at his door;
there was no answer. They knocked again, and yet again ; the si-
lence that followed was dreadful ; then, taking courage, they drove
in the door. There was a dark figure lying on the bed, a curious
odor in the air, and an empty phial on the dressing-table at the
window. This, then, was the end.
And yet a charitable view was taken of the circumstances in
which the body of this hapless mortal was found. It was shown
IN DARKNESS. 417
that he had been dreadfully ill ; that he suffered from sleepless-
ness; that the object of his coming to Missenden was to visit his
mother's grave on the anniversary of her deatli — or, at least, on
the day after that ; and it was suggested as probable tliat the oino-
tion and excitement of such a visit had rendered him wakeful dur-
ing the night, and that he had taken an overdose of the narcotic
he had been using for some time before. So the verdict of the
coronor's jury was simply "Death by misadventure;" and there
was no reason why any one should dispute it; the worthless life
had been snuffed out ; thereafter — silence.
CHAPTER XLIX.
IN DARKNESS.
It was more than a year after these occurrences, and it was on
the morning of the Private View of the Koyal Academy, that Sa-
bina was in London, and in a room in Janie's house, dressing to
go out. In fact, she was already dressed ; but Janie was an assidu-
ous and officious tire-woman, and would hardly let her beloved Sa-
ble out of her hands. Again she would put straiglit the bonnet-
strings beneath the chin, and adjust the bit of a veil ; and tlien
she had to fasten on, under the throat, a little buutjuet of violets
that had been presented by Mr. Philip.
" I'll show them something," said Janic.
"Show whom?" her visitor asked.
" The people at the Academy. I suppose there will be Miss ,
and Mrs. , and the Swiss -American girl, what's lnr nanie ?
But Pm not afraid — not a bit. Do you know, Sabie, I do btiievc
black suits you better than anything; and that's just a love of a
bonnet! And I wisli you could see for yourself how j)orfi'ctly
your dress tits — I mean when yon walk ; no credit ti; tlitiii either;
it ought to be easy enough to fit a figure like yours. Oh, there
will be plenty of fine gowns there, no duubt; they can alw.ivs at-
tract attention that way; that's what I was saying to I'hii this
morning. 'They may have as fine dresses as ever they please;
but where is the one that will show a figure like our S;il)ie's?"'
" I thought we were going to see the pictures .'" Sabina said,
innocently.
18*
418 SABINA ZEMBRA.
" Until the afternoon ; then it's the people. We'll get all the
stooping and crowding and worrying into corners over and done ;
and then you'll have nothing to do bat see and be seen."
"For an artist's wife, Janie," her friend said, "you don't seem
to be going to this Private View in a proper frame of mind."
" I see a good many pictures in the course of the year," said
Janie, as she stepped back a pace or two, so that she could scan
Sabina from head to foot. The result of this examination was
obviously satisfactory. "Yes. They may have dresses as stylish
as ever they can make them, but I know who will be the most
distinguished-looking woman in that crowd. Come along. It's
too bad of Phil not to give up one morning, but he's very busy ;
he'll come along as soon as he can in the afternoon. And mind
you, Sabie, you mustn't let any of the people take you away.
You're going with us, mind !"
" My dear child, I hardly know a human being in London now I
I don't suppose there will be a soul in the place who will remem-
ber me."
" And a good job, too," said Janie, stubbornly, " for I want you
all to myself."
They got into the hansom that was awaiting them. It was a
summer-like morning; even here in London the air was quite
sweet and balmy. They had a pleasant drive in by Kensington
Gardens and Piccadilly, and eventually reached Burlington House
a few minutes after eleven.
As they entered the vestibule, Janie knew that her heart was
beating a little more quickly than usual. She had not heard from
Walter Lindsay for a very long time, and indeed had every reason
to believe that he was still abroad ; but once or twice the fancy
had struck her that perhaps he might, in some unexpected way,
turn up at this Private View. And the very first thing she did,
on receiving a catalogue from one of the attendants, was to turn
quickly to the list of exhibitors at the end of the little volume.
It had always been Lindsay's custom to send in a water-color to
the Academy exhibition, chiefly for the sake of obtaining admis-
sion on Varnishing Day, which is an excellent day for going round
the galleries. But to Janie's surprise she found that this year his
name was absent from the list. She said no word, however. She
kept her disappointment and her anxious surmises to herself.
They had a good steady two hours' work at the pictures ; and
IX UAUKXESS. 419
then Janie marched her charge into the luncheon-room and se-
cured a couple of seats. For Janie was host now, and gave her-
self airs in consequence. Sabina was a visitor from the country,
who hardly knew the ways of the town, and so she had to be
taken about and shown things, and treated when occasion served,
and petted always, Janie confessed to herself tiiat she could not
understand men. There was her husband, who might have been
all that morning goingabout with the prettiest woman in the place,
discussing the pictures with her, and talking to her as much as
ever he chose, and who might at this very moment have been
seated at this table making merry with them in the modest fash-
ion allowed by the Academy ; and instead of that, he must needs
keep laboring away at his allegorical and hungry virgins. No
matter; there was the one faithful soul. She had Sabic all to
herself. And she was very happy and very confident. They
might produce what striking costumes they chose ; she would
say, "Oh, get away with your purchased finery ; look at my IJeau-
tifuJ One."
There came along a tall, good-looking young fellow, whom Sa-
bina seemed to recognize, though she could not recollect where
she had seen him. He shook hands with Janie, and bowed to her
companion.
" 1 had the pleasure of meeting you one night at Mr. Lindsay's,
two or three years ago," he said, seeing that she looked puzzled ;
and then she had a vague remembrance of this being a young As-
sociate who made one of a pretty group of lads and lasses gath-
ered round the piano and singing glees.
He turned to Janie.
" JJy-the-way, have you heard anything of Walter of late?"
" No, I have not," she said, reddening a little as she looked up
— for she did not mention Lindsay's name before Sabina more
than she could help. " I have only his New York address; and
as he hasn't answered my last letter, I have no idea where he is.
I must write again ; fur there may have been some mistake."
"I heard the other day — I forgot who it was who told me —
that there was something wrong with his eyes."
" What?" she said, looking up again.
" I hope it is something of no im|)ortancc," he said. " But for a
landscape-painter to have his eyes go wrong, that's pretty bad luck.
It's a serious thing fur anybody — but for a landscape-painter — "
420 SABINA ZEMBRA.
Janie looked a little bewildered and frightened.
" Now, I remember," she said, rather breathlessly, " that the last
letter I had from him was written in such a curious way — not like
his ordinary handwriting. And it was very short too ; whereas he
used to write long letters if he had been silent for some time.
Only he did not say a word about anything being wrong with his
eyes."
" Perhaps it is a mistake," he said. " These reports do get into
circulation, and are exaggerated as they are passed along."
He talked to her a few moments further about various matters ;
but her eyes were grave and absent. When he left she did not
bring up Walter Lindsay's name again. Luncheon over, they re-
turned to the pictures, and to the crowd, that was now sensibly in-
creasing in numbers.
The afternoon passed without incident — excepting that Sabina
encountered her father in this slow-moving assemblage. He came
along bland, smiling, and loftily gracious, as usual, nodding to this
side or that, as he recognized some one sufficiently distinguished
to merit so much of notice. Sabina hesitated. They had not
met since the time he went down to Witstead. She did not ad-
vance towards him ; nor did she avoid him ; she stood just a lit-
tle bit withdrawn, so that he could treat her as he chose — passing
on without recognition, if so it pleased him. And yet she looked
timidly at him.
" Ha !" said he, as if she were some mere ordinary acquaintance.
"Howdedo? Howdedo?"
He offered her a couple of fingers, but he scarcely bestowed a
look on her; his glance was far ahead of him, picking out the
great of the land, with whom it pleased him to know that he was
on such excellent terms. And then he went on again, of course
taking no heed of Janie, who was not a distinguished person at all.
Philip Drexel had arrived in due course; and Janie took the
first opportunity she could find — Sabina happened to be engaged
in conversation with some one who knew her — to say to her
husband, and rather anxiously,
" Phil, do you remember the last letter we had from Walter
Lindsay ?"
" What about it ?"
"Do you remember anything peculiar about the handwriting?"
"No."
IN DARKNESS. 421
" They say there's something wrong with his eyesight," said
Janie, in an undertone.
" Yes, I remember his saying his eyes sometimes bothered him
a little."
"Oh, he spoke to you about it?" Janie said, eagerly.
"Yes, I think it was when he was just back fruin America;
there was some talking about sea voyages, and he spoke of the
glare of the water."
" But it was nothing serious ?" she said.
" Oh no, not at all."
" What a fright I got !" said Janie, half to herself ; but at this
moment Sabina returned to them, and so no further mention was
made of Walter Lindsay.
Now it was for this Private View that Sabina had prolonged
her visit, consequently there was but the one more evening for
these three to spend together before her return to Buckingham-
shire. It was a very enj(^yable evening, nevertheless, for the
long-talked-of tour in Scotland that Philip and his wife had been
promising themselves year after year had now been definitely
fixed for the following month, and they had very nearly per-
suaded Sabina to go with them as their guest; so that now liiore
was nothing for it but to put a big map on the dining-room table,
and discuss routes, and indulge in all kinds of imaginary sights
and pleasures. Janie's mind ran mostly on mountains and re-
mote islands set amid lonely seas. Her husband was interci-tcd
more in mediaeval architecture and ruins and legends and tradi-
tions. And he declared that, wherever else they might go, they
must visit the Braes of Yarrow ; for he had some notion of steal-
inf a subject out of Hamilton of Bangour's pathetic ballad, and
he wanted to sec what the neighborhood was like. It is to be
guessed that it was not the youthful lover, in "his robes, bis
robes of green," that was in Mr. Philip's mind, nor yet the cruel
slaughter done on Yarrow's banks. These things were hardly in
bis way; more likely he was thinking of a single female figure,
dim and visionary, with a face grown white with grief, and eyes
hollow and haunted with despair.
"Return, return, mournful, mournful bride,
Return, and dry thy uselend Borrow ;
Tliy lover needs nouj^lit of thy Ki^liH ;
He lies u corpse on the Hracs of Yarrow."
422 SABINA ZEMBRA.
Then behind this solitary figure a half-suggested landscape — vague
and gray and shadowy — a darkened river — the fatal bank where
she "tint her lover, lover dear" — and beyond these the low-lying
hills, sombre under the heavy sky, and receding into a mysterious
gloom.
" Sabie," said Janie, the next morning, at the door of the cab,
" make it a definite ' Yes !' "
"I cannot; you are really too kind," was Sabina's answer. "I
should be dreadfully in the way. Two's company ; three's none.
If it was a run down to Brighton, that might be all right — but a
long travelling through Scotland ! And then the expense ; young
married people like you shouldn't dream of such extravagances."
" Then you deliberately mean to spoil my visit to Scotland ?"
said Janie.
" What can you mean ?" '
" You know well enough. It has been promised me all along
that when we went to Scotland you should come with me ; and
what else did I think of? It's not the old abbeys I care for; it's
having you with us. And now you deliberately say no. As for
the expense — well, if Phil says he can afford it, and easily afford
it, I suppose that is enough ? And I never expected to hear you,
Sabie, talk as if you were too proud to accept a small kindness
from us ; it isn't like you to talk like that — as between you and
me."
"You goose, I never said anything of the kind," Sabina an-
swered her, good-naturedly. " Well, I will think over it. And if
I can bring myself to inflict so much trouble on you, then I will
go as your maid, and you will let me travel third-class."
"Yes, I think that would do very well," Janie said, gravely.
" Only I am afraid in that case Phil would very soon forsake the
mistress for the maid. He would be too much in that third-class
compartment. Now, Sabie, before you go, a definite 'Yes.' "
"Really I cannot, Janie dear; but I will let you know; I must
see how old Mr. Foster likes it."
" Within a fortnight you will let me know?"
"Yes, certainly."
" And then you will at once come up to town, and stay with
us for a week, and get your travelling things ready ?"
" I am afraid, if I do go, I shall have to do with what I have."
" Ah, but you'll come up and see, Sabie !" her friend said, be-
IN DARKNESS. 423
seecbingly. " And we'll go to the Scotch place in Regent Street.
Oil, shouldn't I like to see you in a long gray ulster and a Taiu o'
Shanter, at Euston Sqn.ire Station, walking up and down the plat-
form. You would look so comfoitablo in it, and it would suit
your tall figure too. Sabie, I'm going to give you that for your
birthday present."
" What nonsense ! But good-by, Janie, good-by. Tell the man
to look sharp, or I shall miss my train."
For several days thereafter Janie expected every morning to hear
from Missenden, but no message came ; and she thought she must
write again and urge Sabie to give her consent. However, some-
thing now occurred that changed the whole situation of affairs.
One morning she and her husband were seated at breakfast,
when a letter was brought to her. It was a bulky letter, and ad-
dressed in a school-boy's hand. She had nearly thrown it into
the fireplace in the irritation naturally begotten by the receipt of a
circular. Nevertheless, she mechanically opened the envelope and
glanced at the contents. Presently she turned to the signature. It
was " Walter Lindsay " she saw there, but not in his handwriting.
"Oh, Phil, what's this?" she cried.
She began again at the first page, and read rapidly and breath-
lessly. Her husband was looking at her with some amazement.
Presently he saw her lips begin to quiver ; then her eyes filled with
tears ; then she rose.
"Read it, Phil — I — I can't," she said, and turned and quickly
left the room.
Yet this was no piteous communication he was asked to glance
through; on the contrary, it was written with an aiuimiaiice of
good-humor. Lindsay apologized, to begin with, f<.i' nut h.iving
answered her letter long before, the fact being that, it had bicn
forwarded from New York to place to place, until it had linally
reached him in the " Kingdom of Galloway." Then he went, on :
"They say the wounded hare crawls home to die. Well, it is not
quite as bad as that with me; but wIkii I tell you that my eye-
sight has gone from bad to worse, so that now all I can tell is the
difference betwixt night and day, you will understand that it was
but natural T should come back to the oM familiar place, where
I can imagine my surroundings, if I cannot see them. And really
I am very comfortable, and lead a j)leas;int enough life. The la<l
who writes these lines to you is a 8har{)-cyed fellow, with an adniira-
424 SABINA ZEMBRA.
ble acquaintance with every bird and beast you may meet on a morn-
ing walk, and an eager sportsman, too, from firing at rabbits, which
he never hits, to guddling trout in the burns; and I am as much
interested in his performances as if they were my own. I have
myself tried a little fly-fishing, witli more or less success ; but ex-
pect to be more at home in trolling with the phantom-minnow, if
I can come across some good-natured fellow who has a salmon-loch.
Then I have books and newspapers read to me ; and there is no
lack of tobacco ; and then we have long walks round the coast, or
up on the hill-sides, and my companion tells me how many birds
there were in the covey that got up at our feet, or what kind of
ships they are that are passing, and how far he thinks the horizon
is off. So you see I have a good excuse for a life of inglorious
ease ; and I have but little right to complain ; things might have
been a good deal harder to bear. And as regards the operation
they speak of at some future time, I am trying to prepare myself
for the worst. This darkness came upon me by slow degrees, so
that I got used to it in a measure ; and I can look forward to a
life-long continuance of it without much dismay. There were one
or two things, in the way of my work, I had thought to have at-
tempted — that is the only reflection that does trouble me a little
at times; but I don't know that I should have done any better
than I had done before; and what I have done must now speak
for itself. For one thing, the critics may now look on me as a
dead man ; and they always say nicer things about you after you
are dead.
" This is a very egotistical letter, but I thought you would like
to know exactly how the case stands with me ; and if any one
should ask about me, you will be able to say that I am not at all
given over to black moods of despair. And if you only knew how
I long for news of any friends in whom you and I are mutually
interested, I am sure that of your kindness you would send me a
line. I would have written to you before, to beg that news of you,
but have been trying hard to get quite thoroughly accustomed to
my position and circumstances, so as to write in a fairly contented
way. And I think I am content. I know I shall be more than
content when you send me some bit of news. The smallest things
told to me are full of interest — that there are yellow marsh-mari-
golds in the ditch by the road-side — that a hawk is hovering high
in the air — that a blue kingfisher has just darted up the stream —
IN THE KINGDOM OF GALLOWAY. 425
or that a small white rabbit is lying asleep in the sun, just outside
the parental burrow — all these little things are of the keenest in-
terest, for they are so many messages from the great world of life
and light and color that is all around me, and that I nuiy never
see again. So you may imagine what news from friends must be.
Did I say that I would have written before, but that I waited until
I was quite used to ray surroundings? Tell Philip that if they
should ask about me at the Arts Club, he may say that I am not
repining overmuch."
These were the pertinent passages ; and Janie's husband was
just finishing them when she returned to the room, her eyes red
with crying.
" He is putting a very brave face on it," said he. " But any one
can feel there is more than is set down here."
"Oh, it is terrible — it is terrible," she said, with a bit of a re-
turning sob. " Phil, what are you going to do ?"
"Well, we shall be in Scotland anyway; don't you think we
ought to go and see him ?"
"Ah, I thought you would say that!" Janie exclaimed, and
there was a soft gleam of pride and gratitude in her tear -filled
eyes. "And then — as for Sabie?"
She hesitated for but a moment, and it was herself who boldly
made the answer.
" Well, if Sabie refuses to go to Scotland now — she is not the
•woman I took her for."
CHAPTER L.
IN THE KINGDOM OF GALLOWAY.
Janie was not long left in doubt.
" If you think he would like it," Sabina wrote instantly, " if
you think it would be a little break in the monotony of his life,
or would serve to convince him how much we sympathize with
him in his dreadful misfortune, I will go with you, and gladly.
IIow can I ever forget his kindness to me in my darkest hours?
And if that can never be repaid, surely the least I can do is to
show that I remember him and am grateful."
Then there was a bustle of pre[)aration in the house ; for Janie's
426 SABINA ZEilBRA.
ideas about Scotland, and about what was necessary for such a
journey, were of a vague description ; perhaps she would hardly
have been surprised if warned to take tinned meats with her in
case of their being snowed up in June, or if Piiilip had been ad-
vised to purchase a rifle, on the chance of his getting a sliot at a
bear. However, Philip's first care was to ascertain that this visit
would be agreeable to Walter Lindsay ; and accordingly he wrote,
saying they were coming round that way, and would like to see
him, and might, perhaps, if there was an hotel in the neighbor-
hood, stay for a few days, and give him of their company if he
cared for it. He added that Sabina was coming with them.
The answer showed how gratefully this proposal had been re-
ceived.
" I have made my young friend here read your letter over sev-
eral times, for it sounded too good to be true ; but I am convinced
at last; and you may be sure I understand why you think of com-
ing to this out-of-the-way place. And we'll say nothing about an
hotel, if you will put up with such accommodation as my poor
house affords; and we will try to give you a Scotch welcome. It
is an interesting neighborhood ; you will be able to plan plenty
of excursions, and you needn't be afraid that I shall be a drag on
you — I shall be glad enough when you come home in the even-
ing. In the mean time it will be quite an occupation for me to
make preparations for your coming ; if I can't see what is going
on, I shall be no worse off than the modern general who sits in his
tent and conducts a battle from the reports sent in to him. I
would telegraph for Mrs. Reid to give us her additional assistance,
but her face would remind Sabina of that sad time ; so perhaps
we shall be better without. By-the-way, I have once or twice
been thinking of writing to you about my house and studio in
London. Once upon a time I made a solemn vow never to sell
them — because of certain associations. But then I was earning a
good income; now that I am earning nothing, it seems a useless
piece of extravagance. Probably I shall never be in London again ;
and, considering this that has happened to me, I think I am en-
titled to absolution from that vow ; so that if you slioiild chance
to hear of a likely tenant or purchaser, you might let me know."
" Never to be in London again ?" repeated Janie, when she read
the letter. "Does he think he would be such a trouble to his
friends — a drag on them, he says? But he is hopeless because he
IN THE KINGDOM OF GALLOWAY. 427
is alone. When Sabie and you and I are all with him, we will
try to cheer him up a little. And — and I hope Sabie will be
kind !"
Then Sabina was summoned up from the country to join in the
general and joyful hurry of preparation for departure. But when
she saw what Janie considered needful in the way of rugs, ulsters,
water-proofs, and the like — and when she discovered that these
good people, though far from being abundantly rich, were making
no scruple about providing her with all of these — her conscience
smote her. The cost of the travelling, too, would be great: why
should she become such a burden upon them? The alternative
was that she should go and ask her father for a renewal of the al-
lowance which, he had formally intimated to her, still remained at
her disposal. Perhaps, in other circumstances, she would even
now have backed out of this proposed holiday, and contentedly
gone down home again to Buckinghamshire. But she wanted to
go to Scotland — if her going would be taken as a kindness by one
who was once kind to her, and was now sorely stricken — and so
she put her pride in her pocket, wrote to her father, got an ap-
pointment to meet him at the Waldegrave Club, and went there
and found him.
There were two well-known politicians passing through the hall
while Sabina was standing there, talking to her father and ex-
plaining her position. When they had got into the morning-
room, and the glass door had swung behind them, the one said to
the other.
" What a remarkably handsome girl that is talking to Anthony
Zembra ! — did you notice her?"
" Whv, don't you know who she is?" said the other.
" No."
" His daughter, that's all."
"How can that be? I have never seen her at the house."
"Oh, she's married — or was married — or something," his com-
panion said, indifferently. "She doesn't live with family number
two."
Meanwhile Sabina was being lectured in a cold fashion about
the consequences of her evil ways. But when it came to the
question of money there was no difficulty. Sir Anthony pointed
out to her that it was no wish of his that one of his daughters
should be dependent on the bounty of any one; that her allow-
428 SABINA ZEMBUA.
ance was bcinj^ punctually paid her when she chose to relinquish
it, from motives best known to herself; that it was still at her dis-
posal ; and that personally he should much prefer that no relation
of his was in receipt of charity from any source whatever. For
Sir Anthony liked to speak of his own motives, aims, circum-
stances, and position ; and he seldom failed to convey to his inter-
locutor a sense of how far, far away from that high standard of
intcijritv and prudence and conscientiousness he or she was. Sa-
bina left the Waldegrave Club just a little bit humbled ; but at all
events she knew that now those kind people who were befriend-
ing her would not have to pay for her travelling equipment.
Then there came the joyous morning on which these three found
themselves walking up and down the wide, sounding platform of
Euston Station. A carriage had been reserved for them ; Philip
had stuffed it full of newspapers and magazines. And now Sa-
bina, having yielded to Janie's insistence, was clad in an ulster of
gray homespun, with a Tam o' Shanter of similar color, and looked
more like a Highland chieftainess than a Kensington-born young
woman.
"Take your scats for the North !"
To some folk there is more music in these simple words than
ever was put into any song or ballad. But these three travellers
were, as a first stage, going no farther than Carlisle ; and indeed
knew little of what was before them.
"Look here," said Mr. Philip, taking out his pocket-book as
soon as they were through the tunnels and into the clear da3'light
again. " I was talking some little while ago to an American, over
here for the first time, and he told me that what struck him most
in England was the number of interesting things, historical and
otherwise, that you find everywhere within a small compass. Go
anywhere you like, he said — for a morning stroll — and there's al-
ways something. Now I wonder what he would say to this little
run between Carlisle and Stranraer. I have been jotting down
some of the points while I was ransacking the guide-books; and
really we shall have our work cut out for us before we reach Carn-
ryan Tower. Listen. They begin the minute you cross the border.
Gretna Green — well, that's nothing. Kirtle Water — that is where
Helen of Kirkconnell was shot in saving the life of her lover — "
"Oh, if you take account of all the imaginary stories — " bis
■wife objected.
m THE KINGDOM OF GALLOWAY. 429
"My dear," said he, *'it isn't an imaginary story. It was a
very actual occurrence — as the gentleman who fired the shot
found out. The slaving of Burd Helen wasn't at all the end of
the incident — a little interview had to take place between the
lover and the murderer — don't you remember? —
" ' My sword did draw,
Stern was our fight on Kirtleshaw,
I hewed him down in pieces sraa',
For her sake that died for me.'
Then what comes next? Dumfries. I don't know bow we are
ever to get away from Dumfries and its neighborhood. Of course
we must drive out and see Ellisland, Burns's farm, and Friar's
Carse too ; then there's Lincluden Abbey, Drutnlanrig Castle, Max-
wellton Braes — we'll maybe find another Bonnie Annie Laurie
tripping over the dew ; Craigenputtock, where Thomas the Thun-
derer prepared his bolts before coming up to London ; Sweetheart
Abbey, that Devorgilla built in memory of her husband — thir-
teenth-century work that must be — Caerlaverock Castle, Threave
Castle, Dundrennan Abbey, where Queen Mary spent her last night
in Scotland, after the battle of Langside — "
" Phil," said his wife to him, " if you are going to give so much
time to these old abbeys and monasteries, what do you say to
Sable and me going on to Carnryan and waiting for you there?
Indeed, if you are going to spend so much time on this little bit of
Scotland, how are we to know anything of the country generally ?
J thought we should see something of the lonely islands in the
west, and the mountains, and certainly Edinburgh, and Melrose;
and vou wanted to go back by Yarrow — that's away somewhere
else—"
" Here's gratitude," said he, " for my having crushed twenty
pages of guide-book into ten lines. However, we'll make this
compact : you bear with as much architecture as you can, and, on
my side, when you think a place is not likely to be interesting
I'll cut it out — Sabina to be umpire."
So that was settled ; but both Sabina and Philip knew very
well that it was no ignorant lack of interest in historical or poeti-
cal associations that had prompted Jaiiie's little protest; it was
that she was anxious to show Walter Litidsay that his friends had
not forgotten him iu his trouble, but were quick with their sym-
pathy.
430 SABIJTA ZEMBRA.
That night tliey stopped at " Merry Carlisle," and next morning
wore up betimes and on the ramparts of the red Castle, looking
away across the green meadows and the winding Eden towards
the pale blue line of the Scotch hills at the horizon. Then they
crossed the Border, and guessed at the place where
" In my arms Burd Helen dropped,
And died for love of me."
They spent two days in and around Dumfries. They went on to
Castle Douglas. They made their way into the famous Kingdom
of Galloway, that is " blest with the smell of bog-myrtle and
peat." Finally, in this slow fashion, they rested a night at New-
ton-Stewart, so as to take the morning train to Stranraer; and
there they found awaiting them at the station a wagonette to con-
vey them to Carnryan.
It was a beautiful, soft-aired, June morning, and the country
through which they drove was picturesque enough, with occa-
sional glimpses of the sea; but there is no doubt that the two
womenfolk were very much preoccupied, not to say anxious and
nervous.
"You'd better say nothing at all," Philip Drexel had advised
them. " It would only be an embarrassment. Clearly he is de-
termined to put a brave face on it; just you talk to him as if
nothing had happened."
"It seems hard, though," Janie said, wistfully, "that — that he
shouldn't know how sorry we are."
"You can't say anything well," remarked Mr. Philip, who had
a little common-sense, "and what is the use of saying it badly?
And don't you think he will understand?"
When at length they arrived at Carnryan they found it a quite
modern place (the old tower, as they afterwards discovered, was
on a promontory facing the sea). The house was two-storied,
wide, and straggling, surrounded by fair meadows and woods, and
with a high-walled fruit-garden at some distance away. The
French windows, the trimly-kept lawn and flower-pots were all
very cheerful and pleasant. If they had been expecting anything
of the grim and gray dignity of an ancient Scottish keep they
were speedily disillusionized.
They alighted from the wagonette, and were received by an
elderly man-servant and a smart young maid, who informed them
IN THE KINGDOM OF GALLOWAY. 4^31
that Mr. Lindsay was down in the fruit- garden, but would be
forthcoming directly, as he would hear the carriage-wheels. So
they did not go into the house ; they loitered about the front
door, looking at the shrubberies, and the larch -trees, and the
beds of forget-me-nots, and at certain small round puff-balls
under a distant hedge, which they found out to be white rab-
bits.
Then Lindsay made his appearance at some way off, walking
rather slowly, with his hand resting on the shoulder of a young
lad. His tall form was as erect as ever, but his head was bent a
little forward, as if he had fallen into a habit of listening intently.
When he came still nearer they could see that there was no ap-
pearance whatever of his being blind ; there was not even a shade
over his eyes. But they heard the boy say to him in an under-
tone,
"There's a gentleman, sir, and a tall young leddy, and anithcr
ane not so tall."
He came forward, holding out both his hands.
"I beg your pardon a hundred times," he said. "This is
hardly a Scotch welcome ; I should have been at the door to re-
ceive you, but I fancy Sandy has come a good pace, or else I've
mistaken the time. And this is you, Philip — and this is you,
Janie — then this must be you — "
" Sabina !" she said, with a touch of entreaty : she could not be
left out of the little friendly circle.
" I am glad you have brought such fine weather with you," he
said, cheerfully. "Didn't you think the country looking pretty
as you came along?"
" Oh, beautiful, beautiful !" Janie's husband said. The two
women could hardly speak. It was so piteous to hear hiin talk
approvingly of all these summer things around them, and still to
be so far away from them. It seemed almost as if he were im-
prisoned within some living tomb.
"Come into the house, then," he said, as if he would himself
lead the way.
And then he hesitated, and put forward his foot a little to find
where the stone step was ; for the young lad had withdrawn a
space to leave his master free to talk to his guests. At this mo-
ment it happened that Sabina was next to Lindsay, and could not
but see his helplessness.
432 SABIXA ZEMBRA.
" Will you talce my hand ?" she said ; and she gently put her
finders on his arm and guided him into the hall.
It was her right hand that she put on his arm ; with the left
she was brushing aside the tears that, in spite of herself, rained
down her face.
CHAPTER LI.
AT CARNKTAN TOWER.
Janie's teen desire to visit the northern isles and hills, and
Edinburgh, and Melrose, and " the dowie dens o' Yarrow," had
apparently gone away from her mind now •, she seemed well con-
tent with this bit of western Wigtonshire ; and indeed they found
the neighborhood exceedingly picturesque and interesting. Of
course they insisted on Walter Lindsay accompanying them on
all of their excursions ; and the attendant who went with them,
perched up on the box-seat beside the driver, speedily discovered
that his office was a sinecure. It was "the tall young leddy"
who had supplanted him, devoting herself entirely to Lindsay, and
never wearied of telling him o-f all that was around them as they
walked along. She did not need to lead him. Somehow he
knew when she was close by him. Her voice was a sufficient
guide — perhaps an occasional touch of her dress too. Naturally,
when they were stepping into a boat, or passing under the arch-
way of some old ruin, she gave him her hand ; but ordinarily they
merely walked side by side — her face turned towards his.
They were thus strolling along the shore one morning, she
.stooping now and again to pick up a shell or a bit of crimson
weed, but ever returning to her welcome task of describing the
fair world around them, and Janie and her husband were follow-
ing some little way behind.
" If Walter had only his eyesight for ten minutes !" Janie said,
•wistfully. " If he could only see the expression of her face every
time she turns to him. There is one thing surely he must notice
— that her voice changes whenever she speaks to him. Whatever
she may be saying to us — whatever nonsense may be going on —
the moment she speaks to him it is all gentleness ; and you know
how soft and kind her voice is when she chooses. That is what
AT CAENRYAN TOWER. 433
I have said for years and years, ever since I have known her : tlje
wa3' to win Sabie's love is through her pity. AValter Lindsay
used to be too well off ; she never could be brought to care for
him. So I suppose it is true that tliere may be a soul of good in
tilings evil. I dare say if she had not come through that dread-
ful time of trouble, she would never have got to know what a true
friend he is; and I am quite sure, if this misfortune hadn't be-
fallen him, she wouldn't have the sympathy with him she has now.
And very little trouble she takes to hide it. If he could only see
for a second how she watches his face when she's telling him any-
thing — to gather whether he's interested ; yes, and the quickness
with which she is the first to get him his stick and his hat when we
are coming out, and the eagerness with which she listens to him — ■
and her quick approval — ah, well, I don't know what may come of
it ; but apparently Sabie is quite happy whenever she is with him."
Thus said Janie in her incoherent way ; her husband took a
more practical view.
" What ought to come of it is clear enough. To make of two
broken lives one whole one is the sensil^le thing."
" He is too proud to ask her," Janie said.
" Let her ask him."
" She can't. Besides, he would refuse to accept s-acli a sacrifice
— that is, if he was likely to be permanently blind."
"Now, look here," said Mr. Philip. " That is a subject which
we can't speak of to Walter, but you and I may speak of it ; and
I assure you that his determination to look at the worst side of
the possibilities must have grown up when he was living here by
himself, and giving way to depression and gloom. Or he may
think it right to school himself to face the worst that can happen.
Very well, that may be reasonable enough, but you must remem-
ber that the chances are really the other way. No doubt many of the
operations are unsuccessful, but the majority of them are success-
ful ; and you know what the doctors said — that everything d«-
jx'uded on the general health of the constitution. Well, look at
Lindsay. He has never had a touch of gout or rheumatism or
anything of the kind all his life long. I say the chances are all in
his favor. Of course, the anxiety must be dreadful ; and I can
understand a man in a kind of half despair saying to himself that
he will rather look forward to the worst, so that he may not be
wholly crushed if it should happen."
io
434 SABINA ZEMBRA.
" I wonder what Sabie thinks," Janic said, absently. " I am
afraid to ask her. And I suppose, if ho were to be permanently
blind, it would be too great a sacrifice for her to make? I know,
if the positions were reversed, it would not be too great a sacrifice
for him to make ; he would sacrifice anything, everything, for
Sable's sake. But you don't often meet with a devotion like that.
lie told me himself — but mind, you must not tell Sabie this — that
when it first occurred to him there was something wrong with his
eves, he began to think there would be at least this compensation
in being blind, that Sabie would always have the same beauty for
him, that he would always think of her as he had first known
her. There never has been anything that he would not sacri-
fice, and willingly and gladly, for her sake. Bat I don't know
about her."
" You don't know about her?" her husband repeated, staring at
her. " Well, I like that! Oh, of course you want me to argue
that she is bound to make the sacrifice ? I am not going to say
anything of the kind. But this is clear enough — that, if the suc-
cess of that operation depends considerably on the general health
of the patient, our little trip here seems to have done Lindsay a
world of good. He is in ever so much better spirits than when
we came."
" That is because Sabie is his constant companion," was Janie's
answer. "And I must say for her, that when she sets about inak-
ing much of any one, she does it with a will. There is no mis-
taking it. I remember, in the old time, mother declaring she was
a most horrible flirt because of the way she was ' going on ' with
Walter at his own house one night. But she wasn't 'going on.'
When she wants to be good to you, as the children say, she cer-
tainly can, and she doesn't care who sees it, either."
"Well, then," said Mr. Philip, "it is clear we are not doing
Lindsay much harm by keeping him occupied and cheerful ; and
I have been thinking we might add on two or three days more to
our visit. AVe can't be in the way, for he has nothing to do ; and
the house is big, the servants just as obliging and good-natured as
they can be. Well, now, I was thinking of Monday next ; shall
we say Wednesday instead ?"
" If you will stay to the end of the week, Phil," Janie answer-
ed, " I will give up any one of the places I wanted to see — any
one you like."
AT CARNRYAN TOWER. 435
"The end of the week? Well, we must first aslc for an invita-
tion. And then we'll see what Sabina says."
But Philip Drexcl had himself already cut out one portion of
their travelling programme — that referring to the Braes of Yar-
row. He seemed to have lost interest in the gray and shadowy
figure which, in his London dreams, he had pictured as on Yar-
row's banks, with a world of mystic gloom around her. For even
as the blood of an anaemic person is flushed by fresh air and sun-
light and exercise, so Mr. Philip's imagination, under the constant
stimulus of historical and legendary scenes and associations — to
say nothing of the brisker health begotten of rowing and climb-
ing and moorland tramping — had wanned into color. Among
Lindsay's books he had discovered the ballad of Fair Annie ; and
he had gradually put away from him the gray phantom of Yar-
row's banks for this brighter, if still pensive, figure — that of the
forsaken mistress who is bidden to "lace her in green cleiding"
and " braid her yellow hair," that she may welcome home the
bride :
" Fair Annie stood in her bower door,
And lookit owcr the land ;
And there she saw iier ain gude lord
Leading his biide by the hand.
"She's drest her sons i' the scarlet red.
Herself i' the dainty green ;
And though Iier cheek looked pale and wan,
She weel might ha' been a queen."
This was what he was busy with now ; and so the visit to Yar-
row's haunted stream was discarded, or at least postponed, and
there was so much the more time to add on to their lingerino- in
the pleasant Kingdom of Galloway.
When Philip asked Lindsay to keep them on for another week,
he wound up his not ineffectual prayer by saying,
" And the best thing you can do at the end of the time is to
come along with us. Moping down here won't do you any good.
Come with us for a run through Scotland, and then go back to
London with us."
But Lindsay would not hear of it.
"I should be a continual drag on you, and you have plenty to
do. Besides, I have grown familiar with this place; I can get
about a little even when Jamie isn't by. Of course I shall have
436 SABINA ZEMBRA.
to be in London for a brief time : we shall meet tlien. In the
mean while, Pliil, my lad, don't talk about your going, there's
a good fellow. I don't want even to think of it — until it's
over."
If these days, then, were now numbered, at least they were
halcyon days. The visitors had not committed the usual mistake
of English folk in going to Scotland just at the very worst time
of the year for weather. And how quickly the time passed ! In
the morning, after breakfast, they all went outside, for the mign-
onette was sweet in the soft June air; and if Janie and Philip
generally strolled off by themselves, Sabina had found out for her-
self a warm bank at the southern edge of the lawn, where it was
pleasant to sit. Thither she brought Lindsay's chair, and the
daily batch of newspapers; and she could make a shrewd guess
as to what interested him most when she began to read — not the
squabbling of Synods and Presbyteries, and not the sham objur-
gation of party politics, but rather the reports from the salmon
rivers, and accounts of any new picture -exhibition in London.
Then the wagonette would come round to the door, the stragglers
would be summoned to get ready, and presently they would be
driving away along the coast, or up and over the wild moorland
country, until, at mid-day, they sought out some sheltered spot for
opening the luncheon-basket. The afternoon Mr. Philip usually
devoted to desperate attempts at acquiring the art of fly-fishing
— from a boat on a small loch hard by. Sometimes the others
accompanied him ; and it was very little the two women knew of
the imminent peril they were in from the erratic cast of flies, es-
pecially when there was a bit of a breeze on behind the fisher-
man. Lindsay, of course, could not see ; and the saturnine Jamie,
sitting at the oars, merely sniggered to himself and said nothing;
but nevertheless Mr. Philip flogged away with his variegated cast
of Zulu, Blue Dun, and Coch-y-bondu ; and if he sometimes caught
np in his own clothes, or occasionally lodged the Coch-y-bondu
in the gunwale of the boat behind him, these were but trifling
mishaps; and eventually his patience and resolution were on
most occasions rewarded by the capture of a few innocent small
things attracted by the passage of the drop-fly across the surface.
Then home to dinner; after which there was smoking and chat-
ting and music; sometimes, on these warm-scented June nights,
they opened the French windows and went abroad in the stillness,
AT CARNEY AN TOWER, 437
for there was moonlight now ; and it was strange to hear in the
silence the occasional soft mewing of some distant sea-gull, or the
whistle of a curlew down by the shore.
On the last night of all these nights, Philip proposed that they
should walk up to the old tower, to have a last look at the coast
and the silvered sea. All this evening Lindsay had been silent
and preoccupied ; Sabina had tried her best to cheer him, but
without avail ; no one had dared to speak of the departure on
the morrow ; and indeed the restraint on all of them was only
too obvious. So this proposal was rather gladly accepted ; and
when they went out into the hushed night, Janie and her hus-
band led the way, as was their wont, and Sabina followed with
Lindsay, her hand just hovering near his arm.
It was a beautiful night, and the farther they climbed the steep
ascent the more they could see of the still, moonlit water, and
the successive gray promontories running out away to the south.
There was not a sound ; even the sea-birds were silent now ; and
the whispering of the ripples along the shore was too faint to
reach them here. And Sabina had ceased to try to entertain
him; her own heart was not over-light; perhaps she felt there
was much to say that she could not say.
When they reached the tower, which was part of the ruins of
a stronghold built by the Robert Lindsay who fell at Otterbourne,
they found that Philip and Janie had gone inside, and were try-
ing to make their way up to the top. Sabina did not choose to
follow them ; she seated herself on one of the big stones lying
all about, and Lindsay remained standing by her side, his fingers
just touching lier dress near the shoulder, that he should know
she was there.
For some little while there was silence ; then she said (recur-
ring to her duties for the last time),
"I don't think I ever saw the sea so still. And there is a small
steamer right in the way of the moonlight — jet black it is — it
is so strange to see it slowly crossing that wide silver pathway.
Where will it be going? Over to Ireland?"
He paid no heed to her question ; it was not of the sea he was
thinking.
" So you are really going away to-morrow ?" he said, in rather
a low voice.
"Yes," she answered, simply, "and I have no heart in going,"
438 SABINA ZEMBEA.
Then, with an effort, she gathered courage to say what she
wished to say.
" You must not imagine that I go willingly. I think I have
been of some little service to you. I think you like me to be
with you. And I would like to stay if I could. You did not
forsake me — in my time of trouble. If I am going, I have no
heart in going; believe that."
The hand that was so near her touched her; it was trembling
a little.
" Sabina, you almost make me spoak when I had determined
to keep silent ; and if I could — " But here he paused for a sec-
ond. " No, not yet — not as I am now — I cannot. But perhaps
hereafter — it may be different; I must wait — and then — if it is
different — I will come to you."
She could not fail to understand.
" You do not trust me," she said. "Do you think that would
make any difference to me?"
lie bent down a little ; perhaps it was to listen for the least
sound of her voice ; it was a habit he had got into since his eye-
sight had left him.
" Sabina, if the worst were to happen — would you still have
pity on me ?"
For answer she took the hand that was hovering over her
shoulder, and held it in both of hers, and kissed it.
" My best and dearest friend," she said, and there was even a
touch of pride in her simple self-surrender, " I wish to be with
you always; but, if that were to happen — then more than ever."
CHAPTER LII.
AT A PICTURE SHOW.
Walter Lindsay neither let nor sold his town -house and
studio. On all sides he was informed that the most skilful
oculists in the world were to be found in London ; and when
the time was drawing nigh for the operation for cataract to be
performed, he repaired thither. Nor did Janie and Philip and
Sabina leave him much chance of sinking into a nervous appre-
hension and gloom. Nearly every evening they went round to
AT A PICTURE-SHOW. 439
his studio — for Sabina was staying with tliese good friends just
then, and Lindsay and they were near neighbors. Sometimes
Sabina took to him, or sent him, flowers. It was a fair exchange.
" Oh, dinna ye mind, love Gregory,
Wheu we sate at the wine,
How we changed the napkins frae our necks?
It's no sae lang sinsyne."
In her time of trouble he had shown her a kindness that she
treasured in her inmost heart; and now it was her turn, in a
smaller but in no unwilling way, to pay him all kinds of little
attentions, and send him daily remembrances. They were not
undervalued by the recipient of them.
During the week of suspense that followed the operation Janie
was terribly anxious, Sabina much less so. Indeed, her apparent
or schooled indifference not only surprised Janie, but pained her,
and she ventured to remonstrate.
" Even if the worst should happen," Sabina said, calmly, " I am
quite prepared for it; it will not be so very dreadful."
" Sable ! have you no regard for his fame as a painter ?"
*' I have a greater regard for his love," was the answer (these
two being alone together at the time).
" What do you mean, Sabie ? Would yon rather have him
ahvays dependent on you — is that what you mean? It can't be
that you imagine, if he were to recover his eyesight, he would
care for you any the less, when you know quite well that never
in all your life were you looking as pretty as you are now — that
can't be it?"
" Janie, don't talk as if my interests should be thought of at
all," Sabina answered. " Of course, if Walter gets back his sight,
that will be a joyful day for all of us. But if it isn't to be — well,
we will do what we can to make his life pleasant for him, and I
for one am not going to be downcast, even at the worst."
But she was hardly under such good control on the momentous
day when tlie examination was to be made. She and Philip and
Janie were all in the house; the doctor was in the room up-stairs.
It had been hinted to them that, as far as it was possible for med-
ical skill to judge, there was every reason to believe that the
operation would prove to liave been successful ; but, notwith-
standing that, Janie was very visibly agitated, and Sabina, though
holding herself in restraint, seemed to be listening intently, as if
440 SABINA ZEMBUA.
for some foot-fall on t!ie stair, and slie started at the smallest
sound. Janie, indeed, could not keep slill. She went from one
place to another. Not a word was spoken by any of tliera. At
last she left the room, and crept noiselessly up the staircase, and
Imng about the landing. She could hear them speaking within;
surely those voices were cheerful enough !
Suddenly the door was opened.
" Good-by for the present."
"You'll tell them, doctor?"
"Oh yes; they're waiting below. They won't have left, de-
pend on it."
Then he shut the door, and the next moment was confronted
in the dusk by this poor, timorous, apprehensive, speechless ghost.
"Oh, it's all right," said he. " Very satisfactory indeed."
Janie flew down the steps — how, she could never afterwards
understand — and rushed into the room.
"Sabie! Sabie!"
And then her arms were round her friend's neck, and she was
kissing her on one cheek and the other cheek, again and again
and again. It was all the message she could deliver — but it was
understood between those two.
A long time after that — last June, indeed — it was announced
that on a certain day there would be opened in Bond Street an
exhibition of water- color drawings and sketches, chiefly of the
river Shannon ; and on the previous Saturday there was a Private
View, at which a large number of the artists' friends were assem-
bled. It was a goodly display, considering that most of the series
had been produced within eighteen months — though some of the
drawings were of an earlier date. It was one of these other ones
that seemed to have caught the fancy of a noble and gracious lady,
who would insist on Lindsay going round the room with her ; and
so profuse were her praises that, in order to get away from them,
he said,
"Yes, I like that one myself, for it was just underneath those
trees that I caught a twenty-eiglit-pound salmon."
" Really now !" said this good lady ; " how very interesting !
Twenty-eight pounds — that must have been a large fish. What
did you do with it ?"
" I sent it to Sabina Zcrabra."
AT A PICTURE-SHOW. 441
*' Sabina Zembra ?" she said, inquiringly. " Who is that ?"
" Don't you know ? There she is, over in that corner, talking
to the little old gentleman with the ear-trunapet," said Lindsay,
looking towards a tall young woman in a dress of silver-gray plush,
with a beef-eater's hat of the same material, and with one deep
crimson rose at her breast.
" But that is your wife," said this noble person, peering through
her eye-glasses. " Ah, I see. That was her name, was it ? What
a very extraordinary present to send a young lady !"
"What else could I send her — from the Shannon?" he asked.
At this moment Janie came along.
" It's all right," she said, in an undertone ; " Phil has been down
to some place in Piccadilly, and got a room where we shall be by
ourselves. Sabie and I will follow whenever we see you going to
the door. And Phil is waiting outside."
The consequence of this mancEuvre was that, a few minutes
thereafter, these four were seated at lunch in a private room of a
well-known restaurant ; and they seemed rather glad of this respite
from their public duties.
"When I first thought of having an exhibition of this kind,"
Lindsay said, " my wildest hope was that that young woman there
would condescend to come to the Private View. I little expected,
to see her mistress of the show."
" I assure you that it is remarkably nice," Sabina said. " You've
no idea what pretty things have been said to me this morning.
And do you think I was going to make any protest? That
wouldn't have been business-like. I felt far more inclined to say,
'Good gentleman, or pretty lady, your opinion is quite correct;
and will you buy ?' "
" You mercenary wretch! However, we've little cause to com-
plain on that score; and I mean to make our holiday this year a
thorough-going one. I suppose you have got everything ready
for Monday morning, Philip — rods and nets and everything?"
"Yes, I think so."
"Oh," continued Lindsay, "I heard a pretty story about you
the last time I had to run down to Wigtonshire. The boy Jamie
says that when you were fishing from the boat you were continu-
ally catching up on the gunwale behind you. Now how did you
manage that? You must have doubled the flies right behind.
And do you know you were whisking them past people's faces?"
19*
442 SABINA ZEMBBA.
" Can tlic boy Jamie use a rod himself?" Mr. Pliilip asked.
" Oh Ycs, Jamie can throw a fly."
*' Then perhaps it would have been better for the yonng ruffian
to liave given nic some advice instead of treasuring up a tale
about it."
" Never mind; we'll show you how to lift your line behind you
•when we're all back in Galloway again. Yes, and there's some
nobler sport for you, my lad, when we go on to Cromarty ; wait
till you find yourself fighting a thirty-pounder — then Janie will
have to be by to give a scream when you bring him to bank."
Coffee and cigars were brought in ; but the little party could
not idle here much longer; the artist had to go back to receive
his patrons and friends. As they were going down-stairs he said,
" Look here, Mr. Phil, I reckon I shall see you to-morrow some
time or other, but if I don't, mind you come a bit early on Mon-
day morning. Euston Station, 9.45 — that's the watchword ; and
then, ' 7\ike your seats for the North P "
It only remains to be added that Su" Anthony Zcmbra, who has
at length had the honor of office conferred on him, came to the
show that afternoon, and was vastly complimentary. At the din-
ner-tables which he adorns with his handsome presence he is quite
fond of talking of his son-in-law ; and at the last banquet of the
Royal Academy, on being called on to answer for the House of
Commons, he made pointed reference to bis own personal and
immediate association with x\rt.
THEIR PILGRIMAGE.
By Charles Dudley Warner. Richly Illiistratod by C. S.
Reinhart. pp. viii., 3(34. 8vo, Half Leather, $2 00.
Aside from the delicious story — its wonderful portraitures of character
and its dramatic development — the book is precious to all who know any-
thing about the great American watering-places, for it contains incompar-
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without the aid of Mr. Reinhart's brilliant drawings, Mr. Warner conjures
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Springs, Niagara, the White Mountains, and all the rest, whicii strike the
eye like photographs, so clear is every outline. But Mr. Reinliart's de-
signs fit into the text so closely that we could not bear to part with a
single one of them. "Tlieir Pilgrimage" is destined, for an indefinite
succession of summers, to be a ruling favorite with all visitors of the
mountains, the beaches, and the spas which are so marvellously reflected
in its pages. — N. Y. Journal of Commerce.
The author touches the canvas here and there with lines of color that
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or that subject, there is nothing to add. But acknowledgment is due Mr.
Reinhart for nearly eighty finely conceived drawings, and to the publishers
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No moie entertaining travelling companions for a tour of pleasure re-
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with which he mingles. ... In Mr. Reinliart the author has an assistant
who has done with his pencil almost exactly what Mr. Warner has accom-
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success the tone and costume of each place visited, and abound in good-
natured fun. — Chrulian Union, N. Y.
Mr. Reinhart's spirited and realistic illustrations are very attractive, and
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mented upon the earlier chapters of the text; and the hapjjy blending of
travel and fiction which we looked forward to with confidence did, in fact,
distinguish this story among the serials of the year. — N. Y. Evnni>i(f Post.
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BEN-IIUR: A TALE OF THE CHRIST,
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Antioch at the time of our Saviour's advent. — Examiner, N. Y.
It is really Scriptnre history of Christ's time clothed gracefully and
delicately in the flowing and loose drapery of modern fiction. . . . Few late
works of fiction excel it in genuine ability and interest. — N. Y. Graphic.
One of the most remarkable and delightful books. It is as real and
warm as life itself, and as attractive as the grandest and most heroic
chapters of history. — Indianapolis Journal.
The book is one of unquestionable power, and will be read with un-
wonted interest by many readers who are weary of the conventional novel
and romance. — Boston Journal.
Published by HARPER & BROTHERS, New York.
/^* The above icork sent by mail, postage prepaid, to any part of the United States
or Canada, on receipt of the price.
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