CHAPTER XLV

Te Aroha News, Volume V, Issue 255, 14 April 1888, Page 6

CHAPTER XLV

ICOXSriKATOR*. Lindsay did not sleep well that, night, and next morning he was up betimes, and off by an early train to Witstead. During tho^e restless hours he had begun to doubt. Perhaps his interference at such a crisis vr&s 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 consult L Janie, and see that Sabina was got safely Jr 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 acquit ed, he was just as much her faithiul fiiend a« erer. To pass her by without recognition "' That was not likely. There was another thing which he hiul *O hide from himself, or forget —and that .■was the tragic hopelesone-* of the whole situation. What was her futmv life to be ' And his own? Perhaps theie was nothing dramatically pathetic in hi" portion- -no ' definite sorrow to be met and conqueir 1 — no sudden blow of evil fortune to be faced. A grey waste of years makes no particular appeal to the human heart. And mileul, for his own part, he deliberately a\ouie<.i looking at any such prospect. The unnn [ I diate det-ails he made matters of impor ! tance, and strove to confine hi-* attention to them. As soon as he knew w hen Salnna could stait, he would telegraph to the lied Lion Hotel, High Wycombe, asking the landlord to have a conveyance iea<ty to take her to Missenden. Ami then, imcgarded himself? Well, he went no tnithei than the meetings of the Monks ot St. Giles, in New York. The*e weie quite merry and pleasant. But hi-> face looked " rather pallid and worn as he sat in the .railway carriage and absently looked at the i passing landscupe. When he reached the cottage he a-ked for Janie; and presently Jame appealed looking scared and breathless 4 Oh, Mr Lindsay, I ha\e something dieadful to say to you." she broke in at owe, before he could make an) excise for hivisit. ' Sabie has told me e\ei\ thing at Jast. After you left last nmht «he was in a dreadful way— she uas crung— and aa\mg she had never received -uuh kindnes- tu-m any human being as fiom \nu- and that you would despise her — and — and — be ashamed to think you had e\er made hei your friend. And then *he fold me— what she had intended to tell you, but -he hadn t the courage ' ' Yes," said he, coming to her aid, for he could see how agitated she wa-. 1 but don't vex yourself about it. I know the whole story. I had the honoui of Mi Fred Foster's company nt dinner last night.' She stared at him — he seemed to tal. , the matter so quietly. 'I met him at the gate a« I was going away ' 1 We heard some people talking," she --aid, breathlessly. 1 And as I thought he wa^ drunk I eoaied him into 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 oh* home a little more sober than when I found him — not that I say he was really drunk. I fancy he was as much stupefied a? an\ thing else. ' ' But,' said Janie, in a bew ildeied way, 1 but you are not angry with Sabie ?' ' Angry ? On what account V 'For allowing us all to think he was dead.' 1 I suppose she had sufficient rea-on?.' 'Ah, didn't I tell her you would siy that T Janie exclaimed, triumphantly. ' Didn't I say you would pass a charitable judgment on anything she did ?' 1 But I do not wish to judge her at all,' he said, calmly. 'And you don'fc want to be told why it was that Sabie allowed such a thing v 'I certainty don'fc ask to be told,' he answered. ' I assume that you know her reasons. Yet you don't seem to ha\ c fallen out with her. And why should I presume to be her judge in any case?' ' Perhaps you don't know how .she valuer your good opinion,' Janie said. And then she hesitated. ' Yes, I suppose you would be content to say " Well, whatever it wa? that happened, Sabie did what was nght, ' and you would ask nothing further about it. Bub if I were to let you go away uke that, I know what f-he 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 jou would be cutting adrift from me the best of all my friends. " You understand, Mr Lindsay } that she is far more sensitive 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 •hould not think hardly of her. ' It waa clear that Janie hei\=©lf "wa« 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 ahould have thought it would be the other way about.' ' Supposing,' Janie said, rather tremblingly, and she fixed her eyes on him, 'supposing that Sabie was accused of — of — obtaining money on false pretences ?' ' I should not believe it," he said, &imply. 4 But— but if ifc was 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 (-aid. * Who makes such an accusation ?' 'It was her own phrase— the very words ehe 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. 1 None of us who have known her are likely to think hardly of her, whatever she has ' And indeed it was all Foster's doing !' Janie pleaded earnestly. *He terrified her into it. He was at bib wits' end for money. He declared that there was but the one chance to gave him from utter ruin.. Then

he got her to go to Sir Anthony -but that was no use— and knew it would bo no use. Foster was desperate; Sabina herself does not uuderstand what scheme ho had on foot ; but he was determined to get somo money somehow : and so ho mudo suro that if 'notice of hie. death were bent to Sir Anthony, there would be some pro\ision made for the supposed widow. And do you know how he forced her into it ? He bwore on oath that it she didnt help him in that way he would take the boy away with him to Australia, at. soon as the law allowed him to do that, and that she would nevev see either of them again. It wasn't the ihsttime he had made the threat— he had made it before -and, oh, Mr Lindsay, it >ou had seen Subie the day sho eamo to tell u^-it was teuible, tenible ! 1 never saw anyone so wild with ahum and despair. ,hust the one thing she lived (or to bo taken out of her life ! Of course Phil told her that Foster could not do such a thing just then ; but she said it' was- «H t-he more homble robe looking forwaid to it when the boy would he her companion— fancy a child cif se\en to be taken awa> fiom the mother— and that is English law ! She sa\ - , heiseli she thinks ►ho nui-t have been half I mad: she clung to the little boy so; and she was in -ueh terror. Foster did it all. lie had an adxeiti-ement ot his death put in a \ oikshiie paper ; and all did wax to scud tliar to Sir Anthony and to us, and ask u.- not to come dow n tor a time. When Su- Anthony and I did come down, she was like a stone. And ot eouise noithei of us pretended to oiler her ; I suppose both of u- were secietly gl«d that the wietch w^^ohp. Sir Anthony ga\e her a cheque there and then : and he doubled hei allowance— making it what it was before her mail ia«_ r e ; otcout-e e\ciy fai thing of that -eu'i\ taithmg s-be could sci ipe to <_rother— Uuij: claimed by that scoundrel. No>\ that- 1- the whole '*\tent of it and it w i< all done uudci the tenon^n about the takinir«iwa\ ot the little noy. Mr Lindsay,' Mid .lame, at the cad of this appeal-— and here\e<- were tilled with tear-, 'sou're not vronii: to gne up Sabie ''-jnu ie not going to a-k me to tell hei thai \ou aie no longei hei tnend v> 'I am -me \om will tell her nothing of Hie kind — o lone my fiien<l-hip is ot am im 1 to hei. % he -ud. 'H i- a pitiable -tot v I suppose in her pre-ent state she e\.ajgeiato- her --hare 111 it. And -o -he think- a man would take a. le-s chaut.ible \ icw of it than a woman' Well, I don't know about that. 1 think a man can see what her -it nation was ju-t as well a^> a woman: a \er> mi-eiable and unhappy filiation that one uatiiiallj w lfche* -he had neui found her-elf 111 • ' Rut it s join toigivencas she seek- for. 1 said -lanic, umidh . '.My toiL r i\etie--= ' he icpeaied. 'I ittu-e to utter a single woid ot blame." Then .Tame laughed thiough hei teai-. ' Ah, didn t i -a\ that ' — when she >\ould'it believe me And .-he i- making all the lepaiat'on she can," -lame added, eageth. ' You -ee 'lie death of the pooi little l>o\ l.nt hei tiee L'o-ter ha- no lonuei any holdo\ei hei. She wont, take anurhei peiiu\ uf am kind fiom hir father : a~ -Oiin a- -he get*, do \n into Buckin'^liamslnte -he 1- iromg to wikj to him and eonfe—t^eiMlini'4 and un\e up the whole of hei allowance Old Mr Fo^tu 1 1- onl\ too glad to lia\e her go and li\e with him; and >abio .ie\er h.id t_\pen-i\e habits Then a? for Lei husband, I -uppo^e the old gentleman can oa-iK pievcnt hi- coming about the jilac^ — Tied Fo-ter will now be entneK dependent on him.' She at him anxiously. ' 1 <lun fc know how it 1-, she -aid, ' Lait ah <\\- \nr, -eem to bring stiength and ralmnt— 3 with you — and 'i sense of s uety. Thi- morning when I woke I thought everything \\a-> at it.- wor-t ; theie did not seem a ghtnp-e of hope anjwheie; and e^en when I thought of you, it was with a kind of feai — for J was not quite -me — I wa- not quite -0 suie a- I pretended to be to Sabie. But now , now 3-011 will let me cell her uiu don't think "=0 badly of her ' 'Th.it i:> not the me-^a c _re,' -aid he. 'If jon think that -he caie- for my opinion at all, \ou ma\ tell her that I quite under--tand how wa- dii\en to give an unwilling con-ent, andthatlha^e no blame foi he; — none." ' It will lie one little bit of happiness for her,' =aid Janie. ' And I suppose she will be safe fiom hi- per-ecution down there. It- little he knows why she wa-^ so tame and obedient befote That is all o\er now. And that of lt-elt i- -omcthing. But,' she added wi-tfully, 'Iliad been looking forwaid to a \eiy diiTeient future for our Sabie. ' 'You trot my teUgram la^t night, 1 [ suppo-e''' he -aid. ' Yes : and I be a^ glad to get away as -he will. Fane} if Fo-ter -weio to come down and find me here '.' 'Well, i* he a per-on to be afiaid of' But I will see to that. He will not come ('own lieie until jou aic both of you away. When can you go ''' ' The few thing-, will be packed to-day ; and I think we can leave to-morrow morning.' 'Veiy well; you needn't be afraid of Fo-tei coming down,' said he. 'Then I •suppose % \ou know what to do. Sabina will tell you w bethel it 1- to High Wycombe or to Piince'- lii-borough you should telegraph to ha\ea trap waiting. And of com sc you will telegraph to Mi— enden a- well. I suppose it i-j too much to ask that you .should go with her all the way ? 'But I have Phil's strict oiders •' Janie exclaimed. ' I am not tolca\e her until she is comfoitably settled in her nncrw r home.' 1 Oh. that is all light, " he .said. ' I shall be glad to have a line fiom you when everything has been ai ranged.' He rose to go. ' And you ''' said Janie. He understood well enough the meaning of this half-friirhtened question : but he only answered <"'areies<-iy ' Oh, v. ell, I have still Homo things to get finished up at Burford Bridge. And I have been thinking of running down to Scotland for a few days, to put my small afl'air» in Older. After that I don't, know.' ' I will wiite 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 a cry much upset ; and I should like to prepare her — oh, she w ill be so glad to know that you .still think well and kindly of her. There is not anyone whose opinion &he 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. He did not know what to do with him«elf. He could find no employment in his studio. Ho walked along to the Aits 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 afternoon, and wandered about the streets and squares, watching here and theie the golden gleam of a newly-lit gas lam]) suddenly shootr through the grey. Finally, he got hack to the Club again, ordered a bit of dinner ; and sat down at the small table by himself —which was not his usual way, for ho had heaps of friends and acquaintances. One of these came into the room. ' Hallo, Lindsay, all alone V What's the matter V— you're looking rather glum. And

yet you shouldn't bo. Of course you'vo heard what they're prophesying about you ?* ' I have heard nothing — 1 havo boon down in tho country,' ' You don't mean to pay you huvon't heard that thoro is a knighthood being got ready for you ? Don't you know that talks ot resigning ? then, as a matter of certainty, the Socioty will elect you their I'iosident ; and everyone bays tho Quoon will ri^o to the occasion. My congratulations, ISir Walter !' 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 Oarn-ryan could all'ord to be iuditVerenfc about any feuch decoration. , ' I will join you — to the o\tcnb of a bheiry -and- letters," said (his amiable ncwj coiner, drawing in a chair. ' But what is the matter really ? You look very depressed." ' 1 havo reason to be doprcs.sed,' 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 ditHculcy will bo to keep fiom muidering him. If I murder him it will be bail for me ; if 1 don't it will be a distinct dis>cr\ico to the country in which the hound is allowed to live. That's. all. 1 ' What has he done to you ''' ' Nothing to me.' ' Oh, nonsense, people- don't take such \iolent dislike* tor nothing- -unle.-s jou'ic dialling. Or is theic a lonian in the affair ." •Theteis, in a way,' Lindsay answered hankl\. 'ft is his conduct to hi 5 - wife that boats anything in the way of meanness— meanness and bi u t ality — t hat was c\ or heard of. If I wero to tell yon here, now, you would want to kick him across the ftquaie •ml back again, and along down Oxfoidst'ect until your boots ga\e out And the infernal luih.m dined with me last ni«_ r ht ' 1 didn't know the fifteenth pait of what he had done And he dined with me -sat at the Mine t-ible ! Lindsay had begun his story in the oidinaiy tone of club peisifluye, but theie w.is a ddi ker light gatheiing in hi-. eje->. His companion hesitated for an instant, and then made bold to say — '.My good tiicnd, pray excuse me. I don t want to mteimeddle, but I would strongly aihi^e you to come out. of that. It is a damieiou'* position. When a man has stiong sympathy with a married woman who has boon injured, and would like to kick and cowhide the husband — mind, 1 am not -peaking of this pai tieular ca-c — butl have noticed that mischief generally comes of it. You of all people too ! You know tho kind of talk that goes on about o\ei\bod\. Well, I ne\er heaid \ our name coupled with the name of a woman even in the most innocent way. Oh, \es theie was once, but 1 -uppose \ou ha\c forgotten all about it now Let me see, w hat was her name ? The beautiful tall giil with the splendid hair who came once oi twice to Mrs Melloid's. She lived down in Kensington hquaie w ith -omc old people--' ' I know whom you mean,' .-aid Lindsay, shortly ' Hut \ou have forgotten hei name ' Lord. Loul, what faithfulness- there is in man '" ' Her name was then Mi— Zembia. I will ft.sk \ou not to bay anything fuither about her.' "Her name then? Oh, ye.s, I think 1 remember something about her getting married.' And rhen lie .seemed to be struck with some sudden fancy, and he looked quickly at Lindsay. '1 -ay, Lindsaj, you don't mean that — ' He -topped, and his silence was more s-igniticant than woid-. He daied not e\en ask whether the Mi-s Zembra of that lime was the ma v iied woman whose injuries were now appealing to Lindsays sympathy, and to his indignation and angci. But the sherry and bitters was tmi-hed. He lose. 'Of cnui-e anything I .-aid was only in chaff,' he said. ' But men do get into in the mo^t innocent way. And anybody going down to Windsor to be knighted would have to have a pietty clean iccord, as the sajing is.' ' M"urdei mi^ht be objected to Lind.say I -aid, looking up. ' If I were you I wouldn't .sco that man, either to-night oi 10-mouow morning,' hn acquaintance &aid. 'Just you take care. Theie can be no harm in giving you somuch ad\ice. Ta tn ' I'm going to dine at the Rcstuuiant, and Loul have mercy on my soul '' But Lindsay was not much alarmed. Having iinished with dinnei, lie went up stair* to tho smoking room, and there, after some deliberation, wrote a note to Fred Foster, asking him to call at his (Lindsays) 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 guested that it was not likely Foster would think of going down to Witstead at .so late an hour ; while, as for the following morning, he would havo to be in London at least until twelve.