Sara. A novel

Front matter

SARA a VOL. Ill SARA A NOVEL. BY The Hon. Mrs HENRY W. CHETWYND, AUTHOR OF 'LIFE IN A GERMAN VILLAGE,' 'A MARCH VIOLET,' 'THE DUTCH COUSIN,' 'LADY HONORIA's NIECES,' 'BEES AND BUTTERFLIES,' 'MRS DORRIMAN,' ETC, ETC. IN THREE VOLUMES. VOL. III. LONDON: F. V. WHITE & CO., 31 SOUTHAMPTON STREET, STRAND, W.C. 1886. [All Rights reserved.'] COLSTON AND COMPANY, PRINTERS, EDINBURGH. CONTENTS. CHAP. PAGE I.— Gone, i II. — Mr and Mrs Calder at Home, . 14 III. — Friendship of Various Kinds, . 26 IV. — Benito, 38 V. — Another Side of Life, . . . 51 VI. — 'Delilah' wins the Day, ... 68 VII. — Mr Calder's Entertainment, . . 80 VIII.— At Inch Lonaig, 99 IX. — Who was M. Zauber ? . . .111 X. — Diamonds, 125 XI. — ' How are You going to meet This Charge?' 141 XII.— 'Cui Bono?' 152 XIII. — Storm and Sunshine, . . . 162 XIV. — Bessie thinks for Herself, . . 176 XV. — Mr Calder's Opinion, . . .189 XVI. — Mrs Penryn has an Idea, . . 199 XVII. — 'Now, My Husband, tell me Everything,' 207 XVIII. — The Sleep of Death, . . . 220 XIX.— Platonic or Otherwise, . . .

"SELECT" NOVELS. Crown 8vo, doth, 3s. bd. each. AT ALL BOOKSELLERS AND BOOKSTALLS. By FLORENCE MARRYAT. THE HEIR-PRESUMPTIVE. HER WORLD AGAINST A LIE. PEERESS AND PLAYER. FACING THE FOOTLIGHTS. A BROKEN BLOSSOM. THE HEART OF JANE WARNER. UNDER THE LILIES & ROSES. MY OWN CHILD. MY SISTER THE ACTRESS, By ANNIE THOMAS (Mrs Pender Cudllp). HER SUCCESS. I JENIFER. JENIFER. KATE VALLIANT. | ALLERTON TOWERS. FRIENDS AND LOVERS, By LADY CONSTANCE HOWARD. MATED WITH A CLOWN. ONLY A VILLAGE MAIDEN. MOLLIE DARLING. SWEETHEART AND WIFE. By MRS HOUSTOUN, Author of " Recommended to Mercy." Barbara's warning. By MRS ALEXANDER FRASER. THE MATCH OF THE SEASON. I A FATAL PASSION. A PROFESSIONAL BEAUTY. By I2A DUFFUS HARDY. ONLY A LOVE STORY. NOT EASILY JEALOUS. LOVE, HONOUR AND OBEY. By JEAN MIDDLEMASS. POISONED ARROWS.

By MRS H. LOVETT CAMERON. IN A GRASS COUNTRY. | A DEAD PAST. A NORTH COUNTRY MAID. By DORA RUSSELL. I By LADY VIOLET GREVILLE. OUT OF EDEN. | KEITH'S WIFE. By NELLIE FORTESCUE HARRISON, Author of " So Runs my Dream. FOR ONE MAN'S PLEASURE. By EDMUND LEATHES. THE ACTOR'S WIFE. By HARRIETT JAY. A MARRIAGE OF CONVENIENCE. SARA SARA

Chapter I Gone

IR BASIL stood on the deck of the steamer, as she was nearing Dover, wrapped in many reflections. He had telegraphed to his wife from Paris that he would be at home that day. He had found letters from her there, all pointing to a certain anxiety, and relief at his approaching arrival. The anxiety was probably about Bessie, and she had not wished to write all she had to say about VOL. III. A Sara, 2 her. He was conscious of a subtle and happy change in her writing. There was open affection, and a certain ease, which can only exist between two people sure of each other's affection. His mission from end to end had been successful beyond his hopes ; all difficulties had been overcome, and he had received warm thanks privately, and the highest expression of official ap proval from those in power.

His old theory about missing happiness in one direction, because so much was given him in another, seemed to have been swept away. It is not given to every man to see his own schemes carried out success fully, without any drawback, by his own talent and force of character, and this had been given him. As regarded his wife, she was dearer to him than ever. All the little divisions were lost in looking back to the general tenor of their lives. Perhaps her femin ine instinct had shown her much in Bessie's character imperceptible to him ; and about Bessie — If the girl was bent on this marriage, he Gone, 3 must see what could be done. But what could be done ? The galling, dreadful fact remained of his five years of discipline and his previous career. But he would not dwell on this. Bessie was six months older, and would hear reason.

Even in this direction he would only see hope, and all would be well eventually. When the passengers landed he scruti nised the faces of those who crowded near to welcome a relation, and was conscious of a pang of envy when he saw the raptur ous greeting of some who had been long parted. Of course Sara was not there. It was stupid of him to expect it. For one moment he was attracted towards a closely veiled woman who sat apart, upon a coil of rope, till asked to move. The pose of her tall figure reminded him somehow of his wife. To London by the express, and down to Riverside he hurried, leaving his valet to bring on his luggage. No Sara looked from the house. He fancied there was a strange stillness every where. He walked across the hall, calling Sara. 4 her. The drawing-room was empty. He rang the bell, and went upstairs, and to her room.

Here everything was in singular dis order, and struggling* with some clothes she was folding, red-eyed and scared, was Sara's maid. 'Oh, Sir Basil! My lady— she have parted with me, and she is never coming home no more ! ' He signed to her to go — unable to speak, or understand what it all meant. What had happened ? He was so stunned that Bessie never came into his thoughts. He began to move about the room, taking up mechanically one trifle after another, and putting it down again — touching Sara's things with the feeling of nearness trifles always give when they remain to show how perishable humanity and human happiness and all else is. Not for one moment did a thought of wrong suggest itself in connection with her. He knew her too well. Whatever her reason for going in this way, it was Gone. 5 probably some over-strained idea — some wild, romantic wish to do or undo something*.

A knock at the door brought his mind swiftly to the present, and he threw open the door, standing sternly before the in truder, who was his own valet, salver in hand — upon it a letter. He closed the door and sat down, holding it tight — a momentary dread causing him to shrink from opening it. It was a few burning, passionate, hurried lines from Sara, enclosing a long letter from Bessie. ' At this moment, dreading to face you without that child you told me to care for, I am going away. My heart is breaking, for I know now and have long known that without you life is worthless. I have learned to love you so dearly, so passion ately, that I could not bear to see you angry. I have tried to act rightly. Bessie blames me. You will do so also ! God help me ! I suffer justly for imprudence and wrong-headedness in the past.

For- Sara give me, if you can, any unhappiness I give you ! Sara.' Sir Basil read and re-read those lines. In the midst of all his bewilderment the one fact stood out clearly before him, and in the moment of his deepest anxiety brought to him consolation. At length he was loved as he had longed and hoped for, and with mutual love ; misunder standings must cease ; and Sara would come back to him. Only as a secondary thought did her words about Bessie trouble him. Folding his wise's letter carefully, and putting it into his pocket, he went down stairs, intending to ring for the butler. The whole house looked strange to him, and empty, usually all so orderly and so methodical ; now hurried steps in one direction or another spoke of a disorgan ised household ; doors usually closed were a little ajar, and he was conscious of many eyes watching him, and faint whisperings.

No one in the house had the faintest Gone, 7 idea of what it all meant. Generally a man was somewhere in the background, but the household, down to the kitchen drudge, did Sara full justice in this respect. Del Brino was, so to speak, an unknown quantity, and Sara was too re served, Bessie too much afraid, to have whispered a word about him. Sir Basil's hand was on the bell, when the door once more opened, and the very man he was going to summon appeared, and announced, with even more than his usual important manner, Mrs Penryn. That good woman, in a smarter bonnet than usual, set, if possible, more dia metrically upon one side than ever, two large tears in her eyes she tried to wink away, came up to Sir Basil with extended hands. ' All will come right, Sir Basil ; don't be broken-hearted ; your dear wife got into a state of mind, and was afraid of staying here after it all happened, especially as I had told her a good deal, and about the legs of mutton, and everything.

I do hope you will not scold me, but I did as I Sara, would be done by, and no woman can do more.' Sir Basil sat down with an incoherent expression of thanks for some service he knew nothing about. ' The question is, Sir Basil,' and Mrs Penryn fairly dislodged her bonnet this time, ' How much or how little do you know ; what is there left for me to tell you ? ' ' Everything' he said, forcing the words from his unwilling lips. ' I only know that Lady Fairlie has been very much annoyed about something, and was afraid of my — displeasure. My poor darling!' he mut tered to himself. ' I do hope you will not scold me. I must tell you everything from the be ginning. ' I found out that the man Bessie was engaged to, or thought she was engaged to, had bought a house many weeks ago, which (if he could afford to pay for it) was all right.

A great deal of talk went on about the alterations he had made — very odd they were. Of course, I Gone 9 heard from one and another about him, and through my girls (who saw a good deal of Bessie) about herself and her unhappiness. Nothing mattered, and I never troubled my head about it. But only a few days ago I myself happened to hear orders for meat, and came to know that all household requisites were being sent in, and a lady was expected. I pricked up my ears. ' I ascertained that the rumours were true. Servants were engaged, and the house was being magnificently and extra vagantly furnished — in short, that a bride was expected immediately. ' Now, Lady Fairlie is not a suspicious woman, and never dreamt of anything being hurried to a conclusion. I came here, and told her legs of mutton were not wanted in the ordinary way for one man, and I was afraid something more was in the wind. ' If she would or could have done any thing I really cannot say, but in the middle of my talk with her came your telegram, and she went into a sort of fever of joy Sara 10 and delight you were coming home, — you would put everything to rights. ' It was all very well, but I saw Miss Bessie's face, and made up my mind that your arrival might just be twenty-four hours too late.

I did not know what to do. It seemed to me that if the girl was bent on this thing, it was better she should carry it out in respectability, and with some one there. I had no authority to prevent the marriage. I thought that over, and thought when that clause came, " or else for ever hold their peace," that I might step forward, but I had no right to interfere. You see ? ' Sir Basil, intensely interested, hung upon her words. ' Well, Sir Basil, I went off to the next parish, where he lives, and I went to the church, and interviewed an old woman who was cleaning up. I was not one moment too soon, and I made my mind up to make myself smart, go to the wedding, and see for myself everything was as it should be, and, if necessary, give Bessie away properly.' She looked Gone 11 rather anxiously in his face, to see how he took this. ' I took my girls to be present also.' * From my heart I thank you, Mrs Penryn — that poor child ! ' 1 Well, I waited a few minutes near the church.

He went in, and then came out, and I heard him speak about the registry — a heathenish idea, but, I suppose, with a man who is nothing much of anything, as far as religion goes — necessary. When Bessie — white, and pale, and trembling — all alone — came up in a melancholy cab, she first gave a little shriek when she saw me. She was so frightened I was going to prevent the marriage. Then she fell into my arms and hugged me, and said I was a comfort to her. I gave her away and saw them start in a very smart carriage. She looked as happy as a queen, and Sir Basil — take my word for it — the man she has married may be bad, and everything else, but I never saw anyone so madly or devotedly in love, and that is something.' Mrs Penryn had spoken so fast that Sara. 12 she had exhausted her breath, and Sir Basil's heartfelt thanks for the part she had played were given ungrudgingly.

If this was to be, thanks to her, all had been changed from an underhand elopement to a marriage sanctioned by a friend's presence. ' And my wife ? ' ' Bessie had written a foolish letter announcing her departure. Your wife was going to Dover to meet you, and the letter was put into her hand. Bessie threw the whole blame upon her — if blame was to be. I rushed to try and see Lady Fairlie. I was too late. She had been very ill for half-an-hour — she had a long kind of faint, and then she dressed ; her maid told me she was looking like a piece of marble. They heard her say, — " I am going to see him for the last time," — and she took a ticket for Dover. She went alone. I have been at home, hoping you would meet her. If I had only been ten minutes sooner ! ' She rose to go. Sir Basil wrung her hands in his.

They Gone. 13 parted, and in less than half-an-hour he was hurrying back to Dover, reproaching himself bitterly for not having had the sense to know that the veiled figure was the figure of his wife.

Chapter II. Mr And Mrs Calder At Home

g^glARA, full os the one idea, saw her rcEsgn] husband arrive, and had a mo 1 ment of curiously mixed terror and hope. She shrank from seeing him — to hear him say, — ' This is your fault ; but for you, Bessie would have never known this man. You are not capable of so much respon sibility.' This would have been terrible to her. To live with him and see his cold ness and disapproval, to have lost his con fidence, and be, as it were, on sufferance, there, would be to her now a living death. For though it had all come to her by de grees and unconsciously, as we know (being privileged and behind the scenes), she loved her husband at last. She crouched a little when his eye fell upon her, and as he turned away, nothing but the cold chill of disappointment pressed upon her. She followed him from a distance, all unconscious of the curious looks of the idlers lounging round, who saw a mystery and a probable scandal, in the tall, stately figure, draped so gracefully and so closely shrouded in her veil.

She had money with her, but she made no plans and no calculations ; to go away, and bury repentance and her unhappiness out of sight — to live, no — not to live, but to die soon, and away from any chance of seeing his love for her dead. This ran in her head. The day drew towards its close, short ened by a fog, reminding her of Riverside and Mrs Penryn's last visit to her, and the warning she had given her. She was cold and tired and hungry. Yes, hungry, for in strong health and with exertion, the natural wish for food made itself felt. Sara 16 She went to the nearest hotel and had tea, and she would have taken a room there, but that a man staying there had the impertinence to speak to her in a free and easy and familiar manner. She went away touched by a sense of forlorn ness, and a sudden seeling of being un protected, she took a ticket for London.

Here she walked till she lost herself, and calling a cab, went to the hotel near Euston, and worn out with all the mental struggle and long day she had had, she slept long and heavily. She awoke with that unprepared mind for any visible change of scene, common to anyone to whom any change is unusual, and looking up to see if it was time to rino for her early tea, she was suddenly brought to the remembrance of what twenty-four hours had brought her. Instead of the beautiful and luxurious room she had left was a narrow, gaudily papered room, with cumbersome, hideous mahogany furniture. She rose and rang for some tea — and her bath — annoyed with herself for allowino* these things to depress her. When she was dressed she sat down to reflect what her next move was to be. Sara was so totally unaccustomed to make any plans for herself, that she was almost bewildered at the position she had put herself into.

The one conscious thought was to hide somewhere from him, and she thought till she was tired. She had made few friends, and those were also his. She was still undecided and full of mental anxiety when she went down to breakfast. The undisguised astonishment with which she was looked at made her colour vividly. In her hurried departure she had kept on the gown she wore, concealing it by means of a long waterproof, which effec tually served the purpose. The gown was white serge, falling in long straight folds, cut square, with white linen about the throat. Now her waterproof was laid aside, her dress looked singularly out of place for travelling. She was unaccus tomed to do her hair, and she had twisted it up as best she could ; but like all curly, wavy hair, it was unmanageable, and its VOL. III.

B Sara profusion and lovely colour were both remarkable. Instead of leaving her alone, some of the hotel habitues endeavoured to make acquaintance — one offered a morning paper, another moved a chair. Sara realised her loneliness terribly when she found herself so much an object of attention. What was worse, two very ill-bred women looked at her, and whispered evidently about her, casting all the time disapproving looks in her direction. It was difficult to maintain her composure under these circumstances, but she did so, and sending for the papers, she retreated to her room. She opened the Morning Post, and the first thing that met her eye was a paragraph about her husband. His return was spoken of in cordial terms of congratulation, though the specific object of his mission was not touched upon.

Another paper said much the same thing, but hinted at illness. Illness ! Sara had thought him looking well. The third paper she opened was a society paper. While congratulating Sir Basil and the country upon his return, it said, in guarded lan guage, that certain events of a domestic nature made his presence desirable. Sara clasped her hands together in dismay. What did this mean ? Was her disap pearance already known ? A line or two farther down lulled her fears. Bessie's marriage was announced — the bare, simple facts— M. Carl Gusman del Brino to Miss Elizabeth Hatherly. How strange it was to read that, and to think how this mar riage, for which she blamed herself, had ruined her own happiness. No thought of returning crossed her mind. That obstinacy which Mrs Aubrey bad from the first recognised as part of her character, made her unable to take any but the one view.

She could not face her husband. Rendered sensitive by the observation she had already incurred, she left the hotel, not without first finding some difficulty in cashing a cheque, and having to be under an obligation to a stranger, who rather officiously came forward to her assistance. Then she once more took the train, and Sara 20 went north, looking at each station as she came to it, and wondering whether the little or the larger towns were best for her purpose. She had taken a ticket for Glasgow, be cause she could always stop short of that place ; but she was tired and fell asleep, and only woke when the collector came for her ticket there. Her husband's name came to her lips as she awoke ; then with a start of recollection, the distance she had herself put between them came to her remembrance.

She must make some plan ; and thinking earnestly she went to a small suburb to find an old governess, who had made much of her in her school days, trusting she might find a lodging for her. In this she was not disappointed. Mrs Calder, a kindly woman, had married ' comfortably,' and offered Lady Fairlie a couple of rooms in her own house upstairs. She asked no questions then. Sara's presence was always imposing, and afraid of being questioned, she was on her guard. Before night closed, however, Mr Calder returned. He had never seen Sara, and was inclined to be suspicious. ' If you mean to say that this young lady made a grand marriage, which has turned out badly; before taking her in here, it would have been wiselike to have found out who was to blame. I am not going to have our house a refuge for anyone who has not been acting all fair, and as she should do.' ' You are quite right, Willie, as you always are ; but when you have seen Lady Fairlie, you will judge for yourself, and you can ask her everything you wish.' ' It will be a little late in the day, I think, and it is a harder thing to tell a body to go out than to be stiff about their com ing in.

Well, it's done ; and we must just hope all is right ; but you'll be more wise like another time.' ' Bless the man ! Does he think there are many such visitors?' asked Mrs Calder, taking the injured tone common to some women when they are conscious of rather a bad case ; ' and do you think that I could keep an old pupil standing on Sara 22 the doorstep of my own house when she claimed my hospitality ? ' ' Well, well, least said, soonest mended ; but you must be cautious another time.' Mr Calder did not soon have his oppor tunity of questioning Sara; the excitement and fatigue were acting upon her violently now, and she lay suffering acutely from headache, and that prostration which is more painful than a recognised illness. Afraid of responsibility, Mr Calder insisted upon a doctor; and his inquiries for Sara's health were very incessant, if they did not spring exactly from disinterested motives.

Mr Calder — a hard-working, honest man — was a fair type of a Scotchman who, having thrown himself into business young, and devoted himself to the great object of achieving independence, had not kept his mind open to any of those influences which soften and raise a character. He had be come engaged to his wife twenty years before they achieved matrimony. Twenty years tell comparatively little upon a man who is in his prime at forty. But, for a woman, who has spent twenty years in perpetually teaching the same thing, and whose life has been hard, unmixed drudg ery, they are often fatal. Poor Mrs Calder, a fair blue-eyed girl, had aged and faded considerably in the struggle, and Mr Calder was conscious of being very honour able, and behaving extremely well, in keep ing faith with the washed-out likeness of the girl he had loved so many years ago.

That this feeling of self-satisfaction did not become disagreeably prominent was due to the superior intelligence of his wife, whose acquirements were solid enough to make her a very great assistance to him. He did sometimes ask himself why he had not been bolder, and tried the matri monial experiment sooner. But caution had ruled him — caution and that love of accumulation which, once obeyed, increases to a very alarming degree, and crowds out every natural feeling. When, after a week's indisposition, Sara came downstairs to go out for what Mrs Calder called 'a mouthful of air,' Mr Calder was standing in the small hall, which, with the usual extraordinary disre- Sara. 24 gard of cause and effect common to certain people, was much diminished in size by a ' wise-like ' paper of dark grey, speckled as no granite ever yet was speckled, and divided into very large and very regular blocks, which made everything look smaller than it really was.

Sara, in her waterproof, was holding her hat in her hand, longing for the air, feeling weak, helpless, and as she never had felt before. Mr Calder bowed, and held out his hand Scotch fashion, which Sara took as she also bowed. Mr Calder had in his own mind prepared a little speech, which completely faded from his mind when he looked at her ; and nothing saved him from being very awkward but the innate feeling of his foot being ' on his native heath,' even though his name was not Macgregor. His words, indeed, were more an apology for the size of his house than anything else, and his wife was much exercised in her own mind as to whether she was most pleased at the effect Sara produced, or provoked that her husband showed so little backbone upon the occasion. Sara was gracious and a little indifferent.

She did not think of obligation, as she quite intended paying for her rooms, and had, indeed, made Mrs Calder so under stand it ; and in the middle of Mr Calder's speech about the size of the house she in timated, with much sang froid, that it really did not matter — it was much nicer than an hotel ; and so saying, with a little bow of dismissal, she sailed out of the front door, leaving Mr Calder speechless with surprise behind her. ' Mrs Calder,' he began, turning round to explain some of his sensations to her, but Mrs Calder had wisely vanished. Willie could have nothing to say just then that she would particularly like to hear, and any conversation about Sara had better not take place in the hall, where her servant could hear every word. Before they met, events had occurred which rendered any explanation uncalled for.

Chapter III. Friendship Of Various Kinds

T would save much scandal, and be much for the good of human creatures generally, if, on an occasion like the one which had now stranded Sir Basil Fairlie, and bereft him of his wife ; two people like Mrs Aubrey and Mrs Penryn were at hand. Unlike in every particular — the one refined, clever, polished, and intellectual ; the other rough, unconventional, and only too careless of the effect she produced upon other people — these two women had the same acute judgment, and the same great kindness of heart. Before Sir Basil had completed his story, Mrs Aubrey understood that Sara, blam ing herself for circumstances against which her husband had warned her so strongly, had been unable to bear the idea of his displeasure, and had fled from home rather than face the consequences of her former short-sighted folly.

The one plea she pressed upon Sir Basil was the truth. ' Had Sara loved you less, what would your displeasure have signified ? You know, Basil, that many times previously she took her own line, and did not fear your indignation.' * But this is so much more serious ; and though I wanted her to feel her responsi bility, what have I ever done or said to frighten her away from my side ? She was, she still is, indifferent to my opinion, and my reading of her going is that she has acted on impulse, but that she will not return for a long, long time.' He covered his face with his hands. The cruel disappointment made him some times too wretched for words. ' Argued like a man, Basil ! My read- Sara ing is that Sara woke out of her indifference, and, as she says, learned to love you. This makes her dread your reproaches.

While she was indifferent — if she were still indifferent — she would face you, and care nothing for any reproaches. But being changed, she dreads your coldness ; her own reproaches are hard enough to bear. I dread—' 'What?' ' Her obstinacy. I am afraid that now she is beyond your influence, she has put herself into a position from which it will be difficult to move her.' Sir Basil could not answer her. He knew that in this she was right, and felt as though all was against him. Mrs Penryn, in the meantime, was not idle. Making a suggestion to Mrs Au brey, she took her silence for consent ; and a paragraph appeared in the most fashion able society paper to the effect that Sir Basil Fairlie was unavoidably detained in town on public business, and prevented from joining Lady Fairlie, who had left Riverside for the country.