Sabina Zembra

Front matter

Lwi^iUnl

Vol. 20. No. 958. May 3, 1887. Aiimitil Subscription, $30.00.

SABINA

Chapter I. Siranthony

On a certain Wednesday afternoon in March, the billiard room of the Wal degrave 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 headquarters 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 tiie 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 remarkable occurrence took place, no visitor is allowed to enter within its door, which may account for the rumor that the proceedings there are not always conducted with a dignity and repose 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, occassionally, 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!” However, these stories are 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 q^uestion, 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. He was a tall man, of about sixty; handsome and well dressed; fresh -complexioned and white-haired; of debonair 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 freetrade 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, the 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 h: n to grasp the idea. Eich, handsome, bland of manner; his wife ^ 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, marker,” he said; for they were just beginning a new game.

“ Right, sir.”

The new-comer walked up to the little mahogany box and deposited 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. Herschell,” said the marker, naming the notoriously best player in the club.

And now occurred the incident to which reference has been made.

“Oh, look here, that won’t do at all,” exclaimed Sir Anthony. “Why, I sha’n’t have a chance. Tliat 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,” observed the marker.

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“ 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 muttered protests, some angry, some halfashamed.

“No, no, you can’t have the shilling out — forfeited to the pool— yqu 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 proceeded 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 sel^complacency, were too appalling; when he had shut the door a kind of awe-struck silence fell over the room, and they looked at each other in dumb amazement.

“Green plays on yellow!” the marker called; and this awoke them from their trance; and then, as the game went on, there were questions asked as to the probable dimensions of Sir Anthony Zembra’s fortune, and the bigger the figures the greater the disgust. But there was little said, for the marker was wdthin hearing.

Meanwhile, Sir Anthony, suave, radiant, complacent—

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and certainly little dreaming that he had just conferred a favor on some eight or ten oi his feliow -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 prosperous 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 constituents believed him when he told lies about previous engagements. The old woman who sweeps the crossing at the corner of St. James’ Square courtesied lower to him than to anybody else; though never a penny had he bestowed on her. In St. James’ 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 aubible. 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 nothing but French was 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 w^ell. Master Reginald (his father could hear) was reading aloud a composition of his own. It was a description of tlie character and conduct of a dog belonging to a public-house in the Bayswater Road — “Ungros chien qui appartenit a une maison publique dans le Bayswater Road,’’ was the youthful scholar’s rendering; and apparently that animal had not found much favor in the eyes of the narrator. But presently other sounds smote the listener’s ear. A squabble had arisen somewhere. “ Voyez, voyez, mademoiselle, il a fait pour mon dessin!” “Non, non — ce n’etait pas moi — ne mentez vous pas — je vous donnerai— vous donnerai— une boite sur I’oreille.” ;:;ir Anthony thought this an opportune moment. He

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opened the door and entered, and there was instant silence. But he did not remonstrate 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 Renshaw?” said he, as he strolled up to the chimney-piece and lifted therefrom a pass-book labeled 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 authorship? 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 comings and goings of the Zembra family, and also a kind of pathetic 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 shortly leave Lancaster Gate on a visit to Lord and Lady Petersheld 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 VIII., was much admired. The design of the costume, we understand, was presented to Lady Zembra by a distinguished academician.”

“The Chapel Royal, St. James’, was on Sunday last crowded to excess to hear a sermon by the Bishop of Truro. Lady Zembra and her daughters were among the congregation.”

“At the drawing-room held by the Princess of Wales on Thursday, no costume was more remarked and admired than that cf 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 ribbons of the same color. Her bodice was of pink merv, over a petticoat of the same material, draped with embroidered crepe 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

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given by Dr. Felthurst 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 sisterin-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 George II., was a most picturesque and striking figure. It was a great success, in short ; and never had the ballroom at the Red House, Campden 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 hurriedly a tall young lady, who was very pale, but had sufficient firmness in the look of her clear-cut and beautiful face.

“ Miss RenshaAv,” said she, quickly, “ will you take the children up stairs? I want this room. Take them to the night- nursery. ”

“ 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 Whitechapel nonsense here. Are you going to turn the house into a public shambles?”

But Sabina had made her preparations during these few seconds. 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 humanity ” 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. Hungerford — 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 bystanders that this young lady knew very well what she was about.

But as for Sir Anthony? Well, Sir Anthony stood looking on for a second or two, very much exasperated. But what could he do? He could not summon a policeman and have the whole pack of them thrust into the street ; it was his own daughter who had had the man brought in ; and, moreover, she said she was responsible for the accident; and it would not look well to quarrel with her before these people. He wished the wounded man was at Jericho; but he did not want to have these rude folk stare at him 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 midsummer madness of young women who, nowadays, went out and got themselves trained as nurses at the London Hospital.

On the writing-desk of his study there was lying a pass-book labeled outside “Political;” and apparently his private secretary had 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

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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 remarkable speech on the Land Question which Sir Anthony Zembra delivered in the House of Commons last week is, we understand, to be issued in the form of a pamphlet ’ ’—as lie 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.

Chapter II. Sabie

Sabina Zeivibra— 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 Zembra, would say, with a kind of air of distinction, “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 maternal 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 w*ere a natural instinct with her; as if she liked seeing the people around her being made happy.

But even this cannot wholly explain the extraordinary 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 companion and friend (who,

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poor lass, had not much in the way of pretty looks to boast of). ‘‘ J ust 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 ridiculous infatuation; and declared that Miss Zembra was a woman’s woman, and nothing more; but at the same time it was observed, on the rare occasions on which Miss Zembra was to be found at an evening party, that these hostile critics were not nearly so careless of her society as in common consistency they ought to have been.

Sabina did not live with her father. On a certain im portant 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 ordinarilj^ sententious way. “ I am not in the habit of wasting 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. AVhat will happen after you come out of the hospital? You are not going in for six months’ 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 port of Cinderella — I shouldn’t mind it at all, for Cinderella had plenty to do and knew she w^as of some use ; but I know you wouldn’t like that. You wouldn’t like me to become 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, w'hat 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 continual 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 presist in this folly.”

Well, she was a little bit startled, for a girl does not like being turned out of her father’s house. On the other hand, her relations with her step- mother. Lady Zembra, and her half-sisters, Florence and Gertrude, had never been of the most satisfactory kind ; not that they quarreled, but their modes of life and opinions and aims were so entirely different. So the ugly duckling was about to fly away.

“Of course,” continued Sir Anthony, “ the whole thing is foolish from the beginning. It is simply ludicrous for a j^oung woman of your education and position to turn her - self into a hospital nurse, when you can get dozens of Avomen, 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— hut 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 occurred 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 Wy grams, papa,” she said, eagerly. “Do you think they would take me? You know they are not very well off; Mr. Wygram nevei* succeds in any of the competitions now ; and this might be a little something, if they were not offended. Oh, I know they would take me. Why, Jaiiie 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 London Hospital. It was not at all romantic work. Occasionally, of course, she had her moments of exaltation ; in crossing from the nurses’ dormitory, in the strange

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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, O Lord! and far

Thro’ all yon starlight keen, ^

Draw me, thy bride, a glittering star, *

In raiment white and clean.”

But there was little time for self -communing during the continuous 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- profession als, although when they got away to supper, about half-past eight or nine, and all of them pretty well fagged out Avith the day’s work, they used to joke her about her sleepy disposition. It was rumored, moreover, that one or two of the medical students who came about had cast an e3^e 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 friendly and merry-hearted. Perhaps she was only a woman’s woman after all.

The long period of probation over, Sabina Avent to live Avith the Wygrams, a family Avho by dint of sore pinching still managed to occupy an old-fashioned house in Kensington Square, that Avas endeared to them by its association Avith other and better days. Mr. Wygram had been atone 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 somehoAv; and now the old gentleman, Avho Avas as industrious as ever, kept Avorkiug away at competitive drawings, each time more and more confident that he Avas about to carry off the prize, and never doing so, but sometimes securing a few pounds by Avay of compensation. However, old Mr. and Mrs. Wygram were great favorites in the artist world of London ; and very distinguished people, indeed, might be found together m the scantily furnished and rather melancholy drawing-room, at an evening party— that is to say, with tea and darkly suspicious sheriy and cake to crown the festivities. Aud what joy filled the heart of their only i^ABINA ZEMBRA.

daughter, 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 entertainment 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 SabiO ; and she would take off 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 Sabina 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 Nvas her constant companion when she “ went about doing good. ’ ’ For that was her occupation in life— as many a poor family down in CheFea 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 pretense of supper, and a bit of a carpet-dance. But always these young people— and especially 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 Wy grams 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 did ; and her laugh 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.