CHAPTER LXI.

ZINKA.

OF all those things I had no knowledge, till it came upon me suddenly; except that I heard from time to time, both through Mrs. Marker and Mrs. Wilcox, and even Miss Coldpepper, that Donovan Bulwrag was going on strangely, and no one could understand him. He was in such a state of mind that even his mother feared to cross him, and his sisters were afraid to ask him anything about it. And no one could tell what his motive was; but all agreed that he was now as anxious to marry Lady Clara, as he had been careless about it last year. This—as so often seems to happen—diminished the ardour of the other side, and the Earl insisted more and more that he should bring something solid into settlement. The estates of his grandfather, Lord Roarmore, were evidently encumbered, and that ancient nobleman himself, now approaching his ninetieth year, was almost incapable of business.

Though I had been terribly afflicted for a year, without the satisfaction of deserving it, there was one thing beyond denial, to wit that I had met with most wonderful kindness from friends, and neighbours, and the world at large. If any one says to me henceforth that there is no such thing as good feeling, or good will, and that everything is selfishness, I shall tell him that he judges all his neighbours by himself, and I wish to hear no more of him.

And now when the fatal day came round, which would fill up the twelvemonth of my misery, no less than six people were thoughtful enough to give me the offer of being from home, when it must be a bitter home to me. Uncle Corny, Aunt Parslow, and Mr. Golightly, Sam Henderson, and Mrs. Wilcox, and Widow Cutthumb, all entreated me to come to them, if I did nothing more than hear them talk. Mrs. Marker, if she had lived in her own house, would have added her invitation; and Mr. Rasp the baker—though now getting on, almost beyond recognition—got his wife to write to me, and say that they would have a little card-party in the evening.

But there were too many young ladies there for me, to be seen in the shop behind jam-pots, in a style we could never enter into; and if I had meant to go to any place at all, that would have been the last of them, because I should have felt what Kitty would be thinking—“Well, he does enjoy himself, without me!”

“Come to the Derby,” Sam Henderson said, meaning it all for my good, no doubt; “and see old Chalks win with _Nutmeg-grater_. He is at 40 to 1—makes it all the surer—the finest foal my old _Cinnaminta_ ever threw. Quite a moral, my son; I shall make four thou. Get on, while you can. Kept him dark as night. Tony came sniffing, but we gave him snuff. Before the flag falls, he will be at 4 to 1. Invest, my son, invest, if you wish to tool your Kitty in a four-in-hand.”

“Sam, you are up, or you would not talk so.” He saw that he should not have said it, and was dashed.

“Well, old fellow, I beg your pardon. But as sure as a horse has got four legs, you will have her back again within four months. Lay you ten to one, in fivers.”

“Do you think I would bet about a thing like that? Sam you are a good friend; but this is not like you.”

“Only wanted to keep your pecker up. The pluckiest fellow gets in the dumps sometimes. Never take it crusty, when a cove means well. Sorry you won’t come to us to-morrow. Sally gives a rare spread at nine o’clock. But every man knows his own ways best. I shall look you up, on my way home. Expect to have some news, but won’t bother you till then. Good news, fine news for you, Kit.”

He spoke to his glassy little nag, and was off, before I could ask him what he meant. And I said to myself that it could only be some nonsense, to keep my spirits up.

The day of my trouble, the 15th of May, happened to be the Derby day that year, and our quiet little village was disturbed with joy. Every one who could raise a pair of shafts, or even of shanks, was agog right early, and I heard their shouts over my uncle’s wall, while they set forth as merry as Londoners. I resolved not to leave my work all day, except for a crust of bread and cheese, that there might be no room and no time for moping, which sits on our laps when we cross our legs. But when it grew dark, and I went home alone, I tried in vain to whistle, and my heart felt very low.

What was the use of keeping up? It was only a sham and a self-deceit. Ten years were as likely to go by as one, without bringing any consolation to me. All the prime of my life must pass in sorrow, empty, mysterious, lonely sorrow. Perhaps when I grew old and could care for no one, having no one to care for me, when it mattered very little how my life was to finish, the matter might be cleared up, all too late. Even my uncle Corny’s trouble, heavy, incurable, and life-long as it was, seemed light in comparison with mine; because all its history was manifest, and all suspense was over. How much longer must this misery drag on? If my Kitty were not dead, she must have come back long ago. Or perhaps she had forgotten me and married some low villain.

“_Nutmeg-grater, Nutmeg-grater, Nutmeg-grater_, for ever!” Two merry fellows were shouting for their lives, as they walked in wavering latitudes among the flowering pear-trees.

“Let me tell him.” “No, I’ll tell him.” “What do you know about it?” “Why you never saw him in your life.” My heart gave a jump, for I thought it must be some grand news, by this fuss about it.

“Right you are, Kit. Right you shall be. _Nutmeg-grater_, and Kit for ever!” they shouted as they saw me sitting in the dusk, on a big flower-pot outside my door. “Shake hands, old fellow; shake hands, here he is. He knows all about it. Major Monkhouse, let me introduce you. Mr. Kit Orchardson, Major Monkhouse, the two best fellows in the world together, and _Nutmeg-grater_ is the third.”

I saw that Sam was a little in advance of his usual state, and the Major not behind him. They were flourishing their hats, full of skeleton dolls, and striking attitudes, and spinning round now and then against each other.

“What are you come to tell me, gentlemen? Is it about the race?” I asked, trembling to think it must be something more.

“The race be d——d!” cried Major Monkhouse, one of the most courteous of men, when sober, as I discovered afterwards. “As between man and man, sir; as between man and man, you know—”

“The Major’s hat is full of money,” said Sam, as if his own were empty; “when that is the case, a confounded good fellow is better than ever, sir—better than ever.”

“Shake hands,” the Major shouted; “Sam, shake hands!” And he took mine by mistake, but it made no difference. “You have such a manner of expressing what you call it—equal honour to his hands and head. This gentleman must not mistake my meaning. Mr. Archerson, excuse me, you understand my sentiments. You might ride him, sir, with a daisy-chain.”

“Sit down, gentlemen.” I was trying to be patient, and thought that the safest position for them.

“Not a drop, Kit, not a drop, my good fellow. I am all but a total abstainer now. And as for the Major, why, his doctor tells him—”

“No good, sir, no good at all. ‘Dr. Bangs,’ I says, ‘you may be right; but you don’t catch me taking any of your confounded stim—shim—shimmulers.’ Sam knows how hard he tried; but it wouldn’t do, sir.”

“Oh, but you were come to tell me something. I thought you came out of your way on purpose—something of importance to me?”

“Right you are, Kit, right as usual. There never was such a boy to hit the mark. Set you up, Kit, set you on your legs again—no more poking, no more potting, no more pottering under a wall, no more shirking the Derby—mind you, a d——d ungentlemanly thing to do. Why we wouldn’t have known it but for that!”

“Never should have seen her, without that,” said Major Monkhouse, solemnly; “put away too secretly among the lost tribes. Ah, she is a stunning woman!”

“Now will you tell me what you mean?” I felt that I should like to knock their tipsy heads together; “this may be a very fine joke to you. But no excitement excuses it.”

“Excitement! Cool as a cucumber, sir;” cried the Major, with a countenance by no means cool, “I should like to know what you mean by that insinuation.”

“Leave it to me, Major; leave it all to me. Our friend Kit is a little hasty,” said Henderson, whispering to me—“Don’t mind him, a very grand fellow—but has had too much. Major Monkhouse, it is our place to make every allowance for married men. They never know very well what they are about.”

“By George, sir, you are right. Mr. Archerson, shake hands. I honour you for your integrity, sir. Sorry for you, very sorry, and apologize with candour. Every Englishman adds to his self-respect by that.”

“How he puts things! It comes of being in the Army. Now go to sleep, Major, it will do you a lot of good, while I tell friend Kit all we have been doing for him.”

By this time my hopes were reduced to proper level, and I had ceased to glance through the trees behind them, in search of somebody who might never come again. For these two men had come in with such a flourish, that the wildest ideas ran through me.

“A drop of ice-cold water from your pump,” said Sam, “and then I’ll tell you something that will please you. My coppers are hot, because I have taken next to nothing; and the dust—you should have seen it! You have heard of the celebrated Zinka, haven’t you, the most wonderful creature that was ever born? Well, my dear friend there, the very finest fellow that ever stepped this earth, sir—don’t deny it, Major, but go to by-by—I met him at the corner on Monday, Kit; and old Pots was there, and that made me talk of you. ‘Tell you what,’ he says, ‘let us see the great Zinka. She can’t help being there on Wednesday. It is the only day in the year you can catch her; but the stars always bring her to the Derby. If he won’t come, you bring something of his, something he has worn, or had about him. If it is bad news, why we need not tell him, and if it is good, why it will be new life to him.”

“Of course I jumped at it, and it shows what a fool I am that it had never occurred to me. Zinka is the queen of all the gipsies, although she is only five and twenty, the most beautiful woman on the face of the earth. Don’t tell Sally that I said so. Why she is Cinnaminta’s daughter, that my old mare is named from. So you may suppose that she knows everything. If we could only get her to spot the winners for us—but she won’t, she wouldn’t for a hundred thousand pounds.

“Well, I prigged your handkerchief yesterday, my boy. No professional could have done it neater; and a queer thing it was that it should be your wife’s with her maiden name done in her own hair. Nothing could be luckier, and we had a rare laugh at it. Zinka was on the downs, not like a common gipsy, but half a mile away towards Preston, in a beautiful tent of her own, for she never mixes with the common ruck. It takes an introduction, I can tell you, and a good one too, to get a word from her. But the Major managed that, for he knows something of her people. There is no flummery about her. You cross her hand with a five pound note, and a crown-piece in it, and you tell her what you want, and whatever you give her to hold she keeps.”

“You don’t mean to say that a dirty Gipsy woman has got one of my Kitty’s pocket-handkerchiefs?”

“Dirty Gipsy woman! She’s as clean as any queen; and for majesty and breed—oh, I wish you could have seen her. A thoroughbred filly three years old is more graceful than any woman that ever stepped. You can’t expect two legs to go as well as four, you know. But Zinka—well, to see Sally walk after that! And Sally ain’t clumsy in her paces, neither. But what do you think she said? When we had told her all about it, she shut her great eyes for a minute, and her lashes came down to the brown roses on her cheeks, and then she whispered—

“‘I can see a great ship coming over the sea, no smoke to it, only white white sails. And in the front of it I can see a beautiful young woman, looking towards England with tears in her eyes. The ship is sailing fast, but her heart is flying faster; and she never looks back, and answers no one, only to ask how much longer it will be.’

“‘And how much longer will it be?’ we both asked her, because it was the very thing that you would want to know.

“‘I cannot say, perhaps three, four weeks. The sun is very hot, and there is a black cloud before them. Perhaps it will swallow them up; I cannot tell. No there is a great bird with long white wings; it will take them through the cloud, and they will be safe. There, it is all sliding from me, like a mist! But I can see her eyes still, and they are full of tears and smiles.’

“Not another word could we get out of her, Kit. There were tears on her own cheeks, when she opened her eyes, and she did not know a single word she had been saying.”

“I wish you had asked her where the ship was to land, and what was the name of it, and how she came there, and whether it would be any good for me to go to meet it, and who it was the lady was thinking of all the while, and how long the storm that was before them was to last, and whether the people on board—”

“Come, Kit, that is all the thanks we get. Major, do you hear him? No, the chap is fast asleep. Between you and me, Kit, he has had a drop too much. But a man in a small way doesn’t win five hundred, every day of his life, you know. By-the-way, I heard that Downy was hard hit again. But Pots took my tip, and has pocketed a thousand. Why, you never congratulated me, my boy. I shall throw up the book now, and invest it in my place. But we must be off, or Sally will blow up. Such a spread! You had better come. _Cinny_ walks into the dining-room, and drinks a bottle of champagne, and there will be some rattling good chaps there.”

“There may be a thousand, Sam; but none better than yourself. I congratulate and thank you, Sam, with all my heart. Few fellows would have thought of a friend at such a time. But excuse me; I can’t come to-night, indeed I can’t. I want to think of this all by myself. You say that this beautiful queen is never wrong. And what a heart she must have, what a fine heart, Sam! I should like to have seen the tears on her lovely cheeks.”

“Oh, I say! Come, come, Kit. But she has never been known to be wrong, my dear fellow. All the tribe call her—well, I can’t pronounce the name, but it means something like ‘the infallible divine.’ And she does it all so simply! There is no humbug about her. Come along, Major; why, you must be starved.”

I was partly ashamed of my own superstition; yet I could not help saying to myself—“They believe it; and they are ten times cleverer than I shall ever be.”