The Yellow Crayon | Page 4

sent immediately, your Grace. The train for New York
leaves at seven-ten. A carriage will be here in one hour and five
minutes."
The man moved towards the door. His master looked up.

"Duson!"
"Your Grace!"
"The Duc de Souspennier remains here - or at the bottom of the lake -
what matters! It is Mr. Sabin who travels to New York, and for whom
you engage rooms at the Holland House. Mr. Sabin is a cosmopolitan
of English proclivities."
"Very good, sir!"
"Lock this door. Bring my coat and hat five minutes before the carriage
starts. Let the servants be well paid. Let none of them attempt to see
me."
The man bowed and disappeared. Left to himself, Mr. Sabin rose from
his chair, and pushing open the windows, stood upon the verandah. He
leaned heavily upon his stick with both hands, holding it before him.
Slowly his eyes traveled over the landscape.
It was a very beautiful home which he was leaving. Before him
stretched the gardens - Italian in design, brilliant with flowers, with
here and there a dark cedar-tree drooping low upon the lawn. A yew
hedge bordered the rose-garden, a fountain was playing in the middle
of a lake. A wooden fence encircled the grounds, and beyond was a
smooth rolling park, with little belts of pine plantations and a few
larger trees here and there. In the far distance the red flag was waving
on one of the putting greens. Archie Green was strolling up the hillside,
- his pipe in his mouth, and his driver under his arm. Mr. Sabin
watched, and the lines in his face grew deeper and deeper. "I am an old
man," he said softly, "but I will live to see them suffer who have done
this evil thing."
He turned slowly back into the room, and limping rather more than was
usual with him, he pushed aside a portiere and passed into a charmingly
furnished country drawing-room. Only the flowers hung dead in their
vases; everything else was fresh and sweet and dainty. Slowly he
threaded his way amongst the elegant Louis Quinze furniture,

examining as though for the first time the beautiful old tapestry, the
Sevres china, the Chippendale table, which was priceless, the exquisite
portraits painted by Greuze, and the mysterious green twilights and
grey dawns of Corot. Everywhere treasures of art, yet everywhere the
restraining hand of the artist. The faint smell of dead rose leaves hung
about the room. Already one seemed conscious of a certain emptiness
as though the genius of the place had gone. Mr. Sabin leaned heavily
upon his stick, and his head drooped lower and lower. A soft, respectful
voice came to him from the other room.
"In five minutes, sir, the carriage will be at the door. I have your coat
and hat here."
Mr. Sabin looked up.
"I am quite ready, Duson!" he said.
* * * * *
The servants in the hall stood respectfully aside to let him pass. On the
way to the depot he saw nothing of those who saluted him. In the car he
sat with folded arms in the most retired seat, looking steadfastly out of
the window at the dying day. There were mountains away westwards,
touched with golden light; sometimes for long minutes together the
train was rushing through forests whose darkness was like that of a
tunnel. Mr. Sabin seemed indifferent to these changes. The coming of
night did not disturb him. His brain was at work, and the things which
he saw were hidden from other men.
Duson, with a murmur of apology, broke in upon his meditations.
"You will pardon me, sir, but the second dinner is now being served.
The restaurant car will be detached at the next stop."
"What of it?" Mr. Sabin asked calmly.
"I have taken the liberty of ordering dinner for you, sir. It is thirty hours
since you ate anything save biscuits."

Mr. Sabin rose to his feet.
"You are quite right, Duson," he said. "I will dine."
In half-an-hour he was back again. Duson placed before him silently a
box of cigarettes and matches. Mr. Sabin smoked.
Soon the lights of the great city flared in the sky, the train stopped more
frequently, the express men and newspaper boys came into evidence.
Mr. Sabin awoke from his long spell of thought. He bought a
newspaper, and glanced through the list of steamers which had sailed
during the week. When the train glided into the depot he was on his
feet and ready to leave it.
"You will reserve our rooms, Duson, for one month," he said on the
way to the hotel. We shall probably leave for Europe a month
to-morrow."
"Very good, sir."
"You were Mrs. Peterson's servant, Duson, before you were