CHAPTER I.  DAZZLED
 There was no name on the doorposts, nothing beyond the number--"48"--to serve as a guide; and yet it may be doubted whether any firm in the City was better known to the postman, the bankers'-clerks, and all who had regular business to transact with them, than that of Streightley and Son. The firm had been Streightley and Son, and it had been located at 48 Bullion Lane, for the last hundred and fifty years. They were money-brokers and scrip-sellers at the time of the South-Sea bubble, and were among the very few who were not ruined by that disastrous swindle. So little ruined were they that they prospered by it, and in the next generation extended their business and enlarged their profits; both of which, however, were consider curtailed by rash speculations during the French Revolution and the American War. Within the first quarter of the present century the business of Streightley and Son recovered itself; and, under the careful management of old Sam Streightley and his head clerk, Mr. Fowler, the house became highly esteemed as one of the safest bill-broking establishments in the City. It was not, however, until young Mr. Robert, following the bounden career of all the eldest sons of that family, joined the business, and, after close application, had thoroughly mastered its details, that fortune could be said to have smiled steadily on the firm. Young Mr. Robert's views were so large and his daring so great, that his father, old Mr. Sam, at first stood aghast, and had to be perpetually supplicated before he gave permission to experiment on the least hazardous of all the young man's suggestions; but after the son had been about two years a partner in the firm it happened that the father was laid up with such a terrible attack of gout as to be incapable of attending to business for months; and when he at length obtained the physician's grudging assent to his visiting the City he found things so prosperous, but withal so totally changed, that the old gentleman was content to jog down to Bullion Lane about three times a month until his death, which was not long in overtaking him.
 
Prosperous and changed! Yes; no doubt about that. Up that staircase, hitherto untrodden save by merchants'-clerks leaving bills for acceptance or notices of bills due; by stags with sham prospectuses of never-to-be-brought-out companies; or by third-rate City solicitors giving the quasi-respectability of their names to impotent semi-swindles, which, though they would never see the light, yet afforded the means for creating an indisputable and meaty bill of costs;--up that staircase now came heavy magnates of the City, directors of the Bank of England, with short ill-made Oxford-mixture trousers, and puckered coats, and alpaca umbrellas; or natty stockbrokers, most of them a trifle horsy in garb, all with undeniable linen, and good though large jewelry, carefully-cultivated whiskers, and glossy boots. In the little waiting-room might be found an Irish member of Parliament; the managing director of a great steam-shipping company; a West-end dandy, with a letter of introduction from some club acquaintance with a handle to his name, who idiotically imagined that that handle would serve as a lever to raise money out of Robert Streightley; a lawyer or two; and, occasionally the bronzed captain of a steamer arrived with news from the Pacific; or some burnt and bearded engineer fresh from the inspection of a silver mine in Central America. A long purgatory, for the most part, did these gentlemen spend in the little waiting-room, or in the clerk's room beyond it, where they were exposed to the sharp fusillade of Mr. Fowler's eyes and the keen glances of the two young men who assisted him. The only people who were shown by the messenger at once into Mr. Streightley's presence were the City editors of the various newspapers, and a very prettily-appointed young gentleman, wise withal beyond his years, who occasionally drove down to Bullion Lane from Downing Street in a hansom cab, and who was private secretary to the Chancellor of the Exchequer.
 
Robert Streightley had done all this by his own talent and exertion--"on his own hook," as the Stock Exchange men phrased it. The keenness of his business intellect was astounding. He seemed to sift a proposition as it was being laid before him; and as soon as the proposer ceased speaking, Robert Streightley closed with or pooh-poohed the offer, with incontrovertible reasons for his decision. He spoke out plainly and boldly before the oldest and the youngest who sought his advice; he was neither deferential nor patronising; and never sought to please--simply for the sake of pleasing--any of his clients. The young men looked up to him in wonder, and spoke of him over mid-day chops and sherry as a "cool card," a "long-headed chap," "just about one," and in other complimentary slangisms. The older men scarcely knew what to make of him; they hated him for his daring and success, for the dashing manner in which he was passing them all in the race for wealth and distinction; and they would have well liked to have shrugged their shoulders and hinted about his being "fast," and "going ahead," and finally making a grand smash of it; but they had no pretext. So long as Robert Streightley's business relations were thoroughly sound and wholesome it would have been against that esprit de corps which largely prevails among City men to breathe a word against him; and as for his private life, they could scarcely bring a charge of reckless extravagance against a man who went home to a seventy-pound-a-year house at Brixton in the "Paragon" omnibus, and there indulged in the dissipation of a "meat-tea" in the society of his mother and sister. So they found another vent for their spleen, and talked of him as a "doosid close-fisted fellow," a "mean narrow-minded hunks," and a "niggardly screw." He merited none of these appellations. He was a straightforward, honourable business-man, bred in a narrow circle, which his own innate business habits were narrowing year by year. As a boy he had had instilled into him the value of money and the secret of money-getting; as a young man the whole scope of his faculties had been directed to this end. Such little fancy as he possessed--and with such a father the smallness of that fancy could be easily divined--had been ruthlessly eradicated, and all the nascent tendencies of his mind had been directed into one strong channel of fact. That Jack had ever found giants to slay, that glass slippers were ever worn by cinder-wenches, or pumpkins could by any possibility become carriages, were fictions not to be found in Bonnycastle and ignored by Walkinghame; but that two and two made four, or that a talent of silver hid in a napkin remained an unproductive talent of silver, whereas a hundred pounds invested in Consols produced yearly three pounds as interest to its holder, were as demonstrable as the light and heat of the sun at noonday.
 
He lived but for his business, nothing else. He was in his office at ten o'clock, and he never left it, save on some business errand, until six. He never took a holiday except on Christmas-day and Good Friday, when the newspapers proclaimed all business suspended; he never dined out save twice or thrice a-year at the anniversary banquets of the directors of some of those companies in which his stake was large. His enemies wronged him when they said he had no heart. He had sincerely grieved for the old father who had brought him up and loved him deeply in his own peculiar way; his purse-strings were always at the command of those good Samaritans on the Stock Exchange who do so much in such a quiet and unassuming manner; and the clergyman at Brixton knew he might always count upon Mr. Streightley for a handsome subscription to any charity brought under his notice. His manner was odd and brusque, arising partly from his preoccupation, partly from his having never mixed in society; but there was nothing pretentious or vulgar, fast or underbred in him: he might have been thought an oddity; he never could have been set down for a snob.
 
See him now as he sits at his desk, poring over his diary, a tall strongly-built man, with long limbs lacking in due amount of muscular development from want of exercise. With a high forehead, a head prematurely bald, but surrounded with a thick fringe of brown hair, with sharp gray eyes looking out from overhanging brows, a thinly-cut aquiline nose, and rather full lips. He has a full whisker, after the ordinary respectable "mutton-chop" outline, and might, if he so pleased, have a large beard, as you can tell by the dark-blue outline round his chin; but Robert Streightley would as soon think of coming up to town outside the Paragon omnibus in a turban as of committing any such unbusiness-like atrocity as growing a beard. One other person is in the room with him just now--Mr. Fowler, his chief clerk, known in the City as Downy Fowler; an old gentleman, who is looked upon as the essence of knowingness, and to whom the fortunes of Streightley and Son are not a little attributable. When this is hinted at, old Mr. Fowler smiles enigmatically; but only in strictest confidence, and to one or two very old friends, declares that, whatever he might have been to the old gentleman, he does not pretend to hold a candle to Mr. Robert, "whose head, my dear sir, is something won-der-ful!" A short sleek gray-headed man, Mr. Fowler; with a high-collared coat much too long in the sleeves, a waistcoat with traces of bygone snuff-pinches lingering in the creases, gray trousers, and gaiter boots. A silent little man, rarely speaking, but in the habit of calling his principal's attention to matters under consideration, such as letters, invoices, and share-lists, with his pointed forefinger. That forefinger was at work at the very moment when they are first presented to reader. It rested on an entry in the diary, and Mr. Fowler looked up into his principal's face inquiringly.
 
"Well?" said Robert Streightley, "I see. Markwell, 1350l.; Baxter, 870l.; Currie and Tull, 340l.; Guyon, 180l. 17s. 3d.; Banks, 97l. 6s. Total, 2888l. 3s. 3d.--paid to us by Davidson--due to-day--what of that?"
 
Mr. Fowler did not answer, but placed his forefinger more decidedly on one of the items of the account.
 
"O, I see," said Streightley; "Guyon's acceptance! Ay, ay; I recollect now. You called my attention to that, and declared that it was doubtful at the time that Davidson paid it in. Of course you made inquiries?"
 
Mr. Fowler nodded.
 
"And they were unsatisfactory? Well, that's no matter to us. The usual notice has been served, of course? Very well, we look to Davidson; but let Boswell's people have the usual instructions to proceed. So Tierra del Fuegos stand the same, do they? All right then; hold on. Ocean Marine have gone up; so that advance to Walton and Pycroft is well covered. Let Brattle step round to--well, what is it, Brattle?" this to the junior clerk, who, after knocking at the door, entered the room.
 
"A lady, sir, to speak with you," said Mr. Brattle, in whom his brother lunch-convives at the Bay Tree would scarcely have recognised the youth who now stood blushing before his principal.
 
"A lady to speak with me?"
 
"With Messrs. Streightley and Son, sir, she said, and in private, sir."
 
"Must be some mistake," said Robert Streightley. "Never mind. Show the lady in through the private door, Mr. Brattle. Leave me, Fowler, and don't let any one in till I ring."
 
If Mr. Fowler could have expressed astonishment, he would have done so, for never had woman entered that sanctum since he had been connected with Streightley and Son. But his training did not admit of any such vagary; so he retired without a word, and the door closed behind him as Mr. Brattle admitted the visitor into Robert Streightley's presence.
 
Robert Streightley, who had been pretending to be absorbed in the diary, looked up, and carefully scrutinised his visitor. She was a girl of about twenty, above the ordinary height, slightly and gracefully built. She threw up her veil as she entered, without the smallest sign of coquetry, and showed a strikingly-handsome face, very pale, with greenish-gray eyes, delicate Grecian nose, small white forehead, over which her dark-brown hair was drawn in flat bands, short upper lip, and small rounded chin. She was dressed in a dark-brown silk, with a black-lace cloak; and Streightley--usually unobservant of such things--noticed the wonderful fit of her lavender gloves. Streightley rose as she entered, and pointing to the usual client's chair, begged her to be seated. She bowed, and seated herself. Then there was a little pause, and Robert said, "You wished to see me, I believe?"
 
"You are Messrs. Streightley and Son?" said the lady interrogatively, in a musical but slightly timid voice.
 
"I am Mr. Streightley, the representative of the firm."
 
"That is what I wished to know," she replied a little haughtily. "Of course I--what I would ask is--I am not accustomed to business terms--You are the--the person--who sent this?"
 
She laid her parasol on the table as she spoke, and took from the purse which she carried in her hand a small printed paper. Glancing at it, Robert Streightley saw that it was an ordinary commercial document, intimating to Edward Scrope Guyon, of 110 Queen Anne Street, that a bill for 180l. 17s. 3d., drawn on him by Davidson Brothers, lay due at Streightley and Son's, 48 Bullion Court, Lombard Street. As he returned it to her he said, "It is quite right; it was sent out by this house. It is the usual notice given in such cases, stating where the money is to be paid."
 
She was very pale as she said, "It means then that money--that the amount named--must be paid?"
 
"It does indeed."
 
"And at once?"
 
"This is the day for payment," said Streightley. Then noticing her deadly pallor, and the trembling of her lips, he said: "May I ask how this came into your hands?"
 
With a visible effort at self-control, the young lady replied: "I--I should have mentioned it before. I am Miss Guyon, daughter of Mr. Guyon, to whom that paper is addressed."
 
She hesitated for a minute, and Streightley, whose eyes were fixed intently on her face, said:
 
"Ye-es! I think I understand; and he has sent you here to----"
 
"My father is not in the habit of sending me about on his business-errands, sir!" interrupted Miss Guyon, flushing scarlet (Robert thought that in his life he had never seen any thing so lovely as she looked, with heightened colour, swelling nostril, and curved lip.) "Mr. Guyon is out of town on--on very important and pressing business; and as he will not be back until late at night, I thought it best to come here to explain his absence, which will account for the money not being ready."
 
"Which will account for the money not being ready!" repeated Mr. Streightley absently. "O, of course, of course. Pray do not say another word about it, Miss Guyon. I am very sorry that you should have had the trouble of coming here, except that it--it has procured me the--the great pleasure of seeing you!" (Robert had never before paid a woman a compliment, and was horribly awkward in his first attempt) "I'll call on Mr. Guyon to-morrow morning about eleven, and----"
 
"And you'll bring your bill with you, will you?" said Miss Guyon with supreme hauteur.
 
The word "bill" was in itself always disagreeable to her; but she had no idea but that this was an ordinary tradesman's account, and thought Robert Streightley was the tradesman to whom it was owing.
 
"Ye-es!" said he; "I'll bring the bill with me, and----"
 
"There is nothing more to be said, I think," interrupted Miss Guyon. "Good morning."
 
"Good morning, Miss Guyon. Permit me to see you downstairs."
 
She did not speak; but he construed a very slight bow into a gesture of assent, and proceeded down the staircase. Arrived at the door he called the cabman, who was slumbering on his box; but the man's movements being slow, Streightley opened the cab-door himself, and bareheaded held it as Miss Guyon, with just the style of acknowledgment that she would have given to the shop-walker who handed her a chair at a linendraper's, passed in. Old Mr. Pommylow, chairman of the West India Plantation Company, who was crossing the street at the time, gave him a great nod and a sly wink; and made them all laugh at the Board five minutes afterwards, by telling them he'd seen Bob Streightley "doing the polite to a doosid fine gal."
 
She was gone; but Robert Streightley still stood on the pavement, gazing after the cab that had carried her off. Then, after a minute, he turned slowly round and retraced his steps up the staircase, pondering over the interview.
 
After remaining for about half-an-hour in a brown study, he touched the small handbell by which he was accustomed to summon Mr. Fowler, and, without raising his head, said to that worthy gentleman when he entered:
 
"Give me that acceptance we were speaking of, please."
 
"Guyon's acceptance do you men, sir?"
 
"Mr. Guyon's, if you please," said Streightley rather sternly, the familiarity jarring on his ear.
 
"Will you want the others, sir?" asked the old man. "Markwell's and Banks's are paid; but they haven't sent about the others yet."
 
"Only Mr. Guyon's, thank you, Fowler. I--I want to make a few inquiries about it."
 
"I don't expect you'll hear much good of the acceptor, sir," said old Fowler with twinkling eyes. "I suspect it's one of Davidson's private discounts, and we know what they are--he, he!" and the old gentleman laughed quietly.
 
"Let me have the letters, if you please, Mr. Fowler, and any thing else there may be for signature. I shall be going soon."
 
"Going, sir!" said old Fowler in the greatest astonishment. He had never known Mr. Robert leave before six o'clock since he had been in the business, and now it was only four.
 
"Yes! I'm not very well. I think I want a little fresh air, so I shall go and get it. And I shall probably not be here till twelve to-morrow, Mr. Fowler."
 
"Very well, sir." He said it most mechanically. If the equestrian statue of the Duke of Wellington had descended from its pedestal and cantered up Threadneedle Street, Mr. Fowler would have been scarcely more astonished.
 
 
Mr. Robert Streightley went in search of fresh air through Holborn and Oxford Street to the West-end. He so rarely quitted the City, he was so seldom out any where in the daylight, that the bright sun and the splendid shops, the pleasure-seeking crowds idling through the streets, the handsome carriages, and the general life and bustle amazed, and under any other circumstances would have amused him. Even now he felt that he was wasting his life, letting his days pass by without any adequate enjoyment, and he determined that to a certain extent he would remedy that for the future by curtailing the hours devoted to his business, which had hitherto had his every energy. At the Regent Circus he paused and asked his way to Queen Anne Street; for he had determined to see the house where dwelt his lovely visitor of the morning. How lovely she was, and how confused and ridiculous she must have thought him; how different in manner to those with whom she was in the habit of associating; and how delightfully ignorant she was of all business-matters! He wondered whether he should see her the next day when he called on her father. He would like to see her again, he thought; and what would he not give to be able to talk to her, and to get her to talk to him unreservedly, as no doubt she did to--to those of her own class! Yes, there was some good in his money and his business, after all. They had brought him in contact with this lovely girl; and in his transactions with her father he might perhaps be able to get to know her on other terms than those of mere business acquaintance. That was the house, No. 110, with traces of her presence in the lovely flowers in the balcony, and in the splendid Indian work-box standing on the gilt table in the drawing-room window. A handsome house, looking like the expenditure of two thousand a-year at least, Streightley thought to himself; the expenditure, mind, not the income,--his business education had taught him to look at those matters in their right light; and he remembered what Fowler had said about Mr. Guyon, and knew that the old clerk never spoke at random. A carriage was at the door of No. 110; and a footman standing by it said to his mistress as Streightley passed, "Not at home, my lady. Ridin' with Miss Wentworths and the Major in the Park." Not at home! that of course meant the lady of the house. But was there a Mrs. Guyon, or did the young lady whom he had seen do the honours of her father's house? He should imagine so; for she had come alone, and mentioned nothing of her mother. Riding in the Park, eh? Then he might have a chance of seeing her again! The Park was free to all, any one might go there, and--and the Major! who was the Major? Robert Streightley's spirits fell to zero again, as he remembered Miss Guyon's manner to him that morning, and reflected how wide was the gulf between them.
 
He asked his way to the Park, and took up his position by the railings near the Achilles statue, gazing round him in wonder at all he saw and heard. The easy familiarity of the conversation between the ladies in the carriages, or on the chairs, and the gentlemen attendant on them was very different from the prim politeness of Peckham, or the boisterous bonhomie of Brixton; and he was particularly struck with the general acquaintance that nine-tenths of the people lounging about seemed to have with each other. Robert felt painfully out of his sphere; he imagined that he was stared at as an interloper. For a long time he could not muster up courage to take his place at the railings, until he saw two carpenters returning from work in their flannel jackets, stop for a minute to look at the passing pageant, and take up their position at the railings, next to an old gentleman with a very blue coat; and a very red face, who turned round and muttered something about "d--d impudence," which delighted the carpenters immensely. When they moved off, with grins at the old gentleman which reduced him to the verge of apoplexy, Robert slipped into the place they had left vacant, and remained there for some time, gazing in wonder at all he saw, and wishing--O, how fervently wishing!--to see her again.
 
At last his perseverance was rewarded. In the midst of a large cavalcade which came sweeping out of the Row, turning their horses' heads towards the Marble Arch, sat Miss Guyon, looking, in her neat hat, with her hair drawn off her face and gathered into a large knot behind, even more lovely than she had looked in the morning. Streightley's heart beat hard, and his mouth grew dry as he recognised her. As she rode past, her glance fell upon him, but she did not take the smallest notice of him; merely shifting her whip as she held out her pretty little gauntleted hand to a young man riding between her and the railings, and who, as he lifted his hat in adieu, said, "Will you be at the Opera to-night?"
 
She replied, "At the Opera! O yes; box No. 70. Shall we see you?"
 
"Delighted!" he replied, bowing low, and turning his horse's head. "Good day, Major!" and as the old gentleman on the other side of Miss Guyon acknowledged his salute, the young man turned his horse's head and rode away.
 
"At the Opera! she was going to the Opera!" Robert Streightley found himself vaguely repeating these words as he hurried down Piccadilly. He left the Park so soon as the cavalcade of which Miss Guyon formed part had passed out of sight. Good heavens, how lovely she was! how unlike any thing he had ever seen before! how elegant and graceful! He remembered noticing how closely her dark-blue riding-habit fitted her, and he could see the pretty dogskin gauntlet as she put out her hand to--Ay, who was that she shook hands with? Not the Major; he was the old gentleman. Who was that who asked her if she were going to the Opera and--? What on earth was it to him? he was nothing to Miss Guyon; very probably he should never see her again, and--Yes. He stopped suddenly in his hurried walk. Yes; he would see her again, and that night too. He had never been to the Opera; but any one could go there by paying; and, if he could not speak to her, he should at least be able to gaze upon her lovely face. He was a fool, and was losing his senses. What would they say in the City if they knew of this egregious folly? Here was a man of six-and-thirty running about, like a schoolboy in his calf-love, after a girl whom he had only seen that morning, and had scarcely spoken to! It was very ridiculous, he acknowledged, and he would give it up. He would just call on Mr. Guyon in the way of business in the morning because he had promised to do so, and the affair would be at an end. But he thought he would go to the Opera that night. You see, he had never been there, and had often wanted to know what the place was like.
 
He went into a well-known dining establishment and had some dinner, and--an unusual thing with him--drank a pint of wine. He had learned of the waiter what time the Opera commenced; and as soon as the clock-hands reached half-past seven he hurried off and presented himself at the pit entrance, where, on account of his morning costume, he was refused admittance. He was told, however, that there would be no obstacle to his admission into the amphitheatre; and he accordingly climbed into that wild region, and there secured a front seat. He had hired a glass from the check-taker, and with it he now proceeded to scan the house, as yet cold and nearly, empty. Miss Guyon was not there. The opera commenced, and still she did not arrive. Streightley, plying his glass at two minutes' intervals, at length saw her advance to the front of a box on the first tier and take the seat with her back to the stage. With her was the lady whom he had seen in the carriage at the door in Queen Anne Street; and they had scarcely been seated ten minutes before they were joined by the young man who had been of Miss Guyon's party in the Park. Streightley recognised him in an instant, and hated him for his easy manners and his good looks; for he was a good-looking young fellow of six-and-twenty, with fair hair parted in the middle, regular features, and brilliant teeth. Other men visited the box during the evening, but this young fellow only went away once, and then Streightley saw him in the stalls with his glass rivetted on Miss Guyon, who, as he also remarked, attracted a great deal of attention. Then he returned to the box and remained there during the rest of the evening, until nearly the close of the opera, indeed, when Streightley saw the party preparing to move. Robert instantly seized his hat, and rushing downstairs arrived at the door in time to hear loud shouts of "Lady Henmarsh's carriage stops the way!" and to see the visitor of the morning on the arm of an old gentleman, and Miss Guyon closely escorted by the fair-haired equestrian. As she stepped into the carriage Miss Guyon looked up at her attendant cavalier with a smile that Robert Streightley would at that instant have sacrificed all his wealth to have had directed at him. He was mad with rage and jealousy, and could have struck down the simpering fool, who muttered something inaudible under his breath, and raised his hat as the carriage drove off.
 
What had he said in return for that look? That Robert Streightley could never know. Who was he who created the first pang of jealousy that had ever rankled in Streightley's heart? That he would learn at once; he would follow the man, and see where he lived, and learn who he was.
 
The young man lit a cigar and strolled leisurely eastward. Following him at a little distance, Streightley never took his eyes from him, saw him stop at the Temple gate, and reached the door as it closed behind him. To the porter Mr. Streightley gave the name of an acquaintance who resided in Brick Court, and on being admitted saw his quarry just ahead of him. He needed caution now, for theirs were the only footsteps that echoed through the courts; but the young man, without looking round, made his way to Crown-Office Row, and entered one of the end houses nearest the river. Streightley entered after him, and remained at the bottom of the staircase listening to his ascending footsteps, which paused when they reached the topmost story; and then the listener heard the grating of a key in a lock, and afterwards the clanging of a closing door. He waited a few minutes, and then crept softly to the highest story, where were two sets of chambers. One set, as announced by a painted tin placard, was to let; over the other were painted the names of Mr. Gordon Frere and Mr. Charles Yeldham.
CHAPTER II.  A MORNING CALL.
 At nine o'clock the next morning, an hour later than his usual time, Robert Streightley entered his little dining-room and sat down to breakfast. He looked pale and fatigued; and there was an unnatural and unusual brightness in his eyes that at once attracted the notice of old Alice, who had been the nurse of his childhood, and was now the housekeeper and confidential servant of the little family. The old lady was jealously careful of the health of "her boy," as she always spoke of him, and was accustomed to use the license of tongue allowed her in many caustic remarks. She came into the room just as Robert seated himself at the table, and at once commenced to address him in her least conciliatory manner.
 
"O, you have got down at last, have you, Master Robert? I thought you was never coming, and there you might have lied before I'd have come up to help you! That's what I say, and what I mean."
 
"What's the matter, Alice? you don't seem pleased this morning."
 
"Pleased? Who should be pleased, and a lovely steak and mushrooms left to burn itself away to a cinder, and you never coming home to dinner. To dinner, indeed!--not coming home till all hours of the night. I heard your key in the lock, though you thought I was asleep, as all good Christians ought to have been at such an hour--but I heard you. And not foreign-post night either, nor West Indy mail, nor one of them City dinners, else you'd have been home to dress or took your bag with you to the office. Well, it's not for an old woman like me to say, but there's no doubt you're doing too much, slaving like no blackamoor that ever I read of, and all for what? All for---- It's as good bacon as ever was cured, though you do push your plate away in that fashion. Try a bit, Master Robert--come now!"
 
"I can't, Alice. My mouth's out of taste. I've no appetite this morning; give me a cup of tea,--there's a dear soul,--and let me be quiet."
 
"Let you be quiet! You don't think I'd bother you, do you? Cup of tea, indeed. You'll want more than a cup of tea if you go on in this way, sitting up till all hours and fagging yourself over your business. I'm sure your 'ma and Miss Ellen will think you looking quite ill, when they come back from York; and it's all that dratted office as is doing it. I should like to see any body else who sticks to it as you do, and all for what--that's what I want to know? All for what? If you was a struggling on with nine children to educate and do for, you couldn't grind at it harder than you do; and you'll find it out sooner than you expect. Ah, Robert!" exclaimed the old woman, suddenly softening in her tone, and coming up close to him, "Robert, my own dear boy, don't be so headstrong, deary; don't work your life away in this fashion. There's no one knows you so well as I do, and I see you're doing too much, and you're beginning to show it. Don't work so hard, my boy, my own dear boy!"
 
Robert Streightley put up his big arm and pulled down the old woman's head, and pressed her hard rough cheek, down which the tears were flowing silently, close to his own. Then, with an affectation of cheerfulness, he said:
 
"Why, Alice! why, nurse! you must not fancy such foolish things, old lady. I am perfectly well and hearty; only a little done-up this morning, perhaps, after an extra pressure of business yesterday, which kept me up rather later than usual, but otherwise all right."
 
"I'm a foolish old woman, I know, Robert; but I love you very dearly, and you're all I've left to love; and when you don't come home, I get frightened and nervous, and fancy you're doing too much, and, that you ought to be here, in the dining-room, reading your newspaper or having your little nap, as usual, in the evenings, instead of working away at that horrible office to all hours. And you won't be home to-day again, I suppose?"
 
"O yes, indeed I shall! What made you think that?"
 
"Why, you've got on that blue frock-coat, and a white waistcoat, and your best cravat; just for all as you dress yourself when you go to them ship-launches, or Greenwich dinners of your companies, or other places which keep you away from where you're best--at your own home."
 
Streightley smiled, rather a ghastly smile, as he said: "O no I'm only going to call on some rather particular people who--it's best to--at all events--I mean who are accustomed to something different from us--City fellows, you know!"
 
It was feebly said, and feebly received by old Alice, who looked very grim, and only remarked: "Ay, ay--ay, ay!"
 
He made but a very poor apology for a breakfast, and said not a great deal more to his old friend, who stood by, vainly hoping for that "chat" with her boy which was the prime event of her day. But this morning Robert Streightley was preoccupied; he sat over the table long after he had finished eating, idly playing with the crumbs, and evidently buried in thought. At length he roused himself, and after referring several times nervously to his watch, he started for town.
 
It was his habit to go by omnibus; and from his long residence at Brixton he was known to all the coachmen on the road, each of whom on passing gave him a semi-respectful semi-inviting salutation. But Robert Streightley was not inclined for an omnibus-ride this morning; he felt somehow that such a mode of conveyance would not accord with the world a glimpse of which he had had on the previous day, nor with the errand on which he was proceeding; so he hailed the first disengaged hansom, and was driven rapidly to Queen Anne Street. So rapidly, that when he alighted from the cab at the corner of the street he found it yet wanted twelve minutes of eleven, the hour he had named for his interview with Mr. Guyon. He could not be before his time; that would be as much against the strict business rule in which he had been brought up as being behind it would argue either leisure or a strong interest in the matter then on hand, and neither supposition he thought advisable in respect to him. So he determined to eke out the time; and for that purpose strolled up a side street, and found himself gazing vacantly on the dressing and exercising of horses and the washing of carriages, in a mews, at the entrance to which he stood for some little time. After walking round and round, and circling a very narrowed square, he found that the back part of Mr. Guyon's house looked into this mews; and then he busied himself with wondering which was Miss Guyon's room, and whether she were there at that time, and whether she had thought of him since the interview in the City, and what she had thought of him, and---- And then looking at his watch, he found the eventful hour had arrived; so he walked boldly round, and, ringing the bell, demanded to see Mr. Guyon.
 
A colourless footman with light hair and weak eyes, in a very washed-out lilac-striped jacket and dusty gray trousers, answered the bell, and showed Streightley into the dining-room. This was a cheerless apartment, painted salmon-colour, with a dozen Cromwell chairs in faded American cloth and spurious oak ranged round the room, but with some genuine ancestors, a Lely, a couple of Knellers, a Reynolds--such a conception of female childish purity and grace!--and a Lawrence, hanging on the walls. The Turkey carpet was faded and patched; the green table-cover was stained and torn; the window-blinds were yellow, and damp-stained; and every where there was a laissez aller which generally bespeaks the absence of female government. The mantelpiece was covered with purple velvet blurred with sticky rings made by overflowing glasses; in the centre of it lay an oxydised-silver cigar-ash holder in the form of an open spread leaf, in which still remained the ends of a couple of half-smoked cigars; and in the looking-glass, between the glass and the frame, were invitation-cards, photographs of boxers, and ladies of the Parisian theatres, all wearing the same scanty drapery and leering the selfsame leer,--applications for payment of queen's taxes, and notices that the "collector had called" for the water-rate. Robert Streightley had gazed round him; and with the power of appreciation innate in him had remarked these various objects and indications when the door opened quickly, and Mr. Guyon entered the room.
 
Mr. Guyon, none but he; no mistaking him. In the bold face that flashed upon him Streightley recognised a coarser and stronger rendering of Miss Guyon's every feature: the delicately-cut slightly aquiline nose, the small rounded chin, the vivacious green-gray eye. Mr. Guyon's hair, which was rather sparse and thin, was of a different colour from his daughter's; was indeed in itself of two distinct hues, being very black and glossy in certain lights, and very purple and lustreless in others. His complexion, too, was peculiar,--mottled and speckled, something like a plover's egg, save just under the eyes, on the top of the cheekbones, where it had a very roseate hue. He was dressed in a loose blue-silk jacket with a red collar and red sleeve-linings, and wore a pair of Turkish trousers, tied round the waist with a cord like a bell-rope. His turn-down collar was cut very low, showing a great deal of bony throat; his wristbands were long, fastened with elaborate carbuncle studs, and coming far down over his white, well-shaped hands. He wore striped-silk socks of the rather loud pattern,--which, seen at the theatre under the loose garb of the mandarin, enables us to make a tolerably accurate guess at the identity of the person in the pantomime who is to be "afterwards clown,"--and natty red-morocco slippers. He came into the room with a rush, had Robert Streightley by the hand in an instant, and forced him into a chair as he said,
 
"Mr. Streightley, this is kind indeed! This is an honour I can never forget!"
 
Streightley, rather taken aback at the warmth of his reception, said, "it is nothing, Mr. Guyon. I can assure you I merely called because----"
 
"I know, my dear sir, I know. My daughter explained to me what she did yesterday, and how generously you received her." Robert's eyes brightened as he listened. "Women, you know, my dear sir, are all impulse. You are a married man, my dear Mr. Streightley? No! well, still, my dear sir, I daresay--ha, ha!--that you have thorough experience of the other sex. When a man is young, and pleasing, and rich--O yes, by George, rich ha, ha!--he has opportunities of studying the other sex, even if he be not married. Not married? Let me see, what was I saying? O, my daughter--who is the prop and sunshine of my life, the dearest and most devoted creature in the world--my daughter has told me of the document which caused her such fright. It was--it was merely the--usual notice, I suppose?"
 
"It was the usual notice."
 
As Streightley said this, a loud peal at the door-bell attracted his attention.
 
"And the amount?"
 
"A hundred and eighty pounds odd--stay, I have the bill with me;" and drawing out his pocketbook, Robert produced the document. As he did this, he heard the street-door opened, and the sound of a man's footsteps passing the dining-room and going upstairs. His heart sank within him. He would swear to that footfall--swear to it any where; had he not heard it twelve hours before echoing up the hollow staircase in Crown Office Row? It was that man; and he was going upstairs to see Miss Guyon, doubtless in fulfilment of some appointment made during the exchange of bows and glances at the carriage-door last night. He turned deadly pale, and his lips trembled.
 
"Will you allow me to look at that bill?" said Mr. Guyon in his most mellifluous tones. "Thank you. How your hand trembles!--a little chill perhaps. Draw closer to the fire. We seem to have begun the cold weather already. For my own part, I could always endure a fire--O, this is really very bad of Davidson; very bad indeed!" He had been surveying the document which Streightley had handed to him through a pair of gold double eyeglasses perched on the bridge of his nose; and he now looked over them at Streightley as he repeated, "Very bad indeed!"
 
"I--I beg your pardon--my attention was diverted. What did you say?"
 
"I said, Mr. Streightley," said Mr. Guyon with increased sternness, "that this is a very bad business of Davidson's. I gave him this acceptance, sir, to help him in--the what do you call it?--the hour of need, under the full understanding that he would meet it. It was for his convenience, not for mine. I never had a shilling of the produce; and now he leaves me to discharge it at a time when he knows that----"
 
"That it will be inconvenient to meet it?"
 
"You anticipate my words, sir. What with paying calls on shares, and investments in certain other affairs which I have authority--almost as good as yours, my dear sir--for believing in, my balance at my banker's is at its lowest permissible ebb."
 
"If it will be any accommodation to you, Mr. Guyon, I'll send my cheque to meet this acceptance; and I'll take another from you at three months," said Streightley nervously. If he were ever to be received upstairs, it must be through the father's influence.
 
"My dear sir, a thousand thanks! I'm really very much obliged to you--very much obliged. I'm sure any terms which----"
 
"I think the Bank rate is three and a half just now," interrupted Streightley with a slight smile; "we money-brokers charge one per cent in advance of that. So that you see I make something of you after all."
 
"My dear sir," said Mr. Guyon, advancing towards him with outstretched hand, "you endeavour to make light of an obligation; but I'm too much of an old soldier not to know the service you have rendered me. And I thank you for it--I thank you for it! In these levelling days, when a gentleman meets a gentleman, they should close ranks and march together, by George! Give me your hand, sir. I'm proud to make your acquaintance. I hope to renew it. There are not many that Ned Guyon sees at his table, because, perhaps, he's infernally particular, and does not choose to mix with cads. But those who come are of the right sort; and he'll be proud to see you among them."
 
"You're very good, I'm sure," said Streightley. "Perhaps you'll give me a call in the City in a day or two, and we'll put this matter on a business footing. And now I must be off. I shall be delighted to come whenever you ask me--and--my compliments to Miss Guyon. Good-day!" and with a warm shake of his new acquaintance's hand--a shake which was enthusiastically returned--Robert Streightley took his departure.
 
Left to himself, Mr. Guyon plunged his hands into the pockets of his Turkish trousers and strode several times up and down the room, finally stopping in front of the looking-glass and soliloquising: "A rum start,--a devilish rum start! I thought I'd seen every variety of discounters, but I never met one who behaved like that before. What the devil was his motive? he had one, of course; but what the devil was it?"
 
 
Meanwhile a very different scene was being enacted in the drawing-room. Robert Streightley's prescience had not deceived him. The ring at the bell, which acted with such electrical effect on Streightley's nerves, was given by the young man whom he had followed to his chambers on the previous evening; the footstep passing up the staircase was his footstep; and the colourless footman, throwing open the drawing-room door, announced him as "Mr. Gordon Frere." Miss Guyon looked up from the flowers she was tending, and her cheek slightly flushed. The flush was very becoming to Miss Guyon--at least Mr. Frere approved of it highly, as he did of her high-cut mouse-coloured plush dress, her neat linen collar fastened with a handsome dead-gold brooch, her long cuffs, and her simply-arranged hair.
 
"You are early, Mr. Frere," said Miss Guyon, as she extended her hand to her visitor; but she made the remark in a tone which marked her approval of the circumstance.
 
"Yes," he replied; "I feared you might have gone to the Park, if I came later."
 
"I don't ride to-day," said Katharine with a bright smile; "papa is busy, and I did not make any other arrangements."
 
She moved away from the table over which she had been bending as she spoke, and seated herself in a low chair, happily placed in the shade of the window-curtain. Gordon Frere took his seat upon an ottoman near her, and contemplated the lining of his hat with close attention. Not that he was at all awkward--awkwardness was not in Mr. Frere's nature, certainly not in his habits--but he was not a particularly ready talker, and under the circumstances this seemed the correct thing to do. Katharine Guyon's manners were, in certain respects, perfect; they were, indeed, rather too perfect and independent; she presented too complete a contrast to the drooping-lily style of girl; and she never suffered from a sense of embarrassment. It was not, therefore, shyness which lent her downy cheek that beautiful flush it had worn at the entrance of her visitor, and continued to wear, or that softened glance which darkened the colour and deepened the expression of her eyes. She was very glad to see him, and she showed her gladness; and there was a pleasant gleeful ring in the tone in which she talked to him of the various but trivial events of the preceding day, of their common acquaintances, and of the delights of last night's opera.
 
Her voice and accent were remarkably refined, and the tone of her conversation, though its matter was only of the ordinary kind, was far removed from the commonplace. She touched her topics lightly and easily, let them go without too much handling, and gradually infused into her companion some of the brightness and buoyancy which animated herself. Gordon Frere had seen her sufficiently often to be familiar with most of her moods, and with all the variations of her appearance, for hers was by no means the "beauty for ever unchangingly bright," which is also undeniably uninteresting; but he began to think that he had never seen her to so much advantage as on this occasion, and to discover new charms in her, as she sat and talked to him, in her clear fresh voice, and her low happy laughter broke every now and then the tenor of their dialogue.
 
What did they talk about? That would be difficult to tell; and the discourse, written down, which suffices to charm and engross two young persons, already very well disposed to regard each other as the most bewitching and delightful individuals in the world, would have singularly little attraction for a third party outside that enchanted pale, which encloses within a magic circle the sayings and doings of those under the spell. The pleasantest "talks" are those which have the least in them; the best-remembered interviews are frequently those in which there have been no salient features, of which it would be hardest to render an account,--those in which acquaintance passes into knowledge, and grows into friendship after a strange fashion, distinctly felt, but not to be described. When the transition is not from acquaintance to friendship, but from liking to love, the process is even more difficult of description; and a transition of this kind was taking place in the pretty, if not particularly neat, drawing-room which formed so striking a contrast to the apartment beneath it, in which Mr. Guyon and Robert Streightley had held a parley, destined to influence the future fate of Katharine and her visitor very materially.
 
What did they not talk of? that is to say, within the wide range of topics possessing interest for their young light hearts. The festivities performed during the past week, and anticipated for that to come; the prospects of a charitable bazaar, at which Miss Guyon had kindly consented to take a stall (Mr. Frere was very happy in his anticipation of the unqualified success of the speculation); the Opera répertoires for the season; the last new varieties of flowers at the Botanical (Miss Guyon loved flowers and understood them); the last new novel, and the forthcoming poem by the Laureate. Then they discussed Tennyson in general, and Katharine quoted him in particular--an achievement in which Gordon Frere could not imitate her, his appreciation being vague, though genuine; and Katharine "tried over" one or two of the airs which they agreed to prefer among those in fashion just then; and time flew, and the young people felt decidedly happy.
 
Miss Guyon played brilliantly; her music had a great deal of the "dash" about it which characterised her appearance and her general demeanour. She was one of those women who do every thing well which they undertake at all, and the finish of her manner extended to all she did. She had another peculiarity; perhaps not a safe or advantageous one in the end, but pleasant and effective then. She could do certain things with impunity which girls in her position, however effectually "come out," could not have attempted. She set conventionality aside when it suited her to do so; but the boldest and most ill-natured critic would never have accused her of outraging it. The men who tempt women into departure from the rules, made and appointed for their conduct and customs by a society more remarkable for suspicion than for intelligence, are precisely those who most severely condemn them for yielding to the temptation. But there was neither guidance nor following in Miss Guyon's case. She was an exceptional woman, placed in circumstances which are, fortunately, not very common; and she went her own way, and kept, to it unmolested; and if not uncriticised, criticised as little as any one possessing youth, beauty, talent, and individuality of character, could expect to be.
 
So Miss Guyon talked to Gordon Frere, and played for his delectation, and quoted poetry to him, and made herself most agreeable; and his stay prolonged itself much beyond the customary limits of a morning visit; and yet she never felt that this was any thing unusual, or was conscious that her self-possession was beyond that of other girls, or her manner more assured than theirs. She never thought about it at all; she enjoyed the present time and the young man's society; she accredited him with all sorts of social talents and bright congenial tastes; and no suspicion ever occurred to her that he was merely reflecting some of her own readiness, brilliancy, and versatility. And Gordon Frere, was not "he too in Arcadia"? Over the girl's whole bearing an indescribable softness, a winning grace was thrown,--the subtle, all-powerful charm created by the desire of pleasing; perhaps the most potent, and frequently the most unconscious, in a woman's possession. She looked her best, she talked her best, the animation of her manner never passing the bounds of perfect refinement, but ever spontaneous and unsubdued; the simple grace of her figure, the sensitive beauty of her face must have touched and warmed a duller man than Gordon Frere. There was a delicious flattery in her undisguised pleasure in his society which he felt with a subtler sense than he had ever before experienced; for there was no one to share it here. She was shining, she was sparkling for him alone. This was something different, something much more delightful than the ride in the Row, or the dance in the ball-room, to which he was tolerably well accustomed, and which he might have gone on enjoying for some time longer without being inspired by the intense admiration which began to possess him as he looked at her, and listened to her, as he recognised the genuine charm of her manner, unspoiled by the faintest tinge of self-consciousness or coquetry.
 
"Do you know much of the City?" Katharine said, after a slight pause in their conversation; "do you often go there?"
 
"No, indeed," said Frere; "I seldom have occasion; and my rambles eastwards rarely extend beyond the Temple. But why do you ask? Do you take an interest in the City?"
 
"I do," she returned thoughtfully; "I should like to explore it thoroughly for the sake of its present and its past. I have never seen any thing of it since I was a child, and they took me to the Tower, and Guildhall, and the Thames Tunnel all on the same day; and I remember nothing but a hideous figure of Queen Elizabeth, the block--which frightened me--Gog and Magog, and my own fatigue. I was horribly tired when I came home; and when, on another holiday, they wanted to take me to St. Paul's, and told me about the winding stairs and the whispering gallery, I positively declined the proposed diversion. So I have never really seen the City. I drove through a part of it yesterday, and a very dingy part it was too; and I thought how much I should like to see it all and think over it all."
 
"I don't suppose many people think of it in that way," said Mr. Frere; "to the world at large it's only a huge counting-house, a busy beehive, a crowd of places where money is to be made, and of men intent on making it."
 
"But even in that aspect it is very interesting," said Katharine; "and in that aspect I was considering it when I looked at the great warehouses and offices, and saw the names whose very sound is golden, the names famous all over the world. But, after all, these people must lead horribly stupid lives, for ever toiling at money-getting. I don't suppose they have time to enjoy spending it when it is made. Only fancy how dreadful to have to go to these dingy places every day, and stay there all day long."
 
"That is true," said Gordon Frere. "The lives of City men do not seem very enviable, or indeed bearable to us; but there must be a compensation in them. Some of them must absolutely like plodding, for they go on with it long after they need not, as a matter of choice."
 
"Do they?" asked Katharine in a tone of surprise. "I saw a 'City man' when I was there,--I had a little business to attend to for papa, as he was not at home,--and he had such a settled, business-like look, though he was not at all old. I could not fancy him ever taking any pleasure or amusement, or being like other people--of course, I mean," she added explanatorily, "any of the pleasures of his class."
 
"O, I suppose not," said Frere; "a regular grub, who will be what he will be content to call rich when he's gray and gouty. But they have one consolation, Miss Guyon: as their business and their pleasure alike consist in money-getting, the one is not purchased at the expense of the other."
 
"Like ours," she said with a laugh, "when we have any business." Then she went on again, thoughtfully as before: "I should like to go all through the City. Not for the sake of seeing the places where all the money that I have nothing to do with is made; but because so much of our old history was acted out there. I suppose in the City one can get a sight of the old landmarks; and they are certainly not to be found outside it. It is rather odd that every thing that is most dignified connects itself in one's mind with City places, and every thing that is most vulgar with City people. If one could only see it after all the money-grubbers are gone away, and when it is still and quiet in the evenings, as they say it is----"
 
"And when, accordingly, the most ingenious and charmingly-sensational robberies are perpetrated," said Gordon Frere, laughing. "Well, that is a wish easily gratified. Who was the man who always said, when any place was mentioned, 'Let's make a party and go'? No matter, we will echo him. I know a man who knows lots of City men, who would be delighted to show you every thing worth seeing; and then there are books, you know, which tell one the history--I was going to say the pedigree--of every place. But I suppose Mr. Guyon has City acquaintances also?"
 
Gordon Frere asked the question inadvertently, and felt rather guilty when he had done so; for he had heard certain rumours which left him in no doubt at all as to the nature of Mr. Guyon's acquaintance with the far east.
 
"I daresay he has," replied Katharine carelessly; "but I don't know any thing of them. My business was only with a tradesman, a person named Streightley, and I have never heard papa mention his business friends."
 
And then the conversation drifted to other topics, and Gordon Frere shortly after took his leave. This morning visit had been unlike the ordinary events of his days, and he felt towards Katharine Guyon as he left her as he had never felt before. And Katharine? She had reseated herself at the piano as he left the room, and her fingers had strayed for a few momenta over the keys; then her hands fell idly into her lap, and, in the sunshine of the summer day, unbroken by the stir and noise in the street, there came upon the fair young girl that wonderful waking trance whose vision is "love's young dream."
 
The trance was broken by the entrance of her father. Mr. Guyon's manner, always light and airy, was on this occasion lighter and airier than usual. He walked up to the piano, bent over his daughter, and giving her a paternal kiss, said, "Who was your visitor, Kate?"
 
Not without a repetition of the blush, Katharine said, "Mr. Frere, papa."
 
"Mr. Frere!" repeated Mr. Guyon,--"ay, ay, a good fellow, Gordon Frere,--a good fellow! Wants ballast perhaps!" added he reflectively, as though he himself were provided with more than an average amount of that commodity,--"wants ballast; but that will come. By the way, Kate, I've had your City friend of yesterday with me,--Mr. Streightley."
 
"Indeed, papa!" said Katharine carelessly. It was a great descent from Gordon Frere to the City man, Mr. Streightley. She rose from the piano as she spoke, and crossed to the mantel-shelf, on which she leaned her arm.
 
"Indeed, papa! Yes, and indeed, papa, and no mistake. It's a most remarkable thing, and I can't make it out. You don't understand business matters in detail, but you'll be able to follow me when I tell you that this Streightley, who has the name of being a deuced sharp man of business, has behaved to me in a deuced liberal and gentlemanly way--a deuced liberal and gentlemanly way! And what on earth can have been his motive--for of course he had a motive--what on earth can have induced him to show me any special favour, I can't divine."
 
"Can't you, papa?" said Miss Guyon. She was looking at herself in the glass, pushing back the hair from off her temples. A slight smile curved her lip, and she looked splendidly handsome. Mr. Guyon, glancing at her, caught the expression reflected in the glass and sprang to his feet.
 
"By George, Kate, I've hit it! the man's in love with you!"
 
"Is he?" said Katharine simply. "I noticed him in the Park yesterday afternoon, and standing outside the Opera last night."
 
"You're an angel!" said Mr. Guyon, again performing the paternal salute. "What are you going to do to-morrow?"
 
"I thought of going to the Botanical Gardens in the afternoon--it's the last fête of the season."
 
"You shall go! I'll take you myself! You--you have not asked young Frere to call again, have you?"
 
"No, papa. I----"
 
"Of course. I only wanted to know. Don't, until I tell you. And now I must be off. God bless you, my child!"
 
But though Mr. Guyon took farewell of his daughter he was not "off" yet; for he spent half an hour in his dressing-room, his head resting on his hand, and his busy mind full of thought.
CHAPTER III.  WITHIN THE PALE.
 Three days had elapsed since the interview between Katharine Guyon and Gordon Frere, which had gone so far towards deciding the destiny of both, when that haughty young lady learned, with some astonishment and more disdain, that her father had it in contemplation to invite Mr. Streightley, the "tradesman" on whom she had called "in the City," to one of his quiet and limited, but very recherché dinners. She heard the announcement with such surprise that her father actually took the trouble of observing the expression of her face, and laughed quite spontaneously at it.
 
"That person, papa?" asked Katharine.
 
"Yes, my dear, 'that person,' as you call him, with the pretty insolence which is more becoming than reasonable. And more than that, Kate, you must make yourself agreeable to that person, and we must have pleasant people to meet him, for he has done me a great service, and is likely to do me several good turns, and to be a very useful acquaintance."
 
"But, papa," pursued Katharine, who was accustomed to hold her ground in words, as well as to have her way in actions, "he is not in our set, or in any set, I should think. A City person, a tradesman! I really cannot see----"
 
"I daresay not, Kate," said her father, with a perceptible knitting of the delicately-traced eyebrows over the fine eyes, which indicated that this exquisite gentleman was not precisely the soul of patience and good temper. "I daresay not, but I can; and that is the chief matter just now. I daresay Mr. Streightley is not in any 'set,' as you say; but when you talk of him as a 'tradesman' you make a very silly and an ignorant mistake. Yes you do," he continued, in reply to an indignant look from his daughter, "though you are very clever, Katie,--almost as clever as you are handsome, my dear. Mr. Streightley is a very rich and a very influential man, and no more a tradesman than I am."
 
"Well then, papa," asked Katharine, "what did he mean by sending in a bill in that extraordinary way? If he is not a tradesman, what dealings with him had you, and what services has he done you?"
 
Mr. Guyon smiled. His daughter's na?veté amused him. "Never mind, Kate," he said. "Men have money transactions outside their household bills, my dear, or even their tailors and bootmakers; but women do not need to understand these things, and I should only bore you if I explained them. Mr. Streightley's 'bill' was a very different thing to what you imagine, and his position is, I assure you, a most respectable one. Take my word for that, Kate, and don't trouble your pretty little head about the matter. I hope we shall see a good deal of Mr. Streightley, and I wish this dinner-party to be a success; so make out your list, and see Watkins about it at once."
 
"Do you wish any people in particular to be asked to meet this new friend, papa?" asked Katharine, in a tone which was a little sullen, and just the least in the world impertinent, "or shall I take them, as usual, from the visiting-book?"
 
Mr. Guyon ignored the tone of his daughter's question, but replied to its matter by saying: "No, no one in particular; either Lady Henmarsh or Mrs. Stanbourne, of course; but you need not have any girls. I fancy Streightley knows very few people; they'll all be new to him."
 
"Bar, Bench, or Bishop, like Mrs. Merdle,--eh, papa?" said Katharine, as she rose from the breakfast-table, at which this dialogue had taken place. "Very well, I'll let you see my list when it's done. And now, the day?"
 
This point was fixed, after a little discussion; and then Katharine went to talk with her housekeeper, Mrs. Watkins, to write her notes, to dawdle over her flowers, until the horses came round; and she started for the Park with the reasonable expectation of seeing Gordon Frere--an expectation which was fulfilled before she had been five minutes in the Row.
 
During the days which intervened before that named for the dinner-party, Katharine never gave a passing thought to the subject of her father's strange and incongruous guest; but when the day came, she felt rather ill-humoured about the whole thing.
 
"What on earth can papa want with him?" she thought, impatiently; "and I am to make myself agreeable to him! Well, that generally comes easy to me; but not in this case. I can't even talk to him about the City, which I really should like, because that would be talking shop, though he's not a tradesman. However, it will soon be over," she thought, brightening up, and with an exquisite smile of happy anticipation lighting up her face, moody till then; "and the ball can't fail to be delightful."
 
Miss Guyon was going to a ball in the evening, after her dinner-party at home; and her toilet was made with a view to that festivity. An ornament or two, and a magical touch added to her head-dress, were all she would require for the perfect brilliancy of her appearance, in addition to the white dress, arrayed in which she appeared to the enchanted gaze of Robert Streightley, when he was ushered into her drawing-room, like a vision from another world. And it was quite true that he had never seen so beautiful, so graceful, so elegant a woman as the girl-hostess, who played her part with perfect self-possession, while he felt miserably embarrassed in his.
 
Katharine was seated on an ottoman, placed between the long narrow windows of the front drawing-room, talking to an elderly lady, whom Robert Streightley's quick eye recognised, as he advanced from the door. Mr. Guyon left the group with whom he was talking, on the announcement of Robert's name; and went forward to meet him with a decided empressement of manner which had its effect on the other guests assembled. He led Robert up to Katharine, and presented him to her. She bent her graceful head, said a gracious word or two, and resumed her conversation with the lady--whom Robert had recognised, and who was Lady Henmarsh--with well-bred imperturbability. Did she remember him? Robert thought. Had she ever thought of him since that day which had meant to him so much, but to her so little? So little! nothing! and yet not nothing, if she had only known it, for he had discovered things about her father since. Robert found himself thinking these rambling thoughts, and gazing helplessly at Katharine, unheeding the smooth flow of Mr. Guyon's talk, as that gentleman, in his very best and airiest manner, addressed himself to the entertainment of his new and useful guest, and to the task of putting him at his ease in this strange sphere. With a sudden consciousness of his absence of mind came self-command to Robert, and before long he began to examine the other guests with much more of attention and curiosity than they were at all likely to bestow on him. To the dozen persons assembled in Mr. Guyon's drawing-room Robert Streightley was merely a stranger,--well-dressed, well-looking, and though deficient in the air of fashion, which more or less marked themselves, a gentleman in whom there was nothing to provoke any adverse or sneering criticism. To Robert they were all interesting. These were Katharine's friends,--the people she lived amongst, the people who could influence her by their tastes and opinions, the people whose manners, and dress, and conversation she liked. In every man in the room Robert saw a possible rival, in every woman a possible enemy. He was very foolish, not only in the ordinary sense in which every man who is in love is foolish, but in an extraordinary sense,--the result of his peculiar position, and the isolation of his life. He was possessed by his one idea; and he allowed it to become a centre round which every thing revolved. When the announcement of dinner told him that the party was complete, and relieved him from the apprehension of seeing Gordon Frere's handsome face amongst the number, he actually sighed audibly with the sense of relief. He listened eagerly, as Mr. Guyon or Katharine addressed their guests, and learned with absurd satisfaction that three of the six gentlemen who composed the male portion of the company were married to three of the six ladies who composed the female portion.
 
Robert Streightley was a very clever man, but there was a dangerously weak side to his intellect, all the more perilous that he had never suspected it, and did not suspect it now; and that weak side was about to be stormed by a strong passion, all the more ungovernable because it attacked him for the first time. He had never played with this dangerous enemy; he had not known any of the feints, the mock-surprises of love, and he was hopelessly at its mercy. Mingled happiness and misery,--the happiness of this delicious, unexpected excess to Katharine's presence, the misery of his uncertainty as to her relations with others, with one terrible other in particular--the sense of his strangeness in the scene familiar to her,--ravaged and divided his heart between them. For a time the misery was predominant; and then Robert, an impressionable man, and one in whom social tastes were not non-existent, only dormant, yielded to the charm of the present, and gave himself up to admiration of Katharine, who never showed to greater advantage than on such occasions. The aplomb of her manner, the brilliancy of her conversation, the taste, elegance, and fashion of her dress, the easy and pleasant grace with which she made the dinner-party "go off" with a success utterly beyond his experience of any festal occasion whatever, were full of a marvellous charm for the man who looked at this girl through the glorified medium of a first and overmastering passion.
 
Robert took little heed of the other guests, except as one or other of them engaged Katharine's attention, and so divided his. He had the good fortune to be seated near Miss Guyon; and but that Lady Henmarsh directed much of her conversation to the young hostess, and so won Streightley's enthusiastic gratitude, she would probably have found her neighbour rather a dull companion. But Lady Henmarsh was never dull, and never suffered from other people's dulness. In the first place, she dearly liked and thoroughly understood a good dinner; and Mr. Guyon's dinners were invariably and remarkably good. She made it a practice to eat systematically and steadily through all the courses, and to do justice to all the wines. She was too fashionable and too impervious to other people's opinions to care what any body thought; and so she ate and drank precisely as much as she pleased, and gave her opinion of the comestibles with perfect candour. She was intimate with every one there, except that good-looking new man, who was probably clever in something, but whom nobody knew, and who did not seem to want to talk much or to be talked to; and she therefore joined in all the general conversation, and did not mind him particularly, thereby increasing Robert's gratitude. Lady Henmarsh talked remarkably well. She was naturally quick and intelligent--well-informed too, for a woman of fashion, with, of course, no time for improving her mind; and as she knew every one and had been every where, and probably had a more extensive epistolary correspondence than any other woman in London who did not play at either literature or politics, she was never at a loss for news to communicate or subjects to discuss.
 
With the exception of Mr. Guyon, whose like was not quite unknown within the circle of Robert's experience, every type there was a novel one to him. Few were interesting after a little,--after a cursory examination extending to their personal appearance and the grooves in which their conversation ran. There was a new member, who talked "House" a good deal, and his wife--pretty and well-dressed--who talked "Ladies' Gallery," who hoped her husband would soon "speak" on the great topic of the day, and who seemed to regard every one not "in the House" as in the "butterfly of fashion" and general inutility line. There was a country gentleman, not at all stupid and not in the least fat; and a country lady, almost as sprightly as Miss Guyon herself, though by no means so handsome. The country lady and gentleman were also going to Mrs. Pendarvis's ball; and from their talk about it at dinner Robert learned that Katharine was going to another entertainment that evening, and the tortures of his infatuated state recommenced. She would disappear, then, after dinner, and he should see no more of her, thought Robert in his innocent ignorance of fashionable hours; and she would go and glitter among a crowd of happy people, and that handsome fellow with the light hair would be one of them. And so Robert once more stretched himself upon the rack, and gave himself an excruciating twist. He was miserable from the time the ball was mentioned. Did he wish that he could go there too? Hardly; he felt he would be too much out of place in such a scene; and where could he be more hopelessly parted from her? No, he did not wish to be going to Mrs. Pendarvis's house; he only wished she were not going.
 
"Have you a card, Mr. Mostyn?" he heard Katharine say in a charming accent of interest to a gentleman seated near her, whom Robert had already regarded with some surprise and amusement.
 
"Yes," returned Mr. Mostyn in a supremely languid tone, at the same time permitting his eyes to raise themselves towards Katharine, as if in slow acknowledgment of the complimentary accent. "I think I shall look in for an hour very late. Will you give me a dance, Miss Guyon?" He said this as if he felt bound to make a concession to a wish of hers. Robert Streightley had very quick eyes, and he saw her steal a glance of sly, mischievous amusement at Lady Henmarsh as she replied,
 
"I don't see how I can, Mr. Mostyn, if you only look in for an hour very late, for I mean to do my looking in rather early."
 
"Very sorry, I'm sure," said Mr. Mostyn in a slow, measured, would-be modulated tone, which sounded to Robert's ears like the very voice of fatuity. "But one has so much to do of an evening just now. It's Lady Ismaeli's night, and I promised to look in and----"
 
"Of course, of course," said Miss Guyon, and her eyes danced with mischievous glee; "who would for the world interfere with Mr. Mostyn's gaieties? We all know they are but gravities in disguise. He is the slave of the season only to be its satirist, the pet of society to requite its indulgence by his teachings as a philosopher and his dulcet lays as a poet. Who would lay a tax on time spent in the service of society like Mr. Mostyn's, studying character in a cotillion, piercing the thin disguises of intrigue at a picnic, and reading the female soul in the evening lounge on a balcony? Ah, Mr. Mostyn, what triflers are we all beside you, the poètephilosophe, not only sous les toits, but of our dinner- and toilet-tables!"
 
Lady Henmarsh was listening, pleasure in her face. There was something under this lively talk, this seeming compliment; and Robert would have liked well to know what it was. It was something that amused Katharine, therefore interesting to him.
 
"Come, Mr. Mostyn," she went on, "you might tell me--I am a friend, you know. When is the new novel coming out? And what and who is it to be about? Only intimate friends this time, or have outsiders any chance?"
 
She paused for a reply, and an expression of candid curiosity was all her face betrayed. Mr. Mostyn did not look perfectly comfortable; a dawning doubt showed itself in his smooth features. It was only momentary, though. It cleared away, and he replied,
 
"Really, Miss Guyon, you embarrass me. I was not prepared to find you so much interested in my humble performances. I shall not publish again, for some little time. I regard the writing of a poem or a novel as a serious undertaking, and I undertake it in a serious spirit. I wait for the inspiration, Miss Guyon; I wait until a favourable moment when my mind is attuned----"
 
"And when you have got some very good models, Mr. Mostyn; isn't that so? Your acquaintance is so large, it must be quite delightful and not at all difficult. Don't be shocked, please, by my talking of such a little thing as difficulty in the case of such a grand thing as inspiration; but it must be so easy and pleasant just to sit down and put your friends in a book. People hardly expect it, do they? They let you see them as they are, and then that is charming; for you find out all about them, and they never suspect it; and all their circle recognise the portrait, and every one talks about it. I have quite a woman's curiosity about writers, you must know, Mr. Mostyn,--I quite admire and envy them,--and I should like to know all about them; and I have heard that even a totally worthless book will be read if it is very personal indeed. What a comfort that must be, Mr. Mostyn I--of course I mean to the persons who write worthless books; shouldn't you think so?"
 
Katharine threw a perfect tone of interrogation into her voice, and deliberately awaited an answer. Once more a shadow of doubt came over Mr. Mostyn's face, and once more a beam from the never-setting sun of his vanity dispelled it.
 
"I cannot imagine there being any consolation in or for writing a worthless book, Miss Guyon," replied Mr. Mostyn with even increased sententiousness. "For my part, I could only be satisfied with doing the very best----"
 
"The very best, or your very best?" said Katharine with undisguised sauciness. Then recollecting herself, she dropped her voice to the serious tone again, and went on: "Of course no one is easily satisfied with his own work; but you really must not be too modest, Mr. Mostyn,--you mustn't indeed. Every one says your portraits are wonderful; and what can be more interesting than to depict accurately persons who are very widely known, and place them in the most trying situations? The popular authoress, for instance, who makes love to your last hero--dear, what an exquisite creature he is!--how odd she must feel it to be 'put in a book' and recognised by every body! Ah! you are a dangerous man, Mr. Mostyn; perhaps you'll put me in a book some day, if I am good enough, or bad enough, or ask you here sufficiently often to do all my sittings properly--but--Lady Henmarsh looks as if I ought to have moved before this;" and so saying Katharine rose, and, like "fair Inez," took all the sunshine and light of every description with her, so far as Robert Streightley was concerned. Whether Mr. Mostyn was quite so sorry for her departure was another question. Robert looked at this gentleman with some curiosity and a little dawning compassion, for it struck him that Katharine had not spoken altogether de bonne foi, and he was curious to ascertain whether he too was aware of the fact.
 
Robert had little experience of persiflage, and was not behind the scenes on this occasion; but two or three of the other guests were, and they enjoyed the quiet little performance which had just been enacted greatly. As for Mr. Mostyn, his momentary discomfiture passed off with the characteristic reflection, that jealousy made all women spiteful, and Miss Guyon had really not had so much of his attention lately as she deserved,--he must be more considerate of her feelings for the future. The ladies gone, the gentlemen drew up into the usual cluster, and commenced the ordinary after-dinner conversation; and Robert would probably have found the affair very wearisome on its own account, not to mention that he was longing to be in Katharine's presence again, had not Mr. Guyon exerted himself to the utmost to draw 'him out, and to give the conversation a general turn, so as to include him, and to make it evident to the whole party that the "new man" was one whom he delighted to honour.
 
When the ladies were passing through the hall, Lady Henmarsh had said laughingly to Katharine, "For shame, Kate; you were too hard on the young author."
 
"Nonsense!" replied Katharine. "You enjoyed it immensely, and he deserved it richly."
 
When the gentlemen came into the drawing-room at Mr. Guyon's that night, Katharine was seated at the piano. Had any portion of Robert Streightley's heart remained unvanquished, she would have conquered it by her music: but he was already as much in love as he could be. Soon the business of leave-taking commenced. Robert was reluctantly advancing to make his adieux, when Mr. Guyon took him familiarly by the arm and said,
 
"Don't go just yet, Streightley. We'll see the ladies to the carriage, and then have a chat and a cigar in my room."
 
Miss Guyon left the room with Lady Henmarsh, but returned in a few minutes, wrapped in a soft white mantle. Every alteration in her appearance made her more beautiful in Robert's eyes. He had the felicity of taking her downstairs; and as she bowed and smiled from the corner of the carriage in which she had ensconced herself, and was then borne rapidly away, Robert needed Mr. Guyon's "Come along, Streightley; don't stand there in the cold," to rouse him from a sort of trance of admiration.
 
The ball at Mrs. Pendarvis's was crowded and brilliant, and Katharine's hopes were realised. Gordon Frere had waited her arrival on the staircase, and claimed her for the first dance. The hours passed like a dream to them both; and when Mr. Alured Mostyn "looked in," and at length succeeded in finding Miss Guyon, he saw her so radiant with beauty, so sparkling with animation, that he was quite touched at the idea of the effect produced by her pleasure in seeing him.
 
Another person noticed the unusual beauty and the increased animation of Katharine Guyon that night, and formed a truer estimate of its origin. This was Lady Henmarsh. She made certain observations, drew certain conclusions, and determined on a line of conduct which will develop itself in the course of events.
 
And Robert? Well, Robert had his chat and his cigar with Mr. Guyon, and then he went home--home to the house which he had never before thought vulgar or insignificant, which he had never thought about at all indeed, and which was in truth much more solidly comfortable than the gaudier abode which had suddenly been converted into a shrine to his fancy. He shrunk from it now as he thought, "I wonder what she would say to this, and our mode of life here?" and he returned the old nurse's greeting with grudging ill-humour, being inclined to resent her sitting up for him, though it was not an abnormally late hour, and her opening the door for him, which, though not her business, was, as he well knew, her pleasure.
 
"Any news, nurse? any letters?" he asked, in a tone wholly devoid of interest in the reply.
 
"No, Master Robert," said the old woman; "there's no letters, and there's nobody been but Miss Hester Gould, a-wantin' to know when Miss Ellen's comin' home."
CHAPTER IV.  MR. GUYON'S FRIEND.
 The astonishment of Mr. Guyon at the liberal treatment which he had received at the hands of his new creditor was by no means feigned. That worthy gentleman, in the course of a long career of impecuniosity, had become acquainted with all the various plans of all the leading discounters of the city of London; knew what he called their "whole bag of tricks;" understood the different ways of getting time or obtaining renewal, according to the various idiosyncrasies of the holders of his stamped paper; and gave to the subject an amount of talent, industry, and attention which, otherwise employed, might have brought him in a very fair income. A very fair income was not a thing to be despised by a gentleman in Mr. Guyon's position, whose actually reliable income was represented by one figure, and that a round one. A sum of five thousand pounds indeed stood in the Consols in Edward Guyon's name; but on that pleasantly-sounding amount was laid a distringas, a horrible legal instrument preventing its withdrawal by the said Edward Guyon, while the annual interest, which would at least have kept him in cigars and gloves, found its way into the clutches of Messrs. Sharkey and Maw, attorneys-at-law, who had a few years previously advanced a sufficient sum to free Mr. Guyon from an unpleasant incarceration in the Queen's Bench, leaving him a few pounds over to convey himself to the Newmarket Spring Meeting, whither he proceeded immediately on his release. All that pleasant estate known as Bedingfield, in the county of Cheshire, with its three thousand acres of arable land, its salt- and coal-mines, its since-made railway bit, its punctually-paying tenant, and its various sources of revenue; which belonged to the Honourable Piers Rankley, and which every one thought he would bequeath to his cousin, Edward Guyon, had been left to a distant relative of Piers Rankley's childless dead wife, one Jacob Long, a member of the Plymouth Brethren, and originally a hide-dresser in Bermondsey, who under the influence of qualms of conscience agreed to allow his reprobate connection Edward Guyon a sum of a thousand a-year, "at his pleasure." It had been a matter of acute annoyance to Ned Guyon that he had no legal claim or hold on this allowance; so that it was impossible for him to mortgage or anticipate it in any way, save by a three months' acceptance for the amount of the quarterly instalment--less commission and discount--payable on the day that instalment was due; but in reality it enabled him to pay renewal fees, to have occasional ready-money for certain menus plaisirs of his own and little treats for Kate, and to give such an air of respectability as it possessed to that old house in Queen Anne Street, the lease of which, with its dingy furniture and ten pounds for a mourning ring, had been his sole legacy from Piers Rankley.
 
But no income, however fair, would have tempted Mr. Guyon to undertake any honest work, or, as he phrased it, any "d--d low ungentlemanlike slavery;" and the consequence was that, what with an accumulation of gambling-table (he was a member of the Nob and Heels Club, where they play whist for twenty-four hours at a sitting, pound points and a tenner on the rub) and turf debts, he was just at the time of his introduction into this story in a really desperate condition. It had been an unlucky season with him. His racing information had been bad throughout. Commencing ill last Chester, he had been hard hit at Epsom, had dropped more money at Ascot, and could only pull off a stake at the coming Doncaster by a most unlikely fluke. He had had frightful ill-luck at cards. Acknowledged to be one of the best whist-players of the day, he had scarcely held a trump since the winter, and had been beaten by the merest tyros. That very acceptance, which his new acquaintance Streightley held, had been given to Davidson for a card debt; and Guyon had forgotten all about it, having, contrary to his usual custom, omitted to enter it in his book. However, that was staved off for the present; and the few words which he had had with his daughter on the subject had opened a new well-spring of life in Mr. Guyon's breast. If what Kate surmised, or rather half hinted at, were true--and, with all her pride and wilfulness, she had wonderful common-sense and shrewdness--it might, with judicious management, be turned to wondrous advantage. It was but in embryo yet, to be sure; but, with Kate's beauty and his own tact, it could be brought off at any moment, and the value of it would be--well, he would see at once what the value of it would be by representing it as a certainty to his chief creditor and principal discount-agent, Mr. Daniel Thacker.
 
Who was Mr. Daniel Thacker? If you had been heir to an entailed estate, with as large a taste for pleasure and as limited resources as such heirs usually possess; if you had been an officer in either of the Guards regiments, or any of the crack corps; if you had been a member of any of the West-end government offices, with fast tendencies; or an author; or an actor frequenting fast society; or a theatrical manager; or a pretty coryphée fond of suppers and admiration,--you would not have had to ask the question; for without doubt you would have possessed Mr. Thacker's acquaintance. A man combining the sharpest practice (in a gentlemanly way) as a bill-discounter with the keenest pursuit of pleasure of a strong, full-flavoured, not to say of a gross kind, was Mr. Thacker. A man who made cent per cent of his money by judicious investment, and who at the same time "parted" freely; living in capital chambers in St. James's Street, keeping horses and carriages, entertaining frequently and well, having an Opera-stall for himself and frequently an Opera-box for a female friend, visiting the theatres, riding to hounds, and carrying out every thing he attempted in very excellent style. Life seemed a broad and pleasantly-turfed path for Mr. Daniel Thacker, down which he could stroll in his easy polished boots without the smallest stumbling-block to cause him annoyance. But there was one thing which wrung and chafed him, which he could never shut out from his happiest hour, which proclaimed itself whenever he looked in the glass (which was not seldom), which lay like a hideous pitfall for Mr. Thacker's friends, into which they were perpetually tumbling and coming out covered with inarticulate excuses, which pointed the sarcasm of little boys in the streets at first overwhelmed by his splendour, and edged the repartee of insolent cabmen, to whom he called to clear the way for his high-stepping steeds,--a fact which nothing could hide, a brand which no money could obliterate;--Mr. Daniel Thacker was an unmistakable Jew. Unmistakable! as unmistakable as if he had retained his old family name of Hart; as if he had remained in his old family neighbourhood of St. Mary Axe; as if he had continued his old family occupation of contracting with the government for the supply of rum and lemons for the navy, and uniforms for the postmen. In that choice neighbourhood, and out of those apparently not very meaty contracts, had old Simeon Hart, Daniel's uncle, made all the wealth which he bequeathed to his nephew; and when, long before the old gentleman's decease, the young man's aspirations led him to declare to his senior that he thought the Hebraic name stood in their way in certain matters of business, and that he had some idea of taking some less-recognisable cognomen,--the old gentleman remarked, not without a touch of sarcasm in his voice, "Do ath you like, Daniel, ma tear; do ath you like. You're a threwd lad, and are thure to turn out right; but underthand one thing, ma tear,--you may change your name if you like, but you'll never be able to change your nothe." Mr. Simeon Hart was right; nothing short of cutting off that feature could have disguised Mr. Daniel Thacker's nationality. He was as distinctly marked as is the African; and though, with the addition of splendid sparkling black eyes, bright scarlet lips, a quantity of tightly-curling hair, and a fine flowing beard, he passed for a handsome man among certain of the other sex, there was no man to whom he had ever rendered a service--and he was in the main a kindly-disposed fellow so far as his profession permitted--but set him down for a "d--d Jew."
 
He never forgot this, it was never absent from his thoughts. If he saw any one regarding him attentively, he felt at once what they were thinking about; it haunted him in the theatre, in society, wherever there was a chance of casual mention of his forsworn race. He had tried to laugh it over in his business discount-dealings with money-borrowers, asking them in a light and airy manner "why they came to the Jews," of whom they must have had such serious warnings: but the raillery always fell flat and heavy; and sometimes, from cubs of fashion, produced unintentional clumsy sarcasms which stung him to the quick. The renegade paid the penalty of his cowardice. With the blunted notions of an unrefined mind, he thought that the prejudice was levelled at his race, not at the character which the dealings of some of his nation had won for it, and which he himself was supporting. In his blindness he ignored the fact that amongst all those whose good word was worth having, the prejudice had died out; that the names of certain proud old Jewish families, who could trace their pedigree far beyond the barber-surgeon or border-robber founders of Norman or Scottish families, were honoured amongst the honoured; and that in any case a man who, brought into contact with a set socially superior to his own, took up his position calmly on the strength of his own acquirements, be these what they might, was received with a courtesy and a kindness which were naturally refused to the most glowing impostor. With Mr. Guyon Thacker had long had extensive dealings--dealings which had extended over a long course of years; but of late he had been a little doubtful of his client's solvency, a little delicate in the matter of renewals and holdings-over; and with a clouded brow he heard from his clerk the announcement that Mr. Guyon was waiting to see him in the ante-room. He reflected for a moment, and seemed half disposed to deny himself to his visitor; then carefully shutting the right-hand drawer of his desk, in which he kept his checkbook, and placing the morocco-bound volume, which was a ledger, but looked like a diary, close by him, he said, "Show Mr. Guyon in, James; I've just five minutes at his disposal."
 
Dressed in the most perfect manner, with all the latest improvements of fashion sufficiently tempered to his time of life, calm, collected, bland, and airy, yet with a certain amount of anxiety visible about his eyes and in the shifting corners of his mouth, Mr. Guyon entered the apartment and shook hands warmly with his friend.
 
Mr. Thacker received him civilly but not cordially, and expressed his hope that he saw Mr. Guyon well.
 
"Thanks, my dear Thacker," said that sprightly gentleman; "I think I may say, never in better case. I was getting a little pulled with the gaieties of the season--we old fellows can't carry it through like you young ones, you know--and I was, to tell truth, knocking up a bit; but last week I went down for a couple of days to Maidenhead--Orkney Arms, Skindle's, you know--where there was a particularly jolly party, all of them friends of yours, by the way,--Bob Affington and Adèle, and Dalrymple and O'Dwyer, and Hattenheim and the Marchesa--a droll lot of people of the right sort--and we had great fun; and it quite set me up. Every body said they wished you'd been down there."
 
"Every body's very good," replied Thacker, sufficiently grimly. He hated hearing of any pleasure which he had not shared. "Every body's very good; but every body seems to forget that I've my business to attend to."
 
"Business, my dear boy," said Mr. Guyon, stretching out his legs and clasping his lavender-gloves in front of him; "and have we not all business to transact? I know, for one, that my time is nearly entirely devoted to business. Case in point, what brings me here to-day?"
 
"That's exactly what I can't understand," said Thacker with a rather sardonic smile; "if it had been this day week," he continued, referring to his ledger, "I should have known at once; because on that day your acceptance for three hundred and fifty pounds falls due, and you would have come down to take it up."
 
"Or to get you to renew," said Guyon insinuatingly.
 
"O, in that case you would have wasted your visit," replied Thacker; "that bill has been renewed once, and it is the rule of my house, as you know very well, never to do these things a second time."
 
He looked more than serious as he said this; but Mr. Guyon met his frown with a cheery laugh, and said in his most off-hand manner, "Well, my dear fellow, then it will be paid. Gad! you look as black as though thirty thousand instead of three hundred pounds were coming due from me next week. It's not for three hundred pounds that Ned Guyon, who has weathered one or two storms in his time, is going to pieces."
 
"N-no," said Thacker slowly; "but you see, though only three hundred and fifty are due next week, I hold a great deal of your paper, Mr. Guyon, in addition to other mortgages and advances on securities impossible to realise at once, and altogether I--in fact I----"
 
"Don't hesitate, sir," said Mr. Guyon, rising with a flushed face and buttoning the lavender glove with a trembling hand, "don't make any favour of it, I beg. It's been a pure matter of business hitherto, Mr. Thacker--a pure matter of business, convenient to both of us, though I'm sure out of respect for you I've endeavoured to import a friendly element into our negotiations; a friendly element which, I may say, and indeed was one of the causes of my visit to you to-day; which might have been the means of--however, since you choose to look upon Ned Guyon with suspicion, Ned Guyon wishes you good morning." And Mr. Guyon settled his hat on his head, and was starting off in his usual easy swagger when he was stopped by the touch of Mr. Thacker's hand on his arm.
 
"Stay one minute, my good sir. Don't misunderstand me, if you please. I simply tell you that an acceptance of yours will be due next week, an acceptance which you avow your perfect readiness to meet, and you talk about my looking on you with suspicion. I am perfectly ready to allow that our relations have been of a business nature; but I thought that I might take credit for having introduced into them some of the elements of private friendship. You have done me the honour of dining with me, and----"
 
"I have," murmured Guyon absently; "and doosid good dinners they were."
 
"And yet you talk about suspicion. This is not fair, Mr. Guyon; this is any thing but fair."
 
"'Pon my soul, I didn't mean any harm; didn't, 'pon my life," said Mr. Gluon; "always found you doosid good fellow, Thacker, and that kind of thing----"
 
"And yet you were going away without telling me of something which, if I understand you rightly, might be to our mutual benefit, and which you came down expressly to submit to me? Is that so?"
 
"Dev'lish stoopid and childish of me to take affront so easily, more particklerly from good feller," said Mr. Guyon. "Yes, I did want to say word to you upon matter of importance.--matter on which I think you'll congratulate me."
 
"Sit down quietly, then, and let's talk it over.--The dry sherry, Evans, and a biscuit.--Any thing which benefits you interests me, Mr. Guyon--though all between us is 'pure matter of business,' eh? O, unkind, sir; very unkind!"
 
"There! forget that, Thacker, and listen to what I've got to tell you. You know my daughter,--at least you've seen her," added Mr. Guyon, with a rather painful recollection of several broad hints which Thacker had given of his wish for an introduction to Katharine--hints which Mr. Guyon had always carefully ignored.
 
"I have seen Miss Guyon," was the cold reply.
 
"Yes, of course, yes. Strange girl, very reserved, and--afraid of society."
 
"Indeed?"
 
"O very been a great drawback to her; but at last she has consented to come out, and--well, I don't know that I ought to say it to any one, but you're a man not likely to break confidence--she's going to make a splendid match."
 
"A splendid match, eh? A title?"
 
"A title? Pooh much better than that! A millionaire! one of the merchant princes of the City! A man whose name is good on 'Change for I don't know how much. What do you say to that, Thacker? Ned Guyon's in luck at last, eh?"
 
"It sounds very well, so far," said Mr. Thacker quietly, "Might one venture to ask the name of the modern Croesus?"
 
"To any one else I should decline, peremptorily decline to give it; but it's different with you, Thacker; you're an old friend. The gentleman's name is Streightley--of the firm of Streightley and Son."
 
"Is it, by Jove!" cried Mr. Thacker, startled out of his usual quiescence. "Bullion Lane?--I know him well--by repute, that is to say, not personally. If you've hooked--I beg your pardon--if Mr. Streightley is going to marry Miss Guyon, you've done a splendid stroke of business."
 
"You think so?"
 
"Think so--I'm sure of it. They say that there's no more far-seeing man in the City, and his profits must be tre-mendous."
 
"Well, that's the man. Now look here, Thacker, I'm open and aboveboard with you, as two men of the world, or rather two men of honour. Not the same thing, eh?" and the old man's eye twinkled; "should be. This thing is well on, a little more will bring it to completion. One mustn't, as they say, spoil the ship for a pennor'th of tar, eh? One mustn't let a fine chance slip through one's fingers for want of a little gold-dust to put on one's hands to render the grip secure, eh?"
 
"I see your drift," said Thacker; "but you must speak more plainly."
 
"More plainly to you?" said Mr. Guyon in a whisper--unconsciously each man had lowered his voice. "Well, what I mean is this. If this scheme turns out well, as it will undoubtedly, if it be only properly carried out,--well--Katharine is devoted to me, she will rule her husband--O, never fear, she has the spirit of a dozen women!--and I shall be in clover once more, with all my arrears cleared off, and a handsome annuity! But the thing must be properly managed. Streightley must not take fright at any aspect of poverty, or want of means rather; he must not for an instant imagine that I am in any way hampered" (the thought of the 180l. bill flashed across him, but he never changed countenance); "and he must be properly entertained; and Katharine must have a proper trousseau. He's not the man to speak about settlements," added Mr. Guyon; "and if he did, he must be told that there would be nothing until my death."
 
"And how is 'the thing to be properly managed,' and all the rest of it done?"
 
"I only know one way--and that is----"
 
"Speak out; you're not generally reticent on the score of modesty, Mr. Guyon."
 
"Well--that is--by you're holding over the three hundred and fifty due next week, and making me a further advance of--say a thousand, payable three months after my daughter's wedding-day."
 
Mr. Thacker was silent for a few minutes, nor could Mr. Guyon, intently scanning his face, derive the smallest idea from its expression. Then he made a few rapid calculations on the blotting-pad in front of him, and said:
 
"You play for a big stake, Mr. Guyon, and don't stick at asking trifles from your friends. Now, I like a big game; it at once invests any scheme with an interest for me which I cannot give to mere pottering petty hazards. And I don't say that I won't help you in this--on certain terms--only----"
 
"Your terms will be your own, my good fellow," cried Guyon, his eye sparkling at the thought of success. "But I don't like that 'only.' What is it? Only what?"
 
"Only that I should like to be introduced to Mr. Streightley, and have a little talk with him; of course not on the subject under consideration, but on general topics, just to get an idea of him, you know. It's a large sum to advance, in addition to outstanding matters; and I'm a man of business, you know, Guyon, and like to see my way in these things."
 
"All right. Come down with me to the City, and we'll hunt him up in his den."
 
"No; I think not. We business-men don't like being hunted up in our dens, as you call them, unless our visitors bring us a carcass or two to growl over. You go over and see Streightley, and bring him here to lunch to-morrow at two. I leave you to find the excuse; your ready wit serves you always in such matters."
 
There was a tinge of sarcasm in Mr. Thacker's voice as he uttered these last words, but Mr. Guyon was in far too excited a state to perceive it. So he took his leave with much exuberant hand-shaking, and started off with much self-complacency. After his departure Mr. Thacker sat for some little time, leaning his head on his hands and his elbows on the desk, immersed in thought. "He's an unscrupulous vagabond, is Guyon!" said he to himself after a pause. "He's going to sell that handsome daughter of his, as he would a bit of land, or a diamond-ring, or a reversion under a will, or any thing that would bring him money. A determined heartless dog! But he seems to have either played his cards well or to have had great luck in hooking so big a fish as Streightley. Robert Streightley! Yes, yes; they say he pulled the Ocean Marine through when Overend Gurneys had given them up and the knowing ones looked for an immediate windup, and now their shares are at 13 premium, and there are no end of the clever things he's done. He might be useful to me, might put me up to two or three wrinkles in the City, where all is big and where one's own natural talent has some chance of showing itself. Hitherto I've been pottering on with hard-up swells, and men of the Guyon stamp--safe business enough, and remunerative so far as it goes; pleasant too in its introductions to good people; but I know enough people now, and must look to making money as the chief thing. And this Streightley is the very man who could help me in such a matter. If I now see him, I'll back myself to read him like a book, and then I'll see how far this investment of Guyon's is worth my backing."
 
 
A telegram found by Mr. Thacker on his arrival at business the next morning announced that Mr. Guyon and Mr. Streightley would lunch with him that day; and at two o'clock the meal was on the table and the convives were assembled. In addition to Guyon, Streightley, and the host, there were Lord Bollindar, a pleasant old nobleman, younger brother of a deceased and uncle to a live duke, who had a limited income of two hundred a-year and lived at the rate of two thousand--never owing a penny--on the strength of the handles to his name and a perennial flow of small talk; Sir Harvey Falmer, a lieutenant in the 2d Life Guards, who had dealings with Mr. Thacker, and who was kept to lunch on the strength of a recently negotiated bill; Mr. Wuff of the Theatre Royal, Hatton Garden; and Mr. Tocsin, Q.C., the celebrated Old Bailey barrister. The lunch was admirable in itself and admirably served; and after the champagne had circulated freely, the conversation, which at first had been rather slow, improved considerably.
 
"Doosid good champagne!" said Sir Harvey Falmer, tossing off his glassful; "that's what I always say about you, Thacker; when you give a man a drink, it's a good drink, and you give it him; don't stick it in--swipes and gooseberry, you know--as part of your balance."
 
Mr. Thacker smiled somewhat ghastlily at this witticism; but Lord Bollindar came to the rescue by saying, "Good, good! devilish smart, Falmer! but you fellas are in clover now. Why, I reckleckt the Dook--you reckleckt the Dook, Mr. Streightley?"
 
"I--I beg your pardon--the Duke?"
 
"Dook of Wellington I mean. He used to say, 'Hang your still champagne!'--only his Grace used a stronger term--'Hang your still champagne! Champagne without froth is like man without woman!' Said so indeed, begad!"
 
"Did he indeed?" said Mr. Tocsin in his strident voice: "I should have liked to have had his Grace under cross-examination to prove that."
 
"I don't think you'd have made much of him, Tocsin," said Mr. Thacker, "What do you think, Mr. Streightley?"
 
"I? I can't say, of course, so far as my knowledge of his Grace was concerned; but I'm sure--that--the presence of ladies elevates--and refines--and----"
 
"Of course it does," cried Mr. Wuff. "Put on a fellow--I mean a male fellow--to dance, and see where you are. Patron of mine--noble lord who shall be nameless--said to me the other night, 'Never again, Wuff; never again. Many petticoats as you like; but if ever I see again a fellow in a low-necked dress with grapes in his hair dancing at your theatre, damme, I leave the house.'"
 
"The sentiment did him honour, whoever he was," said Mr. Tocsin. "I don't want to pry into your secrets, Wuff, but the man was right, and spoke like--a man. What is it nerves to our best efforts? What is it makes us exert ourselves? Not the thought of the jury--I speak for myself--not the thought that we are--are--bending the minds of a few stupid men in--in a box; but the feeling that we are looked up to and gaining renown in the eyes of--of--those bright eyes which we wish to shine in delight upon our labours."
 
"Bravo!" cried Sir Harvey Falmer, who was rapidly falling into a maudlin state.
 
"Look at our friend here," said Lord Bollindar, pointing to Streightley; "one of--as I'm given to understand; never had the pleasure of meeting him before--pillars of British commerce. Ask him what prompts his men--Jack Tars and all that kind of thing--to brave storms and billows and typhoons, and whatever they're called, and carry British commerce from pole to pole. Is it the mere paltry gain, wages, advance-rate, whatever it is? No; the poet, what's his name?--Dibdin--has told us different: Jack's delight is lovely Nan,--And the wind that blows,--And mill that goes,--And lass that loves a sailor--and all that."
 
"There can, I think," said Streightley, "be little doubt that the influence of a--a wife--can scarcely be overrated. I--I think," he added in a lower tone to Mr. Guyon, who was his next neighbour, "that I've not sufficiently appreciated feminine influence; but that is a fault which can be remedied, eh?" And he said this rather nervously.
 
"To a man with your advantages, my dear boy," said Guyon, "delay, instead of being dangerous, has been, I may say, a safeguard. I was making this very remark--for, curiously enough, I've taken a strong interest in you--to my daughter this morning, and she perfectly agreed with me."
 
This for a sample of the conversation. When his guests had gone, Mr. Thacker stood looking at but not seeing the débris of the banquet. He was calmly feeling his chin with his hand, and saying to himself, "So far so good. The man is weak as water, and seems inclined to mould himself as old Guyon pleases. But I must have a look at the girl before I throw myself into the scales."
 
 
 
CHAPTER V.  HESTER GOULD.
 "No one but Miss Hester Gould," the old nurse had answered, in reply to Robert Streightley's question; and he had never bestowed a thought upon the answer. What was Hester Gould to him, or he to Hester Gould? To the first section of this inquiry the present chapter will furnish a reply; to the second, time only; time, just then busy with the beginning of many complications in the life of a man whose career had been singularly even, uneventful, and interesting only so far as it had developed his abilities and the results of their employment.
 
The young lady, whose brief parley with Alice had simply consisted of the words reported to her master and darling by the old nurse, had known the unpretending little family at Brixton for several years, and had been, for the chief of that number, intimate with Mrs. Streightley and her daughter Ellen. This intimacy, however, was one-sided; Hester Gould was completely in the harmless and unimportant confidence of the two ladies, but they were not in hers. This was no treacherous, insidious distinction, no deliberate preference of other friends, on Hester Gould's part; for she was a woman who gave her confidence to no one; a woman of a self-sufficing nature, and the safest possible confidante, because she never felt sufficiently interested in any one person to betray another for his or her sake. No one could justly accuse Hester Gould of flattery or fawning, yet she induced her acquaintances to conceive enthusiastic friendships for her, and to tell her their most intimate concerns, to discover that she was indispensable to their comfort, and the dearest creature in the world; to declare that they did not know what they should do without her, and that her advice was always the best. How did the girl, without descending to the despicable meanness of toadyism, achieve popularity in her narrow sphere, though she was undeniably handsome, and that too after a fashion that was capable of development into downright beauty of a high type, if circumstances had been more favourable to her? She achieved it by "masterly inactivity." Whether she had thought over the life that lay before her, had formed a philosophy of her own, and decided upon a line of conduct as the result of her meditations, before she left the second-rate boarding-school at Peckham, where she had acquired all the technical education she possessed, it would be impossible to say, and the supposition that she had done so appears unnatural and far-fetched. It was probably partly by the instinct of native shrewdness, and partly by the exercise of precocious powers of observation, that Hester Gould discovered that the great art of making herself agreeable consisted in letting her friends talk to her of themselves, without claiming a reciprocal right. However that may have been, she observed as a rule strict reticence concerning her own affairs, and endured with smiling patience, paying her friends that subtlest of compliments, undivided attention; and displaying interest, which if not demonstrative was practical, in the fullest details concerning theirs. She was of a cold, silent, repressed nature, not exactly unamiable or false; but a woman who might become either under circumstances more disadvantageous than hers were at present, or might expand under favourable and fostering influences into a higher type of womanhood than she either physically or intellectually indicated now.
 
Hester Gould was a handsome woman at twenty, a period of life which she had reached only a few days before that on which she had made affectionate inquiries for Ellen Streightley; but she would probably be a handsomer woman at thirty, and if she then fulfilled the latent promise of beauty, would have a fair chance of retaining it long past the period at which the loveliness of women, in all but very exceptional cases, ceases to be a fact, and becomes a memory. She was tall and full-formed; but as yet she wanted gracefulness. She had handsome features and fine keen dark eyes; but her face had not sufficient colour, and her eyes had too little depth; they lacked intensity; not that they were shifty and uncertain, but that they bore the vague, absent expression which tells of discontent, not particular but general. Looking attentively at Hester Gould, one given to studying character in faces would know that there was incongruity between the actual and the potential position of the girl. Without restlessness, without impatience, always ruled by common sense, she seemed to be a person who had something in view, which if not a firm resolve, was at least a cherished purpose. The tenor of her life was even and simple enough, and there was nothing remarkable in her history. Her parents had been plain people: her father, secretary to an old-established insurance office, had patronised the concern to the extent of securing a decent sum for the maintenance of his sister and only child. Her mother, who had "disobliged her family," as the phrase is, by her marriage, had died when Hester was a baby; and the only member of the disobliged family now living was a wealthy shipowner, who had declined to take any notice of the sister who had disgraced herself by wedding a poor man. Mr. Gould came of parents quite as well-born as his wife's: they were all of the respectable tradesman class; but their standard was one of money value, and he did not come up to it. They might have helped him to approach it, without inconveniencing themselves; but they did not consider or care about that, and the breach had been complete; indeed it had soon become irremediable; for Mrs. Gould had survived her marriage only four years, and had died, taking her infant son with her away from all family quarrels and human affairs. Hester grew up, under the kindly, timid, narrow-minded charge of her aunt; a meek spinster given to the perusal and distribution of tracts, and to the frequentation of meeting-houses where the doctrine was strong and the preaching unctuous. The child became "too much" for her timid aunt and her depressed father at an early period of her existence, and even rebelled against the vicarious authority of Miss Gould's favourite "ministers;" so she was sent to school, and there also she gave no little trouble for a time. But common sense was always Hester's strong point; and it came to her assistance. School was far from pleasant, she reflected, but home was worse; and as she had no power to provide herself with a third alternative at present, she would abide by the lesser of two evils, and turn it to all the advantage she could. The result of this rational conclusion was that Hester Gould profited to the utmost by the limited quantity and mediocre quality of the education administered at Laburnum Lodge, and acquired at least a foundation on which to build afterwards according to her taste.
 
The discretion evinced by the schoolgirl was a clue to her character. No one was more popular among the small and far from distinguished community; but only the girls whose social position was a little higher than her own could claim Hester as an intimate friend. The gushing nonsense of school friendships had little attraction for her, and she contracted none that she did not contemplate maintaining when the association which had produced them should have ceased. Hester was not brilliantly clever, there was not the least soup?on of genius about her; but she was certainly a superior person in intellect, in manners, and in appearance, to the companions of her studies, the sharers of her school life, in that most unbearable kind of intimacy which means contact without companionship. When she went home for the holidays, things were not much better. She had been fond of her father in a quiet way, though she had taken his intellectual measure pretty accurately, and almost as as soon as she had arrived at the conclusion that their life was on a dull mean scale, had recognised his inability to elevate or enliven it.
 
"We should grub on like this all our lives, if it depended on him," the girl had said to herself in emphatic, if not elegant soliloquy; and there had been no wilful disrespect to the honest, humdrum, unobservant father in the remark, only Hester's unclouded perception and resolute custom of telling herself the truth. When she was a little over fifteen years old her father died, and she had to endure, in addition to her natural grief, which was unfeigned and sore, a declension in position, and a narrowing of the narrow income, which at its best she had regarded with impatience, very keen though never expressed, or permitted to escape her by so much as a gesture. Her aunt moved into a smaller house in an inferior situation, discharged one of the two female servants who had composed their modest establishment, and told Hester she hoped she had profited sufficiently by her music and singing lessons to go on without a master, for she could no longer afford to continue them.
 
Hester bore the alteration with apparent equanimity, but she took a resolution and acted upon it. She was a musician by nature, and music was the one branch of study to which she had taken with avidity, and which she had pursued with unrelaxed industry. She went to the schoolmistress (the establishment had not yet attained to the distinction of possessing a "lady principal"), and asked her to put her in the immediately-to-be-vacated place of a pupil-teacher, allowing her to continue her own music and singing lessons as an equivalent for her services. The proposition took Miss Nickson by surprise; but she knew Hester Gould's abilities and popularity, and though she did not like the girl particularly, she trusted her fully. It never occurred to the schoolmistress--a simple woman, and a favourable specimen of a generally disagreeable class--that Hester had not made the proposition at her aunt's suggestion, while that young lady contented herself with informing Miss Lavinia Gould by letter of what she had done. "I don't lose caste by it here, where they all know me and I have been on equal terms with them," thought Hester; "and my only chance of getting out of our odious mean existence is by making all I can of such education as I can get. I shall have to teach anyhow, and I can fit myself for teaching a better class of people here." It was not a stupid calculation for so young a head, and it turned out perfectly correct. Hester did not lose caste when her schoolfellows became her pupils, and her teachers in their turn took additional pains with her when they knew the object with which she was learning.
 
Among Hester's intimates for several of her school years was Ellen Streightley, a girl who loved and worshipped one who was in most respects her opposite with a kind of enthusiasm not rare among unworldly natures, in which the intellect is much less powerful than the feelings. The boarding-school at Peckham was not altogether such an establishment as Miss Streightley should have been kept at beyond the period of primary instruction; but her mother was a shy, gentle, unworldly woman, who did not understand any thing about social ambition, and provided she found her daughter brought up in sound morals and good manners would not have considered for a moment whether her associates were of a higher class than her own, or came of richer or poorer people. Mrs. Streightley had never changed her mode of life in accordance with her increased means; she had but a narrow circle, which was, however, quite satisfactory to her, and she regarded the commercial and financial magnates with whom her son associated on the rare occasions of his "going into society," as completely out of the sphere of herself and her daughter. This daughter was very dear to her; a tranquil, gentle, congenial companion, a child who had never given her an hour's true anxiety in her life, and had even had the measles and the whooping-cough much more lightly and favourably than other children. Ellen Streightley was short, slight, and extremely fair. She was not exactly pretty, but the calm sweetness of her face was very winning, and the perfect candour and gentleness which sat upon her smooth forehead and looked out of her full blue eyes had an unwearying charm for those who knew how true these indications were of the mind and heart within. Ellen Streightley loved her mother and her brother Robert with all the devotion and dutifulness of her nature; but Hester Gould she loved with enthusiasm in addition. From the first Hester's strong mind had charmed and swayed her, and the imagination of the girl, not very vivid and but rarely awakened, had surrounded her with a halo of its weaving. Had Hester's moral nature been much or openly defective, she never would have won this tribute of love and worship from Ellen Streightley, who had good sense to come in aid of her high principle, and her perfect purity of heart, but who succumbed to the superiority of Hester with a delighted submission. When they were children together, Hester's word had been the other's law, and had any thing been needed to perfect her love and admiration, Hester's conduct in voluntarily assuming the position of pupil-teacher in order that her aunt might suffer as little as possible from their narrow circumstances would have supplied their complement. There was no falsehood in this statement, made by Hester to her friend. It was quite true, only it was not the whole of her motive, but a part, and not the chief part of it.
 
And Hester--what was her share in this strict and loving alliance? Decidedly she liked Ellen Streightley very much, and she prized highly, without comprehending it altogether, the enthusiastic affection of which she was the object, the unreserved confidence of which she was the recipient. She liked the Saturdays and Sundays which she passed at Mrs. Streightley's house at Brixton, when Ellen's schooldays had come to a conclusion, and her friend coaxed Miss Lavinia Gould to spare Hester to her; a request that lady did not hesitate to grant, as she had very little need of her niece's society; her "Sabbaths," as she punctiliously called them, being passed in hot untiring chase of popular preachers, according to her notions of popularity and estimate of preachers. She declined to join the family party on Sundays, firstly on Sabbatarian principles, secondly because the Streightleys were "Church of England," and she hated that persuasion only a little less than the Roman Communion, and the opposition chapel which set itself against the ministrations of her own particular pastor and saint, the Rev. Malachy Farrell, a powerful controversialist, and a convert from the Romish heresy and abomination of desolation. Ellen had enjoined her mother to exert herself to "make a connection" for Hester, when her days of pupil-teachership came to a conclusion; that lady had obediently exerted herself; Miss Nickson had done as much for the girl, with whom she had never had occasion to find a fault, but who, she rather remorsefully admitted to herself, had never "gained on her" in all the years of their association; and Hester, at twenty years old, when we meet her first, was established as a teacher of music, with a respectable connection, and occupied with her aunt a pretty small house near the Brixton Villa, which, in elegance and habitableness was a considerable improvement on that in which her father had lived and died.
 
Ellen Streightley had never cooled or wavered in her love for Hester; and her mother liked the girl very much, though she sometimes had an uncomfortable sort of feeling that she did not understand her perfectly, that Hester might perhaps be "too much" for her and Ellen, if she should think it worth her while to be so. But the kind lady was little given to mental exercises of any troublesome description, and never thought of analysing her sensations. That she was an exceptional person, singularly unsuspicious, and unlike mothers in general, may surely be conceded, when it is stated that it never occurred to her to think that Hester might possibly be a dangerous intimate for Robert, her beloved and precious son, or could cherish any design or idea whereof he made part. Mrs. Streightley loved her son better than she loved Ellen; a preference which the girl accepted as a matter of course, and believed to be perfectly just and well founded. He was Robert, their Robert, the most important, the most beloved of men, and of course it was all right; and the two women did but follow the example of thousands of their sex, whose perceptions and ideas are confined within a small circle, and whose social sphere and enjoyments resemble a mill, and the going round therein performed by patient and tolerably well-fed beasts. Robert was an amiable man on the whole; he gave no more trouble in the household than was inseparable from the circumstance that he was a man and "didn't understand things," as the household phrase has it, and he loved his mother devotedly, and Ellen very much indeed. It had never occurred to him that her life was a dull one, and that he was rich enough to make it a very different life, if he would but waken up and look away from his counting-house, learn sympathy, and consider what was the real meaning and worth of money. He had never thought of the light and colour, the stir and healthful pleasure he might diffuse through the decorous, comfortable, neutral-tinted existence of the Brixton Villa; he had never noticed their absence; and as he had no notion of the life led by other girls, on whom money was lavishly expended, and for whose delectation whole household systems were organised, there was no standard of comparison in his mind. He was so much older than his sister, so much nearer his mother's age than hers, that while perfect affection had always subsisted between them, it had not been accompanied with much intimacy, and his confidences, which were wholly confined to business matters, had been restricted to his mother, on whose mind it had never dawned that any improvement in their household affairs could be desirable, who had never looked or desired to look outside the circle in which she moved, and who would have received any suggestion of an increase of Ellen's social opportunities and enjoyments with entire incredulity. To her Ellen was as yet little more than a child; and though if he had been asked what was her age, and had paused to think the matter over, Robert would have perceived the absurdity of so regarding a girl of nineteen, by no means childish of her years, though simple and unworldly as few children are in these progressive days, he practically shared her delusion.
 
Robert was almost as much accustomed to see Hester Gould as he was to see Ellen. The girls were together as much as possible, due consideration being had to Hester's occupations, and the social duties and privileges of her "connection," which she never neglected. She led an infinitely pleasanter life than did Ellen; for she was very popular among her pupils, and many of their number contrived to extend to her their own amusements and pleasures. She had not much leisure, but she was under no painful necessity to overwork herself; her occupation need never degenerate into slavery, and such hours as she could devote to recreation she could always find recreation to fill. She possessed perfect health and an even temper; not according to the cynical saying, "A good digestion and a bad heart,"--not yet, at least. Up to the present time nothing in Hester's conduct had indicated badness of heart; a little coldness perhaps, but unperceived, and resolution whose inflexibility might have been suspected, but that her resolves had all been in the direction of right and duty. If any body had asked Robert Streightley whether he was acquainted with Miss Hester Gould, he would have unhesitatingly replied that he knew her most intimately--as well as his own sister; and he would have made such an answer in perfectly good faith. It would not have been true, nevertheless. If any one had asked Hester Gould whether she knew Robert Streightley, she would have replied that he was an acquaintance of hers, being the brother of one of her dearest friends--(Hester would not have said her "dearest friend," for such a sweeping phrase might have been repeated to her detriment); and she would have said it in a tone calculated to convince the questioner that her acquaintance with Mr. Streightley was of the most formal and conventional kind. In this instance the reply would only have had the exterior of truth, for no one in the world--certainly not the man himself--knew Robert Streightley as well, as thoroughly as Hester Gould knew him. Not his sister, who would talk cheerily about her brother, and extol his genius, his temper, and his personal appearance; not his mother, who would tell Hester a dozen times in a week that he had never caused her an hour's anxiety, and who never admitted that he had a fault, except his tiresome-objection to sitting for his photograph; not the old nurse, who would scold Robert freely enough herself, but in whose hearing no one would have had the boldness to declare him subject to the faults, the misfortunes, or the maladies of humanity. It was a fortunate circumstance that Hester Gould had perfectly read Robert Streightley's character, and had, without any thing like impertinent inquisitiveness, acquired a thorough knowledge of the family history and his personal antecedents; for, some time before the period of her friend's visit to Yorkshire, Hester Gould had made up her mind that she would marry Robert Streightley if possible, and Ellen's last letter had induced her to think of doing so at an earlier period than she had previously contemplated.
 
 
"I don't know that Ellen's marriage will not be the best thing that could possibly happen for me," said Hester to herself as she walked briskly away from Robert Streightley's house, after her parley with old Alice. "Of course her brother won't oppose it,--though the girl is a greater fool than I thought her, to marry a man with no greater ambition than to spend his life among filthy savages, teaching them a religion entirely unsuitable to their condition of life and status in creation. I hope they won't eat him--at least I hope they won't eat her; but she will be better away--I should never succeed in curing her of Brixton ways, and she has really no tastes to be developed. It will be a good opportunity, when she will be divided between love for her Decimus--what a name to be in love with!--and distress at leaving her mother, to furnish her with a suggestion concerning a substitute: it must come entirely from her, of course."
 
Thus thinking, Hester Gould reached home. She greeted aunt Lavinia kindly; she was scrupulously dutiful and attentive to her wishes, except in respect to meetings and ministers;--sat down cheerfully to her tea, during which meal she quite enlivened the pensive spinster by her gaiety, and then went to her piano for what she called a "real good practice." Hour after hour she sat there, filling the room and the house with music; and at length she sang, at her aunt's request, the very same song--of a trifling kind, which Hester rather despised, but sang because it was popular--with which Katherine Guyon was at the selfsame hour achieving the "final pulverisation" of Robert Streightley's heart.
CHAPTER VI.  IN CHAMBERS.
 The summer sun, bright, warm, and cheering, only just past the zenith of his annual glory, illumined the Temple Gardens; still further withering the turf, which had been worn by the promenaders of the season into a very bald and ragged state; gladdening the hearts of country-bred nursemaids with reminiscences of their earlier days, when their virgin hearts were yet untouched by the charms of deceivers in military or police uniforms; loved and cherished by the valetudinarians, poor and old, to whom this city garden was the nearest imitation of God's country which they were able to afford, and who, secluded during the winter in Strand side-street lodging-houses, ventured thither for their daily meed of light and air; glancing merrily on the turbid Thames; and even throwing enlivening glances into the topmost story of the house in Crown-Office Row, which Robert Streightley had visited one memorable night, and wherein one of its joint tenants now sat hard at work.
 
And indeed, let him come when he might, in his spring weakness, in his summer glory, in his autumn grandeur, in the feeble struggles which he made during winter, the sun would never have found Charles Yeldham in any other condition. Work was his life, his idol. As a very young man, when he first quitted Oxford, he had prayed to be successful in the profession which he had chosen, and which he had gone into heart and soul. He had vowed that if his labours were only rewarded with success, there should be scarcely any end to them; and now, when he had no rival as a conveyancing barrister among his coevals and very few superiors among his seniors, he still kept grinding on. Not intended by nature for such slavery, as you can tell in one glance at his physique, at his broad chest, long sinewy arms and legs, and big white hands; not destitute of an appreciation of fun, as you can see in his bright blue eyes, his large happy mouth, and the deep dimples of his cheeks; what would be generally called a "jolly man," with thick brown curling hair, and a clear skin, and a great hearty laugh, breaking out whenever it had the chance.
 
Which was not very often. There is nothing very humorous in conveyancing, and in conveyancing Charles Yeldham's life was passed. Gordon Frere, returning from a ball, a supper, or one of his "outings," would hear the roar of Yeldham's shower-bath as he came up the stairs, or would see him, bright and rosy, deep in his books or scratching away with his pen, as he, Frere, with his gibus hat on one side, his collars danced down into a state of limp despondency, and with a faded camellia in his button-hole, peered into the common sitting-room before he crawled to bed. Five in the summer, six in the winter,--these were Charles Yeldham's hours of rising. Then, after his cold bath and his hurried toilette, what he called "treadmill" till eight. A sharp run five times round the Temple Gardens, no matter what the weather, a hurried breakfast--chop, bacon, eggs, what-not, and at it again, "treadmill" till two. Bread-and-cheese, a pint-bottle of Allsopp, a pipe--generally smoked as he leaned out of the window looking on to the river--and "treadmill" till half-past six. Old shooting-coat changed for more presentable garment, hands washed, and Mr. Yeldham walked to the Oxford and Cambridge Club, where he would eat a light dinner, take a very small quantity of wine, and walk back to the Temple to have a final turn of "treadmill" until half-past eleven, when he would turn into bed. He had reduced sleep to a minimum, ascertained that five and a half hours were exactly sufficient for a man, and never wasted a wink.
 
There was no absolute occasion for Charles Yeldham to slave in this manner; but when he commenced his work he had had a powerful incentive to industry, and he had found the work grow on him until he absolutely took delight in it. He was the only son of the Honourable and Reverend Stratford Yeldham, a cadet of the Aylmer family, who had been content to marry the daughter of the clergyman with whom he read during one long vacation, and afterwards to go into orders and take up the family living in Norfolk. The living was not a very rich one, and Charley, who loved his father after a fashion not very common now amongst young men, and who knew that the old gentleman had somewhat pinched and straitened himself to send his son to college with a proper allowance, had made up his mind not only that all that had been spent on him should be repaid, but that his sister Constance--his own dear little sister--should have such a dowry as would enable her to decline any offer whose advantages were merely pecuniary, and at the same time to bring an adequate income to the man of whom her heart should approve. The hope of accomplishing this end lightened Charles Yeldham's labour, mid kept him at his desk and among his law-books without an idea of repining, generally indeed with a sense of positive pleasure.
 
He was at his desk that pleasant summer afternoon, when all nature outside was so bright and gay, so deeply engaged, that he paid not the slightest attention to the sound of the key in the outer door, and only looked up when he felt a hand on his shoulder and saw Gordon Frere standing beside him.
 
"Grinding away, Charley," said that young gentleman; "hard at it as usual."
 
"Just the same as ever, old boy," replied Yeldham; "but just as ready as ever to knock off for five minutes--exactly five minutes, mind--and have a chat with you. So there!"--laying down his pen--"now then, let's begin. Where have you been all the morning? I say, you're rather a greater swell than usual, are you not, Gordon?"
 
"Eh--swell? no, I don't think so. Emerged just a little bit from the chrysalis state perhaps, but not much. But the least bit of colour lights up tremendously and looks radiant beside your old blacks and grays. What a fellow you are, Charley! I wish you'd go in for another style of toggery, and just go to Poole."
 
"Go to Poole? God forbid!" said Yeldham with ludicrous energy. "Why, my dear fellow, if I were to be seen in a coat of that sort"--touching the silk-lined skirts of Frere's frock--"or in a pair of trousers that fitted me like those, there's not an attorney in London would give me any more employment. No, sir! In Store Street, Tottenham-Court Road, resides the artificer who for years has built my garments on what he assures me are sound mathematical principles, and I shall continue to employ him until one of us is removed to a sphere where clothes are unnecessary. And now, once more, where have you been all this morning?"
 
"Ah! that's exactly what I came home to talk to you about. I've been calling on a deuced pretty girl, Master Charley, and I want to tell you all about it."
 
"A very pretty girl, eh?" said Yeldham in rather a hard tone of voice. "A very pretty girl! All right, my boy; tell away."
 
"I think I've mentioned her before, Charley," said Frere; "Miss Guyon--Kate Guyon, daughter of old Guyon, whom you've heard me speak of; a member of the club, you know; fellow who plays a deuced good game of whist, and that kind of thing. And the girl's really wonderful; very handsome, and with a regular well-bred look about her. None of your dumpy, dowdy, slummakin women--I hate that style--but tall and elegant; carries herself well, and has plenty to say for herself--when she chooses."
 
"When she chooses, eh!" said Yeldham, with a slight smile; "and I suppose she does choose--to you."
 
"Well, you know, that's not for a fellow to say. She's always been very civil; and I rode with her yesterday in the Park, and was in her box at the Opera last night--when I say her box I mean Lady Henmarsh's, the old cat who is her principal chaperone--and we got on capitally together, and I think it was all right. I should have told you of it when I got home, but I looked into your room, and you were sound as a top; or this morning, but you were closeted in the office with some fellow on business. So I went off to call on her--there was a kind of tacit arrangement that I should do so--and, by George, I really think I'm hit this time, and that I mean more than ever I did before."
 
"Mean more! In what way, Gordon?"
 
"In the way of marriage, of course, you old idiot. Mean that if I were to ask her, I think she'd have me. And she'd be a deuced creditable wife to have about with one; and the governor must just stir himself, and use his influence and get me a consulship, or a commissionership, or something where there's a decent income, and not very much to do for it. There are such things, of course."
 
"I don't know, Gordon. Recollect these are the days when every thing is won by merit, and not won without a competitive examination."
 
"O yes; competitive examination be hanged! I'm not going in for any thing of that sort. If a man who's sat for the same borough for five-and-twenty-years, and never voted against his party except once, by mistake, when he'd been dining out and strolled into the wrong lobby--if such a patriot as this can't get a decent berth for his son without any bother about examination and all that kind of thing, where are our privileges as citizens? O no; that'll come all square, of course. But what do you advise me about the girl?"
 
"It's difficult to give such advice off-hand, Gordon, more especially as I have never seen the young lady, and have scarcely heard of her. But though you're not particularly learned, young un, you've plenty of knowledge of the world, and are one of the last men likely to be entrapped into a silly marriage, or to let yourself be made miserable for life by giving in to a mere passing fancy. So if you and the young lady are really fond of each other, and if your father can be persuaded to give himself the trouble to get some tolerably decent Government appointment for you, I should say, 'Propose to her like an honourable man; and God speed you!' I--I think I should see my father first, Gordon, and make sure of what he would do; for, from all I've heard, I don't think Mr. Guyon is a man of resources--I mean pecuniary resources."
 
"N-no," said Frere; "I should not think he was. He's a remarkably chirpy old boy, tells very good stories, and is always well got-up; but I shouldn't think his balance at his banker's was very satisfactory. However, Kate's simply charming; stands out from all the ruck of girls one knows, and is in the habit of meeting and dancing with, like a star. I'll write down to the governor and sound him about what he'd be inclined to do; and I'll just go round before dinner to Queen Anne Street; not to go in, you know,--of course not; but there's the last Botanical Fête to-morrow in the Regent's Park, and Kate asked me if I was going, and I said I'd go if she went, and she said she'd try and get some one to take her. I suppose the old woman who's always about with her doesn't care for dissipation by daylight. I say, Charley, fancy if it comes off all straight! Fancy me a married man!"
 
Yeldham smiled, but said nothing. There was scarcely any occasion for him to speak; for Frere was full of his subject, and rattled on.
 
"How astonished your people will be! I can see the Vicar reading your letter announcing the news through his double eyeglass, and then handing it over to little Constance and exclaiming, 'Won-derful!' And Constance with her large solemn gray eyes, and her pert nose, and her fresh little mouth; Constance, whom I used to call 'my little wife' when I was grinding away with the Vicar in those jolly days--ah what a glorious old fellow he is!--won't she be surprised when she finds I've got a real wife! And you,--you'll be left alone in chambers, Charley, old boy; all alone!--though you don't see much of me as it is, do you, old fellow?"
 
"No, Gordon; not much," said Yeldham rising; "not so much as I should wish. But it's pleasant to me to look forward to your coming, to bring a little of the outside world's life and light into these dreary old rooms, and to prove to me that I am not actually part and parcel of these musty old books and parchments, as I'm sometimes half inclined to believe. However, I could not expect to have you always with me, any more than I could expect it to be always summer; and indeed, if you were always here, I should not know what to do with you. Come, my five minutes' rest has been prolonged into a perfect idleness. Out with you, and let me get to work again!"
 
"No, no; not yet, Charley. It's so seldom I have the chance of getting you to take your nose off the paper, and to open your ears to any thing that is not law-jargon, that I'm not going to give in so soon. Besides, I've been talking all this time, and now it's your turn. I want your advice, and you're going to give it me; and that's all about it."
 
"It's a great pity you don't stick to your profession, Gordon," said Yeldham, half laughingly, half in earnest; "you would have made a great success at the Old Bailey. You've all the characteristics of that style of practice charmingly developed; plenty of cheek, plenty of volubility, and supreme self-reliance. If you had done me the honour of listening to me instead of thinking what you were going to say next, you would have heard me advise you half an hour ago."
 
"Stuff! I heard you fast enough. Propose to the girl, and all that; very honourable and straightforward, you know, Charley, but a little old-fashioned, you know,--at least you don't know; how should you, shut up in this old hole? But what I mean to say is, fellows don't propose to girls nowadays, old fellow, except in books and on the stage, and that sort of thing. You understand each other, you know, without going on your knees, or 'plighting troth,' or any rubbish of that kind. But what I want to know is, what is my line towards the old party--Guyon père?"
 
"Hold on a minute, Gordon," said Charles Yeldham rising from his chair, plunging his hands into his trousers' pockets, and taking up his position of vantage on the hearthrug. "Granted all you say about my being old-fashioned, you yet seem to think that there is a phase of courtship sufficiently unchanged--I was going to say sufficiently natural--for me to be able to advise you upon."
 
"He-ar, he-ar!" said Mr. Frere, knocking the table on which he was seated.
 
"But before I attempt to give you any advice, I must know whether you are really in earnest in this business. Yes; I know you say you're 'hard hit,' and 'serious this time,' and a lot of stuff that I've heard you say a dozen times before about a dozen different girls. What I want to know is, do you really think seriously of marrying Miss Guyon? Has it entered your mind to regard it from any other point than the mere calf-love view, what you in your slang call 'being spooney' upon her? I mean, Gordon, old fellow,--I'm a solemn old fogey, you know; but it's in the fogey light that such a solemn thing should be looked at--are you prepared to take Miss Guyon as your wife?"
 
"On my sacred honour, Charley, there's nothing would make me so happy."
 
"Then the honourable way to go to work is to see Mr. Guyon at once and speak to him. Tell him your feelings and----"
 
"And my prospects, eh, Charley? He's safe to ask about them."
 
"Well, you can tell him what you've just said of your father's position, and what you intend to ask him to do for you. And then----"
 
"Yes; and then?"
 
"Well, then you'll hear what he's got to say to that."
 
"Ye-es; it won't take me very long to listen to an exposition of Mr. Guyon's views on my financial position, I take it. However, I'm almost certain--quite certain, I may say--of Kate; and as you think it's due to her to speak to her father----"
 
"I'm sure of it, Gordon. It's the only honourable course."
 
"Well, then, I'll do it at once, though I don't much like it, I can tell you."
 
"Whatever may be the result, it's best you should know it soon, Gordon. Nothing unfits a man for every thing so much as being in a state of doubt."
 
"I'll end mine at once, Charley. No; not at once. I must first see if that Botanical-Fête arrangement is coming off, and after that I'll speak to her father. Devilish solemn phrase that, eh, Charley!"
 
"It won't be so dreadful in carrying out as it sounds, my boy. Clear out now; you shan't have another instant!"
 
Gordon Frere nodded laughingly at his friend; and after making a hurried toilet in his own room started off for Queen Anne Street, while Charles Yeldham seated himself at his desk.
 
But not to work; his mind was too full for that. The short light conversation just recorded had given Charles Yeldham matter for much deliberation. When a man's life is thoroughly engrossed by mental work, the few humanising influences which he allows to operate on him are infinitely more absorbing than the thousand fleeting affections of the light-hearted and the thoughtless. When Charles Yeldham gave his thoughts a holiday from his conveyancing, and turned them from the attorneys who employed him and the work which they brought him to do, his mind reverted generally to the loved ones in the vicarage at home or to the two men whose friendship he had time and opportunity to cultivate. Never was younger brother better loved than was Gordon Frere by the large-hearted, large-brained philosopher whose chambers he shared. It was indeed from the elder-brother point of view that Yeldham regarded Frere. As a boy Gordon had been the one private pupil whom the old vicar had admitted into his house; and later in life he had passed two long vacations reading at the seaside with his old tutor and the members of his family. Charley loved the young man with all the large capacity of his loving nature, looked with the most lenient eye on his boyish frivolities and dissipations, and had hitherto never feared for his future, hoping that he would settle down into some useful career before he thought of settling himself for life. But the conversation just held had entirely changed his ideas. Gordon, unstable, unsettled, without any means or resources, had announced his intention of taking a wife. And what a wife! Of the young lady herself Yeldham knew nothing; but certain pleadings which he had drawn some twelve months beforehand in a case which never came into court, and which had been settled by mutual arrangement, had given him a very clear insight into the character of Mr. Edward Scrope Guyon, and into that worthy gentleman's resources and manner of life. With such a man Yeldham felt perfectly certain that an impecunious scion of a good family like Gordon Frere coming as a pretender for his daughter's hand would not have the smallest chance of success; and it was with a heavy heart that he sat idly sketching figures on his blotting-pad, and turning over all that he had recently heard in his mind.
 
"I don't see my way out of it," said he, throwing down his pen at length, and plunging his hands into his pockets. "I don't see my way out of it, and that's the truth. Gordon is hard hit, I believe,--harder hit than he has ever been yet, and means all fairly and honourably; but fair play and honour won't avail much, I imagine, in carrying out this connection--at least with the male portion of the family. A man with the morals of a billiard-marker and an income of a couple of thousand a-year would have a better chance with old Guyon than a Bayard or a Galahad. He's a bad lot, this Mr. Guyon, but as sharp as a ferret, and he'll read Gordon like a book. All the poor boy's talk about what his political influence and what his father must do for him, and all that, won't weigh for an instant with a man like Guyon, who is up to every move on the board, and who will require money down from any one bidding for his daughter's hand. I wonder what the girl's like, and how much of the play rests in her hands. That old rip would never be base enough to make her his instrument in advancing his own fortune? And yet how often it's done, only in a quieter and less noticeable manner! Gad! I begin to think I am a bit of a cynic, as Gordon chaffingly, calls me, when I find these ideas floating through my head; and I'm sure any one would imagine I was one, or worse, if; knowing my own convictions, they had heard me advise that poor boy to see old Guyon and lay his statement before him. But I'm convinced that that is the only way of dealing with such a matter as this. Have the tooth out at once; the wrench will do you good and prevent any chance of floating pains in the future. Guyon will handle the forceps with strength and skill, and poor Gordon will think that half his life is gone with the tug. But once over, when he begins to find that the gap is not so enormous as he at first imagined, when he sees people don't notice the alteration in his appearance, he'll begin to think it was a good job that it happened while he was yet young, and he'll settle down and get to work, and perhaps make the name and reputation which his talents, if they had any thing like fair play, entitle him to. It's wonderful the different light in which men see these things. There's my boy there just mad for this girl, raving about her beauty, going into ecstasies about her hair and eyes and figure; and here am I, his chum and intimate, who can safely say that never in the course of a life extending now to some six-and-thirty years, have I had the faintest idea of what being in love is like. Lord, Lord! what a queer world it is! and what is for the best? Perhaps, if I had had nice smooth fair hair instead of a shock-head of bristles, I should have been kneeling at ladies' feet instead of stooping over my desk, and writing sonnets for girls instead of drawing pleas for attorneys. I know which pays best, but I wonder which is the most interesting. 'Never felt the kiss of love, nor maiden's hand in mine,' eh? Well, I don't know that I'm much the worse for that. Maidens' hands seem to lead one into all sorts of scrapes; and as for the kiss of love---- Why, what time's that?"
 
The striking of the clock on the mantelpiece roused him from his reverie; and looking up, he discovered that his intended five-minutes' absence from work had been extended over two hours, and that the daylight of the late summer time was beginning to fade. So, with a heavy sigh, he lit his reading-lamp and settled down to his desk again. Like every other man accustomed to hard work, he found it immediate relief from thought, and soon became immersed in his writing, at which he slaved away until it was time to get some dinner. He had no heart to walk up to the club that evening. He might meet some fellows of his acquaintance there,--very possibly Gordon himself; and he was not inclined to chatter upon trivial subjects. So he put on his hat, and strode over to the Cock; the quiet solemnity of the old tavern at that hour of the evening, when the late diners had departed and the early supper-eaters had not yet arrived, being thoroughly congenial to his feelings. After his dinner he went back to his chambers; and after smoking a pipe, during which process he again fell a-thinking over Gordon's trouble, he returned to his work, and was in full swing when he heard a key in the lock, and the next minute Mr. Gordon Frere entered the room.
 
"Hallo, Gordon!" said Charley, looking up at the clock; "why, it's not eleven; what on earth brings you home so early, young un?"
 
"Happiness, Charley! jolliness, old fellow! It's all right about to-morrow; Kate's going to the fête, and---- After dinner at the Club I went up into the strangers' smoking-room, and there wasn't any one there I knew--only a couple of old fellows, who sat and smoked in silence; and so I got thinking it all over; and what a stunning girl she is, and how sure I am that she's fond of me, and how fond I am of her--regularly hit, you know; and so I thought it would be horrible somehow to go any where after,--to the theatre, you know, or to hear the fellows chaffing in the way they do about--women and every thing; and so I came home."
 
"Just in time to wish me good-night, my boy. I'm off to bed."
 
"Not until I've extracted a promise from you, Charley, old fellow."
 
"And that is----? Look sharp, Gordon; I'm sleepy."
 
"And that is, that you'll come with me to-morrow to the Botanical Fête."
 
"To the--to the Botanical Fête! I? Ah, I see, poor Gordon! too much Guyon has made you mad."
 
"No, Charley, I'm serious. You know you're my best and dearest friend, the only real friend I have in the world--for my own people are like every body else's own people, full of themselves and not caring one rap for me--and I want you to see my--to see Miss Guyon, and to give me your real opinion about her."
 
"By which, of course, you'll be thoroughly influenced, and if I won't approve give her up at once. No, Gordon, I'm not much experienced in these things, but I do know enough not to commit myself in the way you suggest. However, I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll make half holiday for once, and go with you to the fête--reserving my opinion of the young lady to myself."
 
"Well, it's something to have got you to leave that old desk for an hour, to get you to look at trees and flowers instead of foolscap and red-tape. And as for Miss Guyon--well, you'll say something about her, I've no doubt."
 
 
"I'm not sorry this opportunity offered," said Charley Yeldham to himself as he was undressing. "I've not much curiosity; but I confess I'm anxious to see the girl who has so captivated Master Gordon--partly on her own account, and partly to see if I can trace in her manner any suspicion of a---- No; no woman could be bad enough to lay herself out to entrap a man at her father's desire! And besides, Gordon Frere's not worth snaring!"
 
CHAPTER VII.  KATHARINE GUYON.
 So, three men, all good fellows in their way, and two possessed of qualities not common, and destined to be influenced throughout all their lives by the seeming chance that had made them acquainted with her, were thinking of Katharine Guyon, rather than of any or all their more immediate and important concerns. She had dawned, a new luminary, on their horizon; and two were conscious worshippers of the bright visible presence, the other had not yet turned his eyes that way. He will do so before long, and then----?
 
As for Katharine Guyon herself, she had thoughts at present for but one person, and speculations only on one subject. Her warm, impulsive, wholly undisciplined heart had accepted Gordon Frere as its tenant and ruler, after a sudden fashion, which was not to be defended or excused if judged by the standard of conventionality, or indeed of common-sense. When the latter quality shall be in any one instance admitted into a case of love-at-first-sight, it may advance a claim to invariable acknowledgment; certainly not otherwise. As for conventionality, Katharine in no way bowed to its authority; and it was fortunate indeed that her good taste and innate good-breeding preserved her from any boldness or vulgarity of demeanour; for those were her only safeguards. Legitimate rule over her there was none, and she would not for a moment have brooked usurped authority. Her position was peculiar, and, though there was a good deal of the glitter of fashion and the reality of enjoyment about it, to clear-sighted eyes, looking below the surface, pitiable.
 
Katharine's mother had brought her husband no advantages in their short, not remarkably happy, marriage, except those attached to an extensive and distinguished family connection. She had no fortune, no possessions of any kind, except some handsome jewels, which were secured to her, to descend to her children. She lived only a short time; but it is probable she thought the period sufficiently prolonged; for she died, when Katharine was born, with no further expression of regret than that she wished she could have taken the child with her; but was consoled by learning that the physicians thought the feeble infant very unlikely to live. Isabella Stanbourne--for such was the name of Katharine's mother--was a handsome woman, of fine mind and high principles. These qualities had not availed to prevent her making the tremendous though not unusual mistake of a wholly uncongenial marriage; but they did her the questionable service of opening her eyes to the blunder she had committed before she had been Edward Guyon's wife many weeks. Once opened, Mrs. Guyon's eyes were not the sort of optics ever to be even partially closed again; and they perceived and scrutinised every particular of her husband's character and conduct with merciless clearness and vigilance. That gentleman furnished them with ample material for their scrutiny; and from the close of the honeymoon to the termination of her life Mrs. Guyon held the partner of her existence, whom she knew to be a liar and a profligate, and suspected to be a swindler, in quiet, undemonstrative, but supreme contempt. She was a woman in whom the existence of any kind of regard or even compassion was incompatible with the least feeling of scorn; and so she never tried to persuade herself that she entertained either towards her husband, from the day she found out that the man she had married was a being of a totally different order to the idol which her fancy had set up and worshipped. She did not leave him, even when she made further and more serious discoveries: in the first place, because she disliked the scandal of a separation; in the second, because she was conscious of great delicacy of health, and had a strong presentiment that she should not survive the birth of her child. She determined to give herself the chance, if, contrary to her conviction, she lived; she could then decide upon her future. The chance befriended her, and Mrs. Guyon died. Her last days were undisturbed by her husband's presence. He had gone to Doncaster when the event which made him a father and a widower took place; and having made rather a good thing of the expedition, he returned to town in very tolerable spirits, and felt that he should now be more interesting and irresistible than ever as a young widower, and could easily get over the inconsolable stage by a trip on the Continent. His dead wife's sister-in-law, the Hon. Mrs. Philip Stanbourne, undertook very gladly to look after the little motherless infant, at whom the elegant Ned barely glanced, during her days of babyhood; and she redeemed her promise well.
 
It is unnecessary to inquire into the career of Mr. Guyon between the period of Katharine's birth and that of her début in society. It was evident that, however well-founded his anticipations of success, it had not been in the matrimonial direction; and indeed some rather amusing anecdotes were current in society concerning "Ned's" audacious attempts and egregious failures. His wife's relatives had never particularly admired Mr. Guyon; but they were kindly, unaffected people; and Mrs. Guyon had been strictly and uniformly silent on all her domestic concerns; so that, though they surmised that the brief marriage had not been the altogether ecstatic union Isabella had imagined it would prove, they had nothing but surmise in their minds respecting it; and they never thought of withholding from the motherless girl any of the advantages derivable from their social position and influence. These were far more important to Katharine's father than her guileless uncles, aunts, and cousins imagined--to whom a life of shifts, scheming, and pretence was an utterly unknown and unsuspected possibility--and much more important too to Katharine herself, as regulating her father's conduct towards her, than the girl ever knew or dreamed of. She would probably have been placed economically out of sight, at a foreign boarding-school, and left there to attain the age of womanhood, unnoticed by her father, had not the kind relatives under whose care her early childhood had been happily passed given her consequence in Mr. Guyon's eyes, causing him to regard her as a valuable possession, a court-card in fact. So, instead of a cheap foreign school being selected as an oubliette for the child,--in virtue of whom Mr. Guyon had a seat at the tables of many who were more great than wise,--an expensive establishment for young ladies in the Regent's Park was honoured by Mrs. Stanbourne's choice; and there Katharine was brilliantly, if not solidly educated, the larger portion of the pension and her personal expenses being paid by her uncle. In Katharine's early girlhood the Hon. Philip Stanbourne died; and she sustained by this calamity a double loss: not only that of her kind relative and friend, but of her aunt's counsel, training, and protection in the perilous time which lay before her,--the time of early womanhood, and her entrance into society. The widow went abroad with her daughter, who was some years older than Katharine; and though she was in London when the events just related took place, she was not likely to be again a settled resident in England, as her daughter had married an Austrian nobleman, high in the diplomatic world, and desired to have as much of her mother's society as possible.
 
The fashionable "establishment" had turned out few girls so well calculated to do it credit and extend its fame as Katharine Guyon, when, at a little more than seventeen, she appeared in a circle of society where, though her father, with all his cleverness and savoir faire, received little more than toleration, she at once made a favourable impression. In her appearance she combined the personal attractions of both her parents: she had her mother's high-bred look, her father's vivacity and his fine features; she had the elegant carriage, the delicate hands and feet, the refined voice of Isabella Stanbourne, and the airy easy manner which in Mr. Guyon had a soup?on of impudence. In disposition she resembled her mother exclusively; but there were strong points of difference between them,--difference deepened no doubt by the circumstances of Katharine's girlhood, by the fact that she had never been the object, as her mother had been of exclusive and conscientious female care since she had ceased to be a child. She had not the clear, direct, keen perception of her mother; but she was her equal in resolution, and more than her equal in implacability. She was high-spirited now, and impatient of contradiction to a degree that indicated some violence of temper; her feelings were keen and impulsive, and her affections strong and passionate, though undeveloped; for indeed who had the girl to love? She had gone through the ordinary schoolgirl friendships, and also through the customary flirtations since the former had come to a natural end; but she did not really love any body in the world, except perhaps Mrs. Stanbourne, and of her she had seen but little for some time.
 
Her feelings towards her father were of a mixed, and, on the whole, of an unsatisfactory character; such as any one watching the girl with anxiety and experience must have recognised with regret. She was fond of him after a fashion, and there was a good deal of camaraderie between them; but she had an intuitive distrust of him, and she knew instinctively that all his indulgence, all his flattery, all his yielding to her wishes and furnishing her pleasures, were superficial compliances. He liked the kind of life she liked; she knew him well enough, without formally reasoning upon her knowledge, to feel convinced that if their tastes or wishes clashed in any way, hers and not his would be expected, if not obliged, to yield. She admired her father's pleasant manners and social talents; she had but rarely any opportunity of contrasting his fulfilment of the paternal relation with that of other men; and she was full of youth, health, spirits, and capacity for the enjoyment of every kind of pleasure that offered; so she went her way carelessly and joyously, and reasoned little upon the present or the future. Katharine and her father were not real friends, but they were always technically "good friends;" a result to which the underlying violence of the girl's nature no doubt unconsciously conduced. Mr. Guyon hated trouble and detested scenes; and he had a tolerably correct occult sense that he might find himself "in for" both if he interfered much with Katharine: consequently he did not interfere; and as she was totally in the dark respecting his pecuniary circumstances, and never asked any troublesome questions, they got on very well together. Real companionship they had none, but they did not miss it; and while her father's chief anxiety about Katharine was that she should make a good match before she "went off" in looks--a good match implying a rich son-in-law, conveniently indifferent about settlements, and ready to "do" bills to any reasonable or unreasonable amount--Katharine's chief anxiety about him was, that he should dye his hair and whiskers with greater success, and drink less wine on evenings when he went to parties with her. She knew he was proud of her beauty, and thought her "doosid good company;" but she did not for a moment imagine he had any sentimental love for her; indeed she fancied he had not much feeling, for he had never mentioned her mother to her in his life. Their relation, in fact, was pleasant, hollow, and heathen; and when Katharine abandoned herself to her newborn love for Gordon Frere, she never thought of her father's feelings or wishes in the matter, or had a more dutiful notion in her mind than that it "made it pleasant that papa liked his coming about the house." You see she was no exceptional being, no angel alighted for a little on a sphere unworthy of her footsteps and her wings; but an interesting, captivating, self-willed woman,--such as circumstances had made her; a woman whose weaknesses were as visible as her charms, whose strength was latent and unsuspected.
 
It was not to be supposed that a girl like Katharine--handsome, clever, dashing, and independent in her ideas and manners, of a not precisely-to-be-defined position in society, and with a not-exactly-to-be-commended father--should escape sharp and not kind or altogether candid criticism. She was very much admired; she commanded admiration indeed, however reluctantly accorded; and men liked her very much, even men who were not in love with her, and with whom she did not take the trouble to flirt. Women did not like her; and yet the girl gave them no fair excuse for their prejudice. She was not a determined coquette, conquering and monopolising; she was not rudely inattentive to women, as "beauties" and "blues" usually are: she was smiling and agreeable, and perfectly indifferent to them all; and, with a host of acquaintances, had but one female friend, her aunt Mrs. Stanbourne. With Lady Henmarsh, who was a distant relative on her father's side, Katharine lived on terms of great intimacy,--the lady was indeed her constant, her official chaperone,--but it was an intimacy of the kind which more frequently precludes than includes friendship.
 
Lady Henmarsh was a woman of the world, in every possible meaning and extent of the term. She was the exact opposite of Mrs. Stanbourne, in manners, mind, tastes, opinions, and principles; and she disliked Mrs. Stanbourne so cordially, that she might have endeavoured to influence Katharine in a contrary direction to that of her wishes, simply to annoy that lady; but she was saved from any thing so unphilosophical by the fact that it suited her in every way to appoint herself high-priestess of Miss Guyon's world-worship. As no one ever saw, and many had never heard of Lady Henmarsh's husband, it was a pardonable mistake, frequently made by strangers, to suppose that she was a widow. This, however, was not the case. A miserable invalid--whose migrations, if not quite confined to Goldsmith's itinéraire, were only from his dull house in Hampshire to his dull house in Cavendish Square; a cross, palsied, querulous old man, called Sir Timothy Henmarsh, who had long since lapsed out of the sight and the memory of society--still existed, not altogether to the displeasure of his lady, who would be seriously impoverished by his death; existed in a condition of illness and suffering which rendered it indispensable that his wife should, in deference to what society calls common decency, provide herself with some further excuse for her neglect of him, and her constant presence at gay and festive scenes of every description, than the real, but unproduceable one, that she liked dissipation and disliked him. Lady Henmarsh and Mr. Guyon had been very good friends indeed in former days, when he was a young widower, thoroughly consoled, and Hetty Lorimer was a pretty portionless girl, who knew that she had nothing to look to but marriage, and that if she desired to secure the enjoyment of such things as her soul loved, she must take care that it was a "good" one. A marriage with her handsome cousin would have been any thing but one of the required description; and indeed neither of them ever contemplated such a possibility. They were persons of a discreet and practical turn, and Mr. Guyon went to Hetty Lorimer's wedding (a solemnity at which Sir Timothy Henmarsh's son, a gentleman some years the bride's senior, sternly declined to be present) with perfect alacrity and good humour. They had been excellent friends ever since; and when, the time having arrived at which Mr. Guyon found it convenient to transfer his daughter from the "establishment" to Queen Anne Street, Lady Henmarsh gave him her advice, and offered him her services with enthusiastic friendship, what more proper and satisfactory arrangement could possibly have been entered into than that Lady Henmarsh should "do the maternal" by Katharine?
 
"I've no doubt you'll do it to perfection, Hetty," said Mr. Guyon, as he rose and terminated the interview; "only you won't look the part within a dozen years." And the good-looking deceiver went down the stairs with a smile, which expanded into a grin when he reached the street; for Miss Hester Lorimer and Miss Isabella Stanbourne had been girls together, and the former was a little older than the lady who had married the irresistible Ned Guyon.
 
This unexceptionable arrangement had now lasted a considerable time, and no likelihood of its coming to a conclusion by the marriage of Katharine had yet presented itself. Lady Henmarsh was better pleased than Mr. Guyon that it should be so, and less surprised. She understood Katharine better than her father understood her; she knew how entirely unscathed she had been amid the lightning flashes of real admiration and simulated sentiment which had played around her girlish head; she knew that in Katharine's perfectly impartial brightness, her frank acceptance of the incense offered before her, her smiling pleasure and indifference, consisted the barrier to Mr. Guyon's wishes. For her part, she was in no hurry about the matter; indeed, the longer Miss Guyon should require some one (meaning herself) to go about with her, the better pleased she would be. But though Lady Henmarsh did not disquiet herself because Mr. Guyon's wishes remained unfulfilled, she would very seriously and earnestly have disapproved of their being traversed and thwarted. She did not particularly care that Katharine should marry soon, but she fervently desired that she should marry well; and it was with a new and very unpleasant sense of misgiving that she observed the eager and vivacious pleasure which Katharine evinced in the society of Mr. Gordon Frere, and watched the faces and the manner of the two from the alcove, whence she beheld the dancers at Mrs. Pendarvis's ball. Lady Henmarsh knew very little of Gordon Frere; indeed, only one fact, beyond the good looks and the good manners patent to all observers. But in that one fact lay the only important item of knowledge, in the estimation of Lady Henmarsh. Gordon Frere was a poor man, with no income to speak of, and only very desultory, undefined, and contingent expectations. Clearly this would not meet either Mr. Guyon's views or her own. She hoped, she trusted, nay she believed, that Katharine would not be so infatuated as to think of marrying Frere; she trusted Frere was too much a man of the world to think of marrying Katharine. It was only a flirtation,--it must be only a flirtation; but even that, if she carried it to such an extent as she had done at the ball, Katharine must be induced to give up. It would be remarked, it would keep off other men: of course it was quite foolish to be afraid of any thing serious; so Lady Henmarsh hoped, and trusted, and believed, and yet she doubted and feared. She did not altogether like to acknowledge to herself, perhaps, how little confidence she felt in her own power of "inducing" Katharine to do any thing which did not accord with her own inclination and humour. The tie between them was formed of mutual complaisance, not of influence and respect. Lady Henmarsh did not understand either the strength of Katharine's feelings or the determination of her temper; she had never seen either roused into action, and she regarded her as rather shrewder and more worldly-minded than most girls, as well as cleverer and better-looking. So, though she knew her to be self-willed, she calculated on her sense and shrewdness overcoming her obstinacy in a matter in which her worldliness would teach her that obstinacy was injurious and misplaced.
 
Lady Henmarsh pondered these things one fine summer's day, while Katharine rambled about the Botanical Gardens with Gordon Frere and others; while every glance caught from his blue eyes, and every sentence intoned especially for her ear by his earnest musical voice, bound the girl's heart more closely to him, and rendered the task which Lady Henmarsh proposed to herself more difficult of fulfilment, more infructuous in result.
 
"At all events, it shall not go on like this beyond to-night," said her ladyship to herself: "if she looks at and dances with him as she did at Mrs. Pendarvis's, I shall tell Ned Guyon about it, and find out what he thinks; but my decided opinion is that it is full time some steps were taken." And then she went to visit Sir Timothy.
 
 
Mrs. Streightley and her daughter had returned to the Brixton villa, had been affectionately received by Robert, and had heard from him the history of all his doings in their absence. Of course Ellen had, allowed the briefest possible space of time to elapse between her return and the despatch of an eager summons entreating Hester Gould to come to her with the least possible delay. Hester arrived about two hours before the ordinary dinner-hour; and the young ladies passed that space of time in the interchange of delightful confidences; complete and heartfelt on the part of Ellen Streightley, and as meagre as might be on that of Hester Gould. All the particulars of Ellen's engagement, which she had already detailed by letter, were again confided to Hester; all the particulars of the visit from which they had just returned, and which had been made to certain relatives of Mrs. Streightley's, of the agricultural persuasion, were once more related in full.
 
"I used to think Thorswold rather a stupid place, dearest Hester," said Ellen, and a fine blush overspread her pretty honest face: "little did I ever think I should meet my fate there. I do so long for you to see Decimus. You will think him so delightful."
 
"I shall be very much pleased to see him, Ellen," returned Hester; "and I rejoice, as I am sure you know, in your happiness. But tell me about your brother,--what does he say to it all?"
 
"Well, indeed, Hester," said Ellen, hesitating and laughing, "that is what I hardly can tell you, he has said so little. He kissed me, and pulled my ear, and called me a little goose, in his own kind way, you know; but he is so taken up with some new friends he has made, I cannot make him out. He looks quite different, I am sure; and is so particular about his dress! A lot of new clothes have just come home from his tailor's, and a whole boxful of lavender-kid gloves. Isn't it funny, Hester? Dear old Robert, he talks a great deal about Mr. Guyon; but I suspect he thinks more of Miss. Though indeed I only found out there was a Miss Guyon quite by accident."
 
Hester Gould's face flushed with sudden anger, and into her calm calculating heart there came a pang of unaccustomed doubt and fear. But it was quite in her ordinary tone she said:
 
"So your brother's friend is Mr. Guyon, is he? Does he live in Queen Anne Street?"
 
"Yes, yes; I am sure that is the street I have heard him mention. Stay, there's an invitation stuck in the chimney-glass--here it is. 'Mr. and Miss Guyon request'--and so--yes, '110 Queen Anne Street' Do you know them, Hester?"
 
"No, not personally; but I have seen Miss Guyon frequently. I used to teach singing to the Miss Morrisons in the next house, No. 109--it is vacant now, and shut up since Sir Christopher died--and I often saw her going out to ride. She used to go just about at my hour."
 
"And is she nice, Hester,--is she pretty? Robert never has told me any thing particular about her. Men never can describe any one."
 
"She is very handsome, very elegant, and very fashionable," replied Hester; and then she departed from her usual cautious reticence so far as to say, "and I heard the Morrisons say Mr. Guyon was very 'fast,' and lived beyond his means."
 
"Indeed," said Ellen in a very grave tone, for to her the accusation of living beyond one's means sounded very portentous; "I am sure Robert would not approve of that."
 
Hester Gould watched Robert Streightley quietly and closely the whole of that evening. She saw him different to any thing he had ever been; preoccupied, absent, but not unhappy. A smile played frequently over his features; and though he sunk into frequent fits of abstraction, they were evidently not painful. He was as kind and affectionate as usual to his mother and sisters, as attentive to herself; but a change had passed upon him which she fully understood. In her cold repressed way, she was bitterly angry.
 
She went home rather early. As Robert Streightley saw her to the cab, and bade her good-night, she said to herself:
 
"Daniel Thacker knows this Mr. Guyon,--his sisters may know something about the girl. I'll go to Hampstead to-morrow; they don't mind Sunday visitors; and I may have a chance of seeing their brother. Really that girl Ellen grows sillier every day."
CHAPTER VIII.  AMARYLLIS IN A MARQUEE.
 The prettiest public fêtes in London are those given in the gardens of the Botanical Society in the Regent's Park. There is to be found plenty of fresh green turf; there are myriads of lovely flowers blooming in open beds, or tastefully arranged beneath the marquees; there are solemn old big trees stretching out their umbrageous arms, and in their majesty making one think even less favourably than usual of the perky straggling sticks at South Kensington; there are the bands of two or three guards regiments, having sufficient compassion on the visitors to play one after the other, and not, as in some places, at the same time; and there is generally a collection of the nicest-looking people in town. There are few savans, and not much literary or artistic talent; but as savans and the professors of literary and artistic talent are for the most part any thing but nice-looking, and as flirtation is the science to which at these gatherings attention is principally devoted, their loss is not felt; indeed it may be safely said that the general company is happier for their absence.
 
Although the last fête of the season is scarcely to be compared to its immediate predecessor, the warm weather of the two preceding days had done very much in contributing to its gaiety on the first occasion when Mr. Charles Yeldham found himself making holiday from his work, and taking part in a grand ceremony of nothing-doing with those whose lives were passed in never doing any thing; and, like most men who rarely emerge from the business of their lives to seek a temporary respite from perpetual work in a few brief hours of enjoyment, Charley was determined to make the most of his time, and to reap the full value of those precious hours which he had grudgingly given up. With his chum leaning on his arm, he made his way through the fruit-tent and the flower-tent, round the American garden, where the glorious azalias, so lately a mass of magnificent beauty, now stood bare and drooping; now attracting the attention of a group of faded dowagers by his energy and volubility; anon pausing in rapt attention, listening to the strains of the melody-breathing "Sonnambula," as performed by the Grenadiers, or nodding head and beating hand in sufficiently ill-kept time to a whirlwind galop rattled through by the band of the Artillery. Into his holiday, as into his work, Charley had thrown his whole heart; he had determined to shut out temporarily all thoughts of attorneys, pleas, work, and worry, and he went in for the pleasures of the day with an eagerness and an impetuosity that perfectly astonished his companion.
 
"I'll tell you what it is, Charley," said Gordon Frere, after they had careered round the gardens, and were standing once more by the gate at which they had entered--"I'll tell you what it is; you're like a country cousin, by Jove! or one of those horrible fellows that come up to town with a letter of introduction. You want to see every thing, and all at once. It's a deuced good thing that you don't often give yourself an outing, or you'd be wanting me to take you to the Thames Tunnel, and the Monument, and Madame Tussaud's, and all sorts of wonderful places. Here have we been rushing about from pillar to post, or rather from tent to tent, and from band to band, and you've never yet given me breathing-time to look round and speak to any of the people I know. Now you really must hold on for a moment, for it's just upon three o'clock, and that's the time that Kate--Miss Guyon, I mean--said she should be here; and I promised to be near the entrance, to join her at once."
 
He spoke with animation, and his bright eyes glowed with fire as he seized his old friend by the shoulders and used a feigned force to arrest his progress. You see Mr. Gordon Frere was brimming over with happiness. To be six-and-twenty years of age; to be good-looking; to have high animal spirits; to have indulgent tradespeople, and a tolerable sufficiency of pocket-money; to be in love with a very charming girl, and to have your passion returned, are all things calculated to make a man content with life, and disposed to regard human nature from its best point of view. He was pleased to speak of himself as a "creature of impulse," and, by some accident probably, he rightly described himself. Whatever best pleased him for the time being he took up and went in for earnestly and vigorously. He had done so all his life, in cricketing, rowing, riding, at school and college--actually once in reading, when he studied so hard and to so much purpose apparently, that old Mr. Yeldham wrote to Charles, anticipating for his son's chum and his own pupil the highest University honours; but Gordon slacked off, and when the class-list came out, a double-third was all the position awarded him. Up to this time the "impulse" had not been shown very strongly in any love-affairs: he had had his ball-room flirtations, involving bouquet-sending, Rotten-Row riding, Opera-box haunting, &c., as all men have; but he had never--to Charles Yeldham's idea at least--been so really smitten with any one as he announced himself to be with Miss Guyon. So his honest old chum, albeit he had his own views of the probable reception of Gordon's proposal by Mr. Guyon, could not find it in his heart to check him, and only smiled pleasantly as he said:
 
"All right, Gordon; all right, my boy. But you talk of my taking you about here and there, as though I were not a mere child in leading-strings in such a place as this, to be shown each separate sight in the proper order. Now we've seen the fruit and the flowers, and listened to the bands, let us take a look at the people. Tremendous, what you call 'swells,' are they not? No end of crinoline, and flowers, and finery. By Jove! just turn a few of these young ladies to walk through the Temple Gardens, and there would not be much work done that day. Every clerk's nose would be glued to the window; and I verily believe that even old Farrar, our underneath neighbour, would leave his books and his papers for such a refreshing sight. Now there's one,--look there! that tall girl just coming in, with--hallo! steady, young 'un; what's the matter?"
 
Charley Yeldham might well cry "steady;" for Gordon gave a visible start as he turned in the direction indicated by his friend; and his tone was thick and hurried as he said, "That's Miss Guyon and her father--and--who the devil's that man with them?"
 
"Now that's a curious thing," said Yeldham with provoking placidity. "I don't suppose I know another soul in all this large gathering; but I do know that man intimately, and I can tell you who he is. That's Robert Streightley, the City man, that you've so often heard me speak of, and--but what has come to him? Talk of 'swells,' why, I should scarcely have recognised Bob Sobersides, as they used to call him, in that costume. And so that is Miss Guyon, is it? that's Miss Guyon I say, young 'un, she's--she's wonderfully lovely."
 
"For God's sake, don't stand staring there with your mouth open, Charley; but let us go up and speak to these people. They've seen us already;" and Mr. Frere, passing his arm through his friend's, led him up to the group, and after making his own salutations, freely presented him to Miss Guyon and her father. Immediately after his introduction, Yeldham turned and shook hands with Robert Streightley; and after a few words of astonishment from each at meeting the other in such a place, they commenced a conversation, in which Mr. Guyon took part, leaving Gordon Frere and Katharine walking together a little in advance of them.
 
There are few things more embarrassing than having something very particular to say, knowing that you will have great difficulty in saying it, and being perfectly convinced that if ever it is to be said at all, the exact time has arrived. This was Gordon Frere's position. He knew that the end of the season had arrived; that another fortnight would see Miss Guyon flown, with the rest of the fashionable world, to some English sea-board, foreign watering-place, or country-house, whither he could not have the remotest excuse for following her; he knew the proverbial danger of delay, especially in love-affairs; he fully shared in Charley Yeldham's only half-expressed doubts as to the reception of his proposal by Mr. Guyon, and in the sudden and unexpected appearance upon the scene of Robert Streightley whom he had never met before, but of whom, his wealth, his talents, his City position, he had heard frequently from Charley--he saw a new and important element of danger. If he intended to make his coup for the winning of this peerless beauty, now was the time. So he screwed up his courage and began.
 
"You are a little late, Miss Guyon,"--this in a low, deep, tremulous voice; "you said you would be here at three."
 
"You don't pretend to say that you recollect any thing I said about it, Mr. Frere?" in the same tone. "I scarcely remembered we had touched upon the subject."
 
"Don't you pretend to imagine any such thing so far as I am concerned, Miss Guyon. No, no; pardon me for one instant; you know that whatever concerns you, in however trifling a degree,--and more especially when it relates to the chance of my seeing you,--is always of importance to me."
 
He had bent his gaze upon her, as he said this, and he received a faint fluttering glance as his first reply. Then she said,
 
"I was scarcely conceited enough to think so, and--and of course I feel the compliment. However, we have met, you see."
 
"Yes; and so long as that has come about, no matter how late you are; for you see I still hold to my original opinion. However late or early, I must be doubly thankful for the chances of meeting you now. For the season's at an end, and I suppose you will be off with the rest?"
 
"I suppose so; though nothing is settled, I believe."
 
"And where do you go?"
 
"Papa talked of Scarborough some time ago. He has not said any thing about it lately; and as I am wholly indifferent on the subject, I'm very good to him, and let him have his own way."
 
"Are you similarly complaisant to Mr. Guyon in all things?"
 
There must have been something special in the tone of his voice; for she looked up quickly with a slight flush, and said,
 
"In all matters in which I take no particular interest. Where I am concerned I am exigeante, and--I am afraid--stubborn."
 
"Let us call it 'firm,' Miss Guyon," said Frere, with a slight smile. "Firmness is a quality by no means reprehensible, even when exercised towards one's father. It's a horrible thing this break-up of the season, especially as one gets older. All the little pleasant--well, I suppose I may call them friendships--are nipped in the bud until next April, when one has to begin again and struggle on until August, when we find ourselves in exactly the same position in which we were a twelvemonth before."
 
"That is, unless we take up with a different set of friends," said Katharine; "and I believe there are instances on record of such a change."
 
Gordon Frere looked at her again, and threw an additional warmth into his voice as he said, "Granted that fidelity is uncommon, Miss Guyon, it should be the more prized when it is found. You are going to-night to Mrs. Tresillian's?"
 
"Yes; Lady Henmarsh has promised to take me. It is almost my 'last rose of summer;' positively the last of our ball-engagements this season."
 
"Let us trust it will be one of the pleasantest. You will come early, and you will give me the first valse, and as many afterwards as you can."
 
"I--I shall be very happy; but we shall leave early. Papa has a holy horror of having his horses kept out late, more especially when he is not present; and he will not be there to-night, I think; for he's going to ask Mr. Streightley to dine with us, and I believe he wants to talk business to him afterwards."
 
"Mr. Streightley going to dine with you! By the way, who is Mr. Streightley?"
 
"Mr. Streightley? he's a horror--I didn't mean that. He's a City friend of papa's, and, as I'm told, a very rich man."
 
"Very rich, and in the City, eh!" said Gordon Frere, looking over his shoulder at the object of their remark. "He's better got up than most of his genus. I think I could swear to Poole in his coat. Very rich, and you've been told so, Miss Guyon! He's a lucky man."
 
"Is he, Mr. Frere? You'll excuse my saying that I don't follow you; that I don't know why Mr. Streightley is lucky."
 
"Did you not yourself say that he was very rich, Miss Guyon, and that you had been told so?" said Gordon, with more warmth than he had previously exhibited. "Society acts as this gentleman's avant-coureur, and repeats his claim to respect wherever he goes; and of course he finds people prepared to proffer him ready-made honour."
 
The bitterness in his tone jarred on Kate's ear. His face was averted, so that there was no need for her to restrain the half-inquiring, half-loving gaze with which she looked up at him as she said,
 
"I never knew you cynical before, Mr. Frere, and I don't think the mood becomes you. Surely the notion that wealth is the most desirable of all possessions is utterly exploded. For my own part, I think that riches in a man--I mean when they are so great as to be talked about--are something against him; something to be got over, like his being black, or having a hump-back."
 
"This is a very refreshing doctrine, Miss Guyon; but I'm afraid it has not many disciples; and even you would lean to the side of the modest competence and----"
 
"I would lean to nothing; I would give way to nothing so palpably sordid and base."
 
"You are strangely in earnest on this point, Miss Guyon."
 
"I am thoroughly in earnest about it; and I----"
 
"You cannot tell with what delight I hear it, Miss Guyon. I--you have removed a certain distrust which has prevented me from----"
 
"As you say"--broke in the strident voice of Mr. Guyon, as he with Streightley and Yeldham "formed up in line"--"In a formal dinner-party you may sit side by side with people and never know any more about them than if they were at opposite ends of the table. You're quite right, Streightley, quite right. But to-night we're quite alone. Katharine, my dear, Mr. Streightley has promised to take us as he finds us, and come home to dinner to-day."
 
Miss Guyon bowed, and murmured her delight. Then said sotto voce, "It is Mrs. Tresillian's night, papa, you recollect; and Lady Henmarsh is coming to fetch me."
 
"O yes, my dear; of course, of course. Lady Henmarsh coming, eh! But that won't make any difference."
 
"No, papa; only you won't mind my running away."
 
"Of course not, my dear; of course not, And how is my young friend Gordon Frere? Blooming as usual. No need to ask that. Give your arm to an old boy, Gordon; and trot him round, and show him all the--the beauty of the day."
 
Gordon, who was eminently disgusted at the interruption of his conversation with Kate, and who was showing his feelings in his knitted brow and puckered mouth, had any hopes of a further causerie which he might have entertained dashed to the ground by Mr. Guyon, who passed his delicate lavender-glove through his young friend's arm and led him off in triumph, while Streightley and Yeldham followed on either side of Miss Guyon.
 
Few men could make themselves pleasanter companions than Ned Guyon when he was so inclined. He had not merely a capital flow of animal spirits, a store of what in women is called small-talk, but what in men may better be described as broad talk, a keen perception of the ludicrous, and a sufficient power of satire, but he had the great knack--learned in his long experience of life--of exactly suiting his conversation to his audience. He possessed in perfection the slang of the clubs, which nowadays passes current for what is called "swell talk," and which is not merely a peculiar argot with special words meaning special things, with excised pronouns and abbreviated nouns, but which, to be perfect, must be spoken in a voice specially pitched for the purpose. The voice and the language none had studied better than Guyon; there were few men of his age, indeed, who had taken the trouble to master either; but in the fashionable sinner's worldly experience he had found the greatest profit in keeping himself au courant with the ways and manners of men of the rising generation. Once let any of them perceive that he was a fogey, in the least antiquated in his ideas or pursuits, and all hope of influence over them was gone; but so long as he could take a leading part in their follies, and blend undoubted past experience with apparent present enjoyment, their houses, horses, purses were at his disposal; and it was considered rather an honour among the subalterns of the Rag or the Plungers from Aldershott to have dropped their money at écarté or baccarat to such a cool clever hand as Mr. Guyon.
 
Perhaps the old diplomatist had never been in better force than on the present occasion, although there was apparently little opportunity for the exercise of his powers. Frere, distrait, if not savage, at starting, found himself first listening to his companion's remarks; then laughing at his stories; finally answering him, and leading him on to further banter. With a fair proportion of the company present Mr. Guyon had some acquaintance, and of nearly every body who was any body he had some racy anecdote to whisper laughingly into his companion's ear. It did not strike Frere until long afterwards that all these piquant stories were indebted for their piquancy to a half-sneering cynicism, a half-avowed libertinism; that in all the broad principles of honour were ridiculed, and the scampish shifts of so-called "gallantry" exalted; that the whole conversation, in fact, was such as might have been expected from a blasé youth or a battered rake, but scarcely to be looked for in a gentleman whose marriageable daughter was walking within a few feet of him.
 
They remained in the gardens until past six o'clock, promenading, visiting the tents, stopping to speak to friends; but never on any occasion had Gordon Frere another chance of approaching Miss Guyon. He made several attempts; but invariably her father had something to say to her--or to him--and cut in between them with the pleasantest smile and the cheeriest remarks possible. It was not until just as they were getting into the carriage that Mr. Guyon suddenly turned aside, and saying, "Ah, by the way!" took out a card, wrote on it in pencil, in his airiest manner borrowed an envelope from the ticket-taker standing at his desk in the entrance, and despatched it by a commissionaire who was in waiting. In that short interval Gordon Frere managed to slip round to Miss Guyon's side and whisper, "The first valse, to-night?" and to receive in reply an almost imperceptible acquiescence in the glance of her eyes and the bending of her head. Then Mr. Guyon, wheeling round, took a very affectionate leave of Gordon, and made a polite bow to Charles Yeldham, handed his daughter into the carriage, motioned to Streightley to follow her; and finally jumping lightly in himself, they were whirled off, with much door-slamming and horse-pawing.
 
The concluding episode of the little drama in which he had asserted his position with Miss Guyon had reanimated Gordon Frere, and rendered him happy and amiable. "Such a lord is Love, and Beauty such a mistress of the world." So he turned cheerily to Yeldham, on whom he had not bestowed so much as a glance or a thought for the past two hours, and gripping his arm, said:
 
"Well, old boy, and what do you think of her?"
 
Mr. Charles Yeldham was seldom absent or preoccupied: he was far too practical for that. But on the present occasion his thoughts must have been engaged, for he started, with something like a flush on his cheeks, as he said:
 
"Who? what, Gordon? I wasn't attending, I fear."
 
"I was asking you what you thought of Miss Guyon, Charley?"
 
"She is wonderfully beautiful."
 
"Well said, old fellow. Quite enthusiastic, by Jove!--for you, at all events. But what I mean is, seriously, is not she something to be proud of; something different from the ruck of grinning, simpering, yea-nay girls one meets about--in such places as that we've just left, for instance?"
 
"She is, indeed."
 
"I hope you talked to her. Not that I think--no offence to you, old fellow--not that perhaps your talk would be exactly suited to her--too deep, you know, and all that kind of thing--but still you would be able to make out that she had a head on her shoulders. Doesn't she talk well?"
 
"Well, to tell truth, I had not much opportunity of judging, for she remained tolerably silent; and the conversation--such as it was--was between Robert Streightley and myself."
 
"O, by the way, that fellow Streightley,--I've heard you speak of him. Who is he, and what's all about him? What the deuce did old Guyon bring him here for? and why has he gone home with them to dinner?"
 
"Ha, ha!" laughed Charles Yeldham. "'Beware, my lord, of jealousy!' Here's an Othello for you! I don't think, Gordon, you need look with much suspicion on Robert Streightley, unless you've fixed your affections on good investments or early information; and then you would stand no chance with him, I can tell you. But he's been too long engaged to Capel Court to waver in his allegiance."
 
"But what on earth brought him here?"
 
"What? Who? you should ask, and I would answer, your intended father-in-law. There's no man with a clearer head for business: what will be more explanatory, I will say there's no man better able to put a friend on to 'a good thing' than Streightley; and I fancy Mr. Guyon would not be above a little stagging if he could act on Streightley's information."
 
"But people don't get City information or talk to each other on what you call 'stagging' topics at Botanical Fêtes. Why did he bring him here?"
 
"O impetuous youth, 'still harping on my daughter!' don't you see that there must be a quid pro quo? If Mr. Streightley is to assist Mr. Guyon, why should not Mr. Guyon show Mr. Streightley the elevated position which he holds, the society in which he moves?"
 
"Yes, that's all very well; but I say, Charley, Streightley don't know Mrs. Tresillian, does he?"
 
"Who's Mrs. Tresillian?"
 
"The wife of the member for Penmouth; people who live at Rutland Gate, and entertain perpetually. He's not likely to be going there to-night, this Streightley, is he?"
 
"No more than he's likely to be going to Kamschatka; not so likely. Why?"
 
"O, nothing; only Miss Guyon is going there--and so am I."
 
"Is Miss Guyon going? Ah, well, I hope you'll enjoy yourself."
 
And during their ride to chambers in the hansom, both men were singularly silent.
 
 
Mr. Streightley had plenty of time to make himself acquainted with the features of the private friends and the public celebrities who were enshrined in Miss Guyon's photographic album; with the views of the Rhine and the Moselle; with the cards of callers "lurking within the bowl;" with the tastefully-arranged flowers and their elegant basket; with the paper-knife, like a golden dagger; with Gustave Doré's latest sketches; and with all the innumerable nicknacks of a lady's table. Miss Guyon had gone straight to her room; and Mr. Guyon, begging to be excused, as he had a few little matters of business, had retired into what he called his "study,"--a very gloomy little den behind the dining-room, furnished with a battered leather writing-table, a cane-bottomed chair, a grim bust of a deceased friend powdered with "blacks," a boot-jack, a clothes-brush, a glass-case of stuffed birds, and the Court Guide for 1850. Streightley had been shown, at Mr. Guyon's suggestion, into a spare bedroom, where he had performed a brief toilet, and then mooned about the drawing-room, occupying himself in the manner just described. Mr. Guyon was the first to break in on his solitude; and shortly afterwards Miss Guyon entered the room, looking so lovely that Robert Streightley remained spell-bound, and could not take his eyes from her. She wore a pale mauve-silk dress, with soft tulle half-way over it, looped up with real Cape jasmine, a tiny bouquet of the same flower in her bosom; and her hair gave her a certain air of peculiarity, and shed around her a subtle and intoxicating perfume. Round her neck she wore a string of pearls with a diamond clasp; and the same on each arm completed her jewelry. Looking at her, Robert Streightley seemed to lose his identity, and to become part and portion of some fairy story which he had read, some picture of moyen-age pageant which he had seen. Women? Yes, he had known women before--his mother, Ellen, Hester Gould. What had they in common with this soft, delicate, queenly creature, the touch of whose hand on his arm thrilled him to the bone, the sound of whose voice sent the blood rushing to his heart, the glance of whose eye--light, fleeting, and uninterested though it was--he would have purchased at the price of a king's ransom.
 
The dinner was good, and Mr. Guyon was gay; but neither succulent dishes nor brilliant sallies had much effect on Robert Streightley. They were scarcely seated before he learned, from a chance observation uttered by Miss Guyon, that she was going to Mrs. Tresillian's ball; and the knowledge that Gordon Frere would probably meet her there--a fact which he divined intuitively--weighed heavily on Streightley's mind. He tried to exert himself to respond to his host; he tried to talk lightly and pleasantly to Kate, who seemed in the highest spirits, but all unsuccessfully. Whenever there was a lull in the conversation, he fancied her in Frere's arms being whirled round the room, or listening to his low voice with such a pleased expression on her face as he had seen there that night in the Opera-box. Those bright eyes, that flow of spirits, that general happiness, which even prompted her to be far more agreeable to him and far more recognisant of his presence than she had yet ever deigned to be, were not they all due to the fact that she was going to meet his--well, why not?--his rival? As he was thinking thus the servant entered the room bearing a letter, which Miss Guyon read, opened, and flung on the table with an air of vexation, that contrasted strongly with her recent good-temper.
 
"It's too bad!" she cried in a petulant voice; "too bad and I don't believe a word of it."
 
"What's the matter, Kate, my child!" asked Mr. Guyon in his blandest tones.
 
"After dressing myself, and setting my heart upon it--the last ball of the season too--it's--it's most horribly annoying!" and Miss Guyon bit her lip very hard, and threw back her head to stop her tears.
 
"My dear Kate," said Mr. Guyon, looking like a modern edition of Lucius Junius Brutus, "you seem to forget that, besides your father, there is present a gentleman who--no, pardon me, my dear Streightley, allow me to speak--who should be--hem!--thought of. What--if I may again be allowed to put the question,--what is there in that note that can have so very much discomposed you?"
 
"I beg your pardon, Mr. Streightley--I--but it is so annoying! Here's Lady Henmarsh, papa, writes to say she cannot go to Mrs. Tresillian's to-night. She's got one of her headaches--those horrible headaches that I don't believe in one bit--and she knows I was looking forward to her taking me, and that it will be impossible for me to go without her. It is so vexing!"
 
Mr. Guyon was about firing off an elaborate remark; but hearing Streightley commencing to speak, he stopped himself, and waved his hand towards his friend.
 
"I was--eh, you're very kind--no, I was only going to say," said Streightley, with a hesitation which was quite strange to him, "that I'm sure I sympathise with you, Miss Guyon--sympathise with you thoroughly. It is very annoying to be balked in any thing that we've--set our minds on, as I may say. But what I was going to say was--I don't know about these kind of things, of course, as you know, Mr. Guyon, and no doubt you too, Miss Guyon; but could not your papa, Miss Guyon,--could not your papa be your escort to this ball?"
 
It was a really grateful glance that Kate shot at him as she said, "O, thank you so very much for the suggestion, Mr. Streightley. Of course he could. Papa, do you hear?"
 
"I do, my dear. I hear Mr. Streightley's suggestion, which is exactly in accord with that--that--high-mindedness and--and suggestiveness for which I've always given him credit. But unfortunately it's impossible, Kate; perfectly impossible to-night. I have some documents in there," jerking his head towards the den behind, "the perusal of which will occupy me until--ah, daybreak."
 
Miss Guyon said not another word, but rose from the table as her father ceased speaking. She wished Mr. Streightley "good-night," and after a moment's hesitation gave him her hand; she kissed Mr. Guyon's forehead--the little space which was not covered with his carefully-poodled hair--with her lips, and left the room. But as she passed the glass, Streightley caught a glimpse of the reflection of her face, and saw that every nerve in it was quivering with repressed passion. He knew the reason well enough, and it did not tend to raise his already-drooping spirits; so he shortly afterwards took his leave and went home, where he found his sister Ellen waiting up for him to tell him that Hester Gould had been spending the evening with her, having previously been to the Botanical Fête, where she had seen the beautiful Miss Guyon.
 
"And you were walking with her, Hester says, Robert," said Miss Ellen; "she saw you, though you didn't see her. How I should like to see her, Robert! Now tell me all about her. Is she so beautiful? and is she going to be married?"
 
"My dear child," said Robert in rather a harsh tone, "do you imagine I tell you the names of a tithe of the people I know in business? Mr. Guyon is a business acquaintance of mine; and I have been introduced to his daughter. So far as I am a judge, she is very beautiful; but really though I have seen her a few times, she has not yet confided to me whether she is going to be married or not."
 
On the receipt of which short answer, Miss Ellen Streightley, telling her brother "he need not snap her head off," handed him his candle and went to bed.
 
Mr. Guyon had said that the "perusal" of certain "documents" would occupy him until daybreak; but long before the first faint thread of dawn appeared in the eastern sky that gentleman was sleeping the sleep of the just, having immediately after Streightley's departure slipped down to his Club, and returned lighter in heart and heavier in purse after playing a few rubbers with consummate skill and great luck. But gleaming on certain characters in this veracious history, the first rays of the rising sun found them defiant of sleep, if not actively engaged. Found Katharine Guyon with her dark hair streaming over her pillow, bedewed with tears of rage and disappointment, and her eyes, under their swollen lids, bright and staring; found Robert Streightley, racked with sharp pangs of jealousy and doubt, vainly courting repose; found Gordon Frere lounging homeward up Piccadilly, his hands plunged in his trousers-pockets, his opera-hat hanging listlessly on the back of his head, a cigar in his mouth, and a faded flower in his coat, chafing bitterly against the absence of his heart's idol from Mrs. Tresillian's ball, and at the postponement of the love-avowal which he had determined to make; finally, found Charles Yeldham, bright, fresh, and glowing from his morning bath, just settling down to his desk, with his mind filled partly with thoughts of the work he was about to commence, partly with reminiscences of a queenly figure, a stately walk, and a bright pair of eyes, seen yesterday for the first time.
 
CHAPTER IX.  INVESTMENTS.
 It was seldom that Robert Streightley allowed himself the luxury of thought. He was so much in the habit of deciding, after a rapid business calculation, upon any thing that was submitted to him, of accepting or rejecting the proposition at once, that he scarcely knew what it was to ponder, and weigh, and calculate chances. In his business he had never, apparently, had occasion to calculate them. The knowledge which guided him seemed to come to him intuitively, and hitherto had scarcely ever failed in producing a good result. But in these recent days he had proposed to himself a venture such as he had never previously contemplated, a risk which was a risk indeed, a prize for which he should have to enter against sharp competition, and which, even if he gained it, he yet felt would be uncertain and difficult to deal with. It was a troublous time for this honest, straightforward, simple man of business, who for the first time in his life found himself possessed by a mania over which he had not the least control; this long-headed, cool, calculating fellow, who was accustomed to look far ahead, and see clearly what would be the end of any step he proposed to take before he took it, and who now found himself irresistibly impelled to rush blindly on, ignoring consequences, content to leave all to Fate, and to console himself with the victory of the moment. Never before during his career had he felt the smallest pang of jealousy; never before, when bidding for great contracts, involving such an amount of capital as made the boldest hesitate before speculating, had he, after a few minutes' rapid calculation, wavered for an instant. But the present case was different: it was "the house" then; it was "the heart" now. Luck, carefully steered by prudence and by foresight, and acumen more than prudence, had brought his ventures safely riding over the billows, and through the shoals and shallows; would it do so now?
 
He was desperately in love with this girl--this bright, brilliant, haughty, wilful girl. Even in all the mad fervour of his passion he allowed to himself that she was haughty and wilful, and he loved her all the morel--loved her with a depth and earnestness, with a wild passionate longing such as he had never believed he could have felt. Haughty and wilful! were not these very qualities great ingredients in her charm? Had he not for nearly forty years been living with the tame and commonplace women among whom his lot had been cast, and had any of them ever had the slightest influence over him? had they ever caused his heart one extra vibration--his pulse one extra throb? Why should he not enter the lists and tilt amongst the others for the hand of this Queen of Beauty, who sat smiling so superciliously in the balcony? It was an open course, and he brought amongst his attributes a stout heart and a willing hand to the encounter. In curvettings and caracoles, and all the dainty manoeuvres of the manège, in courtly skill and trick of fence, there might be his superiors; but when the issue of the combat came to sheer hard fighting, where courage and persistency won the day, he would give way to none. And, carelessly fluttering over the leaves of his ledger, as in his dim City office he revolved all these thoughts within his mind, he felt--not without a blush of shame--that he had secured the services of a most potent ally within the citadel. In these portentous leaves the name of Edward Guyon, Esquire, of Queen-Anne Street, now had a small space reserved to itself, the details covering which, though insignificant in such a business as that of Streightley and Son, were multiplied amazingly since the first "transaction" which had brought the siren to the abode of Plutus. Over Robert Streightley Mr. Guyon had obtained an extraordinary influence; due, let it be stated, of course to a certain extent to the young merchant's infatuation, but also in a great degree to his own admirable tact. During the course of a life passed in business Robert had seen many specimens of tracasserie and humbug, which his good nurse had enabled him to estimate at their real value; but he had never been brought in contact with any of their professors who had, or seemed to have, the real charm of social influence. In Mr. Guyon's society--and of late he had been admitted into a great deal of Mr. Guyon's society--Robert Streightley seemed to feel himself a different being. There was nothing rough or unpleasant in his new friend and those to whom his new friend introduced him; he became for the first time in his life aware of the existence of another world, where well-bred ease, polished manners, and refined conversation were substituted for that eternal strife and fight and wrangle for money-getting in which his whole previous existence had been passed.
 
And she--Katharine--his adoration--she was of this world, and yet not of it so much as she might be; held not that queenly position in it which she might hold, were circumstances different. It would have taken a mind much less acute than Robert Streightley's to perceive at once the influence which the possession of wealth had among those who affected to despise it. In an instant he saw--few so rapidly--how many of the new society into which he had been introduced, while merely electro-plated and veneered, were endeavouring to pass themselves off as the genuine article; and he ascribed, correctly enough, the sneers at money, in which most members of the society indulged, to their lack of it. Why should he not be the means of giving her the position which she would so thoroughly adorn? She looked a duchess; why should he not give her the power of gratifying the tastes of a duchess? Robert Streightley, constantly engaged in the accumulation of money, had given very little thought to the amount that he had accumulated. Confident in the security of his investments, he left the heap to gather in rolling; his simple life and the even more simple life led by his mother and sister in the Brixton villa were provided for at a comparatively infinitesimal cost; and of the bulk of his possessions he had taken little heed, knowing that it was there "to the good." But recently, within the last few days, he had looked through his accounts, and found that he was the possessor of what would be considered, even in "the City," to be a large fortune. Money he had in funds, and stocks, and securities of all kinds; money in ships bound on antipodean voyages, and in semi-cleared Canadian forests; money in loans to Egyptian viceroys and Nicaraguan republics; money in an English estate, "all that house and estate known as 'Middlemeads,' in the county of Bucks, with five hundred acres of parklike land, well-preserved coverts, lake with fishing-temple, large stabling, forcing-houses, hothouses, orangery, delightfully situate on the brow of Holcomb Hill, with the silver Thames winding in the distance," as it was described in the auctioneer's advertisement. The auctioneer, whose descriptive powers are here recorded, had not the opportunity of bringing this "lot" to the hammer; for finding the previous bidding dull, Robert Streightley, to whom the estate had reverted on the foreclosure of a mortgage which he held upon it, determined to withdraw it from public competition, wisely thinking that he could sell it a better bargain to some private purchaser. When the bold idea of asking for Miss Guyon's hand first entered his head, the recollection of this property flashed upon him at once. He had never seen the place, but he knew from his agent that it was essentially a gentleman's house, and that the entire estate was large, productive, and one of which any one might be proud. "Mrs. Streightley of Middlemeads;" "Middlemeads, August;" "Mrs. R. Streightley presents"--Robert Streightley found himself sketching these words on his blotting-pad as these thoughts passed through his mind; and though he gave a short laugh of semi-contempt at the wildness of his fancy, the idea had so far possessed him, that he wrote off to his old friend and legal adviser Charles Yeldham, begging him to be at the Great-Western station at a given hour on the next morning, and go with him to see a place down the line which he had purchased as an investment.
 
At the appointed time Mr. Streightley walked on to the platform, and found his friend already awaiting him. Mr. Charles Yeldham was indeed instantly recognisable. In all the crowd of pushing anxious passengers he stood perfectly calm and self-possessed, heeding neither the porters wheeling heavy barrows, who shouted to him "By your leave!" and charged straight at him with the obvious intention of grinding him to powder; the grooms, vainly endeavouring to hold their braces of pointers, which invariably came to grief through disinclination to go the same side of the columns supporting the roof; the helpless female, or the excited male passengers. There were men in every variety of travelling-dress, in wide-awakes, and pork-pie hats, and cloth caps, and fezzes; in suits of dittoes in every conceivable variety of check, in knickerbockers and gaiters, in tightly-fitting 'horsy' trousers, and wearing couriers' bags or slung race-glasses. But among them placidly walked Charles Yeldham, in his broadish-brimmed chimney-pot, his high-buttoning black waistcoat, his Oxford-mixture trousers very baggy at the knees, and his Wellington boots--among them, but not of them--with a pleasant smile on his cheery face, and with his head full of the case of Marshland versus the Bagglehole Improvement Company, the pleadings in which he had to draw. But he saw Streightley at once, and as he caught sight of him he again noticed the change in his friend's style of dress, which he had not thought of since their meeting at the Botanical Gardens, and laughed quietly to himself.
 
"This is good, Yeldham; I knew you would come," said Streightley, as the train moved out of the station. "You're just the man I want for a sound practical opinion."
 
"On an estate which you've bought, Robert? Yes; my knowledge of the value of land, derived from occasionally looking out on to and running round the Temple Gardens; the quick eye with which, from constant practice, I shall be able to detect any shortcomings in the building, and suggest improvements; my general acquaintance with farming-stock and agricultural produce, will enable me to give you some very valuable advice."
 
"You're laughing at me, old friend; but it don't much matter; and I know of old that you always will have your joke. No; it was not exactly on these points that I wanted to consult you,--in fact, not at all upon them. With all your pretended ignorance, you are a country-bred man, and one able to give a thoroughly practical opinion on the value of Middlemeads and its capabilities; and moreover, by this means I get you out quietly into the air and away from these stivy chambers, and have the opportunity of a long quiet talk with you about--about any subject that may turn up, without the risk of your being worried by perpetual visits of attorneys' clerks, or the annoyance of seeing you constantly fidgetting to get to your desk again and get to work at something else."
 
"O ho, Master Robert! then this is a trap, is it? a kind of perforce holiday into which you have led me?"
 
"Not at all. Wait until the day is over, until I've said all I've got to say, and you've heard it, before you complain. And even if it were--supposing it were a holiday, you don't take so many of them that you need grudge yourself this outing."
 
"So far as that goes we're both in the same boat, I think; but I have had a holiday, and only a couple of days ago, when I was at the Botanical--Why, by Jove! you were there too."
 
"Of course I was. That is good! our each giving the other credit for constant industry, and then recollecting that we had lapsed into idleness together. By the way, that Mr. Frere--who lives with you, doesn't he?--what sort of fellow is he?"
 
"A capital fellow," said honest old Charley Yeldham; "a good deal younger than we are, you know, Robert, and consequently more impulsive, and what he would call 'gushing'--and yet older in some respects too; older in cynicism and so-called knowledge of life, and--; but a very good fellow, a capital youngster. I've known him since he was a boy. He was a pupil of my father's."
 
"O, indeed! Has he--has he been very long intimate with Mr. Guyon's family, do you know?"
 
"No, not very long, I should say. By the way, I did not know until I met you with him that you knew Mr. Guyon, Robert."
 
"Didn't you? Q yes; a business acquaintance of mine."
 
"Business acquaintance? Hem! I can understand Mr. Guyon's popularity from a social point of view, but in matters of business I confess I think that----"
 
"Don't you fear, dear old Charley; I know all about that; and--and does Frere go often to the Guyons'?"
 
"N-no; not very often, I think. He's been once or twice lately; but he's not likely to see much more of them this season, as he's gone out of town--down to his father's--on a matter of business. What do you think of Miss Guyon?"
 
"She is very handsome--at least I suppose so; I'm not much of a judge in those matters. And how are we getting on with Hamilton's action?"
 
Upon which question the gentlemen plunged into a conversation full of business details, which occupied them until they arrived at their station, where alighting, they hired a trap and drove over to Middlemeads.
 
Passing through a little village, and turning sharply to the right after sighting the old church, they came upon a quaint one-storied stone lodge. Standing out from the ivy, in which it otherwise was buried, stood a sculptured knight in fall armour treading on a serpent, the well-known crest of the Chevers of Middlemeads, the glorious old family whose ancestral seat had passed to strangers, and whose last scion was now dwelling in a little cottage at Capécure near Boulogne. A few short words of explanation to the old portress gained them admission, and they entered a long drive leading through groves of noble trees and over undulating ground--where the deer, half hidden in the deep fern, were quietly feeding--to the house. Then under the principal gateway with its long range of gables and unrelieved wall, through the double arch in the first court, which was carpeted with greensward, to the second or paved court, fronted with its pure Ionic colonnade, where the old housekeeper, already apprised of their coming, was in readiness to receive them. Charles Yeldham's heart, albeit somewhat incrusted with legal formul? and a long course of Doe and Roe, yet filled with reverence for antiquity and appreciation of architectural beauty, thrilled within him as, preceded by the old housekeeper, they walked through the great hall, now denuded of its glorious family pictures, its Holbeins and Lelys, its Jansens and Knellers, its grand Vandyke, its "Animals reposing" by Snyders, and its "Riding-party" by Wouvermans--all long since dispersed at the hands of Christie and Manson, but still retaining its fireplace with the ornamental fire-dogs bearing the arms and initials H. A. of Henry VIII. and Anne Boleyn, royal guests of the Chevers in the good old days. Through the Brown Gallery and Lady Betty Chiddingstone's chamber, through the Spangled Bedroom, and the King's Room, where James I. had passed a night, through the Organ Room, where still stood the ancient instrument which had been used for divine service in connection with the adjoining chapel, long since dismantled and half in ruins, they passed; and in each the old cicerone poured forth her oft-told tale of byegone glories.
 
While in each of these rooms, Yeldham indulged in retrospect, peopling them according to his fancy with those who might have inhabited them, picturing to himself how the stately lords and ladies lived and moved and had their being; and smiled half-cynically to himself in the thought that, other differences allowed, they were doubtless swayed by the same passions, victims of the same hopes and fears and doubts, moved by the same temptations, and acted on by the same impulses as we of these degenerate days. He was surprised to find that his companion was going through the house in the most practical manner, apportioning the rooms one by one to their several purposes, deciding upon the Brown Gallery for a drawing-room, the King's Chamber for the principal bedroom, planning the furniture and fittings for the great hall, and altogether comporting himself as though he were the head of a large family come down to make the necessary arrangements for its immediate induction. This notion struck him at first comically, but when he saw it persevered in in every detail, he began to think more seriously of it; and after they had left the house, and were again in the trap driving back to the station, he turned to his friend and said,
 
"Why, Robert, what on earth is in your head now? I've been perfectly astonished in watching you ever since we entered Middlemeads."
 
"Have you? In what way have I excited your astonishment? Did I swagger too much about my purchase? did I what they call 'gush' about my place?"
 
"Not a bit; and if you had, there would have been every excuse for you. A more delightful old house and more perfect grounds never were seen."
 
"Well, then, what did I do?"
 
"Well, it seemed to me that you didn't regard the place from a bachelor point of view. You were planning drawing-rooms, and bedrooms, and dining-halls, and----"
 
"You know that my mother and sister form part of my belongings?"
 
"Ye-es; but I didn't hear any mention of your mother and sister, and----"
 
"Speak plainly, Charley, and say that you think I contemplate matrimony."
 
"And suppose I were to say so?"
 
"Suppose you were? Well, then, all I could say would be--that I felt myself a sneak for not having owned the fact before to you, my dear old friend. But in any thing out of my regular routine of business I'm as shy as a great schoolgirl; and I could not bring myself to tell even you about it."
 
"Then it's a case, Robert. A case at last with you, of all men in the world. I feel now that even I myself am not impregnable, after 'Bob Sobersides' has surrendered at discretion."
 
"Chat away, old fellow. I've no reply to make, save that the opposing force was irresistible--as I think you'll allow."
 
"My dear Streightley, I hope I'm a true friend, but I don't think you could have a worse confidant in an affair of this kind, so far as giving any opinion on an unknown young lady is concerned----"
 
"But suppose the young lady is not unknown to you?"
 
"Not unknown to me! Well, that alters the case of course. But, God bless my soul, who can--who can have won your love in this sudden way, Robert? You're not a man of impulse; you're accustomed to think deeply, and weigh and balance before committing yourself--you would not do any thing rash. Who on earth can it be?"
 
"I'm a bad hand at concealing any thing of this sort," said Streightley with a half-rueful smile. "Indeed, I think I must seem awkward about the whole business; but the truth of it is, old friend--I'm madly in love with Miss Guyon, and I hope to make her my wife."
 
"Miss Guyon?"
 
"Ay, Miss Guyon. It has not been a long acquaintance, I know; but I believe those things never are--I mean that--you know what I mean. But you know her; at least you've seen her, and--that must be my excuse for the rashness, and the folly, and whatever the world chooses to call it. For she is very lovely, isn't she, Charley?"
 
"Very lovely, indeed!" said Yeldham.
 
And then, as though by a tacit understanding, both men leaned back in the carriage, and delivered themselves up to their own reflections.
 
Needless to say what were Robert Streightley's. Vague desires to call up well-remembered expressions of Katharine's faze, which yet refused to be recalled at the moment; dim distrusts and doubts of his own chance of winning her hand; soul-disturbing thoughts of her friendship with Gordon Frere; wild plots of laying Mr. Guyon under even greater obligations to him, and thus making sure of his alliance and support; dreamy reminiscences of how she had looked and moved, and what she had done and said on the several occasions when he had seen her.
 
Charles Yeldham's thoughts were of a very different kind. Here was this simple girl, of whose existence he had scarcely known a few days ago, now exercising influence over the future fate of three--no, of two men: as for himself--bah! the chambers and the pleadings, the hard work which was to make up little Clare's dowry,--that was his fate, and there was an end of it so far as he was concerned. But Gordon? Poor Gordon, who had gone off full of life and hope to urge upon his father the necessity of "doing something for him," actuated thereto solely by the hope of propitiating Mr. Guyon by being able to show himself in a position to ask for Katharine's hand; poor Gordon, who was at that moment doubtless promising and vowing all sorts of things in his own name to his father, and who, if he succeeded in getting promise of an appointment, would write off triumphantly in prosecution of his suit, or who, if he failed, would come back to town and try and pursue it without the necessary qualification, but who in either case would have a cold shoulder turned upon him and the door shut in his face so soon as a suitor of Streightley's calibre was known to have entered the lists. "I hope to make her my wife." Those were Robert Streightley's words; and from them Yeldham could not gather whether or not the final question had been asked; but be that as it might, he knew sufficiently of Mr. Guyon to feel certain that Gordon's hopes were destined to suffer utter wreck. Would not the girl herself be true to the--to the what? What could this poor lad adduce in support of the flame which he had nourished but the ordinary flirtation-phrases indulged in night after night in hundreds of London ball-rooms? How could he (Yeldham) tell whether Katharine loved Gordon or not? He had no clearer indication than the readiness of a joyous, enthusiastic, rather trivial nature to believe in the existence of what it hoped and desired; he shrunk from the idea of the lad's disappointment, but, after all, he knew Gordon Frere too well to suppose that he would be unlike the remainder of mankind, that he would not get over it in time--in perhaps no very long time. Had it been himself now,--had he loved Katharine Guyon and another came to win her from him by his superior wealth--but he would not pursue so futile a thought as that,--he had nothing to do with love. Hard work, and not the indulgence of fancy, was his lot; and he was content. He wished it was over though, and that Gordon knew the worst.
 
These and many other thoughts resembling them chased each other through Yeldham's brain, and rendered it difficult to him to keep up even the desultory conversation for which only Streightley was disposed. The friends parted at the railway station, and Yeldham betook himself at once to his chambers. It was a still, hot evening, and the airlessness of the rooms oppressed him. He was a man little influenced by such things ordinarily; yet this evening the grim cheerlessness, the dust, the ungentle disarray, in whose disorderliness there was a kind of order, of which he held the key; the harsh bundles of papers, the very fittings of the rooms, in which all was scrupulously designed for use, and as devoid of ornament as only true British business upholstery knows how to be,--all these things made themselves suddenly apparent. He revolted against them, against his life in general. It suddenly seemed alike hard and useless: what was he grinding away like this for? supposing his object accomplished, cui bono? An unwholesome frame of mind to be betrayed into, even for a little while--a relaxation, a renunciation of the great principle of duty which had upheld and guided him so long; and Charles Yeldham knew that it was so, and felt afraid of himself. He shrank from the first insidious chill of the advancing tide of discontent; he recognised the deadliness of it.
 
"Yes, that's it," he said thoughtfully, when, having emptied his letter-box, and looked over the memoranda left for his inspection by his clerk, he sat moodily by the open window, through which faint sounds from the river reached his ears: "Yes, that's it. I have seen a fine place to-day, and talked with a rich man--a man who hardly knows how rich he really is, I fancy--about what he is to do with his money; and I suppose I am actually envious, cut up by the sight of something desirable that never can be mine. He is going to invest in happiness, is he?--to buy a beautiful idol, and set her up in a splendid shrine? he's rich enough to do it, if he likes. I wonder how it is really. I wonder whether he will be as happy as he believes. But no--I don't wonder any thing of the kind, of course; no one ever was or will be, since life is limited, and faith is infinite. It's a dull business, I fancy, even at the best--as dull perhaps as it is to me, who am so very far off the best."
 
And then Charles Yeldham rose, shook off the unusual and perilous mood which had held him already too long, and sat down resolutely to his work. It was very late that night when he went to bed; and sleep kept away from him in a harassing manner. The events of the day reproduced themselves in his thoughts, which escaped his control, and dragged him in their course. The strange imbroglio in which he found himself engaged; the clashing interests of two friends, in whom he was greatly though not equally interested; the certain crash of the hopes and projects of one of them; his uncertainty of the extent to which Streightley had received encouragement, but which his knowledge of Robert's real diffidence of character and unconsciousness of his own value in the eyes of a scheming and mercenary society, induced him to believe must have been considerable; his doubts as to the course he ought to pursue towards Gordon;--no wonder he could not sleep while these conflicting thoughts battled with each other in his mind.
 
The practical result of his cogitations was, that Charles Yeldham decided on postponing any communication with Frere until his return. Gordon was not likely to write to him--he hated letter-writing rather more than he hated any other kind of mental exertion; and whether his application to his father might have good results or not, he would no doubt return without delay. On the other perplexing question--had Streightley proposed to Miss Guyon?--Yeldham ardently desired information; but for the present there was no means of attaining it within his reach. He must wait like the others--only not like them in this, that he did not wait and hope. He was only an outsider, an inconsiderable person, the recipient of half-confidence on one side, the confidant of baseless hopes, as he feared, upon the other; while to one principally concerned he was nothing. No conjuncture of affairs could make him an object of importance in the life of the proud beautiful girl, whose fair face came between him and every thing on which he strove to fix his attention; the only woman's face which had ever charmed Charles Yeldham.
 
 
Hester Gould had seen a good deal of her friends at Hampstead since the evening on which she had made so favourable an impression on Mr. Daniel Thacker. She had accompanied her dear Rachel and Rebecca to the Botanical promenade, whither they had repaired arrayed in much splendour, and with the gorgeousness of colouring and richness of material affected by their nation. Mr. Thacker had joined the party, and had exerted himself to the utmost to be agreeable to Miss Gould, whom he admired more than ever, when he contrasted the taste and propriety of her dress with the splendid array of his sisters, from which he shrunk with dismay. As it suited Hester's plans for obtaining information that Daniel Thacker should succeed in these efforts, he did succeed, and she had enjoyed an opportunity of observing Miss Guyon closely and attentively, during her animated conversation with Gordon Frere, and also during her father's empressé introduction of Streightley to her notice. She had decided, with characteristic readiness, on entering the grounds, that she would tell Thacker that she wished to see Miss Guyon; and she had done so. Mr. Thacker had entertained a distinct purpose of business, in addition to that of pleasure, in coming to the fête; and it was a source of conscientious gratification to him that he found himself enabled to serve both. He had been informed by Mr. Guyon that Streightley would be there, and he resolved to see for himself how that gentleman stood with Miss Guyon. Thus he and Hester were each bent upon a similar object. There was, however, one material difference between their modes of pursuing it. Mr. Thacker did not begin to watch Katharine until Streightley joined her. Hester Gould watched her from the first moment she distinguished her figure amid the gay group, which was one of the most conspicuous in the gardens. She watched her, not with the jealous gaze of an angry woman watching a dangerous rival, but with unclouded, unprejudiced senses, with close admiring attention, and the keen perception of a woman gifted with intuitive knowledge of the world, a cool temper, and unusual discretion. She had seen expectation and pleasure in every line of Miss Guyon's expressive face, as Gordon joined her; she had marked the heightened colour, the brightened eye, as they passed and repassed each other; she had heard the note of irrepressible gladness in the sweet musical voice; and Hester Gould knew that Katharine Guyon loved the fair-haired young man, in whose air and figure she recognised the ease and self-possession, the simplicity and frankness, which made Gordon so attractive, as well as the girl who was giving herself up to all the unrestrained happiness of young love knew it. Hester did not ask her companion who Gordon Frere was; she did not attract his attention to the young gentleman at all; on the contrary, she engrossed it so completely, that when she said quietly, "There is Ellen Streightley's brother talking to your friend's daughter now, Mr. Thacker," Daniel looked round with a start, and felt that he had almost forgotten the business part of his purpose.
 
A bow of recognition had passed between Mr. Guyon and Mr. Daniel Thacker, but Robert Streightley had not seen Miss Gould. It had not been her intention that he should see her; her purpose was to observe him closely, and she had effected it. She was no more mistaken in her estimate of his sentiments than in that of Katharine's; and it vas characteristic of her that, though her observations changed a vague surmise into a positive certainty, a threatening risk into a certain present danger, she betrayed not a sign of uneasiness or discouragement. Neither her colour nor her countenance changed, though she saw before her eyes the overthrow of a scheme cherished long and deeply--though she could only calculate the chances in her favour by a vague speculation on the possible fortune and position of the young man she had seen with Katharine; or, supposing he had neither, on Katharine's strength of determination in opposition to her father. It was also characteristic of Hester Gould that, though she had determined to marry Streightley without permitting herself to love him, she told herself that night that she felt a degree of dislike to Katharine Guyon, which might, if she did not take care, grow into hatred.
 
"She is my unconscious and involuntary rival," said the strange woman, whose candour towards herself was never laid aside, "and I must not hate her; for hatred is troublesome--a passion--and I will never put myself under the tyranny of a passion."
 
Hester Gould was at the Brixton Villa when Robert returned from his visit to Middlemeads. Mrs. Streightley and his sister were aware that he had gone into the country, but they knew no more. When he examined the letters sent by his orders from the City, he found among them one from Mr. Guyon, requesting him, if possible, to call on him on the following day, leaving the hour to his selection, but urging his attention to the request. The letter was a dainty missive, with a fine coloured monogram on the seal, and expressing in its appearance as wide a difference between itself and Robert's ordinary correspondence as it was in the power of stationery to convey. Ellen Streightley was one of those young ladies blessed with a taste for simple pleasures, and who rated the possession of crests and monograms very high among them. Accordingly she exclaimed,
 
"O Robert, that's something in my line. Do let me have it!"
 
He handed her the envelope.
 
"O, how delightfully intricate! I can't make it out. What are the letters, Robert? Whose name is it?"
 
"The letters are K.S.G.," said Robert, rather reluctantly.
 
Hester watched him closely: "O, that's it, is it? but what is the name?"
 
"Katharine Sibylla Guyon," replied Robert; and still Hester watched his embarrassment. "But the note is from Mr. Guyon--he wants to see me. I suppose he wrote it at his daughter's desk."
 
Ellen perceived nothing of her brother's embarrassment, and went on:
 
"Robert, you never saw Hester the other day at the Botanical Fête, but she saw you; and you were talking to such a beautiful girl; she says she is sure it was Miss Guyon,--was it?"
 
"Yes," returned her brother, "that was Miss Guyon; it must have been, for I did not know any other lady who was there. I am sorry I did not see you, Miss Gould. Did you enjoy the fête?"
 
"Very much indeed," said Hester. "I was particularly struck with Miss Guyon. She seems to be very much admired. I saw a gentleman with her before you arrived,--a very young man with fair hair, very handsome. He seemed completely captivated, I thought. You must excuse my talking such nonsense, ma'am; but I really was amused looking at them. Do you know who he is, Mr. Streightley?"
 
"I fancy from your description the gentleman in question is a Mr. Gordon Frere," Robert answered in a formal tone, whose bitterness and displeasure Hester Gould did not fail to recognise. She turned the conversation at once, and took her leave early, having received all Ellen's confidences before Robert's return, and having duly admired the mingled piety and sentiment of the Reverend Decimus Dutton's latest letter.
 
Ellen retired immediately after Hester's departure, and was soon fast asleep, with a neat packet of the missionary's love-letters under her pillow, and a locket containing a photographic likeness of that apostle, which might have taken a prize for feebleness, resting upon her innocent breast.
 
Robert Streightley sat up late with his mother, and told her of his visit to Middlemeads, his purposes respecting the estate, and the hopes which had led to their formation.
CHAPTER X.  STRUGGLE.
 Robert Streightley slept but little on the night after his visit to Middlemeads; for that note which he had found awaiting him from Mr. Guyon sat heavy on his soul. Wanted to see him on particular business, eh? What did that particular business mean? Not more money advances, surely? Such transactions as he had had with Mr. Guyon were small enough to a man accustomed to the particular kind of business, the loans and contracts and subsidies, with which the firm of Streightley and Son were in the habit of dealing; but yet Robert, however wilfully blind, could not shut his eyes to the fact that he had already supplied Mr. Guyon with loans for which he had nothing like adequate security. Could Mr. Guyon possibly mean to touch upon that other subject, which, as a man of the world, he must have already divined lay very close at Robert Streightley's heart? Could he intend to broach the question of his daughter----? As the idea crossed Streightley's mind he felt his cheek flush, and the cold beads of perspiration start out upon his forehead.
 
For he was an honourable man, brought up in an honourable school, where "a fair fight and no favour" had been the motto from time immemorial, and where any one taking undue advantage or seeking to compass his ends by unfair means toward his rival would have been scouted with ignominy. And he felt--how could he but feel?--that the struggle in which he was at that moment engaged was scarcely being conducted in the same open manner. He felt that he was creeping up towards the assault under the protection of a hireling guerilla force, which, with all the advantage of the knowledge of the ground, was pushing its renegade advantage, furthering his advance here, throwing out earthworks for the hindrance of the enemy there, and all from the mere sordid love of gain and chances of plunder, but without the smallest heartiness of feeling in the matter. Not a nice feeling for a man of Robert Streightley's sense of punctilio. It galled him, and he chafed against it sadly during the long watches of that night. What was it? a caprice, a sudden fancy, a madness which had stung him,--that he, a mature man of confirmed bachelor habits, with his own household gods around him, and his own life completely settled and hitherto sufficient, should suddenly break through all his customs--yes, that would be nothing, but break through them in a weak and feeble manner--break through them in a way in which he, so far as he read it to himself, took no active part, but suffered himself to be the mere tool and instrument--for his own purposes indeed--in hands which were certainly not exempt from suspicion of being soiled. This was bad, very bad indeed. What should he say to himself suppose a parallel case in the business world--that world which he understood, which had hitherto been his sole life, and out of which he felt he could not with safety emerge--had been submitted to him? Why, he would have declared that, as a point of honour, a man in that position ought at once to set himself free from such trammels. And if in business, surely in love there was all the more reason for his doing so. For his part he would hesitate no longer; he would at once drop the Guyon acquaintance, sinking the advances which he had up to that point made to Mr. Guyon, and writing them off as salutary experience lightly paid for, and---- And then, as he lay tossing on his fevered pillow, rose before him a vision of Katharine in all her grace and beauty--Katharine saucily laughing at Mr. Mostyn's solemn vanity; Katharine the cynosure of all at the Botanical promenade, queening it amongst the loveliest and the best-bred, evoking admiration from all; Katharine with earnest face and downcast eyes, then with flushed cheek and sparkling glance, in conversation with Gordon Frere--No! that last thought was too much. In Robert Streightley's nature there lay hitherto latent an amount of mad, blinding, unreasoning jealousy, whose existence was suspected by none of his friends, by him least of all; but it leapt into flame as this last picture crossed his mind, and all thoughts of withdrawal from the career in which he had suffered himself to be embarked shrivelled up before its scorching heat. It should not be from want of perseverance on his part, nor from want of employment of all the resources at his command, that he would fail in this the--yes, the really first scheme in his life in which he had taken hearty interest. He would need all his skill, and tact, and patience to carry it through--ah if he could only sleep now--if he could only forget for an instant those haunting eyes, that queenly form, that sweet winning smile!
 
He lay awake during all the early hours of that morning; and it was nearly five o'clock before he sunk into a heavy, unrefreshing slumber, from which, despite old Alice's repeated warnings, he did not wake until long past nine. Then he had his bath and dressed himself, and went slouching down to breakfast with pale face and red eyelids, and a wearied anxious look. Mrs. Streightley had ere this sallied forth armed with a complete library of little red books, over which she waged weekly warfare with the neighbouring tradespeople; and Ellen had an "early service" on, followed by a little light recreation of district-visiting and a small interlude of first meeting Of coal and flannel fund; so that Robert had only his old nurse to watch over him at breakfast, and render every mouthful additionally distasteful by her comments.
 
"Well, Lord knows I never thought to have lived to have seen this day," said the old woman, when Robert, after a vain attempt at eating, pushed his plate away from before him--"that any child of your father's, let alone you, for whom he thought, and cared, and slaved most, should have quarrelled with the victuals provided for him in this house, I didn't expect."
 
"Ah, nurse!" said Robert, trying to smile, "it's not what's provided--I'm not well just now, somehow--I----"
 
"Not well, indeed! I know what's the matter with you. You're in love, and pleased with ruin as the saying is,--that's what ails you. O, don't frown and look so; do you think the old woman don't know those signs, Robert, my boy? No appetite, and looking a long way off, and never speaking when spoke to? Lor' bless yer. And do you think old Alice don't know what that means? Come, they're all out, Robert! tell me who it is. Tell the old woman who nursed you when you couldn't speak, or scarce cry, for the matter of that, you was that weak; and the doctor never thought to have brought you through it, and wouldn't if it hadn't been for me, though I say it as shouldn't; tell old Alice all about it, deary; tell her and trust her, as you used to--O, so long ago."
 
"There's nothing to tell, Alice," said Robert with a forced laugh, rising from his chair; "you've made a pretty story for yourself, nurse, but I'm too old now to be amused at it even, much less to think of taking one of the characters. I'm a little overdone with business, that's all."
 
"Is it?" said the old woman shortly. "Well,--if it's business, that's all right. But it's the first time since ever I've been connected with the house of Streightley and Son, and that's nigh fifty year, that I heard it was necessary to forward the business of the house, or to captivate the brokers and the shipping-agents and that like, by dressing oneself up in fal-lal clothes, and by dancing attendance at opera and play houses (I found the papers of them in your pockets) until all hours in the morning. And I'm thinking that if that is the way, your father made but a poor hand at it, Master Robert; and it's a great mercy that he didn't ruin the whole concern." And so saying, and with a sniff of great meaning, the old lady retired from the room.
 
By no means reassured or made more comfortable even by this short interview--for he was a nervous man in some things and very much disliked what he called "being upset"--Robert Streightley pushed the breakfast things away from him, and started off for town. He had dropped the omnibus long since, and took a cab as a matter of course; and as he journeyed along he could not help contrasting the splendour of the house he had yesterday visited with the meanness of that one which he had just left. Both were his own, and both were to a certain extent typical of his life: in the latter with frugal commonplace people his money had been made; in the former with one bright being it should be spent. Yes; he had had enough of this daily grind of business, this sordid strife; and he had determined that henceforth--if his hopes were realised--he would live a different life. If his hopes were realised? what forbade their realisation? This man,--this Gordon Frere, was younger it is true, better-looking, more of a "lady's man" than he; but he himself was not so old, not so hideous, not so--Ah! good God! What a fool he was for arguing the question in this way, even to himself! He felt that he loved this girl, and that on that deep love and earnest devotion alone must he rely for the success of his suit.
 
He found Mr. Guyon awaiting him in the dining-room, with the Morning Post on the very verge of the table; and a large blotting-book, a portentous inkstand, and a perfect armoury of steel pens close in front of him. The flavour of Turkish tobacco hung round the apartment, and a cut-glass goblet containing the remains of a draught that looked suspiciously like brandy and soda-water stood on the velvet mantelpiece. Mr. Guyon himself, dressed in the loose lounging jacket and the Turkish trousers, lay on the sofa with the butt-end of a cigarette in his mouth, and extended his hand to his friend in cordial greeting.
 
"I take this doosid kind of you, my dear Streightley, coming round in this way when I asked you. Doosid kind!" said Mr. Guyon; "and I show my appreciation of it by receiving you without the least ceremony or the least humbug--which is the greater compliment. When one says to a fellow, 'I want to see you on a matter of business,' the fellow who's good enough to come round naturally expects to see the fellow who sent for him in a state of business--stiff shirt-collar, and almanac, and all that kind of thing. That's what I myself should do to some fellows; but I don't to you. I say to myself, 'He's above all that sort of dodgery. He's a real man of business, and would see through it at once. Let him take me as I am. I'm an idle, nothing-doing, pleasure-seeking son of a gun: he knows it; why should I attempt to disguise my natural self from him and prove myself to be somebody else? Let him see me as my natural self."
 
Here Mr. Guyon paused for an instant to take a sip from the cut-glass goblet and to throw away the butt-end of the cigarette. Feeling it incumbent on him to say something, Robert Streightley murmured, "Very kind!"
 
"No," said Mr. Guyon, raising himself on his elbow, and looking lazily across the table at his visitor, "not very kind. Shrewd, perhaps, but not kind. When a man is in want of serious advice, and goes to the fountain-head for--that kind of thing--boldly and without scruple, he may be said to be shrewd. Now, that's my case; and I come to you."
 
This, so far, was so like the commencement of Mr. Guyon's conversations when loans were in question that Streightley had made up his mind that more money was required; he changed his opinion, however, as his host proceeded.
 
"Now, my dear Robert,--you'll forgive an old fellow's familiarity, won't you? I don't often indulge in a fancy, but when I do I'm like the--ivy, damme, I cling. You can see, you must have seen plainly enough long since, that I'm not a man of business. In three words, I hate it. If I had been a rich man, I'd have had a fellow to do all my business for me while I smoked my cigarette and looked on; and hitherto whenever it's been a question of business, money, and all those horrible details arising from the want of it, I've shirked it as long as I could, and then stumbled through it in a devilish blind, stupid, haphazard kind of manner. That's been all very well so far; but now another question arises,--a very different question--one touching the heart and that kind of thing, and the welfare of a person who--however, I'll go into that by and by;--a question on which, I feel so deeply, that I've determined to be guided by the advice of the clearest-headed man of my acquaintance--and so I've sent for you."
 
Robert Streightley bowed, and murmured a few words of incoherent thanks. Not money! Question on which he felt so deeply! What was Mr. Guyon driving at?
 
"I will be perfectly plain with you, my dear Robert," said Mr. Guyon, "frank as the day, all open and aboveboard. I won't disguise from you, I don't attempt to disguise it from myself, that perhaps there never was a man less fitted than I am to have been blessed with what would be a crowning solace to many men--a daughter." Streightley involuntarily started as these words met his ear; and Mr. Guyon noticed the start, but he did not betray himself, and proceeded. "I'm not a domestic man, and not cut out for domestic happiness. I believe my enemies call me a loose fish, and 'pon my soul I think they're right. I like my rubber and my club, and--in fact, my freedom. I'm a sort of claret-and-entrée butterfly, and was never intended for the roast-joint and bread-and-cheese menagé of respectability and home consumption. However, what was intended and what is are two very different things. I have a daughter, and--well, you're a man of the world, and I won't bore you with a father's maudlin praises of his child. She is--there, I was very near breaking into what I had just declared I would not do!--what I mean to say is, her future is my greatest care. I've been a man of the world myself, and I know all she will be exposed to, and, my dear Robert, I tremble when I think of it. I've only to refer to my own conscience to see what might be in store for her. Her poor mother--of whom she is the very image--was weak enough to marry me; and though--though I always treated her as a gentleman should treat his wife, by Jove! I know I--many shortcomings."
 
Here Mr. Guyon buried his face in a large white pocket-handkerchief; and Streightley, not knowing what to say or do, drummed vacantly on the table.
 
"You follow me, my dear boy? Of course, I knew you would," resumed Mr. Guyon after a momentary pause. "Now wait and hear the rest. A girl like Katharine, possessing--well, what I suppose even I may call many attractions--will necessarily receive a vast amount of admiration from all sorts of men; and it will be my duty--and a duty which I shall perform with the greatest strictness; she has no mother, you know, poor girl! and I must be doubly vigilant--to see that she does not get led away and tempted into any foolish alliance by any good-looking young fashionable fop with nothing but his good looks to recommend him. What my girl requires in a husband--for she is light and giddy, like the rest of her sex--is ballast, my dear Robert; a man of matured experience and not too young in years; one whom she could look up to, who could give her the position which her beauty, and--I may say her birth--entitle her to;--that's the sort of husband to whom alone I should be happy in giving my Katharine."
 
Mr. Guyon paused once more, and Streightley bowed again in an absent manner, his right hand all the time plucking at his chin.
 
"The--the ideal, if I may so call it, that I have just drawn by no means resembles the writer of a letter which I received this morning honouring me by a proposal for Katharine's hand." Streightley's arm dropped upon the table, and he leant forward with an eager gaze. "Yes, my dear Robert, the Goths are already in full march upon the--what d'ye call 'em?--Capitol; and it is under these circumstances that I have sent for you to ask your advice."
 
"You--you're very good," murmured Streightley; "and of course any thing that I can do--but I really scarcely see in such a matter as this--and without knowing--knowing any thing of the--the parties----"
 
"My dear Robert, you don't think I would have sent for you with the notion of making any half-confidences. You shall know every detail. The writer of this letter," pursued Mr. Guyon, producing a packet from his desk,--"of these two letters rather, for there is an enclosure for Katharine which I have not yet delivered--is a young man whom you may have seen with us--a Mr. Gordon Frere. A doosid good-looking, well-born, well-connected young fellow, who seems tremendously in earnest about it too," continued Mr. Guyon, balancing his trim gold eyeglasses on the bridge of his nose; "for he writes to me to say--to say that--there, I need not read his letter--the gist of it is that he's been down to his father, at some place in the country where he writes from, and his father, who is a member of the House, has promised to use his influence with Government to get him a decent berth. Now that's plucky and honourable--I like that, eh, Robert?"
 
"O yes, sir--very honourable indeed," said Streightley nervously. "I think you mentioned that you had not forwarded the enclosure to Miss Guyon?"
 
"Not yet,--no. I was desirous of having your opinion--as a man of business--on the proposal."
 
It had come at last then, this long-expected blow to that dream of future happiness in which, spite of his own better reasoning, he had dared to indulge. She would be wrested from him--be taken to the heart of that smooth-spoken dandy whom he had loathed from the first instant of seeing him. All her loveliness--ah, how he remembered each brilliant charm!--would go to grace the life of that silly fop. The blood rushed back to Robert Streightley's heart as he thought of all this; his teeth were clenched, his pallid lips trembled and shook, and he thought that if he had had Gordon Frere before him at that instant he could have killed him without remorse. For an instant his better feeling struggled with his passion--the struggle was short and sharp, but the passion was victorious; and he said, in a strange dry voice,
 
"This gentleman scarcely fulfils the requirements you named just now, Mr. Guyon?"
 
"Admirably put, my dear Robert--clearly and admirably put! I must allow it, he does not."
 
"If there were some one who, by his age and position at least, was calculated to--to be to this young lady--what you----"
 
"Yes, my dear Robert, yes I--"
 
"Who----" Then with a great gulp----"I'm a bad hand at beating about the bush, sir. What I have seen of Miss Guyon has so enthralled me, that--that I would give my life to win her for my wife."
 
He sought his handkerchief to wipe his fevered lips, but Mr. Guyon caught his hand and pressed it warmly. "You, Robert, you? My dear boy, those are the happiest words that my ears have heard this many a day. You? Why, in a father's--what you may call fondest dreams, I could not have hoped for such good news as this! You? Why, of all people on earth, the very man!"
 
"The very man" looked any thing but happy as he sat there with pallid lips and puckered forehead and rapidly-beating heart--sat there silent and downcast, only occasionally raising his eyes to glance at the letter which Mr. Guyon had placed on the table before him. At that letter he stole long wistful glances; it seemed to possess for him a kind of baleful attraction; and after a short interval his regard fixed on it so directly that his companion could not fail to notice it. But though Mr. Guyon fully comprehended what was passing within Robert Streightley's breast, it by no means suited him to refer to it at once.
 
"My dear Robert," said he, after a few minutes' pause, "the unexpected delight of your communication just made has really taken me--even old stager as I am--what I may call off my legs! I understand you to propose for my daughter's hand?"
 
"The very man" said never a word, but bowed his head abstractedly.
 
"Then I congratulate you and myself, my dear boy!" said the elder man, again seizing his companion's passive hand--"and I think we may regard it as a settled thing. My daughter has not seen much of you at present, but I am quite certain that when she once comes to know the qualities of your head and heart, she will----"
 
"What about that letter, Mr. Guyon?" said Robert Streightley in a cold, hard voice, pointing to the envelope still lying on the table.
 
"That letter!" echoed Mr. Guyon, his face falling considerably. "Well, my dear Robert, there's no denying that--eh? That letter--you see that young man Frere, Gordon Frere, gentlemanly fellow, good address, and all that kind of thing, has had opportunities of--in fact making his way, which--wilful woman and so on. Gad, if that letter were delivered, there's no knowing how things might turn out!"
 
Streightley's heart sunk within him, and he turned faint and sick; but he controlled himself sufficiently to say:
 
"Then you were a little rash in your congratulations, Mr. Guyon?"
 
"Not at all, my dear boy, not at all. Recollect--I spoke of a contingency. I said--if that letter were delivered."
 
"If that letter were delivered to Miss Guyon? Do you mean to say that you would dare to Withhold it from her?"
 
"'Dare' is a very awkward word, my dear Robert. It appears to me that if one could select two men as judges of what should or should not be addressed to a young lady, they would be her father--and her intended husband."
 
"But that letter!"
 
"Well, my dear fellow--that letter? Shall I give it to Katharine? Shall we instal Mr. Gordon Frere into what should and what will be your position?--shall I subject myself to a fortnight's confounded rows, and finally saddle myself for life with a 'detrimental' son-in-law? or shall I quietly put it by, and acquaint my daughter with your very delightful proposal? My dear Robert, you look aside and shake your head; but I am an older man than you, and know that I am--that we are--acting for the best. Recollect what the fellow--Kean, I think--says in the play: 'He that is robbed not wanting what is stolen, let him not know it and he's not robbed at all.' Doosid good that, and doosid appropriate. So we'll settle upon that course, eh? and you'll leave all to me?--What! you're not going, my dear boy--you'll stay to luncheon?"
 
"Not this morning, thank you; not now, Mr. Guyon--I--I must go now!" and Robert Streightley passed into the street, and for the first time in his life felt a sense of shame at his heart, and a desire to shun the glances of those whom he encountered.
 
Mr. Guyon, so soon as the door had closed behind his friend, drew his chair to his desk, carefully read through Gordon Frere's letter to Katharine, hitherto unopened, replaced it and the letter to himself in their envelope, which he carefully endorsed with the words "Shown to R.S." and the date, and locked them away in a private drawer. Then he wrote a rather long and elaborate letter to Mr. Frere, addressed it with great care, was very natty in his arrangement of its postage-stamp, sealed it with a large splodge of red wax bearing his coat-of-arms, and went upstairs.
 
 
On the third night after the events just recorded Charles Yeldham and Gordon Frere were walking up and down the departure platform at London Bridge, by the side of the mail-train just about to start. Frere was dressed in travelling costume, and looked, as most young fellows do in such garb, sufficiently picturesque. But his face was deadly pale, save where there were blotches of bright red under his eyes.
 
"Now listen, Charley," said he, "and hear my last words. I go away, cursing that woman. You know I'm not romantic, or melodramatic, or any thing of that kind; but she's spoilt my life for me, and I curse her for it. It's too bad,--by the Lord, it's too bad! You know how I--yes, damme, how I loved her. Followed her about like a spaniel, and she could have done any thing with me. And then never to keep her appointment, never to send me a line; and then when I write and make her a regular offer, never to take the least notice--not a line, by Jove!--and to leave her infernal old father to write to me that she's engaged to that cold-blooded, mannerless beast, Streightley! O, I know he's a friend of yours; but, damme it's too bad! And when the governor, dear old boy, had actually got me a nomination to the Treasury, and--however, that's thrown up, and I'm going out to an infernal German principality to be secretary to that bewigged old fool in that carriage, and leaving you, and all through the tricks of that heartless coquette! O yes, all right! I hear the bell, and I'm going to get in. Now, God bless you, old boy; but recollect my last words. I leave this place cursing that girl, and I'll be even with her yet!"
 
Mr. Frere wrung his friend's hand and sprang into the carriage as the train began to move. Charles Yeldham waited until the last glimmer of its red lamps had died away, then turned slowly round, and walked towards his dreary chambers.
 
"It's very bad for you, Gordon, my poor boy!" said he to himself as he strolled along; "very bad indeed, just now! but I sadly fear it will be worse for others in the long-run--and for poor Bob Streightley worst of all!"
 
CHAPTER XI.  LEFT LAMENTING.
 The morning sun, which arose on the world with its accustomed regularity, shone steadily on to its noonday splendour; but found Katharine no more resigned or peaceful than she had been on the previous night. She had been little used to opposition or contradiction, and she did not brook them easily. That she should have been disappointed in the matter of Mrs. Tresillian's ball was natural enough; but that she should have been put so completely out of temper and out of spirits by the disappointment as to have made the fact glaringly apparent to her father and the "City man," was not at all natural to Katharine's well-bred self-command and sense of what was due to good manners and her self-respect. She was discontented with herself, provoked with Lady Henmarsh, and miserable in reflecting upon the disappointment which Gordon Frere had doubtless sustained, and in fancying that he might have imputed her absence to coldness or caprice. Love had taken possession of the girl, had utterly humbled her, and she had no thought of her own charms, her own importance, no notion that Frere might hesitate to ask her to share a destiny which could not be represented as brilliant; she never considered or questioned his position for a moment. She knew he was well-born, well-connected, and in good society; but she knew and cared to know nothing beyond. She had acquired the enchanting certainty that he loved her; she felt that the next time they met he would tell her so; and her heart had no room for any thing but the mingled rapture and suspense which proceeded from the delightful experience of the preceding day, and the pitiable disappointment of the preceding evening.
 
Katharine did not see her father on the morning after the Botanical Fête. When she went down to breakfast the dusty footman gave her a message from Mr. Guyon, to the effect that he found himself obliged to go out early on particular business, and as he could not say how long he might be detained, she must not expect him to ride with her--he would return to dinner. This message was a fresh annoyance to Katharine, a new exacerbation of her already irritated temper. There now, she should be unable to ride, and no doubt Gordon was looking forward to meeting her in the Park, and would be again disappointed; indeed he might think she was purposely avoiding him,--who could tell? Katharine pushed her untasted breakfast from her and hurried upstairs to the drawing-room, where she paced up and down before the long windows with an impatient tread. Would he come? Would he call on her at the delightfully unconventional early hour he had selected for his first well-remembered visit? Perhaps--nay surely, he would! It was not far from eleven now; she glanced at the chimney-glass, smoothed her glossy hair, inspected the condition of her neat morning-dress; and then sat down to her piano to play all the tunes which he liked, and so get over the interval before his coming would be possible. But the expedient was not successful; the gay strains died away in harmonised reveries, sometimes into silence, as the girl sat and thought of her lover--glorified by her imagination and exalted by her own fervent nature into a very different being from the real Gordon Frere. If Katharine could but have seen him at that hour, what a difference might it not have made to them and to others! He was turning over the leaves of a Railway Guide, and talking away to Yeldham in all the newborn impetuosity of his approval of his friend's advice, and his resolution to act upon it. Yes, he would go at once; he would not delay an hour, he would not trust himself to see Katharine again. If he had met her at the Tresillians, he should certainly have committed himself; and Yeldham was right, quite right; of course Mr. Guyon would only laugh at him; and very justly, unless he could put forward some decided prospect for his consideration. Perhaps it was better that he had had no understanding with Katharine as to meeting within a day or two; he might not have been able to resist seeing her again. He would write her a note though, just a line saying he should be out of town for a few days--he must indeed, for she had asked him to inquire for some music she wanted at Cramer's: he could just write the note and get the music, and send both to Queen Anne Street before starting for the station. He flung down the Railway Guide, took up his hat and departed, whistling as he descended the staircase with an invincible light-heartedness, whereat Charles Yeldham smiled. The smile was not gay, however, and it vanished quickly, and the barrister laid down his pen, leaned his chin upon his folded hands, and gazed out of the window with eyes that saw nothing they looked upon. It was a most unusual thing for Charles Yeldham to indulge in a fit of abstraction, and the indulgence was brief. He brought his gaze and his thoughts back again with an effort, shook his hair from his forehead, and resumed his work doggedly.
 
Mr. Guyon, returning from his business expedition at about one o'clock, and proposing to let himself into the house by means of his latch-key, as he did not feel particularly desirous of an interview with Katharine just then, and feared she might come down to seek him, if she heard a ring, found a commissionaire just in the act of pulling the bell.
 
"Wait a minute, my man," said Mr. Guyon in his cheery way; "I'll open the door," and he suited the action to the word. "What have you got there? O, I see,--a parcel and a note for my daughter. You're paid, are you, eh? Never mind; here's another sixpence--good-day."
 
The man turned away, well pleased, and Mr. Guyon, carrying the parcel in his hand, went on into his own room. There was a note with the parcel; which was evidently a roll of music. Mr. Guyon looked at it, considered it, finally, muttering "It will always be easy to say the fellow must have lost it," he opened and read the missive. As he did so, his face brightened up. "Out of town, eh? on important business; trusts to see her the moment he returns, eh? Not if I know it, Mr. Frere,--not if I know it." Then Mr. Guyon put the note carefully away in his pocketbook, for destruction at a convenient season.
 
He next proceeded to search among a heap of cards stuck into the frame of the chimney-glass for one bearing the inscription "Mr. Gordon Frere," passed it under the riband with which the parcel was fastened, and rang the bell.
 
"Take this to Miss Guyon," said he to the footman, who answered the summons. "A commissionaire brought it just now."
 
Katharine was standing by one of the windows when the man entered the drawing-room, salver in hand. Her tall graceful figure and proud head expressed eager anticipation and waiting in their attitude.
 
"A parcel, ma'am," said the man; "a commissioner 'ave brought it."
 
"Put it down," she said, without turning her head; and several minutes elapsed before she looked round, or remembered the interruption. At length she sighed impatiently, and said aloud: "He will hardly come now, it is too near lunchtime; and if he comes later, the room is sure to be full of bores, as usual. However, I had rather he came, no matter who may be here. But it is very stupid of him not to call early." At this moment her eye lighted on the parcel, and the card attached to it. The colour rushed violently into her face, and then subsided, leaving Katharine many shades paler than usual.
 
Mr. Guyon was in very good spirits when he met his daughter at lunch. He talked and laughed and made himself as agreeable as if she had been somebody else's daughter and worth cultivating. He congratulated Katharine on her appearance both at the fête and at dinner on the previous day; he asked her where her bonnet came from, and whether her milliner was determined to ruin him completely this season? To all these sallies Katharine replied little; she was pale, distraite, decidedly out of humour. Mr. Guyon shot sharp inquiring glances at her across the table, wholly unperceived. He was a little surprised at her mood. "By Jove!" he thought, "she has been harder bit than I suspected, and this has been a near thing, I fancy. I've only given Hetty the office just in time. Something must be done before this dandy fellow comes back,--and it won't be too easy to manage Kate either."
 
These reflections troubled Mr. Guyon a little, and repressed the fine flow of his spirits; but his daughter took as little notice of one of his moods as of the other.
 
"Have you heard how Lady Henmarsh is to-day?" she asked absently; and the seemingly harmless question brought a more impartially diffused colour to Mr. Guyon's face than the evenly-defined bloom which usually embellished it.
 
"No," he replied decisively; "have you?"
 
"I have not," said Katharine. "I was thinking of walking round there to inquire for her; but James makes out that there is so much to do, after yesterday, that I saw he would only grumble if I took him out,"--Mr. Guyon breathed rather quickly, and then looked relieved,--"and, as I knew if any thing serious had been the matter with her or Sir Timothy, she would have put us off for to-day, it didn't matter."
 
"Ah, by the bye, yes!" returned her father, "we dine there to-day."
 
It was rather odd that Mr. Guyon should have said this in a tone of reminiscent surprise; for his particular business of that morning had included, if not entirely consisted of, a long interview with Lady Henmarsh; which interview had concluded with these words:
 
"Well, then, good-bye until seven. You quite understand?" on the part of the gentleman; and "Yes, I quite understand," on the part of the lady.
 
It will be remembered that Mr. Guyon had despatched a note to his complaisant cousin in the course of the preceding day, which note had borne fruit in Katharine's disappointment of the evening. It had also prepared Lady Henmarsh for Mr. Guyon's visit, and had convinced her that he "meant business." It is unnecessary to go into the details of the interview, which had taken place while Katharine had watched and waited throughout the dreary hours, and in which her fate was settled, so far as it was in the power of her father and her chaperone to settle it. Its bearings will all be clearly developed by the results; it is enough at present that each of the parties was satisfied with the views entertained and the promises made by the other.
 
Katharine looked very bright and beautiful that evening, and her manner was as gay and gracious as if Lady Henmarsh had not inflicted a severe disappointment upon her and seriously disconcerted all, her plans and hopes for one day and night at least. Her pride had received a slight wound, not a deep or deadly one as yet, but it was keen, and sensitive, and thrilled to a touch; and that card, without note or message, had touched it. She recalled her last words to Gordon Frere, his last words to her, and their tone, which meant so much more; and she could not but recoil from this incident. There was some relief in fancying that he might have taken this way of evincing pique at her absence from the ball; and when this idea occurred to her she cherished it, and at last it gave her complete comfort. There is a sort of charm in such piques and pets, when they are not carried too far, and Katharine did not care to remember that had Gordon been offended, and taken such a way of showing it, he must have indulged temper at the cost of sense, as he must have known her absence arose from no fault of hers. But Katharine, a remarkably clear-sighted person in most cases, was as blind and as silly as the rest of the world in this, and caught with eagerness at a reason which seemed to exalt her lover's devotion at the expense of his common sense. Yes, that was it of course! How foolish she had been! they would meet to-morrow; even if he did not call, he always went to Lady Tredgold's "evenings," and there they should meet, and "make it up." Katharine's girlish spirits rose, under the influence of the conviction that she had been worrying herself unnecessarily, and she was even unusually charming. The dinner-party was a pleasantly-assorted one; Sir Timothy, a perfect gentleman, old and invalided as he was, prosed away indeed, at the end of the table, but she was not near him at dinner, and he never appeared in the drawing-room. She talked brilliantly; her low well-bred laugh was heard like frequent music amid the buzz of conversation; and Mr. Mostyn, who honoured Lady Henmarsh on the present occasion, made up his mind that Katharine should be his next heroine. He calmly contemplated her animated face, and studied the details of her dress, considering whether she should be wedded to a clever Irish political adventurer (he knew a man whom he could "do" for the part admirably, and what was more and better, every one else knew him also), rescued from his brutality by the hero (Mr. Mostyn would be his own hero), and suffered to die of a broken heart in consequence of her hopeless passion for her rescuer; or whether she should merely retire, in her maiden bloom, into a convent, when the hero marries the duchess, out of compassion, and hangs wreaths of immortelles on the bell-handle of the holy house of our Lady of the Seven Dolours on each anniversary of the double event. While his mind was agitated by this dilemma, he heard Mr. Guyon say to Lady Henmarsh,
 
"Yes, we saw him yesterday at the Botanical Fête. I don't know that he mentioned your invitation. Katharine, did Mr. Frere say whether he was to dine with Lady Henmarsh to-day?"
 
Katharine turned her head quickly towards her father, and there was a slight frown on her fair brow as she answered,
 
"No, papa,--certainly not! I did not know he had been asked. When did you invite him, Lady Henmarsh?"
 
"Several days ago, Kate;--when I asked you all. I suppose he had something better to do; and really he is so horribly conceited, and represents himself as in such request every where, he is quite welcome to stay away for me."
 
The matter dropped there, but Katharine was very silent now; and Mr. Mostyn, attributing her depression to the near termination of dinner, and the inevitable move, decided that her pensive tenderness was even more charming than her sparkling allurement.
 
In the drawing-room she was silent still. When opportunity offered she said to Lady Henmarsh:
 
"How did you send Mr. Frere your invitation?"
 
"How? Why, Kate, how inquisitive you are!" and her ladyship laughed,--rather a forced laugh;--"by post, of course. To the Temple; that's all right, isn't it? I said, to meet a few friends, the Guyons, and one or two others. But, my child, I can't stay gossipping with you; there's Mrs. Weldon preparing to consider herself neglected and to take offence."
 
Katharine was not so much annoyed as she was puzzled by this incident. It is hardly necessary to tell the intelligent reader that no such invitation had ever been sent to Gordon Frere, and that the fabrication had been a happy idea of Mr. Guyon's, and hurriedly imparted to his colleague by a note before dinner. Frere's absence might be very short, and was undoubtedly very precious; and Mr. Guyon had determined to play a game which, if not exactly desperate, was very daring. This was the first card; he had played it, not with perfect, but with tolerable, success. With increased eagerness Katharine looked forward to the morrow; with such eagerness as took the healthy colour from her cheek and the limpid brightness from her eye, and replaced the one by a flickering flush, and the other by a look of anxiety and absorption. The morrow came, and she rode in the Park with her father, but did not see Gordon Frere. The routine of a London day followed; she drove out with Mrs. Stanbourne, and on her return looked over the cards which had been left during her absence, but there was not one bearing the name she longed to see. At dinner her father was in the gay spirits which had distinguished him since he had made Robert Streightley's acquaintance, and took no notice of her silence and dejection. She went to Lady Tredgold's reception, and there endured such pangs of expectation, suspense, mortification and anger, love and longing, as only a mind totally undisciplined by sorrow, and unaccustomed to finding its calculations disturbed by conflicting results, could undergo.
 
The history of the two days which succeeded that of the Botanical Fête, which had been such an eventful date in Katharine's life, and was destined to remain fixed in her memory for ever, was repeated in those which followed them. Weary waiting and wondering, heartsick longing and anger, the blind wrath of a proud heart stung and outraged, the remorseful relenting of a girlish passionate heart,--through all these, and numberless other phases of feeling and suffering, Katharine Guyon struggled friendless and alone. Pride ruled the girl outwardly, as much as love reigned in her inwardly; and the only person to whom she would have spoken, Mrs. Stanbourne, had left town suddenly, having been called away to a friend who was dangerously ill. Katharine might not have spoken to her indeed, had she been available for purposes of confidence--the calmness and steadiness of the lady's nature might have repelled her, for this was an unfortunate effect which those qualifies had frequently produced upon the impetuous and passionate young girl; but now that she was away, she felt that she would have done so, and regarded Mrs. Stanbourne's absence as an additional grievance and aggravation of the bitterness of her lot. The season was over, town was thinning fast, their own particular set had all broken up, and autumn engagements were either being eagerly discussed or busily entered upon. Days wore on--how wearily, they only who know how long time is to those who watch and wait, can tell--and Katharine did not see the face of Gordon Frere or hear his name. The girl changed visibly under the suffering of this period; the anxious look, so strange to her lustrous eyes, became fixed in them; the soft music of her laugh ceased to ring in the ears of her companions; her girlish gracefulness hardened into something defiant, very attractive to strangers, but which would have made one who loved her sad to see, and apprehensive for her future; but no one who loved her was there to watch the change in Katharine Guyon with prescient eyes.
 
The day was hot, sultry, breathless; the autumn had fairly set in, and beat fiercely upon the weary Londoners; the sense of oppression produced by the immense circumference of stone and brick was heavy upon such of the world as had any chance of escaping from it. Such as had no chance probably did not like it; "but then," in homely expressive speech, they had to "lump it;" and very few were likely to trouble themselves about them. The last flicker of the gaieties of the season had died out; and even Mr. Guyon had found it impossible to get up a Greenwich dinner-party to comprise more than four individuals, including Robert Streightley and Daniel Thacker. He had avoided his daughter as much as possible of late; and Mr. Streightley had sedulously sought her society, with every kind of tacit encouragement within her father's power to give him. It was the day named for the Greenwich dinner; and Katharine, glad to be alone, and yet feverish and miserable in her solitude, had refused to go to Lady Henmarsh's, there to hold a causerie on their several autumn plans.
 
"She will drag poor old Sir Timothy to some German baths or French watering-place, and she wants me to back her up in the cruelty," thought Katharine, as she contemptuously twisted up the note, which had contained the invitation, and desired Lady Henmarsh's page to tell his mistress she was busy and could not come; "but I won't. Why can't she go down to Deanthorpe and keep quiet?" She had been dawdling over her luncheon and feeding her Skye terrier, without taking any interest in either occupation; and she now leaned idly against the window-frame and gazed out wearily. She saw the hot, baked streets; she saw the poor old woman opposite sitting by her basket of full-blown blowsy nosegays, sheltering them and herself under the shade of a huge umbrella, fallen from its high estate on some family coach-box, and displaying sundry patches ignominious in their discrepancy with each other and general incongruity with the original fabric. The old woman was yawning, and sleeping by snatches, and Katharine's impatient weariness was increased by watching her. She turned away, and went upstairs to her own room. A newspaper lay on the table in the hall, and she took it up mechanically, and carried it with her. Her own room was spacious and airy, and physical ease and refreshment at least came to her with its stillness and its shade.
 
She sat down in an arm-chair by the window, and fell a-thinking on the invariable subject; wondering, yearning, raging, as she had done now for days which had run on into weeks, during every hour which had not been tranquillised by the anodyne of sleep. After a while she looked idly at the newspaper in her hand; and in a few minutes her eyes lighted on a paragraph which announced the departure of Lord A---- as British chargé d'affaires to the court of F----, accompanied by Mr. Gordon Frere, who attended his lordship in the character of private secretary, and a numerous suite.
 
Katharine Guyon was not a fainting woman. She had never fainted in her life, and hysterical affections she held in equal suspicion and disdain. No merciful weakness came to lessen the physical anguish she experienced, when these few lines conveyed to her shrinking soul the full assurance of the fate that had befallen her. The physical suffering of a sudden grief is always terrible, most terrible where strength reigns with tolerable equality in body and mind. Her flesh crept and burned; acute, agonising pain darted into her eyeballs, and transfixed them; a slow shivering anguish seized upon her limbs, and caused her lips to part and shudder over the clenched teeth. No cry escaped her, nor sound except a moan, half of mental pain, half of the deadly sickness, the actual nausea, which every one who has ever sustained a severe shock of pain or fear knows is its invariable accompaniment. Black rings formed themselves in the air, and dropped from under her eyes, into what seemed to her like infinite space. She wondered dimly whether this could be any thing like death; and sat there, so feeling, so wondering, she had no idea what length of time. Her maid came to her when the hour for dressing for dinner arrived, and found her pale, motionless, and tearless.
 
"I'm not well, Marwood," she said; "as papa is out, I need not go down. If you'll help me to undress, I will go to bed."
 
The woman was utterly surprised. Illness was unknown to Katharine's vigorous frame and eager spirit. She acknowledged that her mistress looked ill, and suggested sending James for a doctor.
 
"Not on any account," said Katharine; "I am suffering for my obstinacy in riding too long in the sun yesterday, and eating ices last night. I shall be quite well in the morning."
 
The woman assisted her to undress, and left her, and Katharine lay down in her bed, feeling as if she should never rise from it again. The evening fell, the beautiful autumn night succeeded the brief twilight, and the fair morning dawned, and still she lay quite motionless, tearless, sleepless; speechless too, but for one short sentence whose agony of anger and outraged feeling defied restraint. It sounded strangely in the quiet of the room:
 
"He was only amusing himself, after all. He dared to amuse himself with ME!"
 
 
Hester Gould had fulfilled her intention of finding out all she could about Robert Streightley's new friends, as she usually fulfilled all her intentions, quietly and completely. She had paid a friendly visit to Daniel Thacker's sisters, resident at Hampstead; and having timed her visit fortunately, or it would be more correct to say judiciously, she had met Daniel, and extracted from him all the information he was disposed to give. She was not in the least deceived in her estimate of his frankness; she knew that he had more to tell respecting Mr. Guyon and his handsome daughter (Mr. Thacker called her "stunning") than the general facts into the disclosure of which she led him; but she was not unreasonable, and she read character accurately. She had not seen much of Daniel Thacker; for not being mistress of her own time, she could rarely visit the dwellers at Corby House at the hours which found that gentleman in the bosom of his family; but she had seen enough of him to understand him much better than most of his acquaintances did, and to feel a comfortable assurance that she could gain an influence over him, if any thing should occur to make it worth her while to do so.
 
Daniel Thacker possessed at least one sterling virtue--he was an excellent brother. Nothing in reason and within the compass of his means did he deny the handsome, red-lipped, dark-browed girls, who strongly resembled him, and were even more Jewish-looking than he. They had a good house, a comfortable establishment, a sufficiency of society among their own persuasion generally, a sufficiency of theatre- and concert-going, and plenty of the savoury meat which their souls loved. They would have been happier perhaps--or they thought so--if their beloved brother, whom they devoutly believed to be the handsomest and most elegant man in Christendom or Jewry, had lived with them at Corby House; but he had fully explained the impossibility on "business" grounds, and the docile Hebrews, Rebecca and Rachel, acknowledged the plea without hesitation. They were among the firmest, warmest, and most useful of Hester Gould's friends, and they had been for a time her pupils. They had perseveringly spread her fame abroad among their habitués; and as music is an invariable taste among the Jews, and their musical entertainments are splendid and numerous, their praises had done her solid service, and Hester's time was fully filled by very lucrative engagements.
 
Rachel and Rebecca had been infinitely delighted by Hester's arrival to pass the evening with them, and had gushingly expressed their pleasure.
 
"Tuesday evening too, Daniel's evening: how delightful!--he hardly ever misses. I am so glad; isn't she a dear?" said Miss Rachel in a sort of monologue, while she applied her large red lips several times to Hester's olive cheek.
 
The calculations of the sisters did not deceive them. Daniel came, smooth, good-humoured, affectionate, and obliging; and they passed a very agreeable evening. Miss Gould had what she called a "confidential cab," which attended her on special occasions, of which this was one; and as she drove away, having accepted an invitation to accompany the sisters to a Botanical "promenade" (it was the last of the season they said, and dear Hester must come), she made a little calculation of the gain of her visit, thus:
 
"Mr. Guyon is a fast man out at elbows, and a great friend of Daniel Thacker's. That means that he is largely in Daniel's power. Miss Guyon is a handsome, high-spirited girl, much admired, and with no fortune. I can see that Daniel has no notion of her--he would be snubbed, rich as he is, I suspect, even by the out-at-elbows father. But he has seen Robert with Mr. Guyon, and for some reason or other--I don't know what reason yet--he is concerned in promoting a match between him and Miss Guyon. Can I prevent this? I fear not. We shall see; I must be most cautious not to purchase even a fair chance of doing so too dearly,"--here she thought intensely, and her brow clouded over heavily. "If I could find out that the girl does not care for him, I might make my way to her and put her on her guard; but suppose she does? No, no; I must not risk all until I know all."
 
Mr. Daniel Thacker's perfectly appointed brougham was conveying him rapidly to St. James's half-an-hour later; and as he smoked a choice cigar (part of a bankrupt lot dirt cheap at the price), he pulled his silky beard, and meditated upon Hester Gould and her questions.
 
"Knows Streightley and his mother and sister very well, does she? Thinks him a 'nice' man, but easily led--thinks his mother is so anxious he should marry, eh? Now what the deuce is her little game? Can't be to marry him herself, I should think, or she's just the woman to do it--to have done it long ago. Devilish nice girl; real good-looking, and a rasper for determination, I should say. 'Gad, I should like to see a good deal more of Hester Gould."
CHAPTER XII.  VICTORY.
 Mr. Guyon was not troubled with sensitive feelings, and bashfulness or hesitation in the carrying out of any project on whose execution he had decided were completely foreign to his character. He possessed a happy mixture of hardness and effrontery, which enabled him to do very cruel things with charming lightness of heart and an engaging unconsciousness of demeanour, which had occasionally even deluded his victims themselves into thinking his intentions more harmless than his acts. He was a man whom even remorse, the evil form of repentance, had never visited, and who had never believed in any agency more supernatural than luck. He had been accustomed to watch the variations of that divinity pretty closely, and had arrived at a sort of scheme of its operations; and just now he regarded good fortune as in the ascendant--a conviction which received signal confirmation by the success of his interview with Streightley. He had not distinctly acknowledged to himself that he dreaded finding an obstacle in Robert's conscientiousness; he had rather put his apprehensions to the score of the "City man's" pride.
 
"I can't pretend that she likes him, or that she does not like Frere," he had said over and over again, as he turned the hopeful project, which had succeeded so perfectly, in his mind. "He is not quite such a flat as to believe any thing of that sort. It all depends on his being satisfied to have the girl at any price; and he knows so little of the world and of women, that I do believe he'll be idiot enough to take her against her will. A pretty life she'll lead him; but that's no business of mine."
 
Mr. Guyon possessed one trivial and negative virtue--he never tried to deceive himself. Perhaps one reason why his hypocrisy had frequently been crowned with success was, that he reserved it entirely for his transactions, sternly extruding it from his meditations. Vis-à-vis Ned Guyon, he was the soul of candour. True to this characteristic, when screwing up his courage to the inevitable interview with his daughter, which was the next performance in his programme, Mr. Guyon did not try to persuade himself, as a more shallow scoundrel would have done, that he was in reality doing the very best thing within his power for her, and establishing, in truth, a clear claim to her gratitude. He did not repeat that the man she loved was a frivolous fellow, who could never fill the heart and the intellect of such a woman, and was unworthy of her affection. He said nothing to himself of all he had said to Robert Streightley. He knew nothing, and he cared nothing about Frere's character; and the consideration of Katharine's unhappiness did not concern him in the least.
 
"She will be very rich," he thought; "and if that does not make her happy, she is a greater fool than I take her for--a greater fool even than Streightley."
 
Callous and unhesitating as he was, nevertheless Mr. Guyon felt considerable apprehension about the impending explanation with Katharine. No material disagreement had ever taken place between his daughter and himself. He had always had a sense of Katharine's intellectual superiority which had governed him in certain respects; and an unexpressed unwillingness to rouse a temper which he felt a tacit conviction he could not rule had restrained him from opposing her unnecessarily; so that his daughter had always given him credit for much more amiability and complaisance than he actually possessed. He was not afraid of her in any actively restraining sense, or he would not have entertained such a design as that he was now prosecuting against her; but he was afraid of a war of words with her; he was afraid that her keenness might lead her to suspicion; above all, he dreaded her girlish ignorance, her disregard of wealth, when wealth only was what he had to urge upon her acceptance.
 
The announcement of Gordon Frere's departure was the cause of almost as profound an emotion to Mr. Guyon as to his daughter. To her it meant the extinction of hope, the blighting of joy, the outraging of love and pride, the awakening of passionate anger and agonising grief. To him it meant the termination of a period of most unpleasant suspense, during which he did not dare to take a step towards the furtherance of his plans, lest at any moment they might collapse, and defeat insure detection. But all had turned out rightly for him; he was safe; the young man--"the biggest fool of the lot" Mr. Guyon called him, with coarse contempt for the pliability of his victim--had received his sentence in silence and without protest, and had left England; a circumstance beyond Mr. Guyon's hopes, which had extended only to his keeping out of Katharine's way until the scheme should have succeeded.
 
On his return from the dinner at Greenwich, which had been rather tedious, and during which Robert Streightley's abstracted look and dispirited manner had excited Mr. Guyon's scorn and apprehension, inducing him to think that if there were much delay Robert might become troublesome and scrupulous after all, he, too, read in the evening journals the announcement which had come upon his daughter like the stroke of doom. Unmixed satisfaction was rapidly succeeded by a determination to act at once. He had seen as little as possible of Katharine for some time, pleading engagements and business when the rapid "thinning" of London prevented his procuring the presence of a third person to insure him against a tête-à-tête. But he had watched her; he had observed her restlessness, her anxiety, her abstraction and indifference. He had noted the shadow on her beauty, he had heard the harsh tone which now sounded in her voice, the unreal ring of her laugh,--had noted them without one touch of pity or hesitation, and been satisfied with the result. He recognised grief in all these symptoms, but he saw still more anger, pride, and defiance. Every thing that he observed gave him encouragement; and Lady Henmarsh, who did not know the whole truth, but had guessed at something very like it, had made satisfactory reports. She understood Katharine much better than her father understood her, and had played the irritating game, in his interests, with a charming air of unconsciousness, and complete success. The first thing to be done was to see Lady Henmarsh; and as she was going to take Sir Timothy out of town in a day or two, no time was to be lost. Mr. Guyon could be an early man when it suited his convenience, and it happened to do so just then. He presented himself at Lady Henmarsh's breakfast-table, much to the surprise and a little to the confusion of "cousin Hetty," who had never quite lost the habit of liking to look well for "cousin Ned," and was conscious that she might have looked better than on this occasion. But "cousin Ned" had neither time nor inclination for the revival of ci-devant sentiment, and Lady Henmarsh soon perceived that "business" engrossed him wholly.
 
 
"My dearest Kate," said Lady Henmarsh, as, three hours later, she entered Miss Guyon's room, and found her up and dressed, indeed, but sitting icily by her bedroom-window, and looking as though a month's illness had robbed her eyes of their lustre and her cheek of its bloom,--"what is wrong with you? Clarke tried to prevent my coming upstairs, but of course I knew you would see me. My dear girl, you look shockingly!"
 
"Do I?" said Katharine, forcing a smile; "I feel wretched enough. It is only the heat, I suppose, and the season. It is time for every one to leave town."
 
"Every one seems to think so," returned Lady Henmarsh; "except yourself and ourselves, almost every one is gone. I had such a number of callers yesterday, I was quite sick of them. So sorry you could not come round, dear; but you did quite right to keep quiet, if you did not feel well. By the way, Mr. Mostyn--I must not say your admirer, I suppose; but the gentleman who kindly permits you to admire him--came in while the Daventrys were there, and he looked quite sentimental when your message came. He actually condescended to ask why you did not go to Mrs. Tresillian's ball, and to say, but for Miss Guyon's absence, he should have pronounced it the best ball of the season. You know his formal way. I am sorry you missed it, Kate; they all agreed that it was a brilliant affair; and Lily Daventry was in ecstasies about it. To be sure she's new to balls; but how she did go on about Coote and Tinney's band and Gordon Frere's waltzing!"
 
Katharine winced. Lady Henmarsh played with a ring-stand, took up the rings one by one and examined them, keeping a close watch on the girl as she talked on.
 
"What a goose that girl is, to be sure, but so pretty! and if the men admire her so much, though she has not any sense, she is as well without it. What a flirt she is too! It amused me to watch her trying her ringlets and her attitudes upon Mr. Mostyn. Now that Gordon Frere--as great a flirt as herself--is out of the way, she tries her hand upon him; and he is so horribly vain, that though he was at the Tresillians' and saw her flirtation with Frere, he actually believes she is quite captivated. Why do you wear an opal ring, Kate? you were not born in October; it's unlucky, my dear."
 
"Is it?" said Katharine languidly. "I did not know. Are the Daventrys going to Leyton?"
 
"Yes, they start to-morrow. By the bye, I was so surprised at Gordon Frere's appointment; weren't you? I never heard him mention it, and yet it appears it had been settled a long time. I am sorry I did not see him when he called."
 
"How do you mean that his appointment was settled?" asked Katharine, with great self-command. Lady Henmarsh turned her head away from the dressing-table, and looked full at her, as she answered:
 
"Why, Lord A. had promised to take him as his private secretary, when his turn should come; you know those diplomatic people have their regular order of succession; he told Lily Daventry all about it at the Tresillians' ball. He had been idling through the season, he said, and amusing himself the best way he could, in anticipation of going to work in earnest. He rather thought he should have gone a little earlier; and to tell you the truth, Kate, I wish he had." There was meaning in the speaker's tone, and Katharine understood it. Her eye lighted angrily, as she asked, in the coldest possible voice:
 
"Indeed! may I ask you why Mr. Gordon Frere's movements are of interest to you, Lady Henmarsh?"
 
"Come, come, Kate, don't speak like that to me," said her friend; "you know perfectly well how dear you are to me, and what an interest I take in every thing that nearly or remotely concerns you. I'm sure you can't deny that, my dear."
 
A bend of the head, a softened expression in the face were the sole answer.
 
"And I must say," continued Lady Henmarsh, "I am very much mortified at the way Gordon Frere has set people talking about you."
 
"About me?"
 
"Yes, my dear, about you. He paid you very marked attention, and you received it with quite enough complacency to set people talking--don't be angry, Kate, I don't blame you; you were not to know that he meant nothing. And then, for you, and me, the nearest friend you had--a friend standing, in the eyes of the world, in the place of a mother--to be the only people of his acquaintance, as it appears we are, ignorant of the fact that he was going abroad immediately. Just suppose, Kate, you had cared for him as much as he tried to make you, and as I am very much afraid many people think you do! No, a male flirt is my abhorrence, and Gordon is one aux bouts des ongles. I assure you, Lady Daventry--and you know she is not at all an ill-natured woman, or given to scandal--asked some very unpleasant questions. I really wish I had seen the gentleman; every one else seems to have seen him. He was in town only three days, and I really believe he called in person on every one else, though he only left a card for Sir Timothy. Did he call here?" Lady Henmarsh asked the question very suddenly; and as Katharine answered it, her cheeks reddened with a painful blush, which did not fade again during the interview.
 
"No, Lady Henmarsh, he did not."
 
"Ah, I thought so. And now, my dear Kate, let me speak to you, as I feel, with the affection of a mother and the experience of a woman of the world. Gordon Frere has treated you very ill; he has exposed you to comments, very injurious and painful to any girl, still more so to a girl situated as you are. He might have made you miserable, as well as ridiculous, if he had succeeded in making you love him. Now you must defeat his unmanly triumph, and silence all the talk among our countless dear friends who are amusing themselves at your expense. Your being ill just now is peculiarly unfortunate; I know they will say you are shutting yourself up, and doing the Didone abbandonata. You have rather unfortunately good health, Katharine, for this sort of thing, and have long defied hot suns and iced creams too successfully to escape suspicion by pleading them now. I really wish, my dear girl, you would come out for a drive; there are still many people to see you--take an old woman's advice, Kate, and don't disdain precaution, because you are not conscious of its need. No one can afford to be laughed at; and if you are wise, you will reject Mr. Gordon Frere's legacy of ridicule."
 
Lady Henmarsh spoke earnestly and with much mental trepidation. She had ventured very, very far; much farther than, when she entered Katharine's room, she had believed she would dare to venture, for she too knew that Katharine had what her father called "a devil of a temper;" and there were few things she would not have preferred to rousing it. But the silence of the girl, something of forlornness under her pride, the patience with which she had borne her first approaches, had given Lady Henmarsh courage, and Katharine's demeanour satisfied her that all her suspicions had been more than just, that she had loved Gordon Frere frankly, fully, and with all the truth and ardour which were characteristic of her better nature. A moment's silence ensued when she had ceased speaking, and then Katharine, stately, cold, and graceful, rose from her chair, and, placing her hand upon the bell to summon her maid, said:
 
"I appreciate your kindness and your advice, Lady Henmarsh. If you will come back for me in half an hour, I will go with you any where you please. But--this subject must never be spoken of again between you and me."
 
Katharine's maid entered the room, and Lady Henmarsh left it, merely saying in an assenting tone, "Very well, my dear," and descended the stairs to the hall. There she met Mr. Guyon, who attended her to her carriage with great solicitude. A whisper only passed between them, for they treated servants with systematic caution. It was from Lady Henmarsh, who said:
 
"I don't think you will have much trouble, Ned."
 
Several persons of her acquaintance met Miss Guyon driving in the Park that afternoon, and had ample leisure to observe her amid the diminished throng. A few regarded her with curiosity--for though Lady Henmarsh had grossly exaggerated the facts, she and Gordon Frere had been "talked of" in their own set--many with admiration, and remarked that she looked particularly well and blooming, not at all cut up by the season. None knew that something had gone out of the beautiful face that was never to return to it--that the woman they admired that day was not the same they had been accustomed to see and to admire, but who was now a thing of the past, never more to have any terrene existence.
 
 
"Katharine," said Mr. Guyon to his daughter on the following day, as she sat opposite him at breakfast, while he furtively watched her countenance from behind the defence of a convenient newspaper, "I have something to say to you."
 
"Have you, papa? What is it?"
 
She looked at him uninterested and unconcerned. Mr. Guyon threw down his newspaper, left his chair, and took up a position on the hearthrug suggestive of wintry weather. He felt and he looked awkward; he cleared his throat, and pulled at the blue-silk ribbon which encircled it, as though its pressure incommoded him. His daughter did not move, and the expression of her face was still uninterested, unconcerned.
 
"Yes, Katie," he recommenced. "I have indeed, my dear, something very particular to say to you. I don't often speak seriously to you, you know, and never bother you about business. So you must not think I want to bother you now, and you must really attend to me."
 
"If it's about going out of town, papa, I really don't care where----"
 
"No, no, Kate, it's not that," said her father, interrupting her; "it's nothing so easily settled as that. The fact is--Kate," he said abruptly, and in a changed tone, "what do you think of our friend Streightley?"
 
"What do I think of Mr. Streightley, papa? I can hardly tell you; I don't think I know,--I don't think I have any thoughts about him. But what has that to do with any thing important or particular that you want to speak to me about?"
 
"It has every thing to do with it, Kate. Robert Streightley is the best friend I have in the world, and he is the best fellow I know."
 
Katharine looked at her father with surprise. She was very far from understanding him perfectly; but she certainly had a notion that Mr. Streightley did not resemble the sort of person to whom she would have expected her father to apply the favourite epithet, "good-fellow." She said nothing, however; and Mr. Guyon, watching her more eagerly than he suffered his features to tell, continued:
 
"I need not weary you by explaining the services Streightley has done me in detail, but I must tell you that I have been unfortunate in money matters in many ways; I have trusted friends, and been deceived--" again Katharine's face expressed surprise, which she certainly felt, and yet would have been puzzled to explain. "I have been speculating, and have been ill-advised; the result has been disastrous; in short, Katie, I must have gone to the wall had it not been for Robert Streightley."
 
Katharine had become exceedingly pale now, and she fixed her eyes on her father with more steadiness than he liked. He leaned his right elbow on the chimney-piece, and kept his right hand hovering about his mouth and chin, ready to cover an undesirable expression of candour or embarrassment.
 
"Do you mean that Mr. Streightley has lent you money, papa?" asked Katharine.
 
"Yes, my dear, he has, and large sums too; and I have lost so heavily by those speculations I mentioned, that I cannot pay him without the greatest inconvenience indeed almost ruin. He does not know how I am situated; and of course it would be painful and humiliating to me to tell him, unless I could also tell him the best news he could hear, Kate----"
 
"What is that, papa?" she asked, perfectly without suspicion. Mr. Guyon found his change of attitude very useful now, and he critically examined his boots before he said:
 
"Well, my dear--I know you will be surprised, and indeed I was astonished when he mentioned the subject to me. The best news that Mr. Streightley could hear, Katie, would be that you had consented to become his wife--" and at the last words he raised his head and looked at her. Katharine started up, and exclaimed:
 
"Me! I!--O papa, what are you saying?"
 
Her father approached her, put one arm round her waist, and took her hand in his. He seldom caressed his daughter, and she instinctively shrunk from the encircling arm, as if a danger threatened her; but he held her firmly, and she stood still and listened.
 
"I daresay you can't understand it, Kate, but it's quite true for all that; and you know you are a doosid sensible girl, and doosid lucky too, I can tell you." Mr. Guyon was recovering himself. "Now look here. You've always lived like a lady--a long way better than many ladies, by Jove--and you don't know what difficulties and poverty mean; and it will be your own fault if you do know now, or ever. You've no fortune, Kate; and a girl who hasn't can't choose for herself--that's a fact. Men can't and won't marry without money; and though you don't know much of the world, except the ball, supper, promenade, and park side of it, Katie, I daresay you know enough of it not to deny that. You don't know much of Streightley; and I daresay he's not the sort of fellow you would fancy if you did know ever so much of him. But then, you see, the sort of fellow you would fancy can't marry you, because you have no money, or won't, which comes to the same thing,--at all events doesn't--" Here Katharine released herself, and sat down. Still she turned her white face and attentive eyes steadfastly upon him, and showed no sign of emotion, save the occasional twitching of the hand which she laid upon the table. Immensely reassured by her quietness, Mr. Guyon went on, quite cheerily:
 
"It's all nonsense thinking about love-matches in these days; and indeed at any time I don't think they turned out well. Now, Kate, this is the real fact. If you don't marry Streightley, who is a first-rate fellow, and immensely rich, and ready to do all sorts of generous and noble things, in addition to giving me time to look about me until I can pay him the money I owe him, absolute ruin is staring me in the face, and you too. Don't speak, Kate; don't say any thing in a hurry; and don't say I ask you to marry Streightley for my sake; but just listen to the alternative. Well, suppose that you determine not to accept Streightley;--and remember, beautiful and admired as you are, he is the first man who has ever asked you to marry him--a pretty strong proof, I think, of the truth of my statement that men won't marry without money, especially if you will take the trouble to count up the number of ugly heiresses married since you have been out, and to several of your own admirers too;--we all go to smash here; I must shift for myself the best way I can--get off abroad, and escape imprisonment; though I can't escape disgrace--and never hope to show my face in England again. And as for you, Katie, don't think me hard or cruel--I must tell you the truth; I must tell you the whole truth, that you may know what you really reject or accept. I see nothing for you but becoming a companion to a lady--which I take it is the most infernal kind of white slavery going--or being dependent on the charity of Lady Henmarsh. You can't live with your aunt, because she is going to live with her daughter; and you can't come abroad with me, for many reasons, the chief being that I could not afford to take you. Cousin Hetty is very pleasant and nice now, and a capital chaperone; but you are, as I said before, a doosid sensible girl, and I daresay you can guess what cousin Hetty would be to a poor relation, with a shady father, living on her charity,--so I won't dwell upon that."
 
He paused a little, but still she did not speak. Still she looked at him, her face white, her lips firmly closed, and the hand on the table twitching occasionally. Once or twice there was a sound in her throat as if she swallowed with difficulty, but she uttered no word. Mr. Guyon felt exceedingly hot and uncomfortable, but he went on, less glibly perhaps, and looking rather over than at her.
 
"The other side of the medal is this, Katie. You have the opportunity of marrying a rich man, in an honourable and advancing position, so desperately in love with you that you may choose your own manner of life. He is very good-looking and well-bred, and I don't see any reason why you may not like him quite well enough to get on with him as happily as any woman gets on with any man. Let me tell you, my dear, the strength of your position will be incalculably increased by your not being in love with him; in nine cases out of ten a woman in love with her husband bores him horribly, and brings out all the bad points in his temper, which she might never find out, or at all events might easily manage, otherwise. You will have every material of reasonable happiness, and the power of indulging your tastes--and they are not economical, Kate. And now choose for yourself; and remember I don't play the sentimental parent, and urge you to this for my sake. We have always been good friends, Katie, but I don't expect a sacrifice from you; and I don't talk the absurd nonsense of representing a splendid offer like this, involving advantages which no girl in London knows better than yourself how to appreciate, as a fearful trial, affording you an opportunity of performing martyrdom to filial duty."
 
There was a coarse sneer in his voice, which he would have done well to repress, which was dangerous; but his temper was getting the better of his prudence. Katharine shrunk from the tone, and felt even in that moment of tumultuous emotion that the love she had for her father was but a weak affection. It was dying while he spoke, dying as her fresh knowledge of him was born; it would soon be dead she knew, with that other love now for ever lost to her; and only the hopeless pain, the weariness of contempt, would live where the two honest natural affections had sprung up, to be blighted. Mutual avoidance, something like mutual fear, was in the faces that looked at each other, and were so strangely like, now that the expression of each was one of its worst. With no enviable sensations Mr. Guyon waited for Katharine to speak. She rose from her seat before she did so; then she said:
 
"Mr. Streightley does not imagine that I entertain any feeling of regard for him, I suppose?"
 
This was a puzzling question, and Mr. Guyon allowed the embarrassment it caused him to be evident.
 
"Except as a friend of mine, and--" he stammered.
 
"I understand," said Katharine, and she bent her head slowly and emphatically. "And he is willing to purchase me on those terms? It is well the bargain should be distinctly understood."
 
If Mr. Guyon had ever understood, had ever cared to understand his daughter, these words must have taught him how great a change had passed upon her. They would have been impossible of utterance to the Katharine of three weeks ago; but a wide gulf, never to be spanned, of pain and injury lay between that time and the present. He felt afraid of the girl; but rallying courage for a decisive effort, he said:
 
"Your answer, Katharine; you see the case as clearly as I do;--what am I to say to Mr. Streightley?"
 
"Nothing," she answered, "but that I will see him myself. Tell him to come here this evening, to-morrow, any time you please,--I will see him, I will hear what he has to say. There must be no mistake in this case, no self-deception, no mutual deception. The truth is not beautiful or holy, but at least it shall be told."
 
She left the room as soon as she had spoken the last words. Her father remained as she had left him; an ugly dark shadow had spread itself over his face. After some minutes he looked up, shrugged his shoulders, and strolled over to one of the windows. He looked out idly for a little then roused himself, and went into his own room. There he wrote two letters, bestowing considerable: time and pains on the first, which was addressed to Robert Streightley, but scribbling the other off with careless rapidity. It bore Lady Henmarsh's name upon the envelope, and contained the following words:
 
"DEAR HETTY,--I have done my part of this business, and I think things look well. As to my having very little trouble, perhaps if you had heard and seen, you would have continued to think so; but I should be devilish sorry to do it over again.--Yours, E. G."
 
 
Katharine did not appear at dinner that day, and Mr. Streightley partook of that meal, for which he had a very moderate appetite, tête-à-tête with her father. When the two gentlemen adjourned to the drawing-room, Katharine was seated by the window, and they could hardly discern her features, so rapidly was the autumn twilight deepening into darkness. While Mr. Guyon was calling rather angrily for lights, Robert Streightley advanced towards the motionless figure, awaiting his greeting; and as Mr. Guyon heard his daughter reply to the confused and agitated words which Robert addressed to her, he started at the changed tone of the voice, as if a stranger had spoken.
 
 
END OF VOL. I.
Vol. 2 CHAPTER I.  MARTIGNY.
 "I wish you were going to the wedding, dearest Hester," said Ellen Streightley to Miss Gould, as the two girls stood in attitudes of critical examination before a heap of gay-looking wearing-apparel, which was destined to resolve itself into the costume of a modern bridesmaid.
 
"You have said that several times already, Ellen," returned her friend, with a touch of impatience in her voice very unusual to her. "But you know I can't be at your brother's wedding, so there is no good wishing about it."
 
"Well, I think Robert might have asked Miss Guyon for an invitation for my dearest friend. I can't understand his standing on such extreme ceremony with her. He really seems afraid of every mortal thing he says and does, lest he may offend her; and I don't think she's bad-tempered either. I'm sure I hope not, for Robert has never had to put up with a bad temper, and he'd be sure to be miserable. O Hester!" said Ellen, with a sudden gush of feeling, "what should we do if she did not make Robert happy!"
 
Miss Gould replied in rather a hard voice: "But there's no danger of that, is there, Ellen? Miss Guyon is very handsome, and very fashionable, and very clever; and your brother is--what is the proper phrase?--desperately in love with her, is he not?"
 
"Why, of course he is, Hester; you can see that for yourself."
 
"And she is desperately in love with him, I suppose?"
 
"I suppose she is," said Ellen, and this time her tone was impatient; "but no doubt fashionable people have a fashionable way of being in love. I only know it's not mine, and it is not Decimus's, and I'm glad of it. I wouldn't have him hesitating about what he might and what he might not ask me to do, I can tell you, for any thing. What nonsense it all is, as if Miss Guyon mightn't just as well make your acquaintance now as afterwards! she will know all about you then, I suppose."
 
Ellen's zeal had outrun her discretion, and told Hester Gould more than she intended; but Hester did not take any notice of the information she had gained, beyond one sudden gleam of anger which shot from her shallow dark eyes.
 
"Mrs. Streightley is not going?" she said; and the simple girl, whom she could always lead, was as docile as usual, and turned to the new theme, under her guidance.
 
"No; mamma does not like weddings (she could not even go to Robert's, she says) since my father died. Decimus and I go with Robert; and Mr. Yeldham, he is to be the best man, you know; and the three other bridesmaids are all strangers. Miss Guyon has no near relatives; she is like me in that, but not like me in having a dear, darling Hester, as good as any sister."
 
"At least as any sister-in-law, I hope," said Hester with grave emphasis, when she had quietly submitted to the hugging with which Ellen invariably accompanied her effusions of affection.
 
"Yes, indeed; a thousand times better," she impetuously exclaimed. "I don't think my sister-in-law will ever care much for me, or I for her. She's too grand for me, Hester, and too clever; and when I am with her (the few times I have been), I feel afraid of her, though she is very polite to me; but I had rather she was less polite, and more kind; but I suppose politeness is fashionable, and kindness isn't. As to Decimus, he is quite wretched when he is with her, because he thinks she will make me worldly; but I am sure he needn't be afraid of that, for I shall never like the things she cares about, and I'm sure I shall not care for staying at Middlemeads, even if she asks me.
 
"It is a beautiful place, is it not?" asked Hester absently.
 
"Yes, lovely. Only Decimus is quite distressed about the church; it is high, you know," and Ellen's voice sank into a mysterious whisper. "He says he will feel such anxiety when I am there, lest it should be a snare to my feet."
 
"Yes, yes, I know," said Hester, who was apt to weary of the Reverend Decimus's opinions, hopes, fears, and doctrines; "but the house and grounds, I meant. Miss Guyon has seen them, has she not?"
 
"No, she would not go down, though Lady Henmarsh--(she's a nice woman, Hester, and has a way of making you feel comfortable; and Decimus has hope of her spiritual state),--though she offered to go to Middlemeads, and Robert would have persuaded mamma to go; but it was all no use. And do you know what he said?--I did not like it--he said: 'When Miss Guyon says "No," Ellen, it is not you or I who will induce her to change her mind.' I did not care about this, Hester, for my own sake--why should she mind me?--but I did think she might alter a purpose for Robert."
 
Miss Gould smiled--it was not a pleasant smile--but said nothing; and then, the dress-parade completed, the two girls went downstairs to the drawing-room, where they found Mrs. Streightley and her reverend son-in-law expectant in placid converse.
 
Mrs. Streightley had accepted the intelligence of her son's intended marriage, as she accepted every thing in which he was concerned, with perfect confidence and approbation. Miss Guyon was his choice; she must necessarily be as charming as she was fortunate. Miss Guyon's manners were too finished in their elegance to render it possible for her to treat the mother of her intended husband otherwise than with perfect respect and courtesy. Had the Handbook of Etiquette included a chapter devoted to the proprieties of demeanour on the part of a daughter-in-law elect, doubtless it would have been found that Miss Guyon's behaviour was in precise conformity with its rules. The elder lady did not feel exactly happy or at ease in the society of the younger, but that was her fault, not Miss Guyon's; she did not understand fashionable people, that was all. It would be hard to part with Robert; but was she, his mother, to murmur at, to put any consideration in the world in comparison with, his good and happiness? Surely not. To have been capable of doing such a thing would have been a treason to the whole ordering of her dutiful, pious, conscience-guided life. She was very much pleased, and perhaps a little proud, with that beautiful vicarious pride of mothers, to think of her son in the dignified position of a country gentleman, owning a fine estate, and holding his head high among men. She should be glad to see his beautiful and luxurious home; but the comfortable Brixton villa satisfied all her individual wishes. She would not be present at her son's wedding, she would be out of her place among the other guests there; but he should go forth that day with his mother's fervent blessing, and his marriage should be hallowed by her prayers.
 
The state of mind of the Reverend Decimus Dutton was not so calm, not so complacent. He disapproved of the connection. It was worldly; it was, if any thing, "high:" the family circle of the Guyons included a bishop of ritualistic tendencies; on its outer edge to be sure, but he was a relative; and "any thing of that kind," said Decimus to Ellen rather vaguely, "is so very shocking." Again, the diversion of large sums, presumably disposable for missionary purposes under happier, "more consistent circumstances" he called them, according to a phraseology in use among persons of his persuasion, and which is rather oracular than grammatical, into the mundane channels attendant on a "fashionable" marriage, was also "extremely sad." Decimus had come up to town hoping to induce Robert to share his own burning zeal for the mission to the Niger, and he found him engaged to a young lady who looked extremely unlikely to approve of the diversion of any of his wealth in a religio-philanthropical direction; and who had calmly remarked, "Of course you would not suffer your sister to go to such a fatal climate," on hearing that the Reverend Decimus proposed to convey his bride to "Afric's burning plain."
 
The Rev. Decimus Dutton was a youngish man, with a face which would never look much older or much wiser than it looked at present. It was rather a handsome, and decidedly a good face; and it presented an absurd resemblance to that of Ellen Streightley, though there was not the slightest relationship between the amiable enthusiast and his betrothed bride, who believed him in all simple sincerity to be the noblest, best, handsomest of mankind. Perhaps there was a little veneration, due to habit, which is very powerful over such minds as Ellen Streightley's, in favour of Robert; but Decimus was decidedly more pious, there could be no doubt of that. A more prejudiced, a narrower-minded, or a better-meaning man than Decimus Dutton probably did not exist; and so admirably matched were he and Ellen Streightley, that those who saw their perfect adaptation to each other were apt to be tempted into using the gentle missionary's cant phrase, and talking of their proposed union as "providential."
 
"O, Decimus dear," began Ellen, as she and Hester entered the room--Miss Streightley was apt to emphasise her speech with interjections,--"Hester is so pleased with my dress. Not that you care about that; still one may as well be decent. Hester must go home now; so just ring and send for a cab."
 
Then followed adieux, and Miss Gould departed. Her face was dark and angry as she drove away; but it cleared after a little, and her thoughts shaped themselves into these words:
 
"After all, no one can rule destiny; and supposing I had loved him, I must have borne it all the same."
 
Hester Gould witnessed the marriage of Robert Streightley and Katharine Guyon; not in the capacity of a guest indeed, but in that of a spectator. It was characteristic of Hester that, though she had determined to be present, she made her attendance at the church appear to be the result of Ellen Streightley's importunities. That young lady threw looks of confidence and affection, and blew kisses off her finger-tips at her friend at furtive intervals during the ceremony, after the fashion of the Peckham boarding-school, somewhat to the discomposure of the devoted Decimus, who maintained a plaintive and under-protest air throughout. Hester Gould acknowledged, with ready acquiescence, the exceeding grace and beauty of the bride, as she advanced with an assured and steady step, leaning on her father's arm, and took her place before the altar-rails, where the Bishop with ritualistic tendencies, stood ready to consecrate that awful promise so familiar to us all, and also to realise the utmost fears of Decimus, for his lordship read every word of the service, and wore the fullest of canonicals. Hester bent an eager gaze upon Katharine Guyon; but, under all its wrath and bitterness, there was the candour, there was the justice which never failed this exceptional woman; and she acknowledged fully and freely to her own heart the exceeding beauty of her unconscious rival.
 
Katharine was paler than her wont; but her eyes shone with their accustomed light, and her tall figure drawn up to its full height and proudly motionless, was full of indescribable dignity and grace. The rich folds of her dress, of lustrous white satin, with its garniture of swansdown and its fastenings of diamonds, did not so much adorn as they received grace from her. And the noble outline of her features showed like that of an antique statue under the filmy bridal veil, which softened but did not conceal them. When Hester looked from the bride to the bridegroom, she acknowledged, too, that no external incongruity was evident. Robert Streightley looked like a self-possessed gentleman; not very handsome, not strikingly elegant, but not too much inferior to the beautiful girl whom he led away, in a few minutes, his wedded wife. It was quickly done and over, and the crowd was pressing round the carriages, and peering into the aisle of the church. Mr. Guyon, the very picture of gaiety and juvenility, led out Lady Henmarsh, quite affected, and remarkably well-dressed; then came Charles Yeldham and the bridesmaids--the unappropriated bridesmaids, be it observed; Decimus had paired off with Ellen the moment the bride and bridegroom had reached the church-door. Then the general crowd drifted out; and in the porch Hester found herself face to face with Mr. Daniel Thacker, who testified great delight at the rencontre.
 
"You are here as a spectator, like myself, Miss Gould?" said Mr. Thacker.
 
"Yes," replied Hester, "I am very much interested in this marriage. Mr. Streightley is one of my oldest, and his sister is one of my dearest friends."
 
"Just so," said Mr. Thacker. "I don't know much of Streightley; but I know something of the bride, and more of her father. A capital match for her and him."
 
"Meaning Mr. Streightley?"
 
"Meaning Mr. Guyon, Miss Gould. I am going to Hampstead: could I prevail on you to visit my sisters to-day? My phaeton is at the door. Do let me have the honour, Miss Gould; a visit from you is such a pleasure to them."
 
"Thank you, no; not to-day. My time is not my own, you know, Mr. Thacker, and I have an appointment at one o'clock a good distance from here."
 
"I am so sorry, so disappointed. Perhaps later in the day; I can be at your service at any hour."
 
"No, thank you." Hester smiled slowly as she spoke. "I promised to give this evening to Miss Streightley. She will have so much to tell; and she will come home as soon as possible after the bride and bridegroom are gone."
 
"Ah, by the bye, where are they going to?"
 
"Where? To Paradise, of course; but en attendant, I believe, to Switzerland."
 
And Hester Gould, who had for the first time in her life been wanting in caution, bade Mr. Thacker "good morning;" and that gentleman watched her as she walked away, and said under his breath:
 
"By Jove, she did play for Streightley, and Miss Guyon beat her!"
 
So those twain were one flesh, and departed according to prescribed routine for their bridal tour on the Continent. So far the contract had been carried out, the price paid, and the goods delivered into the carriage by Mr. Guyon, who converted a broad smile of triumph into a doleful look of farewell; and who, as the happy pair drove away, turned back into the dining-room to expedite the departure of his guests, in order that he and Lady Henmarsh might have a quiet talk together over the past and the future.
 
So far all had gone well, thought Robert Streightley, or rather endeavoured to think so, but felt a sad depression and sense of failure at his heart, as, leaning back in the railway-carriage whirling them to Folkestone, he stole occasional glances at his bride, who, paler but lovelier than ever, kept her eyes fixed on a book, the pages of which she never turned, and of which she read never a line. How much did she know, he wondered, of all that had taken place? Not all; he himself had resolutely shrunk from hearing any thing in detail about the transaction in which that man Frere and his proposal were involved; and she--he knew her well enough to know that if she had the smallest suspicion of foul play she would leave him then and there on her marriage-day. No! she knew nothing of that,--she never should know. But there was a something in the dead calm of her face, in the cold clear look of her eyes, in her set lips, and in the quiet tones of the voice in which she briefly replied to his occasional questions after her welfare,--something that made Robert Streightley's heart give a guilty throb, and told him that the first phase of retribution had begun. She might live it down, it would probably pass away; under different circumstances, and surrounded by all the luxuries that money could purchase, the haunting memory of the past might soon be laid at rest; but there are few men, let us hope, who on their wedding-days have, as Robert Streightley had on his, to face the conviction that not merely the love but the tolerance of his wife had yet to be won by him, and that between them lay a mine, partly of his own preparation, any accidental spark blown on to which would shatter their happiness for ever.
 
And she? In a charming but perfectly natural position, her head bent so as to screen her face as much as possible from her husband, her eyes fixed on her book, she sat there, outwardly cold as a statue, inwardly raging with slighted love, hurt pride, horror of the past, and dread of the future. The occurrences of the last month, so often revolved in her mind, were, as she sat in the railway-carriage, once more brought out of their storehouse, and passed in dreary review: Gordon's strange silence, his absenting himself from their house, his abrupt departure for the Continent, her father's confession of his embarrassments, his proposition for getting rid of them, her friendlessness and despair, the few words spoken to her in the deepening gloom by Robert Streightley, and her reply, which decided all and settled her future--her future! ah, good God! Even the outward semblance of calm was gone as the thought rushed across her; the hot tears welled into her eyes, she set her lips tighter than ever, and with great difficulty restrained a cry of mingled anger and despair.
 
There was her fate sitting opposite to her: with that man, with whom she had not one thought in common, for whom she had, if any feeling at all, rather a feeling of abhorrence--with him was the rest of her life to be passed. He had bought and paid for her--paid for her? No! a great deal of the purchase-money was yet to come, was to be placed at her disposal; and she would take care that it was speedily spent.
 
It was some time, however, before she found an opportunity of spending any of the large sum of pocket-money placed at her disposal by her husband, so eagerly were all her wishes anticipated by him. Previous to their marriage he had made his future bride many valuable presents--of dressing-case, jewels, travelling-desk, and elegant costly feminine nick-nacks--all of which had been examined, appraised, and duly extolled by Mr. Guyon; and their bridal tour was almost as expensive as a royal progress. In Robert Streightley the ober-kellner at the H?tel Disch in Cologne found an easy prey, and sold to him more wicker-covered bottles of the eau than he had ever previously palmed off upon any Englishman. All along the Rhine-border the fiery cross was sent by couriers, and conductors of steam-boats, and drivers of eilwagens; and the landlords of the hotels knew that one of those tolle Engl?nder who mind no expense was coming on, and forthwith prices were trebled, and cellars were ransacked for the precious wines, the Steinberger Cabinet and the Johannisberg, which none but mad Englishmen ever pay for. No town which they stopped at--and they stopped at nearly all, for the small amount of romance in Katharine's nature was roused by the sight of the castles and crags, of which in her school-girl days she had so often read; and it was the nearest approach to pleasure which she could experience to push aside actual practical life and he dreaming of the past--no town which they stopped at was so poor as not to furnish some trophy for Robert Streightley to lay at his bride's feet. Accompanied by the courier, who made cent per cent upon every transaction, he would go blundering through the narrow streets, looking through the windows at the wares displayed in them, rushing in here and there, and making wild and incongruous purchases, to the intense astonishment of the pipe-smoking burghers, all unaccustomed to such energy. Robert Streightley's greatest pleasure seemed to lie in purchasing presents for his wife; and when they reached Frankfort he was never out of the jewellers' shops on the Zeil, and his courier's whole day was taken up in running to and fro with little packets of hirschhorn and coral trinkets.
 
It was at Frankfort, a month after their marriage, that they received their first news from home. Streightley had wished to pass his honeymoon untroubled by thoughts of business, and Katharine had been too indifferent to give any directions about her letters; but when Robert called on the British Consul, who was an old correspondent of their house, he found a packet waiting for him, and hurried back with it to Katharine. She was reading a Tauchnitz edition of a novel, and looked languid and distraite.
 
"Here are letters from home, dearest," said Robert, rushing in with his usual energy; "two of them for you."
 
She thanked him as he handed them to her, and took them without other remark. One was from her father, full of parental gushing and expressive of intense anxiety to see her again; the other was from Lady Henmarsh, and was filled with the gossip and tattle of the watering-places at which she and Sir Timothy were staying. She read them through, placed them on the table beside her, and was reverting to her novel, when her husband, still busily engaged in reading his correspondence, said,
 
"You don't ask me who my letters are from, Kate? I thought all women were curious in such matters."
 
He tried to throw a tone of raillery into his voice, poor fellow! as he said this. It was not very successful; for no answering smile beamed on Katharine's face, as she said,
 
"I thought they were business letters."
 
"Business letters! no, dearest; you may be sure I should not bore you with those. Here's one from your father; but he says he has written to you; and--yes, of course; and here's one from Ellen, my sister, full of news. You would like to read it?" And he held it out to her.
 
"There seems a great deal of it," said Katharine, looking blankly at the sheets crossed and recrossed with Miss Streightley's spidery writing.
 
"Yes, there is a good deal of it; and some, perhaps, that might not interest you. But there was one thing I wanted to tell you--O yes, here it is. You recollect Miss Gould--Hester Gould?"
 
"I have heard you mention her; I never saw her."
 
"Never saw her? never saw Hester Gould? Dear me! How can that have been, I wonder? Well, Ellen writes that Hester Gould's uncle is dead, and has left her all his fortune. Hester is an heiress now; and though of course very quiet as yet, Ellen says she thinks Hester intends what Ellen calls 'making a splash.'"
 
The announcement had apparently no interest for Mrs. Robert Streightley; for she merely said, "Indeed!" and took up her book.
 
What had any interest for Mrs. Robt. Streightley? In good truth, nothing at all. Her pleasure in life seemed to have died out; and her cavaliers of the preceding season would scarcely have recognised the queen of the cotillion, or the beauty of the Row, in the cold passionless woman who would sit for hours looking straight before her without speaking a word, and only by an occasional gleam in her eyes or a fleeting movement of the muscles of the mouth giving evidence of existence. Her pleasure in life had faded out; and she almost hoped that her life itself would fade out too, so hopelessly wearied of it did she feel. "Would to God that I were dead!" was her constant cry from the solitude of her chamber; and one night her wish was nearly fulfilled.
 
They had "done" all the usual Swiss places; and at Katharine's first and only request Robert had postponed their contemplated return home in order that his wife might have a glimpse of Italy. They selected the Simplon pass as the easiest, and left Chamounix in the early morning on mules, purposing to rest that night at Martigny. Katharine had been ailing for the last few days, but had said nothing to her husband. Ten hours' journey on a jolting mule, the terrors of the Tête Noire pass, despised by mountaineers, but sufficiently horrific to young ladies out of health, and the absence of food--for it was impossible to eat the hard goat's-flesh or to drink the sour wine put before them at the auberge--finished the little strength left to her; and as her husband lifted her from the mule at the door of the hotel at Martigny she fainted in his arms. The kindly people of the inn were round her in a moment, carried her to their best room, and were unremitting in their attentions. Under restoratives Katharine recovered for a few minutes; only to fall again into a fainting-fit so prolonged, so deep, so dismally like death itself, that Robert, horribly alarmed, bid them rush off and fetch the first doctor they could find.
 
The doctor came; a tall thin man, with a light straw hat on his head and buff slippers on his feet; a solemn man, who made a solemn bow, and took his place by the side of the patient solemnly. He touched poor Katharine's pulse; he peered into her face, and he announced that mademoiselle--he begged pardon--madame, was not well, and that he would send her a tisane. He took up his straw hat, bowed solemnly, and went out.
 
Robert Streightley had stood by watching this performance with impatience; but when the door was closed behind the doctor, Katharine gave a long low moan, and said in answer to his fond inquiry, "O, I shall die!" He saw that no time was to be lost in doing something more effectual than what was proposed by M. le Docteur Grabow, and at once summoned the landlord.
 
"That doctor is an idiot. Is there no other in the place?"
 
"But no, monsieur. And the Doctor Grabow--"
 
"Is there no English doctor in the hotel?"
 
"But no, monsieur. You and the suffering lady are all of English whom I have now the honour to---- Ah! let us not forget! There was an English doctor of medicine who left here yesterday morning----"
 
"Do you know where he has gone?"
 
"Certainly, monsieur,--to Geneva; did not I myself recommend him to the H?tel de l'Ecu,--me?"
 
"Do you know his name?"
 
"I can show monsieur the name in the strangers' book. It is a name of English, which nobody but English can pronounce."
 
The book was brought; and five minutes after a telegram was despatched to Dr. Hudson, at the H?tel de l'Ecu, Geneva, imploring him to come and see an English lady then lying dangerously ill at Martigny.
 
That night never faded out of Robert Streightley's memory. To his last hour he recollected the dead solemn calm, broken only by an occasional moan from the half-insensible figure on the bed, the position of the furniture, the subjects of the prints on the walls. As he kept his watch grim and solitary (for the doctor, after the failure of the tisane to produce immediate cure, gave up the case and refused to attend again); as he looked at Katharine, with her face whiter than her night-dress, with blanched lips, and hair flung in wild disorder over her pillow, his heart sunk within him and he shook with fear. Was this to be the end of it? Was that lovely prize, which he had accomplished with so much difficulty and at such a sacrifice of principle, to be taken from him now? Was he to lose her,--to lose her without ever having had the chance of winning her love; of letting her see that he was something more than the mere rich City man, who had triumphed by the influence of his money; that he worshipped her with all his soul---- Ah! she must be spared until she had learned that! And Robert Streightley fell on his knees by the bedside, and prayed to God to hear his petition.
 
 
The next day at noon Dr. Hudson arrived. Katharine was at her lowest ebb about this time, and Robert was nearly mad with anxiety; but he derived infinite comfort from the sight of the English doctor's honest cheery face and from the sound of his voice. A wondrous voice; so clear and yet so soft, ringing with comfort and encouragement and hope; a voice at the first sound of which Katharine opened her long-closed eyes and looked with interest at the speaker--would have spoken herself, but that Dr. Hudson raised his finger with a cautioning gesture, and then laid it on his lip. He did not permit her to speak until he had felt her pulse and heard the account of her seizure from her husband; and then he only asked her a few questions which needed very short replies. And then Dr. Hudson took Robert Streightley into the next room, and said:
 
"She may recover--I think she will; but the next four-and-twenty hours will decide."
 
"You--you will not leave her, doctor! Any sum which----"
 
"My dear sir," interrupted Dr. Hudson, laying his hand on Streightley's arm, "I will not leave her bedside until the crisis is over."
 
And he did not. Independently of the attraction of the case itself (and Dr. Hudson loved his profession, and pursued it with an ever-increasing fondness for its study), he found himself very much interested in the beauty of his patient, and profoundly touched by the adoration of her so quietly, so unceasingly shown by her husband. It was a little new to him this worship of a woman by the man who was legally bound to her; for Dr. Hudson lived habitually in Paris, and had a high repute amongst the French aristocracy, amongst whom there was indeed a great deal of the tender passion, though it generally flowed in the wrong channels. He was pleased too with Streightley's sound sense and straightforward honesty; and after the crisis had passed, and Katharine was in the earliest stage of convalescence, she would hear the doctor and her husband discussing politics, and commerce, statistics, and science, far into the night. The doctor was a widower, had no domestic ties, all his patients were away from Paris; and he was so pleased with his new friends that he extended the period of his holiday, and remained with them as their guest.
 
So a fortnight passed, at the end of which Katharine was pronounced in a fit state to journey homeward; and they started, travelling by easy stages to Paris, where they remained three days. At the "Nord" railway-station, just before their train left for Paris, Dr. Hudson bade them farewell.
 
"Remember!" said he, holding Katharine's hand, "I've seen you in an important crisis of your life, and I want to be associated with it! I'm an odd old fellow, with no one to care for or to be cared for by, and I've taken a fancy to you and your husband. If ever you're very ill, or in any state in which you think I can be of service to you, you'll promise to let me know?"
 
Robert was settling the wraps in the carriage; but Katharine pressed the doctor's hand, and said, "I promise you."
 
The next moment the whistle sounded, and the train moved on.
 
When and where was that promise kept?
CHAPTER II.  AT MIDDLEMEADS.
 Cultivated taste and the tender sentiment which finds delightful occupation in preparing a house for a beloved object had not been called into operation in the arrangement and decoration of the abode to which Robert Streightley brought his bride in the early spring which succeeded their marriage. These motive powers had, however, been efficiently replaced by the care and experience of a first-rate London upholsterer; and a more refined and exigeant taste than that of the young mistress of Middlemeads might have pronounced a favourable judgment upon the result. There was, indeed, nothing ancient about the mansion but the mansion itself. Its family associations were all with those from whose keeping it had passed, and by the change had lost the subtle touch of dignity which lingers about a residence within whose walls many lines of the same race have begun and ended. It had none of those grand though dingy pieces de famille which lent an air of refinement and meaning to the faded house in Queen Anne Street; but it was a home which any man might be proud to inaugurate--a home to which all these things might be suitably added in time. Seen as Katharine Streightley saw it first, with the tender glory of the spring upon the woods, with the sunshine pouring down upon the grand old fa?ade, and the joyous music of innumerable birds piercing the pure air, her new home elicited an exclamation of delighted surprise from her, which was eagerly welcomed by Robert. He had seen but rarely of late any evidence of the enthusiasm and freshness of heart which had been among the first and most potent of Katharine's charms for him. He had looked for them in vain when new scenes and new impressions might have been expected to call them forth during their travels; but they had rewarded his search so rarely, that he had begun to wonder if he was ever again to see that peculiar smile, like sudden sunshine, in the eyes whose beauty had grown sombre of late, or to recognise that keen trill of girlish pleasure in the voice whose refined intonation had acquired depth and seriousness since he had heard it first. Robert Streightley knew very little of the woman he had married, as little of her strength as of her weakness; and the passionate ardour of his love for her, the undiminished admiration with which he regarded her, were accompanied with all the interest and curiosity attendant upon a new study. His narrow experience of life, his little knowledge of women, preserved him from much pain in the present at least. It never occurred to him to impute the alteration in Katharine to its true source. He had taken Mr. Guyon's word for the trifling nature of the sentiment entertained by his daughter for Gordon Frere, though even at that period it is probable he would have hesitated at taking Mr. Guyon's word upon any other subject; and though he could not deceive himself so far as to believe that his beautiful wife reciprocated the feelings with which he regarded her, he never ceased to hope that in time she would come to love him. At least he would deserve her love, if unlimited indulgence, if ceaseless observance, if the gratification of every wish, every fantasy could merit it. At least he would atone---- And when Robert's meditations reached that point they were apt to become very uncomfortable, and he would fall back upon the recollection of his wealth, and of all that he intended to do with it solely for Katharine's benefit and pleasure, and he would say in his heart, "At all events, Frere could have given her nothing that she values; for she likes luxury and pleasure--she is quite a woman of the world." In saying which he, the poor fellow, believed he passed an eulogium upon her; for that "world," seen through the medium of his passion, had quite bewildered his fancy and obscured his judgment.
 
It was, therefore, with intense pleasure that Robert observed the glow of satisfaction, the eager alacrity with which Katharine inspected the house and grounds; that he noted the bright eyes and glowing smiles with which she praised all the arrangements made for her comfort, and approved of the scale and order of the household. The irrepressible girlishness of her age aided her in these circumstances. It was quite impossible not to feel pride and delight in such possessions; and she felt them to the full. Ignorant as she had been of the real state of her father's affairs, and guiltless of the false pretences of their life in London, she had always had a vague sense of insecurity; she had always been annoyed by a dearth of ready-money; she had constantly found herself wishing papa would give her a cheque when she went out shopping, and would not oblige her to remain so long and so deeply in her milliner's debt; and now she felt the contrast in the sense of an unexplained but intense relief. The perfect order, the luxury, the quiet of her house, the beauty of the gardens and the woods, the deference, the observance with with which she was treated--differing widely from the capricious caresses of her father, under which her keen intelligence detected the unscrupulousness, selfishness, and the contempt for her sex from which her pride and her delicacy revolted--the novel sense of the importance of her position,--all these united to rouse Katharine from the coldness and bitterness of feeling which had succeeded the awakening from her love-trance. She thought in after-days that during the time which immediately succeeded her arrival at Middlemeads she had not been far from loving her husband. Certain it is that she thought less of her false lover, that she nourished her anger against him less sedulously, that she fed less upon the poisonous fruit of pride, rage, and mortification. She took pleasure in the beauty and luxury which surrounded her: she owed it all to Robert; she could hardly look upon and enjoy it without feeling some gratitude to the giver, without some softening of the pride of her resentful heart, without some more tender and womanly sentiment than that she had purchased all this at the price of herself, and it was but her right. The love which she could not deny, which she was forced to acknowledge, to wonder at every day since she had been Robert's wife, had at first inspired her only with contemptuous wonder; she treated it with disdain in her thoughts, as another proof of the reckless selfishness of men. Here was one ready and willing to pay any price for the gratification of a fancy. So much the better! He had his reward; and her father's needs were supplied, and her defeat and mortification covered by the same means. But was she bound to feel any affection or gratitude to this man in consequence? He loved her for his own sake, not for hers; it was a selfish passion, and he was rich enough to buy its object; that was all. It suited her to be sold; and there was the whole transaction. Love and gratitude had no part in it, could never have any part in any thing in which she should be concerned any more. Gordon Frere was a poor man, she believed: well, she could have been grateful to him if he had shared his narrow means with her, and incurred the anger of his family for her sake; she could have been very happy and very good. But what was the use of thinking of these things? He had only amused himself with her. Was she to be grateful to this man, who had merely purchased her, as he might have purchased any other expensive object which it pleased him to possess. They would get on very well together, no doubt. She had no fear of any disagreements; she trusted, with reason, in her own high breeding and her entire indifference; and then rich people never need quarrel and be disagreeable to each other, the restrictions of life were not for them; finally, it did not much matter, after all. Katharine believed that she had discovered life to be a swindle, and that she should never more be deceived. This was already a sufficiently lamentable effect of the disappointment she had sustained. With such a character, what might not result from a discovery of the whole truth--from a discovery that the man she loved had never been false to her, and that the marriage into which she had entered in self-defence was the basest of transactions!
 
For the present no such discovery was within the reach of calculation or apprehension, and Robert revelled in the new-born graciousness of Katharine's manner and in the revival of her girlish brightness. A little sense of duty now; a little of that training in principle, that discipline in well-doing, which only a mother's care, or that of a woman fitted to replace a mother, can bestow; and a life of happiness and usefulness might have begun for Katharine. But all such influences were wanting; and the instincts for good which made themselves heard occasionally in her tempestuous soul were but impulses--they had no root in themselves, and they withered away. The future process by which they were to be planted, and watered, and given increase, would be full of pain no doubt, as every such process of cultivation of the human soul must be; in those early days at Middlemeads it had not begun. The joyous, gracious manner which shed sunshine into her husband's heart was but the ebullition of Katharine's girlish pleasure, and the natural demonstration of a perfectly well-bred woman, to whom it was pleasant to be gracefully grateful, and to whom polished prettiness of speech was "free as bird on branch." It sufficed to create an Elysium for Robert, who found it easy to accommodate himself to the change in all his habits and in his manner of living, and to whom each day brought a renewed opportunity of ministering to his wife's tastes and pleasures.
 
Among the earliest of their visitors was Ellen Streightley, who had received a polite invitation from Katharine, a few days after her arrival in England. This invitation had included Mrs. Streightley; but there had been no serious wish on the part of Katharine that it should be accepted, and a satisfactory conviction that there was no danger of such an event. Any thing like rapprochement between his mother and his wife was beyond Robert's expectation, almost beyond his desire. They belonged to two distinct worlds of thought, feeling, habits, and ideas; and though he comprehended the fact rather by instinct than by perception, he did comprehend it too fully to be led into any danger of making an effort to bring them together, which must be unsuccessful, and might be disastrous. Mrs. Streightley's naturally quiet temper had made her accept Robert's marriage with tranquil acquiescence. Her son would be less widely parted from her than most sons from their mothers, under such circumstances; they would still have many subjects of common interest, and she must be content with that. She had never seriously expected that Robert would make a selection from their narrow circle; she had not expected that he would be attracted by the Miss Pratts and the Miss Perkinses of the Brixton connection, who exchanged patterns for Berlin-wool work and manuscript music with Ellen, who wore Oxford-Street bonnets, and took notes of Sunday's sermon and Wednesday evening's lecture. She had been content so long as Robert made no choice at all, but devoted himself exclusively to his business; and now that he had chosen a beautiful, fashionable young lady, whose habits, whose pursuits, whose very speech was all but unintelligible to her, she would be content still. Her religious principles were largely assisted by her natural temperament; and their combined action made her the most inoffensive, the most distant, and the most silent of mothers-in-law.
 
"But you have never seen my fine country-house, mother; you will surely come and see it," Robert remonstrated, when his mother requested him to bear her excuses to Katharine.
 
"I shall see it in time, my dear," she answered, "never fear; but you must let me have my own way; you know I have always had it;" and she smiled gently, with the touching smile of the old looking back upon the past "Your wife must have many friends whom she wishes to see. I could neither bear to find myself among fine people, to whom I am totally unaccustomed, nor to feel that I was excluding her friends. You will be constantly in town, Robert, and you will come and see me very often." And then she began to speak of his health, to inquire into the details of Katharine's illness at Martigny; and Robert saw that the matter must remain as it was for the present. It was, however, decided that Ellen should accept Katharine's invitation; and accordingly she made her appearance at Middlemeads within a fortnight of Katharine's installation in her new house. It would have needed a less kindly nature than Katharine's--in which, perverted as it was, true womanly feeling had its place--to resist the frank and innocent gaiety of Ellen, the na?f pleasure which she showed in the inspection of the house, her admiration of the luxurious furniture, and her surprise at finding herself in a scene of such unaccustomed splendour, and yet, after a fashion, at home there. All this was her brother's--all this was Robert's, who had been so well content with the modest comfort of the Brixton villa; and the beautiful young woman who had inspired him with tastes thus gratified, and admitted him into a circle of society of which Ellen had never before had even a glimpse, was her own sister-in-law. She had a kind of prescriptive right to be intimate with her; she wondered whether she might venture to call her "Katharine." Not on the first day of her visit certainly; for though Katharine was perfectly polite, there was no approach to familiarity in her manner; and she inquired, at luncheon, whether "Miss Streightley" would drive, in a tone which seemed to render any such sisterly appellations as "Ellen" and "Katharine" hopeless. But this did not last: they were, after all, two young girls; and the very superiority of intellect and of breeding, of which Katharine was conscious, made her readier to thaw towards Ellen, whose admiration of her brother's beautiful wife was as sincere and single-hearted as it was warm and humble. The warnings of the Rev. Decimus lost their power over the girl's imagination; she yielded to the charm which Katharine exercised over all whom she chose to attract, and was almost as much dazzled as her brother. To Robert the good understanding which subsisted between the two was a source of the purest pleasure; he loved his sister dearly, and he had a sense of her piety, her gentleness, her humility of mind, and the beneficence of such an influence, though he had never defined these things to his own mind or reasoned upon them. On the whole, these early days at Middlemeads were good days; they were a fair seedtime, and the harvest might have been blessed; but the enemy had sown the tares early, and they were destined to flourish in sinister strength.
 
As for Katharine, the genuine affection and admiration with which her sister-in-law regarded her soon began to be sweet and precious to her; her former life had been isolated from all such ties of girlish friendship and confidence, and she had despised them in theory, holding them among the missish follies which she laughed at and held herself above. She had aspired to the reputation of a woman of the world, and she had attained it; and in right of it had no intimacies except of convenience, and no relations with her own sex except those of the most superficial social observance. To Katharine, therefore--who had not, since she left the elegant establishment in which she had acquired all the graces with which nature had not previously supplied her, had any more congenial companion for the hours not absolutely demanded by society than Lady Henmarsh--the novelty of such a friendship as that offered her by Ellen Streightley possessed an ineffable charm. The purity, the simplicity, the very narrowness of the girl's mind pleased her; the unquestioning submission with which she received her opinions, the unqualified admiration which she evinced in every look and word, conveyed, by their simple sincerity, the subtlest charm of flattery. Katharine felt that Ellen's presence did her good; that the peace of mind which pervaded her diffused a tranquil and wholesome atmosphere around her: she did not know whence came the salutary influence; she had never been taught to recognise piety and principle by their peaceable fruits; but she felt all that she did not analyse; and above all she became conscious that she was beginning to live less for herself--that she was acquiring new, unselfish, and harmless interests. Her heart had begun to soften in those days; she was won by the artless confidence of the girl to whom she was an object of wondering admiration, and the wrath and bitterness of her soul began to subside.
 
The last thing in the world to occur to such a mind as that of Ellen Streightley would have been such a possibility as a marriage without perfect affection and confidence. She had never met with an instance of any thing so dreadful and unnatural out of a novel; and the Rev. Decimus disapproved of novels, so that she had discontinued their perusal, and had even had the hardihood to endeavour to induce Katharine to do likewise, and to substitute the interesting details of the Missionary Record, over which she was accustomed to shiver and cry a good deal. Thus, Ellen never doubted for a moment that Katharine's had been, in the language of young ladies, "a love-match;" and the matter-of-course way in which she took this for granted, founded all her talk to Katharine upon it, and treated her brother and his wife as absolutely one in undivided interest and unreserved confidence, though, no doubt, a conclusive evidence of Ellen's own dullness of perception, had all the good effect which an opposite quality, and the exercise of the most perfect tact, could have produced. It was impossible to resist the influence of this frank and perfect belief in the mutual good faith of their relation; it was impossible to resist the gay and happy simplicity which persisted in believing in its ideal; and, but for the sore spot in Katharine's heart, so obstinately hidden, and the sorer spot in Robert's conscience, which ever and anon pained him horribly and vainly, the angel of peace might have found an abiding resting-place with them then. The soft rustle of his wings was often audible to both in those early days; to which they were destined to look back in the future with vain yearning and regret.
 
 
"Were you not surprised, Robert, to hear of Hester's good fortune?" said Ellen Streightley to her brother one morning, as the little party were engaged in the pleasing occupation of reading their letters, of which an unusually large number had been laid upon the breakfast-table.
 
"Yes," said Robert, raising his eyes from a letter which he had been reading with a moody and troubled expression. "Yes, I was indeed, and very much pleased. She was an admirable example of industry and courage. I never could bear to think of a woman having to work; that is a man's part in life. Is your letter from Hester?" he asked, in a tone of interest.
 
"O yes," said Ellen; "Hester is just the same to me as ever, though Matilda Perkins said she wouldn't be, and I must be very silly to imagine a rich heiress would care about me. I can't think how people can be so mean; can you, Robert? Only fancy any one imagining that money can influence people in that way! I am ashamed to say she made me feel almost afraid of Hester; and I cannot tell you how relieved I was when I found her just the same. I was very near confessing to her that I had wronged her in my thoughts; but then I knew they were not my thoughts, but Matilda Perkins's; and I had no business to tell her sins, you know; and after all, perhaps she was not so much to blame,--she did not know Hester as well as I do."
 
Katharine, who had laid aside her letters, and was now busily crumbling bread into a saucer half-full of cream--an operation which her beautiful little Maltese dog, Topaze, watched with placid but appreciative interest--smiled at the ingenious eagerness with which Ellen sought to exculpate one friend and to exalt another. Robert's attention strayed from his sister; his eyes were following the movements of his wife's slender fingers. She placed the saucer on the ground and called her dog.
 
"Here, Topaze, come and eat your breakfast!--And now, Ellen, tell me all about this wonderful Miss Gould. She is tremendously rich, isn't she, and very handsome, blue, and bel esprit, and all the rest of it?"
 
Ellen looked rather puzzled as she said, "Hester is very rich, certainly; but I am not sure about her being very handsome; she always seemed so to me, of course--but then I knew her so well."
 
"And every one is handsome whom you know well?" said Katharine laughing. "What a beauty your brother must be, and Mr. Dutton, and I--after a while, when you know me long enough!"
 
"You know quite well that you are a beauty now and always, to me and to every one," said Ellen with beaming eyes; "and it is wicked of you to laugh at me because I cannot exactly express what I mean. Hester is not beautiful like you, so that every one must acknowledge and no one can deny her beauty; but I love her face. And she is very clever, wonderfully clever. Robert, have you never told Katharine about Hester? She used to be quite one of ourselves, you know. She knows all about you, Katharine, and takes the greatest interest in you."
 
"Does she?" said Katharine with rather a vacant smile.
 
"O yes; and--Katharine," said Ellen timidly, "I should so like her to know you, I should so like my two best friends to be acquainted--and--and she is so accustomed to be with me and Robert--and I have told her so much about Middlemeads, that--if you don't think I take a liberty in asking you----"
 
"You would wish me to invite Miss Gould here, you mean, my dear Ellen?" said Katharine with her most graceful air; "and you stammer about it as if I were a tigress, and you were afraid to ask so trifling a favour in your brother's house. You are a dear silly little goose,--go pluck one of your own quills, and send off your invitation to your friend immediately. Ask her for Tuesday--Lady Henmarsh comes to-morrow, and we must have her and Sir Timothy casés before any one else arrives."
 
Katharine rose as she spoke, and Ellen did the same, turning with sparkling eyes to her brother.
 
"O, Robert, do you hear what Katharine says?" she exclaimed. "She desires me to invite Hester to Middlemeads; and I hardly dare tell you how I longed for her to come here. Is she not kind?"
 
"Yes, indeed," said Robert; but he spoke rather absently. "She is--I am sure we shall be delighted to see Hester here."
 
"Come, Ellen," said Katharine; "I am going to look after my hyacinths: leave your brother to his letters, and come with me."
 
A minute later the two girls passed by the window of the room in which Robert sat, still engaged in what was apparently no pleasant task. He looked up as their voices caught his ear, drew near to the window, and followed the graceful figures with thoughtful, regretful eyes, until they disappeared. Then he sighed deeply, and gathering up his papers left the room.
 
Half an hour later Robert sought his wife and sister in the garden, and found them in deep conversation with the gardener, a Scotchman of unparalleled skill and obstinacy.
 
"I beg your pardon, Katharine," he said, "but I overlooked this letter this morning. It is from your father, enclosed to me, from Paris. It must have fallen out when I opened his."
 
"Thank you," said Katharine carelessly, as she took the note from his hand and stuck it into her belt; then resumed her conversation with the gardener. Ellen felt rather surprised that Katharine could possibly defer the reading of a letter from her father, and recurred to the matter again as she sat down to her desk to enjoy the delight of sending off the longed-for invitation to Hester Gould. She had seen Mr. Guyon at his daughter's wedding, but only on that occasion, and she had not been particularly attracted by him.
 
"Could it be possible that he was not kind to Katharine, and that she is not very fond of him?" thought the guileless Ellen, to whom any perversion of the relations and duties of life was almost inconceivable and incredible. She shook her simple head gravely at the suspicion, and then proceeded to write a gushing letter to Miss Gould, in answer to that which she had received, and in which, had she indulged a second person with its perusal, that individual would have discerned a very distinct intimation that the writer expected and exacted from Ellen that she should obtain precisely such an invitation as Katharine had so readily and gracefully suggested.
CHAPTER III.  HARDENING.
 "My dear Kate, what a perfect paradise of a place you have here!" said Lady Henmarsh to her young hostess, when, having made a tour of inspection of the house, the two ladies found themselves alone in Katharine's morning-room. "I had no notion Mr. Streightley meant to méner grand train after this fashion. You are a fortunate girl, Kate, and I hope you understand and appreciate your luck."
 
Lady Henmarsh spoke with the accent of strong conviction, and looked around her approvingly as she did so. She and Sir Timothy had arrived by a midday train from London: the first hours after their arrival had been passed in the manner usual on similar occasions,--in seeing the house, dawdling about the gardens, and inspecting the hothouses; and now the moment had arrived which Katharine and her guest had each felt disposed to defer as long as possible--that of a tête-à-tête, in which the discussion of the past and present must necessarily have its place.
 
Katharine was standing by a window which opened like a door upon a small perfectly-kept flower-garden, and looking musingly out upon the fair expanse of park and woodland which stretched away into the distance. Lady Henmarsh was looking at her with more curious scrutiny than she had ventured to indulge in in the presence of others; and the result of her examination was, that Katharine was more beautiful than ever. The assured demeanour, the perfect gracefulness, the lofty ease of manner, which had been perhaps a little too pronounced in the girl, were perfectly in their place as attributes of the young matron, who did the honours of her splendid house with faultless elegance and aplomb. The taste and richness of her dress, the judicious assortment of her ornaments, the air of dignity and calm which dwelt about her, made her indeed a being to be regarded with almost wondering admiration. And Lady Henmarsh admired and wondered--wondered how she liked it all; wondered how she and Robert got on together; whether he was afraid of Katharine (she put the question to herself in just such plain words),--thought it very likely, all things considered; wondered whether Katharine ever heard of Gordon Frere, and what she thought of him if she did; and finally wondered whether she might venture to question her on these points: but while the thought passed through her mind the answer passed through it also, and Lady Henmarsh knew perfectly well that she would never dare to mention Frere's name to Mrs. Streightley.
 
"This room is perfectly exquisite," Lady Henmarsh began again; "and I suppose you keep it strictly to yourself; that you give audience here, queen of Middlemeads, when it suits you; but shut out the profane vulgar,--eh, Kate?"
 
"Yes," answered Katharine carelessly; "it is a pretty room, and I use it a great deal,--that is to say, Ellen and I."
 
"Ellen and you!" repeated Lady Henmarsh with profound astonishment. "You don't mean to tell me, Katharine, that you have really taken to be intimate with that uninteresting creature--that sheep-like young lady, the veriest type of the most detestable class of society girls that I have ever encountered! A silly, pious, underbred girl, engaged to a vulgar missionary preacher! Really you amaze me, Kate. Perhaps," she said, with a covert glance at Katharine, and a strong effort to be perfectly familiar and natural, dictated by an instinctive feeling that she had lost ground with one whom she had formerly influenced--"perhaps you are doing the model wife, acting on the 'love-me-love-my-dog' principle, and cultivating this very modest flower for her brother's sake. If so, I admire you for it, Katharine. I am glad to see you have a due sense of the value of 'thorough' in you; there is no more precious quality; but I confess I did not expect it."
 
Katharine had fixed her large bright eyes upon Lady Henmarsh at the beginning of this speech with an expression of cold surprise, which succeeded in making the speaker feel very uncomfortable before she reached the end of it. A few moments elapsed before Katharine answered gravely:
 
"Miss Streightley is a person whom I like and esteem. I fear I shall never imitate her good qualities; but I am glad to know that I have at least the grace to admire them. Of course, as Mr. Streightley's sister, I should have shown her every attention; but such a duty soon became a pleasure."
 
Katharine spoke in a cold and dignified tone, which produced an exceedingly unpleasant effect upon Lady Henmarsh, whose face assumed a certain comical expression, suggestive of an instantly-repressed inclination to whistle. Her feeling towards Katharine had always hovered on the borders of dislike; but from the present moment it crossed them, and she never tried to deceive herself more about its nature. She had been a party to the wound inflicted upon the pride of this haughty woman; she had witnessed her suffering, had spoken to her of her humiliation, had had cognisance of the "transaction" of this marriage; and Katharine would never forgive her. In her she would find a polished, hospitable, and attentive hostess, observant of every social duty, and resolute against every attempt on her part to reestablish an intimacy which had never been more than superficial and of convenience. Lady Henmarsh perceived the state of the case clearly; but as she had no feelings to be hurt in the matter, she took very kindly to a hearty dislike of Katharine.
 
"It is a comfort to know that Ned has got what he wanted, at all events," she thought, as she looked at the moody frown which had come over Katharine's countenance as she spoke the last sentences; "and if she's fool enough to filer le parfait amour with this City lout and all his kin, or hypocrite enough to pretend to do so, so much the better,--things will be easier for Ned, and that's the main point."
 
But Lady Henmarsh said aloud, and with the most perfect suavity,
 
"My dear Katharine, you are surely not so silly as to suppose I blame you for any attention to Mr. Streightley's sister. I daresay I shall like her very much when I know her better; and I'm sure it's quite charming to find you getting on so admirably with your people-in-law. And now, I think, having seen as much of your beautiful house as I can manage for to-day, I will disappear until dinner-time. I must look after Sir Timothy. Thank you, dear; I know my way to my rooms. How delightfully you have chosen for me, Kate! just the situation and aspect I like best. Sir Timothy is perfectly charmed."
 
Lady Henmarsh, safely secluded within her own apartment, proceeded to indite a piquant epistle to her "cousin Ned," in which she painted the Streightley ménage in colours highly agreeable to that gentleman's feelings, and indulged herself with some of the ridicule of Ellen and her brother, whose flow had been so peremptorily arrested by Katharine. She knew that it would be rather agreeable than otherwise to Mr. Guyon to be told, on the authority of an eye-witness, that his daughter was perfectly happy; so she gave him that pleasant assurance, inquired affectionately when he proposed coming to witness the felicity of Middlemeads in person, and hinted that his presence would add considerably to the attractions of that sojourn in her own estimation.
 
Robert's reception of Sir Timothy and Lady Henmarsh had been all that the most exacting guests could desire. The poor fellow felt unbounded gratitude towards Lady Henmarsh, who had, as he said to himself, "always been his friend,"--gratitude which it was a pleasure and a relief to him to feel,--gratitude which he could not extend to Mr. Guyon,--no; he was an accomplice, not a friend; and the tie between them was, one of pain, which made itself felt, and of shame, to which no effort, no triumph, could render him insensible. He was totally ignorant of Lady Henmarsh's complicity in Mr. Guyon's manoeuvres; he knew only that he had received the warmest welcome from her when his pretensions were announced; that she had appeared to regard his marriage as all that it should be; and even now that the prize was won, the treasure he had paid so high a price for all his own, he attached an unreasonable importance to Lady Henmarsh's presence, to her approbation. He did not say so in plain terms to himself; but he felt that she would support his cause with Katharine, that she would lend him additional importance. In the timidity of his sore conscience, he felt that it was a great thing to be strengthened by the presence of a person unconscious and unsuspicious of the means by which his success had been effected, and who had welcomed it on its own merits. So little did he understand his wife's proud isolation of heart, that he mistook her courtesy to her guest for respect for her opinion, and looked to Lady Henmarsh's aid in gaining Katharine's heart as ardently as he had hailed her support in his suit for her hand.
 
The truth was just the opposite of that which Robert believed it to be. From the moment Lady Henmarsh arrived at Middlemeads, Katharine's mood underwent a change unfavourable to the prospect of domestic happiness which had begun to dawn upon her. An atmosphere of heartlessness and worldliness surrounded this woman; and then she was associated in Katharine's mind with all the bitterness and humiliation of the past. The pain, now grown almost old, began to revive again; the restlessness and weariness of spirit, the terrible anger, the unavailing self-contempt, which rendered Katharine unapproachable to all, despite her suave and gracious manner, and especially to him who had afforded her the occasion to incur it. These feelings did not return in their intensity all at once; but their first approach to the invasion of Katharine's heart was made when the girl perceived the hardly veiled contempt with which her ci-devant chaperone regarded her spontaneous effort to be good and happy. It needed little to turn the balance in which the fate of Robert and Katharine Streightley hung at that moment, and Lady Henmarsh's disdainful touch did it. Not directly--she had no direct influence with Katharine now--but indirectly, by the pain of humiliating association, by the sudden revival of the old bitterness, and the sense that all this was but a sordid bargain after all. The evil leaven began its work when Lady Henmarsh left Katharine, still standing by the window of her morning room, in the self-same attitude in which she had stood by the window in Queen Anne Street, and watched in vain for the coming of Gordon Frere. She moved away at length, with a restless and impatient sigh, and went to seek for Ellen.
 
Ellen Streightley had been rather frightened by Lady Henmarsh, whose rapid talk on a variety of subjects removed from Ellen's comprehension and experience had oppressed her considerably. She had accordingly kept out of the way, since she had contrived to make her escape during the tour of inspection; and Katharine ultimately discovered her in a quiet corner of the library, deeply engaged in the manufacture of an unspeakably hideous pair of embroidered slippers. She laid aside her work at Katharine's approach, and they proceeded to discuss the time and manner of Miss Gould's expected arrival on the ensuing day, Ellen losing herself in conjectures as to what Katharine would think of Hester, and what Hester would think of Katharine. She had most of the discourse to herself, and also enjoyed a secret satisfaction in the reflection that to-morrow she would have her friend--a more important person than Lady Henmarsh--too, to make a fuss about. She wondered how Robert could like that woman so much, and be so deferential to her; she might be very grand and all that, but she had a way of making people feel small and uncomfortable, which was not like a real lady--not like dear Katharine, for instance; however, there was one comfort, she could not put down Hester.
 
"Is Miss Gould likely to marry, Ellen?" asked Katharine in the course of their conversation. "It would be a terrible take-in for the fortune-hunters, you know, or rather you don't know, if the prize of the season were found to be already won."
 
Ellen looked at her sister-in-law with the half-solemn, half-stupid gaze habitual to her when she was puzzled. Katharine had never uttered any such banale sarcasm to her before; that she did so now was the first symptom of the evil influence that was upon her.
 
"No," said Ellen slowly; "I do not think Hester ever cared for any one; she gave all her mind, she used to say, to her work. But O, Katharine, how nice it is to think that she can marry a man as poor as Decimus now, if she likes!--that is the only thing that makes it worth while to be an heiress, is it not?"
 
"I am not sure of that, Ellen," said Katharine; "it is a great recommendation certainly, but heiress-ship has some other advantages too. But there's the first bell; let us go and make ourselves beautiful for Sir Timothy."
 
"And for Robert, Katharine," said Ellen archly; "but you are always beautiful for him."
 
"Ay, she may marry a poor man if she likes," thought Robert's wife, as she sat before a long glass in her room, and looked at her beautiful face framed in the unbound masses of her glossy hair. "She may buy, instead of being bought--that's all the difference; the distinction is valuable, however."
 
* * * * *
 
Robert Streightley drove his sister to the station where he and Yeldham had hired a trap on the occasion of their visit to Middlemeads, to meet her friend on the day following Lady Henmarsh's arrival. The drive was a pleasant one, for Ellen talked of Katharine, with only occasional and brief interludes and digressions in favour of the absent missionary; and Robert was ready to extend his sympathy to his sister to a degree which would have seemed incredible to him a short time before. He was very happy that day; his face showed the gladness that was at his heart, as it reflected the smile with which Katharine had nodded a farewell to him and Ellen, as the open carriage passed the window where she was standing with her little white dog in her arms. How bright and beautiful and girlish she looked! he thought; how truly she harmonised with all around her! surely she was happy now--happier than at first.
 
"There's the smoke, Nelly; we are just in time," said Robert; and in another minute they were on the platform, and Ellen had caught sight of Hester's dark eyes, with a smile of recognition in them, as the train came slowly up, and stopped. Robert stood aside while the two women exchanged their greeting, after the manner characteristic of each; and during that brief interval he regarded Hester with some interest and curiosity. He had not seen her since she had so unexpectedly inherited her uncle's wealth,--he had hardly thought of her; the old time in which they had been familiar, if not intimate, seemed very far past now; he had lived all of his life that had been worth living since then. It occurred to him now for the first time that it might be curious to see how this young woman had borne a transition which could hardly fail to be trying. In the first place, he recognised that Hester Gould was elegantly dressed. He had become skilful in such observation now; he who had not formerly had an idea on the subject, and could not have told whether his sister was attired in velvet or cotton; but his close attention to every thing in which Katharine was concerned or interested, his ceaseless admiration of her, his keen perception of every thing which adorned the beauty which he worshipped, had educated his eyes, and he perceived at once that Hester's toilette was perfect in its taste and appropriateness. Nothing appeared in her which could annoy Katharine's refined ideas; not the least touch of vulgarity, not the most transient embarrassment or pretension of manner, nothing to convey the smallest suggestion of the nouveau riche. With the same frank courtesy that she had displayed in their former relations Miss Gould received her host's welcome; with precisely the correct degree of interest she inquired for Mrs. Streightley; and with a totally unchanged manner she entered into conversation with Ellen, during the necessary delay which took place while the servants were securing the luggage.
 
As they drove to Middlemeads, Robert talked with his guest of the country around, of the gentlemen's seats which they passed, of the Buckinghamshire backwoods, and other topics appropriate to the occasion, but which had little interest for Ellen, who was anxious to put one of her idols en rapport with the other as soon as possible. Hester had said something very civil, and perfectly sincere, about the pleasure she anticipated from seeing Middlemeads, and was listening attentively to Robert's anecdotes of the historical importance of the place, when Ellen said, in her peculiar interjectional fashion,
 
"O yes, it's all most delightful, and ever so grand, Hester; so different, you know, to Brighton and that, that I really should have been half afraid of it if it hadn't been for Katharine. She is so delightful, you can't think, Hester. I think she could make a cabin feel like a palace. I do so long for you to see her."
 
"You forget that I have already seen Mrs. Streightley several times, Ellen; and I cannot believe that my admiration can be increased on better acquaintance."
 
Robert looked delighted, but surprised; and was just about to speak, when Ellen began again.
 
"Yes, yes, I remember; you saw her at the famous fête--that fête which I shall always think, in spite of Decimus, a most fortunate and praiseworthy piece of worldliness and dissipation, for there Robert fell in love with Katharine, and there I am sure Katharine fell in love with him, though I have never got her to tell me any thing about it--I suppose it's not the correct thing among fashionable people to talk about falling in love!--and then you just had a glimpse of her on her wedding-day; but I mean I want you to see her constantly in her own house, and to admire her as we do."
 
"I could hardly venture to do that, Ellen," said Miss Gould, in a tone which conveyed the lightest possible suggestion of ridicule of Ellen's enthusiasm, and would, therefore, have betrayed to any one thoroughly acquainted with Hester--supposing such an individual to exist--that her temper was momentarily disturbed. She was instantly conscious of the tone herself; and turning to Robert with unaffected good-humour, she said:
 
"The occasions which Ellen mentions were not the only ones on which I had the pleasure of seeing Mrs. Streightley. I think I know her by sight longer than you do."
 
"Indeed! how was that?" asked Robert rather eagerly, for every thing in the past, as in the present, which regarded Katharine had a potent interest for him.
 
"I taught music to the Miss Morisons, who lived next door to Mr. Guyon, during two seasons," said Hester simply; "and as they seized upon every conceivable opportunity for neglecting their lessons, they made it a point to rush to the windows to see Miss Guyon going out to ride, and I never could resist the temptation of looking out with them. I like to see a woman on horseback who looks and rides as she does. I am not sure that I did not envy the gay cavalcade sometimes, when I used to see them set off, and had to turn to 'one, two, three, four--pray attend to your fingering,' and so forth, again."
 
"You will have horses in town too, Hester, won't you?" said Ellen; "and have cavalcades on your own account, and gallant cavaliers to escort you, as Katharine had?"
 
"I am not so sure of that," said Hester demurely; "the Morison girls, who were very slang, used to talk about Miss Guyon's escort being always the 'best' men in London; and there was a Mr. Frere--her cousin, is he not?--whom they used to admire almost as enthusiastically as they admired her. Caroline, who was horribly silly, used to quote Tennyson's 'Guinevere' as they went by the windows: very appropriate to a London street, was it not?"
 
"Look, look, Hester!" said Ellen, jumping up in the carriage, "there's the first glimpse of Middlemeads;" and then the young lady occupied herself with pointing out every detail of the approach, until the carriage passed under the arch and drew up at the entrance, where Katharine was standing in the open doorway, pleased to gratify her sister-in-law to the utmost by the demonstrative kindness of her reception of Miss Gould.
 
"We were in capital time, Katharine," said Ellen, as the three ladies passed through the hall, "and had a delightful drive, hadn't we, Robert? O, he's gone off to the library, I suppose."
 
Katharine was much pleased with Hester Gould, and the little party at Middlemeads was apparently composed of the most harmonious elements. The great heiress was naturally an object of curiosity in that character; and Katharine was no more slow than Hester herself to perceive that her guest's presence lent an additional attraction in the eyes of the neighbourhood to the newly-mounted ménage at Middlemeads. It was not every country-house which had two such specimens of womanhood to show,--the one so beautiful, the other so rich; and the neighbourhood proved itself not undeserving of its opportunities. Lady Henmarsh had experienced some not unnatural pangs of apprehension lest the dignified dulness which her soul abhorred should beset her at Middlemeads. She had had her doubts about Robert Streightley's fitness for his new r?le in society; she had dreaded, she did not exactly know what, in Katharine; but her apprehensions proved utterly unfounded. She did not care to look beneath the surface, and that was all that could be desired. Mrs. Streightley dispensed a splendid hospitality with perfect grace, and Robert had no desire save that in all things her pleasure should be done. Her pleasure was to fill her house with company, and to pass her life in a round of such amusements as were attainable in the country, previous to entering upon the London season with a brilliancy and splendour which should convince the world that she was one of the most fortunate persons in it, and leave herself no time to recur to any of the absurd fancies which had once beguiled her for a little. How absurd they were! She laughed at them now, and at herself; and yet the laugh was not entirely real. And sometimes she would think of Hester Gould's wealth with a dreadful pang of envy, but in which there was not an atom of sordid feeling.
 
Hester Gould turned every hour of her stay at Middlemeads to account. She was incapable of such a blunder as copying any one's manner; but she studied the best types with which she was brought in contact, and profited by them. She knew exactly the extent and value of such personal attractions as she possessed, as well as she knew the exact sum of money which she owned; she understood her own advantages and defects to a nicety; she appreciated the utility of the interval thus attained for studying phases of society hitherto unknown, before entering on the great world; and she made the most of it. Impossible to unite self-possession, simplicity of tastes and manners, and sound common sense, more admirably than they were combined in Hester Gould. Impossible to be more popular and more impenetrable. Had she been in possession of all the truth, she could hardly have understood the "situation" more clearly than she understood it, aided only by her remarkable penetration and the quickening influence of concentrated anger. Had her heart been concerned in the scheme in which she had been defeated by the unconscious Katharine, and in which only her brain and her will had been active, she would have felt more acutely and more transiently; but as it was, her anger neither cooled nor decreased. It was characteristic of Hester that her changed position made not the least difference in her feelings. She knew that her wealth gave her opportunities in comparison with which a marriage with Robert Streightley would have been but a meagre triumph; she knew that her defeat had been practically rendered no defeat at all by the freak of fortune winch had endowed her with riches; but the knowledge had no effect on her. The ruling principle of her character, the egotism of an inflexible will, had suffered a deep wound, and she admitted no balm in such considerations to heal it. Katharine's had been the hand to deal this wound. As for Robert, "he never would have loved me," she said in her heart; "but I should have married him for all that." And she would punish Katharine--unless, indeed, fate should spare her the trouble. Of this vicarious vengeance she discerned a promising probability; for day by day she saw that Katharine was hardening. She was satisfied to perceive the result, without analysing the process very closely; and she discerned that her own presence, though the most unexceptionable relations subsisted between her and her hosts, had as sinister an influence as she could desire. She was not the woman to employ unnecessary activity. If she could do mischief passively, so much the better, so much the safer. Hester's character had received by her defeat the impulse towards the development of evil which had hitherto been wanting, and more than once she had to recall her determination never to permit any passion to gain dominion over her. Hitherto her will had been stronger than any indication of passion she had ever felt; if it only proved so for the future, life would have no great harm in store for her.
 
Lady Henmarsh had taken the young heiress under her especial patronage (she had a genuine admiration for rich people); and before her visit to Middlemeads had terminated, it was arranged that Miss Gould should be promoted to the place vacated by Katharine, and should make her début in London society under the auspices of Lady Henmarsh.
 
CHAPTER IV.  CANAAN FROM PISGAH.
 The month of April was nearing its close, and the party at Middlemeads were beginning to think of separating, to meet again in the more exciting scenes of London life during the season.
 
A programme, including entertainments which should combine splendour and originality, to be given at the mansion in Portland Place, had been agreed upon, and perfect harmony reigned among the ladies. Miss Gould took a deep interest in the preparation of Mrs. Streightley's town-house, and had frequently accompanied Katharine to town, when she visited Portland Place to give new orders and observe the fulfilment of old ones. Katharine threw herself into this novel and decidedly exciting occupation with all the fervour of her age and character. She interpreted and acted upon Robert's permission to do precisely as she pleased, to its fullest extent.
 
"Please yourself, dear, and you will please me," he had said to her; "you know I have not much taste for such things."
 
"Perhaps your mother--" Katharine had considered it polite to say----
 
"O no," Robert had answered hastily; "my mother would be less useful to you than myself. She has lived in a plain house and in a plain way all her life, and she would not in the least understand how the cage for so bright-plumaged a bird as you are should be decorated."
 
It was an awkward metaphor, an unfortunate pleasantry; and Robert felt it so as soon as he had uttered it, and hastily left his wife on the plea of letters to be answered, having received the briefest, coldest acknowledgment from her of a permission on which she proceeded to act immediately with much animation and entire recklessness of expense. While she was engaged thus, and when the time for the removal of the establishment to town was drawing near, Katharine learned that Mrs. Stanbourne had arrived in England, and was desirous of seeing her, and making the acquaintance of her husband. The letter which conveyed this intelligence to Mrs. Streightley was not altogether and heartily welcomed by her. The one single individual in the world for whom Katharine felt perfect respect, respect in which her intellect was as active as her heart, was Mrs. Stanbourne; and yet, even though affection mingled largely with that sentiment, she could not feel real pleasure in the prospect of seeing her. She did not tell herself what it was she dreaded; but she knew in her heart that it was her true friend's clear-sightedness and her unbending rectitude. She had so shrunk from announcing her marriage to her, that Mr. Guyon had found himself obliged to undertake that very unpleasant task; a substitution which had surprised Mrs. Stanbourne much and hurt her a little; but she was a woman in whose disposition the small susceptibilities born of self-love had not much place, and she put the light mortification aside, and wrote to Katharine just such a kind motherly letter as, under other circumstances, would have added to the happiness of a bride. But Katharine had read it hurriedly, with a flushed brow, and her rich red lip caught under her white teeth, and had put it away out of her sight. Nay more, she had put off answering it, until she might venture to disregard its tone and substance; and treating her marriage as an affair whose novelty had quite worn off, and to which any further reference would be out of place, had filled two sheets of paper with a pleasant, flippant account of her continental trip, and a lively sketch of some of the costumes which took her fancy among the Swiss peasantry. Katharine's letter pleased Mrs. Stanbourne as little as her father's had done; but she was a sensible as well as a feeling-hearted woman, and she recognised that explanation of any thing which excited her misgivings was not just then attainable. It must be waited for it; had better be waited for patiently; she would see Katharine as soon as possible after she should reach England, and in the mean time would write to her, as usual, not very often, but very frankly and affectionately. She had adhered to this resolution; and now she was about to see and discern for herself whether this marriage, whose exterior advantages were undeniable, was all that she could desire, or any part of what she had desired for this impetuous, unmanageable girl, whom she had always loved, and for whom she had always been apprehensive, with the well-grounded fear which is taught by experience and the knowledge of the human heart; with that fear which can hardly fail to be awakened when one who has travelled far on the journey of life looks back and sees the young beginner joyously setting forth in delusive hope, and with the courage of ignorance.
 
The prompt invitation to Middlemeads by which Katharine replied to Mrs. Stanbourne's notification of her arrival in England was all that it should have been, in words; and the acceptance was as prompt and affectionate.
 
"This day week, then, she will be here," Katharine said to herself, as she sat before her writing-table with the letter in her hand. "This day week. I am glad the house is likely to be so full--I don't want to be alone with her. It is all so unlike her ideas--and she is so quick." Here Katharine sighed. "Well, after all, she knows I always liked money, and what money gives one in this world--and she knows I never was romantic. It's all very gay and splendid here; and if I don't care quite so much about it as I used to think I should--I must be a worse actress than I think I am, if she finds that out. One thing at least she does not know, and can never discover; one secret is at least inviolably my own. No one can ever guess that I cherished the delusion of love and truth, of a life lived for their sake; a life lived with a man who amused himself all the time, who made me love him pour rire."
 
So far as it went, Katharine's argument with herself was frank and well founded; but it did not go far enough, it did not extend to the acknowledgment of the real blot which she dreaded her friend's hitting. That Mrs. Stanbourne should regard her in the gravely responsible position of a wife, as wholly given up to empty amusements, the pursuit of pleasure and excitement, and the lavish expenditure of money upon every trifle which took her fancy, was, she chose to persuade herself, what she dreaded. And this certainly was an impression to be deprecated; but it was only secondary, though she put it first. It was her conduct towards Robert which she really feared to find exposed to the keen, unembarrassed scrutiny of Mrs. Stanbourne, whom she knew to be a woman incapable of trifling with the ideal of duty either in theory or in practice. That she would discern her to be a wife without love for her husband, without gratitude for all his affection and observance, without sympathy for his tastes, observance of his wishes, or consideration for his feelings; a woman hardened, wilful, and selfish; who had made a marriage which was a bargain, and was not faithful to the spirit of her share in that bargain. If Mrs. Stanbourne's customary penetration did not fail her, this was what it would show her, under the surface of a life of gaiety, extravagance, and luxury. She felt in her conscience, whose voice she could not stifle, that she was unjust towards the man who had given her not only money but love. True, she did not care for the love, she did not want it; but after all, it was the vehicle by which the money which she did want and did care for was conveyed to her; and there was an undeniable baseness, a failure of duty and propriety in her conduct, only the more flagrant because the sufferer by it was compelled to endure it uncomplainingly, because the injury was, so to speak, impalpable. Katharine was too clear-sighted not to perceive and understand her own shortcomings perfectly; and in her inmost heart she dreaded that Mrs. Stanbourne would understand them too. Plainly put, she knew the truth to be, that she was revenging on the man who had given her a brilliant and enviable position before the world; who had effectually screened her from scorn and malice, and made her an object of envy instead; the man who loved her with a fervour of admiration and devotion which served only to provoke and embitter her,--the deadly injury inflicted upon her by another, the baseness of whose conduct every womanly instinct should have taught her to requite with contempt. She had done Robert Streightley the tremendous wrong of marrying him without loving him; true, he knew it and accepted it, but it was none the less, in the light of a pure woman's conscience, a deadly wrong--and she had not made the slightest effort to retrieve or repair that wrong. If a transient impulse, ascribable to the elasticity of spirit of her age more than to any real motive of her conscience, had drawn her nearer to him for a little while, she had fallen away from him again in impatient weariness, and now each day seemed but to set them farther apart. And she could not even regret it; she could feel no repentance, no wish to be different--that was the worst of it; it was not that she desired the conditions of her domestic life to be altered, but only that she dreaded their discovery by Mrs. Stanbourne. Katharine's meditations were not, therefore, of the brightest; and a second cause of embarrassment arose to trouble them. Lady Henmarsh and Mrs. Stanbourne were utterly uncongenial to each other, and yet each occupied an exceptional position as regarded her: they would be certain to clash unpleasantly. It would have been easier to bear, had Lady Henmarsh not been there. Katharine must announce the expected visit to her ci-devant chaperone, and she felt exceedingly uncomfortable at the prospect. She had on several occasions narrowly escaped quarrelling with Lady Henmarsh apropos of Mrs. Stanbourne; and she thought it extremely likely that on this occasion they might quarrel outright. Katharine was not a person likely to defer doing any thing of the kind because it was unpleasant, so she went immediately to the south drawing-room, where she found Lady Henmarsh, Ellen, and Hester Gould. Lady Henmarsh was doing nothing, so far as her hands were concerned. Sunk in the luxurious depths of an easy-chair, she was looking out on the flower-garden and the statues, and talking to Hester Gould, who was seated on a footstool in the embrasure of the large window, and pulling the ears of Topaze, who was lying contentedly in her lap.
 
"Look at this faithless little creature, Mrs. Streightley," exclaimed Hester, as Katharine entered the room. "He actually followed me out of the breakfast-room this morning, in preference to you. Can you fancy any thing so base?"
 
"Topaze prefers lying on a silk dress to lying on a muslin one, Miss Gould," returned Katharine smiling; "and she is particularly fond of having her ears pulled. I have had no time to indulge her this morning; I have been busy with my letters. I have heard from papa, Lady Henmarsh."
 
"Indeed, my dear! I thought all his correspondence was reserved for his son-in-law. When is he coming?"
 
"Not just yet; indeed I fear he will not be able to manage to come to us before we go to town at all. But I have also heard from Mrs. Stanbourne. She has come to England, and she is so good as to promise us a visit. She names this day week for her arrival at Middlemeads."
 
"O, indeed!" said Lady Henmarsh in a satirical voice, and directing a glance at Hester which satisfied Katharine that she had indulged in sarcasm concerning Mrs. Stanbourne to her new friend. "Well, I shall not have the pleasure of seeing her, and I daresay she will not particularly miss me. I was just going to tell you, my dear Kate, that Sir Timothy and I must really take a reluctant leave of Middlemeads on Wednesday. Sir Timothy has had letters from his steward requiring his immediate attention; and you know he is rather fidgety, and never satisfied unless he is on the spot."
 
Katharine did not know any thing of the kind, but she was quite content to take Sir Timothy's inquietude for granted; and she received Lady Henmarsh's explanation with perfect grace, and much internal satisfaction. The four ladies then had a great deal of animated conversation about all they intended to do, and the constant intercourse they hoped to establish in London; and the morning wore away very pleasantly. Katharine's spirits recovered their tone when she discovered that the meeting under circumstances of close association between Lady Henmarsh and Mrs. Stanbourne, which she had so much dreaded, was not to take place. Hester was looking forward to her début in the character of a great heiress, under the auspices of the most agreeable married woman she had ever met, but whose character and disposition she read with equal precision and indifference. Ellen, who was to return to town with Hester, was sunk in a charming reverie of anticipation; for the Rev. Decimus hoped to be in London when she should arrive, and to be able to tell her to which of the most unhealthy and savage regions of the known world it was his desire and intention to convey her. Hester's visit would terminate a day or two after Mrs. Stanbourne's arrival. Ellen was very glad not to leave Middlemeads before; she was very anxious to see Katharine's friend and kinswoman. Hester did not care in the least about the matter. It was not likely that Mrs. Stanbourne could ever be of any importance to her; she had nothing to gain and nothing to lose by her; and Miss Gould was very little given to thoughts or surmises or the taking of interest concerning any matter which did not immediately concern her. When the bell rang for luncheon, the ladies obeyed the summons; and Lady Henmarsh asked where was Mr. Streightley.
 
"Robert is gone to London," said Ellen. "He went by the first train, did he not, Katharine?"
 
"Yes, I believe so," answered Robert's wife carelessly. "He had business in town, I understood, and will probably not return until to-morrow."
 
She neither knew nor cared what the business was that had called her husband away; but Lady Henmarsh knew, and cared enough to feel irritated, if not sorry. She had had a letter also from Mr. Guyon--a more confidential one than the brief chatty epistle he had written to his daughter; and she knew that at the moment at which they mentioned him, he and Robert Streightley were closeted together, in the office in the City, in deep, and by no means pleasant, conversation. Miss Gould also had had some letters that morning, and one of them offered her at least a suggestion of the nature of Robert's business in town. It was written by Mr. Thacker; and among its rather voluminous contents Miss Gould read: "Old Guyon is going the pace tremendously; it must kill in the end;--even Robert Streightley--his patience can't hold out, I should think, if his purse can."
 
The week passed, unmarked by any remarkable incident. Lady Henmarsh carried off Sir Timothy on the appointed day, and bade Hester Gould farewell with much demonstrative affection; which that young lady received with well-bred acquiescence, and which Katharine observed with mingled amusement and contempt.
 
"She never was half so fond of me," she thought; "but that is easily understood. I never was rich while she could make any use of my money."
 
During this week Hester observed that Robert Streightley was more silent and dispirited than usual, and that not a day elapsed without his receiving a letter from Mr. Guyon. She felt some curiosity concerning the nature of these communications, for she by no means imputed them to Mr. Guyon's affection for his son-in-law; but she was quite satisfied to wait for its gratification. Mr. Thacker was expected at Middlemeads, and she knew that she should discover much, if not all she wanted to know, from that gentleman; over whom her sagacity, firmness, and coolness of disposition, being qualities which he particularly admired, had secured her considerable and increasing influence. It was finally settled that Mr. Guyon should not visit his daughter at her country residence until the close of the season; an arrangement to which Mrs. Stanbourne's arrival had largely contributed. He was not afraid of her now; he had carried his point, and her influence was no longer to be dreaded; but he disliked her excessively, to an extent which amounted to antipathy; and he would not have encountered a week in a country-house in her society, and exposed to her observation, for any but a very large consideration. A slight to his daughter was a small one, so Mr. Guyon stayed away; and his daughter was decidedly relieved by his absence.
 
The apprehensions with which Katharine had regarded Mrs. Stanbourne's visit were fully realised. Her true friend discerned the change in the girl, for whom she felt sad and genuine interest; the woman whose life was full of duty steadily done perceived at once that in Katharine's that mainspring was wanting. She had felt apprehensive before; but her fear for Katharine's future grew with every hour of personal observation, with every fresh evidence of her total indifference to her husband which presented itself. She studied Robert Streightley closely, and she found in him much to like, to respect, and to esteem, but still something which puzzled and distressed her. She could not comprehend that a man could bear indifference, hardness, almost disdain, from a woman upon whom he had lavished such proofs of love, with so much submission as Robert endured them from Katharine withal. "If the man had done her a wrong, and she was graciously exercising some forbearance towards him, his manner might be what it is, with some reason and appropriateness; but as things are, I cannot understand it. It is ruinous to her, fostering every evil tendency in her nature, putting her in a false and unnatural position; and it is positively unmanly on his part."
 
Mrs. Stanbourne meditated a good deal upon these things before she made up her mind to speak to Katharine. "Entre l'arbre et l'écorce ne mets pas le doigt," was a wholesome saying, and she bore it in mind; but "a word in season, how good it is!" had equal wisdom and superior authority; and compassionate affection for the young wife, who was blindly laying waste her own life and another's, who was pursuing the phantoms of pride, vanity, and pleasure, and turning her back on love and duty, carried the day over caution and mere worldly prudence. "I will tell her the truth," said Mrs. Stanbourne to herself. "It may turn her against me, she is so proud, and so violent in her temper; but no matter for that, if my speaking the truth may only do her good, and spare her something in the future. Katharine used to love me once, I sincerely believe; but I doubt whether she loves any one now. What can have come over the girl?"
 
Among the many valuable qualities possessed by Katharine's one true friend, tact was conspicuous; and she exercised it on the present occasion. She selected her opportunity well, and she employed it with admirable discretion. There was no assumption of superiority, no "lecturing" tone in the grave, kind words which she addressed to Robert Streightley's wife, and in which she appealed to her sense of right, of duty, of delicacy, and of gratitude. Katharine could not deny the truth of any thing she said. She had married Robert Streightley because he was a rich man, and she had given him nothing in return, not only for all the money, but for all the love, which he lavished upon her, that it was in her power to withhold. The interview was a painful one to both parties; especially painful to Katharine, who had to hide from her friend the real motive which had actuated her in her marriage and in her subsequent conduct--a motive in which not only did there not exist the smallest excuse, but which in reality increased her guiltiness towards the man whom she had married. She could not deny the truth; she could not impugn the force of the contrast presented by his conduct, which Mrs. Stanbourne painted to her in all the glowing colours of generosity, devotion, patience, and forbearance. Katharine felt, as she promised, that she never could forget the picture as drawn by her friend; it appealed to all that was best in her nature; it touched her innate nobility of soul. Nor did she forget it: in the time to come she bore it, every hue, every tint, in her memory.
 
Mrs. Stanbourne was surprised and delighted at the result of her hazardous interposition.
 
"I will not pretend to feel towards him what I do not feel," said Katharine, in her softest tones, as their conversation drew to a close; "but I will be more considerate of him--I will be less selfish--I will try to make him happier."
 
"Do so, my dear Katharine," said her faithful friend, "and depend on it, your own happiness will be the result. You have only to do your duty to your husband, and the feelings to which you could not pretend, and ought not to feign, will arise in your heart spontaneously. Try to make him happy, because it is right and you owe it to him, and you will soon find your own happiness centred in him as his is in you."
 
The elder lady kissed the younger gravely, and left her. Katharine covered her face with her hands, and burst into tears. She very rarely wept; and now, though she thought, "Ah, if she only knew--if she only knew that love is dead for me!" there was refreshment in the transient passion of grief and self-reproach, and a new dawn of better days in the frank resolution with which Katharine determined on the fulfilment of her promise.
 
 
Mr. Thacker's promised visit to Middlemeads was duly paid. He seldom allowed himself a holiday; but this visit was an agreeable combination of pleasure and business, in which he thought he might very safely indulge. Besides, to have it known that he was staying with Streightley of Bullion Lane; to have letters addressed to and to date them from "Middlemeads, Bucks;" to do the grand seigneur for a few days, and simultaneously to do a very excellent stroke of business,--all these things were pleasant to Daniel Thacker's soul. He arrived late, only in time to dress for dinner; during which repast he contrived to impress Mrs. Stanbourne, next to whom he was seated, with a holy horror of his appearance, manners, and conversation; for Mr. Thacker had what his sisters were in the habit of calling his "company manners" towards ladies, and which consisted either in repulsive insolence and would-be sarcasm, or rather more repulsive adulation. Something had tended to put Mr. Thacker into great spirits on this particular evening. The dinner had been very good, the wines excellent; there was an air of luxurious refinement all around him, and his immediate proximity to Mrs. Stanbourne was specially grateful. He knew her as a woman of mark even among persons of mark; and "he liked that kind of thing, damme!" as he was accustomed to remark in moments of confidence. It mattered little to him that he received at first merely polite and at last chilling monosyllabic replies to his advances; he saw his way towards concocting a paragraph for the fashionable weekly paper in which his name should be included amongst a list of "swells" as being entertained at Middlemeads; and for what Mrs. Stanbourne really thought of him he cared but little. With the person with whom it was essential to him that he should stand well, he made much greater progress. Before the ladies retired for the night, and while Katharine was playing, he had flung himself on an ottoman where was seated Hester Gould, and had said in the nearest approach to a demi-voix which with his natural nasal intonation he could command----
 
"Are you an early riser, Miss Gould?"
 
Hester looked at him with a little astonishment, and without the slightest affectation of hauteur, at the sudden question, and replied, "Always, Mr. Thacker. I was compelled, as you know--who better?--to get up early to go to my pupils; and since I have lost the necessity I have not discontinued the practice."
 
"That's right; it's a good habit; though, I suppose, one not much indulged in here. However, that's so much the better. I want a quiet half-hour's chat with you. Could you be in the grounds at eight to-morrow morning?"
 
A properly-regulated young lady would have blushed and exclaimed at this proposition; a flirt would have manipulated her fan, and nodded assent behind it. Hester Gould was neither, and did neither. She simply looked Mr. Thacker straight in the face, and said "Yes."
 
"All right," said Mr. Thacker. "There's a sun-dial, or something of the kind, I think I noticed, at the end of the house which fronts the bay-window of this room. If you could meet me there at eight, we could stroll on and have our talk without fear of interruption."
 
To which Hester Gould merely replied: "I know it; I will be there."
 
Daniel Thacker prided himself on his punctuality; but when, attired in an unmistakably new suit of morning-dress, he arrived at the trysting-place the next morning, he found Miss Gould there before him. After the ordinary salutations they turned their backs on the house, and walked on side by side. Then Mr. Thacker told her that since she had been pleased to honour him with her confidence, and to employ him as her man of business, he had been incessantly turning in his mind a scheme for employing some of the large sums of ready-money which were lying at her command; and that after great cogitation, and while he was even thoroughly undecided what investment to recommend to her, by the merest chance an opportunity had offered which ought not to be missed, and which, unless she was warped by silly sentimentality, she ought certainly to profit by.
 
Miss Gould listened attentively, and then said: "Unless I am warped by silly sentimentality? I don't think that would ever stand in my way, Mr. Thacker. Of what nature is the investment you propose?"
 
"A mortgage on an estate, worth at least a third more than the money required to be raised."
 
"There seems very little sentimentality in that. So far as my small experience of business matters goes, I cannot conceive any thing more safe and prosaic. What can you mean, Mr. Thacker? Is it a case of widow and orphan, or of family estate held since the Conquest passing into the hands of a parvenu? Believe me, I'm adamant on both those points. If husband and father squanders and dissipates, widow and orphan must pay the penalty; if Hugo de Fitzurse is sold up, why should not Jones of Manchester buy Bruin Castle, moat, portcullis, battlements, and all?"
 
Such a sentiment as this delighted Daniel Thacker amazingly. He looked at his companion with intense admiration, as he said, "Of course; why not? But it's scarcely that sort of sentimentality that I alluded to. Suppose the estate in question, on the mortgage of which the money was to be lent, had belonged to a friend--one whom you had--liked very much; what then?"
 
"What then? Now really, my dear Mr. Thacker, this appears to me to be slightly childish. Of course I should be extra glad to know that my loan of the money had been serviceable to my friend. He, she, or it would be glad to know that I had good security; and as to the sentimentality of the affair, I don't see the least occasion for it, unless the friend could not pay, and there arose a necessity for--what do you call it?--foreclosing."
 
Daniel Thacker laughed outright--a short, sharp, shrill laugh of intense enjoyment. "Miss Gould," he said, "I cannot tell you how immensely I respect you. You are out and away the best woman of business I ever met. Then you seem to entertain this notion of the mortgage?"
 
"If you prove to me that it is all sound and sufficient. But what about the sentimentality? Where is the estate on which the money is to be lent?"
 
"I should say," said Mr. Thacker, stopping short, and looking fixedly at her,--"I should say that at this moment we are standing in about the very middle of it."
 
Hester Gould had stopped when her companion stopped; and as he said these words a bright flush overspread her cheeks, and a bright light flashed into her eyes. That was all the outward and visible sign of the prospect which Thacker's speech had conjured up. Robert Streightley pressed for money--that money lent by her, and not repaid--she the mistress of that much-vaunted estate--she the heiress in due course of time dispossessing the man who slighted, and humbling the woman who rivalled her. All these thoughts glanced through Hester's mind, but the only sign of their presence was the flush of her cheek and the gleam of her eyes. Daniel Thacker marked both, but it was not his game to be reckoned appreciative in such matters; so he said:
 
"You are silent, Miss Gould. I thought my last announcement would settle the question."
 
"Then you for once thought wrong, Mr. Thacker," said Hester with an effort. "I am sorry to hear that Mr. Streightley requires this money; though probably a loan under such circumstances is the commonest thing in his experience of business. I am glad I am able to let him have it. I only make one stipulation, that my name does not appear in the matter. You will lend the money, if you please, and Mr. Streight----the borrower will only hear of you in the transaction. Details we can arrange at another opportunity. Now shall we turn towards the house?"
 
"One moment, Miss Gould. I'm a bad hand at expressing myself in this kind of thing, but--but--" to his intense astonishment Mr. Thacker found himself turning very red and stammering audibly--"but the fact is, that there is a charm about you which--which--the way in which you adapt yourself to business, and your knowledge of the world; and--I can assure you I've never been looked upon as a marrying man, but if you would do me the honour to accept my hand, I would----"
 
"You would actually sacrifice yourself," said Hester with a slight smile. "No, Mr. Thacker; I must say no. Believe me, I'm fully sensible of the honour, but I think we know a little too much of each other for a happy match. I should not care very much to be valued by my husband for the manner in which I 'adapted myself to business,' as you call it; and I've little doubt that when you take a wife, it will be some pretty girl whose want of 'knowledge of the world' will not be her least recommendation. No; we will be very good friends, if you please, and as my man of business you will--but let us be candid--you will always make a good thing of me, without----. I think we understand each other?" And to this plain speech Mr. Thacker made no other protest than a shoulder-shrug.
 
Before Hester Gould went to bed that night she stood in the bay-window of her room, looking out upon the garden and the park beyond, bathed in the bright moonlight. For more than a quarter of an hour she stood thus, calmly contemplating the scene before her. Then she said, as she turned away, "Mistress of this place, which that proud woman downstairs exults so in!--mistress of this place, and Robert Streightley's creditor! It could not have been very deep-rooted, my love for that man. And yet I don't know; I think at one time it equalled my present hate of him--and of her; and then, God knows, it must have been deep enough!"
CHAPTER V.  CITY INTELLIGENCE.
 Robert Streightley's preoccupation and loss of spirits were not without due cause. In the half hour that had lapsed between his parting with his wife and sister, and his rejoining them when in colloquy with the Scotch gardener, he had gone through a phase of mental torture such as he had never before experienced. The Irish gentleman of good birth and vanished fortunes, who comes to London with just sufficient money to pay his entrance-fees to a fashionable club, to keep a garret in St. Alban's Place, and to hire a hack for the season from a livery-stable, and goes in to win the heart, or at all events the hand, of an heiress, gets to work at once, finds his coup manqué ever so many times during one season, and soon begins to look upon his rejection as a mere matter of chance, and falls back on the grand principle of "better luck next time." The starving student, living from hand to mouth by the preparation of badly-paid work from grinding booksellers, eats his ninepenny plate of boiled beef, and hurries back to the reading-room of the British Museum, convinced that the day will come when his talent shall be appreciated and remunerated as it should be. The parish-doctor's assistant sings over his pestle, and slaps his spatula cheerfully on the china plate, confident that the retired Indian nabob, the wealthy widow with the quinsey, the measles-struck child of the countess, his successful care of all or one of whom will insure the pair-horse brougham, the M.D. degree, and the house in Saville Row, are all gradually working up towards him. "Hope springs eternal in the human breast;" and so long as we perceive no symptoms of dry-rot in our dearest aspirations, we are for the most part content to grind away, facing present difficulties manfully, and awaiting the result. But if you were to prove to the Irish gentleman that his fascinating powers were on the wane; to the student that his overtaxed brain was giving way; to the doctor's assistant that he was every where considered a hopeless quack, you would cut away all their hold on life, and they would be whirled into that abyss of despondency in which thousands, similarly unfortunate, yearly perish.
 
A phase of torture very much allied to these described was being undergone by Robert Streightley. The "transaction" between him and Mr. Guyon, under which Katharine had become his wife, was constantly rising in his mind, and the heart-ache consequent thereon was only allayed by the thought that his possession of wealth enabled her to indulge in the extravagance which seemed to form a part and parcel of her life. He knew thoroughly well that, under her father's influence, he had won her by his riches, that they constituted his sole claim to respect in her eyes, that the fact of her having made "an excellent match," as bruited abroad by Lady Henmarsh and her set, meant that she had married a City man in a large way of business and with a large amount of ready-money at command, which would be at her disposal, and enable her to indulge all the freaks and vagaries of her fancy. It was, after all, a poor shifting foundation, a mere quicksand, on which to base any structure of future happiness; but within the last few weeks, marking the improvement in his wife's spirits, and the increase of kindly feelings towards him, Robert had been content to accept it at all events as an instalment of conjugal bliss, and had flattered himself with the idea that when Katharine found all her thoughts anticipated, all her wishes gratified, she might have some--he did not like to think of it as gratitude, he wanted a feeling with a warmer name--towards him who lived only to do her bidding.
 
Feeling then against all his hopes and attempts at self-deception that in the money which he was enabled to place at his wife's command, and in the position which she was thereby enabled to obtain, lay his only chance of obtaining favour in the eyes of her, to gratify whose every whim was the only pleasure of his life, it may be imagined with what feelings Robert Streightley read through a letter which came to him by the same post as brought Hester Gould's missive alluded to in the preceding chapter. It was from his confidential clerk, Mr. Foster, and ran thus:
 
 
"Dear Sir--Mr. Delley, the City editor of the Bullionist, who, as you know, has for many years supplied the house with reliable information, called in at 2 P.M. to see you; but learning you would not be at business to-day, he sent for me to your private room, and told me he understood that Messrs. Needham, Nick, and Driver were in a very shaky state, owing to the failure of the Dublin branch of their bank, announced in to-day's City Intelligence. Knowing how heavy our account was against them (28,917l. 7s. 9d.), I started off at once to Fenchurch Street, but found the doors closed, the shutters up, and all business suspended. Mr. Delley has been here just now (5:30 P.M.), and talks of a shilling in the pound. Old Mr. Nick's death, and the large sums taken out of the bank by Mr. Needham junior, who was only admitted as a partner two years ago, are said to have led to the wind-up. Please come up at once, if convenient. Your obedient servant, J. Foster."
 
 
When Robert Streightley laid down this letter his hand trembled, his mouth was parched, and a film seemed to come over his eyes. It was not the sum lost, though that was very large, but a horrid sensation crossed him that retribution was attacking him in his most vulnerable part, that the joints in his armour had been spied out by the enemy, and that--Good God! if he were to lose that one hold upon his wife's gratitude! if he were compelled to tell her that the mere wretched substance to which she had been sacrificed was a sham and a swindle, that he---- Pshaw! he sank down in his chair as these thoughts rushed through his mind; then he wiped his damp brow with his handkerchief, and shook himself together as it were with one strong effort, and rising, began to pace the room. What a weak, cowardly fool he was, he thought, thus to give way This was a blow undoubtedly,--what some of the Stock-Exchange fellows called a "facer;" but what of that? It could be met; and even if he lost all--if things turned out as badly as Foster predicted--well, thirty thousand pounds would not shake the credit of Streightley and Son. The mere repetition of the name seemed to rouse up innate business instincts which had been slumbering for some months--to call into action all those qualities which had made the man what he was; and he determined to go up to the City at once, and see for himself how the business stood. He waited for a minute or two until Ellen had strayed off into a bye-path in search of some flower, and then he said to his wife:
 
"I must leave you, Katharine, for a short time--four-and-twenty hours or so--not longer, dear."
 
His voice dropped, and quivered a little with the natural emotion which he felt. He looked tenderly up at her, and drawing near her, tightly laid his hand on her arm. She was binding together a few flowers as he joined her. She did not cease from her little task; but as she leisurely made the knot, and drew it tight with her teeth, she said, without looking up,
 
"O, indeed! business, I suppose?"
 
Robert Streightley started as though he had been shot. What else could he have expected? Did he anticipate a few tender words of regret at his necessitated absence; a tear or two dimming the bright eyes; a little pouting or peevishness at being left alone? Did he imagine that his wife might have made some inquiry as to the nature of the business which caused him to absent himself for twenty-four hours from his home? Such might have been the case in those preposterous matches which are arranged thoughtlessly and frivolously by two young people without calling their elders into council--in those ridiculous unions of hearts. But there was nothing in Robert Streightley's bargain, no clause in his bond, to warrant his expectation of any thing of the kind. "To have and to hold," certainly; but to create sympathy, to awaken interest--no mention of either of these superfluities in the marriage-contract. So he simply said, "Yes, dear; business;" and laid his lips to her cheek, and ordered his clothes to be packed, and drove away to the station.
 
He was uncomfortable, vacillating, wretched, all through the journey; but he became his old self as he entered his offices. As the door of his private room closed behind him, as he marked the letters lying unopened on his desk, as he took his seat in the birch-framed, cane-bottomed chair which had been his seat ever since he first assumed his junior partnership, and as he saw old Foster standing at his elbow, with his paper of memoranda in his hand ready to read from,--Robert Streightley felt more genuine pleasure than he had for months. The mere fact of there being a difficulty--a hitch--something towards the elucidation of which the play of his business talents might tend--gave him life; the gaudia certaminis inspired him; and he set to work with such a zest, that old Foster, who had been shaking his head dolefully for the past few months, and thinking to himself--he would not have breathed such an opinion for the world--that the glories of the great house of Streightley and Son were on the wane, took fresh heart, and indulged that evening in the enormity of an extra half-pint of stout at the chop-house where he took his dinner, in token of his delight.
 
Robert Streightley had not been more than a couple of hours at work, when a junior clerk entered, and told him that Mr. Guyon was outside in a cab, and had called to know if Mr. Streightley was in town. Bidden to show Mr. Guyon in, the junior clerk retired, immediately returning with Mr. Guyon, looking ten years younger than when Robert had last seen him; with his brown-black whiskers, and hair a little red-rusty from travel; with the strong trace of a silvery beard; with a rakish Glengarry cap on his head, a travelling suit and a courier's bag on his body. He entered with his usual impulsive bound, and had Streightley by both hands almost before the latter knew he had entered.
 
"The merest chance, my dear Robert,--the merest chance that I should have called in to-day. Returning from Paris by the tidal, and having to stop at that most confounded of all confounded stations, London Bridge, and having to go through this cursed City,--no offence to you, my dear boy, but it's a dreadful hole,--I thought I'd just drop in and see whether you were in town."
 
Mr. Streightley assured Mr. Guyon--a somewhat supererogatory assurance--that he was in town, adding--of which there was no such corroborative testimony--that he was glad to see him.
 
"And Katharine?" asked Mr. Guyon, carefully smoothing his chin with his hand, and looking up under his eye-glass at his son-in-law,--"Katharine is well?"
 
Katharine was quite well, Mr. Streightley thanked Mr. Guyon.
 
Mr. Guyon devoutly thanked heaven for that news. All the traces of that horrible--eh? at Martigny--quite gone, eh? Thought he should never have been able to dress himself that morning when he opened Streightley's note about Katharine's illness. His man thought he was going to have a fit, and wanted to hasten for a doctor. Told the man he was a consummate ass; that what he, Mr. Guyon, was suffering from was feelings; and what the devil did he, the man, know about them! And Katharine was well; and their place, Middlemeads--eh?--was perfection? O, he'd heard it here, there, and every where. Saw Roger Chevers at Boulogne, en passant, and had heard him say what a lovely place it was, and how leaving it had smashed up his old governor, root and branch. He was always talking of it, sir--said Roger--and wondering whether they'd cut into the avenue, or whether they left that view clear top of Two-Ash Hill, looking out the south way; or whether they'd put the stables in order, or built others where the Red Barn stood. That's what he should have done, if that cursed Brazilian mine had only turned up trumps! "Poor old Gov! he'll never forget Middlemeads!" said honest Roger, who drowned all thought of his lost patrimony in cheap brandy and the delights of perpetual pool, and dances at the Etablissement des Bains.
 
Ignoring the opinions and speculations of Mr. Roger Chevers, Robert Streightley acknowledged that Middlemeads was a fine place, and that he thought it had improved since it had been in his hands.
 
"Of course, my dear Robert, of course!" said Mr. Guyon; "your princely munificence, and what I think I may say--although my own child is in question--Katharine's excellent taste, would be certain to do wonders for any place to which both could be simultaneously applied. Allez, toujours, la jeunesse! a French phrase which is roughly but not inadequately rendered by our own maxim of 'Go it while you're young!' As for me, I'm an old bird--an old bird, begad, come back to an empty nest, to find the sticks and the straw and all that, but my young fledgling flown." Mr. Guyon seemed quite affected at the allusion which he had thus made, and turned away his head, touching his eyes lightly with his handkerchief.
 
"I trust you will have no cause to repent of your sanction to your daughter's flight, Mr. Guyon," said Streightley, in a somewhat marked tone. "You recollect, before she left your roof, that----"
 
"My dear Robert! my dear Robert!" interposed the old gentleman; "do you think I have forgotten the confidence in which I told you that I was unworthy of the blessing of such a daughter--that I was by nature more fitted for--for less domestic delights. And indeed I--in Paris I have enjoyed myself most amazin'ly, most amazin'ly! That fellow, sir--whom I recklect when he lived in King Street--used to drive a doosid good cab, I recklect; he certainly has improved Paris wonderfully. But it's horribly expensive, my dear boy, horribly expensive. I--I ran rather short before I came away, and I was obliged to draw on you for a hundred--I was indeed!"
 
Streightley's face looked very stern as he heard this. "Do I understand you to say that you have drawn a bill on me for a hundred pounds, Mr. Guyon?"
 
"Yes, my dear boy, at a month; it'll be due----"
 
"That is a liberty which I permit no one to take, and which must never be repeated."
 
"A liberty, Robert?"
 
"A liberty, Mr. Guyon. Any man who draws a bill on another without first asking his friend's permission, takes what we of the City think an unwarrantable liberty. I am sure you erred in ignorance; but I must ask you to put a stop entirely to what seems to have become a habit with you--the reliance on me for money. I cannot make you any further advances, at least for the present."
 
This was a great blow for Mr. Guyon, who had been boasting, as was his wont, amongst his English acquaintances in Paris of the great wealth and generosity of his son-in-law. Nor had his French friends been unenlightened on the subject; "eel a milyonair--com voter Roschild vous savvy," the old gentleman had remarked with great self-satisfaction. And now to find his milch-cow refusing her supply, and as it were threatening him with her horns and heels, was any thing but pleasant. However, Mr. Guyon's temperament was light and elastic; he thought this determination of Streightley's would not last; that some business matters had "put him out;" that his anger would soon "blow over:" so he assured his son-in-law that he would remember what he had said; and shaking hands fervently with him, skipped back to the cab, with the pleasant feeling that at least a quarter of the hundred pounds so judiciously drawn was at that moment safe in his trousers-pocket.
 
Then Robert Streightley called Foster into his room, and over books and ledgers, and commercial documents of all kinds, they held a consultation which lasted until late in the afternoon, and which proved to them both that the financial position of Streightley and Son had recently had the hardest blow, in the stopping of Messrs. Nick's bank, which it had received since it commenced operations of any magnitude.
 
"It comes at an awkward time too for you, sir," said old Mr. Foster. "We wanted all the ready cash we could lay our hands on just now; there are the calls on the Benares Railroad, and the deposits upon the Indian Peninsular--we're pretty deep in both of them--and there's six thousand for the lease in Portland Place, which of course must be paid at once. However, there's no reason to hold the Indian lines; they're both at a high premium; and as this bothering bank has crippled us for a bit, perhaps we had better sell and----"
 
"Not one share, Poster! not a single share! we'll stand to our guns, and the money shall be forthcoming when it's wanted, I'll take care of that. 'Forward!' has been the motto of Streightley and Son, Foster, as you know very well, and they're not going to change it now! You shall see the thirty thousand replaced, ay and doubled, before you retire on a pension, Foster, I promise you."
 
"There never was any one like you, Mr. Robert," said the old man, his eyes sparkling with pleasure; "when you say a thing will be, I know it will be, ay, as sure as the Bank of England." And so closed the business consultation.
 
The lease of the house in Portland Place, which Mr. Foster had alluded to, was one of Robert Streightley's wedding-presents to his bride. They must have a town-house, of course, one befitting her position in society; and partly because of its proximity to her father's residence, partly because the substantial appearance of the Portland-Place houses, and the knowledge that they had been for years in great demand among the moneyed classes, pleased him, he bought the lease of this house then in the market, had the house splendidly decorated while they were away, and on their return home had given Katharine carte-blanche as to its furniture. Katharine had gone twice to London during their stay at Middlemeads, and had held long consultations with the upholsterer, but Robert had not seen the house since he had purchased it.
 
He walked there now; and though it was still in disorder, he was astounded at the magnificence of the decorations and the splendour of the furniture. Under the direction of Katharine's excellent taste, the carte-blanche given to the upholsterer had worked wonders. No duchess could have had a more perfectly-appointed house, with nothing new or perky-looking about it: for what would be the use of money nowadays if it could not purchase antiquity in every thing save family?--and even that can be manufactured to order at the Heralds' College. So Robert Streightley walked in pleased astonishment among the high-backed chairs in the dining-room, and past the dark oak bookcases in the library, and through the pale-green drawing-rooms with the lovely hangings, the elegant portières, the buhl cabinets, the splendid glasses, the étagères, and all the nick-nackery of upholstery. It was in this last paradise that Mr. Streightley found one of the partners of the upholstery-firm, a gentlemanly-looking man, who was surveying his men's work with much complacency. He bowed to Robert, and hoped he was pleased with what had been done. Mr. Streightley expressed himself as thoroughly satisfied; and Mr. Clinch then ventured to hope that he should not be considered troublesome if he were to ask for a cheque--not for the total, of course--just something on account, as workmen's wages must be paid, &c. Certainly; what amount did Messrs. Clinch require? Mr. Walter Clinch "for self and partners" ventured to name the sum of twelve hundred pounds. Mr. Streightley, after the smallest possible start, made a memorandum in his pocketbook, and said that a cheque should be sent the next day.
 
Twelve hundred pounds for decorations and furniture--"on account" too, showing that there was perhaps as much again to pay! Katharine had certainly understood the word carte-blanche in its widest and most liberal sense. Twelve hundred pounds! and until his marriage he had lived in a little Brixton villa, the entire furniture of which was not worth one-third of the sum. Should he speak to his wife, should he----? Not he! now she was his wife, why was she his wife? Simply for the sake of his money--that money which he had placed at her command. The one happiness that he could offer her was the power of spending money, and should he refuse her that? The only salve that he could apply to his never-quiet conscience was that he had been enabled to supply her with the means of gratifying extravagant tastes which must have remained ungratified had she married that--had she made that match which seemed so imminent when he had that never-to-be-forgotten interview with Mr. Guyon. No! Katharine had married him because he was a rich man, and a rich man he must remain to her. Besides, after all, what was her expenditure? what were these few hundred pounds to him? This horrible bank business had frightened him, he supposed; had it not happened, should he have given the smallest thought to such a trifle as Mr. Clinch's account?
 
Nevertheless, all that he had said to Foster he determined on carrying out. There should be no "drawing-in their horns," no curtailment in the operations of Streightley and Son. The money necessary to meet this bank failure must be raised somehow. He could get it in the City at an hour's notice. From the Bank of England downwards there were plenty of establishments ready to help the old-established firm. But such matters are talked of in the City, chatted over in the Bank parlour, whispered on 'Change, give matter for gossip and shoulder-shrugs and eyebrow-liftings; and Robert's spirit shrunk from the idea that he or his firm could form the subject of any such speculations. And yet the money must be had. Where could he turn for it? Ah, a lucky thought! That man--Mr. Guyon's friend--what was his name? Thacker: a shrewd, clear-headed, clever man. He would go and see him, and talk the matter over.
CHAPTER VI.  THE END OF THE CLUE.
 And what was Charles Yeldham doing with himself during all these months? What indeed, save pursuing his "treadmill," daily increasing in reputation and practice, and accumulating more and more money for little Constance's dowry. The attorneys' clerks who climbed up his black staircase were more numerous than ever. Though never relaxing from his work for five minutes more than usual, he found himself compelled day by day to postpone the acceptance of cases, with the alternative of rejecting them altogether; and by the sheer force of perseverance and industry he was on the high road to fame and wealth. He did not relax now any thing like so much as when his old chum Gordon Frere shared his chambers with him: there were no five minutes of chat and chaff and raillery; no listening to poor Gordon's confidences on love, debt, future career, now. The only time which Charley Yeldham allowed himself for talking of unprofessional matters was the half-hour during which he smoked his final pipe, and drank his glass of grog before going to bed; and then he would pass in review the curious events that had happened eight months before, and wonder at and reason over them. Three men running after one girl--three! Well, he could hardly count himself; though, certainly, he had thought more about Katharine Guyon than of any other woman before or since (and, let it be noted, that at this stage of his reflections he invariably produced from his desk a photographic carte which he had obtained of her, and gazed at it with great tenderness)--two men, we'll say, in hot pursuit, and Bob Sobersides winning the race! She must have been an outrageous flirt, that Miss Guyon, though! Dear old Charley Yeldham, with all his partiality, his romantic fondness for Katharine, is constrained to admit--an outrageous flirt. Did not she carry-on with poor Gordon, fooling him to the top of his bent; meeting him at the Opera, at Botanical fêtes, at balls, and what not; flower from her bouquet, hand-pressure, appointment for the next day? And, after all, did she not whistle him down the wind, throw him away as one does a split-pen, and marry Robert Streightley? Ay, ay! ay, ay! Better the old desk and the long "treadmill"--better the flirtations with attorneys, and billets-doux from Bedford Row, all of which have some satisfactory result, at least, than the pinning of your faith on a woman's word, and the breaking of your heart by a woman's tricks! After all, it was perhaps better that such a girl should have married such a man as Robert Streightley. His steadiness would guide and control her; his wealth would enable her to indulge her taste for extravagance; and her dash and beauty would give pleasant status amongst his acquaintance. Nothing of that kind could have happened had she married poor Gordon Frere. Both young, extravagant, and reckless; both accustomed to have their own way; both fond of flirtation; neither understanding the theory of "give and take"--dear me! dear me! thought Charley Yeldham to himself, when the honeymoon was over, that would have been a disastrous business and a wretched ménage.
 
He had had several letters from Gordon, then private secretary to Lord ----, acting minister at Rudolfstadt; letters full of complaints, which were ludicrous to the reader, though evidently insufferable to the writer. "It's a dull, wearying, dreary place, dear old boy," said Gordon; "a beastly hole, with no one but besotted Germans to talk to, who all are either professors, when they bore you to death with their metaphysical cant, or half-fed dragoon officers, who make you long to kick them for their infernal impertinence. Old Wigsby, who has nothing to do, and who never opens a book or gives what ought to be his brains, but what I firmly believe is either tow or wool, the smallest exercise, passes his days in calling on the Frau Ober Consistorial Directorin or the Hochgeborner Herr, and his nights in sitting in their wretched twopenny theatres listening to their squealing singers. He expects me to attend him on both occasions, and airs himself to this German-silver nobility, this veneered haute noblesse, in his patronage of me, d--n him (that's by way of parenthesis). On Wednesday nights we go to the J?ger Hof, where the Duke von Friedenstein lives when he is visible; and the entertainments there are something which would be too much even for you, Charley, old fellow--and you know you can stand a lot in the way of dulness! The old duke stands at the end of a big room, and bows away like mad to every one who comes in, until I wonder how his old spine holds out; and then the company wander through the rooms, and look at the curios and the pictures in the Kunst Kammer, which they've all of them seen a thousand times before; and then the squealing singers from the theatre tune up and shriek away for dear life in the music gallery. And then there's not a bad supper of a queer kind: big hams and potato-salad and herring salad, and hot salmon and cold jelly, and cold rice and jam, and some very decent light wines; and it's all over by ten o'clock, and we're off to bed. Old Wigsby goes to these lets-off en grande tenue, and is, I am sure, seriously grieved that etiquette does not permit him to wear his court suit. He is the most stupendous ass you can conceive, and is always haranguing me about 'the position of a diplomatist,' and the 'representative of her Britannic Majesty;' he makes a précis of his washing-bills, and tells me that Lord Palmerston would not 'suffer my handwriting, which is frivolous and unformed.' What the deuce do I care? I only wish I was back in England--not for the reasons which you probably assign for the wish. All that is past and gone, and I sometimes grow hot all over when I think of the melodramatic farewell which I took of you, my dear old Charley, at the London Bridge station. I was an idiot then; but now that fire has burnt out, and left very cold ashes. I hope Mrs. Streightley is well and happy, with her charming husband. You'll grin at this, you old sceptic; but on my honour it's true. I haven't the smallest shadow of regret for K.G., and I don't care one straw for any woman in the world. But I do long to be out of this infernal place, to be rid of old Wigsby and his pomposity and patronage, and to be out of earshot of this hard grating German cackle, which sometimes makes me stop my ears and kick with sheer rage. How are the old chambers looking, and how is their old owner? O, if I could only put my hands on his dear old broad shoulders, and have half-an-hour's chat with him, it would do me a deal of good! Yours always,--G. F."
 
Ex uno disce omnes. This was a specimen of Gordon Frere's letters, and the perusal of which left Charley Yeldham any thing but satisfied with his friend's position. It was a good thing to think that he was cured of his love infatuation,--so cured that he could write calmly and even kindly of the traitress and his successful rival; but the monotony of his life, and the dull dreariness of Rudolfstadt, were evidently eating into his soul. No good could come of the continuance of such distasteful work; and if Gordon Frere's career were to be any thing but one of blighted hopes and miserable vegetating, he must begin anew, and that too with all possible speed. So Yeldham, after cogitating deeply over the matter, at last wrote to his friend, and told him he felt that the sooner he put an end to the business in which he was at present engaged, the better it would be for him, and the greater likelihood he would have in adopting some new profession, which he might pursue with pleasure and profit to himself. It was evident that Gordon was wasting his life in Rudolfstadt; and his friend's advice to him was, to make his adieux to his patron Wigsby, and return at once to London. Here the old chambers were ready to receive him; and if he were to make up his mind to go to the bar, Yeldham thought he might do well enough. "I don't mean to say that you'll soon be Attorney-General, young fellow, or that your opinions are likely to outweigh Chitty's; but you used to be fluent enough at the Apollo Debating Society; you've a certain knowledge of the world, and unparalleled impudence; and with the possession of these qualities, and with the aid which I can give you among the attorneys, I think you're likely before long to be able to gain your bread-and-cheese at the Old Bailey: at all events, you will be in London, where a man ought to be, if ever he wants to profit by chances; and you'll be relieved from that harassing depression which seems to me to be sapping your character, and rendering you utterly degenerate."
 
It was a great relief to honest Charles Yeldham's mind to find that Gordon Frere had so readily, and to all appearance so effectually, got over his disappointment in regard to Katharine. Often and often in the few leisure minutes stolen from his work had Yeldham sat, with his pipe in his mouth, pondering over the curious history of Robert Streightley's marriage, and wondering how it might be influenced by Frere's return. For, recluse as he was, unworldly in the "society" sense, and nearly entirely given up to his work, Yeldham knew enough of human nature to feel perfectly certain that the marriage which Mr. Guy on so prided himself in having brought about was no love-match; that Streightley was by no means the kind of man to have awakened any passion in the breast of such a woman as Katharine; and that when any strong opposing influence might be brought into play, his tenure on her fealty would be slight indeed. The only thing that puzzled Yeldham was, how the marriage had been managed, and how Kate's consent to it had been obtained. Unless Gordon Frere's vanity was most self-deceptive, this girl had undoubtedly been hotly in love with him within an ace of her engagement to Streightley. She was not by any means the sort of girl to be prevailed upon by parental coaxings or threats (though her father was exactly the man to employ both); and Robert had only his honesty of purpose, which was nothing to women in general--and his wealth, which was nothing to this woman in particular--to back his suit. There was something in the whole affair which was inexplicable to Charles Yeldham; and being inexplicable, he resolved never to rest until it was explained.
 
He had not seen Streightley, save in one or two casual street-meetings, since the marriage; and though he had received a warm invitation to Middlemeads, pressure of business had prevented him from availing himself of it. Pressure of business, he said; but he wasted the whole of the evening on which he received the invitation (and on which, with his powers of working, he might have got through a great deal of work) in handling the dainty note, and conning it over and over, and in smoking many pipes, and thinking over many strange things. The note was in Katharine's hand, and ran thus:
 
 
"My Dear Mr. Yeldham,--Finding that his own efforts at inducing you to visit us are completely useless, Mr. Streightley asks me to try mine. I think I need scarcely say how happy we shall be to see you here, and how our utmost endeavours will be used to compensate you for your absence from those legal studies, in which, I am assured, you find your sole delight.--Very faithfully yours,
 
"Katharine Streightley."
 
 
A simple note, with a very slight touch of very mild badinage. But Charles Yeldham was unaccustomed to the receipt of letters from ladies, and this one certainly had a singular effect on him. What a pretty hand she wrote! how refreshing were the thin, slight, angular strokes after the rounded fists of the attorneys' clerks! how the dainty paper and brilliant monogram contrasted with the blue-wove and the wafer-stamp seal of his ordinary correspondence! And then, as he puffed at his pipe, and watched the blue vapour curling up around his head, Charley remembered the first, almost the only time he had ever seen her in that soft diaphanous dress at the Botanical Fête, where, even before he knew who she was, he had been sensible of her presence, and where he had felt himself completely subjugated by her loveliness, her elegance, and grace. They would laugh at him, Frere and some fellows of his acquaintance, as a stoic and a cynic,--not that he was one or the other,--but, after all, was it not better to go through life unvexed and untroubled by thoughts of lovely women, who were as far removed from you as the stars, than to endeavour to win them, and find yourself cast down from star-height as the reward of your presumption? It was a dull life his, no doubt; with nothing to cheer it but the success of his work, and--good God! how beautiful she was! (here he took the photograph out); what perfect grace in the pose of her head, in the resting of her hands, in the long sweeping folds of her dress! Ah, if little Constance ever grew up to be any thing like that, there would be less need of the dower which her brother was so carefully putting by for her! No wonder Gordon Frere, young, impressible, buoyant, and hopeful, was desperately in love with such a beauty; no wonder that, looking at her, Robert Streightley forgot his ventures, his shares, his cautious dealings, and his longheaded speculations, and rushed into the matrimonial market, determined, at whatever cost, to carry off the prize.
 
How had Robert Streightley accomplished this result? The desire of being successful was intelligible; but how was the success arrived at? As Yeldham pondered over his question, during his midday interval of rest, and while smoking his midday pipe, there came a knock at the oak; and opening it, Yeldham admitted the man of all others most likely to be able to answer him--Robert Streightley himself.
 
He came in wincing a little at the clouds of strong Cavendish which filled the barrister's room, and seated himself in the attorneys' chair. He looked pale and a little careworn, but he greeted Yeldham certainly as heartily as usual, and smiled as he said, "For once in his life!--bravo! for once in his life, I've found the machine without the steam up, and Charley Yeldham not at his desk!"
 
"Sir," replied Charley, "you come at a peculiar time; these are the five minutes of relaxation; so let us relax together! Robert, my boy, you're looking very seedy, white and peaky!"
 
"Well, I have been rather seedy; but I'm not very bad after all. I've had a good deal of worry lately, in one shape or another, and worry tells on me more than it did. Getting old, I suppose!"
 
"You ought to take a partner, Robert; I mean a business partner. That affair of yours is too big to carry on single-handed. O, tell me, by the way--you won't misconstrue the reason of my asking--that confounded bank failure? Rumour says you were hit hard by it. Is it true?"
 
"Yes; for once in the course of events rumour hasn't lied. Our house was in heavily, and has suffered with the rest."
 
"That's part of your trouble, Robert?"
 
"Well, perhaps part; though I should scarcely say so, as the money-loss has been replaced, and Streightley and Son have passed the sponge across the slate, and look upon it as an unutterably bad debt."
 
"Lucky for them that they are able to do so; had it been my case, I should either have been playing rackets in Whitecross Street, or wearing a black wig and whiskers, and hiding myself as much as possible in a steamer bound to a country without an extradition treaty. I often think if you great commercial swells only knew how we professional men live, and the amount of the balance presently standing to our credit at our bankers----"
 
"Yes; and if you professional men only knew how the commercial swells, as you call us, envy you your freedom from responsibility."
 
"Freedom from responsibility, indeed! By the way, how's your wife?"
 
"Apropos of responsibility! She'd take that as a compliment. She's very well indeed, old boy, very well; not up in town yet. Still staying at Middlemeads, where you've never yet been, though both of us have done our best to get you there."
 
"My dear Robert, what on earth would be the good of my arriving at your country place with a blue stuff bag full of papers, and enjoying my holiday in the country by sticking to your library from morning till night, reading cases, drawing pleas, and giving opinions? I feel perfectly certain that at your library-table, which is probably virgin-free from ink-blots, in your library-chair, which is probably comfortable, and surrounded by your country atmosphere, which of course is pure and fresh, the few wits which I possess would leave me, and the most which I should do at Middlemeads would have the effect of utterly depriving me from ever earning five guineas again. No, I won't come to Middlemeads until I can--with a comfortable conscience--leave my blue bag behind me, and when that will be heaven only knows!"
 
"And in the mean time, and for the mere sake of your work, you drag your life on in these solitary chambers?"
 
"Listen to him! listen to Benedick the married man; so full of domestic happiness that he must crow over us poor bachelors. Very well, old fellow, as fate has willed it, is my life; the more work I have the happier I am: if I had not any, I should stick my head into the Temple fountain, and thereby incur the odium of the Benchers. No, I must not do that quite, while I've the old governor and Constance left, lest I should be supremely wretched; whereas in my work I'm thoroughly happy; and as for solitary chambers--well, they are solitary now, but they wern't once, and won't be again soon, I think. My old chum's coming home."
 
"Your old chum? Who do you mean?"
 
"Why, the man who lived with me in these rooms before, and will share them again, I hope. Gordon Frere."
 
"Gordon Frere? Is he coming back to England--to London?" Robert Streightley's face turned pale as he asked this question, and his lips twitched with nervous anxiety.
 
"I hope so. I've written to him to try and persuade him to do so. He's a clever fellow, airy and specious, with what they call a good 'gift of the gab;' and I want him to try his fortune at the bar."
 
Streightley rose from his chair, took a few paces round the room, then settled himself again with his face shaded by his hand, looking at his friend.
 
"You were very intimate with this man Frere, Charley?" he asked in a hard dry voice, after a minute's pause.
 
"Intimate? Didn't he live here, I tell you?--though you knew it long since, if you'll only give yourself the trouble to recollect."
 
"And you were thoroughly in his confidence?"
 
Charles Yeldham answered, "Entirely." But the word had scarcely escaped him when he saw the drift of the question, and wished he had pondered ere replying.
 
"Then you know, I suppose, that he--that he was--was in love with Miss Guyon--with my wife?"
 
"My dear Robert, what on earth are you talking about, what on earth----"
 
"Do you know it, or don't you?"
 
"I have heard it, of course, and----"
 
"You have heard it, of course; and now he's coming back! Coming back, curse him!"
 
"My dear Streightley, have you taken leave of your senses? What on earth has the young man's return--although in past times he might have had sufficient good taste to admire Miss Guyon and hope to win her, for which I honour him--yes! I say I honour him--what on earth has his return to do with such an outbreak as this?"
 
"Never mind, Charles Yeldham! He shan't see her! Look here--mark this--he may be a friend of yours or not, but he shan't see her. I'll have no renewal of old friendships and all that! He shan't see her! Mr. Guyon shall take care of that. I'll appeal to him, and he'll back me up, I know."
 
"My dear Robert, if you're weak enough to have to appeal to your father-in-law in any matter in which your wife is concerned, I think you're to be pitied! However, don't fear! Any feeling which Frere may have had for Miss Guyon is quite past and gone, and now that she is Mrs. Streightley----"
 
"Ah! that's all very well; but he shan't see her. Mr. Guyon will back me up in that, I'm sure. I know he will. Good-bye, Charley;" and Mr. Streightley turned the handle of the door and left the chambers.
 
The attorneys whose cases Mr. Yeldham had in hand that day found the celebrated conveyancer a little dilatory. Their clerks attending the next morning were bidden to call again later in the day. You see you don't get through much work when, your feet on the fender, and a pipe in your mouth, you sit for the whole afternoon staring at the grate and chewing the cud of mental reflection. "'He shan't see her!' Why not? Streightley cannot be idiot enough to suppose that there is such fascination in Frere as to--O no! That's not it. 'He shan't see her'--that means they shan't meet, shan't speak, shan't--'Mr. Guyon shall take care of that--he'll back me up'--Mr. Guyon!--they shan't meet! Mr. Guyon back me up!--they shan't meet! No answer to Gordon's proposal, no meeting with him at that ball--old Guyon's reply as to the pre-engagement and--Now, by the Lord, Robert Streightley, I only hope my thoughts are wrong; for if I'm right, you've been led by weakness or worse into a base conspiracy, and henceforth are no friend of mine!"
CHAPTER VII.  HESTER'S DEBUT.
 The judgment passed by Robert Streightley on Hester Gould, when he had critically examined her bearing under the novel and trying circumstances of her heiress-ship, was amply borne out by her subsequent conduct. She was a decided success; and though totally unknown to the members of the great world in which she had now taken her place, so that they had no opportunity of comparing her as she was in the present with what she had been in the past, her simplicity of manners, her unassuming tranquillity, as free from deprecation as from assertion, received a tribute of genuine admiration. Miss Gould was as much alive to the little touch of impertinence in this general sentiment as she was to its usefulness and agreeability; but she enjoyed the latter, and did not resent the former.
 
"They are wonderfully kind and polite, and all that," she said one day to Lady Henmarsh, while she was entering a long list of new names and addresses in her visiting-book; "but it amuses me a little to observe that not one of them can quite conceal her surprise at discovering that I look and behave like a lady. How I delight in such na?veté! They let me see, without the least disguise, that they expect me to be vulgar and underbred, but visit me because I am rich and certified by you."
 
"It's the way of the world, my dear Hester," said her friend; "and neither you nor I will change it, be assured."
 
"I don't want to change it, for my part," said Hester; "it suits me very well as it is."
 
This gay colloquy took place shortly after Miss Gould had taken possession of her handsome and perfectly-appointed house at Palace Gardens. The programme agreed upon at Middlemeads had been faithfully carried out, and the intercourse between Portland Place and Palace Gardens was frequent and affectionate. Miss Gould demeaned herself towards Robert and his wife with exemplary tact and propriety. Not the keenest and closest observer could have divined that she possessed a knowledge of the affairs of the one wholly unshared by the other, and that she had succeeded, by minute investigation and the art of inductive reasoning, at an understanding of the means by which the marriage which had thwarted her plans, and given her the first shock she had ever experienced of the humiliation of defeat, had been brought about, almost as clear as that possessed by the principals in the transaction. The firmness, the indifference, and the decision of Hester Gould's character had much attraction for Katharine, who found pleasure and amusement in watching that young lady's method of dealing with her novel position, and to whose proud nature the coolness and self-possession of Hester were peculiarly congenial. They were not confidential with each other; but then, how could they have been so? Katharine had a secret in her life whose concealment had been of such immense importance to her that she had taken the one step which determines a woman's whole existence in order to secure that concealment. Outside that she had no confidences to bestow. On Hester's side there was still less frankness in their intercourse; but she would not have been confidential with Katharine, had there been no hidden link between them; she had never trusted any one fully. The nearest approach she had ever made or permitted to a confidential intimacy had been in Mr. Thacker's case; and she had begun to repent of even that limited démarche lately, since that gentleman had hinted at the hopes to which it had given rise.
 
"I might have found out all he has told me for myself, if I had only waited," she said in vexed soliloquy; "if I had only had patience, I need not have wanted him at all, and now there's no saying how troublesome he may think fit to be."
 
In this misgiving Hester Gould was entirely mistaken, and her entertaining it showed that she had not read Mr. Thacker with her accustomed thoroughness and infallibility. Daniel knew when Miss Gould refused him, in the matter-of-fact and reasonable fashion she had done, that she was perfectly in earnest, clearly in the right, and immutable in her resolution. He had no more notion of annoying her with a renewal of his addresses than he had of resenting their rejection. He must have liked her very much, and have seen many advantages in addition to its pecuniary attractions in the scheme of such a marriage; for Mr. Daniel Thacker was as little of a marrying-man as any individual in London, but he was quite incapable of such a bêtise as persisting in an unwelcome suit, or exhibiting, indeed of feeling, the slightest offence. Hester Gould was the sort of woman, being an heiress, whom it would have been pleasant and advisable to marry; but as such an arrangement was not practicable, he fell back upon the other and less hazardous alternative--that of fostering and preserving confidential relations with her. If she was not to be his wife--and he knew the moment she said "no" that that was not to be--she should remain his very good friend, in the real meaning of the term. He believed he had found out what her game had been in the past (that game she had lost, as it seemed to him, by waiting too confidently); he acknowledged that he did not know the nature of that which she meant to play in the future; but if any one was ever to know it, he would be that person, with her consent or without it. He had felt at once the change that had come over her after his luckless proposal; he had discerned her imperfect appreciation of his savoir faire; but he was neither offended nor afraid. He knew he could safely trust his own manner and time to convince her that he had accepted her decision as final, that she had no importunity to fear on his part.
 
The result had fully justified Mr. Thacker's anticipations, and his relations with Hester were permanently established on a footing of as much mutual reliance as was possible to the nature of either, and the frank interchange of mutual good services. Mr. Thacker was unfeignedly pleased when he learned from the voice of rumour that the shipowner's heiress was becoming quite the fashion, and when he perceived by her brightened expression, her fresher colour, and the added vivacity of her manner and bearing, that Miss Gould entered with sincere enjoyment into the pleasures within her reach. A youth of well-concealed ambition, of self-repression, of toil, had not hardened and deadened and narrowed her, as it might have done a weaker nature; there was no active poison of cynicism in her knowledge of the world; and her coolheadedness, while it secured her from deception, did not err on the joyless side of utter disbelief. She enjoyed life as a connoisseur, not as an enthusiast--as an epicure, not as a gourmand; but she did enjoy it both well and wisely.
 
Circumstances favoured Miss Gould very decidedly. She was sufficiently attractive to be admired by men, and not so aggressively beautiful as to be hated by women. She did not in the least overrate her own personal charms, or the powers of her mind; but she knew that she was good-looking and clever enough to be admired in society, independently of the wealth which had been her passport into it; while other women would console themselves for her success, and explain it on the grounds of that wealth solely. She had found herself admitted at once into the best of the society in which Katharine Guyon had moved before her marriage, and the circle was constantly expanding. Lady Henmarsh was more popular as the chaperone of a well-looking and richly-dowered heiress than as the chaperone of a well-connected beauty with no money, and a detrimental though pleasant papa. Miss Guyon's remarkably sensible and commendable marriage had also shed reflected glory upon Lady Henmarsh; and as the dangerous beauty was dangerous no longer, but, on the contrary, a decided acquisition, being excessively rich, and possessing a praiseworthy taste for expensive hospitalities, all the petty jealousies and envies excited by Miss Guyon were forgiven to "that dear creature Mrs. Streightley."
 
Thus the world was to all seeming very fair and bright before the two young women whom a chance had brought together, to be thenceforth inextricably intermingled in each other's lives.
 
It belonged to the well-regulated completeness of Hester Gould's character, to the firmness of a woman in whom there was nothing little, however much there might be that was bad, that she never neglected a friend, never forgot a kindness, never overlooked a former claim on her consideration or gratitude. She was incapable of the meanness of disregarding those who had aided her when her lot was one of poverty and obscurity, and equally incapable of the impertinence of patronage. She felt gratitude, and she displayed it simply, genuinely, appropriately, with the true and delicate tact which was one of the finer features of her character. She had provided for the comfort of Aunt Lavinia as carefully as for her own in the arrangements of the handsome house, which the good old lady regarded with mingled admiration and misgiving. She had explained to her aunt that all the requirements of the world would be fulfilled by the arrangements into which she had entered with Lady Henmarsh; that she would never be expected to do violence to her principles by partaking of the dangerous and delusive delights to which her niece's novel position afforded her access; and she gave her carte-blanche for as many entertainments of the substantial-tea description, which they particularly affected, as her favourite "ministers" could be prevailed on to accept. Nor was her attention to her aunt limited to such formal provisions for her comfort. No pleasure, no hurry, no press of engagements, none of the flutter of popularity and general request into which Miss Gould soon fell, ever induced her to neglect the commonplace but worthy woman who had befriended her youth and shared her evil days. A portion of every morning was spent with Aunt Lavinia; and a visit to the quiet spinster preceded invariably the fulfilment of her evening engagements, over which her aunt would sigh furtively, and concerning which she reposed many mournful confidences and misgivings in sundry clerical breasts, without, however, feeling any distressingly deep conviction of the enormity of her niece's behaviour. Hester's old school-mistress had not been forgotten. The modest sum which the labour of half a lifetime had painfully accumulated, but which had yet some years to gather ere it could suffice for even such a humble maintenance as the well-nigh worn-out teacher longed for, was supplemented by the old pupil, to whom Miss Nickson never "could take;" and Laburnum Lodge, with the inky and lacerated desks, the dreary fly-blown maps, and the dreadful jangling rattletrap pianos, was disposed of by private contract. Once every week Hester Gould's brougham might be seen before the little gate of a pretty little cottage at Fulham; and Hester's figure, grown graceful now, and clad in elegant attire, might be recognised seated in the little parlour-window, as she gave an hour of the time on which society made insatiable demands to the woman who had done her duty to the orphan girl for conscience' sake.
 
She was no less considerate of those to whom her former obligations were of another kind, and must be redeemed in a different way. Among their number were the Hampstead Hebrews, Rachel and Rebecca Thacker, and Ellen Streightley. To the dark-browed sisters of her confidential friend Miss Gould extended every social advantage within her power to compass for them. They found their lives wonderfully brightened, and their ideas much expanded under Hester's influence; and they became more enthusiastically fond of her than ever.
 
Ellen Streightley had become less enthusiastic about Katharine since she had been in town. The constant stir, the fashionable jargon, the incessant familiar mention of places, and persons, and circumstances, all foreign to her knowledge, her tastes, and her ideas, troubled and confused her. The same sort of thing had existed at Middlemeads indeed, but on a lesser scale; and then Ellen had had Hester to support her, and she had not felt so insignificant, so lost, as she felt now, in the ever-shifting, ever-thronging crowd in Portland Place. Katharine was as kind to her as ever, but she had no time to occupy herself with her; and the romantic vision of sisterly confidence, which had made her sojourn at Middlemeads delightful to Ellen, vanished away before the realism of the tumultuous frivolity of London life. Ellen had been enchanted with Middlemeads, but the house in Portland Place alarmed more than it pleased her. She remembered penitently the warnings of Decimus, who was soon coming back now--a circumstance which rendered them all the more terrible; she was chilled by the cool undemonstrative disapproval of her mother, who had but once entered her son's splendid house; she felt out of her place there; she was no longer at home with Katharine as she had been at Middlemeads; here she was only one of her sister-in-law's innumerable guests. But when Ellen was with Hester Gould she had no such feeling. Hester was quite unaltered, enjoyed as much leisure, and was as well disposed to share it with her friend as in the old days. Hester's house was very handsome, and her establishment was very imposing, and in all things different from the Brixton villa; but Ellen was not dazzled and bewildered and put at a disadvantage by this difference, as she was by that of Katharine's house and manner of living; she did not feel like a stranger at Palace Gardens. Hester would receive her as calmly and pleasantly as though no afternoon engagements were in contemplation; would listen to all her simple, eager, unimpressive confidences with unwavering patience; would listen even to the outpourings of the honest missionary, who had a habit of digressing into sermons in his love-letters; in short, Hester took a sound and serious interest in Ellen's fate. Miss Gould excessively disliked the deportation of her friend to foreign, and probably cannibal, parts, and had given much consideration to the question whether it might not be possible to restrain the ardour of the Rev. Decimus by the mundane process of purchasing him a living at home. She had very little doubt of being able to procure him the advantages of heathen society, provided he did not insist on black pagans. Down in Staffordshire now, or in outlying London districts, or among the truly rural population of Devonshire, he might surely find hideous ignorance, crime, and brutish unconsciousness of any thing but the lowest instincts of nature, flourishing as luxuriantly as in the Feejee or the Andaman Islands. If the police reports spoke truth, there was room for the evolutions of a whole noble army of martyrs in picturesque and prosperous England; and Decimus might be quite as useful, while Ellen would be infinitely more safe. So Hester thought about the matter, and came to the conclusion--excusable to her ignorance, and deducible from her experience of the ease with which every thing one wants can be had for money--that a living in British heathendom might be purchased. She did not impart her ideas to Robert Streightley, for she had her own reasons for knowing that he was not in a condition to receive any proposition involving the expenditure of ready-money with much favour just then; but she took Mr. Thacker into her confidence; and as that gentleman's religious persuasion prevented his feeling any scruples concerning a transaction of the kind, he undertook to buy a living for Hester's unconscious protégé with as much alacrity and unconcern as he would have undertaken to hire an opera-box or to match a carriage-horse. "Remember, if you want a presentation likely to fall in soon, you can't get one cheap," was his sole demurrer when Miss Gould explained, with the utmost n?iveté, the object of her wishes.
 
"I don't want to get it cheap, Mr. Thacker," replied Miss Gould. "Provided it's comfortable, and there's enough to do to keep the pocket-Apostle busy, and it's a wholesome place for Ellen, and not dangerous in the way of strikes and mill-burnings,--I am content. I don't think I should like it too rural and picturesque, please, because the murders in places of that sort are always so very horrible."
 
"By Jove! she gives me her directions as if it were a semi-detached villa with a good croquet-lawn she wanted," said Mr. Thacker, as he left Hester's presence, having cheerfully undertaken the somewhat difficult task she had imposed upon him. "There's nothing on earth to equal the unreasonableness of even the most reasonable woman, and she certainly is that. Not bad for an unconscious bit of satire either on Christian notions in general,--would be nuts to some of our people, I daresay."
 
 
The season was at its height, and all London seemed abandoned to the pursuit of pleasure, almost as completely as the gay capital of France in its normal condition;--all London, that is to say, except the few hundreds of thousands who were suffering, dying, bearing all the ills and miseries of life, unseen and unheard by their more fortunate brethren, for whom the hour of calamity had not yet sounded. Among the most fashionable of the fashionable réunions fixed for one brilliant night in June,--a night on which the fields and trees, the rivers and the gardens, were bathed in moonlight, and fanned by warm perfumed air; a night on which all nature was wrapped in a trance of delight,--was Mrs. Pendarvis's ball. Her ball par excellence, be it observed; for she "opened her rooms" for dancing and music, for charades and kettledrums, for every conceivable purpose for which people could be gathered together, a most satisfactory number of times during the season. But this was a grand, an exceptional occasion,--a yearly event, which found record in the chronicles of the doings of the magnates of society, and formed an epoch in the history of each successive year.
 
Katharine Streightley and her husband were going to this ball. Miss Guyon had never missed the grand occasion since she had been "out," and its last recurrence had been memorable to her. She remembered it well as she sat under her maid's hands, and suffered herself to be attired far more splendidly than usual. She took a secret pleasure in forcing upon her own attention the contrast between the past and the present on this night. When her toilet was an accomplished fact, she stood before her glass and gazed upon her radiant figure, clothed in the richest white satin, and decorated with the valuable and quaintly-set diamonds which had been her mother's sole legacy to her, and a thrill of irrepressible triumph ran through her whole frame. She felt her own beauty as she had never felt it before; and she acknowledged that it was very pleasant to have the means of adorning it so lavishly, of adding so much to its power. Her toilet-table was covered with cases in which gems of great value and beauty were nestled away in green-velvet niches, or displayed boastfully upon backgrounds of satin; but she had left them all undisturbed; her mother's diamonds should be her only ornaments that night. She desired her maid to bring more lights, and set them about the room, so as to show her her own figure in every point of view. The woman obeyed, with some surprise: this was not like Mrs. Streightley, who, though inordinately extravagant, was not practically vain, with the kind of vanity which impresses itself upon the attention of a waiting-woman.
 
She was looking over her white shoulder at the reflection in the long glass behind her, and her maid was standing by with a heap of soft white wrapping drapery on her arm, when Robert knocked at the door of her dressing-room. She bade him "come in," in a pleasant voice, and he did so.
 
"The carriage is waiting. Are you nearly ready?" he said. And then stopped short, and looked at her, literally dazzled with her exceeding beauty. Thus he had seen her, a year ago, the first time he had dined at her father's house, dressed for a ball,--a ball at Mrs. Pendarvis's too,--a ball he had heard mentioned with a kind of hopeless envy. And she had gone downstairs to the carriage with him then. How well he remembered it, how distinctly he saw it all!--the head-dress she had added to her dinner-array, the white cloak--was this which he took from the maid and tenderly placed around her the same? he wondered. It looked like it; but it was another, ten times more costly than Miss Guyon had ever worn. Again he saw the smile, the bow, from the corner of the carriage; again he heard Mr. Guyon's, "Don't stand there, Streightley; come in." And he felt like a man who has formerly seen in a dream things now passing before his eyes.
 
He could not speak before her servant; so he trusted to a glance to tell his wife how beautiful he thought her. He saw immediately that among the jewels she wore were none of his gifts, and he said, with some hesitation, "You do not honour my selection much, Katharine. Would not your bracelet go with your other ornaments, dear?"
 
A splendid serpent, a glittering mass of brilliants, with emerald eyes and protruded ruby tongue, lay on the table. He took it up as he spoke. Katharine looked half-disposed to refuse; then she said gaily:
 
"Never mind if it does contradict the quaint old roses and crescents; I'll wear it, Robert. Put it on, please,--there." And she held out her round white arm.
 
It was a trifling incident, but it meant a great deal to Robert Streightley; so much, that when they were seated in the carriage he thanked her with all the ardour of a lover. He told her he had never seen her half so beautiful; he reminded her--he who rarely dared to refer to the past--of the first time he had seen her dressed for a ball; and told her what a vision of beauty, what an enchantress she had appeared to him then,--what an unending spell she had cast upon him. There was no wrath, no bitterness in Katharine's heart that night, though the remembrances evoked were all of the kind calculated to provoke them. Time, and the unfailing, persevering love of this man,--love which she wondered at, and which had begun to touch her heart,--were working on her proud nature. She listened to him with a smile, with a faint, beautiful blush. She was glad that she had pleased him; it was not hard to do so: to wear a gorgeous ornament like that, and be thanked for it, was not a great sacrifice. To be so passionately admired by one's own husband was not unpleasant. Katharine was quite aware that it was not a very common case. Their carriage fell into the line; the light of many lamps was flitting about. She threw her cloak off the arm that bore the bracelet, and admired the splendid jewel, rippling with many-coloured light:
 
"It is extremely beautiful, Robert," she said. "I like it better than any of your presents. It was your first, you know:"
 
He did know; and he also knew that this was the first, the very first word he had ever heard from his wife's lips which implied any sentiment concerning the past connected with him. A fresh tide of hope and joy welled up in his heart; and as she laid her hand lightly in his, and let it rest there until their turn had come, and the carriage drew up under the striped awning, surrounded with a gaping crowd of idlers collected to see the ball-goers, Robert Streightley was happier than he had ever been in his life before.
 
Mrs. Pendarvis's house was large, but the fashion and success of a ball appear to depend on the disregard of proportion between the room and company; and when it is said that this ball was brilliantly successful, it becomes unnecessary to state that it was excessively crowded. Robert and Katharine were detained for some time on the staircase, but the delay was not tedious; for they encountered a few scores of their acquaintances, and Robert had the satisfaction, which in his present happy mood was unmixed, of observing the universal admiration excited by his lovely wife. At the top of the first flight of stairs there was a large recess, or rather room, beautifully hung with muslin and lace, and profusely decorated with flowers and odorous plants. A few route-seats were placed in this apartment, which was only a little less crowded than the dancing-rooms and the staircase. When Robert and Katharine reached this temporary harbour they found Lady Henmarsh in possession of one of the seats, and were immediately greeted by her with her accustomed warmth.
 
"Miss Gould is here, of course?" asked Katharine.
 
"Yes, she is dancing. How well you are looking, Katharine! I see you are wearing your diamonds to-night; very becoming indeed; that serpent is beautiful. You have such taste, Mrs. Streightley."
 
"Come, Robert, we must really try to make our bow to Mrs. Pendarvis," said Katharine rather impatiently; and they proceeded on their journey to the second floor. There they found Mrs. Pendarvis, and several of Katharine's habitual partners. In a minute she had joined the throng in the dancing-room, and Robert was engaged in the double task of squeezing himself into as small a space as possible along the doorjamb, and trying to follow his wife's graceful figure through the distracting evolutions of a valse. When he had succeeded in seeing her through two or three rounds, he thought he would go down and find Lady Henmarsh; and he was just moving for the purpose, when a lady and gentleman came past him from the dancing-room, and the lady stopped and held out her hand. It was Hester Gould, beautifully dressed, in the highest spirits, and looking unusually well, even handsome, as Robert felt instinctively in the moment during which his eyes rested on her. It was only a moment, however, for they turned to her companion. The gentleman with whom Miss Gould had been dancing, with whom she was now going in search of Lady Henmarsh, was Gordon Frere.
 
 
Katharine had seen him also. In a whirl of the valse her eyes had met his, as she and her partner passed him and his. She saw his fair hair, his blue eyes, the smile she remembered so well; she heard his low pleasant laugh, and at the same instant he looked at her and she at him, and they were apart again. Then he led Hester from the dancing-room, and down to the canopied recess where Lady Henmarsh sat, and where he remained for some time, laughing and chatting with his animated and attractive partner. He had seen Katharine; and the result had been just what he had told Yeldham he knew it would be. He was ready to acknowledge her as beautiful and fascinating as ever, but he did not mind seeing her a bit now. He would have been an ass to have married at all in his circumstances, and she did quite right to make a good match when she got the chance. She shouldn't have flirted with him and jilted him as she had done, to be sure; but then women were all alike, and it hadn't hurt him much after all. He was delighted to see her looking so well, and to believe that she was very happy; and, by Jove, he was going to enjoy himself, and not think about love and marriage until he could afford such luxuries.
 
Lady Henmarsh had felt an acute pang of fear when she recognised Gordon Frere; but she soon quieted it by the timely reflection that no one could prove her share in the transactions of the past, and no one could unmarry Katharine, or take the money he had made by the marriage out of cousin Ned's pocket.
 
"I hope Katharine won't make a fool of herself," she thought, as she watched her ascend the stairs with her husband, and thought of the inevitable meeting before her; "but if she is inclined to do it, nobody can prevent her, and it's no business of mine. What can have brought the idle young fool back, I wonder? I thought he was safe for five years at least, and then promotion to Russia, or some equally desirable place." And when Hester Gould brought Gordon Frere down to the recess, Lady Henmarsh read in her face that she was pleased with the young man, and desirous that she should be gracious to him; so, as Lady Henmarsh found it convenient to further Miss Gould's pleasure just then to the utmost of her power, she was gracious to Gordon Frere, congratulated him on his return to London, and gave him to understand that Sir Timothy would be charmed to see him at Cavendish Square.
 
The ball terminated as brilliantly as it had begun; and Katharine was the gayest of the gay, the brightest of the bright. She stayed very late, and she danced incessantly. Again and again she found herself close to Gordon Frere, and once she was so placed that she had to choose between speaking to him and "cutting him dead." She took counsel of her pride; she remembered that if, as seemed likely, he was remaining in London, she must necessarily meet him often, and she decided on speaking to him. They were on the staircase, she going down, he coming up, with Hester on his arm,--he had danced several times with her that night, as Katharine had remarked,--when she bowed to him, and said,
 
"How do you do, Mr. Frere? Have you been long in town?"
 
"A few days only, Mrs. Streightley. I hope Mr. Guyon is well?"
 
"Quite well, thank you."
 
Again she bowed, and passed him; and thus they met and parted, who, when last they met, had parted with the brightest and most blessed hope which ever gilds life for youth and love.
 
Robert and Katharine drove home in silence, which each hoped might be imputed by the other to fatigue. With her remembrance was busy, with him remorse and shame.
CHAPTER VIII.  MARRIED FOR LOVE.
 Mrs. Streightley met Gordon Frere frequently during the remainder of the month of June. She met him at balls and dinner-parties, at fêtes and promenades, and riding in the Park. She was distantly civil on these occasions; and he carefully, but reluctantly, modelled his demeanour on hers. "She is so awfully stiff and standoffish," he would say to himself, when Katharine had bowed to him coldly or spoken in a tone of icy indifference; "it seems almost as if she couldn't forgive herself. I'm sure I forgive her; more than that,--by Jove! I'm very much obliged to her. We should both have been up a tree by this time if we had been married, Treasury appointment notwithstanding. What a beauty she is, though! and Streightley's not half a bad fellow either, though we used to make such fun of him. 'The City man' she called him, like a deceitful minx as she was, and she going to marry him all the time! However, I must not think of that, or I shall be getting angry again." And from this soliloquy, and from others like it, in which he indulged, it would appear that Mr. Gordon Frere's sentiments were not of the deep and lasting order, and that his friend Yeldham had formed a tolerably correct estimate of his character. He was of that constitution, and at that time of life, when a few months seem like an eternity; and he had come back to London fancy-free, and if a little wiser, a little more capable of acting from interested motives, not materially corrupted. He would not, probably, allow himself to fall in love with any woman for the future whom it would be imprudent to marry; but neither would he marry any woman, no matter how rich, whom he could not love.
 
Katharine's demeanour towards Gordon Frere was an unspeakable relief to Robert Streightley, whose first impulsive feeling on seeing Frere was dread of an explanation, which might lead to a discovery. His brief vision of happiness was dispelled by the sight of the young man's face, and he shrunk with a painful reluctance from the interchange of the ordinary civilities of society with one whom he had so deeply injured. In vain did he try to find relief in the remembrance of all that Katharine had gained by her marriage with him; in vain did he watch the happy insouciance, the heart-whole gaiety of Frere, and argue from them the lightness and instability of the sentiment with which he had regarded Katharine. His conscience was awake, and not any sophistry could lull it to sleep again.
 
Mr. Guyon had been among the earliest of Gordon Frere's former acquaintances to hear of his abandonment of diplomatic life, and his return to London. He was aware of these circumstances before he received one of cousin Hetty's confidential little notes, in which she mentioned, in a tone of alarm and judicious warning, having seen Mr. Frere at Mrs. Pendarvis's ball. Mr. Guyon had met his young friend a day before that festivity; had joked with him pleasantly about his "butterfly" qualities; had congratulated him upon his return to the centre of civilisation; and had asked him whether he had met the Streightleys,--all with a pleasant impudence which Gordon Frere was fairly forced to admire, and found it impossible to resent. Mr. Guyon was not for a moment visited by the misgivings which had disturbed his more sensitive son-in-law; but he divined that Robert, for whom he entertained, in certain respects, a good-natured contempt, would be uncomfortable about Frere's return; and he resolved to console him, at the risk of offending his pride by the momentary revival of a subject never mentioned between them. Accordingly he dropped in to breakfast at Portland Place two days after the ball and the meeting, and found, as he expected, his son-in-law alone.
 
"Katharine not down? Nothing wrong, I hope?" asked the affectionate parent.
 
"O no; she is a little tired after the Opera and a couple of parties, and she is going to Richmond to-day; so she is resting this morning."
 
"Indeed! very sensible of her. She stayed late at Mrs. Pendarvis's, didn't she?"
 
"Yes," replied Robert, shortly and uneasily.
 
Mr. Guyon looked at him, and their eyes met.
 
"So Frere was there?" said the indomitable Mr. Guyon, as airily and pleasantly as if he were mentioning the most agreeable trifle. "Rather awkward, on the whole; and yet, I don't know--all for the best perhaps. He will probably marry well, and the sooner the better for him and for us."
 
"For us?" asked Robert timidly. And there was a shade of pain, and something like shame on his face, which would have hurt a sensitive observer, but which merely annoyed Mr. Guyon, who found it difficult to repress a sneer, as he replied:
 
"And us, of course--that is, if we need care about the matter one way or the other, which I don't see that we need."
 
"But if Katharine should have any conversation, any confidence with him?" faltered Robert.
 
"There is not the faintest possibility of any such danger," said Mr. Guyon, with equal composure and decision. "I understand Katharine much better than you do, Robert, and I know that our invulnerable safety"--the younger man flushed and winced a little at the words--"consists in her indomitable pride. The one individual of all her acquaintance who will never exchange a confidential sentence with Katharine is Mr. Gordon Frere." And then Mr. Guyon promptly dropped the subject, and talked of money, racing, betting, and other serious pursuits of life; and after a short time took his leave of Robert, leaving him reassured, but with a fresh and bitter sense of humiliation.
 
The time which had wrought so rapid a change in Gordon Frere, which had taught him to regard with forgiveness, which almost bordered on approbation, the fickleness and treachery of the woman against whom he had delivered the valedictory philippic,--which Charles Yeldham remembered with wonder and bewilderment,--had worked considerable alteration in Katharine's mood as well. Her fine nature had been hardened, her generous temper had been warped; a crust of worldliness and selfishness had formed over the hot heart, and the trustful impulses of youth were dead within her; but the maddening anger, the intolerable mortification, had subsided. A momentary thrill of these former emotions, mingled with the yearning of the heart towards the object of a passion, or even a fancy, had passed over her, when, in the crush and whirl of the ball-room, she had recognised Frere. But her strength of will and self-command had effectually put it down before the moment came when she found herself obliged to speak to him.
 
Something like the tumult of the past renewed itself in her mind when she found herself alone that night, and at liberty to think of the occurrences of that evening; but it did not last. Mr. Guyon was right. Any calculation founded on Katharine's pride could not fail; and that pride helped her in the very first hour of the resuscitation of the past. Believing as she did that there never had been any sincerity in the sentiment which Gordon Frere had affected towards her, she did not recognise change in the gay and unembarrassed manner which she had immediately observed; she imputed it to the discarding of the mask, the abandonment of the comedy; and so thinking, she wondered that she felt so little anger, so little disdain, so little emotion of any kind, all things considered. She recalled to memory every circumstance of that terrible day which had undeceived her; she recollected it, hour by hour, in its anguish of suspense, in its paroxysms of grief and anger; she remembered the faint deadly sickness which had come over her, and the dreadful despairing hours of the night. But she only remembered these things; she did not feel them again; and Katharine knew that with the last throbs of anger had passed away the last lingerings of her love for Gordon Frere. It had been real, very true, and fervent; and no doubt, had he returned it, as he had taught her to believe he did, it would have lasted through all the chances and changes of this mortal life; but it was dead and gone now, and the sight of him taught her that it was so. Before Katharine's eyes closed that night, after her long vigil of remembrances and reflections, she knew that she should, in all the future, meet Gordon Frere without any painful emotion, beyond a little irrepressible contempt.
 
She was soon put to the test; for the acquaintance between Frere and Lady Henmarsh progressed rapidly; and Katharine was not spared the sight or the mention of him. Lady Henmarsh would not have put herself out of her way to annoy Katharine, but she was not unwilling to do so when it happened to come in her way; and she took an early opportunity of confiding to her her impression that Hester Gould was decidedly smitten with the good-looking young fellow, who really had no harm in him, and whose only fault was want of money.
 
"He is really charming, Kate," Lady Henmarsh observed, with an air of candidly admitting a former error in judgment. "I was quite too hard on him in old times--an age ago--and I am ready to admit it. Of course that would never have done; but every thing is all right now, and I am sure you are the happiest girl in the world; and as for that dear Mr. Streightley, he is a perfect prince."
 
Katharine had to bear this sort of thing, and she bore it well, wondering sometimes that it did not pain her more keenly. She gave little heed to Lady Henmarsh's hints about Hester Gould, which she imputed to a general impulse of spite; and simply contented herself with smiling rather bitterly as she thought how accurately they would once have hit their mark. When she met Gordon Frere now, there was no glamour between her eyes and him. He was not invested with the golden halo of a girl's fancy. The time which had gone over Katharine's head, though brief in duration, had been long in meaning, and she was no longer the slave of her imagination. She saw him as he really was--a pleasant, kindly, genial, well-bred, well-looking, shallow young man, with brains enough and heart enough for the exigencies of society, and admirably fitted to be rich and idle, with distinction and popularity. She knew now that he was not a man who would ever accomplish any great or noble purpose in life; not a man on whom a woman's heart could stay itself in trouble. Somehow she felt that she had outgrown and outlived Gordon Frere.
 
While one woman, to whom he had been the incarnation of the fondest and fairest visions of youth, was thus thinking of Mr. Frere, he had assumed a position of immense importance in the estimation of another--a woman widely different from Katharine in every thing. When Hester Gould met him at Mrs. Pendarvis's ball, she had been attracted towards him chiefly by curiosity. She remembered him well as the fair-haired young man whom she had seen at the memorable promenade, and whom she had immediately discerned to be Katharine Guyon's lover. She strongly suspected that he and the girl had both been victims of some foul play, the full details of which her subsequent acquaintance with the affairs of Mr. Guyon and his son-in-law had not enabled her to ascertain; but that he, at least, had suffered at Mr. Guyon's unscrupulous hands she did not doubt. Gordon had heard that the "old cat," as he had irreverently called Lady Henmarsh on a former occasion, was "taking a new heiress about with her;" for such was the simple phrase in which the ingenuous youth of his set described Hester's relations with her friend; and when, on his paying his respects to Lady Henmarsh at Mrs. Pendarvis's ball, she had presented him to Miss Gould, he concluded, as he led his partner to the dancing-room, that she was the "new heiress" in question. Thus he too felt some curiosity about the girl, whose tranquil easy manner, keen dark eyes, elegant and tasteful dress, and conversation utterly free from the missishness and the vapidity common to young ladies just "out," made her an interesting person, apart from the very large fortune which she undoubtedly possessed, and which was multiplied by rumour with its accustomed liberality. Gordon would have been considerably astonished, had he known that Miss Gould saw the glance in which his eyes and Katharine's met, and perfectly understood and appreciated the position; had he known that she marked the short dialogue which passed between them on the staircase, and noted the coldness and distance of its tone with distinct satisfaction. He and she talked with more animation, and of subjects of more worth and interest, than those usually discussed at a ball; for even a shallow man like Gordon Frere was forced to think a little when he found himself talking to a woman like Hester Gould; and they got on together very well indeed; but the unconscious accord of their thoughts was greater and closer still.
 
Curiosity, interest, and the spontaneous admiration which he was certain to excite in every woman whom he addressed, had been the first feelings with which Hester Gould had regarded Gordon Frere on that evening. Before she entered the carriage to which he escorted her and Lady Henmarsh, her admiration had increased, her interest had deepened. The calm, well-governed heart, which held itself aloof from passion, and had never loved any living being entirely without calculation and caution, had been surprised, like the weakest, like the least-guarded. Hester Gould had fallen in love--ay, like the veriest sentimental school-girl--at first sight, with Gordon Frere.
 
She did not deny the fact to herself; she did not deceive herself. It was characteristic of her to be perfectly conscious that she was weak, but not to disguise from herself the weakness. Hester Gould had never been visited by even the most transient feeling to which she could assign the name of love before; and now, when it came, she knew it, she recognised it, she acknowledged it--not with misgiving, not with despair, not with self-contempt. When she was alone that night, or rather in the early summer morning, her ball-dress laid aside, her maid dismissed, she threw open the window of her dressing-room, and sat down where the cool morning air came in and fanned her dark but radiant face. The time wore on, and the sun came out strongly, and the stir of life began, but still Hester sat, gazing out towards the stately leafy trees in Kensington Gardens, and thinking. For the first time in her life she suffered the tide of strong emotion to sweep over her unchecked; for the first time in her life she felt its fulness. Secretly but desperately she had rebelled against poverty and obscurity; secretly, thirstingly, she had longed for wealth. Poverty and obscurity were things of the past; wealth had come to her, and she had taken it calmly. No human being could ever have guessed at the exultation with which Hester Gould had entered upon the possession of her fortune; no human being could ever have divined the intense secret pleasure which every day's enjoyment of it gave her. But what was it all to this? What was it all to the strange new delight, the sweet subtle hope that stole upon her now? Not until she had thought long, deeply, delightfully, over every little incident of the evening, did Hester's mind revert to Katharine Streightley; and then, so potent was the influence of the spell under which the calm self-possessed woman had fallen, that there was only an acknowledgment of the strangeness of the coincidence; there was not a single thrill of vindictive exultation in the remembrance that they, the rivals, had changed places; that the man whom Hester told herself she loved, told herself she hoped to win, was the man whom Katharine had loved and lost. All such thoughts seemed infinitely beneath her now, quite lost in the immensity of this new interest in her life; and they could never more have any power over her. But though passion had suddenly invaded the well-guarded territory of Hester Gould's heart, romance had no place in her nature; and she did not for a moment forget or undervalue the advantages of her wealth. "If he only comes to love me," she said, "there will be no obstacle. I am rich enough to make it a wise thing for him to marry me." And with this, the last waking thought in her mind, Hester Gould slept, with a smile upon her face which had never before irradiated it.
 
It was not until they had met several times that Gordon Frere began to think seriously about Hester Gould. He had been asked to two dinner-parties at Lady Henmarsh's, and had been especially distinguished by the gracious attentions of the hostess. On neither occasion had he met Katharine; but on both Mr. Guyon had been present, and they had got on capitally. The convenient memory and the savoir vivre of cousin Ned were displayed to perfection in circumstances of the kind, and Gordon Frere felt quite at his ease. They talked of the Streightleys. Mr. Guyon described Middlemeads; hoped that his young friend would have an opportunity of judging of its beauties for himself; jocularly counselled his young friend to marry, provided he could do it well, as soon as possible. "Never too soon, my dear fellow,--never too soon. I was a mere boy myself," said Mr. Guyon, with a comic sort of confidential sentiment; and discovered that he was keeping his young friend away from the ladies.
 
When Mr. Gordon Frere had been seen a few times riding with Miss Gould in the Row, and had been observed dancing with her an abnormal number of dances, his friends began to make remarks of the kind elegantly called "chaff" on the occurrences. It is not to be supposed, because they have not appeared in these pages, that there were not many aspirants to the hand and fortune of the shipowner's heiress. Their name, indeed, was legion; but they had all fared equally ill, and not one of the number had any reason to feel himself personally aggrieved by the evident progress of Frere in Miss Gould's good graces. So the chorus was rather congratulatory, the aspirants were good-natured in the main; and though each would have been delighted to secure Miss Gould's fortune for himself, they all agreed that Frere was a good fellow, though an idle dog, who would never make any hand of himself, and it would be a doosid good thing for him. As for Hester, though she made no unfeminine or unladylike advances, she was far too sensible to risk her happiness on punctilio. "I am not the first woman he will have loved, if he ever comes to love me," she thought; "but he is the only man I ever have loved, I ever can love, and that makes all the difference." So she treated him from the first with undisguised though unostentatious preference; and, fully acknowledging to herself that her heart's desire and prayer was to become his wife, never endangered her chance by the slightest coquetry or insincerity.
 
The light and facile nature of Gordon Frere was exactly calculated to insure the success of such a policy, which, however, was rather the instinct of Hester Gould's good sense. He liked her, he thought her handsome and clever. "Not a star of beauty, not a queen of grace and loveliness, like her, you know," said Mr. Frere to a friend of his with whom, in times which seemed very long past now, he had been wont to take counsel, and who listened to him with a gravely-amused expression of countenance and much internal satisfaction--"nothing of that kind, but a real nice girl. As sensible as a judge, sir!--a long way more so than some of them, I believe--and really fond of me. Don't think me a coxcomb, Charley, or an ass, as I was before. This is quite another case; and, by Jove, I am as sure as that I am sitting here in this everlasting old glory-hole, where I don't believe the very dust ever changes or blows away, that if I asked Miss Gould to-morrow to marry me, she would say yes."
 
"Very good, Gordon," returned his friend. "Then, if you want her to marry you, and you are positively sure you would marry her if she hadn't sixpence--which is the extreme proposition you have stated here three times over, and which is one of those things of which no man can be more than comparatively sure--ask her to-morrow, or on the first opportunity, and come and tell me the result. And now I must turn you out. I have an appointment with Claypole in five minutes, and some papers to look over before he comes."
 
Mr. Frere went gaily away, and Charles Yeldham did not turn immediately to the papers which lay upon his desk. He walked up and down the room, his hands deep in his pockets, and his head bent. At length he sat down with an impatient sigh and a muttered sentence:
 
"To think that fourteen months ago he considered himself madly in love with Katharine Guyon! What a blessing it must be to a man to be endowed with the nature of a butterfly!"
 
Gordon Frere's modest statement of his hopes and expectations was justified by the result; and the flagging spirits of society at the end of the season were raised by learning that a marriage was "arranged" between Miss Gould, who was of course beautiful and accomplished for the occasion, and Mr. Gordon-Frere, whose ancestral glories and diplomatic connections were also duly paraded.
 
Katharine had left town some little time before this announcement had supplied a fresh topic for discussion to the few scores of people who knew or felt any curiosity about the respective parties. Her premature abandonment of the delights of London arose from the condition of her husband's health. Robert had been constantly looking, and occasionally complaining of feeling, ill, for several weeks; and at length had acknowledged to his sister that he exceedingly desired the rest and tranquillity of the country.
 
"I don't think he is so much ill as worried," Ellen had said to her sister-in-law. And the simple girl was right. Robert was worried--worried about money-matters, worried about Mr. Guyon's affairs, and his insatiable, irrepressible scheming. But, worse than all, he was worried by self-reproach.
 
It was no sacrifice to Katharine to leave town; but if it had been one, she would not have hesitated to make it. It was therefore at Middlemeads, in the tranquil enjoyment of her beautiful home, invested with all the first golden glory of the autumn, that Katharine learned the news, the great news, which lent eloquence to Ellen Streightley's pen, and caused her to "gush" on paper as she was wont to do in speech. It was not, however, to her ingenuous sister-in-law that Katharine owed her knowledge of the brilliancy of the marriage, the number and importance of the guests, the details of the bride's dress, the high spirits of the bridegroom, the itinéraire of the bridal tour, and the winter plans of Mr. and Mrs. Gordon Frere. When the event had taken place, and Lady Henmarsh's occupation as a chaperone was for the second time gone; when she had inspected and sufficiently admired the costly set of rubies which she had received as a parting gift from the heiress, and had declared that she detested weddings, and was tired to death, she could think of no more agreeable way of passing an idle evening than in writing to Mrs. Streightley. Her letter was very smart, clever, and skilful, as all her letters were; and if it did not wound Katharine's feelings so much as the writer intended, its failure was to be imputed to a change in her mind and feelings, of which Lady Henmarsh was entirely ignorant.
 
The engagement had not been a long one; neither party had had any motive for delay; but it was by quite an accidental coincidence that Gordon Frere and Hester Gould were married on the anniversary of Katharine Guyon's wedding-day.
CHAPTER IX.  MARRIED TO MONEY.
 The time, so often deferred, at which Mr. Guyon was to pay his first visit to his daughter in her country-house had at length arrived; and the old gentleman made his appearance at Middlemeads with all the advantages of a very juvenile toilet and a new stock of those adjuncts to his personal beauty which he was in the habit of carrying about with him. It was not without reluctance that Mr. Guyon bade adieu to London, which he was accustomed to speak of as "the little village," and its delights; but he felt it absolutely necessary to make himself personally acquainted with that country-house which he had so often depicted to his boon companions in the most glowing terms, and with those country families whom, to the same confidants, he had represented as revelling in the elegant and unostentatious hospitality of the British merchant. He had been a little chaffed by these friends about the calm manner in which his daughter had borne his long-continued separation from her. Some of them compared him to King Lear, some to Captain Costigan; and Mr. Guyon, who knew very little about either of the historical personages between whom and himself a comparison was instituted, thought it was "dam' low," and that the sooner all chance of a repetition of such joking was put a stop to the better.
 
So the old gentleman came down to Middlemeads, and took up his quarters in one of the best spare-rooms, and strove to make himself agreeable to other people and to enjoy himself simultaneously. This was not very difficult, for he had a grand capacity for living; and his small-talk and geniality, and stories of grand people, made quite an impression amongst the neighbouring families, who thought Mrs. Streightley rather conceited, and Mr. Streightley very dull. Mr. Guyon in a very short time had made himself thoroughly at home, and had taken upon himself--not without Katharine's tacit consent; indeed the whole affair rather amused her than otherwise--the direction of affairs at Middlemeads, and the regulation of the manner in which the day should be spent. He it was who organised the tableaux to which the whole county was invited, which were such a grand success, and which were commemorated in the Morning Post. He it was who arranged for the first meet of the season of the stag-hounds on the Middlemeads lawn, and for the hunt-breakfast at his son-in-law's expense. Robert Streightley was unfortunately compelled to be away in London on business on that interesting occasion; but in his absence Mr. Guyon took the chair, in which he comported himself with the greatest dignity and hospitality; and when the deer was uncarted, waved his hat to the ladies, and rode away after it on one of his son-in-law's horses, to his own intense satisfaction.
 
Robert Streightley was very frequently compelled to be away in London on business just at that time; and when he was at home, he seemed to have left his mind behind him among the ledgers and the invoices and the share-lists, and to have left his spirits--God knows where! He was thoroughly preoccupied and gloomy, never speaking except when spoken to, and then replying with an obvious effort at the collection of his wandering thoughts. Mr. Guyon noticed this immediately after his arrival, and tried to rally his son-in-law, commencing with much pleasant badinage about the accumulation of wealth by the sale of oneself to the Evil One; an oft-used joke, which he had never known to miss fire hitherto, but which on this occasion was received with perfect silence. Over the quiet dinner, which, as it once or twice happened, Mr. Guyon ate with Katharine and her husband, or in the midst of a large party, it was all the same,--Robert never entered into any thing that was going on, but always remained in the same gloomy, silent, preoccupied state.
 
Mr. Guyon could never, even in his most amiable moods, have been called a patient man, long-suffering was not one of his virtues; and under his son-in-law's long face and absent manner he suffered acutely. His little mots passed unsmiled at, his anecdotes of the aristocracy evidently had not been listened to; he felt that he was throwing the pearls of his West-end refinement before City swine; and he was highly indignant. But not with Streightley--or at least he dared not openly declare his indignation to his son-in-law--it was on Katharine that he turned the heavy-guns of his wrath, and rebuked his daughter with an acrimony which might have had serious effect on a less self-possessed young lady.
 
"I come here," said Mr. Guyon one morning in the library, where he had gone to write a letter, and where he found Katharine similarly employed,--"I come here to your house, and I find your husband an altered man. He has lost that cheerfulness, that energy, that buoyancy which distinguished him, and, in fact, he's become a doosid unpleasant dreary bird. How's this? Cheerful before marriage, and miserable after; looks as if marriage was the cause, doesn't it, Kate? And to think that my daughter has not--not striven to--to what d'ye call--bless the lot of the man who--doubles his joys and halves his sorrows, and all that kind of thing? Am I to think that you--but no, that could not be! I must remember----"
 
"You must remember, papa, if you please," said Kate, looking him full in the face, and speaking in a low stern voice,--"you must remember the manner in which and the conditions under which I married my husband! And, remembering them, you must be good enough never to dare--it is a strong word to use to one's father, but I repeat it--never to dare to address me in this way again. I know my duty to my husband, and--according to my lights, and under the peculiar circumstances of our union--I do it!"
 
It was not to be supposed that Katharine, however devoid of that instinctive perception of love which will make the dullest of women quick to see when trouble is hanging over one dear to her, was either blind or indifferent to the depression of Robert's spirits and the change in his appearance. Towards her, individually, he was always the same,--studious and eager to forward her wishes, and bounding his to making her happy; but he was preoccupied and gloomy. He was beginning to look old, too; the vigorous upright look which had been the first thing in his appearance to strike an observer, was less conspicuous than it had been, and his step was slower and heavier. His wife was not blind to the alteration, and she put it all down to the account of "business." In this general conclusion she was quite right; but Katharine had not the remotest glimmering of a suspicion that misfortune and loss were constituents of this "business." She believed her husband to be a very rich man, whose ambition it was to become very much richer, and whose life was devoted to the realisation of that ambition. She had never ceased to regard him as the "City man" of their first acquaintance; and though her ideas respecting the transactions carried on by City men had undergone considerable alteration since that time, she was as far as ever from a real comprehension of the risks and the anxieties which her husband's life included. The making of money in larger or smaller sums Katharine understood to be his calling; and so far as the variation was between larger and smaller, she comprehended anxiety being involved; but as to serious loss, as to ruin, she had not the faintest notion of such a possibility. Of Mr. Guyon's transactions with her husband Mrs. Streightley was also profoundly ignorant. Robert had taken care she should be so, for his sake as well as for her own. He knew Katharine's delicacy of feeling and her pride perfectly, and he also appreciated her acuteness and keenness as they deserved. From hurt and indignant mortification at discovering that her father had taken such means to "exploiter" her marriage, to questioning why a clever and shrewd man of business, such as Katharine well knew Robert to be, should admit such unscrupulous demands on her father's part, would be an easy and natural transition; and Robert shrunk with terror from the idea that any such clue should ever find its way to his wife's hands. No symptom of such danger had shown itself; the feelings with which Katharine regarded her father had ceased to be of a kind to prompt her to much personal interest in his affairs, and by nature she was not inquisitive. That Mr. Guyon's pursuits were frivolous in the extreme; that he presented that most contemptible of spectacles--an old man aping the dissolute manners of an objectionable order of youth, Katharine was becoming more and more painfully aware; but she looked no deeper into his life than the surface, from which she turned away with a feeling which, had she investigated it, she must have acknowledged to be contempt.
 
The nobility of Katharine's nature asserted itself in the manner in which she regarded the marriage of Gordon Frere and Hester Gould. That the intelligence should not cost her a pang of exceeding keenness was impossible; but she did battle with herself against the temptations to bitterness and enmity against Hester which beset her, and she came nobly out of the strife. Little did she dream how closely her demeanour was scrutinised; little did she imagine that the bright dark eyes of the obsequious Mr. Daniel Thacker, perhaps the humblest of Mrs. Streightley's servants and the most respectful of her admirers, were steadily directed to her face for many days during his stay at Middlemeads, with the purpose of reading what might appear on that fair dial indicative of storm and turmoil in her heart. She had no suspicion that she was watched; but, as she also had nothing whatever to hide, there was no danger in her unconsciousness. The brief sharp pain she endured had come and passed when she was alone. She remembered how she had envied Hester Gould her wealth, only because it left her free to marry as she liked: she remembered her own bitter saying, "she may buy instead of being bought," and she thought it had been strangely realised. But she would not be unjust either to Hester Gould or to her own false lover. She would acknowledge that Hester had many attractions other than her wealth; she would acknowledge her fair share of beauty, her talents, her good manners, the numerous charms which might easily secure a genuine attachment. She was ready to believe that Gordon Frere might really love Hester; and the more ready, as she had reason to know the shallowness and fickleness of his nature. "I daresay he cares for her as much as he cared for me," Katharine thought; "and in this case he can afford to indulge his fancy,--in mine he could not. She is fortunate that he can love her and marry her, otherwise she too would find that he would love her and leave her, as he left me, to the ridicule of her friends, and a broken heart, were she fool enough to break her heart for him. And he--he has only done exactly what I did, even supposing he does not love her. He has only married for money. With this difference, to be sure,--that I would have shared poverty with him, and he would not face it for me: with this other difference too, that I was in earnest, and he was only amusing himself. Our positions are pretty much the same in the end; we are both rich, we are parted from each other, and satisfied to be so, and another has the first claim on each. I have no right to despise him for the marriage he has made, nor dares he to despise me."
 
So Katharine wrote to Ellen Streightley, and expressed interest in the marriage, and hope of its happiness, which were perfectly sincere, and were most welcome to the recipient of her letter. She treated the subject with polite indifference in her reply to Lady Henmarsh. She understood cousin Hetty tolerably well, and disdained the spitefulness which she perceived too thoroughly to stoop to retaliation. It was a fortunate circumstance for Robert that his sister had remained with her mother at the Brixton villa after Miss Gould's marriage, and thus no occasion arose for the lengthened and frequent discussion of the event. Had Ellen been at Middlemeads, she would have talked about the wedding to an embarrassing extent. As it was, his reluctance to mention Gordon Frere's name--a reluctance which Katharine did not suspect--was seconded by her own, which Robert's state of mind prevented him from surmising; and after a mere formal comment, whose insufficiency, considering the intimacy subsisting between the Streightleys and Miss Gould, did not fail to strike Mr. Thacker, the subject was dropped. He tried to talk about the wedding, at which he had been present, and at which his sisters had officiated as bridesmaids; but he had not courage to persevere in the face of Robert's silence and the well-bred coldness of Katharine's manner, which plainly implied that the matter was one wholly devoid of interest to her; but, of course, if Mr. Thacker chose to pursue that topic of conversation, she was bound to listen and to reply.
 
Life at Middlemeads proceeded much as usual, except that the amusements of autumn were substituted for those of spring. There was no other change in the aspect of affairs at the stately and luxurious country-house, over which Katharine presided with grace and dignity which seemed to grow more and more remarkable. Her beauty was at its zenith now; and no doubt the subsidence of all angry and impetuous feeling, the "settling down" which had taken place within the past year, had told upon her physically as well as morally. She had not, indeed, acted upon Mrs. Stanbourne's advice in its spirit. She had not faced the fact that the greatest of all her obligations towards her husband was the obligation to love him. She had not tried to realise that; and in so far the change in her was maimed and incomplete. But she had kept the letter of her promise to her friend, and ruled her life with more consideration for her husband than in the earlier days of their marriage. Had there been no obstacle, as unfortunately there was, in the secret bound in Robert's conscience, to a perfect understanding between the husband and wife, it might have come about at this period, when Gordon Frere's marriage had completed the severance of the past from Katharine's present life.
 
Mrs. Stanbourne was at Middlemeads shortly after the marriage of Gordon and Hester, and had been even more anxious than before to find Katharine on good terms with Robert. She was about to leave England for an indefinite time; and she would fain have gone away leaving her young kinswoman more intent on happiness, and less intent on pleasure, than she had found her on her first visit to Middlemeads. Observation had but increased her respect and regard for Robert Streightley; and she now noticed his depressed and careworn manner with sincere regret. She was at a loss to what origin to ascribe it; for things were far better, in a domestic point of view, than they had been in the spring. Had Mrs. Stanbourne met Mr. Guyon at Middlemeads, she might have discerned at least a portion of the truth, bringing, as she would have done, clearer notions of "business" than those of Katharine to aid her observations; but that gentleman avoided her with a persistent caution, for which, while far from divining its motives, she was unfeignedly grateful. Mrs. Stanbourne could not have thoroughly understood Mr. Guyon, had she had ever so favourable an opportunity of detecting him; but she despised him intuitively, and had often taken herself to task for the unreasoning dislike with which he inspired her.
 
"My dear Kate, what quantities of money you spend on furniture!" said Mrs. Stanbourne to Katharine, a day or two before she left Middlemeads. She had entered the morning-room, and found Mrs. Streightley looking over an upholsterer's pattern-book; while a "young man" stood by, awaiting her decision and her orders. She had given them, and the young man had taken his departure, charged by Katharine to have certain articles ready for her inspection by a certain day of the ensuing week.
 
"Do I?" asked Katharine absently. "Well, perhaps I do; but I did not choose the things here myself, you know; and then, I like change."
 
"May I ask what you are changing now, Kate?"
 
"O dear, yes, of course. It's my dressing-room furniture. I hate that walnut-wood, it looks so brittle; and I was quite delighted with Lady Kilmantan's rooms; so I am going to have just the same. They will be charming, with a conservatory and an aviary thrown out on the western side--just the aspect, you know."
 
"But your present conservatory is a splendid one, Kate, to say nothing of your acre of glass at the gardens."
 
"But I don't care for that great show thing; I want one of my own, that no one can go into except I specially invite them, and where I can choose the flowers myself, and put common flowers in if I please, and not be dictated to by the gardeners. See, here are the plans; charming, are they not? Here's to be a delicious little fountain, and the floor is to be white marble."
 
"Very pretty, Kate; but also very expensive. Don't think me intrusive, dear, or impertinent, if I say again I think you spend a very great deal of money. Mr. Streightley is very rich, I believe; do you know how rich?"
 
"N-not exactly," said Kate hesitatingly. "I know nothing about his income, except that he tells me to do just as I like. People talk of him to me as a 'City magnate,' and as if there were no end to his money."
 
"Have you any idea how much you spend yourself, Kate, in a year?"
 
"No, I have not. Every thing of this kind"--and she waved her hand, to indicate the room in which they were sitting, with its luxurious appointments--"Mr. Streightley arranges for. I have nothing to do with money except for my private expenses, dress, and that; and I have not had any bills yet."
 
"I fancy they will surprise you when they arrive, Kate. But if Mr. Streightley has said nothing, I am perhaps taking fright unnecessarily." And then Mrs. Stanbourne rather abruptly turned the conversation to her approaching departure from England. She was to winter at Rome with her daughter and her son-in-law; and she and Katharine indulged in talking about a proposed plan for the Streightleys joining the party there. It did very well to talk about, if nothing more came of it; and the vague prospect softened the pain with which Katharine bade her friend adieu a few days later.
 
The alterations at Middlemeads went on briskly, and, like all alterations, exhibited a tendency to extend their scope and increase their variety. The dull wintry weather had come now, and the comfort of the luxurious house was somewhat interfered with by the presence of workmen and the disarrangement of some of the rooms. Under a momentary impression created by what Mrs. Stanbourne had said, Katharine had spoken to her husband about the cost of her intended improvements, which had now extended far beyond the narrow sphere of her own apartments. It was the first time the subject of money had been mooted between them; and Katharine's manner was slightly constrained, her pride slightly touched. She shrank from the least possibility of a rebuke, from the shade of an imputation that she had interpreted the carte-blanche which her husband had given her too liberally. A different and more painful kind of embarrassment possessed Robert; and his over-eagerness to hide it from his wife, his stern resolution to carry out to the letter the tacit contract between them, induced him to reassure her with so much vehemence, that Katharine never gave the subject another thought, but plunged into her plans with fresh vigour and heedless extravagance.
 
Mrs. Streightley found the distance from London inconvenient, when each day required her to pronounce a judgment upon some new pattern in furniture or hangings, or to decide for or against some piece of virtù or ornament of a rare and costly description. The season was dull down in Buckinghamshire; and though London was in a certain sense, the fashionable one, dull also, it would at least offer that dear delight to all who lead such lives as hers--a change. So she assented very gladly to a proposition which Robert made to her at the beginning of November, that they should remove to the house in Portland Place for a month. The reason he assigned for this arrangement, on his own part, was the plea of "business," which Katharine never inquired into; and in a few days, with the ease and celerity with which rich people make even the most out-of-the-way arrangements, Katharine found herself settled in her town-house, if not with all the luxury and completeness of "the season," in very perfect comfort. She had not thought it necessary to apprise Mr. Guyon of her intention of coming up to town; nor did she let him know immediately that she had done so. On the second afternoon after her arrival in London she called at his house, but without any expectation of finding him at home. She was, however, shown into the dingy dining-room--more dingy than ever; and there her father joined her after a few minutes. He expressed all the fit and appropriate sentiments on beholding her, with his usual fluency; but he did not express surprise quite successfully. This did not strike Katharine at the time; but as she drove back to Portland Place, having invited her father to dinner on the following day, she thought of it, and felt sure that he had not been surprised,--in fact, that he knew she was in town.
 
"How very odd!" she thought; "has Robert been to see him? And if he has, why should papa not have mentioned it, and said at once he had been expecting to see me?"
 
"I called on papa this afternoon," she said to her husband that day at dinner, at which meal she could not help observing Robert's unusual gloom and thoughtfulness. "He is coming to dine with us to-morrow. Have you seen him yet?"
 
"Yes," said Robert; "he came to the office yesterday."
 
Some feeling like anger, but which she could not precisely define, caused Katharine to turn red and hot for a moment. Her husband said no more, and seemed lost in thought. Had their mistress chanced to look towards them, she would have seen a very expressive glance exchanged between the servants in attendance. The "situation" was not quite a mystery for the servants' hall, and the opinion there for some time had been that "the old 'un was a-comin' of it a deal too strong, and he'd find Streightley wouldn't stand it much longer."
 
Katharine felt uncomfortable, she did not know why; and she watched her father on the following day with a degree of attention she had seldom bestowed upon him of late. His manner was as jaunty, his conversation was as fluent, his juvenility was as marked, as well-preserved, as ever. He was delightfully facetious; and when he told Katharine that he had all sorts of messages in charge for her from Cousin Hetty, and that--gad! he had nearly forgotten the chief news of all--sentence of death against Sir Timothy; couldn't live a month, the doctors said; and as they had the power of proving the soundness of their own judgment, of course he wouldn't live a month,--he made the little joke quite fascinating. Still there was something about him, and about Robert, who was a poor dissembler, which Katharine did not like, did not understand, and which made her uncomfortable. There was a fourth person present; a circumstance which each felt to be a relief. This was Ellen Streightley. Katharine had gone that afternoon to the Brixton villa, and had paid Robert's mother a visit, during which she had been as charming and agreeable as she could be when she chose. She had brought Ellen home with her; and an instinct now made her doubly glad she had done so. Robert had thanked her warmly and gratefully for her prompt attention to his mother and to Ellen, and had looked as happy as ever for a little. Somehow Katharine liked his thanks, liked his kind words; and when she wondered what was amiss, found herself hoping it was nothing involving any distress of mind to Robert.
 
Mr. Guyon went away early, having told his daughter he should come to breakfast on the morrow. "But I daresay I shall not see you, my dear," he added; "for Robert and I have business to talk over, and we mean to shut you out,--don't we, Robert?" And the affectionate father-in-law nodded in his most airy and jovial way to Mr. Streightley. But Robert only bowed. He was immovably grave, and Katharine almost made up her mind that she would ask him what was the cause of his restraint and gloom. She never did ask the question, however; for the following day found her full of all the delightful occupations which she had planned for herself in town--found her bent on enjoying all that London had to offer during its partial eclipse, and also found her father and Robert apparently on as good terms as ever. Robert had noticed his wife's transient uneasiness, and, determined to adhere to his fatal resolution of concealment, he had applied himself to the task of hiding the truth, this time with success.
CHAPTER X.  STAKED.
 The pallid footman, who still remained in attendance on Mr. Guyon in Queen Anne Street, had been of late leading such an easy life--had had so much time for the enjoyment of social carouses at his club, for the cultivation of female society, for the promotion of the growth of his whiskers, and other large-souled pursuits--had, above all, been enabled to indulge in his favourite luxury of lying in bed late o' mornings to such an extent since his young mistress's marriage, that he received his master's announcement that breakfast for two must be ready at nine o'clock the next morning with disgust which he felt it difficult to restrain. As, however, he knew from experience that Mr. Guyon possessed a temper which he never gave himself the trouble of placing under much restraint, and which had hitherto vented itself in strange but particularly strong oaths, and which, as the pallid domestic feared, had a strong leaning towards the use of sticks and horsewhips, he thought it better to say nothing, and took care that the meal was ready at the appointed time.
 
At the appointed time Mr. Guyon entered the dining-room, seized the newspaper, and turned hurriedly to a particular spot in its columns, laid the sheet down again with a reassured air, glanced through his letters, and then, leaning his elbows on the mantelshelf, carelessly glanced at himself in the glass. The careless glance became more attentive, more strained, and more fixed, as he noticed a curious odd expression of puffiness round his eyes, a tightness across his forehead, a full, heavy, bloodshot look in the eyeballs, and a sallow bloated look generally. He had had a strange singing in his head the last few days, a sense of fullness and dizziness, a disagreeable notion of black specks flashing before his eyes; and as he regarded his altered appearance in the glass, he remembered these various ailments, and shook his head gravely. "This won't do, Ned!" he soliloquised, leaning his chin on his hand, and looking at his reflected image; "this won't do! You've gone to grief most infernally within the last few months, and you're showing signs of shutting up. You can't carry on at the pace, Ned! It's all very well for the young fellows with whom you've been living; they're fresh and strong, and can stand any thing; but you're a doosid old bird, Ned, and you're getting stiff and cranky, and all this night-work plays the devil with you! You must cut it," continued Mr. Guyon, tweaking a gray hair out of his whiskers; "you must cut it, and lie fallow for a bit. If this thing only pulls through to-day," he said after a pause, "I'll drop the whole lot, and go off quietly to some German baths, and simmer and stew and drink the waters, and come back a new man. If it comes off! phew!" and here Mr. Guyon ran his hand through his hair. "Well, if it does not, I shall go abroad all the same, and try the sea-breezes of Boulogne."
 
Whether the mention of such an excursion had a singular effect on him, or whether he was really in a bad state of health, it is certain that Mr. Guyon felt so flushed and strangled at this moment that he reeled to a chair, and undid his very elaborate blue bird's-eye cravat, and loosened his shirt-collar, and sat puffing and panting for a few minutes, when he rang the bell, and ordered the pallid footman to bring him some brandy and soda-water. He had taken a few sips of this beverage, and was beginning to feel a little more himself, when a phaeton drawn by a splendid pair of chestnuts came dashing up the street, and stopped at Mr. Guyon's door. The natty groom sprung to the horses' heads; the gentleman who had been driving descended, and gave a tremendous rap; and presently the pallid footman announced "Mr. Stallbrass!"
 
Mr. Stallbrass, of Wood Street, Cheapside, and the Willows, Tulse Hill, was, at the former address, a Manchester warehouseman in a very large way of business; at the latter, a fine old English gentleman of large means and decidedly sporting tendencies. Cramped in early youth by the objectionable attentions of a father of commercial habits and evangelical tendencies; married when very young to the daughter of his objectionable father's senior partner, a pale little woman with drab hair and a weak spine; condemned thus to lead his City life amidst long flat pasteboard boxes, and his home life amidst short round Claphamite divines, Mr. Stallbrass--thanks to his glorious constitution--had had the good fortune to outlive both his father and his wife, to inherit both their fortunes, and to be able to indulge his peculiar tastes in the freest and the easiest manner. Although he still was "the firm" in Wood Street, he attended to business but rarely. How could he, indeed, when he never was absent from any of the great race-meetings in the summer, from any steeplechase or "pugilistic revival" in the winter? To know sporting-men of all kinds, from the highest to the lowest; to call them by their Christian or nick-names; to get the office on all sporting events; have his name mentioned in Bell as "that real Corinthian," or as "amongst the élite present we observed--;" to have the red-jacketed touts touch their hats to him,--these were the delights of life which Mr. Stallbrass coveted, and which he now enjoyed. He had made Mr. Guyon's acquaintance in some fast society, and had been greatly impressed by the old gentleman's manners and tone, which he afterwards affirmed to be "the real thing, and no flies;" and he determined to cultivate his acquaintance, though he saw at a glance all the flaws of his character. For Mr. Stallbrass was, as he himself expressed it, "a long way off a fool," and saw in an instant that any intimacy between him and Guyon could only be carried on by his opening his purse-strings, and consenting to pay, as Telemachus usually pays, for Mentor's countenance and counsel. But in this case Telemachus, though not a youth, was decidedly an aspiring man, aspiring to be one of a good set, and hitherto he had soared no higher than the outside ring of the fast stockbrokers. Old Guyon undoubtedly went into good society of its kind, and could, if he chose, pull Stallbrass up with him. So Stallbrass's house, horses, traps, and hospitality, were very much at Mr. Guyon's service; and there was only one thing appertaining to Mr. Stallbrass which the old campaigner was warned off, and that was Mr. Stallbrass's purse. Of course old Guyon had made the assault in that quarter at a very early period of their acquaintance, but had been met with such a straightforward rebuff, delivered without the slightest possibility of being misunderstood, that he had from, that time contented himself with his right of "free warren" over the appanages above mentioned, and never renewed the attempt.
 
But in every other way Mr. Stallbrass surrendered to the superior abilities, and bowed down before the more exalted position, of his friend. See him now as he comes into the room--a tall, big, burly man, with a heavy grizzled beard and moustache, light-drab overcoat, cutaway undercoat, blue bird's-eye cravat with a big dog's-tooth set in gold for a pin, long waistcoat, horsey tight trousers, and gaiter-boots. Mr. Stallbrass has a big white hand, on the little finger of which he wears a big horseshoe ring; a keen sunken eye, a pair of bushy brows, a swaggering gait, and a loud strident voice. In Mr. Guyon's house, in Mr. Guyon's company, the swagger is left out of the gait, and the tones of the voice are modulated. "Chesterfield"--that is the playful name by which Mr. Stallbrass passes amongst his friends on the Stock Exchange--"Chesterfield," they say, "tears and ramps awfully this side Temple Bar; but old Guyon could drive him in a basket fourwheeler!"
 
Mr. Stallbrass, following close upon the announcement of the pallid footman, found Mr. Guyon finishing the soda-water and brandy, and stopped in the doorway, shaking his uplifted forefinger.
 
"Hallo, my noble Captain! Comed and cotched you in the werry act, as the man says, did I? That won't do, Major--that tells all sorts of stories of last night's hanky-panky, that does!"
 
"Ah, Stallbrass, my good fellow!" said Mr. Guyon, wiping his lips and rising much refreshed, but still rather tottery; "glad to see you, doosid glad. You're punctual as to--as to--you know!"
 
"I know! Lord bless you, I always know, as the man says. We're goln' to have a fine day after all."
 
"I hope so; it looks like it. Make all the difference to us, eh?"
 
"Well, yes. If there was to be much more mud, it would tell against Devilskin, it would! He's a light 'oss, you know, though a rare plucked 'un; but mud's the devil. Get into one of those sticky quagmires, and where are you? as the man says."
 
"Did you hear any thing after I left last night?"
 
"Yes. The Marquis came up to Jack Green's--you know old Jack Green?--and an out-and-out tout the Marquis is! He'd seen Devilskin that morning, and says he's first-rate, head and tail up, fit to jump a town! The Marquis--you know why he's called the Marquis--no? Why, because he was cab-boy to Lord Waterford in the old days--the Marquis saw Griffin, who's going to ride Devilskin to-day, and he's put the pot on so far as he can go, and says there's nothing to touch him in the lot."
 
"I see Devilskin holds his place in the betting."
 
"Yes. Vixen came with a rush yesterday afternoon, I understand; but her temper's so awful, her people never know what she's going to do. That's good for our side, as the man says; and besides, she can't hold a candle to the black horse--if he's meant."
 
"If he's meant! Why, good Lord! there can't be a doubt about that."
 
"There's always a doubt about any turf event, my noble Captain; and these Davidsons, who own Devilskin, are reg'lar legs, you know--legs, as the man says! But Griffin swears he means to ride on the square, and--what's the matter with you now?"
 
"Nothing, my dear boy, nothing. I've been a little queer these last few days, that's all. I--I suppose you've not hedged?"
 
"Not a penny! My book ain't so heavy as yours; at least so I gathered from what they said at Pommeroy's last night. You must have done a heavy lot, you must; but you West-end swells can stand it,--that's one thing, as the man says."
 
"If the man said that," said Mr. Guyon with a very ghastly smile, "he talked about what he knew nothing of. However, let's have breakfast now, and then get down to Croydon."
 
The breakfast, an elaborate one of the heavy sporting order--many kidneys, large chops, ham and eggs--was done ample justice to by Mr. Stallbrass, whose digestive powers were never out of order; while Mr. Guyon merely picked at a sardine with a shaking hand, and drank tea feverishly. In the course of the meal Mr. Stallbrass said----
 
"Saw Bob Streightley going to the Great Western as I drove through. Going down to his place in Bucks, I suppose; and going early, as if it was to his business. He is a rum 'un--as Jack Green says, 'The early bird's worth two worms in the bush.' He don't look well, don't Bob Streightley, though; pale in the gills, and seems to me to have aged a good deal."
 
"The anxieties of a gigantic business, my dear Stallbrass----"
 
"Yes, a little too gigantic if he doesn't look out; and likely to be a good deal less before he's done with it!"
 
"What do you mean by that? you're so infernally enigmatical, my good fellow," said old Guy on with great irritability, "that, damme, one might as well talk to the--the riddle Egyptian thing."
 
"O, I'm sorry I spoke--never holler! as old Jack Green says," replied Mr. Stallbrass, who was easily offended. "I'll be as mum as the dumb cove at Manchester for the rest of the day."
 
"What a doosid provokin' fellow you are!" screamed Mr. Guyon in a fresh access of petulance. "Didn't you understand that I asked you to speak, and not be silent? What was that you were saying about Streightley?"
 
"It's not what I say, but what every body--old Jack Green and the rest of 'em, are saying--that he's going too much a-head; that he was hard hit by that bank smash; that instead of pulling up, he went a-head after that; and that he must look out!"
 
Whether the information thus conveyed was new to Mr. Guyon or not, could not have been guessed by the expression of his features. A twitch passed across his face; but when he spoke his looks expressed scorn rather than astonishment, and he said, "Parcel of dam' cackling fellows; let 'em leave Streightley alone. He'll be a merchant-prince when they've returned to their native gutters, by Jove!" The old gentleman braved it out nobly; but it was only by a strong effort, for his heart sunk within him, and he felt a presentiment of impending evil.
 
After breakfast Mr. Stallbrass lighted a very big cigar, and, as a thin soft rain was beginning to fall, put on a very big driving-coat, with double-sewn seams, which asserted themselves in a very prominent manner, with innumerable pockets, which either gaped wide-open or hid themselves under pent-house ledges, and with a large collar, which, when raised, took in all Mr. Stallbrass's beard and a huge portion of his face. Mr. Guyon having also muffled himself up to the best of his ability, they climbed into the mail phaeton, and started; Mr. Stallbrass driving his splendid pair in excellent style, cutting in and out in the most workmanlike manner, and eliciting great admiration from the cabmen and boys. Before they had gone very far the rain ceased, and Mr. Guyon began to feel the reviving influence of the fresh air, which, with some new information about Devilskin which he received from a mysterious and shabby man, who stopped their phaeton at the foot of Westminster Bridge, made the old gentleman perk up again, and talk in his usual frivolous rattle to his companion, though that strange, puffed, bloated look had not faded out of his face.
 
Mr. Stallbrass was not given to conversation when he was driving, his attention being almost entirely occupied with his horses, which he had brought to a great state of perfection and simultaneous stepping; so that, with the exception of pointing with his whip to one or two houses where "old Jack Green" had either lived, or had known some one who had lived there, which gave the place quite an interest in Mr. Stallbrass's eyes, he was silent during the drive, and his companion was left to his own reflections. And these were not of a particularly pleasant kind. Mr. Guyon had hacked the favourite for the steeplechase now about to be decided, to a far greater extent than any one, even his sporting friend beside him, knew of; and until that present moment had never seriously attempted to realise his position in case his horse should be beaten. Floating through life in his usual airy manner, with good clothes on his back and a few pounds in his pocket, which prevented him feeling the pressure of any immediate necessity, "handsome Ned Guyon" closed his eyes to disagreeable objects in his old age as readily as he had done in his youth, and sturdily refused to look at the shadows of any coming events. Should his horse win--and he must, damme, he must--Mr. Guyon would, on the settling-day, come into possession of what he termed "a hatful" of money; enough to pay off all his most pressing creditors, without the necessity of seeking aid from Streightley, whose stern face was like a very baleful vision before his father-in-law's imagination. And if the horse were beaten--the old gentleman took off his hat and wiped his brow, on which great beads of sweat had burst out at the mere supposition--well, if the horse were beaten, he should quietly drop across to Boulogne, and stay there until matters were blown over. Katharine would send him pocket-money, and that sort of thing; and there was life in the old dog yet, and, damme, they should see he wasn't beaten.
 
Such was the tenor of Mr. Guyon's concluding reflections as Mr. Stallbrass turned the spanking chestnuts, who had spanked so much all the way from town as to be covered with foam and lather, into the muddy lane leading to the raceground, which was already lined on either side with crowds of countrymen and village loafers, gathered together to gape and chaff in that blunderheaded manner so pleasant to the English rustic. There were plenty of drags both before and behind them, and Mr. Stallbrass--who affected the coachman whenever he had the reins in his hand--was perpetually jerking his little finger into the air, or waving his whip in answer to recognitions, feeling all the time thoroughly happy at being seen in the company of such an unmistakable and well-known "West-end nob" as Mr. Guyon. Paying the entrance-fee, they turned up through a gate on to the turf; no sooner had they reached which than Mr. Stallbrass had a new excitement, and a new triumph, for the Hon. William Trafford, known as "Tit Trafford" from his love of horse-flesh, ranging up alongside in his drag, and knowing both Guyon and Stallbrass, proposed to the latter to "have a spurt;" and away went Tit Trafford's four bays and Stallbrass's chestnut pair careering off in a race in which the latter had by no means the worst of it. Mr. Guyon disapproved of this proceeding, which caused him to clutch wildly at different portions of the phaeton, and shook and bumped him woefully,--disapproved of it so much that he pronounced it "infernally stoopid," and only fit to have been the act of a "dam schoolboy." It was not until they had secured a good place in the rank, horses had been removed, and a capital lunch spread, that the old gentleman recovered his equanimity.
 
But long before luncheon, in fact within a minute of the phaeton's stopping, Mr. Guyon had descended into the ring and learned the latest odds about Devilskin. There, in the bawling, fighting, seething, jostling crowd, he made his way, listening to scraps of information given to him now and then by men who muttered mysteriously behind their betting-books, or took off their hats to whisper behind them into Mr. Guyon's ear. It was all right,--nothing to touch him; fit to run for a man's life, Sir Harvey had said that very morning. O, here was Sir Harvey. "Ah, my dear Sir Harvey, one word--only one!" and Mr. Guyon laid his trembling hand on the arm of a big stalwart Yorkshire squire, Sir Harvey Boyce, one of the keenest patrons of the turf, and owner of Devilskin. The two men stood aside for a moment, and Guyon said--
 
"About the horse? He's right?"
 
"Right as the mail."
 
"And--and--he's meant?"
 
"Meant? d--n it, Guyon----"
 
"O, don't blaze out at me, Sir Harvey; don't be in a rage. If you knew how heavily I stand on this race! Ever since you put me on in the autumn I've been backing the horse, long odds and short odds; I've not got off a penny, and--" he stopped for breath, and the big burly Yorkshireman, looking at him and noticing how ill he appeared to be, and how the wrinkled hand clasping his arm shook and trembled, said kindly----
 
"Keep your pecker up, Guyon! I've stood all my money on the horse, and I know there's nothing to beat him in the field."
 
So, comforted and pleased with this interview, Mr. Guyon made his way back to the phaeton, where Mr. Stallbrass's grooms had already unfastened the hampers and spread the lunch, and where Mr. Stallbrass had now gathered round him two or three men "of the right sort," who were drinking sparkling Moselle, and wondering "what had become of old Guyon."
 
The luncheon and the wine had a still further revivifying effect on that gentleman's spirits; and feeling justly that he was regarded by Mr. Stallbrass and his friends in the "cock-of-the-walk" capacity, he sought to be particularly agreeable, and, having quite a new audience, told some of his best stories--accommodating the principal characters therein with titles freely distributed--with very great success. There were two races before the great event of the day, but they attracted little attention; the first came off while the gentlemen were at luncheon, and they walked down to look at the jumps, while the course was being cleared for the second.
 
They turned down from the starting-place, and looked first at a low gap, then at two or three flights of turf-covered hurdles, at all of which Sir Harvey Boyce laughed contemptuously, and declared that any donkey could clear them; then they struck across a corner of the field, and came upon a clean ditch with a high bank on its further side, separating a ploughed field from a bit of turnips. The ditch was rather broad, and the bank was high and slippery; then came grass with more hurdles, then grass again, and then just before turning into the straight run home, a stiff post and rail, old, worn, and mended here and there in places with rough stakes and railings, with a drop of six or seven feet into the course below. All the gentlemen regarded this with great curiosity, and Sir Harvey Boyce said, "This is what'll try 'em! There are seven of 'em to start, and except Vixen and Devilskin, all the rest know nothing but flat racin', and have just been taught jumpin' enough to clear those hurdles. But they'll be bumped before they come to this, and nothing's over here but the chestnut mare and my horse, I'll take my oath!" Then they returned to the stand on their carriages, and shortly afterwards the second bell rang and the great race commenced.
 
There were seven starters, and the race was twice round the course. They got away all together, through the gap and over the first flight of hurdles all in line; a little scattering of them in the ploughed field, where the first symptoms of tailing-off began to be manifested; then came the ditch and bank, where there were three dead refusals, the four safely on the other side being Devilskin, Vixen, a mare called Gray Duchess--whose performances were all unknown, and who belonged to a sporting saddler--and Billy Button, an old steeple-chaser, entered to make running for Vixen. Through the grass they came, Vixen and Devilskin leaving the others about a couple of lengths behind, over the light hurdles, then straight heading up for the drop fence. A crowd had gathered at this point to see the jump taken; and as the horses came up, each thundered out the name of his favourite. With his face dead set, his teeth clinched, and with every muscle of his limbs like steel, Griffin brought his horse straight at the jump, and Devilskin scarcely needing the slightest lifting, cleared it in one great rushing bound, blundered a little on touching the ground, but was up and away ere any of the others were over. Vixen came next, fretting and fuming, her foam-flecked chestnut coat heat-stained and mud-dabbled; her jock, who evidently knew her temper, riding her with a light yet firm hand, and never touching her until she was just preparing to take her spring, when he rammed the spurs home, and brought her over cleverly and safely. Close upon her followed the saddler's gray mare, heavily built and somewhat clumsy in her gallop as she came thundering along, but rising at the jump and skimming it like a bird. It was the prettiest thing that had been seen that day; the people cheered till they were hoarse; and Sir Harvey Boyce turned a trifle pale as he whispered to Tit Trafford that "that was an Irish mare, he'd take his oath, and that he was d--d if he liked her looks." Now past the stand all, Devilskin leading, but Vixen close upon him, and away into the open, Gray Duchess following three lengths behind. Now all excitement, hoarse roar, and wild clamour, for Vixen and Devilskin were neck and neck, over the light hurdles, through the ploughed field, and nearing the high bank. Griffin seems to feel that Devilskin wants a lift here, gathers his horse well up in hand, and comes down heavily on his quarters as he rises to the leap. Cleverly done, Griffin, for Devilskin clears it better than he did the first round. Not so Vixen, also whipped, who rears, boggles, tumbles, and rolls. Devilskin wins! Devilskin! Devilskin! Up goes the clamour from a thousand hoarse throats. What is that cry? The Gray! the Gray! Gray Duchess slips over the high bank like a mist, like a dream, collars Devilskin in the grass, and side by side with him clears the last set of light hurdles, and rounds the corner facing the drop fence. Now, Griffin, for your life! bring all the knowledge, all the pluck learned and nurtured in far-away Yorkshire spinneys to this one test--you have a foeman worthy of your steel-spurs; show that you know yet a better thing than he, and win the race! Up came the horse, blown, panting, with red eyeballs, drooping crest: in the hollow it looked as if it were all over, but Griffin steadied him quietly, and then brought him at the leap with a rush. One tremendous welt he gave him, one home-dig with the spurs, and Devilskin rose at the post and rails,--rose to fall helplessly into the midst of them staked and dying; while, so close as almost to brush his writhing carcass Gray Duchess slips by, and gallops in the winner and sole survivor of the fray.
 
Mr. Stallbrass closed his race-glass, muttered a strong word, and turned to speak to his friend; but as he turned he felt a heavy weight on his shoulder, and heard the words "Ruined--ruined, by God!" muttered in his ear. The next moment Mr. Guyon was lying on his back at the bottom of the phaeton, livid in the face, and breathing stertorously. An alarm was raised, and a mounted gentleman, announcing himself to be a doctor, rode up to the phaeton, threw himself from his horse, and after a hasty examination, pronounced Mr. Guyon to be in an apoplectic fit, and shook his head very dubiously as to the result.
CHAPTER XI.  "IN THE DEAD UNHAPPY NIGHT."
 The first confusion and alarm which had ensued on Mr. Guyon's sudden illness had subsided, and had been succeeded by the orderly hush of a house in which mortal sickness had assumed its irresistible sway. Mr. Guyon had been carried upstairs to the large bedroom formerly occupied by Katharine, and which he had used since his daughter's marriage. The doctor who had been found and brought to his assistance upon the race-course, and his own physician, for whom the housekeeper had sent at once, before she had despatched the footman to carry the evil tidings to Mrs. Streightley, were busily but silently occupied with the insensible form. The servants, frightened and helpless as servants generally are, were standing about on the stairs and landing-place, ready to obey such orders as were transmitted to them from time to time from the grave gentleman in that awful room, through the medium of the housekeeper. They whispered together solemnly at intervals, and started when the door on which all their attention was fixed opened a little, and Mrs. Clarke beckoned one of the two women towards her. Mr. Stallbrass was in the dingy dining-room, awaiting the award of the solemn tribunal upstairs. He was a kind-hearted fellow enough; and having done so much, "having picked up the poor old boy," he thought, "I may as well see it out." Mrs. Clarke had entreated him to remain--her master's daughter, she said, would be here immediately, and she would want to hear how it happened. So this modern type of Good Samaritan, useful but not officious, and rather sheepish about his good nature, stayed. The rain, which had begun to fall just as they were getting Mr. Guyon away from the race-course, was now falling in cold, pitiless, ceaseless streams, and the early darkness of a winter's evening had added its gloom to the scene. The gas had been lighted in the dining-room of Mr. Guyon's house, but the window-shutters were unclosed, and Stallbrass walked disconsolately up and down from the door to the window, stopping each time as he reached the latter boundary to look out into the damp dreariness of the street. His spirits were beginning to flag under the monotony of this occupation, and he was seeking relief by furtive snatches of reading--odd paragraphs in the Field for last week, and little bits of the current Punch--when Mrs. Clarke came in, looking very pale and scared.
 
"Well," said Stallbrass abruptly, but kindly, "what news is there? Has the lady come? She can't have come, though, or I should have seen her."
 
"No, sir, she has not come; and I dread she won't while the breath is in her father, which it's all it is, as far as I can understand the doctors."
 
"Really! I'm very sorry--poor old gentleman! Has he not recovered consciousness at all, then?"
 
"No, sir, not a bit--he has groaned a few times, and then they thought he were coming to, but he didn't--but there, sir, there's a carriage--there's Mrs. Streightley----" And the housekeeper ran excitedly out, followed by Mr. Stallbrass, and threw open the door, through which a gust of wind and a cold dash of rain drove into the hall.
 
Stallbrass saw a tall young lady, whose face, pale and agitated, struck him even then as being one of the most beautiful he had ever seen,---who passed into the room he had just left, followed by the housekeeper. He stood in the hall, the noise of wind and rain outside mingling with the stamping of the horses, the jingling of their harness, and the sound of the women's voices.
 
"What is all this, Clarke? is it true?" asked Katharine, as she hurriedly untied her bonnet and flung it down, and threw off her pelisse of velvet and fur.
 
"Yes, ma'am, it's all true. But O, why did you not come sooner? James has been more than an hour gone to fetch you."
 
"I was out--they had to find me," she said, in the same hurried tone. "What do they say it is? Let me see the doctor. Let me go up stairs."
 
"Yes, ma'am, directly," said Mrs. Clarke, down whose rosy and unrefined cheeks tears were beginning to flow. "But first you must see the gentleman that brought him home; he knows all about it; he breakfasted with master this morning. If you please, sir,--Lord ha' mercy, if he hasn't been left out in the hall!"
 
Katharine stepped hastily towards the door, as Mrs. Clarke, with many voluble apologies, brought Mr. Stallbrass in. She thanked him briefly, and entreated him to tell her all that had happened. She listened to his story with painful eagerness, turning paler and paler as he went on; and when she had heard it all, she thanked him again.
 
"And now I must go to him," she said, and held out her hand to the stranger.
 
"I will wait a little longer, if you will allow me, for the chance of a more favourable report," he said.
 
"Do so," she returned. "My carriage is at your disposal. Tell them to come back here, Clarke, when they have taken this gentleman home." Then she again bade him farewell and left him.
 
He walked up and down the room for half an hour, at the end of which time the housekeeper came downstairs again;--this time crying unrestrainedly.
 
"There's not a bit of hope, sir; but they think he will live for some hours; and they hope he will get his senses back, and speak to his daughter, or at least look at her before he dies."
 
"I hope so, I am sure," said Mr. Stallbrass solemnly.
 
"I was to ask your name, if you please, sir," said Mrs. Clarke with some hesitation.
 
"Certainly; there is my card," and he laid one on the table. "I shall call in the morning." Then he took up his hat and went away, having declined the offer of the carriage. Mrs. Clarke ordered the coachman to return to Portland Place, adding that his mistress would remain with her father. "I wonder your master hasn't been here afore this," said the housekeeper in conclusion.
 
"Master's out of town; worse luck!" was the sympathetic answer of the footman, as he jumped up beside the coachman, and they drove off.
 
Mrs. Clarke went slowly up the long staircase to the room about which such awful suspense and interest gathered, unmindful of the card which lay upon the table in the dining-room, and was swept away with other rubbish afterwards and forgotten; and when she stood beside Katharine by the dying man's bedside, all remembrance of the stranger had faded out of the minds of both.
 
The dying man! Yes, the fiat had gone forth--he was dying. Ned Guyon, the ci-devant jeune homme par excellence, the trifler by vocation and profession, the man of all others with whom it was impossible to associate an idea of solemnity, the dandy in dress, the roué in morals, the persifleur in religion, the man in consideration of whom it would have been particularly pleasant to disembarrass the mind of belief in present and future accountability,--this man was dying. Not slowly, with time and opportunity for reflection, for repentance, for "setting his house in order;" but quickly, dumbly, as a stricken animal might die--as men die in whom the brain is killed first, and the machine has but a little while to labour on afterwards. His daughter saw it all, realised it all in a minute, even as she crossed the threshold of the room she had never entered since her wedding-day; and there mingled with the horror and anguish of the moment a sudden sense of recognition, and yet of strangeness, as she saw, without looking at them, in the inexplicable vividness of perception which comes in moments of strong emotion, the "soulless things" she had lived amongst for so long in the old life gone for ever. And here was another life going away for ever. She did not doubt it for one instant; and when the physician, who had known her from her girlhood, gravely took her hand, and whispered to her that there was no hope, the dying man lying insensible to any sight or sound, she shuddered strongly from head to foot, but she did not weep, or shrink from the touch or the voice.
 
From the senseless figure upon the bed, over which the strange doctor was stooping, his fingers busy with hopeless investigations at the heart and the wrist--from the ghastly distorted face, so much more terrible, with its rouge and cosmetics, its wig and its pearl powder all removed, than any face of reverend old age, however worn and wasted, can ever be--from the limp, bluish hand lying upon the coverlet, with the heavy seal-ring and its pretentious blazon, with the showy golden buttons hanging from the loosened sleeve--Katharine's haggard gaze roamed over the room almost unconsciously. It was in most respects the same as when she had inhabited it; but several of her father's special belongings had been brought from the den, and occupied the place of the feminine properties dispossessed. Her dressing-table, none too large for Mr. Guyon's requirements, was in its accustomed place, and the long glass had not been moved. But the writing-table she had been accustomed to use was there no longer, and in its place, in the recess beside the fireplace, stood a large cabinet, whose heavy doors closed over a range of wide, shallow shelves, and also shut in a desk. A basket, half full of scraps of torn paper, stood between the burly carved legs of this old-fashioned piece of furniture; and in front of it was the well-worn red-leather arm-chair which Katharine remembered from her babyhood. The clothes which had been taken off the insensible man were lying in a heap over the back of this chair--bright in colour, juvenile in cut, and painful to see, when one glanced from them to their wearer of a few hours ago. A bunch of keys had fallen from the gaping coat-pocket upon the ground, where it lay with a few crumpled papers, a card of the races being conspicuous among them.
 
"I believe I can do no more," said the strange doctor, as at length he relinquished his hopeless task. Then the two left the room together, and after a little Katharine's old friend returned. By this time she had drawn a chair to the bedside, and was seated there, gazing fixedly on the rigid face, which looked as though death itself, when it should come, would not seal it more utterly up from all impressions of the outer world. She was lost in thought, and was quite passive while the doctor gave his final directions to the housekeeper, who was to remain all night with the dying man. She understood him to say that he must go home now (he lived close by), but was to be summoned if any change took place. He gave a few simple directions, which the two women could carry out, and which were of a merely perfunctory character, and designed to relieve them by giving them occupation, rather than the patient, for whom there was nothing more to be done until the undertaker's turn should have arrived; and he went away, whispering to Katharine that if he were not sent for sooner, he would be with her at seven on the following morning.
 
The night wore on, and Katharine and Mrs. Clarke kept their terrible watch. They were for the most part quite silent; the one in the chair beside the bed, the other seated at the fireside, and coming from time to time to gaze disconsolately upon the dying man. No weariness came upon Katharine as the hours crept on. The strong excitement kept her up; and as she administered the few cares of which her father's condition allowed, the enforced composure of her manner did not break down. The silence of the room was awful, as silence under such circumstances always is; the clock upon the chimneypiece ticked loudly, the showy gold watch, with its trumpery bunch of trinkets, which had been deposited upon the dressing-table, also ticked on, till late in the small hours, when it stopped. The fire burned low and dim, and flickered upon the housekeeper's weary figure in the deep arm-chair, and upon the ribbons of her cap, as her head nodded abruptly forward, in the uneasy snatches of broken slumber. Sometimes a little flame sprung out and glimmered upon the silken folds of Katharine's rich dress, upon the gold bracelet of the arm laid upon the bed, upon the pale stern face keeping its wakeful watch.
 
There were times during those dread hours when the dying man groaned heavily; and then the two women would bend eagerly over him, using the prescribed restoratives, and trying to discern some symptom of consciousness, even of pain; but it never came. Ned Guyon had spoken his last words--had experienced his last emotion in this world; and what they were has already been told.
 
It was about four in the morning; and the cold dismal chill peculiar to that ghastly hour had stolen over the room; and Katharine had begun to shiver and yawn under its influence. Mrs. Clarke woke with a guilty start, softly raked the fire together and replenished it, and, in answer to Katharine's beckoning finger, approached the bed.
 
"There's no change--no, no change," said Mrs. Clarke; and she shook her head gravely.
 
"Are you sure?" said Katharine; "I thought his face looked colder and grayer. Don't you think the eyelids are heavier and more nearly shut?"
 
Mrs. Clarke took a candle, and held it close to the wan face. There was no change perceptible to her; and the "muffled-drum" beat of the heart told of life still lingering.
 
"No, my dear," said the old woman compassionately; "he is not gone yet, nor going; but Lor' ha' mercy, how cold you are! why, you're shivering. I'll go and fetch a teapot and a kettle, and make some tea. No; the kitchen-fire is alight. If you don't mind being alone, I'll make it downstairs; it's quicker done; and I am sure you want it."
 
"I do want it, Clarke," said Katharine, shuddering. "The dawn is coming, I suppose; and the cold strikes into my blood. I shall be glad of the tea."
 
Mrs. Clarke went away on her errand. Katharine, all her senses quickened, heard her step upon each stair until she reached the hall. A strange, lonely, nervous feeling came over her, and she rose from her seat by the bedside, and went over to the fireplace. As she stood idly by the chimneypiece, an unusually strong nicker of the flame shone upon something bright which lay upon the ground. Katharine stooped, and picked up a bunch of keys and a handful of crumpled papers. She laid the keys upon the mantelshelf, and mechanically turned over the papers. The card of the races she threw into the fire, the others she smoothed out; and finding some memoranda apparently containing calculations among them, she thought it would be well to put them away safely. With the intention of doing so, she took up the keys again, and opened the heavy door of the oak cabinet.
 
Mr. Guyon, like many men devoted to the business of pleasure, was very orderly in his arrangements, and kept all his papers with an enviable degree of precision. The long shallow drawers of the cabinet had each its neat parchment label, indicating the contents; and the lowest of the range bore the superscription, "miscellaneous letters." Katharine pulled the pendent brass ring attached to this drawer with a little more force than was necessary to open it. The drawer slid out easily, and the whole of its contents were exposed to her view. At the back, in the right-hand corner, lay a small packet, slipped into an elastic band, on which her quick eye caught her own name, written in a hand she knew well--her own name, as it had been--"Miss Guyon"--and a date scrawled in the corner. The blood rushed hotly into Katharine's face as she took the packet out of the drawer and carried it to the fireplace, where she examined it by the light of a [xxx ?] lamp. It consisted of four letters: the uppermost that on which her name was written: the undermost was placed in the bands so that the address did not show; but a line was written on xxxx Mr. Guyon's hand--"shown to R.S."
 
Katharine sat down in the chair vacated by the housekeeper and deliberated. In her hand she held a packet of papers, which she felt concerned her deeply. Here was a letter in Gordon Frere's hand--a letter whose date was that of the very date which had begun her hopeless watching and waiting, in the time which, until this moment, had seemed so far, so illimitably past, but now in an instant was brought near again, and revived in all its pain and anger. Here was a letter which must have been written that day when he had sent her the music and his card, as she had believed without a word. A vague sense of treachery, something which led her intuitively to an approximate suspicion of the truth, came into Katharine's mind. She glanced at the bed, and turned away trembling. What was she about to learn? Something, she felt instinctively, which must change all her life. Then she drew out the note directed to "Miss Guyon," and read it. It was that which Gordon Frere had written to Katharine, from Cramer's, after he had left Charles Yeldham, with the intention of starting by the next train, on his pilgrimage of hope, to his father's rectory. It was a bright gay note, with a pleasant allusion to their talk about the music; a strong expression of disappointment about Katharine's not being at the ball; an intimation that his absence would be as short as he could make it; and that he hoped to see her immediately on his return. Katharine dropped the hand that held the note heavily into her lap; had she received it, what might she have been now? An undefined fear stole over her; this was foul play; this letter had been intercepted. What did it mean? She drew out the second in order, and opened it. Again, a letter from Gordon Frere; again, a letter to her--a passionate, tender, pleading, frank, hopeful letter--such a letter as a girl might well be glad and proud to receive from the man she loved; such a letter as Katharine had dreamed of, had hoped for, had longed for, in the days that were gone. It was that which Gordon had written from his father's house in the full flush of his delight, and the perfect but not presumptuous assurance of her love. Deadly cold and sickness crept over Katharine as she read this letter; her limbs grew heavy, her sight grew dim, her head grew dizzy. "I must be near fainting," she thought; "and they are not all read." She forced herself to rise from her chair, and went to the dressing-table, where she found water and eau-de-cologne. She drank a glassful of the mixture, and then returned to her task. All this time--it was in reality only a few minutes--the insensible form upon the bed lay motionless and silent.
 
The third letter was a short one, also written by Gordon Frere, and addressed to Mr. Guyon. It was a straightforward, manly letter, in which the writer acknowledged his unworthiness of the blessing he asked with more sincerity than such matter-of-course acknowledgments usually convey, and set forth his modest confidence in Miss Guyon's consent to become his wife. Gordon stated the prospects then opening upon him; and finally, in accordance with his father's wish, formally requested Mr. Guyon's permission to address his daughter. (The old-fashioned punctilio of the good rector had helped the unscrupulous schemer considerably, as the virtues of good men are not seldom found to aid the devices of knaves.)
 
The fourth letter, which was endorsed with the words "shown to R S.," and was the last contained in the packet, was in Mr. Guyon's handwriting. As his daughter read it, all the truth revealed itself to her; all the baseness of which she had been the victim stood in its revolting nakedness before her eyes. As she read the flowery sentences in which Mr. Guyon condoled with his "dear young friend," and pitied himself for being the medium of so painful a communication, a grasp seemed to tighten upon her throat and to press down her heart: still she read on,--read that her father had written, on her behalf, to the effect that, feeling she had been so unfortunate as to have conveyed a totally unfounded impression to Mr. Frere, she had shrunk from a personal explanation, and felt sure that, when Mr. Frere should know that she was engaged to Mr. Streightley, and their marriage was to take place very shortly, he would excuse her making a written one;--read that, though Mr. Guyon hoped their future friendship would be quite unaltered, he trusted Mr. Frere would abstain from any communication, either personal or by letter, for the present, as such would agitate Miss Guyon, and cause much unpleasantness; and that she and her father united in every good wish for Mr. Frere's future welfare.
 
Katharine read this terrible letter over many times--not before she understood and believed the revelation it made, but before she got the reality of it into her mind, before it connected itself with her own self, and showed her the past and present laid utterly waste. It was her father who had done this,--her father! who had been kind to her, too, after a fashion--her father! Ay, and her husband!
 
Shown to R.S. Shown to Robert Streightley--shown to the rich man who had bought her. Well, she had often told herself, bitterly enough, that it was a bargain, a purchase; but now it was more--it was a theft! Stolen from the man who loved her! made to believe him false, duped--wretchedly, ignominiously duped! Good God! how was she to bear this knowledge? Shown to R.S. There were the words, the fatal, damning proofs which convicted the two men who were her nearest friends, her only protectors, of the foulest conspiracy that ever two rascals concocted against an unhappy woman. She crushed the letters in her clenched hand, and rose to her feet. She had taken a step forward, her eyes flaming, her face white and fixed,--far more changed than by the earlier, weaker shock of this dreadful night,--when the door was softly opened, and the housekeeper came in, carrying a trayful of tea-things. At the sight of Katharine's face she set the tray down, and said, in a hurried whisper:
 
"Were you coming to call me? Is he worse?"
 
"I--I don't know," stammered Katharine; "I think so."
 
"Poor dear!" said the woman compassionately; "no wonder you are frightened. I shouldn't have left you alone."
 
Then she bent down to look closely at the patient. Closer and closer still: she felt the hand, the heart; she touched the chill forehead. Katharine stood still and watched her, quite silent, the papers in her clenched hand covered by the folds of her dress. The woman's touch suddenly became more reverent as she raised the chin and made the passive blue lips meet, as she pressed her fingers on the half-shut eyelids, and closed them over the sightless eyes. When she had drawn the sheet over the still, stiffening face, she turned to the dead man's daughter, and said,
 
"Come away, my dear. It's all over. I must send for the doctor, as he told me."
 
* * * * *
 
The wintry sun had been up for many hours when Mrs. Streightley returned to her own house from that in which her father lay dead. She had sent for Mr. Guyon's solicitor, and had a long interview with him in the dingy dining-room. She had been wonderfully calm and collected, the servants said; but she had not reentered her father's room, though "the corpse is laid out beautiful, to be sure," said James to the coachman from Portland Place, while that functionary awaited his mistress, or her orders. She came out, looking pale and absent; and she took no notice of the sympathising looks of her maid when she reached home. She went at once to her room, declined all attendance, and directed that she was not to be disturbed.
 
The servants wondered whether their master had been sent for; had James been sent to the telegraph office, did coachman know? Coachman knew nothing about it; but the lawyer was there,--perhaps he had sent for master. And then they discussed the death, and the dead man, with much freedom and candour.
 
At about two o'clock in the afternoon the footman, doing his turn of duty by looking out of window in the hall of Mr. Streightley's house, was surprised by seeing his mistress come downstairs in her bonnet and cloak, with her veil down, and carrying a square parcel in her hand, "which it looked like a box done up in paper," the man said afterwards, when questioned concerning the circumstance.
 
"Open the door, William, if you please," said Mrs. Streightley.
 
The man obeyed, wondering.
 
"I am going to Queen Anne Street. I don't require the carriage," said Katharine. And she passed out of the door, and out of the footman's sight.
 
CHAPTER XII.  RETRIBUTION.
 While the events recorded in the last chapter had been taking place, Robert Streightley had been down to Middlemeads to give the necessary orders for the immediate reduction of the establishment there. It was an act over which a great many people would have been sillily sentimental, but one which affected Robert Streightley very little indeed. The stately old mansion had never been his home, though it had contained his wife and his household gods; he had never had the same regard for it as for the dingy Brixton villa, where every thing was so old and mean and common. Even when he first bought the place, and inhabited it in the early days of his wedded life, long before the falseness of his position and the chance of some day being compelled to return to his old and quiet mode of life had dawned on him, he had felt uncomfortable and out of place at Middlemeads. But latterly, as speculation after speculation "went wrong" in the City, and as scarcely a week passed without the addition of some new improvement, the importation of some fresh luxury by Katharine's orders, the negative feelings with which he had regarded that estate, for the possession of which he was so much envied and hated, grew into positive dislike; he remembered that the first time he had seen the place was the day before he had had that fatal conference with Mr. Guyon, and he began to associate most of his troubles with the name of Middlemeads.
 
He would have sold the place at once but for two reasons; the first and chiefest of which was, that Katharine took great pleasure and interest in it--more pleasure and interest than she had taken in any thing else during her married life; the other, that the sale of his country estate, which, with the county people who visited there and the swells whom he entertained, had been so much talked of among his friends in the City, would be a confession of weakness which Robert Streightley shrunk from meeting. Besides, all would probably come right very soon; the house of Streightley and Son was too firmly established not to be able to stand a shock or two; and by reducing the establishment at Middlemeads he should effect a considerable saving, while the sale of a portion of the valuable timber on the estate would bring in a sum of ready money, of which he was greatly in need. This done, he drove off to the railway, caught the up-train, and was on his way to London.
 
He was alone in the railway carriage; there was no old gentleman rustling a newspaper, no young gentleman playing with his watch-chain, no humorous children to trample on his feet,--nothing to disturb the train of thought into which he fell. By no means a pleasant train of thought, for a dead weight was at his heart, and he felt a horrible sense of something--he knew not what--but some calamity hanging over him. Something, some trifle had reminded him of the day on which Mr. Guyon had told him of Frere's proposal for Katharine's hand, and now he could not get the subject out of his head: the words seemed to ring in his ears; and when he closed his eyes, that peculiar look with which Mr. Guyon had suggested the suppression of Frere's letter seemed to rise before him. What had his life been since then? He had married Katharine! O yes, she was his wife; but had he ever obtained from her one grain of confidence, one look of love? Had not his business transactions gone wrong ever since? Had he not suffered under perpetual qualms of conscience ever since he became a silent confederate in that monstrous fraud of which Katharine, his wife, was one of the victims? In his case, at least, retribution had not been long delayed; the first mutterings of the avenging storm had been long since heard, and now something told him that the storm itself was close at hand. He would welcome it in all its fury, though it stripped him of all his wealth and left him to begin life anew, if it only could bear away on its wings the barrier existing between Katharine and himself; if it only enabled him to prove to her his worship of her; if it only raised in her for him one tithe of the love with which he regarded her.
 
It was a dark, dull, damp evening when Robert Streightley alighted from the cab in which he had driven from the railway, and knocked at his own door in Portland Place. The enormously stout middle-aged man, who for a by no means poor wage consented to pass his life in alternately sitting in and getting out of a porter's chair, like a leathern bee-hive, was usually sufficiently on the alert to recognise his master's rap, and give him speedy admission; but on this occasion Mr. Streightley had to knock three times, and when the porter opened the door there was a strange odd look on his face, which made his master think he had been drinking. Robert passed by him quickly and went into the library, where he rang the bell. It was answered by William, the footman who had opened the door for Katharine when she left the house.
 
"Is your mistress in the Cedar-room? is there any one with her?"
 
"Missus is not in the Cedar-room, sir, and there is no pusson with her, as I knows of. Missus ain't at home, sir."
 
"O, very well. What time did she order the carriage to fetch her?"
 
"The carriage isn't ordered at all, sir. Missus said she wouldn't want the carriage."
 
"Do you know where your mistress is?"
 
"She said she was goin' to Queen Anne Street, sir."
 
"Very good. I'll go across myself and bring her home."
 
"Begging your pardon, sir, I don't think you'll find missus at Queen Anne Street, sir."
 
"No! what do you mean?"
 
"Why, sir, Mamzell Augustus went across about six o'clock, sir, to know whether missus was comin' home to dress, sir, and they said at Queen Anne Street that she'd never been there since she left in the morning."
 
"Never been there? and--O, she's probably gone out with Mr. Guyon."
 
"Good Lord, sir!" said the footman, startled out of all propriety; "I forgot, sir, you didn't know--the hold gent's dead!"
 
"Dead? Mr. Guyon dead?"
 
"Yes, sir; had a fit at Croydon races last evening, sir, and died hearly this morning. Beg pardon, sir, shall I tell Anderson to bring you a glass of brandy, sir?"
 
"Eh? No, thank you, William--yes--you may, if you please. I feel--" and Robert Streightley clutched at a chair near him, and sunk into it, with trembling limbs and beating heart.
 
Mr. Anderson, the staid butler, brought a small decanter of brandy, filled a liqueur-glass, and handed it to his master, whose hand shook so that the glass rattled against his teeth. After the discreet domestic had withdrawn, Robert Streightley sat in his chair, glaring straight before him, revolving in his mind a hundred subjects, all equally dismal. Katharine's absence, first of all, what could that mean? what could have induced it? was it in any way connected with Mr. Guyon's death? Mr. Guyon's death, poor man! not one with whom he had any thing in common except--that horrible conspiracy always cropping up! Mr. Guyon dead? well, then, there was an end to the chance of any betrayal of that mystery; he might rest secure that--Good God! where could his wife have gone to? Could she have learned--no; that was impossible. Still, why had she left his house, without leaving any trace of her whereabouts? Lady Henmarsh was not in town; but she might have gone to some other friend's house, where she could receive that womanly kindness and consolation which, in the first shock of her grief, her heart sought for. It was absurd in him to have imagined that, under such circumstances, she would remain in her own house alone, without a soul to speak to in confidence. She would return soon; he would wait up to receive her.
 
So through the long hours of that night, having dismissed the household to rest, Robert Streightley sat in his library, the door of which opened on the hall, in eager anticipation of his wife's return. The sharp ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece seemed running a race with the solemn ticking of the clock in the hall; the rumble of the cabs outside, the footfalls of the passers-by, fell with monotonous solemnity on his ear; the dead silence at the back of the house, broken only by the wailing of dissipated cats, oppressed him; and the keen anguish of his own thoughts made him occasionally clasp his forehead and utter some ejaculation; but still he sat there, looking out into the dimly-lighted hall, and waiting for his wife's return. That Mr. Guyon was dead, had died suddenly and in a ghastly manner, he yet scarcely realised: he had heard the fact, and that was all; he had not thought over it; his thoughts were entirely occupied with the fact of his wife's absence. To account for this he had now no possible satisfactory theory. Had she been persuaded to remain at the house of any friend to whom she might have gone, a message to that effect would surely have been sent to Portland Place. The shock of her father's death might have been too much for her; and in walking to the house of some friend she might have been seized with illness; at that moment she might be lying unknown in some hospital, or--and as the thought came across him Robert Streightley started to his feet, his mind half made up to sally forth at once, and set the detective force at work to discover Katharine's whereabouts. But before he had advanced a few steps his cautious common-sense came to his aid. He was a weak, hot-headed fool, and his usual powers of reasoning had been, he argued to himself, a little impaired by the mental strain to which during the last few weeks he had been subjected. Nothing was known yet of his wife's disappearance. Even to the household their mistress's absence was a mere subject for discussion over the supper-beer, where no one had a substantial theory to broach, but all arrived at a general conclusion, originally propounded by the cook, that "master not being at home, she'd gone away, poor soul, to some other friend's nigh by; and not expectin' him, they'd kep her, as was only right and jest when she was in trouble." If he were to raise a hue and cry, it would become at once a public scandal; and from a public scandal, from the mere thought of the knowledge that his friends were discussing his domestic affairs, Robert Streightley shrunk in horror and dismay. No; he would take no step, at least for the next few hours; morning must bring the solution of the mystery, and for that solution he would wait. Arrived at this determination, he turned out his lamp, and crept up stairs to bed.
 
To bed, but not to sleep. For hours he lay tossing on his hot pillow, racked with dismal doubt. Where was his wife? To whom had she gone in her time of trouble? That she had not remained to share her grief with him would have been, under other circumstances, a sufficient cause of dissatisfaction for her husband; but Robert, calmly reviewing--as calmly as he could, poor fellow--his real position in the dull dead watches of the night, was forced to acknowledge to himself that there had never been any confidence between him and Katharine, which would warrant him in looking for such a display of affection. On the other hand, a doubt of her having infringed the strictest rules of propriety never crossed his mind. Never, during the whole course of her married life, had she given him occasion for the slightest suspicion of jealousy. With all her undeniable beauty, with all the attention she perforce commanded, she had not shown the smallest symptom of coquetry. If she had not come heart-whole to him, if hers had not been a love-match, if he had not been the beau ideal of her girlish fancy, by no act of hers could that have become patent to the ever-watchful, always censorious world. Where, then, was she gone? Her position was so peculiar, even to Robert's unworldly view; she had lived so self-contained a life since her marriage, that she could scarcely be said to have any special friends. Acquaintances she had by the score; but one does not go to acquaintances in the time of trouble; while her quondam chaperone, Lady Henmarsh, her only intimate, was away, and Mrs. Stanbourne, from whom she might justly have sought consolation, was far from England. Where could she have gone? Still revolving this question in his mind, Robert, just as day was dawning, fell into a fitful feverish sleep, haunted by horrible dreams, in which he and Katharine, the dead man and Gordon Frere, all played conspicuous parts, being mixed up in that dreadfully grotesque manner only possible under dream-influence.
 
He seemed only to have closed his eyes--in reality he had been asleep but a couple of hours--when he was aroused by a knocking at the door, and the voice of his servant, who, according to usual custom, had brought the post-letters to his bedroom door. In an instant Streightley sprang up, all the events of the previous day--Guyon's death, Katharine's absence, his own misery--all flashing upon him at once, opened the door, and there, on the top of the little heap, saw a letter in Katharine's well-known hand. He seized it instantly, was about to tear it open, and stopped--stopped, for his heart was beating loudly, and there was a choking sensation in his throat, and a film over his eyes. He sat down on a chair, placed the letter on the table beside him, and passed his hand over his brow. The whole room reeled before him; he felt that he must, and yet that he dared not break that seal. The answer to the question that had been tormenting him all night, the key to the enigma of his wife's departure, lay before him, and yet he hesitated to avail himself of it. He remained irresolute for some minutes; then he took up the letter quietly, opened it, and read as follows:
 
"This is the last time I shall ever hold communication with you, and therefore it is well that I should be explicit. By the merest accident I have become acquainted with the plot by which the whole of my life was maimed and perverted, my happiness blighted, my feelings trampled on, and my girlish pride mortified and humbled. In that plot were two conspirators; one who basely sold an honest, trusting, loving girl--his daughter; the other, who, by the mere accidental advantage of his wealth, was enabled to buy that girl for his wife. By neither, save as a mere matter of barter, something to be bought and sold, was I, that girl, considered. One of the plotters has been removed beyond the reach of my vengeance, and I shall take care to prevent the other from any opportunity of further villainy, so far as I am concerned. I have turned my back upon my father's corpse, and I turn my back on your house. I leave behind me all the price at which you purchased me; I take nothing with me but my mother's jewels, to which I suppose I have a right, and the unalterable determination which I have formed; and that is, in this world or the next, living or dying, never to forgive you, Robert Streightley, for your share in my degradation, and never to look upon your face again.--K.S."
 
END OF VOL. II.
 
Vol. 3 CHAPTER I.  "IN BATTALIONS."
 It was perhaps fortunate for Robert Streightley that the pressure of an immediate necessity for exertion was put upon him at the same time that he received his wife's letter. The blow was so frightful that it might have completely crushed him, had he not been forced to rouse himself from its first effect, to put the meaning of the terrible communication aside for a time, while he attended to the stern duties which were his, as the only representative of the dead man. The subdued bustle, the ceaseless coming and going, the people to be seen, the letters to be written, the innumerable demands upon his attention in reference to his deceased father-in-law, to say nothing of the exigencies of his own affairs, from which he had not an hour's respite, controlled him in spite of himself, and by suspending softened the intensity of the knowledge of the punishment that had overtaken him.
 
The suspense and perplexity into which Katharine's unexplained absence from home had thrown the household on the preceding day had prepared them to expect that some important intelligence was contained in the letter which had reached their master that morning; and the unhappy man comprehended the necessity of making some communication on the subject. He briefly informed Katharine's maid that she had left town for the present; and on being asked whether the woman was to join her mistress at Middlemeads, he said Mrs. Streightley was not there; that she had better wait for orders, and in the mean time ask no more questions. An injudicious answer; but Robert neither knew nor cared what would have been the judicious course to pursue. He knew only that his sin had found him out; that the chastisement had come; and that the woman whom he had so loved and so wronged had left him for ever--left him hating and despising him.
 
The hours of that dreadful day wore through somehow. Robert had been engaged during many of them in making arrangements consequent upon Mr. Guyon's death; he had been at Queen Anne Street, and at his office in the City, transacting business of different but invariably unpleasant kinds. He had seen several persons, but not any by whom the domestic calamity which had fallen upon him was suspected. He had written to his mother, informing her of Mr. Guyon's death, and requesting that Ellen would not come to Portland Place for the present; but giving no explanation of this request. All the day he had carried about with him the dreadful knowledge of what had befallen him--had been oppressed by its weight, darkened by its shadow; but he had not examined his burden--he had gone his appointed way, and done his relentless task, and the day had been got through somehow. Now he was going to look the truth in the face; he was going to force his mind to understand it, to take it in fully, and to suffer the torture at his leisure.
 
He shut himself up in his "study," and gave orders that no one was to be admitted. Then, with the door locked and sure of solitude, he read Katharine's letter again,--not that he needed to do so; every one of its few remorseless words seemed to have burned themselves into his brain,--and then he read the letter which hers had enclosed--the letter endorsed "Shown to R. S." He had not looked at it in the morning; it had sufficed him to know that the letter which Mr. Guyon had shown him on the day which had witnessed their disgraceful compact--the letter which they had tacitly agreed to suppress, still existed, for his conviction, for his condemnation, and had reached the hands to which it had been addressed at last: he had put it away with a shudder. But now he read it--steadily, and with utter amazement. There it was; and on the blank side of the sheet, in Mr. Guyon's hand, were the words, "Shown to R.S." But this letter was sill in Mr. Guyon's hand, and Robert had never seen it--had never heard of it; this was not the letter from Gordon Frere to Katharine which her father had shown to him; there was a dreadful mistake somewhere. As Robert read the heartless words in which Mr. Guyon rejected Gordon Frere on his daughter's behalf, he understood for the first time how the conspiracy which had resulted in so sad a success had been carried out. This, then, was the method Mr. Guyon had adopted, and into which Robert had never inquired. He saw it all--he understood it all now; and he honestly recoiled at the baseness by which his triumph had been secured. He even thought he would not have consented, had he known how the thing was to be done; but his conscience was not so deadened as to accept that sophistry, and another moment's thought taught him that he was as guilty as ever.
 
But how came the letter to be endorsed with words, intended by their writer only as a private memorandum, which were not true? This puzzled Robert, until he guessed, what really was the case, that Mr. Guyon had put Frere's letter and his reply away together, and had mistaken the one for the other. Why had he kept them at all? thought Robert; why had he put such dangerous and useless documents aside, thus running the risk of detection now realised? "He never could have intended to use them as a weapon against me," thought Robert, who had arrived at a tolerably correct appreciation of the character of his deceased father-in-law. "They convict him directly; me, though conclusively to her, only indirectly to others. Why on earth did he keep them?"
 
Ah, why? Why is half the mischief that is done in the world done by the instrumentality of letters, which ought to have been read and destroyed, being treasured up instead by foolish women, or read and left about by men whom experience has not availed to teach? If Robert Streightley had quite understood Mr. Guyon's character, he would have known, in the first place, that that gentleman had never been in the habit of contemplating the contingency of his own death, or of making any preparation, temporal or spiritual, for that event; in the second, that his vanity was of so ominous a kind that he liked to indulge in the recollection of successful enterprises, no matter what their nature, and treasured up the trophies of his fortunate coups, as other people might keep love-tokens or relics of departed friends,--a ghastly perversion, it is true, but a characteristic trait of Mr. Guyon, as Robert came to learn, when he had to examine all the dead man's papers and personal effects.
 
After all, it did not matter very much that this mistake had been made. Any one of the papers concerning this transaction, so endorsed, would have equally convicted her husband in Katharine's eyes. For a moment, when Robert perceived the error and recognised how it had occurred, a faint hope had sprung up in his heart that all might be explained, in explaining that he had never seen the draft of Mr. Guyon's letter to Gordon Frere; but it lasted only for a moment, and then left Robert more shame-stricken, more despairing than before.
 
The bitter remembrance of his resolutions of the day before came to torment him now. How futile they were! made all too late, and useless; how ridiculous they seemed, too! Would he ever have had the courage to tell the woman he had wronged the truth concerning himself and her? Cowering as he was now under the blast of her scorn and anger, he could not believe that he would; he heaped upon himself all the reprobation which the sternest judge could have measured out to him. His sin had found him out indeed, and nothing could save him now from the fullest retribution. It had come in its worst form, complicated with the death of his accomplice, as a double horror. Robert Streightley was not a man who could coldly contemplate such an event as Mr. Guyon's death. He had indeed retained but little personal regard for him; but that fact, the growing knowledge of the man which rendered such regard impossible, invested his death with additional horror to Robert. That such should have been the manner of the detection and the punishment, impressed him with awe. Standing, as he had done that day, by the dead man's bed, he had bowed his head submissively to the tremendous lesson which the scene conveyed. Where was their fine scheme now? Where was the wealth for which the father had sold the daughter? Gone--almost all gone; and if it had remained a million times told, what could it avail to the form of clay which lay there waiting for the coffin and the grave? Where was the beautiful wife whom the father's accomplice had purchased at the price of his honour? Who was to tell that to the wretched husband, who knew nothing but that she had detected them both, and fled from them both,--from the living and the dead?
 
As he thought these thoughts, and a thousand others which could find no utterance in words, no expression by the pen, the long hours of the night were wearing by. Up and down the room, long after the fire had died out, unnoticed, Robert Streightley walked, buried in his tormenting thoughts, full of horror, remorse, shame, the sense of righteous retribution and torturing grief. She was gone,--his darling, the one treasure of his life, the beautiful idol of his worship: the desolation of that knowledge had not come to him yet; he had had no time to think of the meaning of life without her; the fear, the excitement, the strangeness of the fact were all that he had as yet realised. The awful sorrow, the hopeless bereavement were for the future. The strokes of the rod were beginning to fall upon him; strokes which were to continue, ceaseless and stinging, until the end. Any one who has ever battled, quite alone, with a tremendous sorrow in its first hours of strife, knows how vain is the effort to collect his thoughts at the time, and to recall their order afterwards; knows how the merest trifles will intrude themselves on the attention at times, and at others how the faculties will seem to be suspended, and a kind of dull vacuity will succeed the access of raging pain. The story of Robert's suffering in no way differed from that of any other supreme agony. It had all the caprices, all the fantasies of pain; it had the dreadful vitality, and the intervals of numbness and wandering. Many times in the course of that night Robert sat down in a chair and fell asleep, to wake again--with a start, and an impression that some voice had uttered his name--to the renewed consciousness of his misery.
 
It was very long before he began to think about the circumstances of Katharine's flight from her home, before he began to speculate upon how she had gone, and whither. From the moment he had read her assurance that in this world he should never see her face again, he had been seized with a horrible conviction that this was literally true: he would seek her, of course; he would find out where she had gone to,--he did not even stop to think whether there would be much, or any difficulty about that--but he should see her face no more. No such wild notion as that Katharine would relent and forgive him ever crossed Robert's mind. He knew how cold and proud she was--how cold and proud when she was ignorant of his sin against her, and when he had lived only in the hope of winning her love some happy day before he died;--he knew how insensate any hope would now be, and he never cherished such a delusion for a moment. She was dead to him, and all the gorgeous fabric of the life he had built up for himself had crumbled away.
 
The new day was dawning, when Robert Streightley went wearily upstairs, and stopped at the door of his wife's dressing-room. He had hardly courage to enter the deserted chamber,--it was as though she lay dead inside. There had been so strong a likeness to her face in that of the dead man he had stood beside that day, that it had had a double awe for him. When at length he opened the door and went in, the cold dim dawn was there before him, and the orderly emptiness of the splendid chamber struck him to the heart.
 
No picturesque disarray was there, but the trimness of a swept and garnished apartment. He had not entered this room on the preceding night--he had not thought of looking for any explanation of Katharine's absence there. But now that she had furnished the explanation herself, he remembered the servants had told him she had been some time in her dressing-room after her return from Queen Anne Street. He drew back the curtains and admitted the misty light; he sat down on a sofa and leaned his head wearily upon his hands. Gradually fatigue overcame him, and he fell into a deep sleep, which gave him merciful forgetfulness until late in the morning.
 
Robert was roused from his slumber by Katharine's maid, who told him that Lady Henmarsh had arrived and was waiting to see him. "There's another lady with her, sir," said the maid,--"Mrs. Frere."
 
Robert started perceptibly. "I cannot see any one yet," he said. "Say I am not dressed, but will call on Lady Henmarsh as soon as possible."
 
The woman hesitated. "Lady Henmarsh wants to know what day is fixed for the funeral, sir; and she has been asking about my mistress."
 
"Just tell her what I have said," returned Robert impatiently, "and say no more."
 
The maid left him, and Robert went to his own room. His injunction was useless. Lady Henmarsh, who had felt more discomposure when the news of Mr. Guyon's death had reached her than any other intelligence respecting her fellow-creatures could have caused her to experience, had hurried up to town, had gone to Queen Anne Street, and learned from the housekeeper the strange disappearance of Katharine. While her message was being conveyed to Robert, she was engaged in cross-examining the footman; and she had elicited all that any one, save Robert himself, could tell her before she went away, obliged to be contented with the promise of a speedy visit from Mr. Streightley.
 
The news of Mr. Guyon's death had been received by Mrs. Streightley and her daughter as such news would naturally be received by such persons. They were shocked and sorry; shocked, because they knew Mr. Guyon to be a "worldly" man, and they could not but regard his unprepared death with awe; sorry, because he was Katharine's father, and Ellen at least loved Katharine, and grieved for her grief. Ellen would indeed have gone to her sister-in-law, and sought to soothe her in her simple fashion, had not Robert's note forbade her doing so. This note had excited no fresh alarm; the ladies agreed that Katharine was not able to see any one, not even Ellen, just yet, and were quite content to wait for the subsidence of a feeling so natural. Thus, when Robert made his appearance a little before noon on the day following the receipt of his note, they were wholly unprepared for the intelligence he had to communicate, and they received it with mingled horror and incredulity.
 
"My wife had grave cause of complaint against me," Robert had said, "and she has left me."
 
To this plain but not explanatory statement he limited his disclosure, and he left his mother and sister in much perplexity and distress. It did not occur to them that Robert was ignorant of his wife's plans; they accepted the situation as a simple separation; and Mrs. Streightley's comment upon it to her daughter, made after Robert had left them, was:
 
"I don't care what her cause of complaint may be, nothing can justify her leaving Robert. Don't let us speak of her, my dear; time will bring things right, and at all events will console him."
 
Thus Ellen had not any information to afford Mrs. Gordon Frere, when she surprised her by a visit that same afternoon. It was Hester who repeated to Ellen the particulars which Lady Henmarsh had extracted from the footman that morning, and Hester who suggested that Robert might find it more difficult than he imagined to open any communication with his wife.
 
"Lady Henmarsh went to Mr. Guyon's solicitor," said Hester; "and he evidently can tell nothing. Mrs. Streightley had a long interview with him after her father's death, but he declares she never gave him a hint of her intention, and was singularly quiet and composed. He wondered, indeed, at the composure with which she bore her father's death. I believe Mr. Streightley expects her to communicate with him, or you, or some one, by letter?"
 
"I suppose so. O, of course," said Ellen; "but the whole thing bewilders me. What fault can she have to find with Robert? Surely no woman ever had a better husband."
 
Mrs. Frere assented to this proposition, and the two talked over the mysterious occurrence. With none the less go?t that no amount of talking could render it less mysterious. Hester had a certain degree of knowledge, and a greater degree of suspicion; but she did not confide either to her guileless companion, who was distracted between her admiring affection for Katharine and her absolute belief in Robert's faultlessness.
 
 
The interview between Robert and Lady Henmarsh was not more communicative on his part than that which had taken place at the Brixton villa, in so far as the motive of Katharine's flight was concerned. "Cousin Hetty" had so much to say about Mr. Guyon's death, and was so much agitated by it, that Robert's kindness of heart would, under any circumstances, have prevented his telling her any thing derogatory to the memory of the dead man. He therefore confined himself to a general statement of the circumstances. Lady Henmarsh was genuinely astonished, and honestly concerned. She thought in her heart that Katharine was the "greatest fool" in existence. "The other man is married," said she to herself, "and therefore out of her reach. She has not run off with any one else; and unless she was really too well off, and bored to death by having every thing she wished for, I cannot understand her conduct." Her manner was perfect in its sympathy with Mr. Streightley, and in her condemnation of his wife, whose flight she, however, took care to represent as merely a caprice, a little bit of temper,--"she always had an ungovernable temper," said Lady Henmarsh, in a parenthesis,--but of the worst possible taste under the circumstances.
 
"Did I understand you rightly, that Katharine was with her poor dear father when he died?" she asked.
 
"Yes, she was with him," said Robert; "she was with him all night, and until near eleven o'clock next day."
 
"How very extraordinary and how very shocking!" exclaimed Lady Henmarsh. "Well, Mr. Streightley, I am sure, no matter what you and she have quarrelled about, the fault is not yours; and her friend will speedily send her back to you."
 
"Her friend?" said Robert, interrogatively.
 
"Yes; Mrs. Stanbourne I mean. Of course she is gone to her. Do not you think so? She does not say so, I suppose, just to keep you in suspense, and make a sensation; but no doubt she is gone to her: she did so in all her troubles formerly; poor Ned and I were not good enough for her," and Lady Henmarsh sniffed spitefully. "My advice to you is to take no notice; she must come off her high horse when she wants money."
 
Robert started. He had not thought of that; he had not thought of his wife being reduced to any material distress. The mere idea gave him acute pain; and yet what better chance for her communicating with him, and some faint hope arising out of such communication? The divided pain and relief of the thought struggled in his expressive face.
 
"I have no idea," he replied; "there is no clue, no indication in her letter--nothing but the terrible, bare truth; and I don't know whether she has money with her or not."
 
"She had a private banking account, I know, among the other luxuries of her vie de princesse," said Lady Henmarsh with a spiteful emphasis; "you had better see to its condition. I have no doubt she has gone to Mrs. Stanbourne. It is unfortunate; and she is foolish to have made such a scandal as, let us all keep the matter as close as we may, it must make, for it will not be easily lived down by her, or forgotten by the world. However, it cannot be helped; she must only come back, and propitiate society more than ever."
 
Robert hardly heard her; his thoughts were far distant, in pursuit of the beloved fugitive. The trivial talk of the woman of the world passed him by unheeded. He roused himself to tell Lady Henmarsh what were the arrangements for the funeral of Mr. Guyon, and to utter a few sentences of kindness towards the dead man, and concern for her grief. Then he was going away, when he remembered something he had to say, and turned again to speak to her.
 
"No papers can be removed until after the funeral," he said; "but I have looked over the greater part of poor Mr. Guyon's, and I have set aside a large packet which I consider you are the proper person to dispose of. I will send them to you carefully."
 
Lady Henmarsh thanked him; but her manner was confused to a degree which did her habitual sang froid a great wrong, and a genuine blush dyed her face from the chin to the forehead. "To think of his being such an idiot as to keep those letters," she said, when Robert had left her. "Who could have believed it? I should not be surprised if he had kept some letter, some memorandum, which has opened Kate's eyes; and if so, knowing what a devil she is when she's roused, I'm not surprised at any thing."
 
Robert found that Katharine had not drawn on her private banking account for more than a fortnight. More than ever puzzled by this discovery, he questioned her maid, inquiring if she could tell what money her mistress had had in her possession. She had only a few sovereigns in her purse, the maid knew, when she went out that fatal day in the carriage. Katharine had forgotten her purse, and sent her upstairs for it just as she reached the hall-door; so she had seen the purse, and taken particular notice of it, as it lay open on the dressing-table. Robert went with the woman to examine the drawers and wardrobes in Katharine's room. He was intensely anxious now to be assured that she had the equivalent of money with her; for he was far from really sharing Lady Henmarsh's confident anticipations, though he tried to persuade himself that he did so. All Katharine's possessions were in perfect order--not a trinket, not a jewel was missing,--not one, at least, that Robert had given her, or that she had bought since their marriage; nothing but the old-fashioned case containing her dead mother's diamonds, her sole dowry, was gone from its place. Then Robert despaired; then he seemed to understand the terrible and final meaning of this event.
 
He was standing before the open doors of a cabinet in which Katharine's jewels were symmetrically arranged, and had just satisfied himself that only the case of jewels had been removed, when a servant came to seek him.
 
"What is it?" said Robert. "I am busy: I cannot see any one."
 
"It is one of the clerks from the City, sir," returned the man; "and he wants to see you on important business."
 
Robert went down to the study, and saw the clerk from the City. His business was important, and his news serious. New and heavy loss had fallen on Streightley and Son. Troubles had indeed come to Robert, "not by single spies, but in battalions."
CHAPTER II.  DELIBERATION.
 It was eleven o'clock in the morning, and Mr. Charles Yeldham was hard at work, his oak rigidly closed, the sleeves of his dressing-gown turned up, his hair in a grand state of "towzle," caused by the frequent passage of his hands through it; a shower of fresh ink-splotches dotting the carpet close by his desk, and other indubitable signs of a hard case of "treadmill." It had occurred to Mr. Yeldham, in the midst of applying a wise saw to a modern instance, that somebody was tapping at his outer door; but entirely engrossed by the vastness of the application, he had given himself to rubbing his hands together under his desk, and had wholly ignored the knocker. In the act of taking a fresh dip of ink, preparatory to the elaboration of a sentence which should utterly confound his adversary the opposition chamber-counsel, Mr. Yeldham paused, and, recognising the peculiar taps at the door as those only known to the affiliated, Charley, with some faint idea that it might be Gordon Frere coming in for a chat and a smoke, laid down his pen, and unbolting the door, admitted Robert Streightley.
 
Very pale, with a bright hectic flush under the eyes, and with an unnatural brightness in the eyes themselves; with his hat drawn over his brow, and his shoulders far more rounded than when Yeldham had last seen him, Robert Streightley wrung his friend's hand, entered the room, and without invitation flung himself into a chair by the desk. The appearance of the man was so changed, the action was so contrary to his usual custom, that Charles Yeldham looked hard at him, and looking, noticed the restless quivering of his lips, the odd manner in which he plucked at his chin with his hand, the way in which from time to time he pressed his side, as though to check the beating of his heart. Yeldham noticed all these points; but his voice never betrayed him, and he said perfectly calmly,
 
"Well, Robert, old man, it's not often you venture into my quarters--afraid of the law, eh, old fellow?--think that I shall entangle you into a dispute with Rothschild, or show how easily you could promote a claim against the Barings? However, I'm glad to see you now you are come."
 
"I'm sure you are, Charley; and I know you'll be more glad to see me--I mean more ready with your sympathy and advice--when you learn that I have come to you--in trouble."
 
"In trouble? O yes, I recollect; I saw in the papers. Dreadful thing about Mr. Guyon; so sudden, and at such a place! Dreadful for your wife too; I suppose she feels it acutely?"
 
"I suppose she does. I can't say--I don't know!"
 
"You can't say--you don't know! Why, Hubert, old fellow, Mr. Guyon's death must--"
 
"I didn't come here to talk to you about Mr. Guyon's death, Yeldham; I came to speak of my own affairs."
 
"Why, Robert, how you--what on earth's the matter with you, man?"
 
"What on earth's the matter with a man whose wife--whom he adores and worships--has left him for ever?"
 
"Has left him for ever? Good God, Streightley, what's the matter with you; you've not been----"
 
"No, I'm not drunk, Charley, if you mean that; and grief has not turned my brain yet; at all events I know what I said, and I mean it--read that!" and he handed him Katharine's note.
 
Yeldham read it through with contracting brows and pursing lips. He read it twice; then Streightley said, "That note was posted to me, and reached me the morning after my wife left her home. You see that it does not give the slightest clue to her whereabouts."
 
"It does not--it----"
 
"Why do you hesitate?"
 
"Well--there was no occasion for you to show me that letter; and you would not have shown it to me, I presume, if you intended your confidence to end there."
 
"I have come here to ask your advice and help, and with the full intention of concealing nothing from you."
 
"That is the only condition under which advice, to be worth any thing, can be given. Mrs. Streightley in that letter speaks of some plot or conspiracy of which you were cognisant, by which her whole life was warped and spoiled. I'm not quoting exact words, but that remains upon my mind as the sense of the passage. What does she mean by that?"
 
"She means that I, whom you have always known as an honourable man, acted on one occasion like a sneak and a scoundrel!--she means that I was so mad in my pursuit of her before we were married, that I descended to the use of foul means to carry my point; that I was base enough to be party to an arrangement which, as she says, warped and spoiled her life, for the sake of getting her for myself."
 
"This is strong language, Robert! Knowing you as I do, I should think your conduct even in this matter can hardly have been such as to justify this self-condemnation."
 
"Wait and hear the story before you judge. You know how I loved Katharine Guyon. I told you all about it that first day we went down to Middlemeads; I told you how, the first time in my life, I was passionately, madly in love with her. We spoke, if you recollect, of your friend Gordon Frere; but I did not tell you what I then knew--that he had paid great attention to Miss Guyon; that these attentions had been very well received by her, and that there was a very strong flirtation--if not an understood engagement--between them."
 
"You did not tell me, but I knew it. I had been told of it by Gordon himself."
 
"You knew of it, and yet listened to my love-ravings? However, the flirtation, engagement--whatever it was--was gall and wormwood to me. I had seen them together on several occasions, and the recollection of the pleasure which she always showed in his society used to madden me. I made all kinds of excuses to go to her house; I lent her father money whenever he asked for it; each time I saw her I was more madly in love, but she was no nearer to me than before. One morning her father wrote to me to come to him on urgent business. I thought he wanted more money, but he explained that it was to consult me--I who was so calm and clever and far-seeing, God help me!--as to the future of his child. He had that morning had a letter from Mr. Gordon Frere making a formal proposal for Miss Guyon's hand, and enclosing another letter to Miss Guyon herself."
 
Here Charles Yeldham shifted his position, leaning forward in his chair, and fixing his eyes on Streightley's face.
 
"I did not read either of these letters," continued Robert; "but Mr. Guyon explained to me their purport, and I knew at once my doom. Mr. Guyon expressed his dislike to the proposed connection, stating that Mr. Frere was too young, too frivolous, and too poor to be intrusted with Miss Guyon's future. In an instant, and almost without knowing what I did, I proposed to Mr. Guyon for his daughter. He accepted me instantly, declared himself delighted, and assured me that he would smooth matters for me with Miss Guyon. But there was Frere's letter. We both knew that she was fond of the young man; we both knew that she would accept his offer; we--yes, we both agreed that the letter should be kept back from her, and that she should never be informed of Frere's proposal."
 
"Good God!" exclaimed Yeldham, "and that intention was carried out?"
 
"At once. Frere was answered by Mr. Guyon that his daughter was engaged to me, and--there! I cannot go through the sickening details of that time again, nor describe the manner in which that girl was cheated of her lover and made over to me. Since then the knowledge of my treachery has never left me, I may fairly say I haven't had one happy hour, and--could I only get my wife back, and prove to her how sincere is my desire to atone for my part in this plot, I should not repine at its having come to light. You don't speak, Yeldham; you despise me--you----"
 
"I don't despise you, Robert; I pity you from the bottom of my soul," said Yeldham in a hard dry voice. "I don't think, much as I have heard it talked of, that I ever believed in what men call the power of passion before. That it made whole idiots of the half-brained people who chose to let it get the mastery of them, I understood; but that under its influence you should have permitted yourself to have your sense of right and wrong warped and degraded--that you should have suffered yourself to become a conspirator with, if not the tool of, such a thorough-paced scoundrel as old Guyon, is to me most marvellous. I confess I thought there was something queer in the case; but I never dreamed of this."
 
Yeldham stopped speaking for a minute; but as Robert Streightley remained silent, his head buried in his hands, Charley rose to his feet and began striding up and down the room, as was his fashion when very much excited.
 
"I should be no true friend to you, Streightley, if I did not tell you all I feel in this matter," he said, "though I cannot express in strong enough terms my horror at what has been done. When I recollect how that poor fellow Gordon Frere went away almost heart-broken, and soured in temper, at the way in which he thought he had been treated by Miss Guyon--his visits unacknowledged, his letters unreplied to, his proposal rejected,--when I think how he stormed about her conduct and cursed her--yes, cursed her, poor girl, as a heartless coquette; cursed her for what it now appears she not merely had nothing to do with, but was a fellow-victim in,--when I think of all this, I feel I must be drunk or dreaming when connecting my old friend Robert Streightley with such a deliberate piece of villainy! Don't start, Robert; it was a hard word, but it was the right one. I'm not a friend of yesterday; we've been like brothers since we were boys, and you know I'd give my life for you if it were wanted; but I claim the right to speak out plainly in this matter. Why, it was but the other day that Frere, who, thank God, came home quite cured of all that early romance, was here talking of you and your wife, and saying how lucky she was to have chosen for her helpmate in life such an honest, genuine, sterling good fellow."
 
"Charley," pleaded Streightley, crossing his hands behind his head, "for heaven's sake spare me this! To know what I was, what I seem to be, and what I am, is too much!"
 
"There then," said Yeldham, pausing by his friend and laying his hand on Robert's shoulder--"I've done. No talk will mend the matter, and besides, immediate action is needed. You say Mrs. Streightley had left your house?"
 
"She had; that letter came by the post the day after her father's death--the day on which she went away."
 
"And at present you have no clue to her whereabouts?"
 
"Not the slightest."
 
Charles Yeldham sat down at his desk, and leaning his head on his hands, remained for a minute or two in deep thought. Then he turned to his friend and said:
 
"Mrs. Streightley was, I should imagine from the little I saw of her, a woman of great force of character, and not likely to do a thing on the spur of the moment without calculating results. You see this letter, by its postmark, must have been written some hours after she left home. During those hours she was deliberating and forming her plan; and whatever that was, she'll hold to it, I'm sure. She has determined that you sha'n't trace her; and it's my opinion you'll have the greatest difficulty in doing it."
 
"We might employ the detectives, don't you think?" asked Robert.
 
"Detectives! There's been no detection done by the detectives since they were made the heroes of sensation novels; and, besides, we don't quite want to place your domestic history among the archives of Scotland Yard. No; whatever is to be done--and, as I said before, I fear the chance is small enough--must be done amongst ourselves. Who were her female friends? intimates, I mean; dear and dearest, and all those things that women say and write to each other?"
 
"I--I scarcely know," said Robert, looking blank. "She never appeared to me to have what one could call an intimate friend. There was Lady Henmarsh, who used to take her about before we were married; but there's not been over much cordiality between them lately, I should say; and Mrs. Stanbourne, who is a relative of Katharine's, and a very charming woman, the kindest and best--so particularly nice to me, made me feel quite at home--but she's not in England, or I would have sent to her at once; and there's my sister Ellen, and Hester Gould--Mrs. Frere, I mean--but of course, under the circumstances, she would not go to either of them."
 
"Of course not," said Yeldham, rubbing his head. "It's a tremendous knot--a most tremendous knot. I don't see my way in it the least. Motive for leaving plain enough--discovery of this plot. Inducement for her to go any where in particular? none. 'Never will forgive you--never will look on your face again'--that means concealment, or I don't know but she's just the woman whose spirit would induce her to--no, not that either. Too much pride; hates the world's talk and pity--no, no. What does she say about having taken nothing of yours? Hadn't she any money?"
 
"She had a private banking account of her own, but I find she has not drawn a cheque for weeks. She has only taken with her some jewels which belonged to her mother, and which--ah, my darling! my darling!" and the strong man, who had borne up with such fortitude hitherto, broke down and wept like a child.
 
"Robert--old fellow--for God's sake, any thing but that! Have some brandy; have some----"
 
"If she should be in want--she, who never yet knew an ungratified wish--if she--O Charley, I know I'm making a fool of myself, old friend, but I love her so! O Heaven, I love her so!"
 
There were tears in honest Charley Yeldham's eyes as he sat himself down by his friend, and took his hand and said, "Come, Robert--be a man. I know it's hard to bear, horribly hard, and no preaching, and no attempt at consolation will make it any better. It must be faced and battled with. She's gone, and we must find her. It's one consolation to know that wherever she may be, she'll be certain, by that wonderful something which I have often felt, but which I can't explain, and which is innate in her, to command the respect of those she is thrown among. But the money-test is decidedly an awkward one. She has some jewels, you say; but she'll know nothing of the way to convert them into cash, and she's sure to be awfully done; and I suppose she was like most women, had not the least knowledge of the value of money?"
 
"Well, no, poor child--not much, I think; you see, she has never had to----"
 
"Of course not; I know. Look here, Robert; you must take a blunt question from a blunt man, and give a blunt answer if you choose. Is what is beginning to be murmured about you in the City true?"
 
The colour flushed up into Robert Streightley's pale face at the question. The pride in his wife, in his position, had been things of later days; the pride in his City stability had been born in him, and nurtured in his youth.
 
"I will answer you, Charley, in all truth," he said, with quivering lips; "but you must tell me first what the report is."
 
"The report is, that, hit heavily by the failure of Hicks' bank, you have been trying to recover leeway by--well, what they call wild speculation; that you've got some tremendous bills in hand, and that----"
 
"There; quite enough. Public rumour is, as usual, considerably in advance of the truth. We were hit by Hicks' failure, but you'll find that Streightley and Son will weather the gale yet. Pshaw!" Streightley exclaimed, suddenly changing his tone--"I got relief from one confession, why should not I from another? I won't disguise from you, my dear Charley, that we have been very heavily hit, and that our present situation is--well, what may be called precarious; but I hope, and think, we shall pull through."
 
"Has this state of things been for long?"
 
"Well--for some months."
 
"And Mrs. Streightley knew nothing of it?"
 
"God forbid! Knowing how she had been purchased, was I to yield up the sole influence I possessed over her by telling her that the gold for which she had been sacrificed was only dross and dead leaves, and that the 'merchant prince' was on the brink of ruin? Not I. And what has it come to now? She is gone, and I am left alone in my misery and desolation." His head fell on his breast as he said this, and the big tears rolled down his cheeks.
 
"Look here, Robert," said Yeldham, laying his hand heavily on his friend's shoulder; "this won't do at all. You're all unstrung and out of health. Get you home--if you're not absolutely wanted in the City--and rest a bit; you need it, heaven knows. Leave this business to me--you know I'm a capital ferret--and I'll take it in hand at once, and you shall see me to-morrow with my report."
 
Robert Streightley wrung his friend's hand, and very shortly left the chambers; but Charley Yeldham remained for more than an hour with his chin buried in his hands, and his mind full of all he had heard. At length he put on his hat, and walked into Fleet Street, where, close by the top of Middle Temple Lane, he encountered Mr. Daniel Thacker.
 
It is scarcely necessary to say that, though they were acquainted, there was very little friendship between Mr. Yeldham and Mr. Thacker. The Hebrew gentleman regarded the lawyer as a plodding snob; the conveyancing barrister regarded the West-end money-lender as an unscrupulous scoundrel; but they had met and been introduced, and were in the habit of stopping to exchange verbal civilities; and they did so on this occasion. After the first compliments had passed, Mr. Thacker expressed his regret at not seeing more of Mr. Yeldham in society, but added that he perfectly well understood how it was; there must be bees as well as drones--and Mr. Yeldham had the credit of being one of the most hardworking as well as one of the most deservedly successful bees in the legal hive. Mr. Yeldham--in his coldly formal politeness one could scarcely have recognised the warm-hearted Charley, Robert Streightley's friend--Mr. Yeldham was compelled to leave society to those who adorned it, like Mr. Thacker; and, "talking of society," said Mr. Yeldham, "this is very sad news about our poor friend Mr. Guyon."
 
"Sad enough for me," said Mr. Thacker with charming frankness. "Mr. Guyon was a client of mine; a client for whom I--like a soft fool as I was--however, that's neither here nor there--I shall have to stand the racket in that quarter, and be a considerable loser, I can tell you."
 
Mr. Yeldham expressed his concern, and attempted to terminate the interview; but Mr. Thacker caught him by the lapel of his coat. "And talking of that," said he, "this is a pretty business in Portland Place!"
 
In Portland Place? You would have gathered from the expression of Mr. Yeldham's face that it was the first time he had ever heard of that locality.
 
"Yes, yes; you know what I mean," said Mr. Thacker impatiently; "Guyon's son-in-law--Streightley, the City man."
 
"Streightley, the City man?" repeated Yeldham; "ah, of course, dreadfully cut up at the sudden death."
 
"Dreadfully cut up at the sudden death! I hope that's the only way in which he'll be cut up dreadfully. Haven't you heard the news?"
 
By a shoulder-shrug which would have done credit to Frederic Lemaitre, Mr. Yeldham intimated his ignorance.
 
"Well, then, Mrs. Streightley has gone away from her home--left her husband, sir; and no one knows where she's gone to."
 
"That's a very awkward statement to make, Mr. Thacker," said Yeldham; "Mrs. Streightley, too, of all persons in the world! I suppose you have--you must have--excellent authority for such a story, or you would scarcely venture, a man of your perspicacity, to repeat it."
 
"All I know is, that a--well, in point of fact, a client of mine, Mrs. Frere, was with Lady Henmarsh, Mr. Streightley's great friend, and heard it when they called in Portland Place."
 
"Mrs. Frere--a client of yours? ay, ay! ay, ay! a strange story indeed, but one which we lawyers must take cum grano, as we say. Good morning, Mr. Thacker." And Yeldham bowed to his acquaintance, and passed on.
 
"A dry stick that," said Thacker, looking after him; "a very dry stick. How much of that story did he know? Every bit; more than any of us are acquainted with, for he was an old friend of Streightley's, and has doubtless been consulted about the business. I've underrated that chap hitherto, I imagine; he did that very neatly, very neatly indeed. Shook me off at the right instant too, at the very moment when I intended to pump him about Streightley's liabilities; a deuced cool, clever hand. I'll remember you, my friend, when I want clear-headed advice."
 
"'In point of fact, a client of mine,'" said Yeldham to himself as he went his way. "That's it, is it? Mrs. Frere a client of Thacker's! Fishy that--deuced fishy, considering her relations with the Guyon-cum-Streightley case. Something to be made out of that, I fancy. I'll just take a turn round the Regent's Park before going back to head-work, and think that out."
CHAPTER III.  HUSBAND AND WIFE.
 The return of Mr. and Mrs. Gordon Frere to England had been almost simultaneous with the double catastrophe of Mr. Guyon's death and Katharine's flight. They had returned to Hester's house in Palace Gardens, and had no intention of leaving London during the winter. Gordon was excessively tired of Continental life, and had conceded to fashion rather than consulted his own inclination by spending his honeymoon out of England. Hester, who had never seen any foreign country until after her marriage, had been enchanted with every thing, and would have prolonged her stay with much pleasure, but that she had perceived her husband's weariness, and desire to find himself in England again. Gordon was too essentially sweet-tempered and good-humoured to thwart any one, or to press his own wishes unduly; but his wife was as keen of perception as she was devotedly attached to him, and she read him like a book. A glance at the page, on which incipient boredom was written, was enough for her. With admirable tact and grace she discovered a score of good and sufficient reasons for returning to England; and no one would have guessed, who saw her step gaily into the railway-train at the Embarcadère du Nord, that she was experiencing a keen disappointment, and renouncing a pleasure to which she had ardently aspired. Quiet and persistent self-will, which never failed in its object, but rarely hurt other people in attaining it, was a strong characteristic of Hester; but the stronger had come in--Love, the conqueror, the invincible--and self-will had promptly surrendered. There was a good deal of unconscious selfishness in Gordon Frere's nature--the light, airy, pleasant selfishness which is frequently combined with a large capacity for enjoyment and constitutional indolence, but which in his case would have been easily dispelled on any given occasion by a remonstrance, and never made itself offensive. To this quality his wife's excessive love was particularly calculated to minister, detrimentally to his general character; for her devotion knew no bounds. It was not unnatural that, having departed from the rule and practice of her previous life, by allowing a passion to gain possession of her, Hester should have departed from it by the widest possible divergence. It would have been touching as well as curious to watch the subjugation of the proud, calculating, intellectual woman to the love that filled her whole soul and ruled her whole life. From her wedding-day to that which saw her return to London, and her acquisition of the knowledge of Mr. Guyon's death, by a note despatched from Lady Henmarsh's half-dismantled house in Cavendish Square, on the chance of her arrival, she had never bestowed a thought on Middlemeads, on the embarrassments of Robert Streightley, or the equivocal confidence which existed between herself and Daniel Thacker. She had indeed thought much and often of Katharine--thought of her with exultation; occasionally with a touch of pity, when she satisfied her jealous, passionate soul that no remembrance of her, except in the most ordinary casual way, ever cropped up in Gordon Frere's mind. Hester was destined to learn the truth of a certain proverb about "the letting in of water;" for having opened the floodgates for the admittance of love, she had no power to stop the tide, and the tumbling waves of jealousy thundered in the distance. But, as Hester was, above all things, a reasonable woman, the danger was still far off; indeed, its foretaste was sweet. She liked to assure herself that she had no rival with her husband, whose character, in all but one or two points, she really did understand as thoroughly as she believed she understood it on all. She liked to remember that his was a light, gay--if it must be so called, shallow nature; that all traces of a former rule had passed away, and the sceptre of this kingdom was securely in her hand. How safely she would hold it! how tender and watchful her rule should be! She felt, when this great love laid its grasp upon her, as though she grew ever so many years older in its hold. She mentally compared herself with her husband, and smiled at the difference which existed between them, though her years were fewer by many than his. She utterly laid aside, she completely forgot, her hatred of Robert and Katharine--that hatred which had grown on her unperceived, which she had never deliberately fostered, but had acknowledged, nevertheless, with the strange candour in self-judgment which characterised her. She made no mistake in her estimate of her husband's feelings towards her. She did not look for more than he could give; but she knew exactly how much was comprised in that all, and she joyfully and rightly believed that she possessed it. She knew that Gordon could no more give her the same amount and intensity of love that she gave him than he could read the same books which she read, or be moved by the same impulses, the same associations of thought and feeling. She never repined at the knowledge, she never wished him other than he was; his handsome, refined face was a constant delight to her; she sunned herself in the light and warmth of his joyous, kind, careless, life-enjoying disposition; she watched him with an intense secret pride; in short, she loved him in all the depth and strength of that word of inexhaustible meaning. He loved her, in return, honestly, heartily, and after his careless, joyous fashion. He thought her very handsome and "deuced clever," and was fond of mentioning the latter article of his creed. "Knows every thing, my dear old fellow, and reads every thing, and can talk of every thing; not a bit blue, you know--not in the least; can't bear that sort of thing. Not a bit of show-off in her, I assure you, but a first-rate head, and a splendid woman of business."
 
As Gordon Frere had, in acquiring wealth and its responsibilities, by no means acquired a taste for business of any kind, and had developed no practical talents whatever, except for getting out of life all the enjoyment attainable by large means, youth, high spirits, and a splendid constitution, it was fortunate for the prosperity and good management of the Frere ménage that its mistress merited the commendation he delighted to bestow. They were both singularly free from littleness of character; and there was not the least danger of jarring susceptibilities being disturbed by the fact that Hester owned all the wealth, and kept the management of affairs in her own hands. Gordon Frere was not a man who could understand the petty pride and that kind of egotism which make a man married to a rich woman perpetually uneasy because she is rich, and perpetually desirous of reminding her and the world that he is the legal proprietor of herself and her money. Hester Frere was not the sort of person to understand that, having given him herself, a woman could estimate her money more highly in the transaction, and aim at keeping her husband mindful of the secondary and comparatively insignificant concession. In the case of these two persons, therefore, wealth had fewer snares than it ordinarily spreads to insure the troubling of peace, and the destruction of self-respect, in marriages of this kind.
 
It was Gordon's happy, pleasant way to like every body, instinctively, and to be difficult to persuade into disliking them, even when he had discovered for himself, or been convinced by others, that certain persons were not estimable or admirable. Thus, he liked Mr. Thacker, and never thought whether he was not just a little vulgar and presumptuous; whether there was not something about him suggestive of a pronounced talent for scheming, and a remarkably low estimate of his fellow-creatures. He liked Ellen Streightley, and never asked himself whether she was not rather silly, and did not border on the tiresome as a companion. The nearest approach he had ever made to such an idea was when he proudly thought of the advantages which Ellen must derive from Hester's society, and concluded that it was "a splendid thing for her, by Jove!" It did not occur to him to remember that his wife's intimate friend was Mrs. Streightley's sister-in-law, and that it was presumable that his once-adored Katharine's influence was also available for her benefit. He did not feel so cordially towards Lady Henmarsh as might have been desired, it is true; but then he had known her in the old times; he had habitually spoken of her as "the old cat;" he had prided himself immensely on detecting under the veneer of fashion the ingrained vulgarity of her mind, and, like all persons when exercising a talent which they possess in an infinitesimal degree, he was very proud of his perspicacity in this instance, and felt that he was bound, in consistency, never to like Lady Henmarsh. "It isn't as if she really cared about Hester," he would say to himself, or to the friend with whom he was almost as confidential; "but she doesn't, you know; she only cares to make Hester give parties for her purposes--parties by which the old cat pays off all her own obligations; and to have the use of Hester's carriage, and the advantage of Hester's popularity--for every one likes my wife.--I understand her. I'm a sharp fellow in some things, dear old boy, though I never could take to pens and parchment, and look wise and bilious, like you." And Charley Yeldham thought what an enviable nature was this young man's, and what a pity it would be to disturb his serenity by any revelations, supposing it ever came within his power to make them. Perhaps it may appear that Yeldham's cogitations were needless, and that Frere's was not the kind of serenity to be disturbed by any discovery which only touched the past; but this was not so. The one or two points on which Hester did not know her husband's character were precisely those on which his old chum and faithful friend understood him best.
 
No unmanly laziness, no idle abandonment to the mere surface follies of existence, dictated Gordon Frere's ignorance of the details of the management of his wife's fortune. He knew she was, as he said, "a deuced clever woman, and a first-rate hand at business," and he simply acted, having no meanness in him, on his belief. He never thought at all about the nature of the investments in which his wife's money was placed, neither did he ever think about her former relations with the Streightleys; and had he known that Robert was Hester's debtor to the large amount, which she had advanced to him through Thacker, he would not have seen in the transaction any thing beyond the merest ordinary matter of business.
 
Gordon Frere was excessively shocked by the intelligence of Mr. Guyon's death. Not that he had any regard for him; indeed, rather because he had not, and because he knew him better (though far from thoroughly) than most of Mr. Guyon's friends, who had not had "business" transactions with the departed gentleman, knew him; and such a death, come to after such a fashion, had a grim and painful effect on a mind which was not callous or irreverent, only frivolous and untrained.
 
Hester had only waited to impart the intelligence conveyed by Lady Henmarsh's note to her husband before she went to offer her condolences to her ci-devant chaperone, who had urgently requested to see her. But in her manner of telling him there was something that jarred upon Gordon's sensibility. Coldness and curiosity were in her tone, and he did not like it. The event was terrible in itself, and had terrible meaning to Lady Henmarsh and to Katharine Streightley. Gordon thought honestly of the latter as his wife's friend, not as the woman he had loved; and he winced at the little touch of unwomanliness which Hester betrayed. He understood her very incompletely; and though he knew she loved him, he did not know that she loved no one in the world but himself--and herself. The good-natured fellow did not get over the novel sense of annoyance with his wife easily; and to divert the pain of it, he thought he would go and look in on Yeldham, and talk over things with him. But he did not succeed in this. When he reached the Temple, he found Yeldham hopelessly immersed in a consultation with an inexorable solicitor; and the fiat went forth, in a whisper at the door, "heavy case, my dear fellow, and quite impossible to spare five minutes; see you to-morrow, any time." So Gordon went away, in sufficient discontent, and less in love with law and hard work than ever; and so it fell out that not from him, but from Robert, did Yeldham hear the news of Mr. Guyon's death, and that the next interview between the friends was destined to be of a painful and memorable nature.
 
Hester did not see Gordon Frere, after her visit to Lady Henmarsh, until late in the afternoon; and then they were not alone, so that there was no conversation between them on the additional circumstances which had transpired. In the mean time Hester had seen Thacker, and made communications to him of which the result has been shown in the preceding chapter. Of all these circumstances Gordon Frere was profoundly ignorant. He had left a card for Mrs. Streightley during the afternoon, and made the customary inquiry, to which the well-taught servant had made the invariable answer; and Gordon had turned away from the door without learning that a second calamity, infinitely outweighing the first, had fallen upon the household. When he saw his wife again, she was engaged with visitors; and though he remarked that her face was somewhat flushed, and that she was less gracefully easy in her manner than usual, he imputed these uncommon appearances to the agitating nature of her visit to Lady Henmarsh, and he was rather pleased to think she had not taken the dreadful occurrence, which had affected him powerfully, quite so easily as he had at first supposed. They were not alone at dinner, and Aunt Lavinia, in the pleasure of seeing her niece again after her absence, had affectionately accompanied her to her dressing-room; so that she had had many hours in which to think over the events of the day before she had an opportunity of discussing them with Gordon. During these hours Hester's bad angel had surely been in the ascendant; and Hester's good sense had failed her for once, in the temptation of success, in the consciousness of power where she had been powerless and of superiority where she had been dominated. For once she lost sight of that which was generally the first, the greatest object of her attention, her husband's approbation, and made the first false step in a career which had hitherto been marked by circumspection.
 
Gordon ran lightly up the stairs, after he had carefully consigned Aunt Lavinia to the carriage and the special care of the servants, and found his wife standing by the fire, whose light was shining on the folds of her velvet dress, and on the few well-chosen jewels she wore. There was a flush of excitement in her face, which added to its beauty, but which made Gordon look at her with surprise. Before he could ask her if any thing had happened, she said, in an eager voice:
 
"Have you heard the news?"
 
"No; what news? Any thing more about Mr. Guyon?"
 
"No; there's only one more event possible for him, and it is to take place on Thursday. Have you heard nothing of the Streightleys?"
 
"No; I called there to-day. What's the matter, Hester? is any thing wrong with Katharine?" His face was pale, and his voice hurried. Hester started at the word. Why did she not remember; why did she not take warning? Who can tell? It was but another illustration of "the letting in of water." In a harsh voice, through her set teeth, she answered him:
 
"Yes, there is something wrong with 'Katharine,' as you call her--something very wrong. The bubble has burst--she has run away from her husband!"
 
"Good God!" was Gordon's only answer; but the tone in which he uttered the exclamation angered Hester, and hardened her.
 
"Yes," she went on, "there is no doubt about it; I have it on the best authority--Mr. Streightley's own. She has left her husband at a nice time, too--on a proper filial occasion--when her father's dead body is unburied."
 
Gordon looked at her; and had she been wise she would have taken warning, she would have seen the dawning of a suspicion that she was different to that he had believed her, in that look, and paused before she flung into the gulf of a new and cruel passion the gem of all her treasures, whose pricelessness she knew well. But she was not wise, and she mistook the meaning of that look; she did not know that its sorrow and its misgiving were for her; she gave them to another, in her excited fancy, and she rushed upon her ruin.
 
"You are deeply concerned, Gordon, are you not, and very anxious to learn all the particulars? You shall hear all I know." He was standing close to her as she spoke, and they were looking steadily at one another.
 
"I am indeed, Hester," he replied mildly. "I trust there is some terrible mistake; tell me what you have heard."
 
"There is no mistake; Mrs. Streightley has run away from her husband, leaving a letter for him, like the young ladies in the plays, who elope with a lover when 'Gardy' wants to marry them; only in this case there is no lover, I believe, or he is so very well hidden that nobody knows who he is."
 
Still Gordon looked at her, but now there was relief in his face. "Thank God there is no infamy in this," he said; "though I deserve to be shot for having believed for a moment there could be infamy in any act of Katharine Guyon's."
 
"Katharine Streightley's, you mean," said Hester with a sneer; "it strikes me there is some little infamy in her conduct as it is, though there may be no lover in the case."
 
"No," said Gordon Frere, in a tone of manly decision, "there is no such thing. Misery and misunderstanding, possibly mischief, there may, there must be, but no infamy, no disgrace. I will never hear it said or hinted. This will be set right, I am convinced."
 
"You are as sanguine as you are chivalrous, Gordon," said Hester; "but there is a little difficulty in setting such matters right, either in the private or the public sense. Mr. Streightley is very generous, we all know, and he gave his wife the love she did not marry him for, as well as the money she did; but he may have his wrongs as well as his faults, and----"
 
"Why are you so hard and bitter, Hester?" said Gordon, in a quick, unsteady voice. "How have these people offended you? They have always been your friends, have they not? I thought you had known them intimately for years, and always received kindness from them--I am sure you have told me so--and now you speak of their trouble in this sneering way. When you told me of poor old Guyon's death, I was shocked at your want of feeling; and now, God forgive me, but I am not able to resist the suspicion there is something horribly like gladness in your heart. How can this be? What is it all? What has Robert Streightley, what has Katharine done, that you should regard their misery as you do?" He took her hand gently; he looked at her with pity in his clear blue eyes. She saw the "pity," and it maddened her; she did not see that he was thinking of her as much as of that other whom she hated. What! he had reproved her, and on Katharine's account; the first cloud that had obscured the glorious light of her wedded happiness, the first ripple on the ocean of her unimaginable bliss, had come through her! In an instant, in one pang of exceeding agony, her fancy transported her to the gay garden where she had first seen this man, who was now hers; this man whom she loved with all the intensity of a nature whose power and passion she herself was only beginning to understand. In one of those terrible spasms of feeling, which, when we think of them afterwards, make us understand the mystery of eternity, she lived through one memorable day again. She saw the sunshine and the flowers; she felt the perfumed air; she heard the strains of music; she saw the flitting crowd, the gay groups, the fluttering dresses, the rich colours, the young faces; she heard the sounds of talking and laughter, and the soft rustling and flapping of the flower-tents; she saw Katharine and her party, Mr. Guyon and Streightley, and Yeldham, and she saw Gordon Frere; he was walking beside Katharine, and looking at her as lovers look: had he ever so looked at her, his wife,--she who loved him with a love in which she now knew there were untold possibilities of suffering, she who lived only to love him? In the instant during which this vision filled her brain, and wrung her heart, Hester Frere lived through hours of anguish; and yet there was not a perceptible pause between her husband's question and her reply. She spoke it with her hand in his, with her eyes on his, with her face growing paler and harder with every word:
 
"You do well to ask me such questions," she said; "you do well to suspect me of such feelings. This is as it should be; this is what I should have expected. Perhaps you can answer for Mrs. Streightley's purpose in this flight; perhaps you know why she found her home intolerable, and the bondage into which she sold herself for money unendurable. You answer glibly for her, there is no infamy in her flight--indeed, are you sure there was no infamy in her marriage? Are you sure this is the first time she has deceived Robert Streightley?" She loosed her hand from his hold, and sat down, panting for breath. Gordon still stood, and looked at her; but his face had darkened, and an angry look had come into his eyes. He spoke very slowly, and cold fear came upon Hester, as he said,
 
"Explain yourself, if you please. Such unwomanly, such base insinuations shall have no reply from me. Say what you think,--ask what you wish to know, plainly; but first, let me say this--that I have been utterly mistaken in you; that I believed you a woman incapable of a meanness, and honoured you as such----"
 
"Yes," said Hester, in a voice so low that it was hardly audible, "honoured me!--I believe you; but you loved her. Yes; don't start and stammer, and seek to deny it," for Gordon, in sheer astonishment, had started, and tried to speak. "It is useless; I know all. I know how she played with you, and jilted you, and threw you over for the rich man, whom she despised. Do you think because I was only a music-teacher, and not 'in society,' I never heard what society talked about, and had no eyes to see? I tell you, I read your secret and hers the first time I ever saw your face; and I read it again, when I, the new heiress, and the 'great prize of the season,' went up the staircase at Mrs. Pendarvis's ball with you, and she came down with the millionnaire for whom she had discarded you. I don't know why this woman has left her husband, but I can guess; perhaps you do know. I don't care."
 
"Hush, Hester!" said Frere, and his tone forced her into silence. "Beware lest you reveal to me more of your nature than I can endure. Never venture to speak such words to me again. I am ignorant of Katharine's movements, as you know as well as I do; but I would stake my life on her honour, and I trust her motives, as I trust her actions. If there be, as there must be, a serious misunderstanding between her and Streightley, I pity him with all my heart. I know little of him; but as I have come to know that little, I have learned to respect and esteem him. I will help him to the utmost of my power."
 
"Will you?" said Hester, with a sneer. "Your will and your power are both likely to be taxed. Mrs. Streightley timed her departure well; she had got all there was to be had out of her great marriage. Robert Streightley is a ruined man!"
 
Gordon Frere turned a shade paler as he said, quietly,
 
"Is this true, Hester? are you sure?"
 
"It is perfectly true, and I am perfectly sure," she replied.
 
"Then how do you know it?"
 
She laughed a low quiet laugh.
 
"Ah, that is my secret," she said.
 
"So be it," he replied. "And now, understand me. You have taunted me with my love for Katharine Guyon, and her rejection of me. I avow both. I loved her dearly, and I believed she loved me. I asked her to be my wife, and she rejected me. I don't question her motives; I only know that I suffered the keenest misery in consequence. But I say to you, as I would say to any other, who dared to accuse me of sullying the purity of Katharine Streightley by an unauthorised word or look or wish, that it is a base and dastardly lie. She has been to me, since her marriage, as distant as a star,--an object of admiration and reverence indeed, but no more, as she never can be less. Now--I would do any thing in the world to prove to her, and to her husband, that I am the warmest of her friends and the most devoted of her servants.--And now, Hester, one word of ourselves. You are not a foolish woman, speaking random words and swayed by every gust of temper. I presume you have not so spoken to-night; and I give all you have said its weight of sober seriousness. I think you would have done better to have left these words unsaid; but remember this, they can never be unsaid now, and the fruit they are likely to bear will be no sweeter to your taste than to mine. I am going to see Yeldham in the morning, and will breakfast with him. Good-night."
 
So he left her, and she let him go without a word. The time crept on, and still she sat beside the fire, with the flickering light upon her jewels and her velvet dress, with her dark eyes stern and fixed, and her hands clasped and motionless. It was not until a servant came to ask if the lights might be put out, that she roused herself, and went upstairs to her room. There she found her maid, shivering and yawning in the protracted weariness of waiting.
 
She dismissed the woman at once, who went out of the room, not without having looked sharply at her mistress. Hester caught the look, and when she was alone, went to her dressing-table, and gazed fixedly at the reflection of her face in the glass.
 
"Yes," she said; "I am to lose that too, I suppose--power over my feelings first, then over my words, lastly over my features,--and become the weak thing I have always despised. Fool! fool!"
CHAPTER IV.  WINGED IN FLIGHT.
 For many weeks after Mr. Guyon's death the inexorable pressure of business, increased by a commercial crisis long impending and now arrived in full severity, obliged Robert Streightley to put his sorrow as far as possible from his thoughts during business hours, and bring all his intellect to grapple with the conduct of his affairs. That the old house of Streightley and Son was in any thing but a prosperous condition; that its cool, calculating manager had rushed wildly into almost impossibly beneficial speculations,--was now pretty generally talked of, and various reasons were assigned for Robert's conduct. Some people, of course, roundly stated that they had never believed in him at all; that all his previous success had been the result of luck, or "flukes;" and that he was merely finding his proper level. Others lamented that spirit of flunkeydom which had led a sharp fellow like Streightley to marry the daughter of an insolvent West-end swell, who had spent all his money in reckless extravagance, and, it was said, had bolted from him now the money was gone. Few--very few--had a word of pity for him; he had been too successful for that; and though during the long years of his triumph he had always been generous and kindhearted to a degree, in the hour of his fall this was not remembered; and it was not even allowed, by those who knew nothing of his private history, that he "took his punishment" well, or that he exhibited a proper pluck under his defeat and downfall.
 
It mattered little to Robert Streightley what was thought of him even in the City now. The mainspring of his life was broken; she, for whom up to the very last he had plotted and schemed and speculated, had left him. All his efforts now--and he struggled hard--were made to save the reputation of the house. Hour after hour did he and Mr. Fowler spend in going over the books, looking at lists of outstanding debts, the recovery of which was hopeless, and liabilities which it was impossible to evade. Hour after hour did the result of their work show them the hopelessness of their position, and the fact that the final crash was every day drawing nearer. Poor old Mr. Fowler was a pitiable spectacle; to him the fact that "the house" was in difficulties was infinitely more distressing than the thought that with it would go all the savings of years, from time to time invested with it, and all chance of that comfortable pension on retirement on which he could fairly have reckoned.
 
After Katharine's departure, Robert Streightley seemed to have struck his flag and given up the battle, so far as his business was concerned; endeavouring only to steer his wrecked fortune safely into port. This, notwithstanding all his losses and the bad position of his affairs, he might have been able to do, but that, within three months of the catastrophe, he was obliged to make a payment of five thousand pounds to Mr. Daniel Thacker, as Robert imagined, but in reality to Mrs. Gordon Frere. Streightley had found Thacker hitherto very kindly disposed towards him, and after some consideration he wrote, stating that the security was as good as at the time of the loan; that he would pay the interest, but that it would be a great convenience to him if the repayment of the capital could be postponed for a few months. To this application he had had a reply from Thacker, stating that he would turn it over in his mind, and write again in a few days.
 
"Turning it over in his mind" meant, of course, consulting his principal. So, as soon as he had sent his answer to Robert's note, Mr. Thacker drove to Palace Gardens, and had the honour of a private interview with the lady of the mansion, in her boudoir. Hester was looking very handsome, as Mr. Thacker thought, though there was a little too much set intensity about her lips for that gentleman's rather full-flavoured taste. After some ordinary conversation, Hester said:
 
"And now, Mr. Thacker, state the special business of which you wrote to me, and which has brought you here to-day."
 
"It is one of Streightley's matters, Mrs. Frere. He had, if you recollect, some five thousand and odd pounds from us some months ago, for which we hold as security the assignment of the house in Portland Place, and one or two other minor deeds. That money is, I see, due on the third of next month--a fortnight hence, that is to say; and I have received a letter from Mr. Streightley--who, of course, only knows me in the matter--asking for a renewal of the loan on payment of the interest, and on the continuance of the same security."
 
"Have you that letter with you?"
 
"I have."
 
"Be good enough to let me see it."
 
As he handed it to her, Thacker said,
 
"I know that I have no right even to make a suggestion in this matter; but I think, Mrs. Frere, that unless you have any special objection, you might comply with his prayer. The security is undeniable; and Streightley has been so much knocked about lately, poor fellow, in several ways, you know, that----"
 
"It is impossible for me to read the letter while you talk, Mr. Thacker," said Hester firmly.
 
Thacker bowed, and turned very red; and Mrs. Frere, leaning back in her chair, opened the note and applied herself to its perusal. She remembered the bold firm handwriting, which she had first seen,--ah, how long since it seemed!--in little formal notes addressed to herself, or enclosing young-ladyish scraps from Ellen. She recollected how she had lingered over those notes in the old days, weaving little romances of the future, in which their writer played a very different part from the one now filled by him. There was not an atom of tenderness in these recollections; on the contrary, as Mrs. Frere thought of the difference between her day-dreams and what had actually occurred, a bitter smile flitted across her face; and as she read the letter her lips were set tighter than ever.
 
She read it through twice carefully, then folded it up and handed it to Mr. Thacker, saying very calmly,
 
"I cannot agree to that proposition." It was Mr. Thacker's rule in life never to betray astonishment at any thing. He did not depart from his rule in the present instance; but he must have involuntarily raised his bushy eyebrows a little higher than usual, for Mrs. Frere said to him,
 
"Did you expect any other answer?"
 
This was a home question, and Mr. Thacker objected to being called upon to answer home questions. He had not been exactly sure of the state of Mrs. Frere's feelings towards Streightley (of the feeling with which Miss Hester Gould had regarded the same individual, it will be recollected, he had arrived at a perfect knowledge), and he knew that her reply would be entirely governed by them. So he contented himself with saying:
 
"It is a mere business question with me. You do not require the money elsewhere,--at least so far as I know,--and the security is undeniable. As to the sentimental view of the matter, I know from the experience of that morning at Middlemeads that you are not likely to be biassed by any silliness of that kind. Only, you see, things have changed since then, and poor Streightley is in a very different position now."
 
"I don't think we need discuss Mr. Streightley's altered position, except so far as this proposition is concerned; and on that you have my decision, Mr. Thacker," said Mrs. Frere coldly.
 
"And that decision is final? I shall probably be asked to reverse it, and therefore may as well have my cue," said Thacker.
 
"Quite final. I prefer not to discuss Mr. Streightley or his affairs for the future."
 
"As you please," returned Mr. Thacker; and then he excused himself for his abrupt departure on the plea of business, and took his leave.
 
Mr. Thacker had not felt comfortable in Mrs. Frere's society of late; there was an alteration in her manner towards him--a gradual withdrawal of confidence, as he took it; but which was, in reality, only preoccupation of mind, and which Mr. Thacker could very ill brook. Nor were his relations with Gordon Frere at all of a satisfactory kind; that gentleman being accustomed to speak to his wife of Mr. Thacker as "your Hebraic agent, my dear," and to his friends of the same gentleman as "a Jew fellow, who's my wife's trustee, or something."
 
As Mr. Thacker lay back in his brougham on his way to the City, he fell into a fit of musing over all that had occurred. He drew poor Robert's letter from his pocket-book and read it through; then laid it down on his lap, and recalled the scene that had taken place--recalled Mrs. Frere's words and looks at certain parts of the interview; and said to himself:
 
"She's a wonder; she certainly is a wonder. Sticks to what she has made up her mind to like a leech; and as to moving her to pity, you might as well clap a blister on the Monument. I'm certain I'm right in my old opinion that she played for Streightley, and that she was as wild as possible when he did not see it, but married that pretty Miss Guyon instead. She'll never forgive him. And the next thing will be, that he won't be able to pay up the first instalment either; and then she'll have Middlemeads. Yes; and I shall have helped her to it too. Well, it must have come, I suppose, in the long-run, even if he had pulled through for a little; but I fancy this will smash him up at once. He must sell the house; that will get wind, and then--by Jove, poor fellow! I'm afraid it's all u-p!" And Mr. Thacker looked and felt much more sorry than might have been supposed. The next day he found it a very difficult and unpleasant task to write to Messrs. Streightley and Son, telling them that, "owing to circumstances over which he had no control," it would be impossible for him to comply with their request, but that he trusted, &c. However, there was no help for it; so, on the receipt of this note, Robert had an interview with Thacker; and within a week the house in Portland Place was stuck all over with bills, announcing the sale of the furniture and of the lease at an early date.
 
Perhaps during the whole of his trouble this period immediately antecedent to the sale in Portland Place was the most distressing to Robert Streightley. With the exception of an old woman and her daughter--mysterious people who lived in the kitchens, and were supposed to "do for the good gentleman"--every body had left the house but himself; and he used to roam through the various rooms, thinking of Katharine and of her associations with each. Not merely
 
 
"In hanging robe and vacant ornament"
 
 
did she present herself to his thoughts, but each article of furniture spoke of her taste; wherever his eye fell he was reminded of her. For many weeks after her departure, he had kept her dressing-room locked, and retained the key in his own possession. This room opened into her boudoir, and there, on her writing-table, long after dust had gathered thick upon its leaves, lay her blotting-book open, as she had left it; on it a note just commenced. He had been requested by Katharine's maid to compare the jewels which she had left behind with the list in his own possession, and he had done so. Then he replaced them all, as they had been when she turned away from all the luxury with which he had surrounded her. Often in the evenings, his dreary task of battling with the rising tide of ruin done, he would visit the forsaken shrine of his idol, and feel the pang of her absence all the more keenly for these mute evidences that it was all real, that she had once been there, where silence and emptiness now dwelt. When the blow fell, and he knew the house and furniture must be sold, his wife's rooms were the last to be dismantled. With his own hands, and alone, he packed up every article of her personal property for safe keeping, wherever he should be. When he entered her dressing-room to commence his task, he caught sight of his own reflection in the looking-glass doors of a large wardrobe, and started to see how worn and pale he looked. Some of her dresses were hanging up in the first wardrobe which he opened, and, obedient to an impulse, he caught hold of one of them and kissed it, and went staggering blindly from the room.
 
A few days before the time announced for the sale in Portland Place the commercial crisis so long dreaded swooped down upon London. Continental politics, unsettled since '48, had been seething and simmering, and daily the aspect of affairs had become more bellicose. Big German States looked at little German States with longing eyes and watering mouths, and consoled themselves by the reflection that if awkward and powerful neighbours snapped at them and went off with a mouthful, they could revenge themselves on smaller fry. Italy moaned in her sleep, tormented by the old but unfulfilled dream of freedom from the Alps to the Adriatic; and France and Russia were looking on expectant. Things in the City had for some time had what is called "a downward tendency." Consols were at 82, and French Rentes lower than they had been known for years. People shook their heads at Spanish Passives, and Egyptian Scrip was at a discount. One of the great discount houses, the Brotherly Bound--formed out of the old firm of Ready, Rowdy, and Dibbs--had recently failed (partly on account of the old partners having taken all their capital out, partly on account of all the new capital which was brought in having been spent by the managing directors in giving banquets to the aristocracy), and the shareholders in similar concerns were beginning to be seriously alarmed. Under the alarm of shareholders, managers drew in their horns, and talked of limiting their business, refused all questionable paper--in which they had been dealing wholesale--and looked not too well pleased at good bills, such as they had never had before. There was gloom on the Stock Exchange, and Clapham dinner-parties were, if possible, duller than usual. No actual outbreak yet though, and chance of peace, so the papers said. If war could only be averted, the crisis would pass. The crisis! it was on them as they spoke. At that moment the clerks in Lothbury were reading off a telegraphic message, containing the few words spoken by the Emperor to a provincial mayor; and when those words appeared in print, it was known that war was meant, and three of the largest establishments in the City suspended payment that afternoon. Up went the Bank rate of discount, and the panic commenced.
 
These events happened late in the afternoon of a bright spring day, so immediately before the cessation of business, that they were only known to those actually concerned in the City; and it was not until the next morning that the general public was apprised of all that had happened. The news sprawled over the placards of the newspapers in the biggest typo; the news-boys at the suburban omnibuses and railway stations were "sold out" at once; people rushed to tell their friends what had happened; the panic spread to all stock- and shareholders, and even to the depositors in banks. Then towards noon the City began to be filled with a set of people to whom its ways were strange, and who were unfamiliar with its customs. Elderly maiden ladies and rich widows from prim Peckham paradises; old boys, club bucks and fogies, from Bury Street or St. Alban's Place lodgings, who had little annuities on which they lived; artists and actors hurrying down to see the special stockbrokers in whom they implicitly believed; newspaper reporters on the look-out for matter from which to concoct a sensation article; mooners and loungers of every kind, were blocking up Lombard Street and pouring into Cornhill. The old-established banks never quivered for an instant; wild customers brandishing cheques rushed up to the counter, and felt abashed as they were met by the calmest clerks, who, without a hair of their parting or a fold of their cravat displaced, asked them in the most mellifluous voices "how they would have it?" the copper shovels plunged into the drawers, and came out, as usual, full of sovereigns; the forefinger of the clerks duly moistened counted off rolls of notes with the accustomed precision. "Panic?" they seemed to say; "pooh! it must be something more than panic that can affect us."
 
But three or four of the smaller houses, which had been battling for months with the exigencies of the times, found it impossible to hold on any longer, and succumbed--amongst them the house of Streightley and Son. No stone had been left unturned, no effort untried; but the state of the money-market was such that it was found impossible to realise the securities which they held; and at length, bowed down with despair, old Mr. Fowler wrote with his own hand the notice, that, "owing to the crisis in the money-market having caused a run on the house, and having failed to procure advances on the securities, or obtain the slightest temporary assistance, we find it necessary to suspend our payments." The notice went on to say that the step had been taken with the view to protect as far as possible the interest of the friends of the firm, whose forbearance was confidently relied on, and added, that the books had been placed in the hands of Messrs. Addison and Tottle, and that the early realisation of a satisfactory dividend was anticipated.
 
It was not to be expected that such an old-established firm could fail without plenty of comment. They talked over "Streightley's smash" that day at City conferences, on the flags of 'Change, and the Gresham Club; and many and various were the opinions expressed.
 
"'Protect as far as possible the interest of their friends!'" said an indignant merchant, who, when first starting in commerce, had received the greatest assistance from Robert Streightley's father. "Like their d--d impudence! What do they mean by that?"
 
"Better have protected their friends' principal, and not minded the interest, eh, Jenkinson?" said the wag of Capel Court.
 
"I'm afraid that the realisation of the satisfactory dividend is all bunkum," said a third. "Lucky if we get fourpence in seven years, I should say."
 
"It's a good thing old Streightley can't come out of his grave and see this," said a white-bearded patriarch; "he was of the old school--slow and sure."
 
"Deuced slow and not very sure," said Ralph Elgood, the Rupert of the Stock Exchange. "Bob Streightley's a thundering good fellow, but has been hitting out wildly of late, and now he feels it."
 
"Nonsense; hitting out wildly!" said young Porunglow, junior partner (of three weeks' standing) of Shaddock, Porunglow, Quaver, and Porunglow, great West-Indian merchants, who had been three months in business, and who frequented the vortex of West-end society. "Streightley might have gone on all right if he had not married old Guyon's daughter; a splendid gal, who made the tin fly like--like old boots! Thundering fine parties they had, sir. None of the Belgravian nobs did it up browner in the way of foreign singers, and Edgington, and Coote and Tinney, and real flowers, and all that kind of thing. I s'pects it's that that's settled Streightley's hash."
 
"I shall take deuced good care to attend the meeting of creditors," said the first speaker; "and unless the personal expenses are decidedly moderate, I shall take the opportunity of saying a few words on that subject."
 
This was the tone in which the matter was talked over in the City, and then the talkers turned to the discussion of other things. Of the firm of Streightley and Son nothing soon remained, save the name on the door-posts in Bullion Lane: the winding-up and the meeting of the creditors were duly reported in the City Intelligence; and shortly afterwards a new firm took the old house, and the erasure of the name from the doors and of the memory of the firm from their friends were almost simultaneous.
 
So there was a smash in Bullion Lane and a sale at Portland Place, and Robert Streightley, the quondam "City magnate," the merchant-prince, had lost his place among rich men, of consequence to mankind and human affairs; and had returned to his former quiet life in his mother's suburban house (for her income had happily been secured against the vicissitudes of business), and had not even begun to "look about him;" but was stunned and silent under the reiterated shocks of calamity.
 
His mother and sister had taken the intelligence of his ruin as most women do take the tidings of a calamity in which the affections are not concerned--that is to say, quietly and resignedly. If so many other persons had not also been ruined, it would have been much harder to bear, because then inconsiderate, hasty people might have blamed Robert; but as it was, he was only one of many; and they thought about the matter much as they would have thought about a war in Russia, or a revolution in Venetia, the rinderpest, or a railway accident.
 
As for Robert, he had little personal feeling in the affair. Poverty or wealth made little difference to him. He could have faced the one with courage and confidence, had Katharine remained with him, and bid him grow rich again for her sake; he had valued the other only because it had won her. And now the money which had enabled him to do the evil he had done was gone, and the wife it had purchased was gone; and days had melted into weeks, and weeks into months, and brought no word or sign of her. No language can tell how Robert suffered during all the time that his attention was externally claimed by his business; with what agony of hope deferred he would ask Yeldham, day after day, if there was any chance of discovering her place of retreat. Foremost in Robert Streightley's memory was the mind-picture of his desolate home; keenest of all his torturing thoughts was the idea of his cherished one, so daintily reared, now perhaps exposed to privation or absolute want. Compared with the horror of this feeling, the disgrace of his failure, the loss of his City position, which at another time would in themselves have been sufficient to crush him, now fell upon him with lightness--the world thought with extraordinary lightness--for such a sensitive man. But Yeldham, who alone was in his confidence, knew what were the secret yearnings of his heart. "O God! if we could only find her, Charley; if I could only see her once again, only hear her say she forgave me, I think I'd be content to die, and slip out of it all."
 
The inquiries which Yeldham had instituted in every possible quarter had all been without result, and already many weeks had elapsed, when one morning Robert received a letter from Mrs. Stanbourne, to whom he had written immediately on Katharine's departure, but from whom, up to that time, he had received no reply. He had had no exact knowledge of her address, and his inquiries had elicited no more precise indication than "Rome;" so he had no resource but waiting--with little patience indeed, and but poorly rewarded, for the letter ran thus:
 
 
"Florence.
 
"My Dear Mr. Streightley,--Your letter has been following me about for several weeks,--I believe for months, indeed,--and has only just reached me. I cannot--I need not tell you how greatly the news which it conveys has pained and distressed me. I am sure you will understand this without my dwelling upon the point, and that you personally will be assured of my sympathy in this your hour of grief. I am old enough to be allowed to speak plainly in these matters, even to one with whom I have not been very long acquainted, and I may tell you therefore that not merely did I see in you many qualities which any girl might be proud of in a husband, but I took the opportunity of showing to Katharine that I had observed them. I am sure furthermore, not merely from the manner in which those remarks were received, but from the general tenour of her conduct, that she had not one thought which she would have been ashamed of sharing with you, and I therefore am disposed to hope that her departure may have been caused by childish petulance, provoked by some little 'tiff,' which you have not explained to me--that it has been merely temporary, and that now, ere this note reaches you, she has returned to you and her duty. If this be so, you will throw this letter into the fire and think no more of it. But if it be not so; if she is still holding aloof from you through self-will, and which I suppose, as her relative, I may venture to call obstinacy, I think it best to give you all the aid and information in my power. I need scarcely tell you that she is not, that she has not been, with me. I do not know that she would have sought me; but, at any rate, my frequent changes of address would have prevented her finding me. Had I seen her, I should have put aside my own ill-health (which is, I suspect, a great deal laziness, and hatred of England in the dull season), and, starting off at once, never left her until I had restored her to you. But I remember that two or three years ago a great friend and old schoolfellow of hers, Annie Burton--of whom I know Katharine had a very high opinion--went to live at the Convent de St. Etienne, in Paris, and, as I believe, ended in taking the veil there. If all the other inquiries which you have doubtless set on foot have failed, would it not be well to make a search for our poor lost girl at this convent? Such a place would be likely to attract her in her then frame of mind. She would have the solace of the companionship of her old friend; and as boarders are received at the convent, she could command perfect privacy and peace, and, so far as she knows, avoid every chance of discovery. This is rather a vague idea, but it is a foundation upon which pursuit may improve. I sincerely trust it may not be needed, but yet I think it advisable to send it. In any case I shall be most anxious to hear from you again, and to assist you in any way in my power.
 
"Yours very sincerely,
 
"Margaret Stanbourne."
 
 
The perusal of this letter brought light into Robert Streightley's eyes and comfort to his heart. For the first time since Katharine's departure he felt that there was a chance of recovering her for himself, of seeing her once again, and telling her all he had suffered--all he hoped. His heart beat violently as these thoughts came across him, and he trembled from the intensity of his feelings. He would have gone at once to Yeldham's chambers and shown him the letter; but he felt unable to move, and remained for a few minutes panting and palpitating in his chair. He was weak and dizzy, and had a strange oppressive feeling that he should die before he could get upon the clue just given him. But after a short time these feelings passed away, and he managed to rouse himself and drive to the Temple, where he found Charley, as usual, hard at his 'treadmill.'
 
As his friend entered the room, Yeldham looked up from his writing, uttered a short cry of alarm, and came hurriedly towards him.
 
"What's the matter with you, Robert?" he said,--"white as a ghost, dark circles round your eyes--what the deuce is it? No bad news?"
 
"No, Charley, I'm all right--or shall be in a minute; a little knocked down by what's in this letter. I think there's something in it--some clue at last. Read it, and tell me how it strikes you."
 
Charles Yeldham took the letter and read it through carefully; then put it down, and looked across at his friend.
 
"Well?" said Streightley, anxiously.
 
"Well, Robert, of course it's a new light, and--and there may be something in it; but I'm not very much impressed. I scarcely think--but then I know so little, that I'm not a fair judge--that a convent's exactly the place to which a lady of Mrs. Streightley's temperament would retire. However, of course one can send over and ascertain."
 
"Send over!" cried Robert; "nothing of the kind. I think far more highly than you seem to do, Yeldham, of this information. I think so highly of it, that I shall start at once for Paris, and pursue the track."
 
"You? No, Robert, I would not do that. You're not well, my good fellow; you're not strong; any excitement of this kind might knock you up, and that would never do, you know."
 
"I know that I shall start by the tidal train to-morrow morning, Charley. Now don't argue with me, for my mind is made up."
 
 
But Robert Streightley did not start to Paris by the next morning's tidal train. As he sat that night talking over his intended journey with his friend, Yeldham saw the colour fade out of his face, the light out of his eyes,--finally saw him go off in a dead swoon. Yeldham carried him to his own bed, and sent for a doctor, who peremptorily forbade any notion of his being moved for days. "It might cost him his life," he said. And Robert, made acquainted with the veto, after some murmuring, acquiesced in it, and fell back, weak and wavering, to sleep.
 
"I don't like your friend's symptoms, Mr. Yeldham," said Dr. Mannering to Charley. "Has he had any great mental strain or worry lately? Ah, I thought so. I'm afraid there's very little doubt that his heart's affected."
CHAPTER V.  FAILURE.
 Robert could not leave Yeldham's chambers for several days after the astute doctor for whom Charley had sent had hazarded his guess about the "mental" sources of his patient's illness; and as the strictest quiet was enjoined, reference to the agitating subject of Katharine and Mrs. Stanbourne's letter had to be strictly avoided. Such avoidance was much less difficult than Yeldham had apprehended it would be; for Robert's exhaustion was extreme, and he readily accepted his friend's assurance that he knew what he wished to have done, and that it should be done without any delay.
 
"I've sent a line to your mother, Robert, and told her not to frighten herself; and I've had a bed put ready for me in the comer; so you've nothing to do and nothing to think about except getting well."
 
"And Katharine?" said Robert, with a vague, wan, painful smile.
 
"Well, and Katharine; but there's nothing to be done until you get well--think of that, my dear fellow, and try--except what I have done, what I did last night when you were asleep."
 
Robert's hollow eyes questioned him eagerly.
 
"I wrote to Miss Annie Burton," said Yeldham, sitting down by the bed, "telling her the circumstances briefly, and entreating her to give us any information in her power. I assured her, in case her friend should have reposed any confidence in her, either as to her residence or otherwise, which she might hesitate to violate, that no attempt would be made to control Mrs. Streightley's movements in any way; that the object of the inquiry was to rectify a misapprehension on her part, and to procure some relief of mind for her husband, whom her departure, and his ignorance of what had become of her, had nearly killed. I said that, Bob; I made it strong; and indeed I believe it, old fellow."
 
Robert covered his face with his hands, and groaned. Yeldham jumped up immediately, at once remembering the doctor's injunctions.
 
"This will never do," he said; "I must leave you, Robert. The 'demd horrid grind,' you know!"
 
"We have only to wait, then?" said Robert wearily.
 
"Yes, to 'wait and hope,' as Monte Christo told his young friends," said Yeldham, with a very poor attempt at gaiety. "I'm off now, to engage in an interesting question about Farmer Shepperton's ten-acre meadow."
 
During the few following days the grind which Mr. Charles Yeldham had instituted for himself, and had without interruption or question kept up for several years, received many irruptions and incursions at this period of his life, was broken in upon here, and suddenly put a stop to there, in a manner that would have annoyed any but the best-tempered and largest-hearted man in the whole world. While Robert Streightley lay ill in his bed, it was not to be expected that Charley Yeldham could remain quiet, poring over his law-papers, without running in now and then to see how his friend was getting on; whether he wanted any thing; whether the perpetual scratching of the pen disturbed him; whether the preternatural silence did not drive him mad; and other queries, such as men in rude health propose to those whom, being ill, they take to be fanciful. Then there was the doctor's visit, the consultation afterwards, the getting the sick man to acquiesce in all the necessary arrangements, the despatch of Charley's lad for the medicines, and a hundred other little performances, all of which Charley had to take part in; thus giving up his work and withdrawing himself from his desk. He did not mind so very much; for Charles Yeldham's position was now secured, and he knew that the attorneys must await his pleasure. His was no bumptious self-conceit; he had won his spurs in fairest fight and by hardest exertion, by sheer determination and indomitable energy; and he was as incapable of affecting a deprecation of his legitimate success as he would have been of swaggering before that success had been legitimately obtained. So, notwithstanding his innate love of work, he had no hesitation in tearing himself from "treadmill" to attend to his friend, whom he pitied with all his large heart, with a profound pity which had long ago buried blame out of sight.
 
One morning, when Robert Streightley was sitting in the easy-chair at the open window looking on to the Thames, gazing, with that calm uninterested feeling which comes to us in illness, on the life below--the nursemaids and valetudinarians in the Temple Gardens; the squad of Inns-of-Court volunteers in private clothes, but carrying their rifles, being put through the mysteries of company-drill by the attendant sergeant; the steam-boats on the river, cutting in and out among the heavy barges; the distant bridges crowded with traffic, and the shore immediately in front resonant with the work of the Embankment,--as he sat, very weak in body, very anxious in mind--for no answer had as yet come to Yeldham's letter to Miss Burton--Charley Yeldham opened the door, and coming up to him, laid his hand gently on his shoulder, and asked him how he was.
 
Robert answered that he was better; "progressing--quietly, he thought he might say."
 
"That's good hearing, old boy! that's glorious hearing! You certainly have more colour to-day, and your eyes are brighter, and you look more yourself. How do you feel about your nerves?"
 
"What a wonder you are, Charley! No other man in the world would ask such a question, knowing perfectly that if my nerves were in a queer state, there is nothing so likely to knock them over as being asked after them. However, they're tolerably right, thank God!--Why?"
 
"Well, I suppose it was a very stupid question; and I'm not about to mend it by what I'm going to say now. I was going to say, if your nerves are tolerably right, and you feel decently strong and able to bear it, there's somebody in the sitting-room--Good God, Robert!"
 
He might well exclaim, for Robert Streightley had fallen forward on the table, his face ghastly pale, his hand shaking and trembling, his voice, sunk to a whisper, muttering, "Has she come at last? has she come?"
 
"No, no, my dear fellow; a thousand times no. Compose yourself, for heaven's sake. What a tremendous ass I am in any matter like this--sure to make a mess of it! No, no; there's no 'she' there at all; only an old friend of mine and an acquaintance of yours; and I thought if you were well enough, you might like to see him. I may as well tell you at once it's Gordon Frere."
 
Streightley started as though he had been cut by a whip, seemed about to speak; hesitated for a moment; and finally said, "I'll come in and see him at once."
 
"You will?" said Charley Yeldham, overjoyed beyond measure; "you will? That's first-rate. I'm delighted, Robert."
 
"Why should I not?" said Streightley. "If he were to refuse to see me, I could understand that well enough; but now when I, who--and I'm determined that I won't let slip this opportunity of telling him--"
 
"Robert, Robert, what nonsense you're talking! Frere, of course, like all the rest of the world, has heard of Mrs. Streightley's departure; and as he has a tolerably clear head, he might be of use in our difficulties; but as for going back into bygones, I forbid it utterly. Now, will you see him or not?"
 
"Give me your arm, Charley, old fellow, and help me into the other room at once."
 
The few days' illness, with all the suffering and suspense which had preceded it, had had a grievous effect on Robert Streightley's appearance; so that Gordon Frere--usually impassive, as society required him--gave a great start when he saw him entering the room leaning on Yeldham's arm; and, hastily advancing, took him by the hand and murmured a few words of kindness and sympathy. Robert Streightley was in a very weak state still; his eyes filled with tears, and the pressure with which he endeavoured to return Frere's manual greeting was a very feeble one.
 
"Now sit down, Gordon, here, close by Streightley--for we mustn't let him exert himself too soon after his illness--and let us have a quiet talk," said Charley Yeldham. "Our friend Frere is an old friend of mine, as you know--and--well--what the world talks of, you know--in fact, he's heard the story of Mrs. Streightley, and--having known her and taken some interest in her--he has come, hearing you were here, to inquire for you, and ask what news we have of her. I've told him what I know--what we all know; but as for particulars, Lord help us, who could give them?"
 
"Our dear old Charley here," said Gordon Frere, "puts in his own peculiar way--which of course you know, Mr. Streightley, as well as or better than I--the state of affairs. I heard at the time of what had happened; but I, like every one else, I suppose, expected it would all blow over in a few days. I should have liked to have seen you then, and tried to cheer you up, but I thought it better not. However, as my wife sees a good deal of your sister, we have heard that things are not as we hoped they would have been; and yesterday I heard of your illness, so I have come, having long had the pleasure of Mrs. Streightley's acquaintance, and having--if you will permit me to say so--a great esteem for you, to ask Yeldham if I could be of any assistance in the matter."
 
The old courtly manner; how well Robert remembered it! As Gordon Frere spoke to him, he saw him taking leave of Katharine on horseback in the Park, bending over her in the opera-box, whispering to her at the Botanical Gardens, in that happy time now so far away. He remained perfectly quiet, thinking over this for a minute or two; then he said in a deep voice, and with his eyes cast down:
 
"No one has a stronger claim to confidence in this matter than Mr. Frere."
 
Gordon looked astonished, both at the words and the solemn tone in which Streightley spoke; but Charles Yeldham interposed nervously:
 
"Yes, yes, of course. Gordon is an old friend of the Guyon family--known Miss Guyon--Mrs. Streightley, that is to say--since--ever so long."
 
"Not merely on that account, but on another----"
 
"For God's sake, Streightley! You're weak and ill, and not yourself----"
 
"My dear Charley Yeldham, I'm weak--and ill--and--well, not my former self, at all events; but I cannot see that you are justified in stopping me in what I was about to say."
 
"But did not you promise me?"
 
"Certainly not. I came into this room with the full intention of saying what I am now going to say. When Mr. Frere knows that the saying it will have given me relief--and I need relief--I think he will comprehend my anxiety on the point."
 
Frere glanced from one to the other in mute amazement. He was not what is generally called "quick at taking things," and this dialogue was unintelligible to him. Robert continued:
 
"You are aware, Mr. Frere, that Mrs. Streightley has long left her home, and that as yet we are unhappily in ignorance where she may be?"
 
"I had heard so, to my very great regret."
 
"But you cannot be aware of what is really the fact--that you are to a great extent implicated in her departure."
 
"I? Mr. Streightley----"
 
"Hear me out. Our good friend here thinks I am in the wrong in entering into this story to you."
 
"I don't see the necessity for it," growled Charley Yeldham.
 
"Very likely not; but then you have not carried the weight about in your bosom for months, or you would hail such a chance of relief with delight. A chance indeed; but I have often contemplated seeking you, and telling you what you are now about to learn. I am fortunate indeed in an opportunity offered by your kindness." He was speaking clearly and steadily now; so he spoke until the end. "Mr. Frere, I owe you an explanation of my last remark to you, and I'm proceeding to give it; but you will have to pardon my feebleness and give me time. You were acquainted with Miss Guyon long before I was introduced to her?"
 
"I was."
 
"And--I am speaking to you frankly of yourself; you will see how frankly I shall speak of myself presently--and you admired her very much?"
 
"I thought--I think," said Frere, after an instant's hesitation, "that there never was a more beautiful woman."
 
"Nor a more heartless one, I suppose you would add. That woman, as you imagine, fooled you to the top of your heart, gave you every encouragement to seek her hand; and when you did so, frankly and honourably, deliberately threw you over for the richer prize which came in her way."
 
"Mr. Streightley," said Frere, in an earnest voice, "I'm sure you must have some very strong motive, or you would never touch upon a subject which must be so painful to both of us."
 
"I have a strong motive, sir, as you will speedily find. Your calls were unnoticed, your letters disregarded, your honourable and manly offer rejected, almost with contempt. Shortly afterwards Miss Guyon was married to me. Now, Mr. Frere, I am coming to my point. Katharine Guyon's rejection of you and her acceptance of me were alike the result of a base conspiracy against you and her. In matters concerning you she was hoodwinked and deceived; your visits were not mentioned to her; your letters were kept back from her. The very offer of your hand she never received, and until the day of her father's death she was in ignorance of its having been made."
 
Gordon Frere had started back at the beginning of this disclosure, and now sat staring wildly, scarcely able to comprehend what he had heard. After a pause, he said, "Good God, how awful! And by whom was this treachery perpetrated?"
 
"By two men, one of whom has gone to his account, with all his imperfections on his head; while the other, mercifully spared so far to repent and make such atonement as lies in his power, is before you."
 
At these words Gordon Frere started from his chair; for an instant remained erect, taking no heed of Yeldham's hands outstretched in warning; then, as his eyes fell on Streightley's worn and haggard face, he sank quietly back into his seat.
 
"I can fully understand what you must feel, Mr. Frere," said Robert; "and I shall shrink from nothing you may say to me. But there is a little more to be told yet, and I may as well finish it. I said that you were somehow concerned in my wife's flight; and what I meant was this. Her discovery of this plot, the rage and humiliation which she felt at having been made one of its victims, led her to leave her home. I am confident she had no other motive. She----" Robert stopped for a moment, and then continued, "I can't say much more. I'm not strong yet, and--I only wanted you to know that my crime has not been unpunished. God knows my share in that miserable compact has never been absent from my thoughts, and now retribution has overtaken me."
 
He ceased speaking, and leaned back in his chair, faint and pale. Nor was Gordon Frere much less pallid as he rose and said:
 
"I'm taken so aback by all this, that I can say nothing at this instant. I want ten minutes by myself to collect my thoughts. Charley, give me your key; I'll go into the Gardens for a few minutes, and then I'll come back to you."
 
Although the Temple Gardens were Mr. Yeldham's favourite and only exercising ground; and although Gordon Frere, in the old days lazily lounging out of the window with his pipe in his mouth, had often seen his friend tearing round and round them, doing his constitutional in the intervals of "treadmill," it is probable that the young man himself had not been in them more than half-a-dozen times in his life, and knew nothing of their various beauties. Certain it is that he saw nothing of them on the present occasion. He walked among the nursemaids and the town-made children, and the misanthropes and the valetudinarians; but he saw none of them. He saw the staircase at Mrs. Pendarvis's house, and the conservatory and the landing, and Katharine with her head bent down, listening to his soft familiar phrases--which are not, indeed, the language of love, but which form such a pleasant prelude to it. He saw the saucy toss of the head with which she would greet his late arrival in society where they had arranged to meet, and that half-bashful, half-earnest look in her eyes when they were about to part. Gordon Frere's heart beat very rapidly as he thought of these things, and he bit his lip impatiently; but he was a thorough nineteenth-century man, with a horror of giving expression to or even indulging in any strong feelings, and he had long outlived the boyish passion for Katharine which had glorified that past time. His pride was sharply hurt, and the gentlemanly sense of honour, which alone among a man's feelings the nineteenth-century code does not require him to repress, revolted against the story he had just heard from the shattered invalid within there. How right he had been, when he first heard from Hester of Katharine's flight, and had instinctively justified her, even though he then believed she had treated him so badly! So, while he was regarding her as a jilt, she was thinking that he had basely trifled with her. Poor Katharine! he pitied her. Did he pity himself? Well, not much; it was over--the glamour was gone, and he was none the worse; but she, sold to this man--a poor man now--homeless, self-exiled, with burning anger in her proud heart. He never for a moment thought of the possibility that Katharine might love him, Gordon Frere; still something he did not pause to analyse told him she did not--that the dream was over for her as for him. The waking was very different though. Father and husband lost; home and position forfeited; a wanderer, and poor. Katharine Guyon was all this. How bright was his own fate in comparison! Mr. Guyon's part in the transaction galled him. He had so heartily despised the dressy, boasting, foppish, frivolous, false old man, and had so often laughed at his little tricks and cheateries, that to have been so thoroughly, so completely done by him, was, even in such distant retrospect, decidedly humiliating and unpleasant. He had that letter somewhere, with its infernal hypocritical condolence, and its coolly impudent messages from Katharine. All a lie, was it--infernal old scoundrel! Dead though, that must be remembered, even in the utmost scorn and anger. And Streightley--how he pitied him! The man knew so little of the world, and Guyon had made him so completely his tool. He liked Robert, and all the more since Hester had behaved so ill about it all. He wished now he had seen him at once, when this happened; had not been kept back by any fear of Hester's "queerness," as he called it. Things had never been quite comfortable between them since, and he had avoided the subject. But now why should he be angry with this poor broken fellow, who had lost Katharine too, if it came to that? No; he pitied him, and he would help him to the best of his ability; and now he would go and tell him so.
 
Such is a rapid résumé of Mr. Gordon Frere's thoughts as he walked round the Temple Gardens; and such was the conclusion at which he arrived before he again entered his friend's rooms.
 
He walked straight up to the chair in which Robert Streightley sat, and taking his thin wan hand, said, "I've thought carefully over all that you have told me, Mr. Streightley, and the result is, that, so far as I am concerned, the matter is put away and buried for ever. It shall never be mentioned by me again, and I think I may say it shall never rise in my mind to your prejudice. The only thing that I will say about it is, that I am glad I have heard this explanation, because by it Miss--Mrs. Streightley is freed from the suspicion of double-dealing and--well, I must say it--heartlessness, which at one time I attached to her. And now," said Gordon, changing the tone of his voice, and laying his hand kindly on Streightley's shoulder--"now we must devote all our energies to finding her and bringing her back. I'm sure, when she hears that I have--I mean when she knows that you've told me all--and--yourself so ill--and--that she'll give in at once--eh, Charley?"
 
"My dear fellow, I agree with you entirely; I have very little doubt that if we could communicate with Mrs. Streightley, who is a particularly sensible woman, all might be arranged happily at once. But the difficulty is to find her."
 
"Have you no clue?"
 
"We had not until quite recently; and even what we now have is very slight indeed." Then Yeldham repeated to Frere all that has been already told respecting Mrs. Stanbourne's letter, and that which he had written to Miss Burton.
 
"She has not yet answered my letter," he went on to say, with a glance of significant anxiety at Robert, which Gordon understood. "But she may be away from Paris."
 
"Certainly," said Frere; "nothing more likely. She may have gone home, you know; and the people at the convent may have sent on the letter. We must not be discouraged by a little delay, must we, eh, Charley?"
 
"O dear, no," said Yeldham; "there is nothing to be discouraged about. We must have patience, and Robert must gain strength. Suppose we got a letter now, and knew where she is, he wouldn't be fit to go to her."
 
"O yes, I would!" cried Robert. "I should get strength for that. Be sure of me, so far as that goes."
 
"Well, well; we will discuss that when the time comes," said Yeldham, who was impatient for the termination of this agitating interview. "And now, Gordon, I'm going to turn you out."
 
"All right, old fellow," said Gordon cheerfully. "I'll soon come and see you again, Mr. Streightley; meantime, if you have any good news, you'll let me have the pleasure of sharing it. I understand now why Yeldham has never spoken much of you to me; but that's all over, is it not?" And the handsome, happy young man held out his hand, with all the irresistible grace of his peculiar manner, to Robert, who clasped it fervently in his poor thin fingers. Yeldham left the room with Gordon, and the two held a brief colloquy on the landing.
 
"Will he find her, do you think?"
 
"I fear not. If ever a determined woman lived, she is that woman. And he has no hold on her--no knowledge of her past, no intimacy with her intimates."
 
"She hadn't any, I believe," said Gordon. "I don't think she had a friend in the world. She was dangerous, you see, being so handsome, and so poor; and her father was so deuced disreputable. Did she make many friends since her marriage?"
 
"I fancy not; I never heard--except Mrs. Frere."
 
"O, she knows nothing about her," said Gordon hurriedly. "Good-bye, Charley. Go back to the poor fellow; he wants you."
 
Gordon Frere had taken a step down the stairs, and Yeldham's hand was on the door, when the former turned and came back.
 
"By Jove, Charley," he said, "I was just going away without telling you one of the principal things I came to say. That fellow Thacker, you know, he manages all Hester's business--as far as she allows any one but herself to manage it, that is to say--and very well he does it, I fancy. However, that's not the news, and this is. She gave him a lot of money to invest on one occasion, and he invested it, it appears, in a thingummy--a loan--you know what I mean--where you get the place if you are not paid up to time."
 
"Yes; a mortgage. Go on, Gordon."
 
"Well, then, a mortgage on Middlemeads; and of course, then, you know Streightley smashed; and the end of it is, Middlemeads belongs to us--to her, I mean--and she wants to go and live there when the season's over. Deuced unpleasant, isn't it, Yeldham? especially after the story that poor fellow has just told us; looks as if I did it out of spite to Katharine. I can't explain to Hester; and there's no reasonable reason why she shouldn't have the place, is there, Charley? 'Pon my life, I don't know what to do."
 
"It's a strange coincidence, Gordon, and that's all that can be said about it. And, after all, it is only strange to us three, because only we know that it is a coincidence at all. To other people Mrs. Frere is much more strictly allied with the Streightleys than you are. As for Robert, he won't mind it in the least; he never thinks about the place. He was eager enough about it, poor fellow, when he and I saw it first; but I don't think it ever costs him a thought or a regret now. You may go and live there without a scruple, take my word for that."
 
"Do you really think so, Charley? That's very nice indeed, and a great relief; for I would not hurt Streightley for the world. Good-bye again."
 
He ran downstairs gaily, and his friend stood for a minute looking after him, thinking of the story that had been told to him, thinking of his own confidences about Katharine in the very same room, and wondering at, a little envying, perhaps a little despising, his invincible light-heartedness.
 
There was something odd, he thought, about the Middlemeads transaction. He had never heard Robert mention the mortgagee's being Mrs. Frere: but he would say nothing about it; it might agitate him. So he dismissed the matter from his mind, and went cheerfully back to Robert, whom he found pale and depressed, and willing to talk only of the one engrossing topic--when an answer must surely come from Miss Burton.
 
"What a fine fellow he is!" Robert thought sadly, in Yeldham's absence, as he reviewed Frere's conduct in their interview. "How nobly generous and forgiving! What a contrast to me! And yet he cannot have loved her as I love her, or no generosity could avail to make him pardon the man who robbed him of her. Ah, no; who could ever love her as it is my torment, my punishment, and yet my life, my pride to love her?"
 
 
A few hours more, and suspense, so far as the clue with which Mrs. Stanbourne had furnished Robert was concerned, was ended. The following morning brought a letter to Mr. Yeldham from Miss Burton, written, not from Paris, but from an obscure village in the Pyrenees, where a religious house of the order to which she belonged had lately been established. Its contents were conclusive. She had never heard from or of Katharine from the time she had received the intimation of her marriage; she had it not in her power to afford the slightest information or assistance, beyond writing to the superior of her former convent in Paris, and entreating her, should Mrs. Streightley make inquiry there for her, to detain her if possible, but in any case to communicate with her friends. She expressed the liveliest concern and inquietude concerning Katharine, and the deepest regret for her own inability to help in this sore strait.
 
Profound discouragement fell upon the friends when they had read this letter; nevertheless Robert bore the disappointment better than Yeldham expected. He had a settled sense of the sin he had committed upon him, and a resigned conviction that the punishment was not to be escaped or lessened. The uttermost farthing was to be the sum of the payment to be exacted from him; he did not rebel against the conviction he suffered. "I will never give up seeking her, though I don't believe I shall ever see her face again," he would say to Yeldham, when his friend strove to encourage him, to exhort him to a hope he himself was far from feeling.
 
Yeldham answered Miss Burton's letter, thanking her warmly for her good wishes, and the precaution she had taken in their behalf; and then he had nothing more to do--the weary waiting had to be resumed.
 
Many were the councils held by the three friends, as the days, which resembled each other only too closely to him, to whom not one of them brought hope or relief, passed by. Robert had returned to Brixton shortly after the arrival of Miss Burton's letter, and had improved since then in health. The demands of society on Gordon Frere were not quite so insatiable as in his bachelor days; and many a long summer evening found the friends together, sometimes on the river, sometimes in some quiet country nook, a little railway-run from town, and secluded as a desert; but oftener still in Yeldham's chambers.
 
Robert was a busy man again, to a certain extent; though now he worked for others, in a subordinate position, which seemed to hurt his pride but little, if at all. "I can't live in idleness on my mother, Charley," he said; "and--and if I never see her face again"--that sentence in her letter haunted him--"I should like to leave her something."
 
Charles Yeldham encouraged Robert in these resolves, and had the satisfaction of seeing him become more tranquil and cheerful, when with him. He had always the gratification of knowing that to others he never afforded an indication of the suffering of his mind.
 
"You are clear, then, Charley," said Gordon Frere on one occasion, when he had "run up to town" from Middlemeads--they were living there now, and it was late in the autumn--"you are clear, then, that there is nothing, positively nothing, to be done? She is certainly not within the limits of the United Kingdom; for I am confident we have fished out every mortal creature she ever knew, intimately or slightly, and no one has heard of her directly or indirectly."
 
"I am perfectly clear on that point, Gordon. The case stands thus: we have exhausted all private sources of information known to us, and must now wait until some others discover themselves. Mrs. Stanbourne is keenly interested in our success, and she has access to such foreign information as we could not command. The only other likely clue is that secured to us, in case of its usefulness, by Miss Burton. I have always maintained that this was not a case for detective work; because, in the first place, it would not avail; and in the second, Katharine never would pardon the employment of such means. The fatal loss of time at first--the only time in which detective work is ever good for any thing--disposes of that resource, if no other objection existed. Robert, Lady Henmarsh, and myself having concluded, most naturally, that she had gone to Mrs. Stanbourne, the trail was effectually lost before we knew that we were mistaken. She had more than time to hide herself, long before it ever occurred to us that she intended concealment; for you must remember, Gordon, the desperate defiance of her letter to Robert by no means necessarily implied that."
 
"You are sure she had no other friends abroad but Mrs. Stanbourne and Miss Burton--no friends among foreigners, I mean?"
 
"Quite certain. Lady Henmarsh knows; and indeed Katharine had told Robert herself that she had never been abroad for more than a fortnight, or farther than Paris, till their marriage, and she knew no foreigners."
 
"Where did they go to after the marriage?" asked Gordon.
 
"To Switzerland. But they returned very soon, and did very little tourist business, I fancy; for Katharine had a severe illness at Martigny, which upset all their plans. No, no; there's not a chance in that direction. Robert and I have not left an incident undiscussed, not a speculation untried."
 
And they believed so. But one individual connected with their stay at Martigny had entirely escaped Robert's memory and mention. Had he remembered Dr. Hudson, however, it would never have occurred to him that in that direction any help could lie. He knew nothing of the profession and the promise with which the doctor and his beautiful patient had parted.
 
So, like the children in their games of hide and-seek, Gordon had unconsciously strayed near to the concealed treasure of knowledge when he asked his careless question, but had wandered away again--no hint given, no warning cry, "You burn! you burn!"
CHAPTER VI.  HESTER IN POSSESSION.
 Time went on, and Robert Streightley received no fresh intelligence to guide him to the one object for which he now cared to live. The terrible disappointment of the hopes inspired by the only suggestion he had received had utterly prostrated him; and now, even the revived conviction that news of her must come in some way, that though he might never see her again, this cloud of absolute ignorance of her fate must drift away--had yielded to the slow influence of the passing days. Charles Yeldham had succeeded in inducing him to be calm and quiet; in convincing him that no means of discovering what he wanted to find out should be neglected; and that the best way to insure success was to allow some time to elapse, after which Katharine's precautions would probably relax of themselves. Robert knew his friend's zeal and fidelity; and in his depressed state of mind, and weakened condition of bodily health, he was obliged, and thankful, to rest in that knowledge, and security, not indeed from his sorrow, but from exertion on his own part. He had once more begun to tax his intellectual energies by application to business; and the former habits of his life were regaining their dominion over him. He had resumed his residence in his mother's house at Brixton, without the smallest regret for the luxurious abode he had quitted. He had regarded all the surroundings of the brief period of display and luxury which had succeeded to his marriage with perfect indifference on his own account, and now he forgot them. He was to all outward appearance, in habits and tastes, the same man who had gone City-wards from the same house, year after year, before the brilliant interruption; the difference was unseen, undiscernible by any eyes but those of the Father of Spirits.
 
It is probable that at this time Mrs. Streightley was as happy as she had ever been in all her blameless but uninteresting life. She did not care much about public repute, except in the sense of the impugnment of commercial honesty; and as Robert's character stood as high as ever, in spite of his pecuniary disasters, she cared not at all that the world should talk about his domestic affairs. The world which did so talk was not her world. Brixton and Clapham, the Pratts and the Perkinses, the "connection," and the ministers thereof, said little about the separation between her son and his beautiful "high-flying" wife, and that little had a consolatory tendency; for these good people seemed to think Robert's eternal prospects improved by the occurrence, and it was no part of their creed to trouble themselves about those of Katharine. The old lady had her son with her again; the former routine was resumed: if Robert was unhappy, he did not show it; and she could not understand how he could fret after a woman who had never been a wife to him,--"not what I call a wife, at least," she would say, on the very rare occasions when she mentioned the matter. She was a good woman in her way; but she essentially belonged to the narrow-minded order of human beings, and was quite incapable of realising the fact that though she had seen nothing to like, and little even to admire, in Katharine, her son had seen in her all the value and the glory of life to him, and was living, under her kind, motherly, but unobservant eyes, a broken-hearted man.
 
Ellen, whose weakness of character rendered her amiability and her enthusiasm almost valueless, had begun to forget Katharine. She had been charmed by her beauty and kindness, but she had always felt a little restrained, a little puzzled by her; and as she had never thought of applying such intellect as she possessed to the solution of the puzzle, it had remained, to make her uncomfortable. From the first Katharine's flight had been a silent subject between her brother and her; and by degrees Ellen had ceased to think of it much, and the image of her sister-in-law had become faint in her memory. Besides, the Rev. Decimus had always decidedly disapproved of her; and he had improved the occasion, entirely to his own satisfaction, and very nearly to Ellen's conviction, by his eloquent exposition of the dangers of riches, the snares of fashion, the undesirableness of beauty, and the enormity of self-will. The reverend gentleman, who was a good creature in his small way, had one or two defects of character, not altogether unknown in his class. He was uncharitable in his judgments, and implacable--piously so, of course, and with the utmost deprecation of such a sentiment--in his resentments. Robert's marriage had been distasteful to his brother-in-law elect from every point of view, personal and professional; and he had never been able to perceive the slightest concession to his influence on the part of Katharine; indeed he felt perfectly certain that on the few occasions of their meeting she had never remembered his existence, after giving him the prescribed bow or word of recognition. If he could have believed that Mrs. Streightley had disliked or feared him or his doctrines, he would have been far less bitter against her than he really, though secretly, was;--for he mourned over her in the true unctuous style of self-exaltation, and depreciation of the sinner, familiar to "professors" of his sort;--he would then have been enabled to poser en martyre, a sufferer of contumely for conscience' sake; and great would have been his reward in Brixton and Clapham circles, where Katharine was utterly unknown, except as an object of holy detraction and affected pity, in the days of her pride and prosperity. But no such resource was open to Mr. Dutton; he knew perfectly well that Mrs. Streightley had never thought of him, had never formed any opinion about him at all; that he had simply been completely indifferent to her. Strange are the complications of human nature, the self-delusions of the best among us. Here was a really good man, disinterested, zealous, perfectly sincere; a man indifferent to wealth (except for missionary purposes), and with whom Ellen Streightley outweighed in attraction the whole of womankind; a man to whom the smallest, the most transient infidelity, either as lover or husband, would have been as impossible as picking a pocket or forging a bill--filled with resentment because a woman, a rich and beautiful woman, had shown herself politely oblivious of him. And he a clergyman too! Ah, there was the rub--the egotism of the good creature was a divided egotism, after all; he could not understand feminine indifference to the cloth! His experiences were partly Polynesian, and partly Claphamite, and he judged, as he lived, according to his lights.
 
When the Rev. Decimus, then, spoke of Katharine with solemn horror, as an utterly lost sheep, and without the slightest suggestion that it was any body's business to follow her into the wilderness and bring her back, Ellen listened to him with her usual adoring respect, and made no protest. As her future husband, and a clergyman in esse, Decimus was doubly a law to her; and obedience was as deep-seated in Ellen's nature as revolt is in that of some women. Her curiosity respecting the cause of Katharine's flight, the "cause of complaint" against her brother which Robert had assigned, without explaining, remained in her mind long after her sorrow and her affection for the lost sheep had subsided. There was not the least probability that it would ever be gratified; and she began to take the view of the matter insinuated by Mr. Dutton, though he had not the smallest grounds for such a conjecture, and was innocent of intentional slander in the suggestion. "Rely upon it, Ellen," he had said, "Robert's generosity leads him to shelter his unhappy wife from additional disgrace, by assuming the blame of this wretched business himself. I daresay he made some discovery concerning her former life--the life of a worldling and an unbeliever, my dearest, has no doubt always disgraceful secrets in it--and this is the result. Your brother is very generous, and I am sure capable of such a sacrifice."
 
This was quite a new idea to Ellen, and it took some time to absorb; but at length she said, with a little air of wisdom:
 
"Well, but, Decimus, in that case he would know where she is, and all about her."
 
"And how do you know that he does not know? He never says a word on the subject, does he? I think I understood from you that he never mentioned her since he came back to live here."
 
"O no, never; not to mamma even, or to old Alice. He has never once pronounced her name. My reason for thinking he does not know any thing about her is because Hester says she feels sure he does not, and that he and his friends--friends we know nothing about--are making every effort to find out where she is."
 
"Mrs. Frere is always right, to be sure; but in this case, I think, she would be certain to know it positively, if such were the case. Frere would know it--he is so great a friend and ally of Robert--and he would tell her. No, no, Ellen; on this point I stick to my own opinion." Which was, indeed, the reverend gentleman's habit in all matters wherein he differed from his fellow-creatures.
 
Mr. Dutton's dislike of Katharine Streightley was only exceeded by his regard for Hester Frere. This sentiment, like all his sentiments, was entirely disinterested, and had sprung into existence long before Hester had taken any active interest in his affairs. According to her usual wise custom, Miss Gould had made herself agreeable to her friend's lover before she was in a position which enabled her to patronise him; and he had conceived a genuine liking for her, into which the element of gratitude was now introduced. Hester had brought her common-sense, her unfailing tact, and her powers of deferential persuasion to bear upon Ellen's betrothed respecting the missionary question; and as she understood the good little man's weaknesses as well as she understood his narrow sincerity and stupid zeal, she came out of the discussion with entire success. Mr. Dutton was brought to recognise the force of the reasoning which maintained that English savages are as well worth saving as Polynesian savages, and that the labour implied in the task is at least as arduous, and considerably more repulsive. Hester had her own notions as to his fitness for either task; but she kept them to herself, being supremely indifferent to the spiritual welfare of the world on either side of the Equator. "I daresay his parishioners won't swallow his doctrines," she said to herself contentedly; "but then neither will they swallow his wife." And she derived very great satisfaction from the promptitude and skill with which Mr. Thacker had executed the commission intrusted to him, before the great absorbing interest of this woman's life had arisen, to overpower every other. A living had been found in a situation which almost realised the conditions prescribed by Hester, and the marriage of Ellen and Decimus was to take place immediately.
 
To this, as to most other external circumstances, Robert was indifferent; he had lost his interest in such things now: his only feeling about it was regret that he could not give his sister a large dowry, as he had once hoped to do. He had been consulted in a formal way by both Decimus and Ellen, and he had agreed to all their plans; then, his duty being done, he turned away again, and fed upon his sorrow in silence,--in a silence growing submissive, full of repentance and humility. His sin had found him out, and the chastisement was heavy upon him; but Robert was discerning more and more clearly that the hand which was dealing it was God's hand, and he was learning to kiss the rod. Very, very slowly were these lessons learned: the progress of the human soul in the school of the wisdom which is not of this world, is never rapid; but neither is it ever arrested, turned aside, or ineffectual.
 
 
The long winter, the bright spring, the gay summer had twice come and gone, since that November day which had witnessed Katharine's flight, and the rich tints of autumn were upon the beautiful beechwoods of Middlemeads. The place that was to know her no more, never again to be adorned by her graceful presence or enlivened by her beauty, was, to all outward appearance, not a whit the worse for the privation. It was still splendid, still luxurious, still gay; still the home of youth and beauty, of fashion and frivolity. It was Hester Frere's home now; and Gordon was master of the house from which the woman whom he had loved and lost had turned resolutely away, to be lost in utter obscurity. He thought of this at times with keen pain; for a change had passed upon him too, and he was more serious than he had been; which seriousness his wife marked, and, assigning to it as a primary cause one which was but secondary, bitterly resented. Gordon had learned with displeasure as well as astonishment that his wife was the possessor of Middlemeads; the "profitable investment" had no charms for him to counterbalance the unpleasantness and what he felt to be the difficulty of such a position. But what could he do? His wife's friendship with the Streightleys was no reason why she should not live at Middlemeads, since it was evident that not one of those concerned had any notion that her living there was any offence to that friendship. The real reason against it was confined to his knowledge, and must not be imparted to his wife. Had he arbitrarily crossed her wishes, he would have been gratuitously unkind, and that it was not in Gordon's nature to be; and so he went to Middlemeads against his will, and remained there, deriving very moderate pleasure from the abode, and feeling that the coldness and restraint which had sprung up between him and Hester since the occasion of their conversation about Katharine were inexplicably increased by the possession of the place.
 
Since that memorable night Katharine's name had never been spoken between them. Hester knew that her husband and Robert Streightley were much more intimate than they had previously been; and this knowledge fed the jealous passion which devoured her. "They meet to talk of her, these two men whom she took from me," she would think; and her once-powerful and well-trained common-sense failed to come to her aid here, when her need was at its utmost. She would have been desperately angry had she known that Gordon had told Robert his objection to living at Middlemeads, and that it was Robert who had quieted his scruples.
 
"Don't mind about me, Frere," Robert had said. "What does it matter to me? I could never see the place again, you know; and it makes no difference to me who lives there. Hester always liked it, I remember; and I am glad to think she has it now. I am indeed, Frere; I am, upon my honour."
 
And he was. All this was only a trifle, a secondary point of delicacy, a nothing; it had no influence upon his fate, it did not wound his feelings; the calamity that had come upon him left him no sensitiveness to spare for minor suffering. He never saw Hester now; but that was accident, not design: he had not the remotest notion that she had any meaning in his life beyond the trifling meaning she had always had; he never thought of her at all, indeed. When she was in town Ellen was much with her, he knew; and he also knew that she had procured the living whose charms had diverted Decimus from those of black heathendom; he knew that Ellen was to pass some time with her at Middlemeads in the autumn; but that was all. It had occurred to him to wonder a little how Ellen would feel at Middlemeads without Katharine. But Robert knew his sister; and he smiled at the passing thought, and at himself.
 
So Hester was in possession. The dream she had dreamed had become a reality. She was mistress of Middlemeads, owner of the home of her unconscious enemy, and of the possessions which had belonged to the man who had preferred another before her. More than this, she was the wife of the man her enemy had loved--still loved, perhaps: she had no clue to Katharine's thoughts, no power to read the change which time had wrought in her. Was ever revenge so safe, so sure as hers? was ever revenge so complete? And it had not compromised her in the least: she was all the richer in money, and none the poorer in friends; she could talk of Mrs. Streightley with polite pity, and if by any extraordinary chance the fugitive should ever again come to the surface of society, she could even meet her, unsuspected, unrebuked. Truly her success had been marvellous, her good fortune and her good management unsurpassed; and her secret was so entirely her own. A little impetuousness, the least loss of self-control, and she might have betrayed herself to Thacker. (Hester was quite unconscious of the tone in which she had spoken in the church-porch on the occasion of Robert's marriage.) But she had never lost her self-control; and he knew nothing. Supposing him to suspect, what matter? she dreaded not suspicion, but knowledge.
 
Hester was happy, then. Happy in her wealth, her popularity, her authority, in her success and prosperity. Happy, as she sat with Lady Henmarsh, who was clad in the deepest and glossiest of widow's weeds, having been disembarrassed of Sir Timothy by the kind hand of death early in the preceding spring, and was now enjoying Hester's hospitality, which she proposed to enjoy as fully and for as long a period as possible. The scene suggested happiness. The two ladies were seated at the large French window of the room which the former mistress of Middlemeads had occupied as a dressing-room, and which was furnished in a style at once sumptuous and tasteful; yet it was not furnished as in Katharine's time. The conservatory, with the fountain and the marble floor, the aviary, and the flight of marble steps by which the Italian garden was to be reached, were there, but the "Lady-Kilmantan" hangings and furniture, the subject of Mrs. Stanbourne's remonstrance with Katharine, had disappeared. Hester, consistent even in the novel defects she was acquiring, had sent all these things to Ellen's future home. She would dissociate herself as far as possible from Katharine,--her private rooms should bear no trace of her; but she would make a judicious use of articles of property, notwithstanding Gordon noticed the alteration, and gave his wife offence by doing so.
 
"Didn't you like the blue-and-silver things in your dressing-room, Hester? I thought them very pretty."
 
"No," she answered shortly; "blue is horribly unbecoming to me. I have not a faultless fair complexion, you know."
 
"I didn't know complexion had any influence on the choice of furniture," said Gordon, smiling, and quite unconscious of the feelings his careless remark had excited.
 
"Didn't you? No, I don't suppose men understand those things. Read the Duchesse d'Abrantes, and you'll be wiser."
 
The obnoxious blue-and-silver had been replaced by the freshest and prettiest of chintzes; and the apartment, if less splendid, was even more elegant and inviting. Traces of Hester's intellectual tastes were to be seen about it; and Hester herself was no insignificant ornament. The development of her beauty had been steadily going on, and now the new mistress of Middlemeads need not have greatly feared competition with the former. With all the accessories of wealth and refinement around her, Hester Frere was a beautiful woman to the most critical eye--more beautiful indeed to the critical than to the careless; for hers was the beauty of form and expression, the accuracy of feature and symmetry of form, the correct loveliness which is less sympathetic but more satisfying than the lighter, more brilliant, and more striking kinds of beauty.
 
"And you actually had Mr. Thacker's sisters down here for a month, Hester? How very good of you! Were they very dreadful?"
 
Hester smiled. "You forget," she said, "that I lived all my life among similar people, and am of them. You can't expect me to admit that they are dreadful."
 
"O, I know all that; you need not talk like that to me, Hester, or pretend that you ever were like the Thacker girls. They are like human peonies. I shall never forget Rebecca's parasol, with a pink-coral handle, and her opera-cloak with amber buttons."
 
"They are very fond of bright colours and jewelry, certainly. I don't dispute that, or hope to correct it; but they are old friends, and I am very constant to them."
 
"So you are to all friends, Hester, and in that wonderfully unlike most women of the world; and you know the world as well as any one, I think. But talking of old friends and constancy, what about that silly girl Streightley's sister, that Katharine, and you too, Hester, bored one to death with last year?"
 
"She is coming to me shortly, to stay with me while Gordon goes to the Scotch moors; and I shall keep her until we go to town. Then she is to be married early in the winter."
 
"Indeed!" said Lady Henmarsh in a dissatisfied tone, which referred to the earlier portion of the reply. "I wonder her brother likes her coming here; it must be rather awkward for her, and for him too."
 
"O no, I think not," replied Hester quickly, and with a slight change of colour. "She does not mind, I am sure."
 
"That's well," said Lady Henmarsh. "Do you see much of poor Streightley? I have not heard of him for an age. I never can get over his unfeeling conduct to poor Ned Guyon. I know all about it, you know; for Ned wrote me every thing--refusing him money when he was on the brink of ruin; horrid, wasn't it? So I really know nothing of him. I suppose, nothing has been heard of that unfortunate mad woman?"
 
"Mad woman! Why do you call Mrs. Streightley a mad woman, Lady Henmarsh?" asked Hester with surprise.
 
Lady Henmarsh was rather confused. She felt she must make some reply, and she did not know exactly how to make a judicious one, for she had forgotten for a moment the strange complication in the position of the woman she was speaking of, and that of the woman she was speaking to.
 
"Well, really," she answered awkwardly, "you have only to look round you and out of window for an answer. No sane woman would run away from such a home as this, I presume."
 
"But she could not have remained here," said Hester; "Mr. Streightley's affairs were embarrassed before she went away."
 
"Yes; but then she did not know it," said Lady Henmarsh. "I suspected always that she knew nothing about her husband's affairs; and Streightley admitted that she did not. No, no, worse luck for him; he declares that it was his own fault that she left him; and I know Katharine well. She has, as her poor father used to say, 'a devil of a temper;' and she is as proud as Lucifer, and gave me an immense deal of trouble; but I am perfectly sure, if she had known the truth, and the trouble Streightley was in, she would have forgiven him."
 
"Forgiven him what, Lady Henmarsh? Do you know?--did he ever tell you?"
 
"No, never. He only said he was to blame--that she had a cause of complaint against him;--you know exactly what he said. However, she is the chief sufferer by her folly, and it is no concern of ours."
 
Hester was a remarkably keen observer, even where she was much less interested than, since her fatal revelation of her jealousy to Gordon Frere, she had been about every thing which concerned Katharine; and her quick observation now revealed to her that Lady Henmarsh knew more than she was willing to tell, and was very anxious to conceal her knowledge. She did not allow her discovery to appear; and soon after the two ladies separated to dress for dinner.
 
An hour later Mrs. Frere stood at one of the windows of the long drawing-room, gazing thoughtfully out with eyes that took no heed of the objects they saw. She was beautifully dressed in sheeny satin and soft rich lace; she looked proud, composed, and beautiful; and the thoughts she was thinking were these:
 
"She will know sooner or later that misfortunes have come on him, and she will return. Then Gordon will see her again, when the little love he ever gave me is dead; when he has become her husband's friend; when there is no confidence between him and me--and she has been the means of its withdrawal. Yes, it was she, not myself, not my betrayal of my feelings--how could I help that? how could any wretched creature like me avoid that?--it was she! he is always thinking of her. What is his friendship for Robert but love of her? I know he works for him; he goes to him whenever he goes to town; and ah, how often he goes! He does not like this place--I can see it--because it ought to be hers--forsooth, ought to be hers! and bought with my money. But he does not care for my money, and he does not care for me. I wish--I wish I was dead!"
 
You see Hester's success had been complete; and the mistress of Middlemeads, reigning in her rival's stead, must needs be perfectly happy.
CHAPTER VII.  A SPLIT IN THE CAMP.
 Town was getting empty, and business of every kind was getting slack, so that it chanced one day that Mr. Yeldham found himself writing letters at abnormal hours, and with no very pressing engagements on hand. He was just thinking what a pleasant thing a little leisure, not too pronounced, was, when his clerk rushed in, and announced "Mr. Thacker."
 
"You're surprised to see me, Mr. Yeldham," said Thacker, as, after a quick survey of the apartment, he sat himself calmly down in a chair by Yeldham's desk.
 
"Well--if you ask the question--yes," said Charley with perfect coolness.
 
"And not too well pleased, perhaps?"
 
"I should have left you to say that, in any case, Mr. Thacker. I presume you come to me on business. Have the goodness to explain its nature."
 
Charley Yeldham had not been gifted by nature with great powers of making himself disagreeable, but on this occasion he exerted all he possessed.
 
"I always heard you were a cool hand, Mr. Yeldham," said Thacker, in admiration, "and I find they did not say a bit too much. You don't mind my smoking a cigar, do you, while I stop?"
 
"Not in the least," replied Mr. Yeldham, with immovable gravity, "if you find smoking conducive to the despatch of business."
 
Mr. Thacker looked at him with an unmoved expression of countenance, and Yeldham began to experience a strong inclination to kick him. He restrained it, however, and kept his seat and his countenance, while Mr. Thacker lighted a peculiarly fine cigar by the aid of a peculiarly fine light-box which hung from his prodigious watch-chain.
 
"I allow all that," said Mr. Yeldham; "so, Mr. Thacker, fire away."
 
 
"You wonder what brings me here," said Thacker, settling himself into his chair; "but you'll wonder a great deal more when I tell you. I suppose you think I'm not particularly friendly to your friend Streightley, eh?"
 
"I didn't think about it one way or the other," said the imperturbable Yeldham.
 
"But you knew that I held the mortgages on most part of his property--that place down in the country where the Freres are living, and his town-house--you knew I held those, and that it was I who mainly helped to sell him up?"
 
"Yes, I knew that; but as I also knew that gentlemen in your profession were men of business, and not usually swayed by sentiment, I did not see much to wonder at in the proceeding. I imagine any one else would have done the same."
 
"You're complimentary to what you call my profession--you are, by George! but that's neither here nor there. Suppose--I only say suppose--that I've had little or nothing to do with any of Streightley's money transactions; that though I've conducted them and carried them out; though he has had my cheques for the cash, and I've had his signature to the deeds--suppose all the time that I've not been acting for myself, but merely as agent to a third party, who wanted to lay their claws on R.S. What do you think of that? Ah! I thought I'd make you look interested at last."
 
"This is true, Mr. Thacker? you're not romancing, or trying to trot me out in any way, are you?"
 
"As true as that I'm sitting before you at this present moment."
 
"Then I must ask why, having kept up the delusion so long, you come here now to disclose it? The motive requires a little elucidation, Mr. Thacker. It's not spontaneous penitence, I suppose?"
 
"Of course I know you'll want to know the motive," replied Mr. Thacker, daintily removing the cigar from his full red lips, and as daintily replacing it, wholly unmoved by Yeldham's observation; "and I'll tell you. Because I've been badly treated by my principal--ah, you smile and shrug your shoulders! the usual 'discharged servant's' tactics, you think. Only understand, I discharged myself."
 
"I must ask you to be more explicit, Mr. Thacker. I have no time for circumlocution. In the first place, who is your principal?"
 
"That's coming home at once," said Mr. Thacker; "but I don't mind. Miss Hester Gould that was--Mrs. Gordon Frere that is."
 
Even Charles Yeldham's placid equanimity--placid by nature, more placid by training--gave way under his astonishment at this revelation, and Thacker's quick ears heard him mutter "The devil!" under his breath.
 
"Ah! I thought that would astonish you," he said triumphantly. "You're not one of those that have much to learn, Mr. Yeldham; but there are very few people of my acquaintance that I couldn't wake up one way or another, I fancy. Yes, sir, that lady is my principal. Her husband don't know or care much about business, I daresay, and so much the better--a good fellow, I daresay; but soft, sir--soft."
 
"And so Mrs. Frere is your principal, Mr. Thacker," said Yeldham, after a moment's pause, to recover his equanimity, "and was her friend's principal creditor, eh? Well, well, that's strange enough. And you and she don't put your horses together now? What can have made you agree to differ?"
 
"You've a very insinuating manner, Mr. Yeldham. It's a pity you're not in the courts instead of in chamber practice. You'd get it out of them wonderfully there. But it's only due to myself to tell you that I see your every move, and that I should not tumble to it in the least if I had not previously made up my mind to have it all out."
 
Charles Yeldham smiled and bowed, and Mr. Thacker proceeded.
 
"You know these women don't understand business; and because it had suited my book, for other than mere monetary reasons"--and here he settled his cravat and looked conscious--"to do work for Miss Gould, she began to look upon me as a mere clerk. She forgot, tins young woman, that while she was a poor governess, glad enough to come up to Hampstead and have tea with my sisters, I was one of the leading financiers of the West-end. She forgot that in my bureau I had the names of half the peerage on stamped paper; that I dined here, and lunched there; and was hand-and-glove with some of the best men in London. She forgot that--I see you grinning, Yeldham; and all this time that I'm swaggering you're waiting to get at the story. Well, I'll tell it you as shortly as I can. You're too well posted up in these matters not to know that a tremendous smash like that in the City two years ago could not have passed over without touching most of us at the West-end. We've been all of us under the harrow, more or less, ever since; and I found it hard work to pull up the losses of that time. I just did that, however, and no more. But there are two or three affairs in which I'm largely interested, which have been excellent, and which will be better still, only just at this particular moment they want a little bolstering. All I could do for them I have done; but a lot of my money was still locked up, and I knew that these things only wanted backing to be splendid investments. So, a short time ago, I went to our friend Mrs. F., and told her all about it; took her a sheet of paper full of figures--women always like that; most of 'em can't understand 'em, but she can--and went thoroughly into it with her; proved that it would be a good thing for her, and urged it as a personal favour to myself. Damme, sir, she refused to have any thing to do with it!"
 
Mr. Thacker brought down his fist upon the table with a bang. Then, seeing Mr. Yeldham was not particularly moved, he went on. "I was not to be beaten at the first go off; so, after she had spoken, I asked her, if she would not go into the matter herself, whether she would let me have the money--of course on unexceptionable security. She refused point-blank; and when pressed to give her reasons, said she did not want to go into any more speculations. I never saw a woman so altered in my life. I don't know what the devil has come over her--gone mad on her money, I suppose. I don't know what induced me to say it,--I can generally manage to take these things quietly enough,--but I was a little bit annoyed, I suppose; but, at all events, I did say, 'This is not quite the manner in which you answered me when I proposed to you to take that mortgage on Middlemeads, Mrs. Frere.' The words were hardly out of my mouth when she turned round on me as quick as lightning, and said, 'You think of nothing but the interest on your money. I had another motive in that investment.' 'And that was--?' I asked. 'To serve my--my own purposes,' she replied. 'I had a long-standing account to settle with Robert Streightley, and that was the method I chose of doing it.' You would not have liked the expression of my lady's face when she said this. For the first time in her life she seemed to drop the mask. I saw her eyes glowing, her lips livid; and then I felt certain of what I had always suspected."
 
"And that was--?"
 
"That when she was down on her luck, and intimate with his people, she had really intended to make Robert Streightley marry her; and that when she found he did not care for her, and eventually married Miss Guyon, she determined to be revenged on them both."
 
"Certainly, Mr. Thacker, your boast of being able to tell strange things is fulfilled in the present instance. I had no idea of this."
 
"How should you have? But it's fact, nevertheless; take my word for it. I suppose I let on by the expression of my face--for she is as downy as a cat--that I had spotted her game; for she tried in every possible way to wriggle out of what she had said. 'Middlemeads was such a good investment.' 'Money wasn't so scarce then.' 'In these times one ought to be particularly careful,' &c. &c. But I wasn't to be put off with any such humbug as that; I just asked her plainly once more, whether she would make the advances I suggested, on the security I offered; and when she again decidedly refused, I took up my hat and wished her good morning. And I took my oath, as I crossed her hall-mat, that I'd go out of my way to do her a bad turn; and, as luck would have it, now I'm able to do it without going out of my way."
 
"That is splendid! we're really coming to it!"
 
"You're still chaffing me, Mr. Yeldham. I might have told you that interest in Streightley was the sole motive for my coming here to tell you what I am going to tell you presently, whereas I don't disguise for a minute that the hope of doing Mrs. Frere a bad turn entirely governs me in the matter. I thought at first that what would annoy her most would be to see Streightley's business doing well again. And, mind you, that could be very easily managed. He came out of his troubles with a high character, and money is getting plenty. There are heaps of fellows who, from old respect and friendship, would come forward to help to put Robert Streightley on his legs again. I'd do my little share--from another motive. I thought of that plan; I've got it all down in detail at home; it may be of use some day; but in the mean time something else has turned up which looks infinitely more promising, in the way of sticking a dagger into my lady's breast."
 
"Don't soar into metaphor again, Mr. Thacker, please. It delays your point most confoundedly."
 
"That Streightley is ruined--partly by her act--is nuts to her, but nothing like such nuts as that his wife has left him. She and that old cat Lady What-do-you-call her--Marsh something--have talked that poor girl over ever since,--regular old Tabby that Lady Thingammy,--and so I changed my mind, and thought to myself, 'No; nothing would make Mrs. Frere so wild as to see Mrs. Streightley restored to, and happy with, her husband;' and I determined I'd do my best to carry that idea into effect."
 
"My good fellow, you only determined what all of us have determined and tried, but without the smallest possible result."
 
Mr. Thacker settled his elbows comfortably on the table, and replied in a tone of easy confidence:
 
"Ye-es; that's exactly the difference between me and 'all of us.' But listen to me, and I will show you I have come here on no fool's errand. You know that, pending the great gathering together of all of us at Jerusalem, our people are spread over the whole face of the earth. Thus those among us who are well known, or who take a leading part, have ramifications and correspondents in every large city in the world. I myself am in this position; and it was my intention to have set the whole of the machinery in motion, with the view of discovering where Mrs. Streightley lay hidden, when, by a most fortunate accident, I believe I have been spared the trouble, and have at once accomplished my end."
 
"God grant it!" said Yeldham earnestly. "But how? how?"
 
"You must let me tell my story in my own way, and this part of it involves rather a lengthened explanation. When I was a lad, my bosom-friend was a boy of my own age named Hartmann. He was of German origin; but his family had been for a long time settled in this country, and he and I were sworn chums. I do not know why; I never could make out why, except perhaps"--and here Mr. Thacker set his teeth, while the colour mounted into his cheeks--"except perhaps that we were both Jews; and the other boys stood aloof from us, and used to chaff and call us names. D--n 'em! I've made some of 'em pay for that fun since. There was nothing else in common between young Hartmann and me. I was always pushing and energetic, looking to the main chance, and doing all I could to make something out of every body; while he was a dreamy, quiet kind of fellow, with no interest for any thing in the world but music. He was a wonderful musician. By George! sometimes even now, when I'm in a quiet mood, and get thinking of him, I fancy I hear the sounds that he used to draw out of his violin. There he would sit, scraping away hour after hour in play-time; so that when we left school, which we did about the same time, he'd had great practice for such a young chap, and was quite a proficient. His friends talked about getting him into a house of business; but I knew how much that would do. When you've got what your friends call artistic, and your enemies Bohemian tendencies, you had better give way to 'em at once, for they'll prevent your settling down to any thing else, and they're sure to claim you in the end. Poor Nat Hartmann prayed so hard to be allowed to follow his bent, that his friends never attempted to struggle with him; and he went off, very soon after leaving school, to some connections of his family at Vienna, where he was to finish his musical education. He was not long absent before we had news of him. He was in the highest spirits, making excellent progress. Then he wrote that he had been noticed by the Emperor, and taken into the Imperial private band, of which, in about three years, he became leader. His name began to be known in musical circles, and his arrival in England was announced for the approaching season. Then suddenly there came a rumour that he was under a cloud--how or why we could never ascertain. I wrote to him twice or thrice; but my letters were unanswered, and I gave it up in despair.
 
"It must have been ten years after this, that, one night as I was coming out of the Opera, I felt a gentle pull at my coat, and, turning round, I saw Nat Hartmann. I knew him in an instant, though he was utterly changed from my friend of years before. All his colour was gone; his face was thin and pinched and haggard; his eyes sunk deep in his head; his lips, which had been so full and ruddy, were now thin and pallid. I stepped aside to satisfy myself that it was he; then I made him get into my brougham, and drove him to my rooms. To my dying day I shall never forget that man's appearance as he stood in his thin, wretched clothes, under the lamplight; I shall never forget the manner in which he rushed to the fireplace, knelt down on the rug, and spread out his transparent hands to the blaze; I shall never forget the manner in which he gulped down the wine which I handed to him, or the ravenous way in which he tore at the food. When he had eaten and drank, had warmed himself, and nature seemed revived within him, I talked to him, and bit by bit managed to drag from him his story. He was a long time telling it, and it was disconnected and jerky to a degree, interspersed with loud railing at fortune, with sighs and tears, and dolorous ejaculations, and I had a hard task to follow him; but I gleaned from him this: His first downward step had been caused by his having married a Christian girl, a singer at the Grand Opera in Vienna, with whom he fell desperately in love. This had so exasperated his relatives, that after trying, by every means in their power, to prevent the marriage, when they found it had actually taken place, they repudiated him, and did every thing possible to ruin him and his wife. One of the principal Jewish bankers, who had originally introduced Hartmann to the Imperial notice, now became his bitterest enemy, used the influence which had formerly been exerted in the young man's favour to debase him, and finally, under some pretext, got him removed from his position as leader of the Emperor's private band. From that time onward misfortune seemed to have seized him; his wife, after a long illness, died in childbirth, leaving him with one little girl. In his misery he took to drinking, and sunk from bad to worse. One night, while drunk, he struck an officer who had mocked his playing, and, to save his life, fled with his little child to England. He had been in London a week, and had haunted the streets in the hope of meeting me; and the meeting was only just in time, by George! for he and his little child were nearly starved.
 
"This is a long story, but it's pretty nearly over now. Of course I did what was possible to be done for this poor fellow; I gave him money and clothes, and sent him to the doctor, and all that; but he was very proud in all his misery, and would not accept what he called 'charity,' but insisted upon working for his living. Poor Nat, poor fellow! the drink had ruined him, mind and body--all his crisp touch, all his wonderful execution, gone, sir, gone never to return; but he could still play the fiddle very decently, better than most, at any rate; so I spoke to Wuff and some operatic people I knew, and got him playing at concerts and theatres, and that sort of thing. But it didn't last long; the drink had done its work, and he could not get on without stimulants; when he got ill again, and broke up suddenly, sending for me when he was on his death-bed, and imploring me to take care of his little girl--his little Louise. I promised readily enough, for she was a sweet little child, and I had always been fond of her; and as soon as we had buried the poor fellow, I sent the girl over to a school in Paris, intending to have her brought up as a governess; but with a splendid violinist for her father, and a first-rate opera-singer for her mother, it wasn't to be expected that she'd go in for steady respectability, though she's as good a girl as ever breathed; moreover she inherits her mother's voice, and I believe--from what I hear from friends of mine over there, who know all about this kind of thing--that she'll some day be a splendid singer, and astonish the world. So, when all these representations were made to me, I could not hold out any longer; and when Louise left school, eighteen months ago, I got her admitted as a pupil at the Conservatoire; and there she is working away, and I'm told is getting on gloriously. Was getting on gloriously, I should say, up to within the last month; but she has been very ill, poor child, and that has pulled her down, and put her back; and--that's exactly what I'm coming to. I daresay you've been horribly bored up to this point, Mr. Yeldham; but I think when I've finished, you'll say it was worth your listening to."
 
"Only you carry out the hopes you've raised, Mr. Thacker, and you may depend upon it I won't complain," said Yeldham.
 
"Well, I had been wondering that I had not heard from this girl. She must be sixteen or seventeen now, and she writes most capital letters. I assure you, when I'm regularly dry and stoney with business, feel as if I was stuccoed all over like, one of this girl's letters refreshes me and cheers me up, and makes me remember there is something else in the world to live for besides money-getting. I had been wondering I had not heard from Louise, when this morning a letter came. In it she told me that she had been very ill with a fever, which had completely prostrated her, and that--but I may as well read this part out to you."
 
Mr. Thacker then produced a letter from his pocket-book, and read the following passage:
 
"You know, my dear guardian, notwithstanding my foreign extraction and half-foreign bringing-up, the horror I have always had of French doctors; and it is certain I should have been left to the mercy of some of these dreadful creatures, if it had not been for Lucy Elliott, who is a fellow-pupil of mine at the Conservatoire, and who knew Dr. Hudson, who is our great English physician over here. She came and saw me when I was first taken ill, and promised to send Dr. Hudson to me. Within an hour he was by my bedside; and I can never express to any one his kindness and attention. He asked me, without the smallest impertinent curiosity, about myself; and when I told him that I was all alone in Paris, and had no relations on whom I could depend, he shook his head, and said it was absolutely necessary that I should have some one to nurse me. I suggested Sister Agatha, who used to come and see us so often at the pension, and who, I know, is a skilled and practised nurse; but Dr. Hudson said he thought he could do better than Sister Agatha for me, and that he would try to get an English widow lady of his acquaintance to come and nurse me."--("Ah, ha! you start, Yeldham, my friend! Hold on a bit, my boy; the scent's only just warming yet; hold on a bit longer.")--"I went to sleep after Dr. Hudson left me; and when I woke that evening I found a stranger sitting by my side. A tall elegant young woman, very young still, but looking as though she had seen a great deal of sorrow; for her beautiful face--I can't explain to you how wonderfully beautiful it is, so calm and classical and statuesque--is marked here and there with deep lines, and there is a gravity about her which I am sure has been brought on by mental suffering. She motioned me to keep silent, and then told me, in O such a sweet voice, that I was to be quite quiet, and that she had come to nurse me and attend upon me, and under God's help get me well again. From that night until now--she has only just gone away, and she will be back this evening, though I scarcely require any assistance now--she has been my best and dearest friend, my nurse, my consoler, my sister. In all that dreadful fever I had the sense of her constant presence, knew the touch of her cool hands to my hot head, recognised the cheering tone of her voice, when, in my pain and misery, I could scarcely see her. To her and my kind Dr. Hudson I owe my life; and as I know, my dear guardian, that you are good enough to prize that life, I am sure you will be grateful to these good friends. And here I come to a point where I require your advice and assistance. I told Dr. Hudson that though I was only a struggling pupil at the Conservatoire, I had connections in England who, I was sure, would take care that his kindness to me was not forgotten. I presumed so much, my dear guardian; for I felt certain that your goodness of heart"--("That's nothing," said Mr. Thacker abruptly; "hem! hem! here it is")--"but now I don't know what to say about Madame Sidney. She is evidently not rich, though a thorough lady born and bred; and I'm sure you will think with me that some recompense should be made her, though what it is to be, and how it is to be managed, I must leave to your better sense and knowledge of the world to suggest. One thing I have discovered, and that is, that this is one of the most trying, if not the most trying, occasions on which Madame Sidney has acted in the capacity of sick nurse; and that discovery I made in this way. When I was first coming into convalescence, when I first had a glimmering of what was passing round me, I heard the doctor say to her, 'Well, I knew I was not mistaken; the child owes her recovery, under Providence, to your care and ceaseless attention. It's your greatest experience; it's the opportunity which you have so much wished for, of showing that you possessed the patience, the energy, and the long-suffering for which you have so long fervently prayed; but all of which I knew were your attributes, when, under different circumstances, neither you nor I thought you would ever be called upon to employ them, for they were not wanted then for others, but they were wanted for yourself,--I mean during that week's illness at Martigny.'"
 
"Stop!" cried Charley Yeldham, bringing his hand down heavily on the table, and then rising and pacing hurriedly up and down the room; "stop! that seems to me to be conclusive."
 
"Ah, ha!" cried Thacker, in exultation; "we're hot at last; we're burning now, ain't we? When I came to that passage in Louise's letter, the whole thing flashed across me. I recollected having heard Streightley talk of his wife's illness at Martigny. I said to myself, 'Here's a go; the lost bird's found!' And in an instant I saw my way--I confess it; I don't go in for any high moral dodges--I saw my way to being revenged on Mrs. Gordon Frere, and to shooting a bolt between the joints of her armour, and hitting her in the very place where she was most vulnerable, and would least like to be hit." And Mr. Thacker looked up in Yeldham's face, and rubbed his hands with the greatest glee.
 
"By Jove, Thacker, I think there's very little doubt about the co-identity of Mrs. Streightley and Madame Sidney," said Yeldham, after a few minutes' deliberation. "It will be a wonderful thing if it turns out so. I never thought that--" and Yeldham stopped.
 
"Never thought that I should be the means of furnishing you with such pleasant information? Never thought that the Jew-discounter could ever do a man a good turn without an ulterior view to his own advantage? That's it, eh? Don't be bashful; speak out."
 
"Not exactly that," said Charley Yeldham. "I am in the habit of speaking out, and so I'll say that I never thought--how could I?--that the man whom we have all regarded as the active agent in Robert Streightley's financial ruin would probably turn out to be the means of securing his domestic happiness."
 
"I hope to God I may!" said Thacker earnestly. "Look here. I don't pretend to be a particularly moral or a strait-laced kind of person; and I acknowledge, as I have done from the first, that my promptings in this matter have been to be revenged on Hester Gould--Mrs. Frere, I mean. But if by any act of mine I could do a good turn to Streightley, whom I believe to be an honourable man and a devilish clever fellow, and to his wife, who is certainly the handsomest woman I know, I--well, it would be a deuced pleasant thing to think over by and by, and I wouldn't let money be any obstacle to my carrying it out."
 
 
"You said I didn't like you, and wasn't pleased to see you, when you came in," said Yeldham, taking Thacker's hand and wringing it. "Put that opinion to the test some day--you'll find yourself mistaken."
 
"That's the ticket," said Mr. Thacker. "And now good-bye, and God speed you! I swear all the notions of revenge on Mrs. F. with which I came here seem to have disappeared, and I can think of nothing now but the chance of having done a good turn to Streightley. Ah, old Shakespeare knew all about it: 'Hath not a Jew what's-his-names'--you remember the quotation."
 
And Mr. Thacker waved his hand jauntily in adieu and left the chambers.
 
As may be readily supposed, Yeldham lost no time in communicating to Robert the main points of Mr. Thacker's valuable information. He kept that gentleman's revelation of the virtuous motives which had animated him strictly to himself; they did not bear upon Robert's interests, and a knowledge of them could only tend to distress him.
 
Robert's agitation was extreme when he learned the unmistakably reliable nature of the clue now placed so unexpectedly in their hands. He remembered the English doctor who had attended Katharine in her illness at Martigny perfectly, and he was desperately vexed and impatient with himself that he had not remembered him sooner. Yeldham did not try to stem the tide of his self-reproach, but he did not set himself very seriously in opposition to Robert's determination, that the evening of the day then passing should see him en route for Paris.
 
"Suppose you find her--and you must remember, Robert, that though most probable, it is not certain--and she positively refuses to see you? What are you to do? You cannot force yourself into her presence. Suppose she learns your intention, and she is resolved to carry out her purpose, she will fly away again, and then we shall be worse off than before. Be guided by me, Robert; let me go in your stead. If I am to succeed, the pleasure will not be lessened; if I am to fail, better I than you. You can trust me, I know; and you know, in the best case, I only precede you by a few hours; in the worst--well--we won't talk of that beyond saying that you'll bear it better coming through me."
 
These arguments and his own secret despondency induced Robert to consent. He was immeasurably grateful to Yeldham for undertaking the task for him; but he said little. He was "not strong," as he was accustomed to say, and easily upset; so Yeldham got up a great deal of unnecessary bustle and discussion to cover his emotion; and, indeed, on this and some other late occasions the lawyer displayed great womanish tact and affectionate cunning. Yeldham could not go that same evening, and the little delay tried Robert; but he strove to hide his impatience; and his friend seconded the effort, and arranged to leave London on the morrow.
 
A short note from Yeldham to Gordon Frere had informed the latter that Charley was about to start for Paris. He had not time to enter into written explanations, and he greatly desired to secure for Robert during his absence the comfort of Gordon's cheerful companionship and invariably hopeful counsel. So he had merely said, "We have got a clue, a safe one this time, so far as finding the person we want goes, and I am off to follow it up. Can you come up for a day or two? I want to see you before I start."
 
Gordon Frere announced his intention of going to town for a few days, immediately after he received this note; but gave no explanation of its motive. He had dropped into habits of the sort of late; and he and his wife were quite a fashionable couple, independent of each other in all their arrangements, and models of courtesy.
 
Having reached the Temple, he found Yeldham in the midst of a vast confusion of books and papers, and, to his great satisfaction, alone. He had rather expected that Robert would be there to the last moment, clinging to his emissary, and urging upon him superfluous entreaties concerning speed and earnestness.
 
Yeldham explained to Gordon briefly and clearly what had happened, merely suppressing Hester's share in Thacker's revelation. He had no inclination to make mischief between Mrs. Frere and her husband, though he could not avoid thinking what a sufficient kind of punishment for her lay ready to his hand, had he chosen to use it. But Yeldham disdained to do so; the woman would be punished by the restoration of her innocent rival to her husband, if such a blessed event were indeed to be; and if it were not--he could not waste a thought on her meanness and her malice. He knew Gordon would not ask for more information than he was disposed to give, and would not take the trouble of looking beneath the surface of any thing. So he told him as much as he thought proper; and Gordon, his first surprise and curiosity abated, questioned him concerning his anticipations of success.
 
"What are the chances, Charley?" he asked, earnestly,--"what do you really think they are?"
 
"That they are terribly small. Small enough as to the finding of the lady, and smaller still as to getting her to return. However, I do think that in all respects it is better that Robert Streightley should not go himself. His wife would be much more likely to hear of his presence there than of mine."
 
"And do you think if she did hear of it she would avoid him?"
 
"She would go off somewhere else like a shot. She is just a temperament difficult to deal with. Smarting under the sense of a great wrong, she is capable of any thing.'"
 
"She was always strong-minded--I mean self-reliant, and that sort of thing," said Frere; "but she had plenty of common-sense."
 
"So I should imagine from what I saw of her. Of course I would not have dreamed of hinting such a thing before our poor friend; but the difficulty of arranging the matter will arise not so much from Mrs. Streightley's want of sense as from her want of heart. A woman who could see her husband suffering from the anxieties which beset Robert long before the crash came, and yet persist in a course of thoroughly reckless extravagance, is not very impressionable, you may depend upon it."
 
"Do you imagine that--"
 
"My dear Gordon, it's not a nice thing to say, but I imagine that, though she did not know the terms of the bargain, she felt that she had been purchased by her husband, and she was determined to have the entire price. Now, you know, dealing with such a woman as that, where questions of feeling are concerned, is difficult."
 
"It's but a poor look-out, I'm afraid," said Frere, rising from his chair; "and I don't envy you your mission, Charley, though I don't know any one who would do it so well; and if honesty and warm feeling are to win the day, you'll be successful. So, God bless you! Mind you let me know how you prosper. Better write to me at the club, I think," added Mr. Frere, with a sudden recollection that news of Katharine Streightley was ever too welcome to the lady who was now his wife.
 
Yeldham shook hands warmly with him, grinning the while. None of these little evidences of character were thrown away on the old bachelor, who may have derived solace and instruction from them.
 
Robert was to accompany him to the station, and the hour of his arrival drew near. Yeldham's packing was quickly done, and he had a few minutes' leisure to think of the strangeness of the freak of fortune which was sending him in search of the only woman towards whom his heart had ever been attracted, with the object of winning her back to another. Perhaps he had censured her too harshly in talking to Gordon Frere--to that other man, who had also loved her, after his fashion. Then he heard Robert's step ascending the stairs, and sighed as he thought that it was hard indeed to look at his suffering face, and acquit Katharine of heartlessness and cruelty.
CHAPTER VIII.  THE PLEDGE REDEEMED.
 In one of the old-fashioned hotels of the Rue de l'Université, in that quarter of Paris around which cling some of the saddest and noblest memoirs of a history which is but a succession of acts in a great pompous tragedy, Dr. Hudson had occupied a suite of apartments for many years. There were other and younger English physicians in Paris than he; but he had made, and kept, a solid reputation, and his friends comprised a large number of the native denizens of Paris, and all his own compatriots "of standing," as the Yankees say. His clientèle was of wider range; for the English doctor was as well known to the poor of Paris as to the rich, and he laboured among them as assiduously.
 
On the self-same day which had witnessed Mr. Thacker's visit to Middlemeads, and the failure of his application to Mrs. Gordon Frere--on which he had expressed himself with so much resentment to Charles Yeldham--and at the self-same hour at which the project of his vengeance began to take shape in the brain of the angry Hebrew,--Dr. Hudson was seated in his study, conversing earnestly with a lady, who wore the mournful garb of widowhood in the English form. The frank, thoughtful face of the physician was clouded, and his voice was low and troubled, as he spoke to the lady.
 
"I don't like to let you go, Katharine. You have been doing too much. This long attendance upon poor Louise has been too much for you already; and now the care of an old blind woman--no, no; it ought not to be."
 
"The care of your mother, my best friend!" returned the lady in a tone of remonstrance; "does that not make all the difference? Besides, what does it matter? here, or in Brittany? The work has to be done, and place does not make the smallest difference. You cannot bring the old lady to Paris; and since Marion's death you have had no peace of mind, no confidence about your mother. Let us look at this rationally. Is there any one in whom you have such confidence as in me?"
 
"Certainly not, Katharine, though----"
 
"Though I do not return it. Well, in one sense I do not; but let us not discuss that for the present. If you do not let me go to Morlaix, to your mother, you must send some one in whom you have less confidence. That's a 'logical sequence,' as you learned people say, isn't it?--and I should also call it a very silly proceeding. Next, you must provide me with work here; and I can assure you, you can give me none I should like half so well. I am free too, and I don't know that any other of your helpers are:--let me see the list."
 
She took a manuscript volume from the table, turned to a certain page, and ran over a list of names.
 
"No; I thought not. All busy, and with serious cases,--'long jobs,' as the 'regulars' call them. You see Fate and my self-will are against you--and I must go; so that's settled. And now, Mr. Doctor, let me make my report."
 
"This was your last visit to Louise, I think?" he asked absently.
 
"My last regular visit. She is quite well now; but I shall never lose sight of her, I hope. She is a good girl and a grateful; and so long as she has this illness, and I have Martigny to talk about and the same rescuer to praise--though she little knows how small an item in the account between him and me Martigny is--we are not likely to tire of each other's company. Where are your wits wandering to? you are not listening to a word I am saying to you."
 
He turned his face fully towards her, and the serious expression it bore increased. He took an ivory paper-knife from off his desk, and beat it softly upon his open palm as he spoke.
 
"My wits are wandering to speculations about you, my dear. How long are you going to lead this life? and when am I to know the meaning of it all? It is not fit for you, Katharine; you must rest."
 
"No, no," she said nervously; "you know the only thing I cannot do when you bid me, is rest. Besides, I am going to be very quiet, you know, down in Brittany----"
 
"That will not be for long, if even I let you go. My poor old mother's life is nearly ended; and then----"
 
"And then--for I mean to go; it is quite settled---are there no more duties for me? are the poor and the sick to cease out of the land?"
 
"No, it is not that; I am thinking of you seriously, Katharine, and wondering whether I am doing right by you. I had no doubt, when you came to me, and claimed the fulfilment of the promise I made to you at Martigny--there was such desperation, such utter self-abandonment about you--that I, who knew the symptoms of despair, and their deadliness, could not hesitate about what was to be done. But now, Katharine, now, has not time made any difference?--it has made a great alteration in you, my dear--a very great and blessed change; not time alone, I know, but life and suffering and self-knowledge, and a higher wisdom still--has it not changed circumstances too? You told me your return to your husband's home was an impossibility then; and I knew, I felt it was so. You never told me why; you never placed the secret of his sin, whatever it may have been, in my possession. Now I ask you--the matter has been pressing long upon my mind, and is daily growing heavier--is the same impossibility in force still?"
 
Katharine did not make any answer, but she looked at him, pale and tearful. Then he continued:
 
"Think of your youth, Katharine. Your life is almost all before you; and you have no friend but me. Supposing I were to die, my dear, how would it be with you then? For though you are not so helpless and so ignorant of the world's ways as when you came to me that winter's night, and told me I must hide you, and that without a question, and I did it--you are as little fitted as any woman I know for the loneliness of a friendless life. Is this offence quite past forgiveness? is there no way of reconciliation?"
 
"None, none," she murmured. "O, do not talk to me of the past."
 
"Katharine," he said, with deeper solemnity still, "think, be very sure, before you answer. Remember that nothing but the extremest injury can justify the course you are pursuing. Your name is false, your position is false, your very dress"--he stretched out his hand and touched it--"is a lie!"
 
"My widowhood at least is real," she said in an abrupt and bitter tone.
 
"My poor child, I don't doubt that. I know it is; but the evils dealt by man's hand are often of God's sending. Are you resisting God, and not man only? I am talking to you in the dark about many things, but there are some broad truths applicable to all circumstances. One of them is, that no self-imposed duties can stand in the place of those which God has appointed. When I watch--and I watch it closely--your exemplary life of usefulness, your self-denial, your promptitude in doing good--and see that you are not at peace in it, I cannot but think that you are doing this--that you are trying to do your own will, and not God's will; and that you are reaping the inevitable consequences."
 
Her head was bowed now, and she was crying.
 
"I don't know why I have felt forced to say all this to you to-day, Katharine. Something has forced me to say it, certainly. Think of it, my dear; and if there be any possible way to reconciliation with your home and your former life, turn your steps towards it."
 
"Are you weary of the charge of me? are you tired of the thankless task?"
 
He smiled, very slowly and tenderly; then rose; and, arranging some papers on his desk, said:
 
"Do you think to turn away my meaning by such a silly subterfuge? I am going out now: think of what I have said, Katharine; and, remember, if I have hurt you, it is because of my ignorance. I don't reproach you that you have kept me in it; but you must not wonder if it sometimes tells against yourself. Be sure of this, Katharine, there is no life so acceptable as that in which we carry our own burdens, without selecting them; and no spirit so safe as that which takes trials as they are sent, not sought for--kissing the rod."
 
He was leaving the room, when she rose impetuously and went up to him. She caught his arm, and pressed it to her closely, as she said:
 
"Don't say more to me now; I can't bear it. I wonder why you have spoken like this again--it is so long since you did so before. Let me go to your mother, and think it all out there--all you know and all you don't know; and when I come back I will tell you every thing."
 
"My dear, you mistake me. I don't want to know; it is from no feeling of that kind I speak;--it is for your own sake, and because of the treacheries and changes of life----"
 
"Yes, yes; I know. When had you any but good motives, or did any but good deeds? Just give me this little time, and keep your vow to me, that you will never answer a question about me, or give any human being a clue to finding me; and when I come back you shall know all, and judge for me."
 
"Agreed," said Dr. Hudson; "I will keep my promise, and you will keep yours."
 
A day or two later Katharine Streightley left Paris.
 
 
"I give you my word of honour--I will take the most solemn and sacred oath you can dictate to me, that nothing you can tell me, of what I ask you, can harm the lady. I am here on behalf of her husband."
 
"Her husband!" said Louise Hartmann, with a disdainful smile; "now I know you are deceiving me. She is a widow--her husband is dead."
 
"Indeed--indeed he is not, my dear young lady; for God's sake listen to me! Her husband is alive, and he loves her better than his life. Indeed he is dying, I truly believe, because he cannot find or hear of her. A quarrel--a misunderstanding parted them, and he has sought her vainly ever since. Just think of the dreadful weary time, and have pity on this poor man."
 
Charley Yeldham's friends would have been only less astonished than himself had they heard him thus eloquently pleading the cause of Robert to the inflexible little German girl, who stood before him, the very image of immovable fidelity.
 
"See! look at her portrait again; you have acknowledged that you know it, and that it is Madame Sidney's likeness. Well, I tell you her husband has worn it on his breast night and day for nearly three years, and would not have parted with it for a moment for any less object than enabling me to trace her by it. He asks nothing but to know where she is--nothing but the means of communicating with her. Surely you will tell him that much?"
 
"Have you asked Dr. Hudson? he knows her better than I," was the cautious questioning reply of the German girl.
 
"Yes," said Yeldham incautiously; "I went to his house at once, and I waited a long time to see him, but all in vain. He knew Madame Sidney, but he would tell me nothing about her--not even whether she was now in Paris, or ever in the habit of residing in Paris."
 
"And yet Dr. Hudson is her best friend, and knows more about her than any one in the world."
 
"Yes, yes; we heard that: then so much was right at least."
 
Louise Hartmann deliberately sat down, tucked her feet comfortably under her chair, and folded her hands in her lap. Yeldham waited, breathlessly anxious for her to speak. She kept him waiting for some time; but at length she said, slowly and emphatically:
 
"Soh! you fine English gentleman, who give your word of honour and your sacred and solemn oath, you come to a poor girl like me, and you try to make me tell you about Madame Sidney--who nursed me, and was more good to me than ever any one in the world was before--what the good doctor, her own friend, refuses to tell you. You may go away, sir, back to England; I will tell you nothing--no, not one single word. If this lady's husband is alive, he has done something that makes her think of him as dead, and she knows best. He has made her miserable; for she is not happy, I know that--I often saw that; and he shall never render her miserable again through help of mine."
 
Yeldham was utterly confounded by the girl's calm speech, and the resolution which showed itself in her face and sounded in her voice. He stood bewildered and silent for several minutes. At length Louise spoke again:
 
"Please to go away, sir; you have nothing to hear from me, and nothing to say to me more."
 
He caught joyfully at the anxiety she expressed to get rid of him. Was it not a proof that Katharine was in Paris still--was near; that she was then expecting or fearing her coming? He made another appeal.
 
"Listen to me, my dear young lady," he said. "No one can honour your fidelity to your friend, or respect you for keeping your word so firmly, more than I do; but I swear to you you are acting under a mistake,--a most fatal and lamentable mistake. At all events, I, who am not this lady's husband, cannot injure her--cannot force her to do any thing against her will. Let me see her. I swear to you, if you will, that if she bids me be silent, I will not utter a word; and I will neither follow her nor have her followed. I ask you this, because if you will only do it, you shall see for yourself the error there is in all this, and you will probably be the means of richly rewarding your friend for all she has done for you, by restoring her confidence in her husband."
 
Louise had looked at Charles Yeldham with earnest intentness all the time he was speaking, and the incredulous scorn which had possessed her wholly during the earlier part of their interview began to give way. She dropped her eyes, put her hand to her brow, and thought intently.
 
"I dare not believe you," said she at last; "I dare not listen longer to you, lest I might be persuaded to do Madame Sidney a wrong. So now you must go away. You had better; if you stay here a month, I will tell you no more than this--and it cannot harm her, if her husband, and you too--and perhaps you are her husband--bah, how can I tell?--were ever so wicked and cruel. She is not in Paris. Now go; you shall not got another answer out of me."
 
She rose, and stepped towards the door, as though about to open it for his departure.
 
"Thanks," he exclaimed, "a thousand thanks, even for that information; and, as you say, it could not harm her, if we, who are her devoted servants, desired to do so. Yes," for she had her hand on the latch of the door, "I will leave you immediately; only let me say a few words more."
 
Louise frowned. "I will give you no answer," she said sullenly.
 
"O yes, I think you will, when I have spoken them. If Madame Sidney ever comes back to Paris--I don't ask whether you expect her-- (here he stole a quick glance at her, but she was prepared to meet and conquer it--there was not the smallest change in her face, from its expression of sullen waiting)--but if she comes back, and comes to see you, tell her about my visit; tell her I came from her husband--here is my card. There can be no harm in telling her, you know, and then it will depend on herself--not on you, or on me, but on herself only--whether she will let any one who loves her see her again in this world. You understand me in this, do you not, mademoiselle? You see that I am speaking now what must be the truth, and cannot by possibility deceive any one."
 
Louise appeared to be moved by this direct appeal to her understanding. She took up the card, which he had laid on the table, and read the name aloud.
 
"Mr. Yeldham! Yes; I understand that if I tell her you have been here, she will be free to choose whether you shall come again; and unless she or I tell you, you can never know whether she comes again. So it will be her own affair, and I cannot be betrayed into injuring her. Yes,"--she looked up suddenly at him,--"I will tell her if she comes here ever again."
 
"Thank God!" exclaimed Yeldham in a tone of infinite relief; "then all will be right, and it is only waiting a little longer; for I am sure she will come back at some time. God bless you for that promise! You do not know all the good you may do, all the ill you may prevent, by keeping it."
 
"I always keep my promises," said Louise coldly, rather offended by his thanks.
 
"Yes, yes, I know that; but O, if I could but make you understand! She will make you understand, some day, all I could never explain. A word more, and I leave you. When you tell her that I was here, and the story I have told you of my business and my hopes--she will believe it, though it is quite natural and right that you should hesitate to do so--tell her this, that I entreated you to write to me and let me know that she had returned to Paris. You will do this too, will you not? You see it is only a part of what you have already promised: it is not a new thing. I cannot know that she has returned, unless she permits you to tell me, and so only can harm her. You see I take your own view, with her own consent."
 
"I see that," said Louise; "it follows from the first. Yes, if she gives me leave, I will write to you."
 
He contented himself with a more moderate expression of gratitude than was natural to him under the circumstances; and then, having written his address in full, and very distinctly, on the card Louise had consented to keep, he took his leave.
 
He had been defeated in the greater purpose, but he had achieved a less one, whose gain would have seemed to the friends priceless good fortune a little while ago, but which was robbed of its fail proportions by the larger hope unfulfilled.
 
Yeldham communicated to Robert the result of his expedition by letter the same evening, and the following day he returned to London.
 
"I am thankful, Charley, for the light I have been granted. It is dawn after dark, and now I will wait and hope for the day," said Robert; and Yeldham rejoiced to see his fortitude.
 
So October passed, and November; and December came, and it was only twilight still.
CHAPTER IX.  SUCCESS.
 The wintry rays of the sun were contending unsuccessfully with the strong and cheerful blaze of a bright fire in Charles Yeldham's outer room one morning in December, when that hard-working gentleman emerged from his bedroom at an unusually late hour, and glanced with an expression of satisfaction at the fire, the preparations for breakfast, and the heap of letters and other papers which occupied one end of the small table. Charles Yeldham was looking troubled on this particular day, but not as he usually was, full of the care and preoccupation of his work; his generally concentrated gaze was abstracted; and any one familiar with his expression would have recognised that the subject of his thoughts was not present to his bodily eyes. He seated himself and began to open his letters, having first poured out his tea. They were numerous and various: one from his father, one from his sister, a note from Frere, a number of business letters, and one from Paris. His face changed as he took up this one, changed still more as he read:
 
 
"Rue d'Alger, No. --, 9th Dec. 186-.
 
"Sir,--I fulfil my promise, relying on yours, and believing all you told me of your intentions for the dear lady's good. She is dear and good. She has come back to Paris, and I have seen her.
 
"I am, sir, your servant,
 
"Louise Hartmann."
 
 
Yeldham's first impulse was to jump up from his untasted breakfast, take his hat and coat, and rush off to find Robert Streightley; but he resisted the impulse, and set himself to consider what would be the best thing to do. Robert had been ailing lately; Yeldham had noticed his altered looks with pain, and he dreaded telling him news except such as was undeniably and completely good. This could not be said to be so. There was no doubt now that the way was opened to communication with Katharine; but much more than communication was involved. So long a time had elapsed, so obstinately had her determination been adhered to, so intense and keen had been her husband's suffering--suffering which none but Yeldham had divined, under Robert's quiet and reticent bearing--that the matter had assumed to Yeldham's mind an aspect of even additional importance. Should he act on the information contained in this note at once, and only tell Robert when he should have seen Katharine and ascertained the state of her feelings, or should he communicate with Robert immediately, and allow him to proceed at once to Paris in search of his wife? In favour of the latter method of proceeding there was the consideration that the mutual position of the estranged pair was one of the utmost pain, and requiring the most delicate handling; and that undoubtedly the husband and wife could alone discuss the matters which divided them with propriety and authority. There was also the consideration of Katharine's excessive pride, which would lead her instinctively and vehemently to resent the interference of a third person. Both these were gravely pondered by Charles Yeldham. In favour of the former method of proceeding were, the comparative composure and hopelessness with which Robert had begun to regard his fate since Yeldham's unsuccessful expedition, the patience with which he acceded to Yeldham's advice that they should not unnecessarily discuss the matter of their most constant thoughts, and the consequent risk, in case all overtures should prove unavailing, of exciting Robert to dangerous agitation and increased grief. Yeldham understood Streightley better than Streightley understood himself; and when he would say, as he constantly did, that he would ask nothing more than to know where his wife was, to be sure that she was more content than he without her, that he had no hope of ever seeing her more, Yeldham knew that he entirely believed what he said, but that he deceived himself; and that with the first intelligence of Katharine new feelings would arise, whose disappointment would be terrible. Added to this, he knew that Robert could not plead his own cause as he, Charles Yeldham, would plead it for him; if she should refuse to see him, Robert, conscience-stricken, would not persevere. Thus the subject had two sides, and he had to regard first the one, and then the other, with great care and deliberation. He did so, and finally decided, all parts of the question balanced, that he would tell Robert he had received the letter for which they had looked so long in vain, and leave it to him to decide on what should be done. "If I went, and failed, he must know it sooner or later," was the result of Yeldham's cogitations; "so he may as well know about this at once."
 
So Charles Yeldham wrote a note to Robert, requesting him to call on him late in the afternoon, when he should be comparatively at leisure, and proposing that they should dine together in the City afterwards. Then he dismissed the matter from his mind, as far as possible, and went to his "treadmill."
 
There was nothing unusual in the tone of Yeldham's note--nothing to excite Robert's hopes or fears. He had had several such notes from the writer; and yet he was agitated while he read it, and nervous when he laid it down. He was always nervous now, he said to himself, as he rebuked his own tremors. How unmanly, how weak, how foolish he was becoming--less and less like a man whom she ever could love, he would think, with a degree of despondency which might have proved to him, had he considered his own case in a philosophical light, how much hope had really lurked at the bottom of his abnegation. This nervousness increased as the hour drew near for his interview with Yeldham; and at six o'clock, when the streets were bright with gaslight, and the crisp cold of a clear wintry night had set in, Robert Streightley's hand trembled as he knocked at the outer door of his friend's chambers, and his face was pale. Yeldham observed him closely, and decided on deferring his purposed communication until a later hour. Accordingly he easily gave a plausible turn to his summons of Streightley; the two dined together; and Roberts spirits rose, as they invariably did, under the influence of his old friend's genial temperament.
 
Yeldham knew that Robert would not deliberately break through the established rule of silence on the subject of Katharine, but that he might be easily led into doing so; and he accordingly gave the conversation a turn which brought it to bear upon the past, and then seized the opportunity. Robert took the communication which his friend made to him with more calmness than Yeldham had anticipated, but he was not in the least sanguine.
 
"The question now is, Robert, whether you or I shall go to find her and bring her back," said Yeldham in the most cheerful tone he could command.
 
Robert kept silence.
 
"I expected you to have been quite elated," said his friend in almost a tone of reproach. "You take it very quietly. At all events you must be thankful to know that we shall find out where she is, and all about her circumstances."
 
"I am thankful, God knows," said Robert, "as well as He, and He only, knows what I have suffered, in my ignorance, in the innumerable fears that have beset me, and," he said with a heavy sigh, "that may all be realised yet. I am thankful; but this intelligence, and my gratitude for it, do not bring me nearer to her. No, no, Charley, I shall never see her face again--never see her face again!" he repeated drearily; and leaning his elbows on the table, he laid his face on the open palms of his hands.
 
Yeldham looked uneasily at him. He knew that he was quoting Katharine's own words.
 
"Robert," he said impressively, "you must not despair, you must not give way in this fashion. You will see her face again, please God; you will see it as beautiful as ever, and with no cloud between you and it. I feel convinced of this, my dear fellow; and you must feel convinced of it too, if you will listen to your reason and not to your self-reproach. Just think what time does in all sorts of cases, and remember how much time has gone over since your wife left you."
 
"I think of it, Charley? Do you think I have not felt the passage of every hour of it?"
 
"I know you have," said Yeldham; "but I want you to think of it in another sense--its own sense. It effaces every thing--kingdoms and flies, men's strength and women's beauty, the deepest loves, the bitterest hatreds, the cruellest injuries, the firmest resolves. Believe me, Katharine has outlived her anger, and has been held to her purpose by pride and circumstances. She must always remain your wife--she must always remember that she is so; and, depend upon it, she will not be sorry to return to a quiet home with you, to whom she is still so dear. Three years have had their effect upon her, be sure of it. Rely upon it, she thinks more of her duty and less of her resentment now."
 
"Her duty!" said Robert, looking up from the palms of his hands with hollow, burning eyes; "her duty! O Charley, how can you or I talk of her duty to me?"
 
"I certainly can," returned Yeldham. "I don't wish to go back over the past, but nothing can absolve her from that duty; and I look to the faults for which each has to forgive the other as the strongest bond between you for the future."
 
Robert sighed, but made no reply. Yeldham continued: "And now, Robert, you will go to her at once, of course?"
 
"I--I don't know, Charley," returned Robert, in a low and broken voice; "I don't know. I am--I am almost afraid."
 
"Afraid, Robert, of what? That she will not see you? Well, that risk must be run; but I feel so confident that there is no danger of her refusing to do so, that I can hardly excuse your hesitation. I know I cannot inspire you with the confidence I feel, but at least act as if you felt it; and remember that the influence of time has been all in your favour. She has had leisure to forgive, if not to forget, one injury, and to remember and miss the innumerable proofs of love you gave her. You will start to-morrow, will you not?" Yeldham put the question in a business-like tone, which dismissed discussion, and obliged Robert to rouse himself from thought to action.
 
"Yes, yes; since you think I ought, I will go to-morrow. Can you come with me, Charley?"
 
"I don't know; if you wish it very much, I will try. Send round in the morning, and I will let you know."
 
These were almost the last words spoken between the friends before they parted, Robert going his way to Brixton, and Yeldham returning to his chambers, to pass several hours of the night in so arranging his work as to admit of a brief absence from London.
 
The morrow brought Robert's messenger, but not the expected question. On the contrary, Robert sent word to Yeldham that he wished to see him, feeling too ill to "keep his appointment."
 
The first glance which Charles Yeldham gave at his friend showed him that he must revert to the second alternative which had presented itself to his mind. Old Alice had admitted him, and had told him "Master Robert" was bad again with "them spazims;" and the state of prostration in which Robert lay on a large sofa, drawn as near the dining-room fire as its size would admit, fully bore out her assertion. Mrs. Streightley was not at home, her daughter requiring her services just then; and the interview between the friends was quite uninterrupted.
 
Robert's complete inability to undertake a journey to Paris being admitted, his nervous impatience for Yeldham's departure in his stead became uncontrollable. Yeldham did not attempt to contest it, but assured him that the following day should see him at Paris, and, if by any effort or exertion the thing were possible, in Katharine's presence.
 
"And I'll bring her back to you, my dear fellow; I'll bring her back to you--rest assured I will."
 
"No, no, never; I can't believe it; nevertheless go and tell her all. See her; let me see a face that has looked on hers, though I am to see hers no more. Tell her--tell her----"
 
"Yes, yes," said Yeldham; "I know, Robert, I know; have trust in me; be assured I will tell her all you wish--every thing--and I will bring her with me--something tells me so--and you know I am not sentimental, or presentimental either. Only keep quiet, and get well; it won't do to frighten her with such a face as that, you know," said Yeldham, with a dreary attempt at cheerfulness.
 
"I'll take care," returned Robert; "but, Charley, you won't deceive me, will you? You'll tell me every word she says, no matter how severe, no matter how hopeless. You'll tell me every word and, as far as you can, every look. I shall be able to see them by the aid of this" and he touched his breast-pocket, in which Yeldham knew he always carried the miniature by whose aid Katharine had been identified. "And, Charley, you'll tell her I never, never blamed her: you'll tell her I suffered; but I know I deserved it all." His eyes were shining now with a feverish light, and Yeldham hastened to terminate their interview. He bent over Robert, as he lay upon the sofa, and took his hand.
 
"Be content, Robert," he said; "I have never failed you yet, and I will not fail you now. All that I know, and all that I can guess you wish to have said to your wife, I will say to her; and as surely as I am talking to you now I will bring her home to you,--I never felt more certain of any thing. Good-bye, my dear fellow; you have nothing to do but trust me, keep quiet, and get well."
 
"Yes, I will keep very quiet--as quiet as I can. God bless you! Good-bye."
 
They wrung each other's hands, and Yeldham went away, speaking gravely to Alice in the hall, and reflecting with a queer sense of wonder, when he gained the road, upon the oddity of the fate that made him a messenger, in this supreme crisis, to Katharine Streightley, the only woman who had ever made him think regretfully of his loneliness, the only woman who had ever realised his early dreams of love and beauty.
 
Robert had kept his face towards the door until the sound told him Yeldham had shut the little garden-gate, and was gone; then he turned his head away, buried his face in the sofa-cushion, and closed his eyes. Thus old Alice found him, when she came to see if he required any thing, an hour later; and the old woman said downstairs that she wished Master Robert would let her send for the doctor, for he was looking "desperate white and weary, to be sure."
 
 
When Charles Yeldham reached Paris in the evening after his interview with Robert, he found the fair city looking beautiful, under the combined influence of clear starlight, sharp frost, and the glow of the best-arranged gaslight in Europe. The scene, striking as it always must be, made but little impression upon him, as he drove from the railway-station to his hotel, revolving in his mind all the circumstances of the painful and difficult business which lay before him, and haunted by the remembrance of Robert's white, grieved face. He was tired, depressed, and more doubtful of the success of his undertaking than when he had spoken so confidently to Robert; but he tried to rouse himself, to shake off the foreboding which beset him, and to arrange some definite plan for the interview with Katharine, which he felt sure would be accorded him. It was no part of his intention to take her by surprise. He knew that she would resent such a ruse as an unpardonable liberty, and did not doubt that it would defeat its own purpose, and lead to her immediate departure from Paris. He made his calculations in this way: "When she receives my request for an interview, she will conclude that no further effort at concealment will avail; she will remember that no coercion of her is possible; and she will consider it more in accordance with her own dignity to grant me the interview--a concession winch does not commit her to any thing. After all, too, she is a woman; and she must want to know something about the world she has turned her back on; she must, after all this time." So Charles Yeldham felt no apprehension about the first portion of his task, though there was a strange flutter of various emotions in the feelings with which he anticipated finding himself in Katharine's presence.
 
He wrote briefly to Robert, announcing his arrival, and went early to rest. At noon on the following day he presented himself to the unrecognising stare of the concierge at No.-- Rue d'Alger, and having named Mademoiselle Hartmann, passed up the wearisome flight of stairs leading au quatrième. He was admitted by the girl herself, and gladly perceived that she was looking much improved in health. The appearance of the neat little apartment also bore witness to improvement of another kind. Modest as before, it was more comfortable, and was now a pleasant snug nest for this lonely bird.
 
The girl had believed in Yeldham from the first, and was unaffectedly glad to see him. She had expected him, she told him candidly; and she had told the dear lady all about his previous visit.
 
"You did well," said Yeldham. "I would not have you deceive your good friend in any thing."
 
"I told her I had promised to write to you when she should return to Paris, but I would not do so if she forbade me; and I asked her what I should do. Then she asked me many questions about you, and I told her all she asked; and she told me I might write to you. I said I know you would come when you should receive my letter; and she said she thought so too, and if you did come, I was to give you this."
 
She unlocked a drawer in a little table which stood beneath the window, and handed a folded slip of paper to Mr. Yeldham. It contained an address in the Rue du Bac, and these words:
 
"Mrs. Streightley will see Mr. Yeldham. He must inquire for Madame Sidney."
 
"When did she give you this?" he asked.
 
"I have told monsieur," replied the girl, smiling; "on the day I wrote to you--two days ago."
 
"And you have not seen her since?"
 
No, she had not seen the dear lady since; and she trusted monsieur would see her, and give her back all her happiness. She was paler and sadder now than before she went to Brittany; and she was too good, had too much heart, too great compassion for all who suffered, to be left to any sadness. All the world ought to be good to her, who was good to all the world.
 
 
Half an hour later Charles Yeldham had realised a hope, a dream which had mocked and eluded him for long: he was in Katharine Streightley's presence. Striving hard and ineffectually when before the eyes of the woman towards whom he had felt the strongest emotion which life had ever Drought him for the composure which had seemed so easy at a distance, filled with yearning pity for the man who would have given so much to stand where he was standing, and to see what he was looking upon, Charles Yeldham was quite silent for some minutes. He had been ushered into a room in which Katharine was sitting, and she had risen on his entrance, and stood facing him, her hand resting on the back of her chair--resting there calmly, not grasping the chair, with no nervous flutter in the fingers, no need for support implied in the action. With his first glance at her, every impression, every memory he held of her, flashed freshly through Yeldham's mind,--every attitude in which he had seen her, every dress she had worn, every scene in which they had met. The tone of her musical girlish voice sounded in the air around him, while yet this woman he looked upon had not spoken; the graceful form flitted about a flower-decked garden and moved through stately rooms, while yet this woman stood motionless before him. Changed! Yes, she was changed; in the first glance, comprehending all the past, perceiving all the present, he saw the change,--saw that whereas Katharine when he had seen her last looked younger than her years, the woman he now saw looked older than those which had been added. The face was pale, more waxen in its delicate clearness, and there was a sterner line about the beautiful lips. The radiant eyes were radiant still, but their light was steady and serious, and the glorious lustre of youth had passed from the face for ever. What had replaced it, Yeldham thought, that made her so much more beautiful, that lent her a charm, a majestic influence, insurmountable and immortal? He knew afterwards that that which had wrought the change was the purification, the strengthening influence of suffering, the teaching of life and experience, the education of the spirit, which first bruises and then heals, which first chastens even to faintness, almost to despair, and then leads to peace and shelters from self-deception. After his first glance at her, he did not fear for Robert; he felt that he should fulfil the promise which had sounded so rashly confident. Pardon, and the magnanimity of a large heart, looked out of Katharine's beautiful eyes as she bowed her head to her visitor, and said in a low tone, as she indicated a seat to him and resumed her own:
 
"You are my husband's friend, Mr. Yeldham; and you come to me from him, I think?"
 
Yeldham's many and troubled speculations had never strayed into the direction of such a reception as this; and the delight with which he heard her words was equalled by his astonishment.
 
"You are right, Mrs. Streightley," he answered; "I do come from your husband; from one who, let me assure you, has never for one hour ceased to repent the sin which drove you away from him as bitterly as he has mourned your loss."
 
She became exceedingly pale, and spoke the next words with some difficulty.
 
"Is it true, Mr. Yeldham, that my husband has suffered heavy losses--that he is no longer a rich man?"
 
"It is quite true," he replied; "and it is part of my business here to tell you a fact which I have always believed would have pleaded with you, had you known it. Robert had sinned grievously against you; but I am sure, had you known that when you left him ruin was hanging over his head, you would have regarded that as sufficient punishment. In itself it has been heavy, but to him as much lighter than that which you have inflicted as his love for you is greater than his care for his wealth. May I ask when and how you learned this, Mrs. Streightley?"
 
"Very lately--only a few days ago. I accidentally met a Mr. Stallbrass, a person whom I had no recollection of ever having seen, and whose name I had certainly never heard. This gentleman, it seems, had seen me--once--" here she hesitated, and turned paler still,--"and he recognised me. He told Dr. Hudson that he had done so, but gave his word of honour to my kind friend that he would never mention the circumstance. He told him all he knew concerning my husband's affairs, being under the impression that ours was a separation by mutual consent, and that I was in possession of the facts."
 
Katharine paused, and a fresh strong hope sprang up in Yeldham's heart; a hope in which he saw the realisation of happiness for Robert far beyond any thing he had dared to dream of for him. With its fresh impulse in his voice, he said eagerly:
 
"And tell me, I entreat you, what effect had this disclosure upon you?"
 
"Tell me first, Mr. Yeldham, what message do you bring me from my husband? Yet--no," and she stretched her hand towards him to stay his eager answer; "not so, I owe him much: I owe him reparation for pride and passion, for blind resentment, for selfishness and ungovernable self-will, and I will make it. Before I hear my husband's message, let me tell you mine to him."
 
A small ivory box stood near her on a table; she drew it towards her, and took from it a sealed letter, which she held in her hand while she spoke. Yeldham listened to her with a painful intensity of attention, and marked with wonder the varying beauty of her sensitive face.
 
"It is written here, in this letter, which I should have sent to him three days ago, but that a few hours after I had written it I learned how you had sought me out, and that you would come to seek me again. Then I resolved to wait; for I knew whatever communication my husband had charged you with would form the answer to my letter, and it would be better to receive it thus."
 
"And the letter--what is it?" asked Yeldham, with all the agonising anxiety and entreaty which he felt in his voice. Katharine laid one hand heavily upon her breast, and breathed deeply.
 
"It tells him that I ask his forgiveness, as I have long granted him mine; it is to ask his permission to return, and do my duty to him in the future, as I never did it, or understood it, in the past. Mr. Yeldham, what is my husband's message to me?"
 
He rose, came towards her, caught her hands in his, and said hoarsely, while unheeded tears ran down his face:
 
"His message to you is the message of a dying man to one who holds his life in her gift--of one who loves you with an immortal love; to whom life has been sheer unmitigated agony without you; to whom it has no hope, no ambition, no desire, but your pardon. It is the prayer of the sick for health, of the famishing for food, of the shipwrecked for a sail. 'If I should never see her face again,' he said last night, 'let me look upon a face which has looked upon hers;' and I am here, Katharine,--I am here!"
 
He held her hands in a grasp tight even to pain while he spoke; now he released them. She covered her face with them, and sobbed aloud.
 
Trembling with delight, he stood by until her emotion had subsided. Then he said:
 
"Never was ambassador so happy to find his mission useless and superseded. God for ever bless you for the words you have spoken. Let me leave you now; I must write to Robert. Will you send your letter, or shall I? Perhaps," he went on gravely, "you had better let me enclose it. He has been ill, and even the best-managed communication of such unlooked-for happiness will try him; though joy never kills, they say, it may harm him. Don't be anxious; remember you will bring him health and happiness and life."
 
He took up the letter, once more caught her hands in his, and reverently kissed them; told her he would be with her on the morrow at an early hour, and left her--feeling like a man who walked in a dream.
 
His success had been so immeasurably beyond his hopes! His success? what nonsense was he talking to himself? It had not been his success, but that of circumstances, of an accident--the success of time, of experience, of conscience. How happy Robert would be! How "pure womanly" she was, with her loftiness and her lowliness, her beautiful compassion, her rapid generous impulse, her ready self-accusation, and thoroughness of reparation! How beautiful too--how very, very beautiful, in her sombre dress! deep mourning too! the sort of mourning widows wear in France, if he did not mistake--of course she had passed as a widow--a gloomy dress, but she was too beautiful to heed it. When would she go to England, he wondered; would she return with him at once? he might ask her to-morrow. That would be very soon; but he must go,--delay was impossible; and she was likely to do at once any thing she had made up her mind to do at all.
 
Yeldham's excitement remained so long upon him, that it was difficult to him to write the few lines to Robert which were necessary. At length he scrawled them.
 
"All has succeeded, as I told you it would. The enclosed letter from your wife will explain more and better than I could. Be happy, dear old fellow, but don't agitate yourself; and mind you are quite well when I keep my word, and bring Katharine home."
CHAPTER X.  COMING HOME.
 "Alice," said Robert Streightley to the old nurse, who had kept an anxious watch upon him from the moment she had heard Yeldham's parting words, "I want to speak to you. Come upstairs with me to Miss Ellen's room."
 
It was about noon, on the second day after Charles Yeldham reached Paris; and Robert had received his letter, with the enclosure from Katharine, that morning. It had been delivered at the hour which usually found Robert at breakfast, and old Alice in attendance upon him; as in the old time, which had had so brief, so brilliant, and so melancholy an interruption. But on this occasion Robert was alone, by his own express desire; and Alice, too much concerned, too seriously apprehensive to be affronted, had acquiesced without grumbling in his request that she would leave him for a little. No human eye, therefore, had seen Robert's perusal of his wife's letter--had witnessed the effect produced on him by such a reversal of his life for the past three years. His heart had known its own bitterness, and neither friend nor stranger was near now to meddle with its joy--a joy too deep for utterance, too supreme almost for endurance--a joy full of keen and piercing pain, of repentance, infinitely more terrible since forgiveness had come, and rich with the divinest blessings of hope. Hours had gone over since the glorious light of this new life had dawned--unheeded hours; and now Robert called to Alice, and she came. As he spoke, the old woman looked at him anxiously, but his face reassured her. It was very pale, and he looked old--he had been looking old of late, she had often thought--but peace, serenity, a calm, which she felt without understanding or questioning, were on the features, and a smile--a sweet and serious smile--lighted them. She followed him without a word to the now disused but always orderly, room which had been Mrs. Dutton's in her maiden days. It was a pretty, bright, simple apartment, with gay chintz curtains, carefully pinned up now, and covered with holland wrappings; with a bright carpet, covered with its linen shroud; and pretty furniture, simple and inexpensive, but in good taste and in perfect order. The day was bright and clear, and the tireless room, though cold, was not cheerless. Robert glanced round the room, placed a chair for Alice, bade her sit down, and shut the door. Then he set his back against the door, and said:
 
"Alice, I want you to get this room made ready for a lady as soon as possible."
 
"Lord bless us! Master Robert," said the old woman nervously, "who ever's coming, and the mistress away, and Miss Ellen not fit to be left, I'm sure--not for a fortnight yet, if so soon----"
 
"Alice, dear old woman!" said Robert, and he bent his tall figure, and laid his hands kindly on her shoulders,--"it is for my wife. My wife is coming back to me!"
 
She looked at him with the timid uncertainty of old age, and began to tremble and cry.
 
"Yes, she's coming," he said. "You don't know her, Alice,--you saw her very seldom; you don't know how good she is----"
 
"Good, Master Robert! and stay from you so long, and you in trouble, and so fond of her!"
 
"She did not know I was in trouble, nurse; I never told her anything of the kind. She thought I was the same rich man I had been when she left me; and it was all my fault. I cannot explain; but if you love me,--and I know you do, old nurse, I know you do--who so well?--never blame my wife in your heart, or let others blame her in your hearing. But she's coming back to me; think of that."
 
"When?" was Alice's first practical question; "does my mistress know?" was her second.
 
"To-morrow, or the next day, I hope; I am not sure, until I hear again--no, my mother does not know; no one knows. She will come here to me, until I can get a quiet home of our own; then she and I will begin our life again;" and as Robert spoke the words, he could hardly believe in the meaning they conveyed.
 
Alice had entertained no favourable opinion of Katharine, and had never thought at all of her of late, since she had ceased to be mentioned by Mrs. Streightley. But Robert's joy acted as a revelation of his sorrow to the faithful friend who watched him more closely, and knew him better than any one in the world beside. She listened, therefore, with the utmost attention to his directions, and promised the closest compliance with his wishes. Every thing should be done to make the house fit for Mrs. Streightley's reception; little was needed, indeed, but the fires should be lighted and the rooms swept and garnished. Robert thought of the suite of apartments at Portland Place, and of the "Lady-Kilmantan" hangings at Middlemeads, but not bitterly; he thought of them, indeed, with a smile: such things mattered little now to him, or to his wife. His wife! He called her by the sacred name, in his thoughts, a thousand times in an hour, and life seemed too short and narrow for all his thankfulness and joy.
 
The news soon spread through the little household, and was received with much indifference. The three female servants who composed the modest establishment were new-comers; they had known nothing of Robert's wife, and cared nothing about her. But they liked him, and they were rather glad than otherwise that any thing should occur to give him pleasure, more especially as Nurse Alice informed them the "young madam's" residence would be but temporary, for they agreed unanimously that they "couldn't abide two mistresses, and in course it was only natural as Mr. Robert's wife should like to have her own way." Thus they set to work with very tolerable activity and good-will, and the work of preparation went on briskly.
 
How the hours of that day passed over Robert Streightley he could not have told, had there been any to question him. Should he write? he had asked himself, when he was once more shut up in the dining-room and secure from interruption. What could he say? To Yeldham he might possibly write a few words of thanks and thankfulness; but what would they avail? what a poor mockery they would be! But perhaps he had better write them. Then the strong man, who had seen his fortunes crumble into dust, and stood upright amid the ruins, took a pen in his hand, and tried to form a few simple words, and he could not do it; darkness gathered before his eyes and his senses reeled. So he went out to the nearest telegraph-office, and he dictated a message to a clerk in three words,--"Come home quickly;" and he lingered about until he knew they had been clicked off to Paris, and then he began to count the time as he walked, he hardly knew where, about the clean, frosty suburban roads, and to speculate upon the exact moment when his wife would receive his message. So wandering, while the short hours of the winter's day were waning, he found himself on the borders of Clapham Common, and leant for a few minutes idly against an iron post, watching the omnibuses starting from the Plough, and their conductors warming themselves by brisk exercise, assisted by strong drink. A narrow road led away to his right; and a little way down, a tall, graceful, lancelike church-spire showed solemn and beautiful against the steel-coloured vault of the sky; the stars were beginning to twinkle, and the leafless trees rustled sharp and brittle in the frosty air. Looking upward at the spire, Robert turned down the narrow road, and found himself in a minute before the low gate and little paved court in front of a modern Gothic church, small, but of rich and correct architecture. The gate swung open as he came up to it, and several children ran gladly out into the road. Through the porch and the heavy oak-door, iron-clamped, and half-open, Robert saw glimpses of the interior of the church, saw gleams of rich colour and bits of quaint Gothic decoration. The grand sonorous tones of an organ swelled out suddenly, and ceased, as he stood idly looking and listening. The notes were the last of the "practice," and accompanied a reiterated "Amen" by children's voices. He passed through the gate into the porch, and, after a moment's hesitation, entered the church. A great longing for the peace of God had come over him, and here was God's house; it mattered not to him that the form of the worship therein was Catholic, not that to which he was accustomed, and he went in. There was no light in the church save the red gleam from the sacramental-lamp, swung by long silver chains before the High Altar; the gas-jets which had given light to the organist were turned out as he went into the church, and the children went down the gallery-stairs and trooped noisily away. A man lingered for a few minutes to arrange some chairs piled against the wall of a side aisle, and then departed, having left all in order for the evening service, to commence in an hour. Robert was quite alone: over the large window, high up in the wall, behind which the guests of the Community (for the church was attached to a monastery) were wont to sit and assist unseen at Divine worship, a crimson curtain hung; there was no human eye to witness the emotion of his soul.
 
Robert sat long, absorbed in thought; then he drew near the altar-rail, and kneeled down upon the marble step. The red light shone solemnly upon his kneeling figure, and upon the paintings glowing on the sanctuary-walls. His eyes wandered over these, until they rested upon one, and then they stayed their wandering. It represented a Man of infinitely benign and sorrowful aspect, in whose figure there was great dignity and power. He stood with outstretched arms and piercing gaze directed out from the canvas, as though he looked into the faces of a multitude. A scroll ran round the top of the picture, and bore these words: "Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow."
 
The light was very dim; he could not have read the written words by its glimmer had he needed to read them; but he did not. Kneeling there, on the altar-step, before the face and the words of promise, Robert took his wife's two letters from his breast, and, like Hezekiah in his trouble, he, in his repentance and his gratitude, "spread them before the Lord."
 
It was late when Robert reached home, and Alice was anxiously expecting him. He was very cheerful, and listened with pleasure to the old woman's account of all that had been done during the day in the way of preparation for Katharine's reception. He had several matters of business to attend to; and so the hours wore themselves away; and at length he was the only one waking in the quiet house.
 
"You'll go to bed soon, Master Robert," old Alice had said to him; "and you'll sleep well, I hope, for you'll not like to be looking ill when Mrs. Streightley comes; and you're not strong, you know. Promise me, now, that you'll not sit up."
 
So Robert promised, and he fully meant to keep his word; but as the night wore on restlessness came upon him, and distressing pain in the head and eyeballs. He wondered that any illness or pain could come near him, he was so happy so thankful--God had been so good to him, and Katharine was coming home! He could not sleep; no, the effort would be useless; so he made up the fire in the sitting-room, and he walked up and down, trying to tire himself into sleepiness. He had lost command over his thoughts; and though he might not have tried to guide them otherwise than they were going, he felt that he had lost it, and they hurried wildly into the past. All his life seemed to pass before him in a strange phantasmagoria, of which he was but a spectator; and innumerable forgotten scenes, and faces which he had not seen for years, rose up before him,--the first day he had seen Katharine, the day at the Flower-show, the day Mr. Guyon had shown him the letter. Good God, how terrible that recollection was! But she had forgiven him now, and he might fairly try to forgive himself, with this blessed assurance (and he grasped the letter in his breast with his hand as he walked up and down) in his possession, and the certainty of reading a full pardon in her eyes before long. And then he shuddered, shook through all his limbs with the strong contest of emotion, with irrepressible passionate delight and pain. Anon he rose again, and was whirled away upon another storm of thoughts. Mr. Guyon was present to him--the terrible sudden death. Ah, he had taken that too lightly; he had condemned the dead man too hastily and too heavily; the dead man, who had cared for trifles, who had found pleasure in things he could not comprehend, but was no worse than he; the dead man, who loved money and enjoyment, and naught beside. Well, he ought to have pitied him for that--he did pity him, for he was dead. His daughter could not come to him with soft words of peace, and heavenly smiles of pardon, as she was coming to the husband who had wronged her. He did pity the dead old man. He thought how coldly he had looked on the dead face--the rigid, ashy face; he remembered it well, how forlorn and ghastly it was! how awfully alone!--more so than any dead face he had ever seen. And then he remembered how carelessly he had attended the funeral; he had had no thought, no sorrow for the dead; his heart had been rent and wrung with anguish for the loss of Katharine; he had hardly heard the Burial Service at all: he had been glad when it was over, and had turned away to his business and his grief. He remembered some of it now: "Man that is born of a woman hath but a short time to live, and is full of misery." Yes, full of misery; but not now, not now--that was over. "The sure and certain hope"--this was troubling him; he would read it all through, and try to steady his thoughts upon it.
 
Mrs. Streightley's "church-books" lay upon a shelf near one of the windows. She rarely used the Common Prayer-book, inclining rather to dissenting forms of worship; so Robert found the book without difficulty. He sat down beside the fire, and read the Burial Service throughout, half aloud; and as he concluded it, heavy sleep fell upon him suddenly, as it had done a few times lately since he had not been so strong and well as formerly. He slept on, though the wintry dawn came and the fire died out; and when the housemaid came into the room in the morning, "it gave her," as she described it, "quite a turn, to see the master a-sittin' there asleep, and the gas a-burnin' in the broad daylight."
 
Old Alice came bustling in to rouse and scold him; and Robert, feeling very much ashamed of himself, went off sheepishly to bathe and dress. He looked and felt much better after those restoratives, and assured Alice that it had not harmed him to sleep on a chair instead of his bed; he felt just a little giddy of course, but it was nothing, he told her. He told himself it was the expectation of the post-hour, and the news it would bring. He did not venture to ask Alice to leave him to breakfast alone this morning; so the old woman was in the room when the expected letter arrived. It was very short; and with his first glance at it, he said:
 
"She will be here this evening, Alice; she comes by the day-mail."
 
"Thank God!" said the old woman fervently. "I am thankful there's to be no more waiting; for you ain't fit for it, Robert, my boy, and that's the truth."
 
"The train comes in at six; she will be here before seven. Mr. Yeldham is coming with her. Is every thing ready, Alice?"
 
"Every thing, Master Robert. I will have the fire lighted in her room immediately, and the things all put straight; and then you can look at it, and satisfy yourself. And you won't worry yourself--will you promise me not to worry yourself?"
 
"I worry myself!--no, indeed, nurse. I think that nothing can ever harm or grieve or 'worry' me, as you call it, any more."
 
Then he told her he must go into the City for an hour or two: and he took a kind leave of her and went. The old woman sat down on the chair he had vacated, and burst into an unaccountable fit of crying.
 
"I am an old fool, to be sure, if ever there was one!" she said irritably, after a few minutes; "but I can't help it--there's something over me, though I'm glad for my dear boy. Now that that's over, I'll go and look after those girls, and see what's best to have for her dinner."
 
 
It was nearly four o'clock when Robert returned; and he came in a cab which looked like a small conservatory on wheels, for every available space in it was filled with flowers. He carried the pots and the bouquets carefully into the house; and having assured Alice that he was not hungry--for her anxiety on that point had not slumbered since his infancy--he asked her if the rooms upstairs were ready.
 
"I have just come down from looking after them myself, Master Robert; and nothing could be prettier nor nicer."
 
"Well, nurse, help me to take these flowers upstairs, and show me all your beautiful decorations."
 
Alice was right: nothing nicer or prettier than the room prepared for Katharine could be seen. A bright fire burned in the polished grate, and a soft white lambskin rug lay before the fender; the chintz curtains shaded the windows cosily, and the uncovered carpet looked fresh and gay; the simple furniture was tastefully disposed; and a low velvet chair, borrowed from the drawing-room, stood invitingly before the fire. Ellen had been fond of flowers, and some pretty Parian vases were among the ornaments of her forsaken chamber. Aided by Alice, Robert arranged the flowers he had brought--and which, though numerous, were not various, for even money will not avail to procure floral variety in December--and disposed the vases as his taste dictated. Then they set the flower-pots in the balcony, and looked round approvingly on their completed task. The two faithful friends stood a while in silence, and then Robert said,
 
"Is all ready downstairs as well?"
 
"All ready, my dear; and not long to wait now, God be praised! What are you going to do--not going to the station to meet them surely, are you?"
 
"O no, nurse--I'm going to wait for her here; and I want you to take care that I'm not disturbed. I have a great deal to think about, Alice, and I want to be alone now until she comes."
 
"Very well, Robert; no one shall come near you. What time is it now?"
 
"Half-past four. Have plenty of light downstairs, that the house may look cheerful when she comes; and, Alice, I will light the gas here now, so shut the shutters."
 
He went with her to one of the windows to aid her, and they looked out. The red wintry sun was going down in a fiery ball, and red streaks were lying low upon the sky.
 
"They have had a pleasant journey, no doubt," said Alice cheerfully; "and they're on the sea now, I suppose."
 
Robert made her no answer: he was looking at the sunset, a fold of the shutter in each hand. He closed them together, fastened the bolt, and drew the curtains, while Alice lighted the gas-lamps. His face was very pale, but there was a smile of exultation and delight upon it. He spoke aloud, forgetting his reticence in his joy:
 
"The last sun has set that I shall see rise without her. All my troubles are over, nurse."
 
The old woman went up to him, gently lifted her arms, and drew his face down towards her own. She kissed him fondly more than once, and said in a low broken tone,
 
"God bless you, my darling boy! Don't forget the Lord, who has granted you your heart's desire."
 
Then she left the room quickly, and went downstairs, wiping her eyes with her apron.
 
After a few minutes Robert went into the adjoining room, and returned, carrying a large leather box. He set it upon a small table, near the toilet, and opened it with a key attached to his watch-chain. Then he took from it several cases, which he arranged symmetrically on the dressing-table, opening each, and displaying its contents.
 
"Yes," he murmured; "I am sure it was in just such order they lay that night when she put on the bracelet when I asked her, and put her hand in mine. The amethysts here, and the opal cross beside the pincushion, and the diamonds there." And he placed them as he spoke. The diamond serpent came to his hand last, and he held it, turning it to the light and watching the flashes of rich colour which gleamed from the gems. Then he replaced it in its satin case, and laid it upon the stand of the toilet-mirror.
 
"Yes, my darling," he murmured, "they are beautiful, and worth much money; and I have wanted money sorely since you adorned them last and turned from them with disdain; but I would have starved, I think, before I could have parted with them, for they had touched you."
 
He sat down in the velvet chair by the fire, took something from his waistcoat-pocket, and held it towards the light on his open palm. It was a plain gold ring, and a date was engraved inside it. It was that of the day then passing into evening, and he had had it done that morning.
 
"This is the true symbol," he murmured, "she will wear this willingly."
 
He sat for many minutes gazing at the ring upon his outstretched hand; then he put it back into his pocket, and started up.
 
A quarter to six.
 
Later than he had thought, than he had hoped. His thoughts were confused. Now they were hurrying him away again. This must not be. In this supreme hour of his life there must be no vagueness; he must rule his mind. But how? Her letter--he would read her letter--yes, that would reassure him, would restore his composure. A horrid feeling of unreality was creeping over him. This was not a dream, surely? Katharine his wife was really coming--this was her room. The fire and light were real; the doors of yonder wardrobe were lying open to receive her dresses, and the jewels upon the table there were hers--she had worn them. He was really standing in the midst of objects which assured him all was true. Then why had he felt for a moment a wide cold barren heath around him, and seen the sky and the stars? They were shut out, and there was no picture upon the wall opposite? Of course not. There was no picture there; he was only remembering the picture he had seen yesterday. He would read her letter, and he would read it on his knees, and remain kneeling until he should hear the sound of wheels--and then? How painful the slow heavy beating of his heart grew! It quite confused him. He would be much easier kneeling down. He crossed the room to the low white bed, touching the table with his hand for a moment, and knelt down on the side of the bed which faced the door. He took Katharine's letter from his breast, spread it open on the coverlet, stretching his arms out round it, like a frame. He was steadier now--that strange hurry had passed away. This was the letter:--
 
 
"I wrote to you three years ago, on the day after my father died; and I then believed, and intended what I said, that that should be the last communication I would ever hold with you. I left you, full of anger and revenge, full of self-contempt that I had permitted myself to be deceived, and with no thought beyond myself, my injuries, and my vengeance. From that day I never heard your name spoken, or was recalled by any outward circumstance to the recollection of the life I had forsaken, until a few days ago; and the letter I am now writing to you, Robert, is the result of what I then accidentally learned.
 
"The knowledge I have gained is the knowledge of your loss of fortune--ruin. The person who mentioned it called it in the strong phrase natural to those who love wealth best, and value it above all. I hope it is not so bad as this; but whatever it be, you are what the world I lived in once, but which has forgotten me, and which I have forgotten, calls a poor man. Thus the great barrier which did exist between you and me exists no longer, and I can address you as frankly and as freely as I will, with my whole heart. You may have ceased to love me, you may not care for my pardon now; but at least you cannot say I am tired of obscurity and poverty, and would return to my former position of wealth and luxury as your wife. Neither you nor the world, if it should ever know any thing of me again,--nor even my own proud self-doubting heart, which has so often tortured me with suggestions of deceitful motives,--can whisper that I have any purpose but the right to serve in this.
 
"I have suffered and learned since I left you, Robert. That suffering has been good for me, and that learning has changed me; so that I have often wished to do that which I am now doing, but have been held back by pride. For I am asking you to take me back; I am asking you to give me once more the place in your home and in your life which I wilfully, in my blind wrath, abandoned. The wrong you did me I have long ago forgiven; will you forgive me the wrong I have done you? I never understood it aright until I knew that your fortunes had fallen, until I knew that you, too, had lapsed out of your place in the world; and then, though you never cared for these things as I cared for them, I came to understand what I had done to you. You hid all your troubles from me; you kept a cheerful face to me when your heart was sad; and you allowed me to lavish money when it was melting out of your hands; you never found a fault with me, or denied a wish of mine its most ample gratification. Foolish, vain, worthless wishes they were, and I think of them with shame; but I remember your forbearance, your generosity, your constant kindness with gratitude, which is no new feeling, for I have been learning life's lessons for a long time in silence and loneliness; and if I could have conquered my pride, if I could have known above all what I know now, I should long ago have told you this. What am I, that I should be relentless to you? what am I, that I should not forgive? I never fulfilled a wife's duties; I never understood them; no one ever tried to teach me but one, and I set my headstrong will against her. I left you to sorrow and perplexity, to humiliation, and to ruin; I, who had enjoyed your wealth, and had married you without love. Your sin was not greater in reality than mine, Robert. I wonder can any sin be really greater than a marriage without love? But I was implacable to you, and you never complained of me. We lived together, the one a mystery for the other, each a lie to ourselves, and there was no confidence between us, and in me no forbearance. God help me, I was ignorant indeed; and it was not until I had become a lonely looker-on at life that I learned the lessons which earlier might have saved both you and me.
 
"I soon forgave you, Robert; but I have never been able to forgive myself. Perhaps when you have forgiven me, as I know you will, peace will come to me. External quiet I have had, but not peace, though it took me long to learn that I was seeking a vain shadow, under that name, and that in doing the right alone can any human being ever find it. In the day when self-delusion fell away from me, it left me as lonely as I had left you; and there was no possibility of substituting self-made duties for those which God's law and my own vow had laid upon me, and which I had forsaken. If you have been unhappy--and, little as I know you, in comparison with the comprehension which a wife's ought to be, I know you well enough to feel only too sure that you have been unhappy--my life has had no joy in it, no serenity. All that ever pleased me in the past has utterly lost its charm. God has had too much compassion on me to suffer me to say, 'Peace, peace, when there is no peace;' and now the end of the struggle has come. Careless words spoken by a stranger have been a revelation to me. You have sought for me in vain, Robert; then you desire to find me? Is it that you love me still, as you loved me in those evil days when I so ill requited your love? Or is it because you too would expiate the past for God's sake and the right? Whatever be your motive, there is but one course for me--the course I am taking. If you will receive me, I am ready to return to you whenever you shall summon me.
 
"Do you remember Dr. Hudson, who attended me at Martigny after our marriage? He has been a true and untiring friend to me. Nobly has he redeemed the unasked pledge of fidelity which he gave me when we parted there. I sought him out when I left you, and he has taken care of me ever since. Part of the time I lived in a convent, and was permitted to work among the poor and the sick; but of late I have been living with Dr. Hudson's mother in Brittany. This is a brief history of a long time. If you can forgive me, and bid me come home, I will tell you all the story of my outwardly quiet life, and you shall; tell me yours. We are husband and wife, Robert; and yet what strangers we are to each other! I wonder if you are as much changed as I am. Since I have known that you have had other heavy griefs besides those which I laid upon you, I dread to think how they may have altered you. Let me help you to bear them now--I, who never before touched your burdens with so much as a finger--let me be to you in adversity what in prosperity I did not care, did not know how to be. Let our dead past bury its dead. Life must always be sad and serious, I think, to those who are neither foolish nor wicked; and it will be always sad and serious to us. There are shadows cast from the time that is gone upon our paths, which no light can wholly dissipate, until we emerge into the perfect day; but the shades of anger and resentment are not among them: they have vanished, and can never come again. I do not know where your home is, Robert, and I must direct this letter to your mother's house; but wherever and whatever it may be, I entreat you let me share it. Let me come to you, late as it is, and keep my vow to you, so long and so wilfully broken, 'until death do us part.'
 
"Katharine Streightley."
 
 
A quarter-past six.
 
The hour chimed gaily with a treble ring from the little French clock on the mantelpiece. The fire was burning steadily, as fires burn in cheerful frosty weather; the delicate scent of the flowers had come out under the genial influence of the warmth, and dispersed itself through the room. The sharp roll of cab and carriage wheels upon the road came deadened through the closed windows. Robert still knelt beside the bed, and still framed his wife's letter with his outstretched arms. The stir of expectation and preparation was audible downstairs. The dining-room door stood invitingly open, the fights burned brightly, the table was laid for three, and the snowy tablecloth and glittering glass looked not the least attractive among the items of the welcome prepared for the travellers. The little hall was lighted too, and the very porcelain tiles seemed to have been brightened for the occasion.
 
Half-past six.
 
Alice comes upstairs from the kitchen, opens the hall-door, and listens. The keen air comes in, but the old woman is not afraid of the keen air, and there is no wind. Soon she goes to the stair-head and calls,----
 
"Susan, your clock is slow. The down-train is just leaving the junction. They'll be here directly."
 
Susan answers from the bottom of the short staircase:
 
"Let 'em come. Dinner is all ready, and I doubt it'll be spoiled, if they don't come soon, by the time they've got their things off. Where's master?"
 
"In Miss Ellen's room; he's not to be disturbed till they come. O, he'll hear 'em fast enough. There, it's gone the quarter!"
 
Alice comes back to the door, and holding it a little ajar, continues to peep out. Many trains from distant places arrive about this hour, and she is disappointed several times by cabs, luggage-laden, which pass the gate.
 
"I've often heard Master Robert say a quarter of an hour should always be allowed for them foreign trains," the old woman mutters a little impatiently; "but surely they'll soon be here. He'll be worn out with waiting."
 
Seven!
 
They are here. A cab stops at the gate, and Alice calls excitedly to the servants, Susan cannot abandon the dinner, but the others come and concern themselves about the luggage, while she opens wide the door, and a lady and gentleman enter.
 
"Well, nurse," says Mr. Yeldham in an excited voice, "you see I have brought Mrs. Streightley home."
 
"I see, sir," says Alice, trembling. "God bless you, ma'am; and welcome home a thousand times!"
 
Katharine puts out her hand hurriedly, and takes the old woman's; but she does not speak. She is very pale, and her lips are trembling; but she is very, very beautiful. Alice is startled at her beauty. She looks like a queen, she thinks; her deep-mourning dress drapes her like robes. But she has only time for a glimpse of Katharine, for Yeldham leads her quickly into the dining-room, whence he comes out in a moment, and asks Alice, still in the hall, and watching the servants and the cabman carrying the luggage up the little garden walk, "Where's Robert?"
 
Alice explains that he is in the room prepared for Mrs. Streightley, but wonders he has not heard the cab, and is bustling towards the stairs to call him, when Yeldham stops her.
 
"No, nurse; I know the room. I'll take her to him."
 
So he calls Katharine, and she comes quickly; and they go up the stairs together, Alice following. There is light on each landing, and they are soon at the door. Yeldham taps rapidly, and at the same time turns the door-handle; and Katharine, with a swift steady step, passes into the room, into the glow of the light and the warmth and the perfume of the flowers. She sees it all with one quick happy glance; sees the jewels on the table, and recognises them; sees the light glancing upon the scales of the diamond serpent; sees the outstretched arms upon the bed, and the head now laid down upon them. In a moment she is beside the kneeling figure, her hand upon the shoulder, her breath upon the thick brown curls.
 
"Robert! I have come--I am here!"
 
There is no answer. The breathless listeners on the landing hear no sound of glad welcome. An instant, and a faint gasping cry reaches them; for Katharine has knelt beside her husband, and lifted his head from off his outstretched arms, and it has swayed helplessly, and fallen heavily against her bosom.
 
Death has parted them!
 
THE END.