 
Transcriber's Notes:
KISSING THE ROD.
LONDON: | ||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
CONTENTS OF VOLUME I. | |
| CHAP. | |
| I. | DAZZLED. |
| II. | A MORNING CALL. |
| III. | WITHIN THE PALE. |
| IV. | MR. GUYON'S FRIEND. |
| V. | HESTER GOULD. |
| VI. | IN CHAMBERS. |
| VII. | KATHARINE GUYON. |
| VIII. | AMARYLLIS IN A MARQUEE. |
| IX. | INVESTMENTS. |
| X. | STRUGGLE. |
| XI. | LEFT LAMENTING. |
| XII. | VICTORY. |
KISSING THE ROD.
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 naÏvetÉ 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.