 
Transcriber's Notes: 2. Scan of page 270 (particularly the first paragraph) is very poor. I believe my reading is reasonably accurate.
KISSING THE ROD.
LONDON: | ||||||||||||||||||||||||||
CONTENTS OF VOLUME II. | |
| I. | MARTIGNY. |
| II. | AT MIDDLEMEADS. |
| III. | HARDENING. |
| IV. | CANAAN FROM PISGAH. |
| V. | CITY INTELLIGENCE. |
| VI. | THE END OF THE CLUE. |
| VII. | HESTER'S DEBUT. |
| VIII. | MARRIED FOR LOVE. |
| IX. | MARRIED TO MONEY. |
| X. | STAKED. |
| XI. | "IN THE DEAD UNHAPPY NIGHT." |
| XII. | RETRIBUTION. |
KISSING THE ROD.
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 HÔtel 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 EnglÄnder 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 HÔtel 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 HÔtel 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 faÇade, 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 naÏf 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.