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.
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.
Robert Streightley was a very clever man, but there was a dangerously weak side to his intellect, all the more perilous that he had never suspected it, and did not suspect it now; and that weak side was about to be stormed by a strong passion, all the more ungovernable because it attacked him for the first time. He had never played with this dangerous enemy; he had not known any of the feints, the mock-surprises of love, and he was hopelessly at its mercy. Mingled happiness and misery,--the happiness of this delicious, unexpected excess to Katharine's presence, the misery of his uncertainty as to her relations with others, with one terrible other in particular--the sense of his strangeness in the scene familiar to her,--ravaged and divided his heart between them. For a time the misery was predominant; and then Robert, an impressionable man, and one in whom social tastes were not non-existent, only dormant, yielded to the charm of the present, and gave himself up to admiration of Katharine, who never showed to greater advantage than on such occasions. The aplomb of her manner, the brilliancy of her conversation, the taste, elegance, and fashion of her dress, the easy and pleasant grace with which she made the dinner-party "go off" with a success utterly beyond his experience of any festal occasion whatever, were full of a marvellous charm for the man who looked at this girl through the glorified medium of a first and overmastering passion.
Robert took little heed of the other guests, except as one or other of them engaged Katharine's attention, and so divided his. He had the good fortune to be seated near Miss Guyon; and but that Lady Henmarsh directed much of her conversation to the young hostess, and so won Streightley's enthusiastic gratitude, she would probably have found her neighbour rather a dull companion. But Lady Henmarsh was never dull, and never suffered from other people's dulness. In the first place, she dearly liked and thoroughly understood a good dinner; and Mr. Guyon's dinners were invariably and remarkably good. She made it a practice to eat systematically and steadily through all the courses, and to do justice to all the wines. She was too fashionable and too impervious to other people's opinions to care what any body thought; and so she ate and drank precisely as much as she pleased, and gave her opinion of the comestibles with perfect candour. She was intimate with every one there, except that good-looking new man, who was probably clever in something, but whom nobody knew, and who did not seem to want to talk much or to be talked to; and she therefore joined in all the general conversation, and did not mind him particularly, thereby increasing Robert's gratitude. Lady Henmarsh talked remarkably well. She was naturally quick and intelligent--well-informed too, for a woman of fashion, with, of course, no time for improving her mind; and as she knew every one and had been every where, and probably had a more extensive epistolary correspondence than any other woman in London who did not play at either literature or politics, she was never at a loss for news to communicate or subjects to discuss.
With the exception of Mr. Guyon, whose like was not quite unknown within the circle of Robert's experience, every type there was a novel one to him. Few were interesting after a little,--after a cursory examination extending to their personal appearance and the grooves in which their conversation ran. There was a new member, who talked "House" a good deal, and his wife--pretty and well-dressed--who talked "Ladies' Gallery," who hoped her husband would soon "speak" on the great topic of the day, and who seemed to regard every one not "in the House" as in the "butterfly of fashion" and general inutility line. There was a country gentleman, not at all stupid and not in the least fat; and a country lady, almost as sprightly as Miss Guyon herself, though by no means so handsome. The country lady and gentleman were also going to Mrs. Pendarvis's ball; and from their talk about it at dinner Robert learned that Katharine was going to another entertainment that evening, and the tortures of his infatuated state recommenced. She would disappear, then, after dinner, and he should see no more of her, thought Robert in his innocent ignorance of fashionable hours; and she would go and glitter among a crowd of happy people, and that handsome fellow with the light hair would be one of them. And so Robert once more stretched himself upon the rack, and gave himself an excruciating twist. He was miserable from the time the ball was mentioned. Did he wish that he could go there too? Hardly; he felt he would be too much out of place in such a scene; and where could he be more hopelessly parted from her? No, he did not wish to be going to Mrs. Pendarvis's house; he only wished she were not going.
"Have you a card, Mr. Mostyn?" he heard Katharine say in a charming accent of interest to a gentleman seated near her, whom Robert had already regarded with some surprise and amusement.
"Yes," returned Mr. Mostyn in a supremely languid tone, at the same time permitting his eyes to raise themselves towards Katharine, as if in slow acknowledgment of the complimentary accent. "I think I shall look in for an hour very late. Will you give me a dance, Miss Guyon?" He said this as if he felt bound to make a concession to a wish of hers. Robert Streightley had very quick eyes, and he saw her steal a glance of sly, mischievous amusement at Lady Henmarsh as she replied,
"I don't see how I can, Mr. Mostyn, if you only look in for an hour very late, for I mean to do my looking in rather early."
"Very sorry, I'm sure," said Mr. Mostyn in a slow, measured, would-be modulated tone, which sounded to Robert's ears like the very voice of fatuity. "But one has so much to do of an evening just now. It's Lady Ismaeli's night, and I promised to look in and----"
"Of course, of course," said Miss Guyon, and her eyes danced with mischievous glee; "who would for the world interfere with Mr. Mostyn's gaieties? We all know they are but gravities in disguise. He is the slave of the season only to be its satirist, the pet of society to requite its indulgence by his teachings as a philosopher and his dulcet lays as a poet. Who would lay a tax on time spent in the service of society like Mr. Mostyn's, studying character in a cotillion, piercing the thin disguises of intrigue at a picnic, and reading the female soul in the evening lounge on a balcony? Ah, Mr. Mostyn, what triflers are we all beside you, the poètephilosophe, not only sous les toits, but of our dinner- and toilet-tables!"
Lady Henmarsh was listening, pleasure in her face. There was something under this lively talk, this seeming compliment; and Robert would have liked well to know what it was. It was something that amused Katharine, therefore interesting to him.
"Come, Mr. Mostyn," she went on, "you might tell me--I am a friend, you know. When is the new novel coming out? And what and who is it to be about? Only intimate friends this time, or have outsiders any chance?"
She paused for a reply, and an expression of candid curiosity was all her face betrayed. Mr. Mostyn did not look perfectly comfortable; a dawning doubt showed itself in his smooth features. It was only momentary, though. It cleared away, and he replied,
"Really, Miss Guyon, you embarrass me. I was not prepared to find you so much interested in my humble performances. I shall not publish again, for some little time. I regard the writing of a poem or a novel as a serious undertaking, and I undertake it in a serious spirit. I wait for the inspiration, Miss Guyon; I wait until a favourable moment when my mind is attuned----"
"And when you have got some very good models, Mr. Mostyn; isn't that so? Your acquaintance is so large, it must be quite delightful and not at all difficult. Don't be shocked, please, by my talking of such a little thing as difficulty in the case of such a grand thing as inspiration; but it must be so easy and pleasant just to sit down and put your friends in a book. People hardly expect it, do they? They let you see them as they are, and then that is charming; for you find out all about them, and they never suspect it; and all their circle recognise the portrait, and every one talks about it. I have quite a woman's curiosity about writers, you must know, Mr. Mostyn,--I quite admire and envy them,--and I should like to know all about them; and I have heard that even a totally worthless book will be read if it is very personal indeed. What a comfort that must be, Mr. Mostyn I--of course I mean to the persons who write worthless books; shouldn't you think so?"
Katharine threw a perfect tone of interrogation into her voice, and deliberately awaited an answer. Once more a shadow of doubt came over Mr. Mostyn's face, and once more a beam from the never-setting sun of his vanity dispelled it.
"I cannot imagine there being any consolation in or for writing a worthless book, Miss Guyon," replied Mr. Mostyn with even increased sententiousness. "For my part, I could only be satisfied with doing the very best----"
"The very best, or your very best?" said Katharine with undisguised sauciness. Then recollecting herself, she dropped her voice to the serious tone again, and went on: "Of course no one is easily satisfied with his own work; but you really must not be too modest, Mr. Mostyn,--you mustn't indeed. Every one says your portraits are wonderful; and what can be more interesting than to depict accurately persons who are very widely known, and place them in the most trying situations? The popular authoress, for instance, who makes love to your last hero--dear, what an exquisite creature he is!--how odd she must feel it to be 'put in a book' and recognised by every body! Ah! you are a dangerous man, Mr. Mostyn; perhaps you'll put me in a book some day, if I am good enough, or bad enough, or ask you here sufficiently often to do all my sittings properly--but--Lady Henmarsh looks as if I ought to have moved before this;" and so saying Katharine rose, and, like "fair Inez," took all the sunshine and light of every description with her, so far as Robert Streightley was concerned. Whether Mr. Mostyn was quite so sorry for her departure was another question. Robert looked at this gentleman with some curiosity and a little dawning compassion, for it struck him that Katharine had not spoken altogether de bonne foi, and he was curious to ascertain whether he too was aware of the fact.
Robert had little experience of persiflage, and was not behind the scenes on this occasion; but two or three of the other guests were, and they enjoyed the quiet little performance which had just been enacted greatly. As for Mr. Mostyn, his momentary discomfiture passed off with the characteristic reflection, that jealousy made all women spiteful, and Miss Guyon had really not had so much of his attention lately as she deserved,--he must be more considerate of her feelings for the future. The ladies gone, the gentlemen drew up into the usual cluster, and commenced the ordinary after-dinner conversation; and Robert would probably have found the affair very wearisome on its own account, not to mention that he was longing to be in Katharine's presence again, had not Mr. Guyon exerted himself to the utmost to draw 'him out, and to give the conversation a general turn, so as to include him, and to make it evident to the whole party that the "new man" was one whom he delighted to honour.
When the ladies were passing through the hall, Lady Henmarsh had said laughingly to Katharine, "For shame, Kate; you were too hard on the young author."
"Nonsense!" replied Katharine. "You enjoyed it immensely, and he deserved it richly."
When the gentlemen came into the drawing-room at Mr. Guyon's that night, Katharine was seated at the piano. Had any portion of Robert Streightley's heart remained unvanquished, she would have conquered it by her music: but he was already as much in love as he could be. Soon the business of leave-taking commenced. Robert was reluctantly advancing to make his adieux, when Mr. Guyon took him familiarly by the arm and said,
"Don't go just yet, Streightley. We'll see the ladies to the carriage, and then have a chat and a cigar in my room."
Miss Guyon left the room with Lady Henmarsh, but returned in a few minutes, wrapped in a soft white mantle. Every alteration in her appearance made her more beautiful in Robert's eyes. He had the felicity of taking her downstairs; and as she bowed and smiled from the corner of the carriage in which she had ensconced herself, and was then borne rapidly away, Robert needed Mr. Guyon's "Come along, Streightley; don't stand there in the cold," to rouse him from a sort of trance of admiration.
The ball at Mrs. Pendarvis's was crowded and brilliant, and Katharine's hopes were realised. Gordon Frere had waited her arrival on the staircase, and claimed her for the first dance. The hours passed like a dream to them both; and when Mr. Alured Mostyn "looked in," and at length succeeded in finding Miss Guyon, he saw her so radiant with beauty, so sparkling with animation, that he was quite touched at the idea of the effect produced by her pleasure in seeing him.
Another person noticed the unusual beauty and the increased animation of Katharine Guyon that night, and formed a truer estimate of its origin. This was Lady Henmarsh. She made certain observations, drew certain conclusions, and determined on a line of conduct which will develop itself in the course of events.
And Robert? Well, Robert had his chat and his cigar with Mr. Guyon, and then he went home--home to the house which he had never before thought vulgar or insignificant, which he had never thought about at all indeed, and which was in truth much more solidly comfortable than the gaudier abode which had suddenly been converted into a shrine to his fancy. He shrunk from it now as he thought, "I wonder what she would say to this, and our mode of life here?" and he returned the old nurse's greeting with grudging ill-humour, being inclined to resent her sitting up for him, though it was not an abnormally late hour, and her opening the door for him, which, though not her business, was, as he well knew, her pleasure.
"Any news, nurse? any letters?" he asked, in a tone wholly devoid of interest in the reply.
"No, Master Robert," said the old woman; "there's no letters, and there's nobody been but Miss Hester Gould, a-wantin' to know when Miss Ellen's comin' home."
The astonishment of Mr. Guyon at the liberal treatment which he had received at the hands of his new creditor was by no means feigned. That worthy gentleman, in the course of a long career of impecuniosity, had become acquainted with all the various plans of all the leading discounters of the city of London; knew what he called their "whole bag of tricks;" understood the different ways of getting time or obtaining renewal, according to the various idiosyncrasies of the holders of his stamped paper; and gave to the subject an amount of talent, industry, and attention which, otherwise employed, might have brought him in a very fair income. A very fair income was not a thing to be despised by a gentleman in Mr. Guyon's position, whose actually reliable income was represented by one figure, and that a round one. A sum of five thousand pounds indeed stood in the Consols in Edward Guyon's name; but on that pleasantly-sounding amount was laid a distringas, a horrible legal instrument preventing its withdrawal by the said Edward Guyon, while the annual interest, which would at least have kept him in cigars and gloves, found its way into the clutches of Messrs. Sharkey and Maw, attorneys-at-law, who had a few years previously advanced a sufficient sum to free Mr. Guyon from an unpleasant incarceration in the Queen's Bench, leaving him a few pounds over to convey himself to the Newmarket Spring Meeting, whither he proceeded immediately on his release. All that pleasant estate known as Bedingfield, in the county of Cheshire, with its three thousand acres of arable land, its salt- and coal-mines, its since-made railway bit, its punctually-paying tenant, and its various sources of revenue; which belonged to the Honourable Piers Rankley, and which every one thought he would bequeath to his cousin, Edward Guyon, had been left to a distant relative of Piers Rankley's childless dead wife, one Jacob Long, a member of the Plymouth Brethren, and originally a hide-dresser in Bermondsey, who under the influence of qualms of conscience agreed to allow his reprobate connection Edward Guyon a sum of a thousand a-year, "at his pleasure." It had been a matter of acute annoyance to Ned Guyon that he had no legal claim or hold on this allowance; so that it was impossible for him to mortgage or anticipate it in any way, save by a three months' acceptance for the amount of the quarterly instalment--less commission and discount--payable on the day that instalment was due; but in reality it enabled him to pay renewal fees, to have occasional ready-money for certain menus plaisirs of his own and little treats for Kate, and to give such an air of respectability as it possessed to that old house in Queen Anne Street, the lease of which, with its dingy furniture and ten pounds for a mourning ring, had been his sole legacy from Piers Rankley.
But no income, however fair, would have tempted Mr. Guyon to undertake any honest work, or, as he phrased it, any "d--d low ungentlemanlike slavery;" and the consequence was that, what with an accumulation of gambling-table (he was a member of the Nob and Heels Club, where they play whist for twenty-four hours at a sitting, pound points and a tenner on the rub) and turf debts, he was just at the time of his introduction into this story in a really desperate condition. It had been an unlucky season with him. His racing information had been bad throughout. Commencing ill last Chester, he had been hard hit at Epsom, had dropped more money at Ascot, and could only pull off a stake at the coming Doncaster by a most unlikely fluke. He had had frightful ill-luck at cards. Acknowledged to be one of the best whist-players of the day, he had scarcely held a trump since the winter, and had been beaten by the merest tyros. That very acceptance, which his new acquaintance Streightley held, had been given to Davidson for a card debt; and Guyon had forgotten all about it, having, contrary to his usual custom, omitted to enter it in his book. However, that was staved off for the present; and the few words which he had had with his daughter on the subject had opened a new well-spring of life in Mr. Guyon's breast. If what Kate surmised, or rather half hinted at, were true--and, with all her pride and wilfulness, she had wonderful common-sense and shrewdness--it might, with judicious management, be turned to wondrous advantage. It was but in embryo yet, to be sure; but, with Kate's beauty and his own tact, it could be brought off at any moment, and the value of it would be--well, he would see at once what the value of it would be by representing it as a certainty to his chief creditor and principal discount-agent, Mr. Daniel Thacker.
Who was Mr. Daniel Thacker? If you had been heir to an entailed estate, with as large a taste for pleasure and as limited resources as such heirs usually possess; if you had been an officer in either of the Guards regiments, or any of the crack corps; if you had been a member of any of the West-end government offices, with fast tendencies; or an author; or an actor frequenting fast society; or a theatrical manager; or a pretty coryphée fond of suppers and admiration,--you would not have had to ask the question; for without doubt you would have possessed Mr. Thacker's acquaintance. A man combining the sharpest practice (in a gentlemanly way) as a bill-discounter with the keenest pursuit of pleasure of a strong, full-flavoured, not to say of a gross kind, was Mr. Thacker. A man who made cent per cent of his money by judicious investment, and who at the same time "parted" freely; living in capital chambers in St. James's Street, keeping horses and carriages, entertaining frequently and well, having an Opera-stall for himself and frequently an Opera-box for a female friend, visiting the theatres, riding to hounds, and carrying out every thing he attempted in very excellent style. Life seemed a broad and pleasantly-turfed path for Mr. Daniel Thacker, down which he could stroll in his easy polished boots without the smallest stumbling-block to cause him annoyance. But there was one thing which wrung and chafed him, which he could never shut out from his happiest hour, which proclaimed itself whenever he looked in the glass (which was not seldom), which lay like a hideous pitfall for Mr. Thacker's friends, into which they were perpetually tumbling and coming out covered with inarticulate excuses, which pointed the sarcasm of little boys in the streets at first overwhelmed by his splendour, and edged the repartee of insolent cabmen, to whom he called to clear the way for his high-stepping steeds,--a fact which nothing could hide, a brand which no money could obliterate;--Mr. Daniel Thacker was an unmistakable Jew. Unmistakable! as unmistakable as if he had retained his old family name of Hart; as if he had remained in his old family neighbourhood of St. Mary Axe; as if he had continued his old family occupation of contracting with the government for the supply of rum and lemons for the navy, and uniforms for the postmen. In that choice neighbourhood, and out of those apparently not very meaty contracts, had old Simeon Hart, Daniel's uncle, made all the wealth which he bequeathed to his nephew; and when, long before the old gentleman's decease, the young man's aspirations led him to declare to his senior that he thought the Hebraic name stood in their way in certain matters of business, and that he had some idea of taking some less-recognisable cognomen,--the old gentleman remarked, not without a touch of sarcasm in his voice, "Do ath you like, Daniel, ma tear; do ath you like. You're a threwd lad, and are thure to turn out right; but underthand one thing, ma tear,--you may change your name if you like, but you'll never be able to change your nothe." Mr. Simeon Hart was right; nothing short of cutting off that feature could have disguised Mr. Daniel Thacker's nationality. He was as distinctly marked as is the African; and though, with the addition of splendid sparkling black eyes, bright scarlet lips, a quantity of tightly-curling hair, and a fine flowing beard, he passed for a handsome man among certain of the other sex, there was no man to whom he had ever rendered a service--and he was in the main a kindly-disposed fellow so far as his profession permitted--but set him down for a "d--d Jew."
He never forgot this, it was never absent from his thoughts. If he saw any one regarding him attentively, he felt at once what they were thinking about; it haunted him in the theatre, in society, wherever there was a chance of casual mention of his forsworn race. He had tried to laugh it over in his business discount-dealings with money-borrowers, asking them in a light and airy manner "why they came to the Jews," of whom they must have had such serious warnings: but the raillery always fell flat and heavy; and sometimes, from cubs of fashion, produced unintentional clumsy sarcasms which stung him to the quick. The renegade paid the penalty of his cowardice. With the blunted notions of an unrefined mind, he thought that the prejudice was levelled at his race, not at the character which the dealings of some of his nation had won for it, and which he himself was supporting. In his blindness he ignored the fact that amongst all those whose good word was worth having, the prejudice had died out; that the names of certain proud old Jewish families, who could trace their pedigree far beyond the barber-surgeon or border-robber founders of Norman or Scottish families, were honoured amongst the honoured; and that in any case a man who, brought into contact with a set socially superior to his own, took up his position calmly on the strength of his own acquirements, be these what they might, was received with a courtesy and a kindness which were naturally refused to the most glowing impostor. With Mr. Guyon Thacker had long had extensive dealings--dealings which had extended over a long course of years; but of late he had been a little doubtful of his client's solvency, a little delicate in the matter of renewals and holdings-over; and with a clouded brow he heard from his clerk the announcement that Mr. Guyon was waiting to see him in the ante-room. He reflected for a moment, and seemed half disposed to deny himself to his visitor; then carefully shutting the right-hand drawer of his desk, in which he kept his checkbook, and placing the morocco-bound volume, which was a ledger, but looked like a diary, close by him, he said, "Show Mr. Guyon in, James; I've just five minutes at his disposal."
Dressed in the most perfect manner, with all the latest improvements of fashion sufficiently tempered to his time of life, calm, collected, bland, and airy, yet with a certain amount of anxiety visible about his eyes and in the shifting corners of his mouth, Mr. Guyon entered the apartment and shook hands warmly with his friend.
Mr. Thacker received him civilly but not cordially, and expressed his hope that he saw Mr. Guyon well.
"Thanks, my dear Thacker," said that sprightly gentleman; "I think I may say, never in better case. I was getting a little pulled with the gaieties of the season--we old fellows can't carry it through like you young ones, you know--and I was, to tell truth, knocking up a bit; but last week I went down for a couple of days to Maidenhead--Orkney Arms, Skindle's, you know--where there was a particularly jolly party, all of them friends of yours, by the way,--Bob Affington and Adèle, and Dalrymple and O'Dwyer, and Hattenheim and the Marchesa--a droll lot of people of the right sort--and we had great fun; and it quite set me up. Every body said they wished you'd been down there."
"Every body's very good," replied Thacker, sufficiently grimly. He hated hearing of any pleasure which he had not shared. "Every body's very good; but every body seems to forget that I've my business to attend to."
"Business, my dear boy," said Mr. Guyon, stretching out his legs and clasping his lavender-gloves in front of him; "and have we not all business to transact? I know, for one, that my time is nearly entirely devoted to business. Case in point, what brings me here to-day?"
"That's exactly what I can't understand," said Thacker with a rather sardonic smile; "if it had been this day week," he continued, referring to his ledger, "I should have known at once; because on that day your acceptance for three hundred and fifty pounds falls due, and you would have come down to take it up."
"Or to get you to renew," said Guyon insinuatingly.
"O, in that case you would have wasted your visit," replied Thacker; "that bill has been renewed once, and it is the rule of my house, as you know very well, never to do these things a second time."
He looked more than serious as he said this; but Mr. Guyon met his frown with a cheery laugh, and said in his most off-hand manner, "Well, my dear fellow, then it will be paid. Gad! you look as black as though thirty thousand instead of three hundred pounds were coming due from me next week. It's not for three hundred pounds that Ned Guyon, who has weathered one or two storms in his time, is going to pieces."
"N-no," said Thacker slowly; "but you see, though only three hundred and fifty are due next week, I hold a great deal of your paper, Mr. Guyon, in addition to other mortgages and advances on securities impossible to realise at once, and altogether I--in fact I----"
"Don't hesitate, sir," said Mr. Guyon, rising with a flushed face and buttoning the lavender glove with a trembling hand, "don't make any favour of it, I beg. It's been a pure matter of business hitherto, Mr. Thacker--a pure matter of business, convenient to both of us, though I'm sure out of respect for you I've endeavoured to import a friendly element into our negotiations; a friendly element which, I may say, and indeed was one of the causes of my visit to you to-day; which might have been the means of--however, since you choose to look upon Ned Guyon with suspicion, Ned Guyon wishes you good morning." And Mr. Guyon settled his hat on his head, and was starting off in his usual easy swagger when he was stopped by the touch of Mr. Thacker's hand on his arm.
"Stay one minute, my good sir. Don't misunderstand me, if you please. I simply tell you that an acceptance of yours will be due next week, an acceptance which you avow your perfect readiness to meet, and you talk about my looking on you with suspicion. I am perfectly ready to allow that our relations have been of a business nature; but I thought that I might take credit for having introduced into them some of the elements of private friendship. You have done me the honour of dining with me, and----"
"I have," murmured Guyon absently; "and doosid good dinners they were."
"And yet you talk about suspicion. This is not fair, Mr. Guyon; this is any thing but fair."
"'Pon my soul, I didn't mean any harm; didn't, 'pon my life," said Mr. Gluon; "always found you doosid good fellow, Thacker, and that kind of thing----"
"And yet you were going away without telling me of something which, if I understand you rightly, might be to our mutual benefit, and which you came down expressly to submit to me? Is that so?"
"Dev'lish stoopid and childish of me to take affront so easily, more particklerly from good feller," said Mr. Guyon. "Yes, I did want to say word to you upon matter of importance.--matter on which I think you'll congratulate me."
"Sit down quietly, then, and let's talk it over.--The dry sherry, Evans, and a biscuit.--Any thing which benefits you interests me, Mr. Guyon--though all between us is 'pure matter of business,' eh? O, unkind, sir; very unkind!"
"There! forget that, Thacker, and listen to what I've got to tell you. You know my daughter,--at least you've seen her," added Mr. Guyon, with a rather painful recollection of several broad hints which Thacker had given of his wish for an introduction to Katharine--hints which Mr. Guyon had always carefully ignored.
"I have seen Miss Guyon," was the cold reply.
"Yes, of course, yes. Strange girl, very reserved, and--afraid of society."
"Indeed?"
"O very been a great drawback to her; but at last she has consented to come out, and--well, I don't know that I ought to say it to any one, but you're a man not likely to break confidence--she's going to make a splendid match."
"A splendid match, eh? A title?"
"A title? Pooh much better than that! A millionaire! one of the merchant princes of the City! A man whose name is good on 'Change for I don't know how much. What do you say to that, Thacker? Ned Guyon's in luck at last, eh?"
"It sounds very well, so far," said Mr. Thacker quietly, "Might one venture to ask the name of the modern Croesus?"
"To any one else I should decline, peremptorily decline to give it; but it's different with you, Thacker; you're an old friend. The gentleman's name is Streightley--of the firm of Streightley and Son."
"Is it, by Jove!" cried Mr. Thacker, startled out of his usual quiescence. "Bullion Lane?--I know him well--by repute, that is to say, not personally. If you've hooked--I beg your pardon--if Mr. Streightley is going to marry Miss Guyon, you've done a splendid stroke of business."
"You think so?"
"Think so--I'm sure of it. They say that there's no more far-seeing man in the City, and his profits must be tre-mendous."
"Well, that's the man. Now look here, Thacker, I'm open and aboveboard with you, as two men of the world, or rather two men of honour. Not the same thing, eh?" and the old man's eye twinkled; "should be. This thing is well on, a little more will bring it to completion. One mustn't, as they say, spoil the ship for a pennor'th of tar, eh? One mustn't let a fine chance slip through one's fingers for want of a little gold-dust to put on one's hands to render the grip secure, eh?"
"I see your drift," said Thacker; "but you must speak more plainly."
"More plainly to you?" said Mr. Guyon in a whisper--unconsciously each man had lowered his voice. "Well, what I mean is this. If this scheme turns out well, as it will undoubtedly, if it be only properly carried out,--well--Katharine is devoted to me, she will rule her husband--O, never fear, she has the spirit of a dozen women!--and I shall be in clover once more, with all my arrears cleared off, and a handsome annuity! But the thing must be properly managed. Streightley must not take fright at any aspect of poverty, or want of means rather; he must not for an instant imagine that I am in any way hampered" (the thought of the 180l. bill flashed across him, but he never changed countenance); "and he must be properly entertained; and Katharine must have a proper trousseau. He's not the man to speak about settlements," added Mr. Guyon; "and if he did, he must be told that there would be nothing until my death."
"And how is 'the thing to be properly managed,' and all the rest of it done?"
"I only know one way--and that is----"
"Speak out; you're not generally reticent on the score of modesty, Mr. Guyon."
"Well--that is--by you're holding over the three hundred and fifty due next week, and making me a further advance of--say a thousand, payable three months after my daughter's wedding-day."
Mr. Thacker was silent for a few minutes, nor could Mr. Guyon, intently scanning his face, derive the smallest idea from its expression. Then he made a few rapid calculations on the blotting-pad in front of him, and said:
"You play for a big stake, Mr. Guyon, and don't stick at asking trifles from your friends. Now, I like a big game; it at once invests any scheme with an interest for me which I cannot give to mere pottering petty hazards. And I don't say that I won't help you in this--on certain terms--only----"
"Your terms will be your own, my good fellow," cried Guyon, his eye sparkling at the thought of success. "But I don't like that 'only.' What is it? Only what?"
"Only that I should like to be introduced to Mr. Streightley, and have a little talk with him; of course not on the subject under consideration, but on general topics, just to get an idea of him, you know. It's a large sum to advance, in addition to outstanding matters; and I'm a man of business, you know, Guyon, and like to see my way in these things."
"All right. Come down with me to the City, and we'll hunt him up in his den."
"No; I think not. We business-men don't like being hunted up in our dens, as you call them, unless our visitors bring us a carcass or two to growl over. You go over and see Streightley, and bring him here to lunch to-morrow at two. I leave you to find the excuse; your ready wit serves you always in such matters."
There was a tinge of sarcasm in Mr. Thacker's voice as he uttered these last words, but Mr. Guyon was in far too excited a state to perceive it. So he took his leave with much exuberant hand-shaking, and started off with much self-complacency. After his departure Mr. Thacker sat for some little time, leaning his head on his hands and his elbows on the desk, immersed in thought. "He's an unscrupulous vagabond, is Guyon!" said he to himself after a pause. "He's going to sell that handsome daughter of his, as he would a bit of land, or a diamond-ring, or a reversion under a will, or any thing that would bring him money. A determined heartless dog! But he seems to have either played his cards well or to have had great luck in hooking so big a fish as Streightley. Robert Streightley! Yes, yes; they say he pulled the Ocean Marine through when Overend Gurneys had given them up and the knowing ones looked for an immediate windup, and now their shares are at 13 premium, and there are no end of the clever things he's done. He might be useful to me, might put me up to two or three wrinkles in the City, where all is big and where one's own natural talent has some chance of showing itself. Hitherto I've been pottering on with hard-up swells, and men of the Guyon stamp--safe business enough, and remunerative so far as it goes; pleasant too in its introductions to good people; but I know enough people now, and must look to making money as the chief thing. And this Streightley is the very man who could help me in such a matter. If I now see him, I'll back myself to read him like a book, and then I'll see how far this investment of Guyon's is worth my backing."