"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.
"My dear Kate, what a perfect paradise of a place you have here!" said Lady Henmarsh to her young hostess, when, having made a tour of inspection of the house, the two ladies found themselves alone in Katharine's morning-room. "I had no notion Mr. Streightley meant to méner grand train after this fashion. You are a fortunate girl, Kate, and I hope you understand and appreciate your luck."
Lady Henmarsh spoke with the accent of strong conviction, and looked around her approvingly as she did so. She and Sir Timothy had arrived by a midday train from London: the first hours after their arrival had been passed in the manner usual on similar occasions,--in seeing the house, dawdling about the gardens, and inspecting the hothouses; and now the moment had arrived which Katharine and her guest had each felt disposed to defer as long as possible--that of a tête-à-tête, in which the discussion of the past and present must necessarily have its place.
Katharine was standing by a window which opened like a door upon a small perfectly-kept flower-garden, and looking musingly out upon the fair expanse of park and woodland which stretched away into the distance. Lady Henmarsh was looking at her with more curious scrutiny than she had ventured to indulge in in the presence of others; and the result of her examination was, that Katharine was more beautiful than ever. The assured demeanour, the perfect gracefulness, the lofty ease of manner, which had been perhaps a little too pronounced in the girl, were perfectly in their place as attributes of the young matron, who did the honours of her splendid house with faultless elegance and aplomb. The taste and richness of her dress, the judicious assortment of her ornaments, the air of dignity and calm which dwelt about her, made her indeed a being to be regarded with almost wondering admiration. And Lady Henmarsh admired and wondered--wondered how she liked it all; wondered how she and Robert got on together; whether he was afraid of Katharine (she put the question to herself in just such plain words),--thought it very likely, all things considered; wondered whether Katharine ever heard of Gordon Frere, and what she thought of him if she did; and finally wondered whether she might venture to question her on these points: but while the thought passed through her mind the answer passed through it also, and Lady Henmarsh knew perfectly well that she would never dare to mention Frere's name to Mrs. Streightley.
"This room is perfectly exquisite," Lady Henmarsh began again; "and I suppose you keep it strictly to yourself; that you give audience here, queen of Middlemeads, when it suits you; but shut out the profane vulgar,--eh, Kate?"
"Yes," answered Katharine carelessly; "it is a pretty room, and I use it a great deal,--that is to say, Ellen and I."
"Ellen and you!" repeated Lady Henmarsh with profound astonishment. "You don't mean to tell me, Katharine, that you have really taken to be intimate with that uninteresting creature--that sheep-like young lady, the veriest type of the most detestable class of society girls that I have ever encountered! A silly, pious, underbred girl, engaged to a vulgar missionary preacher! Really you amaze me, Kate. Perhaps," she said, with a covert glance at Katharine, and a strong effort to be perfectly familiar and natural, dictated by an instinctive feeling that she had lost ground with one whom she had formerly influenced--"perhaps you are doing the model wife, acting on the 'love-me-love-my-dog' principle, and cultivating this very modest flower for her brother's sake. If so, I admire you for it, Katharine. I am glad to see you have a due sense of the value of 'thorough' in you; there is no more precious quality; but I confess I did not expect it."
Katharine had fixed her large bright eyes upon Lady Henmarsh at the beginning of this speech with an expression of cold surprise, which succeeded in making the speaker feel very uncomfortable before she reached the end of it. A few moments elapsed before Katharine answered gravely:
"Miss Streightley is a person whom I like and esteem. I fear I shall never imitate her good qualities; but I am glad to know that I have at least the grace to admire them. Of course, as Mr. Streightley's sister, I should have shown her every attention; but such a duty soon became a pleasure."
Katharine spoke in a cold and dignified tone, which produced an exceedingly unpleasant effect upon Lady Henmarsh, whose face assumed a certain comical expression, suggestive of an instantly-repressed inclination to whistle. Her feeling towards Katharine had always hovered on the borders of dislike; but from the present moment it crossed them, and she never tried to deceive herself more about its nature. She had been a party to the wound inflicted upon the pride of this haughty woman; she had witnessed her suffering, had spoken to her of her humiliation, had had cognisance of the "transaction" of this marriage; and Katharine would never forgive her. In her she would find a polished, hospitable, and attentive hostess, observant of every social duty, and resolute against every attempt on her part to reestablish an intimacy which had never been more than superficial and of convenience. Lady Henmarsh perceived the state of the case clearly; but as she had no feelings to be hurt in the matter, she took very kindly to a hearty dislike of Katharine.
"It is a comfort to know that Ned has got what he wanted, at all events," she thought, as she looked at the moody frown which had come over Katharine's countenance as she spoke the last sentences; "and if she's fool enough to filer le parfait amour with this City lout and all his kin, or hypocrite enough to pretend to do so, so much the better,--things will be easier for Ned, and that's the main point."
But Lady Henmarsh said aloud, and with the most perfect suavity,
"My dear Katharine, you are surely not so silly as to suppose I blame you for any attention to Mr. Streightley's sister. I daresay I shall like her very much when I know her better; and I'm sure it's quite charming to find you getting on so admirably with your people-in-law. And now, I think, having seen as much of your beautiful house as I can manage for to-day, I will disappear until dinner-time. I must look after Sir Timothy. Thank you, dear; I know my way to my rooms. How delightfully you have chosen for me, Kate! just the situation and aspect I like best. Sir Timothy is perfectly charmed."
Lady Henmarsh, safely secluded within her own apartment, proceeded to indite a piquant epistle to her "cousin Ned," in which she painted the Streightley ménage in colours highly agreeable to that gentleman's feelings, and indulged herself with some of the ridicule of Ellen and her brother, whose flow had been so peremptorily arrested by Katharine. She knew that it would be rather agreeable than otherwise to Mr. Guyon to be told, on the authority of an eye-witness, that his daughter was perfectly happy; so she gave him that pleasant assurance, inquired affectionately when he proposed coming to witness the felicity of Middlemeads in person, and hinted that his presence would add considerably to the attractions of that sojourn in her own estimation.
Robert's reception of Sir Timothy and Lady Henmarsh had been all that the most exacting guests could desire. The poor fellow felt unbounded gratitude towards Lady Henmarsh, who had, as he said to himself, "always been his friend,"--gratitude which it was a pleasure and a relief to him to feel,--gratitude which he could not extend to Mr. Guyon,--no; he was an accomplice, not a friend; and the tie between them was, one of pain, which made itself felt, and of shame, to which no effort, no triumph, could render him insensible. He was totally ignorant of Lady Henmarsh's complicity in Mr. Guyon's manoeuvres; he knew only that he had received the warmest welcome from her when his pretensions were announced; that she had appeared to regard his marriage as all that it should be; and even now that the prize was won, the treasure he had paid so high a price for all his own, he attached an unreasonable importance to Lady Henmarsh's presence, to her approbation. He did not say so in plain terms to himself; but he felt that she would support his cause with Katharine, that she would lend him additional importance. In the timidity of his sore conscience, he felt that it was a great thing to be strengthened by the presence of a person unconscious and unsuspicious of the means by which his success had been effected, and who had welcomed it on its own merits. So little did he understand his wife's proud isolation of heart, that he mistook her courtesy to her guest for respect for her opinion, and looked to Lady Henmarsh's aid in gaining Katharine's heart as ardently as he had hailed her support in his suit for her hand.
The truth was just the opposite of that which Robert believed it to be. From the moment Lady Henmarsh arrived at Middlemeads, Katharine's mood underwent a change unfavourable to the prospect of domestic happiness which had begun to dawn upon her. An atmosphere of heartlessness and worldliness surrounded this woman; and then she was associated in Katharine's mind with all the bitterness and humiliation of the past. The pain, now grown almost old, began to revive again; the restlessness and weariness of spirit, the terrible anger, the unavailing self-contempt, which rendered Katharine unapproachable to all, despite her suave and gracious manner, and especially to him who had afforded her the occasion to incur it. These feelings did not return in their intensity all at once; but their first approach to the invasion of Katharine's heart was made when the girl perceived the hardly veiled contempt with which her ci-devant chaperone regarded her spontaneous effort to be good and happy. It needed little to turn the balance in which the fate of Robert and Katharine Streightley hung at that moment, and Lady Henmarsh's disdainful touch did it. Not directly--she had no direct influence with Katharine now--but indirectly, by the pain of humiliating association, by the sudden revival of the old bitterness, and the sense that all this was but a sordid bargain after all. The evil leaven began its work when Lady Henmarsh left Katharine, still standing by the window of her morning room, in the self-same attitude in which she had stood by the window in Queen Anne Street, and watched in vain for the coming of Gordon Frere. She moved away at length, with a restless and impatient sigh, and went to seek for Ellen.
Ellen Streightley had been rather frightened by Lady Henmarsh, whose rapid talk on a variety of subjects removed from Ellen's comprehension and experience had oppressed her considerably. She had accordingly kept out of the way, since she had contrived to make her escape during the tour of inspection; and Katharine ultimately discovered her in a quiet corner of the library, deeply engaged in the manufacture of an unspeakably hideous pair of embroidered slippers. She laid aside her work at Katharine's approach, and they proceeded to discuss the time and manner of Miss Gould's expected arrival on the ensuing day, Ellen losing herself in conjectures as to what Katharine would think of Hester, and what Hester would think of Katharine. She had most of the discourse to herself, and also enjoyed a secret satisfaction in the reflection that to-morrow she would have her friend--a more important person than Lady Henmarsh--too, to make a fuss about. She wondered how Robert could like that woman so much, and be so deferential to her; she might be very grand and all that, but she had a way of making people feel small and uncomfortable, which was not like a real lady--not like dear Katharine, for instance; however, there was one comfort, she could not put down Hester.
"Is Miss Gould likely to marry, Ellen?" asked Katharine in the course of their conversation. "It would be a terrible take-in for the fortune-hunters, you know, or rather you don't know, if the prize of the season were found to be already won."
Ellen looked at her sister-in-law with the half-solemn, half-stupid gaze habitual to her when she was puzzled. Katharine had never uttered any such banale sarcasm to her before; that she did so now was the first symptom of the evil influence that was upon her.
"No," said Ellen slowly; "I do not think Hester ever cared for any one; she gave all her mind, she used to say, to her work. But O, Katharine, how nice it is to think that she can marry a man as poor as Decimus now, if she likes!--that is the only thing that makes it worth while to be an heiress, is it not?"
"I am not sure of that, Ellen," said Katharine; "it is a great recommendation certainly, but heiress-ship has some other advantages too. But there's the first bell; let us go and make ourselves beautiful for Sir Timothy."
"And for Robert, Katharine," said Ellen archly; "but you are always beautiful for him."
"Ay, she may marry a poor man if she likes," thought Robert's wife, as she sat before a long glass in her room, and looked at her beautiful face framed in the unbound masses of her glossy hair. "She may buy, instead of being bought--that's all the difference; the distinction is valuable, however."
* * * * *
Robert Streightley drove his sister to the station where he and Yeldham had hired a trap on the occasion of their visit to Middlemeads, to meet her friend on the day following Lady Henmarsh's arrival. The drive was a pleasant one, for Ellen talked of Katharine, with only occasional and brief interludes and digressions in favour of the absent missionary; and Robert was ready to extend his sympathy to his sister to a degree which would have seemed incredible to him a short time before. He was very happy that day; his face showed the gladness that was at his heart, as it reflected the smile with which Katharine had nodded a farewell to him and Ellen, as the open carriage passed the window where she was standing with her little white dog in her arms. How bright and beautiful and girlish she looked! he thought; how truly she harmonised with all around her! surely she was happy now--happier than at first.
"There's the smoke, Nelly; we are just in time," said Robert; and in another minute they were on the platform, and Ellen had caught sight of Hester's dark eyes, with a smile of recognition in them, as the train came slowly up, and stopped. Robert stood aside while the two women exchanged their greeting, after the manner characteristic of each; and during that brief interval he regarded Hester with some interest and curiosity. He had not seen her since she had so unexpectedly inherited her uncle's wealth,--he had hardly thought of her; the old time in which they had been familiar, if not intimate, seemed very far past now; he had lived all of his life that had been worth living since then. It occurred to him now for the first time that it might be curious to see how this young woman had borne a transition which could hardly fail to be trying. In the first place, he recognised that Hester Gould was elegantly dressed. He had become skilful in such observation now; he who had not formerly had an idea on the subject, and could not have told whether his sister was attired in velvet or cotton; but his close attention to every thing in which Katharine was concerned or interested, his ceaseless admiration of her, his keen perception of every thing which adorned the beauty which he worshipped, had educated his eyes, and he perceived at once that Hester's toilette was perfect in its taste and appropriateness. Nothing appeared in her which could annoy Katharine's refined ideas; not the least touch of vulgarity, not the most transient embarrassment or pretension of manner, nothing to convey the smallest suggestion of the nouveau riche. With the same frank courtesy that she had displayed in their former relations Miss Gould received her host's welcome; with precisely the correct degree of interest she inquired for Mrs. Streightley; and with a totally unchanged manner she entered into conversation with Ellen, during the necessary delay which took place while the servants were securing the luggage.
As they drove to Middlemeads, Robert talked with his guest of the country around, of the gentlemen's seats which they passed, of the Buckinghamshire backwoods, and other topics appropriate to the occasion, but which had little interest for Ellen, who was anxious to put one of her idols en rapport with the other as soon as possible. Hester had said something very civil, and perfectly sincere, about the pleasure she anticipated from seeing Middlemeads, and was listening attentively to Robert's anecdotes of the historical importance of the place, when Ellen said, in her peculiar interjectional fashion,
"O yes, it's all most delightful, and ever so grand, Hester; so different, you know, to Brighton and that, that I really should have been half afraid of it if it hadn't been for Katharine. She is so delightful, you can't think, Hester. I think she could make a cabin feel like a palace. I do so long for you to see her."
"You forget that I have already seen Mrs. Streightley several times, Ellen; and I cannot believe that my admiration can be increased on better acquaintance."
Robert looked delighted, but surprised; and was just about to speak, when Ellen began again.
"Yes, yes, I remember; you saw her at the famous fête--that fête which I shall always think, in spite of Decimus, a most fortunate and praiseworthy piece of worldliness and dissipation, for there Robert fell in love with Katharine, and there I am sure Katharine fell in love with him, though I have never got her to tell me any thing about it--I suppose it's not the correct thing among fashionable people to talk about falling in love!--and then you just had a glimpse of her on her wedding-day; but I mean I want you to see her constantly in her own house, and to admire her as we do."
"I could hardly venture to do that, Ellen," said Miss Gould, in a tone which conveyed the lightest possible suggestion of ridicule of Ellen's enthusiasm, and would, therefore, have betrayed to any one thoroughly acquainted with Hester--supposing such an individual to exist--that her temper was momentarily disturbed. She was instantly conscious of the tone herself; and turning to Robert with unaffected good-humour, she said:
"The occasions which Ellen mentions were not the only ones on which I had the pleasure of seeing Mrs. Streightley. I think I know her by sight longer than you do."
"Indeed! how was that?" asked Robert rather eagerly, for every thing in the past, as in the present, which regarded Katharine had a potent interest for him.
"I taught music to the Miss Morisons, who lived next door to Mr. Guyon, during two seasons," said Hester simply; "and as they seized upon every conceivable opportunity for neglecting their lessons, they made it a point to rush to the windows to see Miss Guyon going out to ride, and I never could resist the temptation of looking out with them. I like to see a woman on horseback who looks and rides as she does. I am not sure that I did not envy the gay cavalcade sometimes, when I used to see them set off, and had to turn to 'one, two, three, four--pray attend to your fingering,' and so forth, again."
"You will have horses in town too, Hester, won't you?" said Ellen; "and have cavalcades on your own account, and gallant cavaliers to escort you, as Katharine had?"
"I am not so sure of that," said Hester demurely; "the Morison girls, who were very slang, used to talk about Miss Guyon's escort being always the 'best' men in London; and there was a Mr. Frere--her cousin, is he not?--whom they used to admire almost as enthusiastically as they admired her. Caroline, who was horribly silly, used to quote Tennyson's 'Guinevere' as they went by the windows: very appropriate to a London street, was it not?"
"Look, look, Hester!" said Ellen, jumping up in the carriage, "there's the first glimpse of Middlemeads;" and then the young lady occupied herself with pointing out every detail of the approach, until the carriage passed under the arch and drew up at the entrance, where Katharine was standing in the open doorway, pleased to gratify her sister-in-law to the utmost by the demonstrative kindness of her reception of Miss Gould.
"We were in capital time, Katharine," said Ellen, as the three ladies passed through the hall, "and had a delightful drive, hadn't we, Robert? O, he's gone off to the library, I suppose."
Katharine was much pleased with Hester Gould, and the little party at Middlemeads was apparently composed of the most harmonious elements. The great heiress was naturally an object of curiosity in that character; and Katharine was no more slow than Hester herself to perceive that her guest's presence lent an additional attraction in the eyes of the neighbourhood to the newly-mounted ménage at Middlemeads. It was not every country-house which had two such specimens of womanhood to show,--the one so beautiful, the other so rich; and the neighbourhood proved itself not undeserving of its opportunities. Lady Henmarsh had experienced some not unnatural pangs of apprehension lest the dignified dulness which her soul abhorred should beset her at Middlemeads. She had had her doubts about Robert Streightley's fitness for his new rôle in society; she had dreaded, she did not exactly know what, in Katharine; but her apprehensions proved utterly unfounded. She did not care to look beneath the surface, and that was all that could be desired. Mrs. Streightley dispensed a splendid hospitality with perfect grace, and Robert had no desire save that in all things her pleasure should be done. Her pleasure was to fill her house with company, and to pass her life in a round of such amusements as were attainable in the country, previous to entering upon the London season with a brilliancy and splendour which should convince the world that she was one of the most fortunate persons in it, and leave herself no time to recur to any of the absurd fancies which had once beguiled her for a little. How absurd they were! She laughed at them now, and at herself; and yet the laugh was not entirely real. And sometimes she would think of Hester Gould's wealth with a dreadful pang of envy, but in which there was not an atom of sordid feeling.
Hester Gould turned every hour of her stay at Middlemeads to account. She was incapable of such a blunder as copying any one's manner; but she studied the best types with which she was brought in contact, and profited by them. She knew exactly the extent and value of such personal attractions as she possessed, as well as she knew the exact sum of money which she owned; she understood her own advantages and defects to a nicety; she appreciated the utility of the interval thus attained for studying phases of society hitherto unknown, before entering on the great world; and she made the most of it. Impossible to unite self-possession, simplicity of tastes and manners, and sound common sense, more admirably than they were combined in Hester Gould. Impossible to be more popular and more impenetrable. Had she been in possession of all the truth, she could hardly have understood the "situation" more clearly than she understood it, aided only by her remarkable penetration and the quickening influence of concentrated anger. Had her heart been concerned in the scheme in which she had been defeated by the unconscious Katharine, and in which only her brain and her will had been active, she would have felt more acutely and more transiently; but as it was, her anger neither cooled nor decreased. It was characteristic of Hester that her changed position made not the least difference in her feelings. She knew that her wealth gave her opportunities in comparison with which a marriage with Robert Streightley would have been but a meagre triumph; she knew that her defeat had been practically rendered no defeat at all by the freak of fortune winch had endowed her with riches; but the knowledge had no effect on her. The ruling principle of her character, the egotism of an inflexible will, had suffered a deep wound, and she admitted no balm in such considerations to heal it. Katharine's had been the hand to deal this wound. As for Robert, "he never would have loved me," she said in her heart; "but I should have married him for all that." And she would punish Katharine--unless, indeed, fate should spare her the trouble. Of this vicarious vengeance she discerned a promising probability; for day by day she saw that Katharine was hardening. She was satisfied to perceive the result, without analysing the process very closely; and she discerned that her own presence, though the most unexceptionable relations subsisted between her and her hosts, had as sinister an influence as she could desire. She was not the woman to employ unnecessary activity. If she could do mischief passively, so much the better, so much the safer. Hester's character had received by her defeat the impulse towards the development of evil which had hitherto been wanting, and more than once she had to recall her determination never to permit any passion to gain dominion over her. Hitherto her will had been stronger than any indication of passion she had ever felt; if it only proved so for the future, life would have no great harm in store for her.
Lady Henmarsh had taken the young heiress under her especial patronage (she had a genuine admiration for rich people); and before her visit to Middlemeads had terminated, it was arranged that Miss Gould should be promoted to the place vacated by Katharine, and should make her début in London society under the auspices of Lady Henmarsh.
The month of April was nearing its close, and the party at Middlemeads were beginning to think of separating, to meet again in the more exciting scenes of London life during the season.
A programme, including entertainments which should combine splendour and originality, to be given at the mansion in Portland Place, had been agreed upon, and perfect harmony reigned among the ladies. Miss Gould took a deep interest in the preparation of Mrs. Streightley's town-house, and had frequently accompanied Katharine to town, when she visited Portland Place to give new orders and observe the fulfilment of old ones. Katharine threw herself into this novel and decidedly exciting occupation with all the fervour of her age and character. She interpreted and acted upon Robert's permission to do precisely as she pleased, to its fullest extent.
"Please yourself, dear, and you will please me," he had said to her; "you know I have not much taste for such things."
"Perhaps your mother--" Katharine had considered it polite to say----
"O no," Robert had answered hastily; "my mother would be less useful to you than myself. She has lived in a plain house and in a plain way all her life, and she would not in the least understand how the cage for so bright-plumaged a bird as you are should be decorated."
It was an awkward metaphor, an unfortunate pleasantry; and Robert felt it so as soon as he had uttered it, and hastily left his wife on the plea of letters to be answered, having received the briefest, coldest acknowledgment from her of a permission on which she proceeded to act immediately with much animation and entire recklessness of expense. While she was engaged thus, and when the time for the removal of the establishment to town was drawing near, Katharine learned that Mrs. Stanbourne had arrived in England, and was desirous of seeing her, and making the acquaintance of her husband. The letter which conveyed this intelligence to Mrs. Streightley was not altogether and heartily welcomed by her. The one single individual in the world for whom Katharine felt perfect respect, respect in which her intellect was as active as her heart, was Mrs. Stanbourne; and yet, even though affection mingled largely with that sentiment, she could not feel real pleasure in the prospect of seeing her. She did not tell herself what it was she dreaded; but she knew in her heart that it was her true friend's clear-sightedness and her unbending rectitude. She had so shrunk from announcing her marriage to her, that Mr. Guyon had found himself obliged to undertake that very unpleasant task; a substitution which had surprised Mrs. Stanbourne much and hurt her a little; but she was a woman in whose disposition the small susceptibilities born of self-love had not much place, and she put the light mortification aside, and wrote to Katharine just such a kind motherly letter as, under other circumstances, would have added to the happiness of a bride. But Katharine had read it hurriedly, with a flushed brow, and her rich red lip caught under her white teeth, and had put it away out of her sight. Nay more, she had put off answering it, until she might venture to disregard its tone and substance; and treating her marriage as an affair whose novelty had quite worn off, and to which any further reference would be out of place, had filled two sheets of paper with a pleasant, flippant account of her continental trip, and a lively sketch of some of the costumes which took her fancy among the Swiss peasantry. Katharine's letter pleased Mrs. Stanbourne as little as her father's had done; but she was a sensible as well as a feeling-hearted woman, and she recognised that explanation of any thing which excited her misgivings was not just then attainable. It must be waited for it; had better be waited for patiently; she would see Katharine as soon as possible after she should reach England, and in the mean time would write to her, as usual, not very often, but very frankly and affectionately. She had adhered to this resolution; and now she was about to see and discern for herself whether this marriage, whose exterior advantages were undeniable, was all that she could desire, or any part of what she had desired for this impetuous, unmanageable girl, whom she had always loved, and for whom she had always been apprehensive, with the well-grounded fear which is taught by experience and the knowledge of the human heart; with that fear which can hardly fail to be awakened when one who has travelled far on the journey of life looks back and sees the young beginner joyously setting forth in delusive hope, and with the courage of ignorance.
The prompt invitation to Middlemeads by which Katharine replied to Mrs. Stanbourne's notification of her arrival in England was all that it should have been, in words; and the acceptance was as prompt and affectionate.
"This day week, then, she will be here," Katharine said to herself, as she sat before her writing-table with the letter in her hand. "This day week. I am glad the house is likely to be so full--I don't want to be alone with her. It is all so unlike her ideas--and she is so quick." Here Katharine sighed. "Well, after all, she knows I always liked money, and what money gives one in this world--and she knows I never was romantic. It's all very gay and splendid here; and if I don't care quite so much about it as I used to think I should--I must be a worse actress than I think I am, if she finds that out. One thing at least she does not know, and can never discover; one secret is at least inviolably my own. No one can ever guess that I cherished the delusion of love and truth, of a life lived for their sake; a life lived with a man who amused himself all the time, who made me love him pour rire."
So far as it went, Katharine's argument with herself was frank and well founded; but it did not go far enough, it did not extend to the acknowledgment of the real blot which she dreaded her friend's hitting. That Mrs. Stanbourne should regard her in the gravely responsible position of a wife, as wholly given up to empty amusements, the pursuit of pleasure and excitement, and the lavish expenditure of money upon every trifle which took her fancy, was, she chose to persuade herself, what she dreaded. And this certainly was an impression to be deprecated; but it was only secondary, though she put it first. It was her conduct towards Robert which she really feared to find exposed to the keen, unembarrassed scrutiny of Mrs. Stanbourne, whom she knew to be a woman incapable of trifling with the ideal of duty either in theory or in practice. That she would discern her to be a wife without love for her husband, without gratitude for all his affection and observance, without sympathy for his tastes, observance of his wishes, or consideration for his feelings; a woman hardened, wilful, and selfish; who had made a marriage which was a bargain, and was not faithful to the spirit of her share in that bargain. If Mrs. Stanbourne's customary penetration did not fail her, this was what it would show her, under the surface of a life of gaiety, extravagance, and luxury. She felt in her conscience, whose voice she could not stifle, that she was unjust towards the man who had given her not only money but love. True, she did not care for the love, she did not want it; but after all, it was the vehicle by which the money which she did want and did care for was conveyed to her; and there was an undeniable baseness, a failure of duty and propriety in her conduct, only the more flagrant because the sufferer by it was compelled to endure it uncomplainingly, because the injury was, so to speak, impalpable. Katharine was too clear-sighted not to perceive and understand her own shortcomings perfectly; and in her inmost heart she dreaded that Mrs. Stanbourne would understand them too. Plainly put, she knew the truth to be, that she was revenging on the man who had given her a brilliant and enviable position before the world; who had effectually screened her from scorn and malice, and made her an object of envy instead; the man who loved her with a fervour of admiration and devotion which served only to provoke and embitter her,--the deadly injury inflicted upon her by another, the baseness of whose conduct every womanly instinct should have taught her to requite with contempt. She had done Robert Streightley the tremendous wrong of marrying him without loving him; true, he knew it and accepted it, but it was none the less, in the light of a pure woman's conscience, a deadly wrong--and she had not made the slightest effort to retrieve or repair that wrong. If a transient impulse, ascribable to the elasticity of spirit of her age more than to any real motive of her conscience, had drawn her nearer to him for a little while, she had fallen away from him again in impatient weariness, and now each day seemed but to set them farther apart. And she could not even regret it; she could feel no repentance, no wish to be different--that was the worst of it; it was not that she desired the conditions of her domestic life to be altered, but only that she dreaded their discovery by Mrs. Stanbourne. Katharine's meditations were not, therefore, of the brightest; and a second cause of embarrassment arose to trouble them. Lady Henmarsh and Mrs. Stanbourne were utterly uncongenial to each other, and yet each occupied an exceptional position as regarded her: they would be certain to clash unpleasantly. It would have been easier to bear, had Lady Henmarsh not been there. Katharine must announce the expected visit to her ci-devant chaperone, and she felt exceedingly uncomfortable at the prospect. She had on several occasions narrowly escaped quarrelling with Lady Henmarsh apropos of Mrs. Stanbourne; and she thought it extremely likely that on this occasion they might quarrel outright. Katharine was not a person likely to defer doing any thing of the kind because it was unpleasant, so she went immediately to the south drawing-room, where she found Lady Henmarsh, Ellen, and Hester Gould. Lady Henmarsh was doing nothing, so far as her hands were concerned. Sunk in the luxurious depths of an easy-chair, she was looking out on the flower-garden and the statues, and talking to Hester Gould, who was seated on a footstool in the embrasure of the large window, and pulling the ears of Topaze, who was lying contentedly in her lap.
"Look at this faithless little creature, Mrs. Streightley," exclaimed Hester, as Katharine entered the room. "He actually followed me out of the breakfast-room this morning, in preference to you. Can you fancy any thing so base?"
"Topaze prefers lying on a silk dress to lying on a muslin one, Miss Gould," returned Katharine smiling; "and she is particularly fond of having her ears pulled. I have had no time to indulge her this morning; I have been busy with my letters. I have heard from papa, Lady Henmarsh."
"Indeed, my dear! I thought all his correspondence was reserved for his son-in-law. When is he coming?"
"Not just yet; indeed I fear he will not be able to manage to come to us before we go to town at all. But I have also heard from Mrs. Stanbourne. She has come to England, and she is so good as to promise us a visit. She names this day week for her arrival at Middlemeads."
"O, indeed!" said Lady Henmarsh in a satirical voice, and directing a glance at Hester which satisfied Katharine that she had indulged in sarcasm concerning Mrs. Stanbourne to her new friend. "Well, I shall not have the pleasure of seeing her, and I daresay she will not particularly miss me. I was just going to tell you, my dear Kate, that Sir Timothy and I must really take a reluctant leave of Middlemeads on Wednesday. Sir Timothy has had letters from his steward requiring his immediate attention; and you know he is rather fidgety, and never satisfied unless he is on the spot."
Katharine did not know any thing of the kind, but she was quite content to take Sir Timothy's inquietude for granted; and she received Lady Henmarsh's explanation with perfect grace, and much internal satisfaction. The four ladies then had a great deal of animated conversation about all they intended to do, and the constant intercourse they hoped to establish in London; and the morning wore away very pleasantly. Katharine's spirits recovered their tone when she discovered that the meeting under circumstances of close association between Lady Henmarsh and Mrs. Stanbourne, which she had so much dreaded, was not to take place. Hester was looking forward to her début in the character of a great heiress, under the auspices of the most agreeable married woman she had ever met, but whose character and disposition she read with equal precision and indifference. Ellen, who was to return to town with Hester, was sunk in a charming reverie of anticipation; for the Rev. Decimus hoped to be in London when she should arrive, and to be able to tell her to which of the most unhealthy and savage regions of the known world it was his desire and intention to convey her. Hester's visit would terminate a day or two after Mrs. Stanbourne's arrival. Ellen was very glad not to leave Middlemeads before; she was very anxious to see Katharine's friend and kinswoman. Hester did not care in the least about the matter. It was not likely that Mrs. Stanbourne could ever be of any importance to her; she had nothing to gain and nothing to lose by her; and Miss Gould was very little given to thoughts or surmises or the taking of interest concerning any matter which did not immediately concern her. When the bell rang for luncheon, the ladies obeyed the summons; and Lady Henmarsh asked where was Mr. Streightley.
"Robert is gone to London," said Ellen. "He went by the first train, did he not, Katharine?"
"Yes, I believe so," answered Robert's wife carelessly. "He had business in town, I understood, and will probably not return until to-morrow."
She neither knew nor cared what the business was that had called her husband away; but Lady Henmarsh knew, and cared enough to feel irritated, if not sorry. She had had a letter also from Mr. Guyon--a more confidential one than the brief chatty epistle he had written to his daughter; and she knew that at the moment at which they mentioned him, he and Robert Streightley were closeted together, in the office in the City, in deep, and by no means pleasant, conversation. Miss Gould also had had some letters that morning, and one of them offered her at least a suggestion of the nature of Robert's business in town. It was written by Mr. Thacker; and among its rather voluminous contents Miss Gould read: "Old Guyon is going the pace tremendously; it must kill in the end;--even Robert Streightley--his patience can't hold out, I should think, if his purse can."
The week passed, unmarked by any remarkable incident. Lady Henmarsh carried off Sir Timothy on the appointed day, and bade Hester Gould farewell with much demonstrative affection; which that young lady received with well-bred acquiescence, and which Katharine observed with mingled amusement and contempt.
"She never was half so fond of me," she thought; "but that is easily understood. I never was rich while she could make any use of my money."
During this week Hester observed that Robert Streightley was more silent and dispirited than usual, and that not a day elapsed without his receiving a letter from Mr. Guyon. She felt some curiosity concerning the nature of these communications, for she by no means imputed them to Mr. Guyon's affection for his son-in-law; but she was quite satisfied to wait for its gratification. Mr. Thacker was expected at Middlemeads, and she knew that she should discover much, if not all she wanted to know, from that gentleman; over whom her sagacity, firmness, and coolness of disposition, being qualities which he particularly admired, had secured her considerable and increasing influence. It was finally settled that Mr. Guyon should not visit his daughter at her country residence until the close of the season; an arrangement to which Mrs. Stanbourne's arrival had largely contributed. He was not afraid of her now; he had carried his point, and her influence was no longer to be dreaded; but he disliked her excessively, to an extent which amounted to antipathy; and he would not have encountered a week in a country-house in her society, and exposed to her observation, for any but a very large consideration. A slight to his daughter was a small one, so Mr. Guyon stayed away; and his daughter was decidedly relieved by his absence.
The apprehensions with which Katharine had regarded Mrs. Stanbourne's visit were fully realised. Her true friend discerned the change in the girl, for whom she felt sad and genuine interest; the woman whose life was full of duty steadily done perceived at once that in Katharine's that mainspring was wanting. She had felt apprehensive before; but her fear for Katharine's future grew with every hour of personal observation, with every fresh evidence of her total indifference to her husband which presented itself. She studied Robert Streightley closely, and she found in him much to like, to respect, and to esteem, but still something which puzzled and distressed her. She could not comprehend that a man could bear indifference, hardness, almost disdain, from a woman upon whom he had lavished such proofs of love, with so much submission as Robert endured them from Katharine withal. "If the man had done her a wrong, and she was graciously exercising some forbearance towards him, his manner might be what it is, with some reason and appropriateness; but as things are, I cannot understand it. It is ruinous to her, fostering every evil tendency in her nature, putting her in a false and unnatural position; and it is positively unmanly on his part."
Mrs. Stanbourne meditated a good deal upon these things before she made up her mind to speak to Katharine. "Entre l'arbre et l'écorce ne mets pas le doigt," was a wholesome saying, and she bore it in mind; but "a word in season, how good it is!" had equal wisdom and superior authority; and compassionate affection for the young wife, who was blindly laying waste her own life and another's, who was pursuing the phantoms of pride, vanity, and pleasure, and turning her back on love and duty, carried the day over caution and mere worldly prudence. "I will tell her the truth," said Mrs. Stanbourne to herself. "It may turn her against me, she is so proud, and so violent in her temper; but no matter for that, if my speaking the truth may only do her good, and spare her something in the future. Katharine used to love me once, I sincerely believe; but I doubt whether she loves any one now. What can have come over the girl?"
Among the many valuable qualities possessed by Katharine's one true friend, tact was conspicuous; and she exercised it on the present occasion. She selected her opportunity well, and she employed it with admirable discretion. There was no assumption of superiority, no "lecturing" tone in the grave, kind words which she addressed to Robert Streightley's wife, and in which she appealed to her sense of right, of duty, of delicacy, and of gratitude. Katharine could not deny the truth of any thing she said. She had married Robert Streightley because he was a rich man, and she had given him nothing in return, not only for all the money, but for all the love, which he lavished upon her, that it was in her power to withhold. The interview was a painful one to both parties; especially painful to Katharine, who had to hide from her friend the real motive which had actuated her in her marriage and in her subsequent conduct--a motive in which not only did there not exist the smallest excuse, but which in reality increased her guiltiness towards the man whom she had married. She could not deny the truth; she could not impugn the force of the contrast presented by his conduct, which Mrs. Stanbourne painted to her in all the glowing colours of generosity, devotion, patience, and forbearance. Katharine felt, as she promised, that she never could forget the picture as drawn by her friend; it appealed to all that was best in her nature; it touched her innate nobility of soul. Nor did she forget it: in the time to come she bore it, every hue, every tint, in her memory.
Mrs. Stanbourne was surprised and delighted at the result of her hazardous interposition.
"I will not pretend to feel towards him what I do not feel," said Katharine, in her softest tones, as their conversation drew to a close; "but I will be more considerate of him--I will be less selfish--I will try to make him happier."
"Do so, my dear Katharine," said her faithful friend, "and depend on it, your own happiness will be the result. You have only to do your duty to your husband, and the feelings to which you could not pretend, and ought not to feign, will arise in your heart spontaneously. Try to make him happy, because it is right and you owe it to him, and you will soon find your own happiness centred in him as his is in you."
The elder lady kissed the younger gravely, and left her. Katharine covered her face with her hands, and burst into tears. She very rarely wept; and now, though she thought, "Ah, if she only knew--if she only knew that love is dead for me!" there was refreshment in the transient passion of grief and self-reproach, and a new dawn of better days in the frank resolution with which Katharine determined on the fulfilment of her promise.