Mr. Thacker's promised visit to Middlemeads was duly paid. He seldom allowed himself a holiday; but this visit was an agreeable combination of pleasure and business, in which he thought he might very safely indulge. Besides, to have it known that he was staying with Streightley of Bullion Lane; to have letters addressed to and to date them from "Middlemeads, Bucks;" to do the grand seigneur for a few days, and simultaneously to do a very excellent stroke of business,--all these things were pleasant to Daniel Thacker's soul. He arrived late, only in time to dress for dinner; during which repast he contrived to impress Mrs. Stanbourne, next to whom he was seated, with a holy horror of his appearance, manners, and conversation; for Mr. Thacker had what his sisters were in the habit of calling his "company manners" towards ladies, and which consisted either in repulsive insolence and would-be sarcasm, or rather more repulsive adulation. Something had tended to put Mr. Thacker into great spirits on this particular evening. The dinner had been very good, the wines excellent; there was an air of luxurious refinement all around him, and his immediate proximity to Mrs. Stanbourne was specially grateful. He knew her as a woman of mark even among persons of mark; and "he liked that kind of thing, damme!" as he was accustomed to remark in moments of confidence. It mattered little to him that he received at first merely polite and at last chilling monosyllabic replies to his advances; he saw his way towards concocting a paragraph for the fashionable weekly paper in which his name should be included amongst a list of "swells" as being entertained at Middlemeads; and for what Mrs. Stanbourne really thought of him he cared but little. With the person with whom it was essential to him that he should stand well, he made much greater progress. Before the ladies retired for the night, and while Katharine was playing, he had flung himself on an ottoman where was seated Hester Gould, and had said in the nearest approach to a demi-voix which with his natural nasal intonation he could command----
"Are you an early riser, Miss Gould?"
Hester looked at him with a little astonishment, and without the slightest affectation of hauteur, at the sudden question, and replied, "Always, Mr. Thacker. I was compelled, as you know--who better?--to get up early to go to my pupils; and since I have lost the necessity I have not discontinued the practice."
"That's right; it's a good habit; though, I suppose, one not much indulged in here. However, that's so much the better. I want a quiet half-hour's chat with you. Could you be in the grounds at eight to-morrow morning?"
A properly-regulated young lady would have blushed and exclaimed at this proposition; a flirt would have manipulated her fan, and nodded assent behind it. Hester Gould was neither, and did neither. She simply looked Mr. Thacker straight in the face, and said "Yes."
"All right," said Mr. Thacker. "There's a sun-dial, or something of the kind, I think I noticed, at the end of the house which fronts the bay-window of this room. If you could meet me there at eight, we could stroll on and have our talk without fear of interruption."
To which Hester Gould merely replied: "I know it; I will be there."
Daniel Thacker prided himself on his punctuality; but when, attired in an unmistakably new suit of morning-dress, he arrived at the trysting-place the next morning, he found Miss Gould there before him. After the ordinary salutations they turned their backs on the house, and walked on side by side. Then Mr. Thacker told her that since she had been pleased to honour him with her confidence, and to employ him as her man of business, he had been incessantly turning in his mind a scheme for employing some of the large sums of ready-money which were lying at her command; and that after great cogitation, and while he was even thoroughly undecided what investment to recommend to her, by the merest chance an opportunity had offered which ought not to be missed, and which, unless she was warped by silly sentimentality, she ought certainly to profit by.
Miss Gould listened attentively, and then said: "Unless I am warped by silly sentimentality? I don't think that would ever stand in my way, Mr. Thacker. Of what nature is the investment you propose?"
"A mortgage on an estate, worth at least a third more than the money required to be raised."
"There seems very little sentimentality in that. So far as my small experience of business matters goes, I cannot conceive any thing more safe and prosaic. What can you mean, Mr. Thacker? Is it a case of widow and orphan, or of family estate held since the Conquest passing into the hands of a parvenu? Believe me, I'm adamant on both those points. If husband and father squanders and dissipates, widow and orphan must pay the penalty; if Hugo de Fitzurse is sold up, why should not Jones of Manchester buy Bruin Castle, moat, portcullis, battlements, and all?"
Such a sentiment as this delighted Daniel Thacker amazingly. He looked at his companion with intense admiration, as he said, "Of course; why not? But it's scarcely that sort of sentimentality that I alluded to. Suppose the estate in question, on the mortgage of which the money was to be lent, had belonged to a friend--one whom you had--liked very much; what then?"
"What then? Now really, my dear Mr. Thacker, this appears to me to be slightly childish. Of course I should be extra glad to know that my loan of the money had been serviceable to my friend. He, she, or it would be glad to know that I had good security; and as to the sentimentality of the affair, I don't see the least occasion for it, unless the friend could not pay, and there arose a necessity for--what do you call it?--foreclosing."
Daniel Thacker laughed outright--a short, sharp, shrill laugh of intense enjoyment. "Miss Gould," he said, "I cannot tell you how immensely I respect you. You are out and away the best woman of business I ever met. Then you seem to entertain this notion of the mortgage?"
"If you prove to me that it is all sound and sufficient. But what about the sentimentality? Where is the estate on which the money is to be lent?"
"I should say," said Mr. Thacker, stopping short, and looking fixedly at her,--"I should say that at this moment we are standing in about the very middle of it."
Hester Gould had stopped when her companion stopped; and as he said these words a bright flush overspread her cheeks, and a bright light flashed into her eyes. That was all the outward and visible sign of the prospect which Thacker's speech had conjured up. Robert Streightley pressed for money--that money lent by her, and not repaid--she the mistress of that much-vaunted estate--she the heiress in due course of time dispossessing the man who slighted, and humbling the woman who rivalled her. All these thoughts glanced through Hester's mind, but the only sign of their presence was the flush of her cheek and the gleam of her eyes. Daniel Thacker marked both, but it was not his game to be reckoned appreciative in such matters; so he said:
"You are silent, Miss Gould. I thought my last announcement would settle the question."
"Then you for once thought wrong, Mr. Thacker," said Hester with an effort. "I am sorry to hear that Mr. Streightley requires this money; though probably a loan under such circumstances is the commonest thing in his experience of business. I am glad I am able to let him have it. I only make one stipulation, that my name does not appear in the matter. You will lend the money, if you please, and Mr. Streight----the borrower will only hear of you in the transaction. Details we can arrange at another opportunity. Now shall we turn towards the house?"
"One moment, Miss Gould. I'm a bad hand at expressing myself in this kind of thing, but--but--" to his intense astonishment Mr. Thacker found himself turning very red and stammering audibly--"but the fact is, that there is a charm about you which--which--the way in which you adapt yourself to business, and your knowledge of the world; and--I can assure you I've never been looked upon as a marrying man, but if you would do me the honour to accept my hand, I would----"
"You would actually sacrifice yourself," said Hester with a slight smile. "No, Mr. Thacker; I must say no. Believe me, I'm fully sensible of the honour, but I think we know a little too much of each other for a happy match. I should not care very much to be valued by my husband for the manner in which I 'adapted myself to business,' as you call it; and I've little doubt that when you take a wife, it will be some pretty girl whose want of 'knowledge of the world' will not be her least recommendation. No; we will be very good friends, if you please, and as my man of business you will--but let us be candid--you will always make a good thing of me, without----. I think we understand each other?" And to this plain speech Mr. Thacker made no other protest than a shoulder-shrug.
Before Hester Gould went to bed that night she stood in the bay-window of her room, looking out upon the garden and the park beyond, bathed in the bright moonlight. For more than a quarter of an hour she stood thus, calmly contemplating the scene before her. Then she said, as she turned away, "Mistress of this place, which that proud woman downstairs exults so in!--mistress of this place, and Robert Streightley's creditor! It could not have been very deep-rooted, my love for that man. And yet I don't know; I think at one time it equalled my present hate of him--and of her; and then, God knows, it must have been deep enough!"
Robert Streightley's preoccupation and loss of spirits were not without due cause. In the half hour that had lapsed between his parting with his wife and sister, and his rejoining them when in colloquy with the Scotch gardener, he had gone through a phase of mental torture such as he had never before experienced. The Irish gentleman of good birth and vanished fortunes, who comes to London with just sufficient money to pay his entrance-fees to a fashionable club, to keep a garret in St. Alban's Place, and to hire a hack for the season from a livery-stable, and goes in to win the heart, or at all events the hand, of an heiress, gets to work at once, finds his coup manqué ever so many times during one season, and soon begins to look upon his rejection as a mere matter of chance, and falls back on the grand principle of "better luck next time." The starving student, living from hand to mouth by the preparation of badly-paid work from grinding booksellers, eats his ninepenny plate of boiled beef, and hurries back to the reading-room of the British Museum, convinced that the day will come when his talent shall be appreciated and remunerated as it should be. The parish-doctor's assistant sings over his pestle, and slaps his spatula cheerfully on the china plate, confident that the retired Indian nabob, the wealthy widow with the quinsey, the measles-struck child of the countess, his successful care of all or one of whom will insure the pair-horse brougham, the M.D. degree, and the house in Saville Row, are all gradually working up towards him. "Hope springs eternal in the human breast;" and so long as we perceive no symptoms of dry-rot in our dearest aspirations, we are for the most part content to grind away, facing present difficulties manfully, and awaiting the result. But if you were to prove to the Irish gentleman that his fascinating powers were on the wane; to the student that his overtaxed brain was giving way; to the doctor's assistant that he was every where considered a hopeless quack, you would cut away all their hold on life, and they would be whirled into that abyss of despondency in which thousands, similarly unfortunate, yearly perish.
A phase of torture very much allied to these described was being undergone by Robert Streightley. The "transaction" between him and Mr. Guyon, under which Katharine had become his wife, was constantly rising in his mind, and the heart-ache consequent thereon was only allayed by the thought that his possession of wealth enabled her to indulge in the extravagance which seemed to form a part and parcel of her life. He knew thoroughly well that, under her father's influence, he had won her by his riches, that they constituted his sole claim to respect in her eyes, that the fact of her having made "an excellent match," as bruited abroad by Lady Henmarsh and her set, meant that she had married a City man in a large way of business and with a large amount of ready-money at command, which would be at her disposal, and enable her to indulge all the freaks and vagaries of her fancy. It was, after all, a poor shifting foundation, a mere quicksand, on which to base any structure of future happiness; but within the last few weeks, marking the improvement in his wife's spirits, and the increase of kindly feelings towards him, Robert had been content to accept it at all events as an instalment of conjugal bliss, and had flattered himself with the idea that when Katharine found all her thoughts anticipated, all her wishes gratified, she might have some--he did not like to think of it as gratitude, he wanted a feeling with a warmer name--towards him who lived only to do her bidding.
Feeling then against all his hopes and attempts at self-deception that in the money which he was enabled to place at his wife's command, and in the position which she was thereby enabled to obtain, lay his only chance of obtaining favour in the eyes of her, to gratify whose every whim was the only pleasure of his life, it may be imagined with what feelings Robert Streightley read through a letter which came to him by the same post as brought Hester Gould's missive alluded to in the preceding chapter. It was from his confidential clerk, Mr. Foster, and ran thus:
"Dear Sir--Mr. Delley, the City editor of the Bullionist, who, as you know, has for many years supplied the house with reliable information, called in at 2 P.M. to see you; but learning you would not be at business to-day, he sent for me to your private room, and told me he understood that Messrs. Needham, Nick, and Driver were in a very shaky state, owing to the failure of the Dublin branch of their bank, announced in to-day's City Intelligence. Knowing how heavy our account was against them (28,917l. 7s. 9d.), I started off at once to Fenchurch Street, but found the doors closed, the shutters up, and all business suspended. Mr. Delley has been here just now (5:30 P.M.), and talks of a shilling in the pound. Old Mr. Nick's death, and the large sums taken out of the bank by Mr. Needham junior, who was only admitted as a partner two years ago, are said to have led to the wind-up. Please come up at once, if convenient. Your obedient servant, J. Foster."
When Robert Streightley laid down this letter his hand trembled, his mouth was parched, and a film seemed to come over his eyes. It was not the sum lost, though that was very large, but a horrid sensation crossed him that retribution was attacking him in his most vulnerable part, that the joints in his armour had been spied out by the enemy, and that--Good God! if he were to lose that one hold upon his wife's gratitude! if he were compelled to tell her that the mere wretched substance to which she had been sacrificed was a sham and a swindle, that he---- Pshaw! he sank down in his chair as these thoughts rushed through his mind; then he wiped his damp brow with his handkerchief, and shook himself together as it were with one strong effort, and rising, began to pace the room. What a weak, cowardly fool he was, he thought, thus to give way This was a blow undoubtedly,--what some of the Stock-Exchange fellows called a "facer;" but what of that? It could be met; and even if he lost all--if things turned out as badly as Foster predicted--well, thirty thousand pounds would not shake the credit of Streightley and Son. The mere repetition of the name seemed to rouse up innate business instincts which had been slumbering for some months--to call into action all those qualities which had made the man what he was; and he determined to go up to the City at once, and see for himself how the business stood. He waited for a minute or two until Ellen had strayed off into a bye-path in search of some flower, and then he said to his wife:
"I must leave you, Katharine, for a short time--four-and-twenty hours or so--not longer, dear."
His voice dropped, and quivered a little with the natural emotion which he felt. He looked tenderly up at her, and drawing near her, tightly laid his hand on her arm. She was binding together a few flowers as he joined her. She did not cease from her little task; but as she leisurely made the knot, and drew it tight with her teeth, she said, without looking up,
"O, indeed! business, I suppose?"
Robert Streightley started as though he had been shot. What else could he have expected? Did he anticipate a few tender words of regret at his necessitated absence; a tear or two dimming the bright eyes; a little pouting or peevishness at being left alone? Did he imagine that his wife might have made some inquiry as to the nature of the business which caused him to absent himself for twenty-four hours from his home? Such might have been the case in those preposterous matches which are arranged thoughtlessly and frivolously by two young people without calling their elders into council--in those ridiculous unions of hearts. But there was nothing in Robert Streightley's bargain, no clause in his bond, to warrant his expectation of any thing of the kind. "To have and to hold," certainly; but to create sympathy, to awaken interest--no mention of either of these superfluities in the marriage-contract. So he simply said, "Yes, dear; business;" and laid his lips to her cheek, and ordered his clothes to be packed, and drove away to the station.
He was uncomfortable, vacillating, wretched, all through the journey; but he became his old self as he entered his offices. As the door of his private room closed behind him, as he marked the letters lying unopened on his desk, as he took his seat in the birch-framed, cane-bottomed chair which had been his seat ever since he first assumed his junior partnership, and as he saw old Foster standing at his elbow, with his paper of memoranda in his hand ready to read from,--Robert Streightley felt more genuine pleasure than he had for months. The mere fact of there being a difficulty--a hitch--something towards the elucidation of which the play of his business talents might tend--gave him life; the gaudia certaminis inspired him; and he set to work with such a zest, that old Foster, who had been shaking his head dolefully for the past few months, and thinking to himself--he would not have breathed such an opinion for the world--that the glories of the great house of Streightley and Son were on the wane, took fresh heart, and indulged that evening in the enormity of an extra half-pint of stout at the chop-house where he took his dinner, in token of his delight.
Robert Streightley had not been more than a couple of hours at work, when a junior clerk entered, and told him that Mr. Guyon was outside in a cab, and had called to know if Mr. Streightley was in town. Bidden to show Mr. Guyon in, the junior clerk retired, immediately returning with Mr. Guyon, looking ten years younger than when Robert had last seen him; with his brown-black whiskers, and hair a little red-rusty from travel; with the strong trace of a silvery beard; with a rakish Glengarry cap on his head, a travelling suit and a courier's bag on his body. He entered with his usual impulsive bound, and had Streightley by both hands almost before the latter knew he had entered.
"The merest chance, my dear Robert,--the merest chance that I should have called in to-day. Returning from Paris by the tidal, and having to stop at that most confounded of all confounded stations, London Bridge, and having to go through this cursed City,--no offence to you, my dear boy, but it's a dreadful hole,--I thought I'd just drop in and see whether you were in town."
Mr. Streightley assured Mr. Guyon--a somewhat supererogatory assurance--that he was in town, adding--of which there was no such corroborative testimony--that he was glad to see him.
"And Katharine?" asked Mr. Guyon, carefully smoothing his chin with his hand, and looking up under his eye-glass at his son-in-law,--"Katharine is well?"
Katharine was quite well, Mr. Streightley thanked Mr. Guyon.
Mr. Guyon devoutly thanked heaven for that news. All the traces of that horrible--eh? at Martigny--quite gone, eh? Thought he should never have been able to dress himself that morning when he opened Streightley's note about Katharine's illness. His man thought he was going to have a fit, and wanted to hasten for a doctor. Told the man he was a consummate ass; that what he, Mr. Guyon, was suffering from was feelings; and what the devil did he, the man, know about them! And Katharine was well; and their place, Middlemeads--eh?--was perfection? O, he'd heard it here, there, and every where. Saw Roger Chevers at Boulogne, en passant, and had heard him say what a lovely place it was, and how leaving it had smashed up his old governor, root and branch. He was always talking of it, sir--said Roger--and wondering whether they'd cut into the avenue, or whether they left that view clear top of Two-Ash Hill, looking out the south way; or whether they'd put the stables in order, or built others where the Red Barn stood. That's what he should have done, if that cursed Brazilian mine had only turned up trumps! "Poor old Gov! he'll never forget Middlemeads!" said honest Roger, who drowned all thought of his lost patrimony in cheap brandy and the delights of perpetual pool, and dances at the Etablissement des Bains.
Ignoring the opinions and speculations of Mr. Roger Chevers, Robert Streightley acknowledged that Middlemeads was a fine place, and that he thought it had improved since it had been in his hands.
"Of course, my dear Robert, of course!" said Mr. Guyon; "your princely munificence, and what I think I may say--although my own child is in question--Katharine's excellent taste, would be certain to do wonders for any place to which both could be simultaneously applied. Allez, toujours, la jeunesse! a French phrase which is roughly but not inadequately rendered by our own maxim of 'Go it while you're young!' As for me, I'm an old bird--an old bird, begad, come back to an empty nest, to find the sticks and the straw and all that, but my young fledgling flown." Mr. Guyon seemed quite affected at the allusion which he had thus made, and turned away his head, touching his eyes lightly with his handkerchief.
"I trust you will have no cause to repent of your sanction to your daughter's flight, Mr. Guyon," said Streightley, in a somewhat marked tone. "You recollect, before she left your roof, that----"
"My dear Robert! my dear Robert!" interposed the old gentleman; "do you think I have forgotten the confidence in which I told you that I was unworthy of the blessing of such a daughter--that I was by nature more fitted for--for less domestic delights. And indeed I--in Paris I have enjoyed myself most amazin'ly, most amazin'ly! That fellow, sir--whom I recklect when he lived in King Street--used to drive a doosid good cab, I recklect; he certainly has improved Paris wonderfully. But it's horribly expensive, my dear boy, horribly expensive. I--I ran rather short before I came away, and I was obliged to draw on you for a hundred--I was indeed!"
Streightley's face looked very stern as he heard this. "Do I understand you to say that you have drawn a bill on me for a hundred pounds, Mr. Guyon?"
"Yes, my dear boy, at a month; it'll be due----"
"That is a liberty which I permit no one to take, and which must never be repeated."
"A liberty, Robert?"
"A liberty, Mr. Guyon. Any man who draws a bill on another without first asking his friend's permission, takes what we of the City think an unwarrantable liberty. I am sure you erred in ignorance; but I must ask you to put a stop entirely to what seems to have become a habit with you--the reliance on me for money. I cannot make you any further advances, at least for the present."
This was a great blow for Mr. Guyon, who had been boasting, as was his wont, amongst his English acquaintances in Paris of the great wealth and generosity of his son-in-law. Nor had his French friends been unenlightened on the subject; "eel a milyonair--com voter Roschild vous savvy," the old gentleman had remarked with great self-satisfaction. And now to find his milch-cow refusing her supply, and as it were threatening him with her horns and heels, was any thing but pleasant. However, Mr. Guyon's temperament was light and elastic; he thought this determination of Streightley's would not last; that some business matters had "put him out;" that his anger would soon "blow over:" so he assured his son-in-law that he would remember what he had said; and shaking hands fervently with him, skipped back to the cab, with the pleasant feeling that at least a quarter of the hundred pounds so judiciously drawn was at that moment safe in his trousers-pocket.
Then Robert Streightley called Foster into his room, and over books and ledgers, and commercial documents of all kinds, they held a consultation which lasted until late in the afternoon, and which proved to them both that the financial position of Streightley and Son had recently had the hardest blow, in the stopping of Messrs. Nick's bank, which it had received since it commenced operations of any magnitude.
"It comes at an awkward time too for you, sir," said old Mr. Foster. "We wanted all the ready cash we could lay our hands on just now; there are the calls on the Benares Railroad, and the deposits upon the Indian Peninsular--we're pretty deep in both of them--and there's six thousand for the lease in Portland Place, which of course must be paid at once. However, there's no reason to hold the Indian lines; they're both at a high premium; and as this bothering bank has crippled us for a bit, perhaps we had better sell and----"
"Not one share, Poster! not a single share! we'll stand to our guns, and the money shall be forthcoming when it's wanted, I'll take care of that. 'Forward!' has been the motto of Streightley and Son, Foster, as you know very well, and they're not going to change it now! You shall see the thirty thousand replaced, ay and doubled, before you retire on a pension, Foster, I promise you."
"There never was any one like you, Mr. Robert," said the old man, his eyes sparkling with pleasure; "when you say a thing will be, I know it will be, ay, as sure as the Bank of England." And so closed the business consultation.
The lease of the house in Portland Place, which Mr. Foster had alluded to, was one of Robert Streightley's wedding-presents to his bride. They must have a town-house, of course, one befitting her position in society; and partly because of its proximity to her father's residence, partly because the substantial appearance of the Portland-Place houses, and the knowledge that they had been for years in great demand among the moneyed classes, pleased him, he bought the lease of this house then in the market, had the house splendidly decorated while they were away, and on their return home had given Katharine carte-blanche as to its furniture. Katharine had gone twice to London during their stay at Middlemeads, and had held long consultations with the upholsterer, but Robert had not seen the house since he had purchased it.
He walked there now; and though it was still in disorder, he was astounded at the magnificence of the decorations and the splendour of the furniture. Under the direction of Katharine's excellent taste, the carte-blanche given to the upholsterer had worked wonders. No duchess could have had a more perfectly-appointed house, with nothing new or perky-looking about it: for what would be the use of money nowadays if it could not purchase antiquity in every thing save family?--and even that can be manufactured to order at the Heralds' College. So Robert Streightley walked in pleased astonishment among the high-backed chairs in the dining-room, and past the dark oak bookcases in the library, and through the pale-green drawing-rooms with the lovely hangings, the elegant portières, the buhl cabinets, the splendid glasses, the étagères, and all the nick-nackery of upholstery. It was in this last paradise that Mr. Streightley found one of the partners of the upholstery-firm, a gentlemanly-looking man, who was surveying his men's work with much complacency. He bowed to Robert, and hoped he was pleased with what had been done. Mr. Streightley expressed himself as thoroughly satisfied; and Mr. Clinch then ventured to hope that he should not be considered troublesome if he were to ask for a cheque--not for the total, of course--just something on account, as workmen's wages must be paid, &c. Certainly; what amount did Messrs. Clinch require? Mr. Walter Clinch "for self and partners" ventured to name the sum of twelve hundred pounds. Mr. Streightley, after the smallest possible start, made a memorandum in his pocketbook, and said that a cheque should be sent the next day.
Twelve hundred pounds for decorations and furniture--"on account" too, showing that there was perhaps as much again to pay! Katharine had certainly understood the word carte-blanche in its widest and most liberal sense. Twelve hundred pounds! and until his marriage he had lived in a little Brixton villa, the entire furniture of which was not worth one-third of the sum. Should he speak to his wife, should he----? Not he! now she was his wife, why was she his wife? Simply for the sake of his money--that money which he had placed at her command. The one happiness that he could offer her was the power of spending money, and should he refuse her that? The only salve that he could apply to his never-quiet conscience was that he had been enabled to supply her with the means of gratifying extravagant tastes which must have remained ungratified had she married that--had she made that match which seemed so imminent when he had that never-to-be-forgotten interview with Mr. Guyon. No! Katharine had married him because he was a rich man, and a rich man he must remain to her. Besides, after all, what was her expenditure? what were these few hundred pounds to him? This horrible bank business had frightened him, he supposed; had it not happened, should he have given the smallest thought to such a trifle as Mr. Clinch's account?
Nevertheless, all that he had said to Foster he determined on carrying out. There should be no "drawing-in their horns," no curtailment in the operations of Streightley and Son. The money necessary to meet this bank failure must be raised somehow. He could get it in the City at an hour's notice. From the Bank of England downwards there were plenty of establishments ready to help the old-established firm. But such matters are talked of in the City, chatted over in the Bank parlour, whispered on 'Change, give matter for gossip and shoulder-shrugs and eyebrow-liftings; and Robert's spirit shrunk from the idea that he or his firm could form the subject of any such speculations. And yet the money must be had. Where could he turn for it? Ah, a lucky thought! That man--Mr. Guyon's friend--what was his name? Thacker: a shrewd, clear-headed, clever man. He would go and see him, and talk the matter over.
And what was Charles Yeldham doing with himself during all these months? What indeed, save pursuing his "treadmill," daily increasing in reputation and practice, and accumulating more and more money for little Constance's dowry. The attorneys' clerks who climbed up his black staircase were more numerous than ever. Though never relaxing from his work for five minutes more than usual, he found himself compelled day by day to postpone the acceptance of cases, with the alternative of rejecting them altogether; and by the sheer force of perseverance and industry he was on the high road to fame and wealth. He did not relax now any thing like so much as when his old chum Gordon Frere shared his chambers with him: there were no five minutes of chat and chaff and raillery; no listening to poor Gordon's confidences on love, debt, future career, now. The only time which Charley Yeldham allowed himself for talking of unprofessional matters was the half-hour during which he smoked his final pipe, and drank his glass of grog before going to bed; and then he would pass in review the curious events that had happened eight months before, and wonder at and reason over them. Three men running after one girl--three! Well, he could hardly count himself; though, certainly, he had thought more about Katharine Guyon than of any other woman before or since (and, let it be noted, that at this stage of his reflections he invariably produced from his desk a photographic carte which he had obtained of her, and gazed at it with great tenderness)--two men, we'll say, in hot pursuit, and Bob Sobersides winning the race! She must have been an outrageous flirt, that Miss Guyon, though! Dear old Charley Yeldham, with all his partiality, his romantic fondness for Katharine, is constrained to admit--an outrageous flirt. Did not she carry-on with poor Gordon, fooling him to the top of his bent; meeting him at the Opera, at Botanical fêtes, at balls, and what not; flower from her bouquet, hand-pressure, appointment for the next day? And, after all, did she not whistle him down the wind, throw him away as one does a split-pen, and marry Robert Streightley? Ay, ay! ay, ay! Better the old desk and the long "treadmill"--better the flirtations with attorneys, and billets-doux from Bedford Row, all of which have some satisfactory result, at least, than the pinning of your faith on a woman's word, and the breaking of your heart by a woman's tricks! After all, it was perhaps better that such a girl should have married such a man as Robert Streightley. His steadiness would guide and control her; his wealth would enable her to indulge her taste for extravagance; and her dash and beauty would give pleasant status amongst his acquaintance. Nothing of that kind could have happened had she married poor Gordon Frere. Both young, extravagant, and reckless; both accustomed to have their own way; both fond of flirtation; neither understanding the theory of "give and take"--dear me! dear me! thought Charley Yeldham to himself, when the honeymoon was over, that would have been a disastrous business and a wretched ménage.
He had had several letters from Gordon, then private secretary to Lord ----, acting minister at Rudolfstadt; letters full of complaints, which were ludicrous to the reader, though evidently insufferable to the writer. "It's a dull, wearying, dreary place, dear old boy," said Gordon; "a beastly hole, with no one but besotted Germans to talk to, who all are either professors, when they bore you to death with their metaphysical cant, or half-fed dragoon officers, who make you long to kick them for their infernal impertinence. Old Wigsby, who has nothing to do, and who never opens a book or gives what ought to be his brains, but what I firmly believe is either tow or wool, the smallest exercise, passes his days in calling on the Frau Ober Consistorial Directorin or the Hochgeborner Herr, and his nights in sitting in their wretched twopenny theatres listening to their squealing singers. He expects me to attend him on both occasions, and airs himself to this German-silver nobility, this veneered haute noblesse, in his patronage of me, d--n him (that's by way of parenthesis). On Wednesday nights we go to the Jäger Hof, where the Duke von Friedenstein lives when he is visible; and the entertainments there are something which would be too much even for you, Charley, old fellow--and you know you can stand a lot in the way of dulness! The old duke stands at the end of a big room, and bows away like mad to every one who comes in, until I wonder how his old spine holds out; and then the company wander through the rooms, and look at the curios and the pictures in the Kunst Kammer, which they've all of them seen a thousand times before; and then the squealing singers from the theatre tune up and shriek away for dear life in the music gallery. And then there's not a bad supper of a queer kind: big hams and potato-salad and herring salad, and hot salmon and cold jelly, and cold rice and jam, and some very decent light wines; and it's all over by ten o'clock, and we're off to bed. Old Wigsby goes to these lets-off en grande tenue, and is, I am sure, seriously grieved that etiquette does not permit him to wear his court suit. He is the most stupendous ass you can conceive, and is always haranguing me about 'the position of a diplomatist,' and the 'representative of her Britannic Majesty;' he makes a précis of his washing-bills, and tells me that Lord Palmerston would not 'suffer my handwriting, which is frivolous and unformed.' What the deuce do I care? I only wish I was back in England--not for the reasons which you probably assign for the wish. All that is past and gone, and I sometimes grow hot all over when I think of the melodramatic farewell which I took of you, my dear old Charley, at the London Bridge station. I was an idiot then; but now that fire has burnt out, and left very cold ashes. I hope Mrs. Streightley is well and happy, with her charming husband. You'll grin at this, you old sceptic; but on my honour it's true. I haven't the smallest shadow of regret for K.G., and I don't care one straw for any woman in the world. But I do long to be out of this infernal place, to be rid of old Wigsby and his pomposity and patronage, and to be out of earshot of this hard grating German cackle, which sometimes makes me stop my ears and kick with sheer rage. How are the old chambers looking, and how is their old owner? O, if I could only put my hands on his dear old broad shoulders, and have half-an-hour's chat with him, it would do me a deal of good! Yours always,--G. F."
Ex uno disce omnes. This was a specimen of Gordon Frere's letters, and the perusal of which left Charley Yeldham any thing but satisfied with his friend's position. It was a good thing to think that he was cured of his love infatuation,--so cured that he could write calmly and even kindly of the traitress and his successful rival; but the monotony of his life, and the dull dreariness of Rudolfstadt, were evidently eating into his soul. No good could come of the continuance of such distasteful work; and if Gordon Frere's career were to be any thing but one of blighted hopes and miserable vegetating, he must begin anew, and that too with all possible speed. So Yeldham, after cogitating deeply over the matter, at last wrote to his friend, and told him he felt that the sooner he put an end to the business in which he was at present engaged, the better it would be for him, and the greater likelihood he would have in adopting some new profession, which he might pursue with pleasure and profit to himself. It was evident that Gordon was wasting his life in Rudolfstadt; and his friend's advice to him was, to make his adieux to his patron Wigsby, and return at once to London. Here the old chambers were ready to receive him; and if he were to make up his mind to go to the bar, Yeldham thought he might do well enough. "I don't mean to say that you'll soon be Attorney-General, young fellow, or that your opinions are likely to outweigh Chitty's; but you used to be fluent enough at the Apollo Debating Society; you've a certain knowledge of the world, and unparalleled impudence; and with the possession of these qualities, and with the aid which I can give you among the attorneys, I think you're likely before long to be able to gain your bread-and-cheese at the Old Bailey: at all events, you will be in London, where a man ought to be, if ever he wants to profit by chances; and you'll be relieved from that harassing depression which seems to me to be sapping your character, and rendering you utterly degenerate."
It was a great relief to honest Charles Yeldham's mind to find that Gordon Frere had so readily, and to all appearance so effectually, got over his disappointment in regard to Katharine. Often and often in the few leisure minutes stolen from his work had Yeldham sat, with his pipe in his mouth, pondering over the curious history of Robert Streightley's marriage, and wondering how it might be influenced by Frere's return. For, recluse as he was, unworldly in the "society" sense, and nearly entirely given up to his work, Yeldham knew enough of human nature to feel perfectly certain that the marriage which Mr. Guy on so prided himself in having brought about was no love-match; that Streightley was by no means the kind of man to have awakened any passion in the breast of such a woman as Katharine; and that when any strong opposing influence might be brought into play, his tenure on her fealty would be slight indeed. The only thing that puzzled Yeldham was, how the marriage had been managed, and how Kate's consent to it had been obtained. Unless Gordon Frere's vanity was most self-deceptive, this girl had undoubtedly been hotly in love with him within an ace of her engagement to Streightley. She was not by any means the sort of girl to be prevailed upon by parental coaxings or threats (though her father was exactly the man to employ both); and Robert had only his honesty of purpose, which was nothing to women in general--and his wealth, which was nothing to this woman in particular--to back his suit. There was something in the whole affair which was inexplicable to Charles Yeldham; and being inexplicable, he resolved never to rest until it was explained.
He had not seen Streightley, save in one or two casual street-meetings, since the marriage; and though he had received a warm invitation to Middlemeads, pressure of business had prevented him from availing himself of it. Pressure of business, he said; but he wasted the whole of the evening on which he received the invitation (and on which, with his powers of working, he might have got through a great deal of work) in handling the dainty note, and conning it over and over, and in smoking many pipes, and thinking over many strange things. The note was in Katharine's hand, and ran thus:
"My Dear Mr. Yeldham,--Finding that his own efforts at inducing you to visit us are completely useless, Mr. Streightley asks me to try mine. I think I need scarcely say how happy we shall be to see you here, and how our utmost endeavours will be used to compensate you for your absence from those legal studies, in which, I am assured, you find your sole delight.--Very faithfully yours,
"Katharine Streightley."
A simple note, with a very slight touch of very mild badinage. But Charles Yeldham was unaccustomed to the receipt of letters from ladies, and this one certainly had a singular effect on him. What a pretty hand she wrote! how refreshing were the thin, slight, angular strokes after the rounded fists of the attorneys' clerks! how the dainty paper and brilliant monogram contrasted with the blue-wove and the wafer-stamp seal of his ordinary correspondence! And then, as he puffed at his pipe, and watched the blue vapour curling up around his head, Charley remembered the first, almost the only time he had ever seen her in that soft diaphanous dress at the Botanical Fête, where, even before he knew who she was, he had been sensible of her presence, and where he had felt himself completely subjugated by her loveliness, her elegance, and grace. They would laugh at him, Frere and some fellows of his acquaintance, as a stoic and a cynic,--not that he was one or the other,--but, after all, was it not better to go through life unvexed and untroubled by thoughts of lovely women, who were as far removed from you as the stars, than to endeavour to win them, and find yourself cast down from star-height as the reward of your presumption? It was a dull life his, no doubt; with nothing to cheer it but the success of his work, and--good God! how beautiful she was! (here he took the photograph out); what perfect grace in the pose of her head, in the resting of her hands, in the long sweeping folds of her dress! Ah, if little Constance ever grew up to be any thing like that, there would be less need of the dower which her brother was so carefully putting by for her! No wonder Gordon Frere, young, impressible, buoyant, and hopeful, was desperately in love with such a beauty; no wonder that, looking at her, Robert Streightley forgot his ventures, his shares, his cautious dealings, and his longheaded speculations, and rushed into the matrimonial market, determined, at whatever cost, to carry off the prize.
How had Robert Streightley accomplished this result? The desire of being successful was intelligible; but how was the success arrived at? As Yeldham pondered over his question, during his midday interval of rest, and while smoking his midday pipe, there came a knock at the oak; and opening it, Yeldham admitted the man of all others most likely to be able to answer him--Robert Streightley himself.
He came in wincing a little at the clouds of strong Cavendish which filled the barrister's room, and seated himself in the attorneys' chair. He looked pale and a little careworn, but he greeted Yeldham certainly as heartily as usual, and smiled as he said, "For once in his life!--bravo! for once in his life, I've found the machine without the steam up, and Charley Yeldham not at his desk!"
"Sir," replied Charley, "you come at a peculiar time; these are the five minutes of relaxation; so let us relax together! Robert, my boy, you're looking very seedy, white and peaky!"
"Well, I have been rather seedy; but I'm not very bad after all. I've had a good deal of worry lately, in one shape or another, and worry tells on me more than it did. Getting old, I suppose!"
"You ought to take a partner, Robert; I mean a business partner. That affair of yours is too big to carry on single-handed. O, tell me, by the way--you won't misconstrue the reason of my asking--that confounded bank failure? Rumour says you were hit hard by it. Is it true?"
"Yes; for once in the course of events rumour hasn't lied. Our house was in heavily, and has suffered with the rest."
"That's part of your trouble, Robert?"
"Well, perhaps part; though I should scarcely say so, as the money-loss has been replaced, and Streightley and Son have passed the sponge across the slate, and look upon it as an unutterably bad debt."
"Lucky for them that they are able to do so; had it been my case, I should either have been playing rackets in Whitecross Street, or wearing a black wig and whiskers, and hiding myself as much as possible in a steamer bound to a country without an extradition treaty. I often think if you great commercial swells only knew how we professional men live, and the amount of the balance presently standing to our credit at our bankers----"
"Yes; and if you professional men only knew how the commercial swells, as you call us, envy you your freedom from responsibility."
"Freedom from responsibility, indeed! By the way, how's your wife?"
"Apropos of responsibility! She'd take that as a compliment. She's very well indeed, old boy, very well; not up in town yet. Still staying at Middlemeads, where you've never yet been, though both of us have done our best to get you there."
"My dear Robert, what on earth would be the good of my arriving at your country place with a blue stuff bag full of papers, and enjoying my holiday in the country by sticking to your library from morning till night, reading cases, drawing pleas, and giving opinions? I feel perfectly certain that at your library-table, which is probably virgin-free from ink-blots, in your library-chair, which is probably comfortable, and surrounded by your country atmosphere, which of course is pure and fresh, the few wits which I possess would leave me, and the most which I should do at Middlemeads would have the effect of utterly depriving me from ever earning five guineas again. No, I won't come to Middlemeads until I can--with a comfortable conscience--leave my blue bag behind me, and when that will be heaven only knows!"
"And in the mean time, and for the mere sake of your work, you drag your life on in these solitary chambers?"
"Listen to him! listen to Benedick the married man; so full of domestic happiness that he must crow over us poor bachelors. Very well, old fellow, as fate has willed it, is my life; the more work I have the happier I am: if I had not any, I should stick my head into the Temple fountain, and thereby incur the odium of the Benchers. No, I must not do that quite, while I've the old governor and Constance left, lest I should be supremely wretched; whereas in my work I'm thoroughly happy; and as for solitary chambers--well, they are solitary now, but they wern't once, and won't be again soon, I think. My old chum's coming home."
"Your old chum? Who do you mean?"
"Why, the man who lived with me in these rooms before, and will share them again, I hope. Gordon Frere."
"Gordon Frere? Is he coming back to England--to London?" Robert Streightley's face turned pale as he asked this question, and his lips twitched with nervous anxiety.
"I hope so. I've written to him to try and persuade him to do so. He's a clever fellow, airy and specious, with what they call a good 'gift of the gab;' and I want him to try his fortune at the bar."
Streightley rose from his chair, took a few paces round the room, then settled himself again with his face shaded by his hand, looking at his friend.
"You were very intimate with this man Frere, Charley?" he asked in a hard dry voice, after a minute's pause.
"Intimate? Didn't he live here, I tell you?--though you knew it long since, if you'll only give yourself the trouble to recollect."
"And you were thoroughly in his confidence?"
Charles Yeldham answered, "Entirely." But the word had scarcely escaped him when he saw the drift of the question, and wished he had pondered ere replying.
"Then you know, I suppose, that he--that he was--was in love with Miss Guyon--with my wife?"
"My dear Robert, what on earth are you talking about, what on earth----"
"Do you know it, or don't you?"
"I have heard it, of course, and----"
"You have heard it, of course; and now he's coming back! Coming back, curse him!"
"My dear Streightley, have you taken leave of your senses? What on earth has the young man's return--although in past times he might have had sufficient good taste to admire Miss Guyon and hope to win her, for which I honour him--yes! I say I honour him--what on earth has his return to do with such an outbreak as this?"
"Never mind, Charles Yeldham! He shan't see her! Look here--mark this--he may be a friend of yours or not, but he shan't see her. I'll have no renewal of old friendships and all that! He shan't see her! Mr. Guyon shall take care of that. I'll appeal to him, and he'll back me up, I know."
"My dear Robert, if you're weak enough to have to appeal to your father-in-law in any matter in which your wife is concerned, I think you're to be pitied! However, don't fear! Any feeling which Frere may have had for Miss Guyon is quite past and gone, and now that she is Mrs. Streightley----"
"Ah! that's all very well; but he shan't see her. Mr. Guyon will back me up in that, I'm sure. I know he will. Good-bye, Charley;" and Mr. Streightley turned the handle of the door and left the chambers.
The attorneys whose cases Mr. Yeldham had in hand that day found the celebrated conveyancer a little dilatory. Their clerks attending the next morning were bidden to call again later in the day. You see you don't get through much work when, your feet on the fender, and a pipe in your mouth, you sit for the whole afternoon staring at the grate and chewing the cud of mental reflection. "'He shan't see her!' Why not? Streightley cannot be idiot enough to suppose that there is such fascination in Frere as to--O no! That's not it. 'He shan't see her'--that means they shan't meet, shan't speak, shan't--'Mr. Guyon shall take care of that--he'll back me up'--Mr. Guyon!--they shan't meet! Mr. Guyon back me up!--they shan't meet! No answer to Gordon's proposal, no meeting with him at that ball--old Guyon's reply as to the pre-engagement and--Now, by the Lord, Robert Streightley, I only hope my thoughts are wrong; for if I'm right, you've been led by weakness or worse into a base conspiracy, and henceforth are no friend of mine!"