"Florence.

"My Dear Mr. Streightley,--Your letter has been following me about for several weeks,--I believe for months, indeed,--and has only just reached me. I cannot--I need not tell you how greatly the news which it conveys has pained and distressed me. I am sure you will understand this without my dwelling upon the point, and that you personally will be assured of my sympathy in this your hour of grief. I am old enough to be allowed to speak plainly in these matters, even to one with whom I have not been very long acquainted, and I may tell you therefore that not merely did I see in you many qualities which any girl might be proud of in a husband, but I took the opportunity of showing to Katharine that I had observed them. I am sure furthermore, not merely from the manner in which those remarks were received, but from the general tenour of her conduct, that she had not one thought which she would have been ashamed of sharing with you, and I therefore am disposed to hope that her departure may have been caused by childish petulance, provoked by some little 'tiff,' which you have not explained to me--that it has been merely temporary, and that now, ere this note reaches you, she has returned to you and her duty. If this be so, you will throw this letter into the fire and think no more of it. But if it be not so; if she is still holding aloof from you through self-will, and which I suppose, as her relative, I may venture to call obstinacy, I think it best to give you all the aid and information in my power. I need scarcely tell you that she is not, that she has not been, with me. I do not know that she would have sought me; but, at any rate, my frequent changes of address would have prevented her finding me. Had I seen her, I should have put aside my own ill-health (which is, I suspect, a great deal laziness, and hatred of England in the dull season), and, starting off at once, never left her until I had restored her to you. But I remember that two or three years ago a great friend and old schoolfellow of hers, Annie Burton--of whom I know Katharine had a very high opinion--went to live at the Convent de St. Etienne, in Paris, and, as I believe, ended in taking the veil there. If all the other inquiries which you have doubtless set on foot have failed, would it not be well to make a search for our poor lost girl at this convent? Such a place would be likely to attract her in her then frame of mind. She would have the solace of the companionship of her old friend; and as boarders are received at the convent, she could command perfect privacy and peace, and, so far as she knows, avoid every chance of discovery. This is rather a vague idea, but it is a foundation upon which pursuit may improve. I sincerely trust it may not be needed, but yet I think it advisable to send it. In any case I shall be most anxious to hear from you again, and to assist you in any way in my power.

"Yours very sincerely,

"Margaret Stanbourne."

The perusal of this letter brought light into Robert Streightley's eyes and comfort to his heart. For the first time since Katharine's departure he felt that there was a chance of recovering her for himself, of seeing her once again, and telling her all he had suffered--all he hoped. His heart beat violently as these thoughts came across him, and he trembled from the intensity of his feelings. He would have gone at once to Yeldham's chambers and shown him the letter; but he felt unable to move, and remained for a few minutes panting and palpitating in his chair. He was weak and dizzy, and had a strange oppressive feeling that he should die before he could get upon the clue just given him. But after a short time these feelings passed away, and he managed to rouse himself and drive to the Temple, where he found Charley, as usual, hard at his 'treadmill.'

As his friend entered the room, Yeldham looked up from his writing, uttered a short cry of alarm, and came hurriedly towards him.

"What's the matter with you, Robert?" he said,--"white as a ghost, dark circles round your eyes--what the deuce is it? No bad news?"

"No, Charley, I'm all right--or shall be in a minute; a little knocked down by what's in this letter. I think there's something in it--some clue at last. Read it, and tell me how it strikes you."

Charles Yeldham took the letter and read it through carefully; then put it down, and looked across at his friend.

"Well?" said Streightley, anxiously.

"Well, Robert, of course it's a new light, and--and there may be something in it; but I'm not very much impressed. I scarcely think--but then I know so little, that I'm not a fair judge--that a convent's exactly the place to which a lady of Mrs. Streightley's temperament would retire. However, of course one can send over and ascertain."

"Send over!" cried Robert; "nothing of the kind. I think far more highly than you seem to do, Yeldham, of this information. I think so highly of it, that I shall start at once for Paris, and pursue the track."

"You? No, Robert, I would not do that. You're not well, my good fellow; you're not strong; any excitement of this kind might knock you up, and that would never do, you know."

"I know that I shall start by the tidal train to-morrow morning, Charley. Now don't argue with me, for my mind is made up."

But Robert Streightley did not start to Paris by the next morning's tidal train. As he sat that night talking over his intended journey with his friend, Yeldham saw the colour fade out of his face, the light out of his eyes,--finally saw him go off in a dead swoon. Yeldham carried him to his own bed, and sent for a doctor, who peremptorily forbade any notion of his being moved for days. "It might cost him his life," he said. And Robert, made acquainted with the veto, after some murmuring, acquiesced in it, and fell back, weak and wavering, to sleep.

"I don't like your friend's symptoms, Mr. Yeldham," said Dr. Mannering to Charley. "Has he had any great mental strain or worry lately? Ah, I thought so. I'm afraid there's very little doubt that his heart's affected."

CHAPTER V.

FAILURE.

Robert could not leave Yeldham's chambers for several days after the astute doctor for whom Charley had sent had hazarded his guess about the "mental" sources of his patient's illness; and as the strictest quiet was enjoined, reference to the agitating subject of Katharine and Mrs. Stanbourne's letter had to be strictly avoided. Such avoidance was much less difficult than Yeldham had apprehended it would be; for Robert's exhaustion was extreme, and he readily accepted his friend's assurance that he knew what he wished to have done, and that it should be done without any delay.

"I've sent a line to your mother, Robert, and told her not to frighten herself; and I've had a bed put ready for me in the comer; so you've nothing to do and nothing to think about except getting well."

"And Katharine?" said Robert, with a vague, wan, painful smile.

"Well, and Katharine; but there's nothing to be done until you get well--think of that, my dear fellow, and try--except what I have done, what I did last night when you were asleep."

Robert's hollow eyes questioned him eagerly.

"I wrote to Miss Annie Burton," said Yeldham, sitting down by the bed, "telling her the circumstances briefly, and entreating her to give us any information in her power. I assured her, in case her friend should have reposed any confidence in her, either as to her residence or otherwise, which she might hesitate to violate, that no attempt would be made to control Mrs. Streightley's movements in any way; that the object of the inquiry was to rectify a misapprehension on her part, and to procure some relief of mind for her husband, whom her departure, and his ignorance of what had become of her, had nearly killed. I said that, Bob; I made it strong; and indeed I believe it, old fellow."

Robert covered his face with his hands, and groaned. Yeldham jumped up immediately, at once remembering the doctor's injunctions.

"This will never do," he said; "I must leave you, Robert. The 'demd horrid grind,' you know!"

"We have only to wait, then?" said Robert wearily.

"Yes, to 'wait and hope,' as Monte Christo told his young friends," said Yeldham, with a very poor attempt at gaiety. "I'm off now, to engage in an interesting question about Farmer Shepperton's ten-acre meadow."

During the few following days the grind which Mr. Charles Yeldham had instituted for himself, and had without interruption or question kept up for several years, received many irruptions and incursions at this period of his life, was broken in upon here, and suddenly put a stop to there, in a manner that would have annoyed any but the best-tempered and largest-hearted man in the whole world. While Robert Streightley lay ill in his bed, it was not to be expected that Charley Yeldham could remain quiet, poring over his law-papers, without running in now and then to see how his friend was getting on; whether he wanted any thing; whether the perpetual scratching of the pen disturbed him; whether the preternatural silence did not drive him mad; and other queries, such as men in rude health propose to those whom, being ill, they take to be fanciful. Then there was the doctor's visit, the consultation afterwards, the getting the sick man to acquiesce in all the necessary arrangements, the despatch of Charley's lad for the medicines, and a hundred other little performances, all of which Charley had to take part in; thus giving up his work and withdrawing himself from his desk. He did not mind so very much; for Charles Yeldham's position was now secured, and he knew that the attorneys must await his pleasure. His was no bumptious self-conceit; he had won his spurs in fairest fight and by hardest exertion, by sheer determination and indomitable energy; and he was as incapable of affecting a deprecation of his legitimate success as he would have been of swaggering before that success had been legitimately obtained. So, notwithstanding his innate love of work, he had no hesitation in tearing himself from "treadmill" to attend to his friend, whom he pitied with all his large heart, with a profound pity which had long ago buried blame out of sight.

One morning, when Robert Streightley was sitting in the easy-chair at the open window looking on to the Thames, gazing, with that calm uninterested feeling which comes to us in illness, on the life below--the nursemaids and valetudinarians in the Temple Gardens; the squad of Inns-of-Court volunteers in private clothes, but carrying their rifles, being put through the mysteries of company-drill by the attendant sergeant; the steam-boats on the river, cutting in and out among the heavy barges; the distant bridges crowded with traffic, and the shore immediately in front resonant with the work of the Embankment,--as he sat, very weak in body, very anxious in mind--for no answer had as yet come to Yeldham's letter to Miss Burton--Charley Yeldham opened the door, and coming up to him, laid his hand gently on his shoulder, and asked him how he was.

Robert answered that he was better; "progressing--quietly, he thought he might say."

"That's good hearing, old boy! that's glorious hearing! You certainly have more colour to-day, and your eyes are brighter, and you look more yourself. How do you feel about your nerves?"

"What a wonder you are, Charley! No other man in the world would ask such a question, knowing perfectly that if my nerves were in a queer state, there is nothing so likely to knock them over as being asked after them. However, they're tolerably right, thank God!--Why?"

"Well, I suppose it was a very stupid question; and I'm not about to mend it by what I'm going to say now. I was going to say, if your nerves are tolerably right, and you feel decently strong and able to bear it, there's somebody in the sitting-room--Good God, Robert!"

He might well exclaim, for Robert Streightley had fallen forward on the table, his face ghastly pale, his hand shaking and trembling, his voice, sunk to a whisper, muttering, "Has she come at last? has she come?"

"No, no, my dear fellow; a thousand times no. Compose yourself, for heaven's sake. What a tremendous ass I am in any matter like this--sure to make a mess of it! No, no; there's no 'she' there at all; only an old friend of mine and an acquaintance of yours; and I thought if you were well enough, you might like to see him. I may as well tell you at once it's Gordon Frere."

Streightley started as though he had been cut by a whip, seemed about to speak; hesitated for a moment; and finally said, "I'll come in and see him at once."

"You will?" said Charley Yeldham, overjoyed beyond measure; "you will? That's first-rate. I'm delighted, Robert."

"Why should I not?" said Streightley. "If he were to refuse to see me, I could understand that well enough; but now when I, who--and I'm determined that I won't let slip this opportunity of telling him--"

"Robert, Robert, what nonsense you're talking! Frere, of course, like all the rest of the world, has heard of Mrs. Streightley's departure; and as he has a tolerably clear head, he might be of use in our difficulties; but as for going back into bygones, I forbid it utterly. Now, will you see him or not?"

"Give me your arm, Charley, old fellow, and help me into the other room at once."

The few days' illness, with all the suffering and suspense which had preceded it, had had a grievous effect on Robert Streightley's appearance; so that Gordon Frere--usually impassive, as society required him--gave a great start when he saw him entering the room leaning on Yeldham's arm; and, hastily advancing, took him by the hand and murmured a few words of kindness and sympathy. Robert Streightley was in a very weak state still; his eyes filled with tears, and the pressure with which he endeavoured to return Frere's manual greeting was a very feeble one.

"Now sit down, Gordon, here, close by Streightley--for we mustn't let him exert himself too soon after his illness--and let us have a quiet talk," said Charley Yeldham. "Our friend Frere is an old friend of mine, as you know--and--well--what the world talks of, you know--in fact, he's heard the story of Mrs. Streightley, and--having known her and taken some interest in her--he has come, hearing you were here, to inquire for you, and ask what news we have of her. I've told him what I know--what we all know; but as for particulars, Lord help us, who could give them?"

"Our dear old Charley here," said Gordon Frere, "puts in his own peculiar way--which of course you know, Mr. Streightley, as well as or better than I--the state of affairs. I heard at the time of what had happened; but I, like every one else, I suppose, expected it would all blow over in a few days. I should have liked to have seen you then, and tried to cheer you up, but I thought it better not. However, as my wife sees a good deal of your sister, we have heard that things are not as we hoped they would have been; and yesterday I heard of your illness, so I have come, having long had the pleasure of Mrs. Streightley's acquaintance, and having--if you will permit me to say so--a great esteem for you, to ask Yeldham if I could be of any assistance in the matter."

The old courtly manner; how well Robert remembered it! As Gordon Frere spoke to him, he saw him taking leave of Katharine on horseback in the Park, bending over her in the opera-box, whispering to her at the Botanical Gardens, in that happy time now so far away. He remained perfectly quiet, thinking over this for a minute or two; then he said in a deep voice, and with his eyes cast down:

"No one has a stronger claim to confidence in this matter than Mr. Frere."

Gordon looked astonished, both at the words and the solemn tone in which Streightley spoke; but Charles Yeldham interposed nervously:

"Yes, yes, of course. Gordon is an old friend of the Guyon family--known Miss Guyon--Mrs. Streightley, that is to say--since--ever so long."

"Not merely on that account, but on another----"

"For God's sake, Streightley! You're weak and ill, and not yourself----"

"My dear Charley Yeldham, I'm weak--and ill--and--well, not my former self, at all events; but I cannot see that you are justified in stopping me in what I was about to say."

"But did not you promise me?"

"Certainly not. I came into this room with the full intention of saying what I am now going to say. When Mr. Frere knows that the saying it will have given me relief--and I need relief--I think he will comprehend my anxiety on the point."

Frere glanced from one to the other in mute amazement. He was not what is generally called "quick at taking things," and this dialogue was unintelligible to him. Robert continued:

"You are aware, Mr. Frere, that Mrs. Streightley has long left her home, and that as yet we are unhappily in ignorance where she may be?"

"I had heard so, to my very great regret."

"But you cannot be aware of what is really the fact--that you are to a great extent implicated in her departure."

"I? Mr. Streightley----"

"Hear me out. Our good friend here thinks I am in the wrong in entering into this story to you."

"I don't see the necessity for it," growled Charley Yeldham.

"Very likely not; but then you have not carried the weight about in your bosom for months, or you would hail such a chance of relief with delight. A chance indeed; but I have often contemplated seeking you, and telling you what you are now about to learn. I am fortunate indeed in an opportunity offered by your kindness." He was speaking clearly and steadily now; so he spoke until the end. "Mr. Frere, I owe you an explanation of my last remark to you, and I'm proceeding to give it; but you will have to pardon my feebleness and give me time. You were acquainted with Miss Guyon long before I was introduced to her?"

"I was."

"And--I am speaking to you frankly of yourself; you will see how frankly I shall speak of myself presently--and you admired her very much?"

"I thought--I think," said Frere, after an instant's hesitation, "that there never was a more beautiful woman."

"Nor a more heartless one, I suppose you would add. That woman, as you imagine, fooled you to the top of your heart, gave you every encouragement to seek her hand; and when you did so, frankly and honourably, deliberately threw you over for the richer prize which came in her way."

"Mr. Streightley," said Frere, in an earnest voice, "I'm sure you must have some very strong motive, or you would never touch upon a subject which must be so painful to both of us."

"I have a strong motive, sir, as you will speedily find. Your calls were unnoticed, your letters disregarded, your honourable and manly offer rejected, almost with contempt. Shortly afterwards Miss Guyon was married to me. Now, Mr. Frere, I am coming to my point. Katharine Guyon's rejection of you and her acceptance of me were alike the result of a base conspiracy against you and her. In matters concerning you she was hoodwinked and deceived; your visits were not mentioned to her; your letters were kept back from her. The very offer of your hand she never received, and until the day of her father's death she was in ignorance of its having been made."

Gordon Frere had started back at the beginning of this disclosure, and now sat staring wildly, scarcely able to comprehend what he had heard. After a pause, he said, "Good God, how awful! And by whom was this treachery perpetrated?"

"By two men, one of whom has gone to his account, with all his imperfections on his head; while the other, mercifully spared so far to repent and make such atonement as lies in his power, is before you."

At these words Gordon Frere started from his chair; for an instant remained erect, taking no heed of Yeldham's hands outstretched in warning; then, as his eyes fell on Streightley's worn and haggard face, he sank quietly back into his seat.

"I can fully understand what you must feel, Mr. Frere," said Robert; "and I shall shrink from nothing you may say to me. But there is a little more to be told yet, and I may as well finish it. I said that you were somehow concerned in my wife's flight; and what I meant was this. Her discovery of this plot, the rage and humiliation which she felt at having been made one of its victims, led her to leave her home. I am confident she had no other motive. She----" Robert stopped for a moment, and then continued, "I can't say much more. I'm not strong yet, and--I only wanted you to know that my crime has not been unpunished. God knows my share in that miserable compact has never been absent from my thoughts, and now retribution has overtaken me."

He ceased speaking, and leaned back in his chair, faint and pale. Nor was Gordon Frere much less pallid as he rose and said:

"I'm taken so aback by all this, that I can say nothing at this instant. I want ten minutes by myself to collect my thoughts. Charley, give me your key; I'll go into the Gardens for a few minutes, and then I'll come back to you."

Although the Temple Gardens were Mr. Yeldham's favourite and only exercising ground; and although Gordon Frere, in the old days lazily lounging out of the window with his pipe in his mouth, had often seen his friend tearing round and round them, doing his constitutional in the intervals of "treadmill," it is probable that the young man himself had not been in them more than half-a-dozen times in his life, and knew nothing of their various beauties. Certain it is that he saw nothing of them on the present occasion. He walked among the nursemaids and the town-made children, and the misanthropes and the valetudinarians; but he saw none of them. He saw the staircase at Mrs. Pendarvis's house, and the conservatory and the landing, and Katharine with her head bent down, listening to his soft familiar phrases--which are not, indeed, the language of love, but which form such a pleasant prelude to it. He saw the saucy toss of the head with which she would greet his late arrival in society where they had arranged to meet, and that half-bashful, half-earnest look in her eyes when they were about to part. Gordon Frere's heart beat very rapidly as he thought of these things, and he bit his lip impatiently; but he was a thorough nineteenth-century man, with a horror of giving expression to or even indulging in any strong feelings, and he had long outlived the boyish passion for Katharine which had glorified that past time. His pride was sharply hurt, and the gentlemanly sense of honour, which alone among a man's feelings the nineteenth-century code does not require him to repress, revolted against the story he had just heard from the shattered invalid within there. How right he had been, when he first heard from Hester of Katharine's flight, and had instinctively justified her, even though he then believed she had treated him so badly! So, while he was regarding her as a jilt, she was thinking that he had basely trifled with her. Poor Katharine! he pitied her. Did he pity himself? Well, not much; it was over--the glamour was gone, and he was none the worse; but she, sold to this man--a poor man now--homeless, self-exiled, with burning anger in her proud heart. He never for a moment thought of the possibility that Katharine might love him, Gordon Frere; still something he did not pause to analyse told him she did not--that the dream was over for her as for him. The waking was very different though. Father and husband lost; home and position forfeited; a wanderer, and poor. Katharine Guyon was all this. How bright was his own fate in comparison! Mr. Guyon's part in the transaction galled him. He had so heartily despised the dressy, boasting, foppish, frivolous, false old man, and had so often laughed at his little tricks and cheateries, that to have been so thoroughly, so completely done by him, was, even in such distant retrospect, decidedly humiliating and unpleasant. He had that letter somewhere, with its infernal hypocritical condolence, and its coolly impudent messages from Katharine. All a lie, was it--infernal old scoundrel! Dead though, that must be remembered, even in the utmost scorn and anger. And Streightley--how he pitied him! The man knew so little of the world, and Guyon had made him so completely his tool. He liked Robert, and all the more since Hester had behaved so ill about it all. He wished now he had seen him at once, when this happened; had not been kept back by any fear of Hester's "queerness," as he called it. Things had never been quite comfortable between them since, and he had avoided the subject. But now why should he be angry with this poor broken fellow, who had lost Katharine too, if it came to that? No; he pitied him, and he would help him to the best of his ability; and now he would go and tell him so.

Such is a rapid résumé of Mr. Gordon Frere's thoughts as he walked round the Temple Gardens; and such was the conclusion at which he arrived before he again entered his friend's rooms.

He walked straight up to the chair in which Robert Streightley sat, and taking his thin wan hand, said, "I've thought carefully over all that you have told me, Mr. Streightley, and the result is, that, so far as I am concerned, the matter is put away and buried for ever. It shall never be mentioned by me again, and I think I may say it shall never rise in my mind to your prejudice. The only thing that I will say about it is, that I am glad I have heard this explanation, because by it Miss--Mrs. Streightley is freed from the suspicion of double-dealing and--well, I must say it--heartlessness, which at one time I attached to her. And now," said Gordon, changing the tone of his voice, and laying his hand kindly on Streightley's shoulder--"now we must devote all our energies to finding her and bringing her back. I'm sure, when she hears that I have--I mean when she knows that you've told me all--and--yourself so ill--and--that she'll give in at once--eh, Charley?"

"My dear fellow, I agree with you entirely; I have very little doubt that if we could communicate with Mrs. Streightley, who is a particularly sensible woman, all might be arranged happily at once. But the difficulty is to find her."

"Have you no clue?"

"We had not until quite recently; and even what we now have is very slight indeed." Then Yeldham repeated to Frere all that has been already told respecting Mrs. Stanbourne's letter, and that which he had written to Miss Burton.

"She has not yet answered my letter," he went on to say, with a glance of significant anxiety at Robert, which Gordon understood. "But she may be away from Paris."

"Certainly," said Frere; "nothing more likely. She may have gone home, you know; and the people at the convent may have sent on the letter. We must not be discouraged by a little delay, must we, eh, Charley?"

"O dear, no," said Yeldham; "there is nothing to be discouraged about. We must have patience, and Robert must gain strength. Suppose we got a letter now, and knew where she is, he wouldn't be fit to go to her."

"O yes, I would!" cried Robert. "I should get strength for that. Be sure of me, so far as that goes."

"Well, well; we will discuss that when the time comes," said Yeldham, who was impatient for the termination of this agitating interview. "And now, Gordon, I'm going to turn you out."

"All right, old fellow," said Gordon cheerfully. "I'll soon come and see you again, Mr. Streightley; meantime, if you have any good news, you'll let me have the pleasure of sharing it. I understand now why Yeldham has never spoken much of you to me; but that's all over, is it not?" And the handsome, happy young man held out his hand, with all the irresistible grace of his peculiar manner, to Robert, who clasped it fervently in his poor thin fingers. Yeldham left the room with Gordon, and the two held a brief colloquy on the landing.

"Will he find her, do you think?"

"I fear not. If ever a determined woman lived, she is that woman. And he has no hold on her--no knowledge of her past, no intimacy with her intimates."

"She hadn't any, I believe," said Gordon. "I don't think she had a friend in the world. She was dangerous, you see, being so handsome, and so poor; and her father was so deuced disreputable. Did she make many friends since her marriage?"

"I fancy not; I never heard--except Mrs. Frere."

"O, she knows nothing about her," said Gordon hurriedly. "Good-bye, Charley. Go back to the poor fellow; he wants you."

Gordon Frere had taken a step down the stairs, and Yeldham's hand was on the door, when the former turned and came back.

"By Jove, Charley," he said, "I was just going away without telling you one of the principal things I came to say. That fellow Thacker, you know, he manages all Hester's business--as far as she allows any one but herself to manage it, that is to say--and very well he does it, I fancy. However, that's not the news, and this is. She gave him a lot of money to invest on one occasion, and he invested it, it appears, in a thingummy--a loan--you know what I mean--where you get the place if you are not paid up to time."

"Yes; a mortgage. Go on, Gordon."

"Well, then, a mortgage on Middlemeads; and of course, then, you know Streightley smashed; and the end of it is, Middlemeads belongs to us--to her, I mean--and she wants to go and live there when the season's over. Deuced unpleasant, isn't it, Yeldham? especially after the story that poor fellow has just told us; looks as if I did it out of spite to Katharine. I can't explain to Hester; and there's no reasonable reason why she shouldn't have the place, is there, Charley? 'Pon my life, I don't know what to do."

"It's a strange coincidence, Gordon, and that's all that can be said about it. And, after all, it is only strange to us three, because only we know that it is a coincidence at all. To other people Mrs. Frere is much more strictly allied with the Streightleys than you are. As for Robert, he won't mind it in the least; he never thinks about the place. He was eager enough about it, poor fellow, when he and I saw it first; but I don't think it ever costs him a thought or a regret now. You may go and live there without a scruple, take my word for that."

"Do you really think so, Charley? That's very nice indeed, and a great relief; for I would not hurt Streightley for the world. Good-bye again."

He ran downstairs gaily, and his friend stood for a minute looking after him, thinking of the story that had been told to him, thinking of his own confidences about Katharine in the very same room, and wondering at, a little envying, perhaps a little despising, his invincible light-heartedness.

There was something odd, he thought, about the Middlemeads transaction. He had never heard Robert mention the mortgagee's being Mrs. Frere: but he would say nothing about it; it might agitate him. So he dismissed the matter from his mind, and went cheerfully back to Robert, whom he found pale and depressed, and willing to talk only of the one engrossing topic--when an answer must surely come from Miss Burton.

"What a fine fellow he is!" Robert thought sadly, in Yeldham's absence, as he reviewed Frere's conduct in their interview. "How nobly generous and forgiving! What a contrast to me! And yet he cannot have loved her as I love her, or no generosity could avail to make him pardon the man who robbed him of her. Ah, no; who could ever love her as it is my torment, my punishment, and yet my life, my pride to love her?"

A few hours more, and suspense, so far as the clue with which Mrs. Stanbourne had furnished Robert was concerned, was ended. The following morning brought a letter to Mr. Yeldham from Miss Burton, written, not from Paris, but from an obscure village in the Pyrenees, where a religious house of the order to which she belonged had lately been established. Its contents were conclusive. She had never heard from or of Katharine from the time she had received the intimation of her marriage; she had it not in her power to afford the slightest information or assistance, beyond writing to the superior of her former convent in Paris, and entreating her, should Mrs. Streightley make inquiry there for her, to detain her if possible, but in any case to communicate with her friends. She expressed the liveliest concern and inquietude concerning Katharine, and the deepest regret for her own inability to help in this sore strait.

Profound discouragement fell upon the friends when they had read this letter; nevertheless Robert bore the disappointment better than Yeldham expected. He had a settled sense of the sin he had committed upon him, and a resigned conviction that the punishment was not to be escaped or lessened. The uttermost farthing was to be the sum of the payment to be exacted from him; he did not rebel against the conviction he suffered. "I will never give up seeking her, though I don't believe I shall ever see her face again," he would say to Yeldham, when his friend strove to encourage him, to exhort him to a hope he himself was far from feeling.

Yeldham answered Miss Burton's letter, thanking her warmly for her good wishes, and the precaution she had taken in their behalf; and then he had nothing more to do--the weary waiting had to be resumed.

Many were the councils held by the three friends, as the days, which resembled each other only too closely to him, to whom not one of them brought hope or relief, passed by. Robert had returned to Brixton shortly after the arrival of Miss Burton's letter, and had improved since then in health. The demands of society on Gordon Frere were not quite so insatiable as in his bachelor days; and many a long summer evening found the friends together, sometimes on the river, sometimes in some quiet country nook, a little railway-run from town, and secluded as a desert; but oftener still in Yeldham's chambers.

Robert was a busy man again, to a certain extent; though now he worked for others, in a subordinate position, which seemed to hurt his pride but little, if at all. "I can't live in idleness on my mother, Charley," he said; "and--and if I never see her face again"--that sentence in her letter haunted him--"I should like to leave her something."

Charles Yeldham encouraged Robert in these resolves, and had the satisfaction of seeing him become more tranquil and cheerful, when with him. He had always the gratification of knowing that to others he never afforded an indication of the suffering of his mind.

"You are clear, then, Charley," said Gordon Frere on one occasion, when he had "run up to town" from Middlemeads--they were living there now, and it was late in the autumn--"you are clear, then, that there is nothing, positively nothing, to be done? She is certainly not within the limits of the United Kingdom; for I am confident we have fished out every mortal creature she ever knew, intimately or slightly, and no one has heard of her directly or indirectly."

"I am perfectly clear on that point, Gordon. The case stands thus: we have exhausted all private sources of information known to us, and must now wait until some others discover themselves. Mrs. Stanbourne is keenly interested in our success, and she has access to such foreign information as we could not command. The only other likely clue is that secured to us, in case of its usefulness, by Miss Burton. I have always maintained that this was not a case for detective work; because, in the first place, it would not avail; and in the second, Katharine never would pardon the employment of such means. The fatal loss of time at first--the only time in which detective work is ever good for any thing--disposes of that resource, if no other objection existed. Robert, Lady Henmarsh, and myself having concluded, most naturally, that she had gone to Mrs. Stanbourne, the trail was effectually lost before we knew that we were mistaken. She had more than time to hide herself, long before it ever occurred to us that she intended concealment; for you must remember, Gordon, the desperate defiance of her letter to Robert by no means necessarily implied that."

"You are sure she had no other friends abroad but Mrs. Stanbourne and Miss Burton--no friends among foreigners, I mean?"

"Quite certain. Lady Henmarsh knows; and indeed Katharine had told Robert herself that she had never been abroad for more than a fortnight, or farther than Paris, till their marriage, and she knew no foreigners."

"Where did they go to after the marriage?" asked Gordon.

"To Switzerland. But they returned very soon, and did very little tourist business, I fancy; for Katharine had a severe illness at Martigny, which upset all their plans. No, no; there's not a chance in that direction. Robert and I have not left an incident undiscussed, not a speculation untried."

And they believed so. But one individual connected with their stay at Martigny had entirely escaped Robert's memory and mention. Had he remembered Dr. Hudson, however, it would never have occurred to him that in that direction any help could lie. He knew nothing of the profession and the promise with which the doctor and his beautiful patient had parted.

So, like the children in their games of hide and-seek, Gordon had unconsciously strayed near to the concealed treasure of knowledge when he asked his careless question, but had wandered away again--no hint given, no warning cry, "You burn! you burn!"

CHAPTER VI.

HESTER IN POSSESSION.

Time went on, and Robert Streightley received no fresh intelligence to guide him to the one object for which he now cared to live. The terrible disappointment of the hopes inspired by the only suggestion he had received had utterly prostrated him; and now, even the revived conviction that news of her must come in some way, that though he might never see her again, this cloud of absolute ignorance of her fate must drift away--had yielded to the slow influence of the passing days. Charles Yeldham had succeeded in inducing him to be calm and quiet; in convincing him that no means of discovering what he wanted to find out should be neglected; and that the best way to insure success was to allow some time to elapse, after which Katharine's precautions would probably relax of themselves. Robert knew his friend's zeal and fidelity; and in his depressed state of mind, and weakened condition of bodily health, he was obliged, and thankful, to rest in that knowledge, and security, not indeed from his sorrow, but from exertion on his own part. He had once more begun to tax his intellectual energies by application to business; and the former habits of his life were regaining their dominion over him. He had resumed his residence in his mother's house at Brixton, without the smallest regret for the luxurious abode he had quitted. He had regarded all the surroundings of the brief period of display and luxury which had succeeded to his marriage with perfect indifference on his own account, and now he forgot them. He was to all outward appearance, in habits and tastes, the same man who had gone City-wards from the same house, year after year, before the brilliant interruption; the difference was unseen, undiscernible by any eyes but those of the Father of Spirits.

It is probable that at this time Mrs. Streightley was as happy as she had ever been in all her blameless but uninteresting life. She did not care much about public repute, except in the sense of the impugnment of commercial honesty; and as Robert's character stood as high as ever, in spite of his pecuniary disasters, she cared not at all that the world should talk about his domestic affairs. The world which did so talk was not her world. Brixton and Clapham, the Pratts and the Perkinses, the "connection," and the ministers thereof, said little about the separation between her son and his beautiful "high-flying" wife, and that little had a consolatory tendency; for these good people seemed to think Robert's eternal prospects improved by the occurrence, and it was no part of their creed to trouble themselves about those of Katharine. The old lady had her son with her again; the former routine was resumed: if Robert was unhappy, he did not show it; and she could not understand how he could fret after a woman who had never been a wife to him,--"not what I call a wife, at least," she would say, on the very rare occasions when she mentioned the matter. She was a good woman in her way; but she essentially belonged to the narrow-minded order of human beings, and was quite incapable of realising the fact that though she had seen nothing to like, and little even to admire, in Katharine, her son had seen in her all the value and the glory of life to him, and was living, under her kind, motherly, but unobservant eyes, a broken-hearted man.

Ellen, whose weakness of character rendered her amiability and her enthusiasm almost valueless, had begun to forget Katharine. She had been charmed by her beauty and kindness, but she had always felt a little restrained, a little puzzled by her; and as she had never thought of applying such intellect as she possessed to the solution of the puzzle, it had remained, to make her uncomfortable. From the first Katharine's flight had been a silent subject between her brother and her; and by degrees Ellen had ceased to think of it much, and the image of her sister-in-law had become faint in her memory. Besides, the Rev. Decimus had always decidedly disapproved of her; and he had improved the occasion, entirely to his own satisfaction, and very nearly to Ellen's conviction, by his eloquent exposition of the dangers of riches, the snares of fashion, the undesirableness of beauty, and the enormity of self-will. The reverend gentleman, who was a good creature in his small way, had one or two defects of character, not altogether unknown in his class. He was uncharitable in his judgments, and implacable--piously so, of course, and with the utmost deprecation of such a sentiment--in his resentments. Robert's marriage had been distasteful to his brother-in-law elect from every point of view, personal and professional; and he had never been able to perceive the slightest concession to his influence on the part of Katharine; indeed he felt perfectly certain that on the few occasions of their meeting she had never remembered his existence, after giving him the prescribed bow or word of recognition. If he could have believed that Mrs. Streightley had disliked or feared him or his doctrines, he would have been far less bitter against her than he really, though secretly, was;--for he mourned over her in the true unctuous style of self-exaltation, and depreciation of the sinner, familiar to "professors" of his sort;--he would then have been enabled to poser en martyre, a sufferer of contumely for conscience' sake; and great would have been his reward in Brixton and Clapham circles, where Katharine was utterly unknown, except as an object of holy detraction and affected pity, in the days of her pride and prosperity. But no such resource was open to Mr. Dutton; he knew perfectly well that Mrs. Streightley had never thought of him, had never formed any opinion about him at all; that he had simply been completely indifferent to her. Strange are the complications of human nature, the self-delusions of the best among us. Here was a really good man, disinterested, zealous, perfectly sincere; a man indifferent to wealth (except for missionary purposes), and with whom Ellen Streightley outweighed in attraction the whole of womankind; a man to whom the smallest, the most transient infidelity, either as lover or husband, would have been as impossible as picking a pocket or forging a bill--filled with resentment because a woman, a rich and beautiful woman, had shown herself politely oblivious of him. And he a clergyman too! Ah, there was the rub--the egotism of the good creature was a divided egotism, after all; he could not understand feminine indifference to the cloth! His experiences were partly Polynesian, and partly Claphamite, and he judged, as he lived, according to his lights.

When the Rev. Decimus, then, spoke of Katharine with solemn horror, as an utterly lost sheep, and without the slightest suggestion that it was any body's business to follow her into the wilderness and bring her back, Ellen listened to him with her usual adoring respect, and made no protest. As her future husband, and a clergyman in esse, Decimus was doubly a law to her; and obedience was as deep-seated in Ellen's nature as revolt is in that of some women. Her curiosity respecting the cause of Katharine's flight, the "cause of complaint" against her brother which Robert had assigned, without explaining, remained in her mind long after her sorrow and her affection for the lost sheep had subsided. There was not the least probability that it would ever be gratified; and she began to take the view of the matter insinuated by Mr. Dutton, though he had not the smallest grounds for such a conjecture, and was innocent of intentional slander in the suggestion. "Rely upon it, Ellen," he had said, "Robert's generosity leads him to shelter his unhappy wife from additional disgrace, by assuming the blame of this wretched business himself. I daresay he made some discovery concerning her former life--the life of a worldling and an unbeliever, my dearest, has no doubt always disgraceful secrets in it--and this is the result. Your brother is very generous, and I am sure capable of such a sacrifice."

This was quite a new idea to Ellen, and it took some time to absorb; but at length she said, with a little air of wisdom:

"Well, but, Decimus, in that case he would know where she is, and all about her."

"And how do you know that he does not know? He never says a word on the subject, does he? I think I understood from you that he never mentioned her since he came back to live here."

"O no, never; not to mamma even, or to old Alice. He has never once pronounced her name. My reason for thinking he does not know any thing about her is because Hester says she feels sure he does not, and that he and his friends--friends we know nothing about--are making every effort to find out where she is."

"Mrs. Frere is always right, to be sure; but in this case, I think, she would be certain to know it positively, if such were the case. Frere would know it--he is so great a friend and ally of Robert--and he would tell her. No, no, Ellen; on this point I stick to my own opinion." Which was, indeed, the reverend gentleman's habit in all matters wherein he differed from his fellow-creatures.

Mr. Dutton's dislike of Katharine Streightley was only exceeded by his regard for Hester Frere. This sentiment, like all his sentiments, was entirely disinterested, and had sprung into existence long before Hester had taken any active interest in his affairs. According to her usual wise custom, Miss Gould had made herself agreeable to her friend's lover before she was in a position which enabled her to patronise him; and he had conceived a genuine liking for her, into which the element of gratitude was now introduced. Hester had brought her common-sense, her unfailing tact, and her powers of deferential persuasion to bear upon Ellen's betrothed respecting the missionary question; and as she understood the good little man's weaknesses as well as she understood his narrow sincerity and stupid zeal, she came out of the discussion with entire success. Mr. Dutton was brought to recognise the force of the reasoning which maintained that English savages are as well worth saving as Polynesian savages, and that the labour implied in the task is at least as arduous, and considerably more repulsive. Hester had her own notions as to his fitness for either task; but she kept them to herself, being supremely indifferent to the spiritual welfare of the world on either side of the Equator. "I daresay his parishioners won't swallow his doctrines," she said to herself contentedly; "but then neither will they swallow his wife." And she derived very great satisfaction from the promptitude and skill with which Mr. Thacker had executed the commission intrusted to him, before the great absorbing interest of this woman's life had arisen, to overpower every other. A living had been found in a situation which almost realised the conditions prescribed by Hester, and the marriage of Ellen and Decimus was to take place immediately.

To this, as to most other external circumstances, Robert was indifferent; he had lost his interest in such things now: his only feeling about it was regret that he could not give his sister a large dowry, as he had once hoped to do. He had been consulted in a formal way by both Decimus and Ellen, and he had agreed to all their plans; then, his duty being done, he turned away again, and fed upon his sorrow in silence,--in a silence growing submissive, full of repentance and humility. His sin had found him out, and the chastisement was heavy upon him; but Robert was discerning more and more clearly that the hand which was dealing it was God's hand, and he was learning to kiss the rod. Very, very slowly were these lessons learned: the progress of the human soul in the school of the wisdom which is not of this world, is never rapid; but neither is it ever arrested, turned aside, or ineffectual.