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18. there was a kind of tacit arrangement that I should do so--and, by
George, I really think I'm hit this time, and that I mean more than
ever I did before."
"Mean more! In what way, Gordon?"
"In the way of marriage, of course, you old idiot. Mean that if I
were to ask her, I think she'd have me. And she'd be a deuced
creditable wife to have about with one; and the governor must just
stir himself, and use his influence and get me a consulship, or a
commissionership, or something where there's a decent income, and
not very much to do for it. There are such things, of course."
"I don't know, Gordon. Recollect these are the days when every
thing is won by merit, and not won without a competitive
examination."
"O yes; competitive examination be hanged! I'm not going in for
any thing of that sort. If a man who's sat for the same borough for
five-and-twenty-years, and never voted against his party except
once, by mistake, when he'd been dining out and strolled into the
wrong lobby--if such a patriot as this can't get a decent berth for his
son without any bother about examination and all that kind of thing,
where are our privileges as citizens? O no; that'll come all square, of
course. But what do you advise me about the girl?"
"It's difficult to give such advice off-hand, Gordon, more especially
as I have never seen the young lady, and have scarcely heard of her.
But though you're not particularly learned, young un, you've plenty
of knowledge of the world, and are one of the last men likely to be
entrapped into a silly marriage, or to let yourself be made miserable
for life by giving in to a mere passing fancy. So if you and the young
lady are really fond of each other, and if your father can be
persuaded to give himself the trouble to get some tolerably decent
Government appointment for you, I should say, 'Propose to her like
an honourable man; and God speed you!' I--I think I should see my
19. father first, Gordon, and make sure of what he would do; for, from
all I've heard, I don't think Mr. Guyon is a man of resources--I mean
pecuniary resources."
"N-no," said Frere; "I should not think he was. He's a remarkably
chirpy old boy, tells very good stories, and is always well got-up; but
I shouldn't think his balance at his banker's was very satisfactory.
However, Kate's simply charming; stands out from all the ruck of
girls one knows, and is in the habit of meeting and dancing with, like
a star. I'll write down to the governor and sound him about what
he'd be inclined to do; and I'll just go round before dinner to Queen
Anne Street; not to go in, you know,--of course not; but there's the
last Botanical Fête to-morrow in the Regent's Park, and Kate asked
me if I was going, and I said I'd go if she went, and she said she'd
try and get some one to take her. I suppose the old woman who's
always about with her doesn't care for dissipation by daylight. I say,
Charley, fancy if it comes off all straight! Fancy me a married man!"
Yeldham smiled, but said nothing. There was scarcely any
occasion for him to speak; for Frere was full of his subject, and
rattled on.
"How astonished your people will be! I can see the Vicar reading
your letter announcing the news through his double eyeglass, and
then handing it over to little Constance and exclaiming, 'Won-derful!'
And Constance with her large solemn gray eyes, and her pert nose,
and her fresh little mouth; Constance, whom I used to call 'my little
wife' when I was grinding away with the Vicar in those jolly days--ah
what a glorious old fellow he is!--won't she be surprised when she
finds I've got a real wife! And you,--you'll be left alone in chambers,
Charley, old boy; all alone!--though you don't see much of me as it
is, do you, old fellow?"
"No, Gordon; not much," said Yeldham rising; "not so much as I
should wish. But it's pleasant to me to look forward to your coming,
to bring a little of the outside world's life and light into these dreary
20. old rooms, and to prove to me that I am not actually part and parcel
of these musty old books and parchments, as I'm sometimes half
inclined to believe. However, I could not expect to have you always
with me, any more than I could expect it to be always summer; and
indeed, if you were always here, I should not know what to do with
you. Come, my five minutes' rest has been prolonged into a perfect
idleness. Out with you, and let me get to work again!"
"No, no; not yet, Charley. It's so seldom I have the chance of
getting you to take your nose off the paper, and to open your ears to
any thing that is not law-jargon, that I'm not going to give in so
soon. Besides, I've been talking all this time, and now it's your turn.
I want your advice, and you're going to give it me; and that's all
about it."
"It's a great pity you don't stick to your profession, Gordon," said
Yeldham, half laughingly, half in earnest; "you would have made a
great success at the Old Bailey. You've all the characteristics of that
style of practice charmingly developed; plenty of cheek, plenty of
volubility, and supreme self-reliance. If you had done me the honour
of listening to me instead of thinking what you were going to say
next, you would have heard me advise you half an hour ago."
"Stuff! I heard you fast enough. Propose to the girl, and all that;
very honourable and straightforward, you know, Charley, but a little
old-fashioned, you know,--at least you don't know; how should you,
shut up in this old hole? But what I mean to say is, fellows don't
propose to girls nowadays, old fellow, except in books and on the
stage, and that sort of thing. You understand each other, you know,
without going on your knees, or 'plighting troth,' or any rubbish of
that kind. But what I want to know is, what is my line towards the
old party--Guyon père?"
"Hold on a minute, Gordon," said Charles Yeldham rising from his
chair, plunging his hands into his trousers' pockets, and taking up his
position of vantage on the hearthrug. "Granted all you say about my
21. being old-fashioned, you yet seem to think that there is a phase of
courtship sufficiently unchanged--I was going to say sufficiently
natural--for me to be able to advise you upon."
"He-ar, he-ar!" said Mr. Frere, knocking the table on which he was
seated.
"But before I attempt to give you any advice, I must know
whether you are really in earnest in this business. Yes; I know you
say you're 'hard hit,' and 'serious this time,' and a lot of stuff that
I've heard you say a dozen times before about a dozen different
girls. What I want to know is, do you really think seriously of
marrying Miss Guyon? Has it entered your mind to regard it from any
other point than the mere calf-love view, what you in your slang call
'being spooney' upon her? I mean, Gordon, old fellow,--I'm a solemn
old fogey, you know; but it's in the fogey light that such a solemn
thing should be looked at--are you prepared to take Miss Guyon as
your wife?"
"On my sacred honour, Charley, there's nothing would make me so
happy."
"Then the honourable way to go to work is to see Mr. Guyon at
once and speak to him. Tell him your feelings and----"
"And my prospects, eh, Charley? He's safe to ask about them."
"Well, you can tell him what you've just said of your father's
position, and what you intend to ask him to do for you. And then----
"
"Yes; and then?"
"Well, then you'll hear what he's got to say to that."
"Ye-es; it won't take me very long to listen to an exposition of Mr.
Guyon's views on my financial position, I take it. However, I'm
22. almost certain--quite certain, I may say--of Kate; and as you think
it's due to her to speak to her father----"
"I'm sure of it, Gordon. It's the only honourable course."
"Well, then, I'll do it at once, though I don't much like it, I can tell
you."
"Whatever may be the result, it's best you should know it soon,
Gordon. Nothing unfits a man for every thing so much as being in a
state of doubt."
"I'll end mine at once, Charley. No; not at once. I must first see if
that Botanical-Fête arrangement is coming off, and after that I'll
speak to her father. Devilish solemn phrase that, eh, Charley!"
"It won't be so dreadful in carrying out as it sounds, my boy. Clear
out now; you shan't have another instant!"
Gordon Frere nodded laughingly at his friend; and after making a
hurried toilet in his own room started off for Queen Anne Street,
while Charles Yeldham seated himself at his desk.
But not to work; his mind was too full for that. The short light
conversation just recorded had given Charles Yeldham matter for
much deliberation. When a man's life is thoroughly engrossed by
mental work, the few humanising influences which he allows to
operate on him are infinitely more absorbing than the thousand
fleeting affections of the light-hearted and the thoughtless. When
Charles Yeldham gave his thoughts a holiday from his conveyancing,
and turned them from the attorneys who employed him and the
work which they brought him to do, his mind reverted generally to
the loved ones in the vicarage at home or to the two men whose
friendship he had time and opportunity to cultivate. Never was
younger brother better loved than was Gordon Frere by the large-
hearted, large-brained philosopher whose chambers he shared. It
was indeed from the elder-brother point of view that Yeldham
23. regarded Frere. As a boy Gordon had been the one private pupil
whom the old vicar had admitted into his house; and later in life he
had passed two long vacations reading at the seaside with his old
tutor and the members of his family. Charley loved the young man
with all the large capacity of his loving nature, looked with the most
lenient eye on his boyish frivolities and dissipations, and had hitherto
never feared for his future, hoping that he would settle down into
some useful career before he thought of settling himself for life. But
the conversation just held had entirely changed his ideas. Gordon,
unstable, unsettled, without any means or resources, had
announced his intention of taking a wife. And what a wife! Of the
young lady herself Yeldham knew nothing; but certain pleadings
which he had drawn some twelve months beforehand in a case
which never came into court, and which had been settled by mutual
arrangement, had given him a very clear insight into the character of
Mr. Edward Scrope Guyon, and into that worthy gentleman's
resources and manner of life. With such a man Yeldham felt
perfectly certain that an impecunious scion of a good family like
Gordon Frere coming as a pretender for his daughter's hand would
not have the smallest chance of success; and it was with a heavy
heart that he sat idly sketching figures on his blotting-pad, and
turning over all that he had recently heard in his mind.
"I don't see my way out of it," said he, throwing down his pen at
length, and plunging his hands into his pockets. "I don't see my way
out of it, and that's the truth. Gordon is hard hit, I believe,--harder
hit than he has ever been yet, and means all fairly and honourably;
but fair play and honour won't avail much, I imagine, in carrying out
this connection--at least with the male portion of the family. A man
with the morals of a billiard-marker and an income of a couple of
thousand a-year would have a better chance with old Guyon than a
Bayard or a Galahad. He's a bad lot, this Mr. Guyon, but as sharp as
a ferret, and he'll read Gordon like a book. All the poor boy's talk
about what his political influence and what his father must do for
him, and all that, won't weigh for an instant with a man like Guyon,
who is up to every move on the board, and who will require money
24. down from any one bidding for his daughter's hand. I wonder what
the girl's like, and how much of the play rests in her hands. That old
rip would never be base enough to make her his instrument in
advancing his own fortune? And yet how often it's done, only in a
quieter and less noticeable manner! Gad! I begin to think I am a bit
of a cynic, as Gordon chaffingly, calls me, when I find these ideas
floating through my head; and I'm sure any one would imagine I
was one, or worse, if; knowing my own convictions, they had heard
me advise that poor boy to see old Guyon and lay his statement
before him. But I'm convinced that that is the only way of dealing
with such a matter as this. Have the tooth out at once; the wrench
will do you good and prevent any chance of floating pains in the
future. Guyon will handle the forceps with strength and skill, and
poor Gordon will think that half his life is gone with the tug. But
once over, when he begins to find that the gap is not so enormous
as he at first imagined, when he sees people don't notice the
alteration in his appearance, he'll begin to think it was a good job
that it happened while he was yet young, and he'll settle down and
get to work, and perhaps make the name and reputation which his
talents, if they had any thing like fair play, entitle him to. It's
wonderful the different light in which men see these things. There's
my boy there just mad for this girl, raving about her beauty, going
into ecstasies about her hair and eyes and figure; and here am I, his
chum and intimate, who can safely say that never in the course of a
life extending now to some six-and-thirty years, have I had the
faintest idea of what being in love is like. Lord, Lord! what a queer
world it is! and what is for the best? Perhaps, if I had had nice
smooth fair hair instead of a shock-head of bristles, I should have
been kneeling at ladies' feet instead of stooping over my desk, and
writing sonnets for girls instead of drawing pleas for attorneys. I
know which pays best, but I wonder which is the most interesting.
'Never felt the kiss of love, nor maiden's hand in mine,' eh? Well, I
don't know that I'm much the worse for that. Maidens' hands seem
to lead one into all sorts of scrapes; and as for the kiss of love----
Why, what time's that?"
25. The striking of the clock on the mantelpiece roused him from his
reverie; and looking up, he discovered that his intended five-
minutes' absence from work had been extended over two hours, and
that the daylight of the late summer time was beginning to fade. So,
with a heavy sigh, he lit his reading-lamp and settled down to his
desk again. Like every other man accustomed to hard work, he
found it immediate relief from thought, and soon became immersed
in his writing, at which he slaved away until it was time to get some
dinner. He had no heart to walk up to the club that evening. He
might meet some fellows of his acquaintance there,--very possibly
Gordon himself; and he was not inclined to chatter upon trivial
subjects. So he put on his hat, and strode over to the Cock; the
quiet solemnity of the old tavern at that hour of the evening, when
the late diners had departed and the early supper-eaters had not yet
arrived, being thoroughly congenial to his feelings. After his dinner
he went back to his chambers; and after smoking a pipe, during
which process he again fell a-thinking over Gordon's trouble, he
returned to his work, and was in full swing when he heard a key in
the lock, and the next minute Mr. Gordon Frere entered the room.
"Hallo, Gordon!" said Charley, looking up at the clock; "why, it's
not eleven; what on earth brings you home so early, young un?"
"Happiness, Charley! jolliness, old fellow! It's all right about to-
morrow; Kate's going to the fête, and---- After dinner at the Club I
went up into the strangers' smoking-room, and there wasn't any one
there I knew--only a couple of old fellows, who sat and smoked in
silence; and so I got thinking it all over; and what a stunning girl she
is, and how sure I am that she's fond of me, and how fond I am of
her--regularly hit, you know; and so I thought it would be horrible
somehow to go any where after,--to the theatre, you know, or to
hear the fellows chaffing in the way they do about--women and
every thing; and so I came home."
"Just in time to wish me good-night, my boy. I'm off to bed."
26. "Not until I've extracted a promise from you, Charley, old fellow."
"And that is----? Look sharp, Gordon; I'm sleepy."
"And that is, that you'll come with me to-morrow to the Botanical
Fête."
"To the--to the Botanical Fête! I? Ah, I see, poor Gordon! too
much Guyon has made you mad."
"No, Charley, I'm serious. You know you're my best and dearest
friend, the only real friend I have in the world--for my own people
are like every body else's own people, full of themselves and not
caring one rap for me--and I want you to see my--to see Miss
Guyon, and to give me your real opinion about her."
"By which, of course, you'll be thoroughly influenced, and if I
won't approve give her up at once. No, Gordon, I'm not much
experienced in these things, but I do know enough not to commit
myself in the way you suggest. However, I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll
make half holiday for once, and go with you to the fête--reserving
my opinion of the young lady to myself."
"Well, it's something to have got you to leave that old desk for an
hour, to get you to look at trees and flowers instead of foolscap and
red-tape. And as for Miss Guyon--well, you'll say something about
her, I've no doubt."
"I'm not sorry this opportunity offered," said Charley Yeldham to
himself as he was undressing. "I've not much curiosity; but I confess
I'm anxious to see the girl who has so captivated Master Gordon--
partly on her own account, and partly to see if I can trace in her
manner any suspicion of a---- No; no woman could be bad enough
to lay herself out to entrap a man at her father's desire! And
besides, Gordon Frere's not worth snaring!"
27. CHAPTER VII.
KATHARINE GUYON.
So, three men, all good fellows in their way, and two possessed of
qualities not common, and destined to be influenced throughout all
their lives by the seeming chance that had made them acquainted
with her, were thinking of Katharine Guyon, rather than of any or all
their more immediate and important concerns. She had dawned, a
new luminary, on their horizon; and two were conscious worshippers
of the bright visible presence, the other had not yet turned his eyes
that way. He will do so before long, and then----?
As for Katharine Guyon herself, she had thoughts at present for
but one person, and speculations only on one subject. Her warm,
impulsive, wholly undisciplined heart had accepted Gordon Frere as
its tenant and ruler, after a sudden fashion, which was not to be
defended or excused if judged by the standard of conventionality, or
indeed of common-sense. When the latter quality shall be in any one
instance admitted into a case of love-at-first-sight, it may advance a
claim to invariable acknowledgment; certainly not otherwise. As for
conventionality, Katharine in no way bowed to its authority; and it
was fortunate indeed that her good taste and innate good-breeding
preserved her from any boldness or vulgarity of demeanour; for
those were her only safeguards. Legitimate rule over her there was
none, and she would not for a moment have brooked usurped
authority. Her position was peculiar, and, though there was a good
deal of the glitter of fashion and the reality of enjoyment about it, to
clear-sighted eyes, looking below the surface, pitiable.
28. Katharine's mother had brought her husband no advantages in
their short, not remarkably happy, marriage, except those attached
to an extensive and distinguished family connection. She had no
fortune, no possessions of any kind, except some handsome jewels,
which were secured to her, to descend to her children. She lived only
a short time; but it is probable she thought the period sufficiently
prolonged; for she died, when Katharine was born, with no further
expression of regret than that she wished she could have taken the
child with her; but was consoled by learning that the physicians
thought the feeble infant very unlikely to live. Isabella Stanbourne--
for such was the name of Katharine's mother--was a handsome
woman, of fine mind and high principles. These qualities had not
availed to prevent her making the tremendous though not unusual
mistake of a wholly uncongenial marriage; but they did her the
questionable service of opening her eyes to the blunder she had
committed before she had been Edward Guyon's wife many weeks.
Once opened, Mrs. Guyon's eyes were not the sort of optics ever to
be even partially closed again; and they perceived and scrutinised
every particular of her husband's character and conduct with
merciless clearness and vigilance. That gentleman furnished them
with ample material for their scrutiny; and from the close of the
honeymoon to the termination of her life Mrs. Guyon held the
partner of her existence, whom she knew to be a liar and a
profligate, and suspected to be a swindler, in quiet,
undemonstrative, but supreme contempt. She was a woman in
whom the existence of any kind of regard or even compassion was
incompatible with the least feeling of scorn; and so she never tried
to persuade herself that she entertained either towards her
husband, from the day she found out that the man she had married
was a being of a totally different order to the idol which her fancy
had set up and worshipped. She did not leave him, even when she
made further and more serious discoveries: in the first place,
because she disliked the scandal of a separation; in the second,
because she was conscious of great delicacy of health, and had a
strong presentiment that she should not survive the birth of her
child. She determined to give herself the chance, if, contrary to her
29. conviction, she lived; she could then decide upon her future. The
chance befriended her, and Mrs. Guyon died. Her last days were
undisturbed by her husband's presence. He had gone to Doncaster
when the event which made him a father and a widower took place;
and having made rather a good thing of the expedition, he returned
to town in very tolerable spirits, and felt that he should now be more
interesting and irresistible than ever as a young widower, and could
easily get over the inconsolable stage by a trip on the Continent. His
dead wife's sister-in-law, the Hon. Mrs. Philip Stanbourne, undertook
very gladly to look after the little motherless infant, at whom the
elegant Ned barely glanced, during her days of babyhood; and she
redeemed her promise well.
It is unnecessary to inquire into the career of Mr. Guyon between
the period of Katharine's birth and that of her début in society. It
was evident that, however well-founded his anticipations of success,
it had not been in the matrimonial direction; and indeed some rather
amusing anecdotes were current in society concerning "Ned's"
audacious attempts and egregious failures. His wife's relatives had
never particularly admired Mr. Guyon; but they were kindly,
unaffected people; and Mrs. Guyon had been strictly and uniformly
silent on all her domestic concerns; so that, though they surmised
that the brief marriage had not been the altogether ecstatic union
Isabella had imagined it would prove, they had nothing but surmise
in their minds respecting it; and they never thought of withholding
from the motherless girl any of the advantages derivable from their
social position and influence. These were far more important to
Katharine's father than her guileless uncles, aunts, and cousins
imagined--to whom a life of shifts, scheming, and pretence was an
utterly unknown and unsuspected possibility--and much more
important too to Katharine herself, as regulating her father's conduct
towards her, than the girl ever knew or dreamed of. She would
probably have been placed economically out of sight, at a foreign
boarding-school, and left there to attain the age of womanhood,
unnoticed by her father, had not the kind relatives under whose care
her early childhood had been happily passed given her consequence
30. in Mr. Guyon's eyes, causing him to regard her as a valuable
possession, a court-card in fact. So, instead of a cheap foreign
school being selected as an oubliette for the child,--in virtue of
whom Mr. Guyon had a seat at the tables of many who were more
great than wise,--an expensive establishment for young ladies in the
Regent's Park was honoured by Mrs. Stanbourne's choice; and there
Katharine was brilliantly, if not solidly educated, the larger portion of
the pension and her personal expenses being paid by her uncle. In
Katharine's early girlhood the Hon. Philip Stanbourne died; and she
sustained by this calamity a double loss: not only that of her kind
relative and friend, but of her aunt's counsel, training, and protection
in the perilous time which lay before her,--the time of early
womanhood, and her entrance into society. The widow went abroad
with her daughter, who was some years older than Katharine; and
though she was in London when the events just related took place,
she was not likely to be again a settled resident in England, as her
daughter had married an Austrian nobleman, high in the diplomatic
world, and desired to have as much of her mother's society as
possible.
The fashionable "establishment" had turned out few girls so well
calculated to do it credit and extend its fame as Katharine Guyon,
when, at a little more than seventeen, she appeared in a circle of
society where, though her father, with all his cleverness and savoir
faire, received little more than toleration, she at once made a
favourable impression. In her appearance she combined the personal
attractions of both her parents: she had her mother's high-bred look,
her father's vivacity and his fine features; she had the elegant
carriage, the delicate hands and feet, the refined voice of Isabella
Stanbourne, and the airy easy manner which in Mr. Guyon had a
soupçon of impudence. In disposition she resembled her mother
exclusively; but there were strong points of difference between
them,--difference deepened no doubt by the circumstances of
Katharine's girlhood, by the fact that she had never been the object,
as her mother had been of exclusive and conscientious female care
since she had ceased to be a child. She had not the clear, direct,
31. keen perception of her mother; but she was her equal in resolution,
and more than her equal in implacability. She was high-spirited now,
and impatient of contradiction to a degree that indicated some
violence of temper; her feelings were keen and impulsive, and her
affections strong and passionate, though undeveloped; for indeed
who had the girl to love? She had gone through the ordinary
schoolgirl friendships, and also through the customary flirtations
since the former had come to a natural end; but she did not really
love any body in the world, except perhaps Mrs. Stanbourne, and of
her she had seen but little for some time.
Her feelings towards her father were of a mixed, and, on the
whole, of an unsatisfactory character; such as any one watching the
girl with anxiety and experience must have recognised with regret.
She was fond of him after a fashion, and there was a good deal of
camaraderie between them; but she had an intuitive distrust of him,
and she knew instinctively that all his indulgence, all his flattery, all
his yielding to her wishes and furnishing her pleasures, were
superficial compliances. He liked the kind of life she liked; she knew
him well enough, without formally reasoning upon her knowledge, to
feel convinced that if their tastes or wishes clashed in any way, hers
and not his would be expected, if not obliged, to yield. She admired
her father's pleasant manners and social talents; she had but rarely
any opportunity of contrasting his fulfilment of the paternal relation
with that of other men; and she was full of youth, health, spirits,
and capacity for the enjoyment of every kind of pleasure that
offered; so she went her way carelessly and joyously, and reasoned
little upon the present or the future. Katharine and her father were
not real friends, but they were always technically "good friends;" a
result to which the underlying violence of the girl's nature no doubt
unconsciously conduced. Mr. Guyon hated trouble and detested
scenes; and he had a tolerably correct occult sense that he might
find himself "in for" both if he interfered much with Katharine:
consequently he did not interfere; and as she was totally in the dark
respecting his pecuniary circumstances, and never asked any
troublesome questions, they got on very well together. Real
32. companionship they had none, but they did not miss it; and while
her father's chief anxiety about Katharine was that she should make
a good match before she "went off" in looks--a good match implying
a rich son-in-law, conveniently indifferent about settlements, and
ready to "do" bills to any reasonable or unreasonable amount--
Katharine's chief anxiety about him was, that he should dye his hair
and whiskers with greater success, and drink less wine on evenings
when he went to parties with her. She knew he was proud of her
beauty, and thought her "doosid good company;" but she did not for
a moment imagine he had any sentimental love for her; indeed she
fancied he had not much feeling, for he had never mentioned her
mother to her in his life. Their relation, in fact, was pleasant, hollow,
and heathen; and when Katharine abandoned herself to her
newborn love for Gordon Frere, she never thought of her father's
feelings or wishes in the matter, or had a more dutiful notion in her
mind than that it "made it pleasant that papa liked his coming about
the house." You see she was no exceptional being, no angel alighted
for a little on a sphere unworthy of her footsteps and her wings; but
an interesting, captivating, self-willed woman,--such as
circumstances had made her; a woman whose weaknesses were as
visible as her charms, whose strength was latent and unsuspected.
It was not to be supposed that a girl like Katharine--handsome,
clever, dashing, and independent in her ideas and manners, of a not
precisely-to-be-defined position in society, and with a not-exactly-to-
be-commended father--should escape sharp and not kind or
altogether candid criticism. She was very much admired; she
commanded admiration indeed, however reluctantly accorded; and
men liked her very much, even men who were not in love with her,
and with whom she did not take the trouble to flirt. Women did not
like her; and yet the girl gave them no fair excuse for their
prejudice. She was not a determined coquette, conquering and
monopolising; she was not rudely inattentive to women, as
"beauties" and "blues" usually are: she was smiling and agreeable,
and perfectly indifferent to them all; and, with a host of
acquaintances, had but one female friend, her aunt Mrs.
33. Stanbourne. With Lady Henmarsh, who was a distant relative on her
father's side, Katharine lived on terms of great intimacy,--the lady
was indeed her constant, her official chaperone,--but it was an
intimacy of the kind which more frequently precludes than includes
friendship.
Lady Henmarsh was a woman of the world, in every possible
meaning and extent of the term. She was the exact opposite of Mrs.
Stanbourne, in manners, mind, tastes, opinions, and principles; and
she disliked Mrs. Stanbourne so cordially, that she might have
endeavoured to influence Katharine in a contrary direction to that of
her wishes, simply to annoy that lady; but she was saved from any
thing so unphilosophical by the fact that it suited her in every way to
appoint herself high-priestess of Miss Guyon's world-worship. As no
one ever saw, and many had never heard of Lady Henmarsh's
husband, it was a pardonable mistake, frequently made by
strangers, to suppose that she was a widow. This, however, was not
the case. A miserable invalid--whose migrations, if not quite confined
to Goldsmith's itinéraire, were only from his dull house in Hampshire
to his dull house in Cavendish Square; a cross, palsied, querulous
old man, called Sir Timothy Henmarsh, who had long since lapsed
out of the sight and the memory of society--still existed, not
altogether to the displeasure of his lady, who would be seriously
impoverished by his death; existed in a condition of illness and
suffering which rendered it indispensable that his wife should, in
deference to what society calls common decency, provide herself
with some further excuse for her neglect of him, and her constant
presence at gay and festive scenes of every description, than the
real, but unproduceable one, that she liked dissipation and disliked
him. Lady Henmarsh and Mr. Guyon had been very good friends
indeed in former days, when he was a young widower, thoroughly
consoled, and Hetty Lorimer was a pretty portionless girl, who knew
that she had nothing to look to but marriage, and that if she desired
to secure the enjoyment of such things as her soul loved, she must
take care that it was a "good" one. A marriage with her handsome
cousin would have been any thing but one of the required
34. description; and indeed neither of them ever contemplated such a
possibility. They were persons of a discreet and practical turn, and
Mr. Guyon went to Hetty Lorimer's wedding (a solemnity at which Sir
Timothy Henmarsh's son, a gentleman some years the bride's senior,
sternly declined to be present) with perfect alacrity and good
humour. They had been excellent friends ever since; and when, the
time having arrived at which Mr. Guyon found it convenient to
transfer his daughter from the "establishment" to Queen Anne
Street, Lady Henmarsh gave him her advice, and offered him her
services with enthusiastic friendship, what more proper and
satisfactory arrangement could possibly have been entered into than
that Lady Henmarsh should "do the maternal" by Katharine?
"I've no doubt you'll do it to perfection, Hetty," said Mr. Guyon, as
he rose and terminated the interview; "only you won't look the part
within a dozen years." And the good-looking deceiver went down the
stairs with a smile, which expanded into a grin when he reached the
street; for Miss Hester Lorimer and Miss Isabella Stanbourne had
been girls together, and the former was a little older than the lady
who had married the irresistible Ned Guyon.
This unexceptionable arrangement had now lasted a considerable
time, and no likelihood of its coming to a conclusion by the marriage
of Katharine had yet presented itself. Lady Henmarsh was better
pleased than Mr. Guyon that it should be so, and less surprised. She
understood Katharine better than her father understood her; she
knew how entirely unscathed she had been amid the lightning
flashes of real admiration and simulated sentiment which had played
around her girlish head; she knew that in Katharine's perfectly
impartial brightness, her frank acceptance of the incense offered
before her, her smiling pleasure and indifference, consisted the
barrier to Mr. Guyon's wishes. For her part, she was in no hurry
about the matter; indeed, the longer Miss Guyon should require
some one (meaning herself) to go about with her, the better pleased
she would be. But though Lady Henmarsh did not disquiet herself
because Mr. Guyon's wishes remained unfulfilled, she would very
35. seriously and earnestly have disapproved of their being traversed
and thwarted. She did not particularly care that Katharine should
marry soon, but she fervently desired that she should marry well;
and it was with a new and very unpleasant sense of misgiving that
she observed the eager and vivacious pleasure which Katharine
evinced in the society of Mr. Gordon Frere, and watched the faces
and the manner of the two from the alcove, whence she beheld the
dancers at Mrs. Pendarvis's ball. Lady Henmarsh knew very little of
Gordon Frere; indeed, only one fact, beyond the good looks and the
good manners patent to all observers. But in that one fact lay the
only important item of knowledge, in the estimation of Lady
Henmarsh. Gordon Frere was a poor man, with no income to speak
of, and only very desultory, undefined, and contingent expectations.
Clearly this would not meet either Mr. Guyon's views or her own. She
hoped, she trusted, nay she believed, that Katharine would not be so
infatuated as to think of marrying Frere; she trusted Frere was too
much a man of the world to think of marrying Katharine. It was only
a flirtation,--it must be only a flirtation; but even that, if she carried
it to such an extent as she had done at the ball, Katharine must be
induced to give up. It would be remarked, it would keep off other
men: of course it was quite foolish to be afraid of any thing serious;
so Lady Henmarsh hoped, and trusted, and believed, and yet she
doubted and feared. She did not altogether like to acknowledge to
herself, perhaps, how little confidence she felt in her own power of
"inducing" Katharine to do any thing which did not accord with her
own inclination and humour. The tie between them was formed of
mutual complaisance, not of influence and respect. Lady Henmarsh
did not understand either the strength of Katharine's feelings or the
determination of her temper; she had never seen either roused into
action, and she regarded her as rather shrewder and more worldly-
minded than most girls, as well as cleverer and better-looking. So,
though she knew her to be self-willed, she calculated on her sense
and shrewdness overcoming her obstinacy in a matter in which her
worldliness would teach her that obstinacy was injurious and
misplaced.
36. Lady Henmarsh pondered these things one fine summer's day,
while Katharine rambled about the Botanical Gardens with Gordon
Frere and others; while every glance caught from his blue eyes, and
every sentence intoned especially for her ear by his earnest musical
voice, bound the girl's heart more closely to him, and rendered the
task which Lady Henmarsh proposed to herself more difficult of
fulfilment, more infructuous in result.
"At all events, it shall not go on like this beyond to-night," said her
ladyship to herself: "if she looks at and dances with him as she did
at Mrs. Pendarvis's, I shall tell Ned Guyon about it, and find out what
he thinks; but my decided opinion is that it is full time some steps
were taken." And then she went to visit Sir Timothy.
Mrs. Streightley and her daughter had returned to the Brixton
villa, had been affectionately received by Robert, and had heard
from him the history of all his doings in their absence. Of course
Ellen had, allowed the briefest possible space of time to elapse
between her return and the despatch of an eager summons
entreating Hester Gould to come to her with the least possible delay.
Hester arrived about two hours before the ordinary dinner-hour; and
the young ladies passed that space of time in the interchange of
delightful confidences; complete and heartfelt on the part of Ellen
Streightley, and as meagre as might be on that of Hester Gould. All
the particulars of Ellen's engagement, which she had already
detailed by letter, were again confided to Hester; all the particulars
of the visit from which they had just returned, and which had been
made to certain relatives of Mrs. Streightley's, of the agricultural
persuasion, were once more related in full.
"I used to think Thorswold rather a stupid place, dearest Hester,"
said Ellen, and a fine blush overspread her pretty honest face: "little
did I ever think I should meet my fate there. I do so long for you to
see Decimus. You will think him so delightful."
37. "I shall be very much pleased to see him, Ellen," returned Hester;
"and I rejoice, as I am sure you know, in your happiness. But tell me
about your brother,--what does he say to it all?"
"Well, indeed, Hester," said Ellen, hesitating and laughing, "that is
what I hardly can tell you, he has said so little. He kissed me, and
pulled my ear, and called me a little goose, in his own kind way, you
know; but he is so taken up with some new friends he has made, I
cannot make him out. He looks quite different, I am sure; and is so
particular about his dress! A lot of new clothes have just come home
from his tailor's, and a whole boxful of lavender-kid gloves. Isn't it
funny, Hester? Dear old Robert, he talks a great deal about Mr.
Guyon; but I suspect he thinks more of Miss. Though indeed I only
found out there was a Miss Guyon quite by accident."
Hester Gould's face flushed with sudden anger, and into her calm
calculating heart there came a pang of unaccustomed doubt and
fear. But it was quite in her ordinary tone she said:
"So your brother's friend is Mr. Guyon, is he? Does he live in
Queen Anne Street?"
"Yes, yes; I am sure that is the street I have heard him mention.
Stay, there's an invitation stuck in the chimney-glass--here it is. 'Mr.
and Miss Guyon request'--and so--yes, '110 Queen Anne Street' Do
you know them, Hester?"
"No, not personally; but I have seen Miss Guyon frequently. I used
to teach singing to the Miss Morrisons in the next house, No. 109--it
is vacant now, and shut up since Sir Christopher died--and I often
saw her going out to ride. She used to go just about at my hour."
"And is she nice, Hester,--is she pretty? Robert never has told me
any thing particular about her. Men never can describe any one."
"She is very handsome, very elegant, and very fashionable,"
replied Hester; and then she departed from her usual cautious
38. reticence so far as to say, "and I heard the Morrisons say Mr. Guyon
was very 'fast,' and lived beyond his means."
"Indeed," said Ellen in a very grave tone, for to her the accusation
of living beyond one's means sounded very portentous; "I am sure
Robert would not approve of that."
Hester Gould watched Robert Streightley quietly and closely the
whole of that evening. She saw him different to any thing he had
ever been; preoccupied, absent, but not unhappy. A smile played
frequently over his features; and though he sunk into frequent fits of
abstraction, they were evidently not painful. He was as kind and
affectionate as usual to his mother and sisters, as attentive to
herself; but a change had passed upon him which she fully
understood. In her cold repressed way, she was bitterly angry.
She went home rather early. As Robert Streightley saw her to the
cab, and bade her good-night, she said to herself:
"Daniel Thacker knows this Mr. Guyon,--his sisters may know
something about the girl. I'll go to Hampstead to-morrow; they don't
mind Sunday visitors; and I may have a chance of seeing their
brother. Really that girl Ellen grows sillier every day."
CHAPTER VIII.
AMARYLLIS IN A MARQUEE.
39. The prettiest public fêtes in London are those given in the gardens
of the Botanical Society in the Regent's Park. There is to be found
plenty of fresh green turf; there are myriads of lovely flowers
blooming in open beds, or tastefully arranged beneath the
marquees; there are solemn old big trees stretching out their
umbrageous arms, and in their majesty making one think even less
favourably than usual of the perky straggling sticks at South
Kensington; there are the bands of two or three guards regiments,
having sufficient compassion on the visitors to play one after the
other, and not, as in some places, at the same time; and there is
generally a collection of the nicest-looking people in town. There are
few savans, and not much literary or artistic talent; but as savans
and the professors of literary and artistic talent are for the most part
any thing but nice-looking, and as flirtation is the science to which at
these gatherings attention is principally devoted, their loss is not
felt; indeed it may be safely said that the general company is
happier for their absence.
Although the last fête of the season is scarcely to be compared to
its immediate predecessor, the warm weather of the two preceding
days had done very much in contributing to its gaiety on the first
occasion when Mr. Charles Yeldham found himself making holiday
from his work, and taking part in a grand ceremony of nothing-doing
with those whose lives were passed in never doing any thing; and,
like most men who rarely emerge from the business of their lives to
seek a temporary respite from perpetual work in a few brief hours of
enjoyment, Charley was determined to make the most of his time,
and to reap the full value of those precious hours which he had
grudgingly given up. With his chum leaning on his arm, he made his
way through the fruit-tent and the flower-tent, round the American
garden, where the glorious azalias, so lately a mass of magnificent
beauty, now stood bare and drooping; now attracting the attention
of a group of faded dowagers by his energy and volubility; anon
pausing in rapt attention, listening to the strains of the melody-
breathing "Sonnambula," as performed by the Grenadiers, or
nodding head and beating hand in sufficiently ill-kept time to a
40. whirlwind galop rattled through by the band of the Artillery. Into his
holiday, as into his work, Charley had thrown his whole heart; he
had determined to shut out temporarily all thoughts of attorneys,
pleas, work, and worry, and he went in for the pleasures of the day
with an eagerness and an impetuosity that perfectly astonished his
companion.
"I'll tell you what it is, Charley," said Gordon Frere, after they had
careered round the gardens, and were standing once more by the
gate at which they had entered--"I'll tell you what it is; you're like a
country cousin, by Jove! or one of those horrible fellows that come
up to town with a letter of introduction. You want to see every thing,
and all at once. It's a deuced good thing that you don't often give
yourself an outing, or you'd be wanting me to take you to the
Thames Tunnel, and the Monument, and Madame Tussaud's, and all
sorts of wonderful places. Here have we been rushing about from
pillar to post, or rather from tent to tent, and from band to band,
and you've never yet given me breathing-time to look round and
speak to any of the people I know. Now you really must hold on for
a moment, for it's just upon three o'clock, and that's the time that
Kate--Miss Guyon, I mean--said she should be here; and I promised
to be near the entrance, to join her at once."
He spoke with animation, and his bright eyes glowed with fire as
he seized his old friend by the shoulders and used a feigned force to
arrest his progress. You see Mr. Gordon Frere was brimming over
with happiness. To be six-and-twenty years of age; to be good-
looking; to have high animal spirits; to have indulgent tradespeople,
and a tolerable sufficiency of pocket-money; to be in love with a very
charming girl, and to have your passion returned, are all things
calculated to make a man content with life, and disposed to regard
human nature from its best point of view. He was pleased to speak
of himself as a "creature of impulse," and, by some accident
probably, he rightly described himself. Whatever best pleased him
for the time being he took up and went in for earnestly and
vigorously. He had done so all his life, in cricketing, rowing, riding, at
41. school and college--actually once in reading, when he studied so
hard and to so much purpose apparently, that old Mr. Yeldham wrote
to Charles, anticipating for his son's chum and his own pupil the
highest University honours; but Gordon slacked off, and when the
class-list came out, a double-third was all the position awarded him.
Up to this time the "impulse" had not been shown very strongly in
any love-affairs: he had had his ball-room flirtations, involving
bouquet-sending, Rotten-Row riding, Opera-box haunting, &c., as all
men have; but he had never--to Charles Yeldham's idea at least--
been so really smitten with any one as he announced himself to be
with Miss Guyon. So his honest old chum, albeit he had his own
views of the probable reception of Gordon's proposal by Mr. Guyon,
could not find it in his heart to check him, and only smiled pleasantly
as he said:
"All right, Gordon; all right, my boy. But you talk of my taking you
about here and there, as though I were not a mere child in leading-
strings in such a place as this, to be shown each separate sight in
the proper order. Now we've seen the fruit and the flowers, and
listened to the bands, let us take a look at the people. Tremendous,
what you call 'swells,' are they not? No end of crinoline, and flowers,
and finery. By Jove! just turn a few of these young ladies to walk
through the Temple Gardens, and there would not be much work
done that day. Every clerk's nose would be glued to the window; and
I verily believe that even old Farrar, our underneath neighbour,
would leave his books and his papers for such a refreshing sight.
Now there's one,--look there! that tall girl just coming in, with--hallo!
steady, young 'un; what's the matter?"
Charley Yeldham might well cry "steady;" for Gordon gave a visible
start as he turned in the direction indicated by his friend; and his
tone was thick and hurried as he said, "That's Miss Guyon and her
father--and--who the devil's that man with them?"
"Now that's a curious thing," said Yeldham with provoking
placidity. "I don't suppose I know another soul in all this large
42. gathering; but I do know that man intimately, and I can tell you who
he is. That's Robert Streightley, the City man, that you've so often
heard me speak of, and--but what has come to him? Talk of 'swells,'
why, I should scarcely have recognised Bob Sobersides, as they used
to call him, in that costume. And so that is Miss Guyon, is it? that's
Miss Guyon I say, young 'un, she's--she's wonderfully lovely."
"For God's sake, don't stand staring there with your mouth open,
Charley; but let us go up and speak to these people. They've seen
us already;" and Mr. Frere, passing his arm through his friend's, led
him up to the group, and after making his own salutations, freely
presented him to Miss Guyon and her father. Immediately after his
introduction, Yeldham turned and shook hands with Robert
Streightley; and after a few words of astonishment from each at
meeting the other in such a place, they commenced a conversation,
in which Mr. Guyon took part, leaving Gordon Frere and Katharine
walking together a little in advance of them.
There are few things more embarrassing than having something
very particular to say, knowing that you will have great difficulty in
saying it, and being perfectly convinced that if ever it is to be said at
all, the exact time has arrived. This was Gordon Frere's position. He
knew that the end of the season had arrived; that another fortnight
would see Miss Guyon flown, with the rest of the fashionable world,
to some English sea-board, foreign watering-place, or country-
house, whither he could not have the remotest excuse for following
her; he knew the proverbial danger of delay, especially in love-
affairs; he fully shared in Charley Yeldham's only half-expressed
doubts as to the reception of his proposal by Mr. Guyon, and in the
sudden and unexpected appearance upon the scene of Robert
Streightley whom he had never met before, but of whom, his
wealth, his talents, his City position, he had heard frequently from
Charley--he saw a new and important element of danger. If he
intended to make his coup for the winning of this peerless beauty,
now was the time. So he screwed up his courage and began.
43. "You are a little late, Miss Guyon,"--this in a low, deep, tremulous
voice; "you said you would be here at three."
"You don't pretend to say that you recollect any thing I said about
it, Mr. Frere?" in the same tone. "I scarcely remembered we had
touched upon the subject."
"Don't you pretend to imagine any such thing so far as I am
concerned, Miss Guyon. No, no; pardon me for one instant; you
know that whatever concerns you, in however trifling a degree,--and
more especially when it relates to the chance of my seeing you,--is
always of importance to me."
He had bent his gaze upon her, as he said this, and he received a
faint fluttering glance as his first reply. Then she said,
"I was scarcely conceited enough to think so, and--and of course I
feel the compliment. However, we have met, you see."
"Yes; and so long as that has come about, no matter how late you
are; for you see I still hold to my original opinion. However late or
early, I must be doubly thankful for the chances of meeting you now.
For the season's at an end, and I suppose you will be off with the
rest?"
"I suppose so; though nothing is settled, I believe."
"And where do you go?"
"Papa talked of Scarborough some time ago. He has not said any
thing about it lately; and as I am wholly indifferent on the subject,
I'm very good to him, and let him have his own way."
"Are you similarly complaisant to Mr. Guyon in all things?"
There must have been something special in the tone of his voice;
for she looked up quickly with a slight flush, and said,
44. "In all matters in which I take no particular interest. Where I am
concerned I am exigeante, and--I am afraid--stubborn."
"Let us call it 'firm,' Miss Guyon," said Frere, with a slight smile.
"Firmness is a quality by no means reprehensible, even when
exercised towards one's father. It's a horrible thing this break-up of
the season, especially as one gets older. All the little pleasant--well, I
suppose I may call them friendships--are nipped in the bud until
next April, when one has to begin again and struggle on until
August, when we find ourselves in exactly the same position in
which we were a twelvemonth before."
"That is, unless we take up with a different set of friends," said
Katharine; "and I believe there are instances on record of such a
change."
Gordon Frere looked at her again, and threw an additional warmth
into his voice as he said, "Granted that fidelity is uncommon, Miss
Guyon, it should be the more prized when it is found. You are going
to-night to Mrs. Tresillian's?"
"Yes; Lady Henmarsh has promised to take me. It is almost my
'last rose of summer;' positively the last of our ball-engagements this
season."
"Let us trust it will be one of the pleasantest. You will come early,
and you will give me the first valse, and as many afterwards as you
can."
"I--I shall be very happy; but we shall leave early. Papa has a holy
horror of having his horses kept out late, more especially when he is
not present; and he will not be there to-night, I think; for he's going
to ask Mr. Streightley to dine with us, and I believe he wants to talk
business to him afterwards."
"Mr. Streightley going to dine with you! By the way, who is Mr.
Streightley?"
45. "Mr. Streightley? he's a horror--I didn't mean that. He's a City
friend of papa's, and, as I'm told, a very rich man."
"Very rich, and in the City, eh!" said Gordon Frere, looking over his
shoulder at the object of their remark. "He's better got up than most
of his genus. I think I could swear to Poole in his coat. Very rich, and
you've been told so, Miss Guyon! He's a lucky man."
"Is he, Mr. Frere? You'll excuse my saying that I don't follow you;
that I don't know why Mr. Streightley is lucky."
"Did you not yourself say that he was very rich, Miss Guyon, and
that you had been told so?" said Gordon, with more warmth than he
had previously exhibited. "Society acts as this gentleman's avant-
coureur, and repeats his claim to respect wherever he goes; and of
course he finds people prepared to proffer him ready-made honour."
The bitterness in his tone jarred on Kate's ear. His face was
averted, so that there was no need for her to restrain the half-
inquiring, half-loving gaze with which she looked up at him as she
said,
"I never knew you cynical before, Mr. Frere, and I don't think the
mood becomes you. Surely the notion that wealth is the most
desirable of all possessions is utterly exploded. For my own part, I
think that riches in a man--I mean when they are so great as to be
talked about--are something against him; something to be got over,
like his being black, or having a hump-back."
"This is a very refreshing doctrine, Miss Guyon; but I'm afraid it
has not many disciples; and even you would lean to the side of the
modest competence and----"
"I would lean to nothing; I would give way to nothing so palpably
sordid and base."
"You are strangely in earnest on this point, Miss Guyon."
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