WINGED IN FLIGHT.
For many weeks after Mr. Guyon's death the inexorable pressure of
business, increased by a commercial crisis long impending and now
arrived in full severity, obliged Robert Streightley to put his sorrow
as far as possible from his thoughts during business hours, and bring
all his intellect to grapple with the conduct of his affairs. That the
old house of Streightley and Son was in any thing but a prosperous
condition; that its cool, calculating manager had rushed wildly into
almost impossibly beneficial speculations,--was now pretty generally
talked of, and various reasons were assigned for Robert's conduct.
Some people, of course, roundly stated that they had never believed in
him at all; that all his previous success had been the result of luck,
or "flukes;" and that he was merely finding his proper level. Others
lamented that spirit of flunkeydom which had led a sharp fellow like
Streightley to marry the daughter of an insolvent West-end swell, who
had spent all his money in reckless extravagance, and, it was said,
had bolted from him now the money was gone. Few--very few--had a word
of pity for him; he had been too successful for that; and though
during the long years of his triumph he had always been generous and
kindhearted to a degree, in the hour of his fall this was not
remembered; and it was not even allowed, by those who knew nothing of
his private history, that he "took his punishment" well, or that he
exhibited a proper pluck under his defeat and downfall.
It mattered little to Robert Streightley what was thought of him even
in the City now. The mainspring of his life was broken; she, for whom
up to the very last he had plotted and schemed and speculated, had
left him. All his efforts now--and he struggled hard--were made to
save the reputation of the house. Hour after hour did he and Mr.
Fowler spend in going over the books, looking at lists of outstanding
debts, the recovery of which was hopeless, and liabilities which it
was impossible to evade. Hour after hour did the result of their work
show them the hopelessness of their position, and the fact that the
final crash was every day drawing nearer. Poor old Mr. Fowler was a
pitiable spectacle; to him the fact that "the house" was in
difficulties was infinitely more distressing than the thought that
with it would go all the savings of years, from time to time invested
with it, and all chance of that comfortable pension on retirement on
which he could fairly have reckoned.
After Katharine's departure, Robert Streightley seemed to have struck
his flag and given up the battle, so far as his business was
concerned; endeavouring only to steer his wrecked fortune safely into
port. This, notwithstanding all his losses and the bad position of his
affairs, he might have been able to do, but that, within three months
of the catastrophe, he was obliged to make a payment of five thousand
pounds to Mr. Daniel Thacker, as Robert imagined, but in reality to
Mrs. Gordon Frere. Streightley had found Thacker hitherto very kindly
disposed towards him, and after some consideration he wrote, stating
that the security was as good as at the time of the loan; that he
would pay the interest, but that it would be a great convenience to
him if the repayment of the capital could be postponed for a few
months. To this application he had had a reply from Thacker, stating
that he would turn it over in his mind, and write again in a few days.
"Turning it over in his mind" meant, of course, consulting his
principal. So, as soon as he had sent his answer to Robert's note, Mr.
Thacker drove to Palace Gardens, and had the honour of a private
interview with the lady of the mansion, in her boudoir. Hester was
looking very handsome, as Mr. Thacker thought, though there was a
little too much set intensity about her lips for that gentleman's
rather full-flavoured taste. After some ordinary conversation, Hester
said:
"And now, Mr. Thacker, state the special business of which you wrote
to me, and which has brought you here to-day."
"It is one of Streightley's matters, Mrs. Frere. He had, if you
recollect, some five thousand and odd pounds from us some months ago,
for which we hold as security the assignment of the house in Portland
Place, and one or two other minor deeds. That money is, I see, due on
the third of next month--a fortnight hence, that is to say; and I have
received a letter from Mr. Streightley--who, of course, only knows me
in the matter--asking for a renewal of the loan on payment of the
interest, and on the continuance of the same security."
"Have you that letter with you?"
"I have."
"Be good enough to let me see it."
As he handed it to her, Thacker said,
"I know that I have no right even to make a suggestion in this matter;
but I think, Mrs. Frere, that unless you have any special objection,
you might comply with his prayer. The security is undeniable; and
Streightley has been so much knocked about lately, poor fellow, in
several ways, you know, that----"
"It is impossible for me to read the letter while you talk, Mr.
Thacker," said Hester firmly.
Thacker bowed, and turned very red; and Mrs. Frere, leaning back in
her chair, opened the note and applied herself to its perusal. She
remembered the bold firm handwriting, which she had first seen,--ah,
how long since it seemed!--in little formal notes addressed to
herself, or enclosing young-ladyish scraps from Ellen. She recollected
how she had lingered over those notes in the old days, weaving little
romances of the future, in which their writer played a very different
part from the one now filled by him. There was not an atom of
tenderness in these recollections; on the contrary, as Mrs. Frere
thought of the difference between her day-dreams and what had actually
occurred, a bitter smile flitted across her face; and as she read the
letter her lips were set tighter than ever.
She read it through twice carefully, then folded it up and handed it
to Mr. Thacker, saying very calmly,
"I cannot agree to that proposition." It was Mr. Thacker's rule in
life never to betray astonishment at any thing. He did not depart from
his rule in the present instance; but he must have involuntarily
raised his bushy eyebrows a little higher than usual, for Mrs. Frere
said to him,
"Did you expect any other answer?"
This was a home question, and Mr. Thacker objected to being called
upon to answer home questions. He had not been exactly sure of the
state of Mrs. Frere's feelings towards Streightley (of the feeling
with which Miss Hester Gould had regarded the same individual, it will
be recollected, he had arrived at a perfect knowledge), and he knew
that her reply would be entirely governed by them. So he contented
himself with saying:
"It is a mere business question with me. You do not require the money
elsewhere,--at least so far as I know,--and the security is
undeniable. As to the sentimental view of the matter, I know from the
experience of that morning at Middlemeads that you are not likely to
be biassed by any silliness of that kind. Only, you see, things have
changed since then, and poor Streightley is in a very different
position now."
"I don't think we need discuss Mr. Streightley's altered position,
except so far as this proposition is concerned; and on that you have
my decision, Mr. Thacker," said Mrs. Frere coldly.
"And that decision is final? I shall probably be asked to reverse it,
and therefore may as well have my cue," said Thacker.
"Quite final. I prefer not to discuss Mr. Streightley or his affairs
for the future."
"As you please," returned Mr. Thacker; and then he excused himself for
his abrupt departure on the plea of business, and took his leave.
Mr. Thacker had not felt comfortable in Mrs. Frere's society of late;
there was an alteration in her manner towards him--a gradual
withdrawal of confidence, as he took it; but which was, in reality,
only preoccupation of mind, and which Mr. Thacker could very ill
brook. Nor were his relations with Gordon Frere at all of a
satisfactory kind; that gentleman being accustomed to speak to his
wife of Mr. Thacker as "your Hebraic agent, my dear," and to his
friends of the same gentleman as "a Jew fellow, who's my wife's
trustee, or something."
As Mr. Thacker lay back in his brougham on his way to the City, he
fell into a fit of musing over all that had occurred. He drew poor
Robert's letter from his pocket-book and read it through; then laid it
down on his lap, and recalled the scene that had taken place--recalled
Mrs. Frere's words and looks at certain parts of the interview; and
said to himself:
"She's a wonder; she certainly is a wonder. Sticks to what she has
made up her mind to like a leech; and as to moving her to pity, you
might as well clap a blister on the Monument. I'm certain I'm right in
my old opinion that she played for Streightley, and that she was as
wild as possible when he did not see it, but married that pretty Miss
Guyon instead. She'll never forgive him. And the next thing will be,
that he won't be able to pay up the first instalment either; and then
she'll have Middlemeads. Yes; and I shall have helped her to it too.
Well, it must have come, I suppose, in the long-run, even if he had
pulled through for a little; but I fancy this will smash him up at
once. He must sell the house; that will get wind, and then--by Jove,
poor fellow! I'm afraid it's all u-p!" And Mr. Thacker looked and felt
much more sorry than might have been supposed. The next day he found
it a very difficult and unpleasant task to write to Messrs.
Streightley and Son, telling them that, "owing to circumstances over
which he had no control," it would be impossible for him to comply
with their request, but that he trusted, &c. However, there was no
help for it; so, on the receipt of this note, Robert had an interview
with Thacker; and within a week the house in Portland Place was stuck
all over with bills, announcing the sale of the furniture and of the
lease at an early date.
Perhaps during the whole of his trouble this period immediately
antecedent to the sale in Portland Place was the most distressing to
Robert Streightley. With the exception of an old woman and her
daughter--mysterious people who lived in the kitchens, and were
supposed to "do for the good gentleman"--every body had left the house
but himself; and he used to roam through the various rooms, thinking
of Katharine and of her associations with each. Not merely
"In hanging robe and vacant ornament"
did she present herself to his thoughts, but each article of furniture
spoke of her taste; wherever his eye fell he was reminded of her. For
many weeks after her departure, he had kept her dressing-room locked,
and retained the key in his own possession. This room opened into her
boudoir, and there, on her writing-table, long after dust had gathered
thick upon its leaves, lay her blotting-book open, as she had left it;
on it a note just commenced. He had been requested by Katharine's maid
to compare the jewels which she had left behind with the list in his
own possession, and he had done so. Then he replaced them all, as they
had been when she turned away from all the luxury with which he had
surrounded her. Often in the evenings, his dreary task of battling
with the rising tide of ruin done, he would visit the forsaken shrine
of his idol, and feel the pang of her absence all the more keenly for
these mute evidences that it was all real, that she had once been
there, where silence and emptiness now dwelt. When the blow fell, and
he knew the house and furniture must be sold, his wife's rooms were
the last to be dismantled. With his own hands, and alone, he packed up
every article of her personal property for safe keeping, wherever he
should be. When he entered her dressing-room to commence his task, he
caught sight of his own reflection in the looking-glass doors of a
large wardrobe, and started to see how worn and pale he looked. Some
of her dresses were hanging up in the first wardrobe which he opened,
and, obedient to an impulse, he caught hold of one of them and kissed
it, and went staggering blindly from the room.
A few days before the time announced for the sale in Portland Place
the commercial crisis so long dreaded swooped down upon London.
Continental politics, unsettled since '48, had been seething and
simmering, and daily the aspect of affairs had become more bellicose.
Big German States looked at little German States with longing eyes and
watering mouths, and consoled themselves by the reflection that if
awkward and powerful neighbours snapped at them and went off with a
mouthful, they could revenge themselves on smaller fry. Italy moaned
in her sleep, tormented by the old but unfulfilled dream of freedom
from the Alps to the Adriatic; and France and Russia were looking on
expectant. Things in the City had for some time had what is called "a
downward tendency." Consols were at 82, and French Rentes lower than
they had been known for years. People shook their heads at Spanish
Passives, and Egyptian Scrip was at a discount. One of the great
discount houses, the Brotherly Bound--formed out of the old firm of
Ready, Rowdy, and Dibbs--had recently failed (partly on account of the
old partners having taken all their capital out, partly on account of
all the new capital which was brought in having been spent by the
managing directors in giving banquets to the aristocracy), and the
shareholders in similar concerns were beginning to be seriously
alarmed. Under the alarm of shareholders, managers drew in their
horns, and talked of limiting their business, refused all questionable
paper--in which they had been dealing wholesale--and looked not too
well pleased at good bills, such as they had never had before. There
was gloom on the Stock Exchange, and Clapham dinner-parties were, if
possible, duller than usual. No actual outbreak yet though, and chance
of peace, so the papers said. If war could only be averted, the crisis
would pass. The crisis! it was on them as they spoke. At that moment
the clerks in Lothbury were reading off a telegraphic message,
containing the few words spoken by the Emperor to a provincial mayor;
and when those words appeared in print, it was known that war was
meant, and three of the largest establishments in the City suspended
payment that afternoon. Up went the Bank rate of discount, and the
panic commenced.
These events happened late in the afternoon of a bright spring day, so
immediately before the cessation of business, that they were only
known to those actually concerned in the City; and it was not until
the next morning that the general public was apprised of all that had
happened. The news sprawled over the placards of the newspapers in the
biggest typo; the news-boys at the suburban omnibuses and railway
stations were "sold out" at once; people rushed to tell their friends
what had happened; the panic spread to all stock- and shareholders,
and even to the depositors in banks. Then towards noon the City began
to be filled with a set of people to whom its ways were strange, and
who were unfamiliar with its customs. Elderly maiden ladies and rich
widows from prim Peckham paradises; old boys, club bucks and fogies,
from Bury Street or St. Alban's Place lodgings, who had little
annuities on which they lived; artists and actors hurrying down to see
the special stockbrokers in whom they implicitly believed; newspaper
reporters on the look-out for matter from which to concoct a sensation
article; mooners and loungers of every kind, were blocking up Lombard
Street and pouring into Cornhill. The old-established banks never
quivered for an instant; wild customers brandishing cheques rushed up
to the counter, and felt abashed as they were met by the calmest
clerks, who, without a hair of their parting or a fold of their cravat
displaced, asked them in the most mellifluous voices "how they would
have it?" the copper shovels plunged into the drawers, and came out,
as usual, full of sovereigns; the forefinger of the clerks duly
moistened counted off rolls of notes with the accustomed precision.
"Panic?" they seemed to say; "pooh! it must be something more than
panic that can affect us."
But three or four of the smaller houses, which had been battling for
months with the exigencies of the times, found it impossible to hold
on any longer, and succumbed--amongst them the house of Streightley
and Son. No stone had been left unturned, no effort untried; but the
state of the money-market was such that it was found impossible to
realise the securities which they held; and at length, bowed down with
despair, old Mr. Fowler wrote with his own hand the notice, that,
"owing to the crisis in the money-market having caused a run on the
house, and having failed to procure advances on the securities, or
obtain the slightest temporary assistance, we find it necessary to
suspend our payments." The notice went on to say that the step had
been taken with the view to protect as far as possible the interest of
the friends of the firm, whose forbearance was confidently relied on,
and added, that the books had been placed in the hands of Messrs.
Addison and Tottle, and that the early realisation of a satisfactory
dividend was anticipated.
It was not to be expected that such an old-established firm could fail
without plenty of comment. They talked over "Streightley's smash" that
day at City conferences, on the flags of 'Change, and the Gresham
Club; and many and various were the opinions expressed.
"'Protect as far as possible the interest of their friends!'" said an
indignant merchant, who, when first starting in commerce, had received
the greatest assistance from Robert Streightley's father. "Like their
d--d impudence! What do they mean by that?"
"Better have protected their friends' principal, and not minded the
interest, eh, Jenkinson?" said the wag of Capel Court.
"I'm afraid that the realisation of the satisfactory dividend is all
bunkum," said a third. "Lucky if we get fourpence in seven years, I
should say."
"It's a good thing old Streightley can't come out of his grave and see
this," said a white-bearded patriarch; "he was of the old school--slow
and sure."
"Deuced slow and not very sure," said Ralph Elgood, the Rupert of the
Stock Exchange. "Bob Streightley's a thundering good fellow, but has
been hitting out wildly of late, and now he feels it."
"Nonsense; hitting out wildly!" said young Porunglow, junior partner
(of three weeks' standing) of Shaddock, Porunglow, Quaver, and
Porunglow, great West-Indian merchants, who had been three months in
business, and who frequented the vortex of West-end society.
"Streightley might have gone on all right if he had not married old
Guyon's daughter; a splendid gal, who made the tin fly like--like old
boots! Thundering fine parties they had, sir. None of the Belgravian
nobs did it up browner in the way of foreign singers, and Edgington,
and Coote and Tinney, and real flowers, and all that kind of thing. I
s'pects it's that that's settled Streightley's hash."
"I shall take deuced good care to attend the meeting of creditors,"
said the first speaker; "and unless the personal expenses are
decidedly moderate, I shall take the opportunity of saying a few words
on that subject."
This was the tone in which the matter was talked over in the City, and
then the talkers turned to the discussion of other things. Of the firm
of Streightley and Son nothing soon remained, save the name on the
door-posts in Bullion Lane: the winding-up and the meeting of the
creditors were duly reported in the City Intelligence; and shortly
afterwards a new firm took the old house, and the erasure of the name
from the doors and of the memory of the firm from their friends were
almost simultaneous.
So there was a smash in Bullion Lane and a sale at Portland Place, and
Robert Streightley, the quondam "City magnate," the merchant-prince,
had lost his place among rich men, of consequence to mankind and human
affairs; and had returned to his former quiet life in his mother's
suburban house (for her income had happily been secured against the
vicissitudes of business), and had not even begun to "look about him;"
but was stunned and silent under the reiterated shocks of calamity.
His mother and sister had taken the intelligence of his ruin as most
women do take the tidings of a calamity in which the affections are
not concerned--that is to say, quietly and resignedly. If so many
other persons had not also been ruined, it would have been much harder
to bear, because then inconsiderate, hasty people might have blamed
Robert; but as it was, he was only one of many; and they thought about
the matter much as they would have thought about a war in Russia, or a
revolution in Venetia, the rinderpest, or a railway accident.
As for Robert, he had little personal feeling in the affair. Poverty
or wealth made little difference to him. He could have faced the one
with courage and confidence, had Katharine remained with him, and bid
him grow rich again for her sake; he had valued the other only because
it had won her. And now the money which had enabled him to do the evil
he had done was gone, and the wife it had purchased was gone; and days
had melted into weeks, and weeks into months, and brought no word or
sign of her. No language can tell how Robert suffered during all the
time that his attention was externally claimed by his business; with
what agony of hope deferred he would ask Yeldham, day after day, if
there was any chance of discovering her place of retreat. Foremost in
Robert Streightley's memory was the mind-picture of his desolate home;
keenest of all his torturing thoughts was the idea of his cherished
one, so daintily reared, now perhaps exposed to privation or absolute
want. Compared with the horror of this feeling, the disgrace of his
failure, the loss of his City position, which at another time would in
themselves have been sufficient to crush him, now fell upon him with
lightness--the world thought with extraordinary lightness--for such a
sensitive man. But Yeldham, who alone was in his confidence, knew what
were the secret yearnings of his heart. "O God! if we could only find
her, Charley; if I could only see her once again, only hear her say
she forgave me, I think I'd be content to die, and slip out of it
all."
The inquiries which Yeldham had instituted in every possible quarter
had all been without result, and already many weeks had elapsed, when
one morning Robert received a letter from Mrs. Stanbourne, to whom he
had written immediately on Katharine's departure, but from whom, up to
that time, he had received no reply. He had had no exact knowledge of
her address, and his inquiries had elicited no more precise indication
than "Rome;" so he had no resource but waiting--with little patience
indeed, and but poorly rewarded, for the letter ran thus:
"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."