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!"