A SPLIT IN THE CAMP.
Town was getting empty, and business of every kind was getting slack,
so that it chanced one day that Mr. Yeldham found himself writing
letters at abnormal hours, and with no very pressing engagements on
hand. He was just thinking what a pleasant thing a little leisure, not
too pronounced, was, when his clerk rushed in, and announced "Mr.
Thacker."
"You're surprised to see me, Mr. Yeldham," said Thacker, as, after a
quick survey of the apartment, he sat himself calmly down in a chair
by Yeldham's desk.
"Well--if you ask the question--yes," said Charley with perfect
coolness.
"And not too well pleased, perhaps?"
"I should have left you to say that, in any case, Mr. Thacker. I
presume you come to me on business. Have the goodness to explain its
nature."
Charley Yeldham had not been gifted by nature with great powers of
making himself disagreeable, but on this occasion he exerted all he
possessed.
"I always heard you were a cool hand, Mr. Yeldham," said Thacker, in
admiration, "and I find they did not say a bit too much. You don't
mind my smoking a cigar, do you, while I stop?"
"Not in the least," replied Mr. Yeldham, with immovable gravity, "if
you find smoking conducive to the despatch of business."
Mr. Thacker looked at him with an unmoved expression of countenance,
and Yeldham began to experience a strong inclination to kick him. He
restrained it, however, and kept his seat and his countenance, while
Mr. Thacker lighted a peculiarly fine cigar by the aid of a peculiarly
fine light-box which hung from his prodigious watch-chain.
"I allow all that," said Mr. Yeldham; "so, Mr. Thacker, fire away."
"You wonder what brings me here," said Thacker, settling himself into
his chair; "but you'll wonder a great deal more when I tell you. I
suppose you think I'm not particularly friendly to your friend
Streightley, eh?"
"I didn't think about it one way or the other," said the imperturbable
Yeldham.
"But you knew that I held the mortgages on most part of his
property--that place down in the country where the Freres are living,
and his town-house--you knew I held those, and that it was I who
mainly helped to sell him up?"
"Yes, I knew that; but as I also knew that gentlemen in your
profession were men of business, and not usually swayed by sentiment,
I did not see much to wonder at in the proceeding. I imagine any one
else would have done the same."
"You're complimentary to what you call my profession--you are, by
George! but that's neither here nor there. Suppose--I only say
suppose--that I've had little or nothing to do with any of
Streightley's money transactions; that though I've conducted them and
carried them out; though he has had my cheques for the cash, and I've
had his signature to the deeds--suppose all the time that I've not
been acting for myself, but merely as agent to a third party, who
wanted to lay their claws on R.S. What do you think of that? Ah! I
thought I'd make you look interested at last."
"This is true, Mr. Thacker? you're not romancing, or trying to trot me
out in any way, are you?"
"As true as that I'm sitting before you at this present moment."
"Then I must ask why, having kept up the delusion so long, you come
here now to disclose it? The motive requires a little elucidation, Mr.
Thacker. It's not spontaneous penitence, I suppose?"
"Of course I know you'll want to know the motive," replied Mr.
Thacker, daintily removing the cigar from his full red lips, and as
daintily replacing it, wholly unmoved by Yeldham's observation; "and
I'll tell you. Because I've been badly treated by my principal--ah,
you smile and shrug your shoulders! the usual 'discharged servant's'
tactics, you think. Only understand, I discharged myself."
"I must ask you to be more explicit, Mr. Thacker. I have no time for
circumlocution. In the first place, who is your principal?"
"That's coming home at once," said Mr. Thacker; "but I don't mind.
Miss Hester Gould that was--Mrs. Gordon Frere that is."
Even Charles Yeldham's placid equanimity--placid by nature, more
placid by training--gave way under his astonishment at this
revelation, and Thacker's quick ears heard him mutter "The devil!"
under his breath.
"Ah! I thought that would astonish you," he said triumphantly. "You're
not one of those that have much to learn, Mr. Yeldham; but there are
very few people of my acquaintance that I couldn't wake up one way or
another, I fancy. Yes, sir, that lady is my principal. Her husband
don't know or care much about business, I daresay, and so much the
better--a good fellow, I daresay; but soft, sir--soft."
"And so Mrs. Frere is your principal, Mr. Thacker," said Yeldham,
after a moment's pause, to recover his equanimity, "and was her
friend's principal creditor, eh? Well, well, that's strange enough.
And you and she don't put your horses together now? What can have made
you agree to differ?"
"You've a very insinuating manner, Mr. Yeldham. It's a pity you're not
in the courts instead of in chamber practice. You'd get it out of them
wonderfully there. But it's only due to myself to tell you that I see
your every move, and that I should not tumble to it in the least if I
had not previously made up my mind to have it all out."
Charles Yeldham smiled and bowed, and Mr. Thacker proceeded.
"You know these women don't understand business; and because it had
suited my book, for other than mere monetary reasons"--and here he
settled his cravat and looked conscious--"to do work for Miss Gould,
she began to look upon me as a mere clerk. She forgot, tins young
woman, that while she was a poor governess, glad enough to come up to
Hampstead and have tea with my sisters, I was one of the leading
financiers of the West-end. She forgot that in my bureau I had the
names of half the peerage on stamped paper; that I dined here, and
lunched there; and was hand-and-glove with some of the best men in
London. She forgot that--I see you grinning, Yeldham; and all this
time that I'm swaggering you're waiting to get at the story. Well,
I'll tell it you as shortly as I can. You're too well posted up in
these matters not to know that a tremendous smash like that in the
City two years ago could not have passed over without touching most of
us at the West-end. We've been all of us under the harrow, more or
less, ever since; and I found it hard work to pull up the losses of
that time. I just did that, however, and no more. But there are two or
three affairs in which I'm largely interested, which have been
excellent, and which will be better still, only just at this
particular moment they want a little bolstering. All I could do for
them I have done; but a lot of my money was still locked up, and I
knew that these things only wanted backing to be splendid investments.
So, a short time ago, I went to our friend Mrs. F., and told her all
about it; took her a sheet of paper full of figures--women always like
that; most of 'em can't understand 'em, but she can--and went
thoroughly into it with her; proved that it would be a good thing for
her, and urged it as a personal favour to myself. Damme, sir, she
refused to have any thing to do with it!"
Mr. Thacker brought down his fist upon the table with a bang. Then,
seeing Mr. Yeldham was not particularly moved, he went on. "I was not
to be beaten at the first go off; so, after she had spoken, I asked
her, if she would not go into the matter herself, whether she would
let me have the money--of course on unexceptionable security. She
refused point-blank; and when pressed to give her reasons, said
she did not want to go into any more speculations. I never saw a
woman so altered in my life. I don't know what the devil has come
over her--gone mad on her money, I suppose. I don't know what induced
me to say it,--I can generally manage to take these things quietly
enough,--but I was a little bit annoyed, I suppose; but, at all
events, I did say, 'This is not quite the manner in which you answered
me when I proposed to you to take that mortgage on Middlemeads, Mrs.
Frere.' The words were hardly out of my mouth when she turned round on
me as quick as lightning, and said, 'You think of nothing but the
interest on your money. I had another motive in that investment.'
'And that was--?' I asked. 'To serve my--my own purposes,' she
replied. 'I had a long-standing account to settle with Robert
Streightley, and that was the method I chose of doing it.' You would
not have liked the expression of my lady's face when she said this.
For the first time in her life she seemed to drop the mask. I saw her
eyes glowing, her lips livid; and then I felt certain of what I had
always suspected."
"And that was--?"
"That when she was down on her luck, and intimate with his people, she
had really intended to make Robert Streightley marry her; and that
when she found he did not care for her, and eventually married Miss
Guyon, she determined to be revenged on them both."
"Certainly, Mr. Thacker, your boast of being able to tell strange
things is fulfilled in the present instance. I had no idea of this."
"How should you have? But it's fact, nevertheless; take my word for
it. I suppose I let on by the expression of my face--for she is as
downy as a cat--that I had spotted her game; for she tried in every
possible way to wriggle out of what she had said. 'Middlemeads was
such a good investment.' 'Money wasn't so scarce then.' 'In these
times one ought to be particularly careful,' &c. &c. But I wasn't to
be put off with any such humbug as that; I just asked her plainly once
more, whether she would make the advances I suggested, on the security
I offered; and when she again decidedly refused, I took up my hat
and wished her good morning. And I took my oath, as I crossed her
hall-mat, that I'd go out of my way to do her a bad turn; and, as luck
would have it, now I'm able to do it without going out of my way."
"That is splendid! we're really coming to it!"
"You're still chaffing me, Mr. Yeldham. I might have told you that
interest in Streightley was the sole motive for my coming here to tell
you what I am going to tell you presently, whereas I don't disguise
for a minute that the hope of doing Mrs. Frere a bad turn entirely
governs me in the matter. I thought at first that what would annoy her
most would be to see Streightley's business doing well again. And,
mind you, that could be very easily managed. He came out of his
troubles with a high character, and money is getting plenty. There are
heaps of fellows who, from old respect and friendship, would come
forward to help to put Robert Streightley on his legs again. I'd do my
little share--from another motive. I thought of that plan; I've got it
all down in detail at home; it may be of use some day; but in the mean
time something else has turned up which looks infinitely more
promising, in the way of sticking a dagger into my lady's breast."
"Don't soar into metaphor again, Mr. Thacker, please. It delays your
point most confoundedly."
"That Streightley is ruined--partly by her act--is nuts to her, but
nothing like such nuts as that his wife has left him. She and that old
cat Lady What-do-you-call her--Marsh something--have talked that poor
girl over ever since,--regular old Tabby that Lady Thingammy,--and so
I changed my mind, and thought to myself, 'No; nothing would make Mrs.
Frere so wild as to see Mrs. Streightley restored to, and happy with,
her husband;' and I determined I'd do my best to carry that idea into
effect."
"My good fellow, you only determined what all of us have determined
and tried, but without the smallest possible result."
Mr. Thacker settled his elbows comfortably on the table, and replied
in a tone of easy confidence:
"Ye-es; that's exactly the difference between me and 'all of us.' But
listen to me, and I will show you I have come here on no fool's
errand. You know that, pending the great gathering together of all of
us at Jerusalem, our people are spread over the whole face of the
earth. Thus those among us who are well known, or who take a leading
part, have ramifications and correspondents in every large city in the
world. I myself am in this position; and it was my intention to have
set the whole of the machinery in motion, with the view of discovering
where Mrs. Streightley lay hidden, when, by a most fortunate accident,
I believe I have been spared the trouble, and have at once
accomplished my end."
"God grant it!" said Yeldham earnestly. "But how? how?"
"You must let me tell my story in my own way, and this part of it
involves rather a lengthened explanation. When I was a lad, my
bosom-friend was a boy of my own age named Hartmann. He was of German
origin; but his family had been for a long time settled in this
country, and he and I were sworn chums. I do not know why; I never
could make out why, except perhaps"--and here Mr. Thacker set his
teeth, while the colour mounted into his cheeks--"except perhaps that
we were both Jews; and the other boys stood aloof from us, and used to
chaff and call us names. D--n 'em! I've made some of 'em pay for that
fun since. There was nothing else in common between young Hartmann and
me. I was always pushing and energetic, looking to the main chance,
and doing all I could to make something out of every body; while he
was a dreamy, quiet kind of fellow, with no interest for any thing in
the world but music. He was a wonderful musician. By George! sometimes
even now, when I'm in a quiet mood, and get thinking of him, I fancy I
hear the sounds that he used to draw out of his violin. There he would
sit, scraping away hour after hour in play-time; so that when we left
school, which we did about the same time, he'd had great practice for
such a young chap, and was quite a proficient. His friends talked
about getting him into a house of business; but I knew how much that
would do. When you've got what your friends call artistic, and your
enemies Bohemian tendencies, you had better give way to 'em at once,
for they'll prevent your settling down to any thing else, and they're
sure to claim you in the end. Poor Nat Hartmann prayed so hard to be
allowed to follow his bent, that his friends never attempted to
struggle with him; and he went off, very soon after leaving school, to
some connections of his family at Vienna, where he was to finish his
musical education. He was not long absent before we had news of him.
He was in the highest spirits, making excellent progress. Then he
wrote that he had been noticed by the Emperor, and taken into the
Imperial private band, of which, in about three years, he became
leader. His name began to be known in musical circles, and his arrival
in England was announced for the approaching season. Then suddenly
there came a rumour that he was under a cloud--how or why we could
never ascertain. I wrote to him twice or thrice; but my letters were
unanswered, and I gave it up in despair.
"It must have been ten years after this, that, one night as I was
coming out of the Opera, I felt a gentle pull at my coat, and, turning
round, I saw Nat Hartmann. I knew him in an instant, though he was
utterly changed from my friend of years before. All his colour was
gone; his face was thin and pinched and haggard; his eyes sunk deep in
his head; his lips, which had been so full and ruddy, were now thin
and pallid. I stepped aside to satisfy myself that it was he; then I
made him get into my brougham, and drove him to my rooms. To my dying
day I shall never forget that man's appearance as he stood in his
thin, wretched clothes, under the lamplight; I shall never forget the
manner in which he rushed to the fireplace, knelt down on the rug, and
spread out his transparent hands to the blaze; I shall never forget
the manner in which he gulped down the wine which I handed to him, or
the ravenous way in which he tore at the food. When he had eaten and
drank, had warmed himself, and nature seemed revived within him, I
talked to him, and bit by bit managed to drag from him his story. He
was a long time telling it, and it was disconnected and jerky to a
degree, interspersed with loud railing at fortune, with sighs and
tears, and dolorous ejaculations, and I had a hard task to follow him;
but I gleaned from him this: His first downward step had been caused
by his having married a Christian girl, a singer at the Grand Opera in
Vienna, with whom he fell desperately in love. This had so exasperated
his relatives, that after trying, by every means in their power, to
prevent the marriage, when they found it had actually taken place,
they repudiated him, and did every thing possible to ruin him and his
wife. One of the principal Jewish bankers, who had originally
introduced Hartmann to the Imperial notice, now became his bitterest
enemy, used the influence which had formerly been exerted in the young
man's favour to debase him, and finally, under some pretext, got him
removed from his position as leader of the Emperor's private band.
From that time onward misfortune seemed to have seized him; his wife,
after a long illness, died in childbirth, leaving him with one little
girl. In his misery he took to drinking, and sunk from bad to worse.
One night, while drunk, he struck an officer who had mocked his
playing, and, to save his life, fled with his little child to England.
He had been in London a week, and had haunted the streets in the hope
of meeting me; and the meeting was only just in time, by George! for
he and his little child were nearly starved.
"This is a long story, but it's pretty nearly over now. Of course I
did what was possible to be done for this poor fellow; I gave him
money and clothes, and sent him to the doctor, and all that; but he
was very proud in all his misery, and would not accept what he called
'charity,' but insisted upon working for his living. Poor Nat, poor
fellow! the drink had ruined him, mind and body--all his crisp touch,
all his wonderful execution, gone, sir, gone never to return; but he
could still play the fiddle very decently, better than most, at any
rate; so I spoke to Wuff and some operatic people I knew, and got him
playing at concerts and theatres, and that sort of thing. But it
didn't last long; the drink had done its work, and he could not get on
without stimulants; when he got ill again, and broke up suddenly,
sending for me when he was on his death-bed, and imploring me to take
care of his little girl--his little Louise. I promised readily enough,
for she was a sweet little child, and I had always been fond of her;
and as soon as we had buried the poor fellow, I sent the girl over to
a school in Paris, intending to have her brought up as a governess;
but with a splendid violinist for her father, and a first-rate
opera-singer for her mother, it wasn't to be expected that she'd go in
for steady respectability, though she's as good a girl as ever
breathed; moreover she inherits her mother's voice, and I
believe--from what I hear from friends of mine over there, who know
all about this kind of thing--that she'll some day be a splendid
singer, and astonish the world. So, when all these representations
were made to me, I could not hold out any longer; and when Louise left
school, eighteen months ago, I got her admitted as a pupil at the
Conservatoire; and there she is working away, and I'm told is getting
on gloriously. Was getting on gloriously, I should say, up to within
the last month; but she has been very ill, poor child, and that has
pulled her down, and put her back; and--that's exactly what I'm coming
to. I daresay you've been horribly bored up to this point, Mr.
Yeldham; but I think when I've finished, you'll say it was worth your
listening to."
"Only you carry out the hopes you've raised, Mr. Thacker, and you may
depend upon it I won't complain," said Yeldham.
"Well, I had been wondering that I had not heard from this girl. She
must be sixteen or seventeen now, and she writes most capital letters.
I assure you, when I'm regularly dry and stoney with business, feel as
if I was stuccoed all over like, one of this girl's letters refreshes
me and cheers me up, and makes me remember there is something else in
the world to live for besides money-getting. I had been wondering I
had not heard from Louise, when this morning a letter came. In it she
told me that she had been very ill with a fever, which had completely
prostrated her, and that--but I may as well read this part out to
you."
Mr. Thacker then produced a letter from his pocket-book, and read the
following passage:
"You know, my dear guardian, notwithstanding my foreign extraction and
half-foreign bringing-up, the horror I have always had of French
doctors; and it is certain I should have been left to the mercy of
some of these dreadful creatures, if it had not been for Lucy Elliott,
who is a fellow-pupil of mine at the Conservatoire, and who knew Dr.
Hudson, who is our great English physician over here. She came and saw
me when I was first taken ill, and promised to send Dr. Hudson to me.
Within an hour he was by my bedside; and I can never express to any
one his kindness and attention. He asked me, without the smallest
impertinent curiosity, about myself; and when I told him that I was
all alone in Paris, and had no relations on whom I could depend, he
shook his head, and said it was absolutely necessary that I should
have some one to nurse me. I suggested Sister Agatha, who used to come
and see us so often at the _pension_, and who, I know, is a skilled
and practised nurse; but Dr. Hudson said he thought he could do better
than Sister Agatha for me, and that he would try to get an English
widow lady of his acquaintance to come and nurse me."--("Ah, ha! you
start, Yeldham, my friend! Hold on a bit, my boy; the scent's only
just warming yet; hold on a bit longer.")--"I went to sleep after Dr.
Hudson left me; and when I woke that evening I found a stranger
sitting by my side. A tall elegant young woman, very young still, but
looking as though she had seen a great deal of sorrow; for her
beautiful face--I can't explain to you how wonderfully beautiful it
is, so calm and classical and statuesque--is marked here and there
with deep lines, and there is a gravity about her which I am sure has
been brought on by mental suffering. She motioned me to keep silent,
and then told me, in O such a sweet voice, that I was to be quite
quiet, and that she had come to nurse me and attend upon me, and under
God's help get me well again. From that night until now--she has only
just gone away, and she will be back this evening, though I scarcely
require any assistance now--she has been my best and dearest friend,
my nurse, my consoler, my sister. In all that dreadful fever I had the
sense of her constant presence, knew the touch of her cool hands to my
hot head, recognised the cheering tone of her voice, when, in my pain
and misery, I could scarcely see her. To her and my kind Dr. Hudson I
owe my life; and as I know, my dear guardian, that you are good enough
to prize that life, I am sure you will be grateful to these good
friends. And here I come to a point where I require your advice and
assistance. I told Dr. Hudson that though I was only a struggling
pupil at the Conservatoire, I had connections in England who, I was
sure, would take care that his kindness to me was not forgotten. I
presumed so much, my dear guardian; for I felt certain that your
goodness of heart"--("That's nothing," said Mr. Thacker abruptly;
"hem! hem! here it is")--"but now I don't know what to say about
Madame Sidney. She is evidently not rich, though a thorough lady born
and bred; and I'm sure you will think with me that some recompense
should be made her, though what it is to be, and how it is to be
managed, I must leave to your better sense and knowledge of the world
to suggest. One thing I have discovered, and that is, that this is one
of the most trying, if not _the_ most trying, occasions on which
Madame Sidney has acted in the capacity of sick nurse; and that
discovery I made in this way. When I was first coming into
convalescence, when I first had a glimmering of what was passing round
me, I heard the doctor say to her, 'Well, I knew I was not mistaken;
the child owes her recovery, under Providence, to your care and
ceaseless attention. It's your greatest experience; it's the
opportunity which you have so much wished for, of showing that you
possessed the patience, the energy, and the long-suffering for which
you have so long fervently prayed; but all of which _I_ knew were your
attributes, when, under different circumstances, neither you nor I
thought you would ever be called upon to employ them, for they were
not wanted then for others, but they were wanted for yourself,--I mean
during that week's illness at Martigny.'"
"Stop!" cried Charley Yeldham, bringing his hand down heavily on the
table, and then rising and pacing hurriedly up and down the room;
"stop! that seems to me to be conclusive."
"Ah, ha!" cried Thacker, in exultation; "we're hot at last; we're
burning now, ain't we? When I came to that passage in Louise's letter,
the whole thing flashed across me. I recollected having heard
Streightley talk of his wife's illness at Martigny. I said to myself,
'Here's a go; the lost bird's found!' And in an instant I saw my
way--I confess it; I don't go in for any high moral dodges--I saw my
way to being revenged on Mrs. Gordon Frere, and to shooting a bolt
between the joints of her armour, and hitting her in the very place
where she was most vulnerable, and would least like to be hit." And
Mr. Thacker looked up in Yeldham's face, and rubbed his hands with the
greatest glee.
"By Jove, Thacker, I think there's very little doubt about the
co-identity of Mrs. Streightley and Madame Sidney," said Yeldham,
after a few minutes' deliberation. "It will be a wonderful thing if it
turns out so. I never thought that--" and Yeldham stopped.
"Never thought that I should be the means of furnishing you with such
pleasant information? Never thought that the Jew-discounter could ever
do a man a good turn without an ulterior view to his own advantage?
That's it, eh? Don't be bashful; speak out."
"Not exactly that," said Charley Yeldham. "I am in the habit of
speaking out, and so I'll say that I never thought--how could I?--that
the man whom we have all regarded as the active agent in Robert
Streightley's financial ruin would probably turn out to be the means
of securing his domestic happiness."
"I hope to God I may!" said Thacker earnestly. "Look here. I don't
pretend to be a particularly moral or a strait-laced kind of person;
and I acknowledge, as I have done from the first, that my promptings
in this matter have been to be revenged on Hester Gould--Mrs. Frere, I
mean. But if by any act of mine I could do a good turn to Streightley,
whom I believe to be an honourable man and a devilish clever fellow,
and to his wife, who is certainly the handsomest woman I know,
I--well, it would be a deuced pleasant thing to think over by and by,
and I wouldn't let money be any obstacle to my carrying it out."
"You said I didn't like you, and wasn't pleased to see you, when you
came in," said Yeldham, taking Thacker's hand and wringing it. "Put
that opinion to the test some day--you'll find yourself mistaken."
"That's the ticket," said Mr. Thacker. "And now good-bye, and God
speed you! I swear all the notions of revenge on Mrs. F. with which I
came here seem to have disappeared, and I can think of nothing now but
the chance of having done a good turn to Streightley. Ah, old
Shakespeare knew all about it: 'Hath not a Jew what's-his-names'--you
remember the quotation."
And Mr. Thacker waved his hand jauntily in adieu and left the
chambers.
As may be readily supposed, Yeldham lost no time in communicating to
Robert the main points of Mr. Thacker's valuable information. He kept
that gentleman's revelation of the virtuous motives which had animated
him strictly to himself; they did not bear upon Robert's interests,
and a knowledge of them could only tend to distress him.
Robert's agitation was extreme when he learned the unmistakably
reliable nature of the clue now placed so unexpectedly in their hands.
He remembered the English doctor who had attended Katharine in her
illness at Martigny perfectly, and he was desperately vexed and
impatient with himself that he had not remembered him sooner. Yeldham
did not try to stem the tide of his self-reproach, but he did not set
himself very seriously in opposition to Robert's determination, that
the evening of the day then passing should see him _en route_ for
Paris.
"Suppose you find her--and you must remember, Robert, that though most
probable, it is not certain--and she positively refuses to see you?
What are you to do? You cannot force yourself into her presence.
Suppose she learns your intention, and she is resolved to carry out
her purpose, she will fly away again, and then we shall be worse off
than before. Be guided by me, Robert; let me go in your stead. If I am
to succeed, the pleasure will not be lessened; if I am to fail, better
I than you. You can trust me, I know; and you know, in the best case,
I only precede you by a few hours; in the worst--well--we won't talk
of that beyond saying that you'll bear it better coming through me."
These arguments and his own secret despondency induced Robert to
consent. He was immeasurably grateful to Yeldham for undertaking the
task for him; but he said little. He was "not strong," as he was
accustomed to say, and easily upset; so Yeldham got up a great deal of
unnecessary bustle and discussion to cover his emotion; and, indeed,
on this and some other late occasions the lawyer displayed great
womanish tact and affectionate cunning. Yeldham could not go that same
evening, and the little delay tried Robert; but he strove to hide his
impatience; and his friend seconded the effort, and arranged to leave
London on the morrow.
A short note from Yeldham to Gordon Frere had informed the latter that
Charley was about to start for Paris. He had not time to enter into
written explanations, and he greatly desired to secure for Robert
during his absence the comfort of Gordon's cheerful companionship and
invariably hopeful counsel. So he had merely said, "We have got a
clue, a safe one this time, so far as finding the person we want goes,
and I am off to follow it up. Can you come up for a day or two? I want
to see you before I start."
Gordon Frere announced his intention of going to town for a few days,
immediately after he received this note; but gave no explanation of
its motive. He had dropped into habits of the sort of late; and he and
his wife were quite a fashionable couple, independent of each other in
all their arrangements, and models of courtesy.
Having reached the Temple, he found Yeldham in the midst of a vast
confusion of books and papers, and, to his great satisfaction, alone.
He had rather expected that Robert would be there to the last moment,
clinging to his emissary, and urging upon him superfluous entreaties
concerning speed and earnestness.
Yeldham explained to Gordon briefly and clearly what had happened,
merely suppressing Hester's share in Thacker's revelation. He had no
inclination to make mischief between Mrs. Frere and her husband,
though he could not avoid thinking what a sufficient kind of
punishment for her lay ready to his hand, had he chosen to use it. But
Yeldham disdained to do so; the woman would be punished by the
restoration of her innocent rival to her husband, if such a blessed
event were indeed to be; and if it were not--he could not waste a
thought on her meanness and her malice. He knew Gordon would not ask
for more information than he was disposed to give, and would not take
the trouble of looking beneath the surface of any thing. So he told
him as much as he thought proper; and Gordon, his first surprise and
curiosity abated, questioned him concerning his anticipations of
success.
"What are the chances, Charley?" he asked, earnestly,--"what do you
really think they are?"
"That they are terribly small. Small enough as to the finding of the
lady, and smaller still as to getting her to return. However, I do
think that in all respects it is better that Robert Streightley should
not go himself. His wife would be much more likely to hear of his
presence there than of mine."
"And do you think if she did hear of it she would avoid him?"
"She would go off somewhere else like a shot. She is just a
temperament difficult to deal with. Smarting under the sense of a
great wrong, she is capable of any thing.'"
"She was always strong-minded--I mean self-reliant, and that sort of
thing," said Frere; "but she had plenty of common-sense."
"So I should imagine from what I saw of her. Of course I would not
have dreamed of hinting such a thing before our poor friend; but the
difficulty of arranging the matter will arise not so much from Mrs.
Streightley's want of sense as from her want of heart. A woman who
could see her husband suffering from the anxieties which beset Robert
long before the crash came, and yet persist in a course of thoroughly
reckless extravagance, is not very impressionable, you may depend upon
it."
"Do you imagine that--"
"My dear Gordon, it's not a nice thing to say, but I imagine that,
though she did not know the terms of the bargain, she felt that she
had been purchased by her husband, and she was determined to have the
entire price. Now, you know, dealing with such a woman as that, where
questions of feeling are concerned, is difficult."
"It's but a poor look-out, I'm afraid," said Frere, rising from his
chair; "and I don't envy you your mission, Charley, though I don't
know any one who would do it so well; and if honesty and warm feeling
are to win the day, you'll be successful. So, God bless you! Mind you
let me know how you prosper. Better write to me at the club, I think,"
added Mr. Frere, with a sudden recollection that news of Katharine
Streightley was ever too welcome to the lady who was now his wife.
Yeldham shook hands warmly with him, grinning the while. None of these
little evidences of character were thrown away on the old bachelor,
who may have derived solace and instruction from them.
Robert was to accompany him to the station, and the hour of his
arrival drew near. Yeldham's packing was quickly done, and he had a
few minutes' leisure to think of the strangeness of the freak of
fortune which was sending _him_ in search of the only woman towards
whom his heart had ever been attracted, with the object of winning her
back to another. Perhaps he had censured her too harshly in talking to
Gordon Frere--to that other man, who had also loved her, after his
fashion. Then he heard Robert's step ascending the stairs, and sighed
as he thought that it was hard indeed to look at his suffering face,
and acquit Katharine of heartlessness and cruelty.