SUCCESS.
The wintry rays of the sun were contending unsuccessfully with the
strong and cheerful blaze of a bright fire in Charles Yeldham's outer
room one morning in December, when that hard-working gentleman emerged
from his bedroom at an unusually late hour, and glanced with an
expression of satisfaction at the fire, the preparations for
breakfast, and the heap of letters and other papers which occupied one
end of the small table. Charles Yeldham was looking troubled on this
particular day, but not as he usually was, full of the care and
preoccupation of his work; his generally concentrated gaze was
abstracted; and any one familiar with his expression would have
recognised that the subject of his thoughts was not present to his
bodily eyes. He seated himself and began to open his letters, having
first poured out his tea. They were numerous and various: one from his
father, one from his sister, a note from Frere, a number of business
letters, and one from Paris. His face changed as he took up this one,
changed still more as he read:
"Rue d'Alger, No. --, 9th Dec. 186-.
"Sir,--I fulfil my promise, relying on yours, and believing all you
told me of your intentions for the dear lady's good. She is dear and
good. She has come back to Paris, and I have seen her.
"I am, sir, your servant,
"Louise Hartmann."
Yeldham's first impulse was to jump up from his untasted breakfast,
take his hat and coat, and rush off to find Robert Streightley; but he
resisted the impulse, and set himself to consider what would be the
best thing to do. Robert had been ailing lately; Yeldham had noticed
his altered looks with pain, and he dreaded telling him news except
such as was undeniably and completely good. This could not be said to
be so. There was no doubt now that the way was opened to communication
with Katharine; but much more than communication was involved. So long
a time had elapsed, so obstinately had her determination been adhered
to, so intense and keen had been her husband's suffering--suffering
which none but Yeldham had divined, under Robert's quiet and reticent
bearing--that the matter had assumed to Yeldham's mind an aspect of
even additional importance. Should he act on the information contained
in this note at once, and only tell Robert when he should have seen
Katharine and ascertained the state of her feelings, or should he
communicate with Robert immediately, and allow him to proceed at once
to Paris in search of his wife? In favour of the latter method of
proceeding there was the consideration that the mutual position of the
estranged pair was one of the utmost pain, and requiring the most
delicate handling; and that undoubtedly the husband and wife could
alone discuss the matters which divided them with propriety and
authority. There was also the consideration of Katharine's excessive
pride, which would lead her instinctively and vehemently to resent the
interference of a third person. Both these were gravely pondered by
Charles Yeldham. In favour of the former method of proceeding were,
the comparative composure and hopelessness with which Robert had begun
to regard his fate since Yeldham's unsuccessful expedition, the
patience with which he acceded to Yeldham's advice that they should
not unnecessarily discuss the matter of their most constant thoughts,
and the consequent risk, in case all overtures should prove
unavailing, of exciting Robert to dangerous agitation and increased
grief. Yeldham understood Streightley better than Streightley
understood himself; and when he would say, as he constantly did, that
he would ask nothing more than to know where his wife was, to be sure
that she was more content than he without her, that he had no hope of
ever seeing her more, Yeldham knew that he entirely believed what he
said, but that he deceived himself; and that with the first
intelligence of Katharine new feelings would arise, whose
disappointment would be terrible. Added to this, he knew that Robert
could not plead his own cause as he, Charles Yeldham, would plead it
for him; if she should refuse to see him, Robert, conscience-stricken,
would not persevere. Thus the subject had two sides, and he had to
regard first the one, and then the other, with great care and
deliberation. He did so, and finally decided, all parts of the
question balanced, that he would tell Robert he had received the
letter for which they had looked so long in vain, and leave it to him
to decide on what should be done. "If I went, and failed, he must know
it sooner or later," was the result of Yeldham's cogitations; "so he
may as well know about this at once."
So Charles Yeldham wrote a note to Robert, requesting him to call on
him late in the afternoon, when he should be comparatively at leisure,
and proposing that they should dine together in the City afterwards.
Then he dismissed the matter from his mind, as far as possible, and
went to his "treadmill."
There was nothing unusual in the tone of Yeldham's note--nothing to
excite Robert's hopes or fears. He had had several such notes from the
writer; and yet he was agitated while he read it, and nervous when he
laid it down. He was always nervous now, he said to himself, as he
rebuked his own tremors. How unmanly, how weak, how foolish he was
becoming--less and less like a man whom she ever could love, he would
think, with a degree of despondency which might have proved to him,
had he considered his own case in a philosophical light, how much hope
had really lurked at the bottom of his abnegation. This nervousness
increased as the hour drew near for his interview with Yeldham; and at
six o'clock, when the streets were bright with gaslight, and the crisp
cold of a clear wintry night had set in, Robert Streightley's hand
trembled as he knocked at the outer door of his friend's chambers, and
his face was pale. Yeldham observed him closely, and decided on
deferring his purposed communication until a later hour. Accordingly
he easily gave a plausible turn to his summons of Streightley; the two
dined together; and Roberts spirits rose, as they invariably did,
under the influence of his old friend's genial temperament.
Yeldham knew that Robert would not deliberately break through the
established rule of silence on the subject of Katharine, but that he
might be easily led into doing so; and he accordingly gave the
conversation a turn which brought it to bear upon the past, and then
seized the opportunity. Robert took the communication which his friend
made to him with more calmness than Yeldham had anticipated, but he
was not in the least sanguine.
"The question now is, Robert, whether you or I shall go to find her
and bring her back," said Yeldham in the most cheerful tone he could
command.
Robert kept silence.
"I expected you to have been quite elated," said his friend in almost
a tone of reproach. "You take it very quietly. At all events you must
be thankful to know that we shall find out where she is, and all about
her circumstances."
"I am thankful, God knows," said Robert, "as well as He, and He only,
knows what I have suffered, in my ignorance, in the innumerable fears
that have beset me, and," he said with a heavy sigh, "that may all be
realised yet. I am thankful; but this intelligence, and my gratitude
for it, do not bring me nearer to _her_. No, no, Charley, I shall
never see her face again--never see her face again!" he repeated
drearily; and leaning his elbows on the table, he laid his face on the
open palms of his hands.
Yeldham looked uneasily at him. He knew that he was quoting
Katharine's own words.
"Robert," he said impressively, "you must not despair, you must not
give way in this fashion. You will see her face again, please God; you
will see it as beautiful as ever, and with no cloud between you and
it. I feel convinced of this, my dear fellow; and you must feel
convinced of it too, if you will listen to your reason and not to your
self-reproach. Just think what time does in all sorts of cases, and
remember how much time has gone over since your wife left you."
"_I_ think of it, Charley? Do you think I have not felt the passage of
every hour of it?"
"I know you have," said Yeldham; "but I want you to think of it in
another sense--its own sense. It effaces every thing--kingdoms and
flies, men's strength and women's beauty, the deepest loves, the
bitterest hatreds, the cruellest injuries, the firmest resolves.
Believe me, Katharine has outlived her anger, and has been held to
her purpose by pride and circumstances. She must always remain your
wife--she must always remember that she is so; and, depend upon it,
she will not be sorry to return to a quiet home with you, to whom she
is still so dear. Three years have had their effect upon her, be sure
of it. Rely upon it, she thinks more of her duty and less of her
resentment now."
"Her duty!" said Robert, looking up from the palms of his hands with
hollow, burning eyes; "her duty! O Charley, how can you or I talk of
her duty _to me?_"
"I certainly can," returned Yeldham. "I don't wish to go back over the
past, but nothing can absolve her from that duty; and I look to the
faults for which each has to forgive the other as the strongest bond
between you for the future."
Robert sighed, but made no reply. Yeldham continued: "And now, Robert,
you will go to her at once, of course?"
"I--I don't know, Charley," returned Robert, in a low and broken
voice; "I don't know. I am--I am almost afraid."
"Afraid, Robert, of what? That she will not see you? Well, that risk
must be run; but I feel so confident that there is no danger of her
refusing to do so, that I can hardly excuse your hesitation. I know I
cannot inspire you with the confidence I feel, but at least act as if
you felt it; and remember that the influence of time has been all in
your favour. She has had leisure to forgive, if not to forget, one
injury, and to remember and miss the innumerable proofs of love you
gave her. You will start to-morrow, will you not?" Yeldham put the
question in a business-like tone, which dismissed discussion, and
obliged Robert to rouse himself from thought to action.
"Yes, yes; since you think I ought, I will go to-morrow. Can you come
with me, Charley?"
"I don't know; if you wish it very much, I will try. Send round in the
morning, and I will let you know."
These were almost the last words spoken between the friends before
they parted, Robert going his way to Brixton, and Yeldham returning to
his chambers, to pass several hours of the night in so arranging his
work as to admit of a brief absence from London.
The morrow brought Robert's messenger, but not the expected question.
On the contrary, Robert sent word to Yeldham that he wished to see
him, feeling too ill to "keep his appointment."
The first glance which Charles Yeldham gave at his friend showed him
that he must revert to the second alternative which had presented
itself to his mind. Old Alice had admitted him, and had told him
"Master Robert" was bad again with "them spazims;" and the state of
prostration in which Robert lay on a large sofa, drawn as near the
dining-room fire as its size would admit, fully bore out her
assertion. Mrs. Streightley was not at home, her daughter requiring
her services just then; and the interview between the friends was
quite uninterrupted.
Robert's complete inability to undertake a journey to Paris being
admitted, his nervous impatience for Yeldham's departure in his stead
became uncontrollable. Yeldham did not attempt to contest it, but
assured him that the following day should see him at Paris, and, if by
any effort or exertion the thing were possible, in Katharine's
presence.
"And I'll bring her back to you, my dear fellow; I'll bring her back
to you--rest assured I will."
"No, no, never; I can't believe it; nevertheless go and tell her all.
See her; let me see a face that has looked on hers, though I am to see
hers no more. Tell her--tell her----"
"Yes, yes," said Yeldham; "I know, Robert, I know; have trust in me;
be assured I will tell her all you wish--every thing--and I will bring
her with me--something tells me so--and you know I am not sentimental,
or presentimental either. Only keep quiet, and get well; it won't do
to frighten her with such a face as that, you know," said Yeldham,
with a dreary attempt at cheerfulness.
"I'll take care," returned Robert; "but, Charley, you won't deceive
me, will you? You'll tell me every word she says, no matter how
severe, no matter how hopeless. You'll tell me every word and, as far
as you can, every look. I shall be able to see them by the aid of
_this_;" and he touched his breast-pocket, in which Yeldham knew he
always carried the miniature by whose aid Katharine had been
identified. "And, Charley, you'll tell her I never, never blamed her:
you'll tell her I suffered; but I know I deserved it all." His eyes
were shining now with a feverish light, and Yeldham hastened to
terminate their interview. He bent over Robert, as he lay upon the
sofa, and took his hand.
"Be content, Robert," he said; "I have never failed you yet, and I
will not fail you now. All that I know, and all that I can guess you
wish to have said to your wife, I will say to her; and as surely as I
am talking to you now I will bring her home to you,--I never felt more
certain of any thing. Good-bye, my dear fellow; you have nothing to do
but trust me, keep quiet, and get well."
"Yes, I will keep very quiet--as quiet as I can. God bless you!
Good-bye."
They wrung each other's hands, and Yeldham went away, speaking gravely
to Alice in the hall, and reflecting with a queer sense of wonder,
when he gained the road, upon the oddity of the fate that made him a
messenger, in this supreme crisis, to Katharine Streightley, the only
woman who had ever made him think regretfully of his loneliness, the
only woman who had ever realised his early dreams of love and beauty.
Robert had kept his face towards the door until the sound told him
Yeldham had shut the little garden-gate, and was gone; then he turned
his head away, buried his face in the sofa-cushion, and closed his
eyes. Thus old Alice found him, when she came to see if he required
any thing, an hour later; and the old woman said downstairs that she
wished Master Robert would let her send for the doctor, for he was
looking "desperate white and weary, to be sure."
When Charles Yeldham reached Paris in the evening after his interview
with Robert, he found the fair city looking beautiful, under the
combined influence of clear starlight, sharp frost, and the glow of
the best-arranged gaslight in Europe. The scene, striking as it
always must be, made but little impression upon him, as he drove from
the railway-station to his hotel, revolving in his mind all the
circumstances of the painful and difficult business which lay before
him, and haunted by the remembrance of Robert's white, grieved face.
He was tired, depressed, and more doubtful of the success of his
undertaking than when he had spoken so confidently to Robert; but he
tried to rouse himself, to shake off the foreboding which beset him,
and to arrange some definite plan for the interview with Katharine,
which he felt sure would be accorded him. It was no part of his
intention to take her by surprise. He knew that she would resent such
a _ruse_ as an unpardonable liberty, and did not doubt that it would
defeat its own purpose, and lead to her immediate departure from
Paris. He made his calculations in this way: "When she receives my
request for an interview, she will conclude that no further effort at
concealment will avail; she will remember that no coercion of her is
possible; and she will consider it more in accordance with her own
dignity to grant me the interview--a concession winch does not commit
her to any thing. After all, too, she is a woman; and she _must_ want
to know something about the world she has turned her back on; she
_must_, after all this time." So Charles Yeldham felt no apprehension
about the first portion of his task, though there was a strange
flutter of various emotions in the feelings with which he anticipated
finding himself in Katharine's presence.
He wrote briefly to Robert, announcing his arrival, and went early to
rest. At noon on the following day he presented himself to the
unrecognising stare of the _concierge_ at No.-- Rue d'Alger, and
having named Mademoiselle Hartmann, passed up the wearisome flight of
stairs leading _au quatrième_. He was admitted by the girl herself,
and gladly perceived that she was looking much improved in health. The
appearance of the neat little apartment also bore witness to
improvement of another kind. Modest as before, it was more
comfortable, and was now a pleasant snug nest for this lonely bird.
The girl had believed in Yeldham from the first, and was unaffectedly
glad to see him. She had expected him, she told him candidly; and she
had told the dear lady all about his previous visit.
"You did well," said Yeldham. "I would not have you deceive your good
friend in any thing."
"I told her I had promised to write to you when she should return to
Paris, but I would not do so if she forbade me; and I asked her what I
should do. Then she asked me many questions about you, and I told her
all she asked; and she told me I might write to you. I said I know you
would come when you should receive my letter; and she said she thought
so too, and if you did come, I was to give you this."
She unlocked a drawer in a little table which stood beneath the
window, and handed a folded slip of paper to Mr. Yeldham. It contained
an address in the Rue du Bac, and these words:
"_Mrs. Streightley will see Mr. Yeldham. He must inquire for Madame
Sidney_."
"When did she give you this?" he asked.
"I have told monsieur," replied the girl, smiling; "on the day I wrote
to you--two days ago."
"And you have not seen her since?"
No, she had not seen the dear lady since; and she trusted monsieur
would see her, and give her back all her happiness. She was paler and
sadder now than before she went to Brittany; and she was too good, had
too much heart, too great compassion for all who suffered, to be left
to any sadness. All the world ought to be good to her, who was good to
all the world.
Half an hour later Charles Yeldham had realised a hope, a dream which
had mocked and eluded him for long: he was in Katharine Streightley's
presence. Striving hard and ineffectually when before the eyes of the
woman towards whom he had felt the strongest emotion which life had
ever Drought him for the composure which had seemed so easy at a
distance, filled with yearning pity for the man who would have given
so much to stand where he was standing, and to see what he was looking
upon, Charles Yeldham was quite silent for some minutes. He had been
ushered into a room in which Katharine was sitting, and she had risen
on his entrance, and stood facing him, her hand resting on the back of
her chair--resting there calmly, not grasping the chair, with no
nervous flutter in the fingers, no need for support implied in the
action. With his first glance at her, every impression, every memory
he held of her, flashed freshly through Yeldham's mind,--every
attitude in which he had seen her, every dress she had worn, every
scene in which they had met. The tone of her musical girlish voice
sounded in the air around him, while yet this woman he looked upon had
not spoken; the graceful form flitted about a flower-decked garden and
moved through stately rooms, while yet this woman stood motionless
before him. Changed! Yes, she was changed; in the first glance,
comprehending all the past, perceiving all the present, he saw the
change,--saw that whereas Katharine when he had seen her last looked
younger than her years, the woman he now saw looked older than those
which had been added. The face was pale, more waxen in its delicate
clearness, and there was a sterner line about the beautiful lips. The
radiant eyes were radiant still, but their light was steady and
serious, and the glorious lustre of youth had passed from the face for
ever. What had replaced it, Yeldham thought, that made her so much
more beautiful, that lent her a charm, a majestic influence,
insurmountable and immortal? He knew afterwards that that which had
wrought the change was the purification, the strengthening influence
of suffering, the teaching of life and experience, the education of
the spirit, which first bruises and then heals, which first chastens
even to faintness, almost to despair, and then leads to peace and
shelters from self-deception. After his first glance at her, he did
not fear for Robert; he felt that he should fulfil the promise which
had sounded so rashly confident. Pardon, and the magnanimity of a
large heart, looked out of Katharine's beautiful eyes as she bowed her
head to her visitor, and said in a low tone, as she indicated a seat
to him and resumed her own:
"You are my husband's friend, Mr. Yeldham; and you come to me from
him, I think?"
Yeldham's many and troubled speculations had never strayed into the
direction of such a reception as this; and the delight with which he
heard her words was equalled by his astonishment.
"You are right, Mrs. Streightley," he answered; "I do come from your
husband; from one who, let me assure you, has never for one hour
ceased to repent the sin which drove you away from him as bitterly as
he has mourned your loss."
She became exceedingly pale, and spoke the next words with some
difficulty.
"Is it true, Mr. Yeldham, that my husband has suffered heavy
losses--that he is no longer a rich man?"
"It is quite true," he replied; "and it is part of my business here to
tell you a fact which I have always believed would have pleaded with
you, had you known it. Robert had sinned grievously against you; but I
am sure, had you known that when you left him ruin was hanging over
his head, you would have regarded that as sufficient punishment. In
itself it has been heavy, but to him as much lighter than that which
you have inflicted as his love for you is greater than his care for
his wealth. May I ask when and how you learned this, Mrs.
Streightley?"
"Very lately--only a few days ago. I accidentally met a Mr.
Stallbrass, a person whom I had no recollection of ever having seen,
and whose name I had certainly never heard. This gentleman, it
seems, had seen me--once--" here she hesitated, and turned paler
still,--"and he recognised me. He told Dr. Hudson that he had done so,
but gave his word of honour to my kind friend that he would never
mention the circumstance. He told him all he knew concerning my
husband's affairs, being under the impression that ours was a
separation by mutual consent, and that I was in possession of the
facts."
Katharine paused, and a fresh strong hope sprang up in Yeldham's
heart; a hope in which he saw the realisation of happiness for Robert
far beyond any thing he had dared to dream of for him. With its fresh
impulse in his voice, he said eagerly:
"And tell me, I entreat you, what effect had this disclosure upon
you?"
"Tell me first, Mr. Yeldham, what message do you bring me from my
husband? Yet--no," and she stretched her hand towards him to stay his
eager answer; "not so, I owe him much: I owe him reparation for pride
and passion, for blind resentment, for selfishness and ungovernable
self-will, and I will make it. Before I hear my husband's message, let
me tell you mine to him."
A small ivory box stood near her on a table; she drew it towards her,
and took from it a sealed letter, which she held in her hand while she
spoke. Yeldham listened to her with a painful intensity of attention,
and marked with wonder the varying beauty of her sensitive face.
"It is written here, in this letter, which I should have sent to him
three days ago, but that a few hours after I had written it I learned
how you had sought me out, and that you would come to seek me again.
Then I resolved to wait; for I knew whatever communication my husband
had charged you with would form the answer to my letter, and it would
be better to receive it thus."
"And the letter--what is it?" asked Yeldham, with all the agonising
anxiety and entreaty which he felt in his voice. Katharine laid one
hand heavily upon her breast, and breathed deeply.
"It tells him that I ask his forgiveness, as I have long granted him
mine; it is to ask his permission to return, and do my duty to him in
the future, as I never did it, or understood it, in the past. Mr.
Yeldham, what is my husband's message to me?"
He rose, came towards her, caught her hands in his, and said hoarsely,
while unheeded tears ran down his face:
"His message to you is the message of a dying man to one who holds his
life in her gift--of one who loves you with an immortal love; to whom
life has been sheer unmitigated agony without you; to whom it has no
hope, no ambition, no desire, but your pardon. It is the prayer of the
sick for health, of the famishing for food, of the shipwrecked for a
sail. 'If I should never see her face again,' he said last night, 'let
me look upon a face which has looked upon hers;' and I am here,
Katharine,--I am here!"
He held her hands in a grasp tight even to pain while he spoke; now he
released them. She covered her face with them, and sobbed aloud.
Trembling with delight, he stood by until her emotion had subsided.
Then he said:
"Never was ambassador so happy to find his mission useless and
superseded. God for ever bless you for the words you have spoken. Let
me leave you now; I must write to Robert. Will you send your letter,
or shall I? Perhaps," he went on gravely, "you had better let me
enclose it. He has been ill, and even the best-managed communication
of such unlooked-for happiness will try him; though joy never kills,
they say, it may harm him. Don't be anxious; remember you will bring
him health and happiness and life."
He took up the letter, once more caught her hands in his, and
reverently kissed them; told her he would be with her on the morrow at
an early hour, and left her--feeling like a man who walked in a dream.
His success had been so immeasurably beyond his hopes! _His_ success?
what nonsense was he talking to himself? It had not been his success,
but that of circumstances, of an accident--the success of time, of
experience, of conscience. How happy Robert would be! How "pure
womanly" she was, with her loftiness and her lowliness, her beautiful
compassion, her rapid generous impulse, her ready self-accusation, and
thoroughness of reparation! How beautiful too--how very, very
beautiful, in her sombre dress! deep mourning too! the sort of
mourning widows wear in France, if he did not mistake--of course she
had passed as a widow--a gloomy dress, but she was too beautiful to
heed it. When would she go to England, he wondered; would she return
with him at once? he might ask her to-morrow. That would be very soon;
but he must go,--delay was impossible; and she was likely to do at
once any thing she had made up her mind to do at all.
Yeldham's excitement remained so long upon him, that it was difficult
to him to write the few lines to Robert which were necessary. At
length he scrawled them.
"All has succeeded, as I told you it would. The enclosed letter from
your wife will explain more and better than I could. Be happy, dear
old fellow, but don't agitate yourself; and mind you are quite well
when I keep my word, and bring Katharine home."