Produced by Charles Bowen from page scans provided by Google Books
Transcriber's Notes:
1. Page scan source -- Google Books
https://books.google.com/books?id=1sgBAAAAQAAJ
(Oxford University)
2. Scan of page 270 (particularly the first paragraph) is very
poor. I believe my reading is reasonably accurate.
KISSING THE ROD.
A Novel.
BY EDMUND YATES,
AUTHOR OF "BROKEN TO HARNESS," "RUNNING THE GAUNTLET,"
"LAND AT LAST," ETC.
"The heart knoweth its own bitterness."
IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. II.
KISSING THE ROD.
A Novel.
BY EDMUND YATES,
AUTHOR OF "BROKEN TO HARNESS," "RUNNING THE GAUNTLET,"
"LAND AT LAST," ETC.
"The heart knoweth its own bitterness."
IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. II.
LONDON:
TINSLEY BROTHERS, 18 CATHERINE ST. STRAND.
1866.
[_All rights of translation and reproduction reserved_.]
LONDON:
ROBSON AND SON, GREAT NORTHERN PRINTING WORKS,
PANCRAS ROAD, N.W.
CONTENTS OF VOL. II.
CHAP.
I. MARTIGNY.
II. AT MIDDLEMEADS.
III. HARDENING.
IV. CANAAN FROM PISGAH.
V. CITY INTELLIGENCE.
VI. THE END OF THE CLUE.
VII. HESTER'S DEBUT.
VIII. MARRIED FOR LOVE.
IX. MARRIED TO MONEY.
X. STAKED.
XI. "IN THE DEAD UNHAPPY NIGHT."
XII. RETRIBUTION.
KISSING THE ROD.
CHAPTER I.
MARTIGNY.
"I wish you were going to the wedding, dearest Hester," said Ellen
Streightley to Miss Gould, as the two girls stood in attitudes of
critical examination before a heap of gay-looking wearing-apparel,
which was destined to resolve itself into the costume of a modern
bridesmaid.
"You have said that several times already, Ellen," returned her
friend, with a touch of impatience in her voice very unusual to her.
"But you know I can't be at your brother's wedding, so there is no
good wishing about it."
"Well, I think Robert might have asked Miss Guyon for an invitation
for my dearest friend. I can't understand his standing on such extreme
ceremony with her. He really seems afraid of every mortal thing he
says and does, lest he may offend her; and I don't think she's
bad-tempered either. I'm sure I hope not, for Robert has never had to
put up with a bad temper, and he'd be sure to be miserable. O Hester!"
said Ellen, with a sudden gush of feeling, "what should we do if she
did not make Robert happy!"
Miss Gould replied in rather a hard voice: "But there's no danger of
that, is there, Ellen? Miss Guyon is very handsome, and very
fashionable, and very clever; and your brother is--what is the proper
phrase?--desperately in love with her, is he not?"
"Why, of course he is, Hester; you can see that for yourself."
"And she is desperately in love with him, I suppose?"
"I suppose she is," said Ellen, and this time her tone was impatient;
"but no doubt fashionable people have a fashionable way of being in
love. I only know it's not mine, and it is not Decimus's, and I'm glad
of it. I wouldn't have him hesitating about what he might and what he
might not ask me to do, I can tell you, for any thing. What nonsense
it all is, as if Miss Guyon mightn't just as well make your
acquaintance now as afterwards! she will know all about you then, I
suppose."
Ellen's zeal had outrun her discretion, and told Hester Gould more
than she intended; but Hester did not take any notice of the
information she had gained, beyond one sudden gleam of anger which
shot from her shallow dark eyes.
"Mrs. Streightley is not going?" she said; and the simple girl, whom
she could always lead, was as docile as usual, and turned to the new
theme, under her guidance.
"No; mamma does not like weddings (she could not even go to Robert's,
she says) since my father died. Decimus and I go with Robert; and Mr.
Yeldham, he is to be the best man, you know; and the three other
bridesmaids are all strangers. Miss Guyon has no near relatives; she
is like me in that, but not like me in having a dear, darling Hester,
as good as any sister."
"At least as any sister-in-law, I hope," said Hester with grave
emphasis, when she had quietly submitted to the hugging with which
Ellen invariably accompanied her effusions of affection.
"Yes, indeed; a thousand times better," she impetuously exclaimed. "I
don't think my sister-in-law will ever care much for me, or I for her.
She's too grand for me, Hester, and too clever; and when I am with her
(the few times I have been), I feel afraid of her, though she is very
polite to me; but I had rather she was less polite, and more kind; but
I suppose politeness is fashionable, and kindness isn't. As to
Decimus, he is quite wretched when he is with her, because he thinks
she will make me worldly; but I am sure he needn't be afraid of that,
for I shall never like the things she cares about, and I'm sure I
shall not care for staying at Middlemeads, even if she asks me.
"It is a beautiful place, is it not?" asked Hester absently.
"Yes, lovely. Only Decimus is quite distressed about the church; it is
_high_, you know," and Ellen's voice sank into a mysterious whisper.
"He says he will feel such anxiety when I am there, lest it should be
a snare to my feet."
"Yes, yes, I know," said Hester, who was apt to weary of the Reverend
Decimus's opinions, hopes, fears, and doctrines; "but the house and
grounds, I meant. Miss Guyon has seen them, has she not?"
"No, she would not go down, though Lady Henmarsh--(she's a nice woman,
Hester, and has a way of making you feel comfortable; and Decimus has
hope of her spiritual state),--though she offered to go to
Middlemeads, and Robert would have persuaded mamma to go; but it was
all no use. And do you know what he said?--I did not like it--he said:
'When Miss Guyon says "No," Ellen, it is not you or I who will induce
her to change her mind.' I did not care about this, Hester, for my own
sake--why should she mind _me_?--but I did think she might alter a
purpose for Robert."
Miss Gould smiled--it was not a pleasant smile--but said nothing; and
then, the dress-parade completed, the two girls went downstairs to the
drawing-room, where they found Mrs. Streightley and her reverend
son-in-law expectant in placid converse.
Mrs. Streightley had accepted the intelligence of her son's intended
marriage, as she accepted every thing in which he was concerned, with
perfect confidence and approbation. Miss Guyon was his choice; she
must necessarily be as charming as she was fortunate. Miss Guyon's
manners were too finished in their elegance to render it possible for
her to treat the mother of her intended husband otherwise than with
perfect respect and courtesy. Had the Handbook of Etiquette included a
chapter devoted to the proprieties of demeanour on the part of a
daughter-in-law elect, doubtless it would have been found that Miss
Guyon's behaviour was in precise conformity with its rules. The elder
lady did not feel exactly happy or at ease in the society of the
younger, but that was her fault, not Miss Guyon's; she did not
understand fashionable people, that was all. It would be hard to part
with Robert; but was she, his mother, to murmur at, to put any
consideration in the world in comparison with, his good and happiness?
Surely not. To have been capable of doing such a thing would have
been a treason to the whole ordering of her dutiful, pious,
conscience-guided life. She was very much pleased, and perhaps a
little proud, with that beautiful vicarious pride of mothers, to think
of her son in the dignified position of a country gentleman, owning a
fine estate, and holding his head high among men. She should be glad
to see his beautiful and luxurious home; but the comfortable Brixton
villa satisfied all her individual wishes. She would not be present at
her son's wedding, she would be out of her place among the other
guests there; but he should go forth that day with his mother's
fervent blessing, and his marriage should be hallowed by her prayers.
The state of mind of the Reverend Decimus Dutton was not so calm, not
so complacent. He disapproved of the connection. It was worldly; it
was, if any thing, "high:" the family circle of the Guyons included a
bishop of ritualistic tendencies; on its outer edge to be sure, but he
was a relative; and "any thing of that kind," said Decimus to Ellen
rather vaguely, "is so very shocking." Again, the diversion of large
sums, presumably disposable for missionary purposes under happier,
"more consistent circumstances" he called them, according to a
phraseology in use among persons of his persuasion, and which is
rather oracular than grammatical, into the mundane channels attendant
on a "fashionable" marriage, was also "extremely sad." Decimus had
come up to town hoping to induce Robert to share his own burning zeal
for the mission to the Niger, and he found him engaged to a young lady
who looked extremely unlikely to approve of the diversion of any of
his wealth in a religio-philanthropical direction; and who had calmly
remarked, "Of course you would not suffer your sister to go to such a
fatal climate," on hearing that the Reverend Decimus proposed to
convey his bride to "Afric's burning plain."
The Rev. Decimus Dutton was a youngish man, with a face which would
never look much older or much wiser than it looked at present. It was
rather a handsome, and decidedly a good face; and it presented an
absurd resemblance to that of Ellen Streightley, though there was not
the slightest relationship between the amiable enthusiast and his
betrothed bride, who believed him in all simple sincerity to be the
noblest, best, handsomest of mankind. Perhaps there was a little
veneration, due to habit, which is very powerful over such minds as
Ellen Streightley's, in favour of Robert; but Decimus was decidedly
more pious, there could be no doubt of _that_. A more prejudiced, a
narrower-minded, or a better-meaning man than Decimus Dutton probably
did not exist; and so admirably matched were he and Ellen Streightley,
that those who saw their perfect adaptation to each other were apt to
be tempted into using the gentle missionary's cant phrase, and talking
of their proposed union as "providential."
"O, Decimus dear," began Ellen, as she and Hester entered the
room--Miss Streightley was apt to emphasise her speech with
interjections,--"Hester is _so_ pleased with my dress. Not that _you_
care about that; still one may as well be decent. Hester must go home
now; so just ring and send for a cab."
Then followed adieux, and Miss Gould departed. Her face was dark and
angry as she drove away; but it cleared after a little, and her
thoughts shaped themselves into these words:
"After all, no one can rule destiny; and supposing I had loved him, I
must have borne it all the same."
Hester Gould witnessed the marriage of Robert Streightley and
Katharine Guyon; not in the capacity of a guest indeed, but in that of
a spectator. It was characteristic of Hester that, though she had
determined to be present, she made her attendance at the church appear
to be the result of Ellen Streightley's importunities. That young lady
threw looks of confidence and affection, and blew kisses off her
finger-tips at her friend at furtive intervals during the ceremony,
after the fashion of the Peckham boarding-school, somewhat to the
discomposure of the devoted Decimus, who maintained a plaintive and
under-protest air throughout. Hester Gould acknowledged, with ready
acquiescence, the exceeding grace and beauty of the bride, as she
advanced with an assured and steady step, leaning on her father's arm,
and took her place before the altar-rails, where the Bishop with
ritualistic tendencies, stood ready to consecrate that awful promise
so familiar to us all, and also to realise the utmost fears of
Decimus, for his lordship read every word of the service, and wore the
fullest of canonicals. Hester bent an eager gaze upon Katharine Guyon;
but, under all its wrath and bitterness, there was the candour, there
was the justice which never failed this exceptional woman; and she
acknowledged fully and freely to her own heart the exceeding beauty of
her unconscious rival.
Katharine was paler than her wont; but her eyes shone with their
accustomed light, and her tall figure drawn up to its full height and
proudly motionless, was full of indescribable dignity and grace. The
rich folds of her dress, of lustrous white satin, with its garniture
of swansdown and its fastenings of diamonds, did not so much adorn as
they received grace from her. And the noble outline of her features
showed like that of an antique statue under the filmy bridal veil,
which softened but did not conceal them. When Hester looked from the
bride to the bridegroom, she acknowledged, too, that no external
incongruity was evident. Robert Streightley looked like a
self-possessed gentleman; not very handsome, not strikingly elegant,
but not too much inferior to the beautiful girl whom he led away, in a
few minutes, his wedded wife. It was quickly done and over, and the
crowd was pressing round the carriages, and peering into the aisle of
the church. Mr. Guyon, the very picture of gaiety and juvenility, led
out Lady Henmarsh, quite affected, and remarkably well-dressed; then
came Charles Yeldham and the bridesmaids--the unappropriated
bridesmaids, be it observed; Decimus had paired off with Ellen the
moment the bride and bridegroom had reached the church-door. Then the
general crowd drifted out; and in the porch Hester found herself face
to face with Mr. Daniel Thacker, who testified great delight at the
_rencontre_.
"You are here as a spectator, like myself, Miss Gould?" said Mr.
Thacker.
"Yes," replied Hester, "I am very much interested in this marriage.
Mr. Streightley is one of my oldest, and his sister is one of my
dearest friends."
"Just so," said Mr. Thacker. "I don't know much of Streightley; but I
know something of the bride, and more of her father. A capital match
for her and him."
"Meaning Mr. Streightley?"
"Meaning Mr. Guyon, Miss Gould. I am going to Hampstead: could I
prevail on you to visit my sisters to-day? My phaeton is at the door.
Do let me have the honour, Miss Gould; a visit from you is such a
pleasure to them."
"Thank you, no; not to-day. My time is not my own, you know, Mr.
Thacker, and I have an appointment at one o'clock a good distance from
here."
"I am so sorry, so disappointed. Perhaps later in the day; I can be at
your service at any hour."
"No, thank you." Hester smiled slowly as she spoke. "I promised to
give this evening to Miss Streightley. She will have so much to tell;
and she will come home as soon as possible after the bride and
bridegroom are gone."
"Ah, by the bye, where are they going to?"
"Where? To Paradise, of course; but _en attendant_, I believe, to
Switzerland."
And Hester Gould, who had for the first time in her life been wanting
in caution, bade Mr. Thacker "good morning;" and that gentleman
watched her as she walked away, and said under his breath:
"By Jove, she _did_ play for Streightley, and Miss Guyon beat her!"
So those twain were one flesh, and departed according to prescribed
routine for their bridal tour on the Continent. So far the contract
had been carried out, the price paid, and the goods delivered into the
carriage by Mr. Guyon, who converted a broad smile of triumph into a
doleful look of farewell; and who, as the happy pair drove away,
turned back into the dining-room to expedite the departure of his
guests, in order that he and Lady Henmarsh might have a quiet talk
together over the past and the future.
So far all had gone well, thought Robert Streightley, or rather
endeavoured to think so, but felt a sad depression and sense of
failure at his heart, as, leaning back in the railway-carriage
whirling them to Folkestone, he stole occasional glances at his bride,
who, paler but lovelier than ever, kept her eyes fixed on a book, the
pages of which she never turned, and of which she read never a line.
How much did she know, he wondered, of all that had taken place? Not
all; he himself had resolutely shrunk from hearing any thing in detail
about the transaction in which that man Frere and his proposal were
involved; and she--he knew her well enough to know that if she had the
smallest suspicion of foul play she would leave him then and there on
her marriage-day. No! she knew nothing of that,--she never should
know. But there was a something in the dead calm of her face, in the
cold clear look of her eyes, in her set lips, and in the quiet tones
of the voice in which she briefly replied to his occasional questions
after her welfare,--something that made Robert Streightley's heart
give a guilty throb, and told him that the first phase of retribution
had begun. She might live it down, it would probably pass away; under
different circumstances, and surrounded by all the luxuries that money
could purchase, the haunting memory of the past might soon be laid at
rest; but there are few men, let us hope, who on their wedding-days
have, as Robert Streightley had on his, to face the conviction that
not merely the love but the tolerance of his wife had yet to be won by
him, and that between them lay a mine, partly of his own preparation,
any accidental spark blown on to which would shatter their happiness
for ever.
And she? In a charming but perfectly natural position, her head bent
so as to screen her face as much as possible from her husband, her
eyes fixed on her book, she sat there, outwardly cold as a statue,
inwardly raging with slighted love, hurt pride, horror of the past,
and dread of the future. The occurrences of the last month, so often
revolved in her mind, were, as she sat in the railway-carriage, once
more brought out of their storehouse, and passed in dreary review:
Gordon's strange silence, his absenting himself from their house, his
abrupt departure for the Continent, her father's confession of his
embarrassments, his proposition for getting rid of them, her
friendlessness and despair, the few words spoken to her in the
deepening gloom by Robert Streightley, and her reply, which decided
all and settled her future--her future! ah, good God! Even the outward
semblance of calm was gone as the thought rushed across her; the hot
tears welled into her eyes, she set her lips tighter than ever, and
with great difficulty restrained a cry of mingled anger and despair.
There was her fate sitting opposite to her: with that man, with whom
she had not one thought in common, for whom she had, if any feeling at
all, rather a feeling of abhorrence--with him was the rest of her life
to be passed. He had bought and paid for her--paid for her? No! a
great deal of the purchase-money was yet to come, was to be placed at
her disposal; and she would take care that it was speedily spent.
It was some time, however, before she found an opportunity of spending
any of the large sum of pocket-money placed at her disposal by her
husband, so eagerly were all her wishes anticipated by him. Previous
to their marriage he had made his future bride many valuable
presents--of dressing-case, jewels, travelling-desk, and elegant
costly feminine nick-nacks--all of which had been examined, appraised,
and duly extolled by Mr. Guyon; and their bridal tour was almost as
expensive as a royal progress. In Robert Streightley the
_ober-kellner_ at the Hôtel Disch in Cologne found an easy prey, and
sold to him more wicker-covered bottles of the _eau_ than he had ever
previously palmed off upon any Englishman. All along the Rhine-border
the fiery cross was sent by couriers, and conductors of steam-boats,
and drivers of _eilwagens_; and the landlords of the hotels knew that
one of those _tolle Engländer_ who mind no expense was coming on, and
forthwith prices were trebled, and cellars were ransacked for the
precious wines, the Steinberger Cabinet and the Johannisberg, which
none but mad Englishmen ever pay for. No town which they stopped
at--and they stopped at nearly all, for the small amount of romance in
Katharine's nature was roused by the sight of the castles and crags,
of which in her school-girl days she had so often read; and it was the
nearest approach to pleasure which she could experience to push aside
actual practical life and he dreaming of the past--no town which they
stopped at was so poor as not to furnish some trophy for Robert
Streightley to lay at his bride's feet. Accompanied by the courier,
who made cent per cent upon every transaction, he would go blundering
through the narrow streets, looking through the windows at the wares
displayed in them, rushing in here and there, and making wild and
incongruous purchases, to the intense astonishment of the pipe-smoking
burghers, all unaccustomed to such energy. Robert Streightley's
greatest pleasure seemed to lie in purchasing presents for his wife;
and when they reached Frankfort he was never out of the jewellers'
shops on the Zeil, and his courier's whole day was taken up in running
to and fro with little packets of hirschhorn and coral trinkets.
It was at Frankfort, a month after their marriage, that they received
their first news from home. Streightley had wished to pass his
honeymoon untroubled by thoughts of business, and Katharine had been
too indifferent to give any directions about her letters; but when
Robert called on the British Consul, who was an old correspondent of
their house, he found a packet waiting for him, and hurried back with
it to Katharine. She was reading a Tauchnitz edition of a novel, and
looked languid and _distraite_.
"Here are letters from home, dearest," said Robert, rushing in with
his usual energy; "two of them for you."
She thanked him as he handed them to her, and took them without other
remark. One was from her father, full of parental gushing and
expressive of intense anxiety to see her again; the other was from
Lady Henmarsh, and was filled with the gossip and tattle of the
watering-places at which she and Sir Timothy were staying. She read
them through, placed them on the table beside her, and was reverting
to her novel, when her husband, still busily engaged in reading his
correspondence, said,
"You don't ask me who my letters are from, Kate? I thought all women
were curious in such matters."
He tried to throw a tone of raillery into his voice, poor fellow! as
he said this. It was not very successful; for no answering smile
beamed on Katharine's face, as she said,
"I thought they were business letters."
"Business letters! no, dearest; you may be sure I should not bore you
with those. Here's one from your father; but he says he has written to
you; and--yes, of course; and here's one from Ellen, my sister, full
of news. You would like to read it?" And he held it out to her.
"There seems a great deal of it," said Katharine, looking blankly at
the sheets crossed and recrossed with Miss Streightley's spidery
writing.
"Yes, there is a good deal of it; and some, perhaps, that might not
interest you. But there was one thing I wanted to tell you--O yes,
here it is. You recollect Miss Gould--Hester Gould?"
"I have heard you mention her; I never saw her."
"Never saw her? never saw Hester Gould? Dear me! How can that have
been, I wonder? Well, Ellen writes that Hester Gould's uncle is dead,
and has left her all his fortune. Hester is an heiress now; and though
of course very quiet as yet, Ellen says she thinks Hester intends what
Ellen calls 'making a splash.'"
The announcement had apparently no interest for Mrs. Robert
Streightley; for she merely said, "Indeed!" and took up her book.
What had any interest for Mrs. Robt. Streightley? In good truth,
nothing at all. Her pleasure in life seemed to have died out; and her
cavaliers of the preceding season would scarcely have recognised the
queen of the cotillion, or the beauty of the Row, in the cold
passionless woman who would sit for hours looking straight before her
without speaking a word, and only by an occasional gleam in her eyes
or a fleeting movement of the muscles of the mouth giving evidence of
existence. Her pleasure in life had faded out; and she almost hoped
that her life itself would fade out too, so hopelessly wearied of it
did she feel. "Would to God that I were dead!" was her constant cry
from the solitude of her chamber; and one night her wish was nearly
fulfilled.
They had "done" all the usual Swiss places; and at Katharine's first
and only request Robert had postponed their contemplated return home
in order that his wife might have a glimpse of Italy. They selected
the Simplon pass as the easiest, and left Chamounix in the early
morning on mules, purposing to rest that night at Martigny. Katharine
had been ailing for the last few days, but had said nothing to her
husband. Ten hours' journey on a jolting mule, the terrors of the Tête
Noire pass, despised by mountaineers, but sufficiently horrific to
young ladies out of health, and the absence of food--for it was
impossible to eat the hard goat's-flesh or to drink the sour wine put
before them at the _auberge_--finished the little strength left to
her; and as her husband lifted her from the mule at the door of the
hotel at Martigny she fainted in his arms. The kindly people of the
inn were round her in a moment, carried her to their best room, and
were unremitting in their attentions. Under restoratives Katharine
recovered for a few minutes; only to fall again into a fainting-fit so
prolonged, so deep, so dismally like death itself, that Robert,
horribly alarmed, bid them rush off and fetch the first doctor they
could find.
The doctor came; a tall thin man, with a light straw hat on his head
and buff slippers on his feet; a solemn man, who made a solemn bow,
and took his place by the side of the patient solemnly. He touched
poor Katharine's pulse; he peered into her face, and he announced that
mademoiselle--he begged pardon--madame, was not well, and that he
would send her a _tisane_. He took up his straw hat, bowed solemnly,
and went out.
Robert Streightley had stood by watching this performance with
impatience; but when the door was closed behind the doctor, Katharine
gave a long low moan, and said in answer to his fond inquiry, "O, I
shall die!" He saw that no time was to be lost in doing something more
effectual than what was proposed by M. le Docteur Grabow, and at once
summoned the landlord.
"That doctor is an idiot. Is there no other in the place?"
"But no, monsieur. And the Doctor Grabow--"
"Is there no English doctor in the hotel?"
"But no, monsieur. You and the suffering lady are all of English whom
I have now the honour to---- Ah! let us not forget! There was an
English doctor of medicine who left here yesterday morning----"
"Do you know where he has gone?"
"Certainly, monsieur,--to Geneva; did not I myself recommend him to
the Hôtel de l'Ecu,--me?"
"Do you know his name?"
"I can show monsieur the name in the strangers' book. It is a name of
English, which nobody but English can pronounce."
The book was brought; and five minutes after a telegram was despatched
to Dr. Hudson, at the Hôtel de l'Ecu, Geneva, imploring him to come
and see an English lady then lying dangerously ill at Martigny.
That night never faded out of Robert Streightley's memory. To his last
hour he recollected the dead solemn calm, broken only by an occasional
moan from the half-insensible figure on the bed, the position of the
furniture, the subjects of the prints on the walls. As he kept his
watch grim and solitary (for the doctor, after the failure of the
tisane to produce immediate cure, gave up the case and refused to
attend again); as he looked at Katharine, with her face whiter than
her night-dress, with blanched lips, and hair flung in wild disorder
over her pillow, his heart sunk within him and he shook with fear. Was
this to be the end of it? Was that lovely prize, which he had
accomplished with so much difficulty and at such a sacrifice of
principle, to be taken from him now? Was he to lose her,--to lose her
without ever having had the chance of winning her love; of letting her
see that he was something more than the mere rich City man, who had
triumphed by the influence of his money; that he worshipped her with
all his soul---- Ah! she must be spared until she had learned that!
And Robert Streightley fell on his knees by the bedside, and prayed to
God to hear his petition.
The next day at noon Dr. Hudson arrived. Katharine was at her lowest
ebb about this time, and Robert was nearly mad with anxiety; but he
derived infinite comfort from the sight of the English doctor's honest
cheery face and from the sound of his voice. A wondrous voice; so
clear and yet so soft, ringing with comfort and encouragement and
hope; a voice at the first sound of which Katharine opened her
long-closed eyes and looked with interest at the speaker--would have
spoken herself, but that Dr. Hudson raised his finger with a
cautioning gesture, and then laid it on his lip. He did not permit her
to speak until he had felt her pulse and heard the account of her
seizure from her husband; and then he only asked her a few questions
which needed very short replies. And then Dr. Hudson took Robert
Streightley into the next room, and said:
"She may recover--I think she will; but the next four-and-twenty hours
will decide."
"You--you will not leave her, doctor! Any sum which----"
"My dear sir," interrupted Dr. Hudson, laying his hand on
Streightley's arm, "I will not leave her bedside until the crisis is
over."
And he did not. Independently of the attraction of the case itself
(and Dr. Hudson loved his profession, and pursued it with an
ever-increasing fondness for its study), he found himself very much
interested in the beauty of his patient, and profoundly touched by the
adoration of her so quietly, so unceasingly shown by her husband. It
was a little new to him this worship of a woman by the man who was
legally bound to her; for Dr. Hudson lived habitually in Paris, and
had a high repute amongst the French aristocracy, amongst whom there
was indeed a great deal of the tender passion, though it generally
flowed in the wrong channels. He was pleased too with Streightley's
sound sense and straightforward honesty; and after the crisis had
passed, and Katharine was in the earliest stage of convalescence, she
would hear the doctor and her husband discussing politics, and
commerce, statistics, and science, far into the night. The doctor was
a widower, had no domestic ties, all his patients were away from
Paris; and he was so pleased with his new friends that he extended the
period of his holiday, and remained with them as their guest.
So a fortnight passed, at the end of which Katharine was pronounced in
a fit state to journey homeward; and they started, travelling by easy
stages to Paris, where they remained three days. At the "Nord"
railway-station, just before their train left for Paris, Dr. Hudson
bade them farewell.
"Remember!" said he, holding Katharine's hand, "I've seen you in an
important crisis of your life, and I want to be associated with it!
I'm an odd old fellow, with no one to care for or to be cared for by,
and I've taken a fancy to you and your husband. If ever you're very
ill, or in any state in which you think I can be of service to you,
you'll promise to let me know?"
Robert was settling the wraps in the carriage; but Katharine pressed
the doctor's hand, and said, "I promise you."
The next moment the whistle sounded, and the train moved on.
When and where was that promise kept?