CANAAN FROM PISGAH.
The month of April was nearing its close, and the party at Middlemeads
were beginning to think of separating, to meet again in the more
exciting scenes of London life during the season.
A programme, including entertainments which should combine splendour
and originality, to be given at the mansion in Portland Place, had
been agreed upon, and perfect harmony reigned among the ladies. Miss
Gould took a deep interest in the preparation of Mrs. Streightley's
town-house, and had frequently accompanied Katharine to town, when she
visited Portland Place to give new orders and observe the fulfilment
of old ones. Katharine threw herself into this novel and decidedly
exciting occupation with all the fervour of her age and character. She
interpreted and acted upon Robert's permission to do precisely as she
pleased, to its fullest extent.
"Please yourself, dear, and you will please me," he had said to her;
"you know I have not much taste for such things."
"Perhaps your mother--" Katharine had considered it polite to say----
"O no," Robert had answered hastily; "my mother would be less useful
to you than myself. She has lived in a plain house and in a plain way
all her life, and she would not in the least understand how the cage
for so bright-plumaged a bird as you are should be decorated."
It was an awkward metaphor, an unfortunate pleasantry; and Robert felt
it so as soon as he had uttered it, and hastily left his wife on the
plea of letters to be answered, having received the briefest, coldest
acknowledgment from her of a permission on which she proceeded to act
immediately with much animation and entire recklessness of expense.
While she was engaged thus, and when the time for the removal of the
establishment to town was drawing near, Katharine learned that Mrs.
Stanbourne had arrived in England, and was desirous of seeing her, and
making the acquaintance of her husband. The letter which conveyed this
intelligence to Mrs. Streightley was not altogether and heartily
welcomed by her. The one single individual in the world for whom
Katharine felt perfect respect, respect in which her intellect was as
active as her heart, was Mrs. Stanbourne; and yet, even though
affection mingled largely with that sentiment, she could not feel real
pleasure in the prospect of seeing her. She did not tell herself what
it was she dreaded; but she knew in her heart that it was her true
friend's clear-sightedness and her unbending rectitude. She had so
shrunk from announcing her marriage to her, that Mr. Guyon had found
himself obliged to undertake that very unpleasant task; a substitution
which had surprised Mrs. Stanbourne much and hurt her a little; but
she was a woman in whose disposition the small susceptibilities born
of self-love had not much place, and she put the light mortification
aside, and wrote to Katharine just such a kind motherly letter as,
under other circumstances, would have added to the happiness of a
bride. But Katharine had read it hurriedly, with a flushed brow, and
her rich red lip caught under her white teeth, and had put it away out
of her sight. Nay more, she had put off answering it, until she might
venture to disregard its tone and substance; and treating her marriage
as an affair whose novelty had quite worn off, and to which any
further reference would be out of place, had filled two sheets of
paper with a pleasant, flippant account of her continental trip, and a
lively sketch of some of the costumes which took her fancy among the
Swiss peasantry. Katharine's letter pleased Mrs. Stanbourne as little
as her father's had done; but she was a sensible as well as a
feeling-hearted woman, and she recognised that explanation of any
thing which excited her misgivings was not just then attainable. It
must be waited for it; had better be waited for patiently; she would
see Katharine as soon as possible after she should reach England, and
in the mean time would write to her, as usual, not very often, but
very frankly and affectionately. She had adhered to this resolution;
and now she was about to see and discern for herself whether this
marriage, whose exterior advantages were undeniable, was all that she
could desire, or any part of what she had desired for this impetuous,
unmanageable girl, whom she had always loved, and for whom she had
always been apprehensive, with the well-grounded fear which is taught
by experience and the knowledge of the human heart; with that fear
which can hardly fail to be awakened when one who has travelled far on
the journey of life looks back and sees the young beginner joyously
setting forth in delusive hope, and with the courage of ignorance.
The prompt invitation to Middlemeads by which Katharine replied to
Mrs. Stanbourne's notification of her arrival in England was all that
it should have been, in words; and the acceptance was as prompt and
affectionate.
"This day week, then, she will be here," Katharine said to herself, as
she sat before her writing-table with the letter in her hand. "This
day week. I am glad the house is likely to be so full--I don't want to
be alone with her. It is all so unlike her ideas--and she is so
quick." Here Katharine sighed. "Well, after all, she knows I always
liked money, and what money gives one in this world--and she knows I
never was romantic. It's all very gay and splendid here; and if I
don't care quite so much about it as I used to think I should--I must
be a worse actress than I think I am, if she finds that out. One thing
at least she does not know, and can never discover; one secret is at
least inviolably my own. No one can ever guess that I cherished the
delusion of love and truth, of a life lived for their sake; a life
lived with a man who amused himself all the time, who made me love him
_pour rire_."
So far as it went, Katharine's argument with herself was frank and
well founded; but it did not go far enough, it did not extend to the
acknowledgment of the real blot which she dreaded her friend's
hitting. That Mrs. Stanbourne should regard her in the gravely
responsible position of a wife, as wholly given up to empty
amusements, the pursuit of pleasure and excitement, and the lavish
expenditure of money upon every trifle which took her fancy, was, she
chose to persuade herself, what she dreaded. And this certainly was an
impression to be deprecated; but it was only secondary, though she put
it first. It was her conduct towards Robert which she really feared to
find exposed to the keen, unembarrassed scrutiny of Mrs. Stanbourne,
whom she knew to be a woman incapable of trifling with the ideal of
duty either in theory or in practice. That she would discern her to be
a wife without love for her husband, without gratitude for all his
affection and observance, without sympathy for his tastes, observance
of his wishes, or consideration for his feelings; a woman hardened,
wilful, and selfish; who had made a marriage which was a bargain, and
was not faithful to the spirit of her share in that bargain. If Mrs.
Stanbourne's customary penetration did not fail her, this was what it
would show her, under the surface of a life of gaiety, extravagance,
and luxury. She felt in her conscience, whose voice she could not
stifle, that she was unjust towards the man who had given her not only
money but love. True, she did not care for the love, she did not want
it; but after all, it was the vehicle by which the money which she did
want and did care for was conveyed to her; and there was an undeniable
baseness, a failure of duty and propriety in her conduct, only the
more flagrant because the sufferer by it was compelled to endure it
uncomplainingly, because the injury was, so to speak, impalpable.
Katharine was too clear-sighted not to perceive and understand her own
shortcomings perfectly; and in her inmost heart she dreaded that Mrs.
Stanbourne would understand them too. Plainly put, she knew the truth
to be, that she was revenging on the man who had given her a brilliant
and enviable position before the world; who had effectually screened
her from scorn and malice, and made her an object of envy instead; the
man who loved her with a fervour of admiration and devotion which
served only to provoke and embitter her,--the deadly injury inflicted
upon her by another, the baseness of whose conduct every womanly
instinct should have taught her to requite with contempt. She had done
Robert Streightley the tremendous wrong of marrying him without loving
him; true, he knew it and accepted it, but it was none the less, in
the light of a pure woman's conscience, a deadly wrong--and she had
not made the slightest effort to retrieve or repair that wrong. If a
transient impulse, ascribable to the elasticity of spirit of her age
more than to any real motive of her conscience, had drawn her nearer
to him for a little while, she had fallen away from him again in
impatient weariness, and now each day seemed but to set them farther
apart. And she could not even regret it; she could feel no repentance,
no wish to be different--that was the worst of it; it was not that she
desired the conditions of her domestic life to be altered, but only
that she dreaded their discovery by Mrs. Stanbourne. Katharine's
meditations were not, therefore, of the brightest; and a second cause
of embarrassment arose to trouble them. Lady Henmarsh and Mrs.
Stanbourne were utterly uncongenial to each other, and yet each
occupied an exceptional position as regarded her: they would be
certain to clash unpleasantly. It would have been easier to bear, had
Lady Henmarsh not been there. Katharine must announce the expected
visit to her _ci-devant_ chaperone, and she felt exceedingly
uncomfortable at the prospect. She had on several occasions narrowly
escaped quarrelling with Lady Henmarsh _apropos_ of Mrs. Stanbourne;
and she thought it extremely likely that on this occasion they might
quarrel outright. Katharine was not a person likely to defer doing any
thing of the kind because it was unpleasant, so she went immediately
to the south drawing-room, where she found Lady Henmarsh, Ellen, and
Hester Gould. Lady Henmarsh was doing nothing, so far as her hands
were concerned. Sunk in the luxurious depths of an easy-chair, she was
looking out on the flower-garden and the statues, and talking to
Hester Gould, who was seated on a footstool in the embrasure of the
large window, and pulling the ears of Topaze, who was lying
contentedly in her lap.
"Look at this faithless little creature, Mrs. Streightley," exclaimed
Hester, as Katharine entered the room. "He actually followed me out of
the breakfast-room this morning, in preference to you. Can you fancy
any thing so base?"
"Topaze prefers lying on a silk dress to lying on a muslin one, Miss
Gould," returned Katharine smiling; "and she is particularly fond of
having her ears pulled. I have had no time to indulge her this
morning; I have been busy with my letters. I have heard from papa,
Lady Henmarsh."
"Indeed, my dear! I thought all his correspondence was reserved for
his son-in-law. When is he coming?"
"Not just yet; indeed I fear he will not be able to manage to come to
us before we go to town at all. But I have also heard from Mrs.
Stanbourne. She has come to England, and she is so good as to promise
us a visit. She names this day week for her arrival at Middlemeads."
"O, indeed!" said Lady Henmarsh in a satirical voice, and directing a
glance at Hester which satisfied Katharine that she had indulged in
sarcasm concerning Mrs. Stanbourne to her new friend. "Well, I shall
not have the pleasure of seeing her, and I daresay she will not
particularly miss me. I was just going to tell you, my dear Kate, that
Sir Timothy and I must really take a reluctant leave of Middlemeads on
Wednesday. Sir Timothy has had letters from his steward requiring his
immediate attention; and you know he is rather fidgety, and never
satisfied unless he is on the spot."
Katharine did not know any thing of the kind, but she was quite
content to take Sir Timothy's inquietude for granted; and she received
Lady Henmarsh's explanation with perfect grace, and much internal
satisfaction. The four ladies then had a great deal of animated
conversation about all they intended to do, and the constant
intercourse they hoped to establish in London; and the morning wore
away very pleasantly. Katharine's spirits recovered their tone when
she discovered that the meeting under circumstances of close
association between Lady Henmarsh and Mrs. Stanbourne, which she had
so much dreaded, was not to take place. Hester was looking forward to
her _début_ in the character of a great heiress, under the auspices of
the most agreeable married woman she had ever met, but whose character
and disposition she read with equal precision and indifference. Ellen,
who was to return to town with Hester, was sunk in a charming reverie
of anticipation; for the Rev. Decimus hoped to be in London when she
should arrive, and to be able to tell her to which of the most
unhealthy and savage regions of the known world it was his desire and
intention to convey her. Hester's visit would terminate a day or two
after Mrs. Stanbourne's arrival. Ellen was very glad not to leave
Middlemeads before; she was very anxious to see Katharine's friend and
kinswoman. Hester did not care in the least about the matter. It was
not likely that Mrs. Stanbourne could ever be of any importance to
her; she had nothing to gain and nothing to lose by her; and Miss
Gould was very little given to thoughts or surmises or the taking of
interest concerning any matter which did not immediately concern her.
When the bell rang for luncheon, the ladies obeyed the summons; and
Lady Henmarsh asked where was Mr. Streightley.
"Robert is gone to London," said Ellen. "He went by the first train,
did he not, Katharine?"
"Yes, I believe so," answered Robert's wife carelessly. "He had
business in town, I understood, and will probably not return until
to-morrow."
She neither knew nor cared what the business was that had called her
husband away; but Lady Henmarsh knew, and cared enough to feel
irritated, if not sorry. She had had a letter also from Mr. Guyon--a
more confidential one than the brief chatty epistle he had written to
his daughter; and she knew that at the moment at which they mentioned
him, he and Robert Streightley were closeted together, in the office
in the City, in deep, and by no means pleasant, conversation. Miss
Gould also had had some letters that morning, and one of them offered
her at least a suggestion of the nature of Robert's business in town.
It was written by Mr. Thacker; and among its rather voluminous
contents Miss Gould read: "Old Guyon is going the pace tremendously;
it must kill in the end;--even Robert Streightley--his patience can't
hold out, I should think, if his purse can."
The week passed, unmarked by any remarkable incident. Lady Henmarsh
carried off Sir Timothy on the appointed day, and bade Hester Gould
farewell with much demonstrative affection; which that young lady
received with well-bred acquiescence, and which Katharine observed
with mingled amusement and contempt.
"She never was half so fond of me," she thought; "but that is easily
understood. I never was rich while she could make any use of my
money."
During this week Hester observed that Robert Streightley was more
silent and dispirited than usual, and that not a day elapsed without
his receiving a letter from Mr. Guyon. She felt some curiosity
concerning the nature of these communications, for she by no means
imputed them to Mr. Guyon's affection for his son-in-law; but she was
quite satisfied to wait for its gratification. Mr. Thacker was
expected at Middlemeads, and she knew that she should discover much,
if not all she wanted to know, from that gentleman; over whom her
sagacity, firmness, and coolness of disposition, being qualities which
he particularly admired, had secured her considerable and increasing
influence. It was finally settled that Mr. Guyon should not visit his
daughter at her country residence until the close of the season; an
arrangement to which Mrs. Stanbourne's arrival had largely
contributed. He was not afraid of her now; he had carried his point,
and her influence was no longer to be dreaded; but he disliked her
excessively, to an extent which amounted to antipathy; and he would
not have encountered a week in a country-house in her society, and
exposed to her observation, for any but a very large consideration. A
slight to his daughter was a small one, so Mr. Guyon stayed away; and
his daughter was decidedly relieved by his absence.
The apprehensions with which Katharine had regarded Mrs. Stanbourne's
visit were fully realised. Her true friend discerned the change in the
girl, for whom she felt sad and genuine interest; the woman whose life
was full of duty steadily done perceived at once that in Katharine's
that mainspring was wanting. She had felt apprehensive before; but her
fear for Katharine's future grew with every hour of personal
observation, with every fresh evidence of her total indifference to
her husband which presented itself. She studied Robert Streightley
closely, and she found in him much to like, to respect, and to esteem,
but still something which puzzled and distressed her. She could not
comprehend that a man could bear indifference, hardness, almost
disdain, from a woman upon whom he had lavished such proofs of love,
with so much submission as Robert endured them from Katharine withal.
"If the man had done her a wrong, and she was graciously exercising
some forbearance towards him, his manner might be what it is, with
some reason and appropriateness; but as things are, I cannot
understand it. It is ruinous to her, fostering every evil tendency in
her nature, putting her in a false and unnatural position; and it is
positively unmanly on his part."
Mrs. Stanbourne meditated a good deal upon these things before she
made up her mind to speak to Katharine. "_Entre l'arbre et l'écorce ne
mets pas le doigt_," was a wholesome saying, and she bore it in mind;
but "a word in season, how good it is!" had equal wisdom and superior
authority; and compassionate affection for the young wife, who was
blindly laying waste her own life and another's, who was pursuing the
phantoms of pride, vanity, and pleasure, and turning her back on love
and duty, carried the day over caution and mere worldly prudence. "I
will tell her the truth," said Mrs. Stanbourne to herself. "It may
turn her against me, she is so proud, and so violent in her temper;
but no matter for that, if my speaking the truth may only do her good,
and spare her something in the future. Katharine used to love me once,
I sincerely believe; but I doubt whether she loves any one now. What
can have come over the girl?"
Among the many valuable qualities possessed by Katharine's one true
friend, tact was conspicuous; and she exercised it on the present
occasion. She selected her opportunity well, and she employed it with
admirable discretion. There was no assumption of superiority, no
"lecturing" tone in the grave, kind words which she addressed to
Robert Streightley's wife, and in which she appealed to her sense of
right, of duty, of delicacy, and of gratitude. Katharine could not
deny the truth of any thing she said. She had married Robert
Streightley because he was a rich man, and she had given him nothing
in return, not only for all the money, but for all the love, which he
lavished upon her, that it was in her power to withhold. The interview
was a painful one to both parties; especially painful to Katharine,
who had to hide from her friend the real motive which had actuated her
in her marriage and in her subsequent conduct--a motive in which not
only did there not exist the smallest excuse, but which in reality
increased her guiltiness towards the man whom she had married. She
could not deny the truth; she could not impugn the force of the
contrast presented by his conduct, which Mrs. Stanbourne painted to
her in all the glowing colours of generosity, devotion, patience, and
forbearance. Katharine felt, as she promised, that she never could
forget the picture as drawn by her friend; it appealed to all that was
best in her nature; it touched her innate nobility of soul. Nor did
she forget it: in the time to come she bore it, every hue, every tint,
in her memory.
Mrs. Stanbourne was surprised and delighted at the result of her
hazardous interposition.
"I will not pretend to feel towards him what I do not feel," said
Katharine, in her softest tones, as their conversation drew to a
close; "but I will be more considerate of him--I will be less
selfish--I will try to make him happier."
"Do so, my dear Katharine," said her faithful friend, "and depend on
it, your own happiness will be the result. You have only to do your
duty to your husband, and the feelings to which you could not pretend,
and ought not to feign, will arise in your heart spontaneously. Try to
make him happy, because it is right and you owe it to him, and you
will soon find your own happiness centred in him as his is in you."
The elder lady kissed the younger gravely, and left her. Katharine
covered her face with her hands, and burst into tears. She very rarely
wept; and now, though she thought, "Ah, if she only knew--if she only
knew that love is dead for me!" there was refreshment in the transient
passion of grief and self-reproach, and a new dawn of better days in
the frank resolution with which Katharine determined on the fulfilment
of her promise.
Mr. Thacker's promised visit to Middlemeads was duly paid. He seldom
allowed himself a holiday; but this visit was an agreeable combination
of pleasure and business, in which he thought he might very safely
indulge. Besides, to have it known that he was staying with
Streightley of Bullion Lane; to have letters addressed to and to
date them from "Middlemeads, Bucks;" to do the _grand seigneur_ for
a few days, and simultaneously to do a very excellent stroke of
business,--all these things were pleasant to Daniel Thacker's soul. He
arrived late, only in time to dress for dinner; during which repast he
contrived to impress Mrs. Stanbourne, next to whom he was seated, with
a holy horror of his appearance, manners, and conversation; for Mr.
Thacker had what his sisters were in the habit of calling his "company
manners" towards ladies, and which consisted either in repulsive
insolence and would-be sarcasm, or rather more repulsive adulation.
Something had tended to put Mr. Thacker into great spirits on this
particular evening. The dinner had been very good, the wines
excellent; there was an air of luxurious refinement all around him,
and his immediate proximity to Mrs. Stanbourne was specially grateful.
He knew her as a woman of mark even among persons of mark; and "he
liked that kind of thing, damme!" as he was accustomed to remark in
moments of confidence. It mattered little to him that he received at
first merely polite and at last chilling monosyllabic replies to his
advances; he saw his way towards concocting a paragraph for the
fashionable weekly paper in which his name should be included amongst
a list of "swells" as being entertained at Middlemeads; and for what
Mrs. Stanbourne really thought of him he cared but little. With the
person with whom it was essential to him that he should stand well, he
made much greater progress. Before the ladies retired for the night,
and while Katharine was playing, he had flung himself on an ottoman
where was seated Hester Gould, and had said in the nearest approach to
a _demi-voix_ which with his natural nasal intonation he could
command----
"Are you an early riser, Miss Gould?"
Hester looked at him with a little astonishment, and without the
slightest affectation of hauteur, at the sudden question, and replied,
"Always, Mr. Thacker. I was compelled, as you know--who better?--to
get up early to go to my pupils; and since I have lost the necessity I
have not discontinued the practice."
"That's right; it's a good habit; though, I suppose, one not much
indulged in here. However, that's so much the better. I want a quiet
half-hour's chat with you. Could you be in the grounds at eight
to-morrow morning?"
A properly-regulated young lady would have blushed and exclaimed at
this proposition; a flirt would have manipulated her fan, and nodded
assent behind it. Hester Gould was neither, and did neither. She
simply looked Mr. Thacker straight in the face, and said "Yes."
"All right," said Mr. Thacker. "There's a sun-dial, or something of
the kind, I think I noticed, at the end of the house which fronts the
bay-window of this room. If you could meet me there at eight, we could
stroll on and have our talk without fear of interruption."
To which Hester Gould merely replied: "I know it; I will be there."
Daniel Thacker prided himself on his punctuality; but when, attired
in an unmistakably new suit of morning-dress, he arrived at the
trysting-place the next morning, he found Miss Gould there before him.
After the ordinary salutations they turned their backs on the house,
and walked on side by side. Then Mr. Thacker told her that since she
had been pleased to honour him with her confidence, and to employ him
as her man of business, he had been incessantly turning in his mind a
scheme for employing some of the large sums of ready-money which were
lying at her command; and that after great cogitation, and while he
was even thoroughly undecided what investment to recommend to her, by
the merest chance an opportunity had offered which ought not to be
missed, and which, unless she was warped by silly sentimentality, she
ought certainly to profit by.
Miss Gould listened attentively, and then said: "Unless I am warped by
silly sentimentality? I don't think that would ever stand in my way,
Mr. Thacker. Of what nature is the investment you propose?"
"A mortgage on an estate, worth at least a third more than the money
required to be raised."
"There seems very little sentimentality in that. So far as my small
experience of business matters goes, I cannot conceive any thing more
safe and prosaic. What can you mean, Mr. Thacker? Is it a case of
widow and orphan, or of family estate held since the Conquest passing
into the hands of a _parvenu?_ Believe me, I'm adamant on both those
points. If husband and father squanders and dissipates, widow and
orphan must pay the penalty; if Hugo de Fitzurse is sold up, why
should not Jones of Manchester buy Bruin Castle, moat, portcullis,
battlements, and all?"
Such a sentiment as this delighted Daniel Thacker amazingly. He looked
at his companion with intense admiration, as he said, "Of course; why
not? But it's scarcely that sort of sentimentality that I alluded to.
Suppose the estate in question, on the mortgage of which the money was
to be lent, had belonged to a friend--one whom you had--liked very
much; what then?"
"What then? Now really, my dear Mr. Thacker, this appears to me to be
slightly childish. Of course I should be extra glad to know that my
loan of the money had been serviceable to my friend. He, she, or it
would be glad to know that I had good security; and as to the
sentimentality of the affair, I don't see the least occasion for it,
unless the friend could not pay, and there arose a necessity for--what
do you call it?--foreclosing."
Daniel Thacker laughed outright--a short, sharp, shrill laugh of
intense enjoyment. "Miss Gould," he said, "I cannot tell you how
immensely I respect you. You are out and away the best woman of
business I ever met. Then you seem to entertain this notion of the
mortgage?"
"If you prove to me that it is all sound and sufficient. But what
about the sentimentality? Where is the estate on which the money is to
be lent?"
"I should say," said Mr. Thacker, stopping short, and looking fixedly
at her,--"I should say that at this moment we are standing in about
the very middle of it."
Hester Gould had stopped when her companion stopped; and as he said
these words a bright flush overspread her cheeks, and a bright light
flashed into her eyes. That was all the outward and visible sign of
the prospect which Thacker's speech had conjured up. Robert
Streightley pressed for money--that money lent by her, and not
repaid--she the mistress of that much-vaunted estate--she the heiress
in due course of time dispossessing the man who slighted, and humbling
the woman who rivalled her. All these thoughts glanced through
Hester's mind, but the only sign of their presence was the flush of
her cheek and the gleam of her eyes. Daniel Thacker marked both, but
it was not his game to be reckoned appreciative in such matters; so he
said:
"You are silent, Miss Gould. I thought my last announcement would
settle the question."
"Then you for once thought wrong, Mr. Thacker," said Hester with an
effort. "I am sorry to hear that Mr. Streightley requires this money;
though probably a loan under such circumstances is the commonest
thing in his experience of business. I am glad I am able to let
him have it. I only make one stipulation, that my name does not
appear in the matter. You will lend the money, if you please, and Mr.
Streight----the borrower will only hear of you in the transaction.
Details we can arrange at another opportunity. Now shall we turn
towards the house?"
"One moment, Miss Gould. I'm a bad hand at expressing myself in this
kind of thing, but--but--" to his intense astonishment Mr. Thacker
found himself turning very red and stammering audibly--"but the fact
is, that there is a charm about you which--which--the way in which you
adapt yourself to business, and your knowledge of the world; and--I
can assure you I've never been looked upon as a marrying man, but if
you would do me the honour to accept my hand, I would----"
"You would actually sacrifice yourself," said Hester with a slight
smile. "No, Mr. Thacker; I must say no. Believe me, I'm fully sensible
of the honour, but I think we know a little too much of each other for
a happy match. I should not care very much to be valued by my husband
for the manner in which I 'adapted myself to business,' as you call
it; and I've little doubt that when you take a wife, it will be some
pretty girl whose want of 'knowledge of the world' will not be her
least recommendation. No; we will be very good friends, if you please,
and as my man of business you will--but let us be candid--you will
always make a good thing of me, without----. I think we understand
each other?" And to this plain speech Mr. Thacker made no other
protest than a shoulder-shrug.
Before Hester Gould went to bed that night she stood in the bay-window
of her room, looking out upon the garden and the park beyond, bathed
in the bright moonlight. For more than a quarter of an hour she stood
thus, calmly contemplating the scene before her. Then she said, as she
turned away, "Mistress of this place, which that proud woman
downstairs exults so in!--mistress of this place, and Robert
Streightley's creditor! It could not have been very deep-rooted, my
love for that man. And yet I don't know; I think at one time it
equalled my present hate of him--and of her; and then, God knows, it
must have been deep enough!"