AMARYLLIS IN A MARQUEE.
The prettiest public _fêtes_ in London are those given in the gardens
of the Botanical Society in the Regent's Park. There is to be found
plenty of fresh green turf; there are myriads of lovely flowers
blooming in open beds, or tastefully arranged beneath the marquees;
there are solemn old big trees stretching out their umbrageous arms,
and in their majesty making one think even less favourably than usual
of the perky straggling sticks at South Kensington; there are the
bands of two or three guards regiments, having sufficient compassion
on the visitors to play one after the other, and not, as in some
places, at the same time; and there is generally a collection of the
nicest-looking people in town. There are few _savans_, and not much
literary or artistic talent; but as _savans_ and the professors of
literary and artistic talent are for the most part any thing but
nice-looking, and as flirtation is the science to which at these
gatherings attention is principally devoted, their loss is not felt;
indeed it may be safely said that the general company is happier for
their absence.
Although the last _fête_ of the season is scarcely to be compared to
its immediate predecessor, the warm weather of the two preceding days
had done very much in contributing to its gaiety on the first occasion
when Mr. Charles Yeldham found himself making holiday from his work,
and taking part in a grand ceremony of nothing-doing with those whose
lives were passed in never doing any thing; and, like most men who
rarely emerge from the business of their lives to seek a temporary
respite from perpetual work in a few brief hours of enjoyment, Charley
was determined to make the most of his time, and to reap the full
value of those precious hours which he had grudgingly given up. With
his chum leaning on his arm, he made his way through the fruit-tent
and the flower-tent, round the American garden, where the glorious
azalias, so lately a mass of magnificent beauty, now stood bare and
drooping; now attracting the attention of a group of faded dowagers by
his energy and volubility; anon pausing in rapt attention, listening
to the strains of the melody-breathing "Sonnambula," as performed by
the Grenadiers, or nodding head and beating hand in sufficiently
ill-kept time to a whirlwind galop rattled through by the band of the
Artillery. Into his holiday, as into his work, Charley had thrown his
whole heart; he had determined to shut out temporarily all thoughts of
attorneys, pleas, work, and worry, and he went in for the pleasures of
the day with an eagerness and an impetuosity that perfectly astonished
his companion.
"I'll tell you what it is, Charley," said Gordon Frere, after they had
careered round the gardens, and were standing once more by the gate at
which they had entered--"I'll tell you what it is; you're like a
country cousin, by Jove! or one of those horrible fellows that come up
to town with a letter of introduction. You want to see every thing,
and all at once. It's a deuced good thing that you don't often give
yourself an outing, or you'd be wanting me to take you to the Thames
Tunnel, and the Monument, and Madame Tussaud's, and all sorts of
wonderful places. Here have we been rushing about from pillar to post,
or rather from tent to tent, and from band to band, and you've never
yet given me breathing-time to look round and speak to any of the
people I know. Now you really must hold on for a moment, for it's just
upon three o'clock, and that's the time that Kate--Miss Guyon, I
mean--said she should be here; and I promised to be near the entrance,
to join her at once."
He spoke with animation, and his bright eyes glowed with fire as he
seized his old friend by the shoulders and used a feigned force to
arrest his progress. You see Mr. Gordon Frere was brimming over with
happiness. To be six-and-twenty years of age; to be good-looking; to
have high animal spirits; to have indulgent tradespeople, and a
tolerable sufficiency of pocket-money; to be in love with a very
charming girl, and to have your passion returned, are all things
calculated to make a man content with life, and disposed to regard
human nature from its best point of view. He was pleased to speak of
himself as a "creature of impulse," and, by some accident probably, he
rightly described himself. Whatever best pleased him for the time
being he took up and went in for earnestly and vigorously. He had
done so all his life, in cricketing, rowing, riding, at school and
college--actually once in reading, when he studied so hard and to so
much purpose apparently, that old Mr. Yeldham wrote to Charles,
anticipating for his son's chum and his own pupil the highest
University honours; but Gordon slacked off, and when the class-list
came out, a double-third was all the position awarded him. Up to
this time the "impulse" had not been shown very strongly in any
love-affairs: he had had his ball-room flirtations, involving
bouquet-sending, Rotten-Row riding, Opera-box haunting, &c., as all
men have; but he had never--to Charles Yeldham's idea at least--been
so really smitten with any one as he announced himself to be with Miss
Guyon. So his honest old chum, albeit he had his own views of the
probable reception of Gordon's proposal by Mr. Guyon, could not find
it in his heart to check him, and only smiled pleasantly as he said:
"All right, Gordon; all right, my boy. But you talk of my taking
you about here and there, as though I were not a mere child in
leading-strings in such a place as this, to be shown each separate
sight in the proper order. Now we've seen the fruit and the flowers,
and listened to the bands, let us take a look at the people.
Tremendous, what you call 'swells,' are they not? No end of crinoline,
and flowers, and finery. By Jove! just turn a few of these young
ladies to walk through the Temple Gardens, and there would not be much
work done that day. Every clerk's nose would be glued to the window;
and I verily believe that even old Farrar, our underneath neighbour,
would leave his books and his papers for such a refreshing sight. Now
there's one,--look there! that tall girl just coming in, with--hallo!
steady, young 'un; what's the matter?"
Charley Yeldham might well cry "steady;" for Gordon gave a visible
start as he turned in the direction indicated by his friend; and his
tone was thick and hurried as he said, "That's Miss Guyon and her
father--and--who the devil's that man with them?"
"Now that's a curious thing," said Yeldham with provoking placidity.
"I don't suppose I know another soul in all this large gathering; but
I do know that man intimately, and I can tell you who he is. That's
Robert Streightley, the City man, that you've so often heard me speak
of, and--but what has come to him? Talk of 'swells,' why, I should
scarcely have recognised Bob Sobersides, as they used to call him, in
that costume. And so that is Miss Guyon, is it? that's Miss Guyon I
say, young 'un, she's--she's wonderfully lovely."
"For God's sake, don't stand staring there with your mouth open,
Charley; but let us go up and speak to these people. They've seen us
already;" and Mr. Frere, passing his arm through his friend's, led him
up to the group, and after making his own salutations, freely
presented him to Miss Guyon and her father. Immediately after his
introduction, Yeldham turned and shook hands with Robert Streightley;
and after a few words of astonishment from each at meeting the other
in such a place, they commenced a conversation, in which Mr. Guyon
took part, leaving Gordon Frere and Katharine walking together a
little in advance of them.
There are few things more embarrassing than having something very
particular to say, knowing that you will have great difficulty in
saying it, and being perfectly convinced that if ever it is to be said
at all, the exact time has arrived. This was Gordon Frere's position.
He knew that the end of the season had arrived; that another fortnight
would see Miss Guyon flown, with the rest of the fashionable world, to
some English sea-board, foreign watering-place, or country-house,
whither he could not have the remotest excuse for following her; he
knew the proverbial danger of delay, especially in love-affairs; he
fully shared in Charley Yeldham's only half-expressed doubts as to the
reception of his proposal by Mr. Guyon, and in the sudden and
unexpected appearance upon the scene of Robert Streightley whom he had
never met before, but of whom, his wealth, his talents, his City
position, he had heard frequently from Charley--he saw a new and
important element of danger. If he intended to make his _coup_ for the
winning of this peerless beauty, now was the time. So he screwed up
his courage and began.
"You are a little late, Miss Guyon,"--this in a low, deep, tremulous
voice; "you said you would be here at three."
"You don't pretend to say that you recollect any thing I said about
it, Mr. Frere?" in the same tone. "I scarcely remembered we had
touched upon the subject."
"Don't you pretend to imagine any such thing so far as I am concerned,
Miss Guyon. No, no; pardon me for one instant; you know that whatever
concerns you, in however trifling a degree,--and more especially when
it relates to the chance of my seeing you,--is always of importance to
me."
He had bent his gaze upon her, as he said this, and he received a
faint fluttering glance as his first reply. Then she said,
"I was scarcely conceited enough to think so, and--and of course I
feel the compliment. However, we _have_ met, you see."
"Yes; and so long as that has come about, no matter how late you are;
for you see I still hold to my original opinion. However late or
early, I must be doubly thankful for the chances of meeting you now.
For the season's at an end, and I suppose you will be off with the
rest?"
"I suppose so; though nothing is settled, I believe."
"And where do you go?"
"Papa talked of Scarborough some time ago. He has not said any thing
about it lately; and as I am wholly indifferent on the subject, I'm
very good to him, and let him have his own way."
"Are you similarly complaisant to Mr. Guyon in all things?"
There must have been something special in the tone of his voice; for
she looked up quickly with a slight flush, and said,
"In all matters in which I take no particular interest. Where I am
concerned I am _exigeante_, and--I am afraid--stubborn."
"Let us call it 'firm,' Miss Guyon," said Frere, with a slight smile.
"Firmness is a quality by no means reprehensible, even when exercised
towards one's father. It's a horrible thing this break-up of the
season, especially as one gets older. All the little pleasant--well, I
suppose I may call them friendships--are nipped in the bud until next
April, when one has to begin again and struggle on until August, when
we find ourselves in exactly the same position in which we were a
twelvemonth before."
"That is, unless we take up with a different set of friends," said
Katharine; "and I believe there are instances on record of such a
change."
Gordon Frere looked at her again, and threw an additional warmth into
his voice as he said, "Granted that fidelity is uncommon, Miss Guyon,
it should be the more prized when it is found. You are going to-night
to Mrs. Tresillian's?"
"Yes; Lady Henmarsh has promised to take me. It is almost my 'last
rose of summer;' positively the last of our ball-engagements this
season."
"Let us trust it will be one of the pleasantest. You will come early,
and you will give me the first _valse_, and as many afterwards as you
can."
"I--I shall be very happy; but we shall leave early. Papa has a holy
horror of having his horses kept out late, more especially when he is
not present; and he will not be there to-night, I think; for he's
going to ask Mr. Streightley to dine with us, and I believe he wants
to talk business to him afterwards."
"Mr. Streightley going to dine with you! By the way, who is Mr.
Streightley?"
"Mr. Streightley? he's a horror--I didn't mean that. He's a City
friend of papa's, and, as I'm told, a very rich man."
"Very rich, and in the City, eh!" said Gordon Frere, looking over his
shoulder at the object of their remark. "He's better got up than most
of his genus. I think I could swear to Poole in his coat. Very rich,
and you've been told so, Miss Guyon! He's a lucky man."
"Is he, Mr. Frere? You'll excuse my saying that I don't follow you;
that I don't know why Mr. Streightley is lucky."
"Did you not yourself say that he was very rich, Miss Guyon, and that
you had been told so?" said Gordon, with more warmth than he had
previously exhibited. "Society acts as this gentleman's
_avant-coureur_, and repeats his claim to respect wherever he goes;
and of course he finds people prepared to proffer him ready-made
honour."
The bitterness in his tone jarred on Kate's ear. His face was averted,
so that there was no need for her to restrain the half-inquiring,
half-loving gaze with which she looked up at him as she said,
"I never knew you cynical before, Mr. Frere, and I don't think the
mood becomes you. Surely the notion that wealth is the most desirable
of all possessions is utterly exploded. For my own part, I think
that riches in a man--I mean when they are so great as to be talked
about--are something against him; something to be got over, like his
being black, or having a hump-back."
"This is a very refreshing doctrine, Miss Guyon; but I'm afraid it has
not many disciples; and even you would lean to the side of the modest
competence and----"
"I would lean to nothing; I would give way to nothing so palpably
sordid and base."
"You are strangely in earnest on this point, Miss Guyon."
"I am thoroughly in earnest about it; and I----"
"You cannot tell with what delight I hear it, Miss Guyon. I--you have
removed a certain distrust which has prevented me from----"
"As you say"--broke in the strident voice of Mr. Guyon, as he with
Streightley and Yeldham "formed up in line"--"In a formal dinner-party
you may sit side by side with people and never know any more about
them than if they were at opposite ends of the table. You're quite
right, Streightley, quite right. But to-night we're quite alone.
Katharine, my dear, Mr. Streightley has promised to take us as he
finds us, and come home to dinner to-day."
Miss Guyon bowed, and murmured her delight. Then said _sotto voce_,
"It is Mrs. Tresillian's night, papa, you recollect; and Lady Henmarsh
is coming to fetch me."
"O yes, my dear; of course, of course. Lady Henmarsh coming, eh! But
that won't make any difference."
"No, papa; only you won't mind my running away."
"Of course not, my dear; of course not, And how is my young friend
Gordon Frere? Blooming as usual. No need to ask that. Give your arm to
an old boy, Gordon; and trot him round, and show him all the--the
beauty of the day."
Gordon, who was eminently disgusted at the interruption of his
conversation with Kate, and who was showing his feelings in his
knitted brow and puckered mouth, had any hopes of a further _causerie_
which he might have entertained dashed to the ground by Mr. Guyon, who
passed his delicate lavender-glove through his young friend's arm and
led him off in triumph, while Streightley and Yeldham followed on
either side of Miss Guyon.
Few men could make themselves pleasanter companions than Ned Guyon
when he was so inclined. He had not merely a capital flow of animal
spirits, a store of what in women is called small-talk, but what in
men may better be described as broad talk, a keen perception of the
ludicrous, and a sufficient power of satire, but he had the great
knack--learned in his long experience of life--of exactly suiting his
conversation to his audience. He possessed in perfection the slang of
the clubs, which nowadays passes current for what is called "swell
talk," and which is not merely a peculiar _argot_ with special words
meaning special things, with excised pronouns and abbreviated nouns,
but which, to be perfect, must be spoken in a voice specially pitched
for the purpose. The voice and the language none had studied better
than Guyon; there were few men of his age, indeed, who had taken the
trouble to master either; but in the fashionable sinner's worldly
experience he had found the greatest profit in keeping himself _au
courant_ with the ways and manners of men of the rising generation.
Once let any of them perceive that he was a fogey, in the least
antiquated in his ideas or pursuits, and all hope of influence over
them was gone; but so long as he could take a leading part in their
follies, and blend undoubted past experience with apparent present
enjoyment, their houses, horses, purses were at his disposal; and it
was considered rather an honour among the subalterns of the Rag or the
Plungers from Aldershott to have dropped their money at _écarté_ or
_baccarat_ to such a cool clever hand as Mr. Guyon.
Perhaps the old diplomatist had never been in better force than on the
present occasion, although there was apparently little opportunity for
the exercise of his powers. Frere, _distrait_, if not savage, at
starting, found himself first listening to his companion's remarks;
then laughing at his stories; finally answering him, and leading him
on to further banter. With a fair proportion of the company present
Mr. Guyon had some acquaintance, and of nearly every body who was any
body he had some racy anecdote to whisper laughingly into his
companion's ear. It did not strike Frere until long afterwards
that all these piquant stories were indebted for their piquancy to a
half-sneering cynicism, a half-avowed libertinism; that in all the
broad principles of honour were ridiculed, and the scampish shifts of
so-called "gallantry" exalted; that the whole conversation, in fact,
was such as might have been expected from a _blasé_ youth or a
battered rake, but scarcely to be looked for in a gentleman whose
marriageable daughter was walking within a few feet of him.
They remained in the gardens until past six o'clock, promenading,
visiting the tents, stopping to speak to friends; but never on any
occasion had Gordon Frere another chance of approaching Miss Guyon. He
made several attempts; but invariably her father had something to say
to her--or to him--and cut in between them with the pleasantest smile
and the cheeriest remarks possible. It was not until just as they were
getting into the carriage that Mr. Guyon suddenly turned aside, and
saying, "Ah, by the way!" took out a card, wrote on it in pencil, in
his airiest manner borrowed an envelope from the ticket-taker standing
at his desk in the entrance, and despatched it by a commissionaire who
was in waiting. In that short interval Gordon Frere managed to slip
round to Miss Guyon's side and whisper, "The first valse, to-night?"
and to receive in reply an almost imperceptible acquiescence in the
glance of her eyes and the bending of her head. Then Mr. Guyon,
wheeling round, took a very affectionate leave of Gordon, and made a
polite bow to Charles Yeldham, handed his daughter into the carriage,
motioned to Streightley to follow her; and finally jumping lightly
in himself, they were whirled off, with much door-slamming and
horse-pawing.
The concluding episode of the little drama in which he had asserted
his position with Miss Guyon had reanimated Gordon Frere, and rendered
him happy and amiable. "Such a lord is Love, and Beauty such a
mistress of the world." So he turned cheerily to Yeldham, on whom he
had not bestowed so much as a glance or a thought for the past two
hours, and gripping his arm, said:
"Well, old boy, and what do you think of her?"
Mr. Charles Yeldham was seldom absent or preoccupied: he was far too
practical for that. But on the present occasion his thoughts must have
been engaged, for he started, with something like a flush on his
cheeks, as he said:
"Who? what, Gordon? I wasn't attending, I fear."
"I was asking you what you thought of Miss Guyon, Charley?"
"She is wonderfully beautiful."
"Well said, old fellow. Quite enthusiastic, by Jove!--for you, at all
events. But what I mean is, seriously, is not she something to be
proud of; something different from the ruck of grinning, simpering,
yea-nay girls one meets about--in such places as that we've just
left, for instance?"
"She is, indeed."
"I hope you talked to her. Not that I think--no offence to you, old
fellow--not that perhaps your talk would be exactly suited to her--too
deep, you know, and all that kind of thing--but still you would be
able to make out that she had a head on her shoulders. Doesn't she
talk well?"
"Well, to tell truth, I had not much opportunity of judging, for she
remained tolerably silent; and the conversation--such as it was--was
between Robert Streightley and myself."
"O, by the way, that fellow Streightley,--I've heard you speak of him.
Who is he, and what's all about him? What the deuce did old Guyon
bring him here for? and why has he gone home with them to dinner?"
"Ha, ha!" laughed Charles Yeldham. "'Beware, my lord, of jealousy!'
Here's an Othello for you! I don't think, Gordon, you need look with
much suspicion on Robert Streightley, unless you've fixed your
affections on good investments or early information; and then you
would stand no chance with him, I can tell you. But he's been too long
engaged to Capel Court to waver in his allegiance."
"But what on earth brought him here?"
"What? Who? you should ask, and I would answer, your intended
father-in-law. There's no man with a clearer head for business: what
will be more explanatory, I will say there's no man better able to put
a friend on to 'a good thing' than Streightley; and I fancy Mr. Guyon
would not be above a little stagging if he could act on Streightley's
information."
"But people don't get City information or talk to each other on what
you call 'stagging' topics at Botanical Fêtes. Why did he bring him
here?"
"O impetuous youth, 'still harping on my daughter!' don't you see that
there must be a _quid pro quo_? If Mr. Streightley is to assist Mr.
Guyon, why should not Mr. Guyon show Mr. Streightley the elevated
position which he holds, the society in which he moves?"
"Yes, that's all very well; but I say, Charley, Streightley don't know
Mrs. Tresillian, does he?"
"Who's Mrs. Tresillian?"
"The wife of the member for Penmouth; people who live at Rutland Gate,
and entertain perpetually. He's not likely to be going there to-night,
this Streightley, is he?"
"No more than he's likely to be going to Kamschatka; not so likely.
Why?"
"O, nothing; only Miss Guyon is going there--and so am I."
"Is Miss Guyon going? Ah, well, I hope you'll enjoy yourself."
And during their ride to chambers in the hansom, both men were
singularly silent.
Mr. Streightley had plenty of time to make himself acquainted with the
features of the private friends and the public celebrities who were
enshrined in Miss Guyon's photographic album; with the views of the
Rhine and the Moselle; with the cards of callers "lurking within the
bowl;" with the tastefully-arranged flowers and their elegant basket;
with the paper-knife, like a golden dagger; with Gustave Doré's latest
sketches; and with all the innumerable nicknacks of a lady's table.
Miss Guyon had gone straight to her room; and Mr. Guyon, begging to be
excused, as he had a few little matters of business, had retired into
what he called his "study,"--a very gloomy little den behind the
dining-room, furnished with a battered leather writing-table, a
cane-bottomed chair, a grim bust of a deceased friend powdered with
"blacks," a boot-jack, a clothes-brush, a glass-case of stuffed birds,
and the Court Guide for 1850. Streightley had been shown, at Mr.
Guyon's suggestion, into a spare bedroom, where he had performed a
brief toilet, and then mooned about the drawing-room, occupying
himself in the manner just described. Mr. Guyon was the first to break
in on his solitude; and shortly afterwards Miss Guyon entered the
room, looking so lovely that Robert Streightley remained spell-bound,
and could not take his eyes from her. She wore a pale mauve-silk
dress, with soft _tulle_ half-way over it, looped up with real Cape
jasmine, a tiny _bouquet_ of the same flower in her bosom; and her
hair gave her a certain air of peculiarity, and shed around her a
subtle and intoxicating perfume. Round her neck she wore a string of
pearls with a diamond clasp; and the same on each arm completed her
jewelry. Looking at her, Robert Streightley seemed to lose his
identity, and to become part and portion of some fairy story which he
had read, some picture of _moyen-âge_ pageant which he had seen.
Women? Yes, he had known women before--his mother, Ellen, Hester
Gould. What had they in common with this soft, delicate, queenly
creature, the touch of whose hand on his arm thrilled him to the bone,
the sound of whose voice sent the blood rushing to his heart, the
glance of whose eye--light, fleeting, and uninterested though it
was--he would have purchased at the price of a king's ransom.
The dinner was good, and Mr. Guyon was gay; but neither succulent
dishes nor brilliant sallies had much effect on Robert Streightley.
They were scarcely seated before he learned, from a chance observation
uttered by Miss Guyon, that she was going to Mrs. Tresillian's ball;
and the knowledge that Gordon Frere would probably meet her there--a
fact which he divined intuitively--weighed heavily on Streightley's
mind. He tried to exert himself to respond to his host; he tried to
talk lightly and pleasantly to Kate, who seemed in the highest
spirits, but all unsuccessfully. Whenever there was a lull in the
conversation, he fancied her in Frere's arms being whirled round the
room, or listening to his low voice with such a pleased expression on
her face as he had seen there that night in the Opera-box. Those
bright eyes, that flow of spirits, that general happiness, which even
prompted her to be far more agreeable to him and far more recognisant
of his presence than she had yet ever deigned to be, were not
they all due to the fact that she was going to meet his--well, why
not?--his rival? As he was thinking thus the servant entered the room
bearing a letter, which Miss Guyon read, opened, and flung on the
table with an air of vexation, that contrasted strongly with her
recent good-temper.
"It's too bad!" she cried in a petulant voice; "too bad and I don't
believe a word of it."
"What's the matter, Kate, my child!" asked Mr. Guyon in his blandest
tones.
"After dressing myself, and setting my heart upon it--the last ball of
the season too--it's--it's most horribly annoying!" and Miss Guyon bit
her lip very hard, and threw back her head to stop her tears.
"My dear Kate," said Mr. Guyon, looking like a modern edition of
Lucius Junius Brutus, "you seem to forget that, besides your father,
there is present a gentleman who--no, pardon me, my dear Streightley,
allow me to speak--who should be--hem!--thought of. _What_--if I may
again be allowed to put the question,--_what_ is there in that note
that can have so very much discomposed you?"
"I beg your pardon, Mr. Streightley--I--but it is so annoying! Here's
Lady Henmarsh, papa, writes to say she cannot go to Mrs. Tresillian's
to-night. She's got one of her headaches--those horrible headaches
that I don't believe in one bit--and she knows I was looking forward
to her taking me, and that it will be impossible for me to go without
her. It _is_ so vexing!"
Mr. Guyon was about firing off an elaborate remark; but hearing
Streightley commencing to speak, he stopped himself, and waved his
hand towards his friend.
"I was--eh, you're very kind--no, I was only going to say," said
Streightley, with a hesitation which was quite strange to him, "that
I'm sure I sympathise with you, Miss Guyon--sympathise with you
thoroughly. It is very annoying to be balked in any thing that
we've--set our minds on, as I may say. But what I was going to say
was--I don't know about these kind of things, of course, as you know,
Mr. Guyon, and no doubt you too, Miss Guyon; but could not your papa,
Miss Guyon,--could not your papa be your escort to this ball?"
It was a really grateful glance that Kate shot at him as she said, "O,
thank you so very much for the suggestion, Mr. Streightley. Of course
he could. Papa, do you hear?"
"I do, my dear. I hear Mr. Streightley's suggestion, which is exactly
in accord with that--that--high-mindedness and--and suggestiveness for
which I've always given him credit. But unfortunately it's impossible,
Kate; perfectly impossible to-night. I have some documents in there,"
jerking his head towards the den behind, "the perusal of which will
occupy me until--ah, daybreak."
Miss Guyon said not another word, but rose from the table as her
father ceased speaking. She wished Mr. Streightley "good-night,"
and after a moment's hesitation gave him her hand; she kissed Mr.
Guyon's forehead--the little space which was not covered with his
carefully-poodled hair--with her lips, and left the room. But as she
passed the glass, Streightley caught a glimpse of the reflection of
her face, and saw that every nerve in it was quivering with repressed
passion. He knew the reason well enough, and it did not tend to raise
his already-drooping spirits; so he shortly afterwards took his leave
and went home, where he found his sister Ellen waiting up for him to
tell him that Hester Gould had been spending the evening with her,
having previously been to the Botanical Fête, where she had seen the
beautiful Miss Guyon.
"And you were walking with her, Hester says, Robert," said Miss Ellen;
"she saw you, though you didn't see her. How I should like to see her,
Robert! Now tell me all about her. Is she so beautiful? and is she
going to be married?"
"My dear child," said Robert in rather a harsh tone, "do you imagine I
tell you the names of a tithe of the people I know in business? Mr.
Guyon is a business acquaintance of mine; and I have been introduced
to his daughter. So far as I am a judge, she is very beautiful; but
really though I have seen her a few times, she has not yet confided to
me whether she is going to be married or not."
On the receipt of which short answer, Miss Ellen Streightley, telling
her brother "he need not snap her head off," handed him his candle and
went to bed.
Mr. Guyon had said that the "perusal" of certain "documents" would
occupy him until daybreak; but long before the first faint thread of
dawn appeared in the eastern sky that gentleman was sleeping the sleep
of the just, having immediately after Streightley's departure slipped
down to his Club, and returned lighter in heart and heavier in purse
after playing a few rubbers with consummate skill and great luck. But
gleaming on certain characters in this veracious history, the first
rays of the rising sun found them defiant of sleep, if not actively
engaged. Found Katharine Guyon with her dark hair streaming over her
pillow, bedewed with tears of rage and disappointment, and her eyes,
under their swollen lids, bright and staring; found Robert
Streightley, racked with sharp pangs of jealousy and doubt, vainly
courting repose; found Gordon Frere lounging homeward up Piccadilly,
his hands plunged in his trousers-pockets, his opera-hat hanging
listlessly on the back of his head, a cigar in his mouth, and a faded
flower in his coat, chafing bitterly against the absence of his
heart's idol from Mrs. Tresillian's ball, and at the postponement of
the love-avowal which he had determined to make; finally, found
Charles Yeldham, bright, fresh, and glowing from his morning bath,
just settling down to his desk, with his mind filled partly with
thoughts of the work he was about to commence, partly with
reminiscences of a queenly figure, a stately walk, and a bright pair
of eyes, seen yesterday for the first time.