LEFT LAMENTING.
The morning sun, which arose on the world with its accustomed
regularity, shone steadily on to its noonday splendour; but found
Katharine no more resigned or peaceful than she had been on the
previous night. She had been little used to opposition or
contradiction, and she did not brook them easily. That she should have
been disappointed in the matter of Mrs. Tresillian's ball was natural
enough; but that she should have been put so completely out of temper
and out of spirits by the disappointment as to have made the fact
glaringly apparent to her father and the "City man," was not at all
natural to Katharine's well-bred self-command and sense of what was
due to good manners and her self-respect. She was discontented with
herself, provoked with Lady Henmarsh, and miserable in reflecting upon
the disappointment which Gordon Frere had doubtless sustained, and in
fancying that he might have imputed her absence to coldness or
caprice. Love had taken possession of the girl, had utterly humbled
her, and she had no thought of her own charms, her own importance, no
notion that Frere might hesitate to ask her to share a destiny which
could not be represented as brilliant; she never considered or
questioned his position for a moment. She knew he was well-born,
well-connected, and in good society; but she knew and cared to know
nothing beyond. She had acquired the enchanting certainty that he
loved her; she felt that the next time they met he would tell her so;
and her heart had no room for any thing but the mingled rapture and
suspense which proceeded from the delightful experience of the
preceding day, and the pitiable disappointment of the preceding
evening.
Katharine did not see her father on the morning after the Botanical
Fête. When she went down to breakfast the dusty footman gave her a
message from Mr. Guyon, to the effect that he found himself obliged to
go out early on particular business, and as he could not say how long
he might be detained, she must not expect him to ride with her--he
would return to dinner. This message was a fresh annoyance to
Katharine, a new exacerbation of her already irritated temper. There
now, she should be unable to ride, and no doubt Gordon was looking
forward to meeting her in the Park, and would be again disappointed;
indeed he might think she was purposely avoiding him,--who could tell?
Katharine pushed her untasted breakfast from her and hurried upstairs
to the drawing-room, where she paced up and down before the long
windows with an impatient tread. Would he come? Would he call on her
at the delightfully unconventional early hour he had selected for his
first well-remembered visit? Perhaps--nay surely, he would! It was not
far from eleven now; she glanced at the chimney-glass, smoothed her
glossy hair, inspected the condition of her neat morning-dress; and
then sat down to her piano to play all the tunes which he liked, and
so get over the interval before his coming would be possible. But the
expedient was not successful; the gay strains died away in harmonised
reveries, sometimes into silence, as the girl sat and thought of her
lover--glorified by her imagination and exalted by her own fervent
nature into a very different being from the real Gordon Frere. If
Katharine could but have seen him at that hour, what a difference
might it not have made to them and to others! He was turning over the
leaves of a Railway Guide, and talking away to Yeldham in all the
newborn impetuosity of his approval of his friend's advice, and his
resolution to act upon it. Yes, he would go at once; he would not
delay an hour, he would not trust himself to see Katharine again. If
he had met her at the Tresillians, he should certainly have committed
himself; and Yeldham was right, quite right; of course Mr. Guyon would
only laugh at him; and very justly, unless he could put forward some
decided prospect for his consideration. Perhaps it was better that he
had had no understanding with Katharine as to meeting within a day or
two; he might not have been able to resist seeing her again. He would
write her a note though, just a line saying he should be out of town
for a few days--he must indeed, for she had asked him to inquire for
some music she wanted at Cramer's: he could just write the note and
get the music, and send both to Queen Anne Street before starting for
the station. He flung down the Railway Guide, took up his hat and
departed, whistling as he descended the staircase with an invincible
light-heartedness, whereat Charles Yeldham smiled. The smile was not
gay, however, and it vanished quickly, and the barrister laid down his
pen, leaned his chin upon his folded hands, and gazed out of the
window with eyes that saw nothing they looked upon. It was a most
unusual thing for Charles Yeldham to indulge in a fit of abstraction,
and the indulgence was brief. He brought his gaze and his thoughts
back again with an effort, shook his hair from his forehead, and
resumed his work doggedly.
Mr. Guyon, returning from his business expedition at about one
o'clock, and proposing to let himself into the house by means of his
latch-key, as he did not feel particularly desirous of an interview
with Katharine just then, and feared she might come down to seek him,
if she heard a ring, found a commissionaire just in the act of pulling
the bell.
"Wait a minute, my man," said Mr. Guyon in his cheery way; "I'll open
the door," and he suited the action to the word. "What have you got
there? O, I see,--a parcel and a note for my daughter. You're paid,
are you, eh? Never mind; here's another sixpence--good-day."
The man turned away, well pleased, and Mr. Guyon, carrying the parcel
in his hand, went on into his own room. There was a note with the
parcel; which was evidently a roll of music. Mr. Guyon looked at it,
considered it, finally, muttering "It will always be easy to say the
fellow must have lost it," he opened and read the missive. As he did
so, his face brightened up. "Out of town, eh? on important business;
trusts to see her the moment he returns, eh? Not if I know it, Mr.
Frere,--not if I know it." Then Mr. Guyon put the note carefully away
in his pocketbook, for destruction at a convenient season.
He next proceeded to search among a heap of cards stuck into the frame
of the chimney-glass for one bearing the inscription "Mr. Gordon
Frere," passed it under the riband with which the parcel was fastened,
and rang the bell.
"Take this to Miss Guyon," said he to the footman, who answered the
summons. "A commissionaire brought it just now."
Katharine was standing by one of the windows when the man entered the
drawing-room, salver in hand. Her tall graceful figure and proud head
expressed eager anticipation and waiting in their attitude.
"A parcel, ma'am," said the man; "a commissioner 'ave brought it."
"Put it down," she said, without turning her head; and several minutes
elapsed before she looked round, or remembered the interruption. At
length she sighed impatiently, and said aloud: "He will hardly come
now, it is too near lunchtime; and if he comes later, the room is sure
to be full of bores, as usual. However, I had rather he came, no
matter who may be here. But it is very stupid of him not to call
early." At this moment her eye lighted on the parcel, and the card
attached to it. The colour rushed violently into her face, and then
subsided, leaving Katharine many shades paler than usual.
Mr. Guyon was in very good spirits when he met his daughter at lunch.
He talked and laughed and made himself as agreeable as if she had been
somebody else's daughter and worth cultivating. He congratulated
Katharine on her appearance both at the _fête_ and at dinner on the
previous day; he asked her where her bonnet came from, and whether her
milliner was determined to ruin him completely this season? To all
these sallies Katharine replied little; she was pale, _distraite_,
decidedly out of humour. Mr. Guyon shot sharp inquiring glances at her
across the table, wholly unperceived. He was a little surprised at her
mood. "By Jove!" he thought, "she has been harder bit than I
suspected, and this has been a near thing, I fancy. I've only given
Hetty the office just in time. Something must be done before this
dandy fellow comes back,--and it won't be too easy to manage Kate
either."
These reflections troubled Mr. Guyon a little, and repressed the fine
flow of his spirits; but his daughter took as little notice of one of
his moods as of the other.
"Have you heard how Lady Henmarsh is to-day?" she asked absently; and
the seemingly harmless question brought a more impartially diffused
colour to Mr. Guyon's face than the evenly-defined bloom which usually
embellished it.
"No," he replied decisively; "have you?"
"I have not," said Katharine. "I was thinking of walking round there
to inquire for her; but James makes out that there is so much to do,
after yesterday, that I saw he would only grumble if I took him
out,"--Mr. Guyon breathed rather quickly, and then looked
relieved,--"and, as I knew if any thing serious had been the matter
with her or Sir Timothy, she would have put us off for to-day, it
didn't matter."
"Ah, by the bye, yes!" returned her father, "we dine there to-day."
It was rather odd that Mr. Guyon should have said this in a tone of
reminiscent surprise; for his particular business of that morning had
included, if not entirely consisted of, a long interview with Lady
Henmarsh; which interview had concluded with these words:
"Well, then, good-bye until seven. You quite understand?" on the part
of the gentleman; and "Yes, I quite understand," on the part of the
lady.
It will be remembered that Mr. Guyon had despatched a note to his
complaisant cousin in the course of the preceding day, which note had
borne fruit in Katharine's disappointment of the evening. It had also
prepared Lady Henmarsh for Mr. Guyon's visit, and had convinced her
that he "meant business." It is unnecessary to go into the details of
the interview, which had taken place while Katharine had watched and
waited throughout the dreary hours, and in which her fate was settled,
so far as it was in the power of her father and her chaperone to
settle it. Its bearings will all be clearly developed by the results;
it is enough at present that each of the parties was satisfied with
the views entertained and the promises made by the other.
Katharine looked very bright and beautiful that evening, and her
manner was as gay and gracious as if Lady Henmarsh had not inflicted a
severe disappointment upon her and seriously disconcerted all, her
plans and hopes for one day and night at least. Her pride had received
a slight wound, not a deep or deadly one as yet, but it was keen, and
sensitive, and thrilled to a touch; and that card, without note or
message, had touched it. She recalled her last words to Gordon Frere,
his last words to her, and their tone, which meant so much more; and
she could not but recoil from this incident. There was some relief in
fancying that he might have taken this way of evincing pique at her
absence from the ball; and when this idea occurred to her she
cherished it, and at last it gave her complete comfort. There is a
sort of charm in such piques and pets, when they are not carried too
far, and Katharine did not care to remember that had Gordon been
offended, and taken such a way of showing it, he must have indulged
temper at the cost of sense, as he must have known her absence arose
from no fault of hers. But Katharine, a remarkably clear-sighted
person in most cases, was as blind and as silly as the rest of the
world in this, and caught with eagerness at a reason which seemed to
exalt her lover's devotion at the expense of his common sense. Yes,
that was it of course! How foolish she had been! they would meet
to-morrow; even if he did not call, he always went to Lady Tredgold's
"evenings," and there they should meet, and "make it up." Katharine's
girlish spirits rose, under the influence of the conviction that she
had been worrying herself unnecessarily, and she was even unusually
charming. The dinner-party was a pleasantly-assorted one; Sir Timothy,
a perfect gentleman, old and invalided as he was, prosed away indeed,
at the end of the table, but she was not near him at dinner, and he
never appeared in the drawing-room. She talked brilliantly; her low
well-bred laugh was heard like frequent music amid the buzz of
conversation; and Mr. Mostyn, who honoured Lady Henmarsh on the
present occasion, made up his mind that Katharine should be his next
heroine. He calmly contemplated her animated face, and studied the
details of her dress, considering whether she should be wedded to a
clever Irish political adventurer (he knew a man whom he could "do"
for the part admirably, and what was more and better, every one else
knew him also), rescued from his brutality by the hero (Mr. Mostyn
would be his own hero), and suffered to die of a broken heart in
consequence of her hopeless passion for her rescuer; or whether she
should merely retire, in her maiden bloom, into a convent, when the
hero marries the duchess, out of compassion, and hangs wreaths of
_immortelles_ on the bell-handle of the holy house of our Lady of the
Seven Dolours on each anniversary of the double event. While his mind
was agitated by this dilemma, he heard Mr. Guyon say to Lady Henmarsh,
"Yes, we saw him yesterday at the Botanical Fête. I don't know that he
mentioned your invitation. Katharine, did Mr. Frere say whether he was
to dine with Lady Henmarsh to-day?"
Katharine turned her head quickly towards her father, and there was a
slight frown on her fair brow as she answered,
"No, papa,--certainly not! I did not know he had been asked. When did
you invite him, Lady Henmarsh?"
"Several days ago, Kate;--when I asked you all. I suppose he had
something better to do; and really he is so horribly conceited, and
represents himself as in such request every where, he is quite welcome
to stay away for me."
The matter dropped there, but Katharine was very silent now; and Mr.
Mostyn, attributing her depression to the near termination of dinner,
and the inevitable move, decided that her pensive tenderness was even
more charming than her sparkling allurement.
In the drawing-room she was silent still. When opportunity offered she
said to Lady Henmarsh:
"How did you send Mr. Frere your invitation?"
"How? Why, Kate, how inquisitive you are!" and her ladyship
laughed,--rather a forced laugh;--"by post, of course. To the Temple;
that's all right, isn't it? I said, to meet a few friends, the Guyons,
and one or two others. But, my child, I can't stay gossipping with
you; there's Mrs. Weldon preparing to consider herself neglected and
to take offence."
Katharine was not so much annoyed as she was puzzled by this incident.
It is hardly necessary to tell the intelligent reader that no such
invitation had ever been sent to Gordon Frere, and that the
fabrication had been a happy idea of Mr. Guyon's, and hurriedly
imparted to his colleague by a note before dinner. Frere's absence
might be very short, and was undoubtedly very precious; and Mr. Guyon
had determined to play a game which, if not exactly desperate, was
very daring. This was the first card; he had played it, not with
perfect, but with tolerable, success. With increased eagerness
Katharine looked forward to the morrow; with such eagerness as took
the healthy colour from her cheek and the limpid brightness from her
eye, and replaced the one by a flickering flush, and the other by a
look of anxiety and absorption. The morrow came, and she rode in the
Park with her father, but did not see Gordon Frere. The routine of a
London day followed; she drove out with Mrs. Stanbourne, and on her
return looked over the cards which had been left during her absence,
but there was not one bearing the name she longed to see. At dinner
her father was in the gay spirits which had distinguished him since he
had made Robert Streightley's acquaintance, and took no notice of her
silence and dejection. She went to Lady Tredgold's reception, and
there endured such pangs of expectation, suspense, mortification and
anger, love and longing, as only a mind totally undisciplined by
sorrow, and unaccustomed to finding its calculations disturbed by
conflicting results, could undergo.
The history of the two days which succeeded that of the Botanical
Fête, which had been such an eventful date in Katharine's life, and
was destined to remain fixed in her memory for ever, was repeated in
those which followed them. Weary waiting and wondering, heartsick
longing and anger, the blind wrath of a proud heart stung and
outraged, the remorseful relenting of a girlish passionate
heart,--through all these, and numberless other phases of feeling and
suffering, Katharine Guyon struggled friendless and alone. Pride ruled
the girl outwardly, as much as love reigned in her inwardly; and the
only person to whom she would have spoken, Mrs. Stanbourne, had left
town suddenly, having been called away to a friend who was dangerously
ill. Katharine might not have spoken to her indeed, had she been
available for purposes of confidence--the calmness and steadiness of
the lady's nature might have repelled her, for this was an unfortunate
effect which those qualifies had frequently produced upon the
impetuous and passionate young girl; but now that she was away, she
felt that she would have done so, and regarded Mrs. Stanbourne's
absence as an additional grievance and aggravation of the bitterness
of her lot. The season was over, town was thinning fast, their own
particular set had all broken up, and autumn engagements were either
being eagerly discussed or busily entered upon. Days wore on--how
wearily, they only who know how long time is to those who watch and
wait, can tell--and Katharine did not see the face of Gordon Frere or
hear his name. The girl changed visibly under the suffering of this
period; the anxious look, so strange to her lustrous eyes, became
fixed in them; the soft music of her laugh ceased to ring in the ears
of her companions; her girlish gracefulness hardened into something
defiant, very attractive to strangers, but which would have made one
who loved her sad to see, and apprehensive for her future; but no one
who loved her was there to watch the change in Katharine Guyon with
prescient eyes.
The day was hot, sultry, breathless; the autumn had fairly set in, and
beat fiercely upon the weary Londoners; the sense of oppression
produced by the immense circumference of stone and brick was heavy
upon such of the world as had any chance of escaping from it. Such as
had no chance probably did not like it; "but then," in homely
expressive speech, they had to "lump it;" and very few were likely to
trouble themselves about them. The last flicker of the gaieties of the
season had died out; and even Mr. Guyon had found it impossible to get
up a Greenwich dinner-party to comprise more than four individuals,
including Robert Streightley and Daniel Thacker. He had avoided his
daughter as much as possible of late; and Mr. Streightley had
sedulously sought her society, with every kind of tacit encouragement
within her father's power to give him. It was the day named for the
Greenwich dinner; and Katharine, glad to be alone, and yet feverish
and miserable in her solitude, had refused to go to Lady Henmarsh's,
there to hold a _causerie_ on their several autumn plans.
"She will drag poor old Sir Timothy to some German baths or French
watering-place, and she wants me to back her up in the cruelty,"
thought Katharine, as she contemptuously twisted up the note, which
had contained the invitation, and desired Lady Henmarsh's page to tell
his mistress she was busy and could not come; "but I won't. Why can't
she go down to Deanthorpe and keep quiet?" She had been dawdling over
her luncheon and feeding her Skye terrier, without taking any interest
in either occupation; and she now leaned idly against the window-frame
and gazed out wearily. She saw the hot, baked streets; she saw the
poor old woman opposite sitting by her basket of full-blown blowsy
nosegays, sheltering them and herself under the shade of a huge
umbrella, fallen from its high estate on some family coach-box, and
displaying sundry patches ignominious in their discrepancy with each
other and general incongruity with the original fabric. The old woman
was yawning, and sleeping by snatches, and Katharine's impatient
weariness was increased by watching her. She turned away, and went
upstairs to her own room. A newspaper lay on the table in the hall,
and she took it up mechanically, and carried it with her. Her own room
was spacious and airy, and physical ease and refreshment at least came
to her with its stillness and its shade.
She sat down in an arm-chair by the window, and fell a-thinking on the
invariable subject; wondering, yearning, raging, as she had done now
for days which had run on into weeks, during every hour which had not
been tranquillised by the anodyne of sleep. After a while she looked
idly at the newspaper in her hand; and in a few minutes her eyes
lighted on a paragraph which announced the departure of Lord A---- as
British _chargé d'affaires_ to the court of F----, accompanied by Mr.
Gordon Frere, who attended his lordship in the character of private
secretary, and a numerous suite.
Katharine Guyon was not a fainting woman. She had never fainted in her
life, and hysterical affections she held in equal suspicion and
disdain. No merciful weakness came to lessen the physical anguish she
experienced, when these few lines conveyed to her shrinking soul the
full assurance of the fate that had befallen her. The physical
suffering of a sudden grief is always terrible, most terrible where
strength reigns with tolerable equality in body and mind. Her flesh
crept and burned; acute, agonising pain darted into her eyeballs, and
transfixed them; a slow shivering anguish seized upon her limbs, and
caused her lips to part and shudder over the clenched teeth. No cry
escaped her, nor sound except a moan, half of mental pain, half of the
deadly sickness, the actual nausea, which every one who has ever
sustained a severe shock of pain or fear knows is its invariable
accompaniment. Black rings formed themselves in the air, and dropped
from under her eyes, into what seemed to her like infinite space. She
wondered dimly whether this could be any thing like death; and sat
there, so feeling, so wondering, she had no idea what length of time.
Her maid came to her when the hour for dressing for dinner arrived,
and found her pale, motionless, and tearless.
"I'm not well, Marwood," she said; "as papa is out, I need not go
down. If you'll help me to undress, I will go to bed."
The woman was utterly surprised. Illness was unknown to Katharine's
vigorous frame and eager spirit. She acknowledged that her mistress
looked ill, and suggested sending James for a doctor.
"Not on any account," said Katharine; "I am suffering for my obstinacy
in riding too long in the sun yesterday, and eating ices last night. I
shall be quite well in the morning."
The woman assisted her to undress, and left her, and Katharine lay
down in her bed, feeling as if she should never rise from it again.
The evening fell, the beautiful autumn night succeeded the brief
twilight, and the fair morning dawned, and still she lay quite
motionless, tearless, sleepless; speechless too, but for one short
sentence whose agony of anger and outraged feeling defied restraint.
It sounded strangely in the quiet of the room:
"He was only amusing himself, after all. He _dared_ to amuse himself
with ME!"
Hester Gould had fulfilled her intention of finding out all she could
about Robert Streightley's new friends, as she usually fulfilled all
her intentions, quietly and completely. She had paid a friendly visit
to Daniel Thacker's sisters, resident at Hampstead; and having timed
her visit fortunately, or it would be more correct to say judiciously,
she had met Daniel, and extracted from him all the information he was
disposed to give. She was not in the least deceived in her estimate of
his frankness; she knew that he had more to tell respecting Mr. Guyon
and his handsome daughter (Mr. Thacker called her "stunning") than the
general facts into the disclosure of which she led him; but she was
not unreasonable, and she read character accurately. She had not seen
much of Daniel Thacker; for not being mistress of her own time, she
could rarely visit the dwellers at Corby House at the hours which
found that gentleman in the bosom of his family; but she had seen
enough of him to understand him much better than most of his
acquaintances did, and to feel a comfortable assurance that she could
gain an influence over him, if any thing should occur to make it worth
her while to do so.
Daniel Thacker possessed at least one sterling virtue--he was an
excellent brother. Nothing in reason and within the compass of his
means did he deny the handsome, red-lipped, dark-browed girls, who
strongly resembled him, and were even more Jewish-looking than he.
They had a good house, a comfortable establishment, a sufficiency of
society among their own persuasion generally, a sufficiency of
theatre- and concert-going, and plenty of the savoury meat which their
souls loved. They would have been happier perhaps--or they thought
so--if their beloved brother, whom they devoutly believed to be the
handsomest and most elegant man in Christendom or Jewry, had lived
with them at Corby House; but he had fully explained the impossibility
on "business" grounds, and the docile Hebrews, Rebecca and Rachel,
acknowledged the plea without hesitation. They were among the firmest,
warmest, and most useful of Hester Gould's friends, and they had been
for a time her pupils. They had perseveringly spread her fame abroad
among their _habitués_; and as music is an invariable taste among the
Jews, and their musical entertainments are splendid and numerous,
their praises had done her solid service, and Hester's time was fully
filled by very lucrative engagements.
Rachel and Rebecca had been infinitely delighted by Hester's arrival
to pass the evening with them, and had gushingly expressed their
pleasure.
"Tuesday evening too, Daniel's evening: how delightful!--he hardly
ever misses. I am so glad; isn't she a dear?" said Miss Rachel in a
sort of monologue, while she applied her large red lips several times
to Hester's olive cheek.
The calculations of the sisters did not deceive them. Daniel came,
smooth, good-humoured, affectionate, and obliging; and they passed a
very agreeable evening. Miss Gould had what she called a "confidential
cab," which attended her on special occasions, of which this was one;
and as she drove away, having accepted an invitation to accompany the
sisters to a Botanical "promenade" (it was the last of the season they
said, and dear Hester must come), she made a little calculation of the
gain of her visit, thus:
"Mr. Guyon is a fast man out at elbows, and a great friend of Daniel
Thacker's. That means that he is largely in Daniel's power. Miss Guyon
is a handsome, high-spirited girl, much admired, and with no fortune.
I can see that Daniel has no notion of her--he would be snubbed, rich
as he is, I suspect, even by the out-at-elbows father. But he has seen
Robert with Mr. Guyon, and for some reason or other--I don't know what
reason _yet_--he is concerned in promoting a match between him and
Miss Guyon. Can I prevent this? I fear not. We shall see; I must be
most cautious not to purchase even a fair chance of doing so too
dearly,"--here she thought intensely, and her brow clouded over
heavily. "If I could find out that the girl does not care for him, I
might make my way to her and put her on her guard; but suppose she
does? No, no; I must not risk _all_ until I know _all_."
Mr. Daniel Thacker's perfectly appointed brougham was conveying him
rapidly to St. James's half-an-hour later; and as he smoked a choice
cigar (part of a bankrupt lot dirt cheap at the price), he pulled his
silky beard, and meditated upon Hester Gould and her questions.
"Knows Streightley and his mother and sister very well, does she?
Thinks him a 'nice' man, but easily led--thinks his mother is _so_
anxious he should marry, eh? Now what the deuce is _her_ little game?
Can't be to marry him herself, I should think, or she's just the
woman to do it--to have done it long ago. Devilish nice girl; real
good-looking, and a rasper for determination, I should say. 'Gad, I
should like to see a good deal more of Hester Gould."