Although the Temple Gardens were Mr. Yeldham's favourite and only exercising ground; and although Gordon Frere, in the old days lazily lounging out of the window with his pipe in his mouth, had often seen his friend tearing round and round them, doing his constitutional in the intervals of "treadmill," it is probable that the young man himself had not been in them more than half-a-dozen times in his life, and knew nothing of their various beauties. Certain it is that he saw nothing of them on the present occasion. He walked among the nursemaids and the town-made children, and the misanthropes and the valetudinarians; but he saw none of them. He saw the staircase at Mrs. Pendarvis's house, and the conservatory and the landing, and Katharine with her head bent down, listening to his soft familiar phrases--which are not, indeed, the language of love, but which form such a pleasant prelude to it. He saw the saucy toss of the head with which she would greet his late arrival in society where they had arranged to meet, and that half-bashful, half-earnest look in her eyes when they were about to part. Gordon Frere's heart beat very rapidly as he thought of these things, and he bit his lip impatiently; but he was a thorough nineteenth-century man, with a horror of giving expression to or even indulging in any strong feelings, and he had long outlived the boyish passion for Katharine which had glorified that past time. His pride was sharply hurt, and the gentlemanly sense of honour, which alone among a man's feelings the nineteenth-century code does not require him to repress, revolted against the story he had just heard from the shattered invalid within there. How right he had been, when he first heard from Hester of Katharine's flight, and had instinctively justified her, even though he then believed she had treated him so badly! So, while he was regarding her as a jilt, she was thinking that he had basely trifled with her. Poor Katharine! he pitied her. Did he pity himself? Well, not much; it was over--the glamour was gone, and he was none the worse; but she, sold to this man--a poor man now--homeless, self-exiled, with burning anger in her proud heart. He never for a moment thought of the possibility that Katharine might love him, Gordon Frere; still something he did not pause to analyse told him she did not--that the dream was over for her as for him. The waking was very different though. Father and husband lost; home and position forfeited; a wanderer, and poor. Katharine Guyon was all this. How bright was his own fate in comparison! Mr. Guyon's part in the transaction galled him. He had so heartily despised the dressy, boasting, foppish, frivolous, false old man, and had so often laughed at his little tricks and cheateries, that to have been so thoroughly, so completely done by him, was, even in such distant retrospect, decidedly humiliating and unpleasant. He had that letter somewhere, with its infernal hypocritical condolence, and its coolly impudent messages from Katharine. All a lie, was it--infernal old scoundrel! Dead though, that must be remembered, even in the utmost scorn and anger. And Streightley--how he pitied him! The man knew so little of the world, and Guyon had made him so completely his tool. He liked Robert, and all the more since Hester had behaved so ill about it all. He wished now he had seen him at once, when this happened; had not been kept back by any fear of Hester's "queerness," as he called it. Things had never been quite comfortable between them since, and he had avoided the subject. But now why should he be angry with this poor broken fellow, who had lost Katharine too, if it came to that? No; he pitied him, and he would help him to the best of his ability; and now he would go and tell him so.
Such is a rapid résumé of Mr. Gordon Frere's thoughts as he walked round the Temple Gardens; and such was the conclusion at which he arrived before he again entered his friend's rooms.
He walked straight up to the chair in which Robert Streightley sat, and taking his thin wan hand, said, "I've thought carefully over all that you have told me, Mr. Streightley, and the result is, that, so far as I am concerned, the matter is put away and buried for ever. It shall never be mentioned by me again, and I think I may say it shall never rise in my mind to your prejudice. The only thing that I will say about it is, that I am glad I have heard this explanation, because by it Miss--Mrs. Streightley is freed from the suspicion of double-dealing and--well, I must say it--heartlessness, which at one time I attached to her. And now," said Gordon, changing the tone of his voice, and laying his hand kindly on Streightley's shoulder--"now we must devote all our energies to finding her and bringing her back. I'm sure, when she hears that I have--I mean when she knows that you've told me all--and--yourself so ill--and--that she'll give in at once--eh, Charley?"
"My dear fellow, I agree with you entirely; I have very little doubt that if we could communicate with Mrs. Streightley, who is a particularly sensible woman, all might be arranged happily at once. But the difficulty is to find her."
"Have you no clue?"
"We had not until quite recently; and even what we now have is very slight indeed." Then Yeldham repeated to Frere all that has been already told respecting Mrs. Stanbourne's letter, and that which he had written to Miss Burton.
"She has not yet answered my letter," he went on to say, with a glance of significant anxiety at Robert, which Gordon understood. "But she may be away from Paris."
"Certainly," said Frere; "nothing more likely. She may have gone home, you know; and the people at the convent may have sent on the letter. We must not be discouraged by a little delay, must we, eh, Charley?"
"O dear, no," said Yeldham; "there is nothing to be discouraged about. We must have patience, and Robert must gain strength. Suppose we got a letter now, and knew where she is, he wouldn't be fit to go to her."
"O yes, I would!" cried Robert. "I should get strength for that. Be sure of me, so far as that goes."