[CHAPTER VI.]
HESTER IN POSSESSION.
Time went on, and Robert Streightley received no fresh intelligence to guide him to the one object for which he now cared to live. The terrible disappointment of the hopes inspired by the only suggestion he had received had utterly prostrated him; and now, even the revived conviction that news of her must come in some way, that though he might never see her again, this cloud of absolute ignorance of her fate must drift away--had yielded to the slow influence of the passing days. Charles Yeldham had succeeded in inducing him to be calm and quiet; in convincing him that no means of discovering what he wanted to find out should be neglected; and that the best way to insure success was to allow some time to elapse, after which Katharine's precautions would probably relax of themselves. Robert knew his friend's zeal and fidelity; and in his depressed state of mind, and weakened condition of bodily health, he was obliged, and thankful, to rest in that knowledge, and security, not indeed from his sorrow, but from exertion on his own part. He had once more begun to tax his intellectual energies by application to business; and the former habits of his life were regaining their dominion over him. He had resumed his residence in his mother's house at Brixton, without the smallest regret for the luxurious abode he had quitted. He had regarded all the surroundings of the brief period of display and luxury which had succeeded to his marriage with perfect indifference on his own account, and now he forgot them. He was to all outward appearance, in habits and tastes, the same man who had gone City-wards from the same house, year after year, before the brilliant interruption; the difference was unseen, undiscernible by any eyes but those of the Father of Spirits.
It is probable that at this time Mrs. Streightley was as happy as she had ever been in all her blameless but uninteresting life. She did not care much about public repute, except in the sense of the impugnment of commercial honesty; and as Robert's character stood as high as ever, in spite of his pecuniary disasters, she cared not at all that the world should talk about his domestic affairs. The world which did so talk was not her world. Brixton and Clapham, the Pratts and the Perkinses, the "connection," and the ministers thereof, said little about the separation between her son and his beautiful "high-flying" wife, and that little had a consolatory tendency; for these good people seemed to think Robert's eternal prospects improved by the occurrence, and it was no part of their creed to trouble themselves about those of Katharine. The old lady had her son with her again; the former routine was resumed: if Robert was unhappy, he did not show it; and she could not understand how he could fret after a woman who had never been a wife to him,--"not what I call a wife, at least," she would say, on the very rare occasions when she mentioned the matter. She was a good woman in her way; but she essentially belonged to the narrow-minded order of human beings, and was quite incapable of realising the fact that though she had seen nothing to like, and little even to admire, in Katharine, her son had seen in her all the value and the glory of life to him, and was living, under her kind, motherly, but unobservant eyes, a broken-hearted man.
Ellen, whose weakness of character rendered her amiability and her enthusiasm almost valueless, had begun to forget Katharine. She had been charmed by her beauty and kindness, but she had always felt a little restrained, a little puzzled by her; and as she had never thought of applying such intellect as she possessed to the solution of the puzzle, it had remained, to make her uncomfortable. From the first Katharine's flight had been a silent subject between her brother and her; and by degrees Ellen had ceased to think of it much, and the image of her sister-in-law had become faint in her memory. Besides, the Rev. Decimus had always decidedly disapproved of her; and he had improved the occasion, entirely to his own satisfaction, and very nearly to Ellen's conviction, by his eloquent exposition of the dangers of riches, the snares of fashion, the undesirableness of beauty, and the enormity of self-will. The reverend gentleman, who was a good creature in his small way, had one or two defects of character, not altogether unknown in his class. He was uncharitable in his judgments, and implacable--piously so, of course, and with the utmost deprecation of such a sentiment--in his resentments. Robert's marriage had been distasteful to his brother-in-law elect from every point of view, personal and professional; and he had never been able to perceive the slightest concession to his influence on the part of Katharine; indeed he felt perfectly certain that on the few occasions of their meeting she had never remembered his existence, after giving him the prescribed bow or word of recognition. If he could have believed that Mrs. Streightley had disliked or feared him or his doctrines, he would have been far less bitter against her than he really, though secretly, was;--for he mourned over her in the true unctuous style of self-exaltation, and depreciation of the sinner, familiar to "professors" of his sort;--he would then have been enabled to poser en martyre, a sufferer of contumely for conscience' sake; and great would have been his reward in Brixton and Clapham circles, where Katharine was utterly unknown, except as an object of holy detraction and affected pity, in the days of her pride and prosperity. But no such resource was open to Mr. Dutton; he knew perfectly well that Mrs. Streightley had never thought of him, had never formed any opinion about him at all; that he had simply been completely indifferent to her. Strange are the complications of human nature, the self-delusions of the best among us. Here was a really good man, disinterested, zealous, perfectly sincere; a man indifferent to wealth (except for missionary purposes), and with whom Ellen Streightley outweighed in attraction the whole of womankind; a man to whom the smallest, the most transient infidelity, either as lover or husband, would have been as impossible as picking a pocket or forging a bill--filled with resentment because a woman, a rich and beautiful woman, had shown herself politely oblivious of him. And he a clergyman too! Ah, there was the rub--the egotism of the good creature was a divided egotism, after all; he could not understand feminine indifference to the cloth! His experiences were partly Polynesian, and partly Claphamite, and he judged, as he lived, according to his lights.
When the Rev. Decimus, then, spoke of Katharine with solemn horror, as an utterly lost sheep, and without the slightest suggestion that it was any body's business to follow her into the wilderness and bring her back, Ellen listened to him with her usual adoring respect, and made no protest. As her future husband, and a clergyman in esse, Decimus was doubly a law to her; and obedience was as deep-seated in Ellen's nature as revolt is in that of some women. Her curiosity respecting the cause of Katharine's flight, the "cause of complaint" against her brother which Robert had assigned, without explaining, remained in her mind long after her sorrow and her affection for the lost sheep had subsided. There was not the least probability that it would ever be gratified; and she began to take the view of the matter insinuated by Mr. Dutton, though he had not the smallest grounds for such a conjecture, and was innocent of intentional slander in the suggestion. "Rely upon it, Ellen," he had said, "Robert's generosity leads him to shelter his unhappy wife from additional disgrace, by assuming the blame of this wretched business himself. I daresay he made some discovery concerning her former life--the life of a worldling and an unbeliever, my dearest, has no doubt always disgraceful secrets in it--and this is the result. Your brother is very generous, and I am sure capable of such a sacrifice."
This was quite a new idea to Ellen, and it took some time to absorb; but at length she said, with a little air of wisdom:
"Well, but, Decimus, in that case he would know where she is, and all about her."
"And how do you know that he does not know? He never says a word on the subject, does he? I think I understood from you that he never mentioned her since he came back to live here."
"O no, never; not to mamma even, or to old Alice. He has never once pronounced her name. My reason for thinking he does not know any thing about her is because Hester says she feels sure he does not, and that he and his friends--friends we know nothing about--are making every effort to find out where she is."