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        (Oxford University)






KISSING THE ROD.



LONDON:
HOBSON AND SON, GREAT NORTHERN PRINTING WORKS,
PANCRAS ROAD, N.W.






KISSING THE ROD.

A Novel.


BY EDMUND YATES,
AUTHOR OF "BROKEN TO HARNESS," "RUNNING THE GAUNTLET,"
"LAND AT LAST," ETC.



"The heart knoweth its own bitterness."



IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. I.



LONDON:
TINSLEY BROTHERS, 18 CATHERINE ST. STRAND.
1866.

[_All rights of translation and reproduction reserved_.]






Inscribed to
THE COUNTESS OF FIFE.






CONTENTS OF VOL. I.

CHAP.

           I. DAZZLED.
          II. A MORNING CALL.
         III. WITHIN THE PALE.
          IV. MR. GUYON'S FRIEND.
           V. HESTER GOULD.
          VI. IN CHAMBERS.
         VII. KATHARINE GUYON.
        VIII. AMARYLLIS IN A MARQUEE.
          IX. INVESTMENTS.
           X. STRUGGLE.
          XI. LEFT LAMENTING.
         XII. VICTORY.






KISSING THE ROD.




CHAPTER I.
DAZZLED.


There was no name on the doorposts, nothing beyond the
number--"48"--to serve as a guide; and yet it may be doubted
whether any firm in the City was better known to the postman, the
bankers'-clerks, and all who had regular business to transact with
them, than that of Streightley and Son. The firm had been Streightley
and Son, and it had been located at 48 Bullion Lane, for the last
hundred and fifty years. They were money-brokers and scrip-sellers at
the time of the South-Sea bubble, and were among the very few who were
not ruined by that disastrous swindle. So little ruined were they that
they prospered by it, and in the next generation extended their
business and enlarged their profits; both of which, however, were
consider curtailed by rash speculations during the French Revolution
and the American War. Within the first quarter of the present century
the business of Streightley and Son recovered itself; and, under the
careful management of old Sam Streightley and his head clerk, Mr.
Fowler, the house became highly esteemed as one of the safest
bill-broking establishments in the City. It was not, however, until
young Mr. Robert, following the bounden career of all the eldest sons
of that family, joined the business, and, after close application, had
thoroughly mastered its details, that fortune could be said to have
smiled steadily on the firm. Young Mr. Robert's views were so large
and his daring so great, that his father, old Mr. Sam, at first stood
aghast, and had to be perpetually supplicated before he gave
permission to experiment on the least hazardous of all the young man's
suggestions; but after the son had been about two years a partner in
the firm it happened that the father was laid up with such a terrible
attack of gout as to be incapable of attending to business for months;
and when he at length obtained the physician's grudging assent to his
visiting the City he found things so prosperous, but withal so totally
changed, that the old gentleman was content to jog down to Bullion
Lane about three times a month until his death, which was not long in
overtaking him.

Prosperous and changed! Yes; no doubt about that. Up that staircase,
hitherto untrodden save by merchants'-clerks leaving bills for
acceptance or notices of bills due; by stags with sham prospectuses of
never-to-be-brought-out companies; or by third-rate City solicitors
giving the quasi-respectability of their names to impotent
semi-swindles, which, though they would never see the light, yet
afforded the means for creating an indisputable and meaty bill of
costs;--up that staircase now came heavy magnates of the City,
directors of the Bank of England, with short ill-made Oxford-mixture
trousers, and puckered coats, and alpaca umbrellas; or natty
stockbrokers, most of them a trifle horsy in garb, all with undeniable
linen, and good though large jewelry, carefully-cultivated whiskers,
and glossy boots. In the little waiting-room might be found an Irish
member of Parliament; the managing director of a great steam-shipping
company; a West-end dandy, with a letter of introduction from some
club acquaintance with a handle to his name, who idiotically imagined
that that handle would serve as a lever to raise money out of Robert
Streightley; a lawyer or two; and, occasionally the bronzed captain of
a steamer arrived with news from the Pacific; or some burnt and
bearded engineer fresh from the inspection of a silver mine in Central
America. A long purgatory, for the most part, did these gentlemen
spend in the little waiting-room, or in the clerk's room beyond it,
where they were exposed to the sharp fusillade of Mr. Fowler's eyes
and the keen glances of the two young men who assisted him. The only
people who were shown by the messenger at once into Mr. Streightley's
presence were the City editors of the various newspapers, and a very
prettily-appointed young gentleman, wise withal beyond his years, who
occasionally drove down to Bullion Lane from Downing Street in a
hansom cab, and who was private secretary to the Chancellor of the
Exchequer.

Robert Streightley had done all this by his own talent and
exertion--"on his own hook," as the Stock Exchange men phrased it. The
keenness of his business intellect was astounding. He seemed to sift a
proposition as it was being laid before him; and as soon as the
proposer ceased speaking, Robert Streightley closed with or
pooh-poohed the offer, with incontrovertible reasons for his decision.
He spoke out plainly and boldly before the oldest and the youngest who
sought his advice; he was neither deferential nor patronising; and
never sought to please--simply for the sake of pleasing--any of his
clients. The young men looked up to him in wonder, and spoke of him
over mid-day chops and sherry as a "cool card," a "long-headed chap,"
"just about one," and in other complimentary slangisms. The older men
scarcely knew what to make of him; they hated him for his daring and
success, for the dashing manner in which he was passing them all in
the race for wealth and distinction; and they would have well liked to
have shrugged their shoulders and hinted about his being "fast," and
"going ahead," and finally making a grand smash of it; but they had no
pretext. So long as Robert Streightley's business relations were
thoroughly sound and wholesome it would have been against that _esprit
de corps_ which largely prevails among City men to breathe a word
against him; and as for his private life, they could scarcely bring a
charge of reckless extravagance against a man who went home to a
seventy-pound-a-year house at Brixton in the "Paragon" omnibus, and
there indulged in the dissipation of a "meat-tea" in the society of
his mother and sister. So they found another vent for their spleen,
and talked of him as a "doosid close-fisted fellow," a "mean
narrow-minded hunks," and a "niggardly screw." He merited none of
these appellations. He was a straightforward, honourable business-man,
bred in a narrow circle, which his own innate business habits were
narrowing year by year. As a boy he had had instilled into him the
value of money and the secret of money-getting; as a young man the
whole scope of his faculties had been directed to this end. Such
little fancy as he possessed--and with such a father the smallness of
that fancy could be easily divined--had been ruthlessly eradicated,
and all the nascent tendencies of his mind had been directed into one
strong channel of fact. That Jack had ever found giants to slay, that
glass slippers were ever worn by cinder-wenches, or pumpkins could by
any possibility become carriages, were fictions not to be found in
Bonnycastle and ignored by Walkinghame; but that two and two made
four, or that a talent of silver hid in a napkin remained an
unproductive talent of silver, whereas a hundred pounds invested in
Consols produced yearly three pounds as interest to its holder, were
as demonstrable as the light and heat of the sun at noonday.

He lived but for his business, nothing else. He was in his office at
ten o'clock, and he never left it, save on some business errand, until
six. He never took a holiday except on Christmas-day and Good Friday,
when the newspapers proclaimed all business suspended; he never dined
out save twice or thrice a-year at the anniversary banquets of the
directors of some of those companies in which his stake was large. His
enemies wronged him when they said he had no heart. He had sincerely
grieved for the old father who had brought him up and loved him deeply
in his own peculiar way; his purse-strings were always at the command
of those good Samaritans on the Stock Exchange who do so much in such
a quiet and unassuming manner; and the clergyman at Brixton knew he
might always count upon Mr. Streightley for a handsome subscription to
any charity brought under his notice. His manner was odd and
_brusque_, arising partly from his preoccupation, partly from his
having never mixed in society; but there was nothing pretentious or
vulgar, fast or underbred in him: he might have been thought an
oddity; he never could have been set down for a snob.

See him now as he sits at his desk, poring over his diary, a tall
strongly-built man, with long limbs lacking in due amount of muscular
development from want of exercise. With a high forehead, a head
prematurely bald, but surrounded with a thick fringe of brown hair,
with sharp gray eyes looking out from overhanging brows, a thinly-cut
aquiline nose, and rather full lips. He has a full whisker, after the
ordinary respectable "mutton-chop" outline, and might, if he so
pleased, have a large beard, as you can tell by the dark-blue outline
round his chin; but Robert Streightley would as soon think of coming
up to town outside the Paragon omnibus in a turban as of committing
any such unbusiness-like atrocity as growing a beard. One other person
is in the room with him just now--Mr. Fowler, his chief clerk, known
in the City as Downy Fowler; an old gentleman, who is looked upon as
the essence of knowingness, and to whom the fortunes of Streightley
and Son are not a little attributable. When this is hinted at, old Mr.
Fowler smiles enigmatically; but only in strictest confidence, and to
one or two very old friends, declares that, whatever he might have
been to the old gentleman, he does not pretend to hold a candle to Mr.
Robert, "whose head, my dear sir, is something won-der-ful!" A short
sleek gray-headed man, Mr. Fowler; with a high-collared coat much too
long in the sleeves, a waistcoat with traces of bygone snuff-pinches
lingering in the creases, gray trousers, and gaiter boots. A silent
little man, rarely speaking, but in the habit of calling his
principal's attention to matters under consideration, such as letters,
invoices, and share-lists, with his pointed forefinger. That
forefinger was at work at the very moment when they are first
presented to reader. It rested on an entry in the diary, and Mr.
Fowler looked up into his principal's face inquiringly.

"Well?" said Robert Streightley, "I see. Markwell, 1350_l_.; Baxter,
870_l_.; Currie and Tull, 340_l_.; Guyon, 180_l_. 17_s_. 3_d_.; Banks,
97_l_. 6_s_. Total, 2888_l_. 3_s_. 3_d_.--paid to us by Davidson--due
to-day--what of that?"

Mr. Fowler did not answer, but placed his forefinger more decidedly on
one of the items of the account.

"O, I see," said Streightley; "Guyon's acceptance! Ay, ay; I recollect
now. You called my attention to that, and declared that it was
doubtful at the time that Davidson paid it in. Of course you made
inquiries?"

Mr. Fowler nodded.

"And they were unsatisfactory? Well, that's no matter to us. The usual
notice has been served, of course? Very well, we look to Davidson; but
let Boswell's people have the usual instructions to proceed. So Tierra
del Fuegos stand the same, do they? All right then; hold on. Ocean
Marine have gone up; so that advance to Walton and Pycroft is well
covered. Let Brattle step round to--well, what is it, Brattle?" this
to the junior clerk, who, after knocking at the door, entered the
room.

"A lady, sir, to speak with you," said Mr. Brattle, in whom his
brother lunch-_convives_ at the Bay Tree would scarcely have
recognised the youth who now stood blushing before his principal.

"A lady to speak with me?"

"With Messrs. Streightley and Son, sir, she said, and in private,
sir."

"Must be some mistake," said Robert Streightley. "Never mind. Show the
lady in through the private door, Mr. Brattle. Leave me, Fowler, and
don't let any one in till I ring."

If Mr. Fowler could have expressed astonishment, he would have done
so, for never had woman entered that sanctum since he had been
connected with Streightley and Son. But his training did not admit of
any such vagary; so he retired without a word, and the door closed
behind him as Mr. Brattle admitted the visitor into Robert
Streightley's presence.

Robert Streightley, who had been pretending to be absorbed in the
diary, looked up, and carefully scrutinised his visitor. She was a
girl of about twenty, above the ordinary height, slightly and
gracefully built. She threw up her veil as she entered, without the
smallest sign of coquetry, and showed a strikingly-handsome face, very
pale, with greenish-gray eyes, delicate Grecian nose, small white
forehead, over which her dark-brown hair was drawn in flat bands,
short upper lip, and small rounded chin. She was dressed in a
dark-brown silk, with a black-lace cloak; and Streightley--usually
unobservant of such things--noticed the wonderful fit of her lavender
gloves. Streightley rose as she entered, and pointing to the usual
client's chair, begged her to be seated. She bowed, and seated
herself. Then there was a little pause, and Robert said, "You wished
to see me, I believe?"

"You are Messrs. Streightley and Son?" said the lady interrogatively,
in a musical but slightly timid voice.

"I am Mr. Streightley, the representative of the firm."

"That is what I wished to know," she replied a little haughtily. "Of
course I--what I would ask is--I am not accustomed to business
terms--You are the--the person--who sent this?"

She laid her parasol on the table as she spoke, and took from the
purse which she carried in her hand a small printed paper. Glancing at
it, Robert Streightley saw that it was an ordinary commercial
document, intimating to Edward Scrope Guyon, of 110 Queen Anne Street,
that a bill for 180_l_. 17_s_. 3_d_., drawn on him by Davidson
Brothers, lay due at Streightley and Son's, 48 Bullion Court, Lombard
Street. As he returned it to her he said, "It is quite right; it was
sent out by this house. It is the usual notice given in such cases,
stating where the money is to be paid."

She was very pale as she said, "It means then that money--that the
amount named--must be paid?"

"It does indeed."

"And at once?"

"This is the day for payment," said Streightley. Then noticing her
deadly pallor, and the trembling of her lips, he said: "May I ask how
this came into your hands?"

With a visible effort at self-control, the young lady replied: "I--I
should have mentioned it before. I am Miss Guyon, daughter of Mr.
Guyon, to whom that paper is addressed."

She hesitated for a minute, and Streightley, whose eyes were fixed
intently on her face, said:

"Ye-es! I think I understand; and he has sent you here to----"

"My father is not in the habit of sending me about on his
business-errands, sir!" interrupted Miss Guyon, flushing scarlet
(Robert thought that in his life he had never seen any thing so lovely
as she looked, with heightened colour, swelling nostril, and curved
lip.) "Mr. Guyon is out of town on--on very important and pressing
business; and as he will not be back until late at night, I thought it
best to come here to explain his absence, which will account for the
money not being ready."

"Which will account for the money not being ready!" repeated Mr.
Streightley absently. "O, of course, of course. Pray do not say
another word about it, Miss Guyon. I am very sorry that you should
have had the trouble of coming here, except that it--it has procured
me the--the great pleasure of seeing you!" (Robert had never before
paid a woman a compliment, and was horribly awkward in his first
attempt) "I'll call on Mr. Guyon to-morrow morning about eleven,
and----"

"And you'll bring your bill with you, will you?" said Miss Guyon with
supreme _hauteur_.

The word "bill" was in itself always disagreeable to her; but she had
no idea but that this was an ordinary tradesman's account, and thought
Robert Streightley was the tradesman to whom it was owing.

"Ye-es!" said he; "I'll bring the bill with me, and----"

"There is nothing more to be said, I think," interrupted Miss Guyon.
"Good morning."

"Good morning, Miss Guyon. Permit me to see you downstairs."

She did not speak; but he construed a very slight bow into a gesture
of assent, and proceeded down the staircase. Arrived at the door he
called the cabman, who was slumbering on his box; but the man's
movements being slow, Streightley opened the cab-door himself, and
bareheaded held it as Miss Guyon, with just the style of
acknowledgment that she would have given to the shop-walker who handed
her a chair at a linendraper's, passed in. Old Mr. Pommylow, chairman
of the West India Plantation Company, who was crossing the street at
the time, gave him a great nod and a sly wink; and made them all laugh
at the Board five minutes afterwards, by telling them he'd seen Bob
Streightley "doing the polite to a doosid fine gal."

She was gone; but Robert Streightley still stood on the pavement,
gazing after the cab that had carried her off. Then, after a minute,
he turned slowly round and retraced his steps up the staircase,
pondering over the interview.

After remaining for about half-an-hour in a brown study, he touched
the small handbell by which he was accustomed to summon Mr. Fowler,
and, without raising his head, said to that worthy gentleman when he
entered:

"Give me that acceptance we were speaking of, please."

"Guyon's acceptance do you men, sir?"

"Mr. Guyon's, if you please," said Streightley rather sternly, the
familiarity jarring on his ear.

"Will you want the others, sir?" asked the old man. "Markwell's and
Banks's are paid; but they haven't sent about the others yet."

"Only Mr. Guyon's, thank you, Fowler. I--I want to make a few
inquiries about it."

"I don't expect you'll hear much good of the acceptor, sir," said old
Fowler with twinkling eyes. "I suspect it's one of Davidson's private
discounts, and we know what they are--he, he!" and the old gentleman
laughed quietly.

"Let me have the letters, if you please, Mr. Fowler, and any thing
else there may be for signature. I shall be going soon."

"Going, sir!"