Chapter XIX: Two in Pursuit

The festivities of Harbledown Hall were at an end, the amateur theatricals had been given--to the great delight of those performing in them, and to the excessive misery of those witnessing them--on two successive nights: the first to the invited neighbouring gentry, the second to the tenantry and servants. The guests were dispersed to various other country houses, and among them Miss Orpington and her father had taken their departure; but not to the same destination: the young lady, under the chaperonage of her aunt, was going to stay with some people, the head of whose family was an eminent tea-broker in the City, who, some years before, would not have been received into what is called society, but who was now so enormously rich that society found it could not possibly do without him. Society dined with him and danced with him at his house in Hyde Park Gardens, invited his wife and his daughter to all sorts of entertainments during the season, voted his two ugly dumpy sons the pleasantest fellows in Europe, and went regularly to stay with him during the autumn at his most charming country place at Brookside near Hastings.

As an acknowledgment of all these kindnesses the tea-broker had caused himself to be put into Parliament, and took his place with tolerable punctuality amongst the conscript fathers, never failing in obedience to the suggestions of the whip of his party, and, when he was not in the smoking-room, sleeping the sleep of the righteous on the back benches of the House.

The party at Brookside promised this year to be a particularly agreeable one; and as Miss Orpington had arranged for an introduction with the Yorkshire baronet with money, and that gentleman saw his way to unlimited sport during the day and unlimited flirtation during the evening, they agreed to console themselves even for the absence of the young lady's papa.

For Colonel Orpington was not going to Brookside. His daughter, as he said, had her aunt to look after her, and her intended to amuse her; and though there was nothing to be said against Skegby--that being the name of the tea-broker--who was a very good fellow, a self-made man, honour to British commerce, and that kind of thing, and was received everywhere, yet there were some people going to Brookside that the Colonel didn't care about meeting; and so, as the house in Hill Street was ready, he should go and take up his quarters there for a time--at all events until he had occasion to inspect the works and quarries in South Wales.

All his friends being still away from London, it was natural that the Colonel should seek for consolation in the resources of that new acquaintance which he had so recently made. He had met Fanny Stafford several times in the Park, and she had so far relaxed from her rigid formality as to accept two or three little dinners from him, as good as his taste could command and Verrey could supply, at which Madame Clarisse was always present.

That worthy lady's interest in her assistant seemed to have increased very much since her return from Paris. She was always insisting on Fanny's taking half-holidays, giving up work now and again, and coming into her private rooms for a meal and a chat; and in that chat, which was entirely one-sided and carried on solely by Madame Clarisse, the theme was always the same--the misery of work and poverty, the glory of idleness and riches, the folly, the worse than folly, almost crime, of those who spend their life in toil, and neglect to clutch the golden opportunity which comes to most all of us when we are young, and comes but once.

With these remarks--which might have seemed sententious in anyone else, but which Madame Clarisse put so aptly and so deftly, with such quaint illustrations, sounding quainter still in the broken English with which she interlarded her discourse, as to render it amusing--was often mixed a series of running comments on Colonel Orpington, which were laudatory, but in which the praise was laid on with a very skilful hand.

It is due to the Colonel to say that he left all mention of himself, whether laudatory or otherwise, to Madame Clarisse, and this was one of the greatest reasons for which Daisy liked him.

Beyond referring occasionally to his originally expressed desire to see the girl removed into some better position than that which she then occupied, and his readiness to help her in the achievement of such a position, Colonel Orpington never seemed to have any object in his never-failing pursuit of the girl's acquaintance beyond the perfectly legitimate one of amusing himself and her, and making the time pass pleasantly for them both. He was always gay, always cheerful, always full of good-humoured talk and anecdote, but at the same time always strictly respectful and well-bred in his conversation and in his manner. He treated the milliner's assistant with as much courtesy as he would bestow upon a duchess; and it was only in his occasional colloquies with Madame Clarisse that he permitted himself the use of phrases which but few of his compatriots would have understood, and which even in France would have been more easily intelligible in the Rue de Bréda than in the Faubourg St. Germain.

And what were Daisy's feelings towards Colonel Orpington? Did she really love or care for him? Not one whit.

Had she forgotten Paul and all their long walks and talks, all the devotion which he had proffered her, all her acknowledgments of regard for him? Had his image faded out of her heart during his absence, and was it there replaced by another and less worthy one? Not the least in the world; only that the absence of her lover had given the girl breathing space, as it were, to look around her, and to estimate her present position and her future chances at their actual value. And when thus seriously estimated, she found that the devotion which Paul had proffered her was, to her thinking, not worth very much; it was not sufficient to induce him to pledge himself to marry her: it was not sufficient to induce him boldly to defy the opinion of the world, and break off those shackles of family and society by which he was bound hand and foot; it was only sufficient for him to give up a certain portion of his time to be passed in her company, which was after all a sufficiently selfish pleasure, as it pleased him as much as it did her. And then, after all, what was to be the result?

In the early days of their acquaintance, before he knew the character of the girl he had to deal with, Paul had given certain hints which Daisy had rigidly ignored, or when compelled to hear them, had forbidden to be repeated; but since then they had been going on in a vague purposeless way; and though the boy-and-girl attachment, the stolen meetings, the letters, and the knowledge that they loved each other, were in themselves sufficient, and would last for ever, due consideration gave Daisy no clue to the probable result of that connection. And yet she loved Paul; had no idea how much she loved him until she was thinking over what her future, what a portion of her future at least, might be if passed with somebody else.

If passed with somebody else? There could be no doubt about what was intended, though he had never said a word, or given the slightest hint. The conversation of her employer--who, as Daisy was clear-headed and keen-witted enough to see, was in the Colonel's confidence--was full of subtle meaning. No need for the Frenchwoman to enlarge to Daisy on what she meant by the golden opportunity; no need for her to dwell upon the comforts and luxuries which were easily procurable by her--the dresses and equipages, the pomps and vanities which so many wasted their lives in endeavouring to obtain, and which might be hers at once.

Hers; and with them what? A life of shame, a career such as she had regarded always with loathing and horror; such as she had told her mother that, whatever temptation might assail her, she had sufficient courage and strength of mind to avoid. And such a life, not with a young lover, the warmth of whose passion, whatever might be its depth, it was impossible to deny, but with a man no longer young, who pretended to no sentiment for her beyond admiration, and who, polished, courteous, and gentlemanly as he was, would probably look upon her as any other appanage of his wealth and position, and care for her no more.

And yet, and yet were they to go on for ever--the long days of drudgery, the nights in the cheerless garret, the weary existence with the one ray of hope which illumined it, the love for Paul, soon necessarily to be quenched for ever? She could not bear to think of that. Should she give it up, fling all to the winds, tell her lover on his return, which she was now daily expecting, that she could stand it no longer; bid him take her and do with her as he willed--marry her or not, as he chose, but let her feel that there was something worth living for, some bond of union which, legal or illegal, lessened the hard exigences of daily life, and took something of the grimness off the aspect of the world?

She was mad! Was that to be the end of all her cultivated coldness and self-restraint? Had she quietly, if not cheerfully, accepted the wretched life which she had been leading so long, with the one aim of establishing for herself a position, and was she now going to undo all that she had so patiently planned and so weariedly carried out in one moment of headstrong passion? Was the position which she hoped to acquire, for which she had so earnestly striven, to prove to be that of a poor man's mistress, where everything would have been lost and nothing gained? Nothing gained! Nothing? not Paul's love? No, she had that now; and she was quite sufficient woman of the world to know that in the chance of such a contingency as she had contemplated, she might not be long in losing it.

As the time for Paul Derinzy's return approached, Daisy became more and more unsettled. It would seem as though Colonel Orpington had been made aware of the speedily anticipated reappearance on the scene of one who might be considered his rival; and, indeed, Miss Bella Merton had been several times recently to Mr. Wilson's chambers in the Temple, and held long conversations with the occupant thereof. As he was more than usually assiduous in his attentions to Fanny, she, Madame Clarisse, had accompanied them once or twice to the theatre; and on one occasion, when the Frenchwoman had declared that Fanfan was dying for fresh air--it was one morning after the girl had passed a sleepless night in thinking over all the difficulties that beset her future, and she looked very pale and weary-eyed----the Colonel had placed his brougham at the disposal of the ladies, and insisted on their driving down in it to Richmond, whither he proceeded on horseback, and had luncheon provided for them on arrival at the hotel.

More assiduous, but not more particular beyond telling her laughingly one day that he should speedily ask her for an interview, at which he should ask her consent to a little project that he intended to carry out, the Colonel's conversation was of his usual ordinary light kind; but Madame Clarisse's hints were more subtle than ever, and Daisy could not fail to have some notion of what the project to be proposed at the suggested interview might be.

One Sunday morning--Paul was to come up from Devonshire that night, and had written her a wild letter full of rhapsodical delight at the idea of seeing her again the next day--Daisy was seated in her room.

Her little well-worn writing-desk was open, the paper was before her, the pen lay ready to her hand; but the girl was leaning back in her chair, and wondering how much or how little of the actual state of affairs she ought to describe in the letter to her mother which she was then about to write; for it had come to that, that there was concealment between them. Of her acquaintance with Colonel Orpington, Daisy had breathed never a word; while on her side Mrs. Stothard had carefully concealed the fact, that she was an inmate of the house which was the home of her daughter's lover, where at the time he was actually staying.

Daisy was roused from her deliberation by a rap at the door, and by the immediate entrance of Mrs. Gillot, her landlady, who told her that a gentleman wished to see her.

It was come at last then, this interview at which all was to be decided!

Daisy felt her face flush, and knew that Mrs. Gillot remarked it.

"A gentleman!" she repeated.

"Ay, a gentleman," said the worthy woman; "and one of the right sort too, or you may depend upon it I wouldn't have had him shown into my front parlour, where he now is. Not but what you can take care of yourself, Miss Fanny, and I trust you to give any jackanapes a regular good setting-down, with your quiet look, and your calm voice, and your none-of-your-impudence manner; but this is a gentleman, and when I showed him into the parlour, I told him I was sure you would see him."

"I will come directly, Mrs. Gillot."

She rose, took a hasty glance in the little scrap of looking-glass, and descended the stairs.

Her heart beat highly as she laid her hand upon the parlour-door. It resumed its normal rate or pulsation as the door opened beneath her touch, and she saw, standing before her on the hearth-rug, the unexpected figure of John Merton.

Something in her face when she first recognised him, something in the tone of her voice, some note of surprise and disappointment when she bade him goodmorning, must have betrayed itself, for he said hurriedly:

"You did not expect to see me, Miss Stafford."

"I confess I did not; but of course I am very glad. I--I hope Bella is quite well?"

"Bella is very well, I believe."

"Have you brought me some message from her?"

"No, indeed. She does not even know I was coming here."

There was a pause, then he said:

"I suppose you do not think I have taken a liberty in calling on you, Miss Stafford?"

"Oh dear, no! I have known you so long, and your sister is such an intimate acquaintance of mine, that I could not be anything of that sort. What makes you ask?"

"Well, you looked so--so surprised at seeing me."

"I was surprised at seeing anyone. No one ever comes here after me."

"No?" said John Merton, interrogatively, and his face seemed to brighten as he said it.

"No," said Daisy; "and my landlady must have been as much astonished as I am. You must have made a very favourable impression on her to obtain admittance."

"Mrs. Gillot is a very old friend of mine," said John Merton. "She has known me since I was a boy; but I should not have presumed upon that acquaintance to ask for you, nor indeed, Miss Stafford, should I have ventured to come here at all, if I had not something very particular to say to you."

"Very particular to say to me!"

"To say to you something so special and particular, that your answer to it may change the course of my whole life. I must ask you to listen to me, Miss Stafford. I won't keep you a minute longer than I can help."

Daisy bowed her head in acquiescence. She had taken a seat, but he remained standing before her, half leaning over towards her, with one hand on the table.

Poor John Merton! The girl's eyes rested on that hand, with its great thick red fingers and coarse knuckles and clumsy wrist; and then they travelled up the shiny sleeve of his black coat, and over his blue silk gold-sprigged tie to his good-looking face shining with soap, and his jet-black hair glistening with grease. And then she dropped her eyes, and inwardly shuddered, comparing them with the hands and features of two other people of her acquaintance.

"You said just now," said John Merton, in rather a husky voice, "that you were not annoyed at my calling upon you, because you had known me so long, and because you were so intimate with my sister. I think I might allege those two reasons as the cause of my being here now. All the time I have known you I have had but one feeling towards you, and all that I have heard my sister say of you--and she seems never to be talking of anybody else--has deepened and concentrated that feeling. What that feeling is," continued John, "I don't think I need try to explain. I don't think I could if I tried, unless--unless I were to say that I would lay down my life to save you from an ache or a pain, that I worship the very ground you tread on, and that I look upon you like an angel from heaven!"

His voice shook as he said these words; but the fervour which possessed him lit up his features; and as Daisy stole an upward glance at him, and saw his pleading eyes and working mouth, she forgot the homeliness of his appearance, and wondered how her most recent thoughts about him had ever found a place in her mind.

He caught something of her feeling, and said quickly, "You are not angry with me?"

She shook her head in dissent.

"You mustn't be that," he said, "whatever answer you may give me. I know how inferior I am to you in every possible way. I know, I can't help knowing, I could not help hearing even at that girl's the other evening, the last time we met, how you were noticed and admired by people in a very different position from mine: have known this and borne it all, and never spoken--shouldn't have spoken now, but that there is come a chance in my life which I must either accept or relinquish, and I want you to decide it for me."

"You want me to decide it!"

"You, and you alone can do it. This is how it comes about, Miss Stafford. You know I am what they call a 'counterjumper,'" said he, with a little bitter laugh; "but I know, that though it is a distinction without a difference, I suppose, to those who are not in the trade, I am one of the first hands with perhaps the largest silk-mercers in London, and I have been taken frequently abroad by one of the firm when he has gone to buy goods in a foreign market. I must have pleased them, I suppose, for now they are going to set up an agency in Lyons; and they have offered it to me, and I shall take it if you will come with me as my wife."

He paused, and Daisy was silent.

After a minute, he said hurriedly:

"You don't speak. It is not a bad thing pecuniarily. They would make it about three hundred a year, I think, and I should get very good introductions, and it would be like beginning life again for both of us. I thought it would be a good chance of shaking off any old associations; and as the position would be tolerable, it would be only me--myself, I mean--that you would have to put up with, and---- You don't speak still! I haven't offended you?"

She looked up at him. Her face was very pale, and her hands fluttered nervously before her; but there was no break in her voice as she said:

"Offended me! You have done me the greatest honour in your power, and you talk about offence! You must not ask me for an answer now; I cannot give it; the whole thing has been so sudden. I will think it over, and write to you in a day or two at most. Meantime, I think it would be advisable for both our sakes that you should not speak of what has occurred, even to your sister."

"Of course not," he said; "anything you wish. And you tell me that I may hope?"

"I did not quite say that," she said with a smile. "I told you you must wait for my reply. You shall have it very soon. Now, goodbye."

She held out her hand to him, and he took it in his own--which again looked horribly red and common, she thought--then he just touched it with his lips, and he was gone.

"Another element, a third element in the confusion," said Daisy to herself as she reascended the stairs to her room; "but one not so difficult to deal with as the others."