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."