"Well, George, old man, how are you? No need to ask, though. You're looking as fresh as a daisy, and that after a couple of hundred miles of rail, a long drive in a dog-cart, and a family dinner with people who were strangers to you! And after all that, you're up and out by nine o'clock. I told my people you were the most wonderful fellow in the world, and now I think they'd believe it."
"I haven't done anything yet to assert any claim to such a character, at all events, Paul. I'm always an early riser, and most certainly I wasn't going to loaf away a splendid morning like this between the sheets. Where are the ladies and the Captain?"
"My mother is generally occupied with domestic matters in the morning, and Annette never shows till later in the day. If the governor had had his will, he would have liked to be with us now. He was immensely fetched by you last night, and jabbered away as I have not heard him for years. But a little of the governor goes a long way; and I told him we had business to talk over this morning; so he's off on his own hook somewhere, poor old boy."
"I don't think you appreciate your father quite sufficiently, Master Paul. He made himself remarkably agreeable last night; and there was a kind ofPelhamandTremaineflavour about his conversation which was particularly refreshing in this back-slapping, slangy age."
"And Annette--what did you think of her?"
"I was very much struck with her appearance. I'm not much of a judge in such matters, but surely she is very pretty."
"Ya-as," said Paul with a half-conquering air, caressing his moustache; "ya-as, she is pretty. What did you think of her--of her altogether, you know?"
"I thought her manner very charming. A little timid and nervous, as was natural on being introduced to a stranger. Well, even more than timid: a little weary, as though scarcely recovered from some illness or excitement."
"Ah, that was her illness. She had a bout of it the very day I sent off my letter to you."
"Well, she gave me that idea. But what on earth did you mean, young fellow, by telling me in that letter that your cousin was dull anddistraite? I never saw anyone more interested or more interesting; and what she said about Wordsworth's sonnets and his poem of 'Ruth' was really admirably thought out and excellently put."
"Exactly. And yet you demur at my calling you the most wonderful fellow in the world! Why, my dear old George, you are the first person in all our experience of her that has ever yet made Annette talk."
"Perhaps because I am the first person who has listened to her."
"Not at all! We've all of us tried it. The governor's not much, to be sure, and those who don't care to hear perpetually about the Tamburini row, and D'Orsay, and Gore House, and 'glorious Jack Reeve at the Adelphi, sir!' and those kind of interesting anecdotes, soon get bored. And I'm not much, and not often here. But my mother, as you'll soon find out, is a clever woman, capital talker, and all that; and so far as I can learn, Miss Netty has hitherto utterly refused to be interested and amused even by that most fascinating of men to the sex, your father."
"My father! Why, where did he ever see Miss Derinzy?"
"Here, in this very house. Ay, you may well look astonished! It appears that my people knew your father in early years, before he took up his present specialty, and that he attended my mother, who has never had anything like decent health. She grew so accustomed to him that she would never see anyone else; and Dr. Wainwright has been good enough, since they have been here, to come down two or three times a year, and look after her."
"And he has seen Miss Derinzy?"
"Oh yes; unprofessionally, of course--at dinner, and that kind of thing--and, as I understand, has gone in to make himself very agreeable to Annette, but has never succeeded. On the contrary."
"On the contrary?"
"Well, they tell me that she has always snubbed him tremendously; and that must have been a frightful blow to such a society swell as your governor--diner-out, andraconteur, and all that kind of thing. Fact of the matter is, she has a deuced bad provincial style about her."
"Upon my honour I can't see it, can't allow it, even though, as you say, she did snub my father."
"Of course not, you old muff! Antony, no doubt, thought Cleopatra's manners charming; though the 'dull cold-blooded Caesar' who wouldn't be hooked in, and the other gents whom Antony cut out, had not a good word for her. However, look here; this scheme won't do at all. Don't you see that?"
"What scheme?"
"Now, 'pon my word, I call this nice! I fire guns for help, ring an alarm-bell for aid, and when the aid comes I have to explain my case! Don't you recollect what I told you about my mother's plan for my marrying Annette?"
"Oh--yes," said George Wainwright slowly, "I recollect now."
"That's deuced kind of you. So you must see it would never do."
"It would not do?"
"No, of course it wouldn't! What a fellow you are, George!" said Paul, almost testily. "The girl does not suit me in the smallest degree, and--and there's another one that does."
"Ah, I had forgotten about that."
"My good fellow, you seem to have left your wits behind you at the office for Billy Dunlop to take care of. What the deuce are you mooning about?"
"Nothing; I was only a little confused for the moment. And you are still over head and ears in that quarter, my poor Paul?"
"By Jove, you may well say that!"
"You correspond, of course, during your absence?"
"I've heard from her once or twice."
"And you carry the letters there," touching his friend's breast-pocket. "Ah, I heard a responsive crackling of paper, my poor old Paul."
"Oh, it's all deuced fine for you to talk about 'my poor old Paul,' and all that, but you don't know the party, or even you would be warmed into something like life!"
"Hem!" growled Wainwright, "I don't know about that; though, as you say, I am a little more exacting in my requirements than you. Does she spell Paul with a 'w,' or with a little 'p'?"
"She spells and writes like a lady as she is. What an ass I am to get into a rage! Look here, George, I can't stand this much longer. I must get back to her. It's no good my fooling my time away down here. My mother has brought me down to propose for Annette, and I shall have to tell her perfectly plainly that it can't be done."
"That's why you sent for me," said George Wainwright; "to tell me that you had fully made up your mind in the matter on which you brought me down here to consult me, eh?"
"No, not at all. I wanted to consult you, my dear old man, my best and dearest of old boys; but, you see, the scenes have shifted a little since I wrote. I've seen more of Annette, and seen more plainly that she does not like me, and I don't care for her; and I've had a letter from town which makes me think that the sooner I am back with Daisy, the better."
"With Daisy? that's her name, is it?"
"That's her pet name with me, and---- What, mooning again, eh?"
"No, I wasn't. I was merely thinking about---- Who was that elderly woman who came to the drawing-room door last night and told Miss Derinzy it was bed-time?"
"Oh, that was Annette's servant, who is specially devoted to her--Mrs. Stothard."
"Mrs. Stothard--Miss Derinzy's maid?"
"Well, maid, and nurse, and general attendant. Poor Annette, as I wrote you, is very delicate, and requires constant watching. I should not wonder if the excitement of last night and all your insinuating charming talk, you old rascal, were to have a bad effect, and make her lay up."
"Poor young lady, I sincerely hope not. When did you say my father was here last?"
"Ididn'tsay any time; but I believe a few weeks ago. Now let us take a turn, and try and find the governor."
"By all means. I--I suppose Miss Derinzy is not down vet?"
"Villain! you would add to the mischief you caused last night. No. Down! no; not likely to be for hours! Come."
About the time that this conversation was going on in the little breakfast-room, Mrs. Stothard might have been seen leaving the suite of apartments which she and her young mistress occupied, all the doors of which she carefully closed behind her, and making her way to Mrs. Derinzy's room. Arrived there, she gave a short knock--by no means a humble petitioning rap, but a sort of knock which said, "I only do this kind of thing because I am obliged"--and, following close on the sound of her knuckles, entered.
As Mrs. Stothard had previously noticed--for nothing escaped her--Mrs. Derinzy for the last few days had been very much "out o' sorts," in the language of the villagers. Those humble souls anticipated the immediate advent of another attack, and Mrs. Powler had even suggested to Dr. Barton that the "man in Lunnon," as she called Dr. Wainwright, should be sent for. But when the little village medico presented himself at the Tower with the view of making a few preliminary inquiries, he only saw Mrs. Stothard, who told him, with an amount of grimness and acidity unusual even in her, that his services were not required.
The fact was, that Mrs. Derinzy, though to a certain extent a strong-minded woman, had confined herself for many years to diplomacy; and while plotting and scheming, had forgotten the actual art of war as practised by her in early days. Now, when the time had arrived for her to descend again into the arena, her courage failed her. It was now that Paul should be induced--forced, if necessary--to take up that position to the preparation of which for him the best years of his mother's life had been devoted, and at this very moment Mrs. Derinzy felt herself unequal to the task. The fact is, she had been winding herself up for the struggle, and was now rapidly running down before it commenced, although--perhaps because--she had her suspicions as to the result.
"How do you find yourself this morning?" asked Mrs. Stothard, in a loud unsympathetic voice.
"Not at all well, Martha. You might guess that from finding me still in my room at this time; but the fact is, I had scarcely the energy to get up this morning."
"Tired out by the wild dissipation of having a fresh face to look at, a fresh tongue to listen to, last night, I suppose."
"You mean Mr. Wainwright? He certainly is a most agreeable man."
"You are not the only person this morning suffering from his charms," said Mrs. Stothard, with a sniff of depreciation as she pronounced the last words.
"What do you mean? How is Annette? What kind of a night did she have?"
"Bad enough. Oh no, nothing violent, but bad enough for all that. I don't think I ever saw her so excited, so pleasantly excited, before. I could not persuade her to go to bed; and she coaxed me to let her sit up while she talked to me of your visitor. He was so handsome, so charming, so intelligent, she had never seen anyone like him."
"He made himself very agreeable," said Mrs. Derinzy shortly. She was alarmed at the account of these raptures on Annette's part, which boded no good to her favourite project.
"If she were a responsible being, I should say she was in love," said Mrs. Stothard. "Not that anyone is responsible, under those circumstances," she added: a dim remembrance of a cathedral yard, a pile of illuminated drawings, and a cornet in the cavalry, seen through a long vista of intervening years, gave her voice a flat and hollow sound.
"In love! stuff! She sees so few new faces that she's amused for the time, that's all. She will have forgotten the man by this morning."
"Shehasn'tforgotten him, though you do say 'stuff!' She had a very restless night, tossing and talking in her sleep and laughing to herself. And this morning, directly she woke, she asked me if George Wainwright was still here; and when I told her yes, laughed and kissed my cheek, and fell asleep again quite satisfied."
"GeorgeWainwright, eh?" said Mrs. Derinzy. "She has lost no time in picking up his name."
"She loses no time in picking up anything that interests her. And this Mr. George Wainwright is clever, you say?"
"Very clever, so Paul says; and so he seems."
"And he has come down here on a visit, just to see Mr. Paul?"
"Exactly. Mr. Paul thinks there is nobody like him, and consults him in everything."
"And yet, knowing this," said Mrs. Stothard, drawing nearer and dropping her voice, "you have this man here, and don't seem to see any danger in his coming."
"What do you mean, Martha? I don't comprehend you," said Mrs. Derinzy, showing in her pallid cheeks and wandering hands how she had been taken aback by the suddenness of the question.
"Oh yes, you understand me perfectly, and as you have only chosen to give me half-confidences, I can't speak any plainer. But this I will say, that if you still wish to throw dust in your son's eyes as regards what is the matter with Annette, you have acted with extraordinary folly in permitting this man to come down here. He is no shallow flimsy youth like Mr. Paul--you will excuse my speaking out; it is necessary in such matters--but a clever, shrewd, long-headed man of the world, and one, above all, who is constantly brought into contact with cases such as Annette's. He will see what is the matter with her in the course of the next interview they have, even if he has not discovered it at once, or at all events the first time she has an attack, and--he will tell his friend."
"They must be kept apart; he must not see her any more."
"Pshaw! that would excite suspicion--his, Paul's, every one's. No; we must think it out quietly, and see what can be done for the best. Meantime, Annette's state is greatly in our favour. She is wonderfully good-tempered and docile, and if she does not get too much excited, we may yet pass it off all well."
"Let her console herself with that idea," said Mrs. Stothard, when she found herself alone in her own room, "if she is weak enough to find consolation in it. Nothing will hide the truth from this man. I saw that in the mere momentary glance I had of him last night. He will detect Annette's madness, and will tax his father with the knowledge of it; and the Doctor, hard though he is, won't be able to deceive his son. And then up blows our fine Derinzy castle into the air! Won't it blow up without that? Wait a minute, and let us just see how matters stand--in regard tomyplans andmyfuture, I mean, not theirs.
"Paul is still madly in love with Fanny. Since he has been here, he has had two letters from her, addressed to him at the 'Lion,' under his assumed name of 'Douglas.' I saw them when they fell from his pocket, as he changed his coat in the hall the other day. So far, so good. Then--this man Wainwright finds out that Annette is mad, and tells Paul. Of course the young fellow declares off at once, only too glad to do so, and Mrs. Derinzy's of the marriage are at an end.
"Would Paul marry Fanny then? If left to himself he would; but Wainwright, who they say has such immense influence over him, would never permit it; would persuade him that he was disgracing himself, talk about unequal alliances, and all that.
"A dangerous man to have for an enemy! What is to be done? How is he to be won over? Suppose--suppose he were to take a fancy to the girl himself, mad as she is--such things have been, and she is certainly fascinated with him--and I were to prove their friend! How would that work out? I think something might be made of it."
The pleasant house in Kent at which Colonel Orpington and his daughter are staying is filled with agreeable company. Not merely young men who are out shooting all day in the thick steaming coverts well preserved with pheasants; not merely young women who are in the habit of carrying on perpetual flirtation with the afore-named young men in language intelligible to themselves alone, who look upon the Colonel as rather a fogey, and who, as he confesses himself, bore him immensely, and are very much deteriorated from the youth of his time; but several people of his own age--club-hunting men who began life when he did, and have pursued it much after the same fashion; and ladies who take interest in all the talk and scandal and reminiscences of bygone years.
The house is situated at such a little distance from town--some sixty miles or so--that it is traversed in very little more than an hour by the express train, which (the owner of the house is a director of the railway) can be always stopped by signal at the very small station nearest to it; so that the company is constantly changing, and receiving fresh accessions, the coming guests being welcomed, and the parting guests being speeded, after the ordinary recipe.
But throughout the changes, Colonel Orpington and his daughter are among the company who stay on; both of them are voted excellent company, for the nights are beginning to grow long now, and the dinner-hour has been fixed at seven instead of eight; and there is a great talk of and preparation for certain amateur theatricals, of which the Colonel, who is an old hand at such matters, is stage-manager and principal director, and in which Miss Orpington is to take a leading part. Much astonishment has been privately exhibited by certain of the assembled people that that restlessness which generally characterised "old O.," as he was familiarly termed amongst them, seemed to have abated during his visit to Harbledown Hall; more especially has a calm come over those horribly troublesome slate-quarries and lead-mines in South Wales, which usually took the Colonel so frequently away from his daughter and his friends. The matter is discussed in the smoking-room late at night, long after the well-preserved Colonel has retired to his rest; and Badger Bobus, who is come down to stay at Harbledown on the first breath of there being any possibility of club-hunting, thinks that he ought to keep up the reputation which he acquired by his famous saying on the subject; but the Muse is unpropitious, and all that Bobus can find to remark is, that "it is deuced extraordinary."
The long interval which has now elapsed since her father found it necessary to relieve her of his presence does not seem to have had much effect upon Miss Orpington. Truth to tell, whether her revered parent is or is not with her has now become a matter of very small moment with that lady; and when her hostess congratulates herself in supposing that her house must indeed be attractive when that dear Colonel consents to remain there as a fixed star, Miss Orpington merely shrugs her shoulders slightly and expresses no further acquiescence.
Life has gone on in all this Arcadian simplicity for full five weeks, when the appearance of the Colonel at the breakfast-table, blue frock-coated and stiff-collared, instead of in the usual easy garb adopted by him in the country of a morning, shows some intended change in his proceedings. The wags of the household, Badger Bobus and his set, are absent from the breakfast-table; for there was a heavy billiard-match on the night before, and they were yet sleeping off its effects. Nevertheless the change in the Colonel's costume is not unobserved; but before a delicately-contrived question can be put to extract its meaning, the Colonel himself announces that he has to go to town for a day, and may possibly be prevented from returning that night. Modified expressions of horror from the young ladies and gentlemen about to act in the amateur theatricals, then close impending--fears that everything will go wrong during the manager's absence, and profound distrust of themselves without his suggestions and experience. The Colonel takes these compliments very coolly--is pretty nearly certain to be back that night; and his absence will give them a chance of striking-out any new lights which may occur to them, and which can be tendered for his acceptance on his return. Miss Orpington, when appealed to to persuade her father not to be longer away than is absolutely necessary, meets the matter with her usual shoulder-shrug, and a calm declaration that in those matters she never interferes, and papa always pleases himself.
The Yorkshire baronet with money to whom she is engaged, and who does not put in appearance until after the Colonel's announcement has been made (he was one of the most interested in the billiard-match, and ran Badger Bobus very hard at the last), is really delighted at the news. He and the Colonel get on very well together--they are on the best of terms both as regards present and prospective arrangements; but there is, as Sir George Hawker remarks, something about the "old boy" which did not "G" with his, Sir George's, notions of perfect comfort.
Before the last of the dissipated ones has dropped-in to the dry bacon and leathery toast, the remnants of the haddocks, and thedébrisof the breakfast, the Colonel is driving a dogcart to the station, where the signal for the express to stop is already flying. The equanimity which the old warrior has sustained in the presence of his friends deserts him a little now when there is no one near him save a stolid-faced groom who is gazing vacantly over the adjacent country. His annoyance does not vent itself on the horse--he is too good a whip for that--but he "pishes!" and "pshaws!" and is very short and sharp with the groom demanding orders as he leaves his master at the station; and when he has been sucked-up, as it were, into the train, which is again thundering on its townward way, he takes a letter from his pocket, and daintily adjusting his natty double-eyeglass on his nose, reads it through and through.
"This is the infernal nuisance of having to make women allies in matters of this kind," says he softly to himself, laying down the letter and looking out of the window. "They are always doing too much or too little; anything like ajuste milieuseems to be utterly impossible to them; and I cannot make out from this girl's rodomontade nonsense whether she has not just overstepped her instructions, and so spoiled what promised to be a remarkably pretty little plot. And yet it was the only thing I could do, and she was the only available person. It was a thousand pities that Clarisse was away from town at the moment; for she is not merely thoroughly trustworthy, but always has her wits about her."
When the train arrives in London, the Colonel calls a cab, and is driven to the Beaufort Club, which is still empty and deserted, and where he asks the porter whether certain members, whom he names, had been there lately. Among these names is that of Mr. Derinzy; and on being answered in the negative, he brightens up a little and pursues his way. This time the cabman is directed to drive to the Temple; and at the Temple gates he stops and deposits his fare.
There are symptoms of renewing life among the lawyers, for term-time is coming on. As the Colonel steps down Middle Temple Lane, he passes by long ladders, and has to skip out of the way of the shower of whitewash and water which the painters, standing on them, scatter refreshingly about. It is for Selden Buildings that Colonel Orpington is making; and, arrived in that quiet little nook, where the hum of the many-footed passing up and down Fleet Street sounds only like the distant roar of the sea, he stops before the doorway of No. 5, and after a rapid glance upwards, to assure himself that he is right, enters the house, and climbs the dingy staircase. The clerks in the attorney's office on the ground-floor seem to be in full swing; but the oak on the first-floor, guarding the chambers where Tocsin, Q.C., gets himself in training for gladiatorial practice, is closed, Tocsin being still away. Arrived at the second-floor, the Colonel pauses to take breath, the ascent having been a little steep. There are two doors, one on either hand, and both are closed. After a moment's breathing space, the Colonel turns to the one on the right, which bears the name of "Mr. John Wilson," and after a short glance round, to see that he is unobserved--it was scarcely worth the trouble, for he was most certain there would be none there to see him--he takes a neat little Bramah-key from his pocket, opens the oak, and entering, closes it carefully behind him. There is nothing in the little hall but a stone filter and a couple of empty champagne bottles. So the Colonel does not linger there, but quickly passing through, opens the door in front of him, and finds himself in a large room dimly lit, by reason of the window-blinds being all pulled down. When these are raised--and to raise them is the Colonel's first proceeding--he looks round him with a shiver, lights a fire, which is already laid in the grate, and carelessly glances round the apartment. Not like a lawyer's rooms these; not like the office of a hardworking attorney, the chambers of a hard-reading, many-brief-getting barrister; not like the chambers of Tocsin, Q.C.--even though Tocsin notoriously goes in for luxury, and affects to be a swell; no litter of many papers here, no big bundles of briefs, no great sheets of parchment, no tin boxes painted with resonant names (in most cases as fictitious as the drawers of Mr. Bob Sawyer's chemist-shop), no legal library bound in calf, no wig-box, no stuff-gown refreshingly dusted with powder hanging up behind the door. Elegant furniture, more like that found in a Mayfair drawing-room than in the purlieus of the Temple: long looking-glasses from floor to ceiling, velvet-covered mantelpiece, china gimcrackery placed here and there, easy-chairs and sofa; no writing-table, but a little davenport of old black oak, a round dining-table capable of seating six persons, a heavy sideboard also in black oak, and a dumb-waiter. Heavy cloth curtains, relieved by an embroidered border, cover the windows; and on the walls are proofs after Landseer. Thick dust is over all; and as the fire is slow in lighting, the Colonel shivers again as he gives it a vicious poke, and says to himself:
"'Gad! there is a horrible air of banquet-halls deserted, and all that kind of thing, about the place! It must be more than three months since anyone was in it. When was the last time, by-the-way? Oh, when I gave Grenville and Brown and Harriet that supper after the picnic." The fire struggles up a little, but the Colonel still shivers. "I wish I had told that old woman who attends to this place that Mr. Wilson was likely to be here for an hour or two to-day, and wanted his fire lit. I hope my young friend will be punctual. It is better down at Harbledown than at this dreary place; and it wouldn't do for me to show in town--not that there is anybody here to see me, I suppose. Young Derinzy away still--that is good hearing; but what could she have meant by 'things not looking very straight?' Always so confoundedly enigmatical and mysterious in her writing. Perhaps she will be more explicit when we meet face to face." Then, looking at his watch, "Let me see--just two; and I have not time to get any luncheon anywhere; that is to say, if she comes at the hour which I telegraphed to her."
The fire is burning bravely now, and the Colonel is bending over it, rejoicing in its warmth, when he hears a slight tinkling of a bell. He looks up and listens.
"'Gad! I forgot I had closed the oak," he says. "I come here so seldom, that the ways of these places are still strange to me." (Tinkle again.) "That must be my young friend."
He rises leisurely, crosses the hall, and opens the door, and is confronted by a tall young woman, rather flashily dressed, who lifts her veil, and reveals the features of Miss Bella Merton, the clerk at Mr. Kammerer's, the photographer.
"Is Mr. Wilson in, sir?" asked the young lady, with a demure glance.
"He is," said the Colonel; "and delighted to welcome you to his rooms. Come in, my dear young lady; there is no necessity for either of us acting a part now. You are very punctual, and in matters of business--and ours is entirely a matter of business--that is a very excellent sign."
He led her into the room, pulled an arm-chair opposite the fire, and handed her to it.
"I scarcely know whether I am doing right in coming here, Colonel Orpington," said Bella Merton--"by myself, you know, and alone with a gentleman," she added, as if in reply to his wondering look.
"I mentioned just now that there was no necessity for any nonsense between us, Miss Merton," said the Colonel quietly, "and that we are engaged on what is purely a matter of business. Let us understand each other exactly. You are my agent, my paid agent--I don't wish to hurt your feelings, but in business frankness is everything--to make inquiries and act for me in a certain matter, and you have come here to make me your report. There is no mystery about it so far as you are concerned, except that you are to know me in it as Mr. Wilson; but you will find, my dear Miss Merton, as you grow older, that in many of the most important business transactions in the world the name of the principal is not allowed to transpire. Do I make myself clear?"
Miss Merton, though still young, has plenty ofsavoir faire. She takes her cue at once; lays aside her giggling, demure, and blushing friskiness, and comes to the point.
"Perfectly, Mr. Wilson," she replied. "I received your telegram, and am here obedient to it."
"That is very right, very prompt, and very much to the purpose," says the Colonel. "I ask you to meet me here, because in your note received this morning you seem to intimate that things were not going quite as comfortable as I could wish with our young friend--Fanny, I think you call her. Is not that her name?"
"Yes; Fanny Stafford."
"Very well, then; in future we will always speak of her as Fanny, or Miss Stafford, as occasion may require. Will you be good enough now to enter into farther particulars?"
"Well, you see, Mr. Wilson"--and the girl cannot help smiling as she repeats his name, for Colonel Orpington looks so utterly unlike any possible Mr. Wilson--"Fanny has grown dull and out of sorts lately; and I cannot help thinking, from some words she has occasionally dropped, that she is anxious to leave Madame Clarisse, and settle herself in life."
"I don't know that I should prove any obstacle to that," says the Colonel; "it would depend, of course, on the manner in which she proposed to settle herself."
"Of course," says the girl, looking at him keenly; "that is just it; and, if I may be excused for saying so, I don't think hers was in your way."
"Very likely not. Please understand you are to say everything and anything that comes into your head and you think relates to the business we have in hand. I imagine, from the hint in your letter, that the gentleman of whom we have spoken, Mr. ----, how do you call him?"
"Mr. Douglas--Paul Douglas."
"Ay, Mr. Douglas--had come to town. On inquiry, I find this is not the case."
"No, but she hears from him constantly; and though she never shows me his letters, I can gather from what she says that there has been something in the last one or two of them which has upset her very much."
"You have not the least idea what this something may be? Do you imagine he proposes to break with her?"
"On the contrary, I think she discovers that his love for her is even deeper than she imagined, and I think that her conscience is reproaching her a little in regard to him."
The Colonel looks up astonished.
"Who can have benefited by any lapse or waywardness of which these conscience-stings can be the result?" he asks. "Not I for one."
"I don't think anyone is benefited by them, Colonel Orpington," says the girl, with a shadow on her face; "I am sure no one has in the way you suggested. What I mean is this, that Fanny is naturally discontented with her position, and anxious for riches, and fine clothes, and a pretty home, and all that. Since I have talked to her about you and the strong admiration you have for her, and your coming after her photograph and giving Mr. Kammerer the heavy price he asked for it, and constantly speaking to me about her, she has grown more discontented still, I fancy; and we women can generally read each others minds and guess at each other's ideas, principally from the fact that we are all made use of and played upon in the same way, I imagine. I fancy that Fanny thinks that she has not acted quite fairly towards Paul Douglas since his absence; that all this talk about you has lessened her regard for him, and led her to picture to herself another future than that which she contemplated when he went away, and---- Well, I have rather an idea that there is another disturbing element in the matter."
"'Gad!" says the Colonel, stroking his moustache thoughtfully, "there seems to be quite enough complication as it is. What is it now?"
"I fancy that a young man in her own station of life, bright, active, and industrious, and likely to make a very good position for himself in that station out of which he would never want to move--for he is proud of it, and thoroughly self-reliant--is deeply smitten with Fanny, and that she knows it."
The Colonel looks up relieved.
"I wouldn't give much for this young man's chance, pattern of all the virtues though he may be. I don't think he is much in Miss Stafford's line."
"Perhaps not," says Bella Merton, "nor do I think he would be likely to succeed, if Fanny had not several sides to her character. At all events, whether he succeeds or not, the knowledge that he cares for her, and that he is ready to open a new career for her, has an irritating and upsetting effect upon her just now."
The Colonel lit a cigar during the progress of this dialogue, and sat smoking it thoughtfully.
"Do you happen to know whether Madame Clarisse is in town?" he asks her after a few minutes' pause.
"I think I heard Fanny say that she came back from Paris last week," replies Miss Merton; "yes, I am sure she did; for I recollect Fanny telling me Madame had said that she might have a holiday, and I wanted her to come away with me to get a change somewhere."
"Quite right of you to throw yourself as much with her as possible; but don't take her away just yet. You have given me most admirable aid, Miss Merton, and have managed this affair with a delicacy and discretion which do you infinite credit, and which I shall never forget. Will you add to your favour?"
"Willingly if I can, Colonel--I mean Mr. Wilson," says Bella, with a blush. "How is it to be done?"
"By getting yourself a dress, or mantle, or something of that new brown colour which has just come into fashion, about which all the ladies are raving, and which I am sure would become you admirably, and by wearing it the next time I have the pleasure of receiving a visit from you," says the Colonel, pressing a bank-note into his visitor's hand. "And now goodbye. Not a word of thanks; I told you at the beginning this was a mere matter of business; I am merely carrying out my words."
"You wish me still to see Fanny, and to let you know anything that may transpire?" asks Bella.
"Certainly; though perhaps I may soon---- However, never mind; write always to the same address, and keep me well informed."
Miss Merton goes tripping through the Temple, in great delight at the crisp little contents of her purse that she has just received from the Colonel, and commanding great tribute of admiration from the attorneys' clerks who catch glimpses of her through the grimy windows behind which they are working; and Colonel Orpington,aliasMr. John Wilson, sits with his feet before him on the fender, smoking slowly, and cogitating over all he has heard.
It is dusk in the Temple precincts, though still bright light outside, before he rises from his chair, flings the but-end of his last cigar into the fire, and says to himself:
"Yes, I think that I must now appear on the scene myself, and see how the land lies with my own eyes. I wonder whether young Derinzy has been playing this recent game from forethought or by accident. Deuced clever move of his if he intended it; but I rather think it was all a chance; such knowledge of life does not come to one until after a great deal of experience, and he is a mere boy as yet. I don't think much of what my young friend just now said about the tradesman, artisan, or whatever the fellow may happen to be, though she seemed to have a notion that he would prove dangerous. However, it will all work out in time, I suppose. I won't stop in town to-night, now there is nothing to be done; the house in Hill Street is all upset, and I will go back to my comfortable quarters at Harbledown, and give those acting people the benefit of my society. John Orpington," he says, looking at himself in the glass over the mantelpiece, "you have come to a time of life when rest is absolutely necessary for you, and you have got too much good sense to ignore the fact; and as to Miss Fanny Stafford, well--la nuit forte conseil--I will sleep upon all I have heard, and make up my mind to-morrow morning." And so little excited or flurried is Colonel Orpington by the events of the day, that when the down express is stopped by signal at the little station, the guard, previously charged to look out for him, finds the Colonel deep in slumber over his evening newspaper.
In her light and volatile way, Miss Bella Merton had made what was by no means a wrong estimate of Daisy's state of mind; more especially right was she in her conjecture that Paul Derinzy's absence had had the effect of showing to Daisy the true state of her feelings towards him, and that she found her heart much more complicated than she had believed. She had been accustomed to those walks in Kensington Gardens, which had become of almost daily occurrence, and she missed them dreadfully. She had been accustomed to the soft words, the tender speeches, to the little pettings and fondlings and delicate attentions which her lover was always paying to her, and in her solitude she hungered after them. True, his letters were all that a girl in her position could desire--full of the kindest phrases and most affectionate reminiscences, full of delight at the past and of hope for the future; only, after all, they were but letters, and Daisy wearied of his absence and longed for his return.
In the dull dead season of the year, when everything was weary and melancholy, when business was at such a standstill, that she had not even the excitement of her work to carry off her thoughts in another direction, the girl pondered over her lot, and the end of each period of reflection found her heartily sick of it. How long was it to endure? Was this daily slavery to go on for ever? Was she still to live in a garret, to emerge from thence in the early morning to the dull routine of business, to go through the daily toil of showing her employer's wares to the listless customers, of enduring all their vapid impertinences and senseless remarks, to superintend making up the boxes and the sending-off of the parcels, and to return again to the cheerless garret, weary, dispirited, and dead-beat? So that slight glimpse of the promised land which had been accorded to her when she first made up her mind that she would bring Paul's attentions to a definite end, that marriage never to be perfectly realised while he was with her, while she was in the daily habit of meeting him and listening to his impassioned words, that future which she had depicted to herself, seemed now perfectly possible of realisation, although Paul had, as she was compelled to allow to herself, never held out definite hopes of marrying her, but contented himself by dwelling on the impossibility of any decadence in his love, or of his being able to pass his life away from her.
But since his absence in the country, these pleasant visions had gradually faded and grown colourless. Thinking over the past, Daisy was compelled to allow to herself that, though their acquaintance now extended over some months, the great end to which she was looking forward seemed as far off as ever. Who were those people of his, as he called them? this family of whom he apparently stood in such awe? and even if their consent were obtained, would Paul have courage enough to fly in the face of the world by marrying a girl in a station of life inferior to his own? The moral cowardice on this point she was aware of; his weakness she knew. She had seen it in his avoidance of public places when in her company, and the constant fright of detection which he laboured under. She had taxed him with it, and he could not deny it, but laughed it off as best he might. He even in laughing it off had confessed that he stood in wholesome terror of Mrs. Grundy and all the remarks which she and her compeers might make. Was this a feeling likely to be effaced by time? She thought not. The older he grew the less likely was he to care to defy the world's opinion, unsustained as he would be by the first fierce strength of that love which alone could spur him on to what was, in his eyes, a deed of such daring.
And Daisy was in this position, that, however much she might seem to talk and laugh with Bella Merton, she could not take that young person, nor indeed any person of her own age, into her confidence. All the counsel and advice which she had to rely on must come from her mother alone, and Mrs. Stothard's advice was like herself, grim and very hard and very worldly. From the first she had seemed much pleased with Daisy's account of her relations with Paul. She had urged her daughter to persevere in the course on which she had decided, and to lose no opportunity for making the young man declare himself, so that they might have some legal hold upon him. All this was to be done cautiously and without hurry, so long as he continued as attached as he then seemed to be. Daisy was cautioned against doing anything which might alarm him; it was only if she perceived that he was relaxing in his attentions that she was at once to endeavour to bring him to book.
And though Daisy was fully aware that her more recent letters to her mother, written since Paul's absence, had been influenced by the dulness which that event had caused her, and were, in truth, anything but reassuring productions, Mrs. Stothard's had never lost heart. They were cheerful and hopeful; bade her daughter not to give way, as she felt certain that all would be right in the end; and were full of a spirit of gaiety which was little characteristic of the writer.
And there were two other influences at work which tended to disturb Daisy's peace of mind. Her acquaintance, Bella Merton, though sufficiently social and volatile, had a singular knack of persistence in carrying through any plan on which she might be engaged; and since the subject was first mentioned at the little party in Augusta Manby's rooms, she had taken advantage of every opportunity of being in Daisy's company, to enlarge to her on Colonel Orpington's position and generosity, and of the extraordinary admiration which he had professed for Fanny's portrait and herself.
These remarks were listened to by Daisy at first with unconcern, and their perpetual iteration would probably have disgusted her, had not Miss Merton been endowed with an unusual amount of feminine tact, and thus enabled to serve them up in a manner which she thought would be peculiarly palatable to her friend; so that Daisy found herself not merely constantly listening to stories of Colonel Orpington when she was in Miss Merton's company, but thinking a great deal of that distinguished individual when she was alone. She had taken very little notice of him on the day when he called in George Street with his daughter, and could only recollect of his personal appearance that it was gentlemanly and distinguished-looking; but she remembered having noticed the keen way in which he looked at her, and one glance of unmistakable admiration which he levelled at her as he followed his daughter from the room. And he was very rich, was he? and very generous--very generous? Why was Bella Merton always harping on his generosity? why was she always talking in a vague way of hoping some day to be able to introduce him formally?
To Daisy there could be no misunderstanding about the purpose of such an introduction, the girl thought, with flaming cheek; and the recollection of Paul's delicacy came across her, and she felt enraged with herself at ever having permitted Bella Merton to talk to her in that fashion. And yet--and yet what was the remainder of her life to be, Paul making no sign? She knew perfectly well that that little tea-party in Dalston might, in another way, take rank as an epoch in her life. She knew perfectly well that John Merton, who had always admired her, that night had yielded up his heart, and she would not have been surprised any day at receiving an offer of his hand. Was that to be the end of it? Was she to pull down the image of Paul which she worshipped so fondly, and erect that of homely John Merton in its place? Was she to continue in very much the same style of life which she was then leading, merely exchanging her garret for a room a little less high, a little better furnished, but probably in a less desirable part of the town? Was she to remain as a drudge--not indeed to Madame Clarisse or any other employer, for she knew John Merton was too high-spirited to think of allowing her to help towards their mutual maintenance by her own labour--but still as a drudge in domestic duties, in slavery for children and household, never to rise in the social scale, never to know anything of those luxuries which she so longed for? It was a bitter, bitter trial, and the more Daisy thought it over--and the question was constantly present in her mind--the less chance did she see of bringing it to a satisfactory conclusion.
Although the professional people whose duties required their attendance in town were beginning to come back, and bringing with them, of course, their wives and families, the majority of Madame Clarisse's more happily placed-customers yet remained in their country houses, and there was still very little business doing at the establishment in George Street. There were frequently times in the day when Daisy had nothing to do, and she would take advantage of her leisure to go out and get a breath of the bleak autumnal air. Madame Clarisse never objected to these little excursions; indeed, encouraged them. For on her return from France, she had noticed that her favourite Fanfan's cheeks were looking very pale, and that her manner was listless and dispirited, and that she plainly wanted a change. Madame was at first disposed to insist on Fanfan's going away for a time to the country or the seaside, and recruiting herself amid fresh scenes. But a communication which she received about that period altered her views; and she consequently contented herself by giving her assistant as many hours' leisure as she conveniently could, taking care that this leisure was fragmentary, and never to be enjoyed for longer than one afternoon at a time.
Daisy had an odd delight, when thus enabled to absent herself from her duties, in visiting the old spot in Kensington Gardens, which had been the scene of her walks with Paul. They had selected it on account of its seclusion, but now there were fewer people there than ever; it was too damp and cold any longer to be used as a place of recreation by the children who formerly frequented it for its quietude and its shade; and an occasional workman hurrying across the Park, or a keeper, finding his occupation gone in the absence of the boys, gazing wearily down the long vistas at the end of which the thick white fog was already beginning to steam, were the only human creatures whom Daisy encountered.
She was astonished, therefore, one day on arriving at the end of the well-known avenue, and turning to retrace her steps, to find herself face to face with a gentleman who must evidently have made his approach under cover of the trees, and who was close to her before she had heard his footfall.
She recognised him in an instant--Colonel Orpington.
"I must ask your pardon for intruding on you, Miss Stafford," said the Colonel, raising his hat, "and more especially for having come upon you so suddenly, and caused, as I am afraid I see by your startled looks, some annoyance; but though I have never had the pleasure of a personal introduction, we have met before, and I believe you know who I am."
His manner was perfectly easy and gentlemanly, but thoroughly respectful withal; and though, as he had noticed, Daisy's first impulse was to turn aside and leave him without a word, a moment's reflection caused her to bow and say:
"I believe I recognise Colonel Orpington."
"Exactly; and in Colonel Orpington you see an unfortunate man who is compelled, from what the begging-letter writers call in their flowery language, 'circumstances over which he has no control,' to remain in London at this horribly dismal time of year."
Daisy was silent, but she smiled; and the Colonel proceeded:
"I wandered into the Park and strolled up the Row, where there were only three men, who were apparently endeavouring to see which could hold on to their horses longest; and I was comparing the ghastliness of to-day with the glory of last season--I need not quote to you, I am sure, my dear Miss Stafford, that charming notion about a 'sorrow's crown of sorrows,' which Mr. Tennyson so cleverly copied from Mr. Dante, who thought of it first--when at the far end by the Serpentine Bridge I got a glimpse of a form which I thought I recognised, and which, if I may say so, has never been absent from my mind since I first saw it. I made bold to follow it; and just now, on your turning round, I found I was right in my conjectures. It was you.".
He paused; but Daisy did not smile now, merely bowed stiffly, and moved as though she would proceed. The Colonel moved at the same time.
"I hope you are not annoyed at my freedom, Miss Stafford," said he. "Believe me, at the smallest hint from you, I will rid you of my presence this instant; but it does seem rather ridiculous that two persons who, I think we are not flattering in saying, are calculated to amuse one another at a time and in a place where they are as much alone as the grand old gardener and his wife were in Paradise, should avoid each other in an eminently British manner, simply because conventionality does not recognise their meeting."
This time Daisy smiled, almost laughed, as she said: "You will readily understand, Colonel Orpington, that the rules of society have no great hold upon me, who have never been in any position to be bound by them; and I haven't the least objection to your walking part of the way with me on my return to my employer's, if it at all pleases or amuses you to do so."
"It would give me the very greatest pleasure," said the Colonel; and they walked on together.
As Daisy looked up for an instant at the face of her companion and thought of Paul, she could not help wondering at the contrast between the two men: he with whom she had been in the habit of walking up and down that avenue was always so thoroughly in earnest, his head bent down in fond solicitude towards her, his eyes seeking hers, every tone of his voice, every movement of his hands showing how deeply interested he was in that one subject on which alone they talked; while her present companion, though probably fully double Paul's age, walked along gaily and blithely, his head erect, and his voice and manner as light as his conversation.
"This is really charming," said the Colonel. "I had not the least idea of so pleasant an interview in my dull, dreary day. There is literally not one soul in London of my acquaintance, except yourself, Miss Stafford; and do you know, on reflection, I am rather glad of it."
"Indeed! And why, Colonel Orpington?"
"Because, don't you know, they say that people who in the whirl of the season might be constantly coming into momentary contact, and then carried away off somewhere else, never have the slightest opportunity of really becoming acquainted with each other; whereas, when people are thrown together at this time of year and this kind of way, there is a chance of their discovering each other's best qualities, and thus establishing an intimacy."
Daisy laughed again--this time a rather hard, bitter laugh.
"You forget, Colonel Orpington, you are talking to me now as though I am one whom you are likely to meet in the whirl of the season, one with whom you are likely to become on intimate terms."
The Colonel looked grave. "I am thinking that you have the manners, the appearance, and the education of a lady, Miss Stafford; you could have nothing more," said he quietly. "And now, where are you bound for?"
"I am going back to my employer's in George Street."
"Ah, Madame Clarisse's, where I had first the pleasure of seeing you. And does that still go on, Miss Stafford, every day.--that same work in which I saw you engaged?"
"Exactly the same, day after day," said Daisy, with a little sigh; "a little less of it now, a little more of it another time, but always the same."
"'Gad, it must be dull," said the Colonel, pulling down the corners of his mouth, "having to show a lot of gowns and things to pert young misses and horrible old women, and listen to their wretched jargon. Don't you sometimes feel inclined to tell them plainly what frights they are, and how the fault, when they find fault, is not in the thing--cap, ribbon, shawl, or whatever it may be--which they are trying on, but in themselves?"
"Madame Clarisse would scarcely thank me for that, I think," said Daisy; "and I should rather repent my own folly when I found myself without employment, and without recommendation necessary for getting it."
"Yes, of course, you are right," said the Colonel, "it would not do; but the temptation must be awfully strong. I was thinking after I left Clarisse's the other day, how astonished the hideous creatures who go there must be when they find that the things which look so charming on you when you were showing them off, so entirely lost their charm when sent home to the persons who have purchased them. Like a fairy tale, by Jove!" As he said this, Colonel Orpington cast a momentary glance at his companion to see what effect his remarks had produced, and was pleased to find that Daisy looked gratified. The next moment her countenance clouded as she said:
"It is not a very ennobling position, that of being an animated block for showing the effect of milliner's wares, but I suppose there are worse in the world."
"Of course there are, my dear Miss Stafford; many worse, and a great many better. It would be a dreary look-out, though, if you had no brighter future in store for you."
"It is a dreary look-out, then," said the girl, almost solemnly.
"Don't say that," said the Colonel, moving a little closer towards her, and slightly lowering his voice; "you mustn't talk in that manner; you are depressed by the dull time, and the day, and this charming fog which is now rising steadily around us. You don't imagine, I suppose, that the rest of your life is to be spent at Madame Clarisse's?"
"At Madame Clarisse's, or Madame Augustine's, or Madame somebody else's, I suppose," said Daisy.
"But have you no idea of setting-up in business for yourself?" asked the Colonel. "It would not be any great position, but at all events it would be better than this. At any time, I imagine, it is more pleasant to drive than be driven."
"I have never thought of it," said the girl; "the chance is so very remote, it does not do to look forward. I find it is better to go on simply from day to day, taking it all as it comes," said Daisy, with a short laugh.
"Now, my dear Miss Stafford, you really must not speak in that way. I must take advantage of my being, unfortunately, a great deal older than you, and having seen a great deal more of the world, to give you a little advice, and to talk seriously to you. You are far too young, and, permit me to add, far too beautiful, to hold such gloomy and desponding views. From the little I have already had the pleasure of seeing of you, I should say you were eminently calculated by the charm--well, the charm of your appearance--for there is no denying that with us ordinary denizens of the world, who are not philosophers, a charming appearance goes a long way--and of your manners, you are eminently calculated to make friends who would only be delighted at an opportunity of serving you."
"Such has not been my experience at present," said the girl. "I am afraid that your desire to be polite has led you into error, Colonel Orpington; I find no such friends as you describe."
"I was mistaken," said the Colonel; "I thought there must be at least one person who would have done anything for you."
As he said these words, he looked sharply at her; and though Daisy's eyes were downcast, she noticed the glance, and felt that she blushed under it.
"However, be that as it may," said the Colonel, "it will be my care to see that you are unable to make that assertion henceforth. Believe me, that this day you have made a friend whose greatest delight will be in forwarding your every wish."
He dropped his voice as he said these words, and let his hand for an instant rest lightly on hers.
"You are very kind," she said, "and I know I ought to be very grateful--I ought."
"You ought not to say another word, Miss Stafford," said the Colonel. "When you are a little older and a little more experienced, you will know that there is nothing more foolish than to be too ready with your gratitude. Wait and see what comes. Think over what I have said, and settle in your own mind in what way I can be of service to you; and don't be angry with me for saying that you must not be afraid to take me literally at my word. Fortune, who is so hard upon many excellent and deserving people, has been especially kind to me, who don't deserve anything at all, and I have much more money than I can spend upon myself. Think over all I have said, and let me look forward to the pleasure of seeing you in the same spot again to-morrow afternoon. Now I will intrude upon you no longer. Goodbye."
He touched her hand, took off his hat, and before Daisy could speak a word, he had left her, and was retracing his steps across the Park.