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.