There was no doubt about it, Paul was very ill indeed. The doctor, when he came, pronounced the young man to be in a very critical state, and gave it as his opinion that an attack of brain-fever was impending. This confidence was given to George, for whom Paul's landlady had sent at once, immediately on her lodger being brought home. The doctor--who was no other than little Doctor Prater, the well-known West-End physician, who is looked upon, and not without reason, as the medicalami des artistes--took George aside, and probably without knowing it, put to him as regards Paul the same question which Doctor Turton asked Oliver Goldsmith, "Whether there was anything on his mind?" The response was pretty much the same in both cases. George shook his head and shrugged his shoulders, and admitted that his friend had been "rather upset lately."
"Ah, my dear sir," said the little doctor, "not my wish to pry into these matters; man of the world, see so much of this sort of thing in the pursuance of a large practice, could tell at once that our poor friend had some mental shock. Lady, I suppose? Ah well, must not inquire; generally is at his time of life; later, digestion impaired, bank broken; but in youth generally a lady. I am afraid he is going to be very bad; at presentagrotat animo magis quam corpore, as the Latin poet says; but he will be very bad, I have not the least doubt."
"It's a bad business," said George dolefully, "a very bad business. He ought to be nursed, of course; and though I have heard him speak of the woman of the house as kind and attentive and all that, I don't know that one could expect her to give her time to attend to a sick man."
"Our young friend will require a good deal of attention, my dear sir," said the little doctor; "for night-work, at all events, he must have some professional person. What did you say our young friend's name was? Mr. Derinzy. Ah, the name is familiar to me as--yes, to be sure, great house in the City, millionaire and that kind of thing; and your name, my dear sir?"
"My name is Wainwright," said George, smiling in spite of himself at the little man's volubility.
"Wainwright! not son of---- My dear sir, I am glad to make your acquaintance; one of the brightest ornaments of our profession; any care that I should have bestowed on this interesting case will be redoubled now that I know that our poor young friend here is a friend of yours. You will kindly take care that these prescriptions are made up at Balsam and Balmelow's, if you please; must have the best of drugs in these cases, and no other house is so much to be depended upon. Now I must run away; I will look in again in the evening; and during my absence I will make arrangements for the night-nurse. The attendance in the daytime I must look to you to provide. Good-day, my dear sir." And wringing George's hand warmly, the little man trotted off, jumped into his brougham, and was driven away to inspect, prescribe for, and chatter with a dozen other cases within the next few hours.
George sat down by the bedside and bent over its occupant, who was tossing restlessly from side to side, gazing about him with vacant eyes, and muttering and moaning in his delirium. What were the words, incoherent and broken, issuing from his parched lips? "My darling, my darling, stay by me now--no more horrible parting--never again that scornful look! Daisy, say you did not mean it when you wrote; say there is no one else--to-morrow, darling, in the old place--come and tell me your mind--my wife, my darling!"
These words were uttered with such intensity of earnestness--and although Paul's glance was never settled, his eyes roving here and there as he tossed and flung about his arms on the bed, there was such a piteous look in his face--that George Wainwright's emotion overcame him, and two big tears rolled down his cheeks.
"This will never do," said he, brushing them hastily; "it is as I thought, and that little doctor was right in his random hit. This affair with the girl has assumed proportions which I never suspected. Poor dear Paul used to make it out bad enough; but I had no notion that it had come to any crisis, or indeed, if it had, that he would suffer from it in this way. Now what is to be done? I think the first thing will be to see this young lady, and bring her to her bearings. If she has thrown Paul over, as I half suspect she has, I must let her know the consequences of her work, and see whether she persists in abiding by her determination. It may be only some lovers' quarrel; Paul is a mere boy in these matters, and hotheaded enough to takeau sérieuxwhat may have been only the result of pique or woman's whim; in that case, when she finds the effect that her quarrel has had upon him, she will probably repent, and her penitence will aid in bringing him round. On the other hand, if she still continues obdurate, one may be able to point out to him the fact that he is eminently well rid of so heartless a person. Not but what my little experience in such matters," said George with a sigh, "teaches me that lovers are uncommonly hard to convince of whatever they do not wish to believe."
In pursuance of this determination George Wainwright, so soon as he had installed the landlady in Paul's apartment as temporary nurse, started off in search of Daisy. He had listened to so many of poor Paul's confidences that he knew where the girl was to be found, and made his way straight to George Street.
Madame Clarisse was still away, and Daisy continued her occupancy of the little furnished rooms, into which George was ushered on inquiring for Miss Stafford. The rooms were empty on George's entrance, and he walked round them, examining the various articles of furniture and decoration with very contemptuous glances. Presently Daisy entered, and George stood transfixed in admiration. She looked magnificently handsome; the announcement of the name of her visitor had brought a bright flush into her cheek, and anticipating a stormy interview, she had come prepared to do battle with all the strength at her command, and accordingly assumed a cold and haughty air which became her immensely.
The transient glimpses which George had had of her that day in Kensington Gardens, though it had given him a general notion of her style, had by no means prepared him for the sight of such rare beauty. He was so taken aback that he allowed her to speak first.
"Mr. Wainwright, I believe?" said Daisy with a slight inclination of her head.
"That's my name," said George, coming to himself.
"The servant told me that you asked for me, that you wished to see me; I am Miss Stafford."
"The servant explained my wishes correctly," said George; "I have come to see you, Miss Stafford, on a very important and, I grieve to add, a very unpleasant matter."
Daisy looked at him steadily. "Will you be seated?" she said, motioning him to a chair, at the same time taking one herself.
"I have come to you," said George, bending forward and speaking in a low and earnest tone of voice, "on behalf of Mr. Paul Derinzy. Not that I am sent by him; I have come of my own accord. You may be aware, Miss Stafford, that I am Mr. Derinzy's intimate friend, and possess his confidence in no common degree."
"I have heard Mr. Derinzy frequently mention your name, and always with the greatest regard," said she.
"If we were merely going to speak the jargon of the world, Miss Stafford, I might say that I could return the compliment," said George. "However, what I wish you to know is, that in his confidence with me Paul Derinzy had spoken openly and frankly of his affection for you, and, indeed, made me acquainted with all the varieties of his doubts, fears, and other phases of his attachment."
Daisy bowed again very coldly.
"You and Paul are both very young, Miss Stafford," continued George, "and I have the misfortune of being much older than either of you. This, however, has its advantage perhaps, in enabling me to speak more frankly and impartially than I otherwise could. You must not be annoyed at whatever I find it necessary to say, Miss Stafford; for the situation is a very grave one, and more than you can at present imagine depends upon the decision at which you may arrive."
"Pray go on, Mr. Wainwright," said Daisy; "you will find me thoroughly attentive to all you have to say."
"I must be querist as well as pleader, and introduce some cross-examination into my speech, I am afraid," said George; "but you may depend on my neither saying nor asking anything more than is absolutely necessary. And in the first place let me tell you, what indeed you already know, that this boy loves you with all the ardour of a very affectionate disposition. I don't know whether you set much store by that, Miss Stafford; I do know that young ladies of the present day indulge in so many flirtations, and see so many shams and counterfeits of the passion, that they are scarcely able to recognise real love when they see it, and hardly ever able to appreciate it. But it is a thing that, when once obtained, should not be lightly let go; and indeed, Owen Meredith thinks quite right--you read poetry, I know, Miss Stafford; I recollect Paul having told me so--when he says:
Beauty is easy enough to win,But one isn't loved every day."
"I presume it was not to quote from Owen Meredith that you wished to see me, Mr. Wainwright," said Daisy, looking up at him quietly.
George stared at her for a moment, but was not one bit disconcerted.
"No," he said, "it was not; but I am in the habit of using quotation when I think it illustrates my meaning, and those lines struck me as being rather apt. However, we come back to the fact that Paul Derinzy was, and I believe is, very much in love with you. From what he gave me to understand, I believe I am right in saying that that passion was at one time returned. I believe--I wish to touch as lightly as possible on unpleasant matters--I believe that recently there has been some interruption of the pleasant relation which existed between you--an interruption emanating from you--and that Paul has consequently been very much out of spirits. Am I right?"
"You are very frank and candid with me, Mr. Wainwright," said Daisy, "and I will endeavour to answer you in the same manner. I perfectly admit that the position which Mr. Derinzy and I occupy towards each other is changed, and changed by my desire."
"You will not think me impertinent or exacting--you certainly will not when you know all I have to tell you--if I ask what was the reason for that change?"
Daisy's face flushed for an instant, then she said:
"A woman's reason--because I wished it."
George nodded as though he perfectly comprehended her; but he gazed at her all the time.
"May I ask, has this altered state of feeling come to a head? has there been any open and decisive rupture between you lately?"
"If you are not sufficiently in Mr. Derinzy's confidence to have that information from him, I scarcely think you ought to ask it of me," said Daisy.
"Unfortunately, Mr. Derinzy, is not at present in a position to answer me."
"Not in a position to---- What do you mean?" asked Daisy, leaning forward.
"I will tell you before I go," said George. "In the meantime, perhaps you will kindly reply to me."
"There has been no actual quarrel between us," said the girl--"that is to say, no personal quarrel; but----" and she spoke with so much hesitation, that George instantly said:
"But you have taken some decisive action."
Daisy was silent.
"You have told him that all must be over between you; that you would not see him again, or something to that effect."
"I--I wrote him a letter conveying that decision," said Daisy slowly.
"And you addressed to him----"
"As usual, at his club."
"By Jove, that's it!" said George, springing up. "Now, Miss Stafford, let me tell you the effect of that letter. Paul Derinzy was picked up from the floor of the club-library in a fit!"
"Good God!" cried Daisy.
"One moment," continued George, holding up his hands. "He was carried home insensible, and now lies between life and death. He is delirious and knows no one, but lies tossing to and fro on his bed, ever muttering your name, ever recalling scenes which have been passed in your company. When I saw him in this state, when I heard those groans, and recognised them as the utterances of the mental agony which he was suffering, I thought it my duty to come to you. Understand, I make noad misericordiamappeal. There is no question of my throwing myself on your feelings, and imploring you to have pity on this boy. I imagine that, even with all his passion for and devotion to you, he is far too proud for that, and would disclaim my act so soon as he knew of it. But, loving him as I do, I come to you and say, 'This is your work.' What steps you should take, if any, it is for you to determine. I say nothing, advise nothing, hint nothing, save this: if what you wrote in that letter to Paul was final and decisive, the result of due reflection, the conviction that you could not be happy with him, then stand by it and hold to it; for if you were to give way merely for compassion's sake, his state would be even worse than it is now. But if you spoke truth to me at the beginning of this interview, if your dismissal of Paul was, as you described it, a woman's whim, conceived without adequate reason, and carried out in mere wantonness, I say to you, that if this boy dies--and his state even now is most critical--his death will lie at your door."
Daisy had been listening with bent head and averted eyes. All evidence of her having heard what George had said lay in a nervous fluttering motion of her hand, involuntary and beyond her control. When George ceased, she looked up, and said in a hard, dry voice:
"What will you have me do?"
"I told you at first that I would give you no advice, that I would make no suggestion as to the line of conduct you should pursue. That must be left entirely to the promptings of your heart, and--excuse me, Miss Stafford, I am sadly old-fashioned, and still believe in the existence of such things--your conscience."
"Is he--is he so very ill?" asked Daisy in a trembling voice.
"He is very dangerously ill," said George; "he could not be worse. But understand, I don't urge this to influence your decision, nor must you let it weigh with you. Your action in this matter must be the result of calm deliberation and self-examination. To act on an impulse which you will repent of when the excitement is over, is worse than to leave matters where they are."
"He--he is delirious, you say?" asked Daisy; "he does not recognise anyone?"
"No, he is quite delirious," said George. "He will have to be carefully attended, and I am now going to see after a nurse. So," he added, rising from his chair, "having discharged my duty, I will now proceed on my way. I am sorry, Miss Stafford, that on my first visit to you I should have been the bearer of what, to me at least, is such sad news."
Then he bowed in his old-fashioned way, and took his departure.
After George left her, Daisy dropped back into the chair which she had occupied during his visit, and sat gazing vacantly into the fire.
Calm deliberation and self-examination! Those were what that strange earnest-looking man, Mr. Wainwright, had said he left her to. In the state of anxiety and excitement in which she found herself, the one was impossible, and she shrank from the other. Self-examination--what would that show her? A girl, first winning, then trifling with the affections of a warmhearted young fellow, who worshipped her and was ready to sacrifice everything in life for her. And the same girl, hitherto so proud in her virtue and her self-command, paltering and chaffering for her honour with a man, the best thing which could be said about whom was, that he had spoken plainly and made no secret of his intentions. Ah, good heavens, in what a miserable state of mental blindness and self-deception had she been living during the past few weeks! on the brink of what a moral precipice had she been idly straying with careless feet! Thinking of these things, Daisy buried her face in her hands, and sought relief in a flood of tears. Then, suddenly springing up, she cried:
"It is not too late! Thank God for that! Not too late to undo all that my wickedness has brought about. Not too late to prove my devotion to him. Mr. Wainwright said he was going to see after a nurse. There shall be no occasion for that. When my darling Paul comes to himself, he shall find his nurse installed at his pillow."
Very long odds against Colonel Orpington's chance now!
George Wainwright was by no means unconscious that he had done anything but a friendly act towards the Derinzys, by making himself accessory to the reconciliation which he foresaw as the inevitable result of the meeting between Paul and Daisy. He quite understood that he should be regarded in the light of an enemy by Paul's father and mother; and that, should circumstances turn out so happily as to lead to an avowal of his feelings towards Annette, he would have laid himself open to the imputation of the meanest of motives, in encouraging his friend to a step which should at once remove him from rivalry for the lady's hand and competition for her fortune. The attainment of Annette's majority would set her free from the guardianship of her uncle; but if her infirmity of mind continued--and it would then be her relatives' interest to prove the fact which it had been their interest to conceal--it would be a curious question how Captain Derinzy would act. George held a very decided opinion of Annette's uncle, and he felt very little doubt that the "old scoundrel," as he designated him in his meditations, would take measures to prove the girl's insanity in order to bar her from marriage or the testamentary disposition of her property. If anyone else had been her legal heir, George felt that, if the hope of her restoration failed, it would have been possible to make terms, at least to secure secrecy; but not in the case of Captain Derinzy, especially under the circumstances which he felt were now shaping themselves into form. Greed, spite, revenge, and exasperation would all combine to inspire the Captain with a determination, in which George had no doubt he would be warmly supported by Mrs. Derinzy, to do his worst with the least possible delay.
But George, beyond feeling that they required consideration and cautious handling, cared little for these things. If the experiment undertaken by Dr. Hildebrand should happily prove successful, he would do his best to make Annette love him and become his wife; and then they might dispute her fortune as they liked--he should have enough for both. If the experiment were destined to fail, he could not see that the Derinzys would have much to complain of. They would not like their son's marrying a milliner, of course; but as it was quite clear they could not make him marry Annette, it did not materially affect the chief object of their amiable and conscientious scheme. At all events, no pondering over it on George's part, no resolution he could come to, would avail to shorten the period of suspense, to alter the fact that the crisis of his life must shortly be encountered.
George had contented himself with a written communication to Mrs. Derinzy, in which he informed her of Paul's illness, and expressed his conviction that his life depended upon the judicious action of all around him at the present crisis. He did not overestimate Mrs. Derinzy's tenderness towards her son; but he was not prepared, when he went to Paul's rooms on the following day, to find that she had contented herself with inquiring for him, ascertaining that proper arrangements had been made for his being carefully nursed, and announcing her intention of calling upon the doctor.
Paul was not in a condition to know anything about her proceedings. When he appeared to be conscious, he named only Daisy and George, and these intervals were rare and brief. They alternated with long periods of stupor; and then it would not have been difficult, looking at the sick man's face, to believe that all care and concern of his with life were over for ever.
It was from Daisy George learned that Mrs. Derinzy had been at her son's lodgings, and he allowed her to perceive how much her account of the incident surprised and displeased him.
On arriving at Paul's rooms, George found Daisy sitting quietly beside the bed, the sick man's hand in one of hers, while the fingers of the other, freshly dipped in a fragrant cooling essence, lay lightly on his hot wan forehead, on whose sunken temples pain had set its mark. Her dress, of a soft material incapable of whisking or rustling, her hair smoothly packed away, her ringless hands, her noiseless movements, her composed, steady, alert face, formed a business-like realisation of the ideal of a sick-nurse, which impressed the practised eye of George reassuringly, and at the same time conveyed to him a sense of association which he did not at the moment clearly trace out. When he thought of it afterwards, he put it down to a general resemblance to the women employed at his father's asylum.
Daisy's beauty was not in a style which George Wainwright particularly admired, and the girl had never attracted him much. He had regarded her with pity and consideration at first, when he had feared that Paul was behaving so badly to her. He had regarded her with anger and dislike when he discovered that she was behaving badly to Paul. Both these phases of feeling had passed away now, and Daisy presented herself to George's mind in a different and far more attractive light. In this pale quiet woman there was nothing meretricious, nothing flaunting; not the least touch of vulgarity marred the calm propriety of her demeanour. George felt assured that he was seeing her in a light which promised for the future, should the marriage which he was forced to hope for, for his friend's sake, be the result of the present complication.
She did not rise when he entered the room, she did not alter her attitude, and there was not a shade of embarrassment in her manner. In reply to his salutation she merely bent her head, and spoke in the low distinct tone, as soothing to an invalid as a whisper is distracting.
"There is not much change," she said; "it is not yet to be expected."
George looked at Paul closely and silently.
"I expected to have found his mother here," he said. "I wrote and told her of his illness."
"But you did not tell her I was here?"
"No," said George in surprise, "I did not think it necessary. I concluded she would see you here, and learn from your own lips, and your presence, the service you are doing Paul."
The sick man moaned slightly, and she dexterously shifted his head upon the pillow before she answered, with a dim dubious smile:
"I believe Mrs. Derinzy is a very well-bred person, quite a woman of the world. She would hardly commit herself to an interview with me."
The girl's proud eyes fixed themselves upon George's face, as she said these few words, without any embarrassment.
"I--I beg your pardon," stammered George; "I ought to have seen Mrs. Derinzy, and prepared her--I mean told her. I shrank from seeing her, from a personal motive, and--and I fear thoughtlessly sacrificed you, in some measure, to this reluctance. I wonder she could go away without seeing her son."
"Do you? I do not. The standard of the actions of a woman of the world may not be comprehensible to you, Mr. Wainwright; but we outsiders, yet on-lookers, understand it well enough."
She glanced at the clock on the mantelshelf, softly withdrew her hand from Paul's, and administered medicine to him, he, seemingly unconscious, moaning heavily the while.
"I shall see Mrs. Derinzy," said George, "and explain to her. Forgive me, Miss Stafford, pray forgive me, if I express myself awkwardly; I really feel quite astray and at a loss. Things have changed so much since I last talked with you, though that was only yesterday. I shall have to give Mrs. Derinzy not only an explanation of the past and the present, but some notion of what is to be expected in the future. Do not think me impertinent, do not think me unfeeling, but I must, for your own sake, in order to place you in the position it is right, it is due to you, that you should occupy in the estimation of Paul's mother--I must ask you, what do you purpose--what do you intend the future shall mean for you and him?"
Daisy did not reply, until George began to feel impatient of her silence. Her hand again lay on Paul's forehead, her brow was overcast and knitted; she was thinking deeply. At length she said:
"Explain the past as you please, Mr. Wainwright--as Paul has told it to you, I make no doubt--truly, honestly, as a gentleman, as a man of honour should; relate the present as you know it to be--the story of our interview, and of the step I have taken in consequence of it; but of the future, say nothing."
"Nothing!" repeated George, in a tone of remonstrance--"nothing! Will that suffice for her, for you, or forhim?" He pointed to Paul. "Do you not know the hope, the confidence, to which your presence here, the noble act you have done in coming to him in this terrible extremity, must give rise? Do you not feel that this is decisive, that henceforth every consideration must be abandoned by each of you, for the life which must be lived together?"
It passed swiftly through Daisy's mind that if ever Paul had so pleaded his own cause, with so much conviction, so much force, so much earnestness--if ever he had made her understand the worth of true love, the falsealluresof all beside--she would not have listened to prudence and the narrow suggestions of her worldly wisdom, but would have listened to him. It passed through her mind that this was a strong man, one who would love well and worthily, and whose wife would be honoured among women, whatever her origin. But she answered him coldly, though his words were utterly persuasive.
"I cannot tell you to answer for the future, Mr. Wainwright. That question cannot be answered until it has been asked by Paul. If he lives, he will ask it; if he dies, Mrs. Derinzy will not require to know anything about me."
"Be it so," said George emphatically. "I shall go there at once, and see you again this evening. Goodbye, Miss Stafford, and God bless you! You are doing the right thing now, at all events."
Again she simply bent her head without speaking, and without turning her eyes from the sick man's face. George left the room with a noiseless step. When he had reached the stair-foot, Daisy covered her face with her hands, and rocked herself upon her chair, in an agony of self-upbraiding.
"If he lives, he will ask me," she murmured in her torturing thoughts. "Yes, he will ask me; and I--I who a little while ago was unfit to be his wife only because of the difference in our rank--what shall I say? Far other my unfitness now--the unfitness of one who has deliberately entertained the project of degradation. Am I, who have chaffered with that vile old man about the terms on which I might be induced to become his mistress, fit to be that trusting boy's wife? Oh mother, mother! this is the result of your calculation, your worldly instructions! Yet no; why should I blameher?It is the outcome of my life, of the sort of thing I have seen and known since my childhood. Oh, my God! my God! how foolish, how mad, how wicked I have been!"
Mrs. Derinzy was at home. George was ushered into the back drawing-room, and permitted to indulge himself in solitude with the contemplation of Annette's unoccupied place, her piano, her work-box, and her own especial book of photographs, for some time. He looked at these things with pangs of mingled hope and fear, and their influence was to do away with the embarrassment and uneasiness he had felt on entering the house. After all, what did anything really matter to him which did not concern Annette and his relations with her?
When at length Mrs. Derinzy appeared, George saw that she was alarmed and angry. The former sentiment he was enabled to allay, the latter he was prepared to meet--prepared by courage on his friend's account, and indifference on his own.
"I am happy to tell you," he began at once, "that there is satisfactory progress in Paul's case. He is going on safely. I have little doubt he will soon be out of danger; indeed, the doctor has said plainly that, unless in the case of increase of symptoms, he is confident of the result. You need not be alarmed, Mrs. Derinzy; I assure you the case is favourable."
"I have heard the doctor's opinion of the case, Mr. Wainwright," replied Mrs. Derinzy with cold displeasure, "and I am not unduly alarmed. But I am not unnaturally astonished to find myself excluded from my son in his illness, and by you, the son of one of the oldest and best friends I have in the world. I cannot believe you have any explanation to offer which I can listen to, for your conduct in bringing a--a person whom I cannot meet to take my place at my son's side."
"I am not surprised at your tone, Mrs. Derinzy," replied George, "though I might be pardoned for wondering how you contrive to hold me guilty in the matter of Paul's supposed offence."
"Supposedoffence, Mr. Wainwright! You adopt the flippant and unbecoming fashion in these matters! I hold it more than asupposedoffence that I should find a person installed in my son's lodgings, with the knowledge of my son's friend, whose presence renders mine impossible."
"We will let the phrase pass, Mrs. Derinzy, and come to the facts. Are you sure you are really acquainted with the character and position of the lady in question?"
"Characterandpositionof theladyin question!" echoed Mrs. Derinzy, in an accent of spiteful contempt. "I should think there was little doubt aboutthem; the facts speak pretty plainly for themselves."
"I assure you, nevertheless, and in spite of appearances, the facts do not speak the truth if they impugn the respectability of Miss Stafford--that is the young lady's name." Mrs. Derinzy bowed scornfully. "I can give you an ample and trustworthy assurance on this point, for I am acquainted--I was made acquainted by Paul himself--with every particular of their intimacy, until within a few weeks of the event which led to his illness; and the remainder I have learned partly from inquiries elsewhere, but chiefly from Miss Stafford herself. If you will listen to me, Mrs. Derinzy, I will tell you Miss Stafford's history, so far as I know it, and the whole truth respecting her position with regard to your son. And in order that what I have to say may be more convincing, may have more weight with you, let me tell you in the first place that I never spoke a word to Miss Stafford until yesterday, when I went to her in my fear and trouble about Paul, feeling convinced that fromheronly could any real assistance be procured."
"Go on," said Mrs. Derinzy, with sullen resignation. "This is a pleasant hearing for a mother; but it is our fate, I suppose. Tell me what you have to tell."
George obeyed her. He recapitulated all that had passed between himself and Paul on the subject of Daisy, from the time when he had accidentally witnessed their meeting in Kensington Gardens, to the last conversation he had held with Paul before he went to Germany. She listened, still sullen, but with interest, until he told her what was Daisy's position in life; and then she interrupted him with the comment for which he had been prepared.
"A milliner's girl! Truly Paul has a gentlemanly taste! And I am to believeshehad scruples andmadedifficulties?"
"You are," returned George, gravely; "for it is true. I do not sympathise with your notions of caste, Mrs. Derinzy--I think I have known more bad men and unscrupulous women of gentle than of plebeian blood--but I understand them. Miss Staffordhadscruples, scruples which Paul failed to vanquish--more shame to him for trying--and she made difficulties which he could not surmount. The last and gravest--that which threw him into the fever in which he is now striving and battling for life--was her refusal, her point-blank, uncompromising, positive refusal, to marry him!"
"To marry him!" exclaimed Mrs. Derinzy, starting up from her chair in very undignified surprise and anger. "My son propose tomarrya milliner's girl! I won't believe it!"
"You had no difficulty in believing, on no evidence at all, that he had seduced her," continued George, quietly. "Now I can assume the latter is utterly false; the former is distinctly true. You had better be careful how you act towards this young lady, Mrs. Derinzy, for your son loves her--loves her well enough to have been unworldly, and manly enough to implore her to become his wife, and to be stricken well-nigh to death by her refusal, and the sentence of final separation between them pronounced by her. When your son fell down at his club in the fit from which it seemed at first probable he would never rally, he was struck down by a letter from Miss Stafford, in which she told him he should see her no more."
"What was her reason? Did she not care for him?" asked Mrs. Derinzy, almost in a whisper. She was subdued by the earnestness of George's manner, and some womanly feelings, which, though tepid, still had a place in her worldly scheming nature, were touched.
It was fortunate for the zeal and sincerity of George's advocacy of the cause of the loves of Paul and Daisy, that he was entirely ignorant of the Orpington episode. He had no actual acquaintance with the other motives which had influenced Miss Stafford to reject Paul's proposal of marriage, or the arguments with which she enforced them.
He had a general idea of the ground she had taken up throughout--the ground of their social inequality, the inadequacy of means, and the inevitable grief to which a marriage contracted under those grave disadvantages must come; and he had, on the whole, approved her views, until he had beheld their practical effect. He detailed to Mrs. Derinzy his conviction concerning Miss Stafford's reasons, and stoutly maintained that those reasons were quite consistent with a disinterested attachment to Paul, and with a sound and elevated sense of self-respect. To this view of the subject Paul's mother was entirely indifferent. When it was made plain to her--as it was with irresistible clearness, which not even the obstinacy of an illiberal woman sitting in judgment on a social inferior could resist--that Miss Stafford's character was unblemished, in the ordinary sense of the phrase, she was obliged to shift her ground; and thenceforth her anxiety was to be convinced that Daisy had really refused to marry her son, and to be assured that she was likely to maintain her resolution. In her solicitude on this point, Mrs. Derinzy was even ready to praise Miss Stafford.
It was most wise of her; it showed an unusual degree of sense and judgment in one so young, and necessarily so ignorant of the world; and really it was impossible to praise such good taste too highly. Mrs. Derinzy could assure Miss Stafford, from her own observation, which she had had many opportunities of confirming, that these unequal marriages never "did." They always resulted in misery to the wife. When the husband outlived the first infatuation, and began to find society and old habits essential to his comfort, society would not have the wife, and she could not fit in with the old habits; and then came impatience and disgust, and all the rest of it. Oh no, such marriages never "did;" and Mrs. Derinzy was delighted to learn--delighted for the girl's own sake; for Mr. Wainwright's narrative had inspired her with quite an interest in this deserving young person--that she had acted with so much judgment and discretion. She really deserved to prosper, and Mrs. Derinzy was quite ready to wish her, after the most disinterested fashion, the utmost amount of good fortune which should not involve her marriage with Paul.
But this was precisely the contingency towards which it was George's object to direct her thoughts. Notwithstanding the ambiguity with which Daisy had spoken, he believed that she would be ready to sacrifice all her pride, and to lay aside all her misgivings, when, the great relief of Paul's being out of immediate danger realised, she should be convinced that his health and his peace must alike depend on her; and when that time should have come, much would depend upon his mother. Happily, George had judgment as well as zeal, and contented himself on this occasion with convincing Mrs. Derinzy, not only that there was no contamination to be dreaded in the presence of the "young person" under whose watchful care her son was struggling back to life, but that she owed it to Daisy to show, by immediately visiting Paul, and recognising her properly, that she was willing to undo the compromising impression which her refusal to enter Paul's room had produced. Those were two great points to gain in one interview; and when he had gained them, with the addition of having his offer to escort Mrs. Derinzy to Paul's lodgings accepted, he bethought himself, for positively the first time, of the Captain.
Was he at home? was he much alarmed? George asked.
The Captain was not at home; was out of town for a couple of days, in fact; had gone to some races, Mrs. Derinzy did not remember where; she knew so little about things of that kind, all the racing places were pretty much alike to her.
George politely suggested that the Captain's absence was fortunate; he would not have much suspense to suffer; there was every reason to hope all danger would be at an end before his return.
To which Mrs. Derinzy replied with some sharpness that Captain Derinzy was not endowed with susceptible nerves, and that he was not easily alarmed by any illness except his own.
They went out together, and George took leave of Mrs. Derinzy at the door of Paul's lodgings, having ascertained that the doctor had again seen the patient, and pronounced that there was no change to be expected in his condition for some time. He lingered for a moment until Mrs. Derinzy had begun to ascend the stairs under convoy of a maid, and then he turned away, hoping for favourable results from this strange and momentous meeting between Daisy and Paul's mother; and glad on his own account that a rupture between himself and the Derinzys, which his interference had appeared to render imminent, was at least postponed.
There was no characteristic of Daisy's more pronounced than her self-control. When the maid gently opened the door of the sick-room, and whispered the words "Mrs. Derinzy," she understood all that had taken place, and was equal to the emergency. She disengaged her hand from Paul's unconscious clasp, and rose. Standing in an attitude of simple easy dignity by her son's bedside, Paul's mother saw her first, and felt, though she was not a bright woman in general, an instant conviction that George's story was perfectly true, and that there was nothing about this remarkable-looking "young person," whose handsome face was absolutely strange to her, and yet suggested, as it had done in George's case, an inexpressible association.
Their respective salutations were polite but formal. Daisy spoke first.
"Will you take this chair?" she said, indicating her own. "You will be able to see him better from that side. I am happy to say he is going on favourably."
"Thank you, thank you," returned Mrs. Derinzy, in a fidgety whisper; and she took the proposed place.
Then came a silence, interrupted only by an occasional faint moan from Paul. The presence of Mrs. Derinzy did not deter Daisy from the punctual fulfilment of her self-imposed duties; and as the mother watched her diligent ministering to the invalid, watched it helplessly--for Mrs. Derinzy was a perfectly useless person in a sick-room--she could maintain this reserve no longer, and broke through it by anxious questions, to which the other replied with ready respectful self-possession.
If poor Paul could only have known that, in the first interview between his mother and his love--an interview on which he had often nervously speculated--Daisy had appeared to greater advantage, had looked handsomer, softer, more charming, more graceful, more ladylike than she had ever appeared in her life before! But many days were to pass away before Paul was to know anything of surrounding things or persons; his mind was away in a mysterious region of semi-consciousness, of pain, of unreality. He was assiduously cared for by Daisy and George, by the doctor and the nurse. Even Dr. Wainwright himself superintended the case, and indorsed the mode of treatment of the humbler practitioner. His mother came to see him every day, and a good understanding existed between her and Daisy, though no direct reference to Daisy's relations with Paul had been made.
The Captain had shown a decent solicitude about his son; but it is to be feared he rather enjoyed the state of affairs than otherwise as soon as positive danger to Paul's life was no longer to be apprehended. It implied so much of the freedom he loved, no surveillance, no domestic restraints, no regular hours; it was a delicious renewal of the liberty of his bachelor days.
There is no need to dwell farther on this portion of the story. After many weeks Paul was pronounced convalescent; and then, by the advice of Dr. Wainwright, whose interest had been gradually awakened in the case, and who had come to like Paul, Daisy abandoned her post. It was determined that the invalid should travel for awhile, and arranged that George should accompany him. Dr. Wainwright undertook to induce him to acquiesce, and to reconcile him to the absence of Daisy.
He was too weak to resist, he felt an inner consciousness of his unfitness to bear emotion, which rendered him passively obedient, and he was too happy to be exacting or rebellious. He trusted the future; he felt, in a vague way, that things would go well with him. And on the day fixed for the departure of himself and George on their excursion, he received a little note from Daisy, which sent him on his way rejoicing. It contained only these words:
"DEAREST PAUL,--George would have brought me to say goodbye to you; but I could not bear it. You know I hate showing my feelings to anyone but you, and we could not have been alone. Come home soon--no, don't; stay away until you are quite well and strong; and don't forget, for one minute of all the time,
"DAISY."
"I think you are a humbug," said George Wainwright to Paul as they landed at Calais, and Paul declared his inclination to have everything that could be procured to eat immediately; "you don't look a bit like a sick man."
"I'm sure I don't feel like one," returned Paul; "and it's great nonsense your father sending me away like this. But I am not going to complain or rebel; I mean implicitly to obey him----"
"And Daisy," interrupted George.
"And Daisy, of course."
The two young men enjoyed their tour, Paul very much more than George, as was natural. Paul's affairs were promising, though he did not see his way very clearly to the fulfilment of the promise. But he was full of hope and the gladsome spirits of returning health. There was as yet no rift in the cloud which overhung George's prospects, and he wearied sometimes of the monotony of anxiety and deferred hope.
Dr. Wainwright communicated punctually to his son such information as reached him from Mayence. He had not expected regular intelligence from Dr. Hildebrand, and had told George he must not expect any such concessions from the scientific old oddity, who had already done him exceptional grace. A formal report from Mrs. Stothard of the general health and spirits of Annette reached the Doctor at the appointed periods, but conveyed little real information. Such as they were, George hailed the arrival of these documents with eagerness, and Paul had the grace to assume a deeper interest in them than he really felt.
"By-the-bye," he said to George one evening, as they were resting after a day of laborious mountain-walking, "I don't think I ever told you about Mrs. Stothard, did I?"
"You never told me anything particular about Mrs. Stothard," replied George. "What is it?"
"Why, she's Daisy's mother!"
"Daisy's mother!" repeated George in astonishment. "Now I know what the likeness was that struck me; of course, it was just the steady business-like look I have seen Mrs. Stothard give at Annette."
Before the companions had started on the expedition arranged for the following day, the English mail arrived. George got his letters at the inn-door. One was from his father. He glanced over it, and ran up to Paul's room, breathless, and with a very pale face.
"Paul," he said, "there's a letter from my father. Such wonderful news! He says he will not tell me any particulars till we meet; but Dr. Hildebrand is sending Annette home at once, and--and she is perfectly well! Hildebrand says he has never had a more complete, a more thorough success."
Paul shook his friend's hand warmly, and eagerly congratulated him, adding with great promptitude:
"I'm all right also, you know; and so, old fellow, we'll start for England to-night."