Captain Derinzy did not experience so much satisfaction as he had anticipated from Mr. George Wainwright's visit to the Tower. On the first night of his arrival, his guest had listened to him with the greatest patience and apparent delight. The Captain had told all his old stories, repeated hisbon mots--which were very brilliant some dozen years before, but had lost a little of their glitter and piquancy--and had aired the two subjects on which he was strongest--his delight in London life, and his disgust at the place in which he was then compelled to vegetate--to his own entire satisfaction.
He had hoped for frequent renewals of these pleasant confabulations during George Wainwright's stay; but the next morning Paul told his father that he and his friend had matters of business to talk over; and although George seemed willing, and even anxious, to give up portions of his time occasionally to his host, he was so much in requisition by Paul, by Annette, and even by Mrs. Stothard, that the poor Captain found himself left as much as usual to his own devices, and wandered about the beach and the cliffs, cursing his fate and his exile as loudly as ever. But while he was thus excluded from the general councils, a series of explanations seemed to be going on among the other members of the household.
"I want to speak to you, Martha," said Mrs. Derinzy, on the afternoon of the day after the conversation last recorded had taken place. "I have been thinking over what you said this morning, and I want you to be more explicit about it."
"About what portion of it?" asked Mrs. Stothard.
"Well, about all; but more particularly what you said about my only having chosen to give you half confidences. What did you mean by that?"
"Exactly what I said. You're a clever woman, Mrs. Derinzy, but you have made a great mistake in imagining that you could make me a fellow-conspirator with you in a plot----"
"Conspirator! plot!" cried Mrs. Derinzy, interrupting.
"Exactly. A fellow-conspirator in a plot," said Mrs. Stothard calmly--"I use the words advisedly--and yet only tell me a portion of your intentions."
"Will you be good enough to explain yourself, Mrs. Stothard?" said Mrs. Derinzy, seating herself, and thereby asserting her superiority in the only way possible over her servant, who knew so much, and was apparently inclined to make a dangerous use of her knowledge.
"Certainly," said Mrs. Stothard. "I am the only person in this place, besides you and your husband, who knows that your niece Annette Derinzy is subject to fits of lunacy. I say whoknowsit; it may be suspected more or less, though I don't think it is much. But I know it. The fact is kept sedulously by you from all who are likely to be brought in contact save the one physician who attends, and his visits are accounted for by a pretext that you, and not Annette, are his patient. If that is not a plot in which we are fellow-conspirators, I should like to know what is."
"Go on," said Mrs. Derinzy, in a low voice.
"I am going on," said Mrs. Stothard, pitilessly. "The reason for your concealing the fact that this girl is an occasional lunatic is, that she is the heiress of a very large fortune, and that since the day on which you first heard of her inheritance you determined that she should marry your only son. For my discovery of this portion of the plot, I am not indebted to you. It was the work entirely of my own observation. You can say whether I am right in my conjecture or not."
"Suppose you are, what then?"
"Suppose I am! What is the use of beating about the bush in this absurd way any longer? You know I am right. Now that you see the difficulty of blinding your son any longer to his cousin's condition, and that he is not weak enough to have been played upon to any extent, had it not been for the influence which this newly-arrived friend has over him, you find that you require my aid, and want my advice."
Perhaps for the first time in her long scheming anxious life, Mrs. Derinzy felt herself thoroughly prostrate. She hid her face in her hands, and when she raised it, tears were streaming down her cheeks. She made no further attempt at concealment of her feelings, but murmured piteously, "What are we to do Martha--what are we to do?"
Mrs. Stothard's hard face softened for a moment as she stepped towards her, and touched her gently with her hand.
"What are you to do!" she cried. "Not to give way like this, and throw up all chance of winning the battle after so long and desperate a fight. Let us think it over quietly, see exactly how matters stand, and determine what can be done for the best."
"He must never know it, Martha--he must never know it!" murmured Mrs. Derinzy.
"Who must never know what?" asked Mrs. Stothard, shortly.
"Paul must never know that Annette is mad. If he finds it out, of course all hope of his marrying her is at an end. And what will he think of me for having deceived him?--of me, his mother, who did it all for his good."
"You must be rational, or it will be impossible to decide upon anything," said Mrs. Stothard, who had relapsed into her grim state. "As to Paul's not knowing, that is sheer nonsense. I told you long ago, it was very unadvisable to have him down here at all. But he is not very observant, and with proper care might have been easily gulled. The girl was getting better, too--that is to say, there was a longer interval between her attacks, and the matter might possibly have been arranged. Now that Mr. George Wainwright has seen her, and is an inmate of the same house with her, that hope is entirely at an end."
"You think so, Martha?"
"I am certain of it."
"Then all my self-sacrifice, all my anxieties and schemings have been thrown away, and I have no further care for life," said Mrs. Derinzy, again bursting into tears.
"You are relapsing into silliness again. Suppose Paul were told of his cousin's illness, do you think he would definitely refuse to marry her?"
"Instantly and for ever," said Mrs. Derinzy.
"What! if the fact were notified by George Wainwright, who at the same time hinted that though Annette had been insane, her disease was much decreased in violence and frequency during the last few years, and in the next few might possibly cease altogether? Would Paul, hearing all this, and urged on by you, give up his notion of the fortune he would enjoy with his wife--Paul, who is, as I have heard say, so fond of pleasure and enjoyment, so imbued with a passion for spending money?"
She paused, and Mrs. Derinzy looked at her in astonishment, then said:
"Paul is weak and frivolous, but is no fool; he will not believe it."
"Not if it is told him by his friend who has such influence over him, and on whose integrity he relies so thoroughly?--not if it is told him by Dr. Wainwright's son?"
"He might if it were told him by Dr. Wainwright himself," said Mrs. Derinzy, hesitating.
"And don't you think that George Wainwright has sufficient influence with his father to make him do as he wishes?" asked Mrs. Stothard.
"Has anyone sufficient influence with George Wainwright to make him help in our scheme?"
"Time will show," said Mrs. Stothard. "Now that we understand each other, I think you had better leave this affair wholly in my hands. You know me well enough to be certain that I shall do my best to serve you."
"That was the best way to settle it," said Mrs. Stothard to herself as she walked towards her own room. "It was necessary to face it out--it would have been impossible to make her believe that Paul could have been kept in ignorance of the secret. And yet she is weak enough to think a man like George Wainwright would suffer himself to take part in such a wretched scheme as this, and compromise his own honour and his friend's happiness! However, it will amuse her, and give me time to mature my own plans. I rather think the notion that I hit on this morning will be the best one to work out after all; the best one, that is to say, for all I care--for Fanny and myself. Ah, who is this coming in from the garden? 'Tis Mr. Wainwright. I wonder what he thinks of me; his look last night was anything but flattering; now we shall see. Goodmorning, sir."
"Goodmorning to you, nurse; how is your charge this morning?"
"My charge? Oh, you mean Miss Annette. She's very well indeed; I think she seems to have benefited very much by the change which the arrival of company has brought to the house."
"Company! Mr. Paul can scarcely be considered company in his own home, and I fear I am not much company."
"It doesn't sound very flattering, Mr. Wainwright; but the mere sight of a fresh face does us good in this dull place. I always tell Mrs. Derinzy that my young lady wants rousing; and I am sure I am right, for it is a long time since I have seen her look so bright as she does this morning."
"I am sure you are not sufficiently selfish as to keep all her brightness to yourself, nurse," said George; "but I do not think Miss Derinzy has yet left her room."
"I am going to her now," said Mrs. Stothard, "to persuade her to take a turn in the grounds before luncheon; if I may say you will accompany her, Mr. Wainwright, I am sure she will come at once."
"You may say that I will do so with the very greatest pleasure," said George; and then, after Mrs. Stothard had left him, "A clever woman that, and, if my ideas are correct, just the sort of person for that place. What a wonderful position for them all down here, and how extraordinarily well the secret has been preserved! The girl has a singular charm about her, and yet Paul will be delighted at getting--as I have very little doubt he will get--his release. Fancy wishing to be released from---- What can have made that woman so civil to me this morning? I thought I came down here for quiet, and I find that I must not move or speak without previously exercising the most tremendous caution. Ah, here is Miss Annette; how pretty and fresh she looks!"
She did look wonderfully pretty in her tight-fitting violet-cashmere dress, made high round her throat, with a small neat white collar and cuffs, and with a violet ribbon in her hair. Her eyes were bright, and her manner was frank and free as she walked straight up to George Wainwright, and holding out her hand, gave him goodmorning.
"Goodmorning, Miss Derinzy," said George; "you are late in coming among us. I was just asking your servant what had become of you."
"My servant! Oh, you mean Mrs. Stothard. Have you been talking to that horrid woman? What has she been saying to you?
"You mustn't call her a horrid woman; she has been speaking very nicely of you, and said she would send you to take a turn in the grounds with me; so I don't think her a horrid woman, of course."
"She is a horrid woman, all the same," said Annette, "and I hate her; though I shall like taking a turn in the grounds with you. Let us come out at once. What a lovely morning!"
"Yes," said George, as they stood on the steps, "but not lovely enough for you to come out without a hat; the air is anything but warm."
"It strikes cold to you Londoners," said Annette, laughing; and as she laughed, her eyes sparkled and her colour came, and George could not help thinking how remarkably pretty she looked; "but I do not feel it one bit too fresh; I hate having anything on my head."
"Do you never wear a hat?"
"Only when I go into the village with Mrs. Derinzy, never here in the grounds. I hate anything that weighs on my head or gives me any sense of oppression there; always when I feel my head hot I think I am going to be ill."
"Ay, I was sorry to hear that you were so frequently an invalid," said George.
"Yes," said the girl, "I often think the house, instead of the Tower, should be called the Hospital. Mrs. Derinzy, you know, is very often ill; so ill sometimes, that Dr. Wainwright has to come from London to see her."
"So I have heard," said George. "Do you know my father?"
"I have seen him very often when he has been down here to visit my aunt."
"He has never attended you, I suppose, Miss Derinzy?" asked George, looking at her closely.
"Dr. Wainwright attend me! Oh dear, no," said Annette; "there was never any occasion for his doing so."
"Like most unselfish people, you make light of your own troubles," said George, "and exaggerate those of other people."
"No, indeed," said Annette; "my ailments are trifles compared with those of Mrs. Derinzy."
"How do you feel when you are ill?" asked George.
"What a curious man you are? what curious questions you ask! Why do you take any interest in me and my ailments?"
"In you, because--well, I can only say that I find you very interesting," said George, with a smile; "and in your illness because I am a doctor's son, you know, and understand something of a doctor's work."
"Well, I can scarcely call mine illnesses," said the girl; "for such as they are, I and Mrs. Stothard--the woman you were just talking to--manage them between us. I feel a sort of heavy burning sensation in my brain, a buzzing in my ears, and a dimness of sight, and then I faint away, and I know of nothing that happens, how the time goes by, or what is said or done around me, until I come to myself, and feel, oh, so horribly weak and tired!"
"I told you you spoke too lightly of your own ailments, Miss Derinzy," said George, with an earnest, passionate look; "and this account of what you suffer seems to give me the idea that you require more skilled treatment than can be afforded by Mrs. Stothard, kind though she may be."
"I didn't say she was kind," said the girl sullenly; "I hate her!"
"Has my father never prescribed for you in one of these attacks?"
"Never; and never shall!"
"I hope you don't hate him too?" asked George with a smile.
"I--I don't like him."
"May I ask why not?"
"I--I can't tell; but his prescribing for me would be of no use, he could do me no good."
"How can you tell that?"
"Because he has happened to come down here by chance to see my aunt when I have been ill, and of course if he could have cured me, they would have asked him to do so."
"Of course," said George. He looked at her steadily, but could glean nothing from the expression on her face, and he changed the subject. "You haven't seen Paul this morning?"
"No, I see very little of him. Before he came down, my aunt talked so much to me about his visit, and said he was so amusing and so delightful, and that I should be so much pleased with him."
"Well?"
"Now you are asking me questions again. I intended to make you tell me all about London and what the people do there; and we have been out here for half an hour, and talked about nothing but myself. What did you mean by 'Well'?" she added laughing.
George laughed too.
"I meant, and you found all Mrs. Derinzy's anticipations realised?"
"Not the least in the world. I don't find my cousin amusing, and I am sure he doesn't talk much; he walks about smoking a pipe and smoothing his moustache with his fingers; and whenever one speaks to him, his thoughts seem to be a long way off, and he has to call them back before he answers you. I told my aunt he was like those people you read of in books, who are in love."
"What did she say to that?"
"She smiled, and said she had noticed the same since Paul had been down here, and that very likely that might be the reason."
"You must not be hard on Paul," said George Wainwright, at the same time frowning slightly; "if you knew him as well as I do, you would think him the best fellow in the world."
"I find that that is what is always said of people whom I don't care about," said Annette, quietly.
"My father, for instance," said George, with a laugh, "and Mrs. Stothard."
"Of Dr. Wainwright, certainly," said Annette. "My aunt and uncle are never tired of proclaiming his praises; and my aunt has reasons, for I believe it is to his skill that my aunt owes her life; but I never heard anyone say anything good of Mrs. Stothard."
"Poor Mrs. Stothard," said George. "She will most likely---- Ah, here is the Captain."
The gentleman strolling up the little white path which led over the cliff to the sea was indeed Captain Derinzy, limping along and slashing at the bushes with his cane in his usual military manner. He looked very much astonished at seeing Annette walking with his guest, and did not disguise his surprise.
"Hallo!" he said, "you out here! Seldom you come out into the open air, isn't it?--Be much better for her if she came out oftener, wouldn't it, Wainwright? This is the stuff that they talk about in this country life. Why, in London a girl goes out and rides in the Row twice a-day, and walks and rides in Bond Street, and all that kind of thing, and get's plenty of exercise, don't you know? Whereas in the country it is so infernally dirty, and the roads are all so shamefully bad, and there are such a set of roughs about--tramps and that kind of people--that girls don't like going out; and yet they tell you that the country is more healthy than London! All dam stuff!"
"Well, Miss Derinzy's looks certainly do credit to the country, though I regret to hear that they are not thoroughly to be relied on. She has been telling me she suffers a great deal from illness."
"Oh, has she?" said the Captain, looking up nervously; "the deuce she has! Look here, Netty, don't you think you had better go in and dress yourself for dinner, and that kind of thing? It is quite cold now, and you haven't got any hat, and your aunt might make a row--I mean, mightn't like it, you know. Run in, there's a good girl; we shall all be in soon.-- Don't you go, Wainwright; I want to show you a view from the top of that hill--the Beacon Hill, they call it; it's about the only thing worth seeing in the whole infernal place."
When Captain Derinzy went in to dress for dinner, he said to his wife:
"It is a deuced good thing that I am a long-headed fellow and have my wits about me, and all that kind of thing. I found this young Wainwright walking with Annette, and he told me she had been telling him about her illness and all that. So I thought it best to separate 'em at once; and I sent her off into the house, and took him away to the Beacon Hill, though he seemed to me to be wanting to go after her all the time."
The festivities of Harbledown Hall were at an end, the amateur theatricals had been given--to the great delight of those performing in them, and to the excessive misery of those witnessing them--on two successive nights: the first to the invited neighbouring gentry, the second to the tenantry and servants. The guests were dispersed to various other country houses, and among them Miss Orpington and her father had taken their departure; but not to the same destination: the young lady, under the chaperonage of her aunt, was going to stay with some people, the head of whose family was an eminent tea-broker in the City, who, some years before, would not have been received into what is called society, but who was now so enormously rich that society found it could not possibly do without him. Society dined with him and danced with him at his house in Hyde Park Gardens, invited his wife and his daughter to all sorts of entertainments during the season, voted his two ugly dumpy sons the pleasantest fellows in Europe, and went regularly to stay with him during the autumn at his most charming country place at Brookside near Hastings.
As an acknowledgment of all these kindnesses the tea-broker had caused himself to be put into Parliament, and took his place with tolerable punctuality amongst the conscript fathers, never failing in obedience to the suggestions of the whip of his party, and, when he was not in the smoking-room, sleeping the sleep of the righteous on the back benches of the House.
The party at Brookside promised this year to be a particularly agreeable one; and as Miss Orpington had arranged for an introduction with the Yorkshire baronet with money, and that gentleman saw his way to unlimited sport during the day and unlimited flirtation during the evening, they agreed to console themselves even for the absence of the young lady's papa.
For Colonel Orpington was not going to Brookside. His daughter, as he said, had her aunt to look after her, and her intended to amuse her; and though there was nothing to be said against Skegby--that being the name of the tea-broker--who was a very good fellow, a self-made man, honour to British commerce, and that kind of thing, and was received everywhere, yet there were some people going to Brookside that the Colonel didn't care about meeting; and so, as the house in Hill Street was ready, he should go and take up his quarters there for a time--at all events until he had occasion to inspect the works and quarries in South Wales.
All his friends being still away from London, it was natural that the Colonel should seek for consolation in the resources of that new acquaintance which he had so recently made. He had met Fanny Stafford several times in the Park, and she had so far relaxed from her rigid formality as to accept two or three little dinners from him, as good as his taste could command and Verrey could supply, at which Madame Clarisse was always present.
That worthy lady's interest in her assistant seemed to have increased very much since her return from Paris. She was always insisting on Fanny's taking half-holidays, giving up work now and again, and coming into her private rooms for a meal and a chat; and in that chat, which was entirely one-sided and carried on solely by Madame Clarisse, the theme was always the same--the misery of work and poverty, the glory of idleness and riches, the folly, the worse than folly, almost crime, of those who spend their life in toil, and neglect to clutch the golden opportunity which comes to most all of us when we are young, and comes but once.
With these remarks--which might have seemed sententious in anyone else, but which Madame Clarisse put so aptly and so deftly, with such quaint illustrations, sounding quainter still in the broken English with which she interlarded her discourse, as to render it amusing--was often mixed a series of running comments on Colonel Orpington, which were laudatory, but in which the praise was laid on with a very skilful hand.
It is due to the Colonel to say that he left all mention of himself, whether laudatory or otherwise, to Madame Clarisse, and this was one of the greatest reasons for which Daisy liked him.
Beyond referring occasionally to his originally expressed desire to see the girl removed into some better position than that which she then occupied, and his readiness to help her in the achievement of such a position, Colonel Orpington never seemed to have any object in his never-failing pursuit of the girl's acquaintance beyond the perfectly legitimate one of amusing himself and her, and making the time pass pleasantly for them both. He was always gay, always cheerful, always full of good-humoured talk and anecdote, but at the same time always strictly respectful and well-bred in his conversation and in his manner. He treated the milliner's assistant with as much courtesy as he would bestow upon a duchess; and it was only in his occasional colloquies with Madame Clarisse that he permitted himself the use of phrases which but few of his compatriots would have understood, and which even in France would have been more easily intelligible in the Rue de Bréda than in the Faubourg St. Germain.
And what were Daisy's feelings towards Colonel Orpington? Did she really love or care for him? Not one whit.
Had she forgotten Paul and all their long walks and talks, all the devotion which he had proffered her, all her acknowledgments of regard for him? Had his image faded out of her heart during his absence, and was it there replaced by another and less worthy one? Not the least in the world; only that the absence of her lover had given the girl breathing space, as it were, to look around her, and to estimate her present position and her future chances at their actual value. And when thus seriously estimated, she found that the devotion which Paul had proffered her was, to her thinking, not worth very much; it was not sufficient to induce him to pledge himself to marry her: it was not sufficient to induce him boldly to defy the opinion of the world, and break off those shackles of family and society by which he was bound hand and foot; it was only sufficient for him to give up a certain portion of his time to be passed in her company, which was after all a sufficiently selfish pleasure, as it pleased him as much as it did her. And then, after all, what was to be the result?
In the early days of their acquaintance, before he knew the character of the girl he had to deal with, Paul had given certain hints which Daisy had rigidly ignored, or when compelled to hear them, had forbidden to be repeated; but since then they had been going on in a vague purposeless way; and though the boy-and-girl attachment, the stolen meetings, the letters, and the knowledge that they loved each other, were in themselves sufficient, and would last for ever, due consideration gave Daisy no clue to the probable result of that connection. And yet she loved Paul; had no idea how much she loved him until she was thinking over what her future, what a portion of her future at least, might be if passed with somebody else.
If passed with somebody else? There could be no doubt about what was intended, though he had never said a word, or given the slightest hint. The conversation of her employer--who, as Daisy was clear-headed and keen-witted enough to see, was in the Colonel's confidence--was full of subtle meaning. No need for the Frenchwoman to enlarge to Daisy on what she meant by the golden opportunity; no need for her to dwell upon the comforts and luxuries which were easily procurable by her--the dresses and equipages, the pomps and vanities which so many wasted their lives in endeavouring to obtain, and which might be hers at once.
Hers; and with them what? A life of shame, a career such as she had regarded always with loathing and horror; such as she had told her mother that, whatever temptation might assail her, she had sufficient courage and strength of mind to avoid. And such a life, not with a young lover, the warmth of whose passion, whatever might be its depth, it was impossible to deny, but with a man no longer young, who pretended to no sentiment for her beyond admiration, and who, polished, courteous, and gentlemanly as he was, would probably look upon her as any other appanage of his wealth and position, and care for her no more.
And yet, and yet were they to go on for ever--the long days of drudgery, the nights in the cheerless garret, the weary existence with the one ray of hope which illumined it, the love for Paul, soon necessarily to be quenched for ever? She could not bear to think of that. Should she give it up, fling all to the winds, tell her lover on his return, which she was now daily expecting, that she could stand it no longer; bid him take her and do with her as he willed--marry her or not, as he chose, but let her feel that there was something worth living for, some bond of union which, legal or illegal, lessened the hard exigences of daily life, and took something of the grimness off the aspect of the world?
She was mad! Was that to be the end of all her cultivated coldness and self-restraint? Had she quietly, if not cheerfully, accepted the wretched life which she had been leading so long, with the one aim of establishing for herself a position, and was she now going to undo all that she had so patiently planned and so weariedly carried out in one moment of headstrong passion? Was the position which she hoped to acquire, for which she had so earnestly striven, to prove to be that of a poor man's mistress, where everything would have been lost and nothing gained? Nothing gained! Nothing? not Paul's love? No, she had that now; and she was quite sufficient woman of the world to know that in the chance of such a contingency as she had contemplated, she might not be long in losing it.
As the time for Paul Derinzy's return approached, Daisy became more and more unsettled. It would seem as though Colonel Orpington had been made aware of the speedily anticipated reappearance on the scene of one who might be considered his rival; and, indeed, Miss Bella Merton had been several times recently to Mr. Wilson's chambers in the Temple, and held long conversations with the occupant thereof. As he was more than usually assiduous in his attentions to Fanny, she, Madame Clarisse, had accompanied them once or twice to the theatre; and on one occasion, when the Frenchwoman had declared that Fanfan was dying for fresh air--it was one morning after the girl had passed a sleepless night in thinking over all the difficulties that beset her future, and she looked very pale and weary-eyed----the Colonel had placed his brougham at the disposal of the ladies, and insisted on their driving down in it to Richmond, whither he proceeded on horseback, and had luncheon provided for them on arrival at the hotel.
More assiduous, but not more particular beyond telling her laughingly one day that he should speedily ask her for an interview, at which he should ask her consent to a little project that he intended to carry out, the Colonel's conversation was of his usual ordinary light kind; but Madame Clarisse's hints were more subtle than ever, and Daisy could not fail to have some notion of what the project to be proposed at the suggested interview might be.
One Sunday morning--Paul was to come up from Devonshire that night, and had written her a wild letter full of rhapsodical delight at the idea of seeing her again the next day--Daisy was seated in her room.
Her little well-worn writing-desk was open, the paper was before her, the pen lay ready to her hand; but the girl was leaning back in her chair, and wondering how much or how little of the actual state of affairs she ought to describe in the letter to her mother which she was then about to write; for it had come to that, that there was concealment between them. Of her acquaintance with Colonel Orpington, Daisy had breathed never a word; while on her side Mrs. Stothard had carefully concealed the fact, that she was an inmate of the house which was the home of her daughter's lover, where at the time he was actually staying.
Daisy was roused from her deliberation by a rap at the door, and by the immediate entrance of Mrs. Gillot, her landlady, who told her that a gentleman wished to see her.
It was come at last then, this interview at which all was to be decided!
Daisy felt her face flush, and knew that Mrs. Gillot remarked it.
"A gentleman!" she repeated.
"Ay, a gentleman," said the worthy woman; "and one of the right sort too, or you may depend upon it I wouldn't have had him shown into my front parlour, where he now is. Not but what you can take care of yourself, Miss Fanny, and I trust you to give any jackanapes a regular good setting-down, with your quiet look, and your calm voice, and your none-of-your-impudence manner; but this is a gentleman, and when I showed him into the parlour, I told him I was sure you would see him."
"I will come directly, Mrs. Gillot."
She rose, took a hasty glance in the little scrap of looking-glass, and descended the stairs.
Her heart beat highly as she laid her hand upon the parlour-door. It resumed its normal rate or pulsation as the door opened beneath her touch, and she saw, standing before her on the hearth-rug, the unexpected figure of John Merton.
Something in her face when she first recognised him, something in the tone of her voice, some note of surprise and disappointment when she bade him goodmorning, must have betrayed itself, for he said hurriedly:
"You did not expect to see me, Miss Stafford."
"I confess I did not; but of course I am very glad. I--I hope Bella is quite well?"
"Bella is very well, I believe."
"Have you brought me some message from her?"
"No, indeed. She does not even know I was coming here."
There was a pause, then he said:
"I suppose you do not think I have taken a liberty in calling on you, Miss Stafford?"
"Oh dear, no! I have known you so long, and your sister is such an intimate acquaintance of mine, that I could not be anything of that sort. What makes you ask?"
"Well, you looked so--so surprised at seeing me."
"I was surprised at seeing anyone. No one ever comes here after me."
"No?" said John Merton, interrogatively, and his face seemed to brighten as he said it.
"No," said Daisy; "and my landlady must have been as much astonished as I am. You must have made a very favourable impression on her to obtain admittance."
"Mrs. Gillot is a very old friend of mine," said John Merton. "She has known me since I was a boy; but I should not have presumed upon that acquaintance to ask for you, nor indeed, Miss Stafford, should I have ventured to come here at all, if I had not something very particular to say to you."
"Very particular to say to me!"
"To say to you something so special and particular, that your answer to it may change the course of my whole life. I must ask you to listen to me, Miss Stafford. I won't keep you a minute longer than I can help."
Daisy bowed her head in acquiescence. She had taken a seat, but he remained standing before her, half leaning over towards her, with one hand on the table.
Poor John Merton! The girl's eyes rested on that hand, with its great thick red fingers and coarse knuckles and clumsy wrist; and then they travelled up the shiny sleeve of his black coat, and over his blue silk gold-sprigged tie to his good-looking face shining with soap, and his jet-black hair glistening with grease. And then she dropped her eyes, and inwardly shuddered, comparing them with the hands and features of two other people of her acquaintance.
"You said just now," said John Merton, in rather a husky voice, "that you were not annoyed at my calling upon you, because you had known me so long, and because you were so intimate with my sister. I think I might allege those two reasons as the cause of my being here now. All the time I have known you I have had but one feeling towards you, and all that I have heard my sister say of you--and she seems never to be talking of anybody else--has deepened and concentrated that feeling. What that feeling is," continued John, "I don't think I need try to explain. I don't think I could if I tried, unless--unless I were to say that I would lay down my life to save you from an ache or a pain, that I worship the very ground you tread on, and that I look upon you like an angel from heaven!"
His voice shook as he said these words; but the fervour which possessed him lit up his features; and as Daisy stole an upward glance at him, and saw his pleading eyes and working mouth, she forgot the homeliness of his appearance, and wondered how her most recent thoughts about him had ever found a place in her mind.
He caught something of her feeling, and said quickly, "You are not angry with me?"
She shook her head in dissent.
"You mustn't be that," he said, "whatever answer you may give me. I know how inferior I am to you in every possible way. I know, I can't help knowing, I could not help hearing even at that girl's the other evening, the last time we met, how you were noticed and admired by people in a very different position from mine: have known this and borne it all, and never spoken--shouldn't have spoken now, but that there is come a chance in my life which I must either accept or relinquish, and I want you to decide it for me."
"You want me to decide it!"
"You, and you alone can do it. This is how it comes about, Miss Stafford. You know I am what they call a 'counterjumper,'" said he, with a little bitter laugh; "but I know, that though it is a distinction without a difference, I suppose, to those who are not in the trade, I am one of the first hands with perhaps the largest silk-mercers in London, and I have been taken frequently abroad by one of the firm when he has gone to buy goods in a foreign market. I must have pleased them, I suppose, for now they are going to set up an agency in Lyons; and they have offered it to me, and I shall take it if you will come with me as my wife."
He paused, and Daisy was silent.
After a minute, he said hurriedly:
"You don't speak. It is not a bad thing pecuniarily. They would make it about three hundred a year, I think, and I should get very good introductions, and it would be like beginning life again for both of us. I thought it would be a good chance of shaking off any old associations; and as the position would be tolerable, it would be only me--myself, I mean--that you would have to put up with, and---- You don't speak still! I haven't offended you?"
She looked up at him. Her face was very pale, and her hands fluttered nervously before her; but there was no break in her voice as she said:
"Offended me! You have done me the greatest honour in your power, and you talk about offence! You must not ask me for an answer now; I cannot give it; the whole thing has been so sudden. I will think it over, and write to you in a day or two at most. Meantime, I think it would be advisable for both our sakes that you should not speak of what has occurred, even to your sister."
"Of course not," he said; "anything you wish. And you tell me that I may hope?"
"I did not quite say that," she said with a smile. "I told you you must wait for my reply. You shall have it very soon. Now, goodbye."
She held out her hand to him, and he took it in his own--which again looked horribly red and common, she thought--then he just touched it with his lips, and he was gone.
"Another element, a third element in the confusion," said Daisy to herself as she reascended the stairs to her room; "but one not so difficult to deal with as the others."
It was not likely that a man of George Wainwright's intelligence and habits of observation could remain long domesticated in a household like that of the Derinzys', without speedily reading the characteristics of its various members.
In a very little time after his arrival, the young man--whose manners were so quiet and sedate as to lead Captain Derinzy to hint to his wife that he thought Wainwright rather a muff--had reckoned up his host and knew exactly the amount of vanity, silliness, and ignorance which so largely swayed the estimable gentleman; had gauged Mrs. Derinzy's scheming worldliness, knew why it originated and at what it aimed; had thoroughly solved the problem, so difficult to all others, of Mrs. Stothard's position in the house; and knew exactly the character of the malady under which Annette was suffering.
He ought to have known more about Annette than about anybody else, for nine-tenths of his time--all, indeed, that he could spare from the somewhat assiduous attentions of his host--were given to her. He walked with her, made long explorations of the neighbouring cliffs, long expeditions inland among the lovely Devonshire lanes, lovelier still with the fiery hue of autumn, and even induced her to join him and Paul in sundry boat-excursions, where, well wrapped up in rugs and tarpaulins, she lay on the flush-deck of the little fishing-smack, half frightened, half filled with childlike glee at her novel experience.
Paul had often laughed and said to their common associates, "When old George is caught, you may depend upon it, it will be a very desperate case."
And "old George" was caught now, Paul thought, and thought rightly: the delicacy, the good nature, the sweet womanly graces of the girl showing ever and anon between her sufferings--for during George's stay at Beachborough, Annette had been free from any regular attack, yet from time to time there were threatenings of the coming storm which were perfectly perceptible to his experienced eye--nay, perhaps the very fact of the malady under which she laboured, and the position in which she was placed, had had strong influence over George Wainwright's honest heart. As for Paul, he was so thoroughly astonished at the change which had taken place in his cousin since George's arrival, and at the wonderful pains and trouble which George himself took to interest and amuse Annette, that this wonderment entirely filled so much of his time as was not devoted to thinking of Daisy. He wondered and pondered, and at last the conviction grew strong upon him, that George must be in love.
At first he laughed at the idea. The sober, steady, almost grave man, who had such large experience of life, and who yet had managed to steer clear, so far as Paul knew, of anything like a flirtation. Flirtation, indeed, would be the last thing to which his friend would stoop, "when old George is caught." Something, perhaps, also--"for pride attends us still"--was due to the fact that Annette always showed the greatest desire for his company, and undisguised delight at his attention and admiration. Never in the course of her previous life had the girl met with anyone who seemed so completely to comprehend her, whose talk she could so readily understand, whose manner was so completely fascinating, and yet somehow always commanded her respect. She despised her uncle, she disliked her aunt, and hated Mrs. Stothard though she feared her; but in the slow and painful workings of that brain she felt that if at those--those dreadful times when semi-blankness fell upon her, and her perception of all that was going on was dim, and obscure, and confused--if at such a time George Wainwright were to order her to do anything in opposition to the promptings of that devil, which on those occasions possessed her, she felt she should be powerless to disobey him.
"I can't make it out, George; upon my soul, I can't," said Paul, as they were walking along the edge of the cliffs one morning smoking their pipes after breakfast.
"What is it that puzzles your great brain, and that prompts to such strong utterances?" asked George, laughing.
"You know perfectly well what I mean. You needn't try to be deceitful in your old age," said Paul; "for deceit is a thing which I don't think you would easily learn, and at all events does not go well with hair which is turning white at the temples, and a beard which is beginning to grizzle, Mr. Wainwright. You know perfectly well that I am alluding to the attentions which you are paying to my cousin, Miss Derinzy. And I should be glad to know, sir," continued Paul, vainly endeavouring to suppress the broad grin which was spreading over his face, "I should be glad to know, sir, how you reconcile your conduct with your notions of honour, knowing, as you perfectly well do, that that lady is my affianced bride."
"Don't be an ass, Paul," said George, smiling in his turn. "I dispute both your assertions, especially the last. The lady is nothing of the kind."
"No, poor dear child, that she certainly isn't. And I think on the whole that it is a very good thing that my affections are engaged in another quarter; for I am perfectly sure that, however much I might have wished it, Annette would never have had anything to say to me. I endeavoured to make my mother understand that, when she first talked to me on the subject when you first came down here; but she seemed to look upon Annette's wishes as having very little to do with the matter."
"Mrs. Derinzy's state of health possibly makes her take an exceptional view of affairs," said George, looking hard at his friend.
"Well, I declare I don't know about her state of health," said Paul. "I confess that, beyond a little peevishness, which is partly constitutional, I suppose, and partly brought on by having lived so many years with the governor--good old fellow the governor, but an awful nuisance to have to be with constantly--I don't see that there is much the matter with my mother. Have you ever heard your father say anything about her illness, George?"
"My father is remarkably reticent in professional matters," said George. "I have never heard him speak about any illness in this house."
"Oh, of course, it was only about my mother that he could say anything," said Paul; "for the governor never has anything the matter with him, except a touch of sciatica now and then in his game leg; and Annette's seems to be--you know--one of those chronic cases which never come to much, and which no doctor can ever do any good to."
"I suppose you won't be sorry to get back to town, Master Paul?"
"I suppose you will be sorry to leave here, Master George? No; indeed, I am rather glad the end of my leave is coming on; no intended bad compliment to you, old fellow; your stay here has been the greatest delight to me; but the fact is, I am getting rather anxious about that young person in London, and shall be very glad to see her again."
George looked up at him with a comical face.
"You don't mean to say that since Theseus's departure, Ariadne has----"
"I mean to say nothing of the sort," said Paul, turning very red. "Daisy is the best girl in the world; but I don't know, somehow I don't think her letters have been quite as jolly lately--the last two, I mean; there is something in them which I can't exactly make out, and there is not something in them which I have generally found there; so that after all, as I said before, I shall be glad when I get back."
"Has Mrs. Derinzy said anything more to you on the subject which you wrote to me about?" asked George, with a very bad attempt at indifference.
"No," said Paul; "she has begun it once or twice, but something has always intervened."
"Have you any idea that she has given up her intention of getting you to marry Miss Annette?"
"I fear not; I fear that her intention remains just the same, and that I shall have an immense deal of trouble in combating it. You see, events have changed since your arrival here, my dear George. But speaking dispassionately together, I don't see what line I can take with my mother in declining to propose for Annette, except the straightforward one that I won't do it. It seems highly ridiculous for a man in a government office, and with only the reversion of a sufficiently snug, but certainly not overwhelming, income in prospect, to refuse the chance of an enormous fortune, and the hand of a very pretty girl, who, as Mr. Swiveller says, has been expressly growing up for me."
"Yes," said George, reflectively, "I quite see what you mean; it will be a difficult task. But you intend to carry it through?"
"Most decidedly. Nothing would induce me to break with--with that young person in London; and if she were to break with me, God knows it would half kill me. I don't think I could solace myself by taking a wife with a lot of money, even if I could be such a ruffian as to attempt it."
So from this and fifty other conversations of a similar nature--for the theme was one which always engrossed his mind, and was constantly rising to his tongue--George Wainwright knew that there would be no obstacle to his love for Annette so far as Paul Derinzy was concerned. That young man had no care for his cousin even without the knowledge of the dreadful secret, which must be known to him some day, and the revelation of which would inevitably settle his resolution to decline a compliance with his mother's prayer.
That dreadful secret, always up-rearing its ghastly form in the path which otherwise was so smooth and so straight for George Wainwright's happiness! All his cogitations came to one invariable result--there could be no other explanation of it all. The illness which she herself could not explain, which came upon her from time to time, and during which she sank away from ordinary into mere blank existence, emerging therefrom with no knowledge of what she had gone through; the mysterious woman, half nurse, half keeper, who watched so constantly and so grimly over her? the manner in which all questions touching upon the girl's illness were shirked by every member of the household; the delusion so assiduously kept up, under which Mrs. Derinzy and not her niece was made to appear as the sufferer; above all, the constant visits of his father--all these proved to George that the disorder under which Annette Derinzy laboured was insanity, and nothing else.
And the more he thought of it, the more terrified was he at the idea. Familiarity with mental disease, intercourse with those labouring under it, had by no means softened its terrors to George Wainwright. True, he had no physical fear in connection with the mere vulgar fright which is usually felt with "mad people." He had no experience of that; but he had seen so much of the gradual growth of the disorder; had so often marked the helpless, hopeless state into which those suffering under it fell--silently indeed, but surely--that he had come to regard it with greater terror than the fiercest fever or the deadliest plague.
And now, when for the first time in his life he had fixed his affections on a girl who seemed likely to return his passion, and who in every other way was calculated to form the charm of his home and the happiness of his fireside, he had to acknowledge to himself that she was afflicted with this dreadful malady. It was impossible to palter with the question; he had tried to do so a thousand times; but his strong common sense would not be juggled with. And there the dread fact remained--the girl he loved was frequently liable to attacks of insanity. He must face that, look at it steadily, and see what could be done. Could she be cured?
Ah! how well he knew the futility of such a hope! How many instances had he seen in his father's house of patients whose disease was not of nearly such long standing as Annette's, had indeed only just begun, and who were in a few days, or weeks, or months at the farthest, to be restored, with all their faculties calmed and renewed, to their anxious friends!--and how many of them remained there now, or had been removed to other asylums, in the hope that change might effect that restoration which skill and science had failed in bringing about!
The last day of their stay had arrived, and on the morrow George was to accompany his friend back to London. The Captain was out for his usual ramble, Paul was closeted with his mother, and George was sitting in the little room which, owing to the few books possessed by the family gathered together in it, was dignified by the name of a "study," and which overlooked a splendid view of the bay. He was standing at the window, gazing out over the broad expanse of water, thinking how strangely the usually calm-flowing current of his life had been vexed and ruffled since his arrival there, wondering what steps he could take towards the solution of the difficulty under which he laboured, and what would be the final end of it all, when he heard a door close gently behind him, and looking round, saw Annette by his side.
"I am so glad I've found you, Mr. George," she said, looking up at him frankly, and putting out her hand (she always called him "Mr. George" now; she had told him she hated to use his surname, it reminded her of disagreeable things), "I am so glad I've found you. Mrs. Stothard reminded me that it was your last day here, and said I ought to make the most of it."
"Mrs. Stothard said that?" asked George, with uplifted eyebrows; "I would sooner it had been your own idea, Miss Annette."
"The truth is, I think I am a little vexed at the notion of your going," said the girl.
"Come, that is much better," said George, with a smile.
"No, no, I mean what I say; I am very, very sorry that you are going away." As she said this her voice, apparently involuntarily, dropped into a soft caressing tone, and her eyes were fixed on him with an earnest expression of regard.
"It is very pleasing to me to be able to know that my presence or absence causes you any emotion," said George.
"I have been so happy since you have been here," said the girl; "you are so different from anybody else I have ever met before. You seem to understand me so much better than any one else, to take so much more interest in me, and to be so much more intelligible yourself; your manner is different from that of other people; and there is something in the tone of your voice which I cannot explain, but which perfectly thrills me."
"I declare you will make me vain, Annette."
"That would be impossible; you could not be vain, Mr. George--you are far too sensible and good. It is singular to see how wonderfully well I have been since you have been here. On the morning after your arrival I felt as though I were going to have one of my wretched attacks, and Mrs. Stothard said it was because I had talked too much, and been too much excited the previous evening. But it passed off; and though I don't think I have ever talked so much to anyone in my life before, and certainly was never so interested in anyone's conversation, there has been no recurrence of it, and I have been perfectly well."
The bright look had passed away from George's face, and he was regarding her now with earnest eyes.
"If I thought that had actually been accomplished by my presence, I should be happy indeed; more happy in expectation of the future than in thinking over the past."
"In expectation of the future!" repeated the girl, pondering over the words. "Oh yes, surely; you are going away now, but you will come again to walk with me, and to talk with me; and you are only going away for a time. How strange I never thought of this before."
As she said these words she crept closer to him; and he, bending down, took her small white hand between his, and looked into her face with a long gaze of deep compassion and great love.
"Yes, Annette," he said, "I will come again, and I hope before very long. You must understand that this time, these past few weeks, have been quite as happy to me as you say they have been to you; that if you have found me different from anyone you have ever known, I, in my turn, have never seen anyone like you--anyone in whom I could take such interest, for whom I could do so much."
He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it tenderly, and at that moment the door opened, and Paul entered hurriedly. He gave a short low whistle as he marked the group before him, then advancing hurriedly, he said:
"George, it is all over, my boy; the storm we have been expecting so long has burst at last. My mother and I have just had a very bad quarter of an hour together."
During the foregoing conversation Mrs. Stothard, sitting in her room, heard the sound of the spring-bell which was suspended over her bed; the handle of this bell was in Mrs. Derinzy's apartments, and it was only used under exceptional circumstances, such as at times of Annette's illness, or when Mrs. Derinzy required instant communication with the nurse.
Mrs. Stothard heard the sound, but seemed in no way greatly influenced thereby; she looked up very calmly, saying to herself, "I suppose some climax has arrived; the departure of this young man was sure to bring it about. She has been fidgety lately, I have noticed, at the constant attention Mr. Wainwright has paid to Annette, and at the evident delight with which the girl has received the attentions. That bids fair to go exactly as I could have wished it. But there is some hitch in the other arrangement, I fear, from the little I could overhear of what he said to his friend the other day about Fanny; it must have been about Fanny, although he called her by some other name which I couldn't catch. He seemed nervously anxious about her, and appears to think that his absence from town has weakened her affection for him. That ought not to be, and that is not at all like Fanny's tactics; though there is something wrong, I fear, for I have not heard from her for some time, and her last letter was scarcely satisfactory. Yes, yes," she added impatiently, as the bell sounded again, "I am coming. It seems impossible for you, Mrs. Derinzy, to bear the burden of your trouble alone, even for five minutes."
When she entered the room, she found Mrs. Derinzy lying on the sofa with her head buried in the pillow; she was moaning and sobbing hysterically, and rocking her body to and fro.
"Are you ill?" asked Mrs. Stothard, calmly, as she took up her position at the end of the sofa, and surveyed her mistress without any apparent emotion.
"Yes, very ill, very ill indeed--half broken and crushed," cried Mrs. Derinzy. "It is too hard, Martha, it is too hard to have to go through what I have suffered, and to have all one's hopes blighted by the wilfulness of one for whom I have toiled and slaved so hard and so long."
"You mean Mr. Paul," said Mrs. Stothard. "I suppose that, notwithstanding my strong advice to the contrary, you have persisted in your determination, and asked him, before leaving to return to London, to give his answer about your project?"
"Yes," sobbed Mrs. Derinzy, "I have. I had him in here just now, and I went over it all again. I told him how, when I first heard of that ridiculous will which his uncle Paul had made, I determined that the fortune which ought to have been left to my boy, should become his somehow or other; how I had decided upon the marriage with Annette; how for all these years I had worked to compass it and bring it about: and how, now the time had arrived when the marriage ought to take place----"
"You didn't tell him anything about Annette's illness?" asked Mrs. Stothard, interrupting.
"Of course not, Martha," said Mrs. Derinzy, raising her head and looking angrily at the nurse; "how could you ask such a ridiculous question?"
"It is no matter, he will know it soon enough," said Mrs. Stothard, quietly. "Well, he refused?"
"He did," said Mrs. Derinzy, again bursting into tears, "like a wicked and ungrateful boy as he is; he refused decidedly."
"Did he give any reason?" asked Mrs. Stothard.
"He said that he had other views and intentions," said Mrs. Derinzy. "He talked in a grand theatrical kind of way about some passion that he had for somebody, and his heart, and a vast amount of nonsense of that kind."
"He is in love with somebody else, then?" asked Mrs. Stothard, looking hard at her mistress.
"So I gather from what he said; but I wouldn't listen to him for a moment on that subject. I told him I would get his father to speak to him, and that I myself would speak to his friend Mr. Wainwright, who appears to me never to leave Annette's side."
"So much the better for the chance of carrying out your wishes," said Mrs. Stothard, grimly. "That is to a certain extent my doing; I knew that Mr. Wainwright would be appealed to in this matter, and I thought it advisable that he should have just as much influence with Annette as he has with Paul; not that I think you can in the least rely upon his recommending his friend to fall in with your views."
"You don't think he will?"
"I don't, indeed. Though he has given no sign, I should be very much astonished if he don't completely master the mystery of the girl's illness; and if so, it is not likely he would recommend this scheme to his friend without showing him exactly the details of the bargain proposed."
"Bargain, indeed, Martha!"
"It is a bargain and nothing else, as you know very well, and you and I may as well call things by their plain names. What do you propose to do now?"
"I told Paul I would give him a couple of months in which to think it over finally; at the end of that time we shall go to town for a few weeks, for I really believe Captain Derinzy will go out of his mind if we have not some change, and there will be no danger now in taking Annette with us. Then Paul will have had ample time to discuss it with Mr. Wainwright, and on his decision will of course depend how our future lives are to be passed."
"If Mr. Paul is still obstinate, you think there will be no further occasion to keep Miss Annette in seclusion?" asked Mrs. Stothard.
"Miss Annette will be nothing to me, then," said Mrs. Derinzy, "except that if she marries anyone else without Captain Derinzy's consent, she loses all her fortune; and I will take care that that consent is not very easily given."
"That is a new element in the affair," said Mrs. Stothard to herself, as she walked back to her room; "but not one which is likely to prove an impediment to my friend the philosopher here."