Notwithstanding there was a most excellent understanding between George Wainwright and his father, and as much affection as usually subsists between men similarly related, they saw very little of each other, although inhabiting, as it were, the same house. They had scarcely any tastes or pursuits in common. When not engaged in actual practice, in study, or communicating the result of that study to the world, Dr. Wainwright liked to enjoy his life, and did enjoy it in a perfectly reputable manner, but very thoroughly. He read the last new novel, and went to the last new play of which people in society were talking; he dined, out with tolerable frequency; and took care never to miss putting in an appearance at certainsalons, where the announcement of his name was heard with satisfaction, and at which the announcement of his presence in the next morning's newspaper was calculated to do him service.
The Doctor had the highest respect and a very deep regard for his son, whose acquirements he did not undervalue, but with whose tastes he could not sympathise; so it was that they comparatively very seldom met; and though on the occasions of their meeting there was always great cordiality on both sides, the relations between them were more those of friends than of kinsmen, more especially such nearly allied kinsmen as parent and child.
On the second evening after his return from Beachborough, George Wainwright dined at his club, and instead of going home as was almost his invariable custom, turned up St. James's Street with the intention of proceeding to his father's rooms in the Albany.
It was a dull muggy November night, and George shuddered as he made his way through the streets and walked into the hospitable arcade, at the door of which the gold-laced porter stood in astonishment at the unfamiliar apparition of Dr. Wainwright's son.
"The Doctor's in, and alone, sir, I think," said he, in reply to George's inquiry. "The same rooms, however--3 in Z; he has not moved since you were last here."
George nodded, and passed on. On his arrival at his father's rooms, which were on the first-floor, he found the oak sported; but he knew that this really meant nothing, it being the Doctor's habit to show "out," as it were, against any chance callers; while, if he were within, the initiated could always obtain admission by a peculiar knock. This knock George gave at once, and speedily heard the sound of someone moving within. Presently the doors were opened and Dr. Wainwright appeared on the threshold; he held a reading-lamp in his hand, which he raised above his head as he peered into the face of his visitor.
"George!" he cried, after an instant's scrutiny, "this is a surprise. Come in, my dear boy. How damp you are, and what a wretched night! Come in and make yourself comfortable."
"I am not disturbing you, father. I hope?" said George, as he followed the Doctor into the room. "As usual, you are in the thick of it, I see," he continued, while pointing to a pile of books, some open, some closed, with special passages marked in them by pieces of paper hanging out of the edges, and to a mass of manuscript on the Doctor's blotting pad.
"Not a bit, my dear boy, not a bit," said the Doctor; "I was merely demolishing old Dilsworth's preposterous theories as regards puerperal insanity. By-the-way, you should look at his pamphlet, George; you know quite sufficient of the subject to comprehend in an instant what an idiot he makes of himself; indeed, I should be quite glad to escape from his unsound premises and ridiculous conclusions into the region of common sense."
"You are looking very well," said George; "your hard work does not seem to do you any harm."
"No, indeed, my dear boy; the harder I work, the better I feel, I think; but I take a little more relaxation than I did, and I like to have things comfortable about me."
The Doctor gave a careless glance round the room as he spoke. He certainly had things comfortable there: the paper was a dark green; all the furniture was in black oak--not Wardour Street, nor manufactured in the desolate region of the Curtain Road in Shoreditch, but real black oak, the spoil of country mansions whose owners had gone to grief, and labourers' cottages, the tenants of which did not know the value of their possession, and were not proof against the blandishments of the Hebrew emissary, who was so flattering with his tongue and so ready with his cash. On the walls hung a large painting of a nude figure by Etty, supported on either side by a glowing landscape by Turner and a breezy sea-scape by Stanfield. A noble old bookcase stood in one corner of the room, filled with literature of all kinds--for the Doctor was an omnivorous reader, and could have passed an examination as to the characters and qualities of the three leading serials of the day, as well as in the secular and professional volumes which filled his lower shelves; while at the other end of the room a huge sideboard was covered with glass, from heavymoyen-âgeBohemian to the thinnest and lightest productions of the modern blower's art.
"What will you take?" asked the Doctor. "Like myself, you are not much of a drinker, I know; but, like myself, you understand and appreciate a little of what is really excellent. Now, on that sideboard there are sherry, claret, and brandy, for all of which I can vouch. A little of the latter with some iced water?--the refrigerator is outside. Nothing? Ah, I forgot, you are dying for your smoke after dinner. Smoke away here, my boy; no one ever comes to these chambers who would be frightened at the anti-professional odour; and as for me, I rather like the smell of a pipe, and especially delight in seeing your enjoyment of it; so fire away."
George lit his pipe, and both the men pulled their easy-chairs in front of the fire. There was an undeniable likeness between them in feature as well as in figure, though the elder man was so much moresoigné, so much better got-up, so much better preserved than the younger.
"I have been away for some time," said George, after a few puffs at his pipe; "as perhaps you know."
"Oh yes, I found it out very soon after your departure, from the desolation which seemed to have fallen upon the house down yonder. Nurses and patients joined in one chorus of regret; and as for poor old Madame Vaughan, she seemed actually to forget the loss of the child she has been bewailing for so many years in her intense sorrow at your departure."
"Poor dearmaman!" said George, with a smile; "I feared she would miss me and my nightly visits very much. It's so long since I went away that I imagine I was regarded as a permanent fixture in the establishment."
"I confess I looked upon you in that light very much myself, George," said the Doctor, "and after your departure felt what Mr. Browning calls the 'conscience prick and memory smart' at not having previously asked why and where you were going. It is rather late to pretend any interest now you have returned, but still I would ask where you have been and why you went."
"I have been staying with some people who are friends of yours down in the west."
"Down in the west you have been staying?" said the Doctor. "Whom do I know down in the west? Penruddock--Bulteel--Holdsworth?"
"Not so far west as where those people you have just named live," said George. "I have been staying with the Derinzys."
"The Derinzys!"
And the Doctor's eyebrows went up into his large forehead, and his usually calm face expressed intense astonishment.
After a few minutes' pause, he said:
"Ah, I forgot. Young Derinzy is a colleague of yours, and a chum, I think I have heard you say."
"Yes; it was on his invitation I went down to stay with his people. He was there on leave himself at the time."
"Ah!" said the Doctor, who had recovered his equanimity. "And what did you think of his people, as you call them?"
"They were very pleasant, kind, and unaffected, and thoroughly hospitable," said George. "Mrs. Derinzy is said to be in bad health. I understand that you have been occasionally summoned down there on consultation, sir?"
He looked hard at his father; but the Doctor's face was unmoved.
"Yes," he said quietly, "I remember having been down there once or twice."
"To visit Mrs. Derinzy?"
"I was sent for to visit Mrs. Derinzy."
George paused for a moment, then he said:
"I saw a good deal of a young lady who seems to be domesticated there--a niece of the family, as I understand--Miss Annette."
"Ah, indeed! You saw a good deal of Miss Annette? And what did you think of her?"
"I thought her charming. You have seen her?"
"Oh yes, I have seen her frequently."
"And what is your impression?"
"The same as yours; Miss Annette is very charming."
The two men formed a curious contrast. George had laid by his pipe and was leaning over an arm of his chair, looking eagerly and scrutinisingly in his father's face; the Doctor lay back at his length, his comfortable dressing-gown wrapped around him, his slippered feet on the fender, his eyes fixed on the fire, while he gently tapped the palm of one hand with an ivory paper-knife which he held in the other.
"Father," said George Wainwright, suddenly rising and standing on the rug before the fire, "I want to talk to you about Annette Derinzy."
"My dear George," said the Doctor, without changing his position, "I shall be very happy to talk to you about any inmate of that house; always respecting professional confidences recollect, George."
"You must hear me to the end first, sir, and then you will see what confidences you choose to give to, and what to withhold from, me. Whatever may be your decision I shall, of course, cheerfully abide by; but it is rather an important matter, as you will find before I have finished, and I look to you for assistance and advice in it."
There was such an earnestness in the tone in which George spoke these last words, that the Doctor raised himself from his lounging position and regarded his son with astonishment.
"My dear boy," said he, putting out his hands and grasping his son's warmly, "you may depend on having both to the utmost extent of my power. We don't see much of each other, and we don't make much parade of parental and filial affection; but I don't think we like each other the less for that; and I know that I am very proud of you, and only too delighted to have any opportunity--you give me very few--of being of service to you. Now speak."
"You never told me you knew the Derinzys, father."
"My dear boy, I don't suppose I have ever mentioned the names of one-third of the persons whom I know professionally in your hearing."
"But you knew Paul was my friend."
"Exactly," said the Doctor, with a smile, "and in my knowledge of that fact you might perhaps find the reason of my silence."
"Ah!" said George, "of course I see now; it is no use beating about the bush any longer; I must come to it at last, and may as well do so at once. You will tell me, won't you? Is Annette Derinzy mad?"
The Doctor was not the least disturbed by the question, nor by the excited manner--so different from George's usual calm--in which it was put. He looked up steadily as he replied:
"Yes; I should say decidedly yes, in the broad and general acceptation of the word; for people are called mad who are occasionally subjects of mental hallucination, and at other times are remarkably clear-sighted and keen-witted, Miss Derinzy is one of these."
"Have you attended her?"
"For some years."
"And she has always been subject to these attacks?"
"Ever since I knew her. I was, of course, at first called in to her on account of them."
"Your attendance on Mrs. Derinzy has been merely a pretext?"
"Exactly; a pretext invented by the family and not by me."
"Have you any reason for imagining why this pretext was made?"
"They wished to keep everyone in ignorance of Miss Derinzy's state, and asked me to procure a trustworthy person whom I could recommend as her nurse----"
"Ah, Mrs. Stothard?"
"Exactly; Mrs. Stothard--you have made her acquaintance too?--and to visit the young lady from time to time."
"And you were asked to keep the fact of your visits from me?"
"Certainly. The Derinzys were aware that you were in the same office with their son, and were most desirous that his cousin's state should be concealed from him, above all others. Why, I never thought proper to inquire."
"I know the reason," said George, with half a sigh. "Do you think that this dreadful disease under which Miss Derinzy suffers is progressing or decreasing?"
"I am scarcely in a position to say," said the Doctor. "Were she in London, or in any place easy of access, I should be better able to judge; but now I only visit her periodically, and even that by no means regularly, merely when I have a day or two which I can steal, so that I cannot judge of the increase or decrease, or of the extent of delirium. However, the last time I was there--yes, the last time--I happened to be present when one of the attacks supervened, and it was very strong, very strong indeed."
There was another pause, and then the Doctor said lightly:
"I think I may put you into the 'box' now, George, and ask you a few questions. You saw a great deal of Miss Derinzy, you say?"
"Yes; we were together every day."
"And you deduced your opinion of her mental state from your observation of her?"
"Not entirely."
"Of course you got no hint from any of the family, not even from Captain Derinzy himself, who is sufficiently stupid and garrulous?" said the Doctor, with a recollection of his last visit to Beachborough, and the familiarity under which he had writhed.
"No, from none of them; and certainly not from Miss Derinzy's manner, which, though unusually artless and childlike, decidedly bore no trace of insanity."
"But, my dear boy, you must have had your suspicions, or you would not have asked me the questions so plainly. How did these suspicions arise?"
"From Annette's description of her illness--of her symptoms at the time of attack, the blank which fell upon her, and her sensations on her recovery; from the mere fact of Mrs. Stothard's presence there--itself sufficient evidence to any one accustomed to persons of Mrs. Stothard's class--and from words and hints which Mrs. Stothard--whether with or without intention, I have never yet been able to determine--occasionally let drop; from other facts which accidentally came to my knowledge, but of which I think you are ignorant, and which I think it is not important that you should know."
"For a superficial observer you have made a remarkable diagnosis of the case, George," said the Doctor, regarding his son with calm appreciation; "it is a thousand pities you did not take to the profession."
"Thank God, I didn't," said the son; "even as it is I have seen enough of it--or, at least, I should have said 'Thank God' two months ago; now, I almost wish I had."
"You would like to have taken up this case?"
"I should."
"You would like to have cured your friend's cousin?"
"I should indeed."
"My dear George," said the Doctor, with a smile, "I think, as I just said, it is a great pity that you did not take up the profession. You have a certain talent, and great powers of reading the human mind, but you are given to desultory studies and pursuits; and your picture-painting, piano-playing, and German philosophy, all charming as they are, would have led you away from the one study on which a man in our profession must concentrate his every thought. I don't think, my dear George, that you would have been a better--well, what common people call a better 'mad doctor' than your father; I don't think the 'old man' would have been beaten by the 'boy' in this instance."
"I am sure not, sir; I never thought that for an instant: it was not that which prompted me to say what I did. Do I understand from your last remark that Miss Derinzy's disease is beyond your cure?"
"In my opinion, beyond any one's cure, my dear George."
"God help me!" And George groaned and covered his face with his hands.
The Doctor sprang to his feet, and stepping across to where George sat, laid his hand tenderly on his head.
"My dear boy," said he, "my dear George, what does all this mean?"
"Nothing, father," said George, raising his head, and shaking himself together, as it were, "nothing, father--nothing, at least, which should lead a man to make a fool of himself; but your last words were rather a shock to me, for I love Annette Derinzy, and I had hoped----"
"You love Annette Derinzy! You, whom we have all laughed at so long for your celibate notions, to have fallen in love now, and with Annette Derinzy! My poor boy, this is a bad business--a very bad business, indeed. I don't see what is to be done to comfort you."
"Nor I, father, nor I. You distinctly say there is no hope of her cure?"
"Speaking so far as I can judge, there is none. If she were under my special care for a certain number of weeks, so that I saw her daily--Bah! I am talking as I might do to the friends of a patient. To you, my dear George, I say it would be of no use. It is a horrible verdict, but a true one--she can never be cured."
George was silent for a minute; then he said:
"Would there be any use in having a consultation?"
"My dear boy, not the slightest in the world. I will meet anyone that could be named. If this were a professional case, I should insist on a consultation, and the family apothecary would probably call in this old fool whose pamphlet I am just reviewing--Dilsworth, I mean, or Tokely, or Whittaker, or one of them; but I don't mind saying to my own son, that I am perfectly certain I know more than any of these men of my peculiar subject, and that, except for the mere sake of differing, they always in such consultations take their cue from me."
Another pause; then George said, his face suddenly lighting up:
"One moment, sir. I have some sort of recollection, when I was a student at Bonn, hearing of some German doctor who had achieved a marvellous reputation for having effected certain cures in insane cases which had been given up by everyone else."
"You mean old Hildebrand of Derrendorf," said the Doctor. "Yes, he was really a wonderful man, and did some extraordinary things. I never met him; but his cases were reported in the medical journals here, and made a great sensation at the time; but that is ten or twelve years ago, and I recollect hearing since that he had retired from practice. I should think by this time he must be dead."
"Then there is no hope," said George, sadly.
"I fear none," said his father. "If Hildebrand were alive, there would be no chance of his undertaking the case; for if I recollect rightly, he had always determined on retiring from the profession as soon as he had amassed a certain amount of money, which would enable him to pursue his studies in quiet. He was an eccentric genius too--one of the rough-and-ready school, they said, and particularly harsh and unpleasant in his manners. I recollect there was a joke that he frightened people into their wits, as other patients were frightened out of theirs by their doctors; so that he would scarcely do for Miss Annette, even if we could command his services. By-the-way, of course there was no seizure while you were in the house?"
"Nothing of the kind. She was, as I said, perfectly calm and tranquil, and wonderfully artless and childlike."
"Yes; she remains the ruin of what would have been a most charming creature. That 'little rift within the lute,' as Tennyson has it, has marred all the melody. By-the-way, you said you knew the reason of Mrs. Derinzy's having impressed upon me the necessity of silence in regard to my visits there. What was it?"
"There is no secret in it now. Mrs. Derinzy always intended that her son Paul should marry his cousin."
"I see it all! An heiress, is she not, to an enormous property? A very good thing for her son."
"Ah! that was why, ever since symptoms of the girl's mental malady first began to develop themselves, the boy was kept away at school, even during the holidays, on some pretence or another; and why, since he has been at the Stannaries Office, he has, up to this time, always gone abroad or to stay with some friends on his leave of absence."
"Exactly. The secret has been well kept from him. And do you mean to say he does not know it now?"
"At this moment he hasn't the least idea of it."
"Then your friend is also your rival, my poor George?"
"No, indeed. Paul does not care in the least for Annette, and he is deeply pledged in another quarter. It was with a view of aiding him in extricating himself from the engagement which his mother was pressing upon him that he asked me down to the Tower."
"As neat a complication as could possibly be," said the Doctor.
"There is only one person whose way out seems to me tolerably clear," said George, "and that is Paul. See here, father; I am neither of an age nor of a temperament to rave about my love, or to make much purple demonstration about anything. I shall not yet give up the idea that Annette Derinzy can be cured of the mental disease under which she suffers; and in saying this, I do not doubt your talent nor the truth of what you have said to me; but I have a kind of inward feeling that something will eventually be done to bring her right, and that I shall be the means of its accomplishment. I would not take this upon myself unless my position were duly authorised. I need not tell you--I am your son--that nothing would induce me to move in the matter, if my doing so involved the least breach of loyalty to Paul, the least breach of faith to his father or mother; but before I take a single step, I shall get from him a repetition of his decision, already twice or thrice given, in declining to become a suitor for Annette's hand; and armed with this, I shall seek an interview with his father and mother, and explain his position and my own."
"And then?" said the Doctor, with a grave face.
"And then,qui vivra verra."
"Well, George," said his father, laying his hand affectionately again on his son's head, "you know I wish you God speed. You have plenty of talent and endurance and pluck; and, Heaven knows, you will have need of them all."
One morning in the early winter, Colonel Orpington walked into the Beaufort Club, and taking his letters from the hall-porter as he passed, entered the coffee-room and took possession of the table which for many years he had been accustomed to regard as almost his own.
There was no occasion for him to order any breakfast, so well were his ways known in that establishment, of which he was not merely one of the oldest, but one of the most conspicuous of the members. The officers of the household, from Riboulet thechefand Woodman the house-steward down to the smallest page-boys, all held the Colonel in very wholesome reverence; and amongst the twelve hundred members on the books, the behests of none were more speedily obeyed than his.
While the repast was preparing, Colonel Orpington glanced over the envelopes of the letters which he had taken from the porter and laid on the table in military order before him. They are many and various: heavy official-looking letters, thin-papered missives from the Continent, and two or three delicate little notes. The Colonel selects one of these last, which is addressed in an obviously foreign hand, though bearing a London post-mark; the others are put aside; the dainty double-eyeglasses are brought from their hiding-place inside his waistcoat and adjusted across his nose, and he falls to the perusal of the little note. A difficult hand to read apparently, for the Colonel, though somewhat careful of showing any symptoms of loss of sight to the more youthful members of the club then present, by whom he has a certain suspicion he is looked upon as a fogey, has to hold it in various lights and twist it up and down before he can master its contents. When he has mastered them they do not appear to be of a particularly reassuring character; for the Colonel shakes his head, utters a short low whistle, and is stroking his chin with his hand, as though deep in thought, when the advanced guard of his breakfast makes its appearance.
"'Coming back at once,'" says the Colonel to himself; "at least, so far as I can make out Clarisse's confoundedly cramped handwriting. 'Coming back at once,' and from what she can make out from Fanny's talk, not in the best of tempers either, and likely to bring matters to an end; and Clarisse thinks I must declare myself at once. Well, I don't see why not.
"'Gad, it seems to me an extraordinary thing that I, who have been under fire so many times in these kind of affairs, should have been hesitating and hanging back and beating about the bush for so long with this girl! To be sure, she is quite unlike many of the others; more like a person in society, or rather, like what used to be society in my time: what goes by that name now is a very different thing. There's a sort of air of breeding about her, and a kind ofnoli me tangeresort of thing mixed up with all her attractiveness, that makes the whole business a very different thing from the ordinary throwing the handkerchief and being happy ever after.
"Coming back, eh! My young friend Derinzy--member here, by-the-way; letters had better go to one of the other clubs in future; it is best to be on the safe side. Coming back, eh! And now what are--what parents call--his 'intentions,' I wonder? Scarcely so 'strictly honourable' as the middle-class father longs to hear professed by enamoured aristocrats. If he meant marriage, he would certainly have proposed before he left town, when, if all I learn is true, he was so wildly mad about the girl he would not have left her to---- And yet, perhaps, that is the very reason, though she said nothing, she has evidently been pleased by the attentions which I have shown her; and this perhaps has caused her to slack off in her correspondence with this young fellow, or to influence its warmth, or something of that kind, and this may have had the effect of bringing him to book.
"If he were to declare off, how would that suit me? Impossible to say. In the fit of rage and disgust with him, she might say yes to anything I asked her; on the other hand, she might have a fit of remorse, and think that it was all from having listened to the blandishments of this serpent she lost a chance of enjoying a perpetual paradise with that bureaucratic young Adam.
"There is the other fellow, too--the young man 'in her own station of life'--shopkeeper, mechanic, whatever he is. Clarisse seems to have some notion that he is coming to the fore, though I don't think there is any chance for him. The girl's tastes lie obviously in quite a different line, and I am by no means certain that his being in the race is a bad thing for me. However, it's plainly time that something must be done; and now, how to do it?"
He threw down his napkin before him as he spoke and rose from the table. The young men who had been breakfasting near him, though perhaps they might have thought him a fogey, yet envied the undeniable position he held in society; envied him, above all, the perfect freshness and good health and the evident appetite with which he had just consumed his meal, while they were listlessly playing with highly-spiced condiments, or endeavouring to quench the flame excited by the previous night's dissipation with effervescing drinks. Sir Coke Only, the great railway contractor and millionaire, whose neighbouring table was covered with prospectuses and letters on blue paper, propounding schemes in which thousands were involved, envied the Colonel that consummate air of good breeding which he, the millionaire, knew he could never acquire, and that happy idleness which never seemed in store for him. The perfectly-appointed brougham, with its bit-champing, foam-tossing gray horse, stood at the club-door, waiting to whirl the man of business into the City, where he would be unceasingly occupied till dusk; "while that feller," as Sir Coke remarked to himself, "will be lunching with marchionesses and dropping into the five o'clock tea with duchesses, and taking it as easy as though he were as rich as Rothschild."
Perhaps the Colonel knew of the envy which he excited; he was certainly not disturbed, and perhaps even pleased, by it. He sauntered quietly into the waiting-room, walked to the window, and stood gazing unconsciously at the black little London sparrows hopping about in the black little bit of ground which was metropolitan for a garden, and lay between the club and Carlton House Terrace, while he collected his thoughts. Then he sat down at a table and wrote as follows:
"Beaufort Club, Tuesday.
"DEAR MISS STAFFORD,--The opportunity which I have been so long waiting for has at length arrived, and I think I see my way to the fulfilment of the promise made to you in the beginning of our acquaintance.
"If you will be at my lawyer's chambers, No. 5, Seldon Buildings, Temple, at two o'clock this afternoon, he--Mr. John Wilson is his name--will enter into further particulars with you. I shall hear from him how he has progressed, and you will see me very shortly.--Very sincerely yours,
"JOHN ORPINGTON.
"P.S.--I have no doubt that Madame Clarisse will be able to spare you on your mentioning that you have business. You need not particularise its nature."
Then he wrote another letter consisting of one line:
"All right; let her go.--J.O."
He addressed these respectively to Miss Fanny Stafford and Madame Clarisse, and despatched them to their destination.
It was with no particular excess of pleasure that Daisy received and perused the first-written of these epistles. To be sure, at the first glance over the words her face flushed and her eyes brightened; but the next few minutes her heart sank within her with that undefined sense of impending evil of which we are all of us so frequently conscious. The thought of Paul's immediate return had been weighing upon her for some days; she had been uncertain how to treat him. She could not help acknowledging to herself that her feelings towards him had undergone a certain amount of alteration during his absence. She was unwilling that that alteration should be noticed by him, and yet could not avoid a lurking suspicion that she must have betrayed it in her letters. She gathered this from the tone of his replies, more especially from his last communication, in which he announced his speedy arrival in town. Of course she had not breathed to him one word of her acquaintance with Colonel Orpington; there was no occasion why she should have done so, she argued to herself; the two men would never be brought in contact. And yet it would be impossible for her to renew the intimacy which had previously existed with Paul, without his becoming aware that she had other calls upon her time, and insisted upon being made acquainted with their nature; and then, when he found it out, the fact of her having concealed this newly-formed friendship from him would tell very badly against her. It would have been very much better that she should have mentioned it, giving some sufficiently satisfactory account of its origin, and passing over it lightly as though it were of no moment. She could have done this in regard to the meeting with John Merton and its subsequent results--not that she had ever said anything of that to her lover, by-the-way--without, she was sure, exciting Paul's suspicion; but this was a different matter. In his last letter Paul had proposed to meet her on what would now be the next afternoon, and by that time she must have made up her mind fully as to the course she intended to pursue. The interview to which she was then proceeding might perhaps have an important effect upon her resolution. And as she thought of that interview her heart sank again, and her face became very grave and thoughtful; so grave and thoughtful did she look as she hurried along one of the dull streets in the neighbourhood of Russell Square, that a man to whom she was well known, and by whom every expression of her face was treasured, scarcely knew her, as, coming in the opposite direction, he encountered and passed by her. She did not notice him; but he turned, and in the next instant was by her side. She looked up; it was John Merton.
"You were walking at such a pace and looking so earnest, Miss Stafford," said he, after the first ordinary salutations, "that I scarcely recognised you. You are going into the City. May I walk part of the way with you? I am so glad to see you; I have been longing so anxiously to hear from you."
This was an awkwardrencontre. Daisy had quite sufficient mental excitement with the interview to which she was proceeding. She had not calculated upon this addition to it, and answered him vaguely and unsatisfactorily.
"I have been very much occupied of late," said she. "The winter season is now coming upon us, you see, and I have scarcely any time to myself."
"It would have taken very little time to write yes or no," said poor John; "and if you knew the importance I attach to the receipt of one of those two words from you, I think you would have endeavoured to let me know my fate. Will you let me offer you my arm?"
"No--no, thanks," said Daisy, drawing back.
"You--you don't like to be seen with me, perhaps, in the street?" asked John, with a bitter tone in his voice.
"No, not that at all; only people don't take arms nowadays, don't you know?"
"Don't they?" said John, still bitterly. "I beg your pardon; you must excuse my want of breeding. I don't mix except among people in my own station. I--I didn't mean that," he added hurriedly, as he saw her face flush; "I didn't mean anything to offend you; but I have scarcely been myself, I think, for the last few days."
"You have done no harm," said Daisy, gently, pitying the look of misery on his face.
"Have I done any good?" he asked; "you cannot fail to understand me. If you knew how I suffer, you would keep me no longer in suspense."
"I did not pretend to misunderstand you," said the girl. "You are waiting for my answer to the proposition you made to me when you called at my lodging the other day."
"I am."
"You have placed me--unwillingly, I know--in a very painful position," said Daisy; "for it is really painful to me to have to say or do anything which I feel would give you pain."
"Don't say any more," he said in a hoarse voice; "I can guess your meaning perfectly. Don't say any more."
"But, Mr. Merton, you must hear me--you must understand----"
"I do understand that you say 'no' to what I asked you; that you reject my suit--I believe that is the proper society phrase! I don't want to know," continued he, with a sudden outburst of passion, "of the esteem in which you hold me, and the recollection which you will always have of the delicacy of my behaviour towards you. I know the rubbish with which it is always thought necessary to gild the pill in similar cases; but I'd rather be without it."
"You are becoming incoherent, and I can scarcely follow you," said Daisy, setting her lips and looking very stony. "I don't think I was going to say anything of the kind that you seem to have anticipated. I don't see that I have laid myself open to rudeness because I have been compelled to tell you it didn't suit me to marry you; and as to our being friends hereafter, I really don't think that there is the remotest chance of such a thing."
"I must again beg your pardon, Miss Stafford," said John, taking off his hat--he was quite calm now--"and I will take care that I don't commit myself in any similar ridiculous manner. I am perfectly aware that our lines in life lie very wide apart, and after the decision which you have arrived at and just communicated to me, I can only be glad that it is so; and though we are not to be friends, you say, I shall always have the deepest regard for you. You cannot prevent that, even if you would; and I only trust that some day I may have the chance of proving the continuance of that regard by being able to serve you."
He stopped, bowed, and was striding rapidly away back on the way they had traversed, before Daisy could speak to him.
"More quickly over than I had anticipated," she thought to herself, "and less painful too. I expected at one time there would have been a scene. His face lights up wonderfully when he is in earnest, and if his figure and manner were only as good, he might do. I wonder whether I could put up with him if neither of those two other men had been upon the cards; perhaps so, in a foreign place, such as he talked of going to, where one could have made one's own world and one's own society, and broken with all the old associations. How dreadful his boots were, by-the-way! I don't think it would have been possible to have passed one's life recognised as belonging to such feet and boots."
By this time she had reached Middle Temple Lane, down which she was proceeding, to the great admiration of the barristers' and attorneys' clerks who were flitting about that sombre neighbourhood. After a little difficulty and a great deal of inquiry she found the Seldon Buildings; and arriving at the second floor, and knocking at the portal inscribed Mr. John Wilson, she rather started when the door was opened to her by Colonel Orpington.
"Pray step in, my dear Miss Stafford," said the Colonel. "You are surprised, I see, to see me here instead of my legal adviser; but the fact is, that gentleman has been called out of town, and as I find he is not likely to return, I thought it best to take his place and make the proposition in my own person."
Daisy was not, nor did she feign to be, astonished. She entered the room and seated herself in an arm-chair, towards which the Colonel motioned her. He sat down opposite to her, and without any preliminary observations, at once dashed into his subject.
"I don't think there is any occasion for me to inform you, my dear Miss Stafford," he commenced, "that I have the very greatest admiration for you. All women known intuitively when they are admired without having the sentiment duly expressed to them in set phrases; and though I have carefully avoided saying or doing any of those ridiculous things which are said and done in novels and plays, but never in real life, except by people who bring actions of breach of promise against each other, you can have had very little doubt of the high appreciation of you which I entertain."
Daisy bowed. The trembling of her lip showed that she was a little nervous--no other sign.
"Well," continued the Colonel, "this admiration and appreciation naturally induced me to think what I could do to better your position, and at the same time to see more of you myself. Your life is not a particularly lively one--in fact, there is no doubt it is deuced hard work, and very little relaxation. You are not meant for this kind of thing. You like books, and flowers, and birds, and all sorts of elegant surroundings. You are so handsome--pardon the reference, but I am talking in a most perfectly business manner--that it is a thorough shame to see you lacking all those et ceteras which are such a help and set-off to beauty; and you are wearing away the very flower of your youth in what is nothing more nor less than sordid drudgery. At one time I thought--as I believe I mentioned to you--of purchasing some business, such as that in which you are now engaged, and putting you at the head--making yourself, in point of fact, and placing you in the position occupied by Madame Clarisse. But after a good deal of reflection I have come to the conclusion, and I think you will agree, that there would not be much good in such a project. You see, though you would be your own mistress, and would not be obliged to get up so early or to work so late, you would still be engaged in exactly the same kind of employment; you would be at the mercy of the caprices of horrible old women and insolent young girls, and would have to fetch and carry, and kotoo, and eat humble-pie, and all the rest of it, very much as you do at present. And I am perfectly certain, my dear Fanny,"--she gave a little start, which had not passed unnoticed; it was the first time he had called her so--"I am perfectly certain that this is not yourmétier. You are a lady in looks--there is no higher-bred-looking woman goes to Court, by Jove!--in education, in manner, and in taste; you are not meant for contact with the shopocracy, and it wouldn't suit you; and to tell you the truth, I am sufficiently selfish to have thought how it would suit me, and I confess I don't see it at all."
He looked hard at her as he said this, and she returned his glance. Her colour rose, and her lips trembled visibly.
"I am perfectly candid with you, my dear child," said the Colonel, drawing his chair a little closer to her, and leaning with his elbow on the table so as to bring his face nearer to her--"I am perfectly candid in avowing a certain amount of selfishness in this matter. I admire you very much indeed, and the natural result is, a desire to see as much of you as is consistent with my duties to society; and this shopkeeping project wouldn't help me at all. I want you to have all your time to yourself--a perpetual leisure, to be employed according to your own devices. I wish you to have the prettiest home that can be found, with pictures, and books, and flowers, and such-like. I wish you to have your carriage, and a riding-horse, if you would like one, and a maid to attend to you, and a proper allowance for dress and all that kind of thing. You look incredulous, Fanny, and as though I were inventing a romance. It is perfectly practicable and possible, my dear child, and it shall all be done for you if you will only like me just a little."
He bent forward and took her hand, and looked up eagerly into her face.
She suffered her hand to remain in his grasp, and gazed at him quite steadily as she said in hard tones:
"It sounds like a fairy-tale; but it is in fact a mere businesslike proposition skilfully veiled. You wish me to be your mistress."
Colonel Orpington was not staggered either by the tone or the words, but smiled quietly, still holding her hand as he said:
"I told you I admired your appreciation and quickness, though I wish to Heaven you had not used that horrible word. I never had a mistress in my life. I always associate the term with a dreadful person with painted cheeks and blackened eyelids, and a very low-necked dress. I can't conceive any object more utterly revolting."
"I am sorry you dislike the term," said Daisy, "but I conclude I expressed your meaning."
"It would be better put thus," said the Colonel: "I wish you to let me be your lover, and show my regard by attending to your comfort and happiness. That seems to me rather neatly put."
Daisy could not help smiling as she said:
"It is certainly less startling in that shape."
"My dear child," said the Colonel, releasing her hand, and standing upright on the hearth-rug before her, "it conveys exactly what I meant to say. A young man would rave and stamp, and swear he had never loved anyone before, and would never love anyone again. I can't say the first, by Jove!" said the Colonel with a grin; "and I could not take upon myself to swear to the last, we are such creatures of chance and circumstances. But it wouldn't matter to you, for by that time you would probably be tired of me, and I should take care to have secured your independence; but at all events I should be very kind to you, and you would have pretty well your own way."
There was a pause, after which the Colonel said:
"You are silent, Fanny; what do you say?"
"You cannot expect me," said Fanny, rising from her chair, "to give a decided 'Yes' or 'No' to this proposition of yours, however delicately you may have veiled it. You see I am as candid with you as you were with me. You have had no shrieks of horror, no exclamations of startled propriety, and I conclude you did not expect them; but it is a matter which I must think over, and let you know the result."
"Exactly what I expected from your common sense, my dear child. My appreciation of you is higher than ever. When shall I hear?"
"If I don't write to you before, I will be here this day week at this time."
"So be it," said the Colonel, and he led her to the door. As she passed, he touched her forehead with his lips, and so they parted.
"I suppose I ought to be in a whirl of terror, fright, and shame," said Daisy to herself, as she walked towards the West; "but I feel none of these sensations. It is a matter which will require a great deal of thinking about, and must have very careful attention."