A SATISFACTORY ANSWER
Daisy, with his hair cut exceedingly short, as denoting that he was
on the eve of some great crisis in life, entered the apartment in the
sheepish manner of a visitor who is not quite sure about his reception.
Though usually of cheerful and confident bearing, denoting no want of
a certain self-assertion, which the present generation call "cheek,"
all his audacity seemed to have deserted him, and he planted himself
in the centre of the carpet, with his hat in his hand like the poor,
spiritless bridegroom at Netherby, who stood "dangling his bonnet and
plume" while his affianced and her bridesmaids were making eyes at
young Lochinvar.
Miss Douglas, too, required a breathing-space to restore her
self-command. When they had shaken hands, it was at least a minute
before either could find anything to say.
The absurdity of the situation struck them both, but the lady was the
first to recover her presence of mind; and, with a laugh not the least
genuine, welcomed him back to England, demanding the latest news from
Paddy-land.
"You've been at Cormac's-town, of course," said she. "You can tell us
all about dear Lady Mary, and your pretty friend Norah. I hope she
asked to be remembered to _me_."
He blushed up to his eyes, turning his hat in his hands, as if he would
fain creep into it bodily and hide himself from notice in the crown.
She saw her advantage, and gained courage every minute, so as to stifle
and keep down the gnawing pain that made her so sick at heart.
"I wonder Norah trusts you in London," she continued, with another of
those forced smiles. "I suppose you're only on short leave, as you call
it, and mean to go back directly. Will you have the black mare to ride
while you are in town? I've taken great care of her, and she's looking
beautiful!"
To her own ear, if not to his, there was a catch in her breath while
she spoke the last words, that warned her she would need all her
self-command before the play was played out.
He thanked her kindly enough, while he declined the offer; but his tone
was so grave, so sorrowful, that she could keep up the affectation of
levity no longer.
"What is it?" she asked, in an altered voice. "Daisy!--Mr. Walters!
What is the matter? Are you offended? I was only joking about Norah."
"Offended!" he repeated. "How could I ever be offended with _you_? But
I didn't come here to talk about Miss Macormac, nor even Satanella,
except in so far as the mare is connected with your generosity and
kindness."
"What do you mean?" she asked, in considerable trepidation. "_You_
were the generous one, for you gave me the best hunter in your stable,
without being asked."
"As if you had not bought her over and over again!" he exclaimed,
finding voice and words and courage now that he was approaching the
important topic. "Miss Douglas, it's no use denying your good deeds,
nor pretending to ignore their magnificence. It was only yesterday I
learned the real name of my _unknown friend_! I tell you that money of
yours saved me from utter ruin--worse than ruin, from such disgrace as
if I had committed a felony, and been sent to prison!"
"I'm sure you look as if you had just come out of one," she interposed,
"with that cropped head. Why do you let them cut your hair so short? It
makes you hideous!"
"Never mind my cropped head," he continued, somewhat baffled by the
interruption. "I hurried here at once, to thank you with all my heart,
as the best friend I ever had in the world."
"Well, you've done it," said she. "That's quite enough. Now let us talk
of something else."
"But I _haven't_ done it," protested Daisy, gathering, from the
obstacles in his way, a certain inclination to his task or at least a
determination to go through with it. "I haven't said half what I've got
to say, nor a quarter of what I feel. You have shown that you consider
me a near and dear friend. You have given me the plainest possible
proof of your confidence and esteem. All this instigates me--or rather
induces me, or, shall I say, encourages me--to hope, or perhaps
persuade myself of some probability. In short, Miss Douglas--can't you
help a fellow out with what he's got to say?"
Floundering about in search of the right expressions, she would have
liked him to go on for an hour. It was delightful to be even on the
brink of that paradise from which she must presently exclude herself
for ever with her own hands, and she forbore to interrupt him till he
came to a dead stop for want of words.
"Nonsense!" she said. "Any friend would have done as much who had the
power. It's nothing to make a fuss about. I'm glad you're out of the
scrape, and there's an end to it."
"You were always generous," he exclaimed. "You ought to have been a
man; I've said so a hundred times--only it's lucky you're _not_, or I
couldn't ask you a question that I don't know how to put in the right
form."
She turned pale as death. It was come, then, at last--that moment
to which she had once looked forward as a glimpse of happiness too
exquisite for mortal senses. Here was the enchanted cup pressed to
her very lip, and she must not taste it--must even withdraw her eyes
from the insidious drink. And yet even now she felt a certain sense
of disappointment in her empty triumph, a vague misgiving that the
proffered draught was flatter than it should be, as if the bottle had
been already opened to slake another's thirst.
"Better not ask," she said, "if the words don't come naturally,--if the
answer is sure to be _no_."
In his intense relief he never marked the piteous tone of her voice,
nor the tremble of agony passing over her face, like the flicker of a
fire on a marble bust, to leave its features more fixed and rigid than
before.
Even in her keen suffering she wished to spare _him_. Already she was
beginning to long for the dull insensibility that must succeed this
hour of mental conflict, as bodily numbness is the merciful result of
pain. She dreaded the possibility that his disappointment should be
anything like her own, and would fain have modified the blow she had no
choice but to inflict.
Daisy, however, with good reason no doubt, was resolved to rush on his
fate the more obstinately, as it seemed, because of the endeavours to
spare both him and herself.
"I am a plain-spoken fellow," said he, "and--and--tolerably
straightforward, as times go. I'm not much used to this kind of
thing--at least, I've never regularly asked such a question before.
You mustn't be offended, Miss Douglas, if I don't go the right way to
work. But--but--it seems so odd that you should have come in and paid
my debts for me! Don't you think I ought--or don't you think _you_
ought--in short, I've come here on purpose to ask you to marry me. I'm
not half good enough, I know, and lots of fellows would make you better
husbands, I'm afraid. But, really now--without joking--won't you try?"
He had got into the spirit of the thing, and went on more swimmingly
than he could have hoped. There was almost a ring of truth in his
appeal, for Daisy's was a temperament that flung itself keenly into
the excitement of the moment, gathering ardour from the very sense of
pursuit. As he said himself, "He never could help riding, if he got a
start."
And Miss Douglas shook in every limb while she listened with a wan,
weary face and white lips, parted in a rigid smile. It was not that
she was unaccustomed to solicitations of a like nature; whatever might
be her previous experience, scarcely an hour had passed since she
sustained a similar attack--and surely to accept an offer of marriage
ought to be more subversive of the nervous system than to refuse; yet
she could hardly have betrayed deeper emotions had she been trembling
in the balance between life and death.
That was a brave heart of hers, or it must have failed to keep its own
rebellion down so firmly, and gather strength to answer in a calm,
collected voice--
"There are some things it is better not to think about, for they can
never be, and this is one of them."
How little she knew what was passing in his mind! How little she
suspected that _her_ sentence was _his_ reprieve! And yet his self-love
was galled. He had made a narrow escape, and was thankful, no doubt,
but felt somewhat disappointed, too, that his danger had not been
greater still.
"Do you mean it?" said he. "Well, you'll forgive my presumption,
and--and--you won't forget I asked you."
"_Forget!_----"
It was all she said; but a man must have been both blind and deaf not
to have marked the tone in which those syllables were uttered, the look
which accompanied them. Daisy brandished his hat, thinking it high time
to go, lest his sentence should be commuted, and his doom revoked.
She put her hand to her throat, as if she must choke; but mastered her
feelings with an effort, forcing herself to speak calmly and distinctly
now, on a subject that must never be approached again.
"Do not think I undervalue your offer," she said, gathering fortitude
with every word; "do not think me hard, or changeable, or unfeeling. If
you must not make me happy, at least you have made me very proud; and
if everything had turned out differently, I do hope I might have proved
worthy to be your wife. You're not angry with me, are you? And you
won't hate me because it's impossible?"
"Not the least!" exclaimed Daisy, eagerly. "Don't think it for a
moment! Please not to make yourself unhappy about _me_."
"I _am_ worthy to be your friend," she continued saddened, and it may
be a little vexed, by this remarkable exhibition of self-denial; "and
_as_ a friend I feel I owe you some explanation, beyond a bare 'No,
I won't.' It ought rather to be 'No, I _can't_;' because--because, to
tell you the honest truth, I have promised somebody else!"
"I wish you joy with all my heart!" he exclaimed, gaily, and not the
least like an unsuccessful suitor. "I hope you'll be as happy as the
day is long! When is it to be? You'll send me an invitation to the
wedding, won't you?"
Her heart was very sore. He did not even ask the name of his fortunate
rival, and he could hardly have looked more pleased, she thought, if he
had been going to marry her himself.
"I don't know about that," she answered, shaking her head sadly. "At
any rate, I shall not see you again for a long time. Good-bye, Daisy,"
and she held out a cold hand that trembled very much.
"Good-bye," said he, pressing it cordially. "I shall never forget your
kindness. Good-bye."
Then the door shut, and he was gone.
Blanche Douglas sank into a sofa, and sat there looking at the opposite
wall, without moving hand or foot, till the long summer's day waned
into darkness and her servant came with lights. She neither wept,
nor moaned, nor muttered broken sentences, but remained perfectly
motionless, like a statue, and in all those hours she asked herself but
one question--"Do I love this man? and, if so, how can I ever bear to
marry the other?"