ON THE ALERT.
"Well, George, old man, how are you? No need to ask, though. You're
looking as fresh as a daisy, and that after a couple of hundred miles
of rail, a long drive in a dog-cart, and a family dinner with people
who were strangers to you! And after all that, you're up and out by
nine o'clock. I told my people you were the most wonderful fellow in
the world, and now I think they'd believe it."
"I haven't done anything yet to assert any claim to such a character,
at all events, Paul. I'm always an early riser, and most certainly I
wasn't going to loaf away a splendid morning like this between the
sheets. Where are the ladies and the Captain?"
"My mother is generally occupied with domestic matters in the morning,
and Annette never shows till later in the day. If the governor had
had his will, he would have liked to be with us now. He was immensely
fetched by you last night, and jabbered away as I have not heard him
for years. But a little of the governor goes a long way; and I told him
we had business to talk over this morning; so he's off on his own hook
somewhere, poor old boy."
"I don't think you appreciate your father quite sufficiently, Master
Paul. He made himself remarkably agreeable last night; and there was a
kind of _Pelham_ and _Tremaine_ flavour about his conversation which
was particularly refreshing in this back-slapping, slangy age."
"And Annette--what did you think of her?"
"I was very much struck with her appearance. I'm not much of a judge in
such matters, but surely she is very pretty."
"Ya-as," said Paul with a half-conquering air, caressing his moustache;
"ya-as, she is pretty. What did you think of her--of her altogether,
you know?"
"I thought her manner very charming. A little timid and nervous, as
was natural on being introduced to a stranger. Well, even more than
timid: a little weary, as though scarcely recovered from some illness
or excitement."
"Ah, that was her illness. She had a bout of it the very day I sent off
my letter to you."
"Well, she gave me that idea. But what on earth did you mean, young
fellow, by telling me in that letter that your cousin was dull and
_distraite_? I never saw anyone more interested or more interesting;
and what she said about Wordsworth's sonnets and his poem of 'Ruth' was
really admirably thought out and excellently put."
"Exactly. And yet you demur at my calling you the most wonderful fellow
in the world! Why, my dear old George, you are the first person in all
our experience of her that has ever yet made Annette talk."
"Perhaps because I am the first person who has listened to her."
"Not at all! We've all of us tried it. The governor's not much, to be
sure, and those who don't care to hear perpetually about the Tamburini
row, and D'Orsay, and Gore House, and 'glorious Jack Reeve at the
Adelphi, sir!' and those kind of interesting anecdotes, soon get
bored. And I'm not much, and not often here. But my mother, as you'll
soon find out, is a clever woman, capital talker, and all that; and
so far as I can learn, Miss Netty has hitherto utterly refused to be
interested and amused even by that most fascinating of men to the sex,
your father."
"My father! Why, where did he ever see Miss Derinzy?"
"Here, in this very house. Ay, you may well look astonished! It appears
that my people knew your father in early years, before he took up his
present specialty, and that he attended my mother, who has never had
anything like decent health. She grew so accustomed to him that she
would never see anyone else; and Dr. Wainwright has been good enough,
since they have been here, to come down two or three times a year, and
look after her."
"And he has seen Miss Derinzy?"
"Oh yes; unprofessionally, of course--at dinner, and that kind of
thing--and, as I understand, has gone in to make himself very agreeable
to Annette, but has never succeeded. On the contrary."
"On the contrary?"
"Well, they tell me that she has always snubbed him tremendously; and
that must have been a frightful blow to such a society swell as your
governor--diner-out, and _raconteur_, and all that kind of thing. Fact
of the matter is, she has a deuced bad provincial style about her."
"Upon my honour I can't see it, can't allow it, even though, as you
say, she did snub my father."
"Of course not, you old muff! Antony, no doubt, thought Cleopatra's
manners charming; though the 'dull cold-blooded Caesar' who wouldn't be
hooked in, and the other gents whom Antony cut out, had not a good word
for her. However, look here; this scheme won't do at all. Don't you see
that?"
"What scheme?"
"Now, 'pon my word, I call this nice! I fire guns for help, ring an
alarm-bell for aid, and when the aid comes I have to explain my case!
Don't you recollect what I told you about my mother's plan for my
marrying Annette?"
"Oh--yes," said George Wainwright slowly, "I recollect now."
"That's deuced kind of you. So you must see it would never do."
"It would not do?"
"No, of course it wouldn't! What a fellow you are, George!" said Paul,
almost testily. "The girl does not suit me in the smallest degree,
and--and there's another one that does."
"Ah, I had forgotten about that."
"My good fellow, you seem to have left your wits behind you at the
office for Billy Dunlop to take care of. What the deuce are you mooning
about?"
"Nothing; I was only a little confused for the moment. And you are
still over head and ears in that quarter, my poor Paul?"
"By Jove, you may well say that!"
"You correspond, of course, during your absence?"
"I've heard from her once or twice."
"And you carry the letters there," touching his friend's breast-pocket.
"Ah, I heard a responsive crackling of paper, my poor old Paul."
"Oh, it's all deuced fine for you to talk about 'my poor old Paul,' and
all that, but you don't know the party, or even you would be warmed
into something like life!"
"Hem!" growled Wainwright, "I don't know about that; though, as you
say, I am a little more exacting in my requirements than you. Does she
spell Paul with a 'w,' or with a little 'p'?"
"She spells and writes like a lady as she is. What an ass I am to get
into a rage! Look here, George, I can't stand this much longer. I must
get back to her. It's no good my fooling my time away down here. My
mother has brought me down to propose for Annette, and I shall have to
tell her perfectly plainly that it can't be done."
"That's why you sent for me," said George Wainwright; "to tell me that
you had fully made up your mind in the matter on which you brought me
down here to consult me, eh?"
"No, not at all. I wanted to consult you, my dear old man, my best and
dearest of old boys; but, you see, the scenes have shifted a little
since I wrote. I've seen more of Annette, and seen more plainly that
she does not like me, and I don't care for her; and I've had a letter
from town which makes me think that the sooner I am back with Daisy,
the better."
"With Daisy? that's her name, is it?"
"That's her pet name with me, and---- What, mooning again, eh?"
"No, I wasn't. I was merely thinking about---- Who was that elderly
woman who came to the drawing-room door last night and told Miss
Derinzy it was bed-time?"
"Oh, that was Annette's servant, who is specially devoted to her--Mrs.
Stothard."
"Mrs. Stothard--Miss Derinzy's maid?"
"Well, maid, and nurse, and general attendant. Poor Annette, as I
wrote you, is very delicate, and requires constant watching. I should
not wonder if the excitement of last night and all your insinuating
charming talk, you old rascal, were to have a bad effect, and make her
lay up."
"Poor young lady, I sincerely hope not. When did you say my father was
here last?"
"I _didn't_ say any time; but I believe a few weeks ago. Now let us
take a turn, and try and find the governor."
"By all means. I--I suppose Miss Derinzy is not down vet?"
"Villain! you would add to the mischief you caused last night. No.
Down! no; not likely to be for hours! Come."
About the time that this conversation was going on in the little
breakfast-room, Mrs. Stothard might have been seen leaving the suite
of apartments which she and her young mistress occupied, all the doors
of which she carefully closed behind her, and making her way to Mrs.
Derinzy's room. Arrived there, she gave a short knock--by no means a
humble petitioning rap, but a sort of knock which said, "I only do
this kind of thing because I am obliged"--and, following close on the
sound of her knuckles, entered.
As Mrs. Stothard had previously noticed--for nothing escaped her--Mrs.
Derinzy for the last few days had been very much "out o' sorts," in the
language of the villagers. Those humble souls anticipated the immediate
advent of another attack, and Mrs. Powler had even suggested to Dr.
Barton that the "man in Lunnon," as she called Dr. Wainwright, should
be sent for. But when the little village medico presented himself at
the Tower with the view of making a few preliminary inquiries, he only
saw Mrs. Stothard, who told him, with an amount of grimness and acidity
unusual even in her, that his services were not required.
The fact was, that Mrs. Derinzy, though to a certain extent a
strong-minded woman, had confined herself for many years to diplomacy;
and while plotting and scheming, had forgotten the actual art of war
as practised by her in early days. Now, when the time had arrived for
her to descend again into the arena, her courage failed her. It was
now that Paul should be induced--forced, if necessary--to take up that
position to the preparation of which for him the best years of his
mother's life had been devoted, and at this very moment Mrs. Derinzy
felt herself unequal to the task. The fact is, she had been winding
herself up for the struggle, and was now rapidly running down before it
commenced, although--perhaps because--she had her suspicions as to the
result.
"How do you find yourself this morning?" asked Mrs. Stothard, in a loud
unsympathetic voice.
"Not at all well, Martha. You might guess that from finding me still in
my room at this time; but the fact is, I had scarcely the energy to get
up this morning."
"Tired out by the wild dissipation of having a fresh face to look at, a
fresh tongue to listen to, last night, I suppose."
"You mean Mr. Wainwright? He certainly is a most agreeable man."
"You are not the only person this morning suffering from his charms,"
said Mrs. Stothard, with a sniff of depreciation as she pronounced the
last words.
"What do you mean? How is Annette? What kind of a night did she have?"
"Bad enough. Oh no, nothing violent, but bad enough for all that. I
don't think I ever saw her so excited, so pleasantly excited, before.
I could not persuade her to go to bed; and she coaxed me to let her
sit up while she talked to me of your visitor. He was so handsome, so
charming, so intelligent, she had never seen anyone like him."
"He made himself very agreeable," said Mrs. Derinzy shortly. She was
alarmed at the account of these raptures on Annette's part, which boded
no good to her favourite project.
"If she were a responsible being, I should say she was in love,"
said Mrs. Stothard. "Not that anyone is responsible, under those
circumstances," she added: a dim remembrance of a cathedral yard, a
pile of illuminated drawings, and a cornet in the cavalry, seen through
a long vista of intervening years, gave her voice a flat and hollow
sound.
"In love! stuff! She sees so few new faces that she's amused for the
time, that's all. She will have forgotten the man by this morning."
"She _hasn't_ forgotten him, though you do say 'stuff!' She had a
very restless night, tossing and talking in her sleep and laughing to
herself. And this morning, directly she woke, she asked me if George
Wainwright was still here; and when I told her yes, laughed and kissed
my cheek, and fell asleep again quite satisfied."
"_George_ Wainwright, eh?" said Mrs. Derinzy. "She has lost no time in
picking up his name."
"She loses no time in picking up anything that interests her. And this
Mr. George Wainwright is clever, you say?"
"Very clever, so Paul says; and so he seems."
"And he has come down here on a visit, just to see Mr. Paul?"
"Exactly. Mr. Paul thinks there is nobody like him, and consults him in
everything."
"And yet, knowing this," said Mrs. Stothard, drawing nearer and
dropping her voice, "you have this man here, and don't seem to see any
danger in his coming."
"What do you mean, Martha? I don't comprehend you," said Mrs. Derinzy,
showing in her pallid cheeks and wandering hands how she had been taken
aback by the suddenness of the question.
"Oh yes, you understand me perfectly, and as you have only chosen to
give me half-confidences, I can't speak any plainer. But this I will
say, that if you still wish to throw dust in your son's eyes as regards
what is the matter with Annette, you have acted with extraordinary
folly in permitting this man to come down here. He is no shallow flimsy
youth like Mr. Paul--you will excuse my speaking out; it is necessary
in such matters--but a clever, shrewd, long-headed man of the world,
and one, above all, who is constantly brought into contact with cases
such as Annette's. He will see what is the matter with her in the
course of the next interview they have, even if he has not discovered
it at once, or at all events the first time she has an attack, and--he
will tell his friend."
"They must be kept apart; he must not see her any more."
"Pshaw! that would excite suspicion--his, Paul's, every one's. No;
we must think it out quietly, and see what can be done for the best.
Meantime, Annette's state is greatly in our favour. She is wonderfully
good-tempered and docile, and if she does not get too much excited, we
may yet pass it off all well."
"Let her console herself with that idea," said Mrs. Stothard, when she
found herself alone in her own room, "if she is weak enough to find
consolation in it. Nothing will hide the truth from this man. I saw
that in the mere momentary glance I had of him last night. He will
detect Annette's madness, and will tax his father with the knowledge
of it; and the Doctor, hard though he is, won't be able to deceive his
son. And then up blows our fine Derinzy castle into the air! Won't it
blow up without that? Wait a minute, and let us just see how matters
stand--in regard to _my_ plans and _my_ future, I mean, not theirs.
"Paul is still madly in love with Fanny. Since he has been here, he has
had two letters from her, addressed to him at the 'Lion,' under his
assumed name of 'Douglas.' I saw them when they fell from his pocket,
as he changed his coat in the hall the other day. So far, so good.
Then--this man Wainwright finds out that Annette is mad, and tells
Paul. Of course the young fellow declares off at once, only too glad to
do so, and Mrs. Derinzy's of the marriage are at an end.
"Would Paul marry Fanny then? If left to himself he would; but
Wainwright, who they say has such immense influence over him, would
never permit it; would persuade him that he was disgracing himself,
talk about unequal alliances, and all that.
"A dangerous man to have for an enemy! What is to be done? How is he
to be won over? Suppose--suppose he were to take a fancy to the girl
himself, mad as she is--such things have been, and she is certainly
fascinated with him--and I were to prove their friend! How would that
work out? I think something might be made of it."