MADAME VAUGHAN.
Captain and Mrs. Derinzy had not yet returned to the uncongenial
seclusion of Beachborough. The Captain, who, since he had been coerced,
by Dr. Wainwright's strong representation that he might find it
uncomfortable if he refused, into permitting the experiment proposed by
Hildebrand, had been unusually tractable, was not, it will be readily
believed, eager to leave London. As things were looking at present--and
he was aware they had assumed a very ugly complexion--there was a
decidedly unpleasant uncertainty about the prospect of his getting back
again to his favourite resorts, which quickened his appreciation of the
wisdom of remaining in London as long as he could contrive to do so,
and getting as much pleasure as possible out of the time.
Mrs. Derinzy considered that it was proper to await Annette's return
in town; there would be so many things to settle when she came back;
and if they really were to be finally defeated in all their plans, if
Paul's folly and obstinacy were to defeat the marriage project, and
Annette's restoration to health render her attainment of her majority
a real acquisition of power, not a mere form, they would be better in
London than elsewhere. Annette might or might not settle an annuity
worth having upon them, if the power to manage her own affairs should
accrue to her; but if they did not voluntarily abandon it, she could
hardly do otherwise than invite them to continue to share her home.
The accounts which Mrs. Derinzy had received from Mrs. Stothard were
facsimiles of those which had been forwarded to Dr. Wainwright, and in
their contents Mrs. Derinzy discerned defeat.
She was not a wicked, she was only a weak and selfish, woman; and
though that combination has worked as much woe as the more positive
evil, it is only fair to credit her with the palliation. No one could
have been more genuinely shocked than Mrs. Derinzy, if she had been
plainly told that she _feared_ Annette's recovery, that she _hoped_
for her continued infirmity of mind. She would have repudiated such an
idea with vehemence and sincerity; but she would have been infinitely
puzzled to define the distinction between the feeling of which she
firmly believed herself incapable, and the feeling which she did,
beyond dispute, entertain. If Annette could have been perfectly sane,
but at the same time utterly passive in her hands; if she could have
been thoroughly competent to manage her own affairs; and at the same
time quite incapable of ever desiring to understand or interfere
with them, that would have been charming. Mrs. Derinzy thought it
unreasonable that so easy a state of things should not be immediately
called into existence. At this particular period of her life she
regarded herself as an ill-used individual, whose husband, son, and
niece, separately and in combination, were in act to "worry her to
death."
It might have been all so comfortable and safe and prosperous--so
nice for them, so well for Paul, so pleasant for poor dear Annette
herself--if it had not been for that odious Miss Stafford in the first
place, and afterwards for that meddling German doctor. But Paul was
most to blame; indeed, if the marriage had come off, it would have
been for every reason best that Annette should be restored to perfect
sanity; this "pother" was his doing chiefly. She was very angry with
Paul--angry with him, that is to say, when he had recovered, when
the danger that the sun of his life might go down upon her wrath was
at an end, when he was abroad gaining health and strength, enjoying
himself, and carrying on a voluminous correspondence with Daisy; while
she had to lament the discomfiture of her designs, and put up with the
Captain's discontent and temper.
On the whole, Captain and Mrs. Derinzy were very ill at ease, feeling
like a pair of discomfited conspirators, which indeed they were, and
experiencing a humiliating sense of having had the guidance of affairs
taken out of their hands suddenly, noiselessly, dexterously, and
irresistibly. Thenceforward the Captain would complain of "that d--d
authoritative way of Wainwright's," and Mrs. Derinzy admit that she
"had never quite understood the Doctor;" and they were drawn nearer
together by the discomfiture than they had been by any success or
vexation for many years.
Annette was coming home--the day and hour of her arrival were fixed;
and Mrs. Derinzy had heard from her son that he intended to return
immediately. Something must be settled now. The explanation, which must
inevitably be encountered, had better be brought on at once. It had
occurred to Mrs. Derinzy as a cunning device of immense merit to call
on Daisy, and, availing herself of Paul's absence, address herself to
the girl's disinterestedness and generosity, and secure her promise
that she would refuse Paul should he again ask her to marry him. No
consideration that one refusal on Daisy's part had already almost cost
Paul his life interfered with his mother's sage resolution. "He will
have gotten over it," she believed, because she desired to believe so.
In pursuance of this brilliant idea, Mrs. Derinzy called on Madame
Clarisse, and condescendingly inquired if she could see Miss Stafford.
But she could not. Madame Clarisse benignly explained that Miss
Stafford, who had not been quite strong lately, had applied for a short
vacation, and gone to the country, to the farmhouse of a relative.
Madame Clarisse could give Mrs. Derinzy the address; but that lady, who
did not calculate on an epistolary victory, declined, and went away,
leaving the astute _modiste_ to wonder what her business with Miss
Stafford might be, and to make a very "near" guess at the facts.
There was no help for it; Paul must come back, and she must fight the
battle single-handed. She wished that meddling George Wainwright would
have remained away a little longer. He had not behaved so badly as she
had been inclined to believe at first in that matter of Paul's illness
and Miss Stafford, but they could manage their affairs quite as well
without him.
On the morning of the day fixed for Annette's return, Dr. Wainwright
visited Mrs. Derinzy, and gave her sundry injunctions as to composure,
and the avoidance of fuss and excitement, in her reception of the
convalescent. The effect of the lesson was, as the Doctor intended
it should be, to rouse Mrs. Derinzy up into the exhibition of some
kindness and warmth of feeling towards the girl, who had for a long
period known nothing more than an indifferent imitation of a home. The
effort to seem kind and affectionate bore its fruits in inspiring Mrs.
Derinzy with more of the feelings she strove to imitate than she had
ever yet experienced, and her heart fairly melted into true kindliness.
She forgot her interested scheming, she did not even remember Annette's
money, when she saw Annette herself, the picture of health, and of
natural girlish happiness.
The most convincing proof, to Mrs. Derinzy's mind, that the restoration
of Annette was real and complete, was furnished by the alteration
in Mrs. Stothard's manner. As soon as she could see her alone, Mrs.
Derinzy had asked Mrs. Stothard her opinion of the case. The answer was
quickly and decisively given:
"The German doctor is the queerest man I ever saw, and I'm far from
sure that he is not mad himself; but he has cured Miss Annette, and
sent her home as sane as you and I."
Every word, look, and gesture of Mrs. Stothard's confirmed this
statement. There was no longer any of the steady unrelaxing vigilance,
the set watch upon the girl, the calmly authoritative or soothingly
coaxing tone which she had been used to maintain. There was no longer
the half-servant demeanour, the personal waiting on Annette which had
puzzled more than one of the very few persons who had ever had an
opportunity of speculating on Mrs. Stothard's real position in the
Derinzy household.
Every trace of this manner had vanished. Mrs. Stothard was Annette's
companion, and nothing more. She formally, though without explanation,
assumed this position, whose functions she fulfilled as perfectly as
she had fulfilled the more painful and onerous duties of her former
station. It is probable that she and Dr. Wainwright had come to an
understanding, but if so, no third party was the wiser.
Dr. Wainwright, who was perfectly satisfied of Annette's convalescence,
was a little curious as to how she would receive him, and on his part
assumed a friendly, almost paternal, manner in which there was no trace
of his old relation of physician. But Annette, seizing an opportunity
of speaking to him alone, referred openly to her former malady, and
in the warmest terms thanked him for all his solicitude and care. Her
ready frankness conveyed to the Doctor the last best assurance of her
complete recovery, and he met her expressions of gratitude with prompt
kindness. He left his former patient on this first occasion of their
meeting with an earnest wish for the success of his son in the suit he
had no doubt George would immediately urge. "If the case had been any
other," Dr. Wainwright thought, as he made his way out of the house
without seeing either Captain or Mrs. Derinzy, "I might not feel so
disinterestedly pleased that another has succeeded where I have for
some time despaired of success, but I cannot grudge Hildebrand his
triumph, when it is to secure George's happiness, as I do believe it
will, for this girl is a fine creature."
Dr. Wainwright had stipulated, in writing to his son, that he was not
to see Annette until after he had had an opportunity of forming his
own judgment upon her state; and he had accepted it as understood,
that if the cure were not complete, George would not ask Annette to
marry him. When he had made his visit to her, with the results already
recorded, he wrote to George, who had arrived in England that morning,
in the following terms, characteristic of the writer, and eminently
satisfactory to the recipient:
"MY DEAR GEORGE,--I have seen Miss Derinzy. Hildebrand has kept his
promise, and beaten me, to our mutual satisfaction. Go and visit
her as soon as you please, and you have _my_ consent, if you can
gain the lady's, to turn my patient into my daughter, as soon as you
like.--Yours ever,
G.W."
"That's glorious!" said Paul, who had gone home with George on their
arrival. "I am as glad for her sake as for yours, and for yours as
for hers, and I can't say fairer than that, can I? Annette is a dear
girl, and I am quite sure she likes you. I know something of the
symptoms, George, my boy! The governor and my mother will be furious,
of course, and I should not wonder if they declare your father and you
are in a conspiracy against them for your own purposes. However, if
they proclaim such a plot as that, they must include me in it. I say,
George, suppose Annette and I did a bit of the old romance business,
and solemnly repudiated each other; 'unalterably never yours,' and that
kind of thing, you know?"
George smiled but dimly, and answered his friend's pleasantries only
vaguely. He had not the assurance and certainty with which Paul
accredited him. In the great change which had befallen Annette, in the
new hope and happiness of her life, he might not have the large share
of which his friend believed him confident. He had a true gentleman's
diffidence towards the woman he loved, and no assurance at second hand
could render him secure. He had awaited his father's message with keen
anxiety, and now that it had come, and was so full of goodness, he was
feverishly impatient to learn his fate. The time had come, the time
which had seemed so hopelessly far off had drawn near with wonderful
celerity, and he was to know his destiny--he was to
put it to the touch,
To win or lose it all.
He read his father's letter again--"as soon as you like. I will see
her to-day, I will ask her to-day," he said to himself. "There is no
risk to her, or my father would not have said this." Then he said to
Paul:
"You will come with me, won't you?"
"Of a surety that will I," answered Paul; "and I will tackle the
governor and my mother--you may be sure there's plenty ready for me
on the score of Daisy--and leave you to welcome Annette home _en
tête-à-tête_."
Just as the friends were leaving the house, a servant came in search of
George, and stopped him. George asked him with pardonable impatience
what he wanted, and the man replied, that Madame Vaughan had been very
ill during the night, and the nurse had sent to Mr. George to tell him
that she desired to see him at his earliest convenience. George asked
the man several particulars about his poor friend, and expressed his
readiness to go and see Madame Vaughan immediately; but this act of
self-denial was not exacted of him.
"She's asleep just now, sir," said the man, "and the nurse would not
like to disturb her, she has had such a bad night; but I was not to let
you leave the house without telling you, sir."
* * * * *
Many a less brave man has gone to a battle with a stouter heart than
that with which George Wainwright entered the Derinzy mansion, and was
ushered into the room where Annette, her aunt, and Mrs. Stothard were
assembled. The young lady was seated at the piano; the sounds of music
had reached the visitors as they ascended the stairs; and on their
entrance she rose. Paul went into the room first. She received her
cousin with a smile, and his friend, who followed him closely, with a
deep, burning, lasting blush, perceived by Paul, George, and one other.
This observer was Mrs. Stothard, who, having performed her share in the
general civilities, withdrew, with a meaning and well-satisfied smile
in her clear gray eyes, and on her calm, determined, authoritative
mouth.
"So," she thought, "I was right. I suspected before we left town, and
now I know. Well, so long as my Fanny comes by her fair share, I am
content; and she shall come by it, or I will know why. Old Hildebrand
is a very clever man, and so is Dr. Wainwright, and they have both done
wonders in this case, but I believe Mr. George is the true healer. I
hold to the old proverb, 'Love is the best physician.'"
* * * * *
When Paul Derinzy and his mother returned to the small drawing-room,
whence George Wainwright's friend and accomplice had drawn Mrs. Derinzy
within a very few minutes of their arrival, they found Annette in
tears, and her companion in a state of quite unmistakable excitement
and agitation. The first glance which Mrs. Derinzy directed towards the
girl enlightened her as to the cause of the emotion she was evincing;
and by that ray of illumination was dispersed the little feeble hope
of ever carrying her laboriously-constructed design into effect, which
had survived her conversation with Paul. It was surprising--or rather
it would have been surprising to anyone who did not know how obstinate
woman can be in declining to acknowledge a defeat--that her favourite
delusion could have survived the brief but momentous and decisive
conversation she had just had with her son; who had positively declared
his intention of marrying Daisy, if by any persuasion she could be
induced to accept him, and as distinctly his determination _not_ to
marry Annette, if she should prove as willing as her cousin was justly
convinced she was unwilling to have him. She had controlled her temper
wonderfully; her feelings were a little softened by the first sight of
Paul restored to health; and she re-entered the drawing-room determined
to believe that all was not yet completely lost. The sweet delusion
fled at the sight of the faces of the lovers.
"What does this mean?" demanded the angry lady.
George started up from his place--quite unconventionally close to
Annette--and was beginning to speak, when Paul interrupted him.
"It means capital news, mother.--George, I wish you joy.--It means the
best thing possible for all parties. The best fellow in England is
going to marry the nicest girl in Europe.--Isn't it so, George?--Isn't
it so, Annette?--Come, mother, you must not look glum over it; it's
on my account you do so, I know; but I declare before witnesses my
conviction that Annette would not have married me, and that nothing in
the world should have induced me to marry Annette."
"Though I am the nicest girl in Europe, eh, Paul?" asked Annette,
looking at him through her joyful tears, with a shy archness which was
an entirely new expression in her face.
"Yes," said Paul, bestowing upon his cousin, for the first time in
his life, an unceremonious hug; "but then I'm not the best fellow in
England."
"Am I to understand, Mr. Wainwright," began Mrs. Derinzy with an
assumption of dignity much impaired by the reality of her anger, "that
you and Miss Derinzy are engaged?"
"Yes, madam," said George, and he took Annette's hand in his. "Miss
Derinzy has promised to become my wife, and she and I both hope for
your sanction, and that of Captain Derinzy."
"It will be entirely a matter for the lawyers, sir. Until Miss
Derinzy is of age, no arrangement of the kind can possibly receive
our sanction, for reasons with which I have no doubt you are well
acquainted. After that time, it will be a question for the lawyers
whether Miss Derinzy can contract any engagements."
It was a cruel speech, and Paul felt equally hurt and ashamed of it.
George's face glowed with anger; but Annette did not seem in the least
hurt by it. She smiled very sweetly, laid her hand caressingly on Mrs.
Derinzy's shoulder, and said:
"Dear aunt, I hope the lawyers will not be hard on me. I shall only ask
them to do two things for me--to let me marry George, and to let me
give half my money to you and Paul."
"If she is in earnest," thought Mrs. Derinzy, seizing on the idea with
lightning rapidity, "this is unlooked-for compensation for the defeat
of our plans, and I trust the lawyers will let her have her own way;
but if I were one or all of them, I should regard the notion for one
thing as strong proof that she is not cured, and for another that she
has bitten George and made him as mad as herself."
But Mrs. Derinzy was very careful to conceal the effect which Annette's
generous unguarded proposition had produced upon her. She answered her
gently and without effusion, that this was a matter of which women
could not judge, and in which she would not interfere. It must be
referred in the first place to Captain Derinzy. She then took a cold
and formal leave of George Wainwright, and left the room.
George, Paul, and Annette looked at one another rather blankly for the
space of a few moments, and then Paul said:
"Never mind; it's all right. All that about the money is bosh, you
know, George. I'm not going to rob Annette because my friend is going
to marry her. But the discussion will keep, and we are mutually a
nuisance just now."
He was out of the room in a moment; the next they heard him bang the
front door cheerfully, and go off whistling down the street.
It is only with one portion of the conversation which ensued on Paul's
departure, which the reader can reproduce according to his taste or
his memory, that this story has any concern. Annette spoke of her
position, in every aspect with perfect unreserve to her future husband,
and she told him, without anger or vindictiveness, but with a clear
and sensible conviction, that, if the bribe of half her fortune did
not suffice to buy him off, she was sure they would experience active
enmity from the Captain, who would resist to the utmost the deprivation
of his power as her legal heir over her property, and would leave
no effort unmade to dispute her restoration to sanity. She proposed
that George should inform his father of their engagement and of her
apprehensions, and then that he should call on Messrs. Hamber and
Clarke, her father's former solicitors, and ascertain precisely the
amount and conditions of her property; and armed with these sanctions,
that he should demand an interview with Captain Derinzy, who was just
then fortunately absent from home.
Annette's maid had twice presented herself with an intimation that it
was time Miss Derinzy should dress for dinner, before the interview
of the lovers came to an end. But at length George took leave of his
affianced bride, and turned his steps at once towards the Albany.
Dr. Wainwright listened to his son's story with grave interest and not
a little amusement.
"They will take the money," he said, when George had concluded his
recital of the morning's events. "It is too much, too liberal; but
I suppose she must have her own way. You won't have any trouble, I
am pretty sure. Derinzy is a fool in some respects, but in others he
is only a knave, and he won't venture to try to retain his power by
disputing Miss Derinzy's sanity, in the teeth of my testimony; he
will keep the substance, depend on it, and not grasp at the shadow.
And so Miss Derinzy's solicitors are Hamber and Clarke? It's an odd
coincidence," added the Doctor musingly.
"Why?"
"Because they are concerned in another case in which we are both
interested. Your poor friend Madame Vaughan's case, George. It is
through them her annuity is paid, and I must say they are capital
men of business, so far as punctual payments and keeping a secret
faithfully are concerned."
"That _is_ an odd coincidence indeed. You know them, then? Would you
have any objection to call on them with me?"
"Not the least. I can make time to-morrow morning. They have always
been very civil to me."
On the following day, the two gentlemen took their way to the offices
of Messrs. Hamber and Clarke, and were without delay admitted to an
audience with the head of the firm, a polite, impressive gentleman, who
heard George's statement of his business in silence, which he broke
only to repudiate with decided eagerness the association of the firm in
any way with Captain Derinzy. They had acted for Miss Derinzy's father
in a confidential capacity for many years, but their trust, with one
exception specially provided for during Mr. Derinzy's lifetime, had
passed into other hands on Captain Derinzy's assuming the guardianship
of his orphan niece.
This intelligence was grateful rather than otherwise to Paul. If
Messrs. Hamber and Clarke had been Captain Derinzy's solicitors, they
would probably have declined to afford him any information unsanctioned
by their client; but as things were Mr. Hamber furnished him with full
particulars. Acting on Annette's instructions, George informed her
father's old friend of all they had to wish and to fear, and told him
what were Annette's designs, supposing she secured the full personal
control of her property. He was prepared to find these designs treated
as extravagant by a man of business, but also prepared to disregard his
opinion.
"Derinzy would never venture to fight it out," said the lawyer; "though
if he did, he must be beaten on your father's evidence. There's no
question Miss Derinzy could make far better terms. I understand you,
sir," turning to Dr. Wainwright, "that you are entirely confident of
the cure?"
"Certainly," replied the Doctor; "there's no doubt about it. Nothing
can be clearer."
"Then that's conclusive," said Mr. Hamber, "unless, indeed--to be sure,
there's the hereditary taint."
"Hereditary taint! What do you mean?" asked Dr. Wainwright. "None of
the Derinzy family that I could hear of were ever mad; I investigated
that point closely, when Miss Derinzy first became my patient."
Mr. Hamber looked vexed with himself, as a man does who has said too
much, or at all events has said more than he intended. He hesitated,
kept a brief silence, and then, taking a resolution, spoke:
"I think, Dr. Wainwright, you will give us credit for discretion,
so far as you know us. I am of opinion that discretion, like every
quality, may be carried too far. Up to the present it has been our
duty to be silent concerning one particular of our relations with
the late Mrs. Derinzy, but at this point it seems to me our duty to
speak--confidentially, you will understand--to you and your son. Your
object and our wish is to benefit Miss Derinzy, and I think it would
not be fair to her, and therefore, of course, contrary to her father's
wishes, that you should remain ignorant of a fact, the knowledge of
which may modify your proceedings, and alter your judgment."
"Certainly, you are quite right. We must be perfectly informed to act
efficiently," said Dr. Wainwright, who had felt much compassion for
the miserable anxiety displayed in George's countenance during the
long-winded exordium of Mr. Hamber.
"Then, sir," said the lawyer solemnly, "it is my painful duty to tell
you that Miss Derinzy's mother is living and is mad."
"Good God, how horrible!" exclaimed George.
"Horrible indeed. She was a Frenchwoman, and she became deranged from a
shock, after her child's birth. I suppose the treatment of the insane
was not wise in those days, for she never recovered; and her husband's
horror of the possible effect on the child made him morbidly anxious
to put her out of sight and recollection. It was a bad business, not
intentionally cruel, I am sure, but ill-judged, and she had much to
suffer, I've no doubt. A sum was invested and placed in our keeping,
and the payments are made by us. The poor woman has been very quiet and
happy for a long time, for which I have frequently had your word, Dr.
Wainwright."
"My word!" exclaimed the Doctor, on whom a light was breaking.
"Yes, indeed. I am speaking of Madame Vaughan."
"Of Madame Vaughan!" cried George, in a choking voice, quite unmanned
by this revelation. "Ah, father, then it is no delusion, after all; the
child--the child she is always pining for is my Annette."
"Even so," said Dr. Wainwright, and laid his hand on his son's arm
impressively. "I don't wonder this discovery should affect you
painfully. But cheer up, George. Remember, this pining for her child
is the only trace of insanity your poor friend has exhibited for
years--has ever exhibited, indeed, within my knowledge. Now we know
this supposed delusion is no delusion at all, but a truth; and I don't
entertain the smallest doubt that Annette's mother is as sane as you or
I."
CHAPTER THE LAST.
CERTAINTY.
Mr. Hamber's opinion was justified by the result--the Derinzys did not
fight. The character of the Captain has been sketched in these pages
to very little purpose, if the reader does not guess with the utmost
readiness that he was entirely indifferent concerning his son's future,
when he had been once and for all thoroughly informed what was the
best he had to expect and calculate upon for his own. In the interview
which had taken place between the Captain and Dr. Wainwright, prior to
Annette's journey to Germany, he had tried to bully the Doctor, with
such utter failure that he bore a salutary remembrance of his defeat
with him to the family council, convened a few days after the visit
made by Dr. Wainwright and his son to Messrs. Hamber and Clarke's
office.
The subjects to be discussed on this solemn and set occasion were
two--the intended marriage of George Wainwright and Annette Derinzy,
and the "state of things "--which fine distinction in terms had
been cleverly invented by Mrs. Derinzy--between Paul and Daisy. The
combination had come about on this wise:
When Paul left his mother's house, on the occasion when he had so
gallantly helped his friend and his cousin out of their little
difficulty, he went straight away to the village in Berkshire where
Daisy was staying with an old friend; and having fully explained to
her the present position of affairs, entreated her to permit him to
announce to his parents that their marriage was immovably fixed. Paul
found Daisy looking very handsome, very elegant, and very sweet--if
there had existed a corner of his heart yet uninvaded by her power,
she must inevitably have taken possession of it; but she was changed,
changed in manner, and, as he found when he came to talk to her, in
mind too.
The self-deception in which the girl had indulged; the false estimates
she had made of life, its responsibilities, and its real prizes; the
sudden shock of the discovery of her great error, which had come to her
with her first glance at Paul's fever-stricken face; the awful danger
from which she had been snatched, a danger confronted with hardihood
it filled her with shame to remember--these things had wrought the
change. Paul did not question or speculate upon its origin, but he felt
its presence with a keen sweet conviction, priceless to him. Daisy
had learned to love him; she would not deliberate now with cold pride
upon the pros and cons of a life to be shared with him; she would not
speculate upon the chances of his repenting, and the certainty of his
family being ashamed of her, as she had done, making him feel that the
canker of worldliness had fastened upon her beautiful youth. Paul was
a careless fellow enough, and as free from anything like heroism or
enthusiasm as the most practical-minded of his friends could possibly
have desired; but he was young, honest, and very much in love; and it
was an unspeakable relief to him to find that the genuine fervour of
his feelings and his hopes was no longer to be checked by caution or
disdain on Daisy's part. She was not gushing, and she was not silly--no
combination of fate could have made Fanny Stothard either--but she was
"pure womanly," and the sweet undefined humility in her manner--of
whose origin Paul must remain for ever ignorant--set the last touch of
captivation to her charms.
"You did not see my mother, then, to explain anything to her?"
said Daisy, when Paul had told her the story of events, but with
one important omission; he had said nothing of Annette's generous
proposition.
"No," replied Paul; "I thought it better to wait until I had seen you.
But I shall go to her immediately, and ask her consent."
"Poor mother!" said Daisy, with a sigh, "she is of a gloomy designing
turn of mind; and I am sure she always had some scheme in her head
about Miss Derinzy, and never intended she should marry you. But that
her daughter should marry Miss Derinzy's cousin----"
"And have half Miss Derinzy's fortune, if Annette gets her own way
about it!" interrupted Paul.
"Half Miss Derinzy's! What are you talking about?" asked Daisy, in
utter surprise.
"There now, my darling, you must forgive me. I could not resist the
temptation of seeing and hearing from yourself that you were not afraid
to marry a poor fellow like me--not afraid to go in for squalls with
a pilot whom you care enough for, not to mind very much whether he is
particularly calculated to weather the storm. It is so awfully jolly
to convict you of reckless imprudence! I really could not resist it;
and so I didn't tell you. We shan't be poor, and we shan't get into
storms--not that kind, anyhow. Annette and George are going to share
with us, Daisy. They have got an unreasonable kind of notion, which
they regard as sound sense, that I ought to be largely compensated
for the loss of a young lady whom no earthly inducement would have
persuaded me to marry, and the deprivation of a fortune to which I had
not the smallest claim. Very well, I'm agreeable. Of course taking half
is all nonsense; but if they will make us comfortable, and square it
with the governor, I don't see why--do you, darling?"
"No, I don't," returned Daisy promptly. "If I wanted to flatter you,
Paul, and get credit of high-flying sentiment, I should talk nonsense
about love, and poverty, and independence; but I _don't_, not only
because it would not exactly fit in with my former line of opinion,
but because I don't mean to be anything but sensible and _true_. Your
friend and your cousin wish to insure your happiness, and they very
wisely think the first step is to secure you from poverty. I can give
you everything else you want, but I can't give you money. Very well,
then, I am glad that they can, and will."
Paul returned to town on the following day, and had an interview with
Mrs. Stothard. It was satisfactory; but she made two stipulations. One,
that the fact of Fanny's being her daughter should be communicated to
Captain and Mrs. Derinzy by herself; and the other, that she should
not be expected to reside with Daisy. Paul had no objection to an
unhesitating acquiescence in the latter request. He did not wish for
any third person in his home, and he had always been a little afraid
of Mrs. Stothard--a sentiment which, he felt convinced, would increase
when that lady should have become his mother-in-law. He did not dare
to ask what she intended to do; but he felt a secret curiosity as to
whether she and his mother, whose relations had puzzled him for so
long, would continue to reside together. On this occasion Paul did not
see Mrs. Derinzy.
His next visit was to George Wainwright, who told him of the discovery
which had been made relative to Madame Vaughan, of which Annette was
still in ignorance.
"Our best plan--yours as well as mine--is to leave everything to my
father. He is a wonderful man, Paul. I never half appreciated him till
now--not his kind-heartedness, and his energy, and his sympathy, you
know. If he were a lover in difficulties himself, he could not be more
anxious about all this affair, and I don't only mean for me. You have
no idea how much impressed he was by Daisy when you were ill, and how
he liked and addressed her. Of course it is a delicate business to tell
Madame Vaughan that he has found out his mistake, and that her delusion
is no delusion; and equally, of course, it is subjecting Annette to a
severe test, in her newly-recovered state, to tell her that her mother
is living; and their meeting will be a tremendous trial for both. But
then, as my father said, if it turns out well--and he has not the least
fear of it--it will be just the most satisfactory test which could
possibly have been applied--one, indeed, beyond anything we ever could
have looked for turning up."
"What has your father done?" asked Paul, pardonably anxious to come to
the discussion of his own share in the situation.
"He has seen Mrs. Derinzy, and arranged a solemn meeting of all parties
concerned for Thursday next, when your father will have to make up
his mind whether he means to fight or to give in; and in the face of
the fact that Annette's mother is living and perfectly sane, and that
Annette is close upon her majority, I do not think there will be much
difficulty; and when he has fought my battle, the Doctor intends to
fight yours; and neither will there be much trouble there, I prophesy,
for Annette will not settle money on you unless you marry Daisy. I have
told our ambassador that you are willing. Did I go beyond the truth,
Paul?"
Too much affected to speak, the younger man turned abruptly away.
It has been already said that the Derinzys did not fight. The family
council was a trying ordeal for everyone concerned; but the consummate
tact, the masterly _savoir faire_ of Dr. Wainwright, carried all
parties, himself included, through the difficulties of the position.
Even Captain Derinzy was not visited by a suspicion of his motives:
even that gentleman, whose naturally base proclivities might easily on
this occasion have been quickened by the sympathetic consideration that
he had ineffectually endeavoured to do that very thing, did not venture
to suggest that this was a plan of the Doctor's to marry his son to an
heiress.
Annette had been on terms of distant civility only with Mrs. Derinzy
since the _éclaircissement_, and no allusion to what had passed had
been made between her and Mrs. Stothard. She was sitting alone, and in
a state of considerable trepidation, listening to the reverberation of
the men's voices in the library, when Mrs. Stothard entered the room,
and addressed her with a very unusual appearance of agitation. In her
hand she held a letter: it was from her daughter.
"My dear," she said, "I have something to tell you, and I mean to tell
it without any roundabout ways or preparation, which I have always
considered nonsense. You have made a noble offer, I understand, to Paul
Derinzy, in order to enable him to marry the girl he loves. But you
have no notion who that girl is."
"Yes, I have; she is a Miss Stafford--a very charming person, and most
devotedly attached to Paul. She nursed him through that dreadful fever;
and my aunt has had to acknowledge that there is nothing against her,
except that she is not rich--not quite what people call a lady. She has
been forewoman to some great milliner, I believe--like dear beautiful
Kate Nickleby, you know," said Annette, to whom the matchless creations
of the Master were the friends, the associations, the illustrations of
her every-day life.
"Yes, yes, you know so much; I am aware of that," said Mrs. Stothard.
"But what you do not know, Annette, is, that this Miss Stafford is my
daughter, Fanny Stothard, and that by the nobleness of your conduct
to her you have won my best affection, have utterly disarmed me--not
towards you, but towards others--and turned the enemy of the Derinzys
into the friend of all whom you care for."
"The enemy of the Derinzys!" repeated Annette, who had been looking at
her in blank amazement, hardly taking in the meaning of what she said.
"Yes, their enemy; their enemy for a reason which I need not explain,
which, indeed, I could not to you, but a well-founded one, believe
me. I knew their designs about you, and held them in check all along,
and played a counter-game of my own, while they were playing their
unsuccessful cards; and had the end come as I expected, I should have
defeated and exposed them, and had my revenge; but another end has
come, a widely different end, thank God, and your noble conduct to my
child--your upholding of the obscure, unknown, friendless girl, who
had no claim upon you except the claim so seldom allowed, of womanly
sympathy, and your kindly touch of nature--has softened my heart and
changed my purpose, and henceforth I shall hold you and her equally
dear."
"Oh, Mrs. Stothard, how could you live without her?--how could you bear
to part with her?"
"Because we were poor; we could not afford the luxury of a common home.
You have no practical experience of such things, my dear; but they
exist; and they warp one's nature sometimes. I believe my nature was
warped, Annette; but you--your patience, your sweetness, your nobleness
and generosity--have set it right again."
"And your daughter Fanny is really, really Paul's Daisy?" Annette said,
with a dreamy and surprised delight in her eyes and her voice. "How
delighted Paul will be to hear it, and my George!"
"They know it already," said Mrs. Stothard; "but I begged that I might
be allowed to tell you myself."
"When is she coming? Have you told her to come at once? May I go and
fetch her? Where is she? Never mind Aunt Derinzy, Mrs. Stothard; she
will not find fault now; and, besides, the house is _mine_."
To do Annette justice, she rarely showed any remembrance of her
heiress-ship--never, unless the rights or the interests of another were
in question.
"She will be in London to-morrow; and if all goes right, she will come
to see you."
"No, no, that will not do!" cried Annette impatiently. "She shall
not come to see me; she shall come to live here, to be like myself
in everything, and she shall be my sister. I never had a mother or a
sister, you know," continued the girl pleadingly; "and I have very,
_very_ seldom in all my life been able to do anything exactly as I
wished. You won't oppose me in that; I know you will let me have my
own way, won't you? My George is Paul's dearest friend, you know; and
Paul's Daisy shall be mine, though she is so handsome and so clever. I
_feel_ she will love me, and--and--we shall never part until I go to
George's home, and she goes to Paul's; and we shall be married on the
same day."
When George Wainwright, with the full sanction of the subjugated
Captain, and congratulations as suave as she could bring herself to
make them on the part of Mrs. Derinzy, sought Annette's presence, in
order to tell her to what an entirely satisfactory conclusion the
family council had come, he found Annette on her knees beside Mrs.
Stothard, her smiling face upturned to the features which had lost all
their sternness, and the grave, ordinarily inflexible woman weeping
tears of gladness.
* * * * *
Dr. Wainwright found himself about this time in an unusual position;
and though he liked it very much, and was conscious that he fulfilled
all the duties which it entailed to perfection, he had no desire to
prolong its responsibilities. The docility of the Derinzys was not to
be surpassed; and the grave elderly physician became the referee of
two pairs of lovers, who looked to him as a beneficent genius, whose
judgment was equal to his generosity. This was pleasant, but it cost
trouble and time; and though the Doctor did not grudge the one, of the
other he had none to spare, and he was not sorry when the time fixed
for the double wedding arrived. Annette had had her way and her wish;
Daisy had come to remain in the house with her; and even the sensitive
girl, to whom congenial companionship and love of her kind were so
strange, could not fail to be content with the affection she inspired
in the so-differently-reared young woman, for whom her good breeding,
her refined, her perfect ladyism, had an indescribable and attaching
charm.
The Doctor's cases were near their dispersion. All the arrangements
had been made, including one whereby Captain and Mrs. Derinzy were to
be comfortably bestowed in foreign parts. Annette had not yet learned
the truth about her mother, with Madame Vaughan's concurrence. Dr.
Wainwright had made the strange communication to her; and he received
the proof of the correctness of his belief in her perfect sanity in the
reasonable motherly solicitude which she exhibited, the willingness to
wait, to put off the so-long-deferred happiness of seeing her child,
rather than risk the least injury to Annette's health. There must be no
surprises, Dr. Wainwright had said; no _scenes_, if such could possibly
be avoided; and she understood and acquiesced at once. The news had
been to her like a recall from the borders of death. She had rallied
almost into health; her dark eyes were full of bright content, and the
wistful look had left her face. How keenly Dr. Wainwright felt the
extent and importance of the error he had been led into by accepting
the fiat of his predecessor upon the "case" of Madame Vaughan, when
he found the poor prisoner of so many years perfectly tolerant of the
error, and gently grateful for her secluded life!
"I have been as happy as it was possible for me to be without my
child," she said; "and George has been like a son to me. All has been
well."
It was the night before the double wedding, which was to be a very
quiet affair. The brides were inspecting their bridal dresses,
displayed upon Annette's bed. They formed a pretty picture, amid the
shiny white, the graceful flowers, the suggestive trifles of ornament
and luxury around. Daisy was incomparably the handsomer; but her
newly-found health and happiness had much beautified Annette.
"Mamma has told us what she is going to do at last," said Daisy. "She
has settled it all with Dr. Wainwright, and her mind is quite made up.
It seems Miss Marshall, the lady superintendent of the Doctor's asylum,
is going to be married to the resident doctor, and resigns her post.
Mamma is going to take it; she likes the work" (Daisy spoke quickly,
and with her eyes averted from Annette), "and Dr. Wainwright thinks she
will be invaluable to him. So she is to go there to-morrow afternoon. I
don't _quite_ like it; but she is determined, and the omnipotent doctor
well pleased."
"It is an occupation in which she will be happy and most useful," said
Annette; and she kissed her friend gravely. "I _know_ how fitted for it
she is. It would be well for all the afflicted ones, if such care and
judgment as hers might always come to their aid."
The conversation of the two girls was interrupted at this point,
perhaps to their mutual relief, by the entrance of a servant who
brought Daisy a letter. She did not recognise the hand. It was not
Paul's; whom, indeed, she had parted with just an hour before. She
glanced first at the signature; it was "John Merton." The brief letter
contained these words:
"I have heard the news of your good fortune, and of your intended
marriage, and I can bear to write and congratulate you on both. From
what I could not have endured I have been preserved; and you?--few
have such a rescue to remember with gratitude. If I intrude its memory
ungracefully on such an occasion, forgive me; it is because I would
make you realise thankfully that three lives have been saved. As the
wife of another, a happier and worthier man, as the mother of his
children, I can think of you with resignation for myself, and the
rejoicing of a true and unselfish love for you; and though I do not
think I shall ever love any woman in all my life again, I can wish you
joy, and say from my heart, God bless you!"
Daisy stood with the letter in her hand, pale and thoughtful, tears
shining in her brilliant eyes.
"There's nothing wrong, is there, dear?" asked Annette softly.
"Nothing; it is only a greeting from an old friend." After a pause,
she said thoughtfully: "It is good to have had such knowledge of life
as I have had--I mean for one like me--knowledge which would have done
_you_ nothing but harm, and made you wretched; good to have the means
of measuring one's happiness by what one has escaped."
Soon after, and with Daisy's grave manner unaltered, the girls parted
for the night.
* * * * *
On the heights above the broad stream formed by the confluence of the
Rhone and the Saone there are many beautiful villa residences, whose
classic architecture harmonises well with the associations with the
ancient Roman rule, which invest the spot with a charm even beyond
its picturesqueness. From the lofty-pillared façade, and deep cool
porticos, terraced gardens, thick set with trees of southern growth,
descend to the verge of the height, arrested there by crenulated walls,
overgrown with a glorious tangle of roses and laurels, of jasmine and
clematis and passion-flower--the luxuries of our northern clime, but
common there.
The long ranges of windows in the front of these scattered mansions
look out upon the dim distant Alps; those to the back upon the
vineyards of the Lyonnais, and the rich and spacious plains of
Dauphine". The scene retains the historic interest of the past in the
midst of the refined and cultivated beauty of the present. Amid this
beauty George Wainwright and his wife were to make their home; and
thither they turned their steps within a week after their marriage.
They had travelled by carriage-road from Dijon, George taking pleasure
in pointing out to his wife the scenes, which were all familiar to
him--all equally novel and delightful to her.
"I am getting anxious about our villa," he said, when only a few miles
lay between them and their destination. "I had a general notion of what
they are like, but I never saw this one. Mathieu is a capital man of
business, however; and I think, if it be ever safe to do a thing of the
kind through an agent, we are safe in this instance."
"I am certain to like it, George; you need not fear that; and I shall
soon get over the strangeness of having to look after my own affairs.
Only fancy the happiness of settling down in my first home with you!
The servants will be a difficulty; they won't understand _my_ French,
I'm afraid."
"What would you say, Annette, if you found a most competent housekeeper
there already--a lady whom my father has known for many years, and
has selected and sent out in advance, to have everything ready for
you--what would you say?"
"That it is like the wisdom and kindness of your father. But you seem
to imply that this lady came from London. Why did I not see her there?
Would it not have been better that we should have been acquainted in
the first instance?"
"No, my darling; my father thought not. He had good reason. We are
rapidly approaching our home, my own wife" (George encircled her with
his arms as he spoke), "and I have something to tell you which you
could not have borne until now. It is joyful news, Annette. Can you
bear to hear it from me?"
She looked at him fearlessly, with a candid trusting gaze, which
touched him keenly.
"I can bear any news, good or ill, which is told me by you; which I am
to hear held in your arms, George."
"You remember my telling you about my dear old friend, Madame
Vaughan--_Maman_, as she loved that I should call her?--and how you
wanted to be taken to see her, and my father said No?"
"I remember," said Annette. "Is she the lady, George? Is she quite
well? I shall be so glad if it is so--if this is the delightful
surprise you have had in store for me."
"She is the lady, darling; but there is more than this to tell you. Do
you remember that _Maman_ had a delusion, as we thought it; was always
wearying and pining for a child, complaining that she had been robbed
of her, but patiently declaring her belief that she should see her
again in this world?"
"I remember," said Annette, still keeping her fixed earnest gaze upon
her husband. "Has it turned out that this was no delusion? Has she
really a child? has the child been found?"
"The child is living; her child has been found, and I am taking her
home to her." George Wainwright pressed his wife closely to his breast,
and spoke the remainder of the sentence in a whisper:
"You are that child, my Annette. Oh, be calm and strong, for the sake
of the husband's love which brings you to a mother's."
* * * * *
"Letters from England!" exclaimed Annette on a fine spring day in the
early new year, starting up from the terrace, on which she had been
sitting with her mother, to meet George, who was coming leisurely from
the house with a bundle of papers in his hand.
"Yes, letters from England; and lots of them. Here's your share; I'll
talk to _Maman_ while you read them."
Annette crammed all the letters but one into the pocket of her smart
little apron, and walked slowly to and fro reading the exception, while
George took her place beside Madame Vaughan.
But they did not talk; they were both looking at Annette. She had read
one letter and begun another before either spoke. Then George said:
"My father is so delighted with my report, he declares he will come to
Lyons himself, in the autumn. Well, what is it?" to Annette, who ran up
to them laughing.
"Oh George, such fun! There's such a charming letter from Daisy.
The 'season' has begun; and she is going out tremendously; and she
says--but you shall read it all by-and-by--that the fine ladies are
very civil, and have not the faintest notion that she is in the secrets
of their 'get-up,' and tried on their bonnets and fripperies only last
year. And Paul is 'no end of a good fellow'--he shouldn't teach Daisy
slang like that, should he, George? And they are so happy, and they
will come to us at the end of the season. I'm so glad. I don't know
anything about the season; I've an idea it's an awful nuisance."
"I have an idea you had better read your letters, and not keep _Maman_
waiting for her drive," said George gaily.
She flitted off again, and George returned to the subject of his
father's letter.
"He reminds me how he doubted her recovery on account of the
uncongenial, interested _borné_ atmosphere of her home, and its dearth
of affection and geniality. He is never wrong, _Maman_, never. In
Annette's case, the natural remedy, home, love, healthy occupation,
children--or, let us not be presumptuous, say the prospect of
them--have been successful. The only sentimental aphorism I ever heard
my father use is the truest--'Love is the best physician.' He is always
right, _Maman_."
"Almost always," replied Madame Vaughan. "He has been perfectly right
in this instance; and, indeed, the only mistake I ever knew him to make
was in my case, when I was Dr. Wainwright's Patient."
THE END.
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CHARLES DICKENS AND EVANS, CRYSTAL PALACE PRESS.