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.

------------------------------------------------ CHARLES DICKENS AND EVANS, CRYSTAL PALACE PRESS.