It passed swiftly through Daisy's mind that if ever Paul had so pleaded his own cause, with so much conviction, so much force, so much earnestness--if ever he had made her understand the worth of true love, the false allures of all beside--she would not have listened to prudence and the narrow suggestions of her worldly wisdom, but would have listened to him. It passed through her mind that this was a strong man, one who would love well and worthily, and whose wife would be honoured among women, whatever her origin. But she answered him coldly, though his words were utterly persuasive.
"I cannot tell you to answer for the future, Mr. Wainwright. That question cannot be answered until it has been asked by Paul. If he lives, he will ask it; if he dies, Mrs. Derinzy will not require to know anything about me."
"Be it so," said George emphatically. "I shall go there at once, and see you again this evening. Goodbye, Miss Stafford, and God bless you! You are doing the right thing now, at all events."
Again she simply bent her head without speaking, and without turning her eyes from the sick man's face. George left the room with a noiseless step. When he had reached the stair-foot, Daisy covered her face with her hands, and rocked herself upon her chair, in an agony of self-upbraiding.
"If he lives, he will ask me," she murmured in her torturing thoughts. "Yes, he will ask me; and I--I who a little while ago was unfit to be his wife only because of the difference in our rank--what shall I say? Far other my unfitness now--the unfitness of one who has deliberately entertained the project of degradation. Am I, who have chaffered with that vile old man about the terms on which I might be induced to become his mistress, fit to be that trusting boy's wife? Oh mother, mother! this is the result of your calculation, your worldly instructions! Yet no; why should I blame her? It is the outcome of my life, of the sort of thing I have seen and known since my childhood. Oh, my God! my God! how foolish, how mad, how wicked I have been!"
Mrs. Derinzy was at home. George was ushered into the back drawing-room, and permitted to indulge himself in solitude with the contemplation of Annette's unoccupied place, her piano, her work-box, and her own especial book of photographs, for some time. He looked at these things with pangs of mingled hope and fear, and their influence was to do away with the embarrassment and uneasiness he had felt on entering the house. After all, what did anything really matter to him which did not concern Annette and his relations with her?
When at length Mrs. Derinzy appeared, George saw that she was alarmed and angry. The former sentiment he was enabled to allay, the latter he was prepared to meet--prepared by courage on his friend's account, and indifference on his own.
"I am happy to tell you," he began at once, "that there is satisfactory progress in Paul's case. He is going on safely. I have little doubt he will soon be out of danger; indeed, the doctor has said plainly that, unless in the case of increase of symptoms, he is confident of the result. You need not be alarmed, Mrs. Derinzy; I assure you the case is favourable."
"I have heard the doctor's opinion of the case, Mr. Wainwright," replied Mrs. Derinzy with cold displeasure, "and I am not unduly alarmed. But I am not unnaturally astonished to find myself excluded from my son in his illness, and by you, the son of one of the oldest and best friends I have in the world. I cannot believe you have any explanation to offer which I can listen to, for your conduct in bringing a--a person whom I cannot meet to take my place at my son's side."
"I am not surprised at your tone, Mrs. Derinzy," replied George, "though I might be pardoned for wondering how you contrive to hold me guilty in the matter of Paul's supposed offence."