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."