Left to himself, without George Wainwright to listen to his complaints, to afford him consolation, or even to do him good by the administration of the rough tonic of his advice, Paul Derinzy had a very bad time of it. His attendance at the office was exceedingly irregular; and when he was there he was so preoccupied anddistrait, that he would not look after his work; which accordingly, there being no George Wainwright to stay after hours and pull it up, went hopelessly into arrears. The good old chief, Mr. Courtney, always inclined to be kind and indulgent, and more especially disposed to civility since he had been to dine with Paul's people in Queen Anne Street (where he found the Captain "a devilish gentleman-like fellow, sir; far superior to the men of the present day, with a remarkable fund of anecdote"), had his patience and his temper very much tried by his young friend's peculiar proceedings; and between the two other occupants of the principal registrar's room, Mr. William Dunlop's life was pretty nearly harried out of him.
"If the arrival of my people in town were to render me as wretched as the arrival of P.D.'s people has rendered P.D.," observed Mr. Dunlop, in confidence to a brother-clerk, "I should begin to think it was not a bad thing being a norphan. I have often thought, Simmons, that I could have done the young-heir business in doublet and trunk-hose--no, that is, the spirit-stirring song of the 'Old English Gentleman'--the young-heir business, smiling from the top of the steps on the assembled tenantry, vide Frith, R.A., his picture of 'Coming of Age,' to be had cheap as an Art Union print. But if to become moped and melancholy, to decline to go odd man for b. and s., and to tell people who propose the speculation to 'go to the devil'--if that is to be the result of having people and being heir to a property in Dorsetshire, my notion is, that I would sooner serve her Majesty at two-forty, rising to three-fifty at yearly increments of twenty, and be free!"
There was no doubt that there were grounds for Mr. Dunlop's complaints. Paul not merely did not attend to his work, but his manner, which, from its brightness and courtesy, had in the old days won him troops of friends and rendered him everywhere sought for and popular, was now morose and forbidding. He seemed to be aware of this, and consequently went very little into society. To Queen Anne Street he only went when he was absolutely obliged; that is to say, when he felt that he could not decently remain away any longer; but even then his visits were very short, and his mother found him absent and preoccupied. He had, however, taken sufficient notice of what was passing around him to remark the maidenly delicacy, imbued with true feminine tact, with which Annette asked news of George Wainwright, and the hard struggle which she made to conceal her disbelief of the stories which he, Paul, invented to account for his friend's absence.
He had not seen Daisy for the last fortnight. When last they met it was arranged that they should meet as usual in the course of a few days. But two days after, Paul received a little note from her, saying that, owing to Madame Clarisse's absence, her trouble and responsibility were so great that she could not possibly leave the business to take care of itself for ever so short a time. She would let him know as soon as the possible slackness of work permitted her to make an appointment for meeting him in the gardens, and she was his affectionate D.
Paul did not like the tone of this letter. It was certainly much cooler than that of any of the little notes--there were but very few of them--which he had received from Daisy since the commencement of their acquaintance. He did not believe in the excuse one bit. Even in the height of the season she had always managed to get out and see him for a few minutes once or twice a week. Then, as to Madame Clarisse's absence and Daisy's consequent responsibility, did not the very fact of her being at the head of affairs prove that she was her own mistress, and able to dispose of her own time as she pleased?
There was something at the bottom of it all, Paul thought, which he had not yet fathomed. There was a change in her; that could not be denied--a strange inexplicable change. The girl he met on his return from the country, and who came to him listlessly, with an evident air of preoccupation, which she endeavoured to hide, and with an assumed air of pleasure at his return, which was so ill-assumed as to be very easily seen through, was a totally different being from the loving, teasing, half-coy, half-wayward girl whom he had left behind him.
Paul set himself to work to trace the commencement of this change, and after long cogitation decided that it must have been worked during his absence. What caused it, then? Certainly it arose from no fault of his. He could not charge himself in the slightest degree with neglect of her. He had written to her constantly, freely, and lovingly. He had gone away protesting against his enforced absence; his letters had been filled with joyous expectation of renewed delight at meeting her again; and when he had met her, the warmth of his passion for her, so far from being diminished one jot, had increased and expanded. So that the alteration of their position towards each other which had so evidently come about was her doing, and not his.
In his self-examination, Paul went through all the different phases of the feeling by which he had been actuated towards this girl. He recalled to himself how that at first, dazzled and captivated by her beauty, he had only thought of making her acquaintance, without the idea of any definite end; how that end had in his mind soon taken a form which, though not unnatural in a young man carelessly brought up, and living the loose life which he then led, he now blushed to recall. He recollected the grave displeasure quietly but firmly expressed by Daisy when she saw, as she very speedily did, the position which he proposed for her. And then his mind dwelt on that delicious period when there was no question of what might happen in the future, when they enjoyed and lived in the present, and it was sufficient and all in all to them.
That was the state in which they were when they parted; what was their condition now? Daisy's manner was cold and preoccupied; all the brightness and light, all pretty ways and affectionate regards which she had displayed for him during the summer, seemed to have died out with the summer's heat, and Paul felt that he stood to her in a far more distant position than that which he had occupied at the very commencement of their acquaintance.
He had his hold to establish on her then, to be sure, but he was not without hope or encouragement. Now he had neither to cheer him, and the work was all to be done again. Good God, what did she require of him! He would willingly brave the open frowns and whispered hints of society, of which he had at one time stood in such mortal fear, and would be only too delighted to make her his wife. She knew this. Since his return he had plainly told her so; but the declaration had not merely failed in obtaining a definite answer from her, but had made no difference in her manner towards him. He had argued with her, scolded her, tasked her with the change, and implored her to let him know the reason of it; but he had obtained no satisfactory reply.
"It was his fancy," she said; "she was exactly the same as when they had parted. The life which he had been leading at home had evidently had a very bad effect upon him. She had always feared his return to 'his people,' of whom he thought so much, and with whom he was so afraid of bringing her into contact."
Good heavens, why twit him with that past and bygone folly! Had he not offered to set these people at defiance, and make her his wife?--could he do more?
She replied very quietly that she did not want any family rupture on her account, and that as to the question of their marriage, there was no necessity for any hurry in that matter; and indeed they had very much better wait until they had proved that they were more thoroughly suitable to each other.
And then Paul Derinzy chafed against his chain, and longed to break it, but dared not. He complained bitterly enough of her bad treatment of him, but he loved her too dearly to renounce the chance of bringing her into a better frame of mind, and restoring to himself the darling Daisy of his passionate worship.
He had no one in whom he could confide, no one whose advice he could seek, in this crisis of his life. George Wainwright was away; and to whom else could he turn? Although he and his mother were in their way very fond of each other, there had never been any kind of confidence between them--certainly not that confidence which would have enabled him to lay bare his heart before her, and ask for her counsel and consolation. Mrs. Derinzy was essentially a worldly woman, and Paul knew perfectly that she would scout the idea of his marrying, as she considered, beneath him; and instead of pouring balm into his wounded spirit, would, after her fashion, try to cicatrise the hurt by telling him that he had had a fortunate escape from an unworthy alliance. His father, long trained in habits of obedience, would have repeated his wife's opinion. Had he been allowed to give his own, it would have been flavoured with that worldly wisdom of which he was so proud, and would probably have been to the effect that, however one treated young persons in that position of life, one certainly did not marry them, and that he could not possibly imagine any son of his doing anything so infernally stupid.
Those who had known Paul Derinzy as the light-hearted, light-headed young man of society, enjoying himself in every possible way, extracting the greatest amount of pleasure out of every hour of his life, and allowing no sense of responsibility to weigh upon him, would hardly have recognised him in the pale, care-worn man with hollow cheeks who might be seen occasionally eating his solitary dinner at the club, but who never joined the gay circle in the smoking-room, or was to be found in any of those haunts of pleasure which formerly he had so assiduously frequented. With Daisy always in his mind, he had an irresistible inclination to moon about those places where he had been in the habit of seeing her.
In the dusk of the evening he would walk for hours up and down George Street, in front of Madame Clarisse's house, sometimes fancying he recognised Daisy's reflection on the window-blind, and then being half tempted to rush across and seek admission to her at any cost. And he would go down to the spot in Kensington Gardens--now a blank desert of misery--and wander up and down, picturing to himself the delightful summer lounging there, and recalling every item of the conversation which had then been held.
One day, one Saturday half-holiday, Paul, who had not heard from George Wainwright for some days, had been up to the Doctor's establishment to inquire whether any news had been received of his friend, and having been replied to in the negative, he was listlessly returning to town, when the old fascination came upon him, and he struck up past Kensington Palace with the intention of lingering for a few moments in the familiar spot. He was idling along, chewing the cud of a fancy which was far more bitter than sweet, when his desultory footsteps came to a halt as he caught sight of a couple in front of him.
A man and woman walking side by side in conversation. Their backs were towards him, but he recognised Daisy in an instant. The man was tall and of a good figure, and looked like a gentleman, but Paul could not see his face. His first impulse was to rush towards them, but better sense prevailed. His was not the nature to play the spy; so, with a smothered groan, he turned upon his heel, and slowly retraced his steps.
There was an end of it, then. At last he had comprehended the full extent of his misery. All that he had feared had come to pass, and more. She had thrown him over, and he had seen her walking with another man in the very place which up to that time had been rendered sacred to him by the recollection of their meetings there.
There was an end of it; but he would let her know that he was fully aware of the extent of her treachery and baseness. He would go to the club at once, and write to her, telling her all he had seen. He would not reproach her--he thought he would leave that to her own conscience; he would only--he did not know what he would do; his legs seemed to give way beneath him, his head was whirling round, and he felt as though he should fall prostrate to the ground.
When he reached the Park gates--and how he reached them he never knew--he called a cab and drove to the club. He was hurrying through the hall, when the porter stopped him and handed to him a letter. It was from Daisy. Paul's heart beat high as the well-known writing met his view. He took it with him to the writing-room, which was fortunately empty, and sitting himself at the writing-table, laid the letter before him. He was uncertain whether he would open it or not. Whatever it might contain would be unable to do away with the fact which he had so recently witnessed with his own eyes.
No excuse could possibly explain away the disloyalty with which she had treated him. It would be better, he thought, to return the letter unopened. But then there might be something in it which in future time he might regret not to have seen; some possible palliation of her offence, some expression of regret or softening explanation of the circumstances under which she had betrayed him. And then Paul opened the letter, and read as follows:
"MY DEAR PAUL,--I do not think you will be surprised at what I am about to tell you; and I try to hope that you will not be very much annoyed at it. I knew that it must come very shortly, and I have endeavoured as far as I could to prepare you for the news.
"The pleasant life which we have been leading for the last few months, Paul--and I do not pretend to disguise my knowledge that it has been pleasant to you, any more than I shrink from acknowledging that it has been most delightful to me--has come to an end, and we must never meet again. This should be no tragic ending: there should be no shriek of woe or exclamations of remorse, or mutual taunts and invectives. It is played out, that is all; it has run down, and come naturally to a full-stop, and there is no use in attempting to set it going again.
"I can understand your being horribly enraged when you first read this, and using all sorts of strong language about me, and vowing vengeance against me. But this will not last; your better sense will come to your aid; in a very little time you will thank me for having released you from obligations the fulfilment of which would have brought misery on your life, and will thank me for having been the first to put an end to an action which was very pleasant for the time it lasted, but which would have been very hopeless in the future. For my part, I don't reproach you, Paul, Heaven knows; I should be an ingrate if I did.
"You have always treated me with the tenderest regard, and only very lately you have done me the highest honour which a man can do a woman, in asking her to become his wife. Don't think I treat this offer lightly, Paul; don't think I am not keenly alive to its value, as showing the affection, if nothing else, which you have, or rather must have had, for me. Do not think that it has been without a struggle that I have made up my mind to act as I am now doing, to write the letter which you now read.
"But suppose I had said Yes, Paul; you know as well as I do the exact position which I should have occupied, and the effect which my occupancy of that position would have had on your future life. It was not--I do not say this with any intention of wounding you--it was not until you clearly found you could get me on no other terms that you made me this offer; and though probably you will not allow it even to yourself, you must know as well as I do, that after a while you would find yourself tied to a wife who was unsuited to you in many ways, and by marrying whom you had alienated your family from you, and disgraced yourself in the opinion of that world which you now profess to despise, but of whose verdict you really stand in the greatest awe.
"And then, Paul, it would be one of two things: either you would hold to me with a dogged defiance, which is not part of your real nature, but which, under the circumstances, you would cultivate, feeling yourself to be a martyr, and taking care to let me know that you felt it--you will deny all this, Paul, but I know you better than yourself; or you would feel me to be a clog upon you, and leave me for the society in which you could forget that, for the mere indulgence of a passing passion, you had laid upon yourself a burden for life.
"What but misery could come out of either of these two results? Under both of them we should hate each other; for I confess I should not be grateful to you for the enforced companionship which the former presupposes; and under the latter I should not merely hate you, but in all probability should do something which would bring dishonour on your name. You see, I speak frankly, Paul; but I do so for the best. If you had been equally frank with me, I could have told you long since, at the commencement of our acquaintance, of something which would have prevented our ever being more to each other than the merest acquaintances. You told me your name was Paul Douglas; you disguised from me that it was Paul Derinzy. Had I known that, I would have then let you into a secret; I would have told you that I too had in a similar manner been deceiving you by passing under the name of Fanny Stafford, whereas my real name is Fanny Stothard.
"Does not that revelation show you what is to come, Paul? Do you not already comprehend that I am the daughter of a woman who holds a menial position in your father's house, and that this fact would render wider yet the chasm which yawns between our respective classes in society? You do not imagine that your mother would care to recognise in her son's wife the daughter of her servant, or that I should particularly like to become a member of a family in which my cousin's waiting-woman is my own mother.
"I ascertained this fact in sufficient time to have made it, if I had so chosen, the ground for putting an end to our intimacy, and my reason for writing this letter; but I preferred not to do so, Paul. I have put the matter plainly, straightforwardly, and frankly; and I will not condescend to ride off on a quibble, or to pretend that I have been influenced by your want of confidence in withholding your name. You will see--not now, perhaps, but in a very little time--that I have acted for the best, and will be thankful to me for the course which I have taken.
"And recollect, Paul, the breach between us must be final--it must be a clean cut; and you must not think, even after it has been made, that there are any frayed and jagged points left which are capable, at some time or another, of being reunited. We have seen each other for the last time; we have parted for ever. There must be no question of any interview or adieu; we are neither of us of such angelic tempers that we could expect to meet without reproaches and high words; and I, at all events, should be glad in the future to recall the last loving look in your eyes, and the last earnest pressure of your hand.
"And that mention of the future reminds me, this letter is the last communication you will receive from me; and when you have finished reading it, you must look upon me as someone dead and passed away. If by chance you ever meet me in the street, you must look upon me as the ghost of someone whom you once knew, and forbear to speak to me. It will not be very difficult to imagine this; for, God knows, I shall be no more like the Fanny Stafford whom you have known than the Fanny Derinzy you would have made me. No matter what I am, no matter what I may become, you will have ceased to have any pretext for inquiring into my state; and I distinctly forbid your attempting to interfere with me in the slightest degree. Does that sound harsh, Paul? I do not mean it so; I swear I do not mean it so. If you knew--but you do not, and never shall. You are hot and impetuous and weak; I am cool and clear-brained and strong-minded: you look only at the present; I think for the future. You will repeat all this bitterly, saying that I am right, and that my conduct plainly shows I know exactly how to describe myself; I know you will, I can almost hear you say it. I half wish I could hear you say anything, so that I could listen to your dear voice once again; but that could never be.
"Goodbye, Paul! At some future time, not very long hence, when all this has blown over, and you are in love with, and perhaps married to, someone else, you will acknowledge I was right, and think sometimes not unkindly of me. But I shall never think of you again. Once more, goodbye, Paul! I should like to say, God bless you! if I thought such a prayer from me would be of any use."
Paul Derinzy read this letter through twice, and folded it up and placed it in his pocket. Ten minutes afterwards the writing-room bell rang violently, and the servant, on answering was surprised to find an old gentleman kneeling on the floor, and bending over the prostrate body of Mr. Derinzy, whose face was very white, whose neck-cloth was untied, and who the old gentleman said was in a fit.
When George Wainwright left the presence of the strange old German doctor, upon whom he had looked with an almost awful anxiety, a half-superstitious hope, it was with an acute sense of disappointment, such as had rarely stung the young man's ordinarily placid and well-disciplined mind. He had the profoundest respect for his father's opinion, the most implicit reliance on his father's judgment; and from the sentence which pronounced the case of Annette hopeless, except under those conditions whose fulfilment he now found it impossible to procure, he never thought of appealing. His father--of whose science in theory, of whose skill in practice, his own experience had offered him innumerable instances--had told him, with genuine concern and with true sympathy, rather than the more formal paternal manner it was the doctor's custom to exhibit towards his son, that this one only hope existed, this solitary chance presented itself. He had caught at the hope; he had endeavoured to reduce the chance to practice; and he had failed.
There was bitterness, there was agony, in the conviction, such as had never fallen to the lot of George Wainwright before, though life had brought him some of those experiences which Mr. Dunlop was wont to designate as "twisters" too. But then so much depends on the direction, the strength, and the duration of the "twist," and there are some so easily gotten over.
This, however, was not one of them; and George's heart was sorely wrung. The pain was directed cunningly, and strongly applied, and as for its duration--well, George believed, as we all believe when suffering is very keen and very fresh, that it was going to be everlasting. It couldn't be otherwise, indeed, in the sense in which "everlasting" applies itself to this mortal individual life; for did it not mean that the woman he loved, the one woman he really loved and longed for, was doomed for her term of terrestrial existence to the saddest of all destinies, which included utter separation from him? While they both lived, if that fiat should remain unaltered, how should his sorrow be less than everlasting? If it be true that there are certain kinds of trouble, and sharp trouble too, to which men and women do become accustomed, of a surety this was not one of them, but trouble of a vital kind, full of murmuring, of wretchedness, and regret. So long as they both should live--he a sane man, loving this periodically-insane woman as he loved her, with a strong passionate attachment, by no means deficient in the conservative element of intellectual attraction--whence should the alleviation come?
George Wainwright liked pain as little as most men like it; and as he turned his face towards England, discomfited and utterly downcast, he felt, with a sardonic morbidity of feeling, that he would not be disinclined now to exchange his capacity of suffering and his steadiness of disposition for thevolagefickleness which he was accustomed to despise in many of his associates. If he could get over it, it would be much better for him, and no worse for her, he thought; but the next true and fine impulse of his nature rebuked the foregoing, and made him prize the sentiments which had come to ennoble his life, to check its selfishness and dissipate its ennui, though by the substitution of pain. And for her? He had seen so plainly, so unmistakably the difference in Annette, the new element of hope, anticipation, and enjoyment which her affection for him had brought into her hitherto darkened life, that the utmost exertion of his common sense failed to make him believe she would be the better for the complete severance between them which reason dictated to him ought to be the upshot of the failure of his enterprise.
"It is better to have loved," he repeated to himself, as he sat moodily in the railway-carriage on his return journey, unheeding alike the trimly-cultivated country through which he was passing, and the profusion of flimsy literature, journalistic and other, with which the cushions were strewn--"it is better to have loved----" And then he thought, "She is notlost. She lives, and I can see her. I may cheer and alleviate her life, though it may never be blessed with union. When the dark days come, they will be less dark to her, because when she emerges into light again, it will be to find me; and at her best and brightest--ah, how good and bright that is!--she will be happier and better because of me. Good God! am I so weak and so selfish that I cannot accept what there is in this of blessing, without pining for that which can never be?"
Thus, striving manfully with his bitter disappointment, and strengthening himself with earnest and manly resolutions, George Wainwright returned to England. Perhaps the sharpest pang he felt, sharper even than that with which he had heard Dr. Hildebrand's decided refusal and had obeyed his peremptory dismissal, was caused by the momentary shrinking from the sight of Annette, which made itself felt as he approached the place of her abode. At first there had been wild, reckless longing to see her, longing in which love was intensified by pity and sharpened by grief; then came this instinctive dread and lingering. He had left her with so much hope, so much energy, such strong conviction; he was returning with none of these. He was returning to look in the dear face so often overhung with the mysterious fitful veil of insanity, and to be forced to feel that it could never be given to mortal hand to lift that veil, and to throw it aside for ever. And though his first impulse had been to hasten back to England with all possible speed, when he arrived in London he lingered and hesitated about announcing himself at the residence of the Derinzys.
Should he go to his father's chambers at the Albany in the first instance, and tell him how his hopes had collapsed?--not because, as Dr. Wainwright had supposed, the eccentric and famous German savant was dead, but because the rampant vitality of professional jealousy had utterly closed his heart to George's pleadings, and even obscured the ambition to make one cure more, which, to the joy of many a heart, has been found too strong to be resisted by more than one celebrated physicianen retraite. Yes, he would see his father in the first instance; it would give him nerve. Indeed, he ought to do so for another reason.
He must henceforth be doubly careful in his dealings with Annette; he who--it would be absurd to disguise his knowledge of the fact--had assumed greater importance in her life than any other being, who noted and managed her, and swayed her temper and her fancies as no one beside; and this was exactly the conjuncture in which the advice, the guidance, of the physician charged with her case would be indispensable. George would obtain it and obey it to the utmost. Supposing his father, in the interest of his patient and his son, were to pronounce that under the circumstances it would be advisable that the young people should not meet, could George undertake to obey the behests of the physician or the counsel of the father? This was a difficult question. In such a case he would appeal promptly to that excellent understanding, that taken-for-granted equality which had subsisted between him and Dr. Wainwright, and put it to him that he was prepared to sacrifice himself for the welfare of the girl, and to lend to her blighted life all the alleviation which his friendship and his society could afford, while strictly guarding himself from the avowal of any warmer feeling.
Assisted by these resolutions, and perhaps not quite unconscious that he would have been slow to credit any other person who might have formed them with the courage to maintain them, George Wainwright presented himself before his father. The Doctor received him kindly, and listened to the account of his fruitless journey without any evidence of surprise.
"I am glad the old man is still living," said Dr. Wainwright, when George had finished his story; "but sorry to find he is not so great a man as I had believed him to be. No great man allows a personal feeling, prejudice, or pique to interfere with his theories or hamper his actions. The idea of his declining such a case becauseIhad been unsuccessful with the patient! Why, that ought, even according to his own distorted notions, to be the strongest reason for his going at it with a will. However," and the "mad doctor" laughed a low laugh and rubbed his hands gently together, "there are queer freaks and cranks of the human mind to be seen outside of lunatic asylums."
George was a little impatient of his father's attention being rather given to Dr. Hildebrand than to his feelings under the circumstances, and he recalled it by the abrupt question:
"What is to be done now?"
"Nothing," replied Dr. Wainwright; "nothing in the sense of cure, nothing additional in the way of treatment."
"May I--may I safely continue to see her?"
The son knew well how thoroughly, under the habitual professional composure of his manner, the father comprehended and felt the deep importance of the reply he was about to make.
"The question of safety," he said, "mainly concernsyou. Do you think you would do wisely in continuing to seek the society of this poor girl, feeling as you do towards her, and knowing she cannot be your wife?"
"My dear father," replied George with deliberation, "I do not think, I do not say it would be wise; I only say it is one of those foolish things which are inevitable. Put me aside in the matter, and tell me only abouther."
"Then," said the Doctor, "I have no hesitation in saying I do not think you can harm her. Your society cheers and amuses her. In her state there is little danger of the awakening of any deep and permanent feeling. Should such a danger arise, I should be sure to perceive and prevent it."
After a long conversation, the father and son parted. Dr. Wainwright felt considerable regret that George's feelings should be thus involved; but he reasoned upon the case, according to his lights and convictions, and did not exaggerate its importance, believing that his son was not the sort of man to make himself perfectly uncomfortable about any woman whom it was quite impossible he should marry. He thought about the whole party after his son had left him--of Annette with liking and compassion; of George with affection, and a recognition of the difference which existed between his own mind and his son's; and of the Derinzys with supreme contempt. Perhaps, in the long list of his friends and patients, there were not to be found two individuals whom Dr. Wainwright--a man not given to venerating his fellow-creatures--more thoroughly despised than Captain and Mrs. Derinzy. And then he turned to his books again, and forgot them.
From his father's chambers in the Albany, George Wainwright went direct to the Derinzys' house. Mrs. Derinzy was at home, as was Miss Annette; but Mr. Wainwright could not on this occasion have the pleasure of seeing the Captain. So far, everything was propitious to that gentleman's wishes; and he entered the small back drawing-room, which no one but a house-agent or an upholsterer would have called a boudoir, where. Annette was usually to be found, lounging near a flower-crowded balcony, with the feeling of joy at seeing her again decidedly predominant. He was philosophic, but he was something more than a philosopher; and this afflicted girl had become inexpressibly dear to him, had inspired him with a love in which selfishness had a strangely small share.
Annette was in her usual place, and she rose to meet George with an expression of simple unaffected pleasure. Mrs. Derinzy, who was also in the room, greeted him with cold politeness. She was not so foolish as to persist in believing she could have carried her design to a successful issue in any case; but she vas quite sufficiently unjust to resent George's influence over Annette, though she knew it had never been employed against her, and though she felt a malicious satisfaction in contemplating the hopelessness of the affair.
"If anyone would marry an insane woman, knowing all about her, it certainly would not be a mad doctor's son," thought Mrs. Derinzy, and was pleased to feel that other people's plans had to "gang a-gley" as completely as her own.
George took Mrs. Derinzy's manner very calmly and contentedly. He did not care about Mrs. Derinzy or her manner. He was thinking of Annette, and reading the indications of health, or the opposite, in her pleased agitated face.
"Where have you been, and why have you stayed away so long?" was the first address to George; and she could hardly have selected one more embarrassing. But he got out of the difficulty by the plea which is satisfactory to every woman except one's wife--possibly because she alone can estimate its real value--the plea that "business" had taken him on a flying tour to Germany. He entertained her with an account of his travels, and had at least the satisfaction of seeing her brighten up into more than her customary intelligence, and assume an expression of happiness which had been singularly wanting in her sweet young face when he had first seen it, and which he believed he was the only person who had ever summoned up. It was not difficult for George, sitting near the handsome girl, so bright and so gentle for him alone, in the pleasant hush of the refined-looking room, to persuade himself that such a state of things would satisfy him, and be the very best possible for her. It was not difficult for him to forget that the Derinzys were not habitual inhabitants of London; and that if his relations with Annette were destined to assume no more definite form, he could have no valid excuse for presenting himself at Beachborough without the invitation which Mrs. Derinzy's demeanour afforded him no hope of obtaining.
But George's delusive content was not destined to be lasting. At a break in the conversation, which, with the slightest possible assistance from Mrs. Derinzy, he was carrying on with Annette, he asked the elder lady for news of Paul, adding that he had not written to his friend during his absence, and had not yet had time to apprise him of his return.
"We have seen hardly anything of Paul of late," said Mrs. Derinzy in a tone of strong displeasure. "My residence in London has not procured me much of the society of my son; and since you left town, I cannot say we know anything about him."
"This looks badly," thought George. "With all his determination to resist his mother, Paul would not neglect her if things were not going ill with him. I must see to him."
That visit was memorable, and in more ways than one. It was the last which George Wainwright made to Mrs. Derinzy in the character of a mere friendly acquaintance, and it confirmed him in his belief, as full of fear as of hope, that Annette loved him.
His absence had not been of long duration, but it sent him back with renewed zest to his painting, his books, and his music, and there was a strong need within him of a little rest and seclusion. He felt he must "think it out;" not in foreign scenes or amid distractions, but thus, amid his actual present surroundings, in the very place where he should have to "live it down." So it came to pass that he did not forthwith go in search of Paul, but contented himself with writing him a note and bidding him come to him--a summons which, to George's surprise, his friend neither responded to nor obeyed. His leave had not expired, and a few days of the solitude his soul loved were within his reach.
Beyond his customary evening visit to Madame Vaughan--in whose appearance he noted a change which aroused in him apprehensions shared by her attendants and the resident doctor, but whose intelligence was even more than usually bright and sympathetic, though her delusion remained unchanged--George Wainwright went nowhere and saw no one for three days. At the end of that time his seclusion was interrupted by an unexpected visitor.
It was his father. And his father had so manifestly something important to communicate, that George, whose sensitive temperament had one feminine tendency, that which renders a man readily apprehensive of ill news, started up and said:
"There is something wrong! Miss Derinzy----"
"Sit down, George, and keep quiet," said the Doctor kindly, regarding his son's impetuosity with a good-natured critical amusement. "There's nothing in the least wrong with Miss Derinzy; and though a rather surprising event has happened, it is not at all of an unpleasant nature--indeed, quite the reverse. You have made a conquest, a most valuable conquest, my dear boy."
"Who is she?" said George, with a not very successful smile. "Have you come to propose to me on the part of a humpy heiress?"
"Not in the least. There is no she in the case. You have made a conquest of old Hildebrand, and its extent and validity are tolerably clearly proved, I think, considering that he has gotten rid of an antipathy of long standing, surmounted a deeply-rooted prejudice. He has actually written to me--to me, the man who, in his capacity of doctor and savant, he holds in abhorrence, who, I am sure, he sincerely believes to be a quack and an impostor. He has written me a most friendly original letter, a curiosity of literature even in German; but he thought proper to air his English, and the production took me nearly an hour to read."
Dr. Wainwright took a letter out of his pocket as he was speaking--a big square letter, a sheet of coarse-grained, thin, blue paper, sealed with a blotch of brown wax, and directed in a most crabbed and unmanageable hand, the address having been subsequently sprinkled, with unnecessary profusion, with glittering sticky sand. George glanced at the document with anxious eyes.
"I don't intend to inflict the reading of it on you," continued the Doctor. "I can tell you its contents in a few words. Dr. Hildebrand consents to undertake the treatment of Miss Derinzy on your account, provided the young lady be formally confided to his care by her relatives, on my authorisation; that I state in writing and with the utmost distinctness all the particulars and the duration of the case, and acknowledge that it surpasses my ability to cure it. In addition, I am to undertake to publish in one of the medical journals an account of the case--supposing Miss Derinzy to be cured, of which Hildebrand writes as a certainty--and give him all the credit."
George had punctuated his father's calm speech with various exclamations, of which the Doctor had not taken any notice; but now he said:
"My dear father, this is a wonderful occurrence; but you could not consent to such conditions."
"Indeed! and why not? Do you think I ought to be as foolish and as egotistical as that incomparably sagacious and skilful Deutscher, whose conduct I reprobated so severely, and whom you apparently expect me to imitate? No, George; professional etiquette isn't a bad thing in its way, but it should not be permitted to override common sense, humanity, and one's simple duty. If some small bullying of me, if some ludicrous shrill crowing over me, enter into the scheme of this odd-tempered sage, so be it. He shall make the experiment; and if he succeed, nobody except yourself will be more heartily rejoiced than the doctor who failed."
George shook hands with his father silently, and there was a brief pause. Dr. Wainwright resumed:
"This queer old fellow assigns the very great impression which you produced upon him as the cause of his change of mind. You are a fine fellow, it appears; a young man of high tone and of worthy sentiments, a young man devoid of the narrowness and coldness of the self-seeking and gold-loving English nation. A pang, it seems, entered the breast of the learned Deutscher when he reflected that on an impulse--whose righteousness he defends, without the smallest consideration that his observations are addressed to me--he refused to extend the blessing of his unequalled service and unfailing skill to an afflicted young lady of whose amiability it was impossible for him any doubt to entertain, considering that she was by so superior a young man beloved. Under the influence of this pang of conscience, stimulated no doubt by the wish to achieve a great success at my expense, Hildebrand begs to be put in communication with you, and with the friends of the so interesting young lady, and promises all I have already told you. And now, we must act on this without any delay. A little management will be necessary as regards the affectionate relatives of Miss Derinzy."
George was a little surprised at his father's tone. It was the first time he had departed so far from his habitual reticence in anything connected with professional matters. But a double motive was now influencing the Doctor: interest of a genuine nature in his son's love-affair, and the true anxiety for the result of a scientific experiment which is inseparable from real knowledge and skill. The family politics of the Derinzys were to be henceforth openly discussed between Dr. Wainwright and his son.
"You do not suppose they will make any objection? They can have no wish but for her recovery."
"I should have said that her recovery would not have concerned or interested them particularly a short time ago," said Dr. Wainwright calmly. "When they were not yet aware that their plan for marrying their niece to their son could not be carried into effect--the money in Paul's possession, and their own claims upon it amply satisfied, as of course they would have been--I don't think the Captain, at all events, would have concerned himself much further about the condition of his daughter-in-law, or cared whether Paul's wife were mad or sane. But all this is completely changed now, by Paul's refusal to marry his cousin. The girl's restoration to perfect sanity is the sole chance for the Derinzys getting hold of any portion of her property, by testamentary disposition or otherwise; as on her coming of age, the circumstances must, of course, be legally investigated."
"Would not Captain Derinzy be Annette's natural heir in the event of her death?" asked George.
"No," replied the Doctor. "I see you are surprised; and I must let you into a family secret of the Derinzys in order to explain this to you. They have some reason for believing, for fearing, that Miss Derinzy's mother is living. At another time I will tell you as much as I know of the story; for the present this is enough to make you understand the pressure which can be brought to bear, in order to induce Captain and Mrs. Derinzy to follow out the instructions I mean to give them."
"I understand," said George. "And now tell me what you intend to advise. I suppose I am not to appear in this at all?"
"Not at present, certainly. I should not fancy the Captain and Mrs. Derinzy knowing anything about your flight in search of old Hildebrand. It is preferable that I should gravely and authoritatively declare their niece to require the care of this eminent physician, of whose competence I am thoroughly assured; and I shall direct that Miss Derinzy be placed under his charge as authoritatively, but also in as matter-of-course a fashion, as if it were merely a case of 'the mixture as before.' There is no better way of managing people than of steadily ignoring the fact that any management is requisite, and also that remonstrance is possible. I shall adopt that course, and I answer for my success. Miss Derinzy shall be under Dr. Hildebrand's care in a week from this time; and I trust the experiment will be successful."
"Are you going there now?"
"I am going there at once."
"I should like to go with you--not into the house, you know--so as to know as soon as possible."
"Very well; come along, then. You can sit in the carriage, while I go in and see my patient. Be quick; we can discuss details on our way."
Two minutes more saw George Wainwright seated beside his father in one of the least pretentious and best-appointed broughams in London, to the displacement of sundry books and pamphlets, the indefatigable Doctor's inseparable companions.
"You are acquainted with Mrs. Stothard, I presume," said the Doctor, "and aware of her true position in the family: partly nurse, partly companion, partly keeper to my patient."
George winced as his father completed this sentence, but unperceived.
"Yes," he replied, "I do know her: a disagreeable, designing, unpleasant person--strong-minded decidedly."
"Strong-bodied too; and needing to be so sometimes, I am sorry to say."
George winced again.
"I shall give my directions toher. She must accompany Miss Derinzy. She is faithful to the girl's interest; and would be a cool and deliberate opponent of the Derinzys if there were any occasion for open opposition, which there will not be."
"She is of a strange, concentrated nature," said George. "I don't think she loves Annette."
"Oh dear no; I should say not," rejoined the Doctor. "I fancy she does not love anybody--not even herself much--and cares for nothing in the world beyond her interests; but she is wise enough to know they will be best served by her fulfilment of her duty, and practical enough to act on the knowledge--not an invariable combination. She has behaved well in Miss Derinzy's case; and she may always be relied upon to do what I tell her."
"Should no one else accompany Annette?"
"Well, yes; I think I shall send one of our own people--Collis is a capital fellow, as good as any courier at travelling, and can be trusted not to talk when he comes back. Yes, I'll send Collis," said the Doctor, in a tone of decision.
George approved of this. Collis was an ally of his. Collis was a special favourite with Madame Vaughan; and in his occasional absences, George always left him with a kind of additional charge of corridor No. 4.
"That seems a first-rate arrangement, sir," said he; "I hope you may find you can carry it out in all particulars."
Dr. Wainwright did not reply; he merely smiled. He was accustomed to carry out his arrangements in all particulars. They were nearing their destination.
"I wonder how Annette will take it: whether she will object--will dislike it very much?" George said uneasily.
His father turned towards him, and at the same minute half rose, for they had arrived at the door of the Derinzys' house.
"She will take it very well, she will not object," he said impressively; "for I am going to try an experiment on my own part. I mean to tell her the whole truth about herself."
He stepped out of the carriage and went into the house.
During Dr. Wainwright's absence, George recalled every incident of his interview with Dr. Hildebrand with mingled solicitude and amusement. The caprice and inconsistency of the old man were, on the one hand, alarming; but they were, as George felt, counterbalanced by a certain conviction of ability, of knowledge, an entire and cheerful confidence in his skill, which he irresistibly inspired. If, indeed, it should be well-founded confidence; if incidentally Annette should owe her restoration to perfect mental health to the man who loved her; if the result of this should be their marriage under circumstances which should no longer involve a defiance of prudence--then George felt that he should acknowledge there was more use in living, more good and happiness in this mortal life, than he had hitherto been inclined to believe in.
He glanced occasionally up at the windows; not that he expected to see Annette, who invariably occupied the back drawing-room.
Presently the white-muslin blinds were stirred, and Dr. Wainwright appeared at one of the windows, and in the opposite angle Captain Derinzy, who, to judge by the expression of his countenance, was, if not pronouncing his favourite ejaculation, "Oh, damn!" at least thinking it. It was quite plain the conference was not pleasant; and George could see his father's face set and stern. After a few minutes the speakers moved away from the window; and then a quarter of an hour elapsed, during which George found patient waiting very difficult. At the end of that time Dr. Wainwright reappeared, and got into the carriage.
"Well," questioned George, "what did Captain Derinzy say?"
"Never mind what Captain Derinzy said. He is a fool, as well as one or two other things I could name, if it were worth while. But it isn't. He must do as he is bid; and that is all we need care about. I have seen Mrs. Derinzy and Mrs. Stothard, and settled it all with them. Miss Derinzy will be ready to start in three days from the present."
"You did not see Annette?"
"No, of course not. My interview with her will not be an affair of twenty minutes. I shall see her early to-morrow morning, and make it all right. And now, my dear boy, I am going to set you down. I have given as much time to theaffaireDerinzy as I can spare at present. I shall write to Hildebrand to-night, and you had better write to him too, in your best German and most sentimental style. Goodbye for the present."
Dr. Wainwright pulled the check-string, the carriage stopped, and George was deposited at a street-corner. His father was immersed in a pamphlet before he was out of sight.
George saw Annette once, by special permission of Dr. Wainwright, during the three days which sufficed for her preparations. He had been strictly enjoined to avoid all agitating topics of conversation, and was not supposed by Annette to be acquainted with the facts of the case, or the nature of the interview which had taken place as arranged by Dr. Wainwright. While studiously obeying his father's injunctions, George watched Annette narrowly as he cautiously spoke of the Doctor, towards whom she had never displayed the smallest liking or confidence, and he perceived that the disclosures which had been made to her had already produced a salutary effect. There was less versatility in her manner, and more cheerfulness, and she spoke voluntarily and with grateful appreciation, although vaguely, of Dr. Wainwright. She alluded freely to her projected journey; and it was rather hard for George to conceal that he had some previous knowledge on the subject. Her manner, modest and artless as it was, could not fail to be interpreted favourably to himself by the least vain of men; and when the moment of parting came, it needed his strong sense of the all-importance of discretion to enable him to restrain his emotion, to conceal his consciousness of the impending crisis. When the interview was over, and George had taken leave of Annette, when he went away with the memory of a sweet, tranquil,sanesmile, as the last look on her face, he was glad.
No mention had been made by Mrs. Derinzy of her son, by Annette of her cousin, and George had been so absorbed in the interest of this strange and exciting turn of affairs, that he had not thought of his friend. But when he had, from a point of view whence he was not visible, watched the departure of Miss Derinzy, Mrs. Stothard, and Annette's maid, under the charge and escort of the trustworthy and carefully-instructed Collis, as he turned slowly away from the railway-station when the tidal-train had rushed out of sight, he said to himself:
"Now I must go and look after Paul."