GEORGE'S DETERMINATION.
Paul Derinzy's was not the only perturbed spirit in the Principal
Registrar's room of the Stannaries Office. To his own extreme
astonishment, George Wainwright found that his equable spirits and calm
philosophic temperament had entirely deserted him, and that he had
become silent, moody, and, he was afraid, sometimes irritable. He knew
perfectly the cause of this change, and did not attempt to disguise
it from himself. He knew that he was suffering from that malady which
sooner or later attacks us all, and which, like many other maladies, is
more safely got over and disposed of when it comes upon us in youth.
That period had passed with George Wainwright. He shook his head rather
grimly as he surveyed in the glass the brown crisp hair, already
beginning to be sprinkled with gray, and the lines round the mouth and
eyes, which seemed to have increased at such a confoundedly quick rate
lately; and he did not attempt to fight with the malady. He seemed to
confess that he could make no head against it, and that his best plan
was to succumb to its force, and let it do with him as it would.
"It has come to me somewhat late in life, and I suppose it is the
worse on that account," said honest old George to himself; "but I see
plainly there is no use in attempting to resist it, and that mine may
be looked upon as a settled case. Strange, too, how it has all come
about that my going down into Devonshire to rescue Paul from a scrape
should have been the cause of my falling into one myself, and into a
far more helpless one than that out of which he wanted my help. He has,
at all events, the resources of hope. Time may soften the parental
anger; and even if it does not, he can afford to set it at defiance, so
far as Annette is concerned; while as for Daisy, as he calls her, if
he chooses to ignore conventionality, and what the world will think,
and Mrs. Grundy will say--and it doesn't seem to me to be a very hard
task to do that, though harder perhaps for a dashing young fellow like
him than a middle-aged hermit like myself--he may marry the girl, and,
like the people in the story-books, live happy ever after. But my
look-out is very different. I have examined mine own heart. God knows,
with as much strict search as I could bring to bear upon it, and I
feel that, so far as Annette is concerned, I am irretrievably---- And
I never thought I could love anyone at all in this kind of way. I am
perfectly certain that I shall never love anyone else; and therein lies
the utter hopelessness of the case. I buoy myself up with the belief
that this darling child is, I may almost say, attached to me--that she
feels for me what in another person would be affection and attachment.
She says that I understand her better than anyone else; and that
she is happier in my society than in that of any other person. What
more could the wisest among us say to show their preference? And yet
the hopelessness, the utter hopelessness! That conversation with my
father has left no doubt on my mind that he, at all events, regards
her malady as incurable; and though the fact of my comprehending her
so thoroughly might possibly have some good effect upon her disease,
and at all events would tend to mitigate and soften her affliction,
any thought of marriage with her would be impossible. Even I myself,
who am regarded, I know, by these lads at the office as a kind of
social iconoclast, stand aghast at the idea, and at once acknowledge
my terror of Mrs. Grundy's remark. And yet it seems so hard to give
her up. My life, which was such a happy one, in its quiet, and what
might almost be called its solitude, seems to attend me no more. I am
restless and uneasy; I find no solace in my books or my work, and have
even neglected poor _maman_, so occupied are my thoughts with this one
subject. I cannot shake it off, I cannot rid myself of its influence.
It is ever present on my mind, and unless something happens to effect a
radical change in my state, I shall knock myself up and be ill. I feel
that coming upon me to a certainty. A good sharp travel is the only
thing which would be of any use: the remedy experienced by the man of
whom my father is so fond of talking--who found relief from the utter
prostration and misery which he underwent at the death of his only son
by the intense study of mathematics--would not help me one atom. I
cannot apply my mind--or what I call my mind--to anything just now. The
figure of this girl comes between me and the paper; her voice is always
ringing in my ears; her constrained eager regard, gradually melting
into quiet confidence, is ever before me: and, in fact, I begin to feel
myself a thorough specimen of an old fool hopelessly in love."
George Wainwright judged no man harshly but himself. When he appeared
at the bar of his own tribunal, he conducted the cross-examination with
Spartan sternness; and this was the result--he saw the impossibility of
fighting against the passion which had obtained such mastery over him;
and he had almost made up his mind to seek safety in flight--to plead
ill-health, and to go away from England on some prolonged travel--when
an incident occurred which altered his determination.
One morning he was sitting at his desk at the Stannaries Office,
mechanically opening his correspondence and arranging the papers
before him--as usual he had been the first to arrive, and none of his
colleagues were present--when Paul Derinzy entered the room. George
noticed with regret that his friend's appearance had altered very
much for the worse during the last few days. His face looked wan and
peaked, his usual sallow complexion had changed to a dead-white, and
the expression of his eyes was dull and lustreless. There never was
much power of work in Paul; but there had been next to nothing lately.
George had noticed him sitting at his desk, his eyes bent vacantly on
the paper before him, his thoughts evidently very far away. Since their
return, there has not been very much interchange of confidence between
them; but George knows perfectly well that matters are not going quite
straight in Paul's relations with Daisy, and that the lad is spiritless
and miserable in consequence. George Wainwright's great heart would at
any time have compassionated his friend's position; but under present
circumstances he was especially able to appreciate and sympathise with
the position.
"At it as usual, George," said Paul, after the first curt salutation.
"How you have the heart to stick to this confounded grind in the way
you do, quite beats me. I begin to loathe the place, and the papers,
and all the infernal lot." And with an indignant sweep of his arm he
cleared a space in front of him, and resting his face on his hands, sat
contemplating his friend.
"Begin to loathe, my dear Paul?" said George, with a slight smile; "I
thought you had progressed pretty well long ago in your hatred to the
state of life to which you have been called. Yes, I am grinding away as
usual, and indeed have put a little extra power on just now."
"What!" said Paul, with a look of disgust at a large array of tape-tied
official documents neatly spread out before his friend; "are those
infernal papers heavier than ever?"
"No, not that," said George; "there seems to be about the usual number
of them; but I want to make a clearance, and not to leave the slightest
arrear when I go away."
"Go away!" repeated Paul. "What do you mean? You have only just
returned; you don't mean to say you are going away again?"
"That is really delicious," said George; "you, who have had your full
six weeks' leave, turn round and fling my poor little fortnight in my
teeth. Yes, I actually purpose taking the remainder of my holiday; a
great crime, no doubt, but one which must be excused under special
circumstances. I am a little overworked, and not a little out of sorts;
and I find I must get away at once."
"Not at once," said Paul, with a half-comic look at his friend; "I
don't think I would go away just now, if I were you."
"Why not?" asked George.
"Because you might miss seeing some people for whom you have, as I
believe, a great regard," said Paul, with the same quaint expression.
"And they are----"
"My people. If the fashionable chronicler took any notice of them, he
would probably report: 'We understand that Captain and Mrs. Derinzy,
accompanied by their niece Miss Annette Derinzy, will shortly arrive at
94, Queen Anne Street, Cavendish Square, from their marine residence,
The Tower, Beachborough, Dorsetshire.'"
"You are chaffing, I suppose," said George, who had laid down his
paper, and was looking up eagerly.
"Not the least in the world; I never was more serious in my life."
"Do you mean to say that they are coming to town, then?"
"I do, indeed. I had a letter from my mother this morning; in it she
says that she requires change; but by what I gather from the context,
I have a strong notion that the corruption of good manners by evil
communications has taken place. Which, being interpreted, means this:
that since you and I were down there, and fanned the governor's
reminiscences of London and his previous life into a flame, he has
grown so unbearable, that my mother has been forced to knock under
to him, and intends bringing him up, to let him have the slightest
suspicion of a fling."
"Exactly," said George; "I daresay you are right."
"And there is another view of the question, in which I fancy I am
right too. It has long struck me that my mother's reason for keeping
Annette in such strict seclusion, carrying her away to that ghastly
place down there, and never letting anyone see her, was that she might
be kept from all temptation in the shape of other young men, and grow
up solely and entirely for me, my behoof and purposes. It seems to me
tolerably plain now, that since our visit down there my mother sees
that this notable plan is knocked on the head; as there is no chance
of my marrying my cousin, the necessity for keeping her in seclusion
no longer exists; and therefore she is to be brought to London, and
allowed, to a certain extent, to mix in society; and I think I know
someone, old man," continued Paul, looking with a kindly smile towards
his friend, "who will not be displeased at that result, however it may
have been brought about."
He was surprised to see George Wainwright turn suddenly pale, and to
mark the tremulous tones of voice, as he said:
"You are a good fellow, Paul, and my own dear friend, to whom I can
talk with all perfect frankness and honesty. I have never mentioned
this matter to you before, never offered you my confidence on the
subject, although I guessed from your manner once or twice, while down
at The Tower, that you had some idea of my attachment to your cousin.
I am sure I need not tell you, who know me so well, that, so long as
there was the remotest chance of any alliance between you and her,
even though it had been what, in the jargon of the world, is called a
marriage of convenience, and not one in which on either side affection
is supposed to have a part, I should never have dreamed of interposing
any obstacle, or of even allowing myself to entertain any strong
feeling towards her. I say that boldly now, for I think at that time I
could have exercised sufficient self-restraint, had there been occasion
for it, though now, God knows, my affection for her is quite beyond my
control."
He paused for a moment, and Paul took advantage of the opportunity
to rise from his seat, and walking round the desk, to lay his hand
affectionately on his friend's broad shoulders.
"Of course, I know that, old man; of course, I know that you are the
soul of honour and truth, and that you would have eaten your heart
quietly, and never said a word. But there is no occasion for all that
now, thank Heaven! I am in a nice mess with my business; but there's no
reason why you shouldn't be happy."
"My dear Paul, any future for me and Annette together is impossible."
"What utter rubbish! I am perfectly confident of my own power of
squaring my mother, and bringing her to see the thing in a proper
light, now that she knows that there is no chance with me; and the
governor's sure to follow as a matter of course; or supposing they
remained obstinate, and refuse to give their consent, Annette loses
her fortune, that's all. You've got quite enough to keep her in amply
sufficient style; and for the matter of that, some time or other the
money must come to me, and you and she should have as much of it as
you liked--all of it, if you wanted it. Money's no good to me, poor
miserable beggar that I am."
"It is not a question of money, Paul, or of Mrs. Derinzy's consent;
there's something very far worse behind--something which I discovered
when we were down at Beachborough together, and which I have hitherto
kept back from you, partly because the revelation of it could do no
good, and partly because I had a certain delicacy in telling you
of what must, I fear, deprive certain persons of a portion of the
estimation in which they have hitherto held me."
"Go on," said Paul quickly; "I haven't the least idea of what you mean."
"There was another reason," said George, "for keeping your cousin
secluded in the country besides that which you have named. I had some
faint glimmering of it when I first arrived at The Tower, and I heard
of your mother's illness and my father's periodical visits. Before I
left, I took means to verify my suspicions; and since I returned to
town, I have had an opportunity of confirming them. Beyond question or
doubt, your cousin Annette is the victim of a mental disorder. Paul,
she is--that I, above all men, should have to tell you!--she is mad!"
"Good God!" cried Paul Derinzy, starting to his feet, "you are mad
yourself to talk so!--Whose authority have you for this statement?"
"The best of all," said George Wainwright, sadly. "The authority of the
physician in attendance upon her--the authority is my own father. This
comes to supplement my own experience and my own observation. There is
no doubt about it, Paul; would to God there was!"
"And my mother--she must have known all this--she could not possibly
have been ignorant of it!" cried Paul.
George Wainwright was silent.
"And she would have let me marry Annette without any revelation of the
mystery, for the sake of that wretched money; she would have embittered
my future, and rendered the rest of my life hopeless and miserable.
What a shameful conspiracy! What a base and wicked plot!"
"Hush, Paul!" said George Wainwright, laying his hand on his arm;
"recollect of whom you are speaking."
"It is that that makes it all the worse," cried Paul. "To think that
she, my mother, should have been so besotted by the hope of greed as to
shut her eyes to all the misery which she was heaping up in store for
me. It is too horrible to think of. What a narrow chance I had! What a
providential escape!"
"Yes," said George, in a low voice, "you have escaped."
There was something in his friend's tone which touched Paul's heart at
once.
"What a selfish brute I am," he cried, "to have been thinking of myself
and to have forgotten you! How much worse it is for you than for me!
My dear George, I never cared for Annette, and set my affections
elsewhere; so that beyond the pity which I naturally feel for her, and
the shock which I have experienced in learning that my mother could
have been so short-sighted and so culpable, there is nothing to touch
me in the matter. But you--you loved her for herself; you won her; for
I never saw her take to or be interested in anyone so much before; and
now you have to give her up."
George's face was buried in his hands. He groaned heavily, but he said
nothing.
"Is there no hope?" asked Paul; "no hope of any cure? Is she
irrecoverably insane?"
"My father seems to say so," said George, looking up. "I had a long
interview with him the other day; told him the whole story, and
confided to him all my feelings. He was kindness itself; but he gave me
no hope."
"But, good heavens, it seems so wonderful! Here one sees her walking
about, and talking in an ordinary manner, and yet you tell me that she
is mad!"
"We only have seen her at her best times, my dear Paul. No one has seen
her at her worst, except perhaps my father and Mrs. Stothard. These
intermittent fits are, they tell me, a very bad sign. The chance were
better, if the illness were more constant and protracted."
"It is too horrible!" cried Paul again. "George, what will you do?"
"Bear it, my boy," said his friend; "bear it as I have done things
before now, and get on as best I can. I thought of going away, to
endeavour in change by the excitement of travel to get rid of the
thoughts which are now constantly occupying my mind, and I hope to
return in a healthier state. But what you have just told me has altered
my plan. The notion of seeing her once again, and speedily, has taken
possession of me, and I confess I am not strong enough to fight against
it. When do they come up to town?"
"At once, I believe. My mother says the governor's temper is
unbearable, and that her only hope of any peace and comfort lies in
bringing him to London. You will remain to see them?"
"Yes. As I said before, I cannot resist the temptation."
"Perhaps there may be hope even yet," said Paul. "Every one noticed how
much better she was in health and spirits when in your society."
"I fear that improvement will not be permanent," said George, shaking
his head sadly. "There was but one chance, and we seem to have lost
even that."
"What was it?" asked Paul.
"Well, there was a German doctor named Hildebrand, who lived at
Dorrendorf, who achieved a wonderful reputation for his treatment in
cases of mania. Even my father--who had had long disputations and
polemical controversies with him, carried on in the medical journals of
Berlin and London--allowed that he had performed some wonderful cures,
although the means by which the end was arrived at were, he professed
to consider, unprofessional and undignified."
"Well, why don't we get this old fellow to come over and see Annette
at once? Dr. Wainwright wouldn't stand upon ceremony now that he knows
the real state of the case; and money's no object, you know, George; we
could stand any amount among us, if we could only get poor Annette put
right."
"You may be sure I have thought of that," said George. "I spoke to my
father about it, and know he would be delighted to aid in any way in
getting old Hildebrand's advice, even though the method to be employed
should be contrary to his ideas. But the old man has retired from
practice for some time, and nothing can be heard of him. I have sent
to some of my correspondents in Germany; but from the answers I have
received, I am led to believe that he is dead."
"That is bad news, indeed," said Paul. "The intelligence about poor
Annette has come upon me so suddenly, that I seem scarcely able to
comprehend it."
"Your never having seen her under one of these attacks, and having only
a recollection of her as being always bright and cheerful, would tend
to prevent the realisation," said George. "I too always strive to think
of her under her most cheerful aspect. God knows I would not willingly
see her under any other."
"It is a deuced bad look-out, there's no denying," said Paul; then
added gloomily, "everything seems to be going to the bad just now."
"I have been so wrapped-up in my own troubles that I have forgotten
yours, Paul," said George. "Tell me, how are matters getting on between
you and your young friend? Not very brilliantly, I fear, by your tone."
"Brilliantly! No, anything but that. Infernal, I should say," said
Paul. "I can't make her out; she seems perfectly changed since my
absence from London. I am sure something must have happened; but I
don't know what it is."
"You recollect my hint to you at Beachborough about Theseus and
Ariadne? You burst out into a rage then; what do you think now?"
"I don't know what to think," said Paul, "though it looks something
like it, I am bound to confess."
"Then why don't you be a man, and break off the whole business at once?"
"Now, I like that," said Paul; "I really like that suggestion from a
man who has been talking as you have been talking to me. Do you think
you could?"
"No, I am sure I could not," said George. "It is the old story: giving
advice is the easiest thing in the world; following it the most
difficult. I----"
"Hullo! here's Billy."
It was indeed Mr. Dunlop, who entered the room at the moment, and stood
in the doorway regarding the two friends, who were leaning over the
desk together, with a comical aspect.
"A very pretty picture indeed," said Mr. Dunlop. "'The Misers,' by
Rembrandt, I think, or some other elderly parties of an obscure age.
Whence this thusness? Do I intrude? If so, I am perfectly ready to
withdraw. No one can ever say that W.D. forced himself into his office
at times when his presence was not required there."
"Come in, and don't be an idiot, Billy," said Paul. "George and I were
just talking over some private matters; but we have finished now."
"Private matters!" said Mr. Dunlop. "And by the look of you they must
have been what the dramatist calls of 'serious import.' Confide in me.
Come, rest on this bosom, my own stricken Deer-inzy. William is ready
to give you advice, assistance, anything, indeed--except money. Of
that latter article he is generally scarce; and Mr. Michael O'Dwyer
has recently borrowed of him the attenuated remains of his quarterly
stipend."
"No, Billy; thanks all the same; I don't think you can be of much use
to either of us just now," said George, with a smile. "If you really
are serious in what you said just now about money, you can have what
you want from me."
"Thanks, generous stranger," said Billy. "You are like the rich uncle,
who, from his purse containing notes to exactly double the amount--a
favourite character in dramatic fiction, but one whom I have never yet
had the pleasure of meeting in private life. No, I shall get on very
well until the Chancellor of the Exchequer shells out."
And then Mr. Courtney came in, followed shortly by one or two other
men, and the conversation dropped.
Paul Derinzy had rightly divined the reason of his mother's
determination to come to London for a time. The Captain's
long-conceived disgust at the dulness of Beachborough had wrought him
into such a state of insubordination, that even his wife's authority
was no longer sufficient for his control. Mrs. Derinzy saw plainly
that some immediate steps must be taken; the Captain must go to London
to see his old friends and his old haunts, and to enjoy himself once
more after his former fashion. It would be unadvisable to let him go
alone; and as Mrs. Derinzy had the good sense to see that her favourite
project regarding the marriage of Paul and Annette was finally knocked
on the head, there was no longer so much reason for keeping the girl
in the seclusion of the country; and the head of the family therefore
determined that they should all proceed to London together.
Principally for George's sake, for he had not much care of his own in
the matter, Paul made no opposition to the proposed arrangement. He
had perfectly made up his mind that the presence of his family in town
should make no alteration in his own manner of life; he would not be
bound to them in any way, and would consider himself just as free as he
was previously to their arrival. George would have an opportunity of
seeing Annette, which would be good gained for him, poor old fellow;
and as for himself, he seemed to care little about what became of him;
his every thought was centred and bound up in Daisy. If she treated him
well, he should be thoroughly happy; if she threw him over, as indeed
it looked somewhat likely she would, well, he should go to the bad at
once, and there would be an end of it.
In due course of time the family arrived at the furnished house which
had been taken for them in Queen Anne Street, and Paul and George went
together to call there. The Captain was not at home; he had already
begun to taste the sweets of liberty; had gone to the club, of which
he still remained a supernumerary member; had already accepted several
dinner engagements; was proposing to himself pleasure parties _galore_
But they found Mrs. Derinzy, and after a short interview with her,
Annette entered the room. She seemed already to have benefited by the
change. Both George and Paul thought her looking unusually pretty and
cheerful, and the blush which mounted to her cheeks when she saw and
recognised the former, was as gratifying to him who had caused it, as
it was astonishing to Mrs. Derinzy. Before they took their leave, the
young men had arranged to dine there two days hence, when Mrs. Derinzy
said the Captain should be present, and she would allow him to bring
some of his old friends to meet them.
George, however, was not destined to be one of the guests at that
dinner. When Paul arrived at the office the next morning, he found a
note from his friend, couched in these terms:
"DEAR P.,--Rather an odd thing occurred last night. Some men were
down here at my den, and among them Wraxall, who has just returned
from a long tour on the Continent. He brought some sketch-books, and
in glancing over them I was much struck with the extraordinary head
of an old man. On my pointing it out to Wraxall, he told me it was
drawn from life, and was indeed a portrait of an old German named
Hildebrand. He had been celebrated as a 'mad doctor' in his day, and
he was now resident at Mayence. Wraxall had seen him only ten days
ago. Recollecting our last conversation when Hildebrand's name was
mentioned, you will not be surprised to hear that I leave by this
morning's tidal train for Brussels and the Rhine.
"Make my excuses to the Chief, and tell him I am taking the remainder
of my leave. You shall hear, of course, as soon as I have anything to
say. God bless you, my dear boy. I cannot help feeling that there is
yet a gleam of hope.
"Yours ever,
"G.W."
"A gleam of hope," said Paul, as he finished the perusal of this note.
"I hope so, indeed, my dear old man; but it is but a gleam, after all."