Chapter XXI: Father and Son

Notwithstanding there was a most excellent understanding between George Wainwright and his father, and as much affection as usually subsists between men similarly related, they saw very little of each other, although inhabiting, as it were, the same house. They had scarcely any tastes or pursuits in common. When not engaged in actual practice, in study, or communicating the result of that study to the world, Dr. Wainwright liked to enjoy his life, and did enjoy it in a perfectly reputable manner, but very thoroughly. He read the last new novel, and went to the last new play of which people in society were talking; he dined, out with tolerable frequency; and took care never to miss putting in an appearance at certain _salons_, where the announcement of his name was heard with satisfaction, and at which the announcement of his presence in the next morning's newspaper was calculated to do him service.

The Doctor had the highest respect and a very deep regard for his son, whose acquirements he did not undervalue, but with whose tastes he could not sympathise; so it was that they comparatively very seldom met; and though on the occasions of their meeting there was always great cordiality on both sides, the relations between them were more those of friends than of kinsmen, more especially such nearly allied kinsmen as parent and child.

On the second evening after his return from Beachborough, George Wainwright dined at his club, and instead of going home as was almost his invariable custom, turned up St. James's Street with the intention of proceeding to his father's rooms in the Albany.

It was a dull muggy November night, and George shuddered as he made his way through the streets and walked into the hospitable arcade, at the door of which the gold-laced porter stood in astonishment at the unfamiliar apparition of Dr. Wainwright's son.

"The Doctor's in, and alone, sir, I think," said he, in reply to George's inquiry. "The same rooms, however--3 in Z; he has not moved since you were last here."

George nodded, and passed on. On his arrival at his father's rooms, which were on the first-floor, he found the oak sported; but he knew that this really meant nothing, it being the Doctor's habit to show "out," as it were, against any chance callers; while, if he were within, the initiated could always obtain admission by a peculiar knock. This knock George gave at once, and speedily heard the sound of someone moving within. Presently the doors were opened and Dr. Wainwright appeared on the threshold; he held a reading-lamp in his hand, which he raised above his head as he peered into the face of his visitor.

"George!" he cried, after an instant's scrutiny, "this is a surprise. Come in, my dear boy. How damp you are, and what a wretched night! Come in and make yourself comfortable."

"I am not disturbing you, father. I hope?" said George, as he followed the Doctor into the room. "As usual, you are in the thick of it, I see," he continued, while pointing to a pile of books, some open, some closed, with special passages marked in them by pieces of paper hanging out of the edges, and to a mass of manuscript on the Doctor's blotting pad.

"Not a bit, my dear boy, not a bit," said the Doctor; "I was merely demolishing old Dilsworth's preposterous theories as regards puerperal insanity. By-the-way, you should look at his pamphlet, George; you know quite sufficient of the subject to comprehend in an instant what an idiot he makes of himself; indeed, I should be quite glad to escape from his unsound premises and ridiculous conclusions into the region of common sense."

"You are looking very well," said George; "your hard work does not seem to do you any harm."

"No, indeed, my dear boy; the harder I work, the better I feel, I think; but I take a little more relaxation than I did, and I like to have things comfortable about me."

The Doctor gave a careless glance round the room as he spoke. He certainly had things comfortable there: the paper was a dark green; all the furniture was in black oak--not Wardour Street, nor manufactured in the desolate region of the Curtain Road in Shoreditch, but real black oak, the spoil of country mansions whose owners had gone to grief, and labourers' cottages, the tenants of which did not know the value of their possession, and were not proof against the blandishments of the Hebrew emissary, who was so flattering with his tongue and so ready with his cash. On the walls hung a large painting of a nude figure by Etty, supported on either side by a glowing landscape by Turner and a breezy sea-scape by Stanfield. A noble old bookcase stood in one corner of the room, filled with literature of all kinds--for the Doctor was an omnivorous reader, and could have passed an examination as to the characters and qualities of the three leading serials of the day, as well as in the secular and professional volumes which filled his lower shelves; while at the other end of the room a huge sideboard was covered with glass, from heavy _moyen-âge_ Bohemian to the thinnest and lightest productions of the modern blower's art.

"What will you take?" asked the Doctor. "Like myself, you are not much of a drinker, I know; but, like myself, you understand and appreciate a little of what is really excellent. Now, on that sideboard there are sherry, claret, and brandy, for all of which I can vouch. A little of the latter with some iced water?--the refrigerator is outside. Nothing? Ah, I forgot, you are dying for your smoke after dinner. Smoke away here, my boy; no one ever comes to these chambers who would be frightened at the anti-professional odour; and as for me, I rather like the smell of a pipe, and especially delight in seeing your enjoyment of it; so fire away."

George lit his pipe, and both the men pulled their easy-chairs in front of the fire. There was an undeniable likeness between them in feature as well as in figure, though the elder man was so much more _soigné_, so much better got-up, so much better preserved than the younger.

"I have been away for some time," said George, after a few puffs at his pipe; "as perhaps you know."

"Oh yes, I found it out very soon after your departure, from the desolation which seemed to have fallen upon the house down yonder. Nurses and patients joined in one chorus of regret; and as for poor old Madame Vaughan, she seemed actually to forget the loss of the child she has been bewailing for so many years in her intense sorrow at your departure."

"Poor dear _maman_!" said George, with a smile; "I feared she would miss me and my nightly visits very much. It's so long since I went away that I imagine I was regarded as a permanent fixture in the establishment."

"I confess I looked upon you in that light very much myself, George," said the Doctor, "and after your departure felt what Mr. Browning calls the 'conscience prick and memory smart' at not having previously asked why and where you were going. It is rather late to pretend any interest now you have returned, but still I would ask where you have been and why you went."

"I have been staying with some people who are friends of yours down in the west."

"Down in the west you have been staying?" said the Doctor. "Whom do I know down in the west? Penruddock--Bulteel--Holdsworth?"

"Not so far west as where those people you have just named live," said George. "I have been staying with the Derinzys."

"The Derinzys!"

And the Doctor's eyebrows went up into his large forehead, and his usually calm face expressed intense astonishment.

After a few minutes' pause, he said:

"Ah, I forgot. Young Derinzy is a colleague of yours, and a chum, I think I have heard you say."

"Yes; it was on his invitation I went down to stay with his people. He was there on leave himself at the time."

"Ah!" said the Doctor, who had recovered his equanimity. "And what did you think of his people, as you call them?"

"They were very pleasant, kind, and unaffected, and thoroughly hospitable," said George. "Mrs. Derinzy is said to be in bad health. I understand that you have been occasionally summoned down there on consultation, sir?"

He looked hard at his father; but the Doctor's face was unmoved.

"Yes," he said quietly, "I remember having been down there once or twice."

"To visit Mrs. Derinzy?"

"I was sent for to visit Mrs. Derinzy."

George paused for a moment, then he said:

"I saw a good deal of a young lady who seems to be domesticated there--a niece of the family, as I understand--Miss Annette."

"Ah, indeed! You saw a good deal of Miss Annette? And what did you think of her?"

"I thought her charming. You have seen her?"

"Oh yes, I have seen her frequently."

"And what is your impression?"

"The same as yours; Miss Annette is very charming."

The two men formed a curious contrast. George had laid by his pipe and was leaning over an arm of his chair, looking eagerly and scrutinisingly in his father's face; the Doctor lay back at his length, his comfortable dressing-gown wrapped around him, his slippered feet on the fender, his eyes fixed on the fire, while he gently tapped the palm of one hand with an ivory paper-knife which he held in the other.

"Father," said George Wainwright, suddenly rising and standing on the rug before the fire, "I want to talk to you about Annette Derinzy."

"My dear George," said the Doctor, without changing his position, "I shall be very happy to talk to you about any inmate of that house; always respecting professional confidences recollect, George."

"You must hear me to the end first, sir, and then you will see what confidences you choose to give to, and what to withhold from, me. Whatever may be your decision I shall, of course, cheerfully abide by; but it is rather an important matter, as you will find before I have finished, and I look to you for assistance and advice in it."

There was such an earnestness in the tone in which George spoke these last words, that the Doctor raised himself from his lounging position and regarded his son with astonishment.

"My dear boy," said he, putting out his hands and grasping his son's warmly, "you may depend on having both to the utmost extent of my power. We don't see much of each other, and we don't make much parade of parental and filial affection; but I don't think we like each other the less for that; and I know that I am very proud of you, and only too delighted to have any opportunity--you give me very few--of being of service to you. Now speak."

"You never told me you knew the Derinzys, father."

"My dear boy, I don't suppose I have ever mentioned the names of one-third of the persons whom I know professionally in your hearing."

"But you knew Paul was my friend."

"Exactly," said the Doctor, with a smile, "and in my knowledge of that fact you might perhaps find the reason of my silence."

"Ah!" said George, "of course I see now; it is no use beating about the bush any longer; I must come to it at last, and may as well do so at once. You will tell me, won't you? Is Annette Derinzy mad?"

The Doctor was not the least disturbed by the question, nor by the excited manner--so different from George's usual calm--in which it was put. He looked up steadily as he replied:

"Yes; I should say decidedly yes, in the broad and general acceptation of the word; for people are called mad who are occasionally subjects of mental hallucination, and at other times are remarkably clear-sighted and keen-witted, Miss Derinzy is one of these."

"Have you attended her?"

"For some years."

"And she has always been subject to these attacks?"

"Ever since I knew her. I was, of course, at first called in to her on account of them."

"Your attendance on Mrs. Derinzy has been merely a pretext?"

"Exactly; a pretext invented by the family and not by me."

"Have you any reason for imagining why this pretext was made?"

"They wished to keep everyone in ignorance of Miss Derinzy's state, and asked me to procure a trustworthy person whom I could recommend as her nurse----"

"Ah, Mrs. Stothard?"

"Exactly; Mrs. Stothard--you have made her acquaintance too?--and to visit the young lady from time to time."

"And you were asked to keep the fact of your visits from me?"

"Certainly. The Derinzys were aware that you were in the same office with their son, and were most desirous that his cousin's state should be concealed from him, above all others. Why, I never thought proper to inquire."

"I know the reason," said George, with half a sigh. "Do you think that this dreadful disease under which Miss Derinzy suffers is progressing or decreasing?"

"I am scarcely in a position to say," said the Doctor. "Were she in London, or in any place easy of access, I should be better able to judge; but now I only visit her periodically, and even that by no means regularly, merely when I have a day or two which I can steal, so that I cannot judge of the increase or decrease, or of the extent of delirium. However, the last time I was there--yes, the last time--I happened to be present when one of the attacks supervened, and it was very strong, very strong indeed."

There was another pause, and then the Doctor said lightly:

"I think I may put you into the 'box' now, George, and ask you a few questions. You saw a great deal of Miss Derinzy, you say?"

"Yes; we were together every day."

"And you deduced your opinion of her mental state from your observation of her?"

"Not entirely."

"Of course you got no hint from any of the family, not even from Captain Derinzy himself, who is sufficiently stupid and garrulous?" said the Doctor, with a recollection of his last visit to Beachborough, and the familiarity under which he had writhed.

"No, from none of them; and certainly not from Miss Derinzy's manner, which, though unusually artless and childlike, decidedly bore no trace of insanity."

"But, my dear boy, you must have had your suspicions, or you would not have asked me the questions so plainly. How did these suspicions arise?"

"From Annette's description of her illness--of her symptoms at the time of attack, the blank which fell upon her, and her sensations on her recovery; from the mere fact of Mrs. Stothard's presence there--itself sufficient evidence to any one accustomed to persons of Mrs. Stothard's class--and from words and hints which Mrs. Stothard--whether with or without intention, I have never yet been able to determine--occasionally let drop; from other facts which accidentally came to my knowledge, but of which I think you are ignorant, and which I think it is not important that you should know."

"For a superficial observer you have made a remarkable diagnosis of the case, George," said the Doctor, regarding his son with calm appreciation; "it is a thousand pities you did not take to the profession."

"Thank God, I didn't," said the son; "even as it is I have seen enough of it--or, at least, I should have said 'Thank God' two months ago; now, I almost wish I had."

"You would like to have taken up this case?"

"I should."

"You would like to have cured your friend's cousin?"

"I should indeed."

"My dear George," said the Doctor, with a smile, "I think, as I just said, it is a great pity that you did not take up the profession. You have a certain talent, and great powers of reading the human mind, but you are given to desultory studies and pursuits; and your picture-painting, piano-playing, and German philosophy, all charming as they are, would have led you away from the one study on which a man in our profession must concentrate his every thought. I don't think, my dear George, that you would have been a better--well, what common people call a better 'mad doctor' than your father; I don't think the 'old man' would have been beaten by the 'boy' in this instance."

"I am sure not, sir; I never thought that for an instant: it was not that which prompted me to say what I did. Do I understand from your last remark that Miss Derinzy's disease is beyond your cure?"

"In my opinion, beyond any one's cure, my dear George."

"God help me!" And George groaned and covered his face with his hands.

The Doctor sprang to his feet, and stepping across to where George sat, laid his hand tenderly on his head.

"My dear boy," said he, "my dear George, what does all this mean?"

"Nothing, father," said George, raising his head, and shaking himself together, as it were, "nothing, father--nothing, at least, which should lead a man to make a fool of himself; but your last words were rather a shock to me, for I love Annette Derinzy, and I had hoped----"

"You love Annette Derinzy! You, whom we have all laughed at so long for your celibate notions, to have fallen in love now, and with Annette Derinzy! My poor boy, this is a bad business--a very bad business, indeed. I don't see what is to be done to comfort you."

"Nor I, father, nor I. You distinctly say there is no hope of her cure?"

"Speaking so far as I can judge, there is none. If she were under my special care for a certain number of weeks, so that I saw her daily--Bah! I am talking as I might do to the friends of a patient. To you, my dear George, I say it would be of no use. It is a horrible verdict, but a true one--she can never be cured."

George was silent for a minute; then he said:

"Would there be any use in having a consultation?"

"My dear boy, not the slightest in the world. I will meet anyone that could be named. If this were a professional case, I should insist on a consultation, and the family apothecary would probably call in this old fool whose pamphlet I am just reviewing--Dilsworth, I mean, or Tokely, or Whittaker, or one of them; but I don't mind saying to my own son, that I am perfectly certain I know more than any of these men of my peculiar subject, and that, except for the mere sake of differing, they always in such consultations take their cue from me."

Another pause; then George said, his face suddenly lighting up:

"One moment, sir. I have some sort of recollection, when I was a student at Bonn, hearing of some German doctor who had achieved a marvellous reputation for having effected certain cures in insane cases which had been given up by everyone else."

"You mean old Hildebrand of Derrendorf," said the Doctor. "Yes, he was really a wonderful man, and did some extraordinary things. I never met him; but his cases were reported in the medical journals here, and made a great sensation at the time; but that is ten or twelve years ago, and I recollect hearing since that he had retired from practice. I should think by this time he must be dead."

"Then there is no hope," said George, sadly.

"I fear none," said his father. "If Hildebrand were alive, there would be no chance of his undertaking the case; for if I recollect rightly, he had always determined on retiring from the profession as soon as he had amassed a certain amount of money, which would enable him to pursue his studies in quiet. He was an eccentric genius too--one of the rough-and-ready school, they said, and particularly harsh and unpleasant in his manners. I recollect there was a joke that he frightened people into their wits, as other patients were frightened out of theirs by their doctors; so that he would scarcely do for Miss Annette, even if we could command his services. By-the-way, of course there was no seizure while you were in the house?"

"Nothing of the kind. She was, as I said, perfectly calm and tranquil, and wonderfully artless and childlike."

"Yes; she remains the ruin of what would have been a most charming creature. That 'little rift within the lute,' as Tennyson has it, has marred all the melody. By-the-way, you said you knew the reason of Mrs. Derinzy's having impressed upon me the necessity of silence in regard to my visits there. What was it?"

"There is no secret in it now. Mrs. Derinzy always intended that her son Paul should marry his cousin."

"I see it all! An heiress, is she not, to an enormous property? A very good thing for her son."

"Ah! that was why, ever since symptoms of the girl's mental malady first began to develop themselves, the boy was kept away at school, even during the holidays, on some pretence or another; and why, since he has been at the Stannaries Office, he has, up to this time, always gone abroad or to stay with some friends on his leave of absence."

"Exactly. The secret has been well kept from him. And do you mean to say he does not know it now?"

"At this moment he hasn't the least idea of it."

"Then your friend is also your rival, my poor George?"

"No, indeed. Paul does not care in the least for Annette, and he is deeply pledged in another quarter. It was with a view of aiding him in extricating himself from the engagement which his mother was pressing upon him that he asked me down to the Tower."

"As neat a complication as could possibly be," said the Doctor.

"There is only one person whose way out seems to me tolerably clear," said George, "and that is Paul. See here, father; I am neither of an age nor of a temperament to rave about my love, or to make much purple demonstration about anything. I shall not yet give up the idea that Annette Derinzy can be cured of the mental disease under which she suffers; and in saying this, I do not doubt your talent nor the truth of what you have said to me; but I have a kind of inward feeling that something will eventually be done to bring her right, and that I shall be the means of its accomplishment. I would not take this upon myself unless my position were duly authorised. I need not tell you--I am your son--that nothing would induce me to move in the matter, if my doing so involved the least breach of loyalty to Paul, the least breach of faith to his father or mother; but before I take a single step, I shall get from him a repetition of his decision, already twice or thrice given, in declining to become a suitor for Annette's hand; and armed with this, I shall seek an interview with his father and mother, and explain his position and my own."

"And then?" said the Doctor, with a grave face.

"And then, _qui vivra verra_."

"Well, George," said his father, laying his hand affectionately again on his son's head, "you know I wish you God speed. You have plenty of talent and endurance and pluck; and, Heaven knows, you will have need of them all."