Chapter XXIV: 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."