Chapter XXIX: Relenting

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 the _volage_ fickleness 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 not _lost_. 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 physician _en 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 because _I_ had 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 concerns _you_. 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 about _her_."

"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 to _her_. 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 the _affaire_ Derinzy 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, _sane_ smile, 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."