Dr. Wainwright's Patient: A Novel

by Edmund Yates

In his self-examination, Paul went through all the different phases of the feeling by which he had been actuated towards this girl. He recalled to himself how that at first, dazzled and captivated by her beauty, he had only thought of making her acquaintance, without the idea of any definite end; how that end had in his mind soon taken a form which, though not unnatural in a young man carelessly brought up, and living the loose life which he then led, he now blushed to recall. He recollected the grave displeasure quietly but firmly expressed by Daisy when she saw, as she very speedily did, the position which he proposed for her. And then his mind dwelt on that delicious period when there was no question of what might happen in the future, when they enjoyed and lived in the present, and it was sufficient and all in all to them.

That was the state in which they were when they parted; what was their condition now? Daisy's manner was cold and preoccupied; all the brightness and light, all pretty ways and affectionate regards which she had displayed for him during the summer, seemed to have died out with the summer's heat, and Paul felt that he stood to her in a far more distant position than that which he had occupied at the very commencement of their acquaintance.

He had his hold to establish on her then, to be sure, but he was not without hope or encouragement. Now he had neither to cheer him, and the work was all to be done again. Good God, what did she require of him! He would willingly brave the open frowns and whispered hints of society, of which he had at one time stood in such mortal fear, and would be only too delighted to make her his wife. She knew this. Since his return he had plainly told her so; but the declaration had not merely failed in obtaining a definite answer from her, but had made no difference in her manner towards him. He had argued with her, scolded her, tasked her with the change, and implored her to let him know the reason of it; but he had obtained no satisfactory reply.

"It was his fancy," she said; "she was exactly the same as when they had parted. The life which he had been leading at home had evidently had a very bad effect upon him. She had always feared his return to 'his people,' of whom he thought so much, and with whom he was so afraid of bringing her into contact."

Good heavens, why twit him with that past and bygone folly! Had he not offered to set these people at defiance, and make her his wife?--could he do more?

She replied very quietly that she did not want any family rupture on her account, and that as to the question of their marriage, there was no necessity for any hurry in that matter; and indeed they had very much better wait until they had proved that they were more thoroughly suitable to each other.

And then Paul Derinzy chafed against his chain, and longed to break it, but dared not. He complained bitterly enough of her bad treatment of him, but he loved her too dearly to renounce the chance of bringing her into a better frame of mind, and restoring to himself the darling Daisy of his passionate worship.

He had no one in whom he could confide, no one whose advice he could seek, in this crisis of his life. George Wainwright was away; and to whom else could he turn? Although he and his mother were in their way very fond of each other, there had never been any kind of confidence between them--certainly not that confidence which would have enabled him to lay bare his heart before her, and ask for her counsel and consolation. Mrs. Derinzy was essentially a worldly woman, and Paul knew perfectly that she would scout the idea of his marrying, as she considered, beneath him; and instead of pouring balm into his wounded spirit, would, after her fashion, try to cicatrise the hurt by telling him that he had had a fortunate escape from an unworthy alliance. His father, long trained in habits of obedience, would have repeated his wife's opinion. Had he been allowed to give his own, it would have been flavoured with that worldly wisdom of which he was so proud, and would probably have been to the effect that, however one treated young persons in that position of life, one certainly did not marry them, and that he could not possibly imagine any son of his doing anything so infernally stupid.

Those who had known Paul Derinzy as the light-hearted, light-headed young man of society, enjoying himself in every possible way, extracting the greatest amount of pleasure out of every hour of his life, and allowing no sense of responsibility to weigh upon him, would hardly have recognised him in the pale, care-worn man with hollow cheeks who might be seen occasionally eating his solitary dinner at the club, but who never joined the gay circle in the smoking-room, or was to be found in any of those haunts of pleasure which formerly he had so assiduously frequented. With Daisy always in his mind, he had an irresistible inclination to moon about those places where he had been in the habit of seeing her.

In the dusk of the evening he would walk for hours up and down George Street, in front of Madame Clarisse's house, sometimes fancying he recognised Daisy's reflection on the window-blind, and then being half tempted to rush across and seek admission to her at any cost. And he would go down to the spot in Kensington Gardens--now a blank desert of misery--and wander up and down, picturing to himself the delightful summer lounging there, and recalling every item of the conversation which had then been held.