DERRICK VAUGHAN--NOVELIST

By Edna Lyall

 'It is only through deep sympathy that a man can become a great artist. '--Lewes's Life of Goethe. 

 'Sympathy is feeling related to an object, whilst sentiment is the same feeling seeking itself alone. '--Arnold Toynbee. 

Chapter I. 

'Nothing fills a child's mind like a large old mansion; better if un- orpartially occupied; peopled with the spirits of deceased members of thecounty and Justices of the Quorum. Would I were buried in the peopledsolitude of one, with my feelings at seven years old!'--From Letters ofCharles Lamb. 

To attempt a formal biography of Derrick Vaughan would be out of thequestion, even though he and I have been more or less thrown togethersince we were both in the nursery. But I have an odd sort of wish tonote down roughly just a few of my recollections of him, and to show howhis fortunes gradually developed, being perhaps stimulated to make theattempt by certain irritating remarks which one overhears now oftenenough at clubs or in drawing-rooms, or indeed wherever one goes. "Derrick Vaughan, " say these authorities of the world of small-talk, with that delightful air of omniscience which invariably characterisesthem, "why, he simply leapt into fame. He is one of the favourites offortune. Like Byron, he woke one morning and found himself famous. "

Now this sounds well enough, but it is a long way from the truth, andI--Sydney Wharncliffe, of the Inner Temple, Barrister-at-law--desire, while the past few years are fresh in my mind, to write a true versionof my friend's career. 

Everyone knows his face. Has it not appeared in 'Noted Men, 'and--gradually deteriorating according to the price of the paper andthe quality of the engraving--in many another illustrated journal? Yetsomehow these works of art don't satisfy me, and, as I write, I seebefore me something very different from the latest photograph by Messrs. Paul and Reynard. 

I see a large-featured, broad-browed English face, a trifleheavy-looking when in repose, yet a thorough, honest, manly face, witha complexion neither dark nor fair, with brown hair and moustache, andwith light hazel eyes that look out on the world quietly enough. Youmight talk to him for long in an ordinary way and never suspect that hewas a genius; but when you have him to yourself, when some consciousnessof sympathy rouses him, he all at once becomes a different being. Hisquiet eyes kindle, his face becomes full of life--you wonder that youever thought it heavy or commonplace. Then the world interrupts in someway, and, just as a hermit-crab draws down its shell with a comicallyrapid movement, so Derrick suddenly retires into himself. 

Thus much for his outer man. 

For the rest, there are of course the neat little accounts of hisbirthplace, his parentage, his education, etc. , etc. , published with thelist of his works in due order, with the engravings in the illustratedpapers. But these tell us little of the real life of the man. 

Carlyle, in one of his finest passages, says that 'A true delineation ofthe smallest man and his scene of pilgrimage through life is capable ofinteresting the greatest men; that all men are to an unspeakable degreebrothers, each man's life a strange emblem of every man's; and thathuman portraits faithfully drawn are of all pictures the welcomest onhuman walls. ' And though I don't profess to give a portrait, but merelya sketch, I will endeavour to sketch faithfully, and possibly in thefuture my work may fall into the hands of some of those worthy peoplewho imagine that my friend leapt into fame at a bound, or of thosecomfortable mortals who seem to think that a novel is turned out aseasily as water from a tap. 

There is, however, one thing I can never do:--I am quite unable toput into words my friend's intensely strong feeling with regard to thesacredness of his profession. It seemed to me not unlike the feelingof Isaiah when, in the vision, his mouth had been touched with thecelestial fire. And I can only hope that something of this may be readbetween my very inadequate lines. 

Looking back, I fancy Derrick must have been a clever child. But he wasnot precocious, and in some respects was even decidedly backward. I cansee him now--it is my first clear recollection of him--leaning backin the corner of my father's carriage as we drove from the Newmarketstation to our summer home at Mondisfield. He and I were small boys ofeight, and Derrick had been invited for the holidays, while his twinbrother--if I remember right--indulged in typhoid fever at Kensington. He was shy and silent, and the ice was not broken until we passedSilvery Steeple. 

"That, " said my father, "is a ruined church; it was destroyed byCromwell in the Civil Wars. "

In an instant the small quiet boy sitting beside me was transformed. Hiseyes shone; he sprang forward and thrust his head far out of the window, gazing at the old ivy-covered tower as long as it remained in sight. 

"Was Cromwell really once there?" he asked with breathless interest. 

"So they say, " replied my father, looking with an amused smile at theface of the questioner, in which eagerness, delight, and reverence weremingled. "Are you an admirer of the Lord Protector?"

"He is my greatest hero of all, " said Derrick fervently. "Do youthink--oh, do you think he possibly can ever have come to Mondisfield?"

My father thought not, but said there was an old tradition that theHall had been attacked by the Royalists, and the bridge over the moatdefended by the owner of the house; but he had no great belief in thestory, for which, indeed, there seemed no evidence. 

Derrick's eyes during this conversation were something wonderful to see, and long after, when we were not actually playing at anything, I usedoften to notice the same expression stealing over him, and would cryout, "There is the man defending the bridge again; I can see him in youreyes! Tell me what happened to him next!"

Then, generally pacing to and fro in the apple walk, or sitting astridethe bridge itself, Derrick would tell me of the adventures of myancestor, Paul Wharncliffe, who performed incredible feats of valour, and who was to both of us a most real person. On wet days he wrotehis story in a copy-book, and would have worked at it for hours had mymother allowed him, though of the manual part of the work he had, andhas always retained, the greatest dislike. I remember well the comicalending of this first story of his. He skipped over an interval of tenyears, represented on the page by ten laboriously made stars, and didfor his hero in the following lines:

"And now, reader, let us come into Mondisfield churchyard. There arethree tombstones. On one is written, 'Mr. Paul Wharncliffe. '"

The story was no better than the productions of most eight-year-oldchildren, the written story at least. But, curiously enough, it provedto be the germ of the celebrated romance, 'At Strife, ' which Derrickwrote in after years; and he himself maintains that his picture of lifeduring the Civil War would have been much less graphic had he not livedso much in the past during his various visits to Mondisfield. 

It was at his second visit, when we were nine, that I remember hisannouncing his intention of being an author when he was grown up. Mymother still delights in telling the story. She was sitting at work inthe south parlour one day, when I dashed into the room calling out:

"Derrick's head is stuck between the banisters in the gallery; comequick, mother, come quick!"

She ran up the little winding staircase, and there, sure enough, inthe musician's gallery, was poor Derrick, his manuscript and pen on thefloor and his head in durance vile. 

"You silly boy!" said my mother, a little frightened when she found thatto get the head back was no easy matter, "What made you put it through?"

"You look like King Charles at Carisbrooke, " I cried, forgetting howmuch Derrick would resent the speech. 

And being released at that moment he took me by the shoulders and gaveme an angry shake or two, as he said vehemently, "I'm not like KingCharles! King Charles was a liar. "

I saw my mother smile a little as she separated us. 

"Come, boys, don't quarrel, " she said. "And Derrick will tell me thetruth, for indeed I am curious to know why he thrust his head in such aplace. "

"I wanted to make sure, " said Derrick, "whether Paul Wharncliffe couldsee Lady Lettice, when she took the falcon on her wrist below in thepassage. I mustn't say he saw her if it's impossible, you know. Authorshave to be quite true in little things, and I mean to be an author. "

"But, " said my mother, laughing at the great earnestness of the hazeleyes, "could not your hero look over the top of the rail?"

"Well, yes, " said Derrick. "He would have done that, but you see it'sso dreadfully high and I couldn't get up. But I tell you what, Mrs. Wharncliffe, if it wouldn't be giving you a great deal of trouble--I'msorry you were troubled to get my head back again--but if you wouldjust look over, since you are so tall, and I'll run down and act LadyLettice. "

"Why couldn't Paul go downstairs and look at the lady in comfort?" askedmy mother. 

Derrick mused a little. 

"He might look at her through a crack in the door at the foot of thestairs, perhaps, but that would seem mean, somehow. It would be a pity, too, not to use the gallery; galleries are uncommon, you see, and youcan get cracked doors anywhere. And, you know, he was obliged to look ather when she couldn't see him, because their fathers were on differentsides in the war, and dreadful enemies. "

When school-days came, matters went on much in the same way; there wasalways an abominably scribbled tale stowed away in Derrick's desk, andhe worked infinitely harder than I did, because there was always beforehim this determination to be an author and to prepare himself forthe life. But he wrote merely from love of it, and with no idea ofpublication until the beginning of our last year at Oxford, when, having reached the ripe age of one-and-twenty, he determined to delay nolonger, but to plunge boldly into his first novel. 

He was seldom able to get more than six or eight hours a week for it, because he was reading rather hard, so that the novel progressed butslowly. Finally, to my astonishment, it came to a dead stand-still. 

I have never made out exactly what was wrong with Derrick then, thoughI know that he passed through a terrible time of doubt and despair. Ispent part of the Long with him down at Ventnor, where his mother hadbeen ordered for her health. She was devoted to Derrick, and as far asI can understand, he was her chief comfort in life. Major Vaughan, thehusband, had been out in India for years; the only daughter was marriedto a rich manufacturer at Birmingham, who had a constitutional disliketo mothers-in-law, and as far as possible eschewed their company; whileLawrence, Derrick's twin brother, was for ever getting into scrapes, andwas into the bargain the most unblushingly selfish fellow I ever had thepleasure of meeting. 

"Sydney, " said Mrs. Vaughan to me one afternoon when we were in thegarden, "Derrick seems to me unlike himself, there is a division betweenus which I never felt before. Can you tell me what is troubling him?"

She was not at all a good-looking woman, but she had a very sweet, wistful face, and I never looked at her sad eyes without feeling readyto go through fire and water for her. I tried now to make light ofDerrick's depression. 

"He is only going through what we all of us go through, " I said, assuming a cheerful tone. "He has suddenly discovered that life is agreat riddle, and that the things he has accepted in blind faith are, after all, not so sure. "

She sighed. 

"Do all go through it?" she said thoughtfully. "And how many, I wonder, get beyond?"

"Few enough, " I replied moodily. Then, remembering my role, --"ButDerrick will get through; he has a thousand things to help him whichothers have not, --you, for instance. And then I fancy he has a sort ofinsight which most of us are without. "

"Possibly, " she said. "As for me, it is little that I can do for him. Perhaps you are right, and it is true that once in a life at any rate weall have to go into the wilderness alone. "

That was the last summer I ever saw Derrick's mother; she took a chillthe following Christmas and died after a few days' illness. But I havealways thought her death helped Derrick in a way that her life mighthave failed to do. For although he never, I fancy, quite recovered fromthe blow, and to this day cannot speak of her without tears in his eyes, yet when he came back to Oxford he seemed to have found the answer tothe riddle, and though older, sadder and graver than before, had quitelost the restless dissatisfaction that for some time had clouded hislife. In a few months, moreover, I noticed a fresh sign that he was outof the wood. Coming into his rooms one day I found him sitting in thecushioned window-seat, reading over and correcting some sheets of bluefoolscap. 

"At it again?" I asked. 

He nodded. 

"I mean to finish the first volume here. For the rest I must be inLondon. "

"Why?" I asked, a little curious as to this unknown art of novel-making. 

"Because, " he replied, "one must be in the heart of things to understandhow Lynwood was affected by them. "

"Lynwood! I believe you are always thinking of him!" (Lynwood was thehero of his novel. )

"Well, so I am nearly--so I must be, if the book is to be any good. "

"Read me what you have written, " I said, throwing myself back in arickety but tolerably comfortable arm-chair which Derrick had inheritedwith the rooms. 

He hesitated a moment, being always very diffident about his own work;but presently, having provided me with a cigar and made a good deal ofunnecessary work in arranging the sheets of the manuscript, he began toread aloud, rather nervously, the opening chapters of the book now sowell known under the title of 'Lynwood's Heritage. '

I had heard nothing of his for the last four years, and was amazed atthe gigantic stride he had made in the interval. For, spite of a certaincrudeness, it seemed to me a most powerful story; it rushed straight tothe point with no wavering, no beating about the bush; it flung itselfinto the problems of the day with a sort of sublime audacity; it tookhold of one; it whirled one along with its own inherent force, and drewforth both laughter and tears, for Derrick's power of pathos had alwaysbeen his strongest point. 

All at once he stopped reading. 

"Go on!" I cried impatiently. 

"That is all, " he said, gathering the sheets together. 

"You stopped in the middle of a sentence!" I cried in exasperation. 

"Yes, " he said quietly, "for six months. "

"You provoking fellow! why, I wonder?"

"Because I didn't know the end. "

"Good heavens! And do you know it now?"

He looked me full in the face, and there was an expression in his eyeswhich puzzled me. 

"I believe I do, " he said; and, getting up, he crossed the room, put themanuscript away in a drawer, and returning, sat down in the window-seatagain, looking out on the narrow, paved street below, and at the greybuildings opposite. 

I knew very well that he would never ask me what I thought of thestory--that was not his way. 

"Derrick!" I exclaimed, watching his impassive face, "I believe afterall you are a genius. "

I hardly know why I said "after all, " but till that moment it hadnever struck me that Derrick was particularly gifted. He had so far gotthrough his Oxford career creditably, but then he had worked hard; histalents were not of a showy order. I had never expected that he wouldset the Thames on fire. Even now it seemed to me that he was too dreamy, too quiet, too devoid of the pushing faculty to succeed in the world. 

My remark made him laugh incredulously. 

"Define a genius, " he said. 

For answer I pulled down his beloved Imperial Dictionary and readhim the following quotation from De Quincey: 'Genius is that mode ofintellectual power which moves in alliance with the genial nature, i. E. , with the capacities of pleasure and pain; whereas talent has novestige of such an alliance, and is perfectly independent of all humansensibilities. '

"Let me think! You can certainly enjoy things a hundred times more thanI can--and as for suffering, why you were always a great hand at that. Now listen to the great Dr. Johnson and see if the cap fits, 'The truegenius is a mind of large general powers accidentally determined in someparticular direction. '

"'Large general powers'!--yes, I believe after all you have them with, alas, poor Derrick! one notable exception--the mathematical faculty. Youwere always bad at figures. We will stick to De Quincey's definition, and for heaven's sake, my dear fellow, do get Lynwood out of that awfulplight! No wonder you were depressed when you lived all this age withsuch a sentence unfinished!"

"For the matter of that, " said Derrick, "he can't get out till the endof the book; but I can begin to go on with him now. "

"And when you leave Oxford?"

"Then I mean to settle down in London--to write leisurely--and possiblyto read for the Bar. "

"We might be together, " I suggested. And Derrick took to this idea, being a man who detested solitude and crowds about equally. Since hismother's death he had been very much alone in the world. To Lawrence hewas always loyal, but the two had nothing in common, and though fondof his sister he could not get on at all with the manufacturer, hisbrother-in-law. But this prospect of life together in London pleased himamazingly; he began to recover his spirits to a great extent and to lookmuch more like himself. 

It must have been just as he had taken his degree that he received atelegram to announce that Major Vaughan had been invalided home, andwould arrive at Southampton in three weeks' time. Derrick knew verylittle of his father, but apparently Mrs. Vaughan had done her best tokeep up a sort of memory of his childish days at Aldershot, and inthese the part that his father played was always pleasant. So he lookedforward to the meeting not a little, while I, from the first, had mydoubts as to the felicity it was likely to bring him. 

However, it was ordained that before the Major's ship arrived, his son'swhole life should change. Even Lynwood was thrust into the background. As for me, I was nowhere. For Derrick, the quiet, the self-contained, had fallen passionately in love with a certain Freda Merrifield. 

Chapter II. 

 'Infancy? What if the rose-streak of morning Pale and depart in a passion of tears? Once to have hoped is no matter for scorning: Love once: e'en love's disappointment endears; A moment's success pays the failure of years. ' R. Browning. 

The wonder would have been if he had not fallen in love with her, fora more fascinating girl I never saw. She had only just returned fromschool at Compiegne, and was not yet out; her charming freshnesswas unsullied; she had all the simplicity and straightforwardness ofunspoilt, unsophisticated girlhood. I well remember our first sightof her. We had been invited for a fortnight's yachting by Calverley ofExeter. His father, Sir John Calverley, had a sailing yacht, and someguests having disappointed him at the last minute, he gave his son carteblanche as to who he should bring to fill the vacant berths. 

So we three travelled down to Southampton together one hot summer day, and were rowed out to the Aurora, an uncommonly neat little schoonerwhich lay in that over-rated and frequently odoriferous roadstead, Southampton Water. However, I admit that on that evening--the tide beinghigh--the place looked remarkably pretty; the level rays of the settingsun turned the water to gold; a soft luminous haze hung over the townand the shipping, and by a stretch of imagination one might have thoughtthe view almost Venetian. Derrick's perfect content was only marredby his shyness. I knew that he dreaded reaching the Aurora; and sureenough, as we stepped on to the exquisitely white deck and caught sightof the little group of guests, I saw him retreat into his crab-shell ofsilent reserve. Sir John, who made a very pleasant host, introduced usto the other visitors--Lord Probyn and his wife and their niece, MissFreda Merrifield. Lady Probyn was Sir John's sister, and also the sisterof Miss Merrifield's mother; so that it was almost a family party, and by no means a formidable gathering. Lady Probyn played the part ofhostess and chaperoned her pretty niece; but she was not in the leastlike the aunt of fiction--on the contrary, she was comparatively youngin years and almost comically young in mind; her niece was devoted toher, and the moment I saw her I knew that our cruise could not possiblybe dull. 

As to Miss Freda, when we first caught sight of her she was standingnear the companion, dressed in a daintily made yachting costume of blueserge and white braid, and round her white sailor hat she wore thename of the yacht stamped on a white ribbon; in her waist-band shehad fastened two deep crimson roses, and she looked at us with frank, girlish curiosity, no doubt wondering whether we should add to ordetract from the enjoyment of the expedition. She was rather tall, and there was an air of strength and energy about her which was mostrefreshing. Her skin was singularly white, but there was a healthy glowof colour in her cheeks; while her large, grey eyes, shaded by longlashes, were full of life and brightness. As to her features, theywere perhaps a trifle irregular, and her elder sisters were supposed toeclipse her altogether; but to my mind she was far the most taking ofthe three. 

I was not in the least surprised that Derrick should fall head over earsin love with her; she was exactly the sort of girl that would infalliblyattract him. Her absence of shyness; her straightforward, easy way oftalking; her genuine goodheartedness; her devotion to animals--one ofhis own pet hobbies--and finally her exquisite playing, made theresult a foregone conclusion. And then, moreover, they were perpetuallytogether. He would hang over the piano in the saloon for hours while sheplayed, the rest of us lazily enjoying the easy chairs and the fresh airon deck; and whenever we landed, these two were sure in the end to bejust a little apart from the rest of us. 

It was an eminently successful cruise. We all liked each other; the seawas calm, the sunshine constant, the wind as a rule favourable, and Ithink I never in a single fortnight heard so many good stories, or hadsuch a good time. We seemed to get right out of the world and its narrowrestrictions, away from all that was hollow and base and depressing, only landing now and then at quaint little quiet places for some merryexcursion on shore. Freda was in the highest spirits; and as to Derrick, he was a different creature. She seemed to have the power of drawing himout in a marvellous degree, and she took the greatest interest in hiswork--a sure way to every author's heart. 

But it was not till one day, when we landed at Tresco, that I feltcertain she genuinely loved him--there in one glance the truth flashedupon me. I was walking with one of the gardeners down one of the longshady paths of that lovely little island, with its curiously foreignlook, when we suddenly came face to face with Derrick and Freda. Theywere talking earnestly, and I could see her great grey eyes as they werelifted to his--perhaps they were more expressive than she knew--I cannotsay. They both started a little as we confronted them, and the colourdeepened in Freda's face. The gardener, with what photographers usuallyask for--'just the faint beginning of a smile, '--turned and gathered abit of white heather growing near. 

"They say it brings good luck, miss, " he remarked, handing it to Freda. 

"Thank you, " she said, laughing, "I hope it will bring it to me. Atany rate it will remind me of this beautiful island. Isn't it just likeParadise, Mr. Wharncliffe?"

"For me it is like Paradise before Eve was created, " I replied, ratherwickedly. "By the bye, are you going to keep all the good luck toyourself?"

"I don't know, " she said laughing. "Perhaps I shall; but you have onlyto ask the gardener, he will gather you another piece directly. "

I took good care to drop behind, having no taste for the third-fiddlebusiness; but I noticed when we were in the gig once more, rowing backto the yacht, that the white heather had been equally divided--one halfwas in the waist-band of the blue serge dress, the other half in thebutton-hole of Derrick's blazer. 

So the fortnight slipped by, and at length one afternoon we foundourselves once more in Southampton Water; then came the bustle ofpacking and the hurry of departure, and the merry party dispersed. Derrick and I saw them all off at the station, for, as his father's shipdid not arrive till the following day, I made up my mind to stay on withhim at Southampton. 

"You will come and see us in town, " said Lady Probyn, kindly. And LordProbyn invited us both for the shooting at Blachington in September. "Wewill have the same party on shore, and see if we can't enjoy ourselvesalmost as well, " he said in his hearty way; "the novel will go all thebetter for it, eh, Vaughan?"

Derrick brightened visibly at the suggestion. I heard him talking toFreda all the time that Sir John stood laughing and joking as to thecomparative pleasures of yachting and shooting. 

"You will be there too?" Derrick asked. 

"I can't tell, " said Freda, and there was a shade of sadness in hertone. Her voice was deeper than most women's voices--a rich contraltowith something striking and individual about it. I could hear her quiteplainly; but Derrick spoke less distinctly--he always had a bad trick ofmumbling. 

"You see I am the youngest, " she said, "and I am not really 'out. 'Perhaps my mother will wish one of the elder ones to go; but I halfthink they are already engaged for September, so after all I may have achance. "

Inaudible remark from my friend. 

"Yes, I came here because my sisters did not care to leave London tillthe end of the season, " replied the clear contralto. "It has been aperfect cruise. I shall remember it all my life. "

After that, nothing more was audible; but I imagine Derrick must havehazarded a more personal question, and that Freda had admitted that itwas not only the actual sailing she should remember. At any rate herface when I caught sight of it again made me think of the girl describedin the 'Biglow Papers':

 "''Twas kin' o' kingdom come to look On sech a blessed creatur. A dogrose blushin' to a brook Ain't modester nor sweeter. '"

So the train went off, and Derrick and I were left to idle aboutSouthampton and kill time as best we might. Derrick seemed to walk thestreets in a sort of dream--he was perfectly well aware that he had methis fate, and at that time no thought of difficulties in the way hadarisen either in his mind or in my own. We were both of us young andinexperienced; we were both of us in love, and we had the usual lover'snotion that everything in heaven and earth is prepared to favour thecourse of his particular passion. 

I remember that we soon found the town intolerable, and, crossing by theferry, walked over to Netley Abbey, and lay down idly in the shade ofthe old grey walls. Not a breath of wind stirred the great masses ofivy which were wreathed about the ruined church, and the place looked solovely in its decay, that we felt disposed to judge the dissolutemonks very leniently for having behaved so badly that their church andmonastery had to be opened to the four winds of heaven. After all, whenis a church so beautiful as when it has the green grass for its floorand the sky for its roof?

I could show you the very spot near the East window where Derrick toldme the whole truth, and where we talked over Freda's perfections and theprobability of frequent meetings in London. He had listened so often andso patiently to my affairs, that it seemed an odd reversal to have toplay the confidant; and if now and then my thoughts wandered off to thecoming month at Mondisfield, and pictured violet eyes while he talked ofgrey, it was not from any lack of sympathy with my friend. 

Derrick was not of a self-tormenting nature, and though I knew he wasamazed at the thought that such a girl as Freda could possibly care forhim, yet he believed most implicitly that this wonderful thing had cometo pass; and, remembering her face as we had last seen it, and the lookin her eyes at Tresco, I, too, had not a shadow of a doubt that shereally loved him. She was not the least bit of a flirt, and societyhad not had a chance yet of moulding her into the ordinary girl of thenineteenth century. 

Perhaps it was the sudden and unexpected change of the next day thatmakes me remember Derrick's face so distinctly as he lay back on thesmooth turf that afternoon in Netley Abbey. As it looked then, full ofyouth and hope, full of that dream of cloudless love, I never saw itagain. 

Chapter III. 

 "Religion in him never died, but became a habit--a habit of enduring hardness, and cleaving to the steadfast performance of duty in the face of the strongest allurements to the pleasanter and easier course. " Life of Charles Lamb, by A. Ainger. 

Derrick was in good spirits the next day. He talked much of MajorVaughan, wondered whether the voyage home had restored his health, discussed the probable length of his leave, and speculated as to thenature of his illness; the telegram had of course given no details. 

"There has not been even a photograph for the last five years, " heremarked, as we walked down to the quay together. "Yet I think I shouldknow him anywhere, if it is only by his height. He used to look so wellon horseback. I remember as a child seeing him in a sham fight chargingup Caesar's Camp. "

"How old were you when he went out?"

"Oh, quite a small boy, " replied Derrick. "It was just before I firststayed with you. However, he has had a regular succession of photographssent out to him, and will know me easily enough. "

Poor Derrick! I can't think of that day even now without a kind ofmental shiver. We watched the great steamer as it glided up to the quay, and Derrick scanned the crowded deck with eager eyes, but could nowheresee the tall, soldierly figure that had lingered so long in his memory. He stood with his hand resting on the rail of the gangway, and whenpresently it was raised to the side of the steamer, he still kept hisposition, so that he could instantly catch sight of his father as hepassed down. I stood close behind him, and watched the motley processionof passengers; most of them had the dull colourless skin which bespeakslong residence in India, and a particularly yellow and peevish-lookingold man was grumbling loudly as he slowly made his way down the gangway. 

"The most disgraceful scene!" he remarked. "The fellow was as drunk ashe could be. "

"Who was it?" asked his companion. 

"Why, Major Vaughan, to be sure. The only wonder is that he hasn't drunkhimself to death by this time--been at it years enough!"

Derrick turned, as though to shelter himself from the curious eyes ofthe travellers; but everywhere the quay was crowded. It seemed to me notunlike the life that lay before him, with this new shame which could notbe hid, and I shall never forget the look of misery in his face. 

"Most likely a great exaggeration of that spiteful old fogey's, " I said. "Never believe anything that you hear, is a sound axiom. Had you notbetter try to get on board?"

"Yes; and for heaven's sake come with me, Wharncliffe!" he said. "Itcan't be true! It is, as you say, that man's spite, or else there issomeone else of the name on board. That must be it--someone else of thename. "

I don't know whether he managed to deceive himself. We made our wayon board, and he spoke to one of the stewards, who conducted us to thesaloon. I knew from the expression of the man's face that the words wehad overheard were but too true; it was a mere glance that he gaveus, yet if he had said aloud, "They belong to that old drunkard! Thankheaven I'm not in their shoes!" I could not have better understood whatwas in his mind. 

There were three persons only in the great saloon: an officer's servant, whose appearance did not please me; a fine looking old man with greyhair and whiskers, and a rough-hewn honest face, apparently the ship'sdoctor; and a tall grizzled man in whom I at once saw a sort of horriblelikeness to Derrick--horrible because this face was wicked and degraded, and because its owner was drunk--noisily drunk. Derrick paused for aminute, looking at his father; then, deadly pale, he turned to the olddoctor. "I am Major Vaughan's son, " he said. 

The doctor grasped his hand, and there was something in the old man'skindly, chivalrous manner which brought a sort of light into the gloom. 

"I am very glad to see you!" he exclaimed. "Is the Major's luggageready?" he inquired turning to the servant. Then, as the man repliedin the affirmative, "How would it be, Mr. Vaughan, if your father's manjust saw the things into a cab? and then I'll come on shore with you andsee my patient safely settled in. "

Derrick acquiesced, and the doctor turned to the Major, who was leaningup against one of the pillars of the saloon and shouting out "'Twas inTrafalgar Bay, " in a way which, under other circumstances, would havebeen highly comic. The doctor interrupted him, as with much feeling hesang how:

 "England declared that every man That day had done his duty. "

"Look, Major, " he said; "here is your son come to meet you. "

"Glad to see you, my boy, " said the Major, reeling forward and runningall his words together. "How's your mother? Is this Lawrence? Glad tosee both of you! Why, you'r's like's two peas! Not Lawrence, do you say?Confound it, doctor, how the ship rolls to-day!"

And the old wretch staggered and would have fallen, had not Derricksupported him and landed him safely on one of the fixed ottomans. 

"Yes, yes, you're the son for me, " he went on, with a bland smile, whichmade his face all the more hideous. "You're not so rough and clumsy asthat confounded John Thomas, whose hands are like brickbats. I'm a merewreck, as you see; it's the accursed climate! But your mother will soonnurse me into health again; she was always a good nurse, poor soul!it was her best point. What with you and your mother, I shall soon bemyself again. "

Here the doctor interposed, and Derrick made desperately for a portholeand gulped down mouthfuls of fresh air: but he was not allowed much of arespite, for the servant returned to say that he had procured a cab, andthe Major called loudly for his son's arm. 

"I'll not have you, " he said, pushing the servant violently away. "Come, Derrick, help me! you are worth two of that blockhead. "

And Derrick came quickly forward, his face still very pale, but with adignity about it which I had never before seen; and, giving his armto his drunken father, he piloted him across the saloon, through thestaring ranks of stewards, officials, and tardy passengers outside, down the gangway, and over the crowded quay to the cab. I knew that eachderisive glance of the spectators was to him like a sword-thrust, andlonged to throttle the Major, who seemed to enjoy himself amazingly onterra firma, and sang at the top of his voice as we drove throughthe streets of Southampton. The old doctor kept up a cheery flow ofsmall-talk with me, thinking, no doubt, that this would be a kindness toDerrick: and at last that purgatorial drive ended, and somehow Derrickand the doctor between them got the Major safely into his room atRadley's Hotel. 

We had ordered lunch in a private sitting-room, thinking that the Majorwould prefer it to the coffee-room; but, as it turned out, he was in nostate to appear. They left him asleep, and the ship's doctor sat inthe seat that had been prepared for his patient, and made the mealas tolerable to us both as it could be. He was an odd, old-fashionedfellow, but as true a gentleman as ever breathed. 

"Now, " he said, when lunch was over, "you and I must have a talktogether, Mr. Vaughan, and I will help you to understand your father'scase. "

I made a movement to go, but sat down again at Derrick's request. Ithink, poor old fellow, he dreaded being alone, and knowing that Ihad seen his father at the worst, thought I might as well hear allparticulars. 

"Major Vaughan, " continued the doctor, "has now been under my care forsome weeks, and I had some communication with the regimental surgeonabout his case before he sailed. He is suffering from an enlargedliver, and the disease has been brought on by his unfortunate habitof over-indulgence in stimulants. " I could almost have smiled, so verygently and considerately did the good old man veil in long wordsthe shameful fact. "It is a habit sadly prevalent among ourfellow-countrymen in India; the climate aggravates the mischief, andvery many lives are in this way ruined. Then your father was alsounfortunate enough to contract rheumatism when he was camping out in thejungle last year, and this is increasing on him very much, so that hislife is almost intolerable to him, and he naturally flies for relief tohis greatest enemy, drink. At all costs, however, you must keep him fromstimulants; they will only intensify the disease and the sufferings, infact they are poison to a man in such a state. Don't think I am a bigotin these matters; but I say that for a man in such a condition as this, there is nothing for it but total abstinence, and at all costs yourfather must be guarded from the possibility of procuring any sort ofintoxicating drink. Throughout the voyage I have done my best toshield him, but it was a difficult matter. His servant, too, is nottrustworthy, and should be dismissed if possible. "

"Had he spoken at all of his plans?" asked Derrick, and his voicesounded strangely unlike itself. 

"He asked me what place in England he had better settle down in, " saidthe doctor, "and I strongly recommended him to try Bath. This seemed toplease him, and if he is well enough he had better go there to-morrow. He mentioned your mother this morning; no doubt she will know how tomanage him. "

"My mother died six months ago, " said Derrick, pushing back his chairand beginning to pace the room. The doctor made kindly apologies. 

"Perhaps you have a sister, who could go to him?"

"No, " replied Derrick. "My only sister is married, and her husband wouldnever allow it. "

"Or a cousin or an aunt?" suggested the old man, naively unconsciousthat the words sounded like a quotation. 

I saw the ghost of a smile flit over Derrick's harassed face as he shookhis head. 

"I suggested that he should go into some Home for--cases of the kind, "resumed the doctor, "or place himself under the charge of some medicalman; however, he won't hear of such a thing. But if he is left tohimself--well, it is all up with him. He will drink himself to death ina few months. "

"He shall not be left alone, " said Derrick; "I will live with him. Doyou think I should do? It seems to be Hobson's choice. "

I looked up in amazement--for here was Derrick calmly giving himself upto a life that must crush every plan for the future he had made. Did menmake such a choice as that while they took two or three turns in a room?Did they speak so composedly after a struggle that must have been sobitter? Thinking it over now, I feel sure it was his extraordinary giftof insight and his clear judgment which made him behave in this way. Heinstantly perceived and promptly acted; the worst of the suffering camelong after. 

"Why, of course you are the very best person in the world for him, "said the doctor. "He has taken a fancy to you, and evidently you have acertain influence with him. If any one can save him it will be you. "

But the thought of allowing Derrick to be sacrificed to that old bruteof a Major was more than I could bear calmly. 

"A more mad scheme was never proposed, " I cried. "Why, doctor, it willbe utter ruin to my friend's career; he will lose years that no one canever make up. And besides, he is unfit for such a strain, he will neverstand it. "

My heart felt hot as I thought of Derrick, with his highly-strung, sensitive nature, his refinement, his gentleness, in constantcompanionship with such a man as Major Vaughan. 

"My dear sir, " said the old doctor, with a gleam in his eye, "Iunderstand your feeling well enough. But depend upon it, your friend hasmade the right choice, and there is no doubt that he'll be strong enoughto do his duty. "

The word reminded me of the Major's song, and my voice was abominablysarcastic in tone as I said to Derrick, "You no longer consider writingyour duty then?"

"Yes, " he said, "but it must stand second to this. Don't be vexed, Sydney; our plans are knocked on the head, but it is not so bad as youmake out. I have at any rate enough to live on, and can afford to wait. "

There was no more to be said, and the next day I saw that strange trioset out on their road to Bath. The Major looking more wicked when soberthan he had done when drunk; the old doctor kindly and considerate asever; and Derrick, with an air of resolution about that English face ofhis and a dauntless expression in his eyes which impressed me curiously. 

These quiet, reserved fellows are always giving one odd surprises. He had astonished me by the vigour and depth of the first volume of'Lynwood's Heritage. ' He astonished me now by a new phase in his owncharacter. Apparently he who had always been content to follow where Iled, and to watch life rather than to take an active share in it, nowintended to strike out a very decided line of his own. 

Chapter IV. 

 "Both Goethe and Schiller were profoundly convinced that Art was no luxury of leisure, no mere amusement to charm the idle, or relax the careworn; but a mighty influence, serious in its aims although pleasureable in its means; a sister of Religion, by whose aid the great world-scheme was wrought into reality. " Lewes's Life of Goethe. 

Man is a selfish being, and I am a particularly fine specimen of therace as far as that characteristic goes. If I had had a dozen drunkenparents I should never have danced attendance on one of them; yet in mysecret soul I admired Derrick for the line he had taken, for we mostlydo admire what is unlike ourselves and really noble, though it is thefashion to seem totally indifferent to everything in heaven and earth. But all the same I felt annoyed about the whole business, and was gladto forget it in my own affairs at Mondisfield. 

Weeks passed by. I lived through a midsummer dream of happiness, and ahard awaking. That, however, has nothing to do with Derrick's story, and may be passed over. In October I settled down in Montague Street, Bloomsbury, and began to read for the Bar, in about as disagreeable aframe of mind as can be conceived. One morning I found on my breakfasttable a letter in Derrick's handwriting. Like most men, we hardly evercorresponded--what women say in the eternal letters they send to eachother I can't conceive--but it struck me that under the circumstancesI ought to have sent him a line to ask how he was getting on, and myconscience pricked me as I remembered that I had hardly thought of himsince we parted, being absorbed in my own matters. The letter was notvery long, but when one read between the lines it somehow told a gooddeal. I have it lying by me, and this is a copy of it:

"Dear Sydney, --Do like a good fellow go to North Audley Street for me, to the house which I described to you as the one where Lynwood lodged, and tell me what he would see besides the church from his window--ifshops, what kind? Also if any glimpse of Oxford Street would be visible. Then if you'll add to your favours by getting me a second-hand copy ofLaveleye's 'Socialisme Contemporain, ' I should be for ever grateful. Weare settled in here all right. Bath is empty, but I people it as far asI can with the folk out of 'Evelina' and 'Persuasion. ' How did you geton at Blachington? and which of the Misses Merrifield went in the end?Don't bother about the commissions. Any time will do. 

"Ever yours, "Derrick Vaughan. "

Poor old fellow! all the spirit seemed knocked out of him. There was notone word about the Major, and who could say what wretchedness was veiledin that curt phrase, "we are settled in all right"? All right! it wasall as wrong as it could be! My blood began to boil at the thought ofDerrick, with his great powers--his wonderful gift--cooped up in a placewhere the study of life was so limited and so dull. Then there was hishunger for news of Freda, and his silence as to what had kept him awayfrom Blachington, and about all a sort of proud humility which preventedhim from saying much that I should have expected him to say under thecircumstances. 

It was Saturday, and my time was my own. I went out, got his bookfor him; interviewed North Audley Street; spent a bad five minutes incompany with that villain 'Bradshaw, ' who is responsible for so much ofthe brain and eye disease of the nineteenth century, and finally leftPaddington in the Flying Dutchman, which landed me at Bath early in theafternoon. I left my portmanteau at the station, and walked through thecity till I reached Gay Street. Like most of the streets of Bath, itwas broad, and had on either hand dull, well-built, dark grey, eminentlyrespectable, unutterably dreary-looking houses. I rang, and the doorwas opened to me by a most quaint old woman, evidently the landlady. Anodour of curry pervaded the passage, and became more oppressive as thedoor of the sitting-room was opened, and I was ushered in upon the Majorand his son, who had just finished lunch. 

"Hullo!" cried Derrick, springing up, his face full of delight whichtouched me, while at the same time it filled me with envy. 

Even the Major thought fit to give me a hearty welcome. 

"Glad to see you again, " he said pleasantly enough. "It's a relief tohave a fresh face to look at. We have a room which is quite at yourdisposal, and I hope you'll stay with us. Brought your portmanteau, eh?"

"It is at the station, " I replied. 

"See that it is sent for, " he said to Derrick; "and show Mr. Wharncliffeall that is to be seen in this cursed hole of a place. " Then, turningagain to me, "Have you lunched? Very well, then, don't waste this fineafternoon in an invalid's room, but be off and enjoy yourself. "

So cordial was the old man, that I should have thought him already areformed character, had I not found that he kept the rough side of histongue for home use. Derrick placed a novel and a small handbell withinhis reach, and we were just going, when we were checked by a volleyof oaths from the Major; then a book came flying across the room, wellaimed at Derrick's head. He stepped aside, and let it fall with a crashon the sideboard. 

"What do you mean by giving me the second volume when you know I am inthe third?" fumed the invalid. 

He apologised quietly, fetched the third volume, straightened thedisordered leaves of the discarded second, and with the air of one wellaccustomed to such little domestic scenes, took up his hat and came outwith me. 

"How long do you intend to go on playing David to the Major's Saul?"I asked, marvelling at the way in which he endured the humours of hisfather. 

"As long as I have the chance, " he replied. "I say, are you sure youwon't mind staying with us? It can't be a very comfortable household foran outsider. "

"Much better than for an insider, to all appearance, " I replied. "I'monly too delighted to stay. And now, old fellow, tell me the honesttruth--you didn't, you know, in your letter--how have you been gettingon?"

Derrick launched into an account of his father's ailments. 

"Oh, hang the Major! I don't care about him, I want to know about you, "I cried. 

"About me?" said Derrick doubtfully. "Oh, I'm right enough. "

"What do you do with yourself? How on earth do you kill time?" I asked. "Come, give me a full, true, and particular account of it all. "

"We have tried three other servants, " said Derrick; "but the plandoesn't answer. They either won't stand it, or else they are bribedinto smuggling brandy into the house. I find I can do most things for myfather, and in the morning he has an attendant from the hospital who istrustworthy, and who does what is necessary for him. At ten we breakfasttogether, then there are the morning papers, which he likes to have readto him. After that I go round to the Pump Room with him--odd contrastnow to what it must have been when Bath was the rage. Then we havelunch. In the afternoon, if he is well enough, we drive; if not hesleeps, and I get a walk. Later on an old Indian friend of his willsometimes drop in; if not he likes to be read to until dinner. Afterdinner we play chess--he is a first-rate player. At ten I help him tobed; from eleven to twelve I smoke and study Socialism and all the restof it that Lynwood is at present floundering in. "

"Why don't you write, then?"

"I tried it, but it didn't answer. I couldn't sleep after it, and was, in fact, too tired; seems absurd to be tired after such a day as that, but somehow it takes it out of one more than the hardest reading; Idon't know why. "

"Why, " I said angrily, "it's because it is work to which you are quiteunsuited--work for a thick-skinned, hard-hearted, uncultivated andwell-paid attendant, not for the novelist who is to be the chief lightof our generation. "

He laughed at this estimate of his powers. 

"Novelists, like other cattle, have to obey their owner, " he saidlightly. 

I thought for a moment that he meant the Major, and was breaking into anangry remonstrance, when I saw that he meant something quite different. It was always his strongest point, this extraordinary consciousness ofright, this unwavering belief that he had to do and therefore could docertain things. Without this, I know that he never wrote a line, and inmy heart I believe this was the cause of his success. 

"Then you are not writing at all?" I asked. 

"Yes, I write generally for a couple of hours before breakfast, " hesaid. 

And that evening we sat by his gas stove and he read me the next fourchapters of 'Lynwood. ' He had rather a dismal lodging-house bedroom, with faded wall-paper and a prosaic snuff-coloured carpet. On a ricketytable in the window was his desk, and a portfolio full of blue foolscap, but he had done what he could to make the place habitable; his Oxfordpictures were on the walls--Hoffman's 'Christ speaking to the Womantaken in Adultery, ' hanging over the mantelpiece--it had always been afavourite of his. I remember that, as he read the description of Lynwoodand his wife, I kept looking from him to the Christ in the picture tillI could almost have fancied that each face bore the same expression. Hadthis strange monotonous life with that old brute of a Major brought himsome new perception of those words, "Neither do I condemn thee"? Butwhen he stopped reading, I, true to my character, forgot his affairs inmy own, as we sat talking far into the night--talking of that lucklessmonth at Mondisfield, of all the problems it had opened up, and of mywretchedness. 

"You were in town all September?" he asked; "you gave up Blachington?"

"Yes, " I replied. "What did I care for country houses in such a mood asthat. "

He acquiesced, and I went on talking of my grievances, and it was nottill I was in the train on my way back to London that I remembered howa look of disappointment had passed over his face just at the moment. Evidently he had counted on learning something about Freda from me, andI--well, I had clean forgotten both her existence and his passionatelove. 

Something, probably self-interest, the desire for my friend's company, and so forth, took me down to Bath pretty frequently in those days;luckily the Major had a sort of liking for me, and was always politeenough; and dear old Derrick--well, I believe my visits really helpedto brighten him up. At any rate he said he couldn't have borne his lifewithout them, and for a sceptical, dismal, cynical fellow like me tohear that was somehow flattering. The mere force of contrast did megood. I used to come back on the Monday wondering that Derrick didn'tcut his throat, and realising that, after all, it was something to bea free agent, and to have comfortable rooms in Montague Street, withno old bear of a drunkard to disturb my peace. And then a sort ofadmiration sprang up in my heart, and the cynicism bred of melancholybroodings over solitary pipes was less rampant than usual. 

It was, I think, early in the new year that I met Lawrence Vaughan inBath. He was not staying at Gay Street, so I could still have the vacantroom next to Derrick's. Lawrence put up at the York House Hotel. 

"For you know, " he informed me, "I really can't stand the governor formore than an hour or two at a time. "

"Derrick manages to do it, " I said. 

"Oh, Derrick, yes, " he replied, "it's his metier, and he is wellaccustomed to the life. Besides, you know, he is such a dreamy, quietsort of fellow; he lives all the time in a world of his own creation, and bears the discomforts of this world with great philosophy. Actuallyhe has turned teetotaller! It would kill me in a week. "

I make a point of never arguing with a fellow like that, but I think Ihad a vindictive longing, as I looked at him, to shut him up with theMajor for a month, and see what would happen. 

These twin brothers were curiously alike in face and curiously unlike innature. So much for the great science of physiognomy! It often seemed tome that they were the complement of each other. For instance, Derrick insociety was extremely silent, Lawrence was a rattling talker; Derrick, when alone with you, would now and then reveal unsuspected depths ofthought and expression; Lawrence, when alone with you, very frequentlyshowed himself to be a cad. The elder twin was modest and diffident, theyounger inclined to brag; the one had a strong tendency to melancholy, the other was blest or cursed with the sort of temperament which hasbeen said to accompany "a hard heart and a good digestion. "

I was not surprised to find that the son who could not tolerate thegovernor's presence for more than an hour or two, was a prime favouritewith the old man; that was just the way of the world. Of course, theMajor was as polite as possible to him; Derrick got the kicks andLawrence the half-pence. 

In the evenings we played whist, Lawrence coming in after dinner, "For, you know, " he explained to me, "I really couldn't get through a mealwith nothing but those infernal mineral waters to wash it down. "

And here I must own that at my first visit I had sailed rather close tothe wind; for when the Major, like the Hatter in 'Alice, ' pressed meto take wine, I--not seeing any--had answered that I did not take it;mentally adding the words, "in your house, you brute!"

The two brothers were fond of each other after a fashion. But Derrickwas human, and had his faults like the rest of us; and I am pretty surehe did not much enjoy the sight of his father's foolish and unreasonabledevotion to Lawrence. If you come to think of it, he would have been afull-fledged angel if no jealous pang, no reflection that it was ratherrough on him, had crossed his mind, when he saw his younger brothertreated with every mark of respect and liking, and knew that Lawrencewould never stir a finger really to help the poor fractious invalid. Unluckily they happened one night to get on the subject of professions. 

"It's a comfort, " said the Major, in his sarcastic way, "to have afellow-soldier to talk to instead of a quill-driver, who as yet is noteven a penny-a-liner. Eh, Derrick? Don't you feel inclined to regretyour fool's choice now? You might have been starting off for the warwith Lawrence next week, if you hadn't chosen what you're pleased tocall a literary life. Literary life, indeed! I little thought a son ofmine would ever have been so wanting in spirit as to prefer dabbling inink to a life of action--to be the scribbler of mere words, rather thanan officer of dragoons. "

Then to my astonishment Derrick sprang to his feet in hot indignation. I never saw him look so handsome, before or since; for his anger wasnot the distorting, devilish anger that the Major gave way to, but realdownright wrath. 

"You speak contemptuously of mere novels, " he said in a low voice, yetmore clearly than usual, and as if the words were wrung out of him. "What right have you to look down on one of the greatest weapons of theday? and why is a writer to submit to scoffs and insults and tamely tohear his profession reviled? I have chosen to write the message thathas been given me, and I don't regret the choice. Should I have showngreater spirit if I had sold my freedom and right of judgment to be oneof the national killing machines?"

With that he threw down his cards and strode out of the room in a whiteheat of anger. It was a pity he made that last remark, for it put himin the wrong and needlessly annoyed Lawrence and the Major. But an angryman has no time to weigh his words, and, as I said, poor old Derrickwas very human, and when wounded too intolerably could on occasionretaliate. 

The Major uttered an oath and looked in astonishment at the retreatingfigure. Derrick was such an extraordinarily quiet, respectful, long-suffering son as a rule, that this outburst was startling in theextreme. Moreover, it spoilt the game, and the old man, chafed by theresult of his own ill-nature, and helpless to bring back his partner, was forced to betake himself to chess. I left him grumbling away toLawrence about the vanity of authors, and went out in the hope offinding Derrick. As I left the house I saw someone turn the corner intothe Circus, and starting in pursuit, overtook the tall, dark figurewhere Bennett Street opens on to the Lansdowne Hill. 

"I'm glad you spoke up, old fellow, " I said, taking his arm. 

He modified his pace a little. "Why is it, " he exclaimed, "that everyother profession can be taken seriously, but that a novelist's work issupposed to be mere play? Good God! don't we suffer enough? Have wenot hard brain work and drudgery of desk work and tedious gathering ofstatistics and troublesome search into details? Have we not an appallingweight of responsibility on us?--and are we not at the mercy of athousand capricious chances?"

"Come now, " I exclaimed, "you know that you are never so happy as whenyou are writing. "

"Of course, " he replied; "but that doesn't make me resent such an attackthe less. Besides, you don't know what it is to have to write in such anatmosphere as ours; it's like a weight on one's pen. This life here isnot life at all--it's a daily death, and it's killing the book too; thelast chapters are wretched--I'm utterly dissatisfied with them. "

"As for that, " I said calmly, "you are no judge at all. You can nevertell the worth of your own work; the last bit is splendid. "

"I could have done it better, " he groaned. "But there is always aghastly depression dragging one back here--and then the time is soshort; just as one gets into the swing of it the breakfast bell rings, and then comes--" He broke off. 

I could well supply the end of the sentence, however, for I knew thatthen came the slow torture of a tete-a-tete day with the Major, stingingsarcasms, humiliating scoldings, vexations and difficulties innumerable. 

I drew him to the left, having no mind to go to the top of the hill. We slackened our pace again and walked to and fro along the broad levelpavement of Lansdowne Crescent. We had it entirely to ourselves--notanother creature was in sight. 

"I could bear it all, " he burst forth, "if only there was a chance ofseeing Freda. Oh, you are better off than I am--at least, you know theworst. Your hope is killed, but mine lives on a tortured, starved life!Would to God I had never seen her!"

Certainly before that night I had never quite realised theirrevocableness of poor Derrick's passion. I had half hoped that timeand separation would gradually efface Freda Merrifield from his memory;and I listened with a dire foreboding to the flood of wretchednesswhich he poured forth as we paced up and down, thinking now and then howlittle people guessed at the tremendous powers hidden under his usuallyquiet exterior. 

At length he paused, but his last heart-broken words seemed to vibratein the air and to force me to speak some kind of comfort. 

"Derrick, " I said, "come back with me to London--give up this miserablelife. "

I felt him start a little; evidently no thought of yielding had cometo him before. We were passing the house that used to belong to thatstrange book-lover and recluse, Beckford. I looked up at the blankwindows, and thought of that curious, self-centred life in the past, surrounded by every luxury, able to indulge every whim; and then Ilooked at my companion's pale, tortured face, and thought of the lifehe had elected to lead in the hope of saving one whom duty bound him tohonour. After all, which life was the most worth living--which was themost to be admired?

We walked on; down below us and up on the farther hill we could see thelights of Bath; the place so beautiful by day looked now like a fairycity, and the Abbey, looming up against the moon-lit sky, seemed likesome great giant keeping watch over the clustering roofs below. Thewell-known chimes rang out into the night and the clock struck ten. 

"I must go back, " said Derrick, quietly. "My father will want to get tobed. "

I couldn't say a word; we turned, passed Beckford's house once more, walked briskly down the hill, and reached the Gay Street lodging-house. I remember the stifling heat of the room as we entered it, and itscontrast to the cool, dark, winter's night outside. I can vividlyrecall, too, the old Major's face as he looked up with a sarcasticremark, but with a shade of anxiety in his bloodshot eyes. He wasleaning back in a green-cushioned chair, and his ghastly yellowcomplexion seemed to me more noticeable than usual--his scanty greyhair and whiskers, the lines of pain so plainly visible in his face, impressed me curiously. I think I had never before realised what a wreckof a man he was--how utterly dependent on others. 

Lawrence, who, to do him justice, had a good deal of tact, and who, Ibelieve, cared for his brother as much as he was capable of caringfor any one but himself, repeated a good story with which he had beenenlivening the Major, and I did what I could to keep up the talk. Derrick meanwhile put away the chessmen, and lighted the Major's candle. He even managed to force up a laugh at Lawrence's story, and, as hehelped his father out of the room, I think I was the only one whonoticed the look of tired endurance in his eyes. 

Chapter V. 

 "I know How far high failure overtops the bounds Of low successes. Only suffering draws The inner heart of song, and can elicit The perfumes of the soul. " Epic of Hades. 

Next week, Lawrence went off like a hero to the war; and my friend--alsoI think like a hero--stayed on at Bath, enduring as best he could theworst form of loneliness; for undoubtedly there is no loneliness sofrightful as constant companionship with an uncongenial person. He had, however, one consolation: the Major's health steadily improved, underthe joint influence of total abstinence and Bath water, and, with theimprovement, his temper became a little better. 

But one Saturday, when I had run down to Bath without writingbeforehand, I suddenly found a different state of things. In OrangeGrove I met Dr. Mackrill, the Major's medical man; he used now and thento play whist with us on Saturday nights, and I stopped to speak to him. 

"Oh! you've come down again. That's all right!" he said. "Your friendwants someone to cheer him up. He's got his arm broken. "

"How on earth did he manage that?" I asked. 

"Well, that's more than I can tell you, " said the Doctor, with an oddlook in his eyes, as if he guessed more than he would put into words. "All that I could get out of him was that it was done accidentally. TheMajor is not so well--no whist for us to-night, I'm afraid. "

He passed on, and I made my way to Gay Street. There was an air ofmystery about the quaint old landlady; she looked brimful of news whenshe opened the door to me, but she managed to 'keep herself to herself, 'and showed me in upon the Major and Derrick, rather triumphantly Ithought. The Major looked terribly ill--worse than I had ever seenhim, and as for Derrick, he had the strangest look of shrinking andshame-facedness you ever saw. He said he was glad to see me, but I knewthat he lied. He would have given anything to have kept me away. 

"Broken your arm?" I exclaimed, feeling bound to take some notice of thesling. 

"Yes, " he replied; "met with an accident to it. But luckily it's onlythe left one, so it doesn't hinder me much! I have finished sevenchapters of the last volume of 'Lynwood, ' and was just wanting to askyou a legal question. "

All this time his eyes bore my scrutiny defiantly; they seemed to dareme to say one other word about the broken arm. I didn't dare--indeed tothis day I have never mentioned the subject to him. 

But that evening, while he was helping the Major to bed, the oldlandlady made some pretext for toiling up to the top of the house, whereI sat smoking in Derrick's room. 

"You'll excuse my making bold to speak to you, sir, " she said. I threwdown my newspaper, and, looking up, saw that she was bubbling over withsome story. 

"Well?" I said, encouragingly. 

"It's about Mr. Vaughan, sir, I wanted to speak to you. I really dothink, sir, it's not safe he should be left alone with his father, sir, any longer. Such doings as we had here the other day, sir! Somehow orother--and none of us can't think how--the Major had managed to get holdof a bottle of brandy. How he had it I don't know; but we none of ussuspected him, and in the afternoon he says he was too poorly to go fora drive or to go out in his chair, and settles off on the parlour sofafor a nap while Mr. Vaughan goes out for a walk. Mr. Vaughan was out acouple of hours. I heard him come in and go into the sitting-room;then there came sounds of voices, and a scuffling of feet and moving ofchairs, and I knew something was wrong and hurried up to the door--andjust then came a crash like fire-irons, and I could hear the Majora-swearing fearful. Not hearing a sound from Mr. Vaughan, I got scared, sir, and opened the door, and there I saw the Major a leaning up againstthe mantelpiece as drunk as a lord, and his son seemed to have got thebottle from him; it was half empty, and when he saw me he just handed itto me and ordered me to take it away. Then between us we got the Majorto lie down on the sofa and left him there. When we got out into thepassage Mr. Vaughan he leant against the wall for a minute, looking aswhite as a sheet, and then I noticed for the first time that his leftarm was hanging down at his side. 'Lord! sir, ' I cried, 'your arm'sbroken. ' And he went all at once as red as he had been pale just before, and said he had got it done accidentally, and bade me say nothing aboutit, and walked off there and then to the doctor's, and had it set. Butsir, given a man drunk as the Major was, and given a scuffle to get awaythe drink that was poisoning him, and given a crash such as I heard, and given a poker a-lying in the middle of the room where it stands toreason no poker could get unless it was thrown--why, sir, no sensiblewoman who can put two and two together can doubt that it was all theMajor's doing. "

"Yes, " I said, "that is clear enough; but for Mr. Vaughan's sake we musthush it up; and, as for safety, why, the Major is hardly strong enoughto do him any worse damage than that. "

The good old thing wiped away a tear from her eyes. She was very fond ofDerrick, and it went to her heart that he should lead such a dog's life. 

I said what I could to comfort her, and she went down again, fearfullest he should discover her upstairs and guess that she had opened herheart to me. 

Poor Derrick! That he of all people on earth should be mixed up withsuch a police court story--with drunkard, and violence, and pokersfiguring in it! I lay back in the camp chair and looked at Hoffman's'Christ, ' and thought of all the extraordinary problems that one is forever coming across in life. And I wondered whether the people of Bathwho saw the tall, impassive-looking, hazel-eyed son and the invalidfather in their daily pilgrimages to the Pump Room, or in church onSunday, or in the Park on sunny afternoons had the least notion ofthe tragedy that was going on. My reflections were interrupted by hisentrance. He had forced up a cheerfulness that I am sure he didn'treally feel, and seemed afraid of letting our talk flag for a moment. Iremember, too, that for the first time he offered to read me his novel, instead of as usual waiting for me to ask to hear it. I can see himnow, fetching the untidy portfolio and turning over the pages, adroitlyenough, as though anxious to show how immaterial was the loss of a leftarm. That night I listened to the first half of the third volume of'Lynwood's Heritage, ' and couldn't help reflecting that its authorseemed to thrive on misery; and yet how I grudged him to thisdeadly-lively place, and this monotonous, cooped-up life. 

"How do you manage to write one-handed?" I asked. 

And he sat down to his desk, put a letter-weight on the left-hand cornerof the sheet of foolscap, and wrote that comical first paragraph of theeighth chapter over which we have all laughed. I suppose few readersguessed the author's state of mind when he wrote it. I looked over hisshoulder to see what he had written, and couldn't help laughing aloud--Iverily believe that it was his way of turning off attention from hisarm, and leading me safely from the region of awkward questions. 

"By-the-by, " I exclaimed, "your writing of garden-parties reminds me. Iwent to one at Campden Hill the other day, and had the good fortune tomeet Miss Freda Merrifield. "

How his face lighted up, poor fellow, and what a flood of questions hepoured out. "She looked very well and very pretty, " I replied. "I playedtwo sets of tennis with her. She asked after you directly she saw me, seeming to think that we always hunted in couples. I told her you wereliving here, taking care of an invalid father; but just then up camethe others to arrange the game. She and I got the best courts, and as wecrossed over to them she told me she had met your brother several timeslast autumn, when she had been staying near Aldershot. Odd that he nevermentioned her here; but I don't suppose she made much impression on him. She is not at all his style. "

"Did you have much more talk with her?" he asked. 

"No, nothing to be called talk. She told me they were leaving Londonnext week, and she was longing to get back to the country to her belovedanimals--rabbits, poultry, an aviary, and all that kind of thing. Ishould gather that they had kept her rather in the background thisseason, but I understand that the eldest sister is to be married in thewinter, and then no doubt Miss Freda will be brought forward. "

He seemed wonderfully cheered by this opportune meeting, and thoughthere was so little to tell he appeared to be quite content. I left himon Monday in fairly good spirits, and did not come across him again tillSeptember, when his arm was well, and his novel finished and revised. Henever made two copies of his work, and I fancy this was perhaps becausehe spent so short a time each day in actual writing, and lived socontinually in his work; moreover, as I said before, he detestedpenmanship. 

The last part of 'Lynwood' far exceeded my expectations; perhaps--yet Idon't really think so--I viewed it too favourably. But I owed the booka debt of gratitude, since it certainly helped me through the worst partof my life. 

"Don't you feel flat now it is finished?" I asked. 

"I felt so miserable that I had to plunge into another story three daysafter, " he replied; and then and there he gave me the sketch of hissecond novel, 'At Strife, ' and told me how he meant to weave in hischildish fancies about the defence of the bridge in the Civil Wars. 

"And about 'Lynwood?' Are you coming up to town to hawk him round?" Iasked. 

"I can't do that, " he said; "you see I am tied here. No, I must send himoff by rail, and let him take his chance. "

"No such thing!" I cried. "If you can't leave Bath I will take him roundfor you. "

And Derrick, who with the oddest inconsistency would let his MS. Lieabout anyhow at home, but hated the thought of sending it out alone onits travels, gladly accepted my offer. So next week I set off with thehuge brown paper parcel; few, however, will appreciate my good nature, for no one but an author or a publisher knows the fearful weight of athree volume novel in MS. ! To my intense satisfaction I soon got rid ofit, for the first good firm to which I took it received it with greatpoliteness, to be handed over to their 'reader' for an opinion; andapparently the 'reader's' opinion coincided with mine, for a monthlater Derrick received an offer for it with which he at once closed--notbecause it was a good one, but because the firm was well thought of, and because he wished to lose no time, but to have the book published atonce. I happened to be there when his first 'proofs' arrived. The Majorhad had an attack of jaundice, and was in a fiendish humour. We hada miserable time of it at dinner, for he badgered Derrick almost pastbearing, and I think the poor old fellow minded it more when there wasa third person present. Somehow through all he managed to keep hisextraordinary capacity for reverencing mere age--even this degraded anddetestable old age of the Major's. I often thought that in this hewas like my own ancestor, Hugo Wharncliffe, whose deference andrespectfulness and patience had not descended to me, while unfortunatelythe effects of his physical infirmities had. I sometimes used toreflect bitterly enough on the truth of Herbert Spencer's teaching as toheredity, so clearly shown in my own case. In the year 1683, throughthe abominable cruelty and harshness of his brother Randolph, this HugoWharncliffe, my great-great-great-great-great grandfather, was immuredin Newgate, and his constitution was thereby so much impaired andenfeebled that, two hundred years after, my constitution is paying thepenalty, and my whole life is thereby changed and thwarted. Hence thischildless Randolph is affecting the course of several lives in the 19thcentury to their grievous hurt. 

But revenons a nos moutons--that is to say, to our lion and lamb--theold brute of a Major and his long-suffering son. 

While the table was being cleared, the Major took forty winks on thesofa, and we two beat a retreat, lit up our pipes in the passage, andwere just turning out when the postman's double knock came, but noshowers of letters in the box. Derrick threw open the door, and the manhanded him a fat, stumpy-looking roll in a pink wrapper. 

"I say!" he exclaimed, "PROOFS!"

And, in hot haste, he began tearing away the pink paper, till out camethe clean, folded bits of printing and the dirty and dishevelled bluefoolscap, the look of which I knew so well. It is an odd feeling, thatfirst seeing one's self in print, and I could guess, even then, what athrill shot through Derrick as he turned over the pages. But he wouldnot take them into the sitting-room, no doubt dreading another diatribeagainst his profession; and we solemnly played euchre, and patientlyendured the Major's withering sarcasms till ten o'clock sounded ourhappy release. 

However, to make a long story short, a month later--that is, at the endof November--'Lynwood's Heritage' was published in three volumes withmaroon cloth and gilt lettering. Derrick had distributed among hisfriends the publishers' announcement of the day of publication; and whenit was out I besieged the libraries for it, always expressing surpriseif I did not find it in their lists. Then began the time of reviews. AsI had expected, they were extremely favourable, with the exception ofthe Herald, the Stroller, and the Hour, which made it rather hot forhim, the latter in particular pitching into his views and assuringits readers that the book was 'dangerous, ' and its author a believerin--various thing especially repugnant to Derrick, at it happened. 

I was with him when he read these reviews. Over the cleverness of thesatirical attack in the Weekly Herald he laughed heartily, thoughthe laugh was against himself; and as to the critic who wrote in theStroller it was apparent to all who knew 'Lynwood' that he had not readmuch of the book; but over this review in the Hour he was genuinelyangry--it hurt him personally, and, as it afterwards turned out, playedno small part in the story of his life. The good reviews, however, weremany, and their recommendation of the book hearty; they all prophesiedthat it would be a great success. Yet, spite of this, 'Lynwood'sHeritage' didn't sell. Was it, as I had feared, that Derrick was toodevoid of the pushing faculty ever to make a successful writer? Or wasit that he was handicapped by being down in the provinces playing keeperto that abominable old bear? Anyhow, the book was well received, readwith enthusiasm by an extremely small circle, and then it dropped downto the bottom among the mass of overlooked literature, and its careerseemed to be over. I can recall the look in Derrick's face when one dayhe glanced through the new Mudie and Smith lists and found 'Lynwood'sHeritage' no longer down. I had been trying to cheer him up about thebook and quoting all the favourable remarks I had heard about it. Butunluckily this was damning evidence against my optimist view. 

He sighed heavily and put down the lists. 

"It's no use to deceive one's self, " he said, drearily, "'Lynwood' hasfailed. "

Something in the deep depression of look and tone gave me a momentaryinsight into the author's heart. He thought, I know, of the agony ofmind this book had cost him; of those long months of waiting and theirdeadly struggle, of the hopes which had made all he passed through seemso well worth while; and the bitterness of the disappointment was nodoubt intensified by the knowledge that the Major would rejoice over it. 

We walked that afternoon along the Bradford Valley, a road which Derrickwas specially fond of. He loved the thickly-wooded hills, and theglimpses of the Avon, which, flanked by the canal and the railway, runsparallel with the high road; he always admired, too, a certain littlevillage with grey stone cottages which lay in this direction, and likedto look at the site of the old hall near the road: nothing remained ofit but the tall gate posts and rusty iron gates looking strangely drearyand deserted, and within one could see, between some dark yew trees, an old terrace walk with stone steps and balustrades--the mostghostly-looking place you can conceive. 

"I know you'll put this into a book some day, " I said, laughing. 

"Yes, " he said, "it is already beginning to simmer in my brain. "Apparently his deep disappointment as to his first venture had in no wayaffected his perfectly clear consciousness that, come what would, he hadto write. 

As we walked back to Bath he told me his 'Ruined Hall' story as far asit had yet evolved itself in his brain, and we were still discussing itwhen in Milsom Street we met a boy crying evening papers, and details ofthe last great battle at Saspataras Hill. 

Derrick broke off hastily, everything but anxiety for Lawrence drivenfrom his mind. 

Chapter VI. 

 "Say not, O Soul, thou art defeated, Because thou art distressed; If thou of better thing art cheated, Thou canst not be of best. " T. T. Lynch. 

"Good heavens, Sydney!" he exclaimed in great excitement and with hiswhole face aglow with pleasure, "look here!"

He pointed to a few lines in the paper which mentioned the heroicconduct of Lieutenant L. Vaughan, who at the risk of his life hadrescued a brother officer when surrounded by the enemy and completelydisabled. Lieutenant Vaughan had managed to mount the wounded man on hisown horse and had miraculously escaped himself with nothing worse than asword-thrust in the left arm. 

We went home in triumph to the Major, and Derrick read the whole accountaloud. With all his detestation of war, he was nevertheless greatlystirred by the description of the gallant defence of the attackedposition--and for a time we were all at one, and could talk of nothingbut Lawrence's heroism, and Victoria Crosses, and the prospects ofpeace. However, all too soon, the Major's fiendish temper returned, and he began to use the event of the day as a weapon against Derrick, continually taunting him with the contrast between his stay-at-home lifeof scribbling and Lawrence's life of heroic adventure. I could nevermake out whether he wanted to goad his son into leaving him, in orderthat he might drink himself to death in peace, or whether he merelyindulged in his natural love of tormenting, valuing Derrick's devotionas conducive to his own comfort, and knowing that hard words would notdrive him from what he deemed to be his duty. I rather incline to thelatter view, but the old Major was always an enigma to me; nor can Ito this day make out his raison-d'etre, except on the theory that thetraining of a novelist required a course of slow torture, and that theold man was sent into the world to be a sort of thorn in the flesh ofDerrick. 

What with the disappointment about his first book, and the difficultyof writing his second, the fierce craving for Freda's presence, thestruggle not to allow his admiration for Lawrence's bravery to becomepoisoned by envy under the influence of the Major's incessant attacks, Derrick had just then a hard time of it. He never complained, but Inoticed a great change in him; his melancholy increased, his flashes ofhumour and merriment became fewer and fewer--I began to be afraid thathe would break down. 

"For God's sake!" I exclaimed one evening when left alone with theDoctor after an evening of whist, "do order the Major to London. Derrickhas been mewed up here with him for nearly two years, and I don't thinkhe can stand it much longer. "

So the Doctor kindly contrived to advise the Major to consult awell-known London physician, and to spend a fortnight in town, furthersuggesting that a month at Ben Rhydding might be enjoyable beforesettling down at Bath again for the winter. Luckily the Major took tothe idea, and just as Lawrence returned from the war Derrick and hisfather arrived in town. The change seemed likely to work well, and I wasable now and then to release my friend and play cribbage with the oldman for an hour or two while Derrick tore about London, interviewed hispublisher, made researches into seventeenth century documents at theBritish Museum, and somehow managed in his rapid way to acquire thoseglimpses of life and character which he afterwards turned to such goodaccount. All was grist that came to his mill, and at first the meresight of his old home, London, seemed to revive him. Of course at thevery first opportunity he called at the Probyns', and we both of us hadan invitation to go there on the following Wednesday to see the marchpast of the troops and to lunch. Derrick was nearly beside himself atthe prospect, for he knew that he should certainly meet Freda at last, and the mingled pain and bliss of being actually in the same place withher, yet as completely separated as if seas rolled between them, wasbeginning to try him terribly. 

Meantime Lawrence had turned up again, greatly improved in every way byall that he had lived through, but rather too ready to fall in withhis father's tone towards Derrick. The relations between the twobrothers--always a little peculiar--became more and more difficult, andthe Major seemed to enjoy pitting them against each other. 

At length the day of the review arrived. Derrick was not looking well, his eyes were heavy with sleeplessness, and the Major had been unusuallyexasperating at breakfast that morning, so that he started with a jaded, worn-out feeling that would not wholly yield even to the excitementof this long-expected meeting with Freda. When he found himself in thegreat drawing-room at Lord Probyn's house, amid a buzz of talk and acrowd of strange faces, he was seized with one of those sudden attacksof shyness to which he was always liable. In fact, he had been so longalone with the old Major that this plunge into society was too great areaction, and the very thing he had longed for became a torture to him. 

Freda was at the other end of the room talking to Keith Collins, thewell-known member for Codrington, whose curious but attractive face wasknown to all the world through the caricatures of it in 'Punch. ' I knewthat she saw Derrick, and that he instantly perceived her, and that amiserable sense of separation, of distance, of hopelessness overwhelmedhim as he looked. After all, it was natural enough. For two years hehad thought of Freda night and day; in his unutterably dreary life hermemory had been his refreshment, his solace, his companion. Now he wassuddenly brought face to face, not with the Freda of his dreams, butwith a fashionable, beautifully dressed, much-sought girl, and he feltthat a gulf lay between them; it was the gulf of experience. Freda'slife in society, the whirl of gaiety, the excitement and success whichshe had been enjoying throughout the season, and his miserable monotonyof companionship with his invalid father, of hard work and wearydisappointment, had broken down the bond of union that had once existedbetween them. From either side they looked at each other--Freda with awondering perplexity, Derrick with a dull grinding pain at his heart. 

Of course they spoke to each other; but I fancy the merest platitudespassed between them. Somehow they had lost touch, and a crowded Londondrawing-room was hardly the place to regain it. 

"So your novel is really out, " I heard her say to him in that deep, clear voice of hers. "I like the design on the cover. "

"Oh, have you read the book?" said Derrick, colouring. 

"Well, no, " she said truthfully. "I wanted to read it, but my fatherwouldn't let me--he is very particular about what we read. "

That frank but not very happily worded answer was like a stab to poorDerrick. He had given to the world then a book that was not fit for herto read! This 'Lynwood, ' which had been written with his own heart'sblood, was counted a dangerous, poisonous thing, from which she must beguarded!

Freda must have seen that she had hurt him, for she tried hard toretrieve her words. 

"It was tantalising to have it actually in the house, wasn't it? I havea grudge against the Hour, for it was the review in that which setmy father against it. " Then rather anxious to leave the difficultsubject--"And has your brother quite recovered from his wound?"

I think she was a little vexed that Derrick did not show more animationin his replies about Lawrence's adventures during the war; the less heresponded the more enthusiastic she became, and I am perfectly sure thatin her heart she was thinking:

"He is jealous of his brother's fame--I am disappointed in him. He hasgrown dull, and absent, and stupid, and he is dreadfully wanting insmall-talk. I fear that his life down in the provinces is turning himinto a bear. "

She brought the conversation back to his book; but there was a littletouch of scorn in her voice, as if she thought to herself, "I supposehe is one of those people who can only talk on one subject--his owndoings. " Her manner was almost brusque. 

"Your novel has had a great success, has it not?" she asked. 

He instantly perceived her thought, and replied with a touch of dignityand a proud smile:

"On the contrary, it has been a great failure; only three hundred andnine copies have been sold. "

"I wonder at that, " said Freda, "for one so often heard it talked of. "

He promptly changed the topic, and began to speak of the march past. "Iwant to see Lord Starcross, " he added. "I have no idea what a hero islike. "

Just then Lady Probyn came up, followed by an elderly harpy inspectacles and false, much-frizzed fringe. 

"Mrs. Carsteen wishes to be introduced to you, Mr. Vaughan; she is agreat admirer of your writings. "

And poor Derrick, who was then quite unused to the species, had tostand and receive a flood of the most fulsome flattery, delivered ina strident voice, and to bear the critical and prolonged stare of thespectacled eyes. Nor would the harpy easily release her prey. She kepthim much against his will, and I saw him looking wistfully now and thentowards Freda. 

"It amuses me, " I said to her, "that Derrick Vaughan should be soanxious to see Lord Starcross. It reminds me of Charles Lamb's anxietyto see Kosciusko, 'for, ' said he, 'I have never seen a hero; I wonderhow they look, ' while all the time he himself was living a life ofheroic self-sacrifice. "

"Mr. Vaughan, I should think, need only look at his own brother, " saidFreda, missing the drift of my speech. 

I longed to tell her what it was possible to tell of Derrick's life, butat that moment Sir Richard Merrifield introduced to his daughter a girlin a huge hat and great flopping sleeves, Miss Isaacson, whose pictureat the Grosvenor had been so much talked of. Now the little artist knewno one in the room, and Freda saw fit to be extremely friendly to her. She was introduced to me, and I did my best to talk to her and set Fredaat liberty as soon as the harpy had released Derrick; but my endeavourswere frustrated, for Miss Isaacson, having looked me well over, decidedthat I was not at all intense, but a mere commonplace, slightly cynicalworldling, and having exchanged a few lukewarm remarks with me, shereturned to Freda, and stuck to her like a bur for the rest of the time. 

We stood out on the balcony to see the troops go by. It was a finesight, and we all became highly enthusiastic. Freda enjoyed the merepageant like a child, and was delighted with the horses. She looked nowmore like the Freda of the yacht, and I wished that Derrick could benear her; but, as ill-luck would have it, he was at some distance, hemmed in by an impassable barrier of eager spectators. 

Lawrence Vaughan rode past, looking wonderfully well in his uniform. Hewas riding a spirited bay, which took Freda's fancy amazingly, thoughshe reserved her chief enthusiasm for Lord Starcross and his steed. Itwas not until all was over, and we had returned to the drawing-room, that Derrick managed to get the talk with Freda for which I knew hewas longing, and then they were fated, apparently, to disagree. I wasstanding near and overheard the close of their talk. 

"I do believe you must be a member of the Peace Society!" said Fredaimpatiently. "Or perhaps you have turned Quaker. But I want to introduceyou to my god-father, Mr. Fleming; you know it was his son whom yourbrother saved. "

And I heard Derrick being introduced as the brother of the hero ofSaspataras Hill; and the next day he received a card for one of Mrs. Fleming's receptions, Lawrence having previously been invited to dinethere on the same night. 

What happened at that party I never exactly understood. All I couldgather was that Lawrence had been tremendously feted, that Freda hadbeen present, and that poor old Derrick was as miserable as he could bewhen I next saw him. Putting two and two together, I guessed that he hadbeen tantalised by a mere sight of her, possibly tortured by watchingmore favoured men enjoying long tete-a-tetes; but he would say little ornothing about it, and when, soon after, he and the Major left London, Ifeared that the fortnight had done my friend harm instead of good. 

Chapter VII. 

 "Then in that hour rejoice, since only thus Can thy proud heart grow wholly piteous. Thus only to the world thy speech can flow Charged with the sad authority of woe. Since no man nurtured in the shade can sing To a true note one psalm of conquering; Warriors must chant it whom our own eyes see Red from the battle and more bruised than we, Men who have borne the worst, have known the whole, Have felt the last abeyance of the soul. " F. W. H. Myers. 

About the beginning of August, I rejoined him at Ben Rhydding. The placesuited the Major admirably, and his various baths took up so great apart of each day, that Derrick had more time to himself than usual, and'At Strife' got on rapidly. He much enjoyed, too, the beautiful countryround, while the hotel itself, with its huge gathering of all sorts andconditions of people, afforded him endless studies of character. TheMajor breakfasted in his own room, and, being so much engrossed with hisbaths, did not generally appear till twelve. Derrick and I breakfastedin the great dining-hall; and one morning, when the meal was over, we, as usual, strolled into the drawing-room to see if there were anyletters awaiting us. 

"One for you, " I remarked, handing him a thick envelope. 

"From Lawrence!" he exclaimed. 

"Well, don't read it in here; the Doctor will be coming to read prayers. Come out in the garden, " I said. 

We went out into the beautiful grounds, and he tore open the envelopeand began to read his letter as we walked. All at once I felt thearm which was linked in mine give a quick, involuntary movement, and, looking up, saw that Derrick had turned deadly pale. 

"What's up?" I said. But he read on without replying; and, when I pausedand sat down on a sheltered rustic seat, he unconsciously followed myexample, looking more like a sleep-walker than a man in the possessionof all his faculties. At last he finished the letter, and looked up in adazed, miserable way, letting his eyes wander over the fir-trees and thefragrant shrubs and the flowers by the path. 

"Dear old fellow, what is the matter?" I asked. 

The words seemed to rouse him. 

A dreadful look passed over his face--the look of one stricken tothe heart. But his voice was perfectly calm, and full of a ghastlyself-control. 

"Freda will be my sister-in-law, " he said, rather as if stating the factto himself than answering my question. 

"Impossible!" I said. "What do you mean? How could--"

As if to silence me he thrust the letter into my hand. It ran asfollows:

"Dear Derrick, --For the last few days I have been down in the Flemings'place in Derbyshire, and fortune has favoured me, for the Merrifieldsare here too. Now prepare yourself for a surprise. Break the news to thegovernor, and send me your heartiest congratulations by return of post. I am engaged to Freda Merrifield, and am the happiest fellow in theworld. They are awfully fastidious sort of people, and I do not believeSir Richard would have consented to such a match had it not been forthat lucky impulse which made me rescue Dick Fleming. It has all beenarranged very quickly, as these things should be, but we have seen agood deal of each other--first at Aldershot the year before last, andjust lately in town, and now these four days down here--and days in acountry house are equal to weeks elsewhere. I enclose a letter to myfather--give it to him at a suitable moment--but, after all, he's sureto approve of a daughter-in-law with such a dowry as Miss Merrifield islikely to have. 

"Yours affly. , "Lawrence Vaughan. "

I gave him back the letter without a word. In dead silence we moved on, took a turning which led to a little narrow gate, and passed out of thegrounds to the wild moorland country beyond. 

After all, Freda was in no way to blame. As a mere girl she had allowedDerrick to see that she cared for him; then circumstances had entirelyseparated them; she saw more of the world, met Lawrence, was perhapsfirst attracted to him by his very likeness to Derrick, and finally fellin love with the hero of the season, whom every one delighted to honour. Nor could one blame Lawrence, who had no notion that he had supplantedhis brother. All the blame lay with the Major's slavery to drink, forif only he had remained out in India I feel sure that matters would havegone quite differently. 

We tramped on over heather and ling and springy turf till we reached theold ruin known as the Hunting Tower; then Derrick seemed to awake to therecollection of present things. He looked at his watch. 

"I must go back to my father, " he said, for the first time breaking thesilence. 

"You shall do no such thing!" I cried. "Stay out here and I will see tothe Major, and give him the letter too if you like. "

He caught at the suggestion, and as he thanked me I think there weretears in his eyes. So I took the letter and set off for Ben Rhydding, leaving him to get what relief he could from solitude, space, andabsolute quiet. Once I just glanced back, and somehow the scene hasalways lingered in my memory--the great stretch of desolate moor, thedull crimson of the heather, the lowering grey clouds, the Hunting Towera patch of deeper gloom against the gloomy sky, and Derrick's figureprostrate, on the turf, the face hidden, the hands grasping at thesprigs of heather growing near. 

The Major was just ready to be helped into the garden when I reachedthe hotel. We sat down in the very same place where Derrick had readthe news, and, when I judged it politic, I suddenly remembered withapologies the letter that had been entrusted to me. The old man receivedit with satisfaction, for he was fond of Lawrence and proud of him, andthe news of the engagement pleased him greatly. He was still discussingit when, two hours later, Derrick returned. 

"Here's good news!" said the Major, glancing up as his son approached. "Trust Lawrence to fall on his feet! He tells me the girl will have athousand a year. You know her, don't you? What's she like?"

"I have met her, " replied Derrick, with forced composure. "She is verycharming. "

"Lawrence has all his wits about him, " growled the Major. "Whereasyou--" (several oaths interjected). "It will be a long while before anygirl with a dowry will look at you! What women like is a bold man ofaction; what they despise, mere dabblers in pen and ink, writersof poisonous sensational tales such as yours! I'm quoting your ownreviewers, so you needn't contradict me!"

Of course no one had dreamt of contradicting; it would have been theworst possible policy. 

"Shall I help you in?" said Derrick. "It is just dinner time. "

And as I walked beside them to the hotel, listening to the Major'sflood of irritating words, and glancing now and then at Derrick'sgrave, resolute face, which successfully masked such bitter suffering, Icouldn't help reflecting that here was courage infinitely more deservingof the Victoria Cross than Lawrence's impulsive rescue. Very patientlyhe sat through the long dinner. I doubt if any but an acute observercould have told that he was in trouble; and, luckily, the world ingeneral observes hardly at all. He endured the Major till it was timefor him to take a Turkish bath, and then having two hours' freedom, climbed with me up the rock-covered hill at the back of the hotel. Hewas very silent. But I remember that, as we watched the sun go down--aglowing crimson ball, half veiled in grey mist--he said abruptly, "IfLawrence makes her happy I can bear it. And of course I always knew thatI was not worthy of her. "

Derrick's room was a large, gaunt, ghostly place in one of the towersof the hotel, and in one corner of it was a winding stair leading to theroof. When I went in next morning I found him writing away at his noveljust as usual, but when I looked at him it seemed to me that the nighthad aged him fearfully. As a rule, he took interruptions as a matterof course, and with perfect sweetness of temper; but to-day he seemedunable to drag himself back to the outer world. He was writing at adesperate pace too, and frowned when I spoke to him. I took up the sheetof foolscap which he had just finished and glanced at the number of thepage--evidently he had written an immense quantity since the previousday. 

"You will knock yourself up if you go on at this rate!" I exclaimed. 

"Nonsense!" he said sharply. "You know it never tires me. "

Yet, all the same, he passed his hand very wearily over his forehead, and stretched himself with the air of one who had been in a crampingposition for many hours. 

"You have broken your vow!" I cried. "You have been writing at night. "

"No, " he said; "it was morning when I began--three o'clock. And it paysbetter to get up and write than to lie awake thinking. "

Judging by the speed with which the novel grew in the next few weeks, Icould tell that Derrick's nights were of the worst. 

He began, too, to look very thin and haggard, and I more than oncenoticed that curious 'sleep-walking' expression in his eyes; he seemedto me just like a man who has received his death-blow, yet stilllingers--half alive, half dead. I had an odd feeling that it was hisnovel which kept him going, and I began to wonder what would happen whenit was finished. 

A month later, when I met him again at Bath, he had written the lastchapter of 'At Strife, ' and we read it over the sitting-room fire onSaturday evening. I was very much struck with the book; it seemed tome a great advance on 'Lynwood's Heritage, ' and the part which he hadwritten since that day at Ben Rhydding was full of an indescribablepower, as if the life of which he had been robbed had flowed into hiswork. When he had done, he tied up the MS. In his usual prosaic fashion, just as if it had been a bundle of clothes, and put it on a side table. 

It was arranged that I should take it to Davison--the publisher of'Lynwood's Heritage'--on Monday, and see what offer he would make forit. Just at that time I felt so sorry for Derrick that if he had askedme to hawk round fifty novels I would have done it. 

Sunday morning proved wet and dismal; as a rule the Major, who was fondof music, attended service at the Abbey, but the weather forced him nowto stay at home. I myself was at that time no church-goer, but Derrickwould, I verily believe, as soon have fasted a week as have given upa Sunday morning service; and having no mind to be left to the Major'scompany, and a sort of wish to be near my friend, I went with him. Ibelieve it is not correct to admire Bath Abbey, but for all that 'thelantern of the west' has always seemed to me a grand place; as forDerrick, he had a horror of a 'dim religious light, ' and always stuckup for his huge windows, and I believe he loved the Abbey with all hisheart. Indeed, taking it only from a sensuous point of view, I couldquite imagine what a relief he found his weekly attendance here; bycontrast with his home the place was Heaven itself. 

As we walked back, I asked a question that had long been in my mind:"Have you seen anything of Lawrence?"

"He saw us across London on our way from Ben Rhydding, " said Derrick, steadily. "Freda came with him, and my father was delighted with her. "

I wondered how they had got through the meeting, but of course mycuriosity had to go unsatisfied. Of one thing I might be certain, namely, that Derrick had gone through with it like a Trojan, that hehad smiled and congratulated in his quiet way, and had done the best toefface himself and think only of Freda. But as everyone knows:

 "Face joy's a costly mask to wear, 'Tis bought with pangs long nourished And rounded to despair;"

and he looked now even more worn and old than he had done at BenRhydding in the first days of his trouble. 

However, he turned resolutely away from the subject I had introduced andbegan to discuss titles for his novel. 

"It's impossible to find anything new, " he said, "absolutely impossible. I declare I shall take to numbers. "

I laughed at this prosaic notion, and we were still discussing the titlewhen we reached home. 

"Don't say anything about it at lunch, " he said as we entered. "Myfather detests my writing. "

I nodded assent and opened the sitting-room door--a strong smell ofbrandy instantly became apparent; the Major sat in the green velvetchair, which had been wheeled close to the hearth. He was drunk. 

Derrick gave an ejaculation of utter hopelessness. 

"This will undo all the good of Ben Rhydding!" he said. "How on earthhas he managed to get it?"

The Major, however, was not so far gone as he looked; he caught up theremark and turned towards us with a hideous laugh. 

"Ah, yes, " he said, "that's the question. But the old man has still somebrains, you see. I'll be even with you yet, Derrick. You needn't thinkyou're to have it all your own way. It's my turn now. You've deprived meall this time of the only thing I care for in life, and now I turn thetables on you. Tit for tat. Oh! yes, I've turned your d----d scribblingsto a useful purpose, so you needn't complain!"

All this had been shouted out at the top of his voice and freelyinterlarded with expressions which I will not repeat; at the end hebroke again into a laugh, and with a look, half idiotic, half devilish, pointed towards the grate. 

"Good Heavens!" I said, "what have you done?"

By the side of the chair I saw a piece of brown paper, and, catchingit up, read the address--"Messrs. Davison, Paternoster Row"; in thefireplace was a huge charred mass. Derrick caught his breath; he stoopeddown and snatched from the fender a fragment of paper slightly burned, but still not charred beyond recognition like the rest. The writing wasquite legible--it was his own writing--the description of the Royalists'attack and Paul Wharncliffe's defence of the bridge. I looked from thehalf-burnt scrap of paper to the side table where, only the previousnight, we had placed the novel, and then, realising as far as any but anauthor could realise the frightful thing that had happened, I looked inDerrick's face. Its white fury appalled me. What he had borne hithertofrom the Major, God only knows, but this was the last drop in the cup. Daily insults, ceaseless provocation, even the humiliations of personalviolence he had borne with superhuman patience; but this last injury, this wantonly cruel outrage, this deliberate destruction of an amount ofthought, and labour, and suffering which only the writer himself couldfully estimate--this was intolerable. 

What might have happened had the Major been sober and in the possessionof ordinary physical strength I hardly care to think. As it was, hisweakness protected him. Derrick's wrath was speechless; with one lookof loathing and contempt at the drunken man, he strode out of the room, caught up his hat, and hurried from the house. 

The Major sat chuckling to himself for a minute or two, but soon he grewdrowsy, and before long was snoring like a grampus. The old landladybrought in lunch, saw the state of things pretty quickly, shook her headand commiserated Derrick. Then, when she had left the room, seeing noprospect that either of my companions would be in a fit state for lunch, I made a solitary meal, and had just finished when a cab stopped at thedoor and out sprang Derrick. I went into the passage to meet him. 

"The Major is asleep, " I remarked. 

He took no more notice than if I had spoken of the cat. 

"I'm going to London, " he said, making for the stairs. "Can you get yourbag ready? There's a train at 2. 5. "

Somehow the suddenness and the self-control with which he made thisannouncement carried me back to the hotel at Southampton, where, afterlistening to the account of the ship's doctor, he had announced hisintention of living with his father. For more than two years he hadborne this awful life; he had lost pretty nearly all that there wasto be lost and he had gained the Major's vindictive hatred. Now, halfmaddened by pain, and having, as he thought, so hopelessly failed, hesaw nothing for it but to go--and that at once. 

I packed my bag, and then went to help him. He was cramming all hispossessions into portmanteaux and boxes; the Hoffman was already packed, and the wall looked curiously bare without it. Clearly this was no visitto London--he was leaving Bath for good, and who could wonder at it?

"I have arranged for the attendant from the hospital to come in at nightas well as in the morning, " he said, as he locked a portmanteau that wasstuffed almost to bursting. "What's the time? We must make haste or weshall lose the train. Do, like a good fellow, cram that heap of thingsinto the carpet-bag while I speak to the landlady. "

At last we were off, rattling through the quiet streets of Bath, andreaching the station barely in time to rush up the long flight of stairsand spring into an empty carriage. Never shall I forget that journey. The train stopped at every single station, and sometimes in between; wewere five mortal hours on the road, and more than once I thought Derrickwould have fainted. However, he was not of the fainting order, he onlygrew more and more ghastly in colour and rigid in expression. 

I felt very anxious about him, for the shock and the sudden angerfollowing on the trouble about Freda seemed to me enough to unhinge evena less sensitive nature. 'At Strife' was the novel which had, I firmlybelieve, kept him alive through that awful time at Ben Rhydding, andI began to fear that the Major's fit of drunken malice might prove thedestruction of the author as well as of the book. Everything had, as itwere, come at once on poor Derrick; yet I don't know that he fared worsethan other people in this respect. 

Life, unfortunately, is for most of us no well-arranged story with ahappy termination; it is a chequered affair of shade and sun, and forone beam of light there come very often wide patches of shadow. Menseem to have known this so far back as Shakespeare's time, and to haveobserved that one woe trod on another's heels, to have battled not witha single wave, but with a 'sea of troubles, ' and to have remarked that'sorrows come not singly, but in battalions. '

However, owing I believe chiefly to his own self-command, and to hisuntiring faculty for taking infinite pains over his work, Derrick didnot break down, but pleasantly cheated my expectations. I was not calledon to nurse him through a fever, and consumption did not mark himfor her own. In fact, in the matter of illness, he was always a mostprosaic, unromantic fellow, and never indulged in any of the euphoniousand interesting ailments. In all his life, I believe, he never wentin for anything but the mumps--of all complaints the leastinteresting--and, may be, an occasional headache. 

However, all this is a digression. We at length reached London, and Derrick took a room above mine, now and then disturbing me withnocturnal pacings over the creaking boards, but, on the whole, provinghimself the best of companions. 

If I wrote till Doomsday, I could never make you understand how theburning of his novel affected him--to this day it is a subject Iinstinctively avoid with him--though the re-written 'At Strife' has beensuch a grand success. For he did re-write the story, and that at once. He said little; but the very next morning, in one of the windows ofour quiet sitting-room, often enough looking despairingly at the greymonotony of Montague Street, he began at 'Page I, Chapter I, ' and soworked patiently on for many months to re-make as far as he couldwhat his drunken father had maliciously destroyed. Beyond the unburntparagraph about the attack on Mondisfield, he had nothing except afew hastily scribbled ideas in his note-book, and of course the veryelaborate and careful historical notes which he had made on the CivilWar during many years of reading and research--for this period hadalways been a favourite study with him. 

But, as any author will understand, the effort of re-writing wasimmense, and this, combined with all the other troubles, tried Derrickto the utmost. However, he toiled on, and I have always thought that hisresolute, unyielding conduct with regard to that book proved what a manhe was. 

Chapter VIII. 

 "How oft Fate's sharpest blow shall leave thee strong, With some re-risen ecstacy of song. " F. W. H. Myers. 

As the autumn wore on, we heard now and then from old Mackrill thedoctor. His reports of the Major were pretty uniform. Derrick used tohand them over to me when he had read them; but, by tacit consent, theMajor's name was never mentioned. 

Meantime, besides re-writing 'At Strife, ' he was accumulating materialfor his next book and working to very good purpose. Not a minute of hisday was idle; he read much, saw various phases of life hitherto unknownto him, studied, observed, gained experience, and contrived, I believe, to think very little and very guardedly of Freda. 

But, on Christmas Eve, I noticed a change in him--and that very nighthe spoke to me. For such an impressionable fellow, he had reallyextraordinary tenacity, and, spite of the course of Herbert Spencer thatI had put him through, he retained his unshaken faith in many thingswhich to me were at that time the merest legends. I remember very wellthe arguments we used to have on the vexed question of 'Free-will, 'and being myself more or less of a fatalist, it annoyed me that I nevercould in the very slightest degree shake his convictions on that point. Moreover, when I plagued him too much with Herbert Spencer, he had a wayof retaliating, and would foist upon me his favourite authors. He wasnever a worshipper of any one writer, but always had at least a dozenprophets in whose praise he was enthusiastic. 

Well, on this Christmas Eve, we had been to see dear old Ravenscroft andhis grand-daughter, and we were walking back through the quiet precinctsof the Temple, when he said abruptly:

"I have decided to go back to Bath to-morrow. "

"Have you had a worse account?" I asked, much startled at this suddenannouncement. 

"No, " he replied, "but the one I had a week ago was far from good if youremember, and I have a feeling that I ought to be there. "

At that moment we emerged into the confusion of Fleet Street; but whenwe had crossed the road I began to remonstrate with him, and argued thefolly of the idea all the way down Chancery Lane. 

However, there was no shaking his purpose; Christmas and itsassociations had made his life in town no longer possible for him. 

"I must at any rate try it again and see how it works, " he said. 

And all I could do was to persuade him to leave the bulk of hispossessions in London, "in case, " as he remarked, "the Major would nothave him. "

So the next day I was left to myself again with nothing to remind meof Derrick's stay but his pictures which still hung on the wall of oursitting-room. I made him promise to write a full, true, and particularaccount of his return, a bona-fide old-fashioned letter, not thehalf-dozen lines of these degenerate days; and about a week later Ireceived the following budget:

"Dear Sydney, --I got down to Bath all right, and, thanks to your 'Studyof Sociology, ' endured a slow, and cold, and dull, and depressingjourney with the thermometer down to zero, and spirits to correspond, with the country a monotonous white, and the sky a monotonous grey, and a companion who smoked the vilest tobacco you can conceive. The oldplace looks as beautiful as ever, and to my great satisfaction the hillsround about are green. Snow, save in pictures, is an abomination. Milsom Street looked asleep, and Gay Street decidedly dreary, but theinhabitants were roused by my knock, and the old landlady nearly shookmy hand off. My father has an attack of jaundice and is in a miserablestate. He was asleep when I got here, and the good old landlady, thinking the front sitting-room would be free, had invited 'company, 'i. E. , two or three married daughters and their belongings; one of thechildren beats Magnay's 'Carina' as to beauty--he ought to paint her. Happy thought, send him and pretty Mrs. Esperance down here on spec. Hecan paint the child for the next Academy, and meantime I could enjoy hiscompany. Well, all these good folks being just set-to at roast beef, Inaturally wouldn't hear of disturbing them, and in the end was obligedto sit down too and eat at that hour of the day the hugest dinneryou ever saw--anything but voracious appetites offended the hostess. Magnay's future model, for all its angelic face, 'ate to repletion, 'like the fair American in the story. Then I went into my father'sroom, and shortly after he woke up and asked me to give him someFriedrichshall water, making no comment at all on my return, but justbehaving as though I had been here all the autumn, so that I felt as ifthe whole affair were a dream. Except for this attack of jaundice, hehas been much as usual, and when you next come down you will findus settled into our old groove. The quiet of it after London isextraordinary. But I believe it suits the book, which gets on prettyfast. This afternoon I went up Lansdowne and right on past theGrand Stand to Prospect Stile, which is at the edge of a high bitof tableland, and looks over a splendid stretch of country, with theBristol Channel and the Welsh hills in the distance. While I was therethe sun most considerately set in gorgeous array. You never saw anythinglike it. It was worth the journey from London to Bath, I can assureyou. Tell Magnay, and may it lure him down; also name the modelaforementioned. 

"How is the old Q. C. And his pretty grandchild? That quaint old room oftheirs in the Temple somehow took my fancy, and the child was divine. Doyou remember my showing you, in a gloomy narrow street here, a jolly oldwatchmaker who sits in his shop-window and is for ever bending over sickclocks and watches? Well, he's still sitting there, as if he had nevermoved since we saw him that Saturday months ago. I mean to study him fora portrait; his sallow, clean-shaved, wrinkled face has a whole storyin it. I believe he is married to a Xantippe who throws cold water overhim, both literally and metaphorically; but he is a philosopher--I'llstake my reputation as an observer on that--he just shrugs his sturdyold shoulders, and goes on mending clocks and watches. On dark days heworks by a gas jet--and then Rembrandt would enjoy painting him. Ilook at him whenever my world is particularly awry, and find him highlybeneficial. Davison has forwarded me to-day two letters from readers of'Lynwood. ' The first is from an irate female who takes me to task forthe dangerous tendency of the story, and insists that I have drawnimpossible circumstances and impossible characters. The second is froman old clergyman, who writes a pathetic letter of thanks, and tells methat it is almost word for word the story of a son of his who died fiveyears ago. Query: shall I send the irate female the old man's letter, and save myself the trouble of writing? But on the whole I think not;it would be pearls before swine. I will write to her myself. Glad to seeyou whenever you can run down. 

"Yours ever, "D. V. "

("Never struck me before what pious initials mine are. ")

The very evening I received this letter I happened to be dining at theProbyn's. As luck would have it, pretty Miss Freda was staying in thehouse, and she fell to my share. I always liked her, though of late Ihad felt rather angry with her for being carried away by the generalstorm of admiration and swept by it into an engagement with LawrenceVaughan. She was a very pleasant, natural sort of talker, and she alwaystreated me as an old friend. But she seemed to me, that night, a littleless satisfied than usual with life. Perhaps it was merely the effectof the black lace dress which she wore, but I fancied her paler andthinner, and somehow she seemed all eyes. 

"Where is Lawrence now?" I asked, as we went down to the dining-room. 

"He is stationed at Dover, " she replied. "He was up here for a few hoursyesterday; he came to say good-bye to me, for I am going to Bath nextMonday with my father, who has been very rheumatic lately--and you knowBath is coming into fashion again, all the doctors recommend it. "

"Major Vaughan is there, " I said, "and has found the waters very good, Ibelieve; any day, at twelve o'clock, you may see him getting out of hischair and going into the Pump Room on Derrick's arm. I often wonderwhat outsiders think of them. It isn't often, is it, that one sees a sonabsolutely giving up his life to his invalid father?"

She looked a little startled. 

"I wish Lawrence could be more with Major Vaughan, " she said; "for heis his father's favourite. You see he is such a good talker, andDerrick--well, he is absorbed in his books; and then he has suchextravagant notions about war, he must be a very uncongenial companionto the poor Major. "

I devoured turbot in wrathful silence. Freda glanced at me. 

"It is true, isn't it, that he has quite given up his life to writing, and cares for nothing else?"

"Well, he has deliberately sacrificed his best chance of success byleaving London and burying himself in the provinces, " I replied drily;"and as to caring for nothing but writing, why he never gets more thantwo or three hours a day for it. " And then I gave her a minute accountof his daily routine. 

She began to look troubled. 

"I have been misled, " she said; "I had gained quite a wrong impressionof him. "

"Very few people know anything at all about him, " I said warmly; "youare not alone in that. "

"I suppose his next novel is finished now?" said Freda; "he told me hehad only one or two more chapters to write when I saw him a few monthsago on his way from Ben Rhydding. What is he writing now?"

"He is writing that novel over again, " I replied. 

"Over again? What fearful waste of time!"

"Yes, it has cost him hundreds of hours' work; it just shows what a manhe is, that he has gone through with it so bravely. "

"But how do you mean? Didn't it do?"

Rashly, perhaps, yet I think unavoidably, I told her the truth. 

"It was the best thing he had ever written, but unfortunately it wasdestroyed, burnt to a cinder. That was not very pleasant, was it, for aman who never makes two copies of his work?"

"It was frightful!" said Freda, her eyes dilating. "I never heard a wordabout it. Does Lawrence know?"

"No, he does not; and perhaps I ought not to have told you, but I wasannoyed at your so misunderstanding Derrick. Pray never mention theaffair; he would wish it kept perfectly quiet. "

"Why?" asked Freda, turning her clear eyes full upon mine. 

"Because, " I said, lowering my voice, "because his father burnt it. "

She almost gasped. 

"Deliberately?"

"Yes, deliberately, " I replied. "His illness has affected his temper, and he is sometimes hardly responsible for his actions. "

"Oh, I knew that he was irritable and hasty, and that Derrick annoyedhim. Lawrence told me that, long ago, " said Freda. "But that he shouldhave done such a thing as that! It is horrible! Poor Derrick, how sorryI am for him. I hope we shall see something of them at Bath. Do you knowhow the Major is?"

"I had a letter about him from Derrick only this evening, " I replied;"if you care to see it, I will show it you later on. "

And by-and-by, in the drawing-room, I put Derrick's letter into herhands, and explained to her how for a few months he had given up hislife at Bath, in despair, but now had returned. 

"I don't think Lawrence can understand the state of things, " she saidwistfully. "And yet he has been down there. "

I made no reply, and Freda, with a sigh, turned away. 

A month later I went down to Bath and found, as my friend foretold, everything going on in the old groove, except that Derrick himself hadan odd, strained look about him, as if he were fighting a foe beyondhis strength. Freda's arrival at Bath had been very hard on him, itwas almost more than he could endure. Sir Richard, blind as a bat, ofcourse, to anything below the surface, made a point of seeing somethingof Lawrence's brother. And on the day of my arrival Derrick and I hadhardly set out for a walk, when we ran across the old man. 

Sir Richard, though rheumatic in the wrists, was nimble of foot and aninveterate walker. He was going with his daughter to see over Beckford'sTower, and invited us to accompany him. Derrick, much against the grain, I fancy, had to talk to Freda, who, in her winter furs and close-fittingvelvet hat, looked more fascinating than ever, while the old mandescanted to me on Bath waters, antiquities, etc. , in a long-windedway that lasted all up the hill. We made our way into the cemetery andmounted the tower stairs, thinking of the past when this dreary placehad been so gorgeously furnished. Here Derrick contrived to get aheadwith Sir Richard, and Freda lingered in a sort of alcove with me. 

"I have been so wanting to see you, " she said, in an agitated voice. "Oh, Mr. Wharncliffe, is it true what I have heard about the Major? Doeshe drink?"

"Who told you?" I said, a little embarrassed. 

"It was our landlady, " said Freda; "she is the daughter of the Major'slandlady. And you should hear what she says of Derrick! Why, he mustbe a downright hero! All the time I have been half despising him"--shechoked back a sob--"he has been trying to save his father from what wascertain death to him--so they told me. Do you think it is true?"

"I know it is, " I replied gravely. 

"And about his arm--was that true?"

I signed an assent. 

Her grey eyes grew moist. 

"Oh, " she cried, "how I have been deceived and how little Lawrenceappreciates him! I think he must know that I've misjudged him, for heseems so odd and shy, and I don't think he likes to talk to me. "

I looked searchingly into her truthful grey eyes, thinking of poorDerrick's unlucky love-story. 

"You do not understand him, " I said; "and perhaps it is best so. "

But the words and the look were rash, for all at once the colour floodedher face. She turned quickly away, conscious at last that the midsummerdream of those yachting days had to Derrick been no dream at all, but alife-long reality. 

I felt very sorry for Freda, for she was not at all the sort of girl whowould glory in having a fellow hopelessly in love with her. I knew thatthe discovery she had made would be nothing but a sorrow to her, andcould guess how she would reproach herself for that innocent past fancy, which, till now, had seemed to her so faint and far-away--almost assomething belonging to another life. All at once we heard the othersdescending, and she turned to me with such a frightened, appealing look, that I could not possibly have helped going to the rescue. I plungedabruptly into a discourse on Beckford, and told her how he used to keepdiamonds in a tea-cup, and amused himself by arranging them on a pieceof velvet. Sir Richard fled from the sound of my prosy voice, and, needless to say, Derrick followed him. We let them get well in advanceand then followed, Freda silent and distraite, but every now and thenasking a question about the Major. 

As for Derrick, evidently he was on guard. He saw a good deal of theMerrifields and was sedulously attentive to them in many small ways;but with Freda he was curiously reserved, and if by chance they didtalk together, he took good care to bring Lawrence's name into theconversation. On the whole, I believe loyalty was his strongestcharacteristic, and want of loyalty in others tried him more severelythan anything in the world. 

As the spring wore on, it became evident to everyone that the Majorcould not last long. His son's watchfulness and the enforced temperancewhich the doctors insisted on had prolonged his life to a certainextent, but gradually his sufferings increased and his strengthdiminished. At last he kept his bed altogether. 

What Derrick bore at this time no one can ever know. When, one brightsunshiny Saturday, I went down to see how he was getting on, I found himworn and haggard, too evidently paying the penalty of sleepless nightsand thankless care. I was a little shocked to hear that Lawrence hadbeen summoned, but when I was taken into the sick room I realised thatthey had done wisely to send for the favourite son. 

The Major was evidently dying. 

Never can I forget the cruelty and malevolence with which his bloodshoteyes rested on Derrick, or the patience with which the dear old fellowbore his father's scathing sarcasms. It was while I was sitting bythe bed that the landlady entered with a telegram, which she put intoDerrick's hand. 

"From Lawrence!" said the dying man triumphantly, "to say by what trainwe may expect him. Well?" as Derrick still read the message to himself, "can't you speak, you d--d idiot? Have you lost your d--d tongue? Whatdoes he say?"

"I am afraid he cannot be here just yet, " said Derrick, trying to tonedown the curt message; "it seems he cannot get leave. "

"Not get leave to see his dying father? What confounded nonsense. Giveme the thing here;" and he snatched the telegram from Derrick and readit in a quavering, hoarse voice:

"Impossible to get away. Am hopelessly tied here. Love to my father. Greatly regret to hear such bad news of him. "

I think that message made the old man realise the worth of Lawrence'soften expressed affection for him. Clearly it was a great blow to him. He threw down the paper without a word and closed his eyes. For half anhour he lay like that, and we did not disturb him. At last he looked up;his voice was fainter and his manner more gentle. 

"Derrick, " he said, "I believe I've done you an injustice; it is youwho cared for me, not Lawrence, and I've struck your name out of mywill--have left all to him. After all, though you are one of thoseconfounded novelists, you've done what you could for me. Let some onefetch a solicitor--I'll alter it--I'll alter it!"

I instantly hurried out to fetch a lawyer, but it was Saturdayafternoon, the offices were closed, and some time passed before I hadcaught my man. I told him as we hastened back some of the facts of thecase, and he brought his writing materials into the sick room and tookdown from the Major's own lips the words which would have the effect ofdividing the old man's possessions between his two sons. Dr. Mackrillwas now present; he stood on one side of the bed, his fingers on thedying man's pulse. On the other side stood Derrick, a degree paler andgraver than usual, but revealing little of his real feelings. 

"Word it as briefly as you can, " said the doctor. 

And the lawyer scribbled away as though for his life, while the restof us waited in a wretched hushed state of tension. In the room itselfthere was no sound save the scratching of the pen and the labouredbreathing of the old man; but in the next house we could hear someoneplaying a waltz. Somehow it did not seem to me incongruous, for it was'Sweethearts, ' and that had been the favourite waltz of Ben Rhydding, so that I always connected it with Derrick and his trouble, and now thewords rang in my ears:

 "Oh, love for a year, a week, a day, But alas! for the love that loves alway. "

If it had not been for the Major's return from India, I firmly believedthat Derrick and Freda would by this time have been betrothed. Derrickhad taken a line which necessarily divided them, had done what he saw tobe his duty; yet what were the results? He had lost Freda, he had losthis book, he had damaged his chance of success as a writer, he had beenstruck out of his father's will, and he had suffered unspeakably. Hadanything whatever been gained? The Major was dying unrepentant to allappearance, as hard and cynical an old worldling as I ever saw. The onlyspark of grace he showed was that tardy endeavour to make a fresh will. What good had it all been? What good?

I could not answer the question then, could only cry out in a sort ofindignation, "What profit is there in his blood?" But looking at itnow, I have a sort of perception that the very lack of apparentprofitableness was part of Derrick's training, while if, as I nowincline to think, there is a hereafter where the training begun here iscontinued, the old Major in the hell he most richly deserved would havethe remembrance of his son's patience and constancy and devotion toserve as a guiding light in the outer darkness. 

The lawyer no longer wrote at railroad speed; he pushed back his chair, brought the will to the bed, and placed the pen in the trembling yellowhand of the invalid. 

"You must sign your name here, " he said, pointing with his finger; andthe Major raised himself a little, and brought the pen quaveringlydown towards the paper. With a sort of fascination I watched thefinely-pointed steel nib; it trembled for an instant or two, then thepen dropped from the convulsed fingers, and with a cry of intolerableanguish the Major fell back. 

For some minutes there was a painful struggle; presently we caught aword or two between the groans of the dying man. 

"Too late!" he gasped, "too late!" And then a dreadful vision of horrorsseemed to rise before him, and with a terror that I can never forgethe turned to his son and clutched fast hold of his hands: "Derrick!" heshrieked. 

Derrick could not speak, but he bent low over the bed as though toscreen the dying eyes from those horrible visions, and with an odd sortof thrill I saw him embrace his father. 

When he raised his head the terror had died out of the Major's face; allwas over. 

Chapter IX. 

 "To duty firm, to conscience true, However tried and pressed, In God's clear sight high work we do, If we but do out best. "

Lawrence came down to the funeral, and I took good care that he shouldhear all about his father's last hours, and I made the solicitor showhim the unsigned will. He made hardly any comment on it till we threewere alone together. Then with a sort of kindly patronage he turned tohis brother--Derrick, it must be remembered, was the elder twin--andsaid pityingly, "Poor old fellow! it was rather rough on you that thegovernor couldn't sign this; but never mind, you'll soon, no doubt, beearning a fortune by your books; and besides, what does a bachelor wantwith more than you've already inherited from our mother? Whereas, anofficer just going to be married, and with this confounded reputation ofhero to keep up, why, I can tell you it needs every penny of it!"

Derrick looked at his brother searchingly. I honestly believe that hedidn't very much care about the money, but it cut him to the heart thatLawrence should treat him so shabbily. The soul of generosity himself, he could not understand how anyone could frame a speech so infernallymean. 

"Of course, " I broke in, "if Derrick liked to go to law he could nodoubt get his rights, there are three witnesses who can prove what wasthe Major's real wish. "

"I shall not go to law, " said Derrick, with a dignity of which I hadhardly imagined him capable. "You spoke of your marriage, Lawrence; isit to be soon?"

"This autumn, I hope, " said Lawrence; "at least, if I can overcome SirRichard's ridiculous notion that a girl ought not to marry till she'stwenty-one. He's a most crotchety old fellow, that future father-in-lawof mine. "

When Lawrence had first come back from the war I had thought himwonderfully improved, but a long course of spoiling and flattery haddone him a world of harm. He liked very much to be lionised, and to seehim now posing in drawing-rooms, surrounded by a worshipping throng ofwomen, was enough to sicken any sensible being. 

As for Derrick, though he could not be expected to feel his bereavementin the ordinary way, yet his father's death had been a great shock tohim. It was arranged that after settling various matters in Bathhe should go down to stay with his sister for a time, joining me inMontague Street later on. While he was away in Birmingham, however, anextraordinary change came into my humdrum life, and when he rejoined mea few weeks later, I--selfish brute--was so overwhelmed with the troublethat had befallen me that I thought very little indeed of his affairs. He took this quite as a matter of course, and what I should have donewithout him I can't conceive. However, this story concerns him and hasnothing to do with my extraordinary dilemma; I merely mention it as afact which brought additional cares into his life. All the time he wasdoing what could be done to help me he was also going through a mostbaffling and miserable time among the publishers; for 'At Strife, 'unlike its predecessor, was rejected by Davison and by five otherhouses. Think of this, you comfortable readers, as you lie back in youreasy chairs and leisurely turn the pages of that popular story. The bookwhich represented years of study and long hours of hard work was firstburnt to a cinder. It was re-written with what infinite pains and toilfew can understand. It was then six times tied up and carried withanxiety and hope to a publisher's office, only to re-appear six times inMontague Street, an unwelcome visitor, bringing with it depression anddisappointment. 

Derrick said little, but suffered much. However, nothing daunted him. When it came back from the sixth publisher he took it to a seventh, thenreturned and wrote away like a Trojan at his third book. The one thingthat never failed him was that curious consciousness that he HAD towrite; like the prophets of old, the 'burden' came to him, and speak ithe must. 

The seventh publisher wrote a somewhat dubious letter: the book, hethought, had great merit, but unluckily people were prejudiced, andhistorical novels rarely met with success. However, he was willing totake the story, and offered half profits, candidly admitting that hehad no great hopes of a large sale. Derrick instantly closed with thisoffer, proofs came in, the book appeared, was well received like itspredecessor, fell into the hands of one of the leaders of Society, and, to the intense surprise of the publisher, proved to be the novel ofthe year. Speedily a second edition was called for; then, after a briefinterval, a third edition--this time a rational one-volume affair; andthe whole lot--6, 000 I believe--went off on the day of publication. Derrick was amazed; but he enjoyed his success very heartily, and Ithink no one could say that he had leapt into fame at a bound. 

Having devoured 'At Strife, ' people began to discover the merits of'Lynwood's Heritage;' the libraries were besieged for it, and a cheapedition was hastily published, and another and another, till the book, which at first had been such a dead failure, rivalled 'At Strife. ' Trulyan author's career is a curious thing; and precisely why the first bookfailed, and the second succeeded, no one could explain. 

It amused me very much to see Derrick turned into a lion--he was soessentially un-lion-like. People were for ever asking him how heworked, and I remember a very pretty girl setting upon him once at adinner-party with the embarrassing request:

"Now, do tell me, Mr. Vaughan, how do you write stories? I wish youwould give me a good receipt for a novel. "

Derrick hesitated uneasily for a minute; finally, with a humorous smile, he said:

"Well, I can't exactly tell you, because, more or less, novels grow;but if you want a receipt, you might perhaps try after thisfashion:--Conceive your hero, add a sprinkling of friends and relatives, flavour with whatever scenery or local colour you please, carefullyconsider what circumstances are most likely to develop your man into thebest he is capable of, allow the whole to simmer in your brain as longas you can, and then serve, while hot, with ink upon white or bluefoolscap, according to taste. "

The young lady applauded the receipt, but she sighed a little, andprobably relinquished all hope of concocting a novel herself; on thewhole, it seemed to involve incessant taking of trouble. 

About this time I remember, too, another little scene, which I enjoyedamazingly. I laugh now when I think of it. I happened to be at a hugeevening crush, and rather to my surprise, came across Lawrence Vaughan. We were talking together, when up came Connington of the Foreign Office. "I say, Vaughan, " he said, "Lord Remington wishes to be introducedto you. " I watched the old statesman a little curiously as he greetedLawrence, and listened to his first words: "Very glad to make youracquaintance, Captain Vaughan; I understand that the author of thatgrand novel, 'At Strife, ' is a brother of yours. " And poor Lawrencespent a mauvais quart d'heure, inwardly fuming, I know, at the idea thathe, the hero of Saspataras Hill, should be considered merely as 'thebrother of Vaughan, the novelist. '

Fate, or perhaps I should say the effect of his own pernicious actions, did not deal kindly just now with Lawrence. Somehow Freda learnt aboutthat will, and, being no bread-and-butter miss, content meekly to adoreher fiance and deem him faultless, she 'up and spake' on the subject, and I fancy poor Lawrence must have had another mauvais quart d'heure. It was not this, however, which led to a final breach between them; itwas something which Sir Richard discovered with regard to Lawrence'slife at Dover. The engagement was instantly broken off, and Freda, I amsure, felt nothing but relief. She went abroad for some time, however, and we did not see her till long after Lawrence had been comfortablymarried to 1, 500 pounds a year and a middle-aged widow, who had longbeen a hero-worshipper, and who, I am told, never allowed any visitor toleave the house without making some allusion to the memorable battle ofSaspataras Hill and her Lawrence's gallant action. 

For the two years following after the Major's death, Derrick and I, as Imentioned before, shared the rooms in Montague Street. For me, owing tothe trouble I spoke of, they were years of maddening suspense andpain; but what pleasure I did manage to enjoy came entirely through thesuccess of my friend's books and from his companionship. It was odd thatfrom the care of his father he should immediately pass on to the care ofone who had made such a disastrous mistake as I had made. But I feel theless compunction at the thought of the amount of sympathy I calledfor at that time, because I notice that the giving of sympathy is anecessity for Derrick, and that when the troubles of other folk do notimmediately thrust themselves into his life he carefully hunts themup. During these two years he was reading for the Bar--not that he everexpected to do very much as a barrister, but he thought it well to havesomething to fall back on, and declared that the drudgery of the readingwould do him good. He was also writing as usual, and he used to spendtwo evenings a week at Whitechapel, where he taught one of the classesin connection with Toynbee Hall, and where he gained that knowledgeof East-end life which is conspicuous in his third book--'Dick Carew. 'This, with an ever increasing and often very burdensome correspondence, brought to him by his books, and with a fair share of dinners, 'AtHomes, ' and so forth, made his life a full one. In a quiet sort of way Ibelieve he was happy during this time. But later on, when, my troubleat an end, I had migrated to a house of my own, and he was left alone inthe Montague Street rooms, his spirits somehow flagged. 

Fame is, after all, a hollow, unsatisfying thing to a man of his nature. He heartily enjoyed his success, he delighted in hearing that his bookshad given pleasure or had been of use to anyone, but no public victorycould in the least make up to him for the loss he had suffered in hisprivate life; indeed, I almost think there were times when his triumphsas an author seemed to him utterly worthless--days of depression whenthe congratulations of his friends were nothing but a mockery. He hadgained a striking success, it is true, but he had lost Freda; he was inthe position of the starving man who has received a gift of bon-bons, but so craves for bread that they half sicken him. I used now andthen to watch his face when, as often happened, someone said: "Whatan enviable fellow you are, Vaughan, to get on like this!" or, "Whatwouldn't I give to change places with you!" He would invariably smileand turn the conversation; but there was a look in his eyes at suchtimes that I hated to see--it always made me think of Mrs. Browning'spoem, 'The Mask':

 "Behind no prison-grate, she said, Which slurs the sunshine half a mile, Live captives so uncomforted As souls behind a smile. "

As to the Merrifields, there was no chance of seeing them, for SirRichard had gone to India in some official capacity, and no doubt, as everyone said, they would take good care to marry Freda out there. Derrick had not seen her since that trying February at Bath, long ago. Yet I fancy she was never out of his thoughts. 

And so the years rolled on, and Derrick worked away steadily, givinghis books to the world, accepting the comforts and discomforts ofan author's life, laughing at the outrageous reports that were incirculation about him, yet occasionally, I think, inwardly wincing atthem, and learning from the number of begging letters which he received, and into which he usually caused searching inquiry to be made, thatthere are in the world a vast number of undeserving poor. 

One day I happened to meet Lady Probyn at a garden-party; it was at thesame house on Campden Hill where I had once met Freda, and perhaps itwas the recollection of this which prompted me to enquire after her. 

"She has not been well, " said Lady Probyn, "and they are sending herback to England; the climate doesn't suit her. She is to make her homewith us for the present, so I am the gainer. Freda has always been myfavourite niece. I don't know what it is about her that is so taking;she is not half so pretty as the others. "

"But so much more charming, " I said. "I wonder she has not married outin India, as everyone prophesied. "

"And so do I, " said her aunt. "However, poor child, no doubt, afterhaving been two years engaged to that very disappointing hero ofSaspataras Hill, she will be shy of venturing to trust anyone again. "

"Do you think that affair ever went very deep?" I ventured to ask. "Itseemed to me that she looked miserable during her engagement, and happywhen it was broken off. "

"Quite so, " said Lady Probyn; "I noticed the same thing. It wasnothing but a mistake. They were not in the least suited to each other. By-the-by, I hear that Derrick Vaughan is married. "

"Derrick?" I exclaimed; "oh, no, that is a mistake. It is merely oneof the hundred and one reports that are for ever being set afloat abouthim. "

"But I saw it in a paper, I assure you, " said Lady Probyn, by no meansconvinced. 

"Ah, that may very well be; they were hard up for a paragraph, no doubt, and inserted it. But, as for Derrick, why, how should he marry? He hasbeen madly in love with Miss Merrifield ever since our cruise in theAurora. "

Lady Probyn made an inarticulate exclamation. 

"Poor fellow!" she said, after a minute's thought; "that explains muchto me. "

She did not explain her rather ambiguous remark, and before long ourtete-a-tete was interrupted. 

Now that my friend was a full-fledged barrister, he and I sharedchambers, and one morning about a month after this garden party, Derrickcame in with a face of such radiant happiness that I couldn't imaginewhat good luck had befallen him. 

"What do you think?" he exclaimed; "here's an invitation for a cruise inthe Aurora at the end of August--to be nearly the same party that we hadyears ago, " and he threw down the letter for me to read. 

Of course there was special mention of "my niece, Miss Merrifield, whohas just returned from India, and is ordered plenty of sea-air. " I couldhave told that without reading the letter, for it was written quiteclearly in Derrick's face. He looked ten years younger, and if any ofhis adoring readers could have seen the pranks he was up to that morningin our staid and respectable chambers, I am afraid they would no longerhave spoken of him "with 'bated breath and whispering humbleness. "

As it happened, I, too, was able to leave home for a fortnight at theend of August; and so our party in the Aurora really was the same, except that we were all several years older, and let us hope wiser, thanon the previous occasion. Considering all that had intervened, I wassurprised that Derrick was not more altered; as for Freda, she wasdecidedly paler than when we first met her, but before long sea-air andhappiness wrought a wonderful transformation in her. 

In spite of the pessimists who are for ever writing books, even writingnovels (more shame to them), to prove that there is no such thing ashappiness in the world, we managed every one of us heartily to enjoy ourcruise. It seemed indeed true that:

 "Green leaves and blossoms, and sunny warm weather, And singing and loving all come back together. "

Something, at any rate, of the glamour of those past days came back tous all, I fancy, as we laughed and dozed and idled and talked beneaththe snowy wings of the Aurora, and I cannot say I was in the leastsurprised when, on roaming through the pleasant garden walks in thatunique little island of Tresco, I came once more upon Derrick and Freda, with, if you will believe it, another handful of white heather givento them by that discerning gardener! Freda once more reminded me of thegirl in the 'Biglow Papers, ' and Derrick's face was full of such blissas one seldom sees. 

He had always had to wait for his good things, but in the end they cameto him. However, you may depend upon it, he didn't say much. That wasnever his way. He only gripped my hand, and, with his eyes all aglowwith happiness, exclaimed "Congratulate me, old fellow!"