Derrick Vaughan Novelist
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Edna Lyall >> Derrick Vaughan Novelist
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He laughed at this estimate of his powers.
"Novelists, like other cattle, have to obey their owner," he said
lightly.
I thought for a moment that he meant the Major, and was breaking
into an angry remonstrance, when I saw that he meant something quite
different. It was always his strongest point, this extraordinary
consciousness of right, this unwavering belief that he had to do and
therefore could do certain things. Without this, I know that he
never wrote a line, and in my 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," he
said.
And that evening we sat by his gas stove and he read me the next
four chapters of 'Lynwood.' He had rather a dismal lodging-house
bedroom, with faded wall-paper and a prosaic snuff-coloured carpet.
On a rickety table 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 Oxford pictures were on the walls--Hoffman's 'Christ
speaking to the Woman taken in Adultery,' hanging over the
mantelpiece--it had always been a favourite of his. I remember
that, as he read the description of Lynwood and his wife, I kept
looking from him to the Christ in the picture till I could almost
have fancied that each face bore the same expression. Had this
strange monotonous life with that old brute of a Major brought him
some new perception of those words, "Neither do I condemn thee"?
But when he stopped reading, I, true to my character, forgot his
affairs in my own, as we sat talking far into the night--talking of
that luckless month at Mondisfield, of all the problems it had
opened up, and of my wretchedness.
"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 as that."
He acquiesced, and I went on talking of my grievances, and it was
not till I was in the train on my way back to London that I
remembered how a look of disappointment had passed over his face
just at the moment. Evidently he had counted on learning something
about Freda from me, and I--well, I had clean forgotten both her
existence and his passionate love.
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 polite enough; and dear old Derrick--well, I believe my
visits really helped to brighten him up. At any rate he said he
couldn't have borne his life without them, and for a sceptical,
dismal, cynical fellow like me to hear that was somehow flattering.
The mere force of contrast did me good. I used to come back on the
Monday wondering that Derrick didn't cut his throat, and realising
that, after all, it was something to be a free agent, and to have
comfortable rooms in Montague Street, with no old bear of a drunkard
to disturb my peace. And then a sort of admiration sprang up in my
heart, and the cynicism bred of melancholy broodings over solitary
pipes was less rampant than usual.
It was, I think, early in the new year that I met Lawrence Vaughan
in Bath. He was not staying at Gay Street, so I could still have
the vacant room 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
for more 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 well
accustomed to the life. Besides, you know, he is such a dreamy,
quiet sort of fellow; he lives all the time in a world of his own
creation, and bears the discomforts of this world with great
philosophy. Actually he 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
I had a vindictive longing, as I looked at him, to shut him up with
the Major for a month, and see what would happen.
These twin brothers were curiously alike in face and curiously
unlike in nature. So much for the great science of physiognomy! It
often seemed to me that they were the complement of each other. For
instance, Derrick in society was extremely silent, Lawrence was a
rattling talker; Derrick, when alone with you, would now and then
reveal unsuspected depths of thought and expression; Lawrence, when
alone with you, very frequently showed himself to be a cad. The
elder twin was modest and diffident, the younger inclined to brag;
the one had a strong tendency to melancholy, the other was blest or
cursed with the sort of temperament which has been said to accompany
"a hard heart and a good digestion."
I was not surprised to find that the son who could not tolerate the
governor's presence for more than an hour or two, was a prime
favourite with the old man; that was just the way of the world. Of
course, the Major was as polite as possible to him; Derrick got the
kicks and Lawrence 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 meal with 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
to the wind; for when the Major, like the Hatter in 'Alice,' pressed
me to 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
Derrick was human, and had his faults like the rest of us; and I am
pretty sure he did not much enjoy the sight of his father's foolish
and unreasonable devotion to Lawrence. If you come to think of it,
he would have been a full-fledged angel if no jealous pang, no
reflection that it was rather rough on him, had crossed his mind,
when he saw his younger brother treated with every mark of respect
and liking, and knew that Lawrence would 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 a
fellow-soldier to talk to instead of a quill-driver, who as yet is
not even a penny-a-liner. Eh, Derrick? Don't you feel inclined to
regret your fool's choice now? You might have been starting off for
the war with Lawrence next week, if you hadn't chosen what you're
pleased to call a literary life. Literary life, indeed! I little
thought a son of mine would ever have been so wanting in spirit as
to prefer dabbling in ink to a life of action--to be the scribbler
of mere words, rather than an 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 was not the distorting, devilish anger that the Major gave
way to, but real downright wrath.
"You speak contemptuously of mere novels," he said in a low voice,
yet more 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 the day? and why is a writer to submit to scoffs and
insults and tamely to hear his profession reviled? I have chosen to
write the message that has been given me, and I don't regret the
choice. Should I have shown greater spirit if I had sold my freedom
and right of judgment to be one of the national killing machines?"
With that he threw down his cards and strode out of the room in a
white heat of anger. It was a pity he made that last remark, for it
put him in the wrong and needlessly annoyed Lawrence and the Major.
But an angry man has no time to weigh his words, and, as I said,
poor old Derrick was very human, and when wounded too intolerably
could on occasion retaliate.
The Major uttered an oath and looked in astonishment at the
retreating figure. Derrick was such an extraordinarily quiet,
respectful, long-suffering son as a rule, that this outburst was
startling in the extreme. Moreover, it spoilt the game, and the old
man, chafed by the result of his own ill-nature, and helpless to
bring back his partner, was forced to betake himself to chess. I
left him grumbling away to Lawrence about the vanity of authors, and
went out in the hope of finding Derrick. As I left the house I saw
someone turn the corner into the Circus, and starting in pursuit,
overtook the tall, dark figure where 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
every other profession can be taken seriously, but that a novelist's
work is supposed to be mere play? Good God! don't we suffer enough?
Have we not hard brain work and drudgery of desk work and tedious
gathering of statistics and troublesome search into details? Have
we not an appalling weight of responsibility on us?--and are we not
at the mercy of a thousand capricious chances?"
"Come now," I exclaimed, "you know that you are never so happy as
when you are writing."
"Of course," he replied; "but that doesn't make me resent such an
attack the less. Besides, you don't know what it is to have to
write in such an atmosphere as ours; it's like a weight on one's
pen. This life here is not life at all--it's a daily death, and
it's killing the book too; the last chapters are wretched--I'm
utterly dissatisfied with them."
"As for that," I said calmly, "you are no judge at all. You can
never tell the worth of your own work; the last bit is splendid."
"I could have done it better," he groaned. "But there is always a
ghastly depression dragging one back here--and then the time is so
short; 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
that then came the slow torture of a tete-a-tete day with the Major,
stinging sarcasms, 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
level pavement of Lansdowne Crescent. We had it entirely to
ourselves--not another creature was in sight.
"I could bear it all," he burst forth, "if only there was a chance
of seeing Freda. Oh, you are better off than I am--at least, you
know the worst. 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 the
irrevocableness of poor Derrick's passion. I had half hoped that
time and separation would gradually efface Freda Merrifield from his
memory; and I listened with a dire foreboding to the flood of
wretchedness which he poured forth as we paced up and down, thinking
now and then how little people guessed at the tremendous powers
hidden under his usually quiet exterior.
At length he paused, but his last heart-broken words seemed to
vibrate in the air and to force me to speak some kind of comfort.
"Derrick," I said, "come back with me to London--give up this
miserable life."
I felt him start a little; evidently no thought of yielding had come
to him before. We were passing the house that used to belong to
that strange book-lover and recluse, Beckford. I looked up at the
blank windows, and thought of that curious, self-centred life in the
past, surrounded by every luxury, able to indulge every whim; and
then I looked at my companion's pale, tortured face, and thought of
the life he had elected to lead in the hope of saving one whom duty
bound him to honour. After all, which life was the most worth
living--which was the most to be admired?
We walked on; down below us and up on the farther hill we could see
the lights of Bath; the place so beautiful by day looked now like a
fairy city, and the Abbey, looming up against the moon-lit sky,
seemed like some great giant keeping watch over the clustering roofs
below. The well-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 to bed."
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 its contrast to the cool, dark, winter's night outside. I can
vividly recall, too, the old Major's face as he looked up with a
sarcastic remark, but with a shade of anxiety in his bloodshot eyes.
He was leaning back in a green-cushioned chair, and his ghastly
yellow complexion seemed to me more noticeable than usual--his
scanty grey hair and whiskers, the lines of pain so plainly visible
in his face, impressed me curiously. I think I had never before
realised what a wreck of a man he was--how utterly dependent on
others.
Lawrence, who, to do him justice, had a good deal of tact, and who,
I believe, cared for his brother as much as he was capable of caring
for any one but himself, repeated a good story with which he had
been enlivening 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 he helped his father out of the room, I think I was
the only one who noticed 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--
also I think like a hero--stayed on at Bath, enduring as best he
could the worst form of loneliness; for undoubtedly there is no
loneliness so frightful as constant companionship with an
uncongenial person. He had, however, one consolation: the Major's
health steadily improved, under the joint influence of total
abstinence and Bath water, and, with the improvement, his temper
became a little better.
But one Saturday, when I had run down to Bath without writing
beforehand, I suddenly found a different state of things. In Orange
Grove I met Dr. Mackrill, the Major's medical man; he used now and
then to 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
friend wants 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
odd look 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. The Major 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 of
mystery about the quaint old landlady; she looked brimful of news
when she opened the door to me, but she managed to 'keep herself to
herself,' and showed me in upon the Major and Derrick, rather
triumphantly I thought. The Major looked terribly ill--worse than I
had ever seen him, and as for Derrick, he had the strangest look of
shrinking and shame-facedness you ever saw. He said he was glad to
see me, but I knew that he lied. He would have given anything to
have kept me away.
"Broken your arm?" I exclaimed, feeling bound to take some notice of
the sling.
"Yes," he replied; "met with an accident to it. But luckily it's
only the left one, so it doesn't hinder me much! I have finished
seven chapters of the last volume of 'Lynwood,' and was just wanting
to ask you a legal question."
All this time his eyes bore my scrutiny defiantly; they seemed to
dare me to say one other word about the broken arm. I didn't dare--
indeed to this day I have never mentioned the subject to him.
But that evening, while he was helping the Major to bed, the old
landlady made some pretext for toiling up to the top of the house,
where I sat smoking in Derrick's room.
"You'll excuse my making bold to speak to you, sir," she said. I
threw down my newspaper, and, looking up, saw that she was bubbling
over with some story.
"Well?" I said, encouragingly.
"It's about Mr. Vaughan, sir, I wanted to speak to you. I really do
think, 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 or other--and none of us can't think how--the Major had
managed to get hold of a bottle of brandy. How he had it I don't
know; but we none of us suspected him, and in the afternoon he says
he was too poorly to go for a drive or to go out in his chair, and
settles off on the parlour sofa for a nap while Mr. Vaughan goes out
for a walk. Mr. Vaughan was out a couple 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 of chairs, and I knew
something was wrong and hurried up to the door--and just then came a
crash like fire-irons, and I could hear the Major a-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 against
the mantelpiece as drunk as a lord, and his son seemed to have got
the bottle from him; it was half empty, and when he saw me he just
handed it to me and ordered me to take it away. Then between us we
got the Major to lie down on the sofa and left him there. When we
got out into the passage Mr. Vaughan he leant against the wall for a
minute, looking as white as a sheet, and then I noticed for the
first time that his left arm was hanging down at his side. 'Lord!
sir,' I cried, 'your arm's broken.' 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 about it, and walked off there
and then to the doctor's, and had it set. But sir, given a man
drunk as the Major was, and given a scuffle to get away the 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 to reason
no poker could get unless it was thrown--why, sir, no sensible woman
who can put two and two together can doubt that it was all the
Major's doing."
"Yes," I said, "that is clear enough; but for Mr. Vaughan's sake we
must hush it up; and, as for safety, why, the Major is hardly strong
enough to do him any worse damage than that."
The good old thing wiped away a tear from her eyes. She was very
fond of Derrick, 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, fearful
lest he should discover her upstairs and guess that she had opened
her heart to me.
Poor Derrick! That he of all people on earth should be mixed up
with such a police court story--with drunkard, and violence, and
pokers figuring 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 for ever coming across in life. And I wondered whether
the people of Bath who saw the tall, impassive-looking, hazel-eyed
son and the invalid father in their daily pilgrimages to the Pump
Room, or in church on Sunday, or in the Park on sunny afternoons had
the least notion of the tragedy that was going on. My reflections
were interrupted by his entrance. He had forced up a cheerfulness
that I am sure he didn't really feel, and seemed afraid of letting
our talk flag for a moment. I remember, 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 him now, fetching the untidy
portfolio and turning over the pages, adroitly enough, as though
anxious to show how immaterial was the loss of a left arm. That
night I listened to the first half of the third volume of 'Lynwood's
Heritage,' and couldn't help reflecting that its author seemed to
thrive on misery; and yet how I grudged him to this deadly-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
corner of the sheet of foolscap, and wrote that comical first
paragraph of the eighth chapter over which we have all laughed. I
suppose few readers guessed the author's state of mind when he wrote
it. I looked over his shoulder to see what he had written, and
couldn't help laughing aloud--I verily believe that it was his way
of turning off attention from his arm, and leading me safely from
the region of awkward questions.
"By-the-by," I exclaimed, "your writing of garden-parties reminds
me. I went to one at Campden Hill the other day, and had the good
fortune to meet Miss Freda Merrifield."
How his face lighted up, poor fellow, and what a flood of questions
he poured out. "She looked very well and very pretty," I replied.
"I played two 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 were living here, taking care of an invalid father; but
just then up came the others to arrange the game. She and I got the
best courts, and as we crossed over to them she told me she had met
your brother several times last autumn, when she had been staying
near Aldershot. Odd that he never mentioned 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
London next week, and she was longing to get back to the country to
her beloved animals--rabbits, poultry, an aviary, and all that kind
of thing. I should gather that they had kept her rather in the
background this season, but I understand that the eldest sister is
to be married in the winter, and then no doubt Miss Freda will be
brought forward."
He seemed wonderfully cheered by this opportune meeting, and though
there was so little to tell he appeared to be quite content. I left
him on Monday in fairly good spirits, and did not come across him
again till September, when his arm was well, and his novel finished
and revised. He never made two copies of his work, and I fancy this
was perhaps because he spent so short a time each day in actual
writing, and lived so continually in his work; moreover, as I said
before, he detested penmanship.
The last part of 'Lynwood' far exceeded my expectations; perhaps--
yet I don't really think so--I viewed it too favourably. But I owed
the book a debt of gratitude, since it certainly helped me through
the worst part of 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
days after," he replied; and then and there he gave me the sketch of
his second novel, 'At Strife,' and told me how he meant to weave in
his childish fancies about the defence of the bridge in the Civil
Wars.
"And about 'Lynwood?' Are you coming up to town to hawk him round?"
I asked.
"I can't do that," he said; "you see I am tied here. No, I must
send him off by rail, and let him take his chance."
"No such thing!" I cried. "If you can't leave Bath I will take him
round for you."
And Derrick, who with the oddest inconsistency would let his MS. lie
about anyhow at home, but hated the thought of sending it out alone
on its travels, gladly accepted my offer. So next week I set off
with the huge brown paper parcel; few, however, will appreciate my
good nature, for no one but an author or a publisher knows the
fearful weight of a three volume novel in MS.! To my intense
satisfaction I soon got rid of it, for the first good firm to which
I took it received it with great politeness, to be handed over to
their 'reader' for an opinion; and apparently the 'reader's' opinion
coincided with mine, for a month later Derrick received an offer for
it with which he at once closed--not because 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 at once. I happened to be
there when his first 'proofs' arrived. The Major had had an attack
of jaundice, and was in a fiendish humour. We had a miserable time
of it at dinner, for he badgered Derrick almost past bearing, and I
think the poor old fellow minded it more when there was a third
person present. Somehow through all he managed to keep his
extraordinary capacity for reverencing mere age--even this degraded
and detestable old age of the Major's. I often thought that in this
he was like my own ancestor, Hugo Wharncliffe, whose deference and
respectfulness and patience had not descended to me, while
unfortunately the effects of his physical infirmities had. I
sometimes used to reflect bitterly enough on the truth of Herbert
Spencer's teaching as to heredity, so clearly shown in my own case.
In the year 1683, through the abominable cruelty and harshness of
his brother Randolph, this Hugo Wharncliffe, my great-great-great-
great-great grandfather, was immured in Newgate, and his
constitution was thereby so much impaired and enfeebled that, two
hundred years after, my constitution is paying the penalty, and my
whole life is thereby changed and thwarted. Hence this childless
Randolph is affecting the course of several lives in the 19th
century to their grievous hurt.
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