Derrick Vaughan Novelist
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Edna Lyall >> Derrick Vaughan Novelist
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But revenons a nos moutons--that is to say, to our lion and lamb--
the old brute of a Major and his long-suffering son.
While the table was being cleared, the Major took forty winks on the
sofa, and we two beat a retreat, lit up our pipes in the passage,
and were just turning out when the postman's double knock came, but
no showers of letters in the box. Derrick threw open the door, and
the man handed 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
came the clean, folded bits of printing and the dirty and
dishevelled blue foolscap, the look of which I knew so well. It is
an odd feeling, that first seeing one's self in print, and I could
guess, even then, what a thrill shot through Derrick as he turned
over the pages. But he would not take them into the sitting-room,
no doubt dreading another diatribe against his profession; and we
solemnly played euchre, and patiently endured the Major's withering
sarcasms till ten o'clock sounded our happy release.
However, to make a long story short, a month later--that is, at the
end of November--'Lynwood's Heritage' was published in three volumes
with maroon cloth and gilt lettering. Derrick had distributed among
his friends the publishers' announcement of the day of publication;
and when it was out I besieged the libraries for it, always
expressing surprise if I did not find it in their lists. Then began
the time of reviews. As I had expected, they were extremely
favourable, with the exception of the Herald, the Stroller, and the
Hour, which made it rather hot for him, the latter in particular
pitching into his views and assuring its readers that the book was
'dangerous,' and its author a believer in--various thing especially
repugnant to Derrick, at it happened.
I was with him when he read these reviews. Over the cleverness of
the satirical attack in the Weekly Herald he laughed heartily,
though the laugh was against himself; and as to the critic who wrote
in the Stroller it was apparent to all who knew 'Lynwood' that he
had not read much of the book; but over this review in the Hour he
was genuinely angry--it hurt him personally, and, as it afterwards
turned out, played no small part in the story of his life. The good
reviews, however, were many, and their recommendation of the book
hearty; they all prophesied that it would be a great success. Yet,
spite of this, 'Lynwood's Heritage' didn't sell. Was it, as I had
feared, that Derrick was too devoid of the pushing faculty ever to
make a successful writer? Or was it that he was handicapped by
being down in the provinces playing keeper to that abominable old
bear? Anyhow, the book was well received, read with enthusiasm by
an extremely small circle, and then it dropped down to the bottom
among the mass of overlooked literature, and its career seemed to be
over. I can recall the look in Derrick's face when one day he
glanced through the new Mudie and Smith lists and found 'Lynwood's
Heritage' no longer down. I had been trying to cheer him up about
the book and quoting all the favourable remarks I had heard about
it. But unluckily 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'
has failed."
Something in the deep depression of look and tone gave me a
momentary insight into the author's heart. He thought, I know, of
the agony of mind this book had cost him; of those long months of
waiting and their deadly struggle, of the hopes which had made all
he passed through seem so well worth while; and the bitterness of
the disappointment was no doubt intensified by the knowledge that
the Major would rejoice over it.
We walked that afternoon along the Bradford Valley, a road which
Derrick was specially fond of. He loved the thickly-wooded hills,
and the glimpses of the Avon, which, flanked by the canal and the
railway, runs parallel with the high road; he always admired, too, a
certain little village with grey stone cottages which lay in this
direction, and liked to look at the site of the old hall near the
road: nothing remained of it but the tall gate posts and rusty iron
gates looking strangely dreary and deserted, and within one could
see, between some dark yew trees, an old terrace walk with stone
steps and balustrades--the most ghostly-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
way affected his perfectly clear consciousness that, come what
would, he had to write.
As we walked back to Bath he told me his 'Ruined Hall' story as far
as it had yet evolved itself in his brain, and we were still
discussing it when in Milsom Street we met a boy crying evening
papers, and details of the last great battle at Saspataras Hill.
Derrick broke off hastily, everything but anxiety for Lawrence
driven from 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
his whole face aglow with pleasure, "look here!"
He pointed to a few lines in the paper which mentioned the heroic
conduct of Lieutenant L. Vaughan, who at the risk of his life had
rescued a brother officer when surrounded by the enemy and
completely disabled. Lieutenant Vaughan had managed to mount the
wounded man on his own horse and had miraculously escaped himself
with nothing worse than a sword-thrust in the left arm.
We went home in triumph to the Major, and Derrick read the whole
account aloud. With all his detestation of war, he was nevertheless
greatly stirred by the description of the gallant defence of the
attacked position--and for a time we were all at one, and could talk
of nothing but Lawrence's heroism, and Victoria Crosses, and the
prospects of peace. 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 life of scribbling and Lawrence's life of
heroic adventure. I could never make out whether he wanted to goad
his son into leaving him, in order that he might drink himself to
death in peace, or whether he merely indulged in his natural love of
tormenting, valuing Derrick's devotion as conducive to his own
comfort, and knowing that hard words would not drive him from what
he deemed to be his duty. I rather incline to the latter view, but
the old Major was always an enigma to me; nor can I to this day make
out his raison-d'etre, except on the theory that the training of a
novelist required a course of slow torture, and that the old man was
sent into the world to be a sort of thorn in the flesh of Derrick.
What with the disappointment about his first book, and the
difficulty of writing his second, the fierce craving for Freda's
presence, the struggle not to allow his admiration for Lawrence's
bravery to become poisoned by envy under the influence of the
Major's incessant attacks, Derrick had just then a hard time of it.
He never complained, but I noticed a great change in him; his
melancholy increased, his flashes of humour and merriment became
fewer and fewer--I began to be afraid that he would break down.
"For God's sake!" I exclaimed one evening when left alone with the
Doctor after an evening of whist, "do order the Major to London.
Derrick has been mewed up here with him for nearly two years, and I
don't think he can stand it much longer."
So the Doctor kindly contrived to advise the Major to consult a
well-known London physician, and to spend a fortnight in town,
further suggesting that a month at Ben Rhydding might be enjoyable
before settling down at Bath again for the winter. Luckily the
Major took to the idea, and just as Lawrence returned from the war
Derrick and his father arrived in town. The change seemed likely to
work well, and I was able now and then to release my friend and play
cribbage with the old man for an hour or two while Derrick tore
about London, interviewed his publisher, made researches into
seventeenth century documents at the British Museum, and somehow
managed in his rapid way to acquire those glimpses of life and
character which he afterwards turned to such good account. All was
grist that came to his mill, and at first the mere sight of his old
home, London, seemed to revive him. Of course at the very first
opportunity he called at the Probyns', and we both of us had an
invitation to go there on the following Wednesday to see the march
past of the troops and to lunch. Derrick was nearly beside himself
at the 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 with her, yet as completely separated as if seas rolled
between them, was beginning to try him terribly.
Meantime Lawrence had turned up again, greatly improved in every way
by all that he had lived through, but rather too ready to fall in
with his father's tone towards Derrick. The relations between the
two brothers--always a little peculiar--became more and more
difficult, and the 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
unusually exasperating at breakfast that morning, so that he started
with a jaded, worn-out feeling that would not wholly yield even to
the excitement of this long-expected meeting with Freda. When he
found himself in the great drawing-room at Lord Probyn's house, amid
a buzz of talk and a crowd of strange faces, he was seized with one
of those sudden attacks of shyness to which he was always liable.
In fact, he had been so long alone with the old Major that this
plunge into society was too great a reaction, 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, the
well-known member for Codrington, whose curious but attractive face
was known to all the world through the caricatures of it in 'Punch.'
I knew that she saw Derrick, and that he instantly perceived her,
and that a miserable sense of separation, of distance, of
hopelessness overwhelmed him as he looked. After all, it was
natural enough. For two years he had thought of Freda night and
day; in his unutterably dreary life her memory had been his
refreshment, his solace, his companion. Now he was suddenly brought
face to face, not with the Freda of his dreams, but with a
fashionable, beautifully dressed, much-sought girl, and he felt that
a gulf lay between them; it was the gulf of experience. Freda's
life in society, the whirl of gaiety, the excitement and success
which she had been enjoying throughout the season, and his miserable
monotony of companionship with his invalid father, of hard work and
weary disappointment, had broken down the bond of union that had
once existed between them. From either side they looked at each
other--Freda with a wondering perplexity, Derrick with a dull
grinding pain at his heart.
Of course they spoke to each other; but I fancy the merest
platitudes passed between them. Somehow they had lost touch, and a
crowded London drawing-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
father wouldn't let me--he is very particular about what we read."
That frank but not very happily worded answer was like a stab to
poor Derrick. He had given to the world then a book that was not
fit for her to read! This 'Lynwood,' which had been written with
his own heart's blood, was counted a dangerous, poisonous thing,
from which she must be guarded!
Freda must have seen that she had hurt him, for she tried hard to
retrieve her words.
"It was tantalising to have it actually in the house, wasn't it? I
have a grudge against the Hour, for it was the review in that which
set my father against it." Then rather anxious to leave the
difficult subject--"And has your brother quite recovered from his
wound?"
I think she was a little vexed that Derrick did not show more
animation in his replies about Lawrence's adventures during the war;
the less he responded the more enthusiastic she became, and I am
perfectly sure that in her heart she was thinking:
"He is jealous of his brother's fame--I am disappointed in him. He
has grown dull, and absent, and stupid, and he is dreadfully wanting
in small-talk. I fear that his life down in the provinces is
turning him into a bear."
She brought the conversation back to his book; but there was a
little touch of scorn in her voice, as if she thought to herself, "I
suppose he is one of those people who can only talk on one subject--
his own doings." 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
dignity and a proud smile:
"On the contrary, it has been a great failure; only three hundred
and nine 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.
"I want to see Lord Starcross," he added. "I have no idea what a
hero is like."
Just then Lady Probyn came up, followed by an elderly harpy in
spectacles and false, much-frizzed fringe.
"Mrs. Carsteen wishes to be introduced to you, Mr. Vaughan; she is a
great admirer of your writings."
And poor Derrick, who was then quite unused to the species, had to
stand and receive a flood of the most fulsome flattery, delivered in
a strident voice, and to bear the critical and prolonged stare of
the spectacled eyes. Nor would the harpy easily release her prey.
She kept him much against his will, and I saw him looking wistfully
now and then towards Freda.
"It amuses me," I said to her, "that Derrick Vaughan should be so
anxious to see Lord Starcross. It reminds me of Charles Lamb's
anxiety to see Kosciusko, 'for,' said he, 'I have never seen a hero;
I wonder how they look,' while all the time he himself was living a
life of heroic self-sacrifice."
"Mr. Vaughan, I should think, need only look at his own brother,"
said Freda, missing the drift of my speech.
I longed to tell her what it was possible to tell of Derrick's life,
but at that moment Sir Richard Merrifield introduced to his daughter
a girl in a huge hat and great flopping sleeves, Miss Isaacson,
whose picture at the Grosvenor had been so much talked of. Now the
little artist knew no 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 Freda at liberty as soon as the harpy
had released Derrick; but my endeavours were frustrated, for Miss
Isaacson, having looked me well over, decided that I was not at all
intense, but a mere commonplace, slightly cynical worldling, and
having exchanged a few lukewarm remarks with me, she returned 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 fine
sight, and we all became highly enthusiastic. Freda enjoyed the
mere pageant like a child, and was delighted with the horses. She
looked now more like the Freda of the yacht, and I wished that
Derrick could be near 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.
He was riding a spirited bay, which took Freda's fancy amazingly,
though she reserved her chief enthusiasm for Lord Starcross and his
steed. It was 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 he was longing, and then they were fated, apparently,
to disagree. I was standing near and overheard the close of their
talk.
"I do believe you must be a member of the Peace Society!" said Freda
impatiently. "Or perhaps you have turned Quaker. But I want to
introduce you to my god-father, Mr. Fleming; you know it was his son
whom your brother saved."
And I heard Derrick being introduced as the brother of the hero of
Saspataras Hill; and the next day he received a card for one of Mrs.
Fleming's receptions, Lawrence having previously been invited to
dine there on the same night.
What happened at that party I never exactly understood. All I could
gather was that Lawrence had been tremendously feted, that Freda had
been present, and that poor old Derrick was as miserable as he could
be when I next saw him. Putting two and two together, I guessed
that he had been tantalised by a mere sight of her, possibly
tortured by watching more favoured men enjoying long tete-a-tetes;
but he would say little or nothing about it, and when, soon after,
he and the Major left London, I feared 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
place suited the Major admirably, and his various baths took up so
great a part of each day, that Derrick had more time to himself than
usual, and 'At Strife' got on rapidly. He much enjoyed, too, the
beautiful country round, while the hotel itself, with its huge
gathering of all sorts and conditions of people, afforded him
endless studies of character. The Major breakfasted in his own
room, and, being so much engrossed with his baths, did not generally
appear till twelve. Derrick and I breakfasted in 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 any letters
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
envelope and began to read his letter as we walked. All at once I
felt the arm 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
paused and sat down on a sheltered rustic seat, he unconsciously
followed my example, looking more like a sleep-walker than a man in
the possession of all his faculties. At last he finished the
letter, and looked up in a dazed, miserable way, letting his eyes
wander over the fir-trees and the fragrant 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 to
the heart. But his voice was perfectly calm, and full of a ghastly
self-control.
"Freda will be my sister-in-law," he said, rather as if stating the
fact to 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 as
follows:
"Dear Derrick,--For the last few days I have been down in the
Flemings' place in Derbyshire, and fortune has favoured me, for the
Merrifields are here too. Now prepare yourself for a surprise.
Break the news to the governor, and send me your heartiest
congratulations by return of post. I am engaged to Freda
Merrifield, and am the happiest fellow in the world. They are
awfully fastidious sort of people, and I do not believe Sir Richard
would have consented to such a match had it not been for that lucky
impulse which made me rescue Dick Fleming. It has all been arranged
very quickly, as these things should be, but we have seen a good
deal of each other--first at Aldershot the year before last, and
just lately in town, and now these four days down here--and days in
a country house are equal to weeks elsewhere. I enclose a letter to
my father--give it to him at a suitable moment--but, after all, he's
sure to approve of a daughter-in-law with such a dowry as Miss
Merrifield is likely 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 the grounds to the wild moorland country beyond.
After all, Freda was in no way to blame. As a mere girl she had
allowed Derrick to see that she cared for him; then circumstances
had entirely separated them; she saw more of the world, met
Lawrence, was perhaps first attracted to him by his very likeness to
Derrick, and finally fell in 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 supplanted his brother. All the blame lay
with the Major's slavery to drink, for if only he had remained out
in India I feel sure that matters would have gone quite differently.
We tramped on over heather and ling and springy turf till we reached
the old ruin known as the Hunting Tower; then Derrick seemed to
awake to the recollection of present things. He looked at his
watch.
"I must go back to my father," he said, for the first time breaking
the silence.
"You shall do no such thing!" I cried. "Stay out here and I will
see to the Major, and give him the letter too if you like."
He caught at the suggestion, and as he thanked me I think there were
tears 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, and absolute quiet. Once I just glanced back, and somehow
the scene has always lingered in my memory--the great stretch of
desolate moor, the dull crimson of the heather, the lowering grey
clouds, the Hunting Tower a patch of deeper gloom against the gloomy
sky, and Derrick's figure prostrate, on the turf, the face hidden,
the hands grasping at the sprigs of heather growing near.
The Major was just ready to be helped into the garden when I reached
the hotel. We sat down in the very same place where Derrick had
read the news, and, when I judged it politic, I suddenly remembered
with apologies the letter that had been entrusted to me. The old
man received it with satisfaction, for he was fond of Lawrence and
proud of him, and the news of the engagement pleased him greatly.
He was still discussing it 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 a thousand a year. You know her, don't you? What's
she like?"
"I have met her," replied Derrick, with forced composure. "She is
very charming."
"Lawrence has all his wits about him," growled the Major. "Whereas
you--" (several oaths interjected). "It will be a long while before
any girl with a dowry will look at you! What women like is a bold
man of action; what they despise, mere dabblers in pen and ink,
writers of poisonous sensational tales such as yours! I'm quoting
your own reviewers, so you needn't contradict me!"
Of course no one had dreamt of contradicting; it would have been the
worst 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's
flood of irritating words, and glancing now and then at Derrick's
grave, resolute face, which successfully masked such bitter
suffering, I couldn't help reflecting that here was courage
infinitely more deserving of the Victoria Cross than Lawrence's
impulsive rescue. Very patiently he sat through the long dinner. I
doubt if any but an acute observer could have told that he was in
trouble; and, luckily, the world in general observes hardly at all.
He endured the Major till it was time for 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. He was very silent.
But I remember that, as we watched the sun go down--a glowing
crimson ball, half veiled in grey mist--he said abruptly, "If
Lawrence makes her happy I can bear it. And of course I always knew
that I was not worthy of her."
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