Derrick Vaughan Novelist
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Edna Lyall >> Derrick Vaughan Novelist
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"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?
Does he drink?"
"Who told you?" I said, a little embarrassed.
"It was our landlady," said Freda; "she is the daughter of the
Major's landlady. And you should hear what she says of Derrick!
Why, he must be a downright hero! All the time I have been half
despising him"--she choked back a sob--"he has been trying to save
his father from what was certain 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 Lawrence
appreciates him! I think he must know that I've misjudged him, for
he seems 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 poor
Derrick'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
flooded her face. She turned quickly away, conscious at last that
the midsummer dream of those yachting days had to Derrick been no
dream at all, but a life-long reality.
I felt very sorry for Freda, for she was not at all the sort of girl
who would glory in having a fellow hopelessly in love with her. I
knew that the discovery she had made would be nothing but a sorrow
to her, and could guess how she would reproach herself for that
innocent past fancy, which, till now, had seemed to her so faint and
far-away--almost as something belonging to another life. All at
once we heard the others descending, and she turned to me with such
a frightened, appealing look, that I could not possibly have helped
going to the rescue. I plunged abruptly into a discourse on
Beckford, and told her how he used to keep diamonds in a tea-cup,
and amused himself by arranging them on a piece of velvet. Sir
Richard fled from the sound of my prosy voice, and, needless to say,
Derrick followed him. We let them get well in advance and then
followed, Freda silent and distraite, but every now and then asking
a question about the Major.
As for Derrick, evidently he was on guard. He saw a good deal of
the Merrifields and was sedulously attentive to them in many small
ways; but with Freda he was curiously reserved, and if by chance
they did talk together, he took good care to bring Lawrence's name
into the conversation. On the whole, I believe loyalty was his
strongest characteristic, and want of loyalty in others tried him
more severely than anything in the world.
As the spring wore on, it became evident to everyone that the Major
could not last long. His son's watchfulness and the enforced
temperance which the doctors insisted on had prolonged his life to a
certain extent, but gradually his sufferings increased and his
strength diminished. At last he kept his bed altogether.
What Derrick bore at this time no one can ever know. When, one
bright sunshiny Saturday, I went down to see how he was getting on,
I found him worn and haggard, too evidently paying the penalty of
sleepless nights and thankless care. I was a little shocked to hear
that Lawrence had been summoned, but when I was taken into the sick
room I realised that they 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
bloodshot eyes rested on Derrick, or the patience with which the
dear old fellow bore his father's scathing sarcasms. It was while I
was sitting by the bed that the landlady entered with a telegram,
which she put into Derrick's hand.
"From Lawrence!" said the dying man triumphantly, "to say by what
train we 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? What does he say?"
"I am afraid he cannot be here just yet," said Derrick, trying to
tone down the curt message; "it seems he cannot get leave."
"Not get leave to see his dying father? What confounded nonsense.
Give me the thing here"; and he snatched the telegram from Derrick
and read it 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's often 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 an hour 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 you
who cared for me, not Lawrence, and I've struck your name out of my
will--have left all to him. After all, though you are one of those
confounded novelists, you've done what you could for me. Let some
one fetch a solicitor--I'll alter it--I'll alter it!"
I instantly hurried out to fetch a lawyer, but it was Saturday
afternoon, the offices were closed, and some time passed before I
had caught my man. I told him as we hastened back some of the facts
of the case, and he brought his writing materials into the sick room
and took down from the Major's own lips the words which would have
the effect of dividing the old man's possessions between his two
sons. Dr. Mackrill was now present; he stood on one side of the
bed, his fingers on the dying man's pulse. On the other side stood
Derrick, a degree paler and graver 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 rest
of us waited in a wretched hushed state of tension. In the room
itself there was no sound save the scratching of the pen and the
laboured breathing of the old man; but in the next house we could
hear someone playing 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 the words 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
believed that Derrick and Freda would by this time have been
betrothed. Derrick had taken a line which necessarily divided them,
had done what he saw to be his duty; yet what were the results? He
had lost Freda, he had lost his book, he had damaged his chance of
success as a writer, he had been struck out of his father's will,
and he had suffered unspeakably. Had anything whatever been gained?
The Major was dying unrepentant to all appearance, as hard and
cynical an old worldling as I ever saw. The only spark 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
of indignation, "What profit is there in his blood?" But looking at
it now, I have a sort of perception that the very lack of apparent
profitableness was part of Derrick's training, while if, as I now
incline to think, there is a hereafter where the training begun here
is continued, the old Major in the hell he most richly deserved
would have the remembrance of his son's patience and constancy and
devotion to serve 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 yellow hand of the invalid.
"You must sign your name here," he said, pointing with his finger;
and the Major raised himself a little, and brought the pen
quaveringly down towards the paper. With a sort of fascination I
watched the finely-pointed steel nib; it trembled for an instant or
two, then the pen dropped from the convulsed fingers, and with a cry
of intolerable anguish the Major fell back.
For some minutes there was a painful struggle; presently we caught a
word or two between the groans of the dying man.
"Too late!" he gasped, "too late!" And then a dreadful vision of
horrors seemed to rise before him, and with a terror that I can
never forget he turned to his son and clutched fast hold of his
hands: "Derrick!" he shrieked.
Derrick could not speak, but he bent low over the bed as though to
screen the dying eyes from those horrible visions, and with an odd
sort of thrill I saw him embrace his father.
When he raised his head the terror had died out of the Major's face;
all was 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
should hear all about his father's last hours, and I made the
solicitor show him the unsigned will. He made hardly any comment on
it till we three were alone together. Then with a sort of kindly
patronage he turned to his brother--Derrick, it must be remembered,
was the elder twin--and said pityingly, "Poor old fellow! it was
rather rough on you that the governor couldn't sign this; but never
mind, you'll soon, no doubt, be earning a fortune by your books; and
besides, what does a bachelor want with more than you've already
inherited from our mother? Whereas, an officer just going to be
married, and with this confounded reputation of hero to keep up,
why, I can tell you it needs every penny of it!"
Derrick looked at his brother searchingly. I honestly believe that
he didn't very much care about the money, but it cut him to the
heart that Lawrence should treat him so shabbily. The soul of
generosity himself, he could not understand how anyone could frame a
speech so infernally mean.
"Of course," I broke in, "if Derrick liked to go to law he could no
doubt get his rights, there are three witnesses who can prove what
was the Major's real wish."
"I shall not go to law," said Derrick, with a dignity of which I had
hardly imagined him capable. "You spoke of your marriage, Lawrence;
is it to be soon?"
"This autumn, I hope," said Lawrence; "at least, if I can overcome
Sir Richard's ridiculous notion that a girl ought not to marry till
she's twenty-one. He's a most crotchety old fellow, that future
father-in-law of mine."
When Lawrence had first come back from the war I had thought him
wonderfully improved, but a long course of spoiling and flattery had
done him a world of harm. He liked very much to be lionised, and to
see him now posing in drawing-rooms, surrounded by a worshipping
throng of women, was enough to sicken any sensible being.
As for Derrick, though he could not be expected to feel his
bereavement in the ordinary way, yet his father's death had been a
great shock to him. It was arranged that after settling various
matters in Bath he should go down to stay with his sister for a
time, joining me in Montague Street later on. While he was away in
Birmingham, however, an extraordinary change came into my humdrum
life, and when he rejoined me a few weeks later, I--selfish brute--
was so overwhelmed with the trouble that 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 done without him I can't
conceive. However, this story concerns him and has nothing to do
with my extraordinary dilemma; I merely mention it as a fact which
brought additional cares into his life. All the time he was doing
what could be done to help me he was also going through a most
baffling and miserable time among the publishers; for 'At Strife,'
unlike its predecessor, was rejected by Davison and by five other
houses. Think of this, you comfortable readers, as you lie back in
your easy chairs and leisurely turn the pages of that popular story.
The book which represented years of study and long hours of hard
work was first burnt to a cinder. It was re-written with what
infinite pains and toil few can understand. It was then six times
tied up and carried with anxiety and hope to a publisher's office,
only to re-appear six times in Montague Street, an unwelcome
visitor, bringing with it depression and disappointment.
Derrick said little, but suffered much. However, nothing daunted
him. When it came back from the sixth publisher he took it to a
seventh, then returned and wrote away like a Trojan at his third
book. The one thing that never failed him was that curious
consciousness that he HAD to write; like the prophets of old, the
'burden' came to him, and speak it he must.
The seventh publisher wrote a somewhat dubious letter: the book, he
thought, had great merit, but unluckily people were prejudiced, and
historical novels rarely met with success. However, he was willing
to take the story, and offered half profits, candidly admitting that
he had no great hopes of a large sale. Derrick instantly closed
with this offer, proofs came in, the book appeared, was well
received like its predecessor, fell into the hands of one of the
leaders of Society, and, to the intense surprise of the publisher,
proved to be the novel of the year. Speedily a second edition was
called for; then, after a brief interval, a third edition--this time
a rational one-volume affair; and the whole lot--6,000 I believe--
went off on the day of publication. Derrick was amazed; but he
enjoyed his success very heartily, and I think 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
cheap edition was hastily published, and another and another, till
the book, which at first had been such a dead failure, rivalled 'At
Strife.' Truly an author's career is a curious thing; and precisely
why the first book failed, and the second succeeded, no one could
explain.
It amused me very much to see Derrick turned into a lion--he was so
essentially un-lion-like. People were for ever asking him how he
worked, and I remember a very pretty girl setting upon him once at a
dinner-party with the embarrassing request:
"Now, do tell me, Mr. Vaughan, how do you write stories? I wish you
would 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 this
fashion:--Conceive your hero, add a sprinkling of friends and
relatives, flavour with whatever scenery or local colour you please,
carefully consider what circumstances are most likely to develop
your man into the best he is capable of, allow the whole to simmer
in your brain as long as you can, and then serve, while hot, with
ink upon white or blue foolscap, according to taste."
The young lady applauded the receipt, but she sighed a little, and
probably relinquished all hope of concocting a novel herself; on the
whole, it seemed to involve incessant taking of trouble.
About this time I remember, too, another little scene, which I
enjoyed amazingly. I laugh now when I think of it. I happened to
be at a huge evening 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 introduced to you." I watched the old statesman a
little curiously as he greeted Lawrence, and listened to his first
words: "Very glad to make your acquaintance, Captain Vaughan; I
understand that the author of that grand novel, 'At Strife,' is a
brother of yours." And poor Lawrence spent a mauvais quart d'heure,
inwardly fuming, I know, at the idea that he, the hero of Saspataras
Hill, should be considered merely as 'the brother 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 about that will, and, being no bread-and-butter miss, content
meekly to adore her 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; it was something which Sir Richard
discovered with regard to Lawrence's life at Dover. The engagement
was instantly broken off, and Freda, I am sure, felt nothing but
relief. She went abroad for some time, however, and we did not see
her till long after Lawrence had been comfortably married to 1,500
pounds a year and a middle-aged widow, who had long been a hero-
worshipper, and who, I am told, never allowed any visitor to leave
the house without making some allusion to the memorable battle of
Saspataras Hill and her Lawrence's gallant action.
For the two years following after the Major's death, Derrick and I,
as I mentioned before, shared the rooms in Montague Street. For me,
owing to the trouble I spoke of, they were years of maddening
suspense and pain; but what pleasure I did manage to enjoy came
entirely through the success of my friend's books and from his
companionship. It was odd that from the care of his father he
should immediately pass on to the care of one who had made such a
disastrous mistake as I had made. But I feel the less compunction
at the thought of the amount of sympathy I called for at that time,
because I notice that the giving of sympathy is a necessity for
Derrick, and that when the troubles of other folk do not immediately
thrust themselves into his life he carefully hunts them up. During
these two years he was reading for the Bar--not that he ever
expected to do very much as a barrister, but he thought it well to
have something to fall back on, and declared that the drudgery of
the reading would do him good. He was also writing as usual, and he
used to spend two evenings a week at Whitechapel, where he taught
one of the classes in connection with Toynbee Hall, and where he
gained that knowledge of 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, 'At Homes,' and so forth, made his
life a full one. In a quiet sort of way I believe he was happy
during this time. But later on, when, my trouble at an end, I had
migrated to a house of my own, and he was left alone in the 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 books had given pleasure or had been of use to anyone, but
no public victory could in the least make up to him for the loss he
had suffered in his private life; indeed, I almost think there were
times when his triumphs as an author seemed to him utterly
worthless--days of depression when the congratulations of his
friends were nothing but a mockery. He had gained a striking
success, it is true, but he had lost Freda; he was in the 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 and then to
watch his face when, as often happened, someone said: "What an
enviable fellow you are, Vaughan, to get on like this!" or, "What
wouldn't I give to change places with you!" He would invariably
smile and turn the conversation; but there was a look in his eyes at
such times that I hated to see--it always made me think of Mrs.
Browning's poem, '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 Sir
Richard 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, giving
his books to the world, accepting the comforts and discomforts of an
author's life, laughing at the outrageous reports that were in
circulation about him, yet occasionally, I think, inwardly wincing
at them, and learning from the number of begging letters which he
received, and into which he usually caused searching inquiry to be
made, that there 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
the same house on Campden Hill where I had once met Freda, and
perhaps it was the recollection of this which prompted me to enquire
after her.
"She has not been well," said Lady Probyn, "and they are sending her
back to England; the climate doesn't suit her. She is to make her
home with us for the present, so I am the gainer. Freda has always
been my favourite 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
out in India, as everyone prophesied."
"And so do I," said her aunt. "However, poor child, no doubt, after
having been two years engaged to that very disappointing hero of
Saspataras Hill, she will be shy of venturing to trust anyone
again."
"Do you think that affair ever went very deep?" I ventured to ask.
"It seemed to me that she looked miserable during her engagement,
and happy when it was broken off."
"Quite so," said Lady Probyn; "I noticed the same thing. It was
nothing 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
one of the hundred and one reports that are for ever being set
afloat about him."
"But I saw it in a paper, I assure you," said Lady Probyn, by no
means convinced.
"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 has been madly in love with Miss Merrifield ever since
our cruise in the Aurora."
Lady Probyn made an inarticulate exclamation.
"Poor fellow!" she said, after a minute's thought; "that explains
much to me."
She did not explain her rather ambiguous remark, and before long our
tete-a-tete was interrupted.
Now that my friend was a full-fledged barrister, he and I shared
chambers, and one morning about a month after this garden party,
Derrick came in with a face of such radiant happiness that I
couldn't imagine what good luck had befallen him.
"What do you think?" he exclaimed; "here's an invitation for a
cruise in the Aurora at the end of August--to be nearly the same
party that we had years ago," and he threw down the letter for me to
read.
Of course there was special mention of "my niece, Miss Merrifield,
who has just returned from India, and is ordered plenty of sea-air."
I could have told that without reading the letter, for it was
written quite clearly in Derrick's face. He looked ten years
younger, and if any of his adoring readers could have seen the
pranks he was up to that morning in our staid and respectable
chambers, I am afraid they would no longer have spoken of him "with
'bated breath and whispering humbleness."
As it happened, I, too, was able to leave home for a fortnight at
the end 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, than on the previous occasion. Considering all that had
intervened, I was surprised that Derrick was not more altered; as
for Freda, she was decidedly paler than when we first met her, but
before long sea-air and happiness wrought a wonderful transformation
in her.
In spite of the pessimists who are for ever writing books, even
writing novels (more shame to them), to prove that there is no such
thing as happiness in the world, we managed every one of us heartily
to enjoy our cruise. 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
to us all, I fancy, as we laughed and dozed and idled and talked
beneath the snowy wings of the Aurora, and I cannot say I was in the
least surprised when, on roaming through the pleasant garden walks
in that unique little island of Tresco, I came once more upon
Derrick and Freda, with, if you will believe it, another handful of
white heather given to them by that discerning gardener! Freda once
more reminded me of the girl in the 'Biglow Papers,' and Derrick's
face was full of such bliss as one seldom sees.
He had always had to wait for his good things, but in the end they
came to him. However, you may depend upon it, he didn't say much.
That was never his way. He only gripped my hand, and, with his eyes
all aglow with happiness, exclaimed "Congratulate me, old fellow!"
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