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DERRICK VAUGHAN,
— ttflllh' lingered in a sort of alcove
■with me.
“ I have been so wanting to see yon,” she
"eaid, ! n aa agitated voice. “ Oh, Mr. Wham-
•cliffe, is it trne 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 1 Why, ho
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 one ?”
I signed an assent.
Her gray eyes grew moist.
“ Oh,” she cried, “ how I have been deceived,
and how little Lawrence appreciated him! I
think ho.must know that I’ve misjudged him,
for he seems so odd and shy, and I don’t think
be likes to talk to me.”
I looked searchingly into her truthful gray
■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 color flooded her face. She turned
quickly away, conscious at' last that the mid
summer 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 a girl who would glory in having a
fellow hopelessly in love with her. I knew
that the discovery she had made would be noth
ing 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
Bichard fled from the Bound of my prosy voice,
and needless to say, Derrick followed him. We
let him 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,
v He saw a good deal of the Merriflelds ana was i
sedulously attentive to them in many small
ways; but with Freda ho was curiously reserved,
and if by chance they did walk 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
than anything in the world.
As the spring wore on, it became evident to
every one that the major could not last long.
His son’s watchfulness and the enforced tem
perance which the doctors insisted on had pro
longed his life to a certain extent, but gradually
his sufferings increased and his strength dimin
ished. 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 tohear that Lawrence had
been summoned, but when I was taken into the
sick-room I realized that they had done wisely
to send for the favorite son.
The major was evidently dying.
Never can I forget the cruelty and malevo
lence with which his blood-shot 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 1” said the dying man tri
umphantly, “to say By what train we may ex
pect him. Well,?” as Derrick still read the mes
sage to himself: “can’t you speak, you d d
idiot? Have you lost your d—-dtongue? 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 fether? What
confounded nonsense. Give me the thing here
a a quavering, hoarse voice:
“ Impossible to get away. Am hopelessly tied
here. Love to my father. Greatly regra to
hear such bad news of him.” if
I think that message made the old man realize
the worth of Lawrence’s often exprdbsed affec
tion for him. Clearly it was a great blow to him..
He threw down the paper without a word and
closed his eyes. For naif an hour he lay like
that, and we did not disturb him. At last he
looked up; his voice was fainter and his manner
was more gentle.
“Derrick,” he said, “I believe I’ve done you
an injustice; it is you who care 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 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 word which would have
the effect of dividing the old man’s possessions
'between his two sons. Dr. Mackrill was now
present; he stood on the 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 feel
ings,
f‘ Word it as briefly as you can,” said the doc
tor. •
And the lawyer scribbled away as though far
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 labored breathing of the old man; but in the
next house we could hear some one playing a
waltz. Somehow it did not seem to me incon
gruous, for it was “ Sweethearts,” and that had
been the favorite waltz at Ben Bkydding, 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 I 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. Der
rick 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, be had been struck out of
his lather’s will, and had suffered unspeakably.
Had anything whatever been * gained? The
major was dying unrepentant to all appearance,
as hard and cynical an old worldling as ever I
saw. The only spark of grace he showed was
that tardy endeavor 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 Der
rick’s training, while if, as I now incline to think,
there is a hereafter where the training began
here is continued, the old major in tho hell he
most richly deserved would have the remem
brance of ms 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 thi
bed, and placed the pen in tho trembling yel
low hand ofthe invalid.
“You must sign your name here,” he said,
pointing with his finger; and the major raised
himself a little, and brought the pen quavering
down toward the paper. With a sort of fascina
tion 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 strag
gle ; presently we caught a word or two between
the groans of the dying man.
“ Too late!” he gasped, “ too late 1” and then
a dreadful vision iff horrors seemed to rise be
fore him, and with a terror that I can never for
get he turned to his son and clutched fast hold
of his hands: “ Derrick 1” he shrioked.
Derrick could not speak, but he bent low over
the bed as though to screen the dying eyes from
these horrible visions, and with an odd sort of
c^Spxeb rx.
To duty firm, to conscience true.
However tried and pressed,
In God’s clear sight high work we do.
If we but do our best.—IT. Gaskell.
Lawbence came down Ho 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 to-
ether. Then with a sort of kindly patronage
e turned to his brother—Derrick, it must be re
membered, was the elder twin—and said pity
ingly, “ Poor old fellow 1 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 moro than you’ve already
inherited from our mother ? Whereas, an offi
cer just going to be married, and with this con
founded reputation of hero to keep up, why, I
can tell yon he 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 un
derstand how any one could framo 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 capa
ble. “ Yon spoke of your marriage, Lawrence }
is it to be soon ?”
This autumn, I hopo,” said Lawrence; “ at
least if I can overcome Sir ltichard’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, hut
a long course of spoiling and flattery had done
him a world of harm. He liked very much to
be lionized, and to Bee him now posing in draw
ing-rooms, surrounded by a worshipping throng
of women, was enough to sicken any sensible
being.
As for Derrick, though he could not be expect
ed to feel his boreavoment 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 tne in Montague
Street later on. While he was away at Birming
ham, 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 l can’t
However, this story concerns him
and has nothing to do with my extraordimiry di
lemma; I merely mention it as a fact/ which
brought additional cares into his life. All the
time lie 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 ejected
by Davison and by five other houses. Think of
this, you comfortable readers, as you lie back in
your easy-ciiairs and leisurely turn the pages of
that popular story. The book which represented
years of study and long hours of hard work was
first burned to a cinder. It was rewritten 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
reappear six times in Montague Street, an un
welcome visitor, bringing with it depression and
disappointment
Derrick arid little, but suffered much. How
ever, 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 ho had
to write; like the prophets of old, the “ burden ”
came to him, and speak it he must
The seventh publisher wrote a somowhat du
bious 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 groat hopes of a large sale. Derrick in
stantly closed with the offer, proofs came in,
the book appeared, was well received like its
predecessor, fell into the hands of one of the
thrill I Saw him embrace his father.
When he raised his head the terror had died | leaders of society, and, to the intense surprise
ont of the major’s face; all was over, j I of the publisher, proved to be the novel iff the