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DERRICK VAUGHAN, NOVELIST.
tis ice was wicked and degraded, and because
is owner was drunk—noisily drank.
Derrick paused for a minute looking at his
ifner; then deadly pale, he turned to the
dd doctor. “ I am' Major Vaughan’s son,” he
tad.
ite doctor grasped his hand, and there was
•*®thi'i" m the old man’s kindly, chivalrous
*maer which brought a sort ot light into the
■boa.
‘ liavery glad to see you!” he exclaimed,
htne major’s luggage ready ?” he inquired,
jMtogto the servaut. Then as the man re-
id™ in the affirmative, “How would it be, Mr.
acghan, if your father's man just saw the
JjJP into a cab ? and then I’ll come on shore
Whjwiand see my patient safely settled in.”
4"®* acquiesced, and the doctor tamed to
wMjor, who was leaning up against one of
“ Wars of the saloon and shouting “ ’Twas in
nay ” in a way which, under other
"cntnstances, would have been highly comic,
-e aoctor interrupted him, as with much feel-
u 5tesunghow—
“ England declared that every man
That day had done his duty.*’
fiil 5 ,*’ ma j° r ’” l 10 sai d; “ hero is your son
cjKtomeet you.”
nrJlV 0 ee ^ y°o. tu y hoy,” said the major,
SSL ,'! C n d , all| i running all his words
IS r V, Hows your mother? Is this Law
'S t0 see bot-h of you! Why, your’s
C®'vma°-, p8 , a8 ‘ ‘ Sot Lawrence, do you say ?
i'.lo?? octor , how the ship rolls to-day!”
JW wre teh staggered and would have
j2i?f d n °t Derrick supported him and
‘ Vw - M! '-’ on otie °f the fixed ottomans.
- ,J , uru .the son for me,” he went
feta-Aivi 8mdo > which made his face all
Sj**’:,,J?5, <ras- , “ You’re not so rough and
hands awtuA confounded John Thomas, whose
?>, jg.. J'»e brickbats. I’m a mere wreck, as
accursed climate 1 But your
jkawM.ii soon nurse me into health again ;
«rWL? 3 a „?, 00d nurse, poor soul 1 it was
Khali si,,, • " lia , 1 " itb you and your mother,
CZ 1 /« Myself again.”
ClT® interposed, and Derrick made
®°hthful<» ‘nfrf ^ Pprthole and gulped down
*»c![ of»L lres > a * r > but ho was not allowed
u f 11 "’ tor the sen-ant returned to
sitedu.ii.f Procured a cab, and the major
Tn2ntI l0 . r 1113 son’s arm.
’^''iolentlTJ® y° u >” he said, pushing the ser-
>-»»worth^ & A a - v ‘r.V Com e,Derrick,help me ;
.isd Derriev" 0 of tlat blockhoad.”
invert Dale \f? m ®., t l ttic K 1 y forward, liis face
d a’> t L ofybt with a dignity about it which
climate aggravates the mischief, and very many
lives are in this way ruined. Then your father
was also unfortunate enough to contract rheum- 1
atism when he was camping out in the jangle
last year, and this is increasing on him very
much, so that his life is almost intolerable to
him, and he naturally flies for relief to his great
est enemy, drink. At all costs, however, you
most keep him from stimulants; they will only
intensify the disease and the sufferings—in fact
they are poison to a man in such a state. Don’t
think I am a bigot in these matters ; bat I say
that for a man in such a condition as this there
is nothing fjor it hut total abstinence, and at all
costs your father must be guarded from the
S 'bility of procuring any sort of intoxicating
. Throughout the voyage I have done my
best to shield him, but it was a difficult matter.
His servant, too, is not trustworthy, and should
be dismissed if possible.”
“Had he spoken at all of bis plans?” asked
Derrick, and nis voice sounded strangely unlike
itself.
“ He asked me what place in England he had
better settle down in,” said the doctor, “ and I
strongly recommended him to try Bath. This
seemed to please him, and if he is well enough
he had better go there to-morrow. He men
tioned your mother this morning; no doubt slio
will know how to manage him.”
“ My mother died six months ago,” said
Derrick, poshing back his chair and beginning
to pace the room. The doctor made kindly
apologies.
“ Perhaps yon have a sister who could go to
him?”
“No,” replied Derrick. “My only sister
is married, and her husband would never allow
it.”
“ Or a cousin or an aunt?” suggested the old
man, naively unconscious that the words sound
ed like a quotation.
I saw tne ghost of a smile flit over Derrick’s
harassed face as he shook his head.
“I suggested that he should go into some
homo ■'or—cases of the kind,” resumed the doc
tor. j: place himself under the charge of some
medical man; however, he won’t hear of Buch
a thing. Bat if he is left to himself—well, it is
all up with him. He will drink himself to death
in a few months.”
“Ho shall not he left alone,” said Derrick:
“I will live with him. Do you think I should
do ? It seems to ho Hobson’s choice.
I looked up in amazement—for here was Der
rick calmly giving himself up to a life that must
crush every plan for the future he had made.
ywnever w"" " uu a ™gnSy about it which P id “ en ma *u 8UC * a choice a8 tha S W ^l «' 0y
irnnl r , ore seen; and Bivins his arm to took two or three turns in a room? Did they
^MW? th ? r ho P ilo ‘od S him across the speak so composedly after a struggle that must
'hkS , 1119 staring ranks of stewards, Lave been so bitter? Thinking it over now, I
ai “rii, ... . . > feel sure it was his extraordinary gift of insight
and his clear judgment which made him behave
in this way. He instantly perceived and
promptly acted ; the worst of the suffering came
long 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 a certain influence with him. If any one
can save him it will be you.”
But the thought of allowing Derrick to he
sacrificed to that old brute of a major was more
than I could bear calmly.
“ A more mad scheme was never _
I cried. “ Why, doctor, it Vill be utter ruin to
my friend’s career; he will lose years that
no one can ever make up. And besides ho is
nnfit for such a strain; he will never stand it.”
My heart felt hot as I thought of Derrick, with
his highly strong, sensitive nature, his refine
ment, his gentleness, in constant companionship
with such a man as Major Vaughan.
“My dear sir,” said the old doctor, with a
gleam in his eye, “I understand your feeling
well enough. But depend upon it your friend
has made the right choice, and there is no
doubt that he’ll be strong enough to do his
duty.”
The word reminded me of the major’s sbng,
and my voice was abominably sarcastic in tone
as I said to Derrick, “You no longer consider
writing your duty then-?”
“ Yes, he saia, “ hnt it mnst stand second to
this. Don’t be vexed, Sidney; our plans are
knocked on the head, but it is not so bad as yon
make oat. I have atany 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 trio set ont on their road
r^Und ranss oi stewards,
WPflv Passengers outside, down the
> cf* Bat e&pV, A tbe crowded quay to the cab.
S***toliim in? ensiv ® glance of the specta-
Sjfliinilv < r ’ " 10 . seemed to enjoy him-
Ms voiL «J eira , J lrma < and sung at the
i; li’Mhampton dro '; 0 . ‘trough tho streets
The old doctor kept np a
iv t ’ , “fltliiAvonn t i k A‘\ rae ’ thinking, no
w k * list tw u ’ dd bo a kindness to Derrick:
?■;*>» Derric-v ?^Satorial drive ended, and
uialor «• r'i d 116 doc tor between them
V- J sately mto his room at Itadley’s
A 1 ? 0 ’ 1 . in a private sitting-
i .^-room • i, , Major would prefer it to
j. sate t 0 48 it turned out, he was
Cathie’s dtSSt r - I hey left him asleep,
2| toured f,A°r . sa “ m the seat that had
V5 >«raVi«L^ 8 l P ^ ienk ’ and Made the
< *U, old bo , th as ^ could be. He
b “ - *
haveVj!Vl n .* UDC h was over, “you
I v dl help vonAA together, Mr. Vaughan,
. I' Jon to understand your fauier’s
A ?,°! p Ut 8at do ,j' n
beipj, d think, poor old feuow,
*5A* & ther at t A ’ an ? lowing that I had
’ th0UBhtlmigh ‘ a8
“ader^’v oaA ti ? ued the dockor * “La®
^A Co iumunicabnn° r -!2 m A week8 ’ and 1
ihont Lin A a , n w *th the regimental
an enkrA'd r re ho 8aUe ^ He is
kt0tu*t «Af g ?4 hvor > and the disease
unfortunate Sof
1 eo “ ®“ ! nnlants.” I could almost
a sword-thrust, and longed
,«W old ™ 8aa tly and
tan. .TjPian veil i u i ong
- feUow‘ l aha ’°it sadly
“On-countryiaen in I
could almost
conside:
looking
face of his, and a dauntless expression in his
eyes, which impressed me curiously.
These quiet reserved fellows are always giv
ing one odd surprises. He had astounded me
by the vigor ana depth of the first volume cf
“ Lynwood’s Heritage.” He astonished me now
by a new phase in his own character. Appar
ently, ho who had always boon content to follow
where I led, and to watch life rather than take
an active share in it, now intended to strike ont
a very decided line of his own-
CHAPTER IV
Both Goethe ami Schiller were profoundly con
vinced that Art was no luxnry of leisure, no mere
amusement to charm the idle or relax the care
worn; but a mighty influence, serious In its aims
although pleasurable In Its means; a sister of
Religion, by whose aid the great world scheme was
wrought Into reality.—Lewes’s Life o/Goelhe.
Max is a selfish being, and I am a particularly
fine specimon of the race as far as that charac
teristic goes. If I had a dozen drunken parents
I should never have danced attendance on one
of them ; yet in my secret soul I admired Der
rick for the lino he had taken, for wo mostly do
admire what is unlike ourselves and really noble,
though it is the fashion t j seem totally indiffer
ent to everything in heaven and earth. But all
the same I ielt annoyed abont the whole busi
ness, and was glad to forget it in my own aflairs
at Mondisfield.
Weeks passed by. I lived through a midsum
mer dream of happiness, and a hard awaking.
That, however, has nothing to do with Derrick’s
storv, and may be passed over. In October I
settled down in Montague Street, Bloomsbury,
and began to read for tne Bar, in about aB dis
agreeable frame of mind as can be conceived.
One morning I found on my breakfast-table a
letter in Derrick’s handwriting. Like most men,
we hardly over corrhsponded—what women say
in the eternal letters they send to each other I
can’t conceive—hut it struck me that under the
circumstances I ought to have sent him a line
to ask how he was getting on, and mv conscience
pricked me as I remembered that I had hardly
thought of him since weparted, being absorbed
in my own matters. Tne letter was not very
long, but when one read between the lines it
somehow told a good deal. I have it lying by
me, and this is a copy of it:
“Dear Sidney—Do like a good fellow go to
North Audley Street for mo, to the house which
I described to yon as the one where Lynwood
lodged, and tell me what he wonld see Desides
the church from his window—if shops, what
kind? Also if-any glimpse of Oxford Street
would be visible ? Then if you’ll add to your
favors by getting me a second-hand copy of
Laveleye’s * Socialisme Contemporain,’ I should
be forever grateful. We are settled in here all
right. Bath is empty, bat Lpeople it &s far as I
can with the folk out of ‘ Evelina * and ‘ Persua
sion.’ How did yon set on at Blachington ? and
which of the Misses Merrifield went in the end ?
Don’t bother about the oommissions. Any time
will do. Ever yours, Debbick Vaughan.”
Poor old fellow! all the spirit seemed knocked
ont of him. There was not one word about the
mijor, and who conld say what wretchedness
was veiled in that curt phrase, “we are settled
in all right?” All, right! it was all as wrong as
it could bel My blood began to boil at the
thought of Derrick, with his great powers—his
wonderful gift—cooped np in a place where the
study of life was so limited and so dull. Then
there was his hunger for news of Freda, and his
silence as to what had kept him away from
Blachington, and about all a sort of prond
humility which prevented him from saying
much that I should have expected him to say
under the circumstances.
It was Saturday, and my time was my own. I
wen tout, got his hook for him; interviewed North
Audley Street; spent a bad five minutes in
company with that villain “ Bradshaw,” who is
responsible for so much of the brain and eve
disease of the nineteenth century, and finally
left Paddington in the Flying Dutchman, which
landed me at Bath early in tho afternoon. I
left mv portmanteau at the station, and walked
through the city till I reached Gay Street. Like
most of the streets at Bath, it was broad, and
had on either hand dull, well-built, dark gray,
eminently respectable, unutterably dreary-
looking nouses. I rang, and the door was
opened to me by a most quaint old woman,
evidently the landlady. An odor of curry per
vaded the passage, and became more oppressive
i witfked when as tho door of the sitting-room was opened, and
in i
i the major and