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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