As the autumn wore on, we heard now and then from old Mackrill the doctor. His reports of the Major were pretty uniform. Derrick used to hand them over to me when he had read them; but, by tacit consent, the Major’s name was never mentioned.

Meantime, besides re-writing ‘At Strife,’ he was accumulating material for his next book and working to very good purpose. Not a minute of his day was idle; he read much, saw various phases of life hitherto unknown to him, studied, observed, gained experience, and contrived, I believe, to think very little and very guardedly of Freda.

But, on Christmas Eve, I noticed a change in him—and that very night he spoke to me. For such an impressionable fellow, he had really extraordinary tenacity, and, spite of the course of Herbert Spencer that I had put him through, he retained his unshaken faith in many things which to me were at that time the merest legends. I remember very well the arguments we used to have on the vexed question of ‘Free-will,’ and being myself more or less of a fatalist, it annoyed me that I never could in the very slightest degree shake his convictions on that point. Moreover, when I plagued him too much with Herbert Spencer, he had a way of retaliating, and would foist upon me his favourite authors. He was never a worshipper of any one writer, but always had at least a dozen prophets in whose praise he was enthusiastic.

Well, on this Christmas Eve, we had been to see dear old Ravenscroft and his grand-daughter, and we were walking back through the quiet precincts of the Temple, when he said abruptly:

“I have decided to go back to Bath to-morrow.”

“Have you had a worse account?” I asked, much startled at this sudden announcement.

“No,” he replied, “but the one I had a week ago was far from good if you remember, and I have a feeling that I ought to be there.”

At that moment we emerged into the confusion of Fleet Street; but when we had crossed the road I began to remonstrate with him, and argued the folly of the idea all the way down Chancery Lane.

However, there was no shaking his purpose; Christmas and its associations had made his life in town no longer possible for him.

“I must at any rate try it again and see how it works,” he said.

And all I could do was to persuade him to leave the bulk of his possessions in London, “in case,” as he remarked, “the Major would not have him.”

So the next day I was left to myself again with nothing to remind me of Derrick’s stay but his pictures which still hung on the wall of our sitting-room. I made him promise to write a full, true, and particular account of his return, a bona-fide old-fashioned letter, not the half-dozen lines of these degenerate days; and about a week later I received the following budget:

“Dear Sydney,—I got down to Bath all right, and, thanks to your ‘Study of Sociology,’ endured a slow, and cold, and dull, and depressing journey with the thermometer down to zero, and spirits to correspond, with the country a monotonous white, and the sky a monotonous grey, and a companion who smoked the vilest tobacco you can conceive. The old place looks as beautiful as ever, and to my great satisfaction the hills round about are green. Snow, save in pictures, is an abomination. Milsom Street looked asleep, and Gay Street decidedly dreary, but the inhabitants were roused by my knock, and the old landlady nearly shook my hand off. My father has an attack of jaundice and is in a miserable state. He was asleep when I got here, and the good old landlady, thinking the front sitting-room would be free, had invited ‘company,’ i.e., two or three married daughters and their belongings; one of the children beats Magnay’s ‘Carina’ as to beauty—he ought to paint her. Happy thought, send him and pretty Mrs. Esperance down here on spec. He can paint the child for the next Academy, and meantime I could enjoy his company. Well, all these good folks being just set-to at roast beef, I naturally wouldn’t hear of disturbing them, and in the end was obliged to sit down too and eat at that hour of the day the hugest dinner you ever saw—anything but voracious appetites offended the hostess. Magnay’s future model, for all its angelic face, ‘ate to repletion,’ like the fair American in the story. Then I went into my father’s room, and shortly after he woke up and asked me to give him some Friedrichshall water, making no comment at all on my return, but just behaving as though I had been here all the autumn, so that I felt as if the whole affair were a dream. Except for this attack of jaundice, he has been much as usual, and when you next come down you will find us settled into our old groove. The quiet of it after London is extraordinary. But I believe it suits the book, which gets on pretty fast. This afternoon I went up Lansdowne and right on past the Grand Stand to Prospect Stile, which is at the edge of a high bit of tableland, and looks over a splendid stretch of country, with the Bristol Channel and the Welsh hills in the distance. While I was there the sun most considerately set in gorgeous array. You never saw anything like it. It was worth the journey from London to Bath, I can assure you. Tell Magnay, and may it lure him down; also name the model aforementioned.

“How is the old Q.C. and his pretty grandchild? That quaint old room of theirs in the Temple somehow took my fancy, and the child was divine. Do you remember my showing you, in a gloomy narrow street here, a jolly old watchmaker who sits in his shop-window and is for ever bending over sick clocks and watches? Well, he’s still sitting there, as if he had never moved since we saw him that Saturday months ago. I mean to study him for a portrait; his sallow, clean-shaved, wrinkled face has a whole story in it. I believe he is married to a Xantippe who throws cold water over him, both literally and metaphorically; but he is a philosopher—I’ll stake my reputation as an observer on that—he just shrugs his sturdy old shoulders, and goes on mending clocks and watches. On dark days he works by a gas jet—and then Rembrandt would enjoy painting him. I look at him whenever my world is particularly awry, and find him highly beneficial. Davison has forwarded me to-day two letters from readers of ‘Lynwood.’ The first is from an irate female who takes me to task for the dangerous tendency of the story, and insists that I have drawn impossible circumstances and impossible characters. The second is from an old clergyman, who writes a pathetic letter of thanks, and tells me that it is almost word for word the story of a son of his who died five years ago. Query: shall I send the irate female the old man’s letter, and save myself the trouble of writing? But on the whole I think not; it would be pearls before swine. I will write to her myself. Glad to see you whenever you can run down.

“Yours ever,

“D. V.”

(“Never struck me before what pious initials mine are.”)

The very evening I received this letter I happened to be dining at the Probyn’s. As luck would have it, pretty Miss Freda was staying in the house, and she fell to my share. I always liked her, though of late I had felt rather angry with her for being carried away by the general storm of admiration and swept by it into an engagement with Lawrence Vaughan. She was a very pleasant, natural sort of talker, and she always treated me as an old friend. But she seemed to me, that night, a little less satisfied than usual with life. Perhaps it was merely the effect of the black lace dress which she wore, but I fancied her paler and thinner, and somehow she seemed all eyes.

“Where is Lawrence now?” I asked, as we went down to the dining-room.

“He is stationed at Dover,” she replied. “He was up here for a few hours yesterday; he came to say good-bye to me, for I am going to Bath next Monday with my father, who has been very rheumatic lately—and you know Bath is coming into fashion again, all the doctors recommend it.”

“Major Vaughan is there,” I said, “and has found the waters very good, I believe; any day, at twelve o’clock, you may see him getting out of his chair and going into the Pump Room on Derrick’s arm. I often wonder what outsiders think of them. It isn’t often, is it, that one sees a son absolutely giving up his life to his invalid father?”

She looked a little startled.

“I wish Lawrence could be more with Major Vaughan,” she said; “for he is his father’s favourite. You see he is such a good talker, and Derrick—well, he is absorbed in his books; and then he has such extravagant notions about war, he must be a very uncongenial companion to the poor Major.”

I devoured turbot in wrathful silence. Freda glanced at me.

“It is true, isn’t it, that he has quite given up his life to writing, and cares for nothing else?”

“Well, he has deliberately sacrificed his best chance of success by leaving London and burying himself in the provinces,” I replied drily; “and as to caring for nothing but writing, why he never gets more than two or three hours a day for it.” And then I gave her a minute account of his daily routine.

She began to look troubled.

“I have been misled,” she said; “I had gained quite a wrong impression of him.”

“Very few people know anything at all about him,” I said warmly; “you are not alone in that.”

“I suppose his next novel is finished now?” said Freda; “he told me he had only one or two more chapters to write when I saw him a few months ago on his way from Ben Rhydding. What is he writing now?”

“He is writing that novel over again,” I replied.

“Over again? What fearful waste of time!”

“Yes, it has cost him hundreds of hours’ work; it just shows what a man he is, that he has gone through with it so bravely.”

“But how do you mean? Didn’t it do?”

Rashly, perhaps, yet I think unavoidably, I told her the truth.

“It was the best thing he had ever written, but unfortunately it was destroyed, burnt to a cinder. That was not very pleasant, was it, for a man who never makes two copies of his work?”

“It was frightful!” said Freda, her eyes dilating. “I never heard a word about it. Does Lawrence know?”

“No, he does not; and perhaps I ought not to have told you, but I was annoyed at your so misunderstanding Derrick. Pray never mention the affair; he would wish it kept perfectly quiet.”

“Why?” asked Freda, turning her clear eyes full upon mine.

“Because,” I said, lowering my voice, “because his father burnt it.”

She almost gasped.

“Deliberately?”

“Yes, deliberately,” I replied. “His illness has affected his temper, and he is sometimes hardly responsible for his actions.”

“Oh, I knew that he was irritable and hasty, and that Derrick annoyed him. Lawrence told me that, long ago,” said Freda. “But that he should have done such a thing as that! It is horrible! Poor Derrick, how sorry I am for him. I hope we shall see something of them at Bath. Do you know how the Major is?”

“I had a letter about him from Derrick only this evening,” I replied; “if you care to see it, I will show it you later on.”

And by-and-by, in the drawing-room, I put Derrick’s letter into her hands, and explained to her how for a few months he had given up his life at Bath, in despair, but now had returned.

“I don’t think Lawrence can understand the state of things,” she said wistfully. “And yet he has been down there.”

I made no reply, and Freda, with a sigh, turned away.

A month later I went down to Bath and found, as my friend foretold, everything going on in the old groove, except that Derrick himself had an odd, strained look about him, as if he were fighting a foe beyond his strength. Freda’s arrival at Bath had been very hard on him, it was almost more than he could endure. Sir Richard, blind as a bat, of course, to anything below the surface, made a point of seeing something of Lawrence’s brother. And on the day of my arrival Derrick and I had hardly set out for a walk, when we ran across the old man.

Sir Richard, though rheumatic in the wrists, was nimble of foot and an inveterate walker. He was going with his daughter to see over Beckford’s Tower, and invited us to accompany him. Derrick, much against the grain, I fancy, had to talk to Freda, who, in her winter furs and close-fitting velvet hat, looked more fascinating than ever, while the old man descanted to me on Bath waters, antiquities, etc., in a long-winded way that lasted all up the hill. We made our way into the cemetery and mounted the tower stairs, thinking of the past when this dreary place had been so gorgeously furnished. Here Derrick contrived to get ahead with Sir Richard, and Freda lingered in a sort of alcove with me.

“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:

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.