DERRICK TO THE RESCUE
EASTER, on the top of their trouble, was a trying time to the Adairs,
but Derrick helped them very much by his sunshiny optimism. Joan's
creases smoothed out of her brows; she gave herself up to the enjoyment
of his society. Cecil grew more cheerful and less exacting, and though,
of course, they were very quiet owing to their deep mourning, he
insisted on hiring a motor from the neighbouring town and taking them
out for long days in the sweet spring sunshine.
Wilmot went away to friends for Easter. He had been down to the rectory
once, but had found everyone out, and Joan felt that he was deeply
annoyed by their last interview.
The Gascoignes had a house party, but though Derrick dined with them
twice, he was quite content to spend most of his time at the rectory.
"It is home in a double sense to me," he confided to Cecil. "This house
was my boyhood's home, and now you are all in it, I feel quite a member
of your family."
He chaffed and laughed with her a good deal, but it was to Joan that
he showed the tender protectiveness of his nature; and she was so
unaccustomed to be shielded and waited upon that she hardly knew how to
take it. Her small pupils went away with their mother to the sea for
their holidays, so her time was much more her own.
One morning Derrick came in early and asked her to come for a long walk
with him.
"Let us take some lunch with us, and then we need not hurry back."
Joan's eyes danced, then she shook her head.
"Don't tempt me. I had determined to mend some of the Sunday school
library books this morning, and Sophia is at this moment making some
paste for me. What a pity Cecil does not care for walking! You could
take her if she did. It would do her such a lot of good."
"I don't want Cecil, I want you; and the school books can wait. Now
hurry up! I will give you half an hour to get ready. I shall go and get
Dominie to support me if you are still obdurate."
There was no gainsaying him. Cecil was still in her bedroom; she rarely
came down before lunch, and always breakfasted in continental fashion
by herself. Joan told her that she might be out to luncheon, then she
went out to the kitchen, and Sophia and she soon packed a small basket
of food. In a very short time she was stepping across the heath with
a light heart, and Derrick was well satisfied with the success of his
move.
"Motty is back again," he informed her. "I met Banty in the village
this morning. She's like a fish out of water when the hunting's
over—asked me to come up this evening to dinner, so I'm going. I mean
to have it out with Motty."
"Now look here, Derrick, you must promise me not to discuss our book.
It is our private business, and nobody else's. We don't want it to be
made public property."
"My dear child, everyone at the Hall knows about it. Old Jossy told me
Motty was down at the rectory every night of his life, and it seems he
taxed him with trying to win your affections. Jossy is never delicate
in his speeches. Then Motty told him all about it. Banty considers he
is doing you! She and I know him for a fraud! You haven't altered your
mind about bringing it to an end, have you?"
"I would prefer to settle it myself with him."
"You're afraid I shall be nasty."
"Perhaps I am," said Joan, laughing. "Mr. Gascoigne has been very kind
to me. I think the fact is that two people cannot write a book together
unless they are absolutely of the same mind about certain things. At
first I was diffident and inexperienced. I wrote as he wished; but now
I find my principles are involved, and I will not sacrifice them to the
public taste or demands. I do not think I should ever be a successful
novelist. I am out of my element In tragedy and sensation."
"You keep to your nature studies," said Derrick; "they are first-rate.
Now let us change the subject. Now that the Malingerer has come
home—and I hope she has come back to stay—you will be able to leave,
will you not? I want you to come up to town. You have met my cousin,
Mrs. Denby; she will be delighted to take you about, and I'll get you
into the House to hear some of the debates. Can't you manage to come
back with me when my holiday is up?"
"Oh, Derrick, you are too absurd!" said Joan, laughing gaily. "I shall
never be able to leave home. And as to a visit to town, I shall be as
likely to go up there as to Timbuctoo! No; my place is here, and here I
shall stay. It's waste of words to suggest anything else."
Derrick was silent for a short time; he put back what he was longing
to say, for he did not want to spoil their day out. They tramped over
the dead heather and bracken, and his natural good spirits asserted
themselves. He and Joan were like a boy and girl together, and when
they sat down on the top of a heather-covered hill and looked over
a vast extent of fresh green country with purple distances, Joan
exclaimed:
"I haven't a care in the world at this moment! Isn't it funny how one's
senses minister to one's soul? My mouth and eyes and nose are enjoying
this to distraction, so my soul follows suit. Did you ever smell such
fragrant, delicious air? I want to inhale it as much as I can. I want
to bottle it up and take it back with me. And isn't that stretch of
country in front of us a sight for sore eyes? Did you ever see such
pure, deep blue hills?"
"Don't you understand the tramps' and the gipsies' hatred of towns? I
say, Joan, when the summer comes shall we do a tramp together? We might
go down to Hampshire and start on the edge of the New Forest."
"There is a Mrs. Grundy still," said Joan.
"I thought she was dead long ago. There's safety in numbers. I could
get another fellow to join us, and Banty might come. You could chaperon
her, or she could chaperon you. She's improving. This time I've quite
liked her, and she worships you. I'm all for getting you out of your
rut now that the Malingerer is at home."
"It's no good planning such things," said Joan with a laughing shake
of her head. "They make my mouth water, but you and I know they are
impossible. I am not to be moved out of my rut. I am going to settle
into it very snugly; I shall end by liking ruts. Now shall we attack
our lunch? I am voraciously hungry!"
It was when their walk was nearly over that Derrick spoke his mind:
"Joan, do you realise that I'm still waiting for you?"
Joan looked at him reproachfully.
"Oh, Derrick, I hoped you were growing wiser."
"Don't talk like a grandmother. There's only one woman filling my
heart. I've been waiting all my life for you, and you know it. I want
to settle down like other men. This is my side of it. But I also want
to have a right to take care of you, to give you pleasure, to put you
in a better atmosphere than you have at present. You would do us a lot
of good if you came to town. We get so cynical and worldly, and grub so
for money and position and power that you'd act as a splendid check,
and also as an exhilarating tonic."
Then, seeing Joan's eyes twinkle, he added hastily: "I only say this
because you're so strong on influence and that sort of thing. And
you're wasted here. But, of course, the real truth is I want you. I'm
your devoted slave now as I always have been; but I'm getting tired of
waiting. Oh, Joan, do listen! Give yourself right away to me now and
for ever. Let us walk the world together, oblivious of anyone else.
Won't you take me on trial?"
"How? One can't marry on trial, and, Derrick, dear, I hate to say
it, but I couldn't risk it. You're a faithful chum and a staunch
comrade—I'm always happy with you—but—and I think this is a test of
love—I would not be as happy if we were in closer relationship. I never
want to get nearer to you. Do you understand? Our present friendship
satisfies me completely. I do see this is selfishness on my part. You
deserve to receive more, and this is the reason I did not want you to
come down this Easter. I want you to forget me, and learn to care for
some nice girl who will be as much in love with you as you are with
her. I believe real love is the only foundation for a happy married
life. And you are too good to waste your best on one who never can
return it. You think I do not know my own mind, but I do; and I wish
you would let this talk between us be the final one on this subject. I
shall never alter. I always have looked upon you as a brother, and I
always shall."
The earnestness and force with which she spoke crushed Derrick's
budding hopes. He was absolutely silent, fighting down his deep
disappointment, and Joan felt almost as miserable as he did. She hated
to have hurt him, and yet she felt it was necessary. He walked up to
the rectory gate with her, then held out his hand.
"I'll try to get over it," he said huskily. "I'm at last convinced that
it's no good to hope any longer."
Joan looked rather wistfully at him.
"Do you want my friendship still," she asked him, "or do you feel it
must be all or nothing?"
"I don't know what I feel at present. A crushed, battered piece of
pulp, I think. I suppose I had better get back to town to-morrow. I did
promise Dominie to drive him into Coppleton, but I'll send him a line."
Joan said nothing. She gripped his hand and smiled at him, but her eyes
were misty, and she fled into the house. It was a comfort to her to get
inside her bedroom and relieve her feelings by a flood of tears.
"I shall lose the only friend I have," she thought, "and I have brought
wretchedness instead of happiness into his life."
She had not been in her bedroom for half an hour before Cecil came to
the door asking for admission. After a little hesitation, Joan let her
in, and Cecil was too absorbed in her own thoughts to notice anything
the matter with her sister.
She seated herself in Joan's low chair by the window.
"Wilmot Gascoigne has been here most of the afternoon," she announced.
"He said he could not stay to tea. I don't think there is much love
lost between him and Derrick. Why hasn't Derrick come in? I thought he
would be sure to have tea with us."
[Illustration: JOAN WAS DEEP IN THOUGHT AND PRAYER WHEN A
WELL-KNOWN VOICE MADE HER START.]
"He did not think of it, nor more did I. Did Mr. Gascoigne want to see
me?"
"At first he did. But we got into very interesting talk. He knows
the Riviera so well that we had a lot in common. I like him. It's an
education to hear him talk. And I have given over Mother's book to him.
I feel he is the right person to undertake it. It is very good of him
to do it. He looked through a lot of it and liked it immensely."
"Oh, Cecil, how could you?"
Joan's bitter, passionate cry escaped her unawares. It had been her
great hope to do it herself. She felt that she could do it, and Cecil
had almost agreed that she should.
"I don't think you should have done such a thing without asking
Father's advice, or—or mine."
Cecil tossed her head.
"My dear Joan, what does Father know about such things? And do you
think for a moment that you could do it better than a clever literary
man who knows the country in which it has been written? Why, you have
never been abroad. Your experience is as narrow as Father's. I consider
we are very lucky in having such a friend to take it off our hands."
"I don't think you know Mr. Gascoigne as well as I do, Cecil. I am
very, very sorry you have given it to him. To begin with, he has too
many irons in the fire already. He has not finished the Gascoigne
book yet; and we really do want Mother's book to be taken in hand and
finished. I am bitterly disappointed that you have done such a thing."
"I suppose you thought you could have made a name for yourself over
it," said Cecil; "but I haven't confidence in you. Because you have
been successful with a short magazine article, it does not follow that
you could compile and edit a book like Mother's. I am ambitious for her
sake. I don't want it to be a failure."
"Well," said Joan, struggling to speak gently, "it is done now, so
there is no use in talking about it. We must hope he will do it well.
Did you arrange anything with him about the profits from it?"
"Of course not. There is time for that when the book has been finished
and accepted by some publisher."
Joan did not speak.
Cecil got up from her chair.
"I thought you would like to hear about it," she said airily. "Are you
coming down to tea? It is ready."
"Yes. Don't wait for me."
Joan felt desperately that she must have a little quiet to digest this
heavy blow.
When Cecil had left her, she pushed open her window and knelt by it.
The fresh spring air, the scent of the violets and sweet brier hedge
below rose to greet her.
Her whole spirit resented Cecil's summary proceeding. She knew now
from experience that Wilmot Gascoigne was not wholly to her liking
as a writer. She had waged war with him more than once over certain
passages descriptive of Nature's beauty. He belittled and scoffed at
the recognition of a Divine hand in it, and she could not bear to think
that her mother's book should be placed in his hands to be cut up and
revised as he judged fit. And she felt that she had it in her to bring
out all the best in that book. She also had fears now that Wilmot would
not make a profitable sum out of it, and this was a very important
matter to them all.
"Why do things go so crooked?" she sighed to herself.
But when she rose from her knees, she was able to go downstairs with a
serene face, and, if her laugh was not quite so frequent or her smiles
so bright, there was nothing in her demeanour to show vexation or
resentment.
When Mr. Adair heard about it, he looked annoyed.
"You should have asked me first, Cecil," he said. "You had no right to
give your mother's book to a stranger."
"Mother gave me her book," said Cecil, with a wilful curve to her lips.
"I am not a fool, and I have full confidence in Motty, as they call
him."
Joan wondered if she should hear any more of the book she and he were
writing together. She hoped that Derrick would not interfere too much
about it, and consoled herself by thinking that he would be too full
of his own feelings to approach the subject that night, as he had
threatened to do.
It was of no use to argue with Cecil about the wisdom of her impulsive
action, and Joan appeased her father by saying that Wilmot was
certainly very clever, and was in touch with several of the leading
publishers of the day.
The next morning, her small pupils being still away, Joan betook
herself to the garden. There was always a great deal more to do there
than the odd man could possibly get through. She was very busy weeding
a patch of ground, when a voice close to her startled her.
"I can't keep away, you see, even after our talk yesterday; but I want
to tell you about my interview with Motty."
Of course, it was Derrick. Joan greeted him quite cheerfully.
"Tell me," she said; "but don't expect me to stop weeding. I can do
that and listen too."
"It won't hurt you to rest for a bit. Here, sit on this old hen-coop.
Now, then, where shall I begin? I nearly went for him at the
dinner-table last night. What a conceited ass he is! But I bided my
time, and old Jossy helped me, for he actually left us alone in the
smoking-room together to enjoy a brand of his best cigars."
"Derrick, I asked you not to interfere."
"I had to take my thoughts off the gnawing ache in my heart. Isn't that
the phrase they use in books? And I was longing to pitch into someone.
I was in the right mood for it, and he was the right man for me. What
on earth has the Malingerer been doing? We were at cross purposes at
first, for he thought I had come to take away your mother's MS. from
him. He is very keen on that now, and means to run the Malingerer for a
bit. It seems she and he are going to do it together."
Joan almost laughed, though she felt sore at heart. "Why, Cecil is too
restless to stay at her writing-desk for more than half an hour at a
time."
"Just so. Well, he thinks, of course, you have treated him badly and
have left him in the lurch. So that gave me my innings, and I told him
what I thought about him. Oh, yes, I did; and if we were in France,
I suppose there would have been an early morning duel to-day. He is
coming down to have a personal interview with you; but I rather think
he will back out of that, and write instead. We went at each other like
hammer and tongs. How I wish you and Cecil would keep clear of him."
Joan looked distressed. Derrick was unusually grave.
"I wish you could talk to Cecil about it; but I am afraid she has
already committed herself; and we do not want to quarrel with Mr.
Gascoigne, Derrick. He has been very kind and good."
Derrick shrugged his broad shoulders.
"I'll go straight in and have it out with the Malingerer. I had better
see where she stands. I know you think me an interfering fool, but
women are so helpless in the clutches of a man like Motty; and you've
no brother."
He was off. Joan went on with her weeding with a distracted mind. Half
an hour later Derrick came back to her.
"I've done no good," he confessed ruefully. "The Malingerer is
infatuated with him, as you were; but I'll keep an eye on him, and if
he gets the book ready for publication, I'll have my say as to the
publisher and the price. I know a man in town who will look after it
for me."
He did not stay, for he told Joan he was going up to town by the twelve
o'clock express. They took farewell of each other very quietly.
Late that afternoon Wilmot made his appearance and asked to see Joan.
She went into the drawing-room with a beating heart, but he was
perfectly courteous.
"I want to talk to you about our book. Did you think I had forsaken
you for good and all? The fact is I called directly I came back from
town, which was only yesterday. You were not in, and your sister, as
you know, begged me to undertake the compiling and editing of your
mother's notes on the Riviera. I suppose you were vexed that I had
undertaken a fresh book without first finishing the other; but, as I
told you before, I can work best when I have two or three books going.
They supply a vent for my every mood and serve to quicken my faculties.
I had no intention of stopping my work with you. You can picture my
astonishment when Colleton attacked me like a fury. I won't tell you
all he said. It was unrepeatable! I could only imagine he had found
you hurt and indignant, and inclined to say hastily that you would
have nothing more to do with me. His passion was too impotent and
childish to touch me in the least. I could only think he had made a
little too free with my cousin's old port. He seems to regard himself
as your protector and guide, but I hardly think he was speaking with
your consent upon matters which were strictly confidential between
ourselves."
Joan's cheeks were hot, yet she spoke with her natural sweet dignity.
"Derrick is like a brother to us. I am sorry there was any friction
between you. It was wrong of him. Of course, I did not wish him to
attack you in such a way. I am very glad you have come round, because
I was going to write to you, and it is so much easier to talk than
to write. You must disabuse your mind of the idea that I was hurt or
indignant with you. Why should I be? Frankly, as I have often told you
lately, I don't feel I can help you in this joint book of ours, and I
do want to get out of it."
"But this is a very serious thing! If you had not been such a friend,
I should have drawn up an agreement, and got you to sign it. You could
not have then withdrawn without giving me some compensation for doing
so."
He looked straight at her as he spoke and snapped his lips together in
an ill-tempered way.
"Don't you see," he went on, "that, unless I am able to finish that
book single-handed, you have made me waste my strength and mind and
time on a task that you make useless?"
"But I am sure you will be able to finish it yourself," said Joan,
eagerly seizing upon the loophole he gave her of extricating herself
from his toils. "I am a drag on you; I feel that I am. We are not
suited to work together. I pull you back, and you fetter me. And I want
you to release me. I cannot hold to my principles and write as you
wish. If you desire compensation, I will try and meet you, but it is
impossible to go on writing with you."
"Very well," said Wilmot very stiffly, "we will say no more. I was
mistaken in my estimate of your powers and in your adaptability to
my methods. I cannot force you to continue working with me. Only,
it is a pity that you did not know your own mind—or, shall I say,
principles?—when we first started. I hope your sister will not treat me
in the same way over this MS. of your mother's. Have you any objection
to offer on that score?"
Joan was so overwhelmed with his reproaches that she could say nothing
for a moment.
"My sister gave it to you without consulting me," she said quietly.
"Which means that you would have prevented her doing it if you could?"
Joan hesitated.
He gave a little bitter laugh.
"It is a case of being wounded in the house of one's friends," he said.
"I wonder what I have done to turn you so against me? I suppose I have
to thank Colleton for it. He is madly jealous of anyone poaching on his
preserves."
"That is quite unjust and untrue," said Joan warmly. "I had better be
entirely frank with you. I was looking forward to editing my mother's
book myself. It would have been a keen pleasure to me to do so, and I
was naturally disappointed when Cecil told me that she had given it to
you. It is nothing personal against you; I am simply disappointed, that
is all. I know you have more experience of the scenes in which the book
is laid, and I am sure Cecil is much happier in the thought of your
undertaking it than if I were to do it."
"You place me in a very unpleasant position. I think I had better see
your sister, and suggest that I should hand it back again to you.
I really have such a lot of literary work in hand that I shall be
relieved than otherwise. It is a thankless task—editing other people's
books."
Deep annoyance underlay his words. Joan began to apologise and protest.
He stopped her abruptly and asked her if he could see Cecil.
Joan went to find her. She felt miserable, and knew that nothing would
make Cecil take back the MS. Hastily she explained the situation to her
sister, who was lying on the couch in her bedroom reading.
"Wilmot Gascoigne here! Why was I not told? Came to see you? What
about?"
Then, when explanation had been given, she hastily left the room.
"I never shall forgive you, Joan, if you have tried to force him not to
undertake it. He must do it, and he shall."
Joan left her to talk to him. She wandered out into the garden.
"Oh, how I love peace! And how I bungle and stir up strife! Everything
seems going wrong. I wish—I wish I had never tried to write."
She began to tie up some straggling rose branches. She felt she did not
want to meet Wilmot again, and yet was too proud to keep out of his
way. She knew he must pass her as he went home. He was not very long in
coming. To her surprise, he stopped when he reached her and held out
his hand with one of his transforming smiles.
"Be friends with me," he said. "Your sister won't hear of my returning
the MS., and she says her mother gave it into her hands to do as she
thought best with. I promise you that I will give my most careful
attention to it. And you will be able to reap laurels on your own
account. If I have spoken unkindly this afternoon, forgive me; but I
was hurt and sorely—bitterly disappointed in your casting me off and
refusing to work with me any more. I must come down very often and
consult your sister about this book. She knows your mother's mind, and
can supply many blanks in her notes. How can I do this if I feel you
are unfriendly towards me?"
"Indeed I am not that," poor Joan protested. "I am very grateful to you
for all the help you have given me. I want to be one of your friends
still."
"Then we will shake hands upon it and wipe our slate clean," he said
almost gaily.
Joan shook hands with him, but watched his quick steps down the drive
with a heavy heart. Certainly, Cecil was bringing discord into their
hitherto peaceful life, yet she wondered if the fault was in herself.