Derrick had had a great deal to think about of late. Affairs at the
mines had been troublesome, as usual, and he had been often irritated
by the stupidity of the men who were in authority over him. He began to
feel, moreover, that an almost impalpable barrier had sprung up between
himself and his nearest friend. When he came to face the matter, he was
obliged to acknowledge to himself that there were things he had kept
from Grace, though it had been without any positive intention of
concealment And, perhaps, being the sensitive fellow he had called
him, Grace had felt that there was something behind his occasional
abstraction and silence, and had shrunk within himself, feeling a trifle
hurt at Derrick's want of frankness and confidence.
Hardly a day passed in which he did not spend some short time in the
society of his Pythias. He rarely passed his lodgings without dropping
in, and, to-night, he turned in on his way from the office, and fell
upon Grace hard at work over a volume of theology.
“Lay your book aside,” he said to him. “I want to gossip this evening,
old fellow.”
Grace closed his book and came to his usual seat, smiling
affectionately. There was a suggestion of feminine affectionateness in
his bearing toward his friend.
“Gossip,” he remarked. “The word gossip----
“Oh,” put in Derrick, “it's a woman's word; but I am in a womanish sort
of humor. I am going to be--I suppose, one might say--confidential.”
The Reverend Paul reddened a little but as Derrick rather avoided
looking at him he did not observe the fact.
“Grace,” he said, after a silence, “I have a sort of confession to make.
I am in a difficulty, and I rather blame myself for not having come to
you before.”
“Don't blame yourself,” said the Curate, faintly. “You--you are not to
blame.”
Then Derrick glanced up at him quickly. This sounded so significant
of some previous knowledge of his trouble, that he was taken aback. He
could not quite account for it.
“What!” he exclaimed. “Is it possible that you have guessed it already?”
“I have thought so--sometimes I have thought so--though I feel as if I
ought almost to ask your pardon for going so far.”
Grace had but one thought as he spoke. His friend's trouble meant his
friend's honor and regard for himself. It was for his sake that Derrick
was hesitating on the brink of a happy love--unselfishly fearing for
him. He knew the young man's impetuous generosity, and saw how under the
circumstances, it might involve him. Loving Anice Barholm with the full
strength of a strong nature, Derrick was generous enough still to shrink
from his prospect of success with the woman his friend had failed to
win.
Derrick flung himself back in his chair with a sigh. He was thinking,
with secret irritation, that he must have felt even more than he had
acknowledged to himself since he had in all unconsciousness, confessed
so much.
“You have saved me the trouble of putting into words a feeling I have
not words to explain,” he said. “Perhaps that is the reason why I have
not spoken openly before. Grace,”--abruptly,--“I have fancied there was
a cloud between us.”
“Between us!” said Grace, eagerly and warmly. “No, no! That was a poor
fancy indeed; I could not bear that.”
“Nor I,” impetuously. “But I cannot be explicit even now, Grace--even
my thoughts are not explicit. I have been bewildered and--yes,
amazed--amazed at finding that I had gone so far without knowing it.
Surely there never was a passion--if it is really a passion--that had so
little to feed upon.”
“So little!” echoed Grace.
Derrick got up and began to walk across the floor.
“I have nothing--nothing, and I am beset on every side.”
There was something extraordinary in the blindness of a man with an
absorbing passion. Absorbed by his passion for one woman, Grace was
blind to the greatest of inconsistencies in his friend's speech and
manner. Absorbed in his passion for another woman, Derrick forgot for
the hour everything concerning his friend's love for Anice Barholm.
Suddenly he paused in his career across the room.
“Grace,” he said, “I cannot trust myself; but I can trust you, I cannot
be unselfish in this--you can. Tell me what I am to do--answer me
this question, though God knows, it would be a hard one for any man to
answer. Perhaps I ought not to ask it--perhaps I ought to have decision
enough to answer it myself without troubling you. But how can I? And you
who are so true to yourself and to me in other things, will be true in
this I know. This feeling is stronger than all else--so strong that I
have feared and failed to comprehend it. I had not even thought of it
until it came upon me with fearful force, and I am conscious that it has
not reached its height yet. It is not an ignoble passion, I know. How
could a passion for such a creature be ignoble? And yet again, there
have been times when I have felt that perhaps it was best to struggle
against it. I am beset on every side, as I have said, and I appeal to
you. Ought love to be stronger than all else? I used to tell myself so,
before it came upon me--and now I can only wonder at myself and tremble
to find that I have grown weak.”
God knows it was a hard question he had asked of the man who loved him;
but this man did not hesitate to answer it as freely as if he had had no
thought that he was signing the death-warrant of all hopes for himself.
Grace went to him and laid a hand upon his broad shoulder.
“Come, sit down and I will tell you,” he said, with a pallid face.
Derrick obeyed his gentle touch with a faint smile.
“I am too fiery and tempestuous, and you want to cool me,” he said. “You
are as gentle as a woman, Grace.”
The Curate standing up before him, a slight, not at all heroic figure in
his well worn, almost threadbare garments, smiled in return.
“I want to answer your question,” he said, “and my answer is this:
When a man loves a woman wholly, truly, purely, and to her highest
honor,--such a love is the highest and noblest thing in this world,
and nothing should lead to its sacrifice,--no ambition, no hope, no
friendship.”