“Religion in him never died, but became a habit--a habit of
enduring hardness, and cleaving to the steadfast performance
of duty in the face of the strongest allurements to the
pleasanter and easier course.” Life of Charles Lamb, by A.
Ainger.
Derrick was in good spirits the next day. He talked much of Major
Vaughan, wondered whether the voyage home had restored his health,
discussed the probable length of his leave, and speculated as to the
nature of his illness; the telegram had of course given no details.
“There has not been even a photograph for the last five years,” he
remarked, as we walked down to the quay together. “Yet I think I should
know him anywhere, if it is only by his height. He used to look so well
on horseback. I remember as a child seeing him in a sham fight charging
up Caesar’s Camp.”
“How old were you when he went out?”
“Oh, quite a small boy,” replied Derrick. “It was just before I first
stayed with you. However, he has had a regular succession of photographs
sent out to him, and will know me easily enough.”
Poor Derrick! I can’t think of that day even now without a kind of
mental shiver. We watched the great steamer as it glided up to the quay,
and Derrick scanned the crowded deck with eager eyes, but could nowhere
see the tall, soldierly figure that had lingered so long in his memory.
He stood with his hand resting on the rail of the gangway, and when
presently it was raised to the side of the steamer, he still kept his
position, so that he could instantly catch sight of his father as he
passed down. I stood close behind him, and watched the motley procession
of passengers; most of them had the dull colourless skin which bespeaks
long residence in India, and a particularly yellow and peevish-looking
old man was grumbling loudly as he slowly made his way down the gangway.
“The most disgraceful scene!” he remarked. “The fellow was as drunk as
he could be.”
“Who was it?” asked his companion.
“Why, Major Vaughan, to be sure. The only wonder is that he hasn’t drunk
himself to death by this time--been at it years enough!”
Derrick turned, as though to shelter himself from the curious eyes of
the travellers; but everywhere the quay was crowded. It seemed to me not
unlike the life that lay before him, with this new shame which could not
be hid, and I shall never forget the look of misery in his face.
“Most likely a great exaggeration of that spiteful old fogey’s,” I said.
“Never believe anything that you hear, is a sound axiom. Had you not
better try to get on board?”
“Yes; and for heaven’s sake come with me, Wharncliffe!” he said. “It
can’t be true! It is, as you say, that man’s spite, or else there is
someone else of the name on board. That must be it--someone else of the
name.”
I don’t know whether he managed to deceive himself. We made our way
on board, and he spoke to one of the stewards, who conducted us to the
saloon. I knew from the expression of the man’s face that the words we
had overheard were but too true; it was a mere glance that he gave
us, yet if he had said aloud, “They belong to that old drunkard! Thank
heaven I’m not in their shoes!” I could not have better understood what
was in his mind.
There were three persons only in the great saloon: an officer’s servant,
whose appearance did not please me; a fine looking old man with grey
hair and whiskers, and a rough-hewn honest face, apparently the ship’s
doctor; and a tall grizzled man in whom I at once saw a sort of horrible
likeness to Derrick--horrible because this face was wicked and degraded,
and because its owner was drunk--noisily drunk. Derrick paused for a
minute, looking at his father; then, deadly pale, he turned to the old
doctor. “I am Major Vaughan’s son,” he said.
The doctor grasped his hand, and there was something in the old man’s
kindly, chivalrous manner which brought a sort of light into the gloom.
“I am very glad to see you!” he exclaimed. “Is the Major’s luggage
ready?” he inquired turning to the servant. Then, as the man replied
in the affirmative, “How would it be, Mr. Vaughan, if your father’s man
just saw the things into a cab? and then I’ll come on shore with you and
see my patient safely settled in.”
Derrick acquiesced, and the doctor turned to the Major, who was leaning
up against one of the pillars of the saloon and shouting out “‘Twas in
Trafalgar Bay,” in a way which, under other circumstances, would have
been highly comic. The doctor interrupted him, as with much feeling he
sang how:
“England declared that every man
That day had done his duty.”
“Look, Major,” he said; “here is your son come to meet you.”
“Glad to see you, my boy,” said the Major, reeling forward and running
all his words together. “How’s your mother? Is this Lawrence? Glad to
see both of you! Why, you’r’s like’s two peas! Not Lawrence, do you say?
Confound it, doctor, how the ship rolls to-day!”
And the old wretch staggered and would have fallen, had not Derrick
supported him and landed him safely on one of the fixed ottomans.
“Yes, yes, you’re the son for me,” he went on, with a bland smile, which
made his face all the more hideous. “You’re not so rough and clumsy as
that confounded John Thomas, whose hands are like brickbats. I’m a mere
wreck, as you see; it’s the accursed climate! But your mother will soon
nurse me into health again; she was always a good nurse, poor soul!
it was her best point. What with you and your mother, I shall soon be
myself again.”
Here the doctor interposed, and Derrick made desperately for a porthole
and gulped down mouthfuls of fresh air: but he was not allowed much of a
respite, for the servant returned to say that he had procured a cab, and
the Major called loudly for his son’s arm.
“I’ll not have you,” he said, pushing the servant violently away. “Come,
Derrick, help me! you are worth two of that blockhead.”
And Derrick came quickly forward, his face still very pale, but with a
dignity about it which I had never before seen; and, giving his arm
to his drunken father, he piloted him across the saloon, through the
staring ranks of stewards, officials, and tardy passengers outside,
down the gangway, and over the crowded quay to the cab. I knew that each
derisive glance of the spectators was to him like a sword-thrust, and
longed to throttle the Major, who seemed to enjoy himself amazingly on
terra firma, and sang at the top of his voice as we drove through
the streets of Southampton. The old doctor kept up a cheery flow of
small-talk with me, thinking, no doubt, that this would be a kindness to
Derrick: and at last that purgatorial drive ended, and somehow Derrick
and the doctor between them got the Major safely into his room at
Radley’s Hotel.
We had ordered lunch in a private sitting-room, thinking that the Major
would prefer it to the coffee-room; but, as it turned out, he was in no
state to appear. They left him asleep, and the ship’s doctor sat in
the seat that had been prepared for his patient, and made the meal
as tolerable to us both as it could be. He was an odd, old-fashioned
fellow, but as true a gentleman as ever breathed.
“Now,” he said, when lunch was over, “you and I must have a talk
together, Mr. Vaughan, and I will help you to understand your father’s
case.”
I made a movement to go, but sat down again at Derrick’s request. I
think, poor old fellow, he dreaded being alone, and knowing that I
had seen his father at the worst, thought I might as well hear all
particulars.
“Major Vaughan,” continued the doctor, “has now been under my care for
some weeks, and I had some communication with the regimental surgeon
about his case before he sailed. He is suffering from an enlarged
liver, and the disease has been brought on by his unfortunate habit
of over-indulgence in stimulants.” I could almost have smiled, so very
gently and considerately did the good old man veil in long words
the shameful fact. “It is a habit sadly prevalent among our
fellow-countrymen in India; the climate aggravates the mischief, and
very many lives are in this way ruined. Then your father was also
unfortunate enough to contract rheumatism when he was camping out in the
jungle 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 greatest enemy, drink. At all costs, however, you must 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; but I say that for a man in such a condition as this,
there is nothing for it but total abstinence, and at all costs your
father must be guarded from the possibility of procuring any sort of
intoxicating drink. 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 his plans?” asked Derrick, and his 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 mentioned your mother this morning; no doubt she will know how to
manage him.”
“My mother died six months ago,” said Derrick, pushing back his chair
and beginning to pace the room. The doctor made kindly apologies.
“Perhaps you 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 sounded like a quotation.
I saw the ghost of a smile flit over Derrick’s harassed face as he shook
his head.
“I suggested that he should go into some Home for--cases of the kind,”
resumed the doctor, “or place himself under the charge of some medical
man; however, he won’t hear of such a thing. But if he is left to
himself--well, it is all up with him. He will drink himself to death in
a few months.”
“He shall not be left alone,” said Derrick; “I will live with him. Do
you think I should do? It seems to be Hobson’s choice.”
I looked up in amazement--for here was Derrick calmly giving himself up
to a life that must crush every plan for the future he had made. Did men
make such a choice as that while they took two or three turns in a room?
Did they speak so composedly after a struggle that must have been so
bitter? Thinking it over now, I 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 be sacrificed to that old brute
of a Major was more than I could bear calmly.
“A more mad scheme was never proposed,” I cried. “Why, doctor, it will
be utter ruin to my friend’s career; he will lose years that no one can
ever make up. And besides, he is unfit for such a strain, he will never
stand it.”
My heart felt hot as I thought of Derrick, with his highly-strung,
sensitive nature, his refinement, 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 song, and my voice was abominably
sarcastic in tone as I said to Derrick, “You no longer consider writing
your duty then?”
“Yes,” he said, “but it must stand second to this. Don’t be vexed,
Sydney; our plans are knocked on the head, but it is not so bad as you
make out. I have at any 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 out on their road to Bath. The Major looking more wicked when sober
than he had done when drunk; the old doctor kindly and considerate as
ever; and Derrick, with an air of resolution about that English face of
his and a dauntless expression in his eyes which impressed me curiously.
These quiet, reserved fellows are always giving one odd surprises.
He had astonished me by the vigour and depth of the first volume of
‘Lynwood’s Heritage.’ He astonished me now by a new phase in his own
character. Apparently he who had always been content to follow where I
led, and to watch life rather than to take an active share in it, now
intended to strike out a very decided line of his own.