"Then in that hour rejoice, since only thus Can thy proud heart grow wholly piteous.
Thus only to the world thy speech can flow Charged with the sad authority of woe.
Since no man nurtured in the shade can sing To a true note one psalm of conquering;
Warriors must chant it whom our own eyes see Red from the battle and more bruised than we, Men who have borne the worst, have known the whole, Have felt the last abeyance of the soul."
F. W. H. Myers.
About the beginning of August, I rejoined him at Ben Rhydding. The place suited the Major admirably, and his various baths took up so great a part of each day, that Derrick had more time to himself than usual, and 'At Strife' got on rapidly. He much enjoyed, too, the beautiful country round, while the hotel itself, with its huge gathering of all sorts and conditions of people, afforded him endless studies of character. The Major breakfasted in his own room, and, being so much engrossed with his baths, did not generally appear till twelve. Derrick and I breakfasted in the great dining-hall; and one morning, when the meal was over, we, as usual, strolled into the drawing-room to see if there were any letters awaiting us.
"One for you," I remarked, handing him a thick envelope.
"From Lawrence!" he exclaimed.
"Well, don't read it in here; the Doctor will be coming to read prayers. Come out in the garden," I said.
We went out into the beautiful grounds, and he tore open the envelope and began to read his letter as we walked. All at once I felt the arm which was linked in mine give a quick, involuntary movement, and, looking up, saw that Derrick had turned deadly pale.
"What's up?" I said. But he read on without replying; and, when I paused and sat down on a sheltered rustic seat, he unconsciously followed my example, looking more like a sleep-walker than a man in the possession of all his faculties. At last he finished the letter, and looked up in a dazed, miserable way, letting his eyes wander over the fir-trees and the fragrant shrubs and the flowers by the path.
"Dear old fellow, what is the matter?" I asked.
The words seemed to rouse him.
A dreadful look passed over his face--the look of one stricken to the heart. But his voice was perfectly calm, and full of a ghastly self-control.
"Freda will be my sister-in-law," he said, rather as if stating the fact to himself than answering my question.
"Impossible!" I said. "What do you mean? How could--"
As if to silence me he thrust the letter into my hand. It ran as follows:
"Dear Derrick,--For the last few days I have been down in the Flemings' place in Derbyshire, and fortune has favoured me, for the Merrifields are here too. Now prepare yourself for a surprise.
Break the news to the governor, and send me your heartiest congratulations by return of post. I am engaged to Freda Merrifield, and am the happiest fellow in the world. They are awfully fastidious sort of people, and I do not believe Sir Richard would have consented to such a match had it not been for that lucky impulse which made me rescue **** Fleming. It has all been arranged very quickly, as these things should be, but we have seen a good deal of each other--first at Aldershot the year before last, and just lately in town, and now these four days down here--and days in a country house are equal to weeks elsewhere. I enclose a letter to my father--give it to him at a suitable moment--but, after all, he's sure to approve of a daughter-in-law with such a dowry as Miss Merrifield is likely to have.
"Yours affly., "Lawrence Vaughan."
I gave him back the letter without a word. In dead silence we moved on, took a turning which led to a little narrow gate, and passed out of the grounds to the wild moorland country beyond.
After all, Freda was in no way to blame. As a mere girl she had allowed Derrick to see that she cared for him; then circumstances had entirely separated them; she saw more of the world, met Lawrence, was perhaps first attracted to him by his very likeness to Derrick, and finally fell in love with the hero of the season, whom every one delighted to honour. Nor could one blame Lawrence, who had no notion that he had supplanted his brother. All the blame lay with the Major's slavery to drink, for if only he had remained out in India I feel sure that matters would have gone quite differently.
We tramped on over heather and ling and springy turf till we reached the old ruin known as the Hunting Tower; then Derrick seemed to awake to the recollection of present things. He looked at his watch.
"I must go back to my father," he said, for the first time breaking the silence.
"You shall do no such thing!" I cried. "Stay out here and I will see to the Major, and give him the letter too if you like."
He caught at the suggestion, and as he thanked me I think there were tears in his eyes. So I took the letter and set off for Ben Rhydding, leaving him to get what relief he could from solitude, space, and absolute quiet. Once I just glanced back, and somehow the scene has always lingered in my memory--the great stretch of desolate moor, the dull crimson of the heather, the lowering grey clouds, the Hunting Tower a patch of deeper gloom against the gloomy sky, and Derrick's figure prostrate, on the turf, the face hidden, the hands grasping at the sprigs of heather growing near.
The Major was just ready to be helped into the garden when I reached the hotel. We sat down in the very same place where Derrick had read the news, and, when I judged it politic, I suddenly remembered with apologies the letter that had been entrusted to me. The old man received it with satisfaction, for he was fond of Lawrence and proud of him, and the news of the engagement pleased him greatly.
He was still discussing it when, two hours later, Derrick returned.
"Here's good news!" said the Major, glancing up as his son approached. "Trust Lawrence to fall on his feet! He tells me the girl will have a thousand a year. You know her, don't you? What's she like?"
"I have met her," replied Derrick, with forced composure. "She is very charming."
