“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.