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.”
“Lawrence has all his wits about him,” growled the Major. “Whereas you—” (several oaths interjected). “It will be a long while before any girl with a dowry will look at you! What women like is a bold man of action; what they despise, mere dabblers in pen and ink, writers of poisonous sensational tales such as yours! I’m quoting your own reviewers, so you needn’t contradict me!”
Of course no one had dreamt of contradicting; it would have been the worst possible policy.
“Shall I help you in?” said Derrick. “It is just dinner time.”
And as I walked beside them to the hotel, listening to the Major’s flood of irritating words, and glancing now and then at Derrick’s grave, resolute face, which successfully masked such bitter suffering, I couldn’t help reflecting that here was courage infinitely more deserving of the Victoria Cross than Lawrence’s impulsive rescue. Very patiently he sat through the long dinner. I doubt if any but an acute observer could have told that he was in trouble; and, luckily, the world in general observes hardly at all. He endured the Major till it was time for him to take a Turkish bath, and then having two hours’ freedom, climbed with me up the rock-covered hill at the back of the hotel. He was very silent. But I remember that, as we watched the sun go down—a glowing crimson ball, half veiled in grey mist—he said abruptly, “If Lawrence makes her happy I can bear it. And of course I always knew that I was not worthy of her.”
Derrick’s room was a large, gaunt, ghostly place in one of the towers of the hotel, and in one corner of it was a winding stair leading to the roof. When I went in next morning I found him writing away at his novel just as usual, but when I looked at him it seemed to me that the night had aged him fearfully. As a rule, he took interruptions as a matter of course, and with perfect sweetness of temper; but to-day he seemed unable to drag himself back to the outer world. He was writing at a desperate pace too, and frowned when I spoke to him. I took up the sheet of foolscap which he had just finished and glanced at the number of the page—evidently he had written an immense quantity since the previous day.
“You will knock yourself up if you go on at this rate!” I exclaimed.