"Both Goethe and Schiller were profoundly convinced that Art was no luxury of leisure, no mere amusement to charm the idle, or relax the careworn; but a mighty influence, serious in its aims although pleasureable in its means; a sister of Religion, by whose aid the great world-scheme was wrought into reality."
Lewes's Life of Goethe.
Man is a selfish being, and I am a particularly fine specimen of the race as far as that characteristic goes. If I had had a dozen drunken parents I should never have danced attendance on one of them; yet in my secret soul I admired Derrick for the line he had taken, for we mostly do admire what is unlike ourselves and really noble, though it is the fashion to seem totally indifferent to everything in heaven and earth. But all the same I felt annoyed about the whole business, and was glad to forget it in my own affairs at Mondisfield.
Weeks passed by. I lived through a midsummer dream of happiness, and a hard awaking. That, however, has nothing to do with Derrick's story, and may be passed over. In October I settled down in Montague Street, Bloomsbury, and began to read for the Bar, in about as disagreeable a frame of mind as can be conceived. One morning I found on my breakfast table a letter in Derrick's handwriting. Like most men, we hardly ever corresponded--what women say in the eternal letters they send to each other I can't conceive--but it struck me that under the circumstances I ought to have sent him a line to ask how he was getting on, and my conscience pricked me as I remembered that I had hardly thought of him since we parted, being absorbed in my own matters. The letter was not very long, but when one read between the lines it somehow told a good deal. I have it lying by me, and this is a copy of it:
"Dear Sydney,--Do like a good fellow go to North Audley Street for me, to the house which I described to you as the one where Lynwood lodged, and tell me what he would see besides the church from his window--if shops, what kind? Also if any glimpse of Oxford Street would be visible. Then if you'll add to your favours by getting me a second-hand copy of Laveleye's 'Socialisme Contemporain,' I should be for ever grateful. We are settled in here all right. Bath is empty, but I people it as far as I can with the folk out of 'Evelina' and 'Persuasion.' How did you get on at Blachington? and which of the Misses Merrifield went in the end? Don't bother about the commissions. Any time will do.
"Ever yours, "Derrick Vaughan."
Poor old fellow! all the spirit seemed knocked out of him. There was not one word about the Major, and who could say what wretchedness was veiled in that curt phrase, "we are settled in all right"? All right! it was all as wrong as it could be! My blood began to boil at the thought of Derrick, with his great powers--his wonderful gift--cooped up in a place where the study of life was so limited and so dull. Then there was his hunger for news of Freda, and his silence as to what had kept him away from Blachington, and about all a sort of proud humility which prevented him from saying much that I should have expected him to say under the circumstances.
It was Saturday, and my time was my own. I went out, got his book for him; interviewed North Audley Street; spent a bad five minutes in company with that villain 'Bradshaw,' who is responsible for so much of the brain and eye disease of the nineteenth century, and finally left Paddington in the Flying Dutchman, which landed me at Bath early in the afternoon. I left my portmanteau at the station, and walked through the city till I reached Gay Street. Like most of the streets of Bath, it was broad, and had on either hand dull, well-built, dark grey, eminently respectable, unutterably dreary-looking houses. I rang, and the door was opened to me by a most quaint old woman, evidently the landlady. An odour of curry pervaded the passage, and became more oppressive as the door of the sitting-room was opened, and I was ushered in upon the Major and his son, who had just finished lunch.
"Hullo!" cried Derrick, springing up, his face full of delight which touched me, while at the same time it filled me with envy.
Even the Major thought fit to give me a hearty welcome.
"Glad to see you again," he said pleasantly enough. "It's a relief to have a fresh face to look at. We have a room which is quite at your disposal, and I hope you'll stay with us. Brought your portmanteau, eh?"
"It is at the station," I replied.
"See that it is sent for," he said to Derrick; "and show Mr. Wharncliffe all that is to be seen in this cursed hole of a place."
Then, turning again to me, "Have you lunched? Very well, then, don't waste this fine afternoon in an invalid's room, but be off and enjoy yourself."
So cordial was the old man, that I should have thought him already a reformed character, had I not found that he kept the rough side of his tongue for home use. Derrick placed a novel and a small handbell within his reach, and we were just going, when we were checked by a volley of oaths from the Major; then a book came flying across the room, well aimed at Derrick's head. He stepped aside, and let it fall with a crash on the sideboard.
"What do you mean by giving me the second volume when you know I am in the third?" fumed the invalid.
He apologised quietly, fetched the third volume, straightened the disordered leaves of the discarded second, and with the air of one well accustomed to such little domestic scenes, took up his hat and came out with me.
"How long do you intend to go on playing David to the Major's Saul?"
I asked, marvelling at the way in which he endured the humours of his father.
"As long as I have the chance," he replied. "I say, are you sure you won't mind staying with us? It can't be a very comfortable household for an outsider."
"Much better than for an insider, to all appearance," I replied.
"I'm only too delighted to stay. And now, old fellow, tell me the honest truth--you didn't, you know, in your letter--how have you been getting on?"
Derrick launched into an account of his father's ailments.
