Chapter XV: Derrick to the Rescue

EASTER, on the top of their trouble, was a trying time to the Adairs, but Derrick helped them very much by his sunshiny optimism. Joan's creases smoothed out of her brows; she gave herself up to the enjoyment of his society. Cecil grew more cheerful and less exacting, and though, of course, they were very quiet owing to their deep mourning, he insisted on hiring a motor from the neighbouring town and taking them out for long days in the sweet spring sunshine.

Wilmot went away to friends for Easter. He had been down to the rectory once, but had found everyone out, and Joan felt that he was deeply annoyed by their last interview.

The Gascoignes had a house party, but though Derrick dined with them twice, he was quite content to spend most of his time at the rectory.

"It is home in a double sense to me," he confided to Cecil. "This house was my boyhood's home, and now you are all in it, I feel quite a member of your family."

He chaffed and laughed with her a good deal, but it was to Joan that he showed the tender protectiveness of his nature; and she was so unaccustomed to be shielded and waited upon that she hardly knew how to take it. Her small pupils went away with their mother to the sea for their holidays, so her time was much more her own.

One morning Derrick came in early and asked her to come for a long walk with him.

"Let us take some lunch with us, and then we need not hurry back."

Joan's eyes danced, then she shook her head.

"Don't tempt me. I had determined to mend some of the Sunday school library books this morning, and Sophia is at this moment making some paste for me. What a pity Cecil does not care for walking! You could take her if she did. It would do her such a lot of good."

"I don't want Cecil, I want you; and the school books can wait. Now hurry up! I will give you half an hour to get ready. I shall go and get Dominie to support me if you are still obdurate."

There was no gainsaying him. Cecil was still in her bedroom; she rarely came down before lunch, and always breakfasted in continental fashion by herself. Joan told her that she might be out to luncheon, then she went out to the kitchen, and Sophia and she soon packed a small basket of food. In a very short time she was stepping across the heath with a light heart, and Derrick was well satisfied with the success of his move.

"Motty is back again," he informed her. "I met Banty in the village this morning. She's like a fish out of water when the hunting's over—asked me to come up this evening to dinner, so I'm going. I mean to have it out with Motty."

"Now look here, Derrick, you must promise me not to discuss our book. It is our private business, and nobody else's. We don't want it to be made public property."

"My dear child, everyone at the Hall knows about it. Old Jossy told me Motty was down at the rectory every night of his life, and it seems he taxed him with trying to win your affections. Jossy is never delicate in his speeches. Then Motty told him all about it. Banty considers he is doing you! She and I know him for a fraud! You haven't altered your mind about bringing it to an end, have you?"

"I would prefer to settle it myself with him."

"You're afraid I shall be nasty."

"Perhaps I am," said Joan, laughing. "Mr. Gascoigne has been very kind to me. I think the fact is that two people cannot write a book together unless they are absolutely of the same mind about certain things. At first I was diffident and inexperienced. I wrote as he wished; but now I find my principles are involved, and I will not sacrifice them to the public taste or demands. I do not think I should ever be a successful novelist. I am out of my element In tragedy and sensation."

"You keep to your nature studies," said Derrick; "they are first-rate. Now let us change the subject. Now that the Malingerer has come home—and I hope she has come back to stay—you will be able to leave, will you not? I want you to come up to town. You have met my cousin, Mrs. Denby; she will be delighted to take you about, and I'll get you into the House to hear some of the debates. Can't you manage to come back with me when my holiday is up?"

"Oh, Derrick, you are too absurd!" said Joan, laughing gaily. "I shall never be able to leave home. And as to a visit to town, I shall be as likely to go up there as to Timbuctoo! No; my place is here, and here I shall stay. It's waste of words to suggest anything else."

Derrick was silent for a short time; he put back what he was longing to say, for he did not want to spoil their day out. They tramped over the dead heather and bracken, and his natural good spirits asserted themselves. He and Joan were like a boy and girl together, and when they sat down on the top of a heather-covered hill and looked over a vast extent of fresh green country with purple distances, Joan exclaimed:

"I haven't a care in the world at this moment! Isn't it funny how one's senses minister to one's soul? My mouth and eyes and nose are enjoying this to distraction, so my soul follows suit. Did you ever smell such fragrant, delicious air? I want to inhale it as much as I can. I want to bottle it up and take it back with me. And isn't that stretch of country in front of us a sight for sore eyes? Did you ever see such pure, deep blue hills?"

"Don't you understand the tramps' and the gipsies' hatred of towns? I say, Joan, when the summer comes shall we do a tramp together? We might go down to Hampshire and start on the edge of the New Forest."

"There is a Mrs. Grundy still," said Joan.

"I thought she was dead long ago. There's safety in numbers. I could get another fellow to join us, and Banty might come. You could chaperon her, or she could chaperon you. She's improving. This time I've quite liked her, and she worships you. I'm all for getting you out of your rut now that the Malingerer is at home."

"It's no good planning such things," said Joan with a laughing shake of her head. "They make my mouth water, but you and I know they are impossible. I am not to be moved out of my rut. I am going to settle into it very snugly; I shall end by liking ruts. Now shall we attack our lunch? I am voraciously hungry!"

It was when their walk was nearly over that Derrick spoke his mind:

"Joan, do you realise that I'm still waiting for you?"

Joan looked at him reproachfully.

"Oh, Derrick, I hoped you were growing wiser."

"Don't talk like a grandmother. There's only one woman filling my heart. I've been waiting all my life for you, and you know it. I want to settle down like other men. This is my side of it. But I also want to have a right to take care of you, to give you pleasure, to put you in a better atmosphere than you have at present. You would do us a lot of good if you came to town. We get so cynical and worldly, and grub so for money and position and power that you'd act as a splendid check, and also as an exhilarating tonic."

Then, seeing Joan's eyes twinkle, he added hastily: "I only say this because you're so strong on influence and that sort of thing. And you're wasted here. But, of course, the real truth is I want you. I'm your devoted slave now as I always have been; but I'm getting tired of waiting. Oh, Joan, do listen! Give yourself right away to me now and for ever. Let us walk the world together, oblivious of anyone else. Won't you take me on trial?"

"How? One can't marry on trial, and, Derrick, dear, I hate to say it, but I couldn't risk it. You're a faithful chum and a staunch comrade—I'm always happy with you—but—and I think this is a test of love—I would not be as happy if we were in closer relationship. I never want to get nearer to you. Do you understand? Our present friendship satisfies me completely. I do see this is selfishness on my part. You deserve to receive more, and this is the reason I did not want you to come down this Easter. I want you to forget me, and learn to care for some nice girl who will be as much in love with you as you are with her. I believe real love is the only foundation for a happy married life. And you are too good to waste your best on one who never can return it. You think I do not know my own mind, but I do; and I wish you would let this talk between us be the final one on this subject. I shall never alter. I always have looked upon you as a brother, and I always shall."

The earnestness and force with which she spoke crushed Derrick's budding hopes. He was absolutely silent, fighting down his deep disappointment, and Joan felt almost as miserable as he did. She hated to have hurt him, and yet she felt it was necessary. He walked up to the rectory gate with her, then held out his hand.

"I'll try to get over it," he said huskily. "I'm at last convinced that it's no good to hope any longer."

Joan looked rather wistfully at him.

"Do you want my friendship still," she asked him, "or do you feel it must be all or nothing?"

"I don't know what I feel at present. A crushed, battered piece of pulp, I think. I suppose I had better get back to town to-morrow. I did promise Dominie to drive him into Coppleton, but I'll send him a line."

Joan said nothing. She gripped his hand and smiled at him, but her eyes were misty, and she fled into the house. It was a comfort to her to get inside her bedroom and relieve her feelings by a flood of tears.

"I shall lose the only friend I have," she thought, "and I have brought wretchedness instead of happiness into his life."

She had not been in her bedroom for half an hour before Cecil came to the door asking for admission. After a little hesitation, Joan let her in, and Cecil was too absorbed in her own thoughts to notice anything the matter with her sister.

She seated herself in Joan's low chair by the window.

"Wilmot Gascoigne has been here most of the afternoon," she announced. "He said he could not stay to tea. I don't think there is much love lost between him and Derrick. Why hasn't Derrick come in? I thought he would be sure to have tea with us."

"He did not think of it, nor more did I. Did Mr. Gascoigne want to see me?"

"At first he did. But we got into very interesting talk. He knows the Riviera so well that we had a lot in common. I like him. It's an education to hear him talk. And I have given over Mother's book to him. I feel he is the right person to undertake it. It is very good of him to do it. He looked through a lot of it and liked it immensely."

"Oh, Cecil, how could you?"

Joan's bitter, passionate cry escaped her unawares. It had been her great hope to do it herself. She felt that she could do it, and Cecil had almost agreed that she should.

"I don't think you should have done such a thing without asking Father's advice, or—or mine."

Cecil tossed her head.

"My dear Joan, what does Father know about such things? And do you think for a moment that you could do it better than a clever literary man who knows the country in which it has been written? Why, you have never been abroad. Your experience is as narrow as Father's. I consider we are very lucky in having such a friend to take it off our hands."

"I don't think you know Mr. Gascoigne as well as I do, Cecil. I am very, very sorry you have given it to him. To begin with, he has too many irons in the fire already. He has not finished the Gascoigne book yet; and we really do want Mother's book to be taken in hand and finished. I am bitterly disappointed that you have done such a thing."

"I suppose you thought you could have made a name for yourself over it," said Cecil; "but I haven't confidence in you. Because you have been successful with a short magazine article, it does not follow that you could compile and edit a book like Mother's. I am ambitious for her sake. I don't want it to be a failure."

"Well," said Joan, struggling to speak gently, "it is done now, so there is no use in talking about it. We must hope he will do it well. Did you arrange anything with him about the profits from it?"

"Of course not. There is time for that when the book has been finished and accepted by some publisher."

Joan did not speak.

Cecil got up from her chair.

"I thought you would like to hear about it," she said airily. "Are you coming down to tea? It is ready."

"Yes. Don't wait for me."

Joan felt desperately that she must have a little quiet to digest this heavy blow.

When Cecil had left her, she pushed open her window and knelt by it.

The fresh spring air, the scent of the violets and sweet brier hedge below rose to greet her.

Her whole spirit resented Cecil's summary proceeding. She knew now from experience that Wilmot Gascoigne was not wholly to her liking as a writer. She had waged war with him more than once over certain passages descriptive of Nature's beauty. He belittled and scoffed at the recognition of a Divine hand in it, and she could not bear to think that her mother's book should be placed in his hands to be cut up and revised as he judged fit. And she felt that she had it in her to bring out all the best in that book. She also had fears now that Wilmot would not make a profitable sum out of it, and this was a very important matter to them all.

"Why do things go so crooked?" she sighed to herself.

But when she rose from her knees, she was able to go downstairs with a serene face, and, if her laugh was not quite so frequent or her smiles so bright, there was nothing in her demeanour to show vexation or resentment.

When Mr. Adair heard about it, he looked annoyed.

"You should have asked me first, Cecil," he said. "You had no right to give your mother's book to a stranger."

"Mother gave me her book," said Cecil, with a wilful curve to her lips. "I am not a fool, and I have full confidence in Motty, as they call him."

Joan wondered if she should hear any more of the book she and he were writing together. She hoped that Derrick would not interfere too much about it, and consoled herself by thinking that he would be too full of his own feelings to approach the subject that night, as he had threatened to do.

It was of no use to argue with Cecil about the wisdom of her impulsive action, and Joan appeased her father by saying that Wilmot was certainly very clever, and was in touch with several of the leading publishers of the day.

The next morning, her small pupils being still away, Joan betook herself to the garden. There was always a great deal more to do there than the odd man could possibly get through. She was very busy weeding a patch of ground, when a voice close to her startled her.

"I can't keep away, you see, even after our talk yesterday; but I want to tell you about my interview with Motty."

Of course, it was Derrick. Joan greeted him quite cheerfully.

"Tell me," she said; "but don't expect me to stop weeding. I can do that and listen too."

"It won't hurt you to rest for a bit. Here, sit on this old hen-coop. Now, then, where shall I begin? I nearly went for him at the dinner-table last night. What a conceited ass he is! But I bided my time, and old Jossy helped me, for he actually left us alone in the smoking-room together to enjoy a brand of his best cigars."

"Derrick, I asked you not to interfere."

"I had to take my thoughts off the gnawing ache in my heart. Isn't that the phrase they use in books? And I was longing to pitch into someone. I was in the right mood for it, and he was the right man for me. What on earth has the Malingerer been doing? We were at cross purposes at first, for he thought I had come to take away your mother's MS. from him. He is very keen on that now, and means to run the Malingerer for a bit. It seems she and he are going to do it together."

Joan almost laughed, though she felt sore at heart. "Why, Cecil is too restless to stay at her writing-desk for more than half an hour at a time."

"Just so. Well, he thinks, of course, you have treated him badly and have left him in the lurch. So that gave me my innings, and I told him what I thought about him. Oh, yes, I did; and if we were in France, I suppose there would have been an early morning duel to-day. He is coming down to have a personal interview with you; but I rather think he will back out of that, and write instead. We went at each other like hammer and tongs. How I wish you and Cecil would keep clear of him."

Joan looked distressed. Derrick was unusually grave.

"I wish you could talk to Cecil about it; but I am afraid she has already committed herself; and we do not want to quarrel with Mr. Gascoigne, Derrick. He has been very kind and good."

Derrick shrugged his broad shoulders.

"I'll go straight in and have it out with the Malingerer. I had better see where she stands. I know you think me an interfering fool, but women are so helpless in the clutches of a man like Motty; and you've no brother."

He was off. Joan went on with her weeding with a distracted mind. Half an hour later Derrick came back to her.

"I've done no good," he confessed ruefully. "The Malingerer is infatuated with him, as you were; but I'll keep an eye on him, and if he gets the book ready for publication, I'll have my say as to the publisher and the price. I know a man in town who will look after it for me."

He did not stay, for he told Joan he was going up to town by the twelve o'clock express. They took farewell of each other very quietly.

Late that afternoon Wilmot made his appearance and asked to see Joan. She went into the drawing-room with a beating heart, but he was perfectly courteous.

"I want to talk to you about our book. Did you think I had forsaken you for good and all? The fact is I called directly I came back from town, which was only yesterday. You were not in, and your sister, as you know, begged me to undertake the compiling and editing of your mother's notes on the Riviera. I suppose you were vexed that I had undertaken a fresh book without first finishing the other; but, as I told you before, I can work best when I have two or three books going. They supply a vent for my every mood and serve to quicken my faculties. I had no intention of stopping my work with you. You can picture my astonishment when Colleton attacked me like a fury. I won't tell you all he said. It was unrepeatable! I could only imagine he had found you hurt and indignant, and inclined to say hastily that you would have nothing more to do with me. His passion was too impotent and childish to touch me in the least. I could only think he had made a little too free with my cousin's old port. He seems to regard himself as your protector and guide, but I hardly think he was speaking with your consent upon matters which were strictly confidential between ourselves."

Joan's cheeks were hot, yet she spoke with her natural sweet dignity.

"Derrick is like a brother to us. I am sorry there was any friction between you. It was wrong of him. Of course, I did not wish him to attack you in such a way. I am very glad you have come round, because I was going to write to you, and it is so much easier to talk than to write. You must disabuse your mind of the idea that I was hurt or indignant with you. Why should I be? Frankly, as I have often told you lately, I don't feel I can help you in this joint book of ours, and I do want to get out of it."

"But this is a very serious thing! If you had not been such a friend, I should have drawn up an agreement, and got you to sign it. You could not have then withdrawn without giving me some compensation for doing so."

He looked straight at her as he spoke and snapped his lips together in an ill-tempered way.

"Don't you see," he went on, "that, unless I am able to finish that book single-handed, you have made me waste my strength and mind and time on a task that you make useless?"

"But I am sure you will be able to finish it yourself," said Joan, eagerly seizing upon the loophole he gave her of extricating herself from his toils. "I am a drag on you; I feel that I am. We are not suited to work together. I pull you back, and you fetter me. And I want you to release me. I cannot hold to my principles and write as you wish. If you desire compensation, I will try and meet you, but it is impossible to go on writing with you."

"Very well," said Wilmot very stiffly, "we will say no more. I was mistaken in my estimate of your powers and in your adaptability to my methods. I cannot force you to continue working with me. Only, it is a pity that you did not know your own mind—or, shall I say, principles?—when we first started. I hope your sister will not treat me in the same way over this MS. of your mother's. Have you any objection to offer on that score?"

Joan was so overwhelmed with his reproaches that she could say nothing for a moment.

"My sister gave it to you without consulting me," she said quietly.

"Which means that you would have prevented her doing it if you could?"

Joan hesitated.

He gave a little bitter laugh.

"It is a case of being wounded in the house of one's friends," he said. "I wonder what I have done to turn you so against me? I suppose I have to thank Colleton for it. He is madly jealous of anyone poaching on his preserves."

"That is quite unjust and untrue," said Joan warmly. "I had better be entirely frank with you. I was looking forward to editing my mother's book myself. It would have been a keen pleasure to me to do so, and I was naturally disappointed when Cecil told me that she had given it to you. It is nothing personal against you; I am simply disappointed, that is all. I know you have more experience of the scenes in which the book is laid, and I am sure Cecil is much happier in the thought of your undertaking it than if I were to do it."

"You place me in a very unpleasant position. I think I had better see your sister, and suggest that I should hand it back again to you. I really have such a lot of literary work in hand that I shall be relieved than otherwise. It is a thankless task—editing other people's books."

Deep annoyance underlay his words. Joan began to apologise and protest. He stopped her abruptly and asked her if he could see Cecil.

Joan went to find her. She felt miserable, and knew that nothing would make Cecil take back the MS. Hastily she explained the situation to her sister, who was lying on the couch in her bedroom reading.

"Wilmot Gascoigne here! Why was I not told? Came to see you? What about?"

Then, when explanation had been given, she hastily left the room.

"I never shall forgive you, Joan, if you have tried to force him not to undertake it. He must do it, and he shall."

Joan left her to talk to him. She wandered out into the garden.

"Oh, how I love peace! And how I bungle and stir up strife! Everything seems going wrong. I wish—I wish I had never tried to write."

She began to tie up some straggling rose branches. She felt she did not want to meet Wilmot again, and yet was too proud to keep out of his way. She knew he must pass her as he went home. He was not very long in coming. To her surprise, he stopped when he reached her and held out his hand with one of his transforming smiles.

"Be friends with me," he said. "Your sister won't hear of my returning the MS., and she says her mother gave it into her hands to do as she thought best with. I promise you that I will give my most careful attention to it. And you will be able to reap laurels on your own account. If I have spoken unkindly this afternoon, forgive me; but I was hurt and sorely—bitterly disappointed in your casting me off and refusing to work with me any more. I must come down very often and consult your sister about this book. She knows your mother's mind, and can supply many blanks in her notes. How can I do this if I feel you are unfriendly towards me?"

"Indeed I am not that," poor Joan protested. "I am very grateful to you for all the help you have given me. I want to be one of your friends still."

"Then we will shake hands upon it and wipe our slate clean," he said almost gaily.

Joan shook hands with him, but watched his quick steps down the drive with a heavy heart. Certainly, Cecil was bringing discord into their hitherto peaceful life, yet she wondered if the fault was in herself.