And on the day of my
arrival Derrick and I had hardly set out for a walk, when we ran
across the old man.
Sir Richard, though rheumatic in the wrists, was nimble of foot and
an inveterate walker. He was going with his daughter to see over
Beckford's Tower, and invited us to accompany him. Derrick, much
against the grain, I fancy, had to talk to Freda, who, in her winter
furs and close-fitting velvet hat, looked more fascinating than
ever, while the old man descanted to me on Bath waters, antiquities,
etc., in a long-winded way that lasted all up the hill. We made our
way into the cemetery and mounted the tower stairs, thinking of the
past when this dreary place had been so gorgeously furnished. Here
Derrick contrived to get ahead with Sir Richard, and Freda lingered
in a sort of alcove with me.
"I have been so wanting to see you," she said, in an agitated voice.
"Oh, Mr. Wharncliffe, is it true what I have heard about the Major?
Does he drink?"
"Who told you?" I said, a little embarrassed.
"It was our landlady," said Freda; "she is the daughter of the
Major's landlady. And you should hear what she says of Derrick!
Why, he must be a downright hero! All the time I have been half
despising him"--she choked back a sob--"he has been trying to save
his father from what was certain death to him--so they told me.
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