After all, Freda was in no way to blame. As a mere girl she had
allowed Derrick to see that she cared for him; then circumstances
had entirely separated them; she saw more of the world, met
Lawrence, was perhaps first attracted to him by his very likeness to
Derrick, and finally fell in love with the hero of the season, whom
every one delighted to honour. Nor could one blame Lawrence, who
had no notion that he had supplanted his brother. All the blame lay
with the Major's slavery to drink, for if only he had remained out
in India I feel sure that matters would have gone quite differently.

We tramped on over heather and ling and springy turf till we reached
the old ruin known as the Hunting Tower; then Derrick seemed to
awake to the recollection of present things. He looked at his
watch.

"I must go back to my father," he said, for the first time breaking
the silence.

"You shall do no such thing!" I cried. "Stay out here and I will
see to the Major, and give him the letter too if you like."

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.