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D O N O VAN: 
 
 A MODERN ENGLISHMAN. 
 
 A NOVEL. 
 
 EDNA LYALL, ^^ . Ci.g \^o..^P 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 
 'WE TWO,' 'IN THE GOLDEN DAYS.' 'WON BY WAITING 
 
 'KNIGET-EEKANT.' Etc., Etc. 
 
 And I smiled to think God's greatness flowed around 
 
 our incompleteness, — 
 Round our restlessness, His rest.' 
 
 E. B. Bkowning. 
 
 fluclftl] (^Mm, 
 
 IN ONL VOLUME. 
 
 LONDON: 
 HURST AND BLACKETT, LIMITED, 
 
 13, GREAT MARLBOKOUGH STREET. 
 1888. 
 All rUjhts reserved. 
 
l6 
 
 U' 
 
 )k 
 
 1^ 
 
 iW 
 
 lA 
 
TO ONE 
 
 WHOSE LOVING HELP 
 1 LOVINGLY ACKNOWLEDGE. 
 
 H>7214 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Chap. 
 
 I. EXPELLED 
 
 II. A RETROSPECT . 
 
 IIL THE TREMAINS OF PORTHKERRAN 
 
 IV. 'my only son, Donovan' 
 
 V. REPULSED AND ATTRACTED 
 VI. AUTUMN MANOEUVRES 
 VII. THE BLACK SHEEP OF OAKDENE 
 VIII. 'tied to his mother's APRON-STRINGS ' 
 IX. DOT VERSUS THE WORLD . 
 
 X. LOOKING TWO WAYS 
 XI. ' LET NOTHING YOU DISMAY ' 
 XII. DESOLATE 
 
 XIII. WISHES AND CHESTNUT ROASTING 
 XIV. CAST ADRIFT . 
 X7. ROUGE ET NOIR 
 XVI. 'THE RAVEN FOR A GUIDE' 
 XVIT. STRUGGLING ON 
 XVIII. MONACO .... 
 XIX. LOSING SELF TO FIND 
 
 XX. * o'er MOOR AND FEN ' 
 XXr. ONE AND ALL . 
 XXII. IN A HOME 
 XXIII. OAKDENE MANOR 
 
 Faoz' 
 
 1 
 
 6 
 19- 
 
 SO 
 
 S9 
 
 54 
 
 G7 
 
 80 
 
 87 
 
 100 
 
 112 
 
 128 
 
 ISS 
 
 114 
 
 IGl 
 
 180 
 
 180 
 
 199 
 
 210 
 
 229 
 
 24G 
 
 2C1 
 
 272 
 
-yiii CONTENTS. 
 
 ,Chap. 
 XXIV. THE IDEAL WOMAN 
 
 XXV. COBWEBS AND QUESTIONS 
 
 XXVI. A CROWN OP FIRE 
 
 XXVII. GOOD-BYE .... 
 
 -XXVIII. A MAN AND A BROTHER 
 
 XXIX. A BRAVE SPRITE . 
 
 XXX. OLD FRIENDS 
 
 XXXI. SILENCE .... 
 
 XXXII. TEMPTATION 
 
 XXXIII. CHARLES OSMOND 
 
 XXXIV. WHAT IS FORGIVENESS? 
 XXXV. CONTRASTED LOVERS 
 
 XXXVL 'lame DOGS OVER STILES ' . 
 XXXVII, OF EVOLUTION, AND A NINETEENTH 
 jXXXVIII. duty's CALL 
 
 XXXIX. VIA LUCIS .... 
 XL. APPREHENSION 
 XLI. TREVETHAN SPEAKS 
 XLII, 'my HOPES AND THINE ARE ONE* 
 
 
 Tags 
 
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 . 3G8 
 
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 H CENTURY 
 
 FOE . 411 
 
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i£lLIFORN.\L 
 
 DONOVAN. 
 
 CHAPTEU 1. 
 
 EXPELLED. 
 
 Oil, vet we trust that sdiiieliow good 
 
 Will be the llual goal of ill, 
 
 To panics of nature, sins of will, 
 Del'cets of doubt, and taints of blood. 
 
 That nothing walks with ainde.ss feet ; 
 
 That not one life shall bo destroyed, 
 
 Or cast as rubbish to the void, 
 Wlieu God Lath made the pile complete. 
 
 Li Mcnwrlam. 
 
 'So Farruut is really to bo cx])clk'(l ? Tell me about it, fur 
 I've hoard next to nothiiiy these last few days up in the 
 iufirmary.' 
 
 The speaker was a boy of about seventeen, who was wulkinj^ 
 arm-in-arm with a companion of his own age in the quietest part 
 of a larg-e playground. 
 
 ' Well, on the whole, I think you were well out of it. There 
 was no end of a row on Saturday evening when it all came to 
 light. Little Harrison turned rusty, and told the Doctor that 
 some of the sixth had taken to gambling, and then there was a 
 solemn convention, and we were all called upon to reveal any- 
 thing we knew, and, before I could have thanked my stars for ten 
 seconds that I knew nothing, up sprang Donovan Farrant to 
 confess that he had been the first to introduce card-plaj^ing. I 
 fancy the Doctor thought him rather too brazen-faced about it; 
 for he was awfully severe ; but Farrant, you know, is one of those 
 fellows who look stony when they feel most, and he stood there, 
 with his head thrown back, looking as if he'd like to knock us all 
 down.' 
 
 ' I can just fancy him. He's certainly a touch of the Roman 
 in him; but what in the world did he do it for I' 
 
 D 
 
2 EXPELLED. 
 
 'Don't know. He's a queer fellow. Sucli crazy ideas of 
 honour too ! Enough to make him sprinp,- up in that way to 
 answer to a general accuFatiou, and yet so little that he could go 
 on for weeks as the ringleader in this affair.' 
 
 ' But what's all this row ahout Harrison ?' 
 
 ' Why, Harrison — who's his fiig, you know — says Farrant 
 forced him against his will to give his pocket-money for the 
 gaming, whereupon you can fancy the Doctor was furious, exag- 
 gerated things, and told Farrant he was found guilty of disohe- 
 dience, stealing, and hullying, though everyone knows he's no 
 more a bully than you are.' 
 
 ' Bully! I should think not ! Why, the little weakly chaps 
 make a regular hero of him, and he was always hanging about 
 after poor little Somerton, who died last term. That Harrison is 
 a rascally young cub. I don't believe Farrant took his money.' 
 
 ' Asked him to lend it, I daresay, and gave the young beggar 
 a look from those extraordinary eyes of his.' 
 
 ' Poor fellow, there he is ! ' said the first speaker. * Why 
 didn't they send him off by the early train ? He must have had 
 enough of this sort of thing yesterday.' 
 
 ' Yes, in all conscience ! He won'u soon forget that Sunday. 
 By Jove ! it was a slashing sermon the Doctor gave us, preached 
 straight at Farrant — hurled at his head. But there must be 
 £ome reason for keeping him here. I say, I wish you'd go and 
 speak to him, Reynolds.' 
 
 After some little discussion, Reynolds gave a reluctant con- 
 sent, and, crossing the playground, made his way to the place 
 where the culprit was standing. 
 
 Donovan Farrant looked somewhat luiapproachable, it must 
 be confessed. He was a tall slight fellow of nearly eighteen, 
 with dark hair and complexion, a curiously-formed forehead, be- 
 speaking rare mathematical talent, a faultless profile, a firm but 
 bitter-looking mouth, and strange eyes — black in some lights, 
 hazel in others, but always curiously contradictory to the hard 
 resoluteness that characteri-ed the rest of the face, for they were 
 hungry-looking and unsatisfied. 
 
 He was leaning against the wall, but there was no rest in his 
 attitude. With an expression of cold scorn, he was watching 
 the boys in the playground. His face softened a little as a 
 friendly greeting attracted his notice. 
 
 ' I am very sorry you are going, Farrant,' said Reynolds, 
 who had becnracking his brain for words which would be at once 
 ."kind and yet bear no reference to his disgrace. This was the 
 best he could think of. 
 
EXPELLED. 3 
 
 The strange eyes met his unflinching-ly, Reynolds felt tlioy 
 were not the eyes of a thief or a bully ; yet there was something 
 defiantly hard and scornful in the tone of the answer. 
 
 ' "Why should you be sorry ? Why make yourself the excep- 
 tion to })rove the contrary rule? Among- all those' — he made 
 an impetuous g'esture towards the other boys — 'not one cared 
 a rush for me — not one would speak a word, though they knew 
 that, except what I confessed, the charges were false.' 
 
 Reynolds was about to reply when someone approached 
 Donovan with a message — Colonel Farrant had arrived, and was 
 waiting" for him. A sort of spasm passed over the cold face, 
 but, recovering- his self-control in an instant, Donovan replied, 
 icily— 
 
 * Tell him I will come.' Then, as the messenger turned away, 
 lie folded his arms and leant this time really for sup])ort against 
 the wall. A g-low of shame had mounted to his forehead ; Rey- 
 nolds could see that he was in terrible distress. 
 
 ' Did you not know that your father was coming ? ' he ventured 
 to ask, after a few minutes. 
 Donovan signed a negative. 
 
 * He was only to come back from India on Saturday, and — 
 and this is what he is met with ! ' 
 
 There was something in the tone of this sentence which made 
 Reynolds feel that here the real Donovan Farrant was showing- 
 himself, the sudden boyish shame and grief were so perfectly 
 natural, so strangely contrasted with the tone of bitter scorn 
 which he had at first assumed. But the words called up a sad 
 enough picture even to the schoolboy's mind, and his throat felt 
 choked, and he was shy of offering any consolation. 
 
 ' You will begin over again in some new i)lace,' he said at 
 last. ' You have been left to yourself so much, surely your 
 father will understand and be lenient.' 
 
 ' Do jow think I care for his anger ? — it's not that ! — but to 
 
 have brought this disgrace to him, to have ' he broke off 
 
 abruptl}', with a stifled sob. 
 
 Reynolds was amazed, for no one credited Donovan Farrant 
 ■with over-much feeling. But even as he wondered his companion 
 regained his composure, and wrapped himself once more in that 
 impenetrable mantle of cold scorn. 
 
 ' Well, I must go ; there is nothing- to wait for,' he said, 
 glancing round at the place he was leaving for ever — leaving 
 under a cloud. 
 
 "-•^3\. look of pain came into his eyes, but a satirical smile jHayed 
 al)Out his lips. The smile faded, however, when he remembered 
 
4 EXPELLED, 
 
 the message which had just been brought to him, and his hand 
 was icy cold as he abruptly took leave of Reynolds, then walked 
 steadily on towards the school-house. 
 
 All this time Colonel Farrant waited within the house. He 
 had seen the head-master, had heard the particulars of his son's 
 disgrace, and now he was waiting- alone at his own request, try- 
 ing' to face this sorrow, trying to endure this terrible new shame. 
 lie was a middle-aged man, tall and soldierly; his features were 
 almost exactly similar to those of his son, but his expression was 
 so much more gentle that at first sight the likeness did not seem 
 at all striking. Grief and disappointment were expressed in his 
 very attitude as he sat waiting wearily with his head resting on 
 his hand ; and the disappointment had not been caused by 
 Donovan only. He had returned from India only two days 
 before to re-join the wife and children whom he had not seen for 
 years, and somehow the home was not quite what he had expected, 
 aud the long separation seemed either to have altered his wii'e or 
 to have raised a sort of barrier between them. He had been 
 absorbed in his work, had been leading a singulady self-denying 
 active life ; she had been absorbed in herself, and had allowed 
 circumstances to drift her along unresistingly. No wonder that 
 Colonel Farrant had already found how few interests he and his 
 wife had in common, no wonder that, even in the brief time since 
 his return, he had realised that his two children were growing up 
 in a home which could not possibly influence them for good. 
 Bitterly did he now regret that love of his work and dislike of 
 the quiet life of a country gentleman had kept him so long in 
 India. Mrs. Farrant's reception of the news of Donovan's dis- 
 grace had perhaps more than anything revealed the true state of 
 matters to her husband. What to him was a terrible grief was 
 to her merely * very tiresome ;' she hoped people would not hear 
 about it, lamented the inconvenience of having the boy home just 
 as they were going up to town for the season, spoke in soft 
 languid tones of his wilfulness, but evidently was quite incapable 
 of feeling keenly about anything so far removed from her own 
 personal concerns. 
 
 Donovan must not come home to that, the Colonel felt that it 
 v/ould be the very worst thing for him. He must go himself to 
 the school, find out the whole truth, learn something of his son's 
 real character, and, if possible, win his love before taking him back 
 to the doubtful influence of that strangely disappointing home. 
 
 Waiting now in the quiet room, with the slow monotonous 
 ticking of the clock, with the May sunshine streaming in upon 
 him, the Colonel tried to recall Donovan as he was at their last 
 
EXPELLED. 5 
 
 pnrtin^' vonrs and yonrs i\c^o at ^lalta. How well ho romfm1)prod 
 tlie littlo bri<^lir-eyed merry child of tliroe years old! what a 
 wrench it had been to leave him when his reg-iment had been 
 ordered out to India, and the little boy — their only child then- 
 had been sent back alone to England. And this was the same 
 boy whom he came to-day to find disgraced and expelled! How 
 was it ])ossible that his little high-sj)iritod, loving- child should 
 have become a thief, a bully, a breaker of rules ? He could not 
 believe it. And j'-et the head-master told him that Donovan had 
 with his own lips confessed that he was guilty ! 
 
 A sound of footsteps without, some one speaking- in a tone of 
 remonstrance, roused him, and then another voice, indig-nant and 
 vehement, made him start to his feet. 
 
 'Leave me alone ! I will see him now, at once, as I am ! ' 
 
 And the door was thrown open, and the vision of the merry 
 three-year-old child faded suddenly, and in its place stood the son 
 of to-day, pale, hag-gard, miserable, only upheld by a desperate 
 resolve to face the worst. 
 
 Donovan looked at once straight into bis father's eyes to read 
 there what he had to prepare himself for, and the very first 
 expression he read was neither anger, nor shame, nor disappoint- 
 ment, but only love and pity. His father's hand was on his 
 shoulder, his right hand clasped his, and, when he spcke, there 
 was not the slightest sound of upbraiding' in his tone. 
 
 ' Dono — my poor boy ! ' 
 
 That was too much even for Donovan's hardihood. He had 
 braced himself to endure anger or reproach, or cold displeasure — 
 but to be met in this way ! For the first time an agony of renu)rse 
 surged up in his heart. If only he could live his school days 
 over again how different they should be ! 
 
 Presently the father and son left the school, and, as thoy 
 made their way to the station, Colonel Farrant spokp of the ])lan 
 he had made. He had some business to transact at Plymouth ; 
 he thought they would g'o down there together, and perhajjs 
 ?pend a week in South Devon or Cornwall before going back to 
 Oakdene. Donovan evidently liked this idea, but in another 
 minute his face suddenly changed. 
 
 ' I had forgotten Dot. What a brute I am ! ' he exclaimed. 
 'She will be expecting- me, I mustn't disapj)oint her.' 
 
 Somehow that sentence cheered Colonel Farrant wonder- 
 fully. 
 
 Dot, his little invalid girl, liad in a measure comforted him 
 the day before by her evident devotion to Donovan. He had 
 hardly dared to hope, however, that the love was mutual, or that. 
 
6 A RETROSPECT. 
 
 in his disgrace and sorrow, Donovan would yet have a thought 
 to spare for his sister. 
 
 ' Dot will not expect us,' he said in reply. 'I told her that 
 we should not come home for a few days. She sent 3'ou this.' 
 
 They were in the train now. Donovan took the little three- 
 cornered note from his father. It was written faintly in pencil, 
 hut in spite of the straggiing- letters and wild spelling it hrought 
 the tears to his eyes. 
 
 ' Darling Don,' it hegan, * I am so sory. Papa has told me 
 all ahowt it, and he has heen verry kind. I don't think he 
 hileves all the horid things they say off you, and I never, 7iever 
 tvill, Don dear. 
 
 ' Your loving 
 
 • 'Dot.' 
 
 The long, strange journey ended at last, hut hy that time 
 Donovan's physical weariness was so intense that it overpowered 
 everything else. As he threw himself on his hed that night, he 
 could feel nothing hut relief that at length this longest and most 
 painful day of his life was over. The future was a yawning 
 hlackness, the past a horrid confusion, hut he would face neither 
 past nor future, the present was all he needed ; in utter exhaus- 
 tion of hoth mind and hody he fell asleep. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 aretrospect. 
 
 The canker galls tlie infants of the spriDg, 
 Too oft before their buttons be disclosed, 
 And in the morn and lirj^uid dew of youth 
 Contagious blastments are most imminent. 
 
 Hamlet. 
 
 God's possible is taught by His world's loving, 
 And the children doubt of each. 
 
 E. B. Browis'ino. 
 
 How was it that his son was so different from what he had 
 expected? That was the question which continually recurred to 
 Colonel Farrant, as, with all the chilliness of an old Indian, he 
 
A KETROSPECT. 7 
 
 eat beside the fire tlisit Moy evening' in one of tlic private sittinj^- 
 rooms of the lloyal Hotel. How was it that the ciiild, whom ho 
 remembered as hij^-h- spirited, loving-, and demonstrative, had 
 become proud, and cold, and repressed '^ It could not all be 
 owing' to the sense of his present disgrace, tliough that no 
 doubt accounted for it in part; but there was a restless unsatisfied 
 expression, for which the disgrace did not account, and which 
 a])pearcd to be habitual to him. Perhaps, had Colonel Farrant 
 known all the details of his boy's life during' the years in which 
 he had been separated troni him, ho might not have felt so much 
 perjdexed. 
 
 Donovan hod a wonderfully good memory, and, tliough he 
 had only been three years old when he parted with his lixther 
 and mother at Malta, he carried away a certain kind of remem- 
 brance of th'em — a dim vision of a mother who always wore pretty 
 dresses, and of a father who was always ready to play with him, 
 and could roar like a bear. With these recollections he set sail 
 for England, and was handed over by the acquaintance who had 
 taken care of him during the voyag'o to the charge of an elderly 
 woman in black, who Avas waiting for him when he landed at 
 Southampton. The elderly woman's name was IMrs. Doery, and, 
 as they made their way to the station, she informed Donovan 
 that she was his g-randfather's housekeeper, and that he must 
 always do what she told him. Upon this, Donovan looked up at 
 once to scrutinize her face, that he might judge what sort of 
 things she was likely to tell him to do, and, child though he was, 
 he could see that Mrs, Doery would be no easy mistress. Her 
 long; hooked nose and prominent chin were of the nut-cracker 
 order, the corners of her mouth were turned down, her eyes were 
 clear but disagreeably piercing', and her whole aspect, thougdi 
 irreproachably respectable, was, to say the least of it, forbidding'. 
 Donovan tried to find some reason for her name, but she was 
 singularly unlike the soft-eyed doe in the animal picture-book ; 
 in time, however, he discovered that there was another kind of 
 dough, and thought he quite understood the reason of Mrs. 
 Doery's name then, for her face was exactly of that whitish 
 yellow colour, and, in spite of all remonstrances, he would call 
 her nothing' else from that day forth but ' Doughy.' 
 
 Mrs. Doery asserted her authority at once ; it was a hot 
 Bummer's day, and Donovan, as he walked down the platform, 
 complained of thirst, and beg-g'ed for something' to drink. He 
 had caught a glimpse of some of his little acquaintance on board 
 ship standing' within the refreshment-room witli tumblers of 
 deiicious-looking milk in their hands, and this made him feel an 
 
B 
 
 A RETROSPECT. 
 
 uncomfortable craviuj^ for some. But Mrs. Doery g-ave a decided 
 negative — they would be home at his grandfather's in good time 
 for tea ; if he was hot, that was the very reason why he should 
 not drink ; she was not going- to allow bits and snacks between 
 megls, and he had better put such fancies out of his head directly. 
 
 Old Mr. Farrant had two houses — Oakdene Manor, a country 
 house which he liad built for himself in one of the western 
 counties, and an old family house standing in the main street of 
 a little country town at no g-reat distance from London. It was 
 to the latter ])lacc that Mrs. Doery conducted her little charge on 
 the day of his arrival, for her master had lately had a paralytic 
 stroke, and had given up all thoughts of re-visiting his newly- 
 built house, which, after standing- empty for some time, was 
 eventually let to strangers. It was in the old red-brick house, 
 with its narrow windows, and dark rooms, and stately solid 
 furniture, that Donovan's childhood was to be passed. 
 
 And somehow his childhood was not a hap{)y one. He was 
 very lonel}^, to beg-in with; there were no children of his own ag-e 
 whom Mrs. Doery thought fit to associate with him ; his g-rand- 
 father, thoug-h very fond of him, was too ill and helpless to l)e 
 his companion ; there was no father at hand to pKiy at ' bear ' 
 with him, and Mrs. Doery, though she was often excessively 
 cross, could not in any other respect imitate that favourite animal 
 of the nursery. Then he had so little to do. Mrs. Doery had at 
 first instructed him daily in the three K's, and he proved very 
 slow with the reading-, only tolerable with the writing-, but 
 alarmingly quick with the arithmetic. He took to the multipli- 
 cation table, as Mrs. Doery expressed it, ' like ducks to water;' 
 he answered the questions in the book of mental arithmetic with 
 a lightning- speed which fairly baffled the housekeeper, and before 
 he was five years old the long-est sum in any of the first four 
 rules would not keep him quiet for more than two minutes. But 
 then certainly by this time he had taken to working- problems in 
 his sleep, and would awaken Mrs. Doery in the middle of the niglit 
 by proclaiming in excited tones that if sheep were 89s. each, a flock 
 of forty-five sheep Avoidd be worth £87, 15s., or some equally ab- 
 struse calculation. Mrs. Doery naturally liked to have her nights 
 undisturbed ; moreover, she had sense enough to be rather alarmed 
 at this precocity, so she asked the doctor to look at Master 
 Donovan, and the doctor, seeing- at once that he was a clever, 
 delicate, excitable child, strongly recommended that all lessons 
 should be stopped till he was seven years old. Mrs. Doery 
 obeyed this injunction strictly, and a time of woe to poor Dono- 
 van ensued : ' don't do that ' seemed to follow evervthino- he 
 
A RETROSPECT. 9 
 
 attempted. lie was not allowed to run al)ont in the nursery, 
 because Mrs. Doery ' couldn't abide a noise,' or in old Mr. 
 Farrant's room, because ' it was unfeeling- to his poor g-rand- 
 fnther;' if* he venturetl to make such a thing* as a figure every- 
 thing- in the shape of a pencil was at once confiscated, and when 
 he rebelled he was whipped. 
 
 For a little while he amused himself by turning- the letters 
 in his picture-book into fig-ures and calculating- with them, but 
 Mrs. Doery soon found that he was up to no g'ood, aad forbade 
 him to open a book without her leave. He was naturally brig-ht 
 and energ-etic, but he fell now into listless lounging- habits, his 
 hig-h spirits breaking- forth now and then, and carrying- him into 
 all kinds of mischief He was very self-willed, and liis Ijattles- 
 with the housekeeper were numerous ; but, thoug-h his will was 
 quite as strong- as hers, he was g-enerally forced into a sort of 
 g-rudg-ing-, resentful submission, for Mrs. Doery had what seemed 
 to him a very unfair advantag-e in the shape of a sting-ing- lithe 
 cane, and though, when Donovan kicked or struck her, he felt 
 miserable the next moment, she never seemed to feel the least 
 compunction in hurting him, but on the contrary appeared to 
 find a grim satisfsiction in his chastisement. 
 
 It was all very puzzling-, Donovan could not understand it, 
 but then there were so few things he could understand, except 
 the problems about the sheej) and such like. Mrs. Doery found 
 him difficult to manag-e, and therefore told him that he was the 
 worst boy she had ever known, and the more she impressed his 
 badness upon him, the more he felt that for such a bad boy 
 nothing- mattered, and the less pains did he take to obey her. 
 
 And so the years passed slowly by, and at last in the spring, 
 before Donovan's seventh birthday, old Mr. Farrant had another 
 paralytic stroke and died. Donovan cried a good deal, for 
 though his grandfather had never been able to speak to him, yet 
 he had always looked kindly at him and had seemed pleased that 
 he should come into his room, and the little lonely boy had been 
 thankful for that silent love, and was the truest — perhaps the 
 only true mourner at his grandfather's funeral. ' 
 
 The old house seemed in a sort of dreary excitement all 
 through the week preceding- the funeral, and Donovan saw several 
 people whom he had never seen before, among others his father's 
 cousin, Mr. Ellis Farrant, a dai'k h;mdsome man of eight-and- 
 twenty, who jtatronised the little boy considerably, and held his 
 band while the Burial Service was being read, an indignity 
 which Donovan resented keenly, trymg hard to wriggle away 
 from him. In the evening, however, be began to like his new 
 
10 A RETROSTECT. 
 
 cousin better; the doctor and most of the other gncsts left early 
 in thb afternoon, but Cousin Ellis and the lawyer from London 
 were to stay the night, as they had to look over old Mr. Far- 
 rant's papers. The work did not seem to occupy them very 
 long", for when Donovan went sh^^ly into the library with a mes- 
 sage from Mrs. Doery, to know when it would be convenient to 
 them to dine, Ellis Farrant declared that they had looked throug-h 
 everything' and would have dinner at once, and then, with the 
 bland, patronising* smile whicli Donovan disliked so much, added 
 that the little boy must certainly stay and dine with them too. 
 
 Patronag-e was unpleasant, but then late dinner downstairs 
 presented great attractions to seven-year-old Donovan, and quite 
 turned the scale in Cousin Ellis's favour. lie sat bolt upright 
 in one of the gxeat, slippery leather chairs, so as to make the 
 most of his height, and, though his grief was perfectly sincere, 
 he nevertheless felt a certain melancholy pride in his new black 
 suit, and a delightful sense of dignity and importance in dining 
 with the two gentlemen. The conversation did not interest him 
 at all, excepting once, when he heard his father's name mentioned, 
 and then he listened attentively. 
 
 * Captain Farrant appointed you one of his trustees, I believe,' 
 said the lawj^er. 
 
 ' Yes, in the will he made at the time of his marriage, which 
 was the most terse will ever heard of; very little more than " All 
 to my wife ! " ' 
 
 ' Well, well,' said the lawyer, laughing, ' though it's against 
 my own interests to say so, it's the concise wills which answer 
 best ; and no doubt this little man will be no real loser for 
 receiving his property through his mother.' 
 
 Donovan grew very sleepy at dessert, and found it difficult to 
 maintain his upright position. The gentlemen sat long over 
 their wine, and he was beginning to wonder drowsily wdiy people 
 eat and drink so much more in the dining-room than in the 
 nursery, when he was roused by hearing his own name. 
 
 * Look here, little man ' — it was Cousin Ellis who was speak- 
 ing — ' are there any cards in the house ? ' 
 
 * Cards ? Oh ! yes, lots,' said Donovan, rubbing his eyes. 
 ' They came after grandpapa's last stroke, with " kind inquiries " 
 on them, Mrs. Doery said.' 
 
 Cousin ElHs and the lawyer laughed heartily. 
 
 * Not those cards, but playing-cards, Dono. Didn't I see a 
 card-table in the library ? ' 
 
 But Donovan oidy looked puzzled, and his surprise was great 
 when, on adjourning to the next room, Ellis Farrant cleared one 
 
A RETROSPKCT. 11 
 
 of the tables of the books and papers which had accumulated on 
 it, and, with the slightest push, turned the top, disclosing- in>its 
 centre two or three packs of cards. In another minute the whole 
 thing- was transformed into a square of green baize, and Cousin 
 Ellis and the lawj-er were shuttling the cards for their game. 
 Donovan was not at all sleepy now. lie felt all a child's delighted 
 curiosity in something which was new and mysterious, and then, 
 too, Avliat p})lcndid things these would be to calculate with ; he 
 wished he had found their hiding-place before. 
 
 * Do toll me their names. Do let me watch you,' he begged. 
 
 And Ellis Farrant, who was in good humour at having tV:)und 
 something to Avhile away his dull evening, took the little boy on 
 his knee, and while he played taught him his cards. 
 
 To hear once was to remember with Donovan. He not only 
 learnt the names of the cards, but began to understand the prin- 
 ciples of the game, and pleaded hard to be allowed to play too. 
 But neither Cousin Ellis nor the lawyer would believe in his 
 capabilities for ccnrte. The lawyer was good-natured, however, 
 and, seeing the grievous disappointment in the little boy's face, 
 suggested that they should let him have a game of viugt-ct-nn, and 
 Cousin Ellis complied, limiting the stakes to threepence, and 
 supplying the penniless Donovan from his own pocket. 
 
 Here was excitement indeed! calculation, judgment, memory, 
 all called into action at once ! And the little pile of coins before 
 him Avas growing with magic speed, and vlnut-ct-un fell to him 
 twice running, and the gentlemen told him laughingly that he 
 was certainly born to win. It ended long before he wished, and 
 Cousin Ellis changed his winnings for him into great bright half- 
 crowns, and he went oft' to bed proud, and excited, and victorious, 
 to play vingt-ct-nn in his dreams, only being disturbed now and 
 then by a nightmare of a gigantic queen of spades sitting on his 
 chest and stilling him. And so ended Donovan's first introduction 
 to the ' tains vert.'' 
 
 The next morning Cousin Ellis and the laAvyer left for London, 
 and the child was once more alone. The terrible flatness and 
 depression which he felt that day might have been a lesson to him 
 in after-life, and he did never forget it, although his experience 
 had to be bought more dearly. He wandered drearily over the 
 deserted house, and stole half timidly into the library, and looked 
 again at the magical table, and felt the half-crowns in his pocket. 
 But the fascination and excitement of the previous evening were 
 gone, and, now that the sensation of triumph and victory had died 
 away, he did not greatly care for the money; His head ached, 
 too J the dreary emptiness of the house oppressed him ; he began 
 
12 A RETROSPECT. 
 
 to feel that his prandfiitlier's absence made a g'reat difference to 
 him, and that there was something" very forlorn in the idea of 
 being left alone with Mrs. Doery. 
 
 As time passed, however, he began to g-row accustomed to 
 things, and slipped back into much the same routine as before ; 
 meals, walks, and pretty frequent fights with Mrs. Doery, solitary 
 games, fits of wild mischief, whippings, imprisonments, and vague 
 wonder at the perplexities of life. His greatest enjoyment was 
 to steal down into the library, softly to draw aside one of the 
 shutters, and, when quite secure that Mrs. Doery was not likely 
 to interrupt him, to take those vv'onderful cards from their hiding- 
 place. Then, with a dummy adversary, he would play the two 
 games of which he had mastered the rules, and various others of 
 his ow^n invention, always playing his adversary's cards with the 
 strictest impartiality. 
 
 Another occupation there was too which helped to relieve the 
 tedium of the long da^'s, and this was carpsntering. He was 
 very clever Avith his fingers, and, luckily, the housekeeper did 
 not object much to this })ursuit, so long, as she expressed it, ' he 
 didn't hurt the carpets or himself And Donovan obediently 
 cleared up all his shavings and chips, and bravely endured his 
 cuts and mishaps in silence. He became very expert, and one 
 unfortunate day, when Mrs. Doery had gone out to see a friend, 
 his ambition rose to such a height that he resolved to take the 
 nursery clock to pieces in order to see how it was made, intendmg, 
 after he had thoroughly mastered the details, to put it together 
 again. So to work he went as soon as the housekeeper was well 
 out of sight, and, with the aid of pincers, screw-drivers, and his 
 dexterous little fingers, succeeded in dissecting the clock. It 
 was w^onderfully interesting work, so interesting that, although 
 he was studying the anatomy of the recorder of time, he forgot 
 that there was such a thing as time at all, and that, although 
 the hands of the clock were detached from its face, and the pen- 
 dulum was h'ing motionless in his tool-box, the inexorable old 
 gentleman with the scythe Avas travelling at his usual pace, and 
 bringing tea-time and Mrs. Doery in his train. He had just 
 settled everything entirely to his own mind, and arranged which 
 wheels to re-adjust first, when the door opened; he looked up — - 
 and there stood Mrs. Doery with a face of mingled astonishment 
 and wrath which baffles description. It w-as in vain that Donovan 
 pleaded to be allowed to set it right, and showed how neatly he 
 had arranged the pioces ; Mrs. Doery would not listen to a word, 
 but taking the culprit to his room, gave him the severest whipping 
 he liad ever had, and Donovan cried piteously, not at all on 
 
A RETROSPECT. 13 
 
 nccoiint of the pain, for he bore that like a little Trojan, but 
 because he Avas quite sure he could put the clock together again 
 il" 'Doughy' would only let him. 
 
 It was not only b}' fits of mischief and wilfulness that 
 Donovan gave the housekeeper trouble. Soon after his grand- 
 fither's death, he began, as she said, 'to plague the very life out 
 of her with questions.' "What was this ? and why was that ? and 
 what was the reason of the other ? })ursued j)oor Mrs. Doery from 
 morning till night. Taking the doctor's general directions into 
 every detail, she had brought up her little charge in utter ignor- 
 ance ; he knew no more of religion than the veriest little heathen, 
 and though Mrs. Doery had taught him a short doggrel prayer 
 to say as he went to sleep, he was much too matter of fact 
 and logical to care to say a charm addressed, as far as he knew, 
 to no one in particular, and for which he could not understand 
 the reason. It did not make him any happier to say 
 
 'Three in One, and One in Three, 
 One in Three, save nie.' 
 
 It only puzzled him completely, so he left off saying it. 
 
 But the service at his grandfather's funeral had awakened 
 his curiosity ; he could not understand it, and he could not bear 
 not being able to understand. Mrs. Doery found herself obliged to 
 give an answer now and then in order to quiet iiim, and Donovan 
 learnt that peo])le knelt down to 'ask God for things,' that ' God 
 was a Being who loved good people and hated bad people,' and 
 that ' grand])apa had gone to heaven.' 
 
 ' Why, that's what you always say when you're surprised ! ' he 
 exclaimed, when this last piece of information had been received. 
 ' " Good heaven ! " you know. Is heaven a great surprise ? What 
 is heaven ? ' 
 
 ' It's a nice place where good folk go,' said Mrs. Doery, as if 
 she grudged the admission. 
 
 ' Is it in India ? ' 
 
 'Dear heart! The ignorance of the child! No, it's up in 
 the sky.' 
 
 ' What do they do up there ? ' 
 
 ' Sit and sing hymns and say prayers.' 
 
 • What, like'they did at the funeral ?' 
 
 ' Bless the child, I don't know ; but you needn't trouble so 
 about it, for it's only good boys as goes there.' 
 
 * I don't want to go, I'm sure/ said Donovan, defiantly. ' I 
 hate sitting- still.' 
 
14 -A RETROSPECT. 
 
 But his mind was not satisfied, and Mrs. Doery was questioned 
 still further. 
 
 'Doughy, what did they mean when they said grandpapa 
 would never he ill again ? ' 
 
 ' Why, folks never are ill in heaven.' 
 
 ' What, never ? Oh ! that is another reason, then, why I 
 don't want to go there, for the nicest time I ever had was when 
 I'd the measles ; you never were so little cross in your life, 
 Doughy.' Mrs. Doery made no comment on this, and the little 
 boy continued, rather anxiously, ' I suppose, Doughy, you are 
 very good, aren't you 1 ' 
 
 ' Well, Master Donovan, I try to do my duty by the house, 
 and by you,' said Doery, gloomily. 
 
 'That's a good thing ! ' said Donovan, relieved, 'for you see, 
 Doughy, I don't think we'd better go to the same place, we should 
 be happier away from each other.' 
 
 Mrs. Doery was wonderfully uncommunicative, but still the 
 little boy occasionally plied her with fresh questions. One day 
 he came to her with a perplexity which had long been troubling 
 him. 
 
 * Doughy, who gives u^ homes ? ' 
 
 ' Your papa, of course. Master Donovan.' 
 'And who gave papa his home ? ' 
 ' Why, your poor grandpapa.' 
 ' ' But who gave the first papa that ever was his home ?' 
 
 * Bless the child ! how should I know ? I don't suppose Adam 
 had no home, so to speak.' 
 
 ' Why are some people's homes so much happier than other 
 people's ? It's very imfair.' 
 
 ' The good little boys are hajipy,' said Mrs. Doery, * and the 
 bad ones aren't.' 
 
 'Then, if I was never naughty, should I have a nice home like 
 little Tom Harris, with a mother to take me out with her ? ' 
 
 ' That's impossible to say,' replied Mrs. Doery, gravely ; ' let 
 alone the unlikeliness that you ever would be good, you see 
 there's all them past times you was naughty; so you've not much 
 ^f a chance.' 
 
 Poor Donovan went away sadly, and yet with a great sense of 
 injustice in his childish mind. That was almost the last question 
 he troubled Mrs. Doery with. 
 
 But, though he was represented as so incurably bad, he would 
 not entirely bow to Mrs. Doery's opinion. In his heart of hearts 
 he cherished an ideal mother, who was to come back from India, 
 malte him good, and fill his life with happiness; she was to be 
 
A RETROSPECT. . 15 
 
 JDst lilvo Mrs. Harris, the g-roccr's wife, who took her little boy 
 out walking', only her dresses were to be prettier, for tlie one 
 thing- he remembered about his mother was that she always wore 
 jtrctty clothes. The events of his life were the arrival of the 
 Indian letters, in which ' papa and mamma sent their love to 
 Done ; ' but these were few and far between, for, although Mrs. 
 Docry wrote each mail to give an account of Master Donovan's 
 well-being", neither Colonel Farrant nor his wife understood the 
 importance of keeping their memory green in the remembrance 
 of the child by writing- to him. The Colonel was absorbed in his 
 work, Mrs. Farrant was absorbed in herself. Donovan had his 
 ideal mother, nevertheless, and would rehearse her return, and 
 talk to her by the hour ; and when Mrs. Doery took him for his 
 walk he would put his hand a little out on the side away from 
 the housekeeper, making' believe that his mother held it, and 
 would turn his face up, as if he were talking- to her, just as he 
 had seen little Tom Harris do. 
 
 At last one never-to-be-forgotten day Donovan heard that he 
 had a little baby sister, and before the novelty and delight of this 
 news bad had time to fade came a second letter Avith yet more 
 wonderful tidings, a large letter for Mrs. Doery, and a little one 
 enclosed for Donovan from his father — ' Mamma and baby were 
 coming to England to live w4th Done, and he must take great 
 care of them, and try to make them happy.' 
 
 Never had the little boy known such happiness, his dream 
 was actually coming- true, mother was coming-, mother who would 
 not mind answering- his questions, who would make hiaa good, 
 who would rescue him from Mrs. Doery's whippings. He could 
 watch the grocer's little boy now when he passed by without the 
 least shade of envy, for in a few weeks w'ould not he too be walk- 
 ing- out with his mother i* 
 
 He watched the preparations which were being made in the 
 house with a sense of exultant happiness, his grave step changed 
 to the bounding skipping- pace of a merry child, and he was so 
 g'ood that even Mrs. Doery had no complaint to make of him. 
 Then at length came the real day of arrival, and Donovan's 
 feverish impatience was at length rewarded ; a carriage stopp^pl 
 at the door, J\Irs. Doery, smoothing her black apron, bustled out 
 into the hall, and Donovan rushed headlong dovn the white steps 
 to throw his arms round his mother's neck. But a sudden chil] 
 of disapjiointment fell on his heart, it was so different from 
 everything he had planned. The tall pretty-looking lady stooped 
 to kiss him, indeed, and her voice was soft and refined, if some- 
 what languid, as she exclaimed, 'Dear me ! what a great boy you 
 
^^ A RETROSPECT. 
 
 have gTown ! ' but it was not his ideal at all, not the mother to 
 whom he could tell everything-, or who would care to know. All 
 this Donovan read in almost the first glance, as clearly as he had 
 read Mrs. Doery's character on Southampton Pier. 
 
 He followed everyone else into the house and phut the door. 
 Mrs. Farrant was already on the way to her room, and did not 
 notice him any further, and he was too bewildered and disap- 
 pointed to care to bestow more than a glance on the ayah and 
 the little baby in long- clothes. 
 
 By-and-by, he saw his mother again, but b}' this time he had 
 grown shy, and only made the briefest responses to her questions, 
 and before long' she had dis])Osed herself on the drawing-room sofa 
 with a book, and he was left standing at a little distance with a 
 Calcutta costume doll which she had just given him, and a very 
 heavy lieart. The doll only added to his disajipointment. Surely 
 the ideal mother would have understood how little he, a boy of 
 eight years old, would care for a doll i* He did not want presents 
 at all, he wanted the dream-mother back again, and the convic- 
 tion that she never could come back again was terrible indeed. 
 It g-ot worse and worse as the evening- advanced, and at last he 
 could bear it no longer, but, wishing his mother good-night, 
 crept upstairs though it was not yet his bed time, and shutting 
 himself into the cupboard among Mrs. Doery's dresses gave vent 
 to his misery. He did not often cry, even at the severest whip- 
 ping, but that night he sobbed as though his heart would break ; 
 life had seemed hard and perplexing already, and now his ideal 
 was gone ! 
 
 But the loving hand which was guiding Donovan, though he 
 so little knew it, w^as not going to leave hmi desolate. The 
 perfectly loving sympathetic mother had indeed been denied him, 
 but another treasure had been provided for him, which though it 
 could not fill entirely the place of the dethroned ideal — the ])lace 
 which was to be always empty, always longing to be filled — was 
 yet to call out his best and strongest feelings. 
 
 When at last he checked his sobs and crept out of the cup- 
 board once more, the first thing- his eyes rested on was the new 
 baby sister lying asleep in her cradle. He was so miserable that 
 he would even have thrown himself on Mrs. Doery's mercy if she 
 had been there, and in another minute his tears broke forth 
 again, as he pressed his face close to the baby's and told her all 
 his trouble. Of course she woke directly, but he still sobbed out 
 his story. 
 
 'Oh! baby, I'm so miserable -;io miserable — mother isn't s 
 bit what I ex2)ected.' 
 
A RETROSPECT. 17 
 
 The baby bop-nn to cry feebh^ and Donovan, penitent at 
 having; disturbed her, took her with g-reut care and difHculty from 
 her cradle, and began to rock her in his arms, and as she slept 
 once more, and as her weight became more and more difficult to 
 bear, a new sense of love and protecting- care sprang- up in the 
 little boy's hcmz, and he was comforted. Before long- Mrs. 
 Doer^'-'s step was heard without, and Donovan knew that if he 
 were found he would certainly be whipped, but to try to put the 
 baby back in the cradle would be sure to wake her, and she was 
 worth suffering- for. 
 
 Mrs. Doery was of course wrathful, and poor Donovan went to 
 bed supperless and sore both inwardly and outwardly ; but, as his 
 wistful eyes closed on th;it day of disappointment, he clung- to his 
 one comforting- thought, the little sister, his new possession. 
 
 As time passed on, the bond beyond these two g-rew strong-er 
 and strong-cr. Donovan centred all the love of his heart on the 
 frail little life of the baby. The element of protection was nis 
 most pronounced characteristic ; he was strong*, and liked above 
 all things to have something- to take care of And Dot, as they 
 called the tiny delicate little girl, needed any amount of attention. 
 From the very first everything- seemed against herj her Indian 
 birth, the trying- voyage; the want of any real care from her 
 mother, the miserable mismanagement of an incompetent doctor, 
 all told grievously on the delicate little chiki. She had only just 
 learnt to walk, or rather to trust herself to be piloted along- by 
 Donovan, when she began to pine and dwindle, and before long- 
 the hesitating- footsteps were hushed for ever, and Dot lay down 
 upon the couch on which her little life-drama was to be acted. 
 A fall from her ayah's arms had, it was supposed, been the cause 
 of the hip-disease which now declared itself. For a time every- 
 one was sorry and disturbed, but soon they became resigned, and 
 tiiiked about ' the dispensations of Providence.' Only Donovan 
 nursed his sorrow and indig-nation apart, conscious, in spite of 
 his youth, that it was human carelessness, human misunderstand- 
 ing-, which had ruined the only life he cared for. 
 
 In the meantime, the lease of Oakdene Manor came to an end, 
 and Mrs. Farrant and her children left the house where Dono- 
 van's childhood had been passed, to make their home in that 
 place Avhich old Mr. Farrant had planned so carefully, but had 
 never seen. 
 
 The change was in some respects good for Donovan ; he was 
 
 t'ust old enough to take an interest in the j)roperty which would, 
 le supposed, be his own some day, and he liked the free country 
 life. But in that comfortable English home, the apparent mode 
 
 c 
 
18 A RETROSPECT. 
 
 of refinement and propriety, he grew up somehow into a very 
 unsatisfactory mortal, unsatisfactory to himself as well as to 
 others. He was scarcely to be blamed perhaps, for, with the 
 exception of little Dot, there was not one good influence in the 
 Manor household. 
 
 His mother's selfishness wns perfectly apparent to him ; he 
 accepted it now with a sort of cold indifference when it only 
 affected himself. It was so, and there was an end of the matter; 
 he just put up with it. But, when Mrs. Farrant's absorption in 
 self affected Dot, Donovan's indignation Avas always roused ; 
 there was an almost fierce gleam in his eyes when he found Dot 
 suffering from the unmotherliness which had chilled and cramped 
 his own life. 
 
 What, however, told most fatally on him was his mother's con- 
 ventional religion. Mrs. Farrant went to church because it was 
 proper, and insisted on her son's accompanying her. He obeyed, 
 but went with a sort of stubborn disgust, hating to share in this 
 act of hypocrisy. He was naturally acute, and at a very early 
 age he found out that the lives of the professing Christians 
 around him were diametrically opposed to the principles of 
 Christianity. It was all a hideous mockery, a hollow proiession j 
 he came to a child's sweeping conclusion, ' They are all shams, 
 these Christian people,' and naturally went on to the resolution, 
 ' 1 at least will profess nothing,' 
 
 His views received a sort of amused encouragement from his 
 tutor, a man whom Mrs. Farrant had been delighted to secure 
 for her son, because he was ' so highly connected, such a very 
 gentlemanly man.' Mr. Alleyne was, however, in spite of his 
 high connections, unfit to be the tutor of a boy like Donovan. 
 He was clever, but shallow, and he had dabbled in science, and 
 rather prided himself on being able to appreciate the difficulties 
 which great minds found in reconciling the new discoveries of 
 science and the old faiths. He quoted Tyndall and Huxley with 
 great aptness, and, though on occasion he was quite cai)able of 
 appearing to be exceedingly orthodox, yet he was rather fond of 
 styling himself an Agnostic when quite sure of his audience. He 
 was not a sincere man; he liked talking of his 'intellectual 
 difficulties,' and regarded scepticism as ' not bad form now-a- 
 days.' When Mr. Alleyne found that his jiupil was, as he termed 
 it, ' a thorough-going young atheist,' he was a little amused and a 
 good deal interested. He was not at all unwilling to forsake the 
 more ordinary routine, and, throwing aside the classics, he 
 allowed Donovan to devote most of his t'rne to scientific subjects, 
 which were far more interesting to both teacher and pupiL 
 
TIIR TREMAINS OF POnTHIvKUnVN. 19 
 
 Donovan bad no respect for his tutor, but lie was a f^-ood deal 
 influenced by bim. Wlien by bis t'atber's desire be was sent at 
 bust to a pubHc sebool, be was just in tbe state to derive all the 
 evil and none of the f^ood from school life, lie bad <;T0\vn up iu 
 isolation, and be was naturally reserved, so that be did not easily 
 make friends, and be was too vvilful and incomprehensible to bo 
 a favourite with tbe masters. In mathematics, indeed, he could 
 beat every opponent with ease, and carried otf several prizes, but 
 his success was merely that of natural talent, and never of 
 industry, so that even to himself it brouo-bt little satisfaction. 
 
 And all tbe time slowly strengthening- and developing- was 
 ihe intense love of play which had shown itself in bis earliest 
 childhood. Ellis Farrant had crossed his path several times since 
 their first meeting-, and Donovan, though he did not like bis 
 cousin, always enjoyed his visits, for then his passion could be 
 g-ratitied, and bis monotonous and already unsatisfying- life could 
 be broken by the most delicious of all excitements. 
 
 Later on came the temptation at school; the suggestion made 
 by a weaker and more timid boy was carried out unscrupulously 
 by Donovan, bis conscience completely overmastered by the thirst 
 for self-g-ratification. Then followed cxjiosure, disgrace, some 
 injustice, and a most bitter humiliation. 
 
 His school-days were abruptly ended. What was now to 
 become of bim ? 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE TREMAINS OF PORTII KERHAN. 
 
 ' But faith beyond our sight may go,' 
 
 He said ; ' the gracious Fatherhood 
 
 Can only kuow above, below, 
 
 Eternal purposes of good. 
 
 From our free heritage of will 
 
 The bitter springs of pain and ill 
 
 Flow only in all woilds. Tlie perfect day 
 
 Of God is shadowless, and" love is love alway. 
 
 Whittieb. 
 
 GoLT)E\ sunshine, clear blue sky, the fresh green of spring-, and 
 a light delicious Seabreeze — all this outward beauty and gladness 
 there was on tbe morning after Colonel Farrant and bis son bad 
 
20 THE THEMAINS OF PORTHKERRAN. 
 
 arrived at Plymouth. And yet surely never bad heart felt more 
 heavy, never had existence felt more unbearable, than Donovan's 
 as he walked slowly and dejectedly on the Hoe. Colonel Farrant 
 had left the hotel early in" order to ^et his business settled, and 
 Donovan, with a restless craving- for something- to divert his 
 mind from his disgrace, had wandered out alone. He was not 
 very successful in his search for peace, for the more he struggled 
 to find interest or diversion in all around, the more he felt the 
 bitter pang-s of remorse and ang-ry resentment. Groups of happy 
 noisy' children were playing- on the grass, and he thought of his 
 own lonely repressed childhood, and felt that the lots of men 
 were unjustly and unequally arranged. 
 
 He stood on the highest point of the Hoe, and looked at the 
 exquisite view before him — the stately ships at anchor in the 
 Sound, Drake's Island, with its miniature citadel, Mount Edg- 
 cumbe, with its beautifully wooded banks, and its foHage fringing- 
 the water, the clear sharply-defined line of the breakwater, and, 
 far out over the sparkling dancino- waves, the distant Eddystone. 
 And yet, though he could not be altogether insensible to the 
 beauty of the" scene, the brightness and rejoicing-, even the 
 industry and success which he saw, made him more angry and 
 resentful, more hopeless and despairing-. Was not he disgraced, 
 humiliated? and at the same tmie, had not his faults been 
 unjustly exag-g-erated, his punishment unjustly given ? Life 
 seemed one long perplexity, and now he felt both hopeless and 
 purposeless, for success and pleasure had been his chief objects 
 hitherto, and now he felt that he had failed shamefully, and that 
 the failure was so great that all pleasure in life was over. 
 
 Yet, in spite of his remorse and misery, he was neither 
 repentant nor humble, for Mrs. Doery's early training had ruined 
 him in this respect. The soft, pliable years of his childhood had 
 been left in ig-norance, and when his powers of reason and calcu- 
 lation had been well roused and brought into action, he was 
 presented with the image of a God always watchful to detect sin, 
 always in readiness to punish, a hard, stern, inexorable Judge, 
 who admitted fortunate people to heaven, and dismissed unfor- 
 timate people to hell, with strict impartiality and entire absence 
 of feeling. No wonder that an angry sense of injustice g-rew up 
 in Donovan's heart, no wonder that he turned from the cruelly 
 false representation which was offered him, and steadily refused 
 to believe in it. And wh^n, in course of time, he heard other 
 and truer views than these, his heart had grown hard, and he had 
 become so accustomed to rely on himself and his natural strength 
 of will that he felt no need of higher help. Moreover, religion 
 
THE TRKMAINS OF POUTHKERRAN. 21 
 
 required that he should own himself to he weak and God all- 
 powerful, and he would own neither the one nor the other. Even 
 now, with his sense of failure and misery, he would not yield ; 
 i'ate had been ag'ainst him, he was sorry to have brought disgrace 
 on his father, he was angry nnd indig-nant with the world, and 
 dissatisfied with himself, but that was all. 
 
 Two vessels in the Sound had just weighed anchor. He 
 watched them with a listless interest, wondering- whither they 
 were boniiil, and what would become of them ; whether they 
 would safely reach their destination, or whether a cruel late would 
 cast them on rocks or quicksands, to be hopelessly, irretrievably 
 wrecked. A fate to be strug-gled against ! It was his notion of 
 life ; and, as the stately ships left the harbour and sailed out 
 into the immeasurable expanse beyond, he turned awa}'' with a 
 firmer, more decided step, and a less dejected heart; fate had 
 been against him all his life, but he would not despair. He would 
 conquer fate by the power of his will, he would live yet to be an 
 honour to his father ! 
 
 Colonel Farrant's business did not detain him very long, and, 
 as soon as lunch was over, he suggested that they might as well 
 at least begin their tour that afternoon. Donovan was relieved 
 at the projiosal, and assisted in the choice of a horse and dog-- 
 cart with resolute if somewhat forced cheerfulness. His father 
 was further than ever from understanding* him now, and began 
 to doubt whether the driving- tour would be a success; but, with 
 all his perplexing- contradictions, Donovan was very loveable, and 
 his eager questions as to the Colonel's Indian life could not but 
 be gratifying- to the father's heart. He, for his part, however, 
 was a much less successful questioner, and could elicit very little 
 as to his son's })ast life, for Donovan was reserved by nature, and 
 had been made still more so by his education. He drew an 
 impenetrable veil over his childhood, and answered all allusions 
 to his mother with Cjuick abrupt monosyllables; for he was far 
 too proud to be- a grumbler, and indeed his grievances were too 
 deep to bear speaking of. Little Dot was the only subject upon 
 which he talked naturally and unreservedly, and Colonel Farrant 
 was glad to make the most of this. 
 
 Before long the weather claimed their attention ; the sky, 
 which had been bright and clear when they left Plymouth, wa» 
 now black and threatening, while the light breeze of the morn- 
 ing was growing strongei tmd Keener. E^rery thing betokened a 
 storm, and before long the rain descended in torrents, drenching- 
 the occu})ants of the dog-cart to the skin, while the western wind 
 blew so strongly and gustily that to hold an umbrella was out of 
 
22 THE TREMAINS OF FORTH KEURAN. 
 
 a 
 
 the question. For himself Donovan rather enjoyed it. There 
 was a sort of pleasure in being- buffeted by wind and rain, but he 
 was anxious for his father, as he knew he was subject to severe 
 attacks of rheumatism, consequent on rheumatic fever. They 
 resolved to stop at the first place they came to, and at last, to 
 their relief, they reached a (juaint little fishing' town, which 
 boasted a very fair inn. 
 
 But in spite of warm rooms, a g'ood dinner, and a change of 
 clothes, Donovan's fears were realized. The next day his father 
 was entirely incapacitated by rheumatism, and to proceed was an 
 impossibility ; the rain, too, continued without intermission, and 
 everything- seemed to augur some little stay at Porthkerran. 
 
 The day passed slowly and wearily. Donovan wrote let- 
 ters at his father's dictation, read the Western Morning News 
 from beginning- to end, and finally set out, notwithstanding- 
 the rain, to reconnoitre the place. On coming- in again, 
 he found his father so much worse, and suffering- such pain from 
 his heart, that he tried hard to get leave to go for the doctor, but 
 Colonel Farrant did not take to the idea. 
 
 ' There is nothing- to be done. I've had these attacks dozens 
 of times,' he replied, reassuringlj^ ' Besides, ten to one we should 
 only find a quack in this outlandish place.' 
 
 ' The landlord says there's a first-rate doctor named Tremain j 
 do let me send a line to him,' said Donovan, anxiously. 
 
 ' Well, well, perhaps if I'm not better to-morrow we'll have 
 him. I'm sorry to keep you in this dull place, my boy ; but to- 
 morrow, if it's fine, we will try to push on.' 
 
 Colonel Farrant spoke cheerfully, and as if he really hoped 
 to be well again before long- ; and yet Donovan could not shake 
 off an uneasy dissatisfied feeling, which returned to him more 
 and more strongly after each visit to his father's room. They 
 had a great deal of talk that evening, and Donovan began to feel 
 that home would be very different now that his father had returned, 
 more like the ideal home he used to fancy. Colonel Farrant, too, 
 was immensely relieved and cheered, for his sickness and help- 
 lessness had brought to light many of Donovan's best qualities — 
 his streng-th, his tenderness, and his ready observance; while his 
 evident anxiety seemed to speak well for his awakening- love. 
 
 It would be hard to say which was the more disappointed 
 ■when, on the Thursday morning-, Colonel Farrarit proved to be 
 rather worse than better. He was suffering- so much when 
 Donovan Avent into his room in the early morning, that he could 
 no longer say anything against the plan for calling Dr. Tremain, 
 and l^novan dispatched a messenger at once with a note to the 
 
tHE TREMAINS OF TOPTHKERRAN. §B 
 
 doctor, and before lialf-an-liour had passed was called down into 
 the little sitting'-rooni to receive him 
 
 Dn Treniain was staiulino- by the window when lie entered, 
 and Donovan, g-laneing- at him ratlier curiously, was at once pre- 
 ])ossessod in his favour. He was a midtllc-aged man, but looked 
 younger than he really was, in spite of evident signs of ill-health : 
 his brown eyes were clear and shining-, and there was a kindly 
 light in them which was very attractive; his forehead was high 
 and ver}' finely developed, his features were regular and good, 
 while a long- light brown beard concealed the one defect of the 
 face, a slightly receding- chin. 
 
 Donovan was a rather g-ood judg-e of character; his first 
 sensation was one of relief that he had found a man whom he 
 could trust, and who would probably understand his father's case; 
 his next was one of surprise that any one so refined, and evidently 
 so clever, should remain buried in a Cornish village. He led the 
 way at once to Colonel Farrant's room, and then waited anxiously 
 below for the report. The doctor's visit was a long- one, and 
 when at length he came downstairs Donovan was alarmed to find 
 that he s})oke very seriously of Colonel Farrant's illness. The 
 rheumatic fever had left his heart weak, of that Donovan was 
 aware, but Dr. Tremain spoke of really grave sym])toms of 
 further mischief, aggravated, no doubt, by the fatigue of his 
 return from India, and by the chill which he had taken during- 
 the drive to Porthkerran. 
 
 • And any mental shock, any trouble, would that be likely to 
 affect him '( ' asked Donovan, speaking- calmly thoug-li his heart 
 began to beat very uncomfortably. 
 
 ' It 7nig-ht, yes, it probably would,' replied the doctor, ' but 
 he told me of nothing- of the sort.' 
 
 ' No, I didn't think he would,' said Donovan, controlling- his 
 voice with difficulty, ' but he has had great and unexpected 
 trouble ; I have given him trouble.' 
 
 The confession, coming from one evidently so reserved, had a 
 strange pathos ; Dr. Tremain held out his hand warmly 
 
 ' That must make the anxiety doubly trying- to you ; but do 
 not be despondent, this afternoon I may be able to g-ive a better 
 account ; in the meantime only see that your father is ke])t per- 
 fectly quiet.' 
 
 Donovan had been miserable enough before, but this news 
 added tenfold to his misery. At Colonel Farrant's recpiest, he 
 wrote at once to his mother, g"iving- her full particulars of his 
 tithcr's state, and describing- tlie kind of accommodation which 
 was to be had at Porthkerran, if she thought of coming down to 
 
■ THE TREMAIXS OF PORTHKERRAN. 
 
 nurse him. He added these details because his father told him 
 to do so, but he himself did not think for a moment tliat she 
 would come, she always shrank from witnessing pain, and even 
 disliked being in little Dot's room for any length of time. 
 
 As Donovan wrote. Colonel Farrant lay perfectly still, thinking 
 deeply, and when in the afternoon Dr. Tremain made his second 
 visit, and could still give no more favourable report, the subject 
 of his anxiety was revealed. 
 
 ' Doctor, have you any lawyer in the place who would draw up 
 a "will for me ? ' 
 
 ' There is one ordinarily,' said Dr. Tremain. ' But Mr. 
 Turner is away now ; I am afraid there is no one nearer than 
 Plymouth.' 
 
 ' I have been thinking things over,' said the Colonel ^ It is 
 many years since my former will was made, and, owing to many 
 changes, I feel that it will be better to make an alteration. I feel 
 fidgety and anxious to get things settled, it is provoking that there 
 is no lawyer here.' 
 
 ' I do not know that you need feel any immediate anxiety,' 
 said the doctor ; ' what I have told you need not necessarily affect 
 your life for many years.' 
 
 ' No, but it vuuj affect it at any moment,' said the Colonel, 
 gravely. ' I want to be prepared, I want to have everything in 
 order for my boy.' 
 
 Dr. Tremain, aware that worry or anxiety was very bad for 
 his patient, thought of the best means of re-assuring his mind, 
 and, after a moment's consideration, suggested that he should 
 write both brieH}^ and clearly his own wishes until a formal will 
 could be drawn up. Colonel Farrant was much relieved by the 
 idea, and directed the doctor to ask Donovan for a sheet of paper, 
 upon which Dr. Tremain wrote at his dictation a clear and pro- 
 perly worded form, expressing his desire to devise and bequeath 
 the' bulk of his property to his son, Donovan Farrant, and pro- 
 viding an ample allowance for his widow during her life. Then 
 one of the servants and the doctor himself witnessed the will, 
 and the Colonel lay back again relieved and satisfied. 
 
 They were still talking on the subject when Donovan's voice 
 was heard without; it was just post time, and he knew his father 
 had a letter to send. 
 
 ' I do not wish my son to see this, I wish him to know nothing 
 of the transaction,' said the Colonel, quickly. 
 
 Dr. Tremain had, however, already given the word of admit- 
 tance, and Colonel Farrant, starting up hurriedly, took the will 
 from the table and put it into the doctor's hand. 
 
THE TREMAINS OP rOIlTHKERRAN, 25 
 
 ♦ Take it, take it, and not a word.' 
 
 There was a sudden pause ; Donovan came towards the bed 
 just in time to see his lather fall forward, and to hear a slii^ht 
 sound in his throat, of which he did not know the meaning-. Dr. 
 Tremain gave an inarticulate exclamation, raised the inanimate 
 form and bent down close to it ; then he g-lanced to the other side 
 of the bed, to that other form almost as still and inanimate, to that 
 other face, wliite, rig-id, and agonized and saw there was no 
 need of words ; Donovan understood that his father was dead. 
 
 All that a good unselfish man can do at such a time Dr. 
 Tremain did. He felt the most intense pity for Donovan left 
 thus utterly alone, with a burden of remorse on his conscience, 
 and this overwlielming- grief at his heart ; but it was difficult to 
 be of much use to one so completely stunned and paralysed, and 
 the doctor could only persuade him to leave the room. 
 
 Donovan moved away mechanically, and went down below to 
 the little sitting-room. lie felt scarcely anything but a dim, vague, 
 undefined horror, a consciousness of a sudden blank in bis life. 
 The shock had been so great that, for the time, all his faculties 
 were numbed, and he scarcely heard the doctor's words; he stood 
 by the mantelpiece silent and motionless, with his eyes fixed on 
 the centre ornament— a little tawdry shell bouse mounted on a 
 board strewn with dried seaweeds. How many times he bad 
 dreamily calculated the number of Cornish cowries which would 
 be needed to adorn fifty houses he did not know, but he was 
 roused at length by the doctor's band on his shoulder. 
 
 * If I can be of any use in sending off any telegrams for you, 
 or helping -you in any other way, pray tell me.' 
 
 The words seemed to rouse Donovan, the rigid stillness of his 
 face changed suddenly, the look of suffering deepened. 
 
 ' My mother, I must let her know.' 
 
 He sat down by the table and hid his face in his hands, 
 battling with his emotion. The doctor had brought paper and 
 pen ; he offered to write the telegram, but at the proposal Dono- 
 van raised his head once more, and, controlling himself, took the 
 pen in his hand and wrote, without a moment's pause or hesitation, 
 the brief words which were to convey the news of Colonel Far- 
 rant's death to the rector of the church near Oakdeue. He was 
 the only person fit to break the news to Mrs. Farrant, the only 
 person Donovan could think of at all, except Mra. Doery or Ellis 
 Farrant, and from them he instinctively shrank. 
 
 Dr. Tremain promised to see that the message was sent, and 
 then very reluctantly took leave, trying, as he walked ah)ng the 
 wet muddy road, to think of any means by which he could help 
 
26 THE TREMAINS OF PORTIIKERRAN. 
 
 the poor boy who seemed left in siich a miserable friendless 
 state. But it was a difficult question, and the doctor had arrived 
 at no satisfactory solution by the time he had passed through the 
 villoo'e and reached the g;abled ivy-covered house where he lived. 
 Trenant was a delightfully comfortable house, prettily fur- 
 nished, exquisitely neat, and in every way well ordered. Some 
 one was singing on the staircase as Dr. Tremain opened the front 
 door, and as he took off his w^et coat there was a sound of hiu'ry- 
 ing footsteps, and a pretty bright-looking girl of about sixteen 
 ran to meet him. 
 
 ' Papa, how long 3-ou have been out, and how sliockingly wet 
 you are 1 ' 
 
 ' Yes, it is raining heavily,' said the doctor, taking one of the 
 Goft little hands in his as he crossed the hall. ' Is your mother 
 in, Gladys ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, she's with the children in the drawing-room, and we've 
 kept some tea for you. I'll go and see to it,' and she ran off, 
 finishing the song which had been interrupted, while her father 
 went into the drawing-room. 
 
 Gladys was the eldest daughter of the house, and when her 
 parents had chosen her name — a name which they considered as 
 emblematic of happiness, in spite of certain questionings which 
 had arisen among name fanciers on the subject — it would seem 
 that some unseen fairy godmother had really bestowed that best 
 of all gifts on their child, for Glad_ys was the happiest, most con- 
 tented, sunshiny little person imaginable. Everything about her 
 looked happy, her sunny golden-brown liair, her bright, well- 
 opened, grey eyes, her laughing mouth, her little unformed nose, 
 her dimpled chin, and fresh glowing cojnplexion. She had, of course, 
 her ups and downs like most people, but she was too unselfish to 
 be depressed for any length of time, and too easy and accommo- 
 dating to make much of such troubles and difficulties as she had. 
 In a few minutes the tea was ready, and Gladys, with a 
 dainty little hand- tray filled with a plate of crisp home-made 
 biscuits and the cup and saucer, crossed the hall once more, 
 passed the little conservatory where two canaries were singing 
 with all their might, and entered the drawing-room, m which slie 
 found her father and mother talking together. 
 
 ' They are strangers. The father had just returned irom 
 India,' Dr. Tremain was saying. ' And they were taking a 
 driving tour in Cornwall; it's the saddest thing I've heard for 
 a long time. Without the slightest preparation the poor fellow 
 is left in this way, without a friend near him.' 
 
 ' He is quite alone then at the inn ? ' asked Mrs. Tremain. 
 
THE TUKJIAIXS OF rOUTU Kl. UUAN. 27 
 
 'Qi'ifc alone, and I don't sec how we are to help Iiim. I 
 tbouulit of asking' him liere, but I feel sure he wouldn't come.' 
 * Poor boy ! how old is he ? ' 
 
 ' About eighteen, I believe ; but he's decidedly old for his 
 age, ho is a man compared with Dick.' 
 
 ' Oh ! Dick never will grow old,' said the mother, with a 
 little sigh, as she remembered how far away was the sailor son. 
 ' But we cannot leave this poor Mr. Farrant without any sym- 
 pathy. Would it be any use if I went to see him ? ' 
 
 'It would be the very best thing possible,' said the doctor, 
 ' if you do not shriidv from it too much. I am afraid you will 
 find it very difficult to make any way with him, but I can't think 
 of any other plan for helping him.' 
 
 *I will try to see him, then, after dinner,' said Mrs. Tremain. 
 ' Is Mr. Farrant's father dead ? ' asked Gladys, as her father 
 left the room. 
 
 'Yes, dear, quite suddenly. The shock must have been 
 terrible to the poor boy.' 
 
 ' Oh ! mother, how will you comfort him ? How dreadful it 
 must be to have such sorrow all alone ! ' 
 
 ' Yes, terrible indeed,' said Mrs. Tremain. ' I am afraid we 
 cnnnot do very much to comfort him, dear Gladys, but God can 
 comfort him, and perhaps He may use us as His messengers of 
 comfort; at any rate we can all pray for him.' 
 
 * Yes, we can do that. But, mother,' — and a shade crossed 
 Gladys' bright face — ' it does seem so strange that some people 
 should have so much more trouble than others. Dick and I, for 
 instance, we have had scarcel}^ anything but hap])iness all our 
 lives. Of course, Dick's going away is always sad, but I mean 
 we've had no great sorrows. Doesn't it seem almost unfair, un- 
 just, that lives should be so unequal ? ' 
 
 ' It must seem so, until we can realize that we are all the 
 children of a loving Father, who gives to everyone just what is 
 best for them. If we remember that God's Avill is to draw us all 
 nearer Him, to fit us for the greatest happiness of all, we shall 
 surely trust Him to choose our joys and sorrows, and those of 
 everyone else too.' 
 
 ' And yet, mother, it seems very often as if the troubles were 
 just the very worst things for us, the things that made us go 
 wrong. Think of poor Ben Trevethan at the forge ; his wife 
 died, and directly afterwards his son grew so wild, and took to 
 drinking, and then just when Ben hoped to steady him again he 
 was laid up for months and months, and the sou grew worse, and 
 at last ran away ; it seems as if it would have been so much 
 
28 THE TREMAINS OF PORTHKERRAN. 
 
 better if all those troubles hadn't happened together, as if the son 
 would have had so much more chance of getting rig-ht.' 
 
 Yes, it seems so to us, dear,' said Mrs. Tremain ; ' but you 
 must remember that we cannot see the pattern which our lives 
 are weaving-, we can only go on bit by bit, remembering that 
 there is a pattern, and that one day we shall understand why the 
 dark shades, and the long plain pieces, and the bright glad 
 colours were sent us. Ben Trevethan's life, and his son's too, 
 will not be wasted, you may be sure ; they will help to influence, 
 to guide, or to warn other lives, all the time that they are weav- 
 ing their pattern.' 
 
 ' Our pattern is very bright just now,' said Gladys, raising 
 her happy contented face for a kiss. And baby Nesta is the 
 very brightest sunniest part of it all ! ' and she sprang up to re- 
 ceive from the nurse the little white-robed baby, the new delight 
 and treasure of the whole house. 
 
 Her song was taken up once more as she walked to and fro 
 with her little charge, and the voices of the other children at 
 their play came from the further end of the room, Avhile Mrs. 
 Tremain's thoughts reverted to the sad story she had heard, and 
 to the work which lay before her that evening. 
 
 Her task was no easy one 5 she trembled a little when she 
 was actually' standing in the passage of the inn, having sent a 
 messenger to ask if Mr. Farrant would see her. Dr. Tremain 
 had been called out, and she had been obliged to come alone ; 
 this made the interview seem all the more formidable, but she 
 was too unselfish to shrink from the difficulty. The messenger 
 returned quicklj^, and she was ushered into the little sitting-room, 
 speedily forgetting all thought of herself as she saw the misery 
 written on Donovan's face. He came forward to meet her, and 
 bowed gravely ; then, as she held out her hand with a few words 
 of explanation and sympathy, he took it in his, answered briefly 
 but courteously, and drew a chair towards the fire for her. She 
 sat down, and he fell back into his former position, with his 
 elbows resting on the mantel-piece and his face half hidden, as if 
 he had done all that courtesy required of him, and intended to 
 return to his own thoughts. 
 
 Mrs. Tremain's voice roused him ; it was a very low gentle 
 voice, and fell pleasantly on his ear. 
 
 ' I cannot bear to think of your being all alone here,' she 
 began. ' This inn seems so forlorn and comfortless for you I 
 wish we could persuade you to come to our house, you should be 
 perfectly quiet and undisturbed.' 
 
 She hardly thought that he would consent to this plan, but it 
 
THE TREMAINS OF rOnTIIKERRAV. 29 
 
 made an opening- for conversation, and it roused Donovan at 
 once ; his tone, as he replied, was more than merely courteous, 
 and his sad eyes met hers fully. 
 
 * You are very kind and g-ood to think of it, but I don't think 
 I can come, thank you; to-morrow my mother will be here, and 
 
 to-nig-ht I can't leave — I would rather ' he broke otf hastily, 
 
 unable to control his distress. 
 
 ' You must do just what you like best,' said Mrs. Trcmain ; ' 1 
 can quite understand your feeling-.' 
 
 ' It would be of no use,' continued Donovan, recovering him- 
 self, but spciiking in a low constrained voice. ' Can T escape from 
 my thoughts at your house any more than here ? Nothing- can 
 make misery and remorse bearable.' 
 
 * I suppose we all see the full beauty and g-oodness of those 
 we love only when we lose them,' said Mrs. Tremain, not quite 
 understanding- him, ' and then we wish we had often acted diiier- 
 ently to them ; those bitter regrets are very hard to bear.' 
 
 'Ah! you don't know, you can't understand what reason for 
 remorse I have ! ' cried Donovan ; and then he looked steadily 
 at Mrs. Tremain for a minute, to decide whether he should tell 
 her of his disgrace or not. 
 
 He saw a sweet, gentle, motherly face, a calm serene forehead, 
 smooth bands of dark hair beginning to turn g'tey, delicately- 
 arched and pencilled eyebrows, and dark grey eyes, whicli seemed 
 to shine right into his, eyes which were clear, and unswerving-, 
 and truthful, yet full of tender sympathy. 
 
 His voice trembled a little, but yet it was a relief to him when 
 he said, with lowered eyelids, and a burning- flush on his check, 
 * I have disgraced my father.' 
 
 Before long- Mrs. Tremain had heard all the particulars of his 
 trouble at school, and had listened sadly to his account of the 
 journey, and of his father's illness. She was sure that it was 
 g'ood for him to talk ; if she had known that he had never in his 
 life had such a disburdening-, she might have encourag-ed him 
 still more. She gave him all her sympathy, and when at length 
 he relapsed into silence, it was with a look of less hopeless misery 
 on his face. Mrs. Tremain glanced round the room then, and 
 saw that the meal prepared on the table was untouched. 
 
 ' I have been keeping' vou from dinner !"' she exclaimed, regret- 
 fully. 
 
 ' i\o, indeed. I want nothing. I could not eat,' said Dono- 
 van, decidedly. 
 
 Mrs. Trcmain hardly felt surprised as she looked at the tough 
 steak and greasy gravy, now perfectly cold. 
 
30 
 
 'my only son, DONOVAN.' 
 
 * You must eat something-,' she sa:d, assuming: a gentle 
 authority over him, which he was not at all inclined to resist. 
 * Give me carte hlanche with the landlady, and j^ou shall have 
 something you can eat directly. This must have been waiting.' 
 
 'Yes, it has been up an hour or two,' said Donovan, wearily, 
 and he threw himself back in an arm-chair, while Mrs. Tremain 
 left the room, returning before long with some hot coffee and a 
 far more appetizing repast. She sat down with him, taking 
 some coffee herself, and inducing him both to eat and to talk ; 
 and Avhen at last she was obliged to go, he was really cheered 
 and refreshed. 
 
 ' Mrs. Farrant will be here to-morrow,' she said, at parting. 
 ' That will be a comfort to you.' 
 
 Donovan did not answer. He would not show what his real 
 feeling on the subject was, but only hardened his face, and, 
 thanking Mrs. Tremain for her kindness, wished her good-bye. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 ' MY ONLY SON, DONOVAN.* 
 
 So drives self-love througli just, and throngli unjust, 
 To one man's pow'r, ambition, lucre, lust. 
 
 Pope. 
 
 On the following evening the little inn-parlour witnessed a very 
 different scene. Donovan, who had known what was coming, 
 had, after a night and day of misery, settled down into a stony 
 speechless sorrow, largely mingled now with bitterness, for the 
 meeting with his mother had been most painful. 
 
 The trouble had sharpened Mrs. Farrant, and in the selfishness 
 of her grief she made not the slightest allowance for the feelings 
 of other people. "Without intentional cruelty, without indeed 
 thinking at all, she was absolutel}^ merciless. Donovan had tried 
 hard to meet her affectionately. Even his stiff reserve had 
 melted in the greatness and honest}'- of his desire to comfort her. 
 Anyone not absorbed in self, must have seen and accepted such 
 very real symjjath}'', but Mrs. Farrant saw nothing, thought ot 
 nothing, but wearied with her journey, unnerved by the sudden 
 shock, vented her petulant grief on the only victim at hand. 
 
 It was a very grievous scene. On the sofa lay the widow, a 
 
'my only son, DONOVAN* 31 
 
 beautiful and still j'ounf^'-looldng- woman, her face distorted now, 
 however, by passionate sorrow, and wet with tears — that violent 
 stormy grief which is soon spent, and which even already was 
 mixed with anq-ry reproaches. Standing* by the window, in an 
 attitude expressing- rigid endurance, was tlie son, his face very 
 still and quiet in contrast to his mother's, but with an indescrib- 
 able bitterness about it which almost overpowered the sa(Uicss. 
 He had learnt quickly that his presence was irritating instead 
 of comforting to his mother. In a sort of proud hopelessness be 
 moved away from her, and stood looking out across the dreary 
 street to the grey sea heyond, while, as if in a sort of dream, he heard 
 all that was going on : the ceaseless drip of the rain, the distant 
 breaking of the waves upon the shore, the weaiy reiteration of sobs 
 and reproaches from within. Harder and harder grew his face as ho 
 listened, just because his heart was anything but hard, and ached 
 and smarted under that ' continual dropping.' How long it went 
 on he had not the faintest idea, but it seemed to him that he had 
 beard many times of his ' disgrace,' had often winced at the 
 mention of his father's name, had silently listened to many unjust 
 accusations, had long felt the grating incongruity of this stormy 
 passion with the silent room of death above. It was a relief when 
 at length, exhausted witb her sorrow, Mrs. Farrant fell asleep. 
 He drew nearer then, and stood silently watching her, looked at 
 lier soft brown hair, her faultless features, her singularly delicate 
 complexion. It seemed incredible that one so beautiful and 
 gentle-looking' could have uttered sucb cruel reproaches, but it 
 was by no means surprising' to Donovan. He had been quite 
 prepared for it, had learnt many years ago that his mother was a 
 mother only in name, that the outgoing love of true motherhood 
 was not in her, that the most he could ever expect for himself or 
 Dot was a ghastly shadow in place of a reality. He had been a 
 fool to think of comforting her! He would waste no more hopes 
 on anything so hopeless. He flung back to tbe window, yet 
 returned to spread a shawl over her feet. 
 
 The wretched evening wore on, Mrs. Farrant awoke, and with 
 scarcely a word went upstairs to bed. Once more the room was 
 lonely and still — infinitely more lonely even than it had been on the 
 previous evening, for now Donovan's whole being was cr^ang out 
 at the injustice of its loneliness. Why, when he would willingly 
 have shown tenderness and love, was he coldly rej)ulsed ? Why 
 was he cut off" from all sympathy ? What was the meaning of 
 the pain which had relentlessly pursued him from his very child- 
 hood ? To these questions what answer could he make ? — all 
 seemed to bim liopeless confusion and injustice. If for a niomenl; 
 
32 'MY ONLY SON, DONOVAN. 
 
 his mind did revert to the thong-lit of a Providence ruling over 
 all, it was only to be as quickly re])olled by the vision of the God 
 presented to liim in his cliildhood, for it was always to this teach- 
 ing- that he recurred when he allowed the subject to enter his 
 thoughts at all. Mrs. Doery'e misrepresentation had left its 
 impress on his mind, while in later years the truths he had heard 
 had always been so resolutely and speedily rejected that they had 
 failed to leave their mark. 
 
 The room began to grow intolerable to him ; he rushed out 
 into the open air, and breathed more freely as the cold night 
 wind blew upon him. The rain was still falling fast, bat he 
 scarcely noticed it, as he strode on recklesslv. The mere mechan- 
 ical exercise was in itself soothing, and he might have trudged 
 alono- the muddy road fur an indefinite time, had not his a-tention 
 been attracted by a distant sound of music. Drawing nearer, he 
 found that the house from which it proceeded was Dr. Tremain's, 
 and, hardly knowing what he did, he approached one of th^ win- 
 dows, and looked through the half-opened Venetian blind at the 
 scene within. 
 
 Not a detail of that picture escaped him. A soft light falling 
 through the opal lamp globe illumined the room, the pale French 
 grey walls, the running oak-leaf patterned carpet, the deep crim- 
 son curtains, all harmoni^ad to perfection. Seated at the piano 
 w-as Gladys Tremain, her bright hair gathered back from her 
 face, and 1ier complexion, which was at times almost too highly 
 coloured, looking most beautiful in the mellow lamp-light. Slie 
 wore a very simple white dress, and her small soft hands seemed 
 to touch the keys almost caressingly. 
 
 Donovan forgot his sorrow for a moment, and felt vexed when, 
 as she stopped ])laying, the spell which had bound him was for 
 the time broken by"a voice which came from within the room. 
 
 ' Sing something, Gladys ; I'm tired of those old " songs 
 without words," ' and the speaker crossed the room, and came 
 close to the piano, so that Donovan could see he was a boy of 
 about his own age, of slight build and fair complexion, but not 
 sufficiently like Gladys to be any relation, he fancied. 
 
 ' You dare to grow tired of Mendelssohn ! ' says Gladys, with 
 a fine show of indignation. ' You boys have no taste whatever ; 
 one might as well play to— to ' She paused for a comparison. 
 
 ' To the heathen Chinee,' suggested her companion. ' '' What 
 a lot of chop-sticks, bombs, and gongs ! "—you remember the 
 song, of course. That's Chinese art, you know.' 
 
 Gladys laughed, and there was a merry little squabble carried 
 on, as the two tried to play the air of the old nursery rhyme. 
 
' MY ONLY SON, DONOVAN.' 33 
 
 ' Well, now, will you sing after all ? ' said the boy at last ; 
 ' we will allow, if you like, that it's a case of pearls l)ofore swine.' 
 
 ' Don't, Stephen,' and Gladys really looked vexed. 
 
 'Why, isn't even that allowable 'i' I didn't know you were 
 such a little Puritan.' 
 
 ' You know I can't bear that kind of thing- ; it is such a pity 
 to use ' 
 
 *A fellow can't be always picking* his words — I'm sure it's 
 as good as a proverb now,' interrupted Stephen. ' W you only 
 knew what it was to have such a strait-laced mother as I have, 
 you ' 
 
 ' Find me a song,' said Gladys, handing him a portfolio, and, 
 though she spoke sweetly, there was a certain grave dignity in 
 her tone. 
 
 The choice was soon made, but Donovan was so absorbed in 
 watching Gladys that he scarcely noticed the first verse of the 
 song, until a mournful refrain of ' Strangers yet ' recalled him 
 painfully to himself. With strained attention he listened to the 
 remaining verses : — 
 
 'After childhood's winning ways, 
 After care and blame and praise, 
 Counsel asked and wisdom given 
 After mutual prayers to heaven, 
 Child and parent scarce regiet 
 When they part are strangers yet. 
 
 •Will it evermore be thus, 
 Spirit still impervious ? 
 Shall we never fairly stand 
 Soul to soul and hand to hand 1 
 Are the bonds eternal set 
 To retain us strangers yet ? ' 
 
 'Absurdly impossible,' was Stephen's comment at the end. 
 * I had no idea it meant that kind of strangers — very dull too.' 
 
 * The song or the parents ? ' asked Gladys, laughing. ' In 
 either case your answer will be equally rude. Here is papa,' she 
 continued, as Dr. Tremain came into the room. ' I shall tell him 
 what a teaze you are, Stephen ; you're reallj getting worse thuu 
 Dick.' 
 
 ' What is that doleful song?' asked the doctor, putting his 
 hand on her shoulder, as he bent down to look at the piece of 
 music. ' " Strangers yet ! " Who were the strangers ? ' 
 
 'A parent and child, papa, and Stejjhen declares that it's 
 absurdly impossible.' 
 
 'Of course it is 1 ' said Stephen, hotly. ' Why, do you think 
 
34 ^MY ONLY SON, DONOVAN.' 
 
 when my father returns from his voyages that he feels a stranger 
 to me, or that my mother doesn't know everything ahout me— 
 rather too much, perhaps, sometimes.' 
 
 The doctor could not help smiling at the rueful tone of the last 
 sentence. 
 
 ' Well, Stephen, I think in your case it would he " absurdly 
 impossible," ' he said, laughingly. ' But I am afraid perfect com- 
 prehension hetween parents and children is not so imiversal as it 
 ought to be, or as you seem to think it. Here comes the mother 
 to give her opinion. But how is this ? ' for ]\Irs. Tremain had 
 in her arms a clinging four-year-old boy in the tiniest of white 
 night-shirts. 
 
 'Jackie had a very bad dream, and the only thing that would 
 set him right was just to come dowmstairs and see all the world 
 again,' she explained, smiling at the general exclamation. 
 
 In a moment the suffering Jackie hecame the hero of the 
 evening, and was allowed to confide all his terrors to ' papa,' how 
 a great tiger from the ' Shosical Dardens ' had come close to his 
 bed to eat him up, till just at the supreme moment 'mother' 
 had heard his screams and had rescued him. A little re-assuring 
 talk on the safety of tigers' cages, and a laughing af&rmative to 
 the question ' And 'oo is very strong, isn't 'oo ? ' soon set Jackie's 
 mind at rest, his sleepy eyelids began to close, and having kissed 
 everyone with drowsy solemnity, he cuddled up again to his 
 mother and was carried off to bed. 
 
 ' There is no doubt that those two understand each other, 
 said the doctor, smiling thoughtfully. 
 
 * No, indeed ! ' said Gladys and Stephen, emphatically. 
 
 * No, indeed ! ' echoed Donovan, under his breath, and he 
 turned quickly away with burning tears in his eyes, unable to 
 bear the sight of the little home drama any longer. 
 
 Mr. Ellis Farrant happened to bo in town when the news 
 of his cousin's death reached him. It was the time of year 
 when he found that it answered best to be in towm, a time when he 
 was sure of plenty of amusement, and could reckon on getting 
 most of his dinners out. He w^as a man wnthout any settled pro- 
 fession, of moderate income, but expensive habits, and, in order 
 to reconcile these conflicting elements, he found it necessary to 
 live as much as possible on his friends. It was not until late on 
 Saturday afternoon that, on returning from his usual saunter in 
 the park, he found Donovan's letter, with its brief formal intima- 
 tion of his father's death. Ellis Farrant was startled, awed; he 
 did not like being confronted with anything so gloomy yet so 
 inevitable as death, it was a subject he invariably dismissed from 
 
'my only son, DONOVAN.' 35 
 
 his mmd as quickly as possible, and now his cousin had died with 
 an awful suddenness, and Ellis, whether he would or not, found 
 his thouji'hts turning- to his own death, that dismal g-oal which 
 awaited him in the future. "Where should he die, and how, and 
 — and n-hcn ? 
 
 His hand trembled a little as he af>'ain took up Donovan's 
 letter, and strove to banish the uneasy reflections which were 
 troubling- him by a fresh perusal of the startling- news ; he found 
 himself, however, gazing- vacantly at the handwriting, rather 
 than reading- the sense conveyed by the firm, clear, somewhat 
 cramped letters. Then his mind wandered off to Donovan him- 
 self, perhaps something- in the writing reminded him of the clever, 
 strong-willed, self-reliant boy who had so often been his com- 
 panion. He had been expelled from school, the letter stated, the 
 very absence of further comment or explanation showing- how 
 deeply the disgrace had galled the proud nature. Well, he would 
 pass from disgrace to ease and pleasure, for was not he his father's 
 heir ? Ellis Farrant reflected for a few minutes on his g-ood luck. 
 Then with a sudden and vehement exclam-ation, he started to his 
 feet. No, it was not so — he recollected now his cousin's simple 
 will at the time of his marriage, — Donovan was not his father's 
 heir, everything had been left to Mrs. Farrant. It had been little 
 more than ' All to my wife.' He had laughed over the story of 
 the shortest will long- ago, he could not recall where or with 
 whom, but he remembered clearly that Colonel Farrant's will had 
 been to that eflect, and the remembrance seemed to excite him 
 strangely. 
 
 ' In another year I shall be forty,'" he mused to himself, ' what 
 the world will call a middle-aged man. I hate that term middle- 
 aged; but anyhow, I shall not look it, and I am tolerably — yes, 
 really decidedly handsome.' 
 
 He rested his elbows on the mantel-piece and surveyed himself 
 critically in the mirror. In colouring and g-eneral outline of face 
 he was sufliciently like Colonel Farrant and Donovan to show 
 near relationship, but his features and expression were entirely 
 different. The eyes of very dark steel-grey lacked the pecuHar 
 admixture of brown in the iris, which was so noticeable in Dono- 
 van's ; they were hard, bold-looking eyes, unpleasant to meet. 
 The firm well-shaped chin was contradicted by a weak mouth, 
 which was only partially concealed by a bristling black moustache. 
 But, in spite of these defects, he was, as he had said, a handsome 
 man, or, at any rate, he was possessed of a certain brilliancy 
 which g-enerally passed for g-ood looks. 
 
 Satisfied apparently with his own reflection, he turned at 
 
36 * MY ONLY SON, DONOVAN^ 
 
 iengtli from tlie mirroi*, and, sitting down to the table, dis- 
 patched first a telegram to Donovan announcing his intention of 
 coming to Porthkerraii the following- day, and, secondly, the 
 advertisement of Colonel Farrant's death to the Times, with an 
 elaborately- worded eulogy and feeling description of the grief of 
 the family. After that he relapsed into a profound reverie, from 
 which he only roused himself to calculate what was the pi"obable 
 value of the Oakdene estate. 
 
 Donovan's Sunday at Porlhkerran was almost as trying a day 
 as the previous one at school had been. Possibly his grief and 
 wretchedness might have induced him to enter the church, had 
 not his recollections of the last Sunday deterred him. Never could 
 he forget the slow torture to which he had then been subjected ! 
 The intolerable length of the day, the two services, the sermons 
 with their direct reference to the sin which he had promoted, 
 their unsparing condemnation of the ringleader, the sudden turn- 
 ing of all e3^es to his place, the struggle between his sense of 
 shame and his pride, the angry resentment of the injustice and 
 exaggeration. He lived it all over again as he walked gloomily 
 along the Porthkerran cliffs, and the silent repressed indignation 
 did him no good. 
 
 It was with his very worst expression that he went to meet 
 Ellis Farrantj his face was dark and proud and cold, yet even 
 then the contrast between the cousins was very marked. Dono- 
 van's, though the more hopeless face of the two, had a certain 
 nobility nowhere traceable in Ellis's bold, self-satisfied mien ; 
 the one face expressed a restless craving for something be3'ond 
 self, restrained only by a powerful will, the other expressed little 
 but self-satisfaction, and a sort of defiance and bravado. 
 
 Yet the sympathy which Ellis expressed so readily and 
 fluently both to Donovan and to his mother was not altogether 
 artificial ; he was by no means heartless, although undoubtedly 
 he was a selfish scheming man, bent upon furthering his ow^n 
 interests. In the pursuance of his own aims, however, he oc- 
 casionally felt kindly disposed towards others, and he admired, 
 even liked, Donovan. 
 
 But on the Monday all was changed. The simple and 
 beautiiul Burial Service had fallen with little effect on the ears of 
 the two chief mourners. Colonel Farrant's body had been laid 
 in the little churchyard of Porthkerran. The two cousins and 
 the doctor had returned in silence to the inn, and then, as soon 
 as Donovan was out of earshot, Dr. Tremain took Ellis Farrant 
 aside. 
 
 * There is but one more duty, Mr. Farrant, which I have to 
 
'my only son, DONOVAN.' 87 
 
 discbarg;e, and that is to put you in possession of the will which 
 Colonel Farrant executed just hefore his death. I should have 
 g'iven it you earlier in the day, only there has been no o})por- 
 tunity.' 
 
 ' A will — a codicil, I suppose,' said Ellis Farrant, hurriedly 
 taking- the sheet of paper from Dr. Tremain, and unfolding- it. 
 Thoug'h he was weak and impulsive, he was too thorough a man 
 of the world not to have his facial expression in very fair com- 
 mand ; he betrayed little but surj)rise as he read his cousin's 
 most unwelcome change of purpose, and his voice was cool and 
 steady as he again folded the paper and turned to Dr. Tremain. 
 * I am named as my cousin's sole executor, I see ; this must be 
 referred to his lawyer in London. Many thanks to you, doctor, 
 for your considerate help.' 
 
 Dr. Tremain rose to take leave, and Ellis, accompanying- him 
 to the door, found Donovan m the passag-e outside, and left him 
 to see the last of the guest. 
 
 ' We leave early to-morrow,' he began hurriedly, ' so I must 
 wish you g-ood-bye now. Dr. Tremain — thank you for your kind- 
 ness.' 
 
 ' I hope we may meet ag'ain,' said the doctor, shaking- his 
 hand warmly, and looking- with grave compassion at the miser- 
 ably hopeless face before him. 
 
 ' Will you thank Mrs. Tremain for her kindness to me,' 
 continued Donovan, still with the air of one wearily discharging- 
 a duty of courtesy, ' and for the flowers she kindly sent this 
 morning- ? ' 
 
 ' Certainly, I will give her your messag-e, and when next you 
 come westward I hope we shall see you at Porthkerran. Good- 
 bye ! ' and the doctor turned away rather sadly, and set out 
 homewards. 
 
 Before he had gone far, however, he heard hurrying- steps 
 behind, and his late companion once more stood beside him. 
 
 < Forgive me,' he said, hoarsely, ' I was cold and ungrateful. 
 I shall not forget your kindness, only now Fm too wretched to 
 feel it. Don't think too hardly of me.' And before Dr. Tremain 
 coidd do more than show his answer by look and gesture, Donovan 
 was half-way back again to the inn. 
 
 During- this time Ellis Farrant had been giving- vent to his 
 rage and disappointment within the house. That all his schemes 
 shouhl be frustrated by a paltry piece of note-paper, witnessed 
 by a doctor and a servant, was inexpressibly galling. Had the 
 will been elaborately drawn up, and duly besprinkled with mean- 
 ingless legal phrases, it would not have caused him half the annoy- 
 
88 'my only son, DONOVAN.' 
 
 ance. It Avas the absurd littleness, the perfect simplicity of the 
 thing' which chafed him so. Was there no flaw to be detected ? 
 — no, not the very slightest even to his longing eye. Would it 
 be possible to call his cousin's sanity into question ? No, quite 
 impossible, there could be no doubt of that. There was a moment's 
 pause in Ellis Farrant's thoughts, a pause in which he fully 
 realized the defeat of his purpose ; he heard Donovan return to 
 the inn, and at the sound of his footsteps he hastily shuffled the 
 will into his pocket, but the precaution was needless, for the 
 footsteps passed by, and presently the door of Donovan's room 
 was closed and locked. Again Ellis drew out the will and looked 
 at it lixedly ; it was a little crumpled now, he noticed the im- 
 pression of his Indian-grass cigar-case upon 'it ', what a frail, 
 trumpery, perishable thing it was — he began to dwell on this 
 thought with satisfaction instead of bitterness. Then he looked 
 again at the signatures of the witnesses: 'Thomas Tremain, 
 Surgeon, Treuant, Porthkerran.' ' Mary Pengelly, Servant, Pen- 
 ruddock Arms Inn, Porthkerran.' 
 
 A maid-servant and a doctor living in an obscure Cornish 
 village, what had he to fear from them ? And the boy upstairs ? 
 Wliv, he knew nothing, and never need know — never sJiould 
 know, and with sudden resolution Ellis tore the sheet of paper in 
 half, and then in half again. Then a g-reat horror seized upon 
 him, he turned very cold, and fell back in his chair, shuddering 
 violently. It was done, and there was no retrieving the deed ! 
 He mechanically fingered and counted the six fragments, looking- 
 at each with a vacant terror. By and by the terror began to 
 take definite shape. What if the boy were to come down ? He 
 must destroy all remains of this detestable will, of this little heap 
 of paper which had hecn the will. He was very cold, he would 
 order a fire, and he crossed the room with unsteady steps to ring- 
 the bell, but paused with the caution of guilt when his hand was 
 on the bell-rope. Supposing Mary Pengelly should come, sup- 
 posing she caught sight of these fragments ! he felt as if she 
 would instantly perceive them in the securest hiding-place. No, 
 he must light "the fire himself, and with nervous haste he drew a 
 box of fusees from his pocket, and with considerable difficulty 
 succeeded in kindling the damp wood into a blaze. Then he 
 carefully placed the little heap of paper in the very centre of tlie 
 grate, and watched anxiously while gradually the edges curled 
 upwards, the whiteness was scorched to brown, then to black, 
 fringed with sparks of red, finally to a swift yellow blaze, while 
 the last black shreds of Colonel Farrant's will were borne up the 
 chimney by the sudden draug-ht. Not quite the last, however, 
 
REPULSED AND ATTRACTED. 89 
 
 for one frag-inent had fallen to the sido of the fireplace, and 
 floated down on to the fender just as Ellis thouj^-ht all was 
 over. He snatched it up and would once more have thrown 
 it to the flames had not something' forced him to look at it, 
 scorched and half charred as were its edg-es, he could plainly 
 read the words — ' Mj only son, Donovan.' A swift pang- of 
 regTet thrilled him for a moment ; then a sound in the passaj^e 
 outside renewed his g'uilty terror, and, stooping down, he held 
 the frag-ment to the blaze with his own fingers, scarcely feeling* 
 the near ap})roach of the hot flames, in his relief that the last 
 vestige of the will was finally disposed of. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 REPULSED AND ATTRACTED. 
 
 Duchess of York. 
 
 ' Tetchy and wayward was thy infancy, 
 Thy school-days frightful, desperate, wil d and furious. 
 
 AVhat comfortable hour caus't thou name 
 That ever graced me in thy company ? ' 
 King Richard. 
 
 ' If I be so disgracious in your eyes 
 Let me march on, and not offend you, madam.' 
 
 King Richard III. — Act iv. So. 4. 
 
 In this country the power of the man in and out of society is all but 
 supreme. Wherever he is he overpowers and rules, and shadowy crowds 
 yield to his spell. At his beck they join a crusade, or forswear their own 
 existence. As he dictates they are protoj)lastns and sporules, or divinities. 
 They throb with his affections, they pant with his desires, and rise to his 
 aspirations. They see as he sees, hear as he hears, and believe as he 
 believes. This is the power for evil or for good. 
 
 The Times. Christmas Day, 1S80. 
 
 Oakdene Maxor was a comfortable thoug-h somewhat prosaic 
 modern house, built by Colonel Farrant's father on the site of the 
 old Manor House Farm, which had belong-ed to the Farrants from 
 time immemorial. It stood on the very verg-e of a beautifully- 
 wooded hill overlooking' one of the simple yet lovely valleys 
 which abound in Mountshire, with distant g-limpses of blue-gTey 
 downs, a view of which it was impossible to tire. The shrubs, 
 which had been planted nearly eighteen years, were now in their 
 full perfection ; a long- approach, bordered on each side by pines 
 
40 REPULSED AND ATTRACTED. 
 
 and laurels, led to the pretty creeper-laden porch, while beyond 
 and to the front of the house lay a curiously-i^^inned garden, 
 formed into four terraces cut one below the other on the side of 
 the hill. At the foot of the lowest terrace there was a rather 
 overgrown pond, and beyond this a thick wild wood, sloping down 
 to the valley. 
 
 It was a late season, and, though the first week in June was 
 nearly over, the trees were only just beginning to look really 
 green. It seemed a wonderfully slow process this reclothing of 
 Nature, at least to little Dot Farrant it seemed so ; but she lay 
 watching the trees so continuously from day to day that, although 
 Mrs. Doery affirmed that she must see them grow, the long 
 expectancy of spring was really more protracted to her than to 
 those who watched the growth and progress less carefully. 
 
 Her couch was, as usual, drawn close up to the window on a 
 showery afternoon of early June, and she had contrived to while 
 away the time very pleasantly by watching the sudden changes 
 of storm and sun on the wood below, for Dot had something of an 
 artist's eye, and was quick to mark the effects of light and shade. 
 Happy little observations of this kind were indeed but too often 
 all she was fit for ; grievously fragile and delicate, she was, as 
 Mrs. Doery expressed it in broad terms, ' diseased through and 
 through.' And yet it was on the whole a happy and singularly 
 child-like face. Her complexion was pale but very fair, the 
 delicate contour of her features was still so far unharmed by 
 sufiFering as to show her childish years ; her hair was strained 
 back from the forehead and just fell to the shoulder in soft, dark- 
 brown masses, and her eyes were almost exactly like Donovan's, 
 dark hazel, full of pathos, but expressing less painfully the sad un- 
 satisfied craving so noticeable in his. 
 
 This was perhaps to be accounted for ; to Dot everything she 
 needed, so it seemed to her, was summed up in her brother. 
 Donovan was her friend, her comforter, her teacher, her play- 
 fellow ; when he was with her, her days were almost uniformly 
 happy. She would bear her pain in patient silence for the sake 
 of pleasing and sparing him ; and when he was absent the 
 thought of what he would have liked, and the remembrance of 
 bis own patience and control, nerved her still to endure and to 
 cojjy her ideal. Her love really amounted to worship. 
 
 But, deeply as he loved her, Dot could not at all fill this posi- 
 tion to Donovan. She was indeed to him both friend and com- 
 forter, and, in a sense, also teacher and playfellow, but he was of 
 course the strong one, she leant on him utterly, and he — he had 
 nothing to lean on but himself, or rather would accept nothing. 
 
REPULSED AND ATTRACTED. 41 
 
 The strong- craving' was tbcre, only his pride of will held it in 
 iron fetters. 
 
 ' If the ash before the oak, 
 
 Then yon may expect a soak ; 
 
 If the oak before the ash, 
 
 Then 'twill only be a splash,' 
 
 quoted Dot, merrily, as she lay watching- the dripping- trees 
 glistening- in the sunlight. ' Doery, do you hoar ? Wo are 
 going- to have a fine summer, for the oaks are twice as forward as 
 the other ti-ccs.' 
 
 Mrs. Doery was sitting- before a larg-e work-basket, darning- 
 stockings; by the gloom and sourness expressed *on her features, 
 it might have been supposed that she was the constant sutferer, 
 and bright-faced Dot the able-bodied person. 
 
 ' Well, Miss Dot,' she answered in a depressed voice, ' I'm not 
 much of a believer in such signs as them. The weather is as 
 contrairy as most other things and folks ; reckon that it'll do one 
 thing, it's sure to go and do another,' 
 
 ' I suppose things do go rather contrairily,' said Dot, coining 
 a word upon Mrs. Doery's model. ' Certainly, just now every- 
 thing- seems gone wrong,' and she thought with a sigh of the 
 loss of the father whom she had never learnt to know, and of 
 Donovan's school disgrace. 
 
 * I've lived sixty-eight years come Michaelmas,' replied Mrs. 
 Doery, 'and I never knew it otherwise; folks generally get 
 just what they don't want, and when they don't want. There 
 was your poor grandpapa, just as he'd built this house, he was 
 laid up with paralysis, and never so much as saw it finished. 
 There was me myself (Mrs. Doery was very fond of dilating 
 on her past life), 'just as I'd got used to doing- for my poor 
 master, comes Master Donovan to plague the life out of me ; and 
 then, as if I hadn't had enough of trouble and worriting, you, who 
 I thought would have been a good baby, turns out sickly and 
 invalidated.' (Mrs. Doery rather confused long words at tirres.) 
 ' This last month, too, has been a regular chapter of misfortunes ; 
 I counted on it that at least Mr. Donovan would have don3 us 
 some credit at school, seeing that all the folk suy he's so clever — 
 too clever. Dr. Sim])kins used to say when he was little ; and 
 now here he is home again, with nothing- but disgrace to ^'nng 
 us.' 
 
 * Doery, how can you ! ' interrupted Dot, with burning cheeks. 
 ' You know how sorry he is — how dreadfully unhappy.' 
 
 ' Miss Dot,' said Doery, a little severely, ' I've known Mr. 
 Donovan a sight longer than you, and, mark my words, he's no 
 
42 REPULSED AND ATTRACTED. 
 
 more sorry — than — tlian you are/ slie ended, not very conclu- 
 sively. ' It always was tlie way ; the more I punished him for 
 his faults, the less sorrow he'd show ; he'd only g-et ang-ry, and 
 that's what he is now. I know well enough that look on his 
 face, and it's never sorrow that brought it there. If you think 
 he's a-grieving over his fault, you're mistaken, Miss Dot.' 
 
 Doery had a good deal of shrewd common-sense, and she was 
 not far wrong here ; the only pity was that her penetration did 
 not go a little further, and convince her how very much at fault 
 her early system of training had been. 
 
 ' Oh! hut, Doery, they were so hard and unjust,' pleaded 
 Dot, with tears in her eyes. * How can you wonder that he felt 
 angry ? Oh ! I can't think how anyone could have thought such 
 things of my dear, dear Dono ! ' 
 
 'Those who do wrong suffer for it,' said Mrs. Doery. ' Mr. 
 Donovan had done harm to the school, and the school was bound 
 to show what it felt. Not but what I'm sorry enough that 
 they've expelled him, for now he can never go into the army, and 
 he's a fine handsome lad, no one can't deny,' and for a moment 
 the old woman's face was softened, for she was not without a 
 certain pride in her troublesome, ill-starretl ne'er-do-weel. 
 
 ' Will people always remember about it, do you think ?' ques- 
 tioned Dot, anxiously. 
 
 ' Always,' said Mrs. Doery, with a sigh ; ' he'll be marked by 
 that disgrace like Cain, to his dying- day.' 
 
 ' Who is Cain ? ' asked Dot, whose bringing up equalled 
 Donovan's in ignorance. 
 
 ' Cain was a bad man who murdered his brother, and had a 
 mark put on his forehead,' said Mrs. Doery. 
 
 ' How horrid !' shuddered Dot. * But I thought you said the 
 other day that it wasn't proper for little girls to hear about mur- 
 ders, Avhen I wanted to hear what cook had shown you about one 
 in the newspaper.' 
 
 ' There are murders and murders,' said Mrs. Doery, sagely. 
 ' Cain is different from the ones now-a-days ; he's — he's — instruc- 
 tive as well as destructive.' 
 
 Dot smiled a little, but did not ask for the story ; her thoughts 
 had wandered back to Donovan. 
 
 'I am sorry, you know, Doei'y, that people will always 
 remember that Dono was expelled. I did so want them to forget 
 very soon.' 
 
 'You won't find that folks will forget, Miss Dot, so don't ex- 
 pect it; a bad beginning is a bad beginning, nobody can't deny, 
 and I've always found that, if people once get a bad name, 
 
REPULSED AND ATTRACTED. 43 
 
 they keep it. I can't say, either, that I see any signs of Mr. 
 Donovan's turning- over a new leaf; he's as ohstinate and as 
 licadstrong as ever. I've told him many a time since he Avasn't 
 higlier than that table how " Don't care " came to the gallows, 
 but he was always one for tossing back his head in that hauglity 
 way, minding no one in the w^orld but himself. He'll come to no 
 good.' 
 
 'Don't say such dreadful things, Doery/ said Dot, between 
 laughing and crying. ' Dono will be " contrair}'," as you say the 
 weather is. He will turn out exactly the opposite to what you 
 fancy he will, I am sure. People can't help loving him, and 
 then, you know, he will get hap])y again. Oh ! I am so glad he 
 comes back from London to-day. How long it seems since 
 Cousin Ellis took him away! What is the time, Doery? Do 
 look before you begin that new row. He was to be at the station 
 at four o'clock.' 
 
 Mrs. Doery's respectable silver time-keeper pronounced it to 
 be four already, and, though the station was three miles off, Dot 
 insisted on having her couch wheeled to the window facing the 
 carriage drive, that she might watch for him. 
 
 In the draAving-room below, Mrs. Farrant Avas roused by 
 the sound to a remembrance that her son Avas returning that 
 afternoon. 
 
 ' Doery really should oil the wheels of Dot's couch/ she 
 reflected, droAvsily, Avith the discomforted feeling of one disturbed 
 in the middle of a siesta. But somehoAv she could not compose 
 herself to sleep again, though she still lay comfortably on the 
 sofa, allowing her thoug;lits to roam idly where they pleased. 
 
 It Avas now three Aveeks since Colonel Farrant's funeral. His 
 AvidoAV had returned to Oakdene, and had resumed her former 
 habits of life, not exactly Avitli the courageous 're-beginning' of 
 submission — for it was no very great effort to her— but rather 
 with the acquiescence of an inert mind. The passionate vehe- 
 mence of her grief had exhausted itself at Porthkerran. It had 
 been an unusual effort to her, for she AA^as not by nature 
 passionate. Her reproachful anger Avitli Donovan, and her long 
 lits of weeping, had AA-orn her out; all bodily exertion was dis- 
 tasteful to her, and this excessive agitation, so very foreign to 
 her nature, had told greatly on her physical health. It Avas 
 therefore perhaps Avell for all parties that her inactive mind and 
 dormant affections allowed her so soon to return to her ordinary 
 life, though Donovan, with Avhat seemed like inconsistenc}', main- 
 tained that he would rather have gone through endless repetitions 
 of the stormy scenes at Porthkerran than have witnessed this 
 
44 REPULSED AND ATTRACTED. 
 
 calm, placid forgetfulness. To his strong- and positive nature his 
 mother's character was a complete enigma. The bitter anger 
 was something he could comprehend, though it had wounded him 
 to the quick, but the speedy return to quiet indiHeronce could not 
 possibly be understood by him, or sympathised with, and for that 
 reason it wounded him still more. 
 
 And yet it would be hard to blame poor Mrs, Farrant alto- 
 gether, for her natural temperament and her circumstances had 
 a great deal to do with her failings. The only daughter of a 
 widowed cavalry officer, she had never known anything of home- 
 life. She had married Colonel Farrant almost as soon as she left 
 school, and had passed at once into all the cares and responsi- 
 bilities of a household, and the pleasures and trials of a military 
 life abroad. At Malta she had been the gayest of the ga}', and, 
 though feeling some natural pride in her child, had very little 
 time to notice him at all. In India her health had suffered, and, 
 naturally indolent, she had fallen into the luxurious, semi-invalid 
 ways so hard to break loose from. Then came the return to England, 
 which had been agreed upon on account of her health, and for 
 the last ten years she had led a quiet, indulgent, easy life, enjoying 
 the society to be had near Oakdene in a subdued lazy way of her 
 own, and making one J^early effort, namely, the removal to the 
 London house for the luonths of May and June. So far as cir- 
 cumstances and natural character can be put forward as an 
 excuse, Mrs. Farrant might reasonably claim a lenient judgment, 
 but no one need be the ' slave of circumstance,' and no nature 
 can be so hopelessl}' inert, or weak, or bad, that rightly directed 
 and resolute efforts will not reform it. But Mrs. Farrant had 
 never made a resolute effort of this kind. She was one of those 
 people who let themselves drift along the stream of life. She 
 never tried to row, never hoisted a sail, never even touched a 
 steering rope. She had had a sharp, sudden shock ; for a moment 
 her quiet course had been interrupted, but now she had resumed 
 it, and allowed herself to drift along placidly as before. 
 
 This was the head of the Oakdene household, the influence 
 for good or for evil of the inmates of the Manor ; a woman who 
 could best be described by negatives — not good, and yet not 
 exactly bad, not evil intentioned, and yet without a single good 
 motive, not unkind to her children, yet never loving, not in the 
 world's opinion irreligious, yet never penetrating beyond the outer 
 shell of religion. There was only one thing in which she was 
 positive — love of herself Her dreamy, unregulated thoughts 
 generally hovered round this point of interest; her health, her 
 comfort or discomfort, her dress, her employments, her amuse- 
 
REPULSED AND ATTRACTED. 45 
 
 ments, and curiously, one exception outside herself, her lap-do^-. 
 Upon a handsome, bad-tempered, snowy Pomeranian named Fido, 
 she lavished the time and caresses which her children had failed 
 to obtain from lier. 
 
 On tlie afternoon in question she lay calmly meditating' on the 
 sofa in her usual fasliion, mcanderinj:^' on froin subject to subject. 
 
 ' Doery should really oil those wheels. I wonder what nerve 
 is aftocted so strang-ely by any sound like that ? Perhaps it is 
 the sympathetic nerve. If so, my sympathetic nerve must be 
 very susceptible — very. But all my nerves are susceptible j as 
 Dr. Maclean used to say at Calcutta, " You are all nerves, my 
 dear madam." lie was a handsome man, Dr. Maclean, only a 
 little too grey. IIow pleasant those years in Calcutta were ; if it 
 hadn't been for the heat and for my health suffering so, I could 
 really wish to go back there. Charming society it used to be, only 
 one paid for the exertion of going out ; the balls were delightful, 
 but I was a martyr to headaches the next day.' An interlude of 
 vacancy terminated by a series of sharp barks from Fido. 
 'Down, F'ido, down! What is it, poor little dog/ Ah! he 
 heard wheels. Good little Fido, quite right, little doggie, bark 
 away, only not too near my ears, please ! It cannot be a visitor, 
 for I've not sent out my " return thanks." It must be Donovan. 
 I do hope he has come back in better spirits, it is so wearing to 
 me to see him with a gloomy face. Is my cap straight, I wonder V 
 and she glanced at her reflection in the looking-glass. ' This 
 new cap really suits me very well, only the lappets are so in the 
 way on a sofa. What a quick, sharp step Donovan has, quite a 
 militai*y tread like his poor father's. Ah ! he has gone upstairs 
 to Dot's room, so I may as well have my afternoon tea before 
 seeing him.' Another thoughtless interval, this time broken by 
 the entrance of the servant with a little solitaire tea-service, and 
 a plate of broken biscuit for Fido. Mrs. Farrant roused herself. 
 
 * I forgot to tell Charlotte this morning that Mr. Donovan was 
 expected. Just tell her to get his room ready.' 
 
 The page received the message, and retired noiselessly, while 
 Mrs. Farrant stirred her tea, and sighed over the cares and troubles 
 of housekeeping. 
 
 In the room above, the ' quick, sharp step ' had been listened 
 to with very different feelings. Dot wriggled about on her couch 
 impatiently. 
 
 * Oh ! Doery, do open the door,' she cried. ' I'm so afraid he 
 will go into the drawing-room. I want so to hear. Yes — no — 
 he is coming upstairs ! ' and she half raised herself in her 
 excitement. 
 
46 REPULSED AND ATTRACTED. 
 
 * Lie still, Miss Dot, and be patient,' said Doery, scrutinizing 
 tlie licsl of a fresh stocking-. 'Dear me! one would think you 
 were expecting- the Prince of Wales and all the royal family!' 
 
 'Here he is! here he is!' cried Dot, ecstatically, 'Oh! 
 Dono ! ' and her little weak arms were round his neck in a minute, 
 with all the clinging- warmth of a childish, half worshipping- love. 
 
 ' Well, little woman,' he exclaimed, after she had released 
 him, ' how have you been getting- on ? You have actually a little 
 colour in your cheeks for once.' 
 
 ' Oh ! it is so beautiful to have you back again,' said Dot, 
 happily. ' It has seemed such a long- fortnight ; and how tall 
 and old you look, Dono. And oh ! you are letting- your moustache 
 grow again. Look at him, Doery.' 
 
 Thus reminded of Mrs. Doery's presence, Donovan turned 
 round hastily to greet his old enemy. 
 
 ' How are you, Doery ? And how do you think Miss 
 Dot is ? ' 
 
 ' Thank you, Mr. Donovan, my health is very well,' answered 
 Doery, precisely, ' And as to Miss Dot, her face is flushed just 
 from excitement, and nobody can't deny that she's been very 
 poorly this last week.' 
 
 He listened with the wistfulness of one obliged to obtain the 
 news nearest his heart from a detailer not greatly interested in 
 the matter. A shade of cUsappointment and anxiety stole over 
 his face as he turned to look at Dot, but she soon made him 
 smile again. 
 
 ' I am as well as possible now you are come. Last week it 
 got hot so quickly. Was it hot in^London ? And what did you 
 and Cousin Ellis do ? ' 
 
 Donovan gave as bright a description as he could of what had 
 been in reality an unhappy and unsatisfactory time, but he was 
 not sorry to be interrupted before long by a sound of scratching at 
 the door. 
 
 ' It cannot be Fido, because he always barks so at you,' said 
 Dot, wonderingly. 
 
 ' No, I think it is my present for you, who has had the impu- 
 dence to run upstairs before he was called.' 
 
 ' Your present ! Oh, Dono ! and a live one ! ' 
 
 Donovan opened the door, and admitted a fox-terrier puppy, 
 whose whines of delight at finding his friend were drowned in 
 Dot's delighted exclamations. 
 
 ' Is he for my very own ? Oh ! Dono, what a dear old boy 
 you are ! What made you think of it ? ' 
 
 ' The fellow tacked "himself on to me one day in the Strand, 
 
^LIF0.R>L1> 
 
 REPULSED AND ATTRACTED. 47 
 
 and refused to g;o. That's ten days a;^o now, and, as he's not 
 been advertised for, I thoug'ht I'd bring- liim home to you. Come 
 Iiero, old follow, and see your new mistress.' 
 
 The dog- pattered up obediently, and Donovan lifted him on 
 to the couch that Dot might stroke him, 
 
 ' lie's a darling-,' said the little girl, rapturously ; '' such nice 
 eyes he has, and half his face black and half white, and a white 
 and yellow coat.' 
 
 'White and tan/ corrected Donovan. ' He'll be a capital 
 dog- when he's full-grown ; he's quite young- now. What shall 
 we call him ? Harlequin ? ' 
 
 ' No, that's too long, and it must mean something- that's lost 
 and all alone,' said Dot, meditatively. ' Rover woulil do, only it's 
 so common.' 
 
 ' Vagabond, Tramp, Waif, or Stray,' suggested Donovan. 
 
 * Oh ! Waif — that's beautiful, and so nice to say. Does that 
 mean something that's all alone, with nobody to take care of it?' 
 
 ' Yes, a thing- tossed up by chance; it'll just suit the beggar. 
 
 We must teach him ' he broke olF hastily as the door opened, 
 
 and rose to meet his mother ; but their greeting was brief, for a 
 sudden barking, yelling, and howling filled the room, and caused 
 both mother and son to turn hastily. 
 
 There stood the handsome Pomeranian in a perfect fury, his 
 tail bristling with wrath, and there, from his vantage-ground on 
 the couch, stood the plucky little Waif, barking vigorously in self- 
 defence. Before Donovan could re-cross the room, Fido had 
 sprang on to the couch and had seized the smaller dog by the ear, 
 while poor little Dot shrank back in terror, adding her cries to the 
 g-eneral hubbub. Donovan's first cai-e was to put one of his arms 
 between her and the combatants, and then seizing his opportunity 
 to sweep both dogs on to the floor Avith the other. 
 
 ' Fido, Fido ! my poor dog ! Save him, Donovan ; take him 
 from that savage creature,' cried Mrs. Farrant, fairly roused and 
 frightened. 
 
 ' He's twice the size of the other,' said Donovan ; ' he'll maul 
 Dot's poor little puppy to pieces. Leave off, you brute ! ' and, 
 with a well-directed blow, be drew Fido's attention from the 
 fox-terrier's ear to his own hand, and, after a sharp tussle 
 with the angry animal, succeeded in turning- him out of the 
 room. 
 
 'Where did this dreadful new dog come from ?' asked Mrs. 
 Farrant. 'I never saw a more hideous creature. You surely 
 don't intend to keep it in the house ?' 
 
 ' He shall not be in your way, and Fido will not attack him 
 
48 REPULSED AND ATTRACTED. 
 
 again, I should think. He certainly isn't a heauty, hut he's of a 
 very good hrced,' and Donovan called the dog- to him, and began 
 to examine his ear. 
 
 'It is all bleeding,' said Dot, piteously; 'and oh! Dono, 
 look at your hand.' 
 
 * A souvenir of Fido's teeth,' said Donovan, smiling rather 
 bitterly j for, though as a rule he was exceedingly fond of 
 animals, he had a strange dislike to the Pomeranian — perhaps 
 because it iisurpesd so mTicli of his mother's time and thoughts, 
 perhaps because of the dog's marked aversion to himself. 
 
 ' Dear me ! I hope it won't bring on hydrophobia ; I have 
 such a horror of h} drophobia,' said Mrs. Farrant, nervously con- 
 templating the wound from a distance. 
 
 ' I'll ])ut a hot iron to it, if it will relieve you,' said Donovan, 
 half scornfully, adding, with a touch of malice, ' And, if Fido is 
 mad, a bullet will soon settle him.' 
 
 It was an uncalled-for and foolish speech ; it touched Mrs. 
 Farrant in her most sensitive part, and widened the gulf between 
 her and her son. He felt it the next minute, and was vexed to 
 have put himself in the wrong. 
 
 'You are very inconsiderate,' said Mrs. Farrant, plaintively. 
 ' You know what a companion Fido is to me, and yet you can 
 speak so unfeelingly about his death. And the poor dog may be 
 hurt and suffering now. I must find him at once.' 
 
 Donovan opened the door for her, just pausing to see Fido run 
 to meet her safe and unharmed ; then he turned again into Dot's 
 room, muttering under his breath, ' Managed to put my foot into 
 it, as usual ! ' 
 
 Mrs. Doery offered to bind up his hand, while Dot, with all 
 the colour flown from her cheeks, watched sympathetically, ob- 
 serving at last, after a long silence, 
 
 ' It is very odd, Dono, but you and mamma never do like the 
 same things.' 
 
 It had been an unfortunate meeting, there was no doubt of 
 that, the feud between the dogs seemed likely to destroy what 
 little peace there ordinarily was in the household. Everything 
 was as usual against him, so Donovan bitterly complained, he 
 never got a fair start in anything. It was with a very clouded 
 brow tbat he went down to dinner — the iete-a-tete dinner with 
 Mrs. Farrant. It was not that he had expected great things, he 
 knew the return would be painful; but half unconsciously when 
 away from his mother she always slipped back into a sort of faint 
 resemblance to his childish ideal ; with him it was the very 
 reverse of the proverb — ' Les absens out tovjours tort.'' Absence 
 
REPULSED AND ATTRACTED. 49 
 
 toned down liis mother's failings, magnified her good points, 
 i'hus at every fresh meeting the sense of loss was borne in u])ou 
 him witli new force, and he was invariably sore-hearted, restless, 
 ami ill at ease. 'J'his evening, too, he vras vexed with himself, 
 and, with the perverseness of a proud nature, he showed his 
 vexation not by trying to make amends for his unguarded speech 
 by extra courtesy, but by becoming* silent, and grave, and con- 
 strained. Perhaps it was scarcely to be wondered at that, on 
 returning to the drawing-room after this singularly dull and 
 sjnritless meal, Mrs. Farrant should at once sink into an casy- 
 cliair and become engrossed in a new novel. Donovan stayed 
 only a few minutes, his mother never looked up, Fido growled at 
 him ; he resolved to go up at once to Dot. But even this was 
 denied him. Mrs. Doery met him at the head of the stairs like 
 a dragon — he could not see Miss Dot, it was impossible; she had 
 been very much upset indeed with all the excitement and noise, 
 and Mrs. Doery had just managed to get her to sleep. 
 
 Donovan slowly walked downstairs again. Alone, with 
 nothing to fall back upon, with a miserable sense of present in- 
 justice, and a past from which he was always trying to escape, 
 the quietness of the house seemed unbearable to him. He must 
 go somewhere, do something to drown these miserable thoughts, 
 to fill this wretched emptiness. The servant was in the dining- 
 room clearing the table ; he suddenly made up his mind. 
 
 ' Tell Jones to saddle the cob at once.' 
 
 The order was given briefly and decidedly ; he turned on his 
 heel, hesitated one moment, then crossed the hall to the drawing- 
 room. 
 
 ' I am going to ride over to Greyshot, mother — can I do any- 
 thing for you ? ' 
 
 ' Nothing, thank you,' said Mrs. Farrant, drowsily ; then, half 
 rousing herself, ' You'll not be late, Donovan, because the 
 servants don't like sitting up.' 
 
 ' I shall not be late,' he repeated, mechanically, as he glanced 
 round the prettily-furnished room, comparing it with that other 
 brightly-lighted room which he had looked into not very long 
 before. Such contrasts were dangerous in his present state of 
 mind ; he closed the door, and paced up and down the hall, 
 fiercely flicking at his boots Avith the end of his whip. Then his 
 horse was brought round, and, mounting hastily, he rode off in 
 the direction of the neighbouring town. 
 
 The cool evening air and the peaceful summer twilight were 
 in themselves soothing. Donovan was neither artistic nor 
 imaginative, but yet such things had a certain influence over 
 
 B 
 
50 REPULSED AND ATTRACTED. 
 
 him, and the beauty, perhaps still more the peacefulness of the 
 scene, quieted for a time the bitter inward cry. But it could be 
 only for a time ; his restless misery was far too great to be sub- 
 dued by any outward agency j he soon fell back into his habitual 
 reverie of gloomy dissatisfaction. How perplexing and useless 
 life seemed to him !— the past how full of pain and failure, the 
 present how unjustly empty of all that could be called happiness, 
 the future how dreary and hopeless ! He put his horse into a 
 hand-gallop, and tried to stifle his thoughts — tried to think of 
 anything in the world but his own wretchedness, but without 
 success, his mind was self centred, his thoughts naturally turned 
 to that centre. He could force himself for a time to think of 
 other things, but there Avas always an under-current of morbid 
 discontent colouring his views of everything. 
 
 It was in this state of unavailing mental struggle that he 
 reached Greyshot, It was now between eight and nine in the 
 evening, and the traffic of the day was nearly over, the shops 
 were closed, or in the act of closing, and the pavements were 
 crowded with people belonging to the poorer classes, tired hard- 
 worked men and women, either returning from their employment, 
 or lounging about in the cool of the evening for the sake of 
 change and refreshment. 
 
 Greyshot was rather a gay place, and, though the season fell 
 later in the year, the streets had been fairly full that afternoon, 
 when Donovan had passed througli them on his way from the 
 station to Oakdene. He was struck with the contrast between 
 the afternoon and evening crowd. Fashionable, well-dressed, 
 smiling idlers at the one time ; tired, hard-featured, shabby toilers 
 at the other. Here was fresh injustice, he said, with his usual 
 hasty judgment and strong conviction. He almost hated himself 
 for riding at ease through the throng of tired pedestrians ; could 
 only reconcile himself to it by remembering his many grievances, 
 and surmising that the poorer street passengers were better off 
 than he in many ways. He did not bring the same argument to 
 bear on the question of the afternoon promenaders, or remember 
 that the evening throng at least had the satisfaction of using 
 their life, while the idlers — perhaps he himself— were simply 
 abusing it. 
 
 Still brooding over this injustice in the different lots of men, 
 he reached the town-hall, and reined in his horse for a minute 
 that he might look at the various placards. He saw with relief 
 that something unusual must be going on that night, for the hall 
 was lighted, and a pretty continuous stream of people, chiefly 
 men, were passing up the broad flight of steps. ' Grand Con- 
 
REPULSED AND ATTRACTED. 51 
 
 cert on Wednesday Evening- ! ' no, that was the Wednesday ir. 
 the foUowino- week; a 'Rose Show!' the next day; ah! here 
 it was. ' This evening, at 8.30, Mr. Eaehurn will deliver a 
 Lecture, in the Town Hall, on "The Existence of a God— 
 Science versus Superstition." ' Donovan looked at his watch ; it 
 was exactly the half-hour. He hastily rode on to the nearest 
 inn, put lip his horse, and, returning-, passed swiftly up the steps 
 and into the hall. 
 
 The place was crowded with men, chiefly artisans and 
 mechanics, though with a sprinkling- of the more highly edu- 
 cated. Donovan glanced first at the eager, listening throng-, and 
 then instinctively his eyes followed theirs to the platform at the 
 further end of the room, and were riveted as by a magic attrac- 
 tion on the speaker. The fascination was instantaneous and 
 complete. He saw before him a tall, powerful-looking- man, 
 with masses of tawny hair overshadowing- a very striking- face — 
 a face which, in spite of its rather austere lines, still allowed 
 play to a variety of expressions : to burning- zeal, to infinite sad- 
 ness, occasionally to withering sarcasm. 
 
 Luke Raeburn was, before all things, a stron^- man, and in 
 looking- at him specialities sank away into insignificance. His 
 deep-set earnest eyes, his firm nncompromising mouth attracted 
 little notice, because the whole man was pervaded by a marvel- 
 lous force, a concentration of energy which carried all before it. 
 His voice was at once deep and powerful, aided by no theatrical 
 gestures, but made particularly winning- by its mellowness, its 
 perfect modulations, its thrill of intense earnestness. All these 
 were powerful accessories to the lecture itself. They influenced 
 Donovan undoubtedly, but it was not the voice or the ' presence ' 
 of the man which stirred his soul so strangely. The very first 
 sentence which fell on his ear forced him to listen as though his 
 whole life depended on it. ' I can find, and you can give me, no 
 jyroqf of God's existence.' The words caused" an electric thrill of 
 sympathy in his heart. He stood motionless, quite unconscious 
 of all around, his whole being absorbed in the argument of the 
 lecturer— this man, who, through the firmness of his convictions, 
 was spending his life in trying to overthrow what he termed the 
 ' mischievous delusion of popular Clufistianity.' 
 
 To Donovan, with his miserable sense of injustice, every word 
 seemed a relief, although it was only a more vigorous repetition 
 of his own cry. But in this lay the secret of its influence. The 
 lecturer was putting' into words, and clothing with marvellously 
 able arguments, all his own thoughts and opinions. To some of 
 the listeners the force and fascination of the lecture lay in the 
 
 £ 2 
 
62 REPULSED AND ATTRACTED. 
 
 novelty of the ideas it conveyed, but with Donovan it -was otlier- 
 wise. The lecturer's beliefs exactly coincided vv'ith all his own 
 ready-formed notions, and perhaps no idea is more powerfully 
 attractive than that which, being at the same time higher and 
 more subtly argued than your own crude previously-formed judg- 
 ment, yet in the main corresponds with it. A speedy sympathy 
 is established ; the pride of the less gifted mind is gratified ; 
 the great powerful intellect agrees with it, has experienced its 
 doubts, has felt its miseries. Donovan felt himself one with the 
 speaker, and he was so very, very rarely agreed with anyone that 
 the sudden consciousness of unity and sympathy was almost in- 
 toxicating in its novel delight. "^He listened breathlessly to the 
 clear, satisfying arguments, and when, at the end of an hour, the 
 lecturer brought his address to a close, and invited answers and 
 objections to what he had said, Donovan felt giddy and exhausted, 
 half inclined to leave the hall, and yet unable to go while the 
 man who had fascinated him so strangely remained. During the 
 brief pause that ensued a middle-aged mechanic, who w^as seated 
 at the end of one of the benches not far from the place where 
 Donovan stood, rose to go. Donovan moved forward to take his 
 place, and for a minute, owing to a fresh influx of people, the two 
 were kept facing each other. A shade of pity crossed the rough 
 features of the mechanic as he looked at the flushed, excited face 
 of the boy, so young and yet so full of unrest. 
 
 ' My lad,' he said, in a low tone, ' I see you're sore moved, but 
 take my advice and come away. Yonder man speaks grand 
 words, but it's not the truth.' 
 
 Donovan was too much of a Republican to be the least off"ended 
 by this speech, but he was little accustomed to receive good advice, 
 still less accustomed to put it in practice. He hardly gave it an 
 instant's consideration, so firmly was his mind set upon hearing 
 Raeburn speak once more. 
 
 ' One doesn't get this chance every day,' he answered. ' I 
 must hear the end of it.' 
 
 And so the warning friend passed by, and Donovan, having 
 rejected the guidance sent, took the vacant seat, and waited with 
 some impatience for the reply of the first objector. 
 
 The speeches of the opponents were limited to ten minutes, 
 too ample an allowance, Donovan thought, for the first speaker 
 was insufferably dull and wordy. After the clear, terse, powerful 
 sentences of the lecturer, anything so verbose was at once irritating 
 and bewildering, and the minds of the audience, which had been 
 strained to the very highest tension during Raeburn's address, 
 now began to wander. Donovan again found his gaze riveted on 
 
REPULSED AND ATTnACTF.D. 53 
 
 the lecturer's hce, and g-ave a sif;li of relief when the ten minutes' 
 bell was struck in the middle of one of the meandering- sentences, 
 before the speaker had made a single point. After another hrief 
 pause, a tall, nervous-looking- clergyman mounted the platform, 
 and with evident reluctance, conquered only by a sense of duty, 
 beg-an to speak. His voice was weak, but he was very much in 
 earnest, almost painfully so, and real earnestness felt and ex- 
 pressed cannot fail to arouse interest. He pros])ered well at first, 
 yet his argument was not in the least conclusive to Donovan's 
 mind, and he was not surprised when, at the close of the ten 
 minutes, Luke Raeburn drew attention to an illogical statement 
 which had escaped the speaker. An earnest parting- protest and 
 attempted explanation were not of much use, for Raehurn re- 
 sponded with perfect courtesy hut crushing- logic, and the clerg-y^ 
 man went back to his place with a terribly grieved look. Donovan 
 saw it all, was sorry for the man, and half won over by his 
 humility, his evident sorrow, and by sympathy with his sense of 
 failure. For a moment he wavered, or rather allowed the argu- 
 ments of the other side to recur to him, but it w^as only for a 
 moment. The third speaker mounted the ])latform with no diffi- 
 dence; he was a large, solid, self-satisfied man, with a voice which 
 made the hall echo ag-ain. Evidently he thought noise would 
 make up for want of matter, for he scarcely tried any steady line 
 of argument. He was vehement, positive, illog-ical, and, after a 
 violent tirade against the wickedness of atheism, finally turned 
 round upon the lecturer, and hurled the most insolent questions 
 at him. Donovan was disg-usted alike at his vulgarity and the 
 worthlessness of his speech. Raeburn w^as at once invested with 
 the dignity of a martyr, or, at any rate, of an unjustly-used man, 
 and bis sharp and powerful retort delig'hted Donovan as much as 
 it irritated the vehement objector. The contest ended grievously, 
 for — the chairman refusing- to give him any more time — the 
 speaker hopelessly lost his temper, became violent and abusive, 
 and quitted the platform and the hall in a towering- rage. It was 
 a sad display for one who professed to be an ardent supporter of 
 Christianity. Luke Raeburn felt that nothing- could have weakened 
 the cause more successfully, and naturally he did not hesitate to 
 use the argument in favour of his own views. 
 
 There was a prolonged pause after the exit of the ang-ry man ; 
 no other objectors cared to come forward, however, and at leng-th 
 Raeburn stood up for his final speech. The clear, quiet, impres- 
 sive tones fell like rain after a thunder-storm upon the rapt 
 listening men. Donovan scarcely breathed ; he had never in 
 his whole life heard anything so attractive. The coal penetrating 
 
54 AUTUMN MAN(EUVRES. ' 
 
 words, tlie sarcastic yet dig-nified allusions to tlie last speech, the 
 wonderfully able arguments, were irresistible to him. This man 
 was in earnest, terribly in earnest, and he had the grave calmness 
 of perfect conviction. 
 
 What was he upholding, too ? Self-restraint, self-sacrifice, 
 temperance, truth at whatever cost. There was, indeed, much 
 that was noble and elevating in his speech — only the one great 
 blank, which to Donovan was no blank at all. 
 
 It was over at last, the assembly broke up, and Donovan 
 groped his way down the street, and, mounting his horse, rode 
 back to Oakdene in the starlight. He felt wonderfully stimu- 
 lated by what he had heard, roused to enthusiasm for the man, 
 for the views he held, for the life of toil for the g-eneral good 
 which he not only recommended, but himself lived. Luke Rae- 
 burn had influenced him greatly, but it was the speech of the 
 self-satisfied opponent which sent him home that night a con- 
 firmed atheist, a bitter-hearted despiser of Christianity, 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 AUTUMN MANffiUVRES. 
 
 Love seeketh not itself to please, 
 Nor for itself hath any care, 
 But for another gives its ease, 
 And builds a heaven in hell's despair. 
 
 William Blake. 
 
 Give a dog a bad name, and hang him. 
 
 Proverb. 
 
 Ellis Faruant had taken Donovan up to town on the pretext 
 of arranging various matters of business, but he had been careful 
 to leave many things unattended to, as he was anxious to have 
 an excuse for a speedy visit to Oakdene. His guardianship was 
 likely to prove a very convenient aid in the furtherance of his 
 scheme, for what could be more natural than that he should fre- 
 quently go down to inspect his young wards, and what could 
 offer more convenient opportunities for winning his way with 
 Mrs. Farrant than such visits ? A little time, however, must be 
 Allowed to pass first. Ellis made arrangements for staying in 
 town till the middle of July, and resolved to g-o down to Oakdene 
 then for as long a visit as seemed advisable. 
 
 His arrival really pleased and roused Mrs, Farrant, for it must 
 
AUTUMN MANffiUVRES. 55 
 
 be owned that Oukdcne had not Leon the liveliest of homes 
 during- the sumincr. Visitors of course had not been received, 
 Donovan had been unusually taciturn and moody, and though 
 the favourite Fido, and the unfailing- succession of new books, 
 and the comfortable sofa by the open window, rendered life bear- 
 able, any interruption to such quiet monotony was a relief even 
 to one so indolent as Mrs. Farrant. 
 
 To Donovan the arrival of his cousin brought a strange mix- 
 ture of anno3'ance and satisfaction. lie too was glad of an inter- 
 ruption to the dreary quiet of the house, but nevertheless Ellis 
 managed to irritate him not a little. The nominal business 
 matters which had formed the excuse for the visit were put for- 
 ward from time to time, but neither mother nor son was business- 
 like, and Ellis used to let the conversation float on quietly into 
 other channels, so that very little was really arrived at. He was 
 a clever, shrewd man, and his visit was a long* series of man- 
 oeuvres. He never lost sight of his two great aims, the first was 
 to win the regard and confidence of Mrs. Farrant, and to secure 
 this he studied most carefully her character and tastes ; the 
 second was to induce Donovan to lead as inexpensive a life as 
 might be during* the time of his guardianship. What became of 
 him after he was of age he neither cared nor thought of, for 
 before that time he hoped to have w^on Mrs. Farrant's hand. 
 
 It was about two or three days from the beginning of his 
 visit that he first began to question Donovan cautiously as to 
 the future. They were out riding- when he resolved to risk the 
 attempt. - 
 
 ' Beautiful country about here,' he remarked,* carelessly. 
 
 ' ^s,' replied Donovan, laconically; he did not care to 
 show Wiy interest in such a remark from one who evidently cared 
 nothing- in reality for scenery. 
 
 'Much hunting in the neighbourhood? ' 
 
 * Ts'o • it's not a hunting- county.' 
 
 ' But you have good shooting, I hear.' 
 
 'Oh! yes, we can have any amount of that. Won't you 
 come down for it this autumn i" ' 
 
 ' Thanks. If I have time I should like nothing- better. 
 You will be here, of course ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, I suppose so/ said Donovan, rather hesitatingly. 
 
 Ellis Farrant felt a little uneasy. Had the boy made up his 
 mind to go to the university ? Would he want to enter any 
 expensive profession ? He must find out, and, if so, try to put 
 some reasonable obstacle iti the way. 
 
 'You have found these months a little dull, I expect, but 
 
66 AUTUMN MANCEUVBE8. 
 
 next year you'll be up in town for the season — it'll be very 
 diflPerent.' 
 
 * Life's disg'usting' everywhere,' said Donovan, gloomily. 
 
 ' No, no,' replied the man of the world, lig-htly. * There's 
 plenty of enjoyment if you look out for it. Cheer up, my boy, 
 you let 3'ourself brood over things too much. " Let bygones be 
 bygones," and face the future, and let your guardian know 
 plainly what you want.' 
 
 The speech sounded frank and kindly. Donovan involun- 
 tarily came a little out of his shell. 
 
 ' I don't know that there's anything I want,' he said slowly, 
 'and yet I want everything. Did you ever feel as if nothing in 
 the whole world were worth a fig, as if nothing could ever 
 satisfy you ? ' 
 
 A perplexing question ! Why did the perverse fellow begin 
 to moralize on abstract subjects, just when he wanted to arrive 
 at plain facts ? 
 
 ■ ' I know quite well what you mean/ he replied, glibly. ' You 
 will soon live it down. I think you should mix more with com- 
 panions of A'our own age.' 
 
 He felt that this was a hazardous suggestion, but ventured it 
 with his customary boldness. 
 
 ' I hate fellows of my own age,' said Donovan, shortly. 
 
 'You are a misanthrope, I'm afraid,' said Ellis, breathing 
 more freely. ' You would not like to go to Oxford or Cambridge, 
 I suppose 'i' ' 
 
 ' No, certainly not.' 
 
 ' And you are not exactly — not passionately — fond of work ? ' 
 
 Donovan smiled a little. 
 
 ' Well, no, I can't say I am.' 
 
 'Y''ou would not like to be a barrister or a — parson ?' 
 
 ' I ? ' cried Donovan, in amaze. ' In all conscience — no ! ' 
 
 'There is no need, not the slightest,' said Ellis. 'In fact, I 
 don't think you're in the least suited for any profession. You 
 can live on here very comfortably. No doubt your mother will 
 make you a hanusome allowance when you're of age ; for, though 
 you are not exactly your father's heir, it will come to much the 
 same thing in the end.' 
 
 ' Yes, I suppose so,' said the unconscious Donovan. 
 
 ' I should rather like you to do a little reading, however,' con- 
 tinued Ellis. ' I must not forget that 3^ou are my ward, you know. 
 What do you say to going in to some tutor at Greyshot two or 
 three times a week ? ' 
 
 ' I don't mind. I will do so, if you wish it . How would a 
 
AUTUMN MAN(EUVRES. 57 
 
 travellinj>- tutor be ? I must say I should like to spend a few 
 months abroad.' 
 
 An inconvenient and expensive project ! If Donovan were 
 away, he could not come down to Oakd'ene so easily. But Ellis 
 was too far-sighted to give a definite refusal to the request. 
 
 * Well, we will think of it,' he said, quite in his pleasantest 
 manner. * I'm g-lad you told me what was in your mind. We 
 can talk it over with 3'our mother.' 
 
 The two relapsed into silence after this, Ellis trying- to think 
 of reasonable objections to this new idea, Donovan sketching out 
 in his mind the plan of his tour on the continent. lie longed 
 inexpressibly for change of scene, and travelling offered very 
 strong attractions to his restless mind. 
 
 But a sudden revulsion of feeling came before long. As they 
 rode down the long, shady drive, and dismounted at the door ol 
 the Manor, he heard a childish voice calling him, and, looking 
 up, he saw Dot's little pale face eagerly watching him from her 
 window. 
 
 He mounted the stairs very slowly, struggling hard with 
 himself. Dot would certainly miss him very much, w^ould be 
 much happier if he did not go, and yet the craving within him 
 for change was almost irresistible. Oakdene began to feel like 
 a prison to him. Selfishness, or, as he called it, common-sense, 
 whispered that it was mere folly to think he could always be tied 
 down to one place. It would be naiTowing, cramping, bad for 
 his health. The absurdity of thinking of this, however, struck 
 him with sudden force as he entered Dot's room. How could he 
 think of himself so much, when she lay on the same weary couch 
 day after day, and yet contrived to be so patient ! 
 
 ' I'm so glad 3'ou've come back, IDono,' she exclaimed. 
 ' Doery's been down in the housekeeper's room for hours, and 
 Waif and I have been so dull.' 
 
 The loneliness rose up before him vividly — months and 
 months of it. At the same time a glorious vision of life abroad 
 — Italy, Switzerland, mountains, freedom ! He was quite silent, 
 but Dot was accustomed to his taciturn moods, and chattered on 
 contentedl}'. 
 
 ' And poor Waif, you forgot to take him with you, and he 
 was so miserable when he heard you ride off, he scratched at the 
 door and whined dreadfully, and I couldn't of course get up to 
 let him out, so at last he came back very sadly with his tail 
 between his legs, and cuddled up to me for comfort. Do you 
 know, Dono, I believe he begins to love you as I do, almost.' 
 
 'And you don't cry when I go outriding,' said Donovan, smiling. 
 
68 AUTUMN MAN(EUVRES. 
 
 ' No, only when you po quite awa}' ; when you used to go 
 back to school, and when Cousin Ellis took you away last time. 
 
 ' What a silly little Dot ! What makes you cry ? ' 
 
 ' Why, because I love you so,' said liot, wistfully. ' And 
 everything- seems so horrid when you're away. Will you have 
 to g'o away again, do you think ? Will Cousin Ellis and the 
 lawyers want you any more ? ' 
 
 ' Oh ! no, I shall not be going- away again,' he said, in rather 
 a forced voice. Then, after a pause : ' I say, Dot, this room is 
 stifling'. Shall I open the other window ?' 
 
 She assented, and he crossed the room quickly, threw up the 
 sash, gulped down a mouthful of fresh air, and registered a silent 
 vow that he woidd never leave her. 
 
 ' I wonder what makes your forehead look so battered to-day, 
 resumed Dot, as he sat down beside her again. ' It always 
 reminds me of a bent penny I had for a long- time. And some 
 days the bend in the middle seems to show^ more. I think it's on 
 the days when you don't talk much.' 
 
 Donovan laughed heartily, shook off his taciturnity, acd did 
 his best according- to Dot's principles to straighten his brow. 
 
 'A phrenologist once told me that my forehead meant all sorts 
 of things : mathematical ability, reasoning-, and music, but he 
 was sadly out, poor man, in that last, for I haven't a gram of 
 music in me.' 
 
 ' I wish you had,' said Dot, ' because I like it so much, and 
 the hand-organs so very seldom come.' 
 
 ' Shall I get one, and grip J away in the passage ? ' 
 
 ' That would be always the same one. We should get so 
 tired of the tunes.' 
 
 * Yes,' said Donovan, laughing again, ^ Don't jou remember 
 the story of the organ-grinder who somehow came in to some 
 money, and the first thing he did was to rush frantically at his 
 organ with, " Bother ! ^ou shall never go round again," and 
 smasli it to pieces.' 
 
 Dut huiglied long and merrily. 
 
 ' I with you could play the piano as Cousin Adela used to. 
 It sounded so nice coming xip from the drawing-room,' 
 
 ' Would you really like it ? ' said Donovan, ' I will tr}'' to 
 learn then. We'll have a piano over from Greyshot, and it can 
 be put up here,' 
 
 ' Oh ! Dono, how delightful ! But won't it be dull for you, 
 as you don't like music ? And do you think you'll be able to 
 learn ? ' 
 
 • We'll have no end of fun over it,' he rejilied, cheerfully. 
 
AUTUMN MANCEUVRES. 59 
 
 'And as to being- able — I believe we're able to do anything we've 
 a will for.' 
 
 That evcninp', after Mrs. Farrant had left the dinner-table,- 
 Donovan relieved his guardian's mind by one of his quick abrupt 
 speeches. 
 
 ' On thinking- it over, I find I had better not go abroad.' 
 
 'Oh! just as you like, my dear fellow/ said Ellis, trying to 
 conceal his satisfaction. ' Most happy to advance you the 
 necessary funds, you know. I should think thoug-h that, as you 
 say, it wouhl be better to stay here. Your mother will be glad 
 to have you.' 
 
 Donovan bit his lip, and did not reply, and Ellis, well aware 
 that he had touched on a sore subject, changed the conversation. 
 His ward's decision was convenient. For once he must be care- 
 ful to please and humour him a little. So he renounced for a 
 time the pleasure of irritating- his victim, and they spent a very 
 amicable evening over the billiard-table. 
 
 It is an undisputed fact that one piece of villany invariably 
 leads to others. When Ellis Farrant, in a moment of anger and 
 disappointment, had destroyed his cousin's will, he never once 
 thought of all it would lead to, but little by little he began to 
 realise that a good deal of plotting- and scheming- would be 
 necessary, and perhaps a few trifling- deceptions and injustices, 
 before he could profit by his crime. He was relieved to find that 
 the coldness between the mother and son still existed, for it was, 
 of course, all in his favour. He had rather dreaded the effects of 
 those months of quiet intercourse ; but all had g-one as he 
 wished. Mrs. Farrant did not in the least understand Donovan, 
 he was not in any sense a comfort to her, therefore there was all 
 the more hope that she mig-ht be led to confide in Ellis, that he 
 might become a necessary part of her existence. During- this 
 visit he was obliged to be kind and conciliatory to liis ward, and 
 was too prudent to show any marked attentions to Mrs. Farrant, 
 but he succeeded in enlivening the house wonderfully, and re- 
 ceived a pressing- invitation to come down in the autumn, bring- 
 ing his sister Adela with him. He remained till the 12th of 
 August, and then went up to the North for grouse-shooting, well 
 satisfied with his success at Oakdene. 
 
 Tlie Manor was not a little dull after he left. Mrs. Farrant, 
 to relieve the monotony, sent out her cards, and found some 
 slight occupation in receiving the visits of her neighbours and 
 acquaintance. Donovan rode in to Greyshot three times a week 
 to his tutor's, studied ' Mill's Logic,' and worked hard at his 
 music. Strangely, although he was really no lover of the art, 
 
60 AUTUMN MANCEUVRES 
 
 te found a peculiar satisfaction in working- even at the mechanical 
 exercises ; his master scarcely knew what to make of a pupil who, 
 with very little actual talent, surmounted difficulties so quickly, 
 and showed such untiring perseverance. Indolent as he seemed^ 
 he could yet show the most indefatig-ahle zeal when he had a 
 sufficient motive, and, with a view to pleasing Dot, he bent his 
 whole will to the work. 
 
 With the exception of this satisfactory effort, the autumn was 
 a very painful one to him. As soon as his mother began to 
 receive visitors again, he could not fail to become aware of the 
 marked coldness with which almost everyone treated him. He 
 had never had any special friends in the neighbourhood, but now 
 he noticed that old acquaintances who had formerly been civil 
 and friendly looked askance at him ; he was uader a cloud, he 
 had lost his good name. It was not much to be wondered at, 
 perhaps, and yet it seemed cruelly hard that he should be thus 
 cut oif from all intercourse with those better than himself The 
 cautious world said, with its usual prudence, that it would never 
 do not to show marked disapproval of disgrace and wrong-doing. 
 Donovan Farrant had been expelled from school for most dishon- 
 ourable behaviour (his crimes were by this time absurdly ex- 
 aggerated by report), it was quite impossible that he could be 
 allowed to mix with the immaculate sons of the neighbouring 
 homes. Intercourse must be as much as possible discouraged ; 
 the acquaintance was most undesirable. A young man who 
 never went to church, who had been seen at one of Raeburn's 
 lectures, who was dangerously handsome, and unmitigatedly bad, 
 could not be visited. The neighbours all tried to ignore his 
 existence ; he was either entirely cut, or treated with the coldest 
 and most distant civility. 
 
 Misanthrope as he was, Donovan felt this treatment keenly, 
 and resented it. It was hard, and cruel, and unjust ; he used it, 
 as he used everything else at that time, as an argimient against 
 Christianity. Nor did his mother make matters pleasanter to 
 him. She, too, found out the coldness with which he was treated, 
 and it vexed her ; one or two of the more kind-hearted neigh- 
 bours referred delicately to the subject, and, though Mrs. Farrant 
 paid little attention to her son's doings as a rule, this roused her 
 to remonstrate with him. 
 
 'Donovan,' she said, in her complaining tone one evening, 'I 
 really wish you w^ould be more careful how you go on. Mrs. 
 Ward was here to-day, and she said she was extremely sorry to 
 hear that you had attended some shocking infidel lecture at 
 Greyshot. Is it true that you went ? ' 
 
AUTUMN MANCEUVRES. 61 
 
 * Perfectly, barring- the adjectives,' replied Donovan, crossing 
 the room, and resting- his elbow on the niantel-jnoce. 
 
 * IJut really you should not do such things,' said Mrs. Farrant, 
 plaintively. ' What made you think of g'oing- ? ' 
 
 ' I wished to hear Luke Raeburn's views,' said Donovan, still 
 keeping- his face steadily turned towards her. 
 
 * It is absurd for a boy of 3^our ag-e to think of such things. 
 What can you understand about his views ?' 
 
 ' More than I can of any other views. But I'm no Secularist 
 —I don't care enough for the human race.' 
 
 Mrs. Farrant wandered off to another grievance. 
 
 * Well, I really wish you wouldn't get yourself so talked 
 about; it's very unpleasant for me. Why won't you come to 
 church on Sunday, and be like other young men ? ' 
 
 ' Because, whatever I am, I'll not be a hypocrite/ said Dono- 
 van, with some sharpness. 
 
 There was silence tor a few minutes after this. Mrs. Farrant 
 fanned herself, and Donovan tormented the feathers of an Indian 
 hand-screen. At last, with a rather softened expression, he 
 continued — 
 
 ' I'm sorry, mother, if I spoke rudely, but that is a thing I 
 cannot do to please anyone. If you dislike my going to hear 
 Raeburn so much, I will not do it again.' 
 
 ' I only wish you not to make yourself a byword to the neigh- 
 bourhood," said Mrs. Farrant, peevishly. * I do not care what 
 you do as long as you behave respectabl3\' 
 
 ' No, you care for nothing, I see, as long as people hold their 
 tongues,' said Donovan, with one of his rare and curiously sudden 
 bursts of passion. ' Is it wonderful that I should be going to the 
 dogs, when this is all you give me ? What else can you expect ? ' 
 
 She did not in the least understand him, but his vehemence 
 terrified her ; she burst into tears. 
 
 * It is very unkind of you to speak so angrily ; you know how 
 anything of this sort upsets me,' she sobbed. * I did think that 
 the onl}' son of a widow was expected to show some feeling for his 
 mother, and you — you are only a grief and a disgrace to me.' 
 
 He was softened in an instant, tried to take her hand in his, 
 and spoke as gently and tenderly as he would have spoken to 
 Dot. 
 
 'Forgive me, mother — I was to blame. But indeed, if you 
 would let me, I would try to be more to you." 
 
 He would have said more, but words never came easily to 
 him, and he felt half choked now with emotion. 
 
 ' You are so iuconsiilerate,' said Mrs. Farrant, drying her 
 
62 AUTUMN MANCEUVRES. 
 
 eyes. * I'm sure I wisli your guardian were here ; he at least 
 would have some sj'mpathy with me. I wish you would try to 
 copy him a little more.' 
 
 The reference to one whom Donovan so little liked or respected 
 was very trying ; he drew hack. 
 
 ' It is just as I told you at Porthkerran,' continued Mrs. Far- 
 rant. ' You never think of anyone hut yourself; you are always 
 bringing trouble and sorrow to others.' Then, looking up, and 
 seeing that Donovan in his agitation was breaking the feathers 
 of the hand-screen, slie sharpened her voice, 'Cannot you even 
 help destroying tlie things your poor father brought back ? ' 
 
 He did not attempt to answer. What was the use of 
 speaking? What was the use of trying to bridge over the 
 hopeless gulf between them ? It was more in despair than 
 in passion that he flung down the screen and strode out of the 
 room. 
 
 After this there was peace for some little time, if such dreary 
 aimless existence could be called peace. There was, at any rate, 
 no open disagreement. Mrs. Farrant was too inert and Dono- 
 van too self-restrained to admit of frequent quarrels between 
 them ; they lived on in quiet coldness, meeting at meal times, 
 talking on indifferent subjects, then parting again, each to resume 
 his or her separate life. There Avere faults, perhaps, on both 
 sides ; a resolute and continuous effort from either must have 
 broken down such an unnatural state of things. But neither of 
 them made such an effort. Mrs. Farrant, even had she thought 
 of it, would have been too indolent to persevere ; Donovan had 
 tried twice and thrown up the attempt, at once too proud and 
 too hopeless to resume it. 
 
 In October Ellis Farrant came according to his promise, 
 bringing his sister Adela with him. She was some years his 
 junior, and as she had the same class of good looks and general 
 brilliancy as her brother, and dressed fashionably, she still passed 
 for a ' young ' lady, although she was considerably over thirty. 
 Ellis had not introduced her to Oakdene without a special reason. 
 She of course knew^ nothing of the depth of his schemes, but he 
 trusted her with enough to make her a valuable ally. 
 
 ' Now, this is how matters stand,' he had said to her, as they 
 were driving from Greyshot to Oakdene. ' Mrs. Farrant is as dull 
 as she well can be in this hole of a place, and I want to have 
 plenty of opportunities for letting her feel that I can enliven it. 
 Do you understand me, or must I speak more plainly ? ' 
 
 His sister laughed and shrugged her shoulders. 
 
 *Do not trouble yourself, I understand well enough. You 
 
AUTUMN MAN(EUVRES. 63 
 
 wish to be beforehand with the army of suitors who are sure to 
 attend upon a pretty, rich widow, by no means past her youth.' 
 
 ' Exactly,' said Ellis, rubbing' his hands with satisfaction 
 'Last time I was here I could do but little, it was too early days, 
 for one thing*, and then there was the boy to be looked after ; but 
 now I want you to engross him a little, and set me at liberty — do 
 you see ? " 
 
 Adela Farrant laughed again. 
 
 * You cunning- Ellis ! You have entrapped me into a dull 
 country-house just to further 3'our own ends, and then you set me 
 down to amuse a schoolboy.' 
 
 ' Pardon me, but he is by no means a hoy,' said Ellis. ' lie 
 is, or considers himself, all sorts of things, a philosopher, a 
 radical, an atheist, and, joking- apart, he really is old for his 
 years. You may tind him a little stiff and haughty at first, but 
 you'll soon get to know him, and he'll give you some amusement; 
 besides, he's handsome — ver}' — an Apollo — an Adonis.' 
 
 ' And in his nineteenth year! ' concluded Adela, with a g-esture 
 of contempt. * However, I'll try to amuse him, out of regard for 
 you. ^Vhy, here we are at the Manoi*, and there is your Apollo 
 of the clustering- curls at the door. What a grave saturnine lace ! 
 but you're quite right, he's very good-looking. Roman, not Greek, 
 tbouuh. Augustus Caesar come to life again.' 
 
 The first evening- was, according- to Ellis Farrant's views, a 
 perfect success. He had free scope for conversation with Mrs. 
 Farrant, and she grew quite merry and talkative under the com- 
 bined influence of his attentions and his sister's animation and 
 gaiety. 
 
 * It is so pleasant to hear fresh voices,' she said at dinner 
 time. ' I grow very tired of tcte-a-tctc dinners with Donovan.' 
 
 This was exactly what Ellis wished, it was quite an effort to 
 conceal his satisfaction. He looked at the young host at the 
 head of the table, and wondered how he would enjoy being 
 ousted irom his position. 
 
 Adela's work was not quite so easy. She found Donovan 
 very grave, almost repellent, not at all inclined to be more than 
 coldly courteous. She persevered, however, and, being- clever 
 and really good-natured, she gradually won her way. Nor was 
 she so dull as she had fancied would be the case. The haughty 
 nil-admirari spirit of her special charge rather attracted her. She 
 found herself really anxious to win his good opinion, and set her- 
 self to find out his likes and dislikes. And Donovan really liked 
 her in a manner, was grateful for her kindness, and felt a sort of 
 relief in having a bright, talkative, pleasant woman in the house. 
 
64 AUTUMN MAN(EUVRES. 
 
 When Ellis did not care to go out shooting, Adela generally pro- 
 posed a ride, and so managed to engross her young cousin for 
 two or three hours ; in the evening, too, she would keep him 
 turning over the leaves of her music in the back drawing-room, 
 leaving her brother to amuse Mrs. Farrant, and her light, mean- 
 ingless talk generally sufficed to prevent cue chance of their being 
 interrupted by Donovan. 
 
 Sometimes, however, her conversation jarred on his mind. 
 One afternoon when Adela in her light fawn-coloured dress was 
 sauntering round the garden, gathering a few late roses, with her 
 usual cavalier in attendance, their talk turned upon rather graver 
 matters than was ordinarily the case. 
 
 ' What a pretty view that is of the church tower,' she ex- 
 claimed. '■ I should like to sketch it, such a tiny grey little place 
 it is ! but really I was quite surprised last Sunday to find it a 
 regular resort of fashion, the toilettes were amazing, quite a 
 study ; your mother says that the people come to it from Grey- 
 shot, that they are attracted by the surpliced choir and the 
 chanting. It seems so odd to think of things of that sort being 
 novelties; you are dreadfully behind the world here in Mount- 
 sbire.' 
 
 ' No great loss perhaps in those matters,' said Donovan. 
 
 ' What a prosaic mind you have ! ' said his cousin, lightly. 
 * And, by-the-by, that reminds me, I meant to take you to task 
 before. Last Sunday I looked round expecting to find you ready 
 to carry my prayer-book, and behold ! you were nowhere to be 
 seen. Your mother says you never do go to church. How is 
 that ? it is really very shocking, you know.' 
 
 ' One can't profess what one does not believe,' said Donovan, 
 gravely. 
 
 Adela passed on into the greenhouse and cut the last rose 
 there before replying ; then, joining him again, she said, in her 
 light half laughing tone, 
 
 ' You men are really dreadful now-a-days, the whole race 
 seems to have grown sceptical. Now, why don't you come to 
 church, and be good and orthodox 't ' 
 
 As slie spoke she handed him the rose to put into the basket. 
 It was an exquisite blush rose, and he held it in his hand ab- 
 stractedly, not exactly seeing its beauty, and yet feeling some 
 subtle influence from its purity and fragrance. He did not 
 answer, and Adela continued : 
 
 ' Don't think I shall be hard on you, there never was a more 
 lenient jjcrson — besides, scepticism is always interesting. Not, 
 you know, that I am not all that is proper and orthodox, you 
 
AUTUMN MANOEUVRES. 65 
 
 mustn't think that for a moment. I like to be comme il faut in 
 evoiything- — that is not quite a right expression, is it'? more 
 iiaiitcd to matters of etiquette than religion, — however, it does 
 not signify, turn it into Latin in your mind. I am very orthodox, 
 but I can quite sympathise with sce})tics — is that sense ? Now 
 do toll me why you don't believe the thing-s that I believe; they 
 say it is always well to hear all sidos of u question, and on this 
 subject I have scarcely heard anything.' 
 
 iShe had rattled on in her usual fashion without looking up; 
 had she noticed the chang-e in Donovan's face, her womanly tact 
 would have warned her to be more carefid, for he looked as 
 nearly contemptuous as g-ood manners would allow. His voice 
 was f^-rave and displeased as he replied, and had a strang-e ring of 
 pain in it. 
 
 ' It is not a subject I care to discuss, thank you.' 
 
 They walked on in silence, Donovan trying- uneasily to under- 
 stand his own feeling-s. Why did he not care to discuss this 
 subject .'' Was it that his cousin's lig-htness jarred on him ? was 
 there soaae latent sense of reverence in him — some yet slumber- 
 ing- faith faintly touched by her flippant tones ? Or was it — 
 could it be — that he, Donovan Farrant, was ashamed of the 
 views he held ? ashamed of not being like the rest of the world ? 
 
 Adela knew, from the tone of the answer which her question 
 received, that she had made a mistake; fli])pant, conventional, 
 semi-relig-ious talk evidently g-rated somehow on her cousin's 
 mind; she made haste to recover her place in his estimation by 
 referring- to the subject nearest his heart. 
 
 ' Shall we take these flowers to Dot ? She Hkes flowers in 
 her room, doesn't she?' 
 
 His brow cleared instantly. 
 
 * Yes, let us go. Dot is very fond of you, Cousin Adela , 
 you have cheered her up wonderfully.' 
 
 Adela smiled; her kindness to little Dot was the one fair 
 bright spot in her life just then; it was pleasant to dwell on one 
 thing- in which her motive was really good, and she was too 
 really kind to like to remember that she was acting- as a sort of 
 decoy towards Donovan. 
 
 Dot held out her hands eag-erly for the flowers. 
 
 ' What beauties ! ' she cried. ' I was afraid they were all 
 over.' 
 
 Donovan took the blush rose and arranged it in her dress, 
 where its soft colours helped to relieve the blackness. 
 
 'You and Cousin Adela have had such a long- talk,' said Dot, 
 watching; with interest while the flowers were arrang-ed in her 
 
 F 
 
gg AUTUMN MANCEUVRES. 
 
 vase. ' I saw you from my window. What were you talking 
 
 about?' TIP 
 
 ' Oh,' said Adela, with a little pause, as she adjusted a leat, 
 *■ we were talking- about the church.' 
 
 ' There's many changes there, miss,' said Mrs. Doery, looking 
 up from her work. 'Seems to he the Avay with these new- 
 fangled ministers. Still, they say the boys in their whites is 
 very attractive, and nobody can't deny that the church is fuller 
 then it used to be.' 
 
 ' I have been telling Mr. Donovan that Mountshire is very 
 much behind the world,' said Adela. ' In our parts we should 
 be quite surprised not to find a choir.' 
 
 ' Well, miss, I suppose it's very right and proper, but for 
 myself I liked the old days when we had just the parson and the 
 clerk. Now they sing-song- all the things so, and I can't seem 
 to pick myself up.' 
 
 Adela tried not to laugh, and asked the name of the clergy- 
 man. 
 
 * Mr. Golding, he's the white-haired one. You'd have thought 
 he was too old to like such new ways, but I make no doubt he's 
 led on by the curate, who is but young ; and as to him, miss, he 
 gets through the service so quick you wouldn't believe, but I 
 never can hear a word when he reads off the old fowl's back.' 
 
 Adela and Donovan burst out laughing, and no sense of the 
 respect due to Mrs. Doery could stop them. Dot, not under- 
 standing, looked perplexed till Adela explained. 
 
 ' Tlie reading-desk in church, dear, the lectern, is like an 
 eao-le. Oh ! Mrs. Doery, you mustn't mind our laughing, but 
 really that is worthy of PuncV 
 
 Doery was, luckily, not at all offended. She could not 
 pretend to learn all the new names they gave the things, and 
 probably she thought of the lectern as the ' old fowl ' till the day 
 of her death. 
 
 After a certain fashion Adela's visit really did Donovan 
 some good. It roused him from his moody silence, made a 
 chanf>-e in his monotonous life, and shielded him to some extent 
 from Ellis Farrant's annoyances. For, during this visit, Ellis 
 was not all careful to keep himself in the boy's good graces, and, 
 in the brief time that they were necessarily thrown together, 
 managed to annoy him considerably. Donovan had always the 
 ruffled, uncomfortable consciousness that his guardian was making 
 a good thing out of his office. He was naturally very careless 
 about money matters, scarcely giving them a tfiiought; but even 
 easy and generous natures are often roused by feeling that they 
 
THE BLACK SHEEP OF OAKDENE. 67 
 
 are being- traded upon. The length and frequency of hiss cousin's 
 visits might be overlooked perhaps, but when, in the course of 
 the month, he went with Donovan to some races at a ncii>-h- 
 boui-ing town, and coolly put down all the expenses to Mrs. 
 Farrant, his ward was naturally indignant ; and this happened 
 not once only, but several times. The loss of the money was 
 nothing, but the injustice was very irritating. Injustice was 
 Donovan's watchword, and this slight but aggravating specimen 
 of it was a constant thorn in his side. 
 
 Another vexing thing was Ellis Farrant's behaviour to his 
 mother. lie used to perform all kinds of little services for her; 
 waiting on her sedulously on every possible occasion, Avith a 
 marked ostentation which seemed always trying to indicate to 
 Dcmovan, 'This is what you ought to do.' JEven had such 
 attentions been possible to him, he would have been far too 
 proud to take such a broad hint, and Ellis was probably aware of 
 this, or he would not have risked giving the advice ; it was 
 everything to him that Mrs. Farrant should feel tlie great diifer- 
 ence between his conduct and her son's. On the whole, there 
 was some reason in Donovan's complaint that autumn — life had 
 always seemed to him hard and perplexing, and it grew more so. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 THE BLACK SHEEP OK OAKDENE. 
 
 0, ye wlia are sae guid yourscl', 
 
 Sae pious, and sae holy, 
 Ye've nought to do but mark and tell 
 
 Your neebour's faiilts and folly. 
 Ye see your state with theirs compar'd. 
 
 And shudder at the niffer, 
 But cast a moment's fair regard 
 
 AVhat maks the mighty diflfer ? 
 
 Wi' wind and tide fair i' j'our tail, 
 Eight on ye scud your sea-way, 
 But in the teeth o' baith to sail, 
 It makes an unco lee way. 
 Address to the Unco Guid, or RifjUUy B'ujldcous. Burns. 
 
 * I MAY be wrong, Mr. Ward. I can't pretend to much wisdom. 
 I'm an old, unlettered man, but it seems to me tliat folks are 
 
68 THE BLACK SHEEP OF OAKDENE. 
 
 rather liard on the poor boy ; but I may be wrong, I quite allow 
 I may be wrong.' 
 
 The speaker was a grey-haired, elderly man, with a thin, worn 
 face, kind eyes, and rather bent shoulders. His companion, Mr. 
 Ward, was the Squire of Oakdene, a short, broad, grgy-whiskcred 
 country gentleman, somewhat bluH", but still good-natured enough 
 in his way. The two were returning from a meeting of the 
 church-wardens on an afternoon in January, and happening to 
 see Donovan Farrant sauntering along the road in front of them, 
 with his dog at his heels, they had begun to talk of him. 
 
 ' I'm sure I wish to be hard on no one,' said the squire, 
 swinging his stick rather vigorously. ' But you know, Hayes, 
 the i'cllow has a ver}' bad reputation. No one has a good word 
 to say for him.' 
 
 ' Poor boy,' said old Mr. Hayes, compassionately. ' I sup- 
 pose it's all true ; but you know one must remember that he's 
 never had a father to look after him.' 
 
 ' Yes, I know that,' said the squire, reflectively ; he had sons 
 of liis own, and had very strong ideas about paternal influence. 
 ' That's quite true, and may excuse him to a certain extent. But 
 then it's impossible to take up with him. I couldn't have him 
 mixing with Harry and Ned. It isn't that I wish to be uncivil 
 to the fellow, but rcall}^ it would be most unwise. I don't know 
 what Mrs. Ward would say if I proposed it. Now you, Hayes, 
 it's di tie rent with 3'ou ; you're a bachelor, and could easily be a 
 little friendly with him.' 
 
 ' Yes,' hesitated Mr. Hayes ; ' but 3'ou know I'm afraid he'd 
 find me a very dull companion. I'm only a stupid old man, and 
 he is young, and very clever, they say.' 
 
 ' Bosh ! ' said the squire, contemptuously — ' he ought to be 
 proud to shake hands with you. You're a great deal too humble- 
 minded, Hayes. I've no idea of being so deferential to the young 
 generation. There's a great deal too little of the Fifth Com- 
 mandment now-ti-da3's ; it wasn't so when I was a boy.' 
 
 ' I felt very sorry for them this Christmas,' resumed Mr. 
 Hayes, gently; * the Manor must have been a sad house; but 
 it's ver}' Imrd to know how to help peoi)le when you can't send 
 them blankets, or coals, or Christmas dinners.' 
 
 ' And young Farrant is a precious deal too proud to be hel])ed 
 in any way,' said Mr. Ward, with a laugh. ' But, after all, I am 
 sorry for tlie boy ; it's a sad start in life to have lost one's good 
 name. What's he after now, stoo])ing down in the snow ? We 
 <!hall catch him up, and, if so, I must speak to him.' 
 
 A mif-crable-looking cat, drenched with water, and with a 
 
THE BLACK SHEEP OF OAKDENE. 69 
 
 tin pot tied to its tail, had boon lyinf;- half dead by the roadside. 
 Donovan, who was a f^roiit lovei* of animals, had of course 
 hastened to the rescue ; he had just released the poor terrified 
 creature from its instrument of torture, and was holding- it in his 
 arms, rubbing- its wet drag-gled fur, when, hearing; steps, he 
 g-lanced round, and found himself face to face with Mr. Ward 
 and Mr. Hayes. The colour rushed to his cheeks ; he had not 
 time to assume the look of cold haughty indifference with which 
 he usually confronted his neighbours. He looked so handsome 
 and boyish, and so unlike a reprobate, that Mr. Ward felt his 
 compassion rising- and his scruples diminishing- ; besides, the 
 conversation had rather softened him, and he held out his hand 
 corilially. 
 
 ' Well, Farrant, how are you ? Mrs. Farrant quite well, I 
 hope ? You know Mr. Hayes, don't you ? Wh}^ what's that? 
 — a drowned cat i* ' 
 
 ' Some brute of a boy has nearly killed it,' said Donovan, in- 
 dignation making- him speak naturally. ' I think it Avill come 
 round, though, as soon as I can get it to a fire.' 
 
 That an atheist should bestow his attention on a stray cat 
 was very surprising- to the squire. He began to like the fellow. 
 After all, there was some good in him. 
 
 ' Had any skating- yet ? ' he asked, in his kindly voice. 
 
 'No; our pond is half overgrown with mare'stail; besides, 
 it's too small so be worth anything-.' 
 
 ' Oh ! you must come over to our place,' said the squire, with 
 g-ood-humour, which astonished Mr. Hayes. ' Our young- pcoj)le 
 have been on the small lake to-day, and I dare say the large one 
 will bear to-morrow. You used to be rather a swell at skating-, 
 if I remember rig-ht.' 
 
 ' I am very fond of it,' said Donovan, and his eyes danced. 
 
 'Then come over to-morrow, and whenever you like; it isn't 
 often we get a frost like this.' 
 
 'Thank you — I will be sure to come,' said Donovan ; and as 
 they parted he lifted his eyes to the squire's with a long searching 
 look, at once wistful and surprised ; then, whistling to Waif, he 
 walked away with the cat under his arm. 
 
 ' jVow, what on earth did I do that for ?' said the squire, as 
 be and Mr. Hayes turned down the lane leading to the Hall 
 gates. ' I don't know what my wife will say, but really, Hayes, 
 I don't dislike the boy ; and how his face lighted up at the 
 thought of the skating ! He's not a bad fellow, after all.' 
 
 Mr. Ward was quite right in surmising that his wife would 
 be vexed when she heard of the invitation he had jiiven : he 
 
70 THE BLACK SHEEP OF OAKDENE. 
 
 tried hard to mention it casually when lie g-ot home, but there 
 ■was an undisg-uisable anxiety in his voice as he observed, 
 
 ■ * Oh ! by-the-by, my dear, I met young Farraut just now, 
 and asked him to come over for skating- to-morrow.' 
 
 Mrs. Ward looked up with as much annoyance as it was 
 possible for a good, kind-hearted woman to show. 
 ' You asked Donovan Farrant to come here t ' 
 
 ' Not to the house, my dear, only to skate on the lake. I 
 really don't see how I could avoid it ; he is a first-rate skater, 
 and this is the only ice for miles round.' 
 
 ' J]ut onl}"- the other day, Edward, you said you wouldn't have 
 him about with the boys on any account. I really think you 
 might be more careful. It will be beginning an intimacy, and 
 then, with such near neighbours, we shall find it impossible to 
 break it off. It is just the most dangerous time, too, with Harry 
 back from Oxford, ready to make friends with anyone, and Ned 
 fresh from school.' 
 
 ^My dear, surely they needn't become friends because they 
 skate on the same lake ; besides, I assure you young- Farrant is 
 not so bad as people make out.' 
 
 ' Well, Edward, he is not at all the kind of companion I like 
 for the bo3"s, and I've heard you say the snme thing- yourself. 
 No one visits him, he reads with that Mr. Alleyne at Greyshot, 
 a most unprincipled man, and you yourself heard that he attended 
 Eaeburn's lectures.' 
 
 ' I heard that he had been seen at one,' said the squire, 
 rather testily. 
 
 'And that is quite enough, I am sure, to prove him an unfit 
 companion for our children,' replied Mrs. Ward. 'Only the 
 other day, too, I met him at the library and heard him asking 
 for books on Positivism ; besides, no one invented the account of 
 his school life, I suppose.' 
 
 ' Well, he's not likely to talk either of Eaeburn or of Posi- 
 tivism on the ice, I should think,' said Mr. Ward, with a smile. 
 * Come, my dear, it is not like you to be inhospitable j let the 
 poor fellow be here just this once.' 
 
 ' Of course he must come now you have asked him,' said Mrs. 
 Ward, with a sigli. ' But I am vexed about it. I do think one 
 should be careful with boys like Harry and Ned, and with three 
 girls only just out. Donovan Farrant is so g-ood-looking.' 
 
 She sighed again. The squire laughed heartily. 
 
 'Now, about the boys I don't feel so positive, I own, but you 
 may set your mind quite at rest about the girls, for this dangerous 
 young- fellow whom you dread so much is a professed woman- 
 
THE BLACK SHEEP OF OAKDEXE. 71 
 
 hater. And you know, my dcnr, even the author of evil is not 
 so black as he's painted.' 
 
 Mrs. Ward sighed, hut she said no more, only secretly in her 
 heart she hoped the frost would not continue. '' 
 
 Donovan was on the ice before anyone else the next morning-, 
 and for some time had the lake to himself By-and-by two or 
 three carriages drove up with people from the neighbourhood 
 whom he knew slightly, and towards the middle of the day the 
 sipiire and his two sons came down, but, beyond an ordinary 
 greetinc^, very little passed between them. The squire was too 
 g-ood-natured a man not to feel glad that, in spite of his wife's 
 scruples, he had invited the objectionable neighbour to come; 
 his keen enjovment and his first-rate skating- were pleasant to 
 watch, too. Mr. Ward really felt sorry when, early in the after- 
 noon, he saw him taking- off his skates. 
 
 ' You are leaving- very soon,' he said, kindly. ' I hope it is not 
 on account of luncheon." Won't you come up to the house and 
 have something- ? ' 
 
 The invitation slipped out naturally, the squire found it hard 
 not to be hospitable. But luckily Donovan declined. He never 
 left Dot now for a whole day, and giving- the ordinary excuse 
 of 'an engagement,' he left the kike, the squire of course 
 inviting- him 'to come again the next day, and as long- as the 
 frost lasted. 
 
 Mrs. Ward was much relieved when, on coming down from 
 the house with her daughters and her niece, she found that the 
 object of her alarms was really gone. Everyone was singing his 
 praises — that was a little annoying, certainly — but she learnt 
 Irom her husband that he had been far too much taken up with 
 his figure-cutting to trouble the boys with his company, and 
 with that she was satisfied, and dismissed the subject from her 
 thoughts. 
 
 The next day, however, was not nearly so propitious. To 
 begin with, the girls would go on the ice in the morning, and, 
 though Mrs. Ward hurried over her housekeeping, and followed 
 them as quickly as possible, she found that already the intimacy 
 which she so much dreaded had begun. The first sight that met 
 her eyes as she emerged from the shrubbery was a little knot of 
 people gathered together on the bank. Her husband leaning on 
 his stick and talking jocosely, her younger daughter and her 
 niece, Maggie White, 'just preparing for their first start, and 
 Donovan Farrant kneeling in the snow, putting on her elder 
 daughter's skates. It was very provoking 1 Why had not the 
 girls been more careful ? Why had she not sent down the ser- 
 
72 THE BLACK SHEEP OF OAKDENE. 
 
 vant to help tliem ? Why did her husband stand there so care- 
 lessl}"-, laughing- and talking' ? Her greeting- to Donovan was 
 stiff and chill, but he was much too happy to care ; the day was 
 gloriously fine, the frosty air invigorating-, Mr. Ward and his 
 daughters had been kind and friendly, Mag-gie White was be- 
 witching, for once in his life Donovan was perfectly and healthily 
 happy. He had been on the ice for some time, his usually pale, 
 dark face was all aglow watli the exercise, and his eyes were 
 sparkling- with excitement, he certainly looked most provokingly 
 handsome, and perhaps there was some cause for Mrs. Ward's 
 anxiety. 
 
 ' How could you let him help the gii'ls like that ? ' she said 
 reproachfully, as the skaters glided swiftly away. ' I thought, 
 Edward, you told me he was a regular misanthrope.' 
 
 'Well, I don't see that he has done much harm, my dear,' 
 said the squire. ' Common courtesy would require him to help 
 the ladies, and I'm glad to see him lose that cold proud look ; he 
 was more of a boy to-day.' 
 
 ' I have warned the girls to be careful, but there's no knowing 
 what Maggie will do. She's a dreadful little flirt ! ' and Mrs. 
 Ward looked anxiously across the lake to the place where Dono- 
 van was giving her niece a lesson in the figure eight. 
 
 ' Well,' said the squire, consolingly, ' Maggie's a very nice 
 girl at any rate, and if she is, as you say, a flirt, then you may 
 be pretty sure that she won't get her heart broken. Ah ! here 
 come the Fortescues. We have quite a nice number here to- 
 day j ' and the hospit-able old gentleman hastened forward to 
 receive his friends. 
 
 * You are the only good skater here,' said Maggie, looking up 
 admiringly at her instructor. ' Where did you learn ? And how 
 can you manage to do all those wonderful figures '{ ' 
 
 ' They are only learnt by practice,' said Donovan. ' I learnt 
 at school, and at my old home near London. You can do any- 
 thing- well, if you give your whole will to it.' 
 
 ' Can you i' ' said Maggie. ' I can't. I expect I've had as 
 many weeks of skating as you have had days. I come from 
 Canada, you know ; but I shall never be able to do these figures 
 as you do.' 
 
 It was pleasant to be made much of and flattered; an 
 entirely new experience to Donovan. He thought Magt^ie 
 Wiiite the prettiest and pleasantest girl he had ever seen. They 
 talked on naturally and easily, and it was not surprising perhaps 
 that Donovan was in no hurry to part with his new companion, 
 or that he enjoyed skating rapidly up and down the lake hand in 
 
THE BLACK SHEEP OF OAKDENE. 73 
 
 hand with her more than cuttinj^- figures by himself. Nor did it 
 occur to Maji-g'ie that she was guilty of any great cnoraiity in 
 enjoying- herself too. Once she said, in her pretty way, 
 
 ' I am keeping you from doing what you like, please go away 
 and leave me. I am taking up all your time, and spoiling your 
 skating.' 
 
 And Donovan, though he was no '■ lady's man,' could answer 
 yery truthfully, 
 
 ' You are making me enjoy it perfectly.' 
 
 Then they began to talk again of Canada, and she described 
 all its delights to him. 
 
 ' Such fun we used to have in the skating season. Sometimes 
 we had regular balls on the ice. It was so delightful ! Oh ! 
 Mr. Farrant' — as a sudden thought struck her — ' could we dance 
 now 1 I'm sure you, who skate so beautifully, would waltz to 
 perfection.' 
 
 It was very innocently proposed. In a minute Maggie had 
 proclaimed the news to her cousins as they passed. 
 
 ' We are going to dance. Why don't you 1 ' And then in a 
 minute the deed was done, and Mrs. Ward saw with dismay 
 that Donovan Farrant and her niece were actually dancing- 
 together. 
 
 Ice-waltzing was a novelty at Oakdene, and everyone turned 
 to watch the graceful movements of the little Canadian girl and 
 her partner. Twice they made the circuit of the lake, tlien, as 
 they passed near the bank Avhere Mrs. Ward and one of her 
 daughters were standing, Donovan overheard the words : 
 
 '■ I must stop this. With Donovan Farrant, too— the last 
 person in the world ' 
 
 Maggie felt a quick movement in the arm that was round her 
 waist, and suddenly her partner stopped, saying, in an odd 
 changed voice, 
 
 ' I think Mrs. Ward wishes to speak to you.' 
 
 'Tome? All right, auntie, I'm coming. I won't be a minute, 
 Mr. Farrant.' 
 
 She skated swiftly to the bank, and listened, with downcast 
 eyes, to her aunt's words. 
 
 ' My dear, I don't quite approve of this. I'm sorry to inter- 
 rupt your pleasure, but you must allow me to judge in, this 
 instance.' Then, as Donovan drew near, she turne(l to him, try- 
 ing to convey her meaning as civilly as she could. ' I have been 
 telling my niece that I think perhaps ice-dancing is a little out 
 of place here. You will understand, I am sure, Mr. Farrant.' 
 
 Yes, he understood perfectly. The face which had so lately 
 
74 THE BLACK SHEEP OF OAKDENE. 
 
 been boyishly happy and briglit was suddenly overcast, the eyes 
 saddened, the mouth re-assumed its bitter look, and, without a 
 sing-le word, Donovan raised his hat, turned away, and skated 
 rapidly to the other end of the lake. 
 
 The brightness of the day was gone for him after that. He 
 went on skating", but with no animation. Once young Ned Ward 
 came up and asked him to do the figure of double eight, with 
 which he had been astonishing the cjuiet Oakdene skaters early 
 in the morning, but he complied so moodily that the boy soon 
 left him to seek more genial companions. Then Donovan resolved 
 to go home. He had been repulsed, and, just as it was in his 
 home life, so too, in this instance, one repulse was enough. He 
 had neither enough love nor enough humility to lay himself open 
 again to the chance of a fresh rebuff. After the first, he invari- 
 ably shrank into himself, becoming a little harder, and colder, 
 and more severe in manner. 
 
 He skated to a deserted corner of the lake, climbed the bank, 
 and took off his skates ; then involuntarily he looked back on the 
 animated scene with a sore-hearted regret. The sun was already 
 getting low, though it was not three o'clock ; its level rays cast 
 a red glow over the wide Avhite expanse, dotted here and there 
 by the dark gliding; figures of the skaters. The shore was fringed 
 with tall trees, their black stems serving as a relief to the general 
 whiteness, and their branches drooping gracefully under the 
 heav}^ yet feathery-looking rime. There was an intense stillness 
 in the sharp frosty air, the voices of the merry crowd rang out 
 clearly ; once Donovan felt sure he heard Maggie White's girlish 
 laugh, and it grated on him. But in another minute all his mor- 
 bid and selfish thoughts were suddenly scattered to the winds, 
 for while he was still looking across the lake he saw the ice in the 
 centre bend, then, with one vast booming crack, it parted 
 asunder. In an instant all was confusion. Donovan sprang from 
 the bank, and ran at full speed to the scene of the disaster, all 
 petty and personal feelings driven out by the absorbing general 
 interest and alarm. Several people were in the water, struggling, 
 sinking, rising, vainly clutching at the slippery edges of the 
 broken ice. Those who were safe bent forward helplessly on 
 their skates, trying to reach a hand to their friends in distress, or 
 calling loudly for help, for roj)es, for every sort of aid which was 
 not at hand. Two ladies were submerged ; Donovan coolly 
 selected one of them while he drew oft' his coat, then, without 
 an instant's hesitation, he plunged into the icy water. His ex- 
 ample was speedily followed by Harry Ward, ropes were hastily 
 brought on to the ice^ the rescue began to seem hopeful. Done- 
 
THE BLACK SHEEP OF OAKDENE. 75 
 
 ran was an expert swimmer ; a few strokes brought liim up to the 
 pinking- girl, who, drag'g'cd down by the weight of her clothes, 
 was being- drawn in under the ice. From this he freed her with- 
 out much difficulty, but she was insensible, and he found that to 
 get her out of the water was quite another matter ; he tried 
 several times, but without success ; each time the edges of the 
 ice broke away with the weight, and oil he could do was to keep 
 her head above water, while with increasing- ditficulty he struck 
 out with his free arm. The others had been rescued, or were 
 being- helped, and at length a rope was broug-ht to his aid, a 
 noose was thrown round him and his burden, and after a short 
 fierce struggle, he found himself safely on the ice. 
 
 With a masculine dislike of being- helped, he sprang- quickly 
 to his feet, left his insensible burden to the care of other hands, 
 and looked round for his coat Perhaps those who had seen him 
 helped out with the rope did not know he was a rescuer — perhaps 
 in the excitement and hurry of the moment, he was overlooked ; 
 at any rate, no one spoke to him, and all at once his sore morose 
 feeling- returned with double force. The people were beg-inning- 
 to leave the ice quickly, the girl whom Donovan had rescued 
 began to revive and was carried up to the house ; he turned away 
 in the opposite direction, picked up his skates from the bank where 
 he had left them, and strode fiercely away in the direction of the 
 Manor. He had done his best; one word of praise, or even of 
 recognition, would have sent him home happy, but by some odd 
 chance, even when he deserved commendation, he failed to get it. 
 Probably he would have disliked being- thanked above all things, 
 and yet the absence of gratitude irritated him ; it was unjust, no 
 one ever gave him his due, the world was full of injustice. Over and 
 over in his mind went the weary, bitter, discontented cry ; perhaps 
 his outward condition affected him a little, adding fuel to the llame, 
 for, although he considered himself too philosophic to be troubled 
 by mere bodih' inconveniences, the truth was that he felt them 
 more than most men, though he had great powers of endurance. 
 The icy cold bath which he had just had, and the discomfort of 
 his cold, clinging, dripping clothes, at any rate served to remind 
 him continually of his grievance. He had scarcely passed the 
 Hall gates, when he was roused from his dismal thoughts by an 
 unexpected greeting. 
 
 ' JN^ice bright afternoon,' said old Mr. Hayes, shaking his 
 hand. ' Have you been on the ice ? Ah, yes, I see you have 
 your skates.' 
 
 ' Yes ; there's been an accident,' said Donovan, * so I am 
 going home. The ice on the large lake gave way.' 
 
76 THE BLACK SHEEP OF OAKDENE. 
 
 * Bless me ! — no one hurt, I hope ? Did anyone p;o in ? Why, 
 now I notice you are all wet. Dear, dear ! what a terrible thing" ! 
 How many people fell in ?' 
 
 * I should think about half-a-dozen,' replied Donovan, swing- 
 ing his skates and trying- to look unconcerned. , 
 
 ' And all were rescued ? that's a comfort. And you were 
 helped out quickly, I hope ? ' 
 
 ' Oh ! yes,' said Donovan, too proud to explain, ' I was 
 hauled out.' 
 
 ' Poor fellow ! but what a shock it must have been ! You'll 
 be taking a chill. You must come in with me and have some- 
 thing hot, yes, indeed you must, I'll take no denial. Here we are, 
 you see, at my door. Come in quickly and have something, and 
 then walk home briskly and change. Now what shall it be, 
 whisky-punch or negus ? I'm an abstemious man generally, but 
 this is the real time for such things, wet to the skin and chilled 
 to the bone, dear, dear ! Now come in, come in.' 
 
 Mr. Hayes had not been disabused of the old ideas about 
 alcohol, but, whether he was right or wrong, Donovan's brow 
 gradually relaxed under the influence of the old man's kindness 
 and hospitality ; he followed him obediently into the little villa, 
 which, though only inhabited by the bachelor Mr. Hayes, was as 
 6cru]nilously clean as any old-maid's dwelling. 
 
 Mr. Ha^'es rang the bell in the parlour, all the time making- 
 much of his guest. Coidd he not accommodate him with a change 
 of clothes ? Should he send up to the Manor ? 
 
 A grave, staid housekeeper appeared to answer the bell, and 
 Mr. Hayes perhaps thought it would be well to quicken her 
 movements by telling her the news of the village. 
 
 ' Some hot water and a lemon and some sugar, please, Mrs. 
 Brown. There has been an accident on the ice in the Hall 
 grounds, and this gentleman has been in the water and is very 
 wet.' 
 
 Then the old man went to the cellaret, and, the housekeeper 
 having returned with the other ingredients, he began with infi- 
 nite pleasure and fussiness to make the punch. He would not 
 let Donovan stay for long, but as soon as he had done justice to 
 the steaming beverage, started him on his walk home, with 
 paternal injunctions not to stay about in his wet things, and to 
 be sure to come in again soon and cheer up a solitary old 
 bachelor. 
 
 Donovan smiled to himself at the last speech. Was it not 
 rather the ' solitary old bachelor ' who had cheered him ! The 
 kindness and hospitality drove away for the time his gloomy 
 
THE BLACK SHEEP OF OAKDENE. 77 
 
 thougliTS, but they returned to bim as be entered bis own borne 
 and threw down bis skates. 
 
 ' Good-bye to you, at any rate,' be murmured. * I shall never 
 go tliere auain.' 
 
 Dot, with her quick all-observing eyes, saw at once that 
 something- was wrong" when Donovan came into her room. Yes- 
 terdav he had returned in the highest spirits, that very morning 
 he bad started with the look of bright expectation on bis face 
 which the little sister liked to see, but now he was grave and 
 with the expression which be always wore when any allusion was 
 made to bis school disgrace — the expression which Dot never 
 cared to put into words — a bard bad look. 
 
 ' You are back earlier than you said/ she began. ' Have you 
 not had good skating?' 
 
 ' Yes — no,' he moved away from ber to the fireplace, and 
 kicked the coals in the grate with bis heel. 
 
 ' He never stirs the fire with bis foot except when something 
 is wrong,' sobloquized Dot ; then aloud, 
 
 * Have you seen mamma, Dono V 
 
 'No.' 
 
 It could not be any quarrel then in that quarter. What 
 could have happened.'' He was so disinclined to talk, however, 
 that she did not venture to ask any more questions, and in a 
 minute or two be walked across the room, opened the piano, and 
 bi'gan to practise. He had chosen something of Sebastian 
 Bach's, and laboured away at it, first mechanically and doggedly 
 enough, but by degrees with immense satisfaction and relief to 
 himself A stately, measured, dignified strain it was, with one 
 little fidgety, fugue-like passage ; he played five bars of it over 
 and over till the disappointment, and anger, and moodiness gradu- 
 ally died out of bis heart, and poor Dot began to beg for mercy. 
 
 ' You must have played it a thousand times,' she said, laugh- 
 ing, and Donovan laughed too, left the piano, and came to sit 
 beside ber. 
 
 ' Bach is as good as a tonic,' be said, cheerfully. ' That old 
 fellow always sets me right.' 
 
 She saw now that she might talk to bim, and began to 
 question bim about bis day. He always told her his troubles, 
 but this afternoon be tried to make light of them. 
 
 ' We had a glorious time in the morning, the ice was perfect. 
 About the middle of the time the Miss Wards came down, and 
 tlicir cousin, Miss White, aver}' pretty girl irom Canada. She 
 skated nicely, was much more up lo things than anyone else, and 
 for a little while we danced together. Mrs. Ward did not approve 
 
78 THE BLACK SHEEP OF OAKDENE. 
 
 of that, though, I overheard her sjiy something- not too compli- 
 mentfiry, ancf then she managed somehow to stop it, at Avhich, 
 you know, Dot, I was just a little cross. But, just as I was 
 coming- away, guess what happened.' 
 
 'An accident ! Oh ! was it an accident ?' cried Dot, excitedly. 
 ' And you were hrave and helped the others, and Mrs. Ward was 
 ohliged to like you very much ?' 
 
 He laughed a little, hut rather sadly. 
 
 'No, Dot. You are running- on too fast. I was horn under 
 an unlucky star, and shall never be ahle to win honour or 
 respect.' 
 
 He gave her a detailed account of the whole affair, and was 
 rewarded by her delig-hted pride in his attempted rescue. 
 
 'Dono dear, you ought to have a medal for it, a medal, you 
 know, from the Society for Promoting — what is it ? ' 
 
 ' Cruelty to animals,' suggested Donovan, wickedly. 
 
 * ]\o, no, you bad boy Something- about being " Immane" and 
 they give medals to people who save people's lives. Just fancy, 
 Dono, you could wear it on your v.atch-chain. It would be so 
 nice.' 
 
 ' Too nice for the like of me,' he said, lightly, but with a 
 stifled sigh. 'They keep things of that sort for the good boys.' 
 
 'And no one even thanked you? That was a shame,' said 
 ihe little sister, indignantly. ' Never mind, Dono, you are my 
 hero, my very own, and you're the Jiearest old boy in the world.' 
 
 Perhaps it was as well that the frost only lasted three days 
 longer. The skaters grumbled sadly, but two people at Oakdene 
 were considerably relieved. The one was Mrs. Ward, who 
 rejoiced that ' that dangerous young man ' could not again im- 
 peril her children, the" other was the ' dangerous young man ' 
 himself. But if Donovan did not easily forget injustice, neither 
 did he forget even the most trifling piece of kindness. After his 
 next day's shooting, he left a brace of pheasants at old Mr. 
 Hayes' door, and this made an opening for a further acquaintance. 
 Mr. Hayes wrote to ask him to dinner, and, as such invitations were 
 rare, Donovan was pleased enough to go. It was a tetc-a-tite dinner. 
 Old IMr. Hayes was past sixty, and Donovan not yet nineteen, 
 l)ut, in spite of this disparity in age, the evening- was a very 
 pleasant one, and did him good. It was a fresh interest, an in- 
 sight into a new home, and also into a life whose simplicity, 
 kindliness, and content could not fail to strike the most casual 
 observer. 
 
 Mr. Hayes lived very frugally as a rule. The g-ame was an 
 unwouted luxury, and his evident appreciation of it was very 
 
THE BLACK SHEEP OF OAKDENE. 79 
 
 pleasant to Donovan. He himself had a hearty but philosophic 
 ajipetite, to wliich nothing- came amiys, dainty discrimination was 
 not at all in his line, but ho enjoyed watching- old Mr. Hayes 
 discuss his present, g-lad that what had been pleasure to him in 
 the shooting; should be real pleasure to some one else in the 
 eating". 
 
 ' You are like Squire Thornhill in " The Vicar of Wakefield," ' 
 said Mr. Hayes, when the housekeeper had removed the g'ame, 
 * who brought his own venison with him when he dined at the 
 vicarage. What ! You don't know the book ? Is it possible ? 
 U'ell, I suppose it's old and behind the times now ; but, my 
 word ! how I have laug'hed over it, and cried, too, for the matter 
 of that. " Moses at the Fair," and then " Ohvia ! " Ah! he was 
 a grand fellow, old Goldsmith. There are no such writers now- 
 a-days.' 
 
 Then by-and-by some question of Donovan's drew out an 
 account of Mr. Hayes' former life, the rough discipline of the 
 old boarding-schools, the early drudgery in a merchant's office, 
 his gradual advance till he had become a partner in the firm, the 
 losses they had had in the time of the Crimean War, finally his 
 ill-health, and his retirement, with a modest income, to the little 
 country villa. A life of toil, and care, and hardship, with what 
 seemed to Donovan a very slight reward, but which the old man 
 hjmself evidently considered quite sufficient. 
 
 ' And now, you see,' he concluded, ' when my health is un- 
 certain, and I can't do what I once could, why, here I have a 
 cosy little berth to myself, with no cares or anxieties. It was 
 always my castle in the air, this, a little house in a country 
 village, with a bit of garden, and a place to keep fowls in. The 
 thought of this helped me through years of care and labour. 
 Always remember to have your castle in the aii'. That's my 
 advice to you.' 
 
 ' What is the use, sir, if it never comes to anything'? Except 
 at cards, the luck is against me always. And is there not a 
 proverb, "Blessed is he that expecteth nothing-" ?' 
 
 ' Well, well,' said Mr. Hayes, ' perhaps you're the wiser and 
 more rational. I don't know exactly about expecting — you must 
 expect very patiently, at any rate. But a "castle" is a great 
 blessing- ; I should miss mine sadly.' 
 
 ' You have a new one, then ? ' said Donovan, amused. 
 
 ' Oh, yes ; Switzerland will be my next move. I've been 
 saving up for it this long- time, and I've mapped out my route, 
 and chosen what hotels to go to, and calculated just what it will 
 cost ; and then, you know, when I meet with travellers, I get 
 
80 'tied to his mother's apron-strings.' 
 
 bints from tliem, and put them down in my note-book. New 
 this is what I intend to do, starting;, you know, from Newhaven 
 to Dieppe,' ifec, &c. 
 
 The whole tour was detailed with enthusiastic delig-ht, and 
 Donovan listened, unable to help admiring; the child-like, con- 
 tented old man. 
 
 * And when do you think your " castle " will come off, sir ? ' 
 he asked, when the whole plan had been related. 
 
 ' Oh ! that I can't tell at all,' said Mr. Haj^es, rubbing' his 
 hands. ' I have not saved enough yet ; but won't it be a grand 
 tour ! Come, own that it's a " castle " worth having" ? ' 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 'tied to his mother's apron-strinos.' 
 
 Now a boy is, of all wild beasts, the most difficult to manage. 
 
 Plato. 
 
 * You see, dear Mrs. Tremain, one must be so careful with boys ; 
 there are so many temptations into which they are likely to fall, 
 and, humanly speaking-, there is no such careful and saving 
 influence as a mother's.' 
 
 The speaker, Mrs. Causton, was a middle-ag-ed lady, with 
 no-coloured hair broug-lit low on each side of her brow, and a 
 rather careworn face, which expi-essed kindly intentions, but yet 
 at the same time seemed a little formal. An old friend of Dr. 
 Tremain's, and the wife of a naval officer, she had lately settled 
 down at Porthkerran in order to be with her son Stephen, a boy 
 of nineteen, who was to spend a year in Dr. Tremain's surg-ery 
 before going- up to London to ' walk the hospitals.' Mrs. Caus- 
 ton was such a near neighbour that she was an almost daily 
 visitor at the doctor's house, and her easy informal comings and 
 goings never interfered with anything that was going on. The 
 two ladies were sitting by the open window of the breakfast- 
 room one warm summer morning, when Mrs. Causton made the 
 remark about ' a mother's influence ; ' Mrs. Tremain, with the 
 daintiest and most exquisitel}^ neat workbox before her, was busy 
 with some folds of blue cambric, out of which her skilful and 
 therefore graceful looking hands were devising one of little 
 
'tied to his mother's apron-strinos.* ^i 
 
 Nesta's frocks ; and Gladys, at the far end of the room, was 
 g-iving^ Jackie a reading--lc&son. 
 
 * And yet,' began Mrs. Tremain, in answer, ' I can't help 
 thinking- that a certain amount of independence is almost neces- 
 sary ; a boy must learn sooner or later to stand alone.' 
 
 ' Yes, yes, sooner or later, of course. Stephen must be alone 
 in London next year. I wish it could be otherwise ; but you 
 know I never could be in London, unfortunately ; the air is like 
 })oison to me. He must be alone thou, but I can't help dreading 
 it very much ; he has scarcely ever been away from me, not for 
 more "than a few days at a time in his whole life. I could never 
 make up my mind"^ to send him to school ; there are so many 
 temptations in school life; I always dreaded it for Stephen.' 
 
 * One wants a great deal of faith with children,' said Mrs. 
 Tremain ; and as she spoke, though the words were by no means 
 lii;htly meant, there was a little smile of amusement about 
 her lips, for she knew she was poaching- on Mrs. Causton's 
 manor. 
 
 ' Ah ! dear Mrs, Tremain, no one knows that better than I do ; 
 it is faith from the beginning- to the end, how else could one bear 
 
 the anxieties, the Well, Jackie dear,' as the sturdy little 
 
 four-year-old boy, released from his lessons, sprang- towards her 
 with "the affectionate rough demonstration of arms and leg-s com- 
 mon to most children of his ag-e. 
 
 ' Aunt Margaret,' said Gh'Jys, for, though Mrs. Causton was 
 no real relation, the children had known her all their lives, and 
 had christened her ' auntie,' in American fashion — ' Aunt Mar- 
 garet, what would you have done if Stephen had had to go to 
 sea like Dick ? ' 
 
 ' My dear, I could never have allowed it,' said Mrs. Causton, 
 quickly. ' Of course, naturally enough, at one time Stephen did 
 wish to go with his father, but it could never have been allowed. 
 From the very first I determined that he should be a clergyman 
 or a doctor, the only thoroughly good and Christian professions, 
 to my mind.' 
 
 ' Oh ! but, auntie, think of the number of good men there are 
 in other professions,' said Gladys, with girlish vehemence, pro- 
 voked by the narrowness of the remark. 
 
 ' I like a consistent calling,' said Mrs. Causton, ' and you 
 know, Gladys, humanly speaking, it is often difficult to lead a 
 consistent life in a more secular profession.' 
 
 Gladys was silenced but not satisfied. When Mrs. Causton 
 had gone she returned to the subject. 
 
 * Mother, Aunt Margaret seems to think that very few people 
 
 a 
 
82 'tied to his motheh's apron-strings.* 
 
 are Christians. She talks as if all the world, except just a few 
 people like herself, were wicked.' 
 
 * Your aunt has very strong- opinions. I do not agree with 
 her alwa3's,' said Mrs. Tremain. ' Nor need you, Gladys.' 
 
 ' But, mother, it's so tiresome to have to hear people say 
 thing's like that, it's so — so narrow ! What would she do if there 
 were only two professions in the world, if every man was a 
 clergyman or a doctor ? And if the other things must be done 
 and seen to, why, it must be rig'ht for some one to do them.' 
 
 ' Do you know,' said Mrs. Tremain, smiling-, ' that you are a 
 very hot little arg'uer, Gladys ? I fancy, like most women, that 
 you have just a little personal feeling- mixed with your views. 
 Were you not thinking* of Dick when the other professions were 
 being decried? ' 
 
 ' You always know everything-,' said Gladys, resting- her arm 
 on Mrs. Tremain's knee, and shading- her brow with her hand. 
 ' Yes, I wi.i' tiiirtking- of Dick. I believe he's the best middy in 
 all the navy. You know, mother, what Captain Smith said 
 about him. I'm sure he is worth ten Stephens ! ' 
 
 ' We are getting- rather little and personal,' said Mrs. Tre- 
 main. ' Don't let us take to crying up our own belongings, and 
 comparing them with other people's. Of course you are proud of 
 Dick, dear, and so am I, but he is not a paragon of virtue.' 
 
 ' Oh, no ! I can't bear paragons,' said Gladys, laughing, ' they 
 are always prigs. Dick is a regular boy still, that's why he's so 
 nice. I wonder whether Aunt Margaret thinks it very risky for 
 him to be left to himself so much. I believe Stephen wants to 
 be let alone a little, he always looks so bored when auntie begins 
 to talk at him. You know, mother, she really does talk rather 
 much, she always tries to drag in religion, and sometimes it does 
 come in so oddly. And then she is'always saying "humanly 
 speaking." I can't bear those little phrases. I think auntie must 
 be descended from some of the old Puritans. I'm sure she'd 
 have liked those funny, made-up names. She chose Stephen's 
 name because it was in the Bible, and she thinks Gladys sounds 
 so like a heathen. She wonders you and papa chose it for me.' 
 Ml s. Tremain laughed. 
 
 ' Well, Gladys dear, live up to the best meaning of your 
 name, and I shall be quite satisfied. Now let us have our read' 
 ing together. The weather looks promising for our picnic this 
 afternoon, does it not ? ' 
 
 Later in the day the whole family, including Stephen and Mrs. 
 Causton, were to meet for an out-of-doors tea-drinking. It was 
 a half-holiday, and the two younger boys, intervening between 
 
'tied to his mother's apron-strings,' 83 
 
 Dick and little Jackie, were to come over from their scliool at 
 riymouth. The doctor had promised to get his rounds done 
 quickly, and Stephen was released from his duties for an hour or 
 two. To children, and to child-like minds, it is seldom that a 
 great expedition or an expensive picnic gives the pleasure Avhich 
 a more simple and homely one does. It is not the great, formal, 
 country excursion, with its grand toilettes and champagne lunch, 
 which dwells in the memory, and is looked back upon with 
 pleasure, it is rather the simple ' day in the country,' when there 
 were no liveried servants to carry the provisions, when our own 
 arms ached with the burden, when, with a sense of delicious 
 novelty, we oiirselves spread the cloth on the turf, or boiled the 
 kettle "over a gipsy-like fire of sticks, or roamed in delightful 
 freedom in what seemed a paradise of rest and greenness, away 
 from the ' haunts of men.' 
 
 About two miles west of Porthkerran the cliffs were broken 
 into a sort of cleft or narrow valley, and here a beautiful wood 
 had sprung up, which in spring was carpeted with primroses and 
 anemones, and where in summer forget-me-nots were to be found 
 by the side of the little stream which trickled through the wood 
 to the sea. It was in this space that the Tremains were to spend 
 their afternoon. 
 
 ' It was very good of you to spare Stephen,' said Mrs. Causton 
 to the doctor, as he helped her out of the little pony-carriage, in 
 which the elder ladies and the two younger children had come. 
 ' I sometimes fancy that he does not get out enough. I hope he 
 deserves his holiday ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, a little country air will freshen him up,' said the doctor, 
 without replying directly to the question. 
 
 The mother's instinct was quick to note this, 
 
 ' I hope you are really satisfied with Stephen ? ' she said, 
 anxiously. ' I hope he isn't idle ? ' 
 
 ' Oh,' said the doctor, re-assuringly, * I don't think he's more 
 idle than many boys of his age. I daresay he told you that I was 
 down upon him rather sharply yesterday. He forgot an important, 
 message, and I was obliged to lecture him a little.' 
 
 ' He never told me,' said Mrs. Causton, with some vexation 
 in her tone. ' I would always so much rather know things of 
 that kind. I cannot get him to be open with me.' 
 
 ' You can hardly expect that he will tell you of every 
 trifling scrape he gets into,' said Dr. Tremain. ' That was all 
 very well while he was in petticoats, and the more spontaneous 
 telling there is still the better, but perhaps one can hardly look 
 for It in such a matter as that.' 
 
 q2 
 
84 *TIED TO HIS mother's APRON-STRINGS.' 
 
 ' I like 'perfect confidence between a mother and sou,' said 
 Mrs. Causton. ' Who should help him and advise him, if I do 
 not?' 
 
 ' Quite so. It is everything- to have strong sympathy and 
 understanding, but forced confidence is worthless, and a boy of 
 nineteen is generally ratlier a tough customer to deal with' 
 ' You think so V questioned Mrs. Causton. 
 'Yes, I think undoubtedly that from eighteen to one-and- 
 twenty is one of the most difficult periods of life. Boys, and in 
 many instances girls too, begin then to have a good deal of 
 liberty. The old disciphne is cast off, they have to rule their own 
 actions to a great extent, they have to face the problems of life, 
 and forming their own opinion strongly on every point, whether 
 it is beyond their comprehension or not, they battle along not 
 unfrequently a misery to themselves and to their friends, till, 
 after dearly- bought experience, they at last settle down, more or 
 less contentedly, with some of their conceit knocked out of tliem.' 
 
 ' Stephen is not conceited,' broke in Mrs. Causton. ' I don't 
 think anyone could call him conceited ; and as to his opinions, 
 why he holds everything that I do. He has never been any 
 trouble to me in that Avay, and in these days, when young men f^o 
 often hold such dreadfully unorthodox views, that is saying a 
 great deal.' 
 
 ' I don't think Stephen is in any danger of being unorthodox,' 
 said the doctor, rather drily. Then after a little pause he added, 
 ' I meant that I don't think he ever thinks enough to have any 
 difficulties. But in one way, Mrs. Causton, I do think he might 
 be in danger, he is far too easily led.' 
 
 ' He is naturally gentle and pliable,' said Mrs. Causton. She 
 would not say ' weak.' 
 
 ' And there is, I think, his danger,' said the doctor. ' Old 
 John Bunyan showed a wonderful knowledge of life when he 
 made Pliable the one to^^gg half-way into the Slough of Despond, 
 and never wan through it. I don't want to make you anxious 
 about Stephen, but of course, since the lad's been with me, he's 
 been in my mind a good deal, and I can't help thinking that he 
 wants more of a backbone; he has not enough steadiness; he is 
 too loose in his manngement of himself. I do not think he knows 
 how to steer his own course.' /^ 
 
 'But I am still with him; he cannot go wrong now very 
 well,' said Mrs. Causton. 
 
 ' But you cannot always be with him,' replied the doctor. 
 * Depend upon it, the best thing you can do is to teach him sclf- 
 manageraent. There is an old saying, which of course you know. 
 
'tied to his mother's apron-stuings.' 85 
 
 about the child who is "tied to his mother's apron-strin;4s;" 
 perhaps it seems cruel of me to quote such a rough simile to you, 
 l)ur, you see, there is danger iu it — it makes a boy weak and 
 helpless, instead of bracing- him for his part in life, as I know 
 you and all g-ood mothers would wish to do.' 
 
 'Well, what shall I tell him?— Avhat is his chief fault in his 
 work ? ' said Mrs. Causton, with the rather fretted manner of one 
 taking- uncong-enial advice. 
 
 'Don't bother him — let him alone a little,' said the doctor, 
 cheerfully. ' Some day I mean to g-ive him a good blowing- up ; 
 he must learn to keep the surgery more tidy.' 
 
 Mrs. Causton was a little annoyed at this sudden descent to 
 what seemed to her such a trifling and mundane matter, but Dr. 
 Tremain's next sentence cleared her brow once more. 
 
 ' You must not mind my talking so plainly to you about the 
 boy ; you see, I've been his father's friend ever since we were 
 lads together, and so I can't help taking a special interest in 
 Stephen. But don't let us spoil our afternoon's pleasuring with 
 educational bothers. Where will you and the mother sit? 
 Here is a nice tree ready felled — what do you say to that ? I 
 shall leave you to gossip while I go mothing.' 
 
 So the doctor, taking his butteriiy-net, walked off into the 
 wood, tapping the tree-trunks every now and then in search of 
 spoil, and closely followed by Jackie, who promised to be as keen 
 a naturalist as his father. 
 
 Mrs. Tremain took out her knitting, and, while talking with 
 her companion, kept an eye on little Nesta, wlio was now more 
 than a year old, and just beginning to run alone. From their 
 place the two ladies could catch glimpses of the deep blue of the 
 Porthkerran Bay through the overhanging trees, while occasion- 
 ally merry voices in the distance told of the presence of the 
 children. The quiet country stillness was very refreshing, but 
 Mrs. Causton could not quite free herself from the uncomfortable 
 impression which the doctor's words had left on her mind; had 
 she been able to see into her son's heart at that moment, her 
 anxiety would have been still greater. 
 
 ' How jolly this is ! ' said Stephen, as, leaving the dusty high- 
 way, they entered the cool green shade of the wood. ' I used to 
 think it must be so dull down here at Porthkerran ; it seemed 
 Hke the ends of the earth when we were living in Sussex.' 
 
 ' Cornwall is the best place in the world,' said Gladys, with 
 pride. ' I can't think how people can live in places where tho^j 
 have to wear gloves always, and walk about in their best clothes.' 
 
 ' I thought girls always liked dress,' said Stephen. 
 
86 'tied to his mother's apron-strings.' 
 
 ' Oh ! yes, of course, in a way ; it is nice to have pretty 
 things, hut not to he always hothered with them,' said Gladys, 
 stooping down to gather some forget-me-nots. 
 
 The younger hoys had wandered on in front. Stephen was 
 not sorry to he leit hehind, for he was rapidly gliding into love 
 with Gladys. He gave to her now the confidence which his 
 mother had so much wished for. 
 
 ' Sometimes I think, Gladys, that I shall be obliged to go 
 away from here,' he began — 'before my year is over, I mean.' 
 
 ' Oil, will you ? ' said Gladys. 
 
 ' Would you — would you be sorry if I went ? ' questioned 
 Stephen, anxiously. 
 
 ' Of course,' said Gladys, with almost more frankness than 
 he desired — ' dreadfully sorry. We should all miss you ; and 
 besides. Aunt Margaret has taken the house now,' 
 
 It was too general and prosaic a view to please Stephen j 
 however, he continued — 
 
 ' I fancy your father is not pleased with me ; he was awfully 
 vexed yesterday.' 
 
 * Was he ? Why was that ? ' asked Gladys, looking up with 
 innocent S3^mpathy. 
 
 ' Why, they sent'up word from the inn that Mary Pengelly 
 was much worse, and I forgot to tell him.' 
 
 ' Oh, Stephen ! and did it matter much ? ' 
 
 ' I don't know. I don't think it could have made much 
 difference. She died this morning.' 
 
 There was a little silence after this, then Gladys said, 
 
 ' I've often noticed that papa is more vexed by carelessness 
 than by great big faults, and you see, Stephen, this might have 
 been so dreadful, if he could have saved her by going earlier.' 
 
 ' Oh, I don't think he could. She's been supposed to be dying 
 for a week. Don't look so awfully grave, Gladys, I shall be 
 very careful, of course, after this. I mean to turn over a new 
 leaf. You don't know how I should hate to leave this place. 
 You don't know how I care for — for you all.' 
 
 The colour had risen to the roots of his hair, and Gladys for 
 the first time caught his meaning. Half pleased, half frightened, 
 her strongest impulse was to run away, to put a stop somehow to 
 the tete-a-tete ; for the first time she felt that there was a difference 
 between walking alone with Dick and walking alone with Stephen, 
 and, with a sudden shyness which she had never known before, 
 she looked about for some way of escape. 
 
 A brilliant butterfly fluttered past her, and, with relief in her 
 voice, she said quickly, 
 
DOT VERSUS THE WOULD. 87 
 
 *01i! I do believe there is that rare "blue" which Jackie 
 wanted. I must catch him.' 
 
 And, while Stci)hcn wished all the rare ' blues ' at the other 
 side of the world, C)ilad3's sprang' across the little brook, running 
 in swift pursuit of her victim. Stephen sauntered on rather dis- 
 contentedly, but taking- care not to lose sight of the brown holland 
 and blue ribbons, which Hashed rapidly hither and thither in the 
 chase, threading- the woody labyrinth. When at last he came up 
 with her, the butterfly was secured, and the rest of the party were 
 in sig-ht. 
 
 Then came the merry preparations for tea ; the boys g-athered 
 sticks and nursed the flickering- blaze, Gladys began to spread 
 bread and honey, like the queen in the nursery rhyme, and Dr. 
 Tremain, returning- with his prey in a dozen little boxes, devoted 
 himself to making- jokes for Mrs. Causton's benefit, and good- 
 naturedly entered into all the children's arrang-ements, thoug-h, 
 like most middle-aged men, he hated the discomforts of an out- 
 door meal. The most noteworthy incident in the day to Stephen 
 was that afterwards as they were still resting- in the shade, from 
 time to time singing- rounds and catches, Gladys began to make 
 her forget-me-nots into tiny nosegays. There was one for every- 
 body, but the greater number of them were destined to ' bloom 
 their hour and fade,' only one was carefully preserved among 
 Stephen's iintitly haunts. There was this much of good in him, 
 that he was capable of recognizing- Gladys' beauty and goodness, 
 but unfortunately she did not greatly influence him. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 DOT VERSUS THE WORLD. 
 
 She was sent forth 
 To bring tliat liglit which never wintry blast 
 Blows out, nor rain nor snow extinguishes — 
 The light that shines with loving eyes upon 
 Eyes that love back, till they can see no more. 
 
 Landon. 
 A little child shall lead them. 
 
 Book of the Prophet Isaiah. 
 
 It is an old saying, and perhaps a truism, that self-sacrifice 
 always brings its reward ; not exactly the substantial reward 
 promised in a certain moral song which is put into the lips of 
 
88 DOT VERSUS THE WORLD. 
 
 children, in which a charitable loaf-giver is represented as re- 
 ceiving ' As much and ten times more/ but a reward in some 
 form perhaps hardly understood now, but no less real because we 
 cannot grasp or fathom it. In one sense great gain is consistent 
 with loss, perhaps follows upon it almost as closely as joy follows 
 upon pain. 
 
 It was not a tangible reward which Donovan's self-sacrifice 
 met with. Our highest and best gifts are never tangible, but 
 it was a reward which was one of the best and most lasting 
 influences of his life. When he resolved to devote himself to 
 Dot, instinctively his thoughts grew less morbid and selfish. 
 Ilis life, which seemed so purposeless and useless, twined itself 
 round her life, and found the object it needed. His creed indeed 
 rcmnined unaltered ; the angry sense of injustice still lurked in 
 his heart, but everything was now subservient to the one ruling 
 interest, and, through all the bad influences which were besetting 
 him continually during the two years which elapsed after his 
 father's death, the unconscious loving influence of the little child 
 kept its hold upon him. 
 
 Ilis was a nature formed either for great good or for great 
 evil. Whatever he did he did thoroughly; whether it was the 
 reading of a fairy tale to Dot, or the mastery of some ditKcult 
 passage of music, or his nightly card-playing" at the Greyi^hot 
 Club: he bent hisAvhole will to the work, intent upon making what- 
 ever he was engaged upon a masterpiece of its kind. In spite, 
 then, of all the evil at work within him and without, Donovan 
 had really improved. At twenty, he was far more manly, more 
 tender and considerate, and, though his selfreliance was still 
 unshaken, he was no longer the self-absorbed, gloomy, taciturn 
 fellow he had been. To make himself companionable to Dot, he 
 had been forced to rouse himself; abstract speculations, long, 
 dismal reveries, were incompatible with the line of life which he 
 had marked out for himself. What might have done very well 
 among the Alps, must be avoided in the little invalid's room, and 
 he exerted himself with such firmness of purpose that in spite of 
 his natural tendency to melancholy, and the bitter spirit which his 
 early education had produced, he became bright and cheerful, 
 sometimes even merry. This was, of course, when he was with 
 her ; at other times he was often sadly moody, and the coldness 
 with his mother increased rather than diminished; indeed, he 
 saw very little of her, for, when Dot did not need him, he could 
 always find amusement at Greyshot, though his passion for cards 
 did not lead him among the very best com])anions. 
 
 And all the time Mrs. Farrant allowed herself to drift down 
 
DOT VERSUS THE WORLD. 89 
 
 tlie stream of life placidly. The world seemed to her a little dull, 
 but no doubt other pe()i)le found it so. She had many comforts ; 
 she would not complain. In what she considered peaceful and 
 virtuous content, she stroked Fido, received visitors, drove out in 
 her victoria, and read lig-ht literature. Twice a day she visited 
 Dot's room; a sort of duty call, which both mother and child took 
 as a matter of course, but did not in the least care for ; and occa- 
 sionally Donovan occupied her thoujihts for a few minutes. She 
 would feel a sort of pride and pleasure as she noticed what a fine- 
 looking- fellow he was, or would be vexed and annoyed that the 
 neighbours shunned him, but it never occurred to her that she 
 was at all responsible for him, that it was through her neglect 
 and unraotherliness that he was driven away from home to spend 
 his evenings at a disreputable club. 
 
 In the second spring after Colonel Farrant's death, it was 
 arraug-ed that the Oakdene family should g-o up to town for the 
 season. Mrs. Farrant had left otf her weeds. Ellis and Adela 
 urged them to come up for at least a few weeks, and as the house 
 in Connaught Square, which had been let for the last two years, 
 was now at liberty, there seemed no reason against it. Donovan 
 was g-lad enough to g-o. He had beg-un to crave for a chang-e of 
 scene, and, though he was too unsociable and silent to care for 
 the sort of gaieties which his mother enjoyed, London otFered 
 many other attractions to him. 
 
 Dot's room was in the front of the house, that she might have 
 the benefit of the srpiare garden, and, when she had recovered 
 from the fatigue of the journey, she was able thoroug-hly to enjoy 
 the change. Donovan had not noticed how very thin and weak she 
 had g-rown lately. He was never away from her, and so did not 
 see the chang-e as a fresh comer would have done. It was a 
 chance word of Adela Farrant's which first drew his attention to 
 the fact. 
 
 ' Why, my poor little Dot,' she exclaimed, coming; into the 
 room a few days after their arrival, 'how thin and white you have 
 grown ; you're just like a little shadow. What have you been 
 doing- to her, Donovan ? ' 
 
 The light tones and the smiling face of the speaker were a 
 strang-e contrast to the startled abrupt interrogative which escaped 
 Donovan, and the look of pain which came over his face. 
 
 ' You think her changed ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, very much ; I believe, dear, they've kept you mewed up 
 in the country a great deal too long. Y''ou wanted a little 
 change and amusement. Y'ou wanted me to look after you, now 
 didn't you ? ' 
 
90 DOT VERSUS THE WORLD. 
 
 Conscious that she had made rather an unfortunate remark, 
 Adela talked on g-ood-naturedly to the little girl, and once or 
 twice tried to draw Donovan into the conversation ; he did not 
 seem to hear her, hut stood leaning- ag-ainst the wall at the foot 
 of Dot's couch, looking- at her with a sad, anxious, pained scrutiny. 
 Adela's -n^ords had sent a cold chill to his heart ? Was it true ? 
 Was Dot really chang-ed ? Was she more fragile and delicate- 
 looking than usual ? He tried to look at her as if he were a 
 stranger, tried to find the bare undisguised truth. 
 
 Dot was now twelve years old, though her little helpless form 
 was so tiny that she looked more like a child of eight; he seemed 
 never to have really looked at her before, and, though he knew 
 every line of her face by heart, its beauty had never^ before 
 struck him. She had always been to him just Dot herself, it had 
 never entered his head to think whether she was pretty or not. 
 She wore a loose white dress, and over her feet was spread a 
 many-coloured Indian shaAvl, the same shawl which he remem- 
 bered seeing in the ayah's arms on that day of wretchedness and 
 disappointment in his childhood. The window was open, and the 
 summer wind played with her soft brown hair as it lay on the 
 pillow ; he noticed a strange waxen look about the little childish 
 face, and the beauty of the rounded serene forehead, with its too 
 apparent network of blue veins, the soft grey-brown eyes, the 
 tender little smiling mouth, struck him as it had never struck him 
 before. It could never be, oh ! surely it could never be, that she 
 would be taken from him ! Fate had been so cruel to him, it 
 would surely leave him the one thing he cared for still ! The 
 mere thought caused him such agony that he could hardly contain 
 himself; it was only from his habitual self-control, and from his 
 love to Dot, that he could force a smile to his lips as she looked 
 up at him ap})ealingly. 
 
 'Done, do you hear what we are saying? We are saying you 
 must go out more while you are here. Cousin Adela says you 
 are very unsociable.' 
 
 ' Yes, you are a regular bear,' said Adela. ' I'm quite ashamed 
 of you, sir, you've no excuse whatever. With your advantages 
 you might turn the heads of half the girls in town.' 
 
 ' A desirable employment,' said Donovan, veiling- far deeper 
 feelings with a sarcastic smile. 
 
 * There, I told you he was a bear ! See how he speaks to 
 me ! ' said Adela, with mock anger. 
 
 ' I beg your pardon,' he said, laughing. ' But if that is the 
 " whole duty of man," it's beyond me ; I can't turn neat compli- 
 ments to pretty women, it's not in me. Some fellows are born 
 
DOT VERSUS THE WOULD. 9.1 
 
 to it, it comes as naturally to tliem as card- playing- coinos to me. 
 One can't go against nature.' 
 
 ^You ought to do your duty,' said Adela, -with playful 
 severity. 
 
 ' And if I were to ask, like Fronde's cat, " What ts my duty ? " 
 you would answer, I suppose, like the sagacious animals in the 
 parable, "Get your own dinner," and add, perhaps, "at some 
 grand house belonging to one of the ' upper ten.' " That is my 
 duty, I suppose.' 
 
 ' lie is talking riddles to me, Dot,' said Adela, smiling. ' What 
 cat does he mean ? ' 
 
 ' Oh ! the cat in " Short Studies on Great Subjects," ' said Dot, 
 readily. 'Such a jolly story it is! The cat wanted to know 
 what was the good of life, and everyone gave her such funny 
 answers. The owl said, " Meditate, oh ! cat," and so she tried to 
 think which could have come first, the fowl or the eg(:r. Dono 
 laughed over that story more than I ever saw him laugh before.' 
 
 'But to return to the charge,' said Adela, ' why were you not 
 at Lady Temple's last night ? ' 
 
 ' Because I've forsworn such vanities,' said Donovan, content- 
 edly. ' The night before I dutifully attended my mother to three 
 fashionable crowds — " perpendiculars " is the best name for them, 
 for there is seldom more than standing room — and, as we elbowed 
 our way through the third set of rooms, I made up my mind that 
 society wasn't in my line.' • 
 
 ' People never know when they're well off,' said Adela. 
 * Many men would be thankful enough to be in your shoes, and 
 to be introduced to such a good circle, and, instead of making the 
 most of your advantages, you think of nothing but those wicked 
 cards.' 
 
 ' Of course it is very wicked indeed to think of such things as 
 whist, or loo, or euchre ; instead of that my cousin would wish 
 me to spend my evenings in the virtuous employment of talking- 
 nonsense in aristocratic drawing-rooms, or liirting in ball-rooms,' 
 said Donovan, with a satirical smile. 
 
 * Your cousin would wish you to be a great deal more polite,' 
 said Adela, laughing, ' and she does not like to be snapped up in 
 that way, for all the" world as if you were a machine for cutting 
 people's words up — a chaif-cutter ! ' 
 
 ' At any rate, I was not chaffing,' said Donovan, relapsing 
 into good humour. 
 
 'Did vou ever know anything like him?' said Adola, with 
 another laugh. ' He can make as many bad puns as ordinary 
 men when he tries, but let him bo in society, and he's a bear — a 
 
92 DOT VERSUS THE WORLD. 
 
 gloomy Spanish don— more morose and formal and stupid than 
 anyone I have met in my whole life.' 
 
 ' You mustn't scold him,' said Dot, not quite understanding 
 the banter, and hurt that anyone should think Donovan other- 
 wise than perfect ; ' you don't know a bit how good he is if you 
 say tliat. When I was so ill six months ago, he w^as with me 
 almost always, and often he used to sit up all night with me.' 
 
 ' I didn't know you had' been ill — worse, at least,' said Adela. 
 
 ' Yes ; it was in the autumn, when Cousin Ellis had come 
 down for the shooting, and Dono missed ever so many days because 
 he wouldn't leave me. Dono is the best nurse in the world ; his 
 hands are so clever, they never hurt like Doery's, and, do you 
 know, once our old doctor wondered how it was he was so quick 
 and clever and steady-handed, and Dono told him it was because 
 he played billiards so much.' 
 
 ' Some advantages, you see, Cousin Adela, in being a born 
 gamester,' said Donovan, with rather a sad smile, as he looked 
 down at Dot's little weak fingers wreathing themselves in and 
 out of his. 
 
 ' Well, I'm glad you can turn into a sick- nurse,' said Adela. 
 
 * You have brought out a new side of his character, Dot, and 
 deserve a vote of thanks.' 
 
 ' Oh ! and Waif brought it out too,' said Dot, eagerly. 
 
 * Waif had the distemper dreadfully last year — he nearly died. 
 The vetchi — what do you call the animal-doctor ? — said that he 
 would have died if Dono hadn't taken such care of him ; he 
 sat up with him two nights, and that saved his life. Isn't Waif 
 a dear dog, cousin ? ' 
 
 ' Well, I don't think he's a beauty,' said Adela, looking down 
 at the fox-terrier, who was licking his master's hand. 
 
 ' He can do lots of tricks, though,' said Dot ; ' he's wonder- 
 fully clever, and he loves Dono so ! ' 
 
 ' Have you seen Ellis's new dog ? ' asked Adela, who rather 
 wanted to bring the conversation round to her brother. ' He has 
 a new retriever. I suppose you have seen Ellis himself, have you 
 not?' 
 
 'Well, yes, seeing that he's been in here every day,' said 
 Donovan, not in his pleasantest tone. 
 
 ' Oh ! but, you're such an unsociable fellow,' said Adela. * One 
 might be in the house for hours and not see you. Ellis said some- 
 thing about meeting me here at five o'clock. I think I had 
 better go downstairs and see if he has come.' 
 
 * Oh ! stay with Dot a little longer,' said Donovan. ' I dare- 
 say he has not come yetj I'll go and see.' 
 
DOT VERSUS TIIR WORLD. C3 
 
 Adcla consented to stay on, and Donovan, Avith Waif at liis 
 heels, went downstairs. Opening- the dra\ving--room door uncon- 
 cernedly, and hastily glancing- round to see if his cousin were 
 there, he was suddenly confronted by a sight so unc'X[)Ccted, so 
 disag-reeahly startling-, that for a moment he stood rooted m the 
 spot, unable to speak or move. His mother, half smiling-, half 
 tearful, had both her hands clasped in Ellis Farrant's : he was 
 kneeling- beside her in such a theatrical attitude that, if Donovan 
 had not been altogether dismayed and astounded, he must have 
 been amused. 
 
 Mrs. Farrant, looking up, saw her son, and, with a sudden 
 blush, beg-an nervously, ' Oh, Donovan ! ' then, turning- to Ellis, 
 faltered, ' You must tell him.' 
 
 It was not a pleasant task, but Ellis, in the triumph of his 
 victory, could afford to meet a trifling- annoyance of this sort. 
 With much real trepidation carefully hidden beneath his most 
 jaunty manner, he crossed the room to the mute statue-like form, 
 which would not move a hair's-breadth to meet him. 
 
 ' Well, my boy, I see there is little need to tell you ; I'm the 
 happiest man in London, Donovan. Your mother has consented 
 to be my wife. You must not bo angry with me ; come, now, I 
 am not g'oing- to steal her away from you — of course we shall all 
 live on at Oakdene together. It is not every fellow of your age 
 whom I should look forward to having- as a son ; but you, Dono- 
 van, it is very different with you ; we have always been friends, 
 have we not? I remember him,' he continued, turning- to jMrs. 
 Farrant, ' when he was quite a little fellow, and as sharp as a 
 needle, though he couldn't have been more than seven.' 
 
 All this time Donovan's face had only g-rown more hard and 
 flint-like. Ellis, with his usual tact, saw that his best policy would 
 be to retreat at once, ignoring- his ward's anger, and taking- his con- . 
 gratulations for granted. He pressed Mrs. Farrant's hand in his. 
 
 ' I must leave you now, dearest. You must talk this over 
 with your son.' Then turning to Donovan, * Stay, and hear all 
 from your mother. No, leave me to let myself out. Adcla said 
 I should meet her in Dot's room. I'll just run up.' 
 
 Already h>!; seemed to behave as if the house were his own. 
 He held out his hand cordially, but Donovan would not see it; 
 still in perfect silence he turned hastily to open the door for his 
 cousin, moving- for the first time during- tlie interview. Ellis 
 went out smilingly, pretending not to notice the absence of all 
 response, but as the door closed, and he went slowly upstairs 
 alone, his brow clouded even in this his moment of victory, and 
 between his teeth he hissed out the words, ' Young- viper ! I'll 
 
94 DOT VERSUS THE WORLD. 
 
 teacli him to find liis tongue ! We'll have a rather different 
 interview, my friend, when you come of age ! ' 
 
 Donovan had been half paralysed while Ellis remained in the 
 room, hut no sooner had he left it than, with sudden reaction, the 
 frozen blood seemed to boil in his veins. The stony look on his 
 face changed to passionate earnestness, and crossing the room in 
 hurried strides, he stood close to Mrs. Farrant. 
 
 'Mother!' he gasped. Only that one word, but there was 
 such intensity, such pleading, such misery in the tone, that the 
 most eloquent entreaties could not have been so stirring. 
 
 ' Don't agitate me, Donovan. I have been so excited already,' 
 cried Mrs. Farrant, shrinking from him, really alarmed by his 
 looks. ' Don't, pray don't look so wild. I am very sorry if you 
 have been taken by surprise. I thought, of course, you saw last 
 autumn how it was.' 
 
 ' Last autumn ! ' said Donovan. 'Last autumn I could think 
 of nothing but Dot. I was blind — hoodwinked by his devices. 
 Oh ! mother, do not, do not let it be. I see now how it has all 
 Ijeen — one long piece of manoeuvering from the very first. He 
 has been trading on us. He brought his sister down to dazzle 
 me, to draw off my attention. Mother, do not trust him, he is 
 false, and treacherous, and mean. He will make you miserable !' 
 
 ' It is not your place to speak like this,' said Mrs. Farrant, 
 with some resentment in her tone. ' You forget that Mr. Far- 
 rant is my future husband ; you forget that you are speaking to 
 your mother.' 
 
 ' I do not forget,' cried Donovan, vehemently. ' It is because 
 I cannot forget you are my mother that I must speak. I am 
 your son, and you must and shall hoar me. I know Ellis Farrant 
 better than you do. You only see the sleek, bland, polite side 
 of him ; but I have seen him with other men. He is false, and 
 grasping, and selfish. If it had not been for him I might not 
 have been what I am now. Mother, do not throw yourself away 
 on such a man as that. It will bring nothing but wretchedness 
 on us all. For Dot's sake, for your own sake, do not let this be 1 ' 
 
 ' I wish you wouldn't talk so wildly,' said Mrs. Farrant half 
 crying. ' I don't know what you mean by saying such dreadful 
 things about your — your guardian. It is very hard that directly 
 some one else begins to love me you should suddenly walie up 
 from your usual indifference. You never loved me yourself, and 
 you will not let anyone else love me.' 
 
 ' J t is not true,' said Donovan, greatly agitated. * I could 
 have loved you dearly, mother, if you would only have let me. I 
 do love you — far, far more than that other man, who only wants 
 
DOT VERSUS THE WORLD. 95 
 
 your men C3\ Send liim away ; do not liston to him. Let us be 
 what nature meant us to be to each other ! ' 
 
 * You are mad ! You frig-hten me. You make my head 
 ache,' said Mrs. Farrant, petulantly. ' You have never shown 
 me any particular attention. I scarcely see you, except at meal- 
 times. It is unreasonable of you to be vexed because I accept an 
 oiicr of marriag'e.' 
 
 * Have I driven you to it ? ' cried poor Donovan. ' Would 1 
 not willingly have been more to you ! Did I not tell you so 
 long- ag'o ? And you turned from me. You told me to be more 
 like that knave ! ' 
 
 ' If I told you so before, I certainly repeat it now,' said Mrs. 
 Farrant. ' Your guardian is a gentleman. He would never 
 speak in such a way to a defenceless woman. When my only 
 son can attack me so flex'cely, I think it is time I accepted a 
 husband to protect me.' 
 
 ' Fiercely ! Protect you ! ' echoed Donovan, in a voice which, 
 though less vehement, was full of pain. Could she have thought 
 his passion of re-aw-akening- love, his eager longing to save her cer- 
 tain misery, was fierceness t Bitterly wounded, he turned away with 
 one despairing sentence. ' We shall never understand each other.' 
 
 ' Perhaps not,' she replied, ' but, at any rate, we must not 
 again discuss this subject. It would not be right for me to listen 
 to 3'ou, or for you to say such things again. Do you understand?' 
 
 ' Yes,' he murmured, ' I have said my say.' Then looking down 
 at her again, he added, in a repressed voice, 'When will it be ?' 
 
 ' I do not know,' she faltered. ' Perhaps — perhaps at the 
 end of the season.' 
 
 There was a moment's pause, then in silence Donovan crossed 
 the room, and would have gone out, but, by some sudden unknown 
 impulse, Mrs. Farrant stopped him. 
 
 ' Dono ! ' it was the old childish name, and it checked him at 
 once. ' Dono, come back, come back and kiss me.' 
 
 For years and years the formal salute had passed between 
 them every day, now for the first time it was spontaneous, or 
 rather Mrs. Farrant felt for the first time a mother's natural 
 craving for aftection, and Donovan was allowed to give expres- 
 sion to the love which had never really been quenched, only shut 
 down and restrained. 
 
 The unwonted piece of demonstration helped in part to take 
 the sting from the unwelcome news. Donovan's face as he 
 returned to Dot's room w^as sad indeed, but no longer bitter. 
 
 ' Oh ! Dono,' she cried, eagerly, ' have you heard ? Has 
 Cousin Ellis told you ? ' 
 
96 DOT VERSUS THE WORLD. 
 
 ' Yes, I have heard all/ said Donovan, much more quietly 
 than she had expected. 
 
 ' And 3'ou do not mind so very much. I was so afraid you 
 would he vexed, hecause lust time Cousin Ellis was with us you 
 kept on wishing- he would go.' 
 
 * I shall wish it pretty often again,' said Donovan, with a 
 slight smile, ' hut there is no good in crying out now, the deed 
 is done, and we must make the best of it. I have said all I can 
 say, and it is no good.' 
 
 ' You have been with mamma ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, we had a strange talk and a strange ending to it ; we 
 must not forget she is our mother, Dot.' 
 
 ' Oh ! but what shall I say when she comes ? ' said Dot, 
 anxiously. ' I can't say I'm glad. What am I to do ? ' 
 
 ' Show her that you love her,' said Donovan. 
 
 Dot looked doubtful and troubled, but, as Donovan sat down 
 to the piano, and began to play one of her favourite airs by 
 filozart, she reasoned with herself till her resolution was made. 
 
 ' It is far Avorse for him than for me, he will have to give up 
 all sorts of things when Cousin Ellis marries mamma, and I 
 know that he does not like him at all. Doery said last autumn 
 that Cousin Ellis spoke shamefully to him sometimes, and Doery 
 doesn't often make excuses for Dono. I am very selfish to mind 
 about it myself, when I don't even know why I mind. I'll try 
 to be nice when mamma comes up.' 
 
 While the mournful sweetness of ' Vedrai Carino ' was still 
 filling the room, Mrs. Farrant entered. Donovan went on play- 
 ing, knowing that Dot would be less shy if her words were 
 sheltered by the music ; but there were no words at all, Dot 
 only looked her love and put both arms round her mother's 
 neck. 
 
 Donovan had not known his father sufficiently well to feel 
 his death very acutely. The shock at the time had been great, 
 and his grief then had been very real, but he had soon recovered 
 from the blow, and now regarded it rather as a loss which was 
 to be deplored than as a life-loug sorrow. But with the prospect 
 of his mother's second marriage his thoughts naturally reverted 
 to his father; he lived over again the sad meeting after his 
 school disgrace, the day at Plymouth, the brief time at Porth- 
 kerran, and lastly tlie awful scene, when in an instant, wituout a 
 farewell word or look, his father had been snatched from him. 
 Slowly and carefully he retraced the past, recalled all the conver- 
 sations between them, remembered his father's courtesy, his 
 sympathy, his gentle yet deeply-pained allusion to the ' breach 
 
DOT VERSUS THE WORLD. 97 
 
 of honour.' What a contrast he was to Ellis Farrant! The one 
 refined, dignified, upright ; the other ostentatious, false, and 
 gras])ing ! Donovan could not judge people by the highest 
 standard, but he had a standard of his own, and Ellis fell immea- 
 surably below it. His mother had once accused him of being self- 
 satisfied, but his self-reliance was not self-satisfaction, he was in 
 reality often bitterly out of heart with himself, only the sweejjing 
 condemnation of all his acquaintances forced him to assert him- 
 self. They considered him a black sheep, and yet he felt he was 
 not all that they represented him. Still there had been truth 
 and sadness in his words to his mother, when he said that Ellis 
 had made him what he was j even with his scanty light he knew 
 that his life was not what it ought to have been ; goodness and 
 honour were to be respected, and he struggled on in a blind 
 endeavour to reach his own standard. The remembrance of his 
 father helped him to a certain extent, but it could not exercise a 
 really strong intluence over him, for it was merely the remem- 
 brance of what had once existed, and had now passed away for 
 ever. 
 
 When not occupied with Dot, or engrossed with his favourite 
 pastime, life seemed to him very hollow and unsatisfectory. 
 When Mrs. Farrant desired it, he went out with her ; when 
 Adela particularly asked him, he would consent to escort the 
 two ladies to whatever place of amusement they wished to go to, 
 but it was all very uncongenial to him. At concerts, not being 
 really miisical, he soon grew weary and bored ; at the theatre he 
 laughed bitterly at what seemed to him a mere travesty of life, 
 in which virtue was rewarded and vice punished in an ideal way, 
 very unlike the injustice of real existence. At balls, or at fashion- 
 able receptions, he saw merely the falseness of society, the low 
 motives, the heartless frivolity, the absurd vanity of the indi- 
 viduals composing it. He was certainly free from the annoyances 
 he met with at Oakdene ; no one looked askance at him here, no 
 one had time to think of such trifles ; but, after the first novelty 
 had worn off, the change ceased to satisfy or relieve him. He 
 was really unhappy, too, about his mother's second marriage. 
 Little by little, as he felt siire of his ground, Ellis Farrant had 
 withdrawn the mask of friendliness, and had allowed Donovan to 
 see what he really was ; it had at present been done only in part, 
 and with great judgment and tact, but it was just suflicicnt to 
 rouse his dislike, and to make him inclined in arguments with 
 his mother to speak against his guardian, while Mrs. Farrant was 
 of course stimulated to defend him. 
 
 Matters were thus with the son ; with the accepted lover — 
 
 H 
 
98 DOT VERSUS THE WORLD. 
 
 the successful scLcmor — tliey were not much more happy. A 
 great writer of the present day has said that, if we do injustice 
 to any fellow-creature, we come in time to hate him. It was thus 
 with "Ellis Farrant; he had g-one down to Porthkerran at the 
 time of his cousin's death, feeling a sort of admiration and fond- 
 ness for Donovan ; the boy had always been pleasant and com- 
 panionable; he liked him as well as he liked anyone outside 
 himself. But then followed the sudden act of glaring injustice, 
 and as time passed he began to dislike his unconscious victim 
 more and more. The sight of him was a continual reproach ; he 
 was uneasy and restless in his presence, even at times afraid of 
 him. In the moment of his triumph and success, his hatred in- 
 creased tenfold, and though, when he went up to Dot's room after 
 his interview with Mrs. Farrant and Donovan, his manner was 
 bland and smiling, Adela knew him too well not to detect the 
 latent irritation. Anxious to know all the particulars which 
 could not be mentioned before the little girl, she took leave 
 rather hastily, tripped lightly down the stairs, and, as soon as 
 the hall door had closed behind them, turned round eagerly to 
 her brother. 
 
 '■ I congratulate you, Ellis ! ' 
 
 Ellis had overheard Donovan's eager tones of expostulation 
 as he passed the drawing-room door, and the scowl on his face 
 did not at all befit an accepted lover. 
 
 ' Where do you want to go to ? ' he said, crossly, not attend- 
 ing to her words. 
 
 * Back to Eaton Place,' said Adela, who was staying with 
 some friends, * What is the matter with you ? I thought all 
 had gone so well.' 
 
 ' So it has in the main, only that young cub came in and spoilt 
 it all. He's really insufferable.' 
 
 ' Now don't speak against my Augustus Cresar/ said Adela ; 
 ' he's not a bad boy at all. What did he do ? ' 
 
 ' Do ! ' said Ellis, smiling a little — ' he did nothing ; he stood 
 and looked at me with a stony face, very much like an old Roman, 
 as you are always saying.' 
 
 *I can just fancy it,' said Adela, laughing, ^and my noble 
 brother didn't quite enjoy the lofty scorn. What did he say to it 
 all ? — was he not surprised 1 He went down so casually and 
 unsuspectingly to see if you had come that I had hardly the 
 heart not to give him warning. However, I kept my pro- 
 mise to you, didn't I ? It was well past five when I let him go 
 down.' 
 
 ' You managed very well, and I'm much obliged to you,' said 
 
DOT VERSUS THE WORLD. 99 
 
 Ellis, recovering his g"ood Immour; 'he came in the very nick of 
 time, aud saw it all at a g-lance.' 
 
 ' Poor fellow ! — what did he say ? ' 
 
 'Nothing-; he looked thunderstnick, and never said a single 
 word — was as mum as a dummy, in fact.' 
 
 ' Or as dumb as a mummy,' said Adela, with a light laug-h. 
 'And you, I suppose, talked g'Ubly, and promised to be a devoted 
 Btep-father ? ' 
 
 ' Something- of the sort,' said Ellis, smilinf^. 
 
 * Well, I don't wonder he doesn't like it,' said Adela. ' Of 
 course, he is practically master at Oakdene ; he won't enjoy 
 makinf^ way for you.' 
 
 ' I don't suppose he will,' replied Ellis, thinking- of for more 
 serious matters than his sister. ' But, you know, my dear, we 
 can't all win in the game.' 
 
 ' The winner can afford to moralise,' said Adela, rather con- 
 temptuously ; ' but I must not scold you, for you have manag-ed 
 your work very neatly, and of course I'm g-lad of your success. 
 "When is it to bo ? ' 
 
 'The wedding-? I don't know. Perhaps the end of July. 
 Anyhow, I'm afraid I shall miss the g-rouse tliis year.' 
 
 ' You horrid, matter-of-fact creature, to think of it even,' said 
 Adela. ' Middle-aged lovers are no fun. They have lost the 
 romance of their youth.' 
 
 ' We will leave that kind of thing- for you and your Ctesar,' 
 said Ellis, laughingly, as they took leave of each other. 
 
 ' A thousand thanks,' said Adela, with a mocking bow, ' but 
 I have done with my " beardless 3'outh," now that your affairs are 
 settled. It was the dullest flirtation I ever had; for, quite between 
 ourselves, that sort of thing is not in Ccesar's line.' 
 
 ' I daresay not. Mum as a dummy, you know ! ' and Ellis 
 turned away with a laugh in which there was much spite and 
 little merriment. 
 
100 LOOKINO TWO WAYS. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 LOOKING TWO WATS. 
 
 Accuse me, not, beseech thee, that I ■wear, 
 Too calm and sad a face in front of thine ; 
 For we two look two ways, and cannot shine 
 
 With the same sunlight on onr brow and hair. 
 
 On me thou lookest with no doubting care, 
 
 , . . But I look on thee — on thee — 
 
 Beholding, besides love, the end of love, 
 Hearing oblivion beyond memory ; 
 
 As one who sits and gazes from above, 
 Over the rivers to the bitter sea.' 
 
 E. B. Brownino. 
 
 ' Ox the 29tli inst., at St. Georg-e's, Hanover Square, Ellis 
 Farrant, only son of the late J. E. Farrant, Esq., and nephew of 
 the late Thomas Farrant, Esq., of Oakdene Manor, Mountshire, 
 and Rippingham, Surrey, to Honora, widovp of Colonel Ralph 
 Farrant, R.A., and daughter of the late General Patrick Donovan. 
 No cards.' 
 
 Two old maiden ladies, who were spending- their summer 
 holiday at a watering-place in the south of England, and were 
 partaking of a rather late breakfast in the coffee-room of the best 
 hotel, wondered what there could be in the first sheet of the 
 Times to cause such a sudden change in the face of their neigh- 
 bour at the next table. The kind old souls had made a little 
 romance about the handsome, grave-looking young fellow, who 
 had come to the hotel a few days before, and used to sit down to 
 his solitary table in the coffee-room, never seeming to care to 
 talk with anyone. Miss Brown the elder had made up her 
 mind that he was an Italian. He was dark and melancholy- 
 looking; Italians were dark and melancholy-looking, therefore 
 the young man was doubtless Italian. Possibly he was an exile, 
 and probably he was married, the Italians, she believed, did 
 marry young, and no doubt his wife was a heai'tless, worldly 
 person, and caused her husband endless trouble. Miss Brown 
 the younger was inclined to think the young man a Spaniard, 
 there was something very Spanish in his grave, dignified deport- 
 ment. (N.B. — Miss Brown had never seen a Spaniard in her 
 life.) She had met him on the stairs one day as he was going 
 out, and l>e had taken off his hat as he passed her. Very few 
 
LOOKING TWO WAYS. ■ :'''»'•.'*?:• '}9V, 
 
 Enjilislimen would have done tliat ; lie was certainly a foreif;-ncr 
 of some sort. Slio, however, scouted the idea that he was married, 
 and made up her mind that he wsls crossed in love. 
 
 ' There is the younu,- foreig'ner,' Miss Brown had said to her 
 sister as Donovan came into the cotfee-room that mornin;^. They 
 had ag-reed to call him the Jbreif/ner, as a sort of g-eneral term 
 which suited the opinions of each. 
 
 * lie is coming- to this side of the room/ said Miss Marianne, 
 looking- up from her eg-g-, hut hastily and decorously turning- to 
 the window, and making- a vag-ue remark about the weather when 
 she found the dark, Hashing- eyes of the stranger glancing across 
 at her from the other table. 
 
 ' He looks rather happier this morning-,' said Miss Brown in a 
 low tone. 
 
 Miss Marianne of course wished him to look gloomy, and 
 tried to see something- melancholy in the way in which he sipped 
 his cotfee, stroked his moustache, and cut his roll in half, gently 
 insinuating- to her sister that men in g-ood spirits would have 
 broken a roll ; that to be so methodical in trifles was, she thought, 
 rather a sig-n of — in fact quite supported her theory. Both ladies 
 were a little startled when the hero of their romance called a 
 waiter, and without the slightest foreign accent asked if the 
 morning' pa])ers had come. 
 
 ' Strang-e that he should care to see English papers,' said Miss 
 Brown, musingly. 
 
 ' I believe I have heard that Spaniards are very good lin- 
 guists,' said Miss Marianne, timidly. 
 
 ' Not half so good as Italians, my dear,' said the elder sister. 
 'Think of Dante, and — and Garibaldi.' 
 
 Miss Marianne was rather overwhelmed by the mention of 
 these great men, and did not for a moment question that they 
 had been renowned linguists ; she did indeed try to think of 
 some Spanish celebrity of equal renown, and racked her brains 
 for the name of the author of ' Don Quixote,' but it had escaped 
 her memory, and before she could recall it the waiter returned 
 with the newspapers. The ' foreigner ' took the Times and glanced 
 rapidly down the first column ; Miss Brown would have liked to 
 think that he looked at the agony column, but his eye travelled 
 too far down the page for that, he would have passed the space 
 allotted to sentimental messages, and have reached the uninter- 
 esting notices of lost and found dogs, &c. ; Miss Marianne had the 
 best of it now — he was evidently looking at the marriages. The 
 two sisters almost gave a sympathetic start when suddenly their 
 neighbour's forehead was sharply contracted, and a quick HusU 
 
102. .' , LOaiiING TWO WAYS. 
 
 rose to his clieek. What could it he ? The marriage of the girl 
 whom he loved ? There was real and undoubted romance here, 
 not a question of it. How interesting hotel life was, it must he 
 something like watching a play, though Miss Brown had never 
 been to the play— she would have thought it exceedingly wrong. 
 Poor boy ! how impatiently he throws down the paper, it falls on 
 to the lloor, and Miss Marianne leaning back in her chair and 
 trying to see below the cloth of the adjoining table, maintains 
 that he has put his foot on it, actually' 'crushed it under foot,' 
 that is very romantic ! Then he hastily drains his coifee cup, 
 and when he puts it down, the flush has died away from his face, 
 and has left it very pale, and cold, and still. The arrival of the 
 paper seems to have taken away his appetite, for he abruptly 
 pushes back his chair, leaves his half finished breakfast, and stalks 
 out of the room. 
 
 The sisters were much excited. As they walked on the beach 
 that morning they agreed that East Codrington was a charming 
 place. Some people called it dull, but for their part they thought 
 it a most amusing Httle town. It was very i)leasant to meet 
 fresh faces, very interesting to watch other people's lives. Miss 
 Brown said that the sea air or something made her feel quite 
 young again. Scarcely were the words out of her mouth when 
 Miss Marianne suddenly caught her arm, exclaiming, 
 ' Sister, look, there is the " foreigner " ao-ain ! ' 
 Miss Brown looked along the esplanade for the solitary figure 
 with the grave dark face, hut could not see it. 
 
 ' There ! there ! not nearly so far off,' said Miss Marianne. 
 'Don't you see him reading to that little girl in the invalid 
 chair ? ' 
 
 ' Impossible ! ' said Miss Brown, quickly. * He is far too 
 young to have a child of that age ; but it is the " foreigner," I 
 see, she must be his sister. Suppose, Marianne, we sit down a 
 little.' 
 
 Miss Marianne owned that she was tired, and the two ladies 
 establitlied themselves on the beach, about a stone's throw from 
 Dot and Donovan, taking care to choose a side posture, so that 
 on one hand they could watch the sea, and on the other the hero 
 of their romance. Every now and then the breeze wafted a 
 sentence of the reading" to the two sisters. They exchanged 
 glances with each other, and Miss Marianne whispered ' English !' 
 Then something in the book made both the reader and the 
 listener laugh heartily, and the name of 'Ah Baba' was caught 
 by Miss Brown, who nodded to her sister, and whispered, ' The 
 Arabian Kights.' Then came a fresh mystery, the reader's face 
 
LOOKING TWO WAYS. 103 
 
 suddenly became dark and overcast, and there was quito a 
 different tone in his voice as he read the words, ' You phiinly see 
 that Cog'ia Iloussain only sought your acquaintance in order to 
 insure success in his diabolical treachery.' 
 
 Now why should Cog'ia Houssain bring- such a strange bitter 
 look into anyone's face i* Presently the story of the ' Forty 
 Thieves' was finished, and the hero's face was g'ood-tempered 
 again, he moved the little invalid's chair quite to the edg-e of the 
 es])lanade, as near as possible to the shing-le, so that without 
 wilful listening- the two old ladies could hear all that passed ; 
 whatever their hero was when alone, there could be no doubt 
 that he was meriy enough now. 
 
 There was a laug-hing- discussion about the dog-'s swimming 
 powers. 
 
 ' You only tried him once in the Serpentine, j'ou know,' said 
 the little invalid. ' I don't believe you dare try him here.' 
 
 ' See if I don't ! ' said Donovan, laughing-, and whistling- to the 
 fox-terrier. ' I'll throw him a stone.' 
 
 ' No, no, that's no test,' said Dot. ' Throw him your new 
 stick. Ah ! I believe you're afraid to ! You don't think he'll 
 get it back ! ' 
 
 ' You dare me to ? ' asked Donovan. * Come along-, Waif, and 
 show your mistress how clever you arc.' 
 
 The dog- followed his master obediently across the shing-le to 
 the water's edg-e, and plung-ed in valiantly as soon as the stick 
 was thrown. Donovan had sent it far out, and the receding- tide 
 was bearing- it further still, but Waif swam on indefatig-ably, and, 
 after some minutes, clenched it successfully in his teeth, and 
 turned back again. Dot waved her handkerchief from the 
 esplanade in congratulation, and both dog- and master hurried 
 up the beach towards her j on the way, however, Waif paused to 
 shake the water from his coat, and, unluckily, the two old ladies 
 were within the radius of the drops, and received a sort of shower 
 bath. Donovan hastened up to apolog-ise. 
 
 ' I am afraid my dog has been troubhng you. I hope he has 
 done no damage ? ' 
 
 ' Oh ! none, thank you,' said the sisters, smiling-. ' Salt 
 water never gives cold. We were much amused by watching- him 
 in the sea.' 
 
 * He's a capital swimmer. My little sister wouldn't believe 
 be was a water-dog-,' and then, raising- liis hat, Donovan passed 
 on with a triumphant greeting to the little invalid. 
 
 'Well, Dot! own now that you're beaten.' 
 
 ' Quite beaten. He was splendid,' said Dot, enthusiastically. 
 
lo4 
 
 LOOKING TWO WAYS. 
 
 Presently, as the old ladies rose to move on, and passed elose 
 to the brother and sister, Dot looked up in her sweet shy way, 
 and said, 
 
 ' I hope Waif did not hurt your dress just now ? ' 
 
 Miss Marianne, with a beaming face, hastened to re-assure 
 her. 
 
 * Not in the least, my dear, thank you,' and then, touched by 
 the frag'ile little face, the old lady began to search in a Mentone 
 basket that she carried for some of the beach treasures which 
 she had been picking- up. * Would you like some shells, my 
 dear ? We have found some rather pretty ones this morning'.' 
 
 Dot's shy gratitude was very charming, and Donovan, always 
 pleased by an}'' attention shown to her, began to talk to the old 
 ladies, quite forgetting his usual haughty reserve. 
 
 The Miss Browns' romance certainly died out in the lig'ht of 
 truth, but they were much interested in the brother and sister, 
 though their hero had proved to be neither a Spaniard nor an 
 Italian. Donovan, however, was rather a puzzle to them. In a 
 few days' time, Miss Marianne learnt to her regret, from some 
 other people at the hotel, that her hero, though so devoted to his 
 little invalid sister, was the most noted billiard-player in the 
 place, and the gentle old ladies regretted it, for, as Miss Brown 
 the elder said, ' it was a dangerous taste for such a young- man, 
 particularly as he seemed to be his own master.' They talked 
 the m-atter over together, but agreed that they could not pre- 
 sume to offer advice j however, an occasion soon came when their 
 consciences w^ould not allow them to keep silence. 
 
 It was Sunday morning ; Miss Marianne timidly suggested 
 that, if it would not be wrong-, she would very much like a little 
 turn on the esplanade before going- to church. Her sister was 
 rather puritanical j however, she thought there could be no harm 
 in ' taking the air,' so, armed with their large church- services and 
 hymn-books, the two old ladies set out. The day was intensely 
 hot and sultry, the sea was as calm as a mill-pond, the tiny waves 
 lazily lapping- the shore as if they, too, felt the heat, and could 
 not dance brisklj' as usual. There was a quiet Sunday feeling 
 all around; no stir of business or traffic ; the church bells ring- 
 ing for service, and the passers-by walking quietly, with none of 
 the hurry and bustle of the ordinary every-day passengers. The 
 old ladies enjoyed their walk, but just as they had turned for the 
 last time before going in the direction of the bells they caught 
 sight of their friends in the distance ; there was the invalid 
 chair, with the little pale-faced child, and on a bench beside her 
 was Donovan, in a most unsabbatical light-brown shooting-jacket 
 
LOOKING TWO WAYS. 105 
 
 and cloth travelling-hat ; to add to it all, he was smoking-, and 
 to the Miss Browns the sig-ht of a cig-ar was always a sig-ht to he 
 deplored, hut on Sunday smoking- seemed to them little hotter than 
 sacrileg"e. Miss Marianne was almost disarmed by the courtesy 
 of the greeting', hut her sister would not allow her face to soften ; 
 g'ood looks and pleasant manners were all very well, hu^ ' Sab- 
 bath breaking-' was a sin which could not be passed b_^so she 
 tried not to see the fascinating- dark eyes, and saM; g-ravely, 
 
 * Are you not coming- to church to-day, Mr. Farrant.?./ 
 
 * No, Miss Brown,' replied Donovan, not at all offended by 
 the question, to which indeed he was pretty well accustomed, 
 ' Dot and I moan to sit here and enjoy the view. A beautiful 
 day, is it not ? ' 
 
 ' It is very pleasant to see you so attentive to your sister,' 
 said Miss Brown, severely, ' but relig'ion oug'ht to stand first, 
 young- man. The soul oug-lit to be considered before the body.' 
 
 ' There is a very good preacher at St. Oswald's,' suggested 
 Miss Marianne, timidly. 
 
 Donovan looked at her half sadly and half amusedly, but 
 shook his head, and the two ladies passed on. 
 
 He resumed his cigar, but with rather a clouded brow, wish- 
 ing- that people would leave him unmolested. Dot was the first 
 to break the silence. 
 
 ' What does " soul " really mean, Dono ?' she began, in her 
 childish voice. ' Doery calls old Betty, the charwoman, " poor 
 soul," but I fancy that is because her husband drinks. Are we 
 all poor souls ? ' 
 
 ' Most of us,' said Donovan, shortly. 
 
 ' But what is a soul ? ' persisted Dot. 
 
 ' A name given by some people to the mind,' he replied. 
 ' Though I daresay those old ladies would not agree to that, and 
 would tell you it was quite a different part of yon.' 
 
 Now Dot had lived on contentedly for many 3'ears in entire 
 ignorance, but she was just beginning- to be roused, and the 
 words of the two old ladies had perplexed her. 
 
 ' What part of us is it? ' she questioned. 
 
 He hesitated for a moment. 
 
 'The part you love me with, I suppose.' 
 
 ' Then do you think it would be really good for the part you 
 love me with to go to church ? ' 
 
 ' No, you sweet little arguer, I don't,' he replied, smiling ; 
 * and, if it would, I shouldn't go and leave you in your pain, but 
 don't trouble your head about the matter, darling. If religion 
 makes sour, selfish soul-preservers like that, it stands to reason 
 
106 LOOKING TWO WAYS. 
 
 it's false. I'll have none of it ! Fancy listening to a sermon 
 with the idea that it was virtuous, and leaving- you to Doery's 
 tender mercies, or all alone with the sun blazing in your eyes ! ' 
 
 He held the umbrella more protectingly over her as he spoke, 
 and was rather vexed to see that her usually smooth serene fore- 
 head was knitted in anxious thought. 
 
 * What is the matter ? ' he asked, jealous of anything which 
 she kept back from him. 
 
 ' I am so puzzled,' said Dot, wearily. ' I don't know Avhat 
 people mean by religion ; my head aches so. Do you think I 
 ought to make myself think what it is ? ' 
 
 ' Of course not, you dear little goose,' he said, stroking back 
 the hair from her hot face. ' Who put such morbid ideas into 
 your head ? ' 
 
 ' No one,' said Dot, wistfully, ' only it seems as if we ought 
 to find out which is right, you or the other people.' 
 
 '■ It will not make much diiference, perhaps,' said Donovan, 
 throwing away the end of his cigar. ' We shall all come to an 
 end, I suppose — be smoked out and thrown awa}', so to speak.' 
 
 Dot looked troubled, and he hastily bent down and kissed her. 
 
 * We are talking of things we know nothing about, dear. You 
 and I must love each other, that is all I know. Don't let us talk 
 of this any more, it only worries you.' 
 
 ' But, Dono, just one thing more. When it is all done, when 
 we die, shall I have to leave off loving you V 
 
 A black shadow passed over his face, but he did not answer. 
 Dot understood what he meant, and clasped her tiny fingers round 
 his tightly. 
 
 ' Oh, Dono,' she said, mournfully, ' I couldn't bear to stop 
 loving you — I had never thought about that. Oh, I hope I shall 
 live to be very, very old, even if I'm always ill. Why is your 
 face so white and stiff, Dono ? Are you thinking what you would 
 do if I didn't live to be old ? ' 
 
 ' BonHJ ' he cried, passionately, and there was such anguish in 
 his tone that Dot looked half frightened, and faltered, 
 
 * I didn't mean — I'm very sorry.' 
 
 His kissed her, and she noticed that his lips were very cold, 
 and his voice, though quieter when he next spoke, sounded odd 
 and unnatural. 
 
 ' It is all right, darling — I didn't mean to frighten you — it is 
 nothing. I must be alone — I must think.' 
 
 He moved her chair into the shade, and then walked along the 
 shore battling with the terrible thoughts which filled his mind. 
 What if Dot should be taken away from him 'I It was the same 
 
LOOKING TWO WAY9. 107 
 
 ag'onizing- idea which Adela's words had suggested to him not Ljiij^ 
 before. Now he was aloue and couhl allow himself to face it, 
 could relax for the time the control which in her ppesence he was 
 ol)lig-ed to keep up. Throwing- himself down on the shingle, he 
 allowed the shadowy foes one after another to thronf^ up into his 
 mind, wrestling- with each in a vain, hopeless endeavour to crush 
 them. Sooner or later the end must come, he knew it perfectly 
 well, and yet, like a hunted creature, he tried for some possible 
 means of escape, or at any rate of delay. Could he force himself, 
 for the sake of peace, to beUeve what popular relig'ion taug-ht ? 
 No, he told himself that it would be as impossible as to believe in 
 the old Norse leg-ends of the happy hunting- fields. There was 
 no escape for him, the separation must be faced. 
 
 lie lay stretched out on the pebbles with his face turned from 
 the lig-ht, more wretched and forlorn than the poorest beg-g-ar in 
 East Codring-ton. His miserable strug-gle and dumb despair were 
 at last broken in upon by the sound of a voice in the distance, a 
 hig-h-pitched man's voice, which beat uncomfortably on his ear, 
 and sounded melancholy and depressing-, as open-air speaking 
 generally does sound. He started up impatiently, and saw that 
 a street-preacher had gathered tog-ether a little knot of men and 
 women on the beach, at no great distance from him. He disliked 
 the interruption, and yet, with a sort of curiosity, sauutered 
 towards the little group, aad listened for a few minutes ; but un- 
 fortunately the preacher happened at the minute to be denouncing 
 'modern ritualism' with much bitterness, and he soon turned 
 away contemptuously. Did not these professing- Christians ' bite 
 and devour ' one another ? Did they not unsparingly condemn all 
 with whom they did not agree ? And, holding the views they did 
 about the future state, did they not still live easy, quiet, indulgent 
 lives, though they believed that more than half mankind would 
 finally be ' lost ' ? 
 
 By-and-by there was singing ; with great gusto the preacher 
 started the hymn ' There is a fountain.' Donovan's misery had 
 been keen enough before, this just made it complete. The old 
 melody — powerful though it is when sung- by a great multitude — ' 
 has something- extremely aggravating about it. 
 
 'I will believe — I do believe ! ' 
 Over and over again with emphatic untunefulness the motley 
 crowd roared and shouted the refrain. 
 
 Donovan's dark face grew darker, he set his teeth, listened 
 for a time, then walked away with a look of intense scorn, re- 
 solving in his own mind that, miserable though he was, he would 
 at least be honest, no cupboard faith for him ! 
 
108 LOOKING TWO WAYS. 
 
 Dot did not allude to tlie conversation again. She could not 
 beai" to risk recalling- the look of pain to Donovan's face, and if 
 she puzzled over tlie difference of opinion which had attracted 
 her notice, she kept her difficulties to herself; hut she fancied 
 she understood why it was that, not long' after that Sunday, 
 Donovan made arrangements with an aitist staying- in the hotel 
 to paint a miniature of her. A sweet, wistful, and yet childlike 
 face it was, but the artist idealised it, and gave to tiie beautiful 
 ej^es more fulness of satisfaction than just at that time they really 
 expressed, leaving- it to the lips to show whatever latent sadness 
 or desire there remained. 
 
 In September the visit to Codring'ton was ended ; Mrs. Doery 
 was oblig-ed to be at Oakdene to superintend the preparations for 
 the return of her master and mistress, and Donovan wished to be 
 at home when his mother arrived, chiefly from a dislike to 
 coming- back when his step -father was actually installed in his 
 new position as head of the household. He chose to be there 
 beforehand, and awaited the return in a sort of proud silence, 
 never even to Dot breathmg- a single word which could tell how 
 much he dreaded it. 
 
 On the whole the event p^n^ed to be not half so disag-reeable 
 as he had expected. Ellis was kind and conciliatory at first, 
 and, though his patronag-e was hard to bear, Donovan had sense 
 enough to be thankful for whatever would avert an open quarrel. 
 He felt instinctively that sooner or later there would be disagree- 
 ment between them, and for Dot's sake he was glad to keep the 
 peace. 
 
 What he really suffered from chiefly that autumn was an 
 utterly different thing-. Under the new regime, Doery liad been 
 constituted housekeeper ; Ellis was hospitable, and constantly 
 had the Manor full of his friends, so that Mrs. Farrant did not 
 care for the burden and anxiety of household management ; it 
 was quite another thing- to the quiet routine which she had been 
 able to superintend with little trouble before her second marriage. 
 Mrs. Doery therefore ascended in the domestic scale from nurse 
 to housekeeper, and a new attendant waited on Dot in her place. 
 It seemed a very trifling- change in the house, only a new ser- 
 vant, only one insigniflcant addition, hardly Avorth thinking of, 
 but to Dot the change meant the opening- of a new life. Now, 
 at last, she beg-an to understand the meaning- of things. Phoebe, 
 who had been blessed with better teaching- than poor old Mrs. 
 Doery, and was more loving- and kind-hearted, ojiened an entirely 
 new world to her little helpless charg-e, and Dot, in her simple, 
 childlike happiness ir the new revelation, wondered why people 
 
LOOKING TWO WAYS. 109 
 
 had not told her I)ofore, but never thought of blaming- them for 
 the ignorance in -which they had let her grow up. 
 
 Her simple, unquestioning accejitance of the most incompre- 
 hensible doctrines was a marvel to Donovan ; he coulil not the 
 least understand it. Dot once or twice spoke with him on the 
 sid)ject, but he always silenced her gently, for, though he could 
 not understand or sym])athise with her new happiness, he was 
 unwilling to interfere with it, or to trouble the child's mind with 
 his own views. He thought it all a delusion, and it pained him 
 that she should believe it ; but, seeing how much it must soften 
 both life and death to her, he was willing that she should believe 
 in the delusion. Still the trial to himself was very hard to bear, 
 for though to Dot the change seemed only to intensity her love, 
 and in no way to interfere with Donovan's place in her heart, he 
 necessarily felt that there was a barrier between them ; what to 
 him did not exist was everythmg to her; till lately she had 
 depended entirely on him, now he was superseded — dearly loved 
 still, but yet superseded. This was a greater trouble than all 
 the annoyance of his mother's second marriage. Donovan loved 
 Dot so blindly and solely that the idea of not reigning alone in 
 her heart was terrible to him. Ever since his childhood he had 
 been her protector ; to yield her to any other love in which he 
 believed would have been ver}' hard, but to allow his place to be 
 usurped by that which he could not comprehend or believe to be, 
 •was bitter beyond all thought. It was, perhaps, the most severe 
 test of his love that there could have been ; he passed through 
 it without faltering", tried to find comfort in the sight of her 
 serene happiness, and bore his pain in silence ; the fact that it 
 was a strange, unnatural, morbid pain did not make it any easier 
 to endure, but quite the contrary. 
 
 Ellis Farrant, not having too tender a conscience, managed 
 to enjoy his new position for the first few months. Tie was in 
 many ways a good-natured man, and it was very pleasant to 
 him, after his bachelor life and small income, to find himself at 
 the head of a comfortable and even luxurious home. His wife 
 was pretty and placid, his means were ample, he was able to ask 
 his friends down to Oakdene for the shooting, and altogether he 
 appreciated his change of fortune. For a little while he even 
 felt kindly disposed to Donovan, for, as he said to liimself, the 
 poor wretch would have a hard enough life next year, when he 
 came of age, and might as well enjoy the present. He even at 
 times began to regret the i)art he had set himself to play, wavered 
 a little, and half contemplated starting his ward in some profes- 
 sion fairly and honourably. If Donovan had behaved sensibly, 
 
110 LOOKING TWO WAYS. 
 
 this really might have come about, but he was not sensible. In 
 a very short time he began to g-row weai'y of making polite 
 responses to his step-father's patronage ; he never openly disputed 
 his authority or actually quarrelled with him, but he allowed his 
 dislike to show itself, and took no pains to be pleasant and com- 
 panionable. Ellis was not a man to be trifled with ; his kindness 
 was a mere impulse, and directly he found that Donovan did not 
 respond to it he took offence, and disliked him a great deal more 
 than he had previously done. 
 
 It was a most unsatisfactory household. An outsider, looking 
 into the luxurious dining-room of the Manor, might not have dis- 
 covered anything amiss, certainly; Mrs. Farrant, at the head of the 
 table, looked young and pretty and languid ; Ellis, at the opposite 
 end, seemed hospitable and good-natured ; Donovan had appar- 
 ently everything that could be wished in circumstances, health, 
 and personal advantages. But beneath all this outward appear- 
 ance was a miserable reality of injustice, jealousy, and hatred. 
 
 One evening in December, after Mrs. Farrant had left the 
 dinner-table, the storm broke at last. Donovan had been more 
 than usually gloomy and depressed. Dot had just had one of 
 her bad attacks ; he was worn out with attending to her j he was 
 morbidly unhappy at the change in her views, and her supposed 
 change toward himself, and his manner towards his step-father 
 had been so short and sullen that the elder man's patience at 
 length gave way. 
 
 As the door closed behind Mrs. Farrant, her husband refilled 
 his glass, drained it, and then suddenly confronted his step-son 
 with the fierceness of a weak, impulsive man who is thoroughly 
 exasperated. 
 
 ' I tell you what, Donovan, if you go on any longer in this 
 way, you can't expect me to be civil to jon. Do you think I 
 shall stand having a mxite morose idiot of a fellow always at my 
 table, a skeleton at the feast ? If you don't mend your manners 
 pretty quickly, you won't find this house comfortable.' 
 
 Donovan did not reply, but cracked three walnuts in succes- 
 sion without even looking up. The absence of retort only made 
 Ellis more angry, however. 
 
 ' Do you not hear me, sir ? ' he continued, still more vehe- 
 mently. 
 
 ' Yes,' said Donovan, looking up at last, and speaking in a 
 singularly controlled voice, which contrasted strangely with his 
 step-father's violence. 
 
 Ellis raged on, doubly irritated by the monosyllable. 
 
 * Do you think it is pleasant to me to have your gloomy face 
 
LOOKING TWO WAYS. Ill 
 
 nlwavs haunting- mc ? I tell you I'd ratlior sit opposite a skull 
 and cross-bones"! I'm not going- to have my new home spodt 
 by an insuficrablc cub of your age,' 
 
 Now, with all his faults, Donovan had one good quality which 
 often stood him in gfood stead. Old JMrs. Doery had at least 
 taught him one useful lesson in his childhood. She had taught 
 him to restrain himself, a lesson which, in these days of universal 
 license to the young-, is too often neglected. Many people would 
 have fired up at once, if they had been spoken to in such a way. 
 It would have been hard under any circumstan.ces, but when the 
 words were addressed to him in the house which had been his 
 own father's, and by the man who had ousted him from his proper 
 place, it must be owned that they were most intolerable. He 
 flushed deeply and bit his lip. 
 
 ' I am glad to see you have the grace to be ashamed,' said 
 Ellis, provokingly, impatient of this continued silence. 
 
 By this time Donovan had himself well in hand. His face 
 was calm and rigid, and he could trust himself to reply without 
 losing his temper, though his cold pride was not likely to choose 
 wise words. 
 
 ' I am sorry to have annoyed you, but naturally ^' as you have 
 brewed so you will drink." I have not changed particularly in 
 the last few months, and I suppose last summer you foresaw that 
 there would be two incumbrances in your new home.' 
 Of course this only angered Ellis still more. 
 ' You young- puppy,' he exclaimed, angrily, ' do you re- 
 member whom you are speaking- to ? Do you know that I 
 can turn you out of the house, if I like ? Do you recollect who 
 I am ? ' 
 
 'Yes,' said Donovan, ironically, ' I remember that you are my 
 fathei-'s executor and my guardian.' 
 
 Ellis suddenly chang-ed colour, pushed back his chair, and 
 began to pace up and doVn the room. His step-son's words had 
 stung- him far more deeply than the speaker intended. 'His 
 father's executor ! ' yes, and what an executor ! The name itself was 
 a reproach and a mockery ! He felt afraid of Donovan, ashamed 
 to look at him; his recent anger and hatred suddenly died away into 
 a trembling shrinking dread. This boy, whom he had cheated and 
 robbed and fatally injured, was able at times to influence him 
 g-reatly. He felt that he must be pacified and kept at bay during 
 the few months which remained of his minority. 
 
 On the whole, Ellis did not look very much like a happy 
 bridegroom and head of the household as he came back to the 
 table. He was ashy pale, and his hand shook as he poured out 
 
112 'let nothing you dismay.' 
 
 his next glass of wine. Donovan, as he waited with his cold 
 impassive face expecting a fresh burst of ang-er, was surprised, 
 when his step-father next broke the silence, to find that the 
 storm had been as brief as it had been severe; There was an 
 almost pitiable struggle for really frank reconciliation in Ellis's 
 tone as he said, 
 
 ' Come, old fellow, don't let us quarrel; we have always been 
 friends. I spoke hastily just now, but, you know, you really 
 cut your own throat by looking so glum. Everyone would 
 like you twice as well if you had a little more go in you. 
 Probyn was saying only the other night what a clever fellow you 
 were. He said he hadn't met a better whist-player for years. 
 You think everyone's against you, and so you are morose 
 and reserved, but I don't know a fellow who has more advantages 
 than you, if only you'd condescend to use them a little more. 
 There ! you see I'm giving you quite a paternal lecture. Put 
 that in your pipe and smoke it. What do you say to some crib- 
 bage now ? ' 
 
 ' I'll come down at ten,' said Donovan, allowing his face to 
 relax ; then, sweeping up a handful of walnut shells, he left the 
 table, and spent the rest of the evening with Dot, making a 
 miniature fleet of boats, to her great content. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 'let nothing you dismay.' 
 
 Heart's brother, hast thoix ever known 
 
 \^^lat meaneth that No more ? 
 Hast thou the bitterness outdrawn, 
 
 Close hidden at its core ? 
 
 Oh ! no — draw from it worlds of pain, 
 
 And thou shalt surely find. 
 That in that word there doth remain 
 
 A bitterer drop behind. 
 
 Archbishop Trench. 
 
 'Phcebe says she doesn't think I shall be really frightened when 
 the time comes, and there isn't anything to be afraid of, you 
 know — it is so different now; when we talked about it at Cod- 
 rino-ton it all seemed so dark and dreadful I couldn't bear ever 
 
'LET NOTHING YOU DISMAY.' 113 
 
 to let it come up to be thought over. How long- one can put 
 away things when they are not nice to think about ! ' 
 
 ' Then why do you talk like this, what g-ood does it do ? ' 
 questioned Donovan. It was a December afternoon, and they 
 were talking in the twilight. 
 
 ' I'm sorry, I had forg-otten. It was very selfish,' said Dot, 
 penitently. It was so hard for her to remember that Donovan 
 did not share in her new sense of relief, that she more than once 
 made little allusions of this sort ; had she been less simple and 
 chihlish, his want of participation would have made her unhappy ; 
 as it was, however, she was content to leave it, sure that in time 
 it would come to him. 
 
 Donovan was very irritable that day, not, of course, with Dot, 
 he was always g-entle with her even when in his worst moods, 
 but he was in one of his querulous, carping humours, and quar- 
 relled with everything- he read. The oft-quoted line of Pope's, 
 
 One truth is clear, whatever is is right, 
 
 was quite sufficient to call forth an angry tirade. 
 
 It was a lie, it could not possibly be proved ! Were murder, 
 and fraud, and opjiression, and injustice right? People had no 
 business to make great, false, sweeping- assertions of that kind. 
 The anger soon came down to more personal matters. 
 
 ' Was it right, do you think, that you and I should have been 
 left to old Doery, and bullied and tormented as we were ? Was 
 it right that you should be mismanaged and half killed by an owl 
 of a country doctor ? Is it right that you should be suffering as 
 you are now ? ' 
 
 ' Some things do seem hard,' said Dot, * but we have not got 
 to understand why everything is, and I think it's best to be still 
 and take what comes. Do you know, Dono, sometimes when I'm 
 very cross with the pain for coming- back so often, I think of 
 what we saw at Codrington. Do you remember the little bay 
 where the rocks were, and how we used to watch the waves 
 dashing so angrily against the very tall upright rock, and passing 
 so quietly over the little ones? I think if we are patient, and don't 
 set ourselves up to fight against the pain and grumble at it, it is 
 not half so hard to bear.' 
 
 Now Donovan had always felt a sort of sympathy with the tall 
 solitary rock, with its hard jagged outline, braving in its own 
 strength the power of the waves. Dot's idea did not please him ; 
 patience, lowliness, and submission were virtues far beyond his 
 comprehension, and he felt very strongly that painful sense of 
 separation which had sprung up so strangely between them 
 
 X 
 
114 'let nothing you dismay.' 
 
 during the last few months. He felt far away from Dot, and he 
 hated the feeling and quickly changed the subject. 
 ' Shall I read something else to you ? ' he asked. 
 * I should like some music,' said Dot, knowing that this would 
 lead to no discussion which could displease Donovan, and then 
 ensued what some people would have thought a rather incon- 
 gruous selection, ranging from Sebastian Bach to the latest 
 popular song, and from ' Vedrai Carino ' to ' The Green Hill far 
 away.' There was no distinction in music to Donovan, he played 
 all Dot's favourites one after the other. In the middle of the 
 last hymn Mrs. Farrant came in. It was the time of her second 
 daily visit. 
 
 'Pray stop that tune, Donovan,' she said, plaintively. 'We 
 are always having it in church, and I am so tired of it, the boys 
 sing it frightfully out of time, and always get flat in the last 
 line. How do you feel this afternoon, Dot?' 
 
 'Better, thank you, mamma,' said Dot, looking wistfully 
 across the room at Donovan, as he tossed aside the hymn-book 
 impatiently. 
 
 ' Really better ? ' questioned Mrs. Farrant, with anxiety, for 
 Dot had been suffering so much more lately, that even her calm 
 phlegmatic nature had been stirred to uneasiness and apprehen- 
 sion. 
 
 ' Yes, I think so,' said the little girl. ' Dono and I have 
 been settling our Christmas presents, and what do you think he 
 is going to give me, mamma ? A clock — a dear little clock of 
 my very own.' 
 
 She had gained the end she wanted ; Donovan, who had 
 been at the other side of the room, turned round, met her eyes, 
 and came to her. 
 
 ' Dono spoils you, I think,' said Mrs. Farrant, smiling ; and 
 somehow the words, trifling as the}' were, drew the three together. 
 Donovan recovered his temper, and for once talked naturally 
 before his mother, teased Dot merrily, and quite surprised Mrs. 
 Farrant by his high spirits. ' I never saw you so talkative 
 before,' she remarked, as the dressing-bell rang, and she rose 
 to go. 
 
 ' It is Dot who teaches us how to laugh,' said Donovan, 
 ' You are a little witch, and sweep away bad humours instead of 
 cobwebs.' 
 
 Christmas to Donovan only meant a full house, an incompre- 
 hensible gaiety and good humour, a conventional old-fashioned 
 dinner, which he did not like, and a certain amount of holly and ivy. 
 In his difierent way he was quite as far from understanding it as 
 
[MRXVj>-^LET NOTHING YOU DISMAY.' 115 
 
 poor old Scroof^-e in the ' Christmas Carol.' The year before old 
 Mr. Hayes had dined with them, but he was now far away, for, 
 not many weeks before, his ' castle in the air ' had become a 
 reality. An old friend of his had returned from the United 
 States, havinp-made his fortune ; he had come to Oakdene to see 
 Mr. Hayes, had discovered the great wish of his old school- 
 fellow, and had sug-g-estcd a six months' tour on the Continent, 
 in which he was tobear the greater part of the expense. So the 
 old man in childlike glee had let his cottage and started for 
 Italy, taking a cordial farewell of Donovan, and recommending 
 him to follow his plan, whicli was now coming to such a success- 
 ful issue. 
 
 The guests, therefore, this j-ear only consisted of Adela and 
 two of Ellis's friends, nor was the misanthropical Donovan very 
 sorry that such should be the case. There w^as something almost 
 ghastly to him in the merriment which everyone seemed to think 
 it right to force up. The real happiness of the season was of 
 course unknown to him, and he had not even any recollections of 
 tbe ' merry Christmas ' of childhood to fall back upon. 
 
 Adela tried to tease him into a little conversation as she sat 
 beside him at dinner, but it was hard work. 
 
 ' Do you know, Donovan, I was staying-^at a country-house in 
 Sussex last September, and the first night 1 got there I saw some 
 one wbo reminded me so much of you.' 
 
 ' Indeed ! ' replied her taciturn companion. 
 
 ' lie was not so much like you in face as in manner ; I 
 thought to myself, no one but my cousin Donovan sits through 
 an evening in such complete silence, and afterwards — what do 
 you think ? — I found out that your double was dumb.' 
 
 Donovan laughed a little. 
 
 * I can't make small talk,' he said — ' I told you so long ago.' 
 
 * Oh ! of course your great intellect can't stoop to frivolities,' 
 said Adela, with pretended sarcasm in her tone, but laughter in 
 her bright eyes. ' Perhaps you would kindly give me a little 
 instruction, though, on some of tbe weighty subjects that fill 
 your brain.' 
 
 He laughed again, but then, thinking of his misery at Cod- 
 rington, added, quite gravely, 
 
 * My brain is anxious just now to forget certain weighty sub- 
 jects, not to rake them up. Dot came out with one of her quaint 
 remarks the other day, which mix in so strangely with her 
 childishness ; she noticed how wonderful it was that you can put 
 any subject out of your head, when it is not pleasant to think of 
 it, for an almost unlimited time.' 
 
 i2 
 
116 *LET NOTHING YOU DISMAY.* 
 
 ' My dear cousin/ said Adela, ' do you mean you always keep 
 skeletons in your cupboard ? ' 
 
 ' The world is full of grim things — I try to forget them,' said 
 Donovan. 
 
 ' You're the most extraordinary person,' said Adela, ' You 
 actually never mean to face these things?' 
 
 ' Not till I'm obliged to,' said Donovan. 
 
 ' Perhajis that accounts for your stupidity,' said Adela, with a 
 daring- flash of her dark eyes. 'A thousand pardons — I mean 
 the brevity of your remarks.' 
 
 ' There 3'ou have the worst of it, cousin, for " Brevity is the 
 soul of wit," ' said Donovan. 
 
 ' Ah ! well, I think you are improved ; you shall not be 
 scolded,' replied Adela, good-humouredly ; then, resuming her 
 playful maliciousness, she continued — * It was such a pity you 
 .weren't at church this morning; the decorations were beautiful, 
 really quite worth seeing — a cross and two triangles of white 
 azaleas sent by the Wards, any amount of wreathing round the 
 pillars, and some charming devices in Epsom salts on a red back- 
 ground.' 
 
 Donovan naturally scoffed at this. 
 
 * I can't think how you can like that sort of thing — if you 
 despise and condemn pagans, why do you borrow their cus- 
 toms ? ' 
 
 ' You hard, matter-of-fact creature ! Why, of course we 
 must have a little beauty. Can't you understand what a help it 
 is?' 
 
 ' No, I can't,' said Donovan, shortly. Then, as the blazing 
 Christmas pudding was brought in, he continued his grumble. 
 * This, too, is an absurd, senseless old custom. What good does 
 it do us all to sit round the table and watch blue flames, and then 
 eat a horrible, black, burnt compound, like hot wedding-cake ? ' 
 
 ' You are a wretch,' said Adela. ' You would like to sweep 
 away all the dear old manners and customs, and start us in a new 
 order of things, where men would be machines, and everything 
 would be done by rule and measure. You would like us all to 
 be as rational and comprehensible as vulgar fractions, now would 
 you not ? ' 
 
 ' It would simplify life,' said Donovan, smiling*. 
 ' I knew you'd say so,' said Adela, triumphantly. ' It's really 
 quite dreadi'ul to talk to such a flint. Have you no associations 
 with the dear old things ? Were you never young ? ' 
 
 ' No, I don't think I ever was,' said Donovan, with a touch of 
 sadness in his voice. 
 
*LET NOTHING YOU DISMAY.* 117 
 
 The conversation somehow paused here, until an uncontrolled 
 ya"\vn on Donovan's part stimulated Adela to a fresh effort. 
 
 ' You arc horribly uninteresting^-,' she said. 
 
 ' Yes, I'm most abominably sleepy. I was up last ni^ht.' 
 
 ' Ah ! so Dot told me,' replied Adela. ' You tell her stories, 
 she says, just like the wonderful story-teller in the "Arabian 
 Nif»:hts," one after the other.' 
 
 * It amuses her/ said Donovan, ' and sometimes I have sent 
 her to sleep in that way, but we couldn't manag-e it last night. 
 She is dreadfully worn out to-day after all the pain.' 
 
 * Tiiese attacks seem much more frequent than they used to 
 be,' said Adela. 
 
 * Yes,' he replied, and there was something- in his voice which 
 made Adela suddenly g'rave, but in a minute he recovered him- 
 self, and with his ordinary manner asked if he should peel an 
 orange for her. 
 
 Just then some carol-singers beg-an a hymn outside, but the 
 rest of the party were not quite in the humour for hymns, 
 
 ' Oh, those boys sing- so badly,' said Mrs. Farrant. 'Do send 
 them away, Ellis.' 
 
 ' Yes, I think we had about enoug-h of them this morning* at 
 church,' said Ellis, and he would have sent word to them to g-o 
 had not Donovan risen. 
 
 * I'll take them round to the other side of the house/ he said, 
 ' Dot likes music' 
 
 ' What ! ' exclaimed Adela, ' you mean to countenance a hea- 
 thenish old custom, after all you have said ? ' 
 
 ' Dot will like it/ he replied, as if this were a sufficient reason 
 for countenancing- anything-. 
 
 The little invalid's room seemed very quiet and dim after the 
 merry voices and brig'ht lights down below, and yet it was an 
 unspeakable relief to Donovan to be there with her once more, 
 away from the hollow merriment of his step-father and the other 
 guests, away from Adela's g-ood-humoured banter. Dot was in 
 bed, and there was about her that terriljle stillness of utter ex- 
 haustion which makes illness, and especially a child's illness, so 
 very sad to see. She was quite worn out with sleeplessness, and, 
 though the pain was less severe than it had been, her face still 
 bore marks of suffering-. She did not move as Donovan entered, 
 but welcomed him with her eyes. 
 
 ' You have done dinner quickly to-night,' she said. ' You 
 have not been hurrying- to get back to me .'* ' 
 
 ' No ; but some carol-singers have come,' said Donovan, ' and 
 I thought you would like to hear them,' 
 
118 'let nothing you dismay.' 
 
 ' Oh, I am so g-lad ! ' she said, with child-like pleasure. ' I 
 did so want to hear the carols that Phoebe has been telling me 
 about. Please draw up the blind, Phoebe, so that they may know 
 we are listening. Oh ! there is my clock striking-. Hark ! ' 
 
 Donovan's present, an exquisite little travelling- clock, stood 
 on the mantel-piece, and as Dot spoke it chimed the hour, then 
 struck eight o'clock in sweet, low, muffled tones, hke the sound 
 of a distant cathedral bell. 
 
 ' It is so beautiful,' she said, happily. ' It will make the night 
 g-o so much more quickly. Now put your arm round me, Don 
 dear.' 
 
 Then the choir-boys outside began their carol, the voices 
 sounding- sweet and subdued as they floated up into the silence 
 of the sick-room. At first the words seemed almost incongruous, 
 the dear old Christmas hymn had surely not been meant for such 
 sadness, and suffering, and anxiety? But the shrill fearless 
 trebles went on, and Donovan and Dot listened. 
 
 'God rest yon, merry gentlemen, 
 Let nothing you dismay, 
 Remember Christ our Saviour 
 Was born on Cliristmas Day ; 
 To save us all from Satan's power, 
 When we were gone astray ; 
 tidings of comfort and joy, 
 Comfort and joy, 
 tidings of comfort and joy ! ' 
 
 Dot caught the refrain which came at the end of every verse, 
 and was delighted with it. By-and-by the sing-ers went away, 
 and Dot asked to have some reading-. Some one had sent her 
 a leaflet hymn ; it was a description of the ' City with streets of 
 g-old,' and Donovan read it through patiently, though it seemed 
 to him sensational and unsatisfying, and he was g-rieved to think 
 that she could care for such material delights as were described. 
 It was a positive relief to him that she did not like it. To sing 
 and rest in a luxurious city could not be her ideal of a future life. 
 
 ' And besides,' she said, in her quaint Avay, ' there isn't time 
 to think about the houses, and the streets, and the gardens, they 
 don't make the home ; it is something like the home here, I 
 think; you know, though Oakdene is so pretty, it is only because 
 you are here that I love it, it is you that I think oi', not the 
 house.' 
 
 There was a pause in which the candle flared for a moment 
 in its socket, and then died out, leaving the room in darkness. 
 'J'he maid had gone away. Donovan would have rung, but Dot 
 stopped him. 
 
*LET NOTHINQ YOU DISMAY.' 119 
 
 * We won't liave another,' slie said. * I like to be in the dark 
 when you hold me near youj and, look, we can see the stars, 
 there is dear old Orion, he's my very favourite of all, I always 
 look for him. And, Done dear, while we are all alone like this 
 I want to tell you sometliino- ; you won't like it now, hut some 
 day I am sure you will. When Phoebe first told me everything- 
 it was only through you that I could at all understand. I had 
 to think first what love was, and what giving- up was, and then I 
 thought of you, and how you loved me and gave up all your life 
 to me ; no,"l know you w'ill say you didn't give up anything, but 
 you have, Don, you have given up pleasure, and rest, and change, 
 and all sorts of things.' 
 
 ' But do you think I could have been happy, do you think 
 life would have been tolerable if I had gone away to enjoy myself 
 and left you alone ? ' said Donovan, hoarsely. 
 
 ' No, Don,' she replied, nestling closer to him, * I was quite 
 sure you never could, and then you see I could believe how the 
 greatest love of all could not leave us.' 
 
 lie gave a mental ejaculation of thankfulness that Doery had 
 never grieved the tender little soul with her cold-blooded Cal- 
 vinism. Dear little girl! she was happy enough in her new 
 convictions, he would not for the world have disturbed, her ; in 
 the dark he even smiled a little to think that he had actually 
 helped towards establishing the 'delusion' in her mind, had 
 helped to set up his rival. 
 
 The next few days passed hopefully. Dot seemed to grow a 
 little stronger again, and, as she had rallied from so many attacks, 
 they all began to feci relieved, and to fancy that anxiety was over 
 for the present. There was to be a dance at the Manor on the 
 31st, and when, at Christmas, Dot had been so seriously ill, Mrs. 
 Farrant had almost decided to postpone it; however, she seemed 
 to recover quickly, so the arrangement was not altered, and the 
 house was soon in that state of excitement and turmoil which 
 invariably precedes any unusual event of the kind. Adehv 
 Farrant was quite in her element, and even succeeded in stirring 
 up Donovan to such an extent that he came down from what she 
 called his ' high horse,' and condescended to show some interest 
 in the arrangements. She was therefore doubly astonished when, 
 about eight o'clock on the evening of the dance, she met him on 
 the stairs, to find that all his interest had suddenly abated. 
 
 ' Try to get this affair over as quickly as you can," he soid, as 
 they passed each other. 
 
 ' What do you mean ? ' said Adela, standing Etill. ' You are 
 coming down, -are you not ? ' 
 
120 'let nothing you dismay.' 
 
 ' No, I can't, it's quite impossible. Dot is so restless and 
 poorly, I am afraid she is in for another of her had attacks ; I 
 want you to p-et the people away as soon as may be, the noise isf 
 sure to worry her.' 
 
 ' Oh ! she'll be asleep before it be^-ins,' said Adela. ' No one 
 will be here till nine o'clock, I should think,' 
 
 'Well, I hope it will be so. It's an abominable nuisance, 
 thoug-h, that the house should be all upset to-night.' 
 
 As he spoke, he opened the door of the little invalid's room, 
 and shut himself in, while Adela passed down the stairs to the 
 drawing'-room, a little annoyed at what she called ' Csesar's 
 desertion,' and vaguely uneasy at his account of Dot. One of 
 the guests was, however, g-reatly relieved at his absence ; Mrs. 
 Ward really began to enjoy the evening when she found that the 
 * dang-erous" young- man ' did not appear ; she was quite content 
 that her duug-hters should dance with Major Mackinnon and Mr. 
 Probyn, two friends of Ellis Farrant's who were staying- at the 
 Manor. They were quite distinguished-looking men ; Mrs. Ward 
 was g-lad that her girls should have such nice partners, and 
 remained in happy ig-norance that they were in reality characters 
 beside whom the poor black sheep of Oakdene would have become 
 almost white in contrast. 
 
 Meanwhile, in the room above, Dot was in that state of strange 
 restless misery which always preceded her attacks — a sort of antici- 
 pation of the pain. This was the time when her courag-e was 
 most apt to fail; she could not bear the thoug-ht of the sutFering- 
 beforehand, though, when it actually came, she was always brave 
 and patient. In vain did Donovan try every possible means of 
 sending her to sleep. Every preventive which the doctors had 
 ordered to be tried at such times had of course been brought to 
 bear upon the poor little girl, but to-night nothing seemed to 
 have any etfect. Donovan read to her, played to her, told her 
 story after story, but she grew rapidly worse, and they at length 
 realised that some fresh form of illness must have set in ; much 
 as she had suffered, she had never been in such terrible pain 
 before. Old Mrs. Doery, who had nursed her through so many 
 illnesses, was summoned at once, and the younger nurse 
 went downstairs to find a messenger who could be sent for 
 the doctor. The house, however, was all in confusion, and in 
 a few minutes Phoebe returned in despair ; the other servants 
 were too busy to go ; she could not even persuade any of 
 the servants of the guests to ride over to Greyshot with the 
 message. 
 
 * This miserable dance !' exclaimed Donovan, angrily. ' Well, 
 
*LET NOTHING YOU DISMAY.' 121 
 
 I must o-o myself, then ; I shall be quicker than any of those 
 lazy knaves.' 
 
 But Dot clung- to him. 
 
 ' It is so hard to bear without you. I will be good if it's 
 really best, but — but ' 
 
 It cost him a hard strug'gie to decide, but, knowing that an 
 unwilling" messenger would be slow, he felt that the only sure way 
 was to g-o himself; there was no time to be lost. He bent down 
 to kiss the poor little quivering* lips, and said very gently and 
 firmly, 
 
 ' It is best, darling'. Be brave ; I shall not be long-.' 
 
 She tried to smile, and he hurried away, sick at heart. 
 Hushing- headlong- downstairs, snatching- up his hat from the 
 stand, brushing- past some astonished visitors, he ran at full 
 speed to the stables, saddled the cob with his own hands, and in 
 five minutes was on the road to Greyshot. He had dashed out 
 from the heated room just asheAvas; the night was piercingly 
 cold, the snow Avas falling- fast, and the north wind blew the 
 flakes into his eyes, so that he was almost blinded by them ; he 
 shivered from head to foot, but did not know that he shivered — • 
 all that he felt was an overwhelming- anxiety and dread. What 
 if he should never see Dot again? The extraordinary severity 
 and suddenness of this illness had alarmed them all — what if she 
 sank under it i* And he had refused her last entreaty ! Oh, 
 bitter ag-ony ! what if he reached home too late ! ' Too late ! too 
 late ! ' The very sound of the horse's hoofs echoed his fears, 
 the muffled footfall as they g-alloped on over the snowy road. 
 And yet it was the only sure way of g-ettinj^ the doctor ; he 
 knew he had been right to come; it might — it was just possible 
 that it mig'ht save Dot some minutes of pain — it might save her 
 life. But ag'ain his heart sank down like lead under the oppres- 
 sion of the one horrible fear. That ride was ever after a sort of 
 nightmare recollection to him. 
 
 At last he thought it was ended ; he sprang- down at the door 
 of the doctor's house and rang- furiously. The footman appeared 
 in answer. 
 
 ' Dr. L was dining at Monklands.' 
 
 Monklands was about two miles on the other side of Grey- 
 shot. 
 
 Poor Donovan rode on almost despairingly, cursing- his cruel 
 fate. It was half- past ten by the time he reached the house ; then, 
 
 to his relief, he saw that Dr. L 's carriag-e was standing- at 
 
 the door. He would not dismount ; the doctor came out to iiim 
 at once, and, on hearing' his account of Dot, prepared to come to 
 
122 *LET NOTHING YOU DISMAY.' 
 
 her directly, left a hurried message of farewell to his host, and, 
 spring-ing- into bis carriage, drove home, promising" to come on to 
 the Manor as quickly as possible. 
 
 Donovan had neither whip nor spurs, but he had what is far 
 more eihcacious — the power of communicating his tboughts to 
 animals ; the cob seemed to gather from the feeling of his hand 
 on her neck, from his occasional ejaculations, all the anxiety of 
 this ride. In spite of the deep snow, he galloped on bravely ; on 
 through the open country, through the silent Greyshot streets, 
 along the white, deserted road, till at length the lights of the 
 Manor shone out through the branches of the ghostly-looking 
 oak-trees, the bright lights in the lower windows, and the dim 
 light in the upper room. Donovan's heart gave a great bound 
 when he heard in the distance the music of the string quartette 
 and the sound of dancing. It was well with Dot then ! In com- 
 mon decency the house would have been in silence if his fears 
 had been realised. Forgetful of everything but the one absorbing 
 interest, he dashed into the house, through the hall and up the 
 broad staircase; Miss Ward and her partner, who were pacing up 
 and down in the cool, stared at the sudden apparition with its 
 snowy garments and strained expectant face ; he never even saw 
 them, but, hurrying" on, threw aside his wet clothes, and in five 
 minutes had reached Dot's room. As he opened the door two 
 sounds mingled for an instant in his ear. From below came the 
 sound of the ' grand chain ' in the ' Lancers/ and from the sick- 
 bed came a low sobbing moan. Phoebe was saying something 
 to the little girl; he caught the words of one of her favourite 
 hymns — 
 
 ' We may not know, we cannot tell, 
 What pains He had to bear.' 
 
 Dot saw him in a minute and gave a relieved exclamation. 
 
 'Oh, Dono! I'm so glad you are back; I've wanted you so 
 dreadfully. Let me hold 3'our hands.' 
 
 His face, which had been rigid during the time of his anxiety, 
 was changed now to the look of tenderness, and even cheerful- 
 ness, which he had learnt to wear when with the little girl. 
 
 ' Dr. L will be here almost directly, and then he will 
 
 make you more comfortable,' he said, taking his place at the bed- 
 side. 
 
 ' Oh, Dono ! ' she gasped^ ' sometimes I think I shall never be 
 comfortable any more.' 
 
 ' You thought so last time you were ill,' said Donovan, sooth- 
 ingly, ' and then after all you had some quiet duys.' 
 
'let nothing you dismay/ 123 
 
 ' Yes, but tliis is worse. Oh, Done, Dono ! ' and a<'ain she 
 broke into thtit wail of pain which pierced the hearts of the 
 watchers. Donovan was the only one who never lost his control ; 
 he was always ready with quiet, tender words ; sometimes when 
 the pain was lulled for a few minutes he would even make the 
 little g-irl smile. 
 
 At last the doctor came, and Donovan waited in fearful sus- 
 pense for his opinion; he waited outside the room in the gallery, 
 pacint^- up and down miserably, feeling chafed and annoyed by 
 the laughter and noise which reached his ears from below. After 
 
 some time Dr. L came out, with a face which only too fully 
 
 confirmed his fears. 
 
 * Cannot this noise be stopped ? ' he asked, a little impatiently, 
 
 ' It shall be,' said Donovan, with bitter earnestness. ' She is 
 iu danger, as I thought ? ' 
 
 ' Yes,' said Dr. L . ' Mrs. Farrant ought to be told at 
 
 once.' 
 
 ' You mean that — that the end is near ? ' questioned Donovan, 
 startled, in spite of his forebodings. 
 
 ' It is an acute attack of inflammation ; I am afraid she must 
 sink under it,' replied the doctor, gravely. 
 
 Without a word Donovan went slowly down the stairs to the 
 room where the dancing was going on. A Highland reel had 
 just begun ; the tune ' Tullochgorum ' rang in his head for 
 weeks after. The greater number of the guests were looking on 
 at the dancers. Donovan saw that his mother was quite at the 
 other end of the room, and, as he was arranging how best to 
 reach her, Ellis caught sight of him and hurried towards the place 
 where he was standing. 
 
 ' How now, Donovan, come to dance after all, and in that old 
 shooting-coat ? ' 
 
 ' You must stop this ; Dot is ill,' said Donovan, in a hollow 
 voice. 
 
 ' My dear fellow, you ask impossibilities ; one can't turn away 
 seventy guests at a moment's notice.' 
 
 ' She is dying,' said Donovan, and the words sounded 
 strangely out of place in the midst of all the gaiety and merri- 
 ment. 
 
 ' Dying ! ' echoed Ellis, startled and shocked. At an ordinary 
 time he woidd have enjoyed the opportunity of thwarting and 
 annoying his step-son ; only a moment ago and something of this 
 sort had been in his intentions. But that one word scattered all 
 mean and unkind thoughts; before the angel of death even this 
 selfish and dishonest man became softened and awed. 
 
124 'let nothing you dismay.' 
 
 ' I will arrange it. The music shall of course be stopped,' he 
 said, in really kind tones. 
 
 Donovan thanked him, and asked him to tell Mrs. Farrant, 
 and Ellis at once complied, crossing the room to the place where 
 his wife was talking- with the squire, and telling her that she 
 must speak to Donovan for a moment oxitside. 
 
 She was so completely overcome by the unexpected news that 
 Donovan was almost in despair. To he kept away from Dot was 
 terrible, and yet he could not leave his mother in her distress. 
 Speaking with the gentleness and control which seemed specially 
 given to him that night, he at last persuaded her to come and 
 see the little girl, overruling the sobbing, shrinking appeal, 
 * that it was so terrible, so sad — and she couldn't bear to go in 
 that dress.' 
 
 But a very few minutes beside the poor little child's bed 
 proved too much for Mrs. Farrant's powers of endurance. The 
 sight of her suffering was indeed terribly painful, and with a 
 mother's instinctive love awakening in her heart, but without a 
 mother's long training and self-denial and devotion, Mrs. Farrant 
 naturally could not control herself in the leastj she burst into 
 tears, agitated Dot, and had at last to be taken from the room. 
 
 ' I love her so,' she said, piteously, to Donovan, as he half 
 carried her along the gallery, and helped her on to her sofa. 
 
 He bent down and kissed her. 
 
 ' You will come in again when you can ? ' he said. * We will 
 tell you when there is any change.' 
 
 Adela came in while he was speaking, and he left her with 
 Mrs. Farrant, and hastily returned to the sick-room. Dot was 
 now growing delirious with the pain, but, though she could not 
 bear anyone else even to touch the bed-clothes, she liked him to 
 hold her hand, and her unconscious words were always spoken to 
 him. The solemn midnight was undisturbed by music or merri- 
 ment ; instead of dancing the old year out and the now year in, 
 the guests were driving sadly from the Manor. Dot was moan- 
 ing in the last sharp struggle of her little life, and Donovan was 
 watching beside her in anguish which could onl}' have been sup- 
 pressed by the purest and truest love. 
 
 There was not the smallest hope now. The long night hours 
 dragged slowly on, the death-agony grew more and more intense, 
 and the doctor could do absolutely nothing to lessen the pain. 
 Poor old Mrs. Doery quite broke down, and sat rocking herself 
 to and fro with her face buried in her apron. Phoebe, with a 
 white face, stood ready to do whatever she was told. Donovan, 
 never once faltering, bore up with what the doctor described 
 
'let nothing you dismay.* 125 
 
 afterwards as 'really extraordinary fortitude, almost as if the 
 poor little girl's death would not be such a dreadful blow to him.' 
 In reality, he was so absorbed in her that he had not a thouj^lit 
 to spare for the future, and while he was near her it was ncces^ 
 sary that he should be quiet and controlled. 
 
 Once, for a few minutes, however, the doctor asked him to 
 leave the room, and then his strong- will g-ave way. Ellis had. 
 left Adela with his wife, and, unable to go to bed, had stretched 
 himself on a sofa which, in the general disarrangement of the 
 house, had been placed at the end of the gallery ; he was begin- 
 ning to get drowsy when the opening of a door roused him. Was 
 it all over, he wondered ! He sat up and listened. A terrible 
 cry of anguish in a wailing, child's voice told him that Dot still 
 lived. Then for the first time he noticed that, in the dim light, 
 a few paces from him stood Donovan. He, too, must have been 
 listening, for he made a half-choked exclamation as the sound 
 reached him, and staggering forward, not noticing his step-father, 
 sat down on a chair near him, and with his arms stretched across 
 the table, and his head buried, gave way to an overwhelming 
 burst of grief. Ellis was really touched, and almost infected too. 
 Instinctively he tried to show his sympathy. 
 
 ' Donovan, my poor fellow, don't give way. While there's 
 life there's hope, you know.' 
 
 ' I wish she were dead,' he groaned ; * out of the pain.' 
 
 * But she may get better,' suggested Ellis. 
 
 * No,' he answered, with a great sob which shook his whole 
 frame, ' it's only a question of hours — hours of torture ! ' 
 
 Then springing up in a sort of frenzy, and dashing the tears 
 from his eyes, he seized hold of Ellis's arm. 
 
 ' Here ! you who believe in a God — get down on your knees 
 and pray for her — pray that she may die ! ' 
 
 Without waiting for an answer from the astonished Ellis, he 
 turned to the window, tore back the curtain, threw open the 
 casement, and leant out into the black night. Somewhere, some- 
 where in that yawning space there surely must be a Power who 
 could help him in his fearful need ! His whole heart went out 
 in a passionate cry to the vast unknown. 
 
 'God! God!" Exist! Be! Stop this agony ! Let her die! 
 What good can it possibly do ? Let her die ! ' 
 
 It was the first prayer he had ever prayed. 
 
 There was a touch upon his arm, he turned and saw Phoebe 
 standing beside him. 
 
 ' Miss Dot is asking for you, sir, but won't you <;ake some- 
 thing before vou go back ? ' 
 
126 'LET NOTHING YOU DISMAY. 
 
 He shook his head, but, as he passed Ellis, asked him to give 
 Phcehe and Mrs. Doery some wine. Then he went hack to the 
 sick-room, composed his face with an effort, and resumed his 
 place beside Dot. 
 
 ' Dono, talk to me,' was the very first request, and he did 
 talk bravely and soothingly, in the continuous Avay which Dot 
 always liked. Taciturn and unimaginative as he redly was, he 
 had long- ago learnt to overcome all his natural difficulties, and 
 utterly to disregard his own tastes and inclinations when Dot 
 was in any way concerned. 
 
 At last the pain grew less severe, the poor exhausted little 
 life began to ebb away fast. When the longed-for relief came, 
 Donovan knew that the end was very near. He breathed more 
 freely. 
 
 'The pain is all gone,' whispered Dot, after a long quiet inter- 
 val; ' will it never come again / Is it gone for always, Dono ?' 
 
 ' Yes, darling, I think quite gone,' he replied; his dreary creed 
 did not allow him to say more. 
 
 ' It is so comfortable,' she murmured, drowsily. 
 
 Before long Mrs. Farrant and Adela were summoned, and 
 Ellis too came "in, and kissed the little worn face, and poor Waif 
 crept after them all, Donovan lifting him up that Dot's hand 
 might stroke his head for the last time. 
 
 By-and-by the room was quiet again, only Donovan, the two 
 nurses, and the doctor stayed to watch the end. The perfect 
 silence was at last interrupted, a sudden shiver passed through 
 the little wasted form. 
 
 ' I am so cold, Dono,' she murmured, moving her hands ner- 
 vously about the coverlet, ' put your arm round me again ; oh ! 
 it is getting so dark, hold me, Dono, hold me ! Is it wrong to 
 be so frightened ? ' 
 
 ' I am holding you, darling,' he replied, ' there is nothing to 
 fear.' 
 
 But the words died from his cold lips as he uttered them, he 
 felt that he could not comfort her, that she was beyond his help ; 
 and her next words seemed to pierce his heart. 
 
 ' I can't feel your arms, Dono, I can't see you.' 
 
 A stilled moan escaped him, he bent low over her, and again 
 and again kissed her cold damp brow. 
 
 ' I didn't mean to vex you, darling,' she gasped, ' it will be 
 better soon, perhaps. Say me the hymn about the light.' 
 
 He repeated Newman's ' Lead, kindly Light,' which, for 
 some unknown reason, had always been a great favourite with 
 Dut, he knew it well, and would, of course, have said anything 
 
*LET NOTHING YOU DISMAY.' 127 
 
 to please her ; nor did he feel what a hideous mockery the words 
 were to him, lio was too completely absorbed in thinking- of her. 
 After he had finished the hymn, there was a lono- pause during 
 \vhich her breathino- became more and more diilicult. Donovan's 
 whole being- seemed to live with each elibrt, he too drew each 
 breath slowly and painfully. But there came a respite before long-, 
 the light did shine thro"^ug-h the g-loom, and a look of almost 
 baby-like peace stole over Dot's troubled face. She did not speak 
 a word, it never had been her way to say very much, but by- 
 and-by Donovan overheard faint half-dreamy whispers, and knew 
 that she was speaking with a little child's confidence to God. 
 
 * You will comfort Dono, won't you ? and we will be all quite 
 happy tog-ether.' 
 
 The words died away into indistinct murmurs, she sank into 
 a painless, half-unconscious state. 
 
 It was not till this time that one thought of himself came to 
 trouble Donovan, but as he knelt by the bedside, with Dot's head 
 resting on his arm, as he listened to — almost counted — the sig-h- 
 ing- breaths, his desolation broke upon him. In a fev/ minutes all 
 that to him made life worth hving- would have passed away for 
 ever ! Death, to him truly the king- of terrors, was here at the 
 bedside, and he was powerless, helpless, he could only wait for 
 the grim unknown to snatch little Dot away — away into a forever 
 of nothingness ! His brain reeled at the thought, he could not 
 control the shuddering agony which made his limbs almost 
 powerless and brought to his strong firm face a pallor almost as 
 deathly as that of the little dying child. 
 
 ' You had better rest a minute,' said the doctor. ' It is too 
 much for you.' 
 
 But the thought of losing even one of those precious last 
 minutes — of resigning his place to another — seemed intolerable. 
 He signed a negative with some impatience, raised Dot a little 
 higher, smoothed back the hair from her cold forehead, and 
 waited, trying to control the trembling which might disturb her, 
 to regulate the half-choked gasping breaths which would agitate 
 his whole frame. 
 
 Then came an unconquerable longing for one more word from 
 her, one more recognizing look. The struggle between this 
 desire and his unwillingness to break in upon the comparative 
 peace of her last moments grew to anguish ; passionate entreaties 
 rose to his lips, and were only checked by the fiercest effort of 
 will, wild impossible longings surged up in his heart, and above 
 all was a fearful realisation that tlie time was sliort, that minutes, 
 perhaps seconds, were all that was left to him. 
 
128 DESOLATE. 
 
 But the spiritual current of sympathy wbich had united the 
 two in life was as strong- as ever, they had been all-in-all to each 
 other, and even now, in the very moment of death, little Dot felt 
 instinctively that Donovan wanted her. 
 
 Half rousing- herself from the state of dreamy peace she had 
 fallen into, she felt for his face, drew it nearer to hers, and, with 
 long- pauses between the words, whispered, 
 
 ' I've asked to be quite near you still. I think God will let 
 me. He is so very good, you know — you will know.' 
 
 That perfect cuutidence of hers made death a happy thing-. 
 In her untroubled child-like faith she had no manner of doubt 
 that the Father who loved them both so dearly would one day 
 teach Donovan what His love was. 
 
 A minute after came a scarcely audible request. 
 
 * Kiss me, Dono.' 
 
 He folded his arms round her, and pressed his cold lips to 
 hers ; in another moment a shudder passing through the little 
 frame told him that he was alone iu the world. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 DESOLATE. 
 
 Then black despair, 
 The shadow of a starless night was thrown 
 Over the world in which I moved alone. 
 
 SilELLEY, 
 
 Truth's golden o'er us although we refuse it. 
 
 R. Beownino. 
 
 Great sorrows affect people so differently that it is often hard 
 to know how to sympathise with those in trouble, the spoken 
 words of comfort which may soothe one person may torture 
 anotlier, the reverential silence cong-enial to some seems cruelly 
 cold to others. Grief, too, falls in so many ditierent Avays; to 
 some it comes like a heavy physical blow, the bitterness of the 
 pain, the shock to the whole system, is so g-reat that for a time 
 the senses fail, and a merciful unconsciousness and a faint, 
 gradual return to life lessen to some extent the first ang-uish of 
 suffering. To some sorrow comes piercingly, their imagination 
 — all their faculties— seem for the time quickened by the pain, 
 memories of the past crowd around them, visions of a barren 
 
DESOLATE. 129 
 
 future stretch out before their aching eyes, and this in the very 
 first moments of their sorrow; g-rief is to them a sharp-ed^-ed 
 sword, laying- bare in an instant the very fibres of their being. 
 
 But there are others to whom sorrow comes in a more awful 
 form, the blow talis on them, but no momentary unconsciousness 
 comes to their relief, they do not sink under their load of pain, 
 but stagger on in dull hopelessness; they may be spared the 
 sharp realisation of the grief which pierces the heart, but their 
 case seems more pitiable; for, instead of struggling from the 
 depths of woe to calmness and peace, they labour on with a 
 terrible weight on their hearts, a weight which numbs the 
 faculties, and crushes the bearer into ' dull despair.' And then, 
 as nature re-asserts herself, and the perceptions regain their 
 vividness, a fearful reaction sets in, the despair deepens, the 
 weight of woe becomes each day heavier to bear; this is the 
 Btony sorrow which human sympathy seems utterly powerless to 
 reach, and which finds no outlet. 
 
 And yet the ' All ye that labour and are heavy laden ' has for 
 hundreds of years brought to the world's Consoler those who are 
 most borne down — most crushed by their grief. 
 
 Donovan knew the invitation well enough, but these things 
 were to him as ' idle tales ; ' to his suffering there was no relief 
 because he would not stretch out his hand to take ; he was as 
 much alone as it is possible for any of us to be alone. A child 
 may refuse obedience to its father, may reject all love, in its 
 ignorance may even refuse to beheve in the love. Strong in its 
 rebellion, it may shut itself away, bolting and barring the door 
 upon the love that would seek it out ; but, though it may refuse 
 to remove the barrier, the father is still the father, and though 
 the child cannot see how true and real his love is, because of the 
 obstacle it has with its own hand raised between them, the strong 
 love will surely never rest until it has conquered the child, and 
 shown it its mistake ; nor is it ever really alone — the barrier is 
 only a barrier. 
 
 Donovan had thus shut himself into himself; with the dead 
 calm of a worn-out body and a despairing heart, he closed the 
 door of Dot's room behind him, and with slow, dull, spiritless 
 steps walked along the gallery. Ellis was stamling in the door- 
 way of his dressing-room ; he came forward as his step-son 
 passed, but the question he would have put died on his lips as he 
 looked at Donovan's rigid face. He shuddered as the hollow, 
 unnatural voice uttered the words he had expected, but had not 
 dared to ask for — ' She is dead ! ' 
 
 Ellis had not very often visited his little step-daug-hter's room ; 
 
 K 
 
130 DESOLATE. 
 
 every now and then he had bought some trifling present for her, 
 or had sent her a message by Donovan, and occasionally he had 
 spent a few minutes beside her sofo, partly because he was anxious 
 to keep up appearances, and wished the household to think him 
 a worthy successor to Colonel Farrant, partly because of the real 
 good-nature which still to some extent guided his actions. His 
 sorrow at her death was more genuine than might have been 
 expected, and he had enough sympathy with Donovan not to 
 torment him with commonplace condolences, but to let him 
 pass by in silence, feeling rightly enough that he was the last 
 person who could venture to approach his grief He waited until 
 the door of his step-son's room had closed behind him, spoke a 
 few words to the doctor, and then with rather hesitating steps 
 went to Adela's room to tell her the news. At his knock she 
 came to the door ; she was wrapped in her dressing-gown, and 
 her hair was loose and disordered. Ellis thought she had never 
 looked so old before; her greyness and wrinkles, which he had 
 never noticed, showed plainly enough now that she was en 
 deshaUlle ; she looked what in truth she was, a middle-aged 
 woman, and Ellis, who could not bear to face the fact that beth 
 he and his sister were no longer young, shivered a little. Did 
 not each advancing year bring them nearer to the dreariness of 
 old age, and, what was worse, nearer to the terrors of death ! 
 Death was an awful thing, and death was in the house at that 
 very moment. 
 
 ' What is it ? ' asked Adela— * is it all over ? * 
 
 ' Yes, it is over,' he replied, gravely. ' I must tell poor 
 Honora. Come with me, Adela; she is so exhausted, I am half 
 afraid how she will bear it.' 
 
 '■ Other people may be exhausted too,' said Adela, rather 
 sharply. ' What has become of Donovan ? He has been in 
 there all night' 
 
 ' He has gone to his room. I was afraid to ?peak to him, he 
 looked — I can't tell you how he looked. Yes, go to him, if you 
 like, but you won't do him any good, poor fellow. It must have 
 been an awful night.' 
 
 Adela was thoroughly kind-hearted ; she hurried at once 
 towards Donovan's room, not allowing her natural shrinking 
 from the sight of pain to hinder her an instant. It was certainly 
 a relief, when she had received the word of admittance, to find 
 that no spectacle of overpowering grief was to meet her gaze. 
 The room was very cold and almost dark; a faint glimmer of 
 light from the window, and the outline of a figure with the head 
 drooped low, showed her where her cousin was. She groped her 
 
DESOLATE. . 131 
 
 way towards him, her misg'ivings returning- when he still did no" 
 spoak nor stir. 
 
 'Donovan/ she said, with quick anxiety in her tone, 'is an}- 
 thing- the matter with you ? Are you laint ? ' 
 
 Her words surjirised him; he mused over them half-curiously 
 before replying', llow strange it was to be asked if a/n/fJiinf/ were 
 the matter when he was simply crushed ! And j^et perhaps, in a 
 sense, nothing- was the matter — nothing- mattered at all now that 
 Dot was dead. And Dot n-as dead, she had passed, away for ever. 
 
 * Donovan/ pleaded Adela, ' do speak to me — do break this 
 dreadful silence ! ' 
 
 ' She is dead/ he replied, slowly, and then ag-ain his head 
 drooped, and there was another long- pause. 
 
 The window was wide open. The icy night-air made Adela 
 shiver ; she looked from the faint g-rey sky to tlie snowy earth, 
 and then in despair she looked back to her cousin's face, w^hich, 
 though indistinctly seen in the dim light, was evidently as cold 
 and still as marble. The tears rose to her eyes and overflowed as 
 she felt her powerlessness to relieve that stony sorrow. A half- 
 stifled shivering- sob roused Donovan at last. 
 
 ' You are cold,' he said, still in the same terribly hollow voice, 
 and then he moved forward and shut the window. 
 
 She was now so thoroughly frig-htened by the strangeness of 
 his manner that she lost all control over herself, and it was, after 
 all, Donovan who had to quiet her grief 
 
 ' Why do you cry ? ' he said. ' The pain is over for her, all is 
 over; after all, it is only ourselves who sufl'er. One can endure 
 a great deal, and sooner or later we too shall die ; think of the 
 peace of that nothingness.' 
 
 ' Oh, don't say such terrible things ! ' said Adela, shuddering 
 and sobbing- still more violently. 
 
 ' It is my one comfort,' he said, 'but you, with the belief you 
 profess, can need no comfort from such as I — your beautiful 
 legend should comfort you.' 
 
 'Yes, yes,' she answered, 'only it is so hard to be resigTied. 
 But, Donovan, I did not mean to be so weak; I wanted to be of 
 use to you, indeed I did, and I have worried instead of comforted 
 you.' 
 
 ' You have been very kind,' he said, in a more natural tone ; 
 'but there is only one comfort, and I have told you what that is.' 
 I'hen, as she started with a sudden new terror, he put his cold 
 hand on hers and added, ' No, yo\i need not be afraid ; death is 
 the comfort, but I shall not seek death in the way jou fear. 
 You need not think I shall try that way to rest.' 
 
132 DESOLATE. 
 
 ' But is there nothing I can do for yon ? ' asked Adela, 
 awed and quieted by his strang-e manner. 
 
 ' I should like you to go to my mother,' he replied, without 
 any hesitation. 
 
 Adela looked again at the white, stony face, but it was quite 
 resolute, and she had no choice but to obey. With a heavy 
 heart she went to see the other mourner, and tried to soothe the 
 passionate weeping' and bitter remorse of the mother. 
 
 The interview with his cousin had in some degree roused 
 Donovan ; he could not sink back to the state of lethargy in 
 which she had found him. Plis power of realisation had to some 
 extent returned, and the dead calm gave place to restlessness. 
 He paced up and down the room with unsteady steps, then, 
 chafed b}- the narrowness of the space, he opened his door and 
 wandered along the gallery, down the stairs, and through the 
 deserted rooms below: Everything had a most desolate look; 
 the faint morning light revealed the drooping wreaths and 
 decorations, the remains of the candles, which had guttered 
 down into shapeless masses of wax, looked grotesquely forlorn, 
 while the supper-room, with its disordered table and its profusion 
 of fruit and flowers, was perhaps the most dreary-looking of all. 
 The effect of the whole to Donovan seemed ghastly; 'The Reel 
 of Tullochgorum ' rang in his ears, recalling all its miserable 
 adjuECts, the noise of the gay crowd, the scraping and twanging 
 of the instruments, above all Dot's cries of anguish — those 
 heart-piercing cries which were to haunt him for months. 
 
 By-and-by, as the daylight increased, the household began to 
 stir ; a maid-servant came into the drawing-room and re-arranged 
 and dusted the furniture, from time to time casting half timid 
 half compassionate glances at the restless figure pacing to and 
 fro ; doors were opened and shut, a general sound of sweeping 
 and moving furniture made itself heard, a clatter of cups and 
 saucers ; bells were rung, footsteps hurried to and fro ; Major 
 Mackinnon's voice was heard asking for his boots. There was 
 sometliing awful in this business-like re-beginning- of life. Dot 
 was dead, yet for him life must go on in the old grooves, 
 
 Evenina; must usher niglit, night urge the morrow, 
 
 Month follow month with woe, and year wake year to sorrow. 
 
 The commonplace bustle, the vision which had crossed his 
 mind of the long barren years, became at last intolerable. He 
 hastened up the stairs once more, and from the force of long habit 
 found himself on the way to Dot's room. The blinds were down ; 
 the cool green light quieted his restless impatient movements. 
 
DESOLATE. 133 
 
 He closed the door, and stole with hushed steps to the bedside. 
 Then the Ibvlornness of his g-rief broke tipon him fully. No eager 
 welcome from the soft, childish voice, no loving- look from the 
 dark eyes, no arms stretched out to cling- round his neck, but 
 only a motionless silent outline beneatli the white sheet. He 
 could not look at the veiled face, he turned away and threw him- 
 self on the ground in a terrible, silent agony. 
 
 After a time, the quietness of the room beg'an to influence 
 him. Only a few hours before it had been the scene of such 
 weary suft'ering- that the peacefulness of the present could not but 
 seem doubly striking-. The peace of non-existence ! He hugged 
 the thought to his heart, and in thinking- of it forgot for the time 
 his own pain. Then he slowly dragged himself up, and kneeling: 
 by the bed drew aside the sheet. Nothing- could have softened 
 his suffering- so completely as the sight which met his gaze. The 
 beautiful little face seemed only a degree more pale and waxen 
 than in life; the forehead, no longer contracted with pain, 
 gleamed white and serene and starlike ; the brown hair lay lightly 
 on the pillow, the pale still lips smiled, the tiny thin hands were 
 folded in solemn repose. How long he knelt silently be>ide her 
 he never knew\ He was roused at last by old Mrs. Doery. She 
 came in, wiping her eyes with her apron, and for a minute stood 
 at the foot of the bed, watching the two children whom she had 
 brought up — the dead and the living. Perhaps the sight of the 
 living one touched her heart the more keenly, for there was an 
 unwonted tenderness in her manner as she addressed him. 
 
 ' I was looking for you, Mr, Donovan,' she said, putting her 
 hand on his shoulder. ' It's time you took some rest. You must 
 be worn out.' 
 
 Worn out ! Ah, no ! How he wished he had been ! But he 
 did not resist her when she urged him to go to his room. The 
 quiet, passive, painless state he was in led him to acquiesce in 
 anythins:. Later on, EUis came to him, offering to see to all the 
 necessary arrangements ; he thanked him quietly, and consented. 
 Then Adela came and begged him to see his mother, and he went 
 for a little while to his mother's room, and described everything 
 which had happened on the previous night, tranquilly, almost 
 coldly. So the day passed on, and night came. The household 
 was still once more, all were sleeping quietly ; only Donovan 
 lay with wide-open eyes, staring out at the black night, count- 
 ing the hours mechimically as they passed, wondering now and 
 then if he still lived, if this strange, numb passiveness were life 
 at all. 
 
 The next two days went on in much the same way. The 
 
134 DESOLATE. 
 
 liineral was to be on tie Saturday ; on the Friday morning 
 Donovan's unnatural calm bef^an to give way. He bad now 
 been four nights without sleep, and the dull weight, the numb- 
 ness of stifled pain, was beginning to tell on him. When, on that 
 day, he went as usual to Dot's room to gaze on the one sight 
 which had served to comfort him, he received a sudden shock. 
 The first great beauty of death had faded gradually, but, as that 
 morning he gazed down on the tranquil face, he saw for the first 
 time the faint evidences of mortality. The sight seemed to pierce 
 bis heart; he rushed away wildly, as though to escape from his 
 grief; he paced with desperate steps up and down his room, 
 trying m vain to forget what be had seen, trying to assure him- 
 self that it would not, could not be. * Dust thou art, and unto 
 dust shalt thou return.' The bitterness of the verdict was almost 
 unbearable, for to him the perishable body was all that was left ; 
 unsjieakably dear as it must be to all, it had to him a tenfold pre- 
 ciousness. His grief bordered so nearly on madness that every- 
 one began to shrink from him in terror, and all that terrible day 
 he was alone, now battling with his anguish, trying in vain to 
 govern himself — now allowing his crazy sorrow to drive him as 
 it pleased. At length, when night was come — the last night 
 belore Dot was to be borne away from him to the churchyard — 
 he w'ent once more to the death-chamber. The little white 
 coffin was closed — he did not regret it ; he would not look on 
 her again, only his frantic pacings to and fro seemed more beai'- 
 able in that room than in his own. Dot's little clock chimed -the 
 hoiu's softly in muffled tones, and each stroke seemed to fall with 
 knife-like sharpness on his heart. Time had ceased for her, but 
 for him it went on, wearily, ceaselessly. That was the only dis- 
 tinct thought which continually surged in upon him. ' My days 
 go on. My days go on.' 
 
 At last with a feverish craving for air he threw open the 
 window, and lea,ned out into the cold still winter night. A 
 winding sheet of snow on the earth, purple black heavens, and 
 stars shining out gloriously in the frosty atmosphere met his 
 gaze. All was grand and peaceful, all contrasted strangely with 
 his mad, fevered agony. He grew more quiet. Orion gleamed 
 down on him pityingl}', a child's voice whispered from the past, 
 ' He is my very favourite of all' Were the soft dark eyes 
 watching him perhaps in his anguish ? was the happy free spirit 
 near him ? Would all — every comfort be denied him because in 
 his ignorance and self-reliance he refused to believe ? 
 
 He shut the window once more, stood quietly for a minute 
 beside the coffin, then stretched himself out on the hearthrug, 
 
DESOLATE. 135 
 
 and, before the little clock chimed ag-ain, was sleeping- profoundly. 
 The only comfort he was capable of receiving- was g-iven him — a 
 night of unbroken rest, a short lull from his despair. 
 
 That sleep saved him ; the terrible strain of his attendance on 
 Dot, his hopeless sorrow and long- wakeful nig-hts, had brought 
 him to the very verge of serious illness; when he awoke late on 
 the following- morning-, his mind had recovered its balance, he 
 was sufficiently strengthened to take up his heavy load of sorrow 
 and bear it manfully. Ellis and Adela were unspeakably relieved, 
 when they met him, to find how g-reat a chang-e the night had 
 wroug-ht, the stony want of realisation, the frenzy of overpowering 
 g-rief, had given place to a more natural sorrow, he looked indeed 
 fery much as usual only that all his former characteristics 
 seemed deepened, the mouth looked a little more bitter, the eyes 
 more despairing- and contradictory to the rest of the face, the 
 curious brow had more of what Dot had called its ' battered ' look, 
 the whole expression was sterner and older. 
 
 For the first time he came down to breakflist and took his 
 usual place at the table, perhaps anxious to face the rest of the 
 party before the funeral, or with a sort of desire to g-o through 
 Avith everything- properly. They were all very kind to him, 
 there is enoug-h of g'ood in most people to make them compas- 
 sionate to great grief — for a time. As they left the breakfast- 
 room a servant met them carrying- some beautiful hot-house 
 flowers. 
 
 ' From Mrs. Ward, sir,' slie said, putting- into Donovan's 
 hand a card with, ' kind enquiries and sympathy.' 
 
 He looked at it for a moment, then threw it aside with bitter- 
 ness wliich astonished Adela, and said in his most chilling- tone, 
 
 ' It is too late now.' 
 
 *No, I think there will be room,' said Adela, misunder- 
 standing- him, ' we have a g-reat number of wreaths, but I think 
 I can arrang-e these flowers.' 
 
 'The world's sympathy!' he replied, bitterly, clenching- and 
 unclenching- his hands rapidly, as was his habit when strong'ly 
 agitated, ' never to come near her in all those years of suffering-, 
 but to send a showy wreath for her coffin.' 
 
 ' Would you rather they were not used ? ' asked Adela, doubt- 
 fully. 
 
 'Oh! let us take what we can get from the sympathising 
 world,' he answered, 'rate it at what it's worth, only don't ask 
 me to be g-ratcful.' And then with a fierce sigh he turned away. 
 
 The day was clear, bright, and frosty, the little churchyard 
 at Oakdene was crowded with people, for poor little Dot's death 
 
135 DESOLATE. 
 
 had awakened sympathy which her life had failed to win ; rumours 
 had g-ot about that the funeral was to be a choral one, and all 
 the acquaintances of the Farrants who had been at the inter- 
 rupted dance drove to the little country church to * show their 
 respect ' to the dead and the living-, whde many of the Greyshot 
 townspeople walked over either from curiosity, or from that love 
 of a pathetic sight which is latent in not a few hearts. 
 
 The sun shone brightly down on the snow-covered graves, on 
 the throng- of spectators, on the clergyman and the choristers, t!ie 
 rays fell too on the white pall laden with wreaths, on the black 
 dresses of the mourners, and on Donovan's stern hopeless face. 
 He would willingly have dispensed with the service, which was to 
 him only a mockery, but the arrangement of all had helped to 
 cheer Mrs. Farrant,' and as long as he could see the last of the 
 little coliin he was willing that the others should gratify theii' 
 taste, and gather round Dot's grave with prayers and hymns and 
 flowers. Gravely he followed the choir into the church, gravely 
 sat in the pew while the last strains of the hymn were sung ; the 
 other mourners knelt for a minute, he was too honest to do that, 
 but the consistency of an atheist rarely receives anything but 
 hard words, and all the spectators were inexpressibly shocked. 
 
 He was far too miserable to notice the looks of shrinking 
 aversion or righteous indignation which some of the congrega- 
 tion turned on him as the procession passed out to the grave, but 
 just outside. the porch, in a momentary pause, one whispered sen- 
 tence fell on his ear. 
 
 * Oh, no, atheists are always hard and unfeeling !' 
 
 He could not help knowing- that the words bore reference to 
 him : their injustice stung him a little, and he became conscious 
 that the eyes turned on him were hostile and unsympathising — 
 became indeed aware for the hrst time that the churcbyard was 
 crowded. Well, it would soon be over. He heard nothing more 
 till the sound of the earth falling- on the cofhn roused him from his 
 own thoughts ; then with a sudden pang and shudder he cauglit 
 the words — ' Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust ' — and he 
 was one of the ' men without hope.' 
 
 The people bowed their heads as the clergyman read the 
 closing prayers, but Donovan, with a wild look in his eyes, stood 
 erect and motionless ; his one longing was for solitude, and when, 
 after the benediction, another hjann was given out, he felt that 
 he could bear up no longer. Turning rapidly away he strode 
 through the staring- crowd. What did it matter if his action 
 were misinterpreted ? What did he care if the general sense of 
 decorum was ofl'ended ? It mattered little, for whatever he did 
 
DE80LATE. 137 
 
 was sure to be considered the wrong thing ! ' Dust to dust.' 
 llow the words haunted him ! Oh, to get away somewhere from 
 his anguish — away from the cruel workl with its harsh judg- 
 ments — to lose himself in darkness ! He rushed on wildly 
 through the churchyard, })ast the long line of carriages, along 
 the snowy road to tiie Manor. He was mad enough and miser- 
 able enough for any desperate deed, but whatever his intentions 
 had been' they were frustrated, for his physical strength gave 
 way ; he sank down exhausted on the floor of a little arbour in 
 the Manor grounds. 
 
 He was roused at length by a soft stir in the place; then 
 came a low whine, and, looking "up, he saw Waif beside him, his 
 round brown eyes full of tears. 
 
 ' Ah ! you understand, do you, old fellow 1 ' he exclaimed, 
 faintly. 
 
 He allowed the dog to lick his face and hanai for a minute 
 or two, then, as the carriages were heard in the diive, he started 
 
 up ; he knew that Dr. L and one or two other visitors would 
 
 return to lunch, and, though he shrank painfully from seeing 
 them, he felt that he ought to go in. Waifs loving devotion had 
 soothed him. Ashamed of the longing to end his life which had 
 almost overmastered him, he struggled to his feet, patted the 
 do2', and made his way to the drawing-room, there to do what 
 he'felt to be his duty in the way of talking to the visitors. Well 
 for the world that it is not all made up of logically _ consistent 
 men and women, well at any rate for the Donovans of the world 
 that there are children and dumb animals who love and sympa- 
 thise Avithout question, without reservation. 
 
 Blessed little Waif! You have done a better day's work 
 than all the throng of people in the church and churchyard ; 
 you have been the saving of your master. There is indeed 
 
 One 
 
 Who by low creatures leads to heights of love. 
 
 So, Waif, take courage and keep your eyes open, this is your 
 day ; men have for the present little to say to Donovan, they 
 shrink from him; it is clearly intended that you should see to 
 him, and in doing so you will be following in the steps of those 
 other dogs who temled the deserted beggar us he lay at the rich 
 man's gate. 
 
138 WISHES Ai\D CHESTNUT ROASTING. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 WISHES AND CHESTNUT ROASTING. 
 
 The possible stands by us ever fresh, 
 
 Fairer than aught which any life hath owned, 
 
 A healthful hunger for the great idea, 
 The beauty and the blessedness of life. 
 
 Gladys and her Island. J. In gelow 
 
 The scliool-room at Trenant was quite the favourite I'com in the 
 whole liouse. In summer time its two French windows, opening 
 on to the lawn, gave a cool out-of-door feeling, and, if you are 
 ohliged to spend a lovely June morning in the house, it is some 
 consolation to have nature brought as near to you as possible ; 
 in winter its coziness was admitted by all, its fireplace was large 
 and burnt better than any other, its half high brass fender made 
 an enchanting footstool, its old-fashioned sofa was exactly the 
 shape which tempts you to curl yourself up with a story-book 
 and forget the cold, and its bookshelves contained such a hetero- 
 geneous assortment of volumes that almost everyone could find 
 something to his or her special taste. But the time most favour- 
 able of all to the school-room was the time known as ' blind 
 man's holiday' in the winter j it had long been the favourite 
 family gathering place, and on the afternoon of New Year's day 
 — the same New Year which had brought sorrow and bereave- 
 ment to Oakdene Manor — a very merry party had congregated 
 round the hearth. In the centre of the group knelt Gladys with 
 one arm round Jackie to ward off all danger of fire accidents, and 
 with the other spare hand distributing smooth, brown, hard- 
 skinned chestnuts from a bag ; the school-boys, home for their 
 Christmas holidays, sat on the fender punching holes in the nuts 
 before they were put down to roast, and Stephen Causton stood, 
 poker in hand, ready to rake out the lowest bar of the grate at 
 the last moment. It was what Glad3''S called a ' toasty ' fire, not 
 a blazing one, but a deep still red one which sent out as much 
 heat as could possibly be desired, and cast a rich glow over wall 
 and ceiling, making the holly wreaths on the picture irames shine 
 out in bold contrast to the blackness of the shadows, and adding 
 such lustre to the old green curtains and furniture that their 
 faded shabbiness was no longer noticeable. The faces, too, of the 
 little group were ruddy in the firelight, and the golden threads 
 
WISHES AND CHESTNUT ROASTING. 139 
 
 in Gladys' brown hair shone out Lriglitly as she bent down over 
 the wri<i'g'lin<:>- strug-g-ling" Jackie, whose patience was sorely tried 
 by the slowness with which the chestnuts roasted. 
 
 ' We must take some to mother and Aunt Margaret in the 
 drawing-room,' said Gladys ; ' how soon will they be ready, 
 Stephen?' 
 
 ' Not yet ; besides, I'm certain my mother wouldn't touch one, 
 said Stephen, a little sulkily, ' she doesn't understand that sort 
 of thing".' 
 
 * My stars ! What, not like chestnuts ! ' ejaculated Bertie, 
 with raised eyebrows. 
 
 Gladys and Stephen laughed a little, it was not exactly the 
 want of appreciation of chestnuts which had given the sullen tone 
 to the assertion ; Mrs. Causton's contempt for the things of this 
 world was not a little trying to her son, and Gladys understood 
 that it was this in general to which he referred. Certainly it did 
 seem a pity, she thought, that Aunt Margaret should speak so very 
 unreservedly, and often so very inopportunely, about religious 
 details, and it seemed strange that she did not notice how it 
 repelled and annoyed her son. 
 
 Stephen had left Porthkerran in the previous October, and 
 was now 'walking the hospitals.' The few months of London 
 life seemed already to have altered him a good deal, he was older, 
 more decided and opinionated, even — Gladys fancied — a little less 
 refined than when he left. But the change which she noticed 
 chiefly in him was an increased dislike to Mrs. Causton's peculiar 
 little phrases and her untimely allusions. His mother worried 
 him, and he allowed this to appear far too plainly. 
 
 'Let us wish over them,' said Jackie, meditatively, ' cos you 
 know it's quite the iirst time this year we've eaten them.' 
 
 'I know what the Jackal would wish for,' said Bertie, teazingly, 
 ' he'd wish for jam at tea -, wishing's awful bosh, Jackie, you 
 mustn't be such a baby.' 
 
 The corners of Jackie's mouth were turned down ominously, 
 and nothing but Gladys' promptitude averted a storm. 
 
 'Nonsense, Bert, he wouldn't do anything of the kind; we 
 shall all wish over them, and Jackie shall have the first that's 
 done, because he's the youngest j now, Jack, a very wise wish ; 
 what is it to be ? ' 
 
 Jackie thought for the space of thirty seconds, while he tore 
 open the hot chestnut. Then with the conscious importance of 
 one who looks far into the dim future, he announced, 
 
 ' I wish to be a tiger-hunter in Aflica, I shall not go now, I 
 shall wait till I'm sixteen, then I shall be a man, and I shall 
 
1 10 WISHES AND CHESTNUT ROASTING. 
 
 shoot all the animals, except a few which I sliall catch with nets^ 
 and bling- home to keep in the niirsely.' 
 
 This wish excited a good "deal of laug^hter, for the heroic 
 tig'er-hunter of the future had been known to run away from a 
 good-sized dog-, and the unkind brothers were sceptical as to the 
 bravery his sixteen 3 ears would bring- him; but Jackie gnawed 
 his chestnut contentedly, and joined in the laughter. 
 
 Nor did the wishes of the other boys rival his in enterprise. 
 Bertie wished to be a sailor like Dick, with a 'jolly lot' of 
 climbing to do. Harold aspired to an archbishopric, because it 
 would be ' such a lark to be cock of the walk, and to have a big 
 palace to live in.' Stephen expressed a modest wish to discover 
 something like the * circulation of the blood,' as Harvey had done, 
 and make himself a name to be remembered. 
 
 Last of all came Gladys' wish, and all eyes turned upon her 
 as she tossed a chestnut to and fro in her hands, and thought. At 
 last raising her face, she said, 
 
 ' I wish to be like the people in " Eeal Folks," who got a lot of 
 little children together on Saturday afternoons, in some great, bad 
 town, and gave them a " good time." ' 
 
 ' Dirty little children — ugh ! ' exclaimed Bertie, in disgust. 
 
 ' Beastly ! ' said the archbishop of the future, laconically. 
 
 ' Oh ! if you want dirty children,' said Stephen, ' come to 
 Lambeth. You'll see a goodish few there.' 
 
 As he spoke the door was opened by Mrs. Tremain. 
 
 ' All in the gloaming,' she said brightly. ' I told Aunt Mar- 
 garet we should most likely find you here; what a delicious smell 
 of roasting ! ' 
 
 ' It's chestnuts, mammy,' shouted Jackie, at the top of his 
 voice, as he dragged his mother to a chair, and took up the 
 position on her knee to which, in Nesta's absence, his right 
 was indisputable. ' Mammy, do eat this one, it's such a 
 beauty.' 
 
 * Aunt Margaret, do you like this low chair ? ' said Gladys, as 
 Mrs. Causton joined the group gathered round the fireplace. 
 
 ' Thank you, my dear, no, I think I will sit at a little distance ; 
 as I must face the cold outside in a minute, it is well not to enjoy 
 too much of the warmth. You have a very large fire.' 
 
 This last sentence had something of reproach in it, and it 
 stimulated Stephen to a quick rejoinder. 
 
 ' Prime, isn't it ? ' 
 
 ' Still,' continued Mrs, Causton, ' in such a severe winter it 
 seems almost incumbent on one not to be too lavish in the coals, 
 which are so much needed by the poor.' 
 
WISHES AND CHESTNUT ROASTINO. 141 
 
 *It doesn't make the poor people any warmer for us to be 
 cold/ said Stephen, with a su])])ressed o-rowl. 
 
 ' Nurse always makes up big fires,' said Gladys. ' She says 
 it's more economical than always feeding a little one. Won't 
 you have a chestnut, auntie ? ' 
 
 ' No, thank you, my dear. It is not more than two hours 
 till dinner time, and I do not think it well to eat between meals.' 
 
 The chestnut eaters, conscious of a wicked enjoyment, 
 munched on in silence, the idea of a possible abolition of all 
 promiscuous and informal * feedings ' between meal times was 
 not to be tolerated for an instant. 
 
 Mrs. Trcmnin changed the subject. 
 
 ' And you really go back to London to-morrow, Ste^jhen ? 
 You have had a very short holiday.' 
 
 ' Yes ; still a few days is better than nothing,' he answered, 
 tilting his chair backwards and forwards. 
 
 * I only hope, Stephen, that you'll work well,' said his mother, 
 anxiously. ' These long winter evenings are excellent for read- 
 ing.' 
 
 Stephen yawned. 
 
 ' Do you'like your lodgings ?' asked Mrs. Tremain. 
 
 ' Oh ! they're 'awfully dull,' said Stephen. 'Still they're near 
 the hospital, and that's a great thing. 
 
 'And your landlady seems a thoroughly nice woman,' said 
 Mrs. Causton, who had taken the rooms herself, and had been 
 favourably impressed by the four large family Bibles placed as 
 ornaments on the coiaventional lodging-house drawing-room 
 table, as well as by the conversation of the landlady, 
 
 ' She's well enough,' said Stephen, ' when she's sober.' 
 
 Mrs. Causton lamented the deceitfulness of appearances, and 
 said she would look out a tract which Stephen could give to the 
 poor woman. The younger boys, wearying of this talk, began to 
 grow noisy, and it was a relief to everyone, including Stephen, 
 w^hen Mrs. Causton said it was time for them to go home. 
 
 When Gladys came back to the school-room, after seeing the 
 last of the two visitors, she found her mother alone; the children 
 bad dispersed to play, and Mrs. Tremam sat silently by the fire, 
 which bad now sunk rather low. 
 
 ' A few more coals, I think, dear,' she said, as Gladys closed 
 the door, ' and then, as the room is quiet, I want to have a little 
 talk with you.' 
 
 Gladys put on the coals quickly ; her mother's tone had made 
 her feel anxit us, for though their ' talks ' together were many, they 
 were not generally spoken of beforehand in this way. Was there 
 
142 WISHES AND CHESTNUT ROASTING. 
 
 some new arrang-ement to be made, some difficulty to be discussed ? 
 Could there be bad news from Dick ? Gladys tormented herself 
 with a variety of suppositions, and lifted up such an anxious face 
 to her mother that Mrs. Tremain could not help smiling-. 
 
 'Did my voice sound so very serious/ she said, ' that you con- 
 jure up all sorts of evils in a minute ? ' 
 
 ' Oh ! mother, how did you know I had ?' 
 
 Mrs. Tremain smoothed the anxious, questioning- forehead by 
 way of reply, then she began, without further delay, to relieve 
 he child's mind. 
 
 ' Nothing- is wrong at all, dear ; but your Aunt Margaret has 
 been talking- this afternoon to your father and me. You know 
 that she has taken a little villa at Richmond for the next six 
 months ; she wants to be nearer Stephen, and, thoug-h she cannot 
 live in London, she thinks that, if she were there, Stephen could 
 spend his Sundays with her. But she dreads the loneHness very 
 much, and cannot bear the thought of settling- down by herself 
 in a strang-e place. She is very anxious, dear, that you should 
 g-Q with her for a time.' 
 
 Poor Gladys' heart sank ; that indefinite expression 'a time,' 
 rang- unpleasantly in her ears, and the thought of being weeks, 
 or perhaps months, away from home, was terrible to her. Then, 
 too, though she was fond of Mrs. Causton, she was often a good 
 deal annoyed by her peculiarities; and if these were noticeable 
 in the sort of intercourse which they had had at Porthkerran, 
 what would they not be in the close intercourse of daily com- 
 panionship ? It was in rather a choked voice that she asked, 
 after a pause, 
 
 * Must I go, mother V 
 
 * It is, of course, dear, for you to decide,' said Mrs. Tremain 
 
 ' If you feel very strongly against it, we should not think of 
 sending you.' 
 
 ' But you wish me to go,' said Gladys, a little resentfully, 
 feeling, too, that the very fact of having the matter left in her 
 own hands hardly gave her the choice of doing as she wished; 
 she could not deliberately choose for herself the easy, comfortable, 
 home-keeping path which she longed to take. 
 
 ' That is hardly a fair way of patting- it,' said Mrs. Tremain. 
 ' For ourselves, darling, of course we want to keep you ; for Mrs. 
 Causton's sake and your own, I should like you to go.' 
 
 ' For my own ! ' exclaimed Gladys, greatly surprised. 
 
 ' Yes, quite for your own, dear ; you have scarcely ever been 
 away from home, and it is time that you should se' a little more 
 of life; the change will be good for you in every way. I think 
 it will help to widen you.' 
 
WISHES AND CTIKSTNUT nOASTINO. 143 
 
 * You think me narrow-minded ? ' said Gladys, pouting-. 
 'Yes, dear, I do — a little,' said Mrs. Tremain, laughinf^. 'I 
 
 don't tliink you have much sympathy with people you don't ag-ree 
 with, and the hest cure for that will be to g-et out of the old 
 grooves for a little time.' 
 
 ' But you surely don't want me to learn to think differently, 
 and to come home again not ag'reeing" with you and papa 'i ' ques- 
 tioned Gladys. 
 
 'That sounds like only shifting' your narrowness in a new 
 direction.' 
 
 ' But Aunt Marg'aret is the narrowest person imag-inable,' said 
 Gladys, perversely. * I shall g-row like her.' 
 
 * I think not,' said Mrs. Tremain ; ' you would more likely be 
 driven to the opposite extreme. But that is not exactly what I 
 want to happen. I want you to learn to see her real goodness, 
 and to sympathise Avitli that, trying' to pass over the little thing-s 
 which annoy you. Besides, you will see other people ; the world 
 of Richmond is larger than the world of Porthkerran.' 
 
 Gladys was not convinced all at once, but before many days 
 had passed her decision was made. Home was to be renounced 
 for six long- months, and a new phase — not the least arduous — ■ 
 of her education was to be beg'un under Mrs. Causton's g-uidance. 
 
 Her stay at Richmond was certainly productive of some good 
 results. Stephen found his home visits attractive, and never 
 failed to appear on Saturday afternoons. Mrs. Causton enjoyed 
 her bright cheerful companion, and Gladys herseltj in spite of 
 unconquerable home-sickness, found much that was pleasant in 
 her new life, and for many reasons never in after-years reg-retted 
 the decision she had made. 
 
 She saw then, with the strange thrill of joy and wonder which 
 such realisations bring-, that on this decision and on this visit to 
 London hinged almost all that was most dear to her in the 
 future, and that, unconsciously, she had then taken the first 
 step towards the attainment of her wish over the chest.aut- 
 roastins:. 
 
144 CAST ADRIFT, 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 CAST ADRIFT. 
 
 Ruin's wheel has driven o'er us, 
 
 Not a hope that dare attend, 
 The Avide world is all before us, 
 
 But a world without a friend. 
 
 Burns. 
 
 Two dry sticks will set on fire one green. 
 He that takes the raven for a guide shall light upon carrion. 
 
 Eastern Proverbs. 
 
 How long- were thing's to go on in their present state ? That 
 was the question wbich, as the spring advanced, Ellis Farrant 
 continually asked himself. One afternoon, towards the end of 
 May, the thought pressed itself upon him more pertinaciously 
 than ever. He was in the smoking'-room, leaning back medita- 
 tively in his chair, from time to time reading a few lines in the 
 Spor'tbifj News, but more often looking discontentedly and per- 
 plexedly at his step-son, who had drawn up his chair to the other 
 side of the hearth, and whose fine profile was clearly marked out 
 against the light as he bent over his newspaper. Two days ag'o 
 Donovan had come of ag-e, yet Ellis had not carried out his pre- 
 conceived plan of revenge ; in the past he had always intended 
 to have the final breach with his step-son on the very day that 
 his guardianship ended, but when the time actually came his 
 heart failed him — no fitting' opportunity presented itself Instead 
 of quarrelling" with him, he drank his health at dinner, played 
 bilHards with him most of the evening, and was as good-natured 
 and friendly as possible. But, although the few months which 
 had elapsed since Dot's death had been singularly peaceable ones 
 at the Manor, Ellis had not lost his strong dislike to Donovan. 
 He had at first felt sorry for him, and had left him unmolested ; 
 but it is one thing to sympathise with a person in the first 
 poignancy of his grief, and quite another to understand or feel 
 for his prolonged sorrow. 
 
 As the months passed on, and Donovan's grave stern face 
 still remained unaltered, Ellis began to feel aggravated ; he saw 
 little enough of his step-son, but what he did see was quite suffi- 
 cient to annoy him. Donovan would perhaps come down to 
 breakfast, then he would disappear for the rest of the day, for 
 long solitary rides or walks seemed to be his only relief; at 
 dinner he would be in his place again, but would rarely utter a 
 
CAST ADRIFT. 145 
 
 eing-le word, and in the evenin;^, though he was decidedly Ellis's 
 superior at every g-ame, he was too i^'loomy and taciturn to be 
 a pleasant companion. The elder man's dislike and impatience 
 beg-an to g-row uncontrollable; he found himself looking- out 
 eagerly for an opportunity of picking" a quarrel. 
 
 As he sat looking- thoughtfully across the room at his com- 
 panion, his doubts were suddenly resolved by an unexpected turn 
 of atiliirs. Donovan threw doAvn his paper, and, turning- round to 
 his step-father, asked abruptly — ■ 
 
 * When do you g-o up to town ? ' 
 
 * Next week, I believe,' said Ellis, knocking- the ashes out of 
 his pipe and refilling it. 
 
 There was a pause. Then Donovan continued — 
 
 * I have been thinking- over things for the last few days, and 
 I've made up my mind that this sort of life won't do for me any 
 long-er. I must begin to work at something-.' 
 
 ' A most commendable decision,' said Ellis. ' And that's the 
 long-est sentence I've heard from you for many a month.' 
 
 Donovan knew from the tone of this speech that his step-father 
 was in a quarrelsome humour. He frowned, but continued, with 
 some additional constraint in his manner, 
 
 ' Since we are agreed, then, perhaps it would be as well if we 
 arranged matters before leaving- Oakdene. I am thinking of 
 g-oing- into chambers and studying- for the Bar ; if you and my 
 mother will settle my allowance, there is nothing- that need keep 
 me here longer.' 
 
 * Gently, my good Mow,' said Ellis, g-etting- up from his chair 
 with the feeling- that he could carry things through with a high 
 hand if he were standing above his step-son. ' You are in rather 
 too g-reat a hurry ; you rattle off in a few words what involves a 
 great deal. I too have been thinking- matters over, not only for 
 the last two or three days, but for some time ; by all means set 
 to work if you like, only do not expect me to support you any 
 longer. Live in chambers, if you will, and be a law student for 
 as many years as you ])lease, only don't think that I shall keep 
 you during- the interval or pay your premium.' 
 
 Donovan started to his feet. 
 
 ' I don't understand you,' he said, with repressed indignation. 
 * What do you mean by this ? ' 
 
 ' Simply what I say,' said Ellis, provokingly. 
 
 ' You mean me to understand that I am not to have any proper 
 allowance made me ? ' 
 
 ' Exactly so, though I don't admit the adjective.' 
 
 The two men stood facing each other. For a few minutes 
 
 L 
 
146 CAST ADRIFT. 
 
 neither spoke ; Donovan's ejes dilated, and his face f^lowed with 
 indig-natiou. Ellis met his look with a cold, bold effrontery. 
 At length the silence was broken by Donovan's voice. 
 
 * And this is what you have waited and plotted for ! this is 
 the part of the honourable English gentleman, to steal into a 
 house, and win your way craftily, and mislead wilfully and 
 shamefully those who never suspected your wickedness ! Yes, 
 you have fulfilled your duties as a g'uardian nobly, and now you 
 would oust the " insufferable cub," whom you longed to kick 
 out months ag'o, only you couldn't; instead, you hoodwinked him, 
 flattered, lured him on with false hopes. You scoundrel ! ' 
 
 ' The step-son waxes hot,' said Ellis, with a sneer, ' as, 
 naturally, we par* this day, I will allow a few last shots.' 
 
 ' Do you dare to turn me out of my father's house ? — you an 
 interloper, a aefrauder ! ' 
 
 ' I have tolerated your presence in the house for ten months,' 
 said Ellis ; ' I knew that the time remaining- was short, I let you . 
 stay on in peace ; 3^ou have aggravated me at times beyond bearing-, 
 and now, with the g-reatest pleasure in life, I show you the door. 
 You surmise quite truly, I have often long'ed to " kick you out," 
 as you express it ; take care that you do not force me to interpret 
 the words literally.' 
 
 * Do you think,' said Donovan, angrily, ' that my mother is 
 so utterly unnatural that she will allow me to be treated in this 
 way ? I tell you you are mistaken, sir.' 
 
 ' You forget that your mother is my wife,' said Ellis, 
 watching' his victim's writhing- lip with a sort of enjoyment. 
 ' But, come now, I'll overlook what you said, and we will part 
 amicably ; do not cut your own throat by refusing- the pardon 
 I offer.' 
 
 ' Pardon I and from you ! ' cried Donovan, passionately. 
 ' Am I to accept forgiveness for words which are a hundred 
 times too mild for your conduct? I'll let the world know of the 
 injustice, I'll publish your scandalous behaviour everywhere in 
 the neighbourhood ! ' 
 
 ' The only drawback to that scheme of revenge is the unfor- 
 tunate character you yourself bear in the place,' said Ellis, 
 maliciously. ' The neighbourhood will not very re-adily sympathise 
 with any stories which the far-famed Donovan Farrant, the pro- 
 fessed atheist, thinks fit to fabricate.' 
 
 The statement was so true that Donovan could not deny it, 
 but the consciousness of his isolation and the sense of injustice 
 drove him almost to madness. 
 
 ' That may be true ! ' he stormed, * anything- may be true in 
 
CAST ADRIIT. 147 
 
 a cruel, self-seekinp;, unjust world, but tlion>>-h everyone is 
 jio-ninst me, thoug-h I've not a creature on earth to hold out a hand 
 to mo, I will at least speak my mind to you. You are a traitor, 
 sir, and a villain ! ' 
 
 ' Take care,' said Ellis, his colour mounting-, ' I give you fair 
 warning that those words are actionable ; use them again at your 
 peril.' 
 
 ' You dare me to use them !' said Donovan, furiously. 'I will 
 repeat them a thousand times — you are a treacherous, despicable 
 villain ! Were a hundred witnesses present, a hundred actions 
 possible, I would repeat it! What ! am I to submit to be ruined 
 without a word ? — am I to sink down meekly into beggary be- 
 cause a plotting-, scheming* traitor like you dares to condemn 
 me?' 
 
 Ellis was trembling- with mingled fear and rage. 
 
 ' You had better g-o while I can keep my hands off you,' he 
 said fiercely. ' Stay longer and I'll have you sent to Bedlam.' 
 
 Donovan's brain seemed to reel. It was almost impossible to 
 believe that he was actually being turned out of his father's 
 house. 
 
 * I will see my mother,' he said, with angry resolution in his 
 voice. ' She will not suffer it, she cannot.' 
 
 He strode out of the room fiercely, and hurried across the hall 
 to the dining-room. Waif, hearing his step, sprang up from the 
 door-mat and pattered after him, Ellis, following quickly, blocked 
 the doorway before the door closed. Donovan turned back wildly. 
 
 'I tell you I insist on seeing my mother alone,' he said, 
 with a look so full of anger and hatred that Ellis shrank beneath 
 it, but still he was able to answer with cold decision. 
 
 ' And I tell you that I refuse to leave my wife with a maniac' 
 
 ' Be it so,' cried Donovan, ' but though you deny me every- 
 thing, you cannot alter the instincts of nature. Mother, you will 
 not — you cannot agree to this wickedness ? You will not turn 
 me away from this house penniless 1 You will not listen to what 
 he says ? ' 
 
 Mrs. Farrant had been lying on the sofa; she started up- from 
 a doze to find the room in an uproar — Donovan and her husband 
 storming at each other in a fashion without parallel. They had 
 often before disagreed, even rpiarrelled in her presence, but in a 
 quiet gentlemanly way, to which she did not object. Tiiis angry 
 vociferation terrified her beyond measure. Donovan's rare and 
 almost tropical outbursts of passion had always alarmed her. She 
 turned now from his wild looks and impetuous words to her hus- 
 band, who stood by in cold silence. 
 
 H 
 
148 CAST ADRIFT. 
 
 ' What is the matter ? What has happened, Ellis?' she asked, 
 helplessly. ' Pray stop this terrible noise. It is quite impossible 
 for me to understand anything-, Donovan, if you agitate me so.' 
 
 ' I will be quiet,' he gasped, softening- his voice with an effort. 
 *I will not worry you for a moment. Only trust me, mother; 
 listen to me fairly, and promise that you will not side against me. 
 He — your husband insults me, drives me out of the house — this 
 house which never ought to have been his — he turns me away 
 penniless — say, only say that it is against your wish ! ' 
 
 Mrs. Farrant's tears began to flow, and she turned to her hus- 
 band imploringly. 
 
 ' Oh ! Ellis, Avhat has he done ? Do not be hard upon him. 
 He is the only child I have left. What has he done ? ' 
 
 Even in that moment of tumult, Donovan felt a thrill of joy at 
 his mother's words. Was it possible that at last they might un- 
 derstand each other — that Nature would assert herself above the 
 thick clouds of selfishness and uncongeniality which had so long 
 divided them ? 
 
 ' Honora,' said Ellis, in his coldest voice, 'you must be con- 
 tent to trust me with this. I cannot allow Donovan's presence 
 in my house any longer. For your sake I will let him go with- 
 out calling him to account for the disgraceful language he has 
 used to me, but go he must. He has been supported in idleness 
 quite long enough : let him win his way in the world now as he can.' 
 
 Donovan stood with his back against the window frame, and 
 with arms folded, listening in silence to his step-father's words, 
 listening, too, with painful intensity for his mother's answer. 
 Would she again plead for him, or would she be overruled by 
 Ellis's cold speech ? 
 
 ' There has been nothing but trouble about him,' sobbed Mrs. 
 Farrant. ' There seems to be a fate against me ; nothing goes 
 well. I have trouble after trouble. Oh, Donovan ! why did you 
 bring about this quarrel ? For my sake you might have respected 
 your step-father.' 
 
 ' At least believe that it was not my doing,' cried Donovan, 
 bitterly disappointed by her tone. ' If you would only have 
 believed what I told you last summer, we could not have been in 
 this position ; but who can stand against the coils of a serpent ! ' 
 
 ' Go, sir,' said Ellis, angrily, ' go at once, and do not try my 
 patience by upbraiding me before my wife.' 
 
 * Did I not tell you that he would bring nothing but wretch- 
 edness to us ? ' said Donovan, desperately. ' The time may come 
 when you will see it more clearly. I can only hope that one 
 victim may satisfy him and that you may never suffer.' 
 
CAST ADRIFT. 149 
 
 Mrs. Farrant sobbed convulsively, Donovan stooped down 
 f.nd kissed her, but as be felt her tears wet on bis cheek, he 
 thouiilit bitterly how one brave decided word from her would 
 have been worth all this passionate sorrow. 
 
 With a dazzled bewildered feeling he crossed the hall and 
 Avent up to his room; in a few minutes his bell was rung and a 
 message sent down to the housekeeper's room for Mrs. Doery to 
 come upstairs. She came to him at once, looking- so unchanged, 
 with her nut-cracker features, sharp eyes, and respectable black 
 di'css and apron, that he felt almost as if time had been standing 
 btiU with her, while it had brought such changes to him. 
 
 'Well, Mr. Donovan, what "do you please to require?' she 
 asked, severely. 
 
 He roused himself, and said in bis natural voice — a rich 
 mellow voice, but with a great ring of sadness in it — 
 
 ' I am going a^vay, Doery. Mr. Farrant has, in fact, turned 
 me out of the house. I want you to put up my things for me.' 
 
 Then, with that strange contradictoriness whereby the very 
 last persons in the world whom we suppose to love us, suddenly 
 reveal depths of unsuspected tenderness under the stress of some 
 unusual event, Mrs. Doery broke into indignant sobs. She had 
 never heard the like in her life ! Turn her lad out of the house 
 when he ought to have been made his father's heir ! It was 
 impossible, intolerable, she never would believe the law of England 
 would allow it ! 
 
 Her indignation rather softened Donovan, it was such a relief to 
 feel that anyone, even this cross-grained old woman, would take his 
 part ! It seemed a strange reversal of the old order of things— - 
 Doery, stimulated by the cruelty of others, to allow some merit 
 in him, or at least to bestow her pity on her ne'er-do-weel. He 
 left her with a substantial souvenir, both for herself and for Dot's 
 maid, Phoebe, generosity which in the precarious state of his 
 finances was more natural than wise. Then he took a last look 
 at Dot's room, put her little carriage clock with his own hands 
 into his portmanteau, and leaving directions with Doery for his 
 things to be sent to the Greyshot Station in time for an evening 
 train, he went downstairs. Ellis was in the hall, waiting half 
 nervously for the full accomplishment of his plans, for the crown- 
 ing moment of his triumph. Donovan passed by him without 
 speaking, deliberately took down bis stick and riding-whip from 
 the rack', and then, facing round upon his step-father, said with a 
 depth of concentrated contem})t and hatred — 
 
 ' We part here, then. Kemember always that you have goaded 
 me on to ruin ! ' 
 
150 CAST ADRIFT. 
 
 Then the door was closed behind him, and Donovan left the 
 house which should have been his, and walked away alone. 
 
 It was a beautiful spring afternoon, the dark, fir-trees and the 
 early crimson of the copper beech stood out against the blue of 
 the sky, the oaks were beginning- to show their green leaves, the 
 pink and white thorns were in full bloom. The beauty of the 
 place seemed never to have been so great before, and though 
 very often Donovan had thought the Manor dull and prison-like, 
 yet now that he was exiled from it he found how large a place it 
 had in his heart. And he was to leave it for ever ! his home was 
 to remain in the hands of his greatest enemy ! At the first bend 
 in the carriage drive he involuntarily turned back for a last look 
 at the house. It stood there in the afternoon sunshine, with just 
 the same air of sleepy luxurious comfort which it had always 
 worn ; there, above the creeper-laden porch, was the window of 
 his old room, and close by ifc Dot's window. He remembered 
 the day when he had decided to give up his foreign tour for 
 the sake of being with her, and heard in fancy the childish 
 voice which could never again call him. How strange now 
 seemed the struggle of the past to give up his longing for a 
 change of scene ! how he grudged every hour that he had spent 
 away from Dot ! It was hard, very hard, to turn away from the 
 place so full of her memory ; no thought of future difficulties 
 had as 5'et forced itself upon him, indignation and bitter 
 sorrow drove out everything else — everything but a vague feeling 
 of more complete desolation, more utter loneliness. He had 
 thought that he had drained the full bitterness of the cup of 
 life in the agony of bereavement, but here was a fresh draught 
 which in its humiliating injustice was gall and wormwood to 
 him. 
 
 All this time he was not, however, so friendless as he imagined ; 
 "Waif followed him closely. His devotion to hi? master, which 
 had always been very great, had become more marked since Dot's 
 death. In Donovan's lonely rides and long walks Waif had 
 always accompanied him, he had learnt to understand his master's 
 moods and knew quite well when to keep to heel in silent unob- 
 trusiveness, and when to frisk and gambol about him ; he had 
 watched the stormy scene in the drawing-room, had followed 
 Donovan noiselessly up and down stairs, now he trotted demurely 
 behind him, well aware that this was not the right time to draw 
 attention to his presence. 
 
 The gates were passed at length, and Donovan stood without 
 in the white dusty road ; he did not pause or hesitate or look 
 back now, but strode along- with fierce rapid steps, down the hill, 
 
CAST ADRIFT. 
 
 151 
 
 throug-h the little villug'e, past old Mr. Hayes' deserted house, to 
 
 the tmy grey church 'in the valley. Everything looked cruelly 
 peaceful, on the hillside some cows were hrowsinj^, a column of bine 
 smoke curled up from the chimney of a little farmhouse close by, 
 a country woman passed him singing to the brown-eyed baby in her 
 arms. Contrasted with all this were Ellis's cruel words ringing- 
 in his ears, and the recollection of the hateful look of vindictive 
 triumi)h which he had seen in his step-father's face. The frenzied 
 passionate indignation surg-ed up in his heart with redoubled 
 force, he threw open the churchyard gate, and hurried up the 
 tlau-ged path, pausing, however, beside the little porch to look at a 
 nonce which had met his eye, as triHing- things do sometimes 
 force themselves upon us in moments of great agitation. lie 
 read with growing bitterness the Avords : — 
 
 'New Organ Fund.— Ellis Farrant, Esq., of Oakdene 
 Manor, having generously promised £G00 to the above fund, it 
 is earnestly hoped that the additional £100 still required may be 
 obtained. A special collection will be made, &c., &c.' Charity, 
 church-organs, generosity to win a good name with the world ! 
 behind the outward show, injustice, tyranny, and hatred! 
 
 Donovan turned aside past the great yew tree to the place 
 where little Dot had been laid. The stone had just been put up, 
 a recumbent cross, the sharp outlines of the white marble stand- 
 ing out clearly against the green grass; he threw himself down 
 up° n it in one of his terrible paroxysms of grief, in pain so 
 unalleviated that it seemed like strong- physical torture added to 
 the mental suffering. How long he lay there with his face 
 pressed down to the cold marble, and his hands grasping 
 strainedly at the turf, he never knew ; it must have been for a 
 long long time, for when he staggered to his feet again the sun 
 wa" setting, and he fonnd that only by walking briskly could he 
 reach Greyshot in time for the evening train to London. With 
 a still white cold face, which seemed to have absorbed something 
 of the hard rigidity of the marble cross, he looked his last at the 
 little grave, then hastily recrossed the churchyard. Waif, who 
 had been watching him all the time with considerable anxiety, 
 trotted on in front of him, but at the gate turned back to meet 
 him and began to draw attention to himself by a series of whines 
 and barks and bounds in the air. He could not have chosen a 
 better moment for making his presence known, Donovan felt at 
 once the relieved reaction from hard bitter despair to a half- 
 amused gratitude ; this dumlj creature loved him, there could be 
 no doubt of that, and there are times in the lives of most of us 
 when the love even of dumb things wins a tenfold preciousness 
 
152 CAST ADRIFT. 
 
 because of its unquestioning faithfulness, its fearless devotion, its 
 contrast to the chang-eful doubting- unreliable affection of men, 
 who can judge and speak their judg-ment. He stooped down and 
 let the dog- "spring- up to his knee, while he patted the sag-acious 
 white and tan head; then, remembering- that his time was short, 
 he started up again with a sudden return of energy. 
 
 ' Come along-, old fellow,' he said, in his usual voice, ' you and 
 I will g-o throug-h the world tog-ether.' 
 
 Waif wag-g-ed his tail, pricked up his black ear, drooped the 
 white one, and bounded along- as if he enjoyed the thoug-ht of the 
 companionship. 
 
 It was growing- dusk when the dog and his master reached 
 Greyshotj the station lamps were lighted ; somehow Donovan's 
 choking indignation began to diminish under the influence of the 
 excitement. He had been unjustly used, certainly, but the 
 world was before him, and the world began to seem more attrac- 
 tive than he had thought ; the cool evening wind blew through 
 the station, the platform was rather crowded, for the first time a 
 boyish sense of the pleasure of freedom stole across him. Hero 
 he was accountable to no one, free to do exactly as he pleased, 
 with his portmanteau and his dog he could roam where he liked. 
 He took a ticket for himself and Waif to Paddington Avithout 
 any very distinct idea why he chose London as his first resort, 
 turning to it perhaps only as the sort of natural home which the 
 great city seems to most Englishmen. Then he sauntered up 
 and down, waiting for the train, looked at the brightly lighted 
 book-stall, scanned the faces of the crowd, while all the time his 
 thoughts were running pretty much in this way : 
 
 ' I must make the best of life ; hateful and worthless as itis, 
 I may as well enjoy myself as much as 1 can. The world is full 
 of injustice, I will pay it back in its own coin.' 
 
 Presently the train was heard in the distance, in another 
 minute his golden-eyed destiny flashed into sight, there was 
 haste and confusion on the platform. Waif, with his ticket tied 
 to his collar, kept close to his master's heels, till Donovan, open- 
 ing the door of a carriage, prepared to lift him in. The occupants, 
 however, objected, a nervous middle-aged lady started up from 
 her corner, "she could not endure dogs, she really must beg that 
 he did not get into that carriage. Donovan retreated, and 
 hurried on to the next vac-ant place, taking care this time to put 
 the question, 
 
 * Do you mind the dog? ' 
 
 ' Oh, dear no,' said a pleasant bland voice, and he sprang in 
 just as the train started. 
 
CAST ADRIFT. 153 
 
 When he had put up his bag and walking'-stick, he threw 
 himself back in a corner seat, and beg-an to scrutinize his fellow- 
 passeng-ers. They were three in number, and they were boguil- 
 inj^ the time with a game of euchre. The individual with the 
 pleasant voice, who had consented to Waifs admittance, sat next 
 to Donovan, so that he could only see his profile ; he seemed to 
 bo a short, heavily-made man between fifty and sixty, with an 
 unnaturally red face, thick neck, and scanty red hair sprinkled 
 with grey ; he was singularly ugly, but his expression was more 
 weak than unpleasant, especially when he turned round with 
 some tritliug remark to Donovan, and showed his little twink- 
 ling watery eyes, good-natured mouth, and round face. His two 
 companions were much younger men, the one furthest from 
 Donovan was faring badly in the game, he was a sleek-looking, 
 bearded man, dressed rather extravagantly, and wearing a heavy 
 watch-chain and bunch of charms j there was an air of vulgar 
 prosperity about him, and Donovan surmised that he was some 
 wealthy maniifacturer or tradesman. The remaining traveller 
 was a much more perplexing study. After watching him for 
 some time, Donovan had not in the least arrived at any decision 
 about him, he might have been a sporting gentleman, or a 
 superior commercial traveller, or a newspaper correspondent, or 
 possibly a card-sharper. Donovan tried to fit every one of these 
 ' callings ' upon him j each succeeded for a time, and then fell to 
 the ground. He was, however, peculiarly attractive. His com- 
 panions were very soon forgotten altogether in the absorbing 
 interest of watching this man's exceedingly clever play and 
 curious face. He had a square massive forehead, black hair 
 receding from the temples, and just beginning to turn grey, a 
 dark oily complexion, very small black eyes, with a dissatisfied 
 look in them, and heavy dark eyebrows, level towards the bridge 
 of the nose, but arched at the other end, and raised still higher 
 when he became interested. 
 
 Before ver}' long the manufacturer was beaten, and the dark- 
 browed man turned to Donovan, shuffling the cards as he spoke. 
 
 * Will you make a fourth at whist ?' 
 
 The question was asked so casually, as if the speaker cared 
 little whether he complied or not, that Donovan, who had rather 
 inclined to the opinion that he was a professional gambler, was 
 c(jmpletely deceived by it. He only hesitated a moment, then 
 the red-haired elder man turned round with his good-humoured 
 smile, and said, in his pleasant voice, 
 
 'We should be delighted, if you would join us. One needs 
 something of the sort on a long journey, to while away the time.* 
 
154 CAST ADRIFT. 
 
 Without further preamble the g-ame began. The stakes were 
 high ; Donovan grew excited, and forgot for the time his anger 
 and the bitter ti'eatment to which he had been subjected. He 
 was ])artner with the rich manufacturer ; the strange-looking, 
 dark-browed man was playing with the elder with the red hair. 
 He was a daring opponent, and Donovan, who was accustomed 
 to carry everything before him, was roused and interested to a 
 most unwonted degree. It was a close and exciting game 
 eventually won by the two strangers, but Donovan's skilful play 
 had evidently surprised his dark-looking opponent, who scruti- 
 nized him curiously, while the red-haired traveller began to com- 
 pliment him. 
 
 Presently they stopped at Swindon, and Donovan, beginning 
 to be conscious that he had eaten nothing for many hours, 
 hurried away with the others towards the refreshment-room. As 
 he waited for an instant among the crowd of passengers, he 
 heard a sharp voice, low, and yet sing-ularly distinct, not far from 
 him. 
 
 * Now mind, your work's not done yet, so be careful.' 
 Glancing round, Donovan saw that the speaker was his late 
 
 opponent ; the good-humoured face of his red-haired companion 
 clouded a little, and there was somethino' of the expression of a 
 spoilt child about his mouth as he repliecl, 
 
 ' Plague upon it ! You never can let a fellow enjoy himself, 
 Noir. I'm sure I've been as tempei'ate as old Oliver himself ' 
 
 The rest of the sentence died away in the distance, but ap- 
 parently Noir enforced his advice, for, some minutes before 
 Donovan left the refreshment-room, his two fellow-travellers re- 
 passed him on their way to the carriage. 
 
 Waif sat guarding his master's property. The two men did 
 not notice him ; the younger one, who had been addressed as 
 Noir, flung himself back in his place, the elder fidgeted about 
 restlessly, talking in his hearty voice the while. 
 
 * What do you think of our two friends ?' 
 
 * The manufacturer is a fool,' said Noir, decidedly. ' The 
 young one's as sharp as a needle.' 
 
 ' Ha ! I thought as much. He'd have beaten us hollow, 
 wouldn't he, if it hadn't been for certain ' 
 
 ' Be quiet ! ' said the younger man sharply. ' You'll undo us 
 some day by your want of caution.' 
 
 * Shall you try any more this evening- V 
 
 ' I don't know. I think not. I wish I could get that young 
 fellow for a second instead of you. He'd be the making of us.' 
 'A cut above our sort of thing, isn't he ?' 
 
CAST ADRIFT, 155 
 
 * Can't say, but lie looks discontented enough. We'll sound 
 him, get the manufacturer to draw him out.' 
 
 Then, as the other traveller returned, Noir suddenly chang-ed 
 his tone, and very skilfully drew the conversation round to the 
 desired siibject. They had just been talking- of his partner. He 
 seemed a clever fellow. They were wondering- what he was. 
 For his part, he would bet ten to one that he was in the Army. 
 The manufacturer thought he was an undergraduate. There was 
 some laughter over the dispute. It was agreed that, by hook or 
 by crook, they would find out which was in the right by the end 
 of the journey. Then the bell sounded. There was hurrying- to 
 and fro on the platform, and at the very last moment Donovan 
 stalked back to his place, perfectly unconscious of the small plot 
 which his companions had been making-. 
 
 He had broug-ht back a biscuit for Waif, and the dog- made a 
 "good opening- for conversation. Then the manufacturer mentioned 
 by chance that he came from Bristol, and Donovan, to the satis- 
 faction of the three conspirators, began to ask questions as to the 
 likelihood of finding any suitable employment there. 
 
 ' Oh, with capital, you can always get on,' said the rich man, 
 easily. ' Nothing can be done in this world without money, but 
 there are plenty of openings there for any j^oung men wanting 
 employment.' 
 
 ' Provided they are capitalists,' said Donovan, with bitterness, 
 which did not escape Noir's keen observance. 
 
 ' Well, of course you might meet with a clerkship,' said the 
 manufacturer, ' but it's a diliiculty to get them very often, there's 
 such a run on them j and besides, that would hardly be in your 
 line, would it ? ' 
 
 '■ TS 0,' said Donovan, haughtily ; then, with a touch of humour, 
 he added, ' Though, to be sure, I've not much right to talk of 
 " my line." ' 
 
 The talk drifted on by degrees to the recent strikes in Lan- 
 cashire, and the manufacturer and Donovan had a hot argument 
 on the subject of wages, in which the latter's keen sense of injus- 
 tice and oppression was fully broug-ht to light. He talked so 
 fiercely of the tyranny of the rich, the grinding down of the poor, 
 the dishonest grasping- of the capitalists, that Noir felt sure there 
 was some personal feeling- involved in the dispute, certain that in 
 some way this 3'oung- fellow's life had been embittered by the ty- 
 ranny and injustice which he inveighed against. The dark brows 
 were raised higher and higher as the argument went on ; evi- 
 dently Donovan's words had touched some kindred feeling in the 
 man's heart. At last he could contain himself no longer, but 
 
156 CAST ADRIFT. 
 
 joined in the dispute, linking" his vehement words with Donovan's, 
 till between them they fairly overwhelmed the rich Bristol man. 
 Then at once there was established between them that strang'e 
 symi)athy which comes like a lightning flash, when two minds 
 are entirely one upon a subject not usually agreed upon. They 
 had been united in argument, and in an argument very nearly 
 touching their own lives ; instinctively Donovan held out his 
 hand when they parted at Paddington, and the dark-browed man 
 grasped it with a warmth and heartiness curiousl}' contradictory 
 to his disposition. He was in reality a hardened cheat, but his 
 one vulnerable spot had been touched, and he at once conceived 
 a strong liking for his young ally. 
 
 Perhaps few places are so dependent on the frame of mind one 
 is in as Loudon. No place seems so pleasant to a sociable person in 
 a happy humour, no place so cold and uncongenial to anyone in 
 trouble. Then with what heartless indifterence the busy crowd 
 passes by, how the careless talk, the hearty laugh, the cool stares 
 of one's kind wound and sting ; with what envy does one look at 
 the smiling faces, and how (foolishly and morbidly, of course) 
 one compares them with the priest and the Levite in the parable ; 
 though how they can help ' passing by on the other side/ when one 
 is only stripped and wounded and robbed by the unseen foes of 
 life which prey on the inner man, a troubled mind is generally 
 too illogical to consider. The forlornness of his position did 
 not come upon Donovan all at once. During the months which 
 had passed since little Dot's death, in his sorrow ' without 
 hope/ worthier and more manly thoughts had grown up in his 
 heart; he had made up his mind to work at something, and, 
 though his chief object had been merely to divert his thoughts 
 b}^ the work, the resolve was still in the right direction. The 
 rude repulse which he had met with from Ellis when he suggested 
 his new idea, and the hardness of his expulsion from Oakdene, 
 crushed down for the time all these better thoughts ; but in a 
 little while, from sheer necessity, they sprang up again. It was 
 evidently impossible that he could live for any length of time on 
 the remains of his last allowance; he must gain his living in 
 some way, and now, for the first time, he felt fully how fatal to 
 his interests Ellis's guardianship had been. Had he been forced 
 to enter some profession, or had he even received a better educa- 
 tion after his school career was ended, he would not now have 
 been so helpless : yet, after all, he would scarcely have con- 
 sented to leave Dot, even had be known beforehand of Ellis's 
 malignant intention ; only now it added bitterness to his indig- 
 nation to think how coolly and systematically his step-father had 
 
CAST ADRIFT. 157 
 
 planned his ruin. Why was it ? — what had he done to earn such 
 hatred ? He asked himself those questions over and over aj^aiii, 
 knowing' nothing- of" the first great wrong which Ellis had done 
 him — the wrong- which was at the root of all the suhsequcnt 
 evil. 
 
 The morning- after his arrival he hurried off at once to Bedford 
 Row to consult his father's solicitor, the same who had come 
 down to his grandfather's funeral, and had initiated him into the 
 mysteries of vingt-et-nn. He was by this time an elderly man ; 
 hut though he listened to Donovan kindly, and refused to take 
 any fee for the consultation, he showed him at once that he had 
 no legal claim whatever on Ellis Farrant or his mother now that 
 he was of age. His case was no doubt a very hard one ; he 
 should think that by continued applications he might reasonably 
 expect to extort some allowance, if only a small one, from his 
 step-father. As to his mother she had no power at all apart 
 from her husband ; he could take counsel's opinion if he liked, 
 but it woidd be simply throwing away his two guineas — it was a 
 matter quite out of the province of law, a family matter which 
 must be arranged by family feeling and natural affection. As to 
 employment, he should advise him to apply to any influential 
 men he knew in town; it was possible he might get some post 
 in one of the Government offices. The lawyer hoped that Mr. 
 Farrant would dine with him some evening — he had just moved 
 to a new house at Brompton ; if he could ever be of any service 
 to Mr. Farrant, he should be most happy. 
 
 Donovan went away several degrees more depressed than 
 before. His prospects did indeed seem dreary ; ' continued ap- 
 plications ' to Ellis Farrant, or, in plain English, ' begging- 
 letters,' could not for a moment be thought ofj and the lawyer's 
 kindness failed to impress him. It was easy enough to ask a 
 fellow to dinner, and to hold out vague offers of service ; but 
 Donovan had seen too hollow a corner of the world to put any 
 faith in this sort of friendship. He resolved, however, to call on 
 two or three great men whom in the old times he and his mother 
 had visited; his name at least would be known to them. He 
 would follow the law^^er's advice, and try for work. But each 
 effort was doomed to fail. The first of the old acquaintance was 
 kind indeed, but not encouraging; he knew of nothing in the 
 least suitable, regretted extremely his inability to help his young; 
 friend. The second flattered him, assured him that with such 
 ailvantages he could not fail to get on in the world, and promised 
 that if ever he heard of any appointment likely to suit him he 
 would let him know at once. The third, an overwroug-ht man, 
 
158 CAST ADRIFT. 
 
 alwo^'s oppressed by twice as much work as lie could properly 
 manage, received him with scant courtesy, listened to his story 
 coldly, and dismissed him with a curt refusal; it was no use 
 coming- to him, he had a thousand applications of the kind — they 
 were, in fact, the bane of bis existence. He could offer no help 
 at all — he wished Mr. Farrant good-day. 
 
 It was not till the close of this third interview that Donovan 
 altogether realised his position. With hot cheeks, for he was 
 still young enough to flush easily at any discourtesy, he turnec' 
 his back on the chambers of the harassed and churlish man ot 
 the world, made his way along the crowded pavements of Par- 
 liament Street, and without any distinct purpose bent his steps 
 towards the river. It was a hot afternoon in early June, but 
 what little air there was reached him as he leant on the parapet 
 of Westminster Bridge, his face propped between both hands, his 
 eyes bent down on the sparkling sunlit water. What was the 
 use of his life ? he asked himself dejectedly. How indeed was 
 he to live ? His acquaintances one and all refused or were not 
 able to help him, his home ties were all broken, there was not a 
 single being in the world who would help him or care for him. 
 Under such circumstances would it not be well to seek that 
 * refuge in the cavern of cold death ' which he had taught him- 
 self to consider as the goal, the end of all things ? What harm 
 could it do to anyone ? There was no one to miss him except 
 Waif, and not to be vi^ould be ineffable peace ! No more craving 
 for Dot's presence, no more gnawing disappointment and weari- 
 ness of life, no more suffering from injustice, no more misery of 
 
 loneliness. And yet What would his father have said ? 
 
 And then, too, was there not some natural physical shrinking 
 from such an end ? After all, he was very young, and the boy- 
 life within him began to assert itself above the morbid overgrowth. 
 Life, as it was, was certainly not worth having, but surely there 
 must be some brightness in store for him ! The sun shone down 
 in g-olden splendour on the river, the pleasure-steamers and the 
 smaller boats were borne past him rapidly, the mere animal joy 
 of existence ovei'came for the time his darker thoughts. 
 
 Yet what was he to do ? He did not know the Bible well, 
 but he had of course heard it read in his school days and before 
 he gave up church-going; now from some odd recess of memory 
 there floated back the words — ' Make to yourselves friends of 
 the mammon of unrighteousness that when ye fail they may 
 receive you into everlasting habitations.' He smiled a little to 
 himself as he thought of the solution of this perplexing passage 
 which his life was bringing to light. He had certainly taken no 
 
CAST ADRIFT. 159 
 
 pains in the old days to make friends ; where he could have 
 wished friendsliip there had always been a shrinkin<'' back on the 
 other side ; his bad name had ke])t back g-ood companions ; his 
 natural nobility luid g-uarded hira from making- real friends of bad 
 people, although he had been in the way of evil companionship 
 very often, lint a real friend he had never known. Certainly 
 his circumstances were sulKciently dreary to have brought to 
 despair a far better reg'ulated mind than his ; the misery and 
 hopelessness surg-ed in upon him afresh, the healthy pleasure in 
 existence died away, the brightness of the summer day only in- 
 creased his sick long'ing- for somethmg- to fill the emptiness of 
 his life. 
 
 Just as he had slowly raised himself and Avas about to move 
 on from the place where he had been leaning-, he heard himself 
 addressed in a voice which, thoug'h not exactly familiar to him, 
 he yet seemed to have heard somewhere. 
 
 'Good-day, I think we've had the pleasure of meeting- before.' 
 
 Turning; round hastily, he at once recog-nized the dark- 
 browed man with whom he had travelled up from Greyshot, his 
 antagonist in the game, his ally in the argument. 
 
 * I've been watching you for some minutes,' said the stranger, 
 
 * only you seemed so deep in meditation that I wouldn't disturb 
 you. I've often thought of you since that day we met on the 
 Great Western.' 
 
 ' Have you ? ' said Donovan, brightening a little, for the 
 man's manner had a certain attractiveness in itj then, after a 
 moment's pause, he added, ' Why, I wonder ? ' 
 
 ' Why / ' repeated the stranger, ' because I like you, and it is 
 so seldom I do like anyone that naturally, from the very oddity 
 of the thing, I thought of you.' 
 
 They had moved on while talking, and now, leavmg the 
 bridge, walked along the embankment. Donovan liked the man, 
 and yet was too reserved and too prudent to care to make any 
 advances to him. The stranger began to see that he must take 
 the initiative. 
 
 ' Have you found the work you were looking out for ? ' he 
 asked, turning his dark restless eyes on his companion. 
 
 Donovan shook his head, all his despondency returning at 
 this allusion. 
 
 ' I thought as much from your look,' said the stranger. 
 
 * You haven't found it such an easy matter as you expected. If 
 you are hard up though, it is just possible that I may know of 
 employment which would suit you.' 
 
 'You! Do you indeed?' cried Donovan, eagerly. * But 
 
160 CAST ADRIFT. 
 
 perhaps I shan't be up to it 5 I don't mind tellin;? you that, up 
 to a very little time ag-o, I never dreamed that I should have 
 to work for my living-; now, through a great injustice, I am 
 on my own hook, with only a five-pound note between me and 
 beg-g-ary.' 
 
 ' So bad as that,' said the stranger, thoughtfully, ' then per- 
 haps you will not be too scrupulous for the work I was thinking 
 of; you are certainly well cut out for it. Look ! If I treat you 
 with entire confidence and openness, may I take it for granted 
 that you will not abuse my trust ? ' 
 
 ^ Of course,' said Donovan, growing interested. 
 
 ' If you will come with me, then, to my rooms, I will explain 
 the sort of work which I mean, you will not of course be bound 
 to accept it if you don't like it. My name is Frewin. The old 
 man you met with me the other night is my father — we are 
 generally called Itouge et J\'oir.' 
 
 Donovan smiled at the singular appropriateness of the nick- 
 name. The stranger continued, 
 
 ' That you may believe me, I will tell you that it is not all 
 from disinterested motives that I seek you out and try to help 
 you, no one in the world goes upon such motives, self-interest 
 is the great ruling principle. You are admirably suited to help 
 me in my work, that is my first reason, I like you and am sorry 
 for you, that is my second. Now 1 have made a clean breast of 
 it all, will you come ? ' 
 
 ' Of course I will,' said Donovan, without an instant's hesita- 
 tion. He committed himself to nothing by this, why should he 
 not go ? And besides, these were the first helpful friendly worda 
 which he had heard for so long. 
 
1!0U(1H KT NUIR. 161 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 ROUGE ET NOIU. 
 
 The fall thou darest to dcs[»ise — 
 May be the angel's slackened hand 
 Has suffered it that he may I'ise 
 And take a firmer, surer stand ; 
 Or, trusting less to earthly things, 
 May henceforth learn to use his wings. 
 
 And judge none lost, but wait and see 
 With hopeful pity, not disdain, 
 The depth of the abyss may be 
 The measure of the height of pain, 
 And love and glory that may raise 
 This soul to God in after-days. 
 
 A. A. Procter. 
 
 NoiR Frewin took his companion up one of the narrow streets 
 leading" from the river, along the Strand as tar as St. ]\Iarj's 
 Church, and through the dingy foot-passage opening into Drury 
 Lane. 
 
 ' This is not what you have heen accustomed to, I expect/ he 
 said, taking a quick ghance at Donovan's face. ' I suppose you've 
 been putting up at some tip-top hotel by way of economising.' 
 
 Donovan coloured a little, for the surmise was true enough, 
 but there was nothing impertinent in the man's tone, and he 
 added, 
 
 'You'll learn differently as you see more of life. I've lived 
 in Drury Lane on and off now for five years, and am in no hurzy 
 to leave the old place, dirty as it is. Here we are ! ' and he 
 stopped at the private door of a dingy picture-dealer's shop, 
 admitted himself and Donovan, and led the way up a dark stair- 
 case to the first floor. 
 
 Expecting a room of corresponding dinginess and dirtiness, 
 Donovan was not a little surprised to find himself in a snug 
 neatly-arranged room, Avhere an odd combination of a variety of 
 the brightest colours lent an almost Eastern look to the whole. 
 Curious shells and corals were ranged on shelves along tlie walls, 
 maps and nautical charts hung in conspicuous ])laccs, a case of 
 gorgeous foreign birds occupied the entire length of the room, 
 anil a live parrot, in a brass cage, hung in one of the windows, 
 looking at the new-comers with his shrewd, questioning, round 
 eyes. Leaning back in a smoking-chair, absorbed in a news- 
 paper, and with a long clay pipe between Jiis lips, Avas old Rougo 
 
 M 
 
162 ROUGE ET NOIR. 
 
 Frewin, no longer in the irreproachable suit which Donovan had 
 first seen him in, but wearing- a rough blue serge jacket and red- 
 tasselled cap. He hurried forward at a word from Noir with 
 more than his former heartiness and good humour. 
 
 ' Delighted to see you, sir. How has the_ world gone with 
 you since we parted ? I must introduce myself to you as Captain 
 i'rewin, unless, perhaps, my son has already done so, Captain 
 Frewin, formerly of the steamer Astick, Bright Star Line, carry- 
 ing between Liverpool and New York, latterly of the 3Ietora — 
 first-rate little steamer she was, too — carrying between Southamp- 
 ton and West Africa.' 
 
 Donovan could hardly keep his countenance, the whole scene 
 was so irresistibly comic, the funny old sea-captain, in his red 
 smoking-cap, gesticulating with his long clay pipe, the odd 
 room, and the sudden burst of confidence which had revealed the 
 history of its owner. But his face clouded again as Rouge asked 
 him the same question as to his success in finding work which 
 Noir had put to him on the embankment. 
 
 He had only just begun his dispirited answer, however, when 
 he was interrupted by a loud nasal voice, which screamed out, 
 
 * Keep up your pecker ! keep up your pecker ! ' and glancing 
 round he met the goggle eyes of the parrot. It was too much 
 for the gravity even "of depressed, ruined, ill-used Donovan, he 
 burst out laughing, a natural, hearty, boyish laugh, such as he 
 had not enjoyed for many months. 
 
 * You see Sweepstakes encourages you,' said Noir, tormenting 
 the bird by thrusting a piece of string through the wires of its cage. 
 
 ' What's its name ? ' asked Donovan, still laughing. 
 
 ' Sweepstakes we call him,' said old Rouge, coming to the 
 rescue of his pet. ' I've had him for seven years, we're great 
 friends, aren't we. Sweepstakes ? ' 
 
 ' Poor Sweepstakes ! ' said the bird, with its head on one side. 
 
 ♦ Poor Sweepstakes ! 'Weep, 'weep, 'weep,' and he broke ofl:' into 
 an exact imitation of the street cry. 
 
 ' We have a little business to talk over,' said Noir, when the 
 parrot subsided at last. ' Suppose,' turning to Rouge, ' you were 
 to go to Olliver's and order dinner for three in half-an-hour, and 
 we'll meet you there. You won't refuse to dine with us, I hope,' 
 he added, glancing at Donovan. 
 
 ' Oh, no,' said Rouge, heartily. * You mustn't do that. Be- 
 sides, I've not half shown you round our little cabin. I'm very- 
 proud of my curiosities, 1 can assure you. The bird has evi- 
 dently taken to you already. You must make yourself quite at 
 home.' 
 
ROUGE ET NOIR. 11^3 
 
 As soon as the door liad closed behind the oldman,Noir Frewin 
 drew up a chair for his g-uest, and seating- himself opposite, with 
 his elbows planted on the table, and his chin bctweenhis hands, said, 
 
 ' And now, if you've the patience to listen, I will tell you a 
 story. I shall trouble you with some account of my own life, 
 because only by that can I show 3^ou why it is I take an interest 
 in you. I hate most of the world. I should hate you, if you 
 weren't unfortunate, but I see you are in some way the victim 
 of injustice, and, as I told you before, I like you. Bear with me 
 a little. This will all help to explain the work I propose for you. 
 
 ' My father, as he told you, was once the captain of a mail- 
 steamer. He was^ of course, absent most of the year. I lived 
 with my mother, and as soon as I left school g-ot a clerkship in 
 a bank at a town — no matter in what county. Things went very 
 smoothly with us for a long- time, and at last my father, who is a 
 very warm-hearted man and hated being- away from his home, 
 thought he had saved enough to retire and settle down in 
 England. He resigned his ship, and for a few months we lived 
 on happily enoug-h. I was as contented a fellow then as you'd 
 often meet with. I liked my work, and received a good salary ; 
 moreover, I was eng-aged to be married, and the future looked — 
 well, no matter ! I lived in the usual fool's paiadise of a lover.' 
 He paused a moment, as if reviewing- from the distance the old 
 happiness, then, with a bitter sneer, he continued : ' Of course I 
 paid dearly for all this foolishness. I don't think I was a bad 
 fellow in those days ; g'oodness knows I'd no excuse for being- so, 
 for my mother was the best woman in the world. However, 
 though I did well enoug-h then, I couldn't stand the hard times 
 that followed. There was a grand row one day at the bank, for 
 it was found that by some forg-ery a cheque for one hundred 
 pounds had been unlawfully abstracted. Suspicion fell on all 
 those connected Avith the bank, and it narrowed down, as such 
 things do, till it was clearly proved that either I myself or the 
 son of the manag'er had done the deed. 01" course I had not 
 done it — the truth came to light later on — but at the time every- 
 thing; seemed against me, and since the manager was not a seconii' 
 Brutus he was naturally inclined to believe his son in the rig-ht. 
 I don't care to g-o into all the misery of that time. There was, of 
 course, a mockery of a trial. I was found guilty, and the real 
 perpetrator of the forgery sat in court, and heard me condemned. 
 I saw him turn pale when he heard me sentenced to seven years' 
 penal servitude — perhaps, though, he was only thinking- of the 
 danger he had escaped.' 
 
 ' But did he make no effort to save you ? ' questioned Donovan. 
 
164 ROUGE ET NOIK. 
 
 * I sliouldn't have tlioug'ht a man could have been such an utter 
 brute.' 
 
 ' You have j'et to learn the -world then,' said Noir, with a fierce 
 laugh. ' Oh, yes, of course he was kind enough to do all in his 
 power to get me recommended to mercy. I think he hoped for 
 a lighter sentence. However, what difference did it make to me ? 
 I was sent to Pentonville, and there I ate my heart for a year. 
 Then I was sent to Dartmoor, and I think the change just saved 
 me from madness. That year my mother died. We had been 
 everything to each other. She couldn't stand the disgrace which 
 had come to us, or the separation, I was young, and had to stand 
 it, but I think from that day I wasn't the same fellow. The next 
 thing which hap])ened made me ten degrees w^orse. In one of 
 my father's letters — letters are very few and far between in con- 
 vict life — I learnt that the girl 'l had been engaged to Avas 
 married to another. 1 told you I paid dearly for my fool's para- 
 dise. After that I didn't care what happened. Of course I had 
 lost my character, and I knew that it would be next to impossible 
 for me to pet any situation when my term was over. I made a 
 friend at Dartmoor, a fellow of the name of Legge, a clever man, 
 too, and good-natured. We came out at the same time, and he 
 helped me on a little. But things were worse even than I had 
 fancied. My father, in his trouble and loneliness, had fallen into 
 bad ways, " I found that in my seven-years' absence he had 
 become a confirmed drunkard. You can fancy what a return that 
 vpas ! I could get no employment, and at last, with Legge's help, 
 I began to practise my present proi'ession.' 
 
 'You mean the profession you practised in the train the other 
 night ? ' said Donovan. 
 
 'Precisely,' rejoined Noir, 'and I've made it answer. People 
 may say what they like, but the world's one great cheat, and I 
 delight in taking it in unexpectedly. It has ruined me, why may 
 not I get a little out of it in return ! I told you though that the 
 truth would come to light, and my innocence came ':o light in 
 time, though I didn't care a straw about it then. A year after I 
 was released from Dartmoor I was traced out with some difiiculty 
 by the manager of the bank, his son had just died and had con- 
 fes.scd to the forgery. The manager tried to express his great 
 shame and sorrow, hoped he could make some reparation for the 
 injury, offered me money — think of that ! Money to make up for 
 the ruin of a whole life ! I told him there could be no reparation 
 ■ — that if he would bring back my mother from the grave, if he 
 would reclaim my fathei", if he would restore me my betrothed, if 
 he would give me back those wasted seven years, and give me 
 
ROUGE ET NOIR, 165 
 
 ng-ain tlio faitli in God and man wliieli liad been beaten ont of 
 nic b}' tlie maddening- injustice, then, and only tlien, could ho 
 re])air the injury.' 
 
 ' I'm glad 3'ou've told me all/ said Donovan, when the narrator 
 paused. ' Yours is a hard story — bitterly hard. How long- is it 
 since you were released i" 
 
 ' Five years,' said Noir, relapsing- into his ordinary tone, a 
 quiet cold tone, very dilierent from the one in which he had 
 recounted his wrong's. ' 1 have lived here with my father chiefly, 
 trying- to keep him in order, but it's a hopeless task. Where the 
 taste is once acquired it's almost impossible for a weak-minded 
 person to cure himself. I have lived on, making- money in the 
 way I told you, aiul the other day, when you g-ot in at the Grey- 
 shot Station, there was something' in the look of you that at- 
 tracted me. Then you played uncommonly well, and for the first 
 time in my life I felt sorry that I was cheating- a fellow. After- 
 wards when you talked to that capitalist, I took to you still more ; 
 my father had so often been more of a hindrance than a help, and 
 I couldn't help thinking- what a capital second you would make. 
 That is the work I propose for you. You should of course have 
 a certain percentag-e of the profits, and if you live with us all the 
 better. There's a room at the back which you could have, and 
 though I suppose it's a very different life from what you've been 
 used to, still you might do worse, and I can promise you what I 
 couldn't promise to another fellow in the world — real honest 
 liking-. Perhaps you will say the friendship of a professional 
 gambler isn't worth having- ; however, such as it is I offer it to 
 you, sometimes anything- is better than nothing-. No, don't g-ive 
 me an answer yet. We'll have dinner now, and you can think 
 things over for a day or two, and let me know,' 
 
 Had Donovan given his answer then, it would probably have 
 been a refusal, but he went to the Frewins' club, listened to the 
 captain's long yarns, grew doubly interested in Noir, and had a 
 scries of brilliant successes at the card-table. Then he went 
 home — that is, to his hotel — to think over the offer that had been 
 matle to him. All that night he struggled with his perplexities. 
 On the one hand were his rich acquaintances coolly, if civilly, 
 refusing to help him, on the other was the open hospitality and 
 friendliness of the Frewins ; midway between the two his con- 
 science put in a plea for a further search after honest work. In 
 his heart of course he disapproved of the proposed scheme, but 
 his principles of right and wrong were somewhat elastic, and just 
 now, in his anger and misery, the good within him was at a very 
 low ebb. Moreover, it was true enough that these Frewins were 
 
1G6 ROUGE ET NOIR. 
 
 the only people who had shown him kindness, and naturally 
 caught at the sympathy and liking- of even a bad man, when it 
 was the only thing to be had. It was like the old familiar saying 
 of a drowning man catching at a straw, he may know well enough 
 that the straw is frail and hollow, but it is something to lay hold of, 
 if only for a moment, and in the absence of a better sipport it 
 seems worth clinging to. 
 
 To say that he made the choice while he was unconscious of 
 its evil would not be true. Some people are so ready to admit 
 excuses, there are always so many extenuating circumstances, or 
 states of mind or body which account for the fall, that very few 
 sins are put under the head of 'Wilful.' But in after-years 
 Donovan never allowed that he had taken the step unconsciously. 
 Of course sin, taken in its usual sense, did not now exist for him, 
 but he was perfectly aware that he was entering upon a wrong 
 and immoral course ; he made the false step desperately perhaps, 
 but deliberately. The very last words he had had with Noir 
 Frewin were sufficient to prove this. 
 
 ' I may ask your name now?' the man had said as they 
 parted. And Donovan, for the first time in his life, had shrunk 
 from giving it. How could he let his father's name become the 
 name of a — but there he checked even his thoughts, and hastily 
 gave only his Christian name. 
 
 For a little while he thought things over, as Noir had 
 suggested. It was true there were ways and means of raising 
 money, but, even if he had had good security to offer, he would 
 not have cared to put himself into the hands of a money-lender. 
 Or there was another alternative ; he had heard Mr. Probyn, 
 Ellis Farrant's friend, relate proudly the length of time he had 
 lived ' on tick,' as he called it — this was most likely the course 
 which would have been chosen by nine persons out of ten, had 
 they been placed in his predicament. But there was nothing to 
 commend this expedient to him, living in debt was simply robbing 
 tradespeople, there could be no doubt of that; if he must live by 
 chicanery, he might as well do so in a more amusing way than 
 by a skilful eluding of duns, and it was better to cheat fools who 
 chose to risk their money in a game than honest shopkeepers. 
 Thus he argued with himself, what his school-fellows had called 
 ' his crazy ideas of honour ' coming out strongly ; but he held 
 fast to his theory, and never had a single debt. The true and 
 honest course never once entered into his head. If he had had 
 sufficient humility to visit his father's solicitor again and beg his 
 assistance, in all probability he would have been helped, for in 
 Buch an extreme case people are often kind-hearted enough. But 
 
ROUQE ET NOIR. 167 
 
 to throw himself on anj'one's mercy was impossible to Donovan — 
 lie was at once too proud and too distrustful of human nature. 
 
 The consideration ended, as might have been expected, in 
 an acceptance of the Frewins' offer. In a few days Donovan was 
 established in Drury Lane, and with all the natural force of his 
 character, and the retaliatory spirit produced by Ellis's injustice, 
 and fostered by Noir's sympathy, had plung-ed into the lowest 
 and most painful phase of his life. 
 
 Poor old Rouge Frewin was the only g-ainer by the new 
 arrang-eraent. He had always disliked the part his son had 
 made him play, and to be left at home in peace with his parrot 
 and his pipe, and as much cognac as he could manage to p;et 
 hold of, seemed to him all that heart could wish. He took the 
 most vehement liking" to Donovan, and, in his odd way, was very 
 kind to him. The secret of his affection probably lay in this — 
 the new-comer treated him with respect, and the poor old captain 
 was now so little used to such treatment, that it was doubly 
 delightful to him. 
 
 ' I am a better fellow since you came,' he would often say, 
 looking up with real affection in his little watery eyes at the 
 dark handsome face of his boy friend — the face Avhich seemed to 
 grow harder, yet more hopelessly sad, every day. 
 
 It was a world of nicknames into which Donovan had fallen. 
 In the club to which he and the Frewins belonged — a club which 
 was a gaming-house in everything but the prohibited name — 
 every member had been dubbed with some sobriquet, often of 
 singular appropriateness. Noir's Dartmoor friend, for instance, 
 was familiarly known as Darky Legge. The two Frewins had 
 received their names of Rouge et Noir, and before very long 
 Donovan, whether he liked it or not, was invariably addressed as 
 ' Milord.' The parrot was the first to draw attention to it, but 
 certainly old Rouge must have taught him, for whenever Dono- 
 van came into the room, or attracted the bird's notice in any way, 
 Sweepstakes would scream out ' Well, milord ! Well, milord ! ' 
 in his harsh voice, often adding remarks which were quite the 
 reverse of complimentary. 
 
 One morning, while Donovan was sitting in the little parlour 
 with a cigar and a newspaper, circumstances combined together 
 in such a way as to make him for the first time ashamed of him- 
 self. They had been out very late on the previous night, or 
 rather that morning, and Noir was lying half-asleep on the sofa ; 
 as the clock struck twelve, however, he roused himself, and with 
 many yawns and stretches prepared to go out. 
 
168 ROUGE ET NOIR. 
 
 'Look here; milord/ he said, turning- at the door, 'I've an 
 appointment in the City, and must he off. You'll rememher that 
 we've arrang-ed to g'O down to Manchester hy the evening- ex- 
 press. Be in the way ahout that time, and I'll join you here on 
 the way to Enston.' 
 
 'All rig'ht,' said Donovan, not looking- up. 
 
 'Yes, hut he sure you rememher, for I've reason to believe we 
 shall make a g-ood thing- of it. Do you hear ? ' 
 
 ' Yes,' replied Donovan, shortly. 
 
 ' What on earth makes you such a sulky brute to-day ? One 
 would have thoug-ht the luck had been ag-ainst you instead of all 
 on your side last night,' said Noir, g-lancing- at him rather curi- 
 ously. His question met with no reply, however, and with a 
 shrug- of the shoulders he turned away. 
 
 When the door had closed behind him, Donovan threw down his 
 paper, and sat silently thinking' over the words which had stirred 
 long- dormant feeling-s in his heart. How he disliked this arrang- 
 ing- and scheming- ! — what paltry work he was eng-ag-ed in ! — how 
 low and base and despicable it all was ! There was much to 
 dislike, too, in Noir Frewin ; in spite of his misfortunes, and the 
 consequent sympathy which had arisen between them, there was 
 necessarily a great deal in him which was most repulsive to 
 Donovan. Old Rouge, moreover, had managed to escape his 
 son's vigilance, and had made a disgraceful scene on the previous 
 evening. Altogether, Donovan felt disappointed with his com- 
 panions and disgusted with his work — not yet, unfortunately, 
 with himself 
 
 He could not help feeling- sorry, however, for Rouge when 
 the old man came slowly and wearily into the room. Remember- 
 ing-how his intemperance had begun, and what a good-hearted 
 old fellow he was, his contempt and disgust, which had been 
 strongly roused the previous night, died away into pity. 
 
 'Good-morning, captain,' he said, in his usual voice, and 
 using the title which he knew the old man liked better than 
 anything. 
 
 ' Eh, Donovan, my lad, it's anything but a good morning,' 
 sighed poor Rouge, stretching himself out on the sofa. ' How 
 one does pay for a little extra enjoyment ! ' Then, catching- a 
 look of contempt on his companion's face, he added, piteously, 
 'Don't you turn against me, ladj I know I am not what I" 
 should be, but don't you give me up too. Everyone despises me 
 now, everyone looks down on me, and thinks anything good 
 enough for such a poor old fool Don't you take to it too, lad, 
 for you've been good to the old captain till now.' 
 
ROUGE ET NOIR. 169 
 
 'I don't wish to change/ said Donovan, 'but I hope you 
 won't repeat last uig-ht's amusement. How can you expect any- 
 one to respect you, when — well, after all, it's no business of 
 mine.' 
 
 Rouge sighed heavily. 
 
 * Sucli is life ! ' screamed the parrot, mimicking the sigh. 
 Then there was silence in the room for a few minutes, till the 
 
 old man broke forth again, this time with the tears running down 
 his cheeks. 
 
 * I'm a miserable old sinner, there's no doubt of that, but I 
 was driven to it. It's easy for other people to talk who don't 
 know whnt temptation is, but I tell you, lad, I was driven to it. 
 I was lonely and miserable, and there was more money than I 
 knew what to do with — how could I help it ? ' 
 
 Donovan did not answer; he crossed the room, and leant with 
 his back against the mantel-piece, thinking — thinking more 
 worthy thoughts than usual, too, for his face had something of 
 the old bright look upon it, which nothing had been able to 
 awake since Dot's death. He liked this poor old man genuinely ; 
 he liked very few people in the world, but where his love was 
 once gi\ in it was very true and sterling — no mei*e idle pretence, 
 not a selfish taking of what can be got, but a real outgoing from 
 self. Given an object to spend his love upon, he was capable of 
 immense self sacrifice ; it was his bitter misanthropy, and his 
 resolute shutting out of the source of love, which had so cramped 
 and narrowed his life. In spite of all his shortcomings, there 
 was much that was noble in his character; his face was full of 
 eager desire as he turned to the old man — the lofty, almost pas- 
 sionate desire which must come at times to those who have, if it 
 be but one spark of the Divine fire, the longing to turn from evil 
 those who are overwhelmed by it, to. save the weak from tempta- 
 tion. 
 
 ' Captain,' he began, dropping the severe, yet half contemp- 
 tuous tone which he had at first adopted towards the poor old 
 drunkard — ' Captain, I know you had hard times, and have a 
 great deal of excuse. But things are different now, and it's your 
 turn to drive back along the road you were driven. Look, we'll 
 have a try together ! You give up the drink, for a time at any 
 rate, and so will I.' 
 
 ' Bless my heart ! ' exclaimed the old captain, starting up. 
 ' Why, my dear fellow, I should be dead in a month. Do you 
 think, after all these years, I couM give it up in a moment ? 
 Why, it's meat and drink to me ! I couldn't live without it, I 
 tell you.' 
 
 ^ Of ' 
 
 vr 
 
 
170 ROUGE ET NOIH. 
 
 ' More die by drinking than by abstaining",' said Donovan. 
 ' I dare say you'd miss it at first, but you'd soon g'et over it. 
 You couldn't be more miserable tban you are this morning* afta 
 your last night's carouse.' 
 
 ' But to turn teetotaler ! ' exclaimed Rouge. ' Why, milord, 
 you'd never hear the last of it at the club ! We should be the 
 laugliing-stock of the place.' 
 
 ' And do you think that you were not their laughing-stock 
 last night ? ' said Donovan. ' Better be laughed at as a teetotaler 
 than as a drunkard. Plain speaking, you will say, captain, but 
 you and I don't generally mince matters. Come, agree to my 
 bargain, and my respect for you will rise ten degrees.' 
 
 ' You don't think it would kill me, then ? ' hesitated Rouge. 
 
 * Stuff! more likely to add ten years to your life,' said Dono- 
 van. ' Come, now, we'll each sign an agreement to give it up 
 for — say three months.' 
 
 ' So long,' groaned poor Rouge. ' Think of the dulness ! 
 Why, what will life be worth ? ' 
 
 ' Not much, indeed,' said Donovan, ' but more than your pre- 
 sent life, at any rate.' 
 
 And then, after a little more discussion and hesitation, the 
 papers were signed. 
 
 By-and-by the old captain fell asleep on the sofa, and Dono- 
 van went out to get his lunch, and to test the desirability of 
 water-drinking'. In the afternoon he for the first time made his 
 way to the park, with a sort of desire to see the side of the world 
 from which he had been ejected, the gay fashionable world in 
 which only a year before he had moved. Lighting a cigar, he 
 sat down on one of the benches, and scanned the faces of the pass- 
 ing crowd, wondering whether he should see any of his old 
 acquaintances, longing, though he would hardly admit it to him- 
 self, for a sight of his mother. Before he had been seated many 
 minutes, a rather prim-looking lady and a bright-faced girl passed 
 by, hesitated a moment, and then took the vacant places on the 
 bench beside him. 
 
 ' We have still half-an-hour before the appointment, do let 
 us sit here — it is such fun to watch the people.' It was a clear 
 girlish voice which said this, and Donovan involuntarily looked 
 round at the speaker, a little curious to see who it was who could 
 find pleasure in wliat to him was so full of bitterness. 
 
 A fair, rounded face, sunny hair, and well-opened blue-grey 
 eyes. Where had he seen her before ? Somewhere, surcl}^ for 
 he remembered the face distinctly now. It was one he had 
 watched and admired — and he admired very few women. He 
 
ROUGE ET NOIR. 171 
 
 must have heard her speak too, for he recog-niscd her rather 
 unusual voice — a voice in every way suited to the face, mellow 
 and full of tone, with a great gaiety and happiness ringing" in it. 
 softening' off tenderly now and then into earnestness, lie had 
 met dozens of girls last season, but somehow she did not seem 
 like d London girl, she was too fresh and simple. Where could 
 he have seen her. 
 
 He listened with a g-ood deal of interest to all she said, though 
 it was nothing- in the least remarkable, merely comments on 
 the passers-by, and a laughing- defence of fashionable people, 
 when her companion complained of the frivolity and uselessness 
 of their lives. 
 
 ' Now, auntie, I shall think it is because you and I are on 
 foot and the g-rand people are driving- that you find fault with 
 them ! Don't you remember the French proverb about the pedes- 
 trians commenting on the carriag-e people?' 
 
 ' My dear, I should be very sorry to change places with them,' 
 answered the prim-looking- lady. 
 
 ' Yes, auntie, you would, I daresay, but really some people 
 just complain of rich people because they envy them, I'm quite 
 sure they do,' 
 
 This was rather a home-thrust to Donovan, he threw away 
 his cig-ar, and listened more attentively, but the conversation 
 drifted away to other things, home matters evidently, details and 
 allusions which came very strang-ely to him in his semi-vag-rant 
 life — the last letters there had been from Dick — Nesta's cjuickness 
 in reading- — how father and mother meant to come up to town 
 before they left. He listened to it half sadly, half amusedly, it 
 was a g-limpse of such a different life from his own, such a simple, 
 innocent, pure life, with such strang-ely different interests ! An 
 unaffected girl, sweet, and bright, and pure-minded, how black 
 his life seemed in contrast with hers ! Musing- on this he lost 
 the thread of their conversation, and as they rose to g-o he only 
 caught the words, ' Yes, I know, he doesn't jirofess much, but 
 he's such a good man, the sort of man one can trust.' 
 
 A man one can trust ! how she leant on that last word ! and 
 with what a sharp thrill it pierced Donovan's ear. What would 
 she have said of him had she known the sort of work he was en- 
 gaged u})on ? He was quite glad she had moved away, for he 
 did not feel fit to be near her. He had disliked Noir Frewin's 
 plan in the morning, now he shrank from it doubly ; in the brief 
 revelation of purity, something of his own true character had been 
 \)rought to the light, he began to see very faintly indeed, but still 
 to see in some deg-ree his own falseness and blackness. 
 
172 ROUGE ET NOIR. 
 
 lie would not go with Noir that evening 5 it would involve 
 some trouble, no doubt, if he did not keep his appointment, Koir 
 would be exceedingly vexed, there would inevitably be a quarrel 
 when he returned from Manchester, and of course he would lo^e 
 the opportunity of enriching himself, but he would not go, with 
 the light of those clear grey eyes fresh in his memory he felt tha* 
 he realh^ could not. 
 
 Scarcely had he made this resolution when he caught sight of 
 his mother's victoria. There was Ellis Farrant looking just as 
 usual, and beside him was Mrs. Farrant. She was leaning back 
 in the carringe so that Donovan only saw her face for an iiistant, 
 but he fancied that she looked a little paler than usual, a little 
 sad and worried. The sight moved him, he felt a great longing to 
 see her again, and in the evening, not caring to return to Drury 
 Lane, or to go to the club he was in the habit of frequenting, for 
 fear of meeting the Frewins, he turned instead in the direction 
 of Connaught Square. There was the house he knew so well, 
 the house which ought to have been his, with its balconies gay 
 with flowers, and a brougham standing before the door. His 
 mother was probably going out, he would wait and see her as 
 she came down the steps, but he would not himself be seen, that 
 would be too humiliating, he would wait a little way off, and 
 crossing the road, he leant with his back against the square 
 railings. It was a strange watch. Bitter feelings mingled with 
 the returning family love as he stood there in the summer twi- 
 lioht ; it was hard, even his most stern condemnor would have 
 been forced to allow that ! He was standing alone in the street, 
 cast off by those who should have helped him, watching their 
 comfort and luxury from his state of misery and conscious sin. 
 Instinctively he took up poor Rouge's cry, ' He has driven me to 
 it — how can I help going to the dogs — it is his fault ! ' 
 
 And then the house door opened, and one of the footmen 
 came out to the carriage. Donovan watched eagerly, and his 
 breath came fast and hard. There was his mother, quite placid 
 and ha])py-looking now, with a white Cliuddah over her shoulders, 
 and a diamond star in her hair, and there was Ellis, with his opera 
 hat, and his false smiling face, and his shallow politeness. 
 
 Certain]}^, judging by the outward appearance, there could 
 have been no question which was the more to be pitied, the rich 
 man stepping into his carriage, or the unjustly used outcast who 
 looked on in bitterness of soul. But in reality Donovan's misery 
 was as nothing compared with his step-father's. Years of plotting 
 and scheming, years of growing deterioration, harassing anxiety, 
 and patient waiting, all this had Ellis gone through, and for 
 
ROUGE RT NOIR, 173 
 
 what? For a rich wife, a town house, and a country house, ac- 
 companied hy an ever-prcsont remorse, a nameless terror of dis- 
 covery, a wretelicd sense of slianie, and a haunting- dread of his 
 victim Donovan. The good was striving' within him, it would 
 not ahandon him, would not for a moment let him enjoy his un- 
 just gains ; he fought against it with all his strength, and tried 
 to be careless and comfortable, but he fought in vain. 
 
 They went to the opera that evening and heard *■ Faust.' It 
 stung- him as no sermon would have done. How like his part 
 had been to that of Mephistopheles ! How deliberately he had 
 planned his step-son's harm ! And above the voices of singers 
 and chorus, above the grand orchestral accompaniment, there 
 rang' in his ears one sharp despairing sentence, ' Remember how 
 you have goaded me on to ruin !' 
 
 Faust and Margherita were nothing* to him. He hardly 
 noticed the beautiful little prima donna. It was the grim basso, 
 with his red livery, his stealthy yet rapid movements, his satanic 
 look of triumphant cunning, who preached to him that nig-ht, as 
 no clergyman in surplice and stole, or gown and Geneva bands, 
 had ever preached to him. In the ' serenata,' where Mephis- 
 topheles sings his mocking song of triumph to the guitar, and 
 augurs further successes for himself, Ellis sat actually shuddering 
 at the horrible sense of likeness. The song' was encored. He 
 could bear it no longer, but shrank back into the very furthest 
 corner of the box, trying" not to see or hear. By-and-by it was 
 all over, and Ellis, with a g-rey face, forced up a smile, and tried 
 to talk in his ordinary way, as he led his wife to the carriage. 
 But the effort was intolerable ; he was, in truth, a miserable man 
 that night, but happier had he known it for that very misery. 
 It was the sign of that other Presence within him which Avill not 
 leave us to an unequal struggle with evil. 
 
 Donovan, seeing- only the prosperous outward show, knowing- 
 nothing of all the real remorse, watched the carriage drive otT 
 with feelings which in their vehemence are quite indescribable. 
 He was almost terrified himself at the storm of hatred, and anger, 
 and wild longing for revenge that took possession of his heart, as 
 well he might be, owning nothing to quell it but the power of his 
 own will. He stood quite still, his face pale and rigid with that 
 terrible white-hot passion, the over-mastering passion in which 
 great crimes are often committed. In his Avrath nothing was too 
 dark for him to contemplate, no revenge too sharp to be resolved 
 upon. He had grasped hold of the iron railing of the garden, 
 involuntarily turning away his face from the houses. A voice 
 close to his ear made him start. If the good still strove with 
 
174 ROUGE ET NOIR. 
 
 Ellis Farrant, still more did it lead Donovan, who was more 
 sinned against than sinning", and to him no fiend like Mephisto- 
 pheles came to scare and terrify, but a little child was sent to 
 lead him. 
 
 ' Do you want to come in ? I thought I saw you tug-ging so 
 at the g'ate, and I came to ask you.' 
 
 A little girl of nine or ten was addressing him, looking- shyly 
 through the iron bars of the gate. No child had spoken to him 
 since Dot had died. This seemed to him like a voice from the grave, 
 and instinctively, even at the remembrance of the love which he 
 deemed all a thing of the past, lost to him for ever, the evil 
 thoughts and the revengeful anger died out of his heart. 
 
 ' I should like to come in,' he said, in reply to the question, 
 ' but I have no key.' 
 
 ' I will ask the Fraulein to open the gate,' said the little girl, 
 and she ran across the garden, returning in a few minutes with 
 a German lady, who looked up from her knitting rather curiously 
 to see this gentleman who was waiting for admittance It was 
 easily explained. He had not a key, but he pointed to his 
 mother's house in the square. The Fraulein, without any demur, 
 unlocked the gate and admitted him. 
 
 He had not often been into the garden before, but two or 
 three times he had brought Dot there in her invalid chair, and 
 the place was therefore sacred to him. He went at once to her 
 favourite seat, and there, in the cool of the simimer evening, better 
 thoughts returned to him. It had been a hot day. The children 
 were all enjoying the change; they had the garden almost to 
 themselves, and, as the}^ played, their laughter and chatter floated 
 to him. It was what he wanted — something innocent, and pure, 
 and merry. A faint, very faint return of little Dot's influence 
 came back to him, and when he left the garden again he was a 
 better man. 
 
 Drury Lane had never seemed to him so dingy as when he 
 returned to it that evening. A street-organ was playing a popular 
 air in one part, and a crowd of wretched-looking bai-e-headed girls 
 were dancing on the pavement. Every now and then he passed 
 one of those appalling courts or alleys which open into the lane, 
 and, pausing once or twice, he caught a glimpse of the seething 
 human crowd, the filth and misery which they lived in ; then on 
 again past the shabby gaslit shops, the disreputable-looking 
 passengers, until he almost fell over a little child who ought to 
 have been in bed long before, but who was sitting on the curb- 
 stone, grubbing with both hands in a heap of mud in the gutter. 
 Donovan was very tender over little children. He stooped down 
 
ROUGE ET NOIR. 175 
 
 at once to see whether lie had hurt the small elf. A pair of 
 dancini*- blue eyes looked up at him from a dirty little face, and 
 something- very unsavoury was held towards him, while, with the 
 confidence of a great discoverer, the elf shouted, gleefully, 
 
 'See what I've got! A real old duck's foot! A real old 
 duck's foot ! ' 
 
 It was a very pitiful sight, but it touched Donovan. Ho 
 dropped a penny into the hand which was not occupied with the 
 new treasure aiid went away moralizing, till, reaching the print- 
 shop, he drew out his key and went up the stairs to the deserted 
 rooms, for even Rouge was gone, and, for the next three days, 
 Donovan was left to the tender mercies of Waif and Sweepstakes. 
 
 He lit the gas and took up a book, but the bird awaking caught 
 sight of him, and instantly began in his most scolding tones, 
 
 ' Well, milord, ai/i't. you a fool ! Oh, lor, ami you a fool ! ' 
 
 Evidently the Frewins had not made any complimentary re- 
 marks upon his absence, and doubtless poor Rouge had hardly 
 been fit for the journey. But he could not help it. If he had 
 not seen that bright-faced girl, and been so shamed by her un- 
 conscious words, it would have been different. What a strange 
 glimpse of another kind of life she had given him ! 
 
 Sweepstakes sat with his shrewd grey head on one side, and 
 his crimson tail feathers drooped. Before long, with a wicked 
 look in his round eyes, he began to say plaintively, 
 
 * Be yit fever so wumble, 
 There's no place li k'ome. ' 
 
 * Be quiet,' said Donovan, sharply, for the words did not at all 
 suit his present frame of mind. 
 
 But Sweepstakes only reiterated, 
 
 • Be yit fever so wumble, 
 There's no place like — ' 
 
 Donovan made a dash at the cage with a cloth and interrupted 
 the song, a proceeding which enraged the parrot. 
 
 'You go to Tophet!' he screamed, angrily, and then, being 
 out of temper, he swore for five minutes on end, till, for the sake 
 of peace, Donovan had to make up the quarrel. 
 
 But there was a good deal of obstinacy about Sweepstakes, 
 and, though he allowed his anger to be appeased by a Brazil nut, 
 he treated Donovan for the rest of the evening to a mild muttered 
 refrain of ' Be yit ever so wumble, umble, umble 'ad in/iniium. 
 
 For the first time since he had been in London, Donovan that 
 night went to his room early. He had got into the hahit of turning 
 
176 ROUGE ET NOIR. 
 
 night into day, but he was dull that evening and tired^ and it was 
 not much after half-past eleven when he left Sweepstakes for the 
 night and turned into his own shabby little room at the back. A 
 dreary lodging-house bed-room it was, with a strip or two of 
 carpet thrown down over the dirty unscrubbed floor, a moulder- 
 ing green wall-paper, and over the fireplace one solitary picture 
 in a gilt frame black Avith age, a dingy sea-piece in oils, a ship 
 being' dashed to pieces on rocks. A room is said to show in a 
 certain fashion the character of its occupant ; there were only four 
 things here which could in any way bear traces of Donovan's in- 
 dividuality. On the mantel-piece was Dot's clock, in one corner 
 a great bath, on the chest of drawers one or two anti-theological 
 books by Luke Raeburn, and at the foot of the bed a woolly rug 
 for Waif. 
 
 The window was open ; it looked out on to that fearful net- 
 work of byeways and alleys which Donovan had seen as he came 
 home. He had often seen them before, but one can see many 
 times and yet never observe. He had generally gone to his 
 room between three and four in the morning when ail was quiet 
 enough ; this evening it was just after closing time, the public- 
 houses had let loose their wretched throng, and the cry of the 
 city went up to heaven. People talk of the noise of London, and 
 think generally of the street traffic, the crowded pavements, and 
 the ceaseless wheels, but let them once hear the appalling noise 
 of human life in a poor quarter, and they will not complain of 
 anything else. Wild, drunken singing, fierce quarrels, blows, 
 cursing, a Babel of tongues, a wailing of children, angry disputes 
 between men and women, in which too often the woman's voice 
 in its awful harshness seems unlike that of a human creature. 
 These are the sounds one may hear, the fearful realities which 
 make up the dark side of the world's metropolis. 
 
 Donovan stood beside the open window and let all this tide 
 of human wretchedness beat upon his ear. He was shocked and 
 awed, struck with a great pity and indignation, for he was not 
 hard-hearted, only narrow-hearted, and though this crampedness 
 kept him from action it did not prevent the great siiftering of 
 humanity from touching him with a sense of pity. The incom- 
 prehensible suffering ! what a mystery it was ! it made him 
 wretched and pitiful, and yet angry, though where the fdult 
 of all lay he could not have said. Christianity, or rather the 
 horribly false notions of Christianity which he had received, 
 would have said that all these drunkards and degraded beings 
 were forging the chains which should bind them for ever and 
 ever in hell. According to Mrs. Doery's ideas the West-End 
 
ROUGE ET NOIH. 177 
 
 must have socmcd the region of the elect, and Drury Lane the 
 abode of that other numerous band who were foredoomed to 
 evoilastino- torture. Perhnps ahnost naturally Donovan had a 
 fellow-fooling- for sinners, for in his very young- days, when he 
 had (or a short time believed in what he was taught, he had fully 
 mailo up his mind that Doery was one of the elect, and that he 
 h;i([ bettor go to the other place. Now from his atheism, with 
 which he persuaded himself he was quite contented, he looked 
 bock with amusement on the picture of his sturdy defiant chihl- 
 hood, which preferred even the awfully described fiery furnaces 
 to companionship with Doery in an unjust and partial favour. 
 
 lie turned away from the window at last, but not till he had 
 closed it and drawn down the blind. He shut out the misery of 
 his fellows as he shut out many other things, for at present he 
 was one of those who, as Coleridge puts it — 
 
 Sigh for wretchedness, yet shiin the wretched. 
 
 It was not to be expected that the passing words of a stranger 
 would be sufiScient to alter the whole current of Donovan's life, 
 nor did Gladys Tremain exercise such an unheard-of influence. 
 The Frewins returned, and after sundry upbraidings from Rouge 
 and a sharp quarrel with Noir, things fell back to their former 
 state. 
 
 Once, quite unexpectedly, he met the grey-eyed stranger 
 again, two or three weeks after their encounter in the park. U 
 was a July evening, the Frewins, Legge, Donovan, and two or 
 three other men were travelling- up together from Goodwood. 
 The train was crowded ; Mrs. Causton and Gladys, who had been 
 spending the day with some friends, were waiting- on the platform 
 of a station not far from Chichester, but they found it almost im- 
 possible to get places. 
 
 ' Such a dreadful crowed, and such disagreeable - looking 
 people,' said poor Mrs. Causton, nervously, ' what is the reason 
 ofit?' 
 
 ' Goodwood races, mum,' said the porter, wondering at her 
 ignorance, 'there's room for one in here, and one next doorj 
 come, miss, the train's just starting.' 
 
 * My dear ! you can't g-o alone in there,' said Mrs. Causton, 
 distractedly, looking at the not too reputable travellers. But 
 the next carriage was every bit as bad, the train began to move, 
 there was really no help for it j whether she liked it or not, 
 Gladys was shut in alone among- this strange-looking crew. She 
 knew there was nothing to fear, but iit the same time it was a 
 very uncomfortable predicament, a fast girl would have been 
 
 N 
 
178 ROUGE ET NOIR. 
 
 amused by such a novel adventure, but Gladys was not fast, she 
 was a pure womanly woman, and though she could not hava 
 explained why, she had a peculiar shrinking- from these people. 
 The little conversation at the door too had attracted the notice of 
 a coarse-looking man who was sitting- next her. He tui-ned round 
 upon her with a cool inquisitive stare, then made some remark to 
 his neighbour on the other side which caused a g-eneral laugh, and 
 Gladys, though she would not have understood a word even had 
 she heard, felt the colour flame up in her cheeks. 
 
 * Why can't you behave decently ? ' said a voice from the 
 other side of the carriage. 
 
 ' Rouge, it's your deal.' 
 
 Then Gladys, who had instinctively lowered her eyes, looked 
 up, for the attention of the passengers was diverted from her. 
 With an overcoat spread over their knees, by way of a table, 
 they were soon absorbed in a game of ' Nap.' She looked round 
 at their faces with a sort of longing to find one from which she 
 need not shrink. All seemed bad, or coarse, or in some way 
 repulsive. Exactly opposite her was an elderly man fast asleep, 
 next to him was th'e one who had called his companions to order. 
 Gladys looked at his face half hopefull}'', the voice had at least 
 been refined, and the words — well, the best she had heard in this 
 company. The face too was not otherwise than refined, the 
 features were strikingly handsome, there were no tokens of excess 
 about the clear dark complexion, but oh, what a hard bitter 
 saturnine look there was about the whole 1 He was evidently 
 much younger th-an any of his companions, yet not one of them 
 looked so reckless and hardened, still she felt that he was 
 a gentleman, and was at once less uncomfortable and forlorn. 
 Apparently he took not the slightest notice of her, and that was 
 pleasant after the uncomfortable rude staring and comments. 
 
 It was a very strange and very sad revelation to her — a side 
 of life which she had heard of indeed, but had never in the least 
 realised. She had felt impatient when Mrs. Causton had lamented 
 the temptations of London life for Stephen. Yet the danger was 
 not imaginary ; for here was one who could not be older than 
 Stephen or Dick surrounded by evil companions, gambling- with 
 a recklessness and sang-froid which bespoke long habit. There 
 was a sort of horrible fascination in it all, she could not help 
 watching the eager faces ; on all of them was written the strong 
 desire of gain ; on all, except that one dark saturnine face opposite 
 her, which, though apparently caring for little else but the game, 
 never seemed to unbend, in spite of repeated successes. Gladys 
 watched him as he pocketed his winnings, watched pityingly his 
 
ROUGE ET NOIR. 179 
 
 unmoved face, and once lie looked up and thoir eyes met. It was 
 not a look from wliich she need shrink — the eyes were not bad 
 eyes — tliey were very strang-e, huiigTy-looking-, sad ones. She 
 understood then Avhy he was so diftbrent from his companions — 
 evidently in his heart he disliked the life he was leading-. By- 
 and-by a dispute arose, a fierce, loud altercation between her 
 disagreeable neighbour and one of the other men. Language such 
 as she had never heard was shouted across the carriag-e, and the 
 lookers-on laug-hed. Poor Gladys g-lanced across in despair to 
 the one passenger in Avhom she had any faith. He was leaninjj 
 back with a look of ineffable disgust and weariness on his hand- 
 some face, but, as the angry Babel grew louder, he turned to 
 Gladys ; she hardly knew Avhether she were relieved or only 
 more frightened when he bent forward to speak to her. 
 
 ' This must be very unpleasant for you,' he said, and she 
 knew at once from his manner that she had found a protector. 
 'We shall be at a station in a minute or two, and then, if you 
 like, I will offer to change places with the lady you are with.' 
 
 ' Oh, thank you so much,' said Gladys, her frightened eyes 
 brightening- with g-ratitude and relief. * My aunt is in the next 
 carriage, if you really wouldn't mind ' 
 
 ' Not in the least. I wish I had thought of it before, that 
 you might have been saved this unpleasantness.' 
 
 Then, without another word, he returned to his former 
 position, but with a less hard and contemptuous expression than 
 before. The others appealed to him for his opinion in the matter 
 of the dispute, and he spoke coldly and quietly, but evidently 
 what he said was to the point; the disputants quieted down, and 
 agreed to some sort of compromise. At last, to Gladys' intense 
 relief, they reached the station. Donovan got up and let down 
 the window, then, looking' back, said carelessly, 
 
 * You can leave me out in the next deal ; I'm going- to change 
 carriages.' 
 
 The announcement caused a chorus of inquiry. 
 
 ' What's up with milord now ? ' asked Gladys' neighbour. 
 
 ' Oh ! some craze, I suppose,' said a dark-browed man on the 
 other side of the carriage ; ' he took a moral fit the other night, 
 and rushed away no one knew where. There's no reckoning- on 
 
 him — "a wilful man must have his" Why, what's this?' 
 
 as Donovan returned to help Mrs. Causton in. ' We didn't reckon 
 on this, at any rate. Donovan, what are you thinking of ? ' 
 
 'A cigar in peace next door,' he replied readily. And then 
 he retreated, leaving Gladys greatly relieved and the card-players 
 not a little embarrassed by the large bundle of tracts which Mrs. 
 
180 'the raven for a guide.' 
 
 Caiiston began to distribute among them. At London Bridge 
 they saw him again for a minute, and Mrs. Causton pressed two 
 tracts into his hand and thanked him for his courtesy. Gladys 
 looked up at him shyly and gratefully, but did not speak again, 
 except, as he raised his hat and turned away, to utter one earnest- 
 toned 'good-bye.' He heard it, and treasured it up in his heart 
 — a wish, he knew it was, no mere formal parting, but the wish 
 of a pure-minded woman that good might be with him. 
 
 Gladys watched sadly as Noir Frewin rejoined her protector. 
 He was thoroughly out of temper, as she had seen on the journey, 
 and greeted his companion with a torrent of angry reproaches. 
 Gladys caught only a word or two here and there — ' Confouded 
 folly! — playing iast and loose with the agreement!' — and one 
 bitter taunt — ' A pretty knight-errant to help distressed ladies ! 
 Such as you, a professional ' 
 
 But the word gambler did not reach Gladys. She did not 
 then learn what a life Donovan was leading, but she had seen 
 and heard quite enough to know that he was in great need of 
 help, and from that night he always had a place in her prayers. 
 Without that how could she have borne the revelation of evil and 
 wretchedness, the contrast between the shielded life of those she 
 knew and the life of constant temptation of these her fellow- 
 creatures ? Painful as the evening's experience had been, she 
 could not altogether regret it. In after-life she thanked God for 
 that brief journey, upon which had hinged so much. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 'the raven for a guide.' 
 
 What tliou wouldst higUy 
 That wouldst thou holily ; wouldst not play false, 
 And yet wouldst wrongly win. 
 
 Macbeth, 
 
 Till life is coming back, our death we do not feel, 
 Light must be entering in, our darkness to reveal. 
 
 Archbishop Trench. 
 
 As the autumn wore on, both the dog and his master began to 
 show traces of the life they were living. Poor Waif pined for 
 the country. He had always been his master's companion in his 
 
'the raven for a guide.' 181 
 
 lonq- rulos and Avalks, and town life was of course a gTeat and 
 very undesirable chang-o for him. Donovan, too, lost his strength 
 considerably. It was an unhealthy life he was leading-, full of 
 the worst kind of excitement; at times idle and unoccupied, at 
 times full of fatigue. Naturally, too, his state of mind told on 
 his physical strength. The year, beginning- with the terrible 
 strain of little Dot's death, had brought him overwhelming- grief; 
 the long- spring- months had been spent in a fierce inward struggle, 
 a vain search for peace ; then had followed his quarrel with Ellis 
 and his expulsion from Oakdene, and ever since that he had been 
 in the poisoned atmosphere of the society into which Noir Frewin 
 had led him. No wonder that as the winter advanced he began 
 to tail. Even the Frewins, who w^ere not more observant of such 
 trivial matters than selfish people usually are, noticed at last that 
 something- was wrong-. 
 
 ' There's no getting a rise out of the boy now,' observed 
 Rouge, one December afternoon. 'I don't know what's come to 
 him, unless, as I expect, it's this absurd fad he's taken into his 
 head about water-drinking. I told him it was enough to kill a 
 fellow to give it up all at once like that. I should have died that 
 ver}' week, if I'd kept my agreement.' 
 
 Noir gave a contemptuous sneer. 
 
 ' No fear of your dying in that way, at any rate. I wonder 
 Donovan was ever such a fool as to think you'd give it up. He 
 is an odd fish. There's no making him out.' 
 
 Rouge glanced at the subject of all this talk, who w-as lying 
 asleep on the sofa, and then for the first time he noticed how 
 worn and thin he was. All the boyishness had gone from his 
 face now. 
 
 * I say, Noir, he looks to me uncommonly queer,' said the old 
 captain. ' I've seen one or two fellows look like that before now. 
 There was one, I remember, on the Metora.'' 
 
 ' Pooh ! I daresay many of them looked badly enough before 
 they found their sea-legs,' said Noir, coolly. 
 
 ' Well, the fellow I mean died,' said the captain, impressively. 
 ' And I must say milord does look to me awfully out of health.' 
 
 ' Oh ! nonsense. He's only seedy — a cold, or something of 
 that sort. We got drenched the other night coming from 
 Legge's place. It's time we were starting. Just wake him up.' 
 
 Rouge complied, and Donovan started up at once, and looked 
 sleepily at his watch. 
 
 ' Time to go ? Oh ! I'd forgotten. It's this Brighton 
 scheme.' 
 
 He looked wretchedly ill and tired, not at all fit to turn out 
 
182 *THE RAVEN FOR A GUIDE.' 
 
 of the warm room into the cold drizzle of the December twilio'ht, 
 but he was not one to shirk an engagement for the sake of mere 
 bodily disinclination, and there was no one to tell him what 
 madness it was to trifle with such a severe chill as he had taken. 
 lie drew on his great-coat, and without a word stood waiting for 
 Ts^oir, who was sorting his cards on a side-table. 
 
 ' Take my advice,' sa:d Eouge, paternally, ' and have some- 
 thing just to hearten you up before you go. With such a cold 
 ^/■ou want something to warm the cockles of your heart.' 
 
 For the moment Donovan was strongly tempted. He did 
 feel very much in need of some such comfort, but his hesitation 
 was but momentary. He knew that his only hope of influencing 
 the old captain lay in the steadiest adherence to his plan of 
 abstinence. The three months of the agreement were over, but, 
 though Rouge had long ago broken his pledge, his companion's 
 example had often kept him from excess, and Donovan knew well 
 enough that even for his own sake the safe-guard was a very good 
 thing. 
 
 ' Oh ! as to the cockles of one's heart,'' he said laughing, 
 ' that's all bosh, one only takes cold the easier, as any doctor 
 would tell you. Present loss, future gain, is our motto to-day ! 
 we ought to bag a good many head of game to make up for turn- 
 ing out in this wet mist. Good-bye, captain. Look after Waif.' 
 
 And then Noir and his young- accomplice set out on their 
 expedition. As they passed the window of the print-shop, Dono- 
 van involuntarily paused. 
 
 ' Why, there's your very double,' he said, laughing, and, in 
 spite of the rain, Noir stopped to see what he meant. 
 
 It was an old print of Brunei the engineer. The curious 
 forehead and eyebrows, and the general cast of countenance, 
 certainly bore a strong resemblance to Noir, though the expres- 
 sion was very diff"erent. Underneath, in copper-plate, was 
 written the couplet — 
 
 Whose public works will best attest bis fame, 
 Whilst private worth adds value to his name. 
 
 It was rather a curious contrast to Noir Frewin's life, and the 
 words stung him. 
 
 'Well, well!' he said, with his bitter laugh, 'my "public 
 works " are not of the first water, perhaps. You needn't give me 
 that epitaph.' 
 
 The Brighton expedition proved a great success. Noir and 
 Donovan returned in two or three days' time well content. They 
 had chosen an evening train to come back by. Noir went on as 
 
*TIIE RAVEN FOn A GUIDE.' 183 
 
 usual to select a favourable carriag-e ; Donovan followed him 
 more leisurely, for it answered their purpose best not to appear 
 to be companions. Donovan's part was usually that of a decoy, 
 a well-to-no, g-entlemanly-looking; fellow Avho consented to play, 
 and thus induced others to try their hand. Thoy had this even- 
 ing" chosen a most auspicious-looking' carriage full of young- men 
 returning' to town, for it was the w^eck after Christmas, and, the 
 brief holiday being' over, many had chosen this late train to take 
 them back to the busy London life ag'ain. Scarcely had they loft 
 the station, however, when Noir's countenance suddenly fell. 
 Two or three of the passengers were commenting- on a ])lacard 
 which, printed in large letters, was put up on the side of the carriage. 
 He was vexed and disconcerted, for it etlectually put an end to his 
 schemes for the journey. With a slig-ht w^arning- pressure on his 
 companion's foot, he drew his attention to the placard which was 
 above his head. Not in the least knowing what to expect, 
 Donovan took off his hat and put it in the netting, thus g-etting 
 an opportunity of turning- round, and there, staring- at him in 
 larg-e type, were words which he never forg'ot, words which 
 seemed to burn themselves in upon his brain at the very first 
 reading'. ' Caution. Passengers are earnestly recommended to 
 beware of pickpockets and card-sharpers dressed as gentlemen,' 
 &c., &c. He could read no further, he fell back into his place 
 like one stunned, then the hot colour rushed to his cheeks, 
 mounted higher and hig'her till his wdiole face seemed to burn 
 and tingle. Had he actually come to this ? Was he, Donovan 
 Farrant, a cheat against whom the public must be warned, 
 classed with pickpockets ? He, his father's only son, had sunk 
 so low, then, that this description would apply to him — a ' card- 
 sharper dressed as a gentleman ! ' That moment's sharp realisa- 
 tion was terrible. Noir, anxious to veil his sudden confusion, 
 held out a newspaper to him, but he only shook his head, and 
 the elder man, who was merely annoyed by the occurrence, began 
 to feel alarmed at the strange eifect the caution had had on his 
 accomplice. Such misery, such shame, were written on his face 
 that Noir began to fear he should lose his able assistance. 
 
 They got out at London Bridge, and he linked his arm 
 within Donovan's with an anxious attempt at raillery. 
 
 * Why, milord, what made you pl-ay such a false card just 
 now, colouring up like a girl at a mere piece of paper ? I gave 
 you credit for more self-control.' 
 
 Donovan bit his lip ; the last words vexed him. and changed 
 the current of his thoughts, for he rather prided himself on his 
 powers of self-control, which were indeed considerable. 
 
184 ^THE RAVEN FOR A GUIDE.' 
 
 ' It startled me/ he confessed after a brief silence. Then 
 ag-ain, with a slight hesitation, ' Noir, do you consider yourself a 
 card-sharper ? ' 
 
 The question was asked with a kind of innocence which made 
 Noir shudder ; he forced up a mocking laugh, however. 
 
 * Ask a thief if he considers himself a thief, and he will tell 
 you " no," but a professional adept, with a gift for acquiring other 
 people's property.' 
 
 Donovan winced. 
 
 ' If that's the definition of a thief, you and I belong pretty 
 much to the same class.' 
 
 Noir wrenched away his arm. 
 
 ' And what do I care if we do ? ' he cried, angrily ; * I don't 
 know what makes you so cantankerous to-night. Have you for- 
 gotten your favourite maxim, that the world is a mass of injus- 
 tice, and that a little more or less evil makes no difference ? You 
 Btand by that, and I'll undertake to stand by you, for the world 
 is unjust, and I delight in cheating it when I've the opportunity. 
 If you're going to turn moral, milord, we'll dissolve partnership 
 at once, and you can go back to those fine friends you know, 
 who were so ready to help you before you came to us.' 
 
 Donovan did not reply to this taunt, he only shivered and 
 drew his comforter over his mouth. He felt worn out and giddy, 
 his fiteps began to falter, and Noir, who in his strange rough 
 fashion loved him, forgot his anger, and, taking his arm again, 
 half dragged him home. 
 
 ' The fact is, you're seedy and down in the mouth, Donovan,' 
 he said, as they reached their rooms, 'you'll see things very 
 differently to-morrow.' 
 
 Donovan did not answer, he stumbled up the dark staircase 
 after Noir, and followed him into the parlour. There, with the 
 gas flaring', a huge fire blazing up the chimney, and supper wait- 
 ing on the table, was the old captain ; his hearty welcome was 
 generally pleasant enough, but this evening Donovan felt he 
 could not stand it. He was half perished with cold, and in- 
 voluntarily made far the fire, but it was only for a minute, the 
 warm comfortable room was not in keeping with his doubt and 
 misery. 
 
 •Double, double, 
 Toil and trouble,' 
 
 sang Sweepstakes, following the tall dark figure with his shrewd 
 
 eye, ' Double — double — dou-ble dou — ble.' 
 
 ' First-rate luck all three days,' Noir was saying. ' To-night 
 our little game was stopped, and milord's down in the depths. 
 
'the raven for a quibe.' 185 
 
 Horc, Donovan, come to supper, we didn't get mucb of a food at 
 Brig-hton,* 
 
 But Donovan shook his head. 
 
 * Good-nig'ht, captain,' ho said, and, disreg'arding" Rouge's 
 remonstrances, left the room. He opened his own door, and 
 Waif, with whines of delig-ht, sprang to greet him. 
 
 * Waif — poor old fellow ! ' he exclaimed, stooping- for a minute 
 over the dog, hut hastily raising himself ag'ain. ' No, no, down, 
 g-et doAvn, I say, I'm not fit to touch you.' 
 
 Poor Waif was utterly hewiklercd, his master had never 
 spoken to him in that way hefore, something must he wrong, very 
 much wrong. It was dark, but the faintest glimmer of light 
 from the uucurtainod window served to show him that his master 
 had thrown himself on the ground, it was a sure sign that he was 
 in trouble, Waif knew that well, and did not just at first dare to 
 interrupt him. Presently he began to walk disconsolately round 
 and round him, stopping every minute or two to sniff at him, 
 listen, whine in a subdued way. 
 
 Donovan was beyond dog help just then, in the depth of his 
 self-abasement he could not sink low enough ; in his abject self- 
 loathing- to be touched by a being- whom he loved would have 
 been unbearable. He had known well enough that he was 
 doing- wrong before. Something- of his blackness had been borne 
 in upon him when Gladys Tremain had spoken those words in 
 the park, but now it was all before him, in hideous array, the 
 very vision of sin itself How could he have delighted in any- 
 thing so ghastly ? it was not even a great revenge he had taken 
 on the unjust world, but the pettiest, meanest, most despicable 
 revenge. What had he not fallen to in these months / why, 
 these hands of his — the hands that had waited on Dot — had 
 stooped to pick up paltry half-crowns won by cheating foolish 
 wretches in a railway carriage. And then came the remembrance 
 of his father. ' You are hardly in a position, Dono, to speak of 
 breaches of honour.' Not even then ! oh ! what would his father 
 have said to him now ! Yet little as he had known of him, that 
 little was enough to tell him that his father would always think 
 more of the future than of the past. There was a future for liim 
 even now, he must no longer wage war upon the unjust world, he 
 must — he 7voul(l alter his way of living if only for the sake of re- 
 deeming his father's name. But for the first time in his life he 
 felt a want in himself, that agony of remorse, despair, utter sclf- 
 nbhorrence had done its work, he was no longer blindly cc^nfiilent 
 in his own strength. 
 
 Presently from sheer exhaustion he fell asleep. Waif was 
 
186 *THE RAVEN FOR A GUIDE.* 
 
 happier wlien he heard the deep rcg-ular breaths ; a strang-e 
 process of thinking began in the dog- mind. He went back to 
 his woolly rug and lay down, but in a minute jumped up again, 
 ran to his master, licked his hand, and then returned to his rug. 
 Still he could not settle himself to sleep, a second and a third 
 time he got up, making an uneasy circuit round the prostrate 
 figure on the ground. At last, as if unable to lie ou his rng 
 while Donovan was on the floor, he curled himself up at his feet, 
 and there slept peacefully. 
 
 In the adjoining room Noir, having made a hearty meal,dreAv 
 up his chair to the fire and lighted his evening pipe. The old 
 captain was evidently uneasy. Noir was uneasy, too, in reality, 
 but he kept it to himself. 
 
 ' He's a very queer customer that lad,' said Rouge, medita- 
 tively. ' You think it really is this piece of paper which frightened 
 him ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, he's young,' said Noir, in an excusing tone. ' It gave 
 him a turn; I daresay it will soon pass ofl; If not, we must get 
 a little change somehow. It wouldn't be a bad plan to go abroad 
 for a month or two, plenty to be done there, and he'd be sure to 
 like it. After all, of course we do run some risk here. A month 
 or two of absence wouldn't be a bad notion.' 
 
 ' " He who prigs what isn't his'n," ' quoted Rouge. * Well, 
 don't carry it too far, and don't drive the boy away, whatever 
 you do.' 
 
 ' No, no, I'd saci'ifice a good deal to keep him,' said Noir, ' but 
 he's upset to-night about it.' 
 
 Presently the old captain lighted his candle and went up to 
 bed, but Noir sot on long after his pipe was finished, long after 
 the fire had sank down in the grate to a handful of dying embers. 
 He was thinking, brooding painfully over the comparative inno- 
 cence of his boy accomplice, and his own villainy. How despairing 
 and wild the fellow had looked, too, as he left the room. Hq 
 quite started when the door opened, and Rouge, with his night- 
 cap on, appeared again upon the scene. 
 
 ' I say, Noir, I don't feel happy about that lad. It was very 
 strange of him to go off like that with no supper.' 
 
 ' Pooh ! ' said Noir, contemptuously, though his father was 
 speaking his own thoughts. ' He's ashamed of himself and vexed 
 about that caution.' 
 
 ' Yes, but to go off, ill as he is, cold and supperless. If he 
 was a Catholic he might do it as penance, but he's nothing, you 
 know.' 
 
 It did not strike them that in very deep inward trouble it is 
 
*TIIE RAVl'.N FOn A OUIDK.' 187 
 
 at times impossible to enjoy or permit bodily ease. Indeed, if tbe 
 poor old captain had been guilty of the most heinous crime, he 
 ^vould probably have oaten liis supper after its committal, 
 and found a solace in the eating- to his pangs of remorse. He 
 could not understand anything- which went deeper than this, and 
 his g-ood licart had boon stirred with pity as he lay down warmed 
 and satisfied in his comfortable feather-bed. 
 
 Noir's thoughts went at once to darker suspicions. He had 
 seen something- of that same despairing- look on Donovan's face 
 when, on that bright June afternoon, he had watched him un- 
 known on Westmmster Bridge. He had read his intentions then, 
 was it possible that misery and shame had driven him again to 
 the same longing- ? 
 
 * We'll just give him a look on our way up,' he said care- 
 lessly. And then he turned the door-handle noiselessly, and with 
 well-disguised anxiety stole in. The room was very quiet, the 
 bed empty. Noir's heart stood still, and, with an exclamation of 
 dismay, he hurried to the dark form which was stretched out on 
 the floor, 
 
 ' Bring the candle quick,' he said to his father, and Rouge, 
 trembling with fear, held the light nearer, while Waif growled a 
 httle at the unusual disturbance. 
 
 Noir bent down for a moment close to the half-hidden face, 
 then he started up ag-ain with an expression of relief, which came 
 rather oddly from his lips — 
 
 'Thank God!' 
 
 ' Well, it did give me a turn,' said the old captain, stooping to 
 pat the dog. 
 
 * Hush ! ' said Noir, ' you'll wake him.' 
 
 And then for a miniite the shabby little room witnessed a 
 strange scene. Donovan stirred uneasily, half turned round, but 
 sank again into ])rofound sleep, and the two Fre wins bent over 
 him, ^^ily, they could scarcely have said, but in their relief it 
 seemed almost a necessity. They watched the face of the sleeper 
 — flushed as if even now the shame were making itself felt — the 
 sad face which seemed all the more despairin*^ because of its 
 stillness, the fixedness of its misery. And Noir's heart smote 
 him, his conscience cried out loudly, ' You have brought him to 
 this, you have dragged this boy down into shame and dis- 
 honesty.' 
 
 Rouge thought only of the discomforts of a night on the floor. 
 
 * Wake him up,' he urged. ' It's frightfully cold, he oughtn't 
 to be there.' 
 
 But Noir would not wake him, he knew that it would be 
 
]88 ^THE RAVEN FOR A GUIDE.' 
 
 cruel to bring him back to bis ano-uish of remorse. Rouge could 
 never understand anything- higher than bodily comfort, it was 
 what he lived for. His son, though a far worse man, had never- 
 theless a capability of entering into greater things, he had him- 
 self sinned and suffered, and though it was years since he had 
 known real remorse, he had once known it, and to a certain ex- 
 tent he xiuiderstood Donovan's feelings. 
 
 ' Better leave him,' he said. But, with the words upon his 
 lips, he nevertheless turned to the bed, and, dragging off a rail- 
 way-rug which covered it, %iirew it over the prostrate form on the 
 floor. Strangely indeed in life do the lights and shades intermix, 
 faint flickerings of the light divine stealing in, in spite of the vast 
 black shades of sin. 
 
 The next day — the last of the year — was a dreary one in the 
 Frewins' rooms. INoir kept out of the way, not caring to face 
 his accomplice ; old Rouge, in great depression, dusted his 
 curiosities as usual, and put things tidy and ship-shape ; and 
 Donovan sat coughing and shivering over the fire, with an ex- 
 pression of such despondency, often of such terrible suffering, 
 that the old captain scarcely dared to speak to him. The sharp- 
 ness of his remorse had for the time died away, it was swallowed 
 up in the misery of his recollections, for this was the anniversary 
 of Dot's last day of life, and remembrances strange, tender, 
 pitiful, but always full of pain, thronged up in his mind. Brood- 
 ing over it all, his brain excited with the events of the past night, 
 his body worn out with pain, it was no wonder that the over- 
 taxed nature at last gave way. 
 
 His mood seemed to change. Rouge, who had not been able 
 to extract a word from him all day, was astounded as the evening 
 drew on to find him suddenly in the wildest spirits. 
 
 ' Come,' he said, ' we'll go to OUiver's, it's time we had dinner. 
 Come along, captain.' 
 
 And poor old Rouge found himself dragged off, in spite of his 
 remonstrances. 
 
 ' You'd better not go out, milord j you're really not fit.' 
 
 ' Not fit ! ' said Donovan, with a wild laugh, cut short by a 
 cough. ' I'm fit for anything. Come along, old fellow ; we'll 
 drown care, stifle it, kill it, what you like ! ' 
 
 Rouge, really frightened, panted along after his companion, 
 with difficulty keeping pace with his fevered steps ; and then 
 ensued an evening of mad merriment. A year ago, only a year 
 ago, and Donovan had been watching Dot's last agony ; with the 
 strong manly tenderness of great love he had held the little 
 quivering hands in his. Now in a crowded billiard-room he 
 
STRUaGLINO ON. 189 
 
 grasped the cue instead, and betted wildly, losing-, winning-, 
 winning- again considerably, then with the Frewins, and Leg-ge, 
 and two or three other companions returning to Drury Lane and 
 g-ambling- the old year out and the new year in. 
 
 ' I back the winner, I back the winner ! ' screamed Sweep- 
 stakes from his cage. 
 
 And above the sounds of dispute, and merriment, and eag-er 
 play, the clock of St. Mary's Church struck twelve, and in the 
 distance Big Ben's deep notes echoed over tlie city, and, just 
 because an agony of remembrance rushed back into Donovan's 
 mind, he staked higher and hig'her. The room rang with his 
 wild laughter. 
 
 Noir broke up the gathering- much eai'her than usual, and 
 with flushed cheeks and wild glittering- eyes Donovan stagg-ercd 
 to his feet. But he could hardly stand, his head seemed weighted, 
 his limbs powerless. 
 
 * I've done for myself now,' he said, catching- at Noir to keep 
 himself xip. Noir did not answer. With his father's assistance 
 he helped him into the next room, and with some pang-s of con- 
 science kept guard over him through the night of feverish excite- 
 ment and misery which followed. 
 
 The next morning- the bright New Year broke over the g-reat 
 city, there were fttes, and rejoicings, and merry family parties, 
 but in the lodg'ing--house in Drury Lane all was silent. Even at 
 night no gamblers' wild revelry broke the stillness, for Donovan 
 was prostrated by an attack, of congestion of the lungs in its 
 acutest form. 
 
 CHAPTER XVn. 
 
 STRUGGLING ON. 
 
 Men are led by strange ways. One should have tolerance for a man, 
 ope of him ; leave him to try yet what he will do. 
 
 On Hero(s and ffero-worship. 
 
 Ma}' we not again say, that in the huge mass of evil, as it rolls and 
 swells, there is ever some good working imprisoned; working toward deli- 
 rerance and triumph ? 
 
 French Revolution. Carlyle. 
 
 He had known for a long- time that lie was out of health, and at 
 times the dread of being- ill had haunted him painfully, as it will 
 at times haunt those who are practically homeless. For it is 
 
190 STRUGGLING ON. 
 
 indeed very terrible to face the thought of illness with no mother 
 at hand to nurse you, no sister to whom the duties of tending 
 will be a pleasure rather than a tiresome duty, no house in which 
 you have a rig-ht to be ill, where you need not feel burdened 
 with the sense of the trouble you are causing-. To Donovan, 
 with his utter want of belief in human nature, or in the very 
 existence of anything- above human nature, the sense of helpless- 
 ness came with double power; only, fortunately for liim, things 
 were not really as he believed. Close beside him, thoug-h un- 
 known, the love of the All-Father watched and shielded from 
 evil the son who, by such wretched wanderings, was being- led 
 on. And the pity which springs up very readily in most of our 
 hearts, when we are broug-ht face to face with pain, brought 
 human help and comfort to his sick-bed. The landlady, careworn 
 and harassed with many children and a good-for-nothing- hus- 
 band, yet found time to do the few absolutely necessary things 
 in the sick-room ; she could not help being- sorry for her appar- 
 ently friendless lodger. Once or twice she pained him terribly 
 by asking, 
 
 * Haven't you no mother who could come and see to you?' 
 And Donovan would sign a negative, and, when she had left 
 him to himself, would feel the loneliness and suffering with double 
 keenness. 
 
 Noir Frewin would come in two or three times a day and ask 
 how he was ; the old captain would hang about the room with 
 anxiety written on his kind old face, but he missed his com- 
 panion's vigilance and example, the drinking- mania seized him 
 strongly, and he was seldom quite sober. There was one 
 other amateur nurse, the poor little over-driven servant. She 
 used to shuffle into the room every now and then, and with infinite 
 care and clumsiness would drag the pillow from under his head, 
 shake it up violently and turn it, or hold a glass to his burning 
 lips and spill half its contents down his night-shirt. But he 
 learnt to be grateful even for such rough attentions, for there is 
 nothing like weakness and suffering for teaching patience. The 
 loneliness was so terrible, too, that he would detain anyone who 
 came to him as long as possible. Old Rouge, with his unsteady 
 gait and half incoherent talk, was better than no one, and even 
 the little slipshod servant, with her rough head and dirty hands, 
 was worth the exertion of talking, just for the sake of having a 
 human creature within reach. 
 
 ' I allays liked you, sir,' she said to him once. ' You ain't 
 allays a-calling for your boots, like Mr. Frewin, or in drink, like 
 the captain, and you never shouted out " slavey " down the stairs 
 
STRUGGLING ON. 191 
 
 for me, as though I was one of the poor blacks. I allays liked 
 you, Mr, Douovau.' 
 
 Donovan was amused, and in spite of his burning- head and 
 aching misery, threw out some question or response to detain her. 
 
 ' And I've done things for you as I've not done for no other 
 lodger,' the girl continued. ' I've blacked your boots a sight 
 better tlian any of the others, and thougli you did want such 
 a terrible lot of bath water hevery day, I allays brought it up 
 reg'Iar. If the lodgers h'is civil and kind-spoken, I do my best 
 for 'cm, but most of 'em — why, they treat us poor girls like dogs, 
 that the}^ do. And talkin' of dogs, I've done that un of yours 
 many a goi J turn ; times and times I've stolen bits o' meat and 
 things for 'im.' 
 
 ' Oh ! but you shouldn't do that,' said Donovan, quickly. 'Don't 
 do it again. It's wrong to steal, you know.' 
 
 But then he paused. What was he saying ? How trivial 
 were this poor ignorant girl's dishonesties compared with his 
 o^vn ! 
 
 Bitter were the regrets which thronged up into his mind as he 
 lay wearily on his bed of pain. He could not escape from his 
 secret foes now ; he could not banish thought by violent bodily 
 exercise, or by wild excitement. All his anguish of last year 
 returned with terrible force, all the agony of self-loathing weighed 
 upon him with cruel ceaselessness. This, combined with the want 
 of good nursing, aggravated his illness. The doctor began to 
 look grave, and one day Anne, the little servant, fairly burst 
 into tears when she came up to tidy his room. 
 
 ' What's the matter ? ' asked Donovan, feebly. ' Have they 
 been scolding you ? ' 
 
 * No, no, it ain't that,' said the girl, holding her apron to her 
 eyes. * But missus she says you'll die, sure as a gun ; she did 
 say so, I beared her, sir, not a minute since.' 
 
 Donovan did not speak for some time. He lay thinking silently 
 over the girl's words, 'You'll die, sure as a gun.' He smiled a little, 
 thinking that few had been told of their danger in a: more open 
 and undisguised way, but it ought to have been good news to 
 him, and for a time he tried to think he was glad. And yet ? 
 He did not go straight to the root of the matter, and own that 
 the ' peace of nothingness ' looked less attractive when viewed 
 nearly ; he said instead what a wretched life he had had, how 
 little enjoyment, how much suffering, and now he was to die 
 forlorn and unattended in a miserable London lodging. Then 
 come a great longing to see his mother. 
 
 He called the girl to bim, made her find writing materials, and, 
 
192 STRUGGLING ON. 
 
 raising' himself on his elbow, wrote with great difficulty a few 
 pencil words. 
 
 ' I am very ill. My death will perhaps ease more consciences 
 than one. Will you not come to me, mother ? — it may be our 
 last meetmg'.' 
 
 He was growing- faint ; the effort had been very great, but, 
 still exerting- all his strength of will, he controlled his weakness 
 eufficiently to scrawl the address on the envelope. Then he sank 
 back again exhausted. 
 
 ' You'll have to see the clergyman if you get worse,' s-aid Anne, 
 sympathetically. ' There's one as come next door to an old chap 
 as was dying last summer, and they say he do make the folks 
 quake and sweat.' 
 
 Donovan was past smiling. 
 
 After that he did not remember much. There was only an 
 ever-])resent consciousness, of endless pain, the raging, burning, 
 aching- misery of fever. Till then the hours had dragged on with 
 the terrible slowness of which only those who have been alone in 
 illness can form any idea. But now he lost all thought of time, 
 and was only dimly aware of the visitors who came to iiim. Now 
 and then he had a sort of vision of Rouge's round red face 
 anxiously peering down at him. Once he fancied himself chained 
 down in one of Doery's red-hot furnaces, where Dives-like he had 
 cried for water, and then he had looked up, and Noir was beside 
 him with the cooling draught he had thirsted for, and he had 
 fallen back again refreshed, wondering greatly that his requesi 
 had been granted. The Christian's God was, after all then, 
 merciful ! Wild thoughts they were which haunted him in his 
 delirium, and yet Noir Frewin, as he watched beside him, was 
 struck by the tone of his fevered utterances. He was prepared 
 for ravings against injustice, but, instead, Donovan's most vehement 
 words were of self-reproach. At times he would take a theological 
 turn, and would argue for and against every conceivable doctrine, 
 and then again he would fancy himself back among his late com- 
 panions, gambling or indulging in wild revelry ; but throughout 
 there was never one impm-e word, and Noir marvelled at it. A 
 strange wild life was revealed, with an undercurrent of anxious 
 questioning, one predominant vice, but behind it much that was 
 noble, a familiarity with every kind of evil, but, in spite of it, a 
 strange retaining- of pux-ity. 
 
 One name, too, was constantly on his lips — a name which 
 Noir had never heard him mention before. He wondered much 
 to whom it referred, what gave rise to the agonised longing for 
 this one presence. 
 
STRUGGLING ON. 19S 
 
 Perhaps in tins was Donovan's keenest suflTcrinp;'. Tie dreamt 
 continually of Dot ; she was beside him, no Ioniser ill and help- 
 less, but happy, and strono;, and bright. As yet, remembrance 
 was such terrible pain to him — it was so entirely his object not 
 to remember the past — that the vision which kept recurring to 
 him was almost more than he could bear, and the extraordinary 
 reality of" it deluded hira at times. It must be real, she had come 
 back to him, and he would stretch out his arms to keep her; 
 then, coming" to himself, would find that it was only a dream. 
 One night the dream was more vivid than ever. He fancied 
 himself on a wide-open down ; he was ill and faint, and the sun 
 was beating down upon him pitilessly. He closed his eyes to 
 shut out the intolerable brightness, and then suddenly became 
 aware of a shade between him and the sun, and, looking up, saw- 
 Dot standing beside him. Such a rapturous meeting it was ! 
 Pier face seemed changed, and yet the same, and her bright eyes 
 shone down upon him with just the old loving light. He could 
 feel her fingers rufHing up his hair as she used to do in the old 
 times, and her voice, merry and child-like as ever, seemed to give 
 him new strength. ' It is my turn to nurse you now,' she said. 
 And then, just as he was feeling the full bliss of her presence, a 
 thick white mist rose from the ground and rolled between them. 
 He stretched out his hands, tried to struggle up, helplessly beat- 
 ing against the cold white wall. Dot was there just beyond. 
 He must reach her ! this sudden meeting, only to part, was too 
 cruel ! But the more he dashed himself against the impenetrable 
 barrier, the harder it became, and, maddened by hearing her 
 voice in the distance, he grew more and more reckless, till at 
 last his own cry of despair woke him. Trembling-, exhausted, 
 panting for breath, he stared round the little room. The scene 
 was changed. Fight as he would, there was no chance of his 
 seeing Dot again ; even the white barrier was gone. The gas 
 was tiu'ned low, and close beside it sat Noir, nodding over his 
 newspaper. The blank of realisation was so terrible that he felt 
 he vmst call on some one or something outside himself, and his 
 companion was roused by a coll so wild, so despairing, that he 
 started up at once and hurried to the bedside. 
 
 'What is it?' he asked anxiously. But Donovan could not 
 answer, his breath would only come in gasps, his whole frame 
 was convulsed. By the strange freemasonry of suffering, Noir 
 Frewin understood him. He did not say a word, but just took 
 the two burning hands in his, and Donovan, witli a sense of 
 relief, tightened his hold till the grip was absolutely painful. 
 Anything human would have served to support him; he clung 
 
 o 
 
194 STRUGGLING ON. 
 
 to the hands of this hardened cheat with helpless grati- 
 tude. 
 
 And Noir, as he looked down at the strug-g-ling- ag-ony, under- 
 stood it all far better than many would have done. A well- 
 regulated mind accustomed to view things quietly, or a Christian 
 who has never known what it is to he anything else, would pro- 
 bably not have known so exactly what to do ; they would have 
 offered words to a state beyond the comprehension of speech, or 
 would have advised self-control when the very fact of the con- 
 vulsed frame and sealed lips showed that no control was needed. 
 But Noir had been through just the same fierce conflicts in his 
 cell at Dartmoor ; he knew that no words would avail, no thought 
 comfort, that what nature cried out for was a presence stronger 
 than self — something or some one who would not preach, but would 
 understand. He gave, poor fellow, all he could give — himself, and 
 after a time Donovan's convulsed limbs relaxed, the hands loosened 
 their hold, the face settled into its usual stern sad expression. 
 
 ' Thanks, old fellow,' he said, faintly. 
 
 Noir, with an odd choking in his throat, turned away and 
 made ready some gruel which had been heating. By the time 
 he had brought it, Donovan had recovered a little more, and there 
 was a sort of smile on his worn face. 
 
 ' I can't get over you turning nurse, Noir,' he said, in rather 
 trembling tones ; ' you've been — awfully good to me.' 
 
 ' Only make haste and get well/ said Noir, roughly, but 
 kindly. 
 
 ' Am I not doing my best by swallowing this abomination ? ' 
 said Donovan, trying to form his lips into a smile, but feiling 
 piteously. 
 
 ' You'd better be quiet, or you won't get off to sleep again,' 
 said Noir, peremptorily, the fact being that he could not stand 
 the effort at cheerfulness which his patient was making, for there 
 are few things more painful than to see a thin veil of assumed 
 cheerfulness drawn over great suffering. But the effort was a 
 brave one, he could not help knowing it, and as he returned to 
 his place beneath the gas, instead of taking up his newspaper, he 
 mused over the hidden trouble which had been half revealed to 
 him, from time to time casting a glance towards the bed. 
 Nothing, however, was to be seen there except a mass of rougi 
 brown hair ; Donovan had turned his face away from the light, 
 and Noir only knew that he was not asleep by the absolute still- 
 ness of his foi'm, and by the long-drawn but half-restrained sighs 
 which reached him every few minutes. 
 
 The next morning the old captain, with his feather-brush, 
 
STRUGGLINQ ON. 195 
 
 wns as usual dnsting" his shells and corals, when he was inter- 
 rupted by the little maid-of-all-work. 
 
 * If you please, sir/ she said, with unusual animation, ' 'ere'sa 
 lady as will 'ave it that Mr. Farrant lives 'ere, and I can't g-et 'er 
 away no 'ow.' 
 
 Iloiig'e, removing- his smoking'-cap, hurried forward, and found 
 himself tace to face with an elderly woman with a thin severe face. 
 
 ' There must be some mistake, madame,' he said m his plea- 
 sant voice. ' No one of the name of Farrant lives here. We are 
 the only lodgers, except one poor fellow named Donovan, who is 
 very ill.' 
 
 'There!' exclaimed Mrs. Doery, with relief. 'Now why 
 didn't you tell me that before, thoug-h I was certain he must be 
 here somewhere, he'd ne^'er make a fault in the address. Take 
 me to him at once, please, sir — I've come to nurse him.' 
 
 * Bless me ! ' exclaimed the old captain, ' now that's really a 
 wonderful piece of luck, for he's in need of better nursing- than 
 we can give him. You are a relation of his ? ' 
 
 ' Relation, indeed ! ' said Mrs. Doery, with virtuous indig-na- 
 tion — * relation, sir ! A pretty pass he must have come to if you 
 take me for a relation. I am the housekeeper.' 
 
 * Your pardon, madame,' said the captain. ' May I not offer 
 you some refreshment after your journey ?' and he put his hand 
 on the inevitable black bottle which was always within convenient 
 reach. 
 
 * I'll thank you, sir, to take me to Mr. Donovan,' said Doery, 
 severely, ' and not go offering- a respectable party spirits at this 
 time of day.' 
 
 Rouge, feeling snubbed, hastily led the way to the sick-room, 
 muttering under his breath, 'A very dragon !' But nevertheless 
 he rather enjoyed the new arrival, and there was a ring of amuse- 
 ment in his hearty voice as he went up to the disordered uncom- 
 fortable looking bed where Donovan lay. 
 
 ' Well, milord, I've brought you a new nurse.' 
 
 If anyone had told Donovan in his ciiildhood that he would 
 ever welcome the sight of his grim tyrant he would not have 
 believed it, but nevertheless there was an unspeakable comfort 
 and relief in the advent of poor old Doery. 
 
 ' Oh ! Mr. Donovan, what have they been a-doin' to you ? * 
 she exclaimed, horror-struck at his looks, for he was evidently 
 quite clear-headed, but utterly weak and helpless, and with a 
 face so thin and worn that she hardly recognised it. 
 
 ' Did my mother send you ?' he asked, as soon as the captain 
 had left the room. 
 
196 STRUGGLING ON. 
 
 * No, sir, master sent me, with orders to say nothing- about it 
 to mistress. It was the only way he'd let me come, Mr. Donovan, 
 so you mustn't mind. Mistress is to be told I'm g-one to nurse 
 my sister. I promised I wouldn't say a word to her, otherwise 
 master wouldn't have told me where you was.' 
 
 ' He opened the letter, then ? ' asked Donovan. 
 
 ' He had your letter, sir. I made no doubt it was sent to 
 him, for the mistress hadn't seen it.' 
 
 Evidently, then, it w^oidd be quite useless to attempt writing 
 to his mother ; after the lapse of all these months of silence, 
 Ellis still kept guard over her correspondence. A sort of dim 
 idea which had crossed his mind of appealing- to his mother for 
 money to start him in some honest calling-, died away. He must 
 continue to support himself by his precarious winnings, only — 
 and here all his strength of will asserted itself — he would ftever 
 be a party to Noir's deceptions again. It was not a very cheer- 
 ing prospect, he saw that it must involve an entire break with the 
 Erewins, and they had been so good to him that he shrank very 
 much from the thought. After all, as he often said to himself, 
 his death would solve many difficulties. 
 
 But he was not to die — that was evident. Thanks to Mrs. 
 Doery's good nursing he began to recover steadily, and, as his 
 strength returned, a certain enjoyment of life returned to him, 
 too, at times. He began to wish very much to be out and about 
 again, even though so many difficulties would have then to be 
 faced. 
 
 His intercourse with old Mrs. Doery was a good deal 
 hampered by various causes. He never mentioned Dot's name, 
 he never mentioned his present way of life, so that their range of 
 conversation was rather limited. He asked a thousand questions, 
 indeed, about his mother, and the whole Manor household, but 
 except with regard to this subject he was very silent and utterly 
 uncommunicative. From day to day he would lie with a sort of 
 rigid patience, abstractedly watching Doery as she sat mending 
 his linen, or with his eyes fixed on the hateful little oil-painting 
 of the ' Shipwreck,' which stared down at him from the dingy 
 green wall paper with black spots. It used to remind him a good 
 deal of his own life, that forlorn-looking vessel with broken mast 
 and battered hull. 
 
 One night when he was almost recovered he was roused from 
 his first sleep by noisy merriment in the adjoining room, and 
 found poor Mrs. Doery fairly frightened out of her wits. 
 
 ' Such a calling and a shouting and a quarrelling- as she'd 
 never heard in her life ! ' 
 
STRUGGLING ON. 107 
 
 'They are only enjoying- themselves/ said Donovan, with 
 weary sarcasm. 
 
 ' Well, Mr, Donovan, it's more like animals than like men, 
 that I will say,' replied Doery, with her customary shrewd 
 severity. 
 
 ' May be,' said Donovan, turning- from side to side with the 
 restless discomfort of one disturbed. 
 
 * And nobody can't deny that it's a dreadful place that you're 
 in,' continued the housekeeper. ' Such a shocking- g-oings on in 
 them courts out at the back, and then all this noise in the very 
 next room when honest folks oug-ht to be a-bed and asleep. It's 
 a dreadful place, I call it.' 
 
 'Loudon isn't made up of Connaug-ht Squares,' said Donovan, 
 bitterly; and then he drew the bed-clothes over his face, and 
 would not say another word. 
 
 The next day was Sunday, and by dint of many assurances of 
 his perfect recovery, Mrs. Doery was at length persuaded to leave 
 him for a little while and go to church, Donovan having- over- 
 ruled her dread of losing- her way by assuring- her that the old 
 captain went every now and then to salve his conscience, and 
 would be delig-hted to escort her. When she had left hiin he lay 
 for a few minutes listening- to the church bells, but his thouglits 
 were very troublesome that day, and just to stifle them he reached 
 out his hand and took Mrs. Doery's Bible from the table. It was 
 nearly four years since he had opened one, and then it had only 
 been under compulsion at school, and though he had read many 
 books w'ritten against it, he had never had the slightest inclina- 
 tion to study the book itself Beyond a few chapters which he 
 had been made to learn in his childhood as a punishment, he 
 remembered little but a sort of general outline of the history, and 
 a few of the more striking- pai-ables. 
 
 He took it up now rather curiously, opened at St. Matthew's 
 Gospel, and, skipping the Table of Genealogy, began to read in 
 a careless, cursory way. By-and-by, however, in spite of himself, 
 he grew interested. From the few isolated chapters which he 
 had heard occasionally in church and during his school life, ho 
 had never gained any idea of the character of Christ. Now 
 reading straight on, with a great craving after some fresh interest, 
 he was naturally very much struck. A life of poverty, and suffer- 
 ing, and self-denial, a career of apparent failure, surroundings 
 low and incapable of understanding, a trial of glaring injustice, 
 and an unmerited death of the deepest pain ! It was a story 
 which could not fail to touch him ; a character which filled him 
 with great admiration. There were two things which especially 
 
1^6 STRUGGLING ON. 
 
 appealed to his sympathy— the injustice suffered, and the strono^ 
 endurance manifested. He put down the book reluctantly when 
 he was too tired to hold it any longer, not even thinking- of any 
 possible change in his fixed beliefs, but simply very much struck 
 by a noble life, which, it seemed probable, had been lived many 
 years ago — with something of the same sort of interest which 
 he had felt for one or two of the old Romans, and for a few of 
 Shakespere's characters. Modern Christianity — or the so-called 
 Christianity which had been brought under his notice— offered 
 no attractions to him. The whole system seemed to him hollow 
 and false, a great profession, and a niggardly performance, a 
 mixture of selfishness, hypocrisy, and superstition. But the life 
 of Christ was grand ! Such an unexampled career of noble self- 
 devotion filled him with wonder and reverence. However much 
 the misguided followers had fallen off, there could be no doubt 
 that the mind of Christ had been — he naturally used the past 
 tense — one of dazzling purity and beauty. 
 
 In the enforced stillness of convalescence the story haunted 
 him strangely, and undoubtedly he was influenced by it— his 
 admiration of a noble mind ennobled him. At present that was 
 all ; but it was much. 
 
 As soon as he was about again, he took an early opportunity 
 of telling Noir the decision which he had made before his illness. 
 Noir, wdio had already shrewdly surmised that he should lose 
 his young accomplice, made no attempt to turn him from his 
 purpose. 
 
 '■ Turned good, I suppose, as most fellows do when they have 
 been within an ace of dying,' he remarked, sneeringly. 
 
 ' Glad to hear you think so,' said Donovan, with coolness. ' I 
 own you've a proverb to fall back on. " The Devil he fell sick ; 
 the Devil a monk would be." However, I've no monkish ten- 
 dencies, only I don't mean to be your decoy any longer.' 
 
 * Well,' said Noir, good-humouredly, ' I myself shan't be sorry 
 to leave the old trade for a bit. We've been talking of going 
 abroad. Come with us. It would set you up in no time. What 
 do you say to Monaco ? A try at the red and black ? ' 
 
 '■ Anything for a change,' said Donovan ; but there was relief 
 in his tone, for the break with the Frewins, which he had dreaded 
 a good deal, would be no longer necessary. ' Honest ' gambling 
 of course he had not renounced, in fact by means of it he must 
 live, and this proposal to go to Monaco exactly fell in with his 
 present frame of mind. His spirits began to rise. 
 
 The old captain coming into the room was surprised at the 
 chano-e in his look and voice. 
 
MONACO. 199 
 
 ' Well, captain ! ' he exclaimed. * Has Noir told you ? It's 
 all settled, wo leave this hole next week, and g;o to try our luck 
 at ]\Ionte Carlo.' 
 
 ' So I hoar,' said Roug-e. ' It'll be first-rate for you ; for 
 myself I like Old England best. None of your frog-gy French- 
 men for me. I'm going- out, milord, d'you want anything-? 
 papers ? books ? ' 
 
 A change came over Donovan's face. 
 
 * Oh ! yes, that reminds me. Here ! ' — he threw down eig-hteen 
 
 Eence on the table, scrawled something- on a piece of paper and 
 anded it to Rouge, — ' Just g-et me that if you're passing- a book- 
 shop.' 
 
 The captain looked at the paper, lifted his eyebrows, but 
 did not venture any comment. On it was written, ' Renan's " Life 
 of Jesus." ' 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 MONACO. 
 
 I beard a thousand blended notes 
 
 As in a grove I sat reclined, 
 
 In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts 
 
 Bring sad thoughts to the mind. 
 
 To her fair works did Nature link 
 The human soul that through me ran ; 
 And much it gi-ieved my heart to think 
 What man had made of man. 
 
 WORDSWORTn. 
 
 Spots of blackness in creation to make its colours felt. 
 
 Modern Painters. 
 
 ' Now this is first rate,' said the old captain, as he stepped off 
 the pier at Folkestone on to the steamer. ' Ah, Donovan, my 
 lad, if we were going for a good cruise it would do you all the 
 good in the world, better than a dozen Monacos, eh ? Not so 
 profitable, you say ? "Well, perhaps not, but I wish I was 
 captain of tlie Mctora again, a prime little steamer, she was, you 
 wouldn't think much of such a tub as this if you'd been aboard 
 the Metora.' 
 
 Donovan with the delicious sense of returning strength, 
 rolled himself up in his railway-rug, and with his elbow resting 
 on the deck railing looked out seawards. Tlie captain was in 
 
200 MONACO. 
 
 ^■reat spirits, the breatli of sea air seemed to awake his better 
 self, and he was besides very happy in having- his favourite 
 companion with him again. 
 
 * Now that you're about again, milord, I shall be a different 
 man/ he said, cheerily. ' I've been dreadfully down in the 
 mouth since you were ill, and there was Noir as grim as death, 
 and even Sweepstakes as cross as could be. You wouldn't 
 believe what a bother we had with that bird, milord. Just after 
 you were laid up, he caught, somehow or other, one of his old 
 couplets which always enrages Noir. I suppose I'd said it, and 
 lie'd remembered it, for day and night that creature said nothing 
 but 
 
 "He who prigs what isn't his'n ; " 
 
 you know the old rhyme ! ' 
 
 ' There's something uncanny about Sweepstakes,' said Dono- 
 van, laughing, ' he has a good deal of the wizard about him. It's 
 to be hoped he'll be quiet on the journey, or Noir will threaten to 
 wring his neck.' 
 
 * Yes, he doesn't approve of our menagerie,' said Rouge, 
 adjusting the covering of the parrot's cage, ' though I will say 
 that the dog is a marvel of obedience.' 
 
 ' I back the winner ! ' screamed Sweepstakes, as the bell 
 sounded and the steamer began to move. ' Now be gentle, be 
 gentle.' 
 
 ' Hollo ! the creature is beginning to talk,' said Donovan, 
 ' you'll have a crowd round him.' 
 
 And true enough before long they found themselves the 
 centre of an amused group to whom the parrot held forth in his 
 choicest language. But presently Noir came up, and directly 
 the bird caught sight of him he put his head on one side and 
 began with his most sanctimonious manner to say, 
 
 • He who prigs what isn't his'n 
 When he's cotched sliall go to pris'n.' 
 
 •You must keep the parrot quiet,' said Noir, crossly, 'he's 
 disturbing the whole deck.' 
 
 The passengers at once disclaimed this, and expressed their 
 admiration of the bird's cleverness, but Noir was not to be 
 baffled, he drew the black covering over the cage, and Donovan 
 saw by the frown on his brow that he was vexed by this particular 
 sentence of the malicious parrot. He sat down on the other side 
 of the cage, ready to check any further talking, but he could not 
 prevent the mild refrain which Sweepstakes invariably resorted to 
 
MONACO, 201 
 
 wlicn he was snubbed, and all throug-h the crossing; be g-ently mur- 
 mured to himself, ' When he'scotched — cotch — cotcb— cotched ! ' 
 It was a g-rey day at the end of February, and the English 
 shore was enveloped in mist, but there was, nevertheless, astronj^ 
 breeze blowing-. * East-nor'-east,' Roug-e declared it to be, ' and a 
 heavy swell which would prove fatal to the land-lubbers.' 
 
 Donovan, though making no pretensions as to his sailing 
 powers, enjoyed the change and novelty most thoroughly, and, 
 indeed, after seven or eight weeks of tlie unwholesome atmo- 
 sphere of Urury Lane, the fresh sea-breeze was almost intoxi- 
 cating. In spite of adverse circumstances and a naturally melan- 
 choly temperament, the young life within him S])rang up to greet 
 the novelty of all around, his eyes brightened, his taciturnity 
 disappeared and he and the old captain sat talking together as 
 bapj>ily as two school-boys. 
 
 Then came the landing at the sunny little French town, with 
 the chatter of bad English and broken French, the hurry and 
 bustle of the passengers, Rouge's anxiety over his precious parrot, 
 and Donovan's difficulty in steering him safely past the door of the 
 hujfet, with all its temptations. After a few minutes' delay they 
 were off once more, fairly started now on tbeir route to the 
 south, and Donovan, in the first exuberance of his new strength, 
 really thought he had found sometliing to satisfy his restlessness, 
 and to fill the emptiness of his life. Fair France, with her 
 sunny plains and genial atmosphere, looked very tempting, 
 Monaco offered plenty of excitement — why should he not be 
 happy now ? 
 
 They were to travel straight on to Nice, a rash project for a 
 semi-invalid, but naturally the Frewins consulted their own 
 wishes, and Donovan, though tired enough when they reached 
 Paris, preferred going on with them to staying for the night 
 alone, for he was still not at all fit to be left quite to himself; 
 old Mrs. Doery bad only resigned her post a few days before, 
 and he shrank from entire self-dependence. So the night journey 
 was undertaken, and he sat back in his corner watching his 
 sleeping companions, sometimes dozing himself for a few minutes, 
 but oftener wide awake, and fully conscious of his weary misery, 
 bearing it with a sort of philosophic endurance, and thinking a 
 good deal of the life he had left behind him, of his parting con- 
 versation with Mrs. Doery, of the interview which by this time 
 she had probably had with his step-father, of the luck which he 
 had had at the club a few nights ago, which had enabled him to 
 pay his doctor's bill and start comfortably on his foreign trip, 
 and of sundry passages which had impressed him in Kenan's 
 
202 MONACO. 
 
 book. An odd medley, truly, in un unregulated but well-disposed 
 mind— well-disposed, that is, as far as it was capable of seeing 
 the light. 
 
 At last the long night v/ore away ; as they passed Lyons, 
 with its gleaming lights and its broad river, the first faint grey 
 of dawn was quivering on the horizon, and gradually the pale 
 morning twiliglit began to steal into the railway carriage, falling 
 with a most ghastly effect on the faces of the sleepers — Noir, 
 with his hard, grim features, Eouge serenely comfortable and 
 animal-like, a priest with a heavy face, which nevertheless looked 
 quite spiritual compared with the old captain's, and four average 
 Frenchmen in every variety of night deshabille and posture. 
 Donovan glanced at them curiously, then, with that shivering 
 misery which invariably accompanies the dawn, he once more 
 looked out over the grey landscape. His cough began to be trouble- 
 some, nor did his discomfort end till the sun had risen. In the 
 early morning, when they stopped for a minute at Orange, he 
 dashed out of the carriage, held face and hands under the pump 
 on the platform, and, somewhat refreshed by the cold water, got 
 in again, to endure as well as he could the long day of travelHng. 
 
 A night's rest at Nice set him up again, however, and he was 
 as eager as either of his companions to go on to Monaco the next 
 morning. The day, too, was so gloriously bright, and the air so 
 exhilarating-, that he fancied himself stronger than he really was. 
 Nor was the exquisite scenery altogether wasted on him ; it is to 
 be doubted whether it has any effect on the habitues of Monte 
 Carlo who daily pass through it, but Donovan was a stranger, 
 not yet seized with the gaming mania, which seems to destroy all 
 the nobler faculties. 
 
 Leaving Nice behind them, with its green hills and clustering 
 white villas, they sped on through a paradise of beauty. To the 
 right lay the Mediterranean, with its wonderfully deep blue, 
 broken here and there by the tiniest foam-wreathed breakers, 
 gleaming whiter than snowj to the left rose the Maritime Alps 
 with their softly mantling olive groves, while in the distance 
 every now and then a snowy peak stood out clearly against the 
 blue sky. 
 
 The three Englishmen certainly took their own fashion of 
 enjoying it all, there was no studying of Murray or Bffideker, not 
 a single exclamation of wonder or admiration. Eouge looked 
 sleepily at the sea, and thought of his voyages in the Metoraj 
 Noir, who for the last day or two had been engrossed with his 
 • system,' and had done nothing but cover sheets of paper with 
 dots, barely looked up from his employment j Donovan looked at 
 
MONACO. 203 
 
 all the beauty silently, with no lack of admiration, but with a 
 certain sadness, his one definite thoug-ht beinp;- how much Dot 
 would have enjoyed it. In a very short time they reached their 
 destination; old Monaco on its rocky promontory, new Monaco, 
 witii its g-ay white houses and red-tiled roofs, Monte Carlo, with 
 its gorgeous casino — all lay as it were in a nutshell. Strang-e 
 little Principality ! one of the most aucicnt in Europe, originally 
 a sort of garden of Eden, but now a perfect hot-bed of vice! 
 Noir, who knew the place well, had his own reasons for avoiding 
 the fashionable Condamine. He took his companions to an out- 
 of-the-way hotel in old Monaco, where at the expense of a stiff 
 climb they would be free from some of the objections of the more 
 frequented quarter. 
 
 Before long- they had set off for an afternoon at Monte Carlo, 
 all three in good spirits ; Noir with implicit faith in the system 
 of play which he was about to try ; Donovan exulting- in the sense 
 of novelty and excitement ; Rouge ready to be amused by any- 
 thing, and eager to try his luck so far as the restricted allowance 
 which his son made him would permit. Driving- up the long- hill 
 they were set down at last at the entrance to the casino. This, 
 then, was the g-oal they had been making for, this the place where 
 fortunes were won — or lost, this the i-efuge for all who craved 
 excitement, for all who would fain banish thought! It felt half 
 dream-like to Donovan, a palace of the genii, transported straight 
 from one of the 'Arabian Nights.' Passing- into the beautiful 
 vestibule with its great marble columns, g-orgeously decorated 
 roof and walls, and handsome mosaic floor, the impression g-rew 
 upon him, hut was speedily dashed into the world of cold realities 
 by a word from Noir. 
 
 ' Come, we won't waste time. You'll bave to give your 
 name at the bureau, and get your ticket. Of course, by-the-way, 
 you're twenty-one ? Else they won't admit you,' 
 
 ' All right,' replied Donovan. * I was of age last spring-,' 
 and therewith came memories which brought a look of hard 
 resentment to his face. 
 
 Having- g-iven the name which he used, he picked up his pink 
 admission-card, and followed his companions through the double 
 swing-doors into the Salle dc Jeu. After all, even in this enchanted 
 palace, thoughts would intrude themselves. Would this journey 
 to !Monte Carlo prove less satisfactory than he had expected ? 
 
 It is a strang-e sight that Salle dc Jen. Its richly decorated 
 walls, its heavy square pillars, coloured and begilt in the Alhambra 
 style, form the setting- to a dark picture. How many wretched 
 faces, pale with despair, are reflected each day in those mirrors ! 
 
204 MONACO. 
 
 liow many victims pace restlessly up and down the slippery par- 
 quet floor, never satisfied Avith gain, half crazed with loss. And 
 yet with what persistency all throng- round the tables, a curiously 
 mixed multitude, when one pauses to study them — people of all 
 ranks and ages : florid-looking Germans, sharp-faced French- 
 men, dark, vindictive Italians, handsome Russians, hard-featured 
 Englishmen; women, too, in almost as large a proportion as men, 
 and staking with quite as much san/j-Jroid. Round every table 
 sit the favoured few who have secured chairs, behind these stand 
 the eager crowd absorbed in watching the whirling roulette- 
 wheel, or the dealing of the cards, and on the outskirts of all 
 linger the mere lookers-on ; Americans * doing Europe,' and 
 including Monte Carlo in their list of things to be seen, pale- 
 faced invalids from Mentone, English tourists of every descrip- 
 tion, who come to see this sight which happily is not to be met 
 wath in many places. A questionable proceeding thchigh in some 
 ways is this looking on, and yet to those who really study the 
 gamblers the sight can hardly fail to teach a very grave lesson. 
 Only, to anyone who expects pleasure in the mere sight the dis- 
 appointment would be great. Monte Cai'lo merely heard of is 
 one thing, Monte Carlo seen is a revelation of sin, of infatuation, 
 of all that is most sad and pitiable — a black spot in creation 
 which does indeed make the on-looker thankful for all existing 
 purity and goodness, but which, at the same time, cannot fail to 
 sober and sadden. 
 
 The three companions quickly separated. Rouge remaining at 
 one of the roulette-tables in the outer room, Noir steadily settling 
 himself at the first trente-et-quarante table, and in course of 
 time securing a chair, Donovan wandering restlessly from place to 
 place. He had no i'aith in any system, though Noir had tried 
 hard to convert him to his, but, although he was usually as 
 successful by luck in games of chance as he was by cleverness 
 in games of skill, his customary good fortune seemed now 
 to have deserted him. Before long he had not only lost a 
 great deal more than was at all convenient, but had con- 
 ceived a strong dislike to the whole thing. Dispirited by his 
 unbroken losses, he felt at once that tliere was nothing here to 
 satisfy him, nothing to call out his faculties; for he was more 
 than a mere gambler, he was a firstrate card-player, and to him 
 half the pleasure of gaming lay in the sense of power, the exulta- 
 tion in his own skill. In spite of all the talk about ' systems,' he 
 saw that the ruling goddess at Monte Carlo was blind chance- 
 She had not dealt kindly with him, he would waste no more time 
 or money in her gorgeous shrine. 
 
MONACO. 205 
 
 But now that all the excitement was over he boj;an to feci 
 tmbearably weavv, he tlifew himself" down on the crimson velvet 
 ottoman in the middle of the gaminp--room, idly scanning- the 
 passers b}-, men old and young*; croupiers just relieved from their 
 wearisome duties, and leaving' the room with tired faces from 
 which all other expression had died ; the servants of the 
 casino in their blue and red livery ; the ever-shifting* throng 
 of pamblers ; the extravag-antly-drcssed women. llealising* 
 at leng-th that his peace was in danger of molestation, 
 he rose to go, and found his way across the vestibule to 
 the beautiful music-hall, where the finest orchestra in Europe 
 is made a bait to draw g-reat crowds to the casino. Wearily 
 he lent back in one of the luxurious arm-chairs and listened 
 to the closing' strains of a grand symphony. The concert was 
 nearly over ; he was so weary that he almost fell asleep, but 
 in the last piece suddenh' came to himself with a thrill of pain. 
 With exquisite expression, with unrivalled delicacy of light and 
 shade, the orchestra was playing- a selection from ' Don Gio- 
 vanni,' and now throug-h the great hall there rang- Dot's favourite 
 air, ' Yedrai Carino.' 
 
 It did him g-ood in spite of the pain. When the audience 
 dispersed, and he strolled out into the gardens, a child's })ure 
 g-entle face haunted him. There among- the palms, and aloes, and 
 floAvering- cactus two visions of the past were with him, Dot's 
 radiant beauty, and the quiet maidenly grace of a stranger whom 
 lie had involuntarily taken as his standard of what a woman 
 should be. From what evil these two g-uardian ang-els shielded 
 him who can say ? 
 
 Before long- he wisely went in search of the old captain, whom 
 he found in low spirits, having- lost every five-franc piece in his 
 possession. 
 
 ' We've both had enoug-h of this,' said Donovan, not sorry to 
 have the old man's arm to lean on. ' I'm about cleared out too, 
 and, what's worse, I feel awfiiUy seedy.' 
 
 ' Hum])li ! ' ejaculated the captain. ' In for a second g-o of 
 inflammation, I'll be bound.' 
 
 'Well, Rouge, if I am,' said Donovan, slowly, 'you'll just 
 have to bolt and bar the door and nurse me yourself. Do you 
 understand ? ' 
 
 The captain nodded assent, and little more was said as they 
 made their way back to the hotel. 
 
 The surmise proved true, however, and that night Donovan 
 was ag-ain tossing- to and fro in weary misery, haunted by whirling; 
 roulette wheels and stony-faced croupiers, raving about the end- 
 
206 MONACO. 
 
 less losses and the tantalizing g-ains which always eluded his grasp. 
 The relapse was the natural consequence of all the fatigue he 
 had g-one through, nnd had it not been for the old captain's de- 
 voted thoug'h rough nursing-, and for the care of an exceedingly 
 clever French doctor, he would most likely have sunk under it. 
 
 However, he struggled through, and woke one morning, after 
 a long sleep, to realise for the first time his position. There he 
 was lying as weak as any baby, surrounded by mosquito net 
 curtains, in an odd-looking foreign room ; there was poor Waif 
 lying at the foot of the bed, keeping anxious guard over him ; 
 there was Rouge sitting by the open window smoking*. Where 
 was he ? What was this new place ? Not Drury Lane, for the 
 dingy green paper was changed to a gorgeous blue one, and the 
 ceiling was decorated, or defaced, with bluewash studded with 
 glaring white stars, in the middle of which grew by some strange 
 anomaly a great clump of red and yellow roses. Donovan, though 
 not artistic, was strangely irritated by looking at the horrid daub. 
 He called the old captain to him. 
 
 ' So I've been ill again ? ' he said, interrogatively. 
 
 ' Very,' replied Rouge. ' In fact, milord, we as good as gave 
 you up at one time ; you wouldn't believe what an anxious time 
 I've had of it, with Noir all day long up at that casino, and no 
 one here who could speak a word of English.' 
 
 ' You have been nursing me ? ' 
 
 'Well, of course, what else could I do ? ' said Rouge. 
 
 ' Thank jou, captain,' said Donovan, adding resolutely, after 
 a minute's pause, ' I shall get well now.' 
 
 He was as good as his word, and from that day recovered 
 rapidly. Not that he cared much to get well, but he was anxious 
 to free himself from the state of dependence he was now in, for 
 dependence was uncongenial to his nature, and to submit to 
 rough and ready attendance is never pleasant. Before many 
 days had passed he was up and dressed, just able to drag himself 
 across the room, and to relieve the monotony of the long hours 
 by such amusement as he could find at either of the windows. 
 One of these faced the Place du Palais. There just opposite to 
 him he could see the Prince's Palace, could count the slow 
 minutes by the clock in the tower, speculate when the cannon 
 and the great pile of cannon-balls would be used, study the two 
 sentries who, in their red and blue uniforms^ kept guard over the 
 entrance gate, and watch the few passers-by. Prom the other 
 window a much wider view was obtained. Here he could see the 
 whole of the beautiful bay, and the exquisite loveliness of the 
 place made him long to quit his room. 
 
MONACO. 207 
 
 And so the days dragg-ed on, and little by little he regained 
 his strength, would crawl out to the almost deserted Promenade 
 St. Barhe, and sit on one of the g-reon benches under the plane- 
 trees, or, passing' through the curious old archway which leads 
 by a footpath from old to new Monaco, he would stretch himself 
 out on the low stone Avail, and rest among a soi't of jungle of 
 flowering- cactus and pink g-eranium. Before him stretched a 
 g'lorious panorama — the beautiful blue of the Mediterranean, 
 Manaco with its gay- looking* houses, the mountains skirting the 
 water, here clothed with olive groves, there craggy, bare, and 
 brown, or glistening pearly grey in the sunlight. Then just 
 facing him, half way up the mountain side, the prett}^ little town 
 of Roccabruna, till — the slope of the mountain hiding Mentone 
 and its bay — the chain gradually lessened, and ended in the long- 
 low promontory of Bordighera. Only one conspicuous object 
 stood out always as a blot on the fair landscape — the casino, with 
 its gilded roof and its two minarets. 
 
 Donovan had wisely resolved to keep clear of modern Monaco, 
 but he began rather to weary of the narrow bounds of the old 
 town. True he had, as usual, made friends among the children. 
 His favourite resting-place on the wall happened to be on the 
 way to the school, and troops of little brown-eyed, bare-headed 
 girls and boys passed him every day, and soon learnt to crowd 
 round the strange English gentleman and his wonderful dog', 
 and to bring him presents of flowers or unripe nespoli. But, as 
 he grew stronger, he began to hate the feeling of imprisonment, 
 until, happening one morning to notice a little boat on the sea 
 with its white lateen sail, he conceived the happy idea of taking 
 a daily cruise. The old captain was always ready to accompany 
 him, and the hours which they spent in the Ste. Devote, as their 
 boat was named, did each of them untold good. 
 
 Meanwhile each evening' Noir, returning about eleven o'clock, 
 when the casino closed, would bring in one or two acquaintances 
 who, not satisfied with the day's gambling, were anxious for play. 
 In this manner Donovan made an easy living, 
 
 Noir tried in vain to induce him to go once more to Monte 
 Carlo. He himself had been remarkably lucky, and he rarely 
 let a day pass without remonstrating with Donovan on what he 
 alternately called his ' cowardice,' his ' laziness,' and his * puri- 
 tanical fanaticism.' 
 
 This last accusation was so novel that it called forth one of 
 Donovan's rare laughs. 
 
 ' Come, this is quite a new line,' he said, when Noir's tirade 
 was ended. ' You are the first person in the world who ever gave 
 
208 MONACO. 
 
 me such an honourable name. Zealous folks have addressed me as 
 ''proud infidel," and "blind atheist," and "miserable ag-nostic," 
 but " fanatic Puritan " is a title to which I never dreamt of aspi- 
 ring- ! In the strength of it you must allow me to gang- my ain 
 g'ait 1 ' 
 
 ' Please yourself,' said Noir, crossly. ' Do you know Ber- 
 rog-ain's last name for you — for the young man who is too virtu- 
 ous to be ensnared ? You are the young Bayard, the ' 
 
 ' He's welcome to call me what he pleases,' interrupted Dono- 
 van, sharply. ' All I know or care for is that he loses hundreds 
 of francs to me every evening- we play. It's not the least good 
 talking-. You'll never see me in that Salle de Jcu again. You 
 with your system, and Berrog-ain with his luck, may do very well. 
 Fortune wasn't so kind to me, and I'd rather depend on my own 
 brains.' 
 
 Sweepstakes ended the discussion by reiterated injunctions to 
 * be g-entle,' and the words, coming- in after a hot dispute, amused 
 both speakers, and really did put a stop to the quarrel. 
 
 Noir finished his lunch, and set off for his afternoon at Monte 
 Carlo, leaving- his father and Donovan to such amusement as 
 they could find in a long- sail in the Stc. Deoote. Strangely 
 enough, however, it so happened that the infallible ' system ' 
 failed dismally on that very afternoon. Noir was singularly un- 
 fortunate, lost almost all that he had previously won, and 
 returned to the hotel at night crestfallen and dispirited. He had 
 burnt his fingers, and for the time lost all desire to risk a fresh 
 effort. 
 
 Rather sulkilv he consented the next morning- to go for a 
 walk with Donovan, and, dejeuner over, the two set out towards 
 the quaint little town of Roccabruna. As they passed through 
 old Monaco and doAvn the sunny road, a furious rattling- attracted 
 their notice. All the small boys of the place had armed them- 
 selves with impromptu policemen's rattles made of odd bits of wood 
 and iron, and were swinging them round with frightful energy. 
 
 ' What is all this infernal row about ? ' grumbled Noir. 
 
 Donovan, rather amused by the comical effect of the energetic 
 gamins and their clumsy rattles, accosted a brown-eyed boy, and 
 asked him the meaning of it all. 
 
 'It is the Hol}^ Thursday, monsieur,' was the answer. * We 
 crush the bones of the wicked Judas, the betrayer. This es^en- 
 ing, in the church, it will be ver}^ beautiful. The priests will 
 wash our feet, the lights will be extinguished, and all the people 
 will crush the bones of Judas. A great noise it will be, monsieur. 
 It will resemble the thunder ! ' ^ 
 
MONACO. 209 
 
 Donovan rojoinod Noir with a bitter smile on his face. This 
 then Avas Christianity ! Thoy walked on in perfect silence. 
 
 The day was g'loriously fine and bright, tbe April air soft and 
 balmy, the atmosphere in tiiat state of almost intoxicatinji' clear- 
 ness 'only to be met with in the South. Certainly the two men 
 were a strange contrast to their siirroundings— the elder grim, 
 clouded, dissatisfied, the younger worn with suffering, weary 
 with the Aveariness of a life-long unrest, and bearing- on his hand- 
 some features that peculiar expression of constant inward struggle 
 which often gives pathos to the hardest face. 
 
 Around them were the thick olive groves, above the clear deep 
 blue of the cloudless sky. It was a paradise of peace and loveli- 
 ness that these two were treading together. How far it influ- 
 enced them it would be hard to say, but probably both owed more 
 to it than they knew, lioccabruna, with its cavernous houses 
 and quaint archways, did not greatly interest them. They had 
 come for exercise rather than for lionising, and, contented with a 
 very brief survey of the little antique place, tliey struck off to the 
 left, along a rough and rugged mule-path, and walked on silently 
 in the direction of Mentone. Each bend brought them to a fresh 
 loveliness, to glimpses of new rocky heights, to little silvery 
 impetuous waterfalls, to different views of the exquisite coast and 
 of the Mediterranean, which at its very bluest spread out before 
 them in calm beauty. At last Donovan spoke. 
 
 ' Have you had enough of Monaco yet ? Shall we go? ' 
 
 ' Certainly, I'll go to morrow, if you'll come back on the 
 old footing to London,' said Noir, with a quick glance at his 
 companion. 
 
 ' To that you've had your answer already,' he replied, coldly. 
 'I shall never go back to the old life. I told you so.' 
 
 ' Saint ! ' said Noir, with his most disagreeable sneer. 
 
 ' Saint or devil, I'm not going to do it,' said Donovan, his 
 voice rising, ' Call me what names you like, but understand once 
 for all that when I say a thing I mean it.' 
 
 Noir knew that this was true enough; knew, as he looked at 
 the firm resolute face, that he might more easily move the rocks 
 at jNIonaco than turn this fellow from his purpose. 
 
 ' A month at Paris might not be amiss/ he suggested, after a 
 pause. ' Derrogain is going back next week ; he's made his 
 fortune now — broke the bank yesterday.' 
 
 ' I am ready to go then,' said Donovan. ' The sooner we're 
 out of this place the better.' 
 
 ' Paris i^vould not be bad,' mused Noir, half to himself j ' we 
 Bhall couw in for the meeting at Chantilly — perhaps induce 
 
 P 
 
210 LOSING SELF TO FIND. 
 
 Darky Iieg'g'e to come over. Yes, that'll do. Are you 
 agreed ? ' 
 
 ' Ag-reed ? Oh, yes,' replied Donovan, shortly. And then, as 
 they passed a little wayside chapel in the midst of an olive grove, 
 he said, with an abrupt change of tone, ' Let us rest here. One 
 doesn't often get shade like this.' 
 
 And throwing himself down under one of the gnarled old trees, 
 with arms crossed pillow-wise beneath his head, he lay watching- 
 the glimpses of blue through the graceful network of branches 
 above him, and the still bluer depth of sea down below, against 
 which the dark outlines of an iron cross stood out distinctly. Noir 
 filled his pipe, and sat with his back ag-ainst the trunk of the olive, 
 not caring- to attempt any further conversation. 
 
 ' Life,' thought the elder man, depressed by his losses, ' was 
 particularly Avorthless and uninteresting- just at that time.' ' Life,' 
 thoug-ht the younger, perplexed by his increasing- difficulties, 
 troubled within and without, 'life was more than a man could 
 well stand ! it was weary, and profitless, and utterly hateful.' 
 
 Thus they mused, each following- his natural bent, each call- 
 ing- that ' life ' which was in reality death, each wondering- that 
 they found it so barren and worthless. Neither could understand 
 that the very sense of insatiety which came to them in their self- 
 ish lives was the token of those higher affinities within them, those 
 faint needing-s and longings for the Omnipresent Fire Divine, 
 which He can — nay, surely does, everywhere kindle. 
 
 By-and-by, the one with a shrug, the other with a sigh, the 
 reveries were ended, the burden of the so-called ' life' was taken 
 up once more, the two walked on slowly, past the beautiful villas 
 and the frag-rant orang-e groves, to Mentone. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX, 
 
 LOSING SELF TO FIND. 
 
 Man-like is it to fall into sin, 
 Fieud-like is it to dwell therein, 
 Christ-like is it for sin to grieve, 
 God-like is it all sin to leave. 
 
 Fro7n the German. Longfellow. 
 
 Eleven o'clock on a May morning-, the brig-ht sunshine peeping; 
 in obliquely through the ]}ej'sie7mes, and lightiu}^- up the conven- 
 tional French bed-room, with its wardrobe, miri or, writing'-tablC; 
 
LOSING SELF TO l-IND. 211 
 
 and g'ilt clock, also a well-Avorn, brown portmanteau, and a wliito 
 and tan fox-terrier stretched at full lenq-tli on the hearth-rujz;. 
 Down below in the street there was the rumblinf^* of wheels, the 
 busy morning' traiKc, occasionally the cheerful voices of gay 
 Parisians as they passed by, occupied, no doubt, but not pressed 
 and hurried as Londoners are. 
 
 These were the sights and sounds which first greeted Dono - 
 van on a day which he was never to forget, a day every detail of 
 which was burnt in upon his brain with the inetiaceable brand of 
 suiit'ering-. He woke late, rang- the bell for his cotfee, and then 
 lay musing-. He was a rich man ! The sensation was strang-o. 
 A year ago he had been cast adrift, friendless, almost penniless ; 
 he had started with hardly any possession in the world, except 
 the brown portmanteau and the fox-terrier which met his g-aze 
 from the other side of the room. Now he was rich, a well-to-do 
 man, for not many hours ag-o, when the faint dawn was just 
 beginning- to break, he had won a fortune at baccarat. In spite 
 of Ellis's wickedness, in spite of life-long injustice, he had done 
 well for himself. 
 
 And yet, after all, did it make so very much difference ? Was 
 this g-reat success, this unparalleled g-ood fortune, really worth 
 having- ? His heart did not feel any lighter, life did not look 
 more inviting- when he g-ot up that day. At the actual time of 
 his triumph his bliss had been complete, his one passion rode 
 rampant over everything. A splendid g-ame, a fortune at stake, 
 a fortune which he by his marvellous play had won ! Everything* 
 else was forg-otten, care for the time cast aside, weariness lost, 
 emptiness filled, the hollow unsatisfactory world became a tem- 
 porary paradise ! 
 
 But now it had passed, and the dull weight of existence 
 pressed on him once more. Was he so much better off than poor 
 M. Berrogain even, the man by whose losses he had been 
 enriched ? Was the loser many degrees more depressed than 
 the winner ? 
 
 He was just about to leave his room when, with a hasty 
 knock, Noir Frewin entered. 
 
 'Milord,' he said quickly, ' you're v?anted in the next room; 
 there's no end of a scene ffoino: on — Berroo-ain's wife in floods of 
 tears. Her husband has made off no one knows where, and, 
 from a few written words he left, seems to intend suicule.' 
 
 Donovan gave a dismayed start, made a gesture of horror. 
 
 ' What ! ' he gasped, in a voice which contrasted oddly with 
 Noir's off-hand manner. 
 
 * Only what I say,' said Noir. ' Don't look as if you'd 
 
 p2 
 
212 Losing self to find. 
 
 already seen his g-host. Of course it's a bad business, but come in 
 and see the wife, and don't put her down as a widow till we've 
 found all the facts.' 
 
 With an impatient movement, Donovan pushed past the 
 speaker, and in a dazed, bewildered way found himself in the 
 room where the old captain was trying- to say something- clieering- 
 to a little dark-eyed woman, whose piquant face was wet with 
 tears and pale with anxiety. 
 
 ' Here is M. Donovan,' said Rouge, paternally. ' He has a 
 good heart, madame — he will help you.' 
 
 *Ah! monsieur,' she cried, turning to him with streaming- 
 eyes, * listen, at least listen, to my trouble. In the night my 
 husband returns, he tells me he is ruined — he, the fortunate, has 
 been ruined— all the fortune he made at Monaco lost — gone. I 
 ask him how, and he tells me it is the J'oung Englishman, the 
 M. Donovan, of w^iom so much was said at the club — he it is 
 who has caused the ruin. Oh ! monsieur,' and here the poor 
 little woman's voice was broken with sobs, ' you who are so 
 good, so prudent, you whom they call the young Bayard, sans 
 peur et sans reproche — oh ! monsieur, is it possible that you did it? 
 They said you were too good for Monaco, but oh ! monsieur, it is 
 worse to ruin others than to ruin yourself. Think, monsieur — 
 think what it means ! You have driven my husband away in 
 despair — he may even now be no more. Oh ! moti Dicu ! vion 
 Dieu J Think if the Seine be flowing over him ! Monsieur, 
 speak to me, help me ! It is you who have brought us this evil 
 — speak, monsieur ! ' 
 
 Throughout the impassioned address Donovan had stood 
 rigidly still. He felt sick with horror, the strength went out of 
 his arms, for the time he really was paral3'sed by the appalling- 
 consciousness of the responsibility resting on him. He had, 
 perhajis — nay, probably — driven a man to suicide, ruined and 
 widowed the poor woman before him. Was he much better than 
 a murderer ? 
 
 ' Speak, monsieur ! ' reiterated Madame Berrogain through 
 her tears. 
 
 He turned at last to Rouge appealingly 
 
 ' I can't speak to her ; you must ' 
 
 ' M. Donovan is much moved,' said the old captain ; ' he tells 
 me to speak for him. Be assured, madame, that he will do all in 
 his power. He is good and ' 
 
 ' Do!^ interrupted Donovan, with a sudden return of strength 
 and vehemence — ' is there anything to do ? Only tell me of any 
 hope that all this is not true, that your fears are groundless— — ' 
 
LOSING SELF TO FIND. 213 
 
 'Alas! monsieur, but who can say? ' sobbed Madame Berro- 
 gain. * llo is gone — gone — see his last words ! ' and she held 
 out to him a sheet of paper, on which was written in French : 
 
 ' My wife, — I cannot bear this intolvrahlc misery. I miixt fly 
 from all viost dear, and seek a refuyc in darhness. Life is ended for 
 vw. Farewell! Thy unhappy one, — Berrogain.' 
 
 To Donovan the words conveyed little hope. Still he clung 
 to the idea that there might possibly be time to hinder this rash 
 act, and with the hope all the man within him re-asserted itself. 
 
 'Madame,' he said, earnestly, 'all that can be done I will do. 
 We will advertise in all the papers. I will seek your husband 
 in every place in Paris Avhere we know of any chance of iinding 
 him. I will find him if I die in doing it,' 
 
 In spite of his bad French, and limited means of exj)ression, 
 in spite too of his grave stern face, Madame Berrogain understood 
 the de})th of the promise, and knew that the man who had ruined 
 her husband was yet a man to be trusted. 
 
 * And you think there is hope ?' she cried. ' Oh ! monsieur, you 
 think there is really hope ? ' 
 
 He struggled hard to speak, and, with his habitual control, 
 forced himself at last to say, 
 
 ' Be comforted, madame, I will do everything that is possible. 
 Hope for the best, and to-night we will bring you word. You 
 shall know all that has been done.' 
 
 ' Monsieur is good,' said the poor wife, wiping her eyes. 
 * He will work, and I — I will pray to our Lady.' 
 
 In a few minutes more she rose to leave, and, with her bonne 
 beside her, went back to her desolate rooms. 
 
 Donovan, as soon as she had left, drew paper and ink to him, 
 and sitting down began to write raj)idly. Rouge watched the 
 forcible characters, as they were traced, with a sort of vague 
 wonder and wilderment. A few moments before his companion 
 had seemed utterly unnerved, now his iron face and the swift 
 precision of his movements made him seem like a machine. 
 
 * What are you doing ? ' asked the captain, curiously. 
 
 ' Advertisements,' was the laconic reply, spoken in the voice 
 which more than anything tells of a mind strained to the highest 
 tension, half sharp, half weary. 
 
 Five minutes of writing, and then Donovan rose, snatched up 
 his hat and opened the door. The captain sto})ped him. 
 
 ' Let me come with you, lad/ he said, in his good-humoured 
 voice. 
 
214 LOSING SELF TO FIND. 
 
 * Yes, come,' said Donovan, -with a shade of relief in his tone ; 
 and then the two hurried down the stairs and out into the sunny 
 street. Just outside the door they found Noir sauntering- up 
 and down with his pipe. He stopped them to ask their errand, 
 g-ave his advice as to putting the matter into the hands of the 
 police, and then turned away with his usual cool nonchalance, 
 under which was, nevertheless, hidden more sympathy than mig-ht 
 have been expected. 
 
 ' Milord is the very wox'st person for such a thing to come to,' 
 he mused ; ' a man without a conscience wouldn't have troubled 
 himself to think twice of the matter. Now Donovan's as likely 
 as not to go raving- mad if this Berrogain isn't found.' 
 
 At present there were no signs of the anticipated ' madness ;' 
 Donovan was quiet and clear-headed, he walked on swiftly with 
 Eouge beside him, setting- about his disagreeable work in the 
 most .business-like way. In spite of his English pronunciation, 
 too, there was that about him which obliged the various oflicials 
 to receive his orders with civility and obedience. 
 
 Not to think — that was his one great effort, but the horror 
 of the overhanging dread would obtrude itself, — or if by his strong 
 will he banished it for a time, it was only to be conscious, through 
 the hard matter-of-fact absence of feeling which he forced him- 
 self into, of the dull nameless weight at his heart. 
 
 It was about four in the afternoon when they reached the 
 Pont d'Arcole, and the old captain was beginning to feel both 
 hungry and tired. He looked at his companion then question- 
 ingly, and saw a little additional sternness about his face. 
 Groups of men were leaning over the parapet watching the river. 
 Donovan too paused for a moment and looked down at the spark 
 ling' water ; Rouge fancied he saw him shudder, but he did not 
 speak, and walked on again more rapidly than before. 
 ' Where next ? ' asked the captain, anxiously. 
 'To the Morgue,' said Donovan, in a firm but very low 
 voice. 
 
 They went on in silence, and before long found themselves in 
 the little crowd which was continually passing up and down the 
 steps and through the doors of the small insignificant building- 
 which is dedicated to so painful a purpose. 
 
 ' I will wait here for you,' said Rouge, for he rather shrank 
 from going inside, and Donovan, without a word, left him and 
 pushed his way in with the eager crowd. 
 
 The waiting seemed long to the old captain ; he began to 
 wonder whether his companion had found poor Monsieur Berro- 
 gain in that dread room within^ and anxiously scanned the faces 
 
LOSING SELF TO FIND. 215 
 
 of those who came out. Soldiers in shabby uniforms, women in 
 their snowy white caps, men of all ranks and ages, sometimes even 
 little children in arms. 
 
 At length, in tliis motley but cheerful and unconcerned crowd, 
 came the face which Rou<>-e was wairini>- for, a curious contrast 
 to every other, stern, and sad, and white to the very lips. 
 
 The captain was startled. 
 
 'Good heavens! milord,' he cried, ^you have not found him, 
 have you ? ' 
 
 Donovan shook his head, and clutched at his companion's arm 
 to steady himself 
 
 ' Why, you're ill,' said the captain. ' Within an ace of 
 fainting-.' 
 
 'INonsense, nothing- of the kind,' panted Donovan. 'Only 
 let us get away from this place,' and with Rouge's assistance he 
 crossed the road, but there, finding- his strength failing-, was 
 oblig-ed to lean up against the railings, even to cling- to the'm for 
 support. The horrible sight, the diead of what he might possibly 
 find, had completely unnerved him ; for one dreadful moment, 
 too, he had fancied that he recognized M. Berrogain, and, in 
 spite of the subsequent relief at his mistake, he could not recover 
 from the shock. 
 
 ' Only don't let's have a scene,' was his answer to all Rouge's 
 suggestions, and at last, with the old captain's help, he managed 
 to get as far as the entrance to the garden east of Notre Dame, 
 and to rest on a bench under the trees. 
 
 Everything- there was bright and peaceful, the g-rey old church 
 ■withits pinnacles and Hying- buttresses.the fresh greenof the spring- 
 leaves, the sunshme streaming- down with that gaiety and bright- 
 ness which seem specially to characterise Paris, and here and there 
 a little child at play with its bo/me in attendance. Once a tiny fairy- 
 like little thing-, whose white dress showed that she was ' dedicated 
 to the Virgin,' stole up to Donovan — she had watched him with 
 a sort of fascination ever since he had thrown himself down on 
 the bench. Was it merely compassion for one who seemed ill, 
 or was it that peculiar attraction which Donovan possessed for 
 children ? The tiny maid, prompted by some unknown influence, 
 at any rate resolved to do her best for him, and, with her little 
 quick fingers, beg-an gathering- vmrt/uerites, then, grasping- the 
 bunch with her two fat little hands, she toddled up to the silent 
 figure, and, with a premonitory pat to arouse him, laid her otter- 
 ing on his knees. 
 
 ' See then, monsieur, the pretty flowers, they are all for you.' 
 
 He put his hand for a moment on the dimpled one of his tiny 
 
216 LOSING SELF TO FIND. 
 
 friend, ami, as well as he could, thnnked her, but the daring 
 little mite was soon pursued by an indig'uaut nurse. 
 
 'Mademoiselle Gabrielle, come away this moment. Ah ! little 
 wicked one ! I dare not take my eyes off thee for a single 
 instant !' 
 
 So Mademoiselle Gabrielle was led away in disgrace, but looked 
 round nevertheless to kiss her hand, and to nod her pretty little 
 head in farewell, and Donovan followed her with his eyes, with 
 a g-reat pain at his heart. The little child's gift touched him 
 strangely; it had come in such a moment of tumult and horror, 
 when self was feeling so hateful, the weight of dread responsi- 
 bility so heavy. And this fairy-like creature had pitied him — 
 liked him. He was grateful with the almost passionate gratitude 
 of humility. 
 
 For it was a very terrible thing this that had come to him, 
 this woe that he had unthinkingly brought about. He was very 
 young still, only just two-and- twenty, and in spite of his wretched 
 roving life, in spite of the bitter misanthropy he professed, there 
 was still in him the chivalry of all strong natures, the nobleness 
 which must protect what is weak. Little children and women he 
 looked upon with a sort of devotion ; from his very childhood it 
 had been so : the ideal of motherhood, the devoted love for Dot, 
 had been the ruling motives of his life. The ideal of the wife 
 was still unformed, he had never loved, or even fancied that he 
 loved, any woman. Only when the thought of home-life came to 
 him, as now and then it would, when he saw the outer side of the 
 lives of others, the vision of the grey-eyed stranger whom he had 
 met in Hyde Park would rise up before him, the tender, bright, 
 womanly woman, whoso purity and sweetness had had such a 
 powerful influence over him — had even helped to keep him 
 straight when he had been exposed to the countless snares of 
 Monaco. 
 
 Because of this strong reverence for women, the scGne of the 
 morning had been specially painful to him. The poor wife's 
 misery, which must have haunted anyone with a heart, haunted 
 him with a pain and shame almost intolerable. But fortunately 
 he was — notwithstanding all his failings — brave and manly, he 
 struggled now with his weakness, and began to make his plans 
 for further searching — that ' doing ' which was such a relief to his 
 burdened mind. 
 
 ' We will come to one of Duval's places and have some 
 dinner,' was his first voluntary remark to the old captain, about 
 as sensible and matter-of-fact a proposal as could have been 
 made. 
 
LOSING SELF TO FIND. 217 
 
 So they went to the nearest of the restaurants, and RouLi-e's 
 devoted attendance was rewarded by the privile<^'e of or(hn'inj^ 
 whatever he hked, while Donovan i>-ul[)e(l down enougli food to 
 sujiport him in his work, conquering" his disinclination till he hud 
 satisfied his conscience, and then callino* Waif to devour the 
 plentiful leaving's. 
 
 After thac came another deliberate plung-e into the crowiled 
 streets, another long--continued but vain search for the lost man. 
 Ceaseless inquiries, endless hurrying-s to and fro, once or twice a 
 supposed clue to M. llerrog-ain's whereabouts, to be followed by 
 temporary ho])e and bitter disappointment. 
 
 Once, as the evening* wore on, Donovan stopped at a caj^i on 
 one of the boulevards and made the ohl captain have a cup of 
 cafe noir, even permitted the i^ctit verre without a remonstrance. 
 But this time he was too sick at heart to force himself to take 
 anything-, hope had almost died out since his hxst disappointment, 
 and the numbing- paralysing' horror was beginning- to overwhelm 
 him ag-ain. 
 
 Roug-e, as he sipped his coffee contentedly, happened to look 
 across the little marble table at his silent companion, and then 
 for the first time realised that the day's anxiety had been some- 
 thing- far severer than he could comprehend. For Donovan's face 
 was worn and hag-gard, g'rey with that strange giiastliness which 
 only comes on such young- faces in times of g-reat exhaustion ; 
 the firm mouth betrayed suffering-, the eyes, thoug-h feverishly 
 alive to all that was passing-, had a painfully despairing- look in 
 them. 
 
 ' Donovan, lad,' said Rouge, anxiously, ' you will come home 
 now, won't you V 
 
 'You go home, captain,' he answered, 'you've had a long 
 day. I ? no, I can't come yet. I must see wdiether the police 
 have found anything, and I must see her — Madame Berrogain.' 
 
 ' Milord, you'll only be ill again,' remonstrated the old man, 
 ' you'll do for yourself one of these d-ays.' 
 
 * That means I shall do the best thing- that could' be done,' 
 said Donovan, with an odd sudden smile, followed by a quick 
 sigh. ' But you see, captain, this coil of flesh is terribly tough. 
 Good night ! go home and rest.' 
 
 He ])ushed back his chair suddenly, threw down a franc beside 
 the cajitain's cup, and before his companion could remonstrate 
 had walked away rajiidly alone. 
 
 At length, wearily and quite hopelessly, he went to see if any 
 of the agencies he had set to work had been successful in tracing 
 M. Berrogain. He had some minutes to wait in the bureau of the 
 
218 LOSING SELF TO FIND. 
 
 chief official, but at last a small sliarp-faced man appeared with a 
 paper in his hand, and an all-pervading- odour of garlic, which 
 was quite beneath tbe dignity of his position. 
 
 ' You are come to inquire for Theodore Berrogain, disappeared 
 mysteriously since the hour of 4 a.m. Good ! I think we have 
 traced him.' 
 
 Donovan did not speak, only breathed more quickly and 
 clenched and unclenched his hands, his usual sign of strong- feeling-. 
 
 'Inquiries have been made, and this is the result, — at the 
 Gave d' Orleans the chef states that a man answering- to your 
 description, much above the usual height, pale, with thick light 
 hair and moustaches, and a cast in one eye, was seen eaidy this 
 morning- at the station. The official at the ticket -office also 
 remembers him, and will undertake to swear that he issued a 
 ticket to him for Bordeaux, third class. Acting- upon this, mon- 
 sieur, we have telegraphed to the officials at Bordeaux ; the train 
 by wiiich it is supposed M. Berrogain left Paris reaches Bordeaux 
 this evening- at 10.30, it will be met by our agents there, and 
 they will telegraph to us the movements of your friend.' 
 
 Doubtless the man thought the ' friendship ' was a remark- 
 able one — one must love a companion much to be so particularly 
 anxious about him, and Donovan's intense relief, though unde- 
 monstrative, was nevertheless apparent even to the sleepy official. 
 He arranged to call early the next morning for further tidings, 
 and then hurried away to relieve poor Madame Berrogain's 
 anxiety. 
 
 Anyone who knows the sensation of a sudden respite, the 
 removal of an intolerable load, the relief from oppressing fear, 
 will understand with what feelings Donovan hastened along the 
 gas-lit streets. He was treading on air ; new life was coursing 
 through his veins ; the very consciousness of free unburdened 
 existence was in itself exquisite. And then came the satisfaction 
 of imparting his hopeful news to the poor wife, amid a torrent of 
 fervent thanks, tears, incoherent blessings, and exclamations of 
 relief. 
 
 He tried to cut the scene short, and it was not till he was 
 standing at the open door that he placed in Madame Berrogain's 
 hands a small piece of paper. 
 
 ' I give this to you, madame, because I think it is better so. 
 To-morrow I shall go to your husband, and I will tell him what 
 you hold for him.' 
 
 He would have moved to the staircase, but Madame Berro- 
 gain laid her hand on his arm. She had glanced rapidly at the 
 paper, and now the tears were streaming down her cheeks. 
 
LOSING SELF TO FIND. 219 
 
 'No, no, monsieur, this is too good! This must not be! 
 Take it back, monsieur, I implore.' 
 
 ' Mndaine asks \vhat is impossible,' he replied, with his rare 
 and boautitul smile. ' One day's possession is sufhcient for me. 
 Only, it" I might be allowed one suggestion, I would say that it 
 were better used for madame's own needs, not risked again at 
 baccarat.' 
 
 ' Ah ! God bless you ! God guard you ! ' exclaimed the 
 little wife, clasping her hands together. ' Monsieur, I shall 
 remember you al\va3's. On my knees I shall remember you — 
 believe it. Ah ! heaven ! if all were but like you ! ' 
 
 He submitted to having his hand pressed in both hers for a 
 moment, then, bowing' low, he hastened away. 
 
 After that, naturally enough came the reaction. He was 
 dreadfully worn out, and, apart from his relief, everything that 
 faced him in the future was most painful. For this great shock 
 had shown him what a hateful life he was leading, and he knew 
 that it must be forsaken. 
 
 He found the old captain in his room smoking, told him of 
 Monsieur Berrogain's probable whereabouts, and then, with a 
 sigh of great weariness, stretched himself at full length on the 
 hearthrug. Before very long Noir came in, and, having heard 
 the news in his cool uninterested way, remarked, carelessly, 
 
 ' Well, I'm glad for your sake that the fellow's in the land of 
 the living still. I suppose he's off to America ? ' 
 
 ' He will be watched and arrested, if he attempts it,' said 
 Donovan. ' To-morrow morning I shall start for Bordeaux. It 
 is the only sure way of making all right to see him myself.' 
 
 ' Folly ! ' said Noir, crossly. ' Why, the best thing he can do 
 is to leave the country.' 
 
 ' Madame Berrogain might not agree with you.' 
 
 * But the fellow's ruined. You know he can't live here.' 
 
 * You are mistaken,' said Donovan, quietly. ' He is not ruined.' 
 ' What ! ' cried Noir, in a startled voice. ' You mean that 
 
 you have let him off ? that you've been such an utter fool as to 
 let those thousands slip through your fingers again ? ' 
 
 * Exactly — yes — such an utter fooL' said Donovan, with a 
 touch of satire. 
 
 ' Well, milord, you're a softer fellow then than I thought. 
 A woman's tears and an absurd scare lest a weak-minded wretch 
 should have drowned himself, and you melt directly, become the 
 generous hero of the piece, fling larr/cssc to right and left, and 
 walk off amid cheers and applause. I'd no idea you were so weak- 
 minded ! Besides, you know well enough you'll repent your 
 
220 LOSING SELF TO FIND. 
 
 bar^-aiu in a few days. As your fuvourite Monsieur Renan says, 
 " Most beautiful actions are done in a state of fever." You'll re- 
 cover and repent it.' 
 
 ' Do I seem feverishly excited?' asked Donovan, quietly. 'And 
 do I generally fail in deliberation ? ' 
 
 * Don't bother him now,' interposed the old captain. ' We've 
 had an awful day of it.' 
 
 ' What in the world you did it for I can't conceive,' said 
 Noir, unheeding-. * You who profess to rail at the injustice of 
 life ! you who call yourself a misanthrope ! What induced you 
 to spend your time on such a search ? What does it matter to 
 you if all the world is ruined ? ' 
 
 ' I suppose,after all, I didn't hate the whole world,' said Donovan, 
 slowly, ' or else the hatred was all needed in another direction.' 
 
 Noir caug-ht his meaning, and, because he could just recognize 
 its humility and sad honesty, it roused all the evil in him ; he 
 knew that his companion was slip])ing- away from him, 
 
 ' And how does your moral highness propose to live if you 
 refund the money you won ? ' The question was put with a con- 
 temptuous sneer. 
 
 ' How I shall live, Noir,' answered Donovan, gravely, ' I can- 
 not tell, but by gambling I shall not live.' 
 
 ' We shall see,' said Noir, ' when you recover from this state of 
 fever. Why, do you think that in a moment like this you can 
 end the strongest incentive of your life ? You know perfectly 
 well that you don't care a rush for anything- except the cards.' 
 
 'You've about hit it,' said Donovan, ' but,' with a firmness 
 which seemed to g'ive treble force to each separate word, ' / will 
 not 2^1(1^ again.'' 
 
 For a minute both the Frewins were silent ; both involun- 
 tarily looked at their companion as he lay, his thin skilful hands 
 clasped over his dark hair, his face resolute and full of noble 
 purpose. He was quietly renouncing- all he had as yet cared for 
 in life, all by which he could win admiration, success, pleasure, 
 and these two men knew it. Rouge was the first to speak. 
 
 * Well, lad, we will do the best we can for you ; you will stay 
 on with us.' 
 
 Then the look of strugg-le came back to Donovan's face. Ko 
 rose hurriedly, and began to pace up and down the room, scarcely 
 hearing what his companions said to him. 
 
 At last he stopped abruptly in his walk, and said, hoarsely, 
 
 * No, I can't stay, captain.' 
 
 ' Can't ! — nonsense ! ' said Noir. * We don't part after a 
 whole year tog-ether in this way.' 
 
LOSING SELF TO FIND. 221 
 
 'I must g-o,' he repeated. ' I dare not stay.' 
 
 ' Dare not ! — what, we are so bad tliat wo shall corrupt your 
 moral hiiilmcss ? Oh ! g-o then, by all means, and may you 
 find friends more faithful and better suited to your lofty 
 standard !' 
 
 ' Frewin,' said Donovan, very sadly, ' you know well enough 
 that it is myself I dare not trust. If you think that I could stay 
 with you and all our own set, and yet keep to my word, well and 
 good. But I could not do it. It will be hard any way; im- 
 possible like that.' 
 
 * A few months ago you would have scorned to say anything 
 was impossible.' 
 
 ' Well, I've been taken down a few pegs since then, and now 
 I do say it and mean it. Good-night, Noir.' 
 
 * When do you leave ? ' 
 
 ' To-morrow by the 9.20. Good -night and good-bye.' 
 
 Noir took his hand for a moment, looked full in liis face, as 
 
 though to read what was written there, then, with an impatient 
 
 gesture, he turned away. 
 
 ' Good-bye. I see we have done with each other.' 
 Sweepstakes, waking up, screamed out his habitual greetings. 
 
 * Such a talkin', such a talkin', what a parcel of fools ! Ain't 
 you a fool ! — ain't you a fool, milord! ' 
 
 The old captain, with maudlin tears coursing down his cheeks, 
 hurried after the retreating figure, and it was long before Dono- 
 van could quiet the piteous entreaties that he would change his 
 mind, would stay at least a few days longer, or would promise to 
 come back when he had seen M. Berrogain. Parting with his 
 companions was a greater wrench than he had feared even ; they 
 had been very good to him, had nursed him through his illness 
 with rough but very real care, and they were the only friends he 
 had in the whole world. And yet he knew that he must leave 
 them ; they were inseparably bound up with the evil he was 
 trying to free himself from — both must be renounced. 
 
 lie took leave of Eouge that night, and early next day 
 started on his solitary journey — solitary with the exception of 
 Waif. The address he needed had been telegraphed to the 
 official when he went to inrpiire on his way to the station, and it 
 was a substantial relief to his anxiety to be able to repeat to him- 
 self the assurance of M. Berrogain's safety — ' Hotel Montro, Rue 
 Montesq.uieu, Bordeaux.' There was, however, just a little flat- 
 ness and depression now that all was ended ; lie took his ticket, 
 and then went into the salle-d'aiientc, the 'durance vile ' which 
 generally gives an Englishman a chafed caged feeling. As he 
 
222 LOSING SELF TO FIND. 
 
 passed up and down, too, tliere was a toucli of far-off dread in his 
 lace — the dread of the unknown future, which of all expressions 
 is one of the most painful to see. 
 
 Noir Frewin, suddenly entering- the room in search of his late 
 companion, caught the look and understood it. Unprincipled as 
 he was he could not help respecting- a resolution which could so 
 steadily persevere in direct opposition to personal wishes, and 
 there was none of the malice of the previous nig-ht in his tone 
 when he spoke. 
 
 Donovan turned hastily at the sound of his own name, he was 
 ill-prepared just then for a repetition of the scornful upbraidings 
 which he had borne silently a few hours ago. Noir saw that his 
 arrival was not very welcome. 
 
 ' I'm only come to see you off,' he explained. ^ You're quite 
 right, milord, after all ; g-o and save yourself while you can.' 
 
 ' Saving- is not the question,' said Donovan, ' even if I 
 believed in such a thing-. But at any rate one needn't do others 
 harm.' 
 
 ' A change in your views, lad, since we first went into partner- 
 ship,' said Noir. ' Your anger with whoever it was who had 
 ruined you has cooled with time.' 
 
 ' His offence looks small now that I am the bigger brute,' 
 replied Donovan. Then, as the doors were thrown open, he put 
 his arm within Noir's once more, and they went out together to 
 the train. 
 
 * Good-bye, old fellow,' he said, rather hoarsely, just before 
 the final start. ' Let us hope my lungs won't g-ive out ag-ain, or 
 I shall be crying- out for you.' 
 
 'Till then we are best away from each other,' said Noir, 
 giving- his hand a farewell grip. ' Good-bye, Farrant. We part 
 as we met, you see, in a railway-carriage.' 
 
 The train moved off; Frewin, with a fierce sigh, turned 
 
 away, and Donovan was whirled through the vast plains of 
 
 central France, marvelling not a little how his companion had 
 
 learnt his real name, the name which he had taken such pains 
 
 . ^0 conceal. 
 
 Thirteen hours later and he was standing in the crowded 
 salle at the Bordeaux Station. He was very tired, a trifle desolate 
 too, alone among- foreigners, alone with such a ' howling- wilder- 
 ness ' of a future as he fancied before him, the future of restraint 
 which he had chosen. Waiting- rather impatiently till the doors 
 of the luggage-room should be opened, he scanned the faces of 
 the crowd, the usual busy cheerful crowd of a French railway- 
 station j a group of men whiling away the waiting-time with 
 
LOSING SELF TO FIND. 223 
 
 Iniia'liter and occasional snatches of song-, two lovers sitting on a 
 bench in tlie corner, whisperinu' contentedly tog-ether, reg-ardless 
 of their surrounding's, a fat roug'h-featured priest, with his shovel 
 hat and starched hands, a respectable honn/eois and his wife, fol- 
 lowed by a toddling- bare-headed child. 
 
 Instinctively Donovan watched the little one. The mother 
 turned round, saying- playfully, 'Adicti ! Adieu /^ pretending- to 
 leave it; the child let them walk on a few steps, and then, with 
 sudden dread of being- left, ran at full p])eed after them with an 
 eag'er ' No/i, non, 7ioii,' and g-rasped its mother's skirt. Then both 
 father and mother laug-hed, each took one of the tiny hands, and 
 the three walked away tog-ether. 
 
 Home dramas all around him, love in all its forms and deg-rees 
 — the friend's, the lover's, the mother's, the wife's ! He sig-lied, 
 and stooped down to pat Waif. Then followed the g-eneral rush 
 into the adjoining- room, he went to claim his portmanteau, and 
 in a few minutes was out in the starlight, on his way to M. 
 Berrogain. 
 
 His desolateness made him think of Dot, of the times when 
 he too had had some one to love and protect. They were sad, 
 but on the whole peaceful, thoughts which came to him as he 
 crossed the bridge, pausing- for a moment to look ac the long' 
 chain of lights marking- out the crescent-shaped qiuays. She, the 
 holy child of his memory, was at peace, it was perhaps well that 
 she had passed away from him, he had not been tit to he near 
 such purity and loveliness, and as she had grown older it was 
 possible that he might have pained her — -pained her by his un- 
 worthiness. That thought was intolerable. And so, uncon- 
 sciously, he repeated to himself Noir Frewin's words — 'We were 
 better parted.' jVeither of them, knew that the unselfishuess 
 and humility prompting the thought was drawing- them to the 
 Source of all love. 
 
 The walk was a long one, through broad well-built streets, 
 past the theatre, on again into narrower and darker thorough- 
 fares, till Donovan began to wonder whether the porter whom he 
 had hired to carry his portmanteau were not perhaps taking- him 
 by some roundabout way in the hope of extorting a larger jyo?//-- 
 Oohr. At last, turning to the left, they passed through a circular 
 market-place, and down a narrow street with high dingy-looking 
 houses. 
 
 ' There, monsieur,' said the porter, with a wave of the hand, 
 • that is the Hotel Montre.' 
 
 Donovan saw at the corner the inevitable Cafe Billurd, and 
 ui)on the upper storeys the name of the hotel inscribed. The 
 
224 LOSING SELF TO FIND. 
 
 porter -went on to the entrance, nnd Donovan, following', found 
 himself in a paved conrt_yard with two mouldy-looking* orange 
 trees growing* in tubs, and a dim light proceeding* from the room 
 of the concierge. He inquired at once for M. Berrogain, and was 
 relieved to find that he was known still by his real name. He 
 was witliin too, had taken his key not five minutes before, would 
 monsieur see him at once or be shown to his own room ? 
 
 Donovan desired to see M. Berrog'aiu at once, and, having 
 dismissed his g-uide, was ushered by a pretty, little, white-capped 
 servant up a dirty stone staircase, along a labyrinth of passag-es, 
 then up again and throug-h a corresponding- labyrinth darker and 
 dirtier than that below, 
 
 ' Perhaps monsieur sleeps,' sug-gested the little servant, glan- 
 cing* round as she paused at a door to the right. ' It is very late,* 
 and she pretended to ya^vn. 
 
 ' Knock and see,' said Donovan, impatient of the delay. 
 
 A quick entrez ! relieved his fears, and, taking the candle from 
 his conductress, he opened the door and found himself in a 
 fairly comfortable room, where, extended on a shabby green 
 velvet sofa, lay M. Berrogain, the Figaro in his hand, the Gironde 
 lying* at his feet. For a moment the thought would come, ' He 
 is unconcerned and comfortable enough, you need not have 
 troubled about him.' But while Donovan paused, tlie uncon- 
 scious Frenchman glanced round. He had been al)sorbed in his 
 paper, and had half forgotten that someone had knocked and 
 been admitted ; now, catching* sight so unexpectedly of the man 
 who had ruined him, he sprang to his feet with a cry half of fear, 
 half of passion. 
 
 ' Ah ! evil one, why do you pursue me ? ' he said, in trembling 
 tones. 'Would you remember a petty debt of two hundred 
 francs when you have won a fortune from me ? Stony-hearted 
 wretch ! would you pelt a fallen man ? You have tracked me — 
 you, the rich, the successful, will hunt down the unfortunate for a 
 miserable trifle such as that ! ' 
 
 ' I am not rich,' said Donovan, ' nor are you unfortunate.' 
 
 ' Miserable Englishman ! ' cried out M. Berrogain. ' Why do 
 you mock me ? You are come to drive me to despair, to death ! 
 Why could you not let me leave the country in peace ? Why do 
 you come with your grasping avarice to ' 
 
 ' Listen, Berrogain/ interrupted Donovan, in his firm sad 
 voice. ' I could not let you leave the countr}- , because there is 
 no need for you to go. I am not mocking you. Be quiet and 
 listen. To-morrow morning* you can go back to your wife at 
 Paris ; she holds the fortune which you lost at baccarat.' 
 
LOSING SELF TO FIND 226 
 
 They wcro standing- by the draped mantel-piece. Donovan 
 turned away as he spoke, and putting,- aside the muslin curtains 
 lookeil down into the dimly-liy-hted street. lie was not sorry to 
 feel the fresh air upon his face. 
 
 There was a moment's silence, then M. Berrogam came for- 
 ward and took liis hand. 
 
 ' ]My friend,' he said, falteringly, ' forgive what I have said. 
 I was in despair. But this generosity — no — no, it cannot be, it 
 cannot be.' 
 
 ' It viiist be,' said Donovan, cpiietly. 
 
 *No, no! leave me enough to go on upon, or allow me six 
 months' rcs})ite, I should be more than content with that.' 
 
 ' But I should not,' said Donovan, decidedly. ' No, Berrogain, 
 everything is settled, so do not let us waste words on the 
 subject.' 
 
 'But it is unheard of!' said M. Berrogain. 'It is noble, 
 generous, kind, but, my good friend, before you commit your- 
 self, think how will 3'ou get on in the world if vou act in such a 
 way ? ' 
 
 'That,' said Donovan, with a half smile, 'is a question yet to 
 be solved, but I do not mean to live by other men's losses. 
 Enough has been said though about it all. Can one get any- 
 thing to eat in this place ? I'm furiously hungry ! ' 
 
 'Ah! but you are an Englishman!' said ]M. Berrogain, 
 amused by the request. ' There is a restaurant just opposite, let 
 me come with you.' 
 
 'To watch the voracious islander! ' said Donovan, laughing. 
 •To-night I shall keep up the national character. I could eat 
 half a roast beef if there was a chance of getting it ! ' 
 
 ' Ah ! is it possible ? ' said the Frenchman. ' And at this 
 time of night, too ! ' 
 
 He did not think that the anxiety wliich he had caused could 
 possibly have aft'ectad his companion's appetite on the previous 
 day, and sat amusedly at the table, watching the absolute demo- 
 lition of the largest piece of Ros-bif-roti which the restaurant 
 could produce. 
 
 Tiien somewhere in the small hours Donovan found his way to 
 the dingy wainscoted room which had been allotted him, and, in 
 spite of the noisy orgies being carried on in the room below, was 
 soon sleeping profoundly. 
 
 M. Berrogain left for Paris the next day, and Donovan went 
 to the station with him, submitted to his demonstrative gratitude, 
 and then turned away rather disconsolately to make the best of 
 his new life. He wandered about the place for some little time^ 
 
226 LOSING SELF TO FIND. 
 
 found his way into the beautiful Church of St. Michel, looked 
 wondering'ly and half pityingly at the groups of worshippers, 
 then sauntered out ngnin, along the quays, among- the tramways 
 and trucks, the coils of rope and the chains, idly scrutinizing the 
 closely-moored vessels and the busy work of lading- or unlading, 
 or coaling-, which was going- on. Everywhere work and business. 
 And he too must work, he had been leading- a wretched self- 
 indulgent life, he would work now, indeed he must work to live. 
 The question was what should he do, and where should he go ? 
 
 He had rather a hankering- after America, but that idea had 
 to be given up, for he had not enough to pay his passage. It 
 seemed to be a choice of trying for some situation in Bordeaux 
 itself, or of g'oing back to England, the chances of finding- im- 
 mediate employment being about equally small in either case. 
 He decided at last to let fate choose his destination, and tossed 
 up a petit sou — heads he was to go to England, and thus it fell. 
 
 With a half sigh he pocketed the coin, looked at his watch, 
 and then hurried away to find out when the next steamer left for 
 Liverpool. There was one that evening- to his relief, and he 
 hastened back to the Hotel Montre, g-lad that his hours in its 
 ding-y rooms were numbered. The passage was being- swept by the 
 little white -capped maid-servant as he passed down it, and as he 
 put his thing-s tog-ether the refrain of the song- she was singing 
 tioated in to him : 
 
 Oui, malgre ta philosophie 
 L'amour seiil peut charmer la vie. 
 
 Over and over it went, a tuneless little chant, and with strange 
 persistency it rang in his ears long after, ' L'amour seul ! — l'amour 
 seul !' Was it indeed that which could alone make life support- 
 able ? He waj3 not quite the misanthrope he had considered him- 
 self, but had he any love for his kind ? M-any times he asked 
 himself that question, as he stood on the deck of the steamer 
 while it ploughed its way through the Bay of Biscay, or lay with 
 Waif at his feet, like a recumbent crusader, looking- up at the 
 starry skies. Did he only not hate ? — was there anything- more 
 active than that in his feeling towards the rest of the world ? 
 
 All this time he had scarcely realised the hardness of the task 
 he had set himself He had willed never to play again, and was 
 quite at rest now that the resolution was made, for never in his 
 whole life had he failed to do a thing which he had deliberately 
 undertaken. His confidence in his own strength was boundless, 
 and though he had reasonably enough seen the impossibility of 
 still living with the Frewins, now that he had once broken with 
 
LOSING SELF TO FIND. 227 
 
 the old set he did not g-ivo a thought to other possible tempta- 
 tions. 
 
 And thus, satisfied witli the streng-th of his will, nnd full of 
 his new and g-ood purposes, ho was set down at Liverpool. Then 
 followed a time of bitter disappointment; thougli he had just 
 renounced a fortune, the world g-ave him the cold shoulder :igain, 
 and his money began to evaporate, to disappear with the horrid 
 rapidity which becomes so noticeable when we are counting by 
 units instead of tens. And very soon came the temptation. He 
 had been out all day in the weary useless search after work, the 
 evening set in Avet and chilly, as he passed down the gas-lit 
 streets to his cheerless lodging a familiar sound made him pause, 
 he was passing a billiard room — the sharp click of the balls, 
 the eager voices, how natural it all sounded ! He had taken no 
 resolution against ploying billiards. Why should he not relieve 
 this intolerable dulness by an hour or two of amusement? A 
 momentary struggle followed, then he pushed open the door and 
 went in. How' long he was there he could never clearly re- 
 member, but it was not until a substantial token of his wonted 
 success lay before him that he realised the failure of his will. 
 He, the strong, and self-reliant, had j-ielded to the very first 
 temptation, had failed most miserably. He dropped the cue, 
 pushed away the money, and amid a chorus of surprise and in- 
 cpiiry strode out of the room. 
 
 Too completely dismayed and bewildered to find any relief in 
 his usual custom of rapid walking, he went back to his wretched 
 lodging, and there sat motionless in the summer twilight in blank 
 silent despair. Everything was lost — friends, money, pleasure, 
 worst of all, his confidence in himself. What was there left ? 
 Nothing, he said, but a wretched life that was far better ended, 
 a despicable ' I,' that must struggle to find itself bread, because — 
 only because of a dim, inexplicable idea that self-destruction was 
 wrong. What possible good was there in his life to himself or to 
 anyone else ? He did not think then of his influence with the 
 Frewins, he could only feel that he had cheated himself, failed in 
 his purpose, sunk irrevocably in his own opinion. What 
 guarantee was there, too, that his will would not fail again ? 
 
 Two paws on his knee and a soft warm tongue licking his hand 
 roused him at length. 
 
 ' Oh, Waif ! ' he exclaimed, with a great sigh, ' if only I'd a 
 tenth of your goodness, old dog ! ' 
 
 By-and-by he lit the gas, dragged out the tin of dog biscuits, 
 and gave Waif his supper, glancing in between the mouthfuls at 
 the advertisement columns of an open newspaper which lay on the 
 
228 LOSING SELF TO FIND. 
 
 table. Once the dog* was kept beeping' for quite a minute, for 
 his master had become absorbed in ^Yhat he was reading-. 
 
 ' Wanted, as secretary to the Institute, a 3"oung- man of 
 
 good abilities. Knowledge of book-keeping* and a clear hand- 
 writing' indispensable. Salary £100. Apply in person, on the 
 15th or ICth, the President, Institute, Exeter.' 
 
 Secretary ! — surely he was well fitted for the post. Possibly, 
 too, there would be less competition down in the quiet west- 
 country. Here in Liverpool bis chance of success seemed infini- 
 tesimally small. 
 
 ' Well, my dog*,' he said, almost cheerfully, as he threw down 
 the next mouthful, ' shall we set off together and try our luck ? 
 £100 a year would keep you in Ijiscuits, so there's some reason 
 in it, after all.' 
 
 The necessary inquiry, however, into his resources showed 
 him only too plainly that he had not enough money for the 
 journey. After his present expenses had been paid, his worldly 
 possessions would have dwindled down to a sum below the price 
 of a third-class ticket to Exeter. His watch and chain had been 
 in pawn ever since the day after his arrival ; he had no other 
 valuables, nothing* by which he could raise money, nothing' 
 
 except His eye fell on Dot's little travelling-clock, and he 
 
 started painfully. The idea of selling that had never occurred 
 to him before. In all his Avanderings it had been with him — it 
 was almost the only thing he still had which had belonged to her 
 — to part with it seemed unbearable, and especially so in this 
 particular way. To take it deliberately with his own hands and 
 bargain about it, to leave it — the very thing which she had 
 touched, and fondled, and admired — in a pawnbroker's shop, to 
 let the silvery cathedral chime which she had loved fall on the 
 ears of strangers, it seemed like desecration ! And onty an hour 
 ago the money he had so much needed had been his; If he had 
 but taken it, all this difficulty would have been avoided. But 
 then his better self made its voice heard. 
 
 * No, my little Dot, no,' he said aloud. ' Better a thousand 
 times that this should go than that I should have been doubly 
 false to myself.' 
 
 He did then what he very seldom ventured to do — drew his 
 little miniature of Dot from its place and looked at it steadfastly. 
 
 Sweet, child-like little face, clear, satisfied eyes, can you not 
 speak to him, and tell him that love cannot die, that he is com- 
 passed about with a cloud of witnesses, that his struggles to live 
 honestly, his despair at the revelation of his weakness- even his 
 
'o'er moor and fen.' 229 
 
 present sacrifice to a shadowy instinct rather than to a principle — 
 all is helping- to draw him towards you ? 
 
 No, comtbrt cannot he his yet. He cannot sec that the pain 
 and loss are necessary to the great gain ; he can only go on 
 hravcly and painfully in the darkness, holding to the track of 
 right and duty which he hegins faintly to perceive. 
 
 Presently the little clock was standing on a shelf among other 
 clocks, large and small, in a Liver])ool pawnhroker's shop, and 
 Donovan was walking hack to his room through the driving rain, 
 with head heut low, and thirty shillings in his pocket. 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 *o'er moor and fen.' 
 
 Self-rcvereiice, self-knowledge, self-control, 
 These three alone lead life to sovereign power, 
 Yet not for power (power of herself 
 Would come ancall'd for), but to live by law, 
 Acting the law we live by without fear ; 
 And, because right is right, to follow right 
 Were wisdom in the scorn of consequence. 
 
 Tennyson. 
 
 And, ai\er all, the struggle seemed utterly useless, for the Exeter 
 
 Institute would not accept him as secretary. He was in 
 
 every way suited for their purpose, and by far the most promising' 
 of the candidates, but in a close cross-examination the insuperable 
 barrier was brought to light. 
 
 * And 3^our religious views, sir ? ' asked the president. ' As 
 this is a charitable institution, we always make a point of know- 
 ing the views of our staff. It is well to be united. Do you 
 belong' to the High or Low party ? ' 
 
 * To neither,' said Donovan, stiffly. ' I am an atheist.' 
 
 And in those four words lay his doom ; because the institute 
 was a churituhle one it could not help such a hardened sinner, 
 could not let its accounts and If tters be contaminated by his 
 touch. 
 
 ' I have come from a great distance in the hope of getting* 
 this post,' said Donovan, swallowing* his pride. ' I am very much 
 in need of work. Surely in the mechanical work of a secretary 
 
230 <o'kb moor and fen.' 
 
 sucli a matter as one's private creed mig-ht be passed over. What 
 difference can it make to anyone else ? ' 
 
 ' My dear sir,' said the head of the charitable institution, ' I 
 can only refer you to the Bible, where you will find the injunc- 
 tion : "Be not unequally yoked together with unbelievers," and 
 " What part hath he that believeth with an infidel ? " ' 
 
 Alas ! for the rarity 
 Of Christian charity 
 Under the sun. 
 
 With the indifference of his kind, however, the ftig-id ad- 
 herence to the letter, and the disregard of the spirit, a sort of 
 bitter resolution awoke in Donovan's heart. He would not be 
 doomed by a ' charitable ' institution, he would not sink down 
 quietly into starvation. Life in itself was not worth a straw, 
 but just from opposition, from a manly love of breasting- ' the 
 blows of circumstance,' he would struggle on, fight down all 
 obstacles, live to be of use too, in spite of the president's specimen 
 of Christian generosity and brotherliness. Fiercely through his 
 teeth he quoted Shylock's passionate words, ' Hath not a Jew 
 eyes ? . . . fed with the same food . . . warmed and cooled by 
 the same winter and summer as a Christian is ? ' 
 
 He had been two days at Exeter j now, returning to his 
 lodgings, he sat down and resolutely went over all possible plans 
 for his future. Should he go 'back to Greyshot ? Mr. Alley ne, 
 the man with whom he used to read, might possibly put him in 
 the way of employment. It was not very likely, though, and 
 there were many objections to a return to the old neighbourhood. 
 Should he write to old Mr. Hayes ? He might be at home again 
 by this time, though in the winter Doery had said he was still 
 abroad. But Mr. Hayes was poor, and would unquestionably 
 think only of monetary help. No, that would not do. Should 
 he go home and throw himself on his mother's mercy ? But 
 that thought was too wildly impracticable as well as too painful 
 to be allowed for a moment. What connections had he in this 
 part of the world ? What had his father's business in Plymouth 
 been, when four years ago they had gone there together ? 
 Searching back in his memory he at length recalled the name of 
 his father's acquaintance, and remembered that he had described 
 'him as a pleasant elderly man. He was a banker — there would 
 be no difficulty in finding his address. 
 
 He began a letter to him at once, a brief, business-like, stiff 
 letter, not at all like that of a starving man asking for help. But 
 then he had no intention of starving. He was young and strong- 
 willed, undaunted still, notwithstanding his repulses. 
 
'o'er moor and fen.' 281 
 
 Having- despatched the letter, he made up his mind to follow 
 it ; there was no liope of finding- work in this quiet old city ; at 
 Plymouth he would have more chance. lie mii^ht just as well 
 spend his time in j^-etting- there as in loafing- about the Exeter 
 streets. Getting- there meant walking-, for the proceeds of the 
 clock v/ere nearly exhausted, and would barely suffice to get him 
 some sort of food and shelter, but he rather enjoyed the tliought 
 of the exercise, and even the prospect of ' roughing- it ' a little. 
 
 So the next morning, with his few belongings stowed away 
 in a small bag, — the portmanteau had been discarded in Liver- 
 pool, — he set out on his walk The natural energy of his char- 
 acter shone out strangely every now and then, in spite of the 
 disastrous education which had so cramped it. No one meeting- 
 him that day, as he walked briskly along the Devonshire lanes, 
 would have imagined that he was as poor as the veriest tramp, 
 and had infinitely fewer resources than most beggars. His stern 
 face was lighted up with resolute perseverance, there was a 
 sparkle, not exactly of enjoyment, but of keen determination, in 
 his eye, he held his head just as proudly as in the days when he 
 had been Donovan Farrant, Esq., of Oakdene Manor. 
 
 It was a lovely July day, a little hot for walking- certainly, 
 especially in the deep lanes where every breath of air seemed to 
 be shut out; but there was something- satisfactory about the 
 whole excursion, and Donovan walked on steadily. The high 
 hedges were in their full beauty — beautiful as only Devonshire 
 hedges can be, with their broad green fringes of harts- tongues, 
 their drooping- lady ferns and sturdy bracken, their glorious wild 
 roses and bramble bushes, with here and there a bit of mossy 
 grey stone cropping- out, or a miniature waterfall thrusting- its 
 silvery white head through the grasses, and tumbling- with splash 
 and splutter into the tiny wayside brook below. The smell of 
 the new-mown hay gave a country fragrance to the air, and in 
 most of the fields the men and women were hard at work, while 
 wisps of sun-dried grass caught here and there on each side of 
 the road proved that loaded waggons had already passed that 
 way, leaving their trophies on the hedges. 
 
 Donovan had made up his mind to sleep at Chagford, and it 
 was already late when he crossed Fiugle Bridge. The view there 
 was so exquisite, however, that he was obliged to stop for a few 
 minutes. Resting on the grey stone parapet, he looked down at 
 the transparently clear river, along- the green meadows and 
 wooded valleys to the hills which, encircling- all, stood out clearly 
 defined against the soft evening- sky. All was quiet and peaceful ; 
 in this country stillness and exquisite beauty, it seemed possible 
 
232 'o'er moor and fen.' 
 
 almost to realise that once all the world had been pronounced 
 * very good.' Donovan thoug-lit only, however, of the contrast 
 of this peace with the world of competition, the overcrowded 
 market of labourers in which he was trying to push his way. It 
 was with a sigh that he turned away and walked on to the little 
 grey town of Chagford, where the lights were beginning to shine 
 out from the cottage windows, and the square tower of the 
 church stood darkly above the lower roofs, a grim silent 
 guardian. 
 
 Very early the next day he was on his way again, exulting 
 in the fresh morning air, and greatly looking forward to the 
 crossing of the moor. Waif scampered on in front, enjoying the 
 exercise as much as his master, and Donovan found himself 
 whistling as he walked. At length, leaving the cultivated region 
 behind him, he struck across the wild waste of Dartmoor, and 
 then the full delights of his walk came to him. The freshest, 
 purest, strongest air in England was blowing in his face, his feet 
 were treading a springy elastic soil, and all around him was a 
 scene of the wildest beauty. The heather was not yet out, but 
 the gorse blossoms still lingered, and made a golden glow over 
 the great undulating expanse, while all round the tors raised 
 their rugged, granite heads, now in full sunshine silvery white, 
 now with a passing cloud shadow darkest purple — grotesque, 
 fancifully shaped, irregular, and yet exactly harmonizing with the 
 barren waste surrounding them. 
 
 On si)ed the dog and his master, now through marshy ground, 
 springing from one tuft of heather to another, now up across 
 the scattered granite blocks of a tor, and down again into a 
 fresh-featured waste on the other side, now startling a troop of 
 the wild Dartmoor ponies which galloped away, their manes 
 flying in the wind, and Waif barking at their heels, now stepping 
 across one of the old British encampments with their imperishable 
 * hut circles.' 
 
 It was not till about five in the afternoon that he reached 
 Prince Town, and then for the time his pleasure was clouded, for 
 the first sight that greeted him was the great grey block of 
 buildings where poor Noir Frewin had been unjustly immured. 
 Passing some wretched little black cottages which are familiarly 
 known as New London, he went down the hill to the town itself, 
 on the way encountering a gang of convicts dragging a cart, and 
 guarded by two warders, rifle in hand. The sight was a painful 
 one ; the men, half patient, half sullen, looked at him curiously 
 and envyingly ; the warders urged them on. 
 
 Donovan had half thought of sleeping at Prince Town. He 
 
'o'er moor and fen.' 2o3 
 
 had been walking- since seven o'clock that morning-j and was rather 
 tired, but the gloom of the place so oppressed him that ho could 
 not endure the thought of staying- in it. lie selected instead the 
 choapost looking' public-house from the large number which the 
 little })laoe oti'erod, had his dinner, and after a short rest prepared 
 to go on again. The people of the house in vain tried to induce 
 him to stay. He was not to be turned from his purpose, however, 
 and having learnt that he could put up for the night at the 
 'Dousland Barn Inn/ if he went by the road, or at Sheepstor, if 
 he went b}' the moor, he resolved to take tiie latter course. 
 
 By this time it was between six and seven in the evening-, but 
 he calculated that in even ordinary walking' he should reach his 
 destination before dusk, and with the bold outline of Sheepstor 
 before him as a landmark, he steered his way across the waste. 
 There was something- awe-inspiring- in the entire loneliness as 
 he passed on further from Prince Town. Far and near not a 
 creature, not a house was to be seen. Beauty, grandeur, even a 
 faint shadow of the Infinite, who can fail to trace these in that 
 glorious moor, unique in its wiklness and expanse ? 
 
 Involuntarily l)onovan fell into a deep reverie. The purer, 
 nobler view of the world forced itself upon him ; he had seen 
 hitherto so little but the evil. And then naturally his thoughts 
 went b-ack to Dot, as they invariably did in his best moments, 
 and he comforted himself in that terribly insufficient and yet 
 pathetic way which Byron has expressed in one of his saddest 
 poems. 
 
 The better days of life are ours ; 
 
 The worst can be but mine : 
 The sua that cheers, the storm that lowers 
 Shall never more be thine. 
 
 He had been walking- on abstractedly ; looking- up at last, he 
 was dismayed to find that a sudden mist had arisen, completely 
 veiling- the surrounding- tors, and, what was worse, evidently 
 spreading' every minute. Here was a liindrance which he had 
 never for a moment contemplated. The evening- had seemed 
 quite fine when he started; he had no compass, and had trusted 
 implicitly to his eye in choosing' the most direct route to Sheeps- 
 tor. Now all traces of the tors were obliterated. 
 
 It was not a very pleasant prospect. All manner of stories 
 he had heard of travellers lost in the mist recurred to his memory, 
 dismal talesof people who had wandered round and round in acircle 
 for hours, never many yards distant from their starting-point, or of 
 unfortuuate pedestrians overcome by fatigue and cold. He stood 
 still for a minute or two, called Wuif to heel, and steadily faced 
 
234 'o'er moor and fen.' 
 
 the facts of the case. The mist was rolling' nearer and nearer, 
 hemming- him in on every side ; even now he could hardly see a 
 yard in front of liim ! Although it was a July evening-, the cold 
 was enough to make him shiver, the mist pressed down on him im- 
 penetrably, every breath he drew brought him into closer contact 
 with the heavy damp chill fog-. Standing- still was out of the 
 question ; he resolved to go on. Sheepstor lay, he thought, 
 rather to his left, and, as he had heard that the natural instinct in 
 walking- was to tend towards the rig'ht, he took a very decided 
 course in the opposite direction. 
 
 On and on he went, ceaselessly but almost hopelessly on. He 
 was g-rowing- very tired, too, the mist hung- heavily upon him, he 
 could not see an inch before his feet. Fearing- that Waif mig-ht 
 possibly stray, he had taken him up under his arm, and was plod- 
 ding- heavily along- when he came to marshy ground. For 
 three or four steps he floundered on, trying- to regain the firm 
 land, but Avhat mig-ht have been done with sight was impossible 
 in the blinding- mist. Another step ffnd he felc himself sinking 
 deeper — a fierce strug-gle to free himself, and in a moment he 
 was up to his knees in one of the treacherous Dartmoor bogs. 
 
 He uttered no invectives, but, when convinced of the hope- 
 lessness of struggling- out, he drew Waifs head up so that he 
 could look into the clear brown eyes. 
 
 ' Waif, old boy,' he said, 'mother earth means to settle the 
 question for us. Do you feel inclined to have done with your 
 master, your bones, and biscuits, and wanderings?' 
 
 The dog, evidently understanding the dang-er, set up a howl 
 so wildly piteous that Donovan's heart was touched. 
 
 ' Poor old fellow, you'd rather g-o on, would you ?' 
 
 And for a minute they looked full into each other's eyes with 
 the strang-e comprehension that comes between some dog-s and 
 some men. Then Waif licked his master's face, and Donovan, 
 all the time feeling- that he was g-radually sinking- deeper, patted 
 the white and tan head. 
 
 ' Very well, Waif, as you say, we'll have a try. Take my hat, 
 old boy,' and he put his soft cloth hat into the dog's mouth, 
 * scrunch it up, never mind ! a hundred to one I shall never want 
 it again ! find a man if you can and bring- him back here, do you 
 understand '{ now g-o. There ! ' and with some eflbrt he threw 
 the dog- as far from him as possible, and Waif, alig-hting- where 
 his trifling- weight mig-ht be borne, tore ofl' like the wind with the 
 hat between his teeth. 
 
 In throwing- the dog- Donovan felt the soft ground beneath 
 him sink considerably, an irresistible force sucked him down 
 
*o'kr moor and fen.' 235 
 
 lower and lower, very soon he was up to his waist in the cold wet 
 mud. Then he spread out both his arms and waited quietly for 
 the end — whichever end it was to be. 
 
 He felt straui^-ely inditlerent. If death did come to him, wliy, 
 then it would be well ; if he was rescued, there would be the 
 satisfaction of not being- conquered by the affection of g-ond 
 mother earth, who, having- dealt rather coldly with him all the 
 days of his life, now seemed determined to hold him in a clinging- 
 embrace. 
 
 Ilis jacket was not fastened, he could see three buttons of his 
 waistcoat. With a sort of grim sense of the ludicrous he resolved 
 to use them as a measuring- gauge, by which he could judge how 
 fast he was sinking. It was bitterly cold down in this wet slush ; 
 on the whole, lie rather looked forward to the end. What was 
 that odd recollection that came to him ? He was a little child 
 again, and Doery's prim face rose before him. 
 
 ' Asleep in church, Master Donovan ! oh ! for shame ! I 
 wonder you wasn't afraid you'd never open your eyes in this 
 world again.' 
 
 And in spite of his strang-e position, even now he could not 
 help laughing as he recalled his childish sense of discomfort, and 
 how for several Sundays after that he had not been able to let 
 his eyelids drop in peace. 
 
 The first button disappeared. 
 
 Then he wandered on to recollections of his life with the 
 Frewins. How they would wonder what had become of him ! 
 He was back in Drury Lane with Sweepstakes abusing- him. He 
 was in a railway carriage, and Noir was waving- the cards before 
 his eyes in the three-card trick. He was sitting in the park and 
 a bright-faced girl near him Avas talking- of home, tlie sort of home 
 which he had never been able to realise. 
 
 The second button disappeared. 
 
 Then he felt a strange impression of having been through this 
 scene before, of having felt the cold wall of mist hemming him 
 in, and after a time he remembered it had been in his nightmare 
 about Dot. And over and over the words rang- in his ears ; 
 
 The better days of life were ours 
 The worst can be but mine. 
 
 'You are safe, Dot, my darling. '"Tis nothing- that I loved 
 60 well." I would not have you back even to the days that were 
 ours. And the worst may be over for me, Dot, ended here out on 
 Dartmoor I ' 
 
236 *0'ER MOOR AND FEN.' 
 
 The third button disappeared. 
 
 ' I wish I had not gone to that billiard-room,' he mused, * I 
 wish I could have died satisfied at least that my will was as strong 
 as I used to think it. To fail ! how hateful it is to fad ! If I 
 thought that I could get on, and not come to grief again so 
 weakly, I should almost wish to get out of this bog and have 
 another try.' 
 
 The mist had now rolled away, but it was almost dark and 
 the stars were shining above him. The night wind blew through 
 his hair, waved the cotton grass growing around him, sighed and 
 moaned over the desolate country. Nature sang him her dreariest 
 death-song. Ah, well ! death could not be more dreary than his 
 life had been ! 
 
 By this time he was up to his shoulders, and was obliged to 
 raise his arms, the grass and rushes blew against his face. It 
 was exceedingly unlikely that Waif would find help. In a very 
 short time he must inevitably die. What a strange ending to his 
 stormy life ! strange and yet perhaps not inappropriate, to die 
 here alone in the darkness, as he had lived, the grandeur and 
 beauty and majesty of the great moor close to him, all around, 
 but shrouded in the black night, faint imperfect images of the 
 beautiful tors presented to him now and then, but never a true 
 idea of their form. 
 
 By-and-by came a light, flickering wavering far in the dis- 
 tance. Was it a Will o' the wisp ? Could he hold out any 
 longer? Could he keep rigidly motionless till this possible help 
 should reach him ? A sort of dogged endurance and hatred of 
 yielding came to renew his failing powers, his voice clear and 
 strong rang out into the night. Yet why did he call ? why did 
 he not yield, and sink down quietly into nothingness ? For an 
 instant life and death, the chances of each, hung in a perfectly 
 even balance, and his indifference turned to a decided wish for 
 vhe end of the struggle. Should he call again ? he thought not. 
 But just as he was making his final resolution to keep the silence 
 which would inevitably lead to death, he heard Waifs sharp 
 anxious bark from afar. 
 
 ' My dog, I won't be such a selfish brute,' he exclaimed, 
 realising Waifs faithful devotion, and thinking of his despair if 
 the search should be of no use. * Ho ! here ! help ! ' and then, 
 with his usual whistle, he tried to attract the dog's notice. 
 
 In a few minutes Waif was close to him, whining with delight, 
 snorting with impatience, and tearing madly backwards and 
 forwards between the approaching lantern and his submerged 
 master. Then the bearer of the lantern came into view, a sturdy 
 
'o'er moor and fen.' 237 
 
 Devonshire farmer, and his almost equally sturdy son. Donovnn 
 hailed them eag-erly. 
 
 * Veth ! ' exclaimed the farmer, 'stogg-'d in Foxtor Mire that 
 ye are ! ' 
 
 * Set fast here for hours/ said Donovan. 
 
 *No tanny hye ! {donH tell me I)' exclaimed the g'ood man, 
 much shocked. ' But we'd hest talk when the deed's dune. The 
 missus she says to me, " Maister, you take the laistest bit o' rope 
 with ye, likely it's a bog- accident." So lay ye hold, my man, fast 
 hold o' the end, and veth ! we'll sune have ye safe and dry. 
 Hold on, my man, and sure as my name's John Peek we'll have 
 ye safe.' 
 
 Then, with a tremendous effort, the sturdy Devonshire men 
 pulled at the rope till Donovan's shoulders Avere free once more. 
 After that they hastily threw a noose round him, and with infinite 
 difficulty succeeded at length in dragging' him from his slimy 
 grave. 
 
 In a few minutes Donovan, encrusted in black mud, and so 
 stiff and weary that be could hardly drag himself along-, was 
 safely on terra firma once more, and Waif, proud and happy, was 
 springing about his feet. 
 
 Partly from physical causes, and partly from his sudden removal 
 from the near contemplation of death, he fell into a half dreamy 
 state, was not sure whether the sturdy farmer and his son were 
 not after all shadows, even doubted whether Waif was not an 
 illusion, while every weary step he took seemed to add to his 
 strange indifference as to what was to become of him. If left to 
 himself he would have plodded on and on till he dropped. 
 
 But John Peek was at his elbow — he was too muddy to be 
 touched — piloting him across the moor in the direction of the 
 farm, talking in his half unintelligible Devonshire dialect, and at 
 length leading him through the yard gate, across the roughly- 
 paved granite road to the little white farm-house where he lived. 
 At the sound of their footsteps the wife hastened out, a cornel}'' 
 Devonshire woman, her short skirt, crossed neckerchief, smooth 
 hair, and healthy-looking face, all as fresh and neat as could be. 
 The husband explained matters, and Donovan was hurried into 
 the kitchen, where, what with the warmth of the peat fire, the 
 contrast between his horrible state of filth and the exquisite 
 cleanliness of the place, added to the extreme diificulty of under- 
 standing the dialect of the farmer and his wife, he gradually 
 came to himself, realised that he was actually alive, that his sur- 
 roundings were no shadowy phantoms of the imagination, that 
 he was still Donovan Farrant, possessed of little but a dog and 
 
238 *o'er moor and fen.' 
 
 a will which had failed, and with a blank future beyond, in which 
 his primary object must be— not to starve. 
 
 In the immediate present, however, his only wish was to be 
 clean once more, and with some difficulty he made himself under- 
 stood. Evidently the farmer's wife thought cleanliness next to 
 godliness, and fully sympathised with the desire. 
 
 ' Zich a Jakes {stick a mess) as never was seen, fit to make my 
 flesh crip, ess fay it is ! Come ye up, zur, come ye up over the 
 stairs,' and the g-ood woman led the way up the spotless staircase 
 to a room above, where, with much ado, she brought a huge 
 wooden washing' tub, hot water, an enormous piece of soap, even 
 a scrubbing'-brush, crowning; all her favours by fetching- him an 
 entire, set of her husband's clothes ! 
 
 Cincinnatus handled the plough, and doubtless wore the 
 equivalent for fustian. History does not relate how he looked in 
 rustic guise, but Donovan, with his ' Roman' face and unmistake- 
 able air of refinement, presented a very comical appearance in 
 Farmer Peek's marketing' costume. But the comfort of being' 
 dry and clean again was great, and he joined the farmer and his 
 family in the kitchen, feeling- able to speak the thanks for his 
 rescue which till now had remained unsaid. 
 
 'And now zet down, zur, zet down, for ye hike mortal vagg-'d,' 
 «aid the farmer, drawing' up one of the Windsor chairs to the 
 hearth. ' Likely ye had a g-ude walk before ye got stogg'd i' the 
 mire ? ' 
 
 'Yes, from Chagford,' said Donovan, stretching his feet out to 
 the smouldering peats. 
 
 ' No tanny bye ! on the trat the whole blessed day ! ' ex- 
 claimed the Avife, ' and ye luke crewel tender.' 
 
 He laughed and disclaimed any 'tenderness.' 
 
 'Zich walks isn't for the likes of ye,' said the farmer, with a 
 shrewd look at the wearer of his market-day suit; 'ye should lave 
 it to us power folk — it's not for gintry and passons.' 
 
 Donovan could not help smiling at finding himself classed with 
 parsons. 
 
 * I am poor,' he said — ' a tramp.' 
 
 ' Aw ! ' exclaimed the farmer, shaking his head with a knowing 
 smile, ' ye won't make us belave that, zur — no, no, us knows the 
 gintry when we zee 'em.' 
 
 ' In spite of which, I am poor and a tramp,' said Donovan, 
 * and what few things I had left went down into Foxtor Mire ! ' 
 
 ' Ah, gude heaven ! ' exclaimed the wife, ' it was a mercy ye 
 didn't go yurself J but what will ye plase to take for zupper, 
 zur ? there's cream i' the dairy, and ' 
 
'o'er moor and fen.' 239 
 
 'Whatever you would have for yourselves, nothing else,' said 
 Donovan. 
 
 The -woman hesitated ; he spoke as if he meant to be obeyed, 
 but her hospitable soul longed to set the best thing-s in the house 
 before the hero of tiie evening. 
 
 ' Vcth, zur, it's not fitty for zich as ye,' she began, but Dono- 
 van interrupted her. 
 
 ' Nothing else, thank you,' and his tone, more than the actual 
 words, convinced the good woman that nothing but the usual 
 su})per must be prepared. 
 
 So Donovan sat down with the farmer and his wife to broth 
 and ' kettle-bread,' and then, at his own request, was allowed to 
 establish himself for the night before the fire, for, in spite of the 
 summer evening, he had been so thoroughly chilled that he was 
 glad of the warmth. 
 
 Before long all was quiet in the house ; Donovan, with Waif 
 at his feet, lay very still but very much awake in the little 
 kitchen. By this time all might have been over for him — how 
 strange was the thought j He might have entered on the '■ peace 
 of nothingness ' — life might have been over, perplexities solved 
 by the great silence, no trace of him left even, to carry sorrow to 
 his mother, or remorse to Ellis. And. instead of this, he was still 
 in the world, lying on his back moralising by the light of a peat 
 fire ! 
 
 It was a curious accident which had brought him like this 
 under a hospitable roof; he had been in many odd places, but 
 never in quite such a homely place as this. Half dreamily he 
 let his eyes wander round the white-Avashed walls. Opposite 
 him was the tall eight-day clock, and a large copper warming- 
 pan reflecting the dull red glow of the fire — above the high 
 mantel-shelf two rather ancient-looking guns, and a great array 
 of tin pots and platters — below, a spotless white dimity frill 
 hanging over the wide hearth — overhead, in the black rafters, 
 hung sundry hams. 
 
 His own clothes were hanging up to dry as near the peat as 
 the farmer's wife would allow, and glancing from them to the 
 borrowed garments he wore, and for the first time realising that 
 Farmer Peek was at least six inches shorter and immeasurably 
 stouter than himself, that the fustian clothes hung about him in 
 folds and that his whole appearance was most grotesque, he 
 burst out laughing — laughed till the wooden rafters rang, till 
 Waif started up and began to wag his tail sympathetically, till 
 inevitably he w'ould have roused the farmer and his wife, had 
 they not slept as soundly as the Seven Sleepers. Certainly the 
 
240 'o'er moor and fen.' 
 
 personal dang-er he had been in had not awed him as a moralist 
 might have desired. He went to sleep with nothing more sober 
 in his thoughts than a verse out of Dot's ' Nonsense Book ' — 
 
 There was an old man of the West 
 Who wore a pale iilum-coloured vest j 
 When tliey asked — does it fit ? 
 He replied, not a bit, 
 That funny old man of the West. 
 
 The next morning- came the humiliating- necessity of explain- 
 ing- to the farmer his inability to reward him for his rescue and 
 his hospitality. He Avas received, however, with all the delightful 
 warm-heartedness and real courtesy so general in the west 
 country. 
 
 ' Aw ! zur, ye didn't think a wanted money ! It's treu us a 
 given ye the laistest bit of a help, but God bless ye, zur, us has 
 been plased to du it.' 
 
 'When I g-et on in the world, I shall not forget you, Mr. 
 Peek,' said Donovan, with firm confidence in the ' when.' 'All 
 I can do now is to thank you very much for your hospitality.' 
 
 ' Veth, zur, you're welcome. Us wull be plased to zee ye 
 again, and I wish je weel in zaking zarvice.' 
 
 ' Seeking service ! ' Donovan smiled, but the expression was 
 true enough. He wished his worthy host good-b3'e, managed to 
 leave his last coin — half-a-crown — in the market-day coat, and 
 set off briskly on his fourteen-mile walk to Plymouth. 
 
 Skirting round the foot of Sheepstor, he was soon on the road, 
 with the bold outlines of Sharpitor and Leathertor on one hand, 
 and far in the distance a line of silvery brightness where the sun- 
 light fell on the sea. Life felt good. On the whole, Le felt 
 really glad that the blue vault was above him, not the black mud 
 of the bog. Towards the afternoon, however, when he had been 
 walking- some hours, his spirits sank. Tlie heat tried him a good 
 deal ; he began to feel very stiff and tired, as well he might after 
 his adventure of the previous evening. And with the physical 
 exhaustion came a degree less of confidence in the future. What 
 
 if his father's acquaintance, Mr. X , refused to help him ? 
 
 What if he could find no employment now / He walked on 
 heavily, but still with resolution — come ill or well, he was ready 
 to face it manfully, but his cheerfulness disappeared, and it was a 
 stern-faced and very oddl3'-dressed candidate who presented him- 
 self at tlje door of the bank, and asked to see Mr. X , the 
 
 manager. 
 
 The bank was closed, but one of the clerks appeared in answer 
 
*0*ER MOOR AND FEN.' 241 
 
 to his ring", and directed liim to the manag-cr's private house. He 
 wont there, and, with the hearing of a iiroud man forced to ask 
 a favour, Avas shown into Mr. X 's Hhrary. 
 
 A handsome keen-faced luan of ahout five-and-thirty was sit- 
 tin<>- at the tahle writinj;-. He g'lanced up as Donovan was an- 
 nounced, scanned him from head to foot without risinj^-, then 
 howed stiffly. This was Donovan's view. 
 
 Mr. X , on the other hand, saw hefore him a tall, ji-aunt, 
 
 handsome follow, apparently about five-and-twenty, in clothes 
 which were stained and shrunk to such a deg-ree that a tramp 
 would scarcely have said ' thank you ' for them, holding- a ragged 
 cloth hat in his hand, and, in spite of his heggarly array, carrying 
 his head very high. Such a shabby-looking fellow as this could 
 hardly be asked to sit down on one of Mr. X 's new red- 
 morocco chairs. The good farmer's wife had carefully dusted the 
 Windsor chair for him the night hefore, the hanker was not so 
 courteous or so well-bred. Throughoutthe interview Donovan stood. 
 
 The banker briefly asked his business. It appeared that the 
 
 elder Mr. X had died two years before ; the present one had 
 
 never heard of Colonel Farrant. And then, after a few mutual 
 explanations, Mr. X 's rather quick peremptory manner be- 
 came a little more suave as he said, 
 
 ' You must, I think, see, Mr, Farrant, that your claims upon 
 me are of the very slightest. Our respective fathers knew each 
 other — at least, you tell me so. Even should I take you at 
 your word without seeking to prove this to be the fact, how- 
 ever, it is hardly sufficient ground for — in short, you under- 
 stand mo, I am sure. I need not explain myself further.' 
 
 ' I quite understand,' said Donovan, coldly. ' You think I 
 am come to beg. I am aware that I look like a heggar, thanks 
 to one of your Devonshire bogs ; but nothing is further from my 
 thoughts. You were the only person I knew in the neighbour- 
 hood. I want work, and thought you might be able to advise 
 me where to try for it.' 
 
 ' I am afraid, Mr. Farrant, you are a novice in these matters,' 
 said the banker. ' One cannot at a moment's notice cause situa- 
 tions to spring up ready to hand. Besides, in the letter I re- 
 ceived from you from Exeter you gave me no particulars and no 
 references.' 
 
 ' I have none to give,' said Donovan, shortly. 
 
 ' You can at least tell me what your previous employment 
 has been.' 
 
 ' I have only just returned from the Continent.' 
 
 The banker looked at him a little curiously. 
 
242 
 
 O ER MOOR AND FEN. 
 
 ^ And before that ? ' 
 
 Donovan coloured slif^-htly, but answered, firmly, 
 
 ' Before that I was a card-sharper.' 
 
 The banker started. 
 
 * Bless me ! and after this you expect me to patronise you, 
 Mr. Farrant?' ^ 
 
 ' On the contrary,' said Donovan, quietly, 'I see plainly that 
 that is the last thing- you will do,' 
 
 There was irony in the tone ; the banker smiled a little, 
 looked ag-ain at his strange visitor, and saw that, in spite of the 
 beg'garly array, he was evidently a clever fellow. He liked 
 clever fellows, and his next remark sounded much more cordial, 
 but Donovan's sensitive pride at once recoiled from the slig-ht 
 touch of vulgarity. 
 
 ' I see you're sharp enoug-h, Mr. Farrant ; no lack of brains. 
 But even if I knew of any situation likely to suit you, what 
 guarantee should I have that you might not prove a little too 
 sharp again ? ' 
 
 'No guarantee,' said Donovan, wincing. 'But I should 
 hardly have answered your question with such perfect openness 
 if I had been the knave you take me for. I can give you no 
 guarantee but my honour.' 
 
 'And in business that would hardly answer,' said Mr. X , 
 
 with a sharp-edged smile ; ' besides, the honour of an ex ' 
 
 'Good afternoon,' said Donovan, moving to the door. 
 
 'Stay, stay,' said the banker, 'that was rather hard lines. 
 I can't help you to a situation, Mr. Farrant, but you seem in a 
 very bad way, and as I see you're a clever fellow I will break 
 through my ordinary rule. Day and Martin made their fortunes 
 by giving away a stray sovereign, and, though I can hardly hope 
 to do that, I have still great pleasure in giving you some small 
 assistance.' 
 
 He fumbled in his pocket, produced a gold coin, and pressed 
 it into his visitor's hand. 
 
 There are some deeds of so-called ' charity ' which wound 
 more deeply than actual unkindness, some favours which are 
 more hard to endure than blows, some ways of giving so in- 
 tolerable to the recipient that even in need they must be re- 
 jected. 
 
 Donovan was actually penniless, he felt stiff, weary, ill, and 
 already very hungry, but no power on earth could have brought 
 him to accept the banker's tactless, ill-bred offer. He put down 
 the sovereign, bowed, and hurried out of the house. 
 
 For a time indignation and those heart-stirrings which follow 
 
'o'er moor and fen.' 243 
 
 after an insult has been received kept him up. He tramped up 
 and down the Hoe physically strong' again because of the inward 
 tumult of feeling-. Then he wandered into the town, lounged 
 wearily about the streets, 
 
 Homeless near a thousand homes, 
 
 and worse than homeless, destitute in every way, sick at heart, 
 ashamed of his past, miserable in the present, and hopeless as to 
 the future. 
 
 When St. Andrew's clock struck nine, he was standing at the 
 corner of the churchyard idly watching the passers-by, wishing* 
 that night would come that he might hide himself in the darkness 
 and forget his weariness in sleep. But as time passed he grew 
 more and more uneasy, and the dread of illness began to haunt 
 him painfully. He had certainly eaten nothing' since early morn- 
 ing, but that was not sufficient to account for the growing faint- 
 ness which was stealing over him. He had had a dim idea of 
 enlisting, but that faded away now, he was too wretched to wish 
 for anything but shelter for the night, precisely the thing he had 
 not. 
 
 There were only three alternatives, either he must break his 
 resolution again and trust to his customary skill and good fortune, 
 or he must try to sell Waif, or he must adopt the beggar's shelter 
 — an arch or a doorway. 
 
 A sharp struggle was needed to dismiss the first idea, the merest 
 glance at the dog to prove the second impossible ; then in pain 
 and great weariness he wandered on once more. Only a month or 
 two before he had had more money than he knew what to do with — 
 it was strange to look back to the old life, with its excitement and 
 success and self-indulgence — and now, through his own doing, 
 he was cut off from it all. But he knew that it was well, and in 
 a larger sense than before the words which had haunted him on 
 Dartmoor came to him now, 
 
 The worst can be but mine. 
 
 Failure, pain, ruin, starvation, all these were apparently his 
 destiny ; he felt that the}' were endurable because they involved 
 no harm to others ; it had been a choice of life and pleasure at 
 the expense of his honour and his fellow-men, and death and 
 suffering affecting himself alone. His contact with the warld 
 had changed his views greatly ; a year ago he had been a misan- 
 thrope, now he saw the position of self and others inverted. 
 
244 'o'er moor and fen.' 
 
 More than four years had gone by since the grave-looking 
 Indian colonel and his son had passed up the steps of the Eoyal 
 Hotel. Donovan, fresh from his school disgrace, full of hurt 
 pride and hitter resentment, had spent no very comfortable night 
 there. Unlikely as it may seem, he slept a great deal better 
 beneath the porch of one of the neighbouring houses than he had 
 done before in the luxurious room. With Waif crouched up as 
 near him as possible for the sake of warmth, with the cold night 
 wind blowing on him, he slept well. In the old times he had 
 been his own slave, now he was 'lord of himself Disheartened, 
 humbled, with widened sympathies and self thrust low, he was 
 now, in spite of the verdict of the president, a truer follower of 
 Christ than some professing Christians, the only diiference being 
 that he followed bravely and painfully in the darkness, not even 
 knowing his goal, while many of them in their full light follow 
 sleepily and lazily, attaining to little of the broad-hearted love 
 and self-abnegation to which they have pledged themselves. 
 
 Donovan did not dream, he was too completely worn out. 
 His sleep was heavy and unbroken ; but he woke early the next 
 morning with a name in his mind — Porthkerran. What brought 
 it there he could not tell. In thinking over his acquaintance' in 
 the West at Exeter, he had naturally remembered the Tremains, 
 but it seemed improbable that a doctor in a remote Cornish 
 village would be able to help him to work, and he had never 
 thought even of applying to him. But now, in the freshness of 
 the July day, as he dragged himself up from his resting-place, 
 and felt the impossibility of seeking work in his present state, 
 the thought of Porthkerran, of the kindly doctor, of Mrs. Tremain, 
 came to him as a light in his darkness. He was at that stage of 
 illness when pride — even the pride of independence — is brought 
 low, and, though he had rejected the banker's sovereign but a 
 few hours before, the idea of going to the Tremains and asking 
 their help did not seem hard to him. 
 
 The only question was, should he ever get there ? To loiter 
 about in Plymouth in search of work would be both useless and 
 impossible, but with an actual goal, a definite thing to be done, 
 it was different. He made up his mind to go, and set off on the 
 long walk patiently and deliberately, though anyone with a 
 degree less of courage and resolution would have succumbed 
 at once. 
 
 When he had walked about five or six miles the full difficulties 
 of his undertaking came to him. On first waking he had felt ill 
 indeed, but the sleep had to some extent refreshed him, and it 
 was not till later in the morning that the unknown pains of 
 
'o'eh moor and fen.' 245 
 
 hunger beset liim. Still ho toiled on, always on, with aching 
 head and failing limbs, while above the summei* sun blazed down 
 on him in fullest power. What if the Tremains were no longer 
 at Porthkcrran ? What if they turned him away because of his 
 previous life, or his religious views ? These were his only 
 thoughts as he struggled on. By-and-by came faintness, and he 
 was obliged to stagger to the side of the road and lie down on 
 the grass, and then he lost count of time, and was very dimly 
 aware that the intolerable heat and glare changed to cloudy 
 coolness. It was not till a heavy shower of rain began that he 
 came fully to himself, staggered to his feet once more, and re- 
 sumed his walk. 
 
 For more than an hour the rain fell ceaselessly ; when it 
 stopped, he was soaked to the skin and very cold. Even Avhen 
 the sun came out once more he was shivering from head to foot. 
 How much further could he manage ? A sign-post, with ' Porth- 
 kerran three miles,' rather comforted him ; he must and would 
 get there, and once more he forced himself to go forward. 
 
 The road lay now along the cliflfs overlooking the deep blue 
 sea. Donovan scarcely noticed anything, however, and it was 
 not till the ringing clang of metal fell upon his ear that he looked 
 up. By the side of the road was a blacksmith's forge ; the 
 blazing fire looked tempting; he entered the shed, and asked 
 leave to warm himself. 
 
 The smith, a fine-looking man, with thick black hair tinged 
 with grey, and eyes of deep blue like the Cornish seas, turned 
 round quickly on hearing himself addressed. 
 
 ' Come in, friend, and welcome.' 
 
 The voice was a hearty one, but the smith was busy, and 
 turned to his hammer and anvil once more, while Donovan drew 
 near to the fire, and felt a little temporary relief from the warmth. 
 
 Presently wheels were heard, and a carriage stopped at the 
 door ; the smith put down his hammer and stepped briskly fur- 
 ward. 
 
 * Well, doctor — gude day to you — cast his shue, has he ? ' 
 Donovan heard the words distinctly, but they conveyed no 
 
 meaning to his mind. He stared down vacantly into the glow- 
 ing furnace, not even turning his head to see either the horse or 
 the driver. A man's voice was explaining'. 
 
 ' Half-a-raile back, Trevethan. How long will you take to 
 put him on a fresh one ? Pm in a hurry to be at Mr. Penrud- 
 dock's.' 
 
 * Slow and sure, doctor — not less nor a quarter hour, and 
 maybe more.' 
 
246 ONE AND ALL. 
 
 ' Why don't you walk to the Penruddocks', papa ? I can 
 hold Star, and Ajax is so quiet there'll be no fear of his doin» 
 any harm.' 
 
 It was a girl's mellow voice speaking- — a voice in which there 
 lurked laughter, tenderness, and yet a quaint sort of dignity. 
 Donovan recognized it in a moment, and with a sudden return of 
 strength and energy hurried to the door. 
 
 ^ 
 
 CHAPTER XXL 
 
 ONE AND ALL. 
 
 Deal meekly, gently, with the hopes that guide 
 The lowliest brother straying from thy side ; 
 If right, they bid thee tremble for thine own, 
 If wrong, the verdict is for God alone. 
 
 Strive with the wanderer from the better ]iath, 
 Bearing thy message meekly, not in wrath : 
 Weep for the frail that err, the weak that fall, 
 Have thine own faith, but hope and pray for alL 
 
 Oliver Wendell Holmes. 
 
 One glance at the little group without told him everything. 
 There was the smith scrutinizing Star's shoeless foot ; standing 
 beside the other pony was Dr. Tremain himself, a little greyer 
 than he had been four years ago, but not much altered ; and in 
 the pony-carriage sat Donovan's ideal, whom he knew now to be 
 Miss Tremain — Gladys Tremain — for the unusual name recurred 
 to his memory with the thought of the evening when he had first 
 seen her in her own home, had heard her singing* words which 
 had moved him strangely. 
 
 With this sudden revelation, all thought of his present state 
 of need passed from his mind ; he only felt that he must do some- 
 thing for her, and with a word to the smith he went to Star's 
 head. 
 
 'Ah! that'll du, doctor, now ye can go up to Squire Penrud- 
 dock's. Here's a chap as'll hold the pony steady.' 
 
 Instinctively Donovan kept his face turned from Dr. Tremain, 
 he could not bear to risk being recognized just then. The doctor 
 saw only a tall figure in very shabby clothes — some friend of Tre- 
 vethan's, h© supposed j he merely glanced at him, told Gladys to 
 
ONE AND ALL. 247 
 
 drive on to meet him when the pony was shod, anrt walked away 
 in the direction from which Donovan iiad just come. 
 
 Tlic wind liad risen, a west wind, and it blew strong-ly, thoug'h 
 not coldly. Donovan could see the riljbons on Gladys' hat flut- 
 tering", tliou!i-li, after the first, he did not directly look at her, 
 but kept his face half hidden. He could hoar her talking- to Tre- 
 vethan, and once or twice some antic of Star's made her laugh. 
 She was evidently a favourite with the blacksmith. Donovan 
 c('uld SCO how the man's blue eyes lit up when she spoke to him. 
 
 Gladys, meanwhile, looked curiously at the motionless fig'ure 
 at Star's head. She had seen him as he came out of the shed, 
 but for such a moment that she had only caug-ht a sort of vision 
 oi' a very i)ale, worn fare. Who could he be ? Some one whom 
 Trevethan know, or merely a tramp ? Yet his attire was scarcely 
 like a tramp's; shrujik, and stained, and dirty as it was, it had a 
 look of better days about it. Who was he ? She wished he had 
 not been quite so near, for it was impossible to ask the blacksmith 
 any cpie^tions about him. Oug-ht she to give him something' for 
 holding- the pony ? Looking- at him ag-ain, she was sure that he 
 was visibly shivering-, and that decided her. She opened her 
 purse, and took out a sixpence. He looked ill, and cold, and 
 very poor. He had been very g-ood in holding- Star, assuredly 
 he oug-ht to have something-. 
 
 All this time she had only seen his back. When the shoeing 
 was finished, and Trevethan had been paid, she drew up the reins, 
 and rather shyly said, ' Thank you for your help,' holding- out the 
 coin to him as she spoke. 
 
 Oddly, thoug-h she had been rather curious to see his face, in 
 putting- the sixpence into his hand she looked at that ; then, 
 startled to find a smooth white palm instead of a hand roug-hened 
 by hard work, slie looked up quickly and saw a face which 
 seemed partly familiar to her, a face with chiselled features, and 
 dark cavernous eyes with a look of pain in them. But even as 
 she first g-lanced at him his lips smiled slig-htly, he raised his 
 hat. 
 
 ' Oh, I beg- your pardon ! I did not see,' she stammered, look- 
 ing at the slender fingers which had closed over her sixpence, 
 and colouring- crimson. 
 
 'Thank you,' he rejdied, in a tone which she could not mis- 
 take for sarcasm. * I am very much obliged to you.' 
 
 Then he raised his hat again, and turned away, and Gladys 
 drove off with hot cheeks. Where had she seen hira before ? 
 
 Donovan went back to the forge, partly for the sake of warm- 
 ing himself, partly in the hope of learning something about the 
 
248 ONE AND ALL, 
 
 Tremains. The blacksmith was busy, however, and he could 
 only elicit the information that ' that was their doctor up to 
 Porthkerran, and a rale gude one he was ; ' that ' Miss Gladys 
 did gude to everyone she spoke to, and was like a bit of God's 
 sunshine, and no mistake,' with a few other most patent and 
 obvious facts. Then, all the time swinging- his great hammer, 
 Trevethan began singing one of Wesley's hymns, and, before he 
 had come to the end, the pony-carriage passed the door once more. 
 
 ' Will the doctor be going home now ? ' asked Donovan, as 
 soon as he could make himself heard. 
 
 ' Yes, belike,' said the blacksmith, pausing in his work, and 
 looking at his companion. ' You'd du weel, friend, to go and see 
 him, for you look mortal vagg'd. If you're passin' this way 
 again, come and take your tae with me. You shall have a gude 
 welcome.' 
 
 ' Thank you,' said Donovan, touched by the off-hand yet real 
 hospitality. 
 
 Then, Trevethan having directed him to the doctor's house, 
 which he already knew well enough, he set off once more. 
 
 Before he had gone far, a turn in the road brought him in 
 sight of the Tremains' pony-carriage. It was standing still. 
 Drawing nearer, he saw Gladys standing, bare-headed, on the 
 verge of the cliff, her sunny hair blowing about in the wind. 
 She seemed to be searching for something. Dr. Tremain, hold- 
 ing the reins at arm's length, was also peering down. 
 
 ' Better give it up, my dear,' Donovan heard him say. 'We 
 couldn't reach it, even if we could see it.' 
 
 ' Can I be of any use ? ' asked Donovan, coming towards the 
 two. ' Is anything lost ? ' 
 
 * My hat,' said Gladys, turning round, but colouring as she 
 saw who the speaker was. 
 
 Donovan's quick eyes were soon scanning every nook and 
 cranny of the rugged cliff, and, after a minute's steady progress 
 up and down, he detected far below a tiny moving speck, which 
 he pronounced to be an end of ribbon. 
 
 ' Will you allow me to fetch it for you ? ' he asked, forgetting 
 his weakness and weariness in his de.sire to serve her. 
 
 * Oh, no, it is so far down,' she said quickly. ' It is not the 
 least worth while.' 
 
 But Donovan was not to be deterred from* the errand by its 
 difficulty, and, disregarding Dr. Tremain's remonstrances, he 
 began to clamber down the cliff' in a way which showed that he 
 was either well used to the Cornish coast or else an expert 
 gymnast. 
 
ONE AND ALL. 249 
 
 'He held Star just now at the Ibrge, said Gladys to her 
 father. ' And I am sure I have seen him heforc, papa. Who 
 can he be ? ' 
 
 The doctor was too intent on watching- tlic descent, however, 
 to answer, and when he did speak it was only to exclaim, 
 
 ' Well done ! he's got it.' And then to criticise his way of 
 setting- about the ascent. * Quite right, he means to keep to the 
 left, and skirt round that great boulder. Bravo ! that was 
 cleverly managed. Come, Gladys, after this you'll have to make 
 a speech. It's really very good of this young fellow. IIuUo ! 
 though — he's slipped.' 
 
 For Donovan had trusted to an insecure foothold, and had 
 slipped down about six feet. Gladys gave a little cry, but 
 happily a projecting boulder prevented any danger of a serious 
 fall, and the two watchers saw that at least their helper was in 
 no immediate peril. He was quite still, though; that began to 
 frighten them. 
 
 ' Are you hurt ? ' shouted the doctor. 
 
 But no answer came, and the figure still remained crouched 
 up in the same position. Dr. Tremain felt very uneasy, but in 
 two or three minutes Gladys gave a relieved exclamation. 
 
 ' See, papa, he moves, he is getting up again.' They could 
 see the tall figure struggling- up, indeed, but the doctor saw at 
 once that something was wrong. 
 
 ' Are you hurt?' he shouted once more. 
 
 * Yes,' came back the answer, * but I'll manage it in a 
 minute.' 
 
 He had fallen with his ankle twisted under him, and had 
 given it a sprain. It was indeed a very awkward situation, for 
 the cliif was steep and hard to climb, and now, with the acute 
 pain he was suffering, it seemed almost impossible ; he looked at 
 the little white bat hanging- on his arm, and he looked up the 
 grey cliff to Gladys. After all, it only needed patience and a 
 resolute disregard of the pain — he would try it. But it was 
 infinitely harder than he had supposed ; over and over again he 
 turned dizzy, and was obliged to pause, and at last each step 
 became a battle. He could not attempt to answer the questions 
 which reached him from above, every power was trained to its 
 utmost in the physical struggle, in the confiict between the 
 resolutely persevering * I will,' and the overwhelming- pain and 
 weakness and difficulty. 
 
 At length, with an almost superhuman effort, he dragged 
 binipelf up to the top, grasped the doctor's outstretched hands, 
 crawled on to the smooth grassy plateau bordering the cliff, and, 
 
250 ONE AND ALL. 
 
 without a word, sank down prone, while Waif, with low whines, 
 walked round and round him in great distress. Larg-e drops oi 
 perspiration stood on his forehead, yet his face expressed little 
 but hard fixed reseluteness, the iron will leaving its tokens even 
 in semi-consciousness. The doctor looked at him intently for a 
 moment, then he raised him so that his head rested on Gladys' 
 knee, and prepared to examine his ankle. The merest touch 
 caused a sharp thrill of pain, and Donovan opened his eyes. 
 
 ' Oh, I am so very, very sorry,' said poor Gladys. ' I am 
 afraid you have hurt yourself dreadfully.' 
 
 ' Only a sprain, I think,' he answered, faintly, and then his 
 eyes closed again. 
 
 ' We must get him home as soon as possible,' said the doctor. 
 ' I will bring up the pony-carriage as near as may be, and I 
 think, Gladys, you had better run back to the forge and ask 
 Trevethan to come and help. We shall be less likely to pain 
 him if there are two of us to lift him in.' 
 
 The doctor went to see to the pony-chaise, and Gladys was 
 iust going to obey him, when she was startled by a peremptory 
 ' No, don't go,' from the prostrate figure she was supporting. 
 Then, to her dismay, he slowly raised himself and staggered to- 
 wards the carriage. 
 
 ' You should not have tried it,' remonstrated the doctor, 
 helping him in, and making him put up his foot at once on the 
 opposite seat. ' Now, Gladys, jump in quickly and drive us 
 home. I shall sit here,' and he established himself beside the 
 injured ankle, holding it in a way which lessened the jar of the 
 wheels. 
 
 The last exertion had proved too much even for Donovan's 
 strength, however ; he was only dimly conscious now, just 
 realizing from the pain that he was being driven somewhere, 
 where he neither knew nor cared, or whether this half dream of 
 incessant motion and incessant pain went on for ever and ever. 
 All seemed a matter of supreme indifference. When the carriage 
 at last stopped he felt no curiosity as to what was to follow, and, 
 after a few minutes' pause, submitted without a word to being 
 lifted out and borne somc7vhere, never once raising his eyelids 
 to see what they were doing with him. Presently he became 
 aware that his boot was being cut, and then came an instant's 
 sharp pain, and he fainted. 
 
 Everyone who. has experienced it knows the extreme discom- 
 fort of a return to consciousness. Donovan came to quickly, how- 
 ever, partly aided by an odd association. The very first thing he 
 distinguished was the smell of brandy, then he felt a g'lass held 
 
ONE AND ALL. 251 
 
 to his lips. From sheer annoyance he gained strength to push 
 it away, and, in -weak but decidedly cross tones, said quickly, 
 
 * Get away with your abomination, Rouge ! I tell you I 
 tvon't touch it ! ' 
 
 ' Don't trouble him, he's coming to,' said the doctor, and 
 then Donovan, fully roused by the words, half raised himself and 
 looked round. 
 
 ' I l)eg your pardon,' he said to the doctor, ' I thought I was 
 with someone else.' 
 
 ' I am afraid I hurt you a good deal just now ; I ought to 
 have seen you were getting faint and given you a restorative 
 first/ said Dr. Tremain. 
 
 * Faint !' cried Donovan, with all a man's dislike of making a 
 scene. ' You don't mean that I fainted.' 
 
 * Certainly, the moment I touched your foot,' said the doctor, 
 smiling ; ' and, what is more, you will be fainting again before 
 long if you don't take something. Try this,' and he poured some 
 milk into a tumbler and held it to his lips. 
 
 Donovan drank it and revived a little. 
 
 ' It was not the pain,' he said abruptly, ' I was half starved.' 
 Then glancing round the room, he continued in an odd, forced 
 voice, ' You shouldn't have brought me to your house. Is there 
 no woi'khouse or hospital at Porthkerran ?' 
 
 'You shall consider this your hospital ; I can promise you at 
 least one resident doctor and several nurses/ said Dr. Ti'emain, 
 smiling. 
 
 * Don't laugh/ said Donovan, ' it's no laughing matter. I 
 haven't a farthing in the world, I'm worse off than most beggars. 
 Couldn't you have seen by these that I wasn't fit for you to take 
 in V and he touched his clothes. 
 
 *My dear fellow, do you think that makes any difference, or 
 that we show our hospitality in Cornwall by shipping off our 
 helpers to the workhouse ? Come, don't talk nonsense, but tell 
 me when you had your last meal.' 
 
 ' Yesterday morning between eight and nine.' 
 
 ' Whew !' the doctor gave a slight whistle, felt his patient's 
 pulse again, and, turning to the servant, gave orders for some 
 gruel to be made at once. When that had been administered, 
 Donovan sank into a sort of doze. Presently, he knew that a 
 fresh voice was speaking, a low pleasant voice. He came to 
 that borderland of sleep when words begin to convey some 
 meaning, the quiet, mist-wreathed entrance to full conscious- 
 ness. 
 
 ' Has he got everything he wants ? ' 
 
^''-^ ONE AND ALL. 
 
 ' Everything just now J he is simply worn out. Gladys has 
 told you how we met him, I suppose,' 
 
 ' Yes, everything-. I wish I had heen at home when you came 
 back. Is it a very bad sprain ? ' 
 
 ' I daresay it wasn't at first, but imagine climbing' up the 
 cliff near the forg-e after he'd done it ! There's g-ood in that 
 fellow, depend upon it ! It was a spirited thing to do, especially 
 in the state he was in. He owned he was half starved.' 
 
 ' Poor boy ! I wonder how he happened to be in such 
 straits.' 
 
 Donovan began to show signs of waking. The voices ceased, 
 but he felt a soft hand putting back the hair from his forehead ; 
 it reminded him of the feel of little Dot's tiny fingers, and then, 
 with a rush of shame, he felt how unfit he was for such tender- 
 ness. 
 
 Suddenly opening his eyes, and half sitting up, he said, 
 quickly, 
 
 ' Look, you must get me moved in some way, I'm not fit to 
 stay here.' 
 
 Mrs. Tremain thought him feverish, but the doctor partly 
 understood him. 
 
 ' He is afraid of giving trouble ; you must tell him there is 
 nothing you like better than nursing.' 
 
 ' No,' interrupted Donovan, ' that is not it ; listen to me, and 
 then, if you will — turn me out. You won't be the first who has 
 done so. I was once a card-sharper. I haven't a penny in the 
 world. I am an atheist. Was I wrong in saying you would be 
 wiser if you turned me out of doors ? ' 
 
 ' Quite wrong,' said the doctor, in an odd, quiet voice. 
 
 Then there was silence for a few minutes, and Donovan felt 
 the soft woman's hand on his hair once more. For a moment he 
 breathed hard, and there was a quiver in his voice when he said 
 at last, 
 
 ' I had given up expecting to be tolerated after that confes- 
 sion. I don't know why you are so different from other people. 
 I might have guessed, though, that you would be. Mrs. Tre- 
 main,' he looked steadily up at her, ' do you remember me ? ' 
 
 She gazed at him in perplexity, half remembering the fiice, 
 and yet unable to say where she had seen it. But after a minute 
 or two a vision of the past flashed into her mind. 
 
 ' Mr. Farrant ! ' she exclaimed. 
 
 ' Donovan Farrant — yes.' 
 
 The doctor stood with an expression of surprise and great 
 uneasiness on his face. If this were Donovan Farrant, how came 
 
ONE AND ALL. 253 
 
 it that ho was a penniless adventurer ? How came it that little 
 more than a year after reaching his majority he had come to Porth- 
 kerran in a state of semi-starvation? There mnst have heen foul 
 play somewhere. That will he had witnessed could not have been 
 properly executed, or such a state of things could not have been. 
 This evening, though, he must ask no questions, his patient was 
 not fit for it. So he put away the imcomfortable thoughts as well 
 as he could, and, coming forwanl, took Donovan's hand in his. 
 
 * I remember you very well now. I wonder I did not at first; 
 but you are a good deal changed. We have often thought of 
 you, and wondered v.'hcther you would ever come down to see 
 t*ortlikerran again. I was glad to have you before I knew your 
 name, and, knowing it, I am doubly glad. But now, as your 
 doctor, I must forbid any more talking. Some more food first, 
 and then you'd better settle in for the night' 
 
 * One thing more,' said Donovan, ' do you realize that there 
 are two of us ? ' and he pointed to Waif. * He's all I have in the 
 world. I can't part with him.' 
 
 ' Not even last night when you were starving ? ' 
 
 Donovan shook his head. 
 
 ' Perhaps, though, I ought not to ask you to take him in j 
 beggars can't be choosers.' 
 
 ' My dear fellow,' said the doctor, laughing, and patting the 
 dog's head, ' will you never learn to believe that we are not utter 
 brutes? Of course, the dog is welcome to spend the rest of his 
 life here. I must quote the Cornish motto to you — " One and 
 all." ' 
 
 With these words echoing in his ears, Donovan lay watching 
 the busy preparations for the night which were being made by 
 Mrs. Tremain and the servant. The room he had been carried to 
 was on the ground floor, a school-room, he fancied, but now busy 
 hands were converting it into a bed-room, and busy feet without 
 were hurrying up and down the stairs, and along the passages, 
 fetching and carrying. ' One and all ' — they were certainly 
 carrying out their motto ! And Donovan, who would have been 
 sorely chafed by having to submit to a grudging service, 
 watched his present nurses almost with pleasure. The comfort, 
 too, of being in a home-like room again was very great. He ran 
 through in his mind all the wretched places he had slept in, from 
 the room in Drury Lane to his last night's shelter under a porch. 
 Philosophically as he had endured them, it was, nevertheless, an 
 unspeakable comfort to be again where all was fresh and clean, a 
 relief, too, to be not in a mere living place, but a home. He 
 read the titles of the books in the bookshelf, then glanced round 
 
254 ONE AND ALL. 
 
 the wallSf half fearing- to see once more his old enemy^ the ding-y 
 oil-painting of the shipwreck. Instead, however, he found 
 Wilkie's ' Blind Man's Buff,' next to that an elaborate chart ol 
 the kings of England, with illuminated shields and devices, which, 
 no doubt, had been painted by Gladys; then a print of a ' Holy 
 Family,' by Raphael, and, lastly, just opposite him, Ary Scheffer's 
 'Christ the Consoler.' 
 
 He looked at this long and earnestly, struck by the great 
 beauty of the idea it embodied, and, tbrough the wakeful feverish 
 night which followed, the vision of the face of Christ and the 
 thought of the Cornish motto haunted him incessantly. 
 
 The next day, the doctor not being at all satisfied with his 
 patient's state, and being besides anxious to learn the reasons of 
 his poverty, induced him to speak of his past life. 
 
 ' You are not nearly so strong-looking as when I saw you 
 last,' he began, drawing a chair up to the bedside. ' Tell me 
 what you have been doing with yourself, and then, perhaps, I 
 shall understand your case better.' 
 
 ' It was four years ago that I saw you,' replied Donovan. 
 
 * It's likely enough I should be changed since then. Do you want 
 the whole story 't ' 
 
 ' A s much as you feel inclined to tell,' said Dr. Tremain. 
 
 * Both as your friend and as your doctor I shall be glad to hear. 
 After you left Porthkerran, you went to your home in Mount- 
 shire, I believe ? ' 
 
 ' Yes,' said Donovan, twisting a corner of the sheet as he 
 spoke. ' We went back to Oakdene, and after about two years 
 my mother married again — she married the man who was my 
 guardian, Ellis Farrant. He came to my father's funeral. I dare- 
 say you remember him.' 
 
 Dr. Tremain tried not to show his dismay at this piece of 
 news, and Donovan continued : ' He had always hated me, and 
 there were constant quarrels between us ; the final one would 
 have come sooner if it had not been for my little sister. Partly 
 for her sake I tried to behave decently to him. She died the 
 winter before last. For a little while my step-father left me in 
 peace, but directly I proposed entering- some profession he told 
 me I must expect nothing from him. That of course led to a 
 quarrel, and in the end I was turned out upon the world to get 
 on as best I could.' 
 
 ' But your father's will ? ' questioned Dr. Tremain, trying to 
 speak quietly. 
 
 ' He left all to my mother, unconditionally, and of course she 
 could do nothing- for me, even if she wished to do so.' 
 
ONE AND ALL. 255 
 
 The doctor sig-lied deepl}', and there was a troubled look on 
 his face as he {^-lanced at his patient. 
 
 ' Poor fellow ! you have been hardly used. Where did you 
 go to ? ' 
 
 'To London; but not one of our old friends would have a 
 word to say to me, and I could g-et nothing' to do. At last I fell 
 in with a man named — well, never mind his name ! he has been 
 a ji'ood friend to me, even though ho is a professional gambler. 
 I went into partnership with him. It was impossible to live 
 honestly, and I thought the other way would be bearable enough, 
 for I was crazy at the injustice I had sulfered, and hated everyone. 
 But it didn't do. I found after a time I couldn't stand it. And 
 then I went in for congestion of the lungs ; that was last January. 
 As soon as mig-htbe, I went abroad, but at Monaco had a relapse, 
 whicli kept me back for another month. A little later, I found 
 that I must break with my old friends and give up the sort of 
 life I'd been living. I came back to England and tried hard 
 to find work, and, by living cheaply, managed to spin out my 
 money for a little while. I very nearly got a place as secretary 
 at Exeter, but the man asked me point-blank what religious 
 views I held, and that settled the question. I'd scarcely any- 
 thing left then, but I made up my mind to come to Plymouth, 
 and walked across Dartmoor. There I almost came to grief in 
 a bog — it's a thousand pities I didn't quite — but Waif and a good 
 Devonshire man hauled me out. The next day I came on to 
 Plymouth, without a farthing, as I told you, and yesterday morn- 
 ing, being ill, either from the hours I spent in the bog, or from 
 the unusual bed of stones, I felt only fit to crawl on to Porth- 
 kerran, hoping that you might help me.' 
 
 It was evidently a relief to him when he had finished his 
 story, and the doctor, who had been pleased with his brief straight- 
 forward confession on the previous night, was glad that he still 
 kept to the mere outline of his life. He never alluded to those 
 personal thoughts and details which go to make up the interest 
 of any life-story, never attempted to excuse himself in any way, 
 but, with some effort, just stated the main facts. 
 
 Dr. Tremain sat in silence for a few minutes. That Donovan 
 had been cruelly wronged, he knew, and the mere fact of that 
 would have given him a special claim upon his love and sympathy. 
 But the thought of his life, his rebuffs, his temptations, his fall, 
 his efforts to do right, appealed even more strongly to the doctor's 
 heart. * I found I must give up the life I'd been living.' What 
 struggles, what absolute sacrifice, lay within that one sentence ! 
 
 While he was musing over what he had heard, Donovau 
 
256 ONE AND ALL. 
 
 watched liim silently. Already the very deepest love for this 
 man had sprung- up in his heart — a strang-e, dependent love, which 
 he had never before known — the love which, latent in all hearts, 
 is usually awakened by the first true thought of God. A God- 
 like deed, and the love shining- in a man, had now touched into 
 life this natural instinct, and Donovan, in his pain and humili- 
 ation, was yet all aglow with the strang-e new joy of devotion, 
 enthusiasm, reverent admiration, the echo of the love first g-iven. 
 
 The prolonged silence would have been hard to bear, if he 
 had not had the most entire yet inexplicable faith in his new 
 friend, but as it was he waited in perfect content. Presently the 
 ;loctor looked up with great gladness in his face. 
 
 '■ Do you know I'm very glad you told me you were coming 
 to us ? ' 
 
 * Why ? ' asked Donovan, a little surprised that this should 
 be the only comment on his story. 
 
 ' Because it shows that you've pluck enough to do what I 
 fancy was very disagreeable to your pride.' 
 
 ' I don't know,' said Donovan. ' I suppose it was partly 
 being so done np, but I didn't think about minding the asking a 
 favour. I only felt need of you, and dread that I should never 
 be able to get to Porthkerran.' 
 
 ' I can't imagine how you ever did get here,' said the doctor, 
 who knew that the walk would have been impossible to most 
 people under the same circumstances. * I'm afraid you've been 
 very rash in your self-management for some time past, and that 
 is the reason you are suffering so much from your exposure. 
 After two such illnesses as you described to me, a man needs 
 some care for the next few months at least. Did you take any 
 care of yourself, or — mind, I only ask as a doctor — did you stay 
 on at Monaco, ruining- your health by excitement at the casino ? ' 
 
 ' I only went to Monte Carlo once,' replied Donovan, ' and 
 that before the relapse. Don't think it was any self-denial on 
 my part, it was simply because I lost the first time, and because 
 I hated the other evils of a gambling place. For the rest I was 
 quiet enough. Since I came to England, of course, I have lost 
 ground.' 
 
 ' You have taken no care of yourself,' said the doctor, 
 
 ' Life isn't w^orth much extra fuss,' said Donovan ; * and, 
 besides, I was too poor. Short commons, no work, and intoler- 
 able dulness do pull a fellow down.' 
 
 ' Ah, yes, you must have felt dull when you gave up gaming,' 
 said the doctor, rather wishing to draw him out. 
 
 ' Very,' was the laconic answer. Then, as if remembering' that 
 
ONE AND ALL. 257 
 
 he had no ordinary listener, he added — ' It's only since then that 
 I've hail the least idea how weak one's will is. It certainly is 
 humbling- to find that after you've resolved to do a thing- it needs 
 a constant struggle not to g-ive in after all.' 
 
 ' What made you first think of g'iving- it up ? ' asked the 
 doctor. 
 
 And Donovan then g-ave him an account of the miserable day 
 in Paris, when M. Berrog-ain disajipeared, and gradually Dr. 
 Treniain realized how matters stood with his g-uest. 
 
 He came out of Donovan's room understanding- him far better, 
 yet feeling- much more than he had yet done the g-reat anxiety 
 of his own position. This comparative stranger had peculiar 
 claims upon him — he had been aware of that directly he had 
 heard his name — but now, having- heard the story of his life, he 
 could not but feel what care and tenderness and wisdom were 
 needed in dealing with such a character. Undoubtedly this g-reat 
 self-renunciation Avas a turning'-point in Donovan's life, this 
 awakening- thought for others a sure sig-n of growth. What if 
 by any ill-judged word or deed of his he should be thrown back 
 or discouraged ? The doctor was the most humble of men ; 
 greatly as he lomred to help his g'uest, he trembled at the 
 miraense responsibility and difficulty, and grieved over his own 
 imfitness for the task. For what was not required of him ? 
 Donovan was friendless — he must be his friend ; cheated of his 
 inheritance — he must, if possible, right him ; burning with the 
 sense of injustice — he must try to influence and soften him ; and 
 — most terrible thought of all — he believed in no God j some 
 
 one must The doctor paused — nay, what ? teach him — • 
 
 impossible ! Argue with him ? — probably useless. Love him, 
 pra}', agonize for him — that he must and would do. The rest ? 
 
 He was standing- by the open door which led from tlie house 
 into the garden; he saw the grand old cedar at the end of the 
 lawn, standing up darkly against the clear sky, the acacia and 
 the beech-trees waving- in the wind, the standard roses laden and 
 flowers, the glorious sunshine flooding all with warmth with 
 brightness. He heard the singing of birds, the low hum of 
 insects, the soft breathing of the summer wind among the 
 branches. A sense of breadth and fulness stole over him, it was 
 a healthful morning, and gradually Dr. Tremain felt its real 
 influence, it drew him away from the thought of weakness and 
 soul-disease to the true Health-giver. Could he doubt that 
 through all the chan^-es and chances of Donovan's life He had 
 been leading him ? Then that strange and sudden im])ulse to 
 walk to Porthkerran must hiave been part of the leading. The 
 
 s 
 
258 ONE AND ALL. 
 
 doctor accepted the responsibility gladly now, as a care doubt- 
 less, but as an honour and a joy. And as the free air and light 
 and warmth influenced him from without, feeling that he lacked 
 wisdom, he turned to Him who 'giveth to all men liberally.' 
 
 While he still stood in the doorway Gladys came to him, her 
 usually bright face a little clouded. 
 
 'Oh! I thought you had started on your rounds, papa,' she 
 exclaimed, brightening at once as she slipped her hand within 
 his arm. ' I've come to you in a very bad temper, for Aunt 
 Margaret is here, and she is so much surprised at your taking in 
 Mr. Farrant.' 
 
 * Why is she surprised ? ' asked the doctor. 
 
 * Because you know so little of him. She thinks it most 
 quixotic of you. I came away at last, she made me so cross.' 
 
 ' You and I believe in something" better than chance, don't 
 we, Gladys ? ' said the doctor. ' And if Donovan Farrant was 
 sent to us, as I do not doubt he was, our duty is to take care 
 that we are fit to keep him with us.' 
 
 * Fit ? ' asked Gladys, looking puzzled. 
 
 ' Gentle and patient and considerate enough to draw him 
 quite in amongst us, to make him part of the home. I will tell 
 you a little about him, and then you'll und-erstand me better. 
 He has had a very sad life, he doesn't believe in God, partly, I 
 can't help thinking, because he has never come across real Chris- 
 tianity. He has had great temptations, and no friends to help 
 him, only companions whom at last he felt obliged to leave, that 
 he might try to keep out of evil, and now he is here, ill and poor 
 and I'm afraid very miserable. I know quite well that people 
 will say, as Mrs. Causton has just been saying, that it is rash 
 and quixotic to take him into one's own home, but, Gladys, I 
 trust all of you too well not to look upon you as helps instead of 
 hindrances.' 
 
 ' Do you know, papa, I have seen Mr. Farrant before,' said 
 Glad3^s, when her father paused. ' I was sure I knew his face, 
 and last night I remembered it was when I was staying with 
 Aunt Margaret a year ago. Don't you recollect that journey 
 which auntie is always talking about, when we were in a car- 
 riage with some men playing cards ? ' 
 
 ' I remember. There was only room for you, and one of them 
 got out and gave his place to Mrs. Causton.' 
 
 ' Yes, that was Mr. Farrant.' 
 
 The doctor mused. In his worst times, then, Donovan had 
 kept a touch of chivalry, he had left his favourite pastime to save 
 a stranger from a slight annoyance. 
 
ONE AND ALL. 259 
 
 ' We knew directly lie was a g'entlcman,' continued Gladys. 
 * You can't think how diil'eient he louked from the men he was 
 with. I couldn't think wh/ he belong-ed to them, and one of 
 them spoke so horridly to Ilim at Londun Bridge, when we all 
 got out, I fancy because he had helped us. Why was he ever 
 with such people, papa ? ' 
 
 * Because no one else would have anything- to do with him, 
 and because he was a great card-player; he has given it all up 
 now.' 
 
 ' Oh ! I am so glad ! ' exclaimed Gladys, ' fur it was dreadful 
 to watch him playing- that day, he looked so wonderfully taken 
 up with it, as if it were the only thing- he cared for. It must 
 have been very hard to him to give it up, thoug-h.' 
 
 * Harder, most likely, than you or I have any idea of,' said 
 the doctor, musingly. Then, rousing- himself, ' And all this time 
 we are leaving- the mother to Mrs. Causton's tender mercies. I 
 must go, little girl. Good-bye. That story has smoothed your 
 temper, I hope.' 
 
 Gladys laughed, and ran away to give Jackie his morning 
 lessons, while Dr. Tremain made his way to the breakfast-room. 
 
 He was not sorry to tind Mrs. Causton on the point of leaving-, 
 but unfortunately his appearance on the scene caused a repetition 
 of all her arguments. 
 
 'And do you really think it wise to take him in and let him 
 mix with your own children — a perfect stranger, a man of whom 
 you know nothing but evil '! ' 
 
 'On the contrary,' replied the doctor, half inclined to lose his 
 temper, ' I know a great deal of good about him.' 
 
 ' But it seems so unnecessary,' urged Mrs. Causton. ' No 
 one in his circumstances could object to being- taken to a hosjjital, 
 and, when he comes out, there are plenty of societies which would 
 gladly take him in hand. There are so many societies for young- 
 men, you know.' 
 
 ' 5ly dear Mrs. Causton ' — the doctor spoke almost fiercely— 
 ' what the poor fellow wants is a home, not a society ; he wants to 
 be treated as a son, not as a oase. I don't mean that societies are 
 not useful enough sometimes, but I do think we are too ready to 
 shunt on to them all that is not easy, self-indulgent, conventional 
 charity. Look at the good Samaritan now — himself, by the way, 
 an infidel and outcast — he did things all round ; no passing on to 
 committees and societies there, no holding- at arm's length lest 
 the poor fellow should stain his garments. He put himself to 
 some inconvenience — perhaps to some ritk, and gave the wounded 
 (Uim his own beu^t.' 
 
260 ONE AND ALL. 
 
 ' Of course no one disputes that the parable is a g-reat ex- 
 ample/ said Mrs. Causton, ' an example that we should all copy : 
 but still in this case ' 
 
 ' You would have me enact the priest and Levite/ interposed 
 the doctor, ' or pass on to some blundering- committee for probing 
 and examining- and questioning- a man who con scarcely bear to 
 be touched. I know quite well that you would have most of the 
 world on your side, for the good Samaritan style of giving is out 
 of fashion now ; we like to ride on in state and fling subscrip- 
 tions here and there. We don't like the trouble or the risk of 
 actually dismounting and walking on foot — it isn't political econ- 
 omy.' 
 
 'You may be right,' said Mrs. Causton, half convinced. 'And 
 yet, for the sake of Gladys specially, is it wise and prudent ? I 
 don't want to seem intrusive, but one cannot help seeing that 
 there are very grave objections to such an intimacy for her.' 
 
 No one spoke for some minutes. This view of the matter 
 had certainly not occurred to Dr. Tremain, and he was bound to 
 own that there was some truth in it. Was he putting his child 
 into a wrong position ? And yet could he, for the sake of a 
 distant and merely possible contingency, give up his guest ? 
 His perplexity did not last long ; he was not worldly-Avise, he 
 was not prudent, and, in defiance of the possible ill, he held 
 closely to the present good, trusting to God, and feeling perfect 
 confidence in Gladys. He had, moreover, with the strange 
 insight of humility, learnt enough of Donovan's real self to trust 
 in him too. The banker had exclaimed at the honour of an ex- 
 card-sharper, the doctor felt inexplicable yet entire confidence in 
 the truth of his patient. 
 
 ' Some risk and trouble and difficulty I owned to in the Sama- 
 ritan's giving,' he said at last. * I do not think it a risk which 
 one ought to shrink from. Were you ever in the Cluny Museum, 
 Mrs. Causton ? ' 
 
 ' Never.' 
 
 ' I remember two very striking representations there of Pru- 
 dence with her hands tied, and Charity with open arms.' 
 
 Mrs. Causton, not caring to discuss the question any more, 
 soon took leave. The doctor was glad to be alone with his 
 wife. 
 
 * You have not changed your mind ? ' he asked. ' You are 
 willing to be the open-armed Charity ? ' 
 
 ' Yes,' she replied, quietly, ' I am willing.' But there was 
 some effort in her voice, for she thought of the possible sorrow 
 which this charity might bring to Gladys. 
 
IN A HOME. 261 
 
 'Tlien, having made up our minds, let us live in the present, 
 and put away from us this idea, which I am half sorry has hecn 
 su<j;gostod at all,' said the doctor. ' No one will put any non- 
 sense into Gladys' head, and the friendship of a good sensible girl 
 will be a rai)ital thing for Donovan.' 
 
 Mrs. Tromain looked u]) at her husband and smiled, 
 
 ' How soon you have taken that poor fellow into your heart 
 of hearts ! Oh, Tom, how far I am behind you ! A dozen selfish 
 considerations have come into my head in the last five minutes. 
 I'm afraid I've little but pity for him.' 
 
 ' Then, dear, go and sjiend an hour in his room, and I'll under- 
 take to say that he will stand second only to Dick and Jackie in 
 your heart when you come out again.' 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 IN A HOME. 
 
 It is huTnan cTiaracfer or developed humanity . . . that condvictg lis to 
 our notion of the Character Divine. ... In proportion as the mysteries of 
 man's goodness uufokl themselves to us, in that i^roportion do we obtain an 
 insight into God's. 
 
 Essay on Blanco White. J. D, Mozley. 
 
 But the love slid into my soul like light. 
 
 Olrirj Grange. Walter C. Smith. 
 
 Donovan looked up with a smile of welcome as Mrs. Tremain 
 came into the room. He had been in too much pain to notice 
 her when she had visited him earlier in the morning, but now he 
 vi'as comparatively at ease, and was lying in listless quiet with 
 Waif on the bed beside him licking his hand. 
 
 Mrs. Tremain was not fond of dogs ; she was even a little 
 afraid of them, and she had a very natural feminine dislike to 
 .seeing a fox terrier lying on a clean counterpane. Donovan 
 divined this at once. 
 
 ' He oughtn't to be up here, I know,' he began, deprecatingly, 
 'but I can't keep him down, poor fellow ! he's always miserable 
 when I'm ill, and the worst of it is he won't obey orders, but 
 thinks it his turn to be master.' 
 
 ' Poor do"- ! ' said Mrs. Tremain, softening towards the 
 
262 IN A HOME. 
 
 offender and venturing- to pat him, * He does seem very tinbappy 
 about you ; it's really wonderful the amount of expression which 
 a dog- can put into his face.' 
 
 ' Yes, Waif and I can talk tog-ether quite easily. I don't 
 know what I should have done without him, specially when I 
 was laid up : he was often the only nurse I had.' 
 
 Then a question of Mrs. Tremain's led to an account of his 
 wretched winter, to a discussion of illness in g-eneral, to an 
 amusing-, though to Mrs. Tremain a somewhat sad description of 
 his various nurses, including- poor old Mrs. Doery, both in her 
 character of guardian of the sick and instructor of youth. 
 
 ' I have not been used to your kind of nursing-,' he added, 
 after a pause ; ' 3'ou must remember that, and not let me take up 
 your time ; I am afraid this dependence will unfit me for the 
 tussle with the world which I must g-o back to as soon as my 
 ankle is all r-ght.' 
 
 * You can hardly help being- dependent when you can't move,' 
 said Mrs. Tremain, smiling-. 
 
 ' No, but it's a training- in patience to be helpless and to 
 submit to being- muddled, whereas to lie still and be spoilt, 
 humoured, waited on, and amused must surely be demoralising-, 
 too pleasant and unusual to fit one for another plung-e into the 
 prickles of life.' 
 
 ' Only that life, however hard, can't be all prickles,' said Mrs. 
 Tremain. ' Don't you think a little spoiling-, as you call it, is 
 everyone's due at one time or another? From your own account 
 you have had to "roug-hit" a g-ood deal, and this perhaps is 
 your time for trying- dependence without all the discomforts you 
 now associate with it. Besides, I daresay you have h-ad your 
 share of waiting- on other people, and know that it is the 
 pleasantest work in the w'orld.' 
 
 Donovan's face chang-ed, and for some minutes he did not 
 speak. Mrs. Tremain saw that her words must have called up 
 some painful remembrance, and Waif too understood quite well, 
 for he sprang- up with his peculiar low whine and began to lick 
 his master's face. What could it be ? What painful chord had 
 she unknowingly touched ? 
 
 A violent start from Donovan caused Waif to jump down 
 from the pillow, and Mrs. Tremain to return from her musing-. 
 
 ' What is it ? ' she asked. 
 
 'I fancied I heard a little child's voice,' he said, rather 
 faintly. 
 
 ' I expect it is Nesta, she is playing- in the garden,' said Mrs. 
 Tremain. 
 
IN A HOME. 263 
 
 IIo (lid not answer foi* some minutes, l)ut lay with closed eyes 
 and a strant;-ely rigid face, the only movement beinj^- in the hand 
 Wait" was licking', which was clenched and unclenched convul- 
 sively. At hist, shifting' his position a little, he looked up again 
 and said, hurriedly, 
 
 ' Will you let me see her ? I am very fond of children.' 
 
 His voice more than anything- told of the severe strug'g'le he 
 had passed through, but, though Mrs. Trcmain doubted whether 
 he were fit for it, she did not like to refuse his request. She 
 went to the French window and called the little g'irl from the 
 lawn. 
 
 Four-year-old Nesta came trotting" in g'leefully, her little rosy 
 foce shaded b}'- a white sun hat, her pinafore full of daisies. 
 
 ' This is your youngest nurse,' said Mrs. Tremain, leadinj^ her 
 up to the bed. 
 
 Nesta looked half timidly at the invalid visitor whom she had 
 heard of; but the moment she caught sight of Waif, all her shy- 
 ness vanished, and she fairly clapped her hands. 
 
 ' Oh ! mother, mother, what a dear little dog' ! Is he doin' 
 to stay ? ' 
 
 'Yes, he has come for a long' visit,' said Mrs. Tremain, 
 lifting' her up to the pillow beside Donovan at his special request. 
 Waif allowed himself to be patted and caressed, and played at 
 ' trust and paid for ' obediently, but he was too low-spirited 
 about his master to show himself off well, and soon crept away 
 from the little g'irl to the other side of the bed, where he lay 
 with his sad brown eyes fixed on the invalid. 
 
 Then Nesta turned her attention to the new visitor, her shy- 
 ness speedily passing' off. 
 
 ' How drave you look ! ' she exclaimed, after scrutinizing' his 
 face for a minute or two. 
 
 Mrs. Tremain and Donovan both laughed, and then the 
 daisies tumliled out of the pinafore, and Nesta, being' reminded 
 by the sight of tliem of daisy-chains which were to have been 
 made, set to work busily, chattering' in her quaint unrestrained 
 way meanwhile. 
 
 Donovan had won her heart — as he always did win the hearts 
 of little children — and the daisy-chain which was to have been 
 for tlie favourite doll was now destined for him. 
 
 ' It will look very pretty, you know, on your white nig'ht- 
 down,' she said, with her irresistible baby laug-b. 
 
 Presently, with a puzzled face, came one of her abrupt 
 questions. 
 
 'What's 'ou name?' 
 
2G4 In a home. 
 
 But Donovan did not hear, for he was looking- abstractedly at 
 her bright eyes, trying- to see in them some likeness to Dot. And 
 they were a little like, for, although grey, they were in a transi- 
 tion state, and there was a peculiar shade of brown in the iris 
 which somehow made them like Dot's clear hazel. Moreover, 
 they had in them the same innocence, and even in a slight degree 
 the same look of heaven-taught love. 
 
 She repeated her question imperatively. 
 
 ' What's 'ou name / ' 
 
 He came back to the present with an effort, and answered, 
 gravely, but gently, 
 
 ' You must call me Dono.' 
 
 Nesta softly repeated the unusual name^ lingering over it half 
 doubtfully. 
 
 ' Don— 0, Mr. Dono.' 
 
 It was the first timo he had heard his child-name since little 
 Dot's death. He coaght Nesta in his arms and kissed her ])as- 
 sionately. 
 
 ' Oh ! oh ! oh ! ' shrieked Nesta, thinking it the beginning of 
 a game. ' The drate bear's dot me ; he's doin' to eat me.' 
 
 ' Not too noisy, my little girl,' said Mrs. Tremain, lifting her 
 away. Then, noticing the deathly paleness of Donovan's face, she 
 hastened to add, ' I think Mr. Dono has had enough of you to-day. 
 Mother will take 5'ou into the garden.' 
 
 ' Dood-bye, Mr. Dono, dood-bye,' said Nesta, as she was 
 carried off; but be did not answer. 
 
 Mrs. Tremain was a few minutes out of the room ; when she 
 came back she found Waif in great distress, for what had come 
 to his master he did not know. Donovan had buried his face 
 in the pillow, and, almost for t!ie first time in his life, was crying 
 like a child. 
 
 Four years ago Mrs. Tremain had had all her sympathy called 
 out for the reserved undemonstrative stranger whom she had 
 visited in his bereavement; love and tact had given her power 
 then, they gave her power now. She listened as only a mother 
 could have listened to the story of little Dot, gently drawing 
 Donovan on by her perfect sympathy, until there was little that 
 she did not know of those past times. How it all began, how it 
 was possible for her to win him to speak the name that for months 
 had not passed his lips, cannot be written or explained here. But 
 those who have known a real mother will understand at once, 
 and those who deem it impossible must be ' Donovans ' tbem- 
 selves, to whom sooner or later like sympathy will be given if it 
 is needed. 
 
IN A HOME, 265 
 
 And yet, in spite of Mrs. Tremain's present feelinos, she had 
 at first not been without a certain shrinking- from Donovan — 
 from close knowledge of a professed atheist. Away from him 
 this shrinking- had increased. It was not until she was brought 
 face to face with his individuality, till he was essentially Donovan 
 to her, not merely a strange visitor, that it was possible for love 
 to take its right place. But her husband's prophecy was true, 
 and before tlie day was over she had quite taken the invalid 
 guest into her mother's heart, and only loved him better for his 
 poverty of soul and body. 
 
 Class judgment, sweeping condemnation, are for the world, — 
 its ways of dealing with its outcasts; and though the ways are 
 neither good for condemners nor condemned, they will probably 
 last though this age. But there are a few people who are bold 
 enough to defy the world's opinion and to set at naught the 
 world's ways, because they have the way of Christ ever before 
 them, because they love tbe ignorant and sinning first, and by 
 reason of that love hate only the ignorance and sin that have led 
 them astray. 
 
 Even gentle and loving Mrs. Tremain had hitherto gone with 
 the world in thinking of atheists as a class to be shunned and 
 avoided, ratlier than as so many members of the great human 
 brotherhood who had fallen into a grievous mistake, and to whom 
 all possible justice, and love, and brotherliness must be shown. 
 Mrs. Causton, good as she was, still failed to see the need of 
 this. 
 
 'If a man voluntarily cuts himself off from religion, how is it 
 possible to treat him as a bi'other ? ' she argued. 
 
 Mrs. Tremain, being but newly persuaded herself of the pos- 
 sibility, did not answer, but looked to her husband. 
 
 And the doctor answered in his quiet way : 
 
 * I never could see the difliculty of that ; for the Fatherhood 
 of God seems to me to answer it all. Universal fatherhood 
 causes universal brotherhood, and the one is as really unalterable 
 as the other. That we do not see it to be so is surely our own 
 fault. As a rule, though, it is only those who believe that God 
 " gives up " souls, who treat men as outcasts. They are quite 
 logical in doing so. But, once believe that " lost" means " not 
 fjund yet," that the Good Shepherd seeks the sheep " until He 
 finds it," that the Fatherhood is for ever and ever — and then the 
 fact that your brotlier is mistaken Avill only make you love him, 
 and try to show your love to him, the more.' 
 
 Mrs. Causton was silent, for Dr. Tremain had touched on a 
 subject upon which they had long ago agreed to dilfer. She 
 
266 IN A HOME. 
 
 knew she was one of the ' logical ' people, and yet, in her heart, 
 she half inclined to the doctor's loving- breadth. She also began 
 to revolve in her mind schemes for 'converting' the stranger. 
 
 Meanwhile, apart from all discussions, and shielded from Mrs. 
 Causton's well-meaning but mistaken schemes by his continued 
 imprisonment, Donovan spent the most peaceful week of his life. 
 There was something indescribably restful in the atmosphere of 
 Trenant, a refinement about the daily small-talk, an entire 
 absence of that perpetual sitting in judgment on neighbours and 
 acquaintances which goes far to make the conversation in many 
 families, a peculiar quickness and readiness to perceive humour, 
 and a perfect understanding of that delicious family teazing 
 which is certainly the salt of home life. Though prevented by 
 his invalidism from coming into the very centre of all this, Dono- 
 van yet felt much of it in his sick-room. Of Gladys he saw 
 little, but Mrs. Tremain was constantly with him. Jackie and 
 Nesta were always ready to enliven him when he grew dull, and 
 the doctor gave him all his spare time, bringing his microscope, 
 or his fossils for arranging and sorting, or any of his hundred 
 and one naturalist hobbies, and turning the sick-room into some- 
 thing between a museum and an untidy workshop, 
 
 Donovan's love deepened day by day, ha could have lain in 
 contented silence for hours, just watching the doctor at his work, 
 and though they generally had plenty of animated talk together, 
 it was no necessity to him. The delight of knowing any man 
 whom he coidd unreservedly trust was in itself absorbing, and there 
 was much besides. Mrs. Tremain, wliom he admired and loved 
 scarcely less, and to whom he talked more, influenced him in a 
 way quite as much as her husband. Plaving once spoken to her 
 of Dot, he now continually returned to the subject, for he felt 
 there was not the danger in thinking of the past that there had 
 once been, and, daring to let it all come back to him, he was able 
 to realize that memory is indeed a priceless possession. Then, 
 too, in this week there came to liim, almost for the first time, a 
 flickering shadow of doubt with regard to one of his most posi- 
 tive convictions. He had looked on Christianity as a creed 
 which could not be connected with any practical kindliness of 
 life ; it had seemed to him merely a sort oi sauve qui pent. Now 
 at Trenant there Avas none of the conventional religion to which 
 he was only too well accustomed, biit he found himself constantly 
 reminded, in the small concerns of daily life, of that historical 
 Christ, for whose character he had conceived the greatest admira- 
 tion. Little or nothing was said, but Donovan felt that he was 
 in a perfectly new atmosphere. Whether these Tremains were 
 
IN A HOME. 267 
 
 living- under a delusion, ot course he could not say; he did not 
 wish even to think just now. 
 
 Strang-e, dronmy, delicious days ! often aftenvards in the heat 
 and struggle oi' life he looked back to them, nnd always associated 
 with them in his mind were snatches of ' In JMemoriam,' which, 
 in spite of his nssurances that he had an unpoetical temperament, 
 ]\Irs. Tremain read to him. He had spoken quite trul}', there 
 were very few poems w'hich could touch him, but the ' living- 
 poem' of childhood, and this one g'reat song* of immortality, took 
 possession of his very being-. The thin green volume was always 
 near his bed — he soon knew most of it by heart. 
 
 Meanwhile, Dr. Tremain, seeing- that his patient grew strong-er 
 in body and evidently happier in mind, began to dread more 
 and more the broaching- of that distasteful subject which was 
 constantly in his thoughts. He was of course, however, too wise 
 and too true a friend to put it off long- ; and at the end of the 
 week, when bis patient was well enough to be moved to a sofa 
 and be wheeled into the breakfast-room, he made an oppor- 
 tunity for the private talk which must reveal to Donovan all 
 his step-father's treachery. 
 
 The sofa had been placed by the open window, and Dono- 
 van was enjoying-, as only an invalid can enjoy, the delights of 
 a thorough change. His face was particularly bright and con- 
 tented when Dr. Tremain came in from his afternoon visits in 
 Porthkerran, with his mind made up to his disagreeable task; it 
 was therefore all the harder to speak, but the doctor knew he 
 had no right to delay an}' longer, and sitting- down near his guest 
 he began with but little preamble. 
 
 ' Are you up to a business talk this afternoon ? If so, I want 
 to speak to you about a matter w^hich has been troubling- me very 
 much for the last week — since the night you came, in fact.' 
 
 ' A talk about your business, I suppose,' said Donovan, * for 
 I, as I told you, am penniless, so my atf'airs don't admit of much 
 discussion.' 
 
 ' You are mistaken,' said the doctor. * You ought not to be 
 penniless, and it is solely with regard to your aflfiiirs that I have 
 been so troubled. I should have spoken to you before, but I 
 waited till you were stronger.' 
 
 Donovan looked perplexed ; the doctor continued, 
 
 * You told me the other day that yoiu- lather's will left every- 
 thing, unconditionally, to your mother, did you not ? 
 
 ' Certainly, or else I could not be in my present straits.' 
 
 'And you ought not to be,' said the doctor, unable to speak 
 as quietly as he wished. 'Donovan, before Colonel Farrant's 
 
268 IN A HOME. 
 
 death lie made and I witnessed another will, hy which the pro- 
 perty was left to you, your mother of course being* ' 
 
 His sentence was never finished, for Donovan started up, his 
 face white and set, but with a sort of fierce light about it. 
 
 'What!' he gasped, 'that villain destroyed it tben ! Tell 
 me more — quickly — who witnessed it ? when was it made ? — I 
 recollect nothing". Ai'e you sure — sure 1 ' 
 
 ' That it was legally correct, I am certain,' said the doctor ; 
 ' but do try to cpiiet yourself or I shall never be able to explain 
 it to you.' 
 
 ' I am quiet,' said Donovan, lying- back again with a marble 
 face. 'Go on, please j only let me hear all — and I'll not 
 interrupt.' 
 
 ' The afternoon your father died/ resumed the doctor, 'I came, 
 as you know, about three o'clock to visit him. He was very much 
 worried, for Mr. Turner, tbe lawyer, whom he specially wished to 
 see, was away, and he told me that knowing- his danger, that he 
 might really die at any minute, he was anxious to make his will 
 at once, so that all might be left straight for you. He explained 
 to me that his former will had been made just after his marriage, 
 and that he thought it wiser to make a fresh one. Of course 
 worry was the very worst thing for him, and, in order that he 
 might be at rest about it, I suggested that he should make his 
 own will temporarily, till a lawyer was at hand, and that seemed 
 to relieve him at once. Do you remember that I came to the 
 head of the stairs and called you ? ' 
 
 ' Perfectly,' replied Donovan, speaking with difficulty. ' You 
 asked for a sheet of writing-paper. I brought it to you.' 
 
 ' Yes, and on that paper, at Colonel Farrant's direction, I wrote 
 words to the elfect that he desn-ed to bequeath all his property 
 to you, that an ample allowance — I cannot recall the exact 
 amount — was to be made to Mrs. Farrant, and that Mr, Ellis Far- 
 rant was to be the sole executor. I remember he hesitated some 
 time about that, and tried to think of some one else who could 
 also be executor ; he said that the second named in his former 
 will had lately died. Thinking it, however, only a temporary 
 thing, he left Mr. Ellis Farrant's name alone.' 
 
 ' The witnesses ? ' asked Donovan. 
 
 'Myself and a servant, Mary Pengelly, who is dead.' 
 
 'Dead!' he exclaimed, a dark shade passing over his face. 
 'Then it's all up with me ; the will can't be proved.' 
 
 ' That is what I at first thought,' said the doctor. * But I 
 find.that destruction of a will is felony, and that one witness is 
 suificient. Directly I learnt your name and saw what must have 
 
IN A HOME. 2G9 
 
 happened I wrote to a solicitor I know in town, ami g-ave him all 
 the circumstances — of course, without names. He said that a 
 case miyht be made for you. But you see it would be a sort of 
 contest of character, and I think I understand you that Mr. Far- 
 rant is much respected in his neig'hbourhood, while neither you 
 nor I can show a stainless past. Then, too, the cost of an action: 
 would be enormous, and the result, of course, doubtful. I blame 
 m3'solf very much now for not having- taken steps to see that the 
 will was proved. A year or two afterwards, when we were in 
 town, I did half think of it when I happened to pass Somerset 
 House ; but some chance meeting- prevented me. If I had only 
 had more insight ! But I never dreamt of suspecting- treachery 
 in Mr. Farraiit,' 
 
 ' No, he is too bland, too clever, too consummate a hypo- 
 crite ! ' replied Donovan, bitterly. ' No one suspects him. He took 
 the will from you, I suppose, and showed all proper feeling-, and 
 none of his blackguardism.' 
 
 * I gave him the will directly after your father's funeral. He 
 took it quite unconcernedly ; I noticed nothing- the least remark- 
 ably in his manner. If only some one else had been present ! 
 If only I'd had the sense to be more cautious ! ' 
 
 ' Don't blame yourself,' said Donovan, his face softening- at 
 once. ' That would be just the one thing- I couldn't bear. It 
 was no manner of fault of yours ; if it had been, it would be easy 
 to put up with — I could endure anything- from you. But that 
 traitor, that villain, who all the time is looking as smug- and 
 proper as can be, who gives ?ni/ money to charities, who makes 
 merry in m_y house, who g-oes to church and calls himself a 
 " miserable sinner," and asks for mercy that he may g-o on com- 
 fortably ! How can you expect me to think relig-ion anything- 
 but a miserable sham, the veriest farce ? ' 
 
 There was a minute's silence when he paused, and, before the 
 doctor had ventured any answer to this very natural outburst, 
 the door opened, and Gladys came in, her hands full of blush- 
 roses and seringa. 
 
 • I have brought you some flowers,' she said, crossing- the 
 room to the sofa. ' You must not be cheated of your daily nose- 
 gay because you are getting- better.' 
 
 Nothing- could have quieted Donovan so effectually as this 
 interruption ; he watched in silence while Gladys arrang-ed the 
 flowers. Very pure and fresh and flower-like she looked herself. 
 
 When she left the room ag-ain he was the flrst to speak. 
 
 'Forg-ive me for what J said just no^v,' he beg-an, looking at 
 the doctor with the light of indignation in his eyes softened 
 
270 IN A HOME. 
 
 down to sadness. ' I was very wrong- to mock at the religion 
 you believe in. This last week you have almost made me think 
 there may, after all, be such a thing- as Christianity, I believe for 
 vou, at any rate, there is such a thing-. But the thoug-ht of 
 Ellis Farrant made me mad ! You must remember it is only 
 Viat kind of religion I have met with till now — that injustice and 
 loathing- and discourtesy are, with scarcely an exception, all that 
 I've received from religious people.' 
 
 ' God forg'ive them ! ' exclaimed the doctor. Then, after a 
 pause, ' But what I can't understand is the systematic way in 
 which Mr. Farrant must have managed everything-. A sudden 
 act of passion I can understand, but deliberately to plan and 
 calculate another's ruin ' 
 
 Donovan's face suddenly crimsoned. 
 
 ' Stop ! ' he cried. ' Don't say you can't have pity on such 
 meanness. Remember what I used to be ! ' 
 
 ' Your circumstances g-o far to excuse you,' were the words 
 which trembled on the doctor's lips, but he wisely kept them 
 back and did not break in upon the perfectly natural and right 
 shame by any speech. Instead, he just put his strong-, firm hand 
 on Donovan's. 
 
 After a long- silence Donovan looked up once more. He 
 seemed to have mastered the situation now, all indignation and 
 agitation of manner had left him, and Dr. Tremain was struck 
 by the sense and coolness with which he spoke. 
 
 ' The next thing- to be thoug-ht of is, what can we do ? Under 
 the circumstances, an action seems doubtfully wise, but I don't 
 think that for that reason I need sit still and do nothing- to rig-ht 
 myself Shall I send a letter to Ellis Farrant, and just tell him 
 that I have learnt all from you ? ' 
 
 ' I think, if you don't object,' said the doctor, * it would be 
 much better for me to go to Oakdene Manor and see Mr. Farrant. 
 A letter can be ignored, but if I can once see him I shall at 
 least g-et some definite answer from him. Will you consent to 
 that ? ' 
 
 ' It would of course be the best chance for me,' said Donovan. 
 'Only I can't endure that you should have the trouble and 
 annoyance.' 
 
 ' You think it is all like a game of " neighbour, I'm come to 
 torment you," ' replied the doctor, laughing. ' You having- come 
 to me, and^I being on my way to Mr. Ellis Farrant ! ' 
 
 ' Well, I've given you nothing- but trouble yet,' said Donovan. 
 ' And this horrid business will hinder you and take you away 
 from home.' 
 
IN A HOME. 271 
 
 ' My dear Donovan,' said the doctor, still laii,t>-hin;i-, ' you are 
 so exceedinj^-ly unlikely ever to be a busybody that I'll venture 
 to give you this maxim, " Thy business is mine, and mine thine, 
 it' there's the f;-host of a chance tliat we can either of us help the 
 other." Besides, have I not told you that we don't allow units 
 in Cornwall !* We're a joint-stock company, and as lonj^' as you 
 are here you must put up with all the seeming- eccentricities of 
 the " one and all " system.' 
 
 The doctor being- pretty free that week, it was arranged that 
 he should go to Greyshot the following' day, in the hope of 
 getting- an interview with Ellis Farrant. As soon as all was 
 settled, he left the room to speak to his wife, and to make arrange- 
 ments for his absence, while Donovan lay in what seemed almost 
 strange calmness. 
 
 He had learnt that the Manor was his by right, that there 
 was but a small chance of his getting it; he had also learnt that 
 his step-father's injustice had been far greater than he had hitherto 
 imagined. But then the repentance for his own past was grow- 
 ing more real and strong- each day, and his belief in g-oodness 
 and purity and love was struggling into life — his patience was 
 perhaps, after all, not so sti-ange ! 
 
 In the midst of this home, with its love, and peace, and 
 breadth of sympathy, his frozen heart was expanding. That verv 
 afternoon he had taken the first step towards foi-giveness, he had 
 placed himself on a level with his step-father, had not shrunk 
 from admitting- that he too had oifended in much the same way. 
 And strong- in his possession of love — this new strange family 
 love — he waited for what the future should bring, while in the 
 present all went on quietly, the very sounds of life seeming- full 
 of peace. The gardener mowing the lawn, the birds singing- in 
 the shrubbery, the children laughing- at their play, and in the 
 next room Gladys' voice singing as she worked ; he did not know 
 her song, but the refrain reached him through the open window • 
 
 ♦ And truth thee shall deliver, 
 It is no drede I ' 
 
272 OAKDEKE WANOP« 
 
 CHAPTER XXIIT. 
 
 OAKDENE MANOR. 
 
 Oh, righteous doom, that they who make 
 
 Pleasure their only end, 
 Ordering the whole life for its sake, 
 
 Miss that whereto they tend. 
 
 While they who bid stern duty lead, 
 
 Content to follow they, 
 Of duty only taking heed, 
 
 Find pleasure by the way. 
 
 Archbishop Trench. 
 
 For more than a year Ellis Farrant bad reigned supreme ai 
 Oakdene Manor, but, in spite of every effort to enjoy himself and 
 stifle bis conscience, be bad been exceedingly miserable. In the 
 winter after Mrs. Doery's return from nursing Donovan, be 
 worked bimself up into such a state of nervous terror tbat, bad 
 he possessed a trifle more resolution, be would probably have 
 confessed his crime and sought Donovan out at Monaco. But be 
 was weak, deplorably weak, and so he lived on at the Manor, a 
 misery to bimself and to everyone else. He interrogated the 
 housekeeper closely as to his step-son's means of living, asked 
 her endless questions about him, and received somewhat curt 
 answers, for Doery felt bound to take the part of her ne'er-do- 
 weel. Moreover, she brought him back all the money which he 
 had given her to use for the invalid, with an assurance tbat Mr. 
 Donovan would not touch it, bad been very angry with her for 
 trying to persuade him to pay the doctor's bill with it, and 
 had said tbat Mr. Farrant must salve his conscience in some 
 other way. 
 
 Poor Ellis ! it really had relieved him a little to sena those 
 two ten-pound notes to his victim, and to have them thrown back 
 in his face seemed hard; they made him feel uncomfortable for 
 days. At last be put them m the church plate and was at ease 
 again. 
 
 But his remorse having only reached the stage of desiring the 
 personal comfort of restitution, it was scarcely w'onderful tbat 
 when a chance of honest confession was given him he rejected it. 
 He cared nothing for Donovan, he only wanted to enjoy the sense 
 of innocence again, to escape from the horrible dread of future 
 punishment which perpetually haunted bis poor, selfish soul. 
 Naturally enough, remorse on such a basis was like the house 
 
OAKDENE MAXOn. 273 
 
 built u])on the sand, ami when, ono afternonn in July, a card was 
 brought into tlio smoking--room bearing- the words — ' Dr. Tre- 
 niain, Tronant, Poi-thkerran,' Ellis, haU" crazy with terror, was 
 driven to take refuge in cunning-. 
 
 The doctor meanwhile waited in the drawing-room, involun- 
 tarily taking stock of this place which by right belonged to his 
 ]>ationt, and strug-g-ling to keep his indignation within bounds, 
 that he might be coorenough for the coming- interview. But he 
 was not at all prepared for the manner of his reception. 
 
 The door opened, the master of the house came forward with 
 outstretched hand, an easy-mannered country gentleman, full of 
 "•enial hospitality; this was the character which Ellis desired to 
 assume, and he acted his part splendidly. 
 
 ' I think I have had the pleasure of meetmg- you before, Dr. 
 Tremain,' he said, in a hearty voice. ' Delighted to see you, sir ; 
 I assure you we have none of us forg-otten your courtesy at the 
 time of my poor cousin's death. Are you staying in the neigh- 
 bourhood ? ' 
 
 ' I came solely for the purpose of seeing- you,' said the doctor, 
 g-ravely. 'Mr. Farrant, you seem to have some remembrance of 
 our meeting- at Porthkerran, after Colonel Farrant's death. 
 Excuse the seeming- impertinence, but have you no remembrance 
 of the Colonel's will which I then placed in your hands '! ' 
 
 There was not a trace, not the smallest sign of guilt in Ellis's 
 face. He raised his eyebrows, and for a moment stai-ed blankly 
 at the doctor. 
 
 ' My good sir, I am quite ready to excuse all seeming- imper- 
 tinence, but I am utterly at a loss to understand your meaning-.' 
 
 * Your memory must be capricious,' said the doctor. ' Do you 
 recollect your cousin's funeral ?' 
 
 * Certainly,' replied Ellis, with all due dig-nity. 
 
 'Do you recollect that, after the funeral, we returned to the 
 inn, and that I then g-ave you a sheet of paper, on which Colonel 
 Farrant had made his will, under circumstances which I described 
 to you ? ' 
 
 A lig-ht as of dawning perception beg-an to steal over Ellis's 
 face. 
 
 * Ah ! now I know to what you refer 1 ' he exclaimed. ' For- 
 give my apparent forg-etfulness. I assure you it was not forget- 
 fulness of your services, but merely of the business transaction. 
 Yes, I remember perfectly now. It was a codicil, which, I 
 believe, you yourself witnessed, and in which my cousin left a 
 legacy to a comrade of his out in India.' 
 
 * Mr. Farrant, seeing that I wrote the will from the Colonel's 
 
 T 
 
274 OAKDENE MANOR. 
 
 dictation, you must at once see that it is useless to evade tlie 
 truth in this way,' said Dr. Tremain, controlling- his temper with 
 difficulty. 'The will directed that this property should be 
 bequeathed to Donovan Farrant, the Colonel's only son ; and I 
 am here to-day to demand of you why he is not in possession 
 of it' 
 
 'My dear sir, you are labouring- under a most extraordinary 
 delusion,' said Ellis, with a smile. ' You are most entirely mis- 
 taken. But, putting that aside, I really may have the right to 
 ask why you intrude into my personal concerns. You are almost 
 a stranger to me, and thoug-h I shall be delighted to show you 
 any hospitality in my power, yet, sir, I think you must allow that 
 to establish an inquisition with regard to my private aftairs is, 
 to say the least of it, unusual. As the proverb has it, you know, 
 
 " An Englishman's house is his castle," and though ' 
 
 ' If it 7V(re your house,' interrupted the doctor, ' I should not 
 have intruded myself upon you, but I come now as the represent- 
 ative of the right owner, who lies ill at my own home.' 
 
 ' Oh ! the mystery begins to explain itself, then,' said Ellis. 
 'I am exceedingly sorry for you, Dr. Tremain, but I see now 
 that you have been imposed upon by that miserable step-son 
 of mine. I suppose Donovan has been fabricating this tale ? He 
 is a very clever fellow, and no doubt his story was plausible 
 enough.' 
 
 'You know quite well, Mr. Farrant, that Donovan was ignorant 
 of the true facts of the case, and that it was he who learnt them 
 from me, not I from him. Since, howevei', you so wilfully refuse 
 to acknowledge what you must be aware 1 know perfectly well, 
 may I ask you to produce this codicil which you speak of, or to 
 prove to me that this legacy was ever paid ? ' 
 
 ' It never was paid,' said Ellis, coolly. ' I was, as you re- 
 member, named as sole executor, and of course put myself at once 
 in communication with this Indian friend. I can't even recall 
 the fellow's name now. Perhaps you can, having- written the 
 codicil. But, poor man, he died of cholera a week before the 
 Colonel's death. The codicil was of course worthless then, and 
 was, I believe, destroyed. So you see I cannot offer you more 
 proof. Now, if you will excuse me, where is the proof of 3/owr 
 assertion ? Where is your second witness ? ' 
 
 ' The second witness of Colonel Farrant's will — Mary Pengelly 
 — is dead,' said the doctor. 
 
 Ellis, immensely relieved, burst out laughing-. 
 ' 'Pon my word, Dr. Tremain, this really is a most ridiculous 
 affair. You, with no manner of proof, expect me to believe your 
 
OAKDENE MANOR. 275 
 
 assertion, and I am intlie unfortunate dilemma of havino; nothing- 
 to convince you of my assertion. We might g'o on arguing- till 
 Doomsday, and be no nearer any agreement.' 
 
 ' Yes, I see that discussion is useless,' said the doctor, very 
 gravely, 'but it was my duty to let you know that your doings 
 were discovered. It is also my duty to tell you that Donovan is 
 utterly destitute, and that if something is not ' 
 
 He was interrupted by a fresh voice. 
 
 'Who is speaking of Donovan ?' exclaimed Adela Farrant, 
 suddenly appearing at the open window. She was in her shady 
 hat and gardening gloves, and in passing along the terrace she 
 had caught the name which during the last year had passed into 
 silence like that of little Dot. 
 
 * This gentleman has come to see me on business, Adela, I 
 must beg that you do not interrupt us,' said Ellis, half forgetting 
 his role. But Adela was not to be sent away like a child, and 
 her brother's words only made her the more sure that the strange 
 gentleman had brought news of Donovan. 
 
 ' How is my cousin Donovan ? "she asked, boldly turning to 
 Dr. Tremain. ' I am sui*e I heard you speaking of him.' 
 
 * Yes, you are quite right,' replied Dr. Tremain, rising from 
 his seat. ' I was telling Mr. Farrant that Donovan is now staying 
 with me at Porthkerrau, that he is without means of subsistence, 
 and that he has had a hard struggle to live honestly ; he would 
 have got on well enough if his health had not given way. I have 
 been urging Mr. Farrant to be just to him, but I fear with 
 little success.' 
 
 ' Wait a minute,' said Adela, with her usual prompt decision ; 
 'wait just one minute.' She hurried across the room to the 
 window, and called, clearly and ixnhesitatingly, ' Nora ! Nora ! ' 
 
 ' 1 do wish, Adela, you would be more careful,' exclaimed 
 Ellis. ' It will agitate Nora dreadfully to hear about Donovan.' 
 
 ' Let it,' said Adela, scornfulh'', ' she ought to be agitated.' 
 
 ' I shall not attempt to resume our discussion,' said Dr. 
 Tremain, coldly, when Adela went out on to the terrace to meet 
 Mrs. Farrant. ' Only I hope you understand the gi'ave responsi- 
 bility which you incur.' 
 
 Ellis would have replied, but at that minute Adela returned 
 with her sister-in-law. 
 
 Time had dealt kindly with Mrs. Farrant, she was still pretty, 
 languid, gentle, and lady-like ; but there was a shade of sadness 
 in her face now which had never been seen in past days. Con- 
 sidering the unusual circumstances, her manner was marvellously 
 composed, however, as she gave her hand to the doctor. 
 
 T 2 
 
276 OAKDENE MANOR. 
 
 ' Miss Farrant tells me you have news of my son,' she said, in 
 her calm voice. ' I hope he is well ? ' 
 
 Dr. Tremain was so annoyed at the apparent want of feeling' 
 that he answered, almost sharply, 
 
 ' Ko, madam, he is anything- hut well. Twice this year he 
 has heen at death's door. He came to me a week ago penniless 
 and half starving-.' 
 
 The next minute he almost regretted that he had spoken 
 with such impetuosity, for he saw that after all she had some- 
 thing of a mother's heart hidden away in folds upon folds of 
 self-love. Her eyes dilated. 
 
 ' No, no ! ' she cried. ' You must he mistaken ; it surely 
 can't be my son ! Donovan ill — Donovan starving! Oh ! Ellis ! 
 you must have pity on him — you must help him ! ' 
 
 ' My dear Nora, I have offered to help him before now, and 
 he flung the money back in my face,' said Ellis. 
 
 'You must remember that in the last week his position 
 towards you is changed,' said Dr. Tremain. ' That you can 
 leave liim in his present straits without help I simply will not 
 believe.' 
 
 Mrs. Farrant began to question the doctor about her son's 
 illness, allowing- more and more of her real love to come to the 
 surface, while Adela went over to her brother and began to 
 remonstrate with him. 
 
 ' Now, Ellis, do this boy justice, and make him a proper 
 yearly allowance,' she urged. * Give him his £300 a year, and 
 perhaps in time I may come to respect you again. You can't say 
 now that you sent him off in a sudden iit of passion, for here is a 
 chance for you to set all right, and, if you don't take it, you'll be 
 the most mean-spirited of mortals.' 
 
 Ellis smiled a grey smile. How little Adela knew what 
 setting- all right would involve ! However, he would do some- 
 thing- for his step-son, only not too much, for he had a seliish 
 dread lest Donovan might possibly use the mone}^ against him, 
 be tempted to go to law about this will, or in some way make 
 life uncomfortable to him. So with pitiable meanness he scoffed 
 at Adela's £300, and Avrote instead an agreement by which he 
 bound himself to pay to his step-son £50 half-yearly. 
 
 He gave the promise to Dr. Tremain with as condescending- 
 a manner as if he had been bestowing- a princely favour, all the 
 time knowing quite well that the very chair he sat on belonged 
 to Donovan. Dr. Tremain took the paper without a word, and 
 turned to Mrs. Farrant. 
 
 ' I cannot say that this will convince Donovan that there is 
 
OAKDENE MANOR. 277 
 
 such a tiling' as truth and justice in the woild, but it will do Jiim 
 some good to know that he still has your love, Mrs. Farrant. You 
 will send him some mossnge, 1 hope.' 
 
 Her tears were Howini;- fast, but she made an effort to check 
 tliem. 
 
 ' Tell him I know I failed when we were too'cther, that it was 
 my fault. And oh ! do be g'ood to him, Dr. Tremain — make him 
 understand that I do love him.' 
 
 ' I think that message will help him on,' said the doctor, 
 warmly. ' It is very good of you to entrust it to me. For the 
 rest, I can only say that I will treat him like my own son.' 
 
 With that he rose to go, but he had scarcely left the 
 house when he was called back. Mrs. Farrant hastened towards 
 him. 
 
 ' One moment, Dr. Tremain — will you take this to Donovan ? ' 
 She drew a ring from her finger. ' Ask him, if he still loves me, 
 to wear it ; tell him how I have longed to hear of him, how 
 thankful I am of your visit to-day.' 
 
 ' And as for me,' exclaimed Adela, coming forward and putting 
 her hand in the arm of her sister-in-law. ' Please tell Donovan 
 that I, being a free agent, shall write to him now that I know 
 his whereabouts. I don't see why a freak of my brother's should 
 come between us, and I shall expect him to answer me for the 
 sake of old times.' 
 
 And so ended Dr. Tremain's visit. He left the Manor with 
 mingled feelings ; in one way he had received more than he ex- 
 pected, in another less. But the atmosphere of the place was 
 unspeakably wretched, and the doctor was long in losing his 
 keen impression of it. A loveless home, a treacherous scheming 
 man for the head of the house, his languid wife, his rather 
 flippant sister, among such influences as these Donovan had. 
 grown up. And yet in every one there was some good, entirely 
 latent good in Ellis certainly, but in Mrs. Farrant there was a 
 genuine touch of motherliness, in Adela a certain desire for justice 
 and willingness to befriend the ill-used. 
 
 There Avas, too, one influence which Dr. Tremain had for- 
 gotten. He had learnt from his wife the story of little Dotj the 
 sight of the church tower in the valley, with its giant yew-tree 
 and clustering grave-stones, reminded him that there had been 
 another member of the Manor household — that Donovan had 
 had at least one ray of heaven's own sunlight in his life. He 
 made his way to the little churchyard, and without much difli- 
 culty found Dot's grave j but as he looked down at the marble 
 cross, with its inscription of ' I am the resurrection and the life,' 
 
278 OAKDENE MANOR. 
 
 bis thoug'hts were more of the living' Donovan than of the little 
 child "vvho ' after life's fitful fever' rested well. How that cross 
 and motto must have mocked him in his hopeless grief! — how ha 
 must have dashed his heart against words to him so hollow and 
 meaningless ! The realization of what his sorrow must have 
 been came to the doctor overpoweringly. For the first time he 
 fully understood the ever-present look of pain in Donovan's eyes ; 
 it was there when he spoke of other things, when he was at ease, 
 even when he was laughing — a look of hunger which could never 
 be satisfied. If anything could have deepened the doctor's love 
 for his guest, it would have been the sight of that hopeless grave. 
 He turned away at last, feeling no longer the oppression of his 
 visit to the Manor, for he was communing- with that very Resur- 
 rection and Life who alone could lighten Donovan's heart. 
 
 It was not till the afternoon of the following- day that he 
 reached home. The house was quiet and deserted, but in the 
 garden there were sounds of distant voices, following- which the 
 doctor was led to the orchard. There all the home party were 
 gathered together, Mrs. Tremain working, Gladys reading aloud, 
 Donovan lying on his wheeled couch under the shade of an old 
 apple-tree, and in the background the two little ones at play. 
 They looked so comfortable that he was loth to disturb them, but 
 Jackie in climbing one of the trees caught sight of him, and in a 
 minute, with shrieks of delight, had rushed forward announcing 
 his advent. 
 
 Donovan's colour rose a little, but he waited patiently till all 
 the greetings were over; then Gladys put down her book, and 
 by a promised game of hide and seek drew the children away, so 
 that her father might be able to talk uninterruptedly. 
 
 *I have not fared well,' he began, in answer to the mute 
 inquiry in Donovan's face, * i)ut I have at least seen Mr. Farrant, 
 which is something.' 
 
 Then he described the interview as well as he could, and 
 Donovan listened without the slightest comment until the doctor 
 spoke of Mrs. Farrant. 
 
 'You saw her ! ' he exclaimed. 'I am very glad of that. Tell 
 me more. Was she looking well — happy ? ' 
 
 * Scarcely happy, but then she was naturally upset by hearing 
 of your illness, and of the troubles you have been through.' 
 
 ' You must be mistaken. She never really cared for me ; she 
 would never show more than a well-bred interest, and that only 
 because she was listening to a stranger.' 
 
 * I think, Donovan, you are very much mistaken,' said the 
 doctor, quietly. ' The mistake may be very natural, but I am 
 
OAKDBNE MANOR. 279 
 
 sure that if you had seen your mother j^ou couldn't for one 
 moment have doubted her love. But stay, I have a message 
 for you.' 
 
 lie repeated Mrs. Farrant's words just as they had been 
 spoken to him. Donovan was touched and surprised. 
 
 ' Did she really say that ! ' he exclaimed. ' Don't think me 
 too unnatural and hard-hearted, but I can scarcely believe it. 
 You are sure those were her words.' 
 
 * Quite sure,' said the doctor, smiling. ' And I brin[>" you 
 substantial proof. I had left the house when she called me back, 
 anil be<;'g'ed me to take you this ring- of hers, and to ask you, if 
 you still loved her, to wear it. The very last thing- she said was, 
 '* Tell Donovan how I have long-ed to hear from him, and how 
 thankful I am for your visit." ' 
 
 ' Poor mother! she must be very much changed,' said Dono- 
 van, taking the ring", and turning- it slowly round in his thin 
 fingers. The stone was a white cornelian, and on it was en- 
 graved the Farrant motto. It was a ring- which he remembei'ed 
 to have seen on his mother's hand since his childhood. 
 
 The doctor watched him a little curiously, for there was some 
 hesitation in his manner as he twisted the ring- from side to side. 
 At length, however, he put it on very deliberately, then looking- 
 at the doctor he said, with a sigh, 
 
 'After all, I am half sorry she has done this. I am afraid 
 it is a sign that she is unhappy in the present, that Mr. Farrant 
 is making- her miserable, as I always prophesied he would. I 
 would rather have been without her love, and believed her to be 
 happy, as she was at first after her marriage.' 
 
 ' But supposing the old happiness were false, and that through 
 the disappointment she came to realize the truth?' suggested the 
 doctor. 
 
 '■ The truth — at least, if her love to me is true — can't do her 
 much good, can in fact only make her unhappy,' said Donovan. 
 ' She will never see me, and of what earthly use is love if you 
 can't do something to prove it by service ? That is Avhy I half 
 doubted about wearing this ring ; I shall never be able to do any- 
 thing for my mother. I believe I do love her 5 but love without 
 service is the ghost of love, hardly worth the name.' 
 
 ' You are right, I think, in all but one thing,' said the doctor. 
 ' You can prove your love by this : you wish to help your mother, 
 but circumstances prevent you. If she were left alone in the 
 world you would be the first to go to her.' 
 
 ' Y'es,' said Donovan, with emphasis. 
 
 ' And, besides,' continued the doctor, ' I don't agree that she 
 
280 OAKDENE MANOR. 
 
 does notliing for you. Does she not make the world a better 
 place to you ? Is it not somethinj^' that you can say to yourself, 
 " I am not cheated of this g'oodly birthrig-ht — I have a mother 
 after all " ? Is it not a great thing to know thgre is some one 
 thinking of you, loving you — perhaps praying for you ? ' 
 
 '■I can't do that for her,' he replied in a low voice. 
 
 * No, not yet/ said the doctor, quietly j and then there was a 
 long silence. 
 
 At last Donovan spoke. 
 
 ' You said that Mr. Farrant promised to make me some allow- 
 ance. I suppose I'm not bound to accept it ? ' 
 
 ' No, but I advise you to do so,' said the doctor, unable to help 
 smiling at the very evident look of distaste which his words 
 called up. 'You see, to begin with, £100 a year is better than 
 nothing — that's the common-sense view ', and, from a higher 
 point, I don't think it will do you any harm to endure the disci- 
 pline of those half-yearly cheques.' 
 
 Donovan laughed outright. 
 
 ' I think I see myself writing the receipts every six months 
 in the style of a Greyshot tradesman. " D. F., with best thanks, 
 and soliciting Mr. Farrant's esteemed patronage for the future." ' 
 
 The doctor was not a little relieved to hear such a hearty 
 laugh, he laughed himself, but waited for Donovan to go on 
 with the discussion. With amusement still flickering about his 
 face he continued, 
 
 ' Still, the great question is unsolved, what else am I to do be- 
 sides eating these half-yearly slices of humble pie ? ' 
 
 ' What have you a taste for ? ' asked Dr. Tremain. 
 
 'For nothing in the world except doctoring,' said Donovan, 
 with decision. ' I suppose it's no good thinking of it though. 
 The training is very long, isn't it ? ' 
 
 ' Four years,' said Dr. Tremain. ' The longest of any of the 
 professions. But if you've a real inclination for it, you should 
 certainly follow your bent. In many ways I think you are well 
 fitted for it.' 
 
 ' Do you really ? ' exclaimed Donovan. ' I was afraid Nature 
 had fitted me for nothing' but the work of a mathematician, and I 
 should be afraid to try that now.' 
 
 ' Why ? ' asked the doctor, surprised at such an admission. 
 
 ' Because I know I'm as hard as nails already, and don't want 
 to get more so.' 
 
 ' Proverbially, you know, the medical course hardens men, 
 for a time at least, but every rule has its exceptions, and I half 
 fancy you would make an exception to this.' 
 
THE IDEAL WOMAN. 281 
 
 'ITow about tlio entrnncc iecs at the hospital V 
 
 ' Uno hundred ])oiiiids, but you can pay by instalments. 
 Tliore are many other expenses, thoug-h, and you must live mean- 
 Avhile. I don't quite see how you can do it. However, we will 
 manag'e it somehow between us. A real inclination such as this 
 ought not to be neglected.' 
 
 * You have g-iven me enoug-h discipline, though, already,' said 
 Donovan. ' I can't become utterly dependent. Don't think me 
 ungrateful, but unless I can scrape throug-h on my hundred 
 pounds a year I won't go up. But it must be possible — I'll do 
 it somehow. I suppose there are scholarships, too, at most of the 
 hospitals ?' 
 
 Upon this ensued a long- discussion as to the respective merits 
 of St. Bartholomew's and St. Thomas's, and that evening it was 
 arranged that Donovan should become a student at the latter 
 hospital, llis" thoughts were successfully drawn from Ellis 
 Farrant and the Oakdene proper t}', by the prospect of going- up 
 in two months' time for his preliminary. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 THE IDEAL WOMAN. 
 
 But am I not the nobler through thy love ? 
 O tliree times less uuworth}- ! likewise thou 
 Art m<n-e thro' Love, aud greater thau thy years. 
 The sua will run his orbit, aud the moou 
 Her circle. Wait, and Love himself will bring 
 The drooping flower of knowledge changed to fruit 
 Of wisdom. Wait: my faith is large in Time, 
 And that which shapes it to some perfect end. 
 
 Tennyson. 
 
 'You look very hot and very much bored. Don't you think 
 those great books are too dull for a summer morning-?' exclaimed 
 Gladys, coming- into the breakfast-room, where Donovan was 
 working one sunny day in August. 
 
 The table was dragg-ed up to his couch, and, to all appearance, 
 he was very busy with his examination work. 
 
 * It is not the Mr/ books that bore me,' he said in reply. 
 
 * But something- has certainly ha})pencd to you since breakfast 
 time,' said Gladvs, lauj^hing-. * Can Aunt Marg-aret have been 
 here?' 
 
282 TH» IDEAL WOMAN. 
 
 There was such naivete in her tone that Donovan could not 
 help laug'hing". 
 
 ' Yes/ he replied, ' Mrs. Causton has heen here for the last 
 hour. She is very — kind-hearted.' 
 
 Gladys smiled. 
 
 * Yes, very, but she worries people. Papa says it is because 
 she thinks there is only one side. As if, you know, we were all 
 made alike ! ' 
 
 *I told you it wasn't the big books that bored me,' said 
 Donovan. 'What do you think of this?' He handed her a 
 little brown volume, and turning- to the title-page Gladys read — 
 ' An Inquiry into the Nature, Symptoms, and Elfects of Religious 
 Declension, with the Means of Recovery.' 
 
 The colour rose in her cheeks. 
 
 ' Oh ! I am so sorry ! ' she exclaimed. ' 1 hope — I hope you 
 haven't minded it very much ? ' 
 
 ' I've no business to mind it, for she was very kind ; but there 
 are some subjects which I had rather have touched reverently. 
 Do you think that kind of spiritual hay-making- does much good? 
 that raking- up of feelings, that tossing- of texts ? It's the first 
 time I've come across it.' 
 
 ' Except when you met us in the train that day and Auntie 
 g-ave you the tracts.' 
 
 Donovan laughed a little at the remembrance. 
 
 ' Do you know thoug'h meeting- you that day made me feel 
 very much ashamed of myself; I never can think of those tracts 
 without laughing-. The first of mine was ' Are you a drunkard ? ' 
 and the second ' Are you a swearer ? ' We had a parrot at our 
 rooms, a capital talker, but, like almost all parrots, it did swear 
 most dreadfully ; some one fastened these tracts to its cage, and 
 taught it to ask the questions — a very naughty thing, wasn't it ? 
 but irresistibly comic' 
 
 ' Poor Aunt Margaret ! what would she say 1 ' exclaimed 
 Gladys. 
 
 'It is not tracts that are wanted,' continued Donovan. 
 ' Beautiful lives are the best arguments, the only ones which will 
 ever influence me.' 
 
 ' Lives like your little sister's,' said Gladys, gently. 
 
 ' Yes,' he replied ; then, after a pause, ' Not that her life was 
 what some people would have approved j she never thought much 
 of what is called the soul, she was a little Undine till she was 
 nearly thirteen.' 
 
 ' Was she thirteen when she died ? I had fancied her j'-ounger 
 somehow.' 
 
THE IDEAL WOMAN. 
 
 ic;3 
 
 'So she was really in mind and ways,' he said, quietAy. ' She 
 was a thomug-h child. Your little Ncsta reminds me of her, 
 thoui^h I don't sn))])ose you would see any likeness,' 
 
 He took the little miniature out and placed it in her hands. 
 Gladys looked at it in silence ; it was a most beautiful child's face, 
 with delicate features, clear, pale complexion, arched and pencilled 
 eyebrows, and glorious hazel eyes — eyes which she thou<>'ht very 
 much like Donovan's, only they were quite without the sadness 
 which lurked in his. 
 
 ' Thank you so much for letting me see it,' she said, giving: it 
 back to him. ' She must have been far lovelier than little INesta j 
 but I think I do see the likeness you mean. Was this taken long 
 before she died ? ' 
 
 ' No, only a few months before,' replied Donovan. ' It was 
 taken when we were staying at Codrington, and she was just 
 beginning to puzzle herself over all the unanswerable questions. 
 We talked one day about death, and of course I had no comforting 
 things to tell her about it, I couldn't tell her what I believed to 
 be untrue. Then for a time the thought of it haunted us both. 
 There was an artist staying in the hotel, and I got him to do 
 this miniature for me, knowing that the separation must come 
 some day, but not dreaming that it would be so soon.' 
 
 ' And did she ever learn that death is not an endless separa- 
 tion ? ' ask Gladys, the tears welling up into her eyes. 
 
 ' Yes,' he answered, quietly ; ' she learnt all that could make 
 her happy, how I don't know. Isn't it strange how easily belief 
 comes to some ? I would give worlds to be able now to believe 
 what you believe, to feel certain that I'd got hold of the real 
 truth, but I cannot, it's an impossibility.' 
 
 ' Oh, don't say that ! ' said Gladys, quickly, ' leave yourself 
 at least a hope, or how will you ever have the heart to go on 
 searching for the truth ? It may not always seem impossible to 
 you.' 
 
 Her sweet, eager face, with its entire absence of selt-conscious- 
 ness, took Donovan's heart by storm ; hitherto she had influenced 
 him, fascinated him, but now for the first time he knew that he 
 loved her, 
 
 ' Life is full of strange surprises,' he answered. ' You may be 
 right, I'll unsay that " impossible." ' 
 
 Tlien with a strange new sense of love in his heart, and the 
 craving for her sympathy, he told her all about Dot's death, and 
 Gladys' tears fell fast as she heard the details of that last night, 
 and realized how terribly Donovan must have suffered. 
 
 From that time there was a great difference in their inter- 
 
284 THE IDEAL WOMAN. 
 
 course ; they talked nnicli more freely, g'lidiug- into a sort of 
 brotherly and sisterly ixitimacy- — at least, so it seemed. Donovan, 
 though conscious of his love, was not in the frame of mind to 
 think of the future, it "was quite enough for him to live in the 
 present, knowing- and loving- Gladys ; and she, beginning- with 
 the wish to give him a little of the sister's love which he missed 
 so much, drifted imperceptibly, unconsciously, into a love alto- 
 g-ether different. 
 
 Very happy to both of them were those summer weeks. In 
 the long- morning's Donovan worked hard for his examinations, in 
 the afternoon there were merry g-atherings in tlie shady old 
 orchard, games with the children, reading- aloud, or attempts at 
 sketching. 
 
 One afternoon, when they were all sitting in the shade of the 
 great mulberry-tree, engrossed in their own various books, Gladys 
 looked up laughing. 
 
 ' Just listen to this ! How would you have liked it ? " He 
 was constantly annoyed by being asked to write his likes and 
 his dislikes in ladies' albums." ' 
 
 ' I know the horrid inventions,' said Donovan. ' A cousin of 
 mine used to be always boring people to write in hers — their ideas 
 of pleasure, pain, beauty, and so on.' 
 
 ' Rather fun too, I think,' said Gladys. ' Only that one's 
 ideas would be always changing.' 
 
 ' I should have no difficulty in writing some of my ideas now,' 
 said Donovan. 'The idea of happiness would certainly be "a 
 sprained ankle at Trenant," and the idea of beauty, " the long 
 grass and daisies in this orchard with the sunshine on them.'" 
 He added, in his thoughts, ' And Gladys sitting with her book 
 among the daisies.' 
 
 Sometimes, in the cool of the evening, they used to drive 
 out in the ])ony-chaise, along- by the sea, or through the narrow 
 lanes with their high, mossy banks, pausing now and then at 
 some cottap;e to leave a message, or to visit some of Mrs. Tremain's 
 innumerable friends among the poor. There was very little 
 society round Porthkerran. In the winter Gladys sometimes 
 went to one or two dances at some distant country house. In the 
 summer there was an occasional picnic or garden-party, but the 
 neighbourhood was thinly populated, and the distances were too 
 great for very much visiting. So Porthkerran formed a little clan 
 of its own ; and as by good chance the squire and the rector were 
 both fond of natural history, Dr. Tremain was able to gather 
 round him a small scientific society. This, with the exception of 
 the constant visits of Mrs. Causton, and of their nearest neigh- 
 
THE IDEAL WOMAN. 285 
 
 boTir, a jocose old mnn, Admiral Smith, constituted the clan proper. 
 But the Trcmains know almost everyone in the little hshing- 
 towu, and, thoug-h Gladys never undertook formal district-visiting", 
 she was welcomed in any house, and there was scarcely a child 
 in the place whom she did not know at least by name. 
 
 She was therefore never idle and never dull. There were 
 always plenty of tragedies and comedies going on among her 
 large circle of friends, in both of which she was interested. Or 
 there were orphans to be sent to school, or blind people to be 
 read to, or twin babies who must be worked for, or sick children 
 to be amused. Donovan liked to watch her busy life ; she 
 evidentl}' enjoyed it so much. 
 
 There was one event, too, which was constantly being talked 
 of, namely, Dick's return from sea. He was expected in Sep- 
 tember, and Donovan used to listen half sadly to the daily hopes 
 and wonders as to his ]irogress. When the papers came, there 
 was always a rush to find the latest ' Shipping Intelligence,' and 
 delighted exclamations when H.M.S. CcrVcrus was mentioned as 
 having left some port on her homeward journey. How strange 
 it must be to be loved, and watched and waited for so eagerly ! 
 
 By this time the first cheque from Ellis had been received 
 and acknowledged, and immediately Donovan made use of the 
 money to recover Dot's clock from the Liverpool pawnbroker's. 
 He also sent a ten-pound note to the hospitable Devonshire man 
 who had helped him out of the Foxtor mire. This last piece of 
 gratitude was perhaps slightly rash, considering his very narrow 
 means, but he could not rest till he had sent it. 
 
 His ankle was now quite recovered, and in September he was 
 able to go up for his examination, but not before he had pro- 
 mised to spend his last few days at Porthkerran. The doctor had 
 proposed that he should share Stephen Causton's rooms in town. 
 Stephen was still at St. Thomas's, and as his mother made no 
 objection, and Donovan liked the thought of being with any 
 connection of the Tremains, the arrangement was made. But 
 unfortunately Stephen, who had been spending the vacation 
 abroad, returned with his eyes in a very delicate state, and a bad 
 attack of ophthalmia ensuing, obliged him to give up all thoughta 
 of work for many months. 
 
 After his long stay at Trenant, Donovan felt rather at sea 
 when he went up to town to begin his solitary life again. How- 
 ever, he had no time to be dull, for he was very anxious about 
 his examination. Besides, before many daj^s he hoped to be with 
 the Tremains again. He passed his preliminary successfully. 
 The scholarship examination was not till after the beginning of 
 
286 THE IDEAL WOMAN. 
 
 term, so there was nothing to detain him long-er, and another 
 week at Gladys' home was not to be missed on any consideration. 
 He went back to Porthkerran in excellent spirits. It was about 
 half- past five on a bright September afternoon when he reached 
 St. Kerrans, the nearest station. He had only just set out for 
 the five-mile walk along the dusty road, when he was overtaken 
 by a fellow-pedestrian, who, on seeing the direction he took, 
 hurried after him. 
 
 ' Are you going beyond Porthkerran ? ' he inquired. 
 
 ' No, to Porthkerran itself,' replied Donovan, looking at the 
 speaker with some curiosity. He was apjiarently about his 
 own age, a lithe, active-looking fellow, with a very sunburnt but 
 good-looking face, and merry, blue-grey eyes. 
 
 ' Let me send your bag with my traps, then ; the carrier 
 leaves in an hour's time.' 
 
 There was a very evident ' Who are j^ou ? ' in Donovan's 
 eyes ; but the stranger, nothing* daunted, took the bag from him 
 and ran back to the little inn ; then, returning in a moment, he 
 said, apologetically, 
 
 ' You must excuse this " hail fellow well met" business, but I 
 am Dick Tremain, and, if I am not very much mistaken, you are 
 Mr. Farrant.' 
 
 They shook hands. 
 
 '■ You are a very clever guesser,' said Donovan. ' I ought to 
 have known you, but I had no idea you Avere expected to-day.' 
 
 ' I'm not, that's just the fun of it,' returned Dick, accommo- 
 dating his seaman's gait to Donovan's long strides. ' They don't 
 the least expect me. We got into Plymouth Sound this morning 
 and I made up my mind to come straight on and surprise them. 
 They're all right at home, I suppose ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, when I left they were all very well.' 
 
 ' And your ankle is mended again, to judge by the pace you're 
 going at. I heard all about that cliff adventure.' 
 
 ' It brought me the pleasantest two months of my life,' said 
 Donovan. ' I'm coming down now to say good-bye before start- 
 ing at St. Thomas's in October. I'm sorry, though, that I just 
 chanced to come back on the same day you did.' 
 
 Dick laughed. 
 
 ' I might take that as a bad compliment, and you know we 
 have still four miles to walk. But in all seriousness you really 
 must take back your words, for I have been particularly hoping 
 to see you, and at Trenant it is always " the more the merrier." 
 So you are going to St. Thomas's ? Is Stephen Causton still 
 there ? ' 
 
THE IDEAL WOMAN. 287 
 
 *Yps; we were to have sliarod rooms, but liis e5''es had g-ivcn 
 out, so he AYon't '^o up tliis term.' 
 
 * Better luck for you, I should say. Perhaps you've seen him, 
 though ? ' 
 
 ' No, he's only just home. What sort of a fellow is he ? ' 
 
 *A reg'ular sawney — good-humoured enough, but weak as 
 water. He's never been allowed to shift for himself j he's a 
 mother's son.' 
 
 This was a g'enus unknown to Donovan ; he asked several 
 questions about the Caustons, and, as Dick possessed the genial 
 manner and the ready speech of his family, the five-mile walk 
 was quite sufKcient to make the two pretty well acquainted. At 
 last they reached the turn in the road which broug-ht them into 
 sight of the little flshing--tovvn. 
 
 Porthkerran was a very picturesque place ; it stood at the 
 head of a tidal inlet, which in olden times had been one of the 
 most frequented harbours of the west. The building- of the 
 breakwater had, however, caused it to be superseded by Ply- 
 mouth Sound, and Porthkerran was now obliged to content 
 itself with seeing- from afar the passing- ships. It had been a 
 noted resort of smugglers, and the irregularly- built streets, with 
 their narrow twistings and windings, the innumerable passages 
 and mysterious flights of steps, the houses with their second 
 doors and secure hiding-places, all bore witness to the bygone 
 times when the one interest, excitement, and object in life of the 
 inhabitants had been to smuggle, and to escape from the coast- 
 guardsmen. Many curious stories were still handed down in the 
 village of great-grandmothers who had concealed fabulous num- 
 bers of silk dresses under their own ample skirts; of perilous 
 escapes down dark alleys ; of kegs of brandy which some daring 
 sexton had once concealed for several days in the church itself. 
 The rising generation listened with interest to these tales of the 
 evil deeds of their forefathers. Sometimes they even went so far 
 as to wish that their own lot had been cast in those more ven- 
 turesome days, that they might have enjoyed in peace a little of 
 the excitement of smuggling. 
 
 The little place looked especially pretty in the sunset glow 
 of the September evening ; the quaint, compact little town, with 
 its curling columns of blue smoke, telling of the supper in pre- 
 paration for the fishermen, the narrow strip of beach, dotted here 
 and there with brown nets spread out to dry, the calm bay, with 
 its orange-sailed boats, and aslant from the west a broad pathway 
 of taAvny gold, ever, as the sun sank lower, deepening- to crim- 
 son. « 
 
288 THE IDEAL WOMAN. 
 
 And this was Glad3's' home ! Donovan's heart gave a g-reat 
 bound when he realized how near he was to her. It was a beau- 
 tiful little place certainl_y, but he would have thought the Black 
 Country beautiful if Gladys had lived there. How he had pic- 
 tured it all to himself up in those dull London lodgino-s ! — how 
 he had paced in imagination that very road, had reached that 
 ivy-covered house ! Well, here he was in sober reality, and 
 even as they drew near the door was thrown open, and Gladys' 
 own fresh voice was ringing- in his ears. 
 
 ' Dick — oh ! Dick ! you dear, delightful boy to come so unex- 
 pectedly ! How exactly like you to walk in so quietly! And 
 Donovan, too ! How clever of you to find each other out ! ' 
 
 Donovan felt the real welcome of her voice and hand ; it was, 
 moreover, the first time she had directly spoken to him by his 
 Christian name, for, though he had long ceased to be ' Mr. 
 Farrant ' to any of them, these two had as yet kept instinctively 
 to that most indefinite of all personal pronouns, ' you.' 
 
 In a minute all the household came flocking out into the hall to 
 welcome the sailor after his long absence. Donovan watched the 
 greetings with a strange mixture of pain and pleasure, his new 
 nature sharing in the general happiness, his old nature viewing 
 all with silent, deep-seated envy. His usual hel])er, however, 
 came to his aid ; a delighted cry of ' Dono ! Dono ! ' made him 
 look up, and there, slowly coming down the broad oak staircase, 
 her right foot solemnly stumping in front, her left foot following 
 with less dignity in its Avake, was little Nesta. 
 
 ' Dear Dono to tum back ! ' she cried, gleefully. ' Lift me 
 over the ban'sters, Mr. Dono, up on to you shoulder.' 
 
 He lifted her across, received a half-straugling hug, and was 
 not a little flattered that only from her perch on his shoulder 
 Avould she be induced to kiss the strange brother. 
 
 After the seven o'clock dinner was over, Donovan made his 
 escape from the rest of the family, strolled down the garden, and 
 gave himself up to a rather sombre reverie. The last words he had 
 heard spoken by Dick to Gladys ran painfully in his ears — ' Oh, 
 
 and don't you remember ' There was nc one in all the 
 
 world to whom he could now say, ' Don't you remember.' He had 
 to an almost morbid extent, too, the dread of intruding himself 
 where he was not wanted, and this evening he argued to himself 
 logically enough that it was impossible they should not prefer 
 his absence. And it certainly was true that for a time no one 
 missed him, that the father and mother were engrossed in their 
 boy, that even Gladys did not at first understand his non- 
 appearance. But, delighted as she was at Dick's return, nnd 
 
THE IDEAL WOMAN. 289 
 
 interested as slie was in his stories, she was nevertheless conscious 
 of an nndcfinod sense of trouble, which grew and g-rew, until at 
 length it riashcd upon her suddenly that Donovan must be pur- 
 posely keeping aloof, afraid of spoiling the freedom of the lamilv 
 talk. She remembered now that she had been talking to Dick 
 as thej left the dining-room. How inconsiderate she had been ! 
 how absorbed in her own happiness ! It was just like Donovan 
 to take himself oil' alone. He must be found and taken to task. 
 She would not disturb her father or mother, but, putting down 
 her work, she slipped quietly out of the room, looked into the 
 study, but he was not there, into the dining-room, but it was 
 empty and deserted, finally snatching up an old wide-awake 
 of her father's as protection from the dew, she instituted a 
 search in the garden. 
 
 At last in the twilight she caught sight of a dark figure 
 pacing to and fro by the strawberry beds. He did not notice 
 her till she was almost close to him, then suddenly turning 
 round he found himself face to face with a white-robed appari- 
 tion, and started a little. 
 
 * I'm not a ghost, though I have a white frock,' she exclaimed ; 
 ' and I'm not papa, though I have his hat. Why are you Avan- 
 dering up and down the very froggiest and toadiest path in the 
 garden ! ' 
 
 ' Birds of a feather flock together,' he said, lightly. * I've a 
 good deal in common with the frogs, a love of croaking and a 
 coldness of heart — or absence of heart altogether, is it ?' 
 
 ' I came to scold you,' said Gladys, ' not to laugh. Why have 
 you not been listening to Dick ? You've no idea what adven- 
 tures he has had this voyage.' 
 
 ' W' hy are i/ou not Avith him ? ' returned Donovan. ' I hoped 
 — I thought you would all forget that I was here, and enjo/ 
 him to yourselves.' 
 
 * Why to onr selves ? ' 
 
 ' Is not that the only way really to enjoy him ? ' 
 
 * Not when you won't be one of the selves. I thought you 
 did really take this as a home.' 
 
 ' So i do. Kever doubt that, in whatever way I act.' 
 
 ' Then why ngt act as a part of the home, taking it for granted 
 that we like you to be interested in all our interests. Can't you 
 understand that of course we do ? 
 
 He did not answer for a moment, but even in the dim, shady 
 garden-walk Gladys could see how his face lighted up — what a 
 strange new look of rest dawned in his eyes ! 
 
 'I have believed in neither God nor man/ he said at last, 
 
 u 
 
290 THE IDEAL WOMAN. "> 
 
 but you have forced me to believe in buman goodness. Ever 
 since I came bere you have been teaching- me. If ever I doubt 
 again, I shall only have to remember that there is such a place 
 as Trenant in the world.' 
 
 ' Then if that is so,' said Gladys, smiling, ' I shall thank my 
 hat for blowing- over the cliffs thatday, even though it did give 
 you so much trouble and pain. However, we've wandered from 
 the point. You will come in, won't you ? It was so stupid of 
 me not to remember sooner that you would be sure to take your- 
 self off.' 
 
 He laughed a litUe. 
 ' You own, then, that it was natural ? ' 
 
 ' Not at all ; most people would never have dreamt of doing 
 such a thing.' 
 
 'But you knew that I should,' said Donovan, triumphantly 
 gaining the assurance that she understood his character. 
 
 ' Well, yes,' she owned, ' I thought it would be very like you 
 to feel in the way and not wanted.' 
 
 ' Don't be too hard on me for that ; you've no idea how I've 
 been shut out of things all my life. No one has ever loved me 
 but a few children and a dog or two.' 
 
 ' Oh, you must not say that ! ' she exclaimed, in a voice so 
 pained, so unlike itself that it even startled her. ' You know — 
 you know that is not true ! ' 
 
 As the words passed her lips, she knew for the first time that 
 her own love for Donovan was no sisterly love, no friendly 
 liking. That brief sentence of his and her own impulsive reply 
 revealed to her the wholly unsuspected depth of her feelings. 
 Had she been aware of this sooner, it would have been impossible 
 for her to run out into the garden to find him, as she had done 
 only a few minutes before in perfect simi)licity. It was twilight, 
 that was one comfort ; he could not see that her cheeks were 
 glowing with maidenly shame, that she was trembling in every 
 limb. Strange as it may seem, though he loved her, he did not 
 notice her sudden change— that is, it did not convey to him the 
 faintest idea that her own love caused that pained tone in her 
 voice. They walked on for a minute or two in silence. 
 
 Donovan was the first to speak; she knew by his manner 
 that she had not betrayed herself 
 
 ' I was wrong to speak bitterly ; this evening's Avelcome to 
 Porthkerran ought to have reminded me of the love I have found 
 here. One of your father's baud-shakes is worth travelling- three 
 hundred miles for.' 
 
 Gladys turned in the direction of the house. 
 
\ THE IDKAL WOMAN. 291 
 
 * And Nosta was so dolip'litcd to have 3'ou bacic ag'ain. You 
 can't tliink how fond slic isot'you; we used to hear her telling 
 Waif long- stories about you wliilc you were in London. Ncstu's 
 stories are such fun. I think she has a g'ood deal of imagina- 
 tion.' 
 
 They reached the house as she finished speaking', and, finding- 
 the drawing'-room window open, she went in that ^Tay and soon 
 had the satisfaction of seeing- Donovan really join the family 
 group. 
 
 The hiantle of his taciturnity seemed to have fallen instead 
 u])on her; before long- she slipped out of the room and slowly 
 and dreamily wandered away, she hardly knew Avhither. This 
 Btrang-e new conviction, this consciousness of love, seemed to have 
 transported her into a new world. Presently, finding- herself by 
 the nig-iit nursery door, she stole softly in, and sat down by 
 Nesta's little bed. The curly brown head nestled down on the 
 pillow, the rosy face half liidden seemed the very picture of peace. 
 And Gladys too, though her face glowed and lier eyes shone with 
 the love which had just dawned in her heart, was not otherwise 
 than peaceful. There was a g-reat deal of the child about her 
 still, not a thought of the future had crossed her mind. 
 
 ' You love him too, little Nesta,' she whispered, bending- over 
 the sleeping- child, 'but not as I do. Oh, Nesta darling, can 
 you ever be so happy as I am to-nig-ht! Can there possibly bo 
 such another for you to love 1 ' 
 
292 COBWBBS AND QUESTIONS. 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 COBWEBS AND QUESTIONS. 
 
 Then fiercely we dig the fountaiu, 
 Oil ! whence do the waters rise ? 
 Thou panting we climb the mountain, 
 Oh ! are there indeed blue skies ? 
 Anil we dig till the soul is weary, 
 Kor hnd the waters out ! 
 And we cHmb till all is dreary, 
 And still the sky is a doubt. 
 Search not the roots of the fountain, 
 But drink the water bright ; 
 Gaze tar above the mountain. 
 The sky irixiy speak in light. 
 But if yet th'^u see no beauty — 
 If widowed thy heart yet cries — 
 "With thy hatiJs go and do thy duty, 
 And thy woi k will clear thine eyes. 
 
 Violin Songs. Gkorge Macdonal©. 
 
 The church at Porthkerran Scuod at some little distance from the 
 vilhig-e. It was one of those ola square-towered granite churches 
 which ahound in the West, and the picturesque g-rave-yard, with 
 its rather somhre-looking- slate tomh-stori'.is, commanded a wide 
 view over the hay of Porthkerran and the great hlue expanse 
 heyond. The south wall of the church-yard was on the very 
 verge of the cliif, and here, one evening in the end of Septemher, 
 Donovan and Waif established themselves. Service was going 
 on, but both dog and master felt that they had no part or lot in 
 such things^ and, though not much given to - meditations among 
 tbe tombs,' they had for some reason found their way iip to the 
 church-yard. It was the evening of the Harvest Festival, Dono- 
 van had" been too busy to feel bored by the details of the decora 
 tions with which in old times Adcla used to rouse his ire, but ht 
 could not help regretting that his last evening at Porthkerran 
 should be spent in enforced solitude. 
 
 The sense of isolation came to him for the first time sinit he 
 had been among the Tremams; Sunday after Sunday he had 
 stayed contentedly behind when they went to church, but this 
 evening a regret that he could not be with them was stirring in 
 his heai't. A chance word of Nesta's had awakened it. 
 
 * Dono will stay with us till we do to bed,' she had announced 
 trium])hiintly to Dick as he was leaving the house. 'Duno is 
 much betterer than you, he doesn't do away and leave us.' 
 
COBWEBS AND QUESTIONS. 293 
 
 It was impossible to oscsipe from the smnll elf, slio was on his 
 shoulder and her arms were cling'int^' fast round his neck, but 
 Donovan's face t^-lowed at her next remark. 
 
 ' Don't you want to see the flowers and the corn they've putted 
 in the church, Dono ? Won't you do when we're in bed ?' 
 
 Dick came to the rescue. 
 
 ' Mr. Dono will be much too busy with his skeleton, Nesta ; 
 don't vou know that he loves the skeleton better than he loves 
 you?'" 
 
 * The steleton's a very ug-ly thing-,' said Nesta, pouting*, ' and 
 he oug-htn't to like it so much.' 
 
 Then ensued a noisy romp ; the rest of the party started for 
 church. Presently Jackie and Nesta were fetched by the nurse, 
 and Donovan shut himself into the study alone. But somehow 
 Nesta's rival the ' steleton ' engrossed him less than usual ; the 
 fascinating- study of bones did not still the feeling- of unrest which 
 the cliild's imconscious words had stirred. 
 
 Did he not really want to join with the others? Was it any 
 pleasure to him to keep aloof? Plad he not felt a pang- of envy 
 when he saw the real delight which the prospect of this thanks- 
 giving- service g-ave to the Tremains ? Would it not be an infinite 
 rest to be able to believe in anything- so ennobling-, so comforting- 
 as Christianity ? For nearly three months he had been watching- 
 the life at Trenant. The Tremains were by no means a faultless 
 family, but their lives were very different from any he had 
 hitherto seen, and it had dawned on him as a possibility that 
 their belief might have something- to do with this difference. 
 Christianity had hitherto shown itself to him as a thing' of 
 creeds, not as a living- of the Christ life, and how to explain this 
 new phenomenon he did not know. Were these people loveable 
 in spite of their creed, or because of it ? One tiling- was plain, 
 however inexplicable it mig'ht be : they possessed something- 
 which he did not possess, something- which — it had come to that 
 now — he loufjcd to possess. While he was restless and unsatisfied, 
 they were at peace ; while he was daily becoming- more doubtful 
 as to the truth of the views he held, they Avere absolutely con- 
 vinced that their Master was not only true, but the Way to know- 
 Jedg-e of all Truth. The more enviable this certainty, however, 
 the more impossible it seemed to him to make the faith his own. 
 Study and thought had indeed brought him from his more posi- 
 tive atheism to a sort of agnosticism, but, although this had at 
 first seemed hopeful and restful in contrast with his former creed, 
 it now forced u[)on him an even worse ag-ony. Pie had accepted 
 his dreary certainty with stoicism, but to waver in doubt, to know 
 
294 COBWEBS AND QUESTIONS. 
 
 nothing-, to feel that in knowledge only could there be rest, and 
 yet to despair of ever gaining that knowledge, this was indeed a 
 misery which he had never contemplated. He saw no way out 
 of his difficulty. To believe because belief would be pleasant was 
 (ha])pily) quite as impossible to him now as it had been at Cod- 
 rington, when the chorus of ' I will believe ' had driven him into 
 a bitter denunciation of * cupboard ' faith. The only prospect 
 then which seemed before him was a constant craving after the 
 unknown. 
 
 To be conscious of hunger does not always bring us bread at 
 once, but it does prove our need of bread, and it does make us 
 ready to receive it when given. 
 
 The half- stifled thoughts which had lurked in his mind during 
 his stay at Trenant now forced themselves upon him. He grew 
 too restless and unhappy to work, and at last, whistling to Waif 
 to follow him, he left the house, and sauntered out in the cool 
 evening'. Instinctively he mounted the hill to the church, 
 stretched himself on the wall already described, at no great 
 distance from the cross which marked his father's grave, and 
 listened to the singing which, through open door and window 
 was borne to him clearly. There were special psalms that 
 night. He found himself listening* intently for Gladys' voice, 
 and in so doing" he caught the words of the grand old descriptive 
 poem. 
 
 They went astray in the wilderness out of the way . 
 And found no city to dwell in. 
 Hungry and thirsty, 
 Their soul fainted in them. 
 
 So they cried unto the Lord in their trouble ; 
 
 And He delivered them from their distress. 
 
 He led them forth by the right way 
 
 That they might go to the city where they dwelt. 
 
 For He satisfieth the empty soul ; 
 
 And filleth the hungry soul with goodness. 
 
 He heard no more. The recollection of the time when he had 
 ' cried ' unto the great unknown in his trouble, the time when his 
 atheism had brought him to the verge of madness, when his 
 philosophy had failed, and helplessly and illogically he had prayed 
 that Dot's agony might end, returned to him now. But that 
 appeal had been an involuntary one. He could not calmly and 
 deliberately address a Being in whom he did not believe ; though 
 he was hungering to find the Truth, he could not try to iind it by 
 any unreal means. 
 
 Thus much he had arrived at when his attention was drawn 
 
COBWKHS AND QUESTIONS, 295 
 
 away to a trnj^'ctly in insect life which was going- on close 
 beside him. lu an angle of the wall was a larg'e spider's web; 
 caug'ht in its meshes hung' an unusual victim — a wasp, who, in 
 spite of his size and streng-th, found the clinging g-ossamer threads 
 too much for him. The sjiiiler drew nearer and nearer. Dono- 
 van speculated which would get the best of it, the spider with 
 his cunning-, or the wasp with his sting. Buzz ! whirr ! buzz ! 
 the web would not yield, the prisoner struggled in vain, on came 
 the stealthy spider, evidently the victory would be his. But a 
 sudden fellow-feeling" for the imprisoned insect rose in Donovan's 
 heart, he sprang- up, demolished the cobweb, and had the satis- 
 faction of seeing- the sjuder scuttle away as fast as his long- legs 
 could carry him, while the wasp Hew oft' in the still evening- air. 
 
 ' Free ! you lucky beast ! ' he exclaimed. 
 
 ' Who is the lucky beast ? ' said a voice behind him. 
 
 He looked round and saw Dr. Tremain. 
 
 ' I've just been fetched out of church to see a patient. I hope 
 tbat wasn't intended for a congratulation ! ' 
 
 Donovan laughed. 
 
 ' No, I was apostrophizing a wasp I've just rescued from a 
 cobweb. Are you g'oing far ? May I come with you V 
 
 * By all means. It's a message from St. Kerrans. Come and 
 drive me, will you ? ' 
 
 They left the church-yard arm-in-arm, and before long- Star 
 and Ajux were bearing- them raj)idly away in the pony-chaise. 
 
 'It's a glorious night for a drive/ said the doctor. 'And I 
 am glad not to have missed you on your last evening-. We shall 
 be very dull when you are gone, Donovan, and as to Nesta, I think 
 she will break her heart. You have become a necessity to her.' 
 
 ' Or she to me ? ' said Donovan, smiling. * It's extraordinary 
 what a difference it makes to have children in a hotxse.' 
 
 ' Is it not Huxley who speaks of " the eminently sympathetic 
 mind of childhood"?' said Dr. Tremain. 'That has always 
 struck me very much — the readiness with which a child makes 
 itself one with all around it, the freedom with which it gives its 
 confidence, and the delight with which it helps others. That 
 readiness to serve and love always seems to me stronger proof 
 than anything that as 
 
 Trailing clouds of glory do we come 
 From God, who is our home.' 
 
 ' Your Wordsworth is too spiritual and mystical for me/ said 
 Donovan, with some bitterness. 
 
 ' Or too simple ? ' questioned the doctor. 
 
 *No, no; or simple only to the favoured few who had these 
 
296 COBWEBS AND QUESTIONS. 
 
 intimations of immortality. For my part, I am not aware that 
 heaven ever "hay about me in my infancy." I know that injustice 
 and tyranny in very visible forms were there, and only now do I 
 know what a grudg-e I owe them. If from your very babyhood 
 you have had to light your own battles, and rely on yourself, it 
 
 isn't very possible at two-and-twenty to — to ' he hesitated. 
 
 ' To become a child again,' said Dr. Tremain, quietly, ' and to 
 recognize that above the petty tyrannies and injustices of the 
 world is the Eternal Truth.' 
 
 * You have never spoken to me of these things before/ said 
 Donovan, trying to banish a certain constrained tone from his 
 voice. 
 
 ' No,' replied the doctor. ' And I should not have spoken 
 now unless you had led me up to it. There are some things, 
 Donovan, for which it is well to " hope and quietly wait." I am 
 glad you have spoken. Of course such a change as you speak 
 of is infinitely hard, but if the lesson of life he thoroughly to 
 learn that truth of Father and child, we shall not grudge the 
 difficulty we find in learning it.' 
 
 ' If it seemed the least probable that one ever could learn it,' 
 said Donovan, sadly. ' But I own that I don't see my way to 
 doing so. Never was there a time when I realized so well the 
 beauty of Christianity, or felt so anxious to prove my own creed 
 false, but yet never was there a time when the usual belief 
 seemed to me more glaringly illogical, more impossible to hold. 
 You don't know what it is to toss about in a sea of doubts. I had 
 rather have my old hard and fast security in the material present 
 than flounder in this cobweb like my wasp friend just now.' 
 
 'Not if the old belief was a mistake and delusion, which for 
 aught you know it is,' replied the doctor. ' Besides, to take your 
 wasp as a parable, its flounderings were of some avail, it proved 
 its need of a rescuer, and the rescuer came — one who could sym- 
 pathise even with a vicious, stinging, six-legged ne'er-do-weel.' 
 
 ' But all I have got is a mere desire.' 
 
 ' Quite so, a desire to find the truth, — the right thing to start 
 with.' 
 
 * No, it seems to me only a half-selfish desire to prop up a 
 beautiful legend, a discontent with the truths of science.' 
 
 ' I should call it a natural and by no means selfish desire, and 
 an inevitable discovery that Science, great, and noble, and 
 mighty as she is, cannot satisfy all a man's needs.' 
 
 ' If you could give us scientific proof in religion, then belief 
 might be possible,' said Donovan, his voicelosing all its con- 
 straint and changing to almost painful earnestness. 'But see 
 
COBWl'.ns AND QIIKSTIONS. 297 
 
 what a contrast tlicrc is — in science all is proved with exquisite 
 clearness, in relij^ion tlicrc is ahsolutely no proof. I am crazy 
 with sorrow, and a man comes to me and says, "Be comforted, 
 we are immortal," I ask for proof, and ho tells me it is probable, 
 and instances the case of the grub and the buttcrHy. Will that 
 argument comfort a man in bereavement ? ' 
 
 ' No, for it begins at the wrong end,' said the doctor. ' T"iere 
 must be faith before there can be belief". As to mathematical 
 proof, of course it is impossible when you are not treating of mathe- 
 matical subjects or dimensions, but the conviction of the existence 
 of God will be as entirely independent of proof as my conviction 
 that my wife is true to me.' 
 
 Donovan did not sjieak, he seemed rather staggered by the 
 breadth of this assertion, not having as yet grasped the fact that 
 the ' truth ' which he w^as struggling after was not so much con- 
 cerned with intellectual difficulties to be overcome as with the 
 awaking of a spirit which slept. 
 
 ' There are thousands of things of the truth of which we are 
 convinced, and which we nevertheless fail to ])rove like a mathe- 
 matical problem,' continued the doctor. ' Take the case of the 
 great heiress, Miss Carew, whom I am now going to visit. We 
 will suppose that she falls in love with a penniless man ; hei 
 parents laugh at the affair, and bring forward the usual argu- 
 ments, " My dear, he only wants your money, he is not in love 
 with you." All the time the girl knows perfectly well that these 
 arguments are false, and she asserts boldly, " He does love me, 
 I know he loves me," but she can give no scientific proof of this 
 love, though it is to her the most intense reality, a reality that 
 alters all her world. It seems to me to hold true that all things 
 connected with the highest instincts of our life — merely as natural 
 beings, I mean, you know — are incapable of mathematical or 
 even experimental proof. But now-a-days people are so apt to 
 make the most sacred things mere blocks on which to chop logic, 
 that a morbid and unreasonable desire rises to have everything 
 explained to us in black and white.' 
 
 ' But religious people are so dogmatic ; they assert " this is 
 so, that is so, believe it or perish ! " ' complained Donovan. ' I 
 mean the ordinary run ; I don't call you a religious person.' 
 
 ' Thank you,' said the doctor, laughing. * But surely, Donovan, 
 you used to be — I don't say you are now — quite as dogmatic as 
 anyone, and asserted "there is no spirit because everything is 
 matter, no sujiernatural because ever3'thing is natural.'" 
 
 ' Yes, I ])lead guilty to that, and could half wisli now to fall 
 back on the old convictions. There are too many inexplicable 
 
298 COBWEBS AND QUESTIONS. 
 
 mysteries in relig-ion ; I shall never g-et further than this fog- of 
 agnosticism.' 
 
 ' Are there no inexplicable mysteries to an atheist .'' ' said the 
 doctor, quietly. ' How do you explain the existence of that im- 
 material thing" the will ? Science can tell us nothing* with regard 
 to it, but you are the last person who would deny its existence ; 
 on the contrary, without any proof, you have a stronger belief in 
 the power and functions of the will than anyone I know.' 
 
 ' Because I know — Ifeel its existence.' 
 
 ^ Quite so, and just in the same way, though science can't 
 demonstrate to me the existence of God, I know and feel His 
 existence/ replied the doctor. ' Or to take another argument 
 which is often used : some one asserts that there can be no Creator 
 of the universe, because the idea of such a being is not mentally 
 presentable ; yet one of the greatest men of science of the present 
 day is obliged to own that consciousness is not mentally present- 
 able, although it exists.' 
 
 * I see you have faced all these questions,' said Donovan, his 
 sense of union with his friend deepening*. ' From what I saw 
 befoi'e knowing- you, I should have said that Clu'istians accepted 
 their belief on authority, and stopped as wrong- or presumptuous 
 all free thoug-ht and inquiry.' 
 
 'I believe we all have to "face" the questions, as you 
 say, sooner or later,' said the doctor. ' My dear fellow, I have 
 been through something- of this fog which you are now in, and to 
 a certain extent have felt what you are now feeling-.' 
 
 * You ! ' exclaimed Donovan, in the greatest surprise. 
 
 ' Yes, in spite of every possible help in the way of home and 
 education. And speaking- as one who has lived through this 
 darkness, I would say to you, don't g-rudg-e the suffering* or the 
 waiting-, but g-o on patiently.' 
 
 ' Go on doubting- ? ' questioned Donovan. 
 
 ' Go on living- — by which I mean doing- your duty,' replied 
 the doctor. ' Depend upon it, Donovan, that's the only thing to 
 be clung- to at such a time — the Tightness of right is, at least, 
 clear to you.' 
 
 ' That much is clear, yes,' said Donovan, musing-ly j ' for the 
 rest, I suppose the humiliation of uncertainty is g-ood for one's 
 pride, the ache of incompleteness wholesomely disagreeable.' 
 
 'The beginning- of health,' said the doctor, half to himself j 
 then looking- at the unsatisfied face, he added, in his firm, manly 
 voice, ' Be patient, my boy.' 
 
 ' Patience implies hope,' said Donovan, in a low tone, which 
 veiled very deep feeling. '■ Now tell me honestly ' — he fixed his 
 
COBWEBS AND C^UHSTIONS. 299 
 
 oyps steadily on Dr. Treniaiirs face to read its first expression, 
 — ' do you think I shall ever }:>'et beyond this wretched un- 
 certainty ?' 
 
 The doctor's face seemed positively to shine, as he replied, 
 
 * I am certain you will ; sooner or later, hero or there, all will 
 he made plain to you. Do you sup])ose that when we give 
 thanks for the "redemption of tlie worhV we leave you out ? 
 Only he patient, and in the right time the " Truth shall make 
 you free." In the meanwhile you are not left without one un- 
 failing- comfort : you can work, you can act up to your conscience, 
 and to any man who desires to do His will knowledge of the 
 truth is promised. You make me tliink of the words I used just 
 now, there is a seeming contradiction when we are told " it is 
 good that a man should both hope and quietly wait for the salva- 
 tion of the Lord." It seems impossible that waiting for health 
 can be " good," we wish to have done at once with all weakness, 
 all restrictions ; it is not till later on when we come to look on all 
 things with other eyes that Ave see the good of the waiting, its 
 very necessity.' 
 
 There was silence after that for some minutes, one by one the 
 stars were beginning to shine out in the pale sky, the wind 
 ruffled the leaves in the high hedgerows. Star and Ajax trotted 
 on briskly. Everything that night left a lasting- impression on 
 Donovan's brain j he could always see that glooming- landscape, 
 with the faint starlight and the lingering' streaks of gold in the 
 west, always feel the freshness of the evening air which seemed 
 invigorating- as the new hope which was just dawning for him. 
 But he was too choked to speak when the doctor paused, too 
 much taken up with the thoughts suggested to him, to care to 
 put anything of himself into expression. Presently they came 
 to a gate ; he sprang* out to open it. Then, as they drove up to 
 the house, the doctor said, 
 
 ' I shall be half-an-hour, I daresay, so, if you like, drive on 
 to the post-office.' 
 
 The postman did not come to Porthkerran on Sunday, and 
 Donovan, glad to be of any use, readily assented to the doctor's 
 plan, and drove on to the post-town — St. Kerrans. His mind 
 was still full of the subject they had just been discussing, and 
 half absently he drew up at the private door of the office and 
 asked for the Trenant letters ; it was an understood thing that 
 the doctor called for them at any time he pleased. There were 
 two letters this evening-. Donovan took them, hastily glancing 
 at the directions by the light of the street lamp — one was for 
 Dr. Tremain, the other was directed to ' D. Farrant, Esq.' A 
 
300 COBWEBS AND QUESTIONS. 
 
 certain pleasurable sensation stole over liim, mino-led with sur- 
 prise, for the writing- was Adela's. She would send him news of 
 his mother, and thoug-h still only half allowing' it to himself 
 Donovan did care for his mother. 
 
 He paused to read the letter by one of the carriage lamps as 
 soon as he had left the streets of St. Kerrans behind. Then, 
 still more to his surprise, he found that Adela had only written 
 a note, just explaining that the enclosed was from Mrs. Farrant. 
 
 The pretty but meaningless characters recalled him to his 
 school-days, when the arrival of his mother's occasional letters 
 had generally been the cause of more pain than pleasure. Things 
 were different now. The letter was very different. 
 
 ' My dear Donovan, 
 
 ' Since Dr. Tremain's visit in the summer, I have 
 felt very anxious about you ; but it is some comfort that we 
 know where you are, and Adela has promised that she will direct 
 and post this to you. I am not, as you know, a free agent. I 
 have been shocked to think of the straits you have been reduced 
 to, and send you in this letter £20, which is all I could save 
 from the personal allowance my husband makes me. I have 
 been very poorly for some time. We are thinking- of spending 
 the winter abroad. Poor Fido died last week, and I am still 
 feeling the shock. Doery has an attack of rheumatism, and her 
 temper is very trying-; but Phoebe, who is now my maid, is a 
 great comfort to mo. Forgive this short letter, I do not feel 
 equal to writing- any more to-day. 
 * With love, believe me, 
 
 * Your affectionate mother, 
 
 * HoNORA Farrant.' 
 
 The saving- of that money w^as the first voluntary act of self- 
 denial which Mrs. Farrant had ever made. Donovan knew how 
 to appreciate such unusual thought; the letter, which might tc 
 some have seemed uninteresting- and self-engrossed, meant a 
 great deal to him, for was it not more than he had ever dreamed 
 of receiving? 
 
 When Dr. Tremain re-joined him, he saw at once that some- 
 thing- must have happened to raise his spirits in a most unusual 
 degree. 
 
 'You found some letters ?' he asked as they drove home. 
 
 ' One from my mother,' said Donovan, without any comment, 
 but in a voice which spoke volumes. 
 
 * I am very glad,' said the doctor, warmly. 
 
COBWEBS AND QUKSTI0N8. 801 
 
 ' She lias sent me some money,' resumed Donovan, 'for wliich, 
 of" course, I care less than for the letter j it will be a r>-rcat help, 
 thouj^-h. £20 will g-et me some books, and then, if I can only 
 ^•et a scholarship, I shall manag'e well enoug'h. If not, I shall 
 take to the sixpence-a-day mode of life.' 
 
 ' I'm afraid, even if you get a scholarship, you'll find very 
 rigid economy necessary,' said the doctor, unable to suppress an 
 angry thought of Ellis Farrant's calm enjo3'ment of his unjust 
 gains, but too prudent to allude to a sul)ject which his g'uest 
 seemed to have willed to put altog-ether away. 
 
 * Oh, I know I shall only have enougli for the necessaries of 
 life,' said Donovan. ' But Waif and I can put up with the loss 
 of a few comforts.' 
 
 ' Bones and cig'ars, to wit ?' said the doctor. 
 
 * Bones are cheap luxuries,' replied Donovan, laughing. * ^s 
 to cigars, I've given ixj) smoking- for the last three months, so 
 that will be no new privation. Oh, we shall scrape through well 
 enough.' 
 
 The doctor then fell back to reminiscences of his own hospital 
 career, which, stimulated by Donovan's questions, lasted till they 
 reached Trenant. The rest of the party had returned from church ; 
 they found themselves just in time for that most restful part of 
 the Sunday, when no one was busy, when the unity of the house- 
 bold was most apparent, when the reality of" the peace and love 
 which reigned was most strong-ly borne in upon Donovan. To- 
 night there was a tinge of reg-ret over all, for was not this his 
 last evening- with them ? He did not speak much to Gladys, but 
 followed her everywhere with his eyes, and when Dick asked for 
 music took his place by the piano, turning- over a portfolio of 
 songs while Gladys played the ' Pastoral Symphony.' When it 
 was ended, he took up his favourite song-, Blumenthal's ' Truth 
 shall thee Deliver.' 
 
 ' May we have this ? ' he asked, hoping- that he had not over- 
 stepped those incomprehensible boundaries which marked off 
 Sunda}'' from week-day music. 
 
 But Gladys was well content to sing- Chaucer's beautiful old 
 song, since Mrs. Causton was not there to be shocked, and 
 perhaps, in her low sweet voice, she g-ave Donovan the best 
 counsel he could have had for his new start in life. The quaint 
 ^•ords ling-ered long- after in his memory. 
 
 Fly from the press, and dwell with soothfastiicss, 
 Suffice unto thy good, though it be small. 
 
S02 A CROWN OF FIRE. 
 
 Rede well thyself that other folks canst rede. 
 And truth shall thee deliver, it is no drede. 
 
 That thee is sent receive in buxomness, 
 The -wrestling of this world asketh a fall ; 
 Here is no home, here is but wilderness ; 
 Forth, pilgrim, forth ! Best out of thy stall 1 
 Look n}i on high and thank the God of all, 
 Waive thy lusts, and let thy gliost thee lead, 
 And truth shall thee deliver, it is no drede. 
 
 The following morning' Star and Ajax were once more bearing 
 Dr. Tremain and his guest to St. Kerrans ; the ivy-grown house 
 was left behind, and with Nesta's appeahng ' Come back adain 
 very soon ! ' ringing in his ears, and a last smile from Gladys to 
 fortify him, Donovan began the next era of his life. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 ACROWNOFFIRE. 
 
 "^'nu w ell might fear, if love's sole claim 
 ^\'cre to be happy: but true love 
 Takes joy as solace, not as aim, 
 And looks beyond, and looks above ; 
 And sometimes through the bitterest strife first learns to live her liighest 
 life. 
 
 If then your future life should need 
 A strengtli my life can only gain 
 Through suffering, or my heart be freed 
 Only by sorrow from some stain, 
 Then you shall give, and I will take, this crown of fire for love's dear sake. 
 
 A. A. Procter. 
 
 York Eoad, Lambeth, is not the most cheerful of thoroughfares ; 
 its chief enlivenment consists of the never-ending succession of 
 cabs bound for Waterloo Station, and its sombre, narrow - 
 windowed houses are eminently dull. Here, however, Donovan 
 took up his abode, and with the advantages of all Stephen 
 Causton's unused books spent the first year of his course. Here 
 he worked early and late ; here he practised plain living and high 
 thinking ; here he struggled, fought, and doubted. 
 
 In spite of many drawbacks, however, this first year of real 
 work was one of the most contented years he had ever spent. Ha 
 had great powers of application, in spite of his desultory educa- 
 
A CROWN OF FIRE. 303 
 
 tion, and he worked now with a will — worked with no lot or 
 hindrance, for duty was plainly marked out for him, and he had 
 comparatively few temptations or distractions. After the excite- 
 ment of the successful competition for a scholarship was over, the 
 days and weeks passed hy in uneventful monotony, broken occa- 
 sionally by an unaccountable craving' for his old pastime, to be 
 fought with and conquered, or by one of those darker times in 
 his inner life, when the sense of incompleteness, the oppression 
 of the impenetrable veil which shrouded him in iynorance, out- 
 weig'hed his hope, and left him a prey to blank despondency. 
 From such interruptions he would free himself by an effort of 
 will, and, resuming- his work, became after each strug'gle more 
 absorbed and interested in it. 
 
 Then, too, the thought of Gladys was never far from him ; 
 her memory filled his solitude, and made it no longer solitary, 
 her sunshiny face haunted his dull rooms, and made their un- 
 loveliness lovely. Had Donovan been at all g-iven to self- 
 scrutiny, had he ever analysed his feeling-s or followed out the 
 dim g'lory of the present into a possible future, he would have 
 reahzed at once the insuperable harrier which lay between him 
 and his love. But he lived in the present — lived, and worked, 
 and loved, and, lacking' the dang-erous habit of self-inspection, he 
 drifted on, happily unconscious that he was nearing* the rapids. 
 
 But that brief happiness, heralding* as it did a sharp awaking* 
 and a terrible void, did a g'reat deal for him ; it gave him a 
 momentary insight into the ' Beauty and the blessedness of life,' 
 and it made his ideal of womanhood a lofty ideah The truest of 
 truths is, that in nature there is no waste, and in reg'retting- 
 what seems like prodigality, we sometimes ibrg-et those hidden 
 results which are none the less real and vital because they lie 
 deep down beneath the surface. 
 
 The old order changeth, yielding place to new, 
 And God fuliils Himself in many ways. 
 
 At length, when the summer days wei*e g'rowing long-, and 
 London was becoming- intolerably hot, when even congenial 
 work became a species of drudgery, and ' much study a weariness 
 of the flesh,' the hospital term ended, and Donovan, who had 
 promised to spend the long- vacation with the Tremains, set off 
 for Porthkerran. 
 
 Very natural and home-like did the little Cornish villag-a 
 seem, and, after his long- months of solitude, the bright, merry 
 family life was delig'htful. Nesta had g-rown, but was still the 
 liousehold baby, and not yet able to say her g-'s ; the two school- 
 
304 A CROWN OF FIRE. 
 
 boys were at home fortlie holidays, and made the house unusually 
 noisy; the doctor had added photog-raphy to his many hobbies, 
 and Mrs. Tremain, with the cares of halt' the villag-e on her mind, 
 seemed still as ready as ever to sympathise with everyone. 
 
 And Gladys ? 
 
 Gladys was chang-ed. Donovan felt that at once. Her eyes 
 seemed to have deepened, she was less talkative, she Avas even a 
 little shy with him. The last time he had returned to Forth- 
 kerran she had greeted him with delighted warmth, had called 
 him by his Christian name. This time she was very quiet and 
 wholly undemonstrative, and when her face was in repose there 
 lurked about it a shade of wistfulness — almost of sadness. She 
 had not lost her characteristic sunshine of manner, but the sun- 
 shine was no longer constant, and often grave shadows of thought 
 stole over her fair face. No one but a very close observer would 
 have noticed the change in her, but Donovan, who was always 
 very much alive to the traces of character revealed in manner 
 and expression, felt at once that the Gladys he met at the begin- 
 ning* of that long" vacation was not the Glad3's he had lefc in 
 October. Her mind had g-rown and expanded, but what had 
 broug'ht that shade of sadness to her face ? Her life was 
 jipparently so cloudless, what unknoAvn source of anxiety could 
 there be to trouble her ? 
 
 From the very first evening that question lay in his mind, 
 but only as a wonder, not as an anxiety. It was all so peaceful 
 and satisfying here at Porthkerran, he could not brood over any- 
 thing" as he might have done had he been alone. The happiness 
 of being" near Gladys blinded him for the time to everything- else, 
 the very doubts and questionings which beset him at every turn 
 in his ordinary life seemed left behind; for one delicious month 
 he was supremely happy. He drove out with the doctor, played 
 lawn tennis, romped with the children, g-ave Gladys lessons in 
 Euclid, read, walked, boated with her, for it always happened that, 
 although they went out a large party, the boys and the 3'oung-er 
 children kept pretty much to themselves, leaving Donovan and 
 Gladys to almost daily tete-a-tetcs. 
 
 If Gladys had been an ordinary g-irl, Donovan would probably 
 have seen far sooner all the dangers of tbeir present intercourse ; 
 but she was so simple-minded and maidenly, so entirely void of 
 all desire to draw attention to herself, that it seemed the most 
 natural thing- in the world to make her his confidante. Who was 
 so quick to sympathise with him as his ideal ? Was it not right 
 that he should tell her of his difficulties, his interests, his schemes 
 for the future ? If their conversation had ever even bordered on 
 
A CROWN OF FIRE. 305 
 
 sentiment he might have realized that he was pnttinc>' her in a 
 false position, but it never did. They tallced on subjects grave 
 and gay, discussed religion and politics, argued earnestly or 
 merrily on every imaginable topic, each with a hardly confessed 
 interest in the other's opinion. But Donovan was at times con- 
 scious of a certain reticence in Gladys which he had not before 
 noticed; in their most interesting talks he was often checked by 
 an unexpressed yet very real barrier— a 'hitherto thou shalt 
 come, but no further '—which baffled him, and generally produced 
 fin unsatisHeil silence, always broke^i by a somewhat irrelevant 
 speech or suggestion from Gladys. 
 
 }ilvs. Causton was away from home. Stephen, who, after 
 monthsof suffering, had just recovered from his attack of ophthal- 
 mia, had gone for a voyage with his father, and would not return 
 till the beginning of the October term ; and his mother, being a 
 good deal worn out with her constant attendance on him, had 
 gone abroad with some friends for a thorough rest and change of 
 scene. Donovan's stay at Trenant was therefore free from all 
 interruptions, and there was, moreover, no worldly-wise or 
 prudent on-looker who could hint to Dr. Tremain the exceeding 
 likelihood that his little daughter mij^-ht think too much of that 
 ' dangerously handsome guest/ who, in former years, had been 
 the terror of all the careful mothers in the neighbourhood ot 
 Oakdene. 
 
 Even in the absence of prudence and Mrs. Causton, however, 
 the awakening from that summer dream came at length. 
 
 It seemed as if a glamour had been cast over the whole house- 
 hold in those sunny August days, never even at Trenant had 
 there been such enjoyment of life ; meals al fresco, music, moon- 
 light walks by the sea, and boundless home mirth and good 
 humour. 
 
 One sunny afternoon the whole family were gathered together 
 in the orchard. There among the daisies, and buttercups, and 
 the grass — the children's favourite playground — Dr. Tremain had 
 planted his photographic apparatus, and, with a leafy background, 
 was preparing to take a group. It was the first attempt he had made 
 at anything of the kind. His victims had hitherto been single, 
 but this afternoon he had induced the whole ' kit,' as he expressed 
 it, to be immortalised, and with much fun and laughter they all 
 tried to arrange themselves, an attempt fraught with the direst 
 failure. 
 
 ' Not an idea as to artistic grouping among you ! ' exclaimed 
 the d(K'tor, emerging from his black-velvet shroud. * You must 
 be much nearer together, too. You boys in the background. Ah ! 
 
 X 
 
806 A CROWN OF FIRE. 
 
 now that is much better. Now you do look like llvinf^- being's 
 instead of mummies. Look, mother, if you can without disturbin<^ 
 yourself.' 
 
 Mrs. Tremain turned round to see the g-roup behind her, 
 who, in disarrang-ing" themselves, had fallen into natural attitudes. 
 Donovan had taken Nesta on to his shoulder, Gladys was holding 
 up a rose which the little girl had dropped, and for which she 
 now stretched out one fat, dimpled hand, while Donovan, by 
 sudden and unexpected movements, always prevented her from 
 reaching- it. 
 
 ' There ! that will do ! ' said the doctor. ' Stand exactly as 
 you are. Keep still, and don't laugh, Nesta. Now then ! ' 
 
 Half-a-minute's breathless silence followed, Nesta relieving 
 herself by holding* on with desperate firmness to Donovan's hair, 
 and nearly upsetting Gladys' gravity by the resolute way in 
 which she pressed her lips together to prevent the laughter from 
 escaping. 
 
 The moment they were released there was a chorus of inquiry 
 — who had moved ? who had kept still ? who had smiled ? 
 while Donovan, Gladys, and Nesta relieved themselves by a 
 hearty laugh over the dilficulty and absurdity of their positions. 
 
 ' If I come out with a right eyebrow drawn up like a CLiLnese, 
 and an expression of Byronic gloom, you'll understand that it is 
 all Nesta's fault,' said Donovan. ' Remember from henceforth, 
 Nesta, that hair should be lightly handled.' 
 
 ' And now I shall det my rose,' shouted Nesta, triumphantly, 
 making a sudden raid downwards. She succeeded this time, 
 captured the rose, and after much teazing on Donovan's part and 
 baby coquetting on hers, ended by fastening it in his button-hole. 
 
 The doctor returned in a few minutes in a state of great 
 excitement. The negative was excellent. He would not trouble 
 them to sit again, but he wanted Donovan to help him in some 
 of the mysterious processes in the little black den he had conse- 
 crated to his new hobby. 
 
 By the time this work was over, it was nearly four o'clock. 
 The doctor was called out, and Donovan, finding there were 
 visitors in the draAving-room, sauntered out again with a book 
 under his arm. In the orchai^d, however, he unexpectedly found 
 Gladys. She was sitting at the little rustic table under the old 
 apple-tree, her sleeves tucked up, and her white hands busily 
 occupied in stoning some peaches which were piled up on a great 
 blue Avillow-pattern dish in fi'ont of her. 
 
 She made a very pretty picture sitting there in her cool, 
 creamy-white dress, a stray sunbeam glancing every now and 
 
A CROWN OF FIRE, 307 
 
 then tlirough the flickering- leaves above, and making gold of her 
 brown hair. 
 
 ' You should have been photographed with your dish of 
 peaches,' said Donovan, drawing up a garden-chair to the other 
 side of the table. 
 
 ' Cook is in despair about the preserving, so I'm getting these 
 ready for her,' explained Gladys. ' Have some, won't you ? ' 
 
 ' No, thank you, I'm no fruit-eater ; but let me help you.' 
 
 ' Read to me, and then I shall work faster. Mother and I 
 were reading George Eliot's " Spanish Gipsy ; " do you know 
 it ? Oh ! but you have a book, I see ; read me that instead.' 
 
 Donovan laughed. 
 
 ' I'm afraid you would scarcely thank me for reading you 
 Heath's " Minor Surgery." Let me have the " Spanish Gipsy." 
 You are near the end, I see ; just give me an idea about the 
 characters. Who is Don Silva ? ' 
 
 ' He is a Spanish nobleman in love with Fedalma, the daughter 
 of a Moorish chief Silva renounces Christianity, and promises 
 to serve and obey the Moor, so that he may not be separated 
 
 from Fedalma. This is the place ' she handed the book to 
 
 him, and Donovan, taking it, began the scene in which Don 
 Silva, tortured by seeing the martyrdom of Father Isidor, breaks 
 his promise of fealty to the Moor. 
 
 He was not exactly a good reader ; he was sometimes abrupt, 
 sometimes hurried, but he had a beautiful voice, which went far 
 towards making up for any other defects. As he read the won- 
 derful parting scene between Silva and Fedalma, when in obedi- 
 ence to the will of the dead chief, and for the good of the Moorish 
 people, they agree to part for ever, Gladys felt that his whole soul 
 was being thrown into what he read. Involuntarily her hands 
 ceased their meeliaaical work; though she could hardly have 
 explained the reason even to herself, this reading was becoming 
 a slow agony to her. Donovan's face was kindling with enthu- 
 siasm, there was an almost terrible ring in his voice as he read 
 the closing scene ; she knew that while her heart was crying out 
 against the bitterness of such a i-enunciation he was feeling only 
 its beauty and worth. 
 
 Neither of them spoke when the poem was finished ; Dono- 
 van, as if engrossed with it still, and forgetful that he was not 
 alone, turned the pages over again, reading half to himself pas- 
 sages which had struck him. Gladys, troubled by her own 
 agitation, heard as in a dream, till a sudden deepening of tone 
 recalled her fully to the present. Donovan was reading the part- 
 ing words of Don Silva. 
 
 x2 
 
308 A CROWN OF FIRE. 
 
 ' Eacli deed 
 That carried shame and wrong shall be the sting 
 That drives me higher up the steep of honour 
 In deeds of duteous service.' 
 
 He closed the book after that and sat musing. Then, looking 
 up with the light of enthusiasm still in his face, he said, 
 
 * That is a M'onderful scene ! It is like a bit of Sebastian 
 Bach, a sort of mental tonic' 
 
 Gladys' eyes were full of tears, but for that reason she was 
 the more anxious to speak unconcernedly ; she hurried out the 
 first trite sentence which came into her head. 
 
 ' It is so terribl}" sad.' 
 
 * Yes, sad but grand.' 
 
 Somehow, as he spoke, Gladys was constrained to look at 
 him, and, as she met his grave, deep eyes, there rose in her an 
 inexplicable longing to make him express at least pity for the suf- 
 fering involved by this sacrifice he so much admired. 
 
 * But surely, surely it was a cruel thing to sacrifice their very 
 lives to an only possible good ? ' she said pleadingly. 
 
 ' I don't think you put it quite truly,' he replied. ' They re- 
 nounced their own happiness for the general good of that genera- 
 tion certainty, probably of many generations.' 
 
 ' You speak of happiness as if it were such a little thing to 
 give up,' said Gladys. ' I suppose it is selfish to think of it, 
 but — but — oh, I hope there are not many Fedalmas in the 
 world!' 
 
 She was quite unconscious of the pain which lurked in the 
 tone of this almost passionate utterance, she scarcely knew that 
 It was an aching dread in her own heart which prompted her 
 words, she only felt constrained by some unknown power to plead 
 with Donovan. But it was at that very moment, when she her- 
 self was least conscious in the present of her love to him, that he 
 realized the truth. 
 
 He had hitherto loved her as an ideal, loved her with little 
 thought of the future, never even framed to himself the idea that 
 she could possibly love him. Now there surged over him a very 
 flood of bliss — joy such as he had never imagined possible. In 
 one instant countless visions of dazzling happiness rose before 
 him. She, his ideal, his queen, loved him ! How he knew it he 
 could not have explained, but he did know it ! Had his un- 
 spoken love drawn her heart to his ? How came it that she 
 loved liim ? Oh ! unspeakable rapture ! one day she might be all 
 his own I 
 
A CROWN OF FIKE. 809 
 
 But the moment that thoug-ht of the future came to him, it 
 was as if" an icy hand had suddenly chitchcd his heart. 
 
 The dazzHng- visions faded, and in their phice was only a 
 horror of great darkness, out of which, like a death-knell, his 
 own conscience spoke. 
 
 * There is no possible union for you. You would hring her 
 the worst of miseries, perhaps even drag' her down to your own 
 hopeless creed.' 
 
 He was too much stunned to think, hut for some time now 
 he had hcen clinging hlindly to duty, had said to conscience, 
 ' Call, and I follow,' and even in the confusion and anguish of 
 that moment it was made clear to him what he ought to do. 
 
 With an elibrt of will he hanished every trace of his real 
 feelings from his face and tone, and answered as quietly as he 
 could Gladys' last remark. 
 
 ' I didn't mean to underrate happiness, though it certainly is 
 not meant for everyone in the world, unless we find that sacrifice 
 itself is the most real happiness; hut I have not found that yet.' 
 Then, pushing hack his chair, he added, ' I think I shall go over 
 to St. Kerrans. I want a good long walk. Can I do anything 
 for you ? ' 
 
 ' Nothing, thank you,' said Gladys, mechanically taking up 
 and putting down one of the peaches. 
 
 Donovan whistled to Waif and walked away in the direction 
 of the house. Gladys sat motionless till the sound of his foot- 
 steps died away into silence ; then, pushing aside the willow- 
 pattern dish and the fruit, she hid her face from the light and 
 burst into tears. 
 
 Although he had spoken of walking to St. Kerrans, Donovan 
 was too much stunned to know or care in what direction he went. 
 He closed the front door behind him and strode rapidly through 
 the village, up the steep hill, and along the road leading to the 
 forge. Trevethan, the blacksmith, had become a great friend of 
 his; to-day, however, he had not the slightest intention of going 
 to see him, and, in fact, did not even know that he was passing 
 the forge till the blacksmith's voice fell on his ear. 
 
 * Mr. Farrant, I was wanting to speak to ye, sir. Can ye 
 step in a moment ? ' 
 
 ' Yes,' said Donovan, though he had never felt less inclined 
 to speak to any human being*. 
 
 ' Well, sir, you see it's this way,' began Trevethan, putting 
 down his hammer, and folding his arms as if in preparation for a 
 lengthy speech. 'I've told ye all about my son Jack as left 
 home six years ago, and as I haven't heard from. AVell, the 
 
310 A CROWN OF FIRE. 
 
 Lord be praised, I've heard from 'm now, he's wrote me a fine 
 letter, and sent a Bank o' England note along' with it. But, sir, 
 he's not said where he is, except there being' "London" marked 
 on the front of the letter. Knowin' ye knew the place, I thoug-ht 
 I'd ask ye how I could best find the lad. London's a big* place, 
 ain't it ? — a sight big-ger than Porthkerran ? ' 
 
 Donovan smiled a little. 
 
 *Yes, Trevethan, I'm afraid it'll be very hard to find him, 
 I'll do my best to help you though; tell me what he is like.' 
 
 The blacksmith's powers of description were not great. He 
 knew that Jack was ' fine and big',' but could not tell the colour 
 of his eyes, or any single peculiarity in his manners or appear- 
 ance. 
 
 'You mustn't be too hopeful,' said Donovan; 'but I'll keep 
 my eyes and ears open, and do all I can for you; I'm afraid, 
 though, the only chance of your finding him will be his own 
 voluntary return.' 
 
 'Thank ye, sir, I'm obliged to ye for your help,' said the 
 blacksmith. ' And as to hoping, as long as we're sure our hopes 
 is runnin' the same way as the Lord's, I reckon we can't be too 
 hopeful.' 
 
 Donovan did not speak. He had had many a talk with the 
 old Cornishman, had sometimes laughed at the quaint phrases of 
 his Methodism, but had always admired and reverenced the man's 
 unswerving faith — faith which had stood fast through countless 
 troubles and losses. He could not help shrewdly surmising that 
 this hope as to finding his son would never be fulfilled, and jet, 
 as he watched the blacksmith's contented face, he felt that his 
 strong faith in the inevitable Right which ruled all things was 
 a very enviable possession. 
 
 After a little further conversation as to the search for Jack, 
 the smith took up his hammer again, and Donovan took leave of 
 him, and set out once more on his solitary walk. The inter- 
 ruption had quieted him for the time, but, as the consciousness of 
 his pain returned to him, the contrast between his own state of 
 conflict and Trevethan's quiet trust forced itself on hira. This 
 unlettered, ignorant old man had the knowledge which he was 
 huno-erino- and thirstino- for, the faith which he would have 
 given the world to possess. 
 
 But then with a sudden sharp pang came the full recollection 
 of all that had happened, and his mind became capable of only 
 two ideas — Gladys and pain. He threw himself down on the 
 grassy slope bordering the cliff, and for a time allowed those two 
 presences to work their will on him. Gladys, with her appealing 
 
A CnOWN OF FIRE. 311 
 
 blue eyes, her wistful plea for happiness, and an ag'onizing' con- 
 sciousness that sorrow and separation must come. As he g'rew 
 quieter, or, rather, as his thouj^hts hecame more clear, he saw as 
 distinctly as he had done when speaking- to her in the orchard 
 that union betAveen them was impossible. He rememl)ered the 
 sense of separation that had come to him when Dot had first 
 drifted away into those regions of thought into which he could 
 not follow her. She had not suffered much from their difference 
 of thought, it was true, but then she had been a little child, and 
 there had been only a very few months of that divided thought 
 and interest. If she had been older, his atheism must have been 
 both a sorrow and a perplexity to her. Should he bring- such a 
 sorrow into Gladys' life ? — should he lay upon her pure heart 
 such a burden as he had to bear ? Never ! All the man in him 
 rose at such a thought. It should never be ! He got up and 
 began to pace rapidly to and fro, his hands locked tightly to- 
 g-ether. It was no use idly to wish that he had never seen her; 
 he must go away now, at once — that much was clear. She must 
 learn to forget him. ' Oh ! I hope there are not many Fedalmas 
 in the world ! ' her pleading- tones rang- in his ears, and his hands 
 were clenched more tightly as he realized the pain he must in 
 any case give her. 
 
 He must go, but it was hard — bitterly hard. His love was 
 strong- and true, no mere weak sentimental it}--; but it is a cruel 
 tax on love to choose the very plan that will inflict pain on the 
 loved one. The pain may be salutary, wise, necessary for future 
 happiness, but the infliction is keenest suffering. 
 
 He knew that he should always love her, but his love must 
 be kept in, restrained ; a poor, cramped kind of love it would be, 
 for he could never serve her. Deliberately, of his own accord, he 
 must cut himself off from all but the pain of love. Unless, 
 indeed, this bitter pain proved to be service. There might come 
 a time when she would bless him for what he had done. Some 
 day, when Avith a husband one with her in every way, and 
 children of her own, learning- from their father's lips the first 
 lessons of the faith, might she not then bless him for the pain of 
 the present? Might not this be his ' duteous service' ? this the 
 ' steep of honour ' ? 
 
 But Donovan was very human; the thought of his own 
 suffering began to appeal to him. The thought of life without 
 Gladys 7i'oiihl come before him. It hung round him like a heavy 
 pall, shutting out all brightness, all hope of future happiness, all 
 hope — so he thought — of ennobling- himself. For was not she 
 the light he had looked to, the goal he had set before hiiH^ Now 
 
312 A CROWN OP FIRE. 
 
 everything- was shut out. Blank and black, dreary and hopeless, 
 life stretched out before him. 
 
 As he paced up and down battling' with himself, his attention 
 was drawn to the little strip of beach at the foot of the cliff. Two 
 children were there, laughing-, shouting, waving their hands to a 
 fisherman who was just nearing- the shore in his boat. The keel 
 g-rated on the pebbles, the man sprang- out. He had not had 
 g-ood luck, his lobster-pots had been empty, but, in spite of it, his 
 voice was hearty and cheerful as he hailed the little ones. 
 Donovan saw them run to meet him, heard their cry of ' Father ! 
 father ! ' Another sore regret surged in upon him then. He 
 could never have a child of his own, no child would ever call him 
 ' father.' He might love and be beloved by other people's 
 children, but the "fatherhood whicli this honest fisherman could 
 enjoy might never be his. And then the terribly tempting 
 thought of what might be, the haunting- happiness of the home, 
 the wife that might be his, came again to him with double force. 
 
 It is not so hard to bear what the force of circumstance brings ; 
 the Christian, the Fatalist, the Agnostic, all from a variety of 
 reasons learn the sort of endurance which life can hardly fail to 
 teach, and endure joyfully, abjectly, or dbg-gedly. But deliber- 
 ately to choose the pain, that is not easy, not easy because it is 
 God-like. Only by slow painful degrees can we fight our way 
 upward and break loose from the clinging- hold of self-love. 
 
 Donovan had now fully faced all sides of this g-reat question 
 of his iii'e ; again he came to the decision which must be made at 
 once and for ever. And now for the second time out of the 
 depths he sent up a cry to the Unknown. No ' sense of sin ' 
 had prompted either of those hardly conscious appeals. His first 
 prayer had been that Dot might be taken from him into peace. 
 his second that he might have strength of will to leave Gladys 
 That will of his which had failed — he distrusted it now ! 
 
 The battle ended at last. Slowly and firmly he pronounced 
 the ' I will ' which must banish him for ever from all that he 
 loved. 
 
 The sun was just setting- when he reached St. Kerrans ; he 
 had struck inland from the Porthkerran Cliff road, and had gone 
 across country. Waif following him through stubble-fields and 
 over hedges and West-country walls with untiring perseverance. 
 The shops in the little town were still open, for it was market- 
 day. Donovan went as usual to the post-office, and there to his 
 surprise found a letter for himself — an exceedingly rare event. 
 He opened it and read the contents with as much curiosity as ho 
 was cauable of feeling about anything just then. 
 
A CROWN OF FIRE, 313 
 
 €S House, Freshwater, I, W., Aujua 27. 
 
 *My dear Donovan, 
 
 * You mav very possibly have forf^-otten an old friend of 
 yours, who, however, has often thoug'ht of you in the lonj^- inter- 
 val which has passed since we met. I saw your cousin. Miss 
 Adela Farrant, a few weeks ag'o, and she told me of your where- 
 abouts. I am very glad you are thinking- of enterinj^ the medi- 
 cal profession. Has your vacation beg-un yet? If so, will you 
 not come and spend a week or two with mo ? Plenty of boating- 
 and fishing- for you, and as much or as little as you like o/" an old 
 man's society. 
 
 ' Yours very truly, 
 
 ' H. G. Hayes. 
 
 < p.S. — I am only here for three weeks, so come at once if 
 you can.' 
 
 Here was a real help to his resolution, an invitation which 
 would blind the Tremains to the strangeness of his abrupt depar- 
 ture. He looked at his watch ; it only wanted two or three 
 minutes to the time when the teleg-raph-office closed. Should he 
 g-o back and send the message which would fix his fate ? He 
 wavered a minute, but finally returned to the office, snatched up 
 pencil and paper, and, feeling- much as if he were sig-ning- his 
 own death-warrant, wrote the following- words — ' Your letter for- 
 warded to me from London. Many thanks for invitation. I will 
 come to-morrow evening-.' The teleg-ram dispatched, he set otf 
 at a sharp pace for Porthkerran, along the familiar road which 
 had so many associations for him — the first meeting- with Dick, 
 his last return to Trenant only a mouth ag-o, and — most vivid 
 recollection of all— that drive with the doctor one Sunday evening 
 in September, when they had spoken of his doubts and difficulties, 
 when Dr. Tremain had spoken so hopefully, so confidently of the 
 light which would come to him. Poor Donovan ! he did not feel 
 any such confidence now. Bl-ack darkness seemed gathering- 
 round him. In renouncing Gladys, he felt that all which had 
 hitherto been most hel])ful to hini would be swept away, that he 
 should be left alone to face ' the spectres of the mind.' Happily 
 he saw the danger of dwelling on this thought, however, and, 
 putting it from him, he strode rapidly along, wondering how he 
 could best veil his feelings from Gladys, or arouse least suspicion 
 in the minds of her parents. 
 
 At last, in the twilight evening, he reached Trenant. How 
 little he had dreamed that the sight of the gabled house, with its 
 mantling ivy and cheerful lighted windows, would ever give his 
 
314 A CROWN OF FIRE. 
 
 heart such a stnh of pain ! "Well, he must think as little as he 
 could, and just do. It was rather a relief to him on entering the 
 drawing-room to find old Admiral Smith there. The doctor had 
 his microscope out, Mrs. Tremain was working, Gladys was 
 [)laying chess with Bertie. 
 
 ' Here you are at last ! ' was the general exclamation. 
 * Where have you been ? And how tired you look ! ' 
 
 ' It was very rude of me to cut dinner,' said Donovan, shaking 
 bands with the admiral, ' but I felt inclined for a good long- 
 walk.' 
 
 'After your cramping position in the photograph, I suppose/ 
 said the doctor, laughing. 'You are in great disgrace with Kesta 
 though, for having gone without wishing her good-night.' 
 
 'You will have some supper now ? ' said Mrs. Tremain, with 
 her hand on the bell. 
 
 ' No, thank you,' said Donovan. ' I really want nothing. 
 Let me have the rest of the evening with you all, for I'm afraid 
 this will be my last.' 
 
 * Your last evening ! ' exclaimed the doctor, greatly astonished. 
 
 'Well, at St. Kerrans I found a letter from a very old friend 
 of mine, Mr, Hayes, a neighbour of ours at Oakdene. He is 
 staying in the Isle of Wight, and wrote to ask if I would come 
 down and see him. His time is limited, so I was obliged to 
 answer him at once, and promise to go.' 
 
 ' How beastly ! ' exclaimed the two schoolboys. 
 
 ' Must you really go to-morrow ? ' said Mrs. Tremain, regret- 
 fully. ' It is very hard for us to be robbed of so much of your 
 visit, but I suppose we must not grudge you to an older friend.' 
 
 ' Mr. Hayes w^as very kind to me in the old time. I think it 
 is right that I should go to see him, though of course I ' 
 
 He broke olf abruptly, unable to speak any trite common- 
 place regret. 
 
 He had carefully avoided looking at Gladys, but as the doctor 
 and Mrs. Tremain were still discussing this sudden change of 
 plan with him, Bertie's voice forced itself upon his notice. 
 
 ' Well, Glad, you are a muif ! You've let me take your queen, 
 when you might have moved it as easily as possible.' 
 
 ' I'm very sorry, Bertie. I wasn't thinking,' was the answer. 
 
 ' It's very dismal indeed,' said the doctor. ' However, I 
 suppose we must grin and bear it. You'll come down for the 
 next long vacation anyhow. And we won't allow Mr. Hayes to 
 cheat us a second time. You can go to him for Christmas Day. 
 He is more accessible than we are for a short holiday.' 
 
 Gladys sat moving her chessmen mechanically, feeling as if 
 
A CROWN OF FIRK. 315 
 
 she were in some dreadful dream. What did it all mean ? Why 
 was he g'oing* away ? Had he guessed her secret ? had she 
 betrayed herself? No, she thoui^'ht not, for he looked so perfectly 
 natural, and even as she finished her p-atne, he crossed the room 
 and took the vacant chair beside her, asking" in the most ordinary 
 way, 
 
 'Did you finish stoning- your peaches?' 
 
 And then he told her about his talk with Trevethan, and 
 made her describe Jack to him, so that in a very little while her 
 clieeks cooled, and her relief would have been almost hapj)iness, 
 if tliere had not been the haunting' consciousness that this was 
 the last talk she should have with Donovan for a year. Her 
 heart was very heavy. They made her sing, too, which seemed 
 hard, but Admiral Smith was fond of music, she could not refuse. 
 Donovan lit the candles for her, and opened the piano. She 
 turned over her portfolio, but every song* seemed to bear some 
 reference to the subject that was filling- her heart. However, 
 Admiral Smith decided the question for her. 
 
 ' Now, Miss Gladys, let us have the " Flowers of the Forest." 
 That's the prettiest song' ever written, to my mind.' 
 
 She g-ot through it somehow, but there was more pathos than 
 she wished in the mournful refrain — 
 
 The flowers of the forest are a' wecle away ! 
 
 Donovan never heard that song* in after-years without a serve' 
 mcnt dc ccciir. As he held the portfolio open for her to put it 
 away, her hand touclied his for a minute, he felt that it was icy 
 cold, and a sud len lunging' to take it in his almost overmastered 
 him. The old admiral was disappearing' with the doctor into the 
 adjoining- room, the boys had gone to bed, Mrs. Tremain had just 
 gone into the dining-room to ring the first bell for prayers, these 
 two were quite alone. Why might he not take that poor little 
 cold hand into his and tell her the truth, tell her that he loved 
 her with his whole heart. After all, it was a mere shadow which 
 stood between them ! why should he sacrifice his own happiness 
 and hers, because what to her was a conviction was to him a 
 vague uncertainty ? He loved her so dearly, why must he be so 
 cruel ? It was a moment of terrible temptation. But it was 
 only a moment. With lips firmly pressed together he bent down 
 over her music, turned over the pieces, and not in the least 
 knowing what he had taken up, said rather hurriedly, 
 
 ' Will vou not plav something ? There will be time for this, 
 I think.' " 
 
 She sat down again at the piano, and he moved away to the 
 
316 GOOD-BYE. 
 
 fireplace, waiting- there with his head propped between his hands, 
 and steeling- himself to endure. Quito unknowingly he had 
 given her a transcription of' rest in the Lord.' He scarcely heard 
 it, hut to her the beautiful air brought infinite comfort. When 
 she had ended it she was quite herself again, and could speak 
 naturally and composedly, and before many minutes the prayer- 
 bell rang-, and she Avent away, leaving- Donovan alone. 
 
 That wretched evening- ended at length, the last good nights 
 were said, the house settled down into quiet. But lights burnt 
 long- in two of the rooms ; in one Donovan, with a rigid face, bent 
 over his dryest medical book, in a vain endeavour to banish 
 thought, in the other Gladys knelt and prayed. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 GOOD-BYE. 
 
 _-^ She smiled : but he coiild see arise 
 
 Her soul from far adowu her eyes, 
 Prepared as if for sacrifice. 
 
 She looked a queen who seemeth gay 
 From royal grace alone. 
 
 E. B. Browning. 
 
 When, after spending a winter in the sunny south, beneath 
 clear blue skies and constant sunshine, the traveller returns to 
 the capricious springtide of the north, the violent contrast is very 
 often both dangerous and depressing-. Kain and fog- and lower- 
 ing- skies seem more noticeable, more nnforg-etable than before ; 
 east winds, which in former years we had laughed at or ignored, 
 are now an unpleasant reality, and every breath drawn tells only 
 too plainly that, although the heart of the north may be ' dark 
 and true and Under,' its winds are sharp and keen and bitter. 
 
 In that one night of suffering- Gladys passed as it were from 
 the sunny south to the northern springtide. She woke the next 
 morning fully conscious of the change that had come, wearily, 
 achingly conscious of it. Hitherto her life had been almost un- 
 troubled, her sunny temperament made her less susceptible than 
 most are to the small trials and annoyances of life, and now for 
 the very first time there came to her a long-ing- for pause and 
 rost. Every other morning- of her life her first healthy wakings 
 thought had been a thanksgiving- for the hajtpiness of beg'inning 
 
GOOD-BYE. 817 
 
 a fresh day, now with a g'reat load on her heart she only longed 
 to shut out the lifi'ht, to forget a little longer. If only the drama 
 of life would go on without her! If only she might give up her 
 part — her hard difficult part ! 
 
 It was no use wishing, however. She got up and went 
 straight to the looking-glass to see what sort of face slie could 
 hring to that day's work. Somehow her reflection made her 
 angry, the wide, wearied eyes, with their dark circles, the grave 
 lips, the unusual paleness of the whole face. * I will certainly 
 not look like this,' she determined, and though as a rule she 
 thought scarcely at all of her appearance, this day she took great 
 
 f)ains with herself, put on a pink print dress, which made her 
 ook much less ghostly, fastened a rose in her halt, and ran down 
 to hreakfast with an air of assumed cheerfulness little in accord- 
 ance with her heav}^ heart. 
 
 Donovan was already seated at the table, he was to start in 
 half-an-hour's time, and the doctor had arranged his rounds so as 
 to drive him first to St. Kerrans Station. There was nothing the 
 least unusual in his voice or manner, he talked on steadily about 
 the Isle of Wight, geological books, fossils, all the most ordinary 
 topics. No one could have guessed in the least that all the time 
 he was bearing the keenest pain, doing the hardest of deeds. 
 
 It was not easy to speak quite naturally to Gladys, but silence 
 between them would have been so marked that he was all the 
 more anxious to overcome tlie difficulty. 
 
 ' I am afraid the Euclid will come to a standstill,' he said, as 
 they stood at the open door waiting for the carriage. ' You are 
 safely over the Pons Asinorum, though, which is some consola- 
 tion.' 
 
 He had spoken lightly and with a smile, his tone jarred a 
 little on Gladys. What did it all mean ? Did he really care for 
 her ? If so, why did he speak like that ? 
 
 Her father had answered the remark. 
 
 ' She must wait till the next long vacation before she becomes 
 a thorough " blue-stocking." What w^ill you attempt then ? 
 Conic sections, I suppose.' 
 
 Donovan did not answer, but allowed himself to be mono- 
 polised by Jackie and Nesta, and Gladys stood leaning against 
 the doorway, feeling sick at heart as she watched their noisy 
 romp, while the sound of wheels drew nearer and nearer. Waif 
 came up to her with low whines of delight and wagging tail. 
 She bent down to pat him with a full-hearted reproach. * What, 
 vou too, Waif! Are you so glad to go I ' Waif comforted iier a 
 little, however, in spite of his eagerness to start, happy Waif, who 
 
318 GOOD-BYE. 
 
 had saved his master's life, who would always be his friend and 
 companion. 
 
 A few minutes more and the end had come. She felt her 
 hand taken in astrono- firm g'rasp, and, looking- up, met Donovan's 
 eyes ; there was an almost hard look in them which puzzled her, 
 hut his voice was pleasant and natural. 
 
 ' Good-hye,' he said. ' And if you are seeing Trevethan, 
 please tell him that I'll do my best to find Jack.' 
 
 ' I will,' said Gladys, softly. ' Good-bye.' 
 
 ' Dood-bye, Mr. Dono, dood-bye,' shouted Nesta, as the car- 
 riag-e drove away. ' Please lift me up, sissy.' 
 
 Gladys took the little girl in her arms, and Nesta threw in- 
 numerable kisses after the departing guest; Donovan looked 
 back, smiled and waived his hand, and a turn in the road soon hid 
 the pony-carriage from sight. 
 
 ' I am very sorry he has had to go like this,' said Mrs. Tre- 
 main, re-entering the house. 'I think, Gladys dear, you might 
 give the children their lessons early ; I shall be glad of your help 
 at the clothing club this morning.' 
 
 'Very well, mother,' said Gladys, obediently, and she went at 
 once with her two little pupils into the school-room, giving all 
 her attention to ' Reading without tears.' 
 
 It Avas not till night that she had time fairly to face her 
 trouble, and when the work of the day was over she was too 
 weary to think ; she shut herself into her little room and threw 
 herself on the bed just as she was, only conscious of relief that at 
 last she might let her face relax, that at last she might be miser- 
 able alone. It was bad enough that Donovan should be gone, 
 that for a whole year she should not see him, but the real sting- 
 was that he had gone in such a strange way. Could it be that 
 she had mistaken mere friendship for love ? Had she given her 
 whole heart to one who merely wanted a good listener, a pleasant 
 companion ? Well, it was done now, and there could be no un- 
 doing ; she loved him, and clung to her love perhaps all the more 
 closely because of the pain it was bringing her. 
 
 Never once did she realize as Donovan had done the impos- 
 sibility of real union between them. He, knowing all the misery 
 of such dilierences as had existed between himself and Dot, taking 
 too the darkest view of his own future, had felt his agnosticism to 
 be an insurmountable barrier. But Gladys could not feel this. 
 She saw in Donovan a noble, self-sacrificing character, a reso- 
 lute cleaving- to right at whatever cost to himself^ a tender- 
 ness to children, a great capability of endurance, an untiring 
 search and desire for truth. Surely the light would come to 
 
GOOD-BYE. 319 
 
 him, surely already he was far on the road to that knowledge he 
 craved ! 
 
 And then too she could not help knowing- that she had a 
 great influence over him ; he had almost told her so in words, 
 and hy his questions, his anxiety to learn her opinion, his eag-er- 
 ncss to gain her a})proval, had certainly borne it out in actions. 
 Yes, she loved him, was ready to give up everything- for him, to 
 leave home, and comfort, and prosperity, to share his poverty, to 
 hear for his sake reproach and susj)icion, to be doubted, to be 
 evil si)okcn of, if only she might bring- one ray of light into his 
 gloom, if only by her love she could win him to believe in the 
 everlastingness of love. 
 
 It might be a hard life, in some ways it must be lonely, but 
 what was that to her ? The mere possibilit}'' of bringing- any 
 real joy — joy worthy the name — into Donovan's life, outweighed 
 to her all thought of the suffering- involved. All self suffering, 
 that is. If she had known that at that very minute she was 
 giving- him the keenest suffering possible, she could not have 
 borne it. But of this naturally she knew nothing, thought in 
 her ignorance that the present pain was almost entirely hers, 
 that in that possible future too the ache of loneliness would 
 be all for her to bear, and in her unselfishness rejoiced in the 
 thought. 
 
 Her mind, however, was too healthy to busy herself unduly 
 over the future, the present was to be lived in, she turned back 
 resolutely to make 
 
 The best of ' now ' and here, 
 
 by which she meant chiefly ceaseless prayers for Donovan, while 
 the daily round of home life went on unaltered. Her bright face 
 was still the sunshine of the house, for gradually the self-pity, 
 the vain regrets, and the useless puzzling over Donovan's change 
 of manner passed away ; in the constant communion with the 
 All-Father her love was being perfected. 
 
 With Donovan himself matters went more hardly. It could 
 not be otherwise. The parting which had tried Gladys, had been 
 to him a frightful effort, while the future, which to her was veiled 
 in uncertainty and lightened by hope, was to him one long blank 
 desert of pain. 
 
 It was evening- by the time he stood on the deck of the little 
 steamer which plied between Lymington and Yarmouth, a dismal 
 evening too, well in accordance with his own feeUngs. A heavy 
 sea-fog shut out the view, a fine chilling rain fell, the passengers 
 grumbled, two tired children wailed piteously, nurses alternately 
 
320 GOOD-BYE. 
 
 coaxed and rcolded them. At length in the dreary twih'g-ht they 
 reached the little port, Donovan rescued his portmanteau from 
 the chaos of lug-gage and slowly made his way up the long wooden 
 pier, to the old-fashioned coach, which with its patient horses 
 and g'ood-tempered driver stood waiting outside a cheery little 
 inn. The wailing hahies were packed away inside, Donova'i 
 mounted to the top, where he M'as presently joined hy two or 
 three other men, and hy a forlorn little girl who could find no 
 room inside ; he held his umhrella over her, and talked to her a 
 little ; she looked tired and sad, he had a kind of fellow-feelinjf 
 for her. Presently all heing ready the driver cracked his whio 
 and the horses started olf at a brisk pace, they went swinging 
 along through narrow country lanes and under dripping trees, 
 till at length the lights of Freshwater shone out in the distance, 
 and gradually the passengers were set down at their various 
 destinations. Before long Donovan's turn came. 
 
 * S House, sir. Here you are,' said the coachman. 
 
 He tucked Waif under his ainn, wished the little girl good 
 evening and clambered down. The door of the villa was wide 
 open, a flood of light streamed out into the dusky garden, reveal- 
 ing old Mr. Hayes in the doorway. Donovan had fancied himself 
 hopelessly, irrevocably miserable, but he was considerably cheered 
 by the old man's hearty welcome. It was after all something to 
 have your hand grasped by an old friend, to be questioned 
 and fussed over, to be taken into a comfortable brightly-lighted 
 room, to sit down to a well-spread supper table, and to end the 
 evening with the long foregone luxury of a cigar. Not so 
 romantic perhaps as to pine away in appetiteless melancholy, but 
 more rational and manly. 
 
 He made the most of his three weeks' visit, and though the 
 green downs of Freshwater always had for him associations of 
 pain and conflict, he yet managed to get some enjoyment and 
 much bodily and mental good from his stay there. 
 
 'And have you got your castle in the air, yet?' Mr. Hayes 
 would laughingly ask him. 
 
 His face would sadden a little, but he would always answer 
 laughingly that Sanitary Reform w^as his darling project, or that 
 his pet hobby was the Temperance Cause. 
 
A MAN AND A BROTHER. 821 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 A MAN AND A BROTHER, 
 
 Charity is greater than justice? Yes, it is greater, it is tlie sninmit of 
 justice— it is the temple of wliich justice is the foundation. But you can- 
 not have tlic top -without the bottom; you cannot build upon charity. You 
 must build upon justice, for tliis main reason, that yoii have not at first 
 charity to build with. It is the hist reward of good work. Do justice to 
 your brother (you can do that whether you love him or not), and you will 
 come to love him. 
 
 Wreath of Wild Olive. Rusiaisr. 
 
 The 30th of September was a cold, blowy Jay, the wind seemed 
 to take a special pleasure in howling' and wliistling- about the 
 dismal lodg-ings where Donovan was working-. It was evening", 
 the table was covered with bulky volumes, with papers of notes 
 and manuscript books ; he had always had the foculty of doing- with 
 a will whatever he undertook, and he was so absorbed in his 
 work that he scarcely noticed a violent peal at the door-bell. It 
 was not till the iiv^wluig- wind was eddying- through the passag-e 
 and the infirm fastening- of his sitting-room door bad succumbed 
 to the blast and burst open, that he became alive to the tact that 
 Stephen Causton was to come up to town that evening-, and that 
 this gust of wind probably announced his advent. 
 
 It was a blustering- arrival altogether, the landlady's welcome 
 was almost lost in the general hubbub. Donovan heard a loud 
 and rather rough voice replying-. 
 
 * Well, Mrs. Green, how are you ? Here, you boy, put down 
 the portmanteau.' 
 
 Then came a slow counting- out of coin. 
 ' Please, sir, it were awful 'eavy,' pleaded a shrill voice, ' it 
 were fit to break a chap's arm.' 
 
 • Nonsense,' came the loud voice again, ' it's not more than 
 three hundred yards from ' 
 
 ' Good- evening,' interru])ted Donovan, suddenly emerging 
 from the sitting-room, and finding- himself in the presence of a 
 light-haired, bushy-whiskered double of Mrs. Causton. 
 
 ' Oh, g-ood evening,' said Stephen, holding- out his hand, 
 and hastily glancing- at his new companion. ' I've all sorts of 
 messagee for you from Porthkerran.' 
 
 Donovan's hands clenched and unclenched themselves. It 
 was a little hard tu hear messages from Porthkerran spoken of iu 
 such a careless tone. 
 
322 A MAN AND A BROTHER. 
 
 The little street Loy who had carried the portmanteau began 
 to plead again lor ' another copper or two.' 
 
 ' Nonsense, be off, 3'ou beggar ! ' was Stephen's lordly reply, 
 and he passed into the sitting-room, giving a chagrined exclama- 
 tion at finding no supper ready for him. 
 
 Donovan left the landlady to pacify him, and partly from dis- 
 like to the tone which his companion had used, partly from his 
 horror of under-paying labour, made the little street boy happy 
 with a sixpence. Then he pushed the front-door to with a 
 vigorous slam, and slowly returned to the sitting-room. 
 
 Stephen, feeling that he had a somewhat taciturn companion, 
 talked more than usual, and pleasantly enough. However much 
 he resembled his mother in face, he was singularly unlike her in 
 every other way, and Donovan was surprised that Mrs. Causton 
 should tolerate such very free and easy manners, or that anyone 
 strictly brought up should sprinkle his conversation so plentifully 
 with slang and mild oaths. Was this Dick Tremain's specimen 
 of a ' mother's son ' ? Surely he must have broken loose from 
 his leading-strings ! 
 
 The fact was that Stephen at Porthkerran and Stephen in 
 London were two very dift'erent beings He did not at first in- 
 tentionally deceive his mother, but inefitably he had struck out 
 into a line of his own widely different from hers. Too weak to 
 care to set up his principles in open deiiance he lived a sort of 
 double life, taking his Hing when alone, and meekly deferring to 
 his mother's opinion when at Porthkerran. The result of this 
 falseness was most unhappy. Donovan scrutinized his com- 
 panion's face keenly that first evening, but after all, in spite of 
 the narrow forehead, and the eyes which rarely looked straight 
 into other eyes, he took rather a liking to Stephen — was he not 
 a friend of the Tremains ? the one link which might still exist 
 between them. 
 
 It was not for some daj s that he found out the truth about 
 his new companion. He k lew that his bringing up had been of 
 the narrowest, and guesseo from the very first that he had shaken 
 off the old traditions, and was taking his own way, but it was not 
 all at once that he realized what that way was. 
 
 One October evening when the day's lectures Avere over, and 
 the two had just finished dinner, the conversation drifted some- 
 how to Porthkerran. It was a very chilly night, Stephen had 
 insisted on having a fire, and dragging up an arm-chair to the 
 hearth, sat crouched up like any old man. Donovan, with his 
 feet on the mantel-piece, T^.merican fashion, listened silently to the 
 continuous flow of talk, not taking great note of it until the name 
 of Tremain fell on his ear. 
 
A MAN AND A BROTHER. 323 
 
 * Johnson's a good cnoug-h fellow,' Stephen was saying-. ' Not, 
 perhaps, ■what Dr. Trcmain would approve of, but one can't be so 
 strait-laced as he is.' 
 
 'The doctor strait-laced!' exclaimed Donovan. 'Tliat'stlie 
 last word you can a])ply to him. Strait-laced ! why, he's the 
 very soul of liberality.' 
 
 * In some ways,' replied Stephen, cooll}', ' but not all round. 
 I was a year in his surgery, and I can tell you he's not the easiest 
 master to serve. I wouldn't have him know that Johnson and 
 Curtis were my friends for — " a wilderness of monkeys," as old 
 Shylock has it. Not that they're either of them bad fellows, but 
 they're the sort that the doctor can't abide.' 
 
 Donovan only knew the two students by sig'ht, but he was 
 able to g-uess pretty well to what set they belonged, and he knew 
 tliat they were probably the very worst friends for anyone so 
 weak-minded as Stephen. The reference to the Tremains, how- 
 ever, brought too many painful thoughts to his mind to admit of 
 his dwelling- on his conjj)anion's words. He did not speak, and 
 Stephen, thrusting- his feet almost under the g-rate, continued, 
 
 ' One can't be a slave to another man's opinion, but of course I 
 do try to keep in the doctor's good books, not altogether to please 
 him either. I suppose you saw a good deal of Gladys, didn't you?' 
 
 ' A good deal,' replied Donovan, steadily ; but as he spoke he 
 swung down his feet from the mantel-piece, and pushing back his 
 chair began to pace up and down the room. 
 
 'She's an awfully jolly little thing, isn't she?' continued 
 Stephen. ' And she's grown uncommonly pretty too.' 
 
 Donovan longed to kick him ; Stephen talked on in easy un- 
 consciousness. 
 
 ' Her colouring's rather too high, certainly, but she's a very 
 fine girl. I lost my heart to her years ago, and though of course 
 I've had half-a-dozen Hames since, not one of them was fit to be 
 compared with her. I'd a fortnight at Porthkerran before coming 
 up here, you know, and jolly enough it was too. Between our- 
 selves, my mother is quite ready to help me to see plenty of Gladys 
 Tremain, nothing- would please her so well as to have Gladys for 
 a daughter-in-law, and, by Jove, she'd make a stunning- good wife. 
 I don't believe she disHkes me either, she was much more ready 
 to be talked to than usual. We shouldn't be half badly matched. 
 What do you think ? ' 
 
 ' Discuss your love aifairs with anyone you please, but not 
 with me,' said Donovan, reining in his voice with difficulty. 
 ' You ought to have found out before now that I am made of. 
 cast iroU; and chosen your confidant better.' 
 
324 A MAN AND A BROTHER. 
 
 * Well, all right, I won't bore you,' replied Stei)licn. 'Where 
 are you oil to ? don't g-o.' 
 
 ' I can't read yet, I'm goino- out.' 
 
 ' Johnson said he'd look in this evening, we'll have a round of 
 'Nap," that'll he better than tiu-ning out on such a night as this.' 
 
 ' You won't play while I'm in the house,' said Donovan, de- 
 cidedly. 'Look here, Causton, just understand once for all that 
 if you bring- those fellows here we dissolve partnership at once. I 
 can get rooms elsewhere, but get into that set I will not.' 
 
 ' All right, my dear fellow, don't get into such a fume,' said 
 Stephen, trying- to yawn carelessly. ' They shan't come here if 
 you feel so strongly about it, though after all you don't know 
 that we shouldn't play for threepenny points.' 
 
 ' I wasn't born yesterday,' said Donovan, shortly, and with 
 that he went out, snatched "up his hat, and, slamming the front 
 door after him, hurried out into the street. 
 
 Ilis brain was in a whirl of confusion, he strode on recklessly 
 down the dingy street, out into the broad road, past the brilliant 
 lights of Sanger's Circus, past the hospital to Westminster 
 Bi'idge. Then he paused, and leaning on the southern parapet, 
 in the very place where Koir Frewin had met him years ago, he 
 let the wild confusion work itself out into distinct realities. 
 
 This fellow loved, or professed to love, Gladys ; the thought 
 was intolerable to him. He loved her, but spoke of her as 
 Donovan would hardly have spoken of Waif, loved her, and, 
 sanctioned by his mother, evidently meant to woo her ! And— 
 worst misery of all ! — what Avas there to prevent it? he was ab- 
 solutely helpless, he could only look on in dumb despair. Never 
 more could he go to that Cornish home, never more see the face 
 of the woman he loved, but he should hear of Stephen Causton's 
 visits, he might go there with impunity, be might spend long 
 hours with "Gladys, might woo her, and win her! It was 
 maddening ! the thought of it roused all the stormiest passions 
 in Donovan's heart. He hated Stephen, hated and despised him, 
 dwelt with bitterest scorn on his weakness, his many failings. 
 The fiend of jealousy rode rampant over every better feeling, 
 clenched for the time all that was noble in him. But it was 
 only for a time. Before long he was taxing himself— not Stephen 
 — with cowardly weakness. 
 
 What right had he to be angry because another man ventured 
 to admire Gladys ? What concern was it of his ? Had he not 
 resolved on absolute sacrifice of self?— yet here was the wily 
 self coming to the fore again, firing up indignantly because anothe. 
 man desired what he had renounced. 
 
A MAN AND A BHOTHKH. 325 
 
 Enjoyment, happiness, was not for liim ; a line of ploddino; 
 duty— of entire sacrifice — was the course marked out instead. 
 The ' steep of honour ' was before him, his reward must be in the 
 Meeds of duteous service' tbemselves. 
 
 It should be so. The fire of indiu-nation died down, leaving- 
 him quiet, passive, depressed, but still resolutely determined to 
 keep on in this dreary round of duty. 
 
 The cold nii^ht wind blowing- up from the river helped to 
 brace him for the strup-glej air and wide open space had always 
 a very strange influence over him, this evening- he felt their 
 influence more than ever. The river flowed darkly onward, the 
 lights on its margin threw their yellow reflection in a second 
 g-olden chain, to the left stood up the sombre towers of the Abbey, 
 and the huge mass of the Houses of Parliament loomed grandly 
 out of the darkness. Sounds of life and traffic rose, too, out of 
 the night. Trains flashed like fiery serpents over Charing Cross 
 Bridge, with shriek of whistle and snort of engine ; carriages, 
 horses, passengers of every description hurried on. After all it 
 was a grand old world, no world of units. There was a national 
 life to be lived as well as a private life, there were national 
 grievances which would outweigh and eclipse all private griev- 
 ances, there was — even to a sometime misanthrope — the enthu- 
 siasm of humanity, a wonderful panacea for self-pain. 
 
 He was conscious of that widening influence, but more con- 
 scious of a sudden contraction caused by the sound of a voice he 
 knew. Glancing round he saw Stephen and two other men within 
 a few yards of him. 
 
 * No, I've never played there,' Stephen was saying. 
 
 ' Time you were initiated, then,' replied one of his companions. 
 * Smithson will be there by nine. He's better at billiards than 
 anyone I know, a regular ' 
 
 The rest of the sentence died away in the distance, there was 
 a g-eneral laugh, and then Donovan heard no more. 
 
 He watched the three as they crossed the bridge, and saw 
 them turn to the right ; he guessed well enough where they 
 were going. It was evident that Stephen was getting- completely 
 under the influence of Johnson and the set to wliich he belonged. 
 In an instant all the thoughts of brotherhood, freedom, and self- 
 sacrifice were banished from Donovan's mind, and a very devilish 
 idea took possession of him. 
 
 Stephen was deplorably weak-minded, he would get under 
 Johnson's thimib, would very likely go to the bad altogether, 
 nnd, if so, he would unfit himself for Glad3's. In one moment 
 there rose before him a picture of the future, Stephen the ortho- 
 
326 A MAN AND A BROTHER. 
 
 dox dragg-ed down into disgrace and rejection ; himself, an 
 agnostic indeed, but the model of virtue and morality, rewarded 
 by success. 
 
 It was a fiendish imagination, lasting only for a minute ; he 
 dashed it down, and stood shamefaced and full of self-loathing in 
 the world of realities again. 
 
 The Westminster chimes rang out into the night. Big Ben 
 boomed the hour — nine of those deep, reverberating strokes fell 
 on Donovan's ear. Before the last echo had died into silence he 
 had made up his mind what to do. With the natural instinct of 
 a generous character, he, having wronged Stephen in thought, 
 was anxious now to redress the wrong by some kind of service. 
 Thoughts of tiie Tremains, too, came crowding into his mind. 
 Stephen was their friend, the doctor's godson — if he went wrong 
 the Tremains would be infinitely sorry. He must at any rate 
 try to get him away from that set into which he had fallen, make 
 some efibrt to dissuade him from a course which would so greatly 
 shock his mother. 
 
 He hurried along with rapid strides, trying not to think how 
 much he dishked the task before him, racking his brain for some 
 excuse by which to draw Stephen away, at any rate for this 
 evening. ' He had only a few minutes in which to form his plans ; 
 before long he had passed under the dark railway bridge, and 
 had turned up Villiers Street. He had not been in this particular 
 place since the miserable New Year's Eve just before his illness, 
 when his one longing had been to stifle his remorse, and to still 
 those awful recollections of Dot's death-bed. An extraordinary 
 change had passed over him since then, but he did not think of 
 that himself, or contrast the present Donovan with the past, only 
 as he went through the swing doors into the brightly-lighted 
 saloon, a vague association of pain and misery came to him, a 
 sort of ghost of the past seemed to hover about the place. 
 
 His quick eye had soon taken a survey of the tables, and 
 had descried Causton cue in hand. The place was crowded ; lie 
 made his way towards him and stood for some time watching him 
 in silence. Stephen was betting on his own play with despicable 
 rashness, and he was playing exceedingly ill. Donovan had an 
 insane desu-e to snatch the cue from him and play himself, it was 
 most irritating to watch the game. 
 
 Presently he became conscious that some one's eyes were 
 riveted upon him, he glanced round in involuntary reply to that 
 strange magnetic influence. It was only the marker, a dark- 
 haired man, with a face which somehow seemed familiar to him. 
 As Donovan's eyes met his he turned away, however, apparently 
 
A MAN AND A BROTHER. 827 
 
 that fixed scrutiny had been quite purposeless. Curious deep 
 bhie eyes, a somewhat broad face, and Hack hair — why, the 
 fellow "had a Cornish look! And then it suddenly Hashed into 
 Donovan's mind that the likeness which had struck him was a 
 likeness to Trcvcthan the blacksmith. Surely this must be Jack 
 Trevcthau for whom he had promised to search. lie went round 
 to the marker's seat, there was no time for beating about the 
 bush, he just bent forward and said in a low voice, 
 
 ' Is your name John Trevethan ? ' 
 
 The billiard-marker started violently, and his dark face 
 flushed. Donovan felt at once that his g-uess had been correct, 
 even thougdi the man gave an angry denial. 
 
 * My name's Smith. What do you want with me ? ' 
 
 * Nothing. But I have a message for a man named Treve- 
 than from his father,' said Donovan, carelessly. 'I see I was 
 mistaken, but you look like the description given me.' 
 
 He moved away then, and made his way to Stephen. A fresh 
 game had just begun, this time Stephen was only looking- on ; 
 he had lost' a good deal, and was not in the best of tempers. 
 
 ' What, you here, Farrant ! ' he exclaimed, with surprise, for 
 he had been too much engrossed to notice Douovan before he 
 actually spoke to him. 
 
 ' You passed me just now on Westminster Bridge, I came in 
 here to tj-y to get hold of you. Haven't you liad enough of this ? 
 Come wath me and hear the '•' Cloches de Corneville," we've not 
 had so much as sixpennyworth of music since you came up.' 
 
 ' I can't come now, I'm with these other fellows,' said Stephen^ 
 irresolutely. 
 
 * Can't !' ejaculated Donovan, scornfully. 'You've not sold 
 yourself to tliem, I suppose. Come along-, you've had your 
 game, and we shall just be in time for the half-price.' 
 
 Stephen was always easily led, a little more persuasion and 
 the stronger will triumphed, Donovan g-ained the day. 
 
 As they passed out of the saloon he glanced once more at 
 the billiard-marker; he was so convinced of his identity with 
 Trevethan's son that he could not make uj) his mind to g-o with- 
 out one more effort. Hastily scrawling his name and address on 
 a card he once more crossed over to the Coruishman, and said, 
 with apparent carelessness, 
 
 ' If 3'ou happen to know anything of this Trevethan, he will 
 be able to g-et news of his father at this address.' 
 
 The num did not speak, but he took the card, and as Donovan 
 turned away he neg-lected his duties to look after him as he 
 passed down the long- saloon. 
 
328 A MAN AND A BROTHER. 
 
 'The lig-lit one was youno,- Causton, but who ctia he be?' 
 mused the billiard-marker. ' Farrant ! there was no such name 
 at Porthkcrran. He's a knowing- hand, wanted to g-et the other 
 out of this, and hooked him neat enough, but I was up to him, I 
 wasn't g'oing- to be fooled out of my name.' 
 
 With wliich reflections he put Donovan's card into bis waist- 
 coat pocket, and with a sig-h returned to his neg'lected duties. 
 But in spite of his satisfaction at not having- been 'fooled' into a 
 confession, the thought of his old father at Porthkerrau haunted 
 bim uncomfortably. 
 
 Meantime Stephen was listening- with great delight to the 
 music at the Opera Comique, Donovan fancied some resemblance 
 to Porthkerrau in the little fishing- town represented on the stage, 
 and therewith heard and saw little else, but in a sort of dream 
 lived again the months he had spent with the Tremains, returning 
 every now and then to the prosaic realization that he was in a hot 
 theatre with his rival beside him, this Stephen Causton to whom 
 he must before all things be perfectly j iist. The orchestra twanged 
 and scraped, the songs and choruses succeeded one another, the 
 audience applauded, and Donovan forced himself away from the 
 thoughts of the little Cornish village, and made himself face the 
 present and think out his plans with regard to Stephen. 
 
 The result of this was that as they walked home he told him 
 a little about his former life, and Stephen was for the time 
 impressed, liked Donovan better than he had ever liked him before, 
 and perhaps for the first time thoroughly respected him. But, 
 though he made many resolutions not to be led away by Johnson 
 and Curtis, daylight and some disagreeable chatting from his 
 former companions about his ca[)ture by Donovan Farrant, undid 
 all the good that had beeff done. 
 
 Donovan saw that something- was amiss when they met at 
 dinner-time. He had made up his mind to do all possible justice to 
 Stephen, to ignore his I'ailings, and to be friendly with him, but 
 his patience was severely tried by the resolute sulkiness of his 
 companion's manner. 
 
 Hardly a word was spoken during- the meal ; as soon as might 
 be, Donovan turned his chair round to the fire and took up the 
 Dailii News ; Stephen too got up i'rom the table, and stood witii 
 his back against the mantel-piece. Presently he broke the 
 silence. 
 
 'I say, Farrant, just understand at once, please, that I won't 
 have you dogging me again to-night.' 
 
 ' I thought you were due at the hospital,' said Donovan, 
 carelessly. 
 
A MAN AND A BROTHER. 329 
 
 'So I am; bat you know well cnoiio-h what 1 moan. You 
 know that you dog-i-od me last night.' 
 
 ' If by knowing- -where you were and following- yon, you moan 
 dog-ging-, I certainly did,' said Donovan, throwing- aside his paj)cr. 
 *I suppose Curtis and Co, have been chaffing' you ?' 
 
 ' That's no concern of yours, and I'm not g'oing- to be inter- 
 fered with, so just understand,' 
 
 ' I've not the least wish to interfere,' said Donovan. ' I told 
 you last nig'ht why I tried to g-et you away. I believed that you 
 didn't know what that sort of thing- leads to. Now you do know, 
 and if you choose to run into dang-er with your eyes open, the 
 more fool you.' 
 
 ' You're the last fellow in the world who has arig-ht to dictate 
 to me,' said Stephen, with offended dig-nity. 
 
 *I don't dictate, I only warn you that yo^i'll come to grief 
 unless you break with that set.' 
 
 • And what concern is that of yours, pray ? ' 
 
 ' More than you fancy,' said Donovan, quietly. ' You are a 
 friend of tlie Tremains, and so am I.' 
 
 ' But I'm not going- to bow down to Dr. Tremain in every- 
 thing-, and I tohi you so before; he's a g-ood enoug-h old fellow, 
 but ' 
 
 'Take care how you speak of him,' said Donovan, his eyes 
 flashing-. 
 
 ' Don"t look so furious ; what did I say ? You seem to consider 
 the Tremains your special property. I've known them more 
 years than you have months.' 
 
 ' Then I wonder that you care to take up with fellows whom 
 the doctor Avould disapprove of. And besides, Causton, if what 
 you told me last nig-ht is true, if you really care for — for Miss 
 Tremain, I should have thoug-ht you wouldn't have been able to 
 g-o about with such cads.' 
 
 ' Of course I care for Gladys ; but what on earth has that to 
 do with the chums I have here ? ' 
 
 ' A great deal,' said Donovan, vehemently. * Do you think 
 you'll ever be worthy of her if you g'o on making- such a fool of 
 yourself r" You know you're hardly fit to look at her now, and 
 what do you think 3'ou'li be like if you let such follows as John- 
 son and Curtis lead you by the nose ? You'll be a weak-minded, 
 dospic'iible fool. I tell you, if you mean to dream of marrying- 
 Miss Tremain, you must fit yourself for her.' 
 
 'You're wonderfully exercised about it; I believe you want 
 to have her for yourself,' said Stejihen, tauntingly. 
 
 The hot blood rushed to Donovan's face, his eyes blazed with 
 
330 A MAN AND A BROTHER. 
 
 anger ; in uno-overnable fury lie snatched up a boot-jack and 
 liui-led it at his companion's head. 
 
 The next instant, however, the threatened trng-edy became 
 utterly comic. Stephen, to save his head, warded oif the blow 
 with his arm, and the boot-jack hit him with considerable force 
 on the elbow. Numb, and tingling to the very finger tips, he 
 danced with pain. Waifs tail got trodden on, and he howled 
 dismally ; the fire-irons were knocked down, and went clattering 
 into the fender, and Donovan, overcome by the absurdity of the 
 scene, forgot his anger, and fell into a paroxysm of laughter. 
 Stephen laughed too. 
 
 ' You wretch ! it was my funny-bone. By Jove ! I believe 
 you've broken it.' 
 
 ' A medical riddle for 5'ou,' said Donovan, as soon as he could 
 speak for laughing. * Why is the funny-bone so named ? ' 
 
 Stephen gave it up, and, as the clock struck, remembered that 
 it was time he went back to the hospital. He went off, laughing 
 at the answer, ' Because it borders on the humerus,' and appar- 
 ently the incident of the boot-jack had really dispelled his sulki- 
 ness. Donovan picked up the fire-irons^ patted Waif, and then, 
 taking an armful of books from the sideboard, settled down to his 
 evening's work. The boot-jack was ever after a theme for 
 laughter; but they neither of them alluded again to the conversa- 
 tion which had led to the quarrel, nor did Stephen ever think 
 there was the smallest truth in his taunt. He could not imagine 
 anyone so matter-of-fact as Donovan actually falling in love, and 
 the stony silence with which all his remarks about Gladys were 
 met only confirmed him in the opinion that his companion was 
 indeed of the ' cast iron ' philosopher type. 
 
 To Donovan that year was a hard struggle. The continual 
 worry about Stephen, and the friction of his presence, were 
 perhaps good for him, they certainly prevented him from becom- 
 ing self-engrossed ; but there were times when he felt unbearably 
 jaded and harassed, as if he could not much longer keep up the 
 weary fight. He grew curiously fond of Stephen, and Stephen 
 returned the liking in his own odd way, vacillating between 
 Donovan and his old companions, and proving his miserable 
 w^eakness of will. But, though Donovan saved him from much, 
 he could not prevent the steady downhill course into which he 
 had fallen. 
 
 The approach of the long vacation brought another struggle, 
 and another hardly-won victory. There was a very urgent invita- 
 tation to Porthkerran. Of course it must be refused, but Donovan 
 had to 2-0 through the old battle once more before the letter was 
 
A MAN AND A BUOTIIER. 331 
 
 written. He made it a question of economy this time; his 
 finances were low, and ho had made \ip his mind to stay in town 
 throuj;-h the suninicr months, having- ohtained temporary em- 
 ployment in workinj^- up the book-keeping- of some small trades- 
 man. The Tromains were sorry, hut could say nothing- against 
 such a plan, and Donovan saw Stepheu g-o westward for his three 
 months' holiday close to Gladys' home, and felt a bitter pang- 
 of envy. 
 
 He worked almost fiercely through those stifling- summer 
 months, and in every spare moment reail hungrily on all sides of 
 the great question which was gradually filling his mind more 
 and more. There was temporary satisfaction m the actual read- 
 ing-, but he seemed to gain little from it. Arguments for, repulsed 
 him; arguments against, pained hira. He felt no nearer the 
 knowledge of the truth. 
 
 October brought a return to his hospital work, and fresh 
 difficulties with Stephen, who came back from Porthkerran in- 
 clined to break out into violent reaction after the subdued atmo- 
 sphere of his mother's house. 
 
 Mrs. Causton herself had not been altogether satisfied with 
 her son during- the vacation. She wondered whether Donovan's 
 influence could be bad for him, and after he had left she worried 
 herself so much about him that she at length resolved to go u]) 
 to town for a week, visit him in his rooms, and satisfy herself 
 that the doctor's protege was not corrupting him. 
 
 One morning when Donovan was sitting- at breakfast, dis- 
 cussing- a tough essay on 'Spontaneous Generation,' over weak 
 coflee and leathery toast, there came a knock at the door, the 
 landlady announced 'Mrs. Causton,' and, much surprised, he 
 found himself face to face with Stephen's mother. 
 
 ' I have taken you by surprise, Mr. Farrant,' she be^an, in 
 her rather demure voice. ' I came up unexpectedly to town on 
 business, and was anxious to find Stephen before his lectures 
 began. I arrived too late last night to come and see him then, 
 as I had intended doing. Stephen is not unwell, I hope 't I see 
 you are breakfasting alone.' 
 
 'He will be down directly,' said Donovan. 'Let me give 
 
 you some coffee, Mrs. Causton,' and then I'll go and call Stephen.' 
 
 'Yes, pray tell him I am here,' replied Mrs. Causton. 'No 
 
 roflfee, thank you. I breakfasted at my hotel. Pray call Stephen. 
 
 I hope he is not often so late as this 't ' 
 
 Donovan judiciously ignored that question, and went to 
 summon the hope of the Caustons, whom he found sleeping the 
 Bleep of the just, and in the meantime the anxious mother took a 
 
832 A MAN AND A BROTHER. 
 
 rnpid survey of the sitting--room. It was redolent of tobacco 
 but no doubt that \vas due to Donovan Farrant ; for the rest she 
 couhl see nothing- to find fault with, unless indeed the evil lurked 
 in those books piled up on the sideboard. She crossed the room, 
 and put up her double gold-rinimed eye-glasses to read the titles. 
 There were several works on medicine and surg-ery, and some 
 bulky volumes of science, then came an untidy pile of a strangely 
 heterog-eneous character. She read the titles with g-reat dis- 
 satisfaction. Maurice, Eenan, Haeckel, Kingsley, Strauss, 
 Erskine, and at the top an open volume, Draper's ' Conflict 
 between Religion and Science.' She turned to the fly-leaf. It 
 was a much worn, second-hand book, but under two half-erased 
 names was written ' D. Farrant.' Of course all these books 
 belong-ed to him, but how could she tell that Stephen did not 
 read them too ? 
 
 Her manner when Donovan came down again was decidedly 
 stiff". He felt it at once, and it hurt him a little, for the recollection 
 that she had left Porthkerran only the day before, had raised a 
 great hunger in his heart for news of Gladys. 
 
 ' I hope they are all well at Trenant ? ' he asked, hoping that 
 her answer might go a little into details. But he only extracted 
 a general reply that everyone was Avell, that Porthkerran was 
 very little altered, and that old Admiral Smith had been suffering 
 very much from rheumatic gout. 
 
 Before long Stephen appeared, having evidently performed a 
 very hasty toilette, and Donovan, thinking it well to leave the 
 mother and son alone, whistled to Waif and went out. 
 
 ' How do you like Mr. Farrant ? is he a pleasant companion ? ' 
 asked Mrs. Causton, as the front door closed. 
 
 ' Oh, he's a very good sort of fellow,' said Stephen, ringing 
 the bell for his breakfast, ' he's very clever, and works like a 
 nigger.' 
 
 ' Then I wonder he has time to waste on such a paper as this,' 
 said Mrs. Causton, laying her black-gloved hand on the Sporting 
 News. 
 
 The Sporting News, as it nappened, was Stephen's paper, but 
 he could not allow his mother to know that ; with a slight prick- 
 ing of conscience, he merely turned the conversation. 
 
 'Oh, of course even the naraest working fellows must have a 
 little relaxation. Farrant reads on every subject under the sun.' 
 
 ' I hope you never open those dreadful books of his which I 
 see over there ? ' asked' Mrs. Canston, apprehensively. 
 
 ' Oh, dear no,' replied Stephen, this time with perfect truth 
 ' They're a great deal too stiff' for me.' 
 
A MAN AND A BUOTIIKR. 333 
 
 iMrs. Canston pave a reliovccl sigh and the conversation 
 di'iitcd away Irom Donovan to the e.xnmintition which Stephen 
 was g'oing- in for that term. He had lost much vahiablo time 
 when his eyes had been bad, but was nevcrtheh^ss very sanguine. 
 
 ' I must own,' said Mrs. Causton, as she walked back to her 
 hotel with Stephen, ' that it will be rather a relief to me when 
 your course is over. I don't altogether like this arrangement of 
 sharing- rooms with Mr. Farrant. I hope he never speaks to you 
 about relig-ious matters.' 
 
 ' JVever; he's a very taciturn fellow, and as to theology, we 
 should never dream of discussing- it, so you may be quite happy, 
 mother.' 
 
 His manner re-assured Mrs. Causton, and he spared no pains 
 to ])lease her during- her week's stay, escorting- her to the National 
 Gallery, and the British Museum, and one night even submitting- 
 to the very dullest of meetings at Exeter Hall. 
 
 ' If that poor Donovan Farrant would have come Avith us,' 
 sighed g-ood Mrs. Causton, at the close of a speech which had 
 roused her to enthusiasm. 
 
 ' Not much in his line, I'm afraid,' said Stephen, heartily 
 applauding- the s])eaker with hands and feet in a way which 
 delighted his mother. 
 
 ' Dear Stephen was so much impressed by Mr. ,' she told 
 
 one of her friends afterwards. And the poor lady went back to 
 Cornwall quite satisfied that her son was doing- well, that even 
 Dr. Tremain's suggestion that he should lodg-e with Donovan 
 Farrant had not proved really dang-erous. It was, she still 
 thoug-ht, a somewhat rash experiment, but r-ertainly dear Stephen 
 was not the least contaminated. 
 
334 A BRAVE SPRITE. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 A BRAVE SPRITE. 
 
 Wonder it is to see in diverse mindes 
 
 How diversely love doth his pageants j'lay, 
 
 And shewes his powre in variable kindes ; 
 
 The baser wit, whose ydle thoughts alway 
 
 Are wont to cleave unto the lowly clay, 
 
 It stirreth up to sensixall desire, 
 
 But in brave sprite it kindles goodly fire, 
 
 That to all high desert and honour doth aspire. 
 
 Ne sulfereth it uncomely idlenesse 
 
 In his free thought to build her sluggish nest, 
 
 Ne sufFereth it thoixght of ungentlenesse 
 
 Ever to creep into his noble breast ; 
 
 But to the highest and the worthiest, 
 
 Lifteth it up that els would lowly fall : 
 
 It lettes not fall, it lettes it not to rest ; 
 
 It lettes not scarse this Prince to breath at all, 
 
 But to h is first poursuit hjm forward still doth call. 
 
 Faerie Queen. Spenser. 
 
 * Curtis sent you word that he was g'oing' by the 9.30 to- 
 morrow/ said Donovan, coming- into the sitting'-room one autumn 
 evening-, and finding- Steplien for once really hard at work. 
 
 ' All right,' was the laconic answer. 
 
 ' You're not g'oing to the Z Races ? ' asked Donovan, 
 
 abruptly. 
 
 Stej)hen looked up with a smile. 
 
 ' In the words of the old Quaker I must answer, " Friend, first 
 thee tellest a lie, and then thee askest a question."' 
 
 ' But with the examination so near and your preparation so 
 frig-htfully behindhand,' urg-ed Donovan. 
 
 ' Am I not g-rinding- like fifty nig-gers now to make up ? ' said 
 Stephen. 
 
 ' But it's such nonsense your g-oing-/ continued Donovan, 
 rather incautiously. ' Why, you hardly know a horse from a 
 donkey ! you'll only get fieeced, and come home up to your nock 
 in debt.' 
 
 ' I wish you'd let me alone,' said Stephen ; ' I tell you I'm 
 g'oing-, and you won't bother me out of it, so do shut up.' 
 
 ' What do you imagine your mother would say to it, if she 
 knew ? ' 
 
 The Question was an uncomfortable one, and, moreover, 
 
A BRAVE SPRITE. 335 
 
 Donovan had the power of forcing Stephen to listen to him ; he 
 went on, gTavel}', 
 
 ' However much you may kick at the word dishonourable, 
 you cau hardly say the way you are going- on is anytliing- else, 
 baly a few weeks ag-o you were g'oing* to an Exeter Hall meeting 
 
 with Mrs. Causton, and now you are g'oing- to the Z meeting", 
 
 with a set of snobs who, as sure as fate, will g-et you into some 
 scrape.' 
 
 Stephen was imperturbably good-humoured that evening j he 
 did not take exception even at this ver}^ plain speaking, he only 
 swung himself lazily back in his chair and yawned prodigiously. 
 "When Donovan had ended, he sat musing for a minute or two, then 
 said, abruptly, 
 
 ' I tell you what, Farrant, you won't persuade me out of 
 going, but 1 don't care a rap about being with these fellows if 
 you would go. Come, you can spare a day well enough, and we 
 can have no end of a spree.' 
 
 Donovan could ill atford such an unnecessary expense, but he 
 knew that his presence woidd probably keep Stephen straight, and, 
 after some deliberation, he consented to go. 
 
 The day proved to be exceedingly fine, one of those still 
 autumn days when scarcely a breath is stirring, when the limp 
 yellow leaves float down slowly and noiselessly from the rapidly 
 thinning trees, and the sun sends its softened beams through a 
 golden mist}^ haze. It was most delicious to get out of smoky 
 London ; except for long walks every Sunday, Donovan had not 
 actuall}' been out of town -for more than a year, and the change 
 was thoroughly enjoyable. In spite of sundry recollections of 
 old times which would intrude themselves upon him, the day 
 really bid fair to be a pleasant one. Stephen was companion- 
 able enough, and everything was so fresh to him that Donovan 
 found it easy work to keep him out of difficulties. 
 
 All went well till the races were over, then, as they were 
 elbowing their way through the crowd surrounding the grand 
 stand, Donovan suddenly felt a hand on his shoulder and a well- 
 known voice ringing in his ear. 
 
 ' Well, milord, who would have thought of seeing you here ! 
 How are you, my dear fellow ? ' 
 
 He turned round to have his hand grasped by old Rouge 
 Frewin. There he was, as unclianged as if tor all this eventful 
 time the world had been standing still with him, the same genial, 
 cheery, red-faced old ca})tain who had w^atched by his sick-bed at 
 Monaco, and cried like a baby when they had parted at Paris. 
 Donovan would have been both un-rrateful and unnatural if his 
 
336 A BRAVE SPRITE. 
 
 first tliougiit bud not been one of real pleasure at meeting- again 
 the kindly old man. 
 
 ' Why, captain, this is an odd chance that lias brought us 
 together ! How natural it seems to see you again ! What corner 
 of the moon have you dropped from ? ' 
 
 ' Tacking- between London and Paris ever since you left us,' 
 said Rouge, with a sigh. ' I've missed you, lad ; it's a hard life 
 for an old man like me. I'm growing old, Donovan, growing old 
 fast, and Noir has been hard on me since you went' 
 
 ' Is Noir here to-day / ' 
 
 ' No, he was to come back from Paris to-night. I don't know 
 the ins -and -outs of it, but Noir is very uneasy just now, he 
 won't settle down in England comfortably, and it's a miserable 
 life this knocking about among foreigners; it's killing me by 
 inches, and poor old Sv/eepstakes too.' 
 
 ' What, is Sweepstakes still in the land of the living ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, he's at my rooms in town, not the old place in Drury 
 Lane, Noir wouldn't go there again. By-the-by, milord, what 
 are you doing with yourself now '? ' 
 
 The question first reminded Donovan that there were reasons 
 which made it advisable not to give his address to the Frewins. 
 He replied that he was at present a medical student, and then as 
 he spoke he recollected Stephen, and turned hastily round, but 
 Stephen was gone. 
 
 The races were over, he might possibly have gone back to the 
 station, but Donovan thought that he had probably caught sight 
 of some of his friends and had gone to speak to them ; he was 
 a good deal vexed. It was impossible, however, to find him in 
 such a crowd, he was obliged to give it up, and, quitting the 
 race-course with the old captain, made his way as quickly as 
 might be to the train. 
 
 They had not gone far when a block in the long line of 
 carriages attracted their notice. 
 
 ' Some accident,' said Rouge. ' Never was yet at any races 
 without seeing a spill of some sort. 
 
 Donovan pushed on quickly without speaking a word. He 
 felt almost certain that Stephen had somehow got into mischief. 
 
 By the time he had made his way through the throng of 
 people a dog- cart which had been overturned was being raised 
 from the ground, and Donovan at once caught sight of Stephen's 
 friend Curtis standing at the head of the terrified horse, whose 
 violent kicking and ])lunging had caused the accident. Many 
 peo])le were oftering their help, several were stooping over a 
 prostrate figure, he pushed them aside; it was indeed Stephen 
 
A HRAVE SPRITE. 337 
 
 Cnuston \vlio lay tliorc perfectly unconscious, the blood flowing 
 slowly iVoiii his mouth. 
 
 Donovan's authoritative manner soon sent back the more 
 idlers, while the really oflicient helpers came to the fore. Iloug-e 
 offered his brandy-flask, and in a very short time an extempor- 
 ized litter was brought up, and Stephen was borne away to the 
 nearest hotel. 
 
 It was all done in such a business-like way that for a time it 
 seemed to Donovan only like his hospital work ; it was not till a 
 doctor had arrived and his own responsibility was lessened, that 
 he realized that it was Stephen Causton, the Treraains' friend, 
 Stejihen for whom he felt himself in a manner accountable, who was 
 lying- there in danger of his life. la a disjointed way he gathered 
 from Curtis the facts of the accident. Stephen had caught sight 
 of them, and had gone to spe«ik to them, Curtis had oflered him 
 a seat in the dog-cart, and they had driven off, intending to dine 
 together in the town ; something had startled the horse, and the 
 dog-cart had been overturned. The rest had escaped with 
 bruises and a severe shaking, but Stephen had broken a rib, the 
 bone had pierced the lung, and he was for some hours in a very 
 precarious state. 
 
 The flrst moment that Donovan could be spared he ran down 
 to dispatch a telegram to Dr. Tremain, and not till he had with 
 some difficulty worded the message did one thought of himself 
 come to trouble him. 
 
 ' Z> Farrant, Eoyal Hotel, Z , to Dr. Tremain, Trenant, 
 
 Porthkerran. Causton has met with a had accident. Please tell his 
 mother, and come at once if possible.^ 
 
 What a panic poor Mrs. Causton would be in, and how strange 
 it would seem to them all that he — Donovan— should be with 
 
 Stephen at Z . Of course Dr. Tremain would know that the 
 
 Z Races were on, and would naturally arrive at the conclusion 
 
 that he had led Stephen there. It could not be supposed that 
 the orderly mother's S(jn, who attended Exeter Hall meetings, 
 would have gone to such a place without great persuasion. In 
 a moment there rose before Donovan the whole situation. The 
 decision must lie with Stephen ; if he chose to confess his long 
 course of self-pleasing all would be well, but, if he chose to 
 be silent, Donovan felt that he could not betray him, that even 
 at the risk of being misunderstood, he must hold his tongue, an 
 easy enough task surely — merely to keep silence — a task in which 
 he was already well practised ! 
 
 He went back U) the sick-room and forgot all his presenti- 
 ments in keeping anxious watch over Stephen. The hemorrhage 
 
 z 
 
338 A BHAVE SPRITE. 
 
 had been checkea, but all throngli the night the most alarming 
 prostration continued, and it was far on in tlie next day before 
 the immediate danger was over, and the patient fell into an 
 exhausted sleep. 
 
 Donovan left him then for the first time, the landlord's 
 dnug'hter keeping; guard over him, and went himself to get much- 
 needed food and rest. 
 
 (jlladys never forgot that autumn evening when the telegram 
 arrived. For some daj^s the household at Trenant had been dis- 
 turbed and anxious, for Jackie and Nesta were both laid up with 
 the measles, and Kesta, always a rather delicate little child, was 
 seriously ill. The nurse had gone down for her supper, and 
 Gladys had taken her place in the night nursery. As she sat 
 beside the sleeping children she heard a sharp ring at the door- 
 bell, a message for her father she supposed, and thought no more 
 about it, little dreaming rvhat message it was, and from whom. 
 And yet, as she sat there in the dim light, her thoughts did drift 
 away to Donovan. What was he doing* in those dull London 
 lo'^lgings which he had described to them ? His letters had been 
 fewer and shorter lately, and he never spoke of any future visit 
 to Porthkerran. Were their lives growing farther apart? Was 
 it never to be anything but waiting and trusting ? Should she 
 never learn that he had found the truth ? She covered her face 
 and prayed silently, hardly in thought-out words, but only, as it 
 were, breathing out her want of patience, her love for him, and 
 her longing that he might tliink and do that which was right. 
 
 The nurse came back, and Gladys, released from her watch, 
 went down to the drawing-room; she was strong to meet the 
 news that awaited her, and she needed all her strength. Over 
 and over again she read the w^ords scrawled on that thin pink 
 paper, hearing with painful acuteness all her father's surmises as 
 to what could have taken Stephen and Donovan to those races. 
 She hated herself for it, but it hurt her a great deal more to 
 hear a shadow of blame attached to Donovan than to hear that 
 Stephen was lying perhaps in mortal danger. The one caused 
 her a sharp stab of pain, the other only a shocked awed feeling — 
 a vague regret. 
 
 Her father went away in a few minutes to break the news as 
 well as he could to poor Mrs. Causton. Mrs. Tremain was called 
 aAvay to little Nesta, and Gladys sat crouched up alone by the 
 fire, feeling supremely wretched. It could not be that Donovan 
 had led Stephen astray — and yet her father had evidently thought 
 it must be so ! Her tears flowed fast, but still not one was shed 
 at the thought of Stephen's accident 5 it was a tall manly figure 
 
A BRAVE srniTE. 339 
 
 that rose before her, excluding' eveiTthinp,' else, a, strong* flico 
 with dark sad e3'cs and resohito mouth. It could not bo that 
 Donovan hud forg-otten his higdi aims, had thrown aside his search 
 after truth, and sunk so low — it could not be ! His face rose 
 before her in vivid memory; she felt certain that he had not 
 done this thing-. She dashed away her teai's, choked them back 
 angrily, resolutely. 
 
 ' It can't be, it isn't so ; I will never, never believe it ! ' she 
 cried, passionately. ' Thoug-li all the world accuse him, I will 
 never believe it ! I w-ill trust you, Donovan — always ! 
 
 She was calm ag'ain now, invincible in her -woman's strong-hold 
 of absolute trust. The arrows of logic, the force of argument, 
 the stern array of steely facts spend their force in vain on that 
 stronghold. 
 
 Her father came back before long from his sad errand; slie 
 went to meet him in the hall to ask after Mrs. Causton. 
 
 ' Oh ! there you are, dear,' he exclaimed. ' I came back to 
 fetch you. Aunt ^Margaret is terribly upset, and I promised that 
 you should go to her.' 
 
 Gladys trembled a little, but she could make no objection, 
 and ran up to fetch her things. 
 
 ' You must try to induce her to go to bed,' said the doctor, as 
 he walked back with Gladys to Mrs. Causton's bouse. ' W« 
 shall start quite early to-morrow morning", but she will be fit for 
 nothing if slie does not sleep first.' 
 
 Mrs. Causton was exceedingly fond of Gladys, and, in spite of 
 the real want of sympathy between them, this evening she clung 
 to her more than ever, probably, in the depth of her misery, not 
 noticing that there was a little shadow of restraint in her manner. 
 For, though Gladys had the sweetest and most delicate tact and 
 sympathy, she often let herself become absorbed in sympathising 
 with one person. She was one of those characters who love the 
 few ardently, but are a little wanting in breadth, and now every 
 doubt or reproach cast on Donovan pushed her further away 
 from Mrs. Causton. 
 
 However, she did her best, listened in silence to Mrs. Causton's 
 sorrows, helped hor to make all the necessary arrangements for 
 her journey, soothed her by mute caresses, and at last jjcrsuaded 
 her to go to bed. Then she lay down beside her, and tried to 
 sleep, but long after Mrs. Causton had forgotten her troubles in 
 restful unconsciousness, Gladys lay with wide-open eyes, keeping 
 rigidly still for fear of disturbing her companion, and in spirit 
 sharing Donovan's watch beside Stephen's sick-bed. 
 
 In the morning Mrs. Causton awoke little refreshed. She 
 
340 A BRAVE SPRITE. 
 
 was almost disabled by a terrible headache. Gladys had to do 
 everything- for her. As she brought her a cup of coffee, it seemed 
 to dawn on the poor lady that very soon she should have to part 
 with her. 
 
 ' Oh ! Gladys,' she said, pleadingly, ' could you not come with 
 me ? I don't know w^hat I shall do without you.' 
 
 ' I would willingly come/ said Gladys, trembling- violently, 
 'only — I'm not sure whether mother could spare me ' 
 
 She broke off abruptly, as her father drove up in the pon}-- 
 carriage. The thought of meeting- Donovan once more had set 
 all her pulses throbbing- painfully, but she could not make up her 
 mind to ask her father whether she mig-ht g-o, she could not even 
 repeat Mrs. Causton's words to him. 
 
 The idea had, however, taken a strong- hold on Mrs. Causton. 
 She greeted the doctor with an urgent entreaty that he would 
 allow Gladys to go with them. 
 
 * I am so poorly, and she has been such a comfort to me. I . 
 don't know how I can do without her.' 
 
 ' Very well, Gladys dear,' said Dr. Tremain, putting his hand 
 on her shoulder. ' If you will come Avith us, and can do without 
 any more preparation, it shall be so. Nesta is better to-day, and 
 we will send a note back to explain to the mother.' 
 
 It was all settled in a few minutes, Gladys hurried away to 
 put on her walking- things. The maid hastily packed her little 
 night-bag- for her, and before long- she was driving- with her 
 father and Mrs. Causton to St. Kerrans. 
 
 The journey seemed endless; though they had started very 
 early, it was four o'clock in the afternoon by the time they reached 
 Z . 
 
 Gladys was very stiff and weary, but she had hardly time to 
 think of herself, she was so taken up with the effort of sym- 
 pathising- with and helping- Mrs. Causton, while, as they drove 
 
 through the busy streets of Z , the consciousness that every 
 
 moment was bringing her nearer to Donovan made her heartbeat 
 quickly, and the bright colour rose in her cheeks. 
 
 At length they reached the Royal Hotel, learnt at once from 
 one of the waiters that Stephen was doing- well, and were ushered 
 upstairs. Mrs. Causton leant on the doctor's arm, Gladys followed 
 tremblingly, glad enough to cling- to the banisters. They wera 
 shown into a private sitting-room. Already the afternoon light 
 was failing, but a fire blnzed in the grate, and by its ruddy glow 
 Gladys saw Donovan. He was stretched at full length on the 
 hearth-rug- fast asleep. The waiter hesitated. 
 
 ' Poor young- gent ! He was up all the night. Perhaps 
 
A miAVE SPUITE. 341 
 
 N'ou'll wiike him, b'v:, if you sec fit,' and tlion, witli a cxirious 
 {ilancc at the tlircc vit^itors, the man \vith(h"ew, mentally ejaculat- 
 ing' that he 'wasn't p"oin^' to disturb the poor fellow, not if it 
 was to see the queen herself.' But as the door closed, Donovan 
 started up. 
 
 * Is he awake?' he cried, fancyin<^- that Stephen's nurse had 
 come ; then, catching- sig-ht of Dr. Tremain, he sprang- to his feet. 
 ' I am so glad you've come. He is really doing- well now. The 
 immediate dang-er is over.' 
 
 As he spoke he shook hands with the doctor and Mrs. Causton, 
 then, for the first time catching- sig-ht of Gladys, he was all at 
 once speechless. For one moment their eyes met, that strange 
 meeting- which seems like the blending- of soul with soul. That 
 was their real greeting-. The conventional liandshake was nothing, 
 and in another moment Donovan had turned hastily away, and 
 plunged abruptly into details of Stephen's accident. 
 
 Mrs. Causton was painfully agitated, and was indignant when 
 Donovan insisted on the extreme rashness of going at once to see 
 the patient. To wake upland to find his mother unexpectedly 
 there would be the very worst thing for him, and though Dr. 
 Tremain quite agreed, and in fact took the law into his own 
 hands, Mrs. Causton regarded Donovan entirely in the light of 
 an enemy. 
 
 Dr. Tremain went himself to the sick-room, and it was 
 arranged that he should relieve guard, and, when Stephen awoke, 
 tell him of his mother's arrival. Donovan left him there, and 
 steeling himself for the encounter, went slowy back to the 
 sitting-room, where Mrs. Causton was lying in an easy-chair, 
 and Gladys w^as trying to persuade her to "take a cup of tea. 
 
 'You will have some tea, too, wuU you not?' she said, look- 
 ing up at Donovan. ' They told us you had been up all night ; 
 you must be verj' tired.' 
 
 ' Thank you, yes, I should like some,' said Donovan, allowing 
 himself to watch the little white hands as they lifted the big 
 plated tea-pot and poured out the tea. And as she handed him 
 his cup, he noticed, in that strange way in which the minutest 
 trilles are noticed when there seems least time to waste on them, 
 that the china was thick, white, with a pink rim, and bore the 
 stamp of the Royal Hotel. 
 
 He was startled Avhen Mrs. Causton first sjioke to him ; tiie 
 waiting seemed to embitter her, and sl>^. made him feel that his 
 presence was very distasteful. 
 
 ' Have you any other particulars to teh me of my sou's 
 accident ? ' she asked, very coldly. 
 
842 A BRAVE SPRITE. 
 
 * I think you have heard all now,' he replied, ' all that I 
 myself know, for I did not actually sec the carriage upset.' 
 
 ^ Havino- brought Stephen to such a place, I should have 
 thoug-ht the least you could have done was to stay with him,' 
 said Mrs, Causton, with a quiver of indignation in her voice. ' It 
 has been a miserable mistake from the very beginning. I hoped 
 he might lifive had a good influence over you, but you have 
 abused my trust cruelly. If I had ever dreamt that you would 
 be the stronger of the two, he should never have shared your 
 rooms.' 
 
 Donovan did not speak 5 but Gladys, glancing up at him, saw 
 that he was passing through some great struggle. Her heart 
 ached as she heard Mrs. Causton's unjust words. One eflFort she 
 must make to check the conversation. 
 
 ' Will you not come to your room and lie down, auntie ? ' she 
 suggested. ' You will be fitter to go to Stephen when he wakes, 
 if you rest first.' 
 
 ' I shall rest quite as well here, thank you,' said Mrs. Causton. 
 ' We need not trespass further on your time, Mr. Farrant. I 
 am sure you can ill afford to waste two days in the middle of 
 term.' 
 
 ' I should be sorry to annoy you by staying,' said Donovan, 
 quietly. ' Good-bye.' 
 
 He held out his hand gravely. 
 
 ' I only hope you may take warning yourself by my ])oor 
 Stephen's fate,' said Mrs. Causton, relapsing into tears. ' It is 
 one of those mysterious dispensations so hard to resign oneself to, 
 the innocent suffering and the guilty escaping. I am sure I hope 
 and pray that you may repent while there is yet time.' 
 
 He wished Gladys good-bye and left the room. 
 
 For one moment Gladys sat quite still ; then a sudden impulse 
 seized her. She could not let him go like this, it was too cruel, 
 too heartless ! She opened the door and ran down the passage, 
 catching sight of him far in front. Would he never stop ! 
 Would nothing make him look round ! By the time she reached 
 the head of the stairs he was half way down them ; it seemed to 
 her as if miles of grey and crimson carpeting stretched between 
 them. 
 
 Half timidly, and yet with a ring of despair in her voice, she 
 called to him. 
 
 * Donovan ! ' 
 
 For a moment his heart stood still ; he caught at the rail, 
 turned, and saw her standing far above him. He did not speak, 
 but waited — waited till she came to him in complete silence. His 
 
A BllAVE SPRITE. 84.3 
 
 lips were firmly pressed toj^ether, his face rig-id. Was it hard of 
 him — was it cruel to her to meet her thus ? 
 
 The vcrv sound ofhis own name from her lij)S had re-awakened 
 the wildest long-ing- for all that he knew must never be. He 
 waited for her to speak, but her words only made the tumult 
 within him wilder, the struggle more intolerable. . 
 
 ' Do not go like this,' she said, pleadingly ; ' please wait and 
 see papa. Aunt Margaret doesn't know what she is saying. I 
 know you could explain it all to papa. Please, please wait ! ' 
 
 She had not the faintest idea that she was putting the most 
 terrible tein])tation before Donovan, but she was almost frightened 
 by the spasm of pain which passed over his face; his voice too 
 was strange and hollow, as he answered, sadly, 
 
 ' You are mistaken, I can't explain anything.' 
 
 His words caused such a sudden downfall of all her hopes 
 that the tears rose to her eyes, fight against them as she would 
 it was of no use, and nothing but a sort of despairing womanly 
 pride kept them from overflowing. 
 
 Poor Donovan saw all, and turned awa^^ That moment was 
 as the bitterness of death to him. He was giving her pain, 
 making her think badly of him — for what ? Was it indeed for 
 her good ? It could not surely be — it was so unnatural — so 
 hard — so merciless ! He would speak to her, tell her of his love, 
 tell her that he would do anything — everything — for her sake ! 
 
 And yet was that really true, when he could not keej) silence ? 
 Oh, weakness ! here he was fighting the old battle which he had 
 fought in the orchard at Trenant, on the Porthkerran cliffs, on 
 Westminster Bridge ! Each time he thought he had conquered, 
 yet now this deadly tem])tation had risen again, as strong — far 
 stronger — than ever. Should those bitter efforts be wasted ? 
 Should his longing for present relief — for happiness even for her 
 — lead him to speak words which he had no right to speak ? But 
 this silence, this silence as to Stephen, it was anguish. He must 
 right himself to her ! Had not his own character some claim 
 upon him ? Had he not his own rights as well as Stephen's to 
 Dear in mind i* That was the great question, it was clearly Self 
 irrsjis Stephen, a just claim for himself, certainly, yet a claim for 
 self onl)/. Yes, he would be truthful in his self-arguing, even 
 though it brought keenest pain, — to right himself would not be 
 to serve Gladys, would not even make her really happier, he had 
 resolved long ago that she must learn not to care for him. He 
 would be silent now for her sake as well as for Stephen's — the 
 proof of his love should be his silence ! 
 
 All this passed through his mind in a very few moments. He 
 
844 OLD FRIENDS. 
 
 turned back to Gladys, she was leaning against tlie banisters^ her 
 head drooped low, the light from a coloured lamp hanging over 
 the stairs threw a golden glow over her sunny hair ; her face was 
 partly in shadow, but in the half-light her bright colouring looked 
 all the more lovely. 
 
 He knew it was the last time he should see her, but he would 
 not let his eyes soften, would not let one trace of his love show 
 itself. 
 
 ' It is better that I should go at once,' he said, taking her 
 hand, ' believe me, it is much better. Good-bye.' 
 
 Gladys looked steadily up at him, her blue eyes were quite 
 clear now, there Avas a sort of triumphant trust in her look. 
 
 ' Good-bye,' she said, softly, not one other word. 
 
 She watched him as he went down the stairs, watched very 
 quietly, but very intently, noticed his firm, almost sharp step, 
 heard him call for his bill and ask the time of the London train, 
 lastly heard the silence, the aching silence of the quiet hotel 
 when he was really gone. 
 
 But in spite of her heartache there was the dawning of a 
 rapturous joy for her even now. For when Donovan had turned 
 to say good-bye to her, there had been that in his face which had 
 raisecl her oiit of herself He had looked utterly noble, the 
 verv light of Christ had shone in his face. She thought it was 
 indeed probable that he did not care for her as he had once cared, 
 but what did that matter ? in the intensity of her joy for him she 
 could not think of her own pain. For she loved Donovan with 
 her whole heart and soul, and she felt, nay, she knew, that he was 
 ' not far from the kino'dom of Heaven.' 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 OLD FRIENDS. 
 
 AVoiildst thoii the holy hill ascend, 
 Aud see the Father's face ? 
 To all His children hnmbly bend, 
 And seek the lowest place. 
 
 Thus humbly doing on the earth 
 What things the earthly scorn, 
 Tliou shalt assert the lofty birth 
 Of all the lowly born. 
 
 Violin Songs. George Macdonald, 
 
 London was shrouded in the murkiest of November fogs : Dono- 
 van groped his way with some difficulty down York Road, opened 
 
OLD Fn FENDS. 315 
 
 the door of his lodg-ing-s with a latch-key, made his way into the 
 cheerless sitting'-room, lig'htcd the g'as, and threw himself hack 
 in a chair in hopeless dejection. The sharpness of the strug-g'le 
 was. over, the hitterness of the pain past, his was now the 
 
 Stifled, drowsy, unirapassioned grief 
 Which finds no outlet or relief. 
 
 Perhaps the most real and unforg-etahle form of suffering*. 
 
 He snt motionless, the lig-ht which had so cheered Glady'^ 
 had died from his face now, it was clouded, hag-g'ard, with dark 
 shadows under the eyes. 
 
 He was roused at last by hearing- Waif's bark in the distance, 
 then came sounds of opening- a door down below, a rush and a 
 patter of feet on the kitchen stairs, and a violent scratching- and 
 impatient whining- at his own door. lie drag-ged himself up, 
 opened it, and received a frantic welcome from his dog-, who had 
 been shut into an enipt}'' cellar during- his absence. 
 
 Waif was almost crazy with delight at seeing him back again; 
 he dashed round and round him, bounded up in the air, whined 
 and snorted, licked him all over, and finally tore across the room 
 in a violent hurry to perform his usual act of loyal service, to 
 drag- out the boot-jack, and, one at a time, to deposit his master's 
 slipjiers in the fender. 
 
 This evening- there was no fire ; Waif found that out, and 
 seemed perplexed ; he was not quite capable of striking- a match, 
 but he worried Donovan into doing- it, and then sat contentedly 
 watching- the yellow blaze, thudding- the floor with his tail in the 
 intensity of his satisfaction. Donovan watched him thoughtfully. 
 
 ' We must jog- on together. Waif, my boy,' he said, patting- 
 the sagacious black and tan head. 
 
 Waif's eyes twinkled and shone, his tail beat a joyful tattoo 
 on the floor. 
 
 The dog- and his master understood each other, and Donovan 
 would certainly have chosen to spend the rest of the evening- 
 with his dumb companion, to indulge his sad thoughts in silence, 
 but it was not to be so. There was a knock at the front door 
 before many minutes had passed, he heard a voice which seemed 
 strangely familiar asking- if he were in. Another moment, and 
 Rouge and Noir were ushered into his<room. 
 
 ' Tracked you at last,' said Noir, his dark face lighting- up 
 with a gleam of satisfaction as he wrung- Donovan's hand. 
 
 ' And all owing- to those lucky races and my quick eyes,' said 
 the old captain. ' How's the chap that was pitched out of the 
 do2--cart ? ' 
 
846 OLD FRIENDS. 
 
 ' Badly hurt, but doing- well now,' said Donovan. * How did 
 you find me out ? ' 
 
 ' Tliroug-li the lig-ht-haired fellow who was holding the horse, 
 a fellow- student of yours. Why, Waif, old dog-, you don't look 
 a day older ! ' 
 
 Waif sniffed cautiously at the old captain's clothes, recog- 
 nized him after a few moments, and was pleased to renew the 
 friendship. Noir meanwhile was speaking in a lowered voice to 
 Donovan. 
 
 ' I came here on business — can I have a few words alone with 
 you ? Let us take a turn outside.' 
 
 ' All right,' said Donovan. * You'll stay and have some 
 supper ; we'll be back before long, captain, there's an evening 
 pai)er for you, and as many medical books as you like.' 
 
 Rouge settled himself comfortably in an arm-chair, and Noir 
 and Donovan went out into the fog-gy street. 
 
 ' I am in a scrape,' said Noir, abruptly. ' I have come to ask 
 if you will help me. Perhaps, though, you are so respect-able 
 and virtuous now that you have forgotten all about the old 
 times.' 
 
 ' My memory isn't ruled by will,' said Donovan, hoarsely. 
 * Go on.' 
 
 ' Well, I don't blame you for wishing- to forget that year — 1 
 wish to g-oodness I couldj' for, milord, I am decidedly up a tree. 
 You remember Darky Legge ? Well, he has been arrested, dis- 
 covered at last, after carrying- on his old game for years. After 
 you left us, I was thrown a good deal with him — in fact, at Paris 
 we acted together — and the Avretch, who has no sense of honour, 
 has betrayed me. Unless I can leave the country at once, I'm a 
 lost man.' 
 
 ' I can't offer you money,' said Donovan, ' for I can hardly 
 scrape along- myself.' 
 
 ' It isn't that I want,' said Noir, quickly. ' It is this : I can't 
 afford to take the old captain with me to America— I haven't the 
 cash for one thing, and besides, he would be like a mill-stone 
 round my neck. He can live on quietly here for very little, and 
 I will send him what I can from time to time. But you know 
 what he is with no one to look after him — he'd kill himself in a 
 year. I want to know whether you'd mind keeping an eye on the 
 poor old fellow.' 
 
 Donovan had at first felt the most intense shrinking from any 
 renewal of their old friendship ; the remembrance of those dark 
 days was a sort of nig-htmare to him. He listened to Noir's 
 story silently and painfully, wondering how he could ever have 
 
SILENCE. 317 
 
 shared in such doing's. What a wretched misanthrope he liad 
 boon, lialf maddened by sorrow and injustice, hating- everything 
 in the workl exco])t his dog-! 
 
 Pmt he was touched by Noir's thought for his old father, the 
 poor, weak, oUl man whom he stdl, in his rough way, loved and 
 shielded. They walked a few paces in silence, then Donovan 
 spoke. 
 
 ' He had better put up at my place. Causton will never 
 come back to those rooms, and though I'm out most of the day, 
 I shall be able to see something- of him, and will do my best to 
 kee]i him straight.' 
 
 ' You are a trump ! ' exclaimed Noir, heartily. ' But won't he 
 be in your way ? I know you're a cut above us.' 
 
 'You forget I am a Republican,' said Donovan, quietly. 'Let 
 him come to-morrow, and do you make the best of your way to 
 America.' 
 
 Noir was struck by the change in his sometime follower ; he 
 had always respected Donovan since their quarrel and final 
 separation at Paris, but he felt now at an immense distance from 
 him. After all, he mused, honesty did indeed seem the best 
 policy. No words which Donovan could have used would have 
 iui])r(_s>LHl him half as much as this visible change and growth, 
 and more than all his readiness to help the old ca})tain roused a 
 feeling- of gratitude which lasted as one of the few softening 
 influences through the rest of Noir's life. 
 
 And so it was ordered that Donovan should not live alone, 
 should not be free to indulge bis misery in silence, but should 
 again have his affections drawn out towards a very weak member 
 of the human brotherhood, should bear again the burden of 
 another's sin, and struggle perseveringly for his deliverance. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 SILENCE. 
 
 As for me, I houoixr, in these loud babbling days, all the Silent rather. 
 A grand Silence that of Romans; — nay the grandest of all, is it xiot that of 
 the gods ! 
 
 Commend me to the silent English, to the silent llomans. 
 
 C.VRLYLE. 
 
 Dr. TuEMAiN was very much vexed when he found that Dono- 
 van had left without seeing' him, nor could he gather any very 
 
3i8 SILENCE. 
 
 distinct account of what bad passed either from Mrs. Causton or 
 Gladys. Mrs. Causton irritated him considerably by her tearful 
 and highly-coloured descriptions of the evil which she imagined 
 to have emanated entirely from her son's companion; Gladys 
 was strangely silent and would volunteer nothing-, but, in answer 
 to a direct question, told her father that Donovan had refused to 
 see him, and would not allow her to disturb him. All this tended 
 only too effectually to confirm the doctor's fears. Donovan had 
 fallen back grievously, there could be httle doubt of that; if it 
 had not been so, could he have rushed off at a moment's notice 
 in this way, studiously avoiding- him after a separation of more 
 than a year ? 
 
 Stephen was too ill to be thoroughly questioned on the 
 subject, but the doctor could not refrain from one or two 
 attempts to gain from him the favourable testimony to Donovan's 
 character for which he hoped against hope. 
 
 Once in the night, when he woke refreshed after a long sleep 
 and lay in listless quiet, Dr. Tremain hazarded a question. 
 
 ' I don't wish you to talk much, Stephen, you are not fit for 
 it; but just give me a simple yes and no to one or tw^o questions. 
 Has Donovan Farrant been infiuencing you in a way which your 
 mother and I did not expect?' 
 
 ' Yes,' replied Stephen, glad that the question was put in so 
 ambiguous a way that he could reply in the affirmative. But the 
 next question was more direct. 
 
 ' I am to understand, then, that my finding you in his com- 
 pany at the Z Races is only one instance in many, that he 
 
 has often been with you to places which Mrs. Causton — which 
 I myself would have disapproved ? ' 
 
 Stephen's colour deepened; this question might still be 
 answered by that deceptive 'yes,' but not without very uneasy 
 stirrings of conscience. . And yet how much that was disagree- 
 able might be averted' by that affirmative ! He had been led 
 astray, what could be more probable and pardonable? He 
 should of course repent, turn over a new leaf, get into the doctor's 
 good graces again, and in no way damage his prospects as 
 Gladys' lover. But if, on the contrary, the ugly truth came out ? 
 Then there would be endless reproaches from his mother, unbear- 
 able humiliation ; what harm could there be in giving a slight 
 turn to the meaning of the word ? In a minute, by that strange 
 process of self deception often noticed in very weak characters, 
 he had almost persuaded himself chat Donovan hud led him into 
 evil. 
 
 He turned a flushed face towards the doctor, and unable to 
 
SILENCE. 349 
 
 speak the downrig-ht lie in one word, soffonod it down in a 
 sentence. 
 
 ' I g-ot into the way of playing-, and lost a lot at billiards. Far- 
 rant wont with me. 1 hoped to have made it np here, but ' 
 
 * That will do,' said the doctor. ' You have spoken more 
 than you ought.' 
 
 There was such Dain and disappointment in his tone that 
 Stephen's conscience tormented him to speak the truth boldly 
 even then, but it requires a certain amount of moral courag-e 
 not to stick to a lie when it has been told, and moral courage 
 was a virtue entirely wanting- in Stephen. He lay silent in pal- 
 pitating- misery, wishing- that he had never seen Donovan, or 
 
 had never heard of the Z Races, wishing- that many things 
 
 had been otherwise, but strang-ely forg-etting; to wish for the 
 much-needed increase of his own courag-e and honour. 
 
 In spite of this mental disturbance, however, he slept again, 
 and the next day he was so much better that Dr. Tremnin felt 
 justified in leaving him for a few hours. He could not rest now 
 till he had seen Donovan, and entirely satisfied himself that there 
 was no shade of doubt as to the truth of his fears. 
 
 It was no use to question Ste{)hen or Mrs. Causton any 
 further, but he made one more attempt on Gladys, who apparently 
 had been the last to speak to Donovan. 
 
 ' Now tell me, dear, plainly what passed between you,' said 
 the doctor, far too deeply engrossed in other matters to notice 
 the painfully bright colour which rose in Gladys' cheeks. 
 
 ' I will tell you, papa, exactly,' she said, quieting herself with 
 an effort. ' Aunt Margaret said that she was sure he couldn't 
 afford to waste two days in term time, and then Donovan, seeing 
 that she wished him to go, said' good-bye at once. I went to 
 the head of the stairs to speak to him, for it seemed wrong to let 
 him go like that, but he would not let me call you away from 
 Stephen. And then — then ' her voice faltered. 
 
 ' Well ?' said her father, with some lurking hope that a fresh 
 light might be thrown on the matter. 
 
 ' I begged him to stay and ex[)lain all to you, for I thought 
 he could. He didn't answer at first, and looked very, vei'y 
 miserable, but after a minute he told me that he couldn't explain 
 anything, and that it was better that he should go at once.' 
 
 'Was that all?' said the doctor, grievously disappointed. 
 
 'That was all, 'said Gladys, firmly. ' But, papa,' she added, 
 with a sort of proud enthusiasm in her voice, 'if you had seen his 
 face when he spoke, you could not have believed for a moment 
 that he has done this.' 
 
350 SILENCE. 
 
 For the first time it dawned on Dr. Tremnin that his cliild 
 might possihly have thought more of Donovan Farrant than was 
 wise^ Mrs. Caiiston's ohi advice flashed hack into his mind ; he 
 had talked of open-armed Charity, and Prudence with tied hands, 
 and was this the ending of it all ? He sighed very heavily. 
 
 'Dear little Gladys,' he said, drawing her towards him, 'we 
 must not trust too much to foces.' 
 
 He could not say more, hut he looked very sorrowfully into 
 Gladys' wistful eyes. 
 
 ' You will go to see him, papa/ she said, quietly, ' and I think 
 you will believe in him then.' 
 
 Her Avords almost inspired the doctor with a new hope ; 
 warm-hearted and impetuous, he set off at once for London, and 
 early in the afternoon reached the York Road lodgings. It was 
 Saturda}^ and, knowing there would he no lectures, he hoped to 
 find Donovan. 
 
 The servant thought he Avas at home, but was not quite sure. 
 She asked him to come in. Dr. Tremain, following her into the 
 sitting-room, found himself in the presence of an apple-faced old 
 man, whose scanty reddish-grey hair was covered by a scarlet 
 smoking-cap, and who seemed to be dividing his attention 
 between a long clay pipe and a tumbler of brandy-and-water. 
 
 ' I must have made a mistake, sir,' said the doctor, apologising 
 to the odd figure before him. ' These cannot be Mr. Farrant's 
 rooms, I think ?' 
 
 ' Donovan Farrant ? Oh ! yes, these are his rooms. Stunning 
 good fellow he is too. You know him V 
 
 The doctor was puzzled and annoyed. 
 
 'Yes, sir, I do know him. Is he in?' 
 
 ' Gone not ten minutes ago,' said the captain, surveying the 
 doctor fi-om head to foot with his little, good-humoured, watery 
 eyes. 
 
 Dr. Tremain gave an exclamation of annoyance. 
 
 ' Gone ! how provoking. I specially wanted to see him. 
 Where is he gone — do you know ? ' 
 
 Rouge was all at once seized with the conviction that this 
 stranger was trying to track Noir and prevent his departure ; so, 
 mentally congratulating himself on his acuteness, he resolved on 
 a course of diplomatic hindrance. 
 
 ' Mr. Farrant will no doubt be home in half-an-hour or so, 
 he said, in his blandest tone. ' Allow me to olfer you a chair.' 
 
 ' You seem to be established here,' said the doctor, with a 
 slight frown. 'Do you share Mr. Farrant's rooms?' 
 
 'I have that honour,' said the old captain. 'We areold friends — 
 
SILENCE. 
 
 351 
 
 very old friends, I may say— and now in trouble and destitution, 
 
 ho,'like the j^-ood follow he is, holds out ' 
 
 The captain suchlenly reniembored his line of diplomacy, and 
 covered his confusion by a coug-li and a return to the brandy and 
 water. 
 
 The silence was broken by a shrill voice from the window. 
 ' While-there's-lifc-there's-hope. Whilc-thero's-life-there's 
 hope. While-there's-life-there's-hopc ! ' screamed Sweepstakes, 
 in his harsh nasal voice, with maddening- monotony. 
 
 The doctor, chafed and annoyed as he was, could not help 
 lauo-hing, Swee])stakes mimicking- him in a senseless titter, and 
 old Kouge himself joining heartily. 
 
 ' Clever bird, isn't he'? Brought him from West Africa years 
 ago. Would stake my life he's the best talker in England.' 
 llien, looking keenly at the doctor, he said, hesitatingly, ' You 
 are not a detective, are you ? ' 
 
 The doctor laughed," and told him his name and profession. 
 ' Oh ! that's a comfort,' said Rouge, heaving a sig'h of relief. 
 ' Now we can talk freely, 'i'o tell you the truth, I thought you 
 were tracking my son, who is just off to America. Boat sails 
 this very day ; in fact, Donovan's now gone to see him off. I 
 doubt if he'll be home till evening.' 
 
 ' Why, you told me half-an-hour just now,' said the doctor, 
 impatiently. 
 
 ' When I took you for a detective,' said Rouge, with a sly smile. 
 
 The doctor was so much vexed that he fairly lost his temper. 
 
 ' I don't know who you may be ! ' he exclaimed, ' but I must 
 
 say I am surprised to find Donovan Farrant living- with people 
 
 who arc in terror of a detective's visit. Have the g-oodness to 
 
 tell me at what time you do expect him to return.' 
 
 Poor Rouge was so much flustered by the doctor's hasty 
 speech, that he was quite incapable of giving- a plain and satis- 
 factory answer. 
 
 ' I wouldn't for the world bring- discredit on the lad,' he 
 i\\ltered, the ever-ready tears slowly trickling down his wrinkled 
 cheeks. ' I'm as fond of the lad as if he were my own son, and 
 :t's a son he'll be to me now that my own has left his native 
 iand.' Here he began to sob like a child, but still strug-gled to 
 make himself heard. ' I'm not such a fool as I look — time 
 was when I was captain of the Mctora — I was driven to it ' — he 
 pointed to the brandy-bottle—' I was driven to it — and it's made 
 me what I am ! ' 
 
 ' Will you tell me when Mr. Farrant will be home ? ' said the 
 exasperated doctor. 
 
352 SILENCE. 
 
 ' Towards evenino-,' faltered the old captain, * but I couldn't 
 say for certain. Perhaps you'll leave a niessaj^-e ? ' 
 
 ' I will come in again later on,' said the doctor, and he hastily 
 took up his hat and left the room, quite out of patience with the 
 tearful old captain. 
 
 It was a miserable afternoon, cold and fog'gy ; a fine drizzling 
 rain fell continuously. The doctor felt very wretched, he had 
 hoped to gain some fresh light by a conversation with Donovan, 
 but his interview with Rouge Frewin had only perplexed and 
 disheartened him. How was it that Donovan had taken up again 
 with his old companions ? How could he endure to have such a 
 maudlin old wretch as a fellow-lodger ? Things certainly looked 
 darker and darker ! 
 
 Evening came, Dr. Tremain went back to York Eond, still 
 Donovan had not returned, and by this time the old captain had 
 solaced his grief so frequently and eft'ectively that he was by no 
 means sober. A wretched hour of waiting followed. The doctor 
 looked at his watch at least twenty times, the minutes were 
 passing rapidly by, and at the end of the hour he knew he must 
 leave the bouse to catch the last train to Z . 
 
 Five minutes to eight! the doctor held his watch in his hand 
 now. Three minutes! No sound but the heavy breathing of the 
 old captain, who bad fallen asleep. Two minutes ! how fast the 
 hands moved ! the doctor's heart sank down like lead. One 
 minute ! with a heavy sigh he put back his watch, absently 
 brushed his hat with his coat sleeve, and got up. At that very 
 moment a key was turned in the latch, the j'ront door was opened 
 and sharply "closed, a quick firm step which must be Donovan's 
 was heard in the passage, the door was opened. Yes, there he 
 was ; the doctor stepped hastily forward. 
 
 ' I had just given you up ; I've been in town since two o'clock, 
 hoping to see you ! ' he exclaimed, anxiously scanning every line 
 of Donovan's face. 
 
 His last hope died as he did so, for an unmistakable expres- 
 sion of surprise, annoyance, and perplexity passed over it ; his 
 colour rose ; he glanced from the doctor to the old captain before 
 speaking, then, with no word of regret at having missed so much 
 of his friend's visit, he hastily inquired after Stephen. 
 
 ' Stephen is better, going on perfectly well,' replied the doctor, 
 shortly. ' I must be otf at once, though, or I shall not be able 
 
 to get to Z to-night. Perhaps you'll walk with me to the 
 
 station.' 
 
 Dr. Tremain was human and he had had a great deal to try 
 him that day, his tone was almost bitter, Donovan winced under 
 
SILENCE. 353 
 
 it. One comfort was tliat the ordeal mast be short; a five 
 minutes' walk — surely he could hoUl his toni^-ue for five minutes, 
 keep self down, straui^-le the words of self-justification which must 
 expose so much of another's guilt ! And yet never before had 
 he felt so little confidence in himself, the strug-yle of the previous 
 day seemed to have exhausted his strength, as he stepped out 
 into the dark rainy November night he felt an almost unconquer- 
 able shrinking from the inevitable })ain which was before him. 
 If he could but win through with it ! If he could but do the 
 difficult Ilight ! and there floated through his mind the definition 
 of Right which both he and the doctor held — that which brings 
 the greatest happiness to the greatest number of people for the 
 greatest length of time. He honestly thought that his silence 
 would be right, and clung desperately to the one strengthening 
 thought of the gain to others which this five minutes might bring. 
 It was the generous mistake of a utilitarian. The doctor's voice 
 broke in upon his mental struggle. lie set his face like a flint 
 and listened. 
 
 ' I wanted some explanation of all this^ Donovan, and I had 
 hoped for plenty of time with you, we are limited now to a very 
 few minutes. I must say that all I have seen of your way of life 
 both to-day and yesterday has surprised and grieveu me. 1 come 
 to your rooms and find a disreputable old man, in dread of a 
 detective's visit, and not too sober ; he tells me he is an old friend 
 of yours. I thought you made up your mind to break with such 
 friends as those '/ ' 
 
 ' There were special reasons why Captain Frewin should be 
 an exception to that rule/ said Donovan, in a voice so well reined 
 in from yielding to any sign of feeling that it sounded cold and 
 indifferent. 
 
 'There are always special reasons, I suppose, for backsliding ! ' 
 said the doctor, hastily. 
 
 There was a silence, then Dr. Tremain went on more quietly. 
 
 'That is, of coxirse, your own concern ; but, as to your rela- 
 tions with Stephen, I have some right to ask. His father is my 
 oldest friend ; he will hold me responsible for having allowed you 
 to share his rooms. Stephen has himself told me that he fell into 
 habits of gambling. I am not surprised — he is grievously weak. 
 But he tells me that you were with him, and that explains ever}'-- 
 thing far too easily. You are strong-willed enou^-h to lead him 
 as you please. Only I could not have believed it of you. I 
 never would have believed it if I hadn't met you with him at 
 Z .' 
 
 Donovan brer»thed hard; but did not speak. 
 
 A A 
 
S54: SILENCE. 
 
 ' Have you notliing- to say ? ' said the doctor, in the tone of 
 one clinging" to a forlorn hope. ' Can you not tell me that I am 
 at least in part mistaken ? Can you not explain anything- to 
 me ?' 
 
 He looked steadily at him as he spoke, thinking- perhaps of 
 Gladys' words, ' You will helieve in him when you see him.' But 
 Donovan's face was dark and cold and hard-looking- now. The 
 doctor had never seen such a look on his face hefore j he misin- 
 terpreted it entirely. But his very g-rief made him speak gently 
 and pleadingly. 
 
 ' God forgive me, Donovan, if I have heen harsh with you ! 
 hut just let me know from your own lips that you cannot explain 
 things — cannot free yourself from hlame. Gladys told me what 
 you said to hee-, hut I couldn't rest till I had heard the truth from 
 you yourself.' 
 
 ' I have nothing- more to say,' said Donovan, clenching- his 
 hands so fiercely that even then the feeling- of bodily pain came 
 as a relief to him. ' I can explain nothing*. It would have been 
 better if you had not come to see me.' 
 
 ' Ay, better indeed ! ' said the doctor, with bitterness, ' for 
 then I should at least have had some hope that I was mistaken. 
 The only thing- is that Stephen is in part excused if, as he says, 
 you did go with him, did lead him wrong-. One more cpiestion 
 let me ask you ; I don't wish to play the inquisitor, but just tell 
 me whether this was the reason you would not come to us in the 
 summer?' 
 
 For the first time the burning- colour rose in Donovan's face. 
 How could he answer that question ? They had just entered the 
 crowded station ; there under the flaring- gas-lamps, amid the 
 noisy traffic, his reply must be made — somehow. What if he 
 told the doctor his real reason, told him that he loved Gladys ? 
 He hated mysteries; it would be infinitely easier to be perfectly 
 open. Besides, the confession would explain so much, would at 
 once bring- him into his old place with Dr. Tremain. And yet, 
 taking- all things into account, it would be better for everyone 
 but himself if he just held his tong-ue. Better for Stephen, 
 better that he should lose his place in the Ti-emain household, 
 and be entirely forg-otten, better — infinitely better — for Gladys. 
 If his name ceased to be mentioned, if they all believed him to 
 be what he now appeared, in time she too would come to share 
 that belief. He honestly believed that to forget him would be 
 her truest happiness, and the remembrance of their last interview, 
 when she had been unable to hide her pain, streng-tbened him 
 now. Anything" to save her from a lifelong- sorrow! 'Think 
 
8ILENCE. 855 
 
 evil of mo, dear love,' was now his inward cry, ' suflcr, if it must 
 be, that short pain, but only learn to forg-et ! ' 
 
 And yet! Even now came a passionate sig-h of longing-, 
 liuman weakness alternating with the lofty self-renunciation. 
 If only there had been no obstacle ! WIit/ was he hemmed in by 
 thick darkness? n-Ji7/ were his doubts insurmountable? And 
 then he shuddered to think that he was beginning" to long- for 
 knowledg-e of the truth, chiefly that he might be in a position to 
 win Gladys. 
 
 These tlioug-hts had rushed tumultuously through his mind, 
 and meantime the doctor waited for his answer, and they had 
 walked up the platform. ' Was this the reason you would not 
 come to us ? ' He could not tell an untruth ; the crimson flush 
 which had risen to his brow, the long- pause, both told unfavour- 
 ably against him with Dr. Tremain. So did the iron voice in 
 which at length his unsatisfying- answer was made. 
 
 ' I invented an excuse last summer — my real reason for not 
 coming- I entirely decline to tell you.' 
 
 ' I am disappointed in you, Donovan,' said the doctor, and 
 his voice even more than the words carried a terrible pang- with 
 it. and sent a momentary spasm of pain over Donovan's strong- 
 face. 
 
 ' Just forg-et me, that is all I ask of you,' he said, unable to 
 free his tone from all expression as he Avould have wished. 
 
 The doctor had taken his place ; something- in that last speech 
 of Donovan's touched him ; he would have spoken in reply, but 
 one of those trivial interruptions which break in so rudely upon 
 the most anxious moments of life prevented him. 
 
 The shrill voice of a boy intervened. 
 
 ' Punch, Jtidii, or Fun, Evening Standard, and Echo. Paper, sir ?' 
 
 Some passenger wanted an Eoeninrf Standard; at that minute 
 the train began 'to move. By the time the newspaper boy had 
 sjjrung- down from the step, Dr. Tremain was too far from Dono- 
 van to do more than wave a farewell. Once more Gladys' words 
 flashed back into his mind, ' You will beheve in him when you 
 see him,' and this time, in spite of all that had passed, the doctor 
 did waver. For in that tall dark figure on the platform there 
 seemed to him a certain majesty — a majesty inse}»arable from 
 right or absolute conviction of being- in the rig-ht. Jfe could not 
 elearly see tlie face now, but the last look he had seen on it had 
 been a strange blending- of pain and streng-th, the strcng-th 
 predominating- over the ])ain. Could he after all have been mis- 
 taken ? Like the warm-hearted, impetuous man that he was, the 
 doctor at once tore a leaf from his pocket-book, and, with tears 
 
356 SILENCE. 
 
 m his eyes, wrote Donovan such a letter as the best of fathers 
 might write to his son. 
 
 The ordeal was over, the victor}'- had been complete, self had 
 been kept under ; but the victor was too entirely crushed to feel 
 even a shadow of triumph. He stood perfectly still, watchinj^ 
 the train as it steamed out of the station, with an odd sensation 
 — more niunbing- than keenly painful— that it was drag'g-ing- with 
 it a g-reat part of himself Presently he must rouse himself to 
 go on with life, to make the most of what was left. There are 
 g-reat rents and voids in most lives, at first we feel stunned and 
 helpless, but after a time we become accustomed to the new 
 order of things, and live on, ' learning- perforce,' as some one 
 has well expressed it, * to take up with what is left.' 
 
 That the loss had come about by his OAvn will did not at all 
 soften matters to Donovan, but rather the reverse. He was past 
 reasoning, almost past thought. When the red lamps on the 
 last carriage had quite disappeared, he turned slowly away, aware 
 that he had deliberately, with his own hand, turned the brightest 
 page of his life's history. A new page must he begun ; of that 
 too he was dimly aware. 
 
 He left the station and walked slowly throug-h the wet, muddy, 
 cheerless streets. It did not actually rain, and the wind had 
 risen, there was some comfort in that. With his usual craving 
 for air and space he bent his steps to the river, walked along- the 
 Embankment, turned on to Blackfriars Bridg-e, and chose as his 
 haltinf>--place one of its recesses. 
 
 Not since the first days after Dot's death had such a crushing-, 
 deadening sense of loss oppressed him, and now, as then, he had 
 to bear his pain alone. But he was stronger than in the old 
 days, strong-er because he was growingly conscious of his own 
 weakness, and because his heart was infinitely wider in its 
 sympathies. He was not in the mood to see anything, though 
 the dark flowing- river, and the reflected lig-hts, and the great 
 looming outline of the dome of St. Paul's would at any other 
 time have pleased his eye. To-night he just leant on the parapet, 
 getting a sort of relief from tlie fresh night wind, but almost un- 
 conscious of time and place. 
 
 He was roused at last by becoming- aware that there was 
 another occupant of the recess. A small elf, whether boy or girl 
 he could not at first tell, was yawning- and stretching- itself, 
 having- just awakened from sound sleep. Presently a dismayed 
 exclamation made Donovan draw a little nearer. 
 
 ' By all the blissed saints ! if they ain't wet through, all the 
 three of 'em ! ' 
 
SILENCE. 357 
 
 Tlion came sounds ot" violent scraping-. Donovan, stooping- 
 down a little, saw that his neighbour, a small ragged boy, was 
 trying- wlicther a liglit could possibly be kindled from a box of 
 I'usees which had been soaked through and through. 
 
 ' Ye were a fool, Pat, mo boj^, to go to sleep in the rain ! ' 
 exclaimed the elf, with a few sui)eviiuous oaths. Finding his 
 efforts to strike a light ineffectual, he scrambled to his feet, and 
 with g-reat deliberation and muttered ejaculations about the 
 ' blissed saints,' threw the three boxes of fusees one after 
 another into the river. 
 
 ' Why do you throw them away ? ' said Donovan, with some 
 curiosity. 
 
 * They was wet through, yer honour,' said the small Irish 
 bo}', looking- up at Donovan with a friendly grin. ' I chucked 
 'em into the river for fear the devil should get into 'em.' 
 
 ' How {* ' asked Donovan, with an involuntary smile. 
 
 * Uch ! yer honour has had no dealings with the devil thin, 
 or he'd niver ask such a thing-. Why, says I to meself, " Pat, me 
 lad, lave 'em to dry and ye'll sell 'em right enoug-h ; " but thin 
 says I to meself again, " But, Pat, maybe the devil 'ud be in the 
 coj)pers ye'd g-et for 'em." Yer honour don't know how terrible 
 aisy it comes to chate a bit when there ain't nothing- else to do.' 
 
 * Yes, I do know^,' said Donovan, g-ravely. 
 
 ' Do ye railly, now ? ' said Pat, with a broad g-rin. * And did 
 the devil g-et inside yer honour.'' Och, he's a terrible cratur to 
 have dealings with ! Last year, yer honour, I was half starved, 
 and one day I prigged a loaf hot and frish from a baker's and ate 
 it up like a shot for fear o' being- cotched by the peeler, and if 
 ye'll belave it, yer honour, the devil was in the loaf. Och ! I 
 couhl have danced with the pain of it, and after that says I to 
 meself, " Pat, me lad, kape clear o' the devil, or maybe he'll 
 g-ripe ye warse next time." ' 
 
 ' Do you see that fire at the other end of the bridge, Pat ? ' 
 said Donovan, looking- down g-ravely at the little, grubby-faced 
 Irish boy. 
 
 'The petatie stall, yer honour ?' said Pat, wistfully. 
 
 * Yes,' said Donovan, with a smile. ' Do you think the devil 
 would be in the potatoes ? ' 
 
 Pat nodded em])hatically. 
 
 * Bedad and I do, yer honour, if I was to stale 'em.' 
 ' But if I were to g-ive them you ? ' 
 
 ' W'hy, thin, yer lionour,' cried Pat, grinning- from ear to ear, 
 'it wud be the blissed saints as wud reward 3'e ! ' 
 
 * Come along, then,' said Donovan, and the strang-ely con- 
 
368 TEMPTATION. 
 
 trasted companions Avalked off together, the barefooted, super- 
 stitious, hut honest little gamin and the grave, per})lexed, but 
 honest agnostic. 
 
 ' If yer honour wud but eat one ! ' exclaimed Pat, looking- up 
 with shining eyes from the double enjoyment of the hot potatoes 
 and the charcoal fire. 
 
 So Donovan ate a potato — and began his new life. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 TEMPTATION. 
 
 Thy face across his fancy comes 
 And gives the battle to his hands. 
 
 Tennyson. 
 
 The encounter with Pat served to turn Donovan's thoughts for a 
 short time from his trouble, it made him realize that there were 
 other beings in the world besides Tremains, men, women, and 
 children more or less poor, more or less suffering-, more or less in 
 need of help. 
 
 B3'-and-by, hoAvever, being- but human, his own sorrow over- 
 powered him again, shutting- out for the time all thoug-ht of 
 others. He w^as no novice in sorrow j one by one, everything- 
 that was of most worth to him had been either taken away or 
 voluntarily renounced, but this last call, this greatest sacrifice, 
 seemed to have exhausted his streng-th. He went about his 
 work more like a machine than like a man, he lost all interest in 
 what, but a short time before, had absorbed him. Had he been 
 ordered never to go to the hospital again he would have acqui- 
 esced without a word; had he been warned of the most imminent 
 dang-er, his heart would not have beat more quickly. To rouse 
 his energy, to awaken his love, hate, interest of any sort, seemed 
 impossible. 
 
 Dr. Tremain's letter did indeed sharpen his pain ; and in a 
 few days' time Mrs. Tremain wrote too — a long- letter, cruelly 
 kind, cruelly trustful, urging- in almost irresistible words that 
 Donovan would write to her and tell her all he could, that ho 
 would be open with her, would remember what old friends they 
 were, and would not alloAv any formality, or even any mistake, to 
 raise a barrier between them. 
 
TEMPTATION. 359 
 
 * Bo sure to write to mo when you can,' the lettei- ended, ' for 
 till I hear I shall not bo happy about you, and you know your 
 place in my heart is very near i)ick's. You see I put my request 
 on selfish j^-rounds entirely! My husband seems to have seen so 
 little of you the other day, and I can't help fancying- that you 
 misunderstood each other. 
 
 •' Even if it was not so, please let me hear from you ; remem- 
 ber that you adopted Portlikerran as your home, and that even 
 if things have gone wrong- we should like to have a little home 
 confidence.' 
 
 Perhaps Donovan had never before realized how much Mrs. 
 Tremain was to him ; in actually leaving- Trenant the year 
 before, he had been too much absorbed with the ])ain of leavinj^ 
 Gladys to have a thought for anyone else, but now, as he read 
 the motherly letter and recalled all Mrs. Tremain's goodness to 
 him, he did realize the truth very bitterly. How wonderful her 
 sympathy had been at the time of his illness, how comforting- it 
 had been to tell her about Dot ! ' Remember that this is your 
 home,' how cruelly tempting were the words ! If he could but 
 have written in answer to that letter, if he could but have given 
 that '■ home confidence ' for which she asked ! 
 
 Well ! it was no use going over the old arguments again. He 
 had to be silent, — merely to hold his tongue, merely to let all 
 letters remain unanswered, an easy enough role surely — merely 
 silence. Nothing to be learnt before that part can be ])layed, no 
 need for beauty of voice or grace of speech ; for the silent player 
 nothing- is required but self-restrtunt. 
 
 The end of it was that Mrs. Tremain's letter was quietly 
 dropped into the hottest part of the fire ; when the sudden blaze 
 died out, Donovan turned away, and with something added to the 
 dead weight of depression which he had borne before, set out for 
 bis day's work. 
 
 For some weeks things went on in this way, the only change 
 was that those black depths of dejection lost their horrible 
 noveluy ; it seemed as if for long ages he had fagged through 
 weary "uninteresting- days, had borne this load at his heart. In 
 time, however, he came to realize the truth that dejection is selfish- 
 ness, and no more excusable on the ground of naturalness than 
 selfishness is. It was natural certainly to be dejected after a 
 greao loss, it was also natural to put self first, but it was not for 
 that reason right. He had been wrapped up in himself for weeks, 
 in himself and in those bitter-sweet recollections of the past. 
 When he was fully awake to the fact his strength came back 
 again, dejection was not an easy foe to combat, but he went at it 
 
360 TEMPTATION. 
 
 tooth and nail, and tlie stranj^e incentive to the work was none 
 other than the old cn])tain. 
 
 Poor Itoug-e was a curious person perhaps to save a fellow- 
 being- from spiritual death, but nevertheless his presence did save 
 Donovan. It was the sight of that feeble old man dragging 
 through his useless, aimless days, with his pipe and his brandy- 
 and-water, his weak fits of laughter and his maudlin tears, which 
 first roused him. 
 
 How he had neglected the poor old fellow ! what a gloomy, 
 taciturn companion he had been ! what single thing had he done 
 for Eouge beyond offering him the use of his sitting-room ? He 
 must alter his conduct, or the old man might as well not have 
 come to him at all, and would really have some excuse for slowly 
 drinking himself to death. It was on a Saturday that Donovan 
 first became alive to these facts. It was raining heavily, a walk 
 was out of the question, the old captain was asleep on the sofa, 
 Waif slept on the hearthrug, the fire smouldered in the grate, the 
 only waking creature in the room besides himself was Sweep- 
 stakes. By way of a first step out of his self-absorption, Donovan 
 walked across to the window, and tried to get up a quarrel Avith 
 the parrot ; it was desperately hard work. 
 
 There is an old legend which tells how two monks, finding the 
 tedious routine of their life intolerably dull, resolved that they 
 would try to quarrel by way of enlivenment. They agreed that 
 one should make an assertion and the other should contradict it, 
 this would make an opening for impassioned argument. 
 ' Black is white,' asserted the younger monk. 
 ' It is not,' replied the elder. 
 ' Black is white,' repeated the first speaker. 
 ' Oh, very well, brother,' rejoined the other, meekly, ' if you 
 say so.' 
 
 The habit of meek deference had grown so strong, that they 
 found it impossible to quarrel. 
 
 Neither Donovan nor Sweepstakes was meek, but neverthe- 
 less their quarrel was but a tame one. It required such an exer- 
 tion to get up the requisite energy. However, after a time the 
 bird did call forth the good-natured teazing which he liked best, 
 and was stimulated into flapping his wings, screaming, chattering, 
 swearing ; finally he made it up again, and accepted a Brazil nut 
 as a peace-oftering. 
 
 When the parrot subsided into quiet, Donovan turned his 
 attention to the outside world, which for days he had seen with- 
 out seeing. York Road looked very dreary it must be owned. 
 Exactly opposite his window was the establishment of Swimming- 
 
TEMPTATION. 
 
 3G1 
 
 and Vapour Baths, then came j^Tini, uninteresting' houses; far 
 down to tlie left was the entrance to a timber-yard, where he 
 could see the tops of wooden phiuks swaying- to and fro in the 
 wind. And all the time the rain came down steadily, ceaselessly, 
 with a dull, monotonous drip on the Hag'S, the wheels on the road 
 passed by with a dull, hollow roll, the foot-passengers on the 
 pavement with dull, thudding" footsteps, the wind in its g-loomy 
 strait of houses with dull, faint moanings. A g-rey world, but 
 one which must be g-one through with, and made the best of. 
 
 He felt that his absorption in his trouble had weakened him 
 not a little. All this time his brain had seemed half dead, he 
 had read to no purj)ose. Worst of all, the sense of his complete 
 and final separation from Gladys had come to him for the first 
 time in full force, proving" only too clearly that, though he had 
 willed more than a year before not to see her again, he had 
 all the time nursed a faint hope of a possible re-union. He had 
 really renounced her before, but the most honestly-intentioned 
 being- in the w^orld cannot altogether shut out every ray of hope j 
 he had hoped without knowing- that he hoped, he only knew that 
 it had been so by feeling- aware that he had sunk now into a 
 blacker depth. Clearly the only thing for the present was to 
 will not to think of her, the hardest thing in the world. But the 
 idea of putting every thought of her away from him was more 
 tolerable than the idea of letting- her memory chain him down in 
 a selfishness which she would abhor. 
 
 Now for more days than he cared to remember Donovan had 
 allowed himself the pleasing pain of continually looking at the 
 photograph which the doctor had taken in the orchard on that 
 summer afternoon which had ended so painfully. To study that 
 family group, to note Gladys' sweet face turned' up to his, to see 
 little ISesta on his own shoulder, to recall that beautiful summer 
 dream, was gratifying- but very weakening- torture. Looking out 
 on the grey world this afternoon, the world which contrasted so 
 strangely with the bright picture of the past, he made up his 
 mind that he must waste no more — well, yes — sentiment, he was 
 honest enough to use the true word, over the photograph. With- 
 out any more delay he fetched it from his room and burnt it. 
 Also a certain sixpence, which he had worn with Dot's miniature 
 since Gladys had put it into his hand one summer day at the 
 door of Trevetlian's forge, was deliberately removed, and found 
 its way into hir pocket with the ordinary unhallowed coins. 
 Then, having done his best to clear out his heart, he set to work 
 to fill up the vacuum with that strange substitute — the old 
 captain. 
 
862 TEMPTATION. 
 
 Roug-e at once perceived that, as lie expressed it, the wind 
 had changed, when he awoke that Saturday afternoon ; his com- 
 panion for the first time seemed approachable, he no longer felt 
 uncomfortable in his presence, he felt as if he could venture to 
 talk freely. After dinner they had a pipe together, and then 
 Rouge launched out into one of his long 'yarns,' about which 
 there was generally a sort of dry humour. To-night the old 
 man, who was shrewd and curious, made his story turn on his 
 first love, and Donovan listened with an imperturbable counte- 
 nacce, till the idea of old Rouge Frewin in love with a beautiful 
 Venetian lady of liigh rank tickled his fancy and made him laugh. 
 The name of the fair one, too, Ceccarella Bonaventura, when 
 reduced by Rouge's pronunciation to 'Kickerella Bunny ven- 
 tury,' was sufficiently ludicrous, and when it came to the de- 
 scription of the gorgeous palace on the grand canal, with eight 
 masts at the door, when Rouge graphically sketched the beauties 
 of Venice from the Bridge of Sighs to ' the beautiful cafes in 
 the Piazza,' when he related how he had 'got into hot water' 
 over his serenade, that is, had had a pailful poured on his head 
 from a window by way of recompense, it was impossible to resist 
 the keen sense of the ridiculous which was^lmost his only Irish 
 characteristic, 
 
 ' And did you really love this signorina ? ' asked Donovan. 
 
 ' Love her ! ' exclaimed Rouge. ' I adored her, kissed the 
 ground she trod on — there's not much ground though in Venice 
 — ruined myself in gondolas that I might pass fifty times a day 
 under her windows, wrote verses about her, raved about her, 
 dreamed of her — and then ' 
 
 He paused, a merry twinkle lurking in his little grey eyes. 
 
 ' Well ? ' asked Donovan. 
 
 ' The good ship sailed down the Adriatic, and knowing of 
 course that it must be so, I became resigned, and — forgot her 
 again.' 
 
 The prosaic tone in which he said the last words had a very 
 comical effect. Donovan smiled. 
 
 ' We all do,' said Rouge, in a tone of one adding the moral 
 to the story. ' It's the way with first loves, you know.' 
 
 ' Indeed ! ' ejaculated Donovan, mentally. But guessing that 
 the observant old captain had discovered the real cause of his 
 depression, and had produced his moral tale on purpose, he gave 
 an apparently careless turn to the conversation, for he would not 
 for the world have had him come a degree nearer his secret 
 trouble, that aching loss, of which it would have seemed sacrilege 
 to speak to one like Rouge. 
 
TEMPTATION. 863 
 
 Kot many days after this, however, the dull, tedious monotony 
 of life was suddenly broken. Donovan had felt as if he could 
 never aj^-aiu real!}'' care for anything* in the world, but now a 
 sudden and violent reaction set in. 
 
 ' Do you ever go to Israel's now ? ' questioned Rouge one 
 evening'. 
 
 'Not since I went last with you,' returned Donovan. 
 
 But therewith arose a fearful craving- for his old pastime. 
 He had, during these years of self-denial, been occasionally seizea 
 with a great desire for play, and when Stephen had shared his 
 rooms he had often had to bear the great irritation of seeing 
 cards in the hands of other ])eople. But never before had the 
 desire been so irresistible, the temptation so terribly strong. He 
 had resolved not to play, had willed that he would utterly re- 
 nounce gaming, but he found himself now rebelling against the 
 restraint, albeit it was a self-restraint. He had a horror of pledges 
 as ]iledges. The consciousness of this self-made curb began to 
 gall him unbearably. He questioned its wisdom. It might have 
 been necessary once, but now might he not safely indulge in 
 his favourite amusement — of course in moderation 't Havipg 
 schooled himself all this time, might he not relax a little, and 
 satisfy this miserable craving ? It was hard that b}^ his own 
 doing he should cut himself off from the one amusement that 
 seemed left to him in tlie dull, grey Avorkl. 
 
 His strong nature would not quickly yield, however, to such 
 arguments. The struggle went on with fearful intensity for days. 
 Perhaps he would have stifled it sooner had he not been worn 
 out with the trouble of the last few weeks ; however it might be, 
 the temptation proved the most severe of his whole life. It was 
 as if the lower self were making one final and desperate effort to 
 gain tbe mastery. 
 
 One day, in the thick of this inward struggle, he happened to 
 be at work in the dissecting-room, and though, as a rule, he 
 took very little note of the talk that went on there, it chanced 
 that day that, being anxious to escape from his own tlioughts, he 
 made himself listen. There were plenty of Freethinkers among 
 the students, and many were at the dogmatic stage of atheism 
 which Donovan had just ])asse(l out of. Discussion on the points 
 of discord between religion and science was very frequent, but 
 Donovan rarely joined in it, partly because he was taciturn, jiartly 
 because he was too much in the borderland of doubt to care to 
 make any assertion, partly because of that strange ami unaccount- 
 able sense of reverence which was pained by hearing the Unknown 
 — the possibly non-Existent — spokeu of slightingly. The discus- 
 
364 TEMPTATION. 
 
 sion to-day on tlie existence of the soul was neither edifyiny nor 
 interesting'. Donovan, ^vllo was in the -worst of tempers, was 
 chafed and irritated hy the worthlessness of the arguments on 
 each side. ' Pack of idiots ! ' he exclaimed to himself, 'if they 
 must babble about what they don't understand, why can't they 
 put a little life into their talk"? ' He wandered back to his own 
 all too haunting thoughts, but was recalled by the peculiarly con- 
 fident tone of his neighbour, a young- fellow of about two-and- 
 twent}^ who was eagerly attempting to prove the truth of the 
 theory admirably summed up once by old Mrs. Doery, that 
 ' Death ends us all up.' 
 
 ' Well,' remarked the student, as if he had got hold of a 
 clinching- argument, ' I've been at work here for some time, but 
 I never yet found a soul in the dissecting-room.' 
 
 There was a general laugh, but it was checked by a quick 
 retort, uttered in a voice which was made powerful by a ring of 
 indignation and a slight touch of scorn. 
 
 ' No one but a fool would look for one there.' 
 
 ' Bravo ! ' cried Donovan, delighted with the ready reply, 
 though by no means convinced of the existence of the soiil. 
 
 He glanced with some interest and a good deal of curiosity at 
 the speaker. He was a certain Brian Osmond, a clever, hard- 
 working, silent fellow, with the reputation of being stiff and very 
 ' cliurchy,' the latter accusation having- probably for its sole 
 foundation the fact that his father was a clergyman. Looking at 
 him to-day, Donovan for the first time felt drawn towards him ; he 
 admired him and respected him, as much perhaps for his subse- 
 quent silence as for his sharp retort. Few know when they have 
 said enough. Apparently Brian Osmond did know, for he spoke 
 no more, but went on with his work with a slightly heightened 
 colour, as if the speaking- had been something of an effort. 
 
 That night it so happened that Donovan and three other 
 students were told off for duty in the accident ward. There was 
 a patient who needed constant attendance ; these four were to 
 take it in turns to be with him, two at a time. Not a little to 
 his satisfaction, Donovan found that Brian Osmond was to be 
 his companion — he really wanted to know him ; they were now 
 of course on speaking- terms, but, being- both reserved men, they 
 would never have got nearer had not an opportunity such as this 
 been thrown in their way. 
 
 Now all the evening Donovan's fierce craving for play had 
 been growing more and more irresistible ; when the other two 
 students relieved guard, and he and Brian Osmond went to rest in 
 an adjoining- room, the first thing he saw on the table was a pack of 
 
TEMPTATION. 3G5 
 
 cards. He did not say anytliing-, but Brian at once caug-lit siglit 
 of them. 
 
 ' Hullo ! these fellows have been playing-,' he remarked. 
 ' they've done their g'ame — let's have a turn at ccarte to keep us 
 awake.' 
 
 Donovan did not speak an assent, but he took up the pack ; 
 if his hands had been steel, and the cards so many magnets, the 
 power -which drew him towards them could not have been more 
 irresistible; the strug-gle within him was ceasing-, a delicious 
 calm set in. The mere sig-ht of the cards was to him what the 
 sig-ht of bread is to a hungry man — to feel them once more in 
 his hands was bliss. Was the world, after all, so g-rey ? With 
 scarcely a word he sbuffled and dealt. His hand was one to make 
 the heart of a card-player leap within him, the old passion had 
 him well in its g-rip, the old fierce, delicious excitement sent the 
 blood coursing' at double time throug'h his veins; after years 
 of plodding- work, after weeks of blank depression, this was 
 rapture. 
 
 ' Stop a minute,' said Brian; 'we didn't settle points. I 
 draw tlie line at sixpence — is that too mild for you ? ' 
 
 Donovan produced a handful of coins from his pocket ; among' 
 them was the sixpence with the hole in it — Gladys' sixpence — he 
 saw it at once, and that instant her face rose before him in its 
 purity and guilelessness. Then the delicious calm g-ave place to 
 deadly struggle, his better self pleading' eag-erly — ' This play 
 calls out all the bad in you, makes you the direct opposite of all 
 that is pure and noble, all that is like Gladys.' 
 
 But the lower self was ready with bitter taunts — 'What! a 
 strong' man letting' himself be bound by a mere ideal of a g-irl — 
 a girl whom he has renounced — who is nothing' to him ! Have 
 your game, and don't be a fool.' 
 
 ' You willed not to play, and it was the rig-ht you willed,' 
 urg-ed one voice. 
 
 ' Nothing- is so weak as to stick to a mistake,' urg-ed the 
 other ; ' there's no such thing- as actual rig-ht and wrong' — you 
 can't prove it.' 
 
 ' There is rig-ht and wrong, there is purity of heart,' urg-ed 
 the higher counsellor — ' think of Gladys.' 
 
 He did think, and it saved him. 
 
 Brian thought him slightly crazed, for he threw down the 
 cards, g'ot up from the table, and began to pace the room like a 
 caged lion. Before very long-, however, ho quieted down, threw 
 himself back in a chair, and in a matter-of-fact tone which belied 
 his look of exhaustion, said, 
 
366 TEMPTATION. 
 
 ' I beg' your pnrdon, Osmond, but I can't play ; the fact is, 
 it makes a sort of demon of me.' 
 
 Brian was surprised, for Donovan looked much too stern and 
 self- controlled for bis idea of a gambler, but the struggle be bad 
 just witnessed proved tbe truth of the words. 
 
 ' I suppose there, is a tremendous fascination in cards, if 
 you're anything of a player,' he said. '■ I'm sorry I suggested a 
 game.' 
 
 'You couldn't know whom you bad to deal with,' returned 
 Donovan, gathering up tbe cards — be was strong enough to 
 touch them now. ' Who would have thought that in tbis 
 trumpery pack there was such tremendous power ? It's horribly 
 humiliating when one comes to think of it.' 
 
 Feeling that be owed Brian a sort of apology for spoiling his 
 game, he overcame his reserve, and continued, 
 
 ' You wouldn't wonder that I daren't play, if you knew how 
 low these magical things have dragged me. The last time I 
 jilayed, which is getting on for three years ago, I won a small 
 fortune, v.-bich my adversary had in his turn won at Monte Carlo. 
 On losing it he absconded, hinting to his wife that he should 
 commit suicide. The horror of that was enough to make one 
 renounce gambling, you would think. Lately, though, the 
 craving after it has come back ; but I see it won't do for me even 
 in moderation. I suppose, having once thorougly abused a 
 thing, you're never fit to use it again.' 
 
 ' That holds, I tbink, in some other cases,' said Brian. 
 
 'You're thinking of the drunkard and total abstinence,' said 
 Donovan, laughing. ' Never mind, I don't object to being taken 
 as a parallel case, for it's perfectly true — the two vices are very 
 nearly akin. I daresay it's as bard to you to understand or sym- 
 patliise with ni}^ temptation as it is to me to sympathise with tbe 
 poor old fellow who shares my rooms, who is slowly drinking 
 himself to death. No one can understand or make allowance for 
 utterly unknown temptations.' 
 
 'I don't know that,' said Brian, slowly. 'One man at least 
 I know who can s^^mpatbise with anyone ; but then he is that 
 rare being — a Christ-like man.' 
 
 'Bare indeed,' said Donovan, drily; 'not too much of that 
 sort of thing in this nineteenth century. 1 see you think I speak 
 bitterly; perhaps you are right. I speak as an unbeliever, and I 
 can count on my fingers tbe Christians who have had so much 
 as a kind word to give me.' 
 
 Brian began to feel very much drawn to his companion; in 
 their next interval of rest he took up the thread of the conversa- 
 tion again. 
 
TEMPTATION. 367 
 
 'That is almost too liovriblo to bo belicvod,' lie said, ' T know 
 
 l^oiiplc are intolerant, but that so few should have ' be paused 
 
 lor a word, and Donovan broke in. 
 
 ' Mind, I don't say I laid myself out for their kindness, 
 didn't cring-e and lawn or disguise the views I then held; but to 
 bo conscious that people would receive you if you were judiciously 
 hypocritical, does not raise your opinion either of them or of their 
 religion.' 
 
 ' JN'o indeed,' said Brian. 
 
 ' Besides,' resumed Donovan, * if they are in earnest, as people 
 who have made such a profession ought to be, surely they must 
 see that isolating* atheists as if they were lepers is the worst 
 thing both for themselves and the atheists. I don't think it's in 
 a man to feel kindly to those who treat him unjustly, and the 
 good folks of our neighbourhood drove me as fast as they could 
 into misanthropy. One man put a .spoke in the wheel, but he 
 was an atheist — the apostle of atheism.' 
 
 ' What, Raeburn ? ' 
 
 Donovan nodded an assent. 
 
 ' I don't know that I agree with his views now any more than 
 I agree with Christianity, but I do believe that man gets hold of 
 selfish fellows and makes them downright ashamed of their 
 selfishness.' 
 
 * You have heard him lecture ? ' 
 
 ' Only once, but I shall never forget it. The magnetism of 
 the man is extraordinary ; he means what he says, and has had 
 to suffer for it — that, I expect, gives him his tremendous force. 
 If you Christians only knew the harm you do your cause by 
 injustice, you'd be more careful. St. Paul is not the only one 
 who, for the sake of what he believed the truth, has borne 
 imprisonment, stonings, watchings, fastings, perils of robbers, 
 and perils of his own countrymen. I don't wonder at St. 
 Paul making converts, and I don't wonder at Raeburn mak- 
 ing converts, and as long as you persecute him, as long 
 as you are uncharitable to him, you may be sure atheism will 
 spread.' 
 
 ' If you admired him so much, why did you not go to hear 
 him again ? ' 
 
 ' Because, when I could have heard him again, I had sunk 
 too low. I had suffered a great injustice, and it had made me 
 hate the whole race — for a time. Once I lialf-thought of going' 
 to see him, for I was in great need of work ; but, do you know, 
 I was ashamed to. Christians may scoff at the idea of being; 
 ashamed to go to see Ilaeburn, but anyone who is living in the 
 vindictive misanthropy which I was living* in may well ba 
 
368 CHARLES OSMOND. 
 
 ashamed to go to one who leads a self- denying-, hard-working 
 life for others, whatever his creed.' 
 
 ' But you do not go near him now, though you still admire 
 him?' 
 
 ' No, for I've found the great hlank in atheism; it can never 
 satisfy a man's needs.' 
 
 ' Have you ever given the other side a hearing?' asked 
 Brian. 
 
 'A reading, not a hearing; it is difficult to do that without 
 either being a hypocrite or disturbing a congregation.' 
 
 Brian seemed about to speak, but he checked himself, and 
 very soon they were called to go into the ward. They did not 
 have much more conversation that night, but their friendship 
 was begun. When Donovan gave confidence and liking at all, 
 he gave them without stint, and Brian, in spite of his reputation 
 for stiifness and punctilious observance, became more and more 
 fond of him. In some points they were a little like each other, 
 in some they were curiously different, but both had found — 
 Brian as a High Churchman, Donovan as an agnostic — that the 
 secret of life is loving self-sacrifice. 
 
 They were exactly fitted to rub off each other's angles. 
 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII. 
 
 CHARLKS OSMOND. 
 
 Thou cart no Sabbath drawler of ohl saws, 
 
 Distill'd froju some worm-canker'd homily ; 
 
 But spiirr'd at heart to fieriest energy 
 
 To embattail and to wall about thy cause 
 
 With iron-worded proof, hating to hark 
 
 The humming of the drowsy puliiit-drone 
 
 Half God's good Sabbath, while the worn-out clerk 
 
 Brow-beats his desk below. Thou from a throne 
 
 Mounted in heaven wilt shoot into the dark 
 
 Arrows of lightnings. I will stand and mark. 
 
 TENNYSOlf. 
 
 The deadly temptation of that night did not return, but, though 
 Donovan was no longer torn by the fierce, inward struggle, 
 what had ha])pencd made him think more seriously. He was 
 disappointed and perplexed to find that, after these years of 
 
CHARLES OSMOND, 8G9 
 
 Btrug'f>lo and rcprcb^sion, the olil passionate desire was still as 
 strong- as ever within him. With all his endeavours — and ho 
 knew' that he had honestly tried with all his niig-ht — he had only- 
 been able to check the outward actions ; he had cut off bravely 
 enouij;-h the visible j^Towth, he had, as it were, razed to the 
 ground this evil passion, but its roots were still untouched. IIo 
 smiled a little as he thought of it. 
 
 ' Eadical that I am, can I fail to root out the evil in myself ? 
 Professing- to g-o straight to the root of all grievances, must I yet 
 be unable to get rid of this ? ' 
 
 He was obliged to own that his power was absolutely limited 
 to the suj)pression of evil in action j he had come to the very end 
 of his strength, he might by great effort be pure in deed, but pure 
 in he-art he could never make himself. Yet actual purity was no 
 dream. Gladys was pure, purity was written on every line of 
 her face ; he could not imagine her harbouring- an impure thought 
 or desire for an instant. Yet he knew that she was not in her- 
 self perfect ; he was not at all the sort of man to fall blindly in 
 love; he had noticed many trifling- thoughts in Gladys, had heard 
 her speak hastily, had discovered that she was a little too desirous 
 of standing- first with those she loved, was apt to exaggerate and 
 to tell small incidents with pretty little imaginative touches of 
 her own. She was not faultless, but, in spite of occasional and 
 momentary falls, she was pervaded by a purity of thought and deed, 
 of word and desire, which to Donovan was utterly incomprehensible. 
 He was conscious, as he had latterly been with Dot, that she was 
 breathing- an altogether different atmosphere. He was like the 
 shaded valley, little air and little light reaching- him, she was 
 like a beautiful snowy mountain peak in sunshine ; a passing; 
 fault like a cloud might for a time dim the brightness, but only 
 for a time — the sunshine would illumine -all again. And then his 
 own metaphor flashed a conviction on him — it must be a reflected 
 brightness, a reflected loveliness that he saw in Gladys ! ■ 
 
 Unsatisfied as he had long been with agnosticism, he was 
 now fully aware that he had reached the limit of what it could 
 give him ; he had tried with all his might to live a self-denying-, 
 pure life, and in some degree he had succeeded, but if he lived a 
 Imndred years he saw no chance of getting further. There would 
 of course be constant opportunities for fresh self-denial, but he 
 could not of himself ever attain to purity of heart. What then ? 
 There was a great want somewhere ; he was incomplete, he re- 
 proached himself with being so, but yet had he not striven to the 
 utmost ? Might there not be a living Purity, a living- Strength 
 other than himself, to fill this void, to round otf this incomplete- 
 
 B B 
 
370 CHARLES OSMOND. 
 
 ness ? It was only a speculation, but speculations are helpful if 
 they g'O hand-in-hand with honest work ; if they lead to nothing- 
 they at least teach us our own ignorance, and they may leac 
 towards the unveiling- of the hidden truth. 
 
 One Sunday, in January, it happened that Donovan was out 
 alone, for though Rouge generally went with him on his long 
 Sunday rambles, the afternoon had seemed so raw and cold and 
 unpromising that he had preferred to stay indoors. It certainly 
 was not a comfortable sort of day, but the weekly chance of a 
 twenty-mile stretch was not to be lightly lost, and, rain or shine, 
 Donovan generally spent the greater part of the Sunday in exer- 
 cise. Even had he not been exceedingly fond of walking-, there 
 was Waif to be considered ; as it was, both dog and master 
 looked forward to the day of rest, and used it to the best of their 
 present abilities. 
 
 It was quite dark by the time they had reached the suburbs; 
 walking on at a brisk pace, they made their way further into 
 London. The bells had ceased ringing-, and, becoming aware 
 that he was exceedingly hungry, Donovan glanced at his watch, 
 finding- to his surprise that it was already a quarter to eight. 
 They were passing- through a very poor neighbourhood, and he 
 had just turned from a crowded thoroughfare into a quiet side 
 street, when a man, flushed, bare-headed, and breathless, dashed 
 out of a building to the left, and in his haste almost knocked 
 Donovan over. 
 
 ' Beg pardon, sir,' he panted. ' A lady in a fit in the church, 
 and heaven knows where I'm to find a doctor ! ' 
 
 ' Better have me, I'm half a doctor,' said Donovan. ' Be 
 quick, anytliing's better than losing- time.' 
 
 ' A providence ! ' gasped the verger. ' This way, sir, this way.' 
 Now the church had been built on what an architect would 
 have considered a very ' wieligible site,' for it was wedged in 
 between the houses in a way" which cruelly spoilt its beauty. 
 The site, however, was in other respects exceedingly ' eligible,' 
 that is to say, it was within a stone's throw of hundreds of the 
 poor and ignorant. It was not, however, a convenient church 
 for people afflicted with fits, for there was no separate entrance 
 to the vestry, and the vestry was at the east end. The verger, 
 followed by Donovan and Waif, walked straight up the church, 
 to the distraction of the congregation ; some people were amused, 
 some were scandalised, at the entrance of the fox-terrier. One 
 of the churchwardens tried to drive him back ; but Waif's master 
 had called him to heel, and to heel he would keep, though all 
 the churchwardens in the world were to set upon him. 
 
CHARLES OSMOND. 871 
 
 Donovan found his patient stretched on the floor in an epi- 
 leptic fit, an old woman kneeling- beside her, vainly trying to 
 restrain her wild movements. The little room was used as a 
 choir vestry, two unused surplices were hano-inp,- on the wall, he 
 snatched one of them down, crushed the white folds remorselessly 
 tog-ether, and put them between his patient's teeth. Presently 
 she grew quieter. Donovan, seeing a half-open door, glanced in, 
 and found a second room with a sofa and a larger window ; with 
 the verger's help he carried the girl in, and soon she became 
 herself again. He decreed, however, that she should rest where 
 she was till the service was over, when the verger could get her 
 a cab. 
 
 Leaving her under her mother's care, he went back into the 
 little outer vestry, but realizing that Waif might be considered 
 de trap in a church he would not again go down the aisle ; besides, 
 it might be better that he should'see his patient fairly out of her 
 trouble. The waiting, however, was dull ; to pass the time he 
 noiselessly opened the vestry door and, through the narrowest 
 of openings, took a glance at the congregation. They appeared 
 to be listening very intently. He could not see the preacher, 
 but he could hear him quite plainly, and instinctively he too 
 began to listen. How many years was it since he had heard a 
 sermon ? Very nearly seven, and the last had been that never- 
 to-be-forgotten sermon in the school chapel. Even now the 
 recollection of it brought an angry glow to his face. 
 
 But the remembrance died away as soon as he began to listen 
 to the clear tones of the present speaker, whose rather uncommon 
 delivery attracted him not a little; it was manly, straightforward, 
 quite free from the touch of patronage or the conventional sancti- 
 monious drawl which goes far towards making- many sermons 
 unpalatable. 
 
 ' I speak now more particularly to those who have some faith 
 in God, but whose faith is weak, variable, largely mingled with 
 distrust. I ask you to look at your everyday life and tell me 
 this : Which sutlers most, the father who disciplines, or the child 
 who is disciplined ? You who have had anything to do with little 
 children will surely answer, " It is the one who disciplines 
 who suifers most — the father bears his own pain and his child's 
 as well." 
 
 ' Look once more at your daily life and answer me one more 
 question. Two friends are estranged, which suffers most, the one 
 who doubts or the one who is unjustly doubted ? You who can 
 speak from experience will, I think, answer without hesitation, 
 "the one who is doubted." 
 
372 CHARLES OSMOND. 
 
 • Believe me, you who are in tlie twilig-ht of a half faith, you 
 who are in the darkness of scepticism, you who are hunp-ering 
 after you scarcely know what, hungering perhaps for an unknown 
 g-oodness, a far distant holiness, your pain, cruel and gnawing and 
 remorseless as it is, is a mere nothing compared with the pain 
 which He whom you doubt suffers. 
 
 * Yes, look again at your own experience, realize as keenly as 
 you can what is the paiii of being unjustly doiibted. Take it all 
 ways, the sting of the injustice, the grievous disajipointment in 
 your friend, the dull ache of forsakenness, that is your own share, 
 but you bear your friend's as well. There is his disappointment, 
 his loneliness,' his sense of betrayal, his indignation to be taken 
 into account, the thought of it weighs on you more than your own 
 personal pain. Oh ! without question the pain of the one doubted 
 is keener than the pain of the one who doubts, it is double pain. 
 And in proportion to the strength of the love will be the sharp- 
 ness of the suffering. 
 
 ' To infinite, unthinkable love, therefore, we who doubt must 
 bring infinite, unthinkable pain. 
 
 ' It can hardly be, however, that in this congregation there 
 have not been many dissentient thoughts during to-night's ser- 
 mon. Even as I read my text I wondered how many will object 
 to those words, " the Father of lights with whom is no variable- 
 ness, neither shadow of turning." 
 
 * Father ! How many shrink from using the word ! Some- 
 times they are people who tell you they believe in " a God ; " I 
 notice that they always use the word " a," they do not say " we 
 believe in the God." Sometimes they are people who accept the 
 latter i)art of the text only, they believe in a "■ force" in which 
 there is '' no variableness." Sometimes they believe in an "im- 
 personal God," which — allowing that by person you mean the 
 " ego," the spirit — is about equal to speaking of an " unspiritual 
 God." I do not wish to say one harsh word about those of you 
 who hold such views, but before you urge again the old objections, 
 " degrading ideas," " anthropomorphism," and such like, I should 
 like you to ask yourselves, with perfect honesty, this question , 
 " Did not my first objection to the word father rise fi'ora dislike 
 to the necessary sequence that I was His child, rather than from 
 real belief that the term was degrading to the Deity ? " 
 
 ' Spiritual life has its analogies with natural life ; there does 
 come a time when, with the consciousness of a certain strength, 
 we long to be free agents, to shake off all authority, to go out in 
 the world and fend for ourselves. And the real recognition of a 
 lather imiilies obedience, and obedience is hard to all men. 
 
CHARLES OgjMO>fD. 373 
 
 ' riur, on tlie other hand, I must defend my use of the word 
 father from misconceptions. Not in the Mahomechin sense of n 
 {iig-autic man ih) we call Ciod our Father. The term given to ui 
 I)}' Christ bring's to our mind a conception of love and protection, 
 it ouyht to rouse in us the child sense of reverence, obedience — 
 in a word, " sonship." " Words ! " you exclaim, " mere terms ! " 
 But remember that we must use finite terms in this life, even in 
 speaking- of infinity. You feel the terms to be a limitation ? 
 Perhaps that is well ; to be conscious of limitation points to a 
 larger, fuller, grander possibility dawning for us in the hereafter. 
 Why should we for that reason be too proud to use the grand, 
 simple Anglo-Saxon word " fatlier "' ? You will not better it 
 with all your laborious el^brts, your many-worded and complicated 
 substitutes. 
 
 ' Using, then, this much abused term, let us turn back to our 
 recollections of childhood. Some of us at least — I hope very 
 many — have had fathers worthy of the name. We did not 
 understand our father, ])ut we revered and loved him, ho was at 
 once friend and counsellor, our standard in everything. What 
 would have been his feeling if in later life we had doubted him, 
 doubted his very love for us, cast otF our family name, lived in 
 independence and lovelessness ? The really loving father would 
 be grieved, cut to the heart, never vindictively wrathful. 
 
 'This father I would take as the shadow of the Divine reality. 
 I cannot doubt that God has often been represented to you as a 
 jealous potentate, an autocrat with human passions; but. I would 
 beg you to-night to put those thoughts from you, to turn instead 
 to the revelation of Jesus Christ, the revelation, that is, of the 
 '' Father of lights," the Father in whom is no variableness or 
 sliadow of turning ; who, in spite of our sin, our doubt, our 
 unworthiness, will be our Father for ever and ever. 
 
 ' Mv friends, my brothers, will you not think of the infinite 
 pain which is caused by the dou])t of one heart ? Will you not 
 struggle to free yourselves from it ? 
 
 '"But," I think I hear some one say, "this man can know 
 nothing about doubt or unbelief; if he did he would know the 
 impossibility of willing to believe, willing to free yourself from 
 doubt." 
 
 'Y'"es, that is true. To will belief is quite impossible. By 
 struggling to free yourselves from doubt, I mean making a con- 
 stant effort to live the Christ-life— the life of self-renunciation 
 that God has consecrated and ordained as the high road to Him- 
 self. Tiicre ma}' be some here who know nothing of God, some 
 who know Him in part ; but to all alike there is but that one 
 
374 CHARLES OSMOND. 
 
 road which can lead to knowledge of things divine — the road of 
 the cross. 
 
 ' " The law of the spirit of life in Christ Jesus," says St. 
 Paul, " has made me free from the law of sin and death." 
 
 ' The law, that is, of loving self-sacrifice, Christ's new law, is 
 the law which sets us free from selfishness and ignorance of God. 
 
 ' And that hard road of self-denial, so uncongenial to us all 
 in itself, has proved, to everyone who has taken his way honestly 
 along it, in very truth the way of light. Por the Father of 
 lights will Himself meet us as we walk that road, when we are 
 " 3'^et a great way off" He will appear to us from afai*, saying — 
 '' Yea, I have loved thee with an everlasting love ; therefore 
 with lovingkindness have I draAvn thee." 
 
 ' Now unto Him that is ahle to do exceeding ahundantly 
 above all we can ask or think,' etc. 
 
 The congregation rose, Donovan pushed the door to. 
 
 ' H'm, so that's what you think about it,' he muttered to him- 
 self, giving his mind a sort of matter-of-fact twist because he was 
 conscious of a certain choking sensation in his throat. ' Yet could 
 anyone imagine such a Being? It would take a strangely pure 
 mind to form such a conception. If there were a God, He must 
 be like that ! the utter lovelessness of Doery's " offended autocrat" 
 had been its own disproof. Could there be truth in that saying 
 in the sermon on the mount, " The pure in heart shall see 
 God"?' 
 
 From a confused train of thought like this he was roused by 
 the sound of one of Dot's favourite hymns, Newman's ' Lead, 
 kindly light, amid the encircling gloom.' Why it had been such 
 a favourite of hers he had never found out, it was hardly a child's 
 hymn, and Dot had been the simplest of little children. Perhaps 
 the pure Saxon English had attracted her, as it usually does 
 attract simple childlike souls. How many times could Donovan 
 remember playing the tune for her ! He seemed now almost to 
 hear the soft child-voice singing with the congregation. VV^ith 
 almost painful intentness he listened, the words of the last verse 
 floating in to him with perfect distinctness. 
 
 So long Thy power hath blessed me, sure it still 
 
 Will lead me on 
 O'er moor and fen, o'er crag and torrent, till 
 
 The night is gone. 
 And with the morn those angel faces smile, 
 Which I have loved long since, and lost awhile. 
 
 He turned away with hot tears in his eyes. He had lost all 
 his ' angel faces,' and did not yet believe that ' the morn ' was 
 
CHARLES OSMOND. 87o 
 
 coming-, he could not believe in the hereafter, and he had g-iven 
 xip all that was beautiful in tho present. Life will feel black to 
 such. 
 
 He beg-an to poke the fire, he picked up the crumpled sur- 
 plice from the floor, folded it methodically, and laid it on the 
 table, then, finding' such work too mechanical to answer his pur- 
 pose, he retreated into the inner vestry, and beg'an to talk to his 
 patient's mother. 
 
 Before very long- there was a hum of voices in the next room, 
 then the door opened and the verg-er appeared, followed to Dono 
 van's utter amazement by Brian Osmond. 
 
 ' Hullo, wlio w'ould have thoug'ht of seeing- you here ! ' he 
 exclaimed. ' Why didn't you hurry to the rescue ? ' 
 
 ' I was the other side of the choir, and didn't see what was 
 up,' said Brian ; ' the first thing- I did see was the entrance of you 
 and Waif. How's your patient ? ' 
 
 ' All right ag-ain,' said Donovan, ' we must get her a cab.' 
 
 ' Brown will do that. You come with me now, I want you 
 to see ni}' father.' 
 
 ' Your lather ? ' 
 
 ' This is his church, did you not know ? ' 
 
 Was it then Brian's father who had been preaching- ? Dono- 
 van did not ask, but followed him into the other vestry, where 
 several rather shabby-looking- little boys were just disa])pearing- 
 through the doorway, having- left what Mrs, Doery would have 
 called their ' whites ' behind them. There was only one clergy- 
 man, he was standing- by the fire talking- to a churchwarden, 
 and Donovan had a minute or two in which to take a survey of 
 him. 
 
 Charles Osmond was a man of eig'ht-and-forty ; lie was tall 
 — nearly six feet — squarely made rather, muscularly very strong-, 
 but constitutionally delicate. His character was much like his 
 body ; he united in a very rare way the man's strength and the 
 woman's tenderness. Looking- at him superficially, he seemed 
 older than his years, for he was nearly bald, and the fring-e of 
 nair that remained round what he called his ' tonsure ' was quite 
 g-rey, but his eyes were young-, his voice was young-, there was a 
 sprig-htliness, almost a boyishness, in his manner at times. 
 
 ' Clever and honest, and not too clerical,' w^as Donovan's 
 comment, the last adjective being-, from his lips, of the nature of 
 a comjiliment, for he had a great dislike of the clergy as a clas^ 
 He had received from individual members of the profession some 
 injustice and no kindness, and he not unnaturally proceeded to 
 j\idg-e them as a class, and to abuse them wholesale. A patient 
 
376 CHARLES OSMOND. 
 
 who has received mistaken treatment from a doctor, invariably 
 scotis at all doctors, and ever after terms them quacks. A client 
 receiving- an exorbitant bill from his solicitor, relieves his annoy- 
 ance b}" proclaiming' all lawyers to be grasping and avaricious. 
 In this, as in other cases, a little fire kindles a great matter. 
 
 Charles Osmond turned in a minute or two, and Brian intro- 
 duced Donovan. 
 
 ' I saw you and your dog come in/ he observed, with laughter 
 in his eyes. ' Now, if certain religious newspapers get hold of 
 that incident, we shall have some beautiful paragraphs. " Strange 
 new innovation," " Canine processions," etc. I hope your patient 
 is better ? ' 
 
 By this time Donovan liked the man, instinctively liked and 
 trusted him. Charles Osmond had a very strange fascination 
 about him. He had an extraordinary power in his touch ; to 
 shake hands Mith him was to receive no conventional greeting', 
 but to be taken closer to the man himself, to be assured of his 
 hearty, honest sympathy. His eyes were to Donovan like Waif's 
 eyes; all his soul seemed to look out of them. They were eyes 
 which never looked in a hard way at people, never seemed to be 
 forming an opinion about them, but, like the bright eager eyes 
 of a dog, expressed almost as clearly as words, ' let us come as 
 near each other as we can.' 
 
 He was a man wdio cared not a rush for what was said of 
 people, a man who would have pi'eferred dining with an excom- 
 municated heretic to dining with the queen. He was no respecter 
 of persons, and rather disliked official dignitaries as such, but he 
 could admire worth whatever its surroundings, and he had a 
 profound respect for man as man. 
 
 For a few minutes he was left alone with Donovan while 
 Brian and the verger were helping the patient to a cab. 
 
 Before this there had been ordinary small t:ilk, a sort of 
 jumble of epileptic fits, fox-terriers, Barnard and Bishop stoves, 
 etc., but as soon as they were alone, Donovan, obeying the plea 
 of those dog-like eyes, did draw a little nearer, a little more out 
 of his shell. 
 
 ' I heard the end of your sermon to-night,' he said, rather 
 abruptly, ' It is the first I have heard for several years. If it 
 wouldn't be asking too much, would you let me have it to 
 read ? ' 
 
 ' With all my heart, if it were readable,' said Mr. Osmond, 
 with a humorous twinkle in his eyes, as he handed half a sheet 
 of paper to Donovan, with a few notes written on it. 
 
 ' Oh ! you preach extempore. I am sorry,' remarked Donovan. 
 
CHARLES OSMOND. 377 
 
 ' It is the only way for a church like mine,' said IMr. Osmond. 
 ♦ But I can, if you like, give you plenty of sermons on that 
 suhject, and hooks too, much more to the point than anythin*^ 
 you can have heard to-night.' 
 
 ' Thank you,' said Donovan, * hut I am afraid I must unj^-ra- 
 ciously refuse that offer. I have read some dozens of theological 
 hooks to very little purpose, and have just made a clean sweep 
 of them, and hought a polariscr for my microscope with the 
 proceeds.' 
 
 'And find it of much more use, I daresay,' said Mr. Osmond, 
 laughing-. ' But if you cared enough for such matters to get and 
 read theological hooks, why were you so many years without the 
 far less tedious ])rocess of sermon liearing V 
 
 'Because I am an agnostic,' said Donovan, 'and as there is 
 no necessity, I do not care to stand, sit, and kneel through a 
 meaningless form. I would not do it even to hear you again, 
 and I own that I should like to hear you.' 
 
 ' Then any Sunday that you care to look in here at a quarter 
 to eight, you shall iind the sent nearest the door empty,' said 
 Mr. Osmond. ' Of course we extend the invitation to the dog- as 
 long- as he'll sit quiet; I see you are inseparable. What an 
 intelligent-looking- mortal he is ! ' 
 
 ' I could not quite tell you the number of times he has saved 
 my life,' said Donovan. 'He won't delile your church; he's 
 much more of a Christian than many church-goers I have 
 known.' 
 
 ' Did you ever hear the story of the eccentric men of Bruges ? ' 
 said 'Slv. Osmond. ' He was passionately fond of his dogs ; the 
 c^n-e remonstrated with him, and told him that if he went to 
 he-aven he must part with them. " I will go nowhere," exclaimed 
 the good man, " where I cannot take my dogs." ' 
 
 ' Capital fellow ! ' said Donovan, laughing-. ' I quite ag-ree 
 with him.' 
 
 By that time Brian had returned ; the verg-er was beginning- 
 to turn out the gas. 
 
 ' Come and have supper with us,' said Mr. Osmond, as they 
 walked together down the empty church. 
 
 ' Tliank you,' replied Donovan, * I am afraid I must g-o home ; 
 I have heen out most of the day.' 
 
 ' 3Iicroscope, or the old man of the sea ? ' questioned Brian. 
 
 'The latter,' said Donovan, with a laug-h. 'Good-night.' 
 
 He whistled to Waif, and they disappeared in the d-ark street. 
 
978 WHAT IS FORGIVENESS? 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 
 WHAT IS FORGIVENESS? 
 
 Skilful alike witli tongue and pen, 
 He preached to all men everywhere 
 The Gospel of the Golden Rule, 
 The nevv coramandmeut given to men, 
 Thinking the deed, and not the creed, 
 Would help us in our utmost need. 
 With reverent feet tlie earth he trod, 
 Nor banished Nature from his plan, 
 But studied still with deep research 
 To build the Universal Chiirch, 
 Lofty as is the love of God, 
 And ample as the wants of man. 
 
 Tales of a Wayside Ian. Longfellow. 
 
 As he walked home, Donovan thought a g'ood deal of the scene 
 he had just left, and for the first time it struck him that the 
 sermon had heen rather an unusual one for such a cong-reg'ation. 
 Charles Osmond seemed to take it for granted that his people 
 thought ; the congregation was chiefly composed of working 
 men and women and tradespeople, hut he hy no means preached 
 down to what some would have considered their level. He 
 entered into all the questions of the day freely and fearlessly, 
 and took as much pains with his sermons as if they were to be 
 preached before the most searching critics in the country. 
 
 How he came to be in such a place was another question 
 which perplexed Donovan. Had he known the reason, he would 
 have been doubly attracted to the man ; but it was some time 
 before he found out. 
 
 Charles Osmond's history was a strange one. He was exceed- 
 ingly clever, an original sort of man, full of resources, intensely 
 conscious of latent power which he might probably never have 
 time or opportunity for bringing into exercise. But the strength 
 of the man was in his extraordinary gift of insight ; there was 
 something almost uncanny about his power of reading people. 
 He would have made a good diplomatist, a first-rate detective, 
 had not his power of sympathy been quite as strong as his power 
 of insight. He had that gift of ' magnetism ' which Donovan 
 had ascribed to Kaeburn ; almost all who had anything to do 
 with him were attracted, they scarcely knew why or how. He 
 had a way of treating each individual as if for the time being his 
 
WHAT IS FORGIVENESS? 379 
 
 only desire wns to g'ct nearer to him, and altliou^-h he was the 
 most wide-minded of men, he could so concentrate his world-wide 
 sympathy as to bring- its full power to bear on one heart. His 
 inliuence was marvellous! he was like a sort of sun; the coldest, 
 most frozen, icebound natures melted in his genial presence. 
 He could draw out the most reserved people in a way astonishing* 
 to themselves. He spoke little of 'souls' in the lump, never 
 obtruded the conventionel red-tapeism of clerical life, but each 
 individual was to him a wonderful and absorbing- study. He 
 rarely even in thought massed them tog-ether as ' his parish,' but 
 took them as his inner circle of brothers and sisters, a tiny frag-- 
 ment of the one great family. 
 
 Of course he Avas almost worshipped by those who knew him, 
 but with a certain class of character he could make no way. He 
 had one great fault — a fault which repelled some people, g-ener- 
 ally the ' unco guid or rig-idly rig-hteous,' or those comfortable 
 people who feel no need or desire for sympathy. His fault was 
 this — he was too conscious of his influence ; he knew that he had 
 exceptional gifts, and all his life long he had been struggling- 
 with that deadliest of foes, conceit. He had the exquisite candour 
 to call his fault by its true name, a very rare virtue ; and few 
 things ang-ered him more than to hear conceit confounded with 
 self-respect or proper pride of independence. Conceit was conceit 
 pure and simple ; the word pride had lost its objectionable 
 meaning. To tell a man that he was proud would make him feel 
 almost gratified, would give him a sense of dignity, but to tell 
 him he was conceited would be sure to give him. a hard home- 
 thrust. So he went on in his straightforward way, struggling 
 with his deadly hindrance, daily — almost hourly — checking- him- 
 self, pulling himself up, as he drifted into the all too natural 
 habit of self-approval. He had not crushed his foe as yet, but he 
 has risen immensely by the effort. It had helped greatly to 
 increase the manliness, the honesty, the large-minded tolerance 
 which characterized him. Fully conscious that he had not 
 ' already attained, neither was already perfect,' he was a thousand 
 times more helpful to those in need than many of his brethren 
 who looked down on him, blandly content with their own progress 
 in righteousness — at any rate, convinced that Charles Osmond's 
 very apparent fault must unfit him for his work. Certainly it 
 did prevent his ever assuming- the conventional tone of priest to 
 penitent ; he never felt himself on a higher platform than his 
 congregation, but perhaps for that very reason he succeeded in 
 attracting those whom no one else coidd attract. 
 
 The reason that he was still to be found toiling- away in au 
 
ySO WHAT IS FORGIVENESS ? 
 
 obscure parish in one of the poor parts of London was not vvith- 
 out its pathos. Yevy few were aware of the real cause. Naturally 
 he was not withoTit a good deal of ambition, and at a certain 
 time in his life his advances had been rapid. He had written a 
 series of articles which had brought him into notice, and almost 
 at the same time two offers were made to him. The one was the 
 otfer of a living* in London worth perhaps £300 a year, the other 
 was to a position of great responsibiHty, invariably made the 
 stepping-stone to high places. Cljarles Osmond was human ; it 
 cost him a great deal to give up the prospect of rapid and 
 honourable preferment, and in refusing the olfer he gave up 
 many other things v.hicli he much desired — the opportunity of 
 mixing with his equals, the chance of intellectual society, the 
 greater ease of speaking to a highly educated congregation. In 
 many respects be was, and knew that he was, admirably fitted 
 for such a position, but, weighing it all in his honest mind, he 
 came to the conclusion that he could not trust himself to accey)t 
 it. His power, his intluence, his worldly position would be im- 
 mensely raised ; he did not feel himself suiiiciently strong to 
 resist such increased temptations. 
 
 So the chance of promotion was honourably rejected, and 
 Charles Osmond settled down to terribl}' up-hill work in London. 
 Life never could be easy to such a man ; he was too sensitive, 
 too wide-minded, too Christ-like to be ever without his sbare of 
 Christ's burden — the burden of the suffering, the sinning, the 
 doubting. Pie was, too, in a certain sense, an isolated man ; all 
 through his life he had been greatly misunderstood. By one set 
 he was stigmatized as ' High Church,' by another as ' danger- 
 ously Broad,' by a third as ' almost a Dissenter.' Attacked thus 
 from all points, his life would have been almost intolerable had 
 it not been for the growing love and devotion of his own parti- 
 cular people. His church became a sort of Cave of Adullam — a 
 refuge for numbers of the distressed ; and as years went by, the 
 work began to tell, and a real improvement could be noted. This 
 alone was almost enough to make up for the hostility which he 
 encountered in other quarters, though he was not the sort of man 
 to whom persecution could ever be otherwise than painful. 
 He had lately incurred great odium by urging in public that 
 Raeburn, the atheist, ought to be treated with as much justice, 
 and courtesy, and consideration as if he had been a Christian. 
 The narrow-minded were thereby much scandalized ; the atheists 
 began to believe that it was possible for a clergyman to be honest 
 and unprejudiced. 
 
 The walk home after Sunday evening service was generally 
 
WHAT IS FORGIVENESS? 381 
 
 the part of the day's work wliicli Brian dreaded most for his 
 fatlior. He know it was then tliat the burden pressed most 
 lieavily on him, for the sin and evil were fearfully apparent in 
 those back streets, and Charles Osmond keenly alive to it all, 
 wearied with the exertions of the day, and aware of his inability 
 to cope with the immense wickedness around, often fell a prey 
 to the hauntins^" consciousness of failure and to blank depression. 
 
 This evening", however, as they parted from Donovan at the 
 church door, he seemed quite unusually brisk and animated, and 
 thoug-h g-onerally too tired to care to speak an unnecessary word, 
 he had not walked a hundred yards before he began to question 
 his son. 
 
 ' So that is your new friend ? ' 
 
 'Yes,' returned Brian, 'what do you think of him ?' 
 
 'I think he's a friend worth having-.' 
 
 'I knew you would like him,' said Brian, triumphantly, 'if 
 it were only because he is one of your " seeps." Is there an 
 honest atheist in the world whom you don't like, I wonder ! ' 
 
 ' I ho]ie not,' said Charles Osmond, with a touch of quiet 
 humour in his tone. 
 
 ' I wouldn't say much about Farrant before you had seen him, 
 for he's not the sort of fellow to be known at second hand, and I 
 was determined you should somehow meet him. Odd that such 
 a chance as that girl's illness should have broug-ht you together 
 after all' 
 
 ' Just as well,' said Charles Osmond. ' He is a fellow to be 
 led, not driven, or to be driven only by the One who knows when 
 to use the snaffle, when the curb.' 
 
 ' Yes, one is afraid of pushing- him the wrong' way rather,' 
 eaid Brian, ' even, I mean, in chance talk without any intention 
 of pushing- at all.' 
 
 ' That we always must feel in speaking- to those whom the 
 world has held at arm's leng-th. I should like to know what 
 helped to bring- that fellow to atheism, have you any idea ?' 
 
 ' The un-Christlikeness of Christians, I fancy — and something- 
 he said of injustice with wdiich he had been treated, but he has 
 only once spoken of it at all, and then merely because he grew 
 hot at the mention of Raeburn.' 
 
 Cluirlos Osmond sighed heavily, it was another instance added 
 to the hundreds he already knew of the harm caused by injustice 
 and want of cliarity. He fell into a sorrowful i-everie, but 
 roused himself after a time to ask what his son knew of Donovan's 
 history. 
 
 ' 1 know very little,' said Brian, ' he seems to be alone in the 
 
382 WHAT IS FORGIVENESS? 
 
 world, and he is vei^ poor. We are of the same year; he came 
 up at October two years ag'o and g-ot a scholarship at once. 
 He's by far the cleverest fellow we have, no one else has a chance 
 while he's there ; any amount of brains you know, and works 
 furiously — as if it were the only thing- he cared for.' 
 
 'I thought as much,' observed Charles Osmond. 'There's 
 the dog- though — wonderful to see the devotion between those 
 two ; no man in the world, as the old saying- goes, who can't 
 find a dog and a woman to love him. Who is the " old man of 
 the sea" you spoke of?' 
 
 'The "queerest old fellow you ever saw, who has come to live 
 with him, an old captain something-, I forg-et the name. Quite 
 of another grade to Farrant, and trying- to live with, I should 
 fancy, for he's a regular old tippler, but he's devoted to "Dono- 
 van," as he always calls him.' 
 
 ' Oh ! that's his name; is he connected with the Donovans of 
 Kilbeg-gan, I wonder ? g-rannie has their family tree by heart.' 
 
 ' There's nothing' Irish about Farrant,' said Brian. 
 
 ' I'm not so sure of that, I fancy there's a g-ood deal of humour 
 in him, stifled by circumstances perhaps, and I'll stake my repu- 
 tation as an observer that somewhere in his ancestry you'll find 
 an Italian ! ' 
 
 Brian laughed ; his father was very fond of tracing- the tokens 
 of differing- nationalities, and had many theories on the subject; 
 sometimes his theories fell wide of the mark, however, and Brian 
 was inclined to think he had made a bad shot this time, for to 
 him Donovan seemed entirely— almost typically — EngHsh._ 
 
 A few days after this Donovan was induced to dine with the 
 Osmonds, not without much persuasion from Brian, who was now 
 sufficiently his friend to be comfortably rude to him. 
 
 ' You'll g-row into a bear, a misanthrope, if you never g-o any- 
 where,' he urged, as Donovan pleaded his want of time. ' You'll 
 addle your brains, knock up before the exam, grow into the '' dull 
 boy" of the proverb. I can see that this unmitigated grind is 
 beginning to tell on you already ; you look as old again as you 
 did before the October terra.' 
 
 Donovan flushed a little at this, said abruptly that he would 
 come, and gave a rapid turn to the conversation. 
 
 The Osmonds lived in Blooaisbury, .in an old house which 
 had belonged to Charles Osmond's grandfather in the days when 
 Bloomsbury was a fashionable region. It was a comfortable, roomy 
 house, not too far from the parish to be inconvenient, and all the 
 better for Ijeing far removed from West End gaieties, as the 
 Osmonds were something of Bohemians, dined at an unpardon- 
 
WHAT IS FORGIVENESS? 883 
 
 a1)ly early hour, and rather set at naug-ht the conventionalities 
 of life. 
 
 Donovan was shown into a charming, old-fashioned drawinf^- 
 room, not old-fasiiioncd according- to the recent high art revival 
 of spiudle-lcg-g-ed forms and Queen Anne nncomfortahleness, but 
 such a room as might have been found at the beginning' of the 
 century. Everything was massive and good of its kind. There 
 were capacious arm-chairs and most restful sofas covered with the 
 real old chintz worth any number of modern cretonnes, an old- 
 fashioned Erard piano tliat had seen good service, beautifully 
 inlaid tables, some good oil paintings, and a delightful array of 
 books in long', low bookcases, bound in old yellow calf and that 
 everlasting morocco which was somehow procurable in the good 
 old times when bookbinding was an art, not a trade. A few 
 modern knick-knacks here and thei'e relieved the stiffness of the 
 furniture, while a faint smell of dried roses was wafted from old 
 china bowls and vases which would have awakened the envy of 
 anyone suffering from the china mania. 
 
 Mrs. Osmond, Brian's grandmother, just completed the old- 
 world picture. Donovan fell in love with her at once. She was 
 indeed a very beautiful old lady, her silvery hair, her mild, blue 
 eyes, her peculiarly sweet smile were all in their way perfect, but 
 it was the exquisite courtesy, the delicate grace of the past day 
 that attracted everyone so irresistibly, that beautiful old-fashioned 
 sweetness of manner which has somehow pei'ished m the heat and 
 struggle — the 'hurrying life' of the nineteenth century. She 
 made him a charming, gracious, little curtsey, then held out her 
 hand, and Donovan, Republican though he was, did not shake it, 
 but, acting as he occasionally did by impulse, bent low and 
 kissed it. 
 
 The old lady seemed touched and gratified ; she at once intro- 
 duced the names of her old friends the Donovans of Kilbeggan, 
 and there ensued an animated* discussion as to ^the younger 
 branches of the family, resultmg in the oft-made discovery that 
 the world is smaller than we think, and that Donovan's grand- 
 father, General Donovan, had been Mrs. Osmond's old playfellow. 
 The gong sounded, and the deai', old, stately lady went down to 
 dinner on Donovan's arm, still talking of her young days in 
 Ireland, then drifting on to the London life of long ago, dwelling 
 in the loving, tender way of the old on the celebrities of her time, 
 the Kembles, Jenny Lind, Grisi, Sontag, Miss Stephens, and 
 Braham ; then on to the Chartist rising of '48, when Charles 
 Osmond took his turn and spoke of the * Christian Socialism ' 
 scheme, from which they passed to the Radicalism of to-day, a 
 
884 WHAT IS FORGIVENESS? 
 
 subject winch Donovan himself would not have ventured to in- 
 troduce in a tler<j;yman's house, but Which he found discussed 
 with perfect fairness. Indeed, thoug'h Charles Osmond rarely 
 meddled -with politics, his work lay so entirely among- ' the 
 people ' that he was really able to see matters from their point 
 of view, and in the main he was ready to agree with Donovan. 
 
 About the house, or rather the home, there was the same 
 atmosphere as at Porthkerran, the same wideness of sympathy, 
 the same loving- regard for the work and interests of others, the 
 same ' one and all ' principle carried into beautiful practice. The 
 parish was not made a bore to the other members of the family, 
 Brian's work was not obtruded in a tiresome way, nor Mrs. 
 Osmond's manifold feminine occupations; all was well balanced, 
 well regulated, and Donovan realized- how pei^fect a home can be in 
 which are the three generations. Past, present, and future, when 
 really united, do make the strongest threefold cord, and perhaps 
 no house is quite complete without the quick perception of the 
 young, the steady judgment of the middle-aged, the golden 
 experience of the old. 
 
 Part of the evening- Donovan spent alone with Charles Osmond 
 in his study, a comfortable room, methodically arranged, and lined 
 with books, theological, anti-theological, and scientific. Judged 
 by his books, it mig-ht perhaps have been hard to say which of 
 Charles Osmond's abusers were rig'ht ; whether he was really 
 High, Broad, or half a Dissenter ; perhaps he was a little of all 
 three, or perhaps he had reached above and beyond those earthly 
 distinctions. 
 
 However this might be, as the two sat that evening- over their 
 coffee, Donovan fairly forgot lie was speaking to that, to him, 
 obnoxious being — a clergyman. Not even to Dr. Tremain had 
 he ever talked with such perfect openness. Those dog-like eyes, 
 with their constant appeal, ' let us come nearer,' were irresistible. 
 He found himself almost thinking aloud, and as his thinking' 
 meant great questioning, the possibility of having- a being outside 
 himself capable of listening, sympathising-, and answering- was a 
 rare delight. And because he was conscious of Charles Osmond's 
 unasserted but very real superiority, he cared not what he said, 
 felt no restriction, no fear of going too far, or of giving too much, 
 confidence. The really clever, really great, really good, inspire 
 trust where the mediocre inspire dread. 
 
 As they talked, a little of Donovan's private history, which 
 Charles Osmond had speculated about, was revealed. They had 
 been speaking- of Mill's notable admission that, on the whole, 
 men cuuld not do better than try to imitate the life of Christ. 
 
WHAT IS FORGIVENESS? 385 
 
 'But,' urged Donovan, ' liowever much one may resolve to 
 do so, I find endless difficulties when it comes to actual practice. 
 Take this, for instance — I wish to find what is Ciirist's law of 
 forgivoness, and am met with such contradictions as these : I 
 niu first told to ollor the other cheek, to let my cloak follow my 
 coat, not to resist evil. I am tohl another time to bring the 
 matter before witnesses, before the church, and if it is all of no 
 avail, to let my enemy be to me as a heathen man and a publican. 
 How do you explain that? ' 
 
 ' I think the first referred to injuries received by a Christian 
 from an unbeliever, the second to injuries received from a fellow- 
 Christian,' said Charles Osmond. 
 
 ' Then what is an atheist to do when injured by a Christian ?' 
 asked Donovan. 'I will telil>you the actual case, and then you 
 will see the difficulty. A certain cousin of mine has defrauded me 
 of my jn'operty. I know, thoug-h unfortunately I can't g'o to law 
 about it, that he destroyed ni}^ father's last will; he then married 
 my mother, and when I came of age coolly turned me out of the 
 house without a farthing. He now lives on my estate, spends 
 my money, enjoys himself thoroughly, as far as I know, and 
 kindly condescends to make me an allowance of £100 a year. 
 though he knows that 1 know of his villany.' 
 
 ' \\)u can't bring- an action against him I ' 
 
 ' Unfortunately not. It is too g-reat a risk. It would just 
 be a contest of character, and the expenses would be enormous 
 Now, what I want to know is, what you expect me to foal 
 towards that man.' 
 
 ' It is a hard case/ said Charles Osmond. ' I should like to 
 know what you do feel.' 
 
 ' All I have been able to do is to will to think of him as little 
 as ])ossible. When I do think of him, I confess that I often g'et 
 red-hot with indignation. Happily, I've plenty of work and need 
 not dwell on it, so that except twice a year, when his beggarly 
 cheques come in, I nearly forget his existence. If this is letting 
 him Ic to me a heathen and a publican, I have so far fulfilled 
 tii^^. Christian law, but ' 
 
 'Ah ! yes, I'm glad you put in a but,' said Charles Osmond. 
 'For tliough, after you have done all in your power to reconcile 
 tmd win back your enem\-, you are told to leave him and have no 
 more to do with him, you must remember that that command 
 pre-supposes that you are a Christian, and therefore one who 
 loves all men, who recognizes the universal brotherhood, who 
 tries to imitate the One who makes His sun to shine on the evil 
 ds well as on the good. The very first principles of Christianity 
 
 c c 
 
386 WHAT IS FORGIVENESS? 
 
 show that you must love this man, though he is your enemy, and 
 though it may be best for you to have no personal communica- 
 tion with him.' 
 
 'You mean I must love Ellis Farrant? It is impossible. 
 You've no conception Avhat a scoundrel he is. I could horsewhip 
 him with the greatest pleasure.' 
 
 ' Then of course you have not forgotten him ? ' 
 
 ' No, I have not,' said Donovan, emphatically. ' And I don't 
 see how you can expect me to while every day the fellow is 
 adding to" his sin, while every day he's defrauding me of my 
 own.' 
 
 '■ You must not think me hard on you,' said Charles Osmond. 
 * Your feeling is exceedingly natural, and I think perhaps yojj 
 can't get much further than this until you believe in God. It 
 was Christ who taught us what real forgiveness is. Now you 
 tell me that although you do not believe in God, and regard 
 Christ merely as a very good man, yet you consider the ideal 
 God as a very beautiful ideaL' 
 
 ' Yes,' said Donovan. 
 
 * Well, then, just listen to me while I put your words as 
 though they were spoken by the ideal God. " This man is mine, 
 I caused him to be, gave him all that he possesses, he owes me 
 love and obedience, for years he has defrauded me of both, de- 
 frauded me of my due, and he has done it wilfully. I am full of 
 indignation, and I will not to think of him any more. To love 
 him is impossible, he is a perfect scoundrel, and every day he is 
 addmg to his siu." The God in whom I believe did not speak 
 like this ; you will allow that if He had thus spoken He would 
 not have been an ideal God at all. Instead of thinking of the 
 right of which He had been defrauded. He thought first of the 
 child of His who was defrauding Him, how miserable his exist- 
 en&^ was in reality, how everything was distorted to his view so 
 that he had even lost sight "of their original relationship, and 
 regarded his Father as an angry tyrant. Somehow the child 
 must be made to understand that, although it had sinned, its 
 Father, being its Father, was only longing to forgive it, to break 
 down the barrier which had risen between them. He revealed 
 His wonderful love in such a way that the simplest could not fail 
 to see it, His forgiveness was there, Avaitinp- ^br all who would 
 take it. It was not a forgiveness to be obtained after much 
 pleading, it was there as a free gift for all who had the least real 
 and honest wish to be reconciled. That is the forgiveness of 
 God, and the example which you must follow.' 
 
 ' It is impossible,' said Donovan, with sad emphasis 
 
WHAT IS FORGIVENESS? 887 
 
 * Perhaps it may be until you have realized what God has 
 forgiven 3'ou.' 
 
 * But how am I to love what is hateful ? * 
 ' I never asked you to do so.' 
 
 * The man is utterly hateful, a lying, deceitful, hypocritical 
 knave.' 
 
 ' No man is altogether evil, there is latent g-ood in him that 
 you cannot perceive. I don't ask you to love the evil in him, 
 but to love him because he is a man. He is your brother whether 
 you will or not, and if you want to imitate Christ you must love 
 him.' 
 
 Donovan shook his head, and sighed. 
 
 ' It's no good, I can hardly make myself even wish to love 
 him; it's somehow against one's sense of justice.' 
 
 * " Though justice be thy plea, consider this, that in the course 
 of justice none of us should see salvation,"' quoted Charles Os- 
 mond, smiling. ' But don't think I am speaking easily of the thing, 
 forgiveness is hard, in a case like yours it is frightfully hard. I 
 have merely told you what I consider ideal forgiveness, if you 
 aim at the highest you will often and often fall short of the 
 mark.' 
 
 'The worst of it is this struggling to copy the life of Christ 
 is such frightfully discouraging work,' said Donovan. 'The more 
 one tries the harder it gets, and one is always coming to some 
 new demand which is almost impossible to meet.' 
 
 * Did you ever climb an Alp ? ' asked Charles Osmond. ' As 
 you get higher you find it harder work, the air is more rarefied, 
 the way more abrupt ; but when you reach the summit, what do 
 you care for all the labour ? The work was weary, but the end 
 
 Avas worth all ! When the full vision breaks upon us ' he 
 
 paused, and there was a minute's silence, but the light in his 
 face was more eloquent than words. 
 
 ' If there be a summit and a vision,' said Donovan, in a low 
 voice. 
 
 ' Though it tarry, wait for it,' was Charles Osmond's answer. 
 
 After that they passed to matters nearer the surface, and 
 before long Brian came down, and the three drew in their chairs 
 to the fire, and sat smoking and talking till late in the evening. 
 Charles Osmond had, in spite of his harassing life, kept a wonder- 
 ful reserve fund of high spirits, and just now in the relief of 
 having to do with one so honest and high-minded as Donovan he 
 forgot the hundred and one cares of his parish, and was the life 
 of the party. His comical anecdotes, told in the raciest way 
 imaginable, drew forth shouts of laughter from the listeners, and, 
 
888 WHAT IS FORGIVENESS? 
 
 feeling' convinced that Donovan did not often exercise his lung's 
 in that way, be kept up an almost ceaseless flow of the very 
 V ittiest talk. A great love of fun and a certain absence of con- 
 ventional decorum proved the nationality of the Osmonds, but it 
 was with something' far beyond the sense of good fellowship that 
 Donovan went home that night. He was cheered and amr.sed 
 ccrtainl}^, but the home-like reception at the clergyman's house 
 had already widened him and softened his clerical antipathies, 
 while his growing- admiration for Charles Osmond did hiin a world 
 of good. 
 
 Who does not know the delight of intercourse with a greater 
 mind, the enthusiasm which springs from the mere fact of look- 
 ing- up to another, the inspiriting sense of being- bettered, raised, 
 stimulated to fresh exertion ? 
 
 Cut off by his act of self-sacrifice from the Tremain house- 
 hold, and with poor old Roug-e Frewin for his sole companion, 
 Donovan was in great need of friends whom he could revere as 
 well as love ; the Osmonds were exactly fitted to meet his need, 
 and perhaps for that reason the friendship deepened and strength- 
 ened very rapidly. 
 
 After he had left that evening- the father and son ling-ered 
 over the fire, indulging- a little in that general habit of discussing- 
 the departed guest. 
 
 ' Wasn't it rare to hear him laugh ? ' said Brian. ' I'd no idea 
 he'd such a lot of fun in him. His hatred of the clerg-y will die 
 a natural death now that he has got to know you ! It was the 
 biggest joke to see the way in which every now and then he 
 chanced to notice your tie, and received a sort of shock realizing' 
 that you were actually one of the hated class.' 
 
 ' It is hardly to be wondered at,' said Charles Osmond. 'We 
 clergy are terribly apt to forget that we must follow St. Paul, and 
 tiv to be '' all things to all men." I should like to know how 
 many ])arsons have said as much as a kind word to that fellow, 
 who must have been nominally imder the charge of some one all 
 his life. Our beautiful parochial system is fearfully apt to de- 
 generate into a mere skeleton.' 
 
 ' What do you think ? will he come round ? or will he always 
 be an agnostic ? ' 
 
 ' I can't tell,' said Charles Osmond, with a sig'h, ' he seems 
 to be living with all his might up to the light he has, but he is 
 not the sort of man to change rapidly, and his private history is 
 all against it. An atheist shamefully wronged by those who call 
 themselves Christians cannot but feel that he has a strong' case 
 against Christianity.' 
 
WHAT IS FORGIVENESS? 389 
 
 * But li9 will never rest satisfied with what he has p;ot,' said 
 Brian. * His very face tells thnt h? knows he is incomplete.' 
 
 ' "Yco, he knows that,' said Cliarles Osmond. ' In talkinq- 
 to him to-night I couldn't help thinking of" Browning's description 
 ot" the grand old ship dismasted and storm-battered, but still 
 bearing on, with something in her infinite possibilities wliich 
 raised her above the mere lifeboats, 
 
 Make perfect your good ship as tliese, 
 And what were her performances ! ' 
 
 'And yet you doubt whether he will be perfected ?' saiJ 
 Brian. 
 
 ' Never ! ' exclaimed Charles Osmond, warmly. * I never said 
 so! That he will he the grand character he was meant to be I 
 have not a doubt, but whether he will be anything but an agnos- 
 tic in this world, God only knows.' 
 
 No more was said. Brian fell to thinking of all the contra- 
 dictory statements about the Eternities, his father returned to 
 the almost ceaseless intercession which Avas the under-current 
 of his exceedingly practical life. Highly illogical according to 
 Haeburn, and a great mistake according to others, as most of the 
 intercessions were for those whom a righteously indignant Chris- 
 tian once denounced as 'past praying for ' ! But to him it was a 
 necessity of life ; one of the world's sin-bearers, he would lon;^ 
 ago have sunk under the burden if he had tried to bear it alone. 
 As it was, how could he be intolerant, how could he be uncharit- 
 able ? For were not the nineteenth-century ' publicans and 
 sinners ' among the strongest of his bonds of union with the 
 Unseen? He was one of those who cannot help caring* more for 
 the lost sheep than for the ninety and nine in the fold, and 
 though he was by no means inclined weakly to condone sin, or to 
 make light of it, no one had ever heard him denounce a sinner, 
 or speak a harsh word of any whom society had condemned. 
 
390 CONTRASTED LOVERS. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXV. 
 
 CONTRASTED LOVERS. 
 
 ■^Hiat we love perfectly, for its own sake 
 We love, and not our own, being ready thus 
 Wliate'er self-sacrifice is ask'd to make; 
 That which is best for it is best for us. 
 
 SOUTHET. 
 
 Stephen Causton did not return to the hospital till March. 
 Coming- Louie one afternoon, Donovan found the sitting'-room in 
 some confusion, scraps of newspaper and dilapidated note-hooks 
 scattered about here and there, and a yawning- space in the book- 
 shelves which Stephen's books had hitherto occupied. 
 
 ' Hullo ! has Causton been in ? ' he asked old Rouge, who, 
 with a somewhat disturbed air, was sitting- over the fire with his 
 long- clay pipe. 
 
 ' I don't know if that's his name,' replied the old captain, in 
 an often ded tone, ' but a tallow-faced, bumptious lad has been 
 here, making- no end of dust and noise, carrying- off your books, 
 too, for aught I know.' 
 
 ^ No, no, they were his own,' said T)onovan, smiling. * But 
 tell me about him, captain. Did he ask for me ? did he leave no 
 
 message 
 
 ?' 
 
 * Not he,' said Rouge, angrily. ' He walked in as coolly as 
 if the place belonged to him, rowed the landlady for not having- 
 his things ready packed, and pitched the hooks into a carpet-bag- 
 as if they were so many pebbles. Then, facing round on me 
 without so much as lifting- his hat, he said, " I suppose you are a 
 friend of Farrant's ?" There was a sneer in his voice, and my 
 blood got up as I said I had the honour to be your friend, and 
 that it was an honour the best in the land might covet.' 
 
 Donovan laughed. Rouge continued, 
 
 * At that he sneered again, and said, " You needn't preach 
 ahout his virtues ; I know a little more about him than you do," 
 " Indeed ! " said I, hotly; " then I wonder the knowledge hasn't 
 improved your manners." " I might return the compliment,'' he 
 said. *' But of course living with a knave like Farrant is enough 
 to contaminate anyone." At that, milord, I sprang up and 
 thundered at him, I wasn't going to sit still and hear you 
 libelled, and, if you'll believe it, the coward turned as white as a 
 sheet when I challenged him.' 
 
CONTRASTED LOVKRS. 391 
 
 * By Jove ! ' said Donovan. 'You don't nicfin 3'ou really did. 
 His mother will never p'ct over it.' 
 
 ' ITc won't come pokiiii!,- liis nose in hero apain in a Inirr}',' 
 paid IJouge, Avith satisfaction. ' Ho skulked off at the double 
 quick time, muttering* that duelling' days were over.' 
 
 'Well, I agree with him there,' said Donovan, ' though it 
 was good of vou all the same, captain, to stand up for me as you 
 did.' 
 
 'As if I could help it,' said old Rouge, with tears in his eyes. 
 'It's not likely I should let that scamp have his say out without 
 putting- in my word. I Hatter myself he has heard more home 
 truths to-day than in all his prig-gish young life before. How 
 does he come to hate you so, milord ?' 
 
 * He has done a shabby thing- by me,' said Donovan, ' and 
 that's the surest way in the world to make him hate me. But 
 we won't rake it all up again ; he can't do us any good, and he's 
 already done me all the harm he can.' 
 
 But, though he would not speak any more of Stephen, the 
 thought of him would not be banished. He had come straight 
 from Porthkerran, might have told him somethinj^ of Gladys, 
 might possibly have brought him one of the unanswerable letters 
 iVom Mrs. Troraain or the doctor, or at least a message. And 
 then he could not help wondering-at the extraordinary malice of 
 his gratuitous insults. Had his weak and distorted mind really 
 worked itself into the belief that lie was the wronged one 1 What 
 account would reach Porthkerran of his stormy interview with 
 the old captain ? Something- tremendous might, without much 
 difficult}^, be twisted and squeezed out of the truth. Here was 
 another case demanding- Charles Osmond's ideal forgiveness. But 
 he was nearer forgiving- Stephen than Ellis, because he had a 
 great deal of pity for him 5 besides, the consciousness that he 
 might have cleared himself by exposing- Stephen was in itself of 
 a more softening- nature than the terribly irritating- sense that 
 Ellis had been very unjustly in his power. 
 
 Brian Osmond did not fail to notice that Causton, who had 
 been formerly Donovan's companion, now cut him entirel3^ 
 W hen he had heard the true explanation, his righteous indigna- 
 tion was ijleasant to see. He came constantly to York Road for 
 the sake of reading- Avith Donovan, and before long had become 
 really fond of the poor old ca})tain, while Waif and S\vcej)stakes, 
 with their touching devotion to their rcs[)ective masters, added a 
 sort of picturcsqueness to that curiously-assorted group. In the 
 summer vacation Brian persuaded Donovan to take a real holiday. 
 The two years of unbroken work added to his private troubles 
 
Sy2 COXTRASTHD LOVERS. 
 
 were beginning' to tell on him ; he looked worn and fagged, but 
 brightened up at the suggestion of taking a walking-tour with 
 his friend. They set oft' together in August, had a glorious 
 tramp through I)erb3'shire and the West liiding of Yorkshire, 
 roughing it to an enjoyable extent, and both coming back to 
 town all the better for their outing, and as inseparable in their 
 friendship as David and Jonathan. 
 
 It was not, however, until late in the autumn that Brian 
 learnt even the existence of Gladys. 
 
 One November evening his well-known knock at the house in 
 York Road roused old Rouge from his after-dinner nap. Dono- 
 van, who was stretched at full length on the hearthrug, was so 
 absorbed in some of the abstruse speculations wdiich now very 
 often occupied him that he heard nothing, and did not stir till 
 Brian was fairly in the room. 
 
 ' HuUu ! doing the dolcefar niente for once,' he said, laughing. 
 * Who would have thought of catching you away from the 
 books ! ' 
 
 ' Comes from the effect of Yorkshire air,' sai d Donovan, get- 
 ting up and stretching himself But the real fact was that he 
 was beginning now to dare to allow himself brief intervals of 
 rest, his thoughts did not wander so hopelessly to Porthkorran, 
 his work instinctively slackened a little, he worked as well — 
 perhaps better — but less furiously, and without the sense that 
 relaxation was, above all things, to be distrusted and avoided. 
 
 ' I've got a spare ticket for Gale's lecture at St. James's Hall,' 
 said Brian, ' will you come with me V 
 
 ' Who's Gale ? I never heard of him.' 
 
 * What ! you a teetotaler and never heard of Gale ! why, he's 
 the great champion of temperance, and a first-rate speaker!' 
 
 ' Better take the captain,' said Donovan, half in earnest, as he 
 glanced round at the sofa; but Rouge had already fallen asleep 
 again. * It would be no good, I'm afraid.' 
 
 ' Poor old fellow,' said Brian, ' has he had another out- 
 break ? ' 
 
 'Yes,' replied Donovan, 'and his brain is too fuddled now 
 to take in anything; it would be no use taking him, he'd only 
 be asleep in two minutes. I somehow make an awful failure of 
 kee])ing other folk in order.' 
 
 ' Rather an unmanageable couple, yours,' said Brian; 'I won- 
 der what Gale would say to a case like the captain's.' 
 
 ' Incurable,' said Donovan. ' He means well, but his power 
 of will has gone. I used to think he might conquer it, but the 
 piore I see of him the naore I doubt it I can do nothing for 
 
CONTRASTED LOVERS. 303 
 
 him except make his remorse keener each time, for he thinks his 
 outbreaks are a ])ersonal injury to me; and then we have any 
 amount of maudlin tears and good resohitions never to do it 
 aj^ain — till the next time.' 
 
 He sig'hed. 
 
 'Poor old fellow,' said Brian, 'you were never meant to have 
 such an old man of the sea tacked on to you. I like to fancy the 
 ditiercnt mortal you'll be by-and-by when you settle down with 
 your ideal wife, home, and practice.' 
 
 ' Ideal humbug" ! ' exclaimed Donovan, with a short laugh, in 
 nhich there hirked more pain than merrhnent. ' Come on, what 
 time does the Gale begin V 
 
 They walked off arm-in-arm, and were early enough to secure 
 front seats in the balcony close to the platform. Donovan seemed 
 in good spirits, he leant forward Avith his arms on the crimson 
 velvet rail making comments on the audience below, classifying 
 them into rabid teetotalers, sensible supporters of the cause, and 
 merely fashionable adherents. A sudden exclamation of surprise 
 from Brian put a stop, however, to his ease. 
 
 ' Why, who would have thought it ! there's Causton in one of 
 the stalls. What can have brought him here ? Don't you see 
 him ? To the left there, talking to that pretty girl.' 
 
 Donovan looked and saw only too plainly Stephen and Mrs. 
 Causton, and between them Gladys. 
 
 Yes, she was there, not a hundred yards from him, her pure, 
 fresh, child-like face not in the least altered ! he remembered an 
 old fancy of his that she was like a blush rose; she looked verv 
 tiower-like now in that crowd of London faces. For a minute he 
 watched her quite calmly, then, strong man as he was, a deathly 
 pallor stole over his face, he drew back with an uncontrollable 
 shudder. 
 
 'Look here, I must go,' he said to Brian, and without further 
 exj)lanation he made his way along the balcony. In another 
 moment he felt sure his eyes must draw hers, there always had 
 been a strange magnetism between them without any conscious 
 willing on his })art. It would never do for her to see him, he 
 must leave at once. 
 
 Brian, not liking his looks, followed him out of the hall ; he 
 seemed as if he were walking in his sleep, never pausing for an 
 instant, noting nothing, and yet passing all obstacles. At the 
 head of the staircase Brian linked his arm within his, they went 
 down silently into the street. There Donovan seemed to come to 
 himself again, his rigid face relaxed, the strange glassy look left 
 his eyes, and for the first time he realized that he was not alone. 
 
894 CONTRASTED LOVERS 
 
 ' What, you here, old fellow ! ' he exclaimed. ' Don't lot me 
 lose you your lecture.' 
 
 'All right/ said Brian. 'I don't care ahout it. You're in 
 some trouble, Donovan — don't pretend, now, that you're not. 
 Was it that you saw Causton with that girl ? ' 
 
 'In away, yes — I mean it was the seeing her at all,' said 
 Donovan, incoherently. ' Come on quick, only let us get out 
 into the open, away from these houses.' 
 
 ' You don't imagine he's in love with her ! ' said Brian. 
 ' Causton's an awfully cold-blooded creature ; it's not at all in 
 his line, I should think.' 
 
 'I don't know,' gasped Donovan; *it — it won't make much 
 difference to me.' 
 
 ' Why ? ' asked Brian, boldly. They were both by nature 
 reserved men, but their friendship was real and strong, and Brian 
 knew intuitively that he had touched the secret spring of Dono- 
 van's trouble, and that, unless he could get him to speak of it 
 now, a barrier would always be between them ; so he spoke out 
 boldly that monosyllable — ' Why ? ' 
 
 ' Because,' answered Donovan, in a quick, agitated way — 
 'because, years ago, I made up my mind not to see her again. 
 It's impossible — it can't be — I'm a fool to be so shaken just by 
 the sight of her.' 
 
 ' Has she refused you ? ' 
 
 He turned his strangely powerful eyes full on Brian's face at 
 the question, and answered, with a sort of indignation, 
 
 ' Do you think I am fit to ask Gladys Tremain to be m}- wife ? ' 
 
 There was something grand in his humility. Brian could 
 only mentally ejaculate, ' You splendid fellow ! 3'ou're fit to ask 
 a queen among women.' But he was carried away by his enthu- 
 siasm, and he could not but own that there was truth in Donovan's 
 next speech. 
 
 ' It could never be— there could be no real union between us. 
 It's all very well in li.e Avay of friendship; you and I can rub 
 up against each other's difi:erences without any hurt, but when it 
 comes to anything nearer, it doesn't do. I've triLd, and it's 
 torture — torture that I'll never bring to her.' 
 
 ' Is Causton her cousin ? ' 
 
 ' No, but a two generations' friend.' 
 
 ' I should dearly like to give him a piece of my mind,' said 
 Brian. * However, of course she'll have nothing to say to such a 
 fellow.' 
 
 ' There are times when I could wish she would,' said DonovaUj 
 hoarsely. 'Not now, though — not just now.' 
 
CONTRASTED LOVERS. 895 
 
 'My denr fellow, tliat's rather too strong-,' said Brian. 'Even 
 I, a mere stranger, can see that she's miles above him.' 
 
 * Of course,' said Donovan j ' but it might save lier from worse 
 pain.' 
 
 ' Well, if IMiss Tremain knows you, and has any idea that you 
 care for her, her face must belie her strangely if she could turn 
 to a fellow like Canston.' 
 
 ' She does not know I love her — at least, I hope not.' 
 
 ' Yon old brick of a Roman ! I can quite fancy how you would 
 hide it all.' 
 
 There was a silence after that. They had reached the Em- 
 bankment, and Donovan seemed to lose the sense of oppression, 
 and to breathe freely again. Presently he turned to Brian, speak- 
 ing quite in his natural voice. 
 
 ' Well, I'm sorry to have lost you your lecture, but I'm not 
 sorry that you know about this, which is more than I could say to 
 anyone else in the world. I must get to work quickly, or the blue 
 devils will get the better of me. Come back, too, won't you, and 
 we'll have a grind at Kiemeyer.' 
 
 So they went back to the York Road lodgings together. The 
 old captain was too stupid to notice them, but Waif was unusually 
 demonstrative, and, even as he read, Brian noticed that Donovan 
 kept his arm round the dog, while Waif tried to put all his devotion 
 into the soft warm tongue with which he licked his master's hand. 
 Trouble had an odd way of drawing those two together. 
 
 Brian went home that night with much questioning going on 
 in his mind. He honoured Donovan for his conduct, and yet 
 regretted very much that he should thus be cut off from one who 
 must have had so much influence over him. He could not help 
 seeing the matter from his friend's side, whereas Donovan thought 
 only how it would aftect Gladys. 
 
 Little indeed did Gladys think, as she sat in the crowded hall, 
 that she was so near Donovan. Though she was actually thinking 
 of him, it never occurred to her that he might be there. Instead, 
 she was recollecting some of their discussions at Porthkerran on 
 this temperance question, and recalling his stories of the old 
 captain who had nursed him in his illness, and had with great 
 devotedness managed to keep really sober at Monaco, in case ' the 
 Frenchman ' should poison his patient ! 
 
 She was not very happy just now, poor child. They had 
 fancied that she needed change of air, and Mrs. Causton had been 
 charmed to have her at Richmond for a few weeks, in the same 
 little villa which they had rented four years ago. But the change 
 did her more harm than good, for the Cauiton atmosphere was 
 
396 CONTRASTED LOVERS. 
 
 oppressive, and the consciousness that Stephen was in the 
 ■way of seeing- Donovan every day, added to the impossihility of 
 hearing anything- about him, was almost more than she could 
 endure. She found herself losing* self-control, and drifting- into 
 more constant thoughts of Donovan than she considered right ; 
 nor were her feminine occupations so helpful in the difficult mental 
 battle as his mind-eng-rossing- studies. 
 
 As they went home that nig-ht from John Gale's lecture, it 
 chanced that for the first time since her arrival Donovan's name 
 was mentioned. 
 
 '■ Wiiat a pit}^ you could not have done g-ood for evil,' sighed 
 Mrs. Causton, ' and induced that poor drunkard who challeng-ed 
 you in the spring- to come to this lecture. I fear there is no 
 chance that Donovan Farrant would t-ake him to hear such a 
 man.' 
 
 * I should rather think not,' said Stephen, unpleasantly. 
 
 * Oh ! but he is a great temperance advocate,' said Gladys, 
 thankful that in the darkness her burning cheeks could not be 
 noticed. 
 
 ' He was, my dear,' said Mrs. Causton, markedly, ^ but you 
 must remember he is greatly changed since you knew him, and 
 he is living with a most disreputable companion.' 
 
 Her heart beat so indignantly at this that she felt almost 
 choked, but seeing that she was losing- her opportunity she 
 quieted herself with an effort, and asked gravely, but quite 
 naturally, 
 
 ' Donovan is still at the hospital, I suppose 'I Do you see 
 anything of him now ? ' 
 
 ' I see him,' said Stephen, ' but of course we're not on speak- 
 ing terms.' 
 
 * It is much better that you should have nothing more to do 
 with him,' said Mrs. Causton, solemnly, and she added a text 
 which seemed to her appropriate, but which drove Gladys into a 
 white-hot passion — dumb perforce. 
 
 All this time she was far too much absorbed to notice an im- 
 pending danger. The days dragged on slowly, she cared for the 
 visits, picture-galleries, and concerts only in so far as they brought 
 her into closer proximity with St. Thomas's. However angry she 
 might be with herself at night for having allowed her thoughts 
 too much liberty, the following day always found her with the 
 same unexpressed but unquenchable longing. Nothing but the 
 heart-sickness brought by that long-deferred hope could have 
 blinded her to the fact that Stephen's half-boyish admiration was 
 re- awaking, that his attentions were disagreeable and obtrusive, 
 
CONTRASTED LOVERS. 397 
 
 thnt be wns as much in love with her as it was possible for such 
 ii innn to bo. But, as it was, she noticed nothinj>-, she only wearied 
 intensely of the long- evenings, when Stephen tried to enliven 
 ihom, and of the long- mornings when she was alone with Mrs. 
 ("austun; of the two she disliked the evenings least, but merely 
 bocnusG there was a chance of bearing; the one name she cared 
 to hoar. 
 
 It came upon her b'ke a thunderclap at last. One Saturday 
 morning- she was sitting- in the little drawing--room, writing to 
 lior mother, when Stephen, who had no lectures that day, sauntered 
 Into the room, lie began an aimless conversation, she was a 
 little cross, for it seemed as if he mig-ht go on for ever, and she 
 wanted to write. After enduring- half-an-hour of it she grew 
 ini])atient. 
 
 * Let me fini.sh this, Stephen, or it will be too late for the post/ 
 she said. ' We are to go out after lunch, you know.' 
 
 ' You grudge m.e the one free morning- I have,' said Stephen, 
 reproachfully, ' but listen to me a minute longer, Gladys ; for days 
 I have been waiting- to find an opportunity of speaking- to you. 
 I think you must have seen that I love you, that all I care for is 
 to please you; will you say that you will try to love me ? — won't 
 you try, dear V 
 
 In" spite of Gladys' surprise and dismay she had hard work to 
 suppress a smile, a wicked sprite seemed to chant in her ear the 
 refrain of the song- in 'Alice in Wonderland/ 
 
 Will yoii, won't j'ou, will you, won't you, will you join the dance? 
 
 She found herself going on with the parody in a sort of dream, 
 instead of giving- Stephen his answer. 
 
 He was far on in a second and more vehement statement of 
 bis case before she fully recovered her senses ; then at once the 
 true womanly unselfish Gladys hastened to check him. 
 
 ' Hush, Stephen,' she said, quietly, but with a touch of dignity 
 in her tone. ' Please do not say any more of this. I am very, 
 very sorry if you have misunderstood me in any way, we are such 
 ohrfriends, you see ; but indeed it could never be as you wish — 
 never.' 
 
 'You don't know what you are saying-,' he cried. 'You are 
 ruining all my life, all my hap])iness. Surely you won't be so 
 utterly cruel? I will wait any length of time, if only you will 
 think it over — if only you will try to love me.' 
 
 ' If I waited fifty years, it would make no difference/ said 
 Gladys. ' I can never luve you, never, 7uvir. Don't '■hink me 
 
598 CONTRASTED LOVERS. 
 
 unkind to speak so plainly. It is better to be true thnu to let 
 you have false hopes.' 
 
 * Then you love some one else,' said Stephen, in a voice in 
 which despair and malice were strangely mingled, * that is what 
 makes you so positive, so merciless.' 
 
 Gladys' eyes flashed. 
 
 * I might well be angry with you, Stephen, for daring to say 
 that, but since you wish it I will tell you quite plainly why I 
 cannot love you in the way you wish. The man I love must be 
 true and strong, faithful to his friends and merciful to his 
 enemies, he must bo so noble and self-denying that I shall be 
 able to look up to him as my head — my lord — as naturally in the 
 lesser degree as I look to Christ in the greater.' 
 
 * If you set up an ideal character like that, of course I've no 
 chance,' said Stephen, with a very crestfallen air. 
 
 * It is not I who set it up,' said Gladys, a little impatiently. 
 ' Have you forgotten what St. Paul said ? Oh ! Stephen, I don't 
 want to vex you more than I need, but indeed, indeed you must 
 not speak of this again.' 
 
 ' It is all very well to talk about not vexing me, but you are 
 taking away every hope I have,' said Stephen, petulantly. ' You 
 girls will never learn how much you have in your power. With 
 you to help me, I might perhaps grow better, become the para- 
 gon of perfection you wish, but if you turn away from me ' 
 
 He paused. It did not strike Gladys just at that minute 
 what a strange manner of making love it was, but her clear 
 common-sense showed her that to yield to such an argument- 
 even had it been possible — would have been exceedingly foolish. 
 
 ' You may be right, Stephen,' she answered. ' Perhaps we 
 have more in our povv-er than we know, but I don't think it ever 
 can be right for a woman to marry one whom she cannot look up 
 to. You and I have been friends — old playfellows — for years, but, 
 though of course I wish still to be your friend, I can't say that I 
 very "much respect you. Don't thiiik I want you to be a paragon 
 of perfection, but after last autumn I don't think you can ' 
 
 He interrupted her. 
 
 * It is cruel to bring up past mistakes against me.' 
 
 ' I don't wish to do so, but I am afi-aid, till you can think of 
 them as something deeper than mistakes, you will yourself often 
 remind us of them. How can you really forsake them till you are 
 really sorry ? ' 
 
 ' You are very hard on me,' said Stephen. ' You forget what 
 excuse I had ; you forget that I was left alone with Donovan 
 Farrant, that he led me into temptation.' 
 
CONTRASTED LOVEHS. 399 
 
 Tie hardly know what he was saying-, for he was very desper- 
 ate in his intense selfishness, hut he had just enoug'h shame left 
 to flush a little as the untruth passed his lips. 
 
 Ciladys' eyes seemed to search him through and throug-h. 
 1'here was a moment's silence. Then, with a little quiver of indig- 
 nation in her voice, she said, gravely, 
 
 ' You are telling a lie, Stephen, and you know it.' 
 
 lie did not attempt to exculpate himself, he was too 
 thoroughly abaslied. When he looked up again in a minute or 
 two he found that she had left the room. 
 
 Mrs. Causton was too genuinely g'ood a woman to resent 
 Gladys' refusal of her son, but at the same time it was such a 
 bitter disappointment to her that it was impossible she should be 
 quite just and kind to her visitor. 
 
 ' You see, my dear,' she kept urging", as she sat beside the 
 sofa in Gladys' bed-room, ' thoug-h you may be quite right to 
 refuse dear Stephen, yet, humanly speaking, you did seem so 
 exactly fitted to make the real helpmeet for him.' 
 
 Gladys was by no means selfish, but she did not think it 
 cither right or necessary to sacrifice herself so entirely on the 
 altar of the well-being* of Mrs. Causton's son, she could only 
 repeat that she was very sorry, but it was quite impossible, and 
 entreat Mrs. Causton to let her g'o home at once. However, it 
 was too late to think of g'oing- down to Cornwall that day, and the 
 next day was Sunday, so she had time enough to be exceedingly 
 miserable, and to long unspeakably for her mother before the 
 happy moment of her departure arrived. She was so much re- 
 lieved to be away from the Caustons that she could have sung' 
 from mere lightness of heart when her train had actually started, 
 but Mrs. Causton had put her in charge of an elderly lady, so 
 she had to discuss the vt^eather and make herself a^Teeable 
 instead. 
 
 That nig'ht in her mother's room she forgot all her trouble, 
 however, in the delicious peacefulness which seemed always to 
 come in those evening talks. And as they sat hand in hand in 
 their own particular nook on the old-fashioned sofa, Mrs. Tremaio 
 p-radually won from Gladys not only the history of her visit to 
 the Caustons, but much that had never passed her lips before. 
 Her mother had long ago g-uessed what was the secret of her 
 trouble ; she had said nothing because she thought silence the 
 best cure ; but now — being her mother — she knew that the time 
 for speaking" had come, and very wisely and tenderly she met 
 Gladys' shy confidence half way. Then, when all was told, she 
 sat thinking" for a minute or two in silence, while Gladys nestled 
 
4C0 CONTRASTED LOVERS. 
 
 more closely to her, too tired to think at all, but tracing' in an 
 aimless sort of way the ivy-pattern chintz of the well-known sofa 
 cover. 
 
 ' I think, little girl, that the truth of it is this,' said Mrs. 
 Tremain at last, ' I think you had a g-ood deal of influence with 
 Donovan, you were almost the first woman he had known well, 
 and you were a good deal thrown together. For the present he 
 has jiassed away out of our lives, you know liow sorry I am for it, 
 it is quite his own doing ; but whether the sejiaration is for ever or 
 not, I think you may have this comfort, that whatever in your 
 love was true and unselfish will not be wasted, but will always 
 last. I do not think it very likely that he will come here again, 
 and even if he did you will perhaps find it all quite different, 
 and have a cold waking from your di^eam.' 
 
 ' Then ought I not to think of him ? ' 
 
 ' I think you should not allows yourself to believe that he is in 
 love with you. No w^oman has a right to think that till a man 
 has actually asked her to be his wife. Put away the selfish side 
 of the question altogether, but don't make yourself miserable by 
 trying to kill the spiritual part of it. However much you have 
 been mistaken, there was most likely a bit of the real truth in 
 your love ; don't be afraid of keeping that, no one need be ashamed 
 of the pure, spiritual, endless side of love, and I should be sorry 
 to think that Donovan should be defrauded of it. You may do 
 more for him even now, Gladys, than you thii)k.' 
 
 * If w^e could find out the truth,' sighed Gladys. 'I am sure 
 Siej)hen has somehow misled us.' 
 
 ' I would not worry about that,' replied Mrs. Tremain. * You 
 can't sift that matter to the bottom, and I don't think it is very 
 good for you to dwell upon it. Only be quite sure of this, that 
 the more pure and unselfish and trustful you try to become, the 
 better you will be able to help him, even if you never see him 
 again. The side of love you must cultivate does not depend 
 upon sight, or time, or place. Have I been too hard on you, 
 little one ? Does it seem very difficult?' 
 
 ' It is always hard to be good,' said Gladys, with the child-like 
 look in her face which had first awakened Donovan's love ; ' but I 
 will try, and you will help me, mother. I'm so glad you know.' 
 
 In another hour she was sleeping as peacefully as little 
 Nesta; but her mother had a very wakeful night, thinking over 
 the future of her child, and grieving over Donovan's defection. 
 
*LAME DOGS OVER STILES.* 401 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI. 
 
 'lame dogs over stiles,' 
 
 "We cannot kindle when we will 
 
 Tlie fire which in the heart resides ; 
 
 The spirit hlowoth an. I is still, 
 
 lu mystery our soul abides. 
 
 But tasks in hours of insight will'd 
 Can be through hours of gloom f ulfill'd 
 
 With aching hands and bleeding feet 
 \Ve dig and heap, lay stone on stone ; 
 We bear the Iturden and the heat 
 Of the long day, and wish 't were done. 
 
 Not till the hours of light return, 
 
 All we have budt do we discern. 
 
 Matthew Arnold, 
 
 'There's beon a scrap of a child here asking- for 3'ou,' said the 
 okl captain to Donovan, as they returned to their rooms one 
 evening" after dining at a restaurant. ' I couhln't make out what 
 she wanted, but she's been here twice to see if you weren't come 
 home ' 
 
 ' What sort of chihl?' 
 
 ' Oh ! a sliabb3'-looking little lass. She wouldn't toll me what 
 she wanted with you, only she must see Mr. Farrant, and when 
 would he be in.' 
 
 ' Slie'll turn up ognin, I suppose,' said Donovan. ' I'm pretty 
 free this evening; shall we do those slides ? ' 
 
 Old'Roug'c had lately developed a most satisfactory love for 
 the microscope, and whenever it was possible Donovan asked his 
 help over it, or awakened his interest in some new specimen to he 
 seen. There were now actually three things in the world besides 
 iiimself and his toddy which the old captain cared for — Donovan, 
 Sweepstakes, and the microscope. He loved them all exceedingly 
 in his odd way, and, on the whole, the year which he iiad sjient 
 in York Road was almost the ha])]nest year of his life. 
 
 They were hard at work with their slides, specimens, and 
 Carada balsam when the door-bell rang- and tlie mysterious 
 ' cliild ' was announced. 
 
 'Show her in here,' said Donovan to the landlady. 
 
 ' Indeed, sir, she ain't fit,' returned the woman. ' It's a-pouring 
 with rain, and she be that wnt and dirtv.' 
 
 Donovan frowned the frown of a Repul)lican, deposited his 
 cection of the brain of a gorilla in a safe place, and went out into 
 
 D D 
 
402 *LAME DOGS OVER STILES.' 
 
 tho passage. The smallest little white-faced child imag-inable 
 stood on the mat ; the rain had soaked her, the water dripped 
 down from her dark hair, from her rag'g'ed shawl, from her in- 
 describably-draggled skirt; she looked the. picture of misery. 
 
 ' Come in and dry yourself by the fire,' said Donovan, and the 
 small elf, too frightened to refuse, followed him into the sitting-- 
 room. The old captain bowed to her as gallantly as if she had 
 been a princess, Waif sniffed at her wet frock and yielded up his 
 place in front of the fender, Donovan drew a stool for her on to 
 the hearthrug, and the elf sat down and instinctively spread out 
 her frozen fingers to the blaze. 
 
 ' You wanted to see me ? ' asked Donovan. * What Avas it 
 about ? ' 
 
 ' Please it was father, sir.' 
 
 ' WHiat is your father's name ? ' 
 
 ' Smith, sir, and please he's very ill with something in his 
 inside, and he wants to see you.' 
 
 ' But I'm not a doctor ; he must get the parish doctor.' 
 
 ' Oh ! please, it isn't for his inside he wants you/ said the elf, 
 looking frightened. 
 
 ' What does he want ? ' 
 
 ' Please I don't know, but he said I was to ask Mr. Farrant 
 to come.' 
 
 ' But I don't know your father ; he's not been at St. Thomas's, 
 has he?' 
 
 ' No, sir, but please do come, for he'll be dreadful vexed if 
 3'ou don't,' and her e\es filled with tears. 
 
 ' Don't cr}^,' said "JDonovan, * I'll come with you. Is it far ? 
 You must show me the way.' 
 
 They set otf together, Donovan taking the elf under his 
 imibrella to her unspeakable pride and delight, and Waif soberly 
 trotting at their heels. 
 
 ' And how did your father know where I lived, do you think? ' 
 he asked, as they crossed Westminster Bridge. 
 
 ' Please he had it all wrote down on a card, and he can read 
 very well indeed, father can.' 
 
 Big Ben struck nine, and therewith a recollection awoke in 
 Donovan's mind, a fierce struggle which he had once had just 
 on that spot, a sight of Stephen passing by, a hurried pursuit to 
 a well-known billiard- saloon, and a strange recognition of a 
 Cornish face. He had written his address on a card, of course ! 
 He remembered it well now. This must be a message from 
 Trevethan's son. 
 
 The elf did not speak again, but led him down Horseferry 
 
'lame dogs over stiles. 403 
 
 Eoad into one of the most horrible of the Westminster slums, 
 lie took the precaution of pickin*^- up Waif and carrjino- him 
 uniler his arm ; he was liis only valuable. They were unmolested, 
 however, and the child, turniuj^' into a forlorn-looking- house, led 
 the way uj) a steej) and dirty staircase, and turning- a door-handle 
 showed Donovan into a perfectly dark room redolent of tobacco. 
 
 'Here's the g-entlenian, father; g-ive us a light,' she said, 
 g-ro})ing- her way in. 
 
 *A match was struck, and Donovan could see by the fitful light 
 a comfortless-looking- room, and in the corner a man propped up 
 in bed with a short pipe in his hand. The elf produced a tallow- 
 candle, Donovan drew near to the bed, and at once recog-nized 
 the billiard-marker. 
 
 ' I thought the message was from you ; I'm glad you've sent 
 for me at lust,' he said. 
 
 ' I thought it was too late,' said the man, ' and then, when the 
 child found you out, I thought it was that you wouldn't come. 
 Sit down ; ' he pointed to a chair, then went on speaking in the 
 most free and easy tone. ' I'm dying, or next door to it, so I 
 thought I'd like to hear of the old man down at Porthkerran. 
 He asked you to look out for me, did he ? ' 
 
 'It was his greatest wish to find you,' said Donovan. * And 
 after you sent him that five-pound note he told me about you, 
 said he thought you must be in London, and, having very little 
 idea of the sort of place Loudon is, he asked me to look for you. 
 You are like him ; I recog-nized you at once that night.' 
 
 ' JNo flattery to the poor old man to say I'm like him,' said 
 Trevethan, with a laugh. ' This one is like him, though. Come 
 here, little one, are you wet .'' it rains, don't it ? ' 
 
 He drew the child towards him, touching her ragged dress 
 with his thin white hands. 
 
 ' The gentleman made me dry it by the fire, and he held his 
 umbrella over me as we comed back,' said the elf 
 
 ' Thank you, sir,' said Trevethan, a softened expression playing 
 about his C3'hical mouth. ' She's a bit of the real Cornisli in her, 
 though London smoke has nearly spoilt it. There, run away and 
 get your supper, Gladys.' 
 
 Donovan started and coloured. 
 
 ' Yes, 'tis a queer name for the likes of her,' observed Treve- 
 than, scanning- Donovan's face curiously with his keen blue eyes. 
 ' But I made up my mind the little one should have at least one 
 good honest name, though may be Miss Gladys wouldn't be best 
 pleased to have her name given to sucli a poor little brat.' 
 
 ' Oh, yes, she would be very glad to see that you remembered 
 
404 'lame dogs oveh stiles' 
 
 Porthkerran and still cared for it,' said Donovan. ' But it's a 
 pity to let the poor child g-row np here when your father would 
 be only too glad to have her.' 
 
 ' That's what I wanted you for,' said Trevethan. ' Would he 
 be kind to her ? is he too strait-laced to take in my poor little 
 lass ? Some of those religionists are hard as nails, and I want 
 my little lass to be happy.' 
 
 ' He would be very good to her,' said Donovan, without hesi- 
 tation. ' Your father is one of the best men I know.' 
 
 'Odd that he should have such a son, isn't it?' said Tre- 
 vethan, trying to laugh. 
 
 ' Happily, the least deserving of us do often have good fathers,' 
 said Donovan, rather huskily. 
 
 Then he listened to the history of the blacksmith's son, a 
 very sad history, which need not be written here. The man was 
 now evidently very ill, not at all fit to be left alone with no better 
 nurse than his child, but he had fought against the idea of being 
 moved to a hospital because he could not endure the thought of 
 leaving little Gladys alone, or of having her sent to the work- 
 house. Donovan offered to pay her expenses down to Porth- 
 kerran, but even that seemed intolerable to the poor man ; as long 
 as he lived he could not make up his mind to part with her. Nor 
 would he let Donovan write to his father. 
 
 'Not now. Don't write now,' he urged, 'it would only make 
 the old man miserable, wait till I'm either dead or better. Do 
 you think there's a chance of my getting better ? I should like 
 to make a fresh start.' 
 
 'There woidd be a very good chance for you if you would 
 go to a hospital ; you cannot be properly nursed here. Think 
 over it, and I will see whether I can't find some one in London 
 who would look after your child.' 
 
 ' If she could come to see me,' said Trevethan, wistfully. 
 
 So Donovan left, promising to look in again the next evening 
 and talk things over. 
 
 There was evidently no time to be lost, he thought the matter 
 over as he walked home, and suddenly arriving at a possible 
 solution of the difficulty, he turned into the station instead of 
 going on to York Road, took a ticket to Gower Street, and w;is 
 soon making his way to the Osmonds. 
 
 Charles Osmond was at church, but Brian and Mrs. Osmond 
 were at home, and were quite ready to hear the story of the sick 
 man. 
 
 ' Another pYoiecje. for you,' said Brian, laughing, ' and of course 
 a ne'er-do-weel.' 
 
*LAME BOGS OVER STILES.' 465 
 
 * Birds of a feather Hock tog-ether,' said Donovan, smiling". 
 * "\^'e've a natural affinity, you see. The g-reat difficulty is ahout 
 the child, I don't know what's to he done with her.' 
 
 ' We might get her into some home,' said Mrs. Osmond. * I 
 know one or two where she would be happy.' 
 
 ' But she wouldn't be allowed to go and see her father,' said 
 Donovan. ' And it would never do to separate them, the child is 
 the great hope for him.' 
 
 ' ^^'hat child is the great hope, and for whom ?' said Charles 
 Osmond, coming into the room with his peculiarly soft slow step. 
 ' Do 1 actually hear you, Donovan, discussing such things as 
 men and children ? I thought you were up to the eyes in work 
 for the exam i* ' 
 
 Donovan told his story. 
 
 ' You see,' he added at the close. ' From any school or home 
 she would never be allowed to come out and go to the hospital' 
 'What's the child's name?' 
 
 ' Gladys.' Then as Brian looked greatly surprised and Charles 
 Osmond made an exclomation, he continued — ' Trevethan comes 
 from Porthkerran, and Miss Tremain is worshipped down there ; 
 she is the tutelary saint of the place — and he called his child after 
 her.' 
 
 ' Well, I think Gladys had better come to this home," said 
 Charles Osmond. ' Wha't do you say, mother— will Mrs. Maloney 
 make the kitchen too hot to hold her .'' ' 
 ' Oh, no, she is much too good-natured.' 
 ' But you don't realize, I'm afraid,' said Donovan. ' She's the 
 most negiected-looking little thing, altogether dirty and unkempt, 
 and too young to be of any use to you.' 
 
 ' She" must be an odd child if we don't find her of use,' said 
 Charles Osmond, with a strange smile in his eyes. * Why I 
 thought, Donovan, you were one who believed in the influence of 
 children.' 
 
 ' For those who want it, yes,' said Donovan. ' But ' 
 
 ' But we don't want it, and are to be left to ourselves — is that 
 it?' 
 
 ' She's scarcely fit to come here,' said Donovan ; ' she's ragged 
 and dirty to a degree.' 
 
 ' Oh," you soul of cleanliness,' said Charles Osmond, laughing. 
 ' Is there not water in the land of Bloomsbury ? — can we not 
 scrub this blackamoor white i* And as to raggedness, it will be 
 odd if with four women in the house — all of them longing to be 
 Dorcases — we can't clothe one poor little elf. Can you get your 
 man admitted to St. Thomas's ? ' 
 
406 *LAME i)OGS OVER STILES.' 
 
 * I tliink so.' 
 
 'Very well, then, as soon as he is moved we will be ready to 
 have the little girl.' 
 
 Donovan went home with the words ringing- in his ears, ^A 
 strnng-er and ye took Me in.' And instinctively his thoughts 
 travelled back to a certain summer day years ago, when, with 
 muddy travel-stained clothes, he too had been taken into a home, 
 ill and penniless and utterly ignorant of that strange love which 
 had been revealed to him. He feared it was against the rules of 
 political economy, and quite against all worldly wisdom ; but, 
 however that might be, such Uving Christianity had a strange 
 power of touching his heart. 
 
 It seemed to touch Trevethan's heart too ; evidently kindness 
 to the child was the way to get hold of him. For attention to 
 himself he was not particularly grateful, grumbled at the prospect 
 of losing his pipe at the hospital, swore fearfully if^ in helping 
 him to move, Donovan caused him any pain, and was so surly 
 and off-hand in manner that, had his attendant been a believer in 
 class and caste, he could hardly have borne it patiently. 
 
 Every evening for the next week he went to that dismal 
 room in Westminster ; it was thankless work, and yet Trevethan 
 was very fond of him, and would hardly have dragged through 
 the wretched days without the hope of those nightly visits. He 
 was far too sullen and miserable and ashamed to let this appear, 
 however, and made it seem rather a favour to admit his visitor. 
 At the end of the week he was able to be moved to St. Thomas's, 
 and on the afternoon of the same clay Donovan took little Gladys 
 to the Osmonds. 
 
 When he got back to his rooms he found, to his great surprise, 
 that, instead of old Eouge's well-known figure sitting over the 
 fire, there was a lady in the arm-chair, well-dressed, quite at her 
 ease, apparently engrossed in a newspaper. He made a sort of 
 inarticulate exclamation, upon which she turned hastily round. 
 It was Adela. 
 
 ' My dear Augustus Ctesar, how delightful to see you again!' 
 she exclaimed, holding out both her hands. ' Were you very 
 much astonished to see an unknown female in possession of your 
 fireside ? ' 
 
 * How good of you to come and look me up ! ' said Donovan, 
 really pleased to see her, for she was the first of his family whom 
 he had met for years. 
 
 ' Good ! ' exclaimed Adela, in her old bantering tone — ' why, 
 I've been longing to come ever since I knew your whereabouts — 
 ever since that good Cornishman came and enlightened me at 
 
*LAME DOGS OVKll STILES.' 407 
 
 Oakdcne. But there's been a conspiracy among- the fates ag-ainst 
 me ! if you'll believe it, I've hardly been in town since tliat time. 
 I've been half over the world since I saw you last — Italy, Austria,, 
 Greece, Switzerland— in fact, the grand tour ; but as to getting 
 a dny in town unmolested by friends or dressmakers, in which to 
 visit you, I assure you it's been as unattainable as the moon.' 
 
 Donovan, a -g-ood de:d amused by tliis characteristic speecli, 
 brought a fontstnol for his cousin, poked the fire, rang- the bell 
 for tea, and finally settled himself on the opposite side of the fire- 
 })hice. 
 
 ' We will be comfortable, and you shall talk just as you did 
 in the old times,' he said. 'I declare it makes me feel quite in- 
 clined to turn misanthropical ng-ain for the sake of one of the old 
 arguments.' 
 
 ' There, I was right then. You have actually renounced it 
 all and become a philanthropist ! To tell you the truth, the im- 
 mediate cause of my visit was this : I happened to be in the 
 Underg-round this attcrnoon, and imagine my feelings when, on 
 the platform at Gower Street, I caught sight of my misanthropical 
 cousin pioneering- a little City Arab through the crowd. My 
 curiosity Avas so intense tbat I was really obliged to come and 
 solve the problem at once. Besides, it was tantalizing- to see you 
 so near, and to have my frantic signals disregarded. You are 
 immensely altered, Donovan 5 I almost wonder now that I knew 
 you.' 
 
 She looked at him attentively for a minute, as if trying- to find 
 out in what the great change consisted. 
 
 ' It is a long- time since we met,' said Donovan ; ' I should 
 tliink it rather odd if I were not chang-ed.' 
 
 'Y^ou have had a bard life, I'm afraid,' said Adela. ' Y^'ou 
 know, of course, how vexed I am about Ellis's conduct ; he 
 ought to have made you a proper allowance. I said all I could 
 to him, but that brother of mine is terribly like a mule; when 
 once he has made up his mind to dislike a person, nothing- will 
 change his opinion.' 
 
 ' We won't discuss him,' said Donovan, afraid that inadver- 
 tently he might reveal to Adela the real depth of her brother's 
 treachery. ' Tell me instead about my mother, it is more than 
 a year since I had any news of her.' 
 
 ' She is well, I think,' said Adela, in a doubtful voice ; ' but, 
 to tell you the truth, I have been very little at Oakdone. 
 Whether Ellis has any idea that I act as a medium between you 
 and your mother, I don't know, but he makes it unbearably' un- 
 comfortable for me. I oughtn't to say it to you, I suppose, but 
 
408 'lame dogs ovek stiles.' 
 
 I must confess thnt tLat marriap-e seems to me to have been a 
 fearful mistake. Ellis is not half as jolly as in his poor bachelor 
 days ; he has all that heart can ^vish or money buy, and yet every 
 time I go to stay with them he seems to me more depressed and 
 irritable and dissatisfied with things.' 
 
 ' Does he manage the estate well ?' 
 
 ' Oh, he leaves it all to the bailiff; he knows nothing- what- 
 ever about it, moons about all day with his cigar, scolding any- 
 one who dares to interrupt him.' 
 
 ' Are they coming- up for the season ? ' 
 
 ' No, lie has let the Connaught Square house till Jul}', but 
 they think of spending- next winter either there or abroad, for 
 your mother fancies the Manor damp, and she has certainly had 
 a good deal of rheumatism lately. That is absolutely all 1 know 
 about them. Now let us talk of something- more cheerful ; 
 haven't you g-ot some nice, wicked, medical student stories for 
 me ? You are a dreadi'ul lot, are you not ? Now amuse me a 
 little, there's a good boy, for, to tell you the truth, I'm dying- of 
 ennui in this most prosaic of worlds.' 
 
 ' We are very prosaic here,' said Donovan, smiling-, ' nothing-, 
 I fear, to re-vivify you except ponderous works on anatomy and 
 medicine. Come, you shall be my first patient ; in less than a 
 year you will perhaps see the family name on a brass plate, not 
 a useless brass in a church, but a most utilitarian plate on a 
 surg-ery door.' 
 
 ' You dreadful boy, what made you take up such a trade 1 ' 
 
 'Take care how you speak of my profession,' said Donovan, 
 laughing-. ' I'll prescribe the most horrible remedies for your 
 ennui if you are not res])ectful. I chose it because it's to my 
 mind the only really satisfactory profession.' 
 
 ' If you had any interest in the medical world, and were likely 
 to get a g-ood West-End practice; but otherwise, just think of 
 the sort of people it will throw you among ! You'll have to go 
 among poverty and dirt and everything that's disagreeable. 
 Besides, you will lose caste.' 
 
 ' You forget that I don't believe I have any to lose,' said 
 Donovan, smiling. 'You should turn Republican, it saves so 
 many small annoyances.' 
 
 'What were you doing this afternoon with that beggar- 
 child ? ' 
 
 ' Taking her to some friends of mine who have promised to 
 bouse her while her father is in the hospital.' 
 
 Adela lifted up her hands in horror. 
 
 ♦ Taking that child to a gentleman's house, my dear boy— 
 
'LAME DOGS OVER STILES.* 409 
 
 wliat an odd set you must liave fj;ot into! That sort of thing- 
 sounds very nice, but it's dreadfully extravaj^ant and romantic' 
 
 'It Las a way of sccmin_t^- very i)ractical to the one who is 
 taken in/ said Donovan, in a voice which revealed a g-ood deal to 
 Adcla. 
 
 ' You are thinking of your good Cornisliman,' she exclaimed. 
 ' But you were a more eligible subject than that little beggar-girl, 
 more fit to be in a gentleman's house.' 
 
 ' Much you know about it ! ' said Donovan, with a sad smile, 
 and again Adela realized that the five 3'ears which had passed so 
 uneventfully with her had brought to her cousin a knowledge both 
 of evil and good quite beyond her understanding. 
 
 ' I tried my misanthropical creed for some time,' he continued, 
 after a minute's pause, ' and found it a dead failure. And then I 
 had the good fortune to come across some people who lived exactly 
 on the opposite system.' 
 
 ' From extreme to extreme, of course,' said Adela, ' that is 
 always the w-ay. I suppose you've become a Wesleyan or a 
 Methodist.' 
 
 lie could not help smiling a little at her tone, and at her 
 fashionable horror of Dissent, but his grave answer brougiit back 
 to her the remembrance that even in the old da^'s he never could 
 endure to have matters of religious belief or unbelief lightly 
 touched upon. 
 
 ' I do not see my way to Christianity at all as yet.' 
 
 ' And you don't go to church ? ' said Adela, regretfully. It 
 Lad always been the one great thing she had urged upon him. 
 
 ' Not quite in the way you would approve of,' rejilied Donovan, 
 smiling, ' but I do go in for the sermon now and then at my 
 friend's church. I am afraid you would think his teaching of the 
 " extravagant and romantic " order, he has a habit of bringing 
 Christianity to bear on every-day life in rather a diliicult and 
 inconvenient wa}'.' 
 
 Adela looked thoughtful. 
 
 ' He is right, of course,' she said, sadly ; ' but I don't think 
 people know how hard it is when one is a great deal in society. 
 I can't adopt beggar children or teach in Sunday schools, it's not 
 in my line.' 
 
 She spoke so much more seriously than usual that Donovan's 
 heart went out to her. 
 
 ' I sometimes think,' he said, Hhat in its way Dot's life was 
 about the most perfect one can fancy. It seemed such a matter 
 of course that she should be the patient, loving* little thing she 
 was, that at the time it didn't strike one. But just think of it 
 
410 *LAME DOGS OVER STILES.' 
 
 now; with everything- to make her selfish she was alwa5^sthe first 
 to think of other people, with scarcely a day of her life free from 
 pain she was alwaj^s the one bit of sunshine in the house. And 
 yet slie was as unconscious of it as if she had been a baby. 
 Depend upon it it's not the teaching' in Sunday schools or the 
 adopting- of children that makes the difference, the spirit of love 
 can be broug-ht into any kind of life. What had Dot to do with 
 philanthropy and good works ? Yet if it had not been for that 
 little child's life I should have been a downright fiend long- ag'o. 
 I don't believe you women know how much you can do for us, 
 not by your district-visitings and conventionalities, but by just 
 being- the pure beings you were meant to be.' 
 
 Adela was silent. She knew she had talked a great deal of 
 nonsense in her life, had flirted with innumerable men, had 
 flattered dozens of foolish young- fellows whom in her heart 
 she had all the time despised. She felt truly enough that her 
 influence must have all gone into the wrong- scale, and that, 
 while meaning- harmlessly to amuse herself, she had all the time 
 been lowering that standard of womanhood of which Donovan 
 seemed to think so much. 
 
 ' And yet you know,' she said piteously, ' if you subtracted the 
 vein of fun and banter and chaff from me there would be nothing 
 left but a dull old spinster beg-inning to turn grey, whom you 
 would all wish to get rid of. I'm like poor little Miss Moucher, 
 volatile I was born, and volatile I shall die.' 
 
 ' We can ill afibrd to lose any of the real fun in the world,' 
 said Donovan. * I hope you won't turn puritanical, I don't 
 think I could like a person who had no sense of humour, so 
 please don't talk of subtracting- yours.' 
 
 * I suppose the real fun, as you call it, is g-ood,' said Adela. 
 
 ' And the artificial nonsense is bad. At the same time it is hard 
 
 to get up anything- but forced fun when life is a long- bit of emini.' 
 
 '^'But you have the secret for making- life something- very 
 
 different,' said Donovan. 
 
 I believe you envy me ! ' said Adela ; ' but, oh, my dear 
 Donovan, it is quite possible to have prescriptions, and medicines, 
 and a doctor within reach, and yet to be very ill and miserable.' 
 
 ' It seems then that we are both in a bad way,' said Donovan, 
 smiling. ' You know the remedies, but have not will enough to 
 use them. I have the will to use them, but have not the reme- 
 dies.' 
 
 'Well, what is to help us?' said Adela. 
 
 ' Go to some one better fitted to tell you,' replied Donovan, 
 'This is a good sort of working- motto, though.' 
 
OF EVOLUTION. 41 i 
 
 He opened Kinp-sley's life, whicli was lying- on tlie table, and 
 pointed to the following lines : 
 
 Do the work that's ne.arest, 
 Though it's dull at whiles, 
 Helping when you meet them, 
 Lame dogs over stiles. 
 
 ^ I'll be your '' lame dog- " for this afternoon, and you shall 
 grace this bachelor room and pour out tea for us. By-the-by, 
 talking- of bachelors, how is old Mr. Hayes ? it is an ag-e since I 
 heard of him.' 
 
 They drifted off into talk about Oakdenc and Greyshot neigh- 
 bours, feeling- that they had touched upon deeper matters than 
 they cared to discuss. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVII. 
 
 OF EVOLUTION, AND A NINETEENTH CENTURY FOE. 
 
 Say not the struggle nought availeth, 
 The Labour and the wounds are vain, 
 
 The enemy faints not, nor failetli. 
 
 And as things have been they remain. 
 
 For while the tired waves, vainly breaking, 
 
 Seem here no painful inch to gain, 
 Far back, through creeks and inlets making, 
 
 Comes silent, flooding in, the main. 
 
 And not by eastern windows only. 
 
 When dayliglit comes, comes in the light, 
 
 In front the sun climbs slow, how slowly, 
 But westward look, the land is light. 
 
 A. H. Clocjgh. 
 
 Late in the afternoon of a sunny Aug-ust day two pedestrians 
 might have been seen skirting- the shore of one of the beautiful 
 little lakes which lie cradled in the arms of the g-rand old monarch 
 of Welsh mountains. The elder, g-rey-bearded and somewhat 
 bent, had yet an air of alertness, a certain elasticity of step 
 which bespoke a buoyant temperament; the younger, lacking' 
 entirely this touch of triumph, walked firmly and sharply, follow- 
 ing- in his companion's wake, and himself closely followed by a 
 fox-terrier. Very still was the mountain side, for miles round 
 not another livin"- creature was in sio-Jit. Above them to the 
 
41^ OF EVOLUTION. 
 
 rif^lit towered the most abrupt side of Snowdon, rug-ged and wild 
 and g-rim-looking-, its chaos of grey rocks relieved here and there 
 by tufts of coarse mountain grass or clumyis of fern. To the 
 left, in striking- contrast, lay the little lake, small and insignificant 
 enou"h to be scarcely known by its name, and yet in the beauty 
 of its situation nnd in its majosty of calmness attracting- the eye 
 almost as much as its stately bearer. 
 
 ' There's a stiffish climb before us,' said Charles Osmond, 
 ]'ausing- as he looked up the mountain path. ' What do you say 
 lo an hour's rest here ? we couldn't have a lovelier place.' 
 
 ' Very well, and Waif shall have a swim,' replied Donovan, 
 ' I'll just give him a stone or two. We have plenty of time if we're 
 lo see the sunset from the top.' 
 
 Whistling- to the dog-, he ran down the slope to the lake, 
 while Waif, in a tremor of delighted excitement, plung-ed into the 
 cool water after the sticks and stones which his master threw. 
 Charles Osmond, stretched out on the g-rass with one of the grey 
 boulders by way of a pillow, watched the two thoughtfully, the 
 spirited swimming- of the fox-terrier, the fine strongly-made figure 
 of the man hurling the stones into the lake with a vigour and 
 directness and force which — albeit there was no mark — bespoke 
 him a good marksman. Aftor a time he made his way again up 
 the slope, and threw himself down at full length beside his com- 
 panion with a sigh of comfortable content. 
 
 ' You old Italian ! ' said Charles Osmond, with a laugh, ' what 
 a way you have of throwing- yourself in an instant into exactly 
 the most comfortable position ! now a true-born Britisher fidgets, 
 and wriggles, and grumbles, and in the end does not look as if 
 he'd found the right place.' 
 
 ' One of the bequests of my great-great-grandmother,' said 
 Donovan, ' by nature I do go straight out on the hearthrug when 
 other fellows would crouch up in an arm-chair.' 
 
 ' Oh ! it is four generations back, is it ! I staked my repu- 
 tation as an observer that you had a bit of the Italian in you the 
 very first time we met, though Brian scouted the idea.' 
 
 'It comes out in that and in the way I owned to you before,' 
 said Donovan, ' the endlessness of the feud when once begun. 
 We've some bloodthirsty proverbs as to enemies in Italy.' 
 'I shouldn't have thought you revengeful by nature.' 
 ' It smoulders, and does not often show itself in fiame,' said 
 Donovan. 'I'm afraid there have often been times when I could 
 have done something desjjerate to Ellis Farrant if I'd had a 
 chance. Even now, professing to go by very different rules, I 
 believe if I saw him fall into that lake, the fiend of revenge in 
 
OF KVOLUTION. 413 
 
 me would try luird to hold me still on the shore. Good folk mny 
 slnuldor, but that's the ])lain unvarnished truth. I liave shocked 
 even you, thou<;h, by the confession.' 
 
 ' No,' said Charles Osmond, slowly, ^you've only surprised me 
 a little. Ilavinji- come to such blanks in yourself and your 
 system, T wonder rather that the fitness of Christianity to fill 
 those blanks does not seem more striking-. The lesson of for- 
 giveness, for instance, could only have been taught by Christ— by 
 the "Teat Forgiver. I wonder that your need does not throw more 
 light on Christianity.' 
 
 ' Proof,' sighed Donovan. * It is that we want' 
 He thought of his talks with Dr. Tremain as the words 
 passed his lips, but, though the doctor's argument was still fresh 
 in his mind, he had by no means come yet to think that logical 
 proof could be willingly renounced. 
 
 ' But the sense of need is an indirect proof,' said Charles Os- 
 mond. 
 
 ' I cannot see it in that way,' said D<^novan. * That a man in 
 a desert is dying of thirst is no proof that there is water in the 
 place.' 
 
 ' No ; but it is a proof that the natural place for man is not 
 the said desert, and that the water he longs for does exist, that 
 it is his natural means of life, and that without it he will cer- 
 tainly die.' 
 
 * It is not much good to talk by metaphors,' said Donovan, 
 ' and, since we have broken the ice, I shuukl very much like to 
 ask you one or two questions in plainest English. ]t is all very 
 well to speak of need and thirst and the rest of it, but tliere are 
 gigantic ditiiculties in the way. I should very much like to know, 
 for instance, how you get over the evolution theory.' 
 
 ' You speak as if it were a wall,' said Charles Osmond, laugh- 
 ing a little. ' I never thought of " getting over it." To my 
 mind, it is one of the most beautiful of the "ladders set up to 
 Heaven from earth," and if folks hadn't been scared by the con- 
 glomeration of narrow-mindetl fearfulness and atheistical cock- 
 crowings, the probabilities are that more would have seen the 
 real beauty and grandeur of the idea.' 
 
 'I noticed Haeckel's "Creation" and "Evolution of Man" in 
 your book-shelves the very first night I came to you,' said Dono- 
 van ; ' and I've always wondered how you did get over it.' 
 
 ' There you are again, making my ladder a wall,' said Charles 
 Osmond, with a little twinkle in his deep, bright eyes. 
 
 ' Well, it is a wall to me,' said Donovan. ' Having all como 
 into existence so exceedingly well without a God ' 
 
414 OF EVOLUTION. 
 
 > 
 
 ^ And,' interrupted Charles Osmond, ' finding* it so hard to 
 live without Him, being- so conscious of a grave deficiency in our 
 nature which 3'et nature does not give us the means to supply. 
 In honesty, you must rememher that you've previously admitted 
 that; 
 
 ' Yes, but surely you see the difficulty,' said Donovan, with 
 a touch of impatience in his tone. 
 
 ' I do,' said Charles Osmond, g-ravely, 'that is, I think I see 
 where your difficulty is. For myself, as I told you, the theory 
 of evolution seems to be in absolute harmony with all that I 
 know or can conceive of God. I accept it fully as His plan for the 
 world, or rather, perhaps I should say, as an imperfect glimpse 
 of the beauty of His plan, the best and clearest that present 
 science can give us. In another hundred years we may know 
 much more.' 
 
 ' But you cannot make Haeckel square with the Bible.' 
 
 ' I certainly do not accept all Haeckel's conclusions, for they 
 are often drawn from premisses which are utterly illogical ; nor 
 do I accept all his assumptions, for he often practically claims om- 
 niscience. At the same time, he has done us a great service, and 
 the false deductions of a teacher cannot spoil or alter the truth 
 of his system. If it were so, it would be a bad look out for 
 Christianity, with its two hundred and odd sects. Do you con- 
 sider that spontaneous generation is already proved ? ' 
 
 ' No,' said Donovan, ' but cpiite sufficiently for working 
 purposes, and in time I daresay it will be completely proved. 
 What will then become of the Author of the Universe, to adopt 
 the current phrase ? ' 
 
 ' If it should be proved, as I fully expect it will be,' replied 
 Charles Osmond, ' it will merely carry us one step further back 
 in our appreciation of the original Will-power. We shall still 
 recognize the one Mind impressing one final and all embracing 
 law upon what we call matter and force, and then leaving- force 
 and matter to elaborate the performance of that law.' 
 
 ' You assume a g-ood deal there,' said Donovan. ' Why 
 should we imagine that law — still less, a personal Will — existed 
 before the existence of primordial cells ? ' 
 
 ' You must either assume that there existed only one primordial 
 cell, or else that there was a law of order impressed upon the 
 infinite number of primordial cells,' said Charles Osmond. 
 
 Donovan left otf twisting- the grasses which g-rew beside him, 
 and knitted his brows in thought. This idea was a new one to 
 him. He was silent for a minute or two, then, keeping- his 
 judgment entirely suspended, he said, slowly, 
 
OF EVOLUTION. 415 
 
 'And what tlicn ? I should like to hear that 'borne out a 
 little.' 
 
 * The question is, how has the ahsolute imiforniity of action 
 been attained ? If matter be self-existent, there must have been 
 at the very first outset an infinite number of cells, and also an 
 infinite ])()ssibility of variation. Say, just for illustration, a 
 million cells, each capable of varying- in a million ways. Now 
 just calculate the mathematical chances that ultimate order could 
 residt from this disorder, and, if so, what length of time, approxi- 
 matelv, it would occujiy, allowing- each cell an hour of existence, 
 and then to give birth to another cell, probably dijh'ing from 
 itself!' 
 
 Donovan laughed a little, and mused, and presently Charles 
 Osmond continued. 
 
 ' No, it seems to me that orderly transmission of hereditary 
 form or habit is only possible on the supposition either of the one 
 self- existent cell, to which there are many objections, or on the 
 supposition of a law of order, which must have been antecedeLt 
 to the cells, or it could not have impressed them.' 
 
 'I daresay many would willingly concede as much as that,' 
 said Donovan. ' It is only when you go on to assert that the 
 law came from a law-giver that we cry out.' 
 
 'Well, where did it come from ?' said Charles Osmond. 
 
 * I suppose it was a fortuitous concourse of atoms,' said Dono- 
 van, doubtfully. 
 
 * That is a thoroughly unscientific hypothesis,' returned Charles 
 Osmond. ' Mind, I don't assert that my theory is proved, but I 
 claim this, that both physical and mathematical science demon- 
 strate the probability of some law existing- before primordial cells 
 existed, and tliat this probability is at least as reasonable as a 
 working hypothesis, as is that of evolution in explaining- the 
 method in which that primordial law has operated.' 
 
 ' But what will my old " soul-preserving- " friends say to you V 
 observed Donovan, smiling. ' You agree to the discnthronement 
 of that all-important being- — man.' 
 
 *Do I ?' said Charles Osmond. 
 
 ' Well, you accept as your oldest ancestor something more 
 insignificant than an amreba.' 
 
 * Yes, but I thought the longer the pedigree the better/ said 
 Charles Osmond, with laughter in his eyes. 
 
 ' But, seriously, where do you make your spirit-woi-ld begin ? ' 
 
 * I think,' said Charles Osmond, ' thei-e was once a wise man, 
 but who he was I haven't an idea, and this was his wise utter- 
 ance, " The spirit sleeps in the stone, dreams in the -animal, and 
 
416 OF EVOLUTION. 
 
 wakes in man." The revelation, or, if jon will, the awakenings, 
 appeared to be sndclen, it came as it were in a Hash; but it was 
 the result of long- processes, it followed the universal rule— a 
 g-radual advance, then a sudden untolding". And in this way, 1 
 take it, all revelation comes,' 
 
 Donovan looked full into his companion's face for a moment, 
 a question, and a very eager one, was trembling on his lips, his 
 whole face was a question, the question which Charles Osmond 
 would fain have answered if he could. But a reserved man does 
 not easily talk of that which aifects him most nearly, and in this 
 case certainly out of the abundance of the heart the mouth did 
 not speak. The firm yet sensitive lips were closed again, but 
 perhaps the silence revealed more to Charles Osmond than any 
 spoken words could have done, and by a hundred other slight 
 indications he knew perfectly well that Donovan's heart was full 
 of the spirit hunger. 
 
 ' Let me just for a minute fall hack on the Mosaic account, 
 he said, after a little time had passed. ' You think that account 
 incompatible with the evolution theory, to my mind it expresses 
 in a simple, clear way, such as a wise teacher might use with 
 3'oung children, the very truths that recent researches have 
 wonderfully enlarged upon. If you will notice it carefully the 
 very order given to the creation in the first of Genesis is exactly 
 borne out by modern science. Then we are told in the grand 
 old simple words which only were fit for such a purpose — that 
 God breathed into him, and nran became a living* soul. To man 
 evolved probably from the simplest of organisms, to gradually 
 perfected man the revelation is made : God breathes into him the 
 breath of life, that is, the knowledge of Himself, life according to 
 Christ's definition bci/i/j knowledge of God. Man was now fully 
 alive, fully awake, the spirit had slept, had dreamed, but the 
 revelation was made, and his dormant sj)irit sprang into life.' 
 
 ' But I am not conscious of this spirit,' said Donovan, ' I am 
 aware of nothing- that cannot be explained as a function of the 
 brain, thought, mind, will.' 
 
 ' Yet you are conscious of being- incomplete,' said Charles 
 Osmond. ' It seems to me that for a time we g-et on very well 
 as body and soul men, or body and mind, if you like it better , 
 but sooner or later comes the craving- for something- liig-her, 
 wiiich somethini;-, I take it, is the spirit life. And one thing- 
 more, if yon will let me say it, you tell me you are conscious of 
 nothing- but body and mind, but I can't help thinking- that your 
 love for that little sister whom you mentioned to me was the 
 purest spiritual love, to which no scientific theory will apply.' 
 
OF EVOLUTION. 
 
 417 
 
 For many rainiitcs Donovan did not speak, not "because he 
 was actually tli inking- of his companion's words, but because a 
 vision of the past was with him ; little Dot in her purity, her 
 cliild-like trust, her clinj^-ing' devotion, rose once more before him. 
 How had she learnt the truths which to him were so unattain- 
 able ? Broug'ht up for years in a way which could not possibly 
 bias her mind, how was it that she had, apparently without the 
 least difficulty, taken hold of such an abstraction, such a mys- 
 terious, incomprehensible idea i' She had not believed on 
 'authority,' for naturally the nurse-maid's authority would have 
 weighed less with her than his own, yet in some way the Unseen, 
 the Unknown, the to him Unknowable, had become to her the 
 most intense reality. She had very rarely spoken to him on 
 that subject because she knew it grieved him ; he could only 
 remember one instance in which she had definitely expressed the 
 reality of her faith. He had been remonstrating with her a 
 little, and she had answered in a half-timid way which somehow 
 angered him because it was so unusual with her. 
 
 ' You see, Dono, I can't help knowing- that God is, becanse 
 He is nearer to me even than you.' 
 
 He could almost feel the little face nestlinj^ closer to him as 
 the shy words were ended, and clearly could ho recall the terrible 
 ang which that faltering- childish sentence had caused him. He 
 lad then believed that she was under a great delusion, now he 
 inclined to think that her pure soul had g-rasped a great truth 
 which still remained to him unknowable. This was almost all 
 that he had actually heard her say, except the last half uncon- 
 scious ])rayer, the speech of a little child to its father, containini^ 
 no pompous title, no ascriptions of praise, but only the most 
 absolute trust. She had never fallen into conventional religiour 
 phraseology ; but perhaps nothing could have so exactly met 
 Donovan's wants that summer afternoon as her last perfectly 
 peaceful words, ' He is so very good, you know — you will know.' 
 No arg-ument, however subtle, no sermon, however eloquent, had 
 the hope-giving- ])ower which lay in the little child's words — 
 words which had lain dormant in his heart for years, ap{)arently 
 with no effect whatever. 
 
 Charles Osmond saw that his reference had awakened a lonf 
 train of thought ; he would not look at the changes on the face 
 of his companion, for just now in its naturalness it was exceed- 
 ingly like a book, and a book which he felt it hardly fair to read. 
 Instead, he g-azed across the rpiiet little lake to the sunny land- 
 scape beyond, battled with a conceited thought which had arisen 
 within him, and was ready with his beautiful, honest mind and 
 
 K £ 
 
 i; 
 
418 OF EVOLUTION. 
 
 hearty sympathy to come hack to Donovan's standpoint as soon 
 as he seemed to wish it. 
 
 Waif, having" studied the group from a distance for some 
 minutes, and having- given himself a series of severe shakings to 
 wring' the water from his coat, seemed to consider himself dry 
 enough for society. He came back to his master, sniffed at his 
 clothes, and, finding* that his remonstrating- whines received no 
 notice, began to lick his face. Then Donovan came back to the 
 world of realities, and perhaps because of the softening- influence 
 of the past vision, perhaps merely out of gratitude to the dumb 
 friend who understood his moods so well and filled so great a 
 blank for him, he threw his arms round the dog-, wet as he was, 
 hug-g-ed him, patted him, praised and petted him in a way which 
 put the fox-terrier into his seventh heaven of happiness. 
 
 Charles Osmond was touched and amused by the Tuanner in 
 which the silence was ended. Presently Donovan turned towards 
 him again with a much brightened face. 
 
 * There is one thing which you Christians will have to face 
 before long,' ho began, ' or rather I should think must face now, 
 with the theory of evolution so nearly established.' 
 
 * Well,' said Charles Osmond. 
 
 * I mean this,' continued Donovan : * Our original ancestors 
 and their living representatives can hardly be left out of your 
 scheme of immortality. It seems to me a very half-and-half 
 scheme if it only includes mankind. You know,' he added, 
 laughing a little, ' even the idea of heaven you gave us in your 
 sermon the other night — about the least material and the most 
 beautiful I ever heard — would scarcely be perfect to me without 
 Waif.' 
 
 ' I quite agree with you,' said Charles Osmond. '■ Nor can I 
 understand why people object so much to the idea. Luther, you 
 know, fully admitted his belief that animals might share in the 
 hereafter, and to appeal to a still higher authority it seems to me 
 that, unless we deliberately narrow the meaning of the words, 
 St. Paul clearly asserts the deliverance of the 7vliole creation from 
 the bondage of corruption into the deliverance of the glory of the 
 children of God. I believe in One who fills all things, by whom 
 all things consist, therefore I certainly do believe in the immor- 
 tality of animals.' 
 
 ' Well, seeing how infinitely more loving my dog is than most 
 men, I own that it seems to me unfair to shut him out of your 
 scheme. The old Norsemen walked Avith their dogs in the " Happy 
 Hunting Fields," and, however material that old legend, there is 
 a touch of beauty in it which is somehow wanting — at any rate, 
 
OF EVOLUTION. 419 
 
 to dog--Iovers — in tlic ordinary, and I must say equally material, 
 descriptions of the g-orp-eous halls of Zion.' 
 
 ' You two arc very fond of each other/ said Charles Osmond, 
 looking- at the dog and his master. 
 
 ' We have heen through a good deal together, and I helieve, 
 to begin with, the mere fact of his wanting me when no one else 
 did, of his ibllowing me so persistently in the Strand just at the 
 time when everyone had hard Avords to throw at me, drew me 
 towards him. I've watched him nearly dying wnth distemper, 
 and somehow dragged him through. He has watched me nearly 
 dying in a bog, and, by his sense and persistency, got me rescued. 
 Besides that, at least three times he has saved me from a worse 
 death, just by being what he is, the most loving little brute in 
 England.' 
 
 ' Brave little "Waif! I shall never forget my first sight of 
 him,' said Charles Osmond, smiling. ' It was a wonder you two 
 didn't put me out that night, the fit was distracting enough ; but 
 when 1 saw you and the fox-terrier walking up the aisle, head 
 No. 1 nearly went into space, though I could have told the people 
 every one of your characteristic features, and should have know^n 
 "Waif among" a thousand dogs ! ' 
 
 ' But to go back once more to our old subject,' said Donovan; 
 * does not your theory bring- you to something very like Pan- 
 theism ? ' 
 
 ' I think it is the Higher Pantheism,' said Charles Osmond. 
 ' While we've been lying here, Tennyson's lines have been haunt- 
 ing- me. You know them, I suppose ? ' 
 
 Donovan only knew one poem in the world, however, and he 
 asked to hear this one. Charles Osmond repeated it, and, because 
 he loved it, rendered it very well. 
 
 * You see,' he said, after a pause, ' it is this Higher Pantheism 
 which leads us up to the greatest heights. 
 
 Speak to Him tboit, for He hears and Spirit with Spirit can meet, 
 Closer is He than breathing, and nearer than hands and feet. 
 
 It leads us to no vague impersonal Force, but to the Spirit by 
 whom and in whom we live and move and have our being-.' 
 
 Donovan did not speak, and before long they began to climb 
 their mountain 5 but though he said no word to his comj)anion, 
 he moved to a sort of soundless tune which set itself to a verse of 
 the poem, 
 
 Dark is the workl to thee : thyself art the reason why ; 
 
 For is He not all hut thou, that hast power to feel ' I am I ' ? 
 
420 OF EVOLUTION. 
 
 The climb was rather a stiff one, and by the time they reached 
 the summit they were glad enoug'h of the fresh breeze which was 
 there to greet them as they made their way up to the little cairn. 
 The sun was within a quarter-of-an-hour of setting", its red 
 beams were bathing- the landscape in a flood of glory ; around the . 
 mountains stood in solemn grandeur, as if doing homage to the 
 parting king, the red beams lighted up one or two, but more 
 were in solemn shode, varying from pearly grey to the softest 
 purple. T.'i-re was something perfectly indescribable in the 
 sense of breadth and height and beauty combined ; in their 
 different ways the two pedestrians revelled in it. The creases 
 seemed to smooth themselves out of Charles Os)nond's brow, he 
 lost the weight of care which the long year's work brought, not 
 always to be shaken off in the summer holiday. But here it was 
 impossible to be earth-bound; his whole being was echoing the 
 words 
 
 Are not these, oh ! soul, the vision of Him who reigns ? 
 
 And Donovan, exulting in that sense of space which was so 
 dear to him, realized as he had never realized before that it is the 
 Infinite only whicli can satisfy the Infinite. 
 
 'J'he lofty is olten closely followed by the prosaic, and in the 
 neighbourhood of great heights there lurk the dangers of the pre- 
 cipice. Donovan had reached the high ground, but in a minute 
 came the most violent reaction, the most humiliating fall. 
 
 They were not the only tourists who had made the ascent 
 that afternoon. A very different party sat drinking and smoking 
 on the other side of one of the huts; their laughter was borne 
 across every now and then to the westward side of the cairn, but 
 both Charles Osmond and Donovan were too much absorbed in 
 their own thoughts to be at all disturbed by it. The rudeness of 
 tlie shock was tlierefore quite unbroken. From high but unfor- 
 tunately fruitless aspirations, Donovan was recalled to the hard- 
 est of facts by a sudden shadow arising between him and the sun. 
 A dark and rather good-looking man stood on the very edge of the 
 rock looking at the sky, very possibly not seeing it much, but 
 looking at it just lor want of something better to do. Charles 
 Osmond glanced at him, then, as if struck by some curious resem- 
 blance, he turned towards his companion, and at once knew that 
 the stranger could be none other than Ellis Farraut, for Dono- 
 van's lace bore a look of such fearful struggle as in his life of 
 half-a-century the clergyman had never before seen. 
 
 Before long Ellis turned, and, finding himself face to face 
 with the man he had so shamefully wronged, had the grace to 
 
OP EVOLUTION. 421 
 
 flush deeply. But in a minute he recovered himself, and 
 assumed the rule of the easy-mannered gentleman, ^vhicli he knew 
 so well how to i)hiy. 
 
 ' Win', Donovan ! ' he exclaimed. * Who would have thouj;ht 
 of meeting- you up here i* Pity your motlicr's not with me, but 
 I'm only here for a week's fishing* with Mackinnon.' 
 
 'I'he strug-gle had apparently ceased, Donovan had set his face 
 like a Hint, but his eyes Haslied iire, and as he drew jiimsclf up 
 ami folded his arms, at the same time making a backward move- 
 ment in order to be as far from Ellis as the narrow platform 
 would admit, he was certainly a formidable- looking* foe. There 
 was no doubt Avhatever as to his sentiments; he might have 
 stood for a model of one of the old Romans rig'hteously hating* 
 his enemy. Ellis shrank beneath his glance, but it somehow 
 made him malicious. 
 
 'You must remember Mackinnon,' he continued, in his bland 
 voice. ' lie was with us, if you recollect, on the night of that un- 
 fortunate dance, when ]K)or little ' 
 
 He broke off, for Donovan, with the look of a man goaded 
 beyond bearing, bent forward, and, with the extraordinary 
 vehemence which contrasted so strangely with his usually re- 
 pressed manner, thundered rather than spoke the words, 
 
 ' Be silent.' 
 
 Being a cowardly man, Ellis did not feel disposed to stay in 
 the neighbourhood of his foe ; he not only obeyed the injunction, 
 but disappeared from the scene as quickly as possible. 
 
 Donovan once more leant back against the cairn with folded 
 arms, and for many minutes did not stir. Charles Osmond did 
 not venture to speak to him ; in perfect silence the two stood 
 Avatching- the setting sun, which was now like a golden-red globe 
 on the horizon line. Many hundreds of times had the sun gone 
 down on Donovan's wrath, and this evening proved no exception 
 to the rule. By the time the last red rim had disa])peared, how- 
 ever, all traces of agitation had passed from him, and he turned 
 to his companion a quiet cold face, observing, in the most matter- 
 of-fact tone, 
 
 ' We must be making our way home, I suppose.' 
 
 * Certainly, if we're to eat the captain's trout for supper,' said 
 Charles Osmond. 
 
 And without further remark they began the descent, Dono- 
 van showing traces of latent irritation in the headlong way in 
 which he plunged down the steep path. Charles Osmond, follow- 
 ing much more slowly, found him beside the little lake where 
 they had rested in the afternoon j perhaps the place or some 
 
422 OF EVOLUTION. 
 
 recollection of their talk had softened him, at any rate, he was 
 quite himself again. Charles Osiuond put his arm within his, 
 and they walked on steadily down the less ahrupt part of the 
 mountain to Pen-y-pass, and along- the Capel Gurrig road to 
 Bettws-y-Coed. 
 
 Presently Donovan hroke the silence. 
 
 'Well, you have seen Ellis Farrant at last. Odd that he 
 should have turned up just after we had hecn talking of him. I 
 hope you were satisfied with m}^ Christian forhearance.' 
 
 Charles Osmond was silent, not quite liking his tone. 
 
 ' I have offended you/ said Donovan. ' I will take away the 
 adjective.' 
 
 ' I daresay your forbearance was very great,' said Charles 
 Osmond, ' and your provocation f;ir greater than I can under- 
 stand, but you must forgive me for saying that I saw nothing 
 Christian in it.' 
 
 ' What did you see ? ' asked Donovan, a little amused. 
 
 ' I saw a perfect example of the way in which a nineteenth- 
 century gentleman hates his enemy, the hatred of the ancients 
 kept in check by the power of modern civilization.' 
 
 ' And how would you have had me meet him ? ' cried Dono- 
 van. ' Did you expect a stage reconciliation, while he is still 
 defrauding me ? Did you wish me to embrace him and wish him 
 good speed ? ' 
 
 ' I wished you to act as I think Christ w-ould have acted,' said 
 Charles Osmond, quietly. 
 
 ' Oh ! once more I tell you this idealism is impossible ! ' ex- 
 claimed Donovan, impatiently. ' I am but a mortal man, and 
 cannot help hating this fellow.' 
 
 ' You see, in copying Him whom I consider to be more than 
 mortal man, we do realize our own shortcomings,' said Charles 
 Osmond. 
 
 ' Well, what do you imagine Christ would have done in such 
 a case ?' 
 
 ' I think you can answer that question for yourself,' said 
 Charles Osmond. 'But to put it on what to me is a loAvcr foot- 
 ing, consider how the best man you ever knew would have 
 acted, and then carry his conduct still further. Your father, for 
 instance — how would he have treated an enemy ? ' 
 
 Unconsciously Charles Osmond had touched on Donovan's 
 tenderest part. He fell into a reverie, and they walked a mile 
 before he spoke again. 
 
 ' I believe you are right,' he said at last ; and there was 
 something' of pathos in the words coming from one so strong and 
 
duty's call. 423 
 
 so excceding-ly slow to own himself conquered. ' I'm afraid up 
 there on the mountain I've fallen when I mij^'ht have risen.' 
 
 ' I daresay you will have another opportunity given you,' said 
 Charles Osmond, by way of consolation. 
 
 * Don't be in too g-reat a hurry,' said Donovan, sniilin:^;. 
 * I'm afraid I can't honestly wish for it yet.' 
 
 Then they fell to talking- of every-day matters, and late in the 
 evening" they reached the cottage where they were spending a 
 i'e\y weeks — a somewhat curious quartette — the Osmonds, father 
 and son, old Rouge Frewin, and Donovan. The captain was 
 supremely happy, went out fishing every day, and partly from 
 his love to Donovan and his desire to do him credit, partly from 
 his awe of a ' parson out of the pulpit,' really managed to keep 
 sober through the whole of their stay in Wales. But perhaps no 
 one got quite so much from the Welsh holiday as Donovan him- 
 self, lie went back to work with both body and mind invi- 
 gorated, having learnt more in that month's intercourse with 
 Charles Osmond than he would have learnt in years of solitary 
 life. 
 
 There now remained only a few months of his medical course. 
 Then ' the world was all before him.' He had not as yet formed 
 any plans, but as the autumn advanced public events pointed the 
 way for him, and he found his vocation. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIII. 
 
 duty's call. 
 
 Faith shares the future's promise ; love's 
 
 Self-offering is a triumph won ; 
 And each good thought or action moves 
 
 The dark world nearer to the sun. 
 
 Then faint not, falter not, nor plead 
 Thy weakness ; truth itself is strong; 
 
 The lion's strength, the eagle's speed, 
 Are not alone vouchsafed to wrong. 
 
 Tliy nature, which through fire and flood. 
 
 To place or gain fiuds out its way, 
 Has power to seek the highest good, 
 
 And duty's holiest call obey ! 
 
 WillTTIER. 
 
 E.VGLAND was just at this time engaged in a contest of which 
 Donovan very strongly disapproved, but perhaps his political 
 views only increased the desire which had arisen within him to 
 
424 duty's call. 
 
 go out as assistant surgeon to the seat of war. The belief that 
 many hundreds of Englishmen were being sacrificed in an unjust 
 cause could not fail to rouse such a lover of justice, and he lost 
 no time in making arrangements with an ambulance society which 
 was sending out help, and was in want of assistants. Charles 
 Osmond, on the whole, approved of his choice, though regretting 
 very much that he should for some time lose sight of him ; but 
 he felt that the life of action would be quite in Donovan's line, 
 and that the entire change of scene would be good for him. 
 Brian would have been only too glad to join him, but his work 
 was already cut out for him in London, where he was to take the 
 place of junior partner to an uncle of his who had a large practice 
 in ihe Bloomsbury district. 
 
 It so chanced that Stephen Causton, who had been hindered 
 both by illness and idleness, went in for his final examination at 
 the same time. All three passed successfully. The autumn had 
 been a very busy one, but Donovan was well and in good spirits, 
 eager to begin his fresh life, and too much engrossed with the 
 present and future to let the past weigh upon him. Still, as one 
 January day he went in to St. Thomas's to take leave of Trevethan, 
 not even his strong will could prevent a few very sad thoughts 
 arising as he spoke of Porthkerran and the Tremains. Trevethan's 
 recovery had been very slo\v, but he was now really well, and it 
 had been arranged that he should go down to Porthkerran with 
 his little girl the following week. His illness, and the kindness 
 he had met, had softened him very much, and, though his 
 manner was still brusque in the extreme, no one who really knew 
 the man could have doubted his gratitude. In his odd fashion 
 he half worshipped Donovan, and it was really from the desire to 
 please him that he had overcome his shame and reluctance, and 
 written to ask his father to receive him again. The blacksmith's 
 intense happiness was so evident from the ill-spelt but warmly 
 expressed reply, that Trevethan the younger began to feel drawn 
 to hitn, and to look forward to his return with less apprehension 
 and more eagerness. 
 
 Having left him directions as to fetching little Gladys from 
 the Osmonds, Donovan took leave of him and went home to make 
 his final preparations, a trifle saddened b}'^ the conversation. But 
 after all, he reasoned with himself, he had more cause for re- 
 
 i'oicing, for he had certainly been of use to one of the Porth- 
 :erran villagers, and Gladys would be heartily pleased to hear old 
 Trevetlian's good news. To have helped even indirectly to please 
 her was something to be thankful for; besides, had he not re 
 nounced the thought of personal hajipiness as such ? had he not 
 
duty's call. 425 
 
 chosen the way of sacrifice and willed to find his happiness in 
 serving' his fellow-men? And then once more he returned witii 
 all his former eagerness to the anticipation of his comin;:*' work, 
 work which bid fair to call out all his faculties, and which made 
 his ]nilses boat quicker even to think of, for ])erhaps no one but 
 an awakened misanthropist can feel with such keenness the de- 
 lig-hts of the enthusiasm of humanity. 
 
 His key was in the latch when the sound of a carriaj^e stop- 
 ping- at the door made him glance round ; to his utter astonish- 
 ment he saw his mother, lie hurried forward, surprise and not 
 unniitural emotion in his look and manner. 
 
 ' Wh}', mother ! this is very g-ood of you,' he exclaimed, help- 
 ing her to ahght. 
 
 ' My dear Donovan ! ' she said, in a hurried nervous voice, 
 ' let me come into your rooms for a minute, I am in dreadful 
 trouble.' 
 
 He brought her into the little sitting-room and made her sit 
 down by the fire, perjdexed by her agitation. It was many 
 years since they had met, and time had altered Mrs. Farrant, she 
 looked worn and faded ; there was something piteous in the 
 alteration. Donovan bent down and kissed the once beautiful 
 face with a sort of reverence which he had never felt before. 
 
 ' How did you get leave to come to me ? ' he asked. 
 
 Then Mrs. Farrant's tears began to flow. 
 
 ' Oh ! the most terrible thing has happened/ she said, vainly 
 trying to check her sobs. ' Ellis, your cousin, has been unwell 
 for some daj's, and this morning the doctor declares that he has 
 small-pox, and, if you will believe it, I have actually been in his 
 room the whole time ! they said I had better leave for Oakdene, 
 but I am so unnerved, so shaken, I thought you would take me 
 to the station and arrange things. 1 thought I should like to 
 see you and tell you. Oh, Donovan ! do you think I shall take 
 it ? do you think it is infectious at the beginning ? ' 
 
 It was the same selfish nature, the same incapability of think- 
 ing of the well-being of others, which had caused Donovan so 
 much pain all through his life. His mother was, after all, only 
 altered externally. The hard look of his childhood came back 
 into his face. 
 
 * Then 3-ou mean to go to Oakdene and leave your husband i* ' 
 he asked, with a severity in his voice which he could not disguise. 
 
 ' Don't be hard on me,' she sobbed, ' I have such a horror of 
 this ; if it were fever I would have stayed, but small-pox ! No, 
 no, it is impossible, I must go, I must indeed. Besides, I am 
 not strong enough to nurse him. The doctor will ;en 1 a trained 
 
426 duty's call. 
 
 nurse. Indeed, you must not urg-e me to go back, Donovan, it 
 would kill me.' 
 
 Her agony of distress made him reproach himself for having* 
 spoken so strongly ; he paced the room in silence. It was un- 
 natural of her to leave her husband, but yet there was truth in 
 her Avords, she would be useless as a nurse, and her nervous terror 
 would very likely render her liable to infection. Besides, what 
 right had he to judge her? He could not trust himself to dis- 
 cuss the right and wrong of the question, he fek that he must 
 leave it to her own conscience, and when he spoke it was merely 
 to ask details of Ellis's state, and the doctor's opinion of it. 
 
 ' You had better rest here for a little time,' he said, when she 
 had answered his questions in her unsatisfactory way. 'It must 
 have been a great shock to you ! ' He spoke in a very different 
 tone now, and Mrs. Farrant, feeling all the comfort of having a 
 stronger will to repose upon, allowed herself to be made com- 
 fortable on the sofa, and lay silently watching her son's move- 
 ments with a sort of interested curiosity, like a placid patient 
 watching the preparations of a dentist, or a sleepy child 
 following with its eyes the nurse as she sets the room in order 
 for the night. Her son was very much altered; he still set 
 about everything in the same quiet methodical way, but his 
 angles had been rounded off, and the bitter cynicism which had 
 always alarmed and repulsed her seemed quite gone. He had 
 taken paper and ink and was writing hurriedly ; presently he 
 pushed his chair back from the table, and, folding the written 
 sheet, came towards her. 
 
 ' I am just going to the hospital, and then to the telegraph- 
 office with this,' he said. * I have ordered Mrs. Doery to have ever}'-- 
 thing ready for you. Presently I think you must let me vaccinate 
 you. It is something new to have a doctor in the family, isn't it 1 ' 
 
 ' I'm only so shocked that you should have been driven to it,' 
 sighed Mrs. Farrant. 'You should have gone into the army. 
 You have grown so like your father, Donovan.' 
 
 He bent down once more and kissed her. Then, promising- 
 she should not be disturbed, he hurried away with the telegram. 
 
 ' So like your father ! ' Tlie words rang in his ears, but never 
 had he felt further from any likeness to the noble, calm, self- 
 governed man whose image stood out so clearly in his memory, 
 the three days' intercourse with the pure mind having left a 
 deeper impress than months and years of intercourse with those 
 of lower type. But just now his mind was in a seething chaos, 
 his whole world shaken, w^hether by conflicting duties or conflict- 
 ing passions he hardly knew, only he feared it was the latter. 
 
duty's call. 427 
 
 Rnjtiilly walking- along- the crowded streets he tried to fif^ht the 
 battle out, mechanically taking- off his hat to an acquaintance, 
 niechanicaliy going- through his business as people mu.st do 
 even when the deadliest mental conflict is raging-, even when 
 — porliajis unknown to them — the decision for good or evil, 
 I'oi' life or death, is hanging- in the balance. Previous arrange- 
 ir.ent and strong- inclination drew him almost irresistibly towards 
 the fulHlmoit of his engagement to the ambulance. Of course 
 otlu'r men would willingly take his jilace at a day's notice, but 
 his whole mind was sot on going out to the war, the thought of 
 foregoing- it was almost unendurable. And yet a perverse voice 
 within him kept urging on him that others might g-o out to the 
 war, but that he was the only man called to take charg-e of a poor 
 neglected wretch in a certain West-End Srpiare. 
 
 "^ Yet did not the fellow deserve his fate ? Donovan would 
 have suddenly changed natures if the justice of the thing- had not 
 struck him. Was it not perfectly satisfactory ? Here was 
 Nemesis at last — his foe would be justly punished ! And then, 
 being- exceedingly human, he drew one of those fascinating- little 
 mind pictures which, if delineated by men, are certainly engraved 
 by the devil. In this picture self, the hero, went out to the war, 
 won unheard-of honours, received honourable wounds, and then 
 was g-reeted with the news that his enemy had perished 
 miserably in a luxurious house which he had no right to be in. 
 'So likeyour iather ! ' with the sharpest satire the words again 
 rang- in his ears. 
 
 God be thanked that the devil's alluring pictures cannot stand 
 side by side with the image of a true, noble, whole-hearted 
 man ! God be thanked that the ideal man has lig-htened the 
 world's darkness ! 
 
 Donovan's struggle was by no means over by the time he 
 retTirned to his mother ; it rag-ed all the time that he was attending- 
 to her, all the time that he talked quiet commonplaces, brought 
 her tea and toast and all that the house would afford, soothed her 
 nervous terrors as to infection, and quoted small-pox statistics. 
 
 ' Could you not come down with me to Oakdcne i* ' said Mrs. 
 Farrant, suddenly. ' You say your course is over, why not come 
 with me now ? 
 
 He knew then that the supreme moment had come. 
 
 ' I will see you safely into the train,' he said, ' but I can't 
 come to Oakdene.' 
 
 ' Why not ? ' urged Mrs. Farrant. 
 
 There was a minute's silence, then, as quietly as if he had 
 been speakin^j of an afternoon stroll, Donovan replied, 
 
428 DUTY8 CALL. 
 
 ' Because I'm g'oing- round to Connauglit Square presently.' 
 
 Mrs. Warrant stared at him. Perhaps he hardly felt inclined 
 just then for inquiry or argument ; muttering some excuse, he 
 left the room, drew a long breath, and walked slowly upstairs. 
 
 In his bed-room were all the preparations for the coming 
 journey — travelling gear, books, instruments. He felt a sharp 
 ])ang as he realized that all his plans were changed — perhaps 
 there was even a slight fear lest his resolution should be shaken, 
 for he began to toss some clothes into a portmanteau in a hurried 
 and unmethodical way quite unnatural to him. But he (piieted 
 down as he took Dot's miniature from its place. For a minute 
 he looked at it intently, and afterwards there was no more haste 
 in his manner. 
 
 Mrs. Farrant could not resist questioning him when he came 
 downstairs again. 
 
 ' Do you "really think you are wise to go ? ' she urged. ' Why 
 put yourself to such a risk ? ' 
 
 ' You forget I am a doctor,' he said, smiling a little. 
 
 Mrs. Farrant of course knew nothing of her husband's real 
 treachery, but she knew that he and Donovan were sworn foes, 
 and could not understand her son's resolution. 
 
 * But he has a trained nurse,' she continued, ' and I should 
 have thought that, disliking each other as you do, it would be 
 unlikely that you could do much for him ; he may not like to 
 have you there.' 
 
 ' Possibly,' said Donovan, ' but I must go and see.' 
 
 ' And tlien you will have been in the Avay of infection for 
 nothing,' urged his mother. ' Come, change your mind. Why 
 must you go ?' 
 
 ' Because it is right,' said Donovan 5 and there was some- 
 thing in his tone wdiich kept Mrs. Farrant from further objec- 
 tions. 
 
 She looked uneasy and troubled ; perhaps for the first time 
 it struck her that there could be an absolute right and wrong 
 in such a question— perhaps she was a little doubtful about her 
 own conduct. It was at any rate with a feeling of relief that she 
 parted with Donovan at the Paddington Station, for people whose 
 consciences are just enough awake to know that they are half 
 asleep never feel comfortable with those who have and obey an 
 imperative conscience. 
 
 When the Greyshot train had started, Donovan hurried off to 
 make arrangements with the ambulance, to hunt up a substitute, 
 to find the old captain and tell him his change of plans, to 
 write notes, give orders, and make Waif understand the parting. 
 
duty's call. 429 
 
 How much he disliked it all, how intensely he shrank from the 
 work hef'urc him, he hardly allowed himself time to think. 
 
 Late that evening-, as Charles Osmond was sitting- in his 
 stuiiy hard at work over the parish accounts, Brian hurried in, 
 an open letter in his hand. 
 
 'Just look here!' he exclaimed, too full of the suhject to 
 notice that he interrupted his fa<"''.rfr half-way up a column. 
 * Would you have believed the fellow could have thrown it all 
 up ? ' 
 
 Charles Osmond held out his hand for the note, and read as 
 follows : — 
 
 ' Dear Brian, 
 
 'After all, I'm not g'oing south. Smithson was only 
 too thankful to step into my shoes, and will sail on Saturday. 
 If 3'ou can, g-et him to trade for some of my g-oodly Babylonish 
 garments, as I can't well sport them in England. I only saw 
 him for five minutes this afternoon, when we'd other matters to 
 talk over. Ellis Earrant is down with small-pox, and I'm going- 
 to see after him. Look in now and then on Waif and the 
 captain, if you can j they are in the depths. 
 
 ' Ever yours, 
 
 ' D. ¥.' 
 
 *l\Iy g-rand old Roman!' exclaimed Charles Osmond, half 
 aloud. 'You've g-rown a g-ood deal since the day we climbed 
 Snowdon.' 
 
 ' But it's such folly to throw up tliis just at the last moment, 
 said Brian. ' Besides, he's fag-g-ed with the exam, and now, 
 instead of having- the voyage to set him up, he g-oes straight 
 into this plague-house all for the sake of one wretched man.' 
 
 ' You may be quite sure that Donovan was very certain of 
 the rig-ht before he took such a stej),' said Charles Osmond ; 
 ' he's not the sort of fellow to change his mind or his plans 
 
 lightly, whereas i/on ' He laughed and shrug-g-ed his 
 
 shoulders. 
 
 Brian smiled too, for it was the family proverb that he was the 
 most impetuous and impulsive of mortals. 
 
430 VIA LUCIS. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX. 
 
 VIA LUCIS. 
 
 O Beauty, old yet ever new ! 
 
 Eternal Voice and Inward Word, 
 
 The Logos of the Greek and Jew, 
 
 The old sphere music which the Samian heard. 
 
 Truth which the sage and prophet saw, 
 
 Long sought withoiit, but found within, 
 
 The Law of Love beyond all law, 
 
 The life o'erflooding mortal death and sin ! 
 
 Shine on us with the light which glowed 
 
 Upon the trance-bound shepherd's way, 
 
 Who saw the Darkness overflowed, 
 
 And drowned by tides of everlasting Day. 
 
 Shine, light of God ! — make broad thy scope 
 
 To all who sin and siilTer ; more 
 
 And better than we dare to hope 
 
 With Heaven's compassion make our longings poor ! 
 
 Whittier. 
 
 It was evening' by the time that Donovan's preparations were 
 ended. About seven o'clock he was set down at the Marble 
 Arch, and hastil}" made his way to Connaught Square. As he 
 stood on the steps waiting till tlie door was opened, the newly- 
 risen moon looked full down on him through the trees in the 
 garden ; the quiet silvery light was not quite ir keeping with his 
 state of mind, for the whole afternoon he had, as it were, been 
 rowing against tide, and quietly as he had made his resolution, 
 and steadily as he had gone through with all which it involved, 
 there was no denying that it was sorely against his inclination. 
 
 It was certainly a curious position. Here he was, after yeai's 
 of absence, ringing at the door of his own house, not with a view 
 to taking possession, but merely to see and help the unlawful 
 occ'oant. He could not even to himself explain or understand 
 the line of conduct he was taking, he did not think it particularly 
 just, op at all politic, and there was no doubt that it was exceed- 
 ingly painful. He was no saint at present, only an honest man 
 walking in the twilight. 
 
 He rang at least three times, and was beginning to feel im- 
 patient, when at length the door was opened about an inch, and 
 some one ithin asked what he wanted. 
 
 ^ I wane to come in, Phoebe/ he replied, recognizing the 
 voice. 
 
VIA LUCIS. 431 
 
 The maid opened the door wider, astonishment and some per- 
 plexity in her look. 
 
 '01), Mr. Donovan, sir!' she exclaimed. 'How little I 
 thoug-ht to see you a^^-ain ! But don't come in, sir, please don't, 
 for we've small-pox in the house.' 
 
 ' I know it,' said Donovan, ' and I'm g^lad to see that you've 
 not deserted your master, Phoehe. I mig-ht have known that 
 you at least would he staunch. We must keep you out of the 
 wav of infection, though. Have you heen with Mr. Farrant at 
 allV' 
 
 ' I helped to move him, sir, this morning-,' said Pho-be. 
 
 ' Oh ! he's up at the top, is he ? That's well. Don't you 
 come further than the second floor then, I will fetch everything- 
 from there.' 
 
 ' You mean to stay, sir ? ' said Phoehe, surprised, hut evidently 
 relieved. 
 
 ' I have come to nurse him,' said Donovan. ' You can make 
 me up a bed in' — with an eftbrt — ' Miss Dot's room.' 
 
 In a few minutes more he was striding- upstairs two steps at 
 a tiuiC, perhaps moving- the quicker because even now a voice 
 within him was urging- him to turn back, calling- him a fool for 
 his pains. 
 
 Since their meeting- in Wales he had often wondered whether 
 he should again see Ellis Farrant, and if so how they would meet 
 and where." He had rehearsed possible meetings in which he 
 might combine perfect coldness with the forgiveness which 
 ■Charles Osmond, had spoken of Cold Christliness— a curious 
 idea, certainly ! 
 
 But when it came to the point he somehow lost sight of him- 
 self and his wrongs altogether. A dim yellow light pervaded the 
 room, the sick nurse came to meet him as he opened the door, he 
 gave her a low-toned explanation, then turned to the bed where 
 Ellis Farrant lay. 
 
 After all, he was a man — a man tossing- to and fro in weary 
 miser}', racked with pain, scorched with fever, fearfully ill./md 
 fearfully alone, left at least with only paid attendants. He was 
 delirious, but he at once noticed Donovan's entrance, mistaking 
 him, however, for his father. He started up with outstretched 
 bands. 
 
 ' Raljih ! dear old fellow, I knew you'd come,' he cried. ' Save 
 me from that old hag, it's old Molly the matron ; don't you 
 remember her ! Stay'with me, Balph, promise ! She's a hag, I 
 tell you, a cursed old hag! She's been trying to poison me. 
 Don't leave me with her — don't leave me ! ' 
 
432 
 
 VIA LUCIS. 
 
 *I have come to stay with you,' said Donovan, touched ^y the 
 rofprcnce to tlie past, to the scliool-days when his father ^^^d 
 Ellis had been the greatest of friends. ' I shall stay and nurse 
 you through this ; no one shall hurt you.' 
 
 After the promise had been repeated again and again Ellis 
 grew more quiet. 
 
 ' There's one other thing,' he began, incoherently. ' I owe 
 a sovereign to one of the sixth ; you'll pay it for me if I die — 
 promise me — the honour of the family, you know — the Farrant 
 honour. His name is — what is his name ? I can't remember it! 
 Plague on the fellow ! Donovan I That's it. Pay Donovan a 
 sovereign, will you ? And there was something else — a pajjcr; 
 what did I do with it 1 Tell me, for heaven's sake ! There were 
 six bits ; I could join them. Give them to me, give them, I say! 
 Don't burn i\\Qm , don'' t T his voice rose to a scream. 'Fire! 
 fire ! the bits are flying around me. Save me, Ralph ! It's that 
 dreadful Donovan, he's pelting me ! ' 
 
 ' ril settle him,' said Donovan, quietly. ' Don't be afraid.' 
 
 ' But you can't get the paper — it's the paper he wants, and 
 it's burnt. Oh God! what shall I do ? There he is again ! he 
 won't speak — his dreadful eyes are looking at me ! ' 
 
 ' No, no, you've made a mistake,' said Donovan, re-assuringly; 
 ' he doesn't want the paper, he wants you to go to sleep. Come, 
 now, you must try to settle off.' 
 
 With that he laid his hand on Ellis's burning forehead, and 
 before long had really quieted him ; he fell into a sort of doze. 
 
 Then Donovan turned to make his peace wnth the much- 
 maligned nurse, a good-natured old creature in a gorgeous 
 dressing-gown rather painfully suggestive of defunct patients. 
 She was not at all unwilling to share the burden of nursing with 
 the young doctor, and it ended not unnaturally in his taking by 
 far the arcatost part. For Ellis remained for several days under 
 the same delusion, and would accept no services from anyone but 
 the supposed cousin and school-fellow. 
 
 IIi.3 ravings were painful enough to listen to, and Donovan 
 saw plainly that his guilt weighed heavily on him. The fatal 
 ' paper,' with its six fluttering bits, sometimes red-hot, some- 
 times black and charred, sometimes only freshly torn, recurred con- 
 stantly in his delirium. The last meeting on Snowdon hnnnted 
 him too, and Donovan would have given much to be able to 
 blot out the strong impression which his silent wrath had made. 
 
 By the time the fever subsided, and the second stage of the 
 illness set in, lie had grown so absorbed in the progress of his 
 patient that all sense of the strangeness of his own position had 
 
VIA LUCIS. 
 
 433 
 
 died away. lie had scarcely time to realize that he was in his 
 own house ; when in his hrief intervals of rest he was set free 
 from the sick-room, and could emerg-e from the carbolic steeped 
 barrier wliich separated the ujiper part of the house from the 
 lower, he had no leisure to think of possessions or rights. Tliere 
 were orders to be given, telei;rams to be sent ; every now and 
 then in the early moruini'-, or after dusk when few passeng-crs 
 were stirring-, there was the chance of a breath of air in the park, 
 
 Jjut to the sick man the discovery was a great surprise and a 
 very sudden shock. The fever left him, the delirium faded away, 
 and he found that the attendant from whom he hoped everything, 
 the only person he could bear to touch him, and the one in whom 
 he had put the blindest faith, was not his old friend and school- 
 fellow at all, but his enemy — Donovan. He tried in vain to 
 think that this too was a delusion. A hundred horrible fears 
 rushed throug'h his mind. Had he come to take his revenge ? 
 He dared not say a word, but accepted everything- sullenly and 
 silentl}'. At length, after many days, Donovan's persevering- 
 care and tenderness beg-an to touch his heart. When the 
 secondary fever set in, his raving-s were less of the burning- 
 jinper, and more of ' coals of fire,' — coals which, nevertheless, he 
 could ill have dispensed with. 
 
 It was the strangest, saddest, most pitiful sick-bed, and in 
 manv ways it was more of a strain to Donovan than the stiffest 
 campaign could have been. 
 
 Charles Osmond, coming- one evening- to inquire after the 
 patient, met Donovan on the doorstep. 
 
 ' You are not afraid of me ? ' he inquired. ' I've just changed.' 
 
 'Not a bit,' said the clergyman, taking his arm. ' Let us 
 have a turn together. Do you think I've been a parson all these 
 years without coming- nearer small-pox than this ? How is your 
 cousin getting on ? ' 
 
 'Exceedingly well up till this morning,' replied Donovan; 
 * tlie disease has about run its course, but I'm afraid a serious, 
 complication has just arisen. There's to be a consultation to- 
 morrow.' 
 
 ' You look rather done up ; are you taking care of yourself?' 
 
 ' Oh ! I shall do very well; but between ourselves it has 
 been ' — he hesitated for words — ' about the saddest business I 
 ever saw from the very first' 
 
 ' Do you mean his remorse ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, the sort of abject misery of it, and his agony of fear. 
 I wish he had some one else with him, some one who was at 
 least sure in his own mind one way or the other. If the poor 
 
 F F 
 
434 VIA LUCI3. 
 
 fellow asks me anything', I can but tell him that I do not know 
 — that all is unknown and unknowable.' 
 
 ' I will g-lartly come to see him,' said Charles Osmond, 'if you 
 think he would not object; but' — looking- attentively at the 
 sing-ularly pure and noble face of his companion — ' I fancy, 
 Donovan, you are helping- him better than anyone else could; 
 service from you must be to him what no other service could be.' f- 
 
 ' " Coals of fire," according- to his own account,' said Donovan, 
 with a little humorous smile playing- about his grave lips. 'But 
 he does seem to like it nevertheless.' 
 
 Their conversation was cut short by a warning- clock which 
 reminded Donovan that he must return. Charles Osmond 
 watched him as he walked rapidl}'- up the square, and disappeared 
 into the darkened house, the house in which such a strang-e bit 
 of life was being- lived. Botv those two cog--wlieels would Avork 
 together the clergy'man did not feel sure, but he was sure they 
 would in some way work the g-ood. Ay, and that without his 
 interference ! He was human enoug'h to long- to have his share 
 in helping- this soid, honest enoug'h to recognize that another had 
 been called to the work — that other being- an agnostic. As he 
 walked down into the main road a verse from one of his favourite 
 poems rang in his head. 
 
 And nerve his arm, and clieer his heart ; 
 Then stand aside, and say ' God speed !' 
 
 ' Standing aside ! ' the hardest of tasks to a warm-hearted 
 man, very conscious of his own power ! To a surface observer it 
 would surely have seemed right that Charles Osmond and Dono- 
 van should change places. 
 
 The sick man not being- a surface observer, however, but an 
 actor in this life drama, would strongly have objected to such a 
 change. Very slowly and gradually his sullenness had disap- 
 peared, and in his heart a strange, helpless, dependent love was 
 growing up — almost the first love he had ever known. He was 
 quite himself now, and could think clearly; he had already 
 formed his plan, his poor, wretched bit of restitution, and how to 
 carry it out. 
 
 When Donovan returned that evening from his walk with 
 Charles Osmond, and took his usual place in the peculiarly 
 oppressive sick-room, he found Ellis much exhausted, his hoarse 
 voice sounded hoarser than usual, his inflamed e^'elids were 
 suggestive of voluntary tears, he seemed rather to shrink from 
 Donovan's gaze. 
 
 For in his thin, wasted hand he held tightly the paper which 
 
VIA Lucis. 435 
 
 contained Ins l)rief confession. With infinite difficulty he kept 
 it out of Donovan's sig'Ut, with almost childish impatience he 
 ■waited for the morning-, when, before the two doctors, he in- 
 tended to make his declaration. He was too eag'er to gain the 
 relief to care very much what they thought of him. Perliaps ho 
 half hoped, too, that he could make a sort of compact with 
 Heaven, and by the act of restitution secure a few more years in 
 the world; or ])orhap?, having lived guilty, he desired to die 
 innocent, or as nearly innocent as might be. Undoubtedly there 
 was a certain amount of selfishness in the action, but there was, 
 too, a very g-enuine sorrow, and that strang-e glimmer of love for 
 the man whom he had injured, the enemy who had come to him 
 in his need. 
 
 Donovan could not understand why he was so anxious to g-et 
 rid of him the next day ; he humoured him, however, and was 
 not present when the two doctors arrived. After the consulta- 
 tion was over he was too much troubled to think of anything- but 
 their verdict. He had known that Ellis's recovery was doubtful, 
 but he was startled and shocked to hear that he could not 
 live more than two or three days. To him, too, was left the task 
 of breaking- the news to the patient. Never had he felt more 
 unfitted for his work, never had he so keenly felt his own incom- 
 pleteness. To make matters worse, Ellis seemed suddenly to 
 have taken the greatest dislike to him. 
 
 ' I know cpiite well what you have to say,' he interrupted, 
 when Donovan tried to lead up to the doctors' opinion. ' I know 
 that I'm dying-, and that you'll soon be well rid of me. I tell you 
 I won't have you in the room, get out and leave me to the nurse. 
 Isn't it enough that I had you all last night ? ' 
 
 Till now it had been difficult to be absent even for a few hours 
 from the room, for Ellis had always beg-ged not to be left to 
 the nurse, whom he g-reatly disliked. This sudden change was 
 perplexing and disappointing. Donovan went away discouraj^ed 
 and wretched, and tried in vain to sleep. Late in the evening- he 
 again went to relieve guard. Ellis did not actually object this 
 time to his presence, but he was alternately sullen and irritable, 
 in great pain, and, in spite of his confession signed and witnessed, 
 in terrible mental distress. 
 
 Donovan never forgot that nig-ht. It seemed endless ! There 
 was not very much to be done ; to quiet Ellis was impossible, to 
 reason with him was useless ; he could only listen to his irritable 
 remarks, and make answer as guardedly as he could. 
 
 ' What are you here for ? ' g-rumblcd Ellis. ' What made you 
 come ? Why do you stay ? You know you hate me ! ' 
 
436 ^ VIA Lucis. 
 
 ' Nonsense,' replied Donovan. ' Should I stay here if I did ? 
 
 ' You have some evil purpose,' cried Ellis. ' You have come 
 for your revenge. Why did you come 1 ' 
 
 ' Because it was rig-ht,' said Donovan, shortly. 
 
 ' Right ! Do you think I shall helieve that ? All very fine 
 when you knew quite well I'd ruined you. Dida't you know, I 
 sa}'' ? Didn't you know well enough ? ' 
 
 ' Of course,' said Donovan. ' liut you were ill and alone.' 
 
 ' Oh ! yes, it's all very fine ; but you won't get me to believe 
 it. It's a very likely story, isn't it ? I tell you,' he added, in a 
 querulous voice, ' you're a fool to try to gull me like that — it's 
 against all reason — you can't prove to me that you don't hate 
 me — you can't prove" to me that you didn't mean to poison me ! ' 
 
 ' No, I can't prove it in words,' said Donovan ; ' I can only 
 flatly deny. But we have been so long together, surely you can 
 believi in me now ?' 
 
 He still murmured that it was impossible — against reason ; 
 but, perhaps exhausted by his own vehemence, fell at length into 
 a sort of restless sleep. 
 
 Donovan too dozed for a few minutes in his chair, only, how- 
 ever, to carry on the argument. He woke with the words — 
 ' Quite against reason ' in his mind, and his own answer — * Surely 
 you can believe in me now ! ' 
 
 He got up, went to the bed, and looked at Ellis ; he was still 
 sleeping, an expression of great distress on his worn face. Dono- 
 van sighed, and crossed the room to the window. The night was 
 wearing on ; he drew up the blind and saw that the first faint 
 grey of dawn was stealing over the horizon. Everything looked 
 inexpressibl}^ dreary ; the room was at the ba^ik of the house ; he 
 could see the bare trees waving in the wind, and the grim, white 
 tombstones in the burial-ground stood out forlornly in the dim 
 light. Death was certain, all too certain, but the beyond was 
 dark and unknown. Yet here in the very room with him was 
 one who must soon pass through those gloomy portals — to 
 what ? Was there a hereafter to complete this fearfully barren 
 existence ? Would that wretched life have a chance of growth 
 and change ? Or was it just ended here ? Had this man, with 
 all his gifts and talents, jiist wasted his life ? was there no future 
 for him i* He had done no good works to live after him, he had 
 left no memory to be revered, he had done no good to his genera- 
 tion, had left nothing for posterity. Was all ended ? 
 
 When Dot had died, Donovan had dreamed of no possible 
 hereafter, but now all seemed different. His creed was no longer 
 a positive one, and besides, the idea of the wasted life dying out 
 
APPREHENSION. 487 
 
 for everwns less toloroble than the idea of tlie little child passing- 
 from terrible pain to the ' jieace of nothingness.' 
 
 What /I'os the Trnth ? Did this awfully mysterious life end 
 with what was called Death ? 
 
 And still a voice repeated his own words — ' Surely 3'ou can 
 believe in me now ! ' 
 
 Then again he looked at the sleeping" man, and ag-ain a 
 miserable sense of failure weighed down his heart. He had tried 
 hard to show no trace of remembrance of the past, never in look 
 or word to remind Ellis of the wrong- he had done him, yet his 
 forgiveness had been rejected, insolently, contemptuously rejected. 
 lie might just as well have g-one out to the war and lel't Ellis to 
 his fate, for he evidently would not even believe that his motive 
 had not been one of self-interest. 'Against all reason,' a ' likely 
 story ! ' Evidently he could not bring- himself to believe, and 
 how was it possible to g-ive him proof! The most wounding- sense 
 of rejection and disappointment filled his heart. 
 
 And stdl the voice repeated, * Surely you can believe in me 
 now ! ' 
 
 Then for the first time in his life Donovan became conscious 
 of a Presence mightier than anything he had ever conceived pos- 
 sible. He realized that his pam about Ellis was but the shadow 
 of the pain wdiich he himself had given to * One better than the 
 best conceivable.' He saw that for w^ant of logical proof he too 
 had rejected Him whose ways are above and beyond proof. The 
 veil w^as lifted, and in the place of the dim Unknown stood One 
 who had loved him with everlasting love, who had drawn him 
 with lovinji'-kindness. 
 
 CHAPTER XL. 
 
 APPREHENSION. 
 
 Life has two ecstatic moments, one when the spirit catches sight of 
 
 Truth, the other when it recognizes a kindred spirit Perhaps it ia 
 
 only in the land of Truth that spirits can discern each other ; as it is when 
 they are helping each other on, that they may best hope to arrive there. 
 
 Guesses at Truth. 
 
 If ra])ture means the being carried away, snatched out of self to 
 something higher — if ecstasy means the state in which corporeal 
 consciousness is made to stand aside, to give place to a higher 
 and perfectly satisfying consciousness — then Donovan knew for 
 the first time both rapture and ecstasy. But real spiritual raptura 
 
438 APPREHENSION. 
 
 is the quietest thing' in the workl. It is only when the senses are 
 appealed to that superstition and fanaticism win devotees and 
 evoke noisy and excited zeal. The man who, after long- search 
 and hard labour, is at length rewarded by some grand discovery, 
 will be very calm lecause of his rapture, very still, because his 
 feelings are true and deep. 
 
 It was characteristic of him that he stood upright. After a 
 time the beauty of the scene without made itself felt. The sun 
 had just risen — the window looked westward — all the land was 
 bathed in the rosy glow of sunrise. The wind had gone down, 
 the bare trees no long-er waved dismally to and fro, the white 
 graves in the burial- g-round were softened and mellowed in the 
 glorious flood of light. It was not unlike the change in his own 
 life — the darkness past, the sun changing all the scene. For 
 was not the mystery of life solved 1 had not even the grave ' its 
 sunny side ' 1 Jt was when the prophet realized the everlasting- 
 ness of God that the conviction came to him — ' we shall not die.' 
 
 And Dot's confident ' you will know ' came to pass, and she 
 was, as it were, given back to him once more. 
 
 The sick man stirred. Donovan went to the bedside. There 
 too he was conscious of change. The realization of immortality 
 brings relief, but it brings too a strange sense of awe. 
 
 The sleep had refreshed Ellis. He was a little better, and not 
 quite so irritable, his assumed dislike too was put aside. Once 
 more his only anxiety was to keep Donovan beside him. As the 
 day advanced he grew weaker, however. He was not in great 
 pain, but very restless and weary, and in an agony of fear. At 
 last, to relieve himself, he began to talk to Donovan. 
 
 * Do you remember what you said when you left the Manor?' 
 he began, hurriedly, ' about hoping I'd remember to m}-- dying 
 day ? This is my dying day, and you've got your wish,' 
 
 *I have unwished it,' said Donovan, quietly. 
 
 'I believe you have,' said Ellis, looking at him steadily for 
 a minute. ' But how can I forget ? The sin is the same whether 
 3'ou forgive or not. And I've not even enjoyed it — do you hear? 
 I've not been able to enjoy it ! ' 
 
 ' No ? TJien God has been very good to you,' said Donovan. 
 
 ' Good ! What do you mean ? ' groaned Ellis, 
 
 * That tlie greatest curse you can have is enjoyment of wrong,' 
 replied Donovan. ' I know only too bitterly what it means.' 
 
 Ellis seemed to muse over the words, then he continued — 
 ' I've done what I could. I've got it sit^ned and witnessed. 
 See ! ' and he drew a folded paper from beneath the pillow 
 ' But it's no good, it's not a bit of good. It's made me feel no better. 
 
AprnEHENSioN. 439 
 
 Donovan g-lanced at tlie confession and put it aside. 
 
 ' Don't let it be lost, don't leave it about,' cried Ellis, ner- 
 vously. ' Without it you won't g'et your rii^'hts, and, if not, I 
 couldn't rest in my g-rave.' 
 
 Just at that moment Donovan felt supremely indifferent as to 
 the property, but to please p]llis he j)ut the paper in a safe f)lace. 
 
 ' It was all that wretched will that ruined me ! ' cried the 
 miserable man. ' If it hadn't been so small, if I hadn't been 
 alone, there'd have been no temptation. I wasn't such a bad 
 fellow before then. And now I'm ruined, lost ! Do you hear 
 what I say ? I've lost my soul ! How can you sit there so 
 quietly when in a few hours I shall be dead ? Don't you believe 
 in hell ? ' 
 
 * Yes,' said Donovan, slowly, * And I think that you and I 
 have already spent most of our lives there.' 
 
 'That wasn't what they used to teach ; I believe you're half 
 a sceptic still,' groaned Ellis, ' I'm sure there was a way of 
 gettino- it all set right at the last, if only I could remember.' 
 
 ' Would you like to see a clergyman ? ' asked Donovan. 
 
 ' No, no, no,' cried Ellis, vehemently ; ' I've been a hypocrite 
 all my life before them, I can at least speak the truth to you — 
 you who know just what I am,' 
 
 ' Then,' said Donovan, very diffidently, urged to speak only 
 by the extremity of the case, ' if you want one Avho knows all, 
 you can go straight to God, who is nearer you than anyone else 
 can be.' 
 
 ' That's nothing- new ! ' exclaimed Ellis, petulantly. * I've 
 known that all my life.' 
 
 ' Hoiv did you know it,' asked Donovan. 
 
 ' I don't know how ; they told me — my mother, and at 
 church and school.' 
 
 Conventional acceptance was a thing which Donovan could 
 not understand. 
 
 ' I think we must learn differently from that,' he said slowly, 
 as if feeling his way on new ground. * Before you can really 
 hnuw, must you not be conscious of God's presence 'i ' 
 
 ' I've had that,' groaned Ellis, ' it's dogged me through 
 everything — a dreadful text that was up in the old nursery, it 
 used to make me shiver then — great black letters — " Thou God 
 sccst me ; " I can see it now, and the horrid feeling after one had 
 told a lie. Do you think there's no way out of it I They used 
 to say something — I forget what, it never seemed to me very 
 real. Do you think one vmst be punished ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, I do,' said Donovan. 
 
440 APPREHENSION. 
 
 ' Oh ! is tliere no way of getting- off? ' groaned Ellis. 
 
 ' I don't think you'll wish to '•' get off," ' replied Donovan. 
 
 'Not wish ! How little you know ! What would you do if 
 3'ou were lying as I am, with onlj' a few hours more to live ? — 
 would you not wish to get off?' 
 
 ' I think I should wish — I do wish — to be saved from selfish- 
 ness,' said Donovan, slowly, ' and to give myself unreservedly 
 into God's keeping.' 
 
 Death has a strange way of brc;:king down the strongest 
 barriers of reserve ; afterwards it seemed almost incredible to 
 Donovan that he and Ellis, of all people in the world, should 
 have spoken with such perfect openness to each other. It was a 
 little hard on him peiluijis to be called so soon to speak of the 
 truths he had so lately grasped, but the very freshness of his 
 conviction gave his words a peculiar power, the very slowness 
 and diffidence of his hunjility touched Ellis when glib, conven- 
 tional utterances would Lave passed by him unheeded. And yet 
 the sick man did not gather from his words one grain of selfish 
 comfort. Donovan evidently did not believe in any charm fur 
 converting the death-bed of a wrong doer into that of a saint; 
 he seemed quite convinced that punishment did await him, puri- 
 fying punishment. And Ellis, who had all his life hoped to set 
 things right at the last, was much more terrified at the idea of 
 certain ])unishment, even with his ultimate good in view, than of 
 everlasting punishment, which, by some theological charm, he 
 might hope altogether to escape. The inevitable loss of even 
 some small possession is much more keenly felt than the possible 
 loss of fii'., which we hope to avert, and the very idea of \\hich 
 we can hardly take into our minds. 
 
 The one only comfort of that terrible day was in the realiza- 
 tion of Donovan's forgiveness. By degrees this began to work 
 in the poor man's mind, almost im])erceptibly to alter his grim 
 notions of the stern, inexorable Judge in whom be believed, and 
 before whom he trembled. 
 
 It was night again, the room was dim and quiet, but beside 
 the bed the dying man could see the face of his late enemy, the 
 strong, pure, strangely powerful face, which, in his helplessness, 
 he had learnt to love. 
 
 'Do you think God's as forgiving as j^ou are?' he faltered. 
 ' Do you think He's better than they say ? ' 
 
 Donovan was dismayed. Did the poor fellow know what he 
 was saying? could he have such a terribly low ideal ? He would 
 not allow his surprise to show itself, however. He drew nearer. 
 
 ' See,' he said, at the same time raising his cousin's head so 
 
APPREHENSION. 441 
 
 that it rested on his shoiikler in the way which g-ave the sick man 
 most relief, ' I know very little of what they say, and am at the 
 beg-inning- of everything-, but I am sure that whatever love I have 
 for you is but the tiniest ray of Ilis love ; and if you persist in 
 shutting- out all but one ray when the whole sun is ready to light 
 you, you will find it, as I have found it, very dark.' 
 
 And then in the silence that followed Donovan fell into a 
 reverie. Why was it that this man found it so hard to believe ? He 
 had evidently no such ditliculties as he himself had had — no intel- 
 lectual perplexities. Had he believed in some terrific phantom ? 
 or had the long- selfishness of years brought him to a state in 
 which he could not reach the idea of love i* Yet he could reach 
 the idea of human love and pity; he clung- now almost like a child 
 to Donovan. 
 
 ^ ' Who would have thought that you would be the only one 
 with me at the last ?' he murmured. 'But I shall have to leave 
 even you ; I must go alone to face God, to stand before the Judg-e. 
 I wish I'd never been born, I tell you ! ' 
 
 Dunovan felt almost choked ; he would have g-iven worlds to 
 have had Charles Osmond there at that moment. But there was 
 uo chance of g'etting- a better man to speak to Ellis then, nor, had 
 the greatest saints upon earth been present, wovdd they have 
 had as much influence with him as the man whom he had 
 wrong-cd. 
 
 The clock struck three. There was a long- silence. Donovan 
 seemed to have gained what he wanted in the waiting-, for his 
 face was strangely bright when he turned once more to Ellis. 
 
 ' I am g-oing- to tell you something- about my father,' he began. 
 And then, much in the way in which he used to soothe Dot's 
 restless nights with stories, Donovan told faithfully and graphi- 
 cally the whole story of his school disgrace. How he had cared 
 not a rush for all the blame, how he had braved opinion, how the 
 treatment he received had hardened and embittered him ; then of 
 his return to the house, of the way in which his father had re- 
 ceived him, of the forgiveness which had first made him repentant, 
 of the fatherly grief which had made him just for his father's sake 
 care for the j)unishment. 
 
 His voice got a little husky towards the end. Ellis, too, was 
 evidently much moved. 
 
 • Do you think God is at all like your father ? ' he faltered. 
 
 It hurt Donovan a little, this bald anthropomor])h!?^ni, but, 
 recognizing that Ellis was really feeling- after the underlying- truth, 
 he answered, 
 
 * I think my father was, as it were, a shadow of God — a 
 
442 APPREHENSION, 
 
 sliadow of the f^reat Fatherhood — and the shadow can't be with- 
 out the reality.' 
 
 Ellis seemed satisfied. After that he slept at intervals, 
 murmuring- indistinctly every now and then frag-ments of the 
 story he had just heard, or wandering- hack to recollections of his 
 childhood. 
 
 Just as the dawn was breaking-, he came to himself once 
 more, speaking- quite clearly. 
 
 ' I should like you to say the Lord's Prayer,' he said. 
 
 So tog-ether Donovan and the dying- man said the ' Our 
 Father,' and sealed their reconciliation. 
 
 Then, tremblingly and fearfully, Ellis entered the valley of 
 the shadow of death. Truly there are last which shall be first, 
 and first last ! The conventionally religious man, the man whose 
 orthodoxy had always been considered beyond dispute, would have 
 died in black darkness had not one ray of love been kindled in his 
 cold heart by the forg-iveness he so little deserved, had not a 
 gleam of truth been given to him by one who but yesterday had 
 been an agnostic. 
 
 At sunrise he passed away into the Unseen, 
 
 For thirty-six hours Donovan had been in constant attendance 
 on his cousin. When all was over he could no longer resist the 
 craving- for air which had for some time made the sick-room 
 almost intolerable to him. In the stillness of that early winter 
 morning he left the house and made his way into the park. The 
 ground was white with frost, the sky intensely blue, the air 
 sharp and exhilarating. The outer world suited his state of mind 
 exactly. He was awed and quieted by the death-bed he had just 
 quitted, but above the stillness and above the awe there was that 
 marvellous sense of the Eternal which had so lately dawned for 
 him, a consciousness which widened the whole universe, which 
 gave new beauty to all around. He walked on rapidly into the 
 bleakest, most open part of the park, a peculiar elasticity in his 
 step, a light in his eyes. 
 
 It took him back to a day in his childhood, when his tutor 
 bad first given him some idea of the most recent solar disco- 
 veries. He could clearly remember the sort of exultant glow oi 
 wonder and awe which had taken possession of him ; how the 
 wliole world had seemed full of grand possibilities ; how he had 
 rushed out alone on to the downs near the Manor, and in every 
 blade of grass, in every tiny flower, in every wayside stone had 
 seen new wonders, strange invisible workings which no one could 
 fathom or grasp. The very wind blowing on his heated brow 
 
TREVETIIAN SPEAKS. 443 
 
 lind boon laden witli the marvellous ; nothing- could be common, 
 or small, or ordinary to him again. 
 
 That had been his feeling- when he first realized the physical 
 unseen ; his first realization of the spiritual unseen %vas a little 
 like it, only deeper and more lasting-, and that while the child's 
 delight had had an element of -wildness in it, the man's rapture 
 vas all calmness. 
 
 The ])ark seemed deserted. The sole creature he met was an 
 organ-grinder setting- out on his daily rounds. Involuntarily 
 they exchanged a hion giorno. His very dreams of 'liberty, 
 equality, fraternity ' took a wider and deeper meaning in the 
 breadth and light of that morning-. 
 
 There are more resurrection days than the world dreams of — 
 Eastcrs which are not less real because the church bolls do not 
 ring- — which, though chanted of by no earthly choir, cause joy in 
 the presence of the ang-els of God. 
 
 CHAPTER XLI. 
 
 TREVETHAN SPEAKS. 
 
 But Thou wilt sin and grief destroy; 
 That so the broken bones may joj', 
 And tune together in a well-set song, 
 
 Full of His praises, 
 
 Who dead men raises. 
 Fractures well cured make us more strong. 
 
 George Herbert. 
 
 The years had wrought very little visible change in Gladys. 
 Outvv'ardly her life had been very quiet and uneventful since her 
 last meeting- with Donovan, and whatever anxiety or inward 
 trouble she had had was not registered on her fair, open brow, or' 
 in her clear, quiet, blue-g-rey eyes. That time was passing 
 quickly, and that years had elapsed since Donovan had been at 
 Porthkerran, was shown much more clearly by the change in 
 Nesta, v/ho, from a remarkably small child, had shot up into a 
 slim little girl of eight years. The two sisters were walking 
 tog-ether along- the Porthkerran cliifs one winter afternoon, Nesta 
 telling- an endless fairy tale for the joint benefit of her doll and 
 her sister, Gladys listening- every now and then for a few minutes, 
 but a good deal engrossed with her own thoughts. 
 
444 TREVETHAN SPEAKS. 
 
 The Caustons were spending a few days with them, and 
 Stephen's presence was rather tiresome and embarrassing-. She 
 had really come out chiefly to escape his company, for the after- 
 noon was not at all tempting-. A strong- west wind was blowing*, 
 the sky was dull and leaden, the sea grey, and restless, and 
 stormy. Gladys was not easily affected by weather, but to-day 
 the dulness seemed to tell on her. There was something- de- 
 pressing- in the g-reat, g'rey expanse of sea heaving- and tossing- 
 restlessly, in the long- \Ahite fringe of foam along- the coast line, 
 in the heavy gloomy sky. Only one boat was in sight, a little 
 pilot-boat which had just left Porthkerran Bay. It was tossing- 
 fearfully; every now and then a great g-ust of wind threatened 
 to blow it quite over. She watched it bending- and swaying- 
 beneath the blast, but still making- vvay, until at length it disap- 
 peared in the grey mist which shrouded the distance. 
 
 Gladys sighed as it passed away out of sight. It reminded 
 her — why she scarcely knew — of a life which for a little while 
 had touched her life very nearly, of a strong-, determined, resolute 
 man struggling- hard with adverse circumstances under a leaden 
 sky of doubt. He, too, had passed away into a g'rey mist. For 
 years she had heard nothing- of him ; their lives were quite 
 severed. Was he still under the leaden sky ? she wondered. 
 Was all still so fearfully against him ? Was he still toiling- on 
 ag-ainst wind and tide? A rift in the clouds made way for a g-leam 
 of sunhght, and it so happened that the gleam fell on the horizon- 
 line in one g-olden little spot of brightness. Right in the centre 
 of it she could clearly make out the dark sail of the pilot-boat. 
 It broug-ht to her mind a line of Georg-e Herbert — 
 
 The suu still shineth there or here. 
 
 And she walked on more hopefully, strang-ely inspirited by 
 that momentary glimpse of sunlight. What rig-ht had she to 
 doubt that the sun would shine for him sooner or later '{ Might 
 not he, too, have even now reached the brightness ? lived out his 
 bit of g'rey ? 
 
 ' We will g-o and see Trevethan,' she said to little Nesta. ' It 
 is quite a long time since we heard anything- about him.' 
 
 'J'hey passed the place where Donovan had climbed down after 
 the lost hat, and before many minutes reached the forg-e, where 
 Trevethan was hammering- away at his anvil, the sparks spring- 
 ing up from the red-hot metal like fire-flies. Standing beside the 
 blazing fire was a little pale-faced girl. 
 
 ' Good day, miss,' said the blacksmith, glancing round and 
 laying aside his hammer. ' I'm right glad to see ye, miss, I 
 
TREVETHAN SPEAKS. 445 
 
 was a-coming up to the house this very nig-ht to tell ye our good 
 news.' 
 
 'News of your son?' asked Gladys, feeling- certain that 
 nothing- less could have called out such radiant satisfaction in 
 Trevcthan's face. 
 
 ' Not news of him, Miss Gladys, but himself; he's come, he's 
 here now, and this is his little one, miss, called after you. Jack 
 was determined she should have a good Cornish name. He be 
 out now, more's the pity, but we be both a-coming to-night to 
 see the doctor, to tell him of Mr. Farrant, and how it's all his 
 doing.' 
 
 * Mr. Farrant ?' questioned Glad^'s, her colour deepening. 
 
 * Yes, miss, Mr. Donovan as was here three years gone by. 
 He promised to look out for Jack, and you'd never think, miss, 
 what he's been to my poor lad, a-nursing of him his own self, 
 and a-persuading of him to come home when Jack was frightened 
 whether I'd give him a welcome or not.' 
 
 ' Was your son at St. Thomas's ? ' asked Gladys. 
 
 ' Yes, miss, but Mr. Farrant he found him out in his own 
 ])lace. You tell, little one, how you fetched him to see father.' 
 
 So little Glaelys told shyly, yet graphically, too, how she had 
 gone one rainy evening to fetch Donovan, how he had made her 
 sit by his fire, how he had held his umbrella over her on the way 
 back, and had done all he could to help them. The tears would 
 come into Gladys' eyes for very hajipiness. Had she not known 
 that the truth would come out at last! Had she not been right 
 to believe in him without the slightest proof! 
 
 ' Will Mr. Dono come to stay with us again ? ' asked Nesta, 
 as they walked home. 
 
 ' I don't know, darling,' she replied. ' Some day perhaps.' 
 
 But her heart was dancing with happiness, that 'perhaps ' 
 had a good deal of assurance in it. 
 
 The two Trevethans had a long interview with the doctor 
 that evening. Such an unexpected opportunity of hearing about 
 Donovan was not to be neglected, and Dr. Tremain made the 
 most minute inrpiiries. Jack Trevethan was a very shrewd 
 fellow ; from the most trifling indications he had long ago 
 guessed all the facts of the case. He had seen Donovan flush 
 quickly at the mention of Miss Tremain, had found that he was 
 no longer on speaking- terms with Stephen Causton, had put two 
 and two together in the quick way common to observant people, 
 especially when they are watching life in a circle above them. 
 He was devoted to Donovan, and very eager to do him service. 
 Very carefully and minutely he told Dr. Tremain of their first 
 
446 TREVETHAN SPEAKS. 
 
 meeting- in the billiard saloon. Then for the first time Donovan's 
 true relation to Stephen transpired. The doctor could hardly 
 believe that he heard rightly. It was such an entire reversin.^ 
 of all that he had feared, ail that he had unwillingly beheved. 
 Could it indeed be that Donovan had only tried to keep Stephen 
 
 out of evil ? Could he possibly have gone with him to the Z ■ 
 
 Races merely to prevent his going with the set which Trevethan 
 very graphically described ? The ex-billiard marker disclosed 
 several very damaging facts ; Stephen had often visited the saloon 
 with the same set of students, but Donovan had never again 
 entered the jDlace. 
 
 Gladys could not understand why her father looked so 
 worried and perplexed when he came back to the drawing-room 
 that evening. Did he not believe the good news ? Must he not 
 be infinitely relieved ? A sudden light was thrown on her per- 
 plexity, however, when her father spoke. 
 
 ' I want a word with you, Stephen, will you come into the 
 study ? ' 
 
 Of course whatever proved Donovan's innocence must at the 
 same time convict Stephen ! She had not thought of that ! 
 
 Stephen had a sort of presentiment that his time v/as come. 
 He followed the doctor into the" next room. 
 
 'I have nothing pleasant to tell you,' began Dr. Tremain, 
 speaking rather quickly, and in a tone of one who fears he may 
 lose his temper. ' I have just had an interview with a man who 
 was present at a certain billiard saloon in Villiers Street at the 
 time you were in the habit of frequenting it. The man was one 
 of the markers j he has described to me the one evening when 
 Donovan met you there and persuaded you to leave. Is that 
 what you call being led into temptation by him ? ' 
 Stephen turned pale. 
 
 ' It is exceedingly hard that you take the word of a mere 
 stranger before mine,' he said. ' This man, whoever he may be, 
 has no doubt been instigated by Farrantl Why should you 
 believe him V 
 
 ' Because he has truth written on his face,' said Dr. Tremain, 
 'and you have not. Stephen, I do not wish to be hard on you. 
 I will try not to prejudge you, but I implore you to tell me the 
 whole truth.' 
 
 To tell the whole truth was unfortunately not at all in 
 Stephen's line ; he began to excuse himself. 
 
 ' Farrant is as hard as nails, he judges everyone by himself; 
 because he had once been a regular gambler was no reason that 
 I should follow his example. He'd no business to spy on me.' 
 
TREVETHAN SPEAKS. 447 
 
 * Take care,' said the doctor, quickly, ' your own words are 
 condciuuing- you.' 
 
 'It is you who force me to condemn myself",' said Stephen, 
 sullenly. Then after a pause he all at once hroke down and 
 buried his face in his hands. 'If Gladys could have loved me/ 
 he sobbed, ' it would all have been dilFerent ; it's been my love 
 for her that has undone me, made me want to seem better than I 
 was.' 
 
 The doctor, at once sorrowful and angry, paced t)ie room in 
 silence, but there was something- so selfish in Stephen's confes- 
 sions that, in spite of himself, the anger would predominate. 
 
 * You call by the name of love what was nothing- more 
 than mere selfish desire,' he said, sternl}'. ' How could you 
 dare to ask any woman to be your wife when to gain her you 
 had acted one continual lie ! Do you realize that all these years 
 an innocent man has been suffering for your guilt ? Do you 
 realize that one word from Donovan, the word he was "too 
 generous to speak, would have brought all your falseness to the 
 light i* What do you expect him to think of Christianity if that 
 is the wa}-- you behave? You have brought shame to your 
 religion ! You have disgraced your name ! And not only that, 
 but you have utterly misled me, caused me to misjudge the man 
 of all others I would have treated with greatest delicacy — greatest 
 justice. How could you tell me such lies / Had you no gene- 
 rosity — no sense of gratitude ? ' 
 
 Stephen cowered under the storm, but kept silence. 
 
 Presently, in the saddening consciousness of his own grievous 
 mistake, the doctor's anger died away. 
 
 ' I will say no more, it is scarcely fair to reproach you with 
 my own hastiness of judgment, my own want of insight,' he said, 
 in a voice full of sorrow, Avhich reproached Stephen far more than 
 his anger. ' But when I think of what Donovan has borne in 
 silence, from the very people too who should have been his best 
 friends, it is almost more than I can endure.' 
 
 Stephen's better nature began to show itself at last, his heart 
 smote him as he realized all the pain his deceit had caused. He 
 left off excusing himself, and somewhat falteringly told the 
 story from tlie very beginning, revealing the sort of double life 
 he had led fur so many years, wild and self-indulgent when alone, 
 falsely religious and proper when with his mother. The doctor 
 was very good to him, promised to help him as far as he could 
 by speakmg to Mrs. Causton, and perhaps for the first time 
 thoroughly awakened Stephen's love and respect. Before they 
 parted that night they had discussed the future as well as the 
 
448 TftEVETHAN SPEAKS. 
 
 post, and Stephen bad made up his mind to go abroad, to try 
 
 with all his might to redeem bis name. 
 
 Trevethan had after all been detained af St. Thomas's later 
 than Donovan had expected. He had learnt at the hospital that 
 his friend had not gone out to the war, that instead he was 
 nursing- some relation. This was all he could tell Dr. Tremain, 
 but of course the impulsive doctor, even with such slight informa- 
 tion, prepared to go up to London at once. Letters had failed 
 so signally before that he would no longer trust them ; he must 
 see Donovan to explain matters fully, to apologise as he wished. 
 
 Some cruel fate seemed to have ordained that he should 
 always have to endure a most irksome time of waiting in the York 
 I\Gad lodging-house. Donovan was of course not at home; the 
 old captain was out, but was expected in an hour's time, he was 
 the only person who knew Mr. Warrant's address. The landlady 
 invited the doctor to come in and wait. The room seemed very 
 dull and quiet, the only trace of Donovan which it bore Avas in a 
 sheet of writing-paper pinned up in a conspicuous place over the 
 mantel-piece, whereon was inscribed a high-flown but aifectionate 
 declaration that John Frewin, late captain of the Metora, bound 
 Jiimself hereby to touch no alcoholic drink until the return of liis 
 friend Donovan Farrant. 
 
 Apparently t)ie old man had kept his pledge, for he came in 
 before long looking exceedingly respectable and sober. Dr. 
 Tremain had to listen to the whole account of the drawing up of 
 the pa])er, the surprise it was to be to the captain's ' dear friend 
 and benefactor,' and the dreariness of the place without him, 
 before be could elicit Donovan's address from the talkative old 
 gentleman. Even then Ilouge tried to scare him with terrific 
 accounts of the small-pox. 
 
 At length, however, he was really on his .way to Connaugbt 
 Square ; by this time it was evening, and when he reached the 
 house it seemed dark and deserted. He rang, and, af^er a long- 
 delay, was admitted. Ph<pbe eyed him with some suspicion, but, 
 hearing that he was a doctor, she let him come in and showed 
 him into the dining-room, lighting the gas for his benefit. Then 
 for the first time they discovered that Donovan wias stretched on 
 the sofa fast asleep. 
 
 ' Don't wake him,' said the doctor, ' I'm in no hurry and will 
 wait. I suppose he has had very hard work. Is Mr. Farrant any 
 better ? ' 
 
 ' You have not beard, sir ? He died early this morning,' 
 replied Phoebe, gravely. * Mr. Donovan should have rested 
 before, but we couldn't persuade him ; there has been many things 
 to see to to-day, for they say the funeral must be to-morrow.' 
 
TREVETIIAN SPEAKS. 419 
 
 Neither the lig-hts nor the voices roused the sleeper ; by-and- 
 by Phoebe went away, and the doctor waited with eagerness not 
 unmixed with anxiety for the awaking-, remembering- with a pang- 
 their last parting- at the station, recalling- painfully the last words 
 which even then had touched him, 'All I ask is that you will 
 just forg-et me.* 
 
 At last a noise in the square roused Donovan, he started up, 
 rubbed his eyes, caught sight of Dr. Tremain, and sprang- to 
 his feet. 
 
 'You here!' he exclaimed, in astonishment, and then a sud- 
 den shade passed over hii* face, and the same peculiar expression 
 of doubt, almost of annoyance, showed itself, which had so 
 grievously hurt the doctor at their last meeting-. He understood 
 it well enough now, however. 
 
 ' Yes, I am here at last,' he said, g-rasping Donovan's hand. 
 * Here to ask your forgiveness, to tell you that we all know now 
 how much we have been misled.' 
 
 Donovan's eyes lighted up, but he waited in questioning 
 silence, careful still not to compromise Stephen in the slightest 
 degree. 
 
 ' I learnt all from Trevethan's son,' continued the doctor. 
 *And then a very i'cw questions brought out the whole truth 
 from Stephen. Can you forg-ive us, Donovan, for misjudging- 
 you so abominably ? ' 
 
 ' It was my own fault — my own doing-, at any rate,' said Dono- 
 van, smiling-, ' You were very slow to judge me at all, and it 
 seemed best all round that you should believe me to be in the 
 wrong." 
 
 ' it shielded Stephen, of course,' said the doctor, ' but he did 
 not deserve shielding, and it gave the rest of us a great deal of 
 pain. It Avas very generous of you, but surely mistaken.' 
 
 ' I asked you to forget me,' said Donovan. ' I hoped and 
 believed you would do so. It was not only or chiefly for Stephen's 
 sake. I believed that it would be better in every way.' 
 
 * You said so when we last saw each other,' said the doctor, 
 ' but even now I cannot see why it was necessary. And why did 
 you refuse to come to us that summer, and then tell me you 
 invented an excuse ? Was that in any way connected with 
 Stephen? Can you not tell me now why you could not 
 come ?' 
 
 ' Yes,' replied Donovan, with a strange thrill in his voice, 'I 
 can tell you even that now. I could not come because I loved 
 your daughter. I was not sure that I could help showing it; I 
 thought — it may have been presumptuous to think so — that she 
 
 o a 
 
450 TREVETHAN SPEAKS. 
 
 mig'bt possibly care for me. It was rig-ht, I tbink, to ^o away, 
 and "L hoped that she — that you all — would forget me.' 
 
 ' And little Gladys was tbe one who told me from the very first 
 that I must be mistaken, that I had judged you wrongly,' said 
 the doctor, rather huskily. ' We have all been very poor hands 
 at forg-etting you, Donovan ; do you want us to g-o on with the 
 dreary farce any long-er ? Will you not come back to us ? ' 
 
 * You must yourself give me the power of saying " Yes " to 
 that question,' said Donovan, his colour rising a little. ' A few- 
 days ago I must still have refused ; but if you could trust Gladys 
 to me, if she can possibly love one who has lived the life I have 
 lived — who has but seen, as it were, one ray of light in which 
 she has lived all her life — then I will come to you.' 
 The two men wTung each other's hands. 
 
 ' Gladys must speak for herself,' said the doctor. * For my 
 part, I would trust my little girl to you unreservedly. I will not 
 thank you for the way in which you have acted, but' — he 
 struggled with his emotion — ' it has made you very dear to me, 
 Donovan. No man in the world would I so gladly call my 
 son.' 
 
 Then, being Englishmen, and not caring to trust themselves 
 to talk more on a subject which moved them so much, they 
 plunged rather abruptly into other topics, discussed Ellis Farrant's 
 illness, the legality of his duly-witnessed confession, the great 
 increase of small-pox in London. 
 
 It was not until after the funeral, late in the following day, 
 that Donovan had time to go to the Osmonds, and then it was 
 only to take a hurried farewell, for Dr. Tremain had made light 
 of all fear of infection, and had insisted on his returning with 
 him to Trenant. 
 
 ' So you see,' he added, after briefly alluding to all that had 
 passed since the night he and Charles Osmond had last met, 
 ' life is beginning to open out for me in all sorts of unexpected 
 ways. I can hardly realize yet — I have hardly tried to think — 
 ^ttat Oakdone is really mine. How am I ever to turn myself 
 into tlie respectable country gentleman ? ' 
 Charles Osmond laughed. 
 
 * I am not much afraid for you,' he replied, quietly. ' It will 
 be a more difficult life than the hard working surgeon-life you had 
 planned for yourself; but I fancy you can make a great deal of 
 it.' 
 
 *It would be hard to face,' said Donovan, 'if I had not a 
 hope that the truest of helpers, the sweetest and best woman in 
 the world, may possibly begin the new life at Oakdene with me. 
 
*MY HOPES AND THINE ARE ONE.' 451 
 
 It is nothinp^ but a hope — to-morrow I shall know ; hut I could 
 not help tellinc; you of it — you -vvho have hclpsd me through 
 these black years,' 
 
 * I wish you good speed/ snid Charles Osmand, conveying 
 somehow in tone and look and touch a great deal more than the 
 mere words. 
 
 Then the two parted. 
 
 CHAPTER XLir. 
 
 *MY HOPES AND THINE ARE ONE.' 
 
 we will walk this world, 
 
 Yoked in all exercise of noble end, 
 
 And so through those dark gates across the wild 
 
 That no man knows. Indeed I love thee ; come, 
 
 Yield thyself up ! My hopes and thine are one : 
 
 Accomplish thou my manhood and thyself ; 
 
 Lay thy sweet hands in mine and trust to me. 
 
 The Princess. 
 
 In spite of the inevitable excitement and anxiety, Donovan slept 
 almost the whole way from London to St. Kerrans ; he had large 
 arrears of sleep to make up, and the doctor was glad enough to 
 see him settle himself in a corner scat and take the rest he so 
 much needed. By the time they reached St. Kerrans he was 
 quite himself again, quiet rather, and not much inclined to talk, 
 out with an unusual light in his dark eyes. Star and Ajax were 
 waiting for them at the station ; they drove through the little 
 Cornish town, with its grey houses, and out into the narrow 
 winding lanes, which Donovan remembered so well. It seemed 
 almost a lifetime since the Sunday evening when he had first 
 spoken unreservedly with Dr. Tremain — long years ago since 
 their last drive to St. Kerrans, when he thought he had parted 
 with Glad3's for ever. His heart beat high with hope ; every 
 step was bringing him nearer the woman he loved ! the very 
 trees and hedgerows seemed to welcome him as he passed, even 
 the cross-grained old man at the turnpike had a friendly greeting 
 for him. 
 
 It was dark by the time they reached Porthkerran ; the stars 
 were shining brightly through tlie frosty air, the ponies' feet rang 
 sharply on the hard road, in all the quaint, irregular houses 
 
452 'my hopes and thine are one.* 
 
 shone friendly lights ; he could see them climbing- far up the hill, 
 old Admiral Smith's house forming the apex. She was here in 
 this home-like little fishing village ! in a feAv minutes he should 
 see her again ! every pulse in him beat at double-quick tim> ,,.','? 
 thouo-ht of it. They drove on through the quaint market-|..ace, 
 with its stone fountain, surrounded now with rows of boats drawn 
 up from the beach into winter quarters. A blaze of light came 
 from the little inn where he had stayed with his father, where he 
 had first met Dr. Tremain ; lights shone, too, from the windows 
 of the school-house, and children's voices rang out clearly into 
 the street — they were singing Dot's favourite old carol — the 
 ■refi'ain reached him distinctly : 
 
 O tidings of comfort and joy, 
 
 Comfort and joy, 
 tidings of comfort and joy I 
 
 The doctor made the ponies draw up. 
 
 ' Gladys must be at her choir practice,' he said. * We will 
 see if she is ready to come home.' 
 
 He gave the reins to the groom, and Donovan followed him 
 into the school- room. 
 
 There was Gladys surrounded with little blue-eyed Cornish 
 children, sitting queen-like in a sort of bower of holly, and ivy, 
 and laurel branches, for the next day was to be the children's 
 winter school-treat. It had been postponed once or twice, but, 
 though somewhat late in the season, they were to celebrate it 
 ia Christmas fashion, and would not dispense with either carols 
 or greenery. 
 
 She was not the least altered; it was just the same sweet, 
 pure, sunshiny face, the remembrance of which had so often kept 
 him from evil. They greeted each other in the most ordinary 
 way. Then she turned to speak to her father, bu'". Donovan was 
 quite content, scarcely wished for more than the sight of her just 
 then. 
 
 ' Shall we drive you home ? ' said the doctor. ' Is your 
 practice over ? ' 
 
 ' It is just finished^ but I wanted rather to see old Mrs. Carne 
 ■ — she seems worse again.' 
 
 'I will take back Jackie and Nesta then/ said the doctor. 
 * Donovan will see you safely home, I've no doubt.' 
 
 Donovan, inwardly blessing the doctor, carried off Nesta to 
 the pony-carriage, impatient to have tliem all out of the way. 
 Was not each minute wasted which did not bring that perfect 
 mutual understanding which he so longed, for ! She might not 
 
MY HOPES AND THINE ARE ONE.* 453 
 
 care for liiin, still tlicy would understand each other, make an 
 end of the niiserablo silence and doubt of these lonji; years. 
 
 'J'he j)onycaiTiag'e drove oil", the last carol was sung-; with 
 js and salutes the small sing-ers ran noisily out of the school. 
 Doiiovan, whose ' duteous service ' had so long- consisted ia 
 silence and absence, now made the must of his opportunity ; 
 raked out the fire, tidied the school, turned out the lamps, then 
 with, in spite of himself, a certain sweet sense of possession — 
 possession if only for these few minutes — he turned to Gladys, 
 who for once seemed a little shy and silent. 
 
 They went out into the market-square, closely followed by 
 Waif. 
 
 * It is a house down on the sliore I want to g'O to,' said Gladys, 
 wishing- her heart would not beat so uncomfortably. But some- 
 Low, when Donovan next spoke, there was that in his manner 
 which calmed her. 
 
 * I am so glad to have this walk with you/ he said. * It was 
 good of your father to give me this time with you at once. I 
 want, Gladys, to know how I am to come back to Porthkerran 
 this time. The first time I came to you it was as a penniless 
 outcast; the second as a friend; the next as one who loved you, 
 but dared not speak. I have come this time ready to speak to 
 you, if )'ou will hear me ; to ask if you can give me more than 
 friendship — whether you care to take a love whicli has always 
 ]iocn yours. May I g'o on ? Will you hear me ? ' 
 
 She seemed to speak an assent, but her voice trembled, lie 
 took her hand in his, made her lean on his arm, still holding- the 
 httle hand in his strong" g'rasp. 
 
 * You see,' he continued, ' ever since I was a mere boy you 
 have been my ideal. In a very strange way I had three passings 
 ^■limpses of you, the first just after my father died, when I was 
 miserable anc? disgraced, then again those two meetings when I 
 was wronged and rcveng-eful. Oh, Gladj's ! you little know what 
 rou did fur me, what depths you saved me from. I think I arn 
 glad you saw me at my worst, without it I should hardly have 
 dared to speak to you like this. You know all that I was, you 
 were my friend when others shrank from me as an atheist, you 
 have taught me what love is, and now that I am beginning- to 
 learn something' uf the everlastingness of love, I want your help 
 more and more. Gladys, will you be my wife ? ' 
 
 'I think I have always loved j'oUj'she answered, quite simply 
 .md quietly. 'And I was always sure the Light would come to 
 |ou.' 
 
 * Yes,* said Donovan, holding- her hand more chtsely, 'you 
 
^54 'my Hope axd thine are one.* 
 
 could look at thing's from another point of vie-w, you believed in 
 a higher power ; I, you see, only knew myself, and how could I 
 dare to think of you as my wife ? My darling-, even now I half 
 tremble at the thoug-ht. Can you trust yourself to one who is 
 at the beginning- of everything- ? I have spent my life in learning; 
 what you have always known. Can you put up with such in- 
 completeness ? Can you trust me ? ' 
 
 ' After trusting in the darkness it is easy to trust in the light,' 
 said Gladys, softly. 
 
 ' You did believe in me then, though I tried so hard that you 
 should not/ said Donovan, half smiling. 
 
 ' You are not a good deceiver or concealer,' replied Gladys. 
 
 ' That day at Z on the staircase when you said you could 
 
 explain nothing, I could see by your face that you had never led 
 Stephen into harm. I couldn't help believing you.' 
 
 ' I should have thought I was flinty enough,' said Donovan, 
 smiling now, though the remembrance of that parting still 
 brought a cold chill to his heart. 
 
 ' Yes/ said Gladys, ' in one way. I mean/ she added, shyly, 
 *that I thought you did not care for me.' 
 
 ' That was because I did love you. Will you take that 
 silence now, darling, as a proof of the love I cannot speak even 
 when I may ? I thought it would only make you wretched then. 
 I knew so bitterly what a diflerence of faith means between those 
 who are very dear to each other.' 
 
 Gladys looked up at him, a beautiful light in her face. How 
 much he had thought of her ! how true and unselfish his love 
 was ! she could not help contrasting it with Stephen's blindly 
 selfish love and strangely different proposal. 
 
 * Directly you came into the school just now,' she said, ' I 
 thought how like you had grown to the picture of little Dot — 
 it is your eyes that have changed so. Oh, Donovan ! how glad 
 she will be ! ' 
 
 He pressed her hand, but did not speak. They walked along 
 the shore in silence ; presently reaching the little cottfige where 
 the sick ■woman lived, Gladys went in, and Donovan waited for 
 her outside, not sorry for a minute's pause in which to realize his 
 happiness. 
 
 In a little while she joined him again, and for a minute they 
 stood still looking out seawards. A faint streak of yellow 
 lingered in the west, but above the stars were shining brightly, 
 while across the dark rolling sea there gleamed from the light- 
 house two long tracks of light athwart each other. The same 
 thought came to each of them, the sweet old saying — * Via crucis. 
 
*MY HOPES AND THINE ARE ONE,* 455 
 
 Tia lucis.' Neither of them spoke, but to each came the lonf>-in<:» 
 tliat thoir love mij^-ht always be that self-sacrificinji; love which 
 alone can load into the lig'ht. It seemed to Gladys like a sort of 
 sacrament when Donovan stooped down and with a grave rever- 
 ence pressed his lips to hers. 
 
 * You will teach me,' he said, after a time as thcj walked 
 along- the beach. 
 
 She felt like a baby beside him as he spoke ; in his numility, 
 in his grand self-denying- nobleness, he seemed to tower above 
 her. 
 
 'Teacbyou!' she said, smiling. *I should as soon think of 
 teaching- papa! And yet papa always says the little ones do 
 teach him. Perhaps in that way, Donovan — can you be content 
 with that sort of child-wife who cannot understand half the 
 great things you think of?' 
 
 * My darling, how can you use such a word ? ' he exclaimed. 
 * Content ! And have you not been teaching- me all these years ? 
 How little the world knows its true teachers ! How little the 
 pure-hearted ones think of the lessons they teach ! ' 
 
 ' We will learn together/ said Gladys, softly. 
 
 * There is one thing I should like to tell you now,' said Dono- 
 van. ' I had arranged, you know, to go out to the war, and I 
 find there is still a vacancy in one of the ambulances. Yoii 
 will not mind my going out, darling ? I feel in a measure bound 
 to go, and I should like, at any rate, a few months of good stiff 
 work. Some time must pass before the legal matters are settled 
 and the Manor really becomes my own, and I should like to be 
 doing something in the waiting-time. You will not mind my 
 going ? ' 
 
 Gladys did of course shrink from the thought, but she know 
 that, in marrying such a man as Donovan, she must make up her 
 mind to much sacrifice. The delight of even now being able to . 
 Kuare his work helped to lessen the pain. 
 
 ' I think,' she replied, 'you would not have been Donovan if 
 you had not wanted to go.' 
 
 'And then with you,' said Donovan, 'I shall be strong- to 
 begin what I feel fearfully unequal to — the life as master oi 
 Oakdene. There is plenty of work for us at Greyshot, and you 
 must help me to love the neighbours, who perhaps may not luite 
 me now so mucli as they did. I almost fancy even Mrs. Ward 
 may be civil now that I have found a woman brave enough to be 
 my wife I Are you ready, darling, to be the wife of a radical !— 
 to be looked down on perhaps as the wife of a sometime 
 iitheist ? ' 
 
456 *5IY HOPES AND THINE ARE ONE.* 
 
 ' To be your wife,' said Gladys, g-ently. 
 
 They had made their w^y up the steep Avinding- street and 
 were in sight of Trenant, the dear old gabled house with its ivy- 
 covered walls and welcoming" lights. 
 
 ' This is the place where I first saw you,' said Donovan, 
 glancing in at the drawing-room window. On the very spot on 
 which he now stood with Gladys, he had once stood lonely and 
 despairing-, watching with bitterness a glimpse of home life. Some 
 thought of the infinite possibilities of the future, of the limited 
 view of the present, came to him. 
 
 *How glorious life is! ' he exclaimed. ' How different from 
 what one used to think it ! Oh, Gladys, if we can but do half 
 we long to do ! What a grand old working-place the world is ! ' 
 
 ' You wall be a grand worker,' thought Gladys, but she did 
 not reply in direct words. 
 
 They had reached the porch, some one had heard their steps, 
 and, as they drew near, the door was thrown open. Donovan saw- 
 in a blaze of friendly light a sweeter home drama than the one he 
 remembered long ago. There they all were — a welcoming group. 
 Nesta, Jackie, Dick just home from sea, the father Avith inde- 
 scribable content written on his face, and before all the mother — 
 the truest mother Donovan had ever known — her soft gre^' eyes 
 sbining into his with loving welcome and understanding*. 
 
 ' Home at last ! ' she said, smiling ; and then, seeing- all, she 
 gave a mother's greeting to both 'children.' 
 
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