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 THE LIBRARY OF THE 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF 
 
 NORTH CAROLINA 
 
 ENDOWED BY THE 
 
 DIALECTIC AND PHILANTHROPIC 
 
 SOCIETIES 
 
 PRii079 
 
 d6 
 1890 
 
DONOVAN: 
 
 A MODERN ENGLISHMAN. 
 
 A NOVEL 
 
 EDNA LYALL, 
 
 AUTHOR OF "WE TWO," ETC. ETC. 
 
 COPYRIGHT EDITION, 
 
 IN TWO VOLUMES. -VOL. I. 
 
 
 LEIPZIG 
 
 BERN HARD TAUCHNITZ. 
 
 1890. 
 
Digitized by tlie Internet Arcliive 
 
 in 2011 witli funding from 
 
 University of Nortli Carolina at Chapel Hill 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/dbnovanmodernengOOIyal 
 
TO ONE 
 
 WHOSE LOVING HELP 
 I LOVINGLY ACKNOWLEDGE. 
 
 
CONTENTS 
 OF VOLUME I. 
 
 Page 
 
 CHAPTER I. Expelled 9 
 
 — II. A Retrospect 17 
 
 — III. The Tremains of Porthkenan 36 
 
 — IV. "My only Son, Donovan" 52 
 
 ^ — V. Repulsed and attracted 65 
 
 — VI. Autumn jVIanccuvres 88 
 
 — VII. The black Sheep of Oakdene 107 
 
 — VIII. "Tied to his Mother's Apron-Strings" . . 125 
 
 — IX. Dot versus the World 136 
 
 — X. Looking two Ways 154 
 
 — XL "Let nothing you dismay" 173 
 
 — XII. Desolate 196 
 
 — XIII. AVishes and Chestnut Roasting . . . . 210 
 
 — XIV. Cast adrift 219 
 
O CONTENTS OF VOLUME 1. 
 
 Page 
 
 CHAPTER XV. Rouge et noir 244 
 
 — XVI. "The Raven for a Guide" 273 
 
 — XVIL Stmggling on 286 
 
 — XVIII. Monaco 301 
 
 — XIX. Losing self to find 317 
 
DONOVAN. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 EXPELLED. 
 
 Oh, yet we trust that somehow good 
 
 Will be the final goal of ill, 
 
 To pangs of nature , sins of will, 
 Defects of doubt, and taints of blood. 
 
 That nothing walks with aimless feet; 
 
 That not one Ufe shall be destroyed, 
 
 Or cast as rubbish to the void, 
 "VVlien God hath made the pile complete. 
 
 In Memoriani. 
 
 "So Farrant is really to be expelled? Tell me about 
 it, for I've heard next to nothing these last few days up 
 in the infirmary." 
 
 The speaker was a boy of about seventeen, who was 
 walking arm-in-arm with a companion of his own age in 
 the quietest part of a large 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 anything we knew, 
 
lO DONOVAN. 
 
 and, before I could have thanked my stars for ten seconds 
 that I knew nothing, up sprang Donovan Farrant to con- 
 fess that he had been the first to introduce card-playing. 
 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, Avith 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?" 
 
 "Don't know. He's a queer fellow. Such crazy ideas 
 of honour too ! Enough to make him spring up in that 
 way to answer to a general accusation, and yet so little 
 that he could go on for weeks as the ringleader in this 
 affair." 
 
 "But what's all this row about Harrison?" 
 
 "Why, Harrison — who's his fag, you know — says 
 Farrant forced him against his Avill to give his pocket- 
 money for the gaming, whereupon you can fancy the 
 Doctor was furious, exaggerated things, and told Farrant 
 he was found guilty of disobedience, stealing, and bul- 
 lying, 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." 
 
 ■ "x'Vsked 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." 
 
EXPELLED. I I 
 
 "Yes, in all conscience! He won't 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 some reason for keeping him 
 here. I say, I wish you'd go and speak to him, Reynolds." 
 
 After some httle discussion, Reynolds gave a reluctant 
 consent, and, crossing the playground, made his way to 
 the place where the culprit was standing. 
 
 Donovan Farrant looked somewhat unapproachable, 
 it must be confessed. He was a tall slight fellow of 
 nearly eighteen, with dark hair and complexion, a 
 curiously formed forehead, bespeaking 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 resolute- 
 ness that characterised 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 been racking 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. 
 
 The strange eyes met his unflinchingly, Reynolds felt 
 they 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 
 exception to prove the contrary rule? Among all those" 
 — he made an impetuous gesture towards the other 
 boys — "not one cared a rush for me — not one would 
 
1 2 DONOVAN. 
 
 speak a word, though they knew that, except what I con- 
 fessed, the charges were false." 
 
 Reynolds was about to reply when someone ap- 
 proached 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, he folded his arms and leant, this time 
 really for support, against the wall. A glow of shame 
 had mounted to his forehead; Reynolds 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 sighed 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 con- 
 trasted 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 place," he 
 said at last. "You have been left to yourself so much, 
 surely your father will understand and be lenient." 
 
 "Do you think I care for his anger? — it's not that! — 
 
 but to have brought this disgrace to him, to have " 
 
 He broke off abruptly, with a stifled sob. 
 
 Reynolds was amazed, for no one credited Donovan 
 Farrant with over-much feeling. But even as he won- 
 
EXPELLED. 1 3 
 
 dered 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. 
 
 A look of pain came into his eyes, but a satirical 
 smile played about his lips. The smile faded, however, 
 when he remembered the message which had just been 
 brought to him, and his hand was icy cold as he ab- 
 ruptly 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, trying to face this sorrow, trying to en- 
 dure this terrible new shame. He 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 ex- 
 pressed 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 rejoin the wife and 
 children whom he had not seen for years, and somehow 
 the home was not quite what he had expected, and the 
 long separation seemed either to have altered his wife or 
 to have raised a sort of barrier between them. He had 
 been absorbed in his work, had been leading a singularly 
 self-denying active life; she had been absorbed in herself, 
 and had allowed circumstances to drift her along un- 
 resistingly. No wonder that Colonel Farrant had already 
 
1 4 DONOVAN. 
 
 found how few interests he and his wife had in com- 
 mon; no wonder that, even in the brief time since his 
 return, he had reahsed that his two children were grow- 
 ing 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 gentle- 
 man had kept him so long in India. Mrs. Farrant's re- 
 ception of the news of Donovan's disgrace 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 any- 
 thing so far removed from her own personal concerns. 
 
 Donovan must not come home to that, the Colonel 
 felt that it would 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 pos- 
 sible, win his love before taking him back to the doubt- 
 ful influence of that strangely disappointing home. 
 
 Waiting now in the quiet room, with the slow mono- 
 tonous ticking of the clock, with the May sunshine stream- 
 ing in upon him, the Colonel tried to recall Donovan as 
 he was at their last parting years and years ago at Malta. 
 How well he remembered the little bright-eyed merry 
 child of three years old! What a wrench it had been to 
 leave him when his regiment 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 possible that his little high- 
 
EXPELLED. 
 
 15 
 
 spirited, loving child should have become a thief, a bully, 
 a breaker of rules? He could not believe it. And yet 
 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, 
 indignant 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, haggard, miserable, 
 only upheld by a desperate resolve to face the worst. 
 
 Donovan looked at once straight into his 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 disappointment, but only love and pity. His 
 father's hand was on his shoulder, his right hand clasped 
 his, and when he spoke there was not the slightest sound 
 of upbraiding in his tone. 
 
 "Dono — m.y 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 remorse surged up in his heart. 
 If only he could live his school days over again how dif- 
 ferent they should be! 
 
 Presently the father and son left the school, and, as 
 they made their way to the station, Colonel Farrant spoke 
 of the plan he had made. He had some business to 
 transact at Plymouth; he thought they would go down 
 there together, and perhaps spend a week in South 
 Devon or Cornwall before going back to Oakdeiie. 
 
1 6 DONOVAN. 
 
 Donovan evidently liked this idea, but in another minute 
 his face suddenly changed. 
 
 "I had forgotten Dot. What a brute I am!" he ex- 
 claimed. "She will be expecting me; I mustn't dis- 
 appoint her." 
 
 Somehow that sentence cheered Colonel Farrant won- 
 derfully. 
 
 Dot, his little invalid girl, had in a measure com- 
 forted him the day before by her evident devotion to 
 Donovan. He had hardly dared to hope, however, that 
 the love was mutual, or that, 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 you this." 
 
 They were in the train now. Donovan took the little 
 three-cornered note from his father. It was Avritten 
 faintly in pencil, but in spite of the straggling letters and 
 wild spelling it brought the tears to his eyes. 
 
 "Darling Don," it began, "I am so sory. Papa has 
 told me all abowt it, and he has been verry kind. I 
 don't think he bileves all the horid things they say off 
 you, and I never, never will, Don dear. 
 
 "Your loving Dot." 
 
 The long, strange journey ended at last, but by that 
 time Donovan's physical weariness was so intense that it 
 overpowered everything else. As he threw himself on 
 his bed that night, he could feel nothing but relief that 
 at length this longest and most painful day of his life 
 was over. The future was a yawning blackness, the past 
 a horrid confusion, but he would face neither past nor 
 
A RETROSPECT. I 7 
 
 future, the present was all he needed; in utter exhaustion 
 of both mind and body he fell asleep. 
 
 CHAPTER 11. 
 A RETROSPECT. 
 
 The canker galls the infants of the spring, 
 Too oft before their buttons be disclosed, 
 And in the morn and Uquid 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. Bro\\t>jing. 
 
 How was it that his son was so different from what 
 he had expected? That was the question which con- 
 tinually recurred to Colonel Farrant, as, with all the 
 chilliness of an old Indian, he sat beside the fire that 
 May evening in one of the private sitting-rooms of the 
 Royal Hotel. How was it that the child, whom he re- 
 membered as high-spirited, loving, and demonstrative, 
 had become proud, and cold, and repressed? It could 
 not all be owing to the sense of his present disgrace, 
 though that no doubt accounted for it in part; but there 
 was a restless unsatisfied expression, for which the dis- 
 grace did not account, and which appeared 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 from him, he might not have felt so much 
 perplexed. 
 
 Donovan had a wonderfully good memory, and, though 
 he had only been three years old when he parted with 
 his father and mother at Malta, he carried away a certain 
 kind of remembrance of them — a dim vision of a mother 
 who always wore pretty dresses, and of a father who was 
 
 Donovan. I. 2 
 
1 8 DONOVAN. 
 
 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 voyage to the charge of an elderly woman 
 in black, who was waiting for him when he landed at 
 Southampton. The elderly woman's name was Mrs. 
 Doery, and as they made their way to the station, she in- 
 formed Donovan that she was his grandfather's house- 
 keeper, and that he must always do what she told him. 
 Upon this, Donovan looked up at once to scrutinise 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, though 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 an- 
 other 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 summer's day, and Donovan, as he walked down the 
 platform, complained of thirst, and begged for something 
 to drink. He had caught a glimpse of some of his little 
 acquaintance on board ship standing within the refresh- 
 ment-room with tumblers of delicious-looking milk in their 
 hands, and this made him feel an uncomfortable craving 
 
A RETROSPECT. IQ 
 
 for some. But Mrs. Doery gave 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 meals, 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 had 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 great 
 distance from London. It was to the latter place 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 revisiting 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 happy one. 
 He was very lonely, to begin with; there were no children 
 of his own age whom Mrs. Doery thought fit to associate 
 with him; his grandfather, though very fond of him, was 
 too ill and helpless to be his companion; there was no 
 father at hand to play 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 R's, and he 
 proved very slow with the reading, only tolerable with 
 the writing, but alarmingly quick with the arithmetic. He 
 took to the multiplication table, as Mrs. Doery expressed 
 it, "like ducks to water;" he answered the questions in 
 
20 DONOVAN. 
 
 the book of mental arithmetic with a hghtning speed 
 which fairly baffled the housekeeper, and before he was 
 five years old the longest 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 night by proclaiming in excited tones 
 that if sheep were 39^. each, a flock of forty-five sheep 
 would be worth ,£87 15^., or some equally abstruse cal- 
 culation. 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 irecom- 
 mended 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 Donovan ensued; 
 "don't do that" seemed to follow everything he attempted. 
 He was not allowed to run about in the nursery, because 
 Mrs. Doery "couldn't abide a noise," or in old Mr. Far- 
 rant's room, because "it was unfeehng to his poor grand- 
 father;" if he ventured to make such a thing as a figure 
 everything in the shape of a pencil was at once con- 
 fiscated, and when he rebelled he was whipped. 
 
 For a little while he amused himself by turning the 
 letters in his picture-book into figures and calculating 
 with them, but Mrs. Doery soon found that he was up to 
 no good, and forbade him to open a book without her 
 leave. He was naturally bright and energetic, but he fell 
 now into listless lounging habits, his high spirits breaking 
 forth now and then, and carrying him into all kinds of 
 mischief. He was very self-willed, and his battles with 
 the housekeeper were numerous; but, though his will was 
 
A RETROSPECT. 21 
 
 quite as strong as hers, he was generally forced into a 
 sort of grudging, resentful submission, for Mrs. Doery had 
 what seemed to him a very unfair advantage in the shape 
 of a stinging 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 satis- 
 faction in his chastisement. 
 
 It was all very puzzling, Donovan could not under- 
 stand it, but then there were so few things he could 
 understand, except the problems about the sheep and 
 such like. Mrs. Doery found him difficult to manage, 
 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 no- 
 thing 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. Far- 
 rant 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 dark hand- 
 some man of eight-and-twenty, who patronised the httle 
 boy considerably, and held his hand while the Burial 
 Service was being read, an indignity which Donovan re- 
 sented keenly, trying hard to wriggle away from him. In 
 
2 2 DONOVAN. 
 
 the evening, however, he began to like his new cousin 
 better; the doctor and most of the other guests left early 
 in the afternoon, but Cousin Ellis and the lawyer from 
 London were to stay the night, as they had to look over 
 old Mr. Farrant's papers. The work did not seem to oc- 
 cupy them very long, for when Donovan went shyly into 
 the library with a message from Mrs. Doery, to know 
 when it would be convenient to them to dine, Ellis Far- 
 rant declared that they had looked through everything 
 and would have dinner at once, and then, with the bland, 
 patronising smile which Donovan disliked so much, added 
 that the little boy must certainly stay and dine with 
 them too. 
 
 Patronage was unpleasant, but then late dinner down- 
 stairs presented great attractions to seven-year-old Donovan, 
 and quite turned the scale in Cousin Ellis's favour. He 
 sat bolt upright in one of the great 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 men- 
 tioned, and then he listened attentively. 
 
 "Captain Farrant appointed you one of his trustees, 
 I believe," said the lawyer. 
 
 "Yes, in the will he made at the time of his mar- 
 riage, which was the most terse will ever heard of; very 
 little more than 'AH 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." 
 
A RETROSPECT. 2;^ 
 
 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 why 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, httle man" — it was Cousin Ellis who was 
 speaking — "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 Ellis and the lawyer laughed heartily. 
 
 "Not those cards, but plapng-cards, Dono. Didn't I 
 see a card-table in the library?" 
 
 But Donovan only looked puzzled, and his surprise 
 was great when, on adjourning to the next room, Ellis 
 Farrant cleared one 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 trans- 
 formed into a square of green baize, and Cousin Elhs 
 and the lawyer were shuffling the cards for their game. 
 Donovan was not at all sleepy now. He felt all a child's 
 delighted curiosity in something which was new and 
 mysterious, and then, too, what splendid things these 
 would be to calculate with; he wished he had found their 
 hiding-place before. 
 
 "Do tell me their names. Do let me watch you," he 
 begged. 
 
 And Ellis Farrant, who was in good-humour at having 
 found something to while away his dull evening, took the 
 little boy on his knee, and while he played taught him 
 his cards. 
 
24 DONOVAN. 
 
 To hear once was to remember with Donovan. He 
 not only learned the names of the cards, but began to 
 understand the principles 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 ecarte. 
 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 vingt-et-un, 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 was growing with magic speed, 
 and vingt-et-un fell to him twice running, and the gentle- 
 men 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 off to bed proud, and excited, and 
 victorious, to play vi?igt-et-un in his dreams, only being 
 disturbed now and then by a nightmare of a gigantic 
 queen of spades sitting on his chest and stifling him. And 
 so ended Donovan's first introduction to the "tapis vert." 
 
 The next morning Cousin Ellis and the lawyer 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 
 
A RETROSPECT. 2^ 
 
 the money. His head ached, too; the dreary emptiness 
 of the house oppressed him; he began to feel that his 
 grandfather's absence made a great 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 grow accustomed 
 to things, and shpped back into much the same routine 
 as before; meals, walks, and pretty frequent fights with 
 Mrs. Doery, solitary games, fits of wild mischief, whip- 
 pings, imprisonments, and vague wonders at the per- 
 plexities 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 wonderful 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 own invention, always play- 
 ing his adversary's cards with the strictest impartiality. 
 
 Another occupation there was too which helped to re- 
 lieve the tedium of the long days, and this was carpenter- 
 ing. He was very clever with his fingers, and, luckily, 
 the housekeeper did not object much to this pursuit, 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, intending, 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 
 
26 DONOVAN. 
 
 little fingers, succeeded in dissecting the clock. It was 
 wonderfully 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 pendulum was lying motionless in 
 his tool-box, the inexorable old gentleman with the scythe 
 was travelling at his usual pace, and bringing tea-time 
 and Mrs. Doery in his train. He had just settled every- 
 thing entirely to his own mind, and arranged which wheels 
 to readjust first, when the door opened j he looked up — 
 and there stood Mrs. Doery with a face of mingled astonish- 
 ment and wrath which baffles description. It was in vain 
 that Donovan pleaded to be allowed to set it right, and 
 showed how neatly he had arranged the pieces; Mrs. 
 Doery would not listen to a word, but taking the culprit 
 to his room, gave him the severest whipping he had ever 
 had, and Donovan cried piteously, not at all on account 
 of the pain, for he bore that like a little Trojan, but be- 
 cause he was quite sure he could put the clock together 
 again if "Doughy", would only let him. 
 
 It was not only by fits of mischief and wilfulness that 
 Donovan gave the housekeeper trouble. Soon after his 
 grandfather'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? 
 pursued poor Mrs. Doery from morning till night. Tak- 
 ing the doctor's general directions into every detail, she 
 had brought up her little charge in utter ignorance; he 
 knew no more of religion than the veriest little heathen, 
 and though Mrs. Doery had taught him a short doggerel 
 prayer to say as he went to sleep, he was much too 
 matter of fact and logical to care to say a charm ad- 
 
A RETROSPECT. 2'] 
 
 dressed, so 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 me." 
 
 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 imderstand. Mrs. 
 Doery found herself obliged to give an answer now and 
 then in order to quiet him, and Donovan learnt that people 
 knelt down to "ask God for things," that "God was a 
 Being who loved good people and hated bad people," 
 and that "grandpapa had gone to heaven." 
 
 "Why, that's what you always say when you're sur- 
 prised!" 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." 
 
 But his mind was not satisfied, and Mrs. Doery was 
 questioned still further. 
 
28 DONOVAN. 
 
 "Doughy, what did they mean when they said grand- 
 papa would never be 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?" 
 
 "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, reheved, "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 us 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 unfair." 
 
 "The good little boys are happy," said Mrs. Doery, 
 "and the bad ones aren't." 
 
 "Then, if I Avas 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; 
 
A RETROSPECT. SQ 
 
 "let alone the unlikeness that you ever would be good, 
 you see there's all them past times you was naughty; so 
 you've not much of 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, make him good, and fill 
 his life with happiness; she was to be just like Mrs. Harris, 
 the grocer's wife, who took her little boy out walking, 
 only her dresses were to be prettier, for the one thing he 
 remembered about his mother was that she always wore 
 pretty clothes. The events of his life were the arrival of 
 the Indian letters, in which "papa and mamma sent their 
 love to Dono;" but these were few and far between, for, 
 although Mrs. Doery 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 had had time to fade, came a 
 second letter with yet more wonderful tidings, a large 
 
30 DONOVAN. 
 
 letter for Mrs. Doery, and a little one enclosed for Donovan 
 from his father — "Mamma and baby were coming to 
 England to live with Dono, 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 him 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 would not he too be walking out with 
 his mother? 
 
 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 good 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 stopped at the door, 
 Mrs. Doery, smoothing her black apron, bustled out into 
 the hall, and Donovan rushed headlong down the white 
 steps to throw his arms round his mother's neck. But a 
 sudden chill of disappointment fell on his heart, it was 
 so different from everything he had planned. The tall pretty- 
 looking lady stooped to kiss him, indeed, her voice was 
 soft and refined, if somewhat languid, as she exclaimed, 
 "Dear me! what a great boy you have grown!" 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 shut the 
 door. Mrs, Farrant was already on the way to her room, 
 
A RETROSPECT. 3 I 
 
 and did not notice him any further, and he was too be- 
 wildered and disappointed 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 by this time 
 he had grown shy, and only made the briefest responses 
 to her questions, and before long she had disposed her- 
 self 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 
 heart. The doll only added to his disappointment. Surely 
 the ideal mother would have understood how little he, a 
 boy of eight years old, would care for a doll! He did 
 not want presents at all, he wanted the dream-mother 
 back again, and the conviction that she never could come 
 back again was terrible indeed. It got 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 
 whipping, but that night he sobbed as though his heart 
 would break; life had seemed hard and perplexing al- 
 ready, and now his ideal was gone! 
 
 But the loving hand which was guiding Donovan, though 
 he so little knew it, was not going to leave him 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 place 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 cupboard once more, the first thing his eyes rested 
 
32 DONOVAN. 
 
 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 — so miserable — mother 
 isn't a bit what I expected." 
 
 The baby began to cry feebly, and Donovan, penitent 
 at having disturbed her, took her with great care and 
 difficulty from her cradle, and began to rock her in his 
 arms, and as she slept once more, and as her weight be- 
 came more and more difficult to bear, a new sense of 
 love and protecting care sprang up in the little boy's 
 heart, and he was comforted. Before long Mrs. Doery'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 out- 
 wardly; but, as his wistful eyes closed on that day of dis- 
 appointment, he clung to his one comforting thought, the 
 little sister, his new possession. 
 
 As time passed on, the bond between these two grew 
 stronger and stronger. Donovan centred all the love of 
 his heart on the frail little life of the baby. The element 
 of protection was his 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 her; her Indian birth, 
 
A RETROSPECT, 33 
 
 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 child. 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 
 everyone was sorry and disturbed, but soon they became 
 resigned, and talked about "the dispensations of Pro- 
 vidence." Only Donovan nursed his sorrow and indigna- 
 tion apart, conscious, in spite of his youth, that it was 
 human carelessness, human misunderstanding, Avhich 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 Donovan's childhood had been passed, to 
 make their home in that place which old Mr. Farrant had 
 planned so carefully, but had never seen. 
 
 The change was in some respects good for Donovan; 
 he was just old enough to take an interest in the property 
 which would, he supposed, be his own some day, and he 
 liked the free country life. But in that comfortable 
 English home, the apparent model of refinement and pro- 
 priety, 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 ex- 
 ception of little Dot, there was not one good influence in 
 the Manor household. 
 
 His mother's selfishness was perfectly apparent to him; 
 he accepted it now with a sort of cold indifference when 
 
 Donovan. I, x 
 
3^4 DONOVAN. 
 
 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 in- 
 dignation was 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 conventional religion. Mrs. Farrant went to church 
 because it was proper, and insisted on her son's ac- 
 companying 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 pro- 
 fession; he came to a child's sweeping conclusion, "They 
 are all shams, these Christian people," and naturally went 
 on to the resolution, "I at least will profess nothing." 
 
 His views received a sort of amused encouragement 
 from his tutor, a man whom Mrs. Farrant had been de- 
 lighted to secure for her son, because he was "so highly 
 connected, such a very gentlemanly man." Mr. AUeyne 
 was, however, in spite of his high connections, unfit to be 
 the tutor of a boy like Donovan. He wa»s 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 capable of appearing to be exceedingly ortho- 
 dox, yet he was rather fond of styling himself an Agnostic 
 when quite sure of his audience. He was not a sincere 
 
A RETROSPECT. 35 
 
 man; he liked talking of his "intellectual difficulties," and 
 regarded scepticism as "not bad form now-a-days." When 
 Mr. Alleyne found that his pupil 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 
 time to scientific subjects, which were far more interest- 
 ing to both teacher and pupil. 
 
 Donovan had no respect for his tutor, but he was a 
 good deal influenced by him. When by his father's desire 
 he was sent at last to a public school, he was just in the 
 state to derive all the evil and none of the good from 
 school life. He had grown up in isolation, and he was 
 naturally reserved, so that he did not easily make friends, 
 and he was too wilful and incomprehensible to be a 
 favourite with the masters. In mathematics, indeed, he 
 could beat every opponent with ease, and carried off 
 several prizes, but his success was merely that of natural 
 talent, and never of industry, so that even to himself it 
 brought little satisfaction. 
 
 And all the time slowly strengthening and developing 
 was the intense love of play which had shown itself in 
 his earliest childhood. Ellis Farrant had crossed his path 
 several times since their first meeting, and Donovan, 
 though he did not like his cousin, always enjoyed his 
 visits, for then his passion could be gratified, and his 
 monotonous and already unsatisfying life could be broken 
 by the most delicious of all excitements. 
 
 Later on came the temptation at school; the sugges- 
 tion made by a weaker and more timid boy was carried 
 out unscrupulously by Donovan, his conscience completely 
 overmastered by the thirst for self-gratification. Then 
 
 3* 
 
36 DONOVAN. 
 
 followed exposure, disgrace, some injustice, and a most 
 bitter humiliation. 
 
 His school-days were abruptly ended. What was now 
 to become of him? 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE TREMAINS OF PORTHKERRAN. 
 
 "But faith beyond our sight may go," 
 
 He said; "the gracious Fatherhood 
 
 Can only know above, below, 
 
 Eternal purposes of good. 
 
 From our free heritage of wiU 
 
 The bitter springs of pain and Ul 
 
 Flow only in aU worlds. The perfect day 
 
 Of God is shadowless, and love is love alway." 
 
 Whittier. 
 
 Golden sunshine, clear blue sky, the fresh green of 
 spring, and a light delicious sea breeze — all this outward 
 beauty and gladness there was on the morning after 
 Colonel Farrant and his son had arrived at Plymouth. 
 And yet surely never had 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 hot^ early in order to get his busi- 
 ness 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 in- 
 terest or diversion in all around, the more he felt the 
 bitter pangs of remorse and angry resentment. Groups 
 of happy noisy children were playing on the grass, and 
 he thought of his own lonely repressed childhood, and 
 
THE TREMAINS OF PORTHKERRAN. 37 
 
 felt that the lots of men were unjustly and unequally ar- 
 ranged. 
 
 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 Edgcumbe, with its beautifully wooded 
 banks, and its foliage fringing the water, the clear sharply 
 defined line of the breakwater, and, far out over the 
 sparkling dancing 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, humihated? and, at the same time, had 
 not his faults been unjustly exaggerated, 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 ignorance, and when his 
 powers of reason and calculation had been well roused 
 and brought into action, he was presented with the image 
 of a God always watchful to detect sin, always in readi- 
 ness to punish, a hard, stern, inexorable Judge, who ad- 
 mitted fortunate people to heaven, and dismissed unfor- 
 tunate people to hell, with strict impartiality and entire 
 absence of feeling. No wonder that an angry sense of 
 injustice grew up in Donovan's heart, no wonder that he 
 turned from the cruelly false representation which was 
 
38 DONOVAN. 
 
 offered him, and steadily refused to believe in it. And 
 when, in course of time, he heard other and truer views 
 than these, his heart had grown hard, and he had be- 
 come so accustomed to rely on himself and his natural 
 strength of will that he felt no need of higher help. More- 
 over, religion required that he should own himself to be 
 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; fate had been 
 against him, he was sorry to have brought disgrace on 
 his father, he was angry and indignant with the world, 
 and dissatisfied Avith 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 bound, and what would become of 
 them; whether they would safely reach their destination, 
 or whether a cruel fate would cast them on rocks or 
 quicksands, to be hopelessly, irretrievably wrecked. A 
 fate to be struggled 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 away 
 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 proposal, and assisted in 
 the choice of a horse and dog-cart with resolute if some- 
 what 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 
 
THE TREMAINS OF PORTHKERRAN. 39 
 
 all his perplexing contradictions, Donovan was very love- 
 able, 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 ques- 
 tioner, and could elicit very httle as to his son's past 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 quick abrupt monosyllables: for he was far 
 too proud to be a grumbler, and indeed liis grievances 
 were too deep to bear speaking of Little Dot was the 
 only subject upon which he talked naturally and un- 
 reservedly, 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, Avas now black and threatening, while the light 
 breeze of the morning was growing stronger and keener. 
 Everything betokened a storm, and before long the rain 
 descended in torrents, drenching the occupants of the 
 dog-cart to the skin, while the western wind blew so 
 strongly and gustily that to hold an umbrella was out of 
 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, con- 
 sequent on rheumatic fever. They resolved to stop at 
 the first place they came to, and at last, to their relief, 
 they reached a quaint little fishing town, which boasted 
 a very fair inn. 
 
 But in spite of warm rooms, a good dinner, and a 
 change of clothes, Donovan's fears were reahzed. The 
 next day his father was entirely incapacitated by rheuma- 
 
40 DONOVAN. 
 
 tism, and to proceed was an impossibility; the rain, too, 
 continued without intermission, and everything seemed to 
 augur some httle stay at Porthkerran. 
 
 The day passed slowly and wearily. Donovan wroie 
 letters at his father's dictation, read the Western Morning 
 Neivs from beginning to end, and finally set out, notwith- 
 standing the rain, to reconnoitre the place. On coming 
 in again, he found his father so much worse, and suffer- 
 ing 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, reassuringly. "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; 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 
 helplessness had brought to light many of Donovan's best 
 qualities — his strength, his tenderness, and his ready ob- 
 
THE TREMAINS OF PORTHKERRAN. 4 1 
 
 servance; while his evident anxiety seemed to speak well 
 for his awakening love. 
 
 It would be hard to say which was the more disap- 
 pointed when, on the Thursday morning, Colonel Farrant 
 proved to be rather worse than better. He was suffering 
 so much Avhen Donovan went into his room in the early 
 morning, that he could no longer say anything against 
 the plan for calling Dr. Tremain, and Donovan despatched 
 a messenger at once with a note to the doctor, and be- 
 fore half-an-hour had passed was called down into the 
 little sitting-room to receive him. 
 
 Dr. Tremain was standing by the window when he 
 entered, and Donovan, glancing at him rather curiously, 
 Avas at once prepossessed in his favour. He was a middle- 
 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 
 very 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 good judge 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 spoke 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 
 
42 DONOVAN. 
 
 grave symptoms 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 
 though his heart began to beat very uncomfortably. 
 
 "It might, 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, con- 
 trolling his voice with difficulty, "but he has had great 
 and unexpected trouble; I have given him trouble." 
 
 The confession, coming from one evidently so re- 
 served, 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 give a better account; in the meantime only see that 
 your father is kept perfectly quiet." 
 
 Donovan had been miserable enough before, but this 
 news added tenfold to his misery. At Colonel Tarrant's 
 request, he wrote at once to his mother, giving her full 
 particulars of his father's state, and describing the kind 
 of accommodation which was to be had at Porthkerran, 
 if she thought of coming down to nurse him. He added 
 these details because his father told him to do so, but 
 he himself did not think for a moment that 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 \vrote, 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. 
 
THE TREMAINS OF PORTHKERRAN. 43 
 
 "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 7?tay 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 reassur- 
 ing his mind, and, after a moment's consideration, sug- 
 gested that he should write both briefly 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 properly 
 worded form, expressing his desire to devise and be- 
 queath the bulk of his property to his son, Donovan 
 Farrant, and providing 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 reheved and satisfied. 
 
 They Avere 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. 
 
44 ■ DONOVAN. 
 
 "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 
 admittance, and Colonel Farrant, starting up hurriedly, 
 took the will from the table and put it into the doctor's 
 hand. 
 
 "Take it, take it, and not a word." 
 
 There was a sudden pause; Donovan came towards 
 the bed just in time to see his father fall forward, and 
 to hear a slight sound in his throat, of which he did not 
 know the meaning. Dr. Tremain gave an inarticulate ex- 
 clamation, raised the inanimate form and bent down close 
 to it; then he glanced to the other side of the bed, to 
 that other form almost as still and inanimate, to that other 
 face, white, rigid, 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 Dono- 
 van left thus utterly alone, with a burden of remorse on 
 his conscience, and this overwhelming grief at his heart; 
 but it was difficult -to be of much use to one so com- 
 pletely 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. He felt scarcely anything 
 but a dim, vague, undefined horror, a consciousness of a 
 sudden blank in his life. The shock had been so great 
 that, for a time, all his faculties were numbed, and he 
 scarcely heard the doctor's words; he stood by the mantel- 
 piece silent and motionless, with his eyes fixed on the 
 centre ornament — a little tawdry shell house mounted on 
 a board strewn with dried seaweeds. How many times 
 
THE TREMAINS OF PORTHKERRAN. 45 
 
 he had 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 hand 
 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 still- 
 ness 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 Donovan 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 Farrant's death 
 to the rector of the church near Oakdene. He was the 
 only person fit to break the news to Mrs. Farrant, the 
 only person Donovan could think of at all, except Mrs. 
 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 along the wet muddy road, to think of any means 
 by which he could help the poor boy who seemed left in 
 such 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 village 
 and reached the gabled ivy-covered house where he lived. 
 Trenant was a delightfully comfortable house, prettily 
 furnished, exquisitely neat, and in every way well ordered. 
 Some one was singing on the staircase as Dr. Tremaiii 
 
46 DONOVAN. 
 
 opened the front door, and as he took off his wet coat 
 there was a sound of hurrying footsteps, and a pretty 
 bright-looking girl of about sixteen ran to meet him. 
 
 "Papa, how long you have been out, and how shock- 
 ingly wet you are!" 
 
 "Yes, it is raining heavily," said the doctor, taking 
 one of the soft 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 inter- 
 rupted, 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 Gladys was the happiest, most contented, 
 sunshiny little person imaginable. Everything about her 
 looked happy, her sunny golden-brown hair, her bright, 
 well-opened, grey eyes, her laughing mouth, her little un- 
 formed nose, her dimpled chin, and fresh glowing com- 
 plexion. 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 accommodating 
 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 draw- 
 
THE TREMAINS OF PORTHKERRAN. 47 
 
 ing-room, in which she found her father and mother talk- 
 ing together. 
 
 "They are strangers. The father had just returned 
 from 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 pre- 
 paration the poor fellow is left in this way, without a 
 friend near him. 
 
 "He is quite alone then at the inn?" asked Mrs. 
 Tremain. 
 
 "Quite alone, and I don't see how we are to help 
 him. 1 thought of asking him here, 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, he 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. Far- 
 rant without any sympathy. 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 shrink 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 dread- 
 ful it must be to have such sorrow all alone!" 
 
48 DONOVAN. 
 
 "Yes, terrible indeed," said Mrs. Tremain. "I am 
 afraid we cannot 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 scarcely 
 anything but happiness 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, unjust, that lives 
 should be so unequal?" 
 
 "It must seem so, until we can realize that we ai'e all 
 the children of a loving Father, who gives to everyone 
 just what is best for them. If we remember that God's 
 will 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 son grew worse, and at last ran 
 away; it seems as if it would have been so much better 
 if all those troubles hadn't happened together, as if the 
 son would have had so much more chance of getting right." 
 
 "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 
 
THE TREMAINS OF PORTHKERRAN. 49 
 
 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 weaving 
 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 receive 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, while 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; she trembled a little when 
 she was actually standing in the passage of the inn, hav- 
 ing 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 quickly, and 
 she was ushered into the little sitting-room, speedily for- 
 getting 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 
 
 Donovan. I. 4 
 
5© DONOVAN. 
 
 the mantelpiece 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 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 good to think of it, but I 
 don't think I can come, thank you; to-morrow my mother 
 
 will be here, and to-night I can't leave — I would rather " 
 
 He broke off hastily, unable to control his distress. 
 
 "You must do just what you like best," said Mrs. 
 Tremain; "I can quite understand your feeling." 
 
 "It would be of no use," continued Donovan, recover- 
 ing himself, but speaking in a low constrained voice. 
 " Can I 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 goodness 
 of those we love only when we lose them," said Mrs. 
 Tremain, not quite understanding him, "and then we wish 
 we had often acted differently to them; those bitter re- 
 grets 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 
 
THE TREMAINS OF PORTHtlERRAN. 5 I 
 
 forehead, smooth bands of dark hair beginning to turn 
 grey, dehcately arched and pencilled eyebrows, and dark 
 grey eyes, which 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 cheek, "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 good for him to talk; if she had 
 known that he had never in his life had such a disburden- 
 ing, she might have encouraged 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 you from dinner!" she ex- 
 claimed, regretfully. 
 
 "No, indeed. I want nothing. I could not eat," said 
 Donovan, decidedly. 
 
 Mrs. Tremain hardly felt surprised as she looked at 
 the tough steak and greasy gravy, now perfectly cold. 
 
 "You must eat something," she said, assuming a gentle 
 authority over him, which he was not at all inclined to 
 resist. "Give me carte blanche with the landlady, and 
 you 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 
 
 4* 
 
5 2 DONOVAN, 
 
 sat down with him, taking some coffee herself, and induc- 
 ing him both to eat and to talk; and when 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 through just, and through unjust, 
 To one man's pow'r, ambition, lucre, lust. — Pope. 
 
 On the following evening the little inn-parlour wit- 
 nessed 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 allow- 
 ance for the feelings of other people. Without intentional 
 cruelty, without indeed thinking at all, she was absolutely 
 merciless. Donovan had tried hard to meet her affec- 
 tionately. Even his stiff reserve had melted in the great- 
 ness and honesty of his desire to comfort her. Anyone 
 not absorbed in self, must have seen and accepted such 
 very real sympathy, but Mrs. Farrant saw nothing, thought 
 of nothing, but wearied with her journey, unnerved by 
 the sudden shock, vented her petulant grief on the only 
 victim at hand. 
 
"my only son, DONOVAN." 53 
 
 It was a very grievous scene. On the sofa lay the 
 widow, a beautiful and still young-looking 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 angry re- 
 proaches. Standing by the window, in an attitude ex- 
 pressing rigid endurance, was the son, his face very still 
 and quiet in contrast to his mother's, but with an in- 
 describable bitterness about it which almost overpowered 
 the sadness. He had learnt quickly that his presence 
 was irritating instead of comforting to his mother. In a 
 sort of proud hopelessness he moved away from her, and 
 stood looking out across the dreary street to the grey sea 
 beyond, 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 weary reitera- 
 tion of sobs and reproaches from within. Harder and 
 harder grew his face as he 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 
 heard 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 incon- 
 gruity of this stormy passion with the silent room of death 
 above. It was a relief when at length, exhausted with 
 her sorrow, Mrs. Farrant fell asleep. He drew nearer 
 then, and stood silently watching her, looked at her soft 
 brown hair, her faultless features, her singularly delicate 
 complexion. It seemed incredible that one so beautiful 
 and gentle-looking could have uttered such cruel re- 
 proaches, but it was by no means surprising to Donovan. 
 He had been quite prepared for it, had learnt many years 
 
54 DONOVAN. 
 
 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 the 
 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 crying out at the injustice of 
 its loneliness. Why, when he would willingly have shown 
 tenderness and love, was he coldly repulsed? Why was 
 he cut off from all sympathy? What was the meaning 
 of the pain which had relentlessly pursued him from his 
 very childhood? To these questions what answer could 
 he make? — all seemed to him hopeless confusion, and 
 injustice. If for a moment his mind did revert to the 
 thought of a Providence ruling over all, it was only to 
 be as quickly repelled by the vision of the God presented 
 to him in his childhood, for it was always to this teach- 
 ing that he recurred when he allowed the subject to 
 enter his thoughts at all. Mrs. Doery's 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 fall- 
 ing fast, but he scarcely noticed it, as he strode on reck- 
 lessly. The mere mechanical exercise was in itself 
 
"my only son, DONOVAN." 55 
 
 soothing, and he might have trudged along the muddy 
 road for an indefinite time, had not his attention 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 ap- 
 proached one of the windows, 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 crimson curtains, all harmonized 
 to perfection. Seated at the piano was Gladys Tremain, 
 her bright hair gathered back from her face, and her 
 complexion, which was at times almost too highly coloured, 
 looking most beautiful in the mellow lamp-light. She 
 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 playing, 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 
 
56 DONOVAN. 
 
 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. 
 
 "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 
 before swine." 
 
 "Don't, Stephen," and Gladys really looked vexed. 
 
 "Why, isn't even that allowable? 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. 
 "If 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 port- 
 folio, and, though she spoke sweetly, there was a certain 
 grave dignity in her tone. 
 
 The choice was soon made, but Donovan was so ab- 
 sorbed 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 regret 
 When they part are strangers yet. 
 
 "Will it evermore be thus, 
 Spirit still impervious? 
 
"my only son, DONOVAN." 57 
 
 Shall we never fairly stand 
 Soul to soul and hand to hand? 
 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 really getting worse than Dick." 
 
 "What is that doleful song?" asked the doctor, put- 
 ting 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 Stephen declares that 
 it's absurdly impossible." 
 
 "Of course it is!" said Stephen, hotly. "Why, do 
 you think when my father returns from his voyages that 
 he feels a stranger to me, or that my mother doesn't 
 know everything about 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 be 
 ' absurdly impossible,' " he said, laughingly. " But I am 
 afraid perfect comprehension between parents and chil- 
 dren is not so universal 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 Mrs. Tremain had in her arms a cling- 
 ing four-year-old boy in the tiniest of white night-shirts. 
 
 "Jackie had a very bad dream, and the only thing 
 
58 DONOVAN. 
 
 that would set him right was just to come downstairs 
 and see all the world again," she explained, smihng at 
 the general exclamation. 
 
 In a moment the suffering Jackie became the hero of 
 the evening, and was allowed to confide all his terrors 
 to "papa," how a great tiger from the "ShosicalDardens" 
 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 reassuring talk on the safety 
 of tigers' cages, and a laughing affirmative to the ques- 
 tion "And 'oo is very strong, isn't 'oo?" soon set Jackie's 
 mind at rest, his sleepy eyelids began to close, and hav- 
 ing 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 be 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 
 town, a time when he was sure of plenty of amusement, 
 and could reckon on getting most of his dinners out. He 
 was a man Avithout any settled profession, 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 intimation of his father's death. Ellis Far- 
 
"my only son, DONOVAN." 5Q 
 
 rant 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 his mind as 
 quickly as possible, and now his cousin had died with 
 an awful suddenness, and Ellis, whether he would or not, 
 found his thoughts turning to his own death, that dismal 
 goal which awaited him in the future. Where should he 
 die, and how, and — and zvhen? 
 
 His hand trembled a little as he again took up Do- 
 novan'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 con- 
 veyed by the firm, clear, somewhat cramped letters. 
 Then his mind wandered off to Donovan himself, perhaps 
 something in the writing reminded him of the clever, 
 strong-willed, self-reliant boy who had so often been his 
 companion. 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 good luck. 
 Then with a sudden and vehement exclamation, 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 effect, and the remembrance seemed 
 to excite him strangely. 
 
6o DONOVAN. 
 
 "In another year I shall be forty," he mused to him- 
 self, "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 mantelpiece and sur- 
 veyed himself critically in the mirror. In colouring and 
 general outline of face he was sufficiently 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 peculiar admixture of 
 brown in the iris, which was so noticeable in Donovan'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 brilHancy which generally passed 
 for good looks. 
 
 Satisfied apparently Avith his own reflection, he turned 
 at length from the mirror, and, sitting down to the table, 
 despatched first a telegram to Donovan announcing his 
 intention of coming to Porthkerran 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 probable 
 value of the Oakdene estate. 
 
 Donovan's Sunday at Porthkerran was almost as try- 
 ing a day as the previous one at school had been. Pos- 
 sibly 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 
 
"my only son, DONOVAN." 6 1 
 
 torture to which he had then been subjected! The in- 
 tolerable length of the day, the two services, the sermons 
 with their direct reference to the sin which he had pro- 
 moted, their unsparing condemnation of the ringleader, 
 the sudden turning of all eyes to his place, the struggle 
 between his sense of shame and his pride, the angry re- 
 sentment of the injustice and exaggeration. He lived it 
 all over again as he walked gloomily along the Porth- 
 kerran cliffs, and the silent repressed indignation did 
 him no good. 
 
 It was with his very worst expression that he went 
 to meet Ellis Farrant; his face was dark and proud and 
 cold, yet even then the contrast between the cousins was 
 very marked. Donovan'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 beyond 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 own interests. In the pursuance of his 
 own aims, however, he occasionally felt kindly disposed 
 towards others, and he admired, even liked, Donovan. 
 
 But on the Monday all was changed. The simple 
 and beautiful 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 Porth- 
 kerran. 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. 
 
62 DONOVAN. 
 
 "There is but one more duty, Mr. Farrant, which I 
 have to discharge, and that is to put you in possession 
 of the will which Colonel Farrant executed just before 
 his death. I should have given it you earlier in the day, 
 only there has been no opportunity." 
 
 "A will — a codicil, I suppose," said Ellis Farrant, 
 hurriedly taking the sheet of paper from Dr. Tremain, 
 and unfolding it. Though he was weak and impulsive, 
 he was too thorough a man of the world not to have his 
 facial expression in very fair command; he betrayed little 
 but surprise 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, accom- 
 panying him to the door, found Donovan in the passage 
 outside, and left him to see the last of the guest. 
 
 "We leave early to-morrow," he began hurriedly, "so 
 I must wish you good-bye now, Dr. Tremain — thank you 
 for your kindness.'^ 
 
 "I hope we may meet again," said the doctor, shak- 
 ing his hand warmly, and looking with grave compassion 
 at the miserably 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 message, 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. 
 
"my only son, DONOVAN." 63 
 
 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 un- 
 grateful. I shall not forget your kindness, only now I'm 
 too wretched to feel it. Don't think too hardly of me." 
 And before Dr. Tremain could 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 should be frustrated by a paltry piece of 
 note-paper, witnessed by a doctor and a servant, was in- 
 expressibly galling. Had the will been elaborately drawn 
 up, and duly besprinkled with meaningless legal phrases, 
 it would not have caused him half the annoyance. It 
 was 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 realised 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 fixedly; it was a little crumpled 
 now, he noticed the impression 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 signa- 
 
64 DONOVAN. 
 
 tures of the witnesses: "Thomas Tremain, Surgeon, Tre- 
 nant, Porthkerran." "Mary Pengelly, Servant, Penruddock 
 Arms Inn, Porthkerran." 
 
 A maid-servant and a doctor Hving in an obscure 
 Cornish village, what had he to fear from them? And 
 the boy upstairs? Why, he knew nothing, and never need 
 know — never sliould know, and with sudden resolution 
 Ellis tore the sheet of paper in half and then in half 
 again. Then a great horror seized upon him, he turned 
 very cold, and fell back in his chair, shuddering violently. 
 It was done, and there Avas 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 
 been 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, supposing she caught sight of these fragments! he 
 felt as if she would instantly perceive them in the securest 
 hiding-place. No, he must hght 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 the 
 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 Avere borne up the chimney by the sudden 
 draught. Not quite the last, however, for one fragment 
 
REPULSED AND ATTRACTED. 65 
 
 had fallen to the side of the fireplace, and floated down 
 on to the fender just as Ellis thought 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 edges, he could 
 plainly read the words — "My only son, Donovan." A 
 swift pang of regret thrilled him for a moment; then a 
 sound in the passage outside renewed his guilty terror, 
 and, stooping down, he held the fragment to the blaze 
 with his own fingers, scarcely feeling the near approach 
 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, wild and furious. 
 
 What comfortable hour canst thou name 
 That ever graced me in thy company?" 
 Ejng Richard. 
 
 "If I be so disgracious in your eyes 
 Let me march on, and not offend you, madam." 
 
 King Richard III. — Act rv. Sc. 4. 
 
 In this countiy tlie 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 for- 
 swear their own existence. As he dictates they are protoplasms 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, 1880. 
 
 Oakdene Manor was a comfortable though somewhat 
 prosaic modern house, built by Colonel Farrant's father 
 
 Donovan. I. C 
 
66 DONOVAN. 
 
 on the site of the old Manor House Farm, which had 
 belonged to the Farrants from time immemorial. It stood 
 on the very verge of a beautifully wooded hill overlook- 
 ing one of the simple yet lovely valleys which abound in 
 Mountshire, with distant glimpses of blue -grey 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 and laurels, led to the pretty creeper- 
 laden porch, while beyond and to the front of the house 
 lay a curiously planned 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 pro- 
 cess this reclothing of Nature, at least to little Dot Far- 
 rant 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 ex- 
 pectancy 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 win- 
 dow 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 deli- 
 
REPULSED AND ATTRACTED. 67 
 
 cate, 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 suffering 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 unsatisfied craving so noticeable 
 in his. 
 
 This was perhaps to be accounted for; to Dot every- 
 thing she needed, so it seemed to her, was summed up 
 in her brother. Donovan was her friend, her comforter, 
 her teacher, her playfellow; 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 spar- 
 ing him; and when he was absent the thought of what 
 he would have liked, and the remembrance of his own 
 patience and control, nerved , her still to endure and to 
 copy her ideal. Her love really amounted to worship. 
 
 But, deeply as he loved her. Dot could not at all fill 
 this position to Donovan. She was indeed to him both 
 friend and comforter, 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. The strong 
 craving was there, only his pride of will held it in iron 
 fetters. 
 
 "If the ash before the oak, 
 Then you may expect a soak; 
 If the oak before the ash, 
 Then 'twill only be a splash," 
 
68 DONOVAN, 
 
 quoted Dot, merrily, as she lay watching the dripping 
 trees glistening in the sunlight. "Doery, do you hear? 
 We are going to have a fine summer, for the oaks are 
 twice as forward as the other trees." 
 
 Mrs. Doery was sitting before a large work-basket, 
 darning stockings; by the gloom and sourness expressed 
 on her features, it might have been supposed that she 
 was the constant sufferer, 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 an- 
 other." 
 
 "I suppose things do go rather contrairily," said Dot, 
 coining a word upon Mrs. Doery's model. "Certainly, 
 just now everything 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 times.) "This last month, too, has been a regular 
 chapter of misfortunes; I counted on it that at least Mr. 
 
REPULSED AND ATTRACTED. 69 
 
 Donovan would have done us some credit at school, see- 
 ing that all the folk say he's so clever — too clever, Dr. 
 Simpkins used to say when he was little; and now here 
 he is home again, with nothing but disgrace to bring us." 
 
 "Doery, how can you?" interrupted Dot, with burn- 
 ing cheeks. "You know how sorry he is — how dread- 
 fully 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 more sorry — than — than you are," she 
 ended, not very conclusively. "It always was the way; 
 the more I punished him for his faults, the less sorrow 
 he'd show; he'd only get angry, 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! but, Doery, they were so hard and unjust," 
 pleaded Dot, with tears in her eyes. "How can you won- 
 der 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-starred ne'er-do-weel. 
 
70 DONOVAN. 
 
 "Will people always remember about it, do you 
 think?" questioned 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 murders, when 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 — instructive 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, Doery, 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 expect it; a -bad beginning is a bad beginning, no- 
 body can't deny, and I've always found that, if people 
 once get a bad name, 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 obstinate and as headstrong as ever. I've 
 told him many a time since he wasn't higher than that 
 table how 'Don't care' came to the gallows, but he was 
 always one for tossing back his head in that haughty 
 way, minding no one in the world but himself He'll 
 come to no good." 
 
 "Don't say such dreadful things, Doery," said Dot, 
 between laughing and crying. "Dono will be 'contrairy,' 
 
REPULSED AND ATTRACTED, 7 I 
 
 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 
 happy 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 drawing-room below, Mrs. Farrant was roused 
 by the sound to a rememberance that her son was re- 
 turning that afternoon. 
 
 "Doery really should oil the wheels of Dot's couch," 
 she reflected, drowsily, with the discomfited feeling of 
 one disturbed in the middle of a siesta. But somehow 
 she could not compose herself to sleep again, though she 
 still lay comfortably on the sofa, allowing her thoughts to 
 roam idly where they pleased. 
 
 It was now three weeks since Colonel Farrant's 
 funeral. His widow had returned to Oakdene, and had 
 resumed her former habits of life, not exactly with 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 vehemence of her grief 
 had exhausted itself at Porthkerran. It had been an un- 
 usual effort to her, for she was not by nature passionate. 
 Her reproachful anger with Donovan, and her long fits 
 of weeping, had worn her out; all bodily exertion was 
 distasteful to her, and this excessive agitation, so very 
 
72 DONOVAN. 
 
 foreign to her nature, had told greatly on her physical 
 health. It was therefore perhaps well for all parties that 
 her inactive mind and dormant affections allowed her so 
 soon to return to her ordinary life, though Donovan, with 
 what seemed like inconsistency, maintained that he would 
 rather have gone through endless repetitions of the 
 stormy scenes at Porthkerran than have witnessed this 
 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 indifference could not possibly be under- 
 stood 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 
 altogether, for her natural temperament and her circum- 
 stances had a great deal to do Avith 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 responsibilities 
 of a household, aiid the pleasures and trials of a military 
 life abroad. At Malta she had been the gayest of the 
 gay, 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 
 yearly effort, namely, the removal to the London house 
 
REPULSED AND ATTRACTED. 73 
 
 for the months of May and June. So far as circum- 
 stances 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 circum- 
 stance," and no nature can be so hopelessly 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 inter- 
 rupted, 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 j 
 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 em- 
 ployments, her amusements, and curiously, one exception 
 outside herself, her lap-dog. Upon a handsome, bad- 
 tempered, snowy Pomeranian named Fido, she lavished 
 the time and caresses which her children had failed to 
 obtain from her. 
 
 On the afternoon in question she lay calmly meditat- 
 ing on the sofa in her usual fashion, meandering on from 
 subject to subject. 
 
74 DONOVAN. 
 
 "Doery should really oil those wheels. I wonder 
 what nerve is affected so strangely 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; as Dr. Maclean used to 
 say at Calcutta, 'You are all nerves, my dear madam.' 
 He was a handsome man, Dr. Maclean, only a little too 
 grey. How 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, 
 Fido, 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 liim with a gloomy 
 face. Is my cap straight, I wonder?" 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 military 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 thought- 
 less 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 tliis morning that Mr. 
 Donovan was expected. Just tell her to get his room 
 ready." 
 
REPULSED AND ATTRACTED. 75 
 
 The page received the message, and retired noise- 
 lessly, 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. 
 
 "Lie still. Miss Dot, and be patient," said Doery, 
 scrutinising the heel 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 let- 
 ting 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." 
 
76 DONOVAN. 
 
 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 disappoint- 
 ment 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 impudence 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, and refused to go. That's ten days ago now, 
 and, as he's not been advertised for, I thought I'd bring 
 him home to you. Come here, old fellow, and see your 
 new mistress." 
 
 The dog pattered up obediently, and Donovan lifted 
 him on to the couch that Dot might stroke him. 
 
 "He'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 
 
REPULSED AND ATTRACTED. 77 
 
 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 
 would 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 off 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 sprung 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 general hubbub. Donovan's first care 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 with 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, he drew 
 
7 8 DONOVAN. 
 
 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 crea- 
 ture. You surely don't intend to keep it in the house?" 
 
 "He shall not be in your way, and Fido will not 
 attack him again, I should think. He certainly isn't a 
 beauty, but he's of a very good breed," 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; for, though as a rule he was exceedingly 
 fond of animals, he had a strange dislike to the Pomeranian 
 — perhaps because it usurped so much 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 hydrophobia," said Mrs. Farrant, 
 nervously contemplating the wound from a distance. 
 
 "I'll put a hot iron to it, if it will relieve you," said 
 Donovan, half scornfully, adding, Avith 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." 
 
REPULSED AND ATTRACTED. 79 
 
 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 sym- 
 pathetically, observing 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 that he went 
 down to dinner — the tete-a-tcte 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 absents ont 
 toiijotirs tort," absence toned down his mother's failings, 
 magnified her good points. Thus at every fresh meeting 
 the sense of loss was borne in upon him with new force, 
 and he was invariably sore-hearted, restless, and ill at 
 ease. This evening, too, he was 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 constrained. Perhaps it was scarcely to be 
 wondered at that, on returning to the drawing-room after 
 this singularly dull and spiritless meal, Mrs. Farrant should 
 at once sink into an easy-chair and become engrossed in 
 
80 DONOVAN. 
 
 a new novel. Donovan stayed only a few minutes, his 
 mother never looked up, Fido growled at him; he re- 
 solved 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 injustice, and a past from which he was always 
 trying to escape, the quietness of the house seemed un- 
 bearable 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 anything 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 with the end of his whip. Then his horse 
 
REPULSED AND ATTRACTED. Ol 
 
 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 in- 
 fluence over 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 subdued by any outward 
 agency; 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 was always an under-current of morbid dis- 
 content 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 hardworked 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 through 
 
 Donovan. /. 6 
 
82 DONOVAN. 
 
 them on his way from the station to Oakdene. He was 
 struck with the contrast between the afternoon and even- 
 ing 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 remem- 
 bering 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- 
 cert on Wednesday Evening!" no, that was the Wednes- 
 day in the following week; a "Rose Show!" the next 
 day; ah! here it was. "This evening, at 8.30, Mr. Rae- 
 burn 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 up his 
 horse, and, returning, passed swiftly up the steps and 
 into the hall. 
 
 The place was crowded \vith men, chiefly artisans 
 and mechanics, though with a sprinkling of the more 
 
REPULSED AND ATTRACTED. 83 
 
 highly educated. 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 attraction 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 in- 
 finite sadness, occasionally to withering sarcasm. 
 
 Luke Raeburn was, before all things, a strong man, 
 and in looking at him specialities sank away into in- 
 significance. His deep-set earnest eyes, his firm uncom- 
 promising mouth attracted little notice, because the whole 
 man was pervaded by a marvellous force, a concentra- 
 tion of energy which carried all before it. His voice was 
 at once deep and powerful, aided by no theatrical gestures, 
 but made particularly wanning by its mellowness, its per- 
 fect 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 proof 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 try- 
 ing to overthrow what he termed the " mischievous delusion 
 of popular Christianity." 
 
 6* 
 
84 DONOVAN. 
 
 To Donovan, with his miserable sense of injustice, 
 every word seemed a rehef, 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 novelty of the ideas it conveyed, but with Donovan 
 it was otherwise. The lecturer's beliefs exactly coincided 
 with 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 judgment, yet in the 
 main corresponds with it. A speedy sympathy is estab- 
 lished; 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 so very, very rarely 
 agreed with anyone that the sudden consciousness of 
 unity and sympathy was almost intoxicating 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 un- 
 able to go while the man who had fascinated him so 
 strangely remained. During the brief pause that ensued 
 a middle-aged mechanic who was 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 
 
REPULSED AND AITRACTED. 85 
 
 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 offended by this speech, but he was little ac- 
 customed to receive good advice, still less accustomed to 
 put it in practice. He hardly gave it an instant's con- 
 sideration, so firmly was his mind set upon hearing 
 Raeburn speak once more. 
 
 "One doesn't get this chance every day," he an- 
 swered. "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, any- 
 thing 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 the lecturer's face, and gave a sigh 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 brief pause, a tall, 
 nervous-looking clergyman mounted the platform, and 
 with evident reluctance, conquered only by a sense of 
 duty, began to speak. His voice was weak, but he was 
 
86 DONOVAN. 
 
 very much in earnest, almost painfully so, and real earnest- 
 ness felt and expressed cannot fail to arouse interest. 
 He prospered 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 
 Raeburn responded with perfect courtesy but crushing 
 logic, and the clergyman 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 arguments 
 of the other side to recur to him, but it was only for a 
 moment. The third speaker mounted the platform with 
 no diffidence; he was a large, solid, self-satisfied man, 
 with a voice which made the hall echo again. Evidently 
 he thought noise would make up for want of matter, for 
 he scarcely tried any steady line of argument. He was 
 vehement, positive, illogical, 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 disgusted alike at his vulgarity 
 and the worthlessness of his speech. Raeburn was at 
 once invested with the dignity of a martyr, or, at any 
 rate, of an unjustly-used man, and his sharp and powerful 
 retort delighted 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 pro- 
 
REPULSED AND ATTRACTED. 87 
 
 fessed 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 
 angry man; no other objectors cared to come forward, 
 however, and at length Raeburn stood up for his final 
 speech. The clear, quiet, impressive tones fell hke rain 
 after a thunder-storm upon the rapt listening men. Do- 
 novan scarcely breathed; he had never in his whole life 
 heard anything so attractive. The cool penetrating words, 
 the sarcastic yet dignified allusions to the 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 Do- 
 novan groped his way down the street, and, mounting his 
 horse, rode back to Oakdene in the starlight. He felt 
 wonderfully stimulated by what he had heard, roused to 
 enthusiasm for the man, for the views he held, for the 
 life of toil for the general good which he not only re- 
 commended, but himself lived. Luke Raeburn had in- 
 fluenced 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. 
 
bo DONOVAN. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 AUTUMN MANCEUVRES. 
 
 Love seeketh not itself to please, 
 Not 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 Farrant 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 frequently 
 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 go dowTi to Oakdene then for as long a visit as seemed 
 advisable. 
 
 His arrival really pleased and roused Mrs. Farrant, 
 for it must be owned that Oakdene had not been the 
 liveliest of homes during the summer. 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 comfor- 
 table sofa by the open window, rendered life bearable, 
 ■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 
 
AUTUMN IMANCEUVRES. 89 
 
 strange mixture of annoyance and satisfaction. He too 
 was glad of an interruption 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 forward 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 manoeuvres. 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 Do- 
 novan 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 won 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. 
 
 "Yes," replied Donovan, laconically; he did not care 
 to show any interest in such a remark from one who 
 evidently cared nothing in reality for scenery. 
 
 "Much hunting in the neighbourhood?" 
 
 "No; 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?" 
 
 "Thanks. If I have time I should like nothing better. 
 You will be here, of course?" 
 
 "Yes, I suppose so," said Donovan, rather hesitatingly. 
 
90 DONOVAN. 
 
 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 in the way. 
 
 "You have found these months a little dull, I expect, 
 but next year you'll be up in town for the season — it'll 
 be very different." 
 
 "Life's disgusting everywhere," said Donovan, gloomily. 
 
 "No, no," replied the man of the world, lightly. 
 "There's plenty of enjoyment if you look out for it. 
 Cheer up, my boy, you let yourself 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 
 involuntarily 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 rephed, 
 glibly. "You will soon live it down. I think you should 
 mix more with companions of your 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'ln afraid," said Ellis, 
 breathing more freely. "You would not like to go to 
 Oxford and Cambridge, I suppose?" 
 
 "No, certainly not." 
 
AUTUMN MANCEUVRES. 9 I 
 
 "And you are not exactly — not passionately — fond of 
 work?" 
 
 Donovan smiled a little. 
 
 "Well, no, I can't say I am." 
 
 "You 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 pro- 
 fession. You can live on here very comfortably. No 
 doubt your mother will make you a handsome 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, how- 
 ever," continued Ellis. "I must not forget that you 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 travelling 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 Oakdene 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 plea- 
 santest manner. "I'm glad you told me what was in your 
 mind. We can talk it over with your mother." 
 
 The two relapsed into silence after this, Ellis trying 
 to think of reasonable objections to this new idea, Do- 
 novan sketching out in his mind the plan of his tour on 
 the continent. He longed inexpressibly for change of 
 
gZ DONOVAN. 
 
 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 of 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, 
 would 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 narrowing, 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 you've come back, Dono," 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 contentedly. 
 
 "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 
 
AUTUMN MANCEUVRES. 93 
 
 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 out riding," said Do- 
 novan, smiling. 
 
 "No, only when you go quite away; 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 Dot, wistfully. 
 "And everything seems so horrid when you're away. Will 
 you have to go 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 would never leave her. 
 
 "I wonder what makes your forehead look so bat- 
 tered 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, 
 and 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 grain of music in me." 
 
 "I wish you had," said Dot, "because I like it so 
 much, and the hand-organs so very seldom come." 
 
94 DONOVAN. 
 
 "Shall I get one, and grind 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 you 
 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! yon shall 
 never go round again,' and smash it to pieces." 
 
 Dot laughed long and merrily. 
 
 "I wish you could play the piano as Cousin Adela 
 used to. It sounded so nice coming up from the drawing- 
 room." 
 
 "Would you really like it?" said Donovan. "I will 
 try to learn then. We'll have a piano over from Grey- 
 shot, and it can be put up here." 
 
 "Oh! Dono, how dehghtful! 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 replied, cheer- 
 fully. "And as to being able — I believe we're able to 
 do anything we've a will for." 
 
 That evening, 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 ad- 
 vance you the necessary funds, you know. I should think 
 though that, as you say, it would be better to stay here. 
 Your mother will be glad to have you." 
 
 Donovan bit his lip, and did not reply, and Elhs, well 
 aware that he had touched on a sore subject, changed 
 the conversation. His ward's decision was convenient. 
 
AUTUMN MANCEUVRES. 95 
 
 For once he must be careful to please and humour him 
 a little. So he renounced for a time the pleasure of 
 irritating his victim, and they spent a veiy amicable even- 
 ing over the billiard-table. 
 
 It is an undisputed fact that one piece of villany in- 
 variably 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 gone 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 might 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 his 
 ward, and was too prudent to show any marked atten- 
 tions to Mrs. Farrant, but he succeeded in enlivening the 
 house wonderfully, and "received a pressing invitation 
 to come down in the autumn, bringing his sister Adela 
 with him. He remained till the 12th of August, and 
 then went up to the North for grouse-shooting, well satis- 
 fied with his success at Oakdene. 
 
 The 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 Grey- 
 shot three times a week to his tutor's, studied "Mill's 
 
9 6 DONOVAN. 
 
 Logic," and worked hard at his music. Strangely, although 
 he was really no lover of the art, he 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 indefatigable 
 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 under 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 off from all intercourse with those better than 
 himself. The cautious world said, with its usual prudence, 
 that it would n^ver do not to show marked disapproval 
 of disgrace and wrong-doing. Donovan Farrant had been 
 expelled from school for most dishonourable behaviour 
 (his crimes were by this time absurdly exaggerated 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 dis- 
 couraged; 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 
 
AUTUMN MANCEUVRES. Q7 
 
 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 un- 
 just; he used it, as he used everything else at that time, 
 as an argument against Christianity. Nor did his mother 
 make matters pleasanter to him. She, too, found out the 
 coldness with Avhich he was treated, and it vexed her; 
 one or two of the more kind-hearted neighbours 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 would 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?" 
 
 "Perfectly, barring the adjectives," replied Donovan, 
 crossing the room, and resting his elbow on the mantel- 
 piece. 
 
 "But really you should not do such things," said Mrs. 
 Farrant, plaintively. "What made you think of going?" 
 
 "I wished to hear Luke Raeburn's views," said Dono- 
 van, still keeping his face steadily turned towards her. 
 
 "It is absurd for a boy of your age 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?" 
 
g8 DONOVAN. 
 
 "Because, whatever I am, I'll not be a hypocrite," 
 said Donovan, with some sharpness. 
 
 There was silence for a few minutes after this. Mrs. 
 Farrant fanned herself, and Donovan tormented the 
 feathers of an Indian hand-screen. At last, wdth 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 neighbourhood," said Mrs. Farrant, peevishly. "I do 
 not care what you do as long as you behave respectably." 
 "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 wonder- 
 ful 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 only 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 inconsiderate," said Mrs. Farrant, drying 
 
 her eyes. "I'm sure I wish your guardian were herej he 
 
AUTUMN MANCEUVRES. 99 
 
 at least would have some sympathy 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 back. 
 
 "It is just as I told you at Porthkerran," continued 
 Mrs. Farrant. "You never think of anyone but yourself; 
 you are always bringing trouble and sorrow to others." 
 Then, looking up, and seeing that Donovan in his agita- 
 tion was breaking the feathers of the hand-screen, she 
 sharpened her voice, "Cannot you even help destroying 
 the 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 Donovan 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 were 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 pro- 
 mise, bringing his sister Adela with him. She was some 
 years his junior, and as she had the same class of good 
 
loo DONOVAN. 
 
 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 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 satis- 
 faction. "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 j but now I want you to engross 
 him a little, and set me at liberty — do you see?" 
 
 Adela Farrant laughed again. 
 
 "You cunning Elhs! You have entrapped me into a 
 dull country-house just to further your own ends, and 
 then you set me down to amuse a schoolboy." 
 
 "Pardon me, but he is by no means a boy," said 
 Ellis. "He 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 find 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 — very — an Apollo — an Adonis." 
 
AUTUMN MANOiUVRES. lOI 
 
 "And in his nineteenth year!" concluded Adela, with 
 a gesture of contempt. "However, I'll try to amuse him, 
 out of regard for you. Why, here we are at the Manor, 
 and there is your Apollo of the clustering curls at the 
 door. What a grave saturnine face! but you're quite 
 right, he's very good-looking. Roman, not Greek, though. 
 Augustus Caesar come to life again." 
 
 The first evening was, according to Ellis Farrant's 
 views, a perfect success. He had free scope for con- 
 versation with Mrs. Farrant, and she grew quite merry 
 and talkative under the combined influence of his atten- 
 tions 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 tete-a-tete 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 from 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, how- 
 ever, 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 herself to find out his likes and dislikes. And Dono- 
 van 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. When Ellis did 
 not care to go out shooting, Adela generally proposed a 
 ride, and so managed to engross her young cousin for 
 
102 DONOVAN. 
 
 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, meaningless talk generally sufficed to prevent 
 the 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, gather- 
 ing 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 exclaimed. "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 Greyshot, 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 
 Mountshire." 
 
 "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 
 
AUTUMN MANOEUVRES, IO3 
 
 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?" 
 
 As she spoke she handed him the rose to put into 
 the basket. It was an exquisite blush rose, and he held 
 it in his hand abstractedly, 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 person — besides, scepticism is always 
 interesting. Not, you know\ that I am not all that is 
 proper and orthodox, you mustn't think that for a moment. 
 I like to be cot?wie il faiit in everything — that is not quite 
 a right expression, is it? more suited 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 sceptics — is that sense? Now 
 do tell me why you don't believe the things that I be- 
 lieve; they say it is always well to hear all sides of a 
 question, and on this subject I have scarcely heard any- 
 thing." 
 
 She had rattled on in her usual fashion without looking 
 up; had she noticed the change in Donovan's face, her 
 womanly tact would have warned her to be more careful, 
 for he looked as nearly contemptuous as good manners 
 would allow. His voice was grave and displeased as he 
 replied, and had a strange 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 understand his own feelings. Why did he not care to 
 discuss this subject? Was it that his cousin's lightness 
 
I04 DONOVAN. 
 
 jarred on him? was there some latent sense of reverence 
 in him — some yet slumbering 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; flippant, 
 conventional, semi-religious talk evidently grated 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 likes 
 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 eagerly 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 arranged 
 in her vase. "I saw you from my window. What were 
 you talking about?" 
 
 "Oh," said Adela, with a little pause, as she adjusted 
 a leaf, "we were talking about the church." 
 
 "There's many changes there, miss," said Mrs. Doery, 
 
AUTUMN MANOiUVRES. IO5 
 
 looking up from her work. "Seems to be the way 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 than 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 
 clergyman. 
 
 "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 understanding, looked perplexed till Adela explained. 
 
 "The reading-desk in church, dear, the lectern, is like 
 an eagle. Oh ! Mrs. Doery, you mustn't ivAnd our laughing, 
 but really that is worthy of Pimch." 
 
 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 change in his monotonous life, and shielded him to 
 some extent from EUis Farrant's annoyances. For, during 
 
1 06 DONOVAN. 
 
 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 con- 
 siderably. 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 thought; but even 
 easy and generous natures are often roused by feeling 
 that they are being traded upon. The length and fre- 
 quency of his cousin's visits might be overlooked perhaps, 
 but when, in the course of the month, he went with 
 Donovan to some races at a neighbouring 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. He used to perform all kinds of little services 
 for her; waiting on her sedulously on every possible oc- 
 casion with a marked ostentation which seemed always 
 trying to indicate to Donovan, "this is what you ought to 
 do." Even had such attentions been possible to him, he 
 would have been far too proud to take such a broad hint, 
 and EUis was probably aware of this, or he would not 
 have risked giving the advice; it was everything to him 
 that Mrs. Farrant should feel the great difference 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. 
 
THE BLACK SHEEP OF OAKDENE. I07 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 THE BLACK SHEEP OF OAKDENE. 
 
 O, ye wha are sae guid yoursel', 
 
 Sae pious, and sae toly, 
 Ye've nought to do but mark and tell 
 
 Your neebour's faults and folly. 
 Ye see your state with theirs compar'd, 
 
 And shudder at the niffer, 
 But cast a moment's fair regard 
 
 What maks the mighty differ? 
 
 Wi' wind and tide fair i' your tail, ., 
 
 Right on ye scud your sea-way, ? 
 
 But in the teeth o' baith to sail. 
 It makes an unco lee way. 
 Address to the Unco Gicid, or Rigidly Righteous. — Burns. 
 
 "I MAV be wrong, Mr. Ward. I can't pretend to much 
 wisdom. I'm an old, unlettered man, but it seems to me 
 that folks are rather hard on the poor boy; but I may be 
 wrong, I quite allow I may be wrong." 
 
 The speaker was a grey-haired, elderly man, Avith a 
 thin, worn face, kind eyes, and rather bent shoulders. 
 His companion, Mr. Ward, was the Squire of Oakdene, 
 a short, broad, grey- whiskered country gentleman, some- 
 what bluff, 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 fellow has a very bad reputation. No 
 one has a good word to say for him." 
 
I08 DONOVAN. 
 
 "Poor boy," said old Mr. Hayes, compassionately. "I 
 suppose 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 his 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 really it would be most unwise. I don't know what 
 Mrs. Ward would say if I proposed it. Now you, Hayes, 
 it's different with you; you're a bachelor, and could 
 easily be a little friendly with him." 
 
 "Yes," hesitated Mr. Hayes; "but you 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 Commandment now-a-days; 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 very hard to know how to help people 
 when you can't send them blankets, or coals, or Christmas 
 dinners." 
 
 "And young Farrant is a precious deal too proud to 
 be helped in any way," said Mr. Ward, with a laugh. 
 "But, after all, I am sorry for the boy; it's a sad start in 
 life to have lost one's good name. What's he after now, 
 stooping down in the snow? We shall catch him up, 
 and, if so, I must speak to him." 
 
THE BLACK SHEEP OF OAKDENE. lOQ 
 
 A miserable-looking cat, drenched with water, and 
 with a tin pot tied to its tail, had been lying half dead 
 by the roadside. Donovan, who was a great lover 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 draggled fur, when, hearing steps, he glanced 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 cordially. 
 
 "Well, Farrant, how are you? Mrs. Farrant quite 
 well, I hope? You know Mr. Hayes, don't you? Why, 
 what's that? — a drowned cat?" 
 
 "Some brute of a boy has nearly killed it," said 
 Donovan, indignation making him speak naturally. "I 
 think it will 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 marestail; 
 besides, it's too small to be worth anything." 
 
 "Oh! you must come over to our place," said the 
 squire, with good-humour, which astonished Mr. Hayes. 
 Our young people 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 right." 
 
IIO DONOVAN. 
 
 "I am very fond of it," said Donovan, and his eyes 
 danced. 
 
 "Then come over to-morrow, and whenever you hke; 
 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. 
 
 "Now, what on earth did I do that for?" said the 
 squire, as he 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 
 given; he tried hard to mention it casually when he got 
 home, but there was an undisguisable anxiety in his voice 
 as he observed, 
 
 "Oh! by-the-by, my dear, I met young Farrant 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?" 
 
 "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." 
 
 " But only 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 
 
THE BLACK SHEEP OF OAKDENE. 1 I I 
 
 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 all the kind of companion I 
 like for the boys, and I've heard you say the same thing 
 yourself. No one visits him, he reads \vith that Mr. Alleyne 
 at Greyshot, a most unprincipled man, and you yourself 
 heard that he attended Raeburn'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 Raeburn or of 
 Positivism on the ice, I should think," said Mr. Ward, 
 with a smile. "Come, my dear, it is not like you to be 
 inhospitable; let the poor fellow be here just this once." 
 
 "Of course he must come now you have asked him," 
 said Mrs. Ward, with a sigh. "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 good-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-hater. And you know, my dear, 
 even the author of evil is no so black as he's painted," 
 
1 I 2 DONOVAN, 
 
 Mrs. Ward sighed, but 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 squire and his two sons came 
 down, but, beyond an ordinary greeting, very little passed 
 between them. The squire was too good-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 
 enjoyment 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 de- 
 clined. He never left Dot now for a whole day, and 
 giving the ordinary excuse of "an engagement," he left 
 the lake, the squ-ire 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 an- 
 noying, certainly — but she learnt from 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 morn- 
 
THE BLACK. SHEEP OF OAKDENE. I 1 3 
 
 ing, and, though Mrs. Ward hurried over her housekeep- 
 ing, 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! 
 Why had not the girls been more careful? Why had she 
 not sent down the servant to help them? Why did her 
 husband stand there so carelessly, 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, Maggie White was bewitching, 
 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 with 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 girls 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 
 
 Donovan. I. 8 
 
I I 4 DONOVAN. 
 
 flirt ! " and Mrs. Ward looked anxiously across the lake to 
 the place where Donovan 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;" and the hospitable 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 wonder- 
 ful figures?" 
 
 "They are only learnt by practice," said Donovan. 
 "I learnt at school, and at my old home near London. 
 You can do anything well, if you give your whole will to it." 
 
 "Can you?" 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 Maggie 
 White the prettiest and pleasantest girl he had ever seen. 
 They talked on naturally and easily, and it was not sur- 
 prising 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 hand with her more than 
 cutting figures by himself. Nor did it occur to Maggie 
 that she was guilty of any great enormity 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." 
 
THE BLACK SHEEP OF OAKDENE. I I 5 
 
 And Donovan, though he was no "lady's man," could 
 answer very truthfully, 
 
 "You are making me enjoy it perfectly." 
 
 Then they began to talk again of Canada, and she 
 described all its dehghts 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? 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?" 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 Cana- 
 dian girl and her partner. Twice they made the circuit 
 of the lake, then, as they passed near the bank where 
 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, say- 
 ing, in an odd changed voice, 
 
 "I think Mrs. Ward wishes to speak to you." 
 
 "To me? 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 
 
I I 6 DONOVAN. 
 
 to interrupt your pleasure, but you must allow me to 
 judge in this instance." Then, as Donovan drew near, 
 she turned to him, trying 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 been boyishly happy and bright was suddenly 
 overcast, the eyes saddened, the mouth re-assumed its 
 bitter look, and, without a single 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 
 quiet Oakdene skaters early in the morning, but he com- 
 plied 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 him- 
 self open again to the chance of a fresh rebuff. After 
 the first, he invariably 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 white 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 
 
THE BLACK SHEEP OF OAKDENE. I I 7 
 
 general whiteness, and their branches drooping gracefully 
 under the heavy 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 morbid 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 ropes, for every sort of aid 
 which was not at hand. Two ladies were submerged; 
 Donovan coolly selected one of them while he drew off 
 his coat, then, without an instant's hesitation, he plunged 
 into the icy water. His example was speedily followed 
 by Harry Ward, ropes were hastily brought on to the ice, 
 the rescue began to seem hopeful. Donovan was an ex- 
 pert swimmer; a few strokes brought him up to the sink- 
 ing girl, who, dragged down by the weight of her clothes, 
 was being drawn in under the ice. From this he freed 
 her without much difficulty, but she was insensible, and 
 he found that to get her out of the water was quite an- 
 other matter; he tried several times, but without success; 
 each time the edges of the ice broke away with the 
 weight, and all he could do was to keep her head above 
 water, while with increasing difficulty he struck out with 
 
1 I 8 DONOVAN. 
 
 his free arm. The others had been rescued, or were 
 being helped, and at length a rope was brought 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 Vv^as overlooked; at any 
 rate, no one spoke to him, and all at once his sore morose 
 feeling returned with double force. The people were 
 beginning 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 flame, for, although he considered 
 himself too philosophic to be troubled by mere bodily 
 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 dis- 
 comfort of his cold, clinging, dripping clothes, at any rate 
 
THE BLACK SHEEP OF OAKDENE. I I Q 
 
 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 imexpected greeting. 
 
 "Nice 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." 
 
 "Bless me! — no one hurt, I hope? Did anyone go 
 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," repHed Donovan, 
 swinging 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 something 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 in- 
 habited by the bachelor Mr. Hayes, was as scrupulously 
 clean as any old-maid's dwelling. 
 
I20 DONOVAN. 
 
 Mr. Hayes rang the bell in the paflour, all the time 
 making much of his guest. Could 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 infinite 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 thoughts, but they returned to him as 
 he entered his own home and threw down his skates. 
 
 "Good-bye to you, at any rate," he murmured. "I 
 shall never go there again." 
 
 Dot, with her quick all-observing eyes, saw at once 
 that something was wrong when Donovan came into her 
 room. Yesterday he had returned in the highest spirits, 
 that very morning he had started with the look of bright 
 expectation on his face which the little sister liked to see, 
 but now he was grave and with the expression which he 
 
THE BLACK SHEEP OF OAKDENE. 121 
 
 always wore when any allusion was made to his school 
 disgrace — the expression which Dot never cared to put 
 into words — a hard bad look. 
 
 "You are back earlier than you said," she began. 
 "Have you not had good skating?" 
 
 "Yes— no," he moved away from her to the fireplace, 
 and kicked the coals in the grate with his heel. 
 
 "He never stirs the fire with his foot except when 
 something is wrong," soliloquized Dot; then aloud, 
 
 "Have you seen mamma, Dono?" 
 
 "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 he walked across the 
 room, opened the piano, and began 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 gradually died out of his heart, and poor Dot 
 began to beg for mercy. 
 
 "You must have played it a thousand times," she 
 said, laughing, and Donovan laughed too, left the piano, 
 and came to sit beside her. 
 
 "Bach is as good as a tonic," he said, cheerfully. 
 "That old fellow always sets me right." 
 
 She saw now that she might talk to him, and began 
 to question him about his day. He always told her his 
 troubles, but this afternoon he tried to make light of them. 
 
 "We had a glorious time in the morning, the ice was 
 
122 DONOVAN. 
 
 perfect. About the middle of the time the Miss Wards 
 came down, and their cousin, Miss White, a very pretty 
 girl from Canada. She skated nicely, was much more 
 up to things than anyone else, and for a little while we 
 danced together. Mrs. Ward did not approve of that, 
 though. I overheard her say something not too com- 
 plimentary, and then she managed somehow to stop it, 
 at which, 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 brave and helped the others, 
 and Mrs. Ward was obliged to like you very much?" 
 
 He laughed a httle, but rather sadly. 
 
 "No, Dot. You are running on too fast. I was born 
 under an unlucky star, and shall never be able to win 
 honour or respect." 
 
 He gave her a detailed account of the whole affair, 
 and was rewarded by her delighted 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. 
 
 "No, no, you bad boy. Something about being 
 'humane,' and they give medals to people who save 
 people's lives. Just fancy, Dono, you could wear it on 
 your watch-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 the little sister, indignantly. "Never mind, Dono, 
 you are my hero, my very own, and you're the dearest 
 old boy in the world." 
 
THE BLACK SHEEP OF OAKDENE. I 23 
 
 Perhaps it was as well that the frost only lasted three 
 days longer. The skaters grumbled sadly, bat two people 
 at Oakdene were considerably relieved. The one was 
 Mrs. Ward, who rejoiced that "that dangerous young 
 man," could not again imperil 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 acquaint- 
 ance. Mr. Hayes wrote to ask him to dinner, and, as 
 such invitations were rare, Donovan was pleased enough 
 to go. It was tete-a-tete dinner. Old Mr. Hayes was 
 past sixty, and Donovan not yet nineteen, but, 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 sim- 
 plicity, kindliness, and content could not fail to strike 
 the most casual observer. 
 
 Mr. Hayes lived very frugally as a rule. The game 
 was an unwonted luxury, and his evident appreciation 
 of it was very pleasant to Donovan. He himself had a 
 hearty but philosophic appetite, to which nothing came 
 amiss, dainty discrimination was not at all in his line, 
 but he enjoyed watching old Mr. Hayes discuss his 
 present, glad 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 game, "who brought his own venison with 
 him when he dined at the vicarage. What! You don't 
 know the book? Is it possible? Well, I suppose it's old 
 
124 DONOVAN. 
 
 and behind the times now; but, my word! how I have 
 laughed 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 mer- 
 chant'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 retire- 
 ment, 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 
 himself evidently considered quite sufficient. 
 
 "And now, you see," he concluded, "when my health 
 is uncertain, 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 air. 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 no- 
 thing'?" 
 
 "Well, well," said Mr. Hayes, "perhaps you're the 
 wiser and more rational. I dont know exactly about e.\- 
 pecting — 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 
 
"tied to his mothers apron-strings." 125 
 
 been saving up for it this long time, and I've mapped 
 out my route, and chosen what hotels to go to, and cal- 
 culated just what it will cost; and then, you know, when 
 I meet with travellers, I get hints from them, and put 
 them down in my note-book. Now this is what I intend to 
 do, starting, you know, from Newhaven to Dieppe," &c., &c. 
 
 The whole tour was detailed with enthusiastic delight, 
 and Donovan listened, unable to help admiring the child- 
 like, contented 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. Hayes, rubbing 
 his hands. "I've 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-strings." 
 
 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 Hkely to fall, and, humanly speaking, there is no such 
 careful and saving influence as a mother's." 
 
 The speaker, Mrs. Causton, was a middle-aged lady, 
 with no-coloured hair brought low on each side of her 
 brow, and a rather careworn face, which expressed 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 surgery before going up 
 to London to "walk the hospitals." Mrs. Causton was 
 
126 DONOVAN. 
 
 such a near neighbour that she was an almost daily visi- 
 tor 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 exquisitely 
 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 Nesta's 
 frocks; and Gladys, at the far end of the room, was giv- 
 ing Jackie a reading-lesson. 
 
 "And yet," began Mrs. Tremain, in answer, "I can't 
 help thinking that a certain amount of independence is 
 almost necessary; 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 other- 
 wise; but you know I never could be in London, unfor- 
 tunately; the air is like poison to me. He must be alone 
 then, 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 lightly meant, there was a little smile of 
 amusement about her lips, for she knew she was poach- 
 ing 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 
 
"tied to his mothers apron-strings. 127 
 
 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 legs common to most children 
 of his age. 
 
 "Aunt Margaret," said Gladys, for, though Mrs. Caus- 
 ton was no real relation, the children had known her all 
 their lives, and had christened her "auntie," in American 
 fashion — "Aunt Margaret, 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 deter- 
 mined 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, provoked 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 are Christians. She talks as if all the world, ex- 
 cept just a few people like herself, were wicked." 
 
 "Your aunt has very strong opinions. I do not agree 
 with her always," said Mrs. Tremain. "Nor need you, 
 Gladys." 
 
 "But, mother, it's so tiresome to have to hear people 
 say things like that, it's so — so narrow! What would she 
 do it there were only two professions in the world, if 
 
12 8 DONOVAN. 
 
 every man was a clergyman or a doctor! x'Ynd if the 
 other things must be done and seen to, why, it must be 
 right for some one to do them." 
 
 "Do you know," said Mrs. Tremain, smiUng, "that you 
 are a very hot Httle arguer, 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 was thinking 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. 
 Tremain. "Don't let us take to crying up our own be- 
 longings, 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, laugh- 
 ing, "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 al- 
 ways 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 
 
"tied to his mother's apron-strings." I2Q 
 
 she thinks Gladys sounds so hke a heathen. She wonders 
 you and papa chose it for me." 
 
 Mrs. 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 reading 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 Dick and little Jackie, were to 
 come over from their school at Plymouth. 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 
 which 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 ser- 
 vants to carry the provisions, when our own arms ached 
 with the burden, when, with a sense of delicious novelty, 
 we ourselves spread the cloth on the turf, or boiled the 
 kettle over a gipsy-like fire of sticks, or roamed in de- 
 lightful freedom in what seemed a paradise of rest and 
 greenness, away from the "haunts of men." 
 
 About two miles west of Porthkerran the cliff's 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 
 
 Donozian. I. a 
 
1 30 DONOVAN. 
 
 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 
 Httle 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 yester- 
 day. 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 telhng there is still the better, but per- 
 haps one can hardly look for it in such a matter as 
 that." 
 
 "I like perfect confidence between a mother and son," 
 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. 
 
"tied to his mother's apron-strings." 131 
 
 and a boy of nineteen is generally rather a tough customer 
 to deal with." 
 
 "You think so?" 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 discipline 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 opinions strongly on every point, whether it is beyond 
 their comprehension or not, they battle along not un- 
 frequently 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 them." 
 
 "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 way, and in 
 these days, when young men so often hold such dread- 
 fully unorthodox views, that is saying a great deal." 
 
 "I don't think Stephen is in any danger of being un- 
 orthodox," 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 go half-way into the 
 
 Slough of Despond, and never win through it. I don't 
 
 9* 
 
132 DONOVAN. 
 
 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 management 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 ^^^-management. There is an old saying, 
 which of course you know, about the child who is 'tied 
 to his mother's apron-strings;' perhaps it seems cruel of 
 me to quote such a rough simile to you, but, you see, 
 there is danger in it — it makes a boy weak and helpless 
 instead of bracing him for his part in life, as I know you 
 and all good mothers would wish to do." 
 
 "Well, what shall I tell him? — what is his chief fault 
 in his work?" said Mrs. Causton, with the rather fretted 
 manner of one taking uncongenial advice. 
 
 "Don't bother him — let him alone a little," said the 
 doctor, cheerfully. "Some day I mean to give him a 
 good blowing up; he must learn to keep the surgery 
 more tidy." 
 
 Mrs. Causton was a little annoyed at this sudden de- 
 scent 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 everF 
 since we were lads together, and so I can't help takingi 
 a special interest in Stephen. But don't let us spoil ourj 
 afternoon's pleasuring with educational bothers. Where! 
 
"TIED TO HIS mother's APRON-STRINGS." I 33 
 
 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 butterfly-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, who 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 occasionally 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 uncomfort- 
 able impression which the doctor's \vords 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 
 highway, they entered the cool green shade of the wood. 
 "I used to think it must be so dull down here at Porth- 
 kerran; it seemed like 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 they have to wear gloves always, and walk about 
 in their best clothes." 
 
 "I thought girls always liked dress," said Stephen. 
 
 "Oh! yes, of course, in a way; it is nice to have 
 pretty things but not to be always bothered with them," 
 said Gladys, stooping down to gather some forget-me-nots. 
 
 The younger boys had wandered on in front. Stephen 
 
134 DONOVAN. 
 
 was not sorry to be left behind, for he was rapidly gHding 
 into love with Gladys. He gave to her now the con- 
 fidence 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." 
 
 "Oh, will you?" said Gladys. 
 
 "Would you — would you be sorry if I went?" ques- 
 tioned 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; 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 sympathy. 
 
 "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 care- 
 lessness 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 
 
"TIED TO HIS mother's APRON-STRINGS." 1 35 
 
 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, 
 
 "Oh! I do believe there is that rare 'blue' which 
 Jackie wanted. I must catch him." 
 
 And, while Stephen wished all the rare "blues" at 
 the other side of the world, Gladys sprang across the 
 little brook, running in swift pursuit of her victim. Stephen 
 sauntered on rather discontentedly, but taking care not 
 to lose sight of the brown hoUand and blue ribbons, 
 which flashed 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 sight. 
 
 Then came the merry preparations for tea; the boys 
 gathered 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 arrangements, though, 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 
 
136 DONOVAN. 
 
 the shade, from time to time singing rounds and catches, 
 Gladys began to make her forget-me-nots into tiny nose- 
 gays. There was one for everybody, but the greater 
 number of them were destined to "bloom their hour and 
 fade," only one was carefully preserved among Stephen's 
 untidy haunts. There was this much of good in him, that 
 he was capable of recognizing Gladys' beauty and good- 
 ness, but unfortunately she did not greatly influence him. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 DOT VERSUS THE WORLD. 
 
 She was sent forth 
 To bring that light 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 sub- 
 stantial reward promised in a certain moral song which 
 is put into the lips of children in which a charitable loaf- 
 giver is represented as receiving "As much and ten times 
 more," but a reward in some form perhaps hardly under- 
 stood 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. ^Vhen he resolved 
 
DOT VERSUS THE WORLD. 137 
 
 to devote himself to Dot, instinctively his thoughts grew 
 less morbid and selfish. His life, which seemed so pur- 
 poseless and useless, twined itself round her life, and 
 found the object it needed. His creed indeed remained 
 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. 
 
 His 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 difficult passage of music, or his nightly card- 
 playing at the Greyshot Club, he bent his whole will to 
 the work, intent upon making whatever 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 self-reliance was still 
 unshaken, he was no longer the self-absorbed, gloomy, 
 taciturn fellow he had been. To make himself com- 
 panionable to Dot, he had been forced to rouse himself; 
 abstract speculations, long, dismal reveries, were incom- 
 patible 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, Vv'hen he was with her; at other times he 
 was often sadly moody, and the coldness with his mother 
 
I3o DONOVAN. 
 
 increased rather than diminished; indeed, he saw very 
 httle 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- 
 panions. 
 
 And all the time Mrs. Farrant allowed herself to drift 
 down the stream of life placidly. The world seemed to 
 her a little dull, but no doubt other people 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 light 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 occasionally Donovan occupied her thoughts for 
 a few minutes. She would feel a sort of pride and plea- 
 sure 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 
 unmotherliness 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 arranged that the Oakdene family should go up 
 to town for the season. Mrs. Farrant had left off her 
 weeds. EUis 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 
 glad enough to go. He had begun to crave for a change 
 of scene, and, though he was too unsociable and silent 
 to care for the sort of gaieties which his mother enjoyed, 
 London offered many other attractions to him. 
 
DOT VERSUS THE WORLD. I3g 
 
 Dot's room was in the front of the house, that she 
 might have the benefit of the square garden, and, when 
 she had recovered from the fatigue of the journey, she 
 was able thoroughly to enjoy the change. Donovan had 
 not noticed how very thin and weak she had grown lately. 
 He was never away from her, and so did not see the 
 change as a fresh comer would have done. It was a 
 chance word of Adela Farrant's which first drew his at- 
 tention to the fact. 
 
 "Why, my poor Httle 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 strange contrast to the startled, abrupt interroga- 
 tive 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. You 
 wanted a little change and amusement. You wanted me 
 to look after you, now didn't you?" 
 
 Conscious that she had made rather an unfortunate 
 remark, Adela talked on good-naturedly to the little girl, 
 and once or twice tried to draw Donovan into the con- 
 versation; he did not seem to hear her, but stood leaning 
 against the wall at the foot of Dot's couch, looking at her 
 with a sad, anxious, pained scrutiny. Adela's words had 
 sent a cold thrill to his heart. Was it true? Was Dot 
 really changed? Was she more fragile and delicate-look- 
 ing 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 Httle help- 
 
140 DONOVAN. 
 
 less 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 shawl, the same shawl which 
 he remembered 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 ap- 
 parent 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 appealingly. 
 
 "Dono, 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 feehngs wth a sarcastic smile. 
 
DOT VERSUS THE WORLD. I4I 
 
 "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 compliments to pretty women, it's not in me. Some 
 fellows are born to it, it comes as naturally to them as 
 card-playing comes to me. One can't go against nature." 
 
 "You ought to do your duty," said Adela, with play- 
 ful severity. 
 
 "And if I were to ask, like Fronde's cat, 'What is 
 my duty?' you would answer, I suppose, like the saga- 
 cious 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." 
 
 "He 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 egg. 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 foresworn such vanities," said Donovan, 
 contentedly. "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 
 
142 DONOVAN. 
 
 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 vir- 
 tuous employment of talking nonsense in aristocratic 
 drawing-rooms, or flirting 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 words up — a 
 chaff'-cutter!" 
 
 "At any rate, I was not chaffing," said Donovan, re- 
 lapsing into good humour. 
 
 "Did you ever know anything like him?" said Adela, 
 with another laugh. "He can make as many bad puns 
 as ordinary men when he tries, but let him be in society, 
 and he's a bear-^-a 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 under- 
 standing the banter, and hurt that anyone should think 
 Donovan otherwise than perfect; "you don't know a bit 
 how good he is if you say that. When I was so ill six 
 months ago, he was 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 
 
DOT VERSUS THE WORLD. 1 43 
 
 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 Httle 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 charac- 
 ter, 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 hfe. Isn't Waif a dear dog, cousin?" 
 
 "Well, I don't think he's a beauty," said Adela, look- 
 ing down at the fox-terrier, who was licking his master's 
 hand. 
 
 "He can do lots of tricks, though," said Dot; "he's 
 wonderfully clever, and he loves Dono so!" 
 
 "Have you seen ElHs'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 something about meeting me here at 
 
1 44 DONOVAN. 
 
 five o'clock. I think I had better go downstairs and see 
 if he has come." 
 
 "Oh! stay with Dot a Httle longer," said Donovan, 
 "I daresay he has not come yet; I'll go and see." 
 
 Adela consented to stay on, and Donovan, with Waif 
 at his heels, went downstairs. Opening the drawing-room 
 door unconcernedly, and hastily glancing round to see if 
 his cousin were there, he was suddenly confronted by a 
 sight so unexpected, so disagreeably starthng, that for 
 a moment he stood rooted to 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, began nervously, "Oh, Donovan!" then, 
 turning to EUis, 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 be angry 
 with me; come, now, I am not going to steal her away 
 from you — of course we shall all live on at Oakdene to- 
 gether. It is not every fellow of your age whom I should 
 look forward to having as a son; but you, Donovan, it is 
 very different with you; we have always been friends, 
 have we not? I remember him," he continued, turning 
 
DOT VERSUS THE WORLD, 1 45 
 
 to Mrs. Farrant, "when he was quite a Httle fellow, and 
 as sharp as a needle, though he couldn't have been more 
 than seven." 
 
 All this time Donovan's face had only grown more 
 hard and flint-like. Ellis, Avith his usual tact, saw that 
 his best policy would be to retreat at once, ignoring his 
 Avard's anger, and taking his congratulations 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. Adela said I should meet her in Dot's room. 
 I'll just run up." 
 
 Already he 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 the interview. Ellis went out smilingly, pretend- 
 ing 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 moment of victory, and between his 
 teeth he hissed out the word, "Young viper! I'll teach 
 him to find his tongue! We'll have a rather different 
 interview, my friend, when you come of age!" 
 
 Donovan had been half paralysed while Ellis re- 
 mained in the room, but no sooner had he left it than, 
 Avith sudden reaction, the frozen blood seemed to boil in 
 his veins. The stony look on his face changed to pas- 
 sionate earnestness, and crossing the room in hurried 
 strides, he stood close to Mrs. Farrant. 
 
 "Mother!" he gasped. Only that one Avord, but 
 there was such intensity, such pleading, such misery in 
 
 Donovan. /, lO 
 
1 46 DONOVAN. 
 
 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 been— one long piece of manoeuvring 
 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 \vill 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. Farrant 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 hear me. 
 I know Ellis Farrant better than you do. You only see 
 the sleek, bland, pohte 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!" 
 
 "I wish you wouldn't talk so wildly," said Mrs. Far- 
 rant, half crying. "I don't know what you mean by say- 
 ing such dreadful things about your — your guardian. It 
 
DOT VERSUS THE WORLD. 1 47 
 
 is very hard that directly some one else begins to love 
 me you should suddenly wake up from your usual in- 
 difference. You never loved me yourself, and you will 
 not let anyone else love me." 
 
 "It 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 your money. Send him 
 away; do not listen to him. Let us be what nature 
 meant us to be to each other!" 
 
 "You are mad! You frighten 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 offer of marriage." 
 
 "Have / driven you to it?" cried poor Donovan. 
 "Would I not willingly have been more to you! Did I 
 not tell you so long ago? 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 Avay to a defenceless woman. 
 When my only son can attack me so fiercely, 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-awakening love, his 
 eager longing to save her certain misery, was fierceness? 
 Bitterly wounded, he turned away with one despairing 
 sentence. "We shall Jiever understand each other." 
 
 "Perhaps not," she replied, "but, at any rate, we 
 must not again discuss this subject. It would not be 
 
1 48 DONOVAN. 
 
 right for me to listen to you, 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 affection, and Donovan 
 was allowed to give expression 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 was sad indeed, but 
 no longer bitter. 
 
 "Oh! Dono," she cried, eagerly, "have you heard? 
 Has Cousin ElHs told you?" 
 
 "Yes, I have heard all," said Donovan, much more 
 quietly than she had expected. 
 
 "And you do not mind so very. much. I was so 
 afraid you would be vexed, because last 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, "but 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." 
 
DOT VERSUS THE WORLD. 1 49 
 
 "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 Mozart, she reasoned with herself till 
 her resolution was made. 
 
 "It is far worse 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 shame- 
 fully 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 playing, 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-long 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 
 
150 DONOVAN. 
 
 his school disgrace, the day at Plymouth, the brief time 
 at Porthkerran, and lastly the awful scene, when in an 
 instant, without a farewell word or look, his father had 
 been snatched from him. Slowly and carefully he re- 
 traced the past, recalled all the conversations between 
 them, remembered his father's courtesy, his sympathy, 
 his gentle yet deeply-pained allusion to the "breach of 
 honour." What a contrast he was to Ellis Farrant! The 
 one refined, dignified, upright; the other ostentatious, 
 false, and grasping! Donovan could not judge people 
 by the highest standard, but he had a standard of his 
 own, and Ellis fell immeasurably 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 sweep- 
 ing condemnation of all his acquaintances forced him to 
 assert himself 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; 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 remem- 
 brance of his father helped him to a certain extent, but 
 it could not exercise a really strong influence over him, 
 for it was merely the remembrance 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 
 unsatisfactory. 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 
 
DOT VERSUS THE WORLD. I5I 
 
 of amusement they wished to go to, but it was all very 
 uncongenial to him. At concerts, not being really musical, 
 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 fashionable receptions, he saw merely the 
 falseness of society, the low motives, the heartless frivolity, 
 the absurd vanity of the individuals 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 
 sure 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 suf- 
 ficient 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 — the successful schemer — they 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 gone down to Porthkerran at the time of his cousin's 
 death, feehng a sort of admiration and fondness 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 
 
152 DONOVAN. 
 
 his unconscious victim more and more. The sight of 
 him was a continual reproach; he was uneasy and rest- 
 less in his presence, even at times afraid of him. In the 
 moment of his triumph and success, his hatred increased 
 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 ex- 
 postulation 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 
 attending 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 Caesar," 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? He went 
 down so casually and unsuspectingly to see if you had 
 come that I had hardly the heart not to give him warn- 
 
DOT VERSUS THE WORLD. I 53 
 
 ing. However, I kept my promise 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 Ellis, recovering his good humour; "he came 
 in the very nick of time, and saw it all at a glance." 
 
 "Poor fellow! — Avhat did he say?" 
 
 "Nothing; he looked thunderstruck, 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 
 laugh. "And you, I suppose, talked glibly, and promised 
 to be a devoted step-father?" 
 
 "Something of the sort," said Ellis, smiling. 
 
 "Well, I don't wonder he doesn't like it," said Adela. 
 "Of course he is practically master at Oakdene; he won't 
 enjoy making way for you." 
 
 "I don't suppose he will," replied Ellis, thinking of 
 far 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 contemptuously; "but I must not scold you, for 
 you have managed your work very neatly, and of course 
 I'm glad of your success. \\Tien is it to be?" 
 
 "The wedding? I don't know. Perhaps the end of 
 July. Anyhow, I'm afraid I shall miss the grouse this 
 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 
 Caesar," 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 youth,' now 
 
154 DONOVAN. 
 
 that your affairs are settled. It was the dullest flirtation 
 I ever had; for, quite between ourselves, that sort of 
 thing is not in Caesar'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. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 LOOKING TWO WAYS. 
 
 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 simhght on our 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 obhvion beyond memory; 
 
 As one who sits and gazes from above, 
 
 Over the rivers to the bitter sea. — E. B. Browning. 
 
 "On the 2gth inst., at St. George's, Hanover Square, 
 Ellis Farrant, only son of the late J. E. Fan-ant, Esq., 
 and nephew of the late Thomas Farrant, Esq., of Oakdene 
 Manor, Mountshire, and Rippingham, Surrey, to Honora, 
 widow 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 Eng- 
 land, 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 neighbour at the next table. 
 The kind old souls had made a little romance about the 
 handsome, grave-looking young fellow, who had come to 
 
LOOKING TWO WAYS. I 55 
 
 the hotel a few days before, and used to sit down to 
 his soUtary 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 melan- 
 choly-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 heartless, 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 deportment. (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 he had taken off his 
 hat as he passed her. Very few Englishmen would have 
 done that; he was certainly a foreigner of some sort. 
 She, however, scouted the idea that he was married, and 
 made up her mind that he was crossed in love. 
 
 "There is the young foreigner," Miss Brown had said 
 to her sister as Donovan come into the coffee-room that 
 morning. They had agreed to call him the foreigner, as 
 a sort of general term which suited the opinions of each. 
 
 "He is coming to this side of the room," said Miss 
 Marianne, looking up from her egg, but hastily and 
 decorously turning to the window and making a vague 
 remark about the weather when she found the dark, 
 flashing 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 
 
156 DONOVAN. 
 
 he sipped his coffee, stroked his moustache, and cut his 
 roll in half, gently insinuating to her sister that men in 
 good spirits would have broken a roll; that to be so 
 methodical in trifles was, she thought, rather a sign of 
 — in fact quite supported hei- 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 papers had come. 
 
 "Strange that he should care to see English papers," 
 said Miss Brown, musingly. 
 
 "I believe I have heard that Spaniards are very good 
 linguists," 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 men- 
 tion of these great men, and did not for a moment ques- 
 tion that they had been renowned linguists; she did in- 
 deed 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 uninteresting 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 flush rose to his cheek. What could it be? The 
 
LOOKING TWO WAYS. 157 
 
 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 be 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 floor, 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 coffee 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 ab- 
 ruptly 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 little town. 
 It was very pleasant 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' again." 
 
 Miss Brown looked along the esplanade for the soli- 
 tary figure with the grave dark face, but 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 
 
15o DONOVAN. 
 
 'foreigner,' I see, she must be his sister. Suppose, 
 Marianne, we sit down a httle." 
 
 Miss Marianne owned that she was tired, and the 
 two ladies estabhshed 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 "Ali Baba" 
 was caught by Miss Brown, who nodded to her sister, 
 and whispered "The Arabian Nights." Then came a 
 fresh mystery, the reader's face suddenly became dark 
 and overcast, and there was quite a different tone in his 
 voice as he read the words, "You plainly see that Cogia 
 Houssain only sought your acquaintance in order to 
 insure success in his diabolical treachery." 
 
 Now why should Cogia Houssain bring such a strange 
 bitter look into anyone's face? Presently the story of the 
 "Forty Thieves" was finished, and the hero's face was 
 good-tempered again, he moved the little invalid's chair 
 quite to the edge of the esplanade, as near as possible to 
 the shingle, 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 merry 
 enough now. 
 
 There was a laughing discussion about the dog's 
 swimming powers. 
 
 "You only tried him once in the Serpentine, you 
 know," said the little invalid. "I don't beheve you dare 
 try him here." 
 
LOOKING TWO WAYS. I 59 
 
 "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 are." 
 
 The dog followed his master obediently across the 
 shingle to the water's edge, and plunged 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 indefatigably, 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; 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 re- 
 ceived a sort of shower bath. Donovan hastened up to 
 apologise. 
 
 "I am afraid my dog has been troubling 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 he was a water-dog," and then, raising his 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, en- 
 thusiastically. 
 
 Presently, as the old ladies rose to move on, and 
 
l60 DONOVAN. 
 
 passed close 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 fragile 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 any 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 
 light 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 matter over together, but agreed 
 that they could not presume to offer advice; however, an 
 occasion soon came when their consciences would not 
 allow them to keep silence. 
 
 It was Sunday morning; Miss Marianne timidly sug- 
 gested that, if it would not be wrong, she would very 
 much like a little turn on the esplanade before going to 
 
LOOKING TWO WAYS. l6l 
 
 church. Her sister was rather puritanical; 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 briskly as usual. There was 
 a quiet Sunday feehng all around; no stir of business or 
 traffic; the church bells ringing 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 un- 
 sabbatical light-brown shooting-jacket and cloth travelling- 
 hat; to add to it all, he was smoking, and to the Miss 
 Browns the sight of a cigar was always a sight to be de- 
 plored, but on Sunday smoking seemed to them little 
 better than sacrilege. Miss Marianne was almost dis- 
 armed by the courtesy of the greeting, but her sister 
 would not allow her face to soften; good looks and plea- 
 sant manners were all very well, but "Sabbath breaking" 
 was a sin which could not be passed by, so she tried not 
 to see the fascinating dark eyes, and said, gravely, 
 
 "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 ac- 
 customed, "Dot and I mean 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 religion ought 
 
 Donovan y I, I j 
 
1 62 DONOVAN. 
 
 to Stand first, young man. The soul ought to be con- 
 sidered 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, wishing 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 char- 
 woman, 'poor soul,' but I fancy that is because her hus- 
 band 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 you." 
 
 Now Dot had lived on contentedly for many years 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 rephed, 
 smihng; "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 rehgion makes sour, selfish soul- 
 preservers like that, it stands to reason it's false. I'll 
 have none of it! Fancy listening to a sermon with the 
 
LOOKING TWO WAYS. 163 
 
 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 forehead was knitted in anxious thought. 
 
 "What is the matter?" he asked, jealous of anytliing 
 which she kept back from him. 
 
 "I am so puzzled," said Dot, wearily. "I don't know 
 what 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, strok- 
 ing 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 difference, perhaps," said 
 Donovan, throwing away the end of his cigar. "We shall 
 all come to an end, I suppose — be smoked out and 
 thrown away, 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?" 
 
 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 
 
164 DONOVAN. 
 
 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?" 
 
 "Don't!" 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." 
 
 He 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? It was the same agonizing idea which Adela's 
 words had suggested to him not long before. Now he 
 was alone and could allow himself to face it, could relax 
 for the time the control which in her presence he was 
 obliged to keep up. Throwing himself down on the 
 shingle, he allowed the shadowy foes one after another 
 to throng 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 believe what popular religion 
 taught? No, he told himself that it would be as im- 
 possible as to believe in the old Norse legends of the 
 happy hunting fields. There was no escape for him, the 
 separation must be faced. 
 
 He lay stretched out on the pebbles with his face 
 turned from the light, more wretched and forlorn than 
 the poorest beggar in East Codrington. His miserable 
 
LOOKING TWO WAYS. I 65 
 
 Struggle and dumb despair were at last broken in upon 
 by the sound of a voice in the distance, a high-pitched 
 man's voice, which beat uncomfortably on his ear, and 
 sounded melancholy and depressing, as open-air speak- 
 ing generally does sound. He started up impatiently, 
 and saw that a street-preacher had gathered together 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, sauntered towards the little 
 group, and listened for a few minutesj but unfortunately 
 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." Dono- 
 van'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 ex- 
 tremely aggravating about it. 
 
 "I wz7/ 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 in- 
 tense scorn, resolving in his own mind that, miserable 
 though he was, he would at least be honest, no cupboard 
 faith for him! 
 
1 66 DONOVAN. 
 
 Dot did not allude to the conversation again. She 
 could not bear to risk recalling the look of pain to 
 Donovan's face, and if she puzzled over the difference of 
 opinion which had attracted her notice, she kept her dif- 
 ficulties to herself; but she fancied she understood why 
 it was that, no long after that Sunday, Donovan made 
 arrangements with an artist 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 the 
 beautiful eyes 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 Codrington was ended; 
 Mrs. Doery was obliged to be at Oakdene to superintend 
 the preparations for the return of her master and mis- 
 tress, 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 before- 
 hand, and awaited the return in a sort of proud silence, 
 never even to Dot breathing a single word which could 
 tell how much he dreaded it. 
 
 On the whole the event proved to be not half so 
 disagreeable as he had expected. Ellis was kind and 
 conciliatory at first, and, though his patronage was hard 
 to bear, Donovan had sense enough to be thankful for 
 whatever would avert an open quarrel. He felt in- 
 stinctively 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 
 had been constituted housekeeper; Ellis was hospitable, 
 
LOOKING TWO WAYS. 1 67 
 
 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 servant, only one insignificant addition, 
 hardly worth thinking of, but to Dot the change meant 
 the opening of a new life. Now, at last, she began 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, opened 
 an entirely new world to her little helpless charge, and 
 Dot, in her simple childlike happiness in the new revela- 
 tion, wondered why people had not told her before, but 
 never thought of blaming them for the ignorance in which 
 they had let her grow up. 
 
 Her simple, unquestioning acceptance of the most in- 
 comprehensible doctrines was a marvel to Donovan; he 
 could not the least understand it. Dot once or twice 
 spoke with him on the subject, but he always silenced 
 her gently, for, though he could not understand or sym- 
 pathise 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 intensify her love, and in no way 
 to interfere with Donovan's place in her heart, he neces- 
 
1 68 DONOVAN, 
 
 sarily felt that there was a barrier between them; what 
 to him did not exist was everything 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 very 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. He 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 com- 
 fortable 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 al- 
 together he appreciated his change of fortune. For a 
 little while he even felt kindly disposed to Donovan, for, 
 as he said to himself, 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 part he had set himself to play, 
 wavered a little, and half contemplated starting his ward 
 
LOOKING TWO WAYS. I 69 
 
 in some profession fairly and honourably. If Donovan 
 had behaved sensibly, this really might have come about, 
 but he was not sensible. In a very short time he began 
 to grow weary 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 dis- 
 liked 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 discovered anything amiss, certainly; Mrs. 
 Farrant, at the head of the table, looked young and 
 pretty and languid; ElHs, at the opposite end, seemed 
 hospitable and good-natured; Donovan had apparently 
 everything that could be wished in circumstances, health, 
 and personal advantages. But beneath all this outward 
 appearance 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; he was morbidly unhappy at the 
 change in her views, and her supposed change towards 
 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 
 
170 DONOVAN. 
 
 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 you. Do 
 you think I shall stand having a mute 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 
 succession without even looking up. The absence of 
 retort only made Ellis more angry, however. 
 
 "Do you not hear me, sir?" he continued still more 
 vehemently. 
 
 "Yes," said Donovan, looking up at last, and speak- 
 ing in a singularly controlled voice, which contrasted 
 strangely with his step-father's violence. 
 
 Ellis raged on, doubly irritated by the monosyl- 
 lable. 
 
 "Do you think it is pleasant to me to have your 
 gloomy face always haunting me? I tell you I'd rather sit 
 opposite a skull and cross-bones ! I'm not going to have 
 my new home spoilt by an insufferable cub of your age." 
 
 Now, with all his faults, Donovan had one good 
 quality which often stood him in good stead. Old Mrs. 
 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 circumstances, 
 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 
 
LOOKING TWO WAYS. IJl 
 
 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 encum- 
 brances in your new home." 
 
 Of course this only angered Ellis still more. 
 
 "You young puppy," he exclaimed, angrily, "do you 
 remember 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 father's executor and my guardian." 
 
 Ellis suddenly changed colour, pushed back his chair, 
 and began to pace up and down 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 trem- 
 bling shrinking dread. This boy, whom he had cheated 
 and robbed and fatally injured, was able at times to in- 
 fluence him greatly. 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 
 
172 DONOVAN. 
 
 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 his next glass of wine. Donovan, as 
 he waited with his cold impassive face expecting a fresh 
 burst of anger, 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 piti- 
 able struggle for really frank reconciliation in Ellis's tone 
 as he said, 
 
 "Come, old fellow, don't let us quarrel; we have al- 
 ways 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 cribbage 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. 
 
"let nothing you dismay." 17; 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 "let nothing you dismay." 
 
 Heart's brother, hast thou ever known 
 
 Wliat 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 Codrington it all seemed so dark 
 and dreadful I couldn't bear ever 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 good does it 
 do?" questioned Donovan. It was a December afternoon, 
 and they were talking in the twilight. 
 
 "I'm sorry, I had forgotten. 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 childish, his want of participa- 
 tion 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 gentle with her even when in 
 his worst moods, but he was in one of his querulous, 
 carping humours, and quarrelled with everything he read. 
 The oft-quoted line of Pope's, 
 
174 DONOVAN. 
 
 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 oppression, 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 Codring- 
 ton. 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 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. 
 
"let nothing you dismay." 175 
 
 "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 incongruous selection, ranging from Se- 
 bastian 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 wist- 
 fully 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 apprehension. 
 
 "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, smil- 
 ing; and somehow the words, trifling as they 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 
 
176 DONOVAN. 
 
 spirits. "I never saw you so talkative before," she re- 
 marked, as the dressing-bell rang, and she rose to go. 
 
 "It is Dot who teaches us how to laugh," said Dono- 
 van. "You are a little witch, and sweep away bad 
 humours instead of cobwebs." 
 
 Christmas to Donovan only meant a full house, an 
 incomprehensible gaiety and good humour, a conventional 
 old-fashioned dinner, which he did not like, and a certain 
 amount of holly and ivy. In his different way he was 
 quite as far from understanding it as poor old Scrooge 
 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, having made his fortune; he had come to 
 Oakdene to see Mr. Hayes, had discovered the great wish 
 of his old school fellow, and had suggested a six months' 
 tour on the Continent, in which he was to bear the greater 
 part of the expense. So the old man in child-like glee 
 had let his cottage and started for Italy, taking a cordial 
 farewell of Donovan, and recommending him to follow his 
 plan, which was now coming to such a successful issue. 
 
 The guests, therefore, this year only consisted of 
 Adela and two of Ellis's friends, nor was the misan- 
 thropical Donovan very sorry that such should be the 
 case. There was 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 recol- 
 lections of the "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. 
 
"LET NOTHING YOU DISMAY." 1 77 
 
 "Do you know, Donovan, I was staying at a country- 
 house in Sussex last September, and the first night I 
 got there I saw some one who reminded me so much 
 of you." 
 
 "Indeed!" repHed her taciturn companion. 
 
 "He was not so much hke 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 after- 
 wards—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 the weighty subjects that fill your brain." 
 
 He laughed again, but then, thinking of his misery 
 at Codrington, added, quite gravely, 
 
 "My brain is anxious just now to forget certain 
 weighty subjects, 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." 
 
 "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?" 
 
 Donovan. I. 12 
 
178 DONOVAN. 
 
 "Not till I'm obliged to," said Donovan. 
 
 "Perhaps that accounts for your stupidity," said 
 Adela, with a daring flash of her dark eyes. "A thou- 
 sand pardons — I mean the brevity of your remarks." 
 
 "There you 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, re- 
 suming her playful maliciousness, she continued — "It was 
 such a pity you weren't at church this morning; the de- 
 corations 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 customs?" 
 
 "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 
 
"let nothing you dismay. 179 
 
 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 dreadful 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. 
 
 The conversation somehow paused here, until an un- 
 controlled yawn on Donovan's part stimulated Adela to 
 a fresh effort. 
 
 "You are horribly uninteresting," she said. 
 
 "Yes, I'm most abominably sleepy. I was up last 
 night." 
 
 "Ah! so Dot told me," replied Adela. "You tell her 
 stories, she says, just like the wonderful story-teller in 
 the 'Arabian Nights,' one after the other." 
 
 "It amuses her," said Donovan, "and sometimes I 
 have sent her to sleep in that way, but we couldn't 
 manage it last night. She is dreadfully worn out to-day 
 after all the pain." 
 
 "These 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 grave, but in a minute 
 he recovered himself, and with his ordinary manner asked 
 if he should peel an orange for her. 
 
 Just then some carol-singers began 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." 
 
loo DONOVAN. 
 
 "Yes, I think we had about enough of them this 
 morning at church," said EUis, and he would have sent 
 word to them to go 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 heathenish old custom after all you have said?" 
 
 "Dot will like it," he rephed, as if this were a suf- 
 ficient reason for countenancing anything. 
 
 The little invalid's room seemed very quiet and dim 
 after the merry voices and bright 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 
 good-humoured banter. Dot was in bed, and there was 
 about her that terrible stillness of utter exhaustion 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?" 
 
 "Noj but some carol-singers have come," said Do- 
 novan, "and I thought you would like to hear them." 
 
 "Oh, I am so glad!" she said, with child-like plea- 
 sure. "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 mantelpiece, and as Dot spoke it chimed 
 
"let nothing you dismay." i8i 
 
 the hour, then struck eight o'clock in sweet, low, muffled 
 tones, like the sound of a distant cathedral bell. 
 
 "It h so beautiful," she said, happily. "It \vill make 
 the night go 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 suffer- 
 ing, and anxiety? But the shrill fearless trebles went on, 
 and Donovan and Dot listened. 
 
 God rest you, merry gentlemen, 
 Let nothing you dismay, 
 Remember Christ our Saviour 
 Was born on Christmas day; 
 To save us all from Satan's power, 
 When we were gone astray; 
 O tidings of comfort and joy, 
 
 Comfort and joy, 
 O 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 
 singers went away, and Dot asked to have some reading. 
 Some one had sent her a leaflet hymn; it was a descrip- 
 tion of the " City with streets of gold," and Donovan read 
 it through patiently, though it seemed to him sensational 
 and unsatisfying, and he was grieved 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 way, "there 
 isn't time to think about the houses, and the streets, and 
 
1 82 DONOVAN. 
 
 the gardens, they don't make the home; it is something 
 hke 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 of, 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. The maid had gone away. Donovan 
 would have rung, but Dot stopped him. 
 
 "We won't have another," she said. "I like to be in 
 the dark when you hold me near you; 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, Dono dear, 
 while we are all alone like this I want to tell you some- 
 thing; you won't like it now, but 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, I know you will 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 be- 
 lieve how the greatest love of all could not leave us." 
 
 He gave a mental ejaculation of thankfulness that 
 Doery had never grieved the tender httle soul with her 
 cold-blooded Calvinism. Dear little girl! she was happy 
 enough in her new convictions, he would not for the 
 
"let NOTHING YOU DISMAY." 1 83 
 
 world have disturbed her; in the dark he even smiled a 
 httle to think that he had actually helped towards establish- 
 ing 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 feel 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. Adela 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 said, as they passed each other. 
 
 "What do you mean?" said Adela, standing still. "You 
 are coming down, are you not?" 
 
 "No, I can't, it's quite impossible. Dot is so restless 
 and poorly, I am afraid she is in for another of her bad 
 attacks; I want you to get the people away as soon as 
 may be, the noise is sure to worry her." 
 
 "Oh! she'll be asleep before it begins," said Adela. 
 "No one will be here till nine o'clock, I should think." 
 
 "V/ell, I hope it will be so. It's an abominable 
 
1 84 DONOVAN. 
 
 nuisance, though, 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 "Caesar's desertion," and vaguely uneasy at his 
 account of Dot. One of the guests was, however, greatly 
 relieved at his absence; Mrs. Ward really began to enjoy 
 the evening when she found that the "dangerous young 
 man" did not appear; she was quite content that her 
 daughters 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 glad that her girls should have such 
 nice partners, and remained in happy ignorance 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 anticipation of the pain. This was the 
 time when her courage was most apt to fail; she could 
 not bear the thought of the suffering 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 effect. 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 
 
"let nothing you dismay." 185 
 
 Mrs. Doery, who had nursed her through so many ill- 
 nesses, 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 Phrebe 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, I must go 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 struggle to decide, but, knowing 
 that an unwilling messenger would be slow, he felt that 
 the only sure way was to go 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, darhng. Be brave; I shall not be long." 
 
 She tried to smile, and he hurried away, sick at heart. 
 Rushing 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 whh his 
 own hands, and in five minutes was on the road to 
 Greyshot. He had dashed out from the heated room just 
 as he was; the night was piercingly cold, the snow was 
 falling fast, and the north wind blew the flakes into his 
 eyes, so that he was almost bhnded 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 extra- 
 ordinary severity and suddenness of this illness had alarmed 
 
1 86 DONOVAN. 
 
 them all — what if she sank under it? And he had re- 
 fused her last entreaty! Oh, bitter agony! 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 galloped on over the snowy road. And 
 yet it was the only sure way of getting the doctor; he 
 knew he had been right to come; it might — it was just 
 possible that it might save Dot some minutes of pain — it 
 might save her life. But again his heart sank down like 
 lead under the oppression 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 
 Greyshot. 
 
 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 
 
 carriage was standing at the door. He would not dis- 
 mount; the doctor came out to him at once, and, on hear- 
 ing his account of Dot, prepared to come to her directly, 
 left a hurried message of farewell to his host, and, spring- 
 ing into his 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 efficacious — the power of communicating his 
 thoughts 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 
 
"let nothing you dismay." 187 
 
 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 common decency the house 
 would have been in silence if his fears had been reahsed. 
 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 'ex- 
 clamation. 
 
 "Oh, Dono! I'm so glad you are back; I've wanted 
 you so dreadfully. Let me hold your hands." 
 
 His face, which had been rigid during the time of his 
 anxiety, was changed now to the look of tenderness, and 
 even cheerfulness, which he had learnt to wear when with 
 the little girl. 
 
 "Dr. L will be here almost directly, and then he 
 
1 88 DONOVAN. 
 
 will make you more comfortable," he said, taking his place 
 at the bedside. 
 
 "Oh, Dono!" she gasped, "sometimes I think I shall 
 never be comfortable any more." 
 
 "You thought so last time you were ill," said Donovan, 
 soothingly, "and then after all you had some quiet days." 
 
 "Yes, but this is worse. Oh, Dono, Dono!" and 
 again she broke into that 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 girl smile. 
 
 At last the doctor came, and Donovan waited in fear- 
 ful suspense for his opinion; he waited outside the room 
 in the gallery, pacing 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 in 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 High- 
 land reel had just begun; the tune "Tullochgorum" rang 
 in his head for weeks after. The greater number of the 
 
"let nothing you dismay." 189 
 
 guest were looking on at tlie 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, ElHs 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 merriment. 
 
 "Dyhig!" echoed Ellis, startled and shocked. At 
 an ordinary time he would 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. 
 
 "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 outside. 
 
 She was so completely overcome by the unexpected 
 news that Donovan was almost in despair. To be 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 
 
1 go DONOVAN. 
 
 night, he at last persuaded her to come and see the httle 
 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 en- 
 durance. 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 least; 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 new 
 year in, the guests were driving sadly from the Manor. 
 Dot was moaning in the last sharp struggle of her little 
 life, and Donovan was watching beside her in anguish 
 which could only have been suppressed by the purest 
 and truest love. 
 
 There was not the smallest hope now. The long 
 night hours dragged slowly on, the death-agony grew 
 
"LET NOTHING YOU DISMAY." I9I 
 
 more and more intense, and the doctor could do ab- 
 solutely 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 de- 
 scribed 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 thought to spare for the future, 
 and while he was near her it was necessary 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 gave 
 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 beginning 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 stag- 
 gering 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. EUis was really touched, and almost in- 
 fected 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." 
 
ig2 DONOVAN. 
 
 "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 
 EUis, he turned to the window, tore back the curtain, 
 threw open the casement, and leant out into the black 
 night. Somewhere, somewhere 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 take 
 something before you go back?" 
 
 He shook his head, but, as he passed Ellis, asked 
 him to give Phoebe and Mrs. Doery some wine. Then 
 he went back 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 way 
 which Dot always liked. Taciturn and unimaginative as 
 he really 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 
 
"let nothing you dismay." 1 93 
 
 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 interval; "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 nervously 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 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 stifled 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." 
 
 Donovan. I, 1 5 
 
194 DONOVAN. 
 
 He repeated Newman's "Lead, kindly Light," which, 
 for some unknown reason, had always been a great 
 favourite with Dot, he knew it well, and would, of course, 
 have said anything to please her; nor did he feel what a 
 hideous mockery the words were to him, he was too 
 completely absorbed in thinking of her. After he had 
 finished the hymn, there was a long pause during which 
 her breathing became more and more difficult. Dono- 
 van's whole being seemed to live with each effort, he too 
 drew each breath slowly and painfully. But there came 
 a respite before long, the light did shine through the 
 gloom, 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 Do- 
 novan 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 together." 
 
 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 sighing breaths, his desolation broke 
 upon him. In a few minutes all that to him made life 
 worth living 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 
 
"let NOTHING YOU DISMAY." 'ig5 
 
 firm face a pallor almost as deathly as that of the little 
 d3'ing child. 
 
 "You had better rest a mimite," 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 httle higher, smoothed back the hair from 
 her cold forehead, and waited, trying to control the trem- 
 bling 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 the time was short, that minutes, 
 perhaps seconds, were all that was left to him. 
 
 But the spiritual current of sympathy which 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, whis- 
 pered, 
 
 "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 confidence of hers made death a happy 
 
ig6 DONOVAN. 
 
 thing. In her untroubled child-hke faith she had no man- 
 ner 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 in the world. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 DESOLATE. 
 
 Then black despair, 
 The shadow of a starless night was thrown 
 Over the world in which I moved alone. — Shelley. 
 
 Truth's golden o'er us although we refuse it. 
 
 R. Broavning. 
 
 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 another, the reverential silence 
 congenial to some seems cruelly cold to others. Grief, 
 too, falls in so many different ways: to some it comes 
 like a heavy physical blow, the bitterness of the pain, the 
 shock to the whole system, is so great that for a time 
 the senses fail, and a merciful unconsciousness and a 
 faint, gradual return to life lessen to some extent the first 
 anguish 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 future stretch out be- 
 fore their aching eyes, and this in the very first moments 
 
DESOLATE. 1 97 
 
 of their sorrow; grief is to them a sharp-edged 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 falls on them, but no mo- 
 mentary 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 de- 
 spair deepens, the weight of woe becomes each day 
 heavier to bear; this is the stony 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 Con- 
 soler 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 
 Avas 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 re- 
 fuse to believe 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 
 
igS DONOVAN, 
 
 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. EUis was 
 standing in the doorway 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 ut- 
 tered the words he had expected, but had not dared to 
 ask for — "She is dead!" 
 
 Ellis had not very often visited his little step-daugh- 
 ter's room; 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 sofa, 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 sym- 
 pathy with Donovan not to torment him with common- 
 place condolences, but to let him pass by in silence, feel- 
 ing 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. 
 
DESOLATE. igg 
 
 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 e7i deshabille; 
 she looked what in truth she was, a middle-aged woman, 
 and Elhs, who could not bear to face the fact that both 
 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 speak 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 win- 
 dow, and the outline of a figure with the head drooped 
 low, showed her where her cousin was. She groped her 
 Avay towards him, her misgivings returning when he still 
 did not speak nor stir. 
 
200 DONOVAN. 
 
 "Donovan," she said, with quick anxiety in her 
 tone, "is anything the matter with you? Are you faint?" 
 
 Her words surprised himj he mused over them half- 
 curiously before replying. How strange it was to be 
 asked if anything were the matter when he was simply 
 crushed! And yet perhaps, in a sense, nothing was the 
 matter — nothing mattered at all now that Dot was dead. 
 And Dot ivas 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 again 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 grey sky to the 
 snowy earth, and then in despair she looked back to her 
 cousin's face, which, 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 frightened by the strange- 
 ness 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 suffer. 
 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 
 
DESOLATE. 201 
 
 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 
 resigned. But, Donovan, I did not mean to be so weakj 
 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 
 Avhat that is." Then, as she started with a sudden new 
 terror, he put his cold hand on hers and added, "No, you 
 need not be afraid; death is the comfort, but I shall not 
 seek death in the way you fear. You need not think I 
 shall try that way to rest." 
 
 "But is there nothing I can do for you?" asked 
 Adela, awed and quieted by his strange manner. 
 
 "I shall like you to go to my mother," he rephed, 
 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. His 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 by the narrow- 
 ness of the space, he opened his door and wandered 
 along the gallery, down the stairs, and . through the de- 
 serted 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 
 
202 DONOVAN. 
 
 guttered down into shapeless masses of wax, looked 
 grotesquely forlorn, while the supper-room, with its dis- 
 ordered 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 
 adjuncts, 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 furni- 
 ture 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 something awful in the business-like rebeginning of 
 life. Dot was dead, yet for him life must go on in the 
 old grooves. 
 
 Evening must usher night, 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 intoler- 
 able. 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. He closed the door, 
 and stole with hushed steps to the bedside. Then the 
 forlornness of his grief broke upon him fully. No eager 
 Avelcome from the soft, childish voice, no longing look 
 
DESOLATE. ' 203 
 
 from the dark eyes, no arms stretched out to ding round 
 his neck, but only a motionless silent outline beneath the 
 white sheet. He could not look at the veiled face, he 
 turned away and threw himself on the ground in a 
 terrible, silent agony. 
 
 After a time, the quietness of the room began to in- 
 fluence him. Only a few hours before it had been the 
 scene of such weary suffering 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 beside 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 tender- 
 ness 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 
 
204 DONOVAN. 
 
 led him to acquiesce in anything. 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, counting the hours mechanic- 
 ally 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 funeral was to be on the Saturday; on the Friday 
 morning Donovan's unnatural calm began to give way. 
 He had now been four nights without sleep, and the dull 
 weight, the numbness 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 his heart; he rushed away wildly, as 
 though to escape from his grief; he paced with desperate 
 steps up and down his room, trying in vain to forget 
 what he had seen, trying to assure himself 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 hini the perishable body was all that 
 was left; unspeakably dear as it must be to all, it had to 
 him a tenfold preciousness. His grief bordered so nearly 
 on madness that everyone began to shrink from him in 
 
DESOLATE. 205 
 
 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 before Dot 
 was to be borne away from him to the churchyard — he 
 went 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 bearable in that room than in his OAvn. Dot's little 
 clock chimed the hours 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 distinct 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 leaned 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 pityingly, 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, and, before the little clock chimed again, 
 was sleeping profoundly. The only comfort he Avas 
 
2o6 DONOVAN. 
 
 capable of receiving was given him — a night of unbroken 
 rest, a short lull from his despair. 
 
 That sleep saved him; the terrible strain of his at- 
 tendance on Dot, his hopeless sorrow and long wakeful 
 nights, had brought him to the very verge of serious ill- 
 ness; 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 re- 
 lieved, when they met him, to find how great a change 
 the night had wrought, the stony want of realization, the 
 frenzy of overpowering grief, had given place to a more 
 natural sorrow, he looked indeed very 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 "bat- 
 tered" look, the whole expression was sterner and older. 
 
 For the first time he came down to breakfast and 
 took his usual place at the table, perhaps to face the 
 rest of the party before the funeral, or with a sort of a 
 desire to go through with everything properly. They 
 were all very kind to him, there is enough of good in 
 most people to make them compassionate 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," she said, putting into Dono- 
 van's hand a card with, "kind enquiries and sympathy." 
 
 He looked at it for a moment, then threw it aside 
 with bitterness which astonished Adela, and said in his 
 most chilling tone, 
 
 "It is too late now." 
 
DESOLATE. ZOJ 
 
 "No, I think there will be room," said Adela, mis- 
 understanding him, "we have a great number of wreaths, 
 but I think I can arrange these flowers." 
 
 "The world's sympathy!" he replied, bitterly, clench- 
 ing and unclenching his hands rapidly, as was his habit 
 when strongly 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 
 doubtfully. 
 
 "Oh! let us take what we can get from the sym- 
 pathizing world," he answered, "rate it at what it's worth, 
 only don't ask me to be grateful." And then with a 
 fierce sigh he turned away. 
 
 The day was clear, bright and frosty, the little church- 
 yard at Oakdene was crowded with people, for poor little 
 Dot's death had awakened sympathy which her life had 
 failed to win; rumours had got about that the funeral 
 was to be a choral one, and all the acquaintances of the 
 Farrants who had been at the interrupted dance drove 
 to the little country church to "show their respect" to 
 the dead and the living, while 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, the 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 will- 
 ingly 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 
 
208 DONOVAN. 
 
 last of the little coffin he was willing that the others 
 should gratify their taste, and gather round Dot's grave 
 with prayers and hymns and flowers. Gravely he fol- 
 lowed the choir into the church, gravely sat in the pew 
 whilst 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 in- 
 expressibly shocked. 
 
 He was far too miserable to notice the looks of 
 shrinking aversion or righteous indignation which some 
 of the congregation turned on him as the procession 
 passed out to the grave, but just outside the porch, in a 
 momentary pause, one whispered sentence 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 first time that the churchyard was crowded. Well, 
 it would soon be over. He heard nothing more till the 
 sound of the earth falling on the coffin roused him from 
 his own thoughts; then with a sudden pang and shudder 
 he caught 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 hymn 
 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 misinter- 
 
DESOLATE. 20g 
 
 preted? What did he care if the general sense of de- 
 corum was offended? It mattered little, for whatever he 
 did was sure to be considered the wrong thing! "Dust 
 to dust." How the words haunted him ! Oh to get away- 
 some where from his anguish — away from the cruel world 
 with its harsh judgments — to lose himself in darkness! 
 He rushed on wildly through the churchyard, past the 
 long line of carriages, along the snowy road to the Manor. 
 He was mad enough and miserable 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?" he ex- 
 claimed, faintly. 
 
 He allowed the dog to lick his face and hands for a 
 minute or two, then, as the carriages were heard in the 
 
 drive, 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. Waif's 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 
 dog, 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 worid that there are children 
 and dumb animals who love and sympathise without 
 question, without reservation. 
 
 Dniiovan. I, Id, 
 
2IO DONOVAN. 
 
 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 Dono- 
 van, 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 tended the deserted 
 beggar as he lay at the rich man's gate. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 WISHES AND CHESTNUT ROASTING. 
 
 The possible stands by us ever fresh, 
 
 Fairer than aught vi^hich any life hath owned. 
 
 A healthful hunger for the great idea, 
 The beauty and the blessedness of life. 
 
 Gladys and her Island. J. Ingelow. 
 
 The school-room at Trenant was quite the favourite 
 room in the whole house. In summer time its two French 
 windows, opening on to the lawn, gave a cool out-of-door 
 feeling, and, if you are obliged 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 heterogeneous assortment of volumes 
 that almost everyone could find something to his or her 
 
WISHES AND CHESTNUT ROASTING. 2 I I 
 
 special taste. But the time most favourable of all to the 
 school-room was the time known as "blind man's holi- 
 day" in the winter; 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 
 bereavement 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 Gladys 
 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 frames shine out 
 in bold contrast to the blackness of the shadows, and 
 adding such lustre to the old green curtains and furni- 
 ture that their faded shabbiness was no longer notice- 
 able. The faces, too, of the little group were ruddy in 
 the firelight, and the golden threads in Gladys' brown 
 hair shone out brightly as she bent down over the wrig- 
 gling struggling 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." 
 
 14* 
 
2 I 2 DONOVAN. 
 
 "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 tliis 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 un- 
 reservedly, 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 first time this year we've 
 eaten them." 
 
 "I know what the Jackal would wish for," said Bertie, 
 teasingly, "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 
 
WISHES AND CHESTNUT ROASTING. 213 
 
 first that's done, because he's the youngest; 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 Avish 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 shoot all the animals, except a few which I 
 shall catch with nets, and bling home to keep in the 
 nursely." 
 
 This wish excited a good deal of laughter, for the 
 heroic tiger-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 years 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 'Real 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. 
 
1 t 4 DONOVAN. 
 
 "Beastly!" said the archbishop of the future, laconic- 
 ally. 
 
 "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 Margaret 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." 
 
 "It doesn't make the poor people any warmer for us 
 to be cold," said Stephen, with a suppressed growl. 
 
 "Nurse always makes up big fires," said Gladys. 
 "She says it's more economical than ahvays feeding a 
 little one. Won't you have a chestnut, auntie?" 
 
 "No, thank you, my dear. It is not more than two 
 
WISHES AND CHESTNUT ROASTING. 215 
 
 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. Tremain changed the subject. 
 
 "And you really go back to London to-morrow, 
 Stephen? You have had a very short hohday." 
 
 "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 reading." 
 
 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 ihing." 
 
 "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 conven- 
 tional 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 appear- 
 ances, and said she would look out a tract which Stephen 
 could give to the poor woman. The younger boys, weary- 
 ing of this talk, began to grow noisy, and it was a relief 
 to everyone, including Stephen, when 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 
 
2 I 6 DONOVAN. 
 
 alone; the children had dispersed to play, and Mrs. 
 Tremain sat silently by the fire, which had 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 anxious, for though their "talks" to- 
 gether were many, they were not generally spoken of 
 beforehand in this way. Was there some new arrange- 
 ment 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 smihng. 
 
 "Did my voice sound so very serious," she said, "that 
 you conjure up all sorts of evils in a minute?" 
 
 "Oh! mother, how did you know I had?" 
 
 Mrs. Tremain smoothed the anxious, questioning fore- 
 head by way of reply, then she began, without further 
 delay, to relieve .her 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 though 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 can- 
 not bear the thought of settling down by herself in a 
 strange place. She is very anxious, dear, that you should 
 go with her for a time." 
 
 Poor Gladys' heart sank; that indefinite expression 
 "a time," rang unpleasantly in her ears, and the thought 
 
WISHES AND CHESTNUT ROASTING. 2 I "] 
 
 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?" 
 
 "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 resent- 
 fully, 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 her- 
 self the easy, comfortable, home-keeping path which she 
 longed to take. 
 
 "That is hardly a fair way of putting 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 
 see a little more of life; the change will be good for you 
 in every way. I think it will help to widen you." 
 
 "You think me narrow-minded?" said Gladys, pouting. 
 
 "Yes, dear, I do — a little," said Mrs. Tremain, laugh- 
 ing. "I don't think you have much sympathy with people 
 you don't agree with, and the best cure for that will be 
 to get out of the old grooves for a little time." 
 
 "But you surely don't want me to learn to think dif- 
 
2 I 8 DONOVAN. 
 
 ferently, and to come home again not agreeing with you 
 and papa?" questioned Gladys. 
 
 "That sounds hke only shifting your narrowness in a 
 new direction." 
 
 "But Aunt Margaret is the narrowest person imagin- 
 able," said Gladys, perversely. "I shall grow 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 with that, 
 trying to pass over the little things which annoy you. 
 Besides, you will see other people; the world of Rich- 
 mond 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 begun under Mrs. Causton's guidance. 
 
 Her stay at Richmond was certainly productive of 
 some good results. Stephen found his home visits at- 
 tractive, and never failed to appear on Saturday after- 
 noons. Mrs. Causton enjoyed her bright cheerful com- 
 panion, and Gladys herself, in spite of unconquerable 
 home-sickness, found much that was pleasant in her 
 new life, and for many reasons never in after-years re- 
 gretted the decision she had made. 
 
 She saw then, with the strange thrill of joy and won- 
 der which such realisations bring, that oh 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 chestnut roasting. 
 
CAST ADRIFT. 2IQ 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 CAST ADRIFT. 
 
 Ruin's wheel has driven o'er us. 
 
 Not a hope that dare attend, 
 The wide world is all before us, 
 
 Bixt a world without a friend. — Burn. 
 
 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 things to go on in their present state? 
 That was the question which, as the spring advanced, 
 ElUs Farrant continually asked himself. One afternoon, 
 towards the end of May, the thought pressed itself upon 
 Itim more pertinaciously than ever. He was in the 
 smoking-room, leaning back meditatively in his chair, 
 from time to time regarding a few lines in the Sporting 
 Neius, 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 ago Donovan had come of age, 
 yet Ellis had not carried out his preconceived 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 it- 
 self. Instead of quarrelling with him, he drank his health 
 at dinner, played billiards 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 
 
2 20 DONOVAN. 
 
 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 under- 
 stand or feel for his prolonged sorrow. 
 
 As the months passed on, and Donovan's grave stern 
 face still remained unaltered, Ellis began to feel ag- 
 gravated; he saw little enough of his step-son, but what 
 he did see was quite sufficient 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 single 
 word, and in the evening, though he was decidedly 
 Ellis's superior at every game, he was too gloomy and 
 taciturn to be a pleasant companion. The elder man's 
 dishke and impatience began to grow uncontrollable; he 
 found himself looking out eagerly for an opportunity of 
 picking a quarrel. 
 
 As he sat looking thoughtfully across the room at his 
 companion, his doubts were suddenly resolved by an un- 
 expected turn of' affairs. Donovan threw down his paper, 
 and, turning round to his step-father, asked abruptly^ — 
 
 "When do you go 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 longer. I must begin to work at 
 something." 
 
 "A most commendable decision," said Ellis. "And 
 that's the longest sentence I've heard from you for many 
 a month." 
 
CAST ADRIFT. 22 1 
 
 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 going 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 fellow," said Ellis, getting 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 great 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 please, 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 EUis, 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 neither spoke; Donovan's eyes dilated, and his 
 face glowed with indignation. Ellis met his look with a 
 cold, bold effrontery. 
 
 At length the silence was broken by Donovan's voice. 
 
222 DONOVAN. 
 
 "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 
 guardian nobly, and now you would oust the 'insufferable 
 cub,' whom you longed to kick out months ago, 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 part 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 defrauder!" 
 
 "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; you have aggravated 
 me at times beyond bearing, and now, with the greatest 
 pleasure in life, I show you the door. You surmise quite 
 truly, I have often longed to 'kick you out,' as you ex- 
 press 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 enjoy- 
 ment. "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." 
 
 " Pardoji! and from you," cried Donovan, passionately. 
 "Am I to accept forgiveness for words which are a hun- 
 dred times too mild for your conduct? I'll let the world 
 
CAST ADRIFT. 2^3 
 
 know of the injustice, I'll publish your scandalous be- 
 haviour everywhere in the neighbourhood." 
 
 "The only drawback to that scheme of revenge is 
 the unfortunate character you yourself bear in the place," 
 said Ellis, maliciously. "The neighbourhood will not very 
 readily sympathise with any stories which the far-famed 
 Donovan Farrant, the professed 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 a cruel, self-seeking, unjust world, but though 
 everyone is against me, though I've not a creature on 
 earth to hold out a hand to me, 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 treacher- 
 ous, despicable villain! Were a hundred witnesses pre- 
 sent, 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 because a plotting, schem- 
 ing traitor like you dares to condemn me?" 
 
 EUis was trembling with mingled fear and rage. 
 
 "You had better go 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 im- 
 possible to believe that he was actually being turned out 
 of his father's house. 
 
2 24 DONOVAN. 
 
 "I will see my mother," he said, with angry resolu- 
 tion 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 
 everything, you cannot alter the instincts of nature. 
 Mother, you will not — you cannot agree to this wicked- 
 ness? You will not turn me away from this house penni- 
 less? 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 
 quarrelled in her presence, but in a quiet, gentlemanly 
 way, to which she did not object. This angry vocifera- 
 tion 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 husband, who stood by in cold silence. 
 
 "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, Do- 
 novan, if you agitate me so." 
 
 "I will be quiet," he gasped, softening his voice with 
 
CAST ADRIFT. 22 5 
 
 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 husband imploringly. 
 
 "Oh, Ellis! what 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 understand 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 content to trust me with this. I cannot allow Do- 
 aovan's presence in my house any longer. For your sake 
 I will let him go without 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 beheve that it was not my doing," cried 
 
 Donovan. I, Is 
 
2 20 DONOVAN, 
 
 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 
 wretchedness 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." 
 
 Mrs. Farrant sobbed convulsively, Donovan stooped 
 down and kissed her, but as he felt her tears wet on his 
 cheek, he thought 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 went 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 dress and apron, that 
 he felt almost as if time had been standing still 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 his natural voice — a 
 rich mellow voice, but with a great ring of sadness in it- — 
 
 "I am going away, 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 
 
CAST ADRIFT. 227 
 
 under the stress of some unusual event, Mrs. Doery broke 
 into indignant sobs. She had never heard the Hke in her 
 Hfe! Turn her lad out of the house when he ought to 
 have been made his father's heir! It was impossible, in- 
 tolerable, 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 direc- 
 tions 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 crowning moment of 
 his triumph. Donovan passed by him without speaking, 
 deliberately took down his stick and riding-whip from the 
 rack, and then, facing round upon his step-father, said 
 "with a depth of concentrated contempt and hatred — 
 
 "We part here, then. Remember always that you 
 have goaded me on to ruin!" 
 
 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 
 
 15* 
 
225 DONOVAN. 
 
 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 Dono- 
 van 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 it 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 long- 
 ing 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 yet forced itself 
 upon him, indignation and bitter sorrow drove out every- 
 thing else — everything but a vague feeling of more com- 
 plete 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 
 his 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, 
 
CAST ADRIFT. 2 29 
 
 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, through the little village, past 
 old Mr. Hayes' deserted house, to the tiny grey church 
 in the valley. Everything looked cruelly peaceful, on the 
 hillside some cows were browsing, a column of blue 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 recollec- 
 tion of the hateful look of vindictive triumph which he 
 had seen in his step-father's face. The frenzied, pas- 
 sionate indignation surged up in his heart with redoubled 
 force, he threw open the churchyard gate, and hurried 
 up the flagged path, pausing, however, beside the little 
 porch to look at a notice which had met his eye, as 
 trifling things do sometimes force themselves upon us in 
 moments of great agitation. He read with growing bitter- 
 ness the words: — 
 
 "New Organ Fund. — EUis Farrant, Esq., of Oakdene 
 Manor, having generously promised .^200 to the above 
 fund, it is earnestly hoped that the additional d^ioo still 
 required may be obtained. A special collection will be 
 made, &c., &c." Charity, church-organs, generosity to 
 
2;^0 DONOVAN. 
 
 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 standing out clearly against the green 
 grass; he threw himself down upon 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 was 
 setting, and he found that only by walking briskly could 
 he reach Greyshot in time for the evening train to Lon- 
 don. 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 dumb 
 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 because 
 of its unquestioning faithfulness, its fearless devotion, its 
 contrast to the changeful, doubting, unreliable affection of 
 men, who can judge and speak their judgment. He 
 
CAST ADRIFT. 23 I 
 
 Stooped down and let the dog spring up to his knee, 
 while he patted the sagacious 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 go through the world together." 
 
 Waif wagged his tail, pricked up his black ear, drooped 
 the white one, and bounded along as if he enjoyed the 
 thought of the companionship. 
 
 It was growing dusk when the dog and his master 
 reached Greyshot; the station lamps were lighted; some- 
 how 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 attractive 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. 
 Here 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 without 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 it is. I may as well enjoy myself as much as I 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 an- 
 
232 
 
 DONOVAN. 
 
 Other 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, opening the door of a carriage, pre- 
 pared 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 vacant 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. 
 
 When he had put up his bag and walking-stick, he 
 threw himself back in a corner seat, and began to scru- 
 tinize his fellow-passengers. They were three in number, 
 and they were beguiling the time with a game of euchre. 
 The individual with the pleasant voice, who had consented 
 to Waif's admittance, sat next to Donovan, so that he 
 could only see his profile; he seemed to be a short, 
 heavily-made man between fifty and sixty, with an un- 
 naturally red face, thick neck, and scanty red hair sprinkled 
 Avith grey; he was singularly ugly, but his expression was 
 more weak than unpleasant, especially when he turned 
 round with some trifling remark to Donovan, and showed 
 his little twinkling 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; there was an air of vulgar pros- 
 perity about him, and Donovan surmised that he was 
 some wealthy manufacturer or tradesman. The remain- 
 
CAST ADRIf'T, 2^^ 
 
 ing traveller Avas 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; each succeeded for a time, and 
 then fell to the ground. He was, however, peculiarly 
 attractive. His companions 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 com- 
 plexion, 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 very 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 7vas a 
 professional gambler, was completely 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 dehghted, if you would join us. One 
 needs something of the sort on a long journey to while 
 away the time." 
 
 Without further preamble the game began. The stakes 
 were high; Donovan grew excited, and forgot for the time 
 
234 DONOVAN. 
 
 his anger and the bitter treatment to which he had been 
 subjected. He was partner 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 un- 
 wonted degree. It was a close and exciting game, even- 
 tually won by the two strangers, but Donovan's skilful 
 play had evidently surprised his dark-looking opponent, 
 who scrutinized him curiously, while the red-haired 
 traveller began to compliment him. 
 
 Presently they stopped at Swindon, and Donovan, be- 
 ginning 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 singularly 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 some- 
 thing of the expression of a spoilt child about his mouth 
 as he replied, 
 
 "Plague upon it! You never can let a fellow enjoy 
 himself, Noir. Fm sure I've been as temperate as old 
 Oliver himself " 
 
 The rest of the sentence died away in the distance, 
 but apparently Noir enforced his advice, for, some minutes 
 before Donovan left the refreshment-room, his two fellow- 
 travellers repassed 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 
 
CAST ADRIFT. 235 
 
 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?" 
 
 "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?" 
 
 "Can't say, but he looks discontented enough. We'll 
 sound him, get the manufacturer to draw him out." 
 
 Then, as the other traveller returned, Noir suddenly 
 changed his tone, and very skilfully drew the conversa- 
 tion round to the desired subject. 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 brought back a biscuit for Waif, and the dog 
 made a good opening for conversation. Then the manu- 
 facturer mentioned by chance that he came from Bristol, 
 
236 DONOVAN, 
 
 and Donovan, to the satisfaction of the three conspirators, 
 began to ask questions as to the Hkelihood 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 young 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 difficulty to get them 
 very often, there's such a run on them; and besides, that 
 would hardly be in your line, would it?" 
 
 "No," 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 Lancashire, and the manufacturer and Donovan had a 
 hot argument on the subject of wages, in which the 
 latter's keen sense of injustice and oppression was fully 
 brought 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 young fellow's life had been embittered 
 by the tyranny and injustice which he inveighed against. 
 The dark brows were raised higher and -higher as the 
 argument went on; evidently Donovan's words had touched 
 some kindred feeling in the man's heart. At last he 
 could contain himself no longer, but joined in the dis- 
 pute, linking his vehement words with Donovan's, till be- 
 tween them they fairly overwhelmed the rich Bristol man. 
 Then at once there was established between them that 
 
CAST ADRIFT. 237 
 
 strange sympathy which comes like a Hghtning 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; in- 
 stinctively Donovan held out his hand when they parted 
 at Paddington, and the dark-browed man grasped it with 
 a warmth and heartiness curiously 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 London. 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 indifference 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 some- 
 thing, and, though his chief object had been merely to 
 divert his thoughts by 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 
 
238 DONOVAN. 
 
 for the time all these bitter thoughts; but in a little while, 
 from sheer necessity, they sprang up again. It was evi- 
 dently 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 EUis's guardianship 
 had been. Had he been forced to enter some profession, 
 or had he even received a better education 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 he known beforehand of 
 Ellis's malignant intention; only now it added bitterness 
 to his indignation to think how coolly and systematically 
 his step-father had planned his ruin. Why was it? — what 
 had he done to earn such hatred? He asked himself 
 those questions over and over again, knowing nothing of 
 the first great wrong which Ellis had done him — the 
 wrong which was at the root of all the subsequent 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-un. He was 
 by this time an elderly man; but though he listened to 
 Donovan kindly, and refused to take any fee for the con- 
 sultation, 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 would be simply 
 throwing away his two guineas — it was a matter quite out 
 
CAST ADRIFT. 239 
 
 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 in- 
 fluential 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 Bromp- 
 ton; 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 applications" to Ellis Farrant, or, in plain 
 English, "begging letters," could not for a moment be 
 thought of, 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 lawyer's advice, and try 
 for work. But each effort was doomed to fail. The first 
 of the old acquaintance was kind indeed, but not en- 
 couraging; he knew of nothing in the least suitable, re- 
 gretted extremely his inability to help his young friend. 
 The second flattered him, assured him that with such 
 advantages 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 overwrought man, always oppressed by twice as much 
 work as he 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. 
 
240 DONOVAN. 
 
 he had a thousand apphcations of the kind — they were 
 in fact the bane of his 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 dis- 
 courtesy, he turned liis back on the chambers of the 
 harassed and churlish man of the world, made his way 
 along the crowded pavements of Parliament 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 cir- 
 cumstances would it not be well to seek that "refuge in 
 the cavern of cold death" which he had taught himself 
 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 would be ineflable peace ! 
 No more craving for Dot's presence, no more gnawing 
 disappointment and weariness 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-hfe 
 within him began to assert itself above the morbid over- 
 growth. Life, as it was, was certainly not worth having, 
 but surely there must be some brightness in store for 
 
CAST ADRIFT. 24 1 
 
 him! The sun shone down in golden splendour on the 
 river, the pleasure-steamers and the smaller boats were 
 borne past him rapidly, the mere animal joy of existence 
 overcame 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 unright- 
 eousness, 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 pains in the old days to make friends; where 
 he could have wished friendship there had always been 
 a shrinking back on the other side; his bad name had 
 kept back good companions; his natural nobility had 
 guarded him from making real friends of bad people, al- 
 though he had been in the way of evil companionship 
 very often. But a real friend he had never known. Cer- 
 tainly his circumstances were sufficiently dreary to have 
 brought to despair a far better regulated mind than his; 
 the misery and hopelessness surged in upon him afresh, 
 the healthy pleasure in existence died away, the bright- 
 ness of the summer day only increased his sick longing 
 for something to fill the emptiness of his life. 
 
 Just as he had slowly raised himself and was about 
 to move on from the place where he had been leaning, 
 he heard himself addressed in a voice which, though not 
 exactly familiar to him, he yet seemed to have heard 
 somewhere. 
 
 "Good-day, I think we've had the pleasure of meet- 
 ing before." 
 
 Doiio7'an. /. 1 6 
 
242 DONOVAN. 
 
 Turning round hastily, he at once recognized 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 it; 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, leaving 
 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 return- 
 ing at this allusion. 
 
 "I thought as much from your look," said the stranger. 
 "You haven't found it such an easy raatter as you ex- 
 pected. 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 perhaps I sha'n't be up to it; I don't mind telling 
 you that, up to a very little time ago, 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 beggary." 
 
CAST ADRIFT. 243 
 
 "So bad as that," said the stranger, thoughtfully, 
 "then perhaps 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 Rouge 
 et Noir." 
 
 Donovan smiled at the singular appropriateness of the 
 nickname. The stranger continued, 
 
 "That you may beheve 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 I have made a clean breast of it all, 
 will you come?" 
 
 "Of course I will," said Donovan, without an instant's 
 hesitation. He eommitted himself to nothing by this, 
 why should he not go? And besides, these were the first 
 helpful friendly words which he had heard for so long. 
 
 16 = 
 
2 44 DONOVAN. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 ROUGE ET NOIR. 
 
 The fall thou darest to despise — 
 May be the angel's slackened hand 
 Has suffered it that he may rise 
 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 nar- 
 row streets leading from the river, along the Strand as 
 far as St. Mary's Church, and through the dingy foot- 
 passage opening into Drury Lane. 
 
 "This is not what you have been accustomed to, I 
 expect," he said, taking a quick glance 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 
 t;one, 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 hurry 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 staircase to the first floor. 
 
 Expecting a room of corresponding dinginess and 
 dirtiness, Donovan was not a little surprised to find him- 
 
ROUGE ET NOIR. 245 
 
 self in a snug neatly-arranged room, where an odd com- 
 bination of a variety of the brightest colours lent an al- 
 most Eastern look to the whole. Curious shells and 
 corals were ranged on shelves along the walls, maps and 
 nautical charts hung in conspicuous places, a case of 
 gorgeous foreign birds occupied the entire length of the 
 room, and 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 newspaper, and with a long clay 
 pipe between his lips, was old Rouge 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 Frewin, unless, perhaps, my son has al- 
 ready done so. Captain Frewin, formerly of the steamer 
 Astick, Bright Star Line, carrying between Liverpool and 
 New York, latterly of the Metora — first-rate little steamer 
 she was, too — carrying between Southampton 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, how- 
 ever, when he was interrupted by a loud nasal voice, 
 
246 DONOVAN. 
 
 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, arn't we, Sweepstakes?" 
 
 "Poor Sweepstakes!" said the bird, with its head on 
 one side. "Poor Sweepstakes! 'Weep, 'weep, 'weep," 
 and he broke off 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. Besides, I've not half shown you round our little 
 cabin. I'm very proud of my curiosities, I can assure 
 you. The bird has evidently taken to you already. You 
 must make yourself quite at home." 
 
 As soon as the door had closed behind the old man, 
 Noir Frewin drew up a chair for his guest, and seating 
 himself opposite, with his elbows planted on the table, 
 and his chin between his 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 
 
ROUGE ET NOIR. 247 
 
 my own life, because only by that can I show you 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 
 got 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 enough. 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 engaged to be married, 
 and the future looked — well, no matter! I lived in the 
 usual fool's paradise 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; goodness knows I'd no ex- 
 cuse for being so, for my mother was the best woman in 
 the world. However, though I did well enough 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 forgery a cheque for one hundred pounds had 
 been unlawfully abstracted. Suspicion fell on all those 
 connected with the bank, and it narrowed down, as such 
 things do, till it was clearly proved that either I myself 
 or the son of the manager had done the deed. Of course 
 
248 DONOVAN. 
 
 I had not done it — the truth came to hght later on — but 
 at the time everything seemed against me, and since the 
 manager was not a second Brutus, he was naturally in- 
 clined to believe his son in the right. I don't care to go 
 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. "I shouldn't have thought a man could have 
 been such an utter brute." 
 
 "You have yet 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. How- 
 ever, 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 separa- 
 tion. I was young, and had to stand it, but I think 
 from that day I wasn't the same fellow. The next thing 
 which happened made me ten degrees worse. In one of 
 my father's letters — letters are very few and far between 
 in convict life — I learnt that the girl I had been engaged 
 to was married to another. I told you I paid dearly for 
 my fool's paradise. After that I didn't care what hap- 
 pened. Of course I had lost my character, and I knew 
 that it would be next to impossible for me to get any 
 
ROUGE ET NOIR. 249 
 
 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 
 lonehness, 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 was! I 
 could get no employment, and at last, with Legge's help, 
 I began to practise my present profession." 
 
 "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 to 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 difficulty by 
 the manager of the bank, his son had just died and had 
 confessed 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 father, if he would restore me my betrothed, 
 if he would give me back those wasted seven years, and 
 give me again the faith in God and man which had been 
 beaten out of me by the maddening injustice, then, and 
 only then, could he repair the injury." 
 
 "Fm glad you've told me all," said Donovan, when 
 
250 DONOVAN. 
 
 the narrator paused. "Yours is a hard story — bitterly 
 hard. How long is it since you were released?" 
 
 "Five years," said Noir, relapsing into his ordinary 
 tone, a quiet cold tone, very different from the one in 
 which he had recounted his wrongs. "I 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, and the other day, when you got in at the 
 Greyshot Station, there was something in the look of you 
 that attracted me. Then you played uncommonly well, 
 and for the first time in my life I felt sorry that I was 
 cheating a fellow. Afterwards 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 percentage 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 Hfe 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 give 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 
 
ROUGE ET NOIR. 25 I 
 
 in Noir, and had a series of brilliant successes at the 
 card-table. Then he went home — that is, to his hotel — 
 to think over the offer that had been made 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 hos- 
 pitality and friendliness of the Frewins; midway between 
 the two his conscience 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 
 the only people who had shown him kindness, and 
 naturally he 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 catch- 
 ing 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 sup- 
 port it seems worth clinging to. 
 
 To say that he made the choice while he was un- 
 conscious 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 
 
252 DONOVAN. 
 
 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 hfe, 
 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 alter- 
 native; 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 schoolfellows 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 such an 
 extreme case people are often kind-hearted enough. But 
 
ROUGE ET NOIR, 253 
 
 to throw himself on anyone's mercy was impossible to 
 Donovan — he was at once too proud and too distrustful 
 of human nature. 
 
 The consideration ended, as might have been ex- 
 pected, 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 plunged into the lowest and most painful 
 phase of his life. 
 
 Poor old Rouge Frewin was the only gainer by the 
 new arrangement. 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 get 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 kmd 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 which 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 
 
254 DONOVAN. 
 
 as Darky Legge. The two Frewins had received their 
 names of Rouge et Noir, and before very long Donovan, 
 whether he Hked 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 Donovan 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 com- 
 plimentary. 
 
 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 himself 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. 
 
 "Look here, milord," he said, turning at the door, 
 "I've an appointment in the City, and must be off. You'll 
 remember that we've arranged to go down to Manchester 
 by the evening express. Be in the way about that time, 
 and I'll join you here on the way to Euston." 
 
 "All right," said Donovan, not looking up. 
 
 "Yes, but be sure you remember, for I've reason to 
 believe we shall make a good thing of it. Do you hear?" 
 
 "Yes," replied Donovan, shortly. 
 
 "What on earth makes you such a sulky brute to- 
 day? One would have thought the luck had been against 
 you instead of all on your side last night," said Noir, 
 glancing at him rather curiously. His question met with 
 no reply, however, and with a shrug of the shoulders he 
 turned away. 
 
ROUGE ET NOIR. 255 
 
 When the door had closed behind him, Donovan 
 threw down his paper, and sat silently thinking over the 
 words which had stirred long dormant feelings in his 
 heart. How he disliked this arranging and scheming! — 
 what paltry work he was engaged 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 companions and dis- 
 gusted 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. 
 Remembering how his intemperance had begun, and what 
 a good-hearted old fellow he was, his contempt and dis- 
 gust, 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 enjoy- 
 ment!" Then, catching a look of contempt on his com- 
 panion's face, he added, piteously, "Don't you turn against 
 me, lad; I know I am not what I should be, but don't 
 you give me up too. Everyone despises me now, every- 
 one 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." 
 
256 DONOVAN. 
 
 "I don't wish to change," said Donovan, "but I hope 
 you won't repeat last night's amusement. How can you 
 expect anyone to respect you, when — well, after all, it's 
 no business of mine." 
 
 Rouge sighed heavily. 
 
 "Such 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 what 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 mantlepiece, 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 given 
 it was very true and sterling — no mere 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 passionate 
 desire which must come at times to those who have, if 
 
ROUGE ET NOIR. 257 
 
 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 temptation. 
 
 "Captain," he began, dropping the severe yet half 
 contemptuous 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 could give it up in 
 a moment? Why, it's meat and drink to me ! I couldn't 
 live without it, I tell you." 
 
 "More die by drinking than by abstaining," said 
 Donovan. "I dare say you'd miss it at first, but you'd 
 soon get over it. You couldn't be more miserable than 
 you are this morning after 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 laughing-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 
 
 Donovaji. I, 17 
 
258 DONOVAN. 
 
 Donovan. "Come, now, we'll each sign an agreement to 
 give it up for — say three months." 
 
 "So long," groaned poor Rouge. "Think of the dul- 
 ness! Why, what will life be worth?" 
 
 "Not much, indeed," said Donovan, "but more than 
 your present 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 
 Donovan 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 
 passing crowd, wondering whether he should see any of 
 his old acquaintances, longing, though he would hardly 
 admit it to himself, 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 what 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? Some- 
 where, surely, for he remembered the face distinctly now. 
 It was one he had watched and admired — and he ad- 
 mired very few women. He must have heard her speak 
 
ROUGE ET NOIR. 259 
 
 too , for he recognised 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. He had met 
 dozens of girls last season, but somehow she did not 
 seem like a London girl , she was too fresh and simple. 
 Where could he have seen her? 
 
 He listened with a good 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 grand people are driving that you 
 find fault with them! Don't you remember the French 
 proverb about the pedestrians commenting on the carriage 
 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 cigar, and listened more attentively, but the 
 conversation drifted away to other things, home matters 
 evidently, details and allusions which came very strangely 
 to him in his semi-vagrant life — the last letters there had 
 been from Dick — Nesta's quickness 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 glimpse of such a different life from his own, 
 such a simple, innocent, pure life, with such strangely 
 different interests ! An unaffected girl, sweet and bright, 
 
26o DONOVAN. 
 
 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 go he only caught the 
 words, "Yes, I know, he doesn't profess 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 engaged upon? 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 brought to the light, he began to see very 
 faintly indeed, but still to see in some degree his own 
 falseness and blackness. 
 
 He would not go with Noir that evening; it would 
 involve some trouble, no doubt, if he did not keep his 
 appointment, Noir would be exceedingly vexed, there would 
 inevitably be a quarrel when he returned from Manchester, 
 and of course he would lose the opportunity of enriching 
 himself, but he would not go, with the light of those clear 
 grey eyes fresh in his memory he felt that he really 
 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 carriage so that Donovan 
 only saw her face for an instant, 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 fre- 
 
ROUGE ET NOIR. 26 I 
 
 quenting, 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 Avay 
 off, and crossing the road, he leant with his back against the 
 square railings. It was a strange Avatch. Bitter feelings 
 mingled with the returning family love as he stood there 
 in the summer twilight; it rvas hard, even his most stern 
 condemner 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. In- 
 stinctively 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 happy-looking now, with a 
 white Chuddah 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. 
 
 Certainly, 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 
 
262 DONOVAN. 
 
 waiting, all this had Ellis gone through, and for what? 
 For a rich wife, a town house, and a country house, ac- 
 companied by an ever-present remorse, a nameless terror 
 of discovery, a wretched sense of shame, and a haunting 
 dread of his victim Donovan. The good was striving 
 within him, it would not abandon him, would not for a 
 moment let him enjoy his unjust gains; he fought against 
 it with all his strength, and tried to be careless and com- 
 fortable, 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 voice of singers and chorus, above the grand 
 orchestral accompaniment, there rang in his ears one 
 sharp despairing sentence, "Remember hoAV you have 
 goaded me on to ruin!" 
 
 Faust and Margherita were nothing to him. He hardly 
 noticed the beautiful little prima dGuna. It was the grim 
 basso, with his red livery, his stealthy yet rapid move- 
 ments, his Satanic look of triumphant cunning, who 
 preached to him that night, as no clergyman in surplice 
 and stole, or gown and Geneva bands, had ever preached 
 to him. In the "serenata," v/here Mephistopheles sings 
 his mocking song of triumph to the guitar, and augurs 
 further success 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 grey 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 
 
ROUGE ET NOIR. 263 
 
 had he known it for that very misery. It was the sign 
 of that other Presence within him which will not leave us 
 to an unequal struggle with evil. 
 
 Donovan, seeing only the prosperous outward show, 
 knowing nothing of all the remorse, watched the carriage 
 drive off 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 wrath 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 Ellis Farrant, still 
 more did it lead Donovan, who was more sinned against 
 than sinning, and to him no fiend like Mephistopheles 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 
 tugging so at the gate, 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 Friiulein to open the gate," said the 
 
264 DONOVAN. 
 
 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 in- 
 valid chair, and the place was therefore sacred to him. 
 He went at once to her favourite seat, and there in the 
 cool of the summer 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 them- 
 selves, and, as they played, their laughter and chatter 
 floated to him. It Avas 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 bare-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, disreputable- 
 looking passengers, until he almost fell over a little child 
 who ought to have been in bed long before, but who Avas 
 sitting on the kerbstone, grubbing with both hands in a 
 heap of mud in the gutter. Donovan was very tender 
 over little children. He stooped down at once to see 
 
ROUGE ET NOIR. 265 
 
 whether he had hurt the small elf. A pair of dancing 
 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. 
 He dropped a penny into the hand which was not oc- 
 cupied with the new treasure and 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, ain't you a fool! Oh, lor, ain't you 
 a fool!" 
 
 Evidently the Frewins had not made any compli- 
 mentary remarks 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 unconscious 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." 
 
2 66 DONOVAN. 
 
 "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 Sweep- 
 stakes, 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 t' ever so 
 wumble, umble, umble — " ad infinitum. 
 
 For the first time since he had been in London, 
 Donovan that night went to his room early. He had got 
 into the habit of turning 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 mouldering green wall-paper, and over the fire- 
 place one solitary picture in a gilt frame black with 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 
 individuality. On the mantelpiece was Dot's clock, in 
 one corner a great bath, on the chest of drawers one or 
 
ROUGE ET NOIR. 267 
 
 two anti-theological books of Luke Raeburn, and at the 
 foot of the bed a woolly rug for Waif. 
 
 The window was open; it looked out on to that fear- 
 ful 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 all 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 pave- 
 ments, 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 in- 
 dignation, for he was not hard-hearted, only narrows- 
 hearted, and though this crampedness kept him from 
 action it did not prevent the great suffering 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 
 fault 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 
 
2 68 DONOVAN. 
 
 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 must have seemed the region 
 of the elect, and Drury Lane the abode of that other 
 numerous band who were foredoomed to everlasting tor- 
 ture. Perhaps almost naturally Donovan had a fellow- 
 feeling for sinners, for in his very young days, when he 
 had for a short time believed in what he was taught, he 
 had fully made up his mind that Doery was one of the 
 elect, and that he had better go to the other place. Now 
 from his atheism, with which he persuaded himself he 
 was quite contented, he looked back with amusement on 
 the picture of his sturdy defiant childhood, which pre- 
 ferred even the awfully described fiery furnaces to com- 
 panionship with Doery in an unjust and partial favour. 
 
 He 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 shun the wretched. 
 
 It was not to be expected that the passing words of 
 a stranger would be sufficient 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. It 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. 
 
ROUGE ET NOIR. 26g 
 
 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 
 impossible to get places. 
 
 'Such a dreadful crowd, and such disagreeable-look- 
 ing people," said poor Mrs. Causton, nervously, "what is 
 the reason of it?" 
 
 "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 go 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; 
 whether she liked it or not, Gladys was shut in alone 
 among this strange-looking crew. She knew there was 
 nothing to fear, but at the same time it was a very un- 
 comfortable predicament, a fast girl would have been 
 amused by such a novel adventure, but Gladys was not 
 fast, she was a pure womanly woman, and though she 
 could not have explained why, she had a peculiar shrink- 
 ing 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 turned round upon her 
 with a cool inquisitive stare, then made some remark to 
 his neighbour on the other side which caused a general 
 laugh, and Gladys, though she would not have under- 
 stood 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, 
 
270 DONOVAN. 
 
 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. Ex- 
 actly opposite her was an elderly man fast asleep, next 
 to him was the one who had called his companions to 
 order. Gladys looked at his face half hopefully, 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! He was evidently much 
 younger than 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 
 Avas written the strong desire of gain; on all, except that 
 one dark saturnine face opposite her, which, though ap- 
 
ROUGE ET NOIR. 27 I 
 
 parently 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 
 unmoved face, and once he looked up and their eyes 
 met. It was not a look from which she need shrink — 
 the eyes were not bad eyes — they were very strange, 
 hungry-looking, sad ones. She understood then why he 
 was so different 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 dis- 
 agreeable neighbour and one of the other men. Language 
 such as she had never heard was shouted across the car- 
 riage, and the lookers-on laughed. Poor Gladys glanced 
 across in despair to the one passenger in whom she had 
 any faith. He was leaning back with a look of ineffable 
 disgust and weariness on his handsome face, but, as the 
 angry Babel grew louder, he turned to Gladys; she hardly 
 knew whether she Vv'ere 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 gratitude 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 ex- 
 pression than before. The others appealed to him for 
 his opinion in the matter of the dispute, and he spoke 
 
272 DONOVAN. 
 
 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' neigh- 
 bour. 
 
 "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. Causton 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 trea- 
 sured 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 
 
"the raven for a guide." 273 
 
 torrent of angry reproaches. Gladys caught only a word 
 or two here and there — "Confounded folly! — playing fast 
 and loose with the agreement!" — and one bitter taunt — 
 "A pretty knight-errant to help distressed ladies! Such 
 
 as yo'i, 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-crea- 
 tures? 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 thou wouldst higlily 
 That wouldst thou holily; wouldst not play false, 
 And yet wouldst wrongly win. — Macbeth. 
 
 Till hfe 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 long rides and walks, and 
 town life was of course a great and very undesirable 
 change for him. Donovan, too, lost his strength con- 
 siderably. It was an unhealthy life he was leading, full 
 
 Donoi'an. I. 1 8 
 
2 74 DONOVAN. 
 
 of the worst kind of excitement; at times idle and un- 
 occupied, 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 so- 
 ciety into which Noir Frewin had led him. No wonder 
 that as the winter advanced he began to fail. Even the 
 Frewins, who were 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," ob- 
 served 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 very 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 
 was lying asleep on the sofa, and then for the first time 
 he noticed how worn and thin he was. All the boyish- 
 ness 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." 
 
"the raven for a guide." 275 
 
 "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, im- 
 pressively. "And I must say milord does look to me 
 awfully out of health." 
 
 "Oh! nonsense. He's only seedy — a cold, or some- 
 thing 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 of the warm room into the cold drizzle of the 
 December twilight, but he was not one to shirk an en- 
 gagement 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. He drew 
 on his great-coat, and without a word stood waiting for 
 Noir, who was sorting his cards on a side-table. 
 
 "Take my advice," said Rouge, paternally, "and have 
 something just to hearten you up before you go. With 
 such a cold you 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 
 
276 DONOVAN*. 
 
 enough that even for his own sake the safeguard was a 
 very good thing. 
 
 "Oh! as to the cockles of one's heart," he said laugh- 
 ing, "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 turning 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, Donovan 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 expression was very different. Underneath, 
 in copper-plate, was written the couplet — 
 
 Whose public works will best attest his 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 usual to select a favourable 
 carriage; Donovan followed him more leisurely, for it 
 answered their purpose best not to appear to be com- 
 panions, Donovan's part was usually that of a decoy, a 
 
"the raven for a guide. 277 
 
 well-to-do, gentlemanly-looking fellow who consented to 
 play, and thus induced others to try their hand. They 
 had this evening chosen a most auspicious-looking car- 
 riage full of young men returning to town, for it was the 
 week after Christmas, and, the brief holiday being over, 
 many had chosen this late train to take them back to 
 the busy London life again. Scarcely had they left the 
 station, however, when Noir's countenance suddenly fell. 
 Two or three of the passengers were commenting on a 
 placard which, printed in large letters, was put up on 
 the side of the carriage. He was vexed and discon- 
 certed, for it effectually put an end to his schemes for 
 the journey. With a slight warning pressure on his com- 
 panion'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 net- 
 ting, thus getting an opportunity of turning round, and 
 there, staring at him in large type, were words which he 
 never forgot, words which seemed to burn themselves in 
 upon his brain at the very first reading. "Caution. Pas- 
 sengers are earnestly recommended to beware of pick- 
 pockets 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 higher till his whole 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 con- 
 fusion, held out a newspaper to him, but he only shook 
 
278 DONOVAN. 
 
 his head, and the elder man, who was merely annoyed 
 by the occurrence, began to feel alarmed at the strange 
 effect 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 play 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. 
 
 "It startled me," he confessed after a brief silence. 
 Then again, with a slight hesitation, "Noir, do you con- 
 sider 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 forgotten your favourite maxim, that the world 
 is a mass of injustice, and that a little more or less evil 
 makes no difference? You stand by that, and I'll under- 
 take to stand by you, for the world is unjust, and I de- 
 
"the raven for a guide." 279 
 
 light 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 steps 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 waiting 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 involuntarily 
 made for 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. Here, Donovan, come to supper, we 
 didn't get much of a feed at Brighton." 
 
 But Donovan shook his head. 
 
 "Good -night, captain," he said, and, disregarding 
 Rouge's remonstrances, left the room. He opened his 
 
2 8o DONOVAN. 
 
 own door, and Waif, with whines of delight, sprang to 
 greet him. 
 
 "Waif— poor old fellow!" he exclaimed, stooping for 
 a minute over the dog, but hastily raising himself again. 
 "No, no, down, get down, I say, I'm not fit to touch you." 
 
 Poor Waif was utterly bewildered, his master had 
 never spoken to him in that way before, something must 
 be wrong, very much wrong. It was dark, but the 
 faintest glimmer of light from the uncurtained 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 
 
"the raven for a guide." 281 
 
 said to him now! Yet little as he had known of him, 
 that httle was enough to tell him that his father would 
 always think more of the future than of the past. There 
 was a future for him even now, he must no longer wage 
 war upon the unjust world, he must — he ivould alter his 
 way of living if only for the sake of redeeming his 
 father's name. But for the first time in his life he felt 
 a want in himself, that agony of remorse, despair, utter 
 self- abhorrence had done its work, he was no longer 
 blindly confident in his own strength. 
 
 Presently from sheer exhaustion he fell asleep. Waif 
 was happier when he heard the deep regular breaths; 
 a strange 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 on his rug 
 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, drew up his chair to the fire and lighted his even- 
 ing 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, 
 meditatively. "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 off If 
 not, we must get a 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 
 
2iS2 DONOVAN. 
 
 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 sacrifice 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 sat on long after his pipe was 
 finished, long after the fire had sunk down in the grate 
 to a handful of dying embers. He was thinking, brood- 
 ing painfully over the comparative innocence of his boy 
 accomplice, and his own villainy. How despairing and 
 wild the fellow had looked, too, as he left the room. He 
 quite started when the door opened, and Rouge, with his 
 nightcap 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 him- 
 self 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 at times impossible to enjoy or permit bodily 
 ease. Indeed, if the poor old captain had been guilty 
 of the most heinous crime he would probably have eaten 
 his supper after its committal, and found a solace in the 
 eating to his pangs of remorse. He could not under- 
 stand anything which went deeper than this, and his 
 good heart had been stirred with pity as he lay down 
 warmed and satisfied in his comfortable feather-bed. 
 
"the raven for a guide." 283 
 
 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 unknown on Westminster 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 
 carelessly. And then he turned the door-handle noise- 
 lessly, 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 little at the unusual disturbance. 
 
 Noir bent down for a moment close to the half-hidden 
 face, then he started up again 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 minute the shabby little room wit- 
 nessed a strange scene. Donovan stirred uneasily, half 
 turned round, but sank again into profound sleep, and 
 the two Frewins bent over him, why, 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 despairing because of its 
 stillness, the fixedness of its misery. And Noir's heart 
 smote him, his conscience cried out loudly, "You have 
 
284 DONOVAN. 
 
 brought him to this, you have dragged this boy down 
 into shame and dishonesty." 
 
 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 cruel to bring him back to his anguish 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 nevertheless a capability 
 of entering into greater things, he had himself sinned 
 and suffered, and though it was years since he had 
 known real remorse, he had once known it, and to a 
 certain extent he understood 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 railway- rug which covered it, threw 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. Noir 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 expression of such de- 
 spondency, often of such terrible suffering, that the old 
 captain scarcely dared to speak to him. The sharpness 
 of his remorse had for the time died away, it was swal- 
 lowed up in the misery of his recollections, for this was 
 the anniversary of Dot's last day of life, and remem- 
 
"THE RAVEN FOR A GUIDE." 285 
 
 hrances strange, tender, pitiful, but always full of pain, 
 thronged up in his mind. Brooding 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; 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 com- 
 panion, 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 grasped the cue in- 
 stead, and betted wildly, losing, winning, winning again 
 considerably, then with the Frewins, and Legge, and two 
 or three other companions returning to Drury Lane and 
 gambling the old year out and the new year in. 
 
 "I back the winner, I back the winner!" screamed 
 Sweepstakes from his cage. 
 
 And above the sounds of dispute, and merriment, 
 and eager play, the clock of St. Mary's Church struck 
 
2 86 DONOVAN. 
 
 twelve, and in the distance Big Ben's deep notes echoed 
 over the city, and, just because an agony of remembrance 
 rushed back into Donovan's mind, he staked higher and 
 higher. The room rang with his wild laughter. 
 
 Noir broke up the gathering much earlier than usual, 
 and with flushed cheeks and wild glittering eyes Donovan 
 staggered 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 up. Noir did not answer. With his 
 father's assistance he helped him into the next room, 
 and with some pangs of conscience kept guard over him 
 through the night of feverish excitement and misery 
 which followed. 
 
 The next morning the bright New Year broke over 
 the great city, there were fetes, and rejoicings, and merry 
 family parties, but in the lodging-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 XVII. 
 STRUGGLING ON. 
 
 Men are led by strange ways. One should have tolerance for a 
 man, hope of him ; leave him to try yet what he will do. 
 
 On Heroes and Hero-worship. 
 
 May we not again say, that in the huge mass of evil, as it rolls 
 and swells, there is ever some good working imprisoned; working to- 
 ward deliverance and triumph? French Revohdion. Carlyle. 
 
 He had known for a long time that he 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 
 
STRUGGLING ON. 287 
 
 practically homeless. For it is 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 right 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 helplessness came with double 
 power; only, fortunately for him, things were not really 
 as he believed. , Close beside him, though unknown, 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 brought 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 husband, yet found time 
 to do the few absolutely necessary things in the sick- 
 room; she could not help being sorry for her apparently 
 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 companion's vigilance and example, the 
 drinking mania seized him strongly, and he was seldom 
 quite sober. There was one other amateur nurse, the 
 
205 DONOVAN. 
 
 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 suffer- 
 ing 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 for me, as though I was one of 
 the poor blacks. I allays liked you, Mr. Donovan." 
 
 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 than any of the others, and though 
 you did want such a terrible lot of bath water hevery 
 day, I allays brought it up reg'lar. If the lodgers h'is 
 civil and kind-spoken, I do my best for 'em, but most of 
 'em — why, they treat us poor girls like dogs, that they 
 do. And talkin of dogs, I've done that un o' yours many 
 a good turn; times and times I've stolen bits o' meat 
 and things for 'im." 
 
 "Oh! but you shouldn't do that," said Donovan 
 
STRUGGLING ON. 2SC) 
 
 quickly. "Don't do it again. It's wrong to steal, you 
 know." 
 
 But then he paused. What was the saying? How 
 trivial were this poor ignorant girl's dishonesties compared 
 with his own! 
 
 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 think- 
 ing 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. iVnd 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 suffer- 
 ing, and now he was to die forlorn and unattended in a 
 miserable London lodging. Then came a great longing 
 to see his mother. 
 
 Dffio7ia>t, I. iq 
 
2 go DONOVAN. 
 
 He called the girl to him, made her find writing 
 materials, and, 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 meeting." 
 
 He was growing faint; the effort had been very great, 
 but, still exerting all his strength of will, he controlled 
 his weakness sufficiently to scrawl the address on the 
 envelope. Then he sank back again exhausted. 
 
 "You'll have to see the clergyman if you get worse," 
 said 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-present 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 him. Now and 
 then he had a sort of vision of Rouge's round red face 
 anxiously peering down at him. Once he fancied him- 
 self 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 cool- 
 ing draught he had thirsted for, and he had fallen back 
 again refreshed, wondering greatly that his request 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 be- 
 side him, was struck by the tone of his fevered utterances. 
 
STRUGGLING ON. 2gi 
 
 He was prepared for ravings against injustice, but, in- 
 stead, 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 companions, gambling or indulging in wild 
 revelry; but throughout there was never one impure 
 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 purity. 
 
 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. 
 
 Perhaps in this was Donovan's keenest suffering. He 
 dreamt continually of Dot; she was beside him, no longer 
 ill and helpless, but happy, and strong, 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 him 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! 
 
 19- 
 
292 DONOVAN. 
 
 Her 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 ruffling 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 
 tliem. He stretched out his hands, tried to struggle up, 
 helplessly beating 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, ex- 
 hausted, 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 turned low, and 
 close beside it sat Noir, nodding over his newspaper. 
 The blank of realisation was so terrible that he felt he 
 must call on some one or something outside himself, and 
 his companion was roused by a call so wild, so despair- 
 ing, that he started up at once and hurried to the bed- 
 side. 
 
 "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 free- 
 masonry of suffering, Noir Frewin understood him. He 
 did not say a word, but just took the two burning hands 
 in his, and Donovan, with a sense of relief, tightened his 
 hold till the grip was absolutely painful, Anything human 
 
STRUGGLING ON. 2g3 
 
 would have served to support him; he clung to the hands 
 of this hardened cheat with helpless gratitude. 
 
 And Noir, as he looked down at the struggling agony, 
 understood 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 be any- 
 thing else, would probably not have known so exactly 
 what to do; they would have offered words to a state 
 beyond the comprehension of speech, or would have ad- 
 vised self-control when the very fact of the convulsed 
 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 preseiice 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 Do- 
 novan'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 abomina- 
 tion?" said Donovan, trying to form his lips into a smile, 
 but failing piteously. 
 
 "You'd better be quiet, or you won't get off to sleep 
 
2 94 DONOVAN. 
 
 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 pain- 
 ful 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 news- 
 paper, 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 rough brown hair; Donovan 
 had turned his face away from the light, and Noir only 
 knew that he was not asleep by the absolute stillness of 
 his form, and by the long-drawn but half-strained sighs 
 which reached him every few minutes. 
 
 The next morning the old captain, with his feather- 
 brush, was as usual dusting his shells and corals, when 
 he was interrupted by the little maid-of-all-work. 
 
 "If you please, sir," she said, with unusual animation, 
 '"ere's a lady as will 'ave it that Mr. Farrant lives 'ere, 
 and I can't get 'er away no 'ow." 
 
 Rouge, removing his smoking-cap, hurried forward, 
 and found himself face to face with an elderly woman 
 with a thin severe face. 
 
 "There must be some mistake, madame," he said in 
 his pleasant 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. "Noav 
 why didn't you tell me that before, though I was certain 
 he must be here somewhere, he'd never make a fault in 
 the address. Take me to him at once, please, sir — I've 
 come to nurse him." 
 
STRUGGLING ON. 295 
 
 "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 
 indignation — "relation, sir! A pretty pass he must have 
 come to if you take me for a relation. I am the house- 
 keeper." 
 
 "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 enjo3'^ed the new arrival, and 
 there was a ring of amusement in his hearty voice as he 
 went up to the disordered, uncomfortable-looking bed 
 where Donovan lay. 
 
 "Well, milord, I've brought you a new nurse." 
 
 If anyone had told Donovan in his childhood 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. 
 
296 DONOVAN. 
 
 "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 gone 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 would 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 ap- 
 pealing 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 never 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 Fre^^'ins, 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 diffi- 
 culties. 
 
 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 
 
STRUGGLING ON. 2 97 
 
 a thousand questions, indeed, about his mother, and the 
 rthole 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 re- 
 mind 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 ad- 
 joining 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!" 
 
 "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 goings on in them courts out at the back, and 
 then all this noise in the very next room when honest 
 folks ought to be a-bed and asleep. It's a dreadful place, 
 I call it." 
 
 "London isn't made up of Connaught 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 as- 
 
2g8 DONOVAN. 
 
 surances of his perfect recovery, Mrs. Doery was at length 
 persuaded to leave him for a little while and go to church, 
 Donovan having overruled her dread of losing her way 
 by assuring her that the old captain went every now and 
 l!ien to salve his conscience, and would be delighted to 
 escort her. When she had left him he lay for a few 
 minutes listening to the church bells, but his thoughts 
 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 written 
 against it, he had never had the slightest inclination to 
 study the book itself Beyond a few chapters which he 
 had been made to learn in his childhood as a punish- 
 ment, he remembered little but a sort of general outline 
 of the history, and a few of the more striking parables. 
 
 He took it up now rather curiously, opened at 
 St. Matthew's Gospel, and, skipping the Table of Gei^ea- 
 logy, 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, he 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, surround- 
 ings low and incapable of understanding, a trial of glar- 
 ing injustice, and an unmerited death of the deepest pain ! 
 It was a story which could not fail to touch him; a cha- 
 racter which filled him with great admiration. There 
 were two things which especially appealed to his sympathy 
 — the injustice suffered, and the strong endurance mani- 
 
STRUGGLING ON. SQQ 
 
 fested. 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 re- 
 verence. 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 op- 
 portunity of telling Noir the decision which he had made 
 before his illness. Noir, who had already shrewdly sur- 
 mised 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.' 
 
300 DONOVAN. 
 
 However, I've no monkish tendencies, 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 change in his look and voice. 
 
 "Well, captain!" he exclaimed. "Has Noir told you? 
 It's all settled, we leave this hole next week, and go to 
 try our luck at Monte Carlo." 
 
 "So I hear," said Rouge. "It'll be first-rate for you; 
 for myself I Hke Old England best. None of your froggy 
 Frenchmen 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 
 eighteen pence on the table, scrawled something on a 
 piece of paper and handed it to Rouge, — "Just get 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.' " 
 
MONACO. 301 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 MONACO. 
 
 I heard 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 hnk 
 
 The human soul that through me ran; 
 
 And much it grieved my heart to think 
 
 What man had made of man. — Wordsworth. 
 
 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 the 
 Metora 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. The 
 captain was in great spirits, the breath 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 beheve what a bother we had 
 
302 DONOVAN. 
 
 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 he'd 
 remembered it, for day and night that creature said no- 
 thing but 
 
 'He who prigs what isn't his'n;' 
 
 you know the old rhyme?" 
 
 "There's something uncanny about Sweepstakes," said 
 Donovan, 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 Dono- 
 van, "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 shall 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 ex- 
 pressed 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 
 
MONACO. 303 
 
 that he was vexed by this particular sentence of the 
 mahcious 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 invari- 
 ably resorted to when he was snubbed, and all through 
 the crossing he gently murmured to himself, "When he's 
 cotched — cotch — cotch — cotched ! " 
 
 It was a grey day at the end of February, and the 
 English shore was enveloped in mist, but there was, 
 nevertheless, a strong breeze blowing. "East-nor'-east," 
 Rouge 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 
 unwholesome atmosphere of Drury Lane , the fresh sea- 
 breeze was almost intoxicating. In spite of adverse cir- 
 cumstances and a naturally melancholy temperament, the 
 young life within him sprang up to greet the novelty of 
 all around, his eyes brightened, his taciturnity disappeared, 
 and he and the old captain sat talking together as hap- 
 pily 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 buffet , with all 
 its temptations. After a few minutes' delay they were 
 off once more, fairly started now on their route to the 
 south, and Donovan, in the first exuberance of his new 
 strength, really thought he had found something to sa- 
 tisfy his restlessness, and to fill the emptiness of his life. 
 Fair France, with her sunny plains and genial atmosphere. 
 
304 DONOVAN. 
 
 looked very tempting, Monaco offered plenty of excite- 
 ment — 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 had only 
 resigned her post a few days before, and he shrank from 
 entire self-dependence. So the night journey was under- 
 taken, and he sat back in his corner watching his sleep- 
 ing companions, sometimes dozing himself for a few 
 minutes, but oftener wdde 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 conversation 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 Renan's book. An odd medley, truly, in an un- 
 regulated but well-disposed mind — well-disposed, that is, 
 as far as it was capable of seeing the light. 
 
 At last the long night wore away; as they passed 
 Lyons, with its gleaming lights and its broad river, the 
 first faint grey dawn was quivering on the horizon, and 
 gradually the pale morning twilight began to steal into 
 the railway carriage, falling with a most ghastly effect on 
 the faces of the sleepers — Noir, with his hard, grim fea- 
 tures, Rouge 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 
 
MONACO, 305 
 
 Frenchmen in every variety of night deshabille 2in6. posture. 
 Donovan glanced at them curiously, then, with that shiver- 
 ing misery which invariably accompanies the dawn, he 
 once more looked out over the grey landscape. His 
 cough began to be troublesome, 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 travelling. 
 
 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 
 loriously bright, and the air so exhilarating, that he 
 fancied himself stronger than he really was. Nor was 
 he exquisite scenery altogether wasted on him; it is to 
 be doubted whether it has any effect on the habitue's of 
 Monte Carlo who daily pass through it, but Donovan was 
 I stranger, not yet seized with the gaming mania, which 
 eems to destroy all the nobler faculties. 
 
 Leaving Nice behind them, with its green hills and 
 :lustering white villas, they sped on through a paradise 
 )f beauty. To the right lay the Mediterranean, with its 
 vonderfuUy deep blue, broken here and there by the 
 iniest foam-wreathed breakers, gleaming whiter than 
 mow; to the left rose the Maritime Alps with their softly 
 nantling olive groves, while in the distance every now 
 md then a snowy peak stood out clearly against the 
 Dlue sky. 
 
 The three Enghshmen certainly took their own fashion 
 )f enjoying it all, there was no studying of Murray or 
 aedecker, not a single exclamation of wonder or ad- 
 
 Donova n. I. 20 
 
3o6 DONOVAN, 
 
 miration. Rouge looked sleepily at the sea, and thought 
 of his voyages in the Metora; 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; Donovan looked at all 
 the beauty silently, with no lack of admiration, but with 
 a certain sadness, his one definite thought being how 
 much Dot would have enjoyed it. In a very short time 
 they reached their destination; old Monaco on its rocky 
 promontory, new Monaco, with its gay white houses and 
 red-tiled roofs, Monte Carlo, with its georgeous casino — 
 all lay as it were in a nutshell. Strange little Principality! 
 one of the most ancient 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 com- 
 panions 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 anything, and eager to try his 
 luck so far as the restricted allowance wliich 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 goal they had been making for, this the 
 place where fortunes were won — or lost, this the refuge 
 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 
 
MONACO. 307 
 
 with its great marble columns, gorgeously decorated roof 
 and walls, and handsome mosaic floor, the impression 
 grew upon him, but was speedily dashed into the world 
 of cold realities by a word from Noir. 
 
 '•Come, we won't waste time. You'll have 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 given the name which he used, he picked up 
 his pink admission-card, and followed his companions 
 through the double swing-doors into the Salle de Jen. 
 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 strange sight that Salle de Jen. Its richly de- 
 corated walls, its heavy square pillars, coloured and be- 
 gilt 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! how many victims 
 pace restlessly up and down the slippery parquet floor, 
 never satisfied v.dth 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 Frenchmen, dark, vindictive Italians, hand- 
 some Russians, hard-featured Englishmen; women, too, in 
 almost as large a proportion as men, and staking with 
 quite as much sang-froid. 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 
 
3o8 DONOVAN. 
 
 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 description, who come to see this 
 sight which happily is not to be met with in many places. 
 A questionable proceeding though 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 disappointment would be great, Monte Carlo 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 re- 
 maining 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 
 faith in any system, though Noir had tried hard to con- 
 vert him to his, but, although he was usually as success- 
 ful 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 
 conceived a strong dislike to the whole thing. Dispirited 
 by his unbroken losses, he felt at once that there was no- 
 thing here to satisfy him, nothing to call out his faculties; 
 for he was more than a mere gambler, he was a first-rate 
 card-player, and to him half the pleasure of gaming lay 
 in the sense of power, the exultation in his own skill. In 
 
MONACO. 309 
 
 spile 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. 
 
 But now that all the excitement was over he began 
 to feel unbearably weary, he threw himself down on the 
 crimson velvet ottoman in the middle of the gaming-room, 
 idly scanning the passers by, 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 gamblers; the extra- 
 vagantly-dressed women. Realising at length 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 great crowds to the casino. Wearily he leant 
 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 suddenly came to himself 
 with a thrill of pain. With exquisite expression, with un- 
 rivalled delicacy of light and shade, the orchestra was 
 playing a selection from "Don Giovanni," and now 
 through the great hall there rang Dot's favourite air, 
 "Vedrai Carino." 
 
 It did him good in spite of the pain. When the 
 audience dispersed, and he strolled out into the gardens, 
 a child's pure gentle face haunted him. There among 
 the palms, and aloes, and flowering cactus two visions of 
 the past were with him. Dot's radiant beauty, and the 
 quiet maidenly grace of a stranger whom he had in- 
 voluntarily taken as his standard of what a woman 
 
3 I O DONOVAN. 
 
 should be. From what evil these two guardian angels 
 shielded him who can say? 
 
 Before long he wisely went in search of the old cap- 
 tain, whom he found in low spirits, having lost every five- 
 franc piece in his possession. 
 
 "We've both had enough 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 awfully seedy." 
 
 "Humph!" ejaculated the captain. "In for a second 
 go 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 again tossing to and fro in weary misery, 
 haunted by whirling roulette wheels and stony-faced 
 croupiers, raving about the endless losses and the tantaliz- 
 ing gains which always eluded his grasp. The relapse 
 was the natural consequence of all the fatigue he had 
 gone through, and had it not been for the old captain's 
 devoted though rough nursing, and for the care of an ex- 
 ceedingly clever French doctor, he would most likely have 
 sunk under it. 
 
 However, he struggled through, and woke one morn- 
 ing, after a long sleep, to realise for the first time his posi- 
 tion. There he was lying as weak as any baby, sur- 
 rounded 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 
 
MONACO. 3 I I 
 
 dingy green paper was changed to a gorgeous blue one, 
 and the ceiUng 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," rephed 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 you, 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 re- 
 covered rapidly. Not that he cared much to get well, 
 but he was anxious to free himself from the state of de- 
 pendence he was now in, for dependence was uncongenial 
 to his nature, and to submit to rough and ready at- 
 tendance 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. From the other 
 
312 DONOVAN. 
 
 window a much wider view was obtained. Here he could 
 see the whole of the beautiful bay, and the exquisite 
 lovehness of the place made him long to quit his room. 
 
 And so the days dragged on, and little by little he 
 regained his strength, would crawl out to the almost de- 
 serted Promenade St. Barbe, and sit on one of the green 
 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 wall, and rest among a sort of jungle of flowering 
 cactus and pink geranium. Before him stretched a glorious 
 panorama^ — the beautiful blue of the Mediterranean, Mo- 
 naco 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 
 pretty 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 promonotory of Bor- 
 dighera. 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 
 
MONACO. 313 
 
 little boat on the sea with its white lateen sail, he con- 
 ceived 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 gam- 
 bling, 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 "puritanical 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 Avas ended. "You are the first person in the world 
 who ever gave me such an honourable name. Zealous 
 folks have addressed me as 'proud infidel,' and 'blind 
 atheist,' and 'miserable agnostic,' but 'fanatic Puritan' is 
 a title to which I never dreamt of aspiring ! In the strength 
 of it you must allow me to gang my ain gait!" 
 
 "Please yourself," said Noir, crossly. "Do you know 
 Berrogain's last name for you — for the young man who 
 is too virtuous to be ensnared? You are the young 
 Bayard, the " 
 
 "He's welcome to call me what he pleases," inter- 
 rupted Donovan, 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 Jen again. You with your system, and Ber- 
 
314 DONOVAN. 
 
 regain with his hick, 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 in- 
 junctions to "be gentle," 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 Ste. 
 Devote. Strangely enough, however, it so happened that 
 the infallible "system" failed dismally on that very after- 
 noon. Noir was singularly unfortunate, 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 sulkily 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 down the sunny 
 road, a furious rattling attracted their notice. All the 
 small boys of the place had armed themselves with im- 
 promptu 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 Holy Thursday, monsieur," was the answer. 
 "We crush the bones of the wicked Judas, the betrayer. 
 This evening, in the church, it will be very 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. 3 I 5 
 
 Donovan rejoined Noir with a bitter smile on his face. 
 This then was Christianity! They walked on in perfect 
 silence. 
 
 The day was gloriously fine and bright, the April air 
 soft and balmy, the atmosphere in that state of almost 
 intoxicating clearness only to be met with in the South. 
 Certainly the two men were a strange contrast to their 
 surroundings — the elder grim, clouded, dissatisfied, the 
 younger worn with suffering, weary with the weariness of 
 a life-long unrest, and bearing on his handsome 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 loveliness that these two were treading to- 
 gether. How far it influenced them it would be hard to 
 say, but probably both owed more to it than they knew. 
 Roccabruna, with its cavernous houses and quaint arch- 
 ways, 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, they 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 Medi- 
 terranean, 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, 
 
3 I 6 DONOVAN. 
 
 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 un- 
 derstand 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 Monaco than turn this fellow 
 from his purpose. 
 
 "A month at Paris might not be amiss," he suggested, 
 after a pause. "Berrogain 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 would not be bad," mused Noir, half to him- 
 self; "we shall come in for the meeting at Chantilly — 
 perhaps induce Darky Legge to come over. Yes, that'll 
 do. Are you agreed?" 
 
 "Agreed? Oh, yes," rephed 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 grace- 
 ful 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 against the trunk of the olive, not 
 caring to attempt any further conversation. 
 
 "Life," thought the elder man, depressed by his losses, 
 "was particularly worthless and uninteresting just at that 
 
LOSING SELF TO FIND. 
 
 2>^1 
 
 time." "Life," thought 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 calling 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 selfish lives was the token 
 of those higher affinities within them, those faint needings 
 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 fragrant orange groves, to 
 Mentone. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 LOSING SELF TO FIND. 
 
 Man-like is it to fall into sin, 
 Fiend-like is it to dwell therein, 
 Christ-like is it for sin to grieve, 
 God-like is it aU sin to leave. 
 
 From the Ger?nan. Longfellow. 
 
 Eleven o'clock on a May morning, the bright sun- 
 shine peeping in obliquely through the persiennes, and 
 lighting up the conventional French bed-room, with its 
 wardrobe, mirror, writing-table and gilt clock, also a well- 
 worn, brown portmanteau, and a white and tan fox-terrier 
 stretched at full length on the hearth-rug. Down below 
 in the street there was the rumbling of wheels, the busy 
 
3 I 8 DONOVAN. 
 
 morning traffic, 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 
 Donovan on a day which he was never to forget, a day 
 every detail of which was burnt in upon his brain with 
 the ineffaceable brand of suffering. He woke late, rang 
 the bell for his coffee, and then lay musing. He was a 
 rich man! The sensation was strange. 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 
 gaze from the other side of the room. Now he was rich, 
 a well-to-do man, for not many hours ago, when the faint 
 dawn was just beginning to break, he had won a fortune 
 at baccarat. In spite of ElUs's wickedness, in spite of 
 life-long injustice, he had done well for himself. 
 
 And yet, after all, did it make so very much dif- 
 ference? Was this great success, this unparalleled good 
 fortune, really worth having? His heart did not feel any 
 lighter, life did not look more inviting when he got up 
 that day. At the actual time of his triumph his bliss had 
 been complete, his one passion rode rampant over every- 
 thing. A splendid game, a fortune at stake, a fortune 
 which he by his marvellous play had won! Everything 
 else was forgotten, care for the time cast aside, weari- 
 ness lost, emptiness filled, the holloAv unsatisfactory world 
 became a temporary paradise! 
 
 But now it had passed, and the dull weight of ex- 
 istence 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 de- 
 grees more depressed than the winner? 
 
LOSING SELF TO FIND. 319 
 
 He was just about to leave his room when, with a 
 hasty knock, Noir Frewin entered. 
 
 "Milord," he said quickly, "you're wanted in the next 
 room; there's no end of a scene going on — Berrogain's 
 wile in floods of tears. Her husband has made off no 
 one knows where, and, from a few written words he left,, 
 seems to intend suicide." 
 
 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 already seen his ghost. Of course it's a bad busi- 
 ness, 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 him- 
 self in the room where the old captain was trying to say 
 something cheering 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 stream- 
 ing eyes, "Hsten, 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 young Englishman, the M. Donovan, of whom 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 peiir 
 et sa?is reproclie — oh! monsieur, is, it possible that you 
 
320 DONOVAN. 
 
 did it? They said you were too good for Monaco, but 
 oh ! monsieur, it is worse to ruin others than to ruin your- 
 self. Think, monsieur — think what it means! You have 
 driven my husband away in despair — he may even now 
 be no more. Oh! mon Dleu! nion Dieu! 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 paralysed 
 by the appalling consciousness of the responsibility rest- 
 ing on him. He had, perhaps — nay, probably — driven a 
 man to suicide, ruined and widowed the poor woman be- 
 fore 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 " 
 
 "Alas! monsieur, but who can say?" sobbed Madame 
 Berrogain. "He is gone — gone — see his last words!" 
 and she held out to him a sheet of paper,' on which was 
 written in French: 
 
 "My ivife, — I can7iot bear this intolerable misery. I must 
 fly frojn all most dear, and seek a refuge iji darkness. Life is 
 ended for me. Fareivell! Thy nnhaphy 07ie, — Berrogain." 
 
LOSING SELF TO FIND. 32 I 
 
 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 where we know 
 of any chance of finding him. I will find him if I die 
 in doing it." 
 
 In spite of his bad French, and limited means of ex- 
 pression, in spite too of his grave stern face, Madame 
 Berrogain understood the depth 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 bo7ine 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 rapidly. 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. 
 
 Donhvau. I, 2 1 
 
^2 2 DONOVAN. 
 
 "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 
 stopped him. 
 
 "Let me come with you, lad," he said, in his good- 
 humoured voice. 
 
 "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, gave 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 might have 
 been expected. 
 
 "Milord is the very worst 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 Rouge beside him, setting about 
 his disagreeable work in the most business-like way. In 
 spite of his EngUsh pronunciation, too, there was that 
 about him which obliged the various officials 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 ab- 
 
LOSING SELF TO FIND. ^2^ 
 
 sence of feeling which he forced himself 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 questioningly, 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 sparkling 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 be- 
 gan to wonder whether his companion had found poor 
 Monsieur Berrogain in that dread room within, and 
 anxiously scanned the faces 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 this motley but cheerful and unconcerned 
 crowd, came the face which Rouge was waiting for, a 
 curious contrast to every other, stern, and sad, and white 
 to the very lips. 
 
 21 * 
 
324 DONOVAN. 
 
 The captain was startled. 
 
 "Good heavens! milord," he cried, "you have not 
 found him, have you?" 
 
 Donovan shook his head, a15!d clutched at his com- 
 panion's arm to steady himself. 
 
 "Why, you're ill," said the captain "Within an ace 
 of fainting." 
 
 "Nonsense, 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 obliged to lean up against the railings, 
 even to cling to them for support. The horrible sight, 
 the dread of what he might possibly find, had completely 
 unnerved him; for one dreadful moment, too, he had 
 fancied that he recognised 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 grey 
 old church with its pinnacles and flying buttresses, the 
 fresh green of the spring leaves, the sunshine streaming 
 down with that gaiety and brightness which seem specially 
 to characterise Paris, and here and there a little child at 
 play with its bonne 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 com- 
 passion for one who seemed ill, or was it that peculiar 
 attraction which Donovan possessed for children? The 
 
LOSING SELF TO FIND. 
 
 325 
 
 tiny maid, prompted by some unknown influence, at any 
 rate resolved to do her best for him, and, with her Httle 
 quick fingers, began gathering marguerites, then, grasping 
 the bunch with her two fat httle hands, she toddled up 
 to the silent figure, and, with a premonitory pat to arouse 
 him, laid her offering 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 friend, and, as well as he could, thanked her, but 
 the daring little mite was soon pursued by an indignant 
 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 great 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 responsibility 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 child- 
 
326 DONOVAN. 
 
 hood 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 stul 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, whose purity and sweet- 
 ness had had such a powerful influence over him — had 
 even helped to keep him straight when he had been ex- 
 posed to the countless snares of Monaco. 
 
 Because of this strong reverence for women, the scene 
 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 intole- 
 rable. But fortunately he was — notwithstanding all his fail- 
 ings — brave and manly, he struggled now with his weak- 
 ness, 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. 
 
 So they went to the nearest of the restaurants, and 
 Rouge's devoted attendance was rewarded by the privilege 
 of ordering whatever he liked, while Donovan gulped 
 down enough food to support him in his work, conquer- 
 ing his disinclination till he had satisfied his conscience, 
 and then calling Waif to devour the plentiful leavings. 
 
 After that came another deliberate plunge into the 
 crowded streets, another long-continued but vain search 
 for the lost man. Ceaseless inquiries, endless hurryings 
 
LOSING SELF TO FIND. 327 
 
 to and fro, once or twice a supposed clue to M. Berrogain's 
 whereabouts, to be followed by temporary hope and bitter 
 disappointment. 
 
 Once, as the evening wore on, Donovan stopped at 
 a cafe on one of the boulevards and made the old 
 captain have a cup of cafe ?ioir, even permitted the petit 
 verve 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 last disappointment, and the 
 numbing paralysing horror was beginning to overwhelm 
 him again. 
 
 Rouge, as he sipped his coffee contentedly, happened 
 to look across the little marble table at his silent com- 
 panion, and then for the first time realised that the day's 
 anxiety had been something far severer than he could 
 comprehend. For Donovan's face was worn and haggard, 
 grey with that strange ghastliness which only comes on 
 such young faces in times of great exhaustion; the firm 
 mouth betrayed suffering, the eyes, though 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?" 
 
 "You go home, captain," he answered, "you've had a 
 long day. I? no, I can't come yet. I must see whether 
 the police have found anything, and I must see hei- — 
 Madame Berrogain." 
 
 "Milord, you'll only be ill again," remonstrated the 
 old man, "you'll do for yourself one of these days." 
 
 "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." 
 
328 DONOVAN. 
 
 He pushed back his chair suddenly, threw down a 
 franc beside the captain's %up, and before his companion 
 could remonstrate had walked away rapidly 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 chief official, but at last a 
 small sharp-faced man appeared with a paper in his 
 hand, and an all-pervading odour of garlic, which was 
 quite beneath the 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 answer- 
 ing to your description, much above the usual height, 
 pale, with thick light hair and moustaches, and a cast in 
 one eye, was seen early 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, monsieur, we 
 have telegraphed to the officials at Bordeaux j the train 
 by which 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 move- 
 ments of our friend." 
 
 Doubtless the man thought the "friendship" was a 
 remarkable one— one must love a companion much to be 
 so particularly anxious about him, and Donovan's intense 
 relief, though undemonstrative, was nevertheless apparent 
 
LOSING SELF TO FIND. 329 
 
 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 op- 
 pressing fear, Avill 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 exclama- 
 tions 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 
 Berrogain laid her hand on his arm. She had glanced 
 rapidly at the paper, and now the tears were streaming 
 down her cheeks. 
 
 "No, no, monsieur, this is too good! This must not 
 be! Take it back, monsieur, I implore." 
 
 "Madame asks what is impossible," he replied, with 
 his rare and beautiful smile. "Onq^ day's possession is 
 sufficient for me. Only, if I might be allowed one sug- 
 gestion, 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 always. On my knees I shall re- 
 
330 DONOVAN. 
 
 member you — believe it. "IMi! 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, every- 
 thing that faced him in the future was most painful. P'or 
 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. 
 
LOSING SELF TO FIND. 33 I 
 
 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 largesse 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 bargain in a few 
 days. As your favourite Monsieur Renan says, 'Most 
 beautiful actions are done in a state of fever.' You'll 
 recover 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 caught 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 slipping 
 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 contemptuous sneer. 
 
 "How I shall live, Noir," answered Donovan, gravely, 
 "I cannot 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? 
 
^;^2 DONOVAN. 
 
 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 give treble force to each separate 
 word, '"'■/ lui'n not play again." 
 
 For a minute both the Frewins were silent; both in- 
 voluntarily 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 struggle came back to Donovan's 
 face. He 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 together in this way." 
 
 "I must go," he repeated. "I dare not stay." 
 
 "Dare not! — what, we are so bad that we shall corrupt 
 your moral highness? Oh! go 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; impossible like that." 
 
LOSING SELF TO FIND. 333 
 
 "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 g.20. Good-night and good-bye." 
 
 Noir took his hand for a moment, looked full in his 
 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 Donovan 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. 
 
 He took leave of Rouge 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 inquire on his way to the 
 station, and it was a substantial relief to his anxiety to 
 be able to repeat to himself the assurance of M. Berrogain's 
 
334 
 
 DONOVAN. 
 
 safety — "Hotel Montre, Rue Montesquieu, Bordeaux." 
 There was, however, just a httle flatness and depression 
 now that all was ended; he took his ticket, and then went 
 into the salle d'attente, the "durance vile" which generally 
 gives an Englishman a chafed caged feehng. As he 
 passed up and down, too, there was a touch of far-off 
 dread in his face — 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 respect- 
 ing a resolution which could so steadily persevere 
 in direct opposition to personal wishes, and there was 
 none of the malice of the previous night 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 scorn- 
 ful 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; go and save your- 
 self 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 
 partnership," 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 throAvn 
 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 
 
LOSING SELF TO FIND. 335 
 
 before the final start. "Let us hope my lungs won't give 
 out again, 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 to 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 wilderness" of a future as he fancied before 
 him, the future of restraint which he had chosen. Wait- 
 ing 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; 
 a group of men whihng away the waiting- time with laughter 
 and occasional snatches of song, two lovers sitting on a 
 bench in the corner, whispering contentedly together, 
 regardless of their surroundings, a fat rough- featured 
 priest, with his shovel hat and starched bands, a respect- 
 able bourgeois and his wife, followed by a toddling bare- 
 headed child. 
 
 Instinctively Donovan watched the little one. The 
 mother turned round, saying playfully, "Adieu! 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 speed after them with an eager " Non, nan, non," 
 and grasped its mother's skirt. Then both father and 
 mother laughed, each took one of the tiny hands, and 
 the three walked away together. 
 
336 DONOVAN. 
 
 Home dramas all around him, love in all its forms and 
 degrees — the friend's, the lover's, the mother's, the wife's! 
 He sighed, and stooped down to pat Waif. Then fol- 
 lowed the general 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 at the long chain of lights marking out 
 the crescent-shaped quays. 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 fit to be near 
 such purity and loveliness, and as she had grown older 
 it was possible that he might have pained her — pained 
 her by his unworthiness. That thought was intolerable. 
 And so, unconsciously, he repeated to himself Noir Fre- 
 win's words — "We were better parted." Neither of them 
 knew that the unselfishness 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 thoroughfares, til! Donovan began to wonder 
 whether the porter whom he had hired to carry his port- 
 manteau were not perhaps taking him by some round- 
 about way in the hope of extorting a larger pour-boire. 
 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 Billard, 
 
LOSING SELF TO FIND. 337 
 
 and upon the upper storeys the name of the hotel in- 
 scribed. The porter Avent on to the entrance, and Dono- 
 van, following, found himself in a paved courtyard 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 
 within 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. Berrogain at once, and, 
 having dismissed his guide, was ushered by a pretty, 
 little white -capped servant up a dirty stone staircase, 
 along a labyrinth of passages, then up again and through 
 a corresponding labyrinth darker and dirtier than below. 
 
 "Perhaps monsieur sleeps," suggested the little ser- 
 vant, glancing round as she paused at a door to the right. 
 "It is very late," and he pretended to yawn. 
 
 "Knock and see," said Donovan, impatient of the delay. 
 
 A quick entrez! reheved his fears, and taking the 
 candle from his conductress, he opened the door and 
 found himself in a fairly comfortable room, where, ex- 
 tended 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 uncon- 
 cerned and comfortable enough, you need not have 
 troubled him." But while Donovan paused, the uncon- 
 scious Frenchman glanced round. He had been absorbed 
 in his paper, and had half forgotten that someone had 
 knocked and been admitted; now, catching sight so un- 
 expectedly 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 
 
 Donovan, I. 2 2 
 
33o DONOVAN. 
 
 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 thatl" 
 
 "I am not rich," said Donovan, "nor are you un- 
 fortunate.'' 
 
 "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 grasp- 
 ing avarice to " 
 
 "Listen, Berrogain," interrupted Donovan, in his firm 
 sad voice. "I could not let you leave the country, be- 
 cause 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." 
 
 They Avere standing by the draped mantelpiece. 
 Donovan turned away as he spoke, and putting aside the 
 muslin curtains looked down into the dimly-lighted street. 
 He was not sorry to feel the fresh air upon his face. 
 
 There was a moment's silence, then M. Berrogain 
 came fonvard and took his 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 musi be," said Donovan, quietly.. 
 
 "No, no! leave me enough to go on upon, or allow 
 me six months' respite, 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." 
 
LOSING SELF TO FIND. 339 
 
 "But it is unheard of!" said M. Berrogain. "It is 
 noble, generous, kind, but, my good friend, before you 
 commit yourself, think how will you get on in the world 
 if you act in such a way?" 
 
 "That," said Donovan, with a half smile, "is a ques- 
 tion 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 anything 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 op- 
 posite, let me come with you." 
 
 "To watch the voracious islander!" said Donovan, 
 laughing. "To-night I shall keep up the national charac- 
 ter. I could eat half a roast beef if there Avas 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 which he had 
 caused could possibly have aftected his companion's ap- 
 petite on the previous day, and sat amusedly at the table, 
 watching the absolute demolition of the largest piece of 
 Roshif roti which the restaurant could produce. 
 
 Then 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 car- 
 ried on in the room below, was soon sleeping profoundly. 
 
 M. Berrogain left for Paris the next day, and Dono- 
 van went to the station with him, submitted to his de- 
 monstrative gratitude, and then turned away rather dis- 
 consolately to make the best of his new life. He wan- 
 dered about the place for some little time, found his way 
 into the beautiful Church of St. Michel, looked wonder- 
 
340 DONOVAN. 
 
 ingly and half pityingly at the groups of worshippers, 
 then sauntered out again, 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 going back to England, 
 the chances of finding immediate employment being about 
 equally small in either case. He decided at last to let 
 fate choose his destination, and tossed up z. 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 rehef, and he hastened back to the Hotel Montre, 
 
 glad that his hours in its dingy 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 
 
 things together the refrain of the song she was singing 
 
 floated in to him: 
 
 Oui, malgr6 ta philosophie 
 L'amour seul 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 supportable? He was not 
 quite the misanthrope he had considered himself, but had 
 
LOSING SELF TO FIND. 34 1 
 
 he any love for his kind? Many 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 tliat 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 the old set he did not give a thought to other pos- 
 sible temptations. 
 
 And thus, satisfied with the strength of his will, and 
 full of his new and good purposes, he was set down at 
 Liverpool. Then followed a time of bitter disappoint- 
 ment; though he had just renounced a fortune, the world 
 gave him the cold shoulder again, and his money began 
 to evaporate, to disappear with the horrid rapidity which 
 becomes so noticeable when we are counting by units in- 
 stead 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 wet 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 playing billiards. Why should he not relieve this 
 intolerable dulness by an hour or two of amusement? A 
 
342 DONOVAN. 
 
 momentary struggle followed, then he pushed open the 
 door and went in. How long he was there he could never 
 clearly remember, 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 
 yielded to the very first temptation, had failed most miser- 
 ably. He dropped the cue, pushed away the money, and 
 amid a chorus of surprise and inquiry 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-destruc- 
 tion 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 irre- 
 vocably 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 lick- 
 ing 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 table. Once the dog was 
 kept begging for quite a minute, for his master had be- 
 come absorbed in what he Avas reading. 
 
LOSING SELF TO FIND. 343 
 
 "Wanted, as secretary to the Institute, a young 
 
 man of good abilities. Knowledge of book-keeping and 
 a clear handwriting indispensable. Salary .fioo. Apply 
 in person, on the 15th or i6th, the President, In- 
 stitute, 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 his chance of 
 success seemed infinitesimally 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 
 biscuits, 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 ex- 
 cept 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 wanderings it had 
 been with him — ^it was almost the only thing he still had 
 which had belonged to her — to part with it seemed un- 
 bearable, 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 
 
344 DONOVAN. 
 
 on the ears of strangers, it seemed like desecration ! And 
 only 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 compassed about with a cloud of witnesses, 
 that his struggles to live honestly, his despair at the 
 revelation of his weakness, even his present sacrifice to a 
 shadowy instinct rather than to a principle — all is help- 
 ing to draw him towards you? 
 
 No, comfort cannot be his yet. He cannot see that 
 the pain and loss are necessary to the great gain; he can 
 only go on bravely and painfully in the darkness, hold- 
 ing to the track of right and duty which he begins faintly 
 to perceive. 
 
 Presently the little clock was standing on a shelf 
 among other clocks, large and small, in a Liverpool 
 pawnbroker's shop, and Donovan was walking back to 
 his room through the driving rain, with head bent low, 
 and thirty shillings in his pocket. 
 
 END OF VOL. I. 
 
 PRINTIiNG OFFICE OF THE PUBEISHER. 
 
DONOVAN: 
 
 A MODERN ENGLISHMAN. 
 
 A NOVEL 
 
 EDNA LYALL, 
 
 AUTHOR OF "WE TWO," ETC. ETC. 
 
 COPYRIGHT EDITION. 
 
 IN TWO VOLUMES. -VOL. IL 
 
 LEIPZIG 
 
 BERN HARD TAUCHNITZ 
 
 1890. 
 
CONTENTS 
 OF VOLUME II. 
 
 CHAPTER I. " O'er Moor and Fen " 7 
 
 — II. One and all 32 
 
 — III. In a Home 54 
 
 — IV. Oakdene Manor 70 
 
 — V. The ideal Woman 84 
 
 — VI. Cobwebs and Questions gg 
 
 — VII. A Crown of Fire 114 
 
 — VIII. Good-bye 135 
 
 - — IX. A Man and a Brother 142 
 
 — X. A brave Sprite 161 
 
 — XL Old Friends 176 
 
 — XII. Silence 181 
 
 — XIII. Temptation 196 
 
 — XIV. Charles Osmond 211 
 
 — XV. What is Forgiveness? 225 
 
 — XVI. Contrasted Lovers 243 
 
 — XVII. "Lame Dogs over Stiles" 259 
 
 — XVIII. Of Evolution, and a Nineteenth Century Foe . 274 
 
O CONTENTS OF VOLUME II. 
 
 Page 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. Duty's Call 292 
 
 — XX. Via Lucis 302 
 
 — XXI. Apprehension 313 
 
 — XXII. Trevethan speaks 323 
 
 — XXIII. "My Hopes and thine are one" . . . 335 
 
DONOVAN, 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 "o'er moor and fen." 
 
 Self-reverence , self-knowledge , self-control, 
 
 These three alone lead life to sovereign power, 
 
 Yet not for power (power of herself 
 
 Would come uncall'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, after 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 your religious views, sir?" asked the president. 
 "As this is a charitable institution, we always make a 
 point of knowing 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 charitable one it could not help such a 
 
8 DONOVAN. 
 
 hardened sinner, could not let its accounts and letters 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 such a matter as one's 
 private creed might be passed over. What difference can 
 it make to an)^one else?" 
 
 "My dear sir," said the head of the charitable in- 
 stitution, "I can only refer you to the Bible, where you 
 will find the injunction: 'Be not unequally yoked together 
 with unbeUevers,' 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 frigid 
 adherence 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 it- 
 self was not worth a straw, but just from opposition, 
 from a manly love of breasting "the blows of circum- 
 stance," 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 Chris- 
 tian is?" 
 
 He had been tAvo days at Exeter; now, returning to 
 his lodgings, he sat down and resolutely went over all 
 possible plans for his future. Should he go back to 
 
"OER MOOR AND FEN.' Q 
 
 Greyshot? Mr. Alleyne, 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 ob- 
 jections 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 starv- 
 ing. He was young and strong-willed, undaunted still, 
 notwithstanding his repulses. 
 
 Having despatched the letter, he made up his mind 
 to follow it; there was no hope of finding work in this 
 quiet old city; at Plymouth he would have more chance. 
 He might just as well spend his time in getting there as in 
 loafing about the Exeter streets. Getting there meant walk- 
 ing, for the proceeds of the clock were nearly exhausted, 
 and would barely suffice to get him some sort of food 
 and shelter, but he rather enjoyed the thought of the 
 exercise, and even the prospect of "roughing it" a little. 
 
I O DONOVAN. 
 
 So the next morning, with his few belongings stowed 
 away in a small bag, — the portmanteau had been dis- 
 carded in Liverpool, — he set out on his walk. The 
 natural energy of his character 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 Hghted 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 cer- 
 tainly, 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 Chag- 
 
"OER MOOR AND FEN. II 
 
 ford, and it was already late when he crossed Fingle 
 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 trans- 
 parently 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 almost to realize that once all the 
 world had been pronounced "very good." Donovan 
 thought 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 springing elastic soi'l, 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 
 
I 2 DONOVAN. 
 
 cloud shadow darkest purple — grotesque, fancifully shaped, 
 irregular, and yet exactly harmonizing with the barren 
 waste surrounding them. 
 
 On sped 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 en- 
 countering 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 had been walking since seven o'clock that morning, 
 and was rather tired, but the gloom of the place so op- 
 pressed him that he could not endure the thought of 
 staying in it. He selected instead the cheapest looking 
 public-house from the large number which the little place 
 offered, 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 
 
"o'er moor and fen." 13 
 
 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 by the 
 moor, he resolved to take the 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 some- 
 thing awe-inspiring in the entire loneliness as he passed 
 on further from Prince Town. Far and near not a crea- 
 ture, 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 wildness and 
 expanse ? 
 
 Involuntarily Donovan 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 back to Dot, as they in- 
 variably did in his best moments, and he comforted him- 
 self 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 sun 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 hindrance which he had never for a moment contem- 
 plated. The evening had seemed quite fine when he 
 started; he had no compass, and had trusted implicitly 
 
1 4 DONOVAN. 
 
 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 tales of people who had wandered 
 round and round in a circle of hours, never many yards 
 distant from their starting-point, or of unfortunate pedes- 
 trians overcome by fatigue and cold. He stood still for 
 a minute or two, called Waif to heel, and steadily faced 
 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 him! Although it was a 
 July evening, the cold was enough to make him shiver, 
 the mist pressed down on him impenetrably, 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 right, he took a very 
 decided course in the opposite direction. 
 
 On and on -he went, ceaselessly but almost hopelessly 
 on. He was growing very tired, too, the mist hung 
 heavily upon him, he could not see an inch before his 
 feet. Fearing that Waif might possibly stray, he had 
 taken him up under his arm, and was plodding heavily 
 along when he came to marshy ground. For three or 
 four steps he floundered on, trying to regain the firm 
 land, but what might have been done with sight was 
 impossible in the blinding mist. Another step and he 
 felt himself sinking deeper — a fierce struggle to free him- 
 self, 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 
 
"o'er moor and fen." 15 
 
 hopelessness of struggling out, he drew Waif's 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 danger, set 
 up a howl so wildly piteous that Donovan's heart was 
 touched. 
 
 "Poor old fellov/, you'd rather go on, would you?" 
 
 And for a minute they looked full into each other's 
 eyes with the strange comprehension that comes between 
 some dogs and some men. Then Waif licked his master's 
 face, and Donovan, all the time feeling that he was 
 gradually 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 go. 
 There!" and with some effort he threw the dog as far 
 from him as possible, and Waif, alighting where his trifling 
 weight might be borne, tore off 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 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 strangely indifferent. If death did come to 
 him, why, then it would be well; if he was rescued, there 
 would be the satisfaction of not being conquered by thq 
 
1 6 DONOVAN. 
 
 affection of good mother earth, who, having deak rather 
 coldly with him all the days of his life, now seemed 
 determined to hold him in a clinging embrace. 
 
 His jacket was not fastened, he could see three but- 
 tons 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, 
 he 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 strange 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 ^vith 
 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 was talking of home, the 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: 
 
"OER MOOR AND FEN. I 7 
 
 The better days of life were ours ; 
 The worst can be but mine. 
 
 "You are safe, Dot, my darling. "Tis nothing that I 
 loved so 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!" 
 
 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 fail! If I thought that I could get 
 on, and not come to grief again so weakly, I should al- 
 most 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 
 distance. Was it a Will o' the wisp? Could he hold 
 
 Donovan. //. 2 
 
DONOVAN. 
 
 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 
 faihng 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 the 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 Waif's sharp anxious bark from afar. 
 "My dog, I won't be such a selfish brute," he ex- 
 claimed, reahsing Waif's 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 dehght, 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 Devonshire farmer, and 
 his almost equally sturdy son. Donovan hailed them eagerly. 
 "Veth!" exclaimed the farmer, "stogg'd in Foxtor 
 Mire that ye are!" 
 
 "Set fast here for hours," said Donovan. 
 "No tanny bye! (do7i't tell me!)" exclaimed the good 
 man, much shocked. "But we'd best 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." 
 
"OER MOOR AND FEN. IQ 
 
 Then, with a tremendous effort, the sturdy Devon- 
 shire men pulled at the rope till Donovan's shoulders 
 were 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 he 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 Avhat 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 comely Devon- 
 shire woman, her short skirt, crossed neckerchief, smooth 
 hair, and health)'-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 cleanUness of the place, added to 
 the extreme difficulty of understanding the dialect of the 
 farmer and his wife, he gradually came to himself, 
 realized that he was actually alive, that his surroundings 
 
20 DONOVAN. 
 
 were no shadowy phantoms of the imagination, that he 
 was still Donovan Farrant, possessed of little but a dog 
 and a will which had failed, and with a blank future be- 
 yond, in which his primary object must be — not to starve. 
 
 In the immmediate present, however, his only wish 
 was to be clean once more, and with some difficulty he 
 made himself understood. Evidently the farmer's wife 
 thought cleanliness next to godliness, and fully sym- 
 pathized with the desire. 
 
 "Zich a Jakes (such 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 good 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 unmistakeable air of refinement, presented a 
 very comical appearance in Farmer Peek's marketing cos- 
 tume. 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 luke 
 mortal vagg'd," said the farmer, drawing up one of the 
 Windsor chairs to the hearth. "Likely ye had a gude walk 
 before ye got stogg'd i' the mire?" 
 
 "Yes, from Chagford," said Donovan, stretching his 
 feet out to the smouldering peats. 
 
"o'er moor and fen." 2 1 
 
 "No tanny bye! on the trat the whole blessed day!" 
 exclaimed the wife, "and ye luke crewel tender." 
 
 He laughed and disclaimed any "tenderness." 
 
 "Zich walks isn't for the likes o' ye," said the farmer, 
 with a shrewd look at the wearer of his market-day suit; 
 "ye should lave it to us pewer 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; but what will ye plase 
 to take for zupper, zur? there's cream i' the dairy, 
 and " 
 
 "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 
 things in the house before the hero of the evening. 
 
 "Veth, zur, it's not fitty for zich as ye," she began, 
 but Donovan interrupted her. 
 
 "Nothing else, thank you," and his tone, more than 
 the actual words, convinced the good woman that nothing 
 but the usual supper 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 
 
2 2 DONOVAN. 
 
 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! 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- 
 washed 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 would have roused the farmer and his wife, had they 
 
"o'er moor and fen." 2^ 
 
 not slept as soundly as the Seven Sleepers. Certainly the 
 personal danger he had been in had not awed him as a 
 moralist might have desired. He went to sleep with no- 
 thing 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 plum-coloured vest; 
 
 When they asked — does it fit? 
 
 He rephed, not a bit, 
 
 That fimny old man of the West. 
 
 The next morning came the humiliating necessity of 
 explaining to the farmer his inability to reward him for 
 his rescue and his hospitality. He was received, how- 
 ever, 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 get 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 ye weel in zaking zarvice." 
 
 "Seeking service!" Donovan smiled, but the expres- 
 sion was true enough. He wished his worthy host good- 
 bye, 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 Leather- 
 tor on one hand, and far in the distance a line of silvery 
 brightness where the sunlight fell on the sea. Life felt 
 
24 DONOVAN. 
 
 good. On the whole, he 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 walk- 
 ing some hours, his spirits sank. The 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 oddly-dressed candidate, who pre- 
 sented himself at the door of the bank, and asked to see 
 Mr. X , the manager. 
 
 The bank was closed, but one of the clerks appeared 
 in answer to his ring, and directed him to the manager's 
 private house. He went there, and with the bearing of 
 a proud man forced to ask a favour, was shown into Mr. 
 X 's library. 
 
 A handsome keen-faced man of about five-and-thirty 
 was sitting at the table writing. He glanced up as Dono- 
 van was announced, scanned him from head to foot with- 
 out rising, then bowed stiffly. This was Donovan's view. 
 
 Mr. X , on the other hand, saw before him a tall, 
 
 gaunt, handsome fellow, apparently about five-and-twenty, 
 in clothes which were stained and shrunk to such a de- 
 gree that a tramp would scarcely have said "thank you" 
 for them, holding a ragged cloth hat in his hand, and, in 
 spite of his beggarly 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 Avife had carefully dusted the 
 
"OER MOOR AND FEN." 2$ 
 
 Windsor chair for him the night before, the banker was 
 not so courteous or so well-bred. Throughout the inter- 
 view 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 became 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, however, it is hardly sufficient ground for — 
 in short, you understand me, I am sure. I need not ex- 
 plain myself further." 
 
 "I quite understand," said Donovan, coldly. "You 
 think I am come to beg. I am aware that I look like a 
 beggar, thanks to one of your Devonshire bogs; but no- 
 thing is further from my thoughts. You were the only 
 person I knew in the neighbourhood. 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 situations to spring up ready to hand. Be- 
 sides, in the letter I received 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 employ- 
 ment has been." 
 
 "I have only just returned from the Continent." 
 
 The banker looked at him a little curiously. 
 
2 6 DONOVAN. 
 
 "And before that?" 
 
 Donovan coloured slightly, 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 again at his strange visitor, and saw that, in 
 spite of the beggarly 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 slight touch of vulgarity. 
 
 "I see you're sharp enough, 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, "thaf 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." 
 
"o'er moor and fen." 27 
 
 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 intolerable to the recipient that even in need 
 they must be rejected. 
 
 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 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 stand- 
 ing 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 un- 
 easy, and the dread of illness began to haunt him pain- 
 fully. He had certainly eaten nothing since early morn- 
 ing, but that was not sufficient to account for the grow- 
 ing faintness which was stealing over him. He had had 
 a dim idea of enlisting, but that faded away now, he 
 
2 8 DONOVAN. 
 
 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 impos- 
 sible; 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 appa- 
 rently his destiny; he felt that they were endurable be- 
 cause 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 world had changed 
 his views greatly; a year ago he had been a misanthrope, 
 now he saw the position of self and others inverted. 
 
 More than four years had gone by since the grave- 
 looking Indian colonel and his son had passed up the 
 steps of the Royal Hotel. Donovan, fresh from his school 
 disgrace, full of hurt pride and bitter 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 be- 
 
"o'er moor and fen." 2g 
 
 fore 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 sym- 
 pathies 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 difference 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 — Porth- 
 kerran. 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 fresh- 
 ness 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 
 
30 DONOVAN, 
 
 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 de- 
 liberately, 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 hunger beset him. 
 Still he toiled on, always on, with aching head and fail- 
 ing limbs, while above the summer sun blazed dov/n on 
 him in fullest power. What if the Tremains were no 
 longer at Porthkerran? 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 intoler- 
 able 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 resumed 
 his walk. 
 
 For more than an hour the rain fell ceaselessly; when 
 it stopped, he was soaked to the skin and very cold. 
 Even when the sun came out once more he was shiver- 
 ing from head to foot. How much farther could he 
 manage? A sign-post, with "Porthkerran 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 cliffs overlooking the 
 deep blue sea. Donovan scarcely noticed anything, how- 
 ever, and it was not till the ringing clang of metal fell 
 
"OER MOOR AND FEN. 3 I 
 
 upon his ear that he looked up. By the side of the road 
 was a blacksmith's forge; the blazing fire looked tempt- 
 ing: 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 forward. 
 
 "Well, doctor — gude day to you — cast his shue, has 
 he?" 
 
 Donovan heard the words distinctly, but they con- 
 veyed no meaning to his mind. He stared down vacantly 
 into the glowing furnace, not even turning his head to see 
 either the horse or the driver. A man's voice was explaining. 
 
 "Half-a-mile back, Trevethan. How long will you 
 take to put him on a fresh one? I'm in a hurry to be at 
 Mr. Penruddock's." 
 
 "Slow and sure, doctor — not less nor a quarter hour, 
 and maybe more." 
 
 "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 doing 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. 
 
32 DONOVAN. 
 
 CHAPTER 11. 
 
 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 path, 
 Bearing thy message meekly, not in wrath: 
 Weep for the frail that eiT, the weak that fall. 
 Have thine own faith, but hope and pray for aU. 
 
 Oliver Wendell Holmes. 
 
 One glance at the little group without told him every- 
 thing. 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 Do- 
 novan'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 sing- 
 ing words which had moved him strangely. 
 
 With this sudden revelation, all thought of his pre- 
 sent state of need passed from his mind; he only felt 
 that he must do something 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 
 Penruddock's. Here's a chap as'U 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 Trevethan's, he supposed; he 
 
ONE AND ALL. ;^;^ 
 
 merely glanced at him, told Gladys to drive on to meet 
 him when the pony was shod, and walked away in the 
 direction from which Donovan had just come. 
 
 The wind has risen, a west wind, and it blew strongly, 
 though not coldly. Donovan could see the ribbons on 
 Gladys' hat fluttering, though, after the first, he did not 
 directly look at her, but kept his face half-hidden. He 
 could hear her talking to Trevethan, and once or twice 
 some antic of Star's made her laugh. She was evidently 
 a favourite with the blacksmith. Donovan could see how 
 the man's blue eyes lit up when she spoke to him. 
 
 Gladys, meanwhile, looked curiously at the motionless 
 figure at Star's head. She had seen him as he came out 
 of the shed, but for such a moment that she had only 
 caught a sort of vision of a very pale, worn face. Who 
 could he be? Some one whom Trevethan knew, or merely 
 a tramp? Yet his attire was scarcely like a tramp's; 
 shrunk, 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 questions about him. Ought she to give 
 him something for holding the pony? Looking at him 
 again, 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 good in holding Star, assuredly he ought 
 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, though she had been rather curious to see his 
 face, in putting the sixpence into his hand she looked at 
 
 DnuoTan . 11. x 
 
34 DONOVAN. 
 
 that; then, startled to find a smooth white palm instead 
 of a hand roughened by hard work, she 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 
 glanced at him his lips smiled slightly, he raised his hat. 
 
 "Oh, I beg your pardon ! I did not see," she stammered, 
 looking at the slender fingers which had closed over her 
 sixpence, and colouring crimson. 
 
 "Thank you," he replied, in a tone which she could 
 not mistake 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 
 him before? 
 
 Donovan went back to the forge, partly for the sake 
 of warming himself, partly in the hope of learning some- 
 thing about the 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, be- 
 fore he had come to the end, the pony-carriage passed 
 the door once more. 
 
 "Will the doctor be going home now?" asked Dono- 
 van, 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." 
 
ONE AND ALL. 35 
 
 "Thank you," said Donovan, touched by the off-hand 
 yet real hospitahty. 
 
 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, holding 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 desire 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 remon- 
 strances, 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. 
 
36 DONOVAN. 
 
 "He held Star just now at the forge," said Gladys to 
 her father. "And I am sure I have seen him before, 
 papa. Who can he be?" 
 
 The doctor was too intent on watching the 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. Hullo ! though — he's shpped." 
 
 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 re- 
 lieved 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 cliff was steep and hard to climb, and 
 now, with the acute pain he was suffering, it seemed 
 
ONE AND ALL. 
 
 ^7 
 
 almost impossible; he looked at the little white hat hang- 
 ing 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 Avhich reached him from above, every power 
 was strained to its utmost in the physical struggle, in the 
 conflict between the resolutely persevering "I will," and 
 the overwhelming pain and weakness and difficulty. 
 
 At length, with an almost superhuman effort, he 
 dragged himself up to the top, grasped the doctor's out- 
 stretched hands, crawled on to the smooth grassy plateau 
 bordering the cliff, and, without a word, sank down prone, 
 while Waif, with low whines, walked round and round 
 hmi m great distress. Large drops of perspiration stood 
 on his forehead, yet his face expressed little but hard 
 fixed resoluteness, 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 
 
38 DONOVAN. 
 
 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 just 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 towards 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 con- 
 scious 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 
 suprem^e 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 somen'here , 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 
 discomfort of a return to consciousness. Donovan came 
 to quickly, however, jDartly aided by an odd association.' 
 The very first thing he distinguished was the smell of 
 brandy, then he felt a glass held to his hps. From sheer 
 annoyance he gained strength to push it away, and, in 
 weak but decidedly cross tones, said quickly. 
 
ONE AND ALL. 39 
 
 " Get away with your abomination, Rouge ! I tell you 
 I won'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 beg 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 workhouse or hospital at 
 Porthkerran?" 
 
 "You shall consider this your hospital; I can promise 
 you at least one resident doctor and several nurses," said 
 Dr. Tremain, 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?" and he touched his 
 clothes. 
 
 "My dear fellow, do you think that makes any dif- 
 ference, or that we show our hospitality in Cornwall 
 
40 DONOVAN. 
 
 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 shght 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 consciousness. 
 
 "Has he got everything he wants?" 
 
 "Everything just now; he is simply vv^orn out. Gladys 
 has told you how we met him, I suppose?" 
 
 "Yes, everything. I wish I had been at home when 
 you came back. Is it a very bad sprain?" 
 
 "I daresay it wasn't at first, but imagine chmbing up 
 the cliff near the forge after he'd done it! There's good 
 in that fellow, depend upon it! It was a spirited thing 
 to do, especially in the state he was m. 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 tenderness. 
 
 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." 
 
ONE AND ALL. 4 1 
 
 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; hsten 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 Dono- 
 van 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 
 confession. I don't know why you are are so different 
 from other people. I might have guessed, though, that 
 you would be. Mrs. Tremain," he looked steadily up at 
 her, "do you remember me?" 
 
 She gazed at him in perplexity, half remembering 
 the face, 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 Far- 
 rant, how came it that he was a penniless adventurer? 
 How came it that little more than a year after reaching 
 his majority he had come to Porthkerran in a state of 
 semi-starvation? There must have been foul play some- 
 where. That will he had witnessed could not have been 
 
42 DONOVAN. 
 
 properly executed, or such a state of things could not 
 have been. This evening, though, he must ask no ques- 
 tions, his patient was not fit for it. So he put away the 
 uncomfortable thoughts as well as he could, and, coming 
 forward, 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 whether you would 
 ever come down to see Porthkerran 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 for- 
 bid 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; beggars can't be choosers." 
 
 "My dear fellow," said the doctor, laughing, and pat- 
 ting 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 carry- 
 
ONE AND ALL, 43 
 
 ing 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. Philo- 
 sophically 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 the walls, half fearing to 
 see once more his old enemy, the dingy oil-painting of 
 the shipwreck. Instead, however, he found Wilkie's 
 "Blind Man's Buff," next to that an elaborate chart of 
 the kings of England, with illuminated shields and de- 
 vices, 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, through 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 
 
44 DONOVAN. 
 
 Donovan. "It's likely enough I should be changed since 
 then. Uo you want the whole story?" 
 
 "As much as you feel inclined to tell," said Dr. Tre- 
 raain. "Both as your friend and as your doctor I shall 
 be glad to hear. After you left Porthkerran, you went 
 to your home in Mountshire, 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 daresay 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 httle sister. Partly for her sake I tried to behave 
 decently to him. She died the winter before last. For 
 a little Avhile 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." 
 
 The doctor sighed deeply, and there was a troubled 
 look on his face as he glanced 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 get nothing to 
 
ONE AND ALL. 45 
 
 do. At last I fell in with a man named — well, never 
 mind his name! he has been a good friend to me, even 
 though he is a professional gambler. I went into partner- 
 ship 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 suffered, 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 might be, 
 I went abroad, but at Monaco had a relapse, which 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 anything 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 morning, 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 Porthkerran, 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 straightforward 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 
 
46 DONOVAN. 
 
 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, Donovan 
 watched him silently. Already the very deepest love for 
 this man had sprung up in his heart — a strange, de- 
 pendent 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 humilia- 
 tion, was yet all aglow with the strange new joy of de- 
 votion, enthusiasm, reverent admiration, the echo of the 
 love first given. 
 
 The prolonged silence would have been hard to bear, 
 if he had not had the most entire yet inexphcable faith 
 in his new friend, but as it was he waited in perfect 
 content. Presently the doctor looked up with great glad- 
 ness 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." 
 
ONE AND ALL. 47 
 
 "I don't know," said Donovan. "I suppose it was 
 partly being so done up, 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-manage- 
 ment 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 ex- 
 citement 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 worth much extra fuss," said Donovan; 
 "and, besides, I was too poor. Short commons, no work, 
 and intolerable 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 remem- 
 bering that he had no ordinary listener, he added, — 
 "It's only since then that I've had 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 give in after all." 
 
48 DONOVAN. 
 
 "What made you first think of giving it up?" asked 
 the doctor. 
 
 And Donovan then gave him an account of the 
 miserable day in Paris, when M. Berrogain disappeared, 
 and gradually Dr. Tremain realized how matters stood 
 with his guest. 
 
 He came out of Donovan's room understanding him 
 far better, yet feeling much more than he had yet done 
 the great 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 great 
 self-renunciation was a turning-point in Donovan's life, 
 this awakening thought for others a sure sign 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 longed to help his 
 guest, he trembled at the immense responsibility and dif- 
 ficulty, and grieved over his own unfitness for the task. 
 For what was not required of him? Donovan was friend- 
 less — 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; some one must The doctor paused — nay, 
 
 what? teach him — impossible! Argue with him — pro- 
 bably useless. Love him, pray, agonize for him — that he 
 must and would do. The rest? 
 
 He was standing by the open door which led from 
 the house into the garden; he saw the grand old cedar 
 at the end of the lawn, standing up darkly against the 
 
ONE AND ALL, 49 
 
 clear sky, the acacia and the beech-trees waving in the 
 wind, the standard roses laden with flowers, the glorious 
 sunshine flooding all with warmth and 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 Health-giver. Could he 
 doubt that through all the changes and chances of Dono- 
 van's life He had been leading him? Then that strange 
 and sudden impulse to walk to Porthkerran must have 
 been part of the leading. The doctor accepted the re- 
 sponsibility gladly now, as a care doubtless, 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." 
 
 Donovan. II, 4 
 
50 
 
 DONOVAN. 
 
 "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 under- 
 stand 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 Christianity. He has had 
 great temptations, and no friends to help him, only com- 
 panions 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 say- 
 ing, 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 be- 
 fore," said Gladys, 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 carriage 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, Dono- 
 van had kept a touch of chivalry, he had left his favourite 
 pastime to save a stranger from a slight annoyance. 
 
 "We knew directly he was a gentleman," continued 
 Gladys. "You can't think how different he looked from 
 the men he was with. I couldn't think why he belonged 
 to them, and one of them spoke so horribly to him at 
 London Bridge, when we all got out, I fancy because he 
 
ONE AND ALL. 5 I 
 
 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, "for 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, though." 
 
 "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, Httle 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 find 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 hospital, 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." 
 
 "My dear Mrs. Causton" — the doctor spoke almost 
 
 4* 
 
52 DONOVAN. 
 
 fiercely — "what the poor fellow wants is a lioine, not a 
 society; he wants to be treated as a son, not as a case, 
 I don't mean that societies are not useful enough some- 
 times, 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 hold- 
 ing at arm's length lest the poor fellow should stain his 
 garments. He put himself to some inconvenience — per- 
 haps to some risk, and gave the wounded man his own 
 beast." 
 
 "Of course no one disputes that the parable is a 
 great example," 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 can 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 sub- 
 scriptions here and there. We don't like the trouble or 
 the risk of actually dismounting and walking on foot — it 
 isn't political economy." 
 
 "You may be right," said Mrs. Causton, half con- 
 vinced. "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 ob- 
 jections 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. 
 
ONE AND ALL, 53 
 
 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-wise, 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 Samaritan'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 Prudence 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. 
 
 "Then, having made up our minds, let us live in the 
 present, and put away from us this idea, which I am 
 half sorry has been suggested at all," said the doctor. 
 "No one will put any nonsense into Gladys' head, and 
 the friendship of a good sensible girl will be a capital 
 thing for Donovan," 
 
54 DONOVAN. 
 
 Mrs. Tremain looked up 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 spend an hour in his room, and 
 I'll undertake to say that he will stand second only to 
 Dick and Jackie in your heart when you come out again." 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 IN A HOME. 
 
 It is human character or developed humanity . . . that conducts 
 us to our notion of the Character Divine. ... In proportion as the 
 mysteries of man's goodness unfold themselves to us, in that propor- 
 tion do Ave obtain an insight into God's. 
 
 Essay oti Blanco Ultite. J. D. ISIozLEY. 
 
 But the love slid into my soul Hke light. 
 
 0Ir2g 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 was comparatively at ease, and 
 was lying with 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 counter- 
 pane. Donovan divined that 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 
 
IN A HOME. 55 
 
 is he won't obey orders, but thinks it his turn to be 
 master." 
 
 "Poor dog!" said Mrs. Tremain, softening towards 
 the offender and venturing to pat him. "He does seem 
 very unhappy about you; it's really wonderful the amount 
 of expression which a dog can put into his face." 
 
 "Yes, Waif and I can talk together quite easily. I 
 don't know what I should have done without him, spe- 
 cially 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 general, 
 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; "you must rememiber 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 
 go back to as soon as my ankle is all right." 
 
 "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 he stiU and be 
 spoilt, humoured, waited on, and amused must surely be 
 demoralising, too pleasant and unusual to fit one for an- 
 other plunge 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 rough it' a good 
 deal, and this perhaps is your time for trying dependence 
 
56 DONOVAN. 
 
 without all the discomforts you now associate with it. Be- 
 sides, I daresay you have had your share of waiting on 
 other people, and know that it is the pleasantest work in 
 the world." 
 
 Donovan's face changed, 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, 
 
 He did not answer for some minutes, but lay with 
 closed eyes and a strangely livid face, the only movement 
 being in the hand Waif was licking, which was clenched 
 and unclenched convulsively. At last, shifting his posi- 
 tion 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 
 struggle he had passed through, but, though Mrs. Tremain 
 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 girl from the lawn. 
 
 Four-year-old Nesta came trotting in gleefully, her little 
 rosy face shaded by a Avhite sun hat, her pinafore full 
 of daisies. 
 
IN A HOME. 57 
 
 "This is your youngest nurse," said Mrs. Tremain, 
 leading 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 shyness 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 girl 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 shyness speedily passing off. 
 
 "How drave you look!" she exclaimed, after scruti- 
 nizing his face for a minute or two. 
 
 Mrs. Tremain and Donovan both laughed, and then 
 the daisies tumbled out of the pinafore, and Nesta, being 
 reminded by the sight of them of daisy-chains which were 
 to have been made, set to work busily, chattering in her 
 quaint unrestrained Avay 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 the favourite doll was now destined 
 for him. 
 
 "It will look very pretty, you know, on your white 
 night down," she said, with her irresistible baby laugh. 
 
 Presently, with a puzzled face, came one of her abrupt 
 questions. 
 
58 DONOVAN. 
 
 "What's 'ou name?" 
 
 But Donovan did not hear, for he was looking ab- 
 stractedly at her bright eyes, trying to see in them some 
 Hkeness to Dot. And they were a httle Uke, for, ahhough 
 grey, they were in a transition state, and there was a 
 pecuhar shade of brown in the iris which somehow made 
 them Hke 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 an- 
 swered, gravely, but gently, 
 
 "You must call me Dono." 
 
 Nesta softly repeated the unusual name, lingering over 
 it half doubtfully. 
 
 "Don — o, Mr. Dono." 
 
 It was the first time he had heard his child-name 
 since little Dot's death. He caught Nesta in his arms and 
 kissed her passionately. 
 
 "Oh! oh! oh!" shrieked Nesta, thinking it the be- 
 ginning of a game. "The drate bear's dot me; he's doin' 
 to eat me." 
 
 "Not too noisy, my httle 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 you into 
 the garden." 
 
 "Dood-bye, Mr. Dono, dood-bye," said Nesta, as she 
 was carried off; but he 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. Do- 
 
IN A HOME. 59 
 
 novan had buried his face in the pillow, and, almost for 
 the first time in his life, was crying like a child. 
 
 Four years ago Mrs. Tremain had had all her sym- 
 pathy 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 ex- 
 plained here. But those who have known a real mother 
 will understand at once, and those who deem it impossible 
 must be "Donovans" themselves, to whom sooner or later 
 like sympathy will be given if it is needed. 
 
 And yet, in spite of Mrs. Tremain's present feelings, 
 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 is was possible for love to 
 take its right place. But her husband's prophecy was 
 true, and before the 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 con- 
 demned, they will probably last through 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, 
 
6o DONOVAN. 
 
 because they have the way of Christ ever before them, 
 because they love the 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, rather 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 brother?" she argued. 
 
 Mrs. Tremain, being but newly persuaded herself of 
 the possibility, did not answer, but looked to her husband. 
 
 And the doctor answered in his quiet way: 
 
 "I never could see the difficulty 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 found 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 brother 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 
 differ. She knew she was one of the "logical" people, 
 and yet, in her heart, she half inclined to the doctor's 
 
IN A HOME. 6 I 
 
 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 in- 
 describably restful in the atmosphere of Trenant, a re- 
 finement 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 hfe. Though prevented by his invalidism from 
 coming into the very centre of all this, Donovan 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, bring- 
 ing his microscope, or his fossils for arranging and sorting, 
 or any of his hundred and one naturalist hobbies, and 
 turning the sick-room into something between a museum 
 and an untidy workshop. 
 
 Donovan's love deepened day by day, he 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 could un- 
 reservedly trust was in itself absorbing, and there was 
 much besides. Mrs. Tremain, whom he admired and 
 loved scarcely less, and to whom he talked more, influenced 
 him in a way quite as much as her husband. Having 
 once spoken to her of Dot, he now continually returned 
 
2 DONOVAN. 
 
 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 him, almost for the first time, 
 a flickering shadow of doubt with regard to one of his 
 most positive convictions. He had looked on Christianity 
 as a creed which could not be connected with any practical 
 kindliness of hfe; it had seemed to him merely a sort of 
 saiive qui pent. Now at Trenant there was none of the 
 conventional rehgion to which he was only too well ac- 
 customed, but he found himself constantly reminded, in 
 the small concerns of daily life, of that historical Christ, 
 for whose character he had conceived the greatest ad- 
 miration. Little or nothing was said, but Donovan felt 
 that he was in a perfectly new atmosphere. Whether 
 these Tremains were living under a delusion, of course 
 he could not say; he did not wish even to think just now. 
 
 Strange, dreamy, dehcious days! often afterwards in 
 the heat and struggle of life he looked back to them, 
 and always associated with them in his mind were snatches 
 of "In Memoriam," which, in spite of his assurances that 
 he had an unpoetical temperament, Mrs. Tremain read to 
 him. He had spoken quite truly, there were very few 
 poems which could touch him, but the "living poem" of 
 childhood, and this one great 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 
 stronger in body and evidently happier in mind, began 
 to dread more and more the broaching of that distaste- 
 ful subject which was constantly in his thoughts. He 
 was of course, however, too wise and too true a friend to 
 
IN A HOME. 63 
 
 put it off long; and at the end of the week, when his 
 patient was well enough to be moved to a sofa and be 
 wheeled into the breakfast-room, he made an opportunity 
 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 
 Donovan was enjoying, as only an invalid can enjoy, the 
 delights of a thorough change. His face was particularly 
 bright and contented 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 any 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 which' 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 Dono- 
 van, "for I, as I told you, am penniless, so my affairs 
 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 
 affairs 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 your father's will 
 left everything, 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 
 
64 DONOVAN. 
 
 Colonel Farrant's death he made and I witnessed another 
 will, by which the property 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 hght 
 about it. 
 
 "What!" he gasped, "that villain destroyed it then! 
 Tell me more — quickly — who witnessed it? when was it 
 made? — I recollect nothing. Are you sure — S7ire?" 
 
 "That it was legally correct, I am certain," said the 
 doctor; "but do try to quiet 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; 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, the 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." 
 
IN A HOIvIE. 65 
 
 "Yes, and on that paper, at Colonel Farrant's direc- 
 tion, I wrote words to the effect that he desired 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. Elhs Farrant 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 tem- 
 porary 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 sufficient. Directly I learnt your name 
 and saw what must have happened I wrote to a solicitor 
 I know in town, and gave him all the circumstances — of 
 course, without names. He said that a case might 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 neighbourhood, 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 myself 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. Farrant." 
 
 "No, he is too bland, too clever, too consummate a 
 
 Donovan, 11, ., 
 
66 DONOVAN. 
 
 hypocrite!" 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 no- 
 thing the least remarkable 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 soften- 
 ing 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 any- 
 thing from you. But that traitor, that villain, who all the 
 time is looking as smug and proper as can be, who gives 
 my money to charities, who makes merry in iny house, 
 who goes to church and calls himself a 'miserable sinner,' 
 and asks for mercy that he may go on comfortably! 
 How can you expect me to think religion 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 nosegay because you are getting better." 
 
 Nothing could have quieted Donovan so effectually 
 as this interruption; he watched in silence while Gladys 
 arranged the flowers. Very pure and fresh and flower- 
 like she looked herself. 
 
 When she left the room again he was the first to 
 speak. 
 
 "Forgive me for what I said just now," he began, 
 
IN A HOME. 67 
 
 looking at the doctor with the Hght of indignation in his 
 eyes softened down to sadness. "I was very wrong to 
 mock at the rehgion you beheve in. This last week you 
 have almost made me think there may, after all, be such 
 a thing as Christianity, I believe for you at any rate, 
 there is such a thing. But the thought of Ellis Farrant 
 made me mad! You must remember it is only that 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 forgive them!" exclaimed the doctor. Then, 
 after a pause, "But what I can't understand is the syste- 
 matic 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 go 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 in- 
 dignation 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 thought 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 right myself. Shall I send a letter to 
 
 5* 
 
68 DONOVAN. 
 
 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 get some definite answer 
 from liim. 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,'" rephed 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." 
 
 "My dear Donovan," said the doctor, still laughing, 
 "you are so exceedingly unlikely ever to be a busybody 
 that I'll venture to give you this maxim, 'Thy business 
 is mine, and mine thine, if there's the ghost of a chance 
 that 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 long 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 Grey shot the following day, in the 
 hope of getting an interview with EUis Farrant. As soon 
 as all was settled, he left the room to speak to his wife, 
 and to make arrangements for his absence, while Donovan 
 lay in what seemed almost strange calmness. 
 
 He had learnt that the Manor was his by right, that 
 
IN A HOME. 6 9 
 
 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 growing more real and 
 strong each day, and his belief in goodness and purity 
 and love was struggling into life — his patience was per- 
 haps, after all, not so strange! 
 
 In the midst of this home, with its love, and peace, 
 and breadth of sympathy, his frozen heart was expanding. 
 That very afternoon he had taken the first step towards 
 forgiveness, he had placed himself on a level with his 
 step-father, had not shrunk from admitting that he too 
 had offended 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 seem- 
 ing full of peace. The gardener moAving 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 dehver, 
 It is no drede!" 
 
yo DONOVAN. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 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 Avay. — Archbishop Trench. 
 
 For more than a year Ellis Farrant had reigned 
 supreme at Oakdene Manor, but, in spite of every effort 
 to enjoy himself and stifle his conscience, he had been 
 exceedingly miserable. In the winter after Mrs. Doery's 
 return from nursing Donovan, he worked himself up into 
 such a state of nervous terror that, had he possessed a 
 trifle more resolution, he would probably have confessed 
 his crime and sought Donovan out at Monaco. But he 
 was weak, deplorably weak, and so he lived on at the 
 Manor, a misery to himself 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 that Mr. Dono- 
 van would not touch it, had been very angry with her 
 for trying to persuade him to pay the doctor's bill with 
 it, and had said that Mr. Farrant must salve his con- 
 science in some other way. 
 
 Poor EUis! it really had relieved him a little to send 
 those two ten-pound notes to his victim, and to have 
 
OAKDENE MANOR. 71 
 
 them thrown back in his face seemed hard; they made 
 him feel uncomfortable for days. At last he put them 
 in 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 
 wonderful that 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 his poor, selfish soul. Naturally 
 enough, remorse on such a basis was like the house built 
 upon the sand, and when, one afternoon in July, a card 
 was brought into the smoking-room bearing the words — 
 "Dr. Tremain, Trenant, Porthkerran," Ellis, half crazy 
 with terror, was driven to take refuge in cunning. 
 
 The doctor meanwhile waited in the drawing-room, 
 involuntarily taking stock of this place which by right be- 
 longed to his patient, and struggling to keep his indigna- 
 tion within bounds, that he might be cool enough 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 for- 
 ward \vith outstretched hand, an easy-mannered country 
 gentleman, full of genial hospitality; this was the cha- 
 racter which EUis desired to assume, and he acted his 
 part splendidly. 
 
 "I think I have had the pleasure of meeting you be- 
 fore. Dr. Tremain," he said in a hearty voice. "De- 
 lighted to see you, sir; I assure you we have none of us 
 forgotten your courtesy at the time of my poor cousin's 
 death. Are you staying in the neighbourhood?" 
 
 "I came solely for the purpose of seeing you," said 
 the doctor, gravely. "Mr. Farrant, you seem to have some 
 
72 DONOVAN. 
 
 remembrance of our meeting at Porthkerran, after Co- 
 lonel 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, nor the smallest sign of guilt 
 in Ellis's face. He raised his eyebrows, and for a mo- 
 ment stared blankly at the doctor. 
 
 "My good sir, I am quite ready to excuse all seem- 
 ing impertinence, 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 dignity. 
 
 "Do you recollect that, after the funeral, we returned 
 to the inn, and that I then gave you a sheet of paper, 
 on which Colonel Farrant had made his will, under cir- 
 cumstances which I described to you?" 
 
 A light as of dawning perception began to steal over 
 Ellis's face. 
 
 "Ah! now I know to what you refer!" he exclaimed. 
 "Forgive my apparent forgetfulness. I assure you it was 
 not forgetfulness 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 dictation, you must at once see that it is use- 
 less to evade the truth in this way," said Dr. Tremain, 
 controlling his temper with difficulty. "The will directed 
 that this property should be bequeathed to Donovan Far- 
 rant, the Colonel's only son; and I am here to-day to 
 demand of you why he is not in possession of it." 
 
OAKDENE MANOR. 73 
 
 "My dear sir, you are labouring under a most extra- 
 ordinary delusion," said Ellis, Avith a smile. "You are 
 most entirely mistaken. But, putting that aside, I really 
 may have the right to ask why you intrude into my per- 
 sonal concerns. You are almost a stranger to me, and 
 though 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 affairs 
 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 were your house," interrupted the doctor, "I 
 should not have intruded myself upon you, but I come 
 now as the representative 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 5'^ou, 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, how- 
 ever, you so wilfully refuse to acknowledge what you 
 must be aware I 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 remember, 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. Per- 
 haps you can, having written the codicil. But, poor 
 
74 DONOVAN. 
 
 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 ^vill excuse me, where is the 
 proof of }>our 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. 
 
 "Ton my word. Dr. Tremain, this really is a most 
 ridiculous affair. You, with no manner of proof, expect 
 me to believe your assertion, and I am in the unfortunate 
 dilemma of having nothing to convince you of my asser- 
 tion. We might go 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 knoAV that 
 your doings were discovered. It is also my duty to tell 
 you that Donovan is utterly destitute, and that if some- 
 thing 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 pass- 
 ing 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 7vle. 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 
 
OAKDENE MANOR. 75 
 
 turning to Dr. Tremain. "I am sure I heard you speak- 
 ing of him." 
 
 "Yes, you are quite right," repHed Dr. Tremain, rising 
 from his seat. "I was telhng Mr. Farrant that Donovan 
 is now staying with me at Porthkerran, that he is with- 
 out 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 unhesi- 
 tatingly, "Nora! Nora!" 
 
 "I do wish, Adela, you would be more careful," ex- 
 claimed Ellis. "It will agitate Nora dreadfully to hear 
 about Donovan." 
 
 "Let it," said Adela, scornfully, "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 
 grave responsibility 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. Considering the unusual circum- 
 stances, her manner was marvellously composed, however, 
 as she gave her hand to the doctor. 
 
 "Miss Farrant tells me you have news of my son," 
 she said, in her calm voice. "I hope he is well?" 
 
76 DONOVAN. 
 
 Dr. Tremain was so annoyed at the apparent want 
 of feeling that he answered, almost sharply, 
 
 "No, madam, he is anything but well. Twice this 
 year he has been 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 something of a mother's heart hidden away in 
 folds upon folds of self-love. Her eyes dilated. 
 
 "No, no!" she cried. "You must be mistaken; it 
 surely can't be my son! Donovan ill — Donovan starving! 
 Oh! Elhs! 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 posi- 
 tion towards you is changed," said Dr. Tremain. "That 
 you can leave him 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 bro- 
 ther 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 fit 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 something for his step-son, only not too much, for he 
 
OAKDENE MANOR. 77 
 
 had a selfish dread lest Donovan might possibly use the 
 money 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 
 wrote 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 con- 
 descending 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 such a thing as truth and justice in the world, 
 but it will do him some good to know that he still has 
 your love, Mrs. Farrant. You will send him some mes- 
 sage, I hope." 
 
 Her tears were flowing fast, but she made an effort 
 to check them. 
 
 "Tell him I know I failed when we were together, 
 that it was my fault. And oh! do be good to him. Dr. 
 Tremain — make him undersand 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 
 
7 8 DONOVAN. 
 
 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 expected, 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 jus- 
 tice and willingness to befriend the ill-used. 
 
 There was, too, one influence which Dr. Tremain had 
 forgotten. He had learnt from his wife the story of little 
 Dot; 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 house- 
 hold — 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 difficulty found Dot's 
 grave; but as he looked down at the marble cross, with 
 its inscription of "I am the resurrection and the life," 
 his thoughts were more of the living Donovan than of the 
 little child who "after life's fitful fever" rested well. How 
 that cross and motto must have mocked him in his hope- 
 less grief! — how he must have dashed his heart against 
 words to him. so hollow and meaningless! The realiza- 
 
OAKDENE MANOR. 79 
 
 tion 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 Resurrection 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, "but I have at least seen 
 Mr. Farrant, which is something." 
 
 Then he described the interview as well as he could, 
 
8o DONOVAN. 
 
 and Donovan listened without the shghtest 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 in- 
 terest, 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 sure that if you had seen your mother you 
 couldn't for one moment have doubted her love. But 
 stay, I have a message for you." 
 
 He 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 bring 
 you substantial proof. I had left the house when she 
 called me back, and begged 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 longed to hear from him, and how thankful I am 
 for your visit.'" 
 
 "Poor mother! she must be very much changed," said 
 Donovan, taking the ring, and turning it slowly round in 
 his thin fingers. The stone was a white cornelian, and 
 on it was engraved the Farrant motto. It was a ring 
 which he remembered to have seen on his mother's hand 
 since his childhood. 
 
OAKDENE MANOR. 8t 
 
 The doctor watched him a Httle 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 pro- 
 phesied 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 why I half doubted about Avearing 
 this ring; I shall never be able to do anything for my 
 mother. I believe I do love her; 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 wi's/i 
 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." 
 
 "Yes," said Donovan, with emphasis. 
 
 "And, besides," continued the doctor, "I don't agree 
 that she does nothing for you. Does she not make the 
 world a better place to you? Is it not something that 
 you can say to yourself, 'I am not cheated of this goodly 
 birthright — I have a mother after all'? Is it not a great 
 
 Donovan. II, 5 
 
8 2 DONOVAN. 
 
 thing to know there 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; and then 
 there was a long silence. 
 
 At last Donovan spoke. 
 
 "You said that Mr. Farrant promised to make me 
 some allowance. I suppose I'm not bound to accept it?" 
 
 "No, but I advise you to do so," said the doctor, un- 
 able to help smiling at the very evident look of distaste 
 which his words called up. "You see, to begin with, 
 ^loo a year is better than nothing — that's the common- 
 sense view; and, from a higher point, I don't think it 
 \vill do you any harm to endure the discipline 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 besides 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 think- 
 ing 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 
 
OAKDENE MANOR. S^ 
 
 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 ad- 
 mission. 
 
 "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." 
 
 "How about the entrance fees at the hospital?" 
 
 "One hundred pounds, but you can pay by instalment. 
 There are many other expenses, though, and you must 
 live meanwhile. I don't quite see how you can do it. 
 However, we will manage it somehow between us. A real 
 inclination such as this ought not to be neglected." 
 
 "You have given me enough discipline, though, 
 already," said Donovan. "I can't become utterly dependent. 
 Don't think me ungrateful, but unless I can scrape through 
 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. His thoughts were success- 
 fully drawn from Ellis Farrant and the Oakdene property, 
 by the prospect of going up in two months' time for his 
 preliminary. 
 
84 DONOVAN'. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 THE IDEAL WOMAN. 
 
 But am I not the nobler through thy love? 
 
 O three times less unworthy! likewise thou 
 
 Art more thro' Love, and greater than thy years. 
 
 The sun will run his orbit, and the moon 
 
 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 dragged up to his couch, and, to all 
 appearance, he was very busy with his examination work. 
 
 "It is not the big books that bore me," he said in 
 reply. 
 
 "But something has certainly happened to you since 
 breakfast time," said Gladys, laughing. "Can Aunt 
 Margaret have been here?" 
 
 There was such naivete in her tone that Donovan 
 could not help laughing. 
 
 "Yes," he replied, "Mrs. Causton has been 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 
 
THE IDEAL WOMAN. 85 
 
 her a little brown volume, and turning to the title-page 
 Gladys read — "An Inquiry into the Nature, Symptoms, 
 and Effects of Rehgious Declension, with the Means of 
 Recovery." 
 
 The colour rose in her cheeks. 
 
 "Oh! I am so sorry!" she exclaimed. "I 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 gave you the tracts." 
 
 Donovan laughed a little at the remembrance. 
 
 "Do you know though 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!" ex- 
 claimed 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; she 
 
86 DONOVAN. 
 
 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 younger somehow." 
 
 "So she was really in mind and ways," he said, quietly. 
 "She was a thorough child. Your little Nesta reminds 
 me of her, though I don't suppose 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 thought 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 Nesta; 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 un- 
 answerable 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 end- 
 less separation?" asked Gladys, the tears welling up into 
 her eyes. 
 
THE IDEAL WOMAN. 87 
 
 "Yes," he answered, quietly; "she learnt all that 
 could make her happy, how I don't know. Isn't it 
 strange how easily behef 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 can- 
 not, 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 al- 
 ways seem impossible to you." 
 
 Her sweet, eager face, with its entire absence of self- 
 consciousness, 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.'" 
 
 Then 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 
 intercourse; they talked much more freely, gliding into a 
 sort of brotherly and sisterly intimacy — 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 lov- 
 ing 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 altogether 
 different. 
 
 Very happy to both of them were those summer weeks. 
 In the long mornings Donovan worked hard for his 
 
88 DONOVAN. 
 
 examinations, in the afternoon there were merry gather- 
 ings in the 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 pony-chaise, along by the sea, or through 
 the narrow lanes with their high, mossy banks, pausing 
 now and then at some cottage to leave a message, or to 
 visit some of Mrs. Tremain's innummerable friends among 
 the poor. There was very little society round Porth- 
 kerran. In the winter Gladys sometimes went to one or 
 two dances at some distant country house. In the sum- 
 mer there was an occasional picnic or garden-party, but 
 the neighbourhood was thinly populated, and the dis- 
 tances were too great for very much visiting. So Porth- 
 kerran formed a little clan of its own; and as by good 
 chance the squire and the rector were both fond of 
 
THE IDEAL WOMAN. OQ 
 
 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 
 neighbour, a jocose old man. Admiral Smith, constituted 
 the clan proper. But the Tremains knew almost every- 
 one in the little fishing-town, and, though 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 evidently en- 
 joyed it so much. 
 
 There was one event, too, which was constantly being 
 talked of, namely, Dick's return from sea. He was ex- 
 pected in September, and Donovan used to listen half 
 sadly to the daily hopes and wonders as to his progress. 
 When the papers came, there was always a rush to find 
 the latest "Shipping Intelligence," and delighted exclama- 
 tions when H.M.S. Cerberus 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 
 
go DONOVAN. 
 
 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 be- 
 fore he had promised 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 objec- 
 tion, 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 thoughts 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. However, he had no time to be dull, for he was 
 very anxious about his examination. Besides, before 
 many days he hoped to be with the Tremains again. He 
 passed his preliminary successfully. The scholarship 
 examination was not till after the beginning of term, so 
 there was nothing to detain him longer, and another week 
 at Gladys' home was not to be missed on any considera- 
 tion. He went back to Porthkerran in excellent spirits. 
 It was about half-past five on a bright September after- 
 noon 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 apparenly 
 
THE IDEAL WOMAN. 9 I 
 
 ibout his own age, a lithe, active-looking fellow, with a 
 /ery sunburnt but good-looking face, and merry, blue- 
 jrey eyes. 
 
 "Let me send your bag with my traps, then; the car- 
 ier leaves in an hour's time." 
 
 There was a very evident "Who are you?" in Dono- 
 vcLu's eyes; but the stranger, nothing daunted, took the 
 bag from him and ran back to the little inn; returning in 
 n. moment, he said, apologetically, 
 
 "You must excuse this 'hail fellow well met' busi- 
 ness, 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 were 
 expected to-day." 
 
 "I'm not, that's just the fun of it," returned Dick, 
 accommodating 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 ad- 
 venture." 
 
 "It brought me the pleasantest two months of my 
 life," said Donovan. "I'm coming down now to say good- 
 bye before starting 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 
 
g2 DONOVAN. 
 
 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?" 
 
 "Yes; we were to have shared rooms, but his eyes 
 had given out, so he won't go up this 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 regular sawney — good-humoured enough, but weak 
 as water. He's never been allowed to shift for himself; 
 he's a mother's son." 
 
 This was a genus unknown to Donovan; he asked 
 several questions about the Caustons, and, as Dick pos- 
 sessed the genial manner and the ready speech of his 
 family, the five-mile walk was quite sufficient to make the 
 two pretty well acquainted. At last they reached the 
 turn in the road which brought them into sight of the 
 little fishing-town. 
 
 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 Plymouth 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 twist- 
 ings and windings, the innumerable passages and mys- 
 terious 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 
 
THE IDEAL WOMAN. Q3 
 
 from the coast-guardsmen. Many curious stories were 
 still handed down in the village of great-grandmothers 
 who had concealed fabulous numbers of silk dresses 
 under their own ample skirts; of perilous escapes down 
 dark alleys; of kegs of brandy Avhich 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 venturesome 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 preparation 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 tawny 
 gold, ever, as the sun sank lower, deepening to crimson. 
 
 And this was Gladys' home! Donovan's heart gave a 
 great bound when he realized how near he was to her. 
 It was a beautiful little place certainly, but he would have 
 thought the Black Country beautiful if Gladys had lived 
 there. How he had pictured it all to himself up in those 
 dull London lodgings! — 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 unexpectedly! How exactly like you to walk in so 
 
94 DONOVAN. 
 
 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 helper, 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 wake, was little 
 Nesta. 
 
 "Dear Dono to turn back?" she cried, gleefully. "Lift 
 me over the ban'sters, Mr. Dono, up on to you shoulder." 
 
 He lifted her across, received a half-strangling hug, 
 and was not a little flattered that only from her perch 
 on his shoulder would 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 no 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 
 
THE IDEAL WOMAN. g5 
 
 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, de- 
 lighted as she was at Dick's return and interested as she 
 was in his stories, she was nevertheless conscious of an 
 undefined sense of trouble, which grew and grew, until at 
 length it flashed upon her suddenly that Donovan must 
 be purposely keeping aloof, afraid of spoiling the freedom 
 of the family talk. She remembered now that she had 
 been talking to Dick as they left the dining-room. How 
 inconsiderate she had been; how absorbed in her own 
 happiness! It was just like Donovan to take himself off 
 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 apparition, 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 wandering up and down the very froggiest 
 and toadiest path in the garden?" 
 
 "Birds of a feather flock together," he said, hghtly. 
 "I've a good deal in common with the frogs, a love of 
 
96 DONOVAN. 
 
 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 adventures he has had this voyage." 
 
 "Why are you not with him?" returned Donovan. "I 
 hoped — I thought you would all forget that I was here, 
 and enjoy him to yourselves." 
 
 "Why to ourselves?" 
 
 "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. Never doubt that, in whatever way I act." 
 
 "Then why not 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, "but you have forced me to believe in human 
 goodness. Ever since I came here you have been teach- 
 ing me. If ever I doubt again, I shall only have to re- 
 member that there is such a place as Trenant in the world." 
 
 "Then if that is so," said Gladys, smiHng, "I shall 
 thank my hat for blowing over the cliffs that day, even 
 though it did give you so much trouble and pain. How- 
 ever, 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 yourself off." 
 
 He laughed a little. 
 
 "You own, then, that it was natural?" 
 
THE IDEAL WOMAN. Q7 
 
 "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 un- 
 suspected 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 simplicity. It was twilight, 
 that was one comfort; he could not see that her cheeks 
 were glowing with maidenly shame, that she was trem- 
 bling 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 wel- 
 come to Porthkerran ought to have reminded me of the 
 
 Donoi'an. 11, 7 
 
9 8 DONOVAN. 
 
 love I have found here. One of your father's hand- 
 shakes is worth travelhng three hundred miles for." 
 
 Gladys turned in the direction of the house. 
 
 "And Nesta was so delighted to have you back again. 
 You can't think how fond she is of you; we used to hear 
 her telling Waif long stories about you while you were in 
 London. Nesta's stories are such fun. I think she has 
 a good deal of imagination." 
 
 They reached the house as she finished speaking, 
 and, finding the drawing-room window open, she went in 
 that way and soon had the satisfaction of seeing Donovan 
 really join the family group. 
 
 The mantle of his taciturnity seemed to have fallen 
 instead upon her; before long she slipped out of the room 
 and sloAvly and dreamily wandered away, she hardly knew 
 whither. This strange new conviction, this consciousness 
 of love, seemed to have transported her into a new world. 
 Presently, finding herself by the night 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 hidden seemed the very picture of peace. And 
 Gladys too, though her face glowed and her eyes shone 
 with the love which had just dawned in her heart, was 
 not otherwise than peaceful. There was a great 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, bend- 
 ing over the sleeping child, "but not as I do. Oh, Nesta 
 darling, can you ever be so happy as I am to-night! 
 Can there possibly be such another for you to love!" 
 
COBWEBS AND QUESTIONS. 99 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 COBWEBS AND QUESTIONS. 
 
 Then fiercely we dig the fountain, 
 Oil! whence do the waters rise? 
 Then panting we climb the mountain, 
 Oh! are there indeed blue skies? 
 And we dig till the soul is weary, 
 Nor find the waters out! 
 And we climb till all is dreary, 
 And still the sky is a doubt. 
 
 Search not the roots of the fountain, 
 But drink the water bright; 
 Gaze far above the mountain, 
 The sky may speak in light. 
 But if yet thou see no beauty — 
 If widowed thy heart yet cries — 
 With thy hands go and do thy duty. 
 And thy work will clear thine eyes. 
 
 VloUn Songs. George Macdonald. 
 
 The church at Porthkerran stood at some Httle distance 
 from the village. It was one of those old square-towered 
 granite churches which abound in the West, and the 
 picturesque grave-yard, with its rather sombre-looking 
 slate tomb-stones, commanded a wide view of the bay of 
 Porthkerran and the great blue expanse beyond. The 
 south wall of the church-yard was on the very verge of 
 the cliff, and here, one evening in the end of September, 
 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 the tombs," they had for some reason 
 found their way up to the church-yard. It was the evening 
 of the Harvest Festival, Donovan had been too busy to 
 feel bored by the details of the decorations with which 
 
 7* 
 
loo DONOVAN. 
 
 in old times Adela used to rouse his ire, but he 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 
 since he had been among the Tremains; 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 heart. A chance word of 
 Nesta's had awakened it. 
 
 "Dono will stay with us till we do to bed," she had 
 announced triumphantly to Dick as he was leaving the 
 house. "Dono is much betterer than you, he doesn't do 
 away and leave us." 
 
 It was impossible to escape from the small elf, she 
 was on his shoulder and her arms were clinging fast 
 round his neck, but Donovan's face glowed 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 you know that he loves the skeleton better 
 than he loves you?" 
 
 "The steleton's a very ugly thing," said Nesta, pout- 
 ing, "and he oughtn'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 tlie 
 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 child's 
 unconscious words had stirred. 
 
COBWEBS AND QUESTIONS. 1 01 
 
 Did he not really want to join with the others? Was 
 it any pleasure to him to keep aloof? Had he not felt a 
 pang of envy when he saw the real delight which the 
 prospect of this thanksgiving service gave to the Tre- 
 mains? 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 Avere very dif- 
 ferent from any he had hitherto seen, and it had dawned 
 on him as a possibility that their belief might have some- 
 thing 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 thing was plain, 
 however inexplicable it might be: they possessed some- 
 thing which he did not possess, something which — it had 
 come to that now — he longed 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 were absolutely convinced that their Master 
 was not only true, but the Way to knowledge of all Truth. 
 The more enviable this certainty, however, the more im- 
 possible it seemed to him to make the faith his own. 
 Study and thought had indeed brought him from his 
 more positive 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 upon him 
 an even worse agony. He had accepted his dreary cer- 
 tainty with stoicism, but to waver in doubt, to know 
 nothing, to feel that in knowledge only could there be 
 rest, and yet to despair of ever gaining that knowledge, 
 
102 DONOVAN. 
 
 this was indeed a misery which he had never contem- 
 plated. He saw no way out of his difficulty. To believe 
 because belief would be pleasant was (happily) quite as 
 impossible to him now as it had been at Codrington, 
 when the chorus of "I ivill 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. Instinc- 
 tively he mounted the hill to the church, stretched him- 
 self 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. 
 
COBWEBS AND QUESTIONS. IO3 
 
 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 Avas hungering to find the Truth, he could not 
 try to find it by any unreal means. 
 
 Thus much he had arrived at when his attention was 
 drawn away to a tragedy in insect life which was going 
 on close beside him. In an angle of the wall was a large 
 spider's web; caught in its meshes hung an unusual victim 
 — a wasp, who, in spite of his size and strength, found 
 the clinging gossamer threads too much for him. The 
 spider drew nearer and nearer. Donovan speculated 
 which would get the best of it, the spider with his cun- 
 ning, 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-feehng for the imprisoned insect 
 rose in Donovan's heart, he sprang up, demolished the 
 cobweb, and had the satisfaction of seeing the spider 
 scuttle away as fast as his long legs could carry him, 
 while the wasp flew off 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 that wasn't intended for a congratulation!" 
 
 Donovan laughed. 
 
 "No, I was apostrophizing a wasp I've just rescued 
 
1 04 DONOVAN. 
 
 from a cobweb. Are you going far? May I come with 
 you?" 
 
 "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 Ajax were bearing them rapidly 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 extra- 
 ordinary what a difference it makes to have children in 
 a house." 
 
 "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 intimations of immortality. For my part, I am not 
 aware that heaven ever 'lay about me in my infancy.' 
 I know that injustice and tyranny in very visible forms 
 
COBWEBS AND QUESTIONS. IO5 
 
 were there, and only now do I know what a grudge I owe 
 them. If from your very babyhood you have had to 
 fight 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 in- 
 justices of the world is the Eternal Truth." 
 
 "You have never spoken to me of these things be- 
 fore," 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 be 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 realizeed 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 flounder- 
 ings were of some avail, it proved its need of a rescuer. 
 
1 06 DONOVAN. 
 
 and the rescuer came — one who could sympathise 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 voice losing 
 all its constraint and changing to almost painful earnest- 
 ness. "But see what a contrast there is — in science all 
 is proved with exquisite clearness, in religion there is 
 absolutely 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 he tells me it is probable, and in- 
 stances the case of the grub and the butterfly. Will that 
 argument comfort a man in bereavement?" 
 
 "No, for it begins at the wrong end," said the doctor. 
 "There must be faith before there can be belief. As to 
 mathematical proof, of course it is impossible when you 
 are not treating of mathematical 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 speak, he seemed rather staggered 
 by the breadth of this assertion, not having as yet grasped 
 the fact that the "truth" which he was struggling after 
 was not so much concerned with intellectual difficulties 
 
COBWEBS AND QUESTIONS. I07 
 
 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 prove 
 like a mathematical 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; her parents laugh at the 
 affair, and bring forward the usual arguments, 'My dear, 
 he only wants your money, he is not in love with you.' 
 x\ll 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 supernatural be- 
 cause everything is natural.'" 
 
 "Yes, I plead guilty to that, and could half wish now 
 
I08 DONOVAN. 
 
 to fall back on the old convictions. There are too many 
 inexplicable mysteries in religion; I shall never get 
 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 immaterial 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 — 1 feel 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 ob- 
 liged 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 before knowing you, I should have 
 said that Christians accepted their belief on authority, 
 and stopped as wrong or presumptuous all free thought 
 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 
 in now, 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 
 
COBWEBS AND QUESTIONS. lOQ 
 
 home and education. And speaking as one who has 
 Hved through this darkness, I would say to you, don't 
 grudge the suffering or the waiting, but go 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 right- 
 ness of right is, at least, clear to you." 
 
 "That much is clear, yes," said Donovan, musingly; 
 "for the rest, I suppose the humiliation of uncertainty is 
 good for one's pride, the ache of incompleteness whole- 
 somely disagreeable." 
 
 "The beginning of health," said the doctor, half to 
 himself; 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 eyes steadily on Dr. Tremain's face to 
 read its first expression, — "do you think I shall ever get 
 beyond this wretched uncertainty?" 
 
 The doctor's face seemed positively to shine, as he 
 replied, 
 
 "I am certain you will; sooner or later, here or there, 
 all will be made plain to you. Do you suppose that 
 when we give thanks for the 'redemption of the ivoiid' 
 we leave you out? Only be patient, and in the right time 
 the 'Truth shall make you free.' In the meanwhile you 
 are not left without one unfailing 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 think 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 
 
I I O DONOVAN. 
 
 salvation 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 
 we 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; he could 
 always see that glooming landscape, with the faint star- 
 light and the lingering streaks of gold in the west, always 
 feel the freshness of the evening air which seemed in- 
 vigorating 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 Avith 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 Sun- 
 day, and Donovan, glad to be of any use, readily assented 
 to the doctor's plan, and drove on to the post-town — St. 
 KeiTans. 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 certain pleasurable sensation stole over him, mingled 
 
COBWEBS AND QUESTIONS. Ill 
 
 with surprise, for the writing was Adda's. She would 
 send him news of his mother, and though 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 occa- 
 sional 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 allow- 
 ance 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 me. Forgive this short letter, I do 
 not feel equal to writing any more to-day. 
 "With love, believe me, 
 
 "Your affectionate mother, 
 
 "Honora Farrant." 
 
1 1 2 DONOVAN. 
 
 The saving of that money was the first voluntary act 
 of self-denial which Mrs. Farrant had ever made. Do- 
 novan knew how to appreciate such unusual thought; the 
 letter, which might to 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 rejoined him, he saw at once that 
 something 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. 
 
 "She has sent me some money," resumed Donovan, 
 "for which, of course, I care less than for the letter; it 
 will be a great help, though. ,^£'20 will get me some 
 books, and then, if I can only get a scholarship, I shall 
 manage well enough. If not, I shall take to the sixpence- 
 a-day mode of hfe." 
 
 "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 en- 
 joyment of his unjust gains, but too prudent to allude to 
 a subject which his guest seemed to have willed to put 
 altogether away. 
 
 "Oh, I know I shall only have enough for the neces- 
 saries of hfe," said Donovan. "But Waif and I can put 
 up with the loss of a few comforts." 
 
 "Bones and cigars, to wit?" said the doctor. 
 
 "Bones are cheap luxuries," replied Donovan, laugh- 
 ing. "As to cigars, I've given up smoking for the last 
 
COBWEBS AND QUESTIONS. II3 
 
 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 household was most 
 apparent, when the reality of the peace and love which 
 reigned was most strongly borne in upon Donovan. To- 
 night there was a tinge of regret 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 overstepped those incomprehensible boundaries which 
 marked off Sunday from week-day music. 
 
 But Gladys was well content to sing Chaucer's beauti- 
 ful old song, since Mrs. Causton was not there to be 
 shocked, and perhaps, in her low sweet voice, she gave 
 Donovan the best counsel he could have had for his new 
 start in life. The quaint words lingered long after in 
 his memory. 
 
 Fly from the press, and dwell with soothfastness, 
 Suffice unto thy good, though it be small. 
 
 Rede well thyself that other folks canst rede, 
 And truth shall thee deliver, it is no drede. 
 That tlaee is sent receive in buxomness, 
 The wrestling of this world asketh a fall; 
 Donovan. II, 
 
I I 4 DONOVAN. 
 
 Here is no home, here is but wilderness; 
 Forth , pilgrim , forth ! Best out of thy stall ! 
 Look up on high and thank the God of all, 
 Waive thy lusts, and let thy ghost 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 ap- 
 pealing "Come back adain very soon!" ringing in his 
 ears, and a last smile from Gladys to fortify him, Do- 
 novan began the next era of his life. 
 
 CHAPTER VIL 
 A CROWN OF FIRE. 
 
 You well might fear , if love's sole claim 
 Were 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 
 highest life. 
 
 If then your future life should need 
 A strength my hfe can only gain 
 Through suifering, 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 Road, 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 
 
A CROWN OF FIRE. I I 5 
 
 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. He had great powers of application, in 
 spite of his desultory education, and he worked now with 
 a will — worked with no let or hindrance, for duty was 
 plainly marked out for him, and he had comparatively 
 few temptations or distractions. After the excitement of 
 the successful competition for a scholarship was over, the 
 days and weeks passed by in uneventful monotony, broken 
 occasionally by an unaccountable craving for his old pas- 
 time, 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 ignorance, outweighed 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 struggle 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 unloveliness lovely. Had Donovan been at 
 all given to self- scrutiny, had he ever analysed his feelings 
 or followed out the dim glory of the present into a pos- 
 sible future, he would have realized at once the insuper- 
 able barrier which lay between him and his love. But 
 he lived in the present — lived, and worked, and loved, and, 
 lacking the dangerous 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 great deal for him; it 
 
 8* 
 
Il6 DONOVAN. 
 
 gave him a momentary insight into the "Beauty and the 
 blessedness of hfe," and it made his ideal of womanhood 
 a lofty ideal. The truest of truths is, that in nature there 
 is no waste, and in regretting what seems like prodigality, 
 we sometimes forget 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 fulfils Himself in many ways. 
 
 At length, when the summer days were growing 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 vaca- 
 tion with the Tremains, set off for Porthkerran. 
 
 Very natural and home-like did the little Cornish 
 village seem, and, after his long months of solitude, the 
 bright, merry family life was delightful. Nesta had grown, 
 but was still the household baby, and not yet able to say 
 her g's; the two schoolboys were at home for the holidays, 
 and made the, house unusually noisy; the doctor had 
 added photography to his many hobbies, and Mrs. Tremain, 
 with the cares of half the village on her mind, seemed 
 still as ready as ever to sympathise with everyone. 
 
 And Gladys? 
 
 Gladys was changed. Donovan felt that at once. 
 Her eyes seemed to have deepened, she was less talkative, 
 she was even a little shy with him. The last time he 
 had returned to Porthkerran 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 
 
A CROWN OF FIRE. I i 7 
 
 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 Dono- 
 van, 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 beginning of that long 
 vacation was not the Gladys he had left in October. Her 
 mind had grown and expanded, but what had brought 
 that shade of sadness to her face? Her life was ap- 
 parently so cloudless, what unknown 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 anything 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 hfe seemed left behind; for one dehcious 
 month he was supremely happy. He drove out with the 
 doctor, played lawn tennis, romped Avith the children, 
 gave 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 younger children kept pretty 
 much to themselves, leaving Donovan and Gladys to 
 almost daily tete-a-tetes. 
 
 If Gladys had been an ordinary girl, Donovan would 
 probably have seen far sooner all the dangers of their 
 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. \Vho was so quick to 
 
1 1 8 DONOVAN. 
 
 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 bor- 
 dered on sentiment he might have realized that he was 
 putting her in a false position, but it never did. They 
 talked 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 conscious of a cer- 
 tain 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 an unsatisfied silence, always broken 
 by a somewhat irrelevant speech or suggestion from Gladys. 
 
 Mrs. Causton was away from home. Stephen, who, 
 after months of suffering, had just recovered from his 
 attack of ophthalmia, 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 
 Avith 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 might tliink 
 too much of that "dangerously handsome guest," who, in 
 former years, had been the terror of all the careful 
 mothers in the neighbourhood of 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 s;lamour had been cast over the 
 
A CROM^ OF FIRE. I I 9 
 
 whole household in those sunny August days, never even 
 at Trenant had there been such enjoyment of life; meals 
 al fresco, music, moonlight walks by the sea, and bound- 
 less 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 play- 
 ground — Dr. Tremain had planted his photographic ap- 
 paratus, 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!" ex- 
 claimed the doctor, emerging from his black-velvet shroud. 
 "You must be much nearer together, too. You boys in 
 the background. Ah! now that is much better. Now 
 you do look like living beings instead of mummies. Look, 
 mother, if you can without disturbing yourself." 
 
 Mrs. Tremain turned round to see the group behind 
 her, who, in disarranging 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 un- 
 expected movements, always prevented her from reaching it. 
 
 "There! that will do!" said the doctor. "Stand ex- 
 actly as you are. Keep still and don't laugh, Nesta. 
 Now then!" 
 
 Half-a-minute's breathless silence followed, Nesta re- 
 lieving herself by holding on with desperate firmness to 
 
I20 DONOVAN. 
 
 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 difficulty and ab- 
 surdity of their positions. 
 
 "If I come out with the right eyebrow drawn up like 
 a Chinese, 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 consecrated 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 drawing-room, sauntered out 
 again with a book under his arm. In the orchard, how- 
 ever, 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 
 willow-pattern dish in front of her. 
 
 She made a very pretty picture sitting there in her 
 
A CROWN OF FIRE. I 2 I 
 
 cool, creamy-white dress, a stray sunbeam glancing every 
 now and then through 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 Chris- 
 tianity, 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 wonderful parting scene between Silva 
 and Fedalma, when in obedience to the will of the dead 
 
1 2 2 DONOVAN. 
 
 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 mechanical 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 enthusiasm, 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 renunciation he was feeling only its beauty 
 and worth. 
 
 Neither of them spoke when the poem was finished; 
 Donovan, as if engrossed with it still, and forgetful that 
 he was not alone, turned the pages over again, reading 
 half to himself passages 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 parting words of Don 
 Silva. 
 
 "Each, deed 
 That carried shame and wrong shall be the sting 
 That drives me higher up the steep of honour 
 In deeds of duteous sei"vice." 
 
 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 wonderful 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 terribly sad." 
 
A CROWN OF FIRE. 123 
 
 "Yes, sad but grand." 
 
 Somehow, as he spoke, Gladys was constramed 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 suffering involved by this sacrifice he 
 so much admired. 
 
 "But surely, surely it was a cruel thing to sacrifice 
 tlieir very lives to an only possible good?" she said 
 pleadingly. 
 
 "I don't think you put it quite truly," he replied. 
 "They renounced their own happiness for the general 
 good of that generation certainly, probably of many gene- 
 rations." 
 
 "You speak of happiness as if it were such a httle 
 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 herself 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 qvieen, loved him ! How he knew it he could not have 
 explained, but he did know it! Had his unspoken love 
 drawn her heart to his? How came it that she loved 
 
124 DONOVAN. 
 
 him? Oh! unspeakable rapture! one day she might be 
 all his own! 
 
 But the moment that thought of the future came to 
 him, it was as if an icy hand had suddenly clutched his 
 heart. 
 
 The dazzling visions faded, and in their place 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 bring 
 her the worst of miseries, perhaps even drag her down 
 to your own hopeless creed." 
 
 He was too much stunned to think, but for some time 
 now he had been clinging bhndly to duty, had said to 
 conscience, "Call, and I follow," and even in the con- 
 fusion and anguish of that moment it was made clear to 
 him what he ought to do. 
 
 With an effort of will he banished 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 cer- 
 tainly is not meant for everyone in the world, unless we 
 find that sacrifice itself is the most real happiness; but I 
 have not found that yet." Then, pushing back his chair, 
 he added, "I think I shall go over to St. Kerrans. I 
 want a good long Avalk. 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 footsteps died away into silence; then, push- 
 ing 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, 
 
A CROWN OF FIRE. I 2 5 
 
 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 have told ye all 
 about my son Jack as left home six years ago, and as I 
 haven't heard from. Well, the 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 thought I'd ask ye how I could best find the lad. Lon- 
 don's a big place, ain't it? — a sight bigger than Porth- 
 kerran?" 
 
 Donovan smiled a little. 
 
 "Yes, Trevethan, I'm afraid it'll be veiy 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 appearance. 
 
 "You mustn't be too hopeful," said Donovan; "but 
 
126 DONOVAN. 
 
 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 yet, 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 interruption 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 him. This un- 
 lettered, ignorant old man had the knowledge which he 
 was hungering and thirsting for, the faith which he would 
 have given the world to possess. 
 
 But then with a sudden sharp pang came the full re- 
 collection 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 blue eyes, her wist- 
 
A CROWN OF FIRE. 12*] 
 
 ful plea for happiness, and an agonizing consciousness 
 that sorrow and separation must come. As he grew 
 quieter, or, rather, as his thoughts became more clear, he 
 saw as distinctly as he had done when speaking to her 
 in the orchard, that union between them was impossible. 
 He remembered the sense of separation that had come 
 to him Avhen 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 together. 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 sentimentality; 
 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 in- 
 fliction 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. Deliber- 
 
125 DONOVAN. 
 
 ately, 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 with 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 ivould 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 him? Now every- 
 thing was shut out. Blank and black, dreary and hope- 
 less, 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, laugliing, 
 shouting, waving their hands to a fisherman who was just 
 nearing the shore in his boat. The keel grated on the 
 pebbles, the man sprang out. He had not had good 
 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 father- 
 hood which this honest fisherman could enjoy might never 
 be his. And then the terribly tempting thought of what 
 
A CROWN OF FIRE. I2g 
 
 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 circum- 
 stance brings; the Christian, the Fatahst, 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 doggedly. But deliberately 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 up- 
 ward and break loose from the clinging hold of self-love. 
 
 Donovan had now fully faced all sides of this great 
 question of his life; again he came to the decision which 
 must be made at once and for ever. And now for the 
 second time out of the depth 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 pro- 
 nounced the "I will" which must banish him for ever 
 from all that he loved. 
 
 The sun was just setting when he reached St. Ker- 
 rans; 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 he was capable of feeling about anything just then, 
 
 Donovan. II, g 
 
I 30 DONOVAN. 
 
 "S House, Freshwater, I. W., August 27. 
 
 "My dear Donovan, 
 
 "You may very possibly have forgotten an old friend 
 of yours, who, however, has often thought of you in the 
 long interval which has passed since we met. I saw your 
 cousin, Miss Adela Farrant, a few weeks ago, and she 
 told me of your whereabouts. I am very glad you are 
 thinking of entering the medical profession. Has your 
 vacation begun yet? If so, will you not come and spend 
 a week or two with me? Plenty of boating and fishing 
 for you, and as much or as little as you like of 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 departure. He looked at his watch; it only wanted 
 two or three minutes to the time when the telegraph- 
 office closed. Should he go 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 signing his own 
 death-warrant, wrote the following words — "Your letter 
 forwarded to me from London. Many thanks for invita- 
 tion. I will come to-morrow evening." The telegram 
 despatched, he set off 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 month ago, and — most vivid recollection 
 of all — that drive with the doctor one Sunday evening in 
 
A CROWN OF FIRE. I3I 
 
 September, when they had spoken of his doubts and dif- 
 ficuUies, 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. Black 
 darkness seemed gathering round him. In renouncing 
 Gladys, he felt that all which had hitherto been most 
 helpful to him 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, puttmg it from him, he strode rapidly along, won- 
 dering 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 win- 
 dows, would ever give his heart such a stab 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 
 playing 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 Dono- 
 van, shaking hands 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 Nesta though, for having gone without 
 wishing her good-night." 
 
 "You will have some supper now?" said Mrs. Tre- 
 main, Avith her hand on the bell. 
 
 "No, thank you," said Donovan. "I really want no- 
 
 9* 
 
132 DONOVAN. 
 
 thing. 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, 
 regretfully. "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 was 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 off abruptly, unable to speak any trite com- 
 monplace 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 muff! 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. "How- 
 ever, 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 
 
A CROWN OF FIRE. I 33 
 
 to him for Christmas Day. He is more accessible than 
 we are for a short hohday." 
 
 Gladys sat moving her chessmen mechanically, feeling 
 as if she were in some dreadful dream. What did it all 
 mean? Why was he going away? Had he guessed her 
 secret? had she betrayed herself? No, she thought not, 
 for he looked so perfectly natural, and even as she 
 finished her game, 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 Avhile her cheeks cooled, and her relief would have 
 been almost happiness, if there had not been the haunt- 
 ing 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 re- 
 fuse. 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 got through it somehow, but there was more 
 pathos than she wished in the mournful refrain — 
 
 The flowers of the forest are a' wede away ! 
 
 Donovan never heard that song in after years without a 
 serrement de cce?ir. As he held the portfolio open for 
 her to put it away, her hand touched his for a minute, 
 
134 DONOVAN. 
 
 he felt that it was icy cold, and a sudden longing to 
 take it in his almost overmastered him. The old ad- 
 miral 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, be- 
 cause 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 you not play something? There will be time 
 for this, I think." 
 
 She sat down again at the piano, and he moved away 
 to the fireplace, waiting there with his head propped be- 
 tween his hands, and steeling himself to endure. Quite 
 unknowingly he had given her a transcription of "O rest 
 in the Lord." He scarcely heard it, but 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 went 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 
 
GOOD-BYE. 135 
 
 a vain endeavour to banish thought, in the other Gladys 
 knelt and prayed. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 GOOD-BVE. 
 
 She smiled: but he could see arise 
 Her soul from far adown her eyes, 
 Prepared as if for sacrifice. 
 
 She looked a queen who seemeth gay 
 From royal gi'ace 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. Rain and fog and lowering skies seem more 
 noticeable, more unforgetable 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 tender," its winds are sharp 
 and keen and bitter. 
 
 In that one night of suftering 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 untroubled, her sunny tempera- 
 ment 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 longing for pause and 
 rest. Every other morning of her life her first healthy 
 waking thought had been a thanksgiving for the happi- 
 ness of beginning a fresh day, now with a great load on 
 
136 DONOVAN. 
 
 her heart she only longed to shut out the light, 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 
 she could bring to that day's work. Somehow her reflec- 
 tion 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 pains 
 with herself, put on a pink print dress, which made her 
 look much less ghostly, fastened a rose in her belt, and 
 ran down to breakfast with an air of assumed cheerful- 
 ness little in accordance with her heavy 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 the diffi- 
 culty. 
 
 "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 consolation." 
 
GOOD-BYE. 137 
 
 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 will you at- 
 tempt then? Conic sections, I suppose." 
 
 Donovan did not answer, but allowed himself to be 
 monopolised 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, you too, 
 Waif! Are you so glad to go?" Waif comforted her a 
 little, however, in spite of his eagerness to start, happy 
 Waif, who had saved his master's life, Vv'ho would always 
 be his friend and companion. 
 
 A few minutes more and the end had come. She 
 felt her hand taken in a strong firm grasp, and looking 
 up, met Donovan's eyes; there was an almost hard look 
 in them which puzzled her, but his voice was pleasant 
 and natural. 
 
 "Good-bye," 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 carriage drove away. "Please lift me up, sissy." 
 
 Gladys took the little girl in her arms, and Nesta 
 threw innumerable kisses after the departing guest; 
 Donovan looked back, smiled and waved his hand, and a 
 turn in the road soon hid the pony-carriage from sight. 
 
138 DONOVAN. 
 
 "I am very sorry he has had to go hke this," said 
 Mrs. Tremain, 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 was 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 miserable 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 undoing; 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 impossibility of real union between them. He, know- 
 ing all the misery of such differences as had existed be- 
 tween himself and Dot, taking too the darkest view of 
 his own future, had felt his agnosticism to be an in- 
 surmountable barrier. But Gladys could not feel this. 
 She saw in Donovan a noble, self-sacrificing character, a 
 resolute cleaving to right at whatever cost to himself, a 
 tenderness to children, a great capability of endurance, 
 an untiring search and desire for truth. Surely the light 
 
GOOD-B\'E. 139 
 
 would come to 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 by his questions, his anxiety to learn 
 her opinion, his eagerness to gain her approval, had cer- 
 tainly 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 bear for 
 his sake reproach and suspicion, to be doubted, to be 
 evil spoken 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 possibility 
 of bringing any real joy — joy worthy the name — into 
 Donovan's life, outweighed to her all thought of the suffer- 
 ing 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 
 Avould 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. 
 
1 40 DONOVAN. 
 
 Her biiglil 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 httle steamer which plied between Lymington and 
 Yarmouth, a dismal evening too, well in accordance with 
 his own feelings. A heavy sea-fog shut out the view, a 
 fine chilling rain fell, the passengers grumbled, two tired 
 children wailed piteously, nurses alternately coaxed and 
 scolded them. At length in the dreary twilight they 
 reached the little port, Donovan rescued his portmanteau 
 from the chaos of luggage and slowly made his way up 
 the long wooden pier, to the old-fashioned coach, which 
 with its patient horses and good-tempered driver stood 
 waiting outside a cheery little inn. The wailing babies 
 were packed away inside, Donovan mounted to the top, 
 where he was presently joined by two or three other 
 men, and by a forlorn little girl who could find no room 
 inside; he held his umbrella over her, and talked to her 
 a Httle; she looked tired and sad, he had a kind of 
 fellow-feeling for her. Presently all being ready the 
 driver cracked his whip and the horses started off 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 
 
GOOD-BYE. I 4 I 
 
 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 arm, wished the little girl 
 good evening and clambered down. The door of the 
 villa was wide ojDen, a flood of light streamed out into 
 the dusky garden, revealing old Mr. Hayes in the door- 
 way. 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 ques- 
 tioned 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 melanchol}', 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 was his darling 
 project, or that his pet hobby was the Temperance Cause. 
 
142 DONOVAN. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 A MAN AND A BROTHER. 
 
 Charity is greater than justice? Yes, it is greater, it is the sum- 
 mit of justice — it is the temple of which justice is the foundation. But 
 you cannot have the top without the bottom; you cannot build upon 
 charity. You must build upon justice, for this main reason, that you 
 have not at first charity to build with. It is the last 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. RUSKIN. 
 
 The 30th of September was a cold, blowy day, the 
 wind seemed to take a special pleasure in howling and 
 whistling about the dismal lodgings 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 faculty of doing Avith 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 howhng wind was edd)ang 
 through the passage and the infirm fastening of his 
 sitting-room door had succumbed to the blast and burst 
 open, that he became alive to the fact 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." 
 
A MAN AND A BROTHER. 1 43 
 
 "Nonsense," came the loud voice again, "it's not 
 more than three hundred yards from " 
 
 " Good-evening," interrupted Donovan, suddenly emerg- 
 ing from the sitting-room, and finding himself in the 
 presence of a hght-haired, bushy whiskered double of 
 Mrs. Causton. 
 
 "Oh, good-evening," said Stephen, holding out his 
 hand, and hastily glancing at his new companion. "I've 
 all sorts of messages for you from Porthkerran." 
 
 Donovan's hands clenched and unclenched them- 
 selves. It was a little hard to hear messages from Porth- 
 kerran spoken of in such a careless tone. 
 
 The little street boy who had carried the portmanteau 
 began to plead again for "another copper or two." 
 
 "Nonsense, be off, you beggar!" was Stephen's lordly 
 reply, and he passed into the sitting-room, giving a 
 chagrined exclamation at finding no supper ready for him. 
 
 Donovan left the landlady to pacify him, and partly 
 from dislike 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 re- 
 turned 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 plenti- 
 fully 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! 
 
144 
 
 DONOVAN. 
 
 The fact was that Stephen at Porthkerran and Stephen 
 in London were two very different beings. He did not 
 at first intentionally deceive his mother, but inevitably 
 he had struck out into a line of his own widely dif- 
 ferent from hers. Too weak to care to set up his prin- 
 ciples in open defiance he lived a sort of double life, 
 taking his fling when alone, and meekly deferring to his 
 mother's opinion when at Porthkerran. The result of 
 this falseness was most unhappy. Donovan scrutinized 
 his companion'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 days that he found out the truth 
 about his new companion. He knew that his bringing 
 up had been of the narrowest, and guessed 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 were 
 over, and the two had just finished dinner, the conversa- 
 tion drifted somehow 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, American fashion, listened silently to the con- 
 tinuous flow of talk, not taking great note of it until the 
 name of Tremain fell on his ear. 
 
 "Johnson's a good enough fellow," Stephen was say- 
 ing. "Not, perhaps, what Dr. Tremain would approve 
 of, but one can't be so strait-laced as he is." 
 
 "The doctor strait-laced!" exclaimed Donovan. "That's 
 
A MAN AND A BROTHER. I 45 
 
 the last word you can apply to him. Strait-laced! wh}^, 
 he's the very soul of liberality." 
 
 "In some ways," replied Stephen, coolly, "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 sight, but he 
 was able to guess pretty well to what set they belonged, 
 and he knew that they were probably the very worst 
 friends for anyone so weak-minded as Stephen. The 
 reference to the Tremains, however, brought too many 
 painful thoughts to his mind to admit of his dwelling on 
 his companion's words. He did not speak, and Stephen, 
 thrusting his feet almost under the grate, 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 mantelpiece, and 
 pushing back his chair began to pace up and down the room. 
 
 "She's an awfully jolly little thing, isn't she?" con- 
 tinued Stephen. "And she is grown uncommonly pretty 
 too." 
 
 Donovan longed to kick him; Stephen talked on in 
 easy unconsciousness. 
 
 "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 flames since, not 
 one of them was fit to be compared with her. I'd a 
 
 Donovan. 11. lO 
 
146 DONOVAN. 
 
 fortnight at Porthkerran before coming up here, you know, 
 and joUy enough it was too. Between ourselves, 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 dislikes 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 affairs 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 iron, and chosen your confidant 
 better." 
 
 "Well, all right, I won't bore you," replied Stephen. 
 "Where are you off to? don't go." 
 
 "I can't read yet, I'm going out." 
 
 "Johnson said he'd look in this evening, we'll have a 
 round of 'Nap,' that'll be better than turning out on such 
 a night as this." 
 
 "You won't play while I'm in the house," said Dono- 
 van, decidedly. "Look here, Causton, just understand 
 once for all that if you bring those fellows here we dis- 
 solve 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 three- 
 penny 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. 
 
A MAN AND A BROTHER. 1 47 
 
 His 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 hospi- 
 tal to Westminster Bridge. Then he paused, and leaning 
 on the southern parapet, in the very place where Noir 
 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 was there 
 to prevent it? he was absolutely 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, he 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 weak- 
 ness, his many failings. The fiend of jealousy rode ram- 
 pant over every better feeling, quenched for the time all 
 that was noble in him. But it was only for a time. Be- 
 fore 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 another man desired what he had 
 renounced. 
 
 Enjoyment, happiness, was not for him; a line of 
 
148 DONOVAN. 
 
 plodding duty — of entire sacrifice — was the course marked 
 out instead. The "steep of honour" was before him, his 
 reward must be in the "deeds of duteous service" them- 
 selves. 
 
 It should be so. The fire of indignation died down, 
 leaving him quiet, passive, depressed, but still resolutely 
 determined to keep on in this dreary round of duty. 
 
 The cold night wind blowing up from the river helped 
 to brace him for the struggle; air and wide open space 
 had always a very strange influence over him, this even- 
 ing he felt their influence more than ever. The river 
 flowed darkly onward, the lights on its margin threw their 
 yellow reflection in a second golden 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 grievances, there was — even to a 
 sometime misanthrope — the enthusiasm of humanity, a 
 wonderful panacea for self-pain. 
 
 He was conscious of that widening influence, but more 
 conscious 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 that anyone I know, a regular " 
 
A MAN AND A BROTHER. 149 
 
 The rest of the sentence died away in the distance, 
 there was a general 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 which 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 thumb, would very likely go to the bad 
 altogether, and, if so, he would unfit himself for Gladys. 
 In one moment there rose before him a picture of the 
 future, Stephen the orthodox dragged 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 
 the 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 
 
150 DONOVAN. 
 
 fallen, make some effort 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 disliked 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 pre- 
 sent Donovan with the past, only as he went through the 
 swing doors into the brightly-lighted saloon, a vague as- 
 sociation 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; he 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 desire 
 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 that fixed scrutiny had 
 been quite purposeless. Curious deep blue eyes, a some- 
 
A MAN AND A BROTHER. I5I 
 
 what broad face, and black hair — why, the fellow had a 
 Cornish look! And then it suddenly flashed into Dono- 
 van's mind that the likeness which had struck him was 
 a likeness to Trevethan the blacksmith. Surely this must 
 be Jack Trevethan for whom he had promised to search. 
 He 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 guess had 
 been correct, even though the man gave an angry denial. 
 
 "My name's Smith. W^iat do you want with me?" 
 
 "Nothing. But I have a message for a man named 
 Trevethan 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 sur- 
 prise, for he had been too much engrossed to notice 
 Donovan before he actually spoke to him. 
 
 "You passed me just now on Westminster Bridge, I 
 came in here to try to get hold of you. Haven't you had 
 enough of this? Come with 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 them, I suppose. Come along, you've had 
 
152 DONOVAN. 
 
 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 gained 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 up 
 his mind to go without one more effort. Hastily scrawling 
 his name and address on a card he once more crossed 
 over to the Cornishman, and said, with apparent care- 
 lessness, 
 
 "If you happen to know anything of this Trevethan, 
 he will be able to get news of his father at this address." 
 
 The man did not speak, but he took the card, and 
 as Donovan turned away he neglected his duties to look 
 after him as he passed down the long saloon. 
 
 "The light one was young Causton, but who can he 
 be?" mused the billiard-marker. "Farrant! there was no 
 such name at Porthkerran. He's a knowing hand, wanted 
 to get the other out of this, and hooked him neat enough, 
 but I was up to him, I wasn't going to be fooled out of 
 my name." 
 
 With which reflections he put Donovan's card into 
 his waistcoat pocket, and with a sigh returned to his 
 neglected duties. But in spite of his satisfaction at not 
 having been "fooled" into a confession, the thought of 
 his old father at Porthkerran haunted him uncomfortably. 
 
 Meantime Stephen was listening with great delight to 
 the music at the Opera Comique, Donovan fancied some 
 resemblance to Porthkerran 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 
 
A MAN AND A BROTHER. I 53 
 
 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 just. 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 chaffing from his former 
 companions about his capture by Donovan Farrant, undid 
 all the good that had been 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 failings, 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 Daily News ; Stephen too got up from 
 the table, and stood with 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 Dono- 
 van, carelessly. 
 
 "So I am; but you know well enough what I mean. 
 You know that you dogged me last night." 
 
154 DONOVAN. 
 
 "If by knowing where you were and following you, 
 you mean dogging, I certainly did," said Donovan, throw- 
 ing aside his paper. "I suppose Curtis and Co. have 
 been chaffing you?" 
 
 "That's no concern of yours, and I'm not going to 
 be interfered with, so just understand." 
 
 "I've not the least wish to interfere," said Donovan. 
 "I told you last night why I tried to get 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 danger with your eyes open, the more fool you." 
 
 "You're the last fellow in the world who has a right 
 to dictate to me," said Stephen, with offended dignity. 
 
 "I don't dictate, I only warn you that you'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 the Tremains, and so am I." 
 
 "But I'm not going to bow down to Dr. Tremain in 
 everything, and I told you so before; he's a good enough 
 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 would disapprove of. And besides, 
 Causton, if what you told me last night is true, if you 
 really care for — for Miss Tremain, I should have thought 
 you wouldn't have been able to go 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 MAN AND A BROTHER. I 55 
 
 "A great deal," said Donovan, vehemently. "Do you 
 think you'll ever be worthy of her if you go on making 
 such a fool of yourself? You know you're hardly fit to 
 look at her now, and what do you think you'll be like if 
 you let such fellows as Johnson and Curtis lead you by 
 the nose? You'll be a weak-minded despicable 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 Stephen, tauntingly. 
 
 The hot blood rushed to Donovan's face, his eyes 
 blazed with anger; in ungovernable fury he snatched up 
 a boot-jack and hurled it at his companion's head. 
 
 The next instant, however, the threatened tragedy 
 became utterly comic. Stephen, to save his head, warded 
 off 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. Waif's 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 you," 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, re- 
 membered that it was time he went back to the hospital. 
 He went off, laughing at the answer, "Because it borders 
 on the humerus," and apparently the incident of the boot- 
 jack had really dispelled his sulkiness. Donovan picked 
 
156 DONOVAN. 
 
 vip the fire-irons, patted Waif, and then, taking an armful 
 of books from the sideboard, settled down to his even- 
 ing's work. The boot-jack was ever after a theme for 
 laughter, but they neither of them alluded again to the 
 conversation 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 becoming 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 re- 
 turned the liking in his own odd way, vacillating between 
 Donovan and his old companions, and proving his 
 miserable weakness 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 invitation to Porthkerran. Of course it must 
 be refused, but Donovan had to go through the old battle 
 once more before the letter was written. He made it a 
 question of economy this time; his finances were low, and 
 he had made up his mind to stay in town through the 
 summer months, having obtained temporary employment 
 in working up the book-keeping of some small tradesman. 
 The Tremains were sorry, but could say nothing against 
 
A MAN AND A BROTHER. I57 
 
 such a plan, and Donovan saw Stephen go westward for 
 his three months' hoHday 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 read hungrily 
 on all sides of the great question which was gradually 
 filling his mind more and more. There was temporary 
 satisfaction in the actual reading, but he seemed to gain 
 little from it. Arguments for, repulsed him; arguments 
 against, pained him. 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 inclined to break out into violent reaction 
 after the subdued atmosphere 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 up 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, 
 discussing a tough essay on "Spontaneous Generation," 
 over weak coffee 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 
 began, in her rather demure voice. "I came up unex- 
 pectedly 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. 
 
158 DONOVAN. 
 
 Stephen is not unwell, I hope? I see you are break- 
 fasting 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," rephed Mrs. Causton. 
 "No coffee, thank you. I breakfasted at my hotel. Pray 
 call Stephen. I hope he is not often so late as this?" 
 
 Donovan judiciously ignored that question, and went 
 to summon the hope of the Caustons, whom he found 
 sleeping the sleep of the just, and in the meantime the 
 anxious mother took a rapid survey of the sitting-room. 
 It was redolent of tobacco, but no doubt that was due to 
 Donovan Farrant; for the rest she could 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-rimmed eye-glasses to read 
 the titles. There were several works on medicine and 
 surgery, and some bulky volumes of science, then came 
 an untidy pile of a strangely heterogeneous character. 
 She read the titles with great dissatisfaction. Maurice, 
 Renan, 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 
 belonged 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. 
 
A MAN AND A BROTHER. I 59 
 
 "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 well, 
 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 per- 
 formed 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 Neivs. 
 
 The Sporting News, as it happened, was Stephen's 
 paper, but he could not allow his mother to know that; 
 with a slight pricking of conscience, he merely turned the 
 conversation. 
 
 "Oh, of course even the hardest 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. Causton, apprehen- 
 sively. 
 
 "Oh, dear no," replied Stephen, this time with per- 
 fect truth. "They're a great deal too stiff for me." 
 
 Mrs. Causton gave a relieved sigh and the conversa- 
 tion drifted away from Donovan to the examination which 
 
1 60 DONOVAN. 
 
 Stephen was going in for that term. He had lost much 
 valuable time when his eyes had been bad, but was 
 nevertheless 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 Avhen 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 religious matters." 
 
 "Never; 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 please 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 with 
 us," sighed good 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 speaker 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 lodge with Donovan Farrant had not proved 
 really dangerous. It was, she still thought, a somewhat 
 rash experiment, but certainly dear Stephen was not the 
 least contaminated. 
 
A BRAVE SPRITE. l6l 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 A BRAVE SPRITE. 
 
 Wonder it is to see in diverse mindes 
 
 How diversely love doth his pageants play, 
 
 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 sensuall desire. 
 
 But in brave sprite it kindles goodly fire. 
 
 That to all high desert and honour doth aspire. 
 
 Ne sufFereth it uncomely idlenesse 
 
 In his free thought to build her sluggish nest, 
 
 Ne suiTereth it thought of ungendenesse 
 
 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 his first poursuit him forw^ard still doth call. 
 
 Faerie Queen. SPENSER. 
 
 "Curtis sent you word that he was going by the 
 9.30 to-morrow," said Donovan, coming into the sitting- 
 room one autumn evening, and finding Stephen for once 
 really hard at work. 
 
 "All right," was the laconic answer. 
 
 "You're not going to the Z Races?" asked 
 
 Donovan, abruptly. 
 
 Stephen 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 prepara- 
 tion so frightfully behindhand," urged Donovan. 
 
 "Am I not grinding like fifty niggers now to make 
 up?" said Stephen. 
 
 Donovan, IF, 1 1 
 
1 62 DONOVAN. 
 
 "But it's such nonsense your going," continued Dono- 
 van, rather incautiously. "Why, you hardly know a 
 horse from a donkey! you'll only get fleeced, and come 
 home up to your neck in debt." 
 
 "I wish you'd let me alone," said Stephen; "I tell 
 you I'm going, 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, more- 
 over, Donovan had the power of forcing Stephen to listen 
 to him; he went on gravely, 
 
 "However much you may kick at the word dis- 
 honourable, you can hardly say the way you are going 
 on is anything else. Only a few weeks ago you were 
 going to an Exeter Hall meeting with Mrs. Causton, and 
 
 now you are going to the Z meeting, with a set of 
 
 snobs who, as sure as fate, will get you into some scrape." 
 
 Stephen was imperturbably good-humoured that even- 
 ing; he did not take exception even at this very 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 I 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 afford such an unnecessary ex- 
 pense, but he knew that his presence would 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. 
 
A BRAVE SPRITE. I 63 
 
 when the limp yellow leaves float down slowly and noise- 
 lessly from the rapidly thinning trees, and the sun sends 
 its softened beams through a golden misty haze. It was 
 most delicious to get out of smoky London; except for 
 long walks every Sunday, Donovan had not actually 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 
 companionable 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 unchanged as if for 
 all this eventful time the world had been standing still 
 with him, the same genial, cheery, red-faced old captain 
 who had watched by his sick-bed at Monaco, and cried 
 like a baby when they had parted at Paris. Donovan 
 would have been both ungrateful and unnatural if his 
 first thought had not been one of real pleasure at meet- 
 ing again the kindly old man. 
 
 "Why, captain, this is an odd chance that has 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 
 
164 DONOVAN. 
 
 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 
 Sweepstakes 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 ^vithout 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 
 
A BRAVE SPRITE. I 65 
 
 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 
 plunging had caused the accident. Many people were 
 offering their help, several were stooping over a prostrate 
 figure, he pushed them aside; it was indeed Stephen 
 Causton who lay there perfectly unconscious, the blood 
 flowing slowly from his mouth. 
 
 Donovan's authoritative manner soon sent back the 
 mere idlers, while the really efficient helpers came to the 
 fore. Rouge offered his brandy-flask, and in a very short 
 time an extemporized 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 respon- 
 sibility was lessened, that he realized that it was Stephen 
 Causton, the Tremaius' friend, Stephen for whom he felt 
 himself in a manner accountable, who was lying there in 
 danger of his life. In a disjointed way he gathered from 
 Curtis the facts of the accident. Stephen had caught 
 sight of them, and had gone to speak to them, Curtis had 
 offered 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 first moment that Donovan could be spared he 
 ran down to despatch a telegram to Dr. Tremain, and not 
 
l66 DONOVAN. 
 
 till he had with some difficulty worded the message did 
 one thought of himself come to trouble him. 
 
 " D. Farranf, Royal Hotel, Z , to Dr. Tremain, 
 
 Trenant, Porthkerran. Causton has met luith a bad acci- 
 dent. 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 — Dono- 
 van — 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 son, who attended Exeter Hall meetings, 
 would have gone to such a place without great persuasion. 
 In a moment there rose before Donovan the whole situa- 
 tion. 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 mis- 
 understood, 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 to the sick-room and forgot all his 
 presentiments in keeping anxious watch over Stephen. 
 The haemorrhage had been checked, but all through the 
 night the most alarming prostration continued, and it Avas 
 far on in the 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 land- 
 lord's daughter keeping guard over him, and went him- 
 self to get much-needed food and rest. 
 
 Gladys never forgot that autumn evening when the 
 telegram arrived. For some days the household at 
 Trenant had been disturbed and anxious, for Jackie and 
 
A BRAVE SPRITE. I 67 
 
 Nesta were both laid up with the measles, and Nesta, 
 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 ivliat 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 lodgings 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 think 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 a.waited her, and she needed all 
 her strength. Over and over again she read the words 
 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. 
 
1 68 DONOVAN. 
 
 Tremain was called away 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; it was a tall manly figure 
 that rose before her, excluding everything else, a strong 
 face with dark sad eyes and resolute mouth. It could 
 not be that Donovan had forgotten his high 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 tears, choked them back angrily, re- 
 solutely. 
 
 "It can't be, it isn't so; I ^vill never, never believe 
 it!" she cried, passionately. "Though all the world 
 accuse him, I will never believe it! I will trust you, 
 Donovan — always ! " 
 
 She was calm again now, invincible in her woman's 
 stronghold 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; 
 she 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 ob- 
 jection, 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 
 house. "We shall start quite early to-morrow morning, 
 but she will be fit for nothing if she does not sleep first." 
 
A r.RAVE SPRITE. i6g 
 
 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 sym- 
 pathy, she often let herself become absorbed in sym- 
 pathising with one person. She was one of those cha- 
 racters 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 her to make all the necessary 
 arrangements for her journey, soothed her by mute caresses, 
 and at last persuaded 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 unconscious- 
 ness, 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 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 what I shall do without you." 
 
 "I would willingly come," said Gladys, trembhng 
 violently, "only — I'm not sure whether mother could spare 
 
 She broke off abruptly, as her father drove up in the 
 pony-carriage. The thought of meeting Donovan once 
 more had set all her pulses throbbing painfully, but she 
 
170 DONOVAN. 
 
 could not make up her mind to ask her father whether 
 she might go, 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 with 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 sympathising 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 heart beat 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 were shown into a private 
 sitting-room. Already the afternoon light was failing, but 
 
A BRAVE SPRITE. I71 
 
 a fire blazed 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. Per- 
 haps you'll wake him, sir, if you see fit," and then, with 
 a curious glance at the three visitors, the man withdrew, 
 mentally ejaculating that he "wasn't going 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, fancying that Stephen's 
 nurse had come; then, catching sight of Dr. Tremain, he 
 sprang to his feet. "I am so glad you've come. He is 
 really doing well now. The immediate danger is over." 
 
 As he spoke he shook hands with the doctor and Mrs. 
 Causton, then, for the first time catching sight 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 handshake 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 up and 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 re- 
 garded Donovan entirely in the light of an enemy. 
 
 Dr. Tremain Avent 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 slowly back to the sitting-room, where Mrs. Causton 
 
172 DONOVAN. 
 
 was lying in an easy-chair and Gladys was trying to per- 
 suade her to take a cup of tea. 
 
 "You will have some tea, too, will you not?" she said, 
 looking up at Donovan. "They told us you had been up 
 all night; you must be very 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 trifles 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 when Mrs. Causton first spoke to 
 him; the waiting seemed to embitter her, and she made 
 him feel that his presence was very distasteful. 
 
 "Have you any other particulars to tell me of my 
 son's accident?" she asked, very coldly. 
 
 "I think you have heard all now," he replied, "all 
 that I myself know, for I did not actually see the car- 
 riage upset." 
 
 "Having brought Stephen to such a place, I should 
 have thought the least you could have done was to stay 
 with him," said Mrs. Causton, with a quiver of indigna- 
 tion in her voice. "It has been a miserable mistake from 
 the very beginning. I hoped he might have 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; 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 effort she must make to check the conversation. 
 
A BRAVE SPRITE. 173 
 
 "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 
 poor 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 lips were firmly pressed together, 
 
174 DONOVAN. 
 
 his face rigid. Was it hard of him — was it cruel to her 
 to meet her thus? 
 
 The very sound of his own name from her hps had 
 re-awakened the wildest longing 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 temptation 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 away. That mo- 
 ment was as the bitterness of death to him. He was giv- 
 ing 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 keep 
 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 
 
A BRAVE SPRITE. I 75 
 
 temptation 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 cha- 
 racter some claim upon him? Had he not his own rights 
 as well as Stephen's to bear in mind? That was the 
 great question, it was clearly Self versus Stephen, a just 
 claim for himself, certainly, yet a claim for self onlv. 
 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 mo- 
 ments. He turned back to Gladys, she was leaning against 
 the 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, tak- 
 ing her hand, "believe me, it is much better. Good-bye." 
 
 Gladys looked steadily up at him, her blue eyes were 
 quite clear now, there was 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 
 
176 DONOVAN. 
 
 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 raised her out of herself He had 
 looked utterly noble, the very 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 Dono- 
 van with her whole heart and soul, and she felt, nay, she 
 knew, that he was "not far from the kingdom of Heaven." 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 OLD FRIENDS. 
 
 Wouldst thou the holy hill ascend, 
 "And see the Father's face? 
 - To all His children humbly bend, 
 And seek the lowest place. 
 
 Thus humbly doing on the earth 
 What things the earthly scorn, 
 Thou shalt assert the lofty birth 
 Of all the lowly born. 
 
 Violin Songs. GEORGE Macdonald. 
 
 London was shrouded in the murkiest of November 
 fogs; Donovan groped his way with some difficulty down 
 York Road, opened the door of his lodgings with a latch- 
 key, made his way into the cheerless sitting-room, lighted 
 the gas, and threw himself back in a chair in hopeless 
 
OLD FRIENDS. 177 
 
 dejection. The sharpness of the struggle was over, the 
 
 bitterness of the pain past, his was now the 
 
 Stifled, drowsy, iinimpassioned grief 
 Which finds no outlet or reUef. 
 
 Perhaps the most real and unforgetable form of suffering. 
 He sat motionless, the light which had so cheered 
 Gladys had died from his face now, it was clouded, 
 haggard, 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. He dragged himself up, opened it, and received 
 a frantic welcome from his dog, who had been shut into 
 an empty 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 slippers 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 liis 
 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. 
 
 Donovan, II. 12 
 
178 DONOVAN. 
 
 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 famihar 
 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 light- 
 ing up with a gleam of satisfaction as he wrung Dono- 
 van'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 dog-cart?" 
 
 "Badly hurt, but doing well now," said Donovan. 
 "How did you find me out?" 
 
 "Through the light-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, 
 recognized 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 paper 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 foggy street. 
 
 "I am in a scrape," said Noir, abruptly. "I have 
 come to ask if you will help me. Perhaps, though, you 
 
OLD FRIENDS. 179 
 
 are so respectable and virtuous now that you have for- 
 gotten 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 — I wish to goodness I could, for, milord, I am 
 decidedly up a tree. You remember Darky Legge? Well, 
 he has been arrested, discovered 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 wretch, 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 millstone 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 feUow." 
 
 Donovan had at first felt the most intense shrinking 
 from any renewal of their old friendship; the remem- 
 brance of those dark days was a sort of nightmare to 
 him. He listened to Noir's story silently and painfully, 
 wondering how he could ever have shared in such doings. 
 What a wretched misanthrope he had been, half mad- 
 dened by sorrow and injustice, hating everything in the 
 world except his dog! 
 
 But he was touched by Noir's thought for his old 
 
l80 DONOVAN. 
 
 father, the poor, weak, old man whom he still, 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, 1 shall be able to see something of him, 
 and will do my best to keep him straight." 
 
 "You are a trump!" exclaimed Noir, heartily. "But 
 won't he be in your v/ay? I know you're a cut above us." 
 
 "You forget I am a Repubhcan," 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 fol- 
 lower; 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 impressed 
 him half as much as this visible change and growth, and 
 more than all his readiness to help the old captain 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 his 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 per- 
 severingly for his deliverance. 
 
SILENCE. 1 I 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 SILENCE. 
 
 As for me, I honour, in these loud babbUng days, all the Silent 
 rather. A grand Silence that of Romans; — nay the grandest of all, 
 is it not that of the gods ! 
 
 Commend me to the silent English, to the silent Romans. 
 
 Cahlyle. 
 
 Dr. Tremain was very much vexed when he found 
 that Donovan had left without seeing him, nor could he 
 gather any very distinct account of what had passed 
 either from Mrs. Causton or Gladys. Mrs. Causton irri- 
 tated 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 an- 
 swer to a direct question, told her father that Donovan 
 had refused to see him, and would not allow her to dis- 
 turb him. All this tended only too effectually to confirm 
 the doctor's fears. Donovan had fallen back grievously, 
 there could be little 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 
 
152 DONOVAN. 
 
 fit for it; but just give me a simple yes and no to one 
 or two questions. Has Donovan Farrant been influencing 
 you in a way which your mother and I did not expect?" 
 
 "Yes," rephed 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 
 
 liis company 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 disagreeable might be averted by that affirma- 
 tive! He had been led astray, what would 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, 
 unbearable 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 that Donovan had led him into evil. 
 
 He turned a flushed face towards the doctor, and 
 unable to speak the downright lie in one word, softened 
 it down in a sentence. 
 
 "I got into the way of playing, and lost a lot at bil- 
 liards. Farrant went with me. I hoped to have made 
 it up here, but " 
 
 "That will do," said the doctor. "You have spoken 
 more than you ought." 
 
SILENCE. 183 
 
 There was such pain 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 courage 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 palpitating misery, wishing 
 that he had never seen Donovan, or had never heard of 
 
 the Z Races, wishing that many things had been 
 
 otherwise, but strangely forgetting to wish for the much- 
 needed increase of his own courage and honour. 
 
 In spite of this mental disturbance, however, he slept 
 again, and the next day he was so much better that Dr. 
 Tremain 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 Stephen 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. 
 
184 DONOVAN. 
 
 "I begged him to stay and explain all to you, for I 
 thought he could. He didn't answer at first, and looked 
 very, very 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 disap- 
 pointed. 
 
 "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." 
 
 For the first time it dawned on Dr. Tremain that his 
 child might possibly have thought more of Donovan Far- 
 rant than was wise. Mrs. Causton's old advice flashed 
 back into his mind; he had talked of open-armed Charity, 
 and Prudence A^dth 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 faces." 
 
 He could not say more, but he looked very sorrow- 
 fully into Gladys' wistful eyes. 
 
 "You will go to see him, papa," she said, quietly, 
 "and I think you will believe in him then." 
 
 Her words 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 Saturday, and, knowing there would 
 be no lectures, he hoped to find Donovan. 
 
 The servant thought he was 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 
 
SILENCE. 185 
 
 seemed to be dividing his attention between a long clay- 
 pipe and a tumbler of brandy-and-water. 
 
 "I must have made a mistake," said the doctor, apo- 
 logizing to the old 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?" 
 
 The doctor was puzzled and annoyed. 
 
 "Yes, sir, I do know him. Is he in?" 
 
 "Gone not ten minutes ago," said the captain, sur- 
 veying the doctor from 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 hin- 
 drance. 
 
 "Mr. Farrant will no doubt be home in half-an-hour 
 or so," he said, in his blandest tone. "Allow me to offer 
 you a chair." 
 
 "You seem to be estabhshed here," said the doctor, 
 Avith a shght frown. "Do you share Mr. Farrant's 
 rooms?" 
 
 "I have that honour," said the old captain. "We 
 are old friends — very old friends, I may say — and now 
 in trouble and destitution, he, like the good fellow he is, 
 holds out " 
 
 The captain suddenly remembered his line of diplo- 
 macy, and covered his confusion by a cough and a return 
 to the brandy-and-water. 
 
1 86 DONOVAN. 
 
 The silence was broken by a shrill voice from the 
 window. 
 
 " While - there's - life - there's - hope. While - there's - life- 
 there's-hope. While-there's-life-there's-hope!" screamed 
 Sweepstakes, in his harsh nasal voice, with maddening 
 monotony. 
 
 The doctor, chafed and annoyed as he was, could not 
 help laughing. Sweepstakes mimicking him in a senseless 
 titter, and old Rouge 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." Then, looking keenly at the doctor, he said, 
 hesitatingly, "You are not a detective, are you?" 
 
 The doctor laughed, and told him his name and pro- 
 fession. 
 
 "Oh! that's a comfort," said Rouge, heaving a sigh 
 of relief. "Now we can talk freely. To tell you the 
 truth, I thought you were tracking my son, who is just 
 off to America. Boat sails this very day; in fact, Dono- 
 van's now gone to see liim 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, Avith 
 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 are in terror of a detective's visit. Have 
 the goodness to tell me at what time you do expect him 
 to return." 
 
 Poor Rouge was so much flustered by the doctor's 
 
SILENCE. 187 
 
 hasty speech, that he was quite incapable of giving a 
 plain and satisfactory answer. 
 
 "I wouldn't for the world bring discredit on the lad," 
 he faltered, the ever-ready tears ^slowly trickling down 
 his v/rinkled cheeks. "I am as fond of the lad as if he 
 were my own son, and it's a son he'll be to me now that 
 my own has left his native land." Here he began to 
 sob like a child, but still sti'uggled to make himself heard. 
 "I'm not such a fool as I look — time was when I was 
 captain of the Metora — 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. 
 
 "Towards evening," faltered the old captain, "but I 
 couldn't say for certain. Perhaps you'll leave a message?" 
 
 "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 foggy; 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 
 maudhn old wretch as a fellow-lodger? Things certainly 
 looked darker and darker! 
 
 Evening came, Dr. Tremain went back to York Road, 
 still Donovan had not returned, and by this time the old 
 captain had solaced his grief so frequently and effectively 
 that he was by no means sober. A wretched hour of 
 waiting followed. The doctor looked at his watch at 
 
1 88 DONOVAN. 
 
 least twenty times, the minutes were passing rapidly by, 
 and at the end of the hour he knew he must leave the 
 house 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 had 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 front door was opened and 
 sharply closed, a quick firm step which must be Dono- 
 van'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 
 expression 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 enquired after Stephen. 
 
 "Stephen is better, going on perfectly well," replied 
 the doctor, shortly. "I must be off 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 it. One comfort was that the ordeal must 
 be short; a five minutes' walk — surely he could hold his 
 tongue for five minutes, keep self down, strangle the 
 words of self-justification which must expose so much of 
 
SILENCE. 189 
 
 another's guilt! And yet never before had he felt so 
 little confidence in himself, the struggle of the previous 
 day seemed to have exhausted his strength, as he stepped 
 out into the dark rainy November night he felt an almost 
 unconquerable shrinking from the inevitable pain which 
 was before him. If he could but win through with it! 
 If he could but do the difficult Right! and there floated 
 through his mind the definition of Right which both he 
 and the doctor held — that which brings the greatest hap- 
 piness 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 strength- 
 ening 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. 
 He 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 grieved me. I 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 had made up your mind to break 
 Avith 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 feel- 
 ing 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. 
 
I go DONOVAN. 
 
 "That is, of course, your own concern; but, as to 
 your relations with Stephen, I have some right to ask. 
 His father is my oldest friend; he will hold me respon- 
 sible 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 everything 
 far too easily. You are strong-willed enough 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 breathed hard, but did not speak. 
 
 "Have you nothing 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 per- 
 haps of Gladys' words, "You will believe 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 before; he misinterpreted it entirely. 
 But his very grief made him speak gently and pleadingly. 
 
 "God forgive me, Donovan, if I have been harsh 
 with you! but just let me know from your own lips that 
 }'0U cannot explain things — cannot free yourself from 
 blame. Gladys told me what you said to her, but I 
 couldn't rest till I had heard the truth from you yourself." 
 
 "I have nothing more to say," said Donovan, clench- 
 ing his hands so fiercely that even then the feeling of 
 bodily pain came as a relief to him. "I can explain no- 
 thing. It would have been better if you had not come 
 to see me." 
 
 " Ay, better indeed ! " said the doctor, with bitterness. 
 
SILENCE. 1 g i 
 
 "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 question 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 Dono- 
 van'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 mys- 
 teries; 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 tongue. Better 
 for Stephen, better that he should lose his place in the 
 Tremain household, and be entirely forgotten, 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 be- 
 lief He honestly beheved 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, 
 strengthened him now. Anything to save her from a 
 lifelong sorrow! "Think evil of me, dear love," was now 
 his inward cry, "suffer, if it must be, that short pain, 
 but only learn to forget!" 
 
 And yet! Even now came a passionate sigh of long- 
 ing, human weakness alternating with the lofty self-re- 
 nunciation. If only there had been no obstacle! W/iy 
 was he hemmed in by thick darkness? zu/ijy were his 
 
192 DONOVAN. 
 
 doubts insurmountable? And then he shuddered to think 
 that he was beginning to long for knowledge of the truth, 
 chiefly that he might be in a position to win Gladys. 
 
 These thoughts 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 unfavourably 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 ter- 
 rible pang with it, and sent a momentary spasm of pain 
 over Donovan's strong face. 
 
 "Just forget me, that is all I ask of you," he said, 
 unable to free his tone from all expression as he would 
 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 mo- 
 ments of life prevented him. 
 
 The shrill voice of a boy intervened. 
 
 "Punch, Judy, or Fu7i, Evening Standard, and Echo. 
 Paper, sir?" 
 
 Some passenger wanted an Evening Standard; at that 
 minute the train began to move. By the time the news- 
 paper boy had sprung down from the step, Dr. Tremain 
 was too far from Donovan to do more than wave a fare- 
 well. Once more Gladys' words flashed back into his 
 
SILENCE. 193 
 
 mind, "You will believe 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 inseparable 
 from right or absolute conviction of being in the right. 
 He could not clearly see the face now, but the last look 
 he had seen on it had been a strange blending of pain 
 and strength, the strength predominating over the pain. 
 Could he after all have been mistaken? Like the warm- 
 hearted, impetuous man that he was, the doctor at once 
 tore a leaf from his pocket-book, and, with tears in his 
 eyes, wrote Donovan such a letter as the best of fathers 
 might write to his son. 
 
 The ordeal was over, the victory 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, watching the train as it steamed out of the 
 station, with an odd sensation — more numbing than 
 keenly painful — that it was dragging with it a great part 
 of himself. Presently he must rouse himself to go on 
 with life, to make the most of what was left. There are 
 great 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 ^vith 
 what is left." 
 
 That the loss had come about by his own will did 
 not at all soften matters to Donovan, but rather the re- 
 verse. He was past reasoning, almost past thought. 
 When the red lamps on the last carriage had quite dis- 
 appeared, he turned slowly away, aware that he had de- 
 liberately, with his own hand, turned the brightest page 
 
 Donovan. 11. XX 
 
194 
 
 DONOVAN. 
 
 of his life's history. A new page must be begun; of that 
 too he was dimly aware. 
 
 He left the station and walked slowly through 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 Bridge, and chose as his halting-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, stronger because he 
 was growingly conscious of his own weakness, and be- 
 cause 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 lights, and the great loom- 
 ing 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 the fresh night 
 wind, but almost unconscious 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!" 
 
 Then came sounds of violent scraping. Donovan, 
 stooping down a little, saw that his neighbour, a small 
 ragged boy, was trying whether a light could possibly 
 
SILENCE. 195 
 
 be kindled from a box of fusees which had been soaked 
 through and through. 
 
 "Ye were a fool, Pat, me boy, to go to sleep in the 
 rain!" exclaimed the elf, with a few superfluous oaths. 
 Finding his efforts to strike a light ineffectual, he scrambled 
 to his feet, and with great 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 boy, 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. 
 
 "Och! yer honour has had no dealings with the devil 
 thin, or he'd niver ask such a thing. Why, says I to 
 me self, 'Pat, me lad, lave 'em to dry and ye'll sell 'em 
 right enough;' but thin says I to meself again, 'But, Pat, 
 maybe the devil 'ud be in the coppers ye'd get 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, gravely. 
 
 "Do ye railly, now?" said Pat, with a broad grin. 
 "And did the devil get 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 
 could 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 gripe ye warse next time.' " 
 
 13* 
 
196 DONOVAN. 
 
 "Do you see that fire at the other end of the bridge, 
 Pat?" said Donovan, looking down gravely 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 emphatically. 
 
 "Bedad and I do, yer honour, if I was to stale 'em." 
 
 "But if I were to give them you?" 
 
 "Why, thin, yer honour," cried Pat, grinning from ear 
 to ear, "it wud be the blissed saints as wud reward ye!" 
 
 " Come along, then," said Donovan, and the strangely 
 contrasted companions walked off together, the bare- 
 footed, superstitious, but honest little gamin and the 
 grave, perplexed, 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 XIII. 
 
 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. 
 
 By-and-by, however, being but human, his own sorrow 
 overpowered him again, shutting out for the time all 
 thought of others. He was no novice in sorrow; one by 
 
TEMPTATION. 1 97 
 
 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 
 strength. 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 acquiesced 
 without a Avord; had he been warned of the most im- 
 minent danger, 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 he would be open with her, 
 would remember what old friends they were, and would 
 not allow any formality, or even any mistake, to raise a 
 barrier between them. 
 
 "Be sure to Avrite to me when you can," the letter 
 ended, "for till I hear I shall not be happy about you, 
 and you know your place in my heart is very near Dick's. 
 You see I put my request on selfish grounds 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; 
 remember that you adopted Porthkerran 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 
 
igS DONOVAN. 
 
 the pain of leaving Gladys to have a thought for anyone 
 else, but now, as he read the motherly letter and re- 
 called 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 played, no need for beauty of 
 voice or grace of speech; for the silent player nothing is 
 required but self-restraint. 
 
 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 his 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 novelty; 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 selfishness, and no 
 more excusable on the ground of naturalness than selfish- 
 ness is. It was natural certainly to be dejected after a 
 great 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 
 
TEMPTATION. IQQ 
 
 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 tooth and nail, 
 and the strange incentive to the work was none other 
 than the old captain. 
 
 Poor Rouge 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 Rouge beyond offering him the 
 use of his sitting-room? He must alter his conduct, or 
 the old man might as Avell 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 Sweepstakes. By way of a 
 first step out of his self-absorption, Donovan walked across 
 to the window, and tried to get up a quarrel with 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 en- 
 livenment. They agreed that one should make an asser- 
 tion and the other should contradict it, this would make 
 an opening for impassioned argument. 
 
 "Black is white," asserted the younger monk. 
 
200 DONOVAN. 
 
 "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 
 nevertheless their quarrel was but a tame one. It re- 
 quired such an exertion 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-offering. 
 
 When the parrot subsided into quiet, Donovan turned 
 his attention to the outside world, which for days he had 
 seen without seeing. York Road looked very dreary it 
 must be owned. Exactly opposite his window was the 
 establishment of Swimming and Vapour Baths, then came 
 grim, uninteresting houses; far down to the left was the 
 entrance to a timber-yard, where he could see the tops 
 of wooden planks swaying to and fro in the wind. And 
 all the time the rain came down steadily, ceaselessly, 
 with a dull monotonous drip on the flags, the wheels on 
 the road passed by with a dull, hollow roll, the foot 
 passengers on the pavement with dull, thudding foot- 
 steps, the wind in its gloomy strait of houses with dull, 
 faint moanings. A grey world, but one which must be 
 gone 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 purpose. Worst of all, the sense 
 of his complete and final separation from Gladys had 
 
1 
 
 TEMPTATION. 201 
 
 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 fiiint hope of a possible re-union. He had really re- 
 nounced her before, but the most honest-intentioned 
 being in the world cannot altogether shut out every ray 
 of hope; 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 Avas 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 Do- 
 novan had allowed himself the pleasing pain of continu- 
 ally looking at the photograph Avhich 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 Nesta 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. Without 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 
 Trevethan's forge, was deliberately removed, and found 
 its way into his pocket with the ordinary unhallowed coins. 
 Then, having done his best to clear out his heart, he set 
 
2 02 DONOVAN. 
 
 to work to fill up the vacuum with that strange substitute 
 — the old captain. 
 
 Rouge at once perceived that, as he expressed it, the 
 wind had changed, when he awoke the Saturday after- 
 noon; his companion for the first time seemed approach- 
 able, 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 
 countenance, till the idea of old Rouge Frewin in 
 love with a beautiful Venetian lady of high 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 ventury," was suffi- 
 ciently ludicrous, and when it came to the description 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 re- 
 compense, it was impossible to resist the keen sense of 
 the ridiculous which was almost his only Irish characteristic. 
 
 "And did you really love this signorina?" asked Do- 
 novan. 
 
 "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 " 
 
TEMPTATION. 203 
 
 He paused, a merry twinkle lurking in his little grey 
 eyes. 
 
 "Well?" asked Donovan. 
 
 "The good ship sailed down the Adriatic, and know- 
 ing 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. 
 
 Not many days after this, however, the dull, tedious, 
 monotony of hfe was suddenly broken. Donovan had 
 felt as if he could never again really 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 seized 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 people. But never before had the desire been so 
 irresistible, the temptation so terribly strong. He had 
 
204 DONOVAN. 
 
 resolved not to play, had willed that he would utterly 
 renounce gaming, but he found himself now rebelling 
 against the restraint, albeit it was a self-restraint. He 
 had a horror of pledges as pledges. 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? Having schooled 
 himself all this time, might he not relax a little, and 
 satisfy this miserable craving? It was hard that by his 
 own doing he should cut himself off from the one amuse- 
 ment that seemed left to him in the dull, grey world. 
 
 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 Avith 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 the 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 thoughts, he made him- 
 self listen. There were plenty of Freethinkers among the 
 students, and many were at the dogmatic stage of atheism 
 which Donovan had just passed out of. Discussion on 
 the points of discord between religion and science was 
 very frequent, but Donovan rarely joined in it, partly be- 
 cause he was taciturn, partly because he was too much 
 in the borderland of doubt to care to make any assertion, 
 partly because of that strange and unaccountable sense 
 
 J 
 
TEMPTATION. 205 
 
 of reverence which was pained by hearing the Unknown 
 — the possibly non-Existent — spoken of shghtingly. The 
 discussion to-day on the existence of the soul was neither 
 edifying nor interesting. Donovan, who was in the worst 
 of tempers, was chafed and irritated by the worthlessness 
 of the arguments on each side. "Pack of idiots!" he ex- 
 claimed 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 
 confident tone of his neighbour, a young fellow of about 
 two-and-twenty, 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 dissect- 
 ing-room." 
 
 There was a general laugh, but it was checked by a 
 quick retort, uttered in a voice which was made power- 
 ful 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 soul. 
 
 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 "churchy," 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 sub- 
 
2 06 DONOVAN. 
 
 sequent 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 attend- 
 ance; 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 cards. He did not 
 say anything, but Brian at once caught sight of them. 
 
 "Hullo! these fellows have been playing," he re- 
 marked, "they've done their game — let's have a turn at 
 ecarte 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 struggle within him 
 was ceasing, a delicious calm set in. The mere sight of 
 the cards was to him what the sight of bread is to a 
 hungry man — to feel them once more in his hands was 
 bliss. Was the world, after all, so grey? With scarcely 
 a word he shuffled and dealt. His hand was one to 
 
TEMPTATION. 207 
 
 make the heart of a card-player leap within him, the old 
 passion had him well in its grip, the old fierce, delicious 
 excitement sent the blood coursing at double time through 
 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 the hne 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 gave place to deadly struggle, 
 his better self pleading eagerly — "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 girl — 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 right you 
 willed," urged one voice. 
 
 "Nothing is so weak as to stick to a mistake," urged 
 the other; "there's no such thing as actual right and 
 wrong — you can't prove it." 
 
 "There is right and wrong, there is purity of heart," 
 urged the higher counsellor — "think of Gladys." 
 
 He did think, and it saved him. 
 
 Brian thought him slightly crazed, for he threw down 
 the cards, got up from the table, and began to pace the 
 room like a caged lion. Before very long, however, he 
 quieted down, threw himself back in a chair, and in a 
 matter-of-fact tone which behed his look of exhaustion, 
 said, 
 
2o8 DONOVAN. 
 
 "I beg your pardon, 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 his idea of a gambler, but 
 the struggle he had just witnessed proved the 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 had to deal with," 
 returned Donovan, gathering up the cards — he was strong 
 enough to touch them now. "Who would have thought 
 that in this trumpery pack there was such tremendous 
 power? It's horribly humiliating when one comes to 
 think of it." 
 
 Feeling that he 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 played, which is getting on for three 
 years ago, I won a small fortune, which 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 thoroughly 
 abused a thing, you're never fit to use it again." 
 
 "That holds, I think, 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 a^ 
 
TEMPTATION. 20g 
 
 hard to you to understand or sympathise with my temp- 
 tation as it is to me to sympathise with the poor old 
 fellow who shares my rooms, who is slowly drinking him- 
 self 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 sympathise with anyone; but 
 then he is that rare being — a Christ-like man." 
 
 "Rare indeed," said Donovan, drily; "not too much 
 of that sort of thing in this nineteenth century. I see 
 you think I speak bitterly; perhaps you are right. I speak 
 as an unbeliever, and I can count on my fingers the 
 Christians who have had so much as a kind word to give 
 me." 
 
 Brian began to feel very much drawn to his com- 
 panion; in their next interval of rest he took up the 
 thread of the conversation again. 
 
 "That is almost too horrible to be beUeved," he said. 
 "I know people are intolerant, but that so few should 
 have " he paused for a word, and Donovan broke in. 
 
 "Mind, I don't say I laid myself out for their kind- 
 ness. I didn't cringe and fawn or disguise the views I 
 then held; but to be conscious that people would receive 
 you if you were judiciously hypocritical, does not raise 
 your opinion either of them or of their religion." 
 
 "No 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 misan- 
 
 DoHOvaii. //. I J. 
 
2 I O DONOVAN. 
 
 thropy. 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 down- 
 right 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 con- 
 verts, and I don't wonder at Raeburn making converts, 
 and as long as you persecute him, as long as you are un- 
 charitable 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 
 half-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 
 Raeburn, but anyone who is living in the vindictive 
 misanthropy which I was living in may well be ashamed 
 to go to one who leads a self-denying, hard-working life 
 for others, whatever his creed." 
 
CHARLES OSMOND. 2 I I 
 
 "But you do not go near him now, though you still 
 admire him?" 
 
 "No, for I've found the great blank 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 with- 
 out either being a hypocrite or disturbing a congregation." 
 
 Brian seemed about to speak, but he checked him- 
 self, 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 stiffness 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 XIV. 
 CHARLES OSMOND. 
 
 Thou art no Sabbath drawler of old saws, 
 
 Distill'd from some worm-canker'd homily ; 
 
 But spurr'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 pulpit-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. — Tennyson. 
 
 The deadly temptation of that night did not return, 
 but, though Donovan was no longer torn by the fierce, 
 
 14* 
 
2 I 2 DONOVAN. 
 
 inward struggle, what had happened made him think 
 more seriously. He was disappointed and perplexed to 
 find that, after these years of struggle and repression, 
 the old passionate desire was still as strong as ever within 
 him. With all his endeavours — and he knew that he had 
 honestly tried with all his might — he had only been able 
 to check the outward actions; he had cut off bravely 
 enough the visible growth, he had, as it were, razed to 
 the ground this evil passion, but its roots were still un- 
 touched. He smiled a little as he thought of it. 
 
 "Radical that I am, can I fail to root out the evil in 
 myself? Professing to go 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 suppression of evil in action; he had come 
 to the very end of his strength, he might by great effort 
 be pure in deed, but pure in heart 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 
 herself 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 in- 
 cidents 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 Avas 
 utterly incomprehensible. He was conscious, as he had 
 latterly been with Dot, that she was breathing an al- 
 together different atmosphere. He was like the shaded 
 
CHARLES OSMOND. 213 
 
 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 il- 
 lumine 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 hved a hundred 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 reproached 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 off this incompleteness? It was only a specula- 
 tion, but speculations are helpful if they go hand-in-hand 
 with honest work; if they lead to nothing they at least 
 teach us our own ignorance, and they may lead towards 
 the unveihng 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 walk- 
 
214 DONOVAN. 
 
 ing, 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 abiUties. 
 
 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. 
 
 "Bqg 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, anything'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 "w/ehgible 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 
 
CHARLES OSMOND. 215 
 
 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. 
 
 Donovan found his patient stretched on the floor in 
 an epileptic 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 
 hanging on the wall, he snatched one of them down, 
 crushed the white folds remorselessly together, 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 large 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 trop 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 
 
2 I 6 DONOVAN. 
 
 rather uncommon delivery attracted him not a httle; it 
 was manly, straightforward, quite free from the touch of 
 patronage or the conventional sanctimonious 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 suffers 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 
 suffers 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 un- 
 justly doubted? You who can speak from experience 
 will, I think, answer without hesitation, 'the one who is 
 doubted.' 
 
 "Believe me, you who are in the twilight of a half 
 faith, you who are in the darkness of scepticism, you 
 who are hungering after you scarcely know what, hunger- 
 ing perhaps for an unknown goodness, a far distant holi- 
 ness, your pain, cruel and gnawing and remorseless as it 
 is, is a mere nothing compared with the pain Avhich He 
 whom you doubt suffers. 
 
 "Yes, look again at your own experience, realize as 
 keenly as you can what is the pain of being unjustly 
 doubted. Take it all ways, the sting of the injustice, the 
 grievous disappointment 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 lone- 
 liness, his sense of betrayal, his indignation to be taken 
 
CHARLES OSMOND. 2 1 J 
 
 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 sharpness of the suffering. 
 
 "To infinite, unthinkable love, tlierefore, 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 sermon. Even as I read my text I wondered how 
 many will object to those words 'the Father of lights 
 with whom is no variableness, neither shadow of turning.' 
 
 "Father! How many shrink from using the word! 
 Sometimes 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 part of the text only, 
 they believe in a 'force' in which there is 'no variable- 
 ness.' Sometimes they believe in an 'impersonal 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 from 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 our- 
 
2 I 8 DONOVAN. 
 
 selves. And the real recognition of a father implies 
 obedience, and obedience is hard to all men. 
 
 "But, on the other hand, I must defend my use of 
 the word father from misconceptions. Not in the Maho- 
 medan sense of a gigantic man do we call God our 
 Father. The term given to us by Christ brings to our 
 mind a conception of love and protection, it ought 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 'father'? You will not better it -with all 
 your laborious efforts, your many — worded and compli- 
 cated 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 Avorthy of the name. 
 We did not understand our father, but we revered and 
 loved him, he was at once friend and counsellor, our 
 standard in everything. What would have been his feel- 
 ing if in later life we had doubted him, doubted his very 
 love for us, cast off our family name, lived in indepen- 
 dence 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 Di- 
 vine 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 reve- 
 
CHARLES OSMOND. 2ig 
 
 lation of Jesus Christ, the revelation, that is, of the 
 'Father of Hghts,' the Father in whom is no variableness 
 or shadow of turning; who, in spite of our sin, our doubt, 
 our unworthiness, will be our Father for ever and ever. 
 
 "My friends, my brothers, will you not think of the 
 infinite pain which is caused by the doubt 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.' 
 
 "Yes, that is true. To will belief is quite impossible. 
 By struggling to free yourselves from doubt, I mean mak- 
 ing a constant effort to live the Christ-life — the life of 
 self-renunciation that God has consecrated and ordained 
 as the high road to Himself There may be some here 
 who know nothing of God, some who know Him in part; 
 but to all alike there is but that one 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. 
 For the Father of lights will Himself meet us as we walk 
 that road, when we are 'yet a great way off' He Avill 
 appear to us from afar, saying — 'Yea, I have loved thee 
 with an everlasting love: therefore with loving-kindness 
 have I drawn thee.' 
 
2 20 DONOVAN. 
 
 "Now unto Him that is able to do exceeding abun- 
 dantly 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 mut- 
 tered to himself, giving his mind a sort of matter-of-fact 
 twist because he was conscious of a certain choking sen- 
 sation 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 encirchng 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 httle children. Perhaps the pure 
 Saxon English had attracted her, as it usually does at- 
 tract simple childlike souls. How many times could Do- 
 novan remember playing the tune for her! He seemed 
 now almost to hear the soft child-voice singing with the 
 congregation. With 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 
 
 1. 
 
CHARLES OSMOND. 22 1 
 
 lost all his "angel faces," and did not yet believe that 
 "the morn" was coming, he could not believe in the 
 hereafter, and he had given up all that was beautiful in 
 the present. Life will feel black to such. 
 
 He began to poke the fire, he picked up the crumpled 
 surplice from the floor, folded it methodically, and laid it 
 on the table, then, finding such a work too mechanical 
 to answer his purpose, he retreated into the inner vestry, 
 and began 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 verger appeared, 
 followed to Donovan's utter amazement by Brian Osmond. 
 
 "Hullo, who would have thought 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 again," said Donovan, "we must get her a 
 cab." 
 
 "Brown will do that. You come with me now, I 
 want you to see my father." 
 
 "Your father?" 
 
 "This is his church, did you not know?" 
 
 Was it then Brian's father who had been preaching? 
 Donovan did not ask, but followed him into the other 
 vestry, where several rather shabby-looking little boys 
 were just disappearing through the doorway, having left 
 what Mrs. Doery would have called their "whites" be- 
 hind them. There was only one clergyman, 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 eighf-and-forty; he was 
 tall — nearly six feet — squarely made rather, muscularly 
 
222 DONOVAN. 
 
 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. Look- 
 ing at him superficially, he seemed older than his years, 
 for he was nearly bald, and the fringe of hair that re- 
 mained round what he called his "tonsure" was quite 
 grey, but his eyes were young, his voice was young, there 
 was a sprightliness, almost a boyishness, in his manner at 
 times. 
 
 "Clever and honest, and not too clerical," was 
 Donovan's comment, the last adjective being, from his 
 hps, of the nature of a compliment, for he had a great 
 dislike of the clergy as a class. He had received from 
 individual members of the profession some injustice and 
 no kindness, and he not unnaturally proceeded to judge 
 them as a class, and to abuse them wholesale. A patient 
 who has received mistaken treatment from a doctor, in- 
 variably scoffs at all doctors, and ever after terms them 
 quacks. A client receiving an exorbitant bill from his 
 solicitor, relieves his annoyance by 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 introduced Donovan. 
 
 "I saw you and your dog come in," he observed, with 
 laughter in his eyes. "Now, if certain religious news- 
 papers 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 
 poAver in his touch; to shake hands with him was to re- 
 
CHARLES OSMOND. 22^ 
 
 ceive 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 who cared not a rush for what was 
 said of people, a man who would have preferred dining 
 with an excommunicated 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 talk, 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. 
 
 "It is the only way for a church like mine," said Mr. 
 
2 24 DONOVAN. 
 
 Osmond. "But I can, if you like, give you plenty of 
 sermons on that subject, and books too, much more to 
 the point than anything you can have heard to-night." 
 
 "Thank you," said Donovan, "but I am afraid I must 
 ungraciously refuse that offer. I have read some dozens 
 of theological books to very little purpose, and have 
 just made a clean sweep of them, and bought a polariser 
 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 books, why were you 
 so many years without the far less tedious process of 
 sermon hearing?" 
 
 "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 find the seat 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 defile 
 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 man of 
 Bruges?" said Mr. Osmond. "He was passionately fond 
 of his dogs; the cure remonstrated with him, and told 
 him that if he went to heaven he must part with them. 
 'I will go nowhere,' exclaimed the good man, 'where I 
 cannot take my dogs." 
 
WHAT IS FORGIVENESS? 225 
 
 "Capital fellow!" said Donovan, laughing. "I quite 
 agree with him." 
 
 By that time Brian had returned; the verger was be- 
 ginning to turn out the gas. 
 
 "Come and have supper with us," said Mr. Osmond, 
 as they walked together down the empty church. 
 
 "Thank you," replied Donovan, "I am afraid I must 
 go home; I have been out most of the day." 
 
 "Microscope, or the old man of the sea?" questioned 
 Brian. 
 
 "The latter," said Donovan, with a laugh. "Good- 
 night." 
 
 He whistled to Waif, and they disappeared in the 
 dark street. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 WHAT IS FORGIVENESS? 
 
 Skilful alike with tongue and pen, 
 He preached to all men everywhere 
 The Gospel of the Golden Rule, 
 The new commandment given to men, 
 Thinking the deed, and not the creed, 
 Would help us in our utmost need. 
 With reverent feet the earth he trod, 
 Nor banished Nature from his plan, 
 Bixt studied still witli deep research 
 To build the Universal Church, 
 Lofty as is the love of God, 
 And ample as the wants of man. 
 
 Talcs of a Wayside Inn. Longfellow. 
 
 As he walked home, Donovan thought a good deal of 
 the scene he had just left, and for the first time it struck 
 him that the sermon had been rather an unusual one for 
 such a congregation. Charles Osmond seemed to take it 
 
 Dono'i'aii. II. I 5 
 
2 2 6 DONOVAN. 
 
 for granted that his people thought; the congregation was 
 chiefly composed of working men and women and trades- 
 people, but he by 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 ques- 
 tion 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 exceedingly clever, an original sort of man, full of 
 resources, intensely conscious of latent power which he 
 might probably never have time or opportunity for bring- 
 ing 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 Raeburn; almost all who 
 had anything to do with him were attracted, they scarcely 
 knew why or how. He had a way of treating each in- 
 dividual as if for the time being his only desire was to 
 get nearer to him, and although 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 influence 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 con- 
 
WHAT IS FORGIVENESS? 227 
 
 ventional red-tapeism of clerical life, but each individual 
 was to him a wonderful and absorbing study. He rarely- 
 even in thought massed them together as "his parish," 
 but took them as his inner circle of brothers and sisters, 
 a tiny fragment of the one great family. 
 
 Of course he was 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, generally the "unco guid or rigidly 
 righteous," 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 excep- 
 tional gifts, and all his life long he had been struggling 
 with that deadliest of foes, conceit. He had the ex- 
 quisite candour to call his fault by its true name, a very 
 rare virtue; and few things angered 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 al- 
 most gratified, would give him a sense of dignity, but to 
 tell him he was conceited would be sure to give him a 
 hard homethrust. So he went on in his straightforward 
 way, struggling with his deadly hindrance, daily — almost 
 hourly — checking himself, 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 had risen im- 
 mensely 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 
 
 15' 
 
2 28 DONOVAN. 
 
 content with their own progress in righteousness — at any 
 rate, convinced that Charles Osmond's very apparent 
 fauh 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 could 
 attract. 
 
 The reason that he was still to be found toiling away 
 in an obscure parish in one of the poor parts of London 
 was not without its pathos. Very few were aware of the 
 real cause. Naturally he was not without 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 offer of a living in London worth perhaps ^300 a 
 year, the other was to a position of great responsibility, 
 invariably made the stepping-stone to high places. 
 Charles Osmond was human; it cost him a great deal to 
 give up the prospect of rapid and honourable prefer- 
 ment, and in refusing the offer he gave up many other 
 things which he much desired — the opportunity of mixing 
 with his equals, the chance of intellectual society, the 
 greater ease of speaking to a highly educated congrega- 
 tion. In many respects he 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 accept it. His power, his in- 
 fluence, his worldy position would be immensely raised; 
 he did not feel himself sufficiently strong to resist such 
 increased temptations. 
 
 So the chance of promotion was honourably rejected. 
 
WHAT IS FORGIVENESS? 2 2g 
 
 and Charles Osmond settled down to terribly 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 share of Christ's burden — the 
 burden of the suffering, the sinning, the doubting. He 
 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 
 "dangerously 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 particular people. His church 
 became a sort of Cave of AduUam — 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 clergy- 
 man to be honest and unprejudiced. 
 
 The walk home after Sunday evening service was 
 generally the part of the day's work which Brian dreaded 
 most for his father. He knew it was then that the 
 burden pressed most heavily 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 
 
230 DONOVAN. 
 
 to the haunting consciousness of faihire and to blank de- 
 pression. 
 
 This evening, however, as they parted from Donovan 
 at the church door, he seemed quite unusually brisk and 
 animated, and though generally too tired to care to speak 
 an unnecessary word, he had not v/alked 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, trium- 
 phantly, "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 hope 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 brought you together after all." 
 
 "Just as well," said Charles Osmond. "He is a fel- 
 low 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," said 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 length. 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 which he had been 
 
WHAT IS FORGIVENESS? 23 I 
 
 treated, but he has only once spoken of it at all, and 
 then merely because he grew hot at the mention of 
 Raeburn." 
 
 Charles Osmond sighed heavily, it was another in- 
 stance added to the hundreds he already knew of the 
 harm caused by injustice and want of charity. He fell 
 into a sorrowful reverie, but roused himself after a time 
 to ask what his son knew of Donovan's history. 
 
 "I know very little," said Brian, "he seems to be 
 alone in the world, and he is very poor. We are of the 
 same year; he came up at October two years ago and 
 got a scholarship at once. He's by far the cleverest fel- 
 low 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 devo- 
 tion 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 forget 
 the name. Quite of another grade to Farrant, and try- 
 ing to live with, I should fancy, for he's a regular old 
 tippler, but he's devoted to 'Donovan,' as he always 
 calls him." 
 
 "Oh! that's his name; is he connected with the Dono- 
 vans of Kilbeggan, I wonder? grannie 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 good deal 
 of humour in him, stifled by circumstances perhaps, and 
 
2^2 DONOVAN. 
 
 I'll stake my reputation 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 — English. 
 
 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 com- 
 fortably rude to him. 
 
 "You'll grow into a bear, a misanthrope, if you never 
 go anywhere," 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 term." 
 
 Donovan flushed a little at this, said abruptly that he 
 would come, and gave a rapid turn to the conversation. 
 
 The Osmonds lived in Bloomsbury, 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 being 
 far removed from West End gaieties, as the Osmonds 
 were something of Bohemians, dined at an unpardonably 
 early hour, and rather set at naught the conventionalities 
 of hfe. 
 
 Donovan was shown into a charming, old-fashioned 
 drawing-room, not old-fashioned according to the recent 
 high art revival of spindle-legged forms and Queen Anne 
 
WHAT IS FORGIVENESS? 2^T, 
 
 uncomfortableness, 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 Avith the real old 
 chintz worth any number of modern cretonnes, an old- 
 fashioned Erard piano that had seen good service, beauti- 
 fully inlaid tables, some good oil paintings, and a delight- 
 ful array of books in long, low bookcases, bound in old 
 yellow calf and that everlasting morocco which was some- 
 how procurable in the good old times when bookbinding 
 was an art, not a trade. A few modern nicknacks here 
 and there 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 any- 
 one 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 perished in 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 introduced the names of her old friends the Dono- 
 vans of Kilbeggan, and there ensued an animated discus- 
 sion as to the younger branches of the family, resulting 
 in the oft-made discovery that the world is smaller than 
 
2 34 DONOVAN. 
 
 we think, and that Donovan's grandfather, General Dono- 
 van, had been Mrs. Osmond's old playfellow. The gong 
 sounded, and the dear, 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, 
 Sonntag, 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 subject 
 which Donovan himself would not have ventured to in- 
 troduce in a clergyman's house, but which he found dis- 
 cussed with perfect fairness. Indeed, though 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 perfect 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. 
 
WHAT IS FORGIVENESS? 235 
 
 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 might perhaps 
 have been hard to say which of Charles Osmond's abusers 
 were right; 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 distinc- 
 tions. 
 
 However this might be, as the two sat that evening 
 over their coffee, Donovan fairly forgot he 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 him- 
 self almost thinking aloud, and as his thinking meant great 
 questioning, the possibility of having a being outside him- 
 self 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, 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 could not do better than try to imitate 
 the life of Christ. 
 
 "But," urged Donovan, "however much one may re- 
 solve to do so, I find endless difficulties when it comes 
 to actual practice. Take this, for instance — I wish to 
 find what is Christ's law of forgiveness, and am met Avith 
 
236 DONOVAN. 
 
 such contradictions as these: I am first told to offer the 
 other cheek, to let my cloak follow my coat, not to resist 
 evil. I am told 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 re- 
 ceived from a fellow-Christian," said Charles Osmond. 
 
 "Then what is an atheist to do when injured by a 
 Christian?" asked Donovan. "I will tell you the actual 
 case, and then you will see the difficulty. A certain 
 cousin of mine has defrauded me of my property. I 
 know, though unfortunately I can't go to law about it, 
 that he destroyed my 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 .^loo a year, though he knows that I know 
 of his villany." ■ 
 
 "You can't bring an action against him?" 
 
 "Unfortunately not. It is too great 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 feel 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 possible. When I do think of him, I confess 
 that I often get 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 
 
WHAT IS FORGIVENESS? 237 
 
 forget his existence. If this is letting him be to me a 
 heathen and a publican, I have so far fulfilled the 
 Christian law, but " 
 
 "Ah! yes, I'm glad you put in a but," said Charles 
 Osmond. "For though, after you have done all in your 
 power to reconcile and win back your enemy, 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 
 as well as on the good. The very first principles of 
 Christianity show that you must love this man, though he 
 is your enemy, and though it may be best for you to have 
 no personal communication with him." 
 
 "You mean I must love Ellis Farrant? It is impos- 
 sible. You've no conception what 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 de- 
 frauding me of my own." 
 
 "You must not think me hard on you," said Charles 
 Osmond. "Your feeling is exceedingly natural, and I 
 think perhaps you 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 
 
238 DONOVAN. 
 
 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, defrauded 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 im- 
 possible, he is a perfect scoundrel, and every day he is 
 adding to his sin.' 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 existence was in reahty, 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, 
 waiting for all who would take it. It was not a forgive- 
 ness 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. 
 
 "Perhaps it may be until you have realized what God 
 has forgiven you." 
 
 "But how am I to love what is hateful?" 
 
 "I never asked you to do so." 
 
 "The man is utterly hateful, a lying, deceitful, hypo- 
 critical knave." 
 
WHAT IS FORGIVENESS? 239 
 
 "No man is altogether evil, there is latent good 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 
 Avant 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 Osmond, 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 Dono- 
 van. "The more one tries the harder it gets, and one is 
 always coming to some new demand which is almost im- 
 possible 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 
 Avork was weary, but the end was Avorth all! When the 
 full vision breaks upon us — — " he paused, and there 
 Avas a minute's silence, but the light in his face Avas more 
 eloquent than words. 
 
 "If there be a summit and a vision," said Donovan, 
 in a loAv voice. 
 
 "Though it tarry, Avait for it," Avas Charles Osmond's 
 answer. 
 
240 DONOVAN. 
 
 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 wonderful 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, feeling convinced that Donovan did not often exer- 
 cise his lungs in that way, he kept up an almost cease- 
 less flow of the very wittiest talk. A great love of fun 
 and a certain absence of conventional 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 amused certainly, 
 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 
 him 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 looking 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 
 household, and with poor old Rouge 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 strengthened very 
 rapidly. 
 
 After he had left that evening the father and son 
 
WHAT IS FORGIVENESS? 24 1 
 
 lingered 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 clergy 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 try to be 'all things to all men.' I should 
 like to know how many parsons have said as much as a 
 kind word to that fellow, who must have been nominally 
 under the charge of some one all his life. Our beautiful 
 parochial system is fearfully apt to degenerate 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 sigh, "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 shame- 
 fully wronged by those who call themselves Christians 
 cannot but feel that he has a strong case against Chris- 
 tianity." 
 
 "But he will never rest satisfied with what he has 
 got," said Brian. "His very face tells that he knows he 
 is incomplete." 
 
 "Yes, he knows that," said Charles Osmond. "In 
 talking to him to-night I couldn't help thinking of Brown- 
 ing's description of the grand old ship dismasted and 
 storm-battered, but still bearing on, with something in 
 
 Donovan. //. j6 
 
242 
 
 DONOVAN. 
 
 her infinite possibilities which raised her above the mere 
 
 lifeboats, 
 
 Make perfect your good ship as these, 
 And what were her performances!" 
 
 "And yet you doubt whether he will be perfected?" 
 said Brian. 
 
 "Never!" exclaimed Charles Osmond, warmly. "I 
 never said so! That he will be the grand character he 
 was meant to be I have not a doubt, but whether he 
 will be anything but an agnostic in this world, God only 
 knows." 
 
 No more was said. Brian fell to thinking of all the 
 contradictory statements about the Eternities, his father 
 returned to the almost ceaseless intercession which was 
 the under-current of his exceedingly practical life. Highly 
 illogical according to Raeburn, and a great mistake ac- 
 cording to others, as most of the intercessions were for 
 those whom a righteously indignant Christian once de- 
 nounced as "past praying for!" But to him it was a 
 necessity of life; one of the world's sin-bearers, he would 
 long 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 uncharitable? For were not the nine- 
 teenth 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. 
 
CONTRASTED LOVERS. 2/!l.^ 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 CONTRASTED LOVERS. 
 
 "What we love perfectly, for its own sake 
 We love, and not our own, being ready thus 
 Whate'er self-sacrifice is ask'd to make; . ^ 
 
 That which is best for it is best for us. — Southey. 
 
 Stephen Causton did not return to the hospital till 
 March. Coming home one afternoon, Donovan foimd the 
 sitting-room in some confusion, scraps of newspaper and 
 dilapidated note-books scattered about here and there, 
 and a yawning space in the book-shelves which Stephen's 
 books had hitherto occupied. 
 
 "Hullo I 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 offended tone, "but a tallow-faced, bumptious 
 lad has been here, making no end of dust and noise, carry- 
 ing off your books, too, for aught I know." 
 
 "No, no, they were his own," said Donovan, 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 land- 
 lady for not having his things ready packed, and pitched 
 the books 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." 
 
 i6* 
 
244 DONOVAN. 
 
 Donovan laughed. Rouge continued, 
 
 "At that he sneered again, and said, 'You needn't 
 preach about his virtues; I know a httle 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 any- 
 one.' 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." 
 
 "By Jove!" said Donovan. "You don't mean you 
 really did. His mother will never get over it." 
 
 "He won't come poking his nose in here again in a 
 hurry," said Rouge, with satisfaction. "He 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 you 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 flatter myself 
 he has heard more home truths to-day than in all his 
 priggish 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 
 
CONTRASTED LOVERS. 245 
 
 come straight from Porthkerran, might have told him 
 something of Gladys, might possibly have brought him 
 one of the unanswerable letters from Mrs. Tremain 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 he was the 
 wronged one? What account would reach Porthkerran 
 of his stormy interview with the old captain? Something 
 tremendous might, without much difficulty, 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; 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 entirely. When he had heard the true explanation, 
 his righteous indignation was pleasant to see. He came 
 constantly to York Road for the sake of reading with 
 Donovan, and before long had become really fond of the 
 poor old captain, while Waif and Sweepstakes, with their 
 touching devotion to their respective masters, added a 
 sort of picturesqueness 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 Avere 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 off together in August, had a glorious tramp 
 
246 DONOVAN. 
 
 through Derbyshire and the West Riding 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. Donovan, who was stretched at full length 
 on the hearthrug, was so absorbed in some of the ab- 
 struse speculations which now very often occupied him 
 that he heard nothing, and did not stir till Brian was 
 fairly in the room. 
 
 "Hullo! doing the dolce far niente for once," he said, 
 laughing. "Who would have thought of catching you 
 away from the books!" 
 
 "Comes from the effect of Yorkshire air," said Dono- 
 van, getting 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 Poirthkerran, 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 uith me?" 
 
 "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." 
 
CONTRASTED LOVERS. 247 
 
 "Poor old fellow," said Brian, "has he had another 
 outbreak?" 
 
 "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 keeping other folk in order." 
 
 "Rather an unmanageable couple, yours," said Brian; 
 "I wonder 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 con- 
 quer it, but the more I see of him the more I doubt it. 
 I can do nothing for him except make his remorse 
 keener each time, for he thinks his outbreaks are a per- 
 sonal injury to me; and then we have any amount of 
 maudlin tears and good resolutions never to do it again 
 — till the next time." 
 
 He sighed. 
 
 "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 different 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 which there lurked more pain than merriment. 
 "Come on, what time does the Gale begin?" 
 
 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 with 
 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. 
 
248 DONOVAN. 
 
 "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, childlike face not in the least altered! 
 he remembered an old fancy of his that she was like a 
 blush rose; she looked very flower-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 with- 
 out further explanation he made his way along the bal- 
 cony. 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 part. 
 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. 
 
 "What, you here, old fellow!" he exclaimed. "Don't 
 let me lose you your lecture." 
 
 "All right," said Brian. "I don't care about it. 
 You're in some trouble, Donovan — don't pretend, now, 
 
CONTRASTED LOVERS. 249 
 
 that you're not. Was it that you saw Causton with that 
 girl?" 
 
 "In a way, 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 Avith 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 Donovan'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 in- 
 dignation , 
 
 "Do you think I am fit to ask Gladys Tremain to be 
 my wife?" 
 
 There was something grand in his humility. Brian 
 could only mentally ejaculate, "You splendid fellow! 
 you're fit to ask a queen among women." But he was 
 carried away by his enthusiasm, 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 
 
250 DONOVAN. 
 
 between us. It's all very well in the way of friendship; 
 you and I can rub up against each other's differences 
 without any hurt, but when it comes to anything nearer, 
 it doesn't do. I've tried, and it's torture — torture that 
 I'll 7iever 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 no- 
 thing to say to such a fellow." 
 
 "There are times when I could wish she would," said 
 Donovan, hoarsely. "Not now% though — not just now." 
 
 "My dear fellow, that's rather too strong," said Brian. 
 "Even I, a mere stranger, can see that she's miles above 
 him." 
 
 "Of course," said Donovan; "but it might save her 
 from worse pain." 
 
 "Well, if Miss 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 Causton." 
 
 "She does riot know I love her — at least, I hope not." 
 
 "You 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 Embankment, and Donovan seemed to lose the sense 
 of oppression, and to breathe freely again. Presently he 
 turned to Brian, speaking 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 Niemeyer." 
 
 f 
 
CONTRASTED LOVERS. 25I 
 
 So they went back to the York Road lodgings to- 
 gether. 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 
 affect 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 recollect- 
 ing some of their discussions at Porthkerran on this tem- 
 perance 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 Mo- 
 naco, 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 Causton atmosphere was op- 
 pressive, and the consciousness that Stephen was in the 
 way of seeing Donovan every day, added to the impos- 
 sibility of hearing anything about him, was almost more 
 than she could endure. She found herself losing self- 
 
252 DONOVAN. 
 
 control, and drifting into more constant thoughts of Do- 
 novan than she considered right; nor were her feminine 
 occupations so helpful in the difficult mental battle as 
 his mind-engrossing studies. 
 
 As they went home that night from John Gale's lec- 
 ture, it chanced that for the first time since her arrival 
 Donovan's name was mentioned. 
 
 "What a pity you could not have done good for evil," 
 sighed Mrs. Causton, "and induced that poor drunkard 
 who challenged you in the spring to come to this lecture. 
 I fear there is no chance that Donovan Farrant would 
 take 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 op- 
 portunity she quieted herself with an effort, and asked 
 gravely, but quite naturally, 
 
 "Donovan is still at the hospital, I suppose? Do you 
 see anything of him now?" 
 
 "I see him," said Stephen, "but of course we're not 
 on speaking 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 no- 
 
CONTRASTED LOVERS. 253 
 
 tice an impending 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. How'ever 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 dis- 
 agreeable and obtrusive, that he was as much in love 
 with her as it was possible for such a man to be. But, 
 as it was, she noticed nothing, she only wearied intensely 
 of the long evenings, when Stephen tried to enliven them, 
 and of the long mornings when she was alone with Mrs. 
 Causton; of the two she disliked the evenings least; but 
 merely because there was a chance of hearing the one 
 name she cared to hear. 
 
 It came upon her like a thunderclap at last. One 
 Saturday morning she was sitting in the little drawing- 
 room, writing to her mother, when Stephen, who had no 
 lectures that day, sauntered into the room. He began an 
 aimless conversation, she was a little cross, for it seemed 
 as if he might go on for ever, and she wanted to write. 
 After enduring half-an-hour of it she grew impatient. 
 
 "Let me finish this, Stephen, or it will be too late 
 for the post," she said. "We are to go out after lunch, 
 you know." 
 
 "You grudge me 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 op- 
 portunity of speaking to you. I think you must have seen 
 that I love you, that all I care for is to please you; will 
 
2 54 DONOVAN. 
 
 you say that you will try to love me?- — won't you try, 
 dear?" 
 
 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 you, won't you, 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 state- 
 ment of his case before she fully recovered her senses; 
 then at once the true Avomanly 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 old friends, you see; but in- 
 deed 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 happiness. 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 love you, never, never. Don't 
 think me unkind to speak so plainly. It is better to be 
 true than 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." 
 h Gladys' eyes flashed. 
 li; "J might well be angry with you, Stephen, for daring 
 
CONTRASTED LOVERS. 255 
 
 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 be 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 im- 
 patiently. "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 per- 
 haps grow better, become the paragon 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. "Per- 
 haps we have more in our power 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 think I want you to be a 
 paragon of perfection, but after last autumn I don't think 
 you can " 
 
256 DONOVAN, 
 
 He interrupted her. 
 
 "It is cruel to bring up past mistakes against me." 
 
 "I don't wish to do so, but I am afraid, 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." 
 
 He hardly knew what he was saying, for he was very 
 desperate in his intense selfishness, but he had just 
 enough shame left to flush a little as the untruth passed 
 his lips. 
 
 Gladys' eyes seemed to search him through and 
 through. There was a moment's silence. Then, with a 
 little quiver of indignation in her voice, she said, gravely, 
 
 "You are telling a lie, Stephen, and you know it." 
 
 He did not attempt to exculpate himself, he was too 
 thoroughly abashed. When he looked up again in a 
 minute or two he found that she had left the room. 
 
 Mrs. Causton was too genuinely good 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 im- 
 possible she should be quite just and kind to her visitor. 
 
 "You see, my dear," she kept urging, as she sat be- 
 side the sofa in Gladys' bed-room, "though you may be 
 quite right to refuse dear Stephen, yet, humanly speak- 
 ing, 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 either 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 
 
CONTRASTED LOVERS. 257 
 
 quite impossible, and entreat Mrs. Causton to let her go 
 home at once. However, it was too late to think of go- 
 ing 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 be- 
 fore the happy moment of her departure arrived. She 
 was so much relieved 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 weather and make herself agreeable instead. 
 
 That night 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. Tremain gradually 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 guessed what was the secret of her 
 trouble; she had said nothing because she thought silence 
 the best cure; but now — bemg 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 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 good 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 passed away out of our 
 
 Do)iovun. II, 17 
 
258 DONOVAN. 
 
 lives, you know how sorry I am for it, it is quite his own 
 doing; but whether the separation 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 dream." 
 
 "Then ought I not to think of him?" 
 
 "I think you should not allow yourself to believe that 
 he is in love with you. No woman 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 spiri- 
 tual 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 think." 
 
 "If we could find out the truth," sighed Gladys. "I 
 am sure Stephen 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, httle one? 
 Does it seem very difficult?" 
 
 "It is always hard to be good," said Gladys, with the 
 
"lame dogs over stiles. 259 
 
 childlike look in her face which had first awakened Dono- 
 van'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. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 "LAME DOGS OVER STILES." 
 
 We cannot kindle when we will 
 
 The fire which in the heart resides; 
 
 The spirit bloweth and is still, 
 
 In mystery our soul abides. 
 
 But tasks in hours of insight will'd 
 Can be through hours of gloom fulfiU'd. 
 
 With aching hands and bleeding feet 
 We dig and heap, lay stone on stone; 
 We bear the burden and the heat 
 Of the long day, and wish 't were done. 
 
 Not tiU the hours of hght return, 
 
 All we have built do we discern. 
 
 INlATTHEW Arnold. 
 
 "There's been a scrap of a child here asking for 
 you," said the old captain to Donovan, as they returned 
 to their rooms one evening after dining at a restaurant. 
 "I couldn't make out what she wanted, but she's been 
 here twice to see if you weren't come home." 
 
 "What sort of child?" 
 
 "Oh! a shabby-looking little lass. She wouldn't tell 
 me what she wanted with you, only she must see Mr. 
 Farrant, and when would he be in." 
 
 "She'll turn up again, I suppose," said Donovan. "I'm 
 pretty free this evening; shall we do those slides?" 
 
 17* 
 
2 6o DONOVAN. 
 
 Old Rouge 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 be seen. There were now ac- 
 tually three things in the world besides himself and his 
 toddy which the old captain cared for — Donovan, Sweep- 
 stakes, and the microscope. He loved them all exceed- 
 ingly in his old way, and, on the whole, the year which 
 he had spent in York Road was almost the happiest year 
 of his life. 
 
 They were hard at work with their slides, specimens, 
 and Canada balsam when the door-bell rang and the 
 mysterious "child" was announced. 
 
 "Show her in here," said Donovan to the landlady. 
 
 "Indeed, sir, she ain't fit," returned the woman. "It's 
 a-pouring ^vith rain, and she be that wet and dirty." 
 
 Donovan frowned the frown of a Republican, deposited 
 his section of the brain of a gorilla in a safe place, and 
 went out into the passage. The smallest little white-faced 
 child imaginable stood on the mat; the rain had soaked 
 her, the water dripped down from her dark hair, from 
 her ragged shawl, from her indescribably-draggled skirt; 
 she looked the picture of misery. 
 
 "Come in and dry yourself by the fire," said Dono- 
 van, 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 
 was it about?" 
 
"lame dogs over stiles." 261 
 
 "Please it was father, sir." 
 
 "What 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 to come, for he'll be dreadful 
 vexed if you don't," and her eyes filled with tears. 
 
 "Don't cry," said Donovan, "I'll come with you. Is 
 it far? You must show me the way." 
 
 They set off together, Donovan taking the elf under 
 his umbrella 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 
 Horse ferry Road into one of the most horrible of the 
 Westminster slums. He took the precaution of picking up 
 
262 DONOVAN. 
 
 Waif and carrying him under his arm; he was his only 
 valuable. They were unmolested, however, and the child, 
 turning into a forlorn-looking house, led the way up a 
 steep and dirty staircase, and turning a door-handle showed 
 Donovan into a perfectly dark room redolent of tobacco. 
 
 "Here's the gentleman, father; give us a light," she 
 said, groping 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 recognized the billiard-marker. 
 
 "I thought the message was from you; I'm glad 
 you've sent for me at last," 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 London is, he 
 asked me to look for you. You are like him; I recognized 
 you at once that night." 
 
 "No 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. 
 
 I 
 
"lame dogs over stiles." 263 
 
 "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 expres- 
 sion playing about his cynical mouth. "She's a bit of 
 the real Cornish 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," ob- 
 served Trevethan, 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 such a poor little brat." 
 
 "Oh, yes, she would be very glad to see tljat you 
 remembered Porthkerran and still cared for it,"' said 
 Donovan. "But it's a pity to let the poor child grow up 
 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 hesitation. "Your father is one of the best men 
 I know." 
 
 "Odd that he should have such a son, isn't it?" said 
 Trevethan, 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 
 
264 DONOVAN. 
 
 fought against the idea of being moved to a hospital be- 
 cause he could not endure the thought of leaving little 
 Gladys alone, or of having her sent to the workhouse. 
 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 would 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 arriv- 
 ing 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 was 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 /;-(9/^^/ for you," said Brian, laughing, "and 
 of course a ne'er-do-weel." 
 
 "Birds of a feather flock together," said Donovan, 
 smiling. "We've a natural affinity, you see. The great 
 
"lame dogs over stiles." 265 
 
 difficulty is about the child, I don't know what's to be 
 done with her." 
 
 "We might get her into some home," said Mrs. Os- 
 mond. "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." 
 
 "What child is the great hope, and for whom?" said 
 Charles Osmond, coming into the room with his peculiarly 
 soft slow step. "Do I actually hear you, Donovan, dis- 
 cussing such things as men and children? I thought you 
 were up to the eyes in work for the exam?" 
 
 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 exclamation, 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. "What 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 neglected-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 be- 
 lieved in the influence of children." 
 
266 DONOVAN. 
 
 "For those who want it, yes," said Donovan. "But " 
 
 "But we don't want it, and are to be left to our- 
 selves — 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 Blooms- 
 bury? — can we not scrub this blackamoor white? 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 ad- 
 mitted to St. Thomas's?" 
 
 "I think 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 stranger 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 living 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 p^articularly 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. 
 
"lame dogs over stiles." 267 
 
 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 day Donovan took 
 little Gladys to the Osmonds. 
 
 When he got back to his rooms he found, to his 
 great surprise, that, instead of old Rouge's well-known 
 figure sitting over the fire, there was a lady in the arm- 
 chair, well-dressed, quite at her ease, apparently en- 
 grossed in a newspaper. He made a sort of inarticulate 
 exclamation, upon which she turned hastily round. 
 It was Adela. 
 
 "My dear Augustus Ccesar, how dehghtful 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 Oakdene. But there's been a 
 conspiracy among the fates against me! if you'll believe 
 it, I've hardly been in town since that 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 day in town unmolested by friends or dress- 
 
2 05 DONOVAN. 
 
 makers, in which to visit you, I assure you it's been as 
 unattainable as the moon." 
 
 Donovan, a good deal amused by this characteristic 
 speech, brought a footstool for his cousin, poked the fire, 
 rang the bell for tea, and finally settled himself on the 
 opposite side of the fireplace. 
 
 "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 inclined to turn misanthropical again for 
 the sake of one of the old arguments." 
 
 "There, I was right then. You have actually re- 
 nounced it all and become a philanthropist! To tell you 
 the truth, the immediate cause of my visit was this: I 
 happened to be in the Underground this afternoon, and 
 imagine my feelings when, on the platform at Gower 
 Street, I caught sight of my misanthropical cousin pioneer- 
 ing a little City Arab through the crowd. My curiosity 
 was so intense that I was really obhged to come and 
 solve the problem at once. Besides, it was tantalizing to 
 see you so near, and to have my frantic signals dis- 
 regarded. You are immensely altered, Donovan; 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 think it rather odd if I were not changed." 
 
 "You have had a hard life, Fm afraid," said Adela. 
 "You know, of course, how vexed I am about EUis'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 dishke a person, nothing will change his opinion." 
 
 "We won't discuss him," said Donovan, afraid that 
 
"lame dogs over stiles." 269 
 
 inadvertently 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 Oakdene. 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 uncomfortable for me. I 
 oughtn't to say it to you, I suppose, but I must confess 
 that that marriage 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 wish 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 
 whatever about it, moons about all day with his cigar, 
 scolding anyone who dares to interrupt him." 
 
 "Are they coming up for the season?" 
 
 "No, he has let the Connaught Square house till July, 
 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 I know about them. Now let us 
 talk of something more cheerful; haven't you got some 
 nice, wicked, medical student stories for me? You are 
 a dreadful lot, are you not? Now amuse me a little, 
 there's a good boy, for, to tell you the truth, I'm dying 
 of ermui in this most prosaic of worlds." 
 
 "We are very prosaic here," said Donovan, smihng, 
 "nothing, I fear, to re- vivify you except ponderous works 
 on anatomy and medicine. Come, you shall be my first 
 
270 DONOVAN. 
 
 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 surgery door." 
 
 "You dreadful boy, what made you take up such a 
 trade?" 
 
 "Take care how you speak of my profession," said 
 Donovan, laughing. "I'll prescribe the most horrible 
 remedies for your enmii if you are not respectful. 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 good West-End practice; but other- 
 wise, 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 house her while her father is in the hospital." 
 
 Adela hfted up her hands in horror. 
 
 "Taking that child to a gentleman's house, my dear 
 boy — what an odd set you must have got into! That 
 sort of thing sounds very nice, but it's dreadfully extra- 
 vagant and romantic." 
 
 "It has a way of seeming very practical to the one 
 who is taken in," said Donovan, in a voice which revealed 
 a good deal to Adela. 
 
 "You are thinking of your good Cornishman," she 
 exclaimed. "But you were a more eligible subject than 
 
"lame dogs over stiles." 271 
 
 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 years 
 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 way. I suppose you've become a 
 Wesleyan or a Methodist." 
 
 He could not help smiling a little at her tone, and at 
 her fashionable horror of Dissent, but his grave answer 
 brought back to her the remembrance that even in the 
 old days 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, regret- 
 fully. It had always been the one great thing she had 
 urged upon him. 
 
 "Not quite in the way you would approve of," replied 
 Donovan, smiling, "but I do go in for the sermon now 
 and then ai 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 difficult and inconvenient way." 
 
 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 
 
272 DONOVAN. 
 
 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, "that 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 me. But just think of it now; with everything to 
 make her selfish she was always the first to think of 
 other people, with scarcely a day of her life free from 
 pain she was always the one bit of sunshine in the house. 
 And yet she 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 dif- 
 ference, the spirit of love can be brought 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 ago. 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 sub- 
 tracted the vein of fun and banter and chaff from me 
 
"LAIME DOGS OVER STILES." 273 
 
 there would be nothing left but a dull old spinster be- 
 ginning 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 afford 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 good," 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 ennui." 
 
 "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 remedies." 
 
 "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." 
 
 He opened Kingsley's life, which was lying on the 
 table, and pointed to the following hues: 
 
 Do the work that's nearest, 
 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. 
 
 Donovan, !I, 1 8 
 
2 74 DONOVAN. 
 
 By-the-by, talking of bachelors, how is old Mr. Hayes? it 
 is an age since I heard of him." 
 
 They drifted off into talk about Oakdene and Greyshot 
 neighbours, feeling that they had touched upon deeper 
 matters than they cared to discuss. 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 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 faileth, 
 
 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 daylight conies, comes in the light, 
 
 In front the sun climbs slow, how slowly. 
 
 But westward look, the land is light. — A. H. Clough. 
 
 Late in the afternoon of a sunny August 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 grand old monarch of Welsh mountains. The 
 elder, grey-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, following 
 in his companion's wake, and himself closely followed 
 by a fox-terrier. Very still was the mountain side, for 
 miles round not another living creatures was in sight. 
 Above them to the right towered the most abrupt side 
 
OF EVOLUTION, AND A NINETEENTH CENTURY FOE. 275 
 
 of Snowdon, rugged and wild and grim-looking, its chaos 
 of grey rocks relieved here and there by tufts of coarse 
 mountain grass or clumps of fern. To the left, in strik- 
 ing contrast, lay the little lake, small and insignificant 
 enough to be scarcely known by its name, and yet in 
 the beauty of its situation and in its majesty of calmness 
 attracting the eye almost as much as its stately bearer. 
 
 "There's a stiffish climb before us," said Charles 
 Osmond, pausing as he looked up the mountain path. 
 "What do you say to 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 to 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, 
 plunged into the cool water after the sticks and stones 
 which his master threw. Charles Osmond, stretched out 
 on the grass with one of the grey boulders by way of a 
 pillow, watched the two thoughtfully, the spirited swim- 
 ming 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. After a time he 
 made his way again up the slope, and threw himself 
 down at full length beside his companion 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." 
 
 18* 
 
276 DONOVAN. 
 
 "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 
 reputation 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 
 flame," said Donovan. "I'm afraid there have often been 
 times when I could have done something desperate to 
 Elhs 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 me would try hard 
 to hold me still on the shore. Good folk may shudder, 
 but that's the pluin unvarnished truth. I have shocked 
 even you, though, by the confession." 
 
 "No," said Charles Osmond, slowly, "you've only 
 surprised me a little. Having come to such blanks in 
 yourself and your system, I wonder rather that the fitness 
 of Christianity to fill those blanks does not seem more 
 striking. The lesson of forgiveness, for instance, could 
 only have been taught by Christ — by the great 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 
 
OF EVOLUTION, AND A NINETEENTH CENTURY FOE. 277 
 
 was Still fresh in his mind, he had by no means come 
 yet to think that logical j^roof could be willingly renounced. 
 
 "But the sense of need is an indirect proof," said 
 Charles Osmond. 
 
 "I cannot see it in that way," said Donovan. "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 Avill certainly die." 
 
 "It is not much good to talk by metaphors," said 
 Donovan, "and, since we have broken the ice, I should 
 very much hke to ask you one or two questions in plainest 
 English. It is all very well to speak of need and thirst 
 and the rest of it, but there are gigantic difficulties 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 Os- 
 mond, laughing 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 conglomeration of narrow- 
 minded 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 Donovan; "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. 
 
2-j8 DONOVAN. 
 
 "Well it z's a wall to me," said Donovan. "Having 
 all come into existence so exceedingly well without a 
 God " 
 
 "And," interrupted Charles Osmond, "finding it so 
 hard to live without Him, being so conscious of a grave 
 deficiency in our nature which yet nature does not give 
 us the means to supply. In honesty, you must remember 
 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, gravely, "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, per- 
 haps 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 omniscience. 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 consider 
 that spontaneous generation is already proved?" 
 
 "No," said Donovan, "but quite sufficiently for work- 
 ing 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?" 
 
OF EVOLUTION, AND A NINETEENTH CENTURY FOE. 279 
 
 "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 im- 
 pressing 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 good deal there," said Donovan. 
 "Why should we imagine that law — still less, a per- 
 sonal 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 off twisting the grasses which grew be- 
 side 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, 
 
 "And what then? I should hke to hear that borne 
 out a little." 
 
 "The question is, how has the absolute uniformity 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 possibility of variation. 
 Say, just for illustration, a million cells, each capable of 
 varying in a million ways. Now just calculate mathe- 
 matical chances that ultimate order could result from this 
 disorder, and, if so, what length of time, approximately, 
 it would occupy, allowing each cell an hour of existence, 
 and then to give birth to another cell, probably differing 
 from itself!" 
 
280 DONOVAN. 
 
 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 suppo- 
 sition 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 antecedent 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 Donovan, 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 mathe- 
 matical science demonstrate the probability of some law 
 existing before primordial cells existed, and that this 
 probabiltity is at -least as reasonable as a working hypo- 
 thesis, as is that of evolution in explaining the method in 
 which that primordial law has operated." 
 
 "But what Avill my old 'soul-preserving' friends say 
 to you?" observed Donovan, smiling. "You agree to the 
 disenthronement of that all-important being — man." 
 
 "Do I?" said Charles Osmond. 
 
 "Well, you accept as your oldest ancestor something 
 more insignificant than an amceba." 
 
 "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-world 
 begin?" 
 
OF EVOLUTION, AND A NINETEENTH CENTURY FOE. 28 I 
 
 "I think," said Charles Osmond, "there was once a 
 wise man, but who he was I haven't an idea, and this 
 was his wise utterance, 'The spirit sleeps in the stone, 
 dreams in the animal, and wakes in man.' The revelation, 
 or, if you will, the awakening, appeared to be sudden, it 
 came as it were in a flash; but is was the result of long 
 processes, it followed the universal rule — a gradual ad- 
 vance, then a sudden unfolding. And in this way, I 
 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 affects him most nearly, and in this case certainly 
 out of the abundance of the heart the mouth did not 
 speak. The firmi 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 back 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 young children, the very 
 truths that recent researches have wonderfully enlarged 
 upon. If you will notice it carefully the very order give., 
 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 man became a living 
 soul. To man evolved probably from the simplest of 
 
282 DONOVAN. 
 
 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 being knowledge of God. Man was now 
 fully alive, fully awake, the spirit had slept, had dreamed, 
 but the revelation was made, and his dormant spirit 
 sprang into hfe." 
 
 "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 
 get 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 higher, which something, I take 
 it, is the spirit life. And one thing more, if you 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." 
 
 For many minutes Donovan did not speak, not because 
 he was actually thinking of his companion's words, but 
 because a vision of the past was with him; little Dot in 
 her purity, her child-like trust, her clinging devotion, rose 
 once more before him. How had she learnt the truths 
 which to him were so unattainable? Brought 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 mysterious, in- 
 comprehensible idea ? 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 
 
OF EVOLUTION, AND A NINETEENTH CENTURY FOE. 283 
 
 Unseen, the Unknown, the to him Unknowable, had be- 
 come to her the most intense reahty. 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 iij 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, 
 because He is nearer to me even than you." 
 
 He could almost feel the little face nestling closer to 
 him as the shy words were ended, and clearly could he 
 recall the terrible pang which that faltering childish 
 sentence had caused him. He had then believed that 
 she was under a great delusion, now he inclined to think 
 that her pure soul had grasped a great truth wliich still 
 remained to him unknowable. This was almost all that 
 he had actually heard her say, except the last half uncon- 
 scious prayer, the speech of a little child to its father, 
 containing no pompous title, no ascriptions of praise, but 
 only the most absolute trust. She had never fallen into 
 conventional religious 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 argument, 
 however subtle, no sermon, however eloquent, had the 
 hope-giving power which lay in the little child's words — 
 words which had lain dormant in his heart for years, ap- 
 parently with no effect whatever. 
 
 Charles Osmond saw that his reference had awakened 
 a long train of thought; he w'ould not look at the changes 
 on the face of his companion, for just now in its natural- 
 ness it was exceedingly like a book, and a book which 
 
284 DONOVAN. 
 
 he felt it hardly fair to read. Instead, he gazed across 
 the quiet little lake to the sunny landscape beyond, 
 battled with a conceited thought which had arisen within 
 him, and was ready with his beautiful, honest mind and 
 hearty sympathy to come back 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, hugged 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 
 manner in which the silence was ended. Presently Dono- 
 van turned towards him again with a much brightened face. 
 
 "There is one thing which you Christians will have 
 to face before long," he 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 EVOLUTION, AND A NINETEENTH CENTURY FOE. 285 
 
 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 ivhole 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 immortality 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 with 
 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, to-dog-lovers — 
 in the ordinary, and I must say equally material de- 
 scriptions of the gorgeous halls of Zion." 
 
 "You two are very fond of each other," said Charles 
 Osmond, looking at the dog and his master. 
 
 "We have been through a good deal together, and I 
 believe, to begin with, the mere fact of his wanting me 
 when no one else did, of his following me so persistently 
 in the Strand just at the time when everyone had hard 
 words to throw at me, drew me towards him. I've 
 watched him nearly dying with 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 
 
2 86 DONOVAN. 
 
 me from a worse death, just by being what he is, the 
 most loving Httle 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 distract- 
 ing enough; but when I saw you and the fox-terrier 
 walking up the aisle, head No. i nearly went into space, 
 though I could have told the people every one of your 
 characteristic features, and should have known 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 Pantheism?" 
 
 "I think it is the Higher Pantheism," said Charles 
 Osmond. "While we've been lying here, Tennyson's 
 lines have been haunting me. You know them, I sup- 
 pose?" 
 
 Donovan only knew one poem in the world, however, 
 and he asked to hear this one. Charles Osmond re- 
 peated 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 thou, for He hears and Spuit with Spirit can meet, 
 Closer is He than breathing, and nearer than hands and feet. 
 
 It leads us to no vague impersonal Force, bitt 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 cHmb their mountain; but though he said no word to 
 his companion, he moved to a sort of soundless tune 
 which set itself to a verse of the poem. 
 
 Dark is the world to thee : thyself art the reason why ; 
 
 For is He not all but thou, that hast power to feel "I am I"? 
 
OF EVOLUTION, AND A NINETEENTH CENTURY FOE. 287 
 
 The climb was rather a stiff one, and by the time 
 they reached the summit they were glad enough of the 
 fresh breeze which was there to greet them as they made 
 their way up to the httle cairn. The sun was within a 
 quater-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 shade, varying from pearly grey to 
 the softest purple. There was something perfectly in- 
 describable in the sense of breadth and height and 
 beauty combined; in their different ways the two pedes- 
 trians revelled in it. The creases seemed to smooth 
 themselves out of Charles Osmond'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 be- 
 fore that it is the Infinite only which can satisfy the 
 Infinite. 
 
 The lofty is often closely followed by the prosaic, 
 and in the neighbourhood of great heights there lurk the 
 dangers of the precipice. Donovan had reached the 
 high ground, but in a minute came the most violent re- 
 action, the most humiliating fall. 
 
 They were not the only tourists who had made the 
 ascent that afternoon. A very different party sat drink- 
 ing and smoking on the other side of one of the huts; 
 their laughter was borne across every now and then to the 
 
2 88 DONOV.\N. 
 
 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 
 the shock was therefore quite unbroken. From high but 
 unfortunately fruitless aspirations, Donovan was recalled 
 to the hardest of facts by a sudden shadow arising be- 
 tween 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 for want of something better to do. Charles Osmond 
 glanced at him, then, as if struck by some curious 
 resemblance, he turned towards his companion, and at 
 once knew that the stranger could be none other than 
 Ellis Farrant, for Donovan's face bore a look of such fear- 
 ful struggle as in his life of half-a-century the clergyman 
 had never before seen. 
 
 Before long Ellis turned, and, iinding himself face to 
 face with the man he had so shamefully wronged, had 
 the grace to flush deeply. But in a minute he recovered 
 himself, and assumed the role of the easy-mannered gen- 
 tleman, which he knew so well how to play. 
 
 "Why, Donovan!" he exclaimed. "Who would have 
 thought of meeting you up here? Pity your mother's 
 not with me, but I'm only here for a week's fishing with 
 Mackinnon." 
 
 The struggle had apparently ceased, Donovan had set 
 his face like a flint, but his eyes flashed fire, and as he 
 drew himself up and folded his arms, at the same time 
 making a backward movement 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 whatever 
 as to his sentiments; he might have stood for a model 
 of one of the old Romans righteously hating his enemy. 
 
OF EVOLUTION, AND A NINETEENTH CENTURY FOE. 2 8^ 
 
 Ellis shrank beneath his glance, but it somehow made him 
 malicious. 
 
 "You must remember Mackinnoa," he continued, in 
 his bland voice. "He was with us, if you recollect, on 
 the night of that unfortunate dance, when poor little " 
 
 He broke off, for Donovan, with the look of a man 
 goaded beyond bearing, bent forward, and, with the extra- 
 ordinary vehemence which contrasted so strangely with 
 his usually repressed manner, thundered rather than spoke 
 the words, 
 
 "Be silent." 
 
 Being a cowardly man, EUis 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 watching 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 excep- 
 tion to the rule. By the time the last red rim had dis- 
 appeared, however, 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, 
 Donovan showing traces of latent irritation in the head- 
 long way in which he plunged down the steep path. 
 Charles Osmond following much more slowly, found him 
 
 Donovan. IL 1 9 
 
290 
 
 DONOVAN. 
 
 beside the little lake where they had rested in the after- 
 noon; perhaps the place or some recollection of their talk 
 had softened him, at any rate, he was quite himself again. 
 Charles Osmond put his arm within his, and they walked 
 on steadily down the less abrupt part of the mountain 
 to Pen-y-pass, and along the Capel Currig road to Bettws- 
 y-Coed. 
 
 Presently Donovan broke the silence. 
 
 "Well, you have seen ElUs Farrant at last. Odd that 
 he should have turned up just after we had been talking 
 of him. I hope you were satisfied with my Christian 
 forbearance." 
 
 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 far greater than 
 I can understand, 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 
 Donovan. "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 would have 
 acted," said Charles Osmond, quietly. 
 
 "Oh! once more I tell you this idealism is impossible!" 
 exclaimed Donovan, impatiently. "I am but a mortal 
 man, and cannot help hating this fellow." 
 
OF EVOLUTION, AND A NINETEENTH CENTURY FOE. 2gi 
 
 "You see, in copying Him whom I consider to be 
 more than mortal man, we do reahze our own short- 
 comings," 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 lower footing, 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 Do- 
 novan'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 so exceedingly slow to own himself con- 
 quered. "I'm afraid up there on the mountain I've 
 fallen when I might have risen." 
 
 "I daresay you will have another opportunity given 
 you," said Charles Osmond, by way of consolation. 
 
 "Don't be in too great a hurry," said Donovan, 
 smiling. "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 few 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 holi- 
 
 19* 
 
2g2 DONOVAN. 
 
 day as Donovan himself. He went back to work with 
 both body and mind invigorated, 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 XIX. 
 
 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. 
 
 Thy nature, which through fire and flood, 
 
 To place or gain finds out its way. 
 Has power to seek the highest good. 
 
 And duty's holiest call obey! — Whittier. 
 
 England 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 go out as assistant surgeon to the 
 seat of war. The behef that many hundreds of English- 
 men were being sacrificed in an unjust cause could not 
 fail to rouse such a lover of justice, and he lost no time 
 
duty's call. 293 
 
 ill 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 the 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 slow, 
 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 old 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 Avarmly 
 
294 DONOVAN. 
 
 expressed reply, that Trevethau the younger began to 
 feel drawn to him, 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 
 by the conversation. But after all, he reasoned with him- 
 self, he had more cause for rejoicing, for he had certainly 
 been of use to one of the Porthkerran villagers, and 
 Gladys would be heartily pleased to hear old Trevethan's 
 good news. To have helped even indirectly to please 
 her was something to be thankful for; besides, had he 
 not renounced the thought of personal happiness as such? 
 had he not chosen the way of sacrifice and willed to find 
 his happiness in serving his fellow-men? And then once 
 more he returned with all his former eagerness to the 
 anticipation of his coming work, work which bid fair to 
 call out all his faculties, and which made his pulses beat 
 quicker even to think of, for perhaps no one but an 
 awakened misanthropist can feel with such keenness the 
 delights of the enthusiasm of humanity. 
 
 His key was in the latch when the sound of a car- 
 riage stopping at the door made him glance round; to 
 his utter astonishment he saw his mother. He hurried 
 forward, surprise and not unnatural emotion in his look 
 and manner. 
 
 "Why, mother! this is very good of you," he ex- 
 claimed, helping her to alight. 
 
 "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, perplexed by her agitation. It 
 
DUTY S CALL. 295 
 
 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 days, 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. I 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 be- 
 ginning?" 
 
 It was the same selfish nature, the same incapability 
 of thinking 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 
 Ills childhood came back into his face. 
 
 "Then you mean to go to Oakdene and leave your 
 husband?" 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 send a trained nurse. Indeed, you must 
 not urge me to go back, Donovan, it would kill me." 
 
 Her agony of distress made him reproach himself for 
 
296 DONOVAN. 
 
 having spoken so strongly; he paced the room in silence. 
 It was unnatural of her to leave her husband, but yet 
 there was truth in her words, 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 discuss the 
 right and wrong of the question, he felt 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 httle time," he said, 
 when she had answered his questions in her unsatis- 
 factory 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 comfortable on the 
 sofa, and lay silently watching her son's movements with 
 a sort of interested curiosity, like a placid patient watch- 
 ing the preparations of a dentist, or a sleepy child follow- 
 ing 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 everything 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?" 
 
DUTY S CALL. 2g7 
 
 "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!" The 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, whether by conflicting duties or conflict- 
 ing passions he hardly knew, only he feared it was the 
 latter. Rapidly walking along the crowded streets he 
 tried to fight the battle out, mechanically taking off his 
 hat to an acquaintance, mechanically going through his 
 business as people must do even when the deadliest 
 mental conflict is raging, even when — perhaps unknown 
 to them — the decision for good or evil, for life or death, 
 is hanging in the balance. Previous arrangement and 
 strong inclination drew him almost irresistibly towards 
 the fulfilment of his engagement to the ambulance. Of 
 course other men would willingly take his place at a 
 day's notice, but his whole mind was set on going out 
 to the war, the thought of foregoing it was almost un- 
 endurable. And yet a perverse voice within him kept 
 urging on him that others might go out to the war, but 
 that he was the only man called to take charge of a poor 
 neglected wretch in a certain \¥est-End Square. 
 
 Yet did not the fellow deserve his fate? Donovan 
 
298 DONOVAN. 
 
 would have suddenly changed natures if the justice of 
 the thing had not struck him. Was it not perfectly satis- 
 factory? 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 greeted with the news that his enemy had 
 perished miserably in a luxurious house which he had 
 no right to be in. "So like your father!" with the 
 sharpest satire the words again rang in his ears. 
 
 God be thanked that the devil's alluring pictures can- 
 not stand side by side with the image of a true, noble, 
 whole-hearted man! God be thanked that the ideal man 
 has lightened the world's darkness! 
 
 Donovan's struggle was by no means over by the 
 time he returned to his mother; it raged all the time 
 that he was attending to her, all the time that he talked 
 quite 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 Oakdene?" 
 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 speaking of an afternoon stroll, Donovan 
 replied, 
 
duty's call. 299 
 
 "Because I'm going round to Connaught Square pre- 
 sently." 
 
 Mrs. Farrant 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 pang 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 quieted 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 hus- 
 band'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 then you will have been in the way of infec- 
 tion for nothing," urged his mother. "Come, change 
 your mind. Why must you go?" 
 
300 DONOVAN. 
 
 "Because it is right," said Donovan; and there was 
 something in his tone which kept Mrs. Farrant from 
 further objections. 
 
 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 hur- 
 ried 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. How much he dis- 
 liked it all, how intensely he shrank from the work be- 
 fore him, he barely allowed himself time to think. 
 
 Late that evening, as Charles Osmond was sitting 
 in his study 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 sub- 
 ject to notice that he interrupted his father 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 going south. Smithson was only 
 too thankful to step into my shoes, and will sail on 
 
duty's call. 301 
 
 Saturday. If you can, get him to trade for some of my 
 goodly Babylonish garments, as I can't well sport them 
 in England. I only saw him for five minutes this after- 
 noon, when we'd other matters to talk over. Ellis Farrant 
 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; they are in the depths. 
 
 "Ever yours, 
 
 "D. F." 
 
 "My grand old Roman!" exclaimed Charles Osmond, 
 half aloud. "You've grown a good deal since the day 
 we climbed Snowdon." 
 
 "But it's such folly to throw up this just at the last 
 moment," said Brian. "Besides, he's fagged with the 
 exam, and now, instead of having the voyage to set him 
 up, he goes straight into this plague-house all for the 
 sake of one wretched man." 
 
 "You may be quite sure that Donovan was very cer- 
 tain of the right before he took such a step," said 
 Charles Osmond; "he's not the sort of fellow to change 
 
 his mind or his plans lightly, whereas yoti " He 
 
 laughed and shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 Brian smiled too, for it was the family proverb that 
 he was the most impetuous and impulsive of mortals. 
 
.^02 DONOVAN. 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 VIA LUCIS. 
 
 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 without, 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, 
 
 AVho saw the Darkness overflowed, 
 
 And drowned by tides of everlasting Day. 
 
 Shine, Ught of God! — make broad thy scope 
 
 To aU who sin and sutler ; 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 prepara- 
 tions were ended. About seven o'clock he was set down 
 at the Marble Arch, and hastily made his way to Con- 
 naught Square. As he stood on the steps waiting till the 
 door was opened, the newly-risen moon looked full down 
 on him through the trees in the gardenj the quiet silvery 
 light was not quite in keeping with his state of mind, for 
 the whole afternoon he had, as it were, been ro\ving 
 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. 
 
VIA LUCIS. 303 
 
 It was certainly a curious position. Here he was, 
 after years 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 occupant. He could not 
 even to himself explain or understand the line of conduct 
 he was taking, he did not think it particularly just, or 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 impatient, when at length the door was opened about 
 an inch, and some one within asked what he wanted. 
 
 "I want to come in, Phoebe," he rephed, recognizing 
 the voice. 
 
 The maid opened the door wider, astonishment and 
 some perplexity in her look. 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Donovan, sir!" she exclaimed. "How httle 
 I thought to see you again! 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 glad to see that 
 you've not deserted your master, Phoebe. I might have 
 known that you at least Avould be staunch. We must 
 keep you out of the way of infection, though. Have you 
 been with Mr. Farrant at all?" 
 
 "I helped to move him, sir, this morning," said Phoebe. 
 
 "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 Phoebe, surprised, but 
 evidently relieved. 
 
 "I have come to nurse him," said Donovan. "You can 
 make me up a bed in" — with an effort — "Miss Dot's 
 room." 
 
304 DONOVAN. 
 
 In a few minutes more he was striding upstairs two 
 steps at a time, perhaps moving the quicker because even 
 now a voice within him was urging him to turn back, 
 caUing 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 himself 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 explana- 
 tion, then turned to the bed where Ellis Farrant lay. 
 
 After all, he was a man — a man tossing to and fro 
 in weary misery, racked with pain, scorched with fever, 
 fearfully ill and 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 hands. 
 
 "Ralph! 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, Ralph, 
 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!" 
 
 "I have come to stay with you," said Donovan, touched 
 by the reference to the past, to the school-days when his 
 father and 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. 
 
VIA LUCIS. 305 
 
 "There's one other tiling," 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 cannot remember it! Plague on the fellow! 
 Dono7)an! That's it. Pay Donovan a sovereign, will you? 
 And there was something else — a paper; what did I do 
 with it? 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 them, doii'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!" 
 
 "I'll 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 fore- 
 head, and before long had really quieted him; he fell 
 into a sort of doze. 
 
 Then Donovan turned to make his peace with the 
 much-maligned nurse, a good-natured old creature in a 
 gorgeous dressing-gown rather painfully suggestive of de- 
 funct 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 greatest part. 
 For Ellis remained for several days under the same de- 
 lusion, and would accept no services from anyone but the 
 supposed cousin and school-fellow. 
 
 Donflvntt. 11, 20 
 
3o6 DONOVAN. 
 
 His 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, some- 
 times red-hot, sometimes black and charred, sometimes 
 only freshly torn, recurred constantly in his delirium. The 
 last meeting on Snowdon haunted 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, he had grown so absorbed in the 
 progress of his patient that all sense of the strangeness 
 of his own position had died away. He had scarcely 
 time to realize that he was in his own house; when in 
 his brief intervals of rest he was set free from the sick- 
 room, and could emerge from the carbolic steeped barrier 
 which separated the upper part of the house from the 
 lower, he had no leisure to think of possessions or rights. 
 There were orders to be given, telegrams to be sent; 
 every now and then, in the early morning, or after dusk 
 when few passengers were stirring, there was the chance 
 of a breath of air in the park. 
 
 But to the sick man the discovery was a great sur- 
 prise and very sudden shock. The fever left him, the 
 dehrium 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 hor- 
 rible fears rushed through his mind. He had come to 
 take his revenge! He dared not say a word, but ac- 
 cepted everything sullenly and silently. At length, after 
 many days Donovan's persevering care and tenderness 
 
VIA LUCIS. 307 
 
 began to touch his heart. When the secondary fever set 
 in, his ravings were less of the burning paper, 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 many 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 Do- 
 novan; "the 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 fellow asks me anything, I can 
 but tell him that I do not know — that all is unknown 
 and unknowable." 
 
 "I will gladly come to see him," said Charles Osmond, 
 "if you think he would not object; but" — looking atten- 
 
308 DONOVAN. 
 
 lively at the singularly pure and noble face of his com- 
 panion — "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." 
 
 "'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 rapidly up 
 the square, and disappeared into the darkened house, 
 the house in which such a strange bit of life was being 
 lived. Hoiv those two cog-wheels would work together 
 the clergyman did not feel sure, but he was sure they 
 would in some way work the good. Ay, and that with- 
 out his interference! He was human enough to long to 
 have his share in helping this soul, honest enough 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 cheer 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 Donovan should change places. 
 
 The sick man not being a surface observer, however, 
 but an actor in this life drama, would strongly have ob- 
 jected to such a change. Very slowly and gradually his 
 sullenness had disappeared, and in his heart a strange, 
 helpless, dependent love was growing up — almost the 
 
VIA LUCIS. 309 
 
 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 ex- 
 hausted, his hoarse voice sounded hoarser than usual, 
 his inflamed eyelids 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 contained his brief confession. With infinite 
 difficulty he kept it out of Donovan's sight, with almost 
 childish impatience he waited for the morning, when, 
 before the two doctors, he intended to make his decla- 
 ration. He was too eager to gain the relief to care very 
 much what they thought of him. Perhaps he had 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 perhaps, having lived guilty, he desired to 
 die innocent, or as nearly innocent as might be. Un- 
 doubtedly there was a certain amount of selfishness in 
 the action, but there was, too, a very genuine sorrow, 
 and that strange 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 get rid of him the next day; he humoured him, how- 
 ever, and was not present when the two doctors arrived. 
 After the consultation 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 
 
3 I O DONOVAM. 
 
 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 incompleteness. To make matters worse, Ellis 
 seemed suddenly to have taken the greatest dislike to him. 
 
 "I know quite well what you have to say," he inter- 
 rupted, 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 begged 
 not to be left to the nurse, whom he greatly disliked. 
 This sudden change was perplexing and disappointing. 
 Donovan went away discouraged 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 night. 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?" grumbled Ellis. "What 
 made you come? Why do you stay? You know you 
 hate me!" 
 
 "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?" 
 
VIA LUCIS. 311 
 
 "Because it was right," said Donovan, shortly. 
 "Right! Do you think I shall believe that? All very 
 fine when you knew quite well I'd ruined you. Didn't 
 you know, I say? Didn't you know well enough?" 
 
 "Of course," said Donovan, "But 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 believe 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, however, 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. Donovan 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 steal- 
 ing over the horizon. Everything looked inexpressibly 
 dreary; the room was at the back of the house; he could 
 see the bare trees waving in the wind, and the grim, 
 Avhite 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 
 
3 I 2 DONOVAN. 
 
 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, just wasted his life? was there no future for 
 him? 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 generation, 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 for ever was less tolerable 
 than the idea of the little child passing from terrible 
 pain to the "peace of nothingness." 
 
 What was the Truth? Did this awfully mysterious 
 life end with what was called Death? 
 
 And still a voice repeated his own words — "Surely 
 you can believe in me now!" 
 
 Then again he looked at the sleeping man, and again 
 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. He might just as 
 well have gone out to the war and left 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 "hkely story!" Evidently he could not bring himself 
 to believe, and how was it possible to give him proof! 
 The most wounding sense of rejection and disappointment 
 filled his heart. 
 
APPREHENSION. 3 I 3 
 
 And still 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 possible. He realized that his pain about 
 Ellis was but the shadow of the pain which he himself 
 had given to "One better than the best conceivable." 
 He saw that for want of logical proof he too had rejected 
 Him whose ways are above and beyond proof The veil 
 was lifted, and in the place of the dim Unknown stood 
 One who had loved him with everlasting love, who had 
 drawn him with loving-kindness. 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 APPREHENSION. 
 
 Life has two ecstatic moments, one when the spirit catches sight 
 
 of Truth, the other when it recognizes a kindred spirit Perhaps 
 
 it is 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 rapture 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 rapture is 
 the quietest thing in the world. 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 
 
3 1 4 DONOVAN. 
 
 rewarded by some grand discovery, will be very calm 
 because 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 west- 
 ward — all the land was bathed in the rosy glow of sunrise. 
 The wind had gone down, the bare trees no longer waved 
 dismally to and fro, the white graves in the burial-ground 
 were softened and mellowed in the glorious flood of light. 
 It was not unlike the change in his own life — the dark- 
 ness past, the sun changing all the scene. For was not 
 the mystery of life solved? had not even the grave "its 
 sunny side?" It was when the prophet realized the ever- 
 lastingness 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 Avere, given back to him once more. 
 
 The sick man stirred. Donovan went to the beside. 
 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 ray dying day? This is my dying day, and you've got 
 your wish." 
 
APPREHENSION. 3 I 5 
 
 "I have unwished it," said Donovan, quietly. 
 
 "I beheve you have," said EUis, looking at him 
 steadily for a minute. "But how can I forget? The sin 
 is the same whether you forgive or not. And I've not 
 even enjoyed it — do you hear? I've not been able to 
 enjoy it!" 
 
 "No? Then God has been very good to you," said 
 Donovan. 
 
 "Good! What do you mean?" groaned EUis. 
 
 "That the 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 con- 
 tinued — "I've done what I could. I've got it signed 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." 
 
 Donovan glanced at the confession and put it aside. 
 
 "Don't let it be lost, don't leave it about," cried Ellis, 
 nervously. "Without it you won't get your rights, and, 
 if not, I couldn't rest in my grave." 
 
 Just at that moment Donovan felt supremely indiiferent 
 as to the property, but to please Ellis he put the paper 
 in a safe place. 
 
 "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." 
 
3 I 6 DONOVAN. 
 
 "That wasn't what they used to teach; I beheve you're 
 half a sceptic still," groaned Ellis. "I'm sure there was 
 a way of getting 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 who 
 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." 
 
 "How 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 know, must you not be conscious of God's 
 presence?" 
 
 "I've had that," groaned Elhs, "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 seest 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? They used to say something — I forget 
 what, it never seemed to me very real. Do you think 
 one 7nust be punished?" 
 
 "Yes, I do," said Donovan. 
 
 "Oh! is there no way of getting off?" groaned ElHs. 
 
APPREHENSION. 3 I 7 
 
 "I don't think you'll wish to 'get off,'" replied Do- 
 novan. 
 
 "Not wish! How little you know! What would you 
 do if you were lying as I am, with only 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 
 selfishness," said Donovan, slowly, "and to give myself 
 unreservedly into God's keeping." 
 
 Death has a strange way of breaking 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 open- 
 ness to each other. It was a little hard on him perhaps 
 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 humility touched Ellis when glib, con- 
 ventional utterances would have passed by him unheeded. 
 And yet the sick man did not gather from his words one 
 grain of selfish comfort. Donovan evidently did not be- 
 lieve in any charm for converting the death-bed of a 
 wrong-doer into that of a saint; he seemed quite con- 
 vinced that punishment did await him, purifying punish- 
 ment. And Ellis, who had all his life hoped to set things 
 right at the last, was much more terrified at the idea of 
 certain punishment, even with his ultimate good in view, 
 than of everlasting punishment, which, by some theological 
 charm, he might hope altogether to escape. The in- 
 evitable loss of even some small possession is much more 
 keenly felt than the possible loss of all, which we hope 
 to avert, and the very idea of which we can hardly take 
 into our minds. 
 
3 I 8 DONOVAN. 
 
 The one only comfort of that terrible day was in the 
 realization of Donovan's forgiveness. By degrees this 
 began to work in the poor man's mind, almost imper- 
 ceptibly to alter his grim notions of the stern, inex- 
 orable Judge in whom he 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 you 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 that it rested on his shoulder in the way which 
 gave the sick man most relief. "I know very little of 
 what they say, and am at the beginning of everything, 
 but I am sure that whatever love I have for you is but 
 the tiniest ray of His 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 difficulties 
 as he himself had had — no intellectual 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? Yet he could reach 
 
 i 
 
APPREHENSION. 3 I Q 
 
 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 Avith 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 Judge. I wish I'd never been 
 born, I tell you!" 
 
 Donovan felt almost choked; he would have given 
 worlds to have had Charles Osmond there at that mo- 
 ment. But there was no chance of getting a better man 
 to speak to Ellis then, nor, had the greatest saints upon 
 earth been present, would they have had as much in- 
 fluence with him as the man whom he had wronged. 
 
 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 going 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 graphically 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 re- 
 ceived had hardened and embittered him; then of his 
 return to the house, of the way in which his father had 
 received 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 punish- 
 ment. 
 
 His voice got a little husky towards the end. Elhs, 
 too, was evidently much moved. 
 
320 DONOVAN. 
 
 "Do you think God is at all like your father?" he 
 faltered. 
 
 It hurt Donovan a little, this bald anthropomorphism, 
 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 shadow of the great Fatherhood — and the shadow 
 can't be without the reality." 
 
 Ellis seemed satisfied. After that he slept at inter- 
 vals, murmuring indistinctly every now and then frag- 
 ments of the story he had just heard, or wandering back 
 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 together 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 forgiveness 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. \Vhen all was over he could 
 no longer resist the craving for air which had for some 
 
APPREHENSION. 32 I 
 
 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 ex- 
 hilarating. The outer world suited his state of mind ex- 
 actly. 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 had first given him some idea of the most recent 
 solar discoveries. He could clearly remember the sort of 
 exultant glow of wonder and awe which had taken pos- 
 session of him; how the whole 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 had been laden with the marvellous; no- 
 thing 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 un- 
 seen was 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 was all calmness. 
 
 I'he park seemed deserted. The sole creature he 
 
 Donovan. II, 21 
 
^2 2 DONOVAN. 
 
 met was an organ-grinder setting out on his daily rounds. 
 Involuntarily they exchanged a dtwn 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 — Easters which are not less real because the 
 church bells do not ring — which, though chanted of by 
 no earthly choir, cause joy in the presence of the angels 
 of God. 
 
TREVETHAN SPEAKS. ^2;^ 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 TREVETHAN SPEAKS. 
 
 But Thou wilt sin and grief destroy; 
 That so the broken bones may joy, 
 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 httle visible change in 
 Gladys. Outwardly her life had been very quiet and un- 
 eventful since her last meeting with Donovan, and what- 
 ever anxiety or inward trouble she had had was not 
 registered on her fair, open brow, or in her clear, quiet, 
 blue-grey 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, 
 who, from a remarkably small child, had shot up into a 
 slim little girl of eight years. The two sisters were walk- 
 ing together along the Porthkerran cliffs, one winter after- 
 noon, 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 en- 
 grossed with her own thoughts. 
 
 The Caustons were spending a few days with them, 
 and Stephen's presence was rather tiresome and embar- 
 rassing. She had really come out chiefly to escape his 
 company, for the afternoon was not at all tempting. A 
 
324 DONOVAN. 
 
 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 depressing 
 in the great, grey expanse of sea heaving and tossing 
 restlessly, in the long white 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 gust of Avind threatened to blow it quite over. 
 She watched it bending and swaying beneath the blast, 
 but still making way, until at length it disappeared 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 grey 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 
 against wind and tide? A rift in the clouds made way 
 for a gleam of sunlight, and it so happened that the 
 gleam fell on the horizon-line in one golden little spot of 
 brightness. Right in the centre of it she could clearly 
 make out the dark sail of the pilot-boat. It brought to 
 her mind a line of George Herbert — 
 
 The sun still shinetli there or here. 
 
 And she walked on more hopefully, strangely in- 
 spirited by that momentary glimpse of sunlight. What 
 right had she to doubt that the sun would shine for him 
 
TREVETHAN SPEAKS. 325 
 
 sooner or later? Might not he, too, have even now 
 reached the brightness? hved out his bit of grey? 
 
 "We will go and see Trevethan," she said to little 
 Nesta. "It is quite a long time since we heard any- 
 thing about him." 
 
 They passed the place where Donovan had climbed 
 down after the lost hat, and before many minutes reached 
 the forge, where Trevethan was hammering away at his 
 anvil, the sparks springing up from the red-hot metal 
 hke 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 am right glad to see 
 ye, miss. I was a-coming up to the house this very night 
 to tell ye our good news." 
 
 "News of your son?" asked Gladys, feehng certain 
 that nothing less could have called out such radiant satis- 
 faction in Trevethan'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 Gladys, 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 
 him a welcome or not." 
 
 "Was your son at St. Thomas's?" asked Gladys. 
 
326 DONOVAN. 
 
 "Yes, miss, but Mr. Farrant he found him out in his 
 own place. You tell, little one, how you fetched him to 
 see father." 
 
 So little Gladys 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 happiness. 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 "per- 
 haps" 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 inquiries. 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 ob- 
 servant 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 meeting in the billiard 
 saloon. Then for the first time Donovan's true relation 
 to Stephen transpired. The doctor could hardly believe 
 
TREVETHAN SPEAKS. 327 
 
 that he heard rightly. It was such an entire reversing 
 of all that he had feared, all that he had unwillingly 
 believed. 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 place. 
 
 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 perplexity, 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 was 
 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 bil- 
 liard saloon in Villiers Street at the time you were in 
 the habit of frequenting it. The man was one of the 
 markers; 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. 
 
32 8 DONOVAN. 
 
 "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 Farrant! 
 Why should you believe him?" 
 
 "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." 
 
 "Take care," said the doctor, quickly, "your own 
 words are condemning you." 
 
 "It is you who force me to condemn myself," said 
 Stephen, sullenly. Then after a pause he all at once 
 broke down and buried his face in his hands. "If Gladys 
 could have loved me," he sobbed, "it would all have 
 been different; 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 the 
 room in silence, but there was something so selfish in 
 Stephen's confessions 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, sternly. "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. 
 
TREVETHAN SPEAKS. 329 
 
 would have brought all your falseness to the light? What 
 do you expect him to think of Christianity if that is the 
 way 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 mis- 
 judge the man of all others I would have treated with 
 greatest delicacy — greatest justice. How could you tell 
 me such hes? Had you no generosity — 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, which re- 
 proached 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 the very beginning, reveal- 
 ing the sort of double life he had led for 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 
 speaking 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 past, and Stephen had made up his mind to 
 go abroad, to try with all Iiis might to redeem his name, 
 
 Trevethan had after all been detained at St. Thomas's 
 
330 DONOVAN. 
 
 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 information, 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 Road 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. Farrant'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 was 
 in a sheet of writing-paper pinned up in a conspicuous 
 place over the mantel-piece, whereon was inscribed a 
 high-flown but affectionate declaration that John Frewin, 
 late captain of the Metora , bound himself hereby to 
 touch no alcoholic drink until the return of his friend 
 Donovan Farrant. 
 
 Apparently the 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 paper, the surprise it was to be to the 
 captain's "dear friend and benefactor," and the dreariness 
 of the place without him, before he could elicit Donovan's 
 address from the talkative old gentleman. Even then 
 Rouge tried to scare him with terrific accounts of the 
 small-pox. 
 
 At length, however, he was really on his way to Con- 
 naught Square; by this time it was evening, and when 
 
TREVETHAN SPEAKS. 33 I 
 
 he reached the house it seemed dark and deserted. He 
 rang, and, after a long delay, was admitted. Phoebe 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 was 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 heard, sir? He died early this morn- 
 ing," 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." 
 
 Neither the lights 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, re- 
 membering 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 forget me." 
 
 At last a noise in the square roused Donovan, he 
 started up, rubbed his eyes, caught sight of Dr. Tremaln, 
 and sprang to his feet. 
 
 "You here!" he exclaimed, in astonishment, and then 
 a sudden shade passed over his 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, grasping Donovan's 
 hand. "Here to ask your forgiveness, to tell you that 
 we all know now how much we have been misled." 
 
^^2 DONOVAN. 
 
 Donovan's eyes lighted up, but he waited in question- 
 ing silence, careful still not to compromise Stephen in 
 the shghtest degree. 
 
 "I learnt all from Trevethan's son," continued the 
 doctor. "And then a very few questions brought out the 
 whole truth from Stephen. Can you forgive us, Donovan, 
 for misjudging you so abominably?" 
 
 "It was my own fault — my own doing, at any rate," 
 said Donovan, 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 was 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 pre- 
 sumptuous to think so — that she might possibly care for 
 me. It was right, I think, to go away, and I hoped that 
 she — that you all — would forget me." 
 
 "And little Gladys was the one Avho told me from 
 
 J 
 
TREVETHAN SPEAKS. ^;^;^ 
 
 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 forgetting you, Donovan; do 
 you want us to go on with the dreary farce any longer? 
 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 wrung each other's hands. 
 
 "Gladys must speak for herself," said the doctor. 
 "For my part, I would trust my little girl to you unre- 
 servedly. 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 them- 
 selves to talk more on a subject which moved them so 
 much, they plunged rather abruptly into other topics, dis- 
 cussed 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 
 
334 DONOVAN. 
 
 sorts of unexpected ways. I can hardly realize yet — I 
 have hardly tried to think — that Oakdene is really mine. 
 How am I ever to turn myelf into the 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. It is nothing but a hope — to- 
 morrow I shall know; but I could not help telling you of 
 it — you who have helped me through these black years." 
 
 "I wish you good speed," said Charles Osmond, con- 
 veying somehow in tone and look and touch a great deal 
 more than the mere words. 
 
 Then the two parted. 
 
"my hopes and thine are one." 335 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 "my hopes and thine /»,re one." 
 
 O we will walk this world, 
 
 Yoked in all exercise of noble end, 
 
 And so through those dark gates across the wUd 
 
 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 Prmcess. 
 
 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 seat 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, but 
 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 even- 
 ing when he had first spoken unreservedly with Dr. Tre- 
 main — long years ago since their last drive to St. Kerrans, 
 when he thought he had parted with Gladys for ever. 
 His heart beat high with hope; every step was bringing 
 him nearer the woman he loved! the very trees and 
 
336 DONOVAN. 
 
 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 the frosty air, the 
 ponies' feet rang sharply on the hard road, in all the 
 quaint, irregular houses 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 few minutes he should see her 
 again! every pulse in him beat at double-quick time as 
 he thought of it. They drove on through the quaint 
 market-place, 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 refrain reached him distinctly: 
 
 O tidings of comfort and joy, 
 
 Comfort and joy, 
 O tidings of comfort and joy! 
 
 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 fol- 
 lowed 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 post- 
 
"UY HOPES AND THINE ARE ONE. 337 
 
 poned once or twice, but, though somewhat late in the 
 season, they were to celebrate it in 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, but 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 them 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 care for him, still they would 
 understand each other, make an end of the miserable 
 silence and doubt of these long years. 
 
 The pony-carriage drove off, the last carol was sung; 
 with curtsies and salutes the small singers ran noisily 
 out of the school. Donovan, whose "duteous service" 
 had so long consisted in silence and absence, now made 
 the most 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. 
 
 JDonovan, II, 22 
 
338 DONOVAN. 
 
 They went out into the market-square, closely fol- 
 lowed by Waif. 
 
 "It is a house down on the shore I want to go to," 
 said Gladys, wishing her heart would not beat so uncom- 
 fortably. But somehow, 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 you will 
 hear me; to ask if you can give me more than friend- 
 ship — whether you care to take a love which has always 
 been yours. May I go on? Will you hear me?" 
 
 She seemed to speak an assent, but her voice trembled, 
 he took her hand in his, made her lean on his arm, still 
 holding the little hand in his strong grasp. 
 
 "You see," he continued, "ever since I was a mere 
 boy you have been my ideal. In a very strange way I 
 had three passing glimpses of you, the first just after my 
 father died, when I was miserable and disgraced, then 
 again those two meetings when I was wronged and 
 revengeful. Oh, Gladys! you little know what you did 
 for me, what depths you saved me from. I think I am 
 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 of the everlasting- 
 
 
"my hopes and thine are one. ;^;^c) 
 
 ness of love, I want your help more and more. Gladys, 
 will you be my wife?" 
 
 "I think I have always loved you," she answered, 
 quite simply and quietly. "And I was always sure the 
 Light would come to you." 
 
 "Yes," said Donovan, holding her hand more closely, 
 "you could look at things from another point of view, 
 you believed in a higher power; I, you see, only knew 
 myself, and how could 1 dare to think of you as my 
 wife? My darling, even now I half tremble at the 
 thought. Can you trust yourself to one who is at the 
 beginning of everything? I have spent my life in learn- 
 ing what you have always known. Can you put up with 
 such incompleteness? 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 oneway. 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 Avhen I may? I thought it would only make 
 you wretched then. I knew so bitterly what a dif- 
 
340 DONOVAN, 
 
 ference 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 cottage 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 athAvart each other. The same thought came to 
 each of them, the sweet old saying — "Via crucis, via 
 lucis." Neither of them spoke, but to each came the 
 longing that their love might always be that self-sacrific- 
 ing love which alone can lead into the light. It seemed 
 to Gladys like a sort of sacrament when Donovan stooped 
 down and with a grave reverence pressed his lips to 
 hers. 
 
 "You will teach me," he said, after a time as they 
 walked along the beach. 
 
"my hopes and thine are one." 341 
 
 She felt like a baby beside him as he spoke; in his 
 humility, in his grand self-denying nobleness, he seemed 
 to tower above her. 
 
 "Teach you!" she said, smihng. "I should as soon 
 thuik 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 ex- 
 claimed. "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 Donovan. "I had arranged, you know, to go out 
 to the Avar, and I find there is still a vacancy in one of 
 the ambulances. You will not mind my going out, 
 darling? I feel in a measure bound to go, and I should 
 like, at any rate, a fcAV 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 
 knew 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 share his work helped to lessen 
 the pain. 
 
 "I think," she rephed, "you would not have been 
 Donovan if you had not wanted to go." 
 
 "And then with you," said Donovan, "I shall be 
 
342 DONOVAN. 
 
 Strong to begin what I feel fearfully unequal to — the life 
 as master of Oakdene. There is plenty of work for us 
 at Greyshot, and you must help me to love the neighbours, 
 who perhaps may not hate me now so much 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 ! Are 
 you ready, darling, to be the wife of a radical? — to be 
 looked down on perhaps as the wife of a sometime atheist?" 
 
 "To he }'02ir w'lk," said Gladys, gently. 
 
 They had made their way up the steep winding 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 Dono- 
 van, 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 ghmpse 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 will be a grand worker," thought Gladys, but 
 she did not reply in direct words. 
 
 They had reached the porch, someone 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 with indescribable 
 content written on his face, and before all the mother — 
 
"my hopes and thine are one.' 
 
 343 
 
 the truest mother Donovan had ever known — her soft 
 grey eyes shining into his with loving welcome and under- 
 standing. 
 
 "Home at last!" she said, smiling; and then, seeing 
 all, she gave a mother's greeting to both "children." 
 
 THE END. 
 
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