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  DONOVAN

  A Novel


  BY

  EDNA LYALL

  AUTHOR OF
  "WON BY WAITING."


  "And I smiled to think God's greatness flowed around
          Our incompleteness,--
  Round our restlessness, His rest."
                                E. B. BROWNING.


  IN THREE VOLUMES.
  VOL. II.


  LONDON:
  HURST AND BLACKETT, PUBLISHERS,
  13, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET.
  1882.

  _All rights reserved._




  Contents

  I. Cast Adrift
  II. Rouge et Noir
  III. "The Raven for a Guide"
  IV. Struggling On
  V. Monaco
  VI. Losing Self to Find
  VII. "O'er Moor and Fen"
  VIII. One and All
  IX. In a Home
  X. Oakdene Manor
  XI. The Ideal Woman




DONOVAN.



CHAPTER I.

CAST ADRIFT.

  Ruin's wheel has driven o'er us,
  Not a hope that dare attend,
  The wide world is all before us,
  But a world without a friend.
                                BURNS.

  Two dry sticks will set on fire one green.
  He that takes the raven for a guide shall light upon carrion.
                                                _Eastern Proverbs._


How long were things to go on in their present state?  That was the
question which, as the spring advanced, Ellis Farrant continually
asked himself.  One afternoon, towards the end of May, the thought
pressed itself upon him more pertinaciously than ever.  He was in the
smoking-room, leaning back meditatively in his chair, from time to
time reading a few lines in the _Sporting News_, but more often
looking discontentedly and perplexedly 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 itself.
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 at first felt sorry for him, and had left him unmolested; but
it is one thing to sympathise with a person in the first poignancy of
his grief, and quite another to understand or feel for his prolonged
sorrow.

As the months passed on, and Donovan's grave stern face still
remained unaltered, Ellis began to feel aggravated; he saw little
enough of his step-son, but what he did see was quite 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 dislike 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 unexpected 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 re-filling 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."

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 Ellis, provokingly.

"You mean me to understand that I am not to have any proper allowance
made me?"

"Exactly so, though I don't admit the adjective."

The two men stood facing each other.  For a few minutes neither
spoke; Donovan's eyes dilated, and his face glowed with indignation.
Ellis met his look with a cool bold effrontery.

At length the silence was broken by Donovan's voice.

"And _this_ is what you have waited and plotted for! this is the part
of the honourable English gentleman, to steal into a house, and win
your way craftily, and mislead wilfully and shamefully those who
never suspected your wickedness!  Yes, you have fulfilled your duties
as a 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."

"Wretch!  Do you dare to turn me out of my own 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
surmised quite truly, I have often longed to 'kick you out,' as you
express it; take care that you do not force me to interpret the words
literally."

"Do you think," said Donovan, angrily, "that my mother is so utterly
unnatural that she will allow me to be treated in this way?  I tell
you you are mistaken, sir."

"You forget that your mother is my wife," said Ellis, watching his
victim's writhing lip with a sort of enjoyment.  "But, come now, I'll
overlook what you've said, and we will part amicably; do not cut your
own throat by refusing the pardon I offer."

"_Pardon_!  And from you!" cried Donovan, passionately.  "Am I to
accept forgiveness for words which are a hundred times too mild for
your conduct?  I'll let the world know of the injustice, I'll publish
your scandalous behaviour everywhere in the neighbourhood!"

"The only drawback to that scheme of revenge is the 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 utter 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 treacherous, despicable villain!
Were a hundred witnesses present, a hundred lawsuits 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,
scheming traitor like you dares to condemn me?"

Ellis 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 impossible to believe
that he was actually being turned out of his father's house.

"I will see my mother," he said, with angry resolution in his voice.
"She will not suffer it, she cannot."

He strode out of the room fiercely, and hurried across the hall to
the dining-room.  Waif, hearing his step, sprang up from the door-mat
and pattered after him, Ellis, following quickly, blocked the doorway
before the door closed.  Donovan turned back wildly.

"I tell you I insist on seeing my mother alone," he said, with a look
so full of anger and hatred that Ellis shrank beneath it, but still
he was able to answer with cold decision,

"And I tell you that I refuse to leave my wife with a maniac."

"Be it so," cried Donovan, "but, though you deny me everything, you
cannot alter the instincts of nature.  Mother, you will not--you
cannot agree to this wickedness.  You will not turn me away from this
house penniless.  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
vociferation terrified her beyond measure.  Donovan's rare and almost
tropical outbursts of passion had always alarmed her.  She turned now
from his wild looks and impetuous words to her 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, Donovan, if you agitate me so."

"I will be quiet," he gasped, softening his voice with an effort.  "I
will not worry you for a moment.  Only trust me, mother; listen to me
fairly, and promise that you will not side against me.  He--your
husband insults me, drives me out of the house--this house which
never ought to have been his--he turns me away penniless--say, only
say that it is against your wish!"

Mrs. Farrant's tears began to flow, and she turned to her 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 Donovan'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 over-ruled by Ellis's cold
speech?

"There has been nothing but trouble about him," sobbed Mrs. Farrant.
"There seems to be a fate against me; nothing goes well.  I have
trouble after trouble.  Oh!  Donovan, why did you bring about this
quarrel?  For my sake you might have respected your step-father."

"At least believe that it was not my doing," cried Donovan, bitterly
disappointed by her tone.  "If you would only have believed what I
told you last summer, we could not have been in this position; but
who can stand against the coils of a serpent!"

"Go, sir," said Ellis, angrily, "go at once, and do not try my
patience by upbraiding me before my wife."

"Did I not tell you that he would bring nothing but 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 expect to love us, suddenly reveal
depths of unsuspected tenderness under the stress of some unusual
event, Mrs. Doery broke into indignant sobs.  She had never heard the
like in her life!  Turn her lad out of the house when he ought to
have been made his father's heir!  It was impossible, intolerable,
she never would believe the law of England would allow it!  Her
indignation rather softened Donovan, it was such a relief to feel
that anyone, even this cross-grained old woman, would take his part!
It seemed a strange reversal of the old order of things--Doery,
stimulated by the cruelty of others, to allow some merit in him, or
at least to bestow her pity on her ne'er-do-weel.  He left her with a
substantial souvenir, both for herself and for Dot's maid, Phœbe,
generosity which in the precarious state of his finances was more
natural than wise.  Then he took a last look at Dot's room, put her
little carriage clock with his own hands into his portmanteau, and
leaving directions with Doery for his things to be sent to the
Greyshot Station in time for an evening train, he went downstairs.
Ellis was in the hall, waiting half nervously for the full
accomplishment of his plans, for the 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 hatred and contempt,

"We part here, then.  Remember always how admirably 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 show their green leaves, the pink and
white thorns were in full bloom.  The beauty of the place seemed
never to have been so great before, and though very often Donovan had
thought the Manor dull and prison-like, yet now that he was exiled
from it he found how large a place it had in his heart.  And he was
to leave it for ever! his home was to remain in the hands of his
greatest enemy!  At the first bend in the carriage drive he
involuntarily turned back for a last look at the house.  It stood
there in the afternoon sunshine, with just the same air of sleepy
luxurious comfort which it had always worn; there, above the
creeper-laden porch, was the window of his old room, and close by 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 longing for a change
of scene! how he grudged every hour that he had spent away from Dot!
It was hard, very hard, to turn away from the place so full of her
memory; no thought of future difficulties had as yet forced itself
upon him, indignation and bitter sorrow drove out everything
else--everything but a vague feeling of more complete desolation,
more utter loneliness.  He had thought that he had drained the full
bitterness of the cup of life in the agony of bereavement, but here
was a fresh draught which in its humiliating injustice was gall and
wormwood to him.

All this time he was not however so friendless as he imagined; Waif
followed him closely.  His devotion to 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, he had learnt to understand his master's moods and knew
perfectly when to keep to heel in silent unobtrusiveness, and when to
frisk and gambol about him; he had watched the stormy scene in the
drawing-room, had followed Donovan noiselessly up and downstairs, 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 a herd of 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
recollection of the hateful look of vindictive triumph which he had
seen in his step-father's face.  The frenzied passionate 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 bitterness the words:--

"NEW ORGAN FUND.--Ellis Farrant, Esq., of Oakdene Manor, having
generously promised £200 to the above fund, it is earnestly hoped
that the additional £100 still required may be obtained.  A special
collection will be made, &c., &c."  Charity, church-organs,
generosity to win a good name with the world! behind the outward
show, injustice, tyranny, and hatred!

Donovan turned aside past the great yew tree to the place where
little Dot had been laid.  The stone had just been put up, a
recumbent cross, the sharp outlines of the white marble 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 London.
With a still white cold face, which seemed to have absorbed something
of the hard rigidity of the marble cross, he looked his last at the
little grave, then hastily recrossed the churchyard.  Waif, who had
been watching him all the time with considerable anxiety, trotted on
in front of him, but at the gate turned back to meet him and began to
draw attention to himself by a series of whines and barks and bounds
in the air; he could not have chosen a better moment for making his
presence known, Donovan felt at once the relieved re-action 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 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; somehow Donovan's choking indignation
began to diminish under the influence of the excitement.  He had been
unjustly used, certainly, but the world was before him, and the world
began to seem more 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 another minute his
golden-eyed destiny flashed into sight, there was haste and confusion
on the platform.  Waif, with his ticket tied to his collar, kept
close to his master's heels, till Donovan, opening the door of a
carriage, prepared to lift him in; the occupants, however, objected,
a nervous middle aged lady started up from her corner, she could not
endure dogs, she really must beg that he did not get into that
carriage.  Donovan retreated, and hurried on to the next 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 scrutinize 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 unnaturally red face, thick neck,
and scanty red hair sprinkled with grey; he was singularly ugly, but
his expression was more weak than unpleasant, especially when he
turned round with some 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 prosperity about him,
and Donovan instantly surmised that he was some wealthy manufacturer
or tradesman.  The remaining traveller was a much more perplexing
study.  After watching him for some time, Donovan had not in the
least arrived at any decision about him, he might have been a
sporting gentleman, or a superior commercial traveller, or a
newspaper correspondent, or possibly a card-sharper.  Donovan tried
to fit every one of these "callings" upon him; 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 complexion, very small black eyes, with a dissatisfied look in
them, and heavy dark eyebrows, level towards the bridge of the nose,
but arched at the other end, and raised still higher when he became
interested.

Before 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 was 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 delighted, 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 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 unwonted degree.  It was a close and
exciting game, eventually won by the two strangers, but Donovan's
skilful play had evidently surprised his dark-looking opponent, who
scrutinized him curiously, while the red-haired traveller began to
compliment him.

Presently they stopped at Swindon, and Donovan, beginning to be
conscious that he had eaten nothing for many hours, hurried away with
the others towards the refreshment-room.  As he waited for an instant
among the crowd of passengers, he heard a sharp voice, low, and yet
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 something 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.
I'm 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 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 conversation 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 manufacturer mentioned by chance
that he came _from Bristol_, and Donovan, to the satisfaction of the
three conspirators, began to ask questions as to the likelihood of
finding any suitable employment there.

"Oh! with capital, you can always get on," said the rich man, easily.
"Nothing can be done in this world without money, but there are
plenty of openings there for any young men wanting employment."

"Provided they are capitalists," said Donovan, with bitterness, which
did not escape Noir's keen observance.

"Oh! 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 dispute, linking his vehement words with
Donovan's, till between them they fairly overwhelmed the rich Bristol
man.  Then at once there was established between them that strange
sympathy which comes like a lightning flash, when two minds are
entirely one upon a subject not usually agreed upon.  They had been
united in argument, and in an argument very nearly touching their own
lives; instinctively Donovan held out his hand when they parted at
Paddington, and the dark-browed man grasped it with a warmth and
heartiness 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 stare of one's kind wound
and sting; with what envy does one look at the smiling faces, and how
(foolishly and morbidly, of course) one compares them with the priest
and the Levite in the parable; though how they can help "passing by
on the other side," when one is only stripped and wounded and robbed
by the unseen foes of life which prey on the inner man, a troubled
mind, is generally too illogical to consider.  The forlornness of his
position did not come upon Donovan all at once.  During the months
which had passed since little Dot's death, in his sorrow "without
hope," worthier and more manly thoughts had grown up in his heart; he
had made up his mind to work at something, and, though his chief
object had been merely to divert his thoughts 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 for the time all
these better thoughts; but in a little while, from sheer necessity,
they sprang up again.  It was evidently impossible that he could live
for any length of time on the remains of his last allowance; he must
gain his living in some way, and now, for the first time, he felt
fully how fatal to his interests Ellis's guardianship had been.  Had
he been forced to enter some profession, or had he even received a
better education after his school career was ended, he would not now
have been so helpless; yet, after all, he would scarcely have
consented 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
consultation, he showed him at once that he had no legal claim
whatever on Ellis Farrant or his mother now that he was of age.  His
case was no doubt a very hard one; he should think that by continued
applications he might reasonably expect to extort some allowance, if
only a small one, from his step-father.  As to his mother, she had no
power at all apart from her husband; he could take counsel's opinion
if he liked, but it would be simply throwing away his two guineas--it
was a matter quite out of the province of law, a family matter which
must be arranged, by family feeling and natural affection.  As to
employment, he should advise him to apply to any influential men he
knew in town; it was possible he might get some post in one of the
Government offices.  The lawyer hoped that Mr. Farrant would dine
with him some evening--he had just moved to a new house at Brompton;
if he could ever be of any service to Mr. Farrant, he should be most
happy.

Donovan went away several degrees more depressed than before.  His
prospects did indeed seem dreary; "continued 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 at any rate 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 encouraging; he knew of nothing
in the least suitable, regretted extremely his inability to help his
young friend.  The second flattered him, assured him that with such
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, he had a
thousand applications 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 discourtesy, he turned his 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 circumstances, 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 ineffable
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-life within him began to assert itself above the morbid
overgrowth.  Life as it was, was certainly not worth having, but
surely there must be some brightness in store for him!  The sun shone
down in 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
unrighteousness that when ye fail they may receive you into
everlasting habitations."  He smiled a little to himself as he
thought of the solution of this perplexing passage which his life was
bringing to light.  He had certainly taken no 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, although he had been in the way of
evil companionship very often.  But a real friend he had never known.
Certainly 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 brightness 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 meeting before."

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 returning at this
allusion.

"I thought as much from your look," said the stranger.  "You haven't
found it such an easy matter as you expected.  If you are hard up
though, it is just possible that I may know of employment which would
suit you."

"You!  Do you indeed?" cried Donovan, eagerly.  "But perhaps I shan'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."

"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 believe me, I will tell you that it is not all from
disinterested motives that I seek you out and try to help you, no one
in the world goes upon such motives, self-interest is the great
ruling principle; you are admirably suited to help me in my work,
that is my first reason; I like you and am sorry for you, that is my
second.  Now I have made a clean breast of it all, will you come?"

"Of course I will," said Donovan, without an instant's hesitation.
He committed 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.




CHAPTER II.

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 narrow 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 tone, and he added,

"You'll learn differently as you see more of life.  I've lived in
Drury Lane on and off now for five years, and am in no 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 himself in a snug neatly-arranged
room, where an odd combination of a variety of the brightest colours
lent an almost Eastern look to the whole.  Curious shells and corals
were ranged on shelves along 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 already 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,
however, when he was interrupted by a loud nasal voice, which
screamed out, "Keep up your pecker! keep up your pecker!" and
glancing round he met the goggle eyes of the parrot.  It was too much
for the gravity even of depressed, ruined, ill-used Donovan, he burst
out laughing, a natural, hearty, boyish laugh, such as he had not
enjoyed for many months.

"You see Sweepstakes encourages you," said Noir, tormenting the bird
by thrusting a piece of string through the wires of its cage.

"What's its name?" asked Donovan, still laughing.

"Sweepstakes, we call him," said old Rouge, coming to the rescue of
his pet.  "I've had him for seven years, we're great friends, aren't
we, Sweepstakes?"

"Poor Sweepstakes!" said the bird, with its head on one side.  "Poor
Sweepstakes!  'Weep, 'weep, 'weep," and he broke 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 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 excuse 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 I had not done
it--the truth came to light later on--but at the time everything
seemed against me, and since the manager was not a second Brutus he
was naturally inclined 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.  However, what difference did it make to me?  I was sent to
Pentonville, and there I ate my heart for a year.  Then I was sent to
Dartmoor, and I think the change just saved me from madness.  That
year my mother died.  We had been everything to each other.  She
couldn't stand the disgrace which had come to us, or the separation.
I was young, and had to stand it, but I think from that day I wasn't
the same fellow.  The next thing which 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 happened.  Of course I had
lost my character, and I knew that it would be next to impossible for
me to get any situation when my term was over.  I made a friend at
Dartmoor, a fellow of the name of Legge, a clever man, too, and
good-natured.  We came out at the same time, and he helped me on a
little.  But things were worse even than I had fancied.  My father,
in his trouble and loneliness, had fallen into bad ways.  I found
that in my seven years' absence he had become a confirmed drunkard.
You can fancy what a return that 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 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."

"I'm glad you've told me all," said Donovan, when the narrator
paused; "yours is a hard story certainly, 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 life from
what you've been used to, still you might do worse, and I can promise
you what I couldn't promise to another fellow in the world--real
honest liking.  Perhaps you will say the friendship of a professional
gambler isn't worth having; however, such as it is I offer it to you,
sometimes anything is better than nothing.  No, don't 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 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 hospitality 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 any 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 catching at a straw; he may know well enough
that the straw is frail and hollow, but it is something to lay hold
of, if only for a moment, and in the absence of a better support it
seems worth clinging to.

To say that he made the choice while he was unconscious of its evil
would not be true; some people are so ready to admit excuses, there
are always so many extenuating circumstances, or states of mind or
body which account for the fall, that very few sins are put under the
head of "Wilful."  But in after years Donovan never allowed that he
had taken the step unconsciously.  Of course sin, taken in its usual
sense, did not now exist for him, but he was perfectly aware that he
was entering upon a wrong and immoral course; he made the false step
desperately perhaps, but deliberately.  The very last words he had
had with Noir Frewin were sufficient to prove this.

"I may ask your name now?" the man had said, as they parted.  And
Donovan, for the first time in his life, had shrunk from giving it;
how could he let his father's name become the name of a--but there he
checked even his thoughts, and hastily gave only his Christian name.

For a little while he thought things over, as Noir had suggested; it
was true there were ways and means of raising money, but, even if he
had had good security to offer, he would not have cared to put
himself into the hands of a money-lender.  Or there was another
alternative; he had heard Mr. Probyn, Ellis Farrant's friend, relate
proudly the length of time he had lived "on tick," as he called
it--this was most likely the course which would have been chosen by
nine persons out of ten, had they been placed in his
predicament,--but there was nothing to commend this expedient to him,
living in debt was simply robbing tradespeople, there could be no
doubt of that; if he must live by chicanery, he might as well do so
in a more amusing way than by a skilful eluding of duns, and it was
better to cheat fools who chose to risk their money in a game than
honest shopkeepers.  Thus he argued with himself, what his
school-fellows had called "his crazy ideas of honour" coming out
strongly; but he held fast to his theory, and never had a single
debt.  The true and honest course never once entered into his head;
if he had had sufficient humility to visit his father's solicitor
again and beg his assistance, in all probability he would have been
helped, for in such an extreme case people are often kind-hearted
enough; but absolutely to throw himself on anyone's mercy was simply
impossible to Donovan--he was at once too proud and too distrustful
of human nature.

The consideration ended, as might have been expected, in an
acceptance of the Frewins' offer; in a few days Donovan was
established in Drury Lane, and with all the natural force of his
character, and the retaliatory spirit produced by Ellis's injustice,
and fostered by Noir's sympathy, had 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 kind to him; the secret of his affection
probably lay in this: the new-comer treated him with respect, and the
poor old captain was now so little used to such treatment, that it
was doubly delightful to him.

"I am a better fellow since you came," he would often say, looking up
with real affection in his little watery eyes at the dark handsome
face of his boy-friend--the face 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 as Darky
Legge.  The two Frewins had received their names of Rouge et Noir,
and before very long Donovan, whether he liked it or not, was
invariably addressed as "Milord."  The parrot was the first to draw
his attention to it, but certainly old Rouge must have taught him,
for when ever 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 complimentary.

One morning, while Donovan was sitting in the little parlour with a
cigar and a newspaper, circumstances combined together in such a way
as to make him for the first time ashamed of 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.

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 disgusted with his work--not yet,
unfortunately, with himself.

He could not help feeling sorry, however, for Rouge when the old man
came slowly and wearily into the room; remembering how his
intemperance had begun, and what a good-hearted old fellow he was,
his contempt and utter disgust, which had been strongly roused the
previous night, died away into pity.

"Good morning, captain," he said, in his usual voice, and using the
title which he knew the old man liked better than anything.

"Eh, Donovan, my lad, it's anything but a good morning," sighed poor
Rouge, stretching himself out on the sofa.  "How one does pay for a
little extra enjoyment!"  Then, catching a look of contempt on his
companion's face, he added, piteously, "Don't you turn against me,
lad; I know I'm not what I should be, but don't you give me up too;
everyone despises me now, everyone looks down on me, and thinks
anything good enough for such a poor old fool.  Don't you take to it
too, lad, for you've been good to the old captain till now."

"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 mantelpiece, 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 fall 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 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 daresay
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 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 dulness!  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 acquaintance, 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?  Somewhere, surely, for he remembered
the face distinctly now.  It was one he had watched and admired--and
he admired very few women.  He must have heard her speak 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 all 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, 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 not a little, he felt a great longing to see her
again, and in the evening, not caring to return to Drury Lane, or to
go to the club he was in the habit of frequenting, for fear of
meeting the Frewins, he turned instead in the direction of Connaught
Square.  There was the house he knew so well, the house which ought
to have been his, with its balconies gay with flowers, and a brougham
standing before the door.  His mother was probably going out, he
would wait and see her an she came down the steps, but he would not
himself be seen, that would be too humiliating, he would wait a
little way off, and crossing the road, he leant with his back against
the square railings.  It was a strange watch; bitter feelings mingled
with the returning family love as he stood there in the summer
twilight; it was 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.  Instinctively he
took up poor Rouge's cry, "He has driven me to it--how can I help
going to the dogs, it is his fault!"

And then the house door opened, and one of the footmen came out to
the carriage.  Donovan watched eagerly, and his breath came fast and
hard.  There was his mother, quite placid and 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
writhing bitterness of soul; but in reality Donovan's misery was as
nothing compared with his step-father's.  Years of plotting and
scheming, years of growing deterioration, harassing anxiety, and
patient waiting, all this had Ellis gone through, and for what?  For
a rich wife, a town house, and a country house, accompanied 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 comfortable, but he fought
in vain.

They went to the opera that evening and heard "Faust"; it stung him
as no sermon would have done.  How like his part had been to that of
Mephistopheles! how deliberately he had planned his step-son's harm!
And above the voices of singers and chorus, above the grand
orchestral accompaniment, there rang in his ears one sharp despairing
sentence, "Remember how you have goaded me on to ruin!"

Faust and Margherita were nothing to him.  He hardly noticed the
beautiful little _prima donna_.  It was the grim basso, with his red
livery, his stealthy yet rapid movements, his satanic look of
triumphant cunning, who preached to him that night, as no clergyman
in surplice and stole, or gown and Geneva bands, had ever preached to
him.  In the "serenata," where Mephistopheles sings his mocking song
of triumph to the guitar, and augurs further successes for himself,
Ellis sat actually shuddering at the horrible sense of likeness.  The
song was encored.  He could bear it no longer, but shrank back into
the very furthest corner of the box, trying not to see or hear.
By-and-by it was all over, and Ellis, with a 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 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 real 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 overmastering passion in which great crimes are often
committed.  In his madness 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 Fräulein to open the gate," said the little girl, and
she ran across the garden, returning in a few minutes with a German
lady, who looked up from her knitting rather curiously to see this
gentleman who was waiting for admittance.  It was easily explained.
He had not a key, but he pointed to his mother's house in the square.
The Fräulein, without any demur, unlocked the gate and admitted him.

He had not often been into the garden before, but two or three times
he had brought Dot there in her invalid chair, and the place was
therefore sacred to him.  He went at once to her favourite seat, and
there, in the cool of the 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 themselves, and, as they
played, their laughter and chatter floated to him.  It was what he
wanted; something innocent, and pure, and merry.  A faint, very faint
return of little Dot's influence came back to him, and when he left
the garden again he was a better man.

Drury Lane had never seemed to him so dingy as when he returned to it
that evening.  A street-organ was playing a popular air in one part,
and a crowd of wretched-looking 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, the
disreputable-looking passengers, until he almost fell over a little
child who ought to have been in bed long before, but who was sitting
on the curb-stone, grubbing with both hands in a heap of mud in the
gutter.  Donovan was very tender over little children.  He stooped
down at once to see 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 occupied 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, aint you a fool!  Oh, lor, aint you a fool!"

Evidently the Frewins had not made any complimentary 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."


"Be quiet," said Donovan, sharply, for the words did not at all suit
his present frame of mind.

But Sweepstakes only reiterated,

  "Be yit t'ever so wumble,
  There's no place like--"


Donovan made a dash at the cage with a cloth and interrupted the
song, a proceeding which enraged the parrot.

"You go to Tophet!" he screamed, angrily, and then, being out of
temper, he swore for five minutes on end, till, for the sake of
peace, Donovan had to make up the quarrel.

But there was a good deal of obstinacy about Sweepstakes, and, though
he allowed his anger to be appeased by a Brazil nut, he treated
Donovan for the rest of the evening to a mild muttered refrain of "Be
yit ever so wumble, umble, umble----" _ad 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 fireplace 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
cathedral clock, in one corner a great bath, on the chest of drawers
one or two anti-theological books by Luke Raeburn, and at the foot of
the bed a woolly rug for Waif.

The window was open; it looked out on to that fearful net-work of
byeways and alleys which Donovan had seen as he came home.  He had
often seen them before, but one can see many times and yet never
observe.  He had generally gone to his room between three and four in
the morning when 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
pavements, and the ceaseless wheels, but let them once hear the
appalling noise of human life in a poor quarter, and they will not
complain of anything else.  Wild, drunken singing, fierce quarrels,
blows, cursing, a Babel of tongues, a wailing of children, angry
disputes between men and women, in which too often the woman's voice
in its awful harshness seems unlike that of a human creature.  These
are the sounds one may hear, the fearful realities which make up the
dark side of the world's metropolis.

Donovan stood beside the open window and let all this tide of human
wretchedness beat upon his ear.  He was shocked and awed, struck with
a great pity and indignation, for he was not hard-hearted, only
narrow-hearted, and though this crampedness kept him from action it
did not prevent the great suffering of humanity from touching him
with a sense of pity.  The incomprehensible 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 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 torture.  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 pity, and yet with a little amusement, on the
picture of his sturdy defiant childhood, which preferred even the
awfully described fiery furnaces to companionship 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 again 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.
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-looking 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 door; 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 uncomfortable
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 shrinking
from these people.  The little conversation at the door too had
attracted the notice of a coarse-looking man who was sitting next
her; he turned round upon her with a cool inquisitive stare, and then
made some remark to his neighbour on the other side which caused a
general laugh, and Gladys, though she would not have understood a
word even had.  she heard, felt the colour flame up in her cheeks.

"Why can't you behave decently?" said a voice from the other side of
the carriage.

"Rouge, it's your deal."

Then Gladys, who had instinctively lowered her eyes, looked up, for
the attention of the passengers was diverted from her; with an
overcoat spread over their knees, by way of a table, they were soon
absorbed in a game of "Nap."  She looked round at their faces with a
sort of longing to find one from which she need not shrink; all
seemed bad, or coarse, or in some way repulsive; exactly opposite her
was an elderly man fast asleep, next to him was 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;
the temptations of the world, the flesh, and the devil had never
shaped themselves in her thoughts into anything half so terrible as
this.  She had felt impatient when Mrs. Causton had lamented the
temptations of London life for Stephen, yet the danger was no
imaginary one, for here was one who could not be older than Stephen
or Dick surrounded by evil companions, gambling with a recklessness
and _sang froid_ which bespoke long habit.  There was a sort of
horrible fascination in it all, she could not help watching the eager
faces; on all of them was written the strong desire of gain, on all,
except that one dark saturnine face opposite her, which, though
apparently caring for little else but the game, never seemed to
unbend, in spite of repeated successes.  Gladys watched him as he
pocketed his winnings, watched pityingly his 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 disagreeable neighbour and one of the other
men; language such as she had never heard was shouted across the
carriage, 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 were relieved or only more
frightened when he bent forward to speak to her.

"This must be very unpleasant for you," he said, and she knew at once
from his manner that she had found a protector.  "We shall be at a
station in a minute or two, and then, if you like, I will offer to
change places with the lady you are with."

"Oh!  thank you so much," said Gladys, her frightened eyes
brightening with 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 expression than before.  The others
appealed to him for his opinion in the matter of the dispute, and he
spoke coldly and quietly, but evidently what he said was to the
point; the disputants quieted down, and agreed to some sort of
compromise.  At last, to Gladys' intense relief, they reached the
station.  Donovan got up and let down the window, then, looking back,
said carelessly,

"You can leave me out in the next deal; I'm going to change
carriages."

The announcement caused a chorus of inquiry.

"What's up with milord now?" asked Gladys' neighbour.

"Oh! some craze, I suppose," said a dark-browed man on the other side
of the carriage; "he took a moral fit the other night, and rushed
away no one knew where.  There's no reckoning on him--'a wilful man
must have his'----  Why, what's this?" as Donovan returned to help
Mrs. Causton in.  "We didn't reckon on this, at any rate.  Donovan,
what _are_ you thinking of?"

"A cigar in peace next door," he replied readily; and then he
retreated, leaving Gladys greatly relieved, and the card-players not
a little embarrassed by the large bundle of tracts which Mrs. 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
treasured it up in his heart--a wish, he knew it was, no mere formal
parting, but the wish of a pure-minded woman that good might be with
him.

Gladys watched sadly as Noir Frewin rejoined her protector; he was
thoroughly out of temper, as she had seen on the journey, and greeted
his companion with a torrent of angry reproaches.  Gladys caught only
a word or two here and there--"Confounded folly!--playing fast and
loose with the agreement!"--and one bitter taunt--"A pretty
knight-errant to help distressed ladies, such as you, a
professional----"

But the word gambler did not reach Gladys.  She did not then learn
what a life Donovan was leading, but she had seen and heard quite
enough to know that he was in great need of help, and from that night
he always had a place in her prayers.  Without that how could she
have borne the revelation of evil and wretchedness, the contrast
between the shielded life of those she knew, and the life of constant
temptation of these her fellow-creatures.  Painful as the evening's
experience had been, she could not altogether regret it.  In
after-life she thanked God for that brief journey, upon which had
hinged so much.




CHAPTER III.

"THE RAVEN FOR A GUIDE."

                What thou wouldst highly
  That wouldst thou holily; wouldst not play false,
  And yet wouldst wrongly win.
                                          _Macbeth._

  Till life is coming back, our death we do not feel,
  Light must be entering in, our darkness to reveal.
                                  ARCHBISHOP TRENCH.


As the autumn wove 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 considerably.  It
was an unhealthy life he was leading, full of the worst kind of
excitement; at times idle and unoccupied, at times full of fatigue.
Naturally, too, his state of mind told on his physical strength.  The
year beginning with the terrible strain of little Dot's death, had
brought him overwhelming grief; the long spring months had been spent
in a fierce inward struggle, a vain search for peace; then had
followed his quarrel with Ellis and his expulsion from Oakdene, and
ever since that he had been in the poisoned atmosphere of the society
into which Noir Frewin had led him.  No wonder that as the winter
advanced he began to 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," observed Rouge, one
December afternoon.  "I don't know what's come to him, unless, as I
expect, it's this absurd fad he's taken into his head about
water-drinking.  I told him it was enough to kill a fellow to give it
up all at once like that.  I should have died that 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 boyishness had gone from his face now.

"I say, Noir, he looks to me uncommonly queer," said the old captain.
"I've seen one or two fellows look like that before now.  There was
one, I remember, on the _Metora_."

"Pooh!  I daresay many of them looked badly enough before they'd
found their sea-legs," said Noir, coolly.

"Well, the fellow I mean died," said the captain, impressively.  "And
I must say milord does look to me awfully out of health."

"Oh! nonsense.  He's only seedy--a cold, or something of that sort.
We got drenched the other night coming from Legge's place.  It's time
we were starting.  Just wake him up."

Rouge complied, and Donovan started up at once, and looked sleepily
at his watch.

"Time to go?  Oh!  I'd forgotten.  It's this Brighton scheme."

He looked wretchedly ill and tired, not at all fit to turn out of the
warm room into the cold drizzle of the December twilight, but he was
not one to shirk an engagement for the sake of mere bodily
disinclination, and there was no one to tell him what madness it was
to trifle with such a severe chill as he had taken.  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 enough that even for his own sake the safe-guard
was a very good thing.

"Oh! as to the cockles of one's heart," he said, laughing, "that's
all bosh; one only takes cold the easier, as any doctor would tell
you.  Present loss, future gain, is our motto to-day; 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 companions.
Donovan's part was usually that of a decoy, a well-to-do,
gentlemanly-looking fellow who consented to play, and thus induced
others to try their hand.  Noir had this evening chosen a most
auspicious-looking carriage 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 disconcerted, for it
effectually put an end to his schemes for the journey.  With a slight
warning pressure on his companion's foot, he drew his attention to
the placard which was above his head.  Not in the least knowing what
to expect, Donovan took off his hat and put it in the netting, thus
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.  Passengers are earnestly recommended to beware of
pickpockets and card-sharpers dressed as gentlemen," £c, &c.  He
could read no further; he fell back into his place like one stunned,
then the hot colour rushed to his cheeks, mounted higher and 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
realisation was terrible.  Noir, anxious to veil his sudden
confusion, held out a newspaper to him; but he only shook his head,
and the elder man, who was merely annoyed by the occurrence, began to
feel alarmed at the strange 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 consider yourself a
card-sharper?"

The question was asked with a kind of innocence which made Noir
shudder; he forced up a mocking laugh, however.

"Ask a thief if he considers himself a thief, and he will tell you
'no,' but a professional adept, with a gift for acquiring other
people's property."

Donovan winced.

"If that's the definition of a thief, you and I belong pretty much to
the same class."

Noir wrenched away his arm.

"And what do I care if we do?" he cried, angrily; "I don't know what
makes you so cantankerous to-night.  Have you 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 undertake to stand by you, for the world is unjust, and I
delight in cheating it when I've the opportunity.  If you're going to
turn moral, milord, we'll dissolve partnership at once, and you can
go back to those fine friends you know, who were so ready to help you
before you came to us."

Donovan did not reply to this taunt, he only shivered and drew his
comforter over his mouth.  He felt worn out and giddy, his 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 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 perfectly
well, and did not just at first dare to interrupt him; he walked
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 anything so ghastly? it was not even a great
revenge he had taken on the unjust world, but the pettiest, meanest,
most despicable revenge.  What had he not fallen to in these months?
why, these hands of his--the hands that had waited on Dot--had
stooped to pick up paltry half-crowns won by cheating foolish
wretches in a railway-carriage.  And then came the remembrance of his
father.  "You are hardly in a position, Dono, to speak of breaches of
honour."  Not even then! oh! what would his father have said to him
now!  Yet little as he had known of him, that little was enough to
tell him that his father would always think more of the future than
of the past.  There was a future for him even now, he must no longer
wage war upon the unjust world, he must--he _would_ 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 evening pipe.  The old captain was
evidently uneasy.  Noir was uneasy, too, in reality, but he kept it
to himself.

"He's a very queer customer that lad," said Rouge, 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 little
change somehow.  It wouldn't be a bad plan to go abroad for a month
or two, plenty to be done there, and he'd be sure to like it.  After
all, of course we do run some risk here; a month or two of absence
wouldn't be a bad notion."

"'He who prigs what isn't his'n,'" quoted Rouge.  "Well, don't carry
it too far, and don't drive the boy away, whatever you do."

"No, no, I'd sacrifice a good deal to keep him," said Noir, "but he's
thoroughly 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,
brooding 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 boy.  It was very strange
of him to go off like that with no supper."

"Pooh!" said Noir, contemptuously, though his father was speaking his
own thoughts.  "He's ashamed of himself and vexed about that caution."

"Yes; but to go off ill as he is, cold and supperless.  If he was a
Catholic he might do it as penance, but he's nothing, you know."

It did not strike them that in very deep inward trouble it is 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
understand 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.

Noir's thoughts went at once to darker suspicious; 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 noiselessly, and with well-disguised
anxiety stole in; the room was very quiet, the bed empty.  Noir's
heart stood still, and, with an exclamation of dismay, he hurried to
the dark form which was stretched out on the floor.

"Bring the candle quick," he said to his father, and Rouge, trembling
with fear, held the light nearer, while Waif growled a 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 witnessed 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 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 flickering 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 despondency,
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 swallowed up in the misery of his recollections, for
this was the anniversary of Dot's last day of life, and remembrances
strange, tender, pitiful, but always full of pain, thronged up in his
mind.  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
overtaxed 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 Olliver'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 mad 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 crazy companion,
with difficulty keeping pace with his fevered steps; and then ensued
an evening of mad merriment.  A year ago, only a year ago, and
Donovan had been watching Dot's last agony; with the strong manly
tenderness of great love he had held the little quivering hands in
his, now in a crowded billiard-room he grasped the cue instead, 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 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 mad excitement and misery which followed.

The next morning the bright new year broke over the great city, there
were _fêtes_, 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 IV.

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 towards
deliverance and triumph?
                            _French Revolution._  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 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 poor little
over-driven servant.  She used to shuffle into the room every now and
then, and with infinite care and clumsiness would drag the pillow
from under his head, shake it up violently and turn it, or hold a
glass to his burning lips and spill half its contents down his
night-shirt, but he learnt to be grateful even for such rough
attentions, for there is nothing like weakness and suffering for
teaching patience.  The loneliness was so terrible, too, that he
would detain anyone who came to him as long as possible.  Old Rouge,
with his unsteady gait and half incoherent talk, was better than no
one, and even the little slipshod servant, with her rough head and
dirty hands, was worth the exertion of talking, just for the sake of
having a human creature within reach.

"I allays liked you, sir," she said to him once.  "You ain't allays
a-calling for your boots, like Mr. Frewin, or in drink, like the
captain, and you never shouted out 'slavey' down the stairs 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
rem--why, they treat us poor girls like dogs, that they do.  And
talkin' of dogs, I've done that un of 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, quickly.  "Don't do it
again.  It's wrong to steal, you know."

But then he paused.  What was he saying?  How trivial were this poor
ignorant girl's dishonesties compared with his own!

Bitter were the regrets which thronged up in 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 heared her, sir, not a minute since."

Donovan did not speak for some time.  He lay thinking silently over
the girl's words, "You'll die, sure as a gun."  He smiled a little,
thinking that few had been told of their danger in a more open and
undisguised way, but it ought to have been good news to him, and for
a time he tried to think he was glad.  And yet?  He did not go
straight to the root of the matter, and own that the "peace of
nothingness" looked less attractive when viewed nearly; he said
instead what a wretched life he had had, how little enjoyment, how
much suffering, and now he was to die forlorn and unattended in a
miserable London lodging.  Then came a great longing to see his
mother.

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 utterly 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 himself chained down in one of Doery's red-hot furnaces,
where Dives-like he had cried for water, and then he had looked up,
and Noir was beside him with the cooling draught he had thirsted for,
and he had fallen back again refreshed, wondering greatly that his
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 beside him, was struck by the tone
of his fevered utterances.  He was prepared for ravings against
injustice, but, instead, Donovan's most vehement words were of
self-reproach.  At times he would take a theological turn, and would
argue for and against every conceivable doctrine, and then again he
would fancy himself back among his late 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 under-current 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!  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 them.  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, exhausted,
panting for breath, he stared round the little room.  The scene was
changed.  Fight as he would, there was no chance of his seeing Dot
again; even the white barrier was gone.  The gas was 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 despairing, that he started up at once and hurried to the
bedside.

"What is it?" he questioned, anxiously; but Donovan could not answer;
his breath would only come in gasps, his whole frame was convulsed.
By the strange freemasonry of suffering, Noir Frewin understood him;
he did not say a word, but just took the two burning hands in his,
and Donovan, with a sense of relief, tightened his hold till the grip
was absolutely painful.  Anything human 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 anything else, would probably not have known so
exactly what to do; they would have offered words to a state utterly
beyond the comprehension of speech, or would have advised
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 presence stronger than self--something or some one who
would not preach, but would understand.  He gave, poor fellow, all he
could give--himself; and after a time Donovan's convulsed limbs
relaxed, the hands loosened their hold, the face settled into its
usual stern sad expression.

"Thanks, old fellow," he said, faintly.

Noir, with an odd choking in his throat, turned away and made ready
some gruel which had been heating.  By the time he had brought it,
Donovan had recovered a little more, and there was a sort of smile on
his worn face.

"I can't get over you turning nurse, Noir," he said, in rather
trembling tones; "you've been--awfully good to me."

"Only make haste and get well," said Noir, roughly, but kindly.

"Am I not doing my best by swallowing this abomination?" said
Donovan, trying to form his lips into a smile, but failing piteously.

"You'd better be quiet, or you won't get off to sleep again," said
Noir, peremptorily, the fact being that he could not stand the effort
at cheerfulness which his patient was making, for there are few
things more painful than to see a thin veil of assumed cheerfulness
drawn over great suffering.  But the effort was a brave one, he could
not help knowing it, and as he returned to his place beneath the gas,
instead of taking up his newspaper, he mused over the hidden trouble
which had been half revealed to him, from time to time casting a
glance towards the bed.  Nothing, however, was to be seen there
except a mass of 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-restrained 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 rather thin severe face.

"There must be some mistake, madam," 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.  "Now 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."

"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 housekeeper."

"Your pardon, madam," said the captain.  "May I not offer you some
refreshment after your journey," and he put his hand on the
inevitable black bottle which was always within convenient reach.

"I'll thank you, sir, to take me to Mr. Donovan," said Doery,
severely, "and not go offering a respectable party spirits at this
time of day."

Rouge, feeling snubbed, hastily led the way to the sick-room,
muttering under his breath, "A very dragon!"  But nevertheless he
rather enjoyed the new arrival, and there was a ring of 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 recognized it.

"Did my mother send you?" he asked, as soon as the captain had left
the room.

"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 appealing to his mother for money to start him in
some honest calling, died away.  He must continue to support himself
by his precarious winnings, only--and here all his strength of will
asserted itself--he would never be a party to Noir's deceptions
again.  It was not a very cheering prospect, he saw that it must
involve an entire break with the Frewins, and they had been so good
to him that he shrank very much from the thought.  After all, as he
often said to himself, his death would solve many difficulties.

But he was not to die--that was evident.  Thanks to Mrs. Doery's good
nursing he began to recover steadily, and, as his strength returned,
a certain enjoyment of life returned to him too, at times.  He began
to wish very much to be out and about again, even though so many
difficulties would have then to be faced.

His intercourse with old Mrs. Doery was a good deal hampered by
various causes.  He never mentioned Dot's name, he never mentioned
his present way of life, so that their range of conversation was
rather limited.  He asked a thousand questions, indeed, about his
mother, and the whole Manor household, but except with regard to this
subject he was very silent and utterly uncommunicative.  From day to
day he would lie with a sort of rigid patience, abstractedly watching
Doery as she sat mending his linen, or with his eyes fixed on the
hateful little oil-painting of the "Shipwreck," which stared down at
him from the dingy green wall paper with black spots.  It used to
remind him a good deal of his own life, that forlorn-looking vessel
with broken mast and battered hull.

One night when he was almost recovered he was roused from his first
sleep by noisy merriment in the adjoining room, and found poor Mrs.
Doery fairly frightened out of her wits.

"Such a calling and a shouting and a quarrelling as she'd never heard
in her life!"

"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 assurances of his
perfect recovery, Mrs. Doery was at length persuaded to leave him for
a little while and go to church, Donovan having over-ruled her dread
of losing her way by assuring her that the old captain went every now
and then to salve his conscience, and would be 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
punishment, he remembered little but the 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 Genealogy, began to read in a careless,
cursory way.  By-and-by, however, in spite of himself, he grew
interested.  From the few isolated chapters which he had heard
occasionally in church and during his school life, 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 suffering, and self-denial, a
career of apparent failure, surroundings low and incapable of
understanding, a trial of glaring injustice, and an unmerited death
of the deepest pain!  It was a story which could not fail to touch
him; a character which filled him with great admiration.  There were
two things which especially appealed to his sympathy--the injustice
suffered, and the strong endurance manifested.  He put down the book
reluctantly when he was too tired to hold it any longer, not even
thinking of any possible change in his fixed beliefs, but simply very
much struck by a noble life, which, it seemed probable, had been
lived thousands of 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 Shakspere's characters.  Modern Christianity--or the
so-called Christianity which had been brought under his
notice--offered no attractions to him.  The whole system seemed to
him hollow and false, a great profession and a niggardly performance,
a mixture of selfishness, hypocrisy, and superstition.  But the life
of Christ was grand!  Such an unexampled career of noble
self-devotion filled him with wonder and reverence.  However much the
misguided followers had fallen off, there could be no doubt that the
mind of Christ had been--he naturally used the past tense--one of
dazzling purity and beauty.

In the enforced stillness of convalescence the story haunted him
strangely, and undoubtedly he was influenced by it--his admiration of
a noble mind ennobled him.  At present that was all; but it was much.

As soon as he was about again, he took an early opportunity of
telling Noir the decision which he had made before his illness.
Noir, who had already shrewdly surmised that he should lose his young
accomplice, made no attempt to turn him from his purpose.

"Turned good, I suppose, as most fellows do when they have been
within an ace of dying," he remarked, sneeringly.

"Glad to hear you think so," said Donovan, with coolness.  "I own
you've a proverb to fall back on.  'The Devil he fell sick; the Devil
a monk would be.'  However, I've no monkish 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
like 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.'"




CHAPTER V.

MONACO.

  I heard a thousand blended notes
  While in a grove I sat reclined,
  In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts
  Bring sad ones to the mind.

  To her fair works did Nature link
  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, I missed you frightfully; and there was Noir as grim as
death, and even Sweepstakes as cross as could be.  You wouldn't
believe what a bother we had with that bird, milord; just after you
were laid up he caught, somehow or other, one of his old couplets
which always enrages Noir.  I suppose I'd said it, and he'd
remembered it, for day and night that creature said nothing but,

  "He who prigs what isn't his'n;"

you know the old rhyme!"

"There's something uncanny about Sweepstakes," said 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."

"Hullo! the creature is beginning to talk," said Donovan, "you'll
have a crowd round him."

And true enough before long they found themselves the centre of an
amused group, to whom the parrot held forth in his choicest language.
But presently Noir came up, and directly the bird caught sight of him
he put his head on one side and began with his most sanctimonious
manner to say,

  "He who prigs what isn't his'n
  When he's cotched 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 expressed their
admiration of the bird's cleverness, but Noir was not to be baffled,
he drew the black covering over the cage, and Donovan saw by the
frown on his brow that he was vexed by this particular sentence of
the malicious parrot.  He sat down on the other side of the cage,
ready to check any further talking, but he could not prevent the mild
refrain which Sweepstakes invariably resorted to 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 the unwholesome atmosphere of Drury Lane, the
fresh sea-breeze was almost intoxicating.  In spite of adverse
circumstances 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 happily 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 satisfy his restlessness, and to fill the emptiness of
his life.  Fair France, with her sunny plains and genial atmosphere,
looked very tempting, Monaco offered plenty of excitement--why should
he not be happy now?

They were to travel straight on to Nice, a rash project for a
semi-invalid, but naturally the Frewins consulted their own wishes,
and Donovan, though tired enough when they reached Paris, preferred
going on with them to staying for the night alone, for he was still
not at all fit to be left quite to himself; old Mrs. Doery had only
resigned her post a few days before, and he shrank from entire
self-dependence.  So the night journey was undertaken, and he sat
back in his corner watching his sleeping companions, sometimes dozing
himself for a few minutes, but oftener wide awake, and fully
conscious of his weary misery, bearing it with a sort of philosophic
endurance, and thinking a good deal of the life he had left behind
him, of his parting 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 utterly unregulated 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 of 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
features, 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 Frenchmen in every variety of
night _déshabillé_ and posture.  Donovan glanced at them curiously,
then, with that shivering misery which invariably accompanies the
dawn, he once more looked out over the grey landscape.  His cough
began to be 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 gloriously bright, and the air so exhilarating, that
he fancied himself stronger than he really was.  Nor was the
exquisite scenery altogether wasted on him; it is to be doubted
whether it has any effect on the _habitués_ of Monte Carlo who daily
pass through it, but Donovan was a stranger, not yet seized with the
gaming mania, which seems to destroy all the nobler faculties.

Leaving Nice behind them, with its green hills and clustering white
villas, they sped on through a very paradise of beauty.  To the right
lay the Mediterranean, with its wonderfully deep blue, broken here
and there by the tiniest foam-wreathed breakers, gleaming whiter than
snow; to the left rose the Maritime Alps with their softly mantling
olive groves, while in the distance every now and then a snowy peak
stood out clearly against the blue sky.

The three Englishmen certainly took their own fashion of enjoying it
all, there was no studying of Murray or Baedeker, not a single
exclamation of wonder or admiration.  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 gorgeous 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 companions to an
out-of-the-way hotel in old Monaco, where at the expense of a stiff
climb they would be free from some of the objections of the more
frequented quarter.

Before long they had set off for an afternoon at Monte Carlo, all
three in good spirits; Noir with implicit faith in the system of play
which he was about to try; Donovan exulting in the sense of novelty
and excitement; Rouge ready to be amused by anything, and eager to
try his luck so far as the restricted allowance which his son made
him would permit.  Driving up the long hill they were set down at
last at the entrance to the casino.  This, then, was the 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, 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 Jeu_.  After all, even in this
enchanted palace, thoughts would intrude themselves.  Would this
journey to Monte Carlo prove less satisfactory than he had expected?

It is a strange sight that _Salle de Jeu_.  Its richly decorated
walls, its heavy square pillars, coloured and begilt in the Alhambra
style, form the setting to a dark picture.  How many wretched faces,
pale with despair, are reflected each day in those mirrors! how many
victims pace restlessly up and down the slippery parquet floor, never
satisfied with 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, handsome 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 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 remaining at one of the
roulette-tables in the outer room, Noir steadily settling himself at
the first trente-et-quarante table, and in course of time securing a
chair, Donovan wandering restlessly from place to place.  He had no
faith in any system, though Noir had tried hard to convert him to
his, but, although he was usually as successful by luck in games of
chance as he was by cleverness in games of skill, his customary good
fortune seemed now to have deserted him.  Before long he had not only
lost a great deal more than was at all convenient, but had conceived
a strong dislike to the whole thing.  Dispirited by his unbroken
losses, he felt at once that there was nothing 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 spite of all the talk about "systems," he saw that the
ruling goddess at Monte Carlo was blind chance; she had not dealt
kindly with him, he would waste no more time or money in her gorgeous
shrine.

But now that all 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 released 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 extravagantly-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 unrivalled
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 involuntarily taken as
his standard of what a woman should be.  From what evil these two
guardian angels shielded him who can say?

Before long he wisely went in search of the old captain, whom he
found in low spirits, having lost every five-franc piece in his
possession.

"We've both had 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 perfectly 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 tantalizing 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 exceedingly clever French
doctor, he would most likely have sunk under it.

However, he struggled through, and woke one morning, after a long
sleep, to realise for the first time his position.  There he was
lying as weak as any baby, surrounded by mosquito net curtains, in an
odd-looking foreign room; there was poor Waif lying at the foot of
the bed, keeping anxious guard over him; there was Rouge sitting by
the open window smoking.  Where was he?  What was this new place?
Not Drury Lane, for the dingy green paper was changed to a gorgeous
blue one, and the ceiling was decorated, or defaced, with bluewash
studded with glaring white stars, in the middle of which grew by some
strange anomaly a great clump of red and yellow roses.  Donovan,
though not artistic, was strangely irritated by looking at the horrid
daub.  He called the old captain to him.

"So I've been ill again," he said, interrogatively.

"Very," replied Rouge.  "In fact, milord, we as good as gave you up
at one time, you wouldn't believe what an anxious time I've had of
it, with Noir all day long up at that casino, and no one here who
could speak a word of English."

"You have been nursing me?"

"Well, of course, what else could I do?" said Rouge.

"Thank 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 recovered rapidly; not
that he cared much to get well, but he was anxious to free himself
from the state of dependence he was now in, for dependence was
uncongenial to his nature, and to submit to rough and ready
attendance is never pleasant.  Before many days had passed he was up
and dressed, just able to drag himself across the room, and to
relieve the monotony of the long hours by such amusement as he could
find at either of the windows.  One of these faced the Place du
Palais.  There just opposite to him he could see the Prince's Palace,
could count the slow minutes by the clock in the tower, speculate
when the cannon and the great pile of cannon-balls would be used,
study the two sentries who, in their red and blue uniforms, kept
guard over the entrance gate, and watch the few passers-by.  From the
other window a much wider view was obtained.  Here he could see the
whole of the beautiful bay, and the exquisite loveliness of the place
made him long to quit his room.

And so the days dragged on, and little by little he regained his
strength, would crawl out to the almost deserted 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, while before him stretched a glorious panorama; the
beautiful blue of the Mediterranean, Monaco 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 promontory of Bordighera.  Only one conspicuous
object stood out always as a blot on the fair landscape--the casino,
with its gilded roof and its two minarets.

Donovan had wisely resolved to keep clear of modern Monaco, but he
began rather to weary of the narrow bounds of the old town.  True he
had, as usual, made friends among the children; his favourite
resting-place on the wall happened to be on the way to the school,
and troops of little brown-eyed, bare-headed girls and boys passed
him every day, and soon learnt to crowd round the strange English
gentleman and his wonderful dog, and to bring him presents of flowers
or unripe nespoli.  But, as he grew stronger, he began to hate the
feeling of imprisonment, until, happening one morning to notice a
little boat on the sea with its white lateen sail, he conceived the
happy idea of taking a daily cruise.  The old captain was always
ready to accompany him, and the hours which they spent in the _Ste.
Dévote_, as their boat was named, did each of them untold good.

Meanwhile each evening Noir, returning about eleven o'clock, when the
casino closed, would bring in one or two acquaintances who, not
satisfied with the day's gambling, were anxious for play.  In this
manner Donovan made an easy living.

Noir tried in vain to induce him to go once more to Monte Carlo; he
himself had been remarkably lucky, and he rarely let a day pass
without remonstrating with Donovan on what he alternately called his
"cowardice," his "laziness," and his "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 was
ended.  "You are the first person in the world who ever gave me such
an honourable name.  Zealous folks have addressed me as 'infidel
dog,' 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," interrupted 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 Jeu_ again.  You with your
system, and Berrogain with his luck, may do very well.  Fortune
wasn't so kind to me, and I'd rather depend on my own brains."

Sweepstakes ended the discussion by reiterated injunctions to "be
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. Dévote_.  Strangely enough, however,
it so happened that the infallible "system" failed dismally on that
very afternoon.  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 had lost all desire to risk a fresh effort.

Rather sulkily he consented the next morning to go for a walk with
Donovan, and, _déjeuner_ 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 impromptu
policemen's rattles made of odd bits of wood and iron, and were
swinging them round with frightful energy.

"What is all this infernal row about?" grumbled Noir.

Donovan, rather amused by the comical effect of the energetic
_gamins_ and their clumsy rattles, accosted a brown-eyed boy, and
asked him the meaning of it all.

"It is the 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!"

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 together.  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 archways, did
not greatly interest them.  They had come for exercise rather than
for lionising and, contented with a very brief survey of the little
antique place, they struck off to the left, along a somewhat rough
and rugged mule-path, and walked on silently in the direction of
Mentone, each bend bringing them to fresh loveliness, to glimpses of
new rocky heights, to little silvery impetuous waterfalls, to
different views of the exquisite coast and of the Mediterranean,
which at its very bluest spread out before them in calm beauty.  At
last Donovan spoke.

"Have you had enough of Monaco yet?  Shall we go?"

"Certainly, I'll go to-morrow, if you'll come back on the old footing
to London," said Noir, with a quick glance at his companion.

"To that you've had your answer already," he replied, coldly.  "I
shall never go back to the old life.  I told you so."

"Saint!" said Noir, with his most disagreeable sneer.

"Saint or devil, I'm not going to do it," said Donovan, his voice
rising.  "Call me what names you like, but understand once for all
that when I say a thing I mean it."

Noir knew that this was true enough, knew, as he looked at the firm
resolute face, that he might more easily move the rocks at 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 himself; "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," replied Donovan, shortly; and then, as they
passed a little wayside chapel in the midst of an olive grove, he
said, with an abrupt change of tone, "Let us rest here; one doesn't
often get shade like this."

And throwing himself down under one of the gnarled old trees, with
arms crossed pillow-wise beneath his head, he lay watching the
glimpses of blue through the graceful network of branches above him,
and the still bluer depth of sea down below, against which the dark
outlines of an iron cross stood out distinctly.  Noir filled his
pipe, and sat with his back 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 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 VI.

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 all sin to leave.
              _From the German_.  LONGFELLOW.


Eleven o'clock on a May morning, the bright sunshine 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, morning
traffic, occasionally the cheerful voices of busy 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 Ellis's wickedness, in spite of life-long injustice, he
had done well for himself.

And yet, after all, did it make so very much difference?  Was this
great success, this unparalleled good fortune, so 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
everything.  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, weariness lost, insatiety filled, the hollow
unsatisfactory world became a temporary paradise!

But now it had passed, and the dull weight of existence pressed on
him once more.  Was he so much better off than poor M. Berrogain
even, the man by whose losses he had been enriched?  Was the loser
many degrees more depressed than the winner?

He was just about to leave his room, when, with a hasty knock, Noir
Frewin entered.

"Milord," he said, quickly, "you're wanted in the next room; there's
no end of a scene going on--Berrogain's wife in floods of tears; her
husband has made off no one knows where, and, from a few written
words he left, seems to intend 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.

"Simply what I say," said Noir.  "Don't look as if you'd already seen
his ghost; of course it's a bad business, but come in and see the
wife, and don't put her down as a widow till we've found all the
facts."

With an impatient movement, Donovan pushed past the speaker, and in a
dazed bewildered way found himself in the room where the old captain
was trying to say something 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 streaming eyes,
"listen, at least listen, to my trouble.  In the night my husband
returns, he tells me he is ruined--he, the fortunate, has been
ruined--all the fortune he made at Monaco lost--gone.  I ask him how,
and he tells me it is the 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 called the
young Bayard, _sans peur et sans reproche_--oh! monsieur, is it
possible that you did it?  They said you were too good for Monaco,
but oh! monsieur, it is worse to ruin others than to ruin yourself.
Think, monsieur--think what it means; you have driven my husband away
in despair--he may even now be no more.  Oh! _mon Dieu! mon 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 resting on him.  He had, perhaps--nay,
probably--driven a man to suicide, ruined and widowed the poor woman
before him.  Was he much better than a murderer?

"Speak, monsieur!" reiterated Madame Berrogain through her tears.

He turned at last to Rouge appealingly.

"I can't speak to her; you must----"

"M. Donovan is much moved," said the old captain; "he tells me to
speak for him; be assured, madame, that he will do all in his power;
he is good and----"

"_Do!_" interrupted Donovan, with a sudden return of strength and
vehemence--"is there anything to do?  Only tell me of any hope that
all this is not true, that your fears are groundless----"

"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 wife,--I cannot bear this intolerable misery.  I must fly from
all most dear, and seek a refuge in darkness; life is ended for me.
Farewell!  Thy unhappy one,_--BERROGAIN."


To Donovan the words conveyed little hope; still he clung to the idea
that there might possibly be time to hinder this rash act, and with
the hope all the man within him re-asserted itself.

"Madame," he said, earnestly, "all that can be done I will do.  We
will advertise in all the papers; I will seek your husband in every
place in Paris 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 expression, 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 _bonne_ beside
her, went back to her desolate rooms.

Donovan, as soon as she had left, drew paper and ink to him, and
sitting down began to write rapidly.  Rouge watched the forcible
characters as they were traced with a sort of vague wonder and
bewilderment.  A few moments before his companion had seemed utterly
unnerved, now his iron face and the swift precision of his movements
made him seem like a machine.

"What are you doing?" asked the captain, curiously.

"Advertisements," was the laconic reply, spoken in the voice which
more than anything tells of a mind strained to the highest tension,
half sharp, half weary.

Five minutes of writing, and then Donovan rose, snatched up his hat
and opened the door.  The captain 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 perfectly 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 English 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 absence 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 began 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.

The captain was startled.

"Good heavens! milord," he cried, "you have not found him, have you?"

Donovan shook his head, and clutched at his companion's arm to steady
himself.

"Why, you're ill," said the captain.  "Within an ace of fainting."

"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 recognized M. Berrogain, and, in spite of the subsequent
relief at his mistake, he could not recover from the shock.

"Only don't let's have a scene," was his answer to all Rouge's
suggestions, and at last, with the old captain's help, he managed to
get as far as the entrance to the garden east of Notre Dame, and to
rest on a bench under the trees.

Everything there was bright and peaceful, the 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 compassion for one who seemed ill, or was
it that peculiar attraction which Donovan possessed for children?
The tiny maid, prompted by some unknown influence, at any rate
resolved to do her best for him, and, with her little quick fingers,
began gathering marguerites, then, grasping the bunch with her two
fat little hands, she toddled up to the silent figure, and, with a
premonitory pat to arouse him, laid her 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
utterly 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 childhood it had been so, the ideal
of motherhood, the passionate love for Dot, had been the ruling
motives of his life.  The ideal of the wife was still unformed, he
had never loved, or even fancied that he loved any woman.  Only when
the thought of home-life came to him, as now and then it would, when
he saw the outer side of the lives of others, the vision of the
grey-eyed stranger whom he had met in Hyde Park would rise up before
him, the tender, bright, womanly woman, whose purity and sweetness
had had such a powerful influence over him--had even helped to keep
him straight when he had been exposed to the countless snares of
Monaco.

Because of this strong reverence for women, the 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 intolerable.  But fortunately he was--notwithstanding
all his failings--brave and manly, he struggled now with his
weakness, and began to make his plans for further searching--that
"doing" which was such a relief to his burdened mind.

"We will come to one of Duval's places and have some dinner," was his
first voluntary remark to the old captain, about as sensible and
matter-of-fact a proposal as could have been made.

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, conquering his utter 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 utterly vain search for the lost man.
Ceaseless inquiries, endless hurryings 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 _café_ on one of
the boulevards and made the old captain have a cup of _café noir_,
even permitted the _petit verre_ without a remonstrance; but this
time he was too sick at heart to force himself to take anything, hope
had almost died out since his 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 companion, 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 _her_--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."

He pushed back his chair suddenly, threw down a franc beside the
captain's cup, 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 Théodore 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 _Gare
d'Orléans_ the _chef_ states that a man answering to your
description, much above the usual height, pale, with thick light hair
and moustaches, and a cast in one eye, was seen 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; 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 movements of your 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 so thoroughly undemonstrative,
was nevertheless apparent even to the sleepy official.  He arranged
to call early the next morning for further tidings, and then hurried
away to relieve poor Madame Berrogain's anxiety.

Anyone who knows the sensation of a sudden respite, the removal of an
intolerable load, the relief from oppressing fear, will understand
with what feelings Donovan hastened along the gas-lit streets.  He
was treading on air; new life was coursing through his veins; the
very consciousness of free unburdened existence was in itself
exquisite.  And then came the satisfaction of imparting his hopeful
news to the poor wife, amid a torrent of fervent thanks, tears,
incoherent blessings, and exclamations of relief.

He tried to cut the scene short, and it was not till he was standing
at the open door that he placed in Madame Berrogain's hands a small
piece of paper.

"I give this to you, madame, because I think it is better so.
To-morrow I shall go to your husband, and I will tell him what you
hold for him."

He would have moved to the staircase, but Madame 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.  "One day's possession is sufficient for me; only,
if I might be allowed one suggestion, I would say that it were better
used for madame's own needs, not risked again at baccarat."

"Ah!  God bless you!  God guard you!" exclaimed the little wife,
clasping her hands together.  "Monsieur, I shall remember you always.
On my knees I shall remember you, believe it.  Ah! heaven, if all
were but like you!"

He submitted to having his hand pressed in both hers for a moment,
then, bowing low, he hastened away.

After that, naturally enough came the reaction.  He was dreadfully
worn out, and apart from his relief, everything that faced him in the
future was most painful.  For this great shock had shown him what a
hateful life he was leading, and he knew that it must be forsaken.

He found the old captain in his room smoking, told him of Monsieur
Berrogain's probable whereabouts, and then, with a sigh of great
weariness, stretched himself at full length on the hearthrug.  Before
very long Noir came in, and having heard the news in his cool,
uninterested way, remarked, carelessly,

"Well, I'm glad for your sake that the fellow's in the land of the
living still.  I suppose he's off to America?"

"He will be watched and arrested, if he attempts it," said Donovan.
"To-morrow morning I shall start for Bordeaux.  It is the only sure
way of making all right to see him myself."

"Folly!" said Noir, crossly.  "Why, the best thing he can do is to
leave the country."

"Madame Berrogain might not agree with you."

"But the fellow's ruined.  You know he can't live here."

"You are mistaken," said Donovan, quietly.  "He is not ruined."

"What!" cried Noir, in a startled voice.  "You mean that you have let
him off, that you've been such an utter fool as to let those
thousands slip through your fingers again?"

"Exactly--yes--such an utter fool," said Donovan, with a touch of
satire.

"Well, milord, you're a softer fellow then than I thought.  A woman's
tears and an absurd scare lest a weak-minded wretch should have
drowned himself, and you melt directly, become the generous hero of
the piece, fling _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 recognise 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?  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, "_I will not play
again._"

For a minute both the Frewins were silent; both involuntarily 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."

And 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."

"A few months ago you would have scorned to say anything was
impossible."

"Well, I've been taken down a few pegs since then, and now I do say
it and mean it.  Good night, Noir."

"When do you leave!"

"To-morrow by the 9.20.  Good night and good-bye."

Noir took his hand for a moment, looked him full in the 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 safety--"Hôtel Montré, Rue Montesquieu, Bordeaux."  There
was, however, just a little 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
feeling.  As he paced 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 respecting 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 scornful upbraidings
which he had borne silently a few hours ago.  Noir saw that his
arrival was not very welcome.

"I'm only come to see you off," he explained.  "You're quite right,
milord, after all; go and save yourself while you can."

"Saving is not the question," said Donovan, "even if I believed in
such a thing; but at any rate one needn't do others harm."

"A change in your views, lad, since we first went into 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 thrown open, he put his arm within
Noir's once more, and they went out together to the train.

"Good-bye, old fellow," he said, rather hoarsely, just before the
final start; "let us hope my lungs won't 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.  Waiting rather impatiently till the doors of the
luggage-room should be opened, he scanned the faces of the crowd, the
usual busy cheerful crowd of a French railway-station; a group of men
whiling 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
respectable _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, non,
non,_" and grasped its mother's skirts; then both father and mother
laughed, each took one of the tiny hands, and the three walked away
together.

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 followed 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 Frewin'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, till
Donovan began to wonder whether the porter whom he had hired to carry
his portmanteau, were not perhaps taking him by some roundabout way
in the hope of extorting a larger pourboire.  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 Hôtel Montré."

Donovan saw at the corner the inevitable _Café Billard_, and upon the
upper storeys the name of the hotel inscribed.  The porter went on to
the entrance, and Donovan, 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 that
below.

"Perhaps monsieur sleeps," suggested the little servant, glancing
round as she paused at a door to the right.  "It is very late," and
she pretended to yawn.

"Knock and see," said Donovan, impatient of the delay.

A quick _entrez!_ relieved his fears, and, taking the candle from his
conductress, he opened the door and found himself in a fairly
comfortable room, where, extended on a shabby green velvet sofa, lay
M. Berrogain, the _Figaro_ in his hand, the _Gironde_ lying at his
feet.  For a moment the thought would come, "He is unconcerned and
comfortable enough; you need not have troubled about him."  But while
Donovan paused, the unconscious Frenchman glanced round; he had been
absorbed in his paper, and had half forgotten that some one had
knocked and been admitted; now catching sight so unexpectedly of the
man who had ruined him, he sprang to his feet with a cry half of
fear, half of passion.

"Ah! evil one, why do you pursue me?" he said, in trembling tones.
"Would you remember a petty debt of two hundred francs when you have
won a fortune from me?  Stony-hearted wretch! would you pelt a fallen
man?  You have tracked me--you the rich the successful will hunt down
the unfortunate for a miserable trifle such as that!"

"I am not rich," said Donovan, "nor are you unfortunate."

"Miserable Englishman!" cried out M. Berrogain.  "Why do you mock me?
You are come to drive me to despair, to death!  Why could you not let
me leave the country in peace?  Why do you come with your grasping
avarice to----"

"Listen, Berrogain," interrupted Donovan, in his firm sad voice.  "I
could not let you leave the country, because there is no need for you
to go; I am not mocking you; be quiet and listen.  To-morrow morning
you can go back to your wife at Paris; she holds the fortune which
you lost at baccarat."

They were standing by the draped mantel-piece; 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 forward 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 _must_ 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."

"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 question yet to be
solved, but I do not mean to live by other men's losses.  Enough has
been said though about it all.  Can one get 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 opposite, let me come with you."

"To watch the voracious islander!" said Donovan, laughing.  "To-night
I shall keep up the national character.  I could eat half a roast
beef if there was a chance of getting it!"

"Ah! is it possible?" said the Frenchman.  "And at this time of
night, too!"

He did not think that the anxiety which he had caused could possibly
have affected his companion's appetite on the previous day, and sat
amusedly at the table, watching the absolute demolition of the
largest piece of _Ros-bif rôti_ which the restaurant could produce.

Then somewhere in the small hours Donovan found his way to the rather
dingy wainscoted room which had been allotted him, and, in spite of
the noisy orgies being carried on in the room below, was soon
sleeping profoundly.

M. Berrogain left for Paris the next day, and Donovan went to the
station with him, submitted to his demonstrative gratitude, and then
turned away rather disconsolately to make the best of his new life.
He wandered about the place for some little time, found his way into
the beautiful Church of St. Michel, looked wonderingly and half
pityingly at the groups of worshippers drawing their _prie-Dieu_ up
to the side altars, 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 a _petit sou_--heads he was to
go to England, and thus it fell.

With a half sigh he pocketed the coin, looked at his watch, and then
hurried away to find out when the next steamer left for Liverpool.
There was one that evening to his relief, and he hastened back to the
Hôtel Montré, 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, malgré 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
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 hardly realised the hardness of the task he had
set himself.  He had willed never to play again, and was quite at
rest now that the resolution was made, for never in his whole life
had he failed to do a thing which he had deliberately undertaken.
His confidence in his own strength was boundless, and though he had
reasonably enough seen the impossibility of still living with the
Frewins, now that he had once broken with the old set he did not give
a thought to other possible temptations.

And thus, perfectly 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 disappointment; 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 instead of
tens.  And very soon came the temptation.  He had been out all day in
the weary useless search after work, the evening set in wet and
chilly, as he passed down the gaslit 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 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 miserably.  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, unreasonable idea that self-destruction was
wrong.  What possible good was there in his life to himself or to
anyone else?  He did not think then of his influence with the
Frewins, he could only feel that he had cheated himself, failed in
his purpose, sunk irrevocably in his own opinion; what guarantee was
there, too, that his will would not fail again?

Two paws on his knee and a soft warm tongue licking his hand roused
him at length.

"Oh!  Waif," he exclaimed, with a great sigh, "if only I'd a tenth of
your goodness, old dog!"

By-and-by he lit the gas, dragged out the tin of dog biscuits, and
gave Waif his supper, glancing in between the mouthfuls at the
advertisement columns of an open, newspaper which lay on the table.
Once the dog was kept begging for quite a minute, for his master had
become absorbed in what he was reading.

"Wanted, as secretary to the ---- Institute, a young man of good
abilities, knowledge of book-keeping and a clear handwriting
indispensable; salary £100.  Apply in person, on the 15th or 16th,
the President, ---- Institute, Exeter."

Secretary!--surely he was well fitted for the post.  Possibly, too,
there would be less competition down in the quiet west-country; here
in Liverpool 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 except----  His eye fell on Dot's little
travelling-clock, and he started painfully.  The idea of selling that
had never occurred to him before.  In all his 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 unbearable, and especially so
in this particular way.  To take it deliberately with his own hands
and bargain about it, to leave it--the very thing which she had
touched, and fondled, and admired--in a pawnbroker's shop, to let the
silvery cathedral chime which she had loved fall on the ears of
strangers, it seemed like desecration!  And 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
helping 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, holding to the faint track of right and
duty which he begins faintly to perceive.

Presently the little cathedral 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.




CHAPTER VII.

"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 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
anyone else?"

"My dear sir," said the head of the charitable institution, "I can
only refer you to the Bible, where you will find the injunction: 'Be
not unequally yoked together with unbelievers,' and 'What part hath
he that believeth with an infidel?'"

  "Alas! for the rarity
  Of Christian charity
  Under the sun."


With the indifference of his kind, however, the 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 itself was not worth a straw, but just from
opposition, from a manly love of breasting "the blows of
circumstance," he would struggle on, fight down all obstacles, live
to be of use too, in spite of the president's specimen of Christian
generosity and brotherliness.  Fiercely through his teeth he quoted
Shylock's passionate words, "Hath not a Jew eyes? ... fed with the
same food ... warmed and cooled by the same winter and summer as a
Christian is?"

He had been two days at Exeter; now returning to his lodgings, he sat
down and resolutely went over all possible plans for his future.
Should he go back to Greyshot?  Mr. 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 objections to a
return to the old neighbourhood.  Should he write to old Mr. Hayes?
He might be at home again by this time, though in the winter Doery
had said he was still abroad.  But Mr. Hayes was poor, and would
unquestionably think only of monetary help.  No, that would not do.
Should he go home and throw himself on his mother's mercy?  But that
thought was too wildly impracticable as well as too painful to be
allowed for a moment.  What connections had he in this part of the
world?  What had his father's business in Plymouth been, when four
years ago they had gone there together?  Searching back in his memory
he at length recalled the name of his father's acquaintance, and
remembered that he had described him as a pleasant elderly man.  He
was a banker--there would be no difficulty in finding his address.

He began a letter to him at once, a brief, business-like, stiff
letter, not at all like that of a starving man asking for help.  But
then he had no intention of starving.  He was young and
strong-willed, undaunted still, notwithstanding his repulses.

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 walking, 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.

So the next morning, with his few belongings stowed away in a small
bag--the portmanteau had been discarded 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 lighted up with resolute perseverance, there was a
sparkle, not exactly of enjoyment, but of keen determination, in his
eye; he held his head just as proudly as in the days when he had been
Donovan Farrant, Esq., of Oakdene Manor.

It was a lovely July day, a little hot for walking certainly,
especially in the deep lanes where every breath of air seemed to be
shut out; but there was something satisfactory about the whole
excursion, and Donovan walked on steadily.  The high hedges were in
their full beauty--beautiful as only Devonshire hedges can be, with
their broad green fringes of harts-tongues, their drooping lady ferns
and sturdy bracken, their glorious wild roses and bramble bushes,
with here and there a bit of mossy grey stone cropping out, or a
miniature waterfall thrusting its silvery white head through the
grasses, and tumbling with splash and splutter into the tiny wayside
brook below.  The smell of the new-mown hay gave a country fragrance
to the air, and in most of the fields the men and women were hard at
work, while wisps of sun-dried grass caught here and there on each
side of the road proved that loaded waggons had already passed that
way, leaving their trophies on the hedges.

Donovan had made up his mind to sleep at Chagford, and it was already
late when he crossed 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 transparently clear
river, along the green meadows and wooded valleys to the hills which,
encircling all, stood out clearly defined against the soft evening
sky.  All was quiet and peaceful; in this country stillness and
exquisite beauty, it seemed possible almost to realise 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 springy elastic soil,
and all around him was a scene of the wildest beauty.  The heather
was not yet out, but the gorse blossoms still lingered, and made a
golden glow over the great undulating expanse, while all round the
tors raised their rugged, granite heads, now in full sunshine silvery
white, now with a passing cloud shadow darkest purple--grotesque,
fancifully shaped, irregular, and yet exactly harmonizing with the
barren waste surrounding them.

On 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 encountering a gang
of convicts dragging a cart, and guarded by two warders, rifle in
hand.  The sight was a painful one, the men half patient, half
sullen, looked at him curiously and envyingly; the warders urged them
on.

Donovan had half thought of sleeping at Prince Town.  He had been
walking since seven o'clock that morning, and was rather tired, but
the gloom of the place so oppressed 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 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 something awe-inspiring in the entire loneliness as he passed on
further from Prince Town.  Far and near not a creature, not a house
was to be seen.  Beauty, grandeur, even a faint shadow of the
Infinite, who can fail to trace these in that glorious moor, unique
in its 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 invariably did in his best moments, and he comforted
himself in that terribly insufficient and yet pathetic way which
Byron has expressed in one of his saddest poems.

  "The better days of life were 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
contemplated.  The evening had seemed perfectly fine when he started;
he had no compass, and had trusted implicitly to his eye in choosing
the most direct route to Sheepstor.  Now all traces of the tors were
entirely 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 for
hours, never many yards distant from their starting-point, or of
unfortunate pedestrians 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 suddenly 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 simply impossible in the blinding mist.
Another step, and he felt himself sinking deeper; a fierce struggle
to free himself, and in a moment he was up to his knees in one of the
treacherous Dartmoor bogs.

He uttered no invectives, but, when perfectly convinced of the
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 fellow, you'd rather go on, would you?"

And for a moment 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 the affection of good mother earth, who,
having dealt rather coldly with him all the days of his life, now
seemed determined to hold him in a clinging embrace.

His jacket was not fastened, he could see three buttons of his
waistcoat.  With a sort of grim sense of the ludicrous he resolved to
use them as a measuring gauge, by which he could judge how fast he
was sinking.  It was bitterly cold down in this wet slush, on the
whole 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 with the Frewins,
how they would wonder what had become of him!  He was back in Drury
Lane with Sweepstakes abusing him.  He was in a railway carriage, and
Noir was waving the cards before his eyes in the three card trick.
He was sitting in the park and a bright-faced girl near him 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;

  "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
almost wish to get out of this bog and have another try."

The mist had now rolled away, but it was almost dark and the stars
were shining above him.  The night wind blew through his hair, waved
the cotton grass growing around him, sighed and moaned over the
desolate country.  Nature sang him her dreariest death-song.  Ah,
well! death could not be more dreary than his life had been!

By this time he was up to his shoulders, and was obliged to raise his
arms, the grass and rushes blew against his face.  It was exceedingly
unlikely that Waif would find help.  In a very short time he must
inevitably die.  What a strange ending to his stormy life! strange
and yet perhaps not inappropriate, to die here alone in the darkness,
as he had lived, the grandeur and beauty and majesty of the great
moor close to him, all around, but shrouded in the black night; faint
imperfect images of the beautiful tors presented to him now and then,
but never a true idea of their form.

By-and-by came a light, flickering wavering far in the distance.  Was
it a Will o' the wisp?  Could he hold out any longer?  Could he keep
rigidly motionless till this possible help should reach him?  A sort
of dogged endurance and hatred of yielding came to renew his failing
powers, his voice clear and strong rang out into the night.  Yet why
did he call? why did he not yield, and sink down quietly into
nothingness?  For an instant life and death, the chances of each,
hung in a perfectly even balance, and his indifference turned to a
decided wish for 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 exclaimed, realising
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 delight,
snorting with impatience, and tearing madly backwards and forwards
between the approaching lantern and his submerged master.  Then the
bearer of the lantern came into view, a sturdy 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 tauny bye! (_don'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."

Then, with a tremendous effort, the sturdy Devonshire 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
what was to become of him.  If left to himself he would have plodded
on and on till he dropped.

But John Peek was at his elbow--he was too muddy to be
touched--piloting him across the moor in the direction of the farm,
talking in his half unintelligible Devonshire dialect, and at length
leading him through the yard gate, across the roughly-paved granite
road to the little white farm house where he lived.  At the sound of
their footsteps the wife hastened out, a comely Devonshire woman, her
short skirt, crossed neckerchief, smooth hair, and healthy-looking
face, all as fresh and neat as could be.  The husband explained
matters, and Donovan was hurried into the kitchen, where, what with
the warmth of the peat fire, the contrast between his horrible state
of filth and the exquisite cleanliness of the place, added to the
extreme difficulty of understanding the dialect of the farmer and his
wife, he gradually came to himself, realised that he was actually
alive, that his surroundings 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
beyond, in which his primary object must be--not to starve.

In the immediate present, however, his only wish was to be clean once
more, and with some difficulty he made himself understood.  Evidently
the farmer's wife thought cleanliness next to godliness, and fully
sympathised 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
costume.  But the comfort of being dry and clean again was great, and
he joined the farmer and his family in the kitchen, feeling able to
speak the thanks for his rescue which till now had remained unsaid.

"And now zet down, zur, zet down, for ye hike mortal vagg'd," 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.

"No, tanny bye! on the trat the whole blessed day!" exclaimed the
wife, "and ye hike crewel tender."

He laughed and disclaimed any "tenderness."

"Zich walks isn't for the likes of ye," said the farmer, with a
shrewd look at the wearer of his market-day suit; "ye should lave it
to us 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 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 mantelshelf 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 peats 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 utterly 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 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
nothing more sober in his thoughts than a verse out of Dot's
"Nonsense Book"--

  "There was an old man of the West
  Who wore a pale plum-coloured vest;
  When they asked--does it fit?
  He replied, not a bit,
  That funny old man of the West."


The next morning came the rather humiliating necessity of explaining
to the farmer his utter inability to reward him for his rescue and
his hospitality.  He was received, however, with all the delightful
warm-heartedness and real courtesy so general in the west country.

"Aw! zur, ye didn't think a wanted money!  It's treu us a given ye
the laistest bit of a help, but God bless ye, zur, us has been plased
to du it."

"When I 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 expression 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 Leathertor on one hand, and far in
the distance a line of silvery brightness where the sunlight fell on
the sea.  Life felt 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 walking 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 presented
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 gentleman of about five and thirty was sitting
at the table writing.  He glanced up as Donovan was announced,
scanned him from head to foot without 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 degree that a tramp would scarcely have
said "thank you" for them, holding a ragged cloth hat in his band,
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
wife had carefully dusted the Windsor chair for him the night before,
the banker was not so courteous or so well-bred.  Throughout the
interview Donovan stood.

The banker briefly asked his business.  It appeared that the elder
Mr. X---- had died two years before; the present one had never heard
of Colonel Farrant.  And then, after a few mutual explanations, Mr.
X----'s rather quick peremptory manner 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 explain myself further."

"I understand perfectly," said Donovan, coldly.  "You think I am come
to beg.  I am quite aware that I look like a beggar, thanks to one of
your Devonshire bogs; but nothing 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; besides, 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 employment has been."

"I have only just returned from the Continent."

The banker looked at him a little curiously.

"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; "that was rather hard lines.  I can't
help you to a situation, Mr. Farrant, but you seem in a very bad way,
and as I see you're a clever fellow I will break through my ordinary
rule.  Day and Martin made their fortunes by giving away a stray
sovereign, and, though I can hardly hope to do that, I have still
great pleasure in giving you some small assistance."

He fumbled in his pocket, produced a gold coin, and pressed it into
his visitor's hand.

There are some deeds of so-called "charity" which wound more deeply
than actual unkindness, some favours which are more hard to endure
than blows, some ways of giving so utterly 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, utterly destitute in every way, sick at
heart, ashamed of his past, miserable in the present, and hopeless as
to the future.

When St. Andrew's clock struck nine, he was standing at the corner of
the churchyard idly watching the passers-by, wishing that night d
come that he might hide himself in the darkness and forget his
weariness in sleep.  But as time passed he grew more and more uneasy,
and the dread of illness began to haunt him painfully; he had
certainly eaten nothing since early morning, but that was not
sufficient to account for the growing faintness which was stealing
over him.  He had had a dim idea of enlisting, but that faded away
now, he was too wretched to wish for anything but shelter for the
night, precisely the thing he had not.

There were only three alternatives, either he must break his
resolution again and trust to his customary skill and good fortune,
or he must try to sell Waif, or he must adopt the beggar's
shelter--an arch or a doorway.

A sharp struggle was needed to dismiss the first idea, the merest
glance at the dog to prove the second impossible; then in pain and
great weariness he wandered on once more.  Only a month or two before
he had had more money than he knew what to do with--it was strange to
look back to the old life, with its excitement and success, and
self-indulgence--and now, through his own doing, he was utterly cut
off from it all.  But he knew that it was well, and in a larger sense
than before the words which had haunted him on Dartmoor came to him
now,

  "The worst can be but mine."


Failure, pain, ruin, starvation, all these were apparently his
destiny; he felt that they were endurable because they involved no
harm to others; it had been a choice of life and pleasure at the
expense of his honour and his fellow-men, and death and suffering
affecting himself alone.  His contact with the 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 of the injustice, had spent no very comfortable
night there.  Unlikely as it may seem, he slept a great deal better
beneath the porch of one of the neighbouring houses than he had done
before in the luxurious room.  With Waif crouched up as near him as
possible for the sake of warmth, with the cold night wind blowing on
him, he slept well; in the old times he had been his own slave, now
he was "lord of himself."  Disheartened, humbled, with widened
sympathies and self thrust low, he was now, in spite of the verdict
of the president, a truer follower of Christ than some professing
Christians, the only 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--Porthkerran.  What brought it there he could not tell.  In
thinking over his acquaintance in the West at Exeter, he had
naturally remembered the Tremains; but it seemed utterly improbable
that a doctor in a remote Cornish village would be able to help him
to work, and he had never thought even of applying to him.  But now,
in the freshness of the July day, as he dragged himself up from his
resting-place, and felt the utter impossibility of seeking work in
his present state, the thought of Porthkerran, of the kindly doctor,
of Mrs. Tremain, came to him as a light in his darkness.  He was at
that stage of illness when pride--even the pride of independence--is
brought low, and though he had rejected the banker's sovereign but a
few hours before, the idea of going to the Tremains and asking their
help did not seem hard to him.

The only question was, should he ever get there?  To loiter about in
Plymouth in search of work would be both useless and impossible; but
with an actual goal, a definite thing to be done, it was different.
He made up his mind to go, and set off on the long walk patiently and
deliberately, though anyone with a degree less of courage and
resolution would have succumbed at once.

When he had walked about five or six miles the full difficulties of
his undertaking came to him.  On first waking he had felt ill indeed,
but the sleep had to some extent refreshed him, and it was not till
later in the morning that the unknown pains of hunger beset him.
Still he toiled on, always on, with aching head and failing limbs,
while above the summer sun blazed down 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 intolerable heat and glare changed to cloudy coolness; it
was not till a heavy shower of rain began that he came fully to
himself, staggered to his feet once more, and 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 shivering 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 be forced
himself to go forward.

The road lay now along the cliffs overlooking the deep blue sea.
Donovan scarcely noticed anything, however, and it was not till the
ringing clang of metal fell upon his ear that he looked up.  By the
side of the road was a blacksmith's forge; the blazing fire looked
tempting; he entered the shed, and asked leave to warm himself.

The smith, a fine-looking man, with thick black hair tinged with
grey, and eyes of deep blue like the Cornish seas, turned round
quickly on hearing himself addressed.

"Come in, friend, and welcome."

The voice was a hearty one, but the smith was busy, and turned to his
hammer and anvil once more, while Donovan drew near to the fire, and
felt a little temporary relief from the warmth.

Presently wheels were heard, and a carriage stopped at the door; the
smith put down his hammer and stepped briskly forward.

"Well, doctor--gude day to you--cast his shue, has he?"

Donovan heard the words distinctly, but they conveyed no meaning to
his mind; he stared down vacantly into the 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
recognised it in a moment, and with a sudden return of strength and
energy hurried to the door.




CHAPTER VIII.

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 err, the weak that fall,
  Have thine own faith, but hope and pray for all.
                          OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.


One glance at the little group without told him everything.  There
was the smith scrutinizing Star's shoeless foot; standing beside the
other pony was Dr. Tremain himself, a little greyer than he had been
four years ago, but not much altered; and in the pony-carriage sat
Donovan's ideal, whom he knew now to be Miss Tremain--Gladys
Tremain--for the unusual name recurred to his memory with the thought
of the evening when he had first seen her in her own home, had heard
her singing words which had moved him strangely.

With this sudden revelation, all thought of his present state of need
passed from his mind; he only felt that he must do 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'll hold the pony steady."

Instinctively Donovan kept his face turned from Dr. Tremain; he could
not bear to risk being recognised just then.  The doctor saw only a
tall figure in very shabby clothes--some friend of Trevethan's, he
supposed; he 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 had 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 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 something 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
before he had come to the end, the pony-carriage passed the door once
more.

"Will the doctor be going home now?" asked Donovan, as soon as he
could make himself heard.

"Yes, belike," said the blacksmith, pausing in his work, and looking
at his companion.  "You'd du weel, friend, to go and see him, for you
look mortal vagg'd.  If you're passin' this way again, come and take
your tae with me.  You shall have a gude welcome."

"Thank you," said Donovan, touched by the off-hand yet real
hospitality.

Then Trevethan having directed him to the doctor's house, which he
already knew well enough, he set off once more.

Before he had gone far, a turn in the road brought him in sight of
the Tremains' pony-carriage.  It was standing still.  Drawing nearer,
he saw Gladys standing, bare-headed, on the verge of the cliff, her
sunny hair blowing about in the wind.  She seemed to be searching for
something.  Dr. Tremain, 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 remonstrances, he began to clamber
down the cliff in a way which showed that he was either well used to
the Cornish coast, or else an expert gymnast.

"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 slipped."

For Donovan had trusted to an insecure foothold, and had slipped down
about six feet.  Gladys gave a little cry, but happily a projecting
boulder prevented any danger of a serious fall, and the two watchers
saw that at least their helper was in no immediate peril.  He was
quite still, though; that began to frighten them.

"Are you hurt?" shouted the doctor.

But no answer came, and the figure still remained crouched up in the
same position.  Dr. Tremain felt very uneasy, but in two or three
minutes Gladys gave a relieved exclamation.

"See, papa, he moves, he is getting up again."

They could see the tall figure struggling up, indeed, but the doctor
saw at once that something was wrong.

"Are you hurt?" he shouted once more.

"Yes," came back the answer, "but I'll manage it in a minute."

He had fallen with his ankle twisted under him, and had given it a
sprain; it was indeed a very awkward situation, for the cliff was
steep and hard to climb, and now, with the acute pain he was
suffering, it seemed almost impossible; he looked at the little white
hat hanging on his arm, and he looked up the grey cliff to Gladys.
After all it only needed patience and a resolute disregard of the
pain--he would try it.  But it was infinitely harder than he
expected, over and over again he turned dizzy, and was obliged to
pause, and at last each step became a perfect battle.  He could not
attempt to answer the questions which 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 outstretched 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 him
in 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 fora moment, then he raised him so that
his head rested on Gladys' knee, and prepared to examine his ankle.
The merest touch caused a sharp thrill of pain, and Donovan opened
his eyes.

"Oh!  I am so very, very sorry," said poor Gladys.  "I am afraid you
have hurt yourself dreadfully."

"Only a sprain, I think," he answered, faintly, and then his eyes
closed again.

"We must get him home as soon as possible," said the doctor.  "I will
bring up the pony-carriage as near as may be, and I think, Gladys,
you had better run back to the forge and ask Trevethan to come and
help.  We shall be less likely to pain him if there are two of us to
lift him in."

The doctor went to see to the pony-chaise, and Gladys was 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 conscious now, just realising from the
pain that he was being driven somewhere, where he neither knew nor
cared, or whether this half dream of incessant motion and incessant
pain went on for ever and ever.  All seemed a matter of supreme
indifference.  When the carriage at last stopped he felt no curiosity
as to what was to follow, and, after a few minutes' pause, submitted
without a word to being lifted out and borne somewhere, 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, partly
aided by an odd association.  The very first thing he distinguished
was the smell of brandy, then he felt a glass held to his lips.  From
sheer annoyance he gained strength to push it away, and in weak, but
decidedly cross tones, said quickly,

"Get away with your abomination, Rouge; I tell you I 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
some one 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 is 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 difference, or that we
show our hospitality in Cornwall by shipping off our helpers to the
workhouse?  Come, don't talk nonsense, but tell me when you had your
last meal."

"Yesterday morning between eight and nine."

"Whew!" the doctor gave a slight whistle, felt his patient's pulse
again, and, turning to the servant, gave orders for some gruel to be
made at once.  When that had been administered, Donovan sank into a
sort of doze.  Presently he knew that a fresh voice was speaking, a
low, pleasant voice.  He came to that borderland of sleep when words
begin to convey some meaning, the quiet mist-wreathed entrance to
full consciousness.

"Has he got everything he wants?"

"Everything just now; he is simply worn 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 climbing 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 in.  He owned he was half starved."

"Poor boy!  I wonder how he happened to be in such straits."

Donovan began to show signs of waking; the voices ceased, but he felt
a soft hand putting back the hair from his forehead; it reminded him
of the feel of little Dot's tiny fingers, and then, with a rush of
shame, he felt how unfit he was for such 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."

Mrs. Tremain thought him feverish; but the doctor partly understood
him.

"He is afraid of giving trouble; you must tell him there is nothing
you like better than nursing."

"No," interrupted Donovan, "that is not it; listen to me, and then,
if you will--turn me out; you won't be the first who has done so.  I
was once a card-sharper.  I haven't a penny in the world.  I am an
atheist.  Was I wrong in saying you would be wiser if you turned me
out of doors?"

"Quite wrong," said the doctor, in an odd, quiet voice.

Then there was silence for a few minutes, and Donovan felt the soft
woman's hand on his hair once more.  For a moment he breathed hard,
and there was a quiver in his voice when he said at last,

"I had given up expecting to be tolerated after that confession.  I
don't know why you 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
utterly unable to say where she had seen it.  He raised his hand and
pushed back the dark waves of hair from his forehead, revealing a
long, white seam, the ineffaceable mark of his old wound.  And with
the sight there flashed back into Mrs. Tremain's mind a vision of the
past.

"Mr. Farrant!" she exclaimed.

"Donovan Farrant--yes."

The doctor stood with an expression of surprise and great uneasiness
on his face.  If this were Donovan Farrant, how came it that he was a
penniless adventurer?  How came it that little more than a year after
reaching majority he had come to Porthkerran in a state of
semi-starvation?  There must have been foul play somewhere.  That
will he had witnessed could not have been properly executed, or such
a state of things could not have been.  This evening, though, he must
ask no questions, his patient was not fit for it.  So he put away the
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 forbid any more
talking.  Some more food first, and then you'd better settle in for
the night."

"One thing more," said Donovan, "do you realise 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 patting the dog's
head, "will you never learn to believe that we are not utter brutes.
Of course, the dog is welcome to spend the rest of his life here.  I
must quote the Cornish motto to you--'One and all.'"

With these words echoing in his ears, Donovan lay watching the busy
preparations for the night which were being made by Mrs. Tremain and
the servant.  The room he had been carried to was on the ground
floor, a schoolroom, he fancied, but now busy hands were converting
it into a bed-room, and busy feet without were hurrying up and down
the stairs, and along the passages, fetching and carrying.  "One and
all"--they were certainly carrying out their motto!  And Donovan, who
would have been sorely chafed by having to submit to a grudging
service, watched his present nurses almost with pleasure.  The
comfort, too, of being in a home-like room again was very great.  He
ran through in his mind all the wretched places he had slept in, from
the room in Drury Lane to his last night's shelter under a porch.
Philosophically as he had endured them, it was, nevertheless, an
unspeakable comfort to be again where all was fresh and clean, a
relief, too, to be not in a mere living place, but a home.  He read
the titles of the books in the bookshelf, then glanced round 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 devices, which, no doubt, had
been painted by Gladys; then a print of a "Holy Family," by Raphael,
and lastly, just opposite him, Ary Scheffer's "Christ the Consoler."

He looked at this long and earnestly, struck by the great beauty of
the idea it embodied, and, 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 Donovan.  "It's
likely enough I should be changed since then.  Do you want the whole
story?"

"As much as you feel inclined to tell," said Dr. Tremain.  "Both as
your friend and as your doctor I shall be glad to hear.  After you
left Porthkerran, you went to your home in 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 little
sister.  Partly for her sake I tried to behave decently to him.  She
died the winter before last.  For a little while my step-father left
me in peace, but directly I proposed entering some profession he told
me I must expect nothing from him.  That of course led to a quarrel,
and in the end I was turned out upon the world to get on as best I
could."

"But your father's will?" questioned Dr. Tremain, trying to speak
quietly.

"He left all to my mother, unconditionally, and of course she could
do nothing for me, even if she wished to."

The doctor sighed deeply, and there was a very troubled look on his
face as he glanced at his patient.

"Poor fellow! you have been hardly used.  Where did you go?"

"To London; but not one of our old friends would have a word to say
to me, and I could get nothing to 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 partnership
with him; it was impossible to live honestly, and I thought the other
way would be bearable enough, for I was crazy at the injustice I had
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 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, dependent love, which he had never before
known--the love which, latent in all hearts, is usually awakened by
the first true thought of God.  A God-like deed, and the love shining
in a man, had now touched into life this natural instinct, and
Donovan, in his pain and humiliation, was yet all aglow with the
strange new joy of devotion, 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 inexplicable faith in his new friend; but as it
was he waited in perfect content.  Presently the doctor looked up
with great gladness in his face.

"Do you know I'm very glad you told me you were coming to us."

"Why?" asked Donovan, a little surprised that this should be the only
comment on his story.

"Because it shows that you've pluck enough to do what I fancy was
very disagreeable to your pride."

"I don't know," said Donovan.  "I suppose it was partly being so done
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 simply impossible to most people
under the same circumstances.  "I'm afraid you've been very rash in
your self-management for some time past, and that is the reason you
are suffering so much from your exposure.  After two such illnesses
as you described to me, a man needs some care for the next few
months, at least.  Did you take any care of yourself, or--mind, I
only ask as a doctor--did you stay on at Monaco, ruining your health
by excitement at the casino?"

"I only went to Monte Carlo once," replied Donovan, "and that before
the relapse.  Don't think it was any self-denial on my part; it was
simply because I lost the first time, and because I hated the other
evils of a gambling place.  For the rest I was quiet enough.  Since I
came to England, of course, I have lost ground."

"You have taken no care of yourself," said the doctor.

"Life isn't 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 remembering 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."

"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 realised 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 difficulty, and grieved over his own
unfitness for the task.  For what was not required of him?  Donovan
was friendless--he must be his friend; cheated of his inheritance--he
must, if possible, right him; burning with the sense of injustice--he
must try to influence and soften him; and--most terrible thought of
all--he believed in no God; some one must----  The doctor
paused--nay, what? teach him--impossible!  Argue with him?--probably
useless; love him, pray, agonise 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 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 true health-giver.  Could he doubt
that through all the changes and chances of Donovan'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 responsibility 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."

"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 understand 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 companions whom at last
he felt obliged to leave, that he might try to keep out of evil, and
now he is here, ill and poor and I'm afraid very miserable.  I know
quite well that people will say, as Mrs. Causton has just been
saying, that it is rash and quixotic to take him into one's own home,
but, Gladys, I trust all of you too well not to look upon you as
helps instead of hindrances."

"Do you know, papa, I have seen Mr. Farrant before," said 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, Donovan 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 specially spoke so horridly to
him at London Bridge, when we all got out, I fancy because he had
helped us.  Why was he ever with such people, papa?"

"Because no one else would have anything to do with him, and because
he was a great card-player; he has given it all up now."

"Oh!  I am so glad!" exclaimed Gladys, "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,
little girl, good-bye.  That story has smoothed your temper, I hope."

Gladys laughed, and ran away to give Jackie his morning lessons,
while Dr. Tremain made his way to the breakfast-room.

He was not sorry to 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 fiercely--"what the
poor fellow wants is a _home_, 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 sometimes, but I do think we are too ready to shunt on to them
all that is not easy, self-indulgent, conventional charity.  Look at
the good Samaritan now--himself, by the way, an infidel and
outcast--_he_ did things all round; no passing on to committees and
societies there, no holding at arm's length lest the poor fellow
should stain his garments.  He put himself to some
inconvenience--perhaps to some 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 subscriptions here and there.  We don't
like the trouble or risk of actually dismounting and walking on foot;
it isn't political economy."

"You may be right," said Mrs. Causton, half convinced; "and yet, for
the sake of Gladys specially, is it wise and prudent?  I don't want
to seem intrusive, but one cannot help seeing that there are very
grave objections to such an intimacy for her."

No one spoke for some minutes.  This view of the matter had certainly
not occurred to Dr. Tremain, and he was bound to own that there was
some truth in it.  Was he putting his child into a wrong position?
And yet could he, for the sake of a distant and merely possible
contingency, give up his guest?  His perplexity did not last long; he
was not worldly-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."

Mrs. Tremain looked up at her husband and smiled.

"How soon you have taken that poor boy 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 IX.

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 proportion do we
obtain an insight into God's.

_Essay on Blanco White_.  J. D. MOZLEY.

  But the love slid into my soul like light.
                _Olrig 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 much when she
had visited him earlier in the morning, but now he was comparatively
at ease, and was lying in listless quiet with Waif on the bed beside
him licking his hand.

Mrs. Tremain was not fond of dogs; she was even a little afraid of
them, and she had a very natural feminine dislike to seeing a fox
terrier lying on a clean counterpane.  Donovan divined this at once.

"He oughtn't to be up here, I know," he began, deprecatingly, "but I
can't keep him down, poor fellow! he's always miserable when I'm ill,
and the worst of it is he won't obey orders, but thinks it his turn
to be master."

"Poor 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, specially when I was laid up; he was
often the only nurse I had."

Then a question of Mrs. Tremain's led to an account of his wretched
winter, to a discussion of illness in 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 remember that, and not let me take up your time; I
am afraid this dependence will unfit me for the tussle with the world
which I must 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 lie still and be spoilt, humoured, waited
on, and amused must surely be demoralising, too pleasant and unusual
to fit one for another 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 without all the discomforts you now associate with
it.  Besides, 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 perfectly, 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 rigid face, the only movement being in the hand Waif was
licking, which was clenched and unclenched convulsively.  At last,
shifting his position a little, he looked up again and said,
hurriedly,

"Will you let me see her?  I am very fond of children."

His voice more than anything told of the severe 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 white sun hat, her pinafore full of daisies.

"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 scrutinizing 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 way meanwhile.

Donovan had won her heart--as he invariably 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.

"What's 'ou name?"

But Donovan did not hear, for he was looking abstractedly at her
bright eyes, trying to see in them some likeness to Dot.  And they
were a little like, for, although grey, they were in a transition
state, and there was a peculiar shade of brown in the iris which
somehow made them like Dot's clear hazel.  Moreover, they had in them
the same innocence, and even in a slight degree the same look of
heaven-taught love.

She repeated her question imperatively.

"What's 'ou name?"

He came back to the present with an effort, and answered, gravely,
but gently,

"You must call me Dono."

Nesta softly repeated the unusual name, lingering over it half
doubtfully.

"Don--o, Mr. Dono."

It was the first time he had heard his childname since little Dot's
death.  He caught Nesta in his arms and kissed her passionately.

"Oh! oh! oh!" shrieked Nesta, thinking it the beginning of a game.
"The drate bear's dot me; he's doin' to eat me."

"Not too noisy, my little girl," said Mrs. Tremain, lifting her away.
Then, noticing the deathly paleness of Donovan's face, she hastened
to add, "I think Mr. Dono has had enough of you to-day.  Mother will
take 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.  Donovan 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 sympathy called out for
the reserved undemonstrative stranger whom she had visited in his
bereavement; love and tact had given her power then, they gave her
power now.  She listened as only a mother could have listened to the
story of little Dot, gently drawing Donovan on by her perfect
sympathy, until there was little that she did not know of those past
times.  How it all began, how it was possible for her to win him to
speak the name that for months had not passed his lips, cannot be
written or explained here.  But those who have known a real mother
will understand at once, and those who deem it impossible must be
"Donovans" 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 it 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 condemned, 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, 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 ever '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
will 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 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 somewhat mistaken schemes by his continued
imprisonment, Donovan spent the most peaceful week of his life.
There was something indescribably restful in the atmosphere of
Trenant, a refinement about the daily small-talk, an entire absence
of that perpetual sitting in judgment on neighbours and
acquaintances, which goes far to make the conversation in many
families, a peculiar quickness and readiness to perceive humour, and
a perfect understanding of that delicious family teazing which is
certainly the salt of home life.  Though prevented by his invalidism
from coming into the very centre of all this, 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, bringing his microscope, or his fossils for arranging and
sorting, or any of his hundred and one naturalist hobbies, and
turning the sick-room into 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
absolutely and unreservedly 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 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 realise 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 in one
of his most positive convictions.  He had looked on Christianity as a
creed which could not be connected with any practical kindliness of
life; it had seemed to him merely a sort of _sauve qui peut_.  Now at
Trenant there was none of the conventional religion to which he was
only too well accustomed, 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 admiration.  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, delicious 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 of an utterly 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 distasteful subject which was constantly in his
thoughts.  He was of course, however, too wise and too true a friend
to put it off long; and at the end of the week, when 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 Donovan, "for I, as I
told you, am simply 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 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 light 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--_sure_?"

"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."

"Yes, and on that paper, at Colonel Farrant's direction, 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. Ellis 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 temporary thing, he left Mr. Ellis Farrant's name
alone."

"The witnesses?" asked Donovan.

"Myself and a servant, Mary Pengelly, who is dead."

"Dead!" he exclaimed, a dark shade passing over his face.  "Then it's
all up with me; the will can't be proved."

"I half fear not," said the doctor, "though it seems not so
impossible as I at first thought.  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
allowed that a case might be made for you--such a thing has been done
before now.  Your recollection of having fetched the sheet of paper
might go for something, but the cost of a lawsuit 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 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 nothing 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 softening at once.
"That would be just the one thing I couldn't bear.  It was no manner
of fault of yours; if it had been, it would be easy to put up with--I
could endure anything from you.  But that traitor, that villain, who
all the time is looking as smug and proper as can be, who gives my
money to chanties, who makes merry in my 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; she
fascinated him utterly.

When she left the room again he was the first to speak.

"Forgive me for what I said just now," he began, looking at the
doctor with the light of indignation in his eyes softened down to
sadness.  "I was very wrong to mock at the religion you believe in.
This last week you have almost made me think there may, after all, be
such a thing as Christianity, I believe for 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 systematic way in which Mr. Farrant
must have managed everything.  A sudden act of passion I can
understand, but deliberately to plan and calculate another's ruin----"

Donovan's face suddenly crimsoned.

"Stop!" he cried.  "Don't say you can't have pity on such meanness.
Remember what I used to be!"

"Your circumstances 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 indignation and agitation of manner
had left him, and Dr. Tremain was struck by the sense and coolness
with which he spoke.

"The next thing to be thought of is, what can we do?  A lawsuit seems
out of the question, 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
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 simply ignored, but if I can once see him I shall at least get
some definite answer from him.  Will you consent to that?"

"It would of course be the best chance for me," said Donovan.  "Only
I can't endure that you should have the trouble and annoyance."

"You think it is all like a game of 'neighbour, I'm come to torment
you,'" replied the doctor, laughing.  "You having come to me, and I
being on my way to Mr. Ellis Farrant!"

"Well, I've given you nothing but trouble yet," said Donovan.  "And
this horrid business will hinder you and take you away from home."

"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 Greyshot the following day, in the hope of getting an
interview with Ellis Farrant.  As soon as all was settled he left the
room to speak to his wife, and to make arrangements for his absence,
while Donovan lay in what seemed almost strange calmness.

He had learnt that the Manor was his by right, that there was but a
small chance of his getting it; he had also learnt that his
step-father's injustice had been far greater than he had hitherto
imagined; but then the repentance for his own past was growing more
real and strong each day, and his belief in goodness and purity and
love was struggling into life--his patience was perhaps, 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 seeming full of peace.  The gardener mowing the lawn,
the birds singing in the shrubbery, the children laughing at their
play, and from the next room Gladys' voice singing as she worked; he
did not know her song, but the refrain reached him through the open
window.

  "And truth thee shall deliver,
  It is no drede!"




CHAPTER X.

OAKDENE MANOR.

  Oh, righteous doom, that they who make
    Pleasure their only end,
  Ordering the whole life for its sake,
    Miss that whereto they tend.

  While they who bid stern duty lead,
    Content to follow, they,
  Of duty only taking heed,
    Find pleasure by the way.
                            ARCHBISHOP TRENCH.


For more than a year Ellis Farrant 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.
Donovan 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 conscience in some other way.

Poor Ellis! it really had relieved him a little to send those two
ten-pound notes to his victim, and to have them thrown back in his
face seemed hard; they made him feel uncomfortable for days.  At last
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 belonged to his patient, and
struggling to keep his indignation 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 forward with
outstretched hand, an easy-mannered country gentleman, full of genial
hospitality; this was the character which Ellis desired to assume,
and he acted his part splendidly.

"I think I have had the pleasure of meeting you before, Dr. Tremain,"
he said, in a hearty voice.  "Delighted 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 remembrance of our
meeting at Porthkerran, after Colonel Farrant's death.  Excuse the
seeming impertinence, but have you no remembrance of the Colonel's
will which I then placed in your hands?"

There was not a trace, not the smallest sign of guilt in Ellis's
face.  He raised his eyebrows, and for a moment stared blankly at the
doctor.

"My good sir, I am quite ready to excuse all seeming 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 circumstances 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 useless 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 Farrant, the Colonel's only son; and I am here
to-day to demand of you why he is not in possession of it."

"My dear sir, you are labouring under a most extraordinary delusion,"
said Ellis, with a smile.  "You are most entirely mistaken.  But,
putting that aside, I really may have the right to ask why you
intrude into my personal concerns.  You are almost a stranger to me,
and, 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 you, Dr. Tremain, but I see now that you have
been imposed upon by that miserable step-son of mine.  I suppose
Donovan has been fabricating this tale?  He is a very clever fellow,
and no doubt his story was plausible enough."

"You know perfectly well, Mr. Farrant, that Donovan was utterly
ignorant of the true facts of the case, and that it was he who learnt
them from me, not I from him.  Since, however, 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.  Perhaps you can, having written the codicil.
But, poor man, he died of cholera a week before the Colonel's death.
The codicil was of course worthless then, and was, I believe,
destroyed.  So you see I cannot offer you more proof.  Now, if you
will excuse me, where is the proof of your assertion?  Where is your
second witness?"

"The second witness of Colonel Farrant's will--Mary Pengelly--is
dead," said the doctor; "otherwise, of course, legal proceedings
would have been taken against you."

Ellis, immensely relieved, burst out laughing.

"'Pon my word, Dr. Tremain, this really is a most ridiculous affair.
You, with no manner of proof, expect me to believe your assertion,
and I am in the unfortunate dilemma of having nothing to convince you
of my assertion.  We might go on arguing till Doomsday, and be no
nearer any agreement."

"Yes, I see perfectly well that discussion is useless," said the
doctor, very gravely, "but it was my duty to let you know that your
doings were discovered.  It is also my duty to tell you that Donovan
is utterly destitute, and that if something is not----"

He was interrupted by a fresh voice.

"Who is speaking of Donovan?" exclaimed Adela Farrant, suddenly
appearing at the open window.  She was in her shady hat and gardening
gloves, and in passing along the terrace she had caught the name
which during the last year had passed into silence like that of
little Dot.

"This gentleman has come to see me on business, Adela; I must beg
that you do not interrupt us," said Ellis, half forgetting his
_rôle_.  But Adela was not to be sent away like a child, and her
brother's words only made her the more sure that the strange
gentleman had brought news of Donovan.

"How is my cousin Donovan?" she asked, boldly, turning to Dr.
Tremain.  "I am sure I heard you speaking of him."

"Yes, you are quite right," replied Dr. Tremain, rising from his
seat.  "I was telling Mr. Farrant that Donovan is now staying with me
at Porthkerran, that he is utterly without means of subsistence, and
that he has had a hard struggle to live honestly; he would have got
on well enough if his health had not given way.  I have been urging
Mr. Farrant to be just to him; but I fear with little success."

"Wait a minute," said Adela, with her usual prompt decision; "wait
just one minute."  She hurried across the room to the window, and
called, clearly and unhesitatingly, "Nora!  Nora!"

"I do wish, Adela, you would be more careful!" exclaimed 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 awful 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 circumstances, 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?"

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!  Ellis, you must have pity
on him--you must help him!"

"My dear Nora, I have offered to help him before now, and he flung
the money back in my face," said Ellis.

"You must remember that in the last week his position towards you is
changed," said Dr. Tremain.  "That you can leave 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 brother and began to remonstrate with him.

"Now, Ellis, do this boy justice, and make him a proper yearly
allowance," she urged.  "Give him his £300 a year, and perhaps in
time I may come to respect you again.  You can't say now that you
sent him off in a sudden 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 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 condescending a manner as
if he had been bestowing a princely favour, all the time knowing
perfectly 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 message, 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 understand
that I do love him."

"I think that message will help him on," said the doctor, warmly.
"It is very good of you to entrust it to me.  For the rest, I can
only say that I will treat him like my own son."

With that he rose to go, but he had scarcely left the house when he
was called back.  Mrs. Farrant hastened towards him.

"One moment, Dr. Tremain--will you take this to Donovan?"  She drew a
ring from her finger.  "Ask him if he still loves me to wear it; tell
him how I have longed to hear of him, how thankful I am for your
visit to-day."

"And as for me," exclaimed Adela, coming forward and putting her hand
in the arm of her sister-in-law.  "Please tell Donovan that I, being
a free agent, shall write to him now that I know his whereabouts.  I
don't see why a freak of my brother's should come between us, and I
shall expect him to answer me for the sake of old times."

And so ended Dr. Tremain's visit.  He left the Manor with mingled
feelings; in one way he had received more than he 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 justice 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
gravestones, reminded him that there had been another member of the
Manor household--that Donovan had had at least one ray of heaven's
own sunlight in his life.  He made his way to the little churchyard,
and without much 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 hopeless grief!--how
he must have dashed his heart against words to him so hollow and
meaningless!  The awful realisation 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 on
Donovan's face.  "But I have at least seen Mr. Farrant, which is
something."

Then he described the interview as well as he could, and Donovan
listened without the slightest comment until the doctor spoke of Mrs.
Farrant.

"You saw her!" he exclaimed.  "I am very glad of that.  Tell me more.
Was she looking well--happy?"

"Scarcely happy; but then she was naturally upset by hearing of your
illness, and of the troubles you have been through."

"You must be mistaken.  She never really cared for me; she would
never show more than a well-bred interest, and that only because she
was listening to a stranger."

"I think, Donovan, you are very much mistaken," said the doctor,
quietly.  "The mistake may be very natural, but I am 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.

The doctor watched him a little curiously, for there was some
hesitation in his manner as he twisted the ring from side to side.
At length, however, he put it on very deliberately, then looking at
the doctor he said, with a sigh,

"After all, I am half sorry she has done this.  I am afraid it is a
sign that she is unhappy in the present, that Mr. Farrant is making
her miserable, as I always prophesied he would.  I would rather have
been without her love, and believed her to be happy, as she was at
first after her marriage."

"But supposing the old happiness were false, and that through the
disappointment she came to realise 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
wearing 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 worthy the name."

"You are right, I think, in all but one thing," said the doctor.
"You can prove your love by this: you wish to help your mother, but
circumstances prevent you.  Supposing that 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 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 sort of
allowance.  I suppose I'm not bound to accept it?"

"No, but I advise you to do so," said the doctor, unable to help
smiling at the very evident look of distaste which his words called
up.  "You see, to begin with £100 a year is better than
nothing--that's the common-sense view; and, from a higher point, I
don't think it will do you any harm to endure the 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.  "It has always seemed to me the only sensible and
thoroughly satisfactory profession.  I suppose it's no good thinking
of it though.  The training is very long, isn't it?"

"Four years," said Dr. Tremain.  "The longest of any of the
professions.  But if you've a real inclination for it, you should
certainly follow your bent.  In many ways I think you are well fitted
for it."

"Do you really?" exclaimed Donovan.  "I was afraid Nature had fitted
me for nothing but the work of a mathematician, and I should be
afraid to try that now."

"Why?" asked the doctor, surprised at such an admission.

"Because I know I'm as hard as nails already, and don't want to get
more so."

"Proverbially, you know, the medical course hardens men, for a time
at least, but every rule has its exceptions, and I half fancy you
would make an exception to this."

"How about the entrance fees at the hospital?"

"One hundred pounds, but you can pay by instalments.  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 successfully drawn from Ellis Farrant and the Oakdene property,
by the prospect of going up in two months' time for his preliminary.




CHAPTER XI.

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 _naïveté_ 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 rubs people the wrong way.  Papa says it is
because she thinks there is only one way.  As if, you know, we were
all made alike!"

"I told you it wasn't the big books that bored me," said Donovan.
"What do you think of this?"  He handed her a little brown volume,
and turning to the title-page Gladys read--"An Inquiry into the
Nature, Symptoms, and Effects of Religious 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 wicked thing, wasn't it? but irresistibly comic."

"Poor Aunt Margaret! what would she say!" exclaimed Gladys.

"It is not tracts that are wanted," continued Donovan; "beautiful
lives are the best arguments, the only ones which will ever influence
me."

"Lives like your little sister's," said Gladys, gently.

"Yes," he replied; then, after a pause, "Not that her life was what
some people would have approved; she never thought much of what is
called the soul, she was a little Undine till she was nearly
thirteen."

"Was she thirteen when she died?  I had fancied her 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 entirely 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 unanswerable questions; we talked one day about
death, and of course I had no comforting things to tell her about it,
I couldn't tell her what I believed to be untrue.  Then for a time
the thought of it haunted us both; there was an artist staying in the
hotel, and I got him to do this miniature for me, knowing that the
separation must come some day, but not dreaming that it would be so
soon."

"And did she ever learn that death is not an endless separation?"
asked Gladys, the tears welling up into her eyes.

"Yes," he answered, quietly; "she learnt all that could make her
happy, how I don't know.  Isn't it strange how easily belief comes to
some?  I would give worlds to be able now to believe what you
believe, to feel certain that I'd got hold of the real truth, but I
cannot, it's an impossibility."

"Oh! don't say that," said Gladys, quickly, "leave yourself at least
a hope, or how will you ever have the heart to go on searching for
the truth?  It may not always seem impossible to you."

Her sweet, eager face, with its entire absence of 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 the 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
realised 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 loving
Gladys; and she, beginning with the wish to give him a little of the
sister's love which he missed so much, drifted imperceptibly,
unconsciously into a love altogether different.

Very happy to both of them were those summer weeks; in the long
mornings Donovan worked hard for his examinations, in the afternoon
there were merry gatherings 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 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 innumerable friends among
the poor.  There was very little society round Porthkerran.  In the
winter Gladys sometimes went to one or two dances at some distant
country house.  In the summer there was an occasional picnic or
garden-party, but the neighbourhood was thinly populated, and the
distances were too great for very much visiting.  So Porthkerran
formed a little clan of its own; and as by good chance the squire and
the rector were both fond of natural history, Dr. Tremain was able to
gather round him a small scientific society; this, with the exception
of the constant visits of Mrs. Causton, and of their nearest
neighbour, a jocose old man, Admiral Smith, constituted the clan
proper.  But the Tremains knew almost everyone 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 enjoyed it so thoroughly.

There was one event, too, which was constantly being talked of,
namely, Dick's return from sea.  He was expected 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 exclamations
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 perhaps
slightly rash, considering his very narrow means, but he could not
rest till he had sent it.

His ankle was now quite recovered, and in September he was able to go
up for his examination, but not before he had 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 objection, and Donovan liked the
thought of being with any connection of the Tremains, the arrangement
was made; but unfortunately Stephen, who had been spending the
vacation abroad, returned with his eyes in a very delicate state, and
a bad attack of ophthalmia ensuing, obliged him to give up all
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 consideration.  He went back to Porthkerran in excellent spirits.
It was about half-past five on a bright September afternoon when he
reached St. Renans, 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 apparently about his own age, a lithe,
active-looking fellow, with a very sunburnt but good-looking face,
and merry, blue-grey eyes.

"Let me send your bag with my traps, then; the carrier leaves in an
hour's time."

There was a very evident "Who are you?" in Donovan's eyes; but the
stranger, nothing daunted, took the bag from him and ran back to the
little inn; then, returning in a moment, he said, apologetically,

"You must excuse this 'hail fellow well met' business, but I am Dick
Tremain, and, if I am not very much mistaken, you are Mr. Farrant."

They shook hands.

"You are a very clever guesser," said Donovan.  "I ought to have
known you; but I had no idea you 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 adventure."

"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 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 have 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 regular mother's son."

This was a genus utterly unknown to Donovan; he asked several
questions about the Caustons, and, as Dick possessed the genial
manner and the ready speech of his family, the five mile walk was
quite 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 twistings and windings, the innumerable
passages and mysterious flights of steps, the houses with their
second doors and secure hiding-places, all bore witness to the bygone
times when the one interest, excitement, and object in life of the
inhabitants had been to smuggle, and to escape from the
coastguardsmen.  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 which some daring sexton had once
concealed for several days in the church itself.  The rising
generation listened with interest to these tales of the evil deeds of
their forefathers; sometimes they even went so far as to wish that
their own lot had been cast in those more exciting days, and were so
depraved as not to

  "Thank the goodness and the grace
  Which on their birth had smiled."

But to wish that they had not been taught so very often in
Sunday-school that the boys who stole apples invariably came to a bad
end, or that living in those benighted days they might have enjoyed
in peace a little of the excitement of smuggling.

But Porthkerran was now an eminently respectable fishing village, and
if it did break the Ten Commandments, broke them in a less flagrant
and open manner than in former times.  Adulteration of food and false
weights were certainly not quite unknown in the place, but on the
whole Porthkerran had decidedly improved, and the inhabitants were,
as a rule, hospitable, kindly, and staunch.

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 realised 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 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 tum back!" she cried, gleefully.  "Lift me over the
ban'sters, Mr. Dono, up on to you shoulder."

He lifted her across, received a half-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 rang rather 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 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
entirely engrossed in their boy, that even Gladys did not at first
understand his non-appearance.  But, delighted 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, lightly.  "I've a good
deal in common with the frogs, a love of croaking and a coldness of
heart--or absence of heart altogether, is it?"

"I came to scold you," said Gladys, "not to laugh.  Why have you not
been listening to Dick?  You've no idea what 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 the latter.  Ever since I came here you
have been teaching me.  If ever I doubt human goodness again, I shall
only have to remember that there is such a place as Trenant in the
world."

"Then if that is so," said Gladys, smiling, "I shall thank my hat for
blowing over the cliffs that day, even though it did give you so much
trouble and pain.  However, we've wandered from the point.  You will
come in, won't you?  It was so stupid of me not to remember sooner
that you would be sure to take yourself off."

He laughed a little.

"You own, then, that it was natural?"

"Not at all; most people would never have dreamt of doing such a
thing."

"But you knew that I should," said Donovan, triumphantly gaining the
assurance that she understood his character.

"Well, yes," she owned, "I thought it would be very like you to feel
in the way and not wanted."

"Don't be too hard on me for that; you've no idea how I've been shut
out of things all my life.  No one has ever loved me but a few
children and a dog or two."

"Oh, you must not say that!" she exclaimed, in a voice so pained, so
unlike itself that it even startled her.  "You know--you know that is
not true!"

As the words passed her lips, she knew for the first time that her
own love for Donovan was no sisterly love, no friendly liking; that
brief sentence of his and her own impulsive reply revealed to her the
wholly unsuspected depth of her feelings.  Had she been aware of this
sooner, it would have been utterly 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 trembling in every limb.  Strange as it may seem, though he loved
her, he did not notice her sudden change--that is, it did not at all
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 welcome to Porthkerran
ought to have reminded me of the love I have found here.  One of your
father's hand-shakes is worth travelling 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 slowly 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, bending 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!"



END OF THE SECOND VOLUME.



LONDON: PRINTED BY DUNCAN MACDONALD, BLENHEIM HOUSE.







*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78457 ***