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diff --git a/78458-h/78458-h.htm b/78458-h/78458-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d2fae05 --- /dev/null +++ b/78458-h/78458-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,14172 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html> +<html lang="en"> + +<head> + +<meta name="viewport" content="width=device-width, initial-scale=1"> + +<link rel="icon" href="images/img-cover.jpg" type="image/x-cover"> + +<meta charset="utf-8"> + +<title> +The Project Gutenberg eBook of Donovan, Volume III, by Edna Lyall +</title> + +<style> +body { color: black; + background: white; + margin-right: 10%; + margin-left: 10%; + font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; + text-align: justify } + +p {text-indent: 1.5em } + +p.noindent {text-indent: 0% } + +p.t1 {text-indent: 0% ; + font-size: 200%; + text-align: center } + +p.t2 {text-indent: 0% ; + font-size: 150%; + text-align: center } + +p.t2b {text-indent: 0% ; + font-size: 150%; + font-weight: bold; + text-align: center } + +p.t3 {text-indent: 0% ; + font-size: 100%; + text-align: center } + +p.t3b {text-indent: 0% ; + font-size: 100%; + font-weight: bold; + text-align: center } + +p.t4 {text-indent: 0% ; + font-size: 80%; + text-align: center } + +p.t4b {text-indent: 0% ; + font-size: 80%; + font-weight: bold; + text-align: center } + +p.t5 {text-indent: 0% ; + font-size: 60%; + text-align: center } + +h1 { text-align: center } +h2 { text-align: center } +h3 { text-align: center } +h4 { text-align: center } +h5 { text-align: center } + +p.poem {text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10%; } + +p.thought {text-indent: 0% ; + letter-spacing: 2em ; + text-align: center } + +p.letter {text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10% ; + margin-right: 10% } + +p.footnote {text-indent: 0% ; + font-size: 80%; + margin-left: 10% ; + margin-right: 10% } + +.smcap { font-variant: small-caps } + +p.intro {font-size: 90% ; + text-indent: 0% ; + margin-left: 5% ; + margin-right: 0% } + +p.quote {text-indent: 1.5em ; + margin-left: 0% ; + margin-right: 0% } + +p.finis { font-size: larger ; + text-align: center ; + text-indent: 0% ; + margin-left: 0% ; + margin-right: 0% } + +</style> + +</head> + +<body> +<div style='text-align:center'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78458 ***</div> + +<h1> +<br><br> + DONOVAN<br> +</h1> + +<p class="t3b"> + A Novel<br> +</p> + +<p><br></p> + +<p class="t3"> + BY<br> +</p> + +<p class="t2"> + EDNA LYALL<br> +</p> + +<p class="t4"> + AUTHOR OF<br> + "WON BY WAITING."<br> +</p> + +<p><br></p> + +<p class="intro"> + "And I smiled to think God's greatness flowed around<br> + Our incompleteness,—<br> + Round our restlessness, His rest."<br> + E. B. BROWNING.<br> +</p> + +<p><br></p> + +<p class="t3"> + IN THREE VOLUMES.<br> + VOL. III.<br> +</p> + +<p><br></p> + +<p class="t3"> + LONDON:<br> + HURST AND BLACKETT, PUBLISHERS,<br> + 13, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET.<br> + 1882.<br> +</p> + +<p class="t4"> + <i>All rights reserved.</i><br> +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<p class="t3b"> + Contents<br> +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> + I. <a href="#chap01">Cobwebs and Questions</a><br> + II. <a href="#chap02">A Crown of Fire</a><br> + III. <a href="#chap03">Good-bye</a><br> + IV. <a href="#chap04">A Man and a Brother</a><br> + V. <a href="#chap05">A Brave Sprite</a><br> + VI. <a href="#chap06">Old Friends</a><br> + VII. <a href="#chap07">Via Crucis</a><br> + VIII. <a href="#chap08">Temptation</a><br> + IX. <a href="#chap09">Charles Osmond</a><br> + X. <a href="#chap10">What is Forgiveness?</a><br> + XI. <a href="#chap11">Contrasted Lovers</a><br> + XII. <a href="#chap12">"Lame Dogs Over Stiles"</a><br> + XIII. <a href="#chap13">An Evolution, and a Nineteenth Century Foe</a><br> + XIV. <a href="#chap14">Duty's Call</a><br> + XV. <a href="#chap15">Via Lucis</a><br> + XVI. <a href="#chap16">Apprehension</a><br> + XVII. <a href="#chap17">Trevethan Speaks</a><br> + XVIII. <a href="#chap18">"My Hopes and Thine are One"</a><br> +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<p><a id="chap01"></a></p> + +<p class="t2"> +DONOVAN. +</p> + +<p><br><br></p> + +<h2> +CHAPTER I. +<br><br> +COBWEBS AND QUESTIONS. +</h2> + +<p class="intro"> + Then fiercely we dig the fountain,<br> + Oh! whence do the waters rise?<br> + Then panting we climb the mountain,<br> + Oh! are there indeed blue skies?<br> + And we dig till the soul is weary,<br> + Nor find the waters out!<br> + And we climb till all is dreary,<br> + And still the sky is a doubt.<br> +</p> + +<p class="intro"> + Search not the roots of the fountain,<br> + But drink the water bright;<br> + Gaze far above the mountain,<br> + The sky may speak in light.<br> + But if yet thou see no beauty—<br> + If widowed thy heart yet cries—<br> + With thy hands go and do thy duty,<br> + And thy work will clear thine eyes.<br> + <i>Violin Songs</i>. GEORGE MACDONALD.<br> +</p> + +<p><br></p> + +<p> +The church at Porthkerran stood at some +little distance from the village. It was +one of those old square-towered granite churches +which abound in the West, and the picturesque +grave-yard, with its rather sombre-looking +slate tomb-stones, commanded a wide view +of the bay of Porthkerran and the great +blue expanse beyond. The south wall of the +church-yard was on the very verge of the cliff, +and here, one evening in the end of September, +Donovan and Waif established themselves; +service was going on, but both dog and master +felt that they had no part or lot in such things, +and though not much given to "meditations +among the tombs," they had for some reason +found their way up to the church-yard. It was +the evening of the Harvest Festival, Donovan +had been too busy to feel bored by the details +of the decorations with which in old times +Adela used to rouse his ire, but he could not +help regretting that his last evening at +Porthkerran should be spent in enforced solitude. +</p> + +<p> +The sense of isolation came to him for the +first time since he had been among the +Tremains; Sunday after Sunday he had stayed +contentedly behind when they went to church, +but this evening a regret that he could not be +with them was stirring in his heart. A chance +word of Nesta's had awakened it. +</p> + +<p> +"Dono will stay with us till we do to bed," +she had announced triumphantly to Dick as +he was leaving the house. "Dono is much +betterer than you, he doesn't do away and leave +us." +</p> + +<p> +It was impossible to escape from the small +elf, she was on his shoulder and her arms +were clinging fast round his neck, but +Donovan's face glowed at her next remark. +</p> + +<p> +"Don't you want to see the flowers and the +corn they've putted in the church, Dono? +Won't you do when we're in bed?" +</p> + +<p> +Dick came to the rescue. +</p> + +<p> +"Mr. Dono will be much too busy with his +skeleton, Nesta; don't you know that he loves +the skeleton better than he loves you?" +</p> + +<p> +"The steleton's a very ugly thing," said +Nesta, pouting, "and he oughtn't to like it so +much." +</p> + +<p> +Then ensued a noisy romp; the rest of the +party started for church. Presently Jackie and +Nesta were fetched by the nurse, and Donovan +shut himself into the study alone. But somehow +Nesta's rival the "steleton" engrossed him +less than usual; the fascinating study of bones +did not still the feeling of unrest which the +child's unconscious words had stirred. +</p> + +<p> +Did he not really want to join with the +others? Was it any pleasure to him to keep +aloof? Had he not felt a pang of envy when +he saw the real delight which the prospect of +this thanksgiving service gave to the Tremains? +Would it not be an infinite rest to be able to +believe in anything so ennobling, so comforting +as Christianity? For nearly three months he +had been watching the life at Trenant. The +Tremains were by no means a faultless family, +but their lives were very different from any he had +hitherto seen, and it had dawned on him as a +possibility that their belief might have +something to do with this difference. Christianity +had hitherto shown itself to him as a thing of +creeds, not as a living of the Christ life, and +how to explain this new phenomenon he did +not know. Were these people loveable in spite +of their creed, or because of it? One thing was +plain, however inexplicable it might be: they +possessed something which he did not possess, +something which—it had come to that now—he +<i>longed</i> to possess. While he was restless and +unsatisfied, they were at peace; while he was +daily becoming more doubtful as to the truth of +the views he held, they were absolutely +convinced that their Master was not only true, but +the Way to knowledge of all Truth. The more +enviable this certainty, however, the more +impossible it seemed to him to make the faith his +own. Study and thought had indeed brought +him from his more positive atheism to a sort of +agnosticism, but, although this had at first +seemed hopeful and restful in contrast with his +former creed, it now forced upon him an even +worse agony. He had accepted his dreamy +certainty with stoicism, but to waver in doubt, +to know nothing, to feel that in knowledge only +could there be rest, and yet to despair of ever +gaining that knowledge, this was indeed a +misery which he had never contemplated. He +saw no way out of his difficulty. To believe +because belief would be pleasant was (happily) +quite as impossible to him now as it had been at +Codrington, when the chorus of "I <i>will</i> believe" +had dinned him into a bitter denunciation of +"cupboard" faith. The only prospect then +which seemed before him was a constant +craving after the unknown. +</p> + +<p> +To be conscious of hunger does not always +bring us bread at once, but it does prove our +need of bread, and it does make us ready to +receive it when given. +</p> + +<p> +The half-stifled thoughts which had lurked +in his mind during his stay at Trenant now +forced themselves upon him. He grew too +restless and unhappy to work, and at last, +whistling to Waif to follow him, he left the +house, and sauntered out in the cool evening. +Instinctively he mounted the hill to the church, +stretched himself on the wall already described, +at no great distance from the cross which +marked his father's grave, and listened to the +singing which, through open door and window, +was borne to him clearly. There were special +psalms that night. He found himself listening +intently for Gladys's voice, and in so doing he +caught the words of the grand old descriptive +poem. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + "They went astray in the wilderness out of the way:<br> + And found no city to dwell in.<br> + Hungry and thirsty,<br> + Their soul fainted in them.<br> + So they cried unto the Lord in their trouble;<br> + And He delivered them from their distress.<br> + He led them forth by the right way<br> + That they might go to the city where they dwelt.<br> + * * * * * * * * *<br> + For he satisfieth the empty soul;<br> + And filleth the hungry soul with goodness."<br> +</p> + +<p><br></p> + +<p> +He heard no more. The recollection of the +time when he <i>had</i> "cried" unto the Great +Unknown in his trouble, the time when his atheism +had brought him to the verge of madness, when +his philosophy had failed, and helplessly and +illogically he had prayed that Dot's agony +might end, returned to him now. But that +appeal had been an involuntary one. He could +not calmly and deliberately address a Being in +whom he did not believe; though he was +hungering to find the Truth, he could not try to +find it by any unreal means. +</p> + +<p> +Thus much he had arrived at when his attention +was drawn away to a tragedy in insect +life which was going on close beside him. In +an angle of the wall was a large spider's web; +caught in its meshes hung an unusual victim—a +wasp, who, in spite of his size and strength, +found the clinging gossamer threads too much +for him. The spider drew nearer and nearer. +Donovan speculated which would get the best +of it, the spider with his cunning, or the wasp +with his sting. Buzz! whirr! buzz! the web +would not yield, the prisoner struggled in vain, +on came the stealthy spider, evidently the +victory would be his. But a sudden fellow-feeling +for the imprisoned insect rose in Donovan's +heart, he sprang up, demolished the cobweb, +and had the satisfaction of seeing the spider +scuttle away as fast as his long legs could carry +him, while the wasp flew off in the still evening +air. +</p> + +<p> +"Free! you lucky beast!" he exclaimed. +</p> + +<p> +"Who is the lucky beast?" said a voice +behind him. +</p> + +<p> +He looked round and saw Dr. Tremain. +</p> + +<p> +"I've just been fetched out of church to see a +patient. I hope that wasn't intended for a +congratulation!" +</p> + +<p> +Donovan laughed. +</p> + +<p> +"No; I was apostrophizing a wasp I've just +rescued from a cobweb. Are you going far? +May I come with you?" +</p> + +<p> +"By all means; it's a message from +St. Kerran's. Come and drive me, will you?" +</p> + +<p> +They left the churchyard arm-in-arm, and +before long Star and Ajax were bearing them +rapidly away in the pony-chaise. +</p> + +<p> +"It's a glorious night for a drive," said the +doctor. "And I am glad not to have missed +you on your last evening. We shall be very +dull when you are gone, Donovan; as to Nesta, +I think she will break her heart. You have +become a necessity to her." +</p> + +<p> +"Or she to me?" said Donovan, smiling. +"It's extraordinary what a difference it makes +to have children in a house." +</p> + +<p> +"Is it not Huxley who speaks of 'the +eminently sympathetic mind of childhood'?" said +Dr. Tremain. "That has always struck me +very much—the readiness with which a child +makes itself one with all around it, the freedom +with which it gives its confidence, and the +delight with which it helps others; that readiness +to serve and love always seems to me stronger +proof than anything that as +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + 'Trailing clouds of glory do we come<br> + From God, who is our home.'"<br> +</p> + +<p><br></p> + +<p> +"Your Wordsworth is too spiritual and +mystical for me," said Donovan, with some +bitterness. +</p> + +<p> +"Or too simple?" questioned the doctor. +</p> + +<p> +"No, no; or simple only to the favoured few +who had these intimations of immortality. For +my part I am not aware that heaven ever 'lay +about me in my infancy.' I know that injustice +and tyranny in very visible forms were there, +and only now do I know what a grudge I owe +them. If from your very babyhood you have +had to fight your own battles, and rely on yourself, +it isn't very possible at two and twenty +to—to——" he hesitated. +</p> + +<p> +"To become a child again," said Dr. Tremain, +quietly, "and to recognize that above the petty +tyrannies and injustices of the world is the +Eternal Truth." +</p> + +<p> +"You have never spoken to me of these +things before," said Donovan, trying to banish +a certain constrained tone from his voice. +</p> + +<p> +"No," replied the doctor. "And I should +not have spoken now unless you had led me up +to it. There are some things, Donovan, for +which it is well to 'hope and quietly wait.' I +am glad you have spoken. Of course such a +change as you speak of is infinitely hard, but if +the lesson of life be thoroughly to learn that +truth of Father and child, we shall not grudge +the difficulty we find in learning it." +</p> + +<p> +"If it seemed the least probable that one +ever could learn it," said Donovan, sadly. "But +I own that I don't see my way to doing so. +Never was there a time when I realised so well +the beauty of Christianity, or felt so anxious to +prove my own creed false, but yet never was +there a time when the usual belief seemed to me +more glaringly illogical, more impossible to +hold. You don't know what it is to toss about +in a sea of doubts. I had rather have my old +hard and fast security in the material present, +than flounder in this cobweb like my wasp +friend just now." +</p> + +<p> +"Not if the old belief was a mistake and +delusion, which for aught you know it is," replied +the doctor. "Besides, to take your wasp as a +parable, its flounderings were of some avail, it +proved its need of a rescuer, and the rescuer +came—one who could sympathise even with a +vicious, stinging, six-legged ne'er-do-weel." +</p> + +<p> +"But all I have got is a mere desire." +</p> + +<p> +"Quite so, a desire to find the truth,—the +right thing to start with." +</p> + +<p> +"No, it seems to me only a half-selfish desire +to prop up a beautiful legend, a discontent with +truths of science." +</p> + +<p> +"I should call it a natural and by no means +selfish desire, and an inevitable discovery that +Science, great, and noble, and mighty as she is, +cannot satisfy all a man's needs." +</p> + +<p> +"If you could give us scientific proof in religion, +then belief might be possible," said +Donovan, his voice losing all its constraint and +changing to almost painful earnestness. "But +see what a contrast there is—in science all is +proved with exquisite clearness, in religion, +there is absolutely no proof. I am crazy with +sorrow, and a man comes to me and says, +'Be comforted, we are immortal;' I ask for +proof, and he tells me it is probable, and +instances the case of the grub and the butterfly. +Will that argument comfort a man in bereavement?" +</p> + +<p> +"No, for it begins at the wrong end," said +the doctor. "There must be faith before there +can be belief. As to mathematical proof, of +course it is impossible when you are not treating +of mathematical subjects or dimensions, but +the absolute conviction of the existence of God +will be as entirely independent of proof as my +absolute conviction that my wife is true to me." +</p> + +<p> +Donovan did not speak, he seemed rather +staggered by the breadth of this assertion, not +having as yet grasped the fact that the "truth" +which he was struggling after was not so much +concerned with intellectual difficulties to be +overcome as with the awaking of a spirit which +slept. +</p> + +<p> +"There are thousands of things of the truth +of which we are perfectly convinced, and which +we nevertheless fail to prove like a +mathematical problem," continued the doctor. "Take +the case of the great heiress, Miss C——, whom +I am now going to visit. We will suppose that +she falls in love with a penniless man; her +parents laugh at the affair, and bring forward +the usual arguments: 'My dear, he only wants +your money, he is not in love with you.' All +the time the girl knows perfectly well that +these arguments are false, and she asserts, +boldly, 'He does love me, I know he loves me,' +but she can give no scientific proof of this love, +though it is to her the most intense reality, a +reality that alters all her world. It seems to +me to hold true that all things connected with +the highest instincts of our life—merely as +natural beings, I mean, you know—are incapable +of mathematical or even experimental proof. +But now-a-days people are so apt to make the +most sacred things mere blocks on which to +chop logic, that a morbid and unreasonable +desire rises to have everything explained to +us in black and white." +</p> + +<p> +"But religious people are so dogmatic; they +assert 'this is so, that is so, believe it or +perish!'" complained Donovan. "I mean the +ordinary run; I don't call you a religious person." +</p> + +<p> +"Thank you," said the doctor, laughing. +"But surely, Donovan, you used to be; I don't +say you are now, but a very short time ago you +were quite as dogmatic as anyone, and asserted +'there is no spirit because everything is matter, +no supernatural because everything is natural.'" +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, I plead guilty to that, and could half +wish now to fall back on the old convictions. +There are too many inexplicable mysteries in +religion; I shall never get further than this fog +of agnosticism." +</p> + +<p> +"Are there no inexplicable mysteries to an +atheist?" said the doctor, quietly. "How do +you explain the existence of that immaterial +thing the will? Science can tell us absolutely +nothing with regard to it, but you are the last +person who would deny its existence; on the +contrary, without any proof you have a stronger +belief in the power and functions of the will +than anyone I know." +</p> + +<p> +"Because I know—I <i>feel</i> its existence." +</p> + +<p> +"Quite so, and just in the same way, though +science can't demonstrate to me the existence +of God, I know and feel His existence," replied +the doctor. "Or to take another argument +which is often used: some one asserts that +there can be no Creator of the universe, because +the idea of such a Being is not mentally +presentable; yet one of the greatest men of science +of the present day is obliged to own that +<i>consciousness</i> is not mentally presentable, although +it exists." +</p> + +<p> +"I see you have faced all these questions," +said Donovan, his sense of union with his friend +deepening. "From what I saw before knowing +you, I should have said that Christians accepted +their belief on authority, and stopped as wrong +or presumptuous all free thought and inquiry." +</p> + +<p> +"I believe we all have to 'face' the questions, +as you say, sooner or later," said the doctor. +"My dear boy, I have been through something +of this fog which you are now in, and to a certain +extent have felt what you are now feeling." +</p> + +<p> +"You!" exclaimed Donovan, in the greatest +surprise. +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, in spite of every possible help in the +way of home and education, and speaking as +one who has lived through this darkness, I +would say to you, don't grudge the suffering or +the waiting, but go on patiently." +</p> + +<p> +"Go on doubting?" questioned Donovan. +</p> + +<p> +"Go on living—by which I mean doing your +duty," replied the doctor. "Depend upon it, +Donovan, that's the only thing to be clung to +at such a time—the rightness of right is, at +least, clear to you." +</p> + +<p> +"That much is clear, yes," said Donovan, +musingly, "for the rest, I suppose the humiliation +of uncertainty is good for one's pride, the +ache of incompleteness wholesomely disagreeable." +</p> + +<p> +"The beginning of health," said the doctor, +half to himself; then looking at the unsatisfied +face, he added, in his firm, manly voice, "Be +patient, my boy." +</p> + +<p> +"Patience implies hope," said Donovan, in a +low tone, which veiled very deep feeling. "Now +tell me honestly"—he fixed his eyes steadily on +Dr. Tremain's face to read its first expression,—"do +you think I shall ever get beyond this +wretched uncertainty?" +</p> + +<p> +The doctor's face seemed positively to shine, +as he replied, +</p> + +<p> +"I am certain you will; sooner or later, here +or there, all will be made plain to you. Do +you suppose that when we give thanks for the +'redemption of the <i>world</i>' we leave you out? +Only be patient, and in the right time the +'Truth shall make you free.' In the meanwhile +you are not left without one unfailing +comfort: you can work, you can act up to your +conscience, and to any man who desires to do +His will knowledge of the truth is promised. +You make me think of the words I used just +now, there is a seeming contradiction when we +are told 'it is good that a man should both +hope and quietly wait for the salvation of the +Lord.' It seems impossible that waiting for +<i>health</i> can be 'good,' we wish to have done at +once with all weakness, all restrictions; it is not +till later on when we come to look on all things +with other eyes that we see the good of the +waiting, its very necessity." +</p> + +<p> +There was silence after that for some +minutes, one by one the stars were beginning +to shine out in the pale sky, the wind ruffled +the leaves in the high hedgerows. Star and +Ajax trotted on briskly. Everything that +night left a lasting impression on Donovan's +brain; he could always see that glooming landscape, +with the faint starlight and the lingering +streaks of gold in the west, always feel the +freshness of the evening air which seemed +invigorating as the new hope which was just +dawning for him. But he was too choked to +speak when the doctor paused, too much taken +up with the thoughts suggested to him, to care +to put anything of himself into expression. +Presently they came to a gate; he sprang out +to open it. Then, as they drove up to the +house, the doctor said, +</p> + +<p> +"I shall be half an hour, I daresay, so, if you +like, drive on to the post-office." +</p> + +<p> +The postman did not come to Porthkerran on +Sunday, and Donovan, glad to be of any use, +readily assented to the doctor's plan, and drove +on to the post-town—St. Kerran's. His mind +was still full of the subject they had just been +discussing, and half absently he drew up at +the private door of the office and asked for +the Trenant letters; it was an understood +thing that the doctor called for them at any +time he pleased; the head of the post-office, +though something of a Sabbatarian, bowed +civilly and went in search of them, leaving the +door open, perhaps to air the house, perhaps that +the strains of one of Wesley's hymns which his +children were singing might reach the ears of +the stranger who held the reins. But Donovan's +thoughts were far away, and the braying +harmonium had no power to recall him to the +present. In a few moments the man came out +of the office, there were two letters in his hand. +Donovan took them, hastily glancing at the +directions by the light of the street lamp; one +was for Dr. Tremain, the other was directed to +"D. Farrant, Esq." A certain pleasurable +sensation stole over him, mingled with surprise, +for the writing was Adela's. She would send +him news of his mother, and though still only +half allowing it to himself Donovan did care for +his mother. +</p> + +<p> +He paused to read the letter by one of the +carriage-lamps as soon as he had left the streets +of St. Kerrans behind. Then, still more to his +surprise, he found that Adela had only written +a note, just explaining that the enclosed was +from Mrs. Farrant. +</p> + +<p> +The pretty but meaningless characters recalled +him to his school-days, when the arrival +of his mother's occasional letters had generally +been the cause of more pain than pleasure. +Things were different now. The letter was +very different. +</p> + +<p><br></p> + +<p class="noindent"> +"MY DEAR DONOVAN, +</p> + +<p> +"Since Dr. Tremain's visit in the +summer, I have felt very anxious about you; +but it is some comfort that we know where you +are, and Adela has promised that she will direct +and post this to you. I am not, as you know, +a free agent. I have been shocked to think of +the straits you have been reduced to, and send +you in this letter £20, which is all I could save +from the personal allowance my husband makes +me. I have been very poorly for some time. +We are thinking of spending the winter abroad. +Poor Fido died last week, and I am still feeling +the shock. Doery has an attack of rheumatism, +and her temper is very trying; but Phœbe, who +is now my maid, is a great comfort to me. +Forgive this short letter, but I do not feel equal +to writing any more to-day. +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> + "With love, believe me,<br> + "Your affectionate mother,<br> + "HONORA FARRANT."<br> +</p> + +<p><br></p> + +<p> +The saving of that money was the first voluntary +act of self-denial which Mrs. Farrant had +ever made. Donovan knew how to appreciate +such unusual thought; the letter, which might +to some have seemed uninteresting and +self-engrossed, meant a great deal to him, for was it +not more than he had ever dreamed of receiving? +</p> + +<p> +When Dr. Tremain rejoined him, he saw at +once that something must have happened to +raise his spirits in a most unusual degree. +</p> + +<p> +"You found some letters?" he asked, as they +drove home. +</p> + +<p> +"One from my mother," said Donovan, without +any comment, but in a voice which spoke +volumes. +</p> + +<p> +"I am very glad," said the doctor, warmly. +</p> + +<p> +"She has sent me some money," resumed +Donovan, "for which, of course, I care less than +for the letter; it will be a great help, though. +£20 will get me some books, and then, if I can +only get a scholarship, I shall manage well +enough. If not, I shall take to the sixpence-a-day +mode of life." +</p> + +<p> +"I'm afraid, even if you get a scholarship, +you'll find very rigid economy necessary," said +the doctor, unable to suppress an angry thought +of Ellis Farrant's calm enjoyment of his unjust +gains, but too prudent to allude to a subject +which his guest seemed to have willed to put +altogether away. +</p> + +<p> +"Oh! I know I shall only have enough for +the necessaries of life," said Donovan. "But +Waif and I can put up with the loss of a few +comforts." +</p> + +<p> +"Bones and cigars to wit?" said the doctor. +</p> + +<p> +"Bones are cheap luxuries," replied Donovan, +laughing. "As to cigars, I've given up smoking +for the last three months, so that will be +no new privation. Oh! we shall scrape through +well enough." +</p> + +<p> +The doctor then fell back to reminiscences of +his own hospital career, which, stimulated by +Donovan's questions, lasted till they reached +Trenant. The rest of the party had returned +from church; they found themselves just in time +for that most restful part of the Sunday, when +no one was busy, when the unity of the household +was most apparent, when the reality of the +peace and love which reigned was most +strongly borne in upon Donovan. To-night +there was a tinge of regret over all, for was +not this his last evening with them? He did +not speak much to Gladys, but followed her +everywhere with his eyes, and when Dick asked +for music took his place by the piano, turning +over a portfolio of songs while Gladys played +the "Pastoral Symphony." When it was ended, +he took up his favourite song, Blumenthal's +"Truth shall thee Deliver." +</p> + +<p> +"May we have this?" he asked, hoping that +he had not overstepped those incomprehensible +boundaries which marked off Sunday from week-day +music. +</p> + +<p> +But Gladys was well content to sing Chaucer's +beautiful old song, since Mrs. Causton was not +there to be shocked, and perhaps, in her low +sweet voice, she gave Donovan the best counsel +he could have had for his new start in life. +The quaint words lingered long after in his +memory. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + "Fly from the press, and dwell with soothfastness,<br> + Suffice unto thy good, though it be small.<br> + * * * * * * * * *<br> + Rede well thyself that other folks canst rede,<br> + And truth shall thee deliver, it is no drede.<br> +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + "That thee is sent receive in buxomness,<br> + The wrestling of this world asketh a fall;<br> + Here is no home, here is but wilderness;<br> + Forth, pilgrim, forth! Best out of thy stall!<br> + Look up on high and thank the God of all,<br> + Waive thy lusts, and let thy ghost thee lead,<br> + And truth shall thee deliver, it is no drede."<br> +</p> + +<p><br></p> + +<p> +The following morning Star and Ajax were +once more bearing Dr. Tremain and his guest +to St. Kerrans; the ivy-grown house was left +behind, and with Nesta's appealing "Come back +adain very soon!" ringing in his ears, and a +last smile from Gladys to fortify him, Donovan +began the next era of his life. +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<p><a id="chap02"></a></p> + +<h2> +CHAPTER II. +<br><br> +A CROWN OF FIRE. +</h2> + +<p class="intro"> + You well might fear, if love's sole claim<br> + Were to be happy; but true love<br> + Takes joy as solace, not as aim,<br> + And looks beyond, and looks above;<br> + And sometimes through the bitterest strife first learns to<br> + live her highest life.<br> +</p> + +<p class="intro"> + If then your future life should need<br> + A strength my life can only gain<br> + Through suffering, or my heart be freed<br> + Only by sorrow from some stain,<br> + Then you shall give, and I will take, this crown of fire for<br> + love's dear sake.<br> + A. A. PROCTER.<br> +</p> + +<p><br></p> + +<p> +York Road, Lambeth, is not the most cheerful +of thoroughfares; its chief enlivenment +consists of the never-ending succession of cabs +bound for the Waterloo Station, and its sombre, +narrow-windowed houses are eminently dull. +Here, however, Donovan took up his abode, and +with the advantages of all Stephen Causton's +unused books spent the first year of his course. +Here he worked early and late; here he practised +plain living and high thinking; here he +struggled, fought, and doubted. +</p> + +<p> +In spite of many drawbacks, however, this +first year of real work was one of the most +contented years he had ever spent; he had +great powers of application, in spite of his +desultory education, and he worked now with a +will—worked with no let or hindrance, for duty +was plainly marked out for him, and he had +comparatively few temptations or distractions. +After the excitement of the successful competition +for a scholarship was over, the days and +weeks passed by in uneventful monotony, +broken occasionally by an unaccountable craving +for his old pastime, to be fought with and +conquered, or by one of those darker times in +his inner life, when the sense of incompleteness, +the oppression of the impenetrable veil which +shrouded him in ignorance, outweighed his +hope, and left him a prey to blank despondency. +From such interruptions he would free himself +by an effort of will, and resuming his work, +became after each struggle more absorbed and +interested in it. +</p> + +<p> +Then, too, the thought of Gladys was never +far from him; her memory filled his solitude, +and made it no longer solitary; her sunshiny +face haunted his dull rooms, and made their +unloveliness lovely. Had Donovan been at all +given to self-scrutiny, had he ever analysed +his feelings or followed out the dim glory of +the present into a possible future, he would +have realised at once the insuperable barrier +which lay between him and his love; but he +lived in the present—lived, and worked, and +loved, and lacking the dangerous habit of +self-inspection, he drifted on, happily unconscious +that he was nearing the rapids. +</p> + +<p> +But that brief happiness, heralding as it did +a sharp awaking and a terrible void, did a great +deal for him; it gave him a momentary insight +into the "Beauty and the blessedness of life," +and it made his ideal of womanhood a lofty +ideal. The truest of truths is, that in nature +there is no waste, and in regretting what seems +like prodigality, we sometimes forget those +hidden results which are none the less real and +vital because they lie deep down beneath the +surface. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + "The old order changeth, yielding place to new,<br> + And God fulfils himself in many ways."<br> +</p> + +<p><br></p> + +<p> +At length, when the summer days were growing +long, and London was becoming intolerably +hot, when even congenial work became a species +of drudgery, and "much study a weariness of +the flesh," the hospital term ended, and Donovan, +who had promised to spend the long vacation +with the Tremains, set off for Porthkerran. +</p> + +<p> +Very natural and home-like did the little +Cornish village seem, and, after his long months +of solitude, the bright, merry family life was +delightful. Nesta had grown, but was still the +household baby, and not yet able to say her +g's; the two schoolboys were at home for the +holidays, and made the house unusually noisy; +the doctor had added photography to his many +hobbies, and Mrs. Tremain, with the cares of +half the village on her mind, seemed still as +ready as ever to sympathise with everyone. +</p> + +<p> +And Gladys? +</p> + +<p> +Gladys was changed. Donovan felt that at +once. Her eyes seemed to have deepened, +she was less talkative, she was even a little +shy with him. The last time he had returned +to Porthkerran she had greeted him +with delighted warmth, had called him by +his Christian name. This time she was very +quiet and wholly undemonstrative, and when +her face was in repose there lurked about it a +shade of wistfulness—almost of sadness. She +had not lost her characteristic sunshine of +manner, but the sunshine was no longer constant, +and often grave shadows of thought stole over +her fair face. No one but a very close observer +would have noticed the change in her, but +Donovan, who was always very much alive to +the traces of character revealed in manner and +expression, felt at once that the Gladys he met +at the beginning of that long vacation was not +the Gladys he had left in October. Her mind +had grown and expanded, but what had brought +that shade of sadness to her face? Her life +was apparently so cloudless, what unknown +source of anxiety could there be to trouble her? +</p> + +<p> +From the very first evening that question lay +in his mind, but only as a wonder, not as an +anxiety. It was all so peaceful and satisfying +here at Porthkerran, he could not brood over +anything as he might have done had he been +alone. The happiness of being near Gladys +blinded him for the time to everything else, the +very doubts and questionings which beset him +at every turn in his ordinary life seemed left +behind; for one delicious month he was +supremely happy. He drove out with the doctor, +played lawn tennis, romped with the children, +gave Gladys lessons in Euclid, read, walked, +boated with her, for it invariably happened that, +although they went out a large party, the boys +and the younger children kept pretty much to +themselves, leaving Donovan and Gladys to +almost daily <i>tête-à-têtes</i>. +</p> + +<p> +If Gladys had been an ordinary girl, Donovan +would probably have seen far sooner all the +dangers of their present intercourse; but she +was so simple-minded and maidenly, so entirely +void of all desire to draw attention to herself, +that it seemed the most natural thing in the +world to make her his confidante. Who was so +quick to sympathise with him as his ideal? Was +it not right that he should tell her of his +difficulties, his interests, his schemes for the future? +If their conversation had ever even bordered on +sentiment he might have realised that he was +putting her in a false position, but it never did. +They talked on subjects grave and gay, discussed +religion and politics, argued earnestly or +merrily on every imaginable topic, each with a +hardly confessed interest in the other's opinion. +But Donovan was still at times conscious of a +certain reticence in Gladys which he had not +before noticed; in their most interesting talks +he was often checked by an unexpressed yet +very real barrier—a "hitherto thou shalt come, +but no further"—which baffled him, and generally +produced an unsatisfied silence, always +broken by a somewhat irrelevant speech or +suggestion from Gladys. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Causton was away from home. Stephen, +who, after months of suffering, had just +recovered from his attack of ophthalmia, had +gone for a voyage with his father, and would +not return till the beginning of the October +term; and his mother, being a good deal worn +out with her constant attendance on him, had +gone abroad with some friends for a thorough +rest and change of scene. Donovan's stay at +Trenant was therefore free from all interruptions, +and there was, moreover, no worldly-wise +or prudent on-looker who could hint to +Dr. Tremain the exceeding likelihood that his +little daughter might think too much of that +"dangerously handsome guest," who, in former +years, had been the terror of all the careful +mothers in the neighbourhood of Oakdene. +</p> + +<p> +But no unreal state of things can last, and +even in the absence of prudence and Mrs. Causton, +the awakening from that summer dream +came at length. +</p> + +<p> +It seemed as if a glamour had been cast over +the whole household in those sunny August +days, never even at Trenant had there been +such thorough enjoyment of life; meals <i>al fresco</i>, +music, moonlight walks by the sea, and boundless +home mirth and good humour. +</p> + +<p> +One sunny afternoon the whole family were +gathered together in the orchard. There among +the daisies, and buttercups, and the grass—the +children's favourite playground—Dr. Tremain +had planted his photographic apparatus, and, +with a leafy background, was preparing to +take a group. It was the first attempt he had +made at anything of the kind. His victims had +hitherto been single, but this afternoon he had +induced the whole "kit," as he expressed it, to +be immortalised, and with much fun and laughter +they all tried to arrange themselves, an +attempt fraught with the direst failure. +</p> + +<p> +"Not an idea as to artistic grouping among +you!" exclaimed the doctor, emerging from his +black-velvet shroud, "You must be much +nearer together, too. You boys in the +background. Ah! now that is much better. Now +you do look like living beings instead of +mummies. Look, mother, if you can without +disturbing yourself." +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Tremain turned round to see the group +behind her, who, in disarranging themselves, +had fallen into natural attitudes. Donovan had +taken Nesta on to his shoulder, Gladys was +holding up a rose which the little girl had +dropped, and for which she now stretched out +one fat, dimpled hand, while Donovan by sudden +and unexpected movements always prevented +her from reaching it. +</p> + +<p> +"There! that will do!" said the doctor. +"Stand exactly as you are. Keep still, and +don't laugh, Nesta. Now then!" +</p> + +<p> +Half a minute's breathless silence followed, +Nesta relieving herself by holding on with +desperate firmness to Donovan's hair, and nearly +upsetting Gladys' gravity by the resolute way +in which she pressed her lips together to prevent +the laughter from escaping. +</p> + +<p> +The moment they were released there was a +chorus of inquiry—who had moved? who had +kept still? who had smiled? While Donovan, +Gladys, and Nesta relieved themselves by a +hearty laugh over the difficulty and absurdity +of their positions. +</p> + +<p> +"If I come out with a right eyebrow drawn +up like a Chinese, and an expression of Byronic +gloom, you'll understand that it is all Nesta's +fault," said Donovan. "Remember from henceforth, +Nesta, that hair should be lightly handled." +</p> + +<p> +"And now I shall det my rose," shouted +Nesta, triumphantly, making a sudden raid +downwards. She succeeded this time, captured +the rose, and after much teazing on Donovan's +part and baby coquetting on hers, ended by +fastening it in his button-hole. +</p> + +<p> +The doctor returned in a few minutes in a +state of great excitement. The negative was +excellent. He would not trouble them to sit +again, but he wanted Donovan to help him in +some of the mysterious processes in the little +black den he had consecrated to his new +hobby. +</p> + +<p> +By the time this work was over, it was nearly +four o'clock. The doctor was called out, and +Donovan, finding there were visitors in the +drawing-room, sauntered out again with a book +under his arm. In the orchard, however, he +unexpectedly found Gladys. She was sitting +at the little rustic table under the old apple-tree, +her sleeves tucked up, and her white hands +busily occupied in stoning some peaches which +were piled up on a great blue willow-pattern +dish in front of her. +</p> + +<p> +She made a very pretty picture sitting there +in her cool, creamy-white dress, a stray sunbeam +glancing every now and then through the flickering +leaves above, and making gold of her +brown hair. +</p> + +<p> +"You should have been photographed with +your dish of peaches," said Donovan, drawing +up a garden-chair to the other side of the table. +</p> + +<p> +"Cook is in despair about the preserving, so +I'm getting these ready for her," explained +Gladys. "Have some, won't you?" +</p> + +<p> +"No, thank you, I'm no fruit-eater; but let +me help you." +</p> + +<p> +"Read to me, and then I shall work faster. +Mother and I were reading George Eliot's +'Spanish Gypsy;' do you know it? Oh! but +you have a book, I see; read me that instead." +</p> + +<p> +Donovan laughed. +</p> + +<p> +"I'm afraid you would scarcely thank me +for reading you Heath's 'Minor Surgery.' Let +us have the 'Spanish Gypsy.' You are near +the end, I see; just give me an idea about the +characters. Who is Don Silva?" +</p> + +<p> +"He is a Spanish nobleman in love with +Fedalma, the daughter of a Moorish chief. +Silva renounces Christianity, and promises to +serve and obey the Moor, so that he may not be +separated from Fedalma. This is the place—" +she handed the book to him, and Donovan, +taking it, began the scene in which Don Silva, +tortured by seeing the martyrdom of Father +Isidor, breaks his promise of fealty to the Moor. +</p> + +<p> +He was not exactly a good reader; he was +sometimes abrupt, sometimes hurried, but he +had a beautiful voice, which went far towards +making up for any other defects. As he read +the wonderful parting scene between Silva and +Fedalma, when in obedience to the will of the +dead chief, and for the good of the Moorish +people, they agree to part for ever, Gladys felt +that his whole soul was being thrown into what +he read. Involuntarily her hands ceased their +mechanical work; though she could hardly +have explained the reason even to herself, +this reading was becoming a slow agony +to her. Donovan's face was kindling with +enthusiasm, there was an almost terrible ring +in his voice as he read the closing scene; she +knew that while her heart was crying out +against the bitterness of such a renunciation, +he was feeling only its intense beauty and +worth. +</p> + +<p> +Neither of them spoke when the poem was +finished; Donovan, as if entirely engrossed with +it still, and forgetful that he was not alone, +turned the pages over again, reading half to +himself passages which had struck him. Gladys, +troubled by her own agitation, heard as in a +dream, till a sudden deepening of tone recalled +her fully to the present. Donovan was reading +the parting words of Don Silva. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + "Each deed<br> + That carried shame and wrong shall be the sting<br> + That drives me higher up the steep of honour<br> + In deeds of duteous service."<br> +</p> + +<p><br></p> + +<p> +He closed the book after that and sat musing. +Then, looking up with the light of enthusiasm +still in his face, he said, +</p> + +<p> +"That is a wonderful scene; it is like a bit +of Sebastian Bach, a sort of mental tonic." +</p> + +<p> +Gladys' eyes were full of tears, but for that +reason she was the more anxious to speak +unconcernedly; she hurried out the first trite +sentence which came into her head. +</p> + +<p> +"It is so terribly sad." +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, sad but grand." +</p> + +<p> +Somehow, as he spoke, Gladys was constrained +to look at him, and; as she met his grave, +deep eyes, there rose in her an inexplicable +longing to make him express at least pity for +the suffering involved by this sacrifice he so +much admired. +</p> + +<p> +"But surely, surely it was a cruel thing to +sacrifice their very lives to an only possible +good?" she said, pleadingly. +</p> + +<p> +"I don't think you put it quite truly," he +replied; "they renounced their own happiness +for the general good of that generation +certainly, probably of many generations." +</p> + +<p> +"You speak of happiness as if it were such a +little thing to give up," said Gladys; "I suppose +it is selfish to think of it, but—but—oh! I +hope there are not many Fedalmas in the +world." +</p> + +<p> +She was entirely unconscious of the pain +which lurked in the tone of this almost passionate +utterance, she scarcely knew that it was an +aching dread in her own heart which prompted +her words, she only felt constrained by some +unknown power to plead with Donovan. But +it was at that very moment, when she herself +was least conscious in the present of her love to +him, that he realised the truth. +</p> + +<p> +He had hitherto loved her as an ideal, loved +her with little thought of the future, never even +framed to himself the idea that she could possibly +love him. Now there surged over him a +very flood of bliss—joy such as he had never +imagined possible. In one instant countless +visions of dazzling happiness rose before him. +She, his ideal, his queen, loved him! How he +knew it he could not have explained, but he +did know it! Had his unspoken love drawn +her heart to his? How came it that she loved +him? Oh! unspeakable rapture! one day she +might be all his own! +</p> + +<p> +But the moment that thought of the future +came to him, it was as if an icy hand had +suddenly clutched his heart. +</p> + +<p> +The dazzling visions faded, and in their +place was only a horror of great darkness, out +of which, like a death-knell, his own conscience +spoke. +</p> + +<p> +"There is no possible union for you. You +would bring her the worst of miseries, perhaps +even drag her down to your own hopeless +creed." +</p> + +<p> +He was too much stunned to think, but for +some time now he had been clinging blindly to +duty, had said to conscience, "Call, and I +follow," and even in the confusion and anguish +of that moment it was made clear to him what +he ought to do. +</p> + +<p> +With an effort of will he banished every trace +of his real feelings from his face and tone, and +answered as quietly as he could Gladys' last +remark. +</p> + +<p> +"I didn't mean to underrate happiness, +though it certainly is not meant for everyone in +the world, unless we find that sacrifice itself is +the most real happiness; but I have not found +that yet." Then, pushing back his chair, he +added, "I think I shall go over to St. Kerrans. +I want a good long walk. Can I do anything +for you?" +</p> + +<p> +"Nothing, thank you," said Gladys, mechanically +taking up and putting down one of the +peaches. +</p> + +<p> +Donovan whistled to Waif and walked away +in the direction of the house. Gladys sat +motionless till the sound of his footsteps died +away into silence; then, pushing aside the +willow-pattern dish and the fruit, she laid down +her head on the table and burst into tears. +</p> + +<p> +Although he had spoken of walking to +St. Kerrans, Donovan was too much stunned to +know or care in what direction he went. He +closed the front door behind him and strode +rapidly through the village, up the steep hill, +and along the road leading to the forge. +Trevethan, the blacksmith, had become a great +friend of his; to-day, however, he had not the +slightest intention of going to see him, and, in +fact, did not even know that he was passing +the forge till the blacksmith's voice fell on his +ear. +</p> + +<p> +"Mr. Farrant, I was wanting to speak to ye, +sir. Can ye step in a moment?" +</p> + +<p> +"Yes," said Donovan, though he had never +felt less inclined to speak to any human being. +</p> + +<p> +"Well, sir, you see it's this way," began +Trevethan, putting down his hammer and folding +his arms as if in preparation for a lengthy +speech. "I've told ye all about my son Jack +as left home six years ago, and as I haven't +heard from. Well, the Lord be praised, I've +heard from 'm now, he's wrote me a fine letter, +and sent a Bank o' England note along with it. +But, sir, he's not said where he is, except there +being 'London' marked on the front of the +letter. Knowin' ye knew the place, I thought +I'd ask ye how I could best find the lad. London's +a big place, ain't it?—a sight bigger than +Porthkerran?" +</p> + +<p> +Donovan smiled a little. +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, Trevethan, I'm afraid it'll be very +hard to find him. I'll do my best to help you, +though. Tell me what he is like." +</p> + +<p> +The blacksmith's powers of description were +not great; he knew that Jack was "fine and +big," but could not tell the colour of his eyes, +or any single peculiarity in his manners or +appearance. +</p> + +<p> +"You mustn't be too hopeful," said Donovan; +"but I'll keep my eyes and ears open, and do +all I can for you; I'm afraid, though, the only +chance of your finding him will be his own voluntary return." +</p> + +<p> +"Thank ye, sir, I'm obliged to ye for your +help," said the blacksmith. "And as to hoping, +as long as we're sure our hopes is runnin' the +same way as the Lord's, I reckon we can't be +too hopeful." +</p> + +<p> +Donovan did not speak. He had had many +a talk with the old Cornishman, had sometimes +laughed at the quaint phrases of his Methodism, +but had always admired and reverenced the +man's unswerving faith—faith which had stood +fast through countless troubles and losses. He +could not help shrewdly surmising that this +hope as to finding his son would never be +fulfilled, and yet, as he watched the blacksmith's +contented face, he felt that his intensely real +faith in the inevitable Right which ruled all +things was a very enviable possession. +</p> + +<p> +After a little further conversation as to the +search for Jack, the smith took up his hammer +again, and Donovan took leave of him, and set +out once more on his solitary walk. The +interruption had quieted him for the time, but, as +the consciousness of his pain returned to him, +the contrast between his own state of conflict +and Trevethan's quiet trust forced itself on +him. This unlettered, ignorant old man had +the knowledge which he was hungering and +thirsting for, the faith which he would have +given the world to possess. +</p> + +<p> +But then with a sudden sharp pang came the +full recollection of all that had happened, and +his mind became capable of only two ideas—Gladys +and pain. He threw himself down on +the grassy slope bordering the cliff, and for a +time allowed those two presences to work their +will on him. Gladys, with her appealing blue +eyes, her wistful plea for happiness, and an +agonizing consciousness that sorrow and +separation must come. As he grew quieter, or, +rather, as his thoughts became more clear, he +saw as distinctly as he had done when speaking +to her in the orchard that union between +them was impossible. He remembered the +sense of separation that had come to him when +Dot had first drifted away into those regions +of thought into which he could not follow her. +She had not suffered much from their difference +of thought, it was true, but then she had been +a little child, and there had been only a very +few months of that divided thought and interest. +If she had been older, his atheism must have +been both a sorrow and a perplexity to her. +Should he bring such a sorrow into Gladys' +life?—should he lay upon her pure heart such +a burden as he had to bear? Never! All the +man in him rose at such a thought. It should +never be! He got up and began to pace rapidly +to and fro, his hands locked tightly together. +It was no use idly to wish that he had never +seen her; he must go away now, at once—that +much was clear. She must learn to forget him. +"Oh! I hope there are not many Fedalmas in +the world!" her pleading tones rang in his ears, +and his hands were clenched more tightly as +he realised the pain he must in any case give her. +</p> + +<p> +He must go, but it was hard—bitterly hard. +His love was strong and true, no mere weak +sentimentality; but it is a cruel tax on love to +choose the very plan that will inflict pain on +the loved one. The pain may be salutary, wise, +necessary for future happiness, but the infliction +is keenest suffering. +</p> + +<p> +He knew that he should always love her, but +his love must be kept in, restrained; a poor, +cramped kind of love it would be, for he could +never serve her. Deliberately, of his own +accord, he must cut himself off from all but the +pain of love. Unless, indeed, this bitter pain +proved to be service. There might come a +time when she would bless him for what he had +done. Some day, when with a husband one +with her in every way, and children of her own, +learning from their father's lips the first lessons +of the faith, might she not then bless him for +the pain of the present? Might not this be his +"duteous service"? this the "steep of honour"? +</p> + +<p> +But Donovan was very human; the thought +of his own suffering began to appeal to him. +The thought of life without Gladys <i>would</i> come +before him; it hung round him like a heavy +pall, shutting out all brightness, all hope of +future happiness, all hope—so he thought—of +ennobling himself. For was not she the light +he had looked to, the goal he had set before +him? Now everything was shut out. Blank +and black, dreary and hopeless, life stretched +out before him. +</p> + +<p> +As he paced up and down battling with himself, +his attention was drawn to the little strip of +beach at the foot of the cliff; two children were +there, laughing, shouting, waving their hands +to a fisherman who was just nearing the shore +in his boat. The keel grated on the pebbles, +the man sprang out. He had not had good +luck, his lobster-pots had been empty; but, in +spite of it, his voice was hearty and cheerful as +he hailed the little ones. Donovan saw them +run to meet him, heard their cry of +"Father! father!" Another sore regret surged in upon +him then. He could never have a child of his +own, no child would ever call him "father." He +might love and be beloved by other people's +children, but the fatherhood which this honest +fisherman could enjoy might never be his. And +then the terribly tempting thought of what +might be, the haunting happiness of the home, +the wife that might be his, came again to him +with double force. +</p> + +<p> +It is not so hard to bear what the force of +circumstance brings; the Christian, the Fatalist, +the Agnostic, all from a variety of reasons learn +the sort of endurance which life can hardly fail +to teach, and endure joyfully, abjectly, or +doggedly; but deliberately to choose the pain, +that is not easy, not easy because it is God-like. +Only by slow painful degrees can we fight our +way upward and break loose from the clinging +hold of self-love. +</p> + +<p> +Donovan had now fully faced all sides of this +great question of his life; again he came to the +decision which must be made at once and for +ever. And now for the second time out of the +depths he sent up a cry to the Unknown. No +"sense of sin" had prompted either of those +hardly conscious appeals; his first prayer had +been that Dot might be taken from him into +peace; his second that he might have strength +of will to leave Gladys. That will of his which +had failed—he distrusted it now! +</p> + +<p> +The battle ended at last. Slowly and firmly +he pronounced the "I will" which must banish +him for ever from all that he loved. +</p> + +<p> +The sun was just setting when he reached +St. Kerrans; he had struck inland from the +Porthkerran Cliff road, and had gone across +country, Waif following him through stubble-fields +and over hedges and West-country walls +with untiring perseverance. The shops in the +little town were still open, for it was market-day. +Donovan went as usual to the post-office, +and there to his surprise found a letter for +himself—an exceedingly rare event. He opened it +and read the contents with as much curiosity as +he was capable of feeling about anything just +then. +</p> + +<p><br></p> + +<p class="noindent"> +"S—— House, Freshwater, I. W., August 27. +</p> + +<p class="noident"> +"MY DEAR DONOVAN, +</p> + +<p> +"You may very possibly have forgotten +an old friend of yours, who, however, +has often thought of you in the long interval +which has passed since we met. I saw your +cousin, Miss Adela Farrant, a few weeks ago, +and she told me of your whereabouts. I am +very glad you are thinking of entering the +medical profession. Has your vacation begun +yet? If so, will you not come and spend a +week or two with me? Plenty of boating and +fishing for you, and as much or as little as you +like of an old man's society. +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> + "Yours very truly,<br> + "H. G. HAYES.<br> +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +"P.S.—I am only here for three weeks, so +come at once if you can." +</p> + +<p><br></p> + +<p> +Here was a real help to his resolution, an +invitation which would blind the Tremains to +the strangeness of his abrupt departure. He +looked at his watch; it only wanted two or +three minutes to the time when the telegraph-office +closed. Should he go back and send the +message which would fix his fate? He wavered +a minute, but finally returned to the office, +snatched up pencil and paper, and, feeling +much as if he were signing his own +death-warrant, wrote the following words—"Your +letter forwarded to me from London. Many +thanks for invitation. I will come to-morrow +evening." The telegram dispatched, he set off +at a sharp pace for Porthkerran, along the +familiar road which had so many associations +for him—the first meeting with Dick, his last +return to Trenant only a month ago, and—most +vivid recollection of all—that drive with the +doctor one Sunday evening in September, when +they had spoken of his doubts and difficulties, +when Dr. Tremain had spoken so hopefully, so +confidently of the light which would come to +him. Poor Donovan! he did not feel any such +confidence now. Black darkness seemed gathering +round him. In renouncing Gladys, he felt +that all which had hitherto been most helpful +to him would be swept away, that he should be +left entirely alone to face "the spectres of the +mind." Happily he saw the danger of dwelling +on this thought, however, and, putting it from +him, he strode rapidly along, wondering how +he could best veil his feelings from Gladys, or +arouse least suspicion in the minds of her +parents. +</p> + +<p> +At last, in the twilight evening, he reached +Trenant. How little he had dreamed that the +sight of the gabled house, with its mantling ivy +and cheerful lighted windows, would ever give +his heart such a stab of pain! Well, he must +think as little as he could, and just do. It was +rather a relief to him on entering the drawing-room +to find old Admiral Smith there. The +doctor had his microscope out, Mrs. Tremain +was working, Gladys was playing chess with +Bertie. +</p> + +<p> +"Here you are at last!" was the general +exclamation. "Where have you been? And +how tired you look!" +</p> + +<p> +"It was very rude of me to cut dinner," +said Donovan, shaking hands with the admiral, +"but I felt so inclined for a good long walk." +</p> + +<p> +"After your cramping position in the photograph, +I suppose," said the doctor, laughing. +"You are in great disgrace with Nesta though, +for having gone without wishing her good +night." +</p> + +<p> +"You will have some supper now?" said Mrs. Tremain, +with her hand on the bell. +</p> + +<p> +"No, thank you," said Donovan. "I really +want nothing. Let me have the rest of the +evening with you all, for I'm afraid this will be +my last." +</p> + +<p> +"Your last evening!" exclaimed the doctor, +greatly astonished. +</p> + +<p> +"Well, at St. Kerrans I found a letter from +a very old friend of mine, Mr. Hayes, a neighbour +of ours at Oakdene. He is staying in the +Isle of Wight, and wrote to ask if I would come +down and see him. His time is limited, so I +was obliged to answer him at once, and promise +to go. +</p> + +<p> +"How beastly!" exclaimed the two schoolboys. +</p> + +<p> +"Must you really go to-morrow?" said Mrs. Tremain, +regretfully. "It is very hard on us +to be robbed of so much of your visit, but I +suppose we must not grudge you to an older +friend." +</p> + +<p> +"Mr. Hayes was very kind to me in the old +time. I think it is right that I should go to see +him, though of course I——" +</p> + +<p> +He broke off abruptly, unable to speak any +trite common-place regret. +</p> + +<p> +He had carefully avoided looking at Gladys, +but as the doctor and Mrs. Tremain were still +discussing this sudden change of plan with him, +Bertie's voice forced itself upon his notice. +</p> + +<p> +"Well, Glad, you are a muff! You've let me +take your queen, when you might have moved +it as easily as possible." +</p> + +<p> +"I'm very sorry, Bertie. I wasn't thinking," +was the answer. +</p> + +<p> +"It's very dismal indeed," said the doctor. +"However, I suppose we must grin and bear it. +You'll come down for the next long vacation +anyhow. And we won't allow Mr. Hayes to +cheat us a second time. You can go to him +for Christmas Day. He is more accessible than +we are for a short holiday." +</p> + +<p> +Gladys sat moving her chessmen mechanically, +feeling as if she were in some dreadful +dream. What did it all mean? Why was he +going away? Had he guessed her secret? had +she betrayed herself? No, she thought +not, for he looked so perfectly natural, and even +as she finished her game, he crossed the room +and took the vacant chair beside her, asking +in the most ordinary way, +</p> + +<p> +"Did you finish stoning your peaches?" +</p> + +<p> +And then he told her about his talk with +Trevethan, and made her describe Jack to him, +so that in a very little while her cheeks cooled, +and her relief would have been almost happiness, +if there had not been the haunting consciousness +that this was the last talk she should +have with Donovan for a year. Her heart was +very heavy. They made her sing, too, which +seemed hard, but Admiral Smith was fond of +music; she could not refuse. Donovan lit the +candles for her, and opened the piano. She +turned over her portfolio, but every song seemed +to bear some reference to the subject that was +filling her heart. However, Admiral Smith +decided the question for her. +</p> + +<p> +"Now, Miss Gladys, let us have the 'Flowers +of the Forest.' That's the prettiest song ever +written, to my mind." +</p> + +<p> +She got through it somehow, but there was +more pathos than she wished in the mournful +refrain— +</p> + +<p class="t3"> + "The flowers of the forest are a' wede away!"<br> +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +Donovan never heard that song in after-years +without a <i>serrement de cœur</i>. As he held the +portfolio open for her to put it away, her hand +touched his for a minute, he felt that it was icy +cold, and a sudden longing to take it in his +almost overmastered him. The old admiral was +disappearing with the doctor into the adjoining +room, the boys had gone to bed, Mrs. Tremain +had just gone into the dining-room to ring the +first bell for prayers, these two were quite alone. +Why might he not take that poor little cold +hand into his and tell her the truth, tell her +that he loved her with his whole heart. After +all, it was a mere shadow which stood between +them! why should he sacrifice his own happiness +and hers, because what to her was a conviction +was to him a vague uncertainty? He loved +her so dearly, why must he be so cruel? It +was a moment of terrible temptation. But it +was only a moment. With lips firmly pressed +together he bent down over her music, turned +over the pieces, and not in the least knowing +what he had taken up, said rather hurriedly, +</p> + +<p> +"Will you not play something? There will +be time for this, I think." +</p> + +<p> +She sat down again at the piano, and he +moved away to the fireplace, waiting there with +his head propped between his hands, and steeling +himself to endure. Quite unknowingly he +had given her a transcription of "O rest in the +Lord." He scarcely heard it, but to her the +beautiful air brought infinite comfort. When +she had ended it she was quite herself again, +and could speak naturally and composedly, and +before many minutes the prayer-bell rang, and +she went away, leaving Donovan alone. +</p> + +<p> +That wretched evening ended at length, the +last good nights were said, the house had settled +down into quiet. But lights burnt long in two +of the rooms; in one Donovan, with a rigid +face, bent over his dryest medical book, in a +vain endeavour to banish thought, in the other +Gladys knelt and prayed. +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<p><a id="chap03"></a></p> + +<h2> +CHAPTER III. +<br><br> +GOOD-BYE. +</h2> + +<p class="intro"> + She smiled: but he could see arise<br> + Her soul from far adown her eyes,<br> + Prepared as if for sacrifice.<br> +</p> + +<p class="intro"> + She looked a queen who seemeth gay<br> + From royal grace alone.<br> + E. B. BROWNING.<br> +</p> + +<p><br></p> + +<p> +When, after spending a winter in the sunny +south, beneath clear blue skies and constant +sunshine, the traveller returns to the +capricious springtide of the north, the violent +contrast is very often both dangerous and +depressing. Rain and fog and lowering skies +seem more noticeable, more unforgetable than +before; east winds, which in former years we +had laughed at or ignored, are now an +unpleasant reality, and every breath drawn tells +only too plainly that, although the heart of the +north may be "dark and true and tender," its +winds are sharp and keen and bitter. +In that one night of suffering Gladys passed +as it were from the sunny south to the northern +springtide. She woke the next morning fully +conscious of the change that had come, wearily, +achingly conscious of it. Hitherto her life had +been almost untroubled, her sunny temperament +made her less susceptible than most are +to the small trials and annoyances of life, and +now for the very first time there came to her a +longing for pause and rest. Every other morning +of her life her first healthy waking thought +had been a thanksgiving for the happiness of +beginning a fresh day, now with a great load +on her heart she only longed to shut out the +light, to forget a little longer. If only the +drama of life would go on without her! If +only she might give up her part—her hard +difficult part! +</p> + +<p> +It was no use wishing, however. She got up +and went straight to the looking-glass to see +what sort of face she could bring to that day's +work. Somehow her reflection made her angry, +the wide, wearied eyes, with their dark circles, +the grave lips, the unusual paleness of the +whole face. "I will certainly not look like this," +she determined, and though as a rule she +thought scarcely at all of her appearance, this +day she took great pains with herself, put on +a pink print dress, which made her look much +less ghostly, fastened a rose in her belt, and +ran down to breakfast with an air of assumed +cheerfulness little in accordance with her heavy +heart. +</p> + +<p> +Donovan was already seated at the table, he +was to start in half an hour's time, and the +doctor had arranged his rounds so as to drive +him first to St. Kerrans Station. There was +nothing the least unusual in his voice or +manner, he talked on steadily about the Isle of +Wight, geological books, fossils, all the most +ordinary topics. No one could have guessed +in the least that all the time he was bearing the +keenest pain, doing the hardest of deeds. +</p> + +<p> +It was not easy to speak quite naturally to +Gladys, but silence between them would have +been so marked that he was all the more anxious +to overcome the difficulty. +</p> + +<p> +"I am afraid the Euclid will come to a stand-still," +he said, as they stood at the open door +waiting for the carriage. "You are safely over +the Pons Asinorum, though, which is some +consolation." +</p> + +<p> +He had spoken lightly and with a half smile, +his tone jarred a little on Gladys. What did it +all mean! Did he really care for her? If so, +why did he speak like that? +</p> + +<p> +Her father had answered the remark. +</p> + +<p> +"She must wait till the next long vacation +before she becomes a thorough 'blue stocking.' What +will you attempt then? Conic sections, +I suppose." +</p> + +<p> +Donovan did not answer, but allowed himself +to be monopolised by Jackie and Nesta, and +Gladys stood leaning against the doorway, +feeling sick at heart as she watched their noisy +romp, while the sound of wheels grew nearer +and nearer. Waif came up to her with low +whines of delight and wagging tail. She bent +down to pat him with a full-hearted reproach. +"What, you too, Waif! Are you so glad to +go?" Waif comforted her a little, however, in +spite of his eagerness to start, happy Waif who +had saved his master's life, who would always +be his friend and companion. +</p> + +<p> +A few minutes more and the end had come; +she felt her hand taken in a strong, firm grasp, +and, looking up, met Donovan's eyes; there was +an almost hard look in them which puzzled her +utterly, but his voice was pleasant and natural. +</p> + +<p> +"Good-bye," he said. "And if you are seeing +Trevethan, please tell him that I'll do my +best to find Jack." +</p> + +<p> +"I will," said Gladys, softly. "Good-bye." +</p> + +<p> +"Dood-bye, Mr. Dono, dood-bye," shouted +Nesta, as the carriage drove away. "Please +lift me up, sissy." +</p> + +<p> +Gladys took the little girl in her arms, and +Nesta threw innumerable kisses after the +departing guest; Donovan looked back, smiled, and +waved his hand, and a turn in the road soon +hid the pony-carriage from sight. +</p> + +<p> +"I am very sorry he has had to go like this," +said Mrs. Tremain, re-entering the house. "I +think, Gladys dear, you might give the children +their lessons early; I shall be glad of your help +at the clothing club this morning." +</p> + +<p> +"Very well, mother," said Gladys, obediently, +and she went at once with her two little pupils +into the school-room, giving all her attention to +"Reading without tears." +</p> + +<p> +It was not till night that she had time fairly +to face her trouble, and when the work of the +day was over she was too weary to think; she +shut herself into her little room and threw +herself on the bed just as she was, only conscious +of relief that at last she might let her face +relax, that at last she might be miserable alone. +It was bad enough that Donovan should be gone, +that for a whole year she should not see him, +but the real sting was that he had gone in such +a strange way. Could it be that she had +mistaken mere friendship for love? Had she given +her whole heart to one who merely wanted a +good listener, a pleasant companion? Well, it +was done now, and there could be no undoing; +she loved him, and clung to her love perhaps +all the more closely because of the pain it was +bringing her. +</p> + +<p> +Never once did she realise as Donovan had +done the impossibility of real union between +them. He, knowing all the misery of such +differences as had existed between himself and +Dot, taking too the darkest view of his own +future, had felt his agnosticism to be an +insurmountable barrier. But Gladys could not feel +this. She saw in Donovan a noble, self-sacrificing +character, a resolute cleaving to right at +whatever cost to himself, a tenderness to +children, a great capability of endurance, an +untiring search and desire for truth. Surely the +light would come to him, surely already he was +far on the road to that knowledge he craved! +</p> + +<p> +And then too she could not help knowing +that she had a great influence over him; he +had almost told her so in words, and by his +questions, his anxiety to learn her opinion, his +eagerness to gain her approval had certainly +borne it out in actions. Yes, she loved him, +was ready to give up everything for him, to +leave home, and comfort, and prosperity, to +share his poverty, to bear for his sake reproach +and suspicion, to be doubted, to be evil spoken +of, if only she might bring one ray of light into +his gloom, if only by her love she could win +him to believe in the everlastingness of love. +</p> + +<p> +It might be a hard life, in some ways it must +be lonely, but what was that to her? The +mere possibility of bringing any real joy—joy +worthy the name—into Donovan's life, +outweighed to her all thought of the suffering +involved. All self suffering that is. If she had +known that at that very minute she was giving +him the keenest suffering possible, she could +not have borne it. But of this naturally she +knew nothing, thought in her ignorance that +the present pain was almost entirely hers, that +in that possible future too the ache of loneliness +would be all for her to bear, and in her +unselfishness rejoiced in the thought. +</p> + +<p> +Her mind, however, was too healthy to busy +itself unduly over the future, the present was +to be lived in, she turned back resolutely to +make +</p> + +<p class="t3"> + "The best of 'now' and here,"<br> +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +by which she meant chiefly ceaseless prayers +for Donovan, while the daily round of home +life went on unaltered. Her bright face was +still the sunshine of the house, for gradually the +self-pity, the vain regrets, and the useless +puzzling over Donovan's change of manner +passed away; in the constant communion with +the All-Father her love was being perfected. +</p> + +<p> +With Donovan himself matters went more +hardly. It could not be otherwise. The +parting which had tried Gladys, had been to +him a frightful effort, while the future, which +to her was veiled in uncertainty and lightened +by hope, was to him one long blank desert of +pain. +</p> + +<p> +It was evening by the time he stood on the +deck of the little steamer which plied between +Lymington and Yarmouth, a dismal evening +too, well in accordance with his own feelings. +A heavy sea-fog shut out the view, a fine chilling +rain fell, the passengers grumbled, two tired +children wailed piteously, nurses alternately +coaxed and scolded them. At length in the +dreary twilight they reached the little port, +Donovan rescued his portmanteau from the +chaos of luggage and slowly made his way up +the long wooden pier, to the old-fashioned +coach, which with its patient horses and +good-tempered driver stood waiting outside a cheery +little inn. The wailing babies were packed +away inside, Donovan mounted to the top, +where he was presently joined by two or three +other men, and by a forlorn little girl who +could find no room inside; he held his umbrella +over her, and talked to her a little; she looked +tired and sad, he had a kind of fellow-feeling +for her. Presently all being ready the driver +cracked his whip, and the horses started off at +a brisk pace; they were swinging along through +narrow country lanes and under dripping trees, +till at length the lights of Freshwater shone +out in the distance, and gradually the passengers +were set down at their various destinations. +Before long Donovan's turn came. +</p> + +<p> +"S—— House, sir. Here you are," said the +coachman. +</p> + +<p> +He tucked Waif under his arm, wished the +little girl good evening and clambered down. +The door of the villa was wide open, a flood +of light streamed out into the dusky garden, +revealing old Mr. Hayes in the doorway. +Donovan had fancied himself hopelessly, +irrevocably miserable, but he was nevertheless +considerably cheered by the old man's hearty +welcome; it was after all something to have +your hand grasped by an old friend, to be +questioned and fussed over, to be taken into +a comfortable brightly-lighted room, to sit +down to a well spread supper table, and to end +the evening with the long foregone luxury of a +cigar. Not so romantic perhaps as to pine +away in appetiteless melancholy, but more +rational and manly. +</p> + +<p> +He made the most of his three weeks' visit, +and though the green downs of Freshwater +always had for him associations of pain and +conflict, he yet managed to get some enjoyment +and much bodily and mental good from his +stay there. +</p> + +<p> +"And have you got your castle in the air, +yet?" Mr. Hayes would laughingly ask him. +</p> + +<p> +His face would sadden a little, but he would +always answer laughingly that Sanitary Reform +was his darling project, or that his pet hobby +was the Temperance Cause. +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<p><a id="chap04"></a></p> + +<h2> +CHAPTER IV. +<br><br> +A MAN AND A BROTHER. +</h2> + +<p class="intro"> +Charity is greater than justice? Yes, it is greater, it is +the summit of justice—it is the temple of which justice is +the foundation. But you cannot have the top without the +bottom; you cannot build upon charity. You must build +upon justice, for this main reason, that you have not at +first charity to build with. It is the last reward of good +work. Do justice to your brother (you can do that whether +you love him or not), and you will come to love him. +</p> + +<p class="intro"> + <i>Wreath of Wild Olive</i>. RUSKIN.<br> +</p> + +<p><br></p> + +<p> +The 30th of September was a cold, blowy day, +the wind seemed to take a special pleasure +in howling and whistling about the dismal +lodgings where Donovan was working. It was +evening, the table was covered with bulky +volumes, with papers of notes and manuscript +books; he had always had the faculty of doing +with a will whatever he undertook, and he was +so absorbed in his work that he scarcely noticed +a violent peal at the door-bell; it was not till +the howling wind was eddying through the +passage and the infirm fastening of his +sitting-room door had succumbed to the blast and +burst open, that he became alive to the fact that +Stephen Causton was to come up to town that +evening, and that this gust of wind probably +announced his advent. +</p> + +<p> +It was a blustering arrival altogether, the +landlady's welcome was almost lost in the +general hubbub. Donovan heard a loud and +rather rough voice replying. +</p> + +<p> +"Well, Mrs. Green, how are you? Here, you +boy, put down the portmanteau." +</p> + +<p> +Then came a slow counting out of coin. +</p> + +<p> +"Please, sir, it were awful 'eavy," pleaded a +shrill voice, "it were fit to break a chap's arm." +</p> + +<p> +"Nonsense," came the loud voice again, "it's +not more than three hundred yards from——" +</p> + +<p> +"Good evening," interrupted Donovan, suddenly +emerging from the sitting-room, and +finding himself in the presence of a light-haired, +bushy-whiskered double of Mrs. Causton. +</p> + +<p> +"Oh! good evening," said Stephen, holding +out his hand, and hastily glancing at his new +companion. "I've all sorts of messages for +you from Porthkerran." +</p> + +<p> +Donovan's hands clenched and unclenched +themselves. It was a little hard to hear +messages from Porthkerran spoken of in such a +careless tone. +</p> + +<p> +The little street boy who had carried the +portmanteau began to plead again for "another +copper or two." +</p> + +<p> +"Nonsense, be off, you beggar!" was Stephen's +lordly reply, and he passed into the +sitting-room, giving a chagrined exclamation at +finding no supper ready for him. +</p> + +<p> +Donovan left the landlady to pacify him, and +partly from dislike to the tone which his +companion had used, partly from his horror of +under-paying labour, made the little street boy +happy with a sixpence. Then he pushed the +front-door to with a vigorous slam, and slowly +returned to the sitting-room. +</p> + +<p> +Stephen, feeling that he had a somewhat +taciturn companion, talked more than usual, +and pleasantly enough. However much he +resembled his mother in face, he was evidently +singularly unlike her in every other way, and +Donovan was surprised that Mrs. Causton +should tolerate such very free and easy manners, +or that anyone brought up so strictly should +sprinkle his conversation so plentifully with +slang and mild oaths. Was this Dick Tremain's +specimen of a "mother's son"? Surely he +must have broken loose from his leading-strings! +</p> + +<p> +The fact was that Stephen at Porthkerran +and Stephen in London were two very different +beings; he did not at first intentionally +deceive his mother, but inevitably he had struck +out into a line of his own widely different from +hers. Too weak to care to set up his principles +in open defiance he lived a sort of double life, +taking his fling when alone, and meekly deferring +to his mother's opinion when at Porthkerran. +The result of this falseness was most unhappy. +Donovan scrutinized his companion's face keenly +that first evening, but after all, in spite of +the narrow forehead, and the eyes which rarely +looked straight into other eyes, he took rather +a liking to Stephen—was he not a friend of the +Tremains? the one link which might still exist +between them. +</p> + +<p> +It was not for some days that he found out +the truth about his new companion. He knew +that his bringing up had been of the narrowest, +and guessed from the very first that he had +shaken off the old traditions, and was taking +his own way, but it was not all at once that he +realised what that way was. +</p> + +<p> +One October evening when the day's lectures +were over, and the two had just finished dinner, +the conversation drifted somehow to Porthkerran. +It was a very chilly night, Stephen +had insisted on having a fire, and dragging up +an arm-chair to the hearth, sat crouched up like +any old man; Donovan, with his feet on the +mantelpiece, American fashion, listened silently +to the continuous flow of talk, not taking great +note of it until the name of Tremain fell on his ear. +</p> + +<p> +"Johnson's a good enough fellow," Stephen +was saying. "Not, perhaps, what Dr. Tremain +would approve of, but one can't be so +strait-laced as he is." +</p> + +<p> +"The doctor strait-laced!" exclaimed Donovan. +"That's the last word you can apply to +him. Strait-laced! why, he's the very soul of +liberality." +</p> + +<p> +"In some ways," replied Stephen, coolly, +"but not all round. I was a year in his +surgery, and I can tell you he's not the easiest +master to serve. I wouldn't have him know +that Johnson and Curtis were my friends for—'a +wilderness of monkeys,' as old Shylock +has it. Not that they're either of them bad +fellows, but they're the sort that the doctor +can't abide." +</p> + +<p> +Donovan only knew the two students by +sight, but he was able to guess pretty well +to what set they belonged, and he knew that +they were probably the very worst friends for +anyone so weak-minded as Stephen. The +reference to the Tremains, however, brought +too many painful thoughts to his mind to admit +of his dwelling on his companion's words. He +did not speak, and Stephen, thrusting his feet +almost under the grate, continued, +</p> + +<p> +"One can't be a slave to another man's +opinion, but of course I do try to keep in the +doctor's good books, not altogether to please +him either. I suppose you saw a good deal of +Gladys, didn't you." +</p> + +<p> +"A good deal," replied Donovan, steadily; +but as he spoke he swung down his feet from +the mantelpiece, and pushing back his chair +began to pace up and down the room. +</p> + +<p> +"She's an awfully jolly little thing, isn't she," +continued Stephen. "And she's grown +uncommonly pretty too." +</p> + +<p> +Donovan longed to kick him; Stephen talked +on in easy unconsciousness. +</p> + +<p> +"Her colouring's rather too high, certainly, +but she's a very fine girl. I lost my heart to +her years ago, and though of course I've had +half a dozen flames since, not one of them was +fit to be compared with her. I'd a fortnight at +Porthkerran before coming up here, you know, +and jolly enough it was too. Between ourselves +my mother is quite ready to help me to see +plenty of Gladys Tremain, nothing would please +her so well as to have Gladys for a daughter-in-law, +and, by Jove, she'd make a stunning +good wife. I don't believe she dislikes me +either, she was much more ready to be talked +to than usual. We shouldn't be half badly +matched. What do you think?" +</p> + +<p> +"Discuss your love affairs with anyone you +please, but not with me," said Donovan, reining +in his voice with difficulty. "You ought to +have found out before now that I'm made of +cast iron, and chosen your confidant better." +</p> + +<p> +"Well, all right, I won't bore you," replied +Stephen; "where are you off to? don't go." +</p> + +<p> +"I can't read yet, I'm going out." +</p> + +<p> +"Johnson said he'd look in this evening, +we'll have a round of 'Nap,' that'll be better +than turning out on such a night as this." +</p> + +<p> +"You won't play while I'm in the house," +said Donovan, decidedly. "Look here, Causton, +just understand once for all that if you bring +those fellows here we dissolve partnership at +once. I can get rooms elsewhere, but get into +that set I will not." +</p> + +<p> +"All right, my dear fellow, don't get into +such a fume," said Stephen, trying to yawn +carelessly. "They shan't come here if you +feel so strongly about it, though after all you +don't know that we shouldn't play for +three-penny points." +</p> + +<p> +"I wasn't born yesterday," said Donovan, +shortly, and with that he went out, snatched +up his hat, and, slamming the front door after +him, hurried out into the street. +</p> + +<p> +His brain was in a whirl of confusion, he +strode on recklessly down the dingy street, out +into the broad road, past the brilliant lights of +Sanger's Circus, past the hospital to Westminster +Bridge. Then he paused, and leaning on the +southern parapet, in the very place where Noir +Frewin had met him years ago, he let the wild +confusion work itself out into distinct realities. +</p> + +<p> +This fellow loved, or professed to love Gladys; +the thought was simply intolerable to him. He +loved her, but spoke of her as Donovan would +hardly have spoken of Waif, loved her, and, +sanctioned by his mother, evidently meant to +woo her! And—worst misery of all!—what +was there to prevent it? he was absolutely +helpless, he could only look on in dumb despair. +Never more could he go to that Cornish home, +never more see the face of the woman he loved, +but he should hear of Stephen Causton's visits, +<i>he</i> might go there with impunity, he might +spend long hours with Gladys, might woo her +and win her! It was maddening! the thought +of it roused all the stormiest passions in +Donovan's heart. He absolutely hated Stephen, hated +and despised him, dwelt with bitterest scorn on +his weakness, his many failings. The fiend of +jealousy rode rampant over every better feeling, +quenched for the time all that was noble in him. +Only for a time, however; before long he was +taxing himself—not Stephen—with cowardly +weakness. +</p> + +<p> +Yes, after all, with him lay the fault. What +right had he to be angry because another man +ventured to admire Gladys? What concern +was it of his? Had he not resolved on absolute +sacrifice of self?—yet here was the wily self +coming to the fore again, firing up indignantly +because another man desired what he had +renounced. +</p> + +<p> +And Stephen was not so entirely despicable +as in his rage he had imagined him to be. At +any rate he had far more right to think of +marrying Gladys than Donovan himself had. +What business had he, of all people, to fly into +a passion because one worthier than himself +had stepped forward? Enjoyment, happiness, +was not for him; a line of plodding duty—of +entire sacrifice—was the course marked out +instead. The "steep of honour" was before him, +his reward must be in the "deeds of duteous +service" themselves. +</p> + +<p> +It should be so. The fire of indignation died +down, leaving him quiet, passive, horribly +depressed, but still resolutely determined to keep +on in this dreary round of duty. +</p> + +<p> +The cold night wind blowing up from the +river helped to brace him for the struggle; air +and wide open space had always a very strange +influence over him, this evening he felt their +influence more than ever. The river flowed +darkly onward, the lights on its margin threw +their yellow reflection in a second golden chain, +to the left stood up the sombre towers of the +Abbey, and the huge mass of the Houses of +Parliament loomed grandly out of the darkness. +Sounds of life and traffic rose, too, out of the +night. Trains flashed like fiery serpents over +Charing Cross Bridge, with shriek of whistle +and snort of engine; carriages, horses, passengers +of every description hurried on. After all +it was a grand old world, no world of units, +there was a national life to be lived as well as a +private life, there were national grievances +which would outweigh and eclipse all private +grievances, there was—even to a sometime +misanthrope—the enthusiasm of humanity, a +wonderful panacea for self pain. +</p> + +<p> +He was conscious of that widening influence, +but more conscious of a sudden contraction +caused by the sound of a voice he knew. +Glancing round he saw Stephen and two other +men within a few yards of him. +</p> + +<p> +"No, I've never played there," Stephen was +saying. +</p> + +<p> +"Time you were initiated, then," replied one +of his companions. "Smithson will be there +by nine; he's better at billiards than anyone I +know, a regular——" +</p> + +<p> +The rest of the sentence died away in the +distance, there was a general laugh, and then +Donovan heard no more. +</p> + +<p> +He watched the three as they crossed the +bridge, and saw them turn to the right; he +guessed well enough where they were going. +It was quite evident that Stephen was getting +completely under the influence of Johnson and +the set to which he belonged. In an instant +all the thoughts of brotherhood, freedom, and +self-sacrifice were banished from Donovan's +mind, and a very devilish idea took possession +of him. +</p> + +<p> +Stephen was deplorably weak-minded, he +would get completely under Johnson's thumb, +would very likely go to the bad altogether, +and, if so, he would unfit himself for Gladys. +In one moment there rose before him a picture +of the future, Stephen the orthodox dragged +down into disgrace and rejection; himself, an +agnostic indeed, but the model of virtue and +morality, rewarded by success. +</p> + +<p> +It was a fiendish imagination, lasting only +for a minute; he dashed it down, and stood +shamefaced and full of self-loathing in the +world of realities again. +</p> + +<p> +The Westminster chimes rang out into the +night. Big Ben boomed the hour—nine of +those deep, reverberating strokes fell on +Donovan's ear. Before the last echo had died into +silence he had made up his mind what to do. +With the natural instinct of a generous +character, he, having wronged Stephen in thought, +was anxious now to redress the wrong by +some kind of service. Thoughts of the +Tremains, too, came crowding into his mind; +Stephen was their friend, the doctor's godson; if +he went wrong the Tremains would be infinitely +sorry. He must at any rate try to get him +away from that set into which he had fallen, +make some effort to dissuade him from a course +which would so thoroughly shock his mother. +</p> + +<p> +He hurried along with rapid strides, trying +not to think how much he disliked the task +before him, racking his brain for some excuse +by which to draw Stephen away, at any rate +for this evening. He had only a few minutes +in which to form his plans; before long he had +passed under the dark railway bridge, and had +turned up Villiers Street. He had not been in +this particular place since the miserable New +Year's Eve just before his illness, when his one +longing had been to stifle his remorse, and to +still those awful recollections of Dot's +death-bed; an extraordinary change had passed over +him since then, but he did not think of that +himself, or contrast the present Donovan with +the past, only as he went through the swing +doors into the brightly-lighted saloon, a vague +association of pain and misery came to him, a +sort of ghost of the past seemed to hover about +the place. +</p> + +<p> +His quick eye had soon taken a survey of the +tables, and had descried Stephen Causton cue +in hand; the place was crowded; he made his +way towards him and stood for some time +watching him in silence; he was betting on his +own play with despicable rashness, and he was +playing exceedingly ill. Donovan had an insane +desire to snatch the cue from him and play +himself, it was most irritating to watch the +game. +</p> + +<p> +Presently he became conscious that some one's +eyes were riveted upon him, he glanced round +in involuntary reply to that strange magnetic +influence. It was only the marker, a dark-haired +man, with a face which somehow seemed +familiar to him. As Donovan's eyes met his +he turned away, however, apparently that fixed +scrutiny had been quite purposeless. Curious +deep blue eyes, a somewhat broad face, and +black hair—why, the fellow had a Cornish look! +And then it suddenly flashed into Donovan's +mind that the likeness which had struck him +was a likeness to Trevethan the blacksmith. +Surely this must be Jack Trevethan for whom +he had promised to search. He went round to +the marker's seat, there was no time for beating +about the bush, he just bent forward and said +in a low voice, +</p> + +<p> +"Is your name John Trevethan?" +</p> + +<p> +The billiard-marker started violently, and his +dark face flushed. Donovan felt at once that +his guess had been correct, even though the +man gave an angry denial. +</p> + +<p> +"My name's Smith. What do you want with me?" +</p> + +<p> +"Nothing. But I have a message for a man +named Trevethan from his father," said Donovan, +carelessly. "I see I was mistaken, but you +are like the description given me." +</p> + +<p> +He moved away then, and made his way to +Stephen. A fresh game had just been begun, +this time Stephen was only looking on; he had +lost a good deal, and was not in the best of +tempers. +</p> + +<p> +"What, you here, Farrant!" he exclaimed, +with surprise, for he had been too much +engrossed to notice Donovan before he actually +spoke to him. +</p> + +<p> +"You passed me just now on Westminster +Bridge, I came in here to try to get hold of +you. Haven't you had enough of this? Come +with me and hear the 'Cloches de Corneville,' +we've not had so much as sixpenny worth of +music since you came up." +</p> + +<p> +"I can't come now, I'm with these other +fellows," said Stephen, irresolutely. +</p> + +<p> +"Can't!" ejaculated Donovan, scornfully. +"You've not sold yourself to them, I suppose. +Come along, you've had your game, and we +shall just be in time for the half price." +</p> + +<p> +Stephen was always easily led, a little more +persuasion and the stronger will triumphed, +Donovan gained the day. +</p> + +<p> +As they passed out of the saloon he glanced +once more at the billiard-marker; he was so +convinced of his identity with Trevethan's son +that he could not make up his mind to go +without one more effort. Hastily scrawling his +name and address on a card he once more +crossed over towards the Cornishman, and said, +with apparent carelessness, +</p> + +<p> +"If you happen to know anything of this +Trevethan, he will be able to get news of his +father at this address." +</p> + +<p> +The man did not speak, but he took the +card, and as Donovan turned away he neglected +his duties to look after him as he passed down +the long saloon. +</p> + +<p> +"The light one was young Causton, but who +can he be?" mused the billiard-marker. +"Farrant! there was no such name at Porthkerran. +He's a knowing hand, wanted to get the other +out of this, and hooked him neat enough, but +I was up to him, I wasn't going to be fooled +out of my name." +</p> + +<p> +With which reflections he put Donovan's +card into his waistcoat pocket, and with a sigh +returned to his neglected duties. But in spite +of his satisfaction at not having been "fooled" +into a confession, the thought of his old father +at Porthkerran haunted him uncomfortably. +</p> + +<p> +Stephen meantime was listening with great +delight to the music at the Opera Comique, +Donovan fancied some resemblance to Porthkerran +in the little fishing town represented on +the stage, and therewith heard and saw little +else, but in a sort of dream lived again the +months he had spent with the Tremains, +returning every now and then to the prosaic +realisation that he was in a hot theatre with +his rival beside him, this Stephen Causton to +whom he must before all things be perfectly +just. The orchestra twanged and scraped, the +songs and choruses succeeded one another, the +audience applauded, and Donovan forced himself +away from the thoughts of the little Cornish +village, and made himself face the present and +think out his plans with regard to Stephen. +</p> + +<p> +The result of this was that as they walked +home he told him a little about his former life, +and Stephen was for the time impressed, liked +Donovan better than he had ever liked him +before, and perhaps for the first time thoroughly +respected him. But though he made many +resolutions not to be led away by Johnson and +Curtis, daylight and some disagreeable chaffing +from his former companions about his capture +by Donovan Farrant, undid all the good that +had been done. +</p> + +<p> +Donovan saw that something was amiss +when they met at dinner-time. He had made +up his mind to do all possible justice to Stephen, +to ignore his failings, and to be perfectly +friendly with him, but his patience was severely +tried by the resolute sulkiness of his companion's +manner. +</p> + +<p> +Hardly a word was spoken during the meal; +as soon as might be, Donovan turned his chair +round to the fire and took up the <i>Daily News</i>; +Stephen too got up from the table, and stood +with his back against the mantelpiece. Presently +he broke the silence. +</p> + +<p> +"I say, Farrant, just understand at once, +please, that I won't have you dogging me +again to-night." +</p> + +<p> +"I thought you were due at the hospital," +said Donovan, carelessly. +</p> + +<p> +"So I am; but you know well enough what I +mean. You know that you dogged me last +night." +</p> + +<p> +"If by knowing where you were and following +you, you mean dogging, I certainly did," +said Donovan, throwing aside his paper. "I +suppose Curtis and Co. have been chaffing you?" +</p> + +<p> +"That's no concern of yours, and I'm not +going to be interfered with, so just understand." +</p> + +<p> +"I've not the least wish to interfere," said +Donovan. "I told you last night why I tried +to get you away; I believed that you didn't +know what that sort of thing leads to. Now +you do know, and if you choose to run into +danger with your eyes open, the more fool you." +</p> + +<p> +"You're the last fellow in the world who has +a right to dictate to me," said Stephen, with +offended dignity. +</p> + +<p> +"I don't dictate, I only warn you that you'll +come to grief unless you break with that set." +</p> + +<p> +"And what concern is that of yours, pray?" +</p> + +<p> +"More than you fancy," said Donovan, quietly. +"You are a friend of the Tremains, and so +am I." +</p> + +<p> +"But I'm not going to bow down to Dr. Tremain +in everything, and I told you so before; +he's a good enough old fellow, but——" +</p> + +<p> +"Take care how you speak of him," said +Donovan, his eyes flashing. +</p> + +<p> +"Don't look so furious; what did I say? You +seem to consider the Tremains your special +property. I've known them more years than +you have months." +</p> + +<p> +"Then I wonder that you care to take up +with fellows whom the doctor would disapprove +of. And besides, Causton, if what you told me +last night is true, if you really care for—for +Miss Tremain, I should have thought you +wouldn't have been able to go about with such +cads." +</p> + +<p> +"Of course I care for Gladys; but what on +earth has that to do with the chums I have +here?" +</p> + +<p> +"A great deal," said Donovan, vehemently. +"Do you think you'll ever be worthy of her if +you go on making such a fool of yourself? You +know you're hardly fit to look at her now, and +what do you think you'll be like if you let such +fellows as Johnson and Curtis lead you by the +nose? You'll be a weak-minded, despicable +fool. I tell you, if you mean to dream of marrying +Miss Tremain, you must fit yourself for her." +</p> + +<p> +"You're wonderfully exercised about it; I +believe you want to have her for yourself," said +Stephen, tauntingly. +</p> + +<p> +The hot blood rushed to Donovan's face, his +eyes fairly blazed with anger; in ungovernable +fury he snatched up a boot-jack and hurled it +at his companion's head. +</p> + +<p> +The next instant, however, the threatened +tragedy became utterly comic; Stephen, to save +his head, warded off the blow with his arm, and +the boot-jack hit him with considerable force on +the elbow. Numb, and tingling to the very +finger-tips, he simply danced with pain. Waif's +tail got trodden on, and he howled dismally; +the fire-irons were knocked down, and went +clattering into the fender, and Donovan, +overcome by the absurdity of the scene, forgot his +anger, and fell into a perfect paroxysm of +laughter. Stephen laughed too. +</p> + +<p> +"You wretch! it was my funny-bone. By +Jove! I believe you've broken it." +</p> + +<p> +"A medical riddle for you," said Donovan, +as soon as he could speak for laughing. "Why +is the funny-bone so named?" +</p> + +<p> +Stephen gave it up, and, as the clock struck, +remembered that it was time he went back to +the hospital. He went off laughing at the +answer, "Because it borders on the humerus," +and apparently the incident of the boot-jack +had really dispelled his sulkiness. Donovan +picked up the fire-irons, patted Waif, and then, +taking an armful of books from the sideboard, +settled down to his evening's work. The boot-jack +was ever after a theme for laughter, but +they neither of them alluded again to the +conversation which had led to the quarrel, nor did +Stephen ever think there was the smallest truth +in his taunt. He could not imagine anyone so +matter-of-fact as Donovan actually falling in +love, and the stony silence with which all his +remarks about Gladys were met only confirmed +him in the opinion that his companion was +indeed of the "cast iron" philosopher type. +</p> + +<p> +To Donovan that year was a hard struggle. +The continual worry about Stephen, and the +friction of his presence, were perhaps good for +him; they certainly prevented him from +becoming self-engrossed; but there were times +when he felt unbearably jaded and harassed, +as if he could not much longer keep up the +weary fight. He grew curiously fond of +Stephen, and Stephen returned the liking in his +own odd way, vacillating between Donovan +and his old companions, and proving his +miserable weakness of will; but, though Donovan +saved him from much, he could not prevent the +steady downhill course into which he had fallen. +</p> + +<p> +The approach of the long vacation brought +another struggle, and another hardly-won +victory. There was a very urgent invitation to +Porthkerran. Of course it must be refused, but +Donovan had to go through the old battle once +more before the letter was written. He made +it a question of economy this time; his finances +were low, and he had made up his mind to stay +in town through the summer months, having +obtained temporary employment in working up +the book-keeping of some small tradesman. +The Tremains were sorry, but could say nothing +against such a plan; and Donovan saw Stephen +go westward for his three months' holiday +close to Gladys' home, and felt a bitter pang +of envy. +</p> + +<p> +He worked almost fiercely through those +stifling summer months, and in every spare +moment read hungrily on all sides of the great +question which was gradually filling his mind +more and more. There was temporary satisfaction +in the actual reading, but he seemed to +gain little from it. Arguments for, repulsed +him; arguments against, pained him. He felt +no nearer the knowledge of the truth. +</p> + +<p> +October brought a return to his hospital work, +and fresh difficulties with Stephen, who came +back from Porthkerran inclined to break out +into violent re-action after the subdued +atmosphere of his mother's house. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Causton herself had not been altogether +satisfied with her son during the vacation. She +wondered whether Donovan's influence could be +bad for him, and after he had left she worried +herself so much about him that she at length +resolved to go up to town for a week, visit him +in his rooms, and satisfy herself that the doctor's +<i>protégé</i> was not corrupting him. +</p> + +<p> +One morning when Donovan was sitting at +breakfast, discussing a tough essay on +"Spontaneous Generation," over weak coffee and +leathery toast, there came a knock at the door, +the landlady announced "Mrs. Causton," and +much surprised, he found himself face to face +with Stephen's mother. +</p> + +<p> +"I have taken you by surprise, Mr. Farrant," +she began, in her rather demure voice. "I +came up unexpectedly to town on business, and +was anxious to find Stephen before his lectures +began. I arrived too late last night to come +and see him then, as I had intended doing. +Stephen is not unwell, I hope? I see you are +breakfasting alone." +</p> + +<p> +"He will be down directly," said Donovan. +"Let me give you some coffee, Mrs. Causton; +and then I'll go and call Stephen." +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, pray tell him I am here," replied +Mrs. Causton. "No coffee, thank you. I breakfasted +at my hotel. Pray call Stephen. I hope he is +not often so late as this?" +</p> + +<p> +Donovan judiciously ignored that question, +and went to summon the hope of the Caustons, +whom he found sleeping the sleep of the just, +and in the meantime the anxious mother took +a rapid survey of the sitting-room. It was +redolent of tobacco, but no doubt that was due +to Donovan Farrant; for the rest she could see +nothing to find fault with, unless indeed the +evil lurked in those books piled up on the +sideboard. She crossed the room, and put up her +double gold-rimmed eye-glasses to read the +titles. There were several works on medicine +and surgery, and some bulky volumes of science, +then came an untidy pile of a strangely +heterogeneous character. She read the titles with +great dissatisfaction. Maurice, Renan, Haeckel, +Kingsley, Strauss, Erskine, and at the top an +open volume, Draper's "Conflict between +Religion and Science." She turned to the +fly-leaf. It was a much worn, second-hand +book, but under two half erased names +was written "D. Farrant." Of course all +these books belonged to him, but how could +she tell that Stephen did not read them +too? +</p> + +<p> +Her manner when Donovan came down again +was decidedly stiff. He felt it at once, and it +hurt him a little, for the recollection that she +had left Porthkerran only the day before, had +raised a great hunger in his heart for news of +Gladys. +</p> + +<p> +"I hope they are all well at Trenant?" he +asked, hoping that her answer might go a little +into details; but he only extracted a general +reply that everyone was well, that Porthkerran +was very little altered, and that old Admiral +Smith had been suffering very much from rheumatic gout. +</p> + +<p> +Before long Stephen appeared, having +evidently performed a very hasty toilette, and +Donovan, thinking it well to leave the mother +and son alone, whistled to Waif and went out. +</p> + +<p> +"How do you like Mr. Farrant? is he a pleasant +companion?" asked Mrs. Causton, as the +front door closed. +</p> + +<p> +"Oh! he's a very good sort of fellow," said +Stephen, ringing the bell for his breakfast, "he's +very clever, and works like a nigger." +</p> + +<p> +"Then I wonder he has time to waste on such +a paper as this," said Mrs. Causton, laying her +black gloved hand on the <i>Sporting News</i>. +</p> + +<p> +The <i>Sporting News</i>, as it happened, was +Stephen's paper, but he could not allow his +mother to know that; with a slight pricking of +conscience he merely turned the conversation. +</p> + +<p> +"Oh! of course even the hardest working +fellows must have a little relaxation. Farrant +reads on every subject under the sun." +</p> + +<p> +"I hope you never open those dreadful books +of his which I see over there?" asked +Mrs. Causton, apprehensively. +</p> + +<p> +"Oh! dear no," replied Stephen, this time +with perfect truth. "They're a great deal too +stiff for me." +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Causton gave a relieved sigh and the +conversation drifted away from Donovan to the +examination which Stephen was going in for +that term. He had lost much valuable time +when his eyes had been bad, but was +nevertheless very sanguine. +</p> + +<p> +"I must own," said Mrs. Causton, as she +walked back to her hotel with Stephen, "that +it will be rather a relief to me when your course +is over. I don't altogether like this arrangement +of sharing rooms with Mr. Farrant, I hope +he never speaks to you about religious matters." +</p> + +<p> +"Never; he's a very taciturn fellow, and as +to theology, we should never dream of discussing +it, so you may be quite happy, mother." +</p> + +<p> +His manner re-assured Mrs. Causton, and he +spared no pains to please her during her week's +stay, escorting her to the National Gallery, and +the British Museum, and one night even +submitting to the very dullest of meetings at +Exeter Hall. +</p> + +<p> +"If that poor Donovan Farrant would have +come with us," sighed good Mrs. Causton, at +the close of a speech which had roused her to +enthusiasm. +</p> + +<p> +"Not much in his line, I'm afraid," said +Stephen, heartily applauding the speaker with +hands and feet in a way which delighted his +mother. +</p> + +<p> +"Dear Stephen was so much impressed by +Mr. ——," she told one of her friends afterwards. +And the poor lady went back to Cornwall quite +satisfied that her son was doing well, that even +Dr. Tremain's suggestion that he should lodge +with Donovan Farrant had not proved really +dangerous. It was, she still thought, a +somewhat rash experiment, but certainly dear +Stephen was not the least contaminated. +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<p><a id="chap05"></a></p> + +<h2> +CHAPTER V. +<br><br> +A BRAVE SPRITE. +</h2> + +<p class="intro"> + Wonder it is to see in diverse mindes<br> + How diversely love doth his pageants play,<br> + And shewes his powre in variable kindes:<br> + The baser wit, whose ydle thoughts alway<br> + Are wont to cleave unto the lowly clay,<br> + It stirreth up to sensuall desire,<br> + But in brave sprite it kindles goodly fire,<br> + That to all high desert and honour doth aspire.<br> + Ne suffereth it uncomely idlenesse<br> + In his free thought to build her sluggish nest,<br> + Ne suffereth it thought of ungentlenesse<br> + Ever to creep into his noble breast;<br> + But to the highest and the worthiest,<br> + Lifteth it up that els would lowly fall:<br> + It lettes not fall, it lettes it not to rest;<br> + It lettes not scarse this Prince to breath at all,<br> + But to his first poursuit him forward still doth call.<br> + <i>Faerie Queen</i>. SPENSER.<br> +</p> + +<p><br></p> + +<p> +"Curtis sent you word that he was going +by the 9.30 to-morrow," said Donovan, +coming into the sitting-room one autumn evening, +and finding Stephen for once really hard +at work. +</p> + +<p> +"All right," was the laconic answer. +</p> + +<p> +"You're not going to the Z—— Races?" +asked Donovan, abruptly. +</p> + +<p> +Stephen looked up with a smile. +</p> + +<p> +"In the words of the old Quaker I must answer, +'Friend, first thee tellest a lie, and then +thee askest a question.'" +</p> + +<p> +"But with the examination so near and your +preparation so frightfully behindhand," urged +Donovan. +</p> + +<p> +"Am I not grinding like fifty niggers now to +make up?" said Stephen. +</p> + +<p> +"But it's such nonsense your going," continued +Donovan, rather incautiously. "Why, you +hardly know a horse from a donkey; you'll only +get fleeced, and come home up to your neck in +debt." +</p> + +<p> +"I wish you'd let me alone," said Stephen; +"I tell you I'm going, and you won't bother me +out of it, so do shut up." +</p> + +<p> +"What do you imagine your mother would +say to it, if she knew?" +</p> + +<p> +The question was an uncomfortable one, and, +moreover, Donovan had the power of forcing +Stephen to listen to him; he went on, gravely, +</p> + +<p> +"However much you may kick at the word +dishonourable, you can hardly say the way you +are going on is anything else; only a few weeks +ago you were going to an Exeter Hall meeting +with Mrs. Causton, and now you are going to +the Z—— Meeting with a set of snobs who, as +sure as fate, will get you into some scrape." +</p> + +<p> +Stephen was imperturbably good-humoured +that evening; he did not take exception even at +this very plain speaking, he only swung himself +lazily back in his chair and yawned prodigiously. +When Donovan had ended, he sat musing for a +minute or two, then said, abruptly, +</p> + +<p> +"I tell you what, Farrant, you won't persuade +me out of going, but I don't care a rap +about being with these fellows if you would go. +Come, you can spare a day well enough, and +we can have no end of a spree." +</p> + +<p> +Donovan could ill afford such an unnecessary +expense, but he knew that his presence would +probably keep Stephen straight, and, after +some deliberation, he consented to go. +</p> + +<p> +The day proved to be exceedingly fine, one of +those still autumn days when scarcely a breath +is stirring, when the limp yellow leaves float +down slowly and noiselessly from the rapidly +thinning trees, and the sun sends its softened +beams through a golden misty haze. It was +most delicious to get out of smoky London; +except for long walks every Sunday, Donovan +had not actually been out of town for more than +a year, and the change was thoroughly enjoyable. +In spite of sundry recollections of old +times which would intrude themselves upon +him, the day really bid fair to be a pleasant one. +Stephen was companionable enough, and everything +was so fresh to him that Donovan found +it easy work to keep him out of difficulties. +</p> + +<p> +All went well till the races were over, then, +as they were elbowing their way through the +crowd surrounding the grand stand, Donovan +suddenly felt a hand on his shoulder and a +well-known voice ringing in his ear. +</p> + +<p> +"Well, milord, who would have thought of +seeing you here! How are you, my dear +fellow?" +</p> + +<p> +He turned round to have his hand grasped by +old Rouge Frewin. There he was, as unchanged +as if for all this eventful time the world +had been standing still with him, the same +genial, cheery, red-faced old captain who had +watched by his sick-bed at Monaco, and cried +like a baby when they had parted at Paris. +Donovan would have been both ungrateful and +unnatural if his first thought had not been one +of real pleasure at meeting again the kindly old +man. +</p> + +<p> +"Why, captain, this is an odd chance that +has brought us together. How natural it seems +to see you again! What corner of the moon +have you dropped from?" +</p> + +<p> +"Tacking between London and Paris ever +since you left us," said Rouge, with a sigh. +"I've missed you, lad; it's a hard life for an old +man like me; I'm growing old, Donovan, growing +old fast, and Noir has been hard on me since +you went." +</p> + +<p> +"Is Noir here to-day?" +</p> + +<p> +"No, he was to come back from Paris to-night; +I don't know the ins and outs of it, but +Noir is very uneasy just now, he won't settle +down in England comfortably, and it's a miserable +life this knocking about among foreigners; +it's killing me by inches, and poor old +Sweepstakes too." +</p> + +<p> +"What, is Sweepstakes still in the land of +the living?" +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, he's at my rooms in town, not the old +place in Drury Lane, Noir wouldn't go there +again. By-the-by, milord, what are you doing +with yourself now?" +</p> + +<p> +The question first reminded Donovan that +there were reasons which made it advisable not +to give his address to the Frewins. He replied +that he was at present a medical student, and +then as he spoke he recollected Stephen, and +turned hastily round, but Stephen was gone. +</p> + +<p> +The races were over, he might possibly have +gone back to the station, but Donovan thought +that he had probably caught sight of some of his +friends and had gone to speak to them; he was +a good deal vexed. It was simply impossible, +however, to find him in such a crowd, he was +obliged to give it up, and, quitting the +race-course with the old captain, made his way as +quickly as might be to the train. +</p> + +<p> +They had not gone far when a block +in the long line of carriages attracted their +notice. +</p> + +<p> +"Some accident," said Rouge. "Never was +yet at any races without seeing a spill of some +sort." +</p> + +<p> +Donovan pushed on quickly without speaking +a word; he felt almost certain that Stephen had +somehow got into mischief. +</p> + +<p> +By the time he had made his way through +the throng of people a dog-cart which had been +overturned was being raised from the ground, +and Donovan at once caught sight of Stephen's +friend Curtis standing at the head of the terrified +horse, whose violent kicking and plunging +had caused the accident. Many people were +offering their help, several were stooping over +a prostrate figure, he pushed them aside; it was +indeed Stephen Causton who lay there +perfectly unconscious, the blood flowing slowly +from his mouth. +</p> + +<p> +Donovan's authoritative manner soon sent +back the mere idlers, while the really efficient +helpers came to the fore. Rouge offered his +brandy-flask, and in a very short time an +extemporized litter was brought up, and Stephen +was borne away to the nearest hotel. +</p> + +<p> +It was all done in such a business-like way, +for a time it seemed to Donovan only like his +ordinary hospital work; it was not till a doctor +had arrived, and his own responsibility was +lessened, that he realised that it was Stephen +Causton, the Tremains' friend, Stephen for +whom he felt himself in a manner accountable, +who was lying there in danger of his life. In a +disjointed way he gathered from Curtis the +facts of the accident. Stephen had caught sight +of them, and had gone to speak to them, Curtis +had offered him a seat in the dog-cart, and they +had driven off, intending to dine together in +the town; something had startled the horse, and +the dog-cart had been overturned. The rest +had escaped with bruises and a severe shaking, +but Stephen had broken a rib, the bone had +pierced the lung, and he was for some hours in +a very precarious state. +</p> + +<p> +The first moment that Donovan could be +spared he ran down to despatch a telegram to +Dr. Tremain, and not till he had with some +difficulty worded the message did one thought +of himself come to trouble him. +</p> + +<p> +"D. Farrant, Royal Hotel, Z——, to Dr. Tremain, +Trenant, Porthkerran. Causton has met +with a bad accident. Please tell his mother, and +come at once if possible." +</p> + +<p> +What a panic poor Mrs. Causton would be in, +and how strange it would seem to them all that +he—Donovan—should be with Stephen at Z——. +Of course Dr. Tremain would know that the +Z—— races were on, and would naturally +arrive at the conclusion that he had led Stephen +there. It could not be supposed that the +orderly mother's son, who attended Exeter Hall +meetings, would have gone to such a place +without great persuasion. In a moment there +rose before Donovan the whole situation. The +decision must lie with Stephen; if he chose to +confess his long course of self-pleasing all would +be well, but, if he chose to be silent, Donovan +felt that he could not betray him, that even at +the risk of being entirely misunderstood, he +must hold his tongue, an easy enough task +surely—merely to keep silence—a task in which +he was already well practised! +</p> + +<p> +He went back to the sick-room and forgot all +his presentiments in keeping anxious watch +over Stephen. The hæmorrhage had been +checked, but all through the night the most +alarming prostration continued, and it was far +on in the next day before the immediate danger +was over, and the patient fell into an exhausted +sleep. +</p> + +<p> +Donovan left him then for the first time, the +landlord's daughter keeping guard over him, +and went himself to get much-needed food and rest. +</p> + +<p> +Gladys never forgot that autumn evening +when the telegram arrived. For some days the +household at Trenant had been disturbed and +anxious, for Jackie and Nesta were both laid up +with the measles, and Nesta, always a rather +delicate little child, was seriously ill. The +nurse had gone down for her supper, and Gladys +had taken her place in the night nursery. As +she sat beside the sleeping children she heard +a sharp ring at the door-bell, a message for her +father she supposed, and thought no more about +it, little dreaming what message it was, and +from whom. And yet, as she sat there in the +dim light, her thoughts did drift away to +Donovan. What was he doing in those dull London +lodgings which he had described to them? His +letters had been fewer and shorter lately, and +he never spoke of any future visit to +Porthkerran. Were their lives growing farther +apart? Was it never to be anything but waiting +and trusting? Should she never learn that +he had found the truth? She covered her face +and prayed silently, hardly in thought-out +words, but only, as it were, breathing out her +want of patience, her love for him, and her +longing that he might think and do that which +was right. +</p> + +<p> +The nurse came back, and Gladys, released +from her watch, went down to the drawing-room; +she was strong to meet the news that +awaited her, and she needed all her strength. +Over and over again she read the words scrawled +on that thin pink paper, hearing with painful +acuteness all her father's surmises as to what +could have taken Stephen and Donovan to +those races. She hated herself for it, but it +hurt her a great deal more to hear a shadow of +blame attached to Donovan than to hear that +Stephen was lying perhaps in mortal danger. +The one caused her a sharp stab of pain, the +other only a shocked awed feeling—a vague regret. +</p> + +<p> +Her father went away in a few minutes to +break the news as well as he could to poor +Mrs. Causton. Mrs. Tremain was called away to +little Nesta, and Gladys sat crouched up alone +by the fire, feeling supremely wretched. It +could not be that Donovan had led Stephen +astray—and yet her father had evidently +thought it must be so! Her tears flowed fast, +but still not one was shed at the thought of +Stephen's accident; it was a tall manly figure +that rose before her, excluding everything else, +a strong face with dark sad eyes and resolute +month. It could not be that Donovan had +forgotten his high aims, had thrown aside his +search after truth, and sunk so low—it could +not be! His face rose before her in vivid +memory; she felt certain that he had not done +this thing. She dashed away her tears, choked +them back angrily, resolutely. +</p> + +<p> +"It can't be, it <i>isn't</i> so; I will never, never +believe it!" she cried, passionately. "Though +all the world accuse him, I will never believe it! +I will trust you, Donovan—always!" +</p> + +<p> +She was calm again now, invincible in her +woman's stronghold of absolute trust. The +arrows of logic, the force of argument, the +stern array of steely facts spend their force in +vain on that stronghold. +</p> + +<p> +Her rhapsody over, there came almost directly +the call to work, to return to common life. Her +father came back from his sad errand; she went +to meet him in the hall to ask after Mrs. Causton. +</p> + +<p> +"Oh! there you are, dear," he exclaimed. "I +came back to fetch you. Aunt Margaret is +terribly upset, and I promised that you should +go to her." +</p> + +<p> +Gladys trembled a little, but she could make +no objection, and ran up to fetch her things. +</p> + +<p> +"You must try to induce her to go to bed," +said the doctor, as he walked back with Gladys +to Mrs. Causton's house. "We shall start quite +early to-morrow morning, but she will be fit for +nothing if she does not sleep first." +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Causton was exceedingly fond of Gladys, +and, in spite of the real want of sympathy +between them, this evening she clung to her more +than ever, probably, in the depth of her misery, +not noticing that there was a little shadow of +restraint in her manner. For, though Gladys +had the sweetest and most delicate tact and +sympathy, she often let herself become absorbed +in sympathising with one person. She was one +of those characters who love the few ardently, +but are a little wanting in breadth, and now +every doubt or reproach cast on Donovan +pushed her further away from Mrs. Causton. +</p> + +<p> +However, she did her best, listened in silence +to Mrs. Causton's sorrows, helped her to make +all the necessary arrangements for her journey, +soothed her by mute caresses, and at last +persuaded her to go to bed. Then she lay down +beside her, and tried to sleep, but long after +Mrs. Causton had forgotten her troubles in +restful unconsciousness, Gladys lay with wide-open +eyes, keeping rigidly still for fear of disturbing +her companion, and in spirit sharing Donovan's +watch beside Stephen's sick-bed. +</p> + +<p> +In the morning Mrs. Causton awoke little +refreshed. She was almost disabled by a terrible +headache. Gladys had to do everything +for her. As she brought her a cup of coffee, it +seemed to dawn on the poor lady that very +soon she should have to part with her. +</p> + +<p> +"Oh! Gladys," she said, pleadingly, "could +you not come with me? I don't know what I +shall do without you." +</p> + +<p> +"I would willingly come," said Gladys, +trembling violently, "only—I'm not sure whether +mother could spare me——" +</p> + +<p> +She broke off abruptly, as her father drove up +in the pony-carriage. The thought of meeting +Donovan once more had set all her pulses +throbbing painfully, but she could not make +up her mind to ask her father whether she +might go, she could not even repeat Mrs. Causton's +words to him. +</p> + +<p> +The idea had, however, taken a strong hold +on Mrs. Causton. She greeted the doctor with +an urgent entreaty that he would allow Gladys +to go with them. +</p> + +<p> +"I am so poorly, and she has been such a comfort +to me. I don't know how I can do without +her." +</p> + +<p> +"Very well, Gladys dear," said Dr. Tremain, +putting his hand on her shoulder. "If you will +come with us, and can do without any more +preparation, it shall be so. Nesta is better +to-day, and we will send a note back to explain to +the mother." +</p> + +<p> +It was all settled in a few minutes. Gladys +hurried away to put on her walking things. +The maid hastily packed her little night-bag +for her, and before long she was driving with +her father and Mrs. Causton to St. Kerrans. +</p> + +<p> +The journey seemed endless; though they +had started very early, it was four o'clock in +the afternoon by the time they reached Z——. +</p> + +<p> +Gladys was very stiff and weary, but she had +hardly time to think of herself, she was so taken +up with the effort of sympathising with and +helping Mrs. Causton, while, as they drove +through the busy streets of Z——, the +consciousness that every moment was bringing her +nearer to Donovan made her heart beat quickly, +and the bright colour rise in her cheeks. +</p> + +<p> +At length they reached the Royal Hotel, +learnt at once from one of the waiters that +Stephen was doing well, and were ushered +upstairs. Mrs. Causton leant on the doctor's arm, +Gladys followed tremblingly, glad enough to +cling to the banisters. They were shown into +a private sitting-room. Already the afternoon +light was failing, but a fire blazed in the grate, +and by its ruddy glow Gladys saw Donovan. +He was stretched at full length on the hearthrug +fast asleep. The waiter hesitated. +</p> + +<p> +"Poor young gent! He was up all the night. +Perhaps you'll wake him, sir, if you see fit," and +then, with a curious glance at the three visitors, +the man withdrew, mentally ejaculating that he +"wasn't going to disturb the poor fellow, not if +it was to see the queen herself." But as the +door closed, Donovan started up. +</p> + +<p> +"Is he awake?" he cried, fancying that +Stephen's nurse bad come; then, catching sight of +Dr. Tremain, he sprang to his feet. "I am so +glad you've come. He is really doing well +now. The immediate danger is over." +</p> + +<p> +As he spoke he shook hands with the doctor +and Mrs. Causton, then, for the first time +catching sight of Gladys, he was all at once +speechless. For one moment their eyes met, that +strange meeting which seems like the blending +of soul with soul. That was their real greeting. +The conventional handshake was nothing, and +in another moment Donovan had turned hastily +away, and plunged abruptly into details of +Stephen's accident. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Causton was painfully agitated, and +was indignant when Donovan insisted on the +extreme rashness of going at once to see the +patient. To wake up and to find his mother +unexpectedly there, would be the very worst +thing for him, and though Dr. Tremain quite +agreed, and in fact took the law into his own +hands, Mrs. Causton regarded Donovan entirely +in the light of an enemy. +</p> + +<p> +Dr. Tremain went himself to the sick-room, +and it was arranged that he should relieve +guard, and, when Stephen awoke, tell him of +his mother's arrival. Donovan left him there, +and steeling himself for the encounter, went +slowly back to the sitting-room, where +Mrs. Causton was lying in an easy-chair, and Gladys +was trying to persuade her to take a cup of +tea. +</p> + +<p> +"You will have some tea, too, will you not?" +she said, looking up at Donovan. "They told +us you had been up all night; you must be very +tired." +</p> + +<p> +"Thank you, yes, I should like some," said +Donovan, allowing himself to watch the little +white hands as they lifted the big plated +tea-pot and poured out the tea. And as she +handed him his cup, he noticed, in that strange way +in which the minutest trifles are noticed when +there seems least time to waste on them, that +the china was thick, white, with a pink rim, and +bore the stamp of the Royal Hotel. +</p> + +<p> +He was startled when Mrs. Causton first +spoke to him; the waiting seemed to embitter +her, and she made him feel that his presence +was very distasteful. +</p> + +<p> +"Have you any other particulars to tell me +of my son's accident?" she asked, very coldly. +</p> + +<p> +"I think you have heard all now," he +replied, "all that I myself know, for I did not +actually see the carriage upset." +</p> + +<p> +"Having brought Stephen to such a place, +I should have thought the least you could have +done was to stay with him," said Mrs. Causton, +with a quiver of indignation in her voice. "It +has been a miserable mistake from the very +beginning. I hoped he might have had a good +influence over you, but you have abused my +trust cruelly. If I had ever dreamt that you +would be the stronger of the two, he should +never have shared your rooms." +</p> + +<p> +Donovan did not speak; but Gladys, glancing +up at him, saw that he was passing through +some great struggle. Her heart ached as she +heard Mrs. Causton's unjust words. One effort +she must make to check the conversation. +</p> + +<p> +"Will you not come to your room and lie +down, auntie?" she suggested. "You will be +fitter to go to Stephen when he wakes, if you +rest first." +</p> + +<p> +"I shall rest quite as well here, thank you," +said Mrs. Causton. "We need not trespass +further on your time, Mr. Farrant. I am sure +you can ill afford to waste two days in the +middle of term." +</p> + +<p> +"I should be sorry to annoy you by staying," +said Donovan, quietly. "Good-bye." +</p> + +<p> +He held out his hand gravely. +</p> + +<p> +"I only hope you may take warning yourself +by my poor Stephen's fate," said Mrs. Causton, +relapsing into tears. "It is one of +those mysterious dispensations so hard to +resign oneself to, the innocent suffering and the +guilty escaping. I am sure I hope and pray +that you may repent while there is yet time." +</p> + +<p> +He wished Gladys good-bye and left the room. +</p> + +<p> +For one moment Gladys sat quite still; then +a sudden impulse seized her; she could not let +him go like this, it was too cruel, too heartless! +She opened the door and ran down the passage, +catching sight of him far in front. Would he +never stop! Would nothing make him look +round! By the time she reached the head of +the stairs he was half way down them; it seemed +to her as if miles of grey and crimson carpeting +stretched between them. +</p> + +<p> +Half timidly, and yet with a ring of despair +in her voice, she called to him. +</p> + +<p> +"Donovan!" +</p> + +<p> +For a moment his heart stood still; he caught +at the rail, turned, and saw her standing far above +him. He did not speak, but waited—waited till +she came to him in complete silence. His lips +were firmly pressed together, his face rigid. Was +it hard of him—was it cruel to her to meet her +thus? +</p> + +<p> +The very sound of his own name from her +lips had re-awakened the wildest longing for +all that he knew must never be. He waited +for her to speak, but her words only made the +tumult within him wilder, the struggle more +intolerable. +</p> + +<p> +"Do not go like this," she said, pleadingly; +"please wait and see papa. Aunt Margaret +doesn't know what she is saying. I know you +could explain it all to papa. Please, please +wait!" +</p> + +<p> +She had not the faintest idea that she was +putting the most terrible temptation before +Donovan; but she was almost frightened by +the spasm of pain which passed over his face; +his voice too was strange and hollow, as he +answered, sadly, +</p> + +<p> +"You are mistaken, I can't explain anything." +</p> + +<p> +His words caused such a sudden downfall of +all her hopes that the tears rose to her eyes, +fight against them as she would it was of no +use, and nothing but a sort of despairing +womanly pride kept them from overflowing. +</p> + +<p> +Poor Donovan saw all, and turned away. +That moment was as the bitterness of death to +him. He was giving her pain, making her think +badly of him,—for what? Was it indeed for +her good? It could not surely be—it was so +unnatural—so hard—so merciless! He would +speak to her, tell her of his love, tell her that he +would do anything—everything—for her sake! +</p> + +<p> +And yet was that really true, when he could +not keep silence? Oh, weakness! here he was +fighting the old battle which he had fought in +the orchard at Trenant, on the Porthkerran +cliffs, on Westminster Bridge! Each time he +thought he had conquered, yet now this deadly +temptation had risen again, as strong—far +stronger—than ever. Should those bitter efforts +be wasted? Should his longing for present +relief—for happiness even for her—lead him to +speak words which he had no right to speak? +But this silence, this silence as to Stephen, it +was anguish. He must right himself to her! +Had not his own character some claim upon +him? Had he not his own rights as well as +Stephen's to bear in mind? That was the +great question, it was clearly Self versus +Stephen, a just claim for himself, certainly, yet +a claim for self <i>only</i>. Yes, he would be truthful +in his self-arguing, even though it brought +keenest pain,—to right himself would not be to +serve Gladys, would not even make her really +happier, he had resolved long ago that she must +learn not to care for him. He would be silent +now for her sake as well as for Stephen's—the +proof of his love should be his silence! +</p> + +<p> +All this passed through his mind in a very +few moments. He turned back to Gladys, she +was leaning against the banisters, her head +drooped low, the light from a coloured lamp +hanging over the stairs threw a golden glow +over her sunny hair; her face was partly in +shadow, but in the half light her bright +colouring looked all the more lovely. +</p> + +<p> +He knew it was the last time he should see +her, but he would not let his eyes soften, +would not let one trace of his love show itself. +</p> + +<p> +"It is better that I should go at once," he +said, taking her hand, "believe me, it is much +better. Good-bye." +</p> + +<p> +Gladys looked steadily up at him, her blue +eyes were quite clear now, there was a sort of +triumphant trust in her look. +</p> + +<p> +"Good-bye," she said, softly, not one other +word. +</p> + +<p> +She watched him as he went down the stairs, +watched very quietly, but very intently, noticed +his firm, almost sharp step, heard him call +for his bill, and ask the time of the London +train, lastly heard the silence, the aching +silence of the quiet hotel when he was really +gone. +</p> + +<p> +But in spite of her heartache there was the +dawning of a rapturous joy for her even now. +For when Donovan had turned to say good-bye +to her, there had been that in his face which +had raised her out of herself. He had looked +utterly noble, the very light of Christ had +shone in his face. She thought it was indeed +probable that he did not care for her as he +had once cared, but what did that matter? in +the intensity of her joy for him she could not +think of her own pain. For she loved Donovan +with her whole heart and soul, and she felt, +nay, she knew, that he was "not far from the +kingdom of Heaven." +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<p><a id="chap06"></a></p> + +<h2> +CHAPTER VI. +<br><br> +OLD FRIENDS. +</h2> + +<p class="intro"> + Would'st thou the holy hill ascend,<br> + And see the Father's face?<br> + To all his children humbly bend,<br> + And seek the lowest place.<br> +</p> + +<p class="intro"> + Thus humbly doing on the earth,<br> + What things the earthly scorn,<br> + Thou shalt assert the lofty birth<br> + Of all the lowly born.<br> + <i>Violin Songs</i>. GEORGE MACDONALD.<br> +</p> + +<p><br></p> + +<p> +London was shrouded in the murkiest of +November fogs; Donovan groped his way +with some difficulty down York Road, opened +the door of his lodgings with a latch key, made +his way into the cheerless sitting-room, lighted +the gas, and threw himself back in a chair in +hopeless dejection. The sharpness of the +struggle was over, the bitterness of the pain +past, his was now the +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + "Stifled, drowsy, unimpassioned grief<br> + Which finds no outlet or relief."<br> +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +Perhaps the most real and unforgetable form of +suffering. +</p> + +<p> +He sat motionless, the light which had so +cheered Gladys had died from his face now, it +was clouded, haggard, with dark shadows under +the eyes. +</p> + +<p> +He was roused at last by hearing Waif's bark +in the distance, then came sounds of opening a +door down below, a rush and a patter of feet on +the kitchen stairs, and a violent scratching and +impatient whining at his own door. He dragged +himself up, opened it, and received a frantic +welcome from his dog, who had been shut into +an empty cellar during his absence. +</p> + +<p> +Waif was almost crazy with delight at seeing +him back again; he dashed round and round +him, bounded up in the air, whined and snorted, +licked him all over, and finally tore across the +room in a violent hurry to perform his usual +act of loyal service, to drag out the boot-jack, +and, one at a time, to deposit his master's +slippers in the fender. +</p> + +<p> +This evening there was no fire; Waif found +that out, and seemed perplexed; he was not +quite capable of striking a match, but he +worried Donovan into doing it, and then sat +contentedly watching the yellow blaze, thudding +the floor with his tail in the intensity of his +satisfaction. Donovan watched him thoughtfully. +</p> + +<p> +"We must jog on together, Waif, my boy," +he said, patting the sagacious black and tan +head. +</p> + +<p> +Waif's eyes twinkled and shone, his tail beat +a regular tattoo on the floor. +</p> + +<p> +The dog and his master understood each +other, and Donovan would certainly have +chosen to spend the rest of the evening with +his dumb companion, to indulge his sad +thoughts in silence, but it was not to be so. +There was a knock at the front door before +many minutes had passed; he heard a voice +which seemed strangely familiar asking if he +were in; another moment, and Rouge and Noir +were ushered into his room. +</p> + +<p> +"Tracked you at last," said Noir, his dark +face lighting up with a gleam of satisfaction as +he wrung Donovan's hand. +</p> + +<p> +"And all owing to those lucky races and my +quick eyes," said the old captain. "How's the +chap that was pitched out of the dog-cart?" +</p> + +<p> +"Badly hurt, but doing well now," said +Donovan. "How did you find me out?" +</p> + +<p> +"Through the light-haired fellow who was +holding the horse, a fellow-student of yours. +Why, Waif, old dog, you don't look a day +older!" +</p> + +<p> +Waif sniffed cautiously at the old captain's +clothes, recognised him after a few minutes, +and was pleased to renew the friendship. Noir +meanwhile was speaking in a lowered voice to +Donovan. +</p> + +<p> +"I came here on business—can I have a few +words alone with you? Let us take a turn +outside." +</p> + +<p> +"All right," said Donovan. "You'll stay and +have some supper; we'll be back before long, +captain, there's an evening paper for you, and +as many medical books as you like." +</p> + +<p> +Rouge settled himself comfortably in an +armchair, and Noir and Donovan went out into the +foggy street. +</p> + +<p> +"I am in a scrape," said Noir, abruptly. "I +have come to ask if you will help me. Perhaps, +though, you are so respectable and virtuous +now that you have forgotten all about the old +times." +</p> + +<p> +"My memory isn't ruled by will," said Donovan, +rather hoarsely. "Go on." +</p> + +<p> +"Well, I don't blame you for wishing to forget +that year—I wish to goodness I could, for, +milord, I am decidedly up a tree. You remember +Darky Legge? Well, he has been arrested, +discovered at last, after carrying on his old +game for years. After you left us, I was thrown +a good deal with him—in fact, at Paris we +acted together, and the wretch, who has no +sense of honour, has betrayed me. Unless I +can leave the country at once, I'm a lost man." +</p> + +<p> +"I can't offer you money," said Donovan, +"for I can hardly scrape along myself." +</p> + +<p> +"It isn't that I want," said Noir, quietly; +"it is this: I can't afford to take the old +captain with me to America—I haven't the cash +for one thing, and besides, he would be like a +mill-stone round my neck. He can live on +quietly here for very little, and I will send him +what I can from time to time. But you know +what he is with no one to look after him; he'd +kill himself in a year. I want to know whether +you'd mind keeping an eye on the poor old +fellow." +</p> + +<p> +Donovan had at first felt the most intense +shrinking from any renewal of their old +friendship; the remembrance of those dark days was +a sort of nightmare to him. He listened to +Noir's story silently and painfully, wondering +how he could ever have shared in such doings. +What a wretched misanthrope he had been, +half maddened by sorrow and injustice, hating +everything in the world except his dog! +</p> + +<p> +But he was touched by Noir's thought for his +old father, the poor, weak, old man whom he +still, in his rough way, loved and shielded. +They walked a few paces in silence, then +Donovan spoke. +</p> + +<p> +"He had better put up at my place; Causton +will never come back to those rooms, and +though I'm out most of the day, I shall be able +to see something of him, and will do my best +to keep him straight." +</p> + +<p> +"You are a trump!" exclaimed Noir, heartily. +"But won't he be in your way? I know you're +a cut above us." +</p> + +<p> +"You forget I am a Republican," said Donovan, +quietly. "Let him come to-morrow, and +do you make the best of your way to America." +</p> + +<p> +Noir was immensely struck by the change in +his some-time follower; he had always respected +Donovan since their quarrel and final separation +at Paris, but he felt now at an immense distance +from him. After all, he mused, honesty did +indeed seem the best policy. No words which +Donovan could have used would have impressed +him half as much as this visible change and +growth, and more than all his readiness to help +the old captain roused a feeling of gratitude +which lasted as one of the few softening +influences through the rest of Noir's life. +</p> + +<p> +And so it was ordered that Donovan should +not live alone, should not be free to indulge his +misery in silence, but should again have his +affections drawn out towards a very weak +member of the human brotherhood, should bear +again the burden of another's sin, and struggle +perseveringly for his deliverance. +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<p><a id="chap07"></a></p> + +<h2> +CHAPTER VII. +<br><br> +VIA CRUCIS. +</h2> + +<p class="intro"> +As for me, I honour, in these loud babbling days, all the +Silent rather. A grand Silence that of Romans;—nay, the +grandest of all, is it not that of the gods! +</p> + +<p class="intro"> +* * * * * * * * * * * +</p> + +<p class="intro"> + Commend me to the silent English, to the silent Romans.<br> + CARLYLE.<br> +</p> + +<p><br></p> + +<p> +Dr. Tremain was very much vexed when +he found that Donovan had left without +seeing him, nor could he gather any very +distinct account of what had passed either from +Mrs. Causton or Gladys. Mrs. Causton irritated +him considerably by her tearful and +highly-coloured descriptions of the evil which she +imagined to have emanated entirely from her +son's companion; Gladys was strangely silent +and would volunteer nothing, but, in answer to +a direct question, told her father that Donovan +had refused to see him and would not allow her +to disturb him. All this tended only too +effectually to confirm the doctor's fears. Donovan +had fallen back grievously, there could be little +doubt of that; if it had not been so, could he +have rushed off at a moment's notice in this +way, studiously avoiding him after a separation +of more than a year? +</p> + +<p> +Stephen was too ill to be thoroughly questioned +on the subject, but the doctor could not +refrain from one or two attempts to gain from +him the favourable testimony to Donovan's +character, for which he hoped against hope. +</p> + +<p> +Once in the night, when he woke refreshed +after a long sleep and lay in listless quiet, +Dr. Tremain hazarded a question. +</p> + +<p> +"I don't wish you to talk much, Stephen, +you are not fit for it; but just give me a simple +yes and no to one or two questions. Has +Donovan Farrant been influencing you in a way +which your mother and I did not expect?" +</p> + +<p> +"Yes," replied Stephen, glad that the +question was put in so ambiguous a way that he +could reply in the affirmative. But the next +question was more direct. +</p> + +<p> +"I am to understand, then, that my finding +you in his company at the Z—— races is only +one instance in many, that he has often been +with you to places which Mrs. Causton—which +I myself would have disapproved?" +</p> + +<p> +Stephen's colour deepened; this question +might still be answered by that deceptive +"yes," but not without very uneasy stirrings of +conscience. And yet how much that was +disagreeable might be averted by that affirmative! +He had been led astray, what could be more +probable and pardonable? He should of course +repent, turn over a new leaf, get into the +doctor's good graces again, and in no way +damage his prospects as Gladys' lover. But +if on the contrary the ugly truth came out? +Then there would be endless reproaches from +his mother, unbearable humiliation; what harm +could there be in giving a slight turn to the +meaning of a word? In a minute, by that +strange process of self-deception often noticed +in very weak characters, he had almost persuaded +himself that Donovan had led him into evil. +</p> + +<p> +He turned a flushed face towards the doctor, +and unable to speak the downright lie in one +word, softened it down in a sentence. +</p> + +<p> +"I got into the way of playing, and lost a lot +at billiards. Farrant went with me. I hoped +to have made it up here, but——" +</p> + +<p> +"That will do," said the doctor. "You have +spoken more than you ought." +</p> + +<p> +There was such pain and disappointment in +his tone that Stephen's conscience tormented +him to speak the truth boldly even then, but it +requires a certain amount of moral courage not +to stick to a lie when it has been told, and +moral courage was a virtue entirely wanting in +Stephen. He lay silent in palpitating misery, +wishing that he had never seen Donovan, or +had never heard of the Z—— races, wishing +that many things had been otherwise, but +strangely forgetting to wish for the much +needed increase of his own courage and honour. +</p> + +<p> +In spite of this mental disturbance, however, +he slept again, and the next day was so much +better that Dr. Tremain felt justified in leaving +him for a few hours. He could not rest now +till he had seen Donovan, and entirely satisfied +himself that there was no shade of doubt as to +the truth of his fears. +</p> + +<p> +It was no use to question Stephen or +Mrs. Causton any further, but he made one more +attempt on Gladys, who apparently had been +the last to speak to Donovan. +</p> + +<p> +"Now tell me, dear, plainly what passed +between you," said the doctor, far too deeply +engrossed in other matters to notice the painfully +bright colour which rose in Gladys' cheeks. +</p> + +<p> +"I will tell you, papa, exactly," she said, +quieting herself with an effort. "Aunt Margaret +said that she was sure he couldn't afford +to waste two days in term time, and then +Donovan, seeing that she wished him to go, +said good-bye at once. I went to the head of +the stairs to speak to him, for it seemed wrong +to let him go like that, but he would not let me +call you away from Stephen. And then—then——" +her voice faltered. +</p> + +<p> +"Well?" said her father, with some lurking +hope that a fresh light might be thrown on the +matter. +</p> + +<p> +"I begged him to stay and explain all to you, +for I thought he could. He didn't answer at +first, and looked very, very miserable, but after +a minute he told me that he couldn't explain +anything, and that it was better that he should +go at once." +</p> + +<p> +"Was that all?" said the doctor, grievously +disappointed. +</p> + +<p> +"That was all," said Gladys, firmly. "But, +papa," she added, with a sort of proud +enthusiasm in her voice, "if you had seen his face +when he spoke, you could not have believed for +a moment that he has done this." +</p> + +<p> +For the first time it dawned on Dr. Tremain +that his child might possibly have thought more +of Donovan Farrant than was wise. Mrs. Causton's +old advice flashed back into his mind; he +had talked of open-armed charity, and prudence +with tied hands, and was this the ending of it +all? He sighed very heavily. +</p> + +<p> +"Dear little Gladys," he said, drawing her +towards him, "we must not trust too much to faces." +</p> + +<p> +He could not say more, but he looked very +sorrowfully into Gladys' wistful eyes. +</p> + +<p> +"You will go to see him, papa," she said, +quietly, "and I think you will believe in him +then." +</p> + +<p> +Her words almost inspired the doctor with a +new hope; warm-hearted and impetuous, he +set off at once for London, and early in the +afternoon reached the York Road lodgings. +It was Saturday, and knowing there would be +no lectures, he hoped to find Donovan. +</p> + +<p> +The servant thought he was at home, but +was not quite sure. She asked him to come in. +Dr. Tremain following her into the sitting-room, +found himself in the presence of an apple-faced +old man, whose scanty reddish-grey hair was +covered by a scarlet smoking-cap, and who +seemed to be dividing his attention between a +long clay pipe and a tumbler of brandy and +water. +</p> + +<p> +"I must have made a mistake, sir," said the +doctor, apologising to the odd figure before +him. "These cannot be Mr. Farrant's rooms, I +think?" +</p> + +<p> +"Donovan Farrant? Oh! yes, these are his +rooms. Stunning good fellow he is too. You +know him?" +</p> + +<p> +The doctor was puzzled and annoyed. +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, sir, I do know him. Is he in?" +</p> + +<p> +"Gone not ten minutes ago," said the captain, +surveying the doctor from head to foot with his +little, good-humoured, watery eyes. +</p> + +<p> +Dr. Tremain gave an exclamation of annoyance. +</p> + +<p> +"Gone! how provoking. I specially wanted +to see him. Where is he gone—do you know?" +</p> + +<p> +Rouge was all at once seized with the +conviction that this stranger was trying to track +Noir and prevent his departure; so mentally +congratulating himself on his acuteness, he +resolved on a course of diplomatic hindrance. +</p> + +<p> +"Mr. Farrant will no doubt be home in half +an hour or so," he said, in his blandest tone. +"Allow me to offer you a chair." +</p> + +<p> +"You seem to be established here," said the +doctor, with a slight frown. "Do you share +Mr. Farrant's rooms?" +</p> + +<p> +"I have that honour," said the old captain. +"We are old friends—very old friends, I may +say—and now in trouble and destitution, he, +like the good fellow he is, holds out——" +</p> + +<p> +The captain suddenly remembered his line of +diplomacy, and covered his confusion by a cough +and a return to the brandy and water. +</p> + +<p> +The silence was broken by a shrill voice from +the window. +</p> + +<p> +"While-there's-life-there's-hope. +While-there's-life-there's-hope. +While-there's-life-there's-hope!" +screamed Sweepstakes, in his harsh nasal voice, +with maddening monotony. +</p> + +<p> +The doctor, chafed and annoyed as he was, +could not help laughing, Sweepstakes mimicking +him in a senseless titter, and old Rouge +himself joining heartily. +</p> + +<p> +"Clever bird, isn't he. Brought him from +West Africa years ago. Would stake my life +he's the best talker in England." Then, looking +keenly at the doctor, he said, hesitatingly, +"You are not a detective, are you?" +</p> + +<p> +The doctor laughed, and told him his name +and profession. +</p> + +<p> +"Oh! that's a comfort," said Rouge, heaving +a sigh of relief. "Now we can talk freely. To +tell you the truth, I thought you were tracking +my son, who is just off to America. Boat sails +this very day, in fact Donovan's now gone to +see him off. I doubt if he'll be home till +evening." +</p> + +<p> +"Why, you told me half an hour just now," +said the doctor, impatiently. +</p> + +<p> +"When I took you for a detective," said +Rouge, with a sly smile. +</p> + +<p> +The doctor was so much vexed that he fairly +lost his temper. +</p> + +<p> +"I don't know who you may be!" he +exclaimed, "but I must say I am surprised to find +Donovan Farrant living with people who are in +terror of a detective's visit. Have the goodness +to tell me at what time you <i>do</i> expect him to +return." +</p> + +<p> +Poor Rouge was so much flustered by the +doctor's hasty speech that he was quite incapable +of giving a plain and satisfactory answer. +</p> + +<p> +"I wouldn't for the world bring discredit on +the lad," he faltered, the ever-ready tears +slowly trickling down his wrinkled cheeks. "I'm +as fond of the lad as if he were my own son, +and it's a son he'll be to me now that my own +has left his native laud." Here he began to sob +like a child, but still struggled to make himself +heard. "I'm not such a fool as I look—time +was when I was captain of the <i>Metora</i>—I was +driven to it"—he pointed to the brandy +bottle—"I was driven to it—and it's made me what +I am!" +</p> + +<p> +"Will you tell me when Mr. Farrant will be +home?" said the exasperated doctor. +</p> + +<p> +"Towards evening," faltered the old captain, +"but I couldn't say for certain. Perhaps you'll +leave a message?" +</p> + +<p> +"I will come in again later on," said the +doctor, and he hastily took up his hat and left +the room, quite out of patience with the tearful +old captain. +</p> + +<p> +It was a miserable afternoon, cold and foggy; +a fine drizzling rain fell continuously. The +doctor felt very wretched, he had hoped to +gain some fresh light by a conversation with +Donovan, but his interview with Rouge Frewin +had only perplexed and disheartened him. How +was it that Donovan had taken up again with +his old companions? How could he endure to +have such a maudlin old wretch as a fellow +lodger? Things certainly looked darker and +darker! +</p> + +<p> +Evening came, Dr. Tremain went back to +York Road, still Donovan had not returned, +and by this time the old captain had solaced +his grief so frequently and effectively that he +was by no means sober. A wretched hour of +waiting followed. The doctor looked at his +watch at least twenty times, the minutes were +passing rapidly by, and at the end of the hour +he knew he must leave the house to catch the +last train to Z——. +</p> + +<p> +Five minutes to eight! the doctor held his +watch in his hand now. Three minutes! No +sound but the heavy breathing of the old +captain who had fallen asleep. Two minutes! how +fast the hands moved! the doctor's heart sank +down like lead. One minute! with a heavy +sigh he put back his watch, absently brushed +his hat with his coat sleeve, and got up. At +that very moment a key was turned in the +latch, the front door was opened and sharply +closed, a quick firm step which must be +Donovan's was heard in the passage, the door was +opened. Yes, there he was; the doctor stepped +hastily forward. +</p> + +<p> +"I had just given you up, I've been in town +since two o'clock, hoping to see you!" he +exclaimed, anxiously scanning every line of +Donovan's face. +</p> + +<p> +His last hope died as he did so, for an +unmistakeable expression of surprise, annoyance, +and perplexity passed over it; his colour rose; +he glanced from the doctor to the old captain +before speaking, then with no word of regret at +having missed so much of his friend's visit he +hastily inquired after Stephen. +</p> + +<p> +"Stephen is better, going on perfectly well," +replied the doctor, shortly. "I must be off at +once, though, or I shall not be able to get +to—to-night. Perhaps you'll walk with me +to the station." +</p> + +<p> +Dr. Tremain was human and he had had a +great deal to try him that day, his tone was +almost bitter, Donovan winced under it. One +comfort was that the ordeal must be short; a +five minutes' walk—surely he could hold his +tongue for five minutes, keep self down, strangle +the words of self justification which must +expose so much of another's guilt! And yet +never before had he felt so little confidence in +himself, the struggle of the previous day seemed +to have exhausted his strength, as he stepped +out into the dark rainy November night he +felt an almost unconquerable shrinking from +the inevitable pain which was before him. If +he could but win through with it! If he could +but do the difficult Right! and there floated +through his mind the definition of Right which +both he and the doctor held—that which brings +the greatest happiness to the greatest number +of people for the greatest length of time. He +honestly thought that his silence would be right, +and clung desperately to the one strengthening +thought of the gain to others which this five +minutes might bring. The doctor's voice broke +in upon his mental struggle. He set his face +like a flint and listened. +</p> + +<p> +"I wanted some explanation of all this, +Donovan, and I had hoped for plenty of time +with you, we are limited now to a very few +minutes. I must say that all I have seen of +your way of life both to-day and yesterday has +surprised and grieved me. I come to your +rooms and find a disreputable old man, in +dread of a detective's visit, and not too sober; +he tells me he is an old friend of yours, I thought +you made up your mind to break with such +friends as those?" +</p> + +<p> +"There were special reasons why Captain +Frewin should be an exception to that rule," +said Donovan, in a voice so well reined in from +yielding to any sign of feeling that it sounded +cold and indifferent. +</p> + +<p> +"There are always special reasons, I suppose, +for backsliding!" said the doctor, hastily. +</p> + +<p> +There was a silence, then Dr. Tremain went +on more quietly. +</p> + +<p> +"That is, of course, your own concern; but, +as to your relations with Stephen, I have some +right to ask. His father is my oldest friend; +he will hold me responsible for having allowed +you to share his rooms. Stephen has himself +told me that he fell into habits of gambling. I +am not surprised; he is grievously weak. But +he tells me that you were with him, and that +explains everything far too easily. You are +strong-willed enough to lead him as you please. +Only I could not have believed it of you; I +never would have believed it if I hadn't met +you with him at Z——." +</p> + +<p> +Donovan breathed hard, but did not speak. +</p> + +<p> +"Have you nothing to say?" said the doctor, +in the tone of one clinging to a forlorn hope. +"Can you not tell me that I am at least in part +mistaken? Can you not explain anything to me?" +</p> + +<p> +He looked steadily at him as he spoke, thinking +perhaps of Gladys' words, "You will believe +in him when you see him." But Donovan's face +was dark and cold and hard-looking now. The +doctor had never seen such a look on his face +before; he misinterpreted it entirely. But his +very grief made him speak gently and pleadingly. +</p> + +<p> +"God forgive me, Donovan, if I have been +harsh with you; but just let me know from your +own lips that you cannot explain things—cannot +free yourself from blame. Gladys told me +what you said to her, but I couldn't rest till I +had heard the truth from you yourself." +</p> + +<p> +"I have nothing more to say," said Donovan, +clenching his hands so fiercely that even then +the feeling of bodily pain came as a relief to +him. "I can explain nothing; it would have +been better if you had not come to see me." +</p> + +<p> +"Ay, better indeed!" said the doctor, with +some bitterness, "for then I should at least +have had some hope that I was mistaken. The +only thing is that Stephen is in part excused if, +as he says, you did go with him, did lead him +wrong. One more question let me ask you; I +don't wish to play the inquisitor, but just tell +me whether this was the reason you would not +come to us in the summer?" +</p> + +<p> +For the first time the burning colour rose in +Donovan's face. How could he answer that +question? They had just entered the crowded +station: there under the flaring gas-lamps, +amid the noisy traffic, his reply must be +made—somehow. What if he told the doctor his +real reason, told him that he loved Gladys? He +hated mysteries; it would be infinitely easier to +be perfectly open. Besides, the confession +would explain so much, would at once bring +him into his old place with Dr. Tremain. And +yet, taking all things into account, it would be +better for everyone but himself if he just held +his tongue. Better for Stephen, better that he +should lose his place in the Tremain household, +and be entirely forgotten, better—infinitely +better—for Gladys. If his name ceased to be +mentioned, if they all believed him to be what +he now appeared, in time she too would come +to share that belief. He honestly believed that +to forget him would be her truest happiness, +and the remembrance of their last interview, +when she had been unable to hide her pain, +strengthened him now. Anything to save her +from a lifelong sorrow! "Think evil of me, +dear love," was now his inward cry, "suffer, if +it must be, that short pain, but only learn to +forget!" +</p> + +<p> +And yet! Even now came a passionate sigh +of longing, human weakness alternating with +the lofty self-renunciation. If only there had +been no obstacle! <i>Why</i> was he hemmed in by +thick darkness? <i>why</i> were his doubts +insurmountable? And then he shuddered to think +that he was beginning to long for knowledge +of the truth, chiefly that he might be in a +position to win Gladys. +</p> + +<p> +These thoughts had rushed tumultuously +through his mind, and meantime the doctor +waited for his answer, and they had walked up +the platform. "Was this the reason you would +not come to us?" He could not tell an +untruth; the crimson flush which had risen to his +brow, the long pause, both told unfavourably +against him with Dr. Tremain. So did the iron +voice in which at length his unsatisfying answer +was made. +</p> + +<p> +"I invented an excuse last summer—my +real reason for not coming I entirely decline to +tell you." +</p> + +<p> +"I am disappointed in you, Donovan," said +the doctor, and his voice even more than the +words carried a terrible pang with it, and sent +a momentary spasm of pain over Donovan's +strong face. +</p> + +<p> +"Just forget me, that is all I ask of you," he +said, unable to free his tone from all expression +as he would have wished. +</p> + +<p> +The doctor had taken his place; something +in that last speech of Donovan's touched him; he +would have spoken in reply, but one of those +trivial interruptions which break in so rudely +upon the most anxious moments of life +prevented him. +</p> + +<p> +The shrill voice of a boy intervened. +</p> + +<p> +"<i>Punch, Judy</i>, or <i>Fun, Evening Standard</i>, +and <i>Echo</i>. Paper, sir?" +</p> + +<p> +Some passenger wanted an <i>Evening Standard</i>; +at that minute the train began to move. By +the time the newspaper boy had sprung down +from the step, Dr. Tremain was too far from +Donovan to do more than wave a farewell. +Once more Gladys' words flashed back into his +mind, "You will believe in him when you see +him," and this time, in spite of all that had +passed, the doctor did waver. For in that tall +dark figure on the platform there seemed to +him a certain majesty—a majesty inseparable +from right or absolute conviction of being in +the right. He could not clearly see the face +now, but the last look he had seen on it had +been a strange blending of pain and strength, +the strength predominating over the pain. +Could he after all have been mistaken? Like the +warm-hearted, impetuous man that he was, the +doctor at once tore a leaf from his pocket-book, +and, with tears in his eyes, wrote Donovan +such a letter as the best of fathers might write +to his son. +</p> + +<p> +The ordeal was over, the victory had been +complete, self had been absolutely kept under; +but the victor was too entirely crushed to feel +even a shadow of triumph. He stood perfectly +still, watching the train as it steamed out of +the station, with an odd sensation—more +numbing than keenly painful—that it was +dragging with it a great part of himself. +Presently he must rouse himself to go on with +life, to make the most of what was left. There +are great rents and voids in most lives, at +first we feel stunned and helpless, but after a +time we become accustomed to the new order +of things, and live on, "learning perforce," as +some one has well expressed it, "to take up +with what is left." +</p> + +<p> +That the loss had come about by his own will +did not at all soften matters to Donovan, but +rather the reverse. He was past reasoning, +almost past thought. When the red lamps on +the last carriage had quite disappeared, he +turned slowly away, aware that he had deliberately, +with his own hand, turned the brightest +page of his life's history. A new page must be +begun; of that too he was dimly aware. +</p> + +<p> +He left the station and walked slowly +through the wet, muddy, cheerless streets. It +did not actually rain, and the wind had risen, +there was some comfort in that. With his +usual craving for air and space he bent his +steps to the river, walked along the Embankment, +turned on to Blackfriars Bridge, and +chose as his halting-place one of its recesses. +</p> + +<p> +Not since the first days after Dot's death had +such a crushing, deadening sense of loss +oppressed him, and now, as then, he had to +bear his pain alone. But he was stronger +than in the old days, stronger because he was +growingly conscious of his own weakness, and +because his heart was infinitely wider in its +sympathies. He was not in the mood to see +anything, though the dark, flowing river, and +the reflected lights, and the great looming +outline of the dome of St. Paul's would at any +other time have pleased his eye; to-night he +just leant on the parapet, getting a sort of +relief from the fresh night wind, but almost +unconscious of time and place. +</p> + +<p> +He was roused at last by becoming aware +that there was another occupant of the recess. +A small elf, whether boy or girl he could not at +first tell, was yawning and stretching itself, +having just awakened from sound sleep. +Presently a dismayed exclamation made Donovan +draw a little nearer. +</p> + +<p> +"By all the blissed saints! if they ain't wet +through, all the three of 'em." +</p> + +<p> +Then came sounds of violent scraping, +Donovan, stooping down a little, saw that his +neighbour, a small ragged boy, was trying +whether a light could possibly be kindled from +a box of fusees which had been soaked through +and through. +</p> + +<p> +"Ye were a fool, Pat, me boy, to go to sleep +in the rain!" exclaimed the elf, with a few +superfluous oaths. Finding his efforts to +strike a light ineffectual, he scrambled to his +feet, and with great deliberation and muttered +ejaculations about the "blissed saints," threw +the three boxes of fusees one after another into +the river. +</p> + +<p> +"Why do you throw them away?" said +Donovan, with some curiosity. +</p> + +<p> +"They was wet through, yer honour," said +the small Irish boy, looking up at Donovan with +a friendly grin. "I chucked 'em into the river +for fear the devil should get into 'em." +</p> + +<p> +"How?" asked Donovan, with an involuntary +smile. +</p> + +<p> +"Och! yer honour has had no dealings with +the devil thin, or he'd niver ask such a thing. +Why, says I to meself, 'Pat, me lad, lave 'em +to dry and ye'll sell 'em right enough;' but +thin says I to meself again, 'But, Pat, maybe +the devil 'ud be in the coppers ye'd get for +'em.' Yer honour don't know how terrible aisy it +comes to chate a bit when there ain't nothing +else to do." +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, I do know," said Donovan, gravely. +</p> + +<p> +"Do ye railly now?" said Pat, with a broad +grin. "And did the devil get inside yer +honour? Och, he's a terrible cratur to have +dealings with! Last year, yer honour, I was +half starved, and one day I prigged a loaf hot +and frish from a baker's and ate it up like a +shot for fear o' being cotched by the peeler, and +if ye'll belave it, yer honour, the devil was in +the loaf; och! I could have danced with the +pain of it, and after that says I to meself, 'Pat, +me lad, kape clear o' the devil, or maybe he'll +gripe ye warse next time.'" +</p> + +<p> +"Do you see that fire at the other end of the +bridge, Pat?" said Donovan, looking down +gravely at the little, grubby-faced Irish boy. +</p> + +<p> +"The petatie stall, yer honour?" said Pat, +wistfully. +</p> + +<p> +"Yes," said Donovan, with a half smile. "Do +you think the devil would be in the potatoes?" +</p> + +<p> +Pat nodded emphatically. +</p> + +<p> +"Bedad and I do, yer honour, if I was to +stale 'em." +</p> + +<p> +"But if I were to give them you?" +</p> + +<p> +"Why, thin, yer honour," cried Pat, grinning +from ear to ear, "it wud be the blissed saints as +wud reward ye!" +</p> + +<p> +"Come along, then," said Donovan, and the +strangely contrasted companions walked off +together, the bare-footed, superstitious, but honest +little gamin and the grave, perplexed, but honest +agnostic. +</p> + +<p> +"If yer honour wud but eat one!" exclaimed +Pat, looking up with shining eyes from the +double enjoyment of the hot potatoes and the +charcoal fire. +</p> + +<p> +So Donovan ate a potato—and began his new life. +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<p><a id="chap08"></a></p> + +<h2> +CHAPTER VIII. +<br><br> +TEMPTATION. +</h2> + +<p class="intro"> + Thy face across his fancy comes<br> + And gives the battle to his hands.<br> + TENNYSON.<br> +</p> + +<p><br></p> + +<p> +The encounter with Pat served to turn +Donovan's thoughts for a short time from his +trouble, it made him realise that there were +other beings in the world besides Tremains, men, +women, and children more or less poor, more or +less suffering, more or less in need of help. +</p> + +<p> +By-and-by, however, being but human, his +own sorrow overpowered him again, shutting +out for the time all thought of others. He was +no novice in sorrow; one by one everything +that was of most worth to him had been either +taken away or voluntarily renounced, but this +last call, this greatest sacrifice, seemed to have +exhausted his strength utterly. He went about +his work more like a machine than like a man, +he lost all interest in what, but a short time +before, had completely absorbed him. Had he +been ordered never to go to the hospital again, +he would have acquiesced without a word; had +he been warned of the most imminent danger, +his heart would not have beat more quickly. +To rouse his energy, to awaken his love, hate, +interest of any sort seemed impossible. +</p> + +<p> +Dr. Tremain's letter did indeed sharpen his +pain; and in a few days' time Mrs. Tremain +wrote too—a long letter, cruelly kind, cruelly +trustful, urging in almost irresistible words that +Donovan would write to her and tell her all he +could, that he would be open with her, would +remember what old friends they were, and +would not allow any formality, or even any +mistake, to raise a barrier between them. +</p> + +<p> +"Be sure to write to me when you can," the +letter ended, "for till I hear I shall not be +happy about you, and you know your place in +my heart is very near Dick's. You see I put +my request on selfish grounds entirely! My +husband seems to have seen so little of you the +other day, and I can't help fancying that you +misunderstood each other. +</p> + +<p> +"Even if it was not so, please let me hear +from you; remember that you adopted Porthkerran +as your home, and that even if things +have gone wrong we should like to have a little +home confidence." +</p> + +<p> +Perhaps Donovan had never before realised +how much Mrs. Tremain was to him; in actually +leaving Trenant the year before, he had been +too much absorbed with the pain of leaving +Gladys to have a thought for anyone else, but +now, as he read the motherly letter and recalled +all Mrs. Tremain's goodness to him, he did +realise the truth very bitterly. How wonderful +her sympathy had been at the time of his +illness, how comforting it had been to tell her +about Dot! "Remember that this is your home," +how cruelly tempting were the words! If he +could but have written in answer to that letter, +if he could but have given that "home +confidence" for which she asked! +</p> + +<p> +Well! it was no use going over the old arguments +again. He had to be silent,—merely to +hold his tongue, merely to let all letters remain +unanswered, an easy enough <i>rôle</i> surely—merely +silence. Nothing to be learnt before that part +can be played, no need for beauty of voice or +grace of speech, for the silent player nothing is +required but self-restraint. +</p> + +<p> +The end of it was that Mrs. Tremain's letter +was quietly dropped into the hottest part of the +fire; when the sudden blaze died out, Donovan +turned away, and with something added to the +dead weight of depression which he had borne +before, set out for his day's work. +</p> + +<p> +For some weeks things went on in this way, +the only change was that those black depths +of dejection lost their horrible novelty; it +seemed as if for long ages he had fagged +through weary uninteresting days, had borne +this load at his heart. In time, however, he +came to realise the truth that dejection is +selfishness, and no more excusable on the ground +of naturalness than selfishness is. It was +natural certainly to be dejected after a great +loss, it was also natural to put self first, but it +was not for that reason right. He had been +simply wrapped up in himself for weeks, in +himself and in those bitter-sweet recollections of +the past. When he was fully awake to the +fact his strength came back again, dejection +was not an easy foe to combat, but he went at +it tooth and nail, and the strange incentive to +the work was none other than the old captain. +</p> + +<p> +Poor Rouge was a curious person perhaps to +save a fellow-being from spiritual death, but +nevertheless his presence did save Donovan. It +was the sight of that feeble old man dragging +through his useless, aimless days, with his pipe +and his brandy and water, his weak fits of +laughter and his maudlin tears, which first +roused him. +</p> + +<p> +How he had neglected the poor old fellow! what +a gloomy taciturn companion he had +been! what single thing had he done for +Rouge beyond offering him the use of his +sitting-room? He must alter his conduct, or the old +man might as well not have come to him at all, +and would really have some excuse for slowly +drinking himself to death. It was on a Saturday +that Donovan first became alive to these +facts. It was raining heavily, a walk was out +of the question, the old captain was asleep on +the sofa, Waif slept on the hearthrug, the fire +smouldered in the grate, the only waking +creature in the room besides himself was +Sweepstakes. By way of a first step out of +his self-absorption, Donovan walked across to +the window, and tried to get up a quarrel with +the parrot; it was desperately hard work. +</p> + +<p> +There is an old legend which tells how two +monks, finding the tedious routine of their life +intolerably dull, resolved that they would try +to quarrel by way of enlivenment. They +agreed that one should make an assertion and +the other should contradict it, this would make +an opening for impassioned argument. +</p> + +<p> +"Black is white," asserted the younger monk. +</p> + +<p> +"It is not," replied the elder. +</p> + +<p> +"Black is white," repeated the first speaker. +</p> + +<p> +"Oh, very well, brother," rejoined the other, +meekly, "if you say so." +</p> + +<p> +The habit of meek deference had grown so +strong, that they found it impossible to quarrel. +</p> + +<p> +Neither Donovan nor Sweepstakes was +meek, but nevertheless their quarrel was but a +tame one. It required such an exertion to get +up the requisite energy. However, after a time +the bird did call forth the good-natured teazing +which he liked best, and was stimulated into +flapping his wings, screaming, chattering, +swearing; finally he made it up again, and +accepted a Brazil nut as a peace-offering. +</p> + +<p> +When he subsided into quiet, Donovan turned +his attention to the outside world, which for +days he had seen without seeing. York Road +looked very dreary it must be owned. Exactly +opposite his window was the establishment of +Swimming and Vapour Baths, then came grim, +uninteresting houses; far down to the left was +the entrance to a timber-yard, where he could +see the tops of wooden planks swaying to and +fro in the wind. And all the time the rain came +down steadily, ceaselessly, with a dull, +monotonous drip on the flags, the wheels on the +road passed by with a dull, hollow roll, the +foot-passengers on the pavement with dull, thudding +footsteps, the wind in its gloomy strait of +houses with dull, faint meanings. A grey +world, but one which must be gone through +with, and made the best of. +</p> + +<p> +He felt that his absorption in his trouble had +weakened him not a little. All this time his +brain had seemed half dead, he had read to no +purpose, had lived to no purpose. Worst of all +the sense of his complete and final separation +from Gladys had come to him for the first time +in full force, proving only too clearly that, +though he had willed more than a year before +not to see her again, he had all the time nursed +a faint hope of a possible re-union. He had +really renounced her before, but the most +honestly-intentioned being in the world cannot +altogether shut out every ray of hope; he had +hoped without knowing that he hoped, he only +knew that it had been so by feeling aware that +he had sunk now into a blacker depth. Clearly +the only thing for the present was to will not +to think of her, the hardest thing in the world. +But the idea of putting every thought of her +away from him was more tolerable than the +idea of letting her memory chain him down in a +selfishness which she would abhor. +</p> + +<p> +Now for more days than he cared to remember +Donovan had allowed himself the pleasing +pain of continually looking at the photograph +which the doctor had taken in the orchard, on +that summer afternoon which had ended so +painfully. To study that family group, to note +Gladys' sweet face turned up to his, to see +little Nesta on his own shoulder, to recall that +beautiful summer dream, was gratifying but +very weakening torture. Looking out on the +grey world this afternoon, the world which +contrasted so strangely with the bright picture +of the past, he made up his mind that he must +waste no more—well, yes—sentiment, he was +honest enough to use the true word, over the +photograph. Without any more delay he +fetched it from his room and burnt it. Also a +certain sixpence which he had worn with Dot's +miniature since Gladys had put it into his hand +one summer day at the door of Trevethan's +forge, was deliberately removed, and found its +way into his pocket with the ordinary unhallowed +coins. Then, having done his best to +clear out his heart, he set to work to fill up the +vacuum with that strange substitute—the old +captain. +</p> + +<p> +Rouge at once perceived that, as he expressed +it, the wind had changed, when he awoke that +Saturday afternoon; his companion for the first +time seemed approachable, he no longer felt +uncomfortable in his presence, he felt as if he +could venture to talk freely. After dinner they +had a pipe together, and then Rouge launched +out into one of his long "yarns," about which +there was generally a sort of dry humour. +To-night the old man, who was shrewd and +curious, made his story turn on his first love, +and Donovan listened with an imperturbable +countenance, till the idea of old Rouge Frewin +in love with a beautiful Venetian lady of high +rank tickled his fancy and made him laugh. +The name of the fair one, too, Ceccarella +Bonaventura, when reduced by Rouge's +pronunciation to "Kickerella Bunnyventury," was +sufficiently ludicrous, and when it came to the +description of the gorgeous palace on the grand +canal, with eight masts at the door, when +Rouge graphically sketched the beauties of +Venice from the Bridge of Sighs to "the +beautiful cafés in the Piazza," when he +related how he had "got into hot water" over +his serenade, that is had had a pailful poured +on his head from a window by way of recompense, +it was impossible to resist the keen sense +of the ridiculous which was almost his only +Irish characteristic. +</p> + +<p> +"And did you really love this signorina?" +asked Donovan. +</p> + +<p> +"Love her!" exclaimed Rouge. "I adored +her, kissed the ground she trod on—there's not +much ground though in Venice—ruined myself +in gondolas that I might pass fifty times a day +under her windows, wrote verses about her, +raved about her, dreamed of her—and then—" +</p> + +<p> +He paused, a merry twinkle lurking in his +little grey eyes. +</p> + +<p> +"Well?" asked Donovan. +</p> + +<p> +"The good ship sailed down the Adriatic, +and knowing of course that it must be so, I +became resigned, and—forgot her again." +</p> + +<p> +The utterly prosaic tone in which he said the +last words had a very comical effect. Donovan +smiled. +</p> + +<p> +"We all do," said Rouge, in the tone of one +adding the moral to the story. "It's the way +with first loves, you know." +</p> + +<p> +"Indeed!" ejaculated Donovan, mentally. But +guessing that the observant old captain had +discovered the real cause of his depression, and +had produced his moral tale on purpose, he gave +an apparently careless turn to the conversation, +for he would not for the world have had +him come a degree nearer his secret trouble, +that aching loss, of which it would have seemed +sacrilege to speak to one like Rouge. +</p> + +<p> +Not many days after this, however, the dull, +tedious monotony of life was suddenly broken. +Donovan had felt as if he could never again +really care for anything in the world, but now +a sudden and violent re-action set in. +</p> + +<p> +"Do you ever go to Israel's now?" questioned +Rouge one evening. +</p> + +<p> +"Not since I went last with you," returned +Donovan. +</p> + +<p> +But therewith arose a fearful craving for his +old pastime. He had, during these years of +self-denial, been occasionally seized with a great +desire for play, and when Stephen had shared +his rooms he had often had to bear the great +irritation of seeing cards in the hands of other +people. But never before had the desire been +so irresistible, the temptation so terribly strong. +He had resolved not to play; had willed that +he would utterly renounce gaming, but he found +himself now rebelling against the restraint, +albeit it was a self-restraint. He had a horror +of pledges as pledges. The consciousness of +this self-made curb began to gall him +unbearably. He questioned its wisdom. It might +have been necessary once, but now might he not +safely indulge in his favourite amusement—of +course in moderation? Having schooled himself +all this time, might he not relax a little, +and satisfy this miserable craving? It was +hard that by his own doing he should cut himself +off from the one amusement that seemed left +to him in the dull, grey world. +</p> + +<p> +His strong nature would not quickly yield, +however, to such arguments. The struggle +went on with fearful intensity for days. +Perhaps he would have stifled it sooner had he not +been worn out with the trouble of the last few +weeks; however it might be, the temptation +proved the most severe of his whole life. It +was as if the lower self were making one final +and desperate effort to gain the mastery. +</p> + +<p> +One day, in the thick of this inward struggle, +he happened to be at work in the dissecting-room, +and though, as a rule, he took very little +note of the talk that went on there, it chanced +that day that, being anxious to escape from his +own thoughts, he made himself listen. There +were plenty of Freethinkers among the students, +and many were at the dogmatic stage of +atheism which Donovan had just passed out of. +Discussion on the points of discord between +religion and science was very frequent, but +Donovan rarely joined in it, partly because he +was taciturn, partly because he was too much +in the borderland of doubt to care to make any +assertion, partly because of that strange and +utterly unaccountable sense of reverence which +was pained by hearing the Unknown—the possibly +non-Existent—spoken of slightingly. The +discussion to-day on the existence of the soul +was neither edifying nor interesting. Donovan, +who was in the worst of tempers, was chafed +and irritated by the worthlessness of the +arguments on each side. "Pack of idiots!" he +exclaimed to himself, "if they must babble about +what they don't understand, why can't they put +a little life into their talk?" He wandered +back to his own all too haunting thoughts, but +was recalled by the peculiarly confident tone of +his neighbour, a young fellow of about two and +twenty, who was eagerly attempting to prove +the truth of the theory admirably summed up +once by old Mrs. Doery, that "Death ends us +all up." +</p> + +<p> +"Well," remarked the student, as if he had +got hold of a clinching argument, "I've been +at work here for some time, but I never yet +found a soul in the dissecting-room." +</p> + +<p> +There was a general laugh, but it was checked +by a quick retort, uttered in a voice which was +made powerful by a ring of indignation and a +slight touch of scorn. +</p> + +<p> +"No one but a fool would look for one there." +</p> + +<p> +"Bravo!" cried Donovan, delighted with the +ready reply, though by no means convinced of +the existence of the soul. +</p> + +<p> +He glanced with some interest and a good +deal of curiosity at the speaker. He was a +certain Brian Osmond, a clever, hard-working, +silent fellow, with the reputation of being stiff +and very "churchy," the latter accusation +having probably for its sole foundation the fact +that his father was a clergyman. Looking at +him to-day, Donovan for the first time felt +drawn towards him; he admired him and +respected him, as much perhaps for his subsequent +silence as for his sharp retort. Few know +when they have said enough. Apparently Brian +Osmond did know, for he spoke no more, but +went on with his work with a slightly heightened +colour, as if the speaking had been something +of an effort. +</p> + +<p> +That night it so happened that Donovan and +three other students were told off for duty in +the accident ward. There was a patient who +needed constant attendance; these four were +to take it in turns to be with him, two at a +time. Not a little to his satisfaction, Donovan +found that Brian Osmond was to be his +companion—he really wanted to know him; they +were now of course on speaking terms, but, +being both reserved men, they would never +have got nearer had not an opportunity such +as this been thrown in their way. +</p> + +<p> +Now all the evening Donovan's fierce craving +for play had been growing more and more +irresistible; when the other two students +relieved guard, and he and Brian Osmond went +to rest in an adjoining room, the first thing he +saw on the table was a pack of cards. He did +not say anything, but Brian at once caught +sight of them. +</p> + +<p> +"Hullo! these fellows have been playing," he +remarked. "They've done their game—let's +have a turn at écarté to keep us awake." +</p> + +<p> +Donovan did not speak an assent, but he +took up the pack; if his hands had been steel, +and the cards so many magnets, the power +which drew him towards them could not have +been more irresistible; the struggle within him +was ceasing, a delicious calm set in. The mere +sight of the cards was to him what the sight of +bread is to a hungry man—to feel them once +more in his hands was bliss. Was the world, +after all, so grey? With scarcely a word he +shuffled and dealt. His hand was one to make +the heart of a card-player leap within him, the +old passion had him well in its grip, the old +fierce, delicious excitement sent the blood +coursing at double time through his veins; +after years of plodding work, after weeks of +blank depression, this was rapture. +</p> + +<p> +"Stop a minute," said Brian; "we didn't +settle points. I draw the line at sixpence—is +that too mild for you?" +</p> + +<p> +Donovan produced a handful of coins from +his pocket; among them was the sixpence with +the hole in it—Gladys' sixpence—he saw it at +once, and that instant her face rose before him +in its purity and guilelessness. Then the +delicious calm gave place to deadly struggle, his +better self pleading eagerly—"This play calls +out all the bad in you, makes you the direct +opposite of all that is pure and noble, all that +is like Gladys." +</p> + +<p> +But the lower self was ready with bitter +taunts—"What, a strong man letting himself +be bound by a mere ideal of a girl—a girl whom +he has renounced—who is nothing to him! +Have your game, and don't be a fool." +</p> + +<p> +"You willed not to play, and it was the right +you willed," urged one voice. +</p> + +<p> +"Nothing is so weak as to stick to a mistake," +urged the other; "there's no such thing +as actual right or wrong—you can't prove it." +</p> + +<p> +"There is right and wrong, there is purity of +heart," urged the higher counsellor—"think of +Gladys." +</p> + +<p> +He did think, and it saved him. +</p> + +<p> +Brian thought him slightly crazed, for he +threw down the cards, got up from the table, +and began to pace the room like a caged lion. +Before very long, however, he quieted down, +threw himself back in a chair, and in a matter-of-fact +tone which belied his look of exhaustion, +said, +</p> + +<p> +"I beg your pardon, Osmond, but I can't +play; the fact is, it makes a sort of demon of +me." +</p> + +<p> +Brian was surprised, for Donovan looked +much too stern and self-controlled for his idea +of a gambler, but the struggle he had just +witnessed proved the truth of the words. +</p> + +<p> +"I suppose there is a tremendous fascination +in cards, if you're anything of a player," he +said. "I'm sorry I suggested a game." +</p> + +<p> +"You couldn't know whom you had to deal +with," returned Donovan, gathering up the +cards—he was strong enough to touch them +now. "Who would have thought that in this +trumpery pack there was such tremendous +power? It's horribly humiliating when one +comes to think of it." +</p> + +<p> +Feeling that he owed Brian a sort of apology +for spoiling his game, he overcame his reserve, +and continued, +</p> + +<p> +"You wouldn't wonder that I daren't play, if +you knew how low these magical things have +dragged me. The last time I played, which is +getting on for three years ago, I won a small +fortune, which my adversary had in his turn +won at Monte Carlo. On losing it he absconded, +hinting to his wife that he should commit +suicide. The horror of that was enough to make +one renounce gambling, you would think. +Lately, though, the craving after it has come +back; but I see it won't do for me even in +moderation. I suppose, having once thoroughly +abused a thing, you're never fit to use it +again." +</p> + +<p> +"That holds, I think, in some other cases," +said Brian. +</p> + +<p> +"You're thinking of the drunkard and total +abstinence," said Donovan, laughing. "Never +mind, I don't object to being taken as a parallel +case, for it's perfectly true—the two vices are +very nearly akin. I daresay it's as hard to you +to understand or sympathise with my temptation +as it is to me to sympathise with the poor +old fellow who shares my rooms, who is slowly +drinking himself to death. No one can +understand or make allowance for utterly unknown +temptations." +</p> + +<p> +"I don't know that," said Brian, slowly. +"One man at least I know who can sympathise +with anyone; but then he is that rare being—a +Christ-like man." +</p> + +<p> +"Rare indeed," said Donovan, drily; "not +too much of that sort of thing in this +nineteenth century. I see you think I speak +bitterly; perhaps you are right. I speak as an +unbeliever, and I can count on my fingers the +Christians who have had so much as a kind +word to give me." +</p> + +<p> +Brian began to feel very much drawn to his +companion; in their next interval of rest he +took up the thread of the conversation again. +</p> + +<p> +"That is almost too horrible to be believed," +he said. "I know people are intolerant, but +that so few should have—" he paused for a +word, and Donovan broke in. +</p> + +<p> +"Mind I don't say I laid myself out for their +kindness. I didn't cringe and fawn or disguise +the views I then held; but to be conscious that +people would receive you if you were judiciously +hypocritical, does not raise your opinion +either of them or of their religion." +</p> + +<p> +"No, indeed!" said Brian. +</p> + +<p> +"Besides," resumed Donovan, "if they are in +earnest, as people who have made such a +profession ought to be, surely they must see that +isolating atheists as if they were lepers is the +worst thing both for themselves and the atheists. +I don't think it's in a man to feel kindly to those +who treat him unjustly, and the good folks of +our neighbourhood drove me as fast as they +could into misanthropy. One man put a spoke +in the wheel, but he was an atheist—the prophet +of atheism." +</p> + +<p> +"What, Raeburn?" +</p> + +<p> +Donovan nodded an assent. +</p> + +<p> +"I don't know that I agree with his views now +any more than I agree with Christianity, but I +do believe that man gets hold of selfish fellows +and makes them downright ashamed of their +selfishness." +</p> + +<p> +"You have heard him lecture?" +</p> + +<p> +"Only once, but I shall never forget it. The +magnetism of the man is extraordinary; he +means what he says, and has had to suffer for +it—that, I expect, gives him his tremendous +force. If you Christians only knew the harm +you do your cause by injustice, you'd be more +careful. St. Paul is not the only one who, for +the sake of what he believed the truth, has +borne imprisonment, stonings, watchings, +fastings, perils of robbers, and perils of his own +countrymen. I don't wonder at St. Paul making +converts, and I don't wonder at Raeburn making +converts, and as long as you persecute him, as +long as you are uncharitable to him, you may +be sure atheism will spread." +</p> + +<p> +"If you admired him so much, why did you +not go to hear him again?" +</p> + +<p> +"Because, when I could have heard him +again, I had sunk too low. I had suffered a +great injustice, and it had made me hate the +whole race—for a time. Once I half thought of +going to see him, for I was in great need of +work; but, do you know, I was ashamed to. +Christians may scoff at the idea of being ashamed +to go to see Raeburn, but anyone who is living +in the vindictive misanthropy which I was living +in may well be ashamed to go to one who leads +a self-denying, hard-working life for others, +whatever his creed." +</p> + +<p> +"But you do not go to hear him now, though +you still admire him?" +</p> + +<p> +"No, for I've found the great blank in +atheism; it can never satisfy a man's needs." +</p> + +<p> +"Have you ever given the other side a +hearing?" asked Brian. +</p> + +<p> +"A reading, not a hearing; it is difficult to +do that without either being a hypocrite or +disturbing a congregation." +</p> + +<p> +Brian seemed about to speak, but he checked +himself, and very soon they were called to go +into the ward. They did not have much more +conversation that night, but their friendship +was begun; when Donovan gave confidence +and liking at all, he gave them without stint, +and Brian, in spite of his reputation for stiffness +and punctilious observance, became more and +more fond of him. In some points they were a +little like each other, in some they were +curiously different, but both had found—Brian as a +high churchman, Donovan as an agnostic—that +the secret of life is loving self-sacrifice. +</p> + +<p> +They were exactly fitted to rub off each +other's angles. +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<p><a id="chap09"></a></p> + +<h2> +CHAPTER IX. +<br><br> +CHARLES OSMOND. +</h2> + +<p class="intro"> + Thou art no Sabbath drawler of old saws,<br> + Distill'd from some worm-canker'd homily;<br> + But spurr'd at heart to fieriest energy<br> + To embattail and to wall about thy cause<br> + With iron-worded proof, hating to hark<br> + The humming of the drowsy pulpit-drone<br> + Half God's good Sabbath, while the worn-out clerk<br> + Brow-beats his desk below. Thou from a throne<br> + Mounted in heaven wilt shoot into the dark<br> + Arrows of lightnings. I will stand and mark.<br> + TENNYSON.<br> +</p> + +<p><br></p> + +<p> +The deadly temptation of that night did not +return, but, though Donovan was no longer +torn by the fierce, inward struggle, what had +happened made him think more seriously. He +was disappointed and perplexed to find that, +after these years of struggle and repression, the +old passionate desire was still as strong as ever +within him. With all his endeavours—and he +knew that he had honestly tried with all his +might—he had only been able to check the +outward actions; he had cut off bravely enough +the visible growth, he had, as it were, razed to +the ground this evil passion, but its roots were +still untouched. He smiled a little as he thought +of it. +</p> + +<p> +"Radical that I am, can I fail to root out the +evil in myself? Professing to go straight to the +root of all grievances, must I yet be unable to +get rid of this?" +</p> + +<p> +He was obliged to own that his power was +absolutely limited to the suppression of evil in +action; he had come to the very end of his +strength, he might by great effort be pure in +deed, but pure in heart he could never make +himself. Yet actual purity was no dream. +Gladys was pure, purity was written on every +line of her face; he could not imagine her +harbouring an impure thought or desire for an +instant. Yet he knew that she was not in +herself perfect; he was not at all the sort of man +to fall blindly in love; he had noticed many +trifling faults in Gladys, had heard her speak +hastily, had discovered that she was a little too +desirous of standing first with those she loved, +was apt to exaggerate and to tell small +incidents with pretty little imaginative touches of +her own. She was not faultless, but, in spite +of occasional and momentary falls, she was +pervaded by a purity of thought and deed, of +word and desire, which to Donovan was utterly +incomprehensible. He was conscious, as he had +latterly been with Dot, that she was breathing an +altogether different atmosphere. He was like +the shaded valley, little air and little light +reaching him, she was like a beautiful snowy +mountain peak in sunshine; a passing fault like a +cloud might for a time dim the brightness, but +only for a time—the sunshine would illumine +all again. And then his own metaphor flashed +a conviction on him—it must be a reflected +brightness, a reflected loveliness that he saw in +Gladys! +</p> + +<p> +Unsatisfied as he had long been with +agnosticism, he was now fully aware that he had +reached the limit of what it could give him; he +had tried with all his might to live a +self-denying, pure life, and in some degree he had +succeeded, but if he lived a hundred years he saw +no chance of getting further; there would of +course be constant opportunities for fresh +self-denial, but he could not of himself ever attain +to purity of heart. What then? There was a +great want somewhere; he was incomplete, he +reproached himself with being so, but yet had +he not striven to the utmost? Might there not +be a living Purity, a living Strength other than +himself, to fill this void, to round off this +incompleteness? It was only a speculation, but +speculations are helpful if they go hand-in-hand +with honest work; if they lead to nothing, they +at least teach us our own ignorance, and they +may lead towards the unveiling of the hidden +truth. +</p> + +<p> +One Sunday, in January, it happened that +Donovan was out alone, for though Rouge +generally went with him on his long Sunday +rambles, the afternoon had seemed so raw and +cold and unpromising that he had preferred to +stay indoors. It certainly was not a comfortable +sort of day, but the weekly chance of a +twenty mile stretch was not to be lightly lost, +and, rain or shine, Donovan generally spent +the greater part of the Sunday in exercise. +Even had he not been exceedingly fond of +walking, there was Waif to be considered; as it +was, both dog and master looked forward to +the day of rest, and used it to the best of their +present abilities. +</p> + +<p> +It was quite dark by the time they had +reached the suburbs; walking on at a brisk +pace they made their way further into London. +The bells had ceased ringing, and, becoming +aware that he was exceedingly hungry, Donovan +glanced at his watch, finding to his surprise +that it was already a quarter to eight. +They were passing through a very poor +neighbourhood, and he had just turned from a +crowded thoroughfare into a quiet side street, when +a man, flushed, bare-headed, and breathless, +dashed out of a building to the left, and in his +haste almost knocked Donovan over. +</p> + +<p> +"Beg pardon, sir," he panted; "a lady in a +fit in the church, and heaven knows where I'm +to find a doctor!" +</p> + +<p> +"Better have me, I'm half a doctor," said +Donovan. "Be quick, anything's better than +losing time." +</p> + +<p> +"A providence!" gasped the verger. "This +way, sir, this way." +</p> + +<p> +Now the church had been built on what an +architect would have considered a very +"<i>in</i>eligible site," for it was wedged in between the +houses in a way which cruelly spoilt its beauty. +The site, however, was in other respects +exceedingly "eligible," that is to say, it was +within a stone's throw of hundreds of the poor +and ignorant. It was not, however, a convenient +church for people afflicted with fits, for +there was no separate entrance to the vestry, +and the vestry was at the east end. The +verger, followed by Donovan and Waif, walked +straight up the church, to the distraction of the +congregation; some people were amused, some +were scandalised at the entrance of the +fox-terrier. One of the churchwardens tried to drive +him back; but Waif's master had called him to +heel, and to heel he would keep, though all the +churchwardens in the world were to set upon +him. +</p> + +<p> +Donovan found his patient stretched on the +floor in an epileptic fit, an old woman kneeling +beside her, vainly trying to restrain her wild +movements. The little room was used as a +choir vestry, two unused surplices were hanging +on the wall, he snatched one of them down, +crushed the white folds remorselessly together, +and put them between his patient's teeth. +Presently she grew quieter. Donovan, seeing +a half open door, glanced in, and found a +second room, with a sofa and a larger window; +with the verger's help he carried the girl in, +and soon she became herself again. He decreed, +however, that she should rest where she was +till the service was over, when the verger +could get her a cab. +</p> + +<p> +Leaving her under her mother's care, he +went back into the little outer vestry; but +realising that Waif might be considered <i>de trop</i> +in a church he would not again go down the +aisle; besides, it might be better that he should +see his patient fairly out of her trouble. The +waiting, however, was dull; to pass the time +he noiselessly opened the vestry door and, +through the narrowest of openings, took a +glance at the congregation. They appeared to +be listening very intently. He could not see +the preacher, but he could hear him quite +plainly, and instinctively he too began to +listen. How many years was it since he had +heard a sermon? Very nearly seven, and the +last had been that never-to-be-forgotten sermon +in the school chapel. Even now the recollection +of it brought an angry glow to his face. +</p> + +<p> +But the remembrance died away as soon as +he began to listen to the clear tones of the +present speaker, whose rather uncommon +delivery attracted him not a little; it was +manly, straightforward, quite free from the touch +of patronage or the conventional sanctimonious +drawl which goes far towards making many +sermons unpalatable. +</p> + +<p> +"I speak now more particularly to those +who have some faith in God, but whose faith +is weak, variable, largely mingled with distrust. +I ask you to look at your everyday life and +tell me this: Which suffers most, the father +who disciplines, or the child who is disciplined? +You who have had anything to do with little +children will surely answer, 'It is the one who +disciplines who suffers most—the father bears +his own pain and his child's as well.' +</p> + +<p> +"Look once more at your daily life and +answer me one more question. Two friends +are estranged, which suffers most, the one who +doubts or the one who is unjustly doubted? +You who can speak from experience will, I +think, answer without hesitation, 'the one who +is doubted.' +</p> + +<p> +"Believe me, you who are in the twilight of +a half faith, you who are in the darkness of +scepticism, you who are hungering after you +scarcely know what, hungering perhaps for an +unknown goodness, a far distant holiness, your +pain, cruel and gnawing and remorseless as it +is, is a mere nothing compared with the pain +which He whom you doubt suffers. +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, look again at your own experience, realise +as keenly as you can what is the pain of being +unjustly doubted. Take it all ways, the sting +of the injustice, the grievous disappointment in +your friend, the dull ache of forsakenness, that +is your own share, but you bear your friend's as +well. There is his disappointment, his loneliness, +his sense of betrayal, his indignation to be taken +into account, the thought of it weighs on you +more than your own personal pain. Oh! without +question the pain of the one doubted is +keener than the pain of the one who doubts, it +is double pain. And in proportion to the +strength of the love will be the sharpness of the +suffering. +</p> + +<p> +"To infinite, unthinkable love, therefore, we +who doubt must bring infinite, unthinkable pain. +</p> + +<p> +"It can hardly be, however, that in this +congregation there have not been many dissentient +thoughts during to-night's sermon. Even as I +read my text I wondered how many will object +to those words, 'the Father of lights with +whom is no variableness, neither shadow of +turning.' +</p> + +<p> +"Father! How many shrink from using the +word! Sometimes they are people who tell you +they believe in 'a God;' I notice that they +always use the word 'a,' they do not say 'we +believe in <i>the</i> God.' Sometimes they are people +who accept the latter part of the text only, they +believe in a 'force' in which there is 'no +variableness.' Sometimes they believe in an +'impersonal God,' which—allowing that by person +you mean the 'ego,' the spirit—is about equal +to speaking of an 'unspiritual God.' I do not +wish to say one harsh word about those of you +who hold such views, but before you urge again +the old objections, 'degrading ideas,' +'anthropomorphism,' and such like, I should like you to +ask yourselves, with perfect honesty, this +question: 'Did not my first objection to the word +father rise from dislike to the necessary +sequence that I was His child, rather than from +real belief that the term was degrading to the +Deity?' +</p> + +<p> +"Spiritual life has its analogies with natural +life; there does come a time when, with the +consciousness of a certain strength, we long to +be free agents, to shake off all authority, to go +out in the world and feud for ourselves. And +the real recognition of a father implies obedience, +and obedience is hard to all men. +</p> + +<p> +"But, on the other hand, I must defend my +use of the word father from misconceptions. +Not in the Mahomedan sense of a gigantic man +do we call God our Father. The term given +to us by Christ brings to our mind a conception +of love and protection, it ought to rouse in us +the child sense of reverence, obedience—in a +word, 'sonship.' 'Words!' you exclaim, 'mere +terms!' But remember that we must use finite +terms in this life, even in speaking of infinity. +You feel the terms to be a limitation? Perhaps +that is well; to be conscious of limitation points +to a larger, fuller, grander possibility dawning +for us in the hereafter. Why should we for +that reason be too proud to use the grand, +simple Anglo-Saxon word 'father'? You will +not better it with all your laborious efforts, your +many worded and complicated substitutes. +</p> + +<p> +"Using, then, this much abused term, let us +turn back to our recollections of childhood. Some +of us at least—I hope very many—have had +fathers worthy of the name. We did not +understand our father, but we revered and loved +him, he was at once friend and counsellor, our +standard in everything. What would have +been his feeling if in later life we had doubted +him, doubted his very love for us, cast off +our family name, lived in independence and +lovelessness? The really loving father would +be grieved, cut to the heart, never vindictively +wrathful. +</p> + +<p> +"This father I would take as the shadow of +the Divine reality. I cannot doubt that God +has often been represented to you as a jealous +potentate, an autocrat with human passions; +but I would beg you to-night to put those +thoughts from you, to turn instead to the +revelation of Jesus Christ, the revelation, that is, +of the 'Father of lights,' the Father in whom is +no variableness or shadow of turning, who in +spite of our sin, our doubt, our unworthiness, +will be our Father for ever and ever. +</p> + +<p> +"My friends, my brothers, will you not think +of the infinite pain which is caused by the +doubt of one heart? Will you not struggle to +free yourselves from it? +</p> + +<p> +"'But,' I think I hear some one say, 'this +man can know nothing about doubt or unbelief; +if he did he would know the impossibility of +willing to believe, willing to free yourself from +doubt.' +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, that is true. To will belief is quite +impossible. By struggling to free yourselves from +doubt, I mean making a constant effort to live +the Christ-life—the life of self-renunciation that +God has consecrated and ordained as the high +road to Himself. There may be some here who +know nothing of God, some who know Him +in part, but to all alike there is but that one +road which can lead to knowledge of things +divine—the road of the cross. +</p> + +<p> +"'The law of the spirit of life in Christ Jesus,' +says St. Paul, 'has made me free from the law +of sin and death.' +</p> + +<p> +"The law that is of loving self-sacrifice, +Christ's new law, is the law which sets us free +from selfishness and ignorance of God. +</p> + +<p> +"And that hard road of self-denial, so uncongenial +to us all in itself, has proved to everyone +who has taken his way honestly along it, in +very truth the way of light. For the Father of +lights will Himself meet us as we walk that +road, when we are 'yet a great way off' He +will appear to us from afar, saying—'Yea, I +have loved thee with an everlasting love; +therefore with loving-kindness have I drawn +thee.' +</p> + +<p> +"Now unto Him that is able to do exceeding +abundantly above all we can ask or think, &c." +</p> + +<p> +The congregation rose, Donovan pushed the +door to. +</p> + +<p> +"H'm, so that's what you think about it," he +muttered to himself, giving his mind a sort of +matter-of-fact twist because he was conscious of +a certain choking sensation in his throat. "Yet +could anyone imagine such a Being? It would +take a strangely pure mind to form such a +conception. If there were a God, He must be like +that; the utter lovelessness of Doery's 'offended +autocrat' had been its own disproof. Could +there be truth in that saying in the sermon on +the mount, 'The pure in heart shall see God.'" +</p> + +<p> +From a confused train of thought like this he +was roused by the sound of one of Dot's favourite +hymns, Newman's "Lead, kindly light, amid +the encircling gloom." Why it had been such a +favourite of hers he had never found out, it was +hardly a child's hymn, and Dot had been the +simplest of little children. Perhaps the pure +Saxon English had attracted her, as it usually +does attract simple childlike souls. How +many times could Donovan remember playing +the tune for her! He seemed now almost to +hear the soft child-voice singing with the +congregation. With almost painful intentness he +listened, the words of the last verse floating in +to him with perfect distinctness. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + "So long Thy power hath blessed me, sure it still<br> + Will lead me on<br> + O'er moor and fen, o'er crag and torrent, till<br> + The night is gone.<br> + And with the morn those angel faces smile,<br> + Which I have loved long since, and lost awhile."<br> +</p> + +<p><br></p> + +<p> +He turned away with hot tears in his eyes. +He had lost all his "angel faces," and did not +yet believe that "the morn" was coming, he +could not believe in the hereafter, and he had +given up all that was beautiful in the present. +Life will feel black to such. +</p> + +<p> +He began to poke the fire, he picked up the +crumpled surplice from the floor, folded it +methodically, and laid it on the table, then, +finding such work too mechanical to answer his +purpose, he retreated into the inner vestry, and +began to talk to his patient's mother. +</p> + +<p> +Before very long there was a hum of voices +in the next room, then the door opened and the +verger appeared, followed to Donovan's utter +amazement by Brian Osmond. +</p> + +<p> +"Hullo, who would have thought of seeing +you here?" he exclaimed. "Why didn't you +hurry to the rescue?" +</p> + +<p> +"I was the other side of the choir, and didn't +see what was up," said Brian; "the first thing +I did see was the entrance of you and Waif. +How's your patient?" +</p> + +<p> +"All right again," said Donovan, "we must +get her a cab." +</p> + +<p> +"Brown will do that. You come with me +now, I want you to see my father." +</p> + +<p> +"Your father?" +</p> + +<p> +"This is his church, did you not know?" +</p> + +<p> +Was it then Brian's father who had been +preaching? Donovan did not ask, but followed +him into the other vestry, where several rather +shabby-looking little boys were just disappearing +through the doorway, having left what Mrs. Doery +would have called their "whites" behind +them. There was only one clergyman, he was +standing by the fire talking to the organist, and +Donovan had a minute or two in which to take +a survey of him. +</p> + +<p> +Charles Osmond was a man of eight and +forty; he was tall, nearly six feet, squarely +made rather, muscularly very strong, but +constitutionally delicate. His character was much +like his body; he united in a very rare way the +man's strength and the woman's tenderness. +Looking at him superficially, he seemed older +than his years, for he was nearly bald, and the +fringe of hair that remained round what he +called his "tonsure" was quite grey; but his +eyes were young, his voice was young; there +was a sprightliness, almost a boyishness in his +manner at times. +</p> + +<p> +"Clever and honest, and not too clerical," +was Donovan's comment, the last adjective +being, from his lips, of the nature of a compliment, +for he had a great dislike of the clergy as +a class. He had received from individual +members of the profession some injustice and no +kindness, and he not unnaturally proceeded to +judge them as a class, and to abuse them +wholesale. A patient who has received mistaken +treatment from a doctor, invariably scoffs at all +doctors, and ever after terms them quacks. A +client receiving an exorbitant bill from his +solicitor, relieves his annoyance by proclaiming +all lawyers to be grasping and avaricious. In +this, as in other cases, a little fire kindles a +great matter. +</p> + +<p> +Charles Osmond turned in a minute or two, +and Brian introduced Donovan. +</p> + +<p> +"I saw you and your dog come in," he observed, +with laughter in his eyes. "Now, if +certain religious newspapers get hold of that +incident, we shall have some beautiful +paragraphs. 'Strange new innovation,' 'Canine +processions,' etc. I hope your patient is better?" +</p> + +<p> +By this time Donovan liked the man, instinctively +liked and trusted him. Charles Osmond +had a very strange fascination about him. He +had an extraordinary power in his touch; to +shake hands with him was to receive no +conventional greeting, but to be taken closer to +the man himself, to be assured of his hearty, +honest sympathy. His eyes were to Donovan +like Waif's eyes; all his soul seemed to look +out of them; they were eyes which never looked +in a hard way at people, never seemed to be +forming an opinion about them, but, like the +bright eager eyes of a dog, expressed almost as +clearly as words, "let us come as near each +other as we can." +</p> + +<p> +He was a man who cared not a rush for what +was said of people, a man who would have +preferred dining with an excommunicated heretic +to dining with the queen. He was no respecter +of persons, and rather disliked official dignitaries +as such, but he could admire worth whatever +its surroundings, and he had a profound respect +for man as man. +</p> + +<p> +For a few minutes he was left alone with +Donovan, while Brian and the verger were +helping the patient to a cab. +</p> + +<p> +Before this there had been ordinary small +talk, a sort of jumble of epileptic fits, fox-terriers, +Barnard and Bishop stoves, etc., but as soon as +they were alone, Donovan, obeying the plea of +those dog-like eyes, did draw a little nearer, a +little more out of his shell. +</p> + +<p> +"I heard the end of your sermon to-night," +he said, rather abruptly. "It is the first I have +heard for several years. If it wouldn't be +asking too much, would you let me have it to +read?" +</p> + +<p> +"With all my heart, if it were readable," said +Mr. Osmond, with a humorous twinkle in his +eyes, as he handed half a sheet of paper to +Donovan, with a few notes written on it. +</p> + +<p> +"Oh! you preach extempore. I am sorry," +remarked Donovan. +</p> + +<p> +"It is the only way for a church like mine," +said Mr. Osmond. "But I can, if you like, give +you plenty of sermons on that subject, and +books too, much more to the point than +anything you can have heard to-night." +</p> + +<p> +"Thank you," said Donovan, "but I am afraid +I must ungraciously refuse that offer. I have +read some dozens of theological books to very +little purpose, and have just made a clean sweep +of them, and bought a polariser for my +microscope with the proceeds." +</p> + +<p> +"And find it of much more use, I daresay," +said Mr. Osmond, laughing. "But if you cared +enough for such matters to get and read +theological books, why were you so many years +without the far less tedious process of sermon +hearing?" +</p> + +<p> +"Because I am an agnostic," said Donovan, +"and as there is no necessity, I do not care to +stand, sit, and kneel through a meaningless form. +I would not do it even to hear you again, and I +own that I should like to hear you." +</p> + +<p> +"Then any Sunday that you care to look in +here at a quarter to eight, you shall find the +seat nearest the door empty," said Mr. Osmond. +"Of course we extend the invitation to the dog +as long as he'll sit quiet; I see you are +inseparable. What an intelligent-looking mortal he +is!" +</p> + +<p> +"I could not quite tell you the number of +times he has saved my life," said Donovan. +"He won't defile your church; he's much more +of a Christian than many church-goers I have +known." +</p> + +<p> +"Did you ever hear the story of the eccentric +man of Bruges?" said Mr. Osmond. "He was +passionately fond of his dogs; the <i>curé</i> +remonstrated with him, and told him that if he went +to heaven he must part with them. 'I will go +nowhere,' exclaimed the good man, 'where I +cannot take my dogs.'" +</p> + +<p> +"Capital fellow!" said Donovan, laughing. +"I quite agree with him." +</p> + +<p> +By that time Brian had returned; the verger +was beginning to turn out the gas. +</p> + +<p> +"Come and have supper with us," said +Mr. Osmond, as they walked together down the +empty church. +</p> + +<p> +"Thank you," replied Donovan, "I am afraid +I must go home; I have been out most of the +day." +</p> + +<p> +"Microscope, or the old man of the sea?" +questioned Brian. +</p> + +<p> +"The latter," said Donovan, with a laugh. +"Good night." +</p> + +<p> +He whistled to Waif, and they disappeared in +the dark street. +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<p><a id="chap10"></a></p> + +<h2> +CHAPTER X. +<br><br> +WHAT IS FORGIVENESS? +</h2> + +<p class="intro"> + Skilful alike with tongue and pen,<br> + He preached to all men everywhere<br> + The Gospel of the Golden Rule,<br> + The new commandment given to men,<br> + Thinking the deed, and not the creed,<br> + Would help us in our utmost need.<br> + With reverent feet the earth he trod,<br> + Nor banished Nature from his plan,<br> + But studied still with deep research<br> + To build the Universal Church,<br> + Lofty as is the love of God,<br> + And ample as the wants of man.<br> + <i>Tales of a Wayside Inn</i>. LONGFELLOW.<br> +</p> + +<p><br></p> + +<p> +As he walked home, Donovan thought a good +deal of the scene he had just left, and for +the first time it struck him that the sermon had +been rather an unusual one for such a congregation. +Charles Osmond seemed to take it for +granted that his people thought; the congregation +was chiefly composed of working men +and women and tradespeople, but he by no +means preached down to what some would +have considered their level. He entered into +all the questions of the day freely and +fearlessly, took as much pains with his sermons as +if they were to be preached before the most +searching critics in the country, and avoided +only the use of many-syllabled words—speaking, +indeed, in almost pure Saxon-English, the +"tongue understanded of the people." +</p> + +<p> +How he came to be in such a place was +another question which perplexed Donovan. +Had he known the reason, he would have been +doubly attracted to the man; but it was some +time before he found out. +</p> + +<p> +Charles Osmond's history was a strange one. +He was exceedingly clever, an original sort of +man, full of resources, intensely conscious of +latent power which he might probably never +have time or opportunity for bringing into +exercise. But the strength of the man was in his +extraordinary gift of insight; there was +something almost uncanny about his power of +reading people. He would have made a good +diplomatist, a first-rate detective, had not his +power of sympathy been quite as strong as his +power of insight. He had that gift of +"magnetism" which Donovan had ascribed to +Raeburn; almost all who had anything to do with +him were attracted, they scarcely knew why or +how. He had a way of treating each individual +as if for the time being his only desire was to +get nearer to him, and, although he was the +most wide-minded of men, he could so concentrate +his world-wide sympathy as to bring its +full power to bear on one heart. His influence +was simply marvellous! he was like a sort of +sun; the coldest, most frozen, icebound natures +melted in his genial presence. He could draw +out the most reserved people in a way astonishing +to themselves. He spoke little of "souls" +in the lump, never obtruded the conventional +red-tapism of clerical life, but each individual +was to him a wonderful and absorbing study. +He rarely even in thought massed them together +as "his parish," but took them as his inner +circle of brothers and sisters, a tiny fragment +of the one great family. +</p> + +<p> +Of course, he was almost worshipped by those +who knew him, but with a certain class of +character he could make no way. He had one great +fault—a fault which repelled some people, +generally the "unco guid or rigidly righteous," or +those comfortable people who feel no need or +desire for sympathy. His fault was this—he +was too conscious of his influence; he knew +that he had exceptional gifts, and all his life +long he had been struggling with that deadliest +of foes, conceit. He had the exquisite candour +to call his fault by its true name, a very rare +virtue; and few things angered him more than +to hear conceit confounded with self-respect or +proper pride of independence. Conceit was +conceit pure and simple; the word pride had lost +its objectionable meaning. To tell a man that +he was proud would make him feel almost +gratified, would give him a sense of dignity, +but to tell him he was conceited would be sure +to give him a hard home-thrust. So he went +on in his straightforward way, struggling with +his deadly hindrance, daily—almost +hourly—checking himself, pulling himself up, as he +drifted into the all too natural habit of +self-approval. He had not crushed his foe as +yet, but he had risen immensely by the effort. +It had helped greatly to increase the manliness, +the honesty, the large-minded tolerance which +characterized him. Intensely conscious that he +had not "already attained, neither was already +perfect," he was a thousand times more helpful +to those in need than many of his brethren +who looked down on him, blandly content with +their own progress in righteousness—at any +rate, convinced that Charles Osmond's very +apparent fault must unfit him for his work. +Certainly it did prevent his ever assuming the +conventional tone of priest to penitent; he +never felt himself on a higher platform than +his congregation, but perhaps for that very +reason he succeeded in attracting, by his +brotherliness rather than his priestliness, those +whom no one else could attract. +</p> + +<p> +The reason that he was still to be found toiling +away in an obscure parish in one of the poor +parts of London was not without its pathos. +Very few were aware of the real cause. +Naturally he was not without a good deal of +ambition, and at a certain time in his life his +advances had been rapid. He had written a +series of articles which had brought him into +notice, and almost at the same time two offers +were made to him. The one was the offer of a +living in London worth perhaps £300 a year, the +other was to a position of great responsibility, +invariably made the stepping-stone to high +places. Charles Osmond was human; it cost +him a great deal to give up the prospect of +rapid and honourable preferment, and in +refusing the offer he gave up many other things +which he much desired—the opportunity of +mixing with his equals, the chance of intellectual +society, the greater ease of speaking to a +highly educated congregation. In many +respects he was, and knew that he was, admirably +fitted for such a position, but, weighing it +all in his honest mind, he came to the conclusion +that he could not trust himself to accept +it. His power, his influence, his worldly +position would be immensely raised; he did not +feel himself sufficiently strong to resist such +increased temptations. +</p> + +<p> +So the chance of promotion was honourably +rejected, and Charles Osmond settled down to +terribly up-hill work in London. Life never +could be easy to such a man; he was too sensitive, +too wide-minded, too entirely saturated +with the spirit of Christ to be ever without his +share of Christ's burden—the burden of the +suffering, the sinning, the doubting. He was, +too, in a certain sense an isolated man; all +through his life he had been greatly +misunderstood. By one set he was stigmatized as +"High Church," by another as "dangerously +Broad," by a third as "almost a Dissenter." Attacked +thus from all points, his life would +have been almost intolerable had it not been +for the growing love and devotion of his own +particular people. His church became a sort +of Cave of Adullam—a refuge for numbers of +the distressed; and as years went by, the work +began to tell, and a real improvement could be +noted. This alone was almost enough to make +up for the hostility which he encountered in +other quarters, though he was not the sort of +man to whom persecution could ever be otherwise +than painful. He had lately incurred +great odium by urging in public that Raeburn, +the atheist, ought to be treated with as much +justice, and courtesy, and consideration as if +he had been a Christian. The narrow-minded +were thereby much scandalized; the atheists +began to believe that it was <i>possible</i> for a +clergyman to be honest and unprejudiced. +</p> + +<p> +The walk home after Sunday evening service +was generally the part of the day's work which +Brian dreaded most for his father. He knew +it was then that the burden pressed most +heavily on him, for the sin and evil were fearfully +apparent in those back streets, and Charles +Osmond keenly alive to it all, wearied with +the exertions of the day, and aware of his +inability to cope with the immense wickedness +around, often fell a prey to the haunting +consciousness of failure and to blank depression. +</p> + +<p> +This evening, however, as they parted from +Donovan at the church door, he seemed quite +unusually brisk and animated, and though +generally too tired to care to speak an +unnecessary word, he had not walked a hundred +yards before he began to question his son. +</p> + +<p> +"So that is your new friend?" +</p> + +<p> +"Yes," returned Brian, "what do you think of him?" +</p> + +<p> +"I think he's a friend worth having." +</p> + +<p> +"I knew you would like him," said Brian, +triumphantly, "if it were only because he is +of your 'seeps.' Is there an honest atheist +in the world whom you don't like, I wonder!" +</p> + +<p> +"I hope not," said Charles Osmond, with a +touch of quiet humour in his tone. +</p> + +<p> +"I wouldn't say much about Farrant before +you had seen him, for he's not the sort of fellow +to be known at second hand, and I was +determined you should somehow meet him. Odd +that such a chance as that girl's illness should +have brought you together after all." +</p> + +<p> +"Just as well," said Charles Osmond. "He +is a fellow to be led, not driven, or to be driven +only by the One who knows when to use the +snaffle, when the curb." +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, one is afraid of pushing him the wrong +way rather," said Brian, "even, I mean, in +chance talk without any intention of pushing at +all." +</p> + +<p> +"That we always must feel in speaking to +those whom the world has held at arm's length. +I should like to know what helped to bring that +fellow to atheism, have you any idea?" +</p> + +<p> +"The un-Christlikeness of Christians, I +fancy—and something he said of injustice with +which he had been treated, but he has only +once spoken of it at all and then merely because +he grew hot at the mention of Raeburn." +</p> + +<p> +Charles Osmond sighed heavily, it was +another instance added to the hundreds he +already knew of the harm caused by injustice +and want of charity. He fell into a sorrowful +reverie, but roused himself after a time to ask +what his son knew of Donovan's history. +</p> + +<p> +"I know very little," said Brian, "he seems +to be alone in the world, and he is very poor. +We are of the same year; he came up at +October two years ago and got a scholarship at +once. He's by far the cleverest fellow we have, +no one else has a chance while he's there; any +amount of brains, you know, and works +furiously—as if it were the only thing he cared for." +</p> + +<p> +"I thought as much," observed Charles +Osmond. "There's the dog though—wonderful +to see the devotion between those two; no man +in the world, as the old saying goes, who can't +find a dog and a woman to love him. Who is +the 'old man of the sea' you spoke of?" +</p> + +<p> +"The queerest old fellow you ever saw who +has come to live with him, an old captain +something, I forget the name. Quite of another +grade to Farrant, and trying to live with I +should fancy, for he's a regular old tippler, but +he's devoted to 'Donovan,' as he always calls +him." +</p> + +<p> +"Oh! that's his name, is he connected with +the Donovans of Kilbeggan, I wonder? grannie +has their family tree by heart." +</p> + +<p> +"There's nothing Irish about Farrant," said +Brian. +</p> + +<p> +"I'm not so sure of that, I fancy there's a +good deal of humour in him, stifled by +circumstances perhaps, and I'll stake my reputation +as an observer that somewhere in his ancestry +you'll find an Italian?" +</p> + +<p> +Brian laughed; his father was very fond of +tracing the tokens of differing nationalities and +had many theories on the subject; sometimes +his theories fell wide of the mark, however, and +Brian was inclined to think he had made a bad +shot this time, for to him Donovan seemed +entirely—almost typically—English. +</p> + +<p> +A few days after this Donovan was induced +to dine with the Osmonds, not without much +persuasion from Brian, who was now sufficiently +his friend to be comfortably rude to him. +</p> + +<p> +"You'll grow into a bear, a misanthrope, if +you never go anywhere," he urged, as Donovan +pleaded his want of time. "You'll addle your +brains, knock up before the exam, grow into the +'dull boy' of the proverb. I can see that this +unmitigated grind is beginning to tell on you +already; you look as old again as you did before +the October term." +</p> + +<p> +Donovan flushed a little at this, said abruptly +that he would come, and gave a rapid turn to +the conversation. +</p> + +<p> +The Osmonds lived in Bloomsbury, in an old +house which had belonged to Charles Osmond's +grandfather in the days when Bloomsbury was +a fashionable region. It was a comfortable, +roomy house, not too far from the parish to be +inconvenient, and all the better for being far +removed from West End gaieties, as the Osmonds +were something of Bohemians, dined at an +unpardonably early hour, and rather set at naught +the conventionalities of life. +</p> + +<p> +Donovan was shown into a charming, old-fashioned +drawing-room, not old-fashioned according +to the recent high art revival of spindle-legged +forms and Queen Anne uncomfortableness, +but such a room as might have been found +at the beginning of the century. Everything +was massive and good of its kind. There were +capacious arm-chairs and most restful sofas +covered with the real old chintz worth any +number of modern cretonnes, an old-fashioned +Erard piano that had seen good service, beautifully +inlaid tables, some good oil paintings, and +a delightful array of books in long, low +bookcases, bound in old yellow calf and that +everlasting morocco which was somehow procurable +in the good old times when book-binding was +an art, not a trade. A few modern knick-knacks +here and there relieved the stiffness of the +furniture, while a faint smell of dried roses +was wafted from old china bowls and vases +which would have awakened the envy of +anyone suffering from the china mania. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Osmond, Brian's grandmother, just +completed the old-world picture. Donovan fell in +love with her at once. She was indeed a very +beautiful old lady, her silvery hair, her mild, +blue eyes, her peculiarly sweet smile were all in +their way perfect, but it was the exquisite +courtesy, the delicate grace of the past day that +attracted everyone so irresistibly, that beautiful, +old-fashioned sweetness of manner which has +somehow perished in the heat and struggle—the +"hurrying life" of the nineteenth century. +She made him a charming, gracious, little +curtsey, then held out her hand, and Donovan, +Republican though he was, did not shake it, +but, acting as he occasionally did by impulse, +bent low and kissed it. +</p> + +<p> +The old lady seemed touched and gratified; +she at once introduced the names of her old +friends the Donovans of Kilkeggan, and there +ensued an animated discussion as to the younger +branches of the family, resulting in the oft-made +discovery that the world is smaller than we +think, and that Donovan's grandfather, General +Donovan, had been Mrs. Osmond's old playfellow. +The gong sounded, and the dear, old, +stately lady went down to dinner on Donovan's +arm, still talking of her young days in Ireland, +then drifting on to the London life of long ago, +dwelling in the loving, tender way of the old +on the celebrities of her time, the Kembles, +Jenny Lind, Grisi, Sontag, Miss Stephens, and +Braham; then on to the Chartist rising of '48, +when Charles Osmond took his turn and spoke +of the "Christian Socialism" scheme, from +which they passed to the Radicalism of to-day, +a subject which Donovan himself would not +have ventured to introduce in a clergyman's +house, but which he found discussed with +perfect fairness. Indeed, though Charles Osmond +rarely meddled with politics, his work lay so +entirely among "the people" that he was really +able to see matters from their point of view, +and in the main he was ready to agree with +Donovan. +</p> + +<p> +About the house, or rather the home, there +was the same atmosphere as at Porthkerran, +the same wideness of sympathy, the same loving +regard for the work and interests of others, the +same "one and all" principle carried into +beautiful practice. The parish was not made a bore +to the other members of the family, Brian's +work was not obtruded in a tiresome way, nor +Mrs. Osmond's manifold feminine occupations; +all was well balanced, well regulated, and +Donovan realised how perfect a home can be in +which are the three generations. Past, present, +and future, when really united, do make the +strongest threefold cord, and perhaps no house +is quite complete without the quick perception +of the young, the steady judgment of the middle-aged, +the golden experience of the old. +</p> + +<p> +Part of the evening Donovan spent alone +with Charles Osmond in his study, a comfortable +room, methodically arranged, and lined +with books, theological, anti-theological, and +scientific. Judged by his books, it might +perhaps have; been hard to say which of Charles +Osmond's abusers were right; whether he was +really high, broad, or half a dissenter; perhaps +he was a little of all three, or perhaps he had +reached above and beyond those earthly +distinctions. +</p> + +<p> +However this might be, as the two sat that +evening over their coffee, Donovan fairly forgot +he was speaking to that, to him, obnoxious +being—a clergyman. Not even to Dr. Tremain had +he ever talked with such perfect openness. +Those dog-like eyes, with their constant appeal, +"let us come nearer," were utterly irresistible. +He found himself almost thinking aloud, and as +his thinking meant great questioning, the +possibility of having a being outside himself +capable of listening, sympathising, and answering +was a rare delight. And because he was conscious +of Charles Osmond's unasserted but very +real superiority, he cared not what he said, felt +no restriction, no fear of going too far, or of +giving too much confidence. The really clever, +really great, really good, inspire trust, where the +mediocre inspire dread. +</p> + +<p> +As they talked, a little of Donovan's private +history, which Charles Osmond had speculated +about, was revealed. They had been speaking +of Mill's notable allowance that, on the whole, +men could not do better than try to imitate the +life of Christ. +</p> + +<p> +"But," urged Donovan, "however much one +may resolve to do so, I find endless difficulties +when it comes to actual practice. Take this, +for instance—I wish to find what is Christ's law +of forgiveness, and am met with such contradictions +as these: I am first told to offer the other +cheek, to let my cloak follow my coat, not to +resist evil. I am told another time to bring +the matter before witnesses, before the church, +and, if all is of no avail, to let my enemy be to +me as a heathen man and a publican. How do +you explain that?" +</p> + +<p> +"I think the first referred to injuries received +by a Christian from an unbeliever, the second to +injuries received from a fellow-Christian," said +Charles Osmond. +</p> + +<p> +"Then what is an atheist to do when injured +by a Christian?" asked Donovan. "I will tell +you the actual case, and then you will see the +difficulty. A certain cousin of mine has +defrauded me of my property. I have actual +proof, though unfortunately not legal proof, +that he destroyed my father's last will; he +then married my mother, and when I came of +age coolly turned me out of the house without +a farthing. He now lives on my estate, spends +my money, enjoys himself thoroughly, as far as +I know, and kindly condescends to make me an +allowance of £100 a year, though the wretch +knows that I know of his villainy." +</p> + +<p> +"You can't bring an action against him?" +</p> + +<p> +"Unfortunately not. It is too great a risk. +There is only one living witness of the destroyed +will, and the expenses of a lawsuit would +be enormous. Now, what I want to know is, +what you expect me to feel towards that man?" +</p> + +<p> +"It is a hard case," said Charles Osmond. +"I should like to know what you do feel." +</p> + +<p> +"All I have been able to do is to will to +think of him as little as possible. When I do +think of him, I confess that I often get red-hot +with indignation. Happily, I've plenty of work +and need not dwell on it, so that except twice +a year, when his beggarly cheques come in, I +nearly forget his existence. If this is letting +him be to me a heathen and a publican, I have +so far fulfilled the Christian law, but——" +</p> + +<p> +"Ah! yes, I'm glad you put in a but," said +Charles Osmond. "For though, after you have +done all in your power to reconcile and win +back your enemy, you are told to leave him, +and have no more to do with him, you must +remember that that command pre-supposes that +you are a Christian, and therefore one who +loves all men, who recognizes the universal +brotherhood, who tries to imitate the One who +makes his sun to shine on the evil as well as +on the good. The very first principles of +Christianity show that you must love this man, +though he is your enemy, and though it may +be best for you to have no personal communication +with him." +</p> + +<p> +"You mean I must love Ellis Farrant? It is +impossible. You've no conception what a +scoundrel he is. I could horsewhip him with the +greatest pleasure." +</p> + +<p> +"Then, of course, you have not forgiven him?" +</p> + +<p> +"No, I have not," said Donovan, emphatically. +"And I don't see how you can expect me +to while every day the fellow is adding to his +sin, while every day he's defrauding me of my +own." +</p> + +<p> +"You must not think me hard on you," said +Charles Osmond. "Your feeling is exceedingly +natural, and I think perhaps you can't get +much further than this until you believe in God. +It was Christ who taught us what real +forgiveness is. Now you tell me that although you +do not believe in God, and regard Christ merely +as a very good man, yet you consider the ideal +God as a very beautiful ideal." +</p> + +<p> +"Yes," said Donovan. +</p> + +<p> +"Well, then, just listen to me while I put +your words as though they were spoken by the +ideal God. 'This man is mine, I caused him to +be, gave him all that he possesses, he owes me +love and obedience, for years he has defrauded +me of both, defrauded me of my due, and he +has done it wilfully. I am full of indignation, +and I will not to think of him any more. To +love him is impossible, he is a perfect scoundrel, +and every day he is adding to his sin.' The +God in whom I believe did not speak like +this; you will allow that if He had thus spoken +He would not have been an ideal God at all. +Instead of thinking of the rights of which He had +been defrauded, He thought first of the child of +His who was defrauding Him, how miserable +his existence was in reality, how everything +was distorted to his view so that he had even +lost sight of their original relationship, and +regarded his Father as an angry tyrant. +Somehow the child must be made to understand +that although it had sinned, its Father, +being its Father, was only longing to forgive +it, to break down the barrier which had risen +between them. He revealed His wonderful love +in such a way that the simplest could not fail +to see it, His forgiveness was there, waiting for +all who would take it. It was not a forgiveness +to be obtained after much pleading, it was +there as a free gift for all who had the least +real and honest wish to be reconciled. That is +the forgiveness of God, and the example which +you must follow." +</p> + +<p> +"It is impossible," said Donovan, with sad +emphasis. +</p> + +<p> +"Perhaps it may be until you have realised +what God has forgiven you." +</p> + +<p> +"But how am I to love what is hateful?" +</p> + +<p> +"I never asked you to." +</p> + +<p> +"The man is utterly hateful, a lying, deceitful, +hypocritical knave." +</p> + +<p> +"No man is altogether evil, there is latent +good in him that you cannot perceive. I don't +ask you to love the evil in him, but to love him +because he is a man. He is your brother +whether you will or not, and if you want to +imitate Christ you must love him." +</p> + +<p> +Donovan shook his head, and sighed. +</p> + +<p> +"It's no good, I can hardly make myself +even wish to love him; it's somehow against +one's sense of justice." +</p> + +<p> +"'Though justice be thy plea, consider this, +that in the course of justice none of us should see +salvation,'" quoted Charles Osmond, smiling. +"But don't think I am speaking easily of the +thing, forgiveness is hard, in a case like yours +it is frightfully hard. I have merely told you +what I consider ideal forgiveness, if you aim at +the highest you will often and often fall short +of the mark." +</p> + +<p> +"The worst of it is this struggling to copy +the life of Christ is such frightfully discouraging +work," said Donovan. "The more one tries +the harder it gets, and one is always coming to +some new demand which it is almost impossible +to meet." +</p> + +<p> +"Did you ever climb in Alp?" asked Charles +Osmond. "As you get higher you find it +harder work, the air is more rarefied, the way +more abrupt; but when you reach the summit, +what do you care for all the labour? The +work was weary, but the end was worth all! +When the full vision breaks upon us——" he +paused, and there was a minute's silence, but the +light in his face was more eloquent than words. +</p> + +<p> +"If there be a summit and a vision," said +Donovan, in a low voice. +</p> + +<p> +"Though it tarry, wait for it," was Charles +Osmond's answer. +</p> + +<p> +After that they passed to matters nearer the +surface, and before long Brian came down, and +tae three drew in their chairs to the fire, and +sat smoking and talking till late in the +evening. Charles Osmond had, in spite of his +harassing life, kept a wonderful reserve fund of +high spirits, and just now in the relief of +having to do with one so honest and high-minded +as Donovan he forgot the hundred and +one cares of his parish, and was the life of the +party. His comical anecdotes, told in the +raciest way imaginable, drew forth shouts of +laughter from the listeners, and, feeling +convinced that Donovan did not often exercise his +lungs in that way, he kept up an almost +ceaseless flow of the very wittiest talk. A great +love of fun and a certain absence of conventional +decorum proved the nationality of the Osmonds, +but it was with something far beyond +the sense of good fellowship that Donovan went +home that night; he was cheered and amused +certainly, but the home-like reception at the +clergyman's house had already widened him +and softened his clerical antipathies, while his +growing admiration for Charles Osmond did +him a world of good. +</p> + +<p> +Who does not know the absolute delight of +intercourse with a greater mind, the enthusiasm +which springs from the mere fact of looking up +to another, the inspiriting sense of being +bettered, raised, stimulated to fresh exertion? +</p> + +<p> +Cut off by his act of self-sacrifice from the +Tremain household, and with poor old Rouge +Frewin for his sole companion, Donovan was +in great need of friends whom he could revere +as well as love; the Osmonds were exactly +fitted to meet his need, and perhaps for that +reason the friendship deepened and strengthened +very rapidly, +</p> + +<p> +After he had left that evening the father and +son lingered over the fire, indulging a little in +that general habit of discussing the departed +guest. +</p> + +<p> +"Wasn't it rare to hear him laugh?" said +Brian. "I'd no idea he'd such a lot of fun in +him. His hatred of the clergy will die a natural +death now that he has got to know you! It +was the biggest joke to see the way in which +every now and then he chanced to notice your +tie, and received a sort of shock realising that +you actually were one of the hated class." +</p> + +<p> +"It is hardly to be wondered at," said Charles +Osmond. "We clergy are terribly apt to +forget that we must follow St. Paul and try to be +'all things to all men.' I should like to know +how many parsons have said so much as a kind +word to that fellow, who must have been nominally +under the charge of some one all his life. +Our beautiful parochial system is fearfully apt +to degenerate into a mere skeleton." +</p> + +<p> +"What do you think? will he come round? or +will he always be an agnostic?" +</p> + +<p> +"I cannot tell," said Charles Osmond, with a +sigh, "he seems to be living with all his might +up to the light he has, but he is not the sort of +man to change rapidly, and his private history +is all against it. An atheist shamefully wronged +by those who call themselves Christians cannot +but feel that he has a strong case against +Christianity." +</p> + +<p> +"But he will never rest satisfied with what +he has got," said Brian. "His very face tells +that he knows he is incomplete." +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, he knows that," said Charles Osmond. +"In talking to him to-night I couldn't help +thinking of Browning's description of the grand +old ship dismasted and storm-battered, but still +bearing on, with something in her infinite +possibilities which raised her above the mere +lifeboats, +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + "Make perfect your good ship as these,<br> + And what were her performances!"<br> +</p> + +<p><br></p> + +<p> +"And yet you doubt whether he will be +perfected?" said Brian. +</p> + +<p> +"Never!" exclaimed Charles Osmond, +warmly. "I never said so! That he will be the +grand character he was meant to be I have not +a doubt, but whether he will be anything but +an agnostic in <i>this</i> world God only knows." +</p> + +<p> +No more was said. Brian fell to thinking of +all the contradictory statements about the +Eternities, his father returned to the almost +ceaseless intercession which was the undercurrent +of his exceedingly practical life. Highly +illogical, according to Raeburn, and a great +mistake according to others, as most of the +intercessions were for those whom a righteously +indignant Christian once denounced as "<i>past</i> +praying for"! But to him it was a necessity of +life; one of the world's sin-bearers, he would +long ago have sunk under the burden if he had +tried to bear it alone. As it was, how <i>could</i> he +be intolerant, how <i>could</i> he be uncharitable? +For were not the nineteenth century "publicans +and sinners" among the strongest of his bonds +of union with the Unseen? He was one of those +who cannot help caring more for the lost sheep +than for the ninety and nine in the fold, and +though he was by no means inclined weakly to +condone sin, or to make light of it, no one had +ever heard him denounce a sinner, or speak a +harsh word of any whom society had condemned. +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<p><a id="chap11"></a></p> + +<h2> +CHAPTER XI. +<br><br> +CONTRASTED LOVERS. +</h2> + +<p class="intro"> + What we love perfectly, for its own sake<br> + We love, and not our own, being ready thus<br> + Whate'er self-sacrifice is ask'd to make;<br> + That which is best for it is best for us.<br> + R. SOUTHEY.<br> +</p> + +<p><br></p> + +<p> +Stephen Causton did not return to the +hospital till March. Coming home one +afternoon, Donovan found the sitting-room in +some confusion, scraps of newspaper and +dilapidated note-books scattered about here and +there, and a yawning space in the book-shelves +which Stephen's books had hitherto occupied. +</p> + +<p> +"Hullo! has Causton been in?" he asked old +Rouge, who, with a somewhat disturbed air, +was sitting over the fire with his long clay pipe. +</p> + +<p> +"I don't know if that's his name," replied the +old captain, in an offended tone, "but a +tallow-faced, bumptious lad has been here making no +end of dust and noise, carrying off your books, +too, for aught I know." +</p> + +<p> +"No, no, they were his own," said Donovan, +laughing. "But tell me about him, captain. +Did he ask for me? did he leave no message?" +</p> + +<p> +"Not he," said Rouge, angrily. "He walked +in as coolly as if the place belonged to him, +rowed the landlady for not having his +things ready packed, and pitched the books +into a carpet bag as if they were so many +pebbles. Then, facing round on me without so +much as lifting his hat, he said, 'I suppose you +are a friend of Farrant's?' There was a sneer +in his voice, and my blood got up as I said I +had the honour to be your friend, and that it +was an honour the best in the land might covet." +</p> + +<p> +Donovan laughed prodigiously. Rouge continued, +</p> + +<p> +"At that he sneered again, and said, 'You +needn't preach about his virtues; I know a little +more about him than you do.' 'Indeed!' said +I, hotly; 'then I wonder the knowledge hasn't +improved your manners.' 'I might return the +compliment,' he said. 'But of course living +with a knave like Farrant is enough to +contaminate anyone.' At that, milord, I sprang up +and thundered at him. I wasn't going to sit +still and hear you libelled, and, if you'll believe +it, the coward turned as white as a sheet when +I challenged him." +</p> + +<p> +"By Jove!" said Donovan. "You don't mean +you really did? His mother will never get +over it." +</p> + +<p> +"He won't come poking his nose in here again +in a hurry," said Rouge, with satisfaction. "He +skulked off at double quick time, muttering that +duelling days were over." +</p> + +<p> +"Well, I agree with him there," said Donovan, +"though it was good of you all the same, +captain, to stand up for me as you did." +</p> + +<p> +"As if I could help it," said old Rouge, with +tears in his eyes. "It's not likely I should let +that scamp have his say out without putting in +my word. I flatter myself he has heard more +home truths to-day than in all his priggish +young life before. How does he come to hate +you so, milord?" +</p> + +<p> +"He has done a shabby thing by me," said +Donovan, "and that's the surest way in the +world to make him hate me. But we won't +rake it all up again; he can't do us any good, +and he's already done me all the harm he can." +</p> + +<p> +But, though he would not speak any more of +Stephen, the thought of him would not be +banished. He had come straight from +Porthkerran, might have told him something of +Gladys, might possibly have brought him one +of the unanswerable letters from Mrs. Tremain +or the doctor, or at least a message. And then +he could not help wondering at the extraordinary +malice of his gratuitous insults. Had his +weak and distorted mind really worked itself +into the belief that he was the wronged one? +What account would reach Porthkerran of his +stormy interview with the old captain? Something +tremendous might, without much difficulty, +be twisted and squeezed out of the truth. Here +was another case demanding Charles Osmond's +ideal forgiveness. But he was nearer forgiving +Stephen than Ellis, because he had a great deal +of pity for him; besides, the consciousness that +he might have cleared himself by exposing +Stephen was in itself of a more softening nature +than the terribly irritating sense that Ellis had +him very unjustly in his power. +</p> + +<p> +Brian Osmond did not fail to notice that Causton, +who had been formerly Donovan's companion, +now cut him entirely. When he had heard +the true explanation, his righteous indignation +was pleasant to see. He came constantly to +York Road for the sake of reading with +Donovan, and before long had become really fond of +the poor old captain, while Waif and Sweepstakes, +with their touching devotion to their +respective masters, added a sort of picturesqueness +to that curiously-assorted group. In the +summer vacation Brian persuaded Donovan to +take a real holiday. The two years of unbroken +work added to his private troubles were +beginning to tell on him; he looked worn and +fagged, but brightened up at the suggestion of +taking a walking-tour with his friend. They +set off together in August, had a glorious tramp +through Derbyshire and the West Riding of +Yorkshire, roughing it to an enjoyable extent, +and both coming back to town all the better +for their outing, and as inseparable in their +friendship as David and Jonathan. +</p> + +<p> +It was not, however, until late in the autumn +that Brian learnt even the existence of Gladys. +</p> + +<p> +One November evening his well-known knock +at the house in York Road roused old Rouge +from his after-dinner nap. Donovan, who was +stretched at full length on the hearthrug, was +so entirely absorbed in some of the abstruse +speculations which now very often occupied him +that he heard nothing, and did not stir till Brian +was fairly in the room. +</p> + +<p> +"Hullo! doing the <i>dolce far niente</i> for once," +he said, laughing. "Who would have thought +of catching you away from the books?" +</p> + +<p> +"Comes from the effects of Yorkshire air," said +Donovan, getting up and stretching himself. +But the real fact was that he was beginning +now to dare to allow himself brief intervals of +rest, his thoughts did not wander so hopelessly +to Porthkerran, his work instinctively slackened +a little, he worked as well—perhaps better—but +less furiously, and without the sense that +relaxation was, above all things, to be distrusted +and avoided. +</p> + +<p> +"I've got a spare ticket for Gale's lecture at +St. James's Hall," said Brian, "will you come +with me?" +</p> + +<p> +"Who's Gale? I never heard of him." +</p> + +<p> +"What, you a teetotaler and never heard of +Gale! why, he's the great champion of +temperance, and a first-rate speaker!" +</p> + +<p> +"Better take the captain," said Donovan, +half in earnest as he glanced round at the sofa; +but Rouge had already fallen asleep again. "It +would be no good, I'm afraid." +</p> + +<p> +"Poor old fellow," said Brian, "has he had +another outbreak?" +</p> + +<p> +"Yes," replied Donovan, "and his brain is +too fuddled now to take in anything; it would +be no use taking him, he'd only be asleep in two +minutes. I somehow make an awful failure of +keeping other folk in order." +</p> + +<p> +"Rather an unmanageable couple, yours," +said Brian, "I wonder what Gale would say to +a case like the captain's." +</p> + +<p> +"Incurable," said Donovan. "He means +well, but his power of will has gone. I used +to think he might conquer it, but the more I see +of him the more I doubt it. I can do nothing +for him except help to make his remorse keener +each time, for he thinks his outbreaks are a +personal injury to me; and then we have any +amount of maudlin tears and good resolutions +never to do it again—till the next time." +</p> + +<p> +He sighed. +</p> + +<p> +"Poor old fellow," said Brian, "you were +never meant to have such an old man of the +sea tacked on to you. I like to fancy the +different mortal you'll be by-and-by when you settle +down with your ideal wife, home, and practice." +</p> + +<p> +"Ideal humbug!" exclaimed Donovan, with a +short laugh, in which there lurked more pain +than merriment. "Come on, what time does +the Gale begin?" +</p> + +<p> +They walked off arm-in-arm, and were early +enough to secure front seats in the balcony +close to the platform. Donovan seemed in +good spirits, he leant forward with his arms +on the crimson velvet rail making comments on +the audience below, classifying them into rabid +teetotalers, sensible supporters of the cause, +and merely fashionable adherents. A sudden +exclamation of surprise from Brian put a stop, +however, to his ease. +</p> + +<p> +"Why, who would have thought it! there's +Causton in one of the stalls. What could have +brought him here? Don't you see him? To +the left there, talking to that pretty girl." +</p> + +<p> +Donovan, looked and saw only too plainly +Stephen and Mrs Causton, and between them +Gladys. +</p> + +<p> +Yes, she was there, not a hundred yards from +him, her pure, fresh, child-like face not in the +least altered! he remembered an old fancy of +his that she was like a blush rose; she looked +very flower-like now in that crowd of London +faces. For a minute he watched her quite +calmly, then, strong man as he was, a deathly +pallor stole over his face, he drew back with an +uncontrollable shudder. +</p> + +<p> +"Look here, I must go," he said to Brian, +and without further explanation he made +his way along the balcony. In another moment +he felt sure his eyes must draw hers, there +always had been a strange magnetism between +them without any conscious willing on his part. +It would never do for her to see him, he must +leave at once. +</p> + +<p> +Brian, not liking his looks, followed him out +of the hall; he seemed as if he were walking in +his sleep, never pausing for an instant, noting +nothing, and yet passing all obstacles. At the +head of the staircase Brian linked his arm within +his, they went down silently into the street. +There Donovan seemed to come to himself +again, his rigid face relaxed, the strange glassy +look left his eyes, and for the first time he +realised that he was not alone. +</p> + +<p> +"What, you here, old fellow!" he exclaimed. +"Don't let me lose you your lecture." +</p> + +<p> +"All right," said Brian. "I don't care about +it. You're in some trouble, Donovan—don't +pretend, now, that you're not. Was it that you +saw Causton with that girl?" +</p> + +<p> +"In a way, yes—I mean it was the seeing +her at all," said Donovan, incoherently. "Come +on quick, only let us get out into the open, +away from these houses." +</p> + +<p> +"You don't imagine he's in love with her?" +said Brian. "Causton's an awfully cold-blooded +creature; it's not at all in his line, I should think." +</p> + +<p> +"I don't know," gasped Donovan; "it—it +won't make much difference to me." +</p> + +<p> +"Why?" asked Brian, boldly. They were +both by nature reserved men, but their +friendship was real and strong, and Brian knew +intuitively that he had touched the secret spring +of Donovan's trouble, and that, unless he could +get him to speak of it now, a barrier would +always be between them; so he spoke out +boldly that monosyllable—"Why?" +</p> + +<p> +"Because," answered Donovan, in a quick, +agitated way—"because, years ago, I made up +my mind not to see her again. It's impossible—it +can't be—I'm a fool to be so shaken just +by the sight of her." +</p> + +<p> +"Has she refused you?" +</p> + +<p> +He turned his strangely powerful eyes full +on Brian's face at the question, and answered, +with a sort of indignation, +</p> + +<p> +"Do you think I am fit to ask Gladys Tremain +to be my wife?" +</p> + +<p> +There was something grand in his humility. +Brian could only mentally ejaculate, "You +splendid fellow! you're fit to ask a queen +among women." But he was carried away by +his enthusiasm, and he could not but own that +there was truth in Donovan's next speech. +</p> + +<p> +"It could never be—there could be no real +union between us. It's all very well in the +way of friendship; you and I can rub up against +each other's differences without any hurt, but +when it comes to anything nearer, it doesn't +do. I've tried, and it's torture—torture that +I'll never bring to her." +</p> + +<p> +"Is Causton her cousin?" +</p> + +<p> +"No, but a two generations' friend." +</p> + +<p> +"I should dearly like to give him a piece of +my mind," said Brian. "However, of course +she'll have nothing to say to such a fellow." +</p> + +<p> +"There are times when I could wish she +would," said Donovan, hoarsely. "Not now, +though—not just now." +</p> + +<p> +"My dear fellow, that's rather too strong," +said Brian. "Even I, a mere stranger, can see +that she's miles above him." +</p> + +<p> +"Of course," said Donovan; "but it might +save her from worse pain." +</p> + +<p> +"Well, if Miss Tremain knows you, and has +any idea that you care for her, her face must +belie her strangely if she could turn to a fellow +like Causton." +</p> + +<p> +"She does not know I love her—at least, I +hope not." +</p> + +<p> +"You old brick of a Roman! I can quite +fancy how you would hide it all." +</p> + +<p> +There was a silence after that. They had +reached the Embankment, and Donovan seemed +to lose the sense of oppression, and to breathe +freely again. Presently he turned to Brian, +speaking quite in his natural voice. +</p> + +<p> +"Well, I'm sorry to have lost you your +lecture, but I'm not sorry that you know about +this, which is more than I could say to anyone +else in the world. I must get to work quickly, +or the blue devils will get the better of me. +Come back too, won't you, and we'll have a +grind at Niemeyer." +</p> + +<p> +So they went back to the York Road lodgings +together. The old captain was too stupid to +notice them, but Waif was unusually demonstrative, +and even as he read Brian noticed that +Donovan kept his arm round the dog, while +Waif tried to put all his devotion into the soft +warm tongue with which he licked his master's +hand. Trouble had an odd way of drawing +those two together. +</p> + +<p> +Brian went home that night with much +questioning going on in his mind. He honoured +Donovan for his conduct, and yet regretted +very much that he should be thus cut off from +one who must have had so much influence over +him. He could not help seeing the matter from +his friend's side, whereas Donovan thought +only how it would affect Gladys. +</p> + +<p> +Little indeed did Gladys think, as she sat in +the crowded hall, that she was so near Donovan. +Though she was actually thinking of him, it +never occurred to her that he might be there. +Instead she was recollecting some of their +discussions at Porthkerran on this temperance +question, and recalling his stories of the old +captain who had nursed him in his illness, and +had with great devotedness managed to keep +really sober at Monaco, in case "the Frenchmen" +should poison his patient! +</p> + +<p> +She was not very happy just now, poor +child. They had fancied that she needed +change of air, and Mrs. Causton had been +charmed to have her at Richmond for a few +weeks, in the same little villa which they had +rented four years ago. But the change did her +more harm than good, for the Causton +atmosphere was oppressive, and the consciousness +that Stephen was in the way of seeing Donovan +every day, added to the impossibility of +hearing anything about him, was almost more +than she could endure. She found herself +losing self-control, and drifting into more +constant thoughts of Donovan than she considered +right; nor were her feminine occupations so +helpful in the difficult mental battle as his +mind-engrossing studies. +</p> + +<p> +As they went home that night from John +Gale's lecture, it chanced that for the first time +since her arrival Donovan's name was mentioned. +</p> + +<p> +"What a pity you could not have done good +for evil," sighed Mrs. Causton, "and induced +that poor drunkard who challenged you in the +spring to come to this lecture. I fear there is +no chance that Donovan Farrant would take +him to hear such a man." +</p> + +<p> +"I should rather think not," said Stephen, +unpleasantly. +</p> + +<p> +"Oh! but he is a great temperance advocate," +said Gladys, thankful that in the darkness her +burning cheeks could not be noticed. +</p> + +<p> +"He was, my dear," said Mrs. Causton, +markedly, "but you must remember he is greatly +changed since you knew him, and he is living +with a most disreputable companion." +</p> + +<p> +Her heart beat so indignantly at this that she +felt almost choked, but seeing that she was +losing her opportunity she quieted herself with +an effort, and asked gravely, but quite naturally, +</p> + +<p> +"Donovan is still at the hospital, I suppose? +Do you see anything of him now?" +</p> + +<p> +"I see him," said Stephen, "but of course +we're not on speaking terms." +</p> + +<p> +"It is much better that you should have +nothing more to do with him," said Mrs. Causton +solemnly, and she added a text which +seemed to her appropriate, but which drove +Gladys into a white hot passion—dumb perforce. +</p> + +<p> +All this time she was far too much absorbed +to notice an impending danger. The days +dragged on slowly, she cared for the visits, +picture-galleries, and concerts only in so far as +they brought her into closer proximity with +St. Thomas's. However angry she might be with +herself at night for having allowed her thoughts +too much liberty, the following day always +found her with the same unexpressed but +unquenchable longing. Nothing but the +heart-sickness brought by that long-deferred hope +could have blinded her to the fact that Stephen's +half boyish admiration was re-awaking, that his +attentions were disagreeable and obtrusive, that +he was as much in love with her as it was +possible for such a man to be. But, as it was, she +noticed nothing, she only wearied intensely of +the long evenings, when Stephen tried to +enliven them, and of the long mornings when she +was alone with Mrs. Causton; of the two she +disliked the evenings least, but merely because +there was a chance of hearing the one name she +cared to hear. +</p> + +<p> +It came upon her like a thunderclap at last. +One Saturday morning she was sitting in the +little drawing-room, writing to her mother, when +Stephen, who had no lectures that day, sauntered +into the room. He began an aimless conversation, +she was a little cross, for it seemed as +if he might go on for ever, and she wanted to +write. After enduring half an hour of it she +grew impatient. +</p> + +<p> +"Let me finish this, Stephen, or it will be too +late for the post," she said. "We are to go out +after lunch, you know." +</p> + +<p> +"You grudge me the one free morning I +have," said Stephen, reproachfully, "but listen +to me a minute longer, Gladys, for days I have +been waiting to find an opportunity of speaking +to you. I think you must have seen that I love +you, that all I care for is to please you, will +you say that you will try to love me?—won't +you try, dear?" +</p> + +<p> +In spite of Gladys' surprise and dismay she +had hard work to suppress a smile, a wicked +sprite seemed to chant in her ear the refrain of +the song in "Alice in Wonderland," +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + "Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, will you join the<br> + dance."<br> +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +She found herself going on with the parody in +a sort of dream, instead of giving Stephen his +answer. +</p> + +<p> +He was far on in a second and more vehement +statement of his case before she fully recovered +her senses; then at once the true womanly +unselfish Gladys hastened to check him. +</p> + +<p> +"Hush, Stephen," she said, quietly, but with +a touch of dignity in her tone. "Please do not +say any more of this. I am very, very sorry if +you have misunderstood me in any way, we +are such old friends, you see; but indeed it +could never be as you wish—never." +</p> + +<p> +"You don't know what you are saying," he +cried. "You are ruining all my life, all my +happiness. Surely you won't be so utterly +cruel? I will wait any length of time, if only +you will think it over—if only you will try to +love me." +</p> + +<p> +"If I waited fifty years, it would make no +difference," said Gladys. "I can never love +you, never, never. Don't think me unkind to +speak so plainly. It is better to be true than +to let you have false hopes." +</p> + +<p> +"Then you love some one else," said Stephen, +in a voice in which despair and malice were +strangely mingled, "That is what makes you +so positive, so merciless." +</p> + +<p> +Gladys' eyes flashed. +</p> + +<p> +"I might well be angry with you, Stephen, +for daring to say that, but since you wish it I +will tell you quite plainly why I cannot love you +in the way you wish. The man I love must be +true and strong, faithful to his friends, and +merciful to his enemies, he must be so noble +and self-denying that I shall be able to look up +to him as my head—my lord—as naturally in the +lesser degree as I look to Christ in the greater." +</p> + +<p> +"If you set up an ideal character like that, of +course I've no chance," said Stephen, with a +very crestfallen air. +</p> + +<p> +"It is not I who set it up," said Gladys, a +little impatiently. "Have you forgotten what +St. Paul said? Oh! Stephen, I don't want to +vex you more than I need, but indeed, indeed +you must not speak of this again." +</p> + +<p> +"It is all very well to talk about not vexing +me, but you are taking away every hope I +have," said Stephen, petulantly. "You girls +will never learn how much you have in your +power. With you to help me, I might perhaps +grow better, become the paragon of perfection +you wish, but if you turn away from me——" +</p> + +<p> +He paused. It did not strike Gladys just at +that minute what a strange manner of making +love it was, but her clear common sense showed +her that to yield to such an argument—even +had it been possible—would have been +exceedingly foolish. +</p> + +<p> +"You may be right, Stephen," she answered. +"Perhaps we have more in our power than we +know, but I don't think it ever can be right for +a woman to marry one whom she cannot look +up to. You and I have been friends—old +playfellows—for years, but, though of course I wish +still to be your friend, I can't say that I very +much respect you. Don't think I want you to +be a paragon of perfection, but after last autumn +I don't think you can expect——" +</p> + +<p> +He interrupted her. +</p> + +<p> +"It is cruel to bring up past mistakes against me." +</p> + +<p> +"I don't wish to, but I am afraid, till you can +think of them as something deeper than mistakes, +you will yourself often remind us of them. +How can you really forsake them till you are +really sorry?" +</p> + +<p> +"You are very hard on me," said Stephen. +"You forget what excuse I had; you forget +that I was left alone with Donovan Farrant, +that he led me into temptation." +</p> + +<p> +He hardly knew what he was saying, for he +was very desperate in his intense selfishness, +but he had just enough shame left to flush a +little as the untruth passed his lips. +</p> + +<p> +Gladys' eyes seemed to search him through +and through. There was a moment's silence. +Then, with a little quiver of indignation in her +voice, she said, gravely, +</p> + +<p> +"You are telling a lie, Stephen, and you +know it." +</p> + +<p> +He did not attempt to exculpate himself, he +was too thoroughly abashed. When he looked +up again in a minute or two he found that she +had left the room. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Causton was too genuinely good a woman +to resent Gladys' refusal of her son, but at +the same time it was such a bitter disappointment +to her that it was impossible she should +be quite just and kind to her visitor. +</p> + +<p> +"You see, my dear," she kept urging, as she +sat beside the sofa in Gladys' bed-room, "though +you may be quite right to refuse dear Stephen, +yet, humanly speaking, you did seem so exactly +fitted to make the real helpmeet for him." +</p> + +<p> +Gladys was by no means selfish, but she did +not think it either right or necessary to sacrifice +herself so entirely on the altar of the well-being +of Mrs. Causton's only son, she could only +repeat that she was very sorry, but it was quite +impossible, and entreat Mrs. Causton to let her +go home at once. However, it was too late to +think of going down to Cornwall that day, and +the next day was Sunday, so she had time +enough to be exceedingly miserable, and to +long unspeakably for her mother before the +happy moment of her departure arrived. She +was so much relieved to be away from the +Caustons that she could have sung from mere +lightness of heart when her train had actually +started, but Mrs. Causton had put her in charge +of an elderly lady, so she had to discuss the +weather, and make herself agreeable instead. +</p> + +<p> +That night in her mother's room she forgot +all her trouble, however, in the delicious +peacefulness which seemed always to come in those +evening talks. And as they sat hand in hand +in their own particular nook on the +old-fashioned sofa, Mrs. Tremain gradually won +from Gladys not only the history of her visit to +the Caustons, but much that had never passed +her lips before. Her mother had long ago +guessed what was the secret of her trouble; she +had said nothing because she thought silence +the best cure; but now—being her mother—she +knew that the time for speaking had come, and +very wisely and tenderly she met Gladys' shy +confidence half way. Then, when all was told, +she sat thinking for a minute or two in silence, +while Gladys nestled more closely to her, too +tired to think at all, but tracing in an aimless +sort of way the ivy-pattern chintz of the +well-known sofa cover. +</p> + +<p> +"I think, little girl, that the truth of it is +this," said Mrs. Tremain at last, "I think you +had a good deal of influence with Donovan, +you were almost the first woman he had known +well, and you were a good deal thrown +together. For the present he has passed away out +of our lives, you know how sorry I am for it, +it is quite his own doing; but whether the +separation is for ever or not, I think you may +have this comfort, that whatever in your love +was true and unselfish will not be wasted, but +will always last. I do not think it very likely +that he will come here again, and even if he +did you would perhaps find it all quite different +and have a cold waking from your dream." +</p> + +<p> +"Then ought I not to think of him?" +</p> + +<p> +"I think you should not allow yourself to +believe that he is in love with you. No woman +has a right to think that till a man has +actually asked her to be his wife. Put away the +selfish side of the question altogether, but don't +make yourself miserable by trying to kill the +spiritual part of it. However much you have +been mistaken there was most likely a bit of +the real truth in your love; don't be afraid of +keeping that, no one need be ashamed of the +pure, spiritual, endless side of love, and I should +be sorry to think that Donovan should be +defrauded of it; you may do more for him even +now, Gladys, than you think." +</p> + +<p> +"If we could only find out the truth," sighed +Gladys. "I am sure Stephen has somehow +misled us." +</p> + +<p> +"I would not worry about that," replied +Mrs. Tremain. "You can't sift that matter to the +bottom, and I don't think it is very good for you +to dwell upon it. Only be quite sure of this, +that the more pure and unselfish and trustful +you try to become the better you will be able +to help him, even if you never see him again. +The side of love you must cultivate does not +depend upon sight, or time, or place. Have +I been too hard on you, little one? Does it +seem very difficult?" +</p> + +<p> +"It is always hard to be good," said Gladys, +with the child-like look in her face which had +first awakened Donovan's love; "but I will +try, and you will help me, mother. I'm so glad +you know." +</p> + +<p> +In another hour she was sleeping as peacefully +as little Nesta; but her mother had a very +wakeful night, thinking over the future of her +child, and grieving over Donovan's defection. +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<p><a id="chap12"></a></p> + +<h2> +CHAPTER XII. +<br><br> +"LAME DOGS OVER STILES." +</h2> + +<p class="intro"> + We cannot kindle when we will<br> + The fire which in the heart resides;<br> + The spirit bloweth and is still,<br> + In mystery our soul abides.<br> + But tasks in hours of insight will'd<br> + Can be through hours of gloom fulfill'd.<br> +</p> + +<p class="intro"> + With aching hands and bleeding feet<br> + We dig and heap, lay stone on stone;<br> + We bear the burden and the heat<br> + Of the long day, and wish 't were done.<br> + Not till the hours of light return,<br> + All we have built do we discern.<br> + MATTHEW ARNOLD.<br> +</p> + +<p><br></p> + +<p> +"There's been a scrap of a child here +asking for you," said the old captain to +Donovan, as they returned to their rooms one +evening after dining at a restaurant. "I +couldn't make out what she wanted, but she's +been here twice to see if you weren't come +home." +</p> + +<p> +"What sort of child?" +</p> + +<p> +"Oh! a shabby-looking little lass. She +wouldn't tell me what she wanted with you, +only she must see Mr. Farrant, and when +would he be in." +</p> + +<p> +"She'll turn up again, I suppose," said +Donovan. "I'm pretty free this evening; shall +we do those slides?" +</p> + +<p> +Old Rouge had lately developed a most +satisfactory love for the microscope, and +whenever it was possible Donovan asked his help +over it, or awakened his interest in some new +specimen to be seen. There were now actually +three things in the world besides himself and +his toddy which the old captain cared +for—Donovan, Sweepstakes, and the microscope. +He loved them all exceedingly in his odd way, +and, on the whole, the year which he had +spent in York Road was almost the happiest +year of his life. +</p> + +<p> +They were hard at work with their slides, +specimens, and Canada balsam when the +doorbell rang and the mysterious "child" was +announced. +</p> + +<p> +"Show her in here," said Donovan to the +landlady. +</p> + +<p> +"Indeed, sir, she ain't fit," returned the +woman. "It's a-pouring with rain, and she be +that wet and dirty." +</p> + +<p> +Donovan frowned the frown of a Republican, +deposited his section of the brain of a gorilla +in a safe place, and went out into the passage. +The smallest little white-faced child imaginable +stood on the mat; the rain had soaked her, +the water dripped down from her dark hair, +from her ragged shawl, from her indescribably-draggled +skirt; she looked the picture of misery. +</p> + +<p> +"Come in and dry yourself by the fire," said +Donovan, and the small elf, too frightened to +refuse, followed him into the sitting-room. The +old captain bowed to her as gallantly as if she +had been a princess, Waif sniffed at her wet +frock and yielded up his place in front of the +fender, Donovan drew a stool for her on to the +hearthrug, and the elf sat down and instinctively +spread out her frozen fingers to the blaze. +</p> + +<p> +"You wanted to see me?" asked Donovan. +"What was it about?" +</p> + +<p> +"Please it was father, sir." +</p> + +<p> +"What is your father's name?" +</p> + +<p> +"Smith, sir, and please he's very ill with +something in his inside, and he wants to see you." +</p> + +<p> +"But I'm not a doctor; he must get the +parish doctor." +</p> + +<p> +"Oh! please, it isn't for his inside he wants +you," said the elf, looking frightened. +</p> + +<p> +"What does he want?" +</p> + +<p> +"Please I don't know, but he said I was to +ask Mr. Farrant to come." +</p> + +<p> +"But I don't know your father; he's not +been at St. Thomas's, has he?" +</p> + +<p> +"No, sir, but please do come, for he'll be +dreadful vexed if you don't," and her eyes filled +with tears. +</p> + +<p> +"Don't cry," said Donovan, "I'll come with +you. Is it far? You must show me the way." +</p> + +<p> +They set off together, Donovan taking the +elf under his umbrella to her unspeakable pride +and delight, and Waif soberly trotting at their +heels. +</p> + +<p> +"And how did your father know where I +lived, do you think?" he asked, as they crossed +Westminster Bridge. +</p> + +<p> +"Please he had it all wrote down on a card, +and he can read very well indeed, father can." +</p> + +<p> +Big Ben struck nine, and therewith a +recollection awoke in Donovan's mind, a fierce +struggle which he had once had just on that +spot, a sight of Stephen passing by, a hurried +pursuit to a well-known billiard-saloon, and a +strange recognition of a Cornish face. He had +written his address on a card, of course! He +remembered it perfectly well now. This must +be a message from Trevethan's son. +</p> + +<p> +The elf did not speak again, but led him +down Horseferry Road into one of the most +horrible of the Westminster slums. He took the +precaution of picking up Waif and carrying him +under his arm; he was his only valuable. They +were unmolested, however, and the child, turning +into a forlorn-looking house, led the way up +a steep and dirty staircase, and turning a +door-handle showed Donovan into a perfectly dark +room redolent of tobacco. +</p> + +<p> +"Here's the gentleman, father; give us a +light," she said, groping her way in. +</p> + +<p> +A match was struck, and Donovan could see +by the fitful light a comfortless-looking room, +and in the corner a man propped up in bed with +a short pipe in his hand. The elf produced a +tallow candle, Donovan drew near to the bed, +and at once recognised the billiard-marker. +</p> + +<p> +"I thought the message was from you; I'm +glad you've sent for me at last," he said. +</p> + +<p> +"I thought it was too late," said the man, +"and then when the child found you out, I +thought it was that you wouldn't come. Sit +down;" he pointed to a chair, then went on +speaking in the most absolutely free and easy +tone. "I'm dying, or next door to it, so I +thought I'd like to hear of the old man down at +Porthkerran. He asked you to look out for me, +did he?" +</p> + +<p> +"It was his greatest wish to find you," said +Donovan. "And after you sent him that +five-pound note he told me about you, said he +thought you must be in London, and having +very little idea of the sort of place London is, +he asked me to look for you. You are like him; +I recognised you at once that night." +</p> + +<p> +"No flattery to the poor old man to say I'm +like him," said Trevethan, with a laugh. "This +one is like him, though; come here, little one, +are you wet? it rains, don't it?" +</p> + +<p> +He drew the child towards him, touching her +ragged dress with his thin white hands. +</p> + +<p> +"The gentleman made me dry it by the fire, +and he held his umbrella over me as we comed +back," said the elf. +</p> + +<p> +"Thank you, sir," said Trevethan, a softened +expression playing about his cynical mouth. +"She's a bit of the real Cornish in her, though +London smoke has nearly spoilt it. There, run +away and get your supper, Gladys." +</p> + +<p> +Donovan started and coloured. +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, 'tis a queer name for the likes of her," +observed Trevethan, scanning Donovan's face +curiously with his keen blue eyes. "But I +made up my mind the little one should have +at least one good honest name, though may +be Miss Gladys wouldn't be best pleased to +have her name given to such a poor little brat." +</p> + +<p> +"Oh! yes, she would be very glad to see +that you remembered Porthkerran and still +cared for it," said Donovan. "But it's a pity +to let the poor child grow up here when your +father would be only too glad to have her." +</p> + +<p> +"That's what I wanted you for," said Trevethan. +"Would he be kind to her? is he too +strait-laced to take in my poor little lass? +Some of those religionists are hard as nails, and +I want my little lass to be happy." +</p> + +<p> +"He would be very good to her," said Donovan, +without hesitation. "Your father is one +of the best men I know." +</p> + +<p> +"Odd that he should have such a son, isn't +it?" said Trevethan, trying to laugh. +</p> + +<p> +"Happily the least deserving of us do often +have good fathers," said Donovan, rather +huskily. +</p> + +<p> +Then he listened to the history of the blacksmith's +son, a very sad history, which need not +be written here. The man was now evidently +very ill, not at all fit to be left alone with no +better nurse than his child, but he had fought +against the idea of being moved to a hospital +because he could not endure the thought of +leaving little Gladys alone, or of having her +sent to the workhouse. Donovan offered to +pay her expenses down to Porthkerran, but +even that seemed intolerable to the poor man, +as long as he lived he could not make up his +mind to part with her. Nor would he let +Donovan write to his father. +</p> + +<p> +"Not now. Don't write now," he urged, "it +would only make the old man miserable, wait +till I'm either dead or better. Do you think +there's a chance of my getting better? I should +like to make a fresh start." +</p> + +<p> +"There would be a very good chance for +you if you would go to a hospital, you cannot +be properly nursed here. Think over it, and +I will see whether I can't find some one in +London who would look after your child." +</p> + +<p> +"If she could come to see me," said Trevethan, +wistfully. +</p> + +<p> +So Donovan left, promising to look in again +the next evening and talk things over. +</p> + +<p> +There was evidently no time to be lost, he +thought the matter over as he walked home, +and suddenly arriving at a possible solution of +the difficulty, he turned into the station instead +of going on to York Road, took a ticket to +Gower Street, and was soon making his way to +the Osmonds. +</p> + +<p> +Charles Osmond was at church, but Brian +and Mrs. Osmond wore at home, and were quite +ready to hear the story of the sick man. +</p> + +<p> +"Another <i>protégé</i> for you," said Brian, +laughing, "and of course a ne'er-do-weel." +</p> + +<p> +"Birds of a feather flock together," said +Donovan, smiling. "We've a natural affinity, +you see. The great difficulty is about the child, +I don't know what's to be done with her." +</p> + +<p> +"We might get her into some home," said +Mrs. Osmond. "I know one or two where she +would be happy." +</p> + +<p> +"But she wouldn't be allowed to go and see +her father," said Donovan. "And it would +never do to separate them, the child is the +great hope for him." +</p> + +<p> +"What child is the great hope, and for +whom?" said Charles Osmond, coming into the +room with his peculiarly soft slow step. "Do +I actually hear you, Donovan, discussing such +things as men and children, I thought you were +up to the eyes in work for the exam?" +</p> + +<p> +Donovan told his story. +</p> + +<p> +"You see," he added, at the close. "From +any school or home she would never be allowed +to come out and go to the hospital." +</p> + +<p> +"What's the child's name?" +</p> + +<p> +"Gladys." Then as Brian looked greatly +surprised and Charles Osmond made an exclamation, +he continued,—"Trevethan comes from +Porthkerran, and Miss Tremain is worshipped +down there; she is the tutelary saint of the +place—and he called his child after her." +</p> + +<p> +"Well, I think Gladys had better come to +this home," said Charles Osmond. "What do +you say, mother—will Mrs. Maloney make the +kitchen too hot to hold her?" +</p> + +<p> +"Oh, no, she is much too good-natured." +</p> + +<p> +"But you don't realise, I'm afraid," said +Donovan. "She's the most neglected-looking +little thing altogether, dirty and unkempt, and +too young to be of any use to you." +</p> + +<p> +"She must be an odd child if we don't find +her of use," said Charles Osmond, with a strange +smile in his eyes. "Why, I thought, Donovan, +you were one who believed in the influence of +children." +</p> + +<p> +"For those who want it, yes," said Donovan. +"But——" +</p> + +<p> +"But we don't want it, and are to be left to +ourselves—is that it?" +</p> + +<p> +"She's scarcely fit to come here," said Donovan; +"she's ragged and dirty to a degree." +</p> + +<p> +"Oh, you soul of cleanliness!" said Charles +Osmond, laughing. "Is there not water in the +land of Bloomsbury?—can we not scrub this +blackamoor white? And as to raggedness, it +will be odd if with four women in the house—all +of them longing to be Dorcases—we can't +clothe one poor little elf. Can you get your +man admitted to St. Thomas's?" +</p> + +<p> +"I think so." +</p> + +<p> +"Very well, then, as soon as he is moved +we will be ready to have the little girl." +</p> + +<p> +Donovan went home with the words ringing +in his ears, "A stranger and ye took me in." And +instinctively his thoughts travelled back to +a certain summer day years ago, when, with +muddy, travel-stained clothes, he too had been +taken into a home, ill and penniless and utterly +ignorant of that strange love which had been +revealed to him. He feared it was against the +rules of political economy, and quite against all +worldly wisdom; but however that might be, +such living Christianity had a strange power of +touching his heart. +</p> + +<p> +It seemed to touch Trevethan's heart too; +evidently kindness to the child was the way to +get hold of him. For attention to himself he +was not particularly grateful, grumbled at the +prospect of losing his pipe at the hospital, swore +fearfully if, in helping him to move, Donovan +caused him any pain, and was so surly and +off-hand in manner that, had his attendant been a +believer in class and caste, he could hardly +have borne it patiently. +</p> + +<p> +Every evening for the next week he went to +that, dismal room in Westminster; it was thankless +work, and yet Trevethan was very fond of +him, and would hardly have dragged through +the wretched days without the hope of those +nightly visits. He was far too sullen and +miserable and ashamed to let this appear, +however, and made it seem rather a favour to +admit his visitor. At the end of the week he was +able to be moved to St. Thomas's, and on the +afternoon of the same day Donovan took little +Gladys to the Osmonds. +</p> + +<p> +When he got back to his rooms he found, to +his intense surprise, that instead of old Rouge's +well-known figure sitting over the fire, there +was a lady in the arm-chair, well-dressed, quite +at her ease, apparently engrossed in a newspaper. +He made a sort of inarticulate exclamation, +upon which she turned hastily round. +</p> + +<p> +It was Adela. +</p> + +<p> +"My dear Augustus Cæsar, how delightful +to see you again!" she exclaimed, holding out +both her hands. "Were you very much astonished +to see an unknown female in possession +of your fire-side?" +</p> + +<p> +"How good of you to come and look me up!" +said Donovan, really pleased to see her, for she +was the first of his family whom he had met for +years. +</p> + +<p> +"Good!" exclaimed Adela, in her old bantering +tone—"why, I've been longing to come +over since I knew your whereabouts—ever since +that good Cornishman came and enlightened +me at Oakdene. But there's been a conspiracy +among the fates against me! if you'll believe it, +I've hardly been in town since that time. I've +been half over the world since I saw you +last—Italy, Austria, Greece, Switzerland—in fact, the +grand tour; but as to getting a day in town +unmolested by friends or dressmakers, in which +to visit you, I assure you it's been as +unattainable as the moon." +</p> + +<p> +Donovan, a good deal amused by this +thoroughly characteristic speech, brought a +foot-stool for his cousin, poked the fire, rang the +bell for tea, and finally settled himself on the +opposite side of the fireplace. +</p> + +<p> +"We will be comfortable, and you shall talk +just as you did in the old times," he said. "I +declare it makes me feel quite inclined to turn +misanthropical again for the sake of one of the +old arguments." +</p> + +<p> +"There, I was right, then. You have actually +renounced it all and become a philanthropist! +To tell you the truth, the immediate +cause of my visit was this: I happened to be in +the Underground this afternoon, and imagine +my feelings when, on the platform at Gower +Street, I caught sight of my misanthropical +cousin pioneering a little City Arab through the +crowd. My curiosity was so intense that I was +really obliged to come and solve the problem at +once. Besides, it was tantalising to see you so +near, and to have my frantic signals disregarded. +You are immensely altered, Donovan; I almost +wonder now that I knew you." +</p> + +<p> +She looked at him attentively for a minute, +as if trying to find out in what the great change +consisted. +</p> + +<p> +"It is a long time since we met," said Donovan; +"I should think it rather odd if I were not +changed." +</p> + +<p> +"You have had a hard life, I'm afraid," said +Adela. "You know, of course, how vexed I am +about Ellis's conduct; he ought to have made +you a proper allowance. I said all I could to +him, but that brother of mine is terribly like a +mule; when once he has made up his mind to +dislike a person, nothing will change his +opinion." +</p> + +<p> +"We won't discuss him," said Donovan, afraid +that inadvertently he might reveal to Adela +the real depth of her brother's treachery. "Tell +me instead about my mother; it is more than a +year since I had any news of her." +</p> + +<p> +"She is well, I think," said Adela, in a +doubtful voice; "but, to tell you the truth, I have +been very little at Oakdene. Whether Ellis has +any idea that I act as a medium between you +and your mother, I don't know, but he makes it +unbearably uncomfortable for me. I oughtn't +to say it to you, I suppose, but I must confess +that that marriage seems to me to have been a +fearful mistake. Ellis is not half as jolly as in +his poor bachelor days; he has all that heart +can wish or money buy, and yet every time I +go to stay with them he seems to me more +depressed and irritable and dissatisfied with +things." +</p> + +<p> +"Does he manage the estate well?" +</p> + +<p> +"Oh! he leaves it all to the bailiff; he knows +nothing whatever about it, moons about all day +with his cigar, scolding anyone who dares to +interrupt him." +</p> + +<p> +"Are they coming up for the season?" +</p> + +<p> +"No, he has let the Connaught Square house +till July; but they think of spending next winter +either there or abroad, for your mother fancies +the Manor damp, and she has certainly had a +good deal of rheumatism lately. That is +absolutely all I know about them. Now let us talk +of something more cheerful; haven't you got +some nice, wicked medical student stories for +me? You are a dreadful lot, are you not? +Now amuse me a little, there's a good boy, for, +to tell you the truth, I'm dying of <i>ennui</i> in this +most prosaic of worlds." +</p> + +<p> +"We are very prosaic here," said Donovan, +smiling, "nothing, I fear, to re-vivify you +except ponderous works on anatomy and medicine. +Come, you shall be my first patient; in +less than a year you will perhaps see the family +name on a brass plate, not a useless brass in a +church, but a most utilitarian plate on a surgery +door." +</p> + +<p> +"You dreadful boy, what made you take up +such a trade?" +</p> + +<p> +"Take care how you speak of my profession," +said Donovan, laughing. "I'll prescribe the +most horrible remedies for your <i>ennui</i> if you are +not respectful. I chose it because it's to my +mind the only really satisfactory profession." +</p> + +<p> +"If you had any interest in the medical world, +and were likely to get a good West End +practice; but otherwise, just think of the sort of +people it will throw you among. You'll have +to go among poverty and dirt and everything +that's disagreeable. Besides, you will lose +caste." +</p> + +<p> +"You forget that I don't believe I have any +to lose," said Donovan, smiling. "You should +turn Republican, it saves so many small annoyances." +</p> + +<p> +"What were you doing this afternoon with +that beggar-child?" +</p> + +<p> +"Taking her to some friends of mine who +have promised to house her while her father is +in the hospital." +</p> + +<p> +Adela lifted up her hands in horror. +</p> + +<p> +"Taking that child to a gentleman's house, +my dear boy—what an odd set you must have +got into! That sort of thing sounds very nice, +but it's dreadfully extravagant and romantic." +</p> + +<p> +"It has a way of seeming very practical to +the one who is taken in," said Donovan, in a +voice which revealed a good deal to Adela. +</p> + +<p> +"You are thinking of your good Cornishman," +she exclaimed. "But you were a more +eligible subject than that little beggar-girl, +more fit to be in a gentleman's house." +</p> + +<p> +"Much you know about it!" said Donovan, +with a half smile, and again Adela realised that +the five years which had passed so uneventfully +with her, had brought to her cousin a knowledge +both of evil and good quite beyond her +understanding. +</p> + +<p> +"I tried my misanthropical creed for some +time," he continued after a minute's pause, +"and found it a dead failure. And then I had +the good fortune to come across some people +who lived exactly on the opposite system." +</p> + +<p> +"From extreme to extreme, of course," said +Adela, "that is always the way. I suppose +you've become a Wesleyan or a Methodist." +</p> + +<p> +He could not help smiling a little at her tone, +and at her fashionable horror of dissent, but his +grave answer brought back to her the remembrance +that even in the old days he never could +endure to have matters of religious belief or +unbelief lightly touched upon. +</p> + +<p> +"I do not see my way to Christianity at all +as yet." +</p> + +<p> +"And you don't go to church?" said Adela, +regretfully. It had always been the one great +thing she had urged upon him. +</p> + +<p> +"Not quite in the way you would approve +of," replied Donovan, smiling, "but I do go in +for the sermon now and then at my friend's +church. I am afraid you would think his teaching +of the 'extravagant and romantic' order, +he has a habit of bringing Christianity to bear +on every-day life in rather a difficult and +inconvenient way." +</p> + +<p> +Adela looked thoughtful. +</p> + +<p> +"He is right, of course," she said, sadly; +"but I don't think people know how hard it is +when one is a great deal in society. I can't +adopt beggar children or teach in Sunday +schools, it's not in my line." +</p> + +<p> +She spoke so much more seriously than usual +that Donovan's heart went out to her. +</p> + +<p> +"I sometimes think," he said, "that in its +way Dot's life was about the most perfect one +can fancy. It seemed such a matter of course +that she should be the patient, loving little +thing she was, that at the time it didn't strike +one. But just think of it now, with everything +to make her selfish she was always the first to +think of other people, with scarcely a day of her +life free from pain she was always the one bit +of sunshine in the house. And yet she was as +unconscious of it as if she had been a baby. +Depend upon it it's not the teaching in +Sunday schools or the adopting of children +that makes the difference, the spirit of love can +be brought into any kind of life. What had +Dot to do with philanthropy and good works? +Yet if it had not been for that little child's life I +should have been a downright fiend long ago. +I don't believe you women know how much you +can do for us, not by your district-visitings and +conventionalities, but by just being the pure +beings you were meant to be." +</p> + +<p> +Adela was silent. She knew she had talked +a great deal of nonsense in her life, had flirted +with innumerable men, had flattered dozens of +foolish young fellows whom in her heart she +had all the time despised. She felt truly enough +that her influence must all have gone into the +wrong scale, and that while meaning harmlessly +to amuse herself, she had all the time been +lowering that standard of womanhood of which +Donovan seemed to think so much. +</p> + +<p> +"And yet you know," she said, piteously, "if +you subtracted the vein of fun and banter and +chaff from me there would be nothing left but a +dull old spinster beginning to turn grey, whom +you would all wish to get rid of. I'm like poor +little Miss Moucher, volatile I was born, and +volatile I shall die." +</p> + +<p> +"We can ill afford to lose any of the real fun +in the world," said Donovan. "I hope you +won't turn puritanical. I don't think I could +like a person who had no sense of humour, so +please don't talk of subtracting yours." +</p> + +<p> +"I suppose the real fun, as you call it, is +good," said Adela. "And the artificial +nonsense is bad. At the same time it is hard to +get up anything but forced fun when life is a +long bit of <i>ennui</i>." +</p> + +<p> +"But you have the secret for making life +something very different," said Donovan. +</p> + +<p> +"I believe you envy me!" said Adela; "but, +oh! my dear Donovan, it is quite possible to +have prescriptions, and medicines, and a doctor +within reach, and yet to be very ill and +miserable." +</p> + +<p> +"It seems then that we are both in a bad +way," said Donovan, smiling. "You know the +remedies, but have not will enough to use them. +I have the will to use them, but have not the +remedies." +</p> + +<p> +"Well, what is to help us?" said Adela. +</p> + +<p> +"Go to some one better fitted to tell you," +replied Donovan. "This is a good sort of +working motto, though." +</p> + +<p> +He opened Kingsley's life, which was lying +on the table, and pointed to the following lines: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + "Do the work that's nearest,<br> + Though it's dull at whiles,<br> + Helping, when you meet them,<br> + Lame dogs over stiles."<br> +</p> + +<p><br></p> + +<p> +"I'll be your 'lame dog' for this afternoon, +and you shall grace this bachelor room and +pour out tea for us. By-the-by, talking of +bachelors, how is old Mr. Hayes? it is an age +since I heard of him." +</p> + +<p> +They drifted off into talk about Oakdene and +Greyshot neighbours, feeling that they had +touched upon deeper matters than they cared +to discuss. +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<p><a id="chap13"></a></p> + +<h2> +CHAPTER XIII. +<br><br> +OF EVOLUTION, AND A NINETEENTH CENTURY FOE. +</h2> + +<p class="intro"> + "Say not the struggle nought availeth,<br> + The labour and the wounds are vain,<br> + The enemy faints not, nor faileth,<br> + And as things have been they remain.<br> + * * * * * * * *<br> + For while the tired waves, vainly breaking,<br> + Seem here no painful inch to gain,<br> + Far back, through creeks and inlets making,<br> + Comes silent, flooding in, the main.<br> +</p> + +<p class="intro"> + And not by eastern windows only,<br> + When daylight comes, comes in the light,<br> + In front the sun climbs slow, how slowly,<br> + But westward look, the land is light."<br> + A. H. CLOUGH.<br> +</p> + +<p><br></p> + +<p> +Late in the afternoon of a sunny August +day two pedestrians might have been seen +skirting the shore of one of the beautiful little +lakes which lie cradled in the arms of the grand +old monarch of Welsh mountains. The +elder, grey-bearded and somewhat bent, had +yet an air of alertness, a certain elasticity of +step which bespoke a buoyant temperament; +the younger, lacking entirely this touch of +triumph, walked firmly and sharply, following +in his companion's wake, and himself closely +followed by a fox-terrier. Very still was the +mountain side, for miles round not another +living creature was in sight; above them to the +right towered the most abrupt side of Snowdon, +rugged and wild and grim-looking, its chaos of +grey rocks relieved here and there by tufts of +coarse mountain grass or clumps of fern; to the +left, in striking contrast, lay the little lake, +small and insignificant enough to be scarcely +known by its name, and yet in the beauty of its +situation and in its majesty of calmness attracting +the eye almost as much as its stately +bearer. +</p> + +<p> +"There's a stiffish climb before us," said +Charles Osmond, pausing as he looked up the +mountain path. "What do you say to an hour's +rest here? we couldn't have a lovelier place." +</p> + +<p> +"Very well, and Waif shall have a swim," +replied Donovan, "I'll just give him a stone or +two. We have plenty of time if we're to see +the sunset from the top." +</p> + +<p> +Whistling to the dog, he ran down the slope +to the lake, while Waif, in a tremor of delighted +excitement, plunged into the cool water after +the sticks and stones which his master +threw. Charles Osmond, stretched out on the +grass with one of the grey boulders by way of +a pillow, watched the two thoughtfully, the +spirited swimming of the fox-terrier, the fine +strongly-made figure of the man hurling the +stones into the lake with a vigour and directness +and force which—albeit there was no +mark—bespoke him a good marksman. After a time +he made his way again up the slope, and threw +himself down at full length beside his companion +with a sigh of comfortable content. +</p> + +<p> +"You old Italian!" said Charles Osmond, +with a laugh, "what a way you have of throwing +yourself in an instant into exactly the most +comfortable position! now a true-born Britisher +fidgets, and wriggles, and grumbles, and in the +end does not look as if he'd found the right +place." +</p> + +<p> +"One of the bequests of my great-great-grandmother," +said Donovan, "by nature I do +go straight out on the hearthrug when other +fellows would crouch up in an arm-chair." +</p> + +<p> +"Oh! it is four generations back, is it! I +staked my reputation as an observer that you +had a bit of the Italian in you the very first +time we met, though Brian scouted the idea." +</p> + +<p> +"It comes out in that and in the way I owned +to you before," said Donovan, "the endlessness +of the feud when once begun. We've some +bloodthirsty proverbs as to enemies in Italy." +</p> + +<p> +"I shouldn't have thought you revengeful by nature." +</p> + +<p> +"It smoulders, and does not often show itself +in flame," said Donovan. "I'm afraid there have +often been times when I could have done +something desperate to Ellis Farrant if I'd had a +chance. Even now, professing to go by very +different rules, I believe if I saw him fall into +that lake, the fiend of revenge in me would try +hard to hold me still on the shore. Good folk +may shudder, but that's the plain unvarnished +truth. I have shocked even you, though, by +the confession." +</p> + +<p> +"No," said Charles Osmond, slowly, "you've +only surprised me a little. Having come to +such blanks in yourself and your system, I wonder +rather that the fitness of Christianity to fill +those blanks does not seem more striking. The +lesson of forgiveness, for instance, could only +have been taught by Christ—by the great +Forgiver. I wonder that your need does not throw +more light on Christianity." +</p> + +<p> +"Proof," sighed Donovan. "It is that we want." +</p> + +<p> +He thought of his talks with Dr. Tremain as +the words passed his lips, but though the +doctor's argument was still fresh in his mind, +he had by no means come yet to think that +logical proof could be willingly renounced. +</p> + +<p> +"But the sense of need is an indirect proof," +said Charles Osmond. +</p> + +<p> +"I cannot see it in that way," said Donovan. +"That a man in a desert is dying of thirst is no +proof that there is water in the place." +</p> + +<p> +"No; but it is a proof that the natural place +for man is not the said desert, and that the +water he longs for does exist, that it is his +natural means of life, and that without it he +will certainly die." +</p> + +<p> +"It is not much good to talk by metaphors," +said Donovan, "and, since we have broken the +ice, I should very much like to ask you one or +two questions in plainest English. It is all very +well to speak of need and thirst and the rest of +it, but there are gigantic difficulties in the way. +I should like very much to know, for instance, +how you get over the evolution theory." +</p> + +<p> +"You speak as if it were a wall," said Charles +Osmond, laughing a little. "I never thought +of 'getting over it.' To my mind, it is one of +the most beautiful of the 'ladders set up to +Heaven from earth,' and if folks hadn't been +scared by the conglomeration of narrow-minded +fearfulness and atheistical cock-crowings, the +probabilities are that more would have seen +the real beauty and grandeur of the idea." +</p> + +<p> +"I noticed Hæckel's 'Creation' and 'Evolution +of Man' in your book-shelves the very first +night I came to you," said Donovan; "and I've +always wondered how you did get over it." +</p> + +<p> +"There you are again, making my ladder a +wall," said Charles Osmond, with a little twinkle +in his deep, bright eyes. +</p> + +<p> +"Well, it is a wall to me," said Donovan. +"Having all come into existence so exceedingly +well without a God——" +</p> + +<p> +"And," interrupted Charles Osmond, "finding +it so hard to live without Him, being so +conscious of a grave deficiency in our nature +which yet nature does not give us the means to +supply. In honesty, you must remember that +you've previously admitted that." +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, but surely you see the difficulty," said +Donovan, with a touch of impatience in his tone. +</p> + +<p> +"I do," said Charles Osmond, gravely, "that is, +I think I see where your difficulty is. For +myself, as I told you, the theory of evolution seems +to me in absolute harmony with all that I know +or can conceive of God. I accept it fully as His +plan for the world, or rather, perhaps I should +say, as an imperfect glimpse of the beauty of +His plan, the best and clearest that present +science can give us. In another hundred years +we may know much more." +</p> + +<p> +"But you cannot make Hæckel square with the Bible." +</p> + +<p> +"I certainly do not accept all Hæckel's +conclusions, for they are often drawn from +premises which are utterly illogical; nor do I +accept all his assumptions, for he often practically +claims omniscience. At the same time, he +has done us a great service, and the false +deductions of a teacher cannot spoil or alter the +truth of his system. If it were so, it would be +a bad look out for Christianity, with its two +hundred and odd sects. Do you consider that +spontaneous generation is already proved?" +</p> + +<p> +"Not absolutely," said Donovan, "but quite +sufficiently for working purposes, and in time I +can't doubt that it will be completely proved. +What will then become of the Author of the +Universe, to adopt the current phrase?" +</p> + +<p> +"If it should be proved, as I fully expect it +will be," replied Charles Osmond, "it will merely +carry us one step further back in our appreciation +of the original Will-power. We shall still +recognise the one Mind impressing one final +and all-embracing law upon what we call matter +and force, and then leaving force and matter +to elaborate the performance of that law." +</p> + +<p> +"You assume a good deal there," said Donovan. +"Why should we imagine that law—still +less, a personal Will—existed before the +existence of primordial cells?" +</p> + +<p> +"You must either assume that there existed +only one primordial cell, or else that there was +a law of order impressed upon the infinite +number of primordial cells," said Charles Osmond. +</p> + +<p> +Donovan left off twisting the grasses which +grew beside him, and knitted his brows in +thought. This idea was a new one to him. He +was silent for a minute or two, then, keeping +his judgment entirely suspended, he said, slowly, +</p> + +<p> +"And what then? I should like to hear +that borne out a little." +</p> + +<p> +"The question is, how has the absolute +uniformity of action been attained? If matter be +self-existent, there must have been at the very +first outset an infinite number of cells, and also +an infinite possibility of variation. Say, just +for illustration, a million cells, each capable of +varying in a million ways. Now just calculate +the mathematical chances that ultimate order +could result from this disorder, and, if so, what +length of time, approximately, it would occupy, +allowing each cell an hour of existence, and +then to give birth to another cell, probably +differing from itself!" +</p> + +<p> +Donovan laughed a little, and mused, and +presently Charles Osmond continued. +</p> + +<p> +"No, it seems to me that orderly transmission +of hereditary form or habit is only possible +on the supposition either of the one +self-existent cell, to which there are many objections, +or on the supposition of a law of order, which +must have been antecedent to the cells, or it +could not have impressed them." +</p> + +<p> +"I daresay many would willingly concede as +much as that," said Donovan. "It is only +when you go on to assert that the law came +from a law-giver that we cry out." +</p> + +<p> +"Well, where did it come from?" said Charles +Osmond. +</p> + +<p> +"I suppose it was a fortuitous concourse of +atoms," said Donovan, doubtfully. +</p> + +<p> +"That is a thoroughly unscientific hypothesis," +returned Charles Osmond. "Mind, I don't assert +that my theory is proved, but I claim this, that +both physical and mathematical science demonstrate +the probability of some law existing +before primordial cells existed, and that this +probability is at least as reasonable as a +working hypothesis, as is that of evolution in +explaining the method in which that primordial +law has operated." +</p> + +<p> +"But what will my old 'soul-preserving' +friends say to you?" observed Donovan, +smiling. "You agree to the disenthronement +of that all-important being—man." +</p> + +<p> +"Do I?" said Charles Osmond. +</p> + +<p> +"Well, you accept as your oldest ancestor +something more insignificant than an amœba." +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, but I thought the longer the pedigree +the better," said Charles Osmond, with laughter +in his eyes. +</p> + +<p> +"But, seriously, where do you make your +spirit-world begin?" +</p> + +<p> +"I think," said Charles Osmond, "there was +once a wise man, but who he was I haven't an +idea, and this was his wise utterance, 'The +spirit sleeps in the stone, dreams in the animal, +and wakes in man.' The revelation, or, if you +will, the awakening, appeared to be sudden, it +came as it were in a flash; but it was the result +of long processes, it followed the universal +rule—a gradual advance, then a sudden unfolding. +And in this way, I take it, all revelation +comes." +</p> + +<p> +Donovan looked full into his companion's +face for a moment, a question, and a very eager +one, was trembling on his lips, his whole face +was a question, the question which Charles +Osmond would fain have answered if he could. +But a reserved man does not easily talk of that +which affects him most nearly, and in this case +certainly out of the abundance of the heart the +mouth did not speak. The firm yet sensitive +lips were closed again, but perhaps the very +silence revealed more to Charles Osmond than +any spoken words could have done, and by a +hundred other slight indications he knew +perfectly well that Donovan's heart was full of the +spirit hunger. +</p> + +<p> +"Let me just for a minute fall back on the +Mosaic account," he said, after a little time had +passed. "You think that account incompatible +with the evolution theory, to my mind it +expresses in a simple, clear way, such as a wise +teacher might use with young children, the very +truths that recent researches have wonderfully +enlarged upon. If you will notice it carefully +the very order given to the creation in the +first of Genesis is exactly borne out by modern +science. Then we are told in the grand old +simple words which only were fit for such a +purpose—that God breathed into him, and man +became a living soul. To man evolved probably +from the simplest of organisms, to gradually +perfected man the revelation is made: God +breathes into him the breath of life, that is the +knowledge of Himself, life according to Christ's +definition being knowledge of God. Man was +now fully alive, fully awake, the spirit had +slept, had dreamed, but the revelation was +made, and his dormant spirit sprang into life." +</p> + +<p> +"But I am not conscious of this spirit," said +Donovan, "I am aware of nothing that cannot +be explained as a function of the brain, thought, mind, will." +</p> + +<p> +"Yet you are conscious of being incomplete," +said Charles Osmond. "It seems to me that +for a time we get on very well as body and +soul men, or body and mind, if you like it +better; but sooner or later comes the craving +for something higher, which something, I take +it, is the spirit life. And one thing more, if +you will let me say it, you tell me you are +conscious of nothing but body and mind, but I +can't help thinking that your love for that +little sister whom you mentioned to me was the +purest spiritual love, to which no scientific theory +will apply." +</p> + +<p> +For many minutes Donovan did not speak, +not because he was actually thinking of his +companion's words, but because a vision of the +past was with him; little Dot in her purity, her +child-like trust, her clinging devotion rose once +more before him. How had she learnt the +truths which to him were so unattainable? +Brought up for years in a way which could not +possibly bias her mind, how was it that she +had, apparently without the least difficulty, +taken hold of such an abstraction, such a +mysterious, incomprehensible idea? She had +not believed on "authority," for naturally the +nurse-maid's authority would have weighed less +with her than his own, yet in some way the +Unseen, the Unknown, the to him Unknowable, +had become to her the most intense reality. +She had very rarely spoken to him on that +subject because she knew it grieved him; he +could only remember one instance in which she +had definitely expressed the reality of her faith. +He had been remonstrating with her a little, +and she had answered in a half-timid way which +somehow angered him because it was so unusual +with her. +</p> + +<p> +"You see, Dono, I can't help knowing that +God is, because He is nearer to me even than you." +</p> + +<p> +He could almost feel the little face nestling +closer to him as the shy words were ended, and +clearly could he recall the terrible pang which +that faltering childish sentence had caused him. +He had then believed that she was under a +great delusion, now he inclined to think that +her pure soul had grasped a great truth which +still remained to him utterly unknowable. This +was almost all that he had actually heard her +say, except the last half unconscious prayer, +the speech of a little child to its father containing +no pompous title, no ascriptions of praise, +but only the most absolute trust. She had +never fallen into conventional religious +phraseology; but perhaps nothing could have so +exactly met Donovan's wants that summer +afternoon as her last perfectly peaceful words, +"He is so very good, you know—you will +know." No argument, however subtle, no +sermon, however eloquent, had the hope-giving +power which lay in the little child's words—words +which had lain dormant in his heart for +years, apparently with no effect whatever. +</p> + +<p> +Charles Osmond saw that his reference had +awakened a long train of thought; he would +not look at the changes on the face of his +companion, for just now in its naturalness it was +exceedingly like a book, and a book which he +felt it hardly fair to read. Instead he gazed +across the quiet little lake to the sunny +landscape beyond, battled with a conceited thought +which had arisen within him, and was ready +with his beautiful, honest mind and hearty +sympathy to come back to Donovan's standpoint +as soon as he seemed to wish it. +</p> + +<p> +Waif, having studied the group from a distance +for some minutes, and having given himself +a series of severe shakings to wring the +water from his coat, seemed to consider himself +dry enough for society. He came back to his +master, sniffed at his clothes, and finding that +his remonstrating whines received no notice, +began to lick his face. Then Donovan came +back to the world of realities, and perhaps +because of the softening influence of the past +vision, perhaps merely out of gratitude to the +dumb friend who understood his moods so well +and filled so great a blank for him, he threw +his arms round the dog, wet as he was, hugged +him, patted him, praised and petted him in a +way which put the fox-terrier into his seventh +heaven of happiness. +</p> + +<p> +Charles Osmond was touched and amused by +the manner in which the silence was ended. +Presently Donovan turned towards him again +with a much brightened face. +</p> + +<p> +"There is one thing which you Christians +will have to face before long," he began, "or +rather I should think must face now, with the +theory of evolution so nearly established." +</p> + +<p> +"Well?" said Charles Osmond. +</p> + +<p> +"I mean this," continued Donovan: "Our +original ancestors and their living representatives +can hardly be left out of your scheme of +immortality. It seems to me a very half-and-half +scheme if it only includes mankind. You +know," he added, laughing a little, "even the +idea of heaven you gave us in your sermon the +other night—about the least material and the +most beautiful I ever heard—would scarcely be +perfect to me without Waif." +</p> + +<p> +"I quite agree with you," said Charles +Osmond. "Nor can I understand why people +object so much to the idea. Luther, you +know, fully admitted his belief that animals +might share in the hereafter, and to appeal to +a still higher authority it seems to me that, +unless we deliberately narrow the meaning of +the words, St. Paul clearly asserts the deliverance +of the whole creation from the bondage of +corruption into the deliverance of the glory of +the children of God. I believe in One who fills +all things, by whom all things consist, therefore +I certainly do believe in the immortality of +animals." +</p> + +<p> +"Well, seeing how infinitely more loving my +dog is than most men, I own that it seems to +me unfair to shut him out of your scheme. The +old Norsemen walked with their dogs in the +'Happy Hunting Fields,' and, however material +that old legend, there is a touch of beauty in it +which is somehow wanting—at any rate, to +dog-lovers—in the ordinary, and I must say +equally material, descriptions of the gorgeous +halls of Zion." +</p> + +<p> +"You two are very fond of each other," said +Charles Osmond, looking at the dog and his +master. +</p> + +<p> +"We have been through a good deal together, +and I believe, to begin with, the mere +fact of his wanting me when no one else did, of +his following me so persistently in the Strand +just at the time when everyone had hard words +to throw at me, drew me towards him. I've +watched him nearly dying with distemper, and +somehow dragged him through. He has +watched me nearly dying in a bog, and, by his +sense and persistency, got me rescued. Besides +that, at least three times he has saved me from +a worse death, just by being what he is, the +most loving little brute in England." +</p> + +<p> +"Brave little Waif! I shall never forget my +first sight of him," said Charles Osmond, +smiling. "It was a wonder you two didn't put me +out that night, the fit was distracting enough; +but when I saw you and the fox-terrier walking +up the aisle, head No. 1 nearly went into space, +though I could have told the people every one +of your characteristic features, and should have +known Waif among a thousand dogs!" +</p> + +<p> +"But to go back once more to our old subject," +said Donovan; "does not your theory +bring you to something very like Pantheism?" +</p> + +<p> +"I think it is the Higher Pantheism," said +Charles Osmond. "While we've been lying +here, Tennyson's lines have been haunting me. +You know them, I suppose?" +</p> + +<p> +Donovan only knew one poem in the world, +however, and he asked to hear this one. Charles +Osmond repeated it, and, because he loved it, +rendered it very well. +</p> + +<p> +"You see," he said, after a pause, "it is this +Higher Pantheism which leads us up to the +greatest heights. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + 'Speak to Him thou, for He hears and Spirit with Spirit<br> + can meet,<br> + Closer is He than breathing, and nearer than hands and feet.'<br> +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +It leads us to no vague impersonal Force, but +to the Spirit by whom and in whom we live and +move and have our being." +</p> + +<p> +Donovan did not speak, and before long they +began to climb their mountain; but, though he +said no word to his companion, he moved to a +sort of soundless tune which set itself to a verse +of the poem, +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + "Dark is the world to thee: thyself art the reason why;<br> + For is He not all but thou, that hast power to feel 'I am I'?"<br> +</p> + +<p><br></p> + +<p> +The climb was rather a stiff one, and by the +time they reached the summit they were glad +enough of the fresh breeze which was there to +greet them as they made their way up to the +little cairn. The sun was within a quarter of +an hour of setting, its red beams were bathing +the landscape in a flood of glory; around the +mountains stood in solemn grandeur, as if doing +homage to the parting king, the red beams +lighted up one or two, but more were in solemn +shade, varying from pearly grey to the softest +purple. There was something perfectly +indescribable in the sense of breadth and height and +beauty combined; in their different ways the +two pedestrians revelled in it. The creases +seemed to smooth themselves out of Charles +Osmond's brow, he lost the weight of care which +the long year's work brought, not always to be +shaken off in the summer holiday. But here it +was impossible to be earth-bound; his whole +being was echoing the words, +</p> + +<p class="t3"> + "Are not these, oh! soul, the vision of Him who reigns?"<br> +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +And Donovan, exulting in that sense of space +which was so dear to him, realised as he had +never realised before that it is the Infinite only +which can satisfy the Infinite. +</p> + +<p> +The lofty is often closely followed by the +prosaic, and in the neighbourhood of great +heights there lurk the dangers of the precipice. +Donovan had reached high ground, but in a +minute came the most violent re-action, the most +humiliating fall. +</p> + +<p> +They were not the only tourists who had +made the ascent that afternoon. A very +different party sat drinking and smoking on the +other side of one of the huts; their laughter was +borne across every now and then to the westward +side of the cairn, but both Charles Osmond +and Donovan were too much absorbed in their +own thoughts to be at all disturbed by it. The +rudeness of the shock was therefore quite +unbroken. From high but unfortunately fruitless +aspirations, Donovan was recalled to the hardest +of facts by a sudden shadow arising between +him and the sun. A dark and rather good-looking +man stood on the very edge of the rock +looking at the sky, very possibly not seeing it +much, but looking at it just for want of +something better to do. Charles Osmond glanced at +him, then, as if struck by some curious +resemblance, he turned towards his companion, and +at once knew that the stranger could be none +other than Ellis Farrant, for Donovan's face +bore a look of such fearful struggle as in his +life of half a century the clergyman had never +before seen. +</p> + +<p> +Before long Ellis turned, and finding himself +face to face with the man he had so shamefully +wronged, had the grace to flush deeply. But +in a minute he recovered himself, and assumed +the <i>rôle</i> of the easy-mannered gentleman, which +he knew so well how to play. +</p> + +<p> +"Why, Donovan!" he exclaimed. "Who +would have thought of meeting you up here? +Pity your mother's not with me, but I'm only +here for a week's fishing with Mackinnon." +</p> + +<p> +The struggle had apparently ceased, Donovan +had set his face like a flint, but his eyes flashed +fire, and as he drew himself up and folded his +arms, at the same time making a backward +movement in order to be as far from Ellis as the +narrow platform would admit, he was certainly +a formidable-looking foe. There was no doubt +whatever as to his sentiments; he might have +stood for a model of one of the old Romans +righteously hating his enemy. Ellis shrank +beneath his glance, but it somehow made him +malicious. +</p> + +<p> +"You must remember Mackinnon," he continued, +in his bland voice. "He was with us, +if you recollect, on the night of that unfortunate +dance, when poor little——" +</p> + +<p> +He broke off, for Donovan, with the look of a +man goaded beyond bearing, bent forward, and +with the extraordinary vehemence which +contrasted so strangely with his usually repressed +manner, thundered rather than spoke the words, +</p> + +<p> +"Be silent." +</p> + +<p> +Being a cowardly man, Ellis did not feel +disposed to stay in the neighbourhood of his foe; +he not only obeyed the injunction but +disappeared from the scene as quickly as possible. +</p> + +<p> +Donovan once more leant back against the +cairn with folded arms, and for many minutes +did not stir. Charles Osmond did not venture +to speak to him; in perfect silence the two stood +watching the setting sun, which was now like +a golden-red globe on the horizon line. Many +hundreds of times had the sun gone down on +Donovan's wrath, and this evening proved no +exception to the rule. By the time the last red +rim had disappeared, however, all traces of +agitation had passed from him, and he turned +to his companion a quiet, cold face, observing, +in the most matter-of-fact tone, +</p> + +<p> +"We must be making our way home, I suppose." +</p> + +<p> +"Certainly, if we're to eat the captain's trout +for supper," said Charles Osmond. +</p> + +<p> +And without further remark they began the +descent, Donovan showing traces of latent +irritation in the headlong way in which he plunged +down the steep path. Charles Osmond, following +much more slowly, found him beside the +little lake where they had rested in the afternoon; +perhaps the place or some recollection of +their talk had softened him, at any rate, he was +quite himself again. Charles Osmond put his +arm within his, and they walked on steadily +down the less abrupt part of the mountain to +Pen-y-pass, and along the Capel Currig road to +Bettws-y-Coed. +</p> + +<p> +Presently Donovan broke the silence. +</p> + +<p> +"Well, you have seen Ellis Farrant at last. +Odd that he should have turned up just after +we had been talking of him. I hope you were +satisfied with my Christian forbearance." +</p> + +<p> +Charles Osmond was silent, not quite liking +his tone. +</p> + +<p> +"I have offended you," said Donovan. "I +will take away the adjective." +</p> + +<p> +"I daresay your forbearance was very great," +said Charles Osmond, "and your provocation +far greater than I can understand, but you must +forgive me for saying that I saw nothing +Christian in it." +</p> + +<p> +"What did you see?" asked Donovan, a little +amused. +</p> + +<p> +"I saw a perfect example of the way in which +a nineteenth century gentleman hates his enemy, +the hatred of the ancients kept in check by the +power of modern civilization." +</p> + +<p> +"And how would you have had me meet +him?" cried Donovan. "Did you expect a +stage reconciliation, while he is still defrauding +me? Did you wish me to embrace him and +wish him good speed?" +</p> + +<p> +"I wished you to act as I think Christ would +have acted," said Charles Osmond, quietly. +</p> + +<p> +"Oh! once more I tell you this idealism is +impossible!" exclaimed Donovan, impatiently. +"I am but a mortal man, and cannot help +hating this fellow." +</p> + +<p> +"You see in copying Him whom I consider +to be more than mortal man, we do realise our +own short-comings," said Charles Osmond. +</p> + +<p> +"Well, what do you imagine Christ would +have done in such a case?" +</p> + +<p> +"I think you can answer that question for +yourself," said Charles Osmond. "But to put +it on what to me is a lower footing, +consider how the best man you ever knew would +have acted, and then carry his conduct still +further. Your father, for instance—how would +he have treated an enemy?" +</p> + +<p> +Unconsciously Charles Osmond had touched +on Donovan's tenderest part. He fell into a +reverie, and they walked a mile before he spoke +again. +</p> + +<p> +"I believe you are right," he said at last; +and there was something of pathos in the +words coming from one so strong and so +exceedingly slow to own himself conquered. "I'm +afraid up there on the mountain I've fallen when +I might have risen." +</p> + +<p> +"I daresay you will have another opportunity +given you," said Charles Osmond, by way of +consolation. +</p> + +<p> +"Don't be in too great a hurry," said Donovan, +smiling. "I'm afraid I can't honestly wish +for it yet." +</p> + +<p> +Then they fell to talking of every-day matters, +and late in the evening they reached the +cottage where they were spending a few weeks—a +somewhat curious quartette—the Osmonds, +father and son, old Rouge Frewin, and +Donovan. The captain was supremely happy; went +out fishing every day, and partly from his love +to Donovan and his desire to do him credit, +partly from his awe of a "parson out of the +pulpit," really managed to keep sober through the +whole of their stay in Wales. But perhaps no +one got quite so much from the Welsh holiday +as Donovan himself. He went back to work +with both body and mind invigorated, having +learnt more in that month's intercourse with +Charles Osmond than he would have learnt in +years of solitary life. +</p> + +<p> +There now remained only a few months of +his medical course. Then "the world was all +before him." He had not as yet formed any +plans, but as the autumn advanced public events +pointed the way for him, and he found his +vocation. +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<p><a id="chap14"></a></p> + +<h2> +CHAPTER XIV. +<br><br> +DUTY'S CALL. +</h2> + +<p class="intro"> + Faith shares the future's promise; love's<br> + Self-offering is a triumph won;<br> + And each good thought or action moves<br> + The dark world nearer to the sun.<br> +</p> + +<p class="intro"> + Then faint not, falter not, nor plead<br> + Thy weakness; truth itself is strong;<br> + The lion's strength, the eagle's speed,<br> + Are not alone vouchsafed to wrong.<br> +</p> + +<p class="intro"> + Thy nature, which through fire and flood,<br> + To place or gain finds out its way,<br> + Has power to seek the highest good,<br> + And duty's holiest call obey!"<br> + WHITTIER.<br> +</p> + +<p><br></p> + +<p> +England was just at this time engaged in +a contest of which Donovan very strongly +disapproved, but perhaps his political views only +increased the desire which had arisen within +him to go out as assistant-surgeon to the seat +of war. The belief that many hundreds of +Englishmen were being sacrificed in an unjust +cause could not fail to rouse such a lover of +justice, and he lost no time in making +arrangements with an ambulance society which was +sending out help, and was in want of assistants. +Charles Osmond, on the whole, approved of his +choice, though regretting very much that he +should for some time lose sight of him; but he +felt that the life of action would be quite in +Donovan's line, and that the entire change of +scene would be good for him. Brian would +have been only too glad to join him, but his +work was already cut out for him in London, +where he was to take the place of junior partner +to an uncle of his who had a large practice +in the Bloomsbury district. +</p> + +<p> +It so chanced that Stephen Causton, who had +been hindered both by illness and idleness, went +in for his final examination at the same time. +All three passed successfully. The autumn had +been a very busy one, but Donovan was well +and in good spirits, eager to begin his fresh life, +and too much engrossed with the present and +future to let the past weigh upon him. Still, as +one January day he went in to St. Thomas's to +take leave of Trevethan, not even his strong +will could prevent a few very sad thoughts +arising as he spoke of Porthkerran and the +Tremains. Trevethan's recovery had been very +slow, but he was now really well, and it had +been arranged that he should go down to Porthkerran +with his little girl the following week. +His illness, and the kindness he had met with, +had softened him very much, and though his +manner was still brusque in the extreme, no one +who really knew the man could have doubted +his gratitude. In his odd fashion he half +worshipped Donovan, and it was really from the +desire to please him that he had overcome his +shame and reluctance, and written to ask his +father to receive him again. The blacksmith's +intense happiness was so evident from the +ill-spelt but warmly expressed reply, that +Trevethan the younger began to feel drawn to him, +and to look forward to his return with less +apprehension and more eagerness. +</p> + +<p> +Having left him directions as to fetching +little Gladys from the Osmonds, Donovan took +leave of him and went home to make his final +preparations, a trifle saddened by the conversation. +But after all, he reasoned with himself, +he had more cause for rejoicing, for he had +certainly been of use to one of the Porthkerran +villagers, and Gladys would be heartily pleased +to hear old Trevethan's good news. To have +helped even indirectly to please her was something +to be thankful for; besides, had he not +renounced the thought of personal happiness as +such? had he not chosen the way of sacrifice +and willed to find his happiness in serving his +fellow-men? And then once more he returned +with all his former eagerness to the anticipation +of his coming work, work which bid fair to +call out all his faculties, and which made his +pulses beat quicker even to think of, for perhaps +no one but an awakened misanthropist can feel +with such keenness the delights of the enthusiasm +of humanity. +</p> + +<p> +His key was in the latch when the sound of +a carriage stopping at the door made him +glance round; to his utter astonishment he saw +his mother. He hurried forward, surprise and +not unnatural emotion in his look and manner. +</p> + +<p> +"Why, mother! this is very good of you," he +exclaimed, helping her to alight. +</p> + +<p> +"My dear Donovan!" she said, in a hurried +nervous voice, "let me come in to your rooms +for a minute, I am in dreadful trouble." +</p> + +<p> +He brought her into the little sitting-room +and made her sit down by the fire, perplexed by +her agitation. It was many years since they +had met, and time had altered Mrs. Farrant, +she looked worn and faded; there was something +piteous in the alteration. Donovan bent +down and kissed the once beautiful face with +a sort of reverence which he had never felt +before. +</p> + +<p> +"How did you get leave to come to me?" he asked. +</p> + +<p> +Then Mrs. Farrant's tears began to flow. +</p> + +<p> +"Oh! the most terrible thing has happened," +she said, vainly trying to check her sobs. +"Ellis, your cousin, has been unwell for some +days, and this morning the doctor declares that +he has small-pox, and if you will believe it, I +have actually been in his room the whole time! they +said I had better leave for Oakdene, but I +am so unnerved, so shaken, I thought you +would take me to the station and arrange +things. I thought I should like to see you +and tell you. Oh! Donovan, do you think I +shall take it? do you think it is infectious at +the beginning?" +</p> + +<p> +It was the same selfish nature, the same +incapability of thinking of the well-being of others, +which had caused Donovan so much pain all +through his life. His mother was, after all, +only altered externally. The hard look of his +childhood came back into his face. +</p> + +<p> +"Then you mean to go to Oakdene and +leave your husband?" he asked, with a severity +in his voice which he could not disguise. +</p> + +<p> +"Don't be hard on me," she sobbed, "I have +such a horror of this; if it were fever I would +have stayed, but small-pox! No, no, it is +impossible, I must go, I must indeed. Besides, I +am not strong enough to nurse him. The doctor +will send a trained nurse. Indeed! you +must not urge me to go back, Donovan, it +would kill me." +</p> + +<p> +Her agony of distress made him reproach +himself for having spoken so strongly; he paced +the room in silence. It was unnatural of her +to leave her husband, but yet there was truth +in her words, she would be absolutely useless +as a nurse, and her nervous terror would very +likely render her liable to infection. Besides, +what right had he to judge her? He could not +trust himself to discuss the right and wrong of +the question, he felt that he must leave it to +her own conscience, and when he spoke it was +merely to ask details of Ellis's state, and the +doctor's opinion of it. +</p> + +<p> +"You had better rest here for a little time," he +said, when she had answered his questions in +her unsatisfactory way. "It must have been a +great shock to you!" He spoke in a very +different tone now, and Mrs. Farrant, feeling all +the comfort of having a stronger will to repose +upon, allowed herself to be made comfortable +on the sofa, and lay silently watching her son's +movements with a sort of interested curiosity, +like a placid patient watching the preparations +of a dentist, or a sleepy child following with +its eyes the nurse as she sets the room in order for +the night. Her son was very much altered; he +still set about everything in the same quiet +methodical way, but his angles had been +rounded off, and the bitter cynicism which had +always alarmed and repulsed her seemed quite +gone. He had taken paper and ink and was +writing hurriedly; presently he pushed his chair +back from the table, and folding the written +sheet, came towards her. +</p> + +<p> +"I am just going to the hospital, and then +to the telegraph-office with this," he said. "I +have ordered Mrs. Doery to have everything +ready for you. Presently I think you must +let me vaccinate you. It is something new to +have a doctor in the family, isn't it?" +</p> + +<p> +"I'm only so shocked that you should have +been driven to it," sighed Mrs. Farrant. "You +should have gone into the army. You have +grown so like your father, Donovan." +</p> + +<p> +He bent down once more and kissed her. +Then, promising she should not be disturbed, +he hurried away with the telegram. +</p> + +<p> +"So like your father!" The words rang in +his ears, but never had he felt farther from +any likeness to the noble, calm, self-governed +man whose image stood out so clearly in his +memory, the three days' intercourse with the +pure mind having left a deeper impress than +months and years of intercourse with those of +lower type. But just now his mind was in a +seething chaos, his whole world shaken, +whether by conflicting duties or conflicting +passions he hardly knew, only he feared it was +the latter. Rapidly walking along the crowded +streets he tried to fight the battle out, +mechanically taking off his hat to an acquaintance, +mechanically going through his business as +people must do even when the deadliest mental +conflict is raging, even when—perhaps +unknown to them—the decision for good or evil, +for life or death is hanging in the balance. +Previous arrangement and strong inclination +drew him almost irresistibly towards the +fulfilment of his engagement to the ambulance. Of +course other men would willingly take his +place at a day's notice, but his whole mind was +set on going out to the war, the thought of +foregoing it was almost unendurable. And yet +a perverse voice within him kept urging on him +that others might go out to the war, but that +he was the only man called to take charge of a +poor neglected wretch in a certain West-End +Square. +</p> + +<p> +Yet did not the fellow deserve his fate? +Donovan would have suddenly changed natures +if the justice of the thing had not struck him. +Was it not perfectly satisfactory? Here was +Nemesis at last—his foe would be justly +punished! And then, being exceedingly human, +he drew one of those fascinating little mind +pictures which, if delineated by men, are certainly +engraved by the devil. In this picture self, +the hero, went out to the war, won unheard of +honours, received honourable wounds, and then +was greeted with the news that his enemy +had perished miserably in a luxurious house +which he had no right to be in. "So like your +father," with the sharpest satire the words again +rang in his ears. +</p> + +<p> +God be thanked that the devil's alluring +pictures cannot stand side by side with the +image of a true, noble, whole-hearted man! +God be thanked that the ideal man has lightened +the world's darkness! +</p> + +<p> +Donovan's struggle was by no means over +by the time he returned to his mother; it raged +all the time that he was attending to her, all +the time that he talked quiet commonplaces, +brought her tea and toast and all that the +house would afford, soothed her nervous terrors +as to infection, and quoted small-pox statistics. +</p> + +<p> +"Could you not come down with me to +Oakdene?" said Mrs. Farrant, suddenly. +"You say your course is over, why not come +with me now?" +</p> + +<p> +He knew then that the supreme moment had come. +</p> + +<p> +"I will see you safely into the train," he +said; "but I can't come to Oakdene." +</p> + +<p> +"Why not?" urged Mrs. Farrant. +</p> + +<p> +There was a minute's silence, then, as quietly +as if he had been speaking of an afternoon +stroll, Donovan replied, +</p> + +<p> +"Because I'm going round to Connaught +Square presently." +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Farrant stared at him. Perhaps he +hardly felt inclined just then for inquiry or +argument; muttering some excuse, he left the +room, drew a long breath, and walked slowly +upstairs. +</p> + +<p> +In his bed-room were all the preparations for +the coming journey—travelling gear, books, +instruments; he felt a sharp pang as he realised +that all his plans were changed—perhaps there +was even a slight fear lest his resolution should +be shaken, for he began to toss some clothes +into a portmanteau in a hurried and unmethodical +way quite unnatural to him; but he quieted +down as he took Dot's miniature from its place. +For a minute he looked at it intently, and +afterwards there was no more haste in his manner. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Farrant could not resist questioning him +when he came downstairs again. +</p> + +<p> +"Do you really think you are wise to go?" +she urged. "Why put yourself to such a risk?" +</p> + +<p> +"You forget I am a doctor," he said, smiling +a little. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Farrant of course knew nothing of her +husband's real treachery, but she knew that he +and Donovan were sworn foes, and could not +understand her son's resolution. +</p> + +<p> +"But he has a trained nurse," she continued, +"and I should have thought that, disliking each +other as you do, it would be unlikely that you +could do much for him; he may not like to have +you there." +</p> + +<p> +"Possibly," said Donovan, "but I must go and see." +</p> + +<p> +"And then you will have been in the way +of infection for nothing," urged his mother. +"Come, change your mind. Why must you go?" +</p> + +<p> +"Because it is right," said Donovan; and +there was something in his tone which kept +Mrs. Farrant from further objections. +</p> + +<p> +She looked uneasy and troubled; perhaps for +the first time it struck her that there could be +an absolute right and wrong in such a +question—perhaps she was a little doubtful about her +own conduct. It was at any rate with a feeling +of relief that she parted with Donovan at +the Paddington Station, for people whose +consciences are just enough awake to know that +they are half asleep never feel comfortable with +those who have and obey an imperative conscience. +</p> + +<p> +When the Greyshot train had started, +Donovan hurried off to make arrangements with the +ambulance, to hunt up a substitute, to find the +old captain and tell him his change of plans, to +write notes, give orders, and make Waif +understand the parting. How much he disliked it +all, how intensely he shrank from the work +before him, he hardly allowed himself time to +think. +</p> + +<p><br></p> + +<p> +Late that evening, as Charles Osmond was +sitting in his study hard at work over the parish +accounts, Brian hurried in, an open letter in his +hand. +</p> + +<p> +"Just look here!" he exclaimed, too full of +his subject to notice that he interrupted his +father half-way up a column. "Would you have +believed the fellow could have thrown it all up?" +</p> + +<p> +Charles Osmond held out his hand for the +note, and read as follows:— +</p> + +<p><br></p> + +<p class="noindent"> +"DEAR BRIAN, +</p> + +<p> +"After all, I'm not going south. Smithson +was only too thankful to step into my +shoes, and will sail on Friday. If you can, get +him to trade for some of my goodly Babylonish +garments, as I can't well sport them in +England. I only saw him for five minutes this +afternoon, when we'd other matters to talk +over. Ellis Farrant is down with small-pox, +and I'm going to see after him. Look in now +and then on Waif and the captain, if you can; +they are in the depths. +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> + "Ever yours,<br> + "D. F."<br> +</p> + +<p><br></p> + +<p> +"My grand old Roman!" exclaimed Charles +Osmond, half aloud. "You've grown a good +deal since the day we climbed Snowdon." +</p> + +<p> +"But it's such folly to throw up this just at +the last moment," said Brian. "Besides, he's +fagged with the exam, and now, instead of +having the voyage to set him up, he goes +straight into this plague-house all for the sake +of one wretched man." +</p> + +<p> +"You may be quite sure that Donovan was +very certain of the right before he took such a +step," said Charles Osmond; "he's not the sort +of fellow to change his mind or his plans +lightly, whereas you——" He laughed and shrugged +his shoulders. +</p> + +<p> +Brian smiled too, for it was the family proverb +that he was the most impetuous and +impulsive of mortals. +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<p><a id="chap15"></a></p> + +<h2> +CHAPTER XV. +<br><br> +VIA LUCIS. +</h2> + +<p class="intro"> + O Beauty, old yet ever new!<br> + Eternal Voice and Inward Word,<br> + The Logos of the Greek and Jew,<br> + The old sphere music which the Samian heard.<br> + Truth which the sage and prophet saw,<br> + Long sought without, but found within,<br> + The Law of Love beyond all law,<br> + The life o'erflooding mortal death and sin!<br> +</p> + +<p class="intro"> + Shine on us with the light which glowed<br> + Upon the trance-bound shepherd's way,<br> + Who saw the Darkness overflowed,<br> + And drowned by tides of everlasting Day.<br> + Shine, light of God!—make broad thy scope<br> + To all who sin and suffer; more<br> + And better than we dare to hope<br> + With Heaven's compassion make our longings poor!<br> + WHITTIER.<br> +</p> + +<p><br></p> + +<p> +It was evening by the time that Donovan's +preparations were ended. About seven +o'clock he was set down at the Marble Arch, +and hastily made his way to Connaught Square. +As he stood on the steps waiting till the door +was opened, the newly-risen moon, looked full +down on him through the trees in the garden; +the quiet silvery light was not quite in keeping +with his state of mind, for the whole afternoon +he had, as it were, been rowing against tide, +and quietly as he had made his resolution, and +steadily as he had gone through with all which +it involved, there was no denying that it was +sorely against his inclination. +</p> + +<p> +It was certainly a curious position. Here he +was, after years of absence, ringing at the door +of his own house, not with a view to taking +possession, but merely to see and help the +unlawful occupant. He could not even to himself +explain or understand the line of conduct he +was taking, he did not think it particularly +just, or at all politic, and there was no doubt +that it was exceedingly painful. He was no +saint at present, only an honest man walking +in the twilight. +</p> + +<p> +He rang at least three times, and was beginning +to feel impatient, when at length the door +was opened about an inch and some one within +asked what he wanted. +</p> + +<p> +"I want to come in, Phœbe," he replied, +recognising the voice. +</p> + +<p> +The maid opened the door wider, astonishment +and some perplexity in her look. +</p> + +<p> +"Oh, Mr. Donovan, sir!" she exclaimed. +"How little I thought to see you again! But +don't come in, sir, please don't, for we've +small-pox in the house." +</p> + +<p> +"I know," said Donovan, "and I'm glad to +see that you've not deserted your master, +Phœbe; I might have known that you at least +would be staunch. We must keep you out of +the way of infection, though. Have you been +with Mr. Farrant at all?" +</p> + +<p> +"I helped to move him, sir, this morning," +said Phœbe. +</p> + +<p> +"Oh! he's up at the top, is he? That's well. +Don't you come further than the second floor +then, I will fetch everything from there." +</p> + +<p> +"You mean to stay?" said Phœbe, surprised, +but evidently relieved. +</p> + +<p> +"I have come to nurse him," said Donovan. +"You can make me up a bed in" (with an +effort) "Miss Dot's room." +</p> + +<p> +In a few minutes more he was striding +upstairs two steps at a time, perhaps moving the +quicker because even now a voice within him +was urging him to turn back, calling him a fool +for his pains. +</p> + +<p> +Since their meeting in Wales he had often +wondered whether he should again see Ellis +Farrant, and if so how they would meet and +where. He had rehearsed possible meetings in +which he might combine perfect coldness with +the forgiveness which Charles Osmond had +spoken of. Cold Christliness—a curious idea, +certainly! +</p> + +<p> +But when it came to the point he somehow +lost sight of himself and his wrongs altogether. +A dim yellow light pervaded the room, the +sick-nurse came to meet him as he opened the +door, he gave her a low-toned explanation, then +turned to the bed where Ellis Farrant lay. +</p> + +<p> +After all he was a man—a man tossing to +and fro in weary misery, racked with pain, +scorched by fever, fearfully ill, and fearfully +alone, left at least with only paid attendants. +He was delirious, but he at once noticed +Donovan's entrance, mistaking him, however, for his +father. He started up with outstretched hands. +"Ralph! dear old fellow, I knew you'd +come," he cried. "Save me from that old hag, +it's old Molly the matron; don't you remember +her? Stay with me, Ralph; promise! She's +a hag, I tell you, a cursed old hag! She's been +trying to poison me. Don't leave me with her, +don't leave me!" +</p> + +<p> +"I have come to stay with you," said Donovan, +touched by the reference to the past, to the +school days when his father and Ellis had been +the greatest of friends. "I shall stay and +nurse you through this; no one shall hurt you." +</p> + +<p> +After the promise had been repeated again +and again Ellis grew more quiet. +</p> + +<p> +"There's one other thing," he began, +incoherently. "I owe a sovereign to one of the +sixth; you'll pay it for me if I die—promise +me—the honour of the family, you know—the +Farrant honour; his name is—what is +his name? I can't remember it! Plague +on the fellow! <i>Donovan!</i> That's it. Pay +Donovan a sovereign, will you? And there +was something else—a paper; what did I do +with it? Tell me, for heaven's sake! There +were six bits; I could join them. Give them +to me, give them, I say; don't burn them, +don't!" his voice rose to a scream. "Fire! fire! the +bits are flying round me. Save me, +Ralph! it's that dreadful Donovan, he's pelting +me!" +</p> + +<p> +"I'll settle him," said Donovan, quietly. +"Don't be afraid." +</p> + +<p> +"But you can't get the paper—it's the paper +he wants, and it's burnt. Oh, God! what shall +I do? There he is again! he won't speak—his +dreadful eyes are looking at me!" +</p> + +<p> +"No, no, you've made a mistake," said Donovan, +re-assuringly; "he doesn't want the paper, +he wants you to go to sleep. Come, now, you +must try to settle off." +</p> + +<p> +With that he laid his hand on Ellis's burning +forehead, and before long had really quieted +him; he fell into a sort of doze. +</p> + +<p> +Then Donovan turned to make his peace with +the much-maligned nurse, a good-natured old +creature in a gorgeous dressing-gown rather +painfully suggestive of defunct patients. She +was not at all unwilling to share the burden of +nursing with the young doctor, and it ended +not unnaturally in his taking by far the greatest +part. For Ellis remained for several days under +the same delusion, and would accept no services +from anyone but the supposed cousin and +school-fellow. +</p> + +<p> +His ravings were painful enough to listen to, +and Donovan saw plainly that his guilt weighed +heavily on him. The fatal "paper," with its +six fluttering bits, sometimes red-hot, sometimes +black and charred, sometimes only freshly torn, +recurred constantly in his delirium. The last +meeting on Snowdon haunted him too, and +Donovan would have given much to be able to +blot out the strong impression which his silent +wrath had made. +</p> + +<p> +By the time the fever subsided, and the second +stage of the illness set in, he had grown so +perfectly absorbed in the progress of his patient +that all sense of the strangeness of his own +position had died away. He had scarcely time +to realise that he was in his own house; when +in his brief intervals of rest he was set free from +the sick-room, and could emerge from the +carbolic-steeped barrier which separated the +upper part of the house from the lower, he had +no leisure to think of possessions or rights; +there were orders to be given, telegrams to be +sent; every now and then in the early morning, +or after dusk when few passengers were stirring, +there was the chance of a breath of air in the +park. +</p> + +<p> +But to the sick man the discovery was a great +surprise and a very sudden shock. The fever +left him, the delirium faded away, and he found +that the attendant from whom he hoped everything, +the only person he could bear to touch +him, and the one in whom he had put the blindest +faith, was not his old friend and school-fellow +at all, but his enemy—Donovan. He +tried in vain to think that this too was a +delusion. A hundred horrible fears rushed through +his mind; had he come to take his revenge? +He dared not say a word, but accepted everything +sullenly and silently. At length, after +many days, Donovan's persevering care and +tenderness began to touch his heart. When +the secondary fever set in, his ravings were less +of the burning paper, and more of "coals of +fire,"—coals which, nevertheless, he could ill +have dispensed with. +</p> + +<p> +It was the strangest, saddest, most pitiful +sick-bed, and in many ways it was more of a +strain to Donovan than the stiffest campaign +could have been. +</p> + +<p> +Charles Osmond, coming one evening to +inquire after the patient, met Donovan on the +doorstep. +</p> + +<p> +"You are not afraid of me?" he inquired. +"I've just changed." +</p> + +<p> +"Not a bit," said the clergyman, taking his +arm. "Let us have a turn together. Do you +think I've been a parson all these years without +coming nearer small-pox than this? How is +your cousin getting on?" +</p> + +<p> +"Exceedingly well up till this morning," +replied Donovan; "the disease has about run +its course, but I'm afraid a serious complication +has just arisen. There's to be a consultation +to-morrow." +</p> + +<p> +"You look rather done up; are you taking +care of yourself?" +</p> + +<p> +"Oh! I shall do very well; but between +ourselves it has been"—he hesitated for +words—"about the saddest business I ever saw, from +the very first." +</p> + +<p> +"Do you mean his remorse?" +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, the sort of abject misery of it, and his +agony of fear. I wish he had some one else +with him, some one who was at least sure in his +own mind one way or the other. If the poor +fellow asks me anything, I can tell him +absolutely nothing, but that I do not know—that +all is unknown and unknowable." +</p> + +<p> +"I will gladly come to see him," said Charles +Osmond, "if you think he would not object; +but"—looking attentively at the singularly +pure and noble face of his companion—"I fancy, +Donovan, you are helping him better than anyone +else could; service from you must be to him +what no other service could be." +</p> + +<p> +"'Coals of fire,' according to his own +account," said Donovan, with a little humorous +smile playing about his grave lips. "But he +does seem to like it nevertheless." +</p> + +<p> +Their conversation was cut short by a warning +clock which reminded Donovan that he must +return. Charles Osmond watched him as he +walked rapidly up the square, and disappeared +into the darkened house, the house in which +such a strange bit of life was being lived. How +those two cog-wheels would work together the +clergyman did not feel sure, but he was sure +they would in some way work the good. Ay! and +that without his interference! He was +human enough to long to have his share in +helping this soul, honest enough to recognise +that another had been called to the work—that +other being an agnostic. As he walked down +into the main road a verse from one of his +favourite poems rang in his head. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + "And nerve his arm, and cheer his heart;<br> + Then <i>stand aside</i>, and say 'God speed!'"<br> +</p> + +<p><br></p> + +<p> +"Standing aside!" the hardest of tasks to a +warm-hearted man, very conscious of his own +power! To a surface observer it would surely +have seemed right that Charles Osmond and +Donovan should change places. +</p> + +<p> +The sick man not being a surface observer, +however, but an actor in this life drama, would +strongly have objected to such a change. Very +slowly and gradually his sullenness had +disappeared, and in his heart a strange, helpless, +dependent love was growing up—almost the first +love he had ever known. He was quite himself +now, and could think clearly; he had already +formed his plan, his poor, wretched bit of +restitution, and how to carry it out. +</p> + +<p> +When Donovan returned that evening from +his walk with Charles Osmond, and took his +usual place in the peculiarly oppressive +sick-room, he found Ellis much exhausted, his hoarse +voice sounded hoarser than usual, his inflamed +eyelids were suggestive of voluntary tears, he +seemed rather to shrink from Donovan's gaze. +</p> + +<p> +For in his thin, wasted hand he held tightly +the paper which contained his brief confession. +With infinite difficulty he kept it out of +Donovan's sight, with almost childish impatience he +waited for the morning, when, before the two +doctors, he intended to make his declaration. +He was too eager to gain the relief to care very +much what they thought of him. Perhaps he +half hoped, too, that he could make a sort of +compact with Heaven, and by the act of +restitution secure a few more years in the world; +or perhaps, having lived guilty, he desired to +die innocent, or as nearly innocent as might be. +Undoubtedly there was a certain amount of +selfishness in the action, but there was, too, a +very genuine sorrow, and that strange glimmer +of love for the man whom he had injured, the +enemy who had come to him in his need. +</p> + +<p> +Donovan could not understand why he was +so anxious to get rid of him the next day; he +humoured him, however, and was not present +when the two doctors arrived. After the +consultation was over he was too much troubled to +think of anything but their verdict. He had +known that Ellis's recovery was doubtful, but +he was startled and shocked to hear that he +could not possibly live more than two or three +days. To him, too, was left the task of breaking +the news to the patient. Never had he felt +more unfitted for his work, never had he so +keenly felt his own incompleteness. To make +matters worse, Ellis seemed quite suddenly +to have taken the greatest dislike to him. +</p> + +<p> +"I know quite well what you have to say," +he interrupted, when Donovan tried to lead up +to the doctors' opinion. "I know that I'm +dying, and that you'll soon be well rid of me. +I tell you I won't have you in the room, get out +and leave me to the nurse. Isn't it enough that +I had you all last night?" +</p> + +<p> +Till now it had been difficult to be absent +even for a few hours from the room, for Ellis +had always begged not to be left to the nurse, +whom he greatly disliked. This sudden change +was perplexing and disappointing. Donovan +went away discouraged and wretched, and tried +in vain to sleep. Late in the evening he again +went to relieve guard. Ellis did not actually +object this time to his presence, but he was +alternately sullen and irritable, in great pain, +and, in spite of his confession signed and +witnessed, in terrible mental distress. +</p> + +<p> +Donovan never forgot that night. It seemed +endless! There was not very much to be done; +to quiet Ellis was impossible, to reason with him +was useless; he could only listen to his irritable +remarks, and make answer as guardedly as he +could. +</p> + +<p> +"What are you here for?" grumbled Ellis +"What made you come? Why do you stay? +You know you hate me!" +</p> + +<p> +"Nonsense," replied Donovan. "Should I +stay here if I did?" +</p> + +<p> +"You have some evil purpose," cried Ellis. +"You have come for your revenge. Why did +you come?" +</p> + +<p> +"Because it was right," said Donovan, shortly. +</p> + +<p> +"Right! Do you think I shall believe that? +All very fine when you knew quite well I'd +ruined you. Didn't you know, I say? Didn't +you know well enough?" +</p> + +<p> +"Of course," said Donovan. "But you were +ill and alone." +</p> + +<p> +"Oh! yes, it's all very fine; but you won't +get me to believe it. It's a very likely story, +isn't it? I tell you," he added, in a querulous +voice, "you're a fool to try to gull me like +that—it's against all reason—you can't prove +to me that you don't hate me—you can't prove +to me that you didn't mean to poison me!" +</p> + +<p> +"No, I can't prove it in words," said +Donovan; "I can only flatly deny. But we have +been so long together, surely you can believe +in me now?" +</p> + +<p> +He still murmured that it was impossible—against +reason; but, perhaps exhausted by his +own vehemence, fell at length into a sort of +restless sleep. +</p> + +<p> +Donovan too dozed for a few minutes in his +chair, only however to carry on the argument. +He woke with the words—"Quite against +reason" in his mind, and his own answer—"Surely +you can believe in me now!" +</p> + +<p> +He got up, went to the bed, and looked at +Ellis; he was still sleeping, an expression of +great distress on his worn face. Donovan +sighed, and crossed the room to the window. +The night was wearing on; he drew up the +blind and saw that the first faint grey of dawn +was stealing over the horizon. Everything +looked inexpressibly dreary; the room was at +the back of the house; he could see the bare +trees waving in the wind, and the grim, white +tombstones in the Unitarian burial-ground stood +out forlornly in the dim light. Death was +certain, all too certain, but the beyond was dark +and unknown. Yet here in the very room with +him was one who must soon pass through those +gloomy portals—to what? Was there a hereafter +to complete this fearfully barren existence? +Would that wretched life have a chance of +growth and change? Or was it just ended +here? Had this man, with all his gifts and +talents, just wasted his life? Was there no +future for him? He had done no good works +to live after him, he had left no memory to be +revered, he had done no good to his generation, +had left nothing for posterity. Was all ended? +When Dot had died, Donovan had dreamed +of no possible hereafter, but now all seemed +different. His creed was no longer a positive +one, and besides, the idea of the wasted life +dying out for ever was less tolerable than the +idea of the little child passing from terrible pain +to the "peace of nothingness." +</p> + +<p> +What was the Truth? Did this awfully +mysterious life end with what was called Death? +</p> + +<p> +And still a voice repeated his own words—"Surely +you can believe in me now!" +</p> + +<p> +Then again he looked at the sleeping man, +and again a miserable sense of failure weighed +down his heart. He had tried hard to show no +trace of remembrance of the past, never in look +or word to remind Ellis of the wrong he had +done him, yet his forgiveness had been rejected, +insolently, contemptuously rejected. He might +just as well have gone out to the war and left +Ellis to his fate, for he evidently would not +even believe that his motive had not been one +of self-interest. "Against all reason," a "likely +story!" Evidently he could not bring himself +to believe, and how was it possible to give him. +proof! The most wounding sense of rejection +and disappointment filled his heart. +</p> + +<p> +And still the voice repeated, "Surely you can +believe in me now!" +</p> + +<p> +Then for the first time in his life Donovan +became conscious of a Presence mightier than +anything he had ever conceived possible. He +realised that his pain about Ellis was but the +shadow of the pain which he himself had given +to "One better than the best conceivable." He +saw that for want of logical proof he too had +rejected Him whose ways are above and beyond +proof. The veil was lifted, and in the place of +the dim Unknown stood One who had loved +him with everlasting love, who had drawn him +with loving-kindness. +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<p><a id="chap16"></a></p> + +<h2> +CHAPTER XVI. +<br><br> +APPREHENSION. +</h2> + +<p class="intro"> +Life has two ecstatic moments, one when the spirit +catches sight of Truth, the other when it recognises a +kindred spirit....... Perhaps it is only in the land of +Truth that spirits can discern each other; as it is when +they are helping each other on, that they may best hope to +arrive there. +</p> + +<p class="intro"> + <i>Guesses at Truth.</i><br> +</p> + +<p><br></p> + +<p> +If rapture means the being carried away, +snatched out of self to something higher—if +ecstasy means the state in which corporeal +consciousness is made to stand aside, to give +place to a higher and perfectly satisfying +consciousness—then Donovan knew for the first +time both rapture and ecstasy. But real spiritual +rapture is the quietest thing in the world. It +is only when the senses are appealed to that +superstition and fanaticism win devotees and +evoke noisy and excited zeal. The man who, +after long search and hard labour, is at length +rewarded by some grand discovery, will be very +calm because of his rapture, very still, because +his feelings are true and deep. +</p> + +<p> +It was characteristic of him that he stood +upright. After a time the beauty of the scene +without made itself felt. The sun had just +risen—the window looked westward—all the +land was bathed in the rosy glow of sunrise. +The wind had gone down, the bare trees no +longer waved dismally to and fro, the white +graves in the burial-ground were softened and +mellowed in the glorious flood of light. It was +not unlike the change in his own life—the +darkness past, the sun changing all the scene. For +was not the mystery of life solved? had not +even the grave "its sunny side"? It was when +the prophet realised the everlastingness of God +that the conviction came to him—"we shall not +die." +</p> + +<p> +And Dot's confident "you will know" came +to pass, and she was, as it were, given back to +him once more. +</p> + +<p> +The sick man stirred. Donovan went to the +bedside. There too he was conscious of change. +The realisation of immortality brings relief, but +it brings too a strange sense of awe. +</p> + +<p> +The sleep had refreshed Ellis. He was a +little better, and not quite so irritable, his +assumed dislike too was put aside. Once more +his only anxiety was to keep Donovan beside +him. As the day advanced he grew weaker, +however. He was not in great pain, but very +restless and weary, and in an agony of fear. +At last, to relieve himself, he began to talk to +Donovan. +</p> + +<p> +"Do you remember what you said when you +left the Manor?" he began, hurriedly, "about +hoping I'd remember to my dying day? This +is my dying day, and you've got your wish." +</p> + +<p> +"I have unwished it," said Donovan, quietly. +</p> + +<p> +"I believe you have," said Ellis, looking at +him steadily for a minute. "But how can I +forget? The sin is the same whether you +forgive or not. And I've not even enjoyed it—do +you hear? I've not been able to enjoy it!" +</p> + +<p> +"No? Then God has been very good to you," +said Donovan. +</p> + +<p> +"Good! What do you mean?" groaned Ellis. +</p> + +<p> +"That the greatest curse you can have is +enjoyment of wrong," replied Donovan. "I know +only too bitterly what it means." +</p> + +<p> +Ellis seemed to muse over the words, then +he continued—"I've done what I could. I've +got it signed and witnessed. See!" and he +drew a folded paper from beneath the pillow. +"But it's no good, it's not a bit of good. It's +made me feel no better." +</p> + +<p> +Donovan glanced at the confession and put it aside. +</p> + +<p> +"Don't let it be lost, don't leave it about," +cried Ellis, nervously. "Without it you won't +get your rights, and if not, I couldn't rest in my +grave." +</p> + +<p> +Just at that moment Donovan felt supremely +indifferent as to the property, but to please +Ellis he put the paper in a safe place. +</p> + +<p> +"It was all that wretched will that ruined +me!" cried the miserable man. "If it hadn't +been so small, if I hadn't been alone, there'd +have been no temptation. I wasn't such a bad +fellow before then. And now I'm ruined, lost! +Do you hear what I say? I've lost my soul! +How can you sit there so quietly, when in a few +hours I shall be dead? Don't you believe in hell?" +</p> + +<p> +"Yes," said Donovan, slowly. "And I think +that you and I have already spent most of our +lives there." +</p> + +<p> +"That wasn't what they used to teach; I +believe you're half a sceptic still," groaned Ellis. +"I'm sure there was a way of getting it all set +right at the last, if only I could remember." +</p> + +<p> +"Would you like to see a clergyman?" asked Donovan. +</p> + +<p> +"No, no, no," cried Ellis, vehemently; "I've +been a hypocrite all my life before them, I can +at least speak the truth to you—you who know +just what I am." +</p> + +<p> +"Then," said Donovan, very diffidently, urged +to speak only by the extremity of the case, "if +you want one who knows all, you can go +straight to God who is nearer you than anyone +else can be." +</p> + +<p> +"That's nothing new!" exclaimed Ellis, +petulantly. "I've known that all my life." +</p> + +<p> +"How did you know it?" asked Donovan. +</p> + +<p> +"I don't know how; they told me—my +mother, and at church and school." +</p> + +<p> +Conventional acceptance was a thing which +Donovan could not understand. +</p> + +<p> +"I think we must learn differently from that," +he said, slowly, as if feeling his way on new +ground. "Before you can really know, must +you not be conscious of God's presence?" +</p> + +<p> +"I've had that," groaned Ellis, "it's dogged +me through everything—a dreadful text that +was up in the old nursery, it used to make me +shiver then—great black letters—'Thou God +seest me;' I can see it now, and the horrid +feeling after one had told a lie. Do you think +there's no way out of it? They used to say +something—I forget what, it never seemed to +me very real. Do you think one must be punished?" +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, I do," said Donovan. +</p> + +<p> +"Oh! is there no way of getting off?" +groaned Ellis. +</p> + +<p> +"I don't think you'll wish to 'get off,'" +replied Donovan. +</p> + +<p> +"Not wish! How little you know! What +would you do if you were lying as I am, with +only a few hours more to live?—would you not +wish to get off?" +</p> + +<p> +"I think I should wish—I do wish to be +saved from selfishness," said Donovan, slowly, +"and to give myself unreservedly into God's +keeping." +</p> + +<p> +Death has a strange way of breaking down +the strongest barriers of reserve; afterwards it +seemed almost incredible to Donovan that he +and Ellis, of all people in the world, should +have spoken with such perfect openness to each +other. It was a little hard on him perhaps to +be called upon so soon to speak of the truths +he had so lately grasped, but the very freshness +of his conviction gave his words a peculiar +power, the very slowness and diffidence of his +humility touched Ellis when glib, conventional +utterances would have passed by him unheeded. +And yet the sick man did not gather from his +words one grain of selfish comfort. Donovan +evidently did not believe in any charm for +converting the death-bed of a wrong-doer into that +of a saint, he seemed perfectly convinced that +punishment did await him, purifying punishment. +And Ellis who had all his life hoped to +set things right at the last, was much more +terrified at the idea of certain punishment even +with his ultimate good in view than of everlasting +punishment, which, by some theological +charm, he might hope altogether to escape. +The inevitable loss of even some small possession +is much more keenly felt than the possible +loss of all, which we hope to avert, and the very +idea of which we can hardly take into our minds. +</p> + +<p> +The one only comfort of that terrible day was +in the realisation of Donovan's forgiveness. By +degrees this began to work in the poor man's +mind, almost imperceptibly to alter his grim +notions of the stern, inexorable Judge in whom +he believed, and before whom he trembled. +</p> + +<p> +It was night again, the room was dim and +quiet, but beside the bed the dying man could +see the face of his late enemy, the strong, pure, +strangely powerful face which, in his helplessness, +he had learnt to love. +</p> + +<p> +"Do you think God's as forgiving as you +are?" he faltered. "Do you think He's better +than they say?" +</p> + +<p> +Donovan was dismayed. Did the poor fellow +know what he was saying? could he have such +a terribly low ideal? He would not allow his +surprise to show itself, however. He drew nearer. +</p> + +<p> +"See," he said, at the same time raising his +cousin's head so that it rested on his shoulder +in the way which gave the sick man most relief. +"I know very little of what they say, and am +at the beginning of everything, but I am sure +that whatever love I have for you is but the +tiniest ray of His love; and if you persist in +shutting out all but one ray when the whole +sun is ready to light you, you will find it, as I +have found it, very dark." +</p> + +<p> +And then in the silence that followed Donovan +fell into a reverie. Why was it that this +man found it so hard to believe? He had +evidently no such difficulties as he himself had +had—no intellectual perplexities. Had he +believed in some terrific phantom? or had the +long selfishness of years brought him to a state +in which he could not reach the idea of love? +Yet he could reach the idea of human love and +pity; he clung now almost like a child to Donovan. +</p> + +<p> +"Who would have thought that you would +be the only one with me at the last?" he +murmured. "But I shall have to leave even you; +I must go alone to face God, to stand before +the Judge. I wish I'd never been born, I tell you!" +</p> + +<p> +Donovan felt almost choked; he would have +given worlds to have had Charles Osmond there +at that moment. But there was no chance of +getting a better man to speak to Ellis then, +nor, had the greatest saints upon earth been +present, would they have had as much influence +with him as the man whom he had wronged. +</p> + +<p> +The clock struck three. There was a long +silence. Donovan seemed to have gained what +he wanted in the waiting, for his face was +strangely bright when he turned once more to +Ellis. +</p> + +<p> +"I am going to tell you something about my +father," he began. And then, much in the way +in which he used to soothe Dot's restless nights +with stories, Donovan told faithfully and +graphically the whole story of his school disgrace. +How he had cared not a rush for all the blame, +how he had braved opinion, how the gauntletting +had hardened and embittered him; then +of his return to the house, of the way in which +his father had received him, of the forgiveness +which had first made him repentant, of the +fatherly grief which had made him just for his +father's sake care for the punishment. +</p> + +<p> +His voice got a little husky towards the end. +Ellis, too, was evidently much moved. +</p> + +<p> +"Do you think God is at all like your father?" +he faltered. +</p> + +<p> +It hurt Donovan a little, this bald anthropomorphism, +but recognising that Ellis was really +feeling after the underlying truth, he answered, +</p> + +<p> +"I think my father was, as it were, a shadow +of God—a shadow of the great Fatherhood—and +the shadow can't be without the reality." +</p> + +<p> +Ellis seemed satisfied. After that he slept +at intervals, murmuring indistinctly every now +and then fragments of the story he had just +heard, or wandering back to recollections of his +childhood. +</p> + +<p> +Just as the dawn was breaking, he came to +himself once more, speaking quite clearly. +</p> + +<p> +"I should like you to say the Lord's Prayer," +he said. +</p> + +<p> +So together Donovan and the dying man said +the "Our Father," and sealed their reconciliation. +</p> + +<p> +Then, tremblingly and fearfully, Ellis entered +the valley of the shadow of death. Truly +there are last which shall be first, and first +last! The conventionally religious man, the +man whose orthodoxy had always been +considered beyond dispute, would have died in +black darkness had not one ray of love been +kindled in his cold heart by the forgiveness he +so little deserved, had not a gleam of truth +been given to him by one who but yesterday +had been an agnostic. +</p> + +<p> +At sunrise he passed away into the Unseen. +</p> + +<p><br></p> + +<p> +For thirty-six hours Donovan had been in +constant attendance on his cousin. When all +was over he could no longer resist the craving +for air which had for some time made the sick-room +almost intolerable to him. In the stillness +of that early winter morning he left the house +and made his way into the park. The ground +was white with frost, the sky intensely blue, +the air sharp and exhilarating. The outer world +suited his state of mind exactly. He was awed +and quieted by the death-bed he had just +quitted, but above the stillness and above the awe +there was that marvellous sense of the Eternal +which had so lately dawned for him, a +consciousness which widened the whole universe, +which gave new beauty to all around. He +walked on rapidly into the bleakest, most open +part of the park, a peculiar elasticity in his +step, a light in his eyes. +</p> + +<p> +It took him back to a day in his childhood, +when his tutor had first given him some idea of +the most recent solar discoveries. He could +clearly remember the sort of exultant glow of +wonder and awe which had taken possession of +him; how the whole world had seemed full of +grand possibilities; how he had rushed out +alone on to the downs near the Manor, and in +every blade of grass, in every tiny flower, in +every wayside stone had seen new wonders, +strange invisible workings which no one could +fathom or grasp. The very wind blowing on +his heated brow had been laden with the +marvellous; nothing could be common, or small, or +ordinary to him again. +</p> + +<p> +That had been his feeling when he first +realised the physical unseen; his first realisation +of the spiritual unseen was a little like it, only +deeper and more lasting, and that while the +child's delight had had an element of wildness +in it, the man's rapture was all calmness. +</p> + +<p> +The park seemed deserted. The sole creature +he met was an organ-grinder setting out +on his daily rounds. Involuntarily they +exchanged a <i>buon giorno</i>. His very dreams of +"liberty, equality, fraternity" took a wider and +deeper meaning in the breadth and light of that +morning. +</p> + +<p> +There are more resurrection days than the +world dreams of—Easters which are not less +real because the church bells do not ring—which, +though chanted of by no earthly choir, +cause joy in the presence of the angels of God. +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<p><a id="chap17"></a></p> + +<h2> +CHAPTER XVII. +<br><br> +TREVETHAN SPEAKS. +</h2> + +<p class="intro"> + But Thou wilt sin and grief destroy;<br> + That so the broken bones may joy,<br> + And tune together in a well-set song,<br> + Full of His praises,<br> + Who dead men raises.<br> + Fractures well cured make us more strong.<br> + GEORGE HERBERT.<br> +</p> + +<p><br></p> + +<p> +The years had wrought very little visible +change in Gladys. Outwardly her life had +been very quiet and uneventful since her last +meeting with Donovan, and whatever anxiety +or inward trouble she had had was not registered +on her fair, open brow, or in her clear, +quiet, blue-grey eyes. That time was passing +quickly, and that years had elapsed since +Donovan had been at Porthkerran, was shown much +more clearly by the change in Nesta, who, from +a remarkably small child, had shot up into a slim +little girl of eight years. The two sisters were +walking together along the Porthkerran cliffs +one winter afternoon, Nesta telling an endless +fairy tale for the joint benefit of her doll and +her sister, Gladys listening every now and then +for a few minutes, but a good deal engrossed +with her own thoughts. +</p> + +<p> +The Caustons were spending a few days with +them, and Stephen's presence was rather +tiresome and embarrassing. She had really come +out chiefly to escape his company, for the +afternoon was not at all tempting. A strong west +wind was blowing, the sky was dull and leaden, +the sea grey, and restless, and stormy. Gladys +was not easily affected by weather, but to-day +the dulness seemed to tell on her. There was +something depressing in the great, grey +expanse of sea heaving and tossing restlessly, in +the long white fringe of foam along the coastline, +in the heavy, gloomy sky. Only one boat +was in sight, a little pilot-boat which had just +left Porthkerran Bay. It was tossing fearfully; +every now and then a great gust of wind +threatened to blow it quite over. She watched +it bending and swaying beneath the blast, but +still making way, until at length it disappeared +in the grey mist which shrouded the distance. +</p> + +<p> +Gladys sighed as it passed away out of sight. +It reminded her—why she scarcely knew—of a +life which for a little while had touched her life +very nearly, of a strong, determined, resolute +man struggling hard with adverse circumstances +under a leaden sky of doubt. He, too, had +passed away into a grey mist. For years she +had heard absolutely nothing of him; their +lives were quite severed. Was he still under +the leaden sky? she wondered. Was all still +so fearfully against him? Was he still toiling +on against wind and tide? A little rift in the +clouds made way for a gleam of sunlight, and +it so happened that the gleam fell, on the +horizon-line in one golden little spot of brightness. +Right in the centre of it she could clearly +make out the dark sail of the pilot-boat. It +brought to her mind a line of George Herbert— +</p> + +<p class="t3"> + "The sun still shineth there or here."<br> +</p> + +<p><br></p> + +<p> +And she walked on more hopefully, strangely +inspirited by that momentary glimpse of +sunlight. What right had she to doubt that the +sun would shine for him sooner or later! Might +not he, too, have even now reached the +brightness? lived out his bit of grey? +</p> + +<p> +"We will go and see Trevethan," she said to +little Nesta. "It is quite a long time since +we've heard anything about him." +</p> + +<p> +They passed the place where Donovan had +climbed down after the lost hat, and before +many minutes reached the forge, where +Trevethan was hammering away at his anvil, the +sparks springing up from the red-hot metal like +fireflies. Standing beside the blazing fire was +a little pale-faced girl. +</p> + +<p> +"Good day, miss," said the blacksmith, glancing +round and laying aside his hammer. "I'm +right glad to see ye, miss. I was a-coming up +to the house this very night to tell ye our +good news." +</p> + +<p> +"News of your son?" asked Gladys, feeling +certain that nothing less could have called out +such radiant satisfaction in Trevethan's face. +</p> + +<p> +"Not news of him, Miss Gladys, but himself; +he's come, he's here now, and this is his +little one, miss, called after you. Jack was +determined she should have a good Cornish name; +He be out now, more's the pity, but we be both +a-coming to-night to see the doctor, to tell him +of Mr. Farrant, and how it's all his doing." +</p> + +<p> +"Mr. Farrant?" questioned Gladys, her colour +deepening. +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, miss, Mr. Donovan as was here three +years gone by. He promised to look out for +Jack, and you'd never think, miss, what he's +been to my poor lad, a-nursing of him his own +self, and a-persuading of him to come home +when Jack was frightened whether I'd give +him a welcome or not." +</p> + +<p> +"Was your son at St. Thomas's?" asked Gladys. +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, miss, but Mr. Farrant he found him +out in his own place. You tell, little one, how +you fetched him to see father." +</p> + +<p> +So little Gladys told shyly, yet graphically, +too, how she had gone one rainy evening to +fetch Donovan, how he had made her sit by his +fire, how he had held his umbrella over her on +the way back, and had done all he could to help +them. The tears would come into Gladys' eyes +for very happiness. Had she not known that +the truth would come out at last! Had she not +been right to believe in him without the +slightest proof! +</p> + +<p> +"Will Mr. Dono come to stay with us again?" +asked Nesta, as they walked home. +</p> + +<p> +"I don't know, darling," she replied. "Some +day perhaps." +</p> + +<p> +But her heart was dancing with happiness, +that "perhaps" had a good deal of assurance +in it. +</p> + +<p> +The two Trevethans had a long interview +with the doctor that evening. Such an +unexpected opportunity of hearing about Donovan +was not to be neglected, and Dr. Tremain made +the most minute inquiries. Jack Trevethan +was a very shrewd fellow; from the most trifling +indications he had long ago guessed all the +facts of the case. He had seen Donovan flush +quickly at the mention of Miss Tremain, had +found that he was no longer on speaking terms +with Stephen Causton, had put two and two +together in the quick way common to observant +people, especially when they are watching life in +a circle above them. He was thoroughly +devoted to Donovan, and very eager to do him +service. Very carefully and minutely he told +Dr. Tremain of their first meeting in the +billiard saloon. Then for the first time Donovan's +true relation to Stephen transpired. The +doctor could hardly believe that he heard +rightly. It was such an entire reversing of all that +he had feared, all that he had unwillingly +believed. Could it indeed be that Donovan had +only tried to keep Stephen out of evil? Could +he possibly have gone with him to the Z—— +races merely to prevent his going with the set +which Trevethan very graphically described? +The ex-billiard-marker disclosed several very +damaging facts; Stephen had often visited the +saloon with the same set of students, but +Donovan had never again entered the place. +</p> + +<p> +Gladys could not understand why her father +looked so worried and perplexed when he came +back to the drawing-room that evening. Did +he not believe the good news? Must he not be +infinitely relieved? A sudden light was thrown +on her perplexity, however, when her father +spoke. +</p> + +<p> +"I want a word with you, Stephen, will you +come into the study?" +</p> + +<p> +Of course whatever proved Donovan's innocence +must at the same time convict Stephen! +She had not thought of that! +</p> + +<p> +Stephen had a sort of presentiment that his +time was come. He followed the doctor into +the next room. +</p> + +<p> +"I have nothing pleasant to tell you," began +Dr. Tremain, speaking rather quickly, and in +the tone of one who fears he may lose his +temper. "I have just had an interview with a man +who was present at a certain billiard saloon in +Villiers Street at the time you were in the habit +of frequenting it. The man was one of the +markers, he has described to me the one evening +when Donovan met you there and persuaded +you to leave. Is that what you call being led +into temptation by him?" +</p> + +<p> +Stephen turned pale. +</p> + +<p> +"It is exceedingly hard that you take +the word of a mere stranger before mine," he +said. "This man, whoever he may be, has no +doubt been instigated by Farrant? Why should +you believe him?" +</p> + +<p> +"Because he has truth written on his face," +said Dr. Tremain, "and you have not. Stephen, +I do not wish to be hard on you, I will try not +to prejudge you, but I implore you to tell me +the whole truth." +</p> + +<p> +To tell the whole truth was unfortunately not +at all in Stephen's line; he began to excuse +himself. +</p> + +<p> +"Farrant is as hard as nails, he judges everyone +by himself; because he had once been a +regular gambler was no reason that I should +follow his example. He'd no business to spy +on me." +</p> + +<p> +"Take care," said the doctor, quickly, "your +own words are condemning you." +</p> + +<p> +"It is you who force me to condemn myself," +said Stephen, sullenly. Then after a pause he +all at once broke down and buried his face in +his hands. "If Gladys could have loved me," +he sobbed, "it would all have been different; it's +been my love for her that has undone me, +made me want to seem better than I was." +</p> + +<p> +The doctor, at once sorrowful and angry, +paced the room in silence, but there was something +so selfish in Stephen's confessions that, in +spite of himself, the anger would predominate. +</p> + +<p> +"You call by the name of love what was +nothing more than mere selfish desire," he said, +sternly. "How could you dare to ask any +woman to be your wife when to gain her you +had acted one continual lie! Do you realise +that all these years an innocent man has been +suffering for your guilt? Do you realise that +one word from Donovan, the word he was too +generous to speak, would have brought all +your falseness to the light! What do you +expect him to think of Christianity if that is the +way you behave. You have brought shame to +your religion! You have disgraced your name! +And not only that, but you have utterly misled +me, caused me entirely to misjudge the man of +all others I would have treated with greatest +delicacy—greatest justice. How could you tell +me such lies? Had you no generosity—no sense +of gratitude?" +</p> + +<p> +Stephen cowered under the storm, but kept silence. +</p> + +<p> +Presently, in the saddening consciousness of +his own grievous mistake, the doctor's anger +died away. +</p> + +<p> +"I will say no more, it is scarcely fair to +reproach you with my own hastiness of judgment, +my own want of insight," he said, in a voice +full of sorrow, which reproached Stephen far +more than his anger; "but when I think of +what Donovan has borne in silence, from the +very people too who should have been his best +friends, it is almost more than I can endure." +</p> + +<p> +Stephen's better nature began to show itself +at last, his heart smote him as he realised all the +pain his deceit had caused. He left off excusing +himself, and somewhat falteringly told the story +from the very beginning, revealing the sort of +double life he had led for so many years, wild +and self-indulgent when alone, falsely religious +and proper when with his mother. The doctor +was very good to him, promised to help him as +far as he could by speaking to Mrs. Causton, +and perhaps for the first time thoroughly +awakened Stephen's love and respect. Before they +parted that night they had discussed the future +as well as the past, and Stephen had made up +his mind to go abroad, to try with all his might +to redeem his name. +</p> + +<p> +Trevethan had after all been detained at +St. Thomas's later than Donovan had expected. +He had learnt at the hospital that his friend had +not gone out to the war, that instead he was +nursing some relation. This was all he could +tell Dr. Tremain, but of course the impulsive +doctor, even with such slight information, +prepared to go up to London at once. Letters +had failed so signally before that he would no +longer trust them, he must see Donovan to +explain matters fully, to apologise as he wished. +</p> + +<p> +Some cruel fate seemed to have ordained +that he should always have to endure a most +irksome time of waiting in the York Road +lodging-house. Donovan was of course not at home; +the old captain was out, but was expected in +an hour's time, he was the only person who +knew Mr. Farrant's address. The landlady +invited the doctor to come in and wait. The +room seemed very dull and quiet, the only trace +of Donovan which it bore was in a sheet of +writing-paper pinned up in a conspicuous place +over the mantelpiece, whereon was inscribed a +high-flown but affectionate declaration that +John Frewin, late captain of the <i>Metora</i>, bound +himself hereby to touch no alcoholic drink until +the return of his friend Donovan Farrant. +</p> + +<p> +Apparently the old man had kept his pledge, +for he came in before long looking exceedingly +respectable and sober. Dr. Tremain had to +listen to the whole account of the drawing up +of the paper, the surprise it was to be to the +captain's "dear friend and benefactor," and the +dreariness of the place without him before he +could elicit Donovan's address from the +talkative old gentleman. Even then Rouge tried to +scare him with terrific accounts of the small-pox. +</p> + +<p> +At length, however, he was really on his way +to Connaught Square; by this time it was +evening, and when he reached the house it seemed +dark and deserted. He rang, and after a long +delay, was admitted. Phœbe eyed him with +some suspicion, but hearing that he was a +doctor, she let him come in and showed him +into the dining-room, lighting the gas for his +benefit. Then for the first time they discovered +that Donovan was stretched on the sofa fast +asleep. +</p> + +<p> +"Don't wake him," said the doctor, "I am in +no hurry and will wait. I suppose he has had +very hard work. Is Mr. Farrant any better?" +</p> + +<p> +"You have not heard, sir? He died early +this morning," replied Phœbe, gravely. +"Mr. Donovan should have rested before, but we +couldn't persuade him; there has been many +things to see to to-day, for they say the funeral +must be to-morrow." +</p> + +<p> +Neither the lights nor the voices roused the +sleeper; by-and-by Phœbe went away, and the +doctor waited with eagerness not unmixed with +anxiety for the awaking, remembering with a +pang their last parting at the station, recalling +painfully the last words which even then had +touched him, "All I ask is that you will just +forget me." +</p> + +<p> +At last a noise in the square roused Donovan, +he started up, rubbed his eyes, caught sight of +Dr. Tremain, and sprang to his feet. +</p> + +<p> +"You here!" he exclaimed, in astonishment, +and then a sudden shade passed over his face, +and the same peculiar expression of doubt, +almost of annoyance, showed itself, which had +so grievously hurt the doctor at their last +meeting. He understood it well enough now, +however. +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, I am here at last," he said, grasping +Donovan's hand. "Here to ask your forgiveness, +to tell you that we all know now how +much we have been misled." +</p> + +<p> +Donovan's eyes lighted up, but he waited in +questioning silence, careful still not to +compromise Stephen in the slightest degree. +</p> + +<p> +"I learnt all from Trevethan's son," +continued the doctor. "And then a very few +questions brought out the whole truth from +Stephen. Can you forgive us, Donovan, for +misjudging you so abominably?" +</p> + +<p> +"It was my own fault—my own doing, at +any rate," said Donovan, smiling. "You were +very slow to judge me at all, and it seemed +best all round that you should believe me to be +in the wrong." +</p> + +<p> +"It shielded Stephen, of course," said the +doctor, "but he did not deserve shielding, and +it gave the rest of us a great deal of pain. It +was very generous of you, but surely mistaken." +</p> + +<p> +"I asked you to forget me," said Donovan. +"I hoped and believed you would do so. It +was not only or chiefly for Stephen's sake. I +believed that it would be better in every way." +</p> + +<p> +"You said so when we last saw each other," +said the doctor, "but even now I cannot see +why it was necessary. And why did you +refuse to come to us that summer, and then tell +me you invented an excuse? Was that in any +way connected with Stephen? Can you not +tell me now why you could not come?" +</p> + +<p> +"Yes," replied Donovan, with a strange thrill +in his voice, "I can tell you even that now. I +could not come because I loved your daughter. +I was not sure that I could help showing it; I +thought—it may have been presumptuous to +think so—that she might possibly care for me. +It was right, I think, to go away, and I hoped +that she—that you all—would forget me." +</p> + +<p> +"And little Gladys was the one who told me +from the very first that I must be mistaken, +that I had judged you wrongly," said the +doctor, rather huskily. "We have all been very +poor hands at forgetting you, Donovan; do you +want us to go on with the dreary farce any +longer? Will you not come back to us?" +</p> + +<p> +"You must yourself give me the power of +saying 'Yes' to that question," said Donovan, +his colour rising a little. "A few days ago I +must still have refused; but if you could trust +Gladys to me, if she can possibly love one who +has lived the life I have lived—who has but +seen, as it were, one ray of the light in which +she has lived all her life—then I will come to +you." +</p> + +<p> +The two men wrung each other's hands. +</p> + +<p> +"Gladys must speak for herself," said the +doctor. "For my part, I would trust my little +girl to you unreservedly. I will not thank you +for the way in which you have acted, but"—he +struggled with his emotion—"it has made you +very dear to me, Donovan. No man in the +world would I so gladly call my son." +</p> + +<p> +Then being Englishmen, and not caring to +trust themselves to talk more on a subject which +moved them so much, they plunged rather +abruptly into other topics, discussed Ellis +Farrant's illness, the legality of his duly-witnessed +confession, the great increase of small-pox in +London. +</p> + +<p> +It was not until after the funeral, late in the +following day, that Donovan had time to go to +the Osmonds, and then it was only to take a +hurried farewell, for Dr. Tremain had made +light of all fear of infection, and had insisted on +his returning with him to Trenant. +</p> + +<p> +"So you see," he added, after briefly alluding +to all that had passed since the night he and +Charles Osmond had last met, "life is beginning +to open out for me in all sorts of unexpected +ways. I can hardly realise yet—I have hardly +tried to think—that Oakdene is really mine. +How am I ever to turn myself into the respectable +country gentleman?" +</p> + +<p> +Charles Osmond laughed. +</p> + +<p> +"I am not much afraid for you," he replied, +quietly. "It will be a more difficult life than +the hard-working surgeon-life you had planned +for yourself; but I fancy you can make a great +deal of it." +</p> + +<p> +"It would be hard to face," said Donovan, +"if I had not a hope that the truest of helpers, +the sweetest and best woman in the world, may +possibly begin the new life at Oakdene with me. +It is nothing but a hope—to-morrow I shall +know; but I could not help telling you of +it—you who have helped me through these black +years." +</p> + +<p> +"I wish you good speed," said Charles +Osmond, conveying somehow in tone and look +and touch a great deal more than the mere +words. +</p> + +<p> +Then the two parted. +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<p><a id="chap18"></a></p> + +<h2> +CHAPTER XVIII. +<br><br> +"MY HOPES AND THINE ARE ONE." +</h2> + +<p class="intro"> + O we will walk this world,<br> + Yoked in all exercise of noble end,<br> + And so through those dark gates across the wild<br> + That no man knows. Indeed I love thee; come,<br> + Yield thyself up! My hopes and thine are one:<br> + Accomplish thou my manhood and thyself;<br> + Lay thy sweet hands in mine and trust to me.<br> + <i>The Princess.</i><br> +</p> + +<p><br></p> + +<p> +In spite of the inevitable excitement and +anxiety, Donovan slept almost the whole +way from London to St. Kerrans; he had large +arrears of sleep to make up, and the doctor +was glad enough to see him settle himself in +a corner seat and take the rest he so much +needed. By the time they reached St. Kerrans +he was quite himself again, quiet rather, and +not much inclined to talk, but with an unusual +light in his dark eyes. Star and Ajax were +waiting for them at the station; they drove +through the little Cornish town, with its grey +houses, and out into the narrow winding lanes, +which Donovan remembered so well. It seemed +almost a lifetime since the Sunday evening +when he had first spoken unreservedly with +Dr. Tremain—long years ago since their last +drive to St. Kerrans, when he thought he had +parted with Gladys for ever. His heart beat +high with hope; every step was bringing him +nearer the woman he loved! the very trees +and hedgerows seemed to welcome him as he +passed, even the cross-grained old man at the +turnpike had a friendly greeting for him. +</p> + +<p> +It was dark by the time they reached Porthkerran; +the stars were shining brightly through +the frosty air, the ponies' feet rang sharply on +the hard road, in all the quaint, irregular houses +shone friendly lights; he could see them climbing +far up the hill, old Admiral Smith's house +forming the apex. She was here in this home-like +little fishing village! in a few minutes he +should see her again! every pulse in him beat +at double-quick time as he thought of it. They +drove on through the quaint market-place, with +its stone fountain, surrounded now with rows +of boats drawn up from the beach into winter +quarters. A blaze of light came from the little +inn where he had stayed with his father, where +he had first met Dr. Tremain; lights shone, too, +from the windows of the school-house, and +children's voices rang out clearly into the +street—they were singing Dot's favourite old +carol—the refrain reached him distinctly: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + "O tidings of comfort and joy,<br> + Comfort and joy,<br> + O tidings of comfort and joy!"<br> +</p> + +<p><br></p> + +<p> +The doctor made the ponies draw up. +</p> + +<p> +"Gladys must be at her choir practice," he +said. "We will see if she is ready to come home." +</p> + +<p> +He gave the reins to the groom, and Donovan +followed him into the school-room. +</p> + +<p> +There was Gladys surrounded with little +blue-eyed Cornish children, sitting queen-like in +a sort of bower of holly, and ivy, and laurel +branches, for the next day was to be the +children's winter school-treat. It had been +postponed once or twice, but though somewhat late +in the season, they were to celebrate it in +Christmas fashion, and would not dispense with either +carols or greenery. +</p> + +<p> +She was not the least altered; it was just +the same sweet, pure, sunshiny lace, the +remembrance of which had so often kept him. +from evil. They greeted each other in the most +ordinary way. Then she turned to speak to +her father, but Donovan was quite content, +scarcely wished for more than the sight of her +just then. +</p> + +<p> +"Shall we drive you home?" said the doctor. +"Is your practice over?" +</p> + +<p> +"It is just finished, but I wanted rather to +see old Mrs. Carne—she seems worse again." +</p> + +<p> +"I will take back Jackie and Nesta then," +said the doctor. "Donovan will see you safely +home, I've no doubt." +</p> + +<p> +Donovan, inwardly blessing the doctor, carried +off Nesta to the pony-carriage, impatient to +have them all out of the way. Was not each +minute wasted which did not bring that perfect +mutual understanding which he so longed for! +She might not care for him, still they would +understand each other, make an end of the +miserable silence and doubt of these long years. +</p> + +<p> +The pony-carriage drove off, the last carol +was sung; with curtsies and salutes the small +singers ran noisily out of the school. Donovan, +whose "duteous service" had so long consisted +in silence and absence, now made the most of +his opportunity; raked out the fire, tidied the +school, turned out the lamps, then with, in +spite of himself, a certain sweet sense of +possession—possession if only for these few +minutes—he turned to Gladys, who for once seemed a +little shy and silent. +</p> + +<p> +They went out into the market-square, closely +followed by Waif. +</p> + +<p> +"It is a house down on the shore I want to +go to," said Gladys, wishing her heart would +not beat so uncomfortably. But somehow, when +Donovan next spoke, there was that in his +manner which calmed her. +</p> + +<p> +"I am so glad to have this walk with you. +It was good of your father to give me this time +with you at once. I want, Gladys, to know +how I am to come back to Porthkerran this +time. The first time I came to you it was as a +penniless outcast; the second as a friend; the +next as one who loved you, but dared not speak. +I have come this time ready to speak to you, if +you will hear me; to ask if you can give me +more than friendship—whether you care to take +a love which has always been yours. May I go +on? Will you hear me?" +</p> + +<p> +She seemed to speak an assent, but her voice +trembled, he took her hand in his, made her +lean on his arm, still holding the little hand in +his strong grasp. +</p> + +<p> +"You see," he continued, "ever since I was +a mere boy you have been my ideal. In a very +strange way I had three passing glimpses of +you, the first just after my father died, when I +was miserable and disgraced, then again those +two meetings when I was wronged and revengeful. +Oh! Gladys, you little know what you +did for me, what depths you saved me from. +I think I am glad you saw me at my worst, +without it I should hardly have dared to speak +to you like this. You know all that I was, you +were my friend when others shrank from me as +an atheist, you have taught me what love is, +and now that I am beginning to learn something +of the everlastingness of love, I want +your help more and more. Gladys, will you be +my wife?" +</p> + +<p> +"I think I have always loved you," she +answered, quite simply and quietly. "And I +was always sure the Light would come to you." +</p> + +<p> +"Yes," said Donovan, holding her hand more +closely, "you could look at things from another +point of viewr, you believed in a higher power; +I, you see, only knew myself, and how could I +dare to think of you as my wife? My darling, +even now I half tremble at the thought. Can +you trust yourself to one who is at the +beginning of everything? I have spent my life in +learning what you have always known. Can +you put up with such incompleteness? Can +you trust me?" +</p> + +<p> +"After trusting in the darkness it is easy to +trust in the light," said Gladys, softly. +</p> + +<p> +"You did believe in me then, though I tried +so hard that you should not," said Donovan, +half smiling. +</p> + +<p> +"You are not a good deceiver or concealer," +replied Gladys. "That day at Z—— on the +staircase when you said you could explain +nothing, I could see by your face that you had +never led Stephen into harm. I couldn't help +believing you." +</p> + +<p> +"I should have thought I was flinty enough," +said Donovan, smiling now, though the remembrance +of that parting still brought a cold chill +to his heart. +</p> + +<p> +"Yes," said Gladys, "in one way. I mean," +she added, shyly, "that I thought you did not +care for me." +</p> + +<p> +"That was because I did love you. Will you +take that silence now, darling, as a proof of the +love I cannot speak even when I may. I +thought it would only make you wretched then. +I knew so bitterly what a difference of faith +means between those who are very dear to each +other." +</p> + +<p> +Gladys looked up at him, a beautiful light in +her face. How much he had thought of her! how +true and unselfish his love was! she could +not help contrasting it with Stephen's blindly +selfish love and strangely different proposal. +</p> + +<p> +"Directly you came into the school just +now," she said, "I thought how like you had +grown to the picture of little Dot—it is your +eyes that have changed so. Oh! Donovan, +how glad she will be!" +</p> + +<p> +He pressed her hand, but did not speak. +They walked along the shore in silence; +presently reaching the little cottage where the +sick woman lived, Gladys went in, and Donovan +waited for her outside, not sorry for a +minute's pause in which to realise his happiness. +</p> + +<p> +In a little while she joined him again, and +for a minute they stood still looking out +sea-wards. A faint streak of yellow lingered in +the west, but above the stars were shining +brightly, while across the dark rolling sea +there gleamed from the light-house two long +tracks of light athwart each other. The same +thought came to each of them, the sweet old +saying—"Via crucis, via lucis." Neither of +them spoke, but to each came the longing that +their love might always be that self-sacrificing +love which alone can lead into the light. It +seemed to Gladys like a sort of sacrament when +Donovan stooped down and with a grave +reverence pressed his lips to hers. +</p> + +<p> +"You will teach me," he said, after a time, +as they walked back along the beach. +</p> + +<p> +She felt like a baby beside him as he spoke, +in his humility, in his grand self-denying +nobleness he seemed to tower above her. +</p> + +<p> +"Teach you!" she said, smiling. "I should +as soon think of teaching papa! And yet papa +always says the little ones do teach him. +Perhaps in that way, Donovan—can you be +content with that sort of child-wife who cannot +understand half the great things you think of?" +</p> + +<p> +"My darling, how can you use such a word?" +he exclaimed. "Content! And have you not +been teaching me all these years? How little +the world knows its true teachers! How little +the pure-hearted ones think of the lessons they +teach!" +</p> + +<p> +"We will learn together," said Gladys, softly. +</p> + +<p> +"There is one thing I should like to tell +you now," said Donovan. "I had arranged, +you know, to go out to the war, and I find +there is still a vacancy in one of the +ambulances. You will not mind my going out, +darling? I feel in a measure bound to go, +and I should like, at any rate, a few months +of good stiff work. Some time must pass +before the legal matters are settled and the +Manor really becomes my own, and I should +like to be doing something in the waiting-time. +You will not mind my going?" +</p> + +<p> +Gladys did of course shrink from the thought, +but she knew that in marrying such a man as +Donovan she must make up her mind to much +sacrifice. The delight of even now being able +to share his work helped to lessen the pain. +</p> + +<p> +"I think," she replied, "you would not +have been Donovan if you had not wanted to go." +</p> + +<p> +"And then with you," said Donovan, "I +shall be strong to begin what I feel fearfully +unequal to—the life as master of Oakdene. +There is plenty of work for us at Greyshot, and +you must help me to love the neighbours, who +perhaps may not hate me now so much as +they did. I almost fancy even Mrs. Ward may +be civil now that I have found a woman brave +enough to be my wife! Are you ready, darling, +to be the wife of a radical?—to be looked down +on perhaps as the wife of a some-time atheist?" +</p> + +<p> +"To be your wife," said Gladys, gently. +</p> + +<p> +They had made their way up the steep winding +street and were in sight of Trenant, the +dear old gabled house with its ivy-covered walls +and welcoming lights. +</p> + +<p> +"This is the place where I first saw you," +said Donovan, glancing in at the drawing-room +window. On the very spot on which he now +stood with Gladys, he had once stood lonely and +despairing, watching with bitterness a glimpse +of home life. Some thought of the infinite +possibilities of the future, of the limited view +of the present, came to him. +</p> + +<p> +"How glorious life is!" he exclaimed. "How +different from what one used to think it! Oh! +Gladys, if we can but do half we long to do! +What a grand old working-place the world is!" +</p> + +<p> +"You will be a grand worker," thought +Gladys, but she did not reply in direct words. +</p> + +<p> +They had reached the porch, some one had +heard their steps, and as they drew near the +door was thrown open. Donovan saw in a blaze +of friendly light a sweeter home drama than +the one he remembered long ago. There they all +were—a welcoming group. Nesta, Jackie, Dick +just home from sea, the father with indescribable +content written on his face, and before all the +mother—the truest mother Donovan had ever +known—her soft grey eyes shining into his +with loving welcome and understanding. +</p> + +<p> +"Home at last!" she said smiling; and then +seeing all, she gave a mother's greeting to +both "children." +</p> + +<p><br><br></p> + +<p class="t3"> +THE END. +</p> + +<p><br><br></p> + +<p class="t4"> +LONDON: PRINTED BY DUNCAN MACDONALD, BLENHEIM HOUSE. +</p> + +<p><br><br><br><br></p> + +<div style='text-align:center'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78458 ***</div> +</body> + +</html> + |